CHAPTER XIII
Which contains Some Hints towards the Making of a Baronet
A dooropened, and the echoing tramp of feet on the carpetless boards of the corridor outside ushered the entrance of two men into a large room, wholly devoid of furnishment—the plaster of its walls as bare as its ceiling and floor.
The short, stout, red-faced man shut the door with a slam that resounded through the empty place, thrust his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and said with pride:
“Now, sir; how do you call that for a stoodio!”
In the fading daylight the younger man, dandified, self-possessed, deliberate, dressed in the severest high fashion of the day, stepped to the end of the great empty place and surveyed it calmly:
“Ah, Mr. Malahide—it is the sort of room I should delight to furnish as I liked—and then live in it,” he said; and he sighed: “I have the palatial instincts.”
He spoke with a charm of accent and of manner that drew the frank admiration of the vulgar other; indeed, the stout Mr. Malahide was looking at a handsome young Englishman in all the first graceful vigour of early manhood—for Bartholomew Doome’s lithe slender build gave him an easy carriage of the body that told of well-knit strength, and put aside the hint of effeminacy suggested by the great beauty of the head. As the stout man had said to his wife this very morning: “You could find it in your heart to stroke him down with yer ’and, like a dam race-’orse.”
Mr. Malahide pushed his silk hat back upon his florid head and looked thereby even more vulgar than his Maker had intended him:
“Well,” said he—“ye like it, eh, sir?”
The smile still flickered about Bartholomew Doome’s lips:
“May I ask, Mr. Malahide,” he said drily—“what I am doing here?”
The fat little man kicked out his legs:
“That’s just it, sir,” said he—“that’s just it. Well, you see, it’s this way. Now, Mr. Doome, I’m a pretty good-hearted, but rather damn vulgar man——”
He waited patiently for an answer.
Doome looked at him steadily:
“Yes,” said he—“by the splendour of God, you are.”
“Good. Now, sir, I’ve made my bit of money in the house-furniture business already; but Tankerton Wollup he’s at the top; and he’s dead sure to become a bloomin’ baronet; and he’s as vulgar as I am.”
He paused, eyeing the floor at his feet, meditatively.
Doome nodded:
“I will only interrupt you to question the accuracy of your statements, Mr. Malahide,” he said grimly.
Pompey Malahide laughed:
“Good,” said he. “Well, where Tankerton Wollup can climb, Pompey Malahide can get his boots—and he’s going to—though Wollup’s father did have the business shrewdness to christen him Tankerton—if you can call it christening in Wardour Street.... Tankerton Wollup! Mine called me Pompey! but, bless him, the old man’s only fault was his sentiment. Pompey! Why, Tankerton’s a name to conjure with! Who’d suspect that his Christian name was Isaac? And if yer had seen the dirty hole in the city where he began and—— But, steady, Pompey, my boy—we mustn’t rake up the manufacture of antique things. Besides, luck has been with him all through—he is even aredJew.... However, sir, you have brought to my shops of late more than one tip-top swell that bought the real old stuff; and I don’t mind tellin’ you that that’s the side of my business I intend to develop.... Wollup and me began life by debauching public taste—and he’s chucking it—and it’s time I did.... I want to meet my God like a man——”
Doome coughed:
“I thought it was as a baronet,” he said.
The dealer laughed loud and long:
“God! what a wit you have! Now, sir, don’t you hit me on the neck.... Well, I’ve got clear enough eyes to discover thatyouknow the good stuff when you see it at sales, just by the good taste that’s born in you. Now, it’s no manner o’ use putting that good stuff inmywindows—the people that furnish their houses slap through from my shops don’t know the good stuff when they see it; and, I’ll be honest with you, sir, I’ll be damned ifIdo—and my partner, that did, died last Saturday. You see, sir, the fact is I’m in a hole. I know good stuff if it’s been the fashion long enough—but I have not the knowledge tosetthe fashion.Youhave, but you can’t for want of means; whilst I want to and have the means. I hope I’m not talkin’ like a bleating cad,” he said.
Bartholomew Doome watched the fat, downright little dealer out of languid eyes; but his alert mind followed every hint. And he had, besides, a very soft corner in his heart for the man. But he said not a word.
