Early in the afternoon of the following day, which was
Sunday, Charlie Sutherland presented himself at
Church Street, Kensington and asked Mrs Simpson, who opened the door, if Mr Jack was within.
"No, sir," said Mrs. Simpson, gravely. "He is not
in just at present."
On being pressed as to when he would be in, Mrs. Simpson became vague and evasive, although she expressed sympathy for the evident disappointment of the visitor. At last he said he would probably call again, and turned disconsolately away. He had not gone far when, hearing a shout, he looked back, and saw Jack, uncombed, unshaven, in broken slippers, and a stained and tattered coat, running after him, bareheaded.
"Come up—come back," cried Jack, his brazen
tones somewhat forced by loss of breath. "It's all a
mistake. That jade—come along." He seized
Charlie by the arm, and began to drag him back to
the house as he spoke. The boys of the neighborhood
soon assembled to look with awe at the capture of
Charlie, only a few of the older and less reverent
venturing to ridicule the scene by a derisive cheer. Jack marched his visitor upstairs to a large room, which occupied nearly the whole of the first floor. A grand pianoforte in the centre was covered with writing materials, music in print and manuscript, old newspapers, and unwashed coffee cups. The surrounding carpet was in such a state as to make it appear that periodically, when the litter became too cumbrous, it was swept away and permitted to lie on the floor just it chanced to fall. The chairs, the cushions of which seemed to have been much used as pen-wipers, were occupied, some with heaps of clothes, others with books turned inside out to mark the place at which the reader had put them down, one with a boot, the fellow of which lay in the fender, and one with a kettle, which had been recently lifted from the fire which, in spite of the season, burnt in the grate.
Black, brown and yellow stains of ink, coffee, and yolk
of egg were on everything in the place.
"Sit down," said Jack, impetuously thrusting his former pupil
into the one empty chair, a comfortable one with elbows, shiny
with constant use. He then sought a seat for himself, and in
so doing became aware of Mrs Simpsom, who had come in during his
absence with the hopeless project of making the room ready for
the visitor.
"Here," he said, "Get some more coffee, and some buttered rolls. Where have you taken all the chairs? I told you not to touch anything in this—why, what the devil do you mean by putting the kettle down on a chair?
"Not likely, Mr Jack said the landlady, "that I would do such a
thing. Oh dear! and one of my yellow chairs too. It's too bad."
"You must have done it: there was nobody else in the room. Be off: and get the coffee.
"I did not do it," said Mrs Simpson, raising her voice; "and well
you know it. And I would be thankful to you to make up your mind
whether you are to be in or out when people call, and not be making
a liar of me as you did before this gentleman. "
"You are a liar ready made, and a slattern to boot," retorted Jack. "Look at the state of this room."
"Ah," said Mrs. Simpson, with a sniff. "Look at
it indeed. I ask your pardon, sir," she added, turning
to Charlie, "but what would anybody think of me if
they was told that this was my drawing room?"
Jack, his attention thus recalled to his guest, checked himself on the verge of a fresh outburst, and pointed to the door. Mrs. Simpson looked at him scornfully, but went out without further ado. Jack then seized a chair by the back, shook its contents on to the floor, and sat down near Charlie.
"I should not have spoken as I did just now," he
said, with compunction. "Let me give you a word of
advice, Charles. Never live in the house with an
untidy woman."
"It must be an awful nuisance, Mr Jack."
"It is sure to lead to bad habits in yourself. How
is your sister, and your father?"
"Mary is just the same as ever; and so is the
governor. I was with him at Birmingham last autumn. We heard the Prometheus. By Jove, Mr Jack, that is something to listen to! The St Matthew Passion, the Ninth Symphony, and the Nibelung's Ring, are the only works that are fit to be put behind it. The overture alone is something screeching."
"You like it? That's right, that's right. And what
are you doing at present? Working hard, eh?"