Chapter 12

1.

　　Uncle Chris walked breezily into the room, flicking a jaunty glove.

　　He stopped short on seeing that Mr Pilkington was not alone.

　　"Oh, I beg your pardon! I understood . . ." He peered at Jilluncertainly. Mr Pilkington affected a dim, artistic lighting-systemin his studio, and people who entered from the great outdoorsgenerally had to take time to accustom their eyes to it. "If you'reengaged . . .""Er--allow me . . . Miss Mariner . . . Major Selby.""Hullo, Uncle Chris!" said Jill.

　　"God bless my soul!" ejaculated that startled gentleman adventurer,and collapsed onto a settee as if his legs had been mown from underhim.

　　"I've been looking for you all over New York," said Jill.

　　Mr Pilkington found himself unequal to the intellectual pressure ofthe conversation.

　　"Uncle Chris?" he said with a note of feeble enquiry in his voice.

　　"Major Selby is my uncle.""Are you sure?" said Mr Pilkington. "I mean . . ."Not being able to ascertain, after a moment's self-examination, whathe did mean, he relapsed into silence.

　　"Whatever are you doing here?" asked Uncle Chris.

　　"I've been having tea with Mr Pilkington.""But . . . but why Mr Pilkington?""Well, he invited me.""But how do you know him?""We met at the theatre.""Theatre?"Otis Pilkington recovered his power of speech.

　　"Miss Mariner is rehearsing with a little play in which I aminterested," he explained.

　　Uncle Chris half rose from the settee. He blinked twice in rapidsuccession. Jill had never seen him so shaken from his customarypoise.

　　"Don't tell me you have gone on the stage, Jill!""I have. I'm in the chorus . . .""Ensemble," corrected Mr Pilkington softly.

　　"I'm in the ensemble of a piece called 'The Rose of America.' We'vebeen rehearsing for ever so long."Uncle Chris digested this information in silence for a moment. Hepulled at his short mustache.

　　"Why, of course!" he said at length. Jill, who know him so well,could tell by the restored ring of cheeriness in his tone that he washimself again. He had dealt with this situation in his mind and wasprepared to cope with it. The surmise was confirmed the next instantwhen he rose and stationed himself in front of the fire. MrPilkington detested steam-heat and had scoured the city till he hadfound a studio apartment with an open fireplace. Uncle Chris spreadhis legs and expanded his chest. "Of course," he said. "I remembernow that you told me in your letter that you were thinking of goingon the stage. My niece," explained Uncle Chris to the attentive MrPilkington, "came over from England on a later boat. I was notexpecting her for some weeks. Hence my surprise at meeting her here.

　　Of course. You told me that you intended to go on the stage, and Istrongly recommended you to begin at the bottom of the ladder andlearn the ground-work thoroughly before you attempted higherflights.""Oh, that was it?" said Mr Pilkington. He had been wondering.

　　"There is no finer training," resumed Uncle Chris, completely at hisease once more, "than the chorus. How many of the best-knownactresses in America began in that way! Dozens. Dozens. If I weregiving advice to any young girl with theatrical aspirations, I shouldsay 'Begin in the chorus!' On the other hand," he proceeded, turningto Pilkington, "I think it would be just as well if you would notmention the fact of my niece being in that position to MrsWaddesleigh Peagrim. She might not understand.""Exactly," assented Mr Pilkington.

　　"The term 'chorus' . . .""I dislike it intensely myself.""It suggests . . .""Precisely."Uncle Chris inflated his chest again, well satisfied.

　　"Capital!" he said. "Well, I only dropped in to remind you, my boy,that you and your aunt are dining with me tonight. I was afraid abusy man like you might forget.""I was looking forward to it," said Mr Pilkington, charmed at thedescription.

　　"You remember the address? Nine East Forty-First Street. I havemoved, you remember.""So that was why I couldn't find you at the other place," said Jill.

　　"The man at the door said he had never heard of you.""Stupid idiot!" said Uncle Chris testily. "These New Yorkhall-porters are recruited entirely from homes for the feeble-minded.

