As father and daughter approached Wimbledon a mutual silence came over them. Perhaps this was because they had talked so much in the office. When they passed the station gates, Sartwell said:
“We’ll have a cab, Edna, and blow the expense.”
“I don’t mind walking in the least; there is no fog here.”
“We’re late, so we’ll have a cab.” Once inside, he added, reflectively: “I wonder why it is that a cab seems extravagance in Wimbledon and economy in London.”
This apparently was a problem neither of them could solve, so nothing more was said until the vehicle drew up at the door of a walled garden in a quiet street near the breezy common. Sartwell put his key in the door, held it open, and let his daughter pass in before him. A square house stood about a hundred yards back from the street, surrounded by shrubbery and flower-beds. The two walked somewhat gingerly up the crunching gravel path, opened the front door, and entered a dimly-lighted hall. Sartwell placed his hat on the rack, pushed open the dining-room door and went in, this time preceding his daughter. There were many comfortable chairs in the room, and one that was not comfortable. On that chair sat a woman, tall and somewhat angular, past the prime of life. She sat exceedingly upright, not allowing her shoulders to rest against the chair back. On her face was a patient expression of mitigated martyrdom, the expression of one who was badly used by a callous world, but who is resolved not to allow its ill treatment to interfere with her innate justice in dealing with her fellows.
“I thought I heard a cab drive up and stop,” she said mildly, in the tone of one who may be wrong and is willing to be corrected.
“You did,” said Sartwell, throwing himself down in an armchair. “Being late, I took a cab from the station.”
“Oh!”
Much may be expressed by an apparently meaningless interjection. This one signified that Mrs. Sartwell, while shocked at such an admission, bowed to the inevitable, recognizing that she was mated with a man not amenable to reason, and that, while she might say much on the influence of unnecessary lavishness, she repressed herself, although she knew she would have no credit for her magnanimity.
After a few moments of silence, during which Mrs. Sartwell critically examined the sewing on which she was engaged, she looked across at her husband, and said:
“I may ask, I suppose, if it was business kept you so late.”
“Important business.”
She sighed.
“It always is. I should know that by this time without asking. Some men make business their god, although it will prove a god of clay to call upon when the end comes. There is such a thing as duty as well as business, and a man should have some little thought for his wife and his home.”
This statement seemed so incontrovertible that Sartwell made no effort to combat it. He sat there with his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his hands clasped supporting his knee. This attitude Mrs. Sartwell always regarded as the last refuge of the scoffer—an attitude he would be called upon to account for, as a sinner must account for evil deeds.
“Father has had more than usual to worry him at the office to-day,” said Edna. She stood by the table, having removed her hat and gloves.
A look of mild surprise came over Mrs. Sart-well’s face. She turned her head slowly around, and coldly scrutinized her step-daughter from head to foot. She apparently became aware of her presence for the first time, which may be explained by the fact that the young woman entered the room behind her father.
“Edna,” said Mrs. Sartwell, “how often have I told you not to put your hat and gloves on the diningroom table? There is a place for everything. I am sure that when you visit your father’s office, which you are so fond of doing, you find everything in its place, for he is at least methodical. You certainly do not take your disorderly habits from him, and everybody, except perhaps your father and yourself, admits that you live in an orderly household. How did you get that stain on your frock?”
Edna looked quickly down at her skirt; the hansom wheel had, alas! left its mark. Two-and-six an hour does not represent all the iniquities of a hansom on a muddy day.
“You are my despair, Edna, with your carelessness, and no one knows how it hurts me to say so. That frock you have had on only——”
“Edna,” cried her father, peremptorily, “are you hungry?”
“No, father.”
“Sure?”
“Quite sure. I am not in the least hungry.”
“Then go to bed.”
Edna came around the table to where her stepmother sat and kissed her on the cheek.
“Good-night,” she said.
“Good-night, my poor child,” murmured Mrs. Sartwell, with a sigh.
The girl kissed her father, whispering as she did so, “I’m afraid I’m your little girl again by the way you order me off to bed.”
“You will always be my little girl to me, my dear,” he said. “Good-night.”
Mrs. Sartwell sighed again as Edna closed the door.
“I suppose,” she said, “you think it fair to me to speak in whispers to Edna when I am in the room, or you wouldn’t do it. How you can expect the child to have any respect for me when you allow her to whisper——”
“Is there anything to eat in the house?”
“You know there is always something to eat in the house.”
“Then will you ring, or shall I?”
“You can’t expect servants to sit up all night——”
“Very well; give me the keys and I will get something for myself.”
