MAINLY COMMERCIAL
Assoon as Philip's bodily mechanism would permit, flat-hunting expeditions were organised, and eventually resulted in the leasing of anappartementnear Albert Gate. The rooms stood high up, overlooking the Park, and were described by the agent and Timothy as "a lovely little bachelor suite," and "a self-contained monkey-house" respectively.
Furnishing followed. One fine morning a party consisting of Peggy, Miss Leslie, Philip, and Timothy set out to purchase household equipment of every kind. It was a disastrous expedition. All four were in a mood for enjoyment, and their high spirits, as very often happens when the young of the two sexes combine to transact business jointly, took the form of helpless, speechless, and unseemly laughter. If a majestic shop-walker, addressing the party as a whole, enquired what he might have the pleasure of showing to them, every one waited for some one else to reply: then, after a pause, every one replied at once. An untimely explosion followed, and the party turned on its heel and hurried, panic-stricken, into the street.
Timothy was at the bottom of the trouble. He began the day by marching into Harrods's and ordering a funeral; repudiating the contract, afterten minutes of ghoulish detail, upon the plea of having suddenly remembered that the deceased had expressed a desire to be buried at sea, and asking instead to be directed to the Canadian canoe department.
Later, he conducted his followers to the establishment of an extremely select and most expensive bootmaker in St. James's. The whole party were ushered with much solemnity into an apartment upon the first floor—Timothy wearing a face of intense gravity, Philip in a gentle perspiration, and Peggy and Miss Leslie dumbly gripping one another's fingers. The room was plainly but expensively furnished. Upon a pedestal in one corner stood a plaster cast of a Royal foot.
Two serious gentlemen in frock-coats stood awaiting them. These, after providing chairs and offering a few observations upon the weather and the Parliamentary situation, inquired Timothy's pleasure.
"I want a Wellington boot," said Timothy.
The stouter of the two serious gentlemen touched a bell; whereupon a third gentleman in a frock-coat appeared.
"A pair of hunting-tops," announced the stout man.
The newcomer brought a small stool, and lowering himself upon knee with knightly grace, began to grope under Timothy's chair for one of Timothy's feet.
"Not for myself," explained Timothy. "For a grand-uncle of mine—Lieutenant-Colonel Busby, of the Indian Army."
"If the Colonel," suggested the senior frock-coat deferentially, "would favour us with a call, we could measure him for a pair more satis—"
"Not a pair," corrected Timothy. "I said just one. My grand-uncle had the misfortune to lose a leg in Afghanistan in eighteen-sixty-seven, so naturally he does not require two boots. Besides, I doubt if he could call on you. He goes out very seldom now: he is almost bedridden, in fact. All he wants is a number nine Wellington boot. Have you got one?"
The frock-coats conferred in mysterious whispers, while the two ladies did not cease to cling to one another.
"We should be happy to make the boot, sir," was the final verdict. "Is it for the right foot or left?"
Timothy's face expressed the utmost dismay.
"I have entirely forgotten," he said. "It is unpardonably stupid of me."
He turned to the cowering Philip.
"Cousin Theophilus," he said, "can you recollect which leg it was that Uncle Hannibal lost?"
"The right, I think," said Philip hoarsely. "Not sure, though. Don't rely on me."
Tim turned to Peggy.
"Cousin Geraldine?" he enquired.
"The left, I believe," replied Peggy composedly.
Timothy gave a perplexed smile, and turned to Miss Leslie.
"We must leave it with you to decide, Aunt Keziah," he said. "What have you to say?"
"Honk, honk honk!" replied Aunt Keziahwildly. Timothy rose to his feet, and smiled apologetically upon the gentlemen in frock-coats.
"I fear," he said, "that there is nothing for it but to go home and look. Good-morning!"
After two hours of this sort of imbecility the troupe found itself consuming ices in Bond Street, having become possessed so far of two bath-mats and a waste-paper basket.
"Now we must be serious," announced Miss Leslie, wiping her eyes. She had learned to her cost this morning that no woman is ever too old to be immune from a fit of the giggles. "Mr. Rendle, will you kindly go home?"
Timothy's only reply was to dash out of the tea-shop and into an optician's on the other side of the street. Presently he returned, putting something in his pocket.
"Fall in and follow me!" he commanded.
"Where are we going to?" enquired Peggy, as the expedition meekly complied.
"International Furniture Company," was the brisk reply.
Timothy's dupes regarded one another more hopefully.
"That sounds like business," said Philip. "Come along!"
But Timothy's exuberance was not yet exhausted. On approaching the stately premises of the International Furniture Company he suddenly produced a pair of tinted spectacles from his pocket and put them on. Then, assuming the piping voice and humped shoulders of dodderingsenility, he took the scandalised Miss Leslie by the arm, and limping through the great doorway of the shop, demanded the immediate presence of the manager of the Antique Furniture Department.
On the appearance of that functionary, Tim bade him a courtly good-morning, and said:—
"I desire first of all to inspect your dining-room suites. We are setting this young couple"—indicating Philip, who flushed crimson, and Peggy, who exhibited no confusion whatever—"up in a flat."
The manager, a short-sighted young man with a nervous manner, after a startled inspection of the decrepit figure before him, turned upon his heel and led the way to the dining-room suites. Timothy hobbled after, leaning heavily upon Miss Leslie's arm and coughing asthmatically.
"Tim, you young ass," urged Philip, hot with shame on Peggy's account, "dry up!"
The relentless humourist took not the slightest notice. Instead, he addressed the back of the manager.
"The young folk!" he wheezed—"the young folk! The old story! The time comes when they must leave the nest. My little bird"—here he laid a palsied hand upon the shoulder of Peggy, who choked noisily—"has flown away at last. It took her a long time to find her wings,—at one time I thought she was never going to do it,—but all's well that ends well, as Will Shakespeare puts it. My little bird has found a nest of her own—with honest John, here; and damme! her old grandad is going to furnish it for her! Are these your dining-room suites? They don't make furniturelike they did in my young days, when Bob Chippendale and Nick Sheraton were alive. I remember—"
"I like this oak table very much," said Miss Leslie to Philip, in a high and trembling voice. "I wonder if there are chairs to match it."
But before any business could be transacted the irrepressible octogenarian was off again.
