by W. W. Jacobs
Here the gun that gave the echoes; where the hand that started it?
A hoarse cry came to him: "Mr. George! Mr. George!"
He looked along the sound. Above a hedge below the lawn an apple-treeraised its branches. Within them he could espy a dark mass that as heapproached took form. Mr. Fletcher.
The grass hushed George's footsteps. Rounding the hedge he came upon thelittle drama that gave that note of dread to Mr. Fletcher's calls.
Beneath the gardener's armpits one branch of the apple-tree passed;behind his knees another. Between them hung his heavy seat. Whitely asquare of it peered downwards; melancholy upon the sward lay the lid ofcorduroy that should have warmed the space. For ten paces outwards fromthe tree-trunk there stretched a pitted path. Abiram, as George came,turned at this path's extremity; set his sloe eye upon the dull whitepatch in Mr. Fletcher's stern; hurled forward up the track; sprang andsnapped jaws an inch below the mark as Mr. Fletcher mightily heaved.
A lesser dog would have yapped bafflement, fruitlessly scratched upwardsfrom hind legs. Abiram was perfect dog of the one breed of dog thatis in all things perfect. Silently he plodded back; turned; ran; leaptagain. Again Mr. Fletcher heaved, and again the fine jaws snapped aninch beneath the pallid square of flesh.
As once more uncomplaining he turned, Abiram sighted George; ruffled.George spoke his name. Abiram wagged that short tail that marked hisChampion Victor Wild blood, shook the skull that spoke to the samemighty strain.
This dog expected in his human friends that same devotion to duty whichis the governing trait of his breed. His shake implied, "No time forsocial niceties, sir. I have a job in hand."
"Call 'im off, Mr. George," Mr. Fletcher implored. "Call 'im--_ur!_"--heheaved upward as Abiram again sprang--"off," he concluded, sinking oncemore as the bull-terrier trotted up the little path.
It was a fascinating scene. "You're quite safe," George told him.
"Safe! I'm _tired!_ I can't keep on risin' and fallin' all night. It's'ard--damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a--_ur!_" He heaved again.
George told him: "You do it awfully well, though; so neat."
"Call 'im off," Mr. Fletcher moaned. "He'll have me in a minute. He's'ad a bit off of me calf; he's 'ad a piece out of me trousers. He'll goon. He's a methodical dog--_ur!_"
George took a step; caught Abiram's collar. "How on earth did you get upthere?"
"Jumped."
"Jumped! You couldn't jump up there!"
Mr. Fletcher took a look to see that Abiram was securely held; thenstarted to wriggle to a pose of greater comfort. "I'd jump a house withthat 'orror after me," he said bitterly. By intricate squirmings he laida hand upon the cold patch of flesh that gazed starkly downwards fromhis stern. "If I ain't got hydrophobia I've got frost-bite," he moaned."Cruel draught I've had through this 'ole. Take 'im off, Mr. George."
George was scarcely listening. His thoughts had returned to thedelicious task of fingering his great idea.
"Take 'im off, Mr. George," Mr. Fletcher implored.
George passed a handkerchief under Abiram's collar; tugged for the gate;there dispatched the dog down the road.
Abiram shook his head; trotted with dejected stern. A job had been leftunfinished.
XII.
Hallooing safety to the apple-tree, too preoccupied to inquire furtherinto the reason for the gun and the presence of Bill's dog, Georgeturned for the house.
Awakening birds carolled his presence. They hymned the adventures ofthe day that Dawn, her handmaiden, came speeding, silver-footed,perfume-bearing, fresh from her dewy bath, to herald.
George put up an answering pipe. For him also the day wasadventure-packed and must lustily be hymned. Entering Mr. Marrapit'sstudy he drew the blinds; upon a telegraph form set Mary's name and heraddress; pondered; then to these words compressed his great idea:
"_Go agency this morning. Get name on books. Meet you there. Think canget you situation here. George._"
"Immediately the office opens," said George; trod up to his room.
CHAPTER IV.
Mr. Marrapit Takes A Nice Warm Bath.
I.
