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■ .. ■-, ,-„-,.«^iBc.ia:i^^i^:jiMj>^^^ .^,^ o ^ ..,... ^^^ .. ^ 



^ 0^i-/ii?>v, J*^>^<JH-^ i.AJr.'*" . 



I 



THE TASTE OF APPLES 



THE NEW YORK j 

PUBLIC LIBRARY \ 



m^mm reuitDATNiNs 



•>j 



THE 
TASTE OF APPLES 



JENNETTB LEE 



lUUSTRATIOr/S BY 
F. WALTER TAYLOR 




NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1913 



1 . 



996368^ 



I. 



COPTBIOBT, 1918 Sr 

THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COIfPANT, 

CoPTmiovr, 1918, bt 
DODD. MBAD AND COlfPANT. 

PubUihid, 8epUmb0r, 1913 



TO 

GERALD STANLEY LES 






I 

r 



CONTENTS 

CHAPmt PAGS 

I The Shop Whbrb Nothing Could Happen . . i 

II It Happens t 

III Mother 14 

IV Gets Ready ao 

V To Meet John 39 

VI Vaudeville 36 

Vn Mother's Opinions 44. 

VIII On TkAVEL 5» 

DC Wallace Tilton and Apples 6z 

X A Cmr by Night 70 

XI Mother and London 77 

XII In a Tea-Room 86 

XIII Wallace Goes House-Hunting 94 

XIV In the Temple 102 

XV Anthony and Beggars 114 

XVI Wallace Has His Apple-Pie 127 

XVII The Book Shop in Saint Sparrow's Court . . 134 

XVIII The Bookseller 142 

XIX On Blackfriars Bridge 152 

XX Anthony Meets a Lord 164 

XXI Mother and the London 'Bus 174 

XXII Nurse Timberlake 181 

XXIII A Good Wife for John 187 

The Question of a Bonnet 193 



GHAFTU 

XXV 

XXVI 

XXVII 

XXVIII 

XXIX 

XXX 



XXXII 

XXXIII 

XXXIV 

XXXV 

XXXVI 

XXXVII 

XXXVIII 

XXXIX 

XL 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Wallace Selects It 198 

THURLew Castle 204. 

John Amuves ai6 

Anthony's Thoughts 229 

Mother's Opinions 237 

The Return to the Temple 248 

A Call •n Nurse Timberlake as7 

Mother Makes a Discovery a66 

She Questions Wallace ays 

Anb Loses Her Cap a84 

Her Portrait 293 

Wallace's Secret 301 

Anthony Goes With His Friend .... 307 
A Cable and Apple-Pie for John . . . .313 

Mother Packs Her Trunk 3^3 

The Shop Where Nothing Happens ... 335 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

She went on stitching and turning, her face absorbed 
in its work (Page 8i) Frontispiece 

TACIKO 
FAQM 

Suddenly he stopped and looked down — it was quite a 
different pair no 

Mother, from her model-stand, looked down on them . 250 



"It means you'll have a new daughter, Mother" . . . 3^ 



THE TASTE OF APPLES 



SHOP WHERE NOTHING COULD HAPPEN 

The light in the little shop was dim. The 
shoemaker's fat assistant scowled at it, and got 
up and hunted for a match and lighted the gas- 
jet on the wall. The light sprang suddenly 
out on the littered room, and the three men 
across the room, bending close over a checker- 
board, looked up and blinked as it flickered 
down. One of them put out his hand to the 
board, and held it a minute, and drew it back 
and stroked a little grey fringe of beard that de- 
pended from his chin. The other two men 
laughed a little, sitting shrewdly back; then they 
bent again to the board The fat assistant 
stitched glumly on. 

The room was full of dancing shadows now. 
They fell on the scraps of leather on the floor 
and on dusty comers and windows and cobwebs, 
and they danced a little on the shoemaker's 



2 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

empty bench, worn black and shiny with the 
polish of years, and ran along his hat and coat, 
hanging on the p^ by the door. The shoe- 
maker had left his bench almost guiltily, two 
hours ago, and had stolen over to the checker- 
board. He had not stirred since, except to 
reach out a thin hand to dispose of a doomed 
man or to checkmate the little grey beard that 
wagged opposite him. The third man, a hand 
on either knee, looked down, as Jove may have 
looked upon the Trojans and their enemies, and 
gave a mighty nod as the battle went either 
way. 

The fat assistant took up his awl and scowled 
at it and stabbed it once or twice in the leather, 
and stuck it upright in the bench beside him, 
and drew another waxed needleful through the 
holes, his mouth growing more and more puck- 
ered and screwed-up, with each heavy pull 
of the waxed thread through the holes. He 
glanced across at the bent heads and got up, 
fumbling a little at the strings of his big apron, 
and cast it from him, and took down his hat and 



NOTHING COULD HAPPEN 3 

went darkly out. The three men looked up 
blankly as the little whiff of air slammed past 
them. Then they returned to the board, and 
quiet settled on the room. 

The grey beard wagged twice, once in pro- 
test and once in resignation; he drew a heavy 
sigh. Then he bent to the board, fingering the 
pieces a little and shoving them about. "If I'd 
'a' moved here, you wouldn't 'a' done it!" he 
said triumphantly. 

"Huh !" said the large man — ^partly in aston- 
ishment, partly incredulous ; he bent ponderously 
down to look. 

The shoemaker nodded slowly toward the grey 
beard that perked out across the board at him. 
"I see it, Simon, after I'd moved — I see it; yes, 
you could 'a' took me if you'd moved that way." 
The shoemaker's thin fingers hovered over the 
pieces, setting the men back in their rows. "We 
might try again, Simon " 

Then he looked up. The door had opened 
almost timidly. The shoemaker got up and 
went forward. The young girl handed him a 



snoes lay in his hand. He . 
turned them over on the pal: 
hand and looked at the girl. 

"Can they be mended, M 
asked quickly. 

The shoemaker stood con 
things. The flickering gasli^ 
them, fell full on his face. 1 
with a little lock of hair tha 
curl rising straight up from tl 
faintly-grey moustache shadin 
the eyes followed the lines of 
fingers touched them here an( 
looked at the girl with a little sn 
you want them?" he asked. 

