Poor Relations Page 15

  CHAPTER XV

  John waited in considerable anxiety for Miss Hamilton's reply to hisletter, and when a few days later she answered his appeal in person bypresenting herself for work as usual he could not express in words theintensity of his satisfaction, but could only prance round her as if hehad been a dumb domestic animal instead of a celebrated romanticplaywright.

  "And what have you done since I've been away?" she asked, withoutalluding to her illness or to her mother or to her threat of beingobliged to leave him.

  John looked abashed.

  "Not very much, I'm afraid."

  "How much?"

  "Well, to be quite honest, nothing at all"

  She referred sympathetically to the death of Mrs. Touchwood, and,without the ghost of a blush, he availed himself of that excuse foridleness.

  "But now you're back," he added, "I'm going to work harder than ever.Oh, but I forgot. I mustn't overwork you."

  "Nonsense," said Miss Hamilton, sharply. "I don't think the amount youwrite every day will ever do me much harm."

  John busied himself with paper, pens, ink, and notebooks, and was soonas deep in the fourth act as if there had never been an intermission.For a month he worked in perfect tranquillity, and went so far as tocalculate that if Miss Hamilton was willing to remain forever in hisemploy there was no reason why he should not produce three plays a yearuntil he was seventy. Then one morning in mid-February Mr. Rickettsarrived in a state of perturbation to say that he had been unable toobtain any reply to several letters and telegrams informing Hugh whentheir steamer would leave. Now here they were with only a day beforedeparture, and he was still without news of the young man. John lookedguilty. The fact was that he had decided not to open any letters fromhis relations throughout this month, alleging to himself theinterruption they caused to his work and trusting to the oldsuperstition that if left unanswered long enough all letters, even themost disagreeable, answered themselves.

  "I was wondering why your correspondence had dwindled so," said MissHamilton, severely.

  "But that is no excuse for my brother," John declared. "Because I don'twrite to him, that is no reason why he shouldn't write to Mr. Ricketts."

  "Well, we're off to-morrow," said the mahogany-planter.

  An indignant telegram was sent to Hugh; but the prepaid answer came backfrom Hilda to say that he had gone off with a friend a fortnight agowithout leaving any address. Mr. Ricketts, who had been telephoned forin the morning, arrived about noon in a taxi loaded with exotic luggage.

  "I can't wait," he assured John. "The lad must come on by the next boat.I shan't go up country for a week or so. Good-by, Mr. Touchwood; I'msorry not to have your brother's company. I was going to put him wise tothe job on the trip across."

  "But look here, can't you...." John began, despairingly.

  "Can't wait. I shall miss the boat. West India Docks," he shouted to thedriver, "and stop at the last decent pub in the city on the waythrough."

  The taxi buzzed off.

  Two days later Hugh appeared at Church Row, mentioned casually that hewas sorry he had missed the boat, but that he had been doing a littlearchitectural job for a friend of his.

  "Very good bridge," he commented, approvingly.

  "Over what?" John demanded.

  "Over very good whisky," said Hugh. "It was up in the North. Capitalfun. I was designing a smoking-room for a man I know who's just comeinto money. I've had a ripping time. Good hands every evening and a verydecent fee. In fact, I don't see why I shouldn't start an office of myown."

  "And what about mahogany?"

  "Look here, I never liked that idea of yours, Johnnie. Everybody agreesthat British Honduras is a rotten climate, and if you want to help me,you can help me much more effectively by setting me up on my own as anarchitect."

  "I do not want to help you. I've invested L2,000 in mahogany andlogwood, and I insist on getting as much interest on my money as yourabsence from England will bring me in."

  "Yes, that's all very well, old chap. But why do you want me to leaveEngland?"

  John embarked upon a justification of his attitude, in the course ofwhich he pointed out the dangers of idleness, reminded Hugh of theforgery, tried to inspire him with hopes of independence, hinted atmoral obligations, and rhapsodized about colonial enterprise. As amountain of forensic art the speech was wonderful: clothed on the lowerslopes with a rich and varied vegetation of example and precept, itgradually ascended to the hard rocks of necessity, honor, and duty untilit culminated in a peak of snow where John's singleness of motiveglittered immaculately and inviolably to heaven. It was thereforediscouraging for the orator when he paused and walked slowly up stage togive the culprit an opportunity to make a suitably penitent reply, afterwhich the curtain was to come down upon a final outburst of magnanimouseloquence from himself, that Hugh should merely growl the contemptuousmonosyllable "rot."

  "Rot?" repeated John in amazement.

  "Yes. Rot. I'm not going to reason with you...."

  "Ah, indeed?" John interrupted, sarcastically.

  "Because reason would be lost on you. I simply repeat 'Rot!' If I don'twant to go to British Honduras, I won't go. Why, to hear you talkanybody would suppose that I hadn't had the same opportunities asyourself. If you chose to blur your intelligence by writing romantictushery, you must remember that by doing so you yielded to temptationjust as much as I did when I forged Stevie's name. Do you think I wouldwrite plays like yours? Never!" he proclaimed, proudly.

  "It seems to me that the conversation is indeed going outside the limitsof reason," said John, trying hard to restrain himself.

  "My dear old chap, it has never been inside the limits. No, no, youcollared me when I was down over that check. Well, here's what you paidto get me out of the mess." He threw a bundle of notes on the table. "Solong, Johnnie, and don't be too resentful of my having demonstrated thatwhen I _am_ left for a while on my own I can earn money as well as you.I'm going to stay in town for a bit before I go North again, so I shallsee you from time to time. By the way, you might send me the receipt toCarlington Road. I'm staying with Aubrey as usual."