As Mr. Marrapit had said, the disaster of the night had sped hiscomplaint.
He appeared at breakfast. No word was spoken. He ate nothing.
Once only gave he sign of interest. Midway through the meal muffledsounds came to the breakfast party. Scufflings in the hall struck anattentive light in Mr. Marrapit's eyes; slam of the front door jerkedhim in his seat; wheels, hoofs along the drive drew his gaze to thewindow. A cab rolled past--a melancholy horse; a stout driver, legs setover a corded box; a black figure, bolt upright, handkerchief to eyes.
The vision passed. Mr. Marrapit gazed upwards; his thin lips moved.
Vulgar curiosity shall not tempt us to pry into the demeanour withwhich, an hour earlier, this man had borne himself in the study withMrs. Major. Of that unhappy woman's moans, of her explanations, of thetears that poured from her eyes--bloodshot in a head most devilishlyracked by Old Tom--we shall not speak.
Margaret stretched her hand for more bread. Despite the moving scenes inwhich during the night she had travelled with her Bill, her appetitewas nothing affected. With her meals her sentimentality was upon thefriendliest terms. This girl was most gnawed by hunger when by emotionshe was most torn.
She stretched for a third slice.
Mr. Marrapit cleared his throat. The sound shot her. She caught hiseye and the glance pierced her. Her outstretched hand dropped upon thecloth, toyed with crumbs.
Mr. Marrapit said: "I perceive you are finished?"
Margaret murmured: "Yes." Her voice had a tremulous note. It is a bitterthing to lose a slice of bread-and-butter for which the whole systemimperatively calls.
"Withdraw," Mr. Marrapit commanded.
She put a lingering glance upon the loaf; wanly glided from the room.
II.
As she closed the door George prepared for his great idea. He drankdeeply of a cup of tea; drew down his cuffs; pondered them. They werecovered in pencilled notes, evolved by desperate work all that morning,to aid him when the hour was at hand.
He absorbed Note I; spoke: "I am afraid last night's events very muchdistressed you, sir--"
"They are interred. Do not resurrect them."
George hurried to Note 2. "My sympathies with you--"
"Let the dead bury the dead. Mourn not the past."
George skipped to Note 3. "What I am concerned about is the cats."
"You are?"
"Oh, sir, indeed I am. I am not demonstrative. Perhaps you have notguessed my fondness for the cats?"
"I have not."
"Believe me, it is a deep affection. When I saw that unhappy womantigh--under the influence of spirits, what was my first thought?"
"Supply the answer."
George took another glimpse at Note 3. "What was my first thought?"he repeated. "Was it distress at sight of a woman so forgetful of hermodesty? No. Was it sympathy for the cruel deception that had beenpractised upon you? Forgive me, sir, it was not." (He glanced at hisnotes.) "What, then?"
He paused brightly.
"It is your conundrum," said Mr. Marrapit. "Solve it."
George raised an impressive hand. "What, then? It was the thought of therisks that the cats I so loved had run whilst beneath the care of thiswoman."
Mr. Marrapit's groan inspirited George. He was on the right track. Hetook Note 4. "I asked myself, Who is responsible for the jeopardy inwhich these creatures have been placed? Heaven knows, I said, what theymay not have suffered. This woman may have neglected their food, she mayhave neglected their comforts. In a drunken fit she might have poisonedthem, beat them, set furious dogs upon them."
Mr. Marrapit writhed in anguish.
George acted as Note 4 bade him. He dropped his voice. "Let us trust,sir," he said, "that none of these things has taken place."
"Amen," Mr. Marrapit murmured. "Amen."
George's voice took a sterner note. "
But, I asked myself, Who isresponsible for those horrors that might have been, that may have been?"
Mr. Marrapit dropped his head upon his hands. He murmured: "I am.Peccavi."
George rose in noble calm. He read Note 5; gave it with masterly effect:"No, sir. I am."
"You!"