Mrs. Sartwell’s lips trembled as she folded her work methodically, enclosing needle, thimble and various paraphernalia of sewing in the bundle, placing it exactly where it should be in the workbasket. The keys jingled at her waist as she rose.
“I am ready, and always have been, to get you what you want whenever you want it. Perhaps I expect too much, but I think you might ask for it civilly. If you treat your men as you do your wife, it’s no wonder they strike.”
Sartwell made no reply, sitting there with his eyes closed until his wife, with a quaver in her voice, told him his supper was ready. It was a plentiful spread, with a choice of beer or spirits to drink; for one of Sartwell’s weaknesses was the belief that to work well a man must eat well. Although his wife did not believe in nor approve of this pampering, she nevertheless provided well for him, for is not a woman helpless in such a case? As the man of the house ate in silence, she looked at him once or twice over her sewing, and finally said, pathetically:
“I am sure Edna was hungry, but was afraid to say so, you were so gruff with her. One would think that if you had no feeling for your wife, you would have some for your only daughter.”
Sartwell cut another slice from the cold joint, and transferred it to his plate.
“I am accustomed to it, I hope, by this time, but she is young and nothing warps the character of the young like uncalled-for harshness and unkindness. You are blind to her real faults, and then you are severe when there is no occasion for severity. What had the child done that you should order her off to bed in that fashion?”
There was a pause for a reply, but no reply came. Mrs. Sartwell was accustomed to this, as she had said, for there is a brutality of silence as well as a brutality of speech; so she scanned her adversary, as one does who searches for a joint in the armor where the sword’s point will enter. Then she took a firm grasp of the hilt, and pressed it gently forward. Turning over her sewing, and sighing almost inaudibly to it, she remarked, quietly:
“As I said to Mrs. Hope when she called——”
“Said to whom?” snapped Sartwell, turning round suddenly.
“Oh, I thought you were never interested in my callers. I suppose I am allowed to have some private friends of my own. Still, if you wish me to sit in the house all day alone, you have but to say so, and I will obey.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, if you can help it. What was Mrs. Hope doing here?”
“She was calling on me.”
“Quite so. I think I understand that much. What was her mission? What particular fad was on this time?”
“I should think you would be ashamed to speak like that about your employer’s wife, when she did your wife the honour to consult her——”
“About what? That is the point I want to get at.”
“About the strike.”
“Ah!” A glint of anger came into Sartwell’s eyes, and his wife looked at him with some uneasiness.
“Mrs. Hope is a woman who goes about doing good. She is much interested in the men at the ‘works,’ and thinks of calling on their wives and families to see for herself how they live. She thinks perhaps something may be done for them.”
“Does she?”
“Yes. She wonders if you are quite patient and tactful with them.”
“And came to find out? You told her, no doubt, that I studied tact from you and was therefore all right as far as that was concerned.”
“I told her the truth,” cried Mrs. Sartwell, hotly.
“Which was——?”
“That you were an obstinate, domineering man who would brook no opposition.”
“You hit the bull’s-eye for once. What did she say?”
“She said she hoped you considered the men’s helpless families.”
“And you answered that not having any consideration for my own, it was not likely I would give much thought to the wives and families of the men.”
“I didn’t say so, but I thought it.”
“Admirable self-restraint! Now look here, Sarah, you’re playing with fire and haven’t the sense to know it. Mrs. Hope is a meddling, hysterical fool, and——”
“You wouldn’t dare say that to your employer.”
“Now that remark shows that a woman of your calibre can live for years with a man and not begin to understand him. The trouble is that I shall say just that very thing to my employer, as you delight to call him, the moment his wife puts her finger in the pie. Then what follows?”
“You will lose your situation.”
“Exactly. Or, to put it more truthfully, I resign—I walk out into the street.”
“You surely would do nothing so foolish.”
“That follows instantly when I am compelled to give Mr. Hope my opinion regarding his domestic relations. Then what will become of your income? Will Mrs. Hope contribute, do you think? Do you aspire to a place on her charity list? Whatever your opinion has been of me, privately held or publicly expressed, you must admit that I have at least provided money enough to keep the house going, and you have surely the sense to appreciate that. You never could see an inch ahead of your nose, or realize that effect follows cause as inevitably as fate. How a woman can describe a man as obstinate and domineering, impatient of all control, and then deliberately wag her tongue to bring about the very interference that she must know, if she believes what she has said, he will not stand, passes my comprehension. The result of your gossip to-day may be that I shall be looking for another situation to-morrow.”
Mrs. Sartwell had been weeping during the latter part of this harangue.
“It is always me,” she sobbed, “that is to blame for everything wrong. Your hasty ungovernable temper is never at fault. If you made me more of a confidante in your affairs—other men consult their wives, better men than you, and richer than you will ever be. Mrs. Hope says that her husband——”
“I don’t want to hear any more about Mrs. Hope.”