　　I suppose he was a new man. Well, Pilkington, my boy, I shall expectyou at seven o'clock. Goodbye till then. Come, Jill.""Good-bye, Mr Pilkington," said Jill.

　　"Good-bye for the present, Miss Mariner," said Mr Pilkington, bendingdown to take her hand. The tortoiseshell spectacles shot a last softbeam at her.

　　As the front door closed behind them, Uncle Chris heaved a sigh ofrelief.

　　"Whew! I think I handled that little contretemps with diplomacy! Acertain amount of diplomacy, I think!""If you mean," said Jill severely, "that you told some disgracefulfibs . . .""Fibs, my dear,--or shall we say, artistic mouldings of the unshapelyclay of truth--are the . . . how shall I put it? . . . Well, anyway,they come in dashed handy. It would never have done for Mrs Peagrimto have found out that you were in the chorus. If she discovered thatmy niece was in the chorus, she would infallibly suspect me of beingan adventurer. And while," said Uncle Chris meditatively, "of courseI _am_, it is nice to have one's little secrets. The good lady hashad a rooted distaste for girls in that perfectly honorable butmaligned profession ever since our long young friend back there wassued for breach of promise by a member of a touring company in hissophomore year at college. We all have our prejudices. That is hers.

　　However, I think we may rely on our friend to say nothing about thematter . . . But why did you do it? My dear child, whatever inducedyou to take such a step?"Jill laughed.

　　"That's practically what Mr Miller said to me when we were rehearsingone of the dances this afternoon, only he put it differently." Shelinked her arm in his. "What else could I do? I was alone in New Yorkwith the remains of that twenty dollars you sent me and no more insight.""But why didn't you stay down at Brookport with your Uncle Elmer?""Have you ever seen my Uncle Elmer?""No. Curiously enough, I never have.""If you had, you wouldn't ask. Brookport! Ugh! I left when they triedto get me to understudy the hired man, who had resigned.""What!""Yes, they got tired of supporting me in the state to which I wasaccustomed--I don't blame them!--so they began to find ways of makingme useful about the home. I didn't mind reading to Aunt Julia, and Icould just stand taking Tibby for walks. But, when it came toshoveling snow, I softly and silently vanished away.""But I can't understand all this. I suggested to youruncle--diplomatically--that you had large private means.""I know you did. And he spent all his time showing me over houses andtelling me I could have them for a hundred thousand dollars cashdown." Jill bubbled. "You should have seen his face when I told himthat twenty dollars was all I had in the world!""You didn't tell him that!""I did."Uncle Chris shook his head, like an indulgent father disappointed ina favorite child.

　　"You're a dear girl, Jill, but really you do seem totally lacking in. . . how shall I put it?--finesse. Your mother was just the same. Asweet woman, but with no diplomacy, no notion of _handling_ asituation. I remember her as a child giving me away hopelessly on oneoccasion after we had been at the jam-cupboard. She did not mean anyharm, but she was constitutionally incapable of a tactful negative atthe right time." Uncle Chris brooded for a moment on the past. "Oh,well, it's a very fine trait, no doubt, though inconvenient. I don'tblame you for leaving Brookport if you weren't happy there. But Iwish you had consulted me before going on the stage.""Shall I strike this man?" asked Jill of the world at large. "Howcould I consult you? My darling, precious uncle, don't you realizethat you had vanished into thin air, leaving me penniless? I had todo something. And, now that we are on the subject, perhaps you willexplain your movements. Why did you write to me from that place onFifty-Seventh Street if you weren't there?"Uncle Chris cleared his throat.