Her face lightened. "Pm 



«^^_ t 



NOTHING COULD HAPPEN 5 

their very frailties pleased him. "We'll put 
new soles on them and half-heels, and a little 
patch here — ^it will hardly show when it is done. 
When do you need them?" he asked again. He 
looked at her over his li^t glasses. 

"Saturday — ? Could I have them Satur- 
day?" 

"Saturday afternoon," he nodded slowly, 
"about four o'clock, I should think. Yes, we'll 
get them done for you." 

He carried them across to his bench and the 
girl went out. There was a little lingering 
tingle of the bell above the door, but the shoe- 
maker did not look up ; his eyes were on the shoes 
in his hand, studying their possibilities ... he 
was deaf to the world. Across the room a new 
game of checkers had begun between the grey 
beard and Jove, but the shoemaker did not look 
up— a kind of gentle light had come into his 
face and a little line ran in his forehead, straight 
up to the lock of hair; so a poet might scan his 
lines, seeking the ri^t word. • . . The shoe- 
maker's face held the worn soles and turned 



6 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

them from him and looked at them and broke 
into gentle singing — a little gentle humming 
beneath his breath. His hand reached out for 
a sharp knife, and the sound of softly-cut 
stitches followed its. sharp edge along the sole. 

The assistant put his head in the door and sur- 
veyed the silent group and came in — his face a 
trifle lighter under its grime. He hung up his 
hat and crossed the room — "Letter for ye," he 
said. He threw it down on the bench — ^but the 
shoemaker did not look up, and the softly-rip- 
ping stitches went swiftly on. 

The assistant sat down and drew the iron last 
between his knees and took up his hammer; 
rat-ty-/^/ — rat-ty-tat-/^/ — rat-ty-/t2/ — and softly 
snipping stitches — and somewhere on the wall a 
clock ticking a little when the hammering was 
still. 

It was a place where nothing could ever hap- 
pen; the letter lay on the shoemaker's bench, 
the two men played an eternal game of checkers, 
across the room, the assistant made shoes, and 
the shoemaker with his face to a pair of shabby 



NOTHING COULD HAPPEN 7 

soles saw something beautiful beyond them 
emerging from the worn shapes — something that 
should be as good as new . . . rat-ty-tat — rat- 
ty-tat-/t2// 



II 



IT HAPPENS 



The town-clock struck six, and the shoemaker 
looked up, and blinked; the assistant with his 
hammer half-lifted for another stroke, laid it 
down with a little happy thud. The checker- 
players stirred vaguely, looked at the clock ab- 
sently and, with the round black-and-white spots 
before them, went on reaching into blind space. 

The shoemaker's eye fell on the letter and he 
took it up. 

The assistant's eye followed it — "From John, 
am't it?" he asked. 

"Yes." The shoemaker moved over to the 
gas-jet and adjusted his glasses a little; he could 
see to cut the finest stitches in the dark — ^but not 
a letter from John. 

The assistant lingered a little. He and John 

had been schoolboys together. There might be 

something interesting. John was getting to be 

8 



IT HAPPENS 9 

a big man. The assistant was very fat and he 
did not understand exactly what it was that 
John was doing — ^but at school he had licked 
John, easy — John was a little fellow those days. 
The assistant played with the strings of his 
apron. 

The shoemaker spelled out the words with 
gentle, half-moving lips, and the checker-players 
pushed back the board and got up. The big 
man straightened himself in sections — "Grot a 
letter?" he asked kindly. 

The grey beard moved nimbly. "I beat 
him!" he said; "I beat him that time!" 

The big man smiled at him tolerantly. 

The shoemaker lowered his glasses with his 
finger and looked over the top at them. "A let- 
ter from John," he said. 

"Uh-huh— How's John getting on?" The 
big man was genial. 

But the shoemaker had returned to the letter. 
"Well— well !" he said softly. "Well^a;^//.'" 

The room quickened a little. The assistant 
put down his hat and waited. 



lo THE TASTE OF APPLES 

The shoemaker took off his glasses and rubbed 
them slowly and looked at the other three 
with a little quiet smile — "John wants me to go 
to Europe," he said. 

"Go where?" said Simon vaguely. He 
rubbed his little beard and gulped. 

The shoemaker nodded. "Right off; he says 
he's got the passage engaged; he wants us to go 
the fifteenth — a week from Saturday." His 
eye fell on the shoes lying side by side on his 
bench and he smiled at them. "I must hurry 
my shoes." 

"You going?" asked the big man. 

"I think we'll go— yes — ^if John wants us to. 
I've always thought I'd like to go— abroad " 

"Well!" said Simon. He sat down a little 
quickly. "Kind o' sudden, ain't it — ^your goin' 
abroad !" 

The assistant scraped a foot along the floor 
and the shoemaker looked at him and smiled. 
"Do you think you can manage the business, 
Samuel — for a year or so?" 

"A year !" The assistant gulped, and looked 



IT HAPPENS 11 

at the row of awls stuck in their leather straps 
along the window-ledge. "You goin' to be 
gone a year?" he repeated dully. The very 
awls looked different, somehow. 

"John says a year. Here is what he says.'' 
He read it out slowly 

I want you and Mother to stay six months or so 
in England You'll know the language and can get 
along all right there; and then, next summer, I am 
to have three months — ^my first vacation in ten years^ 
you know — ^and I'll come over and join you, and 
well go to the continent together. 

"John can speak several languages^" said the 
shoemaker, breaking off with gentle pride. "He 
learned them at college — German and French 
and Italian and Spanish. I only know one 
language." 

"It's enough to say all you can think of, 
too " said the big man. He was a little 
moved on his base by this sudden irruption of 
travel. 

The shoemaker looked about him. "I must 
go and tell Mother," he said; "she'll want to get 



12 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

used to it." He nodded kindly to the fat as- 
sistant, who was staring at the row of awls, his 
thick under-lip moving in and out slowly. 
"You think about it, Samuel. It won't be so 
bad when you think it over — ^you can do it." 

