CHAPTER IX
A sudden apprehension of his bulk (though he was only comparativelymassive) overcame John when he stood inside the tiny drawing-room of 83Camera Square; and it was not until the steam from the tea-pot hadmaterialized into Miss Hamilton, who in a dress of filmy gray floatedround him as a cloud swathes a mountain, that he felt at ease.
"Why, how charming of you to keep your word," her well-remembered voice,so soft and deep, was murmuring. "You don't know my mother, do you?Mother, this is Mr. Touchwood, who was so kind to Ida and me on thevoyage back from America."
Mrs. Hamilton was one of those mothers that never destroy the prospectsof their children by testifying outwardly to what their beauty may oneday come: neither in face nor in expression nor in gesture nor in voicedid she bear the least resemblance to her daughter. At first John wasinclined to compare her to a diminutive clown; but presently he caughtsight of some golden mandarins marching across a lacquer cupboard anddecided that she resembled a mandarin; after which wherever he looked inthe room he seemed to catch sight of her miniature--on thewillow-pattern plates, on the mantelpiece in porcelain, and even on thered lacquer bridge that spanned the tea-caddy.
"We've all heard of Mr. Touchwood," she said, picking up a small silverweapon in the shape of a pea-shooter and puffing out her already plumpcheeks in a vain effort to extinguish the flame of the spirit-lamp. "AndI'm devoted to the drama. Pouf! I think this is a very dull instrument,dear. What would England be without Shakespeare? Pouf! Pouf! One blowsand blows and blows and blows till really--well, it has taught me neverto regret that I did not learn the flute when there was a question of myhaving lessons. Pouf! Pouf!"
John offered his services as extinguisher.
"You have to blow very hard," she warned him; and he being determined atall costs to impress Miss Hamilton blew like a knight-errant at the gateof an enchanted castle. It was almost too vigorous a blast: besidesextinguishing the flame, it blew several currants from the cake intoMrs. Hamilton's lap, which John in an access of good-will tried to blowoff again less successfully.
"Bravo," the old lady exclaimed, clapping her hands. "I'm glad to seethat it can be done. But didn't you write _The Walls of Jericho_? Ah no,I'm thinking of Joshua and his trumpet."
"_The Fall of Babylon_, mother," Miss Hamilton put in with a smile, inthe curves of which quivered a hint of scornfulness.
"Then I was not so far out. _The Fall of Babylon_ to be sure. Oh, what afall was there, my countrymen."
She beamed at the author encouragingly, who beamed responsively back ather; presently she began to chuckle to herself, and John, hoping that inhis wish to be pleasant to Miss Hamilton's mother he was not appearingto be imitating a hen, chuckled back.
"I'm glad you have a sense of humor," she exclaimed, suddenly assumingan intensely serious expression and throwing up her eyebrows like twoskipping-ropes.
John, who felt as if he was playing a game, copied her expression aswell as he was able.
"I live on it," she pursued. "And thrive moreover. A small income and anample sense of humor. Yes, for thus one avoids extravagance oneself, butenjoys it in other people."
"And how is Miss Merritt?" John inquired of Miss Hamilton, when he hadbowed his appreciation of the witticism. But before she could reply, hermother rattled on: "Miss Merritt will not take Doris to America again.Miss Merritt has written a book called _The Aphorisms of Aphrodite_."
The old lady's remarkable eyebrows were darting about her forehead likeforked lightning while she spoke.
"The Aphorisms of Aphrodite!" she repeated. "A collection of some of themost declassical observations that I have ever encountered." Like adiver's arms the eyebrows drew themselves together for a plunge intounfathomable moral depths.
"My dear mother, lots of people found it very amusing," her daughterprotested.
"Miss Merritt," the old lady asserted, "was meant for bookkeeping bydouble-entry, instead of which she had taken to book-writing bydouble-entente. The profits may be treble, but the method is base. Howdid she affect you, Mr. Touchwood?"
"She frightened me," John confessed. "I thought her manner somewhatsevere."
"You hear that, Doris? Her ethical exterior frightened him."
"You're both very unfair to Ida. I only wish I had half her talents."
"Wrapped in a napkin," said the old lady, "you have your shorthand."
John's heart leapt.
"Ah, you know shorthand," he could not help ejaculating with manifestpleasure.
"I studied for a time. I think I had vague ideas once of a commercialcareer," she replied, indifferently.
"The suggestion being," Mrs. Hamilton put in, "that I discouraged her.But how is one to encourage shorthand? If she had learnt the deaf anddumb alphabet I might have put aside half-an-hour every day forconversation. But it is as hard to encourage shorthand as to encourage aperson who is talking in his sleep."
