So that now be was one of the first of the men, furtive and ill clad, to sneak across toward the bar of the Crown. Not because he or they had money to spend there, but, if truth must be confessed, because they had fallen low, and very low—so low that not a man of them but was glad to take a drink at the invitation of any free handed bar lounger who might offer it.
A drover was in the bar and a butcher—a butcher who had declined the honor of Leatherby’s custom as offered by Teddy Norton. Norton and Hendy pushed open the door and stared about the bar with a poor pretence of looking for some of the others—whom they had left at the show. They stared as long as possible, and were making a reluctant show of withdrawal when the butcher, with a wink and a grin at the drover, sang out “Come along—come along in! There ain’t no charge for comin’ in!”
They pushed the door wider, mumbling something about “looking for a friend,” with expectant eyes.
“Ah, your friend’s bin sailed out unexpected to his gran’mother’s funeral. ’Ave a drink?”
They let the door swing to and came sheepishly in. The drinks were ordered and brought, and then the butcher, pulling out a handful of silver, said abstractedly, with another wink at the drover, “Let’s see: we toss odd man out for these, don’t we?”
The drover grinned, and Teddy Norton made a ghastly show of feeling about his pockets for money. But Hendy only flushed and paled and frowned at the door. He had his feelings yet.
The silence endured for three seconds, and then the butcher flung the money on the counter, with a coarse laugh. “All right,” he said: “my show.” And presently they were all talkative together for, after all, there were the drinks, and the poor players had learned not to be too thin skinned.
Sam Davis and Billy Mack found their way across soon, and the drover was good for another round of drinks on their entrance.
“Trade in your line doesn’t seem fust rate,” said the butcher, happy in many Christmas orders. “Ain’t overcrowded, are you?”
The buskers looked at one another and shook their heads. There could be no concealment. “Beastly business,” Davis answered—“’orrid!”
“Not a very payin’ game, eh?” said the drover.
“Well,” Teddy Norton replied, “I’d be pretty well off if I had all that’s owin’ me, anyhow.”
“Ah, but then suppose you had to pay all you owe?” rejoined the butcher and guffawed joyously at his own wit.
“Owing?” cried Hendy, with excitement. “Why, the money in salaries I haven’t had ’ud start a bank!”
“Yus—no doubt,” said the butcher, and laughed again. “What I ain’t got ’ud sink a ship.”
“Let’s see,” said Davis, “you was in Trevor Fits-Howard’s crowd, wasn’t you, when it left ’em stranded at Leeds?”
“I was that, my boy, an’ Teddy Norton here, an’ my missis—before I married her. That was the second time he put me in the cart, too,” Hendy went on, with bitter reminiscence. “He dropped a company at Bristol once after three weeks, an’ I was in that, an’ that second time at Leeds he collared a bag o’ mine to put the plunder in, with a new pair o’ boots in it!”
“I bet you’d like to have ’em now,” observed the butcher, with a glance at the actor’s dilapidated shoes.
“I didn’t know Fitz-Howard,” ventured Davis, “but I’ve known some pretty near as hot. There was Digby, that called himself Stuart, an’ Waldegrave an’—”
So the talk went, and each poor player fell to a computation of what he had lost in shortages by reason of “bad business” and by the robberies of rascally managers, so that if debts were but assets here would sit a company of affluent persons sponging for drinks in the Crown. Scarce a town in the kingdom but one or other had been stranded in it. They counted it a successful engagement that brought first to last half the stipulated salary and, though it was held “too bad” when a manager bolted with the money bags, the thing was so common as scarce to seem worse than a piece of rather sharp practice.
Last, poor old Leatherby himself, a stout figure of a stout man worried thin, joined the group and drew another round of drinks. It was hard, very hard, to maintain the dignity proper to a proprietor and manager conscious the while that he, even he, had fallen to “press” for a drink among strangers, though in truth he did his best.
