* * * * *Our train moved on. And the elderly man at my right hand imparted a secret to me."That's their fust," he said.I nodded, patiently."'E lay quiet enough when the music started. Did you notice?""Yes," I said, "I noticed.""They're funny devils," said the man.XVINGRATES"DR. BRINK. Important."DEAR DOCTOR,—Ther is a lady keeps on coming in a motor car, and her names is Mrs. Dudenay-Jones, and she is always at our place, and we think she 'as got a good intention, but my husband says he has had enough, and he thinks if we was to speak to you then perhaps you was to speak to her so perhaps she would stop it. She is a real lady, and always civil and polite, but my husband says we've had ennough. His mates has got to hear about it, and they call him Gordon Bennett, and he is a hardworking man."It is my daughter Kate she takes the interest in, the same what you give the light-brown mixture to for loosing her appetite. She wants to put her in a home at Margate, but my daughter has got a good home of her own, and she do not want to be beholding. And if a person goes to Margate you always bring back vermin, and there is enough work to keep a decent home without anybody need go to Margate and bring back vermin. And further and more, my Kate 'as got a bank book of her own, thank God, and when she wants to take a fortnight she can do it independent, and her young fellar the same, him what has the bottles of red from you for spots on the face."And so it is kindly to be hoped as you will kindly talk about it to the lady, you being reguly engaged by us for all these year, and knowing well that we are hardworking and independent, and not the kind as would wish to be beholding. And she come 4 times a week from Sat., and now it is only Tue., and she has been twice. It is no wonder as my daughter loose her appetite."And thanking with compts,"Your faithl,"SARAH BENNET,13, Markham Street, over against the Dairy."P.S.—Boy got 6d. Please send a bot. light brown for my daughter. Did my daughter ought to drink a wineglass full of vineger? They tell me it is good."The lady has always acted civil, so I hope you'll be the same."S. BENNETT."* * * * *It was this missive, reaching the doctor at his breakfast table, which caused a beautiful philanthropist to enter his surgery at tea-time. She came in immediate response to the doctor's invitation; she came with a rush, having been carried hither by her 80-h.p. 8-cylinder light touring car."And, oh,dearDr. Brink," she said, "how simply charming it is to meet you! One has so often read your bright little speeches about this shocking poverty. One simply yearns to do something. How one envies you your strength, your power, your splendid opportunities. How you mustrevelin your work here, Doctor! It must be simply charming!""About as charming," said the doctor, "as keeping pigs and sleeping with them."The beautiful philanthropist broke into appreciative titters. "Pigs, Doctor!" she cried, with the archest look. "Pigs! He! he! And you call yourself a Socialist! Of course, I'm not a Socialist myself. One's husband cannot be expected to approve of such extremes as that. But one need not be a Socialist in order to feel sorry for them. Now, need one, Doctor? But when one is a woman, it is all so difficult. Oh, Doctor, can one donothing?""Onecan," replied the doctor; "but one won't. That, madame, is the difficulty.""I don't quite understand you," said the lady."You ask me," explained the doctor, "whether one can do nothing. I reply that one can: that this is all we ask of one—to do nothing.""To donothing?D-o-c-t-o-r!""It does sound revolutionary, perhaps," admitted the doctor. "But it is really true. We ask one to donothing. We ask one to be so kind as to sit at home and draw threads out of teacloths. And to draw cheques. But not to leave one's blameless hearth. We ask one to keep away. The pig-stye is a dirty pig-stye, and it's got to be cleaned by dirty people. Nice people—manicured people—-are best out of it. See?""I see that you want to be rude," said the lady, "but I don't—— What is it all about, Doctor?""This," said Dr. Brink. And he gave her Mrs. Bennett's letter. And she read it silently. And she stood up."Really, Doctor," she observed, "one doesn't quite know what to say. I'm sorry, I suppose. I will write and apologise to Mrs. Bennett. I'll go home and draw threads."Don't trouble to get up," she continued, as the doctor rose from his chair. "Don't trouble to get up. You are quite the rudest man I've ever met. Please don't trouble to get up."She reached the door, but paused upon its threshold and turned to him again. "You are quite the rudest man I've ever met," she said again. "Quite the rudest.... I'll send you some money for your pigs."XVIBAFFIN'S FINDBaffin came home one evening in a state of wild-eyed exaltation.He had foundtheface for his "Mist Maiden." Its name was Prudence Croft.It was coming to sit next day, and certain brothers of the brush were coming also to inspect and criticise Prudence.Baffin's panegyrics quite interested me. I invited myself to join the party and my invitation was accepted.So that I first saw Prudence under romantic circumstances. She was sitting on a sugar-box with her bodice off. The combination of her charms and a red flannel under-garment was startling to the eye.Prudence was occupied, it seemed, in a proceeding called "sitting for the neck and shoulders." The process was not a restful one, for Prudence had "nerves" and "fidgets" and a constant flow of anecdote. Mr. Baffin made free with expressions of entreaty, disapprobation, and despair.For myself, I sat and stared at Prudence, being consumed with a great wonder. It wasn't the flannel which provoked this wonder. Red flannel is a hideous material, and highly moral and depressing at that. And I am sure that the spectacle of a poor, anæmic rat of an artist's model seated in "half-costume" on a sugar-box is not (in itself) an attractive one. But Prudence fascinated me as no human being had fascinated me for many days.If any of you have felt the poignant, horrible appeal of Ophelia during the "mad scene," you will know how I felt about Prudence. Her spare, consumptive body was crowned by a neck and face and head as beautiful as any that ever were. But it was a beauty that was monstrous in its perfection, and that, therefore, hurt like some monstrosity of ugliness.Prudence's beauty was the beauty of imbecility—that which Rossetti loved so much to draw. To look at her for long was like looking at some exotic, over-nurtured lily in a hot-house: one felt sick and restless and unmanned, and fell to longing for some robuster blossom on a hedgerow.She had the genuine Rossetti neck—a thing which rose and swelled and died away in exquisite, maddening curves. She had the genuine Rossetti nose—straight, and small, and delicate, and sinful. She had hair, a full arm's length, that crept and clung and strayed and floated like the tendrils of a vine. She had wide, inscrutable eyes: wondering as a child's, yet filled with an awful something that was not of childhood. She had, above all else, a mouth which stung you with its beauty—blood-red lips that were open and moist and eager, like a lover's wound.To all these charms she added the mind and speech of a mud-lark: the intelligence of a backward infant."Ow, Mr. Baffin," she was saying when I saw her first, "ow, Mr. Baffin, youdofrighten me when you swear so. Iwillkeep still: I will, reely. I won't fidget or move or talk—I won't even breathe—for a 'ole ten minnits. On'y I must tell you about me an' my sister an' the penny-in-the-slot machine. Mother give us tuppence, see, 'cos it was washin' day, an'—— ... Ow, now you're angry, Mr. Baffin. Down't be angry, Mr. Baffin. I am a wicked girl, I know I am, an' Iwillkeep still: an' Gawd knows what's to become of me when my mother dies, an' everybody 'ates me, an' Iamun'eppy."The remainder of Prudence's observations were mingled with the sound of noisy sobs.Mr. Baffin, that eminent painter, put down his palette and brush. "I'll wait," he said, "until you are dry again.""Down't be engry with me, Mr. Baffin," moaned Prudence. "I'll be a good gel now—I will, reely—if on'y yew wown't be engry with me.""Very well, then," answered Baffin. "You can begin to be a good girl now. I 'm not angry with youanymore, and if only you keep still for five little minutes while I get in the curves of the chin, I'll let you talk and wriggle as much as you like for a whole ten minutes. Now hold your head up."So Prudence ceased her lamentations, and held her head up—for five-and-thirty seconds. At the end of that period an interesting thought occurred to her."It'll be Christmas in four months," she observed, wriggling delightedly. "I'm gownter give my muvver somethingsownice fur Christmas' I'm gownter give 'er a—— Ow, Mr. Baffin, you're angry with me agen. Iama bad gel, I know I am; but——""You can leave off helping me for a minute or two," said Baffin quietly. "I've got to do some scraping here, so you can have the wriggle now. What is this about Christmas?""I got two guineas