The Shuttle: By Frances Hodgson Burnett

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

  The dazzle and brilliancy of Broadway so surrounded Penzance that he found it necessary to withdraw himself and return to his immediate surroundings, that he might recover from his sense of interested bewilderment. His eyes fell upon the stern lineaments of a Mount Dunstan in a costume of the time of Henry VIII. He was a burly gentleman, whose ruff-shortened thick neck and haughty fixedness of stare from the background of his portrait were such as seemed to eliminate him from the scheme of things, the clanging of electric cars, and the prevailing roar of the L. Confronted by his gaze, electric light advertisements of whiskies, cigars, and corsets seemed impossible.

  “He’s all right,” continued G. Selden. “I’m ready to separate myself from one fifty any time I see a new book of his. He’s got the goods with him.”

  The richness of colloquialism moved the vicar of Mount Dunstan to deep enjoyment.

  “Would you mind—I trust you won’t,” he apologised courteously, “telling me exactly the significance of those two last sentences. In think I see their meaning, but–-“

  G. Selden looked good-naturedly apologetic himself.

  “Well, it’s slang—you see,” he explained. “I guess I can’t help it. You—” flushing a trifle, but without any touch of resentment in the boyish colour, “you know what sort of a chap I am. I’m not passing myself off as anything but an ordinary business hustler, am I—just under salesman to a typewriter concern? I shouldn’t like to think I’d got in here on any bluff. I guess I sling in slang every half dozen words–-.”

  “My dear boy,” Penzance was absolutely moved and he spoke with warmth quite paternal, “Lord Mount Dunstan and I are genuinely interested—genuinely. He, because he knows New York a little, and I because I don’t. I am an elderly man, and have spent my life buried in my books in drowsy villages. Pray go on. Your American slang has frequently a delightful meaning—a fantastic hilarity, or common sense, or philosophy, hidden in its origin. In that it generally differs from English slang, which—I regret to say—is usually founded on some silly catch word. Pray go on. When you see a new book by Mr. Kipling, you are ready to `separate yourself from one fifty’ because he `has the goods with him.’ “

  G. Selden suppressed an involuntary young laugh.

  “One dollar and fifty cents is usually the price of a book,” he said. “You separate yourself from it when you take it out of your clothes—I mean out of your pocket—and pay it over the counter.”

  “There’s a careless humour in it,” said Mount Dunstan grimly. “The suggestion of parting is not half bad. On the whole, it is subtle.”

  “A great deal of it is subtle,” said Penzance, “though it all professes to be obvious. The other sentence has a commercial sound.”

  “When a man goes about selling for a concern,” said the junior assistant of Jones, “he can prove what he says, if he has the goods with him. I guess it came from that. I don’t know. I only know that when a man is a straight sort of fellow, and can show up, we say he’s got the goods with him.”

  They sat after lunch in the library, before an open window, looking into a lovely sunken garden. Blossoms were breaking out on every side, and robins, thrushes, and blackbirds chirped and trilled and whistled, as Mount Dunstan and Penzance led G. Selden on to paint further pictures for them.

  Some of them were rather painful, Penzance thought. As connected with youth, they held a touch of pathos Selden was all unconscious of. He had had a hard life, made up, since his tenth year, of struggles to earn his living. He had sold newspapers, he had run errands, he had swept out a “candy store.” He had had a few years at the public school, and a few months at a business college, to which he went at night, after work hours. He had been “up against it good and plenty,” he told them. He seemed, however, to have had a knack of making friends and of giving them “a boost along” when such a chance was possible. Both of his listeners realised that a good many people had liked him, and the reason was apparent enough to them.

  “When a chap gets sorry for himself,” he remarked once, “he’s down and out. That’s a stone-cold fact. There’s lots of hard-luck stories that you’ve got to hear anyhow. The fellow that can keep his to himself is the fellow that’s likely to get there.”

  “Get there?” the vicar murmured reflectively, and Selden chuckled again.

  “Get where he started out to go to—the White House, if you like. The fellows that have got there kept their hard-luck stories quiet, I bet. Guess most of ‘em had plenty during election, if they were the kind to lie awake sobbing on their pillows because their feelings were hurt.”

