Jerome Klapka Jerome ( 1859 – 1927) was an English writer and humourist, best known for the comic travelogue Three Men in a Boat
The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o'clock of a November
afternoon is not so crowded as to secure to the stranger, of appearance
anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb's boy,
screaming at the top of his voice that she was his honey, stopped
suddenly, stepped backwards on to the toes of a voluble young lady
wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat
personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached the
next corner—and then more as a soliloquy than as information to the
street—did Tibb's boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs
to remark that he was her bee. The voluble young lady herself,
following some half-a-dozen yards behind, forgot her wrongs in
contemplation of the stranger's back. There was this that was peculiar
about the stranger's back: that instead of being flat it presented a
decided curve. "It ain't a 'ump, and it don't look like kervitcher of the
spine," observed the voluble young lady to herself. "Blimy if I don't
believe 'e's taking 'ome 'is washing up his back."
The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed
the stranger's approach with gathering interest. "That's an odd sort of a
walk of yours, young man," thought the constable. "You take care you don't
fall down and tumble over yourself."
"Thought he was a young man," murmured the constable, the stranger having
passed him. "He had a young face right enough."
The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the
name of the street upon the corner house, turned back.
"Why, 'tis a young man," the constable told himself; "a mere boy."
"I beg your pardon," said the stranger; "but would you mind telling me my
way to Bloomsbury Square."
"This is Bloomsbury Square," explained the constable; "leastways round the
corner is. What number might you be wanting?"
The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned overcoat
a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: "Mrs. Pennycherry. Number
Fortyeight."
"Round to the left," instructed him the constable; "fourth house. Been
recommended there?"
"By a friend," replied the stranger. "Thank you very much."
"Ah," muttered the constable to himself; "guess you won't be calling him
that by the end of the week, young"
"Funny," added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the
stranger. "Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old in
front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he'll look old
all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry's: stingy old cat."
Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for not
liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to discover
any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured lady. Maybe
the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the neighbourhood of
Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of generosity and
amiability.
Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of
Number Forty-eight. Mrs.
Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow's cap before the looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the gas.
Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow's cap before the looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the gas.
"And don't stop gossiping, and don't you take it upon yourself to answer
questions. Say I'll be up in a minute," were Mrs. Pennycherry's further
instructions, "and mind you hide your hands as much as you can."
"What are you grinning at?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of minutes
later, of the dingy Mary Jane.
"Wasn't grinning," explained the meek Mary Jane, "was only smiling to
myself."
"What at?"
"Dunno," admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling.
"What's he like then?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry.
"'E ain't the usual sort," was Mary Jane's opinion.
"Thank God for that," ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously.
"Says 'e's been recommended, by a friend."
"By whom?"
"By a friend. 'E didn't say no name." Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. "He's not
the funny sort, is he?"
Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it.
Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the
room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler than the
stranger's bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush of old
sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw
herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor had
called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant Reality
reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodging-house keeper, existing
precariously upon a daily round of petty meannesses, was prepared for
contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked an
inexperienced young gentleman.
"Someone has recommended me to you," began Mrs. Pennycherry; "may I ask
who?"
But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial.
"You might not remember him," he smiled. "He thought that I should
do well to pass the few months I am given that I have to be in
London, here. You can take me in?"
Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger in.
"A room to sleep in," explained the stranger, " any room will do with
food and drink sufficient for a man, is all that I require."
"For breakfast," began Mrs. Pennycherry, "I always give"
"What is right and proper, I am convinced," interrupted the stranger.
"Pray do not trouble to go into detail, Mrs. Pennycherry. With whatever it
is I shall be content."
Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but his
face, though the gentle eyes were smiling, was frank and serious.
"At all events you will see the room," suggested Mrs. Pennycherry, "before
we discuss terms."
"Certainly," agreed the stranger. "I am a little tired and shall be glad
to rest there."
Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third floor,
paused a moment undecided, then opened the door of the back bedroom.
"It is very comfortable," commented the stranger.
"For this room," stated Mrs. Pennycherry, "together with full board,
consisting of"
"Of everything needful. It goes without saying," again interrupted the
stranger with his quiet grave smile.