“You insisted on talking about her. I didn’t want to say anything, but you cross-questioned me till I had to, and now you blame me.”
“Very well, let it rest there. Bring me a jug of milk, if you please.”
“You are surely not going to drink milk after beer?”
“I claim the liberty of a British subject to drink any mortal thing I choose to drink. Don’t let us have an argument about it.”
“But you won’t sleep a wink, John, if you do. It’s for your own good I speak.”
“Everything is for my own good, Sarah; perhaps that’s what makes me so impatient.”
“Well, you know how you are after a bad night.”
“Yes, yes. I think I have earned my bad night anyhow. Get the milk or tell me where to get it.” Mrs. Sartwell always rose when her husband offered to help himself from the larder. She placed the jug of milk at his elbow.
“I’ve got a number of things to think over,” he said. “I want to be alone.”
She stood by the table looking at him.
“Good-night, John,” she faltered at last.
“Good-night,” he answered.
She gazed at him reproachfully in silence, but he did not raise his head, so turning at last with a deep sigh, she left him to his meditations.
Sartwell sat there with deep anxiety on his brow. Silence fell on all the house. At last the master roused himself and turned to the table. He buttered two slices of bread and cut a piece of dainty cake, placing them on a plate with a drinking glass. Lighting a candle and turning out the gas, he set to himself the acrobatic feat of carrying plate, jug, and candle. First he softly opened the door and kicked off his slippers. Awkwardly laden, he mounted the stair with the stealthy tread of a burglar, but in spite of his precautions the stairs creaked ominously in the stillness. He noiselessly entered a room, and, placing the difficult load on a table, softly closed the door. When the light shone on the sleeping girl’s face she opened her eyes very wide, then covered them with her hand, laughing a quiet, sleepy little laugh, and buried her face in the white pillow.
“H—s—sh,” said her father.
Instantly she was wide awake.
“I was afraid you were hungry after all,” he whispered.
“I wasn’t then, really, but I am now a little.”
“That’s good.”
He placed a small round gypsy table near the bed and put the plate and jug of milk upon it.
“You knew of course when I spoke, that—I merely wanted you to get a long night’s rest. You were tired, you know.”
“Oh, I know that, father.”
“Then, good-night, my dear; perhaps it was foolish to wake you up, but you will soon drop off asleep again.”
“In a minute, and this does look tempting. I just wanted a glass of milk. It’s so good of you, father.”
She drew his head down and kissed him.
“I hope you’ll sleep well,” she added.
“I’ll be sure to.”
At the door he stopped; then after a moment, whispered cautiously:
“Edna, you’ll take the things down in the morning yourself, quietly. The servants, you know—well, they don’t like extra trouble—sometimes.”
“Yes, father, I understand.”
Sartwell stole quietly out like a thief in the night.
Barnard Hope, commonly known as Barney, never quite got over his surprise at finding himself the son of James Hope and Euphemia his wife. James Hope, the junior member of the firm of Monkton & Hope, was an undersized man with a touch of baldness and an air of constant apology. He seemed to attach a mental string to every hesitating opinion he uttered, so that he might instantly pull it back if necessary. Meeting him on the street, one would take him for a very much bullied, very much underpaid clerk in the City. In his office he lived in fear of his manager; at home he lived in fear of his wife. The chief characteristic of his wife was uncompromising rigidity. She was a head taller than her husband, and when one met them on the way to church, he had the meek attitude of an unfortunate little boy who had been found out, and was being taken to church as a punishment by a just and indignant school-mistress. Mrs. Hope joined in none of the fashionable frivolities of Surbiton, where she lived. She had a mission and a duty towards her fellow-creatures—that is, towards those who were poor, and who could not very well resent her patronage. She had an idea that if all the well-to-do did their duty, the world would be a brighter and a better place—which is doubtful.
We may all be more or less grateful that Mrs. Hope has not been intrusted with the task of making this world over again; many interesting features would in that case have been eliminated. Hope himself was not an example of unmitigated happiness. The lady always had a number ofprotégéeson hand, whom she afterwards discovered, as a usual thing, to be undeserving, which discovery caused them to be thrown over for new cases that in turn went bad. She was also constantly in demand by organizations needing members with long purses, but Mrs. Hope had a wonderful talent for managing which was not always recognized by those with whom she associated. This often led to trouble, older members claiming, as they vulgarly put it, that she wanted to run the whole show, and one outspoken person advised her to ameliorate the condition of her husband’s workmen, if she desired fit subjects for her efforts. This remark turned Mrs. Hope’s attention to the manufactory of Monkton & Hope, and led to her calling upon Mrs. Sartwell, in the neighbouring suburb of Wimbledon.
