The Card, a Story of Adventure in the Five Towns Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  THE WIDOW HULLINS'S HOUSE

  I

  The simple fact that he first, of all the citizens of Bursley, had askeda countess for a dance (and not been refused) made a new man of DenryMachin. He was not only regarded by the whole town as a fellow wonderfuland dazzling, but he so regarded himself. He could not get over it. Hehad always been cheerful, even to optimism. He was now in a permanentstate of calm, assured jollity. He would get up in the morning with songand dance. Bursley and the general world were no longer Bursley and thegeneral world; they had been mysteriously transformed into an oyster;and Denry felt strangely that the oyster-knife was lying about somewherehandy, but just out of sight, and that presently he should spy it andseize it. He waited for something to happen. And not in vain.

  A few days after the historic revelry, Mrs Codleyn called to see Denry'semployer. Mr Duncalf was her solicitor. A stout, breathless, and yetmuscular woman of near sixty, the widow of a chemist and druggist whohad made money before limited companies had taken the liberty of beingpharmaceutical. The money had been largely invested in mortgage oncottage property; the interest on it had not been paid, and latterly MrsCodleyn had been obliged to foreclose, thus becoming the owner of someseventy cottages. Mrs Codleyn, though they brought her in about twelvepounds a week gross, esteemed these cottages an infliction, a bugbear,an affront, and a positive source of loss. Invariably she talked asthough she would willingly present them to anybody who cared to accept--"and glad to be rid of 'em!" Most owners of property talk thus. Sheparticularly hated paying the rates on them.

  Now there had recently occurred, under the direction of the BoroughSurveyor, a revaluation of the whole town. This may not sound exciting;yet a revaluation is the most exciting event (save a municipal ballgiven by a titled mayor) that can happen in any town. If your house israted at forty pounds a year, and rates are seven shillings in thepound, and the revaluation lifts you up to forty-five pounds, it meansthirty-five shillings a year right out of your pocket, which is theinterest on thirty-five pounds. And if the revaluation drops you tothirty-five pounds, it means thirty-five shillings _in_ yourpocket, which is a box of Havanas or a fancy waistcoat. Is not thisexciting? And there are seven thousand houses in Bursley. Mrs Codleynhoped that her rateable value would be reduced. She based the hopechiefly on the fact that she was a client of Mr Duncalf, the Town Clerk.The Town Clerk was not the Borough Surveyor and had nothing to do withthe revaluation. Moreover, Mrs Codleyn persumably [Transcriber's note:sic] entrusted him with her affairs because she considered him an honestman, and an honest man could not honestly have sought to tickle theBorough Surveyor out of the narrow path of rectitude in order to obligea client. Nevertheless, Mrs Codleyn thought that because she patronisedthe Town Clerk her rates ought to be reduced! Such is human nature inthe provinces! So different from human nature in London, where nobodyever dreams of offering even a match to a municipal official, lest theact might be construed into an insult.

  It was on a Saturday morning that Mrs Codleyn called to impart to MrDuncalf the dissatisfaction with which she had learned the news (printedon a bit of bluish paper) that her rateable value, far from beingreduced, had been slightly augmented.

  The interview, as judged by the clerks through a lath-and-plaster walland by means of a speaking tube, atoned by its vivacity for its lack ofceremony. When the stairs had finished creaking under the descent of MrsCodleyn's righteous fury, Mr Duncalf whistled sharply twice. Twowhistles meant Denry. Denry picked up his shorthand note-book and obeyedthe summons.

  "Take this down!" said his master, rudely and angrily.

  Just as though Denry had abetted Mrs Codleyn! Just as though Denry wasnot a personage of high importance in the town, the friend ofcountesses, and a shorthand clerk only on the surface.

  "Do you hear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "MADAM"--hitherto it had always been "Dear Madam," or "Dear MrsCodleyn"--"MADAM,--Of course I need hardly say that if, after ourinterview this morning, and your extraordinary remarks, you wish toplace your interests in other hands, I shall be most happy to hand overall the papers, on payment of my costs. Yours truly ... To Mrs Codleyn."