  He had never been sorry for himself, it was evident, though it must be admitted that there were moments when the elderly English clergyman, whose most serious encounters had been annoying interviews with cottagers of disrespectful manner, rather shuddered as he heard his simple recital of days when he had tramped street after street, carrying his catalogue with him, and trying to tell his story of the Delkoff to frantically busy men who were driven mad by the importunate sight of him, to worried, ill-tempered ones who broke into fury when they heard his voice, and to savage brutes who were only restrained by law from kicking him into the street.

  “You’ve got to take it, if you don’t want to lose your job. Some of them’s as tired as you are. Sometimes, if you can give ‘em a jolly and make ‘em laugh, they’ll listen, and you may unload a machine. But it’s no merry jest just at first— particularly in bad weather. The first five weeks I was with the Delkoff I never made a sale. Had to live on my ten per, and that’s pretty hard in New York. Three and a half for your hall bedroom, and the rest for your hash and shoes. But I held on, and gradually luck began to turn, and I began not to care so much when a man gave it to me hot.”

  The vicar of Mount Dunstan had never heard of the “hall bedroom” as an institution. A dozen unconscious sentences placed it before his mental vision. He thought it horribly touching. A narrow room at the back of a cheap lodging house, a bed, a strip of carpet, a washstand—this the sole refuge of a male human creature, in the flood tide of youth, no more than this to come back to nightly, footsore and resentful of soul, after a day’s tramp spent in forcing himself and his wares on people who did not want him or them, and who found infinite variety in the forcefulness of their method of saying so.

  “What you know, when you go into a place, is that nobody wants to see you, and no one will let you talk if they can help it. The only thing is to get in and rattle off your stunt before you can be fired out.”

  Sometimes at first he had gone back at night to the hall bedroom, and sat on the edge of the narrow bed, swinging his feet, and asking himself how long he could hold out. But he had held out, and evidently developed into a good salesman, being bold and of imperturbable good spirits and temper, and not troubled by hypersensitiveness. Hearing of the “hall bedroom,” the coldness of it in winter, and the breathless heat in summer, the utter loneliness of it at all times and seasons, one could not have felt surprise if the grown-up lad doomed to its narrowness as home had been drawn into the electric-lighted gaiety of Broadway, and being caught in its maelstrom, had been sucked under to its lowest depths. But it was to be observed that G. Selden had a clear eye, and a healthy skin, and a healthy young laugh yet, which were all wonderfully to his credit, and added enormously to one’s liking for him.

  “Do you use a typewriter?” he said at last to Mr. Penzance. “It would cut out half your work with your sermons. If you do use one, I’d just like to call your attention to the Delkoff. It’s the most up-to-date machine on the market to-day,” drawing out the catalogue.

  “I do not use one, and I am extremely sorry to say that I could not afford to buy one,” said Mr. Penzance with considerate courtesy, “but do tell me about it. I am afraid I never saw a typewriter.”

  It was the most hospitable thing he could have done, and was of the tact of courts. He arranged his pince nez, and taking the catalogue, applied himself to it. G. Selden’s soul warmed within him. To be lis
tened to like this. To be treated as a gentleman by a gentleman—by “a fine old swell like this—Hully gee!”

  “This isn’t what I’m used to,” he said with genuine enjoyment. “It doesn’t matter, your not being ready to buy now. You may be sometime, or you may run up against someone who is. Little Willie’s always ready to say his piece.”

  He poured it forth with glee—the improved mechanical appliances, the cuts in the catalogue, the platen roller, the ribbon switch, the twenty-six yards of red or blue typing, the fifty per cent. saving in ribbon expenditure alone, the new basket shift, the stationary carriage, the tabulator, the superiority to all other typewriting machines—the price one hundred dollars without discount. And both Mount Dunstan and Mr. Penzance listened entranced, examined cuts in the catalogue, asked questions, and in fact ended by finding that they must repress an actual desire to possess the luxury. The joy their attitude bestowed upon Selden was the thing he would feel gave the finishing touch to the hours which he would recall to the end of his days as the “time of his life.” Yes, by gee! he was having “the time of his life.”

  Later he found himself feeling—as Miss Vanderpoel had felt—rather as if the whole thing was a dream. This came upon him when, with Mount Dunstan and Penzance, he walked through the park and the curiously beautiful old gardens. The lovely, soundless quiet, broken into only by bird notes, or his companions’ voices, had an extraordinary effect on him.