comin' tomefur Christmas—per'aps. I sat to Mr. Baker fur 'is 'Birth of Wonder,' an' when 'e sells it 'e is gointer gimme two guineas!"Baffin looked at me, and I nodded in appreciation of his glance. Everybody knows, of course, that Mr. Wilberforce Baker, the eminent Academician, disposed of his "Birth of Wonder" last June. It was his tenth annual contribution to that remarkable collection of pictures now being formed under a bequest of the late Mr. Bantry—Mr. Wilberforce Baker himself being a trustee of the fund bequeathed for that purpose. Baffin excommunicated that distinguished artist in dumb show."I shouldn't count on the two guineas," was all he said to Prudence. "... How long is it since you sat for Mr. Baker?""Ow,everso lung!" answered Prudence. "Down't know why 'tis, I'm sure, on'y I down't seem to be able to get now sittin'snow'ow. They all say I'm pretty an' that; an' they all rave about me neck: an' they all tell me to call agen; but nothink ever comes of it. Can't make it out atall, I can't?""You are lacking in the quality of perception, my dear," explained Baffin."Beg your pardon?" queried Prudence."I say," repeated Baffin, "that you are lacking—that you are damned slow at seeing things!""Ow, Mr. Baffin, youarea naughty man. Fancy usin' such wicked words. My mother says it is on'y bad people what uses words like that. My mother cut 'er finger yesterday, makin' toast. We got the drains up inour'ouse. Ugly things, them little kittens, ain't they? I 'ates 'em when they're crawly, like those."Prudence, making a wry face, pointed to a basket beside the sugar-box. This contained a family of illegitimate kittens which James had adopted out of Christian charity."I'atecats," continued Prudence in her childish, sing-song voice. "I ate all animals. I like goin' to the theayter, though. I like goin' to church too. I like——"She would have provided us, doubtless, with an exhaustive list of her enthusiasms; but the door of the studio opened, and gave entrance to those brothers of the brush whose coming was expected.They looked upon Prudence, and were staggered."Where in Hell did you find her?" they inquired of Baffin, and discharged a volley of most wonderful expletives in evidence of their surprise and appreciation and envy. And they hanked her off the sugar-box, and turned her this way and that way, inspecting her "form" in much the same manner as that adopted by farmers when buying horseflesh."Chin up, please; more to the right. Now to the left. Ah! Get over there, under that top light. Profile, please. Ah! How about shoulders: salt-cellars, I expect; they always have. Pull that thing down. Ah! Not so bad as I feared. No good for the figure, but—but that neck! Trust old Baffin to find 'em, eh, John?"There was to me something inexplicably delightful in the utter sexlessness of this admiration. To say the least, it was ungallant and sane. And Prudence evidently shared this feeling. The childish vanity in her eyes was unmistakable, and she walked back to her throne on the sugar-box with a strut that real queens might have envied.Baffin tried to resume work on the picture; but Prudence's gifts of anecdote were as yet unexhausted, and she found it necessary to tell what Mr. Wilberforce Baker had said to Mr. Jerningham Jukes, and what Mr. J. J. had said to Mr. W. B., and what she had said to both of them, and what her mother had suffered under chloroform. And she giggled, and she wriggled, and she apologised, and she wept, and she wriggled and she giggled again. And Comrade of Brush No. 1 observed to Comrade of Brush No. 2 that this sort of thing would not be good enough at any price. Comrade No. 2 sniffed assentingly. "And what the blazes," he inquired, "does she want to wear that beastly flannel for?""Ah!" grunted No. 1. "I say, Baffin, why does she wear red flannel? Makes chaps sick."Baffin referred the matter to headquarters. "What do you dress yourself up like a sore throat for, Prudence?" he inquired. "Why do you wear red flannel?"Prudence's eyes were wide with amazement. "Ow, Mr. Baffin," she tittered, "yewarea funny men! ... I got pretty things at 'owm. But what's the good o' wearin' 'em out in the studios?""You are lacking, my dear girl, in the quality of perception." Baffin uttered these words with an oracular air.The Comrades made their adieux. "Not if shepaidme to paint her," whispered No. 1, with a jerk of the head towards Prudence. "But, Lord,whata profile! A tricky man could work wonders with that head.""Pity she spoils herself," added Comrade No. 2. And they departed."Hear what those gentlemen said?" demanded Baffin, as the door closed.... "You are too talkative, and you giggle too much, and you wriggle too much. And you should leave off red flannel, and make yourself nice. You could make a lot of money if you took care of yourself. Think of the nice things you could give your mother then!""My mother's got a abscess," moaned Prudence, "an' I believe she'll die, an' then I'll starve, 'cause I'm a good-for-nothin' gel, an' I wown't sit still, an'—an' me figure's too flat. But I'm learnin' to croshy, an' Iwillbe better. Shall I come termorrer, Mr. Baffin?""Come on Friday," answered Baffin. "And," he added, "come in a nice, unwrigglesome frame of mind. You shall have cream and tea and muffins if you are a good girl.""Ooer!" cried Prudence. "I like muffins. And I like cream, and I like claret... 'Ere"—her face suddenly grew grave, grave as a child's at play with toys—"'ere, Mr. Baffin, do you believe in auctioneers?""Do I believe inwhat?" shouted Baffin."Auctioneers," repeated Prudence, with a pout. "Don't be angry with me; I won't ask agen, if you don't like."On'y ... what you want to look at me so queer for? I can't 'elp bein' silly. Iamsilly. On'y ... I wonder if a auctioneer is the sort of man that anybody ought to trust?"XVIIMR. WEST'S WIFE"Is this the young man?" said Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, sitting up in bed and shading a very white face with a very hot hand. "Oh, I daresay 'e'll do! 'Tain't much, I'm told. No doubt 'e'll manage it."That task which Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, thus coldly confided to my management was the witnessing of her will. Dr. Brink had volunteered to execute this document for her; and a sniggering youth had haled me from the snugness of the doctor's waiting chariot to come upstairs and sign.After my formal presentation to Mrs. West, there was an interval of silence, broken only by the scratchy-scratchy of the doctor's pen, as he hastily constructed a form of bequest.I employed this interval in taking stock of the testator's estate, the whole of which was contained within her room. There were two bedsteads, one (a little folding thing) being devoted to the uses of the sniggering boy who, be it stated, figured in the document which was now being prepared as sole legatee. The other bedstead—that on which the patient lay—was obviously a veteran bedstead which had seen much of the world. It was a circumstantial, ponderous bedstead, and wore still a pompous air, although its ironwork was rusted and its lacquered parts had quite lost their complexion. This bedstead also bore a superstructure designed to carry a canopy; but all that hung there now were certain moth-eaten petticoats. There was a chest of drawers among the assets, and a cork model of the Tower of London, and a wash-basin and two soap dishes, and two dumb clocks and the mechanism of another, and a work of art designed in multi-coloured wools, and having reference to the parable of the fig tree."Make it all over to 'im," said Mrs. West; "all what I, the undersigned, may die possessed of. I won't 'ave 'is stuck-up sister touch a stick of it. 'E's bin a good boy to me, Bert 'as. It'll be a 'ome for 'im."It's bin a near touch for me, what, Doctor?" pursued the testator."Pooh!" murmured the doctor, still writing rapidly, "you're not going this time.""I know that," said the woman. "Not as I take any notice whatyousay—you an' your soft soap. But I know inmeselfas it's all right this time. On'y you never know what's gointer 'appen with the next attack, do you, now? And it'll be a 'ome for the boy. 'E's gettin' good money at the dye works now. 'E'll be all right if 'e's got a 'ome. You ain't puttin' it so'sshecan touch a share, I 'ope, Doctor?""Who's she?""'Er what I spoke about—what calls 'erself my daughter. 'Er what's married into the perlice. 'Er what's ashamed of 'er own father!""I am putting it," explained the doctor, "so that you leave all of which you may die possessed to your son Albert. It's quite definite. You may sign now. This gentleman and myself will witness your signature.""Lift me up, then," said Mrs. West.She signed her name in a shaky but accomplished hand. "Be careful, young man," she admonished me, when my turn arrived.All the formalities being concluded, Mrs. West sank back upon her pillow with a grunt of contentment. "It'll be a 'ome for the boy," she said. "And if 'is fathershouldturn up——""Has he got a father, then?" questioned the doctor, rather, I think, with the object of displaying an intelligent interest than from any genuine curiosity. Youareapt to lose your genuine curiosity when this sort of confidence is thrust upon you ten times daily."Got a father!" echoed Mrs. West, with evident amazement at the doctor's ignorance. "Ain't you 'eard, then?""Heard what?" demanded Dr. Brink."About my 'usband. The Midland Malt Comp'ny, you know!'"Well, really now," replied the doctor, looking painfully confused, "upon my word, Idon'tknow.""You must go about your business in a very funny way, then," reflected Mrs. West. "It's bin the talk o' Limus. 