I set out, sedately enough, one April morning, to rescue James from her aunt at Bayswater. I set out grandly enthroned upon a 'bus.But I came quite unexpectedly upon this April Barge, and James and her aunt were forgotten.The April sun had come out sharp to time, you see, and was winking fitfully upon all of us, like the unsettled, rakish fellow that he is. And a girl with two great baskets full of wondering daffodils had come out, too; and some conscienceless vagabond was extracting melody from a cornet. So that even the Regent's Canal, with its sombre vicinage and sulky craft, seemed, as if by some surprising effort, to have taken on an air of sweetness and youth and hope.You could consider this fact at leisure as our 'bus toiled slowly up the rise of a road which spans the canal. There was a public-house in front of us—the public-house and the cornet seem to be inseparably united in this neighbourhood—but the canal was to one's left, and appeared, somehow, to convey that air of refreshment which the tavern so conspicuously lacked.As one looked down upon the face of these waters, so strangely heartened by the sunlight, a sort of certainty grew upon him that they would break suddenly into perspective; that their vista would cease to be obscured by coal wharves and cranes and hoardings; that somebody's whisky, commended to your notice in large white letters on a blue-enamelled background, would fade and fade and fade, until it merged with the white clouds and the blue sky behind it. Then need you but sigh and sit back, beholding a silver streak set snugly between hills, and flowing, flowing, flowing to the edge of the world. Instead of which——Pooh! There was no instead. The April sun kept winking at the daffodils, and the daffodils kept staring at the sun, and the cornet-man made music by the waterside. So that even a poet might have smiled at it all. For here, I'll swear, was none of your mere "waterways," created by syndicates for profit; here was none of your world capitals. Just a little old river, sunning itself gratefully in a little old town that God had made.And, as if to strengthen this conceit, a woman came up through the hatchway of a barge that I was looking at. She was wearing a sun-bonnet, in accordance with the custom of barge-women, and she stood up gracefully, one hand on her hip, the other before her eyes, to seek out the cornet player.We are the boys of the bulldawg breedWhat's made ole Hengland's Nime.Those were the words which had inspired the melody which the cornet-blower was blowing. The woman tapped her foot in time with the notes.Her husband came up then, accompanied by tobacco clouds and a baby. He seemed to be a fortunate sort of husband, for I noticed that the woman laughed appreciatively at some joke which he made.Then the man's eye wandered to the canal-side, and he caught sight of the daffodil-girl, who was standing there. And what must the fellow do but throw kisses to her, which gallantry was reciprocated by the flower-girl. The barge-woman laughed at this new jest with even more good humour (if that were possible) than that which she had shown before. The man shouted some message or other to the flower-girl, and she replied, whereupon he handed the baby to his wife, saying, "Catch 'old, Fatty!"—an utterance which I heard without hearing, as one can when an April sun is shining on men's hearts. And, advancing to the side of the boat, the man held out his arms, and the girl threw daffodils towards him.The first bloom fell into the water, and the second; the third he caught. One more poor daffodil was drowned, and he caught the two next. So that there was one for his cap, and one for the missus, and one for the baby, who, being now safely delivered from the paternal arms (which were not built for cradling babies), needed but the additional stimulus of a yellow thing to marvel at ere it smiled as largely as any of them.And upon my word I smiled, too, and could, indeed, have laughed outright. But I sat in awe of a fat man on the adjacent seat. He did not belong to that order of lunatics who laugh for nothing in the sunshine. "What we want," he was saying to his companion, "what we want," he said, with his eyes fixed tight upon this April barge, "what we want is a totalchange of Government. Nothin' won't ever be right again till we get it."I had a heavy parcel of books on my knee, and to drop them heavily upon his foot had been, as it were, the accident of a moment. But the sweet temperance of springtime had stolen into my blood, and I forbore. Besides which there were the barges and the daffodils, and they were better worth a man's consideration than this fool.So I looked over the side again, and saw that the barge-man had turned his attention to the cornet-blower, with whom he was exchanging highly flavoured sarcasms. With a view, probably, of adding zest to his humours, and because a springtime madness was upon him, he had changed headgear with his wife, and stood there in her sun-bonnet, grimacing and laughing. He had a long barge-pole in his hand, and somehow—I don't quite know how it happened—in assuming to hurl that weapon at the cornet-blower, he overbalanced himself, and fell sideways into the water, striking his head as he fell against the side of another barge, which was moored close to his own in that jumble fashion which is peculiar to barges.He came up again almost directly, looking queer in his wife's sun-bonnet (for he had tied the tapes beneath his chin), and then immediately sank again. The nerveless ineptitude of it all made one angry with the man: it seemed to be wilful.As for the wife, she looked wonderingly over the side, and realisation came to her so slowly that a laugh still flickered faintly on her face when he came up again. Even then, the sound which she uttered was as much like a chuckle as a cry. And when words came to her, they were few enough. "Oh, my pore man!" she moaned. "Oh, my pore man! Oh, my pore man!"And the baby lay on its back, and chuckled knowingly into the petals of a dishevelled daffodil.Our 'bus had made the bend of the canal bank by this time, and now was parallel with the water, and exactly opposite to this barge. Under the united stimulus of instinctive curiosity and instinctive horror, the driver pulled up sharp; and so the 'bus stood still, and we passengers sat there, gaping at that funny thing in the sun-bonnet as it came up for a second time and sank again."Oh, my pore man! Oh, my pore man!" moaned the wife.And the cornet-blower, pale with horror, still applied himself automatically to the cornet. He had changed his tune since first I heard him, and the aquatic feats of the man in the sun-bonnet were conducted to music, the strains of which, being interpreted into words, ran as follows—Hi! Hi! clear the roadFor the rowdy, dowdy boys.It came up again for the third time, and the woman on the barge grabbed frantically at nothing, and tore her arm in the effort, so that a crimson splash mingled with the eddying waters as he sank again.And then the cornet-blower remembered himself, and dropped his cornet hastily, as though it burned him. And, of all queer things for a cornet-blower to do, he blubbered weakly, like a woman found out.And the mischievous sun cast his shadow upon the water, and caused it to dance joyously thereon, so that you would have deemed it to be the shadow of one consumed with joy."Oh, my pore man!" cried the wife. "Oh, my pore man! Oh, my pore man!"And the fat person from the next seat said to his friend, "I saw it comin'. The giddy fool was larkin' about like a ape." And, in the meantime, the giddy fool did not come up again.Suddenly the flower-girl spoke. "My Gawd!" she screamed, struggling feverishly to disentangle herself from her shawl and the straps of her basket and her fringe; "my Gawd! where's all the blarsted men got to? What's 'appened to you? For Christ's sake find aman, you fools!"The 'bus emptied itself, and men ran into each other along the roadway, and somebody ran for a policeman. So that there was a great deal of noise and bustle shorewards. But at the same time certain male persons of a much more silent and effective character made their appearance upon the barges adjacent to the April barge. They did not shout, and they did not run about much. They fetched poles and produced ropes, and one of their number climbed into the water at the end of one; and presently, after much probing and searching and jerking (and not a little swearing), they brought him up at the end of a barge-pole, with a slime concealing all of him except the sun-bonnet, which had slipped upon one side, and looked more comical than ever."Oh, my pore man!" cried the barge-woman, who by now was surrounded by a stimulating coterie of other barge-women."E'sdone for!" said my fat neighbour, and spat contentedly.And the baby snatched at its mother's head, which was still covered with her husband's hat, from which a single daffodil was dangling.In the meantime, they laid him down upon the deck of a barge, and relays of men, acting under the direction of a policeman, jerked at his arms, and pulled his legs, and pummelled his chest. But, as the fat man had said,hewas done for, and these exhausting efforts only made the baby laugh. So they lifted him hurriedly, with a change of manner, as befitted a changed burden, and conveyed him to the shore, where he was placed upon an ambulance and deported.The fat man formed himself into an impromptu committee of inspection. He returned to his friend (and my side) after a lengthy dalliance by the ambulance, and spoke as one well pleased."Crack in 'is 'ead as long as my 'and. 