Part 10

"This is rather a blow, your brother coming back," said Tubby Toller, looking round Ben's office with a critical eye. "It's done our little circle in. Why, he wants to be married in five minutes. Highly suspicious, I call it."

"What do you mean--suspicious?" Ben asked.

"When a fellow who's been engaged for years clamours suddenly to marry, all in a moment, it suggests that he's in danger, has lost his nerve, wants to be pulled into safety," said Tubby. "I rather fancy Master Guy has been singeing his wings."

"Oh, Tubby! how cynical you are!" said Ben. "What will you be like when you're fifty?"

"At fifty," said Tubby, "I shall be a child again. I notice a strong tendency in middle-aged men to become childish. But aren't I right about your brother?"

"You must ask someone else," said Ben.

"And I'll tell you something more," said Tubby. "When you're married and your husband suddenly begins to give you pearl necklaces and diamond rings, look out. They're more likely to be from the guilty conscience than the loving heart."

"Oh, Tubby, shut up!" said Ben. "You're insufferable. But what is it you want? You didn't come here merely to be destructively clever, I'm sure."

"I came to look round," said Tubby. "After all, a parent may inspect his young, mayn't he? And I consider 'The Beck and Call' largely my own child. How is it doing?"

"Not so badly," said Ben. "I've just carried out an American commission that netted quite a lot."

"Thank God for America!" said Tubby. "As Canning said, or meant to, 'The New World was called in very largely to redress the bank balances of the Old.' Could you get me a lady-cook?"

"What for?" Ben asked.

"To be a lady and to cook, of course," he said.

"How many in family?" Ben asked.

"Just the three of us," he said.

"Three? Who is the other?" Ben asked.

"Myself--1," he replied; "the lady--2; the cook--3."

"No, I couldn't," said Ben. "I couldn't lend myself to such a _ménage_."

"But it would be all right," said Tubby. "The cook would act as chaperon when I was talking with the lady; and the lady would be on the watch when I was visiting the kitchen. I want a lady-cook. I feel I should be a better man if I had the constant society of a lady-cook--or a cook-lady, I don't mind which."

"No," said Ben firmly.

"Then will you get me a valet-governess?" Tubby asked. "I have a passion for hyphenated assistance."

"You haven't got any children," said Ben.

"No, but I have clothes," said Tubby. "And I'll hire a child. Anything to persuade a valet-governess to stay."

"Tubby, you're wasting my time," said Ben. "Go back to the Treasury or wherever it is you sleep."

"Listen to her!--" Tubby invoked the ceiling. "She advertises herself as 'The Beck and Call' and she turns away business! She is rude to clients! I came here with money in my purse to try and do you a good turn, and you spurn me. Now, my dear Ben, be serious. Will you get me a chauffeur-billiard-marker?"

"No!" said Ben, lifting up a paper-weight, as Tubby made for the door.

He did, however, go; but three minutes later reappeared.

"I've been talking to the sportsman outside," he said. "A clever child. I have asked him to come to me as a butler-secretary and he seems keen. Do you mind?"

"If you rob me of Dolly," said Ben, "I'll never speak to you again."

"I must do something," said Tubby. "It would be a very serious thing for you if I went about London telling everybody that I had been to 'The Beck and Call' with quite a number of needs and not one could you satisfy. Grant me one request anyway. Grant me!"

"What is it?" said Ben.

"Give me leave to read a novel by Erckmann-Chatrian."

And this time he went.

XLII

She was a plump and kindly lady of a little more than middle age, with evidences of wealth about her and a handkerchief ready for service.

"You don't know me," she said to Ben, "but I know you, or rather all about you. In a kind of way we're relations."

Ben expressed her surprise.

"If there is such a thing as a step-aunt," said the lady, "I'm one. I'm Belle's sister."

"Oh!" said Ben. "Mrs. Vicat?"

Her visitor admitted it.

"Of course," said Ben, sympathetically. "I've heard about you. Your son died quite recently. I'm so sorry."

The handkerchief came into play.

