The Double Life Of Mr. Alfred Burton Part 32

Burton took up his hat and stole softly out of the room. As quickly as he could, he made his way to the offices of the Piccadilly Gazette and sought his friend the sub-editor. The sub-editor greeted him with a nod.

"Heard about your novel yet?" he inquired.

"I had it back this morning," his caller replied. "I have sent it away somewhere else. I have written you a little study of 'The Children of London.' I hope you will like it."

The sub-editor nodded and glanced it through. He laid it down by his side and for the first time there seemed to be a shadow of hesitation in his tone.

"Don't force yourself, Burton," he advised, looking curiously at his contributor. "We will use this in a day or two. You can apply at the cas.h.i.+er's office for your cheque when you like. But if you don't mind my saying so, there are little touches here, repet.i.tions, that might be improved, I think."

Burton thanked him and went home with money in his pocket. He undressed the boy, who sleepily demanded a bath, put him to sleep in his own bed, and threw himself into an easy-chair. It was late, but he had not troubled to light a lamp. He sat for hours looking out into the shadows. A new responsibility, indeed, had come into life. He was powerless to grapple with it. The grotesqueness of the situation appalled him. How could he plan or dream like other men when the measure of the child's existence, as of his own, could be counted by weeks? For the first time since his emanc.i.p.ation he looked back into the past without a shudder. If one had realized, if one had only taken a little pains, would it not have been possible to have escaped from the life of bondage by less violent but more permanent means? It was only the impulse which was lacking. He sat dreaming there until he fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER XXII

DOUBTS

Mr. Bomford in his town clothes was a strikingly adequate reflection of the fas.h.i.+on of the times. From the tips of his patent boots, his neatly tied black satin tie, his waistcoat with its immaculate white slip, to his glossy silk hat, he was an entirely satisfactory reproduction. The caretaker who admitted him to Burton's rooms sighed as she let him in.

He represented exactly her ideal of a gentleman.

"Mr. Burton and the little boy are both in the sitting-room, sir," she announced, opening the door. "A gentleman to see you, sir."

Burton looked up from his writing-table for a moment somewhat vaguely.

Mr. Bomford, who had withdrawn his glove, held out his hand.

"I trust, Mr. Burton, that you have not entirely forgotten me," he said. "I had the pleasure of dining with you a short time ago at Professor Cowper's. You will doubtless remember our conversation?"

Burton welcomed his visitor civilly and motioned him to a seat. He was conscious of feeling a little disturbed. Mr. Bomford brought him once more into touch with memories which were ever a.s.sailing him by night and by day.

"I have taken the liberty of calling upon you, Mr. Burton," the newcomer continued, setting down his silk hat upon a corner of the table, and lifting his coat-tails preparatory to sinking into a chair, "because I believe that in the excitement of our conversation a few nights ago, we did not do adequate justice to the sentiments which--er--provoked our offer to you."

Mr. Bomford sat down with the air of a man who has spoken well. He was thoroughly pleased with his opening sentence.

"It did not occur to me," Burton replied, "that there was any possibility of misunderstanding anything you or Professor Cowper said.

Still, it is very kind of you to come and see me."

Alfred, who was drawing in colored chalks at the other end of the room, rose up and approached his father.

"Would you like me to go into the other room, father?" he asked. "I can leave my work quite easily for a time, and I have several books there."

Mr. Bomford screwed an eyegla.s.s into his eye and looked across at the child.

"What an extraordinarily--forgive my remark, Mr. Burton--but what an extraordinarily well-behaved child! Is it possible that this is your boy?"

Alfred turned his head and there was no doubt about the relations.h.i.+p.

He, too, possessed the deep-set eyes with their strange, intense glow, the quivering mouth, the same sensitiveness of outline.

"Yes, this is my son," Burton admitted, quietly. "Go and shake hands with Mr. Bomford, Alfred."

The child crossed the room and held out his hand with grave self-possession.

"It is very kind of you to come and see father," he said. "I am afraid that sometimes he is very lonely here. I will go away and leave you to talk."

Mr. Bomford fumbled in his pocket.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed. "Dear me! Ah, here is a half-crown! You must buy some chocolates or something to-morrow, young man. Or a gun, eh?

Can one buy a gun for half-a-crown?"

Alfred smiled at him.

"It is very kind of you, sir," he said slowly. "I do not care for chocolate or guns, but if my father would allow me to accept your present, I should like very much to buy a larger drawing block."

Mr. Bomford looked at the child and looked at his father.

"Buy anything you like," he murmured weakly,--"anything you like at all."

The child glanced towards his father. Burton nodded.

"Certainly you may keep the half-crown, dear," he a.s.sented. "It is one of the privileges of your age to accept presents. Now run along into the other room, and I will come in and fetch you presently."

The child held out his hand once more to Mr. Bomford.

"It is exceedingly kind of you to give me this, sir," he said. "I can a.s.sure you that the drawing block will be a great pleasure to me."

He withdrew with a little nod and a smile. Mr. Bomford watched him pa.s.s into the inner room, with his mouth open.

"G.o.d bless my soul, Burton!" he exclaimed. "What an extraordinary child!"

Burton laughed, a little hoa.r.s.ely.

"A few weeks ago," he said, "that boy was running about the streets with greased hair, a butcher's curl, a soiled velveteen suit, a filthy lace collar, dirty hands, torn stockings, playing disreputable games with all the urchins of the neighborhood. He murdered the Queen's English every time he spoke, and spent his pennies on things you suck. His mother threw two of the beans I had procured with great difficulty for them both into the street. He picked one up and ate it--a wretched habit of his. You see the result."

Mr. Bomford sat quite still and breathed several times before he spoke.

It was a sign with him of most intense emotion.

"Mr. Burton," he declared, "if this is true, that child is even a greater testimony to the efficacy of your--your beans, than you yourself."

"There is no doubt," Burton agreed, "that the change is even greater."

There was a knock at the door. Burton, with a word of excuse, crossed the room to open it. The postman stood there with a packet. It was his novel returned once more. He threw it on to a table in the corner and returned to his place.

"Mr. Burton," his visitor continued, "for the first time in my life--and I may say that I have been accustomed to public speaking and am considered to have a fair choice of words--for the first time in my life I confess that I find myself in trouble as to exactly how to express myself. I want to convince you. I am myself entirely and absolutely convinced as to the justice of the cause I plead. I want you to reconsider your decision of the other night."

Burton shook his head.

"I am afraid," he said, uneasily, "that that is not possible."

Mr. Bomford cleared his throat. He was only externally a fool.