Miss Marquand had only been working at "The Beck and Call" for a week or so when Toby, Ben's youngest brother, paid his sister a visit.
"How nice to see you," said Ben, "but I hope you haven't come, like all the others, to reproach me for opening the place."
"Not me," said Toby. "I'm all for it. I want you to be in business and make money, because then I can borrow from you."
"My dear," said Ben, "are you broke again?"
"Absolutely," said her brother. "But have they really been pitching into you?"
"All of them but Uncle Paul," said Ben. "Even Aunt Agatha, but of course she doesn't count."
"Alicia, I suppose, wanted you to join her in Hove?" Toby inquired.
"Yes," said Ben, with surprise. "But how could you know?"
"I guessed it," said Toby. "I'm not such a fool as I look."
"I didn't know you were so clever," said Ben. "Did you also guess that poor Bertrand is alive?"
"Alive? What on earth do you mean?" Toby asked.
"I don't mean anything on earth," said Ben. "That's just it. Alicia's taken to spiritualism and she communicates with him every day."
Toby whistled. "That's topping," he said. "They ought to know everything up there: I wonder if I could get her to ask him for a winner."
"My dear boy," said Ben, "are you betting again?"
"Only now and then," he said. "And I have such rotten luck. It would pay owners to make me an allowance to keep off their horses. But what I came about," he went on, "is what is called my future. I wish you'd talk to the governor about it. He's dead set on my going into Uncle Arthur's office when I come down; but that means all kinds of restrictions. And how am I to keep up my cricket? I want to play seriously for a few seasons; they've got me down for Middlesex. I can see now that I've been rather an ass not working harder. I might have got a job then as a Sports Master at some big school, but even a Sports Master, it seems, must know something. There's always a catch somewhere.So far as the winter goes, I'm not so hopeless, because you can get jobs now as Master of Ceremonies at the Swiss hotels—to arrange dancing and ice competitions. I know two or three men who do that and have a topping time."
It was at this moment that the door of Ben's room opened and Miss Marquand's head appeared round it.
What else may be the answer to the poet's question, "Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?" it is not Toby. For that had always been his only way, and it happened again at that moment.
"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed when the door had closed again. "Who's that?"
"That's one of my assistants," said Ben; "and you will oblige me by not taking her out to lunch more than you can help, because we're busy. Also, you can't afford it. Also, she may be already engaged."
"But she's beautiful," said Toby. "She's terrific. What's her name?"
"Her name is Viola Marquand," said Ben.
"Viola Marquand! Great Scott! Why, I know her brother. He's at New. She isn't engaged, or if she is, he doesn't know it."
"Why should he?" Ben asked. "Youdon't know all thatIdo."
"He's told me about her," said Toby. "He said I should fall for her and I have. Do ask her to come in again about something."
"Not unless you make a promise," said Ben.
"Well?" Toby asked.
"And keep it?" Ben said.
"Naturally," Toby replied. "If it isn't too difficult."
"Not to have another bet this year," said Ben.
"Oh, I say!" said Toby. "That's a bit thick."
"I mean it," said Ben.
Toby knitted his fresh and candid brows.
"I may go in for a Derby sweep or two?" he asked.
"Yes," said Ben. "I'll allow that. But no betting. Promise?"
Toby promised and Ben rang her bell twice.
The door opened again and Miss Marquand's piquant little face again appeared.
"Oh, Miss Marquand," said Ben, "please come in. This is my brother Toby, and if you have a minute will you let him see the morning paper. He is interested in racing and wants to look at to-day's runners."
"My hat!" Toby gasped. "Ben, you're the limit." But his eyes were on Miss Marquand, and if ever a second sight corroborated the judgment of the first, it was then.
The introductions being completed, Ben relented. "Never mind about the paper," she said. "I was only joking." Toby groaned.
"But," she went on, "what my brother really wants is to consult the 'Scholastic Register.' Will you let him see it?"
And the young people left together.
Tommy Clinton arriving as usual from Madeira in May, paid an early visit to "The Beck and Call," dallying awhile at the book shop, to whose allurements had now been added a few water-colours; and for water-colours Tommy had ever had a weakness. Indeed, he played a little with a paint-box himself.
"What on earth made you start this kind of thing?" he asked Ben, when their first greetings were over.
"Why not?" she countered. "I couldn't be idle. It's rather fun too."
"I suppose you've got some kind of a lease?" Tommy asked. "You're bound to let the experiment run a certain time?"
"Of course," said Ben. "I shouldn't drop it unless I had to."
Tommy was silent. These hostages to fortune did not suit him in the least.
"Is the fellow downstairs your landlord?" he asked.
"I take this floor from the book shop, if that'swhat you mean," said Ben, smiling at Tommy's transparency. "Did you go in there?"
"I just looked round," he said. "I didn't speak to anyone. Conceited-looking chap, I thought, and singing too; something about O'Reilly. I can't stand shopkeepers who don't look like it, and sing. Shopkeepers should wear black, and rub their hands. This fellow's in tweeds with a blue collar."
"That's Mr. Harford," said Ben. "His partner, Mr. St. Quentin, would have pleased you more: he's only got one leg. They were at Oxford together and then in the War."
"You seem to know all about them," said Tommy, with some bitterness. "Are they married?"
"Oh, no," said Ben.
"Are they engaged?" Tommy pursued.
