The space of time mentioned by old Chelsfield elapsed, but he prevented himself from enjoying the content of a successful prophet by commencing rather absurdly to break up in health almost immediately after venturing upon the tolerably safe anticipation. Amongst the changes of thirty years was the fact that Chelsfield, as a name, had become better known; even the folk who flew through the main streets of London on motor omnibuses, and had to give nearly all their attention to the holding on of hats, could not evade recognition of the hoardings; the Chelsfield posters declined to be ignored. If you closed your eyes to these, you were nearly sure to encounter the name in your daily paper. If you missed it in your daily paper, it came into the letter-box, marked “Very Important.” If you dodged it there, it confronted you on your theatre programme at night. Leaving the theatre and endeavouring to forget the name, you saw it at a popular corner, being written with great deliberation in illuminated letters, as though some invisible giant had made up his mind to grasp the rudiments of education.
Henry Chelsfield himself was not insensible to the determined appeals, and, going home in his electric brougham, he counted them. Thus one evening he found a dreary gap between the Cobden statue and the Britannia, and immediately made memorandum of the circumstance in his note-book, in order that the deplorable omission might be attended to on the following day. All very well for the advertising agents to send him a box for the theatre, but these people had to be kept up to the mark.
“I can be amiable enough,” he said to the clock inside the brougham, “in private affairs, but I’m very different where money matters are concerned.”
Chelsfield might be flattering himself, or he might be telling the truth; anyhow he was a Londoner, with a Londoner’s weakness for orders for the play. That was why he had left his offices early; that was why he proposed to eat at an unusual hour; that was why, on arriving at Hampstead, he ordered the man to bring the brougham round again at half-past seven. He dined alone, with a portrait of a good-looking woman, painted by Herkomer, facing him; at her side a lad, with small eyes rather close to each other. Chelsfield lifted his glass when the two maids had left the room and said:
“Jessie!”
He did not drink a toast to the boy.
Watherston, from a house nearer the Heath, came in as Chelsfield pretended to smoke a cigarette—he had been thinking that one man in a private box would present a lonely figure to the audience; the gallery would say that he had no friends—and Watherston asked to be excused for once from joining in a game of billiards.
“Nothing could have happened better!” cried Chelsfield, arousing himself. “You have only to run home and jump into evening dress, and—”
“My boy wants me to take him to see the conjuring people at St. George’s Hall.”
“You’re not spoiling that lad of yours, I hope, Watherston?”
“I’m not spoiling my lad,” retorted Watherston, speaking with emphasis. The two men gazed at each other with the sudden acerbity of manner that comes at times to the closest friends. Chelsfield’s eyes went presently to the fruit on the table. “Ever hear anything of yours?” demanded Watherston, following up his advantage.
“There’s no doubt whatever,” replied Chelsfield testily, “that he disappeared in South Africa. I don’t want to discuss the matter again. He was older than your boy. And you know as well as I do that after his mother died he went to the bad.”
“You told him to stay there?”
“I can give you and your lad a lift as far as Kingsway,” said Chelsfield, “if that’s of any use.”
“It won’t be much help to us,” replied his friend candidly; “but we shall be company for you.”
The Watherston boy was enthusiastic about the swift ride, enthusiastic about the performance he was about to see, enthusiastic at being with his father, enthusiastic over everything. Chelsfield, watching him on the way, thought that no man desired any better company than that of a cheerful son. Arrived at Holborn, he suddenly announced that he had decided to take the complimentary step of giving up the theatre-box and of joining them in their visit to St. George’s Hall. As he lowered the window and put his head out to speak to his man, the boy and father conferred in a whisper.
“Chelsfield!” said the friend, touching his sleeve.
“What now?”
“Let us get out. I want to speak to you privately. Fact is”—on the pavement—“fact is—you know what boys are, and I’m sure you won’t mind—but he tells me that he would rather go with me alone; and, to tell you the truth, I don’t want to share him this evening. You see, he goes back to Rugby to-morrow.”
Chelsfield dismissed his brougham and decided to walk the remainder of the way. He went with head down, and so deep in thought that it startled him when, in a turning from the new highway, he was accosted by one of a long file of men, waiting to march into the shelter for the night. There were about a hundred of them—old, young, middle-aged, all imperfectly shod, hands in pockets. He glanced along the line before replying. The light from a lamp showed the face of one, the youngest of all.
“Right you are,” said the man who had spoken to him, in an amiable tone of voice, “if you ’aven’t got any tobacker, you can’t give us none.”
“I’ll—I’ll go and get some,” he remarked with agitation.
“Good iron!” said the man approvingly.
Chelsfield returned from the Strand breathless, a parcel under his arm, and, removing the string with trembling fingers, began the work of distribution. Some of the men received the ounce gratefully, some mentioned that it was all done for the sake of advertisement, some demanded why he had not also brought pipes, some accepted with a snatch. Chelsfield had not regained full control of his breathing powers when he reached the lamp.
“No, thanks!”
“You—you are not a smoker?”
“I am a smoker; but I don’t accept anything from you.”
Chelsfield took his son’s hand and tried to pull him from his place. “I want to speak to you, dear boy. I’ve something important to say.”
“You said something important to me once,” retorted the other doggedly, “and you don’t have a chance of saying anything important to me again. Be off, before I set the others on to you.” His attitude expressed determination.
Chelsfield’s housekeeper, at breakfast the next morning, asked in her respectful manner what he thought of the comedy he had seen the previous night. Chelsfield told her that he considered it extremely far-fetched.
XI—SCOTTER’S LUCK
His opponent, after a good look at the table, adjusted his cue, and, disregarding the murmur of “Whitechapel!” sent spot white into a pocket. Many of the spectators volunteered advice, the while Scotter stood back and glanced self-commiseratingly at the scoring-board.
“That all I am, marker?” he inquired.
“That’s your total figure, my lad.”
