Book: In Luck at Last

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"I shall lose my letters," Iris recollected, and her heart sunk. Not
only did her correspondent begin to draw these imaginary portraits of
her, but he proceeded to urge upon her to come out of her concealment,
and to grant him an interview. This she might have refused, in her
desire to continue a correspondence which brightened her monotonous
life. But there came another thing, and this decided her. He began to
give, and to ask, opinions concerning love, marriage, and such
topics--and then she perceived it could not possibly be discussed with
him, even in domino and male disguise. "As for love," her pupil wrote,
"I suppose it is a real and not a fancied necessity of life. A man, I
mean, may go on a long time without it, but there will come a time--do
not you think so?--when he is bound to feel the incompleteness of life
without a woman to love. We ought to train our boys and girls from the
very beginning to regard love and marriage as the only things really
worth having, because without them there is no happiness. Give me your
own experience. I am sure you must have been in love at some time or
other in your life."

Anybody will understand that Iris could not possibly give her own
experience in love-matters, nor could she plunge into speculative
philosophy of this kind with her pupil. Obviously the thing must come
to an end. Therefore she wrote a letter to him, telling him that
"I.A." would meet him, if he pleased, that very evening at the hour of
eight.

It is by this time sufficiently understood that Iris Aglen professed
to teach--it is an unusual combination--mathematics and heraldry; she
might also have taught equally well, had she chosen, sweetness of
disposition, goodness of heart, the benefits conferred by pure and
lofty thoughts on the expression of a girl's face, and the way to
acquire all the other gracious, maidenly virtues; but either there is
too limited a market for these branches of culture, or--which is
perhaps the truer reason--there are so many English girls, not to
speak of Americans, who are ready and competent to teach them, and do
teach them to their brothers, and their lovers, and to each other, and
to their younger sisters all day long.

As for her heraldry, it was natural that she should acquire that
science, because her grandfather knew as much as any Pursuivant or
King-at-Arms, and thought that by teaching the child a science which
is nowadays cultivated by so few, he was going to make her fortune.
Besides, ever mindful of the secret packet, he thought that an heiress
ought to understand heraldry. It was, indeed, as you shall see, in
this way that her fortune was made; but yet not quite in the way he
proposed to make it. Nobody ever makes a fortune quite in the way at
first intended for him.

As for her mathematics, it is no wonder that she was good in this
science, because she was a pupil of Lala Roy.

This learned Bengalee condescended to acknowledge the study of
mathematics as worthy even of the Indian intellect, and amused himself
with them when he was not more usefully engaged in chess. He it was
who, being a lodger in the house, taught Iris almost as soon as she
could read how letters placed side by side may be made to signify and
accomplish stupendous things, and how they may disguise the most
graceful and beautiful curves, and how they may even open a way into
boundless space, and there disclose marvels. This wondrous world did
the philosopher open to the ready and quick-witted girl; nor did he
ever lead her to believe that it was at all an unusual or an
extraordinary thing for a girl to be so quick and apt for science as
herself, nor did he tell her that if she went to Newnham or to Girton,
extraordinary glories would await her, with the acclamations of the
multitude in the Senate House and the praise of the Moderators. Iris,
therefore, was not proud of her mathematics, which seemed part of her
very nature. But of her heraldry she was, I fear, extremely
proud--proud even to sinfulness. No doubt this was the reason why,
through her heraldry, the humiliation of this evening fell upon her.

"If he is young," she thought, "if he is young--and he is sure to be
young--he will be very angry at having opened his mind to a girl"--it
will be perceived that, although she knew so much mathematics, she was
really very ignorant of the opposite sex, not to know that a young man
likes nothing so much as the opening of his mind to a young lady. "If
he is old, he will be more humiliated still"--as if any man at any age
was ever humiliated by confessing himself to a woman. "If he is a
proud man, he will never forgive me. Indeed, I am sure that he can
never forgive me, whatever kind of man he is. But I can do no more
than tell him I am sorry. If he will not forgive me then, what more
can I say? Oh, if he should be vindictive!"

When the clock began to strike the hour of eight, Iris lighted her
candles, and before the pulsation of the last stroke had died away,
she heard the ringing of the house-bell.

The door was opened by her grandfather himself, and she heard his
voice.

