Poor Relations Read online

  CHAPTER VIII

  John decided to walk from Earl's Court to West Kensington. Being stillin complete ignorance of what Hugh had done, he had a presentiment thatthis time it was something really grave, and he was now beginning tobelieve that George knew how grave it was. Perhaps his decision to go onfoot was not altogether wise, for he was tired out by a convulsive day,and he had never experienced before such a fathomless sinking of thestomach on the verge of being mixed up in a disagreeable familycomplication, which was prolonged by the opportunity that the walkafforded him for dismal meditation. While he hurried with bowed headalong one ill-lighted road after another a temptation assailed him tofollow George's advice and abandon Hugh, and not merely Hugh, but allthe rest of his relations, a temptation that elaborated itself intogoing back to Church Row, packing up, and escaping to Arizona or BritishEast Africa or Samoa. In the first place, he had already several timesvowed never more to have anything to do with his youngest brother;secondly, he was justified in resenting strongly the tortuous road bywhich he had been approached on his behalf; thirdly, it might benefitHugh's morals to spend a week or two in fear of the ubiquitous police,instead of a few stay-at-home tradesmen; fourthly, if anything seriousdid happen to Hugh, it would serve as a warning to the rest of hisrelations, particularly to George; finally, it was his dinner hour, andif he waited to eat his dinner before tackling Hugh, he shouldundoubtedly tackle him afterward in much too generous a frame of mind.Yes, it would be wiser to go home at once, have a good dinner, and startfor Arizona to-morrow morning. The longer he contemplated it, the lesshe liked the way he had been beguiled into visiting Hugh. If the--theyoung bounder--no, really bounder was not too strong a word--if theyoung bounder was in trouble, why could he not have come forward openlyand courageously to the one relation who could help him? Why had heagain relied upon his mother's fondness, and why had she, as always,chosen the indirect channel by writing to George rather than to himself?The fact of the matter was that his mother and George and Hugh possessedsimilar loose conceptions of integrity, and now that it was become aquestion of facing the music they had instinctively joined hands. YetGeorge had advised him to have nothing more to do with Hugh, whichlooked as if his latest game was a bit too strong even for George torelish, for John declined to believe that George possessed enough of thespirit of competitive sponging to bother about trying to poach in Hugh'swaters; Hilda or Eleanor might, but George.... George was frightened,that was it; obviously he knew more than he had told, and he did notwant to be exposed ... it would not astonish him to learn that Georgewas in the business with Hugh and had invented that letter from Mama toinvoke his intervention before it was too late to save himself. Whatcould it all be about? Curiosity turned the scale against Arizona, andJohn pressed forward to West Kensington.

  The houses in Carlington Road looked like an over-crowded row of tall,thin men watching a football match on a cold day; each red-faced househad a tree in front of it like an umbrella and trim, white steps likespats; in a fantastic mood the comparison might be prolongedindefinitely, even so far as to say that, however outwardlyuncomfortable they might appear, like enthusiastic spectators, they wereprobably all aglow within. If John had been asked whether he liked aninterior of pink lampshades and brass gongs, he would have repliedemphatically in the negative; but on this chill November night he foundthe inside of number 22 rather pleasant after the street. The maidlooked doubtful over admitting him, which was not surprising, becausean odor of hot soup in the hall and the chink of plates behind a closeddoor on the right proclaimed that the family was at dinner.

  "Will you wait in the drawing-room, sir?" she inquired. "I'll inform Mr.Touchwood that you're here."

  John felt a grim satisfaction in thus breaking in upon Hugh's dinner;there was nothing so well calculated to disturb even a tranquilconscience as an unexpected visit at such an hour; but the effect uponguilt would be....

  "Just say that a gentleman wishes to speak to him for a minute. Noname," he replied.

  The walk through the dim streets, coupled with speculations upon thevarious crimes that his brother might have committed, had perhapsinvested John's rosy personality with an unusual portentousness, for themaid accepted his instructions fearfully and was so much flustered bythem that she forgot to turn up the gas in the drawing-room, of whichJohn was glad; he assured himself that the heavily draped room in thesubdued light gave the final touch to the atmosphere of horror which heaimed at creating; and he could not resist opening the door to enjoy theconsternation in the dining-room just beyond.

  "What is it?"

  A murmur from the maid.

  "Well, you'd better finish your soup first. I wouldn't let my soup getcold for anybody."

  There followed a general buzz from the midst of which Hugh emerged, hislong, sallow face seeming longer than usual in his anxiety, his long,thin neck craning forward like an apprehensive bird's, and his bonyfingers clutching a napkin with which he dusted his legs nervously.