  Denry reflected: "Ass! Why doesn't he let her cool down?" Also: "He'sgot 'hands' and 'hand' in the same sentence. Very ugly. Shows what atemper he's in!" Shorthand clerks are always like that--hypercritical.Also: "Well, I jolly well hope she does chuck him! Then I shan't havethose rents to collect." Every Monday, and often on Tuesday, too, Denrycollected the rents of Mrs Codleyn's cottages--an odious task for Denry.Mr Duncalf, though not affected by its odiousness, deducted 7-1/2 percent. for the job from the rents.

  "That'll do," said Mr Duncalf.

  But as Denry was leaving the room Mr Duncalf called with formidablebrusqueness--

  "Machin!"

  "Yes, sir?"

  In a flash Denry knew what was coming. He felt sickly that a crisis hadsupervened with the suddenness of a tidal wave. And for one littlesecond it seemed to him that to have danced with a countess while theflower of Bursley's chivalry watched in envious wonder was not, afterall, the key to the door of success throughout life.

  Undoubtedly he had practised fraud in sending to himself an invitationto the ball. Undoubtedly he had practised fraud in sending invitationsto his tailor and his dancing-mistress. On the day after the ball,beneath his great glory, he had trembled to meet Mr Duncalf's eye, lestMr Duncalf should ask him: "Machin, what were _you_ doing at theTown Hall last night, behaving as if you were the Shah of Persia, thePrince of Wales, and Henry Irving?" But Mr Duncalf had said nothing, andMr Duncalf's eye had said nothing, and Denry thought that the danger waspast.

  Now it surged up. "Who invited you to the Mayor's ball?" demanded MrDuncalf like thunder.

  Yes, there it was! And a very difficult question.

  "I did, sir," he blundered out. Transparent veracity. He simply couldnot think of a lie.

  "Why?"

  "I thought you'd perhaps forgotten to put my name down on the list ofinvitations, sir."

  "Oh!" This grimly. "And I suppose you thought I'd also forgotten to putdown that tailor chap, Shillitoe?"

  So it was all out! Shillitoe must have been chattering. Denry rememberedthat the classic established tailor of the town, Hatterton, whose tradeShillitoe was getting, was a particular friend of Mr Duncalf's. He sawthe whole thing.

  "Well?" persisted Mr Duncalf, after a judicious silence from Denry.

  Denry, sheltered in the castle of his silence, was not to be temptedout.

  "I suppose you rather fancy yourself dancing with your betters?" growledMr Duncalf, menacingly.

  "Yes," said Denry. "Do _you_?"

  He had not meant to say it. The question slipped out of his mouth. Hehad recently formed the habit of retorting swiftly upon people who putqueries to him: "Yes, are _you_?" or "No, do _you_?" The trickof speech had been enormously effective with Shillitoe, for instance,and with the Countess. He was in process of acquiring renown for it.Certainly it was effective now. Mr Duncalf's dance with the Countess hadcome to an ignominious conclusion in the middle, Mr Duncalf preferringto dance on skirts rather than on the floor, and the fact was notorious.

  "You can take a week's notice," said Mr Duncalf, pompously.

  It was no argument. But employers are so unscrupulous in an altercation.

  "Oh, very well," said Denry; and to himself he said: "Something_must_ turn up, now."

  He felt dizzy at being thus thrown upon the world--he who had beenmeditating the propriety of getting himself elected to the stylish andnewly-established Sports Club at Hillport! He felt enraged, for MrDuncalf had only been venting on Denry the annoyance induced in him byMrs Codleyn. But it is remarkable that he was not depressed at all. No!he went about with songs and whistling, though he had no prospectsexcept starvation or living on his mother. He traversed the streets inhis grand, new manner, and his thoughts ran: "What on earth can I do tolive up to my reputation?" However, he possessed intact the five-poundnote won
from Harold Etches in the matter of the dance.

