"Good evening, O'Reilly,Youarelooking glum,"
"Good evening, O'Reilly,Youarelooking glum,"
"Good evening, O'Reilly,Youarelooking glum,"
"Good evening, O'Reilly,
Youarelooking glum,"
she sang.
"No wonder," he said, and turned away.
Ben stood at the door long enough to see him stoop down and pat Soul's head.
On Ben's desk lay a long envelope addressed to Miss Staveley in an unknown hand. Opening it she found the following fantasy:
THE INTERVIEWI dreamed that I went to Heaven. I wasn't dead; I went there on a mission to interview God for a paper."He will be quite easy," the editor assured me. "In fact, He will like it; it will be a new experience. Every one secretly likes being interviewed, no matter what they say to the contrary, and God will like it too. I'm told He's very human."This was an odd dream for me, because I've never been a journalist; but if dreams weren't odd we shouldn't remember them.I knocked at the door and St. Peter opened it: an old man like a Tintoretto portrait with a halo. It was the first real halo I had ever seen and I looked at it more than at its wearer. It had no visible fastening, but always remained in position, about three inches above the head, notexactly shining but luminous. At night they must be very effective—if there is any night in Heaven. I wish I had asked. I wish now that I had asked heaps of things I didn't ask. Next time I shall make a list; but then there will be no next time.Of course I don't mean that I should have troubled God about these trifles; I should have found one of the young angels who were everywhere and asked him; or I should have sent for one of my friends who died in the War....Should I? I wonder if I should have dared....Meanwhile St. Peter waits. "What do you want?" he asked.I handed him my card with the name of the paper on it."God perhaps would grant me an interview?" I said. "I was sent here for the purpose."St. Peter looked more than surprised."My editor," I said, "seemed confident that I should be admitted.""Who is your editor?" said St. Peter. "Do we know him here?""I should doubt it," I replied."Well, I'll see," he said, "but it's all very unusual and irregular. You'd better tell your leonid to wait."He carefully locked the door again, with me just inside it, and shuffled away. He was clearly irritated.After a while he returned."It's very surprising," he said, "but God will see you. He seemed quite pleased about it. I don't know what Heaven's coming to. Personally, I'm against every kind of publicity. The emphasis laid by a fellow-disciple on one or two unfortunate moments in my own life has been a source of grief to me ever since. This way, please, and remember that the interview is permitted only on condition that no leading questions are asked. Nothing as to the reason for the creation or anything like that, for example. A quiet talk merely; no excitement."How I came into the Presence I cannot remember; but suddenly I was with God, just ourselves. Nor did I feel frightened.But St. Peter's warning about leading questions made it difficult for me. Of course those were what I wanted to ask, and I remember thinking how annoyed my editor would be that I had paid any attention to a doorkeeper. The whole business of interviewers is to be superior to doorkeepers. But then I am not a journalist; I have quite a lot of sensitiveness; and I could not bring myself to disregard the old saint, who, afterall, was only acting on instructions. It would be terrible to be allowed into Heaven and then behave in a vulgar way.After racking my brains for a start I asked God if there was anything that was interesting Him in particular just at the moment.He smiled."As it happens," He said, "there is. Only this morning I was looking down over London, and almost for the first time I noticed something that gave me great pleasure. Pathetic too, in a way; but then there is so much pathos——"I noticed all the little gardens. I don't mean the gardens where there are gardeners; I mean the tiny square yards among the stones and squalor, with flowers and shrubs that literally fight for life and would never live at all if they were not lovingly tended. Sometimes there is a rockery, sometimes an attempt at a pool, and then the window-boxes—they give Me pleasure too, much more than Corporation ornamental bedding ever could. Some of these little gardens," He said, "and the gallant struggle they make to bring beauty into ugly places, call tears to the eyes"; and I believe He meant it, for I watched Him. "The poor souls," He murmured, "the poor, brave souls.""You mentioned Corporation carpet-beddingjust now, Sir," I said. "You must have noticed that English gardens are infinitely more reckless and joyful than they used to be? Of course, I don't know what flowers were like, Sir, when You began, but every year sees new varieties come into being—more lovely delphiniums, more ethereal columbines, more glorious tulips, more delicate daffodils, and every year more people lavish themselves on herbaceous borders and wild gardens.""I have certainly noticed it," said God, "and it has given Me immense satisfaction. I know who is chiefly responsible for it too," He added, "and her name is very highly honoured here."And then I woke up.
THE INTERVIEW
I dreamed that I went to Heaven. I wasn't dead; I went there on a mission to interview God for a paper.
"He will be quite easy," the editor assured me. "In fact, He will like it; it will be a new experience. Every one secretly likes being interviewed, no matter what they say to the contrary, and God will like it too. I'm told He's very human."
This was an odd dream for me, because I've never been a journalist; but if dreams weren't odd we shouldn't remember them.
I knocked at the door and St. Peter opened it: an old man like a Tintoretto portrait with a halo. It was the first real halo I had ever seen and I looked at it more than at its wearer. It had no visible fastening, but always remained in position, about three inches above the head, notexactly shining but luminous. At night they must be very effective—if there is any night in Heaven. I wish I had asked. I wish now that I had asked heaps of things I didn't ask. Next time I shall make a list; but then there will be no next time.
Of course I don't mean that I should have troubled God about these trifles; I should have found one of the young angels who were everywhere and asked him; or I should have sent for one of my friends who died in the War....
Should I? I wonder if I should have dared....
Meanwhile St. Peter waits. "What do you want?" he asked.
I handed him my card with the name of the paper on it.
"God perhaps would grant me an interview?" I said. "I was sent here for the purpose."
St. Peter looked more than surprised.
"My editor," I said, "seemed confident that I should be admitted."
"Who is your editor?" said St. Peter. "Do we know him here?"
"I should doubt it," I replied.
"Well, I'll see," he said, "but it's all very unusual and irregular. You'd better tell your leonid to wait."
He carefully locked the door again, with me just inside it, and shuffled away. He was clearly irritated.
After a while he returned.
"It's very surprising," he said, "but God will see you. He seemed quite pleased about it. I don't know what Heaven's coming to. Personally, I'm against every kind of publicity. The emphasis laid by a fellow-disciple on one or two unfortunate moments in my own life has been a source of grief to me ever since. This way, please, and remember that the interview is permitted only on condition that no leading questions are asked. Nothing as to the reason for the creation or anything like that, for example. A quiet talk merely; no excitement."
