Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (111 page)

Elizabeth thus appealed to, raised herself on her hind legs and dug her claws into her master’s thigh. Mr. Hope’s trousers being thin, it was the most practical answer she could have given him.

“Done a lot of looking after other people for their benefit,” continued Tommy. “Don’t see why I shouldn’t do it for my own.”

“My dear — I do wish I knew whether you were a boy or a girl. Do you seriously suggest that I should engage you as my housekeeper?” asked Mr. Peter Hope, now upright with his back to the fire.

“I’d do for you all right,” persisted Tommy. “You give me my grub and a shake-down and, say, sixpence a week, and I’ll grumble less than most of ‘em.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mr. Peter Hope.

“You won’t try me?”

“Of course not; you must be mad.”

“All right. No harm done.” The dirty hand reached out towards the desk, and possessing itself again of Hammond’s Bill of Fare, commenced the operations necessary for bearing it away in safety.

“Here’s a shilling for you,” said Mr. Peter Hope.

“Rather not,” said Tommy. “Thanks all the same.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Peter Hope.

“Rather not,” repeated Tommy. “Never know where that sort of thing may lead you to.”

“All right,” said Mr. Peter Hope, replacing the coin in his pocket. “Don’t!”

The figure moved towards the door.

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” said Mr. Peter Hope irritably.

The figure, with its hand upon the door, stood still.

“Are you going back to Hammond’s?”

“No. I’ve finished there. Only took me on for a couple o’ weeks, while one of the gals was ill. She came back this morning.”

“Who are your people?”

Tommy seemed puzzled. “What d’ye mean?”

“Well, whom do you live with?”

“Nobody.”

“You’ve got nobody to look after you — to take care of you?”

“Take care of me! D’ye think I’m a bloomin’ kid?”

“Then where are you going to now?”

“Going? Out.”

Peter Hope’s irritation was growing.

“I mean, where are you going to sleep? Got any money for a lodging?”

“Yes, I’ve got some money,” answered Tommy. “But I don’t think much o’ lodgings. Not a particular nice class as you meet there. I shall sleep out to-night. ‘Tain’t raining.”

Elizabeth uttered a piercing cry.

“Serves you right!” growled Peter savagely. “How can anyone help treading on you when you will get just between one’s legs. Told you of it a hundred times.”

The truth of the matter was that Peter was becoming very angry with himself. For no reason whatever, as he told himself, his memory would persist in wandering to Ilford Cemetery, in a certain desolate corner of which lay a fragile little woman whose lungs had been but ill adapted to breathing London fogs; with, on the top of her, a still smaller and still more fragile mite of humanity that, in compliment to its only relative worth a penny-piece, had been christened Thomas — a name common enough in all conscience, as Peter had reminded himself more than once. In the name of common sense, what had dead and buried Tommy Hope to do with this affair? The whole thing was the veriest sentiment, and sentiment was Mr. Peter Hope’s abomination. Had he not penned articles innumerable pointing out its baneful influence upon the age? Had he not always condemned it, wherever he had come across it in play or book? Now and then the suspicion had crossed Peter’s mind that, in spite of all this, he was somewhat of a sentimentalist himself — things had suggested this to him. The fear had always made him savage.

“You wait here till I come back,” he growled, seizing the astonished Tommy by the worsted comforter and spinning it into the centre of the room. “Sit down, and don’t you dare to move.” And Peter went out and slammed the door behind him.

“Bit off his chump, ain’t he?” remarked Tommy to Elizabeth, as the sound of Peter’s descending footsteps died away. People had a way of addressing remarks to Elizabeth. Something in her manner invited this.

“Oh, well, it’s all in the day’s work,” commented Tommy cheerfully, and sat down as bid.

Five minutes passed, maybe ten. Then Peter returned, accompanied by a large, restful lady, to whom surprise — one felt it instinctively — had always been, and always would remain, an unknown quantity.

Tommy rose.

“That’s the — the article,” explained Peter.

Mrs. Postwhistle compressed her lips and slightly tossed her head. It was the attitude of not ill-natured contempt from which she regarded most human affairs.

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Postwhistle; “I remember seeing ‘er there — leastways, it was an ‘er right enough then. What ‘ave you done with your clothes?”

“They weren’t mine,” explained Tommy. “They were things what Mrs. Hammond had lent me.”