  II

  Every life is a series of coincidences. Nothing happens that is notrooted in coincidence. All great changes find their cause incoincidence. Therefore I shall not mince the fact that the next changein Denry's career was due to an enormous and complicated coincidence. Onthe following morning both Mrs Codleyn and Denry were late for serviceat St Luke's Church--Mrs Codleyn by accident and obesity, Denry bydesign. Denry was later than Mrs Codleyn, whom he discovered waiting inthe porch. That Mrs Codleyn was waiting is an essential part of thecoincidence. Now Mrs Codleyn would not have been waiting if her pew hadnot been right at the front of the church, near the choir. Nor would shehave been waiting if she had been a thin woman and not given tobreathing loudly after a hurried walk. She waited partly to get herbreath, and partly so that she might take advantage of a hymn or a psalmto gain her seat without attracting attention. If she had not been late,if she had not been stout, if she had not had a seat under the pulpit,if she had not had an objection to making herself conspicuous, she wouldhave been already in the church and Denry would not have had a privatecolloquy with her.

  "Well, you're nice people, I must say!" she observed, as he raised hishat.

  She meant Duncalf and all Duncalf's myrmidons. She was still full of hergrievance. The letter which she had received that morning had startledher. And even the shadow of the sacred edifice did not prevent her fromreferring to an affair that was more suited to Monday than to Sundaymorning. A little more, and she would have snorted.

  "Nothing to do with me, you know!" Denry defended himself.

  "Oh!" she said, "you're all alike, and I'll tell you this, Mr Machin,I'd take him at his word if it wasn't that I don't know who elseI could trust to collect my rents. I've heard such tales aboutrent-collectors.... I reckon I shall have to make my peace with him."

  "Why," said Denry, "I'll keep on collecting your rents for you if youlike."

  "You?"

  "I've given him notice to leave," said Denry. "The fact is, Mr Duncalfand I don't hit it off together."

  Another procrastinator arrived in the porch, and, by a singularsimultaneous impulse, Mrs Codleyn and Denry fell into the silence of theoverheard and wandered forth together among the graves.

  There, among the graves, she eyed him. He was a clerk at eighteenshillings a week, and he looked it. His mother was a sempstress, and helooked it. The idea of neat but shabby Denry and the mighty Duncalf nothitting it off together seemed excessively comic. If only Denry couldhave worn his dress-suit at church! It vexed him exceedingly that he hadonly worn that expensive dress-suit once, and saw no faintest hope ofever being able to wear it again.

  "And what's more," Denry pursued, "I'll collect 'em for five per cent,instead of seven-and-a-half. Give me a free hand, and see if I don't getbetter results than _he_ did. And I'll settle accounts every month,or week if you like, instead of once a quarter, like _he_ does."

  The bright and beautiful idea had smitten Denry like some heavenlyarrow. It went through him and pierced Mrs Codleyn with equal success.It was an idea that appealed to the reason, to the pocket, and to theinstinct of revenge. Having revengefully settled the hash of Mr Duncalf,they went into church.

  No need to continue this part of the narrative. Even the text of therector's sermon has no bearing on the issue.

  In a week there was a painted board affixed to the door of Denry'smother:

  E.H. MACHIN, _Rent Collector and Estate Agent_.

  There was also an advertisement in the _Signal_, announcing thatDenry managed estates large or small.

  III

  The next crucial event in Denry's career happened one Monday morning, ina cottage that was very much smaller even than his mother's. Thiscottage, part of Mrs Codleyn's multitudinous property, stood by itselfin Chapel Alley, behind the Wesleyan chapel; the majority of thetenements were in Carpenter's Square, near to. The neighbourhood was notdistinguished for its social splendour, but existence in it waspicturesque, varied, exciting, full of accidents, as existence is apt tobe in residences that cost their occupiers an average of three shillingsa week. Some persons referred to the quarter as a slum, and ironicallyinsisted on its adjacency to the Wesleyan chapel, as though that was theWesleyan chapel's fault. Such people did not understand life and the joythereof.