"Dearest Pamela," he said affectionately to Miss Leslie, "how well I remember the day that we two bought our wedding furniture together! We made a handsome couple, you and I. You wore a crinoline, with a black bombazine tippet; and I was in nankeen overalls and a fob. I was a mad wag in those days: I remember I offered to fight the shopman to decide the price of a harpsichord—or was it a spinet?—that I considered he asked too much for. But times have changed. I suppose you never fight your customers now to save chaffering, young man? If you do, all honour to you! I like to see ancient customs kept up." He surveyed the flinching vendor of dining-room suites with puckered eyes. "I am an old fellow now, and I fear I would hardly give you full measure. But if you have any inclination for a bout with the mufflers,"—a relentless hand descended upon the fermenting Philip and drew him forward,—"my son-in-law here, honest John—"
But the manager, murmuring something inarticulate about a telephone-call, turned tail and fled, his place being taken by a man of more enduring fibre.
And so on.
They got home about six, having purchased an imitation walnut wardrobe which they did not want.
"We simplyhadto buy something after all that," said honest John.
A week later the flat was sufficiently furnished to be habitable, and the new tenants moved in.
It was about this time that Philip began to realise the portent and significance of a mysterious female figure, resembling an elderly and intensely respectable spectre, which had been dogging his footsteps and standing meekly aside for him upon staircases ever since he entered into possession. With the arrival of the furniture the apparition materialised into a diminutive and sprightly dame in a black bonnet, who introduced herself as Mrs. Grice, and asked that she and her husband might be employed as the personal attendants of Philip and Tim. The pair resided in some subterranean retreat in the basement, and their services, it appeared, were at the disposal of such of the tenants of the building as possessed no domestic staff of their own. Mrs. Grice could cook, darn, scrub, and dust; while Mr. Grice (whose impeccability might be gauged from the fact that he suffered slightly from gout and possessed a dress-suit) could wait at table and act as valet to the gentlemen.
Philip was alone when the assault was delivered, and capitulated at once, a natural inclination to wait until he had consulted Peggy being overridden by constitutional inability to say "No" toa lady. The bargain concluded, Mrs. Grice advanced briskly to practical details.
"Now, sir," she said, "I see you 'ave your furniture comin' in. And very nice furniture, too," she added encouragingly. "But if you'll allow me, I should like to consult you about the fixtures. I always likes to be businesslike with my gentlemen. There's that curtain-pole over the window. That was given me by Sir Percy Peck, the gentleman what had the flat last. He said to me, just as he was leaving,—he was leaving to be married to Lady Ader Evings, and they sent me a pink ticket for the wedding, but I couldn't go, what with my daughter losing 'er 'usband about that time and Grice getting one of his legs, so it was wasted, not bein' transferable—well, he says to me, says Sir Percy: 'That curtain-pole is a present from me to you, Mrs. Grice.'"
The recipient of the departed Sir Percy's bounty paused to inhale a large quantity of sorely needed breath. Philip, who had written out a cheque only two days previously for all the fixtures in the flat, waited meekly.
"Now, sir," continued Mrs. Grice briskly, "what shall I do with that curtain-pole? Shall I 'ave it took down, or would it be any convenience to you to buy it from me?"
"I have an idea, Mrs. Grice," said Philip, plucking up courage, "that I took over all the fixtures from the landlord."
"Right, sir,quiteright!" assented Mrs. Grice promptly. "But those were landlord's fixtures. I'm talking about tenant's fixtures. I dare say,"she added indulgently, "that you didn't know about them. Perhaps you haven't taken a flat before. Well, Sir Percy, he says to me: 'That curtain-pole is a present from me to you, Mrs. Grice.' Now, sir, will you have that pole took down, or will you take it off me 'ands?"
"After all," argued Philip to himself, "I daresay the old lady needs the money more than I do; and in any case she appears to think the rotten thing is hers, which will mean my getting another; so—"
"Certainly I will take it, Mrs. Grice," he said. "Er—how much do you want for it?"
At the mention of money Mrs. Grice became greatly flustered.
"Really, sir, I would rather leave it to you," she protested. "A gentleman knows more about such things than what I do. I am quite sure you will give me a fair price for it."
Philip, feeling perfectly certain that he would not, again pressed Mrs. Grice to name a figure. Finally the old lady overcame her extreme delicacy of feeling sufficiently to suggest ten shillings.
"But we must be fair about it, sir," she insisted. "I don't want to overcharge you." She paused, as if struck by a sudden thought. "I'll tell you what, sir,—we'll ask a third party!"
Next moment Mrs. Grice was at the door.
"Grice!" she called shrilly.
"Commin', Emmer," replied a husky voice, and Mr. Grice sidled into the room with uncanny suddenness.
"How much, Grice," enquired his helpmeet,pointing to the curtain-pole, "would you think was a fair price for that pole? Afairprice, mind!"
Mr. Grice fixed his wandering and watery eyes upon the article under consideration, and ruminated. Finally:—
"Ten shillin'," he said.
Mrs. Grice turned to Philip with a smile of delighted surprise.
"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed. "I was about right, after all, sir."
Philip, quite overwhelmed by this convincing coincidence of judgment, announced humbly that he would take the curtain-pole.
"I had better pay for it now," he said.
"One moment, sir, if you please!" replied Mrs. Grice.
Darting out on to the landing she reappeared almost instantly, heralded by a sonorous clang, carrying a bedroom ewer and basin.
"Now these things, sir," she announced, "belongs to Grice. They were Sir Percy's present to him. 'Grice,' he said, just as he was leaving to marry Lady Ader Evings, 'this jug and basin are yours now: they are my present from me to you.' Didn't he, Grice?"
Mr. Grice was understood to mumble assent. Mrs. Grice took another breath. It is hardly necessary to add that within the next thirty seconds Philip had become the reluctant owner of a chipped jug and basin, recently the property of a baronet.
Mrs. Grice swept on.
"Now, sir," she continued, with unabated vigour, "these fire-irons—"
But at this moment, to Philip's unspeakable relief, Timothy arrived, and took command of the situation at once. Philip put on his hat and went for a walk in the Park.