How I came into the Presence I cannot remember; but suddenly I was with God, just ourselves. Nor did I feel frightened.
But St. Peter's warning about leading questions made it difficult for me. Of course those were what I wanted to ask, and I remember thinking how annoyed my editor would be that I had paid any attention to a doorkeeper. The whole business of interviewers is to be superior to doorkeepers. But then I am not a journalist; I have quite a lot of sensitiveness; and I could not bring myself to disregard the old saint, who, afterall, was only acting on instructions. It would be terrible to be allowed into Heaven and then behave in a vulgar way.
After racking my brains for a start I asked God if there was anything that was interesting Him in particular just at the moment.
He smiled.
"As it happens," He said, "there is. Only this morning I was looking down over London, and almost for the first time I noticed something that gave me great pleasure. Pathetic too, in a way; but then there is so much pathos——
"I noticed all the little gardens. I don't mean the gardens where there are gardeners; I mean the tiny square yards among the stones and squalor, with flowers and shrubs that literally fight for life and would never live at all if they were not lovingly tended. Sometimes there is a rockery, sometimes an attempt at a pool, and then the window-boxes—they give Me pleasure too, much more than Corporation ornamental bedding ever could. Some of these little gardens," He said, "and the gallant struggle they make to bring beauty into ugly places, call tears to the eyes"; and I believe He meant it, for I watched Him. "The poor souls," He murmured, "the poor, brave souls."
"You mentioned Corporation carpet-beddingjust now, Sir," I said. "You must have noticed that English gardens are infinitely more reckless and joyful than they used to be? Of course, I don't know what flowers were like, Sir, when You began, but every year sees new varieties come into being—more lovely delphiniums, more ethereal columbines, more glorious tulips, more delicate daffodils, and every year more people lavish themselves on herbaceous borders and wild gardens."
"I have certainly noticed it," said God, "and it has given Me immense satisfaction. I know who is chiefly responsible for it too," He added, "and her name is very highly honoured here."
And then I woke up.
Here it ended, but at the foot of the page was written: "Dear Miss Staveley, I hope this hasn't bored you. I thought I should like you to know that I now and then have a thought beyond book selling.
"Yours sincerely,"Patrick St. Quentin."
"Yours sincerely,"Patrick St. Quentin."
Patrick was in the shop that evening when Ben left.
He said nothing, but looked expectant.
"Good night, Mr. St. Quentin," said Ben,holding out her hand. "But really I ought to be cross with you because you made me neglect my work for over an hour."
Patrick glowed.
"You have given me a totally new God," she said, "and I'm going home to think about Him."
Guy drove straight from the station to Ben's office. Like Cecil, he, too, was bronzed and hard and the typical soldier with his little trim moustache, but he looked worried.
He embraced her with ardour. "You're very pretty," he said. "I'd forgotten."
"Nonsense," said Ben. "I'm a 'capable woman'; no more and no less."
He held er at arm's length. "You're very attractive," he said. "I can't think why you're not married."
"I've given you one reason," said Ben. "'Capable women' remain free."
"Every woman should be married," said Guy.
"Especially Melanie," said Ben, laughing. But Guy did not laugh. His face clouded.
"Oh, my hat!" he said. "That's what I came to talk to you about. Before I went home even. By the way, how is the governor?"
"Just the same," said Ben. "His capacity for bearing other people's calamities with fortitude, as somebody said, develops every day."
"And the step?" he asked.
"Oh, she's all right," said Ben; "you'll like her."
"Rolls, too, doesn't she?" Guy inquired.
"Rolls," said Ben.
"Does she let the governor touch it?" asked Guy.
"How little you seem to know of your own father!" said Ben. "And I thought of you as a wise child."
"I may have been once," said Guy, "but that's all over. Oh, the mess I've been getting into!"
"What kind of a mess?" Ben asked anxiously.
"On the boat," said Guy.
"Cards?" she asked.
"No, I wish it was. No, I've—well, the fact is, Ben, my dear, I'm engaged."
"I know that," said Ben. "You've been engaged for years. Don't Melanie and I live together, and don't I see her watching for the postman?"
"Oh, cut that out," said Guy, with a groan. "That's not the engagement I mean. I'm engaged to someone else, someone I met on the boat."
"My dear Guy," said Ben, "this is awful."
"Don't I know it?" said Guy.
"But I mean for Melanie," said Ben.
"For both of us," said Guy.
"Can't you break off the new affair?" Ben asked.
"I suppose I could if I wanted to," said Guy. "But I don't. I'm potty about her. The other thing was a ghastly mistake. Surely," he went on, "you would rather I discovered the mistake while there was yet time than go on with it and ruin both our lives? I know it sounds like a novel, but you know what I mean."
"Yes," said Ben, "I quite agree with that. But I wonder if it hasn't been too quick for you to be sure about yourself? You've known one girl five years and the other less than five weeks."
"That's true," said Guy. "But I don't think time means much. What about love at first sight?"
"I know," said Ben. "But liner love—especially Indian liner love—is supposed to be particularly misleading."
"This isn't," said Guy firmly. "This is the goods. I may be impulsive," he went on, "but I'm not an ass; at any rate I'm not a silly ass. I've kept my eyes open, and I'll bet you that for every marriage that has gone wrong after a very short engagement I can show you two that have gone equally wrong after a long one."
"I think that's exceedingly probable," saidBen, with a sigh. "What I am thinking is not that you are any less likely to be happy with your new girl than with Melanie; I am thinking of Melanie herself and what is to be done about her. What do you mean to do? She's expecting you to-day; looking forward to it. What do you mean to do?"
"Well," said Guy, "that's just it. I was wondering if you would help me, if you would explain."
Ben laughed bitterly. "Me again!" she said. "'Always go to Ben when you're in a mess!' Has the liner girl got any money?" she asked.
"Money! What's money?" said Guy. "Don't be squalid."
"Melanie's two hundred a year might be very useful," said Ben.
"You're too late," said Guy. He pulled at his absurd moustache. "But if you wouldn't mind breaking it to Melanie tactfully, and letting her down gently, you'd be a brick. And I'm sure you could; no one could do it better. And, by Jove! you advertise to do it too—'Domestic Problems.' Now compared with this one, all other domestic problems are 'also rans.' Be a darling, Ben, and smooth things with Melanie. After all, she's not a child; she knows that in this kind of matter minds often change."