  The solitary cottage had a front yard, about as large as a blanket,surrounded by an insecure brick wall and paved with mud. You went up twosteps, pushed at a door, and instantly found yourself in the principalreception-room, which no earthly blanket could possibly have covered.Behind this chamber could be seen obscurely an apartment so tiny that anauctioneer would have been justified in terming it "bijou," Furnishedsimply but practically with a slopstone; also the beginnings of astairway. The furniture of the reception-room comprised two chairs and atable, one or two saucepans, and some antique crockery. What lay at theupper end of the stairway no living person knew, save the old woman whoslept there. The old woman sat at the fireplace, "all bunched up," asthey say in the Five Towns. The only fire in the room, however, was inthe short clay pipe which she smoked; Mrs Hullins was one of the lastold women in Bursley to smoke a cutty; and even then the pipe wasconsidered coarse, and cigarettes were coming into fashion--though notin Chapel Alley. Mrs Hullins smoked her pipe, and thought about nothingin particular. Occasionally some vision of the past floated through herdrowsy brain. She had lived in that residence for over forty years. Shehad brought up eleven children and two husbands there. She had coddledthirty-five grand-children there, and given instruction to somehalf-dozen daughters-in-law. She had known midnights when she couldscarcely move in that residence without disturbing somebody asleep. Nowshe was alone in it. She never left it, except to fetch water from thepump in the square. She had seen a lot of life, and she was tired.

  Denry came unceremoniously in, smiling gaily and benevolently, with hisbright, optimistic face under his fair brown hair. He had large and goodteeth. He was getting--not stout, but plump.

  "Well, mother!" he greeted Mrs Hullins, and sat down on the other chair.

  A young fellow obviously at peace with the world, a young fellow contentwith himself for the moment. No longer a clerk; one of the employed;saying "sir" to persons with no more fingers and toes than he hadhimself; bound by servile agreement to be in a fixed place at fixedhours! An independent unit, master of his own time and his ownmovements! In brief, a man! The truth was that he earned now in two daysa week slightly more than Mr Duncalf paid him for the labour of five anda half days. His income, as collector of rents and manager of estateslarge or small, totalled about a pound a week. But, he walked forth inthe town, smiled, joked, spoke vaguely, and said, "Do _you_?" tosuch a tune that his income might have been guessed to be anything fromten pounds a week to ten thousand a year. And he had four days a week inwhich to excogitate new methods of creating a fortune.

  "I've nowt for ye," said the old woman, not moving.

  "Come, come, now! That won't do," said Denry. "Have a pinch of mytobacco."

  She accepted a pinch of his tobacco, and refilled her pipe, and he gaveher a match.

  "I'm not going out of this house without half-a-crown at any rate!" saidDenry, blithely.

  And he rolled himself a cigarette, possibly to keep warm. It was verychilly in the stuffy residence, but the old woman never shivered. Shewas one of those old women who seem to wear all the skirts of all theirlives, one over the other.

  "Ye're here for th' better part o' some time, then," observed MrsHullins, looking facts in the face. "I've told you about my son Jack.He's been playing [out of work] six weeks. He starts to-day, and he'llgi'me summat Saturday."

  "That won't do," said Denry, curtly and kindly.

  He then, with his bluff benevolence, explained to Mother Hullins thatMrs Codleyn would stand no further increase of arrears from anybody,that she could not afford to stand any further increase of arrears, thather tenants were ruining her, and that he himself, with all his cheerygood-will for the rent-payin
g classes, would be involved in her fall.

  "Six-and-forty years have I been i' this 'ere house!" said Mrs Hullins.

  "Yes, I know," said Denry. "And look at what you owe, mother!"

  It was with immense good-humoured kindliness that he invited herattention to what she owed. She tacitly declined to look at it.

  "Your children ought to keep you," said Denry, upon her silence.

  "Them as is dead, can't," said Mrs Hullins, "and them as is alive hastheir own to keep, except Jack."

  "Well, then, it's bailiffs," said Denry, but still cheerfully.

