Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  “Of course, mamma — as the hero of the match!”

  “Elaine,” said Mrs. M’Ilwraith at last (it was just as they were going), “send Mr. Nettleship a card this evening — for Friday, you know!”

  II.

  So many men get a hundred runs in the University match, that it would be superfluous to describe the variety of congratulations — from excited clergymen and hardened Old Blues, from hoary veterans and beardless boys — which assailed Nettleship in the pavilion. Of late years “centuries” in first-class cricket have become so terribly common, and at least one century in the University match so entirely inevitable, that Nettleship was rather glad than otherwise to have fallen just short of the commonplace three figures. He had achieved a record all to himself, for ninety-nine is the rarest of scores, and has never before or since been made in the Oxford and Cambridge matches. Indeed, Nettleship would have been perfectly contented but for the tiresome expressions of sympathy, on account of that one run short, which mingled largely with the praises buzzing in his ears. The popular commiseration savoured of strained sentiment, for it could not have been more demonstrative if he had got no runs at all, and it bored Nettleship supremely; in fact, it had a good deal to do with his leaving the ground when he did, half an hour before play ceased, there being no danger of Oxford having to field again that evening.

  He tried to get away unobserved; but the penalties of a public personality are inexorable, and the invitations and questions that pelted him between the pavilion and the gates were a little trying. Nettleship refused the invitations, ignored the questions, and eventually rattled off alone in a hansom.

  Speeding towards the City in that hansom, the young man underwent a swift transfiguration. His head drooped in dejection, his pointed features grew sensibly sharper, his eyes filled with bitterness; and an ugly distortion — a mere parody of a smile, and a poor one — froze upon his lips. Two pictures, both of himself, were in his mind. Lord’s cricket-ground was the background of the one, an ill-furnished room in the Temple that of the other. His back was turned upon the first, his face was set towards the second; and the iron was deep in his soul. He had carried off the honours of this afternoon pretty coolly, if not (from purely physical causes) exactly in cold blood; yet, looking at him now, one would have taken him for a young man denied all his life the happiness of a single triumphal hour. In point of fact, Nettleship was to be pitied; but not at his own computation. For young men are the worst judges of their own hardships; and this one was driving to chambers in the Temple, not to a garret — driving, too, not walking — and had an income upon which it was quite possible to live in tolerable comfort, dress decently, and occasionally even to drink wine at meals. What was impossible for Nettleship was to live as he had been accustomed to live; as he considered Nature had intended him to live from the first; as all the men he had been playing with to-day lived. But, misery being purely a matter of comparison, even this qualified form of it was in Nettleship’s case considerable, not to say grievous.

  The hansom was half-way to the Temple when, apparently on a sudden impulse, the fare knocked violently with his knuckles upon the trap overhead. A square of blue sky was stamped for a moment in the roof of the cab, and then hidden by a sun-flayed ear and whiskered cheek. Into that ear Nettleship pronounced the name of a celebrated emporium of fashionable virtu and saleable conceits in metal and fabric. Three minutes later he was in the artistic precincts of the shop itself, asking for the manager by name, and giving his own. The manager came forward at once.

  “Ah!” said he, “about your curios; follow me, sir.”

  Nettleship did so. They paused before a table, artistic in itself, upon which a number of Asiatic curios were effectively arranged.

  “Here they are, sir, and in advantageous position, as I think you will admit. But I am sorry to say their number is undiminished — undiminished, sir, by so much as a single spear-head. I told you my fears frankly, I think, at the first; so far, I regret to say, they have been realised. There is no sale for curios now. They have gone out. They are not the Craze, sir. You know what the Craze is now, sir; and two Crazes cannot be co-existent. I am perfectly frank — they must be done to death one at a time, sir, seniores priores.” Nettleship smiled. “Now, a year ago it would have been different. We would have speculated in these things then, sir — for they are very pretty things indeed, Mr. Nettleship — we would have nothing to do with them at all, not even on the present terms, if they were not such exceedingly pretty things. But; as it is, we dare not speculate in them; as it is, the speculation must be yours, sir.”