"Yes," he said, "you will find your tutor, in the first floor front,
alone. If you are inclined to be vindictive, when you hear all,
please ring the bell for me."

The visitor mounted the stairs, and Iris, hearing his step, began to
tremble and to shake for fear.

When the door opened she did not at first look up. But she knew that
her pupil was there, and that he was looking for his tutor.

"Pardon me"--the voice was not unpleasant--"pardon me. I was directed
to this room. I have an appointment with my tutor."

"If," said Iris, rising, for the time for confession had at length
arrived, "if you are Mr. Arnold Arbuthnot, your appointment is, I
believe, with me."

"It is with my tutor," he said.

"I am your tutor. My initials are I.A."

The room was only lighted by two candles, but they showed him the
hanging head and the form of a woman, and he thought she looked young,
judging by the outline. Her voice was sweet and clear.

"My tutor? You?"

"If you really are Mr. Arnold Arbuthnot, the gentleman who has
corresponded with I.A. for the last two years on heraldry, and--and
other things, I am your tutor."

She had made the dreaded confession. The rest would be easy. She even
ventured to raise her eyes, and she perceived, with a sinking of the
heart, that her estimate of her pupil's age was tolerably correct. He
was a young man, apparently not more than five or six and twenty.

It now remained to be seen if he was vindictive.

As for the pupil, when he recovered a little from the blow of this
announcement, he saw before him a girl, quite young, dressed in a
simple gray or drab colored stuff, which I have reason to believe is
called Carmelite. The dress had a crimson kerchief arranged in folds
over the front, and a lace collar, and at first sight it made the
beholder feel that, considered merely as a setting of face and figure,
it was remarkably effective. Surely this is the true end and aim of
all feminine adornment, apart from the elementary object of keeping
one warm.

"I--I did not know," the young man said, after a pause, "I did not
know at all that I was corresponding with a lady."

Here she raised her eyes again, and he observed that the eyes were
very large and full of light--"eyes like the fishpools of
Heshbon"--dove's eyes.

"I am very sorry," she said meekly. "It was my fault."

He observed other things now, having regained the use of his senses.
Thus he saw that she wore her hair, which was of a wonderful chestnut
brown color, parted at the side like a boy's, and that she had not
committed the horrible enormity of cutting it short. He observed, too,
that while her lips were quivering and her cheek was blushing, her
look was steadfast. Are dove's eyes, he asked himself, always
steadfast?

"I ought to have told you long ago, when you began to write
about--about yourself and other things, when I understood that you
thought I was a man--oh, long ago I ought to have told you the truth!"

"It is wonderful!" said the young man, "it is truly wonderful!" He
was thinking of the letters--long letters, full of sympathy, and a
curious unworldly wisdom, which she had sent him in reply to his own,
and he was comparing them with her youthful face, as one involuntarily
compares a poet's appearance with his poetry--generally a
disappointing thing to do, and always a foolish thing.

"I am very sorry," she repeated.

"Have you many pupils, like myself?"

"I have several pupils in mathematics. It does not matter to them
whether they are taught by a man or a woman. In heraldry I had only
one--you."

He looked round the room. One end was occupied by shelves, filled with
books; in one of the windows was a table, covered with papers and
adorned with a type-writer, by means of which Iris carried on her
correspondence. For a moment the unworthy thought crossed his mind
that he had been, perhaps, artfully lured on by a siren for his
destruction. Only for a moment, however, because she raised her face
and met his gaze again, with eyes so frank and innocent, that he could
not doubt them. Besides, there was the clear outline of her face, so
truthful and so honest. The young man was an artist, and therefore
believed in outline. Could any sane and intelligent creature doubt
those curves of cheek and chin?

"I have put together," she said, "all your letters for you. Here they
are. Will you, please, take them back? I must not keep them any
longer." He took them, and bowed. "I made this appointment, as you
desired, to tell you the truth, because I have deceived you too long:
and to beg you to forgive me; and to say that, of course, there is an
end to our correspondence."

"Thank you. It shall be as you desire. Exactly," he repeated, "as you
desire."

He ought to have gone at once. There was nothing more to say. Yet he
lingered, holding the letters in his hand.

"To write these letters," he said, "has been for a long time one of
my greatest pleasures, partly because I felt that I was writing to a
friend, and so wrote in full trust and confidence; partly because they
procured me a reply--in the shape of your letters. Must I take back
these letters of mine?"

