THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THEOPHILUS

"Pretty hot stuff this port of yours, old son—what?"

"Take some more," grunted Philip.

"Thank you. That was the situation I was endeavouring to lead up to," said Timothy, and helped himself.

"It's a blessing to see your honest but homely features once again," he continued, lifting his glass, "especially when you signalise your return by replenishing the wine-cellar. Chin-chin, old thing!"

Philip, sitting on one chair with his feet on another and smoking a briar pipe, grunted again. Timothy rose, and lit a cigarette with a live coal from the fire. (Matches were never a conspicuous feature of a bachelor establishment, however well regulated.) As he did so, his eye was caught by a pair of tall and hideous vases,—of the kind which is usually given away at coÖperative stores to customers who have been rash enough to accumulate a certain number of coupons,—standing one at each end of the mantelpiece.

"Oh, my dear old Theophilus," moaned the Æsthetic Timothy, "do you mean to say you have resurrected the Bulgarian Atrocities?"

The ornaments in question had been a Christmas present from Mrs. Grice. ("I bought 'em just before closing-time at a Sale of Work what my married sister in the Wandsworth Road was interested in, sir," she had explained. "A Sale of Work in aid of the Bulgarian Atrocities, it was. I said to Grice at the time that they would brighten up your room something wonderful. There they are, sir, with our respectful Christmas wishes—one from Grice and one from me. Oh, thank you sir!") Hence their name.

"Yes," said Philip; "Mrs. Grice got them out of the cupboard as soon as I returned, and they were duly washed and put up this morning. I was hoping she had forgotten about them; but they will have to stay there now. We mustn't offend the old lady. You are a tremendous swell to-night, Tim. Going out?"

"Yes," said Tim importantly, "I am." He produced a pair of white gloves and began to try them on, surveying Philip's aged dinner-jacket and black tie with tolerant indulgence.

"I must now pull myself together," he announced, turning to survey an appallingly tight white waistcoat with immense satisfaction in the glass over the mantelpiece, "and pass along quietly."

"You needn't go yet," said Philip, filling another pipe.

"Despite your frenzied entreaties, old son," replied Timothy, "I simply must. There is going to be dirty work at the crossroads to-night," he added mysteriously.

Philip, who gathered that a confidence of some kind was on the way, waited. It was good to see Timothy again. His company was always exhilarating, and at the present juncture it was extra welcome. For Philip found himself at an unexpectedly loose end. He had landed from the Caspian a week before, determined this time to put his whole fate to the touch—only to find that his Lady was not in London. Friends in Hampshire—he knew neither their name nor address, and was much too self-conscious to enquire at Tite Street—had snatched her away directly after her father's wedding, and the date of her return was uncertain. Therefore he leaned at this moment upon Timothy.

Presently Tim enquired:—

"I say, Phil, ever been in love, old friend?"

This was a familiar gambit, and Philip gave his usual reply.

"Occasionally."

"Anything doing at present? Anything fresh?"

"Nothing to write home about, thanks."

Timothy surveyed his friend critically.

"I wonder," he said musingly, "if Romance could ever really find a lurking-place in that gearless, valveless little heart!"

"Afraid not," said Philip. "Romance gives old fossils like me the go-by."

"Don't talk rot of that kind, Phil," replied the boy quickly. "Any woman would be proud to marry you. Fool if she wasn't!" he added, with real sincerity.

Philip responded by waving his glass in his friend's direction.

"Mr. Rendle, your health and sentiment!" he remarked gravely. He drank; laid down the glass; and sat up.

"And now, my son Timothy," he remarked briskly, "get it off your chest! Own up! Who is she? When do the banns go up—eh?"

"Get what off my chest?" enquired Tim, with a great appearance of surprise.

"This great secret. Cough it up! Who is the lady?"

One of Philip's greatest virtues in the eyes of Timothy was that he never, under any circumstances, ended that particular question with "this time." But he was genuinely surprised at Philip's penetration.

"Great Scott! It must be written all over me if you can spot it, old BartimÆus!" he said, not altogether displeased. "Yes, you are right. It has happened at last."

"What?"

"It! I'm in love."

"It comes to us all, sooner or later," remarked Philip tactfully.

"And I am going," announced Tim with great firmness, "to bring it off this very night."

Philip glanced at the clock.

"Quarter to ten," he said. "A bit late to begin a job of that magnitude to-night, isn't it? Are you going to apply personally, or by letter?"

"What's that?" enquired Timothy, emerging from a rapturous reverie.

Philip repeated the question.

"Letter?" exclaimed Tim with infinite scorn—"a letter? Write? Write a letter? My sainted aunt, write?" He gazed indignantly upon the automaton before him that called itself a man. "My dear old relic of the Stone Age—"

"In the Stone Age," observed the relic, "they couldn't write."

Timothy made reference to the Stone Age which was neither seemly nor relevant, and continued:—

"Do you expect me to sit down and write—write to her—upon such a subject as that? Write—with a three-and-nine-penny fountain pen, on Silurian notepaper at a shilling a packet? It's not done, dear old soul; it's simply not done!"