  "Like a flag of truce," John thought, and almost simultaneously felt asharp twinge of resentment at Hugh's daring to sport a dinner jacketwith as much effrontery as if his life had been as white as that expanseof shirt.

  "Good Lord," Hugh exclaimed when he recognized his brother. "I thoughtyou were a detective, at least. Come in and have some grub, won't you?Mrs. Fenton will be awfully glad to see you."

  John demurred at the invitation. Judging by what he had been told aboutMrs. Fenton's attitude toward Hugh, he did not think that Touchwood wasa welcome name in 22 Carlington Road.

  "Aubrey!" Hugh was shouting. "One of my brothers has just blown in."

  John felt sure that the rapid feminine voice he could faintly hear had adistinct note of expostulation in it; but, however earnest theobjection, it was at once drowned in the boisterous hospitality ofAubrey, who came beaming into the hall--a well set up young man of abouttwenty-five with a fresh complexion, glasses, an opal solitaire in hisshirt, and a waxy white flower in his buttonhole.

  "Do come in," he begged, with an encouraging wave of his napkin. "We'veonly just begun."

  Although John felt that by dining in this house he was making himself anaccessory after the still undivulged fact, he was really so hungry bynow that he could not bring himself to refuse. He knew that he wasdisplaying weakness, but he compounded with his austere self by arguingthat he was more likely to arrive at the truth if he avoided anything inthe nature of precipitate action.

  Mrs. Fenton did not receive her guest as cordially as her son; in fact,she showed plainly that she resented extremely his having been invitedto dinner. She was a well-preserved woman and reminded John of a pinkcrystallized pear; her frosted transformation glistened like encrustedsugar round the stalk, which was represented by a tubular head ornamenton the apex of the carefully tended pyramid; her greeting was sticky.

  "My son's friend has spoken of you," Mrs. Fenton was saying, coldly, inreply to John's apologies for intruding upon her like this. He for hispart was envying her ability to refer to Hugh without admitting hisindividual existence, when somebody kicked him under the table, and,looking up, he saw that Hugh was frowning at him in a cautionarymanner.

  "I've already met your brother, the writer," his hostess continued.

  "My brother, James?" asked John in amazement. He could not envisageJames in these surroundings.

  "No, I have not had the pleasure of meeting him _yet_. I was referringto the dramatist, who has dined with me several times."

  "But," John began, when another kick under the table silenced him.

  "Pass the salt, will you, George, old boy?" Hugh said loudly.

  John's soup was cold, but in the heat of his suppressed indignation hedid not notice it. So George had been masquerading in this house ashimself; no wonder he had not encouraged the idea of an interview withHugh. Evidently a dishonest outrage had been perpetrated in his name,and though Hugh might kick him under the table, he should soon obtainhis revenge by having Hugh kicked out of the house. John took as muchpleasure in
his dinner that evening as a sandbag might have taken inbeing stuffed with sand. He felt full when it was over, but it was asoulless affair; and when Mrs. Fenton, who had done nothing except lookdown her nose all through the meal, left the table, he turned furiouslyupon Hugh.

  "What does this gross impersonation mean?" he demanded.

  Aubrey threw himself figuratively between the brothers, which onlyseemed to increase John's irritation.

  "We wanted to jolly the mater along," he explained. "No harm wasintended, but Hughie was keen to prove his respectability; so, as youand he weren't on the most cordial terms, we introduced your brother,George, as yourself. It was a compliment, really, to your publiccharacter; but old George rather enjoyed dining here, and I'm bound tosay he sold the mater some very decent port. In fact, you're drinking itnow."

  "And I suppose," said John, angrily, "that between you all you'veperpetrated some discreditable fraud, what? I suppose you've beenordering shirts in my name as well as selling port, eh? I'll disown thebill. You understand me? I won't have you masquerading as a gentleman,Hugh, when you can't behave like one. It's obtaining money under falsepretenses, and you can write to your mother till you're as blue in theface as the ink in your bottle--it won't help you. I can put up withlaziness; I can tolerate stupidity; I can endure dissipation; but I'mdamned if I'll stand being introduced as George. Port, indeed! Don't tryto argue with me. You must take the consequences. Mr. Fenton, I'm sorryI allowed myself to be inveigled like this into your mother's house. Ishall write to her when I get home, and I hope she will take steps toclear that impostor out. No, I won't have a cigar--though I've no doubtI shall presently receive the bill for them, unless I've also beenpassed off as a tobacconist's agent by George. As for him, I've donewith him, too. I shall advertise in the _Times_ that neither he nor Hughhas any business to order things in my name. I came here to-night inresponse to an urgent appeal; I find that I've been made a fool of; Ifind myself in a most undignified position. No, I will not have anotherglass of port. I don't know how much George exacted for it, but let metell you that it isn't even good port: it's turbid and fiery."