"I have generally asked," continued Mrs. Pennycherry, "four pounds a week.
To you" Mrs. Pennycherry's voice, unknown to her, took to itself
the note of aggressive generosity" seeing you have been recommended
here, say three pounds ten."
"Dear lady," said the stranger, "that is kind of you. As you have divined,
I am not a rich man. If it be not imposing upon you I accept your
reduction with gratitude."
Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a
suspicious glance upon the stranger, but not a line was there, upon that
smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung. Clearly
he was as simple as he looked.
"Gas, of course, extra."
"Of course," agreed the Stranger.
"Coals...."
"We shall not quarrel," for a third time the stranger interrupted. "You
have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs. Pennycherry, I can
leave myself entirely in your hands."
The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having put a
match to the stranger's fire, turned to depart. And at this point it was
that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken record for
sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes earlier in her
career, would have deemed impossible that no living soul who had
ever known her would have believed, even had Mrs. Pennycherry gone down
upon her knees and sworn it to them.
"Did I say three pound ten?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the stranger,
her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling cross, with the
stranger, with herself particularly with herself.
"You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount," replied the stranger;
"but if upon reflection you find yourself unable"
"I was making a mistake," said Mrs. Pennycherry, "it should have been two
pound ten."
"I cannot, I will not accept such sacrifice," exclaimed the stranger;
"the three pound ten I can well afford."
"Two pound ten are my terms," snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. "If you are bent
on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You'll find plenty to oblige you."
Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. "We will not contend
further," he smiled. "I was merely afraid that in the goodness of your
heart"
"Oh, it isn't as good as all that," growled Mrs. Pennycherry.
"I am not so sure," returned the stranger. "I am somewhat suspicious of
you. But wilful woman must, I suppose, have her way."
The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that moment,
it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it as if it had been
the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a pleasant laugh though
laughing was an exercise not often indulged in by Mrs. Pennycherry.
Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of her,
when Mrs. Pennycherry re-entered the kitchen. By standing close to the
window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square and through
their bare branches of the sky beyond.
"There's nothing much to do for the next half hour, till Cook comes back.
I'll see to the door if you'd like a run out?" suggested Mrs. Pennycherry.
"It would be nice," agreed the girl so soon as she had recovered power of
speech; "it's just the time of day I like."
"Don't be longer than the half hour," added Mrs. Pennycherry.
Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, assembled after dinner in the drawing-room,
discussed the stranger with that freedom and frankness characteristic of
Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square, towards the absent.
"Not what I call a smart young man," was the opinion of Augustus Longcord,
who was something in the City.
"Thpeaking for mythelf," commented his partner Isidore, "hav'n'th any uthe
for the thmart young man. Too many of him, ath it ith."
"Must be pretty smart if he's one too many for you," laughed his partner.
There was this to be said for the repartee of Forty-eight Bloomsbury
Square: it was simple of construction and easy of comprehension.
"Well it made me feel good just looking at him," declared Miss Kite, the
highly coloured. "It was his clothes, I suppose made me think of
Noah and the ark all that sort of thing."
"It would be clothes that would make you think if anything," drawled
the languid Miss Devine. She was a tall, handsome girl, engaged at the
moment in futile efforts to recline with elegance and comfort combined
upon a horsehair sofa. Miss Kite, by reason of having secured the only
easy-chair, was unpopular that evening; so that Miss Devine's remark
received from the rest of the company more approbation than perhaps it
merited.
"Is that intended to be clever, dear, or only rude?" Miss Kite requested
to be informed.
"Both," claimed Miss Devine.
"Myself? I must confess," shouted the tall young lady's father, commonly
called the Colonel, "I found him a fool."
"I noticed you seemed to be getting on very well together," purred his
wife, a plump, smiling little lady.
"Possibly we were," retorted the Colonel. "Fate has accustomed me to the
society of fools."
"Isn't it a pity to start quarrelling immediately after dinner, you two,"
suggested their thoughtful daughter from the sofa, "you'll have nothing
left to amuse you for the rest of the evening."
"He didn't strike me as a conversationalist," said the lady who was cousin
to a baronet; "but he did pass the vegetables before he helped himself. A
little thing like that shows breeding."