  When his brother had gone, John counted the notes in a stupor. It wouldbe too much to say that he was annoyed at being paid back; but he wasnot sufficiently pleased to mention the fact to Miss Hamilton for twodays.

  "Oh, I am so glad," she exclaimed when at last he did bring himself totell her.

  "Yes, it's very encouraging," John agreed, doubtfully. "I'm stillsuffering slightly from the shock, which has been a very novelsensation. To be perfectly honest, I never realized before how much lesssatisfactory it is to be paid back than one thinks beforehand it isgoing to be."

  In spite of the disturbing effect of Hugh's honesty, John soon settleddown again to the play, and became so much wrapped up in its dailyprogress that one afternoon he was able without a tremor to denyadmittance to Laurence, who having written to warn him that he wastaking advantage of a further reduction in the price on day-tickets, hadpaid another visit to London. Laurence took with ill grace hisbrother-in-law's message that he was too busy on his own work to talkabout anybody's else at present.

  "I confess I was pained," he wrote from Ambles on John's own note-paper,"by the harsh reception of my friendly little visit. I confess thatEdith and I had hoped you would welcome the accession of a relative tothe ranks of contemporary playwrights. We feel that in the circumstanceswe cannot stay any longer in your house. Indeed, Edith is even as I penthese lines packing Frida's little trunk. She is being very brave, buther tear-stained face tells its own tale, and I confess that I myself amwriting with a heavy heart. Eleanor has been most kind, and in additionto giving me several more introductions to her thespian friends hasarranged with the proprietress of Halma House for a large double roomwith dressing-room attached on terms which I can only describe asabsurdly moderate. Do not think we are angry. We are only pained,bitterly pained that our happy family life should suddenly collapse likethis. However, excelsior, as the poet said
, or as another poet evengreater said, 'sic itur ad astra.' You will perhaps be able to spare amoment from the absorption of your own affairs to read with a fleetinginterest that Sir Percy Mortimer has offered me the part of the butlerin a comedy of modern manners which he hopes to stage--you see I amalready up to the hilt in the jargon of the profession--next autumn.Eleanor considers this to be an excellent opening, as indeed so do I.Edith and little Frida laugh heartily when they are not too sad for suchsimple fun when I enter the room and assume the characteristicmannerisms of a butler. All agree I have a natural propensity for drollimpersonation. Who knows? I may make a great hit, although Sir Percywarns me that the part is but a slight one. Eleanor, however, reminds methat deportment is always an asset for an actor. Have I not readsomewhere that the great Edmund Kean did not disdain to play the tailend of a dragon erstwhile? I wish you all good luck in your own work, mydear John. People are interested when they hear you are mybrother-in-law, and I have told them many tales of the way you are wontto consult me over the little technical details of religion in which Ias a former clergyman have been able to afford you my humbleassistance."

  "What a pompous ass the man is," said John to his secretary. He had readher the letter, which made her laugh.

  "I believe you're really quite annoyed that _he's_ showing anindependent spirit now."

  "Not at all. I'm delighted to be rid of him," John contradicted. "Isuppose he'll share George's aquarium at Halma House."

  "You don't mind my laughing? Because it is very funny, you know."

  "Yes, it's funny in a way," John admitted. "But even if it weren't, Ishouldn't mind your laughing. You have, if I may say so, a peculiarlymusical laugh."

  "Are you going to have Joan's scaffold right center or left center?" sheasked, quickly.

  "Eh? What? Oh, put it where you like. By the way, has your mother beengirding at you lately?"

  Miss Hamilton shrugged her shoulders.

  "She isn't yet reconciled to my being a secretary, if that's what youmean."

  "I'm sorry," John murmured. "Confound all relations!" he burst out. "Isuppose she'd object to your going to France with me to finish off theplay?"

  "She would object violently. But you mustn't forget that I've a will ofmy own."

  "Of course you have," said John, admiringly. "And you will go, eh?"

  "I'll see--I won't promise. Look here, Mr. Touchwood, I don't want toseem--what shall I call it--timid, but if I did go to France with you, Isuppose you realize my mother would make such a fuss about it thatpeople would end by really talking? Forgive my putting such anunpleasant idea into your innocent head; being your confidentialsecretary, I feel I oughtn't to let you run any risks. I don't supposeyou care a bit how much people talk, and I'm sure I don't; at the sametime I shouldn't like you to turn round on me and say I ought to havewarned you."

  "Talk!" John exclaimed. "The idea is preposterous. Talk! Good graciousme, can't I take my secretary abroad without bring accused of ulteriormotives?"

  "Now, don't work yourself into a state of wrath, or you won't be able tothink of this terribly important last scene. Anyway, we sha'n't be goingto France yet, and we can discuss the project more fully when the timecomes."

  John thought vaguely how well Miss Hamilton knew how to keep himunruffled, and with a grateful look--or what was meant to be a gratefullook, though she blushed unaccountably when he gave it--he concentratedupon the site of his heroine's scaffold.

  During March the weather was so bright and exhilarating that John andhis secretary took many walks together on Hampstead Heath; they alsooften went to town, and John derived much pleasure from discussingvarious business affairs with her clerical support; he found that ithelped considerably when dealing with the manager of a film company tobe able to say "Will you make a note of that, please, Miss Hamilton?"The only place, in fact, to which John did not take her was his club,and that was only because he was not allowed to introduce ladies there.

  "A rather mediaeval restriction," he observed one day to a groupassembled in the smoking-room.

  "There was a time, Touchwood, when you used to take refuge here fromyour leading ladies," a bachelor member chuckled.

  "But nowadays Touchwood has followed Adam with the rest of us," put inanother.

  "What's that?" said John, sharply.

