Part 5

At the end of an hour the soldier was asked to stand up and drink beer out of a jug, a function which he performed with very tolerable grace. He was then allowed to go home.

"But come here early to-morrow morning," said Baffin. "Do you think you'll like the work?"

"Work seems all right," responded Mr. Prince. "I'll come at nine o'clock."

He arrived at the time stated, having carefully attired himself in his Sunday "blacks," and a white turn-down collar. He had likewise operated with sand upon the metal parts of his shovel, so that that instrument glittered exceedingly. Also, he had perfumed his hair. And Baffin ordered him to go home again and reinvest himself with the habiliments of toil.

The spade we kept and improved upon in a corner of the doctor's little garden--a corner in which rare bulbs were buried. Clarence returned to us looking natural and dirty, and wearing a resigned expression.

Then he sat, or rather stood, in earnest, whilst Baffin "studied" him in pencil and charcoal and crayon, and in every other sort of pigment.

And when the artist had tired of this employment, Mr. Prince came down from his platform and studied the pictures with an air of cold reserve. He said that he thought he might as well be going. And he went.

The subsequent sittings were in all respects a repetition of the first. But at the end of the week, a strange thing happened. Mr. Clarence Gordon Prince permitted himself to give utterance to a remark. He had been paid his first week's wages--a sovereign, and, having spat upon this coin and donned his jacket, he tapped Mr. Baffin with his knuckle and performed the feat in question. "One day--me lad," he said, "I'll show ye _my_ pictures."

And on the last day of his engagement he duly fulfilled the promise. He had spat upon a sovereign and donned his jacket, just as before, and he had walked towards the door, but half-way there he stopped and faced his late employer.

"Look here," he said, as he quietly divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat, "look 'ere, ole man, you've acted very fair to me, and now I'm gointer show ye my pictures."

With this preface he removed his shirt.

The wondering Baffin was then confronted with a naked chest--a chest of many colours. "The Duchess of Gainsborough," said Mr. Prince. "There's eight weeks' work in 'er. Done in Ceylon. I was soldiering in Ceylon. If you look round the corner you will see a picture of Eve bein' tempted by the serpent. On me right arm there's 'Erod's daughter, and on me left a photo of Jim Sayers. 'Ow's all this for picture work?

"I was under the needle for pretty near a twelve-month, and time I left the service there was on'y one man in the battery as could show the 'arf of what I can. I always 'ad a fancy for colour work."

The model slowly resumed his clothes. "I love a well-done chest, I do," he said.

"Not, mind you, as I am one to turn 'is nose up at a picture on the wall, same's you might make yesself. Not at all. But me own fancy is for breast and arm work. That has always bin my fancy.

"And I look upon you as a very fair and civil-spoken young man, which is why I let you see me. I'm a bit particular 'oo I show my pictures to. I'll be getting along now. Good-night, sir."

On the threshold of the door he paused again.

"One more thing, young man. I ain't the sort of bloke to show me chest around; but you've treated me decent, man to man, as the saying goes. And, therefore, if ever the fancy takes you to show me to your friends, why say the word and--'ere I am.

"I'll say good-night now."

*XIV*

*THREE BABIES*

One of the disadvantages attaching to Dr. Brink's profession is its stay-at-home character. A doctor has not time to travel. And it is a well-known fact that travelling improves the mind.

Think, for instance, how my doctor's mind would relish the improvement associated with a short spell of travel on the London, Tilbury, and Something Railroad! I travelled on this system only yesterday--it is the direct route to Dr. Brink's--and I protest that one of my fellow-travellers--a baby--was really _most_ improving.

This baby came into our compartment head downwards, and advertised his displeasure with this state of things by means at his command.

A little pale-faced girl who followed Baby uttered remonstrances, which were answered by the little rickety boy who carried him. I saw and heard these things but vaguely, because our carriage was filled with noise and smell, and its lights were dim. And many people had breathed within it, and the gentlemen about me were smoking shag tobacco.

The little pale-faced girl expressed herself with emphasis, coughing and gasping between each adjective. There was a great deal of fringe upon her forehead and a great deal of feather on her head, and some broken teeth within her mouth. She dug at her companion with a bony elbow, as they stood there, being supported in an upright attitude by means of other people's knees and also by means of a rack provided for light articles only. "You clumsy tyke, you!" shrilled the girl, by way of concluding her address.