That night they played “The Ticket of Leave Man”—played it with the energy of despair. Whatever that performance might bring was as all that lay between them and the lack of a Christmas dinner, and worse lack than that, Hendy played Bob Brierly to his wife’s May Edwards. Leatherby doubled Melter Moss and Mr. Gibson, with a rush round the back and a change of coat in the office scene, played with a cottage interior. Billy Mack doubly, too—Maltby and Green Jones—and Leatherby’s daughter was Sam Willoughby and Miss St. Evremond by turns, while Mrs. Leatherby as Mrs. Willoughby, Teddy Norton as Hackshaw the detective and Davis as Dalton had only one part apiece to think about. So that on the whole the play was fairly complete and regular, save for a cut or a botch in rare places and a lack of crowds here and there. It was not a comforting play altogether for the players. Money had to be flourished recklessly in some scenes, and a basket of trotters made of rolled rags, and once Hendy had to pretend that he couldn’t eat a biscuit.
But the house—well, it was better than last might, by eighteen pence. The butcher come and brought a friend. He was not so bad a fellow after all in his own way, and he did his best to applaud for the whole house. But half the rest were boys, disciples of the local wit, a hostler from the Crown, and these made the night’s work harder. Hawkshaw was called “Lockjaw” or “Lockjaw the Defective,” and the sally drew yells of delight at every repetition. A certain frock coat that from time to time adorned a different character, in accordance with necessity, was greeted with cheerful recognition at each reappearance, and “Garn, it ain’t your turn—you’ve ’ad it on twice!” was the indignant reproof that met Mr. Gibson in the office scene. And toward the end Leatherby (as Melter Moss) came forward with injured dignity and a large potato, which he protested that no gentleman would have thrown.
All was done that Leatherby’s could do, and all was done in vain or very near it. A few pence apiece was all the poor strollers had to see them through Christmas and to get them away from this abhorrent town. The men shared a screw of tobacco and turned in as best they might. Mrs. Hendy was near to tears as she left the stage, and she indulged in a passionate and reproachful outburst as soon as she and her husband were alone. For his part, he could but feebly protest that it wasn’t his fault.
“Nice situation this is for me,” she scolded; “and then to be told it’s not your fault!” Here she wept afresh. “Of course you put it on to me—like a man. Oh, oh, to think I ever was such a fool as to bring it on to myself!”
“But, my dear,” Hendy began, with entreaty in his voice—
“Oh, don’t talk to me!” she answered, pushing away the hand he had put on her shoulder. “To think I should come to this! And then you tell me it’s my fault!”
Hendy drew off to sulk alone. Weak characters both, their sentiment (like most sentiment) was rooted in self pity, and this, their one remaining luxury, was best concentrated when they quarrelled. The last embers of the coke fire gave the sole light, and the woman sat before them with her face upon her knees.
Suddenly a loud burst of singing startled the pair, for the sound came, as it were, out of nothing, and it was close to their ears:
“The first good joy that Mary had,
It was the joy of one.
To see the blessed Jesus Christ
When he was first her son.
When he was first her Son, Good Lord,
And happy may we be!
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost
To all eternity!”
The carolers had come over the snow unheard and now choirboys’ voices wer
e uplifted lustily, while the bass of a large and healthy curate went booming below them.
“The next good joy that Mary had
It was the joy of two,
To see her own Son, Jesus Christ,
Making the lame to go—
Making the lame to go, Good Lord,
And happy may we be!
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost
To all eternity!”
At the first shock man and wife lifted their eyes toward each other. Then something took the woman at the throat, and she dropped her head in a fit of sobbing. If Hendy had come to her now, he would have been repulsed no more. But he was sulky and resentful and peevishly conscious that the advance was due from her. More, this carol sung at his very shoulder, this sign of merriment in the world about him, gave flavor to his self-pity. So the woman sobbed herself quiet again, and the carol went verse after verse to its end:
“The next good joy that Mary had,
It was the joy of seven,
To see her own Son, Jesus Christ,
Ascending into heaven.