"Or that he didn't know you and thought maybe you'd leave him half a
spoonful," laughed Augustus the wit.
"What I can't make out about him" shouted the Colonel.
The stranger entered the room.
The Colonel, securing the evening paper, retired into a corner. The highly
coloured Kite, reaching down from the mantelpiece a paper fan, held it
coyly before her face. Miss Devine sat upright on the horse-hair sofa, and
rearranged her skirts.
"Know anything?" demanded Augustus of the stranger, breaking the somewhat
remarkable silence.
The stranger evidently did not understand. It was necessary for Augustus,
the witty, to advance further into that odd silence.
"What's going to pull off the Lincoln handicap? Tell me, and I'll go out
straight and put my shirt upon it."
"I think you would act unwisely," smiled the stranger; "I am not an
authority upon the subject."
"Not! Why they told me you were Captain Spy of the Sporting Life in
disguise."
It would have been difficult for a joke to fall more flat. Nobody laughed,
though why Mr. Augustus Longcord could not understand, and maybe none of
his audience could have told him, for at Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square Mr.
Augustus Longcord passed as a humorist. The stranger himself appeared
unaware that he was being made fun of.
"You have been misinformed," assured him the stranger.
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Augustus Longcord.
"It is nothing," replied the stranger in his sweet low voice, and passed
on.
"Well what about this theatre," demanded Mr. Longcord of his friend and
partner; "do you want to go or don't you?" Mr. Longcord was feeling
irritable.
"Goth the ticketh may ath well," thought Isidore.
"Damn stupid piece, I'm told."
"Motht of them thupid, more or leth. Pity to wathte the ticketh," argued
Isidore, and the pair went out.
"Are you staying long in London?" asked Miss Kite, raising her practised
eyes towards the stranger.
"Not long," answered the stranger. "At least I do not know. It depends."
An unusual quiet had invaded the drawing-room of Forty-eight Bloomsbury
Square, generally noisy with strident voices about this hour. The Colonel
remained engrossed in his paper. Mrs. Devine sat with her plump white
hands folded on her lap, whether asleep or not it was impossible to say.
The lady who was cousin to a baronet had shifted her chair beneath the
gasolier, her eyes bent on her everlasting crochet work. The languid Miss
Devine had crossed to the piano, where she sat fingering softly the
tuneless keys, her back to the cold barely-furnished room.
"Sit down!" commanded saucily Miss Kite, indicating with her fan the
vacant seat beside her. "Tell me about yourself. You interest me." Miss
Kite adopted a pretty authoritative air towards all youthful-looking
members of the opposite sex. It harmonised with the peach complexion and
the golden hair, and fitted her about as well.
"I am glad of that," answered the stranger, taking the chair suggested. "I
so wish to interest you."
"You're a very bold boy." Miss Kite lowered her fan, for the purpose of
glancing archly over the edge of it, and for the first time encountered
the eyes of the stranger looking into hers. And then it was that Miss Kite
experienced precisely the same curious sensation that an hour or so ago
had troubled Mrs. Pennycherry when the stranger had first bowed to her. It
seemed to Miss Kite that she was no longer the Miss Kite that, had she
risen and looked into it, the fly-blown mirror over the marble mantelpiece
would, she knew, have presented to her view; but quite another Miss Kite, a
cheerful, brighteyed lady verging on middle age, yet still good-looking
in spite of her faded complexion and somewhat thin brown locks. Miss Kite
felt a pang of jealousy shoot through her; this middle-aged Miss Kite
seemed, on the whole, a more attractive lady. There was a wholesomeness, a
broadmindedness about her that instinctively drew one towards her. Not
hampered, as Miss Kite herself was, by the necessity of appearing to be
somewhere between eighteen and twenty-two, this other Miss Kite could talk
sensibly, even brilliantly: one felt it. A thoroughly "nice" woman this
other Miss Kite; the real Miss Kite, though envious, was bound to admit
it. Miss Kite wished to goodness she had never seen the woman. The glimpse
of her had rendered Miss Kite dissatisfied with herself.
"I am not a boy," explained the stranger; "and I had no intention of being
bold."
