“get work, get work;
be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.”
two men were driving in a hansom cab westward through cockspur street. one, a large individual of a bovine placidity, wore the queen's uniform, and carried himself with a solid dignity faintly suggestive of a lighthouse. the other, a narrower man, with a keen, fair face and eyes that had an habitual smile, wore another uniform—that of society. he was well dressed, and, what is rarer carried his fine clothes with such assurance that their fineness seemed not only natural but indispensable.
“sic transit the glory of this world,” he was saying. at this moment three men on the pavement—the usual men on the pavement at such times—turned and looked into the cab.
“'ere's white!” cried one of them. “white—dash his eyes! brayvo! brayvo, white!”
and all three raised a shout which seemed to be taken up vaguely in various parts of trafalgar square, and finally died away in the distance.
“that is it,” said the young man in the frock-coat; “that is the glory of this world. listen to it passing away. there is a policeman touching his helmet. ah, what a thing it is to be major white—to-day! to morrow—bonjour la gloire!”
major white, who had dropped his single eye-glass a minute earlier, sat squarely looking out upon the world with a mild surprise. the eye from which the glass had fallen was even more surprised than the other. but this, it seemed, was a man upon whom the passing world made, as a rule, but a passing impression. his attitude towards it was one of dense tolerance. he was, in fact, one of those men who usually allow their neighbours to live in a fool's-paradise, based upon the assumption of a blindness or a stupidity or an indifference, which may or may not be justified by subsequent events.
this was, as tony cornish, his companion, had hinted, the white of the moment. just as the reader may be the jones or the tomkins of the moment if his soul thirst for glory. crime and novel-writing are the two broad roads to notoriety, but major white had practiced neither felony nor fiction. he had merely attended to his own and his country's business in a solid, common-sense way in one of those obscure and tight places into which the british officer frequently finds himself forced by the unwieldiness of the empire or the indiscretion of an effervescent press.
that he had extricated himself and his command from the tight place, with much glory to themselves and an increased burden to the cares of the colonial office, was a fact which a grateful country was at this moment doing its best to recognize. that the authorities and those who knew him could not explain how he had done it any more than he himself could, was another fact which troubled him as little. major white was wise in that he did not attempt to explain.
“that sort of thing,” he said, “generally comes right in the end.” and the affair may thus be consigned to that pigeon-hole of the past in which are filed for future reference cases where brilliant men have failed and unlikely ones have covered themselves with sudden and transient glory.
there had been a review of the troops that had taken part in a short and satisfactory expedition of which, by what is usually called a lucky chance, white found himself the hero. he was not of the material of which heroes are made; but that did not matter. the world will take a man and make a hero of him without pausing to inquire of what stuff he may be. nay, more, it will take a man's name and glorify it without so much as inquiring to what manner of person the name belongs.
tony cornish, who went everywhere and saw everything, was of course present at the review, and knew all the best people there. he passed from carriage to carriage in his smart way, saying the right thing to the right people in the right words, failing to see the wrong people quite in the best manner, and conscious of the fact that none could surpass him. then suddenly, roused to a higher manhood by the tramp of steady feet, by the sight of his lifelong friend white riding at the head of his tanned warriors, this social success forgot himself. he waved his silk hat and shouted himself hoarse, as did the honest plumber at his side.
“that's better work than yours nor mine, mister,” said the plumber, when the troops were gone; and tony admitted, with his ready smile, that it was so. a few minutes later tony found major white solemnly staring at a small crowd, which as solemnly stared back at him, on the pavement in front of the horse guards.
“here, i have a cab waiting for me,” he had said; and white followed him with a mildly bewildered patience, pushing his way gently through the crowd as through a herd of oxen.
he made no comment, and if he heard sundry whispers of “that's 'im,” he was not unduly elated. in the cab he sat bolt upright, looking as if his tunic was too tight, as in all probability it was. the day was hot, and after a few jerks he extracted a pocket-handkerchief from his sleeve.
“where are you going?” he asked.
