THE INCONSISTENCY OF UNCLE JOSEPH

But no. Nothing of the kind.

It was a most amazing day altogether.

It was a Thursday. They paid the usual visit to the bank, after which Philip and his uncle parted company at Swiss Cottage Station, and Philip walked resolutely home. The Elysian Fields were closed to him. He wondered how long Peggy would wait, and what she would think when he did not come. He hoped that in her quaint, old-fashioned way she would take a leaf from her mother's book and "make allowances" for him.

Holly Lodge was deserted, for James Nimmo had washed up and gone round the corner, in accordance with his invariable custom of an afternoon, in order to recuperate exhausted nature by partaking of what he termed "a wee hauf." (Philip often wondered what he did with the other half.) Philip let himself in at the side door with his latchkey, and, sitting down before the library fire, endeavoured to divert his thoughts by reading "The Idylls of the King." He turned up "Merlin and Vivien," which he had not previously studied, and set to work upon it. He had a personal interest in the name of Vivien now.

Meanwhile, two people were converging upon Holly Lodge.

The first was Uncle Joseph, returning from the City an hour and a half before his time. His business had been cut short by the sudden illness of one of his almoners, and he found himself free to return home at half-past three. He sat in a comparatively empty District Railway carriage—the human tide was not due to ebb for nearly two hours yet—perusing the current number of the "Searchlight." It contained two interesting paragraphs.

The first said:—

For some time past readers of the "Searchlight" have been forwarding to me copies of a weekly appeal for cash issued by an enterprising organisation calling itself "The International Brotherhood of Kind Young Hearts." The modus operandi of the ingenious gentleman who conducts this precious enterprise is not without its merits. Evidently with the idea of appealing to every possible shade of sentimentality, the circular is furnished with a list of no less than fifteen charitable objects, and the dupes of the Brotherhood are requested to select the case, or cases, which excite their compassion most, and mark these upon the list when forwarding their donations. The objects for which contributions are invited are most artistically varied, ranging as they do from the maintenance of "A Home for Unwanted Doggies" to the rehabilitation of a repentant but slightly indefinite burglar; but I can assure prospective contributors, with the utmost confidence, that, however meticulously they may earmark their pet cases, their money will all find its way into one capacious pocket. The administration of this exceptionally ingenious scheme of flat-catching is evidently in capable and experienced hands. Last week, anxious to make the acquaintance of the master-mind, I despatched one of my trustiest representatives to the headquarters of the Brotherhood, hoping that Big Brother—or whatever the arch flat-catcher calls himself—might be found at home. The offices are situated in Pontifex Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue, and consist of an undistinguished suite of apartments with the name of the Brotherhood painted upon the outer door, accompanied by a typewritten notice to the effect that the Secretary has gone to the country—a piece of information which is not altogether surprising. Here the scent abruptly ended, for enquiries elicited the news that the tenancy of the Brotherhood had terminated. Indeed, a new tenant was actually in possession when my representative called. We may, therefore, confidently expect Big Brother to break out shortly in a fresh place, probably with the name of his organisation slightly altered. As an alternative to "Kind Young Hearts," may I respectfully suggest "Fine Old Sharks"?

In another part of the paper Dill delivered his weekly comments upon the progress of his Christmas funds.

Subscriptions for the Christmas Dinner and Toy Funds are coming in steadily, and I am beginning to entertain high hopes of closing this year's account without a deficit. I have again to thank numerous old friends, whose names will be found in the list below, for the faithfulness and regularity with which they come to my assistance. This week's list is headed by an anonymous contribution of a hundred pounds. The giver is a gentleman whom, though his name is known to few, I regard as one of the most generous, and perhaps the most practical, philanthropist of my acquaintance. I have never known him to subscribe to an undeserving cause, and I have never known him refuse a worthy appeal. His gifts are made upon the sole condition that his name is not published. I am not prone to gush, and I will therefore refrain from commenting upon this rather unusual persistence in doing good by stealth. But I believe that deeds of this kind do not go unrewarded, and I can assure my anonymous friend that if he sets any store by the blessings of tired mothers and hungry children, they are his in abundance.

Uncle Joseph smiled a wry smile, and turned to the financial article.

The second was a lady. She rang the bell at Holly Lodge just as Philip reached the last page of "Merlin and Vivien."

James Nimmo was still moistening earth's clay at the establishment round the corner, and Philip answered the door.

Before him, standing on the doorstep, he beheld a tall, beautiful, and gracious lady. She was dressed in deep black, and looked old—quite thirty-five; possibly forty. She had a rather sad face, Philip thought, but it lit up wonderfully when she smiled, which she did as soon as she beheld the stolid, sturdy little figure in the doorway.

"Is this Holly Lodge, little boy?" she asked.

"Ye—es," stammered Philip. Evidently his visitor purposed crossing the threshold, and rules upon that subject were inflexible.

