The Good Angel - (2)

'Yes, yes. I don't want a schedule of your daily exercises. Cut out the athletic reminiscences and come to the point.'
    'As I was rowing on the lake this morning, sir, I 'appened to see a boat 'itched up to a tree on the hisland. I think that possibly Miss Elsa and Mr Barstowe might 'ave taken a row out there. Mr Barstowe would wish to see the hisland, sir, bein' romantic.'
    'But you say you saw the boat there this morning?'
    'Yes, sir.'
    'Well, it doesn't take all day to explore a small island. What's kept them all this while?'
    'It is possible, sir, that the rope might not have 'eld. Mr Barstowe, if I might say so, sir, is one of those himpetuous literary pussons, and possibly he homitted to see that the knot was hadequately tied. Or'--his eye, grave and inscrutable, rested for a moment on Martin's--'some party might 'ave come along and huntied it a-puppus.'
    'Untied it on purpose?' said Mr Keith. 'What on earth for?'
    Keggs shook his head deprecatingly, as one who, realizing his limitations, declines to attempt to probe the hidden sources of human actions.
    'I thought it right, sir, to let you know,' he said.
    'Right? I should say so. If Elsa has been kept starving all day on that island by that long-haired--Here, come along, Martin.'
    He dashed off excitedly into the night. Martin remained for a moment gazing fixedly at the butler.
    'I 'ope, sir,' said Keggs, cordially, 'that my hinformation will prove of genuine hassistance.'
    'Do you know what I should like to do to you?' said Martin slowly.
    'I think I 'ear Mr Keith calling you, sir.'
    'I should like to take you by the scruff of your neck and--'
    'There, sir! Didn't you 'ear 'im then? Quite distinct it was.'
    Martin gave up the struggle with a sense of blank futility. What could you do with a man like this? It was like quarrelling with Westminster Abbey.
    'I should 'urry, sir,' suggested Keggs, respectfully. 'I think Mr Keith must have met with some haccident.'
    His surmise proved correct. When Martin came up he found his host seated on the ground in evident pain.
    'Twisted my ankle in a hole,' he explained, briefly. 'Give me an arm back to the house, there's a good fellow, and then run on down to the lake and see if what Keggs said is true.'
    Martin did as he was requested--so far, that is to say, as the first half of the commission was concerned. As regarded the second, he took it upon himself to make certain changes. Having seen Mr Keith to his room, he put the fitting-out of the relief ship into the good hands of a group of his fellow guests whom he discovered in the porch. Elsa's feelings towards her rescuer might be one of unmixed gratitude; but it might, on the other hand, be one of resentment. He did not wish her to connect him in her mind with the episode in any way whatsoever. Martin had once released a dog from a trap, and the dog had bitten him. He had been on an errand of mercy, but the dog had connected him with his sufferings and acted accordingly. It occurred to Martin that Elsa's frame of mind would be uncommonly like that dog's.
    The rescue-party set off. Martin lit a cigarette, and waited in the porch.
    It seemed a very long time before anything happened, but at last, as he was lighting his fifth cigarette, there came from the darkness the sound of voices. They drew nearer. Someone shouted:
    'It's all right. We've found them.'
    Martin threw away his cigarette and went indoors.
    *       *       *       *       *
    Elsa Keith sat up as her mother came into the room. Two nights and a day had passed since she had taken to her bed.
    'How are you feeling today, dear?'
    'Has he gone, mother?'
    'Who?'
    'Mr Barstowe?'
    'Yes, dear. He left this morning. He said he had business with his publisher in London.'
    'Then I can get up,' said Elsa, thankfully.
    'I think you're a little hard on poor Mr Barstowe, Elsa. It was just an accident, you know. It was not his fault that the boat slipped away.'
    'It was, it was, it was!' cried Elsa, thumping the pillow malignantly. 'I believe he did it on purpose, so that he could read me his horrid poetry without my having a chance to escape. I believe that's the only way he can get people to listen to it.'
    'But you used to like it, darling. You said he had such a musical voice.'
    'Musical voice!' The pillow became a shapeless heap. 'Mother, it was like a nightmare! If I had seen him again I should have had hysterics. It was awful! If he had been even the least bit upset himself I think I could have borne up. But he enjoyed it! He revelled in it! He said it was like Omar Khayyam in the Wilderness and Shelley's Epipsychidion, whatever that is; and he prattled on and on and read and read till my head began to split. Mother'--her voice sank to a whisper--'I hit him!'