“well, i was going to cambridge terrace. joan sent me a card this morning saying that she wanted to see me,” explained tony cornish. he was a young man who seemed always busy. his long thin legs moved quickly, he spoke quickly, and had a rapid glance. there was a suggestion of superficial haste about him. for an idle man, he had remarkably little time on his hands.
white took up his eye-glass, examined it with short-sighted earnestness, and screwed it solemnly into his eye.
“cambridge terrace?” he said, and stared in front of him.
“yes. have you seen the ferribys since your glorious return to these—er—shores?” as he spoke, cornish gave only half of his attention. he knew so many people that piccadilly was a work of considerable effort, and it is difficult to bow gracefully from a hansom cab.
“can't say i have.”
“then come in and see them now. we shall find only joan at home, and she will not mind your fine feathers or the dust and circumstance of war upon your boots. lady ferriby will be sneaking about in the direction of edgware road—fish is nearly two pence a pound cheaper there, i understand. my respected uncle is sure to be sunning his waistcoat in piccadilly. yes, there he is. isn't he splendid? how do, uncle?” and cornish waved a grey suède glove with a gay nod.
“how are the ferribys?” inquired major white, who belonged to the curt school.
“oh, they seem to be well. uncle is full of that charity which at all events has its headquarters in the home counties. aunt—well, aunt is saving money.”
“and miss ferriby?” inquired white, looking straight in front of him.
cornish glanced quickly at his companion. “oh, joan?” he answered. “she is all right. full of energy, you know—all the fads in their courses.”
“you get 'em too.”
“oh yes; i get them too. buttonholes come and buttonholes go. have you noticed it? they get large. neapolitan violets all over your left shoulder one day, and no flowers at all the week after.” cornish spoke with a gravity befitting the subject. he was, it seemed a student of human nature in his way. “of course,” he added, laying an impressive forefinger on white's gold-laced cuff, “it would never do if the world remained stationary.”
“never,” said the major, darkly. “never.”
they were talking to pass the time. joan ferriby had come between them, as a woman is bound to come between two men sooner or later. neither knew what the other thought of joan ferriby, or if he thought of her at all. women, it is to be believed, have a pleasant way of mentioning the name of a man with such significance that one of their party changes colour. when next she meets that man she does it again, and perhaps he sees it, and perhaps his vanity, always on the alert, magnifies that unfortunate blush. and they are married, and live unhappily ever afterwards. and—let us hope there is a hell for gossips. but men are different in their procedure. they are awkward and gauche. they talk of newspaper matters, and on the whole there is less harm done.
the hansom cab containing these two men pulled up jerkily at the door of no. 9, cambridge terrace. tony cornish hurried to the door, and rang the bell as if he knew it well. major white followed him stiffly. they were ushered into a library on the ground floor, and were there received by a young lady, who, pen in hand, sat at a large table littered with newspaper wrappers.
“i am addressing the haberdashers' assistants,” she said, “but i am very glad to see you.”
miss joan ferriby was one of those happy persons who never know a doubt. one must, it seems, be young to enjoy this nineteenth-century immunity. one must be pretty—it is, at all events, better to be pretty—and one must dress well. a little knowledge of the world, a decisive way of stating what pass at the moment for facts, a quick manner of speaking—and the rest comes tout seul. this cocksureness is in the atmosphere of the day, just as fainting and curls and an appealing helplessness were in the atmosphere of an earlier victorian period.
miss ferriby stood, pen in hand, and laughed at the confusion on the table in front of her. she was eminently practical, and quite without that self-consciousness which in a bygone day took the irritating form of coyness. major white, with whom she shook hands en camarade, gazed at her solemnly.
“who are the haberdashers' assistants?” he asked.
miss ferriby sat down with a grave face. “oh, it is a splendid charity,” she answered. “tony will tell you all about it. it is an association of which the object is to induce people to give up riding on saturday afternoons, and to lend their bicycles to haberdashers' assistants who cannot afford to buy them for themselves. papa is patron.”
cornish looked quickly from one to the other. he had always felt that major white was not quite of the world in which joan and he moved. the major came into it at times, looked around him, and then moved away again into another world, less energetic, less advanced, less rapid in its changes. cornish had never sought to interest his friend in sundry good works in which joan, for instance, was interested, and which formed a delightful topic for conversation at teatime.