Scatter’s opponent took time in aiming at the red, and the suggestion that he had gone to sleep did not induce him to hurry. Striking his own ball gently and rather high up, the two travelled slowly into baulk. Scotter remarked dismally that this was just his luck, and found spot white; he was about to make a wild shot up and down the table when he changed his mind, and, considering angles, drew back his cue and prepared to send his ball at a particular point of the cushion.
“This ought to do it,” he said, “but whether it will or not is more than I can—”
A bell rang. On the instant the men were out of the billiard-room; Scotter the last, because his first neat and orderly idea was to replace his cue in the stand, the second, a time-saving notion, was to leave it resting against the table, and in this confusion of thought a few moments were wasted. As the two horses plunged and reared in the yard, and made a dash through the short avenue of people outside the gates, one or two of his helmeted colleagues expressed the opinion that when the last trump sounded Scotter would be the last to respond, bringing with him an assortment of about ten good and sufficient excuses. Above the clanging and the noise, he was asked whether he had ever been really in time for anything but his meals; he blushed when they declared that girls were probably waiting for him at altars in various churches of London, growing old and cross and tired.
“Where are we bound for?” he asked, to change the subject.
“We’re going to a fire, Scotty, my lad,” it was explained. “Didn’t you know? You thought we were off to an evening party, to have a game of postman’s knock. But no; we’re going to a fire, and we’ve got to put it out soon as we possibly can. Remember that, won’t you? Not to make it burn brighter, but to put it out. It’s done with the aid of a syphon of soda. You take the syphon like this, and you remark to the fire, ‘Say when!’ and then—”
Southampton Row, at the narrow part, blocked with confused traffic; the wild horses had to pretend to be tamed whilst a passage was made. Fire-engines were also coming along Hart Street and from Kingsway; tramcars bobbing up from the tunnel waited politely. The engine managed to reach the street, and a stout superintendent, glancing at his watch, told the men they stood an excellent chance of winning the booby prize.
“For that pretty compliment,” they said, dropping from the engine, “we have to thank you, Mister Sleepy Scotter, Esquire.”
Police keeping the people back; the street already a river, streams of water being sent high up at two houses, neighbours’ faces out with the nearest wearing an expression of anxiety, whilst those a few doors off and opposite showed nothing more than interest. Furniture hurled out of windows, with now and again a smash. The firemen went about their work alertly and swiftly; when an order was given half a dozen hurried to obey. More engines arriving and two ladders. On the second floor of one of the houses a burst of flame that cracked the windows.
“Is everybody out?” demanded an official.
“All out, sir.”
“Sure?”
Mrs. Mather was called. Mrs. Mather, found in tears on the kerb, with children around her, was asked sharply whether these represented her entire family; replied that if they did but stand still she would count them. One, two, three, four, five; yes, sir; we’re all here. Mather himself away on a job at Silvertown. All the dear, blessed youngsters safe, thanks be; might have been a good deal worse. Mrs. Mather had never been in a fire before, but an aunt of hers living up at Sadler’s Wells way once had the misfortune to overturn a lamp—What was that? Six? No, no; the neighbour must be confusing her with another lady. Bless Mrs. Mather’s soul; a parent ought surely to be allowed to know how many children she possessed. There was Tommy, the eldest, next Ethel, next Walter, next Gracie, and then Hubert, then Mrs. Mather, with a gesture of self-reproof, begged to apologise. The neighbour was correct. Mrs. Mather admitted she had overlooked the baby, and, whilst she thought of it, there was the little girl from Forty-eight who came in to mind the kid.
“You’re a light weight, Scotter,” said the Superintendent. “Up you go, and do your very best.”
Scotter went up the escape, bending his head to dodge flames that were darting out from the second floor; up again, and disappeared. There was a crash there of something falling in; the helmeted men below gave a low whistle. That settled poor Scotter’s game of billiards. That relieved him of any difficulty of knowing what to do with plain white and the red left in baulk. That meant a rare old scene later on, with Scotty’s sweetheart coming round to the station.
“Another man up!” ordered the Superintendent.
The second was half-way up, and had been drenched by error, when Scotter reappeared at the top window. He had the baby in a shawl that was tied at his neck; in the left arm he carried a limp little girl; the crowd in the street roared “Hip-pip—hooray!” and Mrs. Mather cried warningly, “Don’t stay up there; come down!”
“That makes your little lot complete, then,” remarked the Superintendent.
“They’re all here now,” conceded the lady. “How I come to overlook the fact that there was one short is more than I can tell you. I’m sure it’s very kind of this gentleman. When baby’s old enough he must thank him.”
“You all right, Scotter?”
“Yes, thank you, sir. Bit singed, but nothing to brag about.”
The crowd lost all its good spirits so soon as the first engine was sent home, and folk told each other regretfully that there were no fires now as in the old days. The waiting horses had recovered breath and began to caper about to impress the crowd with a sense of their importance. People to whom news had come tardily ran up from Clerkenwell Road demanding to know the whereabouts of the fire, and, being told it was out, censured the County Council, their informants, and themselves. Two firemen were selected to remain in charge; the others, dusting knees and rubbing knuckles into eyes, waited for orders.
“Get off back, you lot. Scotter, you did uncommonly well. Just given your name to some newspaper men. Married man? Not yet? I was going to say, if you were, your missus would be proud of you.”
The pace was good on the return journey, but not frantic, and Scotter was told by a dozen experts what to do to the burn on his left wrist. At the station they assisted him in the task of washing, and made a neat bandage; over cups of tea they went through the details of the fire, and extinguished it again. A move was made to the billiard-room.
“Spot white’s turn,” announced one, taking up position at the marking-board. “Plain white and the red both in baulk.” Glancing at the pegs, “Twenty-three plays forty-eight.”
“You’ve got to buck up, Scotter.”