Now the son of these two dissimilar but estimable persons ought to have been a solemn prig, whereas he was in fact a boisterous cad, and thus does nature revel in unexpected surprises.
Barney was a broad-shouldered, good-natured giant, who towered over his shrinking father as the Monument towers over the nearest lamp-post. He was hail-fellow well-met, and could not shake hands like an ordinary mortal, but must bring down his great paw with an over-shoulder motion, as if he were throwing a cricket-ball, and, after the resounding whack of palm on palm, he would crunch the hand he held until its owner winced. Friends of the young fellow got into the habit, on meeting him, of placing their hands behind them and saying, “I’m quite well, thank you, Barney,” whereupon Barney laughed and smote them on the shoulder, which, though hard to bear, was the lesser of two evils.
“Boisterous brute,” his comrades said behind his back, but the energetic shoulder-blow or hand-clasp merely meant that Barney was very glad indeed to meet a friend, and to let the friend know that although he was very poor and Barney very rich this circumstance need not make the slightest difference between them.
It is possible that in the far West, or in the Australian bush, where muscle counts for something, there was a place yawning for Barney; perhaps there was a place for him even in London, but if there was, fate and Barney’s own inclinations removed him from it as far as possible. Barney was an artist; that is to say, he painted, or rather he put certain colours on canvas. For some years Barney had been the amazement of Julian’s school in Paris. He had a suite of rooms at the Grand Hotel, and he drove to the school in the Rue du Dragon every morning with a coachman and footman, the latter carrying Barney’s painting kit, while the former sat in a statuesque position on the box with his whip at the correct angle. Of course the art students were not going to stand that sort of thing, so they closed the gates one day and attacked the young man in a body. Barney at first thought it was fun, for he did not understand the language very well, and his good-natured roar sounded loud over the shrill cries of his antagonists. He reached for them one by one, placed them horizontally in a heap, then he rolled them over and over, flattening any student who attempted resurrection with a pat of his gigantic paw.
Whatever admiration they may have had for art at Julian’s, they certainly had a deep respect for muscle, and so left Barney alone after that. He invited them all to dinner at the Grand Hotel, and they came.
When his meteoric career as an art student in Paris was completed, he set himself up in an immense studio in Chelsea. The studio was furnished regardless of expense; there was everything in it that a studio ought to have—rich hangings from the East, tiger-skins from India, oriental rugs, ancient armour, easels of every pattern, luxurious lounges covered with stuffs from Persia.
“There,” cried Barney to Hurst Haldiman, with a grand sweep of his hand: “what do you think of that?”
Haldiman, one of the most talented students he had met in Paris, had now a garret of his own in London, where he painted when he got time, and did black and white work for the magazines and illustrated weeklies to keep himself in money. Barney had invited all his own old Parisian friends, one by one, to see his new quarters.
“Wonderful!” said Haldiman. “I venture to say there is not another studio in London like it.”
“That was my intention,” replied Barney. “They told me that Sir Richard Daubs had the finest studio in London. I said nothing, but went to work, and here I am. Have you ever seen Daubs’ studio, Hurst?”
“No. He is not so friendly as you are, Barney; he has never invited me.”
“Well, I’ll get you an invitation, and I want you to tell me candidly what you think of mine as compared with his.”
“Thanks, old man, but don’t trouble about the invitation for me. I haven’t any time to spare; merely came up here, you know, because we had been in Paris together. Daubs’ studio has one great advantage over many others—it contains a man who can paint.”
“Oh, yes, Haldiman, that’s all right. That’s the old Paris gag, you know. Ever since I heaped the boys one on top of the other, they have revenged themselves by saying I couldn’t paint; but you should be above that sort of thing, Haldiman, you really should. You see I’m a plain, straight-forward fellow, and I’ve got what is admitted to be the finest studio in London; but does that make any difference between me and my old friends? Not a bit of it, and the fact that you are sitting there proves it. I’m a born Bohemian; I despise riches, and my very best friends are fellows who haven’t a sou-markee.Youknow that, Haldiman.”
Haldiman lit another of Hope’s very excellent cigarettes. Barney imported them from Egypt himself, and said they were the same brand the Khedive smoked until one of the war correspondents informed him that the Khedive was not a smoker. Then Barney slightly varied the praise.
“Help yourself, dear boy. You’ll find they’re not half bad as cigarettes go. I get them direct, for you can’t trust these rascally importers. The Khedive is not a smoker himself, still he keeps nothing but the best for his guests, and this is the identical brand, as supplied to him.