"We had great fun," reported Timothy on his return. "The last thing she tried to sell me was the fireplace. (I think it was Sir Percy's parting gift to the cat.) I said that I had no money and that they had better take it away. That spiked her guns. And now, my lad, you are going to put on your best duds and come poodle-faking with me!"
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
Theenterprise thus mysteriously designated turned out to be nothing worse than an afternoon reception, and was the first of many.
Philip, remembering why Peggy had sent him to live with Tim, began conscientiously to school himself to the rigours of a society life. He went everywhere and flinched at nothing. He learned to converse with the moderningénuewithout feeling like an infant of five; he learned to endure the cross-examination of dowagers without looking as if his one idea was to bolt. He went to balls and crushes. He was introduced to Ranelagh, and became acquainted with mixed foursomes.
He did the thing thoroughly. It was all a means to an end, he felt. He was a dull dog: he had no parlour tricks. In Peggy's eyes, although in her kindness of heart she endeavoured to conceal the fact, he was only Most Excellent Theophilus, a worthy person. Ergo, he must overcome these defects in his character and then try his luck again. So he attached himself to that admitted social luminary, Tim Rendle, as a humble disciple, acquiring merit by abandoning some of his favourite recreations and going out at night when he would rather have been in bed.
It was an ingenuous and characteristic methodof procedure, and it puzzled Peggy more than a little.
"You are becoming quite a butterfly, Theophilus," she said to him one day. "I thought you did not like gadding about."
"Neither I do, very much," confessed Philip. "Excepting, of course, when—except at such times as—well,now, in fact!" he concluded bluntly.
They were walking along the Chelsea Embankment together on their way to the new flat,—completely equipped at last,—where Peggy and Miss Leslie were to be entertained at a great housewarming tea-party. It was the first time that they had been alone together for nearly a month.
"Thank you, kind sir," replied Peggy, with a gracious inclination of her head. "But why don't you like it? Isn't it pleasant to go out somewhere after a hard, dull day, and meet your friends, and talk about things that don't matter, and forget all about Oxford Street?"
"Yes," agreed Philip, "I suppose it is. I will confess this much: I know I should hate to go back to my old life at Wigmore Street now. I have widened out to that extent. But the worst of these social functions is that you have to put in a terrible lot of spadework before you get down to what you came out for."
"You mean supper?" suggested Peggy, with intentional flippancy. She found it difficult to control Philip's movements in conversation. He had no small talk. Introduce him to a topic, and infive minutes he had brushed aside the flimsy superficialities to which we are content to confine ourselves in our social encounters, and was digging heavily at the fundamental root of the matter.
"No, not supper," replied Philip gravely. "I mean this. A man usually regards these gatherings as a means to an end. He doesn't turn out after a hard day's work, to stand wedged in a hot room for hours on end, just because he likes it. He does not want to meet a chattering mob in the least. But he does want to meet one particular person very much, indeed; and perhaps the only way in which he can achieve his object is by plunging into a crowded room and talking to fifty bores first. It seems a terrible waste of energy,—like installing an entire electric light plant to illuminate one globe,—but sometimes it is the only way. And usually it is worth it!"
He paused, feeling a little surprised at himself. He could never have talked like this to Peggy a few months ago. Peggy said nothing.
"I often wonder," continued Philip presently, "when I find myself at one of these entertainments, how many of the men there have come because they like it and how many have come simply in the hope of encountering one particular pair of bright eyes. Women, I suppose, go because they really do enjoy it—the dresses, and the gaiety, and the opportunity to sparkle, and because it is the right house to be seen at—"
"Not always," said Peggy. "But why doyougo, Philip?"
She repented of the question the moment sheasked it, but Philip, who had planned the lines of this conversation months beforehand, and was not nearly nimble enough to take advantage of unexpected short cuts, blundered straight on.
"I go," he said frankly, "to try and get polished up a bit. I think I confessed to you once before that I was a pretty dull dog. I'm trying to cure that. So I go out tea-fighting."
"And all the time you would rather be at home with your feet on the mantelpiece?"
"Not necessarily. Supposing, as I sat with my feet on the mantelpiece, that some one—some one particular—came into the room and tapped me on the shoulder, and said: 'Now then, wake up! I have a new frock on, and I want you to take me out somewhere where I can show it off'—Well, that would make all the difference in the world. I—I should be proud to go, then!"
These words were spoken hurriedly and awkwardly, for Philip's heart was beating furiously. He was getting near the climax of this laboriously engineered conversation, and it seemed almost too much to hope that he would be permitted to deliver the grand attack without being headed off. But he certainly was not prepared for Peggy's next remark.
"I see. Well, Theophilus, there is nothing else for it: we must find you a wife."
This was said quite deliberately, and needless to say, it entirely disorganised Philip's plan of campaign. With a sudden cold shock he realised that the conversation had taken another short cut, and that the crisis was upon him before he was ready.
"You are the sort of man," continued Peggy, in the same unruffled voice, "who would get along better in the world with a wife than without one. There are two kinds of men who marry, you know. One likes to make a position and then ask a woman to come and share it, and the other cannot make any position at all unless he has got the woman first. You are the second kind. Now"—Peggy bent her brows judicially, like a panel doctor prescribing for an out-patient—"do I know of any one who would suit you?"
Philip made a desperate attempt to release his tongue, which was cleaving to the roof of his mouth; but before he could do so Peggy had resumed her discourse.
"She must be the sort of girl," she said, "who likes being killed with kindness; because you are that sort, Mr. Philip."
"Don't all girls like being—" began Philip.
"No—not all. There are lots of women who rather despise kindness in a man. They prefer to be bullied by him, and regarded as tiresome, inferior creatures. For some mysterious reason it helps them to look up to him."
"Do you mean to say," exclaimed that simple-minded gentleman, Philip Meldrum, "that a woman would like a man just because—not although, mind, but because—he was a brute to her?"
"Yes," said Peggy; "it is true enough of some women. They don't want to be considered, or studied, or understood: they would rather be swamped by the man's personality and give up thinking about themselves altogether."
"But not all women?" persisted Philip, whose conception of the sex was trembling on its base. "Some of them like being considered and studied and understood, Peggy, don't they?"
"Oh, yes, most of us do," admitted Peggy, smiling. "Not that we ever are, poor things!" she added resignedly.
