JULIA
She hadn't forgotten him.
Julia, with her hair down, in an eau-de-Nil morning wrapper, and frying
bacon over a Duplex oilstove, was not lovely--though, indeed, few of us
are lovely in the early morning. She had started the flat before she was
famous. It was a bachelor girl's flat, where the bachelor girl was
supposed to do her own cooking as far as breakfast and tea were
concerned. Money coming in, Julia had refurnished the flat and
requisitioned the part-time service of a maid.
Like the doctors of Harley Street who share houses, she shared the
services of the maid with another flat-dweller, the maid coming to Julia
after three o'clock to tidy up and to bring in afternoon tea and admit
callers. She was quite well enough off to have employed a whole maid,
but she was careful--her publishers could have told you that.
The bacon fried and breakfast over and cleared away, Julia, with her
hair still down, set to work at the cleared table before a pile of
papers and account-books.
Never could you have imagined her the Julia of the other evening
discoursing "literature" with Bobby.
She employed no literary agent, being that rare thing, a writer with an
instinct for business. When you see vast publishing houses and opulent
publishers rolling in their motor-cars you behold an optical illusion.
What you see, or, rather, what you ought to see, is a host of writers
without the instinct for business.
Julia, seated before her papers and turning them over in search of a
letter, came just now upon the first letter she had ever received from a
publisher, a very curt, business-like communication saying that the
publisher thought he saw his way to the publishing of her MS. entitled
"The World at the Gate," and requesting an interview. With it was tied,
as a sort of curiosity, the agreement that had been put before her to
sign and which she had not signed.
It gave--or would have given--the publisher the copyright and half the
American, serial, dramatic and other rights. It offered ten per cent, on
the published price of all copies sold _after_ the first five hundred
copies; it stipulated that she should give him the next four novels on
the same terms as an inducement to advertise the book properly--and it
had drawn from Julia the prompt reply, "Send the typescript of my novel
back _at once_."
So ended the first lesson.
Then, heartened by this evidently good opinion of her work, she had gone
to another publisher? Not a bit--or at least, not at first. She had
joined the Society of Authors--an act as necessary to the making of a
successful author as baptism to the making of a Christian. She had
studied the publishing tribe, its ways and its works, discovered that
they had no more love for books than greengrocers for potatoes, and that
such a love, should it exist, would be unhealthy. For no seller of
commodities ought to love the commodities he sells.
Then she had gone to a great impudently-advertising roaring trading-firm
that dealt with books as men deal with goods in bulk, and, interviewing
the manager as man to man, had driven her bargain, and a good one, too.
These people published poets and men of letters--but they respected
Julia.
Free of creative work this morning, she could give her full attention to
accounts and so forth.
Then she turned to a little book which she sometimes scribbled in, and
the contents of which she had a vague idea of some time publishing under
a pseudonym. It was entitled "Never," and it was not poetry. It was a
thumb-book for authors, made up of paragraphs, some long, some short.
"Never dine with a publisher--luncheon is even worse."
"Never give free copies of books to friends, or lend them. The given
book is not valued, the lent book is always lost--besides, the
booksellers and lending libraries are your real friends."
"Never lower your price."
"Never attempt to raise your public."
"Never argue with a critic."
"Never be elated with good reviews, or depressed by bad reviews, or
enraged by base reviews. The Public is your reviewer--_It_ knows," and
so on.
She shut up "Never," having included:
"Never give a plot away." Then she did her hair and thought of Bobby.
He had not fixed what hour he would call; that was a clause in the
agreement she had forgotten--she, who was so careful about agreements,
too.
Then she dressed and sat down to read "De Maupassant" and smoked a
cigarette.
She had luncheon in the restaurant below stairs and then returned to the
flat. Tea-time came and no Bobby.
She felt piqued, put on her hat, and as the mountain would not come to
Mohammed, Mohammed determined to go to the mountain.
Her memory held his address, "care of Tozer, B12, the Albany."
She walked to the Albany, arriving there a little after five o'clock,
found B12, and climbed the stairs.
Tozer was in, and he opened the door himself.
"Is Mr. Ravenshaw at home?" asked Julia.
"No," said Tozer; "he's away, gone to the country."
"Gone to the country?"
"Yes; he went to-day."
Tozer had at once spotted Julia as the Lady of the Plot. He was as
unconventional as she, and he wanted further acquaintance with this
fascinator of his _protégé_.
"I think we are almost mutual acquaintances," said he; "won't you come
in? My name is Tozer and Ravenshaw is my best friend. I'd like to talk
to you about him. Won't you come in?"
"Certainly," said the other. "My name is Delyse--I daresay you know it."
"I know it well," said Tozer.
"I don't mean by my books," said Julia, taking her seat in the
comfortable sitting-room, "but from Mr. Ravenshaw."
"From both," said Tozer, "and what I want to see is Ravenshaw's name as
well known as yours some day. Bobby has been a spendthrift with his
time, and he has lots of cleverness."
"Lots," said Julia.
Tozer, who had a keen eye for character, had passed Julia as a sensible
person--he had never seen her in one of her love-fits--and she was a
lady. Just the person to look after Bobby.
"He has gone down to the country to-day with an old gentleman, his
uncle."
"I know all about _him_," said Julia.
"Bobby has told you, then?"
"Yes."
"About the attack of youth?"
"Yes."
"Well, a whole family party of them went off in a motor-car to-day.
Bobby called here for his luggage and I went into Vigo Street and saw
them off."
"How do you mean--a family party?"
"The youthful old gentleman and a big blonde man, and Bobby, and an old
lady and a pretty girl."
Julia swallowed slightly.
"Relations?"
"No, French, I think, the ladies were. Quite nice people, I believe,
though poor. The old gentleman had picked them up in some of his
wanderings."
"Bob--Mr. Ravenshaw promised to see me to-day," said Julia. "We are
engaged--I speak quite frankly--at least, as good as engaged, you can
understand."
"Quite."
"He ought to have let me know," said she broodingly.
"He ought."
"Have they gone to Upton-on-Hill, do you know?"
"They have. The Rose Hotel."
Julia thought for awhile. Then she got up to go.
"If you want my opinion," said Tozer, "I think the whole lot want
looking after. They seemed quite a pleasant party, but responsibility
seemed somewhat absent; the old lady, charming though she was, seemed to
me scarcely enough ballast for so much youth."
"I understand," said Julia. Then she went off and Tozer lit a pipe.
The pretty young French girl was troubling him. She had charmed even
him--and he knew Bobby, and his wisdom indicated that a penniless beauty
was not the first rung of the ladder to success in life.
Julia, on the other hand, was solid. So he thought.
PART IV
CHAPTER I
THE GARDEN-PARTY
Upton-On-Hill stands on a hogback of land running north and south,
timbered with pines mostly, and commanding a view of half Wessex, not
the Wessex of Thomas Hardy, however. You can see seven church spires
from Upton, and the Roman road takes it in its sweep, becomes the Upton
High Street for a moment, and passes on to be the Roman road again
leading to the Downs and the distant sea.
It is a restful place, and in spring the shouting of the birds and the
measured call of the cuckoo fills the village, mixing with the voice of
the ever-talking pine-trees. In summer Upton sleeps amongst roses in an
atmosphere of sunlight and drowsiness, sung to by the bees and the
birds. The Rose Hotel stands, set back from the High Street, in its own
grounds, and beside the Rose there are two other houses for refreshment,
the Bricklayer's Arms and the Saracen's Head, of which more hereafter.
It is a pleasant place as well as a restful. Passing through it, people
say, "Oh, what a dream!" living in it one is driven at last to admit
there are dreams and dreams. It is not the place that forces this
conviction but the people.