“Now about this painting business,” continued Barney. “I venture to say that there was a time when Daubs was utterly unknown. Very well. Here also am I utterly unknown. The public won’t buy my pictures. I don’t conceal that fact. Why should I? I sent a picture to the Birmingham exhibition—I don’t say it was great, but I do claim it had individuality. They rejected it!”
“You amaze me!”
“I give you my word of honour they did, Haldiman. Birmingham! Think of that! A town that manufactures nails and gun-barrels.”
“Oh, art in England is going to the dogs,” said Haldiman, dejectedly.
“Now I don’t go so far as to say that. No; I laughed when my little effort came back, with regrets. I said I can bide my time, and I can. The people will come to me, Haldiman, you see if they don’t.”
“They do already, Barney—those who want to borrow money.”
“Now look here, Hurst, don’t throw my beastly cash in my teeth. Am I to blame if I am rich? Do I allow it to make a difference between man and man? We were talking about art, not money.”
“So we were. About your pictures. Go on.”
“I only wanted to point out to you that one must take things philosophically. Now if Birmingham had rejected one of your pictures it would have depressed you for a week.”
“Birmingham has got me on the other alley, Barney. It has accepted two of mine. Hence my gloom after what you have told me.”
Barney beamed on his visitor. Here was his argument clinched, but he repressed his desire to say, “I told you so”; still he could not allow the occasion to pass without improving it with a little judicious counsel.
“There you are, Haldiman, there you are. Does not the fact that you are accepted of Birmingham make you pause and think?”
“I’m staggered. It’s a knock-down blow. I’ll be into the Academy next.”
“Oh, not so bad as that. You see, Haldiman, you have talent of a certain kind——”
“Now, Barney, you lay it on too thick. I like flattery, of course, but it must be delicately done. You are gross in your praise.”
“I am not flattering you, Haldiman, ’pon my soul, I’m not. Most other fellows would be offended at what I’m going to say, but you’re a sensible man——”
“There you go again.”
“Listen to me. You have a certain talent—technique, perhaps, I should call it; a slight skill in technique.”
“Ah, that’s better. Now go on.”
“You got the praise and the prizes in Paris because of your technique, and that set you on the wrong tack. You are merely only doing well what hosts of other men have done well before you. You are down among the ruck. Now I strive after individuality.”
“You get it, Barney.”
“That’s not for me to say; anyhow, individuality and strength are what I want to see in my pictures, and there will some time come a critic with a mind unbiased enough to recognize these qualities. Then my day will have arrived. You mark my words, I shall found a school.”
“Like Julian’s?”
“No, like Whistler’s. You know very well what I mean. That’s your nasty way of showing you are offended because I’m frank enough to tell you the truth.”
“I suppose none of us likes the candid friend, however much we may pretend to. Well, I must be going. I’ve got some technique to do for one of the magazines.”
“Don’t go just yet. I have not half finished. Here is what I have to propose. Give up your room and come with me. You see the great advantage I have over you is that I can wait. If a magazine asked me to do black and white work for it, I would say, ‘No, go to those poor devils who must have work or starve. I’m working for the future, not for the present!’ That’s what I’d say. Now I’ll give you a bedroom, rent free, and a corner of this studio. It won’t cost you a penny—nor your board either. You can paint just what you like, and not what the public demands. Then you will be independent.”
“We have different views about things, Barney. That would seem to me the worst form of dependence. It is very generous of you, but utterly impracticable; besides, you haven’t thought of the danger of my becoming a mere copyist of you—a shadow of the new individualist. I couldn’t risk that, you know.”
“Better become the shadow of one man, than a shadow of many, which you are now.”
“Perhaps; but we each must hoe our own row in our own way. Good-by, Barney.”
Haldiman went down-stairs, not cheered as much as might have been expected by Hope’s overflowing good nature and generosity. He met Barney’s mother on the stairs, who gave him a head-to-foot glance of evident disapproval. She did not admire the set with whom her son had thrown in his lot, and feared their influence on him would not be beneficial.
“Oh, mater!” cried Barney, when she entered. “I did not expect you to-day. How did you find the place?”
His mother raised her lorgnette to her eyes and surveyed the room in silence.
“So this is the studio, Barnard,” she said, at last. “I don’t think much of it. Why is it all untidy like this?—or haven’t you had time to get it in order yet?”
“This is the kind of thing we artists go in for, mater. It is as much in order as it ever will be.”
“Then I don’t like it. Why could you not have had a man in to lay one carpet as it should be laid? These rugs, all scattered about in this careless way, trip one up so. What’s this old iron for?”
“That’s armour, mater.”