He took careful aim. Sent his ball against the right-hand cushion; it went from this to the top of the table, across to the left, travelled down, and dropped gently into the right-hand lower pocket. Three deducted from his score.
“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” said Scotter despairingly. “Somehow or other, I can’t do anything right to-day.”
XII—MEANS OF TRANSPORT
The indignation meeting occurred without any of the printed entreaties usually found needful in order to induce the public to arouse. It seems less strange that only ladies attended, for the sex is notoriously beginning to take an interest in public questions.
Mr. Woods, driving one of his own wagonettes, was talking to the two passengers secured at the railway station four miles off and giving them a short autobiography—“Begun to work, I did, afore I were twelve, I did!”—when he caught sight of the gathering and broke off to express amazement; he gave at once an emphatic but scarcely original declaration that if women secured the vote they would not know what to do with it. The passengers differed from this view, and Mr. Woods, anxious to secure their patronage for the return journey, hastened to admit that he had not had the time to study the question thoroughly. A lady detached herself from the group and, holding her tweed cap on her head, ran across.
“Whatever’s amiss, Jane?”
“It’s a missis,” she added, robbed of breath by indignation and hurry. “That Mrs. Jarrett, as she calls herself. She’s been and opened some Tea Gardens.”
“News to me,” he remarked alarmedly.
“News to all of us. She ain’t been here more than three months, and this morning there’s playcards all over her place.”
“Thought she seemed a nicely spoken person.”
“You wait,” said Jane threateningly, “until we begin to talk to her. She’ll get what I call some home truths if she don’t look out.”
The passengers suggested mildly that their time was limited, and Woods, rendered silent by the extraordinary nature of the information, drove on to the edge of the forest, contenting himself by indicating on the way the cottage where his sister-in-law Jane resided. In the clouded diamond panes it exhibited shyly, as did most of the other cottages, a small card that whispered the word “Teas”; a few bottles of ginger-beer rested on the sill to suggest that the establishment had further resources. After the passengers alighted he drove around by the road that skirted the wood, checking the horse slightly on approaching the house and lawn occupied by the new-comer. Tables had been placed, with striped cloths held by shining clips; a small marquee was being fixed in the corner. The neatly-painted board at the gate gave the title, “Forest Tea Gardens,” adding sentences to the effect that refreshments of the best quality could be obtained at any hour—“Large Parties and Small Parties catered for; proprietress, Clara Jarrett.” As Mr. Woods, unwilling to display curiosity, allowed his horse to go on, an automatic pianoforte started, with great vivacity, a waltz.
“Great thing is,” announced Mr. Woods, speaking from his conveyance to the meeting as though he were a candidate for Parliament—“is not to lose your heads. Keep perfectly calm and cool, and everything’ll come right in the long run.”
“Question is, how long a run is it going to be?” demanded one.
“Provided,” he went on, “provided that we all stick together, she can’t last half-way through the summer.”
“And meanwhile—”
“Meanwhile,” interrupted Woods irritably, “you’ve got to make the best of it. Competition’s bound to exist in this world.”
“How would you like it, Mr. Woods, if somebody—”
“One matter at a time. Let’s keep to the question. What I want you to recognise is that you’ve got a true friend in me. I’ve no partic’lar objection to her; as I said just now to my sister-in-law, she always seemed a nicely spoken person, and I don’t wish to do her any harm whatsoever. But there’s no doubt at all in my mind that so far as we are concerned she’s a interloper.”
The women appeared to find the description too lenient. One announced vehemently that, before Mr. Woods came along, they had almost decided to go in a body and pull down the signboard, demolish the marquee, and in other ways convey the fact that they looked upon the new Tea Gardens with disapproval. Goodness knew, there had never been much profit made out of sixpenny teas; it seemed likely that in the future it would be scarcely worth while to make cakes and keep the kettle boiling. Woods, again begging for moderation, urged they should cease talking for the space of two seconds and listen to him. He, with his cabs and wagonettes, had full control over all the traffic from the station, excepting that small part which took the (as he thought) mistaken course of deciding to walk. Nearly all of these passengers put one inquiry to him or to his men.
“Now do keep quiet until I’ve finished,” prayed Woods. “Only got half a dozen more words to say, and I’m done.”
He, on his side, was prepared to guarantee that the new Tea Gardens should never, by speech or hint, be recommended. If any passenger, having heard of them, mentioned the name, then Mr. Woods or his men could be relied upon to cast discredit ingeniously without bringing themselves within the domain of the laws of libel. On their side, they must be prepared for some special efforts; must make a greater show; endeavour to engage the passing visitor by welcome smiles; take care to keep windows open. He feared they did not always realise the Londoner’s partiality for fresh air.
“And,” asked his sister-in-law defiantly, “are we supposed to keep on friendly terms with her whilst all this is going on?”
“Please yourselves,” replied Mr. Woods generously. “So far as I’m concerned, I shall continue to pass the time of day.”
“And go on bringing her illustrated newspapers, I suppose, from the station?”
“You’ll allow me, Jane, to be the best judge of my own affairs.”
“But you’re setting out to be the best judge of ours as well!”
“I’ve given you good advice,” said Mr. Woods, gathering the reins, “but it’s beyond human power to compel you to take it.”
Confidence in himself was shaken by information conveyed by the two passengers on the return journey. Having forgotten the exact whereabouts of his sister-in-law’s house they had gone into the new Tea Gardens, and their content and satisfaction with the treatment received made subject of conversation throughout the journey. The excellence of the watercress, the surprising freshness of the eggs, the admirable quality of the home-made jam—all these impressed them favourably, and they talked of arranging with friends a picnic on a large scale and without the inconvenience of heavy baskets. Mr. Woods, not being asked for an opinion, gave several; one was in favour of splitting the party up amongst the cottages. He declared this plan would encourage sociability and give an insight into country life. For almost the first time in his professional career Woods found himself told to mind his own business. He invented some compensation by speaking sharply to one of his men whom he charged with the offence of keeping hands in pockets.