"I know Melanie pretty well," said Ben, "and I should guess you're making a very foolish mistake. She may look bored and take too little trouble to make you her slave, but she's true as steel and she's as fond of you as she can be. And another thing, she's always amusing; and from what I know of life, a girl who is always amusing is not to be lightly turned down. It isn't fair to break a long engagement like this, without seeing her again first."
"Oh, as to that," said Guy, "engagements are being broken every day; why not ours? You will help me, won't you?"
Ben stood up. "No, Guy," she said, "I won't. Not like that, anyway. Usually when people ask me to do things I comply. But not if I don't believe I ought to. In your case I am certain that you, and you alone, are the person to explain. It would be very cowardly not to, and you are a soldier and therefore not a coward. You owe it to Melanie to tell her yourself, face to face; and the sooner you do it, the better. That's my last word."
"I think you're very selfish," said Guy.
"I can't help what you think," said Ben. "That's my last word. She'll be at home after five. I shan't get back till seven or later. And now I must earn my living."
Guy went off like a bear, and Ben spent a wretched day thinking about Melanie's misery and deploring the fickleness of men and Staveleys.
She was therefore the more rejoiced when on reaching Aubrey Walk she heard Melanie singing in her room and found her arraying herself in her best, preparatory to dining with Guy and going to the play.
Ben expressed no surprise.
"How did Guy strike you?" she asked, after a while.
"At first he seemed awfully gloomy," said Melanie. "He didn't even seem to want to kiss me. But after a little while he got quite like his old self again, only more so, and was the nicest thing on earth, and he wants the wedding directly. This week if possible, he said; but of course that's absurd."
At that moment Guy's taxi was heard and he came bounding up the stairs, while Melanie retired to complete her toilet.
He put his fingers on his lips as he met his sister. "Not a word," he said. "It's all right. That other affair was a mistake. Those Indian liners, you know. That proverb about being off with the old love is a very sound one, andalmost directly I saw Mel again I knew I didn't want to be on with the new."
"Have you told the new?" Ben asked.
"Not yet," he said. "I was wondering if you——"
Ben drew back. "Not I!" she exclaimed.
Guy burst into roars of triumphant laughter. "You bought it!" he cried, and roared again. "What I was going to say," he went on, "was that I was wondering if you would—post this letter to her. I haven't got a stamp."
Ben threw a cushion at him with masterly accuracy, as Melanie, all radiance and joy, came into the room.
Merrill, looking very attractive in her weeds, sat in Ben's room, interfering not a little with "The Beck and Call's" machinery. But that, of course, is the principal industry of all widows who call on business people.
"I call it very selfish and horrid of Alicia," she said. "Here she is, about to marry this rich old ironmonger——"
"Ironmaster," Ben corrected.
"Ironmaster, then. It's the same thing," said Merrill. "Here she is, anyway, about to be happy herself and have all her worries about money and about the boys removed for ever, and she has the cheek to say that I oughtn't even to see Roland—that's Captain Andrews, you know—for another three months. What do you think of that?"
"Well," said Ben, "I disagree. I think you should do exactly as you want to."
"And marry at once?"
"Certainly, if you want to. It's nobody'saffair but yours and his. You are definitely engaged, aren't you?"
"Of course," said Merrill.
"And there's nothing to prevent you marrying except the possibility of public opinion disapproving?"
"No," said Merrill, "but people are very horrid."
"You mustn't mind people," said Ben. "Surely you know that? If we mind people life isn't worth living. The only thing to consider is your happiness. If you had been happy with Egbert you would not want to marry again so soon, or possibly not at all; but as you weren't happy with him I don't see any reason for you to wait."
"The whole question of time is absurd," said Merrill. "Who is it that fixes the interval? Why should a year be all right and eleven months all wrong? It is ridiculous—with life galloping on in the monstrous way it does."
"Well," said Ben, with a despairing glance at the letters waiting to be attended to, "the remedy is yours. Defy public opinion, and marry next week. Go and be registered; get a special licence; anything. But do it."
"I was wondering," said Merrill, "whether we might not marry now secretly and go abroad, andthen come back and announce it. That would kill two birds with one stone: we should be married at once, and all those horrid cats, including darling Alicia, would be silenced."
"You never silence horrid cats," said Ben. "And I'm against anything secret. And I don't suppose Captain Andrews would care about it either."
"I think he would do as I wish," said Merrill, with a confident smile.
Only if he liked the wish himself, thought Ben, remembering the quiet decisiveness of the plus-four warrior; but all she said was that it was a pity that Merrill was such a coward.
"A coward!" exclaimed the widow. "How can you? You are as bad as Alicia. And you have been a great disappointment to me, too. I always thought of you as being so kind and comforting, and all you do is to look absent-minded and call me a coward."
"My dear," said Ben, "I have encouraged you in every possible way. I have even urged you to marry at once, which is what you say you want to do."
"I don't know that I do want it," said Merrill. "I don't want to do anything that would be unfair to Roland. I don't mind about myself, even though you think I do, but I should neverforgive myself if through marrying too soon Roland lost anyone's respect. I am going now," she said sadly. "I am sorry to have troubled you."
"Good-bye, darling," said Ben. "You have never looked prettier. If you want someone really sympathetic to talk to, step in the shop downstairs and ask Mr. Harford to recommend you a good book. He's the one in tweeds."
"I was thinking of doing so," said Merrill. "I noticed him as I came in. Good-bye; I hope you'll be nicer next time."
"Good-bye, darling," said Ben. "You have never looked prettier. I think Roland the most enviable of men."
"Cat!" said Merrill, returning suddenly and flinging her arms round Ben's neck. "No, not cat—sweetest of hearts! But oh, I'm so miserable!"
She cried luxuriously for a minute and then jumped up smiling.
"I shall let Roland decide," she said.
"This is rather a blow, your brother coming back," said Tubby Toller, looking round Ben's office with a critical eye. "It's done our little circle in. Why, he wants to be married in five minutes. Highly suspicious, I call it."
"What do you mean—suspicious?" Ben asked.
"When a fellow who's been engaged for years clamours suddenly to marry, all in a moment, it suggests that he's in danger, has lost his nerve, wants to be pulled into safety," said Tubby. "I rather fancy Master Guy has been singeing his wings."