　　"In a sense . . . when I wrote . . . I was there.""I suppose that means something, but it's beyond me. I'm not nearlyas intelligent as you think, Uncle Chris, so you'll have to explain.""Well, it was this way, my dear. I was in a peculiar position youmust remember. I had made a number of wealthy friends on the boat andit is possible that--unwittingly--I have them the impression that Iwas as comfortably off as themselves. At any rate, that is theimpression they gathered, and it hardly seemed expedient to correctit. For it is a deplorable trait in the character of the majority ofrich people that they only--er--expand,--they only show the best andmost companionable side of themselves to those whom they imagine tobe as wealthy as they are. Well, of course, while one was on theboat, the fact that I was sailing under what a purist might havetermed false colors did not matter. The problem was how to keep upthe--er--innocent deception after we had reached New York. A womanlike Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim--a ghastly creature, my dear, all frontteeth and exuberance, but richer than the Sub-Treasury--looks askanceat a man, however agreeable, if he endeavors to cement a friendshipbegun on board ship from a cheap boarding-house on Amsterdam Avenue.

　　It was imperative that I should find something in the nature of whatI might call a suitable base of operations. Fortune played into myhands. One of the first men I met in New York was an oldsoldier-servant of mine, to whom I had been able to do somekindnesses in the old days. In fact--it shows how bread cast upon thewaters returns to us after many days--it was with the assistance of asmall loan from me that he was enabled to emigrate to America. Well,I met this man, and, after a short conversation, he revealed the factthat he was the hall-porter at that apartment-house which youvisited, the one on Fifty-Seventh Street. At this time of the year, Iknew, many wealthy people go south, to Florida and the Carolinas, andit occurred to me that there might be a vacant apartment in hisbuilding. There was. I took it.""But how on earth could you afford to pay for an apartment in a placelike that?"Uncle Chris coughed.

　　"I didn't say I paid for it. I said I took it. That is, as one mightsay, the point of my story. My old friend, grateful for favorsreceived and wishing to do me a good turn consented to become myaccomplice in another--er--innocent deception. I gave my friends theaddress and telephone number of the apartment-house, living the whilemyself in surroundings of a somewhat humbler and less expensivecharacter. I called every morning for letters. If anybody rang me upon the telephone, the admirable man answered in the capacity of myservant, took a message, and relayed it on to me at my boarding-house.

　　If anybody called, he merely said that I was out. There wasn't aflaw in the whole scheme, my dear, and its chief merit was itsbeautiful simplicity.""Then what made you give it up? Conscience?""Conscience never made me give up _anything_," said Uncle Chrisfirmly. "No, there were a hundred chances to one against anythinggoing wrong, and it was the hundredth that happened. When you havebeen in New York longer, you will realize that one peculiarity of theplace is that the working-classes are in a constant state of flux. OnMonday you meet a plumber. Ah! you say, A plumber! Capital! On thefollowing Thursday you meet him again, and he is a car-conductor.

　　Next week he will be squirting soda in a drug-store. It's the faultof these dashed magazines, with their advertisements ofcorrespondence courses--Are You Earning All You Should?--Write To Usand Learn Chicken-Farming By Mail . . . It puts wrong ideas into thefellows' heads. It unsettles them. It was so in this case. Everythingwas going swimmingly, when my man suddenly conceived the idea thatdestiny had intended him for a chauffeur-gardener, and he threw uphis position!""Leaving you homeless!""As you say, homeless--temporarily. But, fortunately,--I have beenamazingly lucky all through; it really does seem as if you cannotkeep a good man down--fortunately my friend had a friend who wasjanitor at a place on East Forty-First Street, and by a miracle ofluck the only apartment in the building was empty. It is anoffice-building, but, like some of these places, it has one smallbachelor's apartment on the top floor.""And you are the small bachelor?""Precisely. My friend explained matters to his friend--a fewfinancial details were satisfactorily arranged--and here I am,perfectly happy with the cosiest little place in the world, rentfree. I am even better off than I was before, as a matter of fact,for my new ally's wife is an excellent cook, and I have been enabledto give one or two very pleasant dinners at my new home. It lendsverisimilitude to the thing if you can entertain a little. If you arenever in when people call, they begin to wonder. I am giving dinnerto your friend Pilkington and Mrs Peagrim there tonight. Homey,delightful, and infinitely cheaper than a restaurant.""And what will you do when the real owner of the place walks in inthe middle of dinner?""Out of the question. The janitor informs me that he left for Englandsome weeks ago, intending to make a stay of several months.""Well, you certainly think of everything.""Whatever success I may have achieved," replied Uncle Chris, with thedignity of a Captain of Industry confiding in an interviewer, "Iattribute to always thinking of everything."Jill gurgled with laughter. There was that about her uncle whichalways acted on her moral sense like an opiate, lulling it to sleepand preventing it from rising up and becoming critical. If he hadstolen a watch and chain, he would somehow have succeeded inconvincing her that he had acted for the best under the dictates of abenevolent altruism.