"If you mean, Are they engaged to me? No," said Ben.
"Neither of them?" he asked.
"Neither or both," she replied. "You seem to have missed your vocation," she added, laughing. "You ought to have been a cross-examiner. In fact, I believe you are—very cross."
"I'm frightfully sorry," said Tommy; "but it's awfully disappointing coming back and finding you locked up in an office. I was counting onseeing such a lot of you, and now you say you've only got Saturday afternoons."
"We must make the most of those," she said.
It was on their way back from a country walk that Tommy took Ben's hand and repeated his annual question.
"What about it?" he said.
"About what?" Ben asked, with an affectation of ignorance which was not really intended to deceive him.
"'You 'eard,'" he quoted.
She disengaged her hand and laughed her soft laugh.
"I can't think why you're so horrid to me," he said. "What's the matter with me?"
"Nothing, Tommy," she said. "I like you very much. I always have liked you. But I don't want to marry you."
"Don't you want to marry anyone?" he asked.
"No one that I've yet seen," she replied.
"Not either of those book-selling fellows?" he asked.
"Certainly not," she said.
"But you must marry," said Tommy, very earnestly. "Of course you must. It isn't right not to. What's the matter with me, anyway? We've always been good friends; I'm not too poor; I hope I've got something better than thekind of face that only a mother can love. I've gottwolegs. Why are you so down on me?"
"My dear boy, I'm not," said Ben. "I have always liked you and I always shall like you, but marriage is so different. Please don't ask me any more, there's a dear, Tommy."
She had said "Certainly not" with some firmness to Tommy's question about her landlords; but was it true? She pondered on the matter that night as she lay awake. Was she so insensitive to them? Would she absolutely turn down a proposal from either? And if she had a preference for one, which was it? Mr. Harford, so quick and gay and handsome and clean cut and impulsive, or Mr. St. Quentin, so quiet and amusing and lonely and in need of care? But whosoever she married, if she married at all—and why should she, for her life was very full of interest; this "Beck and Call" affair was very absorbing and it had got to be made a success; and marriage seemed so often to be the end of girls; look at poor Enid Stuart, what a wreck of a life that used to be such a lark; look at poor Daisy Forsiter, all her jolliness gone since she married that selfish young Greg—time enough to think of marriage two or three years hence when she was tired of being so busy.
So her thoughts ran.
Poor Tommy! Whosoever she married, if she married at all, would have to have more variety than that, be more of a companion. If she married at all. Someone who did everything with an air, with a natural commanding address, like, well, Jack Harford was rather like that—"Good morning, O'Reilly, you are looking well"—someone who had humour and sagacity and was in need of mothering a little like—well, Pat St. Quentin was not unlike that—"My bonnie lies over the sea." But there were plenty of other men, too, if she really wanted one, and it was ridiculous to allow such a trifling business accident as renting an upper floor from two young men to make these two young men the inevitable two from which she had to choose a partner for life. What rubbish!
Ben chanced to be in the front office one morning when two children came in: a boy and a girl. They looked about twelve and ten.
"Well?" she asked.
"We came in," said the boy, "because we've got a domestic problem and we thought you would help. We saw the sign."
"Of course I will," said Ben. "If I can. Is it very difficult?"
"It is rather," said the little girl. "It's Dad's and Mum's birthday to-morrow and we don't know what to give them."
"But surely," said Ben, "they don't both have their birthday on the same day?"
"Yes, they do," said the boy. "It's extraordinary, but they do."
"I think it's perhaps why they married each other," said the little girl.
"It's the most amazing coincidence I ever heard of," said Ben. "Are you sure they're not pretending?"
"Quite sure," said the boy. "Dad and Mumnever pretend. And I don't think anybody would pretend a thing like that, because it doesn't really do them any good. You see it—it puts such a strain on our pocket-money—Eva's and mine—to have their birthdays come both together like this."
"The worst thing of all," said Eva, "is to have a birthday on Christmas day. Every one knows that."
"When is your birthday?" Ben asked.
"On Christmas Day," said Eva.
"What a marvellous family!" exclaimed Ben. "And when is yours?" she asked the boy. "On February 29th, I suppose?"
"Yes," he said, "on February 29th. I only have a birthday once in four years. I mean a real one. Of course, as a matter of fact, people are very lenient."
"More and more remarkable!" exclaimed Ben. "I never heard anything like it. And are you the only children?"
"Yes," said Eva.
"Before I can help you," said Ben, "I must know how much money you've got."
"We've got five shillings each," said the boy. "But of course we can't spend all that on the present because we must give some to you. Mustn't we?"
"Why?" Ben asked.
"It says so on the signboard," said the boy. "'Terms moderate.' Terms mean we must pay, don't they?"
"Not in every case," said Ben. "Not in this case. Any advice I can give to you is free, because I'm so sorry about your birthdays. But I can't advise until I know everything, so you must tell me. First about your mother. Tell me all about her tastes. Is she fond of reading?"
"Yes," said Eva.
"New books or old?"
"New books," said Eva. "They come from the library. French books too."
"Is she fond of flowers?"
"Yes," said Eva, "she likes tulips."
"And has she any favourite colours?"
"A kind of purply pink," said Eva, after consideration.
"No," said Eric, firmly; "yellow. All the French books are yellow, and that proves it."
"Does she write a lot of letters?" Ben asked.