"Oh, Tubby! how cynical you are!" said Ben. "What will you be like when you're fifty?"
"At fifty," said Tubby, "I shall be a child again. I notice a strong tendency in middle-aged men to become childish. But aren't I right about your brother?"
"You must ask someone else," said Ben.
"And I'll tell you something more," said Tubby. "When you're married and your husband suddenly begins to give you pearl necklacesand diamond rings, look out. They're more likely to be from the guilty conscience than the loving heart."
"Oh, Tubby, shut up!" said Ben. "You're insufferable. But what is it you want? You didn't come here merely to be destructively clever, I'm sure."
"I came to look round," said Tubby. "After all, a parent may inspect his young, mayn't he? And I consider 'The Beck and Call' largely my own child. How is it doing?"
"Not so badly," said Ben. "I've just carried out an American commission that netted quite a lot."
"Thank God for America!" said Tubby. "As Canning said, or meant to, 'The New World was called in very largely to redress the bank balances of the Old.' Could you get me a lady-cook?"
"What for?" Ben asked.
"To be a lady and to cook, of course," he said.
"How many in family?" Ben asked.
"Just the three of us," he said.
"Three? Who is the other?" Ben asked.
"Myself—1," he replied; "the lady—2; the cook—3."
"No, I couldn't," said Ben. "I couldn't lend myself to such aménage."
"But it would be all right," said Tubby. "The cook would act as chaperon when I was talking with the lady; and the lady would be on the watch when I was visiting the kitchen. I want a lady-cook. I feel I should be a better man if I had the constant society of a lady-cook—or a cook-lady, I don't mind which."
"No," said Ben firmly.
"Then will you get me a valet-governess?" Tubby asked. "I have a passion for hyphenated assistance."
"You haven't got any children," said Ben.
"No, but I have clothes," said Tubby. "And I'll hire a child. Anything to persuade a valet-governess to stay."
"Tubby, you're wasting my time," said Ben. "Go back to the Treasury or wherever it is you sleep."
"Listen to her!—" Tubby invoked the ceiling. "She advertises herself as 'The Beck and Call' and she turns away business! She is rude to clients! I came here with money in my purse to try and do you a good turn, and you spurn me. Now, my dear Ben, be serious. Will you get me a chauffeur-billiard-marker?"
"No!" said Ben, lifting up a paper-weight, as Tubby made for the door.
He did, however, go; but three minutes later reappeared.
"I've been talking to the sportsman outside," he said. "A clever child. I have asked him to come to me as a butler-secretary and he seems keen. Do you mind?"
"If you rob me of Dolly," said Ben, "I'll never speak to you again."
"I must do something," said Tubby. "It would be a very serious thing for you if I went about London telling everybody that I had been to 'The Beck and Call' with quite a number of needs and not one could you satisfy. Grant me one request anyway. Grant me!"
"What is it?" said Ben.
"Give me leave to read a novel by Erckmann-Chatrian."
And this time he went.
She was a plump and kindly lady of a little more than middle age, with evidences of wealth about her and a handkerchief ready for service.
"You don't know me," she said to Ben, "but I know you, or rather all about you. In a kind of way we're relations."
Ben expressed her surprise.
"If there is such a thing as a step-aunt," said the lady, "I'm one. I'm Belle's sister."
"Oh!" said Ben. "Mrs. Vicat?"
Her visitor admitted it.
"Of course," said Ben, sympathetically. "I've heard about you. Your son died quite recently. I'm so sorry."
The handkerchief came into play.
"Yes," said Mrs. Vicat. "He never had a chance, he was so badly wounded. But he lingered on and on and was always so brave. And now he's gone. It's because I want to do something in memory of him that I'm here. My sister told me to come to you. 'Go to "The Beck and Call,"' she said, 'and talk to mystepdaughter. She's very clever and quick at thinking of things. But of course you must pay,' she said.
"As if I should take advantage of being connected with the family!" Mrs. Vicat added indignantly. "So you must charge me for all the time you give me, my dear, whether anything comes of it or not."
"We'll see," said Ben. "What kind of a memorial were you thinking of?"
"Well," said Mrs. Vicat. "At first I was thinking of an obelisk or a cross, or something like that. You know the kind of thing. There's one in Sloane Square. But somehow I've rather changed my mind. There are so many of those, all over the country, and I'm wondering if it's quite right to put up another just to one officer.
"And of course," she continued, "there will be a monument in the church: that's all arranged for. I've got a nice architect—one that will let me have my own way a little, I'm assured; not one of those masterful quarrelsome ones. Architects can be very trying, my dear. You should see our house—all the living rooms and the bedrooms on the north, and the passages and the kitchen and larder on the south! Everything sacrificed to the entrance! My poor dear husband argued with him night and day, but he wastoo much for us. But that's neither here nor there. The monument is all arranged; it's the memorial I'm worrying about now, and Belle told me to come to you."
"How much do you want to spend?" Ben asked.
"I don't mind," said Mrs. Vicat forlornly. "It's the only interest in life I have left."
"Had your son any particular hobbies?" Ben asked. "Did he support any particular kind of charity?"
"I can't say that he did," said Mrs. Vicat. "He had a wonderful collection of postage stamps. But that doesn't help much."
"No," said Ben, puckering her brow. "And yet," she continued, "you would like it to be useful?"
"Yes, I want it to be really helpful," said Mrs. Vicat. "I want my son's name to be associated with something that would benefit people. I saw a very pretty drinking-fountain the other day, which was also a War Memorial."
"But you could afford something bigger than that?" Ben suggested.
"Oh, yes, money is no object. The cenotaph is very beautiful."
"Very," said Ben. "But that has a distinct purpose and you wouldn't wish to duplicate it."
"On the top of a hill," said Mrs. Vicat. "There's a beautiful high hill near us. Another cenotaph there would be most impressive."
"But isn't a cenotaph a monument to someone whose real burial place is somewhere else or isn't known?" Ben asked.
"Is it?" said Mrs. Vicat. "I didn't know. I thought it meant a War Memorial simply."
"Since you have come to me for advice," said Ben, "I must say what I feel about this, and that is that in memory and honour of your son you ought to do something of real practical help for his fellow-soldiers in distress. There are many incurables among them, and you could, for example, build and endow a home—say at the seaside—for them—to be comfortable in. That's an idea that occurs to me as I am talking."