  John rose from the table and was making for the door, when Hugh tookhold of his arm.

  "Look here, old chap," he began.

  "Don't attempt to soften me with pothouse endearments," said John,fiercely. "I will not be called 'old chap.'"

  "All right, old chap, I won't," said Hugh. "But before you go jumpinginto the street like a lighted cracker, please listen. Nobody has beenordering anything in your name. You're absolutely off the lines there.Why, I exhausted your credit years ago. And I don't see why you shouldgrudge poor old George a few dinners."

  "You rascal," John stammered. "You impudent rascal!"

  "Don't annoy him, Hughie," Aubrey advised. "I can see his point."

  "Oh, you can, sir, can you?" John snapped. "You can understand, can you,how it affects me to be saddled with brothers like these and port likethis?"

  John was so furious that he could not bring himself to mention George orHugh by name: they merely represented maddening abstractions ofrelationship, and he longed for some phrase like "my son's friend" withwhich he might disown them forever.

  "You mustn't blame your brother George, Mr. Touchwood," urged Aubrey."He's not involved in this latest affair. I'm sorry we told the materthat he was you, but the mater required jollying along, as I explained.She can't appreciate Hugh. He's too modern for her."

  "I sympathize with Mrs. Fenton."

  "You must forgive a ruse. It's just the kind of ruse I should think aplaywright would appreciate. You know. Charley's Aunt and all that."

  John clenched his fist: "Don't you mutter to me about a sense of humor,"he said to Hugh, wrathfully.

  "I wasn't muttering," replied Hugh. "I merely observed that a littlesense of humor wouldn't be a bad thing. I'm sorry that George has beendragged like a red herring across the business, because it's a much moreserious matter than simply introducing George to Mrs. Fenton as you andselling her some port which personally I think is not at all bad, eh,Aubrey?"

  He poured himself out another glass to prove his conviction.

  "You may think all this a joke," John retorted. "But I don't. I considerit a gross exhibition of bad taste."

  "All right. Granted. Let's leave it at that," sighed Hugh, wearily. "Butyou don't give a fellow much encouragement to own up when he really isin a tight corner. However, personally I've got past minding. If I'msentenced to penal servitude, it'll be your fault for not listening.Only don't say I disgraced the family name."

  "Hugh's right," Aubrey put in. "We really are in a deuce of a hole."

  "Disgrace the family name?" John repeated. "Allow me to tell you thatwhen you hawk George round London as your brother, the playwright, Iconsider _that_ is disgracing the family name."

  "So that if I'm arrested for forgery," Hugh asked, "you won't mind?"

  "Forgery?" John gasped.

  Hugh nodded.

  "Yes, we had bad luck in the straight," he murmured, tossing off twomore glasses of port. "Cleared every hurdle like a bird and ... however,it's no good grumbling. We just didn't pull it off."

  "No," sighed Aubrey. "We were beaten by a short head."

  John sat down unsteadily, filled up half a glass of Burgundy withsherry, and drank it straight off without realizing that George's portwas even worse than he had supposed.

  "Whose name have you forged?" he brought himself to ask at last.

  "Stephen Crutchley's."

  "Good heavens!" he groaned. "But this is horrible. And has he found out?Does he know who did it?"

  It was characteristic of John that he did not ask for how much hisfriend's name had been forged.

  "He has his suspicions," Hugh admitted. "And he's bound to know prettysoon. In fact, I think the only thing to do is for you to explainmatters. After all, in a way it was a joke."

  "Yes, a kind of experimental joke," Aubrey agreed.

  "But it has proved to me how easy it is to cash a forged check," Hughcontinued, hopefully. "And, of course, if you talk to Crutchley he'll beall right. He's not likely to be very severe on the brother of an oldfriend. That was one of the reasons we experimented on him--that, andalso partly because I found an old check book of his. He's awfullycareless, you know, is Stephen--very much the high-brow architect andall that, though he doesn't forget to charge. In fact, so many peoplehave had to pay for his name that it serves him right to find himselfdoing the same for once."

  "Does Mrs. Fenton know anything of this?" John asked.

  "Why, no," Aubrey answered, quickly. "Well, women don't understand aboutmoney, do they? And the mater has less idea of the wicked world thanmost. My father was always a bit of a recluse, don't you see?"

  "Was he?" John said, sarcastically. "I should think his son will be abit of a recluse, too, before he's done. But forgery! No, it'sincredible--incredible!"

  "Don't worry, Johnnie," Hugh insisted. "Don't worry. I'm not worrying atall, now that you've come along. Nobody knows anything for certain yet.George doesn't know. Mama doesn't know. Mrs. Fenton doesn't know. AndStevie only guesses."