John fancied that beneath the indifference of the daughter and theself-conscious humor of the mother he could detect cross-currents ofmutual disapproval; he could have sworn that the daughter was beginningto be perpetually aware of her mother's presence.
"Or is it due to my obsession that relations should never see too muchof each other?" he asked himself. "Yet she knows shorthand--anextraordinary coincidence. What a delightful house you have," he saidaloud with as much fervor as would excuse the momentary abstraction intowhich he had been cast.
"My husband was a sinologue," Mrs. Hamilton announced.
"Was he indeed?" said John, trying to focus the word.
"And the study of Chinese is nearly as exclusive as shorthand," the oldlady went on. "But we traveled a great deal in China when I was firstmarried and being upon our honeymoon had but slight need of generalconversation."
No wonder she looked like a mandarin.
"And to me their furniture was always more expressive than theirlanguage. Hence this house." Her black eyebrows soared like a condor todisappear in the clouds of her snowy hair. "But do not let us talk ofChina," she continued. "Let us rather talk of the drama. Or will youhave another muffin?"
"I think I should prefer the muffin," John admitted.
Presently he noticed that Miss Hamilton was looking surreptitiously ather watch and glancing anxiously at the deepening twilight; sheevidently had an appointment elsewhere, and he rose to make hisfarewells.
"For I'm sure you're wanting to go out," he ventured.
"Doris never cares to stay at home for very long," said her mother; andJohn was aware once again, this time unmistakably, of the cross-currentsof mutual discontent.
"I had promised to meet Ida in Sloane Square."
"On the holy mount of Ida," the old lady quoted; John laughed out ofpoliteness, though he was unable to see the point of the allusion; hemight have concluded that after all Mrs. Hamilton was really ratherstupid, perhaps even vain and tiresome, had she not immediatelyafterward proposed that he should give Doris time to get ready and havethe benefit of her company along King's Road.
"For I assume you are both going in the same direction," she said,evoking with her eyebrows the suggestion of a signpost.
"My dear mother, Mr. Touchwood doesn't want to be bored with escortingme," her daughter was protesting.
John laughed at the idea of being bored; then he fancied that in such asmall room his laughter might have sounded hysterical, and he raised thepitch of his voice to give the impression that he always laughed likethat. In the end, after a short argument, Miss Hamilton agreed somewhatungraciously to let John wait for her. When she was gone to get ready,her mother leaned over and tapped John's arm with a fan.
"I'm getting extremely anxious about Doris," she confided; the eyebrowshovering in her forehead like a hawk about to strike gave her listenerthe impression that she was really going to say something this time.
"Her health?" he began, anxiously.
"Her health is perfect. It is her independence which worries me. Hencethis house! Her father's brother is only too wil
ling to do anything forher, but she declines to be a poor relation. Now such an attitude isridiculous, because she is a poor relation. To each overture from heruncle she replies with defiance. At one moment she drowns his remarks ina typewriter; at another she flourishes her shorthand in his face; andthis summer she fled to America before he had finished what he wassaying. Mr. Touchwood, I rely on you!" she exclaimed, thumping him onthe shoulder with the fan.
John felt himself to be a very infirm prop for the old lady's ambition,and wobbled in silence while she heaped upon him her aspirations.
"You are a man of the world. All the world's a stage! Prompt her, mydear Mr. Touchwood, prompt her. You must have had a great experience inprompting. I rely on you. Her uncle _must_ be allowed to help her. Forpray appreciate that Doris's independence merely benefits charitableinstitutions, and in my opinion there is a limit to anonymousbenevolence. Perhaps you've heard of the Home for Epileptic Gentlewomen?They can have their fits in peace and comfort entirely because mydaughter refuses to accept one penny from her uncle. To a mother, ofcourse, such behavior is unaccountable. And what is so unjust is thatshe won't allow me to accept a penny either, but has even gone so far asto threaten to live with Miss Merritt if I do. Aphorisms of Aphrodite! Ican assure you that there are times when I do not regret that I possessan ample sense of humor. If you were a mother, Mr. Touchwood...."
"I _am_ an uncle," said John, quickly. He was not going to let Mrs.Hamilton monopolize all the privileges of kinship.
"Then who more able to advise a niece? She will listen to you. Friends,Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. You must remember that shealready admires you as a playwright. Insist that in future she mustadmire you from the stalls instead of from the pit--as now. At presentshe is pinched. Do not misunderstand me. I speak in metaphors. She ispinched by straitened circumstances just as the women of China arepinched by their shoes. She declines to wear a hobble-skirt; but declineor not, she hobbles through life. She cannot do otherwise, which is whywe live here in Camera Square like two spoonfuls of tea in an oldcaddy!"
"But you know, personally," John protested while the old lady wasfanning back her lost breath, "personally, and I am now speaking as anuncle, personally I must confess that independence charms me."
"Music hath charms," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Who will deny it? Andindependence with the indefinite article before it also hath charms; butindependence with no article at all, independence, the abstract noun,though it may be a public virtue, is a private vice. Vesuvius lendsvariety to the Bay of Naples; but a tufted mole on a woman's cheekaffects the observer with abhorrence, like a woolly caterpillar lurkingin the heart of a rose. Let us distinguish between the state and theindividual. Do, my dear Mr. Touchwood, let us always preserve adistinction between wild nature and human nature."
John was determined not to give way, and he once more firmly assertedhis admiration for independence.
"All the world's a stage," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Yes, and all the men andwomen merely players; yet life, Mr. Touchwood, is not a play. I haverealized that since my husband died. The widow of a sinologue has muchto realize. At first I hoped that Doris would marry. But she has neverwanted to marry. Men proposed in shoals. But as I always said to them,'What is the use of proposing to my daughter? She will never marry.'"
For the first time John began to pay a deep and respectful attention tothe conversation.
"Really I should have thought," he began; but he stopped himselfabruptly, for he felt that it was not quite chivalrous for him toappraise Miss Hamilton's matrimonial chances. "No doubt Miss Hamilton isvery critical," he substituted.
"She would criticize anybody," the old lady exclaimed. "From the Creatorof us all in general to her own mother in particular she would criticizeanybody. Anybody that is, except Miss Merritt. Do not suppose, forinstance, that she will not criticize you."
"Oh, I have no hope of escaping," John said.
"But pay no attention and continue to advise her. Really, when I thinkthat on account of her obstinacy a number of epileptic females areenjoying luxurious convulsions while I am compelled to alternate betweenmuffins and scones every day of the week, though I never know which Ilike better, really I resent our unnecessary poverty. As I say to her,whether we accept her uncle's offer or not, we are always poorrelations; so we may as well be comfortably off poor relations."
"Don't you suppose that perhaps her uncle is all the fonder of herbecause of this independence?" John suggested. "I think I should be."
"But what is the use of that?" Mrs. Hamilton demanded. "Nothing is sobad for people as stunted affection. My husband spent all hispatrimony--he was a younger son--everything he had in fact upon hispassion for Chinese--well, not quite everything, for he was able toleave me a small income, which I share with Doris. Pray remember that Ihave never denied her anything that I could afford. Although she hasmany times plotted with her friend Ida Merritt to earn her own living, Ihave never once encouraged her in such a step. The idea to me has alwaysbeen painful. A sense of humor has carried _me_ through life; but Doris,alas, is infected with gloom. Whether it is living in London or whetherit is reading Nietzsche I don't know, but she is infested with gloom.Therefore when I heard of her meeting you I was glad; I was almostreconciled to the notion of that vulgar descent upon America. Pray donot imagine that I am trying to flatter: you should be used to publicapprobation by now. John Hamilton is her uncle's name, and he has adelightful estate near the Mull of Kintyre--Glencockic House--some ofthe rents of which provide carpets for the fits of epileptic gentlewomenand some the children of indigent tradesmen in Ayr with colonialopportunities. Yet his sister-in-law must choose every morning betweenmuffins and scones."
John tried unsuccessfully to change the conversation; he even went sofar as to ask the old lady questions about her adventures in China,although it was one of the rules of his conduct never to expose himselfunnecessarily to the reminiscences of travelers.
"Yes, yes," she would reply, impatiently, "the bells in the templegardens are delicious. Ding-dong! ding-dong! But, as I was saying,unless Doris sees her way to be at any rate outwardly gracious ..." andso it went on until Doris herself, dressed in that misty green Harristweed of the _Murmania_, came in to say that she was ready.
"My dear child," her mother protested. "The streets of London are emptyon Sunday evening, but they are not a Highland moor. What queer notionsof dress you do have, to be sure."
"Ida and I are going out to supper with some friends of hers in Norwood,and I want to keep warm in the train."
"One of the aphorisms of Aphrodite, I suppose, to wear aNorfolk-jacket--or should I say a Norwood jacket?--on Sunday evening.You must excuse her, Mr. Touchwood."
John was by this time thoroughly bored by the old lady's witticisms anddelighted to leave her to fan herself in the firelight, while he and herdaughter walked along toward King's Road.
"No sign of a taxi," said John, whose mind was running on shorthand,though he was much too shy to raise the topic for a second time. "Youdon't mind going as far as Sloane Square by motor-bus?"
A moment later they were climbing to the outside of a motor-bus; whenJohn pulled the waterproof rug over their knees and felt the wind in hisface while they swayed together and apart in the rapid motion, he couldeasily have fancied that they were once again upon the Atlantic.
"I often think of our crossing," he said in what he hoped was anharmonious mixture of small talk and sentiment.