  “It’s so still you can hear it,” he said once, stopping in a velvet, moss-covered path. “Seems like you’ve got quiet shut up here, and you’ve turned it on till the air’s thick with it. Good Lord, think of little old Broadway keeping it up, and the L whizzing and thundering along every three minutes, just the same, while we’re standing here! You can’t believe it.”

  It would have gone hard with him to describe to them the value of his enjoyment. Again and again there came back to him the memory of the grandmother who wore the black net cap trimmed with purple ribbons. Apparently she had remained to the last almost contumaciously British. She had kept photographs of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort on her bedroom mantelpiece, and had made caustic, international comparisons. But she had seen places like this, and her stories became realities to him now. But she had never thought of the possibility of any chance of his being shown about by the lord of the manor himself—lunching, by gee! and talking to them about typewriters. He vaguely knew that if the grandmother had not emigrated, and he had been born in Dunstan village, he would naturally have touched his forehead to Mount Dunstan and the vicar when they passed him in the road, and conversation between them would have been an unlikely thing. Somehow things had been changed by Destiny— perhaps for the whole of them, as years had passed.

  What he felt when he stood in the picture gallery neither of his companions could at first guess. He ceased to talk, and wandered silently about. Secretly he found himself a trifle awed by being looked down upon by the unchanging eyes of men in strange, rich garments—in corslet, ruff, and doublet, velvet, powder, curled love locks, brocade and lace. The face of long-dead loveliness smiled out from its canvas, or withheld itself haughtily from his salesman’s gaze. Wonderful bare white shoulders, and bosoms clasped with gems or flowers and lace, defied him to recall any treasures of Broadway to compare with them. Elderly dames, garbed in stiff splendour, held stiff, unsympathetic inquiry in their eyes, as they looked back upon him. What exactly was a thirty shilling bicycle suit doing there? In the Delkoff, plainly none were interested. A pretty, masquerading shepherdess, with a lamb and a crook, seemed to laugh at him from under her broad beribboned straw hat. After looking at her for a minute or so, he gave a half laugh himself—but it was an awkward one.

  “She’s a looker,” he remarked. “They’re a lot of them lookers—not all—but a fair show–-“

  “A looker,” translated Mount Dunstan in a low voice to Penzance, “means, I believe, a young women with good looks—a beauty.”

  “Yes, she IS a looker, by gee,” said G. Selden, “but— but—” the awkward half laugh, taking on a depressed touch of sheepishness, “she makes me feel ‘way off—they all do.”

  That was it. Surrounded by them, he was fascinated but not cheered. They were all so smilingly, or disdainfully, or indifferently unconscious of the existence of the human thing of his class. His aspect, his life, and his desires were as remote as those of prehistoric man. His Broadway, his L railroad, his Delkoff—what were they where did they come into the scheme of the Universe? They silently gazed and lightly smiled or frowned THROUGH him as he stood. He was probably not in the least aware that he rather loudly sighed.

  “Yes,” he said, “they make me feel ‘way off. I’m not in it. But she is a looker. Get onto that dimple in her cheek.”

  Mount Dunstan and Penzance spent the afternoon in doing their best for him. He was well worth it. Mr. Penzance was filled with delight, and saturated with the atmosphere of New York.

  “I feel,” he said, softly polishing his eyeglasses and almost affectionately smiling, “I really feel as if I had been walking down Broadway or Fifth Avenue. I believe that I might find my way to—well, suppose we say Weber & Field’s,” and G. Selden shouted with glee.

  Never before, in fact, had he felt his heart so warmed by spontaneous affection as it was by this elderly, somewhat bald and thin-faced clergyman of the Church of England. This he had never seen before. Without the trained subtlety to have explained to himself the finely sweet and simply gracious deeps of it, he was moved and uplifted. He was glad he had “come across” it, he felt a vague regret at passing on his way, and leaving it behind. He would have liked to feel that perhaps he might come back. He would have liked to present him with a Delkoff, and teach him how to run it. He had delighted in Mount Dunstan, and rejoiced in him, but he had rather fallen in love with Penzance. Certain American doubts he had had of the solidity and permanency of England’s position and power were somewhat modified. When fellows like these two stood at the first rank, little old England was a pretty safe proposition.