"Oh, yes, you can do it," said the big man re- 
assuringly. "I'll look in and advise you about 
it, every day or two." 

"I beat him, that last game," said Simon hap- 
pily. "You see, I ^" 

But the shoemaker had put on his hat and 
was gone. The big man was already looming 
away down the dusk of the street, and the as- 
sistant stood with one hand on the gas-jet, ready 
to shut up shop. 

Simon skipped out into the dusk. The as- 
sistant closed the door and locked it and turned 
slowly away. Over the door the faded sign, 

ANTHONY WICKHAM 

MAKER AND MENDER OF SHOES 

looked out faintly on the half-lit street. The 
sign had hung there thirty years, worn by 



IT HAPPENS 13 

wind and rain and pointing the way inside to 
the low bench where Anthony Wickham sat 
stitching on the worn-out shoes of Bolton — 
making them "good as new." 

The fat assistant wagged his head distrust- 
fully and plodded down the street ... his 
round, rolling gait bearing him on. 'T can't do 

it '' he mumbled. "I ain't fit ! I can't do 

fine work like he can." 

And overhead the stars twinkled out— on the 
assistant, and on Simon scurrying home through 
the dusk, swelling with happy pride, and on the 
big man who did not care that he was beaten, 
and on Anthony, maker and mender of shoes, 
going slowly under the stars, looking up at them 
now and then, and looking aroimd him. Thirty 
years he had waited, stitching his vision into 
leather and thread — and now the great world 
door swung softly open before him. . . . 



Ill 



MOTHER 



He laid the letter on the table and looked at her 
with a long, slow, happy smile. 

She took it up swiftly — "From John!" she 
said. She eyed it a minute and laid it down. 
"You must have your supper first." 

She bustled about, carrying things to the ta- 
ble, talking briskly as she moved. She was a 
little woman, her head barely reaching the shoe- 
maker's shoulder when she stood still beside him 
for a minute; but when she moved she seemed 
to rise on little springs as if suddenly, all over, 
she was set free. 

Anthony watched her with his quiet smile as 
she came and went in her flittings. "Sit down, 
Mother," he said, "you've got everything wc 
need." 

"Yes," a little breathless with achievement, 

"it's ready now — as soon as I take out my pie !" 

14 




MOTHER 15 

She opened the oven door and looked in cau- 
tiously and took out a fragrant pie. 

Anthony's eye followed it "Apple?" he 
asked. 

SAit nodded and set it slowly on the table. 
"It got done a little mite too much," she said. 
She was looking regretfully at the brown, mot- 
tled crust. 

"Just about ri^t for me," said AnthcKiy. 

Her face relaxed. "Men-folks'U eat pie — 
apple-pie — no matter how it's done," she said. 
She poured out the tea, one eye on the letter bc- 
ide. "What does he say?" she asked. 

"Good news," said Anthony. He sipped his 
tea tentatively and watched her, smiling. 

She took up the letter and began on it — and 
laid it down — and looked at him. "John's 
crazy!" she said. Then, after a minute — "I 
don't want to go I' 

"You'll like it,' 

•Togo abroad! 
she said swiftly. 

"Why, Mother!" 



said Anthony. 

I should kale to go abroad !" 



l6 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"Don't talk to mc, Anthony ! — I should hate 
it. You ready for your pie?" She cut a gen- 
erous piece and put it on his plate and watched 
critically as his mouth closed on the first 
morsel. 

He nodded slowly. "Just right, Mother." 

A little smile quivered on her face. "You 
know I shouldn't like it, don't you, Anthony — 
going abroad?" 

"It takes time — to get used to going abroad." 
He was looking wistfully at the letter. 

"I shall stay right here — ^" she said, "and save 
the money. . . . You can go," she added, 
looking at him. 

He shook his head slowly. "/ can't go with- 
out you. Mother." 

There was silence between them. TTie canary 
under his blue cloth, settled down for the night, 
chirped a little; but there was no response. 
Anthony waited patiently for the workings of 
the feminine mind. 

When she had finished the dishes she came 
and sat down beside him. A little fire glowed 



it 






MOTHER 17 

in the grate. . . . She slipped her hand under 
the thin one lying along the ann of the chair. 
'John will be disappointed,** she said softly, 
Tes." He patted the hand a little. 

She looked into the fire. "He ought to get 
married/* she said. 

'Give him time,** answered the shoemaker. 
'He*s never saved a cent,** she said sternly, 
"and now to waste two thousand dollars— on 
us! I'd rather he'd get married !'* 

He patted the hand again. "You can't ex- 
actly get married — ^like that — ^by handing 
aroimd two thousand dollars,** he said. 

"I know, well enough, what I mean, Anthony, 
and you know, too. . . . There must be some 
nice girls—" She studied the fire. 

"Lydia Bacon?'* suggested the shoemaker. 

"Anthony- Wickham! For Joknr 

The shoemaker chuckled — a quiet little 
chuckle, like the coals falling in the grate. "Do 
you know anybody that would suit you better 
than Lydia?** he asked respectfully. 

She paused. "No-o— *' she admitted. "But 



i8 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

that's no reason you should think of her !" She 
sniffed at the glowing coals softly. "We will 
write him to-night and tell him to save his money 
and get married — and take some comfort in 
life!" she finished up. 

**Very well, Mother. You write him. Tell 
him just how you feel about it." 

So the letter went, and the answer came 
promptly back. The tickets were bought, John 
wrote. But if they really did not want them he 
would sell them at a sacrifice— imderlined — 
and give the money to the Baptist Church. 

"To the Baptist Church?" she quivered with 
anxious face. "Doesn't he remember we are 
Congregationalists ?" 

"He wants us to go," said Anthony. "He 
isn't thinking about much else, I guess." 

The letter had been addressed to Mr. Anthony 
Wickham and had come to the shop. But the 
following day a letter came to Mrs. Anthony 
Wickham, which the shoemaker did not see. 

She read it, standing by the stove in her sunny 



MOTHER 



19 



kitchen, the canary trilling a little among his 
geraniums and plants in the window. 