Just as the Roman road narrows at the beginning of the High Street, so
the life of a stranger coming, say, from London, narrows at the
beginning of his or her residence in Upton. If you are a villager you
find yourself under a microscope with three hundred eyes at the
eyepiece; if you are a genteel person, but without introductions, you
find yourself the target of half a score of telescopes levelled at you
by the residents.
Colonel Salmon--who owned the fishing rights of the trout-stream below
hill--the Talbot-Tomsons, the Griffith-Smiths, the Grosvenor-Jones and
the rest, all these, failing introductions, you will find to be passive
resisters to your presence.
Now, caution towards strangers and snobbishness are two different
things. The Uptonians are snobbish because, though you may be as
beautiful as a dream or as innocent as a saint, you will be sniffed at
and turned over; but if you are wealthy it is another matter, as in the
case of the Smyth-Smyths, who were neither beautiful nor innocent--but
that is another story.
"The village is a mile further on," said Pugeot; "let's turn down here
before we go to the hotel and have afternoon tea with my cousin.
Randall, steer for The Nook."
The car was not the Dragon-Fly, but a huge closed limousine, with Mudd
seated beside Randall, and inside, the rest of that social menagerie
about to be landed on the residents of Upton upon the landing-stage of
the social position of Dick Pugeot's cousin, Sir Squire Simpson.
All the introductions in the world could not be better than the personal
introduction to _the_ Resident of Upton by the Hon. Richard Pugeot.
They passed lodge gates and then up a pleasant drive to a big
house-front, before which a small garden-party seemed to be going on; a
big afternoon tea it was, and there were men in flannels, and girls in
summer frocks, and discarded tennis racquets lying about, and the sight
of all this gave Bobby a horrible turn.
Uncle Simon had been very quiet during the journey--happy but
quiet--squeezed between the two women, but this was not the sort of
place he wanted to land Uncle Simon in despite his quietude and
happiness. Mudd evidently also had qualms, for he kept looking back
through the glass front of the car and seemed trying to catch Bobby's
eye.
But there was no turning back.
The car swept along the drive, past the party on the lawn, and drew up
at the front door. Then, as they bundled out, a tall old man, without a
hat and dressed in grey tweed, detached himself from the lawn crowd and
came towards them.
This was Sir Squire Simpson, Bart. His head was dome-shaped, and he had
heavy eyelids that reminded one of half-closed shutters, and a face that
seemed carved from old ivory--an extremely serious-looking person and a
stately; but he was glad to see Pugeot, and he advanced with a hand
outstretched and the ghost of an old-fashioned sort of smile.
"I've brought some friends down to stay at the hotel," said Pugeot, "and
I thought we would drop in here for tea first. Didn't expect to find a
party going on."
"Delighted," said the Squire.
He was introduced to "My friend, Mr. Pettigrew, Madame--er--de
Rossignol, Mademoiselle de Rossignol, Mr. Ravenshaw."
Then the party moving towards the lawn, they were all introduced to
Lady Simpson, a harmless-looking individual who welcomed them and broke
them up amongst her guests and gave them tea.
Bobby, detaching himself for a moment from the charms of Miss Squire
Simpson, managed to get hold of Pugeot.
"I say," said he, "don't you think this may be a bit too much for
uncle?"
"Oh, he's all right," said Pugeot; "can't come to any harm here. Look at
him, he's quite happy."
Simon seemed happy enough, talking to a dowager-looking woman and
drinking his tea; but Bobby was not happy. It all seemed wrong, somehow,
and he abused Pugeot in his heart. Pugeot had said himself a moated
grange was the proper place for Uncle Simon, and even then he might
tumble into the moat--and now, with the splendid inconsequence of his
nature, he had tumbled him into this whirl of local society. This was
not seclusion in the country. Why, some of these people might, by
chance, be Uncle Simon's clients!
But there was no use in troubling, and he could do nothing but watch and
hope. He noticed that the women-folk had evidently taken up with Cerise
and her mother, and he could not but wonder vaguely how it would have
been if they could have seen the rooms in Duke Street, Leicester Square,
and the picture of Uncle Simon tucked up and snoring in Cerise's little
bed.
The tennis began again, and Bobby, firmly pinned by Miss Squire
Simpson--she was a plain girl--had to sit watching a game and trying to
talk.
The fact that Madame and Cerise were foreigners had evidently condoned
their want of that touch in dress which makes for style. They were being
led about and shown things by their hostess.
Uncle Simon had vanished towards the rose-garden at the back of the
house, in company with a female; she seemed elderly. Bobby hoped for the
best.
"Are you down here for long?" asked Miss Squire Simpson.
"Not very long, I think," replied he. "We may be here a month or so--it
all depends on my uncle's health."
"That gentleman you came with?"
"Yes."
"He seems awfully jolly."
"Yes--but he suffers from insomnia."
"Then he'll get lots of sleep here," said she. "Oh, do tell me the name
of that pretty girl who came with you! I never can catch a name when I
am introduced to a person."
"A Miss Rossignol--she's a friend of uncle's--she's French."
"And the dear old lady is her mother, I suppose?"
"Yes. She writes books."
"An authoress?"
"Yes--at least, I believe she translates books. She is awfully clever."
"Well played!" cried Miss Squire Simpson, breaking from the subject into
an ecstasy at a stroke made by one of the flannelled fools--then
resuming:
"She _must_ be clever. And are you all staying here together?"
"Yes, at the Rose Hotel."
"You will find it a dear little place," said she, unconscious of any
_double entendre_, "and you will get lots of tennis down here. Do you
fish?"
"A little."
"Then you must make up to Colonel Salmon--that's him at the nets--he
owns the best trout-stream about here."
Bobby looked at Colonel Salmon, a stout, red-faced man with a head that
resembled somewhat the head of a salmon--a salmon with a high sense of
its own importance.
Then Pugeot came along smoking a cigarette, and then some of the people
began to go. The big limousine reappeared from the back premises with
Mudd and the luggage, and Pugeot began to collect his party. Simon
reappeared with the elderly lady; they were both smiling and he had
evidently done no harm. It would have been better, perhaps, if he had,
right at the start. The French ladies were recaptured, and as they
bundled into the car quite a bevy of residents surrounded the door,
bidding them good-bye for the present.
"Remember, you must come and see my roses," said Mrs. Fisher-Fisher.
"Don't bother about formality, just drop in, all of you."
"You'll find Anderson stopping at the hotel; he's quite a nice fellow,"
cried Sir Squire Simpson. "So long--so long."
"Are they not charming?" said old Madame Rossignol, whose face was
slightly flushed with the good time she had been having; "and the
beautiful house--and the beautiful garden."
She had not seen a garden for years; verily, Simon _was_ a good fairy as
far as the Rossignols were concerned.
They drew up at the Rose Hotel. A vast clambering vine of wisteria
shadowed the hall door, and out came the landlord to meet them. Pugeot
had telegraphed for rooms; he knew Pugeot, and his reception of them
spoke of the fact.
Then the Rossignols were shown to their room, where their poor luggage,
such as it was, had been carried before them.
It was a big bedroom, with chintz hangings and a floor with hills and
valleys in it; it had black oak beams and the window opened on the
garden.
The old lady sat down.
"How happy I am!" said she. "Does it not seem like a dream, _ma fée_?"
"It is like heaven," said Cerise, kissing her.
CHAPTER II
HORN
"No, sir," said Mudd, "he don't take scarcely anything in the bar of the
hotel, but he was sitting last night till closing-time in the
Bricklayer's Arms."
