The Hypocrite

CHAPTER VI

THE COUP

"He was one of those earnest people who feel that life ought to have some meaning if they could only find it out," said Sturtevant, "and he came in with my little brochure, The Harmonies of Sin, in his paw. He was a sort of wrinkled romance. 'Sir,' he said, 'may I ask if you are Mordaunt Sturtevant?' 'At your service,' I answered. Then he said, 'I must tell you that I have felt it my duty to come and remonstrate with you about this 'ere dreadful book.' I asked him to sit down, and pushed over the decanter. He waved it away, tapping my book with his umbrella. 'You have unpaved hell to build your book with,' he said. 'Then my book is made up of good intentions,' I answered, but he didn't see it. 'Think of your pore soul,' he said. I told him I didn't know its address. 'Sir, you have exalted harlotry into a social force.' I told him the harlot was the earthworm of society. He got up and retreated to the door. 'Any man would 'ate it,' he said. I asked him quite politely if he considered himself a man. He remarked that he was a man, 'made in God's image, sir! in God's image!' 'The mould must have leaked,' I said.

"At this he grew angry, pointing his umbrella at me and snorting. 'You 'ave all the vices, and aspire to all the crimes,' he shouted. When he began to shout I'd had about enough, so I kicked him downstairs."

"When did this episode occur?"

"Oh, just before you came in."

"What's the book about, I haven't read it."

"Merely a little psychological analysis of a young girl's misdoings."

"There's a sort of naked indecency about a young girl's soul, so I don't think I'll read it. Pass the whiskey, will you? You've had enough. I suppose you hurt your visitor considerably?"

"Oh, he didn't really come, I only said that for the sake of saying something, and because I thought how amusing such a man would be if he did turn up."

Gobion yawned. Both of them were very dull and miserable.

The afternoon was all blind with rain swirling against the window in sudden gusts. Footsteps echoed on the flags below with a monotonous clank, while, more faintly, London poured into their ears a dreary hum, a suggestion of wet cold streets. It was about four in the afternoon, and Gobion having done some work in the morning was now in the Temple, sitting in front of the fire, without any present interest. Restless and miserable, he tried to think of Scott, of Father Gray, of the people who cared for him, hoping for vague thrillings, little tender luxuries of regret, but it was of no use. A short time ago he could have induced the pleasing grief-bubble easily with a good fire and a little whiskey, and at its bursting, enjoy a music-hall with its lights and laughter; but now something seemed to have snapped. The curtain was down, the gas was out, the house was cold and empty. He was no longer able to put on a sentimental halo and act at himself as an approving audience.

Sturtevant too was dull and lethargic. He was not emotional like the other, but though a man of less charm, his attainments were greater, he knew more, and now he also was struggling to think – to work.

They were both silent for some time while the darkness closed in, the rain outside pattering with an added weariness and the wind wailing up from the river. At last Sturtevant took up a glass from the table and threw it into the fire with an oath.

"Laugh, you devil!" he said, "shout! be merry! be brilliant!"

"Can't," said Gobion, "I keep my brilliancy for the comparative stranger."

" – and the positive Pilgrim, I suppose."

"Exactly. Hallo! there's someone at the door." He shouted, "Yes!" it was one of his little mannerisms never to say, "Come in." The door opened and a girl came round the corner of the screen. It was Blanche Huntley, Wild's mistress, dressed in a long macintosh dripping with rain.

Both men jumped up surprised, Gobion helping her to take off her ulster, while Sturtevant put her umbrella in the stand.

She came to the fireside, a girl not unlike a dainty illustration in a magazine, very neatly got up with a white froth of lace round her neck, and a chic black rosette at her waist. Certainly a pretty girl, with a sweet rather tired mouth, well-marked eyebrows, and dark eyes somewhat full, the lids stained with bistre. Gobion knew her, having met her at Wild's, and rather liked her. She was a girl with ideas, and might have made something of her life if she had not been mixed up in the famous Wrampling Divorce Case, and been forced to leave her type-writing office in the City.

When ruin comes a man begs, a woman sells.

She sat down, Gobion introducing her to Sturtevant, who looked with some interest. "Fashion-plate in distress," was his mental comment. Gobion thought, "Her youth is the golden background which shows up the sadness of her lot; lucky man Wild though," a very fair index to the individuality of the two men as far as such things go.

"I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you, old man, and it's partly my fault," she said.

"What is it, Blanche?"

"Well, we were sitting at lunch to-day – Tom wasn't going to the office – when that old pig, Mr. Heath, came rushing in, half mad, waving a paper in his hand, cursing and swearing till I thought they would hear him in the street. He threw it on the table, and I noticed a column in leaded type marked with blue pencil. 'There,' he said to Tom, 'there's a nice thing to see about one's self! Some damn dirty skunk's been writing this about me and The Pilgrim.' It was so funny to see him, I never saw anybody in such a bate before; I looked over Tom's shoulder, and, without thinking, said, 'Why, I typed that for Mr. Yardly Gobion.' 'What!' they both yelled. 'Well – I'm – damned! Curse the cad!' Excuse me telling you all this. Well, he went on storming and raving, and said he was going to sack you, and write you a letter you'd remember, and what was more, crab you in every paper in London. I'm horribly sorry, it was all through me."

Sturtevant gave a long whistle.

"Never mind, dear," said Gobion, "it doesn't matter, I don't care; what a rag it must have been!"

"I haven't seen the thing in print yet," said Sturtevant, "I'll go out and get a copy."

When he had gone, Blanche came closer to Gobion. "Poor boy," she said, "I'm afraid you'll find things rather difficult now."

"Never mind, dear, it doesn't matter, I've got past caring for most things. Does Wild know you're here?"

"Tom? oh no, he'd half kill me if he did. He never liked you much, you know, he said you put on such a lot of Oxford side."

"Isn't he kind to you, then?"

"Oh, Lord, no, not now. He was at first, but he's getting tired."

"I should cut the brute."

"What would I do?" she said sadly, "what would I do? I've no character or money or anything. I'd have to go to the Empire promenade, I expect."

She stretched out her hands to the blaze wearily.

"Poor little girl," he said, taking one of her hands in his, "poor little girl, it's a nasty, miserable world."

She said nothing for half a minute, and then she burst into an agony of tears, dropping her head on his shoulder.

"Oh, don't, dear, don't!" said Gobion, half crying too; "try to bear up."

"You don't know what it means. You're not an outcast."

"Yes I am, dear, I'm a good deal worse than you. I have a hell, too. Be a brave girl."

She smiled faintly through her tears.

"You are good," she said, "not like the other men."

"I'm simply a blackguard; don't tell me I'm good."

"You don't shrink from me."

"I? Good God! you don't know what I am – sister."

At that word she crouched down in her chair, passionately sobbing.

"God bless you," she said, "God bless you."

"You must leave him, dear, and get your living by your type-writing." He pulled out his pocket-book and made a rapid calculation. "Twenty here and ten at my rooms. Look here," he said, "I'm not hard up now; here's three fivers. It will keep you going for a month or two. Make a new start, little woman."

She took the money and looked him in the face. Some thoughts are prayers.