“it is so splendid,” said joan, gathering up her papers, “to feel that one is really doing something.”
and she looked up into white's face with an air of grave enthusiasm which made him drop his eye-glass.
“oh yes,” he answered, rather vaguely.
cornish had already seated himself at the table, and was folding the addressed newspaper wrappers over circulars printed on thick note-paper. this seemed a busy world into which white had stepped. he looked rather longingly at the newspaper wrappers and the circulars, and then lapsed into the contemplation of joan's neat fingers as she too fell to the work.
“we saw all about you,” said the girl, in her bright, decisive way, “in the newspapers. papa read it aloud. he is always reading things aloud now, out of the times. he thinks it is good practice for the platform, i am sure. we were all”—she paused and banged her energetic fist down upon a pile of folded circulars which seemed to require further pressure—“very proud, you know, to know you.”
“good lord!” ejaculated white, fervently.
“well, why not?” asked miss ferriby, looking up. she had expressive eyes, and they now flashed almost angrily. “all english people——” she began, and broke off suddenly, throwing aside the papers and rising quickly to her feet. her eyes were fixed on white's tunic. “is that a medal?” she asked, hurrying towards him. “oh, how splendid! look, tony, look! a medal! is it”—she paused, looking at it closely—“is it—the victoria cross?” she asked, and stood looking from one man to the other, her eyes glistening with something more than excitement.
“um—yes,” admitted white.
tony cornish had risen to his feet also. he held out his hand.
“i did not know that,” he said.
there was a pause. tony and joan returned to their circulars in an odd silence. the haberdashers' assistants seemed suddenly to have diminished in importance.
“by-the-by,” said joan ferriby at length, “papa wants to see you, tony. he has a new scheme. something very large and very important. the only question is whether it is not too large. it is not only in england, but in other countries. a great international affair. some distressed manufacturers or something. i really do not quite know. that mr. roden—you remember?—has been to see him about it.”
cornish nodded in his quick way. “i remember roden,” he answered. “the man you met at hombourg. tall dark man with a tired manner.”
“yes,” answered joan. “he has been to see papa several times. papa is just as busy as ever with his charities,” she continued, addressing white. “and i believe he wants you to help him in this one.”
“me?” said white, nervously. “oh, i'm no good. i should not know a haberdasher's assistant if i saw him.”
“oh, but this is not the haberdashers' assistants,” laughed joan. “it is something much more important than that. the haberdashers' assistants are only——”
“pour passer le temps,” suggested cornish, gaily.
“no, of course not. but papa is really rather anxious about this. he says it is much the most important thing he has ever had to do with—and that is saying a good deal, you know. i wish i could remember the name of it, and of those poor unfortunate people who make it—whatever it is. it is some stuff, you know, and sounds sticky. papa has so many charities, and such long names to them. aunt susan says it is because he was so wild in his youth—but one cannot believe that. would you think that papa had been wild in his youth—to look at him now?”
“lord, no!” ejaculated white, with pious solidity, throwing back his shoulders with an air that seemed to suggest a readiness to fight any man who should hint at such a thing, and he waved the mere thought aside with a ponderous gesture of the hand.
joan had, however, already turned to another matter. she was consulting a diary bound in dark blue morocco.
“let me see, now,” she said. “papa told me to make an appointment with you. when can you come?”
cornish produced a minute engagement-book, and these two busy people put their heads together in the search for a disengaged moment. not only in mind, but in face and manner, they slightly resembled each other, and might, by the keen-sighted, have been set down at once as cousins. both were fair and slightly made, both were quick and clever. both faced the world with an air of energetic intelligence that bespoke their intention of making a mark upon it. both were liable to be checked in a moment of earnest endeavour by a sudden perception of the humorous, which liability rendered them somewhat superficial, and apt of it lightly from one thought to another.
“i wish i could remember the name of papa's new scheme,” said joan, as she bade them good-bye. when they were in the cab she ran to the door. “i remember,” she cried. “i remember now. it is malgamite.”