'E done 'em in for eight 'undred quid—'im an' another man.""Done 'em in!" repeated the doctor. "Who? What?""The Midland Malt Company, same's I told you," expounded Mrs. West. "'E was night watchman, Mr. West was—'im an' another man—an' they took eight 'undred quid. 'E got away with 'arf of it, too. The perlice 'as bin investigatin' ever since."Dr. Brink still looked a little puzzled. "You mean, in fact—do I understand that your husband stole eight hundred pounds?""Mr. West an' another man—yes," responded the woman, quite without feeling. "'Im an' 'is mate, they done in eight 'undred. On'y 'is mate, I'm sorry to say, 'e never got 'is share. The perlice got that. They got 'im, too. But they never got Mr. West.""How did he escape?" demanded the doctor. And I held my breath. I wondered that the desperado's wife could talk so quietly. "How did he escape?" asked the doctor again."Mr. West?" queried the woman. "Oh," she said, with great simplicity, "'e went away."It was like this yere," said Mr. West's wife:—"I was asleep, you see—in this bed yere, an' it was dark—all in the middle o' the night, you see. An' he struck a match an' he woke me up."'What's that?' I says, with a start like, an' when I see it was Mr. West I lay down again."'Ann,' 'e says, 'wake up. I've got some money 'ere,' 'e says. An' 'e lights a bit o' candle, an' I sits up, an' there on the table—that very table—there was a 'eap o' sovereigns what 'e'd rolled out of a sack. 'I've took these from the company. I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West."An' 'e gets into 'is Sunday shoot an' 'e shaves 'isself. An' 'e puts a lot o' the money more'n four 'undred pounds—into a little brown bag, an' 'e puts the rest in the coal cupboard. 'The perlice 'll come for that in the mornin',' says Mr. West. 'Let 'em find it there. An' you,' 'e says, 'you don't know nothink.'"'An' what about you?' I says."'I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West. 'I'll write you when it's safe. Give my love to Rosa.'"Rosa is my sister's niece, what 'e'd always carried on with—innocent like, in a jokin' sort o' way, if you understand me."'An' remember,' says Mr. West to me again, 'as you don't know a thing. They'll find the money in the coal 'ole, so don't you try to stop 'em.'"An' then Mr. West, 'e kissed me same as usual, an' 'e blowed out the light. An' 'e went away."* * * * *"I suppose that the police turned up all right?" suggested Dr. Brink, when he had duly considered this simple story."The perlice," responded the woman, who had talked more than was good for her, and now looked paler, if possible, than before—"the perlice was very rude an' rough to me. They found the money in the coal cupboard, an' they took it away. But that didn't satisfy them. It on'y seemed to aggerivate them. An' night after night they come round 'ere, an' they was very rough to me. But they ain't got 'old o' Mr. West."'E's bin gone a year now, all but five weeks. An' they ain't caught 'im, an' they never will. I believe it would please that daughter o' mine—the wicked, vain, unfeelin' thing—if theywasto catch 'm."Mr. West, 'e 'aven't wrote me, nor I don't suppose 'e will. Mr. West is a careful sort. Ididsend round the other day to a place where I thought there might be noos o' 'im; but there wasn't no noos o' 'im."Not that I worry meself about'im, if you understand. Mr. West would be all right, wherever it was. 'E's the sort that kin take care o' 'isself, 'e is. It's the boy—young Bert—I'm thinkin' of. Mr. West would be very cut up, 'e would, to think as Bert should come to any 'arm."This reference to the nice paternal feeling of Mr. West affected us both strangely."But," continued Mrs. West, "I'm leavin' 'im the 'ome, at all events. Bert can't come to no pertickler 'arm so long's 'e's got a home."Mr. West 'isself was always a rare one for 'ome. The boy takes arter 'im."XVIIITHREE DIALOGUESThe Mission of the Healer is a fine and a noble one, and I have often confided this original thought to my friend Doctor Brink, who declares that such confidences are helpful to him. And I now desire to record, without comment, three dialogues which drifted in to me at intervals one Sunday, when I was sitting on the doctor's gas-stove.I.—MORNINGVISITOR: And 'e's ser fretful, Doctor, and 'is breathin's ser sick, and 'e don't appear to 'ave no appetite.DOCTOR: Bring him to the light here. I just want—ah!VISITOR: I give 'im a soothin' powder, too, last night—a large one. I bought it at the chimmis. They're supposed to be very good, them Parker's soothin' powders.DOCTOR: I'm afraid that this is rather serious.VISITOR: Down't you think they're very good, Doctor—them Parker's soothin' powders?DOCTOR: I'm afraid there's not much doubt that this child has got diphtheria.VISITOR: I bin very careful with 'im, Doctor. I give 'im a soothin' powder.DOCTOR: Where do you live?VISITOR: Fourteen Mulberry Street. It's next to the oil shop.DOCTOR: How many rooms?VISITOR: Was you gointer send 'im away then, Doctor? Oh, down't send 'im away?DOCTOR: How many rooms?VISITOR: Down't send 'im away, Doctor!DOCTOR: I haven't said anything about sending him away—so far. Answer my questions like a sensible woman. You want him to get better, don't you?VISITOR: I down't want you to send 'im away. I kin look arter 'im meself. There's on'y six of us, an' we got three rooms, an the other two boys kin sleep with me mother in the kitchen? Down't send him away!DOCTOR: I'm very much afraid, Mrs.—ah—Mrs. Cooper, that it doesn't quite rest with me whether the boy is taken away or not. He's got diphtheria, that's certain, and I'm legally compelled to report the case. It is for the Public Health people to decide whether they take the boy or leave him.Ithink you ought to be glad to let him go. He'll be well looked after.VISITOR: Down't send 'im away!DOCTOR: But why not, Mrs. Cooper? You want him to get better, don't you. You can't possibly nurse him yourself. You have the other children to attend to, and the home to take care of, and your husband——VISITOR: Yus, an' there's me 'usband, too. 'E won't let you take 'im.DOCTOR (very patiently): I've said before that I don't want to take him. It is the health officers who will take him if he's taken at all. My duty is done when I've reported the case.VISITOR: What you wanter tell 'em for? What you wanter put the little chap away for?DOCTOR: I'm telling them because I shall be punished if I don't. But I think it's very foolish and ungrateful of you to make this fuss. I only want to do the best I can for you and your baby. You want him to get better, don't you?VISITOR: Down't send 'im away! Let me send me 'usband round to talk to you. Never mind about the punishment an' that, Doctor. My 'usband won't tell nobody. I'd like you to talk to me 'usband, Doctor.DOCTOR: And I would rather like to talk to your husband. I can explain things more clearly to him, perhaps. Send him round at once.VISITOR: Very likely it ain't the diftheria at all, Doctor. I'm sure me 'usband won't 'ave 'im took away.II.—MIDDAYDOCTOR: And what can I do foryou?VISITOR: I come round yere to talk about the boy Cooper. I'm 'is father. The child ain't to be took away, see? 