The members of the home syndicate received such a quick succession of blows from the new Tea Gardens that they began to experience a kind of dazed resignation, and it became the duty of Mr. Woods to order them to awake. The automatic pianoforte was followed by engagement from town of two young nieces, who were not content with demure costume and long blue pinafore, but must needs, if you please, wear a rather attractive lace cap. After this came a large rocking-horse for the pleasure of children, or, failing children, the content of grown-ups who fancied equestrian exercise and wished to promote digestion. After this, a giant’s stride. After this, a skittle-alley which drew away of an evening many of the best and most regular customers from “The Running Stag.” After this, a lawn-tennis court, with rackets and balls provided without charge to those who had taken the shilling tea. It was in regard to the shilling tea that Woods’s sister-in-law, ignoring him, went direct to the vicar, from whom she received the disappointing information that the words “ad lib.” were not, in themselves, offensive, or calculated to undermine the morality of the village; he added some trenchant remarks concerning the duties of parents, which Jane assumed to refer to other ladies. Jane assured the vicar that she did all that was possible in the distribution of good counsel, and he remarked that it would make a useful change for her to vary the method by accepting it. So far as Mrs. Jarrett and Sundays were concerned, she and her nieces came to church in the mornings; they worked hard in the afternoon, and they rested in the evening. The vicar, admitting that he might be considered either very old-fashioned or very new-fashioned, declared this a good manner of spending the day, and gave a short account of Sundays in the early part of the seventeenth century. Woods, to whom this was reported, said, guardedly, that the events referred to occurred before he came to town.
The fly-master had, at this period, troubles of his own which decreased his interest in regard to the rivalry in the tea trade. The first news came from one of the nieces back from a visit to town on an occasion when Woods, at the foot of the hill, stepped down to walk and encourage his horse. The detached position which he had assumed since the beginning of the dispute had been modified because Jane’s daughter told one of his young men (and the young man told Mr. Woods) that Jane had announced an opinion to the effect that her brother-in-law found the money to finance the Tea Gardens, a suggestion so unfair and so preposterous that he declared his intention of allowing them to fight their battles without further assistance from him; henceforth, he proposed to take up a strictly impartial attitude. Consequently, he had recommenced the bringing of illustrated newspapers, and more than once he and Mrs. Jarrett discussed impending marriages in high life, conduct of the German Emperor, accidents caused by motor-cars, and other topical subjects. The niece, taking charge of the roll of journals, had distributed amongst the passengers some of Mrs. Jarrett’s neatly printed cards, had pointed out to them a notable church and conspicuous dwellings. Leaning over the side of the conveyance, she gave the information already referred to.
“You Londoners will have your lark,” he commented. “Your aunt’s just the same.”
“But I’m serious.”
“You don’t take me in. When you say you’re serious is jest when you’re trying to chaff.”
“They told me so up at Paddington, at any, rate,” she declared. “Friend of mine is in one of the head offices, and he assured me it was a positive fact.”
The two held further conversation as the horse, arrived on the level, jogged on again; she held the reins whilst he noted in his pocket-book some names and addresses which remained in her memory. Woods, greatly disturbed, had to be reminded by her, when the destination was reached, of the formality of collecting fares.
Within the space of a fortnight confirmation came. Down at the railway station small posters were exhibited, and quite a crowd assembled to read them and to chaff Woods on the disaster awaiting him, it being a notorious fact that nothing so much cheers A, B, C, and D as to discover that E is on the edge of calamity. On blank walls along the route the bills appeared. At Mrs. Jarrett’s Tea Gardens—this proved the most stinging smack—a new board was erected bearing the words:
Woods, with a set face, ordered the full strength of his stables to assemble at the station on the first morning to meet the train due just before eleven. The flies and wagonettes took up position; the large new omnibus, on rushing up with uniformed driver and boy conductor, found itself obliged to be satisfied with a place near the cloakroom entrance. As passengers came out Woods and his men attacked them much in the way that highwaymen would have behaved a hundred years before.
“Sixpence all the way!” they shouted. “Here you are, lady! Cheaper than the motor! Here you are, lady, sixpence all the way!”
Perhaps the fierce onslaught was an error in tactics. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to draw attention to the presence of a swifter mode of conveyance. Perhaps the natural independence of Londoners induced them to consider before coming to a decision. A messenger sent to the new omnibus returned with the news that the fare was eightpence—fourpence cheaper than the old fare, but obviously twopence dearer than Mr. Woods’s new tariff.
“Oh, it’s worth it!” cried young ladies. “Do let’s go by motor. We shall get there ever so much quicker.”
Woods likened them, rather bitterly, to sheep. On the two first passengers clambering up to the outside seats the others made a quick rush to secure the remaining places; the inside was filled by those who did not wish to separate from friends, and the new omnibus, after half a minute of irresolution that almost induced Woods to believe in the efficacy of prayer, flew away through the station gates and up the main street of the village, and away out of sight. His men gathered around Mr. Woods and prophesied a breakdown; made recommendations. He ordered them to do nothing but obey orders, and went off to sulk in the smoke-room of the Railway Hotel.
From which tent he was summoned an hour and a half later by a constable of the town, who said definitely:
“Mr. Woods, sir, this won’t do.”
“Go away!” commanded the fly proprietor irritably; “I don’t want your sympathy.”
“It isn’t sympathy I’m giving, it’s a warning. If you don’t call your men off, we shall end in a riot.”