  "Nay, nay! Ye'll none turn me out."

  Denry threw up his hands, as if to exclaim: "I've done all I can, andI've given you a pinch of tobacco. Besides, you oughtn't to be herealone. You ought to be with one of your children."

  There was more conversation, which ended in Denry's repeating, withsympathetic resignation:

  "No, you'll have to get out. It's bailiffs."

  Immediately afterwards he left the residence with a bright filial smile.And then, in two minutes, he popped his cheerful head in at the dooragain.

  "Look here, mother," he said, "I'll lend you half-a-crown if you like."

  Charity beamed on his face, and genuinely warmed his heart.

  "But you must pay me something for the accommodation," he added. "Ican't do it for nothing. You must pay me back next week and give methreepence. That's fair. I couldn't bear to see you turned out of yourhouse. Now get your rent-book."

  And he marked half-a-crown as paid in her greasy, dirty rent-book, andthe same in his large book.

  "Eh, you're a queer 'un, Mester Machin!" murmured the old woman as heleft. He never knew precisely what she meant. Fifteen--twenty--yearslater in his career her intonation of that phrase would recur to him andpuzzle him.

  On the following Monday everybody in Chapel Alley and Carpenter's Squareseemed to know that the inconvenience of bailiffs and eviction could beavoided by arrangement with Denry the philanthropist. He did quite abusiness. And having regard to the fantastic nature of the security, hecould not well charge less than threepence a week for half-a-crown. Thatwas about 40 per cent. a month and 500 per cent. per annum. The securitywas merely fantastic, but nevertheless he had his remedy againstevil-doers. He would take what they paid him for rent and refuse to markit as rent, appropriating it to his loans, so that the fear of bailiffswas upon them again. Thus, as the good genius of Chapel Alley andCarpenter's Square, saving the distressed from the rigours of the openstreet, rescuing the needy from their tightest corners, keeping many ahome together when but for him it would have fallen to pieces--alwayssmiling, jolly, sympathetic, and picturesque--Denry at length employedthe five-pound note won from Harold Etches. A five-pound note--especially a new and crisp one, as this was--is a miraculous fragment ofmatter, wonderful in the pleasure which the sight of it gives, even tomillionaires; but perhaps no five-pound note was ever so miraculous asDenry's. Ten per cent. per week, compound interest, mounts up; itascends, and it lifts. Denry never talked precisely. But the town soonbegan to comprehend that he was a rising man, a man to watch. The townadmitted that, so far, he had lived up to his reputation as a dancerwith countesses. The town felt that there was something indefinableabout Denry.

  Denry himself felt this. He did not consider himself clever orbrilliant. But he considered himself peculiarly gifted. He consideredhimself different from other men. His thoughts would run:

  "Anybody but me would have knuckled down to Duncalf and remained ashorthand clerk for ever."

  "Who but me would have had the idea of going to the ball and asking theCountess to dance?... And then that business with the fan!"

  "Who but me would have had the idea of taking his rent-collecting offDuncalf?"

  "Who but me would have had the idea of combining these loans with therent-collecting? It's simple enough! It's just what they want! And yetnobody ever thought of it till I thought of it!"

  And he knew of a surety that he was that most admired type in thebustling, industrial provinces--a card.

  IV

  The desire to become a member of the Sports Club revived in his breast.And yet, celebrity though he was, rising though he was, he secretlyregarded the Sports Club at Hillport as being really a bit above him.The Sports Club was the latest and greatest phenomenon of social life inBursley, and it was emphatically the club to which it behoved the goldenyouth of the town to belong. To Denry's generation the Conservative Cluband the Liberal Club did not seem like real clubs; they were machineryfor politics, and membership carried nearly no distinction with it. Butthe Sports Club had been founded by the most dashing young men ofHillport, which is the most aristocratic suburb of Bursley and set on alofty eminence. The sons of the wealthiest earthenware manufacturersmade a point of belonging to it, and, after a period of disdain, theirfathers also made a point of belonging to it. It was housed in an oldmansion, with extensive grounds and a pond and tennis courts; it had aworking agreement with the Golf Club and with the Hillport Cricket Club.But chiefly it was a social affair. The correctest thing was to be seenthere at nights, rather late than early; and an exact knowledge of cardgames and billiards was worth more in it than prowess on the field.