'E ain't got diftheria at all.DOCTOR: I'm sorry to have to differ from your diagnosis, Mr. Cooper, but the childhasgot diphtheria. And I'm very much afraid that he's got to be taken away. It doesn't rest with me; I merely have to report——VISITOR: If you wanter know the troof, Doctor, we've called in Doctor Popham. See? And Doctor Popham don't believe as the boy 'ave got diftheria at all. And 'e's sent the boy some physic. And 'e's gointer 'ave another look at 'im termorrer. And we've took the case outer your 'ands, see? So you needn't trouble to send in no reports to nobody. That child ain't bein' took away. You needn't trouble to interfere no more. The boy is stoppin' 'ome, along of 'is lawful parents. See?DOCTOR: Did Doctor Popham examine the child's throat?VISITOR: What's that gotter do with you? The boy ain't got diftheria. And 'e ain't gotter be moved.DOCTOR: It has got this much to do with me—that Ididexamine the child's throat. I'm not suggesting to you that I think he has diphtheria; I'm telling you that he jolly wellhasgot it. Iknow. When you go home you can see for yourself. Look in the little chap's throat and you will see a round white patch about the size of a sixpence. That, my friend, is diphtheria.VISITOR: The boy ain't gotter be moved.DOCTOR: That's not my business. Somebody else will decide about that. But I don't suppose he'll let you murder the child, even if you are its father.VISITOR: 'E's my child, ain't 'e? And 'e's in my 'ouse. Nobody ain't gointer take my child away without I tells 'em to. See?DOCTOR: It isn't only this one child we have to consider. What about your two other children? What about all the other children in the house?VISITOR: Let other people look after their own, same's what I'm willing to do furmyown. A man's got a right to 'is own children and nobody ain't gointer touch no child o' mine without I lets 'em.DOCTOR: You stand on your rights, do you?VISITOR: That's it. All the corpuscular 'ealth orficers in England ain't gointer take my lawful child away from me. See?DOCTOR: I don't know whether it's ever been mentioned to you before, but you are rather by way of being a Social Problem.VISITOR: It ain't your place to be saucy. I know me rights, and neither you nor any man is going to tell me as it's right to rob a person of their lawful child. And I don't want none of your sneers nor I don't want none of your nicknames. You're out o' this job, see? I've called in Dr. Popham. You and yere Latin nicknames!DOCTOR: I can put it into English if you like. You're a pudding-headed fool. Good-day.VISITOR: What about my child? Are you gointer promise to leave 'im alone?DOCTOR: Of course I am. You can kill your whole family for all I care. I've sent in my report to the authorities, and there's an end of it. Good-day.VISITOR: You've reported, 'ave ye? Oh, very well, then. We'll see. That boy ain't gotter be shifted. See?DOCTOR: All right. Get out.VISITOR: We've called in Dr. Popham, and 'e's weighedyouup. See? The boy ain't got diftheria at all. Nor 'e ain't gotter be shifted.DOCTOR (in simpler terms): May Heaven administer to your requirements. Get out.III.—EVENINGVISITOR: If you please, Doctor, I come round ere about the boy Cooper. I'm the father, sir. We want you to come round and see 'im. 'E's very bad, sir.DOCTOR: Made rather fools of yourselves, haven't you?VISITOR: We ain't give 'im none o' Dr. Popham's medsun, sir; not a drop. We want you to come round, Doctor. 'E's very bad.DOCTOR: All right. I'll be round in half an hour.VISITOR: Can't you come round at once, sir? 'E's very bad. 'E don't seem able to swaller, sir, and there's lumps in 'is neck. And the man from the 'ealth orfice ain't ser much as bin near us.DOCTOR: That's your fault. I told him you were going to make a fuss, and I suppose he's busy and has put it off until to-morrow.VISITOR: Can't you make 'im come to-night, Doctor? The boy is very bad. And one of the other boys is sneezin', and the other one 'e says there is a funny feelin' in 'is thumb. Can't you come at once, Doctor?DOCTOR: Wait one minute, then, till I've written these prescriptions.VISITOR: Go' bless you, Doctor. We ain't ser much as looked at Dr. Popham's physic. We ain't, straight. The boy is very bad. 'Is face 'as gone a very funny colour. 'Ot this evenin', ain't it? Much obliged to you, I'm sure, Doctor. Think you kin put it right? The boyisbad. It's a 'ot evenin'. What they playin' at in the 'ealth orfice, Doctor—leavin' a man's child to die?XIXCURING THE CURER"Yes, Aunt Isobel," said James—"I quite agree with you. The silly old duffer ought certainly to take an anti-something. He's as down-hearted and high-tempered as possible.""Certainly," quoth Aunt Isobel—a thin and very definite lady, with a wire-woven manner—"somethingought to be done. Your father is looking very unwell. I attribute his condition to overwork and undernourishment.""Nourishment's all right, Aunt Isobel," protested James. "He eats enough to fill an ox."Aunt Isobel winced and raised an arresting forearm, as if to ward off some physical menace. "You really do employ the most trying phrases, my dear," she said. "Personally, I am a stronger believer in Anti-Nervo. Two tablets, three times a day—one before each meal, and one after. It is really a quite remarkable remedy. Poverty of blood is one of a great number of complaints for which the makers themselves especially recommend it. Poverty of blood is, of course, your father's chief trouble. He is much under-nourished.""You ought to see him walk into a steak," said James."If," pursued Aunt Isobel, "he really does receive a proper quantity of food, then I'm inclined to fear that it is food of poor quality. If, indeed, both the qualityandquantity of his food should prove to be adequate, I can only suppose that he is suffering from insufficient sleep. Or is it brain fag? Itmight, of course, be liver or weak heart. Or some secret trouble, perhaps. Anti-Nervo is strongly recommended for all these complaints. He must certainly be made to take some Anti-Nervo.""He must certainly be made to do something violent," admitted James. "He's certainly got hold of a most phenomenal hump."Aunt Isobel was again forced to push off imaginary assailants. "Wheredidyou learn, my dear," she inquired, in a poignant sort of tone, "to use such fearfully emancipated expressions? Another remedy in which I have the greatest possible faith is Sal-Toxine. Do you know Sal-Toxine? But, of course, you don't; it is quite a novel remedy. I myself have only—why, here is your dear father."And here, indeed, that gentleman was; wearing the gloomiest possible air, and a very dirty collar. He blundered heavily through the door, and cast himself heavily upon a chair. Having disembarrassed himself of a hat and a stethoscope, he delivered an original and entertaining monologue."May my bones burn in hell," he said, "if I conduct this profitable enterprise for another damned minute. I've got the largest and dirtiest and sickest collection of common drunks in London. I've got all the Phthisics from here to Limehouse. Every pre-ordained son of a witch of a bricklayer within hail of the parish has broken his bandy leg, and called me in to set it. Every single woman that ever worked in a jam factory is 'expecting' to-morrow, and there isn't a pint of milk or a handful of coal between six of 'em. I haven't slept a wink since yesterday morning, or sat down since last night. I haven't had a wash since Monday, or a drink since last April. I'm fed up."This speech was listened to by James with polite attention, but perfect calm. Aunt Isobel, upon the other hand, was unable to suppress a loudish shudder."Hullo!" cried Dr. Brink, with evident surprise. "Here's Isobel. How are you, Isobel? Hear you've changed parsons again. What a rabid young flirt you are.""We have been discussing the subject of your deplorable poverty of health," responded the flirt. "We have decided that you must be made to take a tonic—Anti-Nervo, say, or Sal-Toxine. We have the very greatest faith in them, especially Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets, three times daily: one before and one after each meal.""Can't I have one in my bath, as well?" asked Doctor Brink."The directions," responded Aunt Isobel, "are very explicit. Two tablets three times daily—one before and one after each meal. It is a wonderful remedy. My own doctor at Chiswick—areallyclever man—is perfectly charmed with it. He has analysed it several times. He has the most perfectly refined voice that I have ever met with in a man.Hetakes his profession quite seriously. He is an M.B. of Edinburgh, and a surgeon as well, and they say he is quite the youngest man who has ever attempted the two things at once. He plays the banjo most delightfully.""Good at cracking nuts, too, isn't he?" suggested the doctor in a tired voice."Of course," continued Aunt Isobel, "we don't want to insist upon Anti-Nervo if there is any other genuine tonic in which you have more faith. I know many extremely intelligent people who simply swear by Sal-Toxine; and then, of course, there is Pherantidote. I have heard that Our Queen uses that. What is your opinion of Pherantidote?""Well," responded Doctor Brink, "it's a dam small bottle for one-and-eight. Do you really think I'm seedy, Isobel?""We are both agreed that you require——""What I require, old girl," said Doctor Brink, rising slowly to his feet, "is a job in the City. I want to try a new system of exploitation. My game's too deadly simple: I'm tired of pumping aniline dye and water into hungry bellies for a thousand a year. I'm tired of the filthy working-man—tired of seeing him so close. He smells of beer, and his hands are so cold. His eyes are awful, and they give me nightmares.... I want to kill the cad more profitably. I want to start a trouser-button works, or some chutney mills, or something. I can't stand it any longer—this deadly boredom: this watching the dumb beast die.""Well," said Aunt Isobel, "I can seriously recommend you to pin your faith to Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets three times daily."
* * * * *
Our train moved on. And the elderly man at my right hand imparted a secret to me.
"That's their fust," he said.
I nodded, patiently.
"'E lay quiet enough when the music started. Did you notice?"
"Yes," I said, "I noticed."
"They're funny devils," said the man.
XV
INGRATES
"DR. BRINK. Important.