  The man was voluble, and knew his business. Considering everything, there was a pinch of humour in the situation. Nettleship smiled again, not entirely in bitterness.

  “There has been no inquiry at all about the things, then?” said Nettleship, preparing to leave the shop.

  “None to my knowledge. But stay: I will make sure before you go.”

  The manager left him. In less than a minute he returned.

  “There has been an inquiry, after all — and a good deal of interest shown — about this.” He took up a small bronze water-vase, delicately traced with strange figures. It was the one thing in his collection that Nettleship had supposed to be of real value, though he had kept tobacco in it until the day it occurred to him to make money of his curios.

  “But,” said Nettleship, “nothing came of it, you say?”

  “No, because we named your price. It will never go at fifty guineas, sir; it’s too tall altogether.”

  Nettleship looked coldly at the man of business: he had a keen eye for Crazes, no doubt, but what was he to know about the antique art of India? On the other hand, Nettleship himself was completely ignorant of that subject. He had only some chance acquaintance’s word for it, out in India, that this little vase was a valuable property. Nettleship looked at the man of business very coldly indeed.

  “Look here,” he said slowly, and in the preternaturally calm tones in which one might warn a fellow-creature of one’s immediate intention of throwing him through the window. “Look here: next time any one asks, let it go for thirty!”

  Without another word he stalked from the shop, The hansom rattled on until it stopped at Middle Temple Lane. There Nettleship got out, walked into Brick Court, and up the stone stairs to his chambers. For the next hour he lounged in a chair, thinking the vagrant thoughts that are encouraged, if not inspired, by the smoking of several cigarettes at a sitting. Naturally, in his case, they were not the pleasantest thoughts in the world; yet, when he got up and stretched himself, and went out to dine, his mood had improved. It was then eight o’clock. He returned at five minutes to nine; so that his dinner, wherever he got it, could not have been a very elaborate affair. Dropping once more into his armchair, he abandoned himself to further thought. Possibly his thoughts were of a more concentrated character than before, for a single cigarette sustained them. The long summer twilight went through all its mellow gradations, and finally deepened into complete darkness, before the young man at last rose and lit the lamp. This done, he carried the lamp to a pedestal desk, and sitting down at the desk drew up his chair close. There was now an appearance of settled purpose in his manner, and his face was full of cool determination; it wore, in fact, the identical expression which the Cambridge bowlers of that year have such good reason to remember.

  Nettleship had not sat down to write, however. Unlocking a drawer in the left-hand pedestal, he took out of it handfuls of photographs of various sizes, which he heaped together on the flat part of the desk, close to the lamp. Without more ado he proceeded deliberately to sort the photographs, throwing most of them carelessly on one side, but picking out one in twenty, or so, and placing it carefully on the slope in front of him. So might the modern Paris approach his invidious task, without embarrassment, the fatal apple already packed up and ticketed for the Parcels Post; for the photographs were nearly all of the other sex. But there were evidences that this was no selection
of the fairest. In the first place, the greatest beauties of the civilised world were tossed aside without a moment’s thought; in the second, the selected photographs were all of one woman, in the various stages of her girlhood. The conclusion was manifestly foregone. The chosen woman was Elaine M’Ilwraith.

  Her photographs he now arranged in one long row on the slope of the desk, in chronological order, from left to right. To the disinterested philosopher the series would have offered interesting illustrations of the respective improvements in photography and the female dress during late years, quite apart from the graduated coming forth of a most attractive flower of girlhood. Nettle ship’s reflections, however, were to the point. He shifted the lamp from the left side of the desk to the right, and turned up the wick. The strongest rays now fell upon the latest photographs. Upon these young Nettleship gazed long and thoughtfully. The act was sentimental; but the expression of the actor was nothing of the kind. It was not even a tender expression; nor was it, on the other hand, coldly calculating — altogether; it was merely thoughtful. Edward Nettleship was making up his mind.

