Hilda Wade, a Woman with Tenacity of Purpose

“Yes; here it is.” She handed me a slip of paper.

I read it: “Reginald Nettlecraft, Esq., 427, Staples Inn, London.”

“What, Reggie Nettlecraft!” I cried, amused. “Why, he was a very little boy at Charterhouse when I was a big one; he afterwards went to Oxford, and got sent down from Christ Church for the part he took in burning a Greek bust in Tom Quad—an antique Greek bust—after a bump supper.”

“Just the sort of man I should have expected,” Hilda answered, with a suppressed smile. “I have a sort of inkling that Miss Montague likes HIM best; he is nearer her type; but she thinks Cecil Holsworthy the better match. Has Mr. Nettlecraft money?”

“Not a penny, I should say. An allowance from his father, perhaps, who is a Lincolnshire parson; but otherwise, nothing.”

“Then, in my opinion, the young lady is playing for Mr. Holsworthy’s money; failing which, she will decline upon Mr. Nettlecraft’s heart.”

We talked it all over. In the end I said abruptly: “Nurse Wade, you have seen Miss Montague, or whatever she calls herself. I have not. I won’t condemn her unheard. I have half a mind to run down one day next week to Scarborough and have a look at her.”

“Do. That will suffice. You can judge then for yourself whether or not I am mistaken.”

I went; and what is more, I heard Miss Sissie sing at her hall—a pretty domestic song, most childish and charming. She impressed me not unfavourably, in spite of what Hilda said. Her peach-blossom cheek might have been art, but looked like nature. She had an open face, a baby smile and there was a frank girlishness about her dress and manner that took my fancy. “After all,” I thought to myself, “even Hilda Wade is fallible.”

So that evening, when her “turn” was over, I made up my mind to go round and call upon her. I had told Cecil Holsworthy my intentions beforehand, and it rather shocked him. He was too much of a gentleman to wish to spy upon the girl he had promised to marry. However, in my case, there need be no such scruples. I found the house and asked for Miss Montague. As I mounted the stairs to the drawing-room floor, I heard a sound of voices—the murmur of laughter; idiotic guffaws, suppressed giggles, the masculine and feminine varieties of tomfoolery.

“YOU’D make a splendid woman of business, YOU would!” a young man was saying. I gathered from his drawl that he belonged to that sub-species of the human race which is known as the Chappie.

“Wouldn’t I just?” a girl’s voice answered, tittering. I recognised it as Sissie’s. “You ought to see me at it! Why, my brother set up a place once for mending bicycles; and I used to stand about at the door, as if I had just returned from a ride; and when fellows came in, with a nut loose or something, I’d begin talking with them while Bertie tightened it. Then, when THEY weren’t looking, I’d dab the business end of a darning-needle, so, just plump into their tires; and of course, as soon as they went off, they were back again in a minute to get a puncture mended! I call THAT business.”

A roar of laughter greeted the recital of this brilliant incident in a commercial career. As it subsided, I entered. There were two men in the room, besides Miss Montague and her mother, and a second young lady.

“Excuse this late call,” I said, quietly, bowing. “But I have only one night in Scarborough, Miss Montague, and I wanted to see you. I’m a friend of Mr. Holsworthy’s. I told him I’d look you up, and this is my sole opportunity.”

I FELT rather than saw that Miss Montague darted a quick glance of hidden meaning at her friends the chappies; their faces, in response, ceased to snigger and grew instantly sober.

She took my card; then, in her alternative manner as the perfect lady, she presented me to her mother. “Dr. Cumberledge, mamma,” she said, in a faintly warning voice. “A friend of Mr. Holsworthy’s.”

The old lady half rose. “Let me see,” she said, staring at me. “WHICH is Mr. Holsworthy, Siss?—is it Cecil or Reggie?”

One of the chappies burst into a fatuous laugh once more at this remark. “Now, you’re giving away the whole show, Mrs. Montague!” he exclaimed, with a chuckle. A look from Miss Sissie immediately checked him.

I am bound to admit, however, that after these untoward incidents of the first minute, Miss Montague and her friends behaved throughout with distinguished propriety. Her manners were perfect—I may even say demure. She asked about “Cecil” with charming naivete. She was frank and girlish. Lots of innocent fun in her, no doubt—she sang us a comic song in excellent taste, which is a severe test—but not a suspicion of double-dealing. If I had not overheard those few words as I came up the stairs, I think I should have gone away believing the poor girl an injured child of nature.

As it was, I went back to London the very next day, determined to renew my slight acquaintance with Reggie Nettlecraft.

Fortunately, I had a good excuse for going to visit him. I had been asked to collect among old Carthusians for one of those endless “testimonials” which pursue one through life, and are, perhaps, the worst Nemesis which follows the crime of having wasted one’s youth at a public school: a testimonial for a retiring master, or professional cricketer, or washerwoman, or something; and in the course of my duties as collector it was quite natural that I should call upon all my fellow-victims. So I went to his rooms in Staples Inn and reintroduced myself.

Reggie Nettlecraft had grown up into an unwholesome, spotty, indeterminate young man, with a speckled necktie, and cuffs of which he was inordinately proud, and which he insisted on “flashing” every second minute. He was also evidently self-satisfied; which was odd, for I have seldom seen anyone who afforded less cause for rational satisfaction. “Hullo,” he said, when I told him my name. “So it’s you, is it, Cumberledge?” He glanced at my card. “St. Nathaniel’s Hospital! What rot! Why, blow me tight if you haven’t turned sawbones!”

“That is my profession,” I answered, unashamed. “And you?”

