The Hard Man

by Ernest Bramah

 

The Hard Man

By E. Bramah

 

“YOU are a hard man, Mr. Lavender,” said the visitor feelingly. “A very hard man.”

“Why, yes,” replied Mr. Lavender, evidently not thinking it worth while to deny the impeachment, “it is supposed to be a characteristic of our race, I believe.”

The visitor—his name was Isaacson—stared.

“Our race?” he stammered. “Why, I never knew—I always understood——”

“The Anglo-Saxon race,” explained Mr. Lavender gravely. “I use the pronoun in the colloquial sense; nothing personal to yourself, Mr. Isaacson, I assure you. Abroad, we English are generally credited with a hard, matter-of-fact commercialism, to the exclusion of the more amiable qualities of the heart which our neighbours possess.”

Mr. Isaacson wagged his head from side to side in a deprecating way that committed him to nothing.

“Suppose we say seven-fifty?” he proposed ingratiatingly.

“Why don’t you go to Elliott, Mr. Isaacson?” suggested Mr. Lavender disinterestedly. “Probably he would give you eight hundred.”

“He would, he would; he told me so himself. Only, unfortunately, he doesn’t happen to have the money loose, don’t you see, and it’s no good to me after twelve o'clock to-morrow,”

“That Neville-street man—Guildenstein—then?”

“He’d give me eight-fifty; but he’s gone to Milan to buy a library, confound him.”

“Well, old Solomon.”

“He’s dead. Come now, Mr. Lavender, you know very well that he died six weeks ago.”

“So he did, poor fellow. How about Lewis?”

Mr. Isaacson’s eloquent hands conveyed his despair.

“Don’t talk to me about that thug Lewis, if you respect my feelings, Mr. Lavender, please don’t. Me and Lewis have quarrelled finally. He never did understand nothing about intaglios.”

“What did he offer you?” asked Mr. Lavender with intuition.

“Six-fifty; half in wine and gold mines,” confessed Mr. Isaacson, too deeply moved to dissimulate. “Me what backed his immature paper six years ago when his name was Leinavitch.”

“Well, I seem to be the only one left,” commented Mr. Lavender, looking at his visitor with tolerant amusement. “I’m afraid that’s why you came to me, Mr. Isaacson, after all.”

“No, no, Mr. Lavender, don’t say that,” protested Mr. Isaacson uneasily. “It’s always a pleasure to do a little business with a gentleman of your beautiful taste. Now you do understand intaglios, Mr. Lavender, I will say. Is it to be seven-fifty?”

“Seven hundred, in an open cheque.” Mr. Lavender glanced at the clock and stood up. “I leave my office at one o’clock to-day, Mr. Isaacson. Shall I make out a cheque or close my desk?”

“Hold hard; half a sec., Mr. Lavender,” cried Mr. Isaacson in a panic. “Look here; you'll be back again at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, won’t you? Well, give me till then to think it over. It’s a hard bargain, Mr. Lavender; it is indeed.”

“If you can’t do better elsewhere in the meantime, come at ten to-morrow by all means,” replied Mr. Lavender, shrugging his shoulders, and Mr. Isaacson’s wholly unconvincing protests that he wouldn’t dream of going elsewhere were drowned in the clatter of the roll-top desk.

Every Wednesday afternoon for nearly twenty years now Mr. Lavender had left his office at one o’clock, and, after lunching in the Strand, had taken train from Charing Cross or Waterloo, and plunged into the heart of the country. If it rained he put on a waterproof, and walked through pine-woods or along sweet-smelling lanes; if it was warm and fine he sat on the open downs or watched a cricket-match played on some village green. He had the reputation which Mr. Isaacson had voiced of being a keen, even a hard, man in business, but he would unhesitatingly have forgone a profitable transaction rather than break through this custom. And yet he took no particular pleasure in country walks or in watching rustic games. It had been his habit for so long that he had ceased to think at all about it. He took no particular pleasure in his business; he had outgrown any real enthusiasm for the objects of art in which he trafficked, and his solitary frugal life was unaffected by the money he was steadily amassing. Once upon a time the money—perhaps even the country walk—had stood for something in his life. Now he presented the familiar spectacle of a man who went on because that was easier than to stop or to turn aside.