    'Elsa!'
    'I did!' she went on, defiantly. 'I hit him as hard as I could, and he--he'--she broke off into a little gurgle of laughter--'he tripped over a bush and fell right down; and I wasn't a bit ashamed. I didn't think it unladylike or anything. I was just as proud as I could be. And it stopped him talking.'
    'But, Elsa, dear! Why?'
    'The sun had just gone down; and it was a lovely sunset, and the sky looked like a great, beautiful slice of underdone beef; and I said so to him, and he said, sniffily, that he was afraid he didn't see the resemblance. And I asked him if he wasn't starving. And he said no, because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. And that was when I hit him.'
    'Elsa!'
    'Oh, I know it was awfully wrong, but I just had to. And now I'll get up. It looks lovely out.'
    Martin had not gone out with the guns that day. Mrs Keith had assured him that there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she was only tired, but he was anxious, and had remained at home, where bulletins could reach him. As he was returning from a stroll in the grounds he heard his name called, and saw Elsa lying in the hammock under the trees near the terrace.
    'Why, Martin, why aren't you out with the guns?' she said.
    'I wanted to be on the spot so that I could hear how you were.'
    'How nice of you! Why don't you sit down?'
    'May I?'
    Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine.
    'You know, you're a very restful person, Martin. You're so big and outdoory. How would you like to read to me for a while? I feel so lazy.'
    Martin took the magazine.
    'What shall I read? Here's a poem by--'
    Elsa shuddered.
    'Oh, please, no,' she cried. 'I couldn't bear it. I'll tell you what I should love--the advertisements. There's one about sardines. I started it, and it seemed splendid. It's at the back somewhere.'
    'Is this it--Langley and Fielding's sardines?'
    'That's it.'
    Martin began to read.
    '"Langley and Fielding's sardines. When you want the daintiest, most delicious sardines, go to your grocer and say, 'Langley and Fielding's, please!' You will then be sure of having the finest Norwegian smoked sardines, packed in the purest olive oil."'
    Elsa was sitting with her eyes closed and a soft smile of pleasure curving her mouth.
    'Go on,' she said, dreamily.
    '"Nothing nicer."' resumed Martin, with an added touch of eloquence as the theme began to develop, '"for breakfast, lunch, or supper. Probably your grocer stocks them. Ask him. If he does not, write to us. Price fivepence per tin. The best sardines and the best oil!"'
    'Isn't it lovely?' she murmured.
    Her hand, as it swung, touched his. He held it. She opened her eyes.
    'Don't stop reading,' she said. 'I never heard anything so soothing.'
    'Elsa!'
    He bent towards her. She smiled at him. Her eyes were dancing.
    'Elsa, I--'
    'Mr Keith,' said a quiet voice, 'desired me to say--'
    Martin started away. He glared up furiously. Gazing down upon them stood Keggs. The butler's face was shining with a gentle benevolence.
    'Mr Keith desired me to say that he would be glad if Miss Elsa would come and sit with him for a while.'
    'I'll come at once,' said Elsa, stepping from the hammock.
    The butler bowed respectfully and turned away. They stood watching him as he moved across the terrace.
    'What a saintly old man Keggs looks,' said Elsa. 'Don't you think so? He looks as if he had never even thought of doing anything he shouldn't. I wonder if he ever has?'
    'I wonder!' said Martin.
    'He looks like a stout angel. What were you saying, Martin, when he came up?'
    POTS O'MONEY
    Owen Bentley was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr Sheppherd, and with difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg and twiddling his fingers. At one period of his career, before the influence of his uncle Henry had placed him in the London and Suburban Bank, Owen had been an actor. On the strength of a batting average of thirty-three point nought seven for Middlesex, he had been engaged by the astute musical-comedy impresario to whom the idea first occurred that, if you have got to have young men to chant 'We are merry and gay, tra-la, for this is Bohemia,' in the Artists' Ball scene, you might just as well have young men whose names are known to the public. He had not been an actor long, for loss of form had put him out of first-class cricket, and the impresario had given his place in the next piece to a googly bowler who had done well in the last Varsity match; but he had been one long enough to experience that sinking sensation which is known as stage-fright. And now, as he began to explain to Mr Sheppherd that he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he found himself suffering exactly the same symptoms.