  He did make up his mind at last, and put together the photographs of Elaine, and restored them to the drawer — where, by the way, they no longer kept theatrical company, or any company but their own. One of Elaine’s photographs, however — the latest and the best — was kept out. It was a full-length portrait in fancy dress, with an expansive hat, a milk-pail, a milking-stool, and other pretty properties; and this really charming picture was stuck up forthwith on the chimneypiece.

  Nettleship had made up his mind at last, once and for all, and for good. The words upon his lips as he blew out the lamp were indicative of an uncompromising attitude.

  “She would have liked it well enough once,” he said; “she will have to lump it now. The fool of a woman!”

  But this, as it happened, was scarcely kind to the lady alluded to, seeing that an invitation card for her “At Home” on Friday was even then gravitating towards Nettleship’s letter-box.

  III.

  “WHERE did this come from?” said Elaine to Enid.

  It was Friday evening, at the new house in Sussex Square. The first carriage might arrive at any moment. As yet the two girls had the drawing-room to themselves, and were delicately disarranging the room in a truly enlightened spirit; though there was in it a newness, a stiffness, and a pervading sense of Tottenham Court Road that only the hand of time could soften. The subject of Elaine’s inquiry, however, whencesoever it had come, was not — it was safe to bet — of that thoroughfare. And indeed, as Enid explained, it had come from quite another quarter, that afternoon, on approval.

  “Approval!” said Elaine, with a slight and pardonable sneer. “Does that mean that it is to be paraded to-night, and to-morrow returned as unsuitable? It has happened before, you know.”

  “Perhaps it is to happen again. I don’t know. I only know that, as we drove back from the Park, mamma declared she must get something pretty for the room; so we went to Labrano’s, and this little oddity took her fancy. It is pretty, isn’t it? — and it looks well by itself on this absurd little table. Well, you know mamma’s way — her town way. I heard her say, ‘Mr. M’Ilwraith is a great judge of Eastern work — quite his hobby, in fact — but it seems an enormous price. I really cannot decide until he sees it.’ So it ended in our bringing it away with us in the carriage.”

  “Hobby, indeed!” cried Elaine scornfully. “When had papa any hobby but one? But it appears to be an article in the London creed — at least, in mamma’s interpretation of it — to tell stories whenever you possibly can. I must say, I congratulate her on the ease with which she embraces the new faith. At least she has the courage of her inventions.”

  “Hasn’t she! But let us leave the vase where it is, for it is really very pretty—”

  “And no doubt valuable; which makes it meaner still. Yes, it can stay there — but, hush!”

  For at that moment Mr. M’Ilwraith entered the room. As his daughter had truly observed, he had but one hobby — and that was political, which made him a dangerous man to meet in quiet corners. He talked of nothing else. Allowances could perhaps be made for him on the plea that he was so very new to St. Stephen’s; but those best acquainted with him found it hard to make them. A new Bill, which affected Mr, M’Ilwraith’s sympathies as a politician no less than his personal interests as an employer of labour, was then intermittently before the House; and, naturally enough, his head was full of it. It was a fine head, a magnificent head, but he ran fearful risks with it: it was quite distended with that Bill. Even now, in the absence of men of his own weight, the poltroon fell upon his defenceless daughters, and assaulted them with his last night’s speech. No. They had not read it. They confessed they had not, and hung their heads.

  “Ah!” said Mr. M’Ilwraith kindly. “No time, I see; an exceptional day, I suppose. Well, well, we’ll say no more about it at present. The Times is still intact, I daresay; you have laid it aside for a quiet time perhaps. Good! You will find the report of my speech full — satisfactorily full, I may say — though not verbatim. I could wish it had been verbatim. But you will read it, girls, before you go to bed, and we will discuss it at breakfast; when I shall be able to give you, word for word — for my memory is luckily a good one — all that they saw necessary to exclude.”

  “You are not going to-night, papa?” Enid ventured.

