Chapter Fifteen.
Enter the Hermit.
The next morning Hope and Theo seated themselves at the piano, and tried over the songs which were to be included in the musical recital. The words had been written to fit certain tunes, but on singing them over little hitches and awkwardnesses were discovered, which made it necessary to reconstruct certain lines or introduce a new word for an old. As Philippa sat darning stockings in the dining-room, she smiled to herself at the sound of the disconnected snatches of song and the monotonous repetition of airs which were in such strange contrast to the classical music in which Hope delighted. All the same, the refrains were very catching; and when the “Giant’s Song” was practised in its turn, Philippa found herself instinctively swelling the chorus, and emphasising the last words of the lines in merry, schoolgirl fashion:
“Whether he be alive, or whether he be dead,
I’ll have his bones to make my bread!”
At lunch-time author and composer made their appearance, rather blue as to complexion and red as to fingertips—for the luxury of a fire in the drawing-room could not be indulged in before three o’clock at the earliest—but jubilantly pleased with themselves, and with the improvements which they had accomplished.
The next thing on the programme was to have a number of circulars lithographed for distribution, and for these Hope proposed to arrange that very afternoon, Madge accompanying her, the better to give instructions. “I can pay for them out of uncle’s present,” she explained smilingly. “He drove down to the lodge with me, and slipped a note in my bag in his usual fussy, disconnected fashion. ‘Something to pay your fare, my dear—just to pay your fare! Serious thing to live upon capital! Mustn’t allow you to be out of pocket by visiting us.’ I thought it would be a couple of sovereigns just to cover expenses, and forgot to open the envelope until just now when I was getting ready for lunch and wanted something out of the bag. Then I came across it, and what do you think I found? A ten-pound note! Wasn’t it sweet of the little mannikin?”
“Very decent. Fancy your forgetting about it! I should have torn it open the moment his back was turned,” cried Madge in amazement, while Hope sighed at the remembrance of how her thoughts had been occupied. It was a relief to be up and doing, and she started on the important expedition directly after lunch. Theo turned out also in search of adventure, while the busy housekeeper toiled away at her basket of mending, building castles in the air about that happy time when her fledglings would be full-grown geniuses, and poverty and anxiety known no more.
Three o’clock struck, and almost at the same moment came the sound of the electric bell to startle Philippa in the midst of her dreams. In response to the summons the little maid went to the door, and a man’s voice was heard inquiring if Miss Charrington was at home. Philippa gasped in dismay, and offered up a mental prayer that Mary would remember to show the visitor into the drawing-room. But Mary had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Of experience she had none, but her sense of fitness told her that when a gentleman wished to see the missus he should be shown into her presence as speedily as possible. She opened the door of the dining-room for about the space of six inches, peered round the corner, announced, “Here’s a gentleman,” and promptly retired to her lair, leaving the stranger standing on the mat. Philippa groaned in spirit over her own negligence, vowed that not another day should elapse before Mary was instructed in the art of introducing visitors, and walked forward to discover the identity of the stranger.
Alas! the first glance brought a prevision of trouble; she saw before her the stooping form, the thin, cadaverous face of the “Hermit,” occupant of Number 9. He bowed, she bowed, invited him into the room by a wave of the hand, and stood before him in questioning silence. Seen close at hand, the Hermit was younger and less austere than he had appeared from a distance; his features, though emaciated, were delicately moulded, and the eyes that looked out of the hollow caverns were bright and alert with life. It was the face of a man whose body was the slave of his brain—a man who forgot his meals in the interest of work; who turned day into night, and persistently ignored physical ills—a striking contrast to the girl beside him, with her glowing cheeks and tall, well-developed figure.
“You wished to see me?” asked Philippa, to end the silence. The Hermit coughed nervously, and turning his hat to and fro, nicked the dust from the brim.
“I—er—yes. I came to the conclusion that a personal interview was necessary. I have tried—er—other means of protest, but, as you are aware, without success. The case in point is—er—briefly this, that I cannot any longer submit to the annoyance which I have suffered since you have taken possession of this flat, and by which my work is seriously interrupted. The ordinary noise of a household I must of course, endure, but that is a different thing from wilful, intentional disturbance.”
“Wilful! Intentional!” Philippa’s cheeks grew rosy red, and she squared her shoulders in her old determined fashion. All the danger-signals were flying, and if any members of the family had been present they would have given little indeed for the chances of the stranger in the battle which loomed ahead. “I think you can hardly mean to insult me by insinuating that we have deliberately tried to annoy a neighbour, however wanting in courtesy we may have found him. I presume the immediate reason of this complaint was the music this morning; but I may remind you that for the last ten days the piano has not been opened, as my sister was from home. Does it not strike you as somewhat unreasonable to complain if a neighbour plays the piano once in a fortnight?”
“I was not aware that the interval had been so long; but even so, there ought to be moderation in all things. People who live in these establishments ought to remember that, however gratifying to their own tastes it may be to sing comic songs for hours at a stretch”—the thin lips curved into a barely concealed sneer—“it may be a most painful penance for their neighbours.”
“Even so, I am afraid it was necessary in this case. My sisters were not practising for their own amusement; strange to say, they also were at work. It is not necessary to go into details, but I can assure you that what they were doing was as important to them as your studies are to yourself. You misjudged them altogether if you supposed they wore performing for your edification.”
