The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories

Without speaking Thomas equipped himself and walked a quarter of a mile to the lodgings of a married friend of his—a clerk chronically out of work, and too often in liquor. The wife received him with tears. After eight weeks without earning a penny, her husband had obtained the job of addressing five hundred envelopes, to be done at home and speedily. Tempted forth by an acquaintance 'for half a minute' as he sat down to the task, he had been absent for three hours, and would certainly return unfit for work.

'It isn't only the money,' sobbed his wife, 'but it might have got him more work, and now, of course, he's lost the chance, and we haven't nothing more than a crust of bread left. And—'

Thomas slipped half-a-crown into her hand and whispered, 'Send Jack before the shops close.' Then, to escape thanks, he shouted out, 'Where's these blessed envelopes, and where's the addresses? All right, just leave me this corner of the table and don't speak to me as long as I sit here.'

Between half-past nine and half-past twelve, at the rate of eighty an hour, he addressed all but half the five hundred envelopes. Then his friend appeared, dolefully drunk. Thomas would not look at him.

'He'll finish the rest by dinner to-morrow,' said the miserable wife, 'and that's in time.'

So Thomas Bird went home. He felt better at heart, and blamed himself for his weakness during the day. He blamed himself often enough for this or that, knowing not that such as he are the salt of the earth.

THE PIG AND WHISTLE

'I possess a capital of thirty thousand pounds. One-third of this is invested in railway shares, which bear interest at three and a half per cent.; another third is in Government stock, and produces two and three-quarters per cent.; the rest is lent on mortgages, at three per cent. Calculate my income for the present year.'

This kind of problem was constantly being given out by Mr. Ruddiman, assistant master at Longmeadows School. Mr. Ruddiman, who had reached the age of five-and-forty, and who never in his life had possessed five-and-forty pounds, used his arithmetic lesson as an opportunity for flight of imagination. When dictating a sum in which he attributed to himself enormous wealth, his eyes twinkled, his slender body struck a dignified attitude, and he smiled over the class with a certain genial condescension. When the calculation proposed did not refer to personal income it generally illustrated the wealth of the nation, in which Mr. Ruddiman had a proud delight. He would bid his youngsters compute the proceeds of some familiar tax, and the vast sum it represented rolled from his lips on a note of extraordinary satisfaction, as if he gloried in this evidence of national prosperity. His salary at Longmeadows just sufficed to keep him decently clad and to support him during the holidays. He had been a master here for seven years, and earnestly hoped that his services might be retained for at least seven more; there was very little chance of his ever obtaining a better position, and the thought of being cast adrift, of having to betake himself to the school agencies and enter upon new engagements, gave Mr. Ruddiman a very unpleasant sensation. In his time he had gone through hardships such as naturally befall a teacher without diplomas and possessed of no remarkable gifts; that he had never broken down in health was the result of an admirable constitution and of much native cheerfulness. Only at such an establishment as Longmeadows—an old-fashioned commercial 'academy,' recommended to parents by the healthiness of its rural situation—could he have hoped to hold his ground against modern educational tendencies, which aim at obliterating Mr. Ruddiman and all his kind. Every one liked him; impossible not to like a man so abounding in kindliness and good humour; but his knowledge was anything but extensive, and his methods in instruction had a fine flavour of antiquity. Now and then Mr. Ruddiman asked himself what was to become of him when sickness or old age forbade his earning even the modest income upon which he could at present count, but his happy temper dismissed the troublesome reflection. One thing, however, he had decided; in future he would find some more economical way of spending his holidays. Hitherto he had been guilty of the extravagance of taking long journeys to see members of his scattered family, or of going to the seaside, or of amusing himself (oh, how innocently!) in London. This kind of thing must really stop. In the coming summer vacation he had determined to save at least five sovereigns, and he fancied he had discovered a simple way of doing it.

