Leaven of Malice Page 28

  “Well, well,” said the organist. “And he thought Miss Vambrace was Tessie Forgie. Now why, I wonder?”

  “I think that she must have been sitting at my desk on my day off, and refused him library privileges, or something like that,” said Pearl. “She has a very short way with people she thinks don’t matter.”

  “Remarkable! Obviously a very impetuous fellow. And full of conceit, I suppose. Thought he’d show you all that you couldn’t slight him. Poor bleeder! I’m sorry for him.”

  “I could cheerfully kill him,” said Solly.

  “Oh no! You’ll be grateful to him in a little while. And years from now, as you sit at the door of your rose-entwined cottage, with your grandchildren tumbling on the grass before you, you’ll be saying, ‘I wonder whatever became of Bevill Higgin, that fragrant old soul who brought us together.’ ”

  “Listen, Cobbler,” said Solly; “get this through your head. We’re not even engaged. It seems remotely possible that we may be, but we’re not yet. We have a great deal to discuss, before we can contemplate any such step. So will you please stop your nonsense? It’s embarrassing.”

  “My dear children, I’m only trying to be helpful. Most couples who are going to get engaged think that they have a lot to talk over before they really do it. Utter waste of time. Forget all I said to you the other night about Miss Vambrace not being suitable, Solly. I was wrong. Now the scales have fallen from my eyes. Not only is the hand of Fate discernible in this affair; Fate has been leaving fingerprints all around the place ever since Higgin got his bright idea. Miss Vambrace—or may I call you Pearl?—”

  “I’d rather you called me Veronica,” said she.

  “How very wise. Much, much better. Well, Veronica, help me to bring this fellow to his senses. I’m sure that you, with your infinitely superior emotional grasp, see that this marriage is fated. Believe me, I’ve seen a lot of couples get engaged, and they could cut down their time by three-quarters if they would just stop talking and creating absolutely artificial difficulties once the thing was in the bag. You’ll enjoy being married, you know. You can help Solly with Heavysege.”

  “Ah, but that’s one of the difficulties,” said Solly. “I’ve given Heavysege the heave-ho. I met Dr. Sengreen this morning, quite by chance, and entirely on the spur of the moment I told him that I was putting Heavysege aside because I had something of my own, something original, that I wanted to write. I told him I wanted to be a creator of Amcan, not one of its embalmers. I should have been more careful, I suppose, but Oh hell—. But I can’t get married—not in fairness to Veronica—until I’ve written it, and it has proved either a success or a failure.”

  “Nitwit!” said Cobbler. “Your first book won’t be a success. Don’t make marriage conditional on the success of a book, or your mother dying, or anything unlikely of that sort. Put first things first. Get married, and plunge into all the uproar of baby-raising, and loading yourself up with insurance and furniture and all the frowsy appurtenances of domestic life, as soon as you can. You’ll survive. Millions do. And deep down under all the trash-heap of duty and respectability and routine you may, if you’re among the lucky ones, find a jewel of happiness. I know all about it, and I assure you on my sacred honour that it’s worth a try. Come on! You know how all this will end up. You’ll act on instinct anyhow; everybody does in the really important decisions of life. Why not get some fun out of it, and forget all the twaddle you’ll have to talk in order to make it seem reasonable, and prudent, and dull.”

  They drove in silence for a time, and then Pearl turned her head toward Cobbler.

  “I think you’re right,” said she. “And I hope you’ll always be our friend.”

  For once, Cobbler said nothing, but for the rest of the drive he leaned back in his seat and sang very pleasantly, in an undertone.

  WHEN THE CONFERENCE BROKE UP, Gloster Ridley was left alone with Mr. Marryat.

  “Well,” said the general manager, “I hope we’ve heard the last of that. The trouble you can get into in this business! And mostly because so many people take themselves so seriously. Still, we kept up face, eh?”

  “Yes, we did that,” said Ridley. “In fact, I think we’ve even gained a little, in some quarters. Vambrace was positively human when he said good-bye. He had the decency to say that a misunderstanding might happen to anyone.”

  “So he might,” said Marryat. “When I think how he carried on in here just a week ago—!”

  “Yes, but it was more than old Snelgrove saw fit to do.”

  “A fine monkey he made of himself! Well, I’ve got some things to do.” And Mr. Marryat went.

  But as he left the room another figure, who had been lurking outside the door, slipped into the editor’s office. It was Mr. Swithin Shillito.

  “Chief,” said he, “what can I say?”

  “I really don’t know, Mr. Shillito. Perhaps it would be best to say nothing.”

  “No, no; I feel that much of what has happened is my fault. After all, I introduced Higgin to you. Had it not been for that, all this trouble might have been spared. I’ve many faults; I don’t have to be told that. Perhaps when I am gone it will be said that a foolish generosity was one of them. I wanted to do the poor chap a bit of good. Loyalty to a fellow Britisher, you know. But I realize that in the Craft there can only be one loyalty—to one’s paper, and of course to its Chief. I’m in the wrong. I admit it, freely and even gladly. At my age I can still admit that I am often foolish. But not small, I think. No, not small.”