On the afternoon of this Wednesday Mr. Lavender sat on a heathery slope on the border of two counties, and smoked his cigar tranquilly until it was the hour when custom demanded that he should seek out a wayside cottage and take tea before returning. Had it occurred to him to examine his feelings critically he would have discovered that he intensely disliked the solid and slovenly-served fare that was generally set before him. Even then it is doubtful if he would have acted on the knowledge. As it was, not being troubled by any misgivings on the subject, he walked leisurely towards the little group of cottages that constituted the nearest hamlet.

Mr. Lavender passed the first house that displayed the familiar notice. From the second came the sounds of the hilarious revelry of a cycling party that was already in possession. At the third a tousled woman sat by the door, nursing an unpleasant-looking child. He was on the point of retracing his steps when a few more cottages came in sight. Flat, staringly new, and hopelessly inept to the surroundings, they formed a sufficiently unattractive prospect. A tablet over the door of the middle house informed the passer-by that they were known to the world as Asphalt-terrace. The house at each end was given a meretricious air of superiority by the bestowal of a bay-window. The nearer hay displayed the wares of a small draper’s shop; the further one was unstocked, but contained the announcement of refreshments to be obtained within.

“None but a fool would open a teashop there,” soliloquised Mr. Lavender, surveying the unattractive elevation disapprovingly. “What people from town want is a tumble-down cottage with honeysuckle hanging over a rustic porch, and a damp arbour in the garden behind, where spiders drop into their food. I wonder what sort of a fool she is.”

In pursuit of this speculation he entered, and, sitting down at one of the few cheap bamboo tables that formed the principal feature of the room, he ordered a simple meal. It was easy to read in the nervous anxiety of the woman to please, and in the whispered instructions to some one unseen in the room beyond, that the advent of even a single customer was not too common an event.

“You have not been here very long, I think?” he asked her as she moved about the room.

“Oh, no, sir; only a few months,” she replied. “I am afraid that you see I am not very experienced.”

“Not at all,” he assured her. “Only I passed this spot two years ago, and I do not remember even the houses being built then. A good many ladies are taking up the refreshment-cottage business, I imagine. I wonder whether they all find it what fancy and the advertisement painted it.”

She laughed bitterly enough.

“You are the only customer I have had for ten days,” she confessed; “and the advertisement painted the average receipt of two pounds a week, of which one-half was profit.”

“So, so,” he commented sympathetically. “From what I know of the district I imagine that that must have been an exaggeration in any circumstances.”

“It was a cruel fraud,” she replied, indignation putting a little spirit into her subdued voice. “I have learned that much since I came. The books they showed me were utterly false; there never was any real custom here. But what could I do then? The people had disappeared. I had paid £50 for the business and something more for the fittings, and I really had no money left to pay for tracing them or to go to law with. It was all I had. But I don’t know why I should trouble you with the details of my miserable failure.”

“On the contrary,” replied Mr. Lavender politely, “I asked you. As to failure, that was inevitable here. Probably you would have succeeded if there had been any opening—in some town, for instance. But there is absolutely no scope here at all.”

“That is what every one here says to me,” she admitted. “They all exclaim, ‘Why ever did you come to a place like this?’” Her voice changed a little and fell into a softer cadence as she continued after a moment’s pause, “Well, I had to. The doctor told me that unless I took my little boy right into the pine country at once he would probably not live six months.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Lavender, “that explains. And this, I suppose,” he continued, turning to the door, “is the young gentleman himself?”

“Oh, dear! you naughty boy,” cried his mother in despair. “You know, Tommy, I told you that you were never to come in here when——”

“Not on my account, pray,” interposed Mr. Lavender. “What have you got there, Tommy? Come and show me, if you aren’t afraid.”

With an occasional aside to the effect that he wasn’t at all afraid, but rather slowly all the same, and not without an anxious look to assure himself that the line of retreat was open towards his mother if need be, Tommy advanced and submitted what he announced to be a picture of a pretty lady.

“A pretty lady, eh?” said Mr. Lavender indulgently, taking the engraving with a smile. “She is a——” the smile faded from his eyes as he glanced, but his lips continued half-mechanically, “a pretty lady; a very pretty lady indeed.” Carefully, but without any trace of undue interest, he examined the wonderfully delicate colouring, the unlettered margin, even the back of the paper. Then his pleasant smile returned, he threw the sheet aside, and returned to the business of his half-eaten egg.

“It is a pretty picture, isn’t it, Tommy?” he remarked. “Where did you find it?”

“Got it from the cow-box,” announced Tommy, with a sense of increasing importance.

“Oh, Tommy,” cried his mother reproachfully. “You know that you ought not to go there.”