Philip saw an opportunity of getting back to prepared ground again.
"I say, Peggy," he began, "wouldn't you like to be—"
"To be understood? Yes, indeed! Do you want me to practise on, Philip?"
"Yes," said Philip with sudden fire, "I do. And I want to say this—"
Peggy laughed serenely.
"You may study me and consider me as much as you like, Mr. Theophilus," she said; "I shall enjoy it. But you won't ever understand me."
"I would have a thundering good try, all the same," replied Philip doggedly. "I understood you once—when we were children together."
"Yes," agreed Peggy more soberly, "I believe you did. Life was a simpler business then. As we grow up we grow more complicated—at least, women do. But you seem to be very much the same as when I first met you, Philip."
"Is that a compliment?" asked Philip dubiously.
"It is the greatest compliment I have ever paid you," said Peggy, flushing suddenly. "What a sunset! Look!"
They paused, and leaned over the parapet. The October sun was dropping low, and the turbidflood of the Thames had turned to crimson. Philip glanced at his Lady. The hue of the water seemed to be faintly reflected in her face.
Suddenly something took hold of him—a power greater than himself. For once the gift of tongues was vouchsafed him.
"You are right, Peggy," he broke out. "I believe I am exactly the same as when I was a boy; in one thing anyhow; in my views on"—he boggled at the word "Love," and finally continued—"in my feelings about the biggest thing of all. Perhaps it is because I have always been shy and awkward, and have not sought out adventures that would correct my illusions. Anyhow, I am an idealist—a sentimentalist, if you like. I believe my father was, too, and even the knowledge that his ideals were shipwrecked does not discourage me. In my Utopia the men work and fight, and take all hard knocks and privations cheerfully, and run straight and live clean. They work because they like it, and not simply to make money. A man may work for fame, too, if he likes, but not the sort of thing we call fame nowadays—titles, and newspaper paragraphs, and stuff of that kind. If one of my knights achieves a big thing he is not excited about it: he just polishes up his armour and goes and does another big thing, without hanging about until a reporter turns up. I think the title of knight is the grandest honour a man can win; and it makes me mad to-day to see how that title has been stolen from its proper place and bestowed on men who have subscribed to party funds, or who happened to beMayor when Royalty opened a new waterworks. My knight is a man who hasdonethings, and done them for just one reason—for the joy of doing them; and who dedicates the glory and the praise, however great or small, to"—Philip's voice dropped suddenly—"to the honour of his Lady."
"And what is his Lady like?" asked Peggy softly.
She knew she ought not to do so. If a maid permits herself to embark with a young man upon a romantic discussion, it is sometimes difficult to prevent the conversation from taking an uncomfortably personal turn. But for the moment Philip had carried her off her feet.
"The Lady?" Philip descended from the clouds abruptly, and replied: "Well, I think you would make a very perfect Lady for a knight, Peggy."
The Rubicon at last! One foot at least was over. Dumbly he waited for Peggy's next word.
It came.
"Unfortunately," said the girl lightly, "I am not eligible for such a post. Knights are not for me. You see, Philip," she continued hurriedly, avoiding his eyes, "times have changed. Knights are too scarce and Ladies are too numerous. There are about a million women in this country alone who will have to get along without a knight for the whole of their lives."
"But not you," said Philip eagerly. "Any man would be proud—"
"Thank you," said Peggy, "for the compliment. But perhaps I prefer to be one of that million.There are so many things that a woman can do now which were impossible in the days of chivalry, that she can live her own life quite happily and contentedly, knight or no."
"It's all wrong, all wrong!" cried Philip passionately. "It's all against every law of God and man! I won't believe it!"
"Wrong or right," pursued Peggy quietly, "it is a fact that many a woman nowadays would find a knight rather—what shall we say?—an encumbrance. For instance, I—"
"Not you, not you!" said Philip.
But Peggy continued relentlessly:—
"If ever Idoencounter a man who wants to be my cavalier—which is of course extremely unlikely—"
She paused.
"You ought to say, 'No, no!' or 'Impossible!'" she pointed out severely.
Philip summoned up the ghost of a smile, and Peggy proceeded steadily:
"If ever I do meet a would-be Knight, I shall tell him that I am greatly obliged, but that I have other things to occupy me, and that I prefer to remain independent. So it is no use, my romantic friend," she concluded with a whimsical smile, "for you to select me as a suitable helpmeet for one of your imaginary knights. Now we really must get along: the other two will be wondering what has become of us."
She turned from the parapet to resume her walk. But Philip looked her straight in the face.
"Is that—final?" he asked.
For a moment they regarded one another unflinchingly, these two reserved and reticent people. Then Peggy's eyes fell.
"Yes," she said in a subdued voice, "that is final. So don't go hunting up a knight for me, Philip."
When Peggy returned home after the tea-party she found her parent sitting in front of a dead fire, wearing his overcoat and a face of resigned suffering.
"Hallo, Dad!" she remarked cheerfully. "Why have you let the fire go out?"
"It is of no consequence," replied Montagu Falconer. "I am fairly warm in this overcoat." He coughed and shivered. "Are we having any dinner to-night?"
Peggy bit her lip, and kneeling down, began to coax the remnants of the fire into flame.
"Dinner will be at the usual hour," she said. "If you don't put coal on a fire it usually goes out, doesn't it?"
"At my time of life and in my state of health," replied her amiable parent, "I think I have a right to expect a certain modicum of comfort and attention. This room, for instance, might be kept decently heated, without—"
"If you don't like putting on coal yourself," Peggy pointed out, "you can always ring for a servant."
Suddenly the querulous Montagu blazed up.
"Servants! Exactly! I am left to the servants! I have a daughter, a grown-up daughter, whonominally directs my household. But I am left to the tender mercies of half-witted domestics, in order that my daughter may go out to tea—may trapese from one scandal-exchange to another! Do you ever consider me at all?"
"Yes, Dad,—sometimes," said Peggy, bending low over the smouldering fire. At the same moment one of the hot cinders sizzled.
CONFESSIONAL—MASCULINE AND FEMININE
I
"Well, I have one thing to be thankful for; there might have been another man in the background. Now we must get back to work.Labor omnia vincit, my son."
Thus Philip to himself.
