CHAPTER NINE
The offices of the old-established firm of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott,Winslow and Appleby are in Ridgeway's Inn, not far from Fleet Street.If you are a millionaire beset by blackmailers or anyone else to whosecomfort the best legal advice is essential, and have decided to putyour affairs in the hands of the ablest and discreetest firm in London,you proceed through a dark and grimy entry and up a dark and grimyflight of stairs; and, having felt your way along a dark and grimypassage, you come at length to a dark and grimy door. There is plentyof dirt in other parts of Ridgeway's Inn, but nowhere is it soplentiful, so rich in alluvial deposits, as on the exterior of theoffices of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow and Appleby. As you tapon the topmost of the geological strata concealing the ground-glass ofthe door, a sense of relief and security floods your being. For inLondon grubbiness is the gauge of a lawyer's respectability.
The brass plate, let into the woodwork of this door, is misleading.Reading it, you get the impression that on the other side quite a coveyof lawyers await your arrival. The name of the firm leads you tosuppose that there will be barely standing-room in the office. Youpicture Thorpe jostling you aside as he makes for Prescott to discusswith him the latest case of demurrer, and Winslow and Appleby treadingon your toes, deep in conversation on replevin. But these legal firmsdwindle. The years go by and take their toll, snatching away here aPrescott, there an Appleby, till before you know where you are, you aredown to your last lawyer. The only surviving member of the firm ofMarlowe, Thorpe--what I said before--was, at the time with which thisstory deals, Sir Mallaby Marlowe, son of the original founder of thefirm and father of the celebrated black-faced comedian, Samuel of thatilk; and the outer office, where callers were received and parked tillSir Mallaby could find time for them, was occupied by a single clerk.
When Sam, reaching the office after his journey, opened the door, thisclerk, John Peters by name, was seated on a high stool, holding in onehand a half-eaten sausage, in the other an extraordinary large andpowerful revolver. At the sight of Sam he laid down both engines ofdestruction and beamed. He was not a particularly successful beamer,being hampered by a cast in one eye which gave him a truculent andsinister look; but those who knew him knew that he had a heart of goldand were not intimidated by his repellent face. Between Sam and himselfthere had always existed terms of cordiality, starting from the timewhen the former was a small boy, and it had been Jno. Peters' missionto take him now to the Zoo, now to the train back to school.
"Why, Mr. Samuel!"
"Hullo, Peters!"
"We were expecting you back a week ago. So you got back safe?"
"Safe? Why, of course,"
Peters shook his head.
"I confess that, when there was this delay in your coming here, Isometimes feared something might have happened to you. I recallmentioning it to the young lady who recently did me the honour topromise to become my wife."
"Ocean liners aren't often wrecked nowadays."
"I was thinking more of the brawls on shore. America's a dangerouscountry. But perhaps you were not in touch with the underworld?"
"I don't think I was."
"Ah!" said Jno. Peters, significantly.
He took up the revolver, gave it a fond and almost paternal look, andreplaced it on the desk.
"What on earth are you doing with that thing?" asked Sam.
Mr. Peters lowered his voice.
"I'm going to America myself in a few days' time, Mr. Samuel. It's myannual holiday, and the guvnor's sending me over with papers inconnection with The People _v._ Schultz and Bowen. It's a big caseover there. A client of ours is mixed up in it, an American gentleman.I am to take these important papers to his legal representative in NewYork. So I thought it best to be prepared."
The first smile that he had permitted himself in nearly two weeksflitted across Sam's face.
"What on earth sort of place do you think New York is?" he asked. "It'ssafer than London."
"Ah, but what about the underworld? I've seen these American films thatthey send over here, Mr. Samuel. Every Saturday night regular I take myyoung lady to a cinema, and, I tell you, they teach you something. Didyou ever see 'Wolves of the Bowery'? There was a man in that in just myposition, carrying important papers, and what they didn't try to do tohim! No, I'm taking no chances, Mr. Samuel!"
"I should have said you were, lugging that thing about with you."
Mr. Peters seemed wounded.
"Oh, I understand the mechanism perfectly, and I am becoming a veryfair shot. I take my little bite of food in here early and go andpractice at the Rupert Street Rifle Range during my lunch hour. You'dbe surprised how quickly one picks it up. When I get home at night Itry how quick I can draw. You have to draw like a flash of lightning,Mr. Samuel. If you'd ever seen a film called 'Two-Gun-Thomas' you'drealise that. You haven't time to be loitering about."
"I haven't," agreed Sam. "Is my father in? I'd like to see him if he'snot busy."
Mr. Peters, recalled to his professional duties, shed his sinisterfront like a garment. He picked up a speaking tube and blew down it.
"Mr. Samuel to see you, Mr. Mallaby. Yes, sir, very good. Will you goright in, Mr. Samuel?"