"Yes," said Mrs. Vicat. "He never had a chance, he was so badly wounded. But he lingered on and on and was always so brave. And now he's gone. It's because I want to do something in memory of him that I'm here. My sister told me to come to you. 'Go to "The Beck and Call,"' she said, 'and talk to my stepdaughter. She's very clever and quick at thinking of things. But of course you must pay,' she said.

"As if I should take advantage of being connected with the family!" Mrs. Vicat added indignantly. "So you must charge me for all the time you give me, my dear, whether anything comes of it or not."

"We'll see," said Ben. "What kind of a memorial were you thinking of?"

"Well," said Mrs. Vicat. "At first I was thinking of an obelisk or a cross, or something like that. You know the kind of thing. There's one in Sloane Square. But somehow I've rather changed my mind. There are so many of those, all over the country, and I'm wondering if it's quite right to put up another just to one officer.

"And of course," she continued, "there will be a monument in the church: that's all arranged for. I've got a nice architect--one that will let me have my own way a little, I'm assured; not one of those masterful quarrelsome ones. Architects can be very trying, my dear. You should see our house--all the living rooms and the bedrooms on the north, and the passages and the kitchen and larder on the south! Everything sacrificed to the entrance! My poor dear husband argued with him night and day, but he was too much for us. But that's neither here nor there. The monument is all arranged; it's the memorial I'm worrying about now, and Belle told me to come to you."

"How much do you want to spend?" Ben asked.

"I don't mind," said Mrs. Vicat forlornly. "It's the only interest in life I have left."

"Had your son any particular hobbies?" Ben asked. "Did he support any particular kind of charity?"

"I can't say that he did," said Mrs. Vicat. "He had a wonderful collection of postage stamps. But that doesn't help much."

"No," said Ben, puckering her brow. "And yet," she continued, "you would like it to be useful?"

"Yes, I want it to be really helpful," said Mrs. Vicat. "I want my son's name to be associated with something that would benefit people. I saw a very pretty drinking-fountain the other day, which was also a War Memorial."

"But you could afford something bigger than that?" Ben suggested.

"Oh, yes, money is no object. The cenotaph is very beautiful."

"Very," said Ben. "But that has a distinct purpose and you wouldn't wish to duplicate it."

"On the top of a hill," said Mrs. Vicat. "There's a beautiful high hill near us. Another cenotaph there would be most impressive."

"But isn't a cenotaph a monument to someone whose real burial place is somewhere else or isn't known?" Ben asked.

"Is it?" said Mrs. Vicat. "I didn't know. I thought it meant a War Memorial simply."

"Since you have come to me for advice," said Ben, "I must say what I feel about this, and that is that in memory and honour of your son you ought to do something of real practical help for his fellow-soldiers in distress. There are many incurables among them, and you could, for example, build and endow a home--say at the seaside--for them--to be comfortable in. That's an idea that occurs to me as I am talking."

"I should like that," said Mrs. Vicat. "That's a very nice idea. Belle said you were clever. And of course at the seaside, because then I could go down and visit it. I'm very fond of the sea. Do you know Littlehampton? I've been very happy there in that terrace overlooking the green where the children ride on donkeys. We took a house there one summer and stayed on through the winter. So mild. A seaside home at Littlehampton is a charming notion."

"If you would give me a little time to think and perhaps discuss the matter with others," said Ben, "I am sure I could put some more ideas before you. I should like to; it's the kind of task that would give me great pleasure to carry out. Will you come to-morrow at three?"

And Mrs. Vicat agreed, and, dabbing afresh at her eyes, made her way to her very luxurious limousine.

"Your employer is very clever," were her last words to Dolly, who helped her downstairs, as she gave him a shilling. On this, being a superstitious London boy, he was mindful, as soon as the car had moved on, to spit.

XLIII

At dinner that evening, Melanie was sounded as to the memorial, but Melanie had her own affairs in hand. When a girl is within a few days of her marriage, she can't concentrate on outside questions such as this, no matter how humane she may be.

