it a prophecy? Wimp accepted it as such; as an oracle from the gods bidding him mistrust Grodman. Out of the mouths of little children issueth wisdom; sometimes even when they are not saying their lessons.
“When I was in my cradle, a century ago,” said Wimp’s grandmother-in-law, “men were hanged for stealing horses.”
They silenced her with snapdragon performances.
Wimp was busy thinking how to get at Grodman’s factotum.
Grodman was busy thinking how to get at Wimp’s domestic.
Neither received any of the usual messages from the Christmas Bells.
* * * *
The next day was sloppy and uncertain. A thin rain drizzled languidly. One can stand that sort of thing on a summer Bank Holiday; one expects it. But to have a bad December Bank Holiday is too much of a bad thing. Some steps should surely be taken to confuse the weather clerk’s chronology. Once let him know that Bank Holiday is coming, and he writes to the company for more water. Today his stock seemed low and he was dribbling it out; at times the wintry sun would shine in a feeble, diluted way, and though the holiday-makers would have preferred to take their sunshine neat, they swarmed forth in their myriads whenever there was a ray of hope. But it was only dodging the raindrops; up went the umbrellas again, and the streets became meadows of ambulating mushrooms.
Denzil Cantercot sat in his fur overcoat at the open window, looking at the landscape in water colors. He smoked an after-dinner cigarette, and spoke of the Beautiful. Crowl was with him. They were in the first floor front, Crowl’s bedroom, which, from its view of the Mile End Road, was livelier than the parlor with its outlook on the backyard. Mrs. Crowl was an anti-tobacconist as regards the best bedroom; but Peter did not like to put the poet or his cigarette out. He felt there was something in common between smoke and poetry, over and above their being both Fads. Besides, Mrs. Crowl was sulking in the kitchen. She had been arranging for an excursion with Peter and the children to Victoria Park. She had dreamed of the Crystal Palace, but Santa Claus had put no gifts in the cobbler’s shoes. Now she could not risk spoiling the feather in her bonnet. The nine brats expressed their disappointment by slapping one another on the staircases. Peter felt that Mrs. Crowl connected him in some way with the rainfall, and was unhappy. Was it not enough that he had been deprived of the pleasure of pointing out to a superstitious majority the mutual contradictions of Leviticus and the Song of Solomon? It was not often that Crowl could count on such an audience.
“And you still call Nature beautiful?” he said to Denzil, pointing to the ragged sky and the dripping eaves. “Ugly old scarecrow!”
“Ugly she seems today,” admitted Denzil. “But what is Ugliness but a higher form of Beauty? You have to look deeper into it to see it; such vision is the priceless gift of the few. To me this wan desolation of sighing rain is lovely as the sea-washed ruins of cities.”
“Ah, but you wouldn’t like to go out in it,” said Peter Crowl. As he spoke the drizzle suddenly thickened into a torrent.
“We do not always kiss the woman we love.”
“Speak for yourself, Denzil. I’m only a plain man, and I want to know if Nature isn’t a Fad. Hallo, there goes Mortlake! Lord, a minute of this will soak him to the skin.”
The labor leader was walking along with bowed head. He did not seem to mind the shower. It was some seconds before he even heard Crowl’s invitation to him to take shelter. When he did hear it he shook his head.
“I know I can’t offer you a drawing-room with duchesses stuck about it,” said Peter, vexed.
Tom turned the handle of the shop door and went in. There was nothing in the world which now galled him more than the suspicion that he was stuck-up and wished to cut old friends. He picked his way through the nine brats who clung affectionately to his wet knees, dispersing them finally by a jet of coppers to scramble for. Peter met him on the stair and shook his hand lovingly and admiringly, and took him into Mrs. Crowl’s bedroom.
“Don’t mind what I say, Tom. I’m only a plain man, and my tongue will say what comes uppermost! But it ain’t from the soul, Tom, it ain’t from the soul,” said Peter, punning feebly, and letting a mirthless smile play over his sallow features. “You know Mr. Cantercot, I suppose? The poet.”
“Oh, yes; how do you do, Tom? Seen the New Pork Herald lately? Not bad, those old times, eh?”
“No,” said Tom, “I wish I was back in them.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” said Peter, in much concern. “Look at the good you are doing to the working man. Look how you are sweeping away the Fads. Ah, it’s a grand thing to be gifted, Tom. The idea of your chuckin’ yourself away on a composin’ room! Manual labor is all very well for plain men like me, with no gift but just enough brains to see into the realities of things—to understand that we’ve got no soul and no immortality, and all that—and too selfish to look after anybody’s comfort but my own and mother’s and the kid’s. But men like you and Cantercot—it ain’t right that you should be peggin’ away at low material things. Not that I think Cantercot’s gospel’s any value to the masses. The Beautiful is all very well for folks who’ve got nothing else to think of, but give me the True. You’re the man for my money, Mortlake. No reference to the funds, Tom, to which I contribute little enough, Heaven knows; though how a place can know anything, Heaven alone knows. You give us the Useful, Tom; that’s what the world wants more than the Beautiful.”
“Socrates said that the Useful is the Beautiful,” said Denzil.
“That may be,” said Peter, “but the Beautiful ain’t the Useful.”
“Nonsense!” said Denzil. “What about Jessie—I mean Miss Dymond? There’s a combination for you. She always reminds me of Grace Darling. How is she, Tom?”
“She’s dead!” snapped Tom.
“What?” Denzil turned as white as a Christmas ghost.
“It was in the papers,” said Tom; “all about her and the lifeboat.”
“Oh, you mean Grace Darling,” said Denzil, visibly relieved. “I meant Miss Dymond.”
“You needn’t be so interested in her,” said Tom, surlily. “She don’t appreciate it. Ah, the shower is over. I must be going.”
“No, stay a little longer, Tom,” pleaded Peter. “I see a lot about you in the papers, but very little of your dear old phiz now. I can’t spare the time to go and hear you. But I really must give myself a treat. When’s your next show?”
“Oh, I am always giving shows,” said Tom, smiling a little. “But my next big performance is on the twenty-first of January, when that picture of poor Mr. Constant is to be unveiled at the Bow Break o’ Day Club. They have written to Gladstone and other big pots to come down. I do hope the old man accepts. A non-political gathering like this is the only occasion we could both speak at, and I have never been on the same platform with Gladstone.”
He forgot his depression and ill-temper in the prospect, and spoke with more animation.
“No, I should hope not, Tom,” said Peter. “What with his Fads about the Bible being a Rock, and Monarchy being the right thing, he is a most dangerous man to lead the Radicals. He never lays his ax to the root of anything—except oak trees.”
“Mr.