"I know," replied Miss Kite. "It was a silly remark. Whatever induced me
to make it, I can't think. Getting foolish in my old age, I suppose."
The stranger laughed. "Surely you are not old."
"I'm thirty-nine," snapped out Miss Kite. "You don't call it young?"
"I think it a beautiful age," insisted the stranger; "young enough not to
have lost the joy of youth, old enough to have learnt sympathy."
"Oh, I daresay," returned Miss Kite, "any age you'd think beautiful. I'm
going to bed." Miss Kite rose. The paper fan had somehow got itself
broken. She threw the fragments into the fire.
"It is early yet," pleaded the stranger, "I was looking forward to a talk
with you."
"Well, you'll be able to look forward to it," retorted Miss Kite.
"Goodnight."
The truth was, Miss Kite was impatient to have a look at herself in the
glass, in her own room with the door shut. The vision of that other Miss
Kite the clean-looking lady of the pale face and the brown hair had
been so vivid, Miss Kite wondered whether temporary forgetfulness might
not have fallen upon her while dressing for dinner that evening.
The stranger, left to his own devices, strolled towards the loo table,
seeking something to read.
"You seem to have frightened away Miss Kite," remarked the lady who was
cousin to a baronet.
"It seems so," admitted the stranger.
"My cousin, Sir William Bosster," observed the crocheting lady, "who
married old Lord Egham's niece, you never met the Eghams?"
"Hitherto," replied the stranger, "I have not had that pleasure."
"A charming family. Cannot understand my cousin Sir William, I mean,
cannot understand my remaining here. 'My dear Emily', he says the
same thing every time he sees me: 'My dear Emily, how can you exist among
the sort of people one meets with in a boarding-house.' But they amuse
me."
A sense of humour, agreed the stranger, was always of advantage.
"Our family on my mother's side," continued Sir William's cousin in her
placid monotone, "was connected with the Tatton-Joneses, who when King
George the Fourth" Sir William's cousin, needing another reel of
cotton, glanced up, and met the stranger's gaze.
"I'm sure I don't know why I'm telling you all this," said Sir William's
cousin in an irritable tone. "It can't possibly interest you."
"Everything connected with you interests me," gravely the stranger assured
her.
"It is very kind of you to say so," sighed Sir William's cousin, but
without conviction; "I am afraid sometimes I bore people."
The polite stranger refrained from contradiction.
"You see," continued the poor lady, "I really am of good family."
"Dear lady," said the stranger, "your gentle face, your gentle voice, your
gentle bearing, all proclaim it."
She looked without flinching into the stranger's eyes, and gradually a
smile banished the reigning dulness of her features.
"How foolish of me." She spoke rather to herself than to the stranger.
"Why, of course, people, people whose opinion is worth troubling
about judge of you by what you are, not by what you go about saying
you are."
The stranger remained silent.
"I am the widow of a provincial doctor, with an income of just two hundred
and thirty pounds per annum," she argued. "The sensible thing for me to do
is to make the best of it, and to worry myself about these high and mighty
relations of mine as little as they have ever worried themselves about
me."
The stranger appeared unable to think of anything worth saying.
"I have other connections," remembered Sir William's cousin; "those of my
poor husband, to whom instead of being the 'poor relation' I could be the
fairy god-mama. They are my people or would be," added Sir William's
cousin tartly, "if I wasn't a vulgar snob."
She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced
preparations for a hurried departure.
"Now it seems I am driving you away," sighed the stranger.
"Having been called a 'vulgar snob,'" retorted the lady with some heat, "I
think it about time I went."
"The words were your own," the stranger reminded her.
"Whatever I may have thought," remarked the indignant dame, "no lady least
of all in the presence of a total stranger, would have called herself"
The poor dame paused, bewildered. "There is something very curious the
matter with me this evening, that I cannot understand," she explained, "I
seem quite unable to avoid insulting myself."
Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger goodnight,
hoping that when next they met she would be more herself. The stranger,
hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind her.
"Tell me," laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was
contriving to wring harmony from the reluctant piano, "how did you manage
to do it? I should like to know."
"How did I do what?" inquired the stranger.
