"There's no young man," Mr. Bullsom said, "whom I like so much or think so much of as Mr. Brooks. If I'd a son like that I'd be a proud man. And as we're here all alone, just the family, as it were, I'll go on to say this," Mr. Bullsom continued, his right thumb finding its way to the armhole of his waistcoat. "I'm going to drop a hint at the first opportunity I get, quite casually, that whichever of you girls gets married first gets a cheque from me for one hundred thousand pounds."
Even Selina was staggered. Mrs. Bullsom was positively frightened.
"Mr. Bullsom!" she said. "Peter, you ain't got as much as that? Don't tell me!"
"I am worth to-day," Mr. Bullsom said, solemnly, "at least five hundred thousand pounds."
"Peter," Mrs. Bullsom gasped, "has it been come by honest?"
Mr. Bullsom smiled in a superior way.
"I made it," he answered, "by locking up forty thousand, more than half of what I was worth, for five years. But I knew what I was about, and so did the others. Mason made nearly as much as I did."
Selina looked at her father with a new respect. He rose and brushed the ashes of his cigar from his waistcoat.
"Now I'm off," he declared. "Brooks and I will be back about seven, and I shall try and get him to sleep here. Fix yourselves up quiet and ladylike, you girls. Good-bye, mother."
* * * * *
"We have about an hour before dinner," Mr. Bullsom remarked, sinking into his most comfortable chair and lighting a cigar. "Just time for a comfortable chat. You'll smoke, Brooks, won't you?"
Brooks excused himself, and remained standing upon the hearthrug, his elbow upon the mantelpiece. He hated this explanation he had to make. However, it was no good in beating about the bush.
"I am going to surprise you very much, Mr. Bullsom," he began.
Mr. Bullsom took the cigar from his mouth and looked up with wide-open eyes. He had been preparing graciously to wave away a torrent of thanks.
"I am going to surprise you very much," Brooks repeated. "I cannot accept this magnificent offer of yours. I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently to you, or to the committee. Nothing would have made me happier than to have been able to accept it. But I am absolutely powerless."
"You don't funk it?" Mr. Bullsom asked.
"Not I. The fact is, there are circumstances connected with myself which make it inadvisable for me to seek any public position at present."
Mr. Bullsom's first sensations of astonishment were augmented into stupefaction. He was scarcely capable of speech. He found himself wondering idly how heinous a crime a man must commit to be branded ineligible.
"To explain this to you," Brooks continued, "I am bound to tell you something which is only known to two people in the country. The Marquis of Arranmore is my father."
Mr. Bullsom dropped his cigar from between his fingers, and it lay for a moment smouldering upon the carpet. His face was a picture of blank and hopeless astonishment.
"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, faintly. "You mean that you—you,Kingston Brooks, the lawyer, are Lord Arranmore's son?"
Brooks nodded.
"Yes! It's not a pleasant story. My father deserted my mother when I was a child, and she died in his absence. A few months ago, Lord Arranmore, in a leisurely sort of way, thought well to find me out, and after treating me as an acquaintance for some time—a sort of probationary period, I suppose—he told me the truth. That is the reason of my resigning from the firm of Morrison and Brooks almost as soon as the partnership deed was signed. I went to see Mr. Ascough and told him about your offer, and he, of course, explained the position to me."
"But,"—Mr. Bullsom paused as though striving to straighten out the matter in his own mind, "but if you are Lord Arranmore's son there is no secret about it, is there? Why do you still call yourself Mr. Brooks?"
Mr. Bullsom, whose powers of observation were not remarkably acute, looking steadily into his visitor's face, saw there some signs of a certain change which others had noticed and commented upon during the last few months—a hardening of expression and a slight contraction of the mouth. For Brooks had spent many sleepless nights pondering upon this new problem which had come into his life.
"I do not feel inclined," he said, quietly, "for many reasons, to accept the olive-branch which it has pleased my father to hold out to me after all these years. I have still some faint recollections of the close of my mother's life—hastened, I am sure, by anxiety and sorrow on his account. I remember my own bringing up, the loneliness of it. I remember many things which Lord Arranmore would like me now to forget. Then, too, my father and I are as far apart as the poles. He has not the least sympathy with my pursuits or the things which I find worth doing in life. There are other reasons which I need not trouble you with. It is sufficient that for the present I prefer to remain Mr. Brooks, and to lead my own life."
"But—you won't be offended, but I want to understand. The thing seems such a muddle to me. You've given up your practice—how do you mean to live?"
"There is an income which comes to me from the Manor of Kingston," Brooks answered, "settled on the eldest sons of the Arranmore peerage, with which my father has nothing to do. This alone is comparative wealth, and there are accumulations also."
"It don't seem natural," Mr. Bullsom said. "If you'll excuse my saying so, it don't sound like common-sense. You can live on what terms you please with your father, but you ought to let people know who you are. Great Scott," he added, with a little chuckle, "what will Julia and the girls say?
"You will understand, Mr. Bullsom," Brooks said, hastily, "that I trust you to preserve my confidence in this matter. I have told you because I wanted you to understand why I could not accept this invitation to contest the borough, also because you were one of my best friends when I was here. But you are the only person to whom I have told my secret."
Mr. Bullsom sighed. It would have been such a delightful disclosure.
"As you wish, of course," he said. "But my it don't seem possible!Lord Arranmore's son—the Marquis of Arranmore! Gee whiz!"
"Some day, of course," Brooks said, "it must come out. But I don't want it to be yet awhile. If that clock is right hadn't I better be going up-stairs?"
Mr. Bullsom nodded.
"If you'll come with me," he said, "I'll show you your room."
Brooks, relieved that his explanation with Mr. Bullsom was over, was sufficiently entertaining at dinner-time. He sat between Selina and Louise, and made himself agreeable to both. Mr. Bullsom for half the time was curiously abstracted, and for the remainder almost boisterous. Every now and then he found himself staring at Brooks as though at some natural curiosity. His behaviour was so singular that Selina commented upon it.
"One would think, papa, that you and Mr. Brooks had been quarrelling," she remarked, tartly. "You seem quite odd to-night."
Mr. Bullsom raised his glass. He had lately improved his cellar.
"Drink your health, Brooks," he said, looking towards him. "We had an interesting chat, but we didn't get quarrelling, did we?"