The Beautiful Lady smiled again.

"I think I know who you are," she said. "You are called Tommy."

"Yes," admitted Philip apprehensively. "Only sometimes," he hastened to add.

"I expect you have a grander name for state occasions," said the Beautiful Lady.

Philip might have mentioned that he possessed several, but he had the good sense merely to nod his head.

"Are your parents at home?" continued the visitor.

"I am afraid there is nobody at home but me," replied Philip, nerving himself to shut the door.

"That is capital," said the Beautiful Lady. "It is you whom I want to talk to particularly. So I am going to ask you to entertain me until your father and mother come home. Will you?"

Unconscious of the length of the visit to which she had committed herself, the lady walked into the hall.

Philip swiftly reviewed the essential features of the situation. The most obvious and pressing was the fact that a female had gained admittance to Holly Lodge. The second followed as a corollary—she must be ejected before Uncle Joseph returned. That would not be for a couple of hours at least. Surely he could get rid of her by that time. He led the intruder into the library—there was no drawing-room at Holly Lodge—and begged her to be seated. Then he installed himself upon the edge of a chair on the other side of the fireplace and took feverish counsel within himself.

"You must be wondering who I am," said the Beautiful Lady pleasantly. "I ought to have introduced myself sooner. My name is Lady Broadhurst, and I live in Hampshire."

Philip remembered addressing the envelope now. He nodded politely.

"I know," he said. "Plumbley Royal."

"That is right," said Lady Broadhurst. "I have been puzzling as to why you should have thought of writing to me. Where did you come across my address, I wonder."

"It was in an old Red Book," said Philip.

"I see. Still, it is strange that you should have selected me," continued the Beautiful Lady musingly. She seemed perplexed, yet gratified, evidently suspecting the hand of Providence. Philip might have explained that the wonder would have lain less in his visitor's selection than in her omission,—he had sent a copy of Tommy Smith's letter to every widow in the book whose name began with B,—but his mind was working frantically behind a solemn countenance, and he did not answer. He was trying to put himself in Uncle Joseph's place. How would he have treated this intrusion? How would he have parried questions about Tommy Smith? How would he have substantiated the starving curate and his fireless home, in the face of the solid comfort of Holly Lodge and the absolute invisibility of the curate and his emaciated progeny? Would he have dressed up James Nimmo as a curate? Would he have sent out to Finchley Road for a lady to represent the curate's tearful consort? Would he have explained that the curate had just received preferment and gone to live at Berwick-on-Tweed? Possibly; but such feats of imposture were beyond the powers of a slow-witted, inherently honest philogynist of fourteen.

Lady Broadhurst was speaking again, in a low, musical voice, holding out her hands to the blazing fire. Philip noticed that these hands were long and thin, like Peggy's and unlike the hands of the women whom he sometimes encountered sitting in omnibuses or serving in shops. Her feet were tiny, too. In the glow of the fire her eyelashes looked long and wet.

"I was very much touched," she was saying, "by your letter. Your wanting a little girl for a sister came very near home to me; for I have just lost a little girl of my own. She was all I had, Tommy. She was taken from me three months ago.... I suppose we should take our losses as they come, without wincing or questioning the wisdom of God. But I was weak—and selfish. For a long time I refused to bow to his will. I cried out, and would not be comforted...."

The Beautiful Lady's eyes were really glistening now. Presently a tear splashed on to the long white hand. Philip felt strangely uncomfortable. He had been warned by his uncle more than once to beware, above all, of a woman's tears. "Her tears are the biggest gun in her battery," Uncle Joseph had said. But Philip forgot to feel suspicious. He was only intensely sorry for the lady.

Presently she began to speak again, not altogether to Philip.

"But I came to myself," she said. "I suddenly learned that all things work together for good—that there is no sorrow which does not bring its own consolation with it. One day I saw myself as I was—a querulous, self-centered, self-conscious, self-made martyr. I had forgotten that other people had their troubles too—troubles which I might do something to smooth away." She looked up. "Do you know who taught me that lesson, Tommy?"

Philip shook his head apologetically.

"I'm afraid I don't," he said.

"It was you!"

"Me?" said Philip, a little dazed.

"Yes—you! It was your letter. When I read it I learned, all of a sudden, where the cure for sorrow lies. It lies in trying to help others. So I have come to see you and your parents, in the hope that I may be allowed to be of some small service to you all. I cannot give you a little sister to play with—"

The lady's voice broke suddenly, and Philip tactfully arose and put coal upon the fire.

"—but I may be able to help you in other ways. I am fairly well off, and I ask to be permitted to see that your father gets back to health and strength again. Do you think he would consent? He might like to go abroad for a little."