    From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that his income, salary and private means included, amounted to less than two hundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of his failures. It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that took the heart out of him. Mr Sheppherd had always reminded him of a heavy father out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour as he listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical. Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing ever happened nowadays outside the comic papers. By the end of the second minute he would not have been surprised to find himself sailing through the air, urged by Mr Sheppherd's boot, his transit indicated by a dotted line and a few stars.
    Mr Sheppherd's manner was inclined to bleakness.
    'This is most unfortunate,' he said. 'Most unfortunate. I have my daughter's happiness to consider. It is my duty as a father.' He paused. 'You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed that your uncle--? Surely, with his influence--?'
    'My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finished him, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not his only nephew, you know. There are about a hundred others, all trailing him like bloodhounds.'
    Mr Sheppherd coughed the small cough of disapproval. He was feeling more than a little aggrieved.
    He had met Owen for the first time at dinner at the house of his uncle Henry, a man of unquestioned substance, whose habit it was to invite each of his eleven nephews to dinner once a year. But Mr Sheppherd did not know this. For all he knew, Owen was in the habit of hobnobbing with the great man every night. He could not say exactly that it was sharp practice on Owen's part to accept his invitation to call, and, having called, to continue calling long enough to make the present deplorable situation possible; but he felt that it would have been in better taste for the young man to have effaced himself and behaved more like a bank-clerk and less like an heir.
    'I am exceedingly sorry for this, Mr Bentley,' he said, 'but you will understand that I cannot--It is, of course, out of the question. It would be best, in the circumstances, I think, if you did not see my daughter again--'
    'She's waiting in the passage outside,' said Owen, simply.
    '--after today. Good-bye.'
    Owen left the room. Audrey was hovering in the neighbourhood of the door. She came quickly up to him, and his spirits rose, as they always did, at the sight of her.
    'Well?' she said.
    He shook his head.
    'No good,' he said.
    Audrey considered the problem for a moment, and was rewarded with an idea.
    'Shall I go in and cry?'
    'It wouldn't be of any use.'
    'Tell me what happened.'
    'He said I mustn't see you again.'
    'He didn't mean it.'
    'He thinks he did.'
    Audrey reflected.
    'We shall simply have to keep writing, then. And we can talk on the telephone. That isn't seeing each other. Has your bank a telephone?'
    'Yes. But--'
    'That's all right, then. I'll ring you up every day.'
    'I wish I could make some money,' said Owen, thoughtfully. 'But I seem to be one of those chaps who can't. Nothing I try comes off. I've never drawn anything except a blank in a sweep. I spent about two pounds on sixpenny postal orders when the Limerick craze was on, and didn't win a thing. Once when I was on tour I worked myself to a shadow, dramatizing a novel. Nothing came of that, either.'
    'What novel?'
    'A thing called White Roses, by a woman named Edith Butler.'
    Audrey looked up quickly.
    'I suppose you knew her very well? Were you great friends?'
    'I didn't know her at all. I'd never met her. I just happened to buy the thing at a bookstall, and thought it would make a good play. I expect it was pretty bad rot. Anyhow, she never took the trouble to send it back or even to acknowledge receipt.'
    'Perhaps she never got it?'
    'I registered it.'
    'She was a cat,' said Audrey, decidedly. 'I'm glad of it, though. If another woman had helped you make a lot of money, I should have died of jealousy.'
    Routine is death to heroism. For the first few days after his parting with Mr Sheppherd, Owen was in heroic mood, full of vaguely dashing schemes, regarding the world as his oyster, and burning to get at it, sword in hand. But routine, with its ledgers and its copying-ink and its customers, fell like a grey cloud athwart his horizon, blotting out rainbow visions of sudden wealth, dramatically won. Day by day the glow faded and hopelessness grew.
    If the glow did not entirely fade it was due to Audrey, who more than fulfilled her promise of ringing him up on the telephone. She rang him up at least once, frequently several times, every day, a fact which was noted and commented upon in a harshly critical spirit by the head of his department, a man with no soul and a strong objection to doing his subordinates' work for them.
    As a rule, her conversation, though pleasing, was discursive and lacked central motive, but one morning she had genuine news to impart.
    'Owen'--her voice was excited--'have you seen the paper today? Then listen. I'll read it out. Are you listening? This is what it says: "The Piccadilly Theatre will reopen shortly with a dramatized version of Miss Edith Butler's popular novel, White Roses, prepared by the authoress herself. A strong cast is being engaged, including--" And then a lot of names. What are you going to do about it, Owen?'