  It was a club in the Pall Mall sense of the word.

  And Denry still lived in insignificant Brougham Street, and his motherwas still a sempstress! These were apparently insurmountable truths. Allthe men whom he knew to be members were somehow more dashing than Denry--and it was a question of dash; few things are more mysterious thandash. Denry was unique, knew himself to be unique; he had danced with acountess, and yet... these other fellows!... Yes, there are puzzles,baffling puzzles, in the social career.

  In going over on Tuesdays to Hanbridge, where he had a few triflingrents to collect, Denry often encountered Harold Etches in the tramcar.At that time Etches lived at Hillport, and the principal Etchesmanufactory was at Hanbridge. Etches partook of the riches of hisfamily, and, though a bachelor, was reputed to have the spending of atleast a thousand a year. He was famous, on summer Sundays, on the pierat Llandudno, in white flannels. He had been one of the originators ofthe Sports Club. He spent far more on clothes alone than Denry spent inthe entire enterprise of keeping his soul in his body. At their firstmeeting little was said. They were not equals, and nothing butdress-suits could make them equals. However, even a king could notrefuse speech with a scullion whom he had allowed to win money from him.

  And Etches and Denry chatted feebly. Bit by bit they chatted lessfeebly. And once, when they were almost alone on the car, they chattedwith vehemence during the complete journey of twenty minutes.

  "He isn't so bad," said Denry to himself, of the dashing Harold Etches.

  And he took a private oath that at his very next encounter with Etcheshe would mention the Sports Club--"just to see." This oath disturbed hissleep for several night. But with Denry an oath was sacred. Having swornthat he would mention the club to Etches, he was bound to mention it.When Tuesday came, he hoped that Etches would not be on the tram, andthe coward in him would have walked to Hanbridge instead of taking thetram. But he was brave. And he boarded the tram, and Etches was alreadyin it. Now that he looked at it close, the enterprise of suggesting toHarold Etches that he, Denry, would be a suitable member of the SportsClub at Hillport, seemed in the highest degree preposterous. Why! Hecould not play any games at all! He was a figure only in the streets!Nevertheless--the oath!

  He sat awkwardly silent for a few moments, wondering how to begin. Andthen Harold Etches leaned across the tram to him and said:

  "I say, Machin, I've several times meant to ask you. Why don't you putup for the Sports Club? It's really very good, you know."

  Denry blushed, quite probably for the last time in his life. And he sawwith fresh clearness how great he was, and how large he must loom in thelife of the town. He perceived that he had been too modest.

  V

  You could not be elected to the Sports Club all in a minute. There wereformalities;
and that these formalities were complicated and took timeis simply a proof that the club was correctly exclusive and worthbelonging to. When at length Denry received notice from the "Secretaryand Steward" that he was elected to the most sparkling fellowship in theFive Towns, he was positively afraid to go and visit the club. He wantedsome old and experienced member to lead him gently into the club andexplain its usages and introduce him to the chief _habitues_. Orelse he wanted to slip in unobserved while the heads of clubmen wereturned. And then he had a distressing shock. Mrs Codleyn took it intoher head that she must sell her cottage property. Now, Mrs Codleyn'scottage property was the back-bone of Denry's livelihood, and he couldby no means be sure that a new owner would employ him as rent-collector.A new owner might have the absurd notion of collecting rents in person.Vainly did Denry exhibit to Mrs Codleyn rows of figures, showing thather income from the property had increased under his control. Vainly didhe assert that from no other form of investment would she derive such ahandsome interest. She went so far as to consult an auctioneer. Theauctioneer's idea of what could constitute a fair reserve price shook,but did not quite overthrow her. At this crisis it was that Denryhappened to say to her, in his new large manner: "Why! If I couldafford, I'd buy the property off you myself, just to show you...!" (Hedid not explain, and he did not perhaps know himself, what had to beshown.) She answered that she wished to goodness he would! Then he saidwildly that he _would_, in instalments! And he actually did buy theWidow Hullins's half-a-crown-a-week cottage for forty-five pounds, ofwhich he paid thirty pounds in cash and arranged that the balance shouldbe deducted gradually from his weekly commission. He chose the WidowHullins's because it stood by itself--an odd piece, as it were, chippedoff from the block of Mrs Codleyn's realty. The transaction quietenedMrs Codleyn. And Denry felt secure because she could not now dispensewith his services without losing her security for fifteen pounds. (Hestill thought in these small sums instead of thinking in thousands.)