Philip began to feel horribly uncomfortable. He had already allowed his visitor to assume that she was in the dwelling of an indigent Clerk in Holy Orders, and that she was addressing Master Thomas Smith. Moreover, he had sat mute while she laid bare to him the tenderest secrets of a woman's heart, and the thought of what the end of the conversation must be made him feel a pitiful little cad. On the other hand, it was plainly advisable to establish some sort of working explanation, however lame, of the non-appearance of the Smith family. Once more, what would Uncle Joseph have done? He would probably have explained to this gracious being quite courteously but extremely firmly, that she was an incubus and a parasite, actuated by predatory instincts, and would have cast her from the house. But Philip felt utterly incapable of and entirely disinclined to such a drastic course of action. But plainly, something must be done. His head began to swim.

"Perhaps your father and mother would like to go away together for a few weeks," suggested the Beautiful Lady. A glow of cheerful kindness was creeping into her cheeks. "To the seaside, perhaps, or even to the south of France. They could take the baby with them, and you might come to me, Tommy. Could you accept me as your mother for a week or two, do you think?" There was a world of wistfulness in her voice. "Could you?"

Apparently not, for straightway the solemn-faced little boy before her flushed scarlet.

"I—I'm afraid you have been making a mistake," began Philip desperately. "I'm not Tommy Smith at all."

Lady Broadhurst looked puzzled.

"Not Tommy Smith? But you wrote me that letter, surely?"

"Yes, I wrote it," admitted Philip in a low voice.

"Then where is the mistake? You are not the baby, are you?"

"No, I'm not the baby either," said Philip miserably.

"But your father—"

"I haven't got any father—or mother, I'm afraid," said Philip, feeling more guilty than ever.

The lady paused, and contemplated him with quickened interest.

"You poor little lad!" she said, very softly.

"But whose house is this?"

"My uncle's."

Lady Broadhurst's face cleared.

"I see," she said. "You have no parents of your own, but live with your uncle and aunt. Naturally you would regard them as your father and mother, and speak of them as such. I understand now. But that shall make no difference. In fact I like the scrupulous way you tell me everything. If your uncle is ill—"

"He isn't ill," said Philip regretfully.

"Then he is better?" said Lady Broadhurst with a cheerful smile. "In that case he will be able to travel at once."

Philip gripped the arm of his chair. The bad time had come.

"My uncle isn't a—" he began.

He was going to say "curate," but at that moment, to his profound surprise and unspeakable relief, there fell upon his ears the music of a latchkey in a lock, followed by the banging of the front door. Uncle Joseph had returned, an hour and a half before his time.

Well, whatever happened now, the responsibility had slipped from Philip's shoulders. And in the midst of all the present turmoil of his senses one emotion overtopped all the others—a feeling of intense curiosity to behold the arch-expert in misogyny handling the situation.

It would be a sensational scene, Philip thought. And he was not disappointed.

"Hallo, there, Philip!" Uncle Joseph's voice rang out from the hall. "Are you in?" The library door stood ajar, and his words could be heard distinctly.

"Yes, Uncle Joseph!" called Philip.

"That is my uncle," he explained, turning politely to the Beautiful Lady. "He—"

But the words died on his lips. Lady Broadhurst was on her feet, deadly white, and shaking. One hand was at her heart, the other fumbled at the mantelpiece for support.

Uncle Joseph's voice rang out again, this time from the neighbourhood of the hatstand.

"I'm back sooner than I expected. Skip about and get me some tea, you young beggar!"

The Beautiful Lady's white lips parted, and she uttered a faint cry. But she did not move.

Philip went out into the hall. His uncle was hanging up his greatcoat.

"Well, young man?" he observed cheerfully.

"There is some one wanting to see you in the library, Uncle Joseph," said Philip falteringly.

"Oh! Who?"

"A—a lady."

Uncle Joseph's brow darkened instantly.

"A lady?" he said icily. "Who let her in?"

"I did. At least, she came in."

"Well, we can appraise responsibility later. Meanwhile—"

Uncle Joseph, very stiff and erect, strode across the hall and into the library.

There was a moment of dead silence, and then a great cry; then a rush of feet; then silence again—silence that could be felt.

What had happened? Philip wondered.

Then, at last, came voices.

"Vivien! Vivien! Vivien! My little Vivien, after all these years! Thank God for his infinite goodness and mercy! My Vivien! My little girl!"

"Joe! Joe! Dear, dear Joe! At last, at last! Hold me closer, dear! I can't believe it yet! I'm frightened—hold me closer! Oh, my dear, my dear!"

Then the voices blended into an indeterminate, cooing, soothing murmur.

Philip looked into the library.

Upon the hearthrug, with his back to the door, stood Uncle Joseph, misogynist. In his arms he held the Beautiful Lady, and he was passionately kissing her eyes, her hair, her lips.

Philip retired in good order and closed the door softly, leaving them together.

Once in the hall, he snatched up his cap and coat and slipped out of the front door. The afternoon light was fading.

There was still a chance, he thought.

He broke into a run.