"So do I."
He tried to turn eagerly round, but was unable to do so on account ofhaving fastened the strap of the rug.
"Well, in Camera Square, wouldn't you?" she murmured.
"You're not happy there?" In order to cover his embarrassment at findinghe had asked what she might consider an impertinent question John turnedaway to fasten the rug more tightly, which nearly kept him from turningaround again at all.
"Don't let's talk about me," she begged, dismissing the subject with acurt little laugh. "How fast they do drive on Sunday."
"I'm working hard," he began.
"Lucky you!"
"At least when I say I'm working hard," he corrected himself, "I meanthat I have been working hard. Just at present I'm rather worried byfamily matters."
"Poor man, I sympathize with you."
She might sympathize with him; but on this motor-bus her manner was sodetached that nobody could have guessed it, John thought, and he hadlooked at her every time a street-lamp illuminated her expression.
"I often think of our crossing," he repeated. "I'm sure it would be agreat pity to let our friendship fade out into nothing. Won't you lunchwith me one day?"
"With pleasure."
"Wednesday at Princes? Or no, better say the Carlton Grill."
"Thanks so much."
"It's not easy to talk on a motor-bus, is it?" John suggested.
"No, it's like trying to talk to somebody whom you're seeing off in atrain."
"I hope you'll enjoy your evening. You'll remember me to Miss Merritt?"
"Of course."
Sloane Square opened ahead of them; but at any rate, John congratulatedhimself, he had managed to arrange a lunch for Wednesday and need nolonger reproach himself for a complete deadlock.
"I must hurry," she warned him when they had descended to the pavement.
"Wednesday at one o'clock then."
He would have liked to detain her with elaborate instructions about theexact spot on the carpet where she would find him waiting for her onWednesday; but she had shaken him lightly by the hand and crossed theroad before he could decide between the entrance in Regent Street andthe entrance in Pall Mall.
"It is becoming every day more evident, Mrs. Worfolk," John told hishousekeeper after supper that evening, "that I must begin to look aboutfor a secretary."
"Yes, sir," she agreed, cheerfully. "There's lots of deserving youngfellows would be glad of the job, I'm shaw."
John left it at that, acknowledged Mrs. Worfolk's wishes for his night'srepose, poured himself out a whisky and soda, and settled himself downto read a gilded work at fifteen shillings net entitled _Fifteen FamousForgers_. When he had read three shillings' worth, he decided that theonly crime which possessed a literary interest for anybody outside theprincipals was murder, and went to bed early in order to prepare for thepainful interview at Staple Inn next morning.
Stephen Crutchley, the celebrated architect, was some years older thanJohn, old enough in fact to have been severely affected by the estheticmovement in his early twenties; he had a secret belief that wasnourished both by his pre-eminence in Gothic design and by his wife'slilies and languors that he formed a link with the Pre-Raphaelites. Hislegs were excessively short, but short though they were one of them hadmanaged to remain an inch shorter than the other, which in conjunctionwith a ponderous body made his gait something between a limp and ashamble. He had a long ragged beard which looked as if he had droppedegg or cigarette-ash on it according to whether the person who wasdeciding its color thought it was more gray or more yellow. Hisappearance was usually referred to by paragraph writers as leonine, andhe much regretted that his beard was turning gray so soon, when what thesame writers called his "tawny mane of hair" was still unwithered. Heaffected the Bohemian costume of the 'eighties, that is to say thevelvet jacket, the flowered silk waistcoat, and the unknotted tie ofdeep crimson or old gold kept in place by a prelate's ring; he lunchedevery day at the Arts Club, and since he was making at least L6000 ayear, he did not bother to go back to his office in the afternoon. Johnhad met him first soon after his father's death in 1890 somewhere inNorthamptonshire where Crutchley was restoring a church--his first bigjob--and where John was editing temporarily a local paper. In those daysJohn reacting from dog-biscuits was every bit as romantic as he was now;he and the young architect had often talked the sun up and spokenecstatically of another medieval renaissance, of the nobility ofhandicrafts and of the glory of the guilds. Later on, when John in thereaction from journalism embarked upon realistic novels, Crutchley wasinclined to quarrel with him as a renegade, and even went so far as tosend him a volume of Browning's poems with _The Lost Leader_ heavilymarked in red pencil. Considering that Crutchley was making more moneywith his gargoyles than himself with his novels John resented theaccusation of having deserted his friend for a handful of silver; and asfor the ribbon which he was accused of putting in his coat, John thoughtthat the architect was the last person to underline such an accusation,when himself for the advancement of his work had joined everyecclesiastical society from the English Church Union to the Alcuin Club.There was not a ritualistic parson in the land who wanted with orwithout a faculty to erect a rood or reredos but turned to Crutchley forhis design, principally because his watch-chain jingled with religiouslabels; although to do him justice, even when he was making L6000 a yearhe continued to attend Choral Eucharists as regularly as ever. When Johnabandoned realistic novels and made a success as a romantic playwrighthis friend welcomed him back to the Gothic fold with emotion andenthusiasm.
"You and I, John, are almost the only ones left," the architect hadsaid, feelingly.
"Come, come, Stephen, you mustn't talk as if I was William de Morgan.I'm not yet forty, and you're not yet forty-five," John had replied,slightly nettled by this ascription of them to a bygone period.
Yet with all his absurdities and affectations Stephen was a fine fellowand a fine architect, and when soon after this he had agreed to takeHugh into his office John would have forgiven him if he had chosen toperambulate Chelsea in doublet and hose.
Thinking of Stephen as he had known him for twenty years John had noqualms when on Monday morning he ascended the winding stone steps thatled up to his office in the oldest portion of Staple Inn; nor apparentlyhad Hugh, who came in as jauntily as ever and greeted his brother withgenial self-possession.
"I thought you'd blow in this morning. I betted Aubrey half-a-dollarthat you'd blow in. He tells me you went off in rather a bad temper onSaturday night. But you were quite right, Johnnie; that port of George'sis not good. You were quite right. I shall always respect your verdicton wine in future."
"This is not the moment to talk about wine," said John, angrily.
"I'm afraid that owing to George and his confounded elderberry ink Ididn't put my case quite as clearly as I ought to have done," Hugh wenton, serenely. "But don't worry. As soon as you've settled with Stevie, Ishall tell you all about it. I think you'll be thrilled. It's a pityyou've moved into Wardour Street, or you might have made a good storyout of it."
One of the clerks came back with an invitation for John to follow himinto Mr. Crutchley's own room, and he was glad to escape from hisbrother's airy impenitence.
"Wonderful how Stevie acts up to the part, isn't it?" commented Hugh,when he saw John looking round him at the timbered rooms with theirancient furniture and medieval blazonries through which they werepassing.
"I prefer to see Crutchley alone," said John, coldly. "No doubt he willsend for you when your presence is required."
Hugh nodded amiably and went over to his desk in one of the latticedoriel windows, the noise of the Holborn traffic surging in through whichreminded the listener that these perfectly medieval rooms were in theheart of modern London.
"I should rather like to live in chambers here myself," thought John. "Ibelieve they would give me the very atmosphere I require for Joan ofArc; and I should be close to the theaters."
This project appealed to him more than ever when he entered thearchitect's inmost sanctum, which containing nothing that did not belongto the best period of whatever it was, wrought iron or carved wood orembroidered stuff, impressed John's eye for a scenic effect. Nor wasthere too much of it: the room was austere, not even so full as aCarpaccio interior. Modernity here wore a figlea
f; wax candles wereburned instead of gas or electric light; and even the telephone wasenshrined in a Florentine casket. When the oaken door covered with hugenails and floriated hinges was closed, John sat down upon what is calleda Glastonbury chair and gazed at his friend who was seated upon a giltthrone under a canopy of faded azure that was embroidered with goldenunicorns, wyverns, and other fabulous monsters in a pasture of silverfleurs-de-lys.
"Have a cigar," said the Master, as he liked to be called, pushingacross the refectory table that had come out of an old Flemish monasterya primitive box painted with scenes of saintly temptations, but linedwith cedar wood and packed full of fat Corona Coronas.
"It seems hardly appropriate to smoke cigars in this room," Johnobserved. "Even a churchwarden-pipe would be an anachronism here."
"Yes, yes," Stephen assented, tossing back his hair with the authenticVikingly gesture. "But cigars are the chief consolation we have forbeing compelled to exist in this modern world. I haven't seen you,John, since you returned from America. How's work?"
"_Lucretia_ went splendidly in New York. And I'm in the middle of _Joanof Arc_ now."
"I'm glad, I'm glad," the architect growled as fiercely as one of thegreat Victorians. "But for Heaven's sake get the coats right. Theatricalheraldry is shocking. And get the ecclesiastical details right.Theatrical ritual is worse. But I'm glad you're giving 'em Joan of Arc.Keep it up, keep it up. The modern drama wants disinfecting."
"I suppose you wouldn't care to advise me about the costumes andprocessions and all that," John suggested, offering his friend a pinchof his romantic Sanitas.
"Yes, I will. Of course, I will. But I must have a free hand. Anabsolutely free hand, John. I won't have any confounded play-actortrying to tell me that it doesn't matter if a bishop in the fifteenthcentury does wear a sixteenth century miter, because it's more effectivefrom the gallery. Eh? I know them. You know them. A free hand or you canburn Joan on an asbestos gasfire, and I won't help you."