  He was now a property owner.

  Encouraged by this great and solemn fact, he went up one afternoon tothe club at Hillport. His entry was magnificent, superficially. No onesuspected that he was nervous under the ordeal. The truth is that no onesuspected because the place was empty. The emptiness of the hall gavehim pause. He saw a large framed copy of the "Rules" hanging under adeer's head, and he read them as carefully as though he had not got acopy in his pocket. Then he read the notices, as though they had beenlatest telegrams from some dire seat of war. Then, perceiving a massiveopen door of oak (the club-house had once been a pretty statelymansion), he passed through it, and saw a bar (with bottles) and anumber of small tables and wicker chairs, and on one of the tables anexample of the _Staffordshire Signal_ displaying in vast lettersthe fearful question:--"Is your skin troublesome?" Denry's skin wastroublesome; it crept. He crossed the hall and went into another roomwhich was placarded "Silence." And silence was. And on a table withcopies of _The Potter's World, The British Australasian, The IronTrades Review_, and the _Golfers' Annual_, was a second copy ofthe _Signal_, again demanding of Denry in vast letters whether hisskin was troublesome. Evidently the reading-room.

  He ascended the stairs and discovered a deserted billiard-room with twotables. Though he had never played at billiards, he seized a cue, butwhen he touched them the balls gave such a resounding click in the hushof the chamber that he put the cue away instantly. He noticed anotherdoor, curiously opened it, and started back at the sight of a smallroom, and eight middle-aged men, mostly hatted, playing cards in twogroups. They had the air of conspirators, but they were merely some ofthe finest solo-whist players in Bursley. (This was before bridge hadquitted Pall Mall.) Among them was Mr Duncalf. Denry shut the doorquickly. He felt like a wanderer in an enchanted castle who had suddenlycome across something that ought not to be come across. He returned toearth, and in the hall met a man in shirt-sleeves--the Secretary andSteward, a nice, homely man, who said, in the accents of ancientfriendship, though he had never spoken to Denry before: "Is it MrMachin? Glad to see you, Mr Machin! Come and have a drink with me, willyou? Give it a name." Saying which, the Secretary and Steward wentbehind the bar, and Denry imbibed a little whisky and much information.

  "Anyhow, I've _been!_" he said to himself, going home.

  VI

  The next night he made another visit to the club, about ten o'clock. Thereading-room, that haunt of learning, was as empty as ever; but the barwas full of men, smoke, and glasses. It was so full that Denry's arrivalwas scarcely observed. However, the Secretary and Steward observed him,and soon he was chatting with a group at the bar, presided over by theSecretary and Steward's shirt-sleeves. He glanced around, and wassatisfied. It was a scene of dashing gaiety and worldliness that did notbelie the club's reputation. Some of the most important men in Bursleywere there. Charles Fearns, the solicitor, who practised at Hanbridge,was arguing vivaciously in a corner. Fearns lived at Bleakridge andbelonged to the Bleakridge Club, and his presence at Hillport (two milesfrom Bleakridge) was a dramatic tribute to the prestige of Hillport'sClub.