Woods delivered an address after the second motor-omnibus had been allowed to leave the yard with its passengers. The early part of the speech was of an intimate nature and described the treatment to be served out in the case of the staff again disregarding instructions; the punishments ranged from skinning alive to instant dismissal. In the second part, he ordered one to run up to the signwriter in the village. Later, the procession of flies and wagonettes left the station bearing notices, “Ruined by Unfair Competition,” and Woods had the satisfaction of noting that shopkeepers on the line of route came out to inspect; this would have proved more comforting if they had given any additional signs of interest. The procession went at a gallop on noting that away in the distance the second omnibus had stopped, with driver and conductor busy at the front, passengers looking over anxiously. Mr. Woods counted it as part of his luck that as the first wagonette arrived the new conveyance re-started. When, farther on, a man walking shouted an inquiry regarding cats’ meat, he found it difficult not to make use of the whip.
The Tea Gardens had flags waving at the entrance and along by the hedge in honour of the occasion; a photographer was giving considerable attention to the task of securing a good picture of the motor-omnibus with Mrs. Jarrett and her nieces at the side. The artist said, “Now, please!” and at that moment the horse driven by Mr. Woods became unmanageable, causing the ladies to cry, “O—ah!”
When the animal regained self-control, Woods mentioned that it was no doubt wise to obtain the photograph ere anything amiss happened to the new conveyances. The motor-man demanded to know what was meant by this. Woods replied that he always meant what he said. Motor-man, temper already acutely tried, declared it would be a keen pleasure to punch Mr. Woods’s nose. Woods retorted that this job required the complete abilities of a man, and was not therefore within the power of the omnibus-driver. The other took off his reefer jacket, ordering the conductor, to take charge of the garment; Woods, forgetting his recent disapproval of militant tactics, laid his hat on the grass at the side of the road. At the first blow, Mrs. Jarrett ran forward crying:
“Oh, you mustn’t hurt him! You please mustn’t hurt him!”
“I’m not going to hurt him, ma’am,” said the flushed and excited Mr. Woods; “I’m only going to kill him.”
“It isn’t him I’m nervous about,” she wailed; “it’s you!”
Woods put on his hat, looked around in a dazed, sheepish way, and, with a jerk of his head, ordered his men to follow him back to the stables.
“No,” she said appealingly; “I don’t want you to do that.”
“Well, but,” he argued, “what else is there to do? I’m prepared to listen to anything reasonable. Especially,” he added, “coming from you.”
They consulted apart, the nieces and the men and a few villagers looking on eagerly, and evidently wishing that their powers of hearing were finer. Woods, pinching his under-lip, said he doubted whether there was anything in the idea, but he felt willing to give it a trial. And did she—lowering his voice—did she really mean what she said just now? Mrs. Jarrett, pleating her apron, urged it was unfair to make any one responsible for a remark made on the spur of the moment, and re-stated her suggestion. One of the nieces fetched an inkstand, and, the cards being reversed, with a sharpened piece of wood she wrote upon them:
“An Hour’s Excursion through the
Forest.
One Shilling.”
“Put the nosebags on!” he commanded.
It was on the evening of that day that the earthquake, faintly hinted at near the railway station, broke out in another place. The wagonettes had been fairly well patronised. A few couples, down with the announced intention of enjoying a good long walk through the forest, changed their minds and accepted carriage exercise as a substitute. Woods, before going home, shook hands with the ladies, and pointed out that everything in this world dried straight if you only gave it time and fair weather. The motor-driver on his last journey brought, as a peace offering, two cigars presented by a grateful passenger. One of these Mr. Woods was smoking near the stables as he waited for his housekeeper’s summons to the evening meal: she was a good woman, honest and religious, but apparently had never learned to tell the time by the clock. He was, I say, smoking; he was also thinking—a frequent conjunction.
When a tremendous clatter and hubbub came, arousing him, and causing him to say distractedly:
“Whatever fresh is a ’appening of now?”
Out in the roadway a set of a dozen women, including the most notable female inhabitants of the village, marched, his sister-in-law at the head, banging as they went on dustpans, old teatrays, saucepans, and other instruments of music rarely to be discovered in a first-class orchestra. The aim seemed to be discord, and that end was certainly being achieved. Some children followed, making a cloud of dust as they slouched along. The marchers disappeared. Woods, regarding them as they went, knew the incident to represent a violent outbreak of moral indignation, and reckoned it a good answer to the complaint made by an American that day to the effect that English country life appeared dull. His housekeeper came, announcing, with a severe air of promptitude, the readiness of a meal that was three-quarters of an hour late, and appeared willing for conversation; but he told her he had enjoyed enough of talk. What he desired now was peace and quietness.
Consequently, news only came to him at six in the morning when his men arrived at the stables. Having gathered the fact that Jane had locked her daughter out the previous evening, he left them at once and ran across to his sister-in-law’s cottage: there the dogged, sulky, half-dressed woman refused to share responsibility for her actions with any one, and he expressed, not for the first time, an earnest wish that his brother had been spared. He hurried agitatedly down to the Tea Gardens, where Mrs. Jarrett was whitening, at this early hour, the steps.
“It’s all right,” she said, rising. “Fancy you catching me like this, with my hair in curlers! The girl came here last night, and we hadn’t gone to bed because of the noise.”
“The noise going by?”
She swallowed something. “No, stopping here.”
Woods expressed a desire to engage in the wholesale trade of breaking necks.
“And I let her come in, and if her mother doesn’t want her back, why, she can stay here.”
He glanced up at the signboard.
“Clara Jarrett, proprietress,” he said deliberately, “you’re the best little woman I’ve ever come across as yet, and if you think I shall make a pretty fair sort of a husband I wish you’d just say the word.”
“It’s a pity, dear, about the motor-omnibuses,” she remarked later.
“Wrote off last night,” said Mr. Woods, with the wink of a business man, “to buy some shares in the concern!”
XIII—IRENE MERCER
The general feeling was that Jane would be more convenient, that Mary made less demand on the brain, that Ellen had the advantage of having been the title of her immediate predecessor, but she proved stern and adamant in regard to the detail, and the graceful thing to do was to give in for the moment with a secret promise to make an alteration later on. When the time came for revision, it was found that no other title but that of Irene could possibly be given. The name fitted as though she had been measured for it. An impression that it could only belong to stately and slightly offended young women on the pages of sixpenny fashion journals, vanished.