"Not many," Eva thought.
"Does she play and sing?"
"Oh, yes, she loves music," said Eva.
"And now for your father," said Ben. "Is he old?"
"Yes, very old," said Eva.
"How old?"
"Well, quite twenty-eight," said Eva.
"He's much older than that," said Eric; "he's going to be thirty-five; he said so this morning."
"And what is he fond of?" asked Ben. "Is he fond of golf?"
"He plays golf," said the boy, "but he's chiefly fond of fishing. He's always going off to fish at a place called Stockbridge."
"What is his favourite food?" Ben asked.
After a good deal of difference of opinion and some heat, it was decided that their father was most addicted to eggs, of which he ate two every morning boiled for four minutes.
"And do you want to join in these presents?" Ben asked, "and give each of them one that costs five shillings, or do you want to be independent?"
This led to more debate and more heat, and it was at last settled that they would rather not unite but would deal separately with their parents.
"Very well," said Ben, "this is what I suggest. That one of you should give your father a little old book on fishing which we will get downstairs, and the other should give him two very pretty china egg-cups. And one should give your mother a box of purple sealing-wax for her letters (which is a good kind of presentbecause very likely she'll let you help with the sealing), and the other should give her a little bottle of the best lavender water. And I'm very glad you called to ask me. Where do you live?"
"Close by, in Eaton Square," said the boy. "We pass here every day and we've always wanted to come in, but we've never had a real domestic problem before."
"And what do you collect?" Ben asked. "Because every boy collects something, doesn't he?"
"Motor-cars," said Eric.
"Motor-cars!" Ben exclaimed.
"He doesn't mean the cars themselves," said Eva. "Really, Eric, you are so silly! What he means is, he writes down in a book the numbers of all the cars he sees and the names of the makers of all he knows. I wish he wouldn't," she added, sadly; "it makes our walks so dreary for me."
"It's the only thing that makes walks possible," said Eric.
They started to go out. At the door the boy stopped. "Are you sure we oughtn't to pay you something?" he asked.
"Quite," said Ben.
"I think you're a wonderful adviser," said Eva.
"You must pardon me for intruding without any real business reason," said the pretty woman, "but I want to apologize for my children worrying you the other day. About birthday presents."
"Oh, yes," said Ben. "They were yours, then?"
"Yes," said her visitor, "but they had no right to take up your time like that."
"I was delighted that they did," said Ben. "Children are very rare in this business. It's a very pleasant change after the usual run of clients. And I thought it very clever of them to think of coming to me at all. Very few children would be so original."
"My name is Hill-Owen, and we live just round the corner in Eaton Square," said the visitor. "And since Iamhere, I wonder if you would give me advice as to my cook. She's young and very pretty, and she cooks very well, but she's terribly attractive to Guardsmen. Isuppose good cooks are as difficult to find as ever?"
"More so," said Ben. "It's not part of my business. This isn't a registry office. But from the inquiries I get, I should say that the world's greatest need at this moment is cooks."
"Then you agree with my husband," said Mrs. Hill-Owen, "who says, 'Never mind about the Guardsmen so long as dinner is all right'?"
"I should take some precautions," said Ben. "I don't think Guardsmen ought to be there after ten, say."
"Guardsmen are very difficult to dislodge," said Mrs. Hill-Owen, "and I'm afraid to go down and interfere, she's so touchy. She might give notice. It's the worst of this Knightsbridge district. I thought of a wonderful plan the other day, and that was to make her bring the key of the basement door up at ten every night; but as my husband said, 'How can you tell she's locked it?' It's really a terrible responsibility. And we're away so much too. What would you do?"
"I?" said Ben. "I should do my best to forget."
"Would you? How clever of you! Thank you so much. I'll try to."
This was one of Ben's odd days.
Mrs. Hill-Owen (she told me) had not beengone more than a few minutes when a Rolls Royce purred up to the door of "The Booklovers' Rest," and a richly dressed young woman emerged and made her way upwards to "The Beck and Call."
Ben, chancing to be in the front office, received her in person, and asked her requirements.
"I want," said the girl, "an engagement as parlour-maid."
"Youwant?" Ben exclaimed. "But for someone else, of course."
"Oh, no," said the girl. "For myself. I want to go into service."
"Come inside," said Ben. "I must get this clear. You want," she said, when they were seated, "a situation as a parlour-maid?"
"Yes," said the girl. "But it must be in a really good house—a nobleman's for choice."
Ben's surprise led the girl to be confidential.
"I ought to explain," she said, "especially as I've had no experience of anything but helping mother at home. The fact is dad has suddenly become rich—enormously rich—and everything has changed. We used to live in a little house in Ealing, but now dad's bought one of those great places on Kingston Hill. He's happy enough, pottering about the garden, but it's very lonely for mother and me, because many of our oldfriends have disappeared—frightened, I suppose—and we can't make new ones of the new kind because—well, we're not easy with them. We don't know how to behave or what to say. They've called, you see. So I thought it would be a wonderful thing if I took service in a good family and kept my eyes open. I'm very quick; I should soon pick it up; and someone was saying that 'The Beck and Call' was the best place to come to with any inquiry, so I came. What do you think, miss?"
"You would have to keep your secret," said Ben.
"Oh, yes, of course," the girl replied.
"You'd have to leave that car behind."
