Part 17 (1/2)

”He's the centre of the Fancy.”

”The Fancy!”

”Ornaments of the Ring, you know. Come now, surely you know the Ring, my dear. His rooms in St. James's Street are full of them every night. All sorts, you know--featherweights, and heavy-weights, and greyhounds. And the faces! My goodness, you should see them. Such worn-out old images.

Knowledge boxes all awry, mouths crooked, and noses that have had the upper-cut. But good men all; good to take their gruel, you know. Monty will have nothing else about him. He was Tom Spring's packer. Never heard of Tom Spring? Tom of Bedford, the incorruptible, you know, only he fought cross that day. Monty lost a thousand, and Tom keeps a public in Holborn now with pictures of the Fancy round the walls.”

Then Kate, with a laugh, said something which Philip did not catch, because Caesar was rustling the newspaper he was reading.

”Ladies come?” said Ross. ”Girls at Monty's suppers? Rather! what should you think? Cleopatra--but you ought to be there. I must be getting off myself very soon. There's a supper coming off next week at Handsome Honey's. Who's Honey? Proprietor of a night-house in the Haymarket.

Night-house? You come and see, my dear.”

Caesar dropped the newspaper and looked across at Philip. The gaze was long and embarra.s.sing, and, for want of better conversation, Philip asked Caesar if he was thinking.

”Aw, thinking, thinking, and thinking again, sir,” said Caesar. Then, drawing his chair nearer to Philip's, he added, in a half whisper, ”I'm getting a bit of a skute into something, though. See yonder? They're calling his father a miser. The man's racking his tenants and starving his land. But I believe enough the young bra.s.s lagh (a weed) is choking the ould grain.”

Caesar, as he spoke, tipped his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Ross, and, seeing this, Ross interrupted his conversation with Kate to address himself to her father.

”So you've been reading the paper, Mr. Cregeen?”

”Aw, reading and reading,” said Caesar grumpily. Then in another tone, ”You're home again from London, sir? Great doings yonder, they're telling me. Battles, sir, great battles.”

Ross elevated his eyebrows. ”Have you heard of them then?” he asked.

”Aw, heard enough,” said Caesar, ”meetings, and conferences, and conventions, and I don't know what.”

”Oh, oh, I see,” said Ross, with a look at Kate.

”They're doing without h.e.l.l in England now-a-days--that's a quare thing, sir. Conditional immorality they're calling it--the singlerest thing I know. Taking h.e.l.l away drops the tailboard out of a man's religion, eh?”

The time for closing came, and Philip had waited in vain. Only one cut had come his way, and that had not been his own. As he rose to go, Kate had said, ”We didn't expect to see you again for six months, Mr.

Christian.”

”So it seems,” said Philip, and Kate laughed a little, and that was all the work of his evening, and the whole result of his errand.

Caesar was waiting for him in the porch. His face was white, and it twitched visibly. It was plain to see that the natural man was fighting in Caesar. ”Mr. Christian, sir,” said he, ”are you the gentleman that came here to speak to me for Peter Quilliam?”

”I am,” said Philip.

”Then do you remember the ould Manx saying, 'Perhaps the last dog may be catching the hare?'”

”Leave it to me, Mr. Cregeen,” said Philip through his teeth.

Half a minute afterwards he was swinging down the dark road homewards, by the side of Ross, who was drawling along with his cold voice.

”So you've started on your light-weight handicap, Philip. Father was monstrous unreasonable that day. Seemed to think I was coming back here to put my shoulder out for your high bailiffs.h.i.+ps and b.u.m-bailiffs.h.i.+ps and heaven knows what. You're welcome to the lot for me, Philip. That girl's wonderful, though. It's positively miraculous, too; she's the living picture of a girl of my friend Montague's. Eyes, hair, that nervous movement of the mouth--everything. Old man looked glum enough, though. Poor little woman. I suppose she's past praying for. The old hypocrite will hold her like a dove in the claws of a buzzard hawk till she throws herself away on some Manx omathaun. It's the way with half these pretty creatures--they're wasted.”

Philip's blood was boiling. ”Do you call it being wasted when a good girl is married to an honest man?” he asked.

”I do; because a girl like this can never marry the right man. The man who is worthy of her cannot marry her, and the man who marries her isn't worthy of her. It's like this, Philip. She's young, she's pretty, perhaps beautiful, has manners and taste, and some refinement. The man of her own cla.s.s is clumsy and ignorant, and stupid and poor.