She made no answer.

"It is hard, is it not, to lose a friend so slowly acquired, thus
suddenly and unexpectedly?"

"Yes," she said, "it is hard. I am very sorry. It was my fault."

"Perhaps I have said something, in my ignorance--something which ought
not to have been said or written--something careless--something which
has lowered me in your esteem--"

"Oh, no--no!" said Iris quickly. "You have never said anything that a
gentleman should not have said."

"And if you yourself found any pleasure in answering my letters--"

"Yes," said Iris with frankness, "it gave me great pleasure to read
and to answer your letters, as well as I could."

"I have not brought back your letters. I hope you will allow me to
keep them. And, if you will, why should we not continue our
correspondence as before?" But he did not ask the question
confidently.

"No," said Iris decidedly "it can never be continued as before. How
could it, when once we have met, and you have learned the truth?"

"Then," he continued, "if we cannot write to each other any more, can
we not talk?"

She ought to have informed him on the spot that the thing was quite
impossible, and not to be thought of for one moment. She should have
said, coldly, but firmly--every right-minded and well-behaved girl
would have said--"Sir, it is not right that you should come alone to a
young lady's study. Such things are not to be permitted. It we meet in
society, we may, perhaps, renew our acquaintance."

But girls do go on sometimes as if there was no such thing as
propriety at all, and such cases are said to be growing more frequent.
Besides, Iris was not a girl who was conversant with social
convenances. She looked at her pupil thoughtfully and frankly.

"Can we?" she asked. She who hesitates is lost, a maxim which cannot
be too often read, said, and studied. It is one of the very few golden
rules omitted from Solomon's Proverbs. "Can we? It would be pleasant."

"It you will permit me," he blushed and stammered, wondering at her
ready acquiescence, "if you will permit me to call upon you
sometimes--here, if you will allow me, or anywhere else. You know my
name. I am by profession an artist, and I have a studio close at hand
in Tite Street."

"To call upon me here?" she repeated.

Now, when one is a tutor, and has been reading with a pupil for two
years, one regards that pupil with a feeling which may not be exactly
parental, but which is unconventional. If Arnold had said, "Behold me!
May I, being a young man, call upon you, a young woman?" she would
have replied: "No, young man, that can never be." But when he said,
"May I, your pupil, call sometimes upon you, my tutor?" a distinction
was at once established by which the impossible became possible.

"Yes," she said, "I think you may call. My grandfather has his tea
with me every evening at six. You may call then if it will give you
any pleasure."

"You really will let me come here?"

The young man looked as if the permission was likely to give him the
greatest pleasure.

"Yes; if you wish it."

She spoke just exactly like an Oxford Don giving an undergraduate
permission to take an occasional walk with him, or to call for
conversation and advice at certain times in his rooms. Arnold noticed
the manner, and smiled.

"Still," he said, "as your pupil."

He meant to set her at her ease concerning the propriety of these
visits. She thought he meant a continuation of a certain little
arrangement as to fees, and blushed.

"No," she said; "I must not consider you as a pupil any longer. You
have put an end to that yourself."

"I do not mind, if only I continue your friend."

"Oh," she said, "but we must not pledge ourselves rashly to
friendship. Perhaps you will not like me when you once come to know
me."

"Then I remain your disciple."

"Oh no," she flushed again, "you must already think me presumptuous
enough in venturing to give you advice. I have written so many foolish
things--"

"Indeed, no," he interrupted, "a thousand times no. Let me tell you
once for all, if I may, that you have taught me a great deal--far more
than you can ever understand, or than I can explain. Where did you get
your wisdom? Not from the Book of Human Life. Of that you cannot know
much as yet."

"The wisdom is in your imagination, I think. You shall not be my pupil
nor my disciple, but--well--because you have told me so much, and I
seem to have known you so long, and, besides, because you must never
feel ashamed of having told me so much, you shall come, if you please,
as my brother."

It was not till afterward that she reflected on the vast
responsibilities she incurred in making this proposal, and on the
eagerness with which her pupil accepted it.

"As your brother!" he cried, offering her his hand. "Why, it is
far--far more than I could have ventured to hope. Yes, I will come as
your brother. And now, although you know so much about me, you have
told me nothing about yourself--not even your name."