“Previous to me coming here,” Irene sometimes explained in the minute and a half given to conversation whilst clearing breakfast, “I was in a business establishment. Two year I put in there, I did, and then my ’ealth give way. Otherwise I should never have dreamt of going into domestic service. I’ve been used to ’aving my evenings to myself!”
By chance, it was ascertained that the time which elapsed after leaving school had been devoted to a mineral water manufactory: this discovery reflected no credit upon any of the boarders, being indeed the result of a chance remark made by her on seeing a two-horse cart belonging to the firm go through the square. A closer reticence was shown in regard to her family; Irene did, however, convey, at times, a hint that the members had seen better and more prosperous days, and that distinguished ancestors would betray signs of restlessness did they become aware that she occupied a position that brought in but £12 a year, giving freedom only on Thursday evening and alternate Sunday afternoons. “But we never know what’s in store for us,” she remarked, with a touch of fatalism. “It’s all ordained, I suppose. What I mean to say is, everything’s planned out, only that we don’t know it. Just as well, perhaps.”
Her appearance in the earlier days gave no signal of noble birth. She wore the corkscrew curls fashionable in her neighbourhood, and her efforts in hairdressing ceased at about half-way to the back of her head; the rest being a casual knot insecurely tied. Many things go awry in this world, but few were so unlucky as Irene’s apron, which appeared to be the sport and play of chance, going to various points of the compass, sometimes becoming fixed due west. She seemed to have a prejudice against safety pins. With her, hooks and eyes lived indiscriminately, and never as precise, well-ordered couples. On first assuming the white cap (against the use of which she made desperate opposition), she wore it rakishly over one eye, and being reproved, answered lightly that this was one of those matters which would be forgotten a hundred years hence. A girl more completely furnished with the easy platitudes that turn away wrath surely never existed. In generous mood, she gave them away by the dozen.
“One ’alf of the world doesn’t know how the other ’alf lives; it’s a poor ’eart that never rejoices; there’s none so blind as them that won’t see; a bird in the ’and’s worth two in the bush; and that’s all about it!”
You must not assume that Irene gave up a large amount of her time to conversation. She started work at twenty to seven in the morning, and if half-past four in the afternoon found her ready (in her own phrase) to pop upstairs and change, she counted she had scored a victory. After tea came duties of a more leisurely nature such as ironing, and later still—if luck favoured—a brief opportunity for the study of literature, from which she came in such a dazed, confused state of mind, that for the subsequent twenty minutes she could only give answers that possessed a conspicuous amount of incoherence. Those who have seen her with a number of “The Belgravia Novelette” report that her lips moved silently as she read the lines, that her features indicated, unconsciously, the emotions affecting each character: when a lady had to reject the advances of some unwelcome suitor (a frequent occurrence in the world of fiction where Mr. A., liking Miss B., finds this converted into ardent love when she announces she hates him with a hate that can never die), then Irene’s face showed stern and uncompromising decision: when a landscape artist proclaimed an affection he had hitherto concealed, her eyes half closed, and her head went gently to and fro.
It is likely the pictures which accompanied these agreeable stories had some influence, although the fact that the people always wore evening dress prevented Irene from imitating every detail. The corkscrew curls, brought forward at each side of the face from a definite and decided parting, were brushed back. Irene was observed one night at about eight, on her return from commissariat duties in connection with next morning’s breakfast, staring earnestly at the head which, in a window, revolved slowly, vanishing and re-appearing with a fixed, haughty smile. A youth came up and made some remarks.
“Don’t you address conversation to any one what you haven’t been introduced to,” she ordered, warmly.
“Carry your parcel for you?”
“Thanks,” replied Irene, “but I don’t want to lose it.”
The youth, declining to take this as a repulse, followed, and Irene’s mistress reproved her for entering the house at the front door when the area gate was open. The very next day a fresh and daring experiment was made by fixing a white collar around the neck, and this was succeeded in the evening by a pair of cuffs. She seemed pleased with the general effect, and hastened to answer some knocks and rings at the front door instead of compelling every caller to repeat the summons. One of these she received with great curtness.
“No, the name don’t live here.”
“Beg pardon!” said a youth’s deep voice. “Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”
“Quite likely. Judging from your appearance.”
“Doing any shopping to-night, miss?”
Her mistress appealed to her by name, and she closed the door, explaining a few minutes later that she could not help feeling sorry for the poor fellows who had to sell combs and hair-brushes; at the same time, they had no right to annoy people who had work to do beside answering knocks. Later, her mistress asked her to refrain from singing. Irene’s voice would never have taken her to the concert platform, but her theory of music was so excellent that it may be worth while to give some particulars here. When affairs of the world went crooked, with her mistress temporarily short in temper, streets becoming muddy directly that the front step had been whitened, disaster on the stairs with a breakfast tray, then Irene selected airs of the cheeriest description, bursting into:
“When Jones, my friend, came round to me,
He said, ‘Will you go on the spree?’
I answered ‘Yes, of course I will,
That is, if you will pay the bill.’”
and other songs of a rollicking nature. On the other hand, when the world went smoothly and nothing happened of a contrary nature and her mistress had given her an egg with her tea, then Irene’s voice came lugubriously up from the basement:
“Oh I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower,
For I’m leaving her and Britain’s gallant shower,
Though my tears are gently falling, yet I hear her voice a-calling,
But I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower.”
Changes had, as mentioned, been coming over the girl, but they proved more obvious at the period when the young man referred to adopted the procedure of waiting outside the house of an evening, sometimes offering three stamps with the foot, sometimes giving a whistle, sometimes playing on the railings a mandoline solo, sometimes, after a wait of three-quarters of an hour, affecting in an ostentatious way to leave—when all other plans had failed—and bringing Irene up the steps of the area at a run, and with a call of “Hi!”