  "How do you know that he guesses?" John demanded.

  "Well, that's part of the story, eh, Aubrey?" said Hugh, turning to hisaccomplice, who nodded sagely.

  "Which I suppose one ought to tell in full, eh, Aubrey?" he went on.

  "I think it would interest your brother--I mean--quite apart from hisbeing your brother, it would interest him as a playwright," Aubreyagreed.

  "Glasses round, then," called Hugh, cheerfully.

  "There's a vacant armchair by the fireplace," Aubrey pointed out toJohn.

  "Thanks," said John, stiffly. "I don't suppose that the comfort of anarmchair will alleviate my feelings. Begin, sir," he commanded Hugh."Begin, and get it finished quickly, for heaven's sake, so that I canleave this house and think out my course of action in solitude."

  "Do you know what it is, Johnnie?" Hugh said, craning his neck andexamining his brother wi
th an air of suddenly aroused curiosity. "You'rebeginning to dramatize yourself. I suppose it's inevitable, but I wishyou wouldn't. It gives me the same kind of embarrassed feeling that Iget when a woman starts reciting. You're not subjective. That's thecurse of all romantic writers. You want to get an objective viewpoint.You're not the only person on in this scene. I'm on. Aubrey's on. Mrs.Fenton and Stevie Crutchley are waiting in the wings, as it were. And,for all I know, the police may be waiting there, too, by this time. Getan objective viewpoint, Johnnie. Subjectivity went out with Rousseau."

  "Confound your impudence," John spluttered.

  "Yes, that's much better than talking about thinking out a course ofaction in solitude," Hugh approved. "But don't run away with the ideathat I'm trying to annoy you. I'm not. I've every reason to encouragethe romantic side of you, because finally it will be the romantic sideof you that will shudder to behold your youngest brother in the dock. Infact, I'm going the limit on your romance. At the same time I don't liketo see you laying it on too thick. I'll give you your fine feelings andall that. I'll grant you your natural mortification, etcetera, etcetera.But try to see my point of view as well as your own. When you'rethinking out a course of action in solitude, you'll light a cigar with agood old paunch on it, and you'll put your legs up on the mantelpiece,unless you've grown old-maidish and afraid of scratching the furniture,and you'll pat your passbook, which is probably suffering from fattydegeneration. That's a good phrase, Aubrey?"

  "Devilish good," the accomplice allowed. "But, look here, Hugh,steady--the mater gets rather bored if we keep the servants out of thedining-room too long, and I think your brother is anxious to have thestory. So fire ahead, there's a good fellow."

  Hugh looked hurt at the lack of appreciation which greeted the subtlershades of his discourse, but, observing that John looked still more hurtat being kept waiting, he made haste to begin without further referenceto style.

  "Well, you see, Johnnie, I've always been unlucky."

  John made a gesture of impatience; but Hugh raised a sedative hand.

  "I know there's nothing that riles lucky people so much as when unluckypeople claim the prerogatives of their bad luck. I'm perfectly willingto admit that I'm lazier than you. But remember that energy is a gift,not an attainment. And I was born tired. The first stunning blow I hadwas when the old man died. You remember he always regarded me as a bitof an infant prodigy? So I was from his point of view, for he was oversixty when he begot me, and he used to look at me just as some peoplelook at the silver cups they've won for races. But when he died, all theadvantages of being the youngest son died with him, and I realized thatI was an encumbrance. I'm willing to grant that I was a nuisance, too,but ... however, it's no use raking up old scores.... I'm equallywilling to admit that you've always treated me very decently and thatI've always behaved very rottenly. I'll admit also that my taste inclothes was beyond my powers of gratification; that I liked wine andwomen--or to put a nicer point upon it--whisky and waitresses. I did.And what of it? You'll observe that I'm not going to try to justifymyself. Have another glass of port? No? Right-o; well, I will. I repeatI'm not going to attempt to justify myself, even if I couldn't, which Ican, but in vino veritas, which I think you'll admit is Latin. Latin, Isaid. Precisely. Where was I?"

  "Hugh, old boy, buck up," his friend prompted, anxiously.

  "Come, sir," John said, trembling visibly with indignation. "Get on withyour story while you can. I don't want to waste my time listening to themeanderings of a drunkard."

  Hugh's eyes were glazing over like a puddle in frost, but he knitted hisbrows and regarded his brother with intense concentration.

  "Don't try to take any literary advantage of me, Johnnie. You can digout the longest word in the dictionary, but I've got a longer.Metempsychosis! Hear that? I'm willing to admit that I don't like havingto say it, but you find me another man who can say it at all afterGeorge's port. Metempsychosis! And it's not a disease. No, no, no, no,don't you run away with the idea that it's a disease. Not at all. It's areligion. And for three years I've been wasting valuable knowledge likethat on an architect's office. Do you think Stevie wants to hear aboutmetempsychosis--that's the third time I've cleared it--of course hedoesn't. Stephen Crutchley is a Goth. What am I? I'm a Palladian. Thereyou have it. Am I right, Aubrey?"

