Mr Ibbs said, ‘Very well, my tulip.’ The boys did not answer. Phil said, to no-one, ‘Come in the back way, did he?’—and another boy laughed.
Boys like that always think that men like Gentleman are nancies.
John laughed too, but louder than the others. Gentleman looked at him. ‘Hallo, you little tick,’ he said. ‘Lost your monkey?’
John’s cheek being so sallow, everyone always took him for an Italian. Now, hearing Gentleman, he put his finger to his nose. ‘You can kiss my arse,’ he said.
‘Can I?’ said Gentleman, smiling. He winked at Dainty, and she ducked her head. ‘Hallo, charmer,’ he said. Then he stooped to Charley Wag, and pulled his ears. ‘Hallo, you Wagster. Where’s police? Hey? Where’s police? See ’em off!’ Charley Wag went wild. ‘Good boy,’ said Gentleman, rising, brushing off hairs. ‘Good boy. That will do.’
Then he went and stood at Mrs Sucksby’s chair.
‘Hallo, Mrs S,’ he said.
The baby, now, had had a dose of gin, and had cried itself quiet. Mrs Sucksby held out her hand. Gentleman caught it up and kissed it—first at the knuckles, and then at the tips. Mrs Sucksby said,
‘Get up out of that chair, John, and let Gentleman sit down.’
John looked like thunder for a minute, then rose and took Dainty’s stool. Gentleman sat, and spread his legs towards the fire. He was tall, and his legs were long. He was seven- or eight-and-twenty. Beside him, John looked about six.
Mrs Sucksby kept her eyes upon him while he yawned and rubbed his face. Then he met her gaze, and smiled.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘How’s business?’
‘Pretty sweet,’ she answered. The baby lay still, and she patted it as she had used to pat me. Gentleman nodded to it.
‘And this little bud,’ he said: ‘is it farm, or is it family?’
‘Farm, of course,’ she said.
‘A he-bud, or a she-bud?’
‘A he-bud, bless his gums! Another poor motherless infant what I shall be bringing up by hand.’
Gentleman leaned towards her.
‘Lucky boy!’ he said, and winked.
Mrs Sucksby cried, ‘Oh!’ and turned pink as a rose. ‘You sauce-box!’
Nancy or not, he could certainly make a lady blush.
We called him Gentleman, because he really was a gent—had been, he said, to a real gent’s school, and had a father and a mother and a sister—all swells—whose heart he had just about broke. He had had money once, and lost it all gambling; his pa said he should never have another cent of the family fortune; and so he was obliged to get money the old-fashioned way, by thievery and dodging. He took to the life so well, however, we all said there must have been bad blood way back in that family, that had all come out in him.
He could be quite the painter when he chose, and had done a little work in the forgery line, at Paris; when that fell through, I think he spent a year putting French books into English—or English books into French—anyway, putting them slightly different each time, and pinning different titles on them, and so making one old story pass as twenty brand-new ones. Mostly, however, he worked as a confidence-man, and as a sharper at the grand casinos—for of course, he could mix with Society, and seem honest as the rest. The ladies especially would go quite wild for him. He had three times been nearly married to some rich heiress, but every time the father in the case had grown suspicious and the deal had fallen through. He had ruined many people by selling them stock from counterfeit banks. He was handsome as a plum, and Mrs Sucksby fairly doted on him. He came to Lant Street about once a year, bringing poke to Mr Ibbs, and picking up bad coin, cautions, and tips.
I supposed he had come bringing poke with him, now; and so, it seemed, did Mrs Sucksby, for once he had grown warm again before the fire and Dainty had given him tea, with rum in it, she placed the sleeping baby back in its cradle and smoothed her skirt across her lap and said,
‘Well now, Gentleman, this is a pleasure all right. We didn’t look for you for another month or two. Have you something with you, as Mr Ibbs will like the look of?’
Gentleman shook his head. ‘Nothing for Mr Ibbs, I am afraid.’
‘What, nothing? Do you hear that, Mr Ibbs?’
‘Very sad,’ said Mr Ibbs, from his place at the brazier.
Mrs Sucksby grew confidential. ‘Have you something, then, for me?’
But Gentleman shook his head again.
‘Not for you, either, Mrs S,’ he said. ‘Not for you; not for Garibaldi here’ (meaning John); ‘not for Dainty, nor for Phil and the boys; nor even for Charley Wag.’