　　"What success _have_ you achieved?" she asked, interested. "When youleft me, you were on your way to find a fortune. Did you find it?""I have not actually placed my hands upon it yet," admitted UncleChris. "But it is hovering in the air all round me. I can hear thebeating of the wings of the dollar-bills as they flutter to and fro,almost within reach. Sooner or later I shall grab them. I neverforget, my dear, that I have a task before me,--to restore to you themoney of which I deprived you. Some day--be sure--I shall do it. Someday you will receive a letter from me, containing a large sum--fivethousand--ten thousand--twenty thousand--whatever it may be, with thesimple words 'First Instalment'." He repeated the phrase, as if itpleased him. "First Instalment!"Jill hugged his arm. She was in the mood in which she used to listento him ages ago telling her fairy stories.

　　"Go on!" she cried. "Go on! It's wonderful! Once upon a time UncleChris was walking along Fifth Avenue, when he happened to meet a poorold woman gathering sticks for firewood. She looked so old and tiredthat he was sorry for her, so he gave her ten cents which he hadborrowed from the janitor, and suddenly she turned into a beautifulgirl and said 'I am a fairy! In return for your kindness I grant youthree wishes!' And Uncle Chris thought for a moment, and said, 'Iwant twenty thousand dollars to send to Jill!' And the fairy said,'It shall be attended to. And the next article?'""It is all very well to joke," protested Uncle Chris, pained by thisflippancy, "but let me tell you that I shall not require magicassistance to become a rich man. Do you realize that at houses likeMrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's I am meeting men all the time who have onlyto say one little word to make me a millionaire? They are fat, graymen with fishy eyes and large waistcoats, and they sit smoking cigarsand brooding on what they are going to do to the market next day. IfI were a mind-reader I could have made a dozen fortunes by now. I satopposite that old pirate, Bruce Bishop, for over an hour the very daybefore he and his gang sent Consolidated Pea-Nuts down twenty points!

　　If I had known what was in the wind, I doubt if I could haverestrained myself from choking his intentions out of the fellow.

　　Well, what I am trying to point out is that one of these days one ofthese old oysters will have a fleeting moment of human pity anddisgorge some tip on which I can act. It is that reflection thatkeeps me so constantly at Mrs Peagrim's house." Uncle Chris shiveredslightly. "A fearsome woman, my dear! Weighs a hundred and eightypounds and as skittish as a young lamb in springtime! She makes medance with her!" Uncle Chris' lips quivered in a spasm of pain, andhe was silent for a moment. "Thank heaven I was once a footballer!"he said reverently.

　　"But what do you live on?" asked Jill. "I know you are going to be amillionaire next Tuesday week, but how are you getting along in themeantime?"Uncle Chris coughed.

　　"Well, as regards actual living expenses, I have managed by a shrewdbusiness stroke to acquire a small but sufficient income. I live in aboarding-house--true--but I contrive to keep the wolf away from itsdoor,--which, by the by, badly needs a lick of paint. Have you everheard of Nervino?""I don't think so. It sounds like a patent medicine.""It is a patent medicine." Uncle Chris stopped and looked anxiouslyat her. "Jill, you're looking pale, my dear.""Am I? We had rather a tiring rehearsal.""Are you sure," said Uncle Chris seriously, "that it is only that?