“Oh, is it? I don’t see how any one can do useful work in a room like this, still I suppose it is good enough to paint in. I found the place easily enough. Trust a neighbourhood to know where there is any extra foolishness going on. Of course you have been cheated in everything you bought. But that’s neither here nor there. I came to talk with you about the business.”
“What business, mater?”
“What business?Thebusiness, of course. Your father’s business and yours, for I hope the time will come when you will take more interest in it than you do now. The men, it seems, talk of going on strike.”
“Foolish beggars! What are they going to do that for, and what do you expect me to do? Not to talk to the men, I hope, for I detest the workingman. He’s an ass usually, otherwise he wouldn’t work for the wages he gets. Then he spends what he does make on bad beer and goes home and beats his wife. I can’t reason with the workingman, you know, mater.”
“No, I don’t suppose you can. I sometimes doubt whether you can reason with anybody. It is because the workingman labours that you can idle away your time in a place like this. There are many deserving characters among the working classes, although they are often difficult to find. The men have made-some demands which Sartwell, the manager, won’t even listen to. It seems to me that he is not treating them fairly. He should, at least, hear what they have to say, and if their demands do not cost the firm anything; he should grant them.”
“Mater,” cried the young man, with enthusiasm, “what a head for business you have!”
“I am of a family that became rich through having heads for business,” replied the lady, with justifiable pride. “Now, what I want you to do is to see this man Sartwell; he will pay attention to you because he knows that in time you will be his master, and so he will be civil to you.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Barney, doubtfully. “I imagine he thinks me rather an ass, you know.”
“Well, now is your opportunity for showing him you are not, if he has the impertinence to think such a thing. You must see him at his own house and not at the office—here is his address. Tell him to receive the men and make a compromise with them. He is to make concessions that are unimportant, and thus effect a compromise. A little tact is all that is required.”
“From me, or from Sartwell?”
“From both of you. I expect tact from you because you are my son.”
“But why doesn’t father talk to Sartwell? I know nothing of the business, and father does; it seems to be entirely in his line, don’t you know?”
“Your father, Barnard, is a timorous man, and he actually is afraid of his manager. He thinks it is interference and doesn’t want to meddle, so he says, as if a man were meddling in looking after his own affairs! He fears Sartwell will resign, but that kind of man knows where his own interest lies. I’ll risk his resigning, and I want you to see him at his house, for it is no use bothering your father about these things.”
“I don’t like the job, mater; it does look like interference.”
Mrs. Hope again raised her lorgnette by its long tortoise-shell handle, and once more surveyed the studio.
“This must have cost you a good deal of money, Barnard,” she said, impartially.
“It did,” admitted the young man.
“I suppose I shall soon have to be writing another cheque for you. For how much shall I make it?”
“It is such a pity to trouble you so often, mater,” replied the young man, “that perhaps we had better say three hundred.”
“Very well,” said his mother, rising, “I will have it ready for you when you come to Surbiton after having seen Sartwell at Wimbledon. It is on your way, you know.”
“All right, mater. But you mustn’t blame me if I don’t succeed. I’ll do my best, but Sartwell’s an awkward beggar to deal with.”
“All I ask of you, Barnard, is that you shall do your best,” answered the lady, rising.
When Mrs. Hope departed, Barney sat down on a luxurious divan in his studio, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“I may as well have that cheque as soon as possible,” he said to himself. “It is no use delaying important matters; besides, delay might injure the scheme the mater has on her mind. What a blessing it is father asks me not to mention the cheques he gives me. Between the two you manage to rub along, Barney, my boy. Well, here goes for Wimbledon!”
The young man arrayed himself with some care, jumped into a hansom, and was driven to Sloane Square station, where, in due time, a deliberate train came along that ultimately landed him in Wimbledon.
If Barney had been a man of deep thought, or experienced in the ways of working people, or able to reason from induction, he would have arrived at the fact that there was not the slightest chance of finding Mr. Sartwell in his house at that hour of the day. It must not be supposed that Barney was an unthinking person, for, when the servant informed him that Mr. Sartwell was never at home except in the evening or early morning, Barney at once accused himself mentally of heedlessness in having to come all the way from Chelsea to Wimbledon to learn so self-evident a fact. He thus admitted to himself his own ability to have reasoned the matter out, had his mind been unobscured by the shadow of a coming cheque.
He was not quick at grasping an unexpected detail, and he stood at the door hardly knowing exactly what to do next; while the servant watched him with obvious distrust, wondering whether he came to sell something or merely to ask for a subscription; however, the fact that he was keeping a hansom waiting at the gate told in his favour, so she broke the silence by saying:
“Any message, sir?”
