The Lure of Old London Part 11

_Adieu._

CHAPTER XIII

When the Honourable George Tallenach issued from the dark doorway of Carrington Mews into the evening light of Shepherd Market he had no premonition of having come out to meet anything unusual, unless it were the beauty of the close of that perfect spring day. He stood for a moment under the flickering gas lamp twirling the letter he carried between his thumbs, then he crossed the cobbles towards the little shop at the corner where he was in the habit of buying his morning and evening papers. He could see the placards from the moment of coming out, and as he went his hand travelled mechanically towards his pocket to find a penny.

The day's work done, Shepherd Market gossiped and loitered. Sounds travelled in the quiet, and as he stood reading the news-sheets he could hear the clatter of pails from the mews where men washed down motor cars, and the echoes of voices and footsteps in adjacent streets and turnings. His eyes travelled along the newspaper boards expectantly. It was all grist that came to his mill, from Captain Coe's finals to the Irish question, or the opinion of a leading novelist on the novels of the future.

"Sudden death of a Countess." The statement leapt at him in staring black letters, and he stood staring at the words conscious of a feeling of intimate disturbance, and forgetful that he had to make the nightly choice between a "Pall Mall" and a "Westminster". As a matter of fact, though, "The Evening News" placard had taken the decision out of his hands. That paper having made a specialty of the "Sudden death of a Countess," could presumably give some of the particulars.

Of course, he told himself, as he pursued his way with the paper in his pocket, of course there was more than one Countess in existence, and it was pure nervousness on his part to have a.s.sociated the announcement with Katherine. But even as he so reflected there came the recollection of her face, as he had last seen it from the window of her car. That was a month or more ago, and he had heard nothing of her since. He wished now he had called--he had meant to do so, but had procrastinated as usual. Well, he would call to-morrow. Yes, he would certainly call to-morrow.

He paused at the shop at the corner of East Chapel Street to admire the colour effect of some enamelled candlesticks against a length of orange cretonne, and his hand went towards the pocket in which was the newspaper. "It's too dark to read it here," he muttered, and walked on, carrying the paper in his hand. It was just six o'clock, and the public-house opposite the Serendipity shop was lighting up. If he went inside he would be able to read the paper there. But he didn't go inside. He continued his way through Market Place and across Curzon Street to the post office in Queen Street, where he dropped Agatha's letter in the box. This done, he stood in an att.i.tude of indecision for a minute or two, then, with an effort that left him rather breathless, he drew near the open door through which a light streamed and unfolded the newspaper.

His hands shook, and for a moment the print danced under his eyes. But presently a name separated itself from the blurred characters, the name he had expected to see, and he knew it would not now be necessary to pay the call he had planned to make on the morrow.

Perhaps he had some intention of paying it this evening, for his feet, when he left the post office, led him towards the house in Curzon Street, where Katherine had spent the years of her childless widowhood.

As he went he thought, "I wish I'd gone to see her," and those quarter-days, when a cheque for fifty pounds had appeared with clockwork like punctuality by the first post, became so many poignant stabs of recollection. He had sometimes felt aggrieved that the cheque had not been bigger, but at this moment he could find a score of reasons why there should have been no cheque at all. It was hard on Katherine having a brother like himself, living just round the corner. She had tried to carry it off by making a joke of it, but the joke, he suspected, rather hung fire.

There was a peach-coloured sky in the west, and the electric arcs multiplied themselves down the misty street like a string of giant opals. The tall house with the balconies and the shrubs in green boxes loomed ahead, and his pace slowed. The blinds were all down, and there was a light in one of the upper windows. He supposed he ought to go in.

There was no one but himself to represent the dead woman. But he did not want to go in. He could not face the loquacious housekeeper to-night.

To-morrow--yes, on second thoughts, he would have, after all, to keep that resolution to call at Curzon Street on the morrow, but the errand would be strangely different. He had meant to make the visit an occasion for saying certain kind things to his sister, but, as usual, he had let the opportunity slip. It had gone to swell the ranks of all those other lost chances of his life, and once again he was met by those saddest of all sad words, "Too late".

CHAPTER XIV

CARRINGTON MEWS, _12th March._

Dear Agatha,--The letter you sent in answer to my wire has remained too long unanswered, but I have, since Katherine's death, been immersed in correspondence of a most uninteresting and tedious description. The work entailed in the settling of affairs is colossal, and when I haven't been writing tiresome business epistles, or others even more tiresome to people who never remembered my existence when I was a poor man, the lawyers have had me in their octopus-like clutches.

You will notice that I refer to my poverty in the past tense. Yes, Agatha, I have no longer to consider whether I can afford a gla.s.s of ale with my chop for lunch, or half a crown for admission to the pit (to be quite correct, I should say three shillings, the odd sixpence being one's contribution towards the expenses of the war). I can even, if I wish, call a taxi to take me round the corner, or ask Mrs. Darling to dine with me at the Ritz. Katherine left me all she possessed. She did it, I believe, with qualms as to the wisdom of the deed, but, as I have remarked before, "blood is thicker than water," and the habit of giving, where I am concerned, had become with Katherine a habit. Her forebodings, however, were apparent in the wording of her will, and her lawyer treated me to quite a sermon when I called to sign some papers the other day. He said it behoved me to take up the social duties entailed in the possession of a house in Curzon Street, together with an income of five thousand a year. The Countess, he reminded me, had always been very punctilious in the discharge of her obligations as a member of the aristocracy, and it would be an act of ingrat.i.tude on my part if I failed to carry on the family traditions. (I wonder if he has, at any time, seen me with Mrs. Darling.) He hinted at the desirability of my settling down with a suitable wife. Mrs. Darling, by the way, has already had her say on this subject, putting it a little more crudely, and with a rather unflattering reference to "Old Parr". By the way, she refuses absolutely to go any more jaunts round London with me. She says if I don't know my place, she knows hers, and that she has no ambition to "git into the papers". She added that there had been a man with a camera hanging about the Mews lately, and she shouldn't wonder if he wasn't waiting to snapshot the heir to the Countess of Corbridge's thousands.

Mrs. Darling, alas! has altered. Gone is her air of good comradeship, gone _her_ meat puddings, and _my_ snowy pocket handkerchiefs. She says I can afford to lunch out properly now, and send my washing to a laundry in the country. She seems to have lost interest in me since I ceased to want anything of her. It's a trait I have noticed in women in whom the maternal instinct is strongly developed. But if Mrs. Darling is faithless to me, I am not faithless to her. I have plans for the old lady which I shall unfold in due course. Katherine pensioned her housekeeper, who is retiring, and I propose taking Mrs. Darling with me to Curzon Street. She will be almost as difficult to transplant from Carrington Mews as I shall, but a companion in misfortune softens the blow, and we shall help each other.

Dear me, Agatha, but this is a doleful letter, and to tell the truth, my mood is not hilarious. I would give a good deal to have Katherine back in Curzon Street, and myself secure in a life of vagabondage. When I think of all this new life entails I lose heart, and fear to lose my youth also.

Now I come to think of it, that's an admission worthy of Old Parr himself. Lose my youth at sixty-five! Haven't I already lost it? The answer is--No, for youth and vagabondage are synonymous. There is only one person who can help me in such a crisis, and that person is yourself. Existence has become too complex to be faced alone. I want some one to help me spend this money in the service of those to whom a few pounds makes the difference between heaven and h.e.l.l, and your talent for philanthropy has always been handicapped by lack of means. There is, though, a condition attached which may put you off the bargain--George Tallenach is, as Mrs. Darling will tell you, "not everybody's money".

But years ago there was a woman who stuck up for George when no one else had a good word to say for him. If now he asks her to change the duties of friend for those of a wife, will she think it too late?

Adieu, Agatha, and may the meeting, and the answer, come soon.

GEORGE TALLENACH.

_Postscript._

George sealed the letter and moved to his armchair by the hearth. The March evening was chill and the fire was companionable. He was in no hurry to light his lamp, for there was always at such an hour the book in the grate which could be best read in the dark.

Turning its leaves to-night he found the record of a past which, if it offered nothing else, certainly provided variety of interest, and through its changing scenes there had always been Agatha. Agatha who, in those days when they first met, had been a beauty with a score of admirers. He had never understood why she had given them all the go-by to remain true to his unworthy self. He supposed it had become a habit.

If Agatha had a fault it was that she was given to habits. She was also inclined to be conventional. He had seen her wince involuntarily when he had shocked some social prejudice, but the wince had been hustled into a corner by the smiling eyes that said, "It's very silly of me, I know".

There was no doubt his friendship had saved her from the worst perils of spinsterhood. She would take to Curzon Street like a fish to water, and she would accept Mrs. Darling with the wince and its accompanying smile.

The smile he had no doubt would triumph in the end, for Mrs. Darling was a sport and Agatha was no sn.o.b.

His chin dropped on his chest as the scene shifted to those days of vagabondage which had come with the gift of Katherine's two hundred a year. Days when the London streets had been the scene of limitless wanderings, providing undying interest and entertainment, romance and adventure. They had been happy days--were they ended?

The door opened with a jerk, letting in a draught and Mrs. Darling.

"Jest as I expected!" she exclaimed. "I ses to myself as I was comin' up the stairs, I ses, 'I wouldn't mind bettin' 'e's sittin' there in the dark, lettin' the fire out,'" and the speaker, after making a vigorous onslaught on a smouldering lump of coal, looked round for matches.

"I don't want the lamp lit yet," complained George.

But Mrs. D. calmly proceeded with her self-elected task. "Sittin' in the dark's only fit for blind people and lovers," she stated, and her eyes went towards the stamped letter which lay on the writing pad.

"I'm jest goin' to the post, I'll take it," she offered, and a few minutes later, as she dropped the letter into the box, she said to herself, "If he _'as_ asked her to marry 'im, it's jest as well not to give 'im the chance of changin' 'is mind."

THE END.