"I should like that," said Mrs. Vicat. "That's a very nice idea. Belle said you were clever. And of course at the seaside, because then I could go down and visit it. I'm very fond of the sea. Do you know Littlehampton? I've been very happy there in that terrace overlooking the green where the children ride on donkeys. We took a house there one summer and stayed on through the winter. So mild. A seaside home at Littlehampton is a charming notion."
"If you would give me a little time to thinkand perhaps discuss the matter with others," said Ben, "I am sure I could put some more ideas before you. I should like to; it's the kind of task that would give me great pleasure to carry out. Will you come to-morrow at three?"
And Mrs. Vicat agreed, and, dabbing afresh at her eyes, made her way to her very luxurious limousine.
"Your employer is very clever," were her last words to Dolly, who helped her downstairs, as she gave him a shilling. On this, being a superstitious London boy, he was mindful, as soon as the car had moved on, to spit.
At dinner that evening, Melanie was sounded as to the memorial, but Melanie had her own affairs in hand. When a girl is within a few days of her marriage, she can't concentrate on outside questions such as this, no matter how humane she may be.
She was an odd girl, with no romance showing, whatever there might be underneath. Her eyes were incapable of surprise; her mind of wonder. It is a great loss, and too many girls seem to be suffering from it. In speech she was candid; in hearing, careless; very particular that you should not misunderstand her, but not in the least worried by the chance of misunderstanding you—often, indeed, not listening to replies at all.
These are not qualities that on the face of them make for the happiest unions, but along with them Melanie had a great sense of duty, and one never knows how a girl may develop after marriage. Men and husbands are not so widely different; but girls and brides can be divided by such a gulf as to be almost strangers. A girlpassing under her lover's glamour can emerge a changed being.
"We had a bit of a shindy to-day, Guy and I," said Melanie. "Over the ring. He wants me to have a wedding ring and I refused. I can't bear the things. They make me shudder. It's bad enough to go to church with him and endure that disgusting service, without being branded for ever more with a gold band. It's only one remove from the ring in the bull's nose. I'm no more Guy's wife because I've got it than I should be without it. If I agree to marry him, I marry him. A very unbecoming piece of metal on my hand can't make the difference, not to a decent woman."
"It was a new idea to Guy, I expect," said Ben.
"Absolutely," said Melanie. "He seemed thunderstruck."
"He's not so advanced as you," said Ben. "And I expect he was perplexed, because you don't mind wearing an engagement ring."
"That's different," said Melanie. "It's beautiful. There's some reason for that. But even that I don't wear on the ordinary finger. Why should all the world know I'm engaged? Guy doesn't wear a ring to advertise the fact; why should I?"
"He probably would if you asked him," saidBen. "And he'd wear a wedding ring too. He'd be proud to."
"Don't you think I'm right?" Melanie asked.
"No, I don't," said Ben. "Apart altogether from the fact that Guy is my brother, I don't think it's fair to either of you. Take your honeymoon, for example. I don't know where you're going, but probably to some hotel. The first thing the people at the desk look at is your left hand, and if there's no wedding ring on it your character has gone completely, and Guy's is not what it might be."
"But who cares what anyone else thinks?" Melanie asked.
"All of us," said Ben, "in one way or another. But this is a case where both of you ought to agree. If Guy took your attitude about wedding rings, I shouldn't have a word to say; but as he objects, I think you ought to give way."
"Confound your cold common sense," said Melanie. "I will think about it. But this public flaunting of one's bondage is hateful."
"You may not think it bondage later on," said Ben. "If you don't, you're all right. If you're going to for ever, I wish you'd break the whole thing off at this moment."
Melanie left her chair, and, going over to Ben, gave her a light kiss on her hair.
"Don't worry," she said.
It was more reassuring than any other woman's oath on the Good Book.
After dinner Ben carried the problem to Uncle Paul, whom she found looking utterly miserable.
"My dear!" said Ben. "You're not ill, are you? You frighten me."
"No," said Uncle Paul weakly. "I'm not bodily ill. But life is a blank—they're cleaning out the Round Pond."
Ben put the matter before him.
"As step-aunt," she said, "doesn't mind what she spends, isn't this a gorgeous opportunity to do something really worth doing? And she's so absurdly amenable, ready to take advice. Just like putty. There never was such a chance to be really useful.
"So many things," she continued, "begin well and then decline. Village reading-rooms, with stone tablets in the wall saying in whose honour they were built, are opened with a great flourish, and the next time you go there they are closed and the windows broken. Clubs and institutes the same. But we can provide against all that. It mustn't be enough just to build; there must be endowment, and responsible caretakers or managers, for whatever we do.
"I suppose," she continued, "as a matter offact, country people don't want Village institutes; they want the village pump. That's where they really enjoy meeting and talking."
"Some friends of mine," said Uncle Paul, "made a beautiful garden in their village, as a memorial. A lawn in the midst for the children to play on, and seats and shelters all round for the old people. And flowers. All properly looked after. That was a really good idea."
"I like that," said Ben. "But there might be something more costly too. I shall go on thinking. And I'll ask Mr. St. Quentin."
The next morning when Ben entered "The Booklovers' Rest" it appeared to be empty. Not a sign even of Ernie Bent, who usually had to be removed from the doorstep, which he was scrubbing, to let her pass.
And then from the depths came the wistful words:
Bring back, bring back,Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me!
Bring back, bring back,Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me!
Bring back, bring back,Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me!
Bring back, bring back,
Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me!
and Patrick hobbled out.
"I didn't know it was you," he said, and flushed.
"I wanted to try your pet divination scheme again," said Ben. "May I?"
"Of course," said Patrick.
"I will just fumble for a book," said Ben.
She closed her eyes, approached the shelves and took down a volume. Then she opened it, read a few words, and smiled.
"Was it all right?" Patrick asked.
"I think so," she said, and was about to run up the stairs, but stopped. "Oh, by the way, Mr.St. Quentin," she said, "I've got a client coming to-day to talk about a memorial to her son: something philanthropic and costly. If I were to ask you to come up and join us, could you—would you?"
"With the greatest pleasure," said Patrick, "especially as there's a catalogue due and I ought to be at work on it. But neglecting work is so agreeable."
"Soon after three," said Ben, and ascended to her own domain.