"I shall love to," said the girl. "It's largely because of the chauffeur that I want to learn. He's so superior. Mother and dad, of course, will never be able to deal with servants, but I feel that after a little while I shall know enough to keep them in their place. And of course when I'm through we shall have new ones, and so start fair."
"Well," said Ben, "I think it's a most original plan. The principal difficulty is the noblemen. They're all so poor now that they probably do their own parlour-maiding. I know one personally who describes himself as the 'Gentlemanwith a duster,' and one of the most famous of our dukes boasts that he cleans the windows. You would take the lowest wages, of course?"
"Oh, yes," said the girl; "or none at all."
"No," said Ben, "that would be very foolish. Never do that. You would be suspected at once; and if the other servants found out they would be impossible to you. By the way, had you thought of the other servants?"
"Oh, yes."
"The footman?"
"Yes. But I've got to go through with it, and I'm very quick. You don't think it's unfair to the people who engage me to use them in this way?"
"No, I don't think so. All life is a lesson, and this is quite funny. But the real joke will come when you meet them later on, on level terms."
"Oh," said the girl, "how terrible! I never thought of that. I must—I must think a little more about it," she added, "and talk to mother."
She went off, and Ben watched the chauffeur's face as she got into the car. It certainly had an expression that needed very drastic treatment.
"I don't want to be inquisitive or interfering," said Ben to Viola Marquand, "but I think we ought to be frank with each other about Toby. I'm afraid that that engagement ring is his?"
Viola looked a little confused, but admitted it.
"And what are your plans?" Ben asked. "How long are you prepared to wait for him, and what do you propose to live on? Don't mind those questions, but I feel rather responsible for both of you. I'm all the mother that Toby's got, and to some extent I am in charge of you as well, aren't I? Besides, I suppose I might be said to have thrown you together."
"Of course I don't mind," said Viola. "You've been far too kind. I like Toby tremendously. I don't say I was anxious to be engaged, but he was miserable till I said yes."
"I'm sure he was," said Ben. "He specializes in misery over delays. But what do you think he can do? And what will your people say?"
Viola became very grave. "Yes," she said, "what, indeed? They are sufficiently cross that I am here doing work; but that I don't mind.Girls have to expect that. I dare say you had some trouble yourself?"
Ben smiled. "Just at first," she said. "But fathers soon forget. They've got other things to think about."
"Mine doesn't seem to have," said Viola. "He's bent on my marrying someone rich, and he's afraid that working here may prejudice rich men against me."
"That's absurd," said Ben. "Men who want to marry pretty girls can't be prejudiced against them by anything; that is if they really want to marry them. People do what they want. Don't you agree?"
"Yes," said Viola, "I think I do. But it wouldn't convince father. Father hasn't much imagination, I'm afraid, and when he gets an idea he sticks to it."
"And your mother?" Ben asked.
"Mother does what she's told," said Viola. "Poor mother! We shan't all grow like that, I hope."
"Not if you marry Toby," said Ben. "Toby may be capricious and rather tiresome, but he'll never dictate. Toby's idea of marriage is to be deliciously, luxuriously enslaved. But if I were you I shouldn't wear that ring. He's too young. If you take my advice—and I don't think youare so deeply in love as to refuse to—you will give it back to him and say that you will wait a year before you ask for it again, if then."
"But it will break the poor child's heart," said Viola.
"Not more than is good for him—and for both of you," said Ben. "Think it over, anyway. If you made it a condition that he was earning enough money for both of you—or was in the way to do so—it would be all to the good. His whole tendency is to take things too easily, which wouldn't matter so much if he wasn't engaged. But, being engaged, he must work."
"It sounds frightfully sensible," said Viola. "And not at all like me."
"Well, your father would say the same," said Ben, "and very definitely too. It's inevitable if you admit the engagement. How much better for you to suggest it amicably!"
"I'll try," said Viola. "But it's rather rough luck."
She drew the ring slowly off her finger and looked wistfully at the mark it had left.
"You really are fond of him?" Ben asked.
"I think so," said Viola.
"It's so difficult," said Ben, in one of the worst sentences ever constructed, "for sisters to understand anyone losing their heads over their brothers."
It was early in June that I had an urgent call from Ben asking if I would help her. A Canadian woman had been in to say that her husband, who was an invalid, had one mastering wish, and that was to hear the nightingale again before he returned home, probably for ever. Ben knew nothing of nightingales; but she wanted to oblige, and would I take the affair in hand?—my acquaintance with those birds being (I assume) notorious.
I agreed.
Mr. Measure was rather a tragic figure. A wealthy Canadian of cultured tastes, he had been stricken when only in the fifties, and this was a last visit to Europe to see once again the beautiful things that he knew so well and would regret so keenly. For "Dying," as he said to me, "would be nothing if were it not for what we leave behind."
They had been to Florence, to Siena, to Perugia, to Venice, to Rome, to little quiet places among the Italian hills that had old associations,to Chamounix again, to Avignon and Arles, to Puy-de-Dôme. In a day or so they were to sail for Quebec, where his home was and where his grave would be.
He had but one wish left as regarded his English visit, and that was to hear the nightingale. It had suddenly come to him as he read in a paper some reference to their season of song—he had had the idea that it was earlier and now finished—and his wife had chanced upon Ben's signboard and had asked for information there: as it happened, very fortunately.