"Oh, that's where he was," said Bobby. "How did you find out?"
"Well, sir," said Mudd, "I was in there myself in the parlour, having a
drop of hot water and gin with a bit of lemon in it. It's a decent
house, and the servants' room in this hotel don't please me, nor Mr.
Anderson's man. I was sitting there smoking my pipe when in he came to
the bar outside. I heard his voice. Down he sits and talks quite
friendly with the folk there and orders a pint of beer all round. Quite
affable and friendly."
"Well, there's no harm in that," said Bobby. "I've often done the same
in a country inn. Did he stick to beer?"
"He did," said Mudd grimly. "He'd got that ten-pound note I was fool
enough to let him have. Yes, he stuck to beer, and so did the chaps he
was treating."
"The funny thing is," said Bobby, "that though he knows we have his
money--and, begad, there's nearly eleven thousand of it--he doesn't kick
at our taking it--he must have known we cut open that portmanteau--but
comes to you for money like a schoolboy."
"That's what he is," said Mudd. "It's my belief, Mr. Robert, that he's
getting younger and younger; he's artful as a child after sweets. And he
knows we're looking after him, I believe, and he doesn't mind, for it's
part of his amusement to give us the slip. Well, as I was saying, there
he sat talking away and all these village chaps listening to him as if
he was the Sultan of Turkey laying down the law. That's what pleased
him. He likes being the middle of everything; and as the beer went down
the talk went up--till he was telling them he'd been at the battle of
Waterloo."
"Good Lord!"
"_They_ didn't know no different," said Mudd, "but it made me crawl to
listen to him."
"The bother is," said Bobby, "that we are dealing, not only with a young
man, but with the sort of young man who was young forty years ago.
That's our trouble, Mudd; we can't calculate on what he'll do because
we haven't the data. And another bother is that his foolishness seems to
have increased by being bottled so long, like old beer, but he can't
come to harm with the villagers, they're an innocent lot."
"Are they?" said Mudd. "One of the chaps he was talking to was a
gallows-looking chap. Horn's his name, and a poacher he is, I believe.
Then there's the blacksmith and a squint-eyed chap that calls himself a
butcher; the pair of _them_ aren't up to much. Innocent lot! Why, if you
had the stories Mr. Anderson's man has told me about this village the
hair would rise on your head. Why, London's a girl-school to these
country villages, if all's true one hears. No, Mr. Robert, he wants
looking after here more than anywhere, and it seems to me the only
person who has any real hold on him is the young lady."
"Miss Rossignol?"
"Yes, Mr. Robert, he's gone on her in his foolish way, and she can twist
him round her finger like a child. When he's with her he's a different
person, out of sight of her he's another man."
"Look here, Mudd," said the other, "he can't be in love with her, for
there's not a girl he sees he doesn't cast his eye after."
"Maybe," said Mudd, "but when he's with her he's in love with her; I've
been watching him and I know. He worships her, I believe, and if she
wasn't so sensible I'd be afeard of it. It's a blessing he came across
her; she's the only hold on him, and a good hold she is."
"It is a blessing," said Bobby. Then, after a pause, "Mudd, you've
always been a good friend of mine, and this business has made me know
what you really are. I'm bothered about something--I'm in love with her
myself. There, you have it."
"With Miss Rossignol?"
"Yes."
"Well, you might choose worse," said Mudd.
"But that's not all," said Bobby. "There's another girl--Mudd, I've been
a damn fool."
"We've all been fools in our time," said Mudd.
"I know, but it's jolly unpleasant when one's follies come home to roost
on one. She's a nice girl enough, Miss Delyse, but I don't care for her.
Yet somehow I've got mixed up with her--not exactly engaged, but very
near it. It all happened in a moment, and she's coming down here; I had
a letter from her this morning."
"Oh, Lord!" said Mudd, "another mixture. As if there wasn't enough of us
in the business!"
"That's a good name for it, 'business.' I feel as if I was helping to
run a sort of beastly factory, a mad sort of show where we're trying to
condense folly and make it consume its own smoke--an illicit
whisky-still, for we're trying to hide our business all the time, and it
gives me the jim-jams to think that at any moment a client may turn up
and see him like that. I feel sometimes, Mudd, as fellows must feel when
they have the police after them."
"Don't talk of the police," said Mudd, "the very word gives me the
shivers. When is she coming, Mr. Robert?"
"Miss Delyse? She's coming by the 3.15 train to-day to Farnborough
station, and I've got to meet her. I've just booked her a room here. You
see how I am tied. If I was here alone she couldn't come, because it
wouldn't be proper, but having _him_ here makes it proper."
"Have you told her the state he's in?"
"Yes. She doesn't mind; she said she wished everyone else was the
same--she said it was beautiful."
They were talking in Bobby's room, which overlooked the garden of the
hotel, and glancing out of the window now, he saw Cerise.
Then he detached himself from Mudd. He reached her as she was passing
through the little rambler-roofed alley that leads from the garden to
the bowling-green. There is an arbour in the garden tucked away in a
corner, and there is an arbour close to the bowling-green; there are
several other arbours, for the hotel-planner was an expert in his work,
but these are the only two arbours that have to do with our story.
Bobby caught up with the girl before she had reached the green, and they
walked together towards it, chatting as young people only can chat with
life and gaiety about nothing. They were astonishingly well-matched in
mind. Minds have colours just like eyes; there are black minds and brown
minds and muddy-coloured minds and grey minds, and blue minds. Bobby's
was a blue mind, though, indeed, it sometimes almost seemed green.
Cerise's was blue, a happy blue like the blue of her eyes.
They had been two and a half days now in pretty close propinquity, and
had got to know each other well despite Uncle Simon, or rather, perhaps,
because of him. They discussed him freely and without reserve, and they
were discussing him now, as the following extraordinary conversation
will show.
"He's good, as you say," said Bobby, "but he's more trouble to me than a
child."
Said Cerise: "Shall I tell you a little secret?"
"Yes."
"You will promise me surely, most surely, you will never tell my little
secret?"
"I swear."
"He is in loff with me--I thought it was maman, but it is me." A ripple
of laughter that caught the echo of the bowling-alley followed this
confession.
"Last night he said to me before dinner, 'Cerise, I loff you.'"
"And what did you say?"
"Then the dinner-gong rang," said Cerise, "and I said, 'Oh, Monsieur
Pattigrew, I must run and change my dress.' Then I ran off. I did not
want to change my dress, but I did want to change the conversation,"
finished Cerise.
Then with a smile, "He loffs me more than any of the other girls."
"Why, how do you know he loves other girls?"
"I have seen him look at girls," said Cerise. "He likes all the world,
but girls he likes most."
"Are you in love with him, Cerise?" asked Bobby, with a grin.
"Yes," said Cerise candidly. "Who could help?"
"How much are you in love with him, Cerise?"
"I would walk to London for him without my shoes," said Cerise.
"Well, that's something," said Bobby. "Come into this little arbour,
Cerise, and let's sit down. You don't mind my smoking?"
"Not one bit"
"It's good to have anyone love one like that," said he, lighting a
cigarette.
"He draws it from me," said Cerise.
"Well, I must say he's more likeable as he is than as he was; you should
have seen him before he got young, Cerise."
"He was always good," said she, as though speaking from sure knowledge;
"always good and kind and sweet."
"He managed to hide it," said Bobby.
"Ah yes--maybe so--there are many old gentlemen who seem rough and not
nice, and then underneath it is different."
"How would you like to marry uncle?" asked he, laughing.
"If he were young outside as he is young inside of him--why, then I do
not know. I might--I might not."