'Orrible! Never noted afore that blood 'ad such a salty smell to it. Quite sickly, ain't it? To think of it, poor fool! ... And on a day like this, too!"And he took off his hat and sunned himself. "I'm for a drink arter all that," he added; and, his companion agreeing with him, he walked over to the tavern, in company with many other of the 'bus passengers, and the driver and conductor of that vehicle, and most of the barge-men.They took the cornet-blower with them, and somebody collected a store of coppers in that musician's interest, with which he was presented upon the understanding that he should "bite off a yard o' somethink lively" to cheer the mourning host withal.So while the woman on the barge was being carried below deck by her sympathisers; whilst faint gurgles issued from the daffodil-girl, standing over her baskets by the water-side; whilst the sun winked down upon all of us—the cornet-blower threw out his chest with an air something at variance with the muddy tears upon his cheek, and blared out a song of mourning.Leave off tickerlin', leave off tickerlin',Leave off tickerlin', Jock!sang the mourners; and the jolly young sun must have winked itself into a headache.By the time our 'bus went on again every note of tragedy save one had departed from the scene. That solitary note was supplied by the daffodil-girl, who stood by her garden dabbing disconsolately at her nose and eyes with an apron-end.Nought was stirring on the April barge, save one plump little figure, which squatted all by itself in the centre of the deck. They had forgotten the baby in this coil. But the baby was quite happy—happier than any of them. For it sat there, eating its father's cap, and smiling amiably at the sunshine, as who should know that there is a benign and beautiful purpose in everything, even unto the falling of a sparrow.The daffodils upon the waterside, pressing each other close within their baskets, stared up into the heavens more wonderingly than ever.XXVIITHE CASE OF MRS. ROPER"Beg pardon, young fellar," said Mrs. Roper, "but ain't you the young fellar from the doctor's?"Mrs. Roper is a sullen-eyed lady with very many chins. She is,videher shop sign, a dealer in antiques, and, to quote the same authority, old metal, old teeth, old glass and china, and every variety of new and second-hand wearing apparel are bought and sold by her. She is not the cleanest woman in London, nor is her shop the cleanest in Bovingdon Street. But there is charm in the variety and abundance of Mrs. Roper's assets, which are the working parts, as it were, of our complex civilisation, amongst which tokens Mrs. Roper is always sitting, silently, mournfully, by day and night, like a lonely widow on a coral reef, surrounded by mementoes of a shipwreck.I hastened to reply with civility to Mrs. Roper's question, for that lady had just sold to me for ninepence an ancient brass tobacco jar, which expert opinion has since valued at half a guinea."Then," said Mrs. Roper, "I will thank you to send the doctor round 'ere. Tell 'im that the stuff what 'e calls medicine is makin' me worse.""Madam," said I, thinking rather of my benefactress than of my friend, "the doctor is outside now. Shall I——?""I thought I seed the shadder of 'is 'at," said Mrs. Roper; "call 'im in."I called the doctor, as directed, and he came in with a brisk and cheerful air, kicking me brutally upon the shin in passing. I then, very naturally, prepared to retire; but Mrs. Roper held me back."Youneedn't run away, young man," she said. "I ain't ashamed for anybody to 'earmy sufferings.... Doctor, what's to be done about me? I'm very ill.""Where?" said Dr. Brink, a little brusquely."It's a funny question for a doctor to ask," responded Mrs. Roper. "I thought we paid you to find things out. But we do not want to waste each other's time, and so I'll tell you."What's the matter with me is that I'm dying. That yellow medicine what you sent me 'as brought the pains on worse than ever. You will 'ave to try me with some red. Not that I look to that or any other doctor's stuff to cure me now. Nothing can't cure me now. I've been neglected too long. The on'y thing I got to look forward to now is me little wooden ulster. It'll be a great pleasure to some people, I know, the day the undertaker comes to measure me for it. What are you laughin' at?""I wasn't laughing," protested the doctor. "I was yawning.""Then what are you yawning at?""Up all night," explained the doctor."Ah!" quoth Mrs. Roper mysteriously, "I see,you'reone of the jolly sort.... What you gointer do about me?"The doctor equivocated. "Where's your husband?" he said.Mrs. Roper closed both eyes and shook her head. "Wherever the man may be," she responded, "you may be sure as it ain't be the bedside of 'is dying wife. 'E'sone of your jolly sort, likewise. 'E's one o' them good-tempered, popular fellars, 'e is.'Edon't want no medicine.""I was not proposing to give him any medicine," explained the doctor. "I would like to talk to him concerning the painful state of—ah—health in which—ah—you find yourself. When will he be in?""Ain't you got some more riddles you would like to ask a person?" responded Mrs. Roper, with a bitter laugh. "How in gracious doIknow when the man will be in? 'E's one of thesepleasantmen, I tell you. The sort as is always ready with a laugh or a joke or a funny remark. 'E ain't got time, bless you, to trouble 'is jolly self about no wives. 'E's one of your 'appy men—the sort that makes friends, and so on. 'E would rather be out with 'is friends, 'e would, listenin' to their flattery, than sit at 'ome 'ere with 'is lawful wife and 'ear thetruthabout 'isself. 'E's a plain man, too, and stammers 'orrible.""I think," suggested Dr. Brink, "that I shall have to call again when he is in, and talk things over with him. I can see," added my excellent and ambiguous friend, "that what you want is more attention.""What I want," retorted Mrs. Roper, "is me wooden ulster. The sooner the better. Attention won't save me now—even if I could get it. I'm gone too far. And what is the use of a 'usband's idea of attention? If you want to see the kind of attention 'e gives me, just cast your eye on the table there. Them things in the corner is supposed to be lemons. 'Esent them in.Look at 'em! 'E on'y sent 'em 'cause I asked 'im, mind you. Is it much to ask, d'ye think, Doctor? And me at death's door! Look at 'em, I say. They're furrin lemons."There was a pause. Then said Mrs. Roper again, "They're furrin lemons. I would say it to 'is face. I ask 'im on me death-bed for lemons and 'e sends me them! Furrin ones! Don't you think they're furrin, Doctor?""I'm sure of it," replied the doctor.There was another pause, during which Mrs. Roper applied a variety of new and second-hand wearing apparel to her eyes. But the gift of articulation soon returned to her."I," she explained, with biting irony, "am on'y 'is wife.Iain't jolly.Idon't flatter 'im.Idon't make a fuss of 'im.Idon't make meself agreeable.I'mon'y 'is wife.Ion'y tell 'im the truth. What does 'e wanter give good lemons tomefor?""If you could let me know when he returns," submitted Dr. Brink, "I would talk these matters over with him. In the meantime, I will send you round some medicine, which——""What's the good of medicine tome?" demanded Mrs. Roper. "I'm on'y 'is wife. You go round to the undertaker's, Doctor, and tell 'im to send me round a wooden ulster. That's the on'y thing as'll bringmeany peace. I ain't one of your jolly sort, you see.Idon't go round to me cousin Alfered's and make meself agreeable and play nap. 'Is cousin Alfered's, indeed! It isn't 'is cousin Alfered as 'e goes to visit, Doctor; you take my word forthat, Doctor; I s'pose I'm blind, eh, Doctor? An' deaf an' dumb an' parulised? I s'pose I ain't aware that cousin Alfered 'as got a wife?A wife! That's what 'e calls 'er! If she's a honest married woman, Doctor, 'ow d'you account for 'er bein' ser very lovin' to 'er 'usband?""I have left off trying to account for these things," explained the doctor. "About your medicine now. I want you——"But Mrs. Roper had struck a more fascinating theme than that of medicine. "Married!" she ejaculated. "Ha! Married! And she ser jolly! Ser good-tempered, ser fussy, ser full o' compliments! No wonder as my man likes to play nap at 'is cousin Alfered's. There's two or three jolly ones together inthat'ouse."She's a 'igh-spirited lady too. Ser full of romps an' all. She reads the papers, too, and listens to their jokes,and laughs."Well, well, Doctor, it's time that wooden ulster come. It won't arrive before I'm ready for it. This world ain't no fit place for me."I ain't jolly enough."I'm only a honest wife, I am, what sits at 'ome all day an' tells the truth while other people makes theirselves ser popular. This world is no fit place for honest wives."The other ladies are ser jolly; they makes theirselves ser pleasant. They fuss about and flatter you, and laugh at all your jokes. They makes theirselves ser pleasant...."What's a respectable married woman to do, Doctor?"XXVIIITHE BLACK HAT"What I like Banking Day for," James had privately informed me, "is becausethenFatty always puts on a cap. He looks so plain and friendly in a cap."At which I pondered deeply.That which I pondered was the important problem of Dr. Brink in his relationship to moral authority and the top-hat.I had to admit to myself that James's aphorism was justified by facts. The doctor did look more human in a cap. Upon the other hand, he did not in the least look like himself."Banking Day" is a solemn occasion in the Brink household. It happens once a fortnight. It affords the doctor an excuse for making holiday—a two hours holiday—the only regular holiday in which he permits himself to indulge. And of this regular and recurrent festival, the cap is an outward and visible sign: the cap and golfing shoes and a poacher's jacket. And a solemn black bag. The solemn black bag is filled