"Pve been thinking about Father," the letter 
read — "TTiere was something about him that 
last time I was home, something about his face 
that set me thinking. Mother. . . ." She had 
slipped the bit of paper inside her dress, and 
when Anthony cam« home at night she had gone 
up to him and put her hands on his shoulders and 
looked up at him a long mmute. Then she had 
lifted her face to kiss him. 

"I don't know where I can buy a good steam- 
er-trunk," she said. 



V'. 



IV 



GETS READY 



There was hurry and scurry and debate. The 
canary must be boarded out, and the geraniums 
and plants taken care of, and the attic and cel- 
lar scrubbed from top to toe. Upstairs and 
downstairs and in my lady's chamber, there was 
bustle and confusion and the clutter of house- 
hold gods. 

Through it all, Mother — ^her head tied up in 
a large towel, a magic broom-wand in her hand 
— moved serene. Order must be restored by the 
fourteenth; and precisely at four o'clock of the 
fourteenth the house was ready. It had been 
rented to the new milkman who had just moved 
to Bolton and had one child and a nice little 
wife — there were three loaves of bread and a 
nice pie in the pantry for the milkman and his 
nice wife and baby, a little heap of kindlings in 
the shed, and the bed with its starched pillow- 



ao 



^ 



GETS READY 21 

shams and white spread was made up ready for 
them in the chamber overhead. 

Once she had surrendered, Mother had taken 
entire charge of the campaign; she had made it 
her own. Anthony was not allowed to pack his 
trunk or to select the clothes he should wear. 

"You take care of the shop," she had said, 
fairly bustling him out, "Pll see to things 
here." 

So Anthony had sat quietly stitching away — 
his new hopes and new plans into the old leather 
and soles. 

There had been a sudden influx of trade when 
the Bolton "Herald" announced that Mr. and 
Mrs. Anthony Wickham were sailing on the fif- 
teenth. All the old shoes and slippers and boots 
in Bolton poured in upon him. They lay 
heaped up between him and the fat assistant; 
and the assistant scowled at them and drew his 
heavy needle in and out. 

"You couldn't finish 'em by Christmas — ^not 
if you worked ni^ts !" he said, resentfully. 

"Fm picking out the worst ones, Samuel," 



22 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

said the shoemaker, bending to the pile and se- 
lecting, ruefully, a crazy old slipper. **Thesc 
slippers of Mrs. Judge Fox's, now — ^I've mended 
these twenty years, I should think — ^first tops 
and then bottoms and then tops and bottoms 
both. ... I tell Mis' Fox, slippers are like 
folks — wearin' a little here and a little there, 
and getting new stuff all the while as they go 
along — and growing a little bigger, too," he said 
softly, smiling down at the queer shapes. 

Samuel stared at them gloomily. "You can't 
do anything with Mrs. Judge Fox's, ever— chuck 
'em!" 

But the shoemaker smiled at them still, and 
ran his fingers along their faults slowly — "I 
think we can — do a little — a little something — 
with them — ^" he said musingly, and the old 
leather seemed to respond to the touch and lift 
itself a little. "They've lost their shape — that's 
all, Samuel. Plenty of wear — ^plenty ^" 

He murmured indistinct words and drew out 
the insoles and peered at them and breathed a 
little breath, and fell to work; his thin fingers 



GETS READY) 23 

dwelt upon the ugly lines and drew away with 
deft touch, and the bulging old slippers caught 
the idea, and seemed to forget Mrs. Judge Fox 
and her burden of flesh — and became, once more, 
slippers. The shoemaker laid them down on the 
bench beside him with a little, happy gesture, 
and glanced across at the assistant. 

Samuel gave a grudging look. "Yes— 
youVe done *em. But if I could do fine work 
like you can, I wouldn't waste myself on a pair 
of old things like them !" 

Now, it happened that Mrs. Judge Fox died 
that year, and while she lay dying the slippers 
stood by her bed, and her eye fell on them and 
she half reached down a hand to them. "They 
lasted my time out — " she said, half -whispering. 
"Fm glad they last — " And she forgot to say 
good-bye to the old Judge who sat by her cry- 
ing his few, hard tears. . . . The dying think 
of trivial things. 

The fat assistant worked on with stodgy un- 
ending patience and gloom, but the pile on the 
floor between them did not diminish; it grew 



24 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

ever larger, and each morning more shoes were 
added to it — ^until even Anthony Wickham ac- 
knowledged that it would not be possible to 
finish them. 

And not only shoes took up the time. There 
was consultation and advice to be gone through 
with also. Anthony came at last to sitting with 
the geography open on the bench beside him and 
talking with one finger on the page and one on 
his last. The checker-board in the comer grew 
thick with dust. The big man gave advice, 
and Simon questioned it — rubbing his little grey 
beard; and politics, sociology, race lines, lan- 
guage, etiquette, seasickness, foreign money, 
feeing, fleas, boarding houses, horse-meat and 
snails for food were carefully threshed out and 
disposed of. 

The big man sat, ponderous and wise, and 
gave advice on all. Simon skipped nimbly from 
peak to peak of incredulity. And the shoe- 
maker lifted his smiling glance or pushed up his 
spectacles and wrinkled his brow at the infor- 
mation they gave him. *1 think Mother will 



GETS READY 25 

see about that," he would say when the battle 
waxed too hot for him. 

There were other visitors who came with ad- 
vice — ^and shoes. 

The Episcopal rector brought a pair of thin, 
low ties and seated himself in a casual chair 
while Anthony inspected them. He studied 
them, and turned them in his hand and looked 
up, smiling — as if at some pleasant discovery. 

"You nm them over in the heel," he said, 
pointing to the iron nails that protruded at the 
back through the low heels, shining and blunt. 

"Yes, I walk a great deal," said the Rector. 
"I like exercise. Walking is my favourite 
method of locomotion. . . . Um — ^you do not 
walk — ^much ?" 

Anthony shook his head. ''Home and back 
twice a day is my walking," he said. 

"Yes — yes— of course. But I hear you are 
going quite a journey — quite a journey." 

Anthony looked up, pleased and friendly, 
and the conversation glided into the well-wom 
groove — ^how to travel, where to travel, what to 



26 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

wear, what to see, the pictures one must not miss^ 
and the cathedrals. • . . 