"Contrive to get rid so quickly of those two old frumps?"
"How well you play!" observed the stranger. "I knew you had genius for
music the moment I saw you."
"How could you tell?"
"It is written so clearly in your face."
The girl laughed, well pleased. "You seem to have lost no time in studying
my face."
"It is a beautiful and interesting face," observed the stranger.
She swung round sharply on the stool and their eyes met.
"You can read faces?"
"Yes."
"Tell me, what else do you read in mine?"
"Frankness, courage"
"Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted." It was
odd how serious the girl had suddenly become. "Tell me the reverse side."
"I see no reverse side," replied the stranger. "I see but a fair girl,
bursting into noble womanhood."
"And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of sordidness,
of" An angry laugh escaped her lips.
"And you are a reader of faces!"
"And you are a reader of faces!"
"A reader of faces." The stranger smiled. "Do you know what is written
upon yours at this very moment? A love of truth that is almost fierce,
scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all things pure,
contempt of all things that are contemptible, especially of such
things as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not read aright?"
I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried from
the room? Does everyone feel ashamed of the littleness that is in them
when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours?
The idea occurred to her: "Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to you
during dinner. Tell me, what were you talking about?"
"The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your mother
principally."
"I am sorry," returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked the
question. "I was hoping he might have chosen another topic for the first
evening!"
"He did try one or two," admitted the stranger; "but I have been about the
world so little, I was glad when he talked to me about himself. I feel we
shall be friends. He spoke so nicely, too, about Mrs. Devine."
"Indeed," commented the girl.
"He told me he had been married for twenty years and had never regretted
it but once!"
Her black eyes flashed upon him, but meeting his, the suspicion died from
them. She turned aside to hide her smile.
"So he regretted it once."
"Only once," explained the stranger, "in a passing irritable mood. It was
so frank of him to admit it. He told me I think he has taken a
liking to me. Indeed he hinted as much. He said he did not often get an
opportunity of talking to a man like myself he told me that he and
your mother, when they travel together, are always mistaken for a
honeymoon couple. Some of the experiences he related to me were really
quite amusing." The stranger laughed at recollection of them"that
even here, in this place, they are generally referred to as 'Darby and
Joan.'"
"Yes," said the girl, "that is true. Mr. Longcord gave them that name, the
second evening after our arrival. It was considered clever but
rather obvious I thought myself."
"Nothing so it seems to me," said the stranger, "is more beautiful
than the love that has weathered the storms of life. The sweet, tender
blossom that flowers in the heart of the young in hearts such as
yours that, too, is beautiful. The love of the young for the young,
that is the beginning of life. But the love of the old for the old, that
is the beginning of things longer."
"You seem to find all things beautiful," the girl grumbled.
"But are not all things beautiful?" demanded the stranger.
The Colonel had finished his paper. "You two are engaged in a very
absorbing conversation," observed the Colonel, approaching them.
"We were discussing Darbies and Joans," explained his daughter. "How
beautiful is the love that has weathered the storms of life!"
"Ah!" smiled the Colonel, "that is hardly fair. My friend has been
repeating to cynical youth the confessions of an amorous husband's
affection for his middle-aged and somewhat" The Colonel in playful
mood laid his hand upon the stranger's shoulder, an action that
necessitated his looking straight into the stranger's eyes. The Colonel
drew himself up stiffly and turned scarlet.
Somebody was calling the Colonel a cad. Not only that, but was explaining
quite clearly, so that the Colonel could see it for himself, why he was a
cad.
"That you and your wife lead a cat and dog existence is a disgrace to both
of you. At least you might have the decency to try and hide it from the
world not make a jest of your shame to every passing stranger. You
are a cad, sir, a cad!"
Who was daring to say these things? Not the stranger, his lips had not
moved. Besides, it was not his voice. Indeed it sounded much more like the
voice of the Colonel himself. The Colonel looked from the stranger to his
daughter, from his daughter back to the stranger. Clearly they had not
heard the voice a mere hallucination.
The Colonel breathed again.
The Colonel breathed again.
Yet the impression remaining was not to be shaken off. Undoubtedly it was
bad taste to have joked to the stranger upon such a subject. No gentleman
would have done so.