I called at their hotel to discuss our plan of action. Mr. Measure, poor fellow, was clearly very ill; he was thin and weak, but his eye was bright and he was full of enthusiasm for the adventure. He did not want to sleep in a country inn, but did not mind how late he returned to London. Would I mind driving in a motor ambulance with himself and his wife?
Not at all.
His idea was that we should leave London after a very early dinner and go straight to a likely spot, hear the nightingale, and drive back. If we heard one sooner, so much the better.
"I know of a practically certain place," I said, "but it is a little late. A fortnight ago would have been better. Remember, I can't promise."
It was a favourable evening on which we slid away from Mr. Measure's hotel. I had my mind on a particular meadow in Sussex, just north of the Downs, skirted by a lane. This meadow is surrounded by a high, untrimmed hedge with oaks at intervals, and there is a tinkling stream close by. A few cottages here and there in the neighbourhood complete the nightingales' requirements, for they are fond of human sounds. In this meadow, which has never disappointed me yet—at any rate in late April and all May—nightingales have the enchanting habit of singing in threes, one against the other at the points of the triangle.
Knowing by bitter experience how useless it is to squander minute directions on such insensitive, non-receptive, unobservant, and unremembering creatures as chauffeurs, I sat on the box; not sorry either, for it was warm, and talking in a car is fatiguing.
We left London by way of Battersea Bridge and kept on the Brighton road as far as Hand Cross—over Walton Heath and down Reigate Hill and through Crawley. At Hand Cross we branched to the right, leaving Cuckfield on our left, and came through Bolney to Albourne and due south as far as Muddles Wood cross-roads. At intervals I had fancied I heard the magicnotes and had slackened the car—you know how easy it is to imagine this sound—but always it was a false alarm, or the song had been only of momentary duration.
At Muddles Wood we turned to the right. The air was warm and there was no wind, only a sighing of the earth. The moon was now bright and the great bulk of the South Downs, sweetly undulating, rose against the quiet sky. We crept slowly along for a quarter of a mile and then dipped sharp to the left for fifty yards and stopped. This was the spot.
For a while there was not a sound, save now and then a rustle in the undergrowth, the whistle of a far-distant train, a car on the Henfield road, an owl's hoot, or a dog barking.
I had begun to be assured of the worst when there came a liquid note. Then silence again; and then suddenly a burst of song. It was very brief, and there was again a disconcerting silence; but then another singer replied, and gradually their songs grew more steady. They behaved like angels; they went through everything in the repertory, and although their voices were not in the perfection of mid-May, they were beautiful enough, and one of them repeated that plaintive single cry seventeen times.
Even the chauffeur was impressed. He hadheard about nightingales all his life, but this was his first experience of them. Like a canary, wasn't it?
I did not intrude upon the sick man until the time came to go. He was in an ecstasy and I wished that Ben could see him. It would have been a triumph for "The Beck and Call."
"But I should call that song a happy one," he said. "Certainly not melancholy, except very rarely. Its charm is its volume and exultation, and the careless ease of it."
I agreed. "I am against Matthew Arnold here," I said. "To me the truest line about the bird in our poetry is in William Cory:—
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake.
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake.
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake.
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake.
That's what they are: pleasant voices, triumphantly 'telling the world.'"
"Even Keats," he said, "makes the song a little too voluptuous and passionate, although how true to say that the nightingale 'among the leaves' has never known
The weariness, the fever, and the fret!"
The weariness, the fever, and the fret!"
The weariness, the fever, and the fret!"
The weariness, the fever, and the fret!"
He paused, and then repeated, almost in a whisper, the lines:—
Now more than ever it seems rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul aloudIn such an ecstasy!
Now more than ever it seems rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul aloudIn such an ecstasy!
Now more than ever it seems rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul aloudIn such an ecstasy!
Now more than ever it seems rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul aloud
In such an ecstasy!
To me, though he was but a stranger, these lines, as he murmured them, were, since I knew his secret, infinitely pathetic; to his poor wife they must have meant anguish.
The next morning I called at the hotel to see how Mr. Measure was and to bid him good-bye. He re-expressed his gratitude for the night's entertainment, and said he should die with that music in his ears. I reproved him for talking of dying soon with such certainty.
"Dying men," he said, "can prepare for death with more courage, composure, and acceptance than those who watch them, and I have no doubt that you are sorrier for me than I am for myself. Not that I want to die, but I know I must. I won't be insincere about it. I know I am going to die very shortly after reaching home, because I have the means of death always with me. I know that my trouble is incurable and that it is getting worse. Would you have me a burden on those around me? My mind, as I grow weaker, will be less clear, less trustworthy; would you cherish decay?"
I had no rebutting argument to set up.
"I have always," he went on, "dreaded this disease, and when I was hale and strong Iprepared accordingly. I have no fears; any postponement is due to the fact that I want to see my lawyer again and be at home. Otherwise I should take a dose to-day.
"The greatest drawback to suicide," he continued, with a whimsical smile, "is not want of decision, but a dislike of giving trouble. If I were to commit suicide now, it would have to be done in a hotel, and that isn't fair to the hotel. Nor should I care to be found lying in a field: that would mean a shock to someone and too much newspaper squalor after. Also a public mortuary. In any well-organized State there would, of course, be a great pool of quicklime into which, after taking poison, we could roll; but lacking that we must behave ourselves as best we can. By waiting till I get to Canada, I can complete my will, fold my arms, and die like a gentleman in bed."