The fat assistant was having a liberal educa- 
tion without stirring from his leather-strewn 
bench. In spite of his best intentions, his ears 
were filled with Madonnas and tombs and gate- 
ways that he could have recited in his dreams if 
he had been pressed. 

The Rector sent in another pair of shoes and 
a list of Madonnas that Mother must be sure to 
see; and Mother tucked them away in the little 
black reticule that was fast becoming as crowded 
as the assistant's head, and went on with her 
work. TTie Baptist minister made out a bicycle 
trip in lower Sussex— one that he had read in 
a book — and the pastor of the Presbyterian 
Church contributed notes on the orthodox 
churches of London. 

The shoemaker had become a person of im- 
portance. A prospective trip to Europe while 
not the same as the ordinary Divinity school 
education, was in a way its social equivalent. 
A shoemaker who proposed to go abroad— or 



GETS READY 27 

whose son proposed it for him — was not the 
same as a shoemaker who merely made and 
mended shoes; he became an opportunity. 

All his life Anthony Wickham had known all 
Bolton by its feet — there was hardly a man, 
woman or child in Bolton whom he would not 
have known by their shoes, there was scarcely 
one that he would not have known in the dark 
by the mere feeling of their feet imder the touch 
of his thin fingers. Many of them he had fol- 
lowed from boyhood to manhood, seeing the 
quick, boyish soles broaden and harden and 
throw out little callous lumps— that must be 
reckoned with if one made a shoe that should 
fit. He knew them all. Sometimes it seemed 
to him that the character of men lies in their feet 
rather than in their heads; and he always 
looked first, a long slow glance, at a man's shoes — 
before he lifted his gentle eyes to the face above 
them and read what was hidden there. 

In and out through the little shop, for thirty 
years, Bolton had come and gone, and the little 
bell overhead had tingled for them; children 



28 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

with ball or hoop and a pair of shoes — ^they had 
skipped in, and out; old men and women, bent 
with saving and distrust; for the rich and the 
poor and the just and the unjust the little bell 
had tingled; and each of them had held out to 
Anthony Wickham, maker and mender, a pair 
of old shoes. To them all he was the man who 
mended them. 

But now he had become a certain Mr. Wick- 
ham — ^not quite "our respected fellow towns- 
man," perhaps, but a "very intelligent man." 
It had not seemed strange to Bolton that he 
should save and scrimp and send his son to col- 
lege—on scraps and shreds of leather, as it were. 
It was the good old New England custom — ^to 
give the boy a chance — and no one found it 
worth a comment or thought. But that the son 
should turn about and send his parents abroad! 
This was at once picturesque and strange — and 
the pile of shoes on the floor grew higher, the 
scowl on Samuel's countenance deepened; and 
Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Wickham took the four 
o'clock train for New York. 






TO MEET JOHN 

"I DO hope John will meet us." It was the 
tenth time she had hoped it, and for the tenth 
time Anthony had assured her that John would 
surely be there — ^he wouldn't miss them. 

The train drew into the long shed. The pas- 
sengers descended and Jchn gathered the little 
woman under his arm. 

I knew you'd be here !" she said, triumphant. 
Yes, I'm here. How about your baggage?" 
He squeezed the hand a little and tucked it 
closer under his arm. 

Anthony produced checks and tags and papers, 
and the three mingled with the crowd pouring 
across the platform. 

Half an hour later they were in a great hotel, 
hi^ up in the air, facing each other and talk- 
ing. John had arranged everything, it seemed; 
he had provided Baedekers and handbooks 

29 



30 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

without end. They were to go first to a little 
English hotel near Trafalgar Square — ^kept in 
the old fashion ; he gave them the address, which 
Mother tucked carefully away in her bag. They 
were to stay at this hotel as long as they liked. 
Later they could look up rooms, if they wanted ; 
it would be a way of seeing London — looking 
up rooms. 

"Rooms will be cheaper, won't they?" said 
Mother. 

"Cheaper? Yes — See here, Mother, I don't 
want you to think about things being cheaper; 
just go ahead — and have a good time not think- 
ing about things being cheaper." 

She nodded at him sagely. "I don't need to 
spend all your money — to have a good time," 
she said. 

He laughed out. 'Well, I do. I mean to 
spend part of it right here in New York. Now 
what would you like to see best. Mother — of all 
New York — ^before you sail?" 

"Grant's tomb," said Mother promptly. 

"Mother!" 



TO MEET JOHN 31 

"Grant's tomb/* she repeated firmly. 
"We've got to see a good many tombs over 
there," she touched the little black bag, "and I 
want to see how ours compare." 

"All right — ^you shall see all the tombs in 
New York ! But you can't see them to-night." 
He thought a minute. "How would you like 
to go to a play?" 

She glanced quickly at Anthony. The shoe- 
maker returned the look, smiling. "We're 
travelling, Mother," he said. 

But she shook her head. "You can travel all 
you like, Anthony — and John can travel! I 
shall stay right here!" She took firm hold of 
the arms of her chair. 

Anthony chuckled a little. 

"But a play's all ri^t. Mother! There's a 
good one at The Lyceum— one of Barrie's. 
Barrie wrote 'The Little Minister,* you know," 
said John. 

But Mother swam serenely away. "I don't 
feel like seeing a play," she said. "How much 
docs it cost?" 



32 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Anthony interposed a gentle voice. "I don't 
think you'll get Mother started to-night, John. 
But you and I might go—?" 

Her son looked at her, and she smiled back 
happily. "That's right! You and Father go! 
Then you can tell me about it at breakfast. I'd 
like that better than going myself." 

Her face was a little guilty under its meek- 
ness, and there was a twinkle in her son's eye as 
he bent and kissed her. 

Mother's economies had always amused him 
even as a small boy in trousers too long for 
him, and later as a big boy in trousers too short 
for him. There was always a little artistic 
flourish that went with Mother's economies that 
set them in a class by themselves. She econo- 
mised for sheer love of it . . . the money she 
saved was a mere by-product. 

But he looked a little meaningly at her as he 
said, "I want the trip to be a real change for 
you — and for Father." 