He ignored this question, which raised him still higher in the servant’s estimation, and ventured the perfectly accurate opinion:
“He will not be home for some hours, I suppose?”
“No, sir.”
Barney pondered for a while, and suddenly delivered himself of a resolution that did credit to his good sense.
“Then I won’t wait,” he said.
“What name shall I say, sir?” asked the maid.
“Oh, it’s of no importance. I will call again; still, here is my card. I am the son of Mr. Hope, one of the proprietors of the works.”
The maid took the card, and Mrs. Sartwell appeared in the hall, almost as if she had been listening to the words of the speaker, which, of course, she had a perfect right to do, as one generally wishes to know who calls at one’s front door.
“Did I hear you say that you were Mr. Hope?” she asked.
“I am his son, madam,” said Barney modestly, and with that politeness he had learned in Paris.
“Won’t you come in? I’m sorry my husband is not at home. Is it on account of the strike you come? I feel very anxious. Your mother called yesterday, and we had a long conversation about it.”
“Yes, the mater takes a great interest in the workingman, although I can’t say I do myself. I merely wished to have an informal chat with Mr. Sartwell on the situation, and that is why I called at the house rather than the office.”
Barney stepped into the hall and kept his hat in his hand to show he had a hansom waiting. He had no intention of staying more than a moment or two. He had thought it best to have something to tell his mother about his visit to Wimbledon, for she was a relentless cross-questioner, and if he could have a conversation to report she might take the will for the deed and give him the cheque.
The door of the drawing-room was thrown open and when the two entered they found Edna Sartwell sitting there in a deep chair, reading a book with such interest that she evidently had not heard a word of the colloquy at the door. She rose in some confusion, colouring deeply as she saw a stranger come in with her step-mother. The latter said nothing to the girl, but directed a glance at her that, speaking as plainly as words, told her to leave the room.
Barney’s first thought on seeing Edna was that she was about to escape from the room, and that this desertion must be diplomatically prevented. Barney’s great burden in life, so he often told his friends, was that the young ladies of England were in the habit of throwing themselves at his head, which remark caused Haldiman once to say that they had a quick eye for his weakest point of defence. Now here was a “stunning” girl, to use Barney’s own phrase about her, who was actually about to walk out of the room without casting a second glance at him. A young man always likes the unusual.
“Not your daughter, Mrs. Sartwell?” said Barney, in his most winning manner.
“My step-daughter,” answered the lady, coldly.
“Ah, I thought you could not have a grown-up daughter,” murmured Barney, delicately. He always found this particular kind of compliment very successful with ladies well past middle age, and in this case his confidence was not misplaced.
“Do not let me drive you away, Miss Sartwell,” he continued. “I am Barnard Hope,” he added, seeing that Mrs. Sartwell did not intend to introduce him, “and I called to see your father and talk with him regarding the strike. So, you know, it is a matter that interests us all, and I beg of you to join in the conference.”
The moment he mentioned her father and the strike, he saw he held the attention of the girl, who paused and looked at her step-mother. That perplexed lady was in a quandary. She did not wish to offend Mrs. Hope’s son, and she did not want her step-daughter to remain in the room. She hesitated, and was lost.
“Pray let me offer you a chair in your own drawingroom,” said Barney, with that gallantry which he always found irresistible, “and you, Mrs. Sartwell. Now we will have a comfortable informal chat, which I know will be of immense assistance in my talk with Mr. Sartwell, for I confess I am a little afraid of him.” Edna opened her eyes at this; she had several times heard people say they stood in awe of her father, and she never could understand why.
Mrs. Sartwell sat bolt upright and folded her hands on her lap, frowning at her step-daughter when she got the chance unseen by Barney. She did not at all like the turn events had taken, but saw no way of interfering without seeming rude to her guest.
“You see,” chirruped Barney, “the mater takes a great interest in the workingman; so do I.” He thought this noble sentiment would appeal to Edna Sartwell. “I think we all—we all—as it were—should feel a certain responsibility, don’t you know. You see what I mean, Mrs. Sartwell?”
“Certainly. It does you great credit, Mr. Hope,” replied the lady appealed to, although she uttered the phrase with some severity, as if it were an aspersion.
“Oh, not at all. I suppose it was born in me. I think it natural for all rightly brought up persons to take a deep interest in their fellow-creatures. Don’t you think so, Miss Sartwell?”
“Yes,” said Edna faintly, without looking up.
“For workmenareour fellow-creatures, you know,” cried Barney, with all the enthusiasm of a startling discovery.
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” said Mrs. Sartwell, in gloomy tones.