When there, however, she received a shock, for instead of the ordinary placid and competent Jan, was a nervous unhappy Jan, saying that she had been to see the doctor on the evening before and he had ordered her to stop work instantly and go to Bournemouth or Torquay.
"Of course I shall do nothing of the kind until I can find you someone else," she said, "but I know I'm not well. I've been feeling weak for a long while now and I have horrible nights."
"I'm very sorry," said Ben. "It's a good deal my fault too, for allowing you to go on having no proper lunch and getting no midday break. I blame myself seriously, but you know, Jan, you were very obstinate. What does the doctor say it is?"
"He's afraid I may go into a decline," said Jan,"unless I have good air, and do nothing, and drink milk and eat a lot; and—and—I'd much rather be with you."
Mrs. Vicat arrived puffingly to time and again placed her handkerchief within easy range.
"Well, my dear," she said, "what have you decided? I hope it's the Littlehampton home."
"I want you to hear what Mr. St. Quentin, one of the owners of the book shop downstairs, has to say," said Ben.
She rang the bell for Dolly and asked him to invite Mr. St. Quentin to step up.
"This is Mrs. Vicat," said Ben, and she prepared the ground. "Have you any ideas?"
"As a matter of fact, I have," said Patrick. "I have been thinking of nothing else all the morning, and I believe I have the answer. May I say how it strikes me; and you will forgive me if I am too long?
"I've been thinking," he said, "of the men blinded in the war. They have always been on my mind, but I never had a chance to help. Losing limbs is a disaster of a totally different kind; it's a bore, of course, to have a wooden leg, and be unable to join in sports any more, and so on; but it's nothing to squeal about. Whereas losing sight—that's terrible.
"I should doubt if any quarrel between nations is worth such a price as one blinded man.
"Sight is too glorious a possession. I have been shutting my eyes at intervals all the morning and realizing what it must be like never to open them again.
"'Never'—that is the appalling word.
"I don't mean only what every one who cares anything for the beauty of nature would miss—the first primrose, the new moon, a starry night, a yacht race, snow on the trees. Those are the obvious things and probably many a soldier had thought little enough about them. But put yourself in the position of a blinded soldier and think of his loss. The pretty girls, for example. That must be a loss indeed—the faces and figures of the pretty girls. You know how soldiers in their shirt-sleeves lean on the sills of barrack windows and compare notes on the girls who pass? Not too edifying perhaps, but think of the poor devils who can do this no more.
"And games—never to see another football match, another cricket match. I have seen blind men led into Lord's and watched their poor baulked faces as the sound of the bat against the ball is heard and the crowd cheers a boundary hit. They like to be there—they have the sense of stillbeing in it; they can't bear not to participate in life—but the loss!
"I have seen them in theatres and music halls too, often; and there the spoken word still has its message; but oh, their baffled look when the laughter depends upon gesture!
"And then think of what blindness must mean to those who have loved pictures. The sense of touch, intensely developed, may reveal much, and certainly the beauty of shape, but it can convey no idea of colour. Finger tips passing over the surface of a Corot learn nothing of its beauty; the National Gallery for ever more is blotted out."
Patrick paused and blushed.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to become rhetorical. But it's too sad and I was carried away."
Mrs. Vicat, who had been quietly weeping for some time, implored him to go on.
"Everything you say is so right," she assured him. "And what do you propose?"
"I haven't any very useful suggestions," Patrick said, "but the endowment of new Braille presses might be considered. Many of the men, however, cannot be very much given to reading. What about broadcasting installations? They are all fond of music. Why shouldn't there be agrant of a wireless set to all institutions or houses where blinded soldiers are to be found?"
"There's nothing I wouldn't like to do for the blinded soldiers," said Mrs. Vicat, when he had finished. "And if you can arrange the Braille presses and the broadcasting too, I'll gladly pay what is necessary; but I had"—she almost whimpered—"set my heart on a seaside home, and I don't see that for the blind that is needed. What they want, as I understand it, is to be kept employed, beguiled; their minds and hands are to be continuously occupied so that they mayn't brood and mope. Isn't that it?"
"Yes," said Patrick. "That's a very great part of it. That's certainly the kindest thing we can do—to find them absorbing occupations and to make life a pleasure, if not actually an excitement, still."
"When I came in," said Mrs. Vicat to Ben, "I fancied that girl at the desk outside was crying. Is she unhappy?"
"Poor Jan!" said Ben. "Yes, she's just had a great shock. The doctor has told her that she must stop work and retire to some southern place, or she is in danger of going into a decline. She's miserable about it—partly for herself but a great deal for me, because she doesn't like to leave me in the lurch, she says."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Vicat, with sudden cheeriness, "now I've got it!"
She beamed on them with radiant triumph.
"What?" exclaimed Ben.
"The seaside home," she said. "We'll have the seaside home after all. Not for blinded soldiers—they shall be dealt with all right, Mr. St. Quentin, never fear!—but for poor working girls who need change and rest from London and can't afford it. Oh, how happy I am! I did so want that seaside home and now I've got it. Your poor girl can't go there this time because it won't be ready; but will you see about it at once, my dear? I leave the whole thing to you. You can build a new house or you can take an old house and adapt it. I'll have all the papers made out by my lawyer at once. And we'll call it the 'Adrian Vicat Seaside Home.' Will you do it?"
"Of course I will," said Ben.
"And you'll find out all about the other things?" Mrs. Vicat inquired of Patrick.
"At once," he said.
"I'm so happy," exclaimed Mrs. Vicat again. "Now my mind is perfectly at rest."
She went away in tearful content and Dolly was summoned to assist her again to the car and to receive the usual guerdon.
"Thank you," said Ben to Patrick. "You weresplendid. I think we may call this a truly red-letter day. It's all most inspiring; but one thing in particular gives me enormous satisfaction."
"And that?" Patrick asked.
"You and I were in absolute agreement."
"But you didn't say a word."
"No, there was no need. But when I tried the Sortes Virgilianæ this morning what do you think I stumbled on? Milton."
"Well?" said Patrick.
"Well, it opened at 'Samson Agonistes'!"