Then the unfortunate young man, forgetting all things, even the
approaching Julia, let his voice fall half a tone; he wandered from
Uncle; Simon into the question of the beauty of the roses.
The conversation flagged a bit, then he was holding one of her fingers.
Then came steps on the gravel. A servant.
"The fly is ready to take you to the station, sir."
It was three o'clock.
CHAPTER III
JULIA--_continued_
It was a cross between a hansom cab and a "growler," with the voice of
the latter, and the dust of the Farnborough road, with the prospect of a
three-mile drive to meet Julia and a three-mile drive back again, did
not fill Bobby with joy--also the prospect of having to make
explanations.
He had quite determined on that. After the arbour business it was
impossible to go on with Julia; he had to break whatever bonds there
existed between them, and he had to do the business before she got to
the hotel. Then came the prospect of having to live with her in the
hotel, even for a night. He questioned himself, asking himself were he a
cad or not, had he trifled with Julia? As far as memory went, they had
both trifled with one another. It was a sudden affair, and no actual
promise had been made; he had not even said "I love you"--but he had
kissed her. The legal mind would, no doubt, have construed that into a
declaration of affection, but Bobby's mind was not legal--anything
but--and as for kissing a girl, if he had been condemned to marry all
the girls he had kissed he would have been forced to live in Utah.
He had to wait half an hour for the train at Farnborough, and when it
drew up out stepped Julia, hot, and dressed in green, dragging a
hold-all and a bundle of magazines and newspapers.
"H'are you?" said Bobby, as they shook hands.
"Hot," said Julia.
"Isn't it?"
He carried the hold-all to the fly and a porter followed with a
basket-work portmanteau. When the luggage was stowed in they got in and
the fly moved off.
Julia was not in a passionate mood; no person is or ever has been after
a journey on the London and Wessex and South Coast Railway--unless it is
a mood of passion against the railway. She seemed, indeed, disgruntled
and critical, and a tone of complaint in her voice cheered up Bobby.
"I know it's an awful old fly," said he, "but it's the best they had;
the hotel motor-car is broken down or something."
"Why didn't you wire me that day," said She, "that you were going off
so soon? I only got your wire from here next morning. You promised to
meet me and you never turned up. I went to the Albany to see if you were
in, and I saw Mr. Tozer. He said you had gone off with half a dozen
people in a car----"
"Only four, not including me," cut in Bobby.
"Two ladies----"
"An old French lady and her daughter."
"Well, that's two ladies, isn't it?"
"I suppose so--you can't make it three. Then there was uncle; it's true
he's a host in himself."
"How's he going on?"
"Splendidly."
"I'm very anxious to see him," said Julia. "It's so seldom one meets
anyone really original in this life; most people are copies of others,
and generally bad ones at that."
"That's so," said Bobby.
"How's the novel going on?" said Julia.
"Heavens!" said Bobby, "do you think I can add literary work to my other
distractions? The novel is not going on, but the plot is."
"How d'you mean?"
"Uncle Simon. I've got the beginning and middle of a novel in him, but
I haven't got the end."
"You are going to put him in a book?"
"I wish to goodness I could, and close the covers on him. No, I'm going
to weave him into a story--he's doing most of the weaving, but that's a
detail. Look here, Julia----"
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking."
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking we have made a mistake."
"Who?"
"Well, we. I didn't write, I thought I'd wait till I saw you."
"How d'you mean?" said Julia dryly.
"Us."
"Yes?"
"Well, you know what I mean. It's just this way, people do foolish
things on the spur of the moment."
"What have we done foolish?"
"We haven't done anything foolish, only I think we were in too great a
hurry."
"How?"
"Oh, you know, that evening at your flat."
"Oh!"
"Yes."
"You mean to say you don't care for me any more?"
"Oh, it's not that; I care for you very much."
"Say it at once," said Julia. "You care for me as a sister."
"Well, that's about it," said Bobby.
Julia was silent, and only the voice of the fly filled the air.
Then she said:
"It's just as well to know where one is."
"Are you angry?"
"Not a bit."
He glanced at her.
"Not a bit. You have met someone else. Why not say so?"
"I have," said Bobby. "You know quite well, Julia, one can't help these
things."
"I don't know anything about 'these things,' as you call them; I only
know that you have ceased to care for me--let that suffice."
She was very calm, and a feeling came to Bobby that she did not care so
very deeply for him. It was not a pleasant feeling somehow, although it
gave him relief. He had expected her to weep or fly out in a temper, but
she was quite calm and ordinary; he almost felt like making love to her
again to see if she _had_ cared for him, but fortunately this feeling
passed.
"We'll be friends," said he.
"Absolutely," said Julia. "How could a little thing like that spoil
friendship?"
Was she jesting with him or in earnest? Bitter, or just herself?
"Is she staying at the hotel?" asked she, after a moment's silence.
"She is," said Bobby.
"It's the French girl?"
"How did you guess that?"
"I knew."
"When?"
"When you explained them and began with the old lady. But the old lady
will, no doubt, have her turn next, and to the next girl you'll explain
them, beginning with the girl."
Bobby felt very hot and uncomfortable.
"Now you're angry with me," said he.
"Not a bit."
"Well, let's be friends."
"Absolutely. I could never fancy you as the enemy of anyone but
yourself."
Bobby wasn't enjoying the drive, and there was a mile more of
it--uphill, mostly.
"I think I'll get out and give the poor old horse a chance," said he;
"these hills are beastly for it."
He got out and walked by the fly, glancing occasionally at the
silhouette of Julia, who seemed ruminating matters.
He was beginning to feel, now, that he had done her an injury, and she
had said nothing about going back to-morrow or anything like that, and
he was held as by a vice, and Cerise and he would be under the
microscope, and Cerise knew nothing about Julia.
Then he got into the fly again and five minutes later they drove up to
the Rose. Simon was standing in the porch as they drove up; his straw
hat was on the back of his head and he had a cigar in his mouth.
He looked at Bobby and Julia and grinned slightly. It seemed suddenly to
have got into his head that Bobby had been fetching a sweetheart as well
as a young lady from the station. It had, in fact, and things that got
into Simon's youthful head in this fashion, allied to things pleasant,
were difficult to remove.
CHAPTER IV
HORN--_continued_
Simon had been that day all alone to see Mrs. Fisher-Fisher's roses; he
said so at dinner that night. He had remembered the general invitation
and had taken it, evidently, as a personal one. Bobby did not enquire
details; besides, his mind was occupied at that dinner-table, where
Cerise was constantly seeking his glance and where Julia sat watching.
Brooding and watching and talking chiefly to Simon.
She and Simon seemed to get on well together, and a close observer might
have fancied that Simon was attracted, perhaps less by her charms than
by the fact that he considered her Bobby's girl and was making to cut
Bobby out, in a mild way, by his own superior attractions.
After dinner Simon forgot her. He had other business on hand. He had not
dressed for dinner, he was simply and elegantly attired in the blue
serge suit he had worn in London. Taking his straw hat and lighting a
cigar, he left the others and, having strolled round the garden for a
few minutes, left the hotel premises and strolled down the street.
The street was deserted. He reached the Bricklayer's Arms, and, having
admired the view for a while from the porch of that hostelry, strolled
into the bar.
The love of low company, which is sometimes a distinguishing feature of
the youthful, comes from several causes: a taste for dubious sport, a
kicking against restraint, simply the love of low company, or a kind of
megalomania--a wish to be first person in the company present, a wish
easily satisfied at the cost of a few pounds.
In Simon's case it was probably a compound of the lot.
