by Unknown
As he did so there came from down the road the brisk tramp of feet and a cheerful whistling of “The Wearing of the Green.” It is a lugubrious song as a rule, but, as rendered by Officer Keating returning home with theatre tickets, it had all the joyousness of a march-tune.
Every muscle in Mr. Buffin’s body stiffened. He gripped his stick and waited. The road was deserted. In another moment….
And then, from nowhere, dark indistinct forms darted out like rats. The whistling stopped in the middle of a bar. A deep-chested oath rang out, and then a confused medley of sound, the rasping of feet, a growling almost canine, a sharp yelp, gasps, and over all the vast voice of Officer Keating threatening slaughter.
For a moment Mr. Buffin stood incapable of motion. The thing had been so sudden, so unexpected. And then, as he realised what was happening, there swept over him in a wave a sense of intolerable injustice. It is not easy to describe his emotions, but they resembled most nearly those of an inventor whose patent has been infringed, or an author whose idea has been stolen. For weeks—and weeks that had seemed like years—he had marked down Officer Keating for his prey. For weeks he had tortured a mind all unused to thinking into providing him with schemes for accomplishing his end. He had outraged his nature by being civil to a policeman. He had risked his life by incurring the suspicions of Sid Marks. He had bought a stick. And he had waited in the cold till his face was blue and his feet blocks of ice. And now … now … after all this … a crowd of irresponsible strangers, with no rights in the man whatsoever probably, if the truth were known, filled with mere ignoble desire for his small change, had dared to rush in and jump his claim before his very eyes.
With one passionate cry, Mr. Buffin, forgetting his frozen feet, lifted his stick, and galloped down the road to protect his property….
“That’s the stuff,” said a voice. “Pour some more into him, Jerry.”
Mr. Buffin opened his eyes. A familiar taste was in his mouth. Somebody of liberal ideas seemed to be pouring whisky down his throat. Could this be Heaven? He raised his head, and a sharp pain shot through it. And with the pain came recollection. He remembered now, dimly, as if it had all happened in another life, the mad rush down the road, the momentary pause in the conflict, and then its noisy renewal on a more impressive scale. He remembered striking out left and right with his stick. He remembered the cries of the wounded, the pain of his frozen feet, and finally the crash of something hard and heavy on his head.
He sat up, and found himself the centre of a little crowd. There was Officer Keating, dishevelled but intact; three other policemen, one of whom was kneeling by his side with a small bottle in his hand; and, in the grip of the two were standing two youths.
One was Otto the Sausage; the other was Rabbit Butler.
The kneeling policeman was proffering the bottle once more. Mr. Buffin snatched at it. He felt that it was just what at that moment he needed most.
He did what he could. The magistrate asked for his evidence. He said he had none. He said he thought there must be some mistake. With a twisted smile in the direction of the prisoners, he said that he did not remember having seen either of them at the combat. He didn’t believe they were there at all. He didn’t believe they were capable of such a thing. If there was one man who was less likely to assault a policeman than Otto the Sausage, it was Rabbit Butler. The Bench reminded him that both these innocents had actually been discovered in Officer Keating’s grasp. Mr. Buffin smiled a harassed smile, and wiped a drop of perspiration from his brow.
Officer Keating was enthusiastic. He described the affair from start to finish. But for Mr. Buffin he would have been killed. But for Mr. Buffin there would have been no prisoners in court that day. The world was full of men with more or less golden hearts, but there was only one Mr. Buffin. Might he shake hands with Mr. Buffin?
The magistrate ruled that he might. More, he would shake hands with him himself. Summoning Mr. Buffin behind his desk, he proceeded to do so. If there were more men like Mr. Buffin, London would be a better place. It was the occasional discovery in our midst of ethereal natures like that of Mr. Buffin which made one so confident for the future of the race.
The paragon shuffled out. It was bright and sunny in the street, but in Mr. Buffin’s heart there was no sunlight. He was not a quick thinker, but he had come quite swiftly to the conclusion that London was no longer the place for him. Sid Marks had been in court chewing a straw and listening with grave attention to the evidence, and for one moment Mr. Buffin had happened to catch his eye. No medical testimony as to the unhealthiness of London could have moved him more.
Once round the corner, he ran. It hurt his head to run, but there were things behind him that could hurt his head more than running.
At the entrance to the Tube he stopped. To leave the locality he must have money. He felt in his pockets. Slowly, one by one, he pulled forth his little valuables. His knife … his revolver … the magistrate’s gold watch … He inspected them sadly. They must all go.
He went into a pawnbroker’s shop at the corner of the street. A few moments later, with money in his pockets, he dived into the Tube.
THE BEST SAUCE
Eve Hendrie sat up in bed. For two hours she had been trying to get to sleep, but without success. Never in her life had she felt more wakeful.
There were two reasons for this. Her mind was disturbed, and she was very hungry. Neither sensation was novel to her. Since first she had become paid companion to Mrs. Rastall-Retford there had hardly been a moment when she had not been hungry. Some time before Mrs. Rastall-Retford’s doctor had recommended to that lady a Spartan diet, and in this Eve, as companion, had unwillingly to share. It was not pleasant for either of them, but at least Mrs. Rastall-Retford had the knowledge that she had earned it by years of honest self-indulgence. Eve had not that consolation.