  Fearns was apparently in one of his anarchistic moods. Though asuccessful business man who voted right, he was pleased occasionally touproot the fabric of society and rebuild it on a new plan of his own.To-night he was inveighing against landlords--he who by "conveyancing"kept a wife and family, and a French governess for the family, in rathermore than comfort. The Fearns's French governess was one of the sevenwonders of the Five Towns. Men enjoyed him in these moods; and as heraised his voice, so he enlarged the circle of his audience.

  "If the by-laws of this town were worth a bilberry," he was saying,"about a thousand so-called houses would have to come down to-morrow.Now there's that old woman I was talking about just now--Hullins. She'sa Catholic--and my governess is always slumming about among Catholics--that's how I know. She's paid half-a-crown a week for pretty near half acentury for a hovel that isn't worth eighteen-pence, and now she's goingto be pitched into the street because she can't pay any more. And she'sseventy if she's a day! And that's the basis of society. Nice refinedsociety, eh?"

  "Who's the grasping owner?" some one asked.

  "Old Mrs Codleyn," said Fearns.

  "Here, Mr Machin, they're talking about you," said the Secretary andSteward, genially. He knew that Denry collected Mrs Codleyn's rents.

  "Mrs Codleyn isn't the owner," Denry called out across the room, almostbefore he was aware what he was doing. There was a smile on his face anda glass in his hand.

  "Oh!" said Fearns. "I thought she was. Who is?"

  Everybody looked inquisitively at the renowned Machin, the new member.

  "I am," said Denry.

  He had concealed the change of ownership from the Widow Hullins. In hisquality of owner he could not have lent her money in order that shemight pay it instantly back to himself.

  "I beg your pardon," said Fearns, with polite sincerity. "I'd noidea...!" He saw that unwittingly he had come near to committing a grossoutrage on club etiquette.

  "Not at all!" said Denry. "But supposing the cottage was _yours_,what would _you_ do, Mr Fearns? Before I bought the property I usedto lend her money myself to pay her rent."

  "I know," Fearns answered, with a certain dryness of tone.

  It occurred to Denry that the lawyer knew too much.

  "Well, what should you do?" he repeated obstinately.

  "She's an old woman," said Fearns. "And honest enough, you must admit.She came up to see my governess, and I happened to see her."

  "But what should you do in my place?" Denry insisted.

  "Since you ask, I should lower the rent and let her off the arrears,"said Fearns.

  "And supposing she didn't pay then? Let her have it rent-free becauseshe's seventy? Or pitch her into the street?"

  "Oh--Well--"

  "Fearns would make her a present of the blooming house and give her aconveyance free!" a voice said humorously, and everybody laughed.

  "Well, that's what I'll do," said Denry. "If Mr Fearns wi
ll do theconveyance free, I'll make her a present of the blooming house. That'sthe sort of grasping owner I am."

  There was a startled pause. "I mean it," said Denry firmly, evenfiercely, and raised his glass. "Here's to the Widow Hullins!"

  There was a sensation, because, incredible though the thing was, it hadto be believed. Denry himself was not the least astounded person in thecrowded, smoky room. To him, it had been like somebody else talking, nothimself. But, as always when he did something crucial, spectacular, andeffective, the deed had seemed to be done by a mysterious power withinhim, over which he had no control.

  This particular deed was quixotic, enormously unusual; a deed assuredlywithout precedent in the annals of the Five Towns. And he, Denry, haddone it. The cost was prodigious, ridiculously and dangerously beyondhis means. He could find no rational excuse for the deed. But he haddone it. And men again wondered. Men had wondered when he led theCountess out to waltz. That was nothing to this. What! A smooth-chinnedyouth giving houses away--out of mere, mad, impulsive generosity.

  And men said, on reflection, "Of course, that's just the sort of thingMachin _would_ do!" They appeared to find a logical connectionbetween dancing with a Countess and tossing a house or so to a poorwidow. And the next morning every man who had been in the Sports Clubthat night was remarking eagerly to his friends: "I say, have you heardyoung Machin's latest?"

  And Denry, inwardly aghast at his own rashness, was saying to himself:"Well, no one but me would ever have done that!"

  He was now not simply a card; he was _the_ card.