CHAPTER I

THE IMPOVERISHED HERO AND THE SURPASSING DAMSEL

Mr. Lionel Mortimer was a young gentleman of few intentions and no

private means. Good-humored, by no means ill-looking, and with engaging

manners, he was the type of man of whom one would have prophesied great

things. His natural gaiety and address were more than enough to carry

him over the early stages of acquaintanceship, but subsequent meetings

were doomed to end in disillusion. His cheerful outlook on life would be

as much to your taste as ever; but the want of a definite aim and an

obvious inability to convert his talents into cash made you shake your

head doubtfully. A charming fellow, of course, but unpractical ... the

kind of man who is popular with all but match-making mothers.

He lived in two rooms in an obscure street off the Strand, and at the

time when we make his acquaintance he has just finished a meal that

stamps the lower middle classes and the impecunious--to wit, high tea.

For the benefit of gastronomers it may be stated that it included

herrings, a loaf of bread, some butter of repellent aspect, and

strawberry jam. Lionel has lighted his pipe and seated himself at the

window to enjoy as much of a June evening as can be enjoyable in a

London back street. He has not emitted three puffs of smoke before a tap

at the door heralds the entrance of his landlady.

Mrs. Barker, a woman of commanding presence and dressed in rusty black,

came into the room. She did not utter a word, not even the conventional

remark that it was a fine night or that the evenings would soon begin to

draw in now. With a funereal but businesslike demeanor she began to

remove the debris of the meal, at intervals giving vent to a rasping

cough or a malignant sniff. Of her presence Lionel seemed oblivious, for

he continued sitting with his back to the door, gazing with apparent

interest into the street. This, perhaps, was curious, for the street was

but a lane with little traffic and no features worthy of note. Nor was

the building opposite calculated to inspire the most sedulous observer,

being merely the blank wall of a warehouse. Not a single window relieved

the monotony, usually so painful to the artist or the adventurer. And

yet Lionel puffed at his pipe, gazing silently in front of him as if at

a masterpiece by Whistler.

When the landlady had transferred the tea-things to a tray, shaken the

crumbs from the table-cloth into the empty grate and folded it, she

nerved herself for a direct attack. Placing her arms akimbo--an attitude

usually denoting truculent defiance or a pleasurable sense of

injustice--she pronounced her lodger's name. Lionel started, as if made

aware of her presence for the first time. He took his pipe from his

mouth and turned with a pleasant smile.

"Good evening, Mrs. Barker," he said with careful politeness. "A fine

night, is it not?"

She assented with an ill grace. Without giving her time to add to her

appreciation, Lionel continued in suave but enthusiastic tones:

"Oblige me, Mrs. Barker, by observing the manner in which the sun

strikes the opposite wall. Notice the sharp outline of that chimney-pot

against the sky. Remark the bold sweep of that piece of spouting--a true

secession curve of which the molder was probably completely ignorant.

Again, the background! That dull gray monotone----"

This rhapsody was interrupted by Mrs. Barker, whose artistic education

had consisted in a course of free-hand drawing in a board school and a

study of the colored plates issued by the Christmas magazines. It was

hardly to be expected that she should wax enthusiastic over the

warehouse wall.

"It's no good torkin, Mr. Mortimer," she said; "I want my rent."

"But how reasonable!" returned Lionel with increased brightness. "How

much does it come to? Certain tokens of copper--silver--gold--with some

trifling additions for food, fire, etc.----"

"One pahnd three sempence for this week," snapped Mrs. Barker. After a

pause she added constrainedly, "If yer please."

"Why! you are even more reasonable than I expected," cried Lionel. "If I

please! How could a man refuse anything after so polite a prelude? If I

please! My rent, if I please, is one pound, three and sevenpence; and I

must admit that the sum is paltry. If I please to exist (and up to the

present I have been delighted to fall in with the schemes of Providence)

I can do so for some twenty-four shillings a week. It includes," he

added hopefully, "the washing?"

She nodded grimly and stretched out her hand. Lionel, with an easy

smile, waved her to the door.

"To-morrow, Mrs. Barker, if you please. At the moment I regret to say

that my funds do not amount to the necessary sum. To-morrow I make no

doubt that----"

Mrs. Barker interrupted with brisk invective. It appeared that Lionel

was several weeks already in arrears. She, it seemed, was a lone widow,

earning her bread by the sweat of her brow, and she would not be put

upon. The position had become intolerable: either he must pay his rent

or leave the next morning.

"Let us consider the state of affairs," said Lionel, unruffled. "You, it

appears, need your money--or rather, my money--and I can not gainsay the

moral claim. You have attended to my simple wants in a manner beyond

praise, and I would cheerfully pay you your weight in gold (after the

pleasing custom in the East) had I the precious ore. But at the moment

my capital"--he searched his pockets--"amounts to sixpence ha'penny;

hence the deplorable _impasse_. My profession holds out no prospect of

immediate or adequate reward: briefs are lacking and editors slow to

recognize merit. I have pawned such of my wardrobe as is not necessary

to support the illusion of an independent gentleman. What do you suggest

as a solution of our difficulties? It is repugnant to both of us that I

should live on your charity. I am open to any bright idea."