Meagre fare, moreover, had the effect of accentuating Mrs. Rastall-Retford’s always rather pronounced irritability. She was a massive lady, with a prominent forehead, some half-dozen chins, and a manner towards those in her employment which would have been resented in a second mate by the crew of a Western ocean tramp. Even at her best she was no ray of sunshine about the house. And since the beginning of the self-denying ordinance she had been at her worst.
But it was not depression induced by her employer that was disturbing Eve. That was a permanent evil. What was agitating her so extremely tonight was the unexpected arrival of Peter Rayner.
It was Eve’s practice to tell herself several times a day that she had no sentiment for Peter Rayner but dislike. She did not attempt to defend her attitude logically, but nevertheless she clung to it, and tonight, when he entered the drawing-room, she had endeavoured to convey by her manner that it was only with the greatest difficulty that she remembered him at all, and that, having accomplished that feat, she now intended to forget him again immediately. And he had grinned a cheerful, affectionate grin, and beamed on her without a break till bedtime.
Before coming as companion to Mrs. Rastall-Retford Eve had been governess to Hildebrand, aged six, the son of a Mrs. Elphinstone. It had been, on the whole, a comfortable situation. She had not liked Mrs. Elphinstone, but Hildebrand had been docile, and altogether life was quite smooth and pleasant until Mrs. Elphinstone’s brother came for a visit. Peter Rayner was that brother.
There is a type of man who makes love with the secrecy and sheepish reserve of a cowboy shooting up a Wild West saloon. To this class Peter belonged. He fell in love with Eve at sight, and if, at the end of the first day, there was anyone in the house who was not aware of it, it was only Hildebrand, aged six. And even Hildebrand must have had his suspicions.
Mrs. Elphinstone was among the first to become aware of it. For two days, frostily silent and gimlet-like as to the eye, she observed Peter’s hurricane wooing from afar; then she acted. Peter she sent to London, pacifying him with an invitation to return to the house in the following week. This done, she proceeded to eliminate Eve. In
the course of the parting interview she expressed herself perhaps a little less guardedly than was either just or considerate; and Eve, flushed and at war with the whole race of Rayners, departed that afternoon to seek a situation elsewhere. She had found it at the house of Mrs. Rastall-Retford.
And now this evening, as she sat in the drawing-room playing the piano to her employer, in had walked the latter’s son, a tall, nervous young man, perpetually clearing his throat and fiddling with a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, with the announcement that he had brought his friend, Mr. Rayner, to spend a few days in the old home.
Eve could still see the look on Peter’s face as, having shaken hands with his hostess, he turned to her. It was the look of the cowboy who, his weary ride over, sees through the dusk the friendly gleam of the saloon windows, and with a happy sigh reaches for his revolver. There could be no two meanings to that look. It said, as clearly as if he had shouted it, that this was no accidental meeting; that he had tracked her down and proposed to resume matters at the point where they had left off.
Eve was indignant. It was abominable that he should pursue her in this way. She sat thinking how abominable it was for five minutes; and then it suddenly struck her that she was hungrier than ever. She had forgotten her material troubles for the moment. It seemed to her now that she was quite faint with hunger.
A cuckoo clock outside the door struck one. And, as it did so, it came to Eve that on the sideboard in the dining-room there were biscuits.
A moment later she was creeping softly down the stairs.
It was dark and ghostly on the stairs. The house was full of noises. She was glad when she reached the dining-room. It would be pleasant to switch on the light. She pushed open the door, and uttered a cry. The light was already switched on, and at the table, his back to her, was a man.
There was no time for flight. He must have heard the door open. In another moment he would turn and spring.
She spoke tremulously.
“Don’t—don’t move. I’m pointing a pistol at you.”
The man did not move.
“Foolish child!” he said, indulgently. “Suppose it went off!”
She uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“You! What are you doing here, Mr. Rayner?”
She moved into the room, and her relief changed swiftly into indignation. On the table were half a chicken, a loaf, some cold potatoes, and a bottle of beer.
“I’m eating, thank goodness!” said Peter, helping himself to a cold potato. “I had begun to think I never should again.”
“Eating!”
“Eating. I know a man of sensibility and refinement ought to shrink from raiding his hostess’s larder in the small hours, but hunger’s death to the finer feelings. It’s the solar plexus punch which puts one’s better self down and out for the count of ten. I am a large and healthy young man, and, believe me, I need this little snack. I need it badly. May I cut you a slice of chicken?”
She could hardly bear to look at it, but pride gave her strength.
“No,” she snapped.
“You’re sure? Poor little thing; I know you’re half starved.”
Eve stamped.
“How dare you speak to me like that, Mr. Rayner?”
He drank bottled beer thoughtfully.
“What made you come down? I suppose you heard a noise and thought it was burglars?” he said.