  There was a general burst of merriment and headshaking and wagging offingers, from which and a succession of almost ribald comment John beganto wonder if his private life was beginning to be a subject for clubgossip. He managed to prevent himself from saying that he thought suchchaff in bad taste, because he did not wish to give point to it bytaking it too much in earnest. Nevertheless, he was seriously annoyedand avoided the smoking-room for a week.

  One night, after the first performance of a friend's play, he turned into the club for supper, and, being disinclined for sleep, becausealthough it was a friend's play it had been a tremendous success, whichalways made him feel anxious about his own future he lingered on untilthe smoking-room was nearly deserted. Towards three o'clock he wassitting pensively in a quiet corner when he heard his name mentioned bytwo members, who had taken seats close by without perceiving hispresence. They were both strangers to him, and he was about to rise fromhis chair and walk severely out of the room, when he heard one say tothe other:

  "Yes, they tell me his brother-in-law writes his plays for him."

  John found this so delightfully diverting an idea that he could notresist keeping quiet to hear more.

  "Oh, I don't believe that," said the second unknown member.

  "Fact, I assure you. I was told so by a man who knows EleanorCartright."

  "The actress?"

  "Yes, she's a sister-in-law of his."

  "Really, I never knew that."

  "Oh yes. Well, this man met her with a fellow called Armitage, anex-monk who broke his vows in order to marry Touchwood's sister."

  John pressed himself deeper into his armchair.

  "Really? But I never knew monks could marry," objected number two.

  "I tell you, he broke his vows."

  "Oh, I see," murmured number two, who was evidently no wiser, but wasanxious to appear so.

  "Well, it seems that this fellow Armitage is a thundering fine poet, butwithout much experience of the stage. Of course, he wouldn't have hadmuch as a monk."

  "Of course not," agreed number two, decidedly.

  "So, what does Johnnie Touchwood do--"

  "Damned impudence calling me Johnnie," thought the subject of theduologue.

  "But make a contract with his brother-in-law to stay out of the way downin Devonshire or Dorsetshire--I forget which--but, anyway, down in thedepths of the country somewhere, and write all the best speeches in oldJohnnie's plays. Now, it seems there's been a family row, and they tellme that Armitage is going to sue Johnnie."

  "What was the row about?"

  "Well, apparently Johnnie is a bit close. Most of these successfulwriters are, of course," said number one with the nod of an expert.

  "Of course," agreed his companion, with an air of equally profoundcomprehension.

  "And took advantage of his position as the fellow with money to lord itover the rest of his family. There's another brother--an awful cleverbeggar--James, I think his name is--a real first-class scientist,original research man and all that, who's spent the whole of his fortuneon some great discovery or other. Well, will you believe it, but theother day when he was absolutely starving, Johnnie Touchwood offered tolend him some trifling sum if he would break the entail."

  "I didn't know the Touchwoods were landed proprietors. I alwaysunderstood the father was a dentist," said number two.

  "Oh, no, no. Very old family. Wonderful old house down in Devonshire orDorset--I wish I could remember just where it is. Anyway, it seems thatthe eldest brother clung on to this like anything. Of course, he would."

  "Of course," number two agreed.

  "But Johnnie, who's hard as flint, insisted on breaking the entail inhis own favor, a
nd now I hear he's practically turned the whole familyinto the street, including James' boy, who in the ordinary course ofevents would have inherited."

  "Did Eleanor Cartright tell your friend this?" asked number two.

  "Oh no, I've heard that from lots of people. It seems that old Mrs.Touchwood died of grief over the way Johnnie carried on. It's really avery grim story when you hear the details; unfortunately, I can'tremember all of them. My memory's getting awfully bad nowadays."

  Number two muttered an expression of sympathy, and the other continued:

  "But one detail I do remember is that another brother--"

  "It's a large family, then?"

  "Oh, very large. As I was saying, the old lady was terribly upset notonly about breaking the entail, but also over her youngest son, who hadsome incurable disease. It seems that he was forced by Johnnie to go outto the Gold Coast--I think it was--in order to see about some money thatJohnnie had invested in rubber or something. As I say, I can't rememberthe exact details. However, cherchez la femme, I needn't add the reasonsfor all this."

  "A woman?"

  "Exactly," said number one. "Some people say it's a married woman, andothers say it's a young girl of sixteen. Anyway, Johnnie's completelylost his head over her, and they tell me...."

  The two members put their heads together so that John could not hearwhat was said: but it must have been pretty bad, because when they putthem apart again number two was clicking his tongue in shockedamazement.

  "By Jove, that will cause a terrific scandal, eh?"

  John decided he had heard enough. Assuming an expression of intensesuperiority, the sort of expression a man might assume who was standingon the top of Mount Everest, he rose from his chair, eyed the twogossips with disdain, and strode out of the smoking-room. Just as hereached the door, he heard number one exclaim:

  "Hulloa, see who that was? That was old Percy Mortimer."

  "Oh, of course," said number two, as sapiently as ever, "I didn'trecognize him for a moment. He's beginning to show his age, eh?"

  On the way back to Hampstead John tried to assure himself that theconversation he had just overheard did not represent anything moreimportant than the vaporings of an exceptionally idiotic pair of menabout town; but the more he meditated upon the tales about himselfevidently now in general circulation, the more he was appalled at therecklessness of calumny.

  "One has joked about it. One has laughed at Sheridan's _School forScandal_. One has admitted that human beings are capable of almostincredible exaggeration. But--no, really this is too much. I've gossipedsometimes myself about my friends, but never like that about astranger--a man in the public eye."

  John nearly stopped the taxi to ask the driver if _he_ had heard anystories about John Touchwood; but he decided it would not be wise to runrisk of discovery that he enjoyed less publicity than he was beginningto imagine, and he kept his indignation to himself.

