Part 20

“My dilemma is this, Crumpett,” said his distinguished visitor. “It has recently been suggested to me by my friend, the Prime Minister, that I should allow myself to be nominated to the Privy Council.”

“I congratulate you unreservedly, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.), with unfeigned emotion.

“But, Crumpett, the problem shapes itself in my mind,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “will the acceptance of that which one is bound to consider as an undoubted honour, be wholly consistent with that reverence for the dignity of letters which I hope I don’t exaggerate?”

“I am sure, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a conviction of singular depth, “one feels that whatever you did it would be impossible for you to degrade the position in the world of letters to which your talents have called you.”

“I have a profound faith in your judgment, Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “I am always stimulated by your clearness of thought and your depth of conviction. But, in a manner of speaking, would it not be possible to betray the higher tenets of one’s calling by giving one’s assent to official recognition, however honourable and however greatly to be cherished by a private individual? You will remember that Carlyle refused a baronetcy?”

“No, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a conviction that seemed to grow deeper than ever, “there is not a shade of doubt in my mind that your sensitiveness upon this point is over-nice. Carlyle refused a baronetcy, but Scott accepted one; and Joseph Addison, one of the earliest names upon our books, accepted office in the government of his day.”

“All the same, Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “I feel qualms.”

“They are uncalled for, I assure you, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with splendid finality, “wholly uncalled for.”

“One can hardly fancy the Right Honourable William Shakespeare, P.C.,” said Sir Topman Murtle, with an air of grave perplexity.

“Had Shakespeare been an educated man,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, thoughtfully balancing his paper-knife of solid silver on the point of his forefinger, “I believe it is generally recognized that there is no honour to which he might not have aspired. And let me say this, Murtle,” continued Mr. Octavius Crumpett, warming to his theme with an energy of which few would have suspected him to be capable, “let me say this. It is due to your sense of the higher citizenship that such a one as yourself should allow the welfare of the public to be paramount.”

“Ah, the public,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “the public; upon my word for the moment I had nearly forgotten the public!”

“No representative man must ever forget what he owes to the public,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a sententiousness in which he seldom permitted himself to indulge.

The impact of Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s irresistible conviction began to have its effect on Sir Topman Murtle.

“Yes,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “for the moment I had almost allowed myself to forget the public. It is a merciful thing, Crumpett, that you recalled it to my mind in time. I agree with you that we ought not to allow a sentiment, which some might consider high-flown, to override a sense of duty.”

“And now, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett with gently heaving bosom, “I must expose the horns of my own dilemma.”

With profound emotion the chief of the house of Crumpett and Hawker unfolded the tragic and sordid story.

“I am a humane man, Murtle, as I hope, and trust and believe,” he concluded; “and I do not know how I could face anything in the nature of a scandal in regard to this house, but--but----”

“Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “no one appreciates more fully than do I the painfulness of your position, but scruple may become vacillation, and vacillation may become weakness. Can it be possible, Crumpett, that you also are about to forget the duty you owe to the public?”

“No one has a profounder reverence, Murtle, than have I for those who make a practice of rendering unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, who, unhappy as he was, spoke with the humility of a Christian gentleman; “but--but the misguided young man restored the money himself, and I have every reason to believe it is his first deviation from the path of strict rectitude.”

“Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, placing his own white and fleshy hand, whose finger-nails were carefully trimmed, upon the shoulder of his friend with a firmness that was remarkable, “your scruples do honour to your good heart, but I feel sure they are misplaced. Whatever it may cost you, you must discharge your duty to the State. That duty must necessarily be distasteful--to the sensitive mind it always is; but pray remember, Crumpett, that you will not be the only martyr to the inexorable cause of the public. And it has always seemed to me, Crumpett, that the greater the pain we incur in following a given course of action, the more imperative, the more sacred the need for that course of action becomes.”

Mr. Octavius Crumpett heaved a profound sigh.

“Yes, Murtle,” he said, with the meekness of one at the feet of Gamaliel, “you have worked out that beautiful idea in _The Angel’s Bride_; but really I would that this question were one that a stronger and wiser and more competent nature had to decide.”

“The question, Crumpett, decides itself,” said Sir Topman Murtle in a manner that seemed to imply that a stronger and wiser and more competent nature had already decided it.

And indeed, as Sir Topman Murtle said, the question did decide itself, for at this moment William Jordan, wearing his overcoat, and carrying his hat, entered the room. He was accompanied by a stalwart police constable.

“It is my wish, sir,” said the young man, speaking in a calm and clear voice, “to place myself in the hands of justice.”

Mr. Octavius Crumpett heaved a sigh of relief. He, too, had passed through his mental crisis.