“The cow-box!” Mr. Lavender looked from one to the other inquiringly.

“That is what Tommy calls it. It is only an old chest covered with cowhide.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Lavender thoughtfully. “I am very fond of looking at pictures. Are there any more in the cow-box, Tommy?”

“Lots and lots. Shall I get them?” replied Tommy eagerly.

“May he?”

“It is very kind of you to let him bother you.”

“Not at all,” replied Mr. Lavender, smiling into his teacup.

In a few minutes Tommy was back again with his arms full of pictures. Mr. Lavender turned them over one by one with polite interest as he took his tea, addressing many a jocose remark to Tommy and an occasional serious one to Tommy’s mamma. There was no need to give a close attention to the pictures—they included no more “pretty ladies” from the professional point of view. They were, indeed, nothing more than coloured plates from the “Graphic” and kindred publications.

“I like the first one best, Tommy,” mused Mr. Lavender. He looked up. “It has no name on it. I wonder where it came from?”

“I think it must have been among the things that belonged to my husband when we were married. My husband,” she continued, with a little access of almost faded pride, “my husband was extremely well connected. His father was very rich indeed, but after our marriage they did not see one another again. I was only a nursery governess. You will have noticed that I am a widow.”

Mr. Lavender indicated his perception of the fact and expressed his condolence upon its existence by a single movement, that combined the deference of the bow with the confidential sympathy of the nod.

“I should very much like to take away this picture as a memento of a pleasant day,” he remarked engagingly. “Perhaps you don’t mind selling it to me?”

“If you really care for it you may take it,” replied the widow. “I don’t think it is worth selling. It is only a print, you know.”

“It is only a print, certainly,” admitted Mr. Lavender, “but I think it is quite worth framing. Then may I give Tommy something for his money-box in exchange for his pretty lady?”

She smiled acquiescence, wishing that all people were as amiable and considerate as this agreeable stranger. Mr. Lavender paid his modest score, pressed a coin into Tommy’s willing palm, and departed. At the bend of the road, a hundred yards further on, he glanced back. The woman stood by her door watching him pass out of sight. Perhaps she was surprised—possibly even thankful—to find that Tommy’s money-box was to be the richer by a sovereign; but then, as Mr. Lavender assured himself, he could afford to be generous in return for so pretty a picture.

Punctually at ten o’clock the next morning Mr. Isaacson was announced. If any further indication of the object of his visit was needed it could be read in the expressive friendliness of his greetings. After twice inquiring into the state of Mr. Lavender’s health, and expressing a warm personal satisfaction that he had spent a pleasant afternoon in the country, Mr. Isaacson allowed himself to revert to the subject of the previous day.

“Now, those intaglios,” he remarked. “Well, I’ve slept on it, and although it’s throwing ’em away, I suppose I must let you have them at your own price, Mr. Lavender.”

“My own price?” repeated Mr. Lavender, looking slowly across his desk at Mr. Isaacson.

“Yes, what you offered yesterday: £700.”

“Ah, yesterday. Well, Mr. Isaacson, I should be sorry to disappoint you, but I certainly can’t offer you £700 to-day.”

“But—but it was a firm offer, Mr. Lavender,” gasped Mr. Isaacson. “I understood that I was to decide and call this morning.”

“It was an offer yesterday, and you could have had the money yesterday; but you know very well, Mr. Isaacson, that an offer of that sort does not remain indefinitely open for the seller to close with whenever it suits his convenience.”

“And you really mean it, Mr. Lavender, that you won’t give me £700?”

“Reluctantly, I do. I am a dealer, and I have to be guided by the state of the market.”

“Market! The market be damned!” exclaimed Mr. Isaacson warmly. “What difference is there in the state of the market to-day and yesterday? Come now, Mr. Lavender, be honest. You know that I must have the money, and you are working to make a bit more out of me as I can’t go nowhere else now.”

Shaking his head reproachfully, Mr. Lavender picked up from his desk a small booklet, which he held out to his visitor.

“Here is a marked catalogue of the Van Roedan sale, which has just taken place in Paris,” he explained. “I have received it only this morning from my corresponding agent there. If you will look at the cameos and intaglios, Mr. Isaacson, you will see, much as I regret the fact, that the prices show a decline of at least 10 per cent. all round.”

Mr. Isaacson waved the paper aside,

“I might have known it, Mr. Lavender,” he said, with the resignation of despair. “You have a very sympathetic manner, and you are never at a loss for a few kind words, but if it comes to the chance of screwing out another pound or two, you are a champion.”