"DEAR DOCTOR,—Ther is a lady keeps on coming in a motor car, and her names is Mrs. Dudenay-Jones, and she is always at our place, and we think she 'as got a good intention, but my husband says he has had enough, and he thinks if we was to speak to you then perhaps you was to speak to her so perhaps she would stop it. She is a real lady, and always civil and polite, but my husband says we've had ennough. His mates has got to hear about it, and they call him Gordon Bennett, and he is a hardworking man.
"It is my daughter Kate she takes the interest in, the same what you give the light-brown mixture to for loosing her appetite. She wants to put her in a home at Margate, but my daughter has got a good home of her own, and she do not want to be beholding. And if a person goes to Margate you always bring back vermin, and there is enough work to keep a decent home without anybody need go to Margate and bring back vermin. And further and more, my Kate 'as got a bank book of her own, thank God, and when she wants to take a fortnight she can do it independent, and her young fellar the same, him what has the bottles of red from you for spots on the face.
"And so it is kindly to be hoped as you will kindly talk about it to the lady, you being reguly engaged by us for all these year, and knowing well that we are hardworking and independent, and not the kind as would wish to be beholding. And she come 4 times a week from Sat., and now it is only Tue., and she has been twice. It is no wonder as my daughter loose her appetite.
"And thanking with compts,"Your faithl,"SARAH BENNET,13, Markham Street, over against the Dairy.
"P.S.—Boy got 6d. Please send a bot. light brown for my daughter. Did my daughter ought to drink a wineglass full of vineger? They tell me it is good.
"The lady has always acted civil, so I hope you'll be the same.
"S. BENNETT."
* * * * *
It was this missive, reaching the doctor at his breakfast table, which caused a beautiful philanthropist to enter his surgery at tea-time. She came in immediate response to the doctor's invitation; she came with a rush, having been carried hither by her 80-h.p. 8-cylinder light touring car.
"And, oh,dearDr. Brink," she said, "how simply charming it is to meet you! One has so often read your bright little speeches about this shocking poverty. One simply yearns to do something. How one envies you your strength, your power, your splendid opportunities. How you mustrevelin your work here, Doctor! It must be simply charming!"
"About as charming," said the doctor, "as keeping pigs and sleeping with them."
The beautiful philanthropist broke into appreciative titters. "Pigs, Doctor!" she cried, with the archest look. "Pigs! He! he! And you call yourself a Socialist! Of course, I'm not a Socialist myself. One's husband cannot be expected to approve of such extremes as that. But one need not be a Socialist in order to feel sorry for them. Now, need one, Doctor? But when one is a woman, it is all so difficult. Oh, Doctor, can one donothing?"
"Onecan," replied the doctor; "but one won't. That, madame, is the difficulty."
"I don't quite understand you," said the lady.
"You ask me," explained the doctor, "whether one can do nothing. I reply that one can: that this is all we ask of one—to do nothing."
"To donothing?D-o-c-t-o-r!"
"It does sound revolutionary, perhaps," admitted the doctor. "But it is really true. We ask one to donothing. We ask one to be so kind as to sit at home and draw threads out of teacloths. And to draw cheques. But not to leave one's blameless hearth. We ask one to keep away. The pig-stye is a dirty pig-stye, and it's got to be cleaned by dirty people. Nice people—manicured people—-are best out of it. See?"
"I see that you want to be rude," said the lady, "but I don't—— What is it all about, Doctor?"
"This," said Dr. Brink. And he gave her Mrs. Bennett's letter. And she read it silently. And she stood up.
"Really, Doctor," she observed, "one doesn't quite know what to say. I'm sorry, I suppose. I will write and apologise to Mrs. Bennett. I'll go home and draw threads.
"Don't trouble to get up," she continued, as the doctor rose from his chair. "Don't trouble to get up. You are quite the rudest man I've ever met. Please don't trouble to get up."
She reached the door, but paused upon its threshold and turned to him again. "You are quite the rudest man I've ever met," she said again. "Quite the rudest.... I'll send you some money for your pigs."
XVI
BAFFIN'S FIND
Baffin came home one evening in a state of wild-eyed exaltation.
He had foundtheface for his "Mist Maiden." Its name was Prudence Croft.
It was coming to sit next day, and certain brothers of the brush were coming also to inspect and criticise Prudence.
Baffin's panegyrics quite interested me. I invited myself to join the party and my invitation was accepted.
So that I first saw Prudence under romantic circumstances. She was sitting on a sugar-box with her bodice off. The combination of her charms and a red flannel under-garment was startling to the eye.
Prudence was occupied, it seemed, in a proceeding called "sitting for the neck and shoulders." The process was not a restful one, for Prudence had "nerves" and "fidgets" and a constant flow of anecdote. Mr. Baffin made free with expressions of entreaty, disapprobation, and despair.
For myself, I sat and stared at Prudence, being consumed with a great wonder. It wasn't the flannel which provoked this wonder. Red flannel is a hideous material, and highly moral and depressing at that. And I am sure that the spectacle of a poor, anæmic rat of an artist's model seated in "half-costume" on a sugar-box is not (in itself) an attractive one. But Prudence fascinated me as no human being had fascinated me for many days.
If any of you have felt the poignant, horrible appeal of Ophelia during the "mad scene," you will know how I felt about Prudence. Her spare, consumptive body was crowned by a neck and face and head as beautiful as any that ever were. But it was a beauty that was monstrous in its perfection, and that, therefore, hurt like some monstrosity of ugliness.
Prudence's beauty was the beauty of imbecility—that which Rossetti loved so much to draw. To look at her for long was like looking at some exotic, over-nurtured lily in a hot-house: one felt sick and restless and unmanned, and fell to longing for some robuster blossom on a hedgerow.
She had the genuine Rossetti neck—a thing which rose and swelled and died away in exquisite, maddening curves. She had the genuine Rossetti nose—straight, and small, and delicate, and sinful. She had hair, a full arm's length, that crept and clung and strayed and floated like the tendrils of a vine. She had wide, inscrutable eyes: wondering as a child's, yet filled with an awful something that was not of childhood. She had, above all else, a mouth which stung you with its beauty—blood-red lips that were open and moist and eager, like a lover's wound.
To all these charms she added the mind and speech of a mud-lark: the intelligence of a backward infant.
"Ow, Mr. Baffin," she was saying when I saw her first, "ow, Mr. Baffin, youdofrighten me when you swear so. Iwillkeep still: I will, reely. I won't fidget or move or talk—I won't even breathe—for a 'ole ten minnits. On'y I must tell you about me an' my sister an' the penny-in-the-slot machine. Mother give us tuppence, see, 'cos it was washin' day, an'—— ... Ow, now you're angry, Mr. Baffin. Down't be angry, Mr. Baffin. I am a wicked girl, I know I am, an' Iwillkeep still: an' Gawd knows what's to become of me when my mother dies, an' everybody 'ates me, an' Iamun'eppy."
The remainder of Prudence's observations were mingled with the sound of noisy sobs.
Mr. Baffin, that eminent painter, put down his palette and brush. "I'll wait," he said, "until you are dry again."
"Down't be engry with me, Mr. Baffin," moaned Prudence. "I'll be a good gel now—I will, reely—if on'y yew wown't be engry with me."
"Very well, then," answered Baffin. "You can begin to be a good girl now. I 'm not angry with youanymore, and if only you keep still for five little minutes while I get in the curves of the chin, I'll let you talk and wriggle as much as you like for a whole ten minutes. Now hold your head up."
So Prudence ceased her lamentations, and held her head up—for five-and-thirty seconds. At the end of that period an interesting thought occurred to her.
"It'll be Christmas in four months," she observed, wriggling delightedly. "I'm gownter give my muvver somethingsownice fur Christmas' I'm gownter give 'er a—— Ow, Mr. Baffin, you're angry with me agen. Iama bad gel, I know I am; but——"
"You can leave off helping me for a minute or two," said Baffin quietly. "I've got to do some scraping here, so you can have the wriggle now. What is this about Christmas?"
"I got two guineas comin' tomefur Christmas—per'aps. I sat to Mr. Baker fur 'is 'Birth of Wonder,' an' when 'e sells it 'e is gointer gimme two guineas!"
Baffin looked at me, and I nodded in appreciation of his glance. Everybody knows, of course, that Mr. Wilberforce Baker, the eminent Academician, disposed of his "Birth of Wonder" last June. It was his tenth annual contribution to that remarkable collection of pictures now being formed under a bequest of the late Mr. Bantry—Mr. Wilberforce Baker himself being a trustee of the fund bequeathed for that purpose. Baffin excommunicated that distinguished artist in dumb show.