"Nor are we ever likely to," Brooks answered, smiling. "You know, Miss Bullsom, your father was my first client of any importance, and I shan't forget how glad I was to get his cheque."
"I'm very pleased that he was useful to you," Selina answered, impressively. "Will you tell me something that we want to know very much?"
"Certainly!"
"Are you really not coming back to Medchester to live?"
Brooks shook his head.
"No. I am settling down in London. I have found some work there I like."
"Then are you the Mr. Brooks who has started what the Daily Courier calls a 'Whiteby's Charity Scheme' in the East End?"
"Quite true, Miss Bullsom. And your cousin is helping me."
Selina raised her eyebrows.
"Dear me," she said, "I had no idea that Many had time to spare for that sort of thing, had you, father?
"Many can look after herself, and uncommonly well too," Mr. Bullsom answered.
"She comes mostly in the evening," Brooks explained, "but she is one of my most useful helpers."
"It must be so interesting to do good," Louise said, artlessly. "After dinner, Mr. Brooks, will you tell us all about it?"
"It seems so odd that you should care so much for that sort of thing," Selina remarked. "As a rule it is the frumpy and uninteresting people who go in for visiting the poor and doing good, isn't it? You seem so young, and so—oh, I don't think I'd better go on."
"Please do," Brooks begged.
"Well, you won't think I was trying to flatter, will you, but I was going to say, and too clever for that sort of thing."
Brooks smiled.
"Perhaps," he said, "the reason that social reform is so urgently needed in so many ways is for that very reason, Miss Bullsom—that the wrong sort of person has been going in for it. Looking after the poor has meant for most people handing out bits of charity on the toasting-fork of religion. And that sort of thing doesn't tend to bridge over the gulf, does it?"
"Toasting-fork!" Selina giggled. "How funny you are, Mr. Brooks."
"Am I?" he answered, good-humouredly. "Now let me hear what you have been doing since I saw you in town."
Selina was immediately grave—not to say scornful.
"Doing! What do you suppose there is to do here?" she exclaimed, reproachfully. "We've been sitting still waiting for something to happen. But—have you said anything to Mr. Brooks yet, papa?"
Mr. Bullsom shook his head.
"Haven't had time," he answered. "Brooks had so much to say to me. You knew all about our land company, Brooks, of course? You did a bit of conveyancing for us.
"Of course I did," Brooks answered, "and I told you from the first that you were going to make a lot of money by it."
Mr. Bullsom glanced around the room. The two maid-servants were at the sideboard.
"Guess how much."
Brooks shook his head.
"I never knew your exact share," he said.
"It's half a million," Mr. Bullsom said, pulling down his waistcoat, and squaring himself to the table. "Not bad, eh, for a country spec?"
"It's wonderful," Brooks admitted. "I congratulate you heartily."
"Thanks," Mr. Bullsom answered.
"We want papa to buy a house in the country, and go to town for the season," Selina said. "So long as we can afford it I am dying to get out of Medchester. It is absolutely the most commercial town I have ever been in.
"Your father should stand for Parliament himself," Brooks suggested.
It is really possible that Mr. Bullsom, being a man governed entirely by one idea at a time, had never seriously contemplated the possibility of himself stepping outside the small arena of local politics. It is certain at any rate that Brooks' words came to him as an inspiration. He stared for a moment into his glass—then at Brooks. Finally he banged the table with the flat of his hand.
"It's an idea!" he exclaimed. "Why not?"
"Why not, indeed?" Brooks answered. "You'd be a popular candidate for the borough."
"I'm chairman of the committee," Mr. Bullsom declared; "I'll propose myself. I've taken the chair at political dinners and meetings for the last twenty years. I know the runs, and the people of Medchester know me. Why not, indeed? Mr. Brooks, sir, you're a genius."
"You 'ave given him something to think about," Mrs. Bullsom murmured, amiably. "I'd be willing enough but for the late hours. They never did agree with Peter—did they? He's always been such a one for his rest."
Mr. Bullsom's thumbs made their accustomed pilgrimage.
"In the service of one's country," he said, "one should be prepared to make sacrifices. The champagne, Amy. Besides, one can always sleep in the morning."
Selina and Louise exchanged glances, and Selina, as the elder, gave the project her languid approval.
"It would be nice for us in a way," she remarked. "Of course you would have a house in London then, papa, and being an M.P. you would get cards for us to a lot of 'at homes' and things. Only I wish you were a Conservative."
"A Liberal is much more fashionable than he was," Brooks assured her, cheerfully.
"Fashionable! I know the son of a Marquis, a Lord himself, who's aLiberal, and a good one," Mr. Bullsom remarked, with a wink to Brooks.
"Well, my dears," Mrs. Bullsom said, making an effort to rise, and failing at the first attempt, "shall we leave the gentlemen to talk about it over their wine?
"Oh, you sit down again, mother," Selina directed.
"That sort of thing's quite old-fashioned, isn't it, Mr. Brooks? We're going to stay with you. You can smoke. Ann, bring the cigars."
Mrs. Bullsom, who was looking forward to a nap in a quiet corner of the drawing-room, obeyed with resignation written large on her good-natured, somewhat flushed face. But Mr. Bullsom, who wanted to revert to the subject which still fascinated him, grunted.
"Hang these new ideas," he said. "It's you they're after, Mr. Brooks.As a rule, they're off before I can get near my cigar-box."
Selina affected a little consciousness, which she felt became her.
"Such foolishness, papa. You don't believe it, do you, Mr. Brooks?"
"Am I not to, then?" he asked, looking down upon her with a smile.Whereupon Selina's consciousness became confusion.
"How stupid you are," she murmured. "You can believe just what you like. What are you looking at over in the corner of the room?"
"Ghosts," he answered.