“Is that your own?” asked Mrs. Postwhistle, indicating the blue silk garibaldi.

“Yes.”

“What went with it?”

“Tights. They were too far gone.”

“What made you give up the tumbling business and go to Mrs. ‘Ammond’s?”

“It gave me up. Hurt myself.”

“Who were you with last?”

“Martini troupe.”

“And before that?”

“Oh! heaps of ‘em.”

“Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a girl?”

“Nobody as I’d care to believe. Some of them called me the one, some of them the other. It depended upon what was wanted.”

“How old are you?”

“I dunno.”

Mrs. Postwhistle turned to Peter, who was jingling keys.

“Well, there’s the bed upstairs. It’s for you to decide.”

“What I don’t want to do,” explained Peter, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “is to make a fool of myself.”

“That’s always a good rule,” agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, “for those to whom it’s possible.”

“Anyhow,” said Peter, “one night can’t do any harm. To-morrow we can think what’s to be done.”

“To-morrow” had always been Peter’s lucky day. At the mere mention of the magic date his spirits invariably rose. He now turned upon Tommy a countenance from which all hesitation was banished.

“Very well, Tommy,” said Mr. Peter Hope, “you can sleep here to-night. Go with Mrs. Postwhistle, and she’ll show you your room.”

The black eyes shone.

“You’re going to give me a trial?”

“We’ll talk about all that to-morrow.” The black eyes clouded.

“Look here. I tell you straight, it ain’t no good.”

“What do you mean? What isn’t any good?” demanded Peter.

“You’ll want to send me to prison.”

“To prison!”

“Oh, yes. You’ll call it a school, I know. You ain’t the first that’s tried that on. It won’t work.” The bright, black eyes were flashing passionately. “I ain’t done any harm. I’m willing to work. I can keep myself. I always have. What’s it got to do with anybody else?”

Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of passionate defiance, Peter Hope might have retained his common sense. Only Fate arranged that instead they should suddenly fill with wild tears. And at sight of them Peter’s common sense went out of the room disgusted, and there was born the history of many things.

“Don’t be silly,” said Peter. “You didn’t understand. Of course I’m going to give you a trial. You’re going to ‘do’ for me. I merely meant that we’d leave the details till to-morrow. Come, housekeepers don’t cry.”

The little wet face looked up.

“You mean it? Honour bright?”

“Honour bright. Now go and wash yourself. Then you shall get me my supper.”

The odd figure, still heaving from its paroxysm of sobs, stood up.

“And I have my grub, my lodging, and sixpence a week?”

“Yes, yes; I think that’s a fair arrangement,” agreed Mr. Peter Hope, considering. “Don’t you, Mrs. Postwhistle?”

“With a frock — or a suit of trousers — thrown in,” suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. “It’s generally done.”

“If it’s the custom, certainly,” agreed Mr. Peter Hope. “Sixpence a week and clothes.”

And this time it was Peter that, in company with Elizabeth, sat waiting the return of Tommy.

“I rather hope,” said Peter, “it’s a boy. It was the fogs, you know. If only I could have afforded to send him away!”

Elizabeth looked thoughtful. The door opened.

“Ah! that’s better, much better,” said Mr. Peter Hope. “‘Pon my word, you look quite respectable.”

By the practical Mrs. Postwhistle a working agreement, benefiting both parties, had been arrived at with the long-trained skirt; while an ample shawl arranged with judgment disguised the nakedness that lay below. Peter, a fastidious gentleman, observed with satisfaction that the hands, now clean, had been well cared for.

“Give me that cap,” said Peter. He threw it in the glowing fire. It burned brightly, diffusing strange odours.

“There’s a travelling cap of mine hanging up in the passage. You can wear that for the present. Take this half-sovereign and get me some cold meat and beer for supper. You’ll find everything else you want in that sideboard or else in the kitchen. Don’t ask me a hundred questions, and don’t make a noise,” and Peter went back to his work.

“Good idea, that half-sovereign,” said Peter. “Shan’t be bothered with ‘Master Tommy’ any more, don’t expect. Starting a nursery at our time of life. Madness.” Peter’s pen scratched and spluttered. Elizabeth kept an eye upon the door.

“Quarter of an hour,” said Peter, looking at his watch. “Told you so.” The article on which Peter was now engaged appeared to be of a worrying nature.

