the tillotson banquet was fixed to take place about three weeks later. spode, who had charge of the arrangements, proved himself an excellent organiser. he secured the big banqueting-room at the café bomba, and was successful in bullying and cajoling the manager into giving fifty persons dinner at twelve shillings a head, including wine. he sent out invitations and collected subscriptions. he wrote an article on tillotson in the world's review—one of those charming, witty articles couched in the tone of amused patronage and contempt with which one speaks of the great men of 1840. nor did he neglect tillotson himself. he used to go to holloway almost every day to listen to the old man's endless stories about asia minor and the great exhibition of '51 and benjamin robert haydon. he was sincerely sorry for this relic of another age.
mr. tillotson's room was about ten feet below the level of the soil of south holloway. a little grey light percolated through the area bars, forced a difficult passage through panes opaque with dirt, and spent itself, like a drop of milk that falls into an inkpot, among the inveterate shadows of the dungeon. the place was haunted by the spur smell of damp plaster and of woodwork that has begun to moulder secretly at the heart. a little miscellaneous furniture, including a bed, a washstand and chest of drawers, a table and one or two chairs, lurked in the obscure corners of the den or ventured furtively out into the open. hither spode now came almost every day, bringing the old man news of the progress of the banquet scheme. every day he found mr. tillotson sitting in the same place under the window, bathing, as it were, in his tiny puddle of light. "the oldest man that ever wore grey hairs," spode reflected as he looked at him. only there were very few hairs left on that bald, unpolished head. at the sound of the visitor's knock mr. tillotson would turn in his chair, stare in the direction of the door with blinking, uncertain eyes. he was always full of apologies for being so slow in recognising who was there.
"no discourtesy meant," he would say, after asking. "it's not as if i had forgotten who you were. only it's so dark and my sight isn't what it was."
after that he never failed to give a little laugh, and, pointing out of the window at the area railings, would say:
"ah, this is the plate for somebody with good sight. it's the place for looking at ankles. it's the grand stand."
it was the day before the great event. spode came as usual, and mr. tillotson punctually made his little joke about the ankles, and spode, as punctually laughed.
"well, mr. tillotson," he said, after the reverberation of the joke had died away, "to-morrow you make your re-entry into the world of art and fashion. you'll find some changes."
"i've always had such extraordinary luck," said mr. tillotson, and spode could see by his expression that he genuinely believed it, that he had forgotten the black hole and the black-beetles and the almost exhausted ten pounds that stood between him and the workhouse. "what an amazing piece of good fortune, for instance, that you should have found me just when you did. now, this dinner will bring me back to my place in the world. i shall have money, and in a little while—who knows?—i shall be able to see well enough to paint again. i believe my eyes are getting better, you know. ah, the future is very rosy."
mr. tillotson looked up, his face puckered into a smile, and nodded his head in affirmation of his words.
"you believe in the life to come?" said spode, and immediately flushed for shame at the cruelty of the words.
but mr. tillotson was in far too cheerful a mood to have caught their significance.
"life to come," he repeated. "no, i don't believe in any of that stuff not since 1859. the 'origin of species' changed my views, you know. no life to come for me, thank you! you don't remember the excitement of course. you re very young mr. spode."
"well, i'm not so old as i was," spode replied. "you know how middle-aged one is as a schoolboy and undergraduate. now i'm old enough to know i'm young."
spode was about to develop this little paradox further, but he noticed that mr. tillotson had not been listening. he made a note of the gambit for use in companies that were more appreciative of the subtleties.
"you were talking about the 'origin of species,'" he said.
"was i?" said mr. tillotson, waking from reverie.
"about its effect on your faith, mr. tillotson."
"to be sure, yes. it shattered my faith. but i remember a fine thing by the poet laureate, something about there being more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in all the ... all the ...: i forget exactly what; but you see the train of thought. oh, it was a bad time for religion. i am glad my master haydon never lived to see it. he was a man of fervour. i remember him pacing up and down his studio in lisson grove, singing and shouting and praying all at once. it used almost to frighten me. oh, but he was a wonderful man, a great man. take him for all in all, we shall not look upon his like again. as usual, the bard is right. but it was all very long ago, before your time, mr. spode."
"well, i'm not as old as i was," said spode, in the hope of having his paradox appreciated this time. but mr. tillotson went on without noticing the interruption.