  "Quite right, old boy, only come to the point."

  "That's all right, Aubrey, don't you be afraid. I'm nursing her along bythe rails. You can lay a hundred pounds to a box of George's cigars barone. And that one's me. Where was I? Ah, yes. Well, I'm not going to saya word against Stephen, Johnnie. He's a friend of yours. He's my boss.He's one of England's leading ecclesiastical architects. But thatdoesn't help me when I find myself in a Somersetshire village sevenmiles from the nearest station arguing with a deaf parson about therestoration of his moldy church. Does it? Of course not. It doesn't helpme when I find myself sleeping in damp sheets and woken up at seveno'clock by a cross between a gardener and a charwoman for early service.Does it? Of course not. Architecture like everything else is a good jobwhen you're waving the flag on top of the tower; but when you're diggingthe foundations it's rotten. Stevie and I have had our littledifferences, but when he's sober--I mean when I'm sober--he'll tell youthat there's not one of his juniors he thinks better of than me. I'magainst Gothic. I consider Gothic the muddle-headed expression of amuddle-headed period. But I've been loyal to Stevie, only...."

  Hugh paused solemnly, while his friend regarded him with nervoussolicitude.

  "Only," Hugh repeated in a loud voice. "Metempsychosis," he murmured,and drinking two more glasses of wine, he sat back in his chair andshook his head in mute despair of human speech.

  Aubrey took John aside.

  "I'm afraid Hugh's too far gone to explain all the details to-night," hewhispered. "But it's really very serious. You see he found an old checkbook of Mr. Crutchley's, and more from a joke than anything else hetried to see if it was difficult to cash a check. It wasn't. Hesucceeded. But he's suspected. I helped him indirectly, but of course Idon't come into the business except as an accessory. Only, if you takemy advice, you'll call on Mr. Crutchley as soon as you can, and I'm sureyou'll be able to square things up. You'll know how to manage him; butHugh has a way of exasperating him."

  All the bland, the almost infantine simplicity of Aubrey Fenton'sdemeanor did not avail to propitiate John's rage; and when the maid camein with a message from his hostess to ask if it would soon be convenientto allow the table to be cleared, he announced that he should not remainanother minute in the house.

  "But can Hugh count on your support?" Aubrey persisted. He spoke like anelection agent who is growing rapidly doubtful of his candidate'sprospects.

  "He can count on nothing," said John, violently. "He can count onnothing at all. On absolutely nothing at all."

  Anybody who had seen Hugh's condition at this moment would have agreedwith John. His eyes had already lost even as much life as might havebeen discerned in the slow freezing of a puddle, and had now assumed theglassy fixity and perfect roundness of two bottle-stoppers.

  "He can count on nothing," John asseverated.

  "I see," said Aubrey, tactfully. "I'll try and get that across to him.Must you really be going?"

  "Immediately."

  "You'll trot in and say ta-ta to the mater?"

  John had no wish ever again to meet this crystallized lady, but hispoliteness rose superior to his indignation, and he followed the son ofthe house into the drawing-room. His last glimpse of Hugh was of amechanical figure, the only gesture of which was awkwardly to rescueevery glass in turn that the maid endeavored to include in her clearanceof the table.

  "It's scandalous," muttered John. "It's--it's abominable! Mrs. Fenton,"he said with a courtly bow for her hospitality, "I regret that your sonhas encouraged my brother to impose himself upon your good-nature. Ishall take steps to insure that he shall do so no longer. I beg yourpardon, Mrs. Fenton, I apologize. Good-night."

  "I've always spoilt
Aubrey," she said. "And he always had a mania fordangerous toys which he never could learn to work properly. Never!" sherepeated, passionately.

  For an instant the musty sugar in which she was inclosed cracked andallowed John a glimpse of the feminine humanity underneath; but in thesame instant the crystallization was more complete than ever, and whenJohn released her hand he nearly took out his handkerchief to wipe awaythe stickiness.

  "I say, what steps _are_ you going to take to-morrow?" Aubrey asked.

  "Never mind," John growled. Inasmuch as he himself had no more idea ofwhat he intended to do than Aubrey, the reply was a good one.

  Where Carlington Road flows into Hammersmith Road John waited for apassing taxi, apostrophizing meanwhile the befogged stars in the Londonsky.