"While admiring," I replied, "your determination and nice taste, I would remind you that next spring the nightingales will be singing again. You might still be alive and well enough to hear them."
"I refuse," he said, "to linger on, a wreck."
And so passed Mr. Adrian Measure from my life.
"Dear Miss Staveley," ran the note which Ben found on her desk, "will you do me the divine favour of coming to the theatre with me this evening? If so, name your play, and I will fetch you at your rooms at 7.5, and we will dine first. I do so hope you are free and that the notion likes you."
"Yours sincerely,"John Harford"
Ben accepted.
It was a very smart Mr. Harford who drove up to Aubrey Walk that evening and carried her off to dinner. The tweeds had given place to superlative dress clothes and a white waistcoat; and there was no dog.
He went upstairs for a moment to be introduced to Melanie, who had insisted on this ceremony. "And later," she had said, "I want to see the other one too."
"Why?" Ben asked.
"Just curiosity," said Melanie. "It is always interesting to see the men who fall in love withone's friends. And these two seem to be so different that it is more interesting than ever. Why don't you marry both?"
"Have I ever given you any reason to suppose I should marry either?" Ben asked.
"Plenty," said Melanie.
"How ridiculous you are!" said Ben. She was really rather annoyed. "I am so tired of this notion that men and women who are friendly must be going to marry."
"It is doubtful, however," said Melanie, "if any weariness on your part will lessen the popularity of union between the sexes."
"Oh, Melanie, shut up!" said Ben. "How tired I am also of that word 'sexes'!"
"None the less, old dear," said Melanie, "there it is, and it's come to stay. And to a large extent that's why I've got to eat my dinner alone this evening."
"Again I say, shut up!" said Ben.
"How extraordinarily different you and Miss Ames are!" said Jack, as the cab started. "And yet she's very nice too. But she's so detached, so cool, so ironical."
"She's a very close observer under it all," said Ben.
"I'm rather scared of her," said Jack.
"What becomes of Soul when you go out in the evening?" Ben asked.
"He mopes," said Jack. "I've got an excellent landlady, who does her best to keep him happy, but he has no life away from me really. Sometimes when I walk and go to the pit, I take him to the theatre and leave him with friendly commissionaires; but it isn't a kindness because, as I can't give him any notion of how long I shall be, he spends the time in searching the appearance of every passer-by. Considering how near the ground his eyes are, this must be a very tiring and anxious occupation."
"But when you do arrive, his joy makes up for everything," Ben suggested.
"Yes," said Jack. "Dogs have wonderful compensations. Still, I doubt if the Fates were quite kind to them to make them at once so understanding and so dumb, or to us to make them so short-lived. You like them, don't you?"
"I adore them," said Ben.
"Would you care to have Soul?" Jack asked. It was a terrible wrench, but he asked it. ("Love my dog, love me.")
"Oh, no," said Ben. "Never! If ever a dog belonged to one person, and one only, it is Soul. And even if I accepted him, he would still be yours. He would be too loyal to transfer anybut superficial affections. But you are very generous to make the offer at all," she added, "and I shall never forget it."
Melanie was sitting up when Ben returned. She was one of those girls who prefer the small hours.
"How do you find Mr. Harford?" she asked.
"He's very jolly," said Ben.
"Yes, but has he got anything to say?"
"Not very much," said Ben. "He isn't quite grown up. Such lots of young Englishmen aren't. I suppose it's this domination of the ball which keeps them boys. French youths, who don't play games, always look so old. But he's very nice and kind."
"I'll bet he didn't try to kiss you in the cab," said Melanie.
"Certainly not," said Ben. "Why should he?"
"So many of them want to," said Melanie. "But the older ones chiefly. All the same," she added, "if you're not careful you'll very shortly have the chance of offering to be a sister to him."
"I wish you wouldn't be so absurd," said Ben. "Your suspicious nature smirches everything. Mr. Harford likes me, I know, but that's all."
"Was he always as smart as that?" Melanie inquired.
"I don't know," said Ben. "I've never seen him in evening clothes before."
"And he made no overtures to-night? Will you swear?"
"Of course," said Ben.
"He didn't offer you his spaniel or anything like that?"
"Oh, Melanie, how horrid you are!" Ben exclaimed as she banged the door.
Melanie chuckled.
The Wimbledon tournament now being over, in which Tommy Clinton had survived but two rounds, that young gentleman was only too free to devote his time to Ben, and it was therefore the more galling to him to find her so busy. He called so frequently that Mr. Harford was constrained to mention the fact.
"You will excuse me, Miss Staveley," he said one afternoon after Tommy had left, "but would you mind if we put a ladder against the wall for your friend to come and leave by?"
"Which friend?" Ben asked.
"The affable gent in the Panama hat," said Mr. Harford, "who is here most days and walks through our modest but well-conducted premises as if they were a pig-sty. We don't mind a man despising the treasures of literature; reading is, after all, a matter of taste; but we do bar the way he scowls at us. Even Pat, mild and tolerant as he is, almost squared up to him to-day. My own idea is to exchange this poor little creature here—who shares the besetting sin of all spanielsin being too ready to make indiscriminate friends—for a man-eating mastiff. What's his quarrel with us, anyway? Does he dislike us personally or did a book seller once try to do him in?"