Then he continued, less philosophically:—
"I suppose I had better keep right away from her. I simply couldn't stand any half-a-loaf sort of friendship. All the same, I'll keep in the offing, in case I am wanted."
Then he went back to Oxford Street, and told himself that work was the salt of life.
But the spell was broken.Labor omnia vincitproved to be exactly what Julius Mablethorpe had said it was—only half a truth; and Dumps's conclusion that Love and Work are interdependent terms was borne out to the letter. Philip worked as hard as ever—harder, in fact: never had the business in Oxford Street been more efficiently conducted—but the zest of it all was gone. Without Peggy—or prospective Peggy—the day's work, which had been a series of absorbingly interesting enterprises, was now a monotonous round. The whirr of machinery had been music; now it was merely an unpleasant noise. To overcome difficultiesand grapple with emergencies had been a sheer joy; to do so now was a weariness to the flesh. Philip could not but recall, as he slogged on, Uncle Joseph's description of his beloved regiment after the episode of Vivien:—The only difference was that whereas the regiment had formerly been commanded by a Damascus blade, it was now commanded by a broomstick.Family history appeared to be walking in a circle.
But he had no blame for Peggy. She had never encouraged him, never led him on, never deliberately appropriated his services. She had been infinitely kind to him—and that was all. If this hitherto unsuspected hardness in her nature was a permanent thing; if she was determined to live her own life and be independent—well, here was a unique opportunity for a knight to prove his metal—to justify his boast that he could serve without ulterior motives or hope of reward. If his Lady had selected another knight in preference to him, matters would have been different: proper pride would have driven Philip away. But so long as Peggy walked alone and unprotected, his vocation in life was clear and unmistakable.
But it was an uphill business; until by a fortunate chance it occurred to those in authority at Coventry that Philip's abilities were being wasted upon the mechanical routine of the London Office. Straightway he was transferred to headquarters, where he was put in charge of the Design and Construction Department of the Company—at liberty to invent and experiment to his heart's content.
Here he felt better. He was relieved of the constant fear of encountering Peggy, and of the exasperating effervescence of Tim. He also felt absolved from any further obligation to cultivate social graces. So he reverted whole-heartedly to the realm of Things, determined to eliminate People from his scheme of life for good and all. Machinery, as Mr. Mablethorpe had said, might break your arms and legs, but it left your heart alone.
Still, it was a black winter. Extreme tragedy is the privilege of the very young—those of riper years do not hug tragedy to their bosoms; they know too much about it; and in this respect Philip, for all his twenty-eight years, was youthful, indeed. But no human experience is without ultimate profit. Most of us have to live some portion of our lives under circumstances which make it necessary to keep our eyes resolutely averted from the future; and once we have acquired the courage which this performance demands,—and it demands a great deal,—we have acquired the most valuable asset that experience can give us. Any one can be happy who has no doubts about the future; that is why children laugh and sing all day; but the man who can keep a stiff upper lip when there is no confidence in his heart can fairly count himself one of those who have graduated with honours in the school of adversity. During those months Philip acquired the priceless art of taking life as it came, and, abandoning the pernicious habit of drawing upon the bank of the Future,—his account was sadly overdrawn there already,—of living within the income that the Present supplied to him.True, it was a mere pittance, but he learned to live on it. Upon such foundations is character built up.
Mr. Mablethorpe summed up the whole situation in his own fashion, when Philip, in the course of a week-end visit, had unburdened his soul over the last whiskey-and-soda on Saturday night.
"Philip, my son, you are learning: your education is proceeding apace. But it hurts, and you are puzzled and indignant. But never mind! Hold on, and things will right themselves. Your sense of proportion will come to the rescue and pull you through. I know, old man, I know! I have been through it all. I wasn't always a dull British householder with an expanding waistcoat. I have been young and now I am old—or perhaps middle-aged—and I know! Middle age has its compensations. When we are young, we alternate between periods when we feel that there is nothing on earth that we cannot do and periods when we feel that there is nothing on earth that we can. Advancing years bring us a comfortable knowledge of our own limitations. Though we may not have so many moments of sheer sublimity—moments when we touch the stars—as the young man, we have fewer hours of blackness. So carry on, Philip. Steer by dead reckoning, if necessary: you will get your bearings in time. This experience will do you no harm, provided you face it between the eyes. I know nothing of your little lady friend, but she does not sound to me like a member of the third sex. On the contrary, she appears to be gratifyingly feminine. Her present attitude isprobably a pose of the moment. They can't help being made as they are, you know. I fully expect to find my beloved Dumps suffering from the effects of some germ or other when she comes home from abroad next month. That reminds me. In the spring Dumps is to come out—not of gaol, but of the schoolroom, which at eighteen is very much the same thing—for ever. The festivities will include what she calls a Joy-Week in Town. You had better come and stay with us during that period, and join me in contracting dyspepsia. In fact, I have a ukase from my daughter to that effect. Will you come?"
Philip assented, listlessly. Joy-Weeks were not for him.
II
Miss Jean Leslie lived in a roomy flat high up in a tall block of buildings that overlooked the Thames at Chelsea. The larger of the two rooms was her studio. Hither fat, sweet-scented, and rebellious little boys and girls in expensive laces and ribbons were brought by mothers or nurses; and after they had been coaxed into smiles by the arts and blandishments of their hostess,—and for all her spinsterhood she excelled in that accomplishment,—Jean Leslie painted miniatures of them, for which their doting and opulent parents paid fancy prices.
"My dear, you must be very rich," observed Peggy one afternoon, inspecting three portraits of cherubic innocents, recently completed and awaiting despatch.
Jean Leslie poured out the tea complacently.
"Thank you," she said; "I scrape a living. Sit down and eat something. I have some of your favourite Valencia buns."
But Peggy seemed restless. She wandered round the little sitting-room, minutely examining photographs and pictures which she already knew by heart.
"Peggy Falconer," enquired Miss Leslie at last, "will you come and sit down in that chair, or will I take you by the shoulders and put you there?"
"Sorry, dear," said Peggy; "I have the fidgets."
She dropped rather listlessly into a chair, and then, for no apparent reason, got up and sat in another.
"Why is my best chair not good enough for you?" enquired Miss Leslie sternly. "At your age, you ought not to be manœuvring to get your back to the window."