with sixpenny pieces. Thus equipped, the doctor goes into the City—"giving'em a treat in Gracechurch Street," he calls it—and deposits the toll which he has extracted from human misery upon some banker's table. He then returns to Bovingdon Street, wearing your right usurer's leer and a shilling cigar. And having in his right hand—the hand he pulls the teeth out with—a fat, white book. It is his vulgar custom, upon such occasions, to publish loudly a statement of accounts, as thus—"Forty-eight pounds fourteen and sixpence. Do you hear that, my friend? Doyouhear it, Baffin? One thousand nine hundred and forty-nine sixpences. Does this compete with literature, young man? Does it equal the material gains of your art, Mr. Baffin? Nineteen hundred sixpences, James, my dear, nineteen hundred and forty-nine. All screwed out of the working man. Damn the working man. What's he made for? Where's that bottle of Burgundy?"The doctor, in this mood, presents an absurdly human appearance. His cap—-it is an old-fashioned neck-freezer, and a trifle small for him at that—sits usually upon one side, and he rolls the cigar between his lips in an unctuous manner, and has even been known to wear his feet upon the mantel-piece. It is always his pleasure under these circumstances to toy with Baffin, who, being so closely related to the Leicestershire Baffins, is quite unjustly credited with a secret sympathy for despotism. In point of fact, however, Baffin has no time to sympathise with anything, except the Baffin School of Impressionist Art. But the doctor, when his cap and the cares beneath it sit lightly on him, chooses to exhibit a cordial sympathy for the supposed convictions of Baffin."Dirty beggars, these working men: what, Baffin?" the doctor will observe. "Have to be kept in their places. Eh? What? Sixpence a go, Baffin. Nineteen hundred and forty-nine sixpences. A very reasonable tribute, Baffin; a tribute to education and elegance and the cultivated mind. The feudal system, Baffin, was a fool to our system. You must write and explain it all to the Leicestershire Baffins. What, Baffin?"Baffin always offered the same reply—"Youarea silly fool, Brink."Even the surrounding helots recognised and responded to the psychological significance of the doctor's City costume. I shall always remember an observation uttered by Ma Levinsky, who kept the fish shop at the corner.It was Banking Day, and the doctor, suitably apparelled and accompanied by the bag, was walking West, accompanied by your servant, to whom he had promised to exhibit the interior of a real bank, and also to show how one conducts an operation called "paying in." And when we passed her, Ma Levinsky spoke to us, saying, "Cheero, Doctor, ole love. Got a baby in the bag?" This to THE DOCTOR, mind you! You perceive the weird magic of this cap.But even the two hours of holiday which the doctor "stood himself" on Banking Days would come to an end, although it was not the least remarkable fact connected with the whole absurd proceeding that the two hours in question began at two o'clock and did not end till half-past six. But when they did end, the doctor's sudden masquerade would also end. The poacher's coat, the golfing shoes, would vanish, and in their place appeared the solemn calf—gent's heavy walking—the not less solemn morning coat—a somewhat tarnished vestment, but of undeniable solemnity—and, lastly, the solemnest thing of all, the final token, the apotheosis—the doctor's black silk hat.It was a profoundly aged hat. A hat of many lustres, the which had swallowed up its own. But it was ahat—a black silk hat, and being such it complied with all the conditions: it sufficed: it left no room for criticism. And you did not catch the doctor looking human when he had that hat on.I will not pretend that the doctor loved his hat. "It's the price which I pay for my soul, this damned thing," he once explained to me. "I hate to have to take it out with me, but Democracy insists. Democracy has a sense of what is due to it. In Norfolk, you could wear what you liked—your mother's bonnet if you wanted to. But you couldn't think what you liked or love what you liked. Dammit, you couldn't even swear at what you liked. Here, you are at liberty to do what you jolly well please; but as to wearing what you please—why, that's another matter. The doctor is known by his hat. They look for the hat. They expect that. Theypayfor the hat. And being an honest sort of chap (at bottom), I give them what they pay for. This one cost me ten-and-sixpence."Neither Ma Levinsky nor her rich relations would dare to bandy chaff with the doctor when he was the doctor—when he wore the hat. Even the leisured classes, airing their minds and matter as they propped up the fabric of the "African Chief," forbore to utter even a whisper of native pleasantry. Even the Jew-boys reserved the shafts of their wit for meaner quarry. The black hat awed them all.I remember a certain Banking Day when I persuaded the doctor, cap and all, to enter a public-house. It was called by the name of the "Four Soldiers," and a board outside its windows proclaimed that Devonshire cyder could be had within. But when we got within we found that somebody had won some money at somebody else's expense, and that this event was being celebrated. And our advent was accordingly received with criticism and comment: wherefore we departed—quick.But hardly had we arrived at the surgery when a messenger appeared—a rather anguished messenger, not very lucid. I answered his ring myself, and can therefore speak authoritatively."Dockeratome, young man?""Yes," I said."Telms wanted, quick. Ole Joe Black. Up the pole. Barmy. See? Murder, see? Telms wanted.""Where?" I inquired."Never mind where," responded this helpful emissary. "Telms wanted.... Dockeratome?" he finally demanded, after a reflective pause.I called the doctor down to him at that stage; and the doctor helped him to unlock his bosom. We found that old Joe Black and his complicated infirmities were to be found at the "Four Soldiers"—the very house of cheer which had so cheerfully exported us about five minutes ago.... I—I wilted. The doctor smiled. He also put his hat on.When we arrived at the "Four Soldiers" I found myself entering the public-house parlour of that guesthouse a few paces ahead of the doctor. And I also found that a seafaring gentleman with a broken nose had marked my entry."'Ere's our little love-child come in again," observed this mariner cheerfully. "Drop Jim a 'int aside the 'ead wiv yere belt-end, Bill." But then——But then—he sawthe hat! Bill saw it also. Twenty other merry gentlemen shared also in the vision. And a silence, a sticky silence, thick as treacle, suddenly manifested itself. And we all looked up at the ceiling.There was a hook on the ceiling, and a piece of rope and a man was hanging there, the rope curled round his body and one leg. The man was addressing the world beneath him; and now that the world had grown strangely silent, his words were plain to hear."Call yerselvesmen," the man was saying, "Icall ye caterpillars. Stand by, ye greasy toads, and watch a true man 'ang 'isself. 'Ang 'isself, d'y'ear? 'Ang 'isself. Iwill'ang meself. I'll 'ang meself dead as dogs' meat, and there's not a swab in Limus dare stop me. Not one in this room. Not a god-forsaken son of a lady in this room. Not even you, Tom Tinker."Tom Tinker being thus addressed made answer. He happened to be the landlord of the inn, and a regard for his own future caused him to be solicitous for that of the man on the ceiling."Don't you be silly, Joe, me lad," he answered. "Don't you be rash. You'll regret it, you know; you will that. Come down, now, when I tell ye; come down before ye forget yeself. D'y'ear me? Come down. You'll make a fool of yeself in a minnit."The man on the ceiling replied to this suggestion by removing a boot and hurling it at the prophet's head. In so doing, he obtained a view of the solemn countenance and black hat of the doctor.The strained and tragic expression of our gymnast's visage immediately gave place to one of nervous greeting."Evenin', Doctor!" he said."Evening!" replied the doctor. "Come off that hook.""Whaffor?" demanded the man."Because I tell you to. Come off, quick."The man began to whimper. "I can't," he said. "The rope's broke. 'Ow can I?""Jump.""Jump?" echoed the man."Yes," said the doctor, "jump. I'll catch you. Jump!"The man jumped.We passed out amid a silence more than ever obvious. I remember one thing clearly. The door was held open for me by an effusive, smiling sailor-man—a sailor-man with a broken nose.I walked out stiffly, with confidence, with pride. I walked in the shadow of THE HAT.XXIXON EARNING SIXPENCEBehold our doctor on crutches and having his foot in a sling; deprived also of all burgundies, by the heartless mandate of another doctor. Behold him also in controversy with his daughter."You are perfectly insane," said that lady. "Doctor Beaver said quite distinctly that if you so much as moved your leg for the next three days, he wouldn't be answerable for the consequences.""Haven't I been saying for the last three years that Beaver is an ignorant old quack?" inquired the doctor."And now," pursued his daughter, "because a drunken old woman comes round and raves at you, smelling of gin like a—like a cistern, you calmly propose to crawl out and go all the way to Burbidge Street, because her daughter happens to object to the locum. I'm quite sure he's a very decent locum; quite the nicest we've ever had. He's engaged to a school-mistress, and he knitted that waistcoat himself.""The locum is a blasted young pup," responded Doctor Brink."Heavens!" cried his daughter, "whatever is the matter withthislocum?""He's giving 'emreal drugs," said the doctor, with gloom."What if he