The sea-wind in his hair, his eyes agleam with the fresh memory of
Alpine snows, Will Warburton sprang out of the cab, paid the driver a
double fare, flung on to his shoulder a heavy bag and ran up, two steps
at a stride, to a flat on the fourth floor of the many-tenanted
building hard by Chelsea Bridge. His rat-tat-tat brought to the door a
thin yellow face, cautious in espial, through the narrow opening.
"Is it you, sir?"
"All right, Mrs. Hopper! How are you?--how are you?"
He threw his bag into the passage, and cordially grasped the woman's
hands.
"Dinner ready? Savagely hungry. Give me three minutes, and serve."
For about that length of time there sounded in the bedroom a splashing
and a blowing; then Warburton came forth with red cheeks. He seized
upon a little pile of letters and packets which lay on his
writing-table, broke envelopes, rent wrappers, and read with now an
ejaculation of pleasure, now a grunt of disgust, and again a mirthful
half roar. Then, dinner--the feeding of a famished man of robust
appetite and digestion, a man three or four years on the green side of
thirty. It was a speedy business, in not much more than a quarter of an
hour there disappeared a noble steak and its appurtenances, a
golden-crusted apple tart, a substantial slice of ripe Cheddar, two
bottles of creamy Bass.
"Now I can talk!" cried Will to his servant, as he threw himself into a
deep chair, and began lighting his pipe. "What's the news? I seem to
have been away three months rather than three weeks."
"Mr. Franks called yesterday, sir, late in the afternoon, when I was
here cleaning. He was very glad to hear you'd be back to-day, and said
he might look in to-night."
"Good! What else?"
"My brother-in-law wishes to see you, sir. He's in trouble again--lost
his place at Boxon's a few days ago. I don't exac'ly know how it
happened, but he'll explain everything. He's very unfortunate, sir, is
Allchin."
"Tell him to come before nine to-morrow morning, if he can."
"Yes, sir. I'm sure it's very kind of you, sir."
"What else?"
"Nothing as I can think of just now, sir."
Warburton knew from the woman's way of speaking that she had something
still in her mind; but his pipe being well lit, and a pleasant
lassitude creeping over him, he merely nodded. Mrs. Hopper cleared the
table, and withdrew.
The window looked across the gardens of Chelsea Hospital (old-time
Ranelagh) to the westward reach of the river, beyond which lay
Battersea Park, with its lawns and foliage. A beam of the July sunset
struck suddenly through the room. Warburton was aware of it with
half-closed eyes; he wished to stir himself, and look forth, but
languor held his limbs, and wreathing tobacco-smoke kept his thoughts
among the mountains. He might have quite dozed off had not a sudden
noise from within aroused him--the unmistakable crash of falling
crockery. It made him laugh, a laugh of humorous expostulation. A
minute or two passed, then came a timid tap at his door, and Mrs.
Hopper showed her face.
"Another accident, sir, I'm sorry to say," were her faltering words.
"Extensive?"
"A dish and two plates, I'm sorry to say, sir."
"Oh, that's nothing."
"Of course I shall make them good, sir."
"Pooh! Aren't there plates enough?"
"Oh, quite enough--just yet, sir."
Warburton subdued a chuckle, and looked with friendly smile at his
domestic, who stood squeezing herself between the edge of the door and
the jamb--her habit when embarrassed. Mrs. Hopper had served him for
three years; he knew all her weaknesses, but thought more of her
virtues, chief of which were honest intention and a moderate aptitude
for plain cooking. A glance about this room would have proved to any
visitor that Mrs. Hopper's ideas of cleanliness were by no means rigid,
her master had made himself to a certain extent responsible for this
defect; he paid little attention to dust, provided that things were in
their wonted order. Mrs. Hopper was not a resident domestic; she came
at stated hours. Obviously a widow, she had a poor, loose-hung,
trailing little body, which no nourishment could plump or fortify. Her
visage was habitually doleful, but contracted itself at moments into a
grin of quaint drollery, which betrayed her for something of a humorist.
"My fingers is all gone silly to-day, sir," she pursued. "I daresay
it's because I haven't had much sleep these last few nights."
"How's that?"
"It's my poor sister, sir--my sister Liza, I mean--she's had one of her
worst headaches--the extra special, we call 'em. This time it's lasted
more than three days, and not one minute of rest has the poor thing
got."
Warburton was all sympathy; he inquired about the case as though it
were that of an intimate friend. Change of air and repose were obvious
remedies; no less obviously, these things were out of the question for
a working woman who lived on a few shillings a week.
"Do you know of any place she could go to?" asked Warburton, adding
carelessly, "if the means were provided."
Mrs. Hopper squeezed herself more tightly than ever between door and
jamb. Her head was bent in an abashed way, and when she spoke it was in
a thick, gurgling tone, only just intelligible.
"There's a little lodging 'ouse at Southend, sir, where we used to go
when my 'usband could afford it."
"Well, look here. Get a doctor's opinion whether Southend would do; if
not, which place would. And just send her away. Don't worry about the
money."
Experience enabled Mrs. Hopper to interpret this advice. She stammered
gratitude.
"How's your other sister--Mrs. Allchin?" Warburton inquired kindly.
"Why, sir, she's doing pretty well in her 'ealth, sir, but her baby
died yesterday week. I hope you'll excuse me, sir, for all this bad
news just when you come back from your holiday, and when it's natural
as you don't feel in very good spirits."
Will had much ado not to laugh. On his return from a holiday, Mrs.
Hopper always presumed him to be despondent in view of the resumption
of daily work. He was beginning to talk of Mrs. Allchin's troubles,
when at the outer door sounded a long nervous knock.
"Ha! That's Mr. Franks."
Mrs. Hopper ran to admit the visitor.