“I am sorry if I have made a mistake; though, of course, this was only one occasion out of many. As a matter of fact I did not intend to speak of music primarily, but of the other noises, which are more difficult to explain: a constant tapping outside my study window, for instance, which has a most trying effect on the nerves, and has made connected thought impossible every evening during the last week; and an extraordinary jarring sound which wakes me out of sleep before it is light, so that not only is my day’s work marred, but my nights are disturbed into the bargain.”
Philippa rested her hands on the table and stared at him with distended eyes. Was the man mad? Was he one of those morbid creatures who develop hallucinations in their lonely hours, and who, having once become possessed of an idea, proceed to nurse and coddle it into a full-grown mania? She tried to keep calm and cool, but her voice vibrated with indignation.
“And do you seriously mean to tell me that you believe us to be responsible! Do you blame us because something has gone wrong with your window-frame, or because the noises in the street disturb you in the morning? They disturb me too. I can rarely sleep after five o’clock, but I have certainly never dreamt of blaming you for the fact. You cannot possibly mean that you think—”
“I do more than think: I am as sure as it is possible to be. It is no ordinary street noise which wakens me, but something much nearer, and more jarring. It appears to be immediately outside my window, and it happens once each morning—and only once—sometimes at five, sometimes later, sometimes earlier still. With regard to the tapping, it has never happened before; and so far as I am aware, nothing is wrong with my window. I believe, as I said before, that both these noises are the result of intention, not accident.”
Philippa looked at him steadily with her bright, dark eyes. “And suppose,” she said quietly—“suppose I tell you in return that you are entirely mistaken, and that we have nothing to do with either one or the other. What then? Will you refuse to believe me?”
The two stared at one another in silence, like combatants measuring strength for a fight. It was the man whose eyes were the first to fall, the man who first showed signs of relenting.
“Of course, if you give me your word, Miss Charrington, I am bound to take it.”
“Then I give you my word, Mr Neil, that we are absolutely innocent of annoying you in the way you describe.”
The Hermit bowed, laid his hat on the table, and fumbled nervously with his coat.
“I can only say that the matter is most mysterious and annoying. Perhaps, however, you will be willing to promise that in other respects you will be more considerate for the future, so that I may be able to work with less disturbance from the noise overhead?”
“I am afraid I cannot see my way to giving any such promise, for I fail to see how we can be quieter without interfering with our own duties. I have three sisters, and music is the profession by which one of them hopes to make a living. If she gave up practising it would seriously injure her prospects. The others are busy all day long, and naturally wish for a little relaxation at night. Although you give us no credit for consideration, I may tell you that we are constantly calling our young brother to order in case he should disturb you, but I should not feel it right to make home dull and cheerless by forbidding any noise whatever.”
“It does not occur to you that under those circumstances you are hardly the right tenants for a flat, but ought to be in a house of your own?”
“It occurs to me that we are the best judges of our own actions,” returned Philippa icily, fighting down the wild longing that arose, even as she spoke, for a place of their own—a nest, however small, where they might dwell in peace and freedom. “You are not the only tenant, Mr Neil, who has to endure disagreeables from his neighbours; we also might find ground for complaint, if we wished to be disagreeable. My sisters sleep above your study, and they say you keep poking the fire until two in the morning and waking them up with a start. Then, too, you have a hanging lamp or chandelier which you push up, and which makes a most unpleasant noise; and in the autumn evenings you smoked strong cigars on your balcony until we were poisoned with the smell. Oh, there are a thousand things which I could mention,” cried Philippa—though in truth she would have been puzzled to add one more complaint to her list—“but I would not stoop to it! It is too miserably petty and degrading to be everlastingly picking quarrels. I am sick of it.”
“Not more heartily than I am. I have lived in these buildings for nearly ten years and have only once before made a complaint—which, I may remark, was met in a very different spirit.” The Hermit was evidently growing ruffled in his turn, and could not resist a parting shot before he left the room. “As I said before, I should be sorry to have to complain at headquarters, but I do not intend to have my comfort ruined by new-comers who have no claim on the establishment. If it becomes impossible for us both to live under one roof, I have little doubt who would be asked to remain.”
He was gone. The door closed behind him, and Philippa sank into a chair with a sudden feeling of collapse. “Oh! oh!” she cried, and her hands went up to her head, and her breath grew short and strangled. All her pride and independence were swept aside by the remembrance of those last pregnant words: “Impossible for us both—little doubt in whose favour!” Suppose—oh, suppose, the Hermit complained to the committee, and she were served with a notice to quit! Suppose, with one set of bills barely settled, she were called upon to incur a second! With characteristic Charrington impetuosity she beheld ruin stalk towards her, and the faces of brothers and sisters filled with a pale reproach. Her head dropped forward on to the table; the tears rolled down her cheeks. She was just about to indulge in the luxury of a good cry, when suddenly there was a sound in the room, an exclamation of distress, and there stood the Hermit, picking up the hat which still lay on the table, and murmuring disconnected sentences of explanation.
“I forgot my hat. The door was still open; I forgot to shut it. I turned back—Crying! I hope that I—that nothing that I have said—I should be most distressed—”
Philippa stared at him helplessly. Her impulse was to deny the suggestion with scorn, but how was that possible with the tears rolling down her cheeks? She tried to control herself, to steady her voice sufficiently to reply, but the floodgates were open and could not be restrained. An agony of dread seized her lest she should humiliate herself still further, and, pointing to the door with childlike helplessness, she sobbed out a pitiful “Please, go—please, go!” and buried her face in her hands.
The Hermit crept back to his room, but he could not work. Between himself and his books rose the vision of a girl’s face, tremulous and tearful. The dark eyes looked into his with pathetic reproach. He called himself a brute and a coward for having dared to distress her.