"It's going to be a change — b, terrible change, 
for both of us, John," she said cheerfully. 



TO MEET JOHN 33 

"Now you go and get ready for your play, and 
rU fix things a little." 

She bustled about, impacking their bags and 
making the rooms homelike for the night. 

The bathroom appalled her at first. She had 
tiptoed in and looked at it, and came out with 
sober face. It was only when John assured her 
that there were thousands of them in New York 
— that in this particular hotel you would have 
hard work to get a room without a bath, that 
she had accepted it. But once accepted, she 
revelled in it. She arranged tooth-brushes and 
soap, and went in and out merely to look 
again on the porcelain-lined elegance and 
comfort. 

To Anthony the elegance seemed to come as 
a matter of course. His thin figure seemed to 
grow a little taller and the forward droop of 
his shoulders lifted itself. The son watched 
him with wistful eyes. He had always known 
that his father was not like other men, quite. 
Sometimes he would wake in the ni^t and see 
the thin, distinguished figure bending over its 



34 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

pair of shoes, stitching steadily — ^and it cut him 
like a knife. 

John was a big man and the place that was 
making for him in the world of iron and steel 
was bigger than most people knew; but he had 
only one wish — ^to give to Anthony Wickham 
the chance of life that he had missed. • • • He 
might have grasped his chance — the son knew 
the story and was proud of it — how he had taken 
the first thing at hand when his father died and 
had helped brothers and sisters, one after the 
other, to an education — stitching until he could 
not stop. A man does not change at sixty years. 
And John Wickham, as he grew up, had it al- 
ways in mind — some day his father should take 
a rest. . . . He looked at him now, leaning 
back against the tawdry hotel chair, his hands 
a little relaxed, his eyes half-closed — the face 
had the quietness that goes with strength, a 
quiet, quizzical face that had looked on the 
world, without judging it, for sixty years. 

When his son looked away his eyes were filled 



TO MEET JOHN 35 

with quick tears. He got up and went over to 
his mother and touched her gently. 

"I'll get the tickets, and we'll have supper 
sent up here," he said; "it will seem like home." 



VI 



VAUDEVILLE 



The Broadway night hummed and sparkled 
and flashed its bulbs at them — taxis flew past 
unendingly — ^the crowd pushed a little, and 
swayed, and caught a rhythm beating, far be- 
neath, and swung to it — for no man liveth to 
himself and no man dieth to himself. . . . An- 
thony Wickham touched his son's arm — "So 
many feet !" he said quietly, smiling. 

And the son smiled back — "And all going!" 
he said. "Do you like it. Father?" 

But Anthony's eyes were on the crowd — 

chatter and hum, the touch of feet on stone, the 

flitter of feet and flowing tide and the look of 

swift-turning eyes . . . and a great white 

light above — ^below — ^around. The son slipped 

a hand beneath his arm and they moved as a 

unit in the swinging mass ; the crowd drew them, 

sucked them in, and they opened to it — ^the 

36 



VAUDEVILLE 37 

great pulse swinging them, lifting them, the 
mighty, thrilling human pulse and a thousand 
trampling feet on the pavements. 

"Here we are !" said the son. 

They had turned into a great entrance at the 
left, and went up the long, lighted stairs. 

"It's vaudeville," said John ; "I thought some 
of it would interest you." 

"Everything interests me," said Anthony 
Wickham. 

They had passed through softly-swinging 
doors at the top and were looking down into the 
half-lighted house, with the dimness and shad- 
owy forms here and there. 

*We're early," said John. "Youni have a 
chance to see them come in. You'll like 
that?" 

"I shall like to see them come in — and I shall 
like to get my breath," said Anthony. 

**Did we come too fast?" His son looked at 
him quickly. 

"Not too fast for my legs, I guess — ^but a lit- 
tle fast for my head '* 



38 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"I know. You have to get geared to it. I 
didn't think!" 

'That's what you call it— geared to it?" He 
held the words with pleased interest. 

'Tike a machine, you know — hi^ gear and 
low gear '* 

'T see. New York takes a rather hi^ gear, 
doesn't it, Son?" 

"Rather high, I should think," assented John. 
"There are people, you know, who think it's loo 
high, people who won't live here at all — they 
come on visits!" 

"Like me," said Anthony. 

"Not like you," said the son quickly. "You 
were a part of it — ?" He was looking at him, 
smiling through the dinmess. 

And Anthony caught the look and held it. 
*1 felt as if I were the whole of it," he said, 
smiling, "the whole crowd, you know !" 

"Yes, I know. That's the fine thing about a 
crowd — gives you such a new, big feeling. I 
know — I've felt it myself. ... I want to tell 



VAUDEVILLE 39 

you something, Father '' He settled a little 

in his seat and bent nearer to him. "There's 
something I want you to do for me, over there, 
in London." 

Anthony smiled a little. "Better ask 
Mother, wouldn't we?" he said. 

"Mother can't do it," said John quickly, 
" — It's one of the few things Mother couldn't 
do. But she would spoil this. She mustn't even 
know." He looked at him. 

**Very well." The shoemaker waited. 

"It's about Wallace — ^Wallace Tilton, you 

know ^" said John. "I'm worried about 

him." 

"About Wally— Tilton ^Where is he 

now?" asked Anthony. 

"He's in London — and I guess he's going the 
pace over there." 

"He always was hard on his shoes," said An- 
thony smiling. 

"Well, he's hard on them now. The Com* 
pany's beginning to take notice. They won't 



40 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

say anything; but presently somebody else will 
be in Wally's shoes — ^unless we can stop him." 
He was looking at his father. 

Anthony looked about him at the great 
vaguely-lighted place with its tiers rising to the 
roof. "What can I do, John?" he asked. 

"I don't know, Father. But if Wallace Til- 
ton goes to the bad, I'll never forgive myself. 
He gave me my start, you know. I couldn't 
stand it to go on prospering and have Wallace 
Tilton mud !" 