On pleasant afternoons, when he was 'off duty,' Mr. Ruddiman liked to have a long ramble by himself about the fields and lanes. In solitude he was never dull; had you met him during one of these afternoon walks, more likely than not you would have seen a gentle smile on his visage as he walked with head bent. Not that his thoughts were definitely of agreeable things; consciously he thought perhaps of nothing at all; but he liked the sunshine and country quiet, and the sense of momentary independence. Every one would have known him for what he was. His dress, his gait, his countenance, declared the under-master. Mr. Ruddiman never carried a walking-stick; that would have seemed to him to be arrogating a social position to which he had no claim. Generally he held his hands together behind him; if not so, one of them would dip its fingers into a waistcoat pocket and the other grasp the lapel of his coat. If anything he looked rather less than his age, a result, perhaps, of having always lived with the young. His features were agreeably insignificant; his body, though slight of build, had something of athletic outline, due to long practice at cricket, football, and hockey.

If he had rather more time than usual at his disposal he walked as far as the Pig and Whistle, a picturesque little wayside inn, which stood alone, at more than a mile from the nearest village. To reach the Pig and Whistle one climbed a long, slow ascent, and in warm weather few pedestrians, or, for the matter of that, folks driving or riding, could resist the suggestion of the ivy-shadowed porch which admitted to the quaint parlour. So long was it since the swinging sign had been painted that neither of Pig nor of Whistle was any trace now discoverable; but over the porch one read clearly enough the landlord's name: William Fouracres. Only three years ago had Mr. Fouracres established himself here; Ruddiman remembered his predecessor, with whom he had often chatted whilst drinking his modest bottle of ginger beer. The present landlord was a very different sort of man, less affable, not disposed to show himself to every comer. Customers were generally served by the landlord's daughter, and with her Mr. Ruddiman had come to be on very pleasant terms.

But as this remark may easily convey a false impression, it must be added that Miss Fouracres was a very discreet, well-spoken, deliberate person, of at least two-and-thirty. Mr. Ruddiman had known her for more than a year before anything save brief civilities passed between them. In the second twelvemonth of their acquaintance they reached the point of exchanging reminiscences as to the weather, discussing the agricultural prospects of the county, and remarking on the advantage to rural innkeepers of the fashion of bicycling. In the third year they were quite intimate; so intimate, indeed, that when Mr. Fouracres chanced to be absent they spoke of his remarkable history. For the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had a history worth talking about, and Mr. Ruddiman had learnt it from the landlord's own lips. Miss Fouracres would never have touched upon the subject with any one in whom she did not feel confidence; to her it was far from agreeable, and Mr. Ruddiman established himself in her esteem by taking the same view of the matter.

Well, one July afternoon, when the summer vacation drew near, the under-master perspired up the sunny road with another object than that of refreshing himself at the familiar little inn. He entered by the ivied porch, and within, as usual, found Miss Fouracres, who sat behind the bar sewing. Miss Fouracres wore a long white apron, which protected her dress from neck to feet, and gave her an appearance of great neatness and coolness. She had a fresh complexion, and features which made no disagreeable impression. At sight of the visitor she rose, and, as her habit was, stood with one hand touching her chin, whilst she smiled the discreetest of modest welcomes.

'Good day, Miss Fouracres,' said the under-master, after his usual little cough.

'Good day, sir,' was the reply, in a country voice which had a peculiar note of honesty. Miss Fouracres had never yet learnt her acquaintance's name.

'Splendid weather for the crops. I'll take a ginger-beer, if you please.'

'Indeed, that it is, sir. Ginger-beer; yes, sir.'

Then followed two or three minutes of silence. Miss Fouracres had resumed her sewing, though not her seat. Mr. Ruddiman sipped his beverage more gravely than usual.

'How is Mr. Fouracres?' he asked at length.

'I'm sorry to say, sir,' was the subdued reply, 'that he's thinking about the Prince.'

'Oh, dear!' sighed Mr. Ruddiman, as one for whom this mysterious answer had distressing significance. 'That's a great pity.'

'Yes, sir. And I'm sorry to say,' went on Miss Fouracres, in the same confidential tone, 'that the Prince is coming here. I don't mean here, sir, to the Pig and Whistle, but to Woodbury Manor. Father saw it in the newspaper, and since then he's had no rest, day or night. He's sitting out in the garden. I don't know whether you'd like to go and speak to him, sir?'

'I will. Yes, I certainly will. But there's something I should like to ask you about first, Miss Fouracres. I'm thinking of staying in this part of the country through the holidays'—long ago he had made known his position—'and it has struck me that perhaps I could lodge here. Could you let me have a room? Just a bedroom would be enough.'