"It wasn't that, really," protested Peggy.
"It just was," replied Miss Leslie.
She rose from her seat, and taking the girl by the elbows, turned her toward the light. Peggy submitted, smiling.
"And now," resumed Jean Leslie, sitting down again, "what is the trouble?"
"You really are very Early-Victorian, Jean," said Peggy severely. "You yearn for sentimental confidences and heart-to-heart talks. But it's simply not done now: hearts went out with chignons. Give me a large and heavy piece of that muffin, please, and I will pander to your tastes by talking about Prince Adolphus."
Prince Adolphus was the exalted title of a purely hypothetical Fairy Personage who was one day to lead Miss Leslie to the altar. He had been invented by Miss Leslie herself, and formed a stock subject of humorous conversation with her younger friends.
Miss Leslie said no more, but passed the muffins.
"How is that boy Timothy?" she enquired. The mention of Prince Adolphus had brought Timothy into her thoughts: Timothy had always expressed profound jealousy of His Royal Highness.
Peggy laughed.
"Very careworn," she said. "Since Philip was sent to Coventry he has been in sole charge at Oxford Street. By the way, he wants us to lunch with him on Sunday. Can you manage it?"
"I don't know. I am half-expecting a visit from a fellow countrywoman of mine."
"Do I know her?"
"I doubt it. Her husband is second engineer on a liner that plies between London and Melbourne. She has a good deal of leisure on her hands, poor soul."
Peggy asked the question that a woman always asks another in this connection.
"No," replied Miss Leslie; "neither chick nor child; so when her man has been away for a month or so, and drinking tea with the wives of other second engineers in Gravesend begins to pall, she likes to come round here and crack with me. I knew her in the old days: her father was head forester to us. She would be disappointed if shefound me from home. She never tells me when she is coming: she would regard such a proceeding as presumptuous. So"—Miss Leslie sighed resignedly—"I just have to stay in for her. Her husband sailed four weeks ago, and there has been a hurricane in the Indian Ocean this week; so I fancy she is about due."
"Everybody seems to bring their troubles to you, Jean," said Peggy.
Miss Leslie looked up.
"Troubles? Oh, no! I assure you, when Eliza Dishart and I drink tea together, there is no talk of troubles. We are very grand. We talk about the Court, and freights, and the possibility of Union between the Established Kirk and the Free. But trouble—oh, dear, no! Once only did we consent to be informal. That was one wild night in December two years ago. Half the chimney-pots in London were flying about in the air, and she knew that his ship was in the Channel, homeward bound. She came chapping at my door about ten o'clock, just as I was going to bed, and asked me if I would let her sit here for the night. Indeed, I was very glad of her company. I remember I managed to pick out the tune of the 'Hymn for Those at Sea' for her on my piano, and we sang it together. Very ridiculous we must have looked. We have never mentioned the occurrence since."
During this narrative Peggy sat silent and preoccupied. Finally she said:—
"It must be a great relief to be able to unload your worries on to some one else. A girl has just been unloading hers on to me."
Jean regarded her friend's averted face curiously.
"Indeed?" she replied.
"Yes. A man—"
Miss Leslie nodded.
"Quite so," she remarked drily. "She has presumed too far, and he won't come back."
Peggy looked up.
"Now you are getting romantic again," she said reprovingly. "No, it is nothing of the kind. My friend has had to be rather brutal to a man, and she feels sorry for him, and she is afraid he must think rather badly of her—that's all."
"Has she been flirting with the poor creature?" demanded Jean Leslie, in a voice of thunder.
"No. She is not that sort of girl."
"Then where does the brutality come in? There is no brutality in putting a man in his place, provided you do it in time. As soon as a woman sees that a man is preparing to fall in love with her—and she can usually tell about five minutes after she has made his acquaintance—and she doesn't feel like wanting him, she should get him at arm's length atonce! Have—has your friend not been overlong in adopting that precaution?"
"She couldn't do it before," explained Peggy, rather eagerly. "They were thrown together in a very unusual way. She saw it coming, but could not do anything to prevent it. And now the man has gone away; and I'm—she is sure he thinks—"
Jean Leslie handed her guest a fresh cup of tea.
"Are you certain," she enquired, "that thisfriend of yourswantedto keep the young man at arm's length?"
Peggy twisted her long fingers together.
"I rather fancy, from what she said, that she cared for him a bit," she admitted.
"Then why send him away?" demanded Miss Leslie.
Peggy summoned up a troubled smile.
"Dear old Jean," she said, "you are so practical!"
"Practical? Aye!" replied Jean Leslie grimly. "If women were a little more practical and a little less finicky about what they are pleased to call their hearts, this world would be a more understandable place to live in. Listen! I had a girl friend once—as intimate a friend as yours, I dare say—and when the man she wanted asked her to marry him, she said 'No.' She meant 'Yes,' of course,—she merely wanted him to ask her another half-dozen times or so more,—but the stupid man did not understand. He went away, and married some other body whom he did not love, just to be quit of thinking about her. Men are made that way. They will do any daft thing—take to drinking or marry another woman—to drown the pain of remembrance. But this friend of mine, being a woman, could not do that. She just stayed single, and in course of time became an old maid—and a practical one, I promise you! But let us get back to the other girl. Why did she send her lad away?"
"Because there was some one else whom she could not leave."
"A relative?"
"Yes."
Jean Leslie nodded her head slowly and comprehendingly.
"I see," she said at length. "That is different. You mean that the relative would have been helpless without her?"
"Helpless and—friendless," said Peggy gravely.
"Did she tell the young man that that was the reason?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because—because I fancy he was the kind of man who, if he had known the real reason, would have persisted in staying single on her account."
"And why not? Men like that are rare."
"Well, he—she told me that he was the sort of man who had no idea of looking after himself, or making himself comfortable—the sort of man who reallyneededa wife. It would have been cruel not to let him go. She might have had to keep him waiting twenty years, and she couldn't bear to think of him living in discomfort and loneliness all that time; so—"
"So she gave him another reason?"
"Yes."
"What reason?"
"Oh, the reason a girl usually gives nowadays. Other interests—freedom to live one's own life—and so on. You know."