The lights flashed up around them, the or- 
chestra tuned a little — crowds streamed in, 
down the aisle — slamming seats, flying ushers, 
up the aisle and back. The orchestra broke out 
into a gay little tune— everybody talked — ^the 
fire curtain rolled slowly up. Anthony Wick- 
ham watched it all with slow, smiling eyes ; and 
his son watched Anthony Wickham. 

Presently the father turned to him. "I'll do 
what I can, John, about Wally — ^you know 
that? But I'm afraid it won't be much. I'm 
not very clever, you know." 



VAUDEVILLE 41 

"Bother cleverness!" said John. "It's folks, 
Wallace wants — home folks; he's forgot who he 
is and where he came from. You and Mother 
will do him good — good all through. What he 
needs is apple-pie, a good, big piece of apple- 
pie — 'the kind that Mother used to make.' " 

"Mother'U do him good," said Anthony; 
"she's like good fresh rain — ^and the sim — ^and 
sky." 

"But she mustn't know," said John quickly. 
"She'd take to doing him good and saving him, 
if she knew." 

"We mustn't let Mother save him," said An- 
thony. "I shouldn't want to be saved by 
Mother myself," he said, chuckling a little. 

The house about them had grown slowly dark; 
the music quickened to softly-dancing steps; 
the great inner curtain rolled up. Into a maze 
of coloured lights and flowers and gauzy, shift- 
ing scenes a fairy on tiptoes floated and held 
herself — and drifted away into the fire-lit trees. 
Anthony Wickham's face followed her — fol- 
lowed the dancing feet and light-himg move- 



42 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

ment — the weaving, drifting, careless grace; he 
drew a little, quick breath, and murmured to 
himself. 

John's eye ran to him. He leaned forward. 
*'Did you ever sec anything just like it, Father?" 
he said, smiling. 

Anthony's face, through the dim gloom, 
turned to him vaguely. "I've felt like it — ^al- 
ways^" he said. 

John laughed softly. "That's it! We've 
all felt like it — ^in a dream !" 

"In a dream ^" said Anthony. 

'THush-sh-h !" The quick-dancing figure had 
come again— out of her dreams — all the lights of 
the world playing upon her, swinging, swirling, 
lifting, drifting, fast and faster, whirl of swift- 
flung spray, and winding, fire-lit cloud . . . 
and quickened breath. The curtain came down 
and went up again and again — ^hands beat upon 
hands. . . . The house swung to the dancing 
feet. Three thousand people, heavy and dumb, 
had danced upon the fire-lit stage — ^and hand 
beat on hand • • • The curtain came slowly 



VAUDEVILLE 43 

down — the lights flashed out; tired faces, under 
their painted shells, looked out about them 
vaguely — smiling at the pretty thing they had 
seen. 

'What was it like?" asked Mother at the 
breakfast table. 



vn 



mother's opinions 

John had reserved a table for them in the bay- 
window and througH the transparent curtains 
they could see the glimpses of flowers and sil- 
ver, and waiters passing to and fro, with noise- 
less feet. Their own waiter had placed the 
breakfast on the table and withdrawn just out- 
side, and thromgh the filmy curtain Mother could 
see his shoulder and a huge, hanging hand. She 
sat behind her coffee-urn, erect and competent, a 
smile behind her round glasses. 

"What was it like?" she repeated. 

John glanced at his father — ^and Anthony re- 
turned the glance, smiling. 

"It was vaudeville, you know. Mother," said 
John. 

"Yes — ^what is vaudeville like?" She was 
putting in the lumps deftly — three for John and 
two for his father. 

44 



MOTHER'S OPINIONS 45 

"All sorts of things," said John slowly. 

**Vaudeville ^there was dancing, you know> 

and singing and ^^ 

"Dancing — '- — !" said Mother. She was look- 
ing at Anthony. 

He took his coffee and stirred it and smiled 
at her. "It was very pretty, Mother.'* His 
eyes seemed to be following a drifting figure 
through the filmy curtain. Mother half turned. 
She looked reproachfully at John. "I really 
ought to have gone with him," she said. 

"You would have liked it, Mother," he re- 
plied. He was smiling at the utter roimdness 
of her face and its softly-puckered lines. "You 
would have liked it. It wasn't the least like 
what you are seeing in your mind." 

"I am not seeing anything in my mind," she 
declared. But a swift flush ran over the round 
face — and left it blank. 

John laughed out. "Ask Father to tell you 
about it, on the boat. It would take too long 
now — and besides there are a thousand things to 
settle. I've brought your letter of credit. 



46 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Father — " He held out a paper and Anth<my 
took it in slow, pleased fingers. ''It's made out 
OQ the London Provincial Bank. You deposit 
it with them, and then you'd better open an ac- 
count there, wouldn't you?" 

''You tell me about that, John," said Mother 
meaningly. 

'I'll tell you both— ies simple—" He drew 
a small, dark-red book from his pocket and 
opened it. "This is my cheque-book — see — ^I 
set down here what I put in — ^and here, on the 
ri^t, what I spend — ^and then add them, and 
subtract, and balance at the bottom of each page 
— and put the balance at the top of the next 
page, you see — ^and so on." He ran the pages 
li^tly between his fingers — "Here's the draft I 
drew for the letter of credit." 

Mother's eyes were glued to it. "^ thousand 
dollars," she whispered. "It's too much, 
Jciml" Her eyes sou^t the shoulder just out- 
side the lace curtain. "You'd better give it to 
me, Anthony — " she said. 



MOTHER'S OPINIONS 47 

But John interposed. "It's in Father's 
name — ^^ he was smiling a little — "and it has a 
description of Father in it. It wouldn't do for 
a little, round person like you, Mother !" 

Her face fell a little. "How do we open an 
accoimt?" she asked. 

'They'll show you over there." He was go- 
ing over his list swiftly. "Now here are your 
tickets and some English change — ^you'll need 
it for your cab, and so on — ^and here is some 
American money for fees on the boat ^" 

"For what?" said Mother. 

"Fees— on the boat; you pay you know ^" 

'What for?" said Mother. 

"Why for — for fees — '' John began at the 
beginning and explained carefully the system 
of transatlantic tariff, and Mother's face grew 
rounder and sadder as she listened; it screwed 
itself in little wrinkles as she looked at him — 
trying to understand. 