"Hee-haw!" responded the youth, with satire. It was made evident by certain signs, such as the cheerfulness of his conversation and a sort of _neglige_ as to his fringe, that he had spent his evening amid congenial surroundings. '"Old the kid yeself, then," he added. And his companion took the child.

"What you done with them suckers?" she then demanded; upon which the young man brought forth bull's-eyes from his trouser pocket. With one of these the little girl essayed to comfort Baby, holding the evil thing between his toothless gums. But Baby continued, as before, to moan and writhe.... "I fink that beetroot ain't agreein' wiv 'im," said the girl.

The little rickety boy made no reply. He was busy, having a handful of cigarette-ends to strip and bind anew with paper. "Why don't you stop 'is noise?" he at length demanded, applying his tongue to the completed "fag." "Call yeself a mother?"

The fact as to Baby's authorship I had, of course, suspected. I perceived, however, that our fellow-passengers did not mind.

The girl did not allow the young man's question to remain unanswered. "Never trouble," she said, "what I call myself. What do you call yeself? A man, I suppose. Funny sort of man, ain't you? More like a ape. More like a crab. Fine 'usband for a person, ain't you? 'Usband, eh?"

An elderly man at my right hand removed his pipe and grinned. The gentleman opposite to him winked; and a woman in the corner giggled rustily. You might have supposed them to be tickled by a sense of the deeper irony which underlay this mother's sarcasm. But, as a matter of fact, the reflections which moved them were not of this character. The elderly man at my right explained his sentiments publicly. "Puts me in mind," he said, "of my fust. 'E were jest sich a skinny one."

And Rickets spoke again. "Why can't you stop the beggar's noise?" he demanded. "Worse nor a waggon-load o' tomcats, that row is."

"What," demanded the girl, "d'you expect me to do? Put a muzzle on 'im? Why don't you take an' stop 'im yeself? 'Andy enough wiv yere tongue, you are. S'pose you show us 'ow to do the business."

"My way o' stoppin' 'im would be easy," said the boy, with a stupid grin. "I should lay a strap acrost 'is back."

His companion reapplied the elbow treatment. "You do!" she squeaked between the digs. "You do, you little ape. Let me see you. On'y let me see you. There'd be a strap 'crost your back blessed soon. Not 'arf, there wouldn't. You baboon, you!"

The girl looked helplessly at nothing, "hushing" the baby upon her breast by means of sudden, horrible, little jerks. Such a pitiful parody of rock-a-bye. She was too young and pale properly to know or understand the business of mothering, which is a difficult business to learn in your spare time, especially when they shut you out for a "quarter" if you are two minutes late at the factory. So that this London mother sucked at a bull's-eye, and yawned, and jerked, while the London baby lay in her arms and moaned.... "I fink it is the beetroot," reiterated the mother presently. "He looks so cold, Sam."

"It's wind," pronounced the boy, bringing forth a mouth-organ and carefully wiping it upon his sleeve. "Give 'im a tap, same's I told you. 'Seaweed,' mates." With which announcement the husband and father proceeded to wring out the melody of that name. We all tapped time with our feet, and the mother sucked her bull's-eye, and the baby moaned.

"He looks so cold," repeated the mother, as the mouth-organ subsided. "Give us 'Cock o' the North,' Sam."

Sam obeyed this summons with alacrity.

"If you will pardon me, young woman," observed the elderly man at my right hand, having duly applauded the soloist--"if you will pardon me, young woman, I will take the liberty of recommending a cold key. It catches the breath, if you take my meanin'. See?"

"No; I don't see," responded the mother sharply. It resented the preferment of counsel. This reflected upon its competence: this offended its sense of dignity. It was a married woman.

The husband readdressed himself to his mouth-organ. But as he put that instrument of melody unto his lips, the girl reached sharply forth and stayed him.

"E--'e seems to be a-chokin', Sam," she said. "I think--I b'lieve--I--what you grinnin' for, you ugly ape? When'll we get to Bow? 'Ow many stations? You old 'im, Sam: I b'lieve--I--he looks so cold. He looks _so_ cold."

"Give 'im another bull's-eye," suggested Sam. "There's peppermint in bull's-eyes. Next station's Bow. What are you grizzlin' for?"

"'E--'e looks so cold," explained the wife. There was a flame in her eye. A new flame--a flame of fear and joy. It was as though a match had been put to her soul. She was learning the business.

The woman in the corner left off giggling. She spoke to the mother. "You run along to bed with 'im, my gel. Never you mind about 'is looks. Run along to bed with 'im, so's 'e can be warm."

And the girl tightened her hold upon the parcels rack; and swayed her body gently, like a real mother. The boy, her husband, drew forth a series of discords from the mouth-organ. But she did not scream at him as before. She stood there, dumbly, rocking her baby like a real mother.

And the baby did not moan. The baby lay there on her bosom, silent and strangely still.

Then, with a jerk, our train pulled up. And the girl let go of the rack-rail and stumbled out. "Come on, Sam," she said, "we gotter 'urry. 'E looks so cold."

"Wait till I light me fag, then," said the boy. He struck a match on his boot-heel, and followed her, whistling cheerfully.

* * * * *

Our train moved on. And the elderly man at my right hand imparted a secret to me.

"That's their fust," he said.

I nodded, patiently.

"'E lay quiet enough when the music started. Did you notice?"

"Yes," I said, "I noticed."

"They're funny devils," said the man.

*XV*

*INGRATES*

"DR. BRINK. Important.

"DEAR DOCTOR,--Ther is a lady keeps on coming in a motor car, and her names is Mrs. Dudenay-Jones, and she is always at our place, and we think she 'as got a good intention, but my husband says he has had enough, and he thinks if we was to speak to you then perhaps you was to speak to her so perhaps she would stop it. She is a real lady, and always civil and polite, but my husband says we've had ennough. His mates has got to hear about it, and they call him Gordon Bennett, and he is a hardworking man.

"It is my daughter Kate she takes the interest in, the same what you give the light-brown mixture to for loosing her appetite. She wants to put her in a home at Margate, but my daughter has got a good home of her own, and she do not want to be beholding. And if a person goes to Margate you always bring back vermin, and there is enough work to keep a decent home without anybody need go to Margate and bring back vermin. And further and more, my Kate 'as got a bank book of her own, thank God, and when she wants to take a fortnight she can do it independent, and her young fellar the same, him what has the bottles of red from you for spots on the face.

"And so it is kindly to be hoped as you will kindly talk about it to the lady, you being reguly engaged by us for all these year, and knowing well that we are hardworking and independent, and not the kind as would wish to be beholding. And she come 4 times a week from Sat., and now it is only Tue., and she has been twice. It is no wonder as my daughter loose her appetite.

"And thanking with compts, "Your faithl, "SARAH BENNET, 13, Markham Street, over against the Dairy.

"P.S.--Boy got 6d. Please send a bot. light brown for my daughter. Did my daughter ought to drink a wineglass full of vineger? They tell me it is good.

"The lady has always acted civil, so I hope you'll be the same.

"S. BENNETT."

* * * * *

It was this missive, reaching the doctor at his breakfast table, which caused a beautiful philanthropist to enter his surgery at tea-time. She came in immediate response to the doctor's invitation; she came with a rush, having been carried hither by her 80-h.p. 8-cylinder light touring car.

"And, oh, _dear_ Dr. Brink," she said, "how simply charming it is to meet you! One has so often read your bright little speeches about this shocking poverty. One simply yearns to do something. How one envies you your strength, your power, your splendid opportunities. How you must _revel_ in your work here, Doctor! It must be simply charming!"

"About as charming," said the doctor, "as keeping pigs and sleeping with them."

The beautiful philanthropist broke into appreciative titters. "_Pigs_, Doctor!" she cried, with the archest look. "_Pigs_! He! he! And you call yourself a Socialist! Of course, I'm not a Socialist myself. One's husband cannot be expected to approve of such extremes as that. But one need not be a Socialist in order to feel sorry for them. Now, need one, Doctor? But when one is a woman, it is all so difficult. Oh, Doctor, can one do _nothing_?"

"One _can_," replied the doctor; "but one won't. That, madame, is the difficulty."

"I don't quite understand you," said the lady.

"You ask me," explained the doctor, "whether one can do nothing. I reply that one can: that this is all we ask of one--to do nothing."

"To do _nothing_? _D-o-c-t-o-r_!"

"It does sound revolutionary, perhaps," admitted the doctor. "But it is really true. We ask one to do _nothing_. We ask one to be so kind as to sit at home and draw threads out of teacloths. And to draw cheques. But not to leave one's blameless hearth. We ask one to keep away. The pig-stye is a dirty pig-stye, and it's got to be cleaned by dirty people. Nice people--manicured people---are best out of it. See?"

"I see that you want to be rude," said the lady, "but I don't---- What is it all about, Doctor?"

"This," said Dr. Brink. And he gave her Mrs. Bennett's letter. And she read it silently. And she stood up.

"Really, Doctor," she observed, "one doesn't quite know what to say. I'm sorry, I suppose. I will write and apologise to Mrs. Bennett. I'll go home and draw threads.

"Don't trouble to get up," she continued, as the doctor rose from his chair. "Don't trouble to get up. You are quite the rudest man I've ever met. Please don't trouble to get up."

She reached the door, but paused upon its threshold and turned to him again. "You are quite the rudest man I've ever met," she said again. "Quite the rudest.... I'll send you some money for your pigs."

*XVI*

*BAFFIN'S FIND*

Baffin came home one evening in a state of wild-eyed exaltation.

He had found _the_ face for his "Mist Maiden." Its name was Prudence Croft.

It was coming to sit next day, and certain brothers of the brush were coming also to inspect and criticise Prudence.

Baffin's panegyrics quite interested me. I invited myself to join the party and my invitation was accepted.

So that I first saw Prudence under romantic circumstances. She was sitting on a sugar-box with her bodice off. The combination of her charms and a red flannel under-garment was startling to the eye.

Prudence was occupied, it seemed, in a proceeding called "sitting for the neck and shoulders." The process was not a restful one, for Prudence had "nerves" and "fidgets" and a constant flow of anecdote. Mr. Baffin made free with expressions of entreaty, disapprobation, and despair.

For myself, I sat and stared at Prudence, being consumed with a great wonder. It wasn't the flannel which provoked this wonder. Red flannel is a hideous material, and highly moral and depressing at that. And I am sure that the spectacle of a poor, anaemic rat of an artist's model seated in "half-costume" on a sugar-box is not (in itself) an attractive one. But Prudence fascinated me as no human being had fascinated me for many days.

If any of you have felt the poignant, horrible appeal of Ophelia during the "mad scene," you will know how I felt about Prudence. Her spare, consumptive body was crowned by a neck and face and head as beautiful as any that ever were. But it was a beauty that was monstrous in its perfection, and that, therefore, hurt like some monstrosity of ugliness.

Prudence's beauty was the beauty of imbecility--that which Rossetti loved so much to draw. To look at her for long was like looking at some exotic, over-nurtured lily in a hot-house: one felt sick and restless and unmanned, and fell to longing for some robuster blossom on a hedgerow.

She had the genuine Rossetti neck--a thing which rose and swelled and died away in exquisite, maddening curves. She had the genuine Rossetti nose--straight, and small, and delicate, and sinful. She had hair, a full arm's length, that crept and clung and strayed and floated like the tendrils of a vine. She had wide, inscrutable eyes: wondering as a child's, yet filled with an awful something that was not of childhood. She had, above all else, a mouth which stung you with its beauty--blood-red lips that were open and moist and eager, like a lover's wound.

To all these charms she added the mind and speech of a mud-lark: the intelligence of a backward infant.

"Ow, Mr. Baffin," she was saying when I saw her first, "ow, Mr. Baffin, you _do_ frighten me when you swear so. I _will_ keep still: I will, reely. I won't fidget or move or talk--I won't even breathe--for a 'ole ten minnits. On'y I must tell you about me an' my sister an' the penny-in-the-slot machine. Mother give us tuppence, see, 'cos it was washin' day, an'---- ... Ow, now you're angry, Mr. Baffin. Down't be angry, Mr. Baffin. I am a wicked girl, I know I am, an' I _will_ keep still: an' Gawd knows what's to become of me when my mother dies, an' everybody 'ates me, an' I _am_ un'eppy."