"Your help would be so much appreciated," John assured him, "that I canpromise you an absolutely short hand."
The architect stared at the dramatist.
"What did I say? I mean free hand--extraordinary slip," John laughed alittle awkwardly. "Yes, your name, Stephen, is just what we shallrequire to persuade the skeptical that it is worth while making anotherattempt with Joan of Arc. I can promise you some fine opportunities.I've got a particularly effective tableau to show the miserablecondition of France before the play begins. The curtain will rise uponthe rearguard of an army marching out of a city, heavy snow will fall,and above the silence you will hear the howling of the wolves followingin the track of the troops. This is an historical fact. I may evenintroduce several wolves upon the stage. But I rather doubt if trainedwolves are procurable, although at a pinch we could use large dogs--butdon't let me run away with my own work like this. I did not come herethis morning to talk about Joan of Arc, but about my brother Hugh."
John rose from his chair and walked nervously up and down the room,while Stephen Crutchley managed to exaggerate a slight roughness at theback of his throat into a violent fit of coughing.
"I see you feel it as much as I do," John murmured, while the architectcontinued to express his overwrought feelings in bronchial spasms.
"I would have spared you this," the architect managed to gasp at last.
"I'm sure you would," said John, warmly. "But since in what I hope was agenuine impulse of contrition not entirely dictated by motives ofself-interest Hugh has confessed his crime to me, I am come here thismorning confident that you will allow me to--in other words--what wasthe exact sum? I shall of course remove him from your tutelage thismorning."
John's eloquence was not spontaneous; he had rehearsed this speech onthe way from Hampstead that morning, and he was agreeably surprised tofind that he had been able owing to his friend's coughing-fit toreproduce nearly all of it. He had so often been robbed of a preparedoration by some unexpected turn of the conversation that he felt nowmuch happier than he ought under the weight of a family scandal.
"Your generosity...." he continued.
"No, no," interrupted the architect, "it is you who are generous."
The two romantics gazed at one another with an expression of nobilitythat required no words to enhance it.
"We can afford to be generous," said John, which was perfectly true,though the reference was to worth of character rather than to worth ofcapital.
"Eighty-one pounds six and eightpence," Crutchley murmured. "But I blamemyself. I should not have left an old check book lying about. It wascareless--it was, I do not hesitate to say so, criminally careless. Butyou know my attitude towards money. I am radically incapable of dealingwith money."
"Of course you are," John assented with conviction. "So am I. Money withme is merely a means to an end."
"Exactly what it is with me," the architect declared. "Money in itselfconveys nothing to me. What I always say to my clients is that if theywant the best work they must pay for it. It's the work that counts, notthe money."
"Precisely my own attitude," John agreed. "What people will notunderstand is that an artist charges a high price when he does not wantto do the work. If people insist on his doing it, they must expect topay."
"And of course," the architect added, "we owe it to our fellows tosustain the dignity of our professions. Art in England has already beentoo much cheapened."
"You've kept all your old enthusiasms," John told his friend. "It'ssplendid to find a man who is not spoilt by success. Eighty-one poundsyou said? I've brought my check book."
"Eighty-one pounds six and eightpence, yes. It was like you, John, tocome forward in this way. But I wish you could have been spared. Youunderstand, don't you, that I intended to say nothing about it and toblame myself in silence for my carelessness? On the other hand, I couldnot treat your brother with my former confidence. This terrible businessdisturbed our whole relationship."
"I am not going to enlarge on my feelings," said John as he handed thearchitect the stolen sum. "But you will understand them. I believe theshock has aged me. I seem to have lost some of my self-reliance. Onlythis morning I was thinking to myself that I must really get a privatesecretary."
"You certainly should have one," the architect agreed.
"Yes, I must. The only thing is that since this dreadful escapade ofHugh's I feel that an unbusinesslike creature such as I am ought not toput himself in the hands of a young man. What is your experience ofwomen? From a business point of view, I mean."
"I think that a woman would do your work much better than a man," saidthe architect, decidedly.
"So do I. I'm very glad to have your advice though."
After this John felt no more reluctant at parting with eighty-one poundssix and eightpence than he would have felt in paying a specialist twoguineas for advising him to take a long rest when he wanted to take along rest. His friend's aloofness from money had raised to a higherlevel what might easily have been a most unpleasant transaction: noteven one of his heroes could have extricated himself from an involvedsituation more poetically and more sympathetically. It now only remainedto dispose of the villain.
"Shall we have Hugh in?" John asked.
"I wish I could keep him with me," the architect sighed. "But I don'tthink I have a right to consult my personal feelings. We must considerhis behavior in itself."