"Yes, I know," said Jean Leslie bitterly. "You need not tell me. I should like to have just fiveminutes' talk, in here, with the man that invented the higher education of women! However, that is a digression. Your friend's case, as I have said, is different. Evidently she is notthatsort of girl. I don't know what advice to give her, poor soul. She is in deep waters. But you can tell her from me—"
"Yes?" said Peggy eagerly.
"That she is doing the wrong thing"—Peggy caught her breath—"for the right reason. You can also tell her that she is a brave lass. Perhaps it may help her a little to be told that."
"I know it will," said Peggy getting up. "Goodbye, Jean, dearest! I think I will go and tell her now."
Jean Leslie sat long over the teacups, deep in thought. Mechanically, she found and lit a cigarette, and smoked it to the end. Then she lit another. Darkness had fallen by this time, but still she sat on, gazing into the glowing fire.
At last she rose, and turned up the electric lights. Having done this, she surveyed herself intently in the mirror over the mantelpiece. For all her forty-three years she was a youthful woman. She possessed the white teeth and fair complexion that Scandinavian ancestry has bequeathed to the northeastern Highlands of Scotland. Her hair was abundant, and with a little better dressing would have looked more abundant still.
She turned from the mirror with a quaint littlemoue, and her eyes fell upon a framed photograph which stood upon her writing-table. It was aportrait of Peggy's mother. She picked it up, and regarded it long and thoughtfully.
"Thank God, Death cannot always close the account," she said softly.
Then, with a resigned sigh and a downward glance at her comfortable but unfashionable attire, she seated herself abruptly at the bureau and wrote a letter to her dressmaker.
THE RIVALS
Itwas five o'clock on a fine spring afternoon. The model had just resumed his ordinary raiment and departed, and Montagu Falconer was cleaning his palette. To him entered a timorous maid.
"If you please, sir, Miss Leslie has called."
"That is quite possible," replied Montagu calmly, "but it does not interest me."
"But she wants to see you, sir."
"I fear I cannot oblige her. It is Miss Marguerite's duty to receive afternoon callers."
"Miss Marguerite is out, and Miss Leslie specially asked for you, sir," persisted the maid, trembling beneath her employer's cold blue eye.
Montagu Falconer ruminated for some moments. Unfortunately he omitted to remove his eye from the maid, and that sensitive young person was on the verge of an hysterical yell when he turned upon his heel and said curtly:—
"Ask her what the devil she wants."
The maid humbly withdrew. Having closed the studio door behind her she indulged in a few grimaces of a heartfelt and satisfying character, and after pausing to admire herself for a brief space in a Venetian mirror conveniently adjacent, returned to the drawing-room, where she took her stand before Miss Leslie with downcast eyes.
"Mr. Falconer sends his compliments, miss," she announced deferentially, "and would be very much obliged if you could say whether you wanted him particular, because he is painting a picture."
Jean Leslie smiled. She was wondering what Montagu really had said. But to the maid she merely replied:—
"Is the model there?"
"No, miss. Models go at five."
"Then say to Mr. Falconer that I should be greatly obliged if he could see me for a few minutes, as I wish to consult him upon an important matter."
When the maid had departed, Miss Leslie rose and walked to the window, through which the afternoon sun was shining. Peggy's tastes rather leaned to rose-coloured curtains and silk blinds. Jean Leslie arranged these to her liking. Then, having adjusted her hat to the proper angle, she sat down with her back to the light, and waited.
Presently Montagu entered.
"Well, Jean," he said affably,—he was flattered by his new rule of consultant,—"you are looking very smart to-day."
"This testimonial is most gratifying," said Miss Leslie. "Do you like my furs?"
Montagu surveyed her critically. He had a real eye for form and tone; and he nodded approval.
"Yes," he said; "they suit you perfectly. And that bunch of violets adds just the right touch of subdued colour."
"Thank you," said Miss Leslie meekly.
Montagu sat down on the other side of the hearth.
"However," he said importantly, "I believe I am correct in supposing that you did not come here to show me your clothes." (In this he was not so correct as he thought.) "I understand you wish to have my opinion on some matter."
"Yes," said Miss Leslie. "It is a matter which I could confide to no one but a very old and very trustworthy friend."
"Quite so, quite so," said Montagu, much gratified, but a little staggered. For the last twenty years he had rarely encountered the lady before him for more than five minutes without becoming embroiled with her in a skirmish of some description; and pitched battles had been not infrequent.
"I want to ask what youthink, Montagu," continued Miss Leslie. "You are one of the few people I know whom I would describe as a true man of the world."
Montagu Falconer began to purr gently.
"Possibly," he said—"possibly! Well?"
"The fact is," confessed Miss Leslie, after a momentary hesitation, "I have received an offer of marriage."
"Good God!" exclaimed Montagu. "Who is the"—he was about to say "idiot," but corrected himself—"gentleman?"
"His name," said Miss Leslie, casting down her eyes, "is Adolphus Prince. I have known him for many years."
"Extraordinary name! Is he old or young?"
Miss Leslie considered.
"He is about fifty," she said.
"Rather elderly," commented Montagu Falconer, who was only forty-eight. "How old are you, by the way?"
"Forty-two," said Miss Leslie coyly.
"I am bound to say, Jean," remarked Montagu handsomely, "that you don't look it. Now, what of this fellow? Is he a gentleman?"
"I hope so," said Miss Leslie humbly.
"But are yousure? You dear women, Jean, if I may say so, are too apt to be carried away by your feelings. What is his station—his position?"
"He is a retired colonel of militia," replied Miss Leslie. (This statement would have surprised Timothy, who would have it that his rival was a superannuated tea-taster.) "He has lived a great deal in India, and is now quite alone in the world."
"I see. One leg and no liver, I presume!" said Montagu facetiously.
Miss Leslie laughed appreciatively.
"You are as caustic as ever, Montagu," she said. "You spare none of us. But what do you think I should do? I am a solitary woman. It is a dreich business, living by one's self, is it not?"
"It is, it is," agreed Montagu, lapsing straightway into self-pity. "Too true! Believe me, Jean, I know what it means, better than most."
"Still, you are not entirely alone," Miss Leslie reminded him. "You have Peggy."