He said this, going all about the room with his eyes; and finally looking at me, and then saying nothing. I had taken up the scattered playing-cards, and was sorting them back into their suits. When I saw him gazing—and, besides him, John and Dainty, and Mrs Sucksby, still quite pink in the face, also looking my way—I put the cards down. He at once reached over and picked them up, and started shuffling. He was that kind of man, whose hands must always be busy.
‘Well, Sue,’ he said, his eyes still upon me. His eyes were a very clear blue.
‘Well, what?’ I answered.
‘What do you say to this? It’s you I’ve come for.’
‘Her!’ said John, in disgust.
Gentleman nodded. ‘I have something for you. A proposal.’
‘A proposal!’ said Phil. He had overheard it. ‘Look out, Sue, he only wants to marry you!’
Dainty screamed, and the boys all sniggered. Gentleman blinked, then took his eyes from me at last, and leaned to Mrs Sucksby to say,
‘Get rid of our friends at the brazier, would you? But keep John and Dainty: I shall want their help.’
Mrs Sucksby hesitated, then glanced at Mr Ibbs; and Mr Ibbs said at once, ‘Right, lads, these sovs is sweated so hard, the poor queen’s quite a shadder. Any more of it, we shall be done for treason.’ He took up a pail, and began to drop the hot coins into the water, one by one. ‘Listen to them yellow boys cry hush!’ he said. ‘The gold knows best. Now, what does the gold know?’
‘Go on, Uncle Humphry,’ said Phil. He drew on his coat and turned up his collar. The other boys did the same. ‘So long,’ they said, with a nod to me, to John and Dainty and Mrs Sucksby. To Gentleman they said nothing. He watched them go by.
‘Watch your back, lads!’ he called, as the door was closed behind them. We heard Phil spit again.
Mr Ibbs turned the key in the lock. Then he came and poured himself a cup of tea—splashing rum in it, as Dainty had for Gentleman. The scent of the rum rose on the steam, to mix with the smell of the fire, the sweated gold, the dog-skins, the wet and steaming greatcoat. The rain fell softer upon the grate. John chewed on a peanut, picking shell from his tongue. Mr Ibbs had moved lamps. The table, our faces and hands, showed bright; but the rest of the room was in shadow.
For a minute, no-one spoke. Gentleman still worried the cards, and we sat and watched him. Mr Ibbs watched him hardest of all: his eye grew narrow, and he tilted his head—he might have been lining him up along the barrel of a gun.
‘So, my son,’ he said. ‘What’s the story?’
Gentleman looked up.
‘The story,’ he said. ‘The story is this.’ He took out a card, and laid it, face-up, on the table. It was the King of Diamonds. ‘Imagine a man,’ he said, as he did it. ‘An old man—a wise man, in his own way—a gentleman scholar, in fact; but with curious habits. He lives in a certain out-of-the-way sort of house, near a certain out-of-the-way kind of village, some miles from London—never mind quite where, just now. He has a great room filled with books and prints, and cares for nothing but for them and for a work he is compiling—let’s call it, a dictionary. It is a dictionary of all his books; but he has hopes for the pictures, too—has taken a mind to having them bound in fancy albums. The handling of that, however, is more than he can manage. He places a notice in a newspaper: he needs the services of’—here he put down another card, next to the first
: Jack of Spades—‘a smart young man, to help him mount the collection; and one particular smart young man—being at that time rather too well known at the London gaming-houses, and highly desirous of a little light out-of-the-way sort of employment, bed and board provided—replies to the advertisement, is examined, and found fit.’
‘The smart young man being yourself,’ said Mr Ibbs.
‘The smart young man being me. How you catch on!’
‘And the crib in the country,’ said John, taken up in Gentleman’s story despite his sulks, ‘let’s say it’s busting with treasure. And you mean to force the locks, on all the cabinets and chests. You have come to Mr Ibbs for a loan of nippers and a jilt; and you want Sue—with her innocent eyes, what looks like they ain’t seen butter—for your canary.’
Gentleman tilted his head, drew in his breath and raised a finger, in a teasing sort of way. Then:
‘Cold as ice!’ he said. ‘The crib in the country is a damnable place: two hundred years old, and dark, and draughty, and mortgaged to the roof—which is leaky, by the by. Not a rug or a vase or piece of plate worth forcing so much as a fart for, I’m afraid. The gent eats his supper off china, just like us.’
‘The old hunks!’ said John. ‘But, tight-wads like that, they stash their money in the bank, don’t they? And you have made him write a paper leaving all of it to you; and now you are here for a bottle of poison—’
Gentleman shook his head.
‘Not a ounce of poison?’ said John, looking hopeful.
‘Not an ounce. Not a scruple. And no money in the bank—not in the old man’s name, at least. He lives so quietly and so queerly, he scarcely knows what money’s for. But there, do you see, he doesn’t live alone. Look here, who he keeps for his companion . . .’
The Queen of Hearts.
‘Heh, heh,’ said John, growing sly. ‘A wife, very game.’
But Gentleman shook his head again.
‘A daughter, ditto?’ said John.
‘Not a wife. Not a daughter,’ said Gentleman, with his eyes and his fingers on the Queen’s unhappy face. ‘A niece. In years,’ he glanced at me, ‘say Sue’s years. In looks, say handsome. Of sense, understanding and knowledge,’ he smiled, ‘why, let’s say perfectly shy.’
‘A flat!’ said John with relish. ‘Tell me she’s rich, at least.’
‘She’s rich, oh yes,’ said Gentleman, nodding. ‘But only as a caterpillar is rich in wings, or clover rich in honey. She’s an heiress, Johnny: her fortune is certain, the uncle can’t touch it; but it comes with a queer condition attached. She won’t see a penny till the day she marries. If she dies a spinster, the money goes to a cousin. If she takes a husband,’ he stroked the card with one white finger—‘she’s rich as a queen.’
‘How rich?’ said Mr Ibbs. He had not spoken, all this time. Gentleman heard him now, looked up, and held his gaze.
‘Ten thousand in ready,’ he said quietly. ‘Five thousand in the funds.’
A coal in the fire went pop. John gave a whistle through his broken tooth, and Charley Wag barked. I glanced at Mrs Sucksby, but her head was bent and her look was dark. Mr Ibbs took a sip from his tea, in a considering way.
‘I’ll bet the old man keeps her close, don’t he?’ he said, when the tea was swallowed.
‘Close enough,’ said Gentleman, nodding, moving back. ‘He’s made a secretary of her, all these years—has her reading to him for hours at a stretch. I think he hardly knows she has grown up and turned into a lady.’ He gave a secret sort of smile. ‘I think she knows it, though. No sooner do I start work on the pictures than she discovers in herself a passion for painting. She wants lessons, with me as her master. Now, I know enough in that line to fake my way; and she, in her innocence, can’t tell a pastel from a pig. But she takes to her instruction—oh, like anything. We have a week of lessons: I teach her lines, I teach her shadows. The second week goes by: we move from shadows to design. Third week—blushing watercolours. Next, the blending of the oils. Fifth week—’
‘Fifth week, you jiggles her!’ said John.
Gentleman closed his eyes.
‘Fifth week, our lessons are cancelled,’ he said. ‘Do you think a girl like that may sit in a room, with a gentleman tutor, alone? We have had her Irish maid sit with us, all this time—coughing and turning red in the face, every time my fingers stray too near her lady’s, or my breath comes too warm upon her little white cheek. I thought her a marvellous prude; it turns out she had the scarlet fever—is at this moment dying of it, poor bitch. Now my lady has no chaperon but the housekeeper—and the housekeeper is too busy to sit at lessons. The lessons, therefore, must end, the paints are left to dry upon their palette. Now I only see Miss at supper, at her uncle’s side; and sometimes, if I pass her chamber door, I hear her sighing.’
‘And just,’ said Mr Ibbs, ‘as you was getting on so nicely.’
‘Just so,’ said Gentleman. ‘Just so.’
‘Poor lady!’ said Dainty. Her eyes had tears in them. She could cry at anything. ‘And her quite a peach, you say? About the figure and the face?’
Gentleman looked careless. ‘She can fill a man’s eye, I suppose,’ he said, with a shrug.
John laughed. ‘I should like to fill her eye!’
‘I should like to fill yours,’ said Gentleman, steadily. Then he blinked. ‘With my fist, I mean.’
John’s cheek grew dark, and he jumped to his feet. ‘I should like to see you try it!’
Mr Ibbs lifted his hands. ‘Boys! Boys! That’s enough! I won’t have it, before ladies and kids! John, sit down and stop fucking about. Gentleman, you promised us your story; what we’ve had so far has been so much pastry. Where’s the meat, son? Where’s the meat? And, more to our point, how is Susie to help cook it?’
John kicked the leg of his stool, then sat. Gentleman had taken out a packet of cigarettes. We waited, while he found a match and struck it. We watched the flare of the sulphur in his eyes. Then he leaned to the table again and touched the three cards he had laid there, putting straight their edges.
‘You want the meat,’ he said. ‘Very well, here it is.’ He tapped the Queen of Hearts. ‘I aim to marry this girl and take her fortune. I aim to steal her’—he slid the card to one side—‘from under her uncle’s nose. I am in a fair way to doing it already, as you have heard; but she’s a queer sort of girl, and can’t be trusted to herself—and should she take some clever, hard woman for her new servant, why then I’m ruined. I have come to London to collect a set of bindings for the old man’s albums. I want to send Sue back before me. I want to set her up there as the lady’s maid, so that she might help me woo her.’
He caught my eye. He still played idly with the card, with one pale hand. Now he lowered his voice.
‘And there’s something else,’ he said, ‘that I shall need Sue’s help with. Once I have married this girl, I shan’t want her about me. I know a man who will take her off my hands. He has a house, where he’ll keep her. It’s a madhouse. He’ll keep her close. So close, perhaps . . .’ He did not finish, but turned the card face down, and kept his fingers on its back. ‘I must only marry her,’ he said, ‘and—as Johnny would say—I must jiggle her, once, for the sake of the cash. Then I’ll take her, unsuspecting, to the madhouse gates. Where’s the harm? Haven’t I said, she’s half-simple already? But I want to be sure. I shall need Sue by her to keep her simple; and to persuade her, in her simpleness, into the plot.’
He drew again upon his cigarette and, as they had before, everyone turned their eyes on me. Everyone that is, save Mrs Sucksby. She had listened, saying nothing, while Gentleman spoke. I had watched her pour a little of her tea out of her cup into her saucer, then swill it about the china and finally raise it to her mouth, while the story went on. She could never bear hot tea, she said it hardened the lips. And certainly, I don’t believe I ever knew a grown-up woman with lips as soft as hers.
Now, in the silence, she put her cup and saucer down, then drew out her hand
kerchief and wiped her mouth. She looked at Gentleman, and finally spoke.
‘Why Sue,’ she said, ‘of all the girls in England? Why my Sue?’
‘Because she is yours, Mrs S,’ he answered. ‘Because I trust her; because she’s a good girl—which is to say, a bad girl, not too nice about the fine points of the law.’
She nodded. ‘And how do you mean,’ she asked next, ‘to cut the shine?’
Again he looked at me; but he still spoke to her.
‘She shall have two thousand pounds,’ he said, smoothing his whiskers; ‘and shall take any of the little lady’s bits and frocks and jewels that she likes.’
That was the deal.
We thought it over.
‘What do you say?’ he said at last—to me, this time. And then, when I did not answer: ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘to spring this upon you; but you can see the little time I have had to act in. I must get a girl soon. I should like it to be you, Sue. I should like it to be you, more than anyone. But if it is not to be, then tell me quickly, will you?—so I might find out another.’
‘Dainty will do it,’ said John, when he heard that. ‘Dainty was a maid once—wasn’t you, Daint?—for a lady in a great house at Peckham.’
‘As I recall,’ said Mr Ibbs, drinking his tea, ‘Dainty lost that place through putting a hat-pin to the lady’s arm.’
‘She was a bitch to me,’ said Dainty, ‘and got my dander up. This girl don’t sound like a bitch. She’s a flat, you said so. I could maid for a flat.’
‘It was Sue that was asked,’ said Mrs Sucksby quietly. ‘And she still ain’t said.’
Then, again they all looked at me; and their eyes made me nervous. I turned my head. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It seems a rum sort of plot to me. Set me up, as maid to a lady? How shall I know what to do?’
‘We can teach you,’ said Gentleman. ‘Dainty can teach you, since she knows the business. How hard can it be? You must only sit and simper, and hold the lady’s salts.’
I said, ‘Suppose the lady won’t want me for her maid? Why should she want me?’