"I shouldn't count on the two guineas," was all he said to Prudence. "... How long is it since you sat for Mr. Baker?"
"Ow,everso lung!" answered Prudence. "Down't know why 'tis, I'm sure, on'y I down't seem to be able to get now sittin'snow'ow. They all say I'm pretty an' that; an' they all rave about me neck: an' they all tell me to call agen; but nothink ever comes of it. Can't make it out atall, I can't?"
"You are lacking in the quality of perception, my dear," explained Baffin.
"Beg your pardon?" queried Prudence.
"I say," repeated Baffin, "that you are lacking—that you are damned slow at seeing things!"
"Ow, Mr. Baffin, youarea naughty man. Fancy usin' such wicked words. My mother says it is on'y bad people what uses words like that. My mother cut 'er finger yesterday, makin' toast. We got the drains up inour'ouse. Ugly things, them little kittens, ain't they? I 'ates 'em when they're crawly, like those."
Prudence, making a wry face, pointed to a basket beside the sugar-box. This contained a family of illegitimate kittens which James had adopted out of Christian charity.
"I'atecats," continued Prudence in her childish, sing-song voice. "I ate all animals. I like goin' to the theayter, though. I like goin' to church too. I like——"
She would have provided us, doubtless, with an exhaustive list of her enthusiasms; but the door of the studio opened, and gave entrance to those brothers of the brush whose coming was expected.
They looked upon Prudence, and were staggered.
"Where in Hell did you find her?" they inquired of Baffin, and discharged a volley of most wonderful expletives in evidence of their surprise and appreciation and envy. And they hanked her off the sugar-box, and turned her this way and that way, inspecting her "form" in much the same manner as that adopted by farmers when buying horseflesh.
"Chin up, please; more to the right. Now to the left. Ah! Get over there, under that top light. Profile, please. Ah! How about shoulders: salt-cellars, I expect; they always have. Pull that thing down. Ah! Not so bad as I feared. No good for the figure, but—but that neck! Trust old Baffin to find 'em, eh, John?"
There was to me something inexplicably delightful in the utter sexlessness of this admiration. To say the least, it was ungallant and sane. And Prudence evidently shared this feeling. The childish vanity in her eyes was unmistakable, and she walked back to her throne on the sugar-box with a strut that real queens might have envied.
Baffin tried to resume work on the picture; but Prudence's gifts of anecdote were as yet unexhausted, and she found it necessary to tell what Mr. Wilberforce Baker had said to Mr. Jerningham Jukes, and what Mr. J. J. had said to Mr. W. B., and what she had said to both of them, and what her mother had suffered under chloroform. And she giggled, and she wriggled, and she apologised, and she wept, and she wriggled and she giggled again. And Comrade of Brush No. 1 observed to Comrade of Brush No. 2 that this sort of thing would not be good enough at any price. Comrade No. 2 sniffed assentingly. "And what the blazes," he inquired, "does she want to wear that beastly flannel for?"
"Ah!" grunted No. 1. "I say, Baffin, why does she wear red flannel? Makes chaps sick."
Baffin referred the matter to headquarters. "What do you dress yourself up like a sore throat for, Prudence?" he inquired. "Why do you wear red flannel?"
Prudence's eyes were wide with amazement. "Ow, Mr. Baffin," she tittered, "yewarea funny men! ... I got pretty things at 'owm. But what's the good o' wearin' 'em out in the studios?"
"You are lacking, my dear girl, in the quality of perception." Baffin uttered these words with an oracular air.
The Comrades made their adieux. "Not if shepaidme to paint her," whispered No. 1, with a jerk of the head towards Prudence. "But, Lord,whata profile! A tricky man could work wonders with that head."
"Pity she spoils herself," added Comrade No. 2. And they departed.
"Hear what those gentlemen said?" demanded Baffin, as the door closed.... "You are too talkative, and you giggle too much, and you wriggle too much. And you should leave off red flannel, and make yourself nice. You could make a lot of money if you took care of yourself. Think of the nice things you could give your mother then!"
"My mother's got a abscess," moaned Prudence, "an' I believe she'll die, an' then I'll starve, 'cause I'm a good-for-nothin' gel, an' I wown't sit still, an'—an' me figure's too flat. But I'm learnin' to croshy, an' Iwillbe better. Shall I come termorrer, Mr. Baffin?"
"Come on Friday," answered Baffin. "And," he added, "come in a nice, unwrigglesome frame of mind. You shall have cream and tea and muffins if you are a good girl."
"Ooer!" cried Prudence. "I like muffins. And I like cream, and I like claret... 'Ere"—her face suddenly grew grave, grave as a child's at play with toys—"'ere, Mr. Baffin, do you believe in auctioneers?"
"Do I believe inwhat?" shouted Baffin.
"Auctioneers," repeated Prudence, with a pout. "Don't be angry with me; I won't ask agen, if you don't like.
"On'y ... what you want to look at me so queer for? I can't 'elp bein' silly. Iamsilly. On'y ... I wonder if a auctioneer is the sort of man that anybody ought to trust?"
XVII
MR. WEST'S WIFE
"Is this the young man?" said Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, sitting up in bed and shading a very white face with a very hot hand. "Oh, I daresay 'e'll do! 'Tain't much, I'm told. No doubt 'e'll manage it."
That task which Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, thus coldly confided to my management was the witnessing of her will. Dr. Brink had volunteered to execute this document for her; and a sniggering youth had haled me from the snugness of the doctor's waiting chariot to come upstairs and sign.
After my formal presentation to Mrs. West, there was an interval of silence, broken only by the scratchy-scratchy of the doctor's pen, as he hastily constructed a form of bequest.
I employed this interval in taking stock of the testator's estate, the whole of which was contained within her room. There were two bedsteads, one (a little folding thing) being devoted to the uses of the sniggering boy who, be it stated, figured in the document which was now being prepared as sole legatee. The other bedstead—that on which the patient lay—was obviously a veteran bedstead which had seen much of the world. It was a circumstantial, ponderous bedstead, and wore still a pompous air, although its ironwork was rusted and its lacquered parts had quite lost their complexion. This bedstead also bore a superstructure designed to carry a canopy; but all that hung there now were certain moth-eaten petticoats. There was a chest of drawers among the assets, and a cork model of the Tower of London, and a wash-basin and two soap dishes, and two dumb clocks and the mechanism of another, and a work of art designed in multi-coloured wools, and having reference to the parable of the fig tree.
"Make it all over to 'im," said Mrs. West; "all what I, the undersigned, may die possessed of. I won't 'ave 'is stuck-up sister touch a stick of it. 'E's bin a good boy to me, Bert 'as. It'll be a 'ome for 'im.
"It's bin a near touch for me, what, Doctor?" pursued the testator.
"Pooh!" murmured the doctor, still writing rapidly, "you're not going this time."
"I know that," said the woman. "Not as I take any notice whatyousay—you an' your soft soap. But I know inmeselfas it's all right this time. On'y you never know what's gointer 'appen with the next attack, do you, now? And it'll be a 'ome for the boy. 'E's gettin' good money at the dye works now. 'E'll be all right if 'e's got a 'ome. You ain't puttin' it so'sshecan touch a share, I 'ope, Doctor?"
"Who's she?"
"'Er what I spoke about—what calls 'erself my daughter. 'Er what's married into the perlice. 'Er what's ashamed of 'er own father!"
"I am putting it," explained the doctor, "so that you leave all of which you may die possessed to your son Albert. It's quite definite. You may sign now. This gentleman and myself will witness your signature."
"Lift me up, then," said Mrs. West.
She signed her name in a shaky but accomplished hand. "Be careful, young man," she admonished me, when my turn arrived.
All the formalities being concluded, Mrs. West sank back upon her pillow with a grunt of contentment. "It'll be a 'ome for the boy," she said. "And if 'is fathershouldturn up——"
"Has he got a father, then?" questioned the doctor, rather, I think, with the object of displaying an intelligent interest than from any genuine curiosity. Youareapt to lose your genuine curiosity when this sort of confidence is thrust upon you ten times daily.
"Got a father!" echoed Mrs. West, with evident amazement at the doctor's ignorance. "Ain't you 'eard, then?"
"Heard what?" demanded Dr. Brink.
"About my 'usband. The Midland Malt Comp'ny, you know!'