Ascending into heaven, good Lord,
And happy may we be!
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost
To all eternity!”
There was silence and then the shouts of the carollers as they went their way by the street corner. “A merry Christmas!” It was the final touch of irony.
For a while neither spoke, but sat as they were. Then Hendy said roughly: “I’m going to sleep. That’s cheap enough anyhow.” And he reached for an old rug that made part of their bed.
His wife made no answer. It irritated him. “For heaven’s sake, Polly,” he said, “don’t sit there sulking!”
That roused her, and she fell to reproaches bitterer than all, for she was the angrier because he had let her cry alone and had made no overtures toward conciliation—overtures she had been expecting as her right. Rejoinder followed quick and cruel on reply, and at last, when he talked desperately of sleeping outside, she answered with a gesture borrowed of her trade: “Go, then! Go! If you can’t give me food and shelter, as other women’s husbands do, go and let me earn them for myself! I can do without you!”
“And you shall, too,” he retorted throwing down the rug and snatching his hat. “You shall, too.” And in a second he had flung out into the night and the snow.
They had done it all before, and it was scarce more than another kind of acting. But this time the quarrel was a trifle sharper than common, and he could not go back and make it up with any self-respect for an hour at least. Meantime it was a cold night and a snowy one, so he turned up his collar and strode off straight ahead to be an ill used and homeless outcast for a hour, or, at any rate, for three-quarters of an hour.
Another snowfall had begun, though it was sparse and light, making itself felt now and again by a moist spot upon the face. The carollers had struck up “Noel” some little distance away, and between their verses the chapel party could be heard at the farther end of the town. Indeed, it was scarce the best possible night for Hendy’s petulant adventure. The snow declared itself in the weak spots of his shoes ere he had gone 200 yards and the wind was in his teeth, spiting his face and coming little short of cutting off his nose.
Thus he came to Cawthorns, where lived Baring Spencer, esquire, that illustrious invisible; and the high privet hedge, like a massive black wall, was so good a wind screen that Hendy turned up a side lane and followed it, walking close, with bowed head and shoulder brushing the twigs. The hedge took a wide curve and, following this, he came plump against a small wooden gate, which swung inward at the shock. At this he stopped and looked about him. Without a doubt this was the kitchen entrance. Here was a narrow path, with a tall hedge at each side, a short path ending in a door with a pent roof.
He took a step back and another forward. The wind was as sharp as ever and there was a wetness in the snowdrops, now more frequent, that told of coming sleet. To follow the lane were to emerge presently in open country; here was shelter under the lee of a good-sized house, with a pent roof to make it better. More, here was a “situation.” The homeless outcast, wronged by all the world, would seek shelter, for half an hour at least, on the doorstep of the proud and haughty capitalist, who, if only he were awake and aware of the trespass, would probably send his pampered minions to drive him forth into the bitter night. The fancy accorded with the outcast’s mood, and truly for one bent on wallowing deep in the pathos of his predicament this was the most promising spot thereabout, and one not at all exposed to the weather.
He let the gate swing behind him and walked quietly to the kitchen door. All was silent and, as he stood under the pent roof, he saw that the path he had come by went farther and skirted all the back premises, dividing them from the kitchen garden. As he looked, a projecting frame caught his eye, like that of an open window, but nearer the ground than he would have expected. It was but a few yards away, and he went idly toward it. It was a window, no doubt left open by the carelessness of a servant. There was a stain on the snow below it which betrayed the occasion. Plainly the servant had flung out coffee grounds or the like and taken no care to shut the casement. The house was rather old, and for a moment he wondered vaguely what room it might be whose window was so near the ground. And then the answer came to his hungry senses from the window itself. Clearly it was the larder, and no empty larder either. Pickles could be smelled—pickles plainly and something else, something of fulsome steaminess and sweet recollection—Christmas pudding.