The interesting detail about the acquaintance was the perfect and complete decision arrived at without delay, by Irene. Other girls, in like case, would probably have assumed an attitude of indifference in speaking of their young man; might have suggested that they would require much persuasion before consenting to give their hand; would certainly have conveyed the impression that the capture of their heart was a task not easily effected. Irene, from a fortnight after the meeting outside the hairdresser’s shop, made no attempt to hide the fact that she fully intended to marry Mr. Easter. I have often wondered whether he made a formal proposal, or whether it was assumed on both sides that this could be taken for granted: there are some matters on which one cannot interrogate a lady, and, if she does not give the information spontaneously, the particulars have to be guessed. In other respects, there seemed no reason to complain of want of candour. Irene chaffed herself quite openly. If she forgot to furnish a cup and saucer with a spoon:
“That’s the worst of being in love!”
If she omitted to place the toast-rack on the breakfast table:
“Sooner I get married and settled down the better for all parties!”
Irene, on the Sunday afternoon when he proposed to take her for the first time to see his people, started out looking like a composite photograph, for every lady in the boarding-house, from her mistress in the basement upward, had made some loan or gift, and many of the adornments had a familiar appearance. No one could blame her for opening the striped parasol, although the sun was absent; a muff carried by the other hand and wrist showed that no weather would find her unprepared. Young Easter stood at the corner of the first turning, and, in his case, a necktie showed a vivacious spirit of adventure. A row of white caps watched from area railings as they met, noted that a bowler hat was lifted, polite offer to carry the muff, consultation regarding the method of conveyance. They went off arm-in-arm, Irene tripping in the effort to keep step, and any one, starting out five minutes later, could have followed the scent, and tracked both to the destination by the combined odour of lavender-water and eau de cologne.
“Oh yes,” reported Irene, the next day, “I can always make myself at ’ome with strangers. The old lady—his mother—seemed inclined to be a bit stand-offish at the start, but I said something pleasant about the jam and after that—well, you can generally get over ’em with a little artfulness. Tact is everything in this world. Besides, civility costs nothing. At any, rate, he seemed satisfied.”
A new independence of manner appeared, but only on Friday mornings, and this was probably due to the increased conceit effected by young Easter’s compliments of the night before. Her curtness towards messengers from shops on these occasions was painful to regard: postmen offering remarks as she knelt at the steps in the early hours went on with the abashed air of those who have incurred severe reproof.
A dramatic shock came when the month’s notice had nearly expired, that must have reinforced the girl’s confidence in “The Belgravia Novelette,” and its amazing habit of altering the situation by the wave of a fairy wand. She made a slight blunder by reading the letter without any exhibition of an agonised mind, but a moment’s consideration remedied this, and, if all I heard was true, she eventually overdid the tragic intensity required.
“Oh heavens!” she murmured brokenly. “Oh my! Oh dear! Has it come to this? What is there to live for now? Oh! I think I shall go out of my mind!”
“Be quiet, child!” ordered her mistress, sharply. “You’ll make yourself ill if you go on like this.”
“Oh, go away and leave me to die. Oh, only leave me alone! Frank, Frank!”
“If you carry on in this fashion,” declared her mistress, “I shall simply take you by the shoulders and give you a thorough good shaking. That’s what I shall give to you, miss!”
“Read it, ma’am, read it, read it!”
Her mistress, having complied with this request, assured her that, so far as she could understand, the letter contained important news, but nothing to justify the hysterical outburst. Irene, recovering partial serenity of manner, explained, and the other, reading the letter again, admitted there was something in the girl’s view, and that the fact of young Easter being taken into partnership by an uncle whose health was failing, might well result in the breaking off of the engagement; the two found common ground in condemning the variability of man, and the pernicious influence of success upon some minds. The girl gave a brief rehearsal of her share in the interview that was to take place that evening, from which it appeared that young Easter would have little to do but listen, to mumble ineffective excuses, to retire finally carrying the knowledge that Irene would not now consent to marry him, though he should come to her on hands and knees.
“Let him ’ave it straight, I will!” cried Irene. “They can’t play about and make a fool of me. May think they can, but I’ll jolly soon let ’em know they’ve made a mistake. Shan’t talk much, mind you, but what I do say will go right ’ome. Least said, soonest mended!”
It was expected she would return within twenty minutes after leaving the house; instead, ten o’clock struck as her knock came, and this was not her usual single knock, but represented the music of a triumphant dance. The fault for imagining disaster she imputed to her mistress, who seemed to lack the gift of comprehending a well and clearly expressed letter. Mr. Easter had no idea of backing out of the engagement; on the contrary, he wished her, in the new circumstances, to make some more elaborate investments at certain of the best shops in the neighbourhood, and this represented his uncle’s desire as well as his own.
Irene’s mistress tells me she had given up all thoughts and hopes of seeing her again when, being away in the north of London, and desiring to return with all despatch, she managed by standing in front of a conveyance to stop it. Passengers on the left reluctantly made room: the young woman next to whom she sat begged pardon coldly, and carefully shielded skirts. Recognition came.
“What a very small world it is!” said Irene, in a high voice. “How most extraordinary you and I should run across each other again! And tell me,” condescendingly, “you are getting on pretty well? So glad! What a great convenience these motor omnibuses must be to poor people; I suppose you often travel in them. Do you know, I couldn’t get a taxi when I wanted one just now, couldn’t get one for love or money. My husband will be so annoyed when I tell him about it. I get out here. Three At Homes to go to. Goodbye!”