"I set out intending to pay you just a friendly call," said Aunt Agatha, "but coming through the shop downstairs I saw such a lot of books that now I'm going to be a client too. You see they gave me an idea. I'd quite forgotten what a lot of books there are in the world and how little I know of them. But now I think I really must try to know more, so I want you to find me a nice girl to read to me. A girl with a clear voice, mind. From half-past five to seven, I think. No, there are often callers then. From half-past two till tea. No, that's when I sometimes like a nap. In the morning, then. No, one mustn't be read to in the morning. Well, my dear, let it be after lunch then, and if I fall asleep now and again it doesn't really matter. But she mustn't read what they call bed books."
"I wonder if you really want me to get the girl at all," said Ben.
"Of course I do, dear. It's terrible, it's disgraceful, to think of how little time I have left in which to learn anything of all those books, andI'm sure I couldn't read them to myself. Please get me a nice girl with a refined and distinct voice—so many girls have adenoids, don't you think?—to begin, not next week but the week after next. I'll spend next week in clearing up and getting ready for her.
"I suppose a girl is best," she continued after a moment's thought. "A young man wouldn't do? And yet I see such lots of advertisements inThe TimesPersonal Column—how interesting that is and how sad sometimes!—I'm told that all those funny love letters, as they sound like, are really burglars' codes. Isn't that dreadful? But so every one says. But about this gentleman reader, there are such lots of advertisements from disabled officers wanting employment that perhaps one ought to consider one. I wonder how disabled officers read aloud, dear? Rather strong voices, I'm afraid, after so much drilling. I shouldn't like to be shouted at. Speaking of disabled officers, there's a rather nice lame man in the shop downstairs who showed me the way up. I suppose you've noticed him, dear? I think I must buy something from him on the way out, so as not to disappoint him. I wonder if he's got a Longfellow? I used to love Longfellow when I was a girl. That man getting another to propose for him and the other one being the real one—I haven't read it for years. We might begin with that.
"I hope someone is going to propose to you, my dear," Aunt Agatha went on. "So pretty and clever as you are, and so managing. People tell me this office is wonderfully run. I don't say I want you to marry the lame man downstairs, but I'm sure he's a gentleman, he has such a charming voice, and he's very good-looking. All but the leg. But legs aren't everything. What's that proverb about helping a lame man over a stile? How well you'd do that!
"I hope I'm not taking up your time, dear," Aunt Agatha continued; "but it's such a long while since you came to see me, and if I'm a nuisance you must make me pay half a crown, or whatever it is you charge for an hour's interview."
"What makes you think Mr. St. Quentin, the lame man downstairs, would make me a good husband?" Ben asked.
"I liked the look of him," said Aunt Agatha. "He looked kind and he's a gentleman. And I don't think it's a bad thing to be a book seller. Anyone may do that now, and he'd bring you home the new novels. Besides, it's a good thing to marry a man who's out of the house all day. I hate to see husbands in to lunch. All wrong.Home lunches are for women. Besides, my dear, there's an epidemic of marrying in the Staveley family and you'll catch it. You can't escape. Look at your father! And then I'm told that Alicia is engaged again to someone at Hove. A widower. I always said that Hove was too near Brighton. What is the proverb—'Marry in——' Oh, no, it's not Hove, it's Hastings: 'Marry in Hastings and repent at leisure.' How silly of me, but they're both on the South Coast.
"And poor Merrill, she came to see me the other day. All in black, the rouge, and looking so demure; but if I were one of those bookmakers who advertise in the papers that they never pay, I'd go so far as to bet a pony—it was a pony that your uncle always put on for me on the Derby favourite year after year, but how seldom the favourites win!—I'd bet a pony, whatever it means, that she's got another man in her eye. I could see him lurking there, the rascal, and not a clergyman this time, I'll be bound. I taxed her with it, and she said 'No' with such a pretty blush that there wasn't any doubt at all.
"And then there's Guy come all the way from India to marry your friend. It's wonderful, I think, that that engagement should have lasted so long, and he in India too, where men fall in love so easily. They say that absence makes theheart grow fonder, but don't you believe it, my dear. There's a better proverb than that which says, 'Out of sight, out of mind.' But I can't admire Guy's constancy too much; he's a regular Don Juan; no, I don't mean that—Don Quixote; no, that other man, without fear and without reproach—Bayard. He's a regular Bayard. Not only to have gone all through his life in India loving her truly, but to have been faithful on the ship too! That's marvellous. I have the deepest respect for him. Indeed, my dear, I almost rank him with you.
"It shows how susceptible all you Staveleys are, and unless you're very careful, my dear, you'll fall too. You ought to be inoculated. Not that inoculation's any good. I never had such severe colds as after the doctor injected what he called my own culture into my arm. Culture—I didn't know I'd got any. I thought that was confined to the universities. But sneeze! You should have heard me. Perhaps you did—I'm only about a mile from Campden Hill. Well, dear, I'm a foolish old woman and I'm sure I've talked a lot of rubbish; but I'm very fond of you and you always do me good.
"And now I must be going. I'm so glad to have seen you in your place of business. And you'll get me a nice girl, won't you? We decidedon a girl, didn't we? Yes, I think it must be a girl, because sometimes I should like her to take me to the pictures instead of reading. Reading can be rather tedious. And it would never do for me to go to the pictures with a disabled officer, would it? A nice girl, then. The week after next. Half-past two to four. Without adenoids."
Ben was receiving her first visit from her stepmother.
"First of all let me thank you so much for being so kind to my sister," Belle said. "She's not a very decisive person. Perhaps you gathered that?"
Ben admitted it.
"Anyone at all emphatic can do what they like with her," said Belle. "And that's why I'm so glad she's in your hands.
"But that's not what I came about," said the comfortable lady as she sank luxuriously into a chair. "You must forgive me butting in like this, but I want help badly and only you can give it."
"The cook hasn't left?" Ben asked.
"Oh, no. She seems to be satisfied, if one dare use such a strong word about a cook, or indeed any servant, nowadays. No, it's not the cook, it's your father."
"Yes?" said Ben.
"Well, it's rather a difficult thing to talk about to a daughter—and a stepdaughter too—and oneknows what stepmothers are supposed to be—but I'm all at sea about him. He's so different from what I was expecting—from what he promised, in fact. When we were talking about the second marriage he was so thoughtful and considerate of me, so generous, always brought me flowers or some little thing, and you know how fond I am ofmarrons glacés—too fond, the doctor says—and I was very lonely, you know, and I had felt so neglected since Vincent died; and it did really seem as if I was to have someone to pet me again after all. Because Vincent, you know, was the kindest man. There was nothing he wouldn't do to please me; he was always bringing cushions, and arranging for week-ends in nice hotels, and motor trips.