'Why, yes, sir,' replied the landlord's daughter. 'We have two bedrooms, you know, and I've no doubt my father would be willing to arrange with you.'

'Ah, then I'll mention it to him. Is he in very low spirits?'

'He's unusual low to-day, sir. I shouldn't wonder if it did him good to see you, and talk a bit.'

Having finished his ginger-beer, Mr. Ruddiman walked through the house and passed out into the garden, where he at once became aware of Mr. Fouracres. The landlord, a man of sixty, with grizzled hair and large, heavy countenance, sat in a rustic chair under an apple-tree; beside him was a little table, on which stood a bottle of whisky and a glass. Approaching, Mr. Ruddiman saw reason to suspect that the landlord had partaken too freely of the refreshment ready to his hand. Mr. Fouracres' person was in a limp state; his cheeks were very highly coloured, and his head kept nodding as he muttered to himself. At the visitor's greeting he looked up with a sudden surprise, as though he resented an intrusion on his privacy.

'It's very hot, Mr. Fouracres,' the under-master went on to remark with cordiality.

'Hot? I dare say it is,' replied the landlord severely. 'And what else do you expect at this time of the year, sir?'

'Just so, Mr. Fouracres, just so!' said the other, as good-humouredly as possible. 'You don't find it unpleasant?'

'Why should I, sir? It was a good deal hotter day than this when His Royal Highness called upon me; a good deal hotter. The Prince didn't complain; not he. He said to me—I'm speaking of His Royal Highness, you understand; I hope you understand that, sir?'

'Oh, perfectly!'

'His words were—"Very seasonable weather, Mr. Fouracres." I'm not likely to forget what he said; so it's no use you or any one else trying to make out that he didn't say that. I tell you he did! "Very season weather, Mr. Fouracres"—calling me by name, just like that. And it's no good you nor anybody else—'

The effort of repeating the Prince's utterance with what was meant to be a princely accent proved so exhausting to Mr. Fouracres that he sank together in his chair and lost all power of coherent speech. In a moment he seemed to be sleeping. Having watched him a little while, Mr. Ruddiman spoke his name, and tried to attract his attention; finding it useless he went back into the inn.

'I'm afraid I shall have to put it off to another day, was his remark to the landlord's daughter. 'Mr. Four-acres is—rather drowsy.'

'Ah, sir!' sighed the young woman. 'I'm sorry to say he's often been like that lately.'

Their eyes met, but only for an instant. Mr. Ruddiman looked and felt uncomfortable.

'I'll come again very soon, Miss Fouracres,' he said. 'You might just speak to your father about the room.'

'Thank you, sir. I will, sir.'

And, with another uneasy glance, which was not returned, the under-master went his way. Descending towards Longmeadows, he thought over the innkeeper's story, which may be briefly related. Some ten years before this Mr. Fouracres occupied a very comfortable position; he was landlord of a flourishing inn—called an hotel—in a little town of some importance as an agricultural centre, and seemed perfectly content with the life and the society natural to a man so circumstanced. His manners were marked by a certain touch of pompousness, and he liked to dwell upon the excellence of the entertainment which his house afforded, but these were innocent characteristics which did not interfere with his reputation as a sensible and sound man of business. It happened one day that two gentlemen on horseback, evidently riding for their pleasure, stopped at the inn door, and, after a few inquiries, announced that they would alight and have lunch. Mr. Fouracres—who himself received these gentlemen—regarded one of them with much curiosity, and presently came to the startling conclusion that he was about to entertain no less a person than the Heir Apparent. He knew that the Prince was then staying at a great house some ten miles away, and there could be no doubt that one of his guests had a strong resemblance to the familiar portraits of His Royal Highness. In his excitement at the supposed discovery, Mr. Fouracres at once communicated it to those about him, and in a very few minutes half the town had heard the news. Of course the host would allow no one but himself to wait at the royal table—which was spread in the inn's best room, guarded against all intrusion. In vain, however, did he listen for a word from either of the gentlemen which might confirm his belief; in their conversation no name or title was used, and no mention made of anything significant. They remained for an hour. When their horses were brought round for them a considerable crowd had gathered before the hotel, and the visitors departed amid a demonstration of exuberant loyalty. On the following day, one or two persons who had been present at this scene declared that the two gentlemen showed surprise, and that, though both raised their hats in acknowledgment of the attention they received, they rode away laughing.

