“Then what has happened to you to make you look like a mute at a temperance funeral?” I said:
“And how are all at home?”
I thought that if the trouble lay there he would take the opportunity. It brightened him somewhat, the necessity of replying to the question. It appeared that his wife was in the best of health.
“You remember her,” he continued with a smile; “wonderful spirits, always cheerful, nothing seems to put her out, not even—”
He ended the sentence with a sigh.
His mother-in-law, I learned from further talk with him, had died since I had last met him, and had left them a comfortable addition to their income. His daughter was engaged to be married.
“It is a love match,” he explained, “and he is such a dear, good fellow, that I should not have made any objection even had he been poor. But, of course, as it is, I am naturally all the more content.”
His eldest boy, having won the Mottle Scholarship, was going up to Cambridge in the Autumn. His own health, he told me, had greatly improved; and a novel he had written in his leisure time promised to be one of the successes of the season. Then it was that I plainly.
“If I am opening a wound too painful to be touched,” I said, “tell me. If, on the contrary, it is an ordinary sort of trouble upon which the sympathy of a fellow worker may fall as balm, let me hear it.”
“So far as I am concerned,” he replied, “I should be glad to tell you. Speaking about it does me good, and may lead—so I am always in hopes—to an idea. But, for your own sake, if you take my advice, you will not press me.”
“How can it affect me?” I asked, “it is nothing to do with me, is it?”
“It need have nothing to do with you,” he answered, “if you are sensible enough to keep out of it. If I tell you: from this time it will be your trouble also. Anyhow, that is what has happened in four other separate cases. If you like to be the fifth and complete the half dozen of us, you are welcome. But remember I have warned you.”
“What has it done to the other five?” I demanded.
“It has changed them from cheerful, companionable persons into gloomy one-idead bores,” he told me. “They think of but one thing, they talk of but one thing, they dream of but one thing. Instead of getting over it, as time goes on, it takes possession of them more and more. There are men, of course, who would be unaffected by it—who could shake it off. I warn you in particular against it, because, in spite of all that is said, I am convinced you have a sense of humour; and that being so, it will lay hold of you. It will plague you night and day. You see what it has made of me! Three months ago a lady interviewer described me as of a sunny . If you know your own business you will get out at the next station.”
I wish now I had followed his advice. As it was, I allowed my curiosity to take possession of me, and begged him to explain. And he did so.
“It was just about Christmas time,” he said. “We were discussing the Drury Lane Pantomime—some three or four of us—in the smoking room of the Devonshire Club, and young Gold said he thought it would prove a mistake, the introduction of a subject like the question into the story of Humpty Dumpty. The two things, so far as he could see, had nothing to do with one another. He added that he entertained a real regard for Mr. Dan Leno, whom he had once met on a steamboat, but that there were other topics upon which he would prefer to seek that gentleman’s guidance. Nettleship, on the other hand, declared that he had no sympathy with the argument that artists should never upon public affairs. The actor was a fellow citizen with the rest of us. He said that, whether one agreed with their conclusions or not, one must admit that the nation owed a debt of to Mrs. Brown Potter and to Miss Olga Nethersole for giving to it the benefit of their convictions. He had talked to both ladies in private on the subject and was convinced they knew as much about it as did most people.
“Burnside, who was one of the party, contended that if sides were to be taken, a pantomime should surely advocate the Free-Food Cause, seeing it was a form of entertainment supposed to appeal primarily to the tastes of the Little Englander. Then I came into the discussion.
“‘The Fiscal question,’ I said, ‘is on everybody’s tongue. Such being the case, it is fit and proper it should be referred to in our annual pantomime, which has come to be regarded as a review of the year’s doings. But it should not have been dealt with from the political standpoint. The proper attitude to have assumed towards it was that of innocent raillery, free from all trace of .’
“Old Johnson had strolled up and was behind us.
“‘The very thing I have been trying to get hold of for weeks,’ he said—‘a bright, amusing resumé of the whole problem that should give offence to neither side. You know our paper,’ he continued; ‘we clear of politics, but, at the same time, try to be up-to-date; it is not always easy. The treatment of the subject, on the lines you suggest, is just what we require. I do wish you would write me something.’
“He is a good old sort, Johnson; it seemed an easy thing. I said I would. Since that time I have been thinking how to do it. As a matter of fact, I have not thought of much else. Maybe you can suggest something.”
I was feeling in a good working mood the next morning.
“Pilson,” said I to myself, “shall have the benefit of this. He does not need anything funny. A few playfully remarks on the subject will be the ideal.”
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