Yet very much as those images flitted at that moment through his brain, so events were really shaping themselves in that bare clean-swept room into which his eyes had for a moment strayed away. Mary Scott was there, her long apron damp with soap-suds and her cheeks red with exertion, for she had just come from bathing twelve youngsters, who, not being used to the ordeal, had given trouble. There were other of his helpers too, a dozen of them up to their eyes in work, and a long string of applicants patiently waiting their turn. The right sort too—the sort from underneath—pale-faced, hollow-eyed, weary, yet for a moment stirred from their lethargy of suffering at the prospect of some passing relief. There was a young woman, hollow-cheeked, thin herself as a lath, eager for work or chance of work for her husband—that morning out of hospital, still too delicate to face the night air and the hot room. He knew shorthand, could keep books, typewrite, a little slip about his character, but that was all over and done with. A bank clerk with L90 a year, obliged to wear a silk hat, who marries a penniless girl on his summer holiday. They must live, both of them, and the gold passed through his fingers day by day, an endless shower. The magistrates had declined to sentence him, but the shame—and he was never strong. Brooks saw the card made out for that little cottage at Hastings, and enclosed with the railway ticket Owston was picking up fast there—and smiled faintly. He saw the girl on her breathless way home with the good news, saw her wet face heaven turned for the first time for many a month. There were men and women in the world with hearts then. They were not all puppets of wood and stone, even as those bank directors. Then, too, she would believe again that there might be a God.
Ghosts! They were plentiful enough. There was the skin-dresser—his fingers still yellow with the dye of the pith. Things were bad in Bermondsey. The master had gone bankrupt, the American had filched away his trade. No one could find him work. He was sober enough except at holiday time and an odd Saturday—a good currier—there might be a chance for him in the country, but how was he to get there? And in any case now, how could he? His wife had broken down, lay at home with no disease that a hospital would take her in for, sinking for want of good food, worn out with hard work, toiling early and late to get food for the children until her man should get a job. There was the workhouse, but it meant separation, perhaps for ever, and they were man and wife, as much needed the one by the other, perhaps more, as their prototype in the world of plenty. Again Brooks smiled. He must have seen Flitch, a capital chap Flitch, making up that parcel in the grocery department and making an appointment for three days' time. And Menton, too, the young doctor, as keen on the work as Brooks himself, but paid for his evenings under protest, overhears the address—why, it was only a yard or two. He would run back with the man and have a look at his wife. He had some physic—he felt sure it was just what she wanted. So out into the street together, and no wonder the yellow-stained fingers that grasped the string of the parcel shook, and the man felt an odd lump in his throat, and a wave of thankfulness as he passed a flaring public-house when half-an-hour ago he had almost plunged madly in to find pluck for the river—devil's pluck. The woman. Nothing the matter with her but what rest and good food would cure. Another case for that little cottage. Lucky there were others being made ready.
"What sort of ghosts, Mr. Brooks?" Selina asked, a little more sharply.
He started, and withdrew his eyes at last.
"Ah, Miss Bullsom," he answered, "just the ghosts we all carry with us, you know, the ghosts of our thoughts, living and dead, good and evil."
"How funny you are, Mr. Brooks," she exclaimed.
Brooks reached London the next evening to find himself famous. The evening papers, one of which he had purchased en route, were one and all discussing his new charitable schemes. He found himself held up at once to ridicule and contempt—praised and blamed almost in the same breath. The Daily Gazette, in an article entitled "The New Utopia," dubbed him the "Don Quixote of philanthropy" the St. James's made other remarks scarcely so flattering. He drove at once to Stepney, and found his headquarters besieged by a crowd which his little staff of helpers was wholly unable to cope with, and half-a-dozen reporters waiting to snatch a word with him. Mary watched his entrance with a little sigh of relief.
"I'm so glad you have come," she exclaimed. "It is hard to send these people away, but do you know, they have come from all parts of London? Neither Mr. Flitch nor I can make them understand that we can only deal with cases in the immediate neighbourhood. You must try."
Brooks stood up at once.
"I am very sorry," he said, "if there has been any misunderstanding, but I want you all to remember this. It is impossible for us to deal with any cases to-night unless you are residents of the immediate neighbourhood. The list of streets is on the front door. Please do not present yourselves before any of the desks unless you lodge or live in one of them."
There was a murmur of disappointment, and in the background a few growls.
"I hope before very long," Brooks continued, "that we shall have a great many more branches open, and be able to offer help to all of you. But at present we cannot make any exceptions. Will every one except our neighbours please help us by leaving the room."
For the most part he was obeyed, and then one of the reporters touched him on the shoulder.
"Good-evening, Mr. Brooks. I am representing the Evening Courier. We should be glad to know what your ideas are as to the future of this new departure of yours, and any other information you might cane to give us. There are some others here, I see, on the same errand. Any exclusive information you cared to place at my disposal would be much valued, and we should take especial pains to put your case fairly before the public."
Brooks smiled.
"Really," he said, "it seems as though I were on my defence."
The reporter took out his pencil.
"Well, you know," he said, "some of the established charitable institutions are rather conservative, and they look upon you as an interloper, and your methods as a little too broad."
"Well," Brooks said, "if it is to be war between us and the other charitable institutions you name, I am ready for it, but I cannot talk to you now. As you see, I have an evening's work before me."
"When can you spare me half-an-hour, sir?"
"At midnight—my rooms, in, Jermyn Street."
The reporter closed his book.
"I don't wish to waste your time, sir," he answered. "If you are not going to say anything to the others before then I will go away."
Brooks nodded. The reporters whispered together.
"May we stay and watch for a few minutes?" one of them asked.
Brooks agreed, and went on with his work. Once more the human flotsam and jetsam, worthy and unworthy, laid bare the sore places in their lives, sometimes with the smooth tongue of deceit, sometimes with the unconscious eloquence of suffering long pent up. One by one they found their way into Brooks' ledgers as cases to be reckoned out and solved. And meanwhile nearly all of them found some immediate relief, passing out into the night with footsteps a little less shuffling, and hearts a little lighter. The night's work was a long one. It was eleven o'clock before Brooks left his seat with a little gesture of relief and lit a cigarette.
"I must go and get something to eat," he said. "Will you come MissScott?"
She shook her head.
"I have to make out a list of things we want for my department," she said. "Last night they were nearly all women here. Don't bother about me. Mr. Flitch will put me in an omnibus at London Bridge. You must see those reporters. You've read the evening papers, haven't you?"
Brooks nodded.
"Yes. I knew we should have opposition. This isn't even the beginning of it. It won't hurt us."
Nevertheless Brooks was anxious to be properly understood, and he talked for a long time with the reporter, whom he found awaiting him in Jermyn Street—a pleasant young fellow just back from the war, with the easy manner and rattling conversation of his order.
