Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (943 page)

The young man rose slowly, and with a broad smile he wrung the magistrate by the hand.

“Don’t do it again.  It’s too risky,” said he.  “The swine would score heavily if you were taken.”

“You’re a good chap, Barker,” said the magistrate.  “No, I won’t do it again.  Who’s the fellow who talks of ‘one crowded hour of glorious life’?  By George! it’s too fascinating.  I had the time of my life!  Talk of fox-hunting!  No, I’ll never touch it again, for it might get a grip of me.”

A telephone rang sharply upon the table, and the baronet put the receiver to his ear.  As he listened he smiled across at his companion.

“I’m rather late this morning,” said he, “and they are waiting for me to try some petty larcenies on the county bench.”

DANGER STORY III.  A POINT OF VIEW

It was an American journalist who was writing up England — or writing her down as the mood seized him.  Sometimes he blamed and sometimes he praised, and the case-hardened old country actually went its way all the time quite oblivious of his approval or of his disfavour — being ready at all times, through some queer mental twist, to say more bitter things and more unjust ones about herself than any critic could ever venture upon.  However, in the course of his many columns in the
New York Clarion
our journalist did at last get through somebody’s skin in the way that is here narrated.

It was a kindly enough article upon English country-house life in which he had described a visit paid for a week-end to Sir Henry Trustall’s.  There was only a single critical passage in it, and it was one which he had written with a sense both of journalistic and of democratic satisfaction.  In it he had sketched off the
lofty obsequiousness of the flunkey who had ministered to his needs.  “He seemed to take a smug satisfaction in his own degradation,” said he.  “Surely the last spark of manhood must have gone from the man who has so entirely lost his own individuality.  He revelled in humility.  He was an instrument of service — nothing more.”

Some months had passed and our American Pressman had recorded impressions from St. Petersburg to Madrid.  He was on his homeward way when once again he found himself the guest of Sir Henry.  He had returned from an afternoon’s shooting, and had finished dressing when there was a knock at the door and the footman entered.  He was a large cleanly-built man, as is proper to a class who are chosen with a keener eye to physique than any crack regiment.  The American supposed that the man had entered to perform some menial service, but to his surprise he softly closed the door behind him.

“Might I have a word with you, sir, if you can kindly give me a moment?” he said in the velvety voice which always got upon the visitor’s republican nerves.

“Well, what is it?” the journalist asked sharply.

“It’s this, sir.”  The footman drew from his breast-pocket the copy of the
Clarion
.  “A
friend over the water chanced to see this, sir, and he thought it would be of interest to me.  So he sent it.”

“Well?”

“You wrote it, sir, I fancy.”

“What if I did.”

“And this ‘ere footman is your idea of me.”

The American glanced at the passage and approved his own phrases.

“Yes, that’s you,” he admitted.

The footman folded up his document once more and replaced it in his pocket.

“I’d like to ‘ave a word or two with you over that, sir,” he said in the same suave imperturbable voice.  “I don’t think, sir, that you quite see the thing from our point of view.  I’d like to put it to you as I see it myself.  Maybe it would strike you different then.”

The American became interested.  There was “copy” in the air.

“Sit down,” said he.

“No, sir, begging your pardon, sir, I’d very much rather stand.”

“Well, do as you please.  If you’ve got anything to say, get ahead with it.”

“You see, sir, it’s like this: There’s a tradition — what you might call a standard — among the best servants, and it’s ‘anded down from one to the other.  When I joined I was a third,
and my chief and the butler were both old men who had been trained by the best.  I took after them just as they took after those that went before them.  It goes back away further than you can tell.”

“I can understand that.”

“But what perhaps you don’t so well understand, sir, is the spirit that’s lying behind it.  There’s a man’s own private self-respect to which you allude, sir, in this ‘ere article.  That’s his own.  But he can’t keep it, so far as I can see, unless he returns good service for the good money that he takes.”

“Well, he can do that without — without — crawling.”

The footman’s florid face paled a little at the word.  Apparently he was not quite the automatic machine that he appeared.

“By your leave, sir, we’ll come to that later,” said he.  “But I want you to understand what we are trying to do even when you don’t approve of our way of doing it.  We are trying to make life smooth and easy for our master and for our master’s guests.  We do it in the way that’s been ‘anded down to us as the best way.  If our master could suggest any better way, then it would be our place either to leave his service if we disapproved it, or else to try and do it as he wanted.  It would hurt the self-respect of any good servant to take a man’s
money and not give him the very best he can in return for it.”

“Well,” said the American, “it’s not quite as we see it in America.”