“You have me there, my dear Mr. Isaacson,” admitted Mr. Lavender cheerfully. “Yes; I suppose that is my character to a ‘t.’”

“Well, what is it to be this morning?”

“£650, Mr. Isaacson; not a penny more.”

“Then take your pen and write quickly,” exclaimed Mr. Isaacson, with a gleam of humour. “If I hold out another minute you’ll be having a report from your agent at Timbuctoo!”

“I hope that we shall often do business together and remain the best of friends, in spite of market fluctuations,” remarked Mr. Lavender as he handed over the cheque.

“Oh, that’s all right,” assented his visitor, picking up his hat. “I should have done just the same myself, of course.”

“I know you would; I know you would,” agreed Mr. Lavender heartily. “Good morning.”

Exactly a month after his first visit Mr. Lavender again made the village with the row of unattractive cottages the objective of his Wednesday holiday. He went straight there this time, however, and arrived early in the afternoon. Above the notice informing the passer-by that refreshments were to be obtained within was another, to the effect that “this desirable house was “to be let.” “By Jupiter!” muttered Mr. Lavender to himself, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

But the widow was still there, and she remembered the gentleman at once. “Oh, yes,” she said, with a melancholy smile, nodding towards the window, “it has soon come to that, sir. Every one was quite right. They have all reminded me that they prophesied it from the first.”

“If you don’t think me impertinent, what are you going to do now?” he asked.

“There is only one thing I can do,” she replied. “I can do housework, and I think that I shall easily get a situation as a housemaid or parlour-maid. I shall just be able to board Tommy at a cottage here.”

“You will be parted then?”

“Yes; that is inevitable. It is hard, but,” with a quiet gesture of resignation, “life is hard.”

“It has its prizes. You have drawn one lately. Not a large one as fortunes go, but enough for you to live on. You remember the picture I took away?”

“I don’t understand what you are saying,” she cried. “You are not playing a heartless joke? Is there something true?”

“Quite true,” he replied. “I want you to understand clearly before I go. The picture I took away?”

“Yes; the one I gave you.”

“No, no,” he expostulated smilingly. “One does not give such things away, nor does one accept them in such circumstances. It was convenient to take it, in order that I might deal with it on your behalf. Now I have done so. It has been sold and here is the cheque.”

She took the little slip of pinkish paper that was to make all the difference to her life, and stared at it incredulously.

“Twelve hundred pounds!” she whispered. “Oh, it can’t be. There is something wrong. It was only an engraving.”

“Yes, an engraving. ‘The Countess of Wrothsea as a Nymph,’ in the first state and the finest possible condition, to be precise. It is easy to see that you don’t take an interest in mezzotints, my dear lady, or you would not say ‘only an engraving.’ Here is half a column from the ‘Times’ all about your engraving. You can read it some other time. Do you happen to have a banking account?”

“No,” she said, and her voice sounded so unreal that she repeated the word.

“No, of course not, why should you have?” he agreed. “Well, it is scarcely three o’clock yet. You had better go to the bank by the station, open an account, and pay this safely in. Then some day soon I should like you to go to the address written on this paper, and ask the gentleman there to invest your money in the way I have suggested here. Will you promise to do that?”

“I will do anything that you ask me.”

“That will be all right, then. Now I will leave you to think it over.”

“Stop!” she exclaimed, rousing herself. “You are not going?”

“I should like to if you don’t mind,” he replied ingenuously.

“But you cannot leave like this,” she protested. “I am in a dream. Don’t you see how utterly inadequate, how silly, it is for me to say, ‘Oh, thank you!’ and for you to walk away as though you had returned me a dropped glove?”

“I think it perfectly right and perfectly natural,” he replied.

“You don’t realise that you have done anything out of the way—noble—what no one else in the world would have done?”

“No,” he replied, looking at her glowing face without a trace of responsive feeling, “I cannot think that I have done anything noble because I don’t feel anything at all noble about doing it—quite ordinary, you know.”

“Quite ordinary!” she repeated, with all the fervour extinguished.

“Quite. I did it—well, because it occurred to me. Once or twice in a lifetime, perhaps, there comes the opportunity of being, not noble, but, let us say, honest—conspicuously honest if you like. That is all.”

“I thank you a thousand times,” she said, holding out her hand with gracious dignity. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” he replied.

There was no one standing at the door this time when he turned. In her room upstairs the woman was sobbing at her bedside as though she had lost, not gained.