  "After all, it is a sign of--well, yes, I think it might fairly becalled fame--a sign of fame to be talked about like that by a couple ofignorant chatterboxes. It is, I suppose, a tribute to my position. ButLaurence! That's what annoyed me most. Laurence to be the author of myplays! I begin to understand this ridiculous Bacon and Shakespearelegend now. The rest of the gossip was malicious, but that was--really,I think it was actionable. I shall take it up with the committee. Theidea of that pompous nincompoop writing Lucretia's soliloquy before shepoisons her lips! Laurence! Good heavens! And fancy Laurence writingNebuchadnezzar's meditation upon grass! By Jove, an audience would havesome cause to titter then! And Laurence writing Joan's defense to theBishop of Beauvais! Why, the bombastic pedant couldn't even write asatisfactory letter to the Bishop of Silchester to keep himself frombeing ignominiously chucked out of his living."

  The infuriated author bounced up and down on the cushions of the taxi inhis rage.

  "Shall I give you an arm up the steps, sir?" the driver offered,genially, when John, having alighted at his front door, had excessivelyoverpaid him under the impression from which he was still smarting ofbeing called a skinflint.

  "No, thank you."

  "Beg pardon, sir. I thought you was a little bit tiddly. You seemed abit lively inside on the way up."

  "I suppose the next thing is that I shall get the reputation of being adipsomaniac," said John to himself, as he flung open his door andmarched immediately, with a slightly accentuated rigidity of bearing,upstairs to bed.

  But he could not sleep. The legend of his behavior that was obviouslycommon gossip in London oppressed him with its injustice. Everyaccusation took on a new and fantastic form, while he turned over andover in an attempt to reach oblivion. He began to worry now more aboutwhat had been implied in his association with Miss Hamilton than aboutthe other stories. He felt that it would only be a very short timebefore she would hear of the tale in some monstrous shape and leave himforever in righteous disgust. Ought he, indeed, to make her awareto-morrow morning of what was being suggested? And even if he did notsay anything about the past, ought he to compromise her more deeply inthe future?

  It was six o'clock before John fell asleep, and it was with a violentheadache that he faced his secretary after breakfast. Luckily there wasa letter from Janet Bond asking him to come and see her that morningupon a matter of importance. He seized the excuse to postpone anydiscussion of last night's revelation, and, telling Miss Hamilton heshould be back for lunch, he decided to walk down to the ParthenonTheater in the hope of arriving there with a clearer and saner view oflife. He nearly told her to go home; but, reflecting that he might comeback in quite a different mood, he asked her instead to occupy herselfwith the collation of some scattered notes upon Joan of Arc that werenot yet incorporated into the scheme of the play. He remembered, too,that it would be his birthday in three days' time, and he asked her tosend out notes of invitation to his family for the annual celebration,at which the various members liked to delude themselves with the ideathat by presenting him with a number of useless accessories to thesmoking-table they were repaying him in full for all his kindness. Hedetermined that his birthday speech on this occasion should be made thevehicle for administering a stern rebuke to malicious gossip. He woulddam once for all this muddy stream of scandal, and he would makeLaurence write a letter to the press disclaiming the authorship of hisplays. Burning with reformative zeal and fast losing his headache, Johnswung down Fitzjohn's Avenue in the spangled March sunlight to thewicked city below.

  The Parthenon Theater had for its acropolis the heights of the Adelphi,where, viewed from the embankment gardens below, it seemed to be lookingcondescendingly down upon the efforts of the London County Council tointellectualize the musical taste of the generation. In the lobby--ithad been called the propylaeum until it was found that such a long namehad discouraged the public from booking seats beforehand through fear ofmispronunciation--a bust of Janet Bond represented the famous statuePallas Athene on the original acropolis, and the programme-girls,dressed as caryatides, supplied another charming touch of antiquity. Theproprietress herself was the outstanding instance in modern times of theexploitation of virginity--it must have been a very profitableexploitation, because the Parthenon Theater itself had been built andpaid for by her unsuccessful admirers. Each year made Janet Bond'sposition as virgin and actress more secure, and at the rate herreputation was growing it was probable that she would soon be at libertyto produce the most immodest plays. At present, however, she stillapplied the same standard of her conduct to her plays as to herself. Nordid she confine herself to that. She was also very strict about theprivate lives of her performers, and many a young actress had been seento leave the stage door in tears because Miss Bond had observed her inunsuitable company at supper. Mothers wrote from all over England to begMiss Bond to charge herself with the care of their stage-struckdaughters; the result was a conventional tone among the supernumerariesslightly flavored with militant suffragism and the higher mathematics.Nor was art neglected; indeed some critics hinted that in the ParthenonThea
ter art was cultivated at the expense of life, though none of themattempted to gainsay that Miss Bond had learned how to make virtue paywithout selling it.

  In appearance the great tragedienne was somewhat rounder in outline thanmight have been expected, and more matronly than virginal, perhapsbecause she was in her own words a mother to all her girls. Her voicewas rich and deep with as much variety as a cunningly sounded gong. Shenever made up for the stage, and she wore hygienic corsets: thisintimate fact was allowed to escape through the indiscretion of awidespread advertisement, but its publication helped her reputation fordecorum, and clergymen who read their wives' _Queen_ or _Lady_ commentedfavorably on the contrast between Miss Bond and the numerousopen-mouthed actresses who preferred to advertise toothpaste. Englandwas proud of Miss Bond, feeling that America had no longer any right tovaunt a monopoly of virtuous actresses; and John, when he rang the bellof Miss Bond's flat that existed cleverly in the roof of the theater,was proud of his association with her. He did not have to wait long inher austere study; indeed he had barely time to admire the fluted calyxof a white trumpet daffodil that in chaste symbolism was the onlyoccupant of a blue china bowl before Miss Bond herself came in.