　　Are you sure that your vitality has not become generally lowered bythe fierce rush of metropolitan life? Are you aware of the thingsthat can happen to you if you allow the red corpuscles of your bloodto become devitalised? I had a friend . . .""Stop! You're scaring me to death!"Uncle Chris gave his mustache a satisfied twirl. "Just what I meantto do, my dear. And, when I had scared you sufficiently--you wouldn'twait for the story of my consumptive friend! Pity! It's one of mybest!--I should have mentioned that I had been having much the sametrouble myself until lately, but the other day I happened to tryNervino, the great specific . . . I was giving you an illustration ofmyself in action, my dear. I went to these Nervino people--happenedto see one of their posters and got the idea in a flash--I went tothem and said, 'Here am I, a presentable man of persuasive mannersand a large acquaintance among the leaders of New York Society. Whatwould it be worth to you to have me hint from time to time at dinnerparties and so forth that Nervino is the rich man's panacea?' I putthe thing lucidly to them. I said, 'No doubt you have a thousandagents in the city, but have you one who does not look like an agentand won't talk like an agent? Have you one who is inside the housesof the wealthy, at their very dinner-tables, instead of being on thefront step, trying to hold the door open with his foot? That is thepoint you have to consider.' They saw the idea at once. We arrangedterms--not as generous as I could wish, perhaps, but quite ample. Ireceive a tolerably satisfactory salary each week, and in return Ispread the good word about Nervino in the gilded palaces of the rich.

　　Those are the people to go for, Jill. They have been so busywrenching money away from the widow and the orphan that they haven'thad time to look after their health. You catch one of them afterdinner, just as he is wondering if he was really wise in taking twohelpings of the lobster Newburg, and he is clay in your hands. I drawmy chair up to his and become sympathetic and say that I hadprecisely the same trouble myself until recently and mention a dearold friend of mine who died of indigestion, and gradually lead theconversation round to Nervino. I don't force it on them. I don't evenask them to try it. I merely point to myself, rosy with health, andsay that I owe everything to it, and the thing is done. They thank meprofusely and scribble the name down on their shirt-cuffs. And thereyour are! I don't suppose," said Uncle Chris philosophically, "thatthe stuff can do them any actual harm."They had come to the corner of Forty-first Street. Uncle Chris feltin his pocket and produced a key.

　　"If you want to go and take a look at my little nest, you can letyourself in. It's on the twenty-second floor. Don't fail to go out onthe roof and look at the view. It's worth seeing. It will give yousome idea of the size of the city. A wonderful, amazing city, mydear, full of people who need Nervino. I shall go on and drop in atthe club for half an hour. They have given me a fortnight's card atthe Avenue. Capital place. Here's the key."Jill turned down Forty-first Street, and came to a mammoth structureof steel and stone which dwarfed the modest brown houses beside itinto nothingness. It was curious to think of a private apartmentnestling on the summit of this mountain. She went in, and theelevator shot her giddily upwards to the twenty-second floor. Shefound herself facing a short flight of stone steps, ending in a door.

　　She mounted the steps, tried the key, and, turning it, entered ahall-way. Proceeding down the passage, she reached a sitting-room.

　　It was a small room, but furnished with a solid comfort which soothedher. For the first time since she had arrived in New York, she hadthe sense of being miles away from the noise and bustle of the city.

　　There was a complete and restful silence. She was alone in a nest ofbooks and deep chairs, on which a large grandfather-clock looked downwith that wide-faced benevolence peculiar to its kind. So peacefulwas this eyrie, perched high up above the clamor and rattle ofcivilization, that every nerve in her body seemed to relax in adelicious content. It was like being in Peter Pan's house in thetree-tops.

　　2.

　　Jill possessed in an unusual degree that instinct for explorationwhich is implanted in most of us. She was frankly inquisitive, andcould never be two minutes in a strange room without making a tour ofit and examining its books, pictures, and photographs. Almost at onceshe began to prowl.