"In any case," said John, quickly, "I have made arrangements about hisfuture; he is going to be a mahogany-planter in British Honduras."
"Of course I don't use mahogany much in my work, but if ever ..." thearchitect was beginning, when John waved aside his kindly intentions.
"The impulse is generous, Stephen, but I should prefer that so far asyou are concerned Hugh should always be as if he had never been. Infact, I'm bound to say frankly that I'm glad you do not use mahogany inyour work. I'm glad that I've chosen a career for Hugh which will cuthim completely off from what to me will always be the painfulassociations of architecture."
Hugh entered his chief's room without a blush: he could not have bowedhis head, however sincere his repentance, because his collars would notpermit the least abasement; though at least, his brother thought, hemight have had the decency not to sit down until he was invited, andwhen he did sit down not to pull up his trousers in that aggressive wayand expose those very defiant socks.
Stephen Crutchley rose from his throne and shambled over to thefireplace, leaning against the stone hood of which he took up anattitude that would have abashed anybody but Hugh.
"Touchwood," he began, "no doubt you have already guessed why I haveasked you to speak to me."
Hugh nodded encouragingly.
"I do not wish to enlarge upon the circumstances of your behavior,because your brother, my old friend, has come forward to shield you fromthe consequences. Nor do I propose to animadvert upon the forgeryitself. However lightly you embarked upon it, I don't doubt that by nowyou have sufficiently realized its gravity. What tempted you to committhis crime I do not hope to guess; but I fear that such a device forobtaining money must have been inspired by debts, whether for cards orfor horse-racing, or perhaps even for women I do not pretend to know."
"Add waistcoats and whisky and you've got the motive," Hugh chirped. "Isay, I think your trousers are scorching," he added on a note of anxiousconsideration.
"I do not propose to enlarge on any of these topics," said thearchitect, moving away from the fire and sniffing irritably the faintodor of overheated homespun. "What I do wish to enlarge upon is yourbrother's generosity in coming forward like this. Naturally I who haveknown him for twenty years expected nothing else, because he is a man ofideals, a writer of whom we are all proud, from whom we all expect greatthings and--however I am not going to enlarge upon his obviousqualities. What I do wish to say is that he and I have decided thatafter this business you must leave me. I don't suppose that youexpected to remain; nor, even if you could, do I suppose that you wouldwish to remain. Perhaps you are not enough in sympathy with myaspirations for the future of English architecture to regret ourparting; but I hope that this lesson you have had will be the means ofbringing you to an appreciation of what your brother has done for youand that in British Honduras you will behave in such a way as to justifyhis generosity. Touchwood, good-by! I did not expect when you came to methree years ago that our last farewell would be fraught--would be sounpleasant."
John was probably much more profoundly moved by Crutchley's sermon thanHugh; indeed he was so much moved that he rose to supplement it with oneof his own in which he said the same things about the architect that thearchitect had said about him, after which the two romantics looked ateach other admiringly, while they waited for Hugh to reply.
"I suppose I ought to say I'm very sorry and all that," Hugh managed tomutter at last. "Good-by, Mr. Crutchley, and jolly good luck. I'll justtoddle through the office and say good-by to all the boys, John, andthen I dare say you'll be ready for lunch."
He swaggered out of the room; when the two friends were left togetherthey turned aside with mutual sympathy from the topic of Hugh to discussJoan of Arc and a new transept that Crutchley was designing. When theculprit put his head round the door and called out to John that he wasready, the two old friends shook hands affectionately and parted with anincreased regard for each other and themselves.
"Look here, what's all this about British Honduras?" Hugh askedindignantly when he and his brother had passed under the arched entry ofStaple Inn and were walking along Holborn. "I see you're bent ongratifying your appetite for romance even in the choice of a colony.British Honduras! British humbug!"
"I prefer not do discuss anything except your immediate future," saidJohn.
"It's such an extraordinary place to hit on," Hugh grunted in a tone ofirritated perplexity."
"The immediate future," John repeated, sharply. "To-night you will godown to Hampshire and if you wish for any more help from me, you willremain there in the strictest seclusion until I have time to settle yourultimate future."
"Oh, I shan't at all mind a few weeks in Hampshire. What I'm grumblingat is British Honduras. I shall rather enjoy Hampshire in fact. Who'sthere at present?"
John told him, and Hugh made a grimace.
"I shall have to jolly them up a bit. However it's a good job thatLaurence has lost his faith. I shall be spared his Chloral Eucharists,anyway. Where are we going to lunch?"
"Hugh!" exclaimed his outraged brother stopping short in the middle ofthe crowded pavement. "Have you no sense of shame at all? Are youutterly callous?"