“Then why,” said Peter, “why did he refuse that shilling? Artfulness,” concluded Peter, “pure artfulness. Elizabeth, old girl, we’ve got out of this business cheaply. Good idea, that half-sovereign.” Peter gave vent to a chuckle that had the effect of alarming Elizabeth.

But luck evidently was not with Peter that night.

“Pingle’s was sold out,” explained Tommy, entering with parcels; “had to go to Bow’s in Farringdon Street.”

“Oh!” said Peter, without looking up.

Tommy passed through into the little kitchen behind. Peter wrote on rapidly, making up for lost time.

“Good!” murmured Peter, smiling to himself, “that’s a neat phrase. That ought to irritate them.”

Now, as he wrote, while with noiseless footsteps Tommy, unseen behind him, moved to and fro and in and out the little kitchen, there came to Peter Hope this very curious experience: it felt to him as if for a long time he had been ill — so ill as not even to have been aware of it — and that now he was beginning to be himself again; consciousness of things returning to him. This solidly furnished, long, oak-panelled room with its air of old-world dignity and repose — this sober, kindly room in which for more than half his life he had lived and worked — why had he forgotten it? It came forward greeting him with an amused smile, as of some old friend long parted from. The faded photos, in stiff, wooden frames upon the chimney-piece, among them that of the fragile little woman with the unadaptable lungs.

“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Peter Hope, pushing back his chair. “It’s thirty years ago. How time does fly! Why, let me see, I must be—”

“D’you like it with a head on it?” demanded Tommy, who had been waiting patiently for signs.

Peter shook himself awake and went to his supper.

A bright idea occurred to Peter in the night. “Of course; why didn’t I think of it before? Settle the question at once.” Peter fell into an easy sleep.

“Tommy,” said Peter, as he sat himself down to breakfast the next morning. “By-the-by,” asked Peter with a puzzled expression, putting down his cup, “what is this?”

“Cauffee,” informed him Tommy. “You said cauffee.”

“Oh!” replied Peter. “For the future, Tommy, if you don’t mind, I will take tea of a morning.”

“All the same to me,” explained the agreeable Tommy, “it’s your breakfast.”

“What I was about to say,” continued Peter, “was that you’re not looking very well, Tommy.”

“I’m all right,” asserted Tommy; “never nothing the matter with me.”

“Not that you know of, perhaps; but one can be in a very bad way, Tommy, without being aware of it. I cannot have anyone about me that I am not sure is in thoroughly sound health.”

“If you mean you’ve changed your mind and want to get rid of me—” began Tommy, with its chin in the air.

“I don’t want any of your uppishness,” snapped Peter, who had wound himself up for the occasion to a degree of assertiveness that surprised even himself. “If you are a thoroughly strong and healthy person, as I think you are, I shall be very glad to retain your services. But upon that point I must be satisfied. It is the custom,” explained Peter. “It is always done in good families. Run round to this address” — Peter wrote it upon a leaf of his notebook—”and ask Dr. Smith to come and see me before he begins his round. You go at once, and don’t let us have any argument.”

“That is the way to talk to that young person — clearly,” said Peter to himself, listening to Tommy’s footsteps dying down the stairs.

Hearing the street-door slam, Peter stole into the kitchen and brewed himself a cup of coffee.

Dr. Smith, who had commenced life as Herr Schmidt, but who in consequence of difference of opinion with his Government was now an Englishman with strong Tory prejudices, had but one sorrow: it was that strangers would mistake him for a foreigner. He was short and stout, with bushy eyebrows and a grey moustache, and looked so fierce that children cried when they saw him, until he patted them on the head and addressed them as “mein leedle frent” in a voice so soft and tender that they had to leave off howling just to wonder where it came from. He and Peter, who was a vehement Radical, had been cronies for many years, and had each an indulgent contempt for the other’s understanding, tempered by a sincere affection for one another they would have found it difficult to account for.

“What tink you is de matter wid de leedle wench?” demanded Dr. Smith, Peter having opened the case. Peter glanced round the room. The kitchen door was closed.

“How do you know it’s a wench?”

The eyes beneath the bushy brows grew rounder. “If id is not a wench, why dress it—”

“Haven’t dressed it,” interrupted Peter. “Just what I’m waiting to do — so soon as I know.”