In the bar of the Bricklayer's Arms he was first person by a mile; and
this evening, owing to hay-harvest work, he was first by twenty miles,
for the only occupant of the bar was Dick Horn.
Horn, as before hinted by Mudd, was a very dubious character. In old
days he would have been a poacher pure and simple, to-day he was that
and other things as well. Socialism had touched him. He desired, not
only other men's game and fish, but their houses and furniture.
He was six feet two, very thin, with lantern jaws, and a dark look
suggestive of Romany antecedents--a most fascinating individual to the
philosopher, the police, and those members of the public of artistic
leanings. He was seated smoking and in company of a brown mug of beer
when Simon came in.
They gave each other good evening, Simon rapped with a half-crown on the
counter, ordered some beer for himself, had Horn's mug replenished, and
then sat down. The landlord, having served them, left them together, and
they fell into talk on the weather.
"Yes," said Horn, "it's fine enough for them that like it, weather's no
account to me. I'm used to weather."
"So am I," said Simon.
"Gentlefolk don't know what weather is," said Horn; "they can take it or
leave it. It's the pore that knows what weather is."
They agreed on this point.
After a while Horn got up, craned his head round the bar partition to
see that no one was listening, and sat down again.
"You remember what I said to you about them night lines?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to set some to-night down in the river below."
"By Jove!" said Simon, vastly interested.
"If you're wanting to see a bit of sport maybe you'd like to jine me?"
said Horn.
For a moment Simon held back, playing with this idea, then he succumbed.
"I'm with you," said he.
"The keeper's away at Ditchin'ham that minds this bit of the stream,"
said Horn. "Not that it matters, for he ain't no good, and the
constable's no more than a blind horse. He's away, so we'll have the
place proper to ourselves, and you said you was anxious to see how night
linin' was done. Well, you'll see it, if you come along with me. Mind
you, it's not every gentleman I'd take on a job like this, but you're
different. Mind you, they'd call this poachin', some of them blistered
magistrits, and I'm takin' a risk lettin' you into it."
"I'll say nothing," said Simon.
"It's a risk all the same," said Horn.
"I'll pay you," said Simon.
"'Aff a quid?"
"Yes, here it is. What time do you start?"
"Not for two hours," said Horn. "My bit of a place is below hill there.
Y'know the Ditchin'ham road?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's that shack down there on the right of the road before it
jines the village. I've got the lines there and all. You walk down there
in two hours' time and you'll find me at the gate."
"I'll come," said Simon.
Then these two worthies parted; Horn wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand, saying he had to see a man about some ferrets, Simon walking
back to the hotel.
CHAPTER V
TIDD _versus_ RENSHAW
The head of a big office or business house cannot move out of his orbit
without creating perturbations. Brownlow, the head clerk and second in
command of the Pettigrew business, was to learn this fact to his cost.
Brownlow was a man of forty-five, whose habits and ideas seemed
regulated by clockwork. He lived at Hampstead with his wife and three
children, and went each day to the office. That was the summary of his
life as read by an outsider. Often the bald statement covers everything.
It almost did in the case of Brownlow. He had no initiative. He kept
things together, he was absolutely perfect in routine, he had a profound
knowledge of the law, he was correct, a good husband and a good father,
but he had no initiative, and, outside of the law, very little knowledge
of the world.
Imagine this correct gentleman, then, seated at his desk on the morning
of the day after that on which Simon made his poaching arrangements
with Horn. He was turning over some papers when Balls, the second in
command, came in. Balls was young and wore eyeglasses and had ambitions.
He and Brownlow were old friends, and when together talked as equals.
"I've had that James man just in to see me," said Balls. "Same old game;
wanted to see Pettigrew. He knows I have the whole thread of the case in
my hands, but that's nothing to him, he wants to see Pettigrew."
"I know," said Brownlow. "I've had the same bother. They _will_ see the
head."
"When's he back?" asked Balls.
"I don't know," said Brownlow.
"Where's he gone?"
"I don't know," said Brownlow. "I only know he's gone, same as this time
last year. He was a month away then."
"Oh, Lord!" said Balls, who had only joined the office nine months
before and who knew nothing of last year's escapade. "A month more of
this sort of bother--a month!"
"Yes," said Brownlow. "I had it to do last year, and he left no address,
same as now." Then, after a moment's pause, "I'm worried about him. I
can't help it, there was a strange thing happened last year. I've never
told it to a soul before. He called me in one day to his room and he
showed me a bundle of bank-notes. 'See here, Brownlow,' said he, 'did
you put these in my safe?' I'd never seen the things before and I have
no key to his private safe. I told him I hadn't. He showed me the notes,
ten thousand pounds' worth. Ten thousand pounds' worth, he couldn't
account for--asked _me_ if I'd put them in his safe. I said 'No,' as I
told you. 'Well, it's very strange,' said he. Then he stood looking at
the floor. Then he said all of a sudden, 'It doesn't matter.' Next day
he went off on a month's holiday, sending word for me to carry on."
"Queer," said Balls.
"More than queer," replied Brownlow. "I've put it down to mental strain;
he's a hard worker."
"It's not mental strain," said Balls. "He's as alive as you or me and as
keen, and he doesn't overwork; it's something else."
"Well, I wish it would stop," said Brownlow, "for I'm nearly worried to
death with clients writing to see him and trying to invent excuses, and
my work is doubled."
"So's mine," said Balls. He went out and Brownlow continued his
business. He had not been engaged on it for long when Morgan, the
office-boy, appeared.
"Mr. Tidd, sir, to see Mr. Pettigrew."
"Show him in," said Brownlow.
A moment later Mr. Tidd appeared.
Mr. Tidd was a small, slight, old-maidish man; he walked lightly, like a
bird, and carried a tall hat with a black band in one hand and a
tightly-folded umbrella in the other. Incidentally he was one of
Pettigrew's best clients.
"Good morning," said Mr. Tidd. "I've called to see Mr. Pettigrew with
regard to those papers."
"Oh yes," said Brownlow. "Sit down, Mr. Tidd. Those papers--Mr.
Pettigrew has been considering them."
"Is not Mr. Pettigrew in?"
"No, Mr. Tidd, he's not in just at present."
"When is he likely to return?"
"Well, that's doubtful; he has left me in charge."
The end of Mr. Tidd's nose moved uneasily.
"You are in charge of my case?"
"Yes, of the whole business."
"I can speak confidentially?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, I have decided to stop proceedings--in fact, I am caught in a
hole."
"Oh!"
"Yes. Mrs. Renshaw has, in some illicit manner, got a document with my
signature attached--a very grave document. This is strictly between
ourselves."
"Strictly."
"And she threatens to use it against me."
"Yes."
"To use it against me, unless I return to her at once the letter of hers
which I put in Mr. Pettigrew's keeping."
"Oh!"
"Yes. She is a violent and very vicious woman. I have not slept all
night. I live, as you perhaps know, at Hitchin. I took the first train I
could conveniently catch to town this morning."
The horrible fact was beginning to dawn on Brownlow that Simon had not
brought those papers back to the office. He said nothing; his lips, for
a moment, had gone dry.
"How she got hold of that document with my name to it I cannot tell,"
said Mr. Tidd, "but she will use it against me most certainly unless I
return that letter."
"Perhaps," said Brownlow, recovering himself, "perhaps she is only
threatening--bluffing, as they call it."
"Oh no, she's not," said the other. "If you knew her you would not say
that; no, indeed, you would not say that. She is the last woman to
threaten what she will not perform. Till that document is in her hands I
will not feel safe."
"You must be careful," said Brownlow, fighting for time. "How would it
be if I were to see her?"