XIV—YOUNG NUISANCES
The three had done nearly everything forbidden by the company’s notices, and as the train slowed in order to stop at a junction, they expressed a fierce determination to reserve the compartment for the rest of the journey. If any one touched the handle they would fetch him (or her) such a rap across the knuckles as wouldn’t make him (or her) half scream. They were still discussing plans of defence when the train came to a crowded platform; the three rushed to the door and side windows, shouting an assurance that there was no room, that the door was locked, that the compartment had been specially reserved. A short struggle, and determined travellers made their way in.
“Young hussies!” exclaimed a brown-faced woman wrathfully. “Never saw such impudence in all my life before.”
“They come down,” said another, “these yer London schoolchildren, and they kick up such a deuce and all of a shindy that everybody in the village begs and prays they’ll never be allowed to come again.”
“And the manners they learn our youngsters!” remarked a third. “The expressions! The sayings! The tunes!”
“The country’s no fit place for ’em,” declared the brown-faced woman emphatically. “I’m strongly in favour of every one keeping themselves to themselves. I’ve never so much as thought of going up to London myself. Sooner see myself dead and in my grave and buried, I would.”
One admitted she went up twice a year, but pleaded, in extenuation, that she had a sister in service at Highbury, and invariably brought home enough small suits and dresses to enable her eight children to attract a fair amount of attention at the Congregational Chapel. Conversation went on to safer grounds.
“All finished?” asked the shortest of the three London children presently. The ladies sniffed and declined to answer. “’Cos if so, perhaps you won’t mind if we say a word. We don’t come here for a week’s ’oliday to please ourselves; we don’t come down here for the benefit of our ’ealth; we come down so as to brighten you up a bit, and give you a chance of—”
“Mixing with intelligent people.”
“Be quiet!” she ordered to her companions. “Leave it to me.” She addressed the women again. “To give you a chance of seeing what a lot of pudden-headed fools you are.”
The passengers, trembling with annoyance, whispered a recommendation that no notice should be taken of these remarks; the brown-faced woman could not, however, refrain from hinting at a course of procedure which would be adopted were the child one of hers.
“The idea is this,” went on the short girl, with the patient air of endeavouring to make a complicated matter clear to defective intellects. “You dawdle about every day of your lives, seeing nothing, ’earing nothing, doing nothing. You very seldom speak, and when you do you talk in such a peculiar style that you can’t possibly understand one another. So the County Council comes to us and it says, ‘Miss Parkes,’ or whatever our name happens to be, ‘sorry to trouble, but you’ll shortly be taking your ’olidays, and will you be so kind and so obliging as to go down to such-and-such a place, and do all you can to liven it up. It’s asking you a great deal,’ says the County Council, ‘but the Fund is very keen about it, and if you can spare the time, and if you’ve got the willingness, why,’ says the County Council, ‘we shall look on it as a great favour!’”
“‘And make it worth your while,’” suggested her companions.
“I’ll biff you two,” she threatened, “if you can’t keep quiet when I’m talking!”
“The daringness of the child!” exclaimed the rest of the compartment, amazedly and heatedly. “Don’t believe there’s a single word of truth in what she says! The trollops!”
“Facts are facts,” she said, smoothing her brief skirt, “and it’s very little use pretending you can get away from them. It’s no pleasure to me to have to tell you all this, but it’s only right you should know. As for us finding any satisfaction coming to these ’eaven-forsaken places—”
She laughed scornfully, and because her two companions did not join in this ordered them to wake up and sing something.
“If you do,” threatened the brown-faced woman solemnly, “I shall most certainly report you to the guard at the next station. It’s agenst the by-laws, and you can be punished for doing it. Punished well. My eldest boy is going on the line when he leaves school, and it stands to reason I know what I’m talking about. So you just dare, that’s all!”
They allowed one station to go before beginning, and during the half-minute of rest there chaffed an official until he became scarlet with confusion. On the train re-starting, the three lifted their voices to shrill music, singing a satirical melody with, for last line of the refrain, “Oh, what a jolly place is Engeland.” This was followed by a song that caused the other passengers to gaze steadily at the roof of the compartment; the girls did not conceal their diversion at the sensitive nature of the country mind.
“What shall we give ’em next?” asked the eldest girl.
“Wait a bit and let me think,” answered the youngest.
The women said that by rights Parliament ought to step in. If Parliament once decided that these common, vulgar children were not to be allowed, even once a year, to come down into the country and make themselves a nuisance, then it would be stopped. It only needed that Parliament should say the word. Parliament would have to be spoken to about it. Parliament busied its head concerning a lot of things which did not matter; but here was a subject Parliament might well tackle, and thus earn the grateful thanks of a nation.
“Let’s give ’em,” said the youngest, “one of them songs we’ve been learnin’ at school lately. There isn’t room, or else we’d do one of the Morris dances. That’d make ’em open their eyes!”
At the first verse the brown-faced woman put down her basket and gave all her attention. As the refrain began she unconsciously nodded her bonnet to the rhythm.
“‘Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
Where are you going, my honey?’
‘Going over the hills, kind sir,’ she said,
‘To my father a-mowing the barley!’”
“Why, do you know,” she cried, “I ’ent heard that not since—”
“Order, there!” commanded the girl imperatively. “Some of you’ll get chucked out if you don’t keep quiet.”
The last verse came to the deeply interested compartment:
“And now she is the lawyer’s wife,
And dearly the lawyer loves her;
They live in a happy content of life
And well in the station above her.”
The women clapped hands. One remembered her grandmother singing it years and years and years ago; another had heard it once and only once, at a Foresters’ fête; a third had always recollected the air, but the words she could not have recalled though you offered her a pension. The London children, touched by the genuine enthusiasm, sang “Blow Away the Morning Dew” and “The Two Magicians.” The audience pressed apples upon them.
“You’re never getting out here, my dears?” protested the brown-faced woman. They assured her this was their destination. “Well, then,” taking up her heavy basket, “dang it all—it only means a extra fowermile walk for me—if I don’t get out with you, just for the pleasure of your company!”