  "I'm so hating what I'm going to have to say to you," she boomed.

  This was a jolly way to begin an interview, John thought, especially inhis present mood. He tried to look attentive, faintly surprised,dignified, and withal deferential; but, not being a great actor, hefailed to express all these states of mind at a go, and only succeededin dropping his gloves.

  "Hating it," the actress cried. "Oh, hating it!"

  "Well, if you'd rather postpone it," John began.

  "No, no. It must be said now. It's just this!" She paused and fixed theauthor more intensely than a snake fixes a rabbit or a woman in a bustries to see if the woman opposite has blacked her eyelashes. "Can Iproduce _Joan of Arc_?"

  "I think that question is answered by our contract," replied John, whowas used to leading ladies, and when they started like this always fellback at once in good order on business.

  "Yes, but what about my unwritten contract with the public?" shedemanded.

  "I don't know anything about that," said the author. Moreover, I don'tsee how an unwritten contract can interfere with our written contract."

  "John Touchwood, I'm going to be frank with you, fiercely frank. I can'tafford to produce a play by you about a heroine like Joan of Arc unlessyou take steps to put things right."

  "If you want me to cut that scene...."

  "Oh, I'm not talking about scenes, John Touchwood. I'm talking aboutthese terrible stories that everybody is whispering about you. I don'tmind myself what you do. Good gracious me, I'm a broad-minded modernwoman; but my public looks for something special at the Parthenon. Theknowledge that I am going to play the Maid of Orleans has moved themindescribably; I was fully prepared to give you the success of yourcareer, but ... these stories! This girl! You know what people aresaying? You must have heard. How can I put your name on my programme asthe author of _Joan of Arc_? How can I, John Touchwood?"

  If John had not overheard that conversation at his club the nightbefore, he would have supposed that Miss Bond had gone mad.

  "May I inquire exactly what you have heard about me and my privatelife?" he inquired, as judicially as he could.

  "Please spare me from repeating the stories. I can honestly assure youthat I don't believe them. But you as a man of the world know very wellhow unimportant it is whether a story is true or not. If you were awriter of realistic drama, these stories, however bad they were,wouldn't matter. If your next play was going to be produced at the CourtTheater, these stories would, if anything, be in favor of success ...but at the Parthenon...."

  "You are talking nonsense, Miss Bond," interrupted John, angrily. "Youare more in a condition to play Ophelia than Joan of Arc. Moreover, youshan't play Joan of Arc now. I've really been regretting for some weeksnow that you were going to play her, and I'm delighted to have thisopportunity of preventing you from playing her. I don't know to whattittle-tattle you've been listening. I don't care. Your opinion of yourown virtue may be completely justified, but your judgment of otherpeople's is vulgar and--however, let me recommend you to produce a playby my brother-in-law, the Reverend Laurence Armitage. Even yourinsatiable ambition may be gratified by the part of the Virgin Mary, whois one of the chief characters. Good morning, Miss Bond. I shallcommunicate with you more precisely through my agent."

  John marched out of the theater, and on the pavement outside ran intoMiss Ida Merritt.

  "Ah, you're a sensible woman," he spluttered, much to her astonishment."For goodness' sake, come and have lunch with me, and let's talk overeverything."

  John, in his relief at meeting Miss Merritt, had taken her arm in acordial fashion, and steered her across the Strand to Romano's withoutwaiting to choose a less conspicuously theatrical restaurant. Indeed inhis anxiety to clear his reputation he forgot everything, and it wasonly when he saw various people at the little tables nudging one anotherand bobbing their heads together that he realized he was holding MissMerritt's arm. He dropped it like a hot coal, and plunged down at atable marked "reserved." The head waiter hurried across to apprise himof the mistake, and John, who was by now horribly self-conscious,fancied that the slight incident had created a stir throughout therestaurant. No doubt it would be all over town by evening that he andhis companion in guilt had been refused service at every restaurant inLondon.

  "Look here," said John, when at last they were accommodated at a tablepainfully near the grill, the spitting and hissing from which seemed tosymbolize the attitude of a hostile society. "Look here, what storieshave you heard about me? You're a journalist. You write chattyparagraphs. For heaven's sake, tell me the worst."

  "Oh, I haven't heard anything that's printable," Miss Merritt assuredhim, with a laugh.

  John put his head between his hands and groaned; the waiter thought hewas going to dip his hair into the hors d'oeuvres and hurriedlyremoved the dishes.

  "No, seriously, I beg you to tell me if you've heard my name connectedin any unpleasant way with Miss Hamilton."

  "No, the only thing I've heard about Doris is that your brother, Hugh,is always pestering her with his attentions."

  "What?" John shouted.

  "Coming, sir," cried the waiter, skipping round the table like amonkey.

  John waved him away, and begged Miss Merritt to be more explicit.

  "Why didn't she complain to me?" he asked when he had heard her story.

  "She probably thought she could look after herself. Besides, wasn't hegoing to British Guiana?"

  "He was," replied John. "At least he was going to some tropical colony.I've heard so many mentioned that I'm beginning myself to forget whichit was now. So that's why he didn't go. But he shall go. If I have tohave him kidnaped and spend all my savings on chartering a private yachtfor the purpose, by Heaven, he shall go. If he shrivels up like a burntsausage the moment he puts his foot on the beach he shall be left thereto shrivel. The rascal! When does he pester her? Where?"