"You ought to call in and have a chat with the chief, Mr. Brooks," he said. "He'd be delighted to hear your views personally, I'm sure, and I believe you'd convert him. He's a bit old-fashioned, you know, that is for a sub—believes in the orthodox societies, and makes a great point of not encouraging idleness."
"I'd be glad to some time," Brooks answered. "But I can tell you this. If we can get the money, and I haven't asked for a penny yet, nothing in the shape of popular opinion is going to stop us. Idleness and drunkenness, deceit and filthy-mindedness, and all those vices which I admit are like a pestilence amongst these people, are sins which we are responsible for, not them, and, of course, we must suffer to some extent from them. But we've got to grapple with them. We shall be taken advantage of, and grossly deceived continually. I know of one or two cases already. We expect it—count upon it. But in the end we shall come out on the top. If we are consistent the thing will right itself."
"You are a young man to be so interested in philanthropic work, Mr.Brooks Every one seems to consider philanthropy the pursuit of the old,"Brooks answered. "I don't know why, I am sure."
"And may I ask if that is a sample of your daily correspondence?" he asked, pointing to the table.
Brooks looked at the enormous pile of letters and shook his head.
"I have never had more than twenty letters at a time in my life," he answered. "There seems to be almost as many thousands there. It is, I suppose, a result of the Press booming our modest little show. I can scarcely feel as grateful as I should like to. Have another pipe, will you—or a cigar? I think unless there's anything else you'd like to ask I'd better begin on these."
"Nothing more, thanks," the pressman answered; "but if I might I'd like to stay while you open a few. There might be something interesting. If you'll forgive my remarking it, there seem to be a good many registered letters. I understood that you had not appealed to the public for subscriptions."
"Neither have I," Brooks answered, stretching out his hand. "If there is money in these it is entirely unsolicited."
He plunged into a correspondence as various as it was voluminous. There were letters of abuse, of sympathy, of friendship, of remonstrance, of reproof. There were offers of help, money, advice, suggestions, and advertisements. There were small sums of money, and a few larger ones. He was amused to find that a great many people addressed him as an infidel—the little mission preacher had certainly been busy, and everywhere it seemed to be understood that his enterprise was an anti-Christian one. And finally there was a long packet, marked as having been delivered by hand, and inside—without a word of any sort, on a single clue as to its sender—a bank-note for one thousand pounds.
Brooks passed it over to his companion, who saw the amount with a little start.
"A thousand pounds—not even registered—in a plain envelope. And you have no idea from whom it came?
"None whatever," Brooks answered.
The pressman folded it up silently, and passed it back. He looked at the huge pile of correspondence and at Brooks—his dark thoughtful face suddenly lit up with a rare gleam of excitement. In his own mind he was making a thumb-nail sketch of these things. There was material for one of those broad, suggestive articles which his editor loved. He wished Brooks good-night.
"I'm much obliged for all you've told me," he said. "If you don't mind, I'd like to drop in now and again down at Stepney. I believe that this is going to be rather a big thing for you."
Brooks smiled.
"So do I," he answered. "Come whenever you like."
Brooks sank into an easy-chair, conscious at last of a more than ordinary exhaustion. He looked at the pile of newspapers at his feet, the sea of correspondence on the table—his thoughts travelled back to the bare, dusty room in Stepney, with its patient, white-faced crowd of men and women and children. Perhaps, after all, then he had found his life's work here. If so he need surely regret no longer his lost political opportunities. Yet in his heart he knew that it had been from the House of Commons he had meant to force home his schemes. To work outside had always seemed to him to be labouring under a disadvantage, to be missing the true and best opportunity of impressing upon the law-makers of the country their true responsibilities. But of that there was no longer any hope. Of the House of Lords he thought only with a cold shiver. No, political life was denied to him. He must do his best for the furtherance of his work outside.
He fell asleep to awake in the cold grey of the morning, stiff and cramped, and cold to the bone. Stamping up and down the room in a vigorous attempt to restore his lost circulation, he noticed as he passed the corner of the table a still unopened letter addressed to him in a familiar handwriting. He took it over to the window, and, glancing at the faintly-sketched coronet on time back, turned it over and broke the seal.
"Thursday.
"I have read with an amusement which I am sure you will not fail to share, the shower of condemnation, approval, and remonstrance which by your doings in Stepney you appear to have brought down upon your head. The religious element especially, you seem to have set by the ears. I sat within hearing of our premier bishop last night at dinner, and his speculations with regard to you and your ultimate aims were so amusing that I passed without noticing it my favourite entree.
"You will have observed that it is your anonymity which is the weapon of which your antagonists make most use. Why not dissipate it and confound them? A Mr. Brooks of unknown antecedents might well be supposed capable of starting a philanthropic work for his own good; the same suspicion could never fall on Lord Kingston Ross, a future marquis. You will notice that I make no appeal to you from any personal motive. I should suggest that we preserve our present relations without alteration. But if you care to accept my suggestion I would propose that you nominate me trustee of your society, and I will give, as a contribution to its funds, the sum of five thousand pounds."
Brooks looked down the long street, quiet and strangely unfamiliar in the dawning light, and for a moment he hesitated. The letter he held in his hand crushed up into a shapeless ball. It would make things very easy. And then—a rush of memories. He swung round and sat down at his desk, drawing paper and ink towards him.
"DEAR LORD ARRANMORE," he wrote, "I am much obliged to you for the suggestion contained in your letter, but I regret that its acceptance would involve the carrying out on my part of certain obligations which I am not at present prepared to undertake. We will, therefore, if you please, allow matters to remain on this footing.
"Yours sincerely,
Bareheaded he stole out into the street, and breathed freely only when he heard it drop into the pillar-box. For only he himself knew what other things went with the rejection of that offer.
He crept up-stairs to lie down for a while, and 'on the way he laughed softly to himself.
"What a fool she would think me!" he muttered. "What a fool I am!"
An early spring came with a rush of warm west wind, sunshine, and the perfume of blossoming flowers. The chestnuts where out at the Park fully a week before their time, and already through the great waxy buds the colour of the coming rhododendrons was to be seen in sheltered corners of the Park. London put out its window boxes, and remembered that it had, after all, for two short months a place amongst the beautiful cities of the world. 'Bus conductors begun to whistle, and hansom cab drivers to wear a bunch of primroses in their coats. Kingston Brooks, who had just left his doctor, turned into the Park and mingled idly with the throng of people.