"it's a very, very long time. and yet, when i look back on it, it all seems but a day or two ago. strange that each day should seem so long and that many days added together should be less than an hour. how clearly i can see old haydon pacing up and down! much more clearly, indeed, than i see you, mr. spode. the eyes of memory don t grow dim. but my sight is improving, i assure you; it's improving daily. i shall soon be able to see those ankles." he laughed like a cracked bell—one of those little old bells, spode fancied, that ring, with much rattling of wires, in the far-off servants quarters of ancient houses. "and very soon," mr. tillotson went on, "i shall be painting again. ah, mr. spode, my luck is extraordinary. i believe in it, i trust in it. and after all, what is luck? simply another name for providence, in spite of the origin of species and the rest of it. how right the laureate was when he said that there was more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in all the ... er, the ... er ... well, you know. i regard you, mr. spode, as the emissary of providence. your coming marked a turning-point in my life, and the beginning, for me, of happier days. do you know, one of the first things i shall do when my fortunes are restored will be to buy a hedgehog."
"a hedgehog, mr. tillotson?"
"for the blackbeetles. there's nothing like a hedgehog for beetles. it will eat blackbeetles till it's sick, till it dies of surfeit. that reminds me of the time when i told my poor great master haydon—in joke, of course—that he ought to send in a cartoon of king john dying of a surfeit of lampreys for the frescoes in the new houses of parliament. as i told him, it's a most notable event in the annals of british liberty—the providential and exemplary removal of a tyrant."
mr. tillotson laughed again—the little bell in the deserted house; a ghostly hand pulling the cord in the drawing-room, and phantom footmen responding to the thin, flawed note.
"i remember he laughed, laughed like a bull in his old grand manner. but oh, it was a terrible blow when they rejected his design, a terrible blow. it was the first and fundamental cause of his suicide."
mr. tillotson paused. there was a long silence. spode felt strangely moved, he hardly knew why, in the presence of this man, so frail, so ancient, in body three parts dead, in the spirit so full of life and hopeful patience. he felt ashamed. what was the use of his own youth and cleverness? he saw himself suddenly as a boy with a rattle scaring birds rattling his noisy cleverness, waving his arms in ceaseless and futile activity, never resting in his efforts to scare away the birds that were always trying to settle in his mind. and what birds! widewinged and beautiful, all those serene thoughts and faiths and emotions that only visit minds that have humbled themselves to quiet. those gracious visitants he was for ever using all his energies to drive away. but this old man, with his hedgehogs and his honest doubts and all the rest of it—his mind was like a field made beautiful by the free coming and going, the unafraid alightings of a multitude of white, bright-winged creatures. he felt ashamed. but then, was it possible to alter one's life? wasn't it a little absurd to risk a conversion? spode shrugged his shoulders.
"i'll get you a hedgehog at once," he said. "they're sure to have some at whiteley's."
before he left that evening spode made an alarming discovery. mr. tillotson did not possess a dress-suit. it was hopeless to think of getting one made at this short notice, and, besides, what an unnecessary expense!
"we shall have to borrow a suit, mr. tillotson. i ought to have thought of that before."
"dear me, dear me." mr. tillotson was a little chagrined by this unlucky discovery. "borrow a suit?"
spode hurried away for counsel to badgery house. lord badgery surprisingly rose to the occasion. "ask boreham to come and see me," he told the footman, who answered his ring.
boreham was one of those immemorial butlers who linger on, generation after generation, in the houses of the great. he was over eighty now, bent, dried up, shrivelled with age.
"all old men are about the same size," said lord badgery. it was a comforting theory. "ah, here he is. have you got a spare suit of evening clothes, boreham?"
"i have an old suit, my lord, that i stopped wearing in let me see was it nineteen seven or eight?"
"that's the very thing. i should be most grateful, boreham, if you could lend it to me for mr. spode here for a day."
the old man went out, and soon reappeared carrying over his arm a very old black suit. he held up the coat and trousers for inspection. in the light of day they were deplorable.
"you've no idea, sir," said boreham deprecatingly to spode you've no idea how easy things get stained with grease and gravy and what not. however careful you are, sir—however careful.
"i should imagine so." spode was sympathetic.
"however careful, sir."
"but in artificial light they'll look all right."
"perfectly all right," lord badgery repeated. "thank you, boreham; you shall have them back on thursday."
"you re welcome, my lord, i'm sure." and the old man bowed and disappeared.
on the afternoon of the great day spode carried up to holloway a parcel containing boreham's retired evening-suit and all the necessary appurtenances in the way of shirts and collars. owing to the darkness and his own feeble sight mr. tillotson was happily unaware of the defects in the suit. he was in a state of extreme nervous agitation. it was with some difficulty that spode could prevent him, although it was only three o'clock, from starting his toilet on the spot.