“That’s right, sir.  I was over there last year with Sir Henry — in New York, sir, and I saw something of the men-servants and their ways.  They were paid for service, sir, and they did not give what they were paid for.  You talk about self-respect, sir, in this article.  Well now, my self-respect wouldn’t let me treat a master as I’ve seen them do over there.”

“We don’t even like the word ‘master,’” said the American.

“Well, that’s neither ‘ere nor there, sir, if I may be so bold as to say so.  If you’re serving a gentleman he’s your master for the time being and any name you may choose to call it by don’t make no difference.  But you can’t eat your cake and ‘ave it, sir.  You can’t sell your independence and ‘ave it, too.”

“Maybe not,” said the American.  “All the same, the fact remains that your manhood is the worse for it.”

“There I don’t ‘old with you, sir.”

“If it were not, you wouldn’t be standing there arguing so quietly.  You’d speak to me in another tone, I guess.”

“You must remember, sir, that you are my master’s guest, and that I am paid to wait upon
you and make your visit a pleasant one.  So long as you are ‘ere, sir, that is ‘ow I regard it.  Now in London—”

“Well, what about London?”

“Well, in London if you would have the goodness to let me have a word with you I could make you understand a little clearer what I am trying to explain to you.  ‘Arding is my name, sir.  If you get a call from ‘Enery ‘Arding, you’ll know that I ‘ave a word to say to you.”

* * * * *

So it happened about three days later that our American journalist in his London hotel received a letter that a Mr. Henry Harding desired to speak with him.  The man was waiting in the hall dressed in quiet tweeds.  He had cast his manner with his uniform and was firmly deliberate in all he said and did.  The professional silkiness was gone, and his bearing was all that the most democratic could desire.

“It’s courteous of you to see me, sir,” said he.  “There’s that matter of the article still open between us, and I would like to have a word or two more about it.”

“Well, I can give you just ten minutes,” said the American journalist.

“I understand that you are a busy man, sir, so I’ll cut it as short as I can.  There’s a public
garden opposite if you would be so good as talk it over in the open air.”

The Pressman took his hat and accompanied the footman.  They walked together down the winding gravelled path among the rhododendron bushes.

“It’s like this, sir,” said the footman, halting when they had arrived at a quiet nook.  “I was hoping that you would see it in our light and understand me when I told you that the servant who was trying to give honest service for his master’s money, and the man who is free born and as good as his neighbour are two separate folk.  There’s the duty man and there’s the natural man, and they are different men.  To say that I have no life of my own, or self-respect of my own, because there are days when I give myself to the service of another, is not fair treatment.  I was hoping, sir, that when I made this clear to you, you would have met me like a man and taken it back.”

“Well, you have not convinced me,” said the American.  “A man’s a man, and he’s responsible for all his actions.”

“Then you won’t take back what you said of me — the degradation and the rest?”

“No, I don’t see why I should.”

The man’s comely face darkened.

“You
will
take it back,” said he.  “I’ll smash your blasted head if you don’t.”

The American was suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a very ugly proposition.  The man was large, strong, and evidently most earnest and determined.  His brows were knotted, his eyes flashing, and his fists clenched.  On neutral ground he struck the journalist as really being a very different person to the obsequious and silken footman of Trustall Old Manor.  The American had all the courage, both of his race and of his profession, but he realised suddenly that he was very much in the wrong.  He was man enough to say so.

“Well, sir, this once,” said the footman, as they shook hands.  “I don’t approve of the mixin’ of classes — none of the best servants do.  But I’m on my own to-day, so we’ll let it pass.  But I wish you’d set it right with your people, sir.  I wish you would make them understand that an English servant can give good and proper service and yet that he’s a human bein’ I after all.”

DANGER STORY IV.  THE FALL OF LORD BARRYMORE

These are few social historians of those days who have not told of the long and fierce struggle between those two famous bucks, Sir Charles Tregellis and Lord Barrymore, for the Lordship of the Kingdom of St. James, a struggle which divided the whole of fashionable London into two opposing camps.  It has been chronicled also how the peer retired suddenly and the commoner resumed his great career without a rival.  Only here, however, one can read the real and remarkable reason for this sudden eclipse of a star.

It was one morning in the days of this famous struggle that Sir Charles Tregellis was performing his very complicated toilet, and Ambrose, his valet, was helping him to attain that pitch of perfection which had long gained him the reputation of being the best-dressed man in town.  Suddenly Sir Charles paused, his
coup d’archet
half-executed, the final beauty of his neck-cloth half-achieved, while he listened with
surprise and indignation upon his large, comely, fresh-complexioned face.  Below, the decorous hum of Jermyn Street had been broken by the sharp, staccato, metallic beating of a doorknocker.