“Oh, I don’t have any luck, you know, old man. They turned me out of Oxford because I had too much sense of humour for the authorities there—beastly set of old fogeys! Objected to my ‘chucking’ oyster shells at the tutors’ windows—good old English custom, fast becoming obsolete. Then I crammed for the Army. But, bless your heart, a GENTLEMAN has no chance for the Army nowadays; a pack of blooming cads, with what they call ‘intellect,’ read up for the exams, and don’t give US a look-in; I call it sheer piffle. Then the Guv’nor set me on electrical engineering—electrical engineering’s played out. I put no stock in it; besides, it’s such beastly fag; and then, you get your hands dirty. So now I’m reading for the Bar; and if only my coach can put me up to tips enough to dodge the examiners, I expect to be called some time next summer.”

“And when you have failed for everything?” I inquired, just to test his sense of humour.

He swallowed it like a roach. “Oh, when I’ve failed for everything, I shall stick up to the Guv’nor. Hang it all, a GENTLEMAN can’t be expected to earn his own livelihood. England’s going to the dogs, that’s where it is; no snug little sinecures left for chaps like you and me; all this beastly competition. And no respect for the feelings of gentlemen, either! Why, would you believe it, Cumberground—we used to call you Cumberground at Charterhouse, I remember, or was it Fig Tree?—I happened to get a bit lively in the Haymarket last week, after a rattling good supper, and the chap at the police court—old cove with a squint—positively proposed to send me to prison, WITHOUT THE OPTION OF A FINE!—I’ll trouble you for that—send ME to prison just—for knocking down a common brute of a bobby. There’s no mistake about it; England’s NOT a country now for a gentleman to live in.”

“Then why not mark your sense of the fact by leaving it?” I inquired, with a smile.

He shook his head. “What? Emigrate? No, thank you! I’m not taking any. None of your colonies for ME, IF you please. I shall stick to the old ship. I’m too much attached to the Empire.”

“And yet imperialists,” I said, “generally gush over the colonies—the Empire on which the sun never sets.”

“The Empire in Leicester Squire!” he responded, gazing at me with unspoken contempt. “Have a whisky-and-soda, old chap? What, no? ‘Never drink between meals?’ Well, you DO surprise me! I suppose that comes of being a sawbones, don’t it?”

“Possibly,” I answered. “We respect our livers.” Then I went on to the ostensible reason of my visit—the Charterhouse testimonial. He slapped his thighs metaphorically, by way of suggesting the depleted condition of his pockets. “Stony broke, Cumberledge,” he murmured; “stony broke! Honour bright! Unless Bluebird pulls off the Prince of Wales’s Stakes, I really don’t know how I’m to pay the Benchers.”

“It’s quite unimportant,” I answered. “I was asked to ask you, and I HAVE asked you.”

“So I twig, my dear fellow. Sorry to have to say NO. But I’ll tell you what I can do for you; I can put you upon a straight thing—”

I glanced at the mantelpiece. “I see you have a photograph of Miss Sissie Montague,” I broke in casually, taking it down and examining it. “WITH an autograph, too. ‘Reggie, from Sissie.’ You are a friend of hers?”

“A friend of hers? I’ll trouble you. She IS a clinker, Sissie is! You should see that girl smoke. I give you my word of honour, Cumberledge, she can consume cigarettes against any fellow I know in London. Hang it all, a girl like that, you know—well, one can’t help admiring her! Ever seen her?”

“Oh, yes; I know her. I called on her, in fact, night before last, at Scarborough.”

He whistled a moment, then broke into an imbecile laugh. “My gum,” he cried; “this IS a start, this is! You don’t mean to tell me YOU are the other Johnnie.”

“What other Johnnie?” I asked, feeling we were getting near it.

He leaned back and laughed again. “Well, you know that girl Sissie, she’s a clever one, she is,” he went on after a minute, staring at me. “She’s a regular clinker! Got two strings to her bow; that’s where the trouble comes in. Me and another fellow. She likes me for love and the other fellow for money. Now, don’t you come and tell me that YOU are the other fellow.”

“I have certainly never aspired to the young lady’s hand,” I answered, cautiously. “But don’t you know your rival’s name, then?”

“That’s Sissie’s blooming cleverness. She’s a caulker, Sissie is; you don’t take a rise out of Sissie in a hurry. She knows that if I knew who the other bloke was, I’d blow upon her little game to him and put him off her. And I WOULD, s’ep me taters; for I’m nuts on that girl. I tell you, Cumberledge, she IS a clinker!”

“You seem to me admirably adapted for one another,” I answered, truthfully. I had not the slightest compunction in handing Reggie Nettlecraft over to Sissie, nor in handing Sissie over to Reggie Nettlecraft.

“Adapted for one another? That’s just it. There, you hit the right nail plump on the cocoanut, Cumberground! But Sissie’s an artful one, she is. She’s playing for the other Johnnie. He’s got the dibs, you know; and Sissie wants the dibs even more than she wants yours truly.”

“Got what?” I inquired, not quite catching the phrase.

“The dibs, old man; the chink; the oof; the ready rhino. He rolls in it, she says. I can’t find out the chap’s name, but I know his Guv’nor’s something or other in the millionaire trade somewhere across in America.”

“She writes to you, I think?”

“That’s so; every blooming day; but how the dummy did you come to know it?”

“She lays letters addressed to you on the hall table at her lodgings in Scarborough.”

“The dickens she does! Careless little beggar! Yes, she writes to me—pages. She’s awfully gone on me, really. She’d marry me if it wasn’t for the Johnnie with the dibs. She doesn’t care for HIM: she wants his money. He dresses badly, don’t you see; and, after all, the clothes make the man! I’D like to get at him. I’D spoil his pretty face for him.” And he assumed a playfully pugilistic attitude.

“You really want to get rid of this other fellow?” I asked, seeing my chance.