XXXIV

On the following morning, within the precincts of a stuffy, drab-coloured, malodorous building, which was so seldom visited by daylight that the gas was already lit, Mr. Octavius Crumpett, looking grave and perturbed, accepted by the invitation of the presiding magistrate and a fellow-member of his club, one Mr. Ashmole Pursglove, C.B., Q.C., a seat on the bench.

The prisoner, worn and pale, was already standing in the dock. Below him was a solicitor engaged by Mr. James Dodson at the suggestion of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. Mr. Dodson himself was beside him. A close observer would have said that his own composure was considerably less than that of the accused.

The case was of such a trivial character that it was disposed of immediately. The accused, upon his own confession, was charged with abstracting the sum of twenty pounds, the property of his employer. The accused’s solicitor spoke very earnestly as to the excellent character the prisoner had always borne; he had been seven years in the prosecutor’s employ; and he insisted upon the fact that the theft would not have been brought to light had not the accused himself restored the money and confessed his action. To this the prisoner’s employer added an earnest request that the unfortunate young man be dealt with leniently, as he had given every satisfaction to the house of Crumpett and Hawker, and they had no desire whatever to press the case.

“William Jordan,” said the magistrate, in the tone of a somewhat petulant male parent, “having regard to the fact that your employer, whose goodness of heart and philanthropy of disposition are well known, has himself interceded for you, and having regard also to the fact that since the commission of your act you appear to have done all in your power to repair it, I should be inclined to feel that the ends of justice would be met by a nominal sentence upon you. But unfortunately I learn that this is not the first occasion upon which you have been before this court; and as you have already enjoyed what I may say I am inclined to consider the questionable philanthropy of the First Offenders’ Act, upon a charge similar to this present, although upon the former occasion it involved theft from the person, I now feel that I have no alternative but to deal with you in a salutary manner. William Jordan, you must go to hard labour for six months.”

The young man stood erectly to receive this sentence. About his lips was a smile which was proud, humble, yet almost happy.

XXXV

After the prisoner had bowed with a self-possession and an ample courtesy to the presiding magistrate, and to his late employer--which both gentlemen thought in the circumstances were very remarkable--and he had stepped down from the dock, Mr. Octavius Crumpett said to his acquaintance and fellow-clubman, Mr. Ashmole Pursglove, “Pursglove, this affair has cost me much pain. That man has been in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker seven years, and I understand that in all that time his conduct has been exemplary. Yet his career reveals a depth of depravity that is truly shocking. Not one of his companions in the office had suspected it.”

“I can only remark, Crumpett,” said Mr. Ashmole Pursglove, “that in my judgment that man has the air and demeanour of a finished criminal. I am afraid there is nothing to be said for a man of that type. Our social system makes no sort of provision for him. If I could have my way he would be detained as a hopeless lunatic. He would not be given back to society again.”

“It is curious, Pursglove,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “what an insight into the human heart is given to some men. You know Murtle. Well, Murtle said to me, after having witnessed the man give himself into custody, ‘There is not the least doubt in my mind, Crumpett, that that man is capable of anything.’ And I little thought when Murtle said this, upon, as I considered, very insufficient data, how amply his judgment was to be confirmed.”

After Mr. Octavius Crumpett had shaken hands very cordially with the presiding magistrate, had also thanked him for his disinterested services, and further, had subscribed five pounds to the funds of the court, he entered a hansom and requested to be driven to his club. In the course of the journey he continually made the observation: “Murtle was right! Murtle was quite right! What an astonishing insight that man has into the human heart!”

XXXVI

In the meantime Mr. James Dodson had hurriedly left the precincts of the court. He had made his way headlong to the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel.

“Chrissie,” said the eminent philosopher, “I want something that in the quickest possible time will make me blind to the world. And as soon as I am blind to the world I want you to put me in a cab and send me home.”

“What’s up, Jimmy?” said the lady at the buffet, betraying a lively curiosity. “It isn’t love, because I know by experience that you are not built in that way.”

“A lot you know about it,” said the philosopher hoarsely. “You think because you have thrown me over twice and I have not said a word about it, I haven’t got any feelings at all. You are wrong, Chrissie. If you touch me in the right spot I have to squeal just like anybody else. I want to knock my head against that beer-engine until I can’t feel anything more. And why do you think I want to do that?”

“Ask me another, James Dodson,” said the siren. “But for whatever reason you want to do it, I know very well it is not love.”

“Well, if it is not love,” said Mr. Dodson, “I don’t know what the name is for it. Here is a chap I have known seven years, who was nothing to me at first, who was not the kind of chap a fellow like me would take up with, who has been found guilty of doing things--not one thing mind you, but two--and although he has been found guilty, I say--and he owns up himself--and he has just been put away for six months’ hard labour--the whole business makes me feel--makes me feel, Chrissie, as though I want to commit a murder.”

“Whatever you do, Jimmy,” said the siren, who was genuinely alarmed, “you must keep off brandy. You are absolutely off the square. I can’t make out what is the matter with you; I should have said you would have been the last chap in the world to let go like this.”

“So should I, old girl,” said Mr. Dodson. “I don’t recognize J. D. in this affair at all. The fact is, J. D. never has recognized himself in his dealings with that poor lunatic. But there has come to be something about that chap that is more to me than my own flesh and blood. If it isn’t love I don’t know what it is; yet why it should be love I don’t know. As you know, old girl, I don’t believe much in religion as a general thing, but it has seemed to me lately that that chap was just a saint in disguise. And now they have taken him from me--put him away in gaol--to hard labour--and he deserves it too--and--and, old girl, it has kind of knocked the bottom out of my little world altogether--and--and I feel that I shall never be able to believe in anything again.”

“Steady, old boy,” said Chrissie with an ample yet robust sympathy. “I don’t like to see you let go.”

“I don’t like it either,” said the philosopher whitely. “But I feel just now that I must either let out a little or go mad. One thing is dead sure; I mustn’t go back to the office at present. If I do I am certain to murder Octavius.”

“Jimmy,” said Chrissie, with matronly reserve from behind the buffet, “if you like to bring that ring back again to-morrow I’ll wear it.”

“You give me something that will put me to sleep,” said the philosopher hoarsely and with wild eyes. “Anything--I don’t care what--as long as it does it soon.”

XXXVII

One misty but pleasant morning of the early autumn, a four-wheeled cab was drawn up against the kerb immediately opposite the portals of a London penitentiary. A wizened and undersized young man with black hair, a short bristling moustache, and his hands in his pockets, stood with his back to this vehicle. Upon his not particularly agreeable countenance was a curious air of expectancy.

Ever and anon the young man might have been seen to take out his watch. By the manner in which he regarded it, it was to be surmised that he was growing impatient. He began to pace up and down the pavement in front of the prison. Already he had been waiting more than an hour. It began to seem that he whom he awaited would never appear.

At last there stepped through the sombre portals of the gaol an extremely slight figure, rather above than below the middle height. It was that of a young man. His hands were remarkably slender and delicate; his eyes were large and deep yet extraordinarily luminous; his hair was shaved close to his head. The tardy beams of the sun which were beginning to creep over the great city declared his gaunt face to be suffused by a somewhat curious pallor. In the centre of the right cheek was a slight yet almost hideous natural disfigurement.

Scarcely had this fragile figure emerged from the portals of the gaol, than the wizened and undersized young man, who had been pacing the flags of the pavement for some little time past, turned and beheld it. At once he made towards him. Quite suddenly, however, he stopped, as if in the throes of a profound bewilderment. An expression of pain and confusion overspread his face.

In the next moment, however, he had gone forward again. It was as though an irresistible impulse had driven him.

“Why--why,” he said, peering into the great and luminous eyes of the man who had issued from the portals of the gaol, “can--can it be Luney?”

He who was addressed in this singular manner replied by taking a hand of the speaker’s in each of his own, and by saluting him upon the forehead.

XXXVIII

When he had ensconced William Jordan in the interior of the cab Mr. James Dodson before entering the vehicle himself turned to the man on the box.

“Cabby,” he said, “as it is a nice morning you can just throw back the flaps of your machine and take us for a drive round Brixton.”

The cabman interpreted these instructions by uncovering the roof of the vehicle, and by driving away from the penitentiary at a regulated pace.

Its two occupants were seated side by side.

“Why, Luney,” said Jimmy Dodson in a voice of bewilderment, “I hardly knew you.”

“Is it surprising?” said his companion.

“And your voice,” said Jimmy Dodson, “I hardly recognize your voice as belonging to you either. Something seems to have happened to you.”

“As you say,” said William Jordan softly, “something seems to have happened to me; but,” he added as he laid his delicate fingers upon those of his friend, “I can never forget those to whom I owe everything.”

Dodson already felt a curious susceptibility to the new and strange manner of his companion.

“But, you know, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, whose joy in their meeting was suddenly tempered by the things that were, “all this must be kept from my people all the same. You see, my father--well, my father is in the Force, and--and, well naturally, it would not be professional. And of course you are done for socially--it is no use my disguising it, is it, old boy? It is only kindness to tell you. And I should be done for socially too if any of my set knew that I had taken up with you again. And I should get sacked from the office--my screw is now three hundred a year--and of course nobody would be to blame but myself. I suppose my taking up with you again is all very weak and wrong; yet if I must tell you the truth, Luney, I have come to feel that I would rather not go on living if I have to do without you.”

The last few sentences of Jimmy Dodson’s remarkable speech, the whole of which was uttered in a very rapid, mumbling, somewhat incoherent fashion, far other than the one he was wont to affect, caused a poignant expression to flit through the large and bright eyes of William Jordan.

“I have no counsel to give you, Jimmy,” he said. “I can only leave you to go out alone into the wilderness.”

Jimmy Dodson looked at his friend with wonder and bewilderment, taking a firmer hold upon him.

“Luney,” he said, “I can’t think what has happened to you. But somehow, as I say, you are not the same. Your looks are so different--you have no idea how wide and bright your eyes are. And your speech is different--it is so much clearer and stronger, and you don’t seem to stammer at all. But you were always beyond me, old boy, and now you seem to have got farther and farther away.”

“Yet never was I so near to you, Jimmy, as I am this day,” said William Jordan. “You are no longer a street-person, nor an Olympian, nor one of other race and texture. You are just yourself, your own baffled, bewildered, arrested self--my own half-developed younger brother who one day may come to flower.”

“I don’t understand you, Luney,” said his mentor; “you have altered so much that I don’t understand you at all. And yet, when I hear your voice and I look at your eyes, you make me feel somehow----”

XXXIX

When William Jordan returned again to the little room his father greeted him in silence. The aged man whose hair was now snow-white, whose eyes were dim, whose limbs were enfeebled, looked upon the returned wayfarer without speech and without question.

“I observe, my father,” said the young man, peering into the failing eyes, “that you were of good faith.”

“I had your assurance, Achilles, that you would return,” said the aged man.

“You have no curiosity, my father,” said the young man. “You do not ask whether my journeyings, like those of Odysseus of old, were fraught with hazard and great vicissitude.”

“With that measure of sight that still remains to me, beloved one,” said his father, “I observe that to be the case.”

The young man smiled with a kind of submission.

“I am entered upon the third phase,” he said, “the third and the last. The time is brief. I hear already the first faint lappings of the waters of oblivion in my ears. But I have acquired a store of knowledge. I went out in anguish and bewilderment; I return in self-security. If only the strength be given to my right hand in these last days I shall commence author.”

“Will you write in the book, beloved one?” said the old man, whose enfeebled frame had now scarce the power to lift the great volume from the shelf.

The young man looked the pages through with a patient scrutiny.

“There are many blank pages,” he said. “There are many to be filled.”

“Their number is infinite,” said the old man. “As long as our dynasty continues there will always be a page to be filled.”

“Yet he who fails to write therein,” said the young man, “places a term to the dynasty, does he not, my father?”

“Verily, beloved,” said his father, “it is written so.”

“I must go out into the wilderness again, my father,” said the young man with the new glamour in his large bright eyes. “It may then be given to me to write in the book.”

From this day forth the young man spent his outdoor hours in many and strange places, without pain, without trepidation, without his previous hurry of the spirit. He walked fearlessly among the crowded streets, reading the faces of those he found therein. Sometimes he would go afield and enter the country lanes and the woodland places and read the face of Nature.

Under the cover of the darkness his friend Dodson would sometimes tap upon the shutters of the shop. The young man would immediately leave his books, for he had returned to those companions of his early days, and would go forth with his friend into the streets of the great city. On the side of each there was an odd fear: James Dodson would never venture abroad upon these excursions without turning up his coat collar and pulling down his hat over his eyes, and he earnestly besought William Jordan to follow his example.

“If it leaks out that we still walk out together,” said Jimmy Dodson, “I am done for socially, and I shall lose my three hundred a year.”

On the other hand William Jordan’s constant fear was lest his friend in a moment of unguarded impetuosity should pass through the shop and penetrate over the threshold of the little room.

“Jimmy,” he said, with that directness of speech which was his recent possession, “I would urge upon you never to pass beyond the threshold of the little room in which I and my father dwell, until that hour should come wherein you are told to enter.”

“I promise, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, assenting readily, “and I ask you not to breathe it to a living soul that we still walk out together. Really I don’t know why we do. I seem to be taking my life in my hand, yet I feel as though I haven’t the power to help myself. The fact is I can’t do without you, Luney.”

However, the time was at hand when these evening excursions were much curtailed. In the course of his daily wanderings abroad, the young man in his new and high courage, found himself on one occasion in a dreadful slum in the eastern part of the great city. Once before in the early days of his childhood when, holding the hand of his father, he was wont to go forth to seek knowledge, he had found himself in this dismal place. And such was the terror it aroused in him that his dreams were haunted for many nights. But this day he traversed these regions, which he had never thought to dare to enter again, calmly, fearlessly and alone.

And in the middle of the most noisome part of the slum, he observed a stalwart man in a shabby black coat, and a very old hat, and trousers frayed at the end, and ugly and misshapen shoes with their strings hanging loose, talking to two ragged and filthy urchins whose bare legs were plastered with mud, who were revelling in the gutter.

The young man stood a little apart watching these three until the boys went away, and then he approached the man and said as he took off his hat: “I beg your pardon, sir, but I would like to help you in your labours. I would like to instruct those children in reading and writing, and in other simple arts in which they seem to be deficient.”