But then no gentleman would have permitted such a jest to be possible. No
gentleman would be forever wrangling with his wife certainly never
in public. However irritating the woman, a gentleman would have exercised
self-control.
Mrs. Devine had risen, was coming slowly across the room. Fear laid hold
of the Colonel. She was going to address some aggravating remark to him, he
could see it in her eye, which would irritate him into savage retort.
Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why boardinghouse
wits had dubbed them "Darby and Joan," would grasp the fact that the
gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation with a table
acquaintance, to hold his own wife up to ridicule.
"My dear," cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, "does not this room
strike you as cold? Let me fetch you a shawl."
It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom of
both of them to preface with politeness their deadliest insults to each
other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from her point
of view, that is. In another moment the truth would be out. A wild,
fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel's brain: If to him, why
not to her?
"Letitia," cried the Colonel, and the tone of his voice surprised her into
silence, "I want you to look closely at our friend. Does he not remind you
of someone?"
Mrs. Devine, so urged, looked at the stranger long and hard. "Yes," she
murmured, turning to her husband, "he does, who is it?"
"I cannot fix it," replied the Colonel; "I thought that maybe you would
remember."
"It will come to me," mused Mrs. Devine. "It is someone years ago,
when I was a girl in Devonshire. Thank you, if it isn't troubling
you, Harry. I left it in the dining-room."
It was, as Mr. Augustus Longcord explained to his partner Isidore, the
colossal foolishness of the stranger that was the cause of all the
trouble. "Give me a man, who can take care of himself or thinks he
can," declared Augustus Longcord, "and I am prepared to give a good
account of myself. But when a helpless baby refuses even to look at what
you call your figures, tells you that your mere word is sufficient for
him, and hands you over his cheque-book to fill up for yourself well,
it isn't playing the game."
"Auguthuth," was the curt comment of his partner, "you're a fool."
"All right, my boy, you try," suggested Augustus.
"Jutht what I mean to do," asserted his partner.
"Well," demanded Augustus one evening later, meeting Isidore ascending the
stairs after a long talk with the stranger in the dining-room with the
door shut.
"Oh, don't arth me," retorted Isidore, "thilly ath, thath what he ith."
"What did he say?"
"What did he thay! talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they were—how
people mithjudged them: all that thort of rot.
"Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been Jewth.
Thought I wath one of 'em!"
"Well, did you get anything out of him?"
"Get anything out of him. Of courthe not. Couldn't very well thell the
whole rathe, ath it were, for a couple of hundred poundth, after that.
Didn't theem worth it."
There were many things Fortyeight Bloomsbury Square came gradually to the
conclusion were not worth the doing: - Snatching at the gravy;
pouncing out of one's turn upon the vegetables and helping oneself to more
than one's fair share; manoeuvering for the easy-chair; sitting on the
evening paper while pretending not to have seen it—all such-like
tiresome bits of business. For the little one made out of it, really it
was not worth the bother. Grumbling everlastingly at one's food; grumbling
everlastingly at most things; abusing Pennycherry behind her back;
abusing, for a change, one's fellowboarders; squabbling with one's
fellowboarders about nothing in particular; sneering at one's
fellow-boarders; talking scandal of one's fellowboarders; making
senseless jokes about one's fellowboarders; talking big about oneself,
nobody believing one, all such-like vulgarities. Other
boarding-houses might indulge in them: Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square had
its dignity to consider.
The truth is, Fortyeight Bloomsbury Square was coming to a very good
opinion of itself: for the which not Bloomsbury Square so much as the
stranger must be blamed. The stranger had arrived at Forty-eight
Bloomsbury Square with the preconceived idea where obtained from
Heaven knows that its seemingly commonplace, mean-minded,
coarse-fibred occupants were in reality ladies and gentlemen of the first
water; and time and observation had apparently only strengthened this
absurd idea. The natural result was, Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square was
coming round to the stranger's opinion of itself.