  "I shall not forget to-night. No, I certainly sha'n't. I doubt if anydramatist ever spent such another. A glimpse at all the animals of theglobe, a lunch that would have made a jackal vomit, a search for twolost children, an interview with a fatuous brother, a loan of overthirty pounds, a winking landlady, a narrow escape from being bored todeath by a Major, a dinner that gave me the sensation of being slowlyburied alive, a glass of George's port, and for climax the news that mybrother has committed a forgery. How can I think about Joan of Arc? Afew more days like this and I shall never be able to think or writeagain--however, please God, there'll always be the cinema."

  Whirring home to Hampstead John fell asleep, and when he hadsupplemented that amount of repose in the taxi by eight hours in his ownbed, he woke next morning with his mind made up to square matters withStephen Crutchley, to withdraw Hugh from architecture, to intern himuntil Christmas at Ambles, and in the New Year to transport him toBritish Honduras as a mahogany-planter. He had met on board the_Murmania_ a mahogany-planter who was visiting England for the firsttime in thirteen years: the profession must be an enthralling one.

  It was only when John reached the offices of Stephen Crutchley in StapleInn that he discovered it was Sunday, which meant another whole day'sidleness and suspense, and he almost fell to wishing that he was inchurch again with Bertram and Viola. But there was a sweet sadness inthis old paved court, where a few sparrows chirped their plaintivemonotone from an overarching tree, the branches of which fretted a skyof pearly blue, and where several dreary men were sitting upon thebenches regarding their frayed boots. John could not remainunsusceptible to the antique charm of the scene, and finding anunoccupied bench he rested there in the timid sunlight.

  "What a place to choose for a forgery," he murmured, reproachfully, andtried to change the direction of his thoughts by remembering that Dr.Johnson had lived here for a time. He had no sooner concentrated uponfancies of that great man than he began to wonder if he was not mistakenin supposing that he had lived here, and he looked round for some onewho could inform him. The dreary men with frayed boots were onlycounting the slow minutes of divine service before the public-housescould open: they knew nothing of the lexicographer. But the subject offorgery was not to be driven away by memories of Dr. Johnson, becausehis friend, Dr. Dodd, suddenly jumped into the train of thought, and itwas impossible not to conjure up that poor and learned gentleman's lastjourney to Tyburn nor to reflect how the latticed dormers on the Holbornside of the Inn were the same now as then and had actually seen Dr. Doddgo jolting past. John had often thought how incomprehensible it was thatscarcely a century ago people should have been hanged for such crimes asforgery; but not it seemed rather more comprehensible. Of course, heshould not like to know that his brother was going to be hanged; but forthe sake of his future it would be an excellent thing to revive capitalpunishment for minor crimes. He should like when all this dreadfulbusiness was settled to say to his brother, "Oh, by the way, Hugh, Ihear they've just passed a bill making forgery a capital offense oncemore. I think you'll like mahogany-planting."

  But would the fear of death act as a deterrent upon such an one as Hugh,who after committing so dishonorable a crime had lacked even the graceto make his confession of it soberly? It was doubtful: Hugh was withoutshame. From boyhood his career had been undistinguished by a singledecent action; but on the contrary it had been steadily marred by viceand folly from the time when he had stolen an unused set of BritishNorth Borneo stamps from the locker of his best friend at school to thismonstrous climax. Forgery! Great heavens, had he ever yet envisaged Hughlistening abjectly (or worse impudently) to the strictures of a scornfuljudge? Had he yet imagined the headlines in the press? _Brother ofdistinguished dramatist sent to penal servitude. Judge's scathingcomments._ Mr. Touchwood breaks down in court. _Miss Janet Bond'sproduction indefinitely postponed._ Surely Stephen would not proceed toextreme measures, but for the sake of their lifelong sympathy spare hisold friend this humiliation; yet even as John reached this conclusionthe chink-chink of the sparrows in the plane-tree sounded upon the airlike the chink-chink of the picks on Dartmoor. Hugh a convict! It mightwell befall thus, if his jaunty demeanor hardened Stephen's heart.Suppose that Stephen should be seized with one of those moral crisesthat can only be relieved by making an example of somebody? Would it notbe as well to go down at once to his place in the country and try tosquare matters, unembarrassed by Hugh's brazen impenitence? Or was italready too late? John could not bring himself to believe that his oldfriend would call in the police without warning him. Stephen had alwayshad a generous disposition, and it might well be that rather than woundJohn's pride by the revelation of his brother's disgrace he had made uphis mind to say nothing and to give Hugh another chance: that would belike Stephen. No, he should not intrude upon his week-end; though how hewas going to pass the long Sunday unless he occupied himself withsomething more cheerful than his own thoughts he did not know. Should hevisit James and Beatrice, and take them out to lunch with a SymphonyConcert to follow? No, he should never be able to keep the secret ofHugh's crime, and James would inevitably wind up the discussion bymaking it seem as if it were entirely his own fault. Should he visitGeorge and warn him that the less intercourse he had with Hugh thebetter, yes, and incidentally observe to George that he resented hisimpersonation of himself at Mrs. Fenton's? No, George's company would beas intolerable as his port. And the children? No, no, let them dress upwith minds still untainted by their Uncle Hugh's shame; let them enactRobinson Crusoe and if they liked burn Halma House to the ground. Whatwas unpremeditated arson compared with deliberate forgery? But if therewas a genuine criminal streak in the Touchwoods, how was he ever againto feel secure of his relations' honor? To-morrow he might learn thatJames had murdered Beatrice because she had slept through the openingchapters of _Lord Ormont and his Aminta_. To-morrow he might learn thatGeorge was a defaulting bookmaker, that Hilda had embezzled the whole ofLaurence's board, and that Harold was about to be prosecuted by theSociety for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Why, even his mothermight have taken to gin-drinking in the small hours of the morning!