  "Don't get so excited. Doris is perfectly capable of looking afterherself. Besides, I think she rather likes him in a way."

  "Never," John cried.

  "Liver is finished, sair," said the officious waiter, dancing in againbetween John and Miss Merritt.

  John shook his fist at him and leant earnestly over the table with oneelbow in the butter.

  "You don't seriously suggest that she is in love with him?" he asked.

  "No, I don't think so. But I met him myself once and took rather a fancyto him. No, she just likes him as a friend. It's he who's in love withher."

  "Under my very eyes," John ejaculated. "Why, it's overwhelming."

  A sudden thought struck him that even at this moment while he was calmlyeating lunch with Miss Merritt, as he somewhat loosely qualified theverb, Hugh might be making love to Miss Hamilton in his own house.

  "Look here," he cried, "have you nearly fini
shed? Because I've suddenlyremembered an important appointment at Hampstead."

  "I don't want any more," said Miss Merritt, obligingly.

  "Waiter, the bill! Quick! You don't mind if I rush off and leave you tofinish your cheese alone?"

  His guest shook her head and John hurried out of the restaurant.

  No taxi he had traveled in had ever seemed so slow, and he kept puttinghis head out of the window to urge the driver to greater speed, untilthe man goaded to rudeness by John's exhortations and the trams inTottenham Court Road asked if his fare thought he was a blinking bullet.

  "I'm not bullying you. I'm only asking you to drive a little faster,"John shouted back.

  The driver threw his eyes heavenward in a gesture of despair for John'ssanity but he was pacified at Church Row by half-a-sovereign and evenwent so far as to explain that he had not accused John of bullying him,but merely of confusing his capacity for speed with that of a bullet's.John thought he was asking for more money, gave him half-a-crown andwaving his arm, half in benediction, half in protest, he hurried intothe hall.

  "They've nearly finished lunch, sir," murmured Maud who was just comingfrom the dining-room. "Would you like Elsa to hot you up something?"

  John without a word pounced into the dining-room, where he caught Hughwith a stick of celery half-way to his mouth and Miss Hamilton with aglass of water half-way down from hers in the other direction.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry we began without you," said the culpritssimultaneously.

  John murmured something about a trying interview with Janet Bond, lit acigar, realized it was rude to light cigars when people were stilleating, threw the cigar away, and sat down with an appearance ofexhaustion in one of those dining-room armchairs that stand and wait alltheir lives to serve a moment like this.

  "I'm sorry, but I must ask you to go off as soon as you've finishedyour lunch, Hugh. I've a lot of important business to transact with MissHamilton."

  "Oh, but I've finished already," she exclaimed, jumping up from thetable.

  It was the first pleasant moment in John's day, and he smiled,gratefully. He felt he could even afford to be generous to thisintrusive brother, and before he left the room with Miss Hamilton heinvited him to have some more celery.

  "And you'll find a cigar in the sideboard," he added. "But Maud willlook after you. Maud, look after Mr. Hugh, please, and if anybody callsthis afternoon, I'm not at home."

  CHAPTER XVI

  John's first impulse had been to pour out in Miss Hamilton's ears thetale of his wrongs, and afterward, when he had sufficiently impressedher with the danger of the position in which the world was trying toplace them, to ask her to marry him as the only way to escape from it.On second thoughts, he decided that she might be offended by thesuggestion of having been compromised by him and that she might resentthe notion of their marriage's being no more than a sop to publicopinion. He therefore abandoned the idea of enlarging upon the scandaltheir association had apparently created and proposed to substitute thetrite but always popular scene of the prosperous middle-aged man'srenunciation of love and happiness in favor of a young and penuriousrival. He recalled how many last acts in how many sentimental comedieshad owed their success to this situation, which never failed with anaudience. But then the average audience was middle-aged. Thinking of themany audiences on which from private boxes he had looked down, John wassure that bald heads always predominated in the auditorium; andnaturally those bald heads had been only too ready to nod approval of aheroine who rejected the dashing jeune premier to fling herself into thearms of the elderly actor-manager. It was impossible to think of anyinfirmity severe enough to thwart an actor-manager. Yet a play wasmake-believe: in real life events would probably turn out quitedifferently. It would be very depressing, if he offered to make Dorisand Hugh happy together by settling upon them a handsome income, to findDoris jumping at the prospect. Perhaps it would be more prudent not tosuggest any possibility of a marriage between them. It might even bemore prudent not to mention the subject of marriage at all. John lookedat his secretary with what surely must have been a very eloquent glanceindeed, because she dropped her pencil, blushed, and took his hand.

  "How much simpler life is than art," John murmured. He would never havedared to allow one of his heroes in a moment of supreme emotion likethis to crane his neck across a wide table in order to kiss the heroine.Any audience would have laughed at such an awkward gesture; yet, thoughhe only managed to reach her lips with half an inch to spare, the kisswas not at all funny somehow. No, it ranked with Paolo's or Anthony's orany other famous lover's kiss.

  "And now of course I can't be your secretary any longer," she sighed.

  "Why? Do you disapprove of wives' helping their husbands?"

  "I don't think you really want to get married, do you?"

  "My dear, I'm absolutely dying to get married."

  "Truly?"

  "Doris, look at me."

  And surely she looked at him with more admiration than he had everlooked at himself in a glass.

  "What a time I shall have with mother," she gasped with the gurglingtriumphant laugh of a child who has unexpectedly found the way to openthe store-cupboard.