Mrs. Pennycherry, the stranger would persist in regarding as a lady born
and bred, compelled by circumstances over which she had no control to fill
an arduous but honorable position of middle-class society—a sort of
foster-mother, to whom were due the thanks and gratitude of her
promiscuous family; and this view of herself Mrs. Pennycherry now clung to
with obstinate conviction. There were disadvantages attaching, but these
Mrs. Pennycherry appeared prepared to suffer cheerfully. A lady born and
bred cannot charge other ladies and gentlemen for coals and candles they
have never burnt; a foster-mother cannot palm off upon her children New
Zealand mutton for Southdown. A mere lodging-house-keeper can play these
tricks, and pocket the profits. But a lady feels she cannot: Mrs.
Pennycherry felt she no longer could.
To the stranger Miss Kite was a witty and delightful conversationalist of
most attractive personality. Miss Kite had one failing: it was lack of
vanity. She was unaware of her own delicate and refined beauty. If Miss
Kite could only see herself with his, the stranger's eyes, the modesty
that rendered her distrustful of her natural charms would fall from her.
The stranger was so sure of it Miss Kite determined to put it to the test.
One evening, an hour before dinner, there entered the drawing-room, when
the stranger only was there and before the gas was lighted, a pleasant,
good-looking lady, somewhat pale, with neatly-arranged brown hair, who
demanded of the stranger if he knew her. All her body was trembling, and
her voice seemed inclined to run away from her and become a sob. But when
the stranger, looking straight into her eyes, told her that from the
likeness he thought she must be Miss Kite's younger sister, but much
prettier, it became a laugh instead: and that evening the golden-haired
Miss Kite disappeared never to show her high-coloured face again; and what
perhaps, more than all else, might have impressed some former habitue of
Forty-eight Bloomsbury Square with awe, it was that no one in the house
made even a passing inquiry concerning her.
Sir William's cousin the stranger thought an acquisition to any
boarding-house. A lady of high-class family! There was nothing outward or
visible perhaps to tell you that she was of high-class family. She
herself, naturally, would not mention the fact, yet somehow you felt it.
Unconsciously she set a high-class tone, diffused an atmosphere of gentle
manners. Not that the stranger had said this in so many words; Sir
William's cousin gathered that he thought it, and felt herself in
agreement with him.
For Mr. Longcord and his partner, as representatives of the best type of
business men, the stranger had a great respect. With what unfortunate
results to themselves has been noted. The curious thing is that the Firm
appeared content with the price they had paid for the stranger's good
opinion had even, it was rumoured, acquired a taste for honest men's
respect—that in the long run was likely to cost them dear. But we
all have our pet extravagance.
The Colonel and Mrs. Devine both suffered a good deal at first from the
necessity imposed upon them of learning, somewhat late in life, new
tricks. In the privacy of their own apartment they condoled with one
another.
"Tomfool nonsense," grumbled the Colonel, "you and I starting billing and
cooing at our age!"
"What I object to," said Mrs. Devine, "is the feeling that somehow I am
being made to do it."
"The idea that a man and his wife cannot have their little joke together
for fear of what some impertinent jackanapes may think of them! it's damn
ridiculous," the Colonel exploded.
"Even when he isn't there," said Mrs. Devine, "I seem to see him looking
at me with those vexing eyes of his. Really the man quite haunts me."
"I have met him somewhere," mused the Colonel, "I'll swear I've met him
somewhere. I wish to goodness he would go."
A hundred things a day the Colonel wanted to say to Mrs. Devine, a hundred
things a day Mrs. Devine would have liked to observe to the Colonel. But
by the time the opportunity occurred when nobody else was by to hear all
interest in saying them was gone.
"Women will be women," was the sentiment with which the Colonel consoled
himself. "A man must bear with them, must never forget that he is a
gentleman."
"Oh, well, I suppose they're all alike," laughed Mrs. Devine to herself,
having arrived at that stage of despair when one seeks refuge in
cheerfulness. "What's the use of putting oneself out it does no
good, and only upsets one." There is a certain satisfaction in feeling you
are bearing with heroic resignation the irritating follies of others.
Colonel and Mrs. Devine came to enjoy the luxury of much self-approbation.