"Useless," said Mr. Tidd.
"May I ask----"
"Yes?"
"Is the document to which your name is attached, and which is in her
possession, is it--er--detrimental--I mean, plainly, is it likely to do
you a grave injury?"
"The document," said Mr. Tidd, "was written by me in a moment of impulse
to a lady who is--another gentleman's wife."
"It is a letter?"
"Yes, it is a letter."
"I see. Well, Mr. Tidd, _your_ document, the one you are anxious to
return in exchange for this document, is in the possession of Mr.
Pettigrew; it is quite safe."
"Doubtless," said Mr. Tidd, "but I want it in my hands to return it
myself to-day."
"I sent it with the other papers to Mr. Pettigrew's private house," said
Brownlow, "and he has not yet returned it."
"Oh! But I want it to-day."
"It's very unfortunate," said Brownlow, "but he's away--and I'm afraid
he must have taken the papers with him for consideration."
"Good heavens!" said Tidd. "But if that is so what am I to do?"
"You can't wait?"
"How can I wait?"
"Dear me, dear me," said Brownlow, almost driven to distraction, "this
is very unfortunate."
Tidd seemed to concur.
His lips had become pale. Then he broke out: "I placed my vital
interests in the hands of Mr. Pettigrew, and now at the critical moment
I find this!" said he. "Away! But you must find him--you must find him,
and find him at once."
If he had only known what he would find he might have been less eager
perhaps.
"I'll find him if I can," said Brownlow. He rang a bell, and when Morgan
appeared he sent for Balls.
"Mr. Balls," said Brownlow with a spasmodic attempt at a wink, "can you
not get Mr. Pettigrew's present address?"
Balls understood.
"I'll see," said he. Out he went, returning in a minute.
"I'm sorry I can't," said Balls. "Mr. Pettigrew did not leave his
address when he went away."
"Thank you, Mr. Balls," said Brownlow. Then to Tidd, when they were
alone: "This is as hard for me as for you, Mr. Tidd; I can't think what
to do."
"We've got to find him," said Tidd.
"Certainly."
"Will he by any chance have left his address at his private house?"
"We can see," said Brownlow. "He has no telephone, but I'll go myself."
"I will go with you," said Tidd. "You understand me, this is a matter of
life and death--ruin--my wife--that woman, and the other one."
"I see, I see, I see," said Brownlow, taking his hat from its peg on the
wall. "Come with me; we will find him if he is to be found."
He hurried out, followed by Mr. Tidd, and in Fleet Street he managed to
get a taxi. They got into it and drove to King Charles Street.
There was a long pause after the knock, and then the door opened,
disclosing Mrs. Jukes. Brownlow was known to her.
"Mrs. Jukes," said Brownlow, "can you give me Mr. Pettigrew's present
address?"
"No, sir, I can't."
"He was called away, was he not?"
"I don't think so, sir; he went off on some business or other. Mudd has
gone with him."
"Oh, dear!" said Tidd.
"They stopped at the Charing Cross Hotel," said Mrs. Jukes, "and then I
had a message they were going into the country. It was from Mr. Mudd,
and he said they might be a month away."
"A month away!" said Tidd, his voice strangely calm.
"Yes, sir."
"Good gracious!" said Brownlow. Then to Tidd, "You see how I am placed?"
"A month away," said Tidd; he seemed unable to get over that obstacle of
thought.
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Jukes.
They got into the taxi and went to the Charing Cross Hotel, where they
were informed that Mr. Pettigrew was gone and had left no address.
Then suddenly an idea came to Brownlow--Oppenshaw. The doctor might
know; failing the doctor, they were done.
"Come with me," said he; "I think I know a person who may have the
address." He got into the taxi again with the other, gave the Harley
Street address, and they drove off. The horrible irregularity of the
whole of this business was poisoning Brownlow's mind--hunting for the
head of a firm who ought to be at his office and who held possession of
a client's vitally important document.
He said nothing, neither did Mr. Tidd, who was probably engaged in
reviewing the facts of his case and the position his wife would take up
when that letter was put into her hands by Mrs. Renshaw.
They stopped at 110A, Harley Street.
"Why, it's a doctor's house," said Tidd.
"Yes," said Brownlow.
They knocked at the door and were let in.
The servant, in the absence of an appointment, said he would see what he
could do, and showed them into the waiting-room.
"Tell Dr. Oppenshaw it is Mr. Brownlow from Mr. Pettigrew's office,"
said Brownlow, "on very urgent business."
They took their seats, and while Mr. Tidd tried to read a volume of
_Punch_ upside down, Brownlow bit his nails.
In a marvellously short time the servant returned and asked Mr. Brownlow
to step in.
Oppenshaw did not beat about the bush. When he heard what Brownlow
wanted he said frankly he did not know where Mr. Pettigrew was; he only
knew that he had been staying at the Charing Cross Hotel. Mudd, the
manservant, was with him.
"It's only right that you should know the position," said Oppenshaw, "as
you say you are the chief clerk and all responsibility rests on you in
Mr. Pettigrew's absence." Then he explained.
"But if he's like that, where's the use of finding him?" said the
horrified Brownlow. "A man with mind disease!"
"More a malady than a disease," put in Oppenshaw.
"Yes, but--like that."
"Of course," said Oppenshaw, "he may at any moment turn back into
himself again, like the finger of a glove turning inside out."
"Perhaps," said the other hopelessly, "but till he does turn----"
At that moment the sound of a telephone-bell came from outside.
"Till he does turn, of course, he's useless for business purposes," said
Oppenshaw; "he would have no memory, for one thing--at least, no memory
of business."
The servant entered.
"Please, sir, an urgent call for you."
"One moment," said Oppenshaw. Out he went.
He was back in less than two minutes.
"I have his address," said he.
"Thank goodness!" said Brownlow.
"H'm," said Oppenshaw; "but there's not good news with it. He's staying
at the Rose Hotel, Upton-on-Hill, and he's been getting into trouble of
some sort. It was Mudd who 'phoned, and he seemed half off his head;
said he didn't like to go into details over the telephone, but wanted me
to come down to arrange matters. I told him it was quite impossible
to-day; then he seemed to collapse and cut me off."
"What am I to do?"
"Well, there's only two things to be done: tell this gentleman that Mr.
Pettigrew's mind is affected, or take him down there on the chance that
this shock may have restored Mr. Pettigrew."
"I can't tell him Mr. Pettigrew's mind is affected," said Brownlow. "I'd
sooner do anything than that. I'd sooner take him down there on the
chance of his being better--perhaps even if he's not, the sight of me
and Mr. Tidd might recall him to himself."
"Possibly," said Oppenshaw, who was in a hurry and only too glad of any
chance of cutting the business short. "Possibly. Anyhow, there is some
use in trying, and tell Mudd it's absolutely useless my going. I shall
be glad to do anything I can by letter or telephone."
Brownlow took up his hat, then he recaptured Tidd and gave him the
cheering news that he had Simon's address. "I'll go with you myself,"
said Brownlow. "Of course, the expense will fall on the office. I must
send a telegram to the office and my wife to say I won't be back
to-night. We can't get to Upton till this evening. We'll have to go as
we are, without even waiting to pack a bag."
"That doesn't matter; that doesn't matter," said Tidd.
They were in the street now and bundling into the waiting taxi.
"Victoria Station," said Brownlow to the driver. Then to Tidd, "I can
telegraph from the station."
They drove off.
CHAPTER VI
WHAT HAPPENED TO SIMON
"He came back two hours ago, sir, and he was in his room ten minutes
ago--but he's gone."