“Quite so, quite so,” assented Barney, who took the remark as original. “I couldn’t have stated the case better if I had thought all day about it. Now the mater imagined that perhaps Mr. Sartwell would consent to meet the men and talk it over, making perhaps some trifling concessions, and then everything would be lovely. You see what I mean?”
“It seems a most reasonable proposal,” said Mrs. Sartwell, with a sigh; “but my opinion is of no value, especially in my own house.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Mrs. Sartwell. I am sure every one must value your opinion most highly—every one who has the privilege of hearing it. I assure you I do. Now, what do you think, Miss Sartwell?”
The young man beamed on the girl in his most fascinating manner, but his charming facial expression was in a measure lost, for Edna was looking at the carpet, apparently perplexed.
“I think,” she said at last, “that father, who spends nearly all his time dealing with the men, must understand the situation better than we do. He has had a great deal of experience with them, and, as I know, has given much thought to the difficulty; so it seems to me our advice may not be of any real value to him.”
Barney could scarcely repress a long whistle. So this was how the land lay. This demure miss actually had an opinion of her own, and was plainly going to stand with her father against the field. Heretofore everybody had always agreed with Barney, excepting of course those rascally students, who were no respecters of persons, and more especially had all women agreed with him, therefore this little bit of opposition, so decorously expressed, had a new and refreshing flavour. The wind had shifted; he must trim his sails to suit the breeze.
“There, Miss Sartwell, you have touched the weak spot in our case. Just what I said to the mater. ‘Mr. Sartwell’s on the spot,’ said I, ‘and he ought to know.’ Almost your very words, Miss Sartwell.”
An ominous cloud rested on Mrs. Sartwell’s brow.
“Surely,” she said, severely, “the owners of a business should have something to say about the way it is to be conducted.”
“The tendency of modern times,” cried Barney, airily, waving his hand, “appears to be entirely in the opposite direction, my dear madam. It is getting to be that whoeverhasa say in a business, the owners shall have the least. And I am not sure but this is, to a certain extent, logical. I have often heard my father say that Mr. Sartwell was the real maker of the business. Why then should he be interfered with?” Edna looked up gratefully at the enthusiastic young man, for she not only liked the sentiments he was beginning to express, but she liked the manly ring in his voice. Barney had frequently found this tone to be very taking, especially with the young and inexperienced, and he knew that he appeared at his best when assuming it, if none of his carping comrades were present. He could even work himself up into a sturdy state of indignation, if his audience were sympathetic, and he were free from the blighting influence of pessimistic young men he met in Bohemia.
“And now, Miss Sartwell, I’ll tell you what I propose Have a talk with your father; then, if Mrs. Sartwell will allow me, I will call again, and I can judge from what you say whether it will be worth while troubling Mr. Sartwell with our advice. You see, we have all the same object in view—we wish to help Mr. Sartwell if we can. If we can’t, then there is no harm done. You see what I mean?”
Mrs. Sartwell rather grudgingly assented to this. Edna said nothing.
“You see, ladies, I am an artist—a painter of pictures. I work, as it were, in the past and in the future. I feel that I do not belong to the present, and these little details I know I ought to leave to those who understand how to deal with them. I told the mater so. But whether we are able to help Mr. Sartwell or not, you must allow me to thank you for a very charming afternoon. My studio is in Chelsea. It is said to be the finest in London; but of course I care nothing about that, to me it is merely my workshop. But there are relaxations even in artistic life, and every Tuesday afternoon from three o’clock till five I am at home to my friends. I expect the mater to receive my guests, and you must promise to come, Mrs. Sartwell, will you not? I will send you cards, and you will be sure to meet some nice people. May I count on you? I know the mater will be pleased.”
“I shall be very happy to accept your invitation,” said Mrs. Sartwell, softening under the genial influence of the young man.
“And you, too, Miss Sartwell?”
Edna looked somewhat dubiously at her stepmother.
“You will bring Miss Sartwell with you, will you not?” persisted the young man.
“I am always glad to do anything to add to Edna’s pleasure,” said Mrs. Sartwell, a trifle less cordially; “but it must be as her father says.”
“Then you will use your influence with him, Miss Sartwell, won’t you, and get him to consent. I am sure he will not refuse if you care to come.”
“I should like very much to go,” said Edna.
“Then we will look on it as settled.”
When Barney stepped into his waiting hansom, he said to himself, “Ah, Barney, my boy, you light on your feet as usual. What a lovely girl! and a mind of her own, too, if she is so shy. Who would ever have suspected grim old Sartwell of having such a pretty daughter! I must persuade the mater to come off that particular hobbyhorse of hers, for it is easy to see the girl doesn’t want anyone to interfere with her father. If I can bring the mater around and get the cheque too, I’m a diplomatist.”