No doubt it was a large larder, though a mere blackness to sight now; no doubt crammed to the ceiling with a superfluity of the Christmas fare that Hendy saw no chance of tasting. Was it really so large as he fancied? He felt his pocket and found a matchbox with a few matches still remaining. At least it was no sin to take a peep. Everybody was in bed. He struck a match in the shelter of the window frame and held it within.
A larder it was, indeed, with both windows—wire within and glass without—left open; a long, brick paved place—the floor was a yard at least below the path he stood on and fitted round with shelves everywhere. And on the shelves—
He gazed till the match burned his fingers. But the picture remained vivid in his mind. Six plum puddings (was it six or seven—at any rate six) in a row, in china molds, with cloths tied on top; a cut ham on a dish, and three whole ones, hanging; two birds—geese—hanging also; a mass of cold sirloin, half cut away; another mass of sirloin, uncooked; a large dish of mince pies, a tub of water in a dark corner, with oatmeal spilled about it—oysters, no doubt; rows of jam pots, butter, cheese—everything. The agony of it!
Was it six puddings or seven? No harm in counting, at any rate. He struck another match.
Six plum puddings! And what could one man—a bachelor—want with six plum puddings, to say nothing of all the rest of this extravagant provision? Probably the housekeeper or the cook was swindling her master and preparing all this to regale herself and her friends. It would serve her right it somebody were to walk off with one of those puddings and, say, one ham—a mere act of justice, indeed. Not that he could do such a thing as that himself, of course, though, indeed, it would he rather a lark—the sort of joke you could tell your friends of years after—how the rich company monger supported the drama, after all, without knowing it.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to get in, too—as easy as going down stairs. Nobody would know, of course, and it would really seem a capital joke afterward. And, while this would be a joke, going without a Christmas dinner would be a serious matter. Were they oysters in that tub? The spilled oatmeal would seem to indicate as much, though you couldn’t tell with certainty at this distance. And then—
Mr. Baring Spencer sat late, with a box of cigars and a decanter. He was a florid, heavy jowled man of forty-five or thereabout, and it was probable that in his time he had emptied more decanters than thi
s one. A few draft prospectuses and such papers lay about the table, but they were done with hours ago. He had discovered a very excellent port in the cellar, and now, the decanter being empty, Mr. Baring Spencer, after a look at his watch, decided that on the whole he would see about another bottle. The rest of the household were in bed, so he took a candle and went down stairs himself. He was on the cellar stairs when he heard a slight noise in the direction of the larder. Perhaps a cat had got into it.
Joe Hendy had burned his last match and, with a pudding dangling by its cloth from one hand, was feeling along the shelf with the other in pursuit of the cut ham when the door flew open behind him, and his heart flew up into his mouth. There were a light and a crash and two hands on his collar behind and, at that, with a yell of despair, Hendy twisted about and fought wildly with both hands. The candle went over and out, the pudding mold smashed against a shelf and the cloth, still gripped in his fingers, shed cool, moist pudding about the heads of thief and financier alike.
But Hendy was the weaker, and the shock had despoiled him of wind. Presently he was dragged through the door and found himself imploring pardon and release in abject terms. He was starving, and the window was open to tempt him; he had a sick wife, no food for her, disgrace would kill her, and so forth.
“Come,” said his captor, hard of breath himself; “you just come along, and we’ll see about that.” And he pushed the captive, now all terror and submission, up stairs before him in the dark, tripping and stumbling. For it struck Mr. Baring Spencer for reasons that possibly, if no particular harm were done, it would be better to terrify the intruder and send him about his businesss rather than engage in troublesome business at a police court. So at the top of a short flight Hendy found himself pushed first across a dimly lighted passage and then through a study door.
From a landing high above came a trembling female voice: “Mr. Spencer, sir! Are you there, sir? I—I thought I heard a noise!”
Whereto Mr. Spencer, In the passage without, replied with so terrifying a mouthful of language that the voice was heard no more.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 187