"What did you say we give the man on the 
deck?" she asked. 



48 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"The deck-steward? — Oh, a couple of dollars. 
I'll put it in this envelope — " he handed it across 
to Anthony. 

"What does the deck-steward do?" asked 
Mother quickly. 

"You get your chairs of him, you know *^ 

"Oh, it's for the chairs — a kind of rent." 
Her face cleared. 

But Anthony's slow fingers were going over 
the envelopes on the table beside him. "Here's 
another marked 'deck-steward,' " he said, hold- 
ing it up. 

John looked at it, helplessly. "That is for 
the chairs," he said, "when you first go on — 
Give it here. I'll see about them before you 
start. That makes one less bother for you." 
He replaced the money in his purse. 

Mother's eyes followed it, relieved. 'Then 
we don't have to give the deck-steward any- 
thing?" she said happily. 

"Yes, I've got it here — *deck-steward,' " read 
Anthony. 



MOTHER'S OPINIONS 49 

She looked at it despairingly. Then she 
wrinkled at John. 

"He carries your chair aromnd for you — *' 
said John. 

"I'll carry it," she said promptly. "Father'U 
carry it for me." She beamed on Father. 

John groaned a little. "You understand it, 
don't you, Father?" 

"Yes; I'm to give the deck-steward this — '* 
He touched the envelope on the table before him, 
when we get there?" 

Yes. Here's a book I got — that gives a 
general estimate of fees." 

"You mean, John Wickham, that we've got 
to keep on doing this every day — dealing out 
little driblets of money to folks — for nothing?" 

"Oh, they do things for you ^" 

"I don't want it!" She pushed the helpful 
little book aside. "I'm not going! Fd rather 
stay right here !" 

A twinkle came into John's eye. *Tt will 
cost a lot more to stay here than to go, I'm 






50 



THE TASTE OF APPLES 



afraid," he said. His eye was on the shoulder, 
just outside the filmy curtain, and on the large 
arm that depended from the shoulder, and on 
the huge hand at the end of the arm. 

'"We don't do things like that here!" said 
Mother. She eyed the innocent book scorn- 
fully. 

"Pm afraid we do — ^and worse," said John 
softly. The fingers of the huge hand worked 
back and forth a little and twiddled themselves. 
"And worse !" said John. 

Mother looked at him helplessly. 'TTou 
mean you've got to do it here — ^in this hotel— in 
New York!" 

"Right here," said John. 

She gave a little gasp. "I'm going home!" 
she said. She turned to Anthony. "You 
hadn't ought to have let me, Father," die said 
reproachfully. 

Anthony's eyes rested on her, half-compassion- 
ate, and very gentle and amused. "I didn't un- 
derstand it m3rself. Mother — ^not really under- 
stand it. They tried to explain it to me in the 



MOTHER'S OPINIONS 51 

shop one day; but I didn't get it clear in my 
mind. John's made it very clear." 

"Oh, ies clear! Thaes the trouble with it!'' 
said Mother. 

There was silence in the window. . . . The 
son looked at her and smiled — "I don't want to 
urge you, Mother; but it will be hard for 
Father — ^he alwa3rs depends on you so." 

She glanced at him quickly. 

Anthony looked across to her. "I do need 
you. Mother," he said softly. 

"You needn't think I shall stay here and let 
you go alone, Anthony. I know more about 
your needing me than you do," she said. She 
brushed the crumbs from her lap and stood up. 
"Did you have our baggage all brought down?" 
she asked. 

She sailed through the filmy curtains without 
a glance at the huge hand han^ng just outside; 
and, fortunately, she did not see the good, rounds 
solid piece of silver that dropped into it as John 
went by. 



vni 



ON TRAVEL 

The boat-train to London filled slowly. Til- 
bury Dock was alive in the darkness with the 
pushing, jostling crowd; porters wheeling heavy 
trunks piled with luggage, leaned upon the dark- 
ness and trundled down the platform. The 
crowd parted and swayed and moved slowly 
along with them — toward the train. 

In the midst of it, there was Anthony, hold- 
ing close to his umbrella, and Mother, holding 
tight to Anthcmy's arm — ^her bonnet a little 
askew and her face puckered in its lines. It had 
not entered into Mother's plans of foreign travel 
to arrive in England by night, and she felt her- 
self borne on an unknown tide into a moist black- 
ness. Somewhere beyond it lay London and a 
place to sleep— perhaps. Out in the Thames, 
in the deeper, thicker darkness behind, the Min^ 
netonka was at anchor. Through the half-twi- 

52 



ON TRAVEL 53 

light, she had crept up the river — z thunder- 
storm, with its murky light, playing strange 
uncanny antics on the clouds. Red, mysteri- 
ous sails had dropped down to meet them and 
had hovered curiously about; great steamships 
had passed silently, or had loomed against the 
sky with their anchors fast in Thames mud. 
Tiny lights had gleamed out, red lights, green 
lights, yellow lights — 3, whole world of li^ts — 
on the shore and on boats, growing thicker as the 
great boat crowded up the river and came to an-! 
chor in midstream. 

Mother, in her stateroom, gathering up the 
few last articles, had peered out of her porthole 
at the magnificent rolling sky, and at the sheets 
of fine rain that drove between. . . . She had 
watched the little red sails hover about, and the 
great motionless hulks of steamers loom past — 
and she had drawn a quick home-sick breath and 
tied on her bonnet with fingers that trembled a 
little. • • • She had been prepared for London 
and its roar and hurry of streets, but not for 
this strange, unsheltered vastness on the edge 



54 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

of space — that she was told was England . . • 
It was all a vague, confused dream. She hoped 
Anthony had the tickets, and his keys safe — and 
that Somebody knew where they were going. 
Then she opened her stateroom door and stepped 
valiantly out — and climbed down the steamer's 
side into the tender that waited. . . • 

Anthony patted the hand that lay on his arm. 
'We're here. Mother — ^' he said. 

**Where do you suppose they have put the 
trunks, Anthony?*' she replied swiftly. 

"I'll go and see," said Anthony, and slipped 
away. 

"Anthony!" she gