“With a frock – or a suit of trousers – thrown in,” suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. “It’s generally done.”
“If it’s the custom, certainly,” agreed Mr. Peter Hope. “Sixpence a week and clothes.”
And this time it was Peter that, in company with Elizabeth, sat waiting the return of Tommy.
“I rather hope,” said Peter, “it’s a boy. It was the fogs, you know. If only I could have afforded to send him away!”
Elizabeth looked thoughtful. The door opened.
“Ah! that’s better, much better,” said Mr. Peter Hope. “’Pon my word, you look quite respectable.”
By the practical Mrs. Postwhistle a working agreement, benefiting both parties, had been arrived at with the long-trained skirt; while an ample shawl arranged with judgment disguised the nakedness that lay below. Peter, a fastidious gentleman, observed with satisfaction that the hands, now clean, had been well cared for.
“Give me that cap,” said Peter. He threw it in the glowing fire. It burned brightly, diffusing strange odours.
“There’s a travelling cap of mine hanging up in the passage. You can wear that for the present. Take this half-sovereign and get me some cold meat and beer for supper. You’ll find everything else you want in that sideboard or else in the kitchen. Don’t ask me a hundred questions, and don’t make a noise,” and Peter went back to his work.
“Good idea, that half-sovereign,” said Peter. “Shan’t be bothered with ‘Master Tommy’ any more, don’t expect. Starting a nursery at our time of life. Madness.” Peter’s pen scratched and spluttered. Elizabeth kept an eye upon the door.
“Quarter of an hour,” said Peter, looking at his watch. “Told you so.” The article on which Peter was now engaged appeared to be of a worrying nature.
“Then why,” said Peter, “why did he refuse that shilling? Artfulness,” concluded Peter, “pure artfulness. Elizabeth, old girl, we’ve got out of this business cheaply. Good idea, that half-sovereign.” Peter gave vent to a chuckle that had the effect of alarming Elizabeth.
But luck evidently was not with Peter that night.
“Pingle’s was sold out,” explained Tommy, entering with parcels; “had to go to Bow’s in Farringdon Street.”
“Oh!” said Peter, without looking up.
Tommy passed through into the little kitchen behind. Peter wrote on rapidly, making up for lost time.
“Good!” murmured Peter, smiling to himself, “that’s a neat phrase. That ought to irritate them.”
Now, as he wrote, while with noiseless footsteps Tommy, unseen behind him, moved to and fro and in and out the little kitchen, there came to Peter Hope this very curious experience: it felt to him as if for a long time he had been ill – so ill as not even to have been aware of it – and that now he was beginning to be himself again; consciousness of things returning to him. This solidly furnished, long, oak-panelled room with its air of old-world dignity and repose – this sober, kindly room in which for more than half his life he had lived and worked – why had he forgotten it? It came forward greeting him with an amused smile, as of some old friend long parted from. The faded photos, in stiff, wooden frames upon the chimney-piece, among them that of the fragile little woman with the unadaptable lungs.
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Peter Hope, pushing back his chair. “It’s thirty years ago. How time does fly! Why, let me see, I must be – ”
“D’you like it with a head on it?” demanded Tommy, who had been waiting patiently for signs.
Peter shook himself awake and went to his supper.
A bright idea occurred to Peter in the night. “Of course; why didn’t I think of it before? Settle the question at once.” Peter fell into an easy sleep.
“Tommy,” said Peter, as he sat himself down to breakfast the next morning. “By-the-by,” asked Peter with a puzzled expression, putting down his cup, “what is this?”
“Cauffee,” informed him Tommy. “You said cauffee.”
“Oh!” replied Peter. “For the future, Tommy, if you don’t mind, I will take tea of a morning.”
“All the same to me,” explained the agreeable Tommy, “it’s your breakfast.”
“What I was about to say,” continued Peter, “was that you’re not looking very well, Tommy.”
“I’m all right,” asserted Tommy; “never nothing the matter with me.”
“Not that you know of, perhaps; but one can be in a very bad way, Tommy, without being aware of it. I cannot have anyone about me that I am not sure is in thoroughly sound health.”
“If you mean you’ve changed your mind and want to get rid of me – ” began Tommy, with its chin in the air.
“I don’t want any of your uppishness,” snapped Peter, who had wound himself up for the occasion to a degree of assertiveness that surprised even himself. “If you are a thoroughly strong and healthy person, as I think you are, I shall be very glad to retain your services. But upon that point I must be satisfied. It is the custom,” explained Peter. “It is always done in good families. Run round to this address” – Peter wrote it upon a leaf of his notebook – “and ask Dr. Smith to come and see me before he begins his round. You go at once, and don’t let us have any argument.”
“That is the way to talk to that young person – clearly,” said Peter to himself, listening to Tommy’s footsteps dying down the stairs.
Hearing the street-door slam, Peter stole into the kitchen and brewed himself a cup of coffee.
Dr. Smith, who had commenced life as Herr Schmidt, but who in consequence of difference of opinion with his Government was now an Englishman with strong Tory prejudices, had but one sorrow: it was that strangers would mistake him for a foreigner. He was short and stout, with bushy eyebrows and a grey moustache, and looked so fierce that children cried when they saw him, until he patted them on the head and addressed them as “mein leedle frent” in a voice so soft and tender that they had to leave off howling just to wonder where it came from. He and Peter, who was a vehement Radical, had been cronies for many years, and had each an indulgent contempt for the other’s understanding, tempered by a sincere affection for one another they would have found it difficult to account for.
“What tink you is de matter wid de leedle wench?” demanded Dr. Smith, Peter having opened the case. Peter glanced round the room. The kitchen door was closed.
“How do you know it’s a wench?”
The eyes beneath the bushy brows grew rounder. “If id is not a wench, why dress it – ”
“Haven’t dressed it,” interrupted Peter. “Just what I’m waiting to do – so soon as I know.”
And Peter recounted the events of the preceding evening.
Tears gathered in the doctor’s small, round eyes. His absurd sentimentalism was the quality in his friend that most irritated Peter.
“Poor leedle waif!” murmured the soft-hearted old gentleman. “Id was de good Providence dat guided her – or him, whichever id be.”
“Providence be hanged!” snarled Peter. “What was my Providence doing – landing me with a gutter-brat to look after?”
“So like you Radicals,” sneered the doctor, “to despise a fellow human creature just because id may not have been born in burble and fine linen.”
“I didn’t send for you to argue politics,” retorted Peter, controlling his indignation by an effort. “I want you to tell me whether it’s a boy or a girl, so that I may know what to do with it.”
“What mean you to do wid id?” inquired the doctor.
“I don’t know,”