  After they had given him tea among the scents and songs of the sunken garden outside the library window, they set him on his way. The shadows were lengthening and the sunlight falling in deepening gold when they walked up the avenue and shook hands with him at the big entrance gates.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “you’ve treated me grand—as fine as silk, and it won’t be like Little Willie to forget it. When I go back to New York it’ll be all I can do to keep from getting the swell head and bragging about it. I’ve enjoyed myself down to the ground, every minute. I’m not the kind of fellow to be likely to be able to pay you back your kindness, but, hully gee! if I could I’d do it to beat the band. Good-bye, gentlemen—and thank you—thank you.”

  Across which one of their minds passed the thought that the sound of the hollow impact of a trotting horse’s hoofs on the road, which each that moment became conscious of hearing was the sound of the advancing foot of Fate? It crossed no mind among the three. There was no reason why it should. And yet at that moment the meaning of the regular, stirring sound was a fateful thing.

  “Someone on horseback,” said Penzance.

  He had scarcely spoken before round the curve of the road she came. A finely slender and spiritedly erect girl’s figure, upon a satin-skinned bright chestnut with a thoroughbred gait, a smart groom riding behind her. She came towards them, was abreast them, looked at Mount Dunstan, a smiling dimple near her lip as she returned his quick salute.

  “Miss Vanderpoel,” he said low to the vicar, “Lady Anstruther’s sister.”

  Mr. Penzance, replacing his own hat, looked after her with surprised pleasure.

  “Really,” he exclaimed, “Miss Vanderpoel! What a fine girl! How unusually handsome!”

  Selden turned with a gasp of delighted, amazed recognition.

  “Miss Vanderpoel,” he burst forth, “Reuben Vanderpoel’s daughter! The one that’s over here visiting her sister. Is it that one—su
re?”

  “Yes,” from Mount Dunstan without fervour. “Lady Anstruthers lives at Stornham, about six miles from here.”

  “Gee,” with feverish regret. “If her father was there, and I could get next to him, my fortune would be made.”

  “Should you,” ventured Penzance politely, “endeavour to sell him a typewriter?”

  “A typewriter! Holy smoke! I’d try to sell him ten thousand. A fellow like that syndicates the world. If I could get next to him–-” and he mounted his bicycle with a laugh.

  “Get next,” murmured Penzance.

  “Get on the good side of him,” Mount Dunstan murmured in reply.

  “So long, gentlemen, good-bye, and thank you again,” called G. Selden as he wheeled off, and was carried soundlessly down the golden road.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE POLITICAL ECONOMY OF STORNHAM

  The satin-skinned chestnut was one of the new horses now standing in the Stornham stables. There were several of them—a pair for the landau, saddle horses, smart young cobs for phaeton or dog cart, a pony for Ughtred—the animals necessary at such a place at Stornham. The stables themselves had been quickly put in order, grooms and stable boys kept them as they had not been kept for years. The men learned in a week’s time that their work could not be done too well. There were new carriages as well as horses. They had come from London after Lady Anstruthers and her sister returned from town. The horses had been brought down by their grooms—immensely looked after, blanketed, hooded, and altogether cared for as if they were visiting dukes and duchesses. They were all fine, handsome, carefully chosen creatures. When they danced and sidled through the village on their way to the Court, they created a sensation. Whosoever had chosen them had known his business. The older vehicles had been repaired in the village by Tread, and did him credit. Fox had also done his work well.

  Plenty more of it had come into their work-shops. Tools to be used on the estate, garden implements, wheelbarrows, lawn rollers, things needed about the house, stables, and cottages, were to be attended to. The church roof was being repaired. Taking all these things and the “doing up” of the Court itself, there was more work than the village could manage, and carpenters, bricklayers, and decorators were necessarily brought from other places. Still Joe Buttle and Sim Soames were allowed to lead in all such things as lay within their capabilities. It was they who made such a splendid job of the entrance gates and the lodges. It was astonishing how much was done, and how the sense of life in the air—the work of resulting prosperity, made men begin to tread with less listless steps as they went to and from their labour. In the cottages things were being done which made downcast women bestir themselves and look less slatternly. Leaks mended here, windows there, the hopeless copper in the tiny washhouse replaced by a new one, chimneys cured of the habit of smoking, a clean, flowered paper put on a wall, a coat of whitewash— they were small matters, but produced great effect.