"I! I have not slept since I leftyou, sir. I have paced my room and" (heread a masterly note) "remorse has paced with me, step by step, hour byhour. Did I help my uncle, I asked myself, when he was selecting thisMrs. Major? No. Was I by his right hand to counsel and advise him?No. Has not my training at hospital, my intercourse with ten thousandpatients, taught me to read faces like an open book? It has. Should notI then have been by his side to help him when he selected a woman forthe post of caring for our-forgive me, sir, I said 'our'--caring for ourcats? I should. I asked myself how I could make amends. Only by beggingmy uncle's forgiveness for my indifference and by imploring him to letme help him in the choice of the next woman he selects."
A masterly pause he followed with an appeal sent forth in tones of rarebeauty: "Oh, sir, I do beg your forgiveness; I do implore you let memake amends by helping you in your next choice."
Mr. Marrapit wiped moist eyes. "I had not suspected in you thisprofundity of feeling."
George said brokenly: "I have given you no reason."
Mr. Marrapit replied on a grim tone: "Assuredly you have not."
George glanced at Note 6; fled from the danger zone.
"Where I fear the mistake was made in Mrs. Major," he hurried, "was thatshe was not a perfect lady. Our--forgive me for saying 'our'--our catsare refined cats, cats of gentle birth, of inherent delicacy. Theirattendant should be of like breeding. She should be refined, her birthshould be gentle, her feelings delicate. She should be a lady."
"You are right," Mr. Marrapit said. "As sea calleth to sea, as likecalleth to like, so would an ebb and flow of sympathy be set in motionbetween my cats and an attendant delicately born. Is that your meaning?"
George murmured in admiration: "In beautiful words that is my meaning."He paused. Now the bolt was to be shot, and he nerved himself againstthe strain. He fired: "I have a suggestion."
"Propound."
No further need for notes. George pushed back his cuffs; gulped theagitation that swelled dry and suffocating in his mouth. "This is mysuggestion. Because I have had experience in the reading of faces;because I wish to make recompense for my share in the catastrophe ofMrs. Major's presence; because--"
"You are drowning beneath reasons. Cease bubbling. Strike to thesurface."
George had not been drowning. He had been creeping gingerly fromstepping-stone to stepping-stone. The endeavour had been to come asclose as possible to the big rock upon which he intended to spring. Theless the distance of the leap the more remote the chance of slippingdown the rock and being whirled off in swift water. It is a method ofprogression by which, in the race of existence, many lives are lost.The timid will hobble from stone to stone, landing at each forward pointmore and yet more shaky in the knees. The torrent roars about them. Sickthey grow and giddy; stepping-stones are green and slimy; the effort ofbalancing cannot be unduly prolonged.
Ere ever they feel themselves ready for the leap they slip, go whirlingand drowning downstream past the stepping-stones that are calledInfirmity of Purpose. Or they may creep close enough the rock, only tofind they have delayed over their hobbling progression until the rock isalready so crowded by others who have been bolder over the stones as toshow no foothold remaining. They leap and fall back.
We are all gifted with strength sufficient for that spring; but disasterawaits him who scatters his energies in a hundred hesitating littlescrambles.
Now George sprang; poised upon that last "because."
"And because--I wish--" He sprang--"Therefore I suggest that I should goto town to-day and search every agency until I find you a lady I thinksuitable."
The thud of his landing knocked the breath out of him. In terror he laylest Mr. Marrapit's answering words should have the form of desperatefellows who would hurl him from his hold, throw him back.
"I agree," Mr. Marrapit said.
George was drawn to his feet. He could have whooped for joy.
"I agree. I have misjudged you. In this matter I lay my trust in you.Take it, tend it, nurse it; cherish it so that it may not be returned tome cold and dead. Speed forth."
"Have I a free hand?" George asked.
"Emphatically no. Every effort must be made to keep down expenses. Hereare two shillings. Render account. As to salary--"
George burst out: "Oh, she'll come for anything."
Mr. Marrapit started. "She? Whom?"
George threw a blanket to hide the hideous blunder. "Told of such a homeas this is," he explained, "a true lady would come for anything."
The blunder sank, covered. "I earnestly pray that may be so," Mr.Marrapit said. "I doubt. Rapacity and greed stalk the land. Mrs. Majorhad five-and-twenty pounds per annum. I will not go above that figure."