Ben laughed. "Poor Tommy!" she said. "Be a little patient, he's going back to Madeira next week."
"An excellent place for him," said Mr. Harford.
Ben herself found Tommy rather a trial, for he not only looked at her with such hungry hopelessness, but he took up a great deal of valuable time.
His next visit was a veritable ordeal.
"Look here, Ben," he said, "I've been working for you since I was here last and I think you'll agree that I've been rather useful. Of course I hate your being in this business—the very phrase 'Beck and Call' makes me sick, for a girl like you too!—and being mixed up with those two fellows downstairs. By the way, the lame one sings too: something about his 'Bonnie,' confound him! Well, since you're set on sticking to business, and since you won't do what I ask, I want to help you to be more comfortable and more successful. So I've been nosing about and I've found you some really good premises in acentral part, far removed from this back-alley and those musical shopkeepers downstairs."
"What ever do you mean?" Ben demanded, her colour rising dangerously.
"Just what I have said," Tommy replied. "I have found you some really good premises. In Dover Street. Close to the big hotels, close to Piccadilly, and approached from the street direct by a staircase. Very important, that."
"My dear boy, no doubt you meant it very well," said Ben, with some temper, "but I can't have my affairs interfered with like this. I have a lease here, for one thing; for another, it has become well known. For another, I don't want to move. Dover Street, no doubt, is a good position; but I can't afford Dover Street. This is cheap and central enough. I hope you haven't committed yourself at all."
"I've got an option," said Tommy.
"Then please oblige me by instantly getting rid of it," said Ben.
"As to the higher rent," said Tommy, "you'd make that up in a jiffy when people found you had a separate entrance and didn't have to go through a shop."
"Please get rid of it instantly," said Ben. "I shan't have a moment's peace of mind till youdo. I'll come down with you," she said, with a sudden foreboding of an explosion below.
"Oh, Ben," said Tommy, miserably, "and I did want to help you! All right," he added angrily, "I'll go. And I may as well say good-bye now instead of next week. Good-bye."
"But I'm coming down with you all the same," said Ben.
"Is that Ben?" Toby asked over the telephone at Aubrey Walk, one evening.
"Speaking," said Ben.
"I must see you," said Toby. "At once."
"But I was just going out," said Ben. "Where are you?"
"I'm at home," said Toby. "I'll come and go with you to wherever you're going. It's frightfully important. It's a matter of life and death."
Ben smiled. She had been expecting this.
"I was only going to Uncle Paul's," she said. "I'll wait for you."
"Righto!" said Toby. "I'll come in a taxi."
He came, looking wild and haggard.
"This is awful," he said. "Vi says she won't wear my ring for six months. And she wants me not to see her."
"For how long?" Ben asked.
"Six months: an eternity. How can I keep away from her for six months? It's too dreadful! If I had any poison I'd take it; but I haven't.And chemists are so jolly careful since those Welsh cases."
"Six months isn't very long," said Ben; "only twenty-six Sundays. You can stand that. Didn't Viola say anything else? She is still fond of you, isn't she?"
"She said so, but I don't understand. If you're fond of anyone you want to be with them. At least, I do. I don't get this fondness that gives you the boot. She said," he went on, "that to be engaged to me was impossible until I had something to do. Her father would never allow it. If I could find something to do, with prospects of an income within six months, she would defy her father and marry me; but she couldn't as it is. Why she doesn't defy him now, I can't see."
"Well," said Ben. "I suppose that a father, as a father, has some rights—at least as long as his daughter is dependent on him."
"But Vi's earning her own living, isn't she?" Toby asked. "Don't you pay her a salary?"
"Not just yet," said Ben. "But we won't go into that. The point is, that she lives at home and Mr. Marquand is her father."
"I had a notion that all this father stuff was out of date," said Toby. "It is, in the novels I've read."
"Only if the children choose to rebel," said Ben. "And neither Viola nor you are going to. Besides, I think he's right. He's Viola's father; he's brought her up. Why should he allow her to become engaged to the first irresponsible young man who comes along?"
"Why do you call me irresponsible?" Toby asked.
"Well, aren't you? Where is your responsibility, anyway? You're only twenty, to begin with. You've only just left Oxford. What do you know?"
"I know my way about," said Toby.
"So does Dolly, my office boy," said Ben, "who's only sixteen. Probably much better than you, because he knows how many pennies there are in a shilling, which you certainly don't. But what do youknow? What have you learnt?"
"I know a certain amount of Greek and Latin," said Toby.
"Yes, but how much? Not enough to be a schoolmaster?"
"No," said Toby.
"Do you know any French?"
"Enough to get through a French novel," said Toby.
"Yes, but not enough to explain anything to a custom house officer at Calais?"
"No," said Toby. "Emphatically not."
"What else do you know?"
"I know how to order a dinner."
"That's better," said Ben. "That's the first useful thing you've mentioned."
"And I know a lot of men," said Toby.
"That's good, too," said Ben.
"And I've been asked to play for Middlesex," said Toby. "And, by the way, Vi adores cricket. It's quite the thing now for a man when he's playing away from home to take his wife with him. Heaps of them do. Vi knows quite a lot about the game. You'd be surprised."
"I should forget all that," said Ben. "You can't play for a county and be worth five hundred a year in a short time. If you really want Vi while you're both young, you must think about work, and nothing but work. Do you want her as much as that? As much as to give up cricket?"