"Look here, Johnnie, don't start in again on that. I know you had totake that line with Stevie, and you'll do me the justice of admittingthat I backed you up; but when we're alone, do chuck all that. I'm verygrateful to you for forking out--by the way, I hope you noticed the nicelittle touch in the sum? Eighty-one pounds six and eightpence. The sixand eightpence was for my lawyer."
"Do you adopt this sickeningly cynical attitude," John besought."Forgery is not a joke."
"Well, this forgery was," Hugh contradicted. "You see, I got hold ofStevie's old check book and found he had quite a decent little accountin Croydon. So I faked his signature--you know how to do that?"
"I don't want to know."
"You copy the signature upside down. Yes, that's the way. Then oldAubrey disguised himself with blue glasses and presented the check atthe bank, just allowing himself five minutes to catch the train back totown. I was waiting at the station in no end of a funk. But it was allright. The clerk blinked for a minute, but old Aubrey blinked back athim as cool as you please, and he shoveled out the gold. Aubrey camejingling on to the platform like a milk-can just as the train wasstarting."
"I wish to hear no more."
"And then I found that Stevie was cocking his eye at this check book andscratching his head and looking at me and--well, he suspected me. Thefact of the matter is that Stevie's as keen on his cash as anybody. Isuppose this is a side account for the benefit of some little lady orother."
"Silence," John commanded.
"And then I lost my nerve, so that when Stevie started questioning meabout his check book I must have looked embarrassed."
"I'm surprised to hear that," John put in, bitterly.
"Yes, I dare say I could have bluffed it out, because I'd taken theprecaution to cash the check through Aubrey whom Stevie knows nothingabout. But I don't know. I lost my nerve. Well, thanks very much forstumping up, Johnnie; I'm only glad you got so much pleasure out of ityourself."
"What do you mean--pleasure?"
"Shut up--don't pretend you didn't enjoy yourself, you old Pharisee.Look here where _are_ we going to lunch? I'm carrying a bag full ofinstruments, you know."
John told Hugh that he declined to lunch with him in his present mood ofbravado, and at the corner of Chancery Lane they parted.
"Mind," John warned him, "if you wish for any help from me you are toremain for the present at Ambles."
"My dear chap, I don't want to remain anywhere else; but I wish youcould appreciate the way in which the dark and bloody deed was done, asone of your characters would say. You haven't uttered a word ofcongratulation. After all, it took some pluck, you know, and thesignature was an absolutely perfect fake--perfect. The only thing thatfailed was my nerve afterwards. But I suppose I should be steadieranother time."
John hurried away in a rage and walked up the Strand muttering:
"What _was_ the name of that mahogany-planter? _Was_ it Raikes or wasn'tit? I must find his card."
It was not until he had posted the following letter that he recoveredsome of his wonted serenity.
36 CHURCH ROW,
Hampstead, N.W.,
_Nov. 28, 1910._
MY DEAR MISS HAMILTON,--In case I am too shy to broach the subject atlunch on Wednesday I am writing to ask you beforehand if in your wildestdreams you have ever dreamt that you could be a private secretary. Ihave for a long time been wanting a secretary, and as you often spokewith interest of my work I am in hopes that the idea will not bedistasteful to you. I should not have dared to ask you if you had notmentioned shorthand yesterday and if Mrs. Hamilton had not saidsomething about your typewriting. This seems to indicate that at anyrate you have considered the question of secretarial work. The fact ofthe matter is that in addition to my plays I am much worried by familyaffairs, so much so that I am kept from my own work and really requirenot merely mechanical assistance, but also advice on many subjects onwhich a woman is competent to advise.
I gathered also from your mother's conversation that you yourself weresometimes harassed by family problems and I thought that perhaps youmight welcome an excuse to get away from them for awhile.
My notions of the salary that one ought to offer a private secretary areextremely vague. Possibly our friend Miss Merritt would negotiate thebusiness side, which to me as an author is always very unpleasant. Ishould of course accept whatever Miss Merritt proposed withouthesitation. My idea was that you would work with me every morning atHampstead. I have never yet attempted dictation myself, but I feel thatI could do it after a little practice. Then I thought you could lunchwith me, and that after lunch we could work on the materials--that is tosay that I should give you a list of things I wanted to know, which youwould search for either in my own library or at the British Museum. Doesthis strike you as too heavy a task? Perhaps Miss Merritt will adviseyou on this matter too.
If Mrs. Hamilton is opposed to the idea, possibly I might call upon herand explain personally my point of view. In the meantime I am lookingforward to our lunch and hoping very much that you will set my mind atrest by accepting the post. I think I told you I was working on a playwith Joan of Arc as the central figure. It is interesting, because I amdetermined not to fall into the temptation of introducing a factitiouslove-interest, which in my opinion spoilt Schiller's version.
Yours sincerely,
JOHN TOUCHWOOD.
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