“Yes,” said Eve, thankfully accepting the idea. At all costs she must conceal the biscuit motive.
“That was very plucky of you. Won’t you sit down?”
“No, I’m going back to bed.”
“Not just yet. I’ve several things to talk to you about. Sit down. That’s right. Now cover up your poor little pink ankles, or you’ll be catching–-“
She started up.
“Mr. Rayner!”
“Sit down.”
She looked at him defiantly, then, wondering at herself for doing it, sat down.
“Now,” said Peter, “what do you mean by it? What do you mean by dashing off from my sister’s house without leaving a word for me as to where you were going? You knew I loved you.”
“Good night, Mr. Rayner.”
“Sit down. You’ve given me a great deal of trouble. Do you know it cost me a sovereign in tips to find out your address? I couldn’t get it out of my sister, and I had to apply to the butler. I’ve a good mind to knock it off your first week’s pin-money.”
“I shall not stay here listening–-“
“You knew perfectly well I wanted to marry you. But you fly off without a word and bury yourself in this benighted place with a gorgon who nags and bullies you–-“
“A nice way to speak of your hostess,” said Eve, scornfully.
“A very soothing way. I don’t think I ever took such a dislike to a woman at first sight before. And when she started to bullyrag you, it was all I could do—But it won’t last long now. You must come away at once. We’ll be married after Christmas, and in the meantime you can go and live with my sister–-“
Eve listened speechlessly. She had so much to say that the difficulty of selection rendered her dumb.
“When can you start? I mean, do you have to give a month’s notice or anything?”
Eve got up with a short laugh.
“Good night, Mr. Rayner,” she said. “You have been very amusing, but I am getting tired.”
“I’m glad it’s all settled,” said Peter. “Good night.”
Eve stopped. She could not go tamely away without saying a single one of the things that crowded in her mind.
“Do you imagine,” she said, “that I intend to marry you? Do you suppose, for one moment–-“
“Rather!” said Peter. “You shall have a splendid time from now on, to make up for all you’ve gone through. I’m going to be awfully good to you, Eve. You sha’n’t ever have any more worries, poor old thing.” He looked at her affectionately. “I wonder why it is that large men always fall in love with little women. There are you, a fragile, fairy-like, ethereal wisp of a little creature; and here am I–-“
“A great, big, greedy pig!” burst out Eve, “who thinks about nothing but eating and drinking.”
“I wasn’t going to have put it quite like that,” said Peter, thoughtfully.
“I hate a greedy man,” said Eve, between her teeth.
“I have a healthy appetite,” protested Peter. “Nothing more. It runs in the family. At the time of the Civil War the Rayner of the period, who was King Charles’s right-hand man, would frequently eat despatches to prevent them falling into the hands of the enemy. He was noted for it.”
Eve reached the door and turned.
“I despise you,” she said.
“Good night,” said Peter, tenderly. “Tomorrow morning we’ll go for a walk.”
His prediction proved absolutely correct. He was smoking a cigarette after breakfast when Eve came to him. Her face was pink and mutinous, but there was a gleam in her eye.
“Are you ready to come out, Mr. Rayner?” she said. “Mrs. Rastall-Retford says I’m to take you to see the view from the golf links.”
“You’ll like that,” said Peter.
“I shall not like it,” snapped Eve. “But Mrs. Rastall-Retford is paying me a salary to do what she tells me, and I have to earn it.”
Conversation during the walk consisted mainly of a monologue on the part of Peter. It was a crisp and exhilarating morning, and he appeared to be feeling a universal benevolence towards all created things. He even softened slightly on the subject of Mrs. Rastall-Retford, and advanced the theory that her peculiar manner might be due to her having been ill-treated as a child.
Eve listened in silence. It was not till they were nearing home on their return journey that she spoke.
“Mr. Rayner,” she said.
“Yes?” said Peter.
“I was talking to Mrs. Rastall-Retford after breakfast,” said Eve, “and I told her something about you.”
“My consci
ence is clear.”
“Oh, nothing bad. Some people would say it was very much to your credit.” She looked away across the fields. “I told her you were a vegetarian,” she added, carelessly.
There was a long silence. Then Peter spoke three words, straight from the heart.
“You little devil!”
Eve turned and looked at him, her eyes sparkling wickedly.
“You see!” she said. “Now perhaps you will go.”
“Without you?” said Peter, stoutly. “Never!”
“In London you will be able to eat all day—anything you like. You will be able to creep about your club gnawing cold chicken all night. But if you stay here–-“
“You have got a wrong idea of the London clubman’s life,” said Peter. “If I crept about my club gnawing cold chicken I should have the committee after me. No, I shall stay here and look after you. After all, what is food?”
“I’ll tell you what yours will be, if you like. Or would you rather wait and let it be a surprise? Well, for lunch you will have some boiled potatoes and cabbage and a sweet—a sort of light soufflé thing. And for dinner–-“
“Yes, but one moment,” said Peter. “If I’m a vegetarian, how did you account for my taking all the chicken I could get at dinner last night, and looking as if I wanted more?”