    'What am I going to do?'
    'Don't you see what's happened? That awful woman has stolen your play. She has waited all these years, hoping you would forget. What are you laughing at?'
    'I wasn't laughing.'
    'Yes, you were. It tickled my ear. I'll ring off if you do it again. You don't believe me. Well, you wait and see if I'm not--'
    'Edith Butler's incapable of such a thing.'
    There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire.
    'I thought you said you didn't know her,' said Audrey, jealously.
    'I don't--I don't,' said Owen, hastily. 'But I've read her books. They're simply chunks of superfatted sentiment. She's a sort of literary onion. She compels tears. A woman like that couldn't steal a play if she tried.'
    'You can't judge authors from their books. You must go and see the play when it comes on. Then you'll see I'm right. I'm absolutely certain that woman is trying to swindle you. Don't laugh in that horrid way. Very well, I told you I should ring off, and now I'm going to.'
    At the beginning of the next month Owen's annual holiday arrived. The authorities of the London and Suburban Bank were no niggards. They recognized that a man is not a machine. They gave their employees ten days in the year in which to tone up their systems for another twelve months' work.
    Owen spent his boyhood in the Shropshire village of which his father had been rector, and thither he went when his holiday came round, to the farm of one Dorman. He was glad of the chance to get to Shropshire. There is something about the country there, with its green fields and miniature rivers, that soothes the wounded spirit and forms a pleasant background for sentimental musings.
    It was comfortable at the farm. The household consisted of Mr Dorman, an old acquaintance, his ten-year-old son George, and Mr Dorman's mother, an aged lady with a considerable local reputation as a wise woman. Rumour had it that the future held no mysteries for her, and it was known that she could cure warts, bruised fingers, and even the botts by means of spells.
    Except for these, Owen had fancied that he was alone in the house. It seemed not, however. There was a primeval piano in his sitting-room, and on the second morning it suited his mood to sit down at this and sing 'Asthore', the fruity pathos of which ballad appealed to him strongly at this time, accompanying himself by an ingenious arrangement in three chords. He had hardly begun, however, when Mr Dorman appeared, somewhat agitated.
    'If you don't mind, Mr Owen,' he said. 'I forgot to tell you. There's a lit'ery gent boarding with me in the room above, and he can't bear to be disturbed.'
    A muffled stamping from the ceiling bore out his words.
    'Writing a book he is,' continued Mr Dorman. 'He caught young George a clip over the ear-'ole yesterday for blowing his trumpet on the stairs. Gave him sixpence afterwards, and said he'd skin him if he ever did it again. So, if you don't mind--'
    'Oh, all right,' said Owen. 'Who is he?'
    'Gentleman of the name of Prosser.'
    Owen could not recollect having come across any work by anyone of that name; but he was not a wide reader; and, whether the man above was a celebrity or not, he was entitled to quiet.
    'I never heard of him,' he said, 'but that's no reason why I should disturb him. Let him rip. I'll cut out the musical effects in future.'
    The days passed smoothly by. The literary man remained invisible, though occasionally audible, tramping the floor in the frenzy of composition. Nor, until the last day of his visit, did Owen see old Mrs Dorman.
    That she was not unaware of his presence in the house, however, was indicated on the last morning. He was smoking an after-breakfast pipe at the open window and waiting for the dog-cart that was to take him to the station, when George, the son of the house, entered.
    George stood in the doorway, grinned, and said:
    'Farsezjerligranmatellyerforchbythecards?'
    'Eh?' said Owen.
    The youth repeated the word.
    'Once again.'
    On the second repetition light began to creep in. A boyhood spent in the place, added to this ten days' stay, had made Owen something of a linguist.
    'Father says would I like grandma to do what?'
    'Tell yer forch'n by ther cards.'
    'Where is she?'
    'Backyarnder.'
    Owen followed him into the kitchen, where he found Mr Dorman, the farmer, and, seated at the table, fumbling with a pack of cards, an old woman, whom he remembered well.
    'Mother wants to tell your fortune,' said Mr Dorman, in a hoarse aside. 'She always will tell visitors' fortunes. She told Mr Prosser's, and he didn't half like it, because she said he'd be engaged in two months and married inside the year. He said wild horses wouldn't make him do it.'
    'She can tell me that if she likes. I shan't object.'