For the morrow brought doubts. People began to say that the Prince had never been near the town at all, and that evidence could be produced of his having passed the whole day at the house where he was a visitor. Mr. Fouracres smiled disdainfully; no assertion or argument availed to shake his proud assurance that he had entertained the Heir to the Throne. From that day he knew no peace. Fired with an extraordinary arrogance, he viewed as his enemy every one who refused to believe in the Prince's visit; he quarrelled violently with many of his best friends; he brought insulting accusations against all manner of persons. Before long the man was honestly convinced that there existed a conspiracy to rob him of a distinction that was his due. Political animus had, perhaps, something to do with it, for the Liberal newspaper (Mr. Fouracres was a stout Conservative) made more than one malicious joke on the subject. A few townsmen stood by the landlord's side and used their ingenuity in discovering plausible reasons why the Prince did not care to have it publicly proclaimed that he had visited the town and lunched at the hotel. These partisans scorned the suggestion that Mr. Fouracres had made a mistake, but they were unable to deny that a letter, addressed to the Prince himself, with a view to putting an end to the debate, had elicited (in a secretarial hand) a brief denial of the landlord's story. Evidently something very mysterious underlay the whole affair, and there was much shaking of heads for a long time.

To Mr. Fouracres the result of the honour he so strenuously vindicated was serious indeed. By way of defiance to all mockers he wished to change the time-honoured sign of the inn, and to substitute for it the Prince of Wales's Feathers. On this point he came into conflict with the owner of the property, and, having behaved very violently, received notice that his lease, just expiring, would not be renewed. Whereupon what should Mr. Fouracres do but purchase land and begin to build for himself an hotel twice as large as that he must shortly quit. On this venture he used all, and more than all, his means, and, as every one had prophesied, he was soon a ruined man. In less than three years from the fatal day he turned his back upon the town where he had known respect and prosperity, and went forth to earn his living as best he could. After troublous wanderings, on which he was accompanied by his daughter, faithful and devoted, though she had her doubts on a certain subject, the decayed publican at length found a place of rest. A small legacy from a relative had put it in his power to make a new, though humble, beginning in business; he established himself at the Pig and Whistle.

The condition in which he had to-day been discovered by Mr. Ruddiman was not habitual with him. Once a month, perhaps, his melancholy thoughts drove him to the bottle; for the most part he led a sullen, brooding life, indifferent to the state of his affairs, and only animated when he found a new and appreciative listener to the story of his wrongs. That he had been grievously wronged was Mr. Fouracres' immutable conviction. Not by His Royal Highness; the Prince knew nothing of the strange conspiracy which had resulted in Fouracres' ruin; letters addressed to His Royal Highness were evidently intercepted by underlings, and never came before the royal eyes. Again and again had Mr. Fouracres written long statements of his case, and petitioned for an audience. He was now resolved to adopt other methods; he would use the first opportunity of approaching the Prince's person, and lifting up his voice where he could not but be heard. He sought no vulgar gain; his only desire was to have this fact recognised, that he had, indeed, entertained the Prince, and so put to shame all his scornful enemies. And now the desired occasion offered itself. In the month of September His Royal Highness would be a guest at Woodbury Manor, distant only some couple of miles from the Pig and Whistle. It was the excitement of such a prospect which had led Mr. Fouracres to undue indulgence under the apple-tree this afternoon.

A week later Mr. Ruddiman again ascended the hill, and, after listening patiently to the narrative which he had heard fifty times, came to an arrangement with Mr. Fouracres about the room he wished to rent for the holidays. The terms were very moderate, and the under-master congratulated himself on this prudent step. He felt sure that a couple of months at the Pig and Whistle would be anything but disagreeable. The situation was high and healthy; the surroundings were picturesque. And for society, well, there was Miss Fouracres, whom Mr. Ruddiman regarded as a very sensible and pleasant person.