"It is a fact," admitted Falconer with an air of gloomy sarcasm, "that I do possess a daughter; but for all practical purposes I might as well be Robinson Crusoe. I never see her by day, for Iam busy in the studio and naturally do not want to be pestered. In the afternoon, as often as not, she goes out or invites some people in. In either case I take my tea alone, for I cannot stand her associates. When she does go out she frequently returns only just in time to give me my dinner."
Miss Leslie nodded sympathetically.
"I am sorry," she said. "I had not realised things from your point of view. It all shows how little we really know of one another's inner lives."
"And the only nights upon which she ever seems to stay at home," concluded the neglected parent, "are those on which I go out."
Montagu was accustomed to go out about five nights a week, and his daughter perhaps twice a month; so this statement may have been approximately correct.
"I see I have often been thoughtless in my previous attitude toward you, Montagu," said the contrite Miss Leslie. "We women are apt to forget that a man—even a strong, self-reliant man—may sometimes unbend. He, too, may desire companionship,—the right sort of companionship, of course,—as much as the weakest woman. Forgive me!"
Montagu, highly appreciative of the very proper spirit displayed by Miss Leslie, forgave her freely, and then launched into a further catalogue of grievances, Adolphus Prince retiring for the time modestly into the background.
When he had finished, Miss Leslie said:—
"Peggy is young, and perhaps thoughtless. When she marries—"
Montagu Falconer nearly bounded out of his chair. He was genuinely alarmed.
"Marry? That child marry? Good God, Jean, don't suggest such a thing! What would become of me, I should like to know. What does the girl want to marry for? Hasn't she got a comfortable home of her own? Hasn't she got me—her father—her only relation in the world—to take care of her? My dear Jean, do not be romantic at your time of life, I beg of you! You haven't been putting notions into her head, I hope?"
Miss Leslie hastened to still the tempest which she had created.
"How masterful you are, Montagu!" she said. "I declare, I am quite afraid of you."
Again Montagu purred. In the course of a long and stormy acquaintance, extending over twenty or more years, this was the first indication that he had ever received that Jean Leslie regarded him with aught else than a blend of amusement and compassion. A less vain and self-centred man might have felt a little suspicious of such sudden and oppressive adulation, but he did not. Montagu was one of those persons who like flattery laid on with a trowel.
"I am sorry if I alarmed you," he said graciously; "but I feel very strongly upon the subject. I haven't forgotten the trouble I had in getting rid of that bargee, Whatsisname—that chauffeur-fellow! Curse it! What was he called?—I have it—Meldrum! I foresaw trouble, of course, from the day upon which my daughter persisted in dragging his mangled remains into my best bedroom,instead of sending them to the workhouse. During his convalescence I had to be perpetually on guard. The fellow followed her about like an infernal dog. Once, when I had occasion to reprove my daughter—my own daughter!—for some fault, he showed his teeth and nearly flew at my throat! Oh, I had to be pretty firm, I can tell you! However, I got him out of the house at last, and I am glad to say that he has not shown his face here for some months."
"I like a man to be master in his own house," said Miss Leslie approvingly. "I fear my friend Adolphus Prince has not your strength of character, Montagu. I wonder if I should be happy with him," she added musingly.
"He sounds to me," remarked the courteous Montagu, "a confirmed and irreclaimable nincompoop. Has he a weak chest?"
"Yes. I wonder how you knew."
"Any money?"
"I believe not."
"Then why marry him?"
"Well," said Jean Leslie slowly, "I think I might be able to help him a little. A lonely man is a very helpless creature. Not a man like you, Montagu, but an ordinary man. Such a man lives, we will say, in chambers or a flat. He may even have a comfortable house; but he lives alone for all that. He is at the mercy of servants; when he is in doubt about anything, he has no one to consult; when he has done a good piece of work, he has no one to show it to; when he is out of heart, he has no one to encourage him. If he wants company,he has to go out and look for it, instead of finding it ready to hand by his own fireside. Altogether, if he has not your great spirit and resources, Montagu, he is a very miserable man."
The worst of the artistic temperament is that it is intensely susceptible to the emotion of the moment. Describe joy, and it becomes hilarious; describe sorrow, and it becomes tearful; describe fear, and it becomes panic-stricken. Montagu Falconer positively shuddered.
"Yes," he said quakingly, "that is true—very true. And more than that. It is not the weak man who suffers—or suffers most. The strong have their moments of dejection, too, Jean. You would hardly believe it, but even I—"
Miss Leslie, like a naughty little girl who is determined to make her small brother's flesh creep before he retires to bed, continued remorselessly:—
"And what has he to look forward to? Nothing! Nothing but old age, with its increasing feebleness, and helplessness, and friendlessness. That is all!"
She looked across at the shaking figure in the armchair, and suddenly there was real pity and kindness in her eyes.
"I should like to be able to save a man from that, Montagu," she remarked gently.
Montagu nodded his head. For once he had nothing to say.
"That is why," continued Jean Leslie in the same even tone, "I am thinking of marrying Adolphus Prince. I am no longer a girl. I should understand his moods, which are many: I couldmanage his house, and I would not be likely"—she smiled modestly—"to go losing my heart to some younger man after a year or two. And of course, when I saw that my husband wanted to be left to himself and not bothered,—as all husbands have a right to expect,—I should have my painting to occupy me."
"I will say the same for you, Jean," said Montagu Falconer almost effusively; "you always had an appreciation of Art. But come, now! What of this fellow? Is he a philistine—a bourgeois—a chromolithographer?"
"I am afraid poor Adolphus has little knowledge of Art—Art as you and I know it," replied Miss Leslie regretfully. "But he is a good creature in other respects."
Montagu Falconer began to walk excitedly about the room.
"There you are!" he said. "There you are! Isn't that a woman all over? Here are you, Jean, with your splendid talents and comparative youth, with a strongly developed sense of what is right and beautiful, prepared to throw yourself away upon a half-pay, knock-kneed, blear-eyed militiaman, who probably wears Jaeger boots and furnishes his rooms with stuffed parrots and linoleum. The idea is unthinkable—impossible! You cannot do it!"
"Then you forbid me to marry him?" said Miss Leslie timidly.
"Certainly I do," replied Montagu, noting to himself with intense gratification that a man has only to be thoroughly firm with a woman to winher complete submission. "You don'tcarefor the creature, I suppose?"