　　The mantelpiece was her first objective. She always made for otherpeople's mantelpieces, for there, more than anywhere else, is thecharacter of a proprietor revealed. This mantelpiece was sprinkledwith photographs, large, small, framed and unframed. In the center ofit, standing all alone and looking curiously out of place among itslarge neighbors, was a little snapshot.

　　It was dark by the mantelpiece. Jill took the photograph, to thewindow, where the fading light could fall on it. Why, she could nothave said, but the thing interested her. There was mystery about it.

　　It seemed in itself so insignificant to have the place of honor.

　　The snapshot had evidently been taken by an amateur, but it was oneof those lucky successes which happen at rare intervals to amateurphotographers to encourage them to proceed with their hobby. Itshowed a small girl in a white dress cut short above slim, blacklegs, standing in the porch of an old house, one hand swinging asunbonnet, the other patting an Irish terrier which had planted itsfront paws against her waist and was looking up into her face withthat grave melancholy characteristic of Irish terriers. The sunlightwas evidently strong, for the child's face was puckered in a twistedthough engaging grin. Jill's first thought was "What a jolly kid!"And then, with a leaping of the heart that seemed to send somethingbig and choking into her throat, she saw that it was a photograph ofherself.

　　With a swooping hound memory raced hack over the years. She couldfeel the hot sun on her face, hear the anxious voice of FreddieRooke--then fourteen and for the first time the owner of acamera--imploring her to stand just like that because he wouldn't behalf a minute only some rotten thing had stuck or something. Then thesharp click, the doubtful assurance of Freddie that he thought it wasall right if he hadn't forgotten to shift the film (in which case shemight expect to appear in combination with a cow which he had snappedon his way to the house), and the relieved disappearance of Pat, theterrier, who didn't understand photography. How many years ago hadthat been? She could not remember. But Freddie had grown tolong-legged manhood, she to an age of discretion and full-lengthfrocks, Pat had died, the old house was inhabited by strangers . . .

　　and here was the silent record of that sun-lit afternoon, threethousand miles away from the English garden in which it had come intoexistence.

　　The shadows deepened. The top of the great building swayed gently,causing the pendulum of the grandfather-clock to knock against thesides of its wooden case. Jill started. The noise, coming after thedead silence, frightened her till she realized what it was. She had anervous feeling of not being alone. It was as if the shadows heldgoblins that peered out at the intruder. She darted to themantelpiece and replaced the photograph. She felt like some heroineof a fairy-story meddling with the contents of the giant's castle.

　　Soon there would come the sound of a great footstep, thud--thud . . .

　　_Thud._Jill's heart gave another leap. She was perfectly sure she had hearda sound. It had been just like the banging of a door. She bracedherself, listening, every muscle tense. And then, cleaving thestillness, came a voice from down the passage--"Just see them Pullman porters,Dolled up with scented watersBought with their dimes and quarters!

　　See, here they come! Here they come!"For an instant Jill could not have said whether she was relieved ormore frightened than ever. True, that numbing sense of the uncannyhad ceased to grip her, for Reason told her that spectres do not singrag-time songs. On the other hand, owners of apartments do, and shewould almost as readily have faced a spectre as the owner of thisapartment. Dizzily, she wandered how in the world she was to explainher presence. Suppose he turned out to be some awful, choleric personwho would listen to no explanations.

　　"Oh, see those starched-up collars!

　　Hark how their captain hollers'Keep time! Keep time!'

　　It's worth a thousand dollarsTo see those tip-collectors . . ."Very near now. Almost at the door.

　　"Those upper-berth inspectors,Those Pullman porters on parade!"A dim, shapeless figure in the black of the doorway, scrabbling offingers on the wall.

　　"Where are you, dammit?" said the voice, apparently addressing theelectric-light switch.

　　Jill shrank back, desperate fingers pressing deep into the back of anarm-chair. Light flashed from the wall at her side. And there, in thedoorway, stood Wally Mason in his shirt-sleeves.