"Well, really now," replied the doctor, looking painfully confused, "upon my word, Idon'tknow."
"You must go about your business in a very funny way, then," reflected Mrs. West. "It's bin the talk o' Limus. 'E done 'em in for eight 'undred quid—'im an' another man."
"Done 'em in!" repeated the doctor. "Who? What?"
"The Midland Malt Company, same's I told you," expounded Mrs. West. "'E was night watchman, Mr. West was—'im an' another man—an' they took eight 'undred quid. 'E got away with 'arf of it, too. The perlice 'as bin investigatin' ever since."
Dr. Brink still looked a little puzzled. "You mean, in fact—do I understand that your husband stole eight hundred pounds?"
"Mr. West an' another man—yes," responded the woman, quite without feeling. "'Im an' 'is mate, they done in eight 'undred. On'y 'is mate, I'm sorry to say, 'e never got 'is share. The perlice got that. They got 'im, too. But they never got Mr. West."
"How did he escape?" demanded the doctor. And I held my breath. I wondered that the desperado's wife could talk so quietly. "How did he escape?" asked the doctor again.
"Mr. West?" queried the woman. "Oh," she said, with great simplicity, "'e went away.
"It was like this yere," said Mr. West's wife:—
"I was asleep, you see—in this bed yere, an' it was dark—all in the middle o' the night, you see. An' he struck a match an' he woke me up.
"'What's that?' I says, with a start like, an' when I see it was Mr. West I lay down again.
"'Ann,' 'e says, 'wake up. I've got some money 'ere,' 'e says. An' 'e lights a bit o' candle, an' I sits up, an' there on the table—that very table—there was a 'eap o' sovereigns what 'e'd rolled out of a sack. 'I've took these from the company. I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West.
"An' 'e gets into 'is Sunday shoot an' 'e shaves 'isself. An' 'e puts a lot o' the money more'n four 'undred pounds—into a little brown bag, an' 'e puts the rest in the coal cupboard. 'The perlice 'll come for that in the mornin',' says Mr. West. 'Let 'em find it there. An' you,' 'e says, 'you don't know nothink.'
"'An' what about you?' I says.
"'I'm goin' away,' says Mr. West. 'I'll write you when it's safe. Give my love to Rosa.'
"Rosa is my sister's niece, what 'e'd always carried on with—innocent like, in a jokin' sort o' way, if you understand me.
"'An' remember,' says Mr. West to me again, 'as you don't know a thing. They'll find the money in the coal 'ole, so don't you try to stop 'em.'
"An' then Mr. West, 'e kissed me same as usual, an' 'e blowed out the light. An' 'e went away."
* * * * *
"I suppose that the police turned up all right?" suggested Dr. Brink, when he had duly considered this simple story.
"The perlice," responded the woman, who had talked more than was good for her, and now looked paler, if possible, than before—"the perlice was very rude an' rough to me. They found the money in the coal cupboard, an' they took it away. But that didn't satisfy them. It on'y seemed to aggerivate them. An' night after night they come round 'ere, an' they was very rough to me. But they ain't got 'old o' Mr. West.
"'E's bin gone a year now, all but five weeks. An' they ain't caught 'im, an' they never will. I believe it would please that daughter o' mine—the wicked, vain, unfeelin' thing—if theywasto catch 'm.
"Mr. West, 'e 'aven't wrote me, nor I don't suppose 'e will. Mr. West is a careful sort. Ididsend round the other day to a place where I thought there might be noos o' 'im; but there wasn't no noos o' 'im.
"Not that I worry meself about'im, if you understand. Mr. West would be all right, wherever it was. 'E's the sort that kin take care o' 'isself, 'e is. It's the boy—young Bert—I'm thinkin' of. Mr. West would be very cut up, 'e would, to think as Bert should come to any 'arm."
This reference to the nice paternal feeling of Mr. West affected us both strangely.
"But," continued Mrs. West, "I'm leavin' 'im the 'ome, at all events. Bert can't come to no pertickler 'arm so long's 'e's got a home.
"Mr. West 'isself was always a rare one for 'ome. The boy takes arter 'im."
XVIII
THREE DIALOGUES
The Mission of the Healer is a fine and a noble one, and I have often confided this original thought to my friend Doctor Brink, who declares that such confidences are helpful to him. And I now desire to record, without comment, three dialogues which drifted in to me at intervals one Sunday, when I was sitting on the doctor's gas-stove.
I.—MORNING
VISITOR: And 'e's ser fretful, Doctor, and 'is breathin's ser sick, and 'e don't appear to 'ave no appetite.
DOCTOR: Bring him to the light here. I just want—ah!
VISITOR: I give 'im a soothin' powder, too, last night—a large one. I bought it at the chimmis. They're supposed to be very good, them Parker's soothin' powders.
DOCTOR: I'm afraid that this is rather serious.
VISITOR: Down't you think they're very good, Doctor—them Parker's soothin' powders?
DOCTOR: I'm afraid there's not much doubt that this child has got diphtheria.
VISITOR: I bin very careful with 'im, Doctor. I give 'im a soothin' powder.
DOCTOR: Where do you live?
VISITOR: Fourteen Mulberry Street. It's next to the oil shop.
DOCTOR: How many rooms?
VISITOR: Was you gointer send 'im away then, Doctor? Oh, down't send 'im away?
DOCTOR: How many rooms?
VISITOR: Down't send 'im away, Doctor!
DOCTOR: I haven't said anything about sending him away—so far. Answer my questions like a sensible woman. You want him to get better, don't you?
VISITOR: I down't want you to send 'im away. I kin look arter 'im meself. There's on'y six of us, an' we got three rooms, an the other two boys kin sleep with me mother in the kitchen? Down't send him away!
DOCTOR: I'm very much afraid, Mrs.—ah—Mrs. Cooper, that it doesn't quite rest with me whether the boy is taken away or not. He's got diphtheria, that's certain, and I'm legally compelled to report the case. It is for the Public Health people to decide whether they take the boy or leave him.Ithink you ought to be glad to let him go. He'll be well looked after.
VISITOR: Down't send 'im away!
DOCTOR: But why not, Mrs. Cooper? You want him to get better, don't you. You can't possibly nurse him yourself. You have the other children to attend to, and the home to take care of, and your husband——
VISITOR: Yus, an' there's me 'usband, too. 'E won't let you take 'im.
DOCTOR (very patiently): I've said before that I don't want to take him. It is the health officers who will take him if he's taken at all. My duty is done when I've reported the case.
VISITOR: What you wanter tell 'em for? What you wanter put the little chap away for?
DOCTOR: I'm telling them because I shall be punished if I don't. But I think it's very foolish and ungrateful of you to make this fuss. I only want to do the best I can for you and your baby. You want him to get better, don't you?
VISITOR: Down't send 'im away! Let me send me 'usband round to talk to you. Never mind about the punishment an' that, Doctor. My 'usband won't tell nobody. I'd like you to talk to me 'usband, Doctor.
DOCTOR: And I would rather like to talk to your husband. I can explain things more clearly to him, perhaps. Send him round at once.
VISITOR: Very likely it ain't the diftheria at all, Doctor. I'm sure me 'usband won't 'ave 'im took away.
II.—MIDDAY
DOCTOR: And what can I do foryou?
VISITOR: I come round yere to talk about the boy Cooper. I'm 'is father. The child ain't to be took away, see? 'E ain't got diftheria at all.
DOCTOR: I'm sorry to have to differ from your diagnosis, Mr. Cooper, but the childhasgot diphtheria. And I'm very much afraid that he's got to be taken away. It doesn't rest with me; I merely have to report——
VISITOR: If you wanter know the troof, Doctor, we've called in Doctor Popham. See? And Doctor Popham don't believe as the boy 'ave got diftheria at all. And 'e's sent the boy some physic. And 'e's gointer 'ave another look at 'im termorrer. And we've took the case outer your 'ands, see? So you needn't trouble to send in no reports to nobody. That child ain't bein' took away. You needn't trouble to interfere no more. The boy is stoppin' 'ome, along of 'is lawful parents. See?
DOCTOR: Did Doctor Popham examine the child's throat?
VISITOR: What's that gotter do with you? The boy ain't got diftheria. And 'e ain't gotter be moved.
DOCTOR: It has got this much to do with me—that Ididexamine the child's throat. I'm not suggesting to you that I think he has diphtheria; I'm telling you that he jolly wellhasgot it. Iknow. When you go home you can see for yourself. Look in the little chap's throat and you will see a round white patch about the size of a sixpence. That, my friend, is diphtheria.