Unluckily the landlady was not an imaginative woman. She could suggest

nothing, save that Lionel should pay his rent or leave. The method of

raising money was left entirely to him, but the necessity was insisted

on in forcible terms.

"An ultimatum?" said the lodger thoughtfully. "Well, I can not blame

you. As you have no illuminating schemes, Mrs. Barker, I must rely on

myself. But rest assured that you shall be paid. What! I am young and

strong; my clothes, thanks to judicious mending and a light hand with

the brush, will pass muster; we are in London, the richest city in the

world. I will go out and look for a fairy godmother."

At this resolve Mrs. Barker broke into cries of protest. With a feminine

distrust of her own sex she declared that no such creature should pass

her threshold. For fifty years she had lived respectable, and it was her

firm intention to die in the same persuasion. Lionel raised a

deprecating hand.

"You mistake me," he said in gentle reproof. "It was but a manner of

speaking inspired by the recollection of Cinderella. Being, however,

the masculine equivalent of that lady of romance (or shall we say, 'Lob

Lie-by-the-Fire'?) and out of deference to your sense of propriety, I

will strive to acquire a fairy godfather. Till to-morrow, then, Mrs.

Barker."

He rose and politely held the door open. The landlady, carrying the tray

and table-cloth, left the room in dudgeon.

As soon as she had gone Lionel's face lost something of its optimism,

and he began to whistle a tune in a minor key. It was a music-hall

refrain, originally scored in quick time and the major clef, a gay lilt

of the streets. Modulated by Lionel, under the depressing influence of

Mrs. Barker, it became a dirge, incredibly painful to the ear. This even

the whistler recognized after a few moments, and with a laugh at himself

and his misfortunes he seized his hat and went out.

He was by no means clear as to his immediate intentions. Save that his

urgent need was money he had no definite idea or plan. How to compass

the few pounds necessary to discharge his debt and make sure of a roof

was at present beyond his wit, seeing that the situations for men like

him are not picked up in a moment. He had been expensively educated at a

public school and Oxford, and had a bowing acquaintance with the

classics and a tolerable knowledge of law. For three years after taking

his degree he had led a pleasant life, eating dinners, reading law and

writing. By his pen he had made some sixty pounds a year; by the

law--nothing. His father had given him an allowance while he lived, but

eighteen months previously his business had failed and the consequent

worry had driven him into the grave. His wife had died in giving Lionel

birth. After his father's death Lionel perforce had put forth more

strenuous efforts. He had even written a novel and sold it for thirty

pounds. One or two plays lay in his desk or managers' muniment-chests,

and a number of pot-boilers were soliciting the favorable consideration

of callous editors. It had been a precarious though interesting

existence, but he had kept his head above water until the last few

weeks. Now he was standing on the curb in the Strand, wondering amiably

what he should do.

"My best chance," he thought, watching the stream of traffic that never

failed to fascinate, "would be to write a loathsome article, topical,

snappy and bright, and try to sell it for spot cash. I do not think it

would be much good studying the advertisements and applying for a post

as clerk or secretary. I hate the notion of being a clerk.... There is

envelope-addressing, I believe, but I write a villainous hand ... nor do

I care to call upon my friends and expose my unhappy condition...."

(Since his father's death Lionel had naturally given up his old way of

life and dropped out of his usual _milieu_.) ... "No; I think the

loathsome article is clearly indicated. What shall I write about? 'How

It Feels to be Out in the Streets?'... 'The Psychology of

Landladies.'... 'At a Loose End--A Curbstone Study.'... How odd that I

am desperately in need of money and hate the thought of sitting down to

earn it! How much pleasanter would it be to stand here and wait for an

adventure--for the fairy godmother who troubled the conventional Mrs.

Barker! After all, it is not impossible.... A horse might take fright

and bolt ... the driver lose his head ... a beauteous damsel sits

wringing her hands in the carriage. I seize the opportunity, spring

forward and check the maddened steed, escort the fainting lady home in a

cab, and then--ah! Boundless Possibilities."

He smiled, lighted a cigarette and pursued his idle fancy.

"She must be, of course, the sole heiress of a millionaire. In his

gratitude he would wish to reward me. But seeing that I am no vulgar

fee-snatcher he would ask me to stay and dine. Over the walnuts and the

port (how long is it since I drank good port?) he would learn my story,

and with unusual delicacy say, 'Well, some day I hope I shall be able to

help you to a job.' I leave his house, warm, full-fed, hopeful. The next

morning he sends his car round, and I am whirled to his palatial city

office. I enter--the great man is up to his knees in documents dictating

to a staff of typewriters and gramophones. He spares me three minutes.

'Good morning, Mr. Mortimer. I find I need a secretary--salary a

thousand a year. Oh! a bagatelle, I know, but you would have

opportunities. Politics, perhaps. Anyhow, a beginning. Care to connect?'