  "God forgive me," said John. "I am losing my faith in humanity and myrespect for my mother. Yet some imbeciles prate about the romance ofcrime."

  John felt that if he continued to sit here brooding upon his relationshe should be in danger of taking some violent step such as joining theSalvation Army: he remembered how an actor in _The Fall of Babylon_ hadbrooded upon his inability to say his lines with just the emphasis he asauthor had required, until on the night before the opening he had leftthe theater and become a Salvationist. One of the loafers in the courtshuffled up to John and begged him for a match; when John complied heasked for something to use it on, and John was so much distressed by thefaint likeness he bore to his eldest brother that he gave him a cigar.

  "Without me that is what they would all be by now, every one of them,James, George, and Hugh," he thought "But if I hadn't been lucky, somight I," he added, reprovingly, to himself, "though at any rate Ishould have tried to join a workhouse and not wasted my time cadging formatches in Staple Inn."

  John was not quite clear about workhouses; he had abandoned realisticwriting before he dealt with workhouse life
as it really is.

  "However, I can't sit here depressing myself all day; besides, thisbench is damp. What fools those sparrows are to stay chirping in thattree when they might be hopping about in Hampshire--out of reach ofHarold's air-gun of course--and what a fool I am! But it's no use for meto go home and work at Joan of Arc. The English archers will only beshooting broad arrows all the time. I'll walk slowly to the Garrick, Ithink, and have an early lunch."

  Perversely enough the club did not seem to contain one sympatheticacquaintance, let alone a friend, that Sunday; and after lunch John wasreduced to looking at the portraits of famous dead players, who boredhim nearly as much as one or two of the live ones who were lounging inthe smoking-room.

  "This is getting unendurable," he moaned, and there seemed nothing forit but to sally forth and walk the hollow-sounding city. From Long Acrehe turned into St. Martin's Lane, shook off the temptation to borehimself still more hopelessly by a visit to the National Gallery, andreached Cockspur Street. Three or four Sabbath loiterers were staring ata window, and John saw that it was the office of the Cunard Line andthat the attraction was a model of the _S.S. Murmania_.

  "What a fool I am!" John murmured much more emphatically than in StapleInn. He was just going to call a taxi to drive him to Chelsea, when heexperienced from yesterday a revulsion against taxis. Yesterday had beena nightmare of taxis, between driving to the Zoo and driving to thepolice station and driving home after that interview with the forger--bythis time John had discarded Hugh as a relation--not to mention Mrs.Worfolk in a taxi, and the children in a taxi, and their luggage buzzingbackward and forward between Earl's Court and Hampstead in a taxi. No,he should walk to Chelsea: a brisk walk with an objective would do himgood. 83 Camera Square. It was indeed rather a tribute to his memory, heflattered himself, that he could remember her address without referringto her card. He should walk along the Embankment; it was only half-pasttwo now.

  It was pleasant walking by the river on that fine afternoon, and Johnfelt as he strode along Grosvenor Road, his spirit rising with the eagertide, that after all there was nothing like the sea, nothing!