The remainder of Prudence's observations were mingled with the sound of noisy sobs.

Mr. Baffin, that eminent painter, put down his palette and brush. "I'll wait," he said, "until you are dry again."

"Down't be engry with me, Mr. Baffin," moaned Prudence. "I'll be a good gel now--I will, reely--if on'y yew wown't be engry with me."

"Very well, then," answered Baffin. "You can begin to be a good girl now. I 'm not angry with you _any_ more, and if only you keep still for five little minutes while I get in the curves of the chin, I'll let you talk and wriggle as much as you like for a whole ten minutes. Now hold your head up."

So Prudence ceased her lamentations, and held her head up--for five-and-thirty seconds. At the end of that period an interesting thought occurred to her.

"It'll be Christmas in four months," she observed, wriggling delightedly. "I'm gownter give my muvver something _sow_ nice fur Christmas' I'm gownter give 'er a---- Ow, Mr. Baffin, you're angry with me agen. I _am_ a bad gel, I know I am; but----"

"You can leave off helping me for a minute or two," said Baffin quietly. "I've got to do some scraping here, so you can have the wriggle now. What is this about Christmas?"

"I got two guineas comin' to _me_ fur Christmas--per'aps. I sat to Mr. Baker fur 'is 'Birth of Wonder,' an' when 'e sells it 'e is gointer gimme two guineas!"

Baffin looked at me, and I nodded in appreciation of his glance. Everybody knows, of course, that Mr. Wilberforce Baker, the eminent Academician, disposed of his "Birth of Wonder" last June. It was his tenth annual contribution to that remarkable collection of pictures now being formed under a bequest of the late Mr. Bantry--Mr. Wilberforce Baker himself being a trustee of the fund bequeathed for that purpose. Baffin excommunicated that distinguished artist in dumb show.

"I shouldn't count on the two guineas," was all he said to Prudence. "... How long is it since you sat for Mr. Baker?"

"Ow, _ever_ so lung!" answered Prudence. "Down't know why 'tis, I'm sure, on'y I down't seem to be able to get now sittin's _now_'ow. They all say I'm pretty an' that; an' they all rave about me neck: an' they all tell me to call agen; but nothink ever comes of it. Can't make it out at _all_, I can't?"

"You are lacking in the quality of perception, my dear," explained Baffin.

"Beg your pardon?" queried Prudence.

"I say," repeated Baffin, "that you are lacking--that you are damned slow at seeing things!"

"Ow, Mr. Baffin, you _are_ a naughty man. Fancy usin' such wicked words. My mother says it is on'y bad people what uses words like that. My mother cut 'er finger yesterday, makin' toast. We got the drains up in _our_ 'ouse. Ugly things, them little kittens, ain't they? I 'ates 'em when they're crawly, like those."

Prudence, making a wry face, pointed to a basket beside the sugar-box. This contained a family of illegitimate kittens which James had adopted out of Christian charity.

"I _'ate_ cats," continued Prudence in her childish, sing-song voice. "I ate all animals. I like goin' to the theayter, though. I like goin' to church too. I like----"

She would have provided us, doubtless, with an exhaustive list of her enthusiasms; but the door of the studio opened, and gave entrance to those brothers of the brush whose coming was expected.

They looked upon Prudence, and were staggered.

"Where in Hell did you find her?" they inquired of Baffin, and discharged a volley of most wonderful expletives in evidence of their surprise and appreciation and envy. And they hanked her off the sugar-box, and turned her this way and that way, inspecting her "form" in much the same manner as that adopted by farmers when buying horseflesh.

"Chin up, please; more to the right. Now to the left. Ah! Get over there, under that top light. Profile, please. Ah! How about shoulders: salt-cellars, I expect; they always have. Pull that thing down. Ah! Not so bad as I feared. No good for the figure, but--but that neck! Trust old Baffin to find 'em, eh, John?"

There was to me something inexplicably delightful in the utter sexlessness of this admiration. To say the least, it was ungallant and sane. And Prudence evidently shared this feeling. The childish vanity in her eyes was unmistakable, and she walked back to her throne on the sugar-box with a strut that real queens might have envied.