Success
of the possibilities of draughtsman’s work and its difficulties and
drawbacks. And though they spoke of the obvious drawback, that it was
out of the question for one without a connection to expect to make even
pocket-money out of it for some time, they did not speak of the utter
distastefulness of such work to a man of Michael’s calibre. Nor yet
did they speak of the bitterness for such a one having to solicit as a
favour work inferior to the crudest of that which he used to delegate
to subordinates. Such things were too personal to be spoken of and too
obvious. Besides, the other drawback was enough: the fact that it was
impossible to expect to make a living at it for long.
“My father is not a rich man,” Michael said, towards the end of the
afternoon. “He had losses last year, and he pretty well lives up to
his income, I believe; he naturally looks to provide for his daughters
too, so far as he can; I can expect nothing from him. Theoretically, I
imagine, I am at liberty to live here until I get something to do——”
“But practically you can’t do it,” she concluded for him. “You can’t do
it for long. No, I know.”
Unconsciously, as she spoke, she glanced over her shoulder to where,
through the smeary little window, one could see the house, the
curtained drawing-room window and the corner of the conservatory. The
tea-gong sounded as she looked. She rose instantly, the idea of not
obeying a summons to meals here, or venturing to keep anyone waiting,
never occurred to her. It apparently did not occur to Michael either;
he rose too, and they went into the drawing-room.
A second visitor had taken the place of the first, her presence, and
the recent return of Constance, and later return of Rosalind, prevented
any comment on their long absence; indeed, probably no one had noticed
it at the time or thought of it now. Tea, with sweet cakes and talk,
filled the short time before Nan left; and if she herself contributed
little to the conversation, little was expected of her, and nothing of
Michael, except to hand cups and plates.
Almost directly after tea Nan left. Michael walked to the station with
her; so did Constance, who said they seemed to have seen so little
of her this time. During the walk the small bunch of chrysanthemums,
which were fetched in at the last minute, was criticised; Constance
told Michael he should have cut more, and Nan that she should have
helped herself, if he was too lazy. She also said kindly that Nan must
come again soon, some day when they were all at home. Nan answered
rather shyly, Constance made her shyer than any of the Annarlys, and
more aware of her own deficiencies in comparison with so many social
gifts. Michael also said little; he really knew nothing of the topics
discoursed upon, but apparently he was not expected to; he was there
for form’s sake merely, and to put Nan into the train.
CHAPTER VII
On the day before her birthday, Nan reminded her father of that
anniversary.
“It’s to-morrow,” she said; “have you forgotten?”
“No,” he answered, “nor have you. What do you want? Since you have not
spoken before, I suppose it is nothing I have to buy: something in the
house, is it?”
She shook her head, and he seemed pleased.
“That’s as well; I’d been ashamed of your taste if you had asked for
that iron chest.”
And he would too, though he would have given it, if she had asked for
it. As it was, he was so pleased she had not chosen it that he was
ready to grant a large demand, should she make one. For a moment she
hesitated. She had never come to him with any such request as she had
to make this year, and she did not know how to sum it in one word.
“I want you to give me Michael Annarly,” she said at length.
“What!” he exclaimed. “What on earth do you mean?”
“I’ll try to explain. You know I told you he had got into difficulties
with the people he worked with?”
He did: he probably knew quite as much about that as his brother-in-law
at Hurstbury; possibly more, for Nan had told him, and she knew better
how to convey things to her father than Michael did to his. He nodded
now.
“What’s that got to do with it?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you. It’s like this, Michael cannot get any sort of post at
present——”
“Naturally not; shouldn’t think he’d ever get one in his own line
again, not one worth having, and I don’t suppose he’s much good for
anything else. Go on.”
“That is where the present comes in,” Nan explained. “He can make
drawings. I suppose it is mostly machine-drawings and things like that
which he has done heretofore, but he could do details of furniture
to scale and all that extremely well. I don’t mean he would be worth
anything much to you on that account; but he could do it, and he could
write letters and do some of what Josiah now does, and so leave him
freer for other things, as you have often said lately you wished. What
I want, is that you will let Michael have this work, and that you will
let him live here to do it. That is what I want you to give me this
birthday.”
“Oh?” said Barmister. “Oh, indeed, is it?”
It was an unexpected request, as unexpected as the one which had
inaugurated the birthday custom, the desire of a child for a perfect
specimen of old French cabinet work. He received it in much the same
way that he had received the one of long ago, principally by looking
sharply at the maker to gauge, if possible, what, consciously and
unconsciously, prompted the asking. For a moment he sat thoughtful: not
refusing, as a good business man should; nor conceding, as an indulgent
father might. Now, as long ago, he paid his daughter the compliment of
doing neither hastily; not regarding her choice as a passing whim. If
he gave, or if he refused, he would do it with reason, or, at least,
because he saw she had what she deemed reason for her request.