For the first time for many months he suffered his thoughts to travel over a wider range than usual. The doctor's words had been sharp and to the point. He must have instant change—change, if not of scene, at least of occupation. Scarcely to be wondered at, Brooks thought to himself, with a faint smile, when he thought of the last twelve months, full to the brim of strenuous labour, of ceaseless striving within a herculean task. Well, he was in smoother waters now. He might withdraw his hand for a while, if necessary. He had gone his way, and held his own so far against all manner of onslaught. Just then he heard himself called by name, and, looking up, found himself face to face with Sybil Caroom.
"Mr. Brooks! Is it really you, then, at last?"
He set his teeth hard, but he could not keep the unusual colour from his cheeks.
"It is really I, Lady Sybil. How do you do?"
Sybil was charming in a lilac-coloured dress and hat as fresh and dainty as her own complexion. She looked straight into his eyes, and told him that he ought to be ashamed of himself.
"Oh, it's not the least use your looking as though you were going to edge away every moment," she declared, laughing. "I am going to keep you for quite a long time, and make you tell me about everything."
"In which case, Lady Sybil," her escort remarked, good-humouredly, "you will perhaps find a better use for me at some future time."
"How sweet of you," she answered, blandly. "Do you know Mr. Brooks? Mr. Kingston Brooks, Lord Bertram. Mr. Brooks is a very old friend, and I have so many questions I want to ask him."
Lord Bertram, a slim, aristocratic young man, raised his hat, and glanced with some interest at the other man.
"The Mr. Kingston Brooks of the East End? Lavvy's friend?" he asked, politely.
Brooks smiled.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I am the person who is being exposed—isn't that the word? I warn you, Lady Sybil, that I am a questionable character."
"I will take the risk," she answered, gaily.
"I think you may safely do so," Lord Bertram answered, raising his hat."Good-morning, Lady Sybil—morning, Mr. Brooks!"
She led him towards the chairs.
"I am going to take the risk of your being in an extravagant frame of mind," she said, "and make you pay for two chains—up here, on the back now. Now, first of all, do you know that you look shockingly ill?"
"I have just come from-n my doctor," Brooks answered. "He agrees with you."
"I am glad that you have had the sense to go to him," she said. "Tell me, are you just run down, on is there anything more serious the matter?
"Nothing serious at all," he answered. "I have had a great deal to do, and no holiday during the past year, so I suppose I am a little tired."
"You look like a ghost," she said. "You have been overworking yourself ridiculously. Now, will you be so good as to tell me why you have never been to see us?"
"I have been nowhere," he answered. "My work has claimed my undivided attention."
"Nonsense," she answered. "You have been living for a year within a shilling cab ride of us, and you have not once even called. I really wonder that I am sitting here with you, as though prepared to forgive you. Do you know that I have written you three times asking you to come to tea?"
He turned a very white face upon her.
"Won't you understand," he said, "that I have been engrossed in a work which would admit of no distractions?
"You could find time to go down to Medchester, and make speeches for your friend Mr. Bullsom," she answered.
"That was different. I was deeply indebted to Mr. Bullsom, and anxious to see him returned. That, too, was work. It is only pleasures which I have denied myself."
"That," she remarked, "is the nicest—in fact, the only nice thing you have said. You have changed since Enton."
"I have been through a good deal," he said, wearily.
She shuddered a little.
"Don't look like that," she exclaimed. "Forgive me, but you made me think—do you remember that night at Enton, when Lord Arranmore spoke of his work amongst the poor, how the hopelessness of it began to haunt him and weigh upon him till he reached the verge of madness. You had something of that look just now."
He smiled faintly.
"Believe me, it was fancy," he answered, earnestly. "Remember, I am a little out of sorts to-day. I am not discouraged; I have no cause to be discouraged. A good many of the outside public misunderstand my work, and Mr. Lavilette thinks I make money out of it. Then, of course, all the organized charities are against me. But in spite of all I am able to go on and increase day by day."
"It is wonderful," she declared. "I read everything in the papers about you—and I get the monthly reports, for of course I am a subscriber—so is mother. But—that brings your shameful neglect of us back into my mind. I wrote to you begging to be allowed to inspect one of your branches, and all I got back was a polite reply from your secretary to the effect that the general public—even subscribers—were never allowed in any of the branches as sightseers, and that all I could see was the stores and general arrangements, for which he enclosed a view-card."
"Well," Brooks said, "you don't think that poor people who come to you for help should be exposed to the casual inspection of visitors who want to see how it is done, do you? I have always been very particular about that. We should not allow the Prince of Wales in the room whilst we were dealing with applicants."
"Well, you might have written yourself, or come and seen us," Sybil declared, a little irrelevantly. "Why couldn't I be an occasional helper?"
"There is not the slightest reason why you should not," he answered. "We have seventeen hundred on the books, but we could always do with more, especially now we are opening so many more branches. But, you know, we should expect you to come sometimes, and how would Lady Caroom like that?" She laughed.
"You know how much mother and I interfere with one another," she answered. "Besides, I have several friends who are on your list, and who are sent for now and then—Edie Gresham and Mary Forbrooke." "It is rough work," he said; "but, of course, if you like, my secretary shall put your name down, and you will get a card then telling you what week to come. It will be every afternoon for a week, you know. Then you are qualified, and we might send for you at any time if we were short."
"I should come," she said.
A coach passed by, with its brilliant load of women in bright gowns and picture hats, and two or three immaculate men. They both looked up, and followed it with their eyes.
"Lord Arranmore," Sybil exclaimed, "and that is the Duchess of Eversleigh with him on the box. It doesn't seem—the same man, does it?"
Brooks smiled a little bitterly.
"The same man," he repeated. "No!"
They were silent for a few moments. Then Sybil turned towards him with a little impetuous movement.
"Come," she said, "let us talk about yourself now. What are you going to do?"
"To do?" he repeated, vaguely. "Why—"
"About your health, of course. You admitted a few minutes ago that you had been to see your doctor."
"Why—I suppose I must ease up a little."
"Of course you must. When will you come and dine quietly with us inBerkeley Square, and go to the theatre?"
He shook his head.
"It is kind of you," he said, "but—"
"When will you come and have tea with me, then?"
He set his teeth. He had done his best.
"Whenever you choose to ask me," he answered, with a sort of dogged resignation.