  "As soon as I've finished Joan of Arc, I shall take a sea-voyage. It'sall very well for George to talk about sea-voyages, but let him do somework first. Even if I do send him for a sea-voyage, how will he spendhis time? I know perfectly well. He'll feel seasick for the first weekand play poker for the rest of the passage. No, no, after the Christmasholidays at Ambles he'll be as right as a trivet without a sea-voyage.What is a trivet by the way? Now if I had a secretary, I should make anote of a query like that. As it is, I shall probably never know what atrivet is; but if I had a secretary, I should ask her to look it up inthe dictionary when we got home. I dare say I've lost thousands of ideasby not having a secretary at hand. I shall have to advertise--or findout in some way about a secretary. Thank heaven, neither Hilda norBeatrice nor Eleanor nor Edith knows shorthand. But even if Edith didknow shorthand, she'd be eternally occupied with the dactylography--as Isuppose _he'd_ call it--of Laurence's apostolic successes--there'sanother note I might make. Of course, it's nothing wonderful as a pieceof wit, but I might get an epigram worth keeping, say three times aweek, if I had a secretary at my elbow. I don't believe that Stephenwill make any difficulties about Hugh. Oh no, I don't think so. I wastired this morning after yesterday. This walk is making me see events intheir right proportion. Rosification indeed! James brings out thesethings as if he were a second Sydney Smith; but in my opinion witwithout humor is like marmalade without butter. And even if I do rosifythings, well, what is it that Lady Teazle says? _I wish it were springall the year round and that roses grew under our feet._ And it takessomething to rosify such moral anemia as Hugh's. By the way I wonderjust exactly whereabouts in Chelsea Camera Square is."

  Now if there was one thing that John hated, if there was one thing thatdragged even his buoyant spirits into the dust, if there was one thingworse than having a forger for a blood-relation, it was to be compelledto ask his way anywhere in London within the four miles radius. He wouldnot even now admit to himself more than that he did not know the _exact_whereabouts of Camera Square. Although he really had not the remotestidea beyond its location in the extensive borough of Chelsea whereCamera Square was, he wasted half-an-hour in dancing a kind of Ladies'Chain with all the side-streets off King's Road and never catching aglimpse of his destination. It was at last borne in upon him that if hewanted to call on Mrs. Hamilton at a respectable hour for afternoon teahe should simply have to ask his way.

  Now arose for John the problem of choosing the oracle. He walked on andon, half making up his mind every moment to accost somebody and when hewas on the point of doing so perceiving in his expression a latenthaughtiness that held him back until it was too late. Had it not beenSunday, he would have entered a shop and bought sufficiently expensiveto bribe the shopman from looking astonished at his ignorance.Presently, however, he passed a tobacconist's, and having bought threeof the best cigars he had, which were not very good, he asked casuallyas he was going out the direction of Camera Square. The shopman did notknow. He came to another tobacconist's, bought three more cigars, andthat shopman did not know either. Gradually with a sharp sense ofimpending disgrace John realized that he must ask a policeman. He turnedaside from the many inviting policemen in the main road, where thecontemptuous glances of wayfarers might presume his rusticity, and triedto find a policeman in a secluded by-street. This took anotherhalf-an-hour, and when John did accost this ponderous hermit of theforce he accosted him in broken English.

  "Ees thees ze vay to Cahmehra Squah?" he asked, shrugging his shouldersin what he conceived to be the gesture of a Frenchman who had landedthat morning from Calais.

  "Eh?"

  "Cahmehra Squah?" John repeated.

  The policeman put his hand in his pocket, and John thought he was goingto whistle for help; but it was really to get out a handkerchief to blowhis nose and give him time to guess what John wanted to know.

  "Say it again, will yer?" the policeman requested.

  John repeated his Gallic rendering of Camera.

  "I ain't seen it round here. Where do you say you dropped it?"

  "Eet ees a place I vants."

  What slow-witted oafs the English were, thought John with acompassionate sigh for the poor foreigners who must be lost in Londonevery day. However, this policeman was so loutish that he felt he couldrisk an almost perfect pronunciation.

  "Oh, Kemmerer Squer," said the policeman with a huge smile ofcomprehension. "Why, you're looking at it." He pointed along the road.

  "Damn," thought John. "I needn't have asked at all. Sank you.Good-evening," he said aloud.

  "The same to you and many of them, Napoleon," the policeman nodded.

  John hurried away, and soon he was walking along a narrow garden, veryunlike a London garden, for it was full of frost-bitten herbaceousflowers and smelt of the country. Not a house on this side of the squareresembled its neighbor; but Number 83 was the most charmingly odd ofall, two stories high with a little Chinese balcony and jasmine over aqueer pointed porch of wrought iron.

  "Yes, sir, Mrs. Hamilton is at home," said the maid.

  The last bars of something by Schumann or Chopin died away; in thecomparative stillness that succeeded John could hear a canary singing,and the tinkle of tea-cups; there was also a smell of muffinsand--mimosa, was it? Anyway it was very delicious, he thought, while hemade his overcoat as small as possible, so as not to fill the tiny hallentirely.

  "Mr. Touchwood was the name?" the maid asked.

  "What an intelligent young woman," he thought. "How much moreintelligent than that policeman. But women are more intelligent in smallthings."

  John felt very large as he bowed his head to enter the drawing-room.