Sam proceeded to the inner office, and found his father dictating intothe attentive ear of Miss Milliken, his elderly and respectablestenographer, replies to his morning mail.
The grime which encrusted the lawyer's professional stamping ground didnot extend to his person. Sir Mallaby Marlowe was a dapper little man,with a round, cheerful face and a bright eye. His morning coat had beencut by London's best tailor, and his trousers perfectly creased by asedulous valet. A pink carnation in his buttonhole matched his healthycomplexion. His golf handicap was twelve. His sister, Mrs. HoraceHignett, considered him worldly.
"Dear Sirs: We are in receipt of your favour and in reply beg to statethat nothing will induce us ... will induce us ... where did I put thatletter? Ah! ... nothing will induce us ... oh, tell 'em to go to blazes,Miss Milliken."
"Very well, Sir Mallaby."
"That's that. Ready? Messrs. Brigney, Goole and Butterworth. Whatinfernal names these people have. Sirs, on behalf of our client ... oh,hullo, Sam!"
"Good morning, father."
"Take a seat. I'm busy, but I'll be finished in a moment. Where was I,Miss Milliken?"
"On behalf of our client...."
"Oh, yes. On behalf of our client, Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw.... Wherethese people get their names I'm hanged if I know. Your poor motherwanted to call you Hyacinth, Sam. You may not know it, but in the'nineties, when you were born, children were frequently christenedHyacinth. Well, I saved you from that."
His attention was now diverted to his son, Sir Mallaby seemed toremember that the latter had just returned from a long journey, andthat he had not seen him for many weeks. He inspected him withinterest.
"Very glad to see you're back, Sam. So you didn't win?"
"No, I got beaten in the semi-finals."
"American amateurs are a very hot lot: the best ones. I suppose youwere weak on the greens, I warned you about that. You'll have to rub upyour putting before next year."
At the idea that any mundane pursuit as practising putting could appealto his broken spirit now, Sam uttered a bitter laugh. It was as ifDante had recommended some lost soul in the Inferno to occupy his mindby knitting jumpers.
"Well, you seem to be in great spirits," said Sir Mallaby approvingly."It's pleasant to hear your merry laugh again, isn't it, MissMilliken?"
"Extremely exhilarating," agreed the stenographer, adjusting herspectacles and smiling at Sam, for whom there was a soft spot in herheart.
A sense of the futility of life oppressed Sam. As he gazed in the glassthat morning, he had thought, not without a certain gloomysatisfaction, how remarkably pale and drawn his face looked. And thesepeople seemed to imagine that he was in the highest spirits. Hislaughter, which had sounded to him like the wailing of a demon, struckMiss Milliken as exhilarating.
> "On behalf of our client, Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw," said Sir Mallaby,swooping back to duty once more, "we beg to state that we are preparedto accept service ... sounds like a tennis match, eh, Sam? It isn't,though. This young ass, Eggshaw ... what time did you dock thismorning?"
"I landed nearly a week ago."
"A week ago! Then what the deuce have you been doing with yourself?Why haven't I seen you?"
"I've been down at Bingley-on-the-Sea."
"Bingley! What on earth were you doing at that Godforsaken place?"
"Wrestling with myself," said Sam with simple dignity.
Sir Mallaby's agile mind had leaped back to the letter which he wasanswering.
"We should be glad to meet you.... Wrestling, eh! Well, I like a boy tobe fond of manly sports. Still, life isn't all athletics. Don't forgetthat. Life is real! Life is ... how does it go, Miss Milliken?"
Miss Milliken folded her hands and shut her eyes, her invariable habitwhen called upon to recite.
"Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dustthou art to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Art is long andtime is fleeting. And our hearts though stout and brave, Still likemuffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave. Lives of greatmen all remind us we can make our lives sublime, and, departing, leavebehind us footsteps on the sands of Time. Let us then ..." said MissMilliken respectfully ... "be up and doing...."
"All right, all right, all right!" said Sir Mallaby. "I don't want it all.Life is real! Life is earnest, Sam. I want to speak to you about that whenI've finished answering these infernal letters. Where was I? 'We shouldbe glad to meet you at any time, if you will make an appointment...'Bingley-on-the-Sea! Good heavens! Why Bingley-on-the-Sea? Why not Margate,while you are about it?"
"Margate is too bracing. I did not wish to be braced. Bingley suited mymood. It was gray and dark, and it rained all the time, and the seaslunk about in the distance like some baffled beast...."
He stopped, becoming aware that his father was not listening. SirMallaby's attention had returned to the letter.