She was an odd girl, with no romance showing, whatever there might be underneath. Her eyes were incapable of surprise; her mind of wonder. It is a great loss, and too many girls seem to be suffering from it. In speech she was candid; in hearing, careless; very particular that you should not misunderstand her, but not in the least worried by the chance of misunderstanding you--often, indeed, not listening to replies at all.

These are not qualities that on the face of them make for the happiest unions, but along with them Melanie had a great sense of duty, and one never knows how a girl may develop after marriage. Men and husbands are not so widely different; but girls and brides can be divided by such a gulf as to be almost strangers. A girl passing under her lover's glamour can emerge a changed being.

"We had a bit of a shindy to-day, Guy and I," said Melanie. "Over the ring. He wants me to have a wedding ring and I refused. I can't bear the things. They make me shudder. It's bad enough to go to church with him and endure that disgusting service, without being branded for ever more with a gold band. It's only one remove from the ring in the bull's nose. I'm no more Guy's wife because I've got it than I should be without it. If I agree to marry him, I marry him. A very unbecoming piece of metal on my hand can't make the difference, not to a decent woman."

"It was a new idea to Guy, I expect," said Ben.

"Absolutely," said Melanie. "He seemed thunderstruck."

"He's not so advanced as you," said Ben. "And I expect he was perplexed, because you don't mind wearing an engagement ring."

"That's different," said Melanie. "It's beautiful. There's some reason for that. But even that I don't wear on the ordinary finger. Why should all the world know I'm engaged? Guy doesn't wear a ring to advertise the fact; why should I?"

"He probably would if you asked him," said Ben. "And he'd wear a wedding ring too. He'd be proud to."

"Don't you think I'm right?" Melanie asked.

"No, I don't," said Ben. "Apart altogether from the fact that Guy is my brother, I don't think it's fair to either of you. Take your honeymoon, for example. I don't know where you're going, but probably to some hotel. The first thing the people at the desk look at is your left hand, and if there's no wedding ring on it your character has gone completely, and Guy's is not what it might be."

"But who cares what anyone else thinks?" Melanie asked.

"All of us," said Ben, "in one way or another. But this is a case where both of you ought to agree. If Guy took your attitude about wedding rings, I shouldn't have a word to say; but as he objects, I think you ought to give way."

"Confound your cold common sense," said Melanie. "I will think about it. But this public flaunting of one's bondage is hateful."

"You may not think it bondage later on," said Ben. "If you don't, you're all right. If you're going to for ever, I wish you'd break the whole thing off at this moment."

Melanie left her chair, and, going over to Ben, gave her a light kiss on her hair.

"Don't worry," she said.

It was more reassuring than any other woman's oath on the Good Book.

After dinner Ben carried the problem to Uncle Paul, whom she found looking utterly miserable.

"My dear!" said Ben. "You're not ill, are you? You frighten me."

"No," said Uncle Paul weakly. "I'm not bodily ill. But life is a blank--they're cleaning out the Round Pond."

Ben put the matter before him.

"As step-aunt," she said, "doesn't mind what she spends, isn't this a gorgeous opportunity to do something really worth doing? And she's so absurdly amenable, ready to take advice. Just like putty. There never was such a chance to be really useful.

"So many things," she continued, "begin well and then decline. Village reading-rooms, with stone tablets in the wall saying in whose honour they were built, are opened with a great flourish, and the next time you go there they are closed and the windows broken. Clubs and institutes the same. But we can provide against all that. It mustn't be enough just to build; there must be endowment, and responsible caretakers or managers, for whatever we do.

"I suppose," she continued, "as a matter of fact, country people don't want Village institutes; they want the village pump. That's where they really enjoy meeting and talking."

"Some friends of mine," said Uncle Paul, "made a beautiful garden in their village, as a memorial. A lawn in the midst for the children to play on, and seats and shelters all round for the old people. And flowers. All properly looked after. That was a really good idea."

"I like that," said Ben. "But there might be something more costly too. I shall go on thinking. And I'll ask Mr. St. Quentin."

XLIV

The next morning when Ben entered "The Booklovers' Rest" it appeared to be empty. Not a sign even of Ernie Bent, who usually had to be removed from the doorstep, which he was scrubbing, to let her pass.