VISITOR: The boy ain't gotter be moved.
DOCTOR: That's not my business. Somebody else will decide about that. But I don't suppose he'll let you murder the child, even if you are its father.
VISITOR: 'E's my child, ain't 'e? And 'e's in my 'ouse. Nobody ain't gointer take my child away without I tells 'em to. See?
DOCTOR: It isn't only this one child we have to consider. What about your two other children? What about all the other children in the house?
VISITOR: Let other people look after their own, same's what I'm willing to do furmyown. A man's got a right to 'is own children and nobody ain't gointer touch no child o' mine without I lets 'em.
DOCTOR: You stand on your rights, do you?
VISITOR: That's it. All the corpuscular 'ealth orficers in England ain't gointer take my lawful child away from me. See?
DOCTOR: I don't know whether it's ever been mentioned to you before, but you are rather by way of being a Social Problem.
VISITOR: It ain't your place to be saucy. I know me rights, and neither you nor any man is going to tell me as it's right to rob a person of their lawful child. And I don't want none of your sneers nor I don't want none of your nicknames. You're out o' this job, see? I've called in Dr. Popham. You and yere Latin nicknames!
DOCTOR: I can put it into English if you like. You're a pudding-headed fool. Good-day.
VISITOR: What about my child? Are you gointer promise to leave 'im alone?
DOCTOR: Of course I am. You can kill your whole family for all I care. I've sent in my report to the authorities, and there's an end of it. Good-day.
VISITOR: You've reported, 'ave ye? Oh, very well, then. We'll see. That boy ain't gotter be shifted. See?
DOCTOR: All right. Get out.
VISITOR: We've called in Dr. Popham, and 'e's weighedyouup. See? The boy ain't got diftheria at all. Nor 'e ain't gotter be shifted.
DOCTOR (in simpler terms): May Heaven administer to your requirements. Get out.
III.—EVENING
VISITOR: If you please, Doctor, I come round ere about the boy Cooper. I'm the father, sir. We want you to come round and see 'im. 'E's very bad, sir.
DOCTOR: Made rather fools of yourselves, haven't you?
VISITOR: We ain't give 'im none o' Dr. Popham's medsun, sir; not a drop. We want you to come round, Doctor. 'E's very bad.
DOCTOR: All right. I'll be round in half an hour.
VISITOR: Can't you come round at once, sir? 'E's very bad. 'E don't seem able to swaller, sir, and there's lumps in 'is neck. And the man from the 'ealth orfice ain't ser much as bin near us.
DOCTOR: That's your fault. I told him you were going to make a fuss, and I suppose he's busy and has put it off until to-morrow.
VISITOR: Can't you make 'im come to-night, Doctor? The boy is very bad. And one of the other boys is sneezin', and the other one 'e says there is a funny feelin' in 'is thumb. Can't you come at once, Doctor?
DOCTOR: Wait one minute, then, till I've written these prescriptions.
VISITOR: Go' bless you, Doctor. We ain't ser much as looked at Dr. Popham's physic. We ain't, straight. The boy is very bad. 'Is face 'as gone a very funny colour. 'Ot this evenin', ain't it? Much obliged to you, I'm sure, Doctor. Think you kin put it right? The boyisbad. It's a 'ot evenin'. What they playin' at in the 'ealth orfice, Doctor—leavin' a man's child to die?
XIX
CURING THE CURER
"Yes, Aunt Isobel," said James—"I quite agree with you. The silly old duffer ought certainly to take an anti-something. He's as down-hearted and high-tempered as possible."
"Certainly," quoth Aunt Isobel—a thin and very definite lady, with a wire-woven manner—"somethingought to be done. Your father is looking very unwell. I attribute his condition to overwork and undernourishment."
"Nourishment's all right, Aunt Isobel," protested James. "He eats enough to fill an ox."
Aunt Isobel winced and raised an arresting forearm, as if to ward off some physical menace. "You really do employ the most trying phrases, my dear," she said. "Personally, I am a stronger believer in Anti-Nervo. Two tablets, three times a day—one before each meal, and one after. It is really a quite remarkable remedy. Poverty of blood is one of a great number of complaints for which the makers themselves especially recommend it. Poverty of blood is, of course, your father's chief trouble. He is much under-nourished."
"You ought to see him walk into a steak," said James.
"If," pursued Aunt Isobel, "he really does receive a proper quantity of food, then I'm inclined to fear that it is food of poor quality. If, indeed, both the qualityandquantity of his food should prove to be adequate, I can only suppose that he is suffering from insufficient sleep. Or is it brain fag? Itmight, of course, be liver or weak heart. Or some secret trouble, perhaps. Anti-Nervo is strongly recommended for all these complaints. He must certainly be made to take some Anti-Nervo."
"He must certainly be made to do something violent," admitted James. "He's certainly got hold of a most phenomenal hump."
Aunt Isobel was again forced to push off imaginary assailants. "Wheredidyou learn, my dear," she inquired, in a poignant sort of tone, "to use such fearfully emancipated expressions? Another remedy in which I have the greatest possible faith is Sal-Toxine. Do you know Sal-Toxine? But, of course, you don't; it is quite a novel remedy. I myself have only—why, here is your dear father."
And here, indeed, that gentleman was; wearing the gloomiest possible air, and a very dirty collar. He blundered heavily through the door, and cast himself heavily upon a chair. Having disembarrassed himself of a hat and a stethoscope, he delivered an original and entertaining monologue.
"May my bones burn in hell," he said, "if I conduct this profitable enterprise for another damned minute. I've got the largest and dirtiest and sickest collection of common drunks in London. I've got all the Phthisics from here to Limehouse. Every pre-ordained son of a witch of a bricklayer within hail of the parish has broken his bandy leg, and called me in to set it. Every single woman that ever worked in a jam factory is 'expecting' to-morrow, and there isn't a pint of milk or a handful of coal between six of 'em. I haven't slept a wink since yesterday morning, or sat down since last night. I haven't had a wash since Monday, or a drink since last April. I'm fed up."
This speech was listened to by James with polite attention, but perfect calm. Aunt Isobel, upon the other hand, was unable to suppress a loudish shudder.
"Hullo!" cried Dr. Brink, with evident surprise. "Here's Isobel. How are you, Isobel? Hear you've changed parsons again. What a rabid young flirt you are."
"We have been discussing the subject of your deplorable poverty of health," responded the flirt. "We have decided that you must be made to take a tonic—Anti-Nervo, say, or Sal-Toxine. We have the very greatest faith in them, especially Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets, three times daily: one before and one after each meal."
"Can't I have one in my bath, as well?" asked Doctor Brink.
"The directions," responded Aunt Isobel, "are very explicit. Two tablets three times daily—one before and one after each meal. It is a wonderful remedy. My own doctor at Chiswick—areallyclever man—is perfectly charmed with it. He has analysed it several times. He has the most perfectly refined voice that I have ever met with in a man.Hetakes his profession quite seriously. He is an M.B. of Edinburgh, and a surgeon as well, and they say he is quite the youngest man who has ever attempted the two things at once. He plays the banjo most delightfully."
"Good at cracking nuts, too, isn't he?" suggested the doctor in a tired voice.
"Of course," continued Aunt Isobel, "we don't want to insist upon Anti-Nervo if there is any other genuine tonic in which you have more faith. I know many extremely intelligent people who simply swear by Sal-Toxine; and then, of course, there is Pherantidote. I have heard that Our Queen uses that. What is your opinion of Pherantidote?"
"Well," responded Doctor Brink, "it's a dam small bottle for one-and-eight. Do you really think I'm seedy, Isobel?"
"We are both agreed that you require——"
"What I require, old girl," said Doctor Brink, rising slowly to his feet, "is a job in the City. I want to try a new system of exploitation. My game's too deadly simple: I'm tired of pumping aniline dye and water into hungry bellies for a thousand a year. I'm tired of the filthy working-man—tired of seeing him so close. He smells of beer, and his hands are so cold. His eyes are awful, and they give me nightmares.... I want to kill the cad more profitably. I want to start a trouser-button works, or some chutney mills, or something. I can't stand it any longer—this deadly boredom: this watching the dumb beast die."
"Well," said Aunt Isobel, "I can seriously recommend you to pin your faith to Anti-Nervo. You take two tablets three times daily."