  “To the House? Yes, late — in time for the division. I must do that in deference to my constituents. Personally, however, there is nothing of any interest to me going on to-night. What is the division about, you ask, Elaine? Ireland, my girl, Ireland. Now, what is far more important in my eyes—”

  Mr. M’Ilwraith took his foot from the stirrup, in the very act of remounting, on the entrance, at this point, of his wife. His wife’s want of appreciation or sympathy where his nearest and dearest projects were concerned was notorious, and damaging to the dignity of the senator. She had even been known (while her husband was speaking) to point to one of her ears and snap her fingers at the other, simultaneously, in pantomimic illustration of the velocity with which his best periods passed in and out of her cranium. There was no occasion, however, to stable the trusty animal just yet. Already there were sounds upon the stairs, and old M’Ilwraith smelt the blood of Englishmen to whom resistance and escape would be alike impossible.

  Once started, the influx of guests seemed never to abate during the remainder of the evening. Following the very oldest precedents, Mrs. M’Ilwraith had laid herself out for lions, and not without success. There were some entirely tame lions from Westminster, colleagues of her husband — whom they sedulously shunned all the evening. There was the wife of an illustrious lion — Professor Josling — who regretted that that eminent antiquary could not himself be present. There was a fearful and wonderful lion from the Chinese Legation, who was so scandalously guyed, behind his back, by the well-bred Enoch Arden (instigated by the bold Launcelot), that Thomas, the page, disgraced himself with the coffee-tray, and received notice that very night Then there was the athletic lion captured at Lord’s, a literary cub from Fleet Street, and an artistic whelp from Chelsea. To crown all, a professional lion — with a high-class satirical entertainment, free from vulgarity — was due at eleven.

  As the evening advanced, Mrs. M’Ilwraith might have been seen moving about among the nobodies of her party and whispering into their private ears interesting personalities concerning the somebodies. For the time being, in fact, she became a kind of verbal paragraphist of the evening press; and as she was, if possible, rather more inaccurate than her prototype, the listener was either distracted or entertained, according to his — or, more generally, her — intelligence.

  “That, my dear Mrs. Smythe, is Mrs. Josling, wife of the celebrated antiquary. He is busy with the proofs of a new book, so was prevented from coming — much to his disgust, he sends me word. Proofs, you know — so like these terrible professors — they are for ever proving what nobody wa
nts to know, you know!... And that is our delightful oddity, Mr. Ling-Lung — Chinese Embassy, you know. Shall I introduce you? No? Then let me whisper: he came in those lovely garments at my special request!... You know Mr. Nettleship, of course? No? Dear me, I thought everybody knew Mr. Nettleship. He is the champion cricketer of England; bowled ninety-nine of the Cambridge wickets at Lord’s the other day. Ninety-nine, poor man! So near and yet so far! We had a carriage on the ground, and he lunched with us during the match, you know.”

  Having thus displayed her knowledge of the national game, Mrs. M’Ilwraith raised her pince-nez with a view to pointing out its doughty exponent He was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. M’Ilwraith steered a zigzag course down the room, but could not find him. Elaine was missing too. A sudden dread entered the lady’s breast.

  The windows of the room were tall, narrow, three in number, and opened each upon a small balcony of the most useless type. They were wide open on account of the excessively warm weather; for the same reason the blinds were up; and soft Oriental curtains (from Labrano’s) alone — and but partially — excluded the zephyrs of Sussex Square. Naturally enough, among the silky fabrics of window number three, innocently contemplating the night, Mrs. M’Ilwraith discovered the missing pair. Their backs, of course, were alone presented; but Mrs. M’Ilwraith instantly identified Elaine’s dress, and tapped her daughter on the shoulder with her fan, in unconscious imitation of the business between the smart detective and the discomfited villain in the fifth act.

  Elaine started, of course; nevertheless, the radiance could not and would not at once forsake her face when she turned and confronted her mother. Mrs. M’Ilwraith spoke not a word. Her blue eyes glittered upon Nettle-ship’s cool face for one instant; the next, she turned, as abruptly as was possible in a woman of her size, and sailed away with her prize. The little incident was quickly over, and attracted no notice, owing to forethought in the choice of windows.