ve asked for, pay for it with this cheque–you can fill in the right amount; then bring it straight to me at 5, Glendower Mews. I’ll expect you soon after eleven. Look sharp, and take your toothbrush; you may be away for the night.”
“Yes, Sir.”
When the butler had removed his smile Roger stood at the window looking at the day. It was fine.
“I’ll take no chances,” he said, and went out into the hall. There he took down a grey top hat–the only one then in the family, extracted his umbrella from the stand, and went out. It was the Friday before August Bank Holiday, and he was only in town because a house that he intended to buy was coming up to auction on the Tuesday. He walked slowly, taking care not to get hot. The young fellow–a fiddler and a foreigner–would not be up before eleven, but he had no intention of missing him, and he arrived at Glendower Place about half-past ten. He knew it well enough, for he owned a house there. The Mews was round the corner. Noting that it had but one entrance, he went on patrol. Beyond cats and caretakers no one took any interest in him, and he spent thus a good half-hour. As a neighbouring clock struck eleven a hansom cab drew up and Smith alighted. He handed Roger a large envelope. Having perused its contents, Roger nodded. “Wait here,” he said to the cabman. “Now, Smith, follow me.” At Number 5 he raised his umbrella and knocked. The door was opened by the very pattern of a coachman’s wife.
“I want to see the young foreign gentleman who lodges here–Mr. Guido Ratcatski.” The strains of a bow being scraped up and down a violin were audible. “Up these stairs, I suppose?”
The coachman’s wife, with her eyes on Roger’s hat, replied:
“Yes, Sir, and mind the little step at the top.”
Roger ascended, followed by the smiling Smith.
“Stay here,” said Roger, at the little step; and, raising his umbrella, tapped. The door was opened.
“Good morning,” said Roger, removing his hat and walking in. “Good place for practising you have here. Sit down, I want to talk to you.”
The young man, who was in his hair and shirt-sleeves, put down his violin, and, frowning darkly, leaned against the window-sill, crossing his arms.
Roger surveyed the room. It was, in his view, exceptionally sordid, containing a yellow chest of drawers, an iron bedstead, a round washstand, some clothes littered about, and little else. It was hot, too, had a sloping roof, and smelled of stables. “Phew!” he said.
Behind the young foreigner’s glowering gaze, his shrewd grey eyes had not failed to remark a certain panic.
“Well, young man, I take it you’re ambitious.”
“Ambeetious? Vot is dat?”
“Want to get on in your profession.”
“Yees.”
“That’s right–quite right, and so you will! Now, about this affair with my daughter?”
“Vell!”
Roger looked straight into his eyes.
“It won’t do, you know. You can’t afford to marry a girl who’ll have nothing. I won’t beat about the bush. She’s got no money of her own, and if she marries you, she won’t get a penny from me.”
“Money!” said the young man, violently: “Money! It ees all money!”
“Yes,” said Roger, “all money. And I repeat, she won’t get a penny from me. How old are you?”
“Tventee-fife.”
“She was bottled in fifty-eight. She’s thirty if a day. You told me you made a hundred a year. With her stories she makes fifty if she’s lucky. A hundred and fifty a year between you? Are you going to support babies on that, at the beginning of your career?”
“Ve lof each oder,” said the young man, sullenly.
Roger shook his head.
“No such thing as love on a hundred and fifty a year. Now listen to me.”
“I vill not listen–I vill not listen.”
Roger slowly raised his umbrella, as if taking a lunar of the young man’s capacity.
“This is a passing fancy of my daughter’s,” he said; “she has one every year–you’re the last. Now you’re not getting on in London, your concert was a failure, the climate doesn’t suit you. I make you an offer.” He drew the envelope and his cheque book from his breast pocket. “Here’s a first-class passage to New York by the boat tomorrow morning from Liverpool.” He tapped his cheque book: “And three hundred pounds if you’ll go straight off now, without saying good-bye to her.”
He paused, steadily regarding the unfortunate young man, who broke into a violent perspiration, writhed on the window-sill, thrust his hands into his hair, and uttered a curious hissing. Roger made out the words:
“It ees dishonourable. She lof me.”