“I begin to think that this uproar must be at our door,” said Sir Charles, as one who thinks aloud.  “For five minutes it has come and gone; yet Perkins has his orders.”

At a gesture from his master Ambrose stepped out upon the balcony and craned his discreet head over it.  From the street below came a voice, drawling but clear.

“You would oblige me vastly, fellow, if you would do me the favour to open this door,” said the voice.

“Who is it?  What is it?” asked the scandalised Sir Charles, with his arrested elbow still pointing upwards.

Ambrose had returned with as much surprise upon his dark face as the etiquette of his position would allow him to show.

“It is a young gentleman, Sir Charles.”

“A young gentleman?  There is no one in London who is not aware that I do not show before midday.  Do you know the person?  Have you seen him before?”

“I have not seen him, sir, but he is very like some one I could name.”

“Like some one?  Like whom?”

“With all respect, Sir Charles, I could for a moment have believed that it was yourself when I looked down.  A smaller man, sir, and a youth; but the voice, the face, the bearing—”

“It must be that young cub Vereker, my brother’s ne’er-do-weel,” muttered Sir Charles, continuing his toilet.  “I have heard that there are points in which he resembles me.  He wrote from Oxford that he would come, and I answered that I would not see him.  Yet he ventures to insist.  The fellow needs a lesson!  Ambrose, ring for Perkins.”

A large footman entered with an outraged expression upon his face.

“I cannot have this uproar at the door, Perkins!”

“If you please, the young gentleman won’t go away, sir.”

“Won’t go away?  It is your duty to see that he goes away.  Have you not your orders?  Didn’t you tell him that I am not seen before midday?”

“I said so, sir.  He would have pushed his way in, for all I could say, so I slammed the door in his face.”

“Very right, Perkins.”

“But now, sir, he is making such a din that all the folk are at the windows.  There is a crowd gathering in the street, sir.”

From below came the crack-crack-crack of the knocker, ever rising in insistence, with a chorus of laughter and encouraging comments from the spectators.  Sir Charles flushed with anger.  There must be some limit to such impertinence.

“My clouded amber cane is in the corner,” said he.  “Take it with you, Perkins.  I give you a free hand.  A stripe or two may bring the young rascal to reason.”

The large Perkins smiled and departed.  The door was heard to open below and the knocker was at rest.  A few moments later there followed a prolonged howl and a noise as of a beaten carpet.  Sir Charles listened with a smile which gradually faded from his good-humoured face.

“The fellow must not overdo it,” he muttered.  “I would not do the lad an injury, whatever his deserts may be.  Ambrose, run out on the balcony and call him off.  This has gone far enough.”

But before the valet could move there came the swift patter of agile feet upon the stairs, and a handsome youth, dressed in the height of fashion, was standing framed in the open doorway.  The pose, the face, above all the curious, mischievous, dancing light in the large blue eyes, all spoke of the famous Tregellis blood.  Even such was Sir Charles when, twenty
years before, he had, by virtue of his spirit and audacity, in one short season taken a place in London from which Brummell himself had afterwards vainly struggled to depose him.  The youth faced the angry features of his uncle with an air of debonair amusement, and he held towards him, upon his outstretched palms, the broken fragments of an amber cane.

“I much fear, sir,” said he, “that in correcting your fellow I have had the misfortune to injure what can only have been your property.  I am vastly concerned that it should have occurred.”

Sir Charles stared with intolerant eyes at this impertinent apparition.  The other looked back in a laughable parody of his senior’s manner.  As Ambrose had remarked after his inspection from the balcony, the two were very alike, save that the younger was smaller, finer cut, and the more nervously alive of the two.

“You are my nephew, Vereker Tregellis?” asked Sir Charles.

“Yours to command, sir.”

“I hear bad reports of you from Oxford.”

“Yes, sir, I understand that the reports
are
bad.”

“Nothing could be worse.”

“So I have been told.”

“Why are you here, sir?”

“That I might see my famous uncle.”

“So you made a tumult in his street, forced his door, and beat his footman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You had my letter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were told that I was not receiving?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can remember no such exhibition of impertinence.”

The young man smiled and rubbed his hands in satisfaction.

“There is an impertinence which is redeemed by wit,” said Sir Charles, severely.  “There is another which is the mere boorishness of the clodhopper.  As you grow older and wiser you may discern the difference.”

“You are very right, sir,” said the young man, warmly.  “The finer shades of impertinence are infinitely subtle, and only experience and the society of one who is a recognised master” — here he bowed to his uncle—”can enable one to excel.”