"take it easy, mr. tillotson, take it easy. we needn't start till half-past seven, you know."
spode left an hour later, and as soon as he was safely out of the room mr. tillotson began to prepare himself for the banquet. he lighted the gas and a couple of candles, and, blinking myopically at the image that fronted him in the tiny looking-glass that stood on his chest of drawers, he set to work, with all the ardour of a young girl preparing for her first ball. at six o'clock, when the last touches had been given, he was not unsatisfied.
he marched up and down his cellar, humming to himself the gay song which had been so popular in his middle years:
"oh, oh, anna, maria jones!
queen of the tambourine, the cymbals, and the bones!"
spode arrived an hour later in lord badgery's second rolls-royce. opening the door of the old man's dungeon, he stood for a moment, wide-eyed with astonishment, on the threshold. mr. tillotson was standing by the empty grate, one elbow resting on the mantelpiece, one leg crossed over the other in a jaunty and gentlemanly attitude. the effect of the candlelight shining on his face was to deepen every line and wrinkle with intense black shadow; he looked immeasurably old. it was a noble and pathetic head. on the other hand, boreham's out-worn evening-suit was simply buffoonish. the coat was too long in the sleeves and the tail; the trousers bagged in elephantine creases about his ankles. some of the grease-spots were visible even in candlelight. the white tie, over which mr. tillotson had taken infinite pains and which he believed in his purblindness to be perfect, was fantastically lop-sided. he had buttoned up his waistcoat in such a fashion that one button was widowed of its hole and one hole of its button. across his shirt front lay the broad green ribbon of some unknown order.
"queen of the tambourine, the cymbals, and the bones," mr. tillotson concluded in a gnat-like voice before welcoming his visitor.
"well, spode, here you are. i'm dressed already, you see. the suit, i flatter myself, fits very well, almost as though it had been made for me. i am all gratitude to the gentleman who was kind enough to lend it to me; i shall take the greatest care of it. it's a dangerous thing to lend clothes. for loan oft loseth both itself and friend. the bard is always right."
"just one thing," said spode. "a touch to your waistcoat." he unbuttoned the dissipated garment and did it up again more symmetrically.
mr. tillotson was a little piqued at being found so absurdly in the wrong.
"thanks, thanks," he said, protestingly, trying to edge away from his valet. "it's all right, you know; i can do it myself. foolish oversight. i flatter myself the suit fits very well."
"and perhaps the tie might...." spode began tentatively. but the old man would not hear of it.
"no, no. the tie's all right. i can tie a tie, mr. spode. the tie's all right. leave it as it is, i beg."
"i like your order."
mr. tillotson looked down complacently at his shirt front. "ah, you've noticed my order. it's a long time since i wore that. it was given me by the grand porte, you know, for services rendered in the russo-turkish war. it's the order of chastity, the second class. they only give the first class to crowned heads, you know—browned heads and ambassadors. and only pashas of the highest rank get the second. mine's the second. they only give the first class to crowned heads...."
"of course, of course," said spode.
"do you think i look all right, mr. spode?" mr. tillotson asked, a little anxiously.
"splendid, mr. tillotson—splendid. the order's, magnificent."
the old man's face brightened once more. "i flatter myself," he said, "that this borrowed suit fits me very well. but i don't like borrowing clothes. for loan oft loseth both itself and friend, you know. and the bard is always right."
"ugh, there's one of those horrible beetles!" spode exclaimed.
mr. tillotson bent down and stared at the floor. "i see it," he said, and stamped on a small piece of coal, which crunched to powder under his foot. "i shall certainly buy a hedgehog."
it was time for them to start. a crowd of little boys and girls had collected round lord badgery's enormous car. the chauffeur, who felt that honour and dignity were at stake, pretended not to notice the children, but sat gazing, like a statue, into eternity. at the sight of spode and mr. tillotson emerging from the house a yell of mingled awe and derision went up. it subsided to an astonished silence as they climbed into the car. "bomba's," spode directed. the rolls-royce gave a faintly stertorous sigh and began to move. the children yelled again, and ran along beside the car, waving their arms in a frenzy of excitement. it was then that mr. tillotson, with an incomparably noble gesture, leaned forward and tossed among the seething crowd of urchins his three last coppers.