"My name is Iris Aglen."

"Iris! It is a pretty name!"

"It was, I believe, my grandmother's. But I never saw her, and I do
not know who or what my father's relations are."

"Iris Aglen!" he repeated. "Iris was the Herald of the Gods, and the
rainbow was constructed on purpose to serve her for a way from Heaven
to the Earth."

"Mathematicians do not allow that," said the girl, smiling.

"I don't know any mathematics. But now I understand in what school you
learned your heraldry. You are Queen-at-Arms at least, and Herald to
the Gods of Olympus."

He wished to add something about the loveliness of Aphrodite, and the
wisdom of Athene, but he refrained, which was in good taste.

"Thank you, Mr. Arbuthnot," Iris replied. "I learned my heraldry of my
grandfather, who taught himself from the books he sells. And my
mathematics I learned of Lala Roy, who is our lodger, and a learned
Hindoo gentleman. My father is dead--and my mother as well--and I have
no friends in the world except these two old men, who love me, and
have done their best to spoil me."

Her eyes grew humid and her voice trembled.

No other friends in the world! Strange to say, this young man felt a
little sense of relief. No other friends. He ought to have sympathized
with the girl's loneliness; he might have asked her how she could
possibly endure life without companionship, but he did not; he only
felt that other friends might have been rough and ill-bred; this girl
derived her refinement, not only from nature, but also from separation
from the other girls who might in the ordinary course have been her
friends and associates. And if no other friends, then no lover.
Arnold was only going to visit the young lady as her brother; but
lovers do not generally approve the introduction of such novel effects
as that caused by the appearance of a brand-new and previously
unsuspected brother. He was glad, on the whole, that there was no
lover.

Then he left her, and went home to his studio, where he sat till
midnight, sketching a thousand heads one after the other with rapid
pencil. They were all girls' heads, and they all had hair parted on
the left side, with a broad, square forehead, full eyes, and straight,
clear-cut features.

"No," he said, "it is no good. I cannot catch the curve of her
mouth--nobody could. What a pretty girl! And I am to be her brother!
What will Clara say? And how--oh, how in the world can she be, all at
the same time, so young, so pretty, so learned, so quick, so
sympathetic, and so wise?"




CHAPTER IV.

THE WOLF AT HOME.


There is a certain music-hall, in a certain street, leading out of a
certain road, and this is quite clear and definite enough. Its
distinctive characteristics, above any of its fellows, is a vulgarity
so profound, that the connoisseur or student in that branch of mental
culture thinks that here at last he has reached the lowest depths. For
this reason one shrinks from actually naming it, because it might
become fashionable, and then, if it fondly tried to change its
character to suit its changed audience, it might entirely lose its
present charm, and become simply commonplace.

Joe Gallop stood in the doorway of this hall, a few days after the
Tempting of Mr. James. It was about ten o'clock, when the
entertainments were in full blast. He had a cigarette between his
lips, as becomes a young man of fashion, but it had gone out, and he
was thinking of something. To judge from the cunning look in his eyes,
it was something not immediately connected with the good of his
fellow-creatures. Presently the music of the orchestra ceased, and
certain female acrobats, who had been "contorting" themselves
fearfully and horribly for a quarter of an hour upon the stage, kissed
their hands, which were as hard as ropes, from the nature of their
profession, and smiled a fond farewell. There was some applause, but
not much, because neither man nor woman cares greatly for female
acrobats, and the performers themselves are with difficulty persuaded
to learn their art, and generally make haste to "go in" again as soon
as they can, and try henceforward to forget that they have ever done
things with ropes and bars.

Joe, when they left the stage, ceased his meditations, whatever may
have been their subject, lit a fresh cigarette, and assumed an air of
great expectation, as if something really worth seeing and hearing
were now about to appear. And when the chairman brought down the
hammer with the announcement that Miss Carlotta Claradine, the
People's Favorite, would now oblige, it was Joe who loudly led the way
for a tumultuous burst of applause. Then the band, which at this
establishment, and others like unto it, only plays two tunes, one for
acrobats, and one for singers, struck up the second air, and the
People's Favorite appeared. She may have had by nature a sweet and
tuneful voice; perhaps it was in order to please her friends, the
people, that, she converted it into a harsh and rasping voice, that
she delivered her words with even too much gesture, and that she
uttered a kind of shriek at the beginning of every verse, which was
not in the composer's original music, but was thrown in to compel
attention. She was dressed with great simplicity, in plain frock,
apron, and white cap, to represent a fair young Quakeress, and she
sung a song about her lover with much "archness"--a delightful quality
in woman.