is?" argued James; "I don't suppose it'll kill 'em.""Still," mused the doctor, "when people aren't used to that sort of damfoolery—— I don't want my statistics mucked up. Besides, there's the expense. And——""Oh, blow the 'ands,'" replied his little daughter. "You've engaged the man, and you've got to keep him. And you've got to pay him. He's come here prepared to do a week's work, so for goodness sake let him do it. I'm sure he's willing enough, at any rate.""Willing?" repeated the doctor; "my dear girl, he is the ultimate thing in eagerness. I——"But the doctor's further observations on this head were interrupted by the entry of the subject of them—a young gentleman in correct dress, with fair hair and a face, who was introduced to me as Doctor Tewksbury."I am sorry to say, Doctor," remarked this young man, "that that old woman in Mulberry Buildings is dead.""What!" cried Doctor Brink. "Poor old Mrs. Thacker? I'm sorry. She was a nice old thing.""Yes," assented Doctor Tewksbury, "an interesting old hag—such marked symptoms. I wish I'd exhibited bromide.""It wouldn't have made any difference," said Doctor Brink."Of course not," responded Doctor Tewksbury. "She was quite hopeless; but still bromide was clearly indicated. Hullo—foot hurting?""Not—not more than usual," answered Doctor Brink. "My back was tickling. That's all. Any news?""Nothin' particular," replied the locum, "exceptin' a woman in Burbidge Street. Mrs. Groat, I think the name is. Had a sort of row with her. It's the daughter's case really—a confinement; but when I got there the old cow came to the door and she wouldn't let me in. Said her daughter had engaged with you, and she didn't want no blasted schoolboys. She was rather offensive.""After all," said Doctor Brink, rising clumsily to his feet and holding hard to all of us, "shedidengage with me. It's a damnable nuisance; but I'll have to go round.""Oh, rot," cried the locum. "Let the old fool rip.""Wait till Beaver catches you, that's all," observed his daughter."Youarea fool, Brink," said I."She's been round here twice already, while you were out, Tewksbury," continued Doctor Brink. "All the family's been here, in fact; they're much excited and very drunk. I expect they've been working on the patient, and unless we do something she'll get into a frenzy and croak. I shall have to go. Where's my damned hat?""Now look here, Fatty," expostulated James, "you simply aren't going to beallowedto go. You——""Old girl," said the doctor quietly, "subside. I'm going."So saying, the doctor grasped my shoulder in a grip that was not all of friendship. "You come the other side," he said to James. "Tewksbury, you mind the shop. Now we're off. Steady, now. Slowly. That's good. Steady, now. Steady. Good again. Oh, Kreisler!"It was an exciting journey across the sitting-room, and that down the stairway even more so. And when at last we gained the street, the bulk of the journey lay before us. We accomplished it somehow—it lasted less than a year, at any rate—and when we had at last arrived at the interesting residence of Mrs. Groat, and had deposited the doctor on its doorstep, the lady herself came out to greet us."'Ow," she said, "yuv come at last, ye bleedin' makeshift!"We pushed him inside, and the door was closed behind him, and we walked about and waited. When, nearly an hour later, the remaining fragments of my rash friend were restored to us, Mrs. Groat came after them and made further speech."Ye spiteful old crow," she cried. "Ye didn't 'arf make 'er 'oller, did ye? I'll show ye spite. I'll pay ye out for bein' ser spiteful. Jes'you see. I'll pay ye out."Which she did. For when, after making the homeward journey in such a fashion as to cause amazement and amusement to the whole neighbourhood, we did arrive at the doctor's own house, it was to find that a medicine bottle had found its billet on the consulting-room floor by way of the consulting-room window.Tewksbury came down and helped us to carry the doctor up. And when we had flopped our burden on to a couch, and Tewksbury had leisure for reflection, he said—"You will never convince me that this was all produced by burgundy."XXXDIALOGUE WITH A BRIDEShe was rather a juvenile sort of bride: so much so, in fact, that a civilised inquirer might have supposed the baby on her breast and the ring upon her finger to be mere playthings.It was to be gathered, from her opening statement, that she was inured to the married state, and that it held no terror for her."If 'e comes it over me," she explained, "I gives 'im a shove in the marf."She was an attractive child—rather freckled and very shrill; but having cheerful eyes."What you recommend me to do about Mine, Doctor? 'E's queer."DOCTOR BRINK: How queer?THE BRIDE: Queer in 'is 'ead. Won't talk to nobody. Won't eat. 'E's learnin isself to write short'and.DOCTOR BRINK: But I think that's rather sensible.THE BRIDE: More sensible if he was to bring 'ome some money. 'E's a chair-packer's labourer. What's the good o' short'and to a chair-packer's labourer?DOCTOR BRINK: Perhaps he has ambitions.THE BRIDE (gloomily): Not 'im. 'E's got the sulks. If you go an' give it a big name like that, 'e'll never get better. I ain't even let 'im know I've come to you—'e's ser easy encouraged. What 'e wants is a dose o' your pale yaller—even my ole gran'ma can't drink that, and she's been takin' medsin sinceso'igh. That's what 'e wants: a dose o' your pale yaller and a flip be'ind the ear.DOCTOR BRINK: How old is your husband?THE BRIDE: Old enough to do some work. 'E'll be eighteen in March.DOCTOR BRINK: He's out of employment, then?THE BRIDE (stiffly): Well, 'e ain't out of employment, on'y 'e don't go to work. There ain't no call for 'im to go, not unless 'e wants to. We're independent.DOCTOR BRINK: Indeed?THE WIFE: Yus. We've 'ad some luck, through the misfortune of losin' 'is father. There's a matter of two 'underd pound at the lawyer's, and more to come, they say.DOCTOR BRINK: It's a pity he can't find some work to do. Two hundred pounds won't last for ever, you know.THE WIFE: There ain't no call for 'im to look for work. When the money comes we're goin' inter business.DOCTOR BRINK: Oh! What sort of business?THE WIFE: The 'ardware, Doctor: joiners' bits and carpenters' tools, and knives and 'and-saws. It's bin a fancy of 'is'n since boy'ood up. That's the meaning of this short'and. 'E's educatin' 'isself for the position.DOCTOR BRINK: Well, of course, an ironmonger isn't bound to know shorthand; but——THE WIFE: Not ironmongery, Doctor—the 'ardware: fine edge tools and joiners' necessaries, and so forth.DOCTOR BRINK: But why object to this shorthand? After all, it keeps him out of mischief.THE WIFE: It ain't the short'and I object to. It's him. Forever at home: forever makin' his scratches. Forever lookin' sulky and cleanin' 'is nails. Never a word to say to me, nor so much as a look for the child. 'E was 'armless enough when I married 'im. Full of life 'e was in them days. Many's the 'idin' 'e's give me!DOCTOR BRINK: Cheer up! He'll get lively again one of these days, and give you another hiding. Even shorthand ceases to amuse people after a time.THE WIFE: Short'and don't amuse 'im. It on'y makes 'im stupid. 'E don't wanter learn it, not reely: 'is 'ead ain't good enough for learnin'. 'E likes to make me wild, that's all. As for hidin's, it's'imwhat gets the 'iding now: I don't believe in a girl takin' any o' that when you're married. Walkin' out it's different. Besides, I earned it then. I was a devil arter the boys in them days.DOCTOR BRINK: Oh, well: you were only a young thing then, of course.... About this husband of yours; what is it you want me to do? I can't cure shorthand, you know.THE WIFE: Well, Doctor, I don't see's there's anything youcando, reely. Only, I wish 'e'd go back to the chair-packin'. 'Ome ain't 'ome with your man always in it. And 'e's ser sulky and ser pertickler. 'E says we gotter go to church now that we've retired from work. We're goin' ter have our shop front painted red.DOCTOR BRINK: I always look upon red as one of our leading colours. As you say, there is really nothing which I can do. Anyhow, we've had a useful little chat.THE WIFE: I like a little chat. It's a thing I don't seem to get very orfen, nowadays. Me and my mother, we don't know each other. She says we killed 'is father. She says I don't manage my baby.DOCTOR BRINK: I shouldn't argue with him. He'll get used to this money in time, and then he'll be as noisy as ever again.THE WIFE: Argue with 'im? Me? I don't argue with 'im. When I got anythink to say to 'im, 'e gets it aside o' the 'ead. I don't care, even if we 'ave retired from work. I go on the same now as what I did before; and so I shall when we've started the 'ardware. Sometimes I wish this misfortune to 'is father 'ad never 'appened. I liked 'im better in the chair-packin' days. I didn't see ser much of 'im. 'E wasn't ser pertickler. 'E took a pleasure in his tea them days. Sometimes he useder catch 'old of the kid.... And sometimes he useder lark about with me.... I liked the look of 'im them days. Sometimes, I wish we wasn't rich.
I set out, sedately enough, one April morning, to rescue James from her aunt at Bayswater. I set out grandly enthroned upon a 'bus.
But I came quite unexpectedly upon this April Barge, and James and her aunt were forgotten.
The April sun had come out sharp to time, you see, and was winking fitfully upon all of us, like the unsettled, rakish fellow that he is. And a girl with two great baskets full of wondering daffodils had come out, too; and some conscienceless vagabond was extracting melody from a cornet. So that even the Regent's Canal, with its sombre vicinage and sulky craft, seemed, as if by some surprising effort, to have taken on an air of sweetness and youth and hope.