She looked at him half curiously, half tenderly.
"You are so much changed," she murmured, "since those days at Enton.You were a boy then, although you were a thoughtful one—now you are aman, and when you speak like that, an old man. Come, I want the otherMr. Brooks."
He sat quite still. Perhaps at that moment of detachment he realized more keenly than ever the withering nature of this battle through which he had passed. Indeed, he felt older. Those days at Enton lay very far back, yet the girl by his side made him feel as though they had been but yesterday. He glanced at her covertly. Gracious, fresh, and as beautiful as the spring itself. What demon of mischief had possessed her that she should, with all her army of admirers, her gay life, her host of pleasures, still single him out in this way and bring back to his memory days which he had told himself he had wholly forgotten? She was not of the world of his adoption, she belonged to the things which he had forsworn.
"The other Mr. Brooks," he murmured, "is dead. He has been burned in the furnace of this last wonderful year. That is why I think—I fear it is no use your looking for him—and you would not wish to have a stranger to tea with you."
"That," she said, "is ingenious, but not convincing. So you will please come to-morrow at four o'clock. I shall stay in for you.
"At four o'clock," he repeated, helplessly.
Lady Caroom waved to them from the path.
"Sybil, come here at once," she exclaimed, "and bring Mr. Brooks with you. Dear me, what troublesome people you have been to find. I am very glad indeed to see you again."
She looked Brooks in the face as she held his hand, and With a little start he realized that she knew.
"You most quixotic of young men," she exclaimed, "come home with us at once, and explain how you dared to avoid us all this time. What a ghost you look. I hope it is your conscience. Don't pretend you can't sit with your back to the horse, but get in there, sir, and—James, the little seat—and make yourself as comfortable as you can. Home, James! Upon my word, Mr. Brooks, you look like one of those poor people whom you have been working for in the slums. If starvation was catching, I should think that you had caught it. You must try my muffins."
Sybil caught his eye, and laughed.
"Mother hasn't altered much, has she?" she asked.
"What is this Kingston Brooks' affair that Lavilette has hold of now?" yawned a man over his evening papers. "That fellow will get into trouble if he doesn't mind."
"Some new sort of charity down in the East End," one of the little group of club members replied. "Fellow has a lot of branches, and tries to make 'em a sort of family affair. He gets a pile of subscriptions, and declines to publish a balance-sheet. Lavilette seems to think there's something wrong somewhere."
"Lavilette's such a suspicious beggar," another man remarked. "The thing seems all right. I know people who are interested in it, who say it's the most comprehensive and common-sense charity scheme of the day."
"Why doesn't he pitch into Lavilette, then? Lavilette's awfully insulting. Brooks the other day inserted an acknowledgment in the papers of the receipt of one thousand pounds anonymous. You saw what Lavilette said about it?"
"No. What?"
"Oh, he had a little sarcastic paragraph—declined to believe that Brooks had ever received a thousand pounds anonymously—challenged him to give the number of the note, and said plainly that he considered it a fraud. There's been no reply from Brooks."
"How do you know?"
"This week's Verity. Here it is!"
"We have received no reply from Mr. Kingston Brooks up to going to press with respect to our remark concerning the thousand pounds alleged to have been received by him from an anonymous giver. We may add that we scarcely expected it. Yet there is another long list of acknowledgments of sums received by Mr. Brooks this morning. We are either the most credulous nation in the world, or there are a good many people who don't know what to do with their money. We should like to direct their attention to half-a-dozen excellent and most deserving charities which we can personally recommend, and whose accounts will always stand the most vigorous examination."
"H'm! That's pretty strong," the first speaker remarked. "I should think that that ought to stay the flow of subscriptions."
Lord Arranmore, who was standing on the hearthrug smoking a cigarette, joined languidly in the conversation.
You think that Brooks ought to take some notice of Lavilette's impudence, then?"
"Well, I'm afraid his not doing so looks rather fishy," the first speaker remarked. "That thousand pounds note must have been a sort of a myth."
"I think not," Lord Arranmore remarked, quietly. "I ought to know, forI sent it myself,"
Every man straightened himself in his easy-chair. There was a little thrill of interest.
"You're joking, Arranmore."
"Not I! I've sent him three amounts—anonymously."
"Well, I'd no idea that sort of thing was in your line," one of the men exclaimed.
"More it is," Arranmore answered. "Personally, I don't believe in charity—in any modern application of it at any rate. But this man Brooks is a decent sort."
"You know who Brooks is, then?"
"Certainly. He was my agent for a short time in Medchester."
Mr. Hennibul, who was one of the men sitting round, doubled his copy ofVerity up and beat the air with it.
"I knew I'd heard the name," he exclaimed. "Why, I've met him down atEnton. Nice-looking young fellow."
Arranmore nodded.
"Yes. That was Brooks."
Mr. Hennibul's face beamed.
"Great Scott, what a haul!" he exclaimed. "Why, you've got oldLavilette on toast—you've got him for suing damages too. If this iswhy Brooks has been hanging back—just to let him go far enough—byJove, he's a smart chap."
"I don't fancy Brooks has any idea of the sort," Lord Arranmore answered. "All the same I think that Lavilette must be stopped and made to climb down."
Curiously enough he met Brooks the same afternoon in Lady Caroom's drawing-room.
"This is fortunate," he remarked. "I wished for a few minutes' conversation with you."
"I am at your service," Brooks answered, quietly.
The room was fairly full, so they moved a little on one side. LordArranmore for a moment or two studied his son's face in silence.
"You show signs of the struggle," he remarked.
"I have been overworked," Brooks answered. "A week or two's holiday is all I require—and that I am having. As for the rest," he answered, looking Lord Arranmore in the face, "I am not discouraged. I am not even depressed."
"I congratulate you—upon your zeal."
"You are very good."
"I was going to speak to you," Lord Arranmore continued, "concerning the paragraph in this week's Verity, and these other attacks which you seem to have provoked."
Brooks smiled.
"You too!" he exclaimed.
"I also!" Lord Arranmore admitted, coolly. "You scarcely see how it concerns me, of course, but in a remote sense it does."
"I am afraid that I am a little dense," Brooks remarked.
"I will not embarrass you with any explanation," Lord Arranmore remarked. "But all the same I am going to surprise you. Do you know that I am very much interested in your experiment?"