And then from the depths came the wistful words:

Bring back, bring back, Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me!

and Patrick hobbled out.

"I didn't know it was you," he said, and flushed.

"I wanted to try your pet divination scheme again," said Ben. "May I?"

"Of course," said Patrick.

"I will just fumble for a book," said Ben.

She closed her eyes, approached the shelves and took down a volume. Then she opened it, read a few words, and smiled.

"Was it all right?" Patrick asked.

"I think so," she said, and was about to run up the stairs, but stopped. "Oh, by the way, Mr. St. Quentin," she said, "I've got a client coming to-day to talk about a memorial to her son: something philanthropic and costly. If I were to ask you to come up and join us, could you--would you?"

"With the greatest pleasure," said Patrick, "especially as there's a catalogue due and I ought to be at work on it. But neglecting work is so agreeable."

"Soon after three," said Ben, and ascended to her own domain.

When there, however, she received a shock, for instead of the ordinary placid and competent Jan, was a nervous unhappy Jan, saying that she had been to see the doctor on the evening before and he had ordered her to stop work instantly and go to Bournemouth or Torquay.

"Of course I shall do nothing of the kind until I can find you someone else," she said, "but I know I'm not well. I've been feeling weak for a long while now and I have horrible nights."

"I'm very sorry," said Ben. "It's a good deal my fault too, for allowing you to go on having no proper lunch and getting no midday break. I blame myself seriously, but you know, Jan, you were very obstinate. What does the doctor say it is?"

"He's afraid I may go into a decline," said Jan, "unless I have good air, and do nothing, and drink milk and eat a lot; and--and--I'd much rather be with you."

Mrs. Vicat arrived puffingly to time and again placed her handkerchief within easy range.

"Well, my dear," she said, "what have you decided? I hope it's the Littlehampton home."

"I want you to hear what Mr. St. Quentin, one of the owners of the book shop downstairs, has to say," said Ben.

She rang the bell for Dolly and asked him to invite Mr. St. Quentin to step up.

"This is Mrs. Vicat," said Ben, and she prepared the ground. "Have you any ideas?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," said Patrick. "I have been thinking of nothing else all the morning, and I believe I have the answer. May I say how it strikes me; and you will forgive me if I am too long?

"I've been thinking," he said, "of the men blinded in the war. They have always been on my mind, but I never had a chance to help. Losing limbs is a disaster of a totally different kind; it's a bore, of course, to have a wooden leg, and be unable to join in sports any more, and so on; but it's nothing to squeal about. Whereas losing sight--that's terrible.

"I should doubt if any quarrel between nations is worth such a price as one blinded man.

"Sight is too glorious a possession. I have been shutting my eyes at intervals all the morning and realizing what it must be like never to open them again.

"'Never'--that is the appalling word.

"I don't mean only what every one who cares anything for the beauty of nature would miss--the first primrose, the new moon, a starry night, a yacht race, snow on the trees. Those are the obvious things and probably many a soldier had thought little enough about them. But put yourself in the position of a blinded soldier and think of his loss. The pretty girls, for example. That must be a loss indeed--the faces and figures of the pretty girls. You know how soldiers in their shirt-sleeves lean on the sills of barrack windows and compare notes on the girls who pass? Not too edifying perhaps, but think of the poor devils who can do this no more.

"And games--never to see another football match, another cricket match. I have seen blind men led into Lord's and watched their poor baulked faces as the sound of the bat against the ball is heard and the crowd cheers a boundary hit. They like to be there--they have the sense of still being in it; they can't bear not to participate in life--but the loss!

"I have seen them in theatres and music halls too, often; and there the spoken word still has its message; but oh, their baffled look when the laughter depends upon gesture!

"And then think of what blindness must mean to those who have loved pictures. The sense of touch, intensely developed, may reveal much, and certainly the beauty of shape, but it can convey no idea of colour. Finger tips passing over the surface of a Corot learn nothing of its beauty; the National Gallery for ever more is blotted out."