"Of course," said Toby. "Of course I do. I can't live without her."
"You mean," said Ben, "you dislike the thought of living without her; but you'll find yourself doing so, all right. And how much doesshewant you?"
"I don't know," said Toby. "I don't see whyshe should want me at all; but she seems to. We seem to suit each other down to the ground."
"And you really and truly believe that you would like to become a married man and have a small house and go home every evening to dinner and play cricket only on Saturdays? You would look upon that as the perfect life?"
"Absolutely," said Toby.
"Very well then," said Ben, "you must act accordingly. You must remember those old fairy-tales we used to read, where the woodcutter's son, or whoever it was, had to perform all kinds of difficult tasks before he could win the princess. Your task is, as quickly as possible, to go into some business and make yourself indispensable. So far as I can see, all that Oxford has done for you, if you are to make money, is to give you an agreeable accent and nice cool manners. I fancy it's the times you've played truant in London or were at home in the vacations that have really been most useful. You couldn't learn at Oxford to order dinner."
"But what am I to do?" Toby asked. "That's the question. The governor wants me to go into Uncle Arthur's office in the city. But what's the good of that? He's got three partners as it is, all with sons. It would be years before I got a footing there."
"No," said Ben. "I shouldn't vote for that. You'd simply loaf and gamble. I'll talk to father about it."
"It's a pity you stopped me betting," said Toby. "If you hadn't, I should be rich to-day. That priceless boy of yours gave me a tip for a 100 to 8 winner, but I didn't do it. He's a marvel. He knows the whole thing—trainers, jockeys, pedigrees, courses—and he hears things too. Your friend Harford follows his advice like a baby."
"You promised," said Ben.
"I know," said Toby, "and I'll stick to it; but I think it was a mistake."
"No," said Ben, "it wasn't. But, anyway, we'll forget it and concentrate on the future. I'll go and see father first. After all, it's his job to see that you are started in something, and meanwhile don't be depressed. You ought to be proud to be put on your mettle for a girl like Vi. It makes a knight of you! You'll be happier now, won't you?"
And Toby promised.
But Colonel Staveley once again avoided a responsibility, for chance made me the solver of the problem.
The very next morning, as it happens, I had a letter from my old friend Marrable Leigh.
Marrable Leigh was one of those men who move amiably and quietly about on Tom Tiddler's ground picking up gold and silver. He was in no business and he was in all. He was on a Board here and a Board there, and he had a complimentary pass on every railway in the country: a privilege that is extended only to those who can afford to pay for it. To the rich shall be given, and Marrable Leigh was permitted as seldom as possible to pay for anything. Even his wine merchant implored his acceptance of a dozen, just to try, and theatrical managers were always sending him boxes. But he deserved his good luck, for he was a benign and philanthropic creature, and he had the softest white hair I ever saw.
"I wonder," he wrote, "if you know of a niceyoung man who could manage a county club. There's a very fine house and estate in Surrey going for a song, and I think it would be fun to make a residential place of it, with plenty of lawn-tennis courts and a golf links, billiard-rooms, and so forth. A young athletic man with brains, and plenty of friends, but not necessarily experience. The amateur is often best for this kind of thing. My idea is perhaps to live there myself and make a hobby of it as well as a home. You may come in on the ground floor if you like."
Following the line of least resistance, I took this letter at once to "The Beck and Call."
Ben read it and her excitement was intense. I never saw her look so animated and indeed beautiful: her colour was brilliant.
"Oh, dear!" she said, with a sigh that was sheer relief and content, "how amazing! And to come to-day too!"
She took the telephone and called for a number.
"Is that you, Price?" she asked. "Miss Ben speaking. Is Mr. Toby down yet? He's having breakfast. Well, tell him to come instantly to Motcombe Street. Very important. Call a taxi for him."
"Oh, dear, how happy I am!" she said. And then she told me about Toby and his affairs.
"Of course Toby's exactly what is wanted," she said. "He has heaps of friends at Oxford, and there are father's club friends, too. He's very good at games. He's mad to throw himself into something and prove that he isn't just a dud. And there's this love trouble to incite him to do more than his best. Don't you agree?"
"Well," I said, "it wouldn't matter if I didn't. Having come here for advice I shall take it. But, as it happens, I do agree. I think Toby ought to be splendid, and it is like Marrable Leigh's instinct to fasten on that type."
When Toby came in he took fire at once. "Of course I can do it," he said. "I'm used to managing. Although no one knew it I deputized for our bursar lots of times, behind the scenes. And I know of a ripping butler out of a job at this moment, at the Carterets' at Hurley, you know," he explained to his sister. "They're giving up their house. He's a nailer!"
Ben looked proudly at me.
"And if the governor was allowed to take a few shares it would be all to the good," Toby continued. "It would interest him in it."
Ben looked still more proud. "Not such a fool as you thought him, this boy," her expression seemed to say. And how true it is that opportunity so often makes the man!
"Couldn't we see Mr. Marrable Leigh now?" Toby asked.
"I think we might ring up," I said; and we did so and made an appointment.
Let it suffice to say that we spent a most amusing day motoring to Fairmile Towers, exploring the house and grounds, and motoring back.
That evening Toby dined with Marrable Leigh; and the next day Miss Marquand was again—under the rose—wearing his ring.