Sir Charles was notoriously touchy in temper for the first hour after his morning chocolate.  He allowed himself to show it.

“I cannot congratulate my brother upon his son,” said he.  “I had hoped for something more worthy of our traditions.”

“Perhaps, sir, upon a longer acquaintance—”

“The chance is too small to justify the very irksome experience.  I must ask you, sir, to bring to a close a visit which never should have been made.”

The young man smiled affably, but gave no sign of departure.

“May I ask, sir,” said he, in an easy conversational fashion, “whether you can recall Principal Munro, of my college?”

“No, sir, I cannot,” his uncle answered, sharply.

“Naturally you would not burden your memory to such an extent, but he still remembers you.  In some conversation with him yesterday he did me the honour to say that I brought you back to his recollection by what he was pleased to call the mingled levity and obstinacy of my character.  The levity seems to have already impressed you.  I am now reduced to showing you the obstinacy.”  He sat down in a chair near the door and folded his arms, still beaming pleasantly at his uncle.

“Oh, you won’t go?” asked Sir Charles, grimly.

“No, sir; I will stay.”

“Ambrose, step down and call a couple of chairmen.”

“I should not advise it, sir.  They will be hurt.”

“I will put you out with my own hands.”

“That, sir, you can always do.  As my uncle, I could scarce resist you.  But, short of throwing me down the stair, I do not see how you can avoid giving me half an hour of your attention.”

Sir Charles smiled.  He could not help it.  There was so much that was reminiscent of his own arrogant and eventful youth in the bearing of this youngster.  He was mollified, too, by the defiance of menials and quick submission to himself.  He turned to the glass and signed to Ambrose to continue his duties.

“I must ask you to await the conclusion of my toilet,” said he.  “Then we shall see how far you can justify such an intrusion.”

When the valet had at last left the room Sir Charles turned his attention once more to his scapegrace nephew, who had viewed the details of the famous buck’s toilet with the face of an acolyte assisting at a mystery.

“Now, sir,” said the older man, “speak, and speak to the point, for I can assure you that I have many more important matters which claim my attention.  The Prince is waiting for me at the present instant at Carlton House.  Be as brief as you can.  What is it that you want?”

“A thousand pounds.”

“Really!  Nothing more?” Sir Charles had turned acid again.

“Yes, sir; an introduction to Mr. Brinsley Sheridan, whom I know to be your friend.”

“And why to him?”

“Because I am told that he controls Drury Lane Theatre, and I have a fancy to be an actor.  My friends assure me that I have a pretty talent that way.”

“I can see you clearly, sir, in Charles Surface, or any other part where a foppish insolence is the essential.  The less you acted, the better you would be.  But it is absurd to suppose that I could help you to such a career.  I could not justify it to your father.  Return to Oxford at once, and continue your studies.”

“Impossible!”

“And pray, sir, what is the impediment?”

“I think I may have mentioned to you that I had an interview yesterday with the Principal.  He ended it by remarking that the authorities of the University could tolerate me no more.”

“Sent down?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this is the fruit, no doubt, of a long series of rascalities.”

“Something of the sort, sir, I admit.”

In spite of himself, Sir Charles began once more to relax in his severity towards this handsome young scapegrace.  His absolute frankness disarmed criticism.  It was in a more
gracious voice that the older man continued the conversation.

“Why do you want this large sum of money?” he asked.

“To pay my college debts before I go, sir.”

“Your father is not a rich man.”

“No, sir.  I could not apply to him for that reason.”

“So you come to me, who am a stranger!”

“No, sir, no!  You are my uncle, and, if I may say so, my ideal and my model.”

“You flatter me, my good Vereker.  But if you think you can flatter me out of a thousand pounds, you mistake your man.  I will give you no money.”

“Of course, sir, if you can’t—”

“I did not say I can’t.  I say I won’t.”

“If you can, sir, I think you will.”

Sir Charles smiled, and flicked his sleeve with his lace handkerchief.

“I find you vastly entertaining,” said he.  “Pray continue your conversation.  Why do you think that I will give you so large a sum of money?”

“The reason that I think so,” continued the younger man, “is that I can do you a service which will seem to you worth a thousand pounds.”

Sir Charles raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Is this blackmail?” he inquired.

Vereker Tregellis flushed.

“Sir,” said he, with a pleasing sternness, “you surprise me.  You should know the blood of which I come too well to suppose that I would attempt such a thing.”

“I am relieved to hear that there are limits to what you consider to be justifiable.  I must confess that I had seen none in your conduct up to now.  But you say that you can do me a service which will be worth a thousand pounds to me?”