Brooks raised his eyebrows.
"Indeed!"
"Yes, I am very much interested," Lord Arranmore repeated. "I should like you to understand that my views as to charity and charitable matters remain absolutely unaltered. But at the same time I am anxious that you should test your schemes properly and unhampered by any pressure from outside. You are all the sooner likely to grow out of conceit with them. Therefore let me offer you a word of advice. Publish your accounts, and sue Lavvy for a thousand pounds."
Brooks was silent for a moment.
"My own idea," he said, slowly, "was to take no notice of these attacks. The offices where the financial part of our concern is managed are open to our subscribers at any time, and the books are there for their inspection. It is only at the branches where we do not admit visitors."
"You must remember," Lord Arranmore said, "that these attacks have been growing steadily during the last few months. It is, of course, no concern of mine, but if they are left unanswered surely your funds must suffer."
"There have been no signs of it up to the present," Brooks answered."We have large sums of money come in every day."
"This worst attack," Lord Arranmore remarked, "only appeared in this week's Verity. It is bound to have some effect."
Brooks shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not fear it," he answered, calmly. "As a matter of fact, however, I am going to form a council to take the management of the financial organization. It is getting too large a thing for me with all my other work. Is there anything else you wished to say to me?"
The eyes of the two men met for a moment both unflinchingly. Perhaps they were each searching for something they could not find.
"There is nothing else. Don't let me detain you."
Brooks, who was the leaving guest, stepped quietly away, and LordArranmore calmly outstayed all the other callers.
"Your manners," Lady Caroom told him, as the last of her guests departed, "are simply hoydenish. Who told you that you might sit out all my visitors in this bare-faced way?"
"You, dear lady, or rather your manner," he answered, imperturbably."It seemed to me that you were saying all the time, 'Do not desert me!Do not desert me!' And so I sat tight."
"An imagination like yours," she declared, "is positively unhealthy.Arranmore, what an idiot you are.
"Well?"
"Oh, you know all about it—and one hears! Are you tired of your life?"
"Very, very tired of it!" he answered. "Isn't everybody?"
"Of course not. Neither are you really. It is only a mood. Some day you will succeed in what you seem trying so hard to do, and then you will be sorry—and perhaps some others!"
"If one could believe that," he murmured.
"Two months ago," she continued, "every one was saying that you had made up your mind to end your days in the hunting-field. All Melton was talking about your reckless riding, and your hairbreadth escapes."
"Both shockingly exaggerated," he said, under his breath.
Perhaps; but apart from the papers I have seen people who were out and who have told me that you rode with absolute recklessness, simply and purely for a fall, and that you deserved to break your neck a dozen times over. Then there was your week in Paris with Prince Comfrere, and now your supper-parties are the talk of London."
"They are justly famed," he answered, gravely, "for you know I brought home the chef from Voillard's. I am sorry that I cannot ask you to one.
"Don't be ridiculous, Arranmore. Why do you do these things? Does it amuse you, give you any satisfaction?
"Upon my word I don't know," he answered.
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because," he said slowly, "there is a shadow which dogs me. I am always trying to escape—and it is always hard on my heels. You are a woman, Catherine, and you don't know the suffering of the most intolerable form of ennui—loneliness."
"And do you?" she asked, looking at him with softening eyes.
"Always. It rode with me in the turnkey frill—and sometimes perhaps it lifted my spurs—why not? And at these suppers you speak of, well, they are all very gay—it is I only who have bidden them, who reap no profit. For whosoever may sit there the chair at my side is always empty."
"You speak sadly," she said, "and yet—"
"Yet what?"
"To hear you talk, Arranmore, with any real feeling about anything is always a relief," she said. "Sometimes you speak and act as though every emotion which had ever filled your life were dead, as though you were indeed but the shadow of your former self. Even to know that you feel pain is better than to believe you void of any feeling whatever."
"Then you may rest content," he told her quietly, "for I can assure you that pain and I are old friends and close companions."
"You have so much, too, which should make you happy—which should keep you employed and amused," she said, softly.
"'Employed and amused.'" His eyes flashed upon her with a gleam of something very much like anger. "It pleases you to mock me!"
"Indeed no!" she protested. "You must not say such things to me."
"Then remember," he said, bitterly, "that sympathy from you comes always very near to mockery. It is you and you alone who can unlock the door for me. You show me the key—but you will not use it."
A belated caller straggled in, and Arranmore took his leave. Lady Caroom for the rest of the afternoon was a little absent. She gave her visitors cold tea, and seriously imperiled her reputation as a charming and sympathetic hostess.
The looking-glass was, perhaps, a little merciless in that clear north light, but Mary's sigh as she looked away from it was certainly unwarranted. For, as a matter of fact, she had improved wonderfully since her coming to London. A certain angularity of figure had vanished—the fashionable clothes which Mr. Bullsom had insisted upon ordering for her did ample justice to her graceful curves and lithe buoyant figure. The pallor of her cheeks, too, which she had eyed just now with so much dissatisfaction, was far removed from the pallor of ill-health; her mouth, which had lost its discontented droop, was full of pleasant suggestions of humour. She was distinctly a very charming and attractive young woman—and yet she turned away with a sigh. She was twenty-seven years old, and she had been unconsciously comparing herself with a girl of eighteen.
She drew down one of the blinds and set the tea-tray where she could sit in the shadow. She was conscious of having dressed with unusual care—she had pinned a great bunch of fragrant violets in her bosom. She acknowledged to herself frankly that she was anxious to appear at her best. For there had come to her, in the midst of her busy life—a life of strenuous endeavour mingled with many small self-denials—a certain sense of loneliness—of insufficiency—a new thing to her and hard to cope with in this great city where friends were few. And last night, whilst she had been thinking of it, came this note from Brooks asking if he might come to tea. She had been ashamed of herself ever since. It was maddening that she should sit waiting for his coming like a blushing schoolgirl—the colour ready enough to stream into her face at the sound of his footstep.
He came at last—a surprise in more ways than one. For he had abandoned the blue serge and low hat of his daily life, and was attired in frock coat and silk hat—his tie and collar of a new fashion, even his bearing altered—at least so it seemed to her jealous observation. He was certainly looking better. There was colour in his pale cheeks, and his eyes were bright once more with the joy of life. Her dark eyes took merciless note of these things, and then found seeing at all a little difficult.