"Oh, what's the good of answering the dashed thing at all?" said SirMallaby. "Brigney, Goole and Butterworth know perfectly well that theyhave got us in a cleft stick. Butterworth knows it better than Goole,and Brigney knows it better than Butterworth. This young fool, Eggshaw,Sam, admits that he wrote the girl twenty-three letters, twelve of themin verse, and twenty-one specifically asking her to marry him, and hecomes to me and expects me to get him out of it. The girl is suing himfor ten thousand."
"How like a woman!"
Miss Milliken bridled reproachfully at this slur on her sex. SirMallaby took no notice of it whatever.
"... If you will make an appointment, when we can discuss the matterwithout prejudice. Get those typed, Miss Milliken. Have a cigar, Sam.Miss Milliken, tell Peters as you go out that I am occupied with aconference and can see nobody for half an hour."
When Miss Milliken had withdrawn, Sir Mallaby occupied ten seconds ofthe period which he had set aside for communion with his son in staringsilently at him.
"I'm glad you're back, Sam," he said at length. "I want to have a talkwith you. You know, it's time you were settling down. I've beenthinking about you while you were in America, and I've come to theconclusion that I've been letting you drift along. Very bad for a youngman. You're getting on. I don't say you're senile, but you're nottwenty-one any longer, and at your age I was working like a beaver.You've got to remember that life is--dash it! I've forgotten it again."
He broke off and puffed vigorously into the speaking tube. "MissMilliken, kindly repeat what you were saying just now about life....Yes, yes, that's enough!" He put down the instrument. "Yes, life isreal, life is earnest," he said, gazing at Sam seriously, "and thegrave is not our goal. Lives of great men all remind us we can make ourlives sublime. In fact, it's time you took your coat off and startedwork."
"I am quite ready, father."
"You didn't hear what I said," exclaimed Sir Mallaby with a look ofsurprise. "I said it was time you began work."
"And I said I was quite ready."
"Bless my soul! You've changed your views a trifle since I saw youlast."
"I have changed them altogether."
Long hours of brooding among the red plush settees in the lounge of theHotel Magnificent at Bingley-on-the-Sea had brought about this strange,even morbid, attitude of mind in Samuel Marlowe. Work, he had decidedeven before his conversation with Eustace, was the only medicine forhis sick soul. Here, he felt, in this quiet office, far from the tumultand noise of the world, in a haven of torts and misdemeanours and Vic.I Cap 3's, and all the rest of it, he might find peace. At any rate, itwas worth taking a stab at it.
"Your trip has done you good," said Sir Mallaby approvingly. "The seaair has given you some sense. I'm glad of it. It makes it easier for meto say something else that I've had on my mind for a good while. Sam,it's time you got married."
Sam barked bitterly. His father looked at him with concern.
"Swallow some smoke the wrong way?"
"I was laughing," explained Sam with dignity.
Sir Mallaby shook his head.
"I don't want to discourage your high spirit, but I must ask you toapproach this matter seriously. Marriage would do you a world of good,Sam. It would brace you up. You really ought to consider the idea. Iwas two years younger than you are when I married your poor mother, andit was the making of me. A wife might make something of you."
"Impossible!"
"I don't see why she shouldn't. There's lots of good in you, my boy,though you may not think so."
"When I said it was impossible," said Sam coldly, "I was referring tothe impossibility of the possibility.... I mean, that it was impossiblethat I could possibly ... in other words, father, I can never marry. Myheart is dead."
"Your what?"
"My heart."
"Don't be a fool. There's nothing wrong with your heart. All our familyhave had hearts like steam-engines. Probably you have been feeling asort of burning. Knock off cigars and that will soon stop."
"You don't understand me. I mean that a woman has treated me in a waythat has finished her whole sex as far as I am concerned. For me, womendo not exist."
"You didn't tell me about this," said Sir Mallaby, interested. "Whendid this happen? Did she jilt you?"
"Yes."
"In America was it?"
"On the boat."
Sir Mallaby chuckled heartily.
"My dear boy, you don't mean to tell me that you're taking a shipboardflirtation seriously. Why, you're expected to fall in love with adifferent girl every time you go on a voyage. You'll get over this in aweek. You'd have got over it now if you hadn't gone and buried yourselfin a depressing place like Bingley-on-the-Sea."
The whistle of the speaking-tube blew. Sir Mallaby put the instrumentto his ear.
"All right," he turned to Sam. "I shall have to send you away now, Sam.Man waiting to see me. Good-bye."
Miss Milliken intercepted Sam as he made for the door.
"Oh, Mr. Sam!"
"Yes?"
"Excuse me, but will you be seeing Sir Mallaby again to-day? If so,would you--I don't like to disturb him now, when he is busy--would youmind telling him that I inadvertently omitted a stanza. It runs," saidMiss Milliken, closing her eyes, "'Trust no future, howe'er pleasant.Let the dead past bury its dead! Act, act in the living Present, Heartwithin and God o'erhead!' Thank you so much. Good afternoon."
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