"Number 181, Grosvenor Place."
"Ah, I thought it was the Place--and yet I couldn't feel sure it
wasn't the Square. Now you shall tie my tie for me."
And, getting out a new collar, he told her that he would go to thank
Mr. Barradine there and then. He would be less than no time fulfilling
this act of necessary politeness, and while he was away she was to see
the people of the house and get a proper married couple's bedroom in
lieu of this bachelor's crib. Mavis, however, thought that Dale was
mistaken in supposing the ceremonious call necessary or even
advisable, and she gently tried to dissuade him from carrying out his
purpose. She considered that a carefully written letter would be a
better method of communication to employ in thanking their grand ally.
But Dale was obstinate. He said that in this one matter he knew best.
It was between him and Mr. Barradine now--a case of man to man.
"He'll look for it, Mav, and would take a very poor opinion of me if I
hadn't the manhood to go straight and frank, and say 'I thank you.'
Trust your old William for once more, Mav;" and he laughed merrily. "I
tell you what I felt I wanted to do at the G.P.O. was a leaf out of
the Roman history--that is, to kneel down to him and say, 'Put your
hand on William Dale's head, sir, for sign and token, and take his
service from this day forward as your bondsman and your slave.' But I
shan't say that;" and again he laughed. "I shall simply say, 'Mr.
Barradine, sir, I thank you for what you've done for me and for the
kind and open way you done it.' So much he will expect, and the rest
he will understand."
He was equally determined to despatch a telegram giving the good news
to Mrs. Petherick at North Ride Cottage, and he became almost huffy
when Mavis again suggested that a letter would meet the case.
"I don't understand you, Mav. You seem now as if you were for
belittling everything. I'm not going to spare sixpence to keep your
aunt on tenterhooks for course of post."
Mr. Barradine's town mansion stood in a commanding corner position,
with its front door in the side street; and from the glimpse that Dale
obtained of its hall, its staircase, and its vast depth, he judged
that it was quite worthy of the owner of that noble countryseat, the
Abbey House.
The servants were at first doubtful as to the propriety of admitting
him. They said their master was at home, but they did not know if he
could receive visitors.
"He won't refuse to see me," said Dale confidently. "Tell him it's Mr.
Dale of Rodchurch, and won't detain him two minutes."
"Very good," said the principal servant gravely. "But I can't disturb
him if he's resting."
"Oh, if he's resting," said Dale, "I'll wait. I'll make my time his
time--whether convenient to me or not." Then they led him down a
passage, past a cloak-room and a lavatory, to a small room right at
the back of the house.
Perhaps the room seemed small only by reason of its great height.
Dale, waiting patiently, examined his surroundings with curious
interest. There were two old-fashioned writing-tables--one looking as
if it was never used, and the other looking busy and homelike, with a
cabinet full of every conceivable sort of notepaper, trays full of
pens, and little candles to be lighted when one desired to affix
seals. On a roundabout conveniently near there were books of reference
that included the current volume of the _London Post Office
Directory_. The sofas and chairs were upholstered in dark green
leather, the chimney-piece was of carved marble, a few ancient and
rather dismal pictures hung almost out of sight on the walls; and
generally, the room would have produced an impression of a repellent
and ungenial kind of pomp, if it had not been for the extremely human
note struck by the large assortment of photographs.
These were dabbed about everywhere--in panels above the chair rail, in
screens and silver frames, on the writing-table, and loose and
unframed on the mantel-shelf. They were nearly all portraits of
women--and some nice attractive bits among them, as Dale thought;
young and cheeky ones, too, that he guessed were actresses and not
nieces or cousins. He smiled tolerantly. These photographs brought to
his mind a nearly forgotten fancy of his own, together with echoes of
the local gossip. Round Rodchurch the talk ran that the Right
Honorable gentleman was still a rare one for the ladies. "And why
not?" thought Dale. A childless old widower may keep up that sort of
game as long as he likes, or as long as he can, without wounding any
one's feeling. It wasn't as if her ladyship had been still alive.
"Sir, I hope I have not disturbed you; but I couldn't be easy till I'd
cordially and heartily thanked you." Mr. Barradine had come in, and
Dale fired off his brief set speeches. But instinct almost immediately
told him that once more Mavis had been right and he wrong. Mr.
Barradine was not expecting or desiring a personal call.
"Not worth mentioning. Nothing at all." He said these things
courteously, but there was a coldness in his tone that quite froze the
visitor. He seemed to be saying really: "Now look here, I have had
quite enough bother about you; and please don't let me have any more
of it."
"Then, sir, I thank you--and--er--that's all."
"Very glad if--" Mr. Barradine made the same gesture that Dale had
seen a few hours ago: a wave of the right hand. But to Dale it seemed
that it was different now, that it indicated languor and haughtiness;
indeed, it seemed that the whole man was different. Could this be the
advocate who had spoken up so freely for a friend in trouble? All the
majesty and the force, as well as the generous friendliness, had
disappeared. The face, the voice, the whole bearing belonged to
another man. The tired eyes had not a spark of fire in them; those
puffy bags of loose flesh, that hung between the outer corners of the
cheekbones and the thin birdlike nose, were so ugly as to be
disfiguring; the mouth, instead of looking soft and kind, although
proud, now appeared to close in the unbending lines of a very obdurate
self-esteem. This new aspect of his patron made Dale stammer
uncomfortably; and he felt something akin to humiliation in lieu of
the fine glow of gratitude with which he had come hurrying from the
Euston Road.
"Then my duty--and my thanks--and I'll say good afternoon, sir."
He had pulled himself together and spoken these last words ringingly,
and now grasping Mr. Barradine's hand he gave it a mercilessly severe
squeeze.
"Damnation!" Under the horny grip, Mr. Barradine emitted a squeal of
pain. "Confound it--my good fellow--why the deuce can't you be
careful what you're doing?"
Mr. Barradine, very angry, was ruefully examining his hand; and Dale,
apologizing profusely, stared at it too. It was limp in texture,
yellowish white of color, with bluish swollen veins, some darkish
brown patches here and there, and slight glistening protuberances at
the knuckle joints-an old man's hand, so feeble that it could not bear
the least pressure, and yet decorated with a young man's fopperies.
Dale noticed the three rings on the little finger-one of gold, one of
silver, one of black metal, each with tiny colored gems in it--and
while heartily ashamed of his rustic violence, he felt a secret
contempt for its victim.
"That's all right." Mr. Barradine, although still wincing, had
recovered composure, and what he said now appeared to be an implied
excuse for the sharpness of his protest. "When you get to my time of
life, you'll perhaps know what gout means."
"Sorry you should be afflicted that way, sir," said Dale contritely.
Mr. Barradine had rung a bell, and a servant was standing at the door.
"Good day to you, Mr. Dale. You're going home, I suppose?"
"Not for a fortnight, sir."
"Ah! I hope to return to the Abbey on Thursday morning;" and quite
obviously Mr. Barradine now intended to gratify Dale by a few polite
sentences of small talk, and thus show him that his offense had been
pardoned. "Yes, I soon begin to pine for my garden. Friday, at latest,
sees me home again. I always call the Abbey home. No place like home,
Dale."
Dale going out, through the long passage to the hall, felt momentarily
depressed by a sense of humiliating failure in the midst of his
apparent success. If only he could have fought them and beaten them
alone, as a strong man fighting unaided, instead of being pulled
through the battle by that veinous, blotchy, ringed hand! However, he
promptly tried to banish all such vague discomfort from his mind.
All of it was gone when he got back to the lodging-house, and found
his wife established in their new room.