Produced by Al Haines.
Cover]
THE OLD ADAM
_A STORY OF ADVENTURE_
BY
ARNOLD BENNETT
AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WIVES' TALE," "HOW TO LIVE ON TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY," ETC.
NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1913 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
CONTENTS
PART I
CHAPTER
I. Dog-Bite II. The Bank-Note III. Wilkins's IV. Entry Into The Theatrical World V. Mr. Sachs Talks VI. Lord Woldo And Lady Woldo
PART II
VII. Corner-stone VIII. Dealing with Elsie IX. The First Night X. Isabel
THE OLD ADAM
PART I
THE OLD ADAM
CHAPTER I
DOG-BITE
I.
"And yet," Edward Henry Machin reflected as at six minutes to six heapproached his own dwelling at the top of Bleakridge, "and yet--I don'tfeel so jolly after all!"
The first two words of this disturbing meditation had reference to thefact that, by telephoning twice to his stockbrokers at Manchester, hehad just made the sum of three hundred and forty-one pounds in a purelyspeculative transaction concerning Rubber shares. (It was in the autumnof the great gambling year, 1910). He had simply opened his lucky andwise mouth at the proper moment, and the money, like ripe golden fruit,had fallen into it, a gift from benign Heaven, surely a cause forhappiness! And yet--he did not feel so jolly! He was surprised, he waseven a little hurt, to discover by introspection that monetary gain wasnot necessarily accompanied by felicity. Nevertheless, this verysuccessful man of the world of the Five Towns, having been born on the27th of May, 1867, had reached the age of forty-three and a half years.
"I must be getting older," he reflected.
He was right. He was still young, as every man of forty-three willagree, but he was getting older. A few years ago a windfall of Threehundred and forty-one pounds would not have been followed by morbidself-analysis; it would have been followed by unreasoning instinctiveelation, which elation would have endured at least twelve hours.
As he disappeared within the reddish garden wall which sheltered hisabode from the publicity of Trafalgar Road, he half hoped to see Nelliewaiting for him on the famous marble step of the porch, for the womanhad long, long since invented a way of scouting for his advent from thesmall window in the bathroom. But there was nobody on the marble step.His melancholy increased. At the midday meal he had complained ofneuralgia, and hence this was an evening upon which he might fairly haveexpected to see sympathy charmingly attired on the porch. It is truethat the neuralgia had completely gone. "Still," he said to himselfwith justifiable sardonic gloom, "how does she know my neuralgia's gone?She doesn't know."
Having opened the front door with the thinnest, neatest latchkey in theFive Towns, he entered his home and stumbled slightly over a brush thatwas lying against the sunk door-mat. He gazed at that brush withresentment. It was a dilapidated handbrush. The offensive object wouldhave been out of place, at nightfall, in the lobby of any house. But inthe lobby of his house--the house which he had planned a dozen yearsearlier to the special end of minimising domestic labour, and which hehad always kept up to date with the latest devices--in his lobby thespectacle of a vile outworn hand-brush at tea-time amounted to ascandal. Less than a fortnight previously he had purchased andpresented to his wife a marvellous electric vacuum-cleaner, surpassingall former vacuum-cleaners. You simply attached this machine by a cordto the wall, like a dog, and waved it in mysterious passes over thefloor, like a fan, and the house was clean! He was as proud of thismachine as though he had invented it, instead of having merely boughtit; every day he enquired about its feats, expecting enthusiasticreplies as a sort of reward for his own keenness; and be it said that hehad had enthusiastic replies.
And now this obscene hand-brush!
As he carefully removed his hat and his beautiful new Melton overcoat(which had the colour and the soft smoothness of a damson), heanimadverted upon the astounding negligence of women. There wereNellie, his wife; his mother, the nurse, the cook, the maid--five ofthem; and in his mind they had all plotted together--a conspiracy ofcarelessness--to leave the inexcusable tool in his lobby for him tostumble over. What was the use of accidentally procuring three hundredand forty-one pounds?
Still no sign of Nellie, though he purposely made a noisy rattle withhis ebon walking-stick. Then the maid burst out of the kitchen with atray and the principal utensils for high tea thereon. She had a guiltyair. The household was evidently late. Two steps at a time he rushedup-stairs to the bathroom, so as to be waiting in the dining-room at sixprecisely, in order, if possible, to shame the household and fill itwith remorse and unpleasantness. Yet, ordinarily, he was not a veryprompt man, nor did he delight in giving pain. On the contrary, he wasapt to be casual, blithe, and agreeable.
The bathroom was his peculiar domain, which he was always modernising,and where his talent for the ingenious organisation of comfort and hisutter indifference to esthetic beauty had the fullest scope. Byuniversal consent admitted to be the finest bathroom in the Five Towns,it typified the whole house. He was disappointed on this occasion to seeno untidy trace in it of the children's ablution; some transgression ofthe supreme domestic law that the bathroom must always be free andimmaculate when Father wanted it would have suited his gathering humour.As he washed his hands and cleansed his well-trimmed nails with anail-brush that had cost five shillings and sixpence, he glanced athimself in the mirror which he was splashing. A stoutish,broad-shouldered, fair, chubby man with a short bright beard andplenteous bright hair! His necktie pleased him; the elegance of histurned-back wristbands pleased him; and he liked the rich down on hisforearms.
He could not believe that he looked forty-three and a half. And yet hehad recently had an idea of shaving off his beard, partly to defy time,but partly, also (I must admit), because a friend had suggested to him,wildly perhaps, that if he dispensed with a beard his hair might growmore sturdily. Yes, there was one weak spot in the middle of the top ofhis head where the crop had of late disconcertingly thinned. Thehair-dresser had informed him that the symptom would vanish underelectric massage, and that, if he doubted the bonafides ofhair-dressers, any doctor would testify to the value of electricmassage. But now Edward Henry Machin, strangely discouraged,inexplicably robbed of the zest of existence, decided that it was notworth while to shave off his beard. Nothing was worth while. If he wasforty-three and a half, he was forty-three and a half. To become baldwas the common lot. Moreover, beardless, he would need the service of abarber every day. And he was absolutely persuaded that not a barberworth the name could be found in the Five Towns. He actually went toManchester, thirty-six miles, to get his hair cut. The operation nevercost him less than a sovereign and half a day's time. And he honestlydeemed himself to be a fellow of simple tastes! Such is the effect ofthe canker of luxury. Happily he could afford these simple tastes; for,although not rich in the modern significance of the term, he paid incometax on some five thousand pounds a year, without quite convincing theSurveyor of Taxes that he was an honest man.
&n
bsp; He brushed the thick hair over the weak spot, he turned down hiswristbands, he brushed the collar of his jacket, and lastly his beard;and he put on his jacket--with a certain care, for he was very neat.And then, reflectively twisting his moustache to military points, hespied through the smaller window to see whether the new high hoarding ofthe football-ground really did prevent a serious observer from descryingwayfarers as they breasted the hill from Hanbridge. It did not. Thenhe spied through the larger window upon the yard, to see whether thewall of the new rooms which he had lately added to his house showed anyfurther trace of damp, and whether the new chauffeur was washing the newmotor-car with all his heart. The wall showed no further trace of damp,and the new chauffeur's bent back seemed to symbolise an extremeconscientiousness.
Then the clock on the landing struck six, and he hurried off to put thehousehold to open shame.
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