You could consider this fact at leisure as our 'bus toiled slowly up the rise of a road which spans the canal. There was a public-house in front of us—the public-house and the cornet seem to be inseparably united in this neighbourhood—but the canal was to one's left, and appeared, somehow, to convey that air of refreshment which the tavern so conspicuously lacked.
As one looked down upon the face of these waters, so strangely heartened by the sunlight, a sort of certainty grew upon him that they would break suddenly into perspective; that their vista would cease to be obscured by coal wharves and cranes and hoardings; that somebody's whisky, commended to your notice in large white letters on a blue-enamelled background, would fade and fade and fade, until it merged with the white clouds and the blue sky behind it. Then need you but sigh and sit back, beholding a silver streak set snugly between hills, and flowing, flowing, flowing to the edge of the world. Instead of which——
Pooh! There was no instead. The April sun kept winking at the daffodils, and the daffodils kept staring at the sun, and the cornet-man made music by the waterside. So that even a poet might have smiled at it all. For here, I'll swear, was none of your mere "waterways," created by syndicates for profit; here was none of your world capitals. Just a little old river, sunning itself gratefully in a little old town that God had made.
And, as if to strengthen this conceit, a woman came up through the hatchway of a barge that I was looking at. She was wearing a sun-bonnet, in accordance with the custom of barge-women, and she stood up gracefully, one hand on her hip, the other before her eyes, to seek out the cornet player.
We are the boys of the bulldawg breedWhat's made ole Hengland's Nime.
We are the boys of the bulldawg breedWhat's made ole Hengland's Nime.
We are the boys of the bulldawg breed
What's made ole Hengland's Nime.
Those were the words which had inspired the melody which the cornet-blower was blowing. The woman tapped her foot in time with the notes.
Her husband came up then, accompanied by tobacco clouds and a baby. He seemed to be a fortunate sort of husband, for I noticed that the woman laughed appreciatively at some joke which he made.
Then the man's eye wandered to the canal-side, and he caught sight of the daffodil-girl, who was standing there. And what must the fellow do but throw kisses to her, which gallantry was reciprocated by the flower-girl. The barge-woman laughed at this new jest with even more good humour (if that were possible) than that which she had shown before. The man shouted some message or other to the flower-girl, and she replied, whereupon he handed the baby to his wife, saying, "Catch 'old, Fatty!"—an utterance which I heard without hearing, as one can when an April sun is shining on men's hearts. And, advancing to the side of the boat, the man held out his arms, and the girl threw daffodils towards him.
The first bloom fell into the water, and the second; the third he caught. One more poor daffodil was drowned, and he caught the two next. So that there was one for his cap, and one for the missus, and one for the baby, who, being now safely delivered from the paternal arms (which were not built for cradling babies), needed but the additional stimulus of a yellow thing to marvel at ere it smiled as largely as any of them.
And upon my word I smiled, too, and could, indeed, have laughed outright. But I sat in awe of a fat man on the adjacent seat. He did not belong to that order of lunatics who laugh for nothing in the sunshine. "What we want," he was saying to his companion, "what we want," he said, with his eyes fixed tight upon this April barge, "what we want is a totalchange of Government. Nothin' won't ever be right again till we get it."
I had a heavy parcel of books on my knee, and to drop them heavily upon his foot had been, as it were, the accident of a moment. But the sweet temperance of springtime had stolen into my blood, and I forbore. Besides which there were the barges and the daffodils, and they were better worth a man's consideration than this fool.
So I looked over the side again, and saw that the barge-man had turned his attention to the cornet-blower, with whom he was exchanging highly flavoured sarcasms. With a view, probably, of adding zest to his humours, and because a springtime madness was upon him, he had changed headgear with his wife, and stood there in her sun-bonnet, grimacing and laughing. He had a long barge-pole in his hand, and somehow—I don't quite know how it happened—in assuming to hurl that weapon at the cornet-blower, he overbalanced himself, and fell sideways into the water, striking his head as he fell against the side of another barge, which was moored close to his own in that jumble fashion which is peculiar to barges.
He came up again almost directly, looking queer in his wife's sun-bonnet (for he had tied the tapes beneath his chin), and then immediately sank again. The nerveless ineptitude of it all made one angry with the man: it seemed to be wilful.
As for the wife, she looked wonderingly over the side, and realisation came to her so slowly that a laugh still flickered faintly on her face when he came up again. Even then, the sound which she uttered was as much like a chuckle as a cry. And when words came to her, they were few enough. "Oh, my pore man!" she moaned. "Oh, my pore man! Oh, my pore man!"
And the baby lay on its back, and chuckled knowingly into the petals of a dishevelled daffodil.
Our 'bus had made the bend of the canal bank by this time, and now was parallel with the water, and exactly opposite to this barge. Under the united stimulus of instinctive curiosity and instinctive horror, the driver pulled up sharp; and so the 'bus stood still, and we passengers sat there, gaping at that funny thing in the sun-bonnet as it came up for a second time and sank again.
"Oh, my pore man! Oh, my pore man!" moaned the wife.
And the cornet-blower, pale with horror, still applied himself automatically to the cornet. He had changed his tune since first I heard him, and the aquatic feats of the man in the sun-bonnet were conducted to music, the strains of which, being interpreted into words, ran as follows—
Hi! Hi! clear the roadFor the rowdy, dowdy boys.
Hi! Hi! clear the roadFor the rowdy, dowdy boys.
Hi! Hi! clear the road
For the rowdy, dowdy boys.
It came up again for the third time, and the woman on the barge grabbed frantically at nothing, and tore her arm in the effort, so that a crimson splash mingled with the eddying waters as he sank again.
And then the cornet-blower remembered himself, and dropped his cornet hastily, as though it burned him. And, of all queer things for a cornet-blower to do, he blubbered weakly, like a woman found out.
And the mischievous sun cast his shadow upon the water, and caused it to dance joyously thereon, so that you would have deemed it to be the shadow of one consumed with joy.
"Oh, my pore man!" cried the wife. "Oh, my pore man! Oh, my pore man!"
And the fat person from the next seat said to his friend, "I saw it comin'. The giddy fool was larkin' about like a ape." And, in the meantime, the giddy fool did not come up again.
Suddenly the flower-girl spoke. "My Gawd!" she screamed, struggling feverishly to disentangle herself from her shawl and the straps of her basket and her fringe; "my Gawd! where's all the blarsted men got to? What's 'appened to you? For Christ's sake find aman, you fools!"
The 'bus emptied itself, and men ran into each other along the roadway, and somebody ran for a policeman. So that there was a great deal of noise and bustle shorewards. But at the same time certain male persons of a much more silent and effective character made their appearance upon the barges adjacent to the April barge. They did not shout, and they did not run about much. They fetched poles and produced ropes, and one of their number climbed into the water at the end of one; and presently, after much probing and searching and jerking (and not a little swearing), they brought him up at the end of a barge-pole, with a slime concealing all of him except the sun-bonnet, which had slipped upon one side, and looked more comical than ever.
"Oh, my pore man!" cried the barge-woman, who by now was surrounded by a stimulating coterie of other barge-women.
"E'sdone for!" said my fat neighbour, and spat contentedly.
And the baby snatched at its mother's head, which was still covered with her husband's hat, from which a single daffodil was dangling.
In the meantime, they laid him down upon the deck of a barge, and relays of men, acting under the direction of a policeman, jerked at his arms, and pulled his legs, and pummelled his chest. But, as the fat man had said,hewas done for, and these exhausting efforts only made the baby laugh. So they lifted him hurriedly, with a change of manner, as befitted a changed burden, and conveyed him to the shore, where he was placed upon an ambulance and deported.
The fat man formed himself into an impromptu committee of inspection. He returned to his friend (and my side) after a lengthy dalliance by the ambulance, and spoke as one well pleased.
"Crack in 'is 'ead as long as my 'and. 'Orrible! Never noted afore that blood 'ad such a salty smell to it. Quite sickly, ain't it? To think of it, poor fool! ... And on a day like this, too!"
And he took off his hat and sunned himself. "I'm for a drink arter all that," he added; and, his companion agreeing with him, he walked over to the tavern, in company with many other of the 'bus passengers, and the driver and conductor of that vehicle, and most of the barge-men.
They took the cornet-blower with them, and somebody collected a store of coppers in that musician's interest, with which he was presented upon the understanding that he should "bite off a yard o' somethink lively" to cheer the mourning host withal.
So while the woman on the barge was being carried below deck by her sympathisers; whilst faint gurgles issued from the daffodil-girl, standing over her baskets by the water-side; whilst the sun winked down upon all of us—the cornet-blower threw out his chest with an air something at variance with the muddy tears upon his cheek, and blared out a song of mourning.
Leave off tickerlin', leave off tickerlin',Leave off tickerlin', Jock!