  “Please do not feel it necessary to accuse yourself,” said Ridley. “Anybody can make a mistake, and yours was undoubtedly a generous one. But as we are together, Mr. Shillito, I shall take this chance of telling you that the publisher has raised the matter of your retirement. No, please do not protest; Mr. Warboys will not hear of you being tied to the daily routine any longer, and I am in complete agreement with him. Confidentially he is organizing a banquet in your honour, and you are too old a hand at these things not to realize that such a tribute will involve a presentation, as well. I understand that it is to be a full-dress affair, with the Mayor present, and some representative journalists from other cities. It will take place between Christmas and the New Year. You will want to prepare a speech, I am sure, and I suggest that a valedictory article, in your own characteristic style, would be welcome.”

  It was the sack. But it was a silken sack, lined with ermine, and the Old Mess knew it, and responded accordingly. He spoke of generosity, of long ties, of his hope that The Bellman would call upon him whenever he could be of use, of his high regard for Mr. Warboys, and his admiration for the Chief.

  “I had hoped,” said he, in conclusion, “that I might remain in harness until next Convocation. It would have been a keen pleasure to me to write an editorial on the occasion of your honorary degree.”

  “To be quite frank,” said Ridley, “I’d rather not have a degree. For a working editor it might prove an embarrassment. When the time comes for me to retire—well, the University might like to do something for me then. But I’ve thought this matter over very carefully, and if I’m offered one now, I shall decline, with thanks. I’d be grateful if you would pass that information on to people who might be interested—to Mrs. Roger Warboys, for instance.”

  “You may depend on me,” said Mr. Shillito, and turned to go.

  “And Swithin,” said Ridley, recalling him. It was the first time in their years of association that he had used the old man’s first name, and he was somewhat surprised to find how gently it came off his tongue. “I didn’t want to show that receipt slip to the lawyers, for a reason that will interest you. It was signed, you know, with a false name.” He handed the slip to the old man. The name written, very clearly across the bottom, was Swithin Shillito. There was a pause while the old man took it in, and then, “I should have known that fellow wasn’t a sahib,” said Mr. Shillito, with dignity, and walked out of the office.

  Ridley sat down at his desk. The a
fternoon was almost gone, and he did not feel in the mood for work, but it was too early for him to go home. What would he do at home? He would call Mrs. Fielding later and angle for an invitation to dinner. Meanwhile, he savoured the poignant sweetness of renunciation. How painfully, how exhaustingly, he had desired a doctorate. Now, for the past eighteen hours, he had known that he did not need this honour to silence the voice of his inner guilt. He was a man released from bondage.

  Silently Miss Green entered, and laid a copy of the afternoon’s edition of The Bellman on his desk. The editor picked it up and idly leafed through it. Truly, It is a barber’s chair, that fits all buttocks.… Now that this hubbub was over he might find a few hours in which to prepare his Wadsworth Lecture; he was more determined than ever to make it a distinguished piece of work … The pin buttock.… Poor Mrs. Little, poor Constant Reader, who had come to him that morning even before he was out of bed, trembling with her great news about Bevill Higgin, destroying her idol, and Blubadub’s Ugga Bev, in order that The Bellman might be vindicated. Indeed, for a moment he had almost suspected that she had some personal feeling toward himself … The quatch buttock.… That boy Rumball must be given a rise. He had shown a lot of gumption by discovering that receipt. Loyalty was a great quality in a reporter—but no, he was thinking like the Old Mess … The brawn buttock.… Professor Vambrace was not a man that he could ever like but, as an editor cannot allow himself the luxury of many friends, so he must also be careful not to use his power unjustly, and pursue enmities beyond the grave. Quickly, Ridley opened a locked drawer of his desk and took out the emended obituary of Walter Vambrace which he had prepared in anger the week before. To restore it to its original form was confidential work, too confidential even for the close-mouthed Miss Green; he would do it himself before he left his office. As he slipped a piece of paper into his typewriter to do so, his telephone rang. Was Miss Green not there, to take the call? After three rings, he lifted the receiver himself.

  “Yes? … Yes, I see … Yes, of course I shall be very happy to do so … But may I ask if you are quite certain that there will be no objection from either family? … You can guarantee that? By tomorrow morning? … And you will speak to the Dean at once? … Well, in that case, would you both be able to come to my office some time tomorrow in order to sign the order? You will understand my caution, I am sure.… And may I offer my congratulations? … Oh, very kind of you to say so … Goodbye.”

  Turning back to his machine he typed, slowly and precisely:

  Professor and Mrs. Walter Vambrace are pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter, Pearl Veronica, to Solomon Bridgetower, Esq., son of Mrs. Bridgetower and the late Professor Solomon Bridgetower of this city. Marriage to take place in St. Nicholas’ Cathedral at a date to be announced later.

  In red pencil he wrote beneath this: To be set, but not inserted until I OK the copy.

  He looked at it for some time, and then he wrote again: Debit the cost of this advertisement to me personally.

  Face? No, no; he felt that it was the least that he could do.