“Is this your idea, or his?” he asked at length.
“Mine; he knows nothing about it. I do not even know if he will agree
to it.”
“H’m.” Barmister bit his finger thoughtfully. “Where does it lead to,
and what is it for?” he asked.
“It will give him an opportunity of getting and doing other work after
a time,” she said: “draughtsman’s work, the only thing allied to his
original profession, there is a chance of his getting at present. He
couldn’t get enough of that to live on for some while; but he could
get some and do it out of work-hours if he had something to do to keep
going on meanwhile. From that, other things would arise and develop in
time.”
“I see,” Barmister said, and sat thoughtful again.
After a time he looked up. “Where do you come in?” he asked abruptly.
“I want it,” she answered: “I want that—what I have indicated—to
happen.”
“Why? It’s no concern of yours.”
She was obliged to admit that, though it seemed a new idea to her. “I
suppose it isn’t,” she said slowly; “but it somehow seems as if it
were. You see, I happened to be the person there at the moment, that
rainy afternoon when I first brought him here. I happened to be there
when someone was wanted, as one might happen to be the person at hand
in an accident. When that occurs, it seems as if the job were one’s
own, don’t you think? It really is, too. Anyhow, I feel as if this were
mine, and I were concerned in it.”
“H’m,” he said again, and no more.
For some time he sat considering, turning the matter in his mind. At
length he spoke. “You can have it, if you like. Mind you, that’s not
saying I think it sensible, or that what you’ve asked for is going to
get you what you want, if that’s the reinstating of Michael Annarly.
I have my doubts if anything would do that, after what has happened.
I should say he has about done for his career. He’s been a fool, and
if there’s one thing Nature abhors more than a vacuum, it’s a fool:
Nature and Fate and everything else have a deal more use for knaves
than fools, and let them off a deal cheaper. It’ll take a better man
than you, or me, or him either to get over that business. Still, that’s
neither here nor there: you aren’t asking me to make a job of Michael
Annarly for a birthday present, and you aren’t asking me to think what
you have asked for worth the having.”
“No,” Nan agreed, “I’m asking you to let Michael come here to work for
a while, and to live with us while he does it.”
“You shall have it. On the understanding that I can take it back again
if I want to, and when I want to, if I think it’s interfering with
business—that’s to be understood.”
She said it was, and thanked him, and he dismissed her, saying he would
to-morrow give her a letter to Michael offering him such a situation as
she had described—unless he saw reason to change his mind during the
night.
He did not change his mind. The next morning at breakfast she found
the letter lying on her plate. It was a brief, businesslike letter,
offering the specified employment on the condition that the recipient
lived in the house so as to be there to do extra work at extra times
when necessary. The terms were fair, but not liberal; and the method
of expression formal. The offer was business, not philanthropy. But
Nan was satisfied when she read it; it was what she wanted. During
the morning she wrote to Michael, and enclosed the letter with her
own. He might refuse or accept without damage to his self-respect, and
without having to consider any damage to hers or her feelings. She was
merely the medium in the matter. He could judge of the offer on its own
merits, and see it fairly, and without any personal bias or glossing.
Seen so it must have shown extraordinarily bare to one who had done
some of the finest work on one of the most complex subjects known
to man; one who had been a recognised authority to be consulted and
respected by persons of position and intelligence; one who, in spite
of many jars and difficulties, had been considered and courted, as are
few of his age, by important men, and still more by their subordinates.
One, too, who, though always convinced of poverty, had come to look
upon many luxuries as necessaries, and as such had them; and who,
though not quite at one with it, had mixed as equal and as welcome
guest in a well-bred society that accepted him as it found him. The
offer was only to be inferior clerk and handy-man to a dealer in
second-hand furniture; with the ultimate hope, by using all spare time,
and, if Fate proved kind, of becoming a draughtsman, and doing the
worst drudgery of the profession in which former pre-eminence had been
won. The pay was small, the work was worth no more, and the society was
_nil_: there was none in the old house in Soho. All these things must
have been plain to Michael: he must have seen what was offered quite
as it was. Yet he accepted it. The Monday after Nan’s twenty-sixth
birthday found him in Soho.
Robert Barmister was not the easiest man to work for; he cared for
nothing but work, and he dealt much with Jews, who also exalted it to
the same place: his standards and demands on others, consequently, were
high and exacting. Theoretically, he expected little of Michael, seeing
the circumstances in which he employed him: practically, though he was
not aware of it himself, he expected a great deal more than most would
have expected of other and more qualified persons. He was a man of few
words; he spared little speech to make his instructions clear; he had
that impatience of ignorance which will not waste time explaining,
and so demands unusual intelligence when comprehension is desirable.
This did not matter with Josiah who had worked with him so long and so
closely as to be almost a second, and gentler, self. But it did not
make things easy for Michael, although, it must be owned, he himself
used to evince some of the same unconscious intolerance in dealing with