Leave off tickerlin', leave off tickerlin',Leave off tickerlin', Jock!
Leave off tickerlin', leave off tickerlin',
Leave off tickerlin', Jock!
sang the mourners; and the jolly young sun must have winked itself into a headache.
By the time our 'bus went on again every note of tragedy save one had departed from the scene. That solitary note was supplied by the daffodil-girl, who stood by her garden dabbing disconsolately at her nose and eyes with an apron-end.
Nought was stirring on the April barge, save one plump little figure, which squatted all by itself in the centre of the deck. They had forgotten the baby in this coil. But the baby was quite happy—happier than any of them. For it sat there, eating its father's cap, and smiling amiably at the sunshine, as who should know that there is a benign and beautiful purpose in everything, even unto the falling of a sparrow.
The daffodils upon the waterside, pressing each other close within their baskets, stared up into the heavens more wonderingly than ever.
XXVII
THE CASE OF MRS. ROPER
"Beg pardon, young fellar," said Mrs. Roper, "but ain't you the young fellar from the doctor's?"
Mrs. Roper is a sullen-eyed lady with very many chins. She is,videher shop sign, a dealer in antiques, and, to quote the same authority, old metal, old teeth, old glass and china, and every variety of new and second-hand wearing apparel are bought and sold by her. She is not the cleanest woman in London, nor is her shop the cleanest in Bovingdon Street. But there is charm in the variety and abundance of Mrs. Roper's assets, which are the working parts, as it were, of our complex civilisation, amongst which tokens Mrs. Roper is always sitting, silently, mournfully, by day and night, like a lonely widow on a coral reef, surrounded by mementoes of a shipwreck.
I hastened to reply with civility to Mrs. Roper's question, for that lady had just sold to me for ninepence an ancient brass tobacco jar, which expert opinion has since valued at half a guinea.
"Then," said Mrs. Roper, "I will thank you to send the doctor round 'ere. Tell 'im that the stuff what 'e calls medicine is makin' me worse."
"Madam," said I, thinking rather of my benefactress than of my friend, "the doctor is outside now. Shall I——?"
"I thought I seed the shadder of 'is 'at," said Mrs. Roper; "call 'im in."
I called the doctor, as directed, and he came in with a brisk and cheerful air, kicking me brutally upon the shin in passing. I then, very naturally, prepared to retire; but Mrs. Roper held me back.
"Youneedn't run away, young man," she said. "I ain't ashamed for anybody to 'earmy sufferings.... Doctor, what's to be done about me? I'm very ill."
"Where?" said Dr. Brink, a little brusquely.
"It's a funny question for a doctor to ask," responded Mrs. Roper. "I thought we paid you to find things out. But we do not want to waste each other's time, and so I'll tell you.
"What's the matter with me is that I'm dying. That yellow medicine what you sent me 'as brought the pains on worse than ever. You will 'ave to try me with some red. Not that I look to that or any other doctor's stuff to cure me now. Nothing can't cure me now. I've been neglected too long. The on'y thing I got to look forward to now is me little wooden ulster. It'll be a great pleasure to some people, I know, the day the undertaker comes to measure me for it. What are you laughin' at?"
"I wasn't laughing," protested the doctor. "I was yawning."
"Then what are you yawning at?"
"Up all night," explained the doctor.
"Ah!" quoth Mrs. Roper mysteriously, "I see,you'reone of the jolly sort.... What you gointer do about me?"
The doctor equivocated. "Where's your husband?" he said.
Mrs. Roper closed both eyes and shook her head. "Wherever the man may be," she responded, "you may be sure as it ain't be the bedside of 'is dying wife. 'E'sone of your jolly sort, likewise. 'E's one o' them good-tempered, popular fellars, 'e is.'Edon't want no medicine."
"I was not proposing to give him any medicine," explained the doctor. "I would like to talk to him concerning the painful state of—ah—health in which—ah—you find yourself. When will he be in?"
"Ain't you got some more riddles you would like to ask a person?" responded Mrs. Roper, with a bitter laugh. "How in gracious doIknow when the man will be in? 'E's one of thesepleasantmen, I tell you. The sort as is always ready with a laugh or a joke or a funny remark. 'E ain't got time, bless you, to trouble 'is jolly self about no wives. 'E's one of your 'appy men—the sort that makes friends, and so on. 'E would rather be out with 'is friends, 'e would, listenin' to their flattery, than sit at 'ome 'ere with 'is lawful wife and 'ear thetruthabout 'isself. 'E's a plain man, too, and stammers 'orrible."
"I think," suggested Dr. Brink, "that I shall have to call again when he is in, and talk things over with him. I can see," added my excellent and ambiguous friend, "that what you want is more attention."
"What I want," retorted Mrs. Roper, "is me wooden ulster. The sooner the better. Attention won't save me now—even if I could get it. I'm gone too far. And what is the use of a 'usband's idea of attention? If you want to see the kind of attention 'e gives me, just cast your eye on the table there. Them things in the corner is supposed to be lemons. 'Esent them in.Look at 'em! 'E on'y sent 'em 'cause I asked 'im, mind you. Is it much to ask, d'ye think, Doctor? And me at death's door! Look at 'em, I say. They're furrin lemons."
There was a pause. Then said Mrs. Roper again, "They're furrin lemons. I would say it to 'is face. I ask 'im on me death-bed for lemons and 'e sends me them! Furrin ones! Don't you think they're furrin, Doctor?"
"I'm sure of it," replied the doctor.
There was another pause, during which Mrs. Roper applied a variety of new and second-hand wearing apparel to her eyes. But the gift of articulation soon returned to her.
"I," she explained, with biting irony, "am on'y 'is wife.Iain't jolly.Idon't flatter 'im.Idon't make a fuss of 'im.Idon't make meself agreeable.I'mon'y 'is wife.Ion'y tell 'im the truth. What does 'e wanter give good lemons tomefor?"
"If you could let me know when he returns," submitted Dr. Brink, "I would talk these matters over with him. In the meantime, I will send you round some medicine, which——"
"What's the good of medicine tome?" demanded Mrs. Roper. "I'm on'y 'is wife. You go round to the undertaker's, Doctor, and tell 'im to send me round a wooden ulster. That's the on'y thing as'll bringmeany peace. I ain't one of your jolly sort, you see.Idon't go round to me cousin Alfered's and make meself agreeable and play nap. 'Is cousin Alfered's, indeed! It isn't 'is cousin Alfered as 'e goes to visit, Doctor; you take my word forthat, Doctor; I s'pose I'm blind, eh, Doctor? An' deaf an' dumb an' parulised? I s'pose I ain't aware that cousin Alfered 'as got a wife?A wife! That's what 'e calls 'er! If she's a honest married woman, Doctor, 'ow d'you account for 'er bein' ser very lovin' to 'er 'usband?"
"I have left off trying to account for these things," explained the doctor. "About your medicine now. I want you——"
But Mrs. Roper had struck a more fascinating theme than that of medicine. "Married!" she ejaculated. "Ha! Married! And she ser jolly! Ser good-tempered, ser fussy, ser full o' compliments! No wonder as my man likes to play nap at 'is cousin Alfered's. There's two or three jolly ones together inthat'ouse.
"She's a 'igh-spirited lady too. Ser full of romps an' all. She reads the papers, too, and listens to their jokes,and laughs.
"Well, well, Doctor, it's time that wooden ulster come. It won't arrive before I'm ready for it. This world ain't no fit place for me.
"I ain't jolly enough.
"I'm only a honest wife, I am, what sits at 'ome all day an' tells the truth while other people makes theirselves ser popular. This world is no fit place for honest wives.
"The other ladies are ser jolly; they makes theirselves ser pleasant. They fuss about and flatter you, and laugh at all your jokes. They makes theirselves ser pleasant....
"What's a respectable married woman to do, Doctor?"
XXVIII
THE BLACK HAT
"What I like Banking Day for," James had privately informed me, "is becausethenFatty always puts on a cap. He looks so plain and friendly in a cap."
At which I pondered deeply.
That which I pondered was the important problem of Dr. Brink in his relationship to moral authority and the top-hat.
I had to admit to myself that James's aphorism was justified by facts. The doctor did look more human in a cap. Upon the other hand, he did not in the least look like himself.
"Banking Day" is a solemn occasion in the Brink household. It happens once a fortnight. It affords the doctor an excuse for making holiday—a two hours holiday—the only regular holiday in which he permits himself to indulge. And of this regular and recurrent festival, the cap is an outward and visible sign: the cap and golfing shoes and a poacher's jacket. And a solemn black bag. The solemn black bag is filled with sixpenny pieces. Thus equipped, the doctor goes into the City—"giving'em a treat in Gracechurch Street," he calls it—and deposits the toll which he has extracted from human misery upon some banker's table. He then returns to Bovingdon Street, wearing your right usurer's leer and a shilling cigar. And having in his right hand—the hand he pulls the teeth out with—a fat, white book. It is his vulgar custom, upon such occasions, to publish loudly a statement of accounts, as thus—
"Forty-eight pounds fourteen and sixpence. Do you hear that, my friend? Doyouhear it, Baffin? One thousand nine hundred and forty-nine sixpences. Does this compete with literature, young man? Does it equal the material gains of your art, Mr. Baffin? Nineteen hundred sixpences, James, my dear, nineteen hundred and forty-nine. All screwed out of the working man. Damn the working man. What's he made for? Where's that bottle of Burgundy?"
The doctor, in this mood, presents an absurdly human appearance. His cap—-it is an old-fashioned neck-freezer, and a trifle small for him at that—sits usually upon one side, and he rolls the cigar between his lips in an unctuous manner, and has even been known to wear his feet upon the mantel-piece. It is always his pleasure under these circumstances to toy with Baffin, who, being so closely related to the Leicestershire Baffins, is quite unjustly credited with a secret sympathy for despotism. In point of fact, however, Baffin has no time to sympathise with anything, except the Baffin School of Impressionist Art. But the doctor, when his cap and the cares beneath it sit lightly on him, chooses to exhibit a cordial sympathy for the supposed convictions of Baffin.
"Dirty beggars, these working men: what, Baffin?" the doctor will observe. "Have to be kept in their places. Eh? What? Sixpence a go, Baffin. Nineteen hundred and forty-nine sixpences. A very reasonable tribute, Baffin; a tribute to education and elegance and the cultivated mind. The feudal system, Baffin, was a fool to our system. You must write and explain it all to the Leicestershire Baffins. What, Baffin?"
Baffin always offered the same reply—
"Youarea silly fool, Brink."
Even the surrounding helots recognised and responded to the psychological significance of the doctor's City costume. I shall always remember an observation uttered by Ma Levinsky, who kept the fish shop at the corner.
It was Banking Day, and the doctor, suitably apparelled and accompanied by the bag, was walking West, accompanied by your servant, to whom he had promised to exhibit the interior of a real bank, and also to show how one conducts an operation called "paying in." And when we passed her, Ma Levinsky spoke to us, saying, "Cheero, Doctor, ole love. Got a baby in the bag?" This to THE DOCTOR, mind you! You perceive the weird magic of this cap.
But even the two hours of holiday which the doctor "stood himself" on Banking Days would come to an end, although it was not the least remarkable fact connected with the whole absurd proceeding that the two hours in question began at two o'clock and did not end till half-past six. But when they did end, the doctor's sudden masquerade would also end. The poacher's coat, the golfing shoes, would vanish, and in their place appeared the solemn calf—gent's heavy walking—the not less solemn morning coat—a somewhat tarnished vestment, but of undeniable solemnity—and, lastly, the solemnest thing of all, the final token, the apotheosis—the doctor's black silk hat.
It was a profoundly aged hat. A hat of many lustres, the which had swallowed up its own. But it was ahat—a black silk hat, and being such it complied with all the conditions: it sufficed: it left no room for criticism. And you did not catch the doctor looking human when he had that hat on.
I will not pretend that the doctor loved his hat. "It's the price which I pay for my soul, this damned thing," he once explained to me. "I hate to have to take it out with me, but Democracy insists. Democracy has a sense of what is due to it. In Norfolk, you could wear what you liked—your mother's bonnet if you wanted to. But you couldn't think what you liked or love what you liked. Dammit, you couldn't even swear at what you liked. Here, you are at liberty to do what you jolly well please; but as to wearing what you please—why, that's another matter. The doctor is known by his hat. They look for the hat. They expect that. Theypayfor the hat. And being an honest sort of chap (at bottom), I give them what they pay for. This one cost me ten-and-sixpence."
Neither Ma Levinsky nor her rich relations would dare to bandy chaff with the doctor when he was the doctor—when he wore the hat. Even the leisured classes, airing their minds and matter as they propped up the fabric of the "African Chief," forbore to utter even a whisper of native pleasantry. Even the Jew-boys reserved the shafts of their wit for meaner quarry. The black hat awed them all.
I remember a certain Banking Day when I persuaded the doctor, cap and all, to enter a public-house. It was called by the name of the "Four Soldiers," and a board outside its windows proclaimed that Devonshire cyder could be had within. But when we got within we found that somebody had won some money at somebody else's expense, and that this event was being celebrated. And our advent was accordingly received with criticism and comment: wherefore we departed—quick.
But hardly had we arrived at the surgery when a messenger appeared—a rather anguished messenger, not very lucid. I answered his ring myself, and can therefore speak authoritatively.
"Dockeratome, young man?"
"Yes," I said.
"Telms wanted, quick. Ole Joe Black. Up the pole. Barmy. See? Murder, see? Telms wanted."
"Where?" I inquired.
"Never mind where," responded this helpful emissary. "Telms wanted.... Dockeratome?" he finally demanded, after a reflective pause.
I called the doctor down to him at that stage; and the doctor helped him to unlock his bosom. We found that old Joe Black and his complicated infirmities were to be found at the "Four Soldiers"—the very house of cheer which had so cheerfully exported us about five minutes ago.... I—I wilted. The doctor smiled. He also put his hat on.
When we arrived at the "Four Soldiers" I found myself entering the public-house parlour of that guesthouse a few paces ahead of the doctor. And I also found that a seafaring gentleman with a broken nose had marked my entry.
"'Ere's our little love-child come in again," observed this mariner cheerfully. "Drop Jim a 'int aside the 'ead wiv yere belt-end, Bill." But then——
But then—he sawthe hat! Bill saw it also. Twenty other merry gentlemen shared also in the vision. And a silence, a sticky silence, thick as treacle, suddenly manifested itself. And we all looked up at the ceiling.
There was a hook on the ceiling, and a piece of rope and a man was hanging there, the rope curled round his body and one leg. The man was addressing the world beneath him; and now that the world had grown strangely silent, his words were plain to hear.
"Call yerselvesmen," the man was saying, "Icall ye caterpillars. Stand by, ye greasy toads, and watch a true man 'ang 'isself. 'Ang 'isself, d'y'ear? 'Ang 'isself. Iwill'ang meself. I'll 'ang meself dead as dogs' meat, and there's not a swab in Limus dare stop me. Not one in this room. Not a god-forsaken son of a lady in this room. Not even you, Tom Tinker."
Tom Tinker being thus addressed made answer. He happened to be the landlord of the inn, and a regard for his own future caused him to be solicitous for that of the man on the ceiling.
"Don't you be silly, Joe, me lad," he answered. "Don't you be rash. You'll regret it, you know; you will that. Come down, now, when I tell ye; come down before ye forget yeself. D'y'ear me? Come down. You'll make a fool of yeself in a minnit."
The man on the ceiling replied to this suggestion by removing a boot and hurling it at the prophet's head. In so doing, he obtained a view of the solemn countenance and black hat of the doctor.
The strained and tragic expression of our gymnast's visage immediately gave place to one of nervous greeting.
"Evenin', Doctor!" he said.
"Evening!" replied the doctor. "Come off that hook."
"Whaffor?" demanded the man.
"Because I tell you to. Come off, quick."
The man began to whimper. "I can't," he said. "The rope's broke. 'Ow can I?"
"Jump."
"Jump?" echoed the man.
"Yes," said the doctor, "jump. I'll catch you. Jump!"
The man jumped.
We passed out amid a silence more than ever obvious. I remember one thing clearly. The door was held open for me by an effusive, smiling sailor-man—a sailor-man with a broken nose.
I walked out stiffly, with confidence, with pride. I walked in the shadow of THE HAT.
XXIX
ON EARNING SIXPENCE
Behold our doctor on crutches and having his foot in a sling; deprived also of all burgundies, by the heartless mandate of another doctor. Behold him also in controversy with his daughter.
"You are perfectly insane," said that lady. "Doctor Beaver said quite distinctly that if you so much as moved your leg for the next three days, he wouldn't be answerable for the consequences."
"Haven't I been saying for the last three years that Beaver is an ignorant old quack?" inquired the doctor.
"And now," pursued his daughter, "because a drunken old woman comes round and raves at you, smelling of gin like a—like a cistern, you calmly propose to crawl out and go all the way to Burbidge Street, because her daughter happens to object to the locum. I'm quite sure he's a very decent locum; quite the nicest we've ever had. He's engaged to a school-mistress, and he knitted that waistcoat himself."
"The locum is a blasted young pup," responded Doctor Brink.
"Heavens!" cried his daughter, "whatever is the matter withthislocum?"
"He's giving 'emreal drugs," said the doctor, with gloom.
"What if he is?" argued James; "I don't suppose it'll kill 'em."