Of course, no one at Longmeadows had an inkling of the under-master's intention. On the day of 'breaking up' he sent his luggage, as usual, to the nearest railway station, and that same evening had it conveyed by carrier to the little wayside inn, where, much at ease in mind and body, he passed his first night.

He had a few books with him, but Mr. Ruddiman was not much of a reader. In the garden of the inn, or somewhere near by, he found a spot of shade, and there, pipe in mouth, was content to fleet the hours as they did in the golden age. Now and then he tried to awaken his host's interest in questions of national finance. It was one of Mr. Ruddiman's favourite amusements to sketch Budgets in anticipation of that to be presented by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he always convinced himself that his own financial expedients were much superior to those laid before Parliament. All sorts of ingenious little imposts were constantly occurring to him, and his mouth watered with delight at the sound of millions which might thus be added to the national wealth. But to Mr. Fouracres such matters seemed trivial. A churchwarden between his lips, he appeared to listen, sometimes giving a nod or a grunt; in reality his thoughts were wandering amid bygone glories, or picturing a day of brilliant revenge.

Much more satisfactory were the conversations between Mr. Ruddiman and his host's daughter; they were generally concerned with the budget, not of the nation, but of the Pig and Whistle. Miss Fouracres was a woman of much domestic ability; she knew how to get the maximum of comfort out of small resources. But for her the inn would have been a wretched little place—as, indeed, it was before her time. Miss Fouracres worked hard and prudently. She had no help; the garden, the poultry, all the cares of house and inn were looked after by her alone—except, indeed, a few tasks beyond her physical strength, which were disdainfully performed by the landlord. A pony and cart served chiefly to give Mr. Fouracres an airing when his life of sedentary dignity grew burdensome. One afternoon, when he had driven to the market town, his daughter and her guest were in the garden together, gathering broad beans and gossiping with much contentment.

'I wish I could always live here!' exclaimed Mr. Ruddiman, after standing for a moment with eyes fixed meditatively upon a very large pod which he had just picked.

Miss Fouracres looked at him as if in surprise, her left hand clasping her chin.

'Ah, you'd soon get tired of it, sir.'

'I shouldn't! No, I'm sure I shouldn't. I like this life. It suits me. I like it a thousand times better than teaching in a school.'

'That's your fancy, sir.'

As Miss Fouracres spoke a sound from the house drew her attention; some one had entered the inn.

'A customer?' said Mr. Ruddiman. 'Let me go and serve him—do let me!'

'But you wouldn't know how, sir.'

'If it's beer, and that's most likely, I know well enough. I've watched you so often. I'll go and see.'

With the face of a schoolboy he ran into the house, and was absent about ten minutes. Then he reappeared, chinking coppers in his hand and laughing gleefully.

'A cyclist! Pint of half-and-half! I served him as if I'd done nothing else all my life.'

Miss Fouracres looked at him with wonder and admiration. She did not laugh; demonstrative mirth was not one of her characteristics; but for a long time there dwelt upon her good, plain countenance a half-smile of placid contentment. When they went in together, Mr. Ruddiman begged her to teach him all the mysteries of the bar, and his request was willingly granted. In this way they amused themselves until the return of the landlord, who, as soon as he had stabled his pony, called Mr. Ruddiman aside, and said in a hoarse whisper—

'The Prince comes to-morrow!'

'Ha! does he?' was the answer, in a tone of feigned interest.

'I shall see him. It's all settled. I've made friends with one of the gardeners at Woodbury Manor, and he's promised to put me in the way of meeting His Royal Highness. I shall have to go over there for a day or two, and stay in Woodbury, to be on the spot when the chance offers.'

Mr. Fouracres had evidently been making his compact with the aid of strong liquor; he walked unsteadily, and in other ways betrayed imperfect command of himself. Presently, at the tea-table, he revealed to his daughter the great opportunity which lay before him, and spoke of the absence from home it would necessitate.

'Of course you'll do as you like, father,' replied Miss Fouracres, with her usual deliberation, and quite good-humouredly, 'but I think you're going on a fool's errand, and that I tell you plain. If you'd just forget all about the Prince, and settle down quiet at the Pig and Whistle, it 'ud be a good deal better for you.'