  "Oh, no, you won't," John prophesied, confidently. "I'm not going tohave such an excellent last scene spoilt by unnecessary talk. We'll getmarried first and tell everybody afterwards. I've lately discovered whatan amazing capacity ordinary human nature has for invention. It reallyfrightens me for the future of novelists, who I cannot believe will bewanted much longer. Oh no, Doris, I'm not going to run the risk ofhearing any preliminary gossip about our marriage. Neither your mothernor my relations nor the general public are going to have any share init before or after. In fact to be brief I propose to elope.Notwithstanding my romantic plays I have spent a private life of utterdullness. This is my last opportunity to do anything unusual. Please, mydearest girl, let me experience the joys of an actual elopement beforeI relapse into eternal humdrummery."

  "A horrid description of marriage!" she protested.

  "Comparative humdrummery, I should have said, comparative, that is tosay, with the excesses attributed to me by rumor. I've often wanted towrite a play about Tiberius, and I feel well equipped to do so now. ButI'm serious about the elopement. I really do want to avoid my relations'tongues."

  "I believe you're afraid of them."

  "I am. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm in terror of them," he said.

  "But where are we going to elope to?"

  John picked up the _Times_.

  "If only the _Murmania_," he began. "And by Jove, she will too," hecried. "Yes, she's due to sail from Liverpool on April 1st."

  "But that's your birthday," she objected.

  "Exactly."

  "And I've already sent out those invitations."

  "Exactly. For some years my relations have made an April fool of me bydining at my expense on that day. I have two corner-cupboardsoverflowing with their gifts--the most remarkable exhibition ofcheapness and ingenuity ever known. This year I am going to make Aprilfools of them."

  "By marrying me?" she laughed.

  "Well, of course it's no use pretending that they'll be delighted bythat joke, though I intend to play another still more elaboratelyunpleasant. At the back of all their minds exists one anxiety--thedispositions of my last will and testament. Very well. I am going tocure that worry forever by leaving them Ambles. I can't imagine anythingmore irritating than to be left a house in common with a number ofpeople whom you hate. Oh, it's an exquisite revenge. Darling secretary,take down for dictation as your last task the following:

  "'I, John Touchwood, playwright, of 36 Church Row, Hampstead, N.W., andAmbles, Wrottesford, Hants, do hereby will and bequeathe.'"

  "I don't understand," she said. "Are you really making a will? or areyou only playing a joke?"

  "Both."

  "But is this really to take effect when you're dead? Oh dear, I wish youwouldn't talk about death when I've just said I'll marry you."


  John paused thoughtfully:

  "It does seem rather a challenge to fate," he agreed. "I know what I'lldo. I'll make over Ambles to them at once. After all, I am dead to them,for I'll never have anything more to do with any of them. Cross out whatyou took down. I'll alter the form. Begin as for a letter:

  "'My dear relations,

  "'When you read this I shall be far away.' ... I think that's the correct formula?" he asked.

  "It sounds familiar from many books," she assured him.

  "'Far away on my honeymoon with Miss Doris Hamilton.' Perhaps that sounds a little ambiguous. Cross out the maiden name and substitute 'with Mrs. John Touchwood, my former secretary. Since you have attributed to us every link except that of matrimony you will no doubt be glad of this opportunity to contradict the outrageous tales you have most of you' ... I say most of you," John explained, "because I don't really think the children started any scandal ... 'you have most of you been at such pains to invent and circulate. Realizing that this announcement will come as a sad blow, I am going to soften it as far as I can by making you a present of my country house in Hampshire, and I am instructing my solicitors to effect the conveyance in due form. From now onwards therefore one fifth of Ambles will belong to James and Beatrice, one fifth to George, Eleanor, Bertram, and Viola, and one fifth to Hilda and Harold, one fifth to Edith, Laurence, and Frida, and one fifth to Hugh.' ... I feel that Hugh is entitled to a proportionately larger share," he said with his eyes on the ceiling, "because I understand that I've robbed him of you."

  "Who on earth told you that?" she demanded, putting down her pencil.

  "Never mind," said John, humming gayly his exultation. "Continue please, Miss Hamilton! 'I shall make no attempt to say which fifth of the house shall belong to whom. Possibly Laurence and Hilda will argue that out between them, and if any structural alterations are required no doubt Hugh will charge himself with them. The twenty-acre field is included in the gift, so that there will be plenty of ground for any alterations or extensions deemed necessary by the future owners.'"

  "How ridiculous you are ... John," she laughed. "It all sounds so absurdly practical--as if you really meant it."

  "My dear girl, I do mean it. Continue please, Miss Hamilton! 'I have long felt that the collection of humming-birds made by Daniel Curtis in the Brazils should be suitably housed, and I propose that a portion of the stables should be put in order for their reception together with what is left of the collection of British dragon-flies made by James. My solicitors will supply a sum of L50 for this purpose and Harold can act as curator of what will be known as the Touchwood Museum. With regard to Harold's future, the family knows that I have invested L2000 in the mahogany plantations of Mr. Sydney Ricketts in British Honduras, and if Hugh does not take up his post within three months I shall ask Mr. Ricketts to accept Harold as a pupil in five years' time. He had better begin to study Hondurasian or whatever the language is called at once. Until Harold is called upon to make his decision I shall instruct Mr. Ricketts to put the interest with the capital. While on the subject of nephews and nieces, I may as well say that the family pictures and family silver will be sent back to Ambles to be held in trust for Bertram upon his coming of age. Furthermore, I am prepared to pay for the education of Bertram, Harold, Frida, and Viola at good boarding-schools. Viola can practice her dancing in the holidays. Bertram's future I will provide for when the time comes. I do not wish George to have any excuse for remaining at Halma House--and I have no doubt that a private sitting-room will be awarded to him at Ambles. In the event of undue congestion his knitting would not disturb Laurence's poetic composition, and his system of backing second favorites in imagination can be carried on as easily at Ambles as in London. If he still hankers for a sea voyage, the river with Harold and himself in a Canadian canoe will give him all the nautical adventure he requires. My solicitors have been instructed to place a canoe at his disposal. To James who has so often reproved me for my optimism I would say-once more "Beware of new critical weeklies" and remind him that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. In other words, he has got a thousand pounds out of me, and he won't get another penny. Eleanor has shown herself so well able to look after herself that I am not going to insult her by offering to look after her. Hilda with her fifth of the house and her small private income will have nothing to do but fuss about the proportionate expenses of the various members of the family who choose to inhabit Ambles. I am affording her an unique opportunity for being disagreeable, of which I'm sure she will take the fullest advantage. I may say that no financial allowance will be made to those who prefer to live elsewhere. As for Laurence, his theatrical future under the patronage of Sir Percy Mortimer is no doubt secure. However, if he grows tired of playing butlers, I hope that his muse will welcome him back to Ambles as affectionately as his wife.