Patrick paused and blushed.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to become rhetorical. But it's too sad and I was carried away."

Mrs. Vicat, who had been quietly weeping for some time, implored him to go on.

"Everything you say is so right," she assured him. "And what do you propose?"

"I haven't any very useful suggestions," Patrick said, "but the endowment of new Braille presses might be considered. Many of the men, however, cannot be very much given to reading. What about broadcasting installations? They are all fond of music. Why shouldn't there be a grant of a wireless set to all institutions or houses where blinded soldiers are to be found?"

"There's nothing I wouldn't like to do for the blinded soldiers," said Mrs. Vicat, when he had finished. "And if you can arrange the Braille presses and the broadcasting too, I'll gladly pay what is necessary; but I had"--she almost whimpered--"set my heart on a seaside home, and I don't see that for the blind that is needed. What they want, as I understand it, is to be kept employed, beguiled; their minds and hands are to be continuously occupied so that they mayn't brood and mope. Isn't that it?"

"Yes," said Patrick. "That's a very great part of it. That's certainly the kindest thing we can do--to find them absorbing occupations and to make life a pleasure, if not actually an excitement, still."

"When I came in," said Mrs. Vicat to Ben, "I fancied that girl at the desk outside was crying. Is she unhappy?"

"Poor Jan!" said Ben. "Yes, she's just had a great shock. The doctor has told her that she must stop work and retire to some southern place, or she is in danger of going into a decline. She's miserable about it--partly for herself but a great deal for me, because she doesn't like to leave me in the lurch, she says."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Vicat, with sudden cheeriness, "now I've got it!"

She beamed on them with radiant triumph.

"What?" exclaimed Ben.

"The seaside home," she said. "We'll have the seaside home after all. Not for blinded soldiers--they shall be dealt with all right, Mr. St. Quentin, never fear!--but for poor working girls who need change and rest from London and can't afford it. Oh, how happy I am! I did so want that seaside home and now I've got it. Your poor girl can't go there this time because it won't be ready; but will you see about it at once, my dear? I leave the whole thing to you. You can build a new house or you can take an old house and adapt it. I'll have all the papers made out by my lawyer at once. And we'll call it the 'Adrian Vicat Seaside Home.' Will you do it?"

"Of course I will," said Ben.

"And you'll find out all about the other things?" Mrs. Vicat inquired of Patrick.

"At once," he said.

"I'm so happy," exclaimed Mrs. Vicat again. "Now my mind is perfectly at rest."

She went away in tearful content and Dolly was summoned to assist her again to the car and to receive the usual guerdon.

"Thank you," said Ben to Patrick. "You were splendid. I think we may call this a truly red-letter day. It's all most inspiring; but one thing in particular gives me enormous satisfaction."

"And that?" Patrick asked.

"You and I were in absolute agreement."

"But you didn't say a word."

"No, there was no need. But when I tried the Sortes Virgilianæ this morning what do you think I stumbled on? Milton."

"Well?" said Patrick.

"Well, it opened at 'Samson Agonistes'!"

XLV

"I set out intending to pay you just a friendly call," said Aunt Agatha, "but coming through the shop downstairs I saw such a lot of books that now I'm going to be a client too. You see they gave me an idea. I'd quite forgotten what a lot of books there are in the world and how little I know of them. But now I think I really must try to know more, so I want you to find me a nice girl to read to me. A girl with a clear voice, mind. From half-past five to seven, I think. No, there are often callers then. From half-past two till tea. No, that's when I sometimes like a nap. In the morning, then. No, one mustn't be read to in the morning. Well, my dear, let it be after lunch then, and if I fall asleep now and again it doesn't really matter. But she mustn't read what they call bed books."

"I wonder if you really want me to get the girl at all," said Ben.

"Of course I do, dear. It's terrible, it's disgraceful, to think of how little time I have left in which to learn anything of all those books, and I'm sure I couldn't read them to myself. Please get me a nice girl with a refined and distinct voice--so many girls have adenoids, don't you think?--to begin, not next week but the week after next. I'll spend next week in clearing up and getting ready for her.