Timothy, carefully hitching up the knees of his faultlessly creased trousers, lowered himself on to the sofa, the picture of reproachful scorn.

"If it takes you that way," replied the unruffled Philip, "why not use cream-laid vellum and a gold nib?"

Timothy merely made an alarming noise at the back of his neck.

"Or a typewriter, with the loud pedal down and all the stops out?" pursued the facetious Philip.

"Phil," announced Timothy, with a pathetic attempt to look extremely stern and dignified, "let me tell you that I am in no mood for this sort of thing. Dry up, man; dry up! Do you think I could get all I have to say upon this occasion within the limits of an ordinary letter?"

"Under the present postal regulations," explained Philip, "you can send four ounces for a penny. In fact, if you leave the ends open—"

He caught sight of Tim's tragic face, and concluded his entertainment.

"Sorry, old chap!" he remarked, suddenly contrite. "I don't know why one should try to pull a man's leg on these occasions. God knows, the business is serious enough."

"Thanks," said Timothy gratefully. "To tell you the truth, I am feeling pretty bad about it. You don't know what it is to be hard hit by a woman, Phil."

"No. I should have remembered that," said Philip apologetically.

"I know you consider me a young blighter who is always in love with some little piece of goods or other," continued the chastened Timothy; "but this time it is serious. This is the end of all things. Never before have I got sufficiently fond of a girl to ask her to marry me; but I am going to do it to-night."

"I wish you luck," said Philip with feeling.

"Thanks, old friend," responded the boy gratefully. "I'm in a terrible twitter."

"Why not write?" reiterated the methodically minded Philip. "A letter has its points, you know. I understand that on these occasions it is a little difficult to keep one's head. Metaphors get mixed; telling points are omitted; and the peroration halts, or misses fire."

The feverish Timothy eyed his friend with amazed compassion.

"I should like to remind you," he observed, "that we are discussing love-letters—not election addresses!"

"All right," said Philip pacifically; "have it your own way. All I wanted to bring home to you was the fact that once you get your sentiments safely down on paper, the lady is bound to get the hang of them in the long run. On the other hand, if you stake everything on a single verbal encounter, you may find yourself in the tumbril. The G.P.O. may be unromantic, but it is safe."

But Timothy was not listening. He had put on his greatcoat and was now adjusting a white silk muffler.

"I'm going," he announced in trumpet tones, "to let her have it hot and strong. I'm going to carry her off her feet. I'm going—The devil of it all is," he added disconsolately, "that one never knows how to begin—when to chip in, in fact. You know! One can't very well get to work while shaking hands; there has to be a little preliminary chit-chat of some kind. Then, the conversation goes and settles down to some rotten, irrelevant topic; and before you can work it round to suit your plans the next dance strikes up, or some criminal comes and interrupts you, or else it's time to go home. And there you are, outside on the mat once more, kicking yourself to death!"

Timothy cocked his silk hat upon his sleek head with great precision, and concluded:—

"But I am going to do it to-night, or perish. Give me five minutes in the Freeborns' conservatory between waltzes, and she has simply got to have it! Good-night!"

He bounced out of the room, and was gone.

"I wonder who the charmer is this time," mused Philip, getting up and knocking out his pipe. "I might have asked him."

He rang the bell, and after a moment Mrs. Grice glided respectfully into the room, after the manner of a cardboard figure in a toy theatre. She was followed by her husband, struggling with his coat.

"'Ave you rang the bell, sir?" queried Mrs. Grice.

"Yes," said Philip. "Will you clear away, please. I want that table to-night—to write at."

During the turmoil which now ensued, Philip sat on the padded leather fire-guard and lit another pipe. Presently he said:—

"Mrs. Grice!"

Mrs. Grice, engaged in a bout of what looked like a game of catch-as-catch-can with Mr. Grice and the tablecloth, immediately extricated herself from her damask winding-sheet and came respectfully to attention.

"Sir?"

"Mrs. Grice, when you received your husband's proposal of marriage, was it by letter or word of mouth?"

Mrs. Grice, needless to say, was quite overwhelmed with maidenly confusion. Coming from Timothy, such a question as this would have surprised her not at all; for Timothy was one of those fortunate persons who may say what they like to any one. But as uttered by her grave and reserved patron Mr. Meldrum, it sounded most alarming. She replied, breathlessly:—

"Was you referring to Mr. Grice or to my first 'usband, sir?"

"'Ow should Mr. Meldrum," enquired a husky voice from the sideboard, "know you ever 'ad a fust 'usband?"

Mrs. Grice, having now recovered her mental poise, countered with a lightning thrust.

"Knowing you as he does, Grice," she retorted, "is it likely Mr. Meldrum would dream of regardin' you as my first choice?"

Philip broke in pacifically:—

"Let us say your first husband, Mrs. Grice."

"Well, sir," began Mrs. Grice readily, "'e did it by word of mouth. Leastways, not precisely. Partly by deputy, if you take my meaning, sir."