“Now, Mr. Doome, I like you—though they do say you are the wickedest man in London——”
Bartholomew Doome flushed with pleasure—he was easily flattered by genuine praise.
“Oh! Mr. Malahide!” he protested.
“Yes,” said the fat important little man, “I like you.”
Bartholomew Doome bowed. The dealer put out a hand.
“Don’t you sneer, Mr. Doome. A man can’t give more than he’s got—and liking’s the biggest thing he’s got—to bestow.”
Bartholomew Doome smiled:
“You will know when I sneer, Mr. Malahide—I do not feel like it yet,” he said.
“No; well, I’m glad of that, sir.... Because—I’m going to ask you if you’ll accept an offer. You can but refuse it, when all’s said—and break my heart.... I wouldn’t dare to make it, but I’m a shrewd business man, and I’ve hunted up one or two young fellows I’ve seen about with you, and asked them how you lived—and it has emboldened me——”
“One moment, Mr. Malahide. I will ask you no names, but—may I ask how my friends solved the problem?”
The fat dealer laughed embarrassedly:
“They said they were damned if they knew.”
Doome smiled:
“Yes,” said he—“that sounds like my friends.... And the fact is I scarcely know myself.”
The dealer nodded:
“Well, sir; what I propose is this: I am not fool enough to think you will turn shopman—it would ruffle you to death—and you’d make a poor one when you did it—your university career has spoilt you for success in business. But if you’ll drop in casually when I ring you up—there’s a telephone in the next room—and give me an opinion whenever I want it; and if you’ll let me furnish this room as your studio with anything you like, just for an advertisement for me amongst your swell friends and the newspapers—if you’ll give me the benefit of your good taste and advice on my better-class furnishing business—I only ask for your mornings—I’ll give you a thousand pound a year for it.”
He peered anxiously at the smart young fellow before him, and added hoarsely:
“For God’s sake don’t say No. There’s my hand on it—or you can take time to think it out if you like.”
He held out a fat jolly vulgar hand.
Bartholomew Doome grasped the hand:
“I’ll do it,” he said. “And I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Malahide, I’ll be glad to do it.”
“Right-o!” bawled the fat little dealer, his red face perspiring with glee as he walked briskly up and down rubbing his hands in his relief. “By Rupert, I’m born to luck. Gotthatbeastly job over.... Well, sir, the day after to-morrow you are free of all my shops, or anywhere you like to pick things up; and just you order what you wish for this room—there’s a couple of rather nice little rooms off it, and a jolly little hall—do it all regardless of cost. And—oh yes—— Now look here, Mr. Doome, to-day Icast the die. I’m straight off to give orders to compete for a big hotel.”
He came close to Doome and whispered as though he feared the very walls might hear. Doome listened closely.
The fat little man stood back a pace:
“Eh? Pretty strenuous idea, that!... Ye see, Wollup he did the one just opposite.... Now, I don’t mind even dropping a bit of money over it. Can you go over Wollup’s upholstery debauch to-morrow morning, then meet me opposite after lunch, and just give me tips to lick Wollup off his bunyanny feet?”
Doome nodded.
“Good!” said the beaming Pompey. “My manager will be at my elbow making notes. Don’t take no notice of him. Just you plan the hotel like a lady’s boodywar, in good colour and telling style—the sort o’ thing that pleases the eye so you want to kiss it. Make itsing—like a ruddy violin. It’s got to put me in front of Tankerton Wollup. See? Just come in, sir, as if you had a mortgage on the place—don’t mind me—and—well, it’ll be a bit of All-Right-O! See?... Oh,” he added, growing suddenly serious—“look here, Mr. Doome—you see—my boy’s at Harrow, so he’s all safe from me, bless the lad; but—my girls are springing up—rising sixteen one of ’em—and—they are fine stylish girls, too—but—sometimes—I have my qualms that I rub them on the raw a bit. Now, you might give me a hint—now and again—if I—well—youknow! Just say: Malahide, my boy, you’re on the vulgar side, see?”
“Off side, eh?”
“That’s it.”
Doome laughed:
“You’ll be a baronet yet,” said he.