I accept with diffidence. 'Good. Take your coat off. Next room you'll

find ...' I am a made man. Then the daughter--I had forgotten her, dear

thing!--already touched by my heroism, might look favorably upon me; and

who knows----?"

At this point his musings were broken by confused shoutings and

whistles. Looking up, Lionel saw with amused surprise that for once fate

was playing into his hands; his dreams were coming true. An open

brougham, drawn by a terrified horse, was approaching at an appalling

speed. The coachman, crazed with fear, was standing up, tugging vainly

at the reins, white, and shouting. In the brougham, pallid but calm, sat

a girl of about twenty-three. Her lips were slightly parted, but no

sound came from between them; courage held her erect, motionless and

silent. The traffic divided before the swaying brougham like waves

before a cutwater. When it was fifty yards distant the coachman lost all

control of himself and with a scream of fear leaped from the box. He

came down On his feet, staggered against a portly merchant--who went

over like a ninepin--and lurched heavily on to a policeman preparing to

make a dash for the horse's head. The constable fell with the man, and

the pair, hero and craven, rolled comfortably in the kennel, clasped in

each other's arms.

Lionel, thus favored by destiny, fitted his hat more firmly to his head

and prepared to make his fortune. In his early youth he had read that

the best method of stopping a runaway is to run in the same direction.

Remembering this, he set off at full speed; and by the time the horse

was level with his shoulder he was running almost as fast. With a

judicious leap he sprang at the reins, clutched them, stumbled,

recovered and still ran. He was strong of arm and at least twelve

stones in weight. The horse, already half-repentant of his lapse, was

not inclined to support so heavy a burden at his mouth. A few yards more

and the heroic part of the episode was over. Several officious touts

were holding the horse's head, and another policeman was preparing to

make notes.

Lionel, panting from the unusual exertion, turned to look after the

lady. She, who had behaved with such admirable composure while danger

was imminent, now that it was over, lay in a faint. As he raised her in

his arms he noticed with satisfaction that she was certainly beautiful

and her clothes expensive and tasteful. "Ha! ha!" he thought

whimsically, "a secretaryship! Governor of a Crown Colony at least! I

must take a flat to-morrow!" He bore her into a chemist's shop that

stood conveniently near, and placed her in a chair. While the chemist

was applying sal volatile in the genteelest manner, Lionel was wondering

whom he should ask to support him at St. George's.

It was not long before the lady recovered her senses, and she opened her

eyes with a ravishing sigh. She was naturally bewildered, and

Lionel--partly because he wished to reassure her, partly because she

was very pretty--knelt and took her hand.

"There is no need for alarm," he said persuasively, with the purring

note that some women find sympathetic. "You fainted; that is all."

She gave the ghost of a shudder: "I fainted?"

"Yes. The horse, ran away, but there was no accident."

"The coachman--is he hurt?"

This thought for another in the midst of her own recovery flushed

Lionel's being like a draught of wine. Hitherto she had been merely a

pretty aristocrat and (apparently) a delightful girl. Now she was

more--a divine human whom he longed to kiss, caress and call "You

darling!"

"No," he said. "He fell softly. Upon a constable, I believe."

She was nearly herself again, and gave a little laugh. "Let us hope he

was a fat one," she said. And then, after a pause: "Who stopped the

horse?"

"Oh, I was lucky enough to do that," he replied with an assumed

jauntiness, wishing he could feel it was an every-day business. "It was

not hard."

"Others appeared to think differently," she replied with a grave

admiration that pleased him.

"Then, madam, they can not have seen you," he smiled. Really, the affair

was being conducted on correct lines.

She mused for a moment, chin in hand.

"... I think," she said presently, "you must be rather an unusual man."

Lionel tried to look as if he disagreed. "Yes, I think so.... And I

suppose I owe you my life.... I wonder what reward...."

It must have been the devil that prompted Lionel to say, "One pound,

three and sevenpence"; but by an effort he choked back the horrible

words, and stammered that he was already repaid.

"No," she demurred, smiling, searching him with her eyes: "that is

hardly fair. I wonder if you would like ..." She glanced round. The

chemist's back was turned: he was groping for some drug upon the

shelves. Lionel was still upon one knee, his face upturned, his eyes

drawn as by a magnet. She leaned toward him; her face came closer and

closer yet, in her eyes a world of gratitude and fun. Her hair almost

brushed his cheek, and he shivered. "I wonder if----" At that moment the

chemist turned, and she finished the sentence persuasively, "--if you

could get me a cab? I dare not trust my horse again to-day."

Lionel rose stiffly.

"Do you prefer," he asked, fixing the unhappy and bewildered chemist

with a glare of anger, "a hansom or a taxi?"

"A taxi, please."

Lionel withdrew. He ordered the coachman, dusty and degraded, to drive

home. The policeman, who had salved the discomfiture of his over-throw

by hectoring the crowd and cuffing the nearest urchins, obligingly blew

his whistle. A minute later a taxi came up.