"Well," said Bobby, who was just off to bed, "he'll be back again soon;
can't come to much harm here. You'd better sit up for him, Mudd."
Off he went to bed. He lay reading for awhile and thinking of Cerise;
then he put out the light and dropped off to sleep.
He was awakened by Mudd. Mudd with a candle in his hand.
"He's not back yet, Mr. Robert."
Bobby sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Not back? Oh, Uncle Simon! What's the
time?"
"Gone one, sir."
"Bother! What can have happened to him, Mudd?"
"That's what I'm asking myself," said Mudd.
A heavy step sounded on the gravel drive in front of the hotel, then
came a ring at the bell. Mudd, candle in hand, darted off.
Bobby heard voices down below. Five minutes passed and then reappeared
Mudd--ghastly to look at.
"They've took him," said Mudd.
"What?"
"He's been took poachin'."
"Poaching!"
"Colonel Salmon's river, he and a man, and the man's got off. He's at
the policeman's house, and he says he'll let us have him if we'll go
bail for him, seeing he's an old gentleman and only did it for the lark
of the thing."
"Thank God!"
"But he'll have to go before the magistrates on We'n'sday, whether or
no--before the magistrates--_him_!"
"The devil!" said Bobby. He got up and hurried on some clothes.
"Him before the magistrates--in his present state! _Oh_, Lord!"
"Shut up!" said Bobby. His hands were shaking as he put on his things.
Pictures of Simon before the magistrates were fleeting before him. Money
was the only chance. Could the policeman be bribed?
Hurrying downstairs and outside into the moonlit night, he found the
officer. None of the hotel folk had turned out at the ring of the bell.
Bobby, in a muted voice and beneath the stars, listened to the tale of
the Law, then he tried corruption.
Useless. Constable Copper, though he might be no more good than a blind
horse, according to Horn, was incorruptible yet consolatory.
"It'll only be a couple of quid fine," said he. "Maybe not that, seeing
what he is and it was done for a lark. Horn will get it in the neck, but
not him. He's at my house now, and you can have him back if you'll go
bail he won't get loose again. He's a nice old gentleman, but a bit
peculiar, I think."
Constable Copper seemed quite light-hearted over the matter, and to
think little of it as an offence. A couple of quid would cover it! He
did not, perhaps, appreciate fully the light and shade of the
situation--a J.P. and member of the Athenæum and of the Society of
Antiquaries brought up for poaching in company with an evil character
named Horn!
Neither did Simon, whom they found seated on the side of the table in
the Coppers' sitting-room talking to Mrs. Copper, who was wrapped in a
shawl.
He went back to the hotel with them rather silent but not depressed; he
tried, indeed, to talk and laugh over the affair. This was the last
straw, and Bobby burst out, giving him a "jawing" complete and of the
first pattern. Then they saw him to bed and put out the light.
At breakfast he was quite himself again, and the summons which arrived
at eleven o'clock was not shown to him. No one knew of the affair with
the exception of the whole village, all the hotel servants, Bobby and
Mudd.
The distracted Mudd spent the morning walking about, hither and thither,
trying to collect his wits and make a plan. Simon had given his name, of
course, though indeed it did not matter much as he was a resident at the
hotel. It was impossible to deport him or move him or pretend he was
ill; nothing was possible but the bench of magistrates--Colonel Salmon
presiding--and Publicity.
At half-past eleven or quarter to twelve he sent the despairing message
to Oppenshaw; then he collapsed into a cold sort of resignation with hot
fits at times.
CHAPTER VII
TIDD _versus_ BROWNLOW
At four o'clock that day a carriage drove up to the hotel and two
gentlemen alighted. They were shown into the coffee-room and Mudd was
sent for. He came, expecting to find police officers, and found Brownlow
and Mr. Tidd.
"One moment, Mr. Tidd," said Brownlow, then he took Mudd outside into
the hall.
"He's not fit to be seen," said Mudd, when the other had explained. "No
client must see him. He's right enough to look at and speak to, but he's
not himself. What made you bring him here, Mr. Brownlow--now, of all
times?"
Brownlow started and turned. Mr. Tidd had opened the coffee-room door,
and how much of their conversation he had heard Heaven knows.
"One moment," said Brownlow.
"I will wait no longer," said Mr. Tidd. "This must be explained. Is Mr.
Pettigrew here or is he not? No, I will not wait."
A waiter passed at that moment with an afternoon-tea-tray.
"Is Mr. Pettigrew in this hotel?" asked Tidd.
"He's in the garden, I believe, sir."
Brownlow tried to get in front of Tidd to round him off from the garden;
Mudd tried to take his arm. He pushed them aside.
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE ARBOUR
We must go back to three o'clock. At three o'clock Bobby, walking in the
garden smoking a cigarette, had crossed the front of the arbour--Arbour
No. 1. The grass path, soundless as a Turkey carpet, did not betray his
footsteps.
There were two people in the arbour and they were "canoodling"--Simon
and Julia Delyse. She was keeping her hand in, perhaps, or the
attraction Simon had always had for her had betrayed her into allowing
him to hold her hand. Anyhow, he was holding it. Bobby looked at her,
and Julia snatched her hand away. Simon laughed; he seemed to think it a
good joke, and his vain soul was doubtless pleased with having got the
better of Bobby with Bobby's girl.
Bobby passed on, saying, "I beg your pardon." It was the only thing he
could think of to say. Then, when out of hearing, he too laughed. He had
got the better of Julia. That brooding presence would brood no more.
An hour later Simon, walking in the garden alone and in meditation,
reached the bowling-green. He drew close to Arbour No. 2. The grass
silencing his footsteps, he passed the arbour opening and looked in. The
two people there did not see him for a moment, then they unlocked.
It was Cerise and Bobby.
Simon stood, mouth open, stock still, cigar dropped on grass.
He had laughed when Bobby had caught him with Julia. He did not laugh
now.
The shock of the poaching business had left him untouched, unshaken, but
Cerise, in some strange way, was his centre of gravity, his compass, and
sometimes his rudder. He loved Cerise; the other girls were phantoms.
Perhaps Cerise was the only real thing in his mental state.
For a moment he stood, his hand to his head like a man stunned.
Bobby ran to him and caught him.
"Where am I?" said Uncle Simon. "Oh--oh--I see." He leaned heavily on
Bobby, looking about him in a dazed way like a man half awakened. Madame
Rossignol, who had just come out of the hotel, seeing his condition, ran
towards him, and Simon, as though recognising a guardian angel, held out
his hand.
Then Bobby and the old lady gently, very gently, began to lead him back
to the house.
As they drew near the back entrance three men, one following the other,
came out.
Simon stopped.
He had recognised Tidd; he seemed also to recognise more fully his own
position and to remember. Bobby felt his hand tightly clasping his own.
"Why, this is Mr. Tidd," said Simon.
"Mr. Pettigrew," said Tidd, "where are my papers--the papers in the case
of Renshaw?"
"Tidd _v._ Renshaw," said Simon's accurate mind. "They are in the top
left-hand drawer of my bureau in Charles Street, Westminster."
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER THE LAST
"You are all absolutely wrong." Julia Delyse was speaking. She had been
sitting mumchance at a general meeting of the Pettigrew confraternity
held half an hour before Bench in a sitting-room of the Rose Hotel.
Simon had vetoed the idea of a solicitor to defend him--it would only
create more talk, and from what he could make out his case was
defenceless. He would throw himself on the mercy of the court. The rest
had concurred.