George told him: "Rely upon me. But, by a free hand I meant a free handas to engaging what I may think a suitable person."
"Emphatically no. You are the lower court. Sift sheep from goats. Sendsheep here to me. I am the tribunal. I will finally select."
The refusal placed a last obstacle in the path of George's scheme, buthe did not demur. Primarily he dared not. To demur might raise againthat blunder he had let escape when he had said, "She'll come foranything"; this time it might rage around and not be captured. All mightbe wrecked. Secondly he felt there to be no great need for protest. Theconfidence of having won thus far gave him courage against this finaldifficulty.
"Trust me, sir," he said.
Very soberly he paced from the room; gently closed the door; with thetread of one bearing a full heart heavily moved up the stairs.
He reached his room; ripped off sobriety. "Oh, Mary!" he exultantlycried, "if I can get you down here, old girl!"
Mr. Marrapit, meanwhile, stepped to the room where his cats lived;lovingly toyed with his pets; took the Rose of Sharon a walk in thegarden. He was in pleasant mood. Great had been the distress of thenight, but this man had enjoyed a luxurious warm bath--in crocodile'stears.
CHAPTER V.
Miss Porter Swallows A Particularly Large Sweet.
I.
Mary in the little Battersea lodgings was at breakfast when her George'stelegram arrived. She puckered over its mystery; shaped events this wayand that, but could make of them no keyhole that the message would fitand unlock.
She flew among the higher improbabilities: George, she conjectured, hadmisrepresented this stony-hearted uncle; last night had told all to Mr.Marrapit, and Mr. Marrapit had warmed to her and bade him fetch her toHerons' Holt. She ripped George's description of his uncle from aboutthe old man; dressed Mr. Marrapit in snowy locks and a benign smile;pictured him coming down the steps with outstretched hand to greet her.She heard him say, "My daughter"; she saw him draw George to her, locktheir hands; she heard him murmur, "Bless you, my children."
This was a romantic young woman. A poached egg was allowed to grow coldas she trembled over her delectable fancies.
But a glance at the telegram pulled her from these delicious flights;bumped her to earth. "_Think can get you situation here._" "Situation"drove the fatherly air from Mr. Marrapit; once more rehabilitated him asher George presented him--grim and masterly.
Further conjecture altogether drove Mr. Marrapit from the picture. Whatsituation could be offered her in the Marrapit household? Why should"here" mean Herons' Holt? It must mean at a house in the district.
Upon the magic carpet of this new thought my Mary was whirled again inan imaged paradise. She would be near her George.
High in these clouds she ran to her bedroom for her hat; but with itthere descended upon her head a new thought that again sent her topplingearthwards. Characterless, and worse than characterless, how was sheto get any such delightful post? My Mary started up the street for th
eAgency, blinking tears.
At Battersea Bridge a new thought came sweeping. She clutched on to it;held it fast. Into her tread it put a spring; to her chin gave a bravetilt. If everything failed, if of the telegram nothing came, why, atleast she had the telegram!--was making for the Agency under a directcommand from her George. The thought swelled her with confidence andcomfort. How warm a thing it was to feel that she did not face the worldalone! Her George's arm was striking for her, her George's hand waspointing a terse command. "Go to Agency." She was obeying him; shebelonged to him.
II.
Mary had intended to wait outside the Agency until her George shouldarrive and explain his mysterious message. But she was scarcely at thebuilding when Miss Ram, also arriving, accosted her--took her upstairs.Miss Ram quite naturally regarded the meeting as evidence that Mary hadcome for help. Mary, in a flutter as to George's intentions, could butmeekly follow.
In the room marked "Private," settled at her table, Miss Ram icilyopened the interview. "I have heard from Mrs. Chater. I did not expectto see you again."
Mary began: "I don't know what you have heard--"
Miss Ram stretched for a letter.
"Oh, I don't wish to," Mary cried; put out a hand that stayed theaction. "To hear all she says would again begin it all. It would be likeher voice. It would be like being with her again. Please, please, MissRam, don't tell me."
"You have your own version?"