“Nonsense!” he said. “However, I’ll make it four hundred, and you can cash it on the way to the station. Now be sensible. My butler’s outside. He’ll see you comfortably off at Liverpool. With four hundred pounds you can make your name. With a wife and babies you’ll starve in a kennel. Give me a pen and ink.”
The young man’s face was ‘a study,’ his hair stood up, he stammered incomprehensible words, while his eyes made desperate efforts to avoid the cheque book. Roger waited, holding it open. It was like bidding at an auction.
“I’ll throw you in another fifty to start you fair. Don’t be a fool and condemn my daughter and yourself to wretchedness. I mean what I said–not one penny will she have from me. Now be a man and save her.”
The young man clapped his hand to the breast of his pink striped shirt.
“I feel it ’ere,” he said. “I cannot go like that.”
“Save her!” repeated Roger. “Come! Where’s the ink?”
The young man pointed. Roger saw on the mantelpiece a penny bottle of ink, and suddenly his nerves twittered. It was as if he had seen the brink on which his daughter was standing.
“Five hundred!” he said, sharply.
The young man threw up his hands. “I save her!” he cried.
Roger wrote the cheque.
“Smith! Take Mr. Ratcatski to Euston and catch the next train to Liverpool. Go to a good hotel, see he has everything he wants, and put him on board the boat for New York in the morning. He is called there on important business. On the way to the station go to my bank and get this cheque cashed, and give him the notes and his ticket, when he’s on board and NOT BEFORE. He’s a foreigner, and might get imposed on.” Then, turning to the young man, who was staring dreadfully, he added: “There’s a cab waiting. Smith will put your things together.”
Francie’s foreigner remained rooted to the window-sill, his hands embedded in his hair. Suddenly he came to life, and, seizing his violin, clasped it to his pink striped chest.
“Dees is my vife,” he said.
A feeling that the young man was at the moment perfectly sincere quarrelled violently in Roger with the desire to kick him.
“That’s right!” he said.
In the doorway he heard Smith murmur: “He’ll not get away from me, Sir, if I ‘ave to ‘old ’im by the slack of his breeches. I’ll get ’im off all right.”
Roger nodded. “Mum’s the word! And if he writes any letters, collar them.”
Out in the Mews, he wiped his forehead. Hot work! Passing the cab, he stopped at the corner to watch. He didn’t trust that young beggar a yard. In a few minutes, however, he saw him coming hugging his violin and followed by Smith carrying a large bag. They got into the cab and drove off. Roger uttered a sigh of such relief that a passer stopped to look at him; his knees had suddenly given way, and but for the man’s arm he would have fallen.
“‘Allo, Sir!” said the man. “Took ill?”
Roger shook off his arm.
“No,” he said, testily.
He moved away a few steps to assert his independence, but was obliged to stand still again. After all, he was seventy-five, the day was hot, and he had been bidding for the life of his only daughter. To think that a fourpenny foreigner had cost him five hundred odd pounds! Yes, and he’d only got him by pure bluff. HE knew–if that young beggar didn’t–that no Forsyte would be capable of watching his own daughter in actual want. If the fellow had held out and refused to budge, the fat would have been in the fire. Sooner or later he would have had to make them an allowance to keep the wolf from the door. A narrow shave! A regular squeak! And seeing a hansom in the distance, he hailed it.
At home, under the strict seal of secrecy, he retailed the matter to Mrs. Roger. She listened in a turmoil of admiration and dismay. “Poor Francie!” she said, tremulously.
“Poor fiddlestick! A fourpenny foreign adventurer! she ought to thank me on her knees. But there it is, I never get thanked for anything.”
“Oh! Roger, I’m sure we’re all very grateful; but–er–poor dear Francie!”
“If you ever tell her,” said Roger, “I’ll cut you off with a shilling.”
“Of course I shan’t tell her, Roger. But why did you make me ask them to lunch next week?”
“To put her off the scent, of course! What did you think? But women never think.
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