"Still," mused the doctor, "when people aren't used to that sort of damfoolery—— I don't want my statistics mucked up. Besides, there's the expense. And——"
"Oh, blow the 'ands,'" replied his little daughter. "You've engaged the man, and you've got to keep him. And you've got to pay him. He's come here prepared to do a week's work, so for goodness sake let him do it. I'm sure he's willing enough, at any rate."
"Willing?" repeated the doctor; "my dear girl, he is the ultimate thing in eagerness. I——"
But the doctor's further observations on this head were interrupted by the entry of the subject of them—a young gentleman in correct dress, with fair hair and a face, who was introduced to me as Doctor Tewksbury.
"I am sorry to say, Doctor," remarked this young man, "that that old woman in Mulberry Buildings is dead."
"What!" cried Doctor Brink. "Poor old Mrs. Thacker? I'm sorry. She was a nice old thing."
"Yes," assented Doctor Tewksbury, "an interesting old hag—such marked symptoms. I wish I'd exhibited bromide."
"It wouldn't have made any difference," said Doctor Brink.
"Of course not," responded Doctor Tewksbury. "She was quite hopeless; but still bromide was clearly indicated. Hullo—foot hurting?"
"Not—not more than usual," answered Doctor Brink. "My back was tickling. That's all. Any news?"
"Nothin' particular," replied the locum, "exceptin' a woman in Burbidge Street. Mrs. Groat, I think the name is. Had a sort of row with her. It's the daughter's case really—a confinement; but when I got there the old cow came to the door and she wouldn't let me in. Said her daughter had engaged with you, and she didn't want no blasted schoolboys. She was rather offensive."
"After all," said Doctor Brink, rising clumsily to his feet and holding hard to all of us, "shedidengage with me. It's a damnable nuisance; but I'll have to go round."
"Oh, rot," cried the locum. "Let the old fool rip."
"Wait till Beaver catches you, that's all," observed his daughter.
"Youarea fool, Brink," said I.
"She's been round here twice already, while you were out, Tewksbury," continued Doctor Brink. "All the family's been here, in fact; they're much excited and very drunk. I expect they've been working on the patient, and unless we do something she'll get into a frenzy and croak. I shall have to go. Where's my damned hat?"
"Now look here, Fatty," expostulated James, "you simply aren't going to beallowedto go. You——"
"Old girl," said the doctor quietly, "subside. I'm going."
So saying, the doctor grasped my shoulder in a grip that was not all of friendship. "You come the other side," he said to James. "Tewksbury, you mind the shop. Now we're off. Steady, now. Slowly. That's good. Steady, now. Steady. Good again. Oh, Kreisler!"
It was an exciting journey across the sitting-room, and that down the stairway even more so. And when at last we gained the street, the bulk of the journey lay before us. We accomplished it somehow—it lasted less than a year, at any rate—and when we had at last arrived at the interesting residence of Mrs. Groat, and had deposited the doctor on its doorstep, the lady herself came out to greet us.
"'Ow," she said, "yuv come at last, ye bleedin' makeshift!"
We pushed him inside, and the door was closed behind him, and we walked about and waited. When, nearly an hour later, the remaining fragments of my rash friend were restored to us, Mrs. Groat came after them and made further speech.
"Ye spiteful old crow," she cried. "Ye didn't 'arf make 'er 'oller, did ye? I'll show ye spite. I'll pay ye out for bein' ser spiteful. Jes'you see. I'll pay ye out."
Which she did. For when, after making the homeward journey in such a fashion as to cause amazement and amusement to the whole neighbourhood, we did arrive at the doctor's own house, it was to find that a medicine bottle had found its billet on the consulting-room floor by way of the consulting-room window.
Tewksbury came down and helped us to carry the doctor up. And when we had flopped our burden on to a couch, and Tewksbury had leisure for reflection, he said—
"You will never convince me that this was all produced by burgundy."
XXX
DIALOGUE WITH A BRIDE
She was rather a juvenile sort of bride: so much so, in fact, that a civilised inquirer might have supposed the baby on her breast and the ring upon her finger to be mere playthings.
It was to be gathered, from her opening statement, that she was inured to the married state, and that it held no terror for her.
"If 'e comes it over me," she explained, "I gives 'im a shove in the marf."
She was an attractive child—rather freckled and very shrill; but having cheerful eyes.
"What you recommend me to do about Mine, Doctor? 'E's queer."
DOCTOR BRINK: How queer?
THE BRIDE: Queer in 'is 'ead. Won't talk to nobody. Won't eat. 'E's learnin isself to write short'and.
DOCTOR BRINK: But I think that's rather sensible.
THE BRIDE: More sensible if he was to bring 'ome some money. 'E's a chair-packer's labourer. What's the good o' short'and to a chair-packer's labourer?
DOCTOR BRINK: Perhaps he has ambitions.
THE BRIDE (gloomily): Not 'im. 'E's got the sulks. If you go an' give it a big name like that, 'e'll never get better. I ain't even let 'im know I've come to you—'e's ser easy encouraged. What 'e wants is a dose o' your pale yaller—even my ole gran'ma can't drink that, and she's been takin' medsin sinceso'igh. That's what 'e wants: a dose o' your pale yaller and a flip be'ind the ear.
DOCTOR BRINK: How old is your husband?
THE BRIDE: Old enough to do some work. 'E'll be eighteen in March.
DOCTOR BRINK: He's out of employment, then?
THE BRIDE (stiffly): Well, 'e ain't out of employment, on'y 'e don't go to work. There ain't no call for 'im to go, not unless 'e wants to. We're independent.
DOCTOR BRINK: Indeed?
THE WIFE: Yus. We've 'ad some luck, through the misfortune of losin' 'is father. There's a matter of two 'underd pound at the lawyer's, and more to come, they say.
DOCTOR BRINK: It's a pity he can't find some work to do. Two hundred pounds won't last for ever, you know.
THE WIFE: There ain't no call for 'im to look for work. When the money comes we're goin' inter business.
DOCTOR BRINK: Oh! What sort of business?
THE WIFE: The 'ardware, Doctor: joiners' bits and carpenters' tools, and knives and 'and-saws. It's bin a fancy of 'is'n since boy'ood up. That's the meaning of this short'and. 'E's educatin' 'isself for the position.
DOCTOR BRINK: Well, of course, an ironmonger isn't bound to know shorthand; but——
THE WIFE: Not ironmongery, Doctor—the 'ardware: fine edge tools and joiners' necessaries, and so forth.
DOCTOR BRINK: But why object to this shorthand? After all, it keeps him out of mischief.
THE WIFE: It ain't the short'and I object to. It's him. Forever at home: forever makin' his scratches. Forever lookin' sulky and cleanin' 'is nails. Never a word to say to me, nor so much as a look for the child. 'E was 'armless enough when I married 'im. Full of life 'e was in them days. Many's the 'idin' 'e's give me!
DOCTOR BRINK: Cheer up! He'll get lively again one of these days, and give you another hiding. Even shorthand ceases to amuse people after a time.
THE WIFE: Short'and don't amuse 'im. It on'y makes 'im stupid. 'E don't wanter learn it, not reely: 'is 'ead ain't good enough for learnin'. 'E likes to make me wild, that's all. As for hidin's, it's'imwhat gets the 'iding now: I don't believe in a girl takin' any o' that when you're married. Walkin' out it's different. Besides, I earned it then. I was a devil arter the boys in them days.
DOCTOR BRINK: Oh, well: you were only a young thing then, of course.... About this husband of yours; what is it you want me to do? I can't cure shorthand, you know.
THE WIFE: Well, Doctor, I don't see's there's anything youcando, reely. Only, I wish 'e'd go back to the chair-packin'. 'Ome ain't 'ome with your man always in it. And 'e's ser sulky and ser pertickler. 'E says we gotter go to church now that we've retired from work. We're goin' ter have our shop front painted red.
DOCTOR BRINK: I always look upon red as one of our leading colours. As you say, there is really nothing which I can do. Anyhow, we've had a useful little chat.
THE WIFE: I like a little chat. It's a thing I don't seem to get very orfen, nowadays. Me and my mother, we don't know each other. She says we killed 'is father. She says I don't manage my baby.
DOCTOR BRINK: I shouldn't argue with him. He'll get used to this money in time, and then he'll be as noisy as ever again.
THE WIFE: Argue with 'im? Me? I don't argue with 'im. When I got anythink to say to 'im, 'e gets it aside o' the 'ead. I don't care, even if we 'ave retired from work. I go on the same now as what I did before; and so I shall when we've started the 'ardware. Sometimes I wish this misfortune to 'is father 'ad never 'appened. I liked 'im better in the chair-packin' days. I didn't see ser much of 'im. 'E wasn't ser pertickler. 'E took a pleasure in his tea them days. Sometimes he useder catch 'old of the kid.... And sometimes he useder lark about with me.... I liked the look of 'im them days. Sometimes, I wish we wasn't rich.