"Splendid, splendid! Bravo!" shouted Joseph at the end of the first
verse. "That fetches 'em, don't it, sir? Positively drags 'em, in,
sir."

He addressed his words, without turning his head, to a man who had
just come in, and was gazing at him with unbounded astonishment.

"You here, Joe??" he said.

Joe started.

"Why, Chalker, who'd have thought to meet you in this music-hall?"

"It's a good step, isn't it? And what are you doing, Joe? I heard
you'd left the P. and O. Company."

"Had to," said Joe. "A gentleman has no choice but to resign. Ought
never to have gone there. There's no position, Chalker--no position at
all in the service. That is what I felt. Besides, the uniform, for a
man of my style, is unbecoming. And the captain was a cad."

"Humph! and what are you doing then? Living on the old man again?"

"Never you mind, David Chalker," replied Joe with dignity; "I am not
likely to trouble you any more after the last time I called upon you."

"Well, Joe," said the other, without taking offense, "it is not my
business to lend money without a security, and all you had to offer
was your chance of what your grandfather might leave you--or might
not."

"And a very good security too, if he does justice to his relations."

"Yes; but how did I know whether he was going to do justice? Come,
Joe, don't be shirty with an old friend."

There was a cordiality in the solicitor's manner which boded well. Joe
was pretty certain that Mr. Chalker was not a man to cultivate
friendship unless something was to be got out of it. It is only the
idle and careless who can waste time over unprofitable friendships.
With most men friendship means assisting in each other's little games,
so that every man must become, on occasion, bonnet, confederate, and
pal, for his friend, and may expect the same kindly office for
himself.

If Chalker wished to keep up his old acquaintance with Joe Gallop,
there must be some good reason. Now the only reason which suggested
itself to Joe at that moment was that Chalker had lately drawn a new
will for the old man, and that he himself might be in it. Here he was
wrong. The only reason of Mr. Chalker's friendly attitude was
curiosity to know what Joe was doing, and how he was living.

"Look here, Chalker," Joe whispered, "you used to pretend to be a pal.
What's the good of being a pal if you won't help a fellow? You see my
grandfather once a week or so; you shut the door and have long talks
with him. If you know what he's going to do with his money, why not
tell a fellow? Let's make a business matter of it."

"How much do you know, Joe, and what is your business proposal worth?"

"Nothing at all; that's the honest truth--I know nothing. The old
man's as tight as wax. But there's other business in the world besides
his. Suppose I know of something a precious sight better than his
investments, and suppose--just suppose--that I wanted a lawyer to
manage it for me?"

"Well, Joe?"

"Encore! Bravo! Encore! Bravo!" Joe banged his stick on the floor and
shouted because the singer ended her first song. He looked so fierce
and big, that all the bystanders made haste to follow his example.

"Splendid, isn't she?" he said.

"Hang the singer! What do you mean by other business?"

"Perhaps it's nothing. Perhaps there will be thousands in it. And
perhaps I can get on without you, after all."

"Very well, Joe. Get on without me if you like."

"Look here, Chalker," Joe laid a persuasive hand on the other's arm,
"can't we two be friendly? Why don't you give a fellow a lift? All I
want to know is where the old man's put his money, and how he's left
it."

"Suppose I do know," Mr. Chalker replied, wishing ardently that he
did, "do you think I am going to betray trust--a solicitor betray
trust--and for nothing? But if you want to talk real business, Joe,
come to my office. You know where that is."

Joe knew very well; in fact, there had been more than one difficulty
which had been adjusted through Mr. Chalker's not wholly disinterested
aid.

Then the singer appeared again attired in a new and startling dress,
and Joe began once more to applaud again with voice and stick. Mr.
Chalker, surprised at this newly-developed enthusiasm for art, left
him and walked up the hall, and sat down beside the chairman, whom he
seemed to know. In fact, the chairman was also the proprietor of the
show, and Mr. Chalker was acting for him in his professional capacity,
much as he had acted for Mr. Emblem.

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