  "'I don't think I have anything more to say, my dear relations, except that I hope the presents you are bringing me for my birthday will come in useful as knick-knacks for your delightful house. You can now circulate as many stories about me as you like. You can even say that I have founded a lunatic asylum at Ambles. I am so happy in the prospect of my marriage that I cannot feel very hardly towards you all, and so I wish you good luck.

  "'Your affectionate brother, brother-in-law, and uncle,

  "'JOHN TOUCHWOOD.'

  "Type that out, please, Miss Hamilton, while I drive down to DoctorsCommons to see about the license and book our passage in the_Murmania_."

  John had never tasted any success so sweet as the success of these twodays before his forty-third birthday; and he was glad to find that Dorishaving once made up her mind about getting married showed no signs ofimperilling the adventure by confiding her intention to her mother.

  "Dear John," she said, "I bolted to America with Ida Merritt last yearwithout a word to Mother until I sent her a wireless from on board.Surely I may elope with you ... and explain afterwards."

  "You don't think it will kill her," suggested John a little anxiously."People are apparently quite ready to accuse one of breaking a maternalheart as lightly as they would accuse one of breaking an appointment."

  "Dear John, when we're married she'll be delighted."

  "Not too delighted, eh, darling? I mean not so delighted that she'llwant to come and gloat over us all day. You see, when the honeymoon'sover, I shall have to get to work again on that last act, and yourmother does talk a good deal. I know it's very intelligent talk, but itwould be rather an interruption."

  The only person they took into their confidence about the wedding,except the clergyman, the verger, and a crossing-sweeper brought in towitness the signing of the register was Mrs. Worfolk.

  "Well, that's highly satisfactory! You couldn't have chosen a niceryoung lady. Well, I mean to say, I've known her so long and all. And youexpect to be back in June? Oh well, I shall have everything nice andtidy you may be sure. And this letter you want handed to Mr. James tobe read to the family on your birthday? And I'm to give them theirdinners the same as if you were here yourself? I see. And how manybottles of champagne shall I open? Oh, not to stint them? No, I quiteunderstand. Of course, they would want to drink your healths. Certainly.And so they ought! Well, I'm bound to say I wish Mr. Worfolk could havebeen alive. It makes me quite aggravated to think he shouldn't be here.Well, I mean to say, he being a family carpenter had helped at so manyweddings."

  The scene on the _Murmania_ did not differ much from the scene on boardthe same ship six months ago. John had insisted that Doris should wearher misty green suit of Harris tweed; but he himself had bought at theBurlington Arcade a traveling cap that showed plainly the soberingeffects of matrimony.
In the barber's saloon he invested in a pair ofrope-soled shoes; he wanted to be sure of being able to support his wifeeven upon a heeling deck. Before dinner they went forward to watch thestars come out in the twilight--stars that were scarcely as yet moreluminous in the green April sky than daisies in a meadow. They stoodsilent listening to the splash of the dusky sea against the bows, untilthe shore lamps began to wink astern.

  "How savage the night looks coming after us," said John. "It's jolly tothink that in the middle of all that blackness James is reading mybirthday welcome to the family."

  "Poor dears!"

  "Oh, they deserve all they've got," he said, fiercely. "And to thinkthat only six months ago I was fool enough to read their letters ofcongratulation quite seriously in this very ship. It was you with yourremark about poor relations that put your foot through my picture."

  "You're very much married already, aren't you, John?"

  "Am I?"

  "Yes, for you're already blaming me for everything."

  "I suppose this is what James would call one of my confoundedsentimental endings," John murmured.

  "Whatever he called it, he couldn't invent a better ending himself," shemurmured back. "You know, critics are very like disappointed old maids."

  The great ship trembled faintly in the deeper motion, and John holdingDoris to him felt that she too trembled faintly in unison. They stoodlike this in renewed silence until the stars shone clearly, and theshore lamps were turning to a gold blur. John may be excused forthinking that the bugle for dinner sounded like a flourish from_Lohengrin_. He had reason to feel romantic now.

  THE END

  image of the book's back cover]

  * * * * *

  The following typogrphical errors have been corrected by the etexttranscriber:

  light of a setting moor.=> light of a setting moon.

  the attenuated spinsters of Halam=> the attenuated spinsters of Halma

  Do you thing Stevie wants=> Do you think Stevie wants

  walk to Chealsea=> walk to Chelsea

  "It is bcoming every day=> "It is becoming every day

  that it it worth while making another attempt=> that it is worth whilemaking another attempt

  taken up a stauesque=> taken up a statuesque

  caught a faint mumur about=> caught a faint murmur about

  The tax buzzed off.=> The taxi buzzed off.

  But I'm serious about the elopment.=> But I'm serious about theelopement.