Philip made an apologetic gesture.

"Not absolutely," he said.

"Well, sir," continued Mrs. Grice, beginning to enjoy herself, "we'd bin walkin' out for some time, and it didn't look like ever comin' to anything. So my brother George, 'e said it was time the matter was took up proper. George was a brewer's drayman. There was eleven of us altogether!—"

"Not quite so much of it!" advised Mr. Grice, who had left the sideboard to join the symposium. "Get back to your first."

Needless to say, Mrs. Grice took not the slightest notice.

"Well, sir, George told me to tell 'Enery—that bein' his name; Grice's, as you know, bein' Albert—"

"Keep to the point, do!" groaned Mr. Grice.

"—George told me to tell 'Enery—'Enery 'Orbling his full name was—that if him and me wasn't married inside of four weeks, George would come along and knock his 'ead off. I told 'Enery what George had said, sir," continued the old lady in a tone of tender reminiscence, "and I became Mrs. 'Orbling in three weeks and six days exactly. That's what I meant when I said that my courting was done by deputy. 'Orbling died fourteen years ago, in Charing Cross Hospital. His kidneys are still—"

"I see," said Philip hurriedly. "Grice, when you asked the future Mrs. Grice to become your wife, how did you set about it?"

"Was you referrin', sir," enquired Mr. Grice, with a respectful wheeze, "to this Mrs. Grice or to my first wife?"

"Let us say this Mrs. Grice," said Philip, beginning to feel a little dizzy.

Mr. Grice, who had been assisting his second choice to load glasses and spoons on to a tray, once more desisted from his labours in order not to confuse his brain, and began, fixing his wavering eye upon a point on the wall just above Philip's head:—

"I met 'er at a birthday party at my late first's married sister's, sir. I gave her a motter out of a cracker, which seemed to me to sum up what I wanted to say in very convenient fashion, sir. It said:—

sir. Very 'andy and compact, I thought it."

"And what did you say to that, Mrs. Grice?" asked Philip.

"I told him to give over being a silly old man, sir," replied Mrs. Grice, with extreme gratification.

"And did he?"

"No, sir," replied the simpering Mrs. Grice. "'E would 'ave me! He got his way." She smiled roguishly at her all-conquering spouse, who gave her a look of stern reproof. "Will there be anything further, sir?"

"No thank you," said Philip. "Good-night!"

His aged retainers having withdrawn, Philip sat on, staring into the fire.

"We all have our own ways of setting about things," he said aloud. Philip had a bad habit of talking to himself, especially at moments of mental concentration. When scolded by Peggy, he had pleaded that it helped him to think. "Tim's is a personal interview in the conservatory. Grice's is a motto out of a cracker. Mrs. Grice's is a big brother. Mine—"

He rose, and crossed the room to a locked bureau. From this he extracted an old leather writing-case, which had once belonged to his father. This he laid open upon the table, beside a green-shaded reading-lamp. After that he turned out all the other lights and made up the fire to a cheerful blaze. Finally, from the pocket of the writing-case he extracted a fat envelope. It was addressed, but not fastened. Philip drew up his chair to the table and pulled out the contents. These comprised many sheets, the last of which was not finished.

He read the letter right through, slowly and seriously. Occasionally he made an erasure or a correction, but not often. Then, when he reached the unfinished page, he charged his pen, squared his elbows, uttered a heavy sigh, and addressed himself to the labours of composition.

More than once he tore a page up and began again, but finally all was finished.

He leaned back and read the whole epistle right through again. Then he folded its many sheets in their right order and put them into the envelope.

"I think the occasion calls for sealing-wax," he said.

He found an old stump in the writing-case, and sealed up the envelope, impressing it with his father's seal. Presently the deed was done. The Epistle of Theophilus lay on the table before its author, signed, sealed, addressed, and stamped. Philip looked at the clock, and whistled. It was a quarter past twelve.

He drew aside the curtains and inspected the night. The plate-glass window had become mysteriously opaque; so he raised the sash—to lower it again with all speed, coughing. A thick brown fog, of the brand affectionately known among its habitual inhalers as "London particular," was lying in a sulphurous pall over the choking city.

"All the same, my lad," decided Philip, "you had better trot out and post it. It will be delivered at Tite Street to-morrow morning, and perhaps some Christian person there will forward it. Perhaps Jean Leslie will. Wish I could post myself, too," he added wistfully. "Hello, what's that?"

From the little lobby outside came the sharp rat-tat of a knocker—low, clear, and rhythmical. To judge by the sound, the outer door was standing open, and some person unknown was indulging in a playful little tattoo.

it said.

Philip's heart almost broke from its moorings. Hastily he picked up the shaded lamp from the table and turned its light to illuminate the doorway.

Next moment there came a quick and familiar step outside. The door of the room opened gently; and there appeared, radiant and dazzling against the blackness behind, a Vision.

"Peggy!"

"Yes—just me!" replied the Vision demurely.