"Throw yourself on the mercy of the court! Have you ever lived in the
country? Do you know what these old magistrates are like? Don't you know
that the _Wessex Chronicle_ will publish yards about it, to say nothing
of the local rag? I've thought out the whole thing. I've wired for Dick
Pugeot."
"You wired?" said Bobby.
"Last night. You remember I asked you for his address--and there he is."
The toot of a motor-horn came from outside.
Julia rose and left the room.
Bobby followed and stopped her in the passage.
"Julia," said he, "if you can get him out of this and save his name
being in the papers, you'll be a brick. You are a brick, and I've been
a--a----"
"I know," said Julia, "but you could not help yourself--nor can I. I'm
not Cerise. Love is lunacy and the world's all wrong. Now go back and
tell your uncle to say nothing in court and to pretend he's a fool. If
Pugeot is the man you say he is, he'll save his name. Old Mr. Pettigrew
has got to be camouflaged."
"Good heavens, Julia," cried Bobby, the vision of gnus emulating zebras
rising before him, "you can't mean to paint him?"
"Never mind what I mean," said Julia.
The Upton Bench was an old Bench. It had been in existence since the
time of Mr. Justice Shallow. It held its sittings in the court-room of
the Upton Police Court, and there it dispensed justice, of a sort, of a
Wednesday morning upon "drunks," petty pilferers, poachers, tramps, and
any other unfortunates appearing before it.
Colonel Grouse was the chairman. With him this morning sat Major
Partridge-Cooper, Colonel Salmon, Mr. Teal, and General Grampound. The
reporters of the local rag and the _Wessex Chronicle_ were in their
places. The Clerk of the Court, old Mr. Quail, half-blind and fumbling
with his papers, was at his table; a few village constables, including
Constable Copper, were by the door, and there was no general public.
The general public was free to enter, but none of the villagers ever
came. It was an understood thing that the Bench discouraged idlers and
inquisitive people.
The inalienable right of the public to enter a Court of Justice and see
Themis at work had never been pushed. The Bench was much more than the
Bench--it was the Gentry and the Power of Upton,[1] against which no man
could run counter. Horn alone, in pot-houses and public places, had
fought against this shibboleth; he had found a few agreers, but no
backers.
At eleven to the moment the Pettigrew contingent filed in and took their
places, and after them a big yellow man, the Hon. Dick Pugeot. He was
known to the magistrates, but Justice is blind and no mark of
recognition was shown, whilst a constable, detaching himself from the
others, went to the door and shouted:
"Richard Horn."
Horn, who had been caught and bailed, and who had evidently washed
himself and put on his best clothes, entered, made for the dock, as a
matter of long practice, and got into it.
"Simon Pettigrew," called the Clerk.
Simon rose and followed Horn. Instructed by Julia to say nothing, he
said nothing.
Then Pugeot rose.
"I beg your pardon," said Pugeot; "you have got my friend's name wrong.
Pattigraw, please; he's a Frenchman, though long resident in England;
and it's not Simon--but Sigismond."
"Rectify the charge-sheet," said Colonel Grouse. "First witness."
Simon, dazed, and horrified as a solicitor by this line of action, tried
to speak, but failed. The brilliant idea of Julia's, taken up with
enthusiasm by Pugeot, was evidently designed to fool the newspaper men
and save the name of Simon the Solicitor. Still, it was horrible, and he
felt as though Pugeot were trying to carry him pick-a-back across an
utterly impossible bridge.
He guessed now why this had been sprung on him. They knew that as a
lawyer he would never have agreed to such a statement.
Then Copper, hoisting himself into the witness-stand, hitching his belt
and kissing the Testament, began:
"I swear before A'mighty Gawd that the evidence I shall give shall be
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me Gawd,
Amen on the evening of the 16th pursuin' my beat by Porter's Meadows I
see defendant in the company of Horn----"
"What were they doing?" asked old Mr. Teal, who was busily taking notes
just like any real judge.
"Walkin' towards the river, sir."
"In which direction?"
"Up stream, sir."
"Go on."
Copper went on.
"Crossin' the meadows, they kept to the river, me after them----"
"How far behind?" asked Major Partridge-Cooper.
"Half a field's length, sir, till they reached the bend of the stream
beyond which the prisoner Horn began to set his night lines, assisted by
the prisoner Puttigraw. 'Hullo,' says I, and Horn bolted, and I closed
with the other one."
"Did he make resistance?"
"No, sir. I walked him up to my house quite quiet."
"That all?"
"Yes, sir."
"You can stand down."
The prisoners had pleaded guilty and there was no other evidence. Simon
began to see light. He could perceive at once that it would be a
question of a fine, that the magistrates and Press had swallowed him as
specified by Pugeot, that his name was saved. But he reckoned without
Pugeot.
Pugeot had done everything in life except act as an advocate, and he was
determined not to let the chance escape. Several brandies-and-sodas at
the hotel had not lessened his enthusiasm for Publicity, and he rose.
"Mr. Chairman and Justices," said Pugeot. "I would like to say a few
words on behalf of my friend, the prisoner, whom I have known for many
years and who now finds himself in this unfortunate position through no
fault of his own."
"How do you make that out?" asked Colonel Grouse.
"I beg your pardon?" said Pugeot, checked in his eloquence. "Oh yes, I
see what you mean. Well, as a matter of fact, as a matter of fact--well,
not to put too fine a point upon it, leaving aside the fact that he is
the last man to do a thing of this sort, he has had money troubles in
France."
"Do you wish to make out a case of _non compos mentis_?" asked old Mr.
Teal. "There is no medical evidence adduced."
"Not in the least," said Pugeot; "he's as right as I am, only he has had
worries." Then, confidentially, and speaking to the Bench as fellow-men:
"If you will make it a question of a fine, I will guarantee everything
will be all right--and besides"--a brilliant thought--"his wife will
look after him."
"Is his wife present?" asked Colonel Grouse.
"That is the lady, I believe," said Colonel Salmon, looking in the
direction of the Rossignols, whom he dimly remembered having seen at the
Squire Simpson's with Simon.
Pugeot, cornered, turned round and looked at the blushing Madame
Rossignol.
"Yes," said he, without turning a hair, "that is the lady."
Then the recollection struck him with a thud that he had introduced the
Rossignols as Rossignols to the Squire Simpson's and that they were
registered at the hotel as Rossignols. He felt as though he were in a
skidding car, but nothing happened, no accusing voice rose to give him
the lie, and the Bench retired to consider its sentence, which was one
guinea fine for Sigismond and a month for Horn.
"You've married them," said Julia, as they walked back to the hotel,
leaving the others to follow. "I _never_ meant you to say that. But
perhaps it's for the best; she's a good woman and will look after him,
and he'll _have_ to finish the business, won't he?"
"Rather, and a jolly good job!" said Pugeot. "Now I've got to bribe the
hotel man and stuff old Simpson with the hard facts. Never had such fun
in my life. I say, old thing, where do you hang out in London?"
Julia gave him her address.
That was the beginning of the end of Pugeot as a bachelor--also of
Simon, who never would have been brought up to the scratch but for
Pugeot's speech--also of Mr. Ravenshaw, who never in his wildest dreams
could have foreseen his marriage to Simon's step-daughter a week after
Simon's marriage to her mother.
Mudd alone remains unmarried out of all these people, for the simple
and efficient reason that there is no one to marry him to. He lives with
the Pettigrews in Charles Street, and his only trouble in life is dread
of another outbreak on the part of Simon. This has not occurred
yet--will never occur, if there is any truth in the dictum of Oppenshaw
that marriage is the only cure for the delusions of youth.
THE END
FOOTNOTE:
[1] This was before the Politicians had amended the Bench.