But the person seriously annoyed by the stranger's bigoted belief in the
innate goodness of everyone he came across was the languid, handsome Miss
Devine. The stranger would have it that Miss Devine was a noble-souled,
highminded young woman, something midway between a Flora Macdonald and a
Joan of Arc. Miss Devine, on the contrary, knew herself to be a sleek,
luxury-loving animal, quite willing to sell herself to the bidder who
could offer her the finest clothes, the richest foods, the most sumptuous
surroundings. Such a bidder was to hand in the person of a retired
bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old gentleman, but exceedingly rich and
undoubtedly fond of her.
Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be done,
was anxious that it should be done quickly. And here it was that the
stranger's ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but inconvenienced
her. Under the very eyes of a person, however foolish, convinced
that you are possessed of all the highest attributes of your sex, it is
difficult to behave as though actuated by only the basest motives. A dozen
times had Miss Devine determined to end the matter by formal acceptance of
her elderly admirer's large and flabby hand, and a dozen times, the
vision intervening of the stranger's grave, believing eyes, had Miss
Devine refused decided answer. The stranger would one day depart. Indeed,
he had told her himself, he was but a passing traveller. When he was gone
it would be easier. So she thought at the time.
One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing by the
window, looking out upon the bare branches of the trees in Bloomsbury
Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such another foggy
afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger's arrival three months before.
No one else was in the room. The stranger closed the door, and came
towards her with that curious, quick-leaping step of his. His long coat
was tightly buttoned, and in his hands he carried his old felt hat and the
massive knotted stick that was almost a staff.
"I have come to say goodbye," explained the stranger. "I am going."
"I shall not see you again?" asked the girl.
"I cannot say," replied the stranger. "But you will think of me?"
"Yes," she answered with a smile, "I can promise that."
"And I shall always remember you," promised the stranger, "and I wish you
every joy, the joy of love, the joy of a happy marriage."
The girl winced. "Love and marriage are not always the same thing," she
said.
"Not always," agreed the stranger, "but in your case they will be one."
She looked at him.
"Do you think I have not noticed?" smiled the stranger, "a gallant,
handsome lad, and clever. You love him and he loves you. I could not have
gone away without knowing it was well with you."
Her gaze wandered towards the fading light.
"Ah, yes, I love him," she answered petulantly. "Your eyes can see clearly
enough, when they want to. But one does not live on love, in our world. I
will tell you the man I am going to marry if you care to know." She would
not meet his eyes. She kept her gaze still fixed upon the dingy trees, the
mist beyond, and spoke rapidly and vehemently: "The man who can give me
all my soul's desire, money and the things that money can buy. You
think me a woman, I'm only a pig. He is moist, and breathes like a
porpoise; with cunning in place of a brain, and the rest of him mere
stomach. But he is good enough for me."
She hoped this would shock the stranger and that now, perhaps, he would
go. It irritated her to hear him only laugh.
"No," he said, "you will not marry him."
"Who will stop me?" she cried angrily.
"Your Better Self."
His voice had a strange ring of authority, compelling her to turn and look
upon his face. Yes, it was true, the fancy that from the very first had
haunted her. She had met him, talked to him in silent country roads,
in crowded city streets, where was it? And always in talking with him her
spirit had been lifted up: she had been what he had always thought
her.
"There are those," continued the stranger (and for the first time she saw
that he was of a noble presence, that his gentle, child-like eyes could
also command), "whose Better Self lies slain by their own hand and
troubles them no more. But yours, my child, you have let grow too strong;
it will ever be your master. You must obey. Flee from it and it will
follow you; you cannot escape it. Insult it and it will chastise you with
burning shame, with stinging self-reproach from day to day." The sternness
faded from the beautiful face, the tenderness crept back. He laid his hand
upon the young girl's shoulder. "You will marry your lover," he smiled.
"With him you will walk the way of sunlight and of shadow."
And the girl, looking up into the strong, calm face, knew that it would be
so, that the power of resisting her Better Self had passed away from her
for ever.
"Now," said the stranger, "come to the door with me. Leave-takings are but
wasted sadness. Let me pass out quietly. Close the door softly behind me."
She thought that perhaps he would turn his face again, but she saw no more
of him than the odd roundness of his back under the tightly buttoned coat,
before he faded into the gathering fog.
Then softly she closed the door.