"Well, so was your father at first; but this is what is troubling me: Vincent kept it up to the end, but your father has dropped it already. Now, what I want to know, dear, is this: is it just your father's way or has he got tired of me?"
"Oh, I don't think he's got tired of you," said Ben, earnestly.
"Was he like that to your mother?" Belle asked.
"He wasn't very thoughtful of little things, ever," said Ben. "But he was fond of her."
"Yes," said Belle. "But how did he show it?It isn't enough for me to be merely in a house with a man; see him at dinner and watch him reading the paper and, what is much worse, hearing him do it—you have no notion how that rustling gets on one's nerves, when he turns over; that isn't marriage to me. And he is so particular about the food and the service. Was he always like that?"
"He was always rather—well, I might almost say fussy," Ben admitted.
"I wouldn't mind his fussiness if he was fussy over me too," said Belle. "But he isn't. It is all for his own comfort. Of course we're all selfish, I know. Every one's selfish. I'm selfish and I'm lazy. But I do try to play the game, and I don't think he does. And I'm getting frightened." She lowered her voice and drew her chair nearer. "Because, I've got the idea that Vincent knows. I've got the idea that he's looking. I can't say exactly where he's looking from; I can't see him with my mind's eye at all—but I feel that he is looking. Out of some kind of window up there, I suppose; for he was a good man, Vincent was—a dear, good man, kind and open-handed and ready to think the best of every one, even if he did use awful language sometimes and take a little too much wine now and then; but he was so nice in his cups, as they say, not like somepeople at all: gentle and exaggeratedly polite, even though a little maudlin. In spite of all this, I'm sure he's up there. But it's dreadful thinking that he's looking on and knowing and being sorry for me and"—she sank her voice still lower—"hating your father. Because, my dear, it's going to make me hate him too. There, I've said it."
"Oh, no, Belle!" cried Ben. "You mustn't, you mustn't."
"But I can't help it," said Belle. "It's coming on, and if it gets worse I shall leave him. There's nothing to stay for now"—she sobbed a little—"but if it got worse it would be a sin to stay on."
While her stepmother had been talking Ben's thoughts had flown to the future and all that the breaking up of her father's present establishment would mean; but only hazily. Directly she was left alone they assumed the clearest of outlines. For if her father were single again what would he do? It was only too evident: he would request his daughter to return. And what would she do? She would have to say yes. She would not have the courage—or possibly even the right—to say no. Horrible to lose all this independence, this amusing work just as it was beginning to pay. But it would be inevitable, because he was her father, and he was getting old, and shewould have no real reason to offer against it, being free as she was.
If it had been anyone else's father she would not have liked him at all, she found herself thinking. Ought the accident of parentage to entail such self-sacrificing devotion as it often does? Anyway, it did; and so long as she was free she would probably have to return.
But supposing she was not free! Her heart fluttered.
If she were not free—if she had thrown in her lot with another—her father would have no right....
It was about half-past ten when the door of "The Beck and Call" office opened and admitted Mr. St. Quentin.
Ben was alone. "Dolly has a day off," she said, "and Miss Marquard is accumulating things for a number of our people, or I would ask you into the back room.
"What is the news?" she asked.
"Oh, I mustn't talk about news," said Pat. "I've come as a client."
Ben laughed. "A client! That's splendid." She became very businesslike. "What can we do for you to-day?"
"It's perhaps rather an odd request," said Pat, "but I was wondering if you could help me to find—well, in point of fact, a wife. For myself, I mean."
Ben reeled for a moment under the suddenness of the shock.
"A wife!" she then exclaimed, blushing a little and fumbling for her notebook. Anything to regain composure!
"Yes," said Pat. "There's nothing so extraordinary about that, is there? Lots of men have wanted wives ever since the world began. In fact, there's a rumour that that is why it has gone on."
"Yes—I know—I've heard," Ben replied. She was recovering her nerve now. "But we don't transact business like that here. You want a matrimonial agency, if there are such things."
"No, I want 'The Beck and Call.' I have the greatest faith in it," said Pat. "I believe it can get me one—if it will."
He looked at her with a smile in his grave eyes until she looked away; but she was smiling too.
"I'm afraid——" she began.
"At any rate," he said briskly, "let me describe my requirements and then perhaps you'll know better. Age, shall we begin with age?"
"If you insist on treating this as a marriage office, yes," said Ben.
"I do," said Pat. "Age, then: twenty-three or four."
"Yes," said Ben.
"But you haven't written it down," said Pat. "This is a serious request. I am honestly asking your help, and I've never been a real client before. First impressions, you know."
"Very well then," said Ben, making the note: "twenty-three or four."
"Height, medium," said Pat. "Hair, dark. Eyes, grey-blue. Have you got all that?"
"I've taken it down," said Ben.
"Voice, musical," Pat went on. "Laugh, delicious."
Ben looked away as she affected to write.
"Is that essential?" she asked.
"Absolutely," said Pat. "Must be in business," he went on. "No idle woman need apply. This kind of business would be all right."
"Do you mean she is to continue in business when she is married?" Ben asked.
"I should leave that to her," said Pat; "but I hope so."
"Aren't you rather narrowing it down?" Ben asked. "Making it rather difficult for yourself?"
"I was trying to make it more easy for 'The Beck and Call,'" he said. "If the essentials are so explicitly stated, so little time need be wasted on the search."
"You have been wonderfully explicit," said Ben. "But what about yourself? The girl—if she is found—will naturally want to know something about her husband, who at present, of course, is a stranger to her. What is she to be told?"
"That he is utterly unworthy," said Pat; "a man of twenty-seven who was knocked about in the War; a bit of a dreamer; a second-hand book seller with an ambition to write; fairly amiable in temper; fairly sound in health, but for a slight deficit in the number of legs normally served out to men; and, although, as I said, utterly unworthy, filled, for a woman of the kind specified, with worship, admiration, and love. Do you think you could find a wife for a fellow like this?" he asked.
Ben was silent. She stood still with lowered eyes and a heart beating much too fast, but very, very happy.
"Do you?" he asked again.
It was fortunate that no other inquirers arrived at that moment, for they would have found something very like a Universal Aunt in the arms of a second-hand book seller with only one leg.