"My dear Mary," he exclaimed, cheerfully—he had fallen into the way of calling her Mary lately "this is delightful of you to be in. Do you know that I am really holiday-making?"
"Well," she answered, smiling, "I imagined that you were not on your way eastwards."
"Where can I sit? May I move these?" He swept aside a little pile of newspapers and books, and took possession of the seat which she had purposely appropriated. "The other chairs are so far off, and you seem to have chosen a dark corner. Eastwards, no. I have been at the office all the morning, and we have bought the property in Poplar Grove and the house in Bermondsey. Now I have finished for the day. Doctor's orders."
"If any one has earned a holiday," she said, quietly, "you have. There is some cake on the table there."
"Thanks. Well, it was hard work at first. How we stuck at it down at Stepney, didn't we? Six in the morning till twelve at night. And then how we rushed ahead. It seems to me that we have been doing nothing but open branches lately."
"I wonder," she said, "that you have stood it so well. Why don't you go away altogether for a time? You have such splendid helpers now.
"Oh, I'm enjoying myself," he answered, lightly, "and I don't care to be out of touch with it all."
"You enjoy contrasts," she remarked. "I saw your name in the paper this morning as one of Lady Caroom's guests last night."
He nodded.
"Yes, Lady Caroom has been awfully good to me, and I seem to have got to know a lot of pleasant people in an incredulously short time."
"You are a curious mixture," she said, looking at him thoughtfully.
"Of what?" he asked, passing his cup for some more tea.
"Of wonderful self-devotion," she answered, "and a genuine and natural love of enjoyment. After all, you are only a boy."
"I fancy," he remarked, smiling, "that my years exceed yours.
"As a matter of fact they don't," she answered, "but I was not thinking of years, I was thinking of disposition. You have set going the greatest charitable scheme of the generation, and yet you are so young, so very young."
He laughed a little uneasily. In some vague way he felt that he had displeased her.
"I never pretended," he said, "that I did not enjoy life, that I was not fond of its pleasures. It was only while my work was insecure that I made a recluse of myself. You, too," he said, "it is time that you slackened a little. Come, take an evening off and we will dine somewhere and go to the theatre." How delightful it sounded. She felt a warm rush of pleasure at the thought. They would want her badly at Stepney, but "This evening?" she asked.
"Yes. No, hang it, it can't be this evening. I'm dining with theCarooms—nor to-morrow evening. Say Thursday evening, will you?"
Something seemed suddenly to chill her momentary gush of happiness.
"Well," she said, "I think not just yet. We have several fresh girls, you know—it is a bad time to be away. Perhaps you will ask me later on."
He laughed softly.
"What a funny girl you are, Mary. You'd really rather stew in that hot room, I believe, than go anywhere to enjoy yourself. Such women as you ought to be canonized. You are saints even in this life. What can be done for you in the next?"
Mary bit her lip hard, and she bent low over the tea-cups. In another moment she felt that her self-control must go. Fortunately he drifted away from the subject.
"Very soon," he said, "we must all have a serious talk about the future. The management is getting too big for me. I think there should be a council elected—something of the sort must be done, and soon."
"That," she remarked, "is what Mr. Lavilette says, isn't it?"
He looked at her with twinkling eyes.
"Oh, you needn't think I'm being scared into it," he answered. "All the same, Lavvy's right enough. No one man has the right to accept large subscriptions and not let the public into his confidence."
"Lavilette doesn't believe in our anonymous subscriptions, does he?" she asked.
"No! He's rather impudent about that, isn't he? I suppose I ought really to set him right. I should have done so before, but he went about it in such an offensive manner. Well, to go on with what I was saying. You will come on the council, Mary?"
"I? Oh, surely not!"
"You will! And, what is more, I am going to split all the branches up into divisions, and appoint superintendents and manageresses, at a reasonable salary. And you," he concluded, "are going to be one of the latter."
She shook her head firmly.
"No! I must remain my own mistress."
"Why not? I want to allot to you the work where you can do most good. You know more about it than any one. There is no one half so suitable. I want you to throw up your other work come into this altogether, be my right hand, and let me feel that I have one person on the council whom I can rely upon."
She was silent for a moment. She leaned back in her chair, but even in the semi-obscurity the extreme pallor of her face troubled him.
"You must remember, too," he said, "that the work will not be so hard as now. Lately you have given us too much of your time. Indeed, I am not sure that it is not you who need a holiday more than I."
She raised her eyes.
"This is—what you came to say to me?"
"Yes. I was anxious to get your promise."
There was another short silence. Then she spoke in dull even tones.
"I must think it over. You want my whole time, and you want to pay me for it."
"Yes. It is only reasonable, and we can afford it. I should draw a salary myself if I had not a little of my own."
She raised her eyes once more to his mercilessly, and drew a quick little breath. Yes, it was there written in his face—the blank utter indifference of good-fellowship. It was all that he had come to ask her, it was all that he would ever ask her. Suddenly she felt her heart throbbing in quick short beats-her cheeks burned. They were alone—even her little maid had gone out. Why was he so miserably indifferent? She stumbled to her feet, and suddenly stooping down laid her burning cheeks against his.
"Kingston," she said, "you are so cruel—and I am so lonely. Can't you see that I am miserable? Kiss me!"
Brooks sat petrified, utterly amazed at this self-yielding on the part of the last woman in this world whom he would ever have thought capable of anything of the sort.
"Kiss me—at once."
He touched her lips timorously. Then she sprang away from him, her cheeks aflame, her eyes on fire, her hair strangely ruffled. She pointed to the door.
"Please go—quickly."
He picked up his hat.
"But, Mary! I—"
"Please!"
She stamped her foot.
"But—"
"I will write. You shall hear from me to-morrow. But if you have any pity for me at all you will go now—this moment."
He rose and went. She heard him turn the handle of the door, heard his footsteps upon the stone stairs outside.
She counted them idly. One, two, three, four now he was on the next landing. She heard them again, less distinctly, always less distinctly. Then silence. She ran to the window. There he was upon the pavement, now he was crossing the road on his way to the underground station. She tore at her handkerchief, waved it wildly for a moment—and then stopped. He was gone—and she. The hot colour came rushing painfully into her cheeks. She threw herself face downwards upon the sofa.