A Young Man's Year. Hope Anthony
the least, Sir Christopher. But what's to be done if he won't go?"
"Oh, you must manage that." He squeezed Arthur's arm and then let it go.
Here, plainly, though no less graciously than from the hostess, was his dismissal. Not knowing any of the other women, he drifted back to the girl who was enthusiastic about lawn-tennis.
The Judge sat down and stretched out his shapely thin hands towards the fire; his rings gleamed, and he loved the gleam of them. To wear them had been, from his youth, one of his bits of daring; he had, as it were, backed himself to wear them and not thereby seem himself, or let them seem, vulgar. And he had succeeded; he had been called vain often, never vulgar. By now his friends, old and young, would have missed them sadly.
"What do you make of that boy, Esther?" he asked.
"I like him – and I think he's being wasted," she answered promptly.
"At our honourable profession?"
"You and Frank are better judges of that."
"I don't know. Hardly tough enough, perhaps. But Huntley was just such a man, and he got pretty well to the top. Died, though, not much past fifty. The climb killed him, I think."
"Yes, Frank's told me about him. But I meant wasted in his own life, or socially, or however you like to put it. He's told me about his friends, and – "
"Well, if you like him enough, you can put that right, Esther."
"I like him, but I haven't much time for young men, Sir Christopher. I've a husband, you may remember."
"Then turn him over where he belongs – to Bernadette."
She raised her brows a little, as she smiled at him.
"Oh, the young fellow's got to get his baptism of fire. It'll do him good."
"How easily you Judges settle other people's fortunes!"
"In the end, his not going to his cousin's house is an absurdity."
"Well, yes, so it is, in the end, of course," she agreed. "It shall be done, Sir Christopher."
While his fortunes were thus being settled for him – more or less, and as the future might reveal – Arthur was walking home, well pleased with himself. The lady's friendliness delighted him; if he did not prize the old Judge's so highly, he had the sense to perceive that it was really a more valuable testimonial and brought with it more substantial encouragement. From merely being kind to him the Norton Wards had come to like him, as it seemed, and their liking was backed by Sir Christopher's endorsement. He did not regard these things from a worldly point of view; he did not think of them as stepping-stones, or at any rate only quite indirectly. They would no doubt help him to get rid of, or at least to hold in subjection, his demon of self-distrust; but still more would they comfort him and make him happy. The pleasure he derived from Mrs. Norton Ward's liking, and the Judge's approval, was in quality akin to the gratification which Marie Sarradet's bearing had given him a few nights ago in Regent's Park; just as that had roused in him a keener sense of Marie's attractiveness, so now he glowed with a warm recognition of the merits of his new friends.
Walking home along Oxford Street, he had almost reached the corner of Tottenham Court Road when his complacent musings were interrupted by the sight of a knot of people outside the door of a public-house. It was the sort of group not unusual at half-past eleven o'clock at night – a man, a woman on his arm, a policeman, ten or a dozen interested spectators, very ready with advice as Londoners are. As he drew near, he heard what was passing, though the policeman's tall burly figure was between him and the principal actor in the scene.
"Better do as she says and go 'ome, sir," said the policeman soothingly.
"'Ome, Sweet 'Ome!" murmured somebody in tones of fond reminiscence.
"Yes, do now. You don't really want it, you know you don't," urged the lady in her turn.
"Whether I want it or not – "
At the sound of this last voice Arthur started into quick attention and came to a halt. He recognised the full tones, now somewhat thickened, with their faint but unmistakable suggestion of the Cockney twang.
"Whether I want it or not – " The man spoke slowly, with an effort after distinctness which was obvious but not unsuccessful – "I've a right to have it. He's bound to serve the public. I'm – I'm member of the public."
"'Ad enough for two members, I should sye," came in comment from the fringe of the group.
"That's it! Go 'ome now," the policeman suggested again, infinitely patient and persuasive.
The man made a sudden move towards the door of the public-house where an official, vulgarly known as the 'chucker out,' stood smiling on the threshold.
"No, sir, you don't!" said the policeman, suave but immensely firm, laying a hand on his arm.
"The officer's quite right. Do come along," again urged the lady.
But the movement towards the public-house door, which revealed to Arthur the face of the obstinate lingerer, showed him to the lingerer also – showed Arthur in his evening uniform of tall hat, white scarf, and silk-faced coat to Sidney Barslow in his 'bowler' hat of rakish cut, and his sporting fawn-coloured coat, with the big flower in his buttonhole and his stick with a huge silver knob. The stick shot out – vaguely in Arthur's direction.
"I'm a gentleman, and, what's more, I can prove it. Ask that gentleman – my friend there – "
Arthur's face was a little flushed. His mind was full of those terrible quick visions of his – a scuffle on the pavement, going bail for Sidney Barslow, giving evidence at the Police Court. "A friend of the prisoner, Mr. Arthur Lisle, Barrister, of Garden Court, Middle Temple" – visions most terrible! But he stood his ground, saying nothing, not moving a limb, and meeting Barslow's look full in the eyes. All the rest were staring at him now. If he remained as he was they would take it as a denial of Barslow's claim to acquaintance. Could he deny it if Barslow challenged him? He answered – No.
But some change of mood came over Sidney Barslow's clouded mind. He let his stick fall back to his side again, and with an angry jerk of his head said:
"Oh, damn it, all right, I'm going! I – I was only pulling your leg."
"That's right now!" applauded the policeman. "You'd better take 'im in a taxi, miss."
"And put a ticket on 'im, in case 'e falls out, miss," some friendly adviser added.
Arthur did not wait to see the policeman's excellent suggestion carried into effect. The moment that Sidney Barslow's eyes were off him, he turned quickly up a by-street, and took a roundabout way home.
He had much to be thankful for. The terrible visions were dissipated. And – he had not run away. Oh, how he had wanted to run away from the danger of being mixed up in that dirty job. He thanked heaven that he had stood his ground and looked Barslow in the face.
But what about the next time they had to look one another in the face – at the Sarradets' in Regent's Park?
CHAPTER IV
A GRATEFUL FRIEND
Marie's remonstrance with her brother was not ill-received – Raymond was too amiable for that – but it was quite unsuccessful. Just emerged from an exhaustive business training on the latest lines at home and abroad, able (as he pointed out in mingled pride and ruefulness) to correspond about perfumes in French, German, Spanish, and Italian, and to talk about them in three of those languages, he declared openly not for a lifetime of leisure but for an hedonistic interval. Further, he favoured a little scattering of money after so much amassing.
"If Pops," he observed, "would only go back to his Balzac, he would see how much harm and sorrow this perpetual money-grubbing causes among the business classes of our beloved France. In England a more liberal spirit prevails, and after a hundred and fifty years we ought to be able to catch it. In fact I have caught it, Marie."
"You have; and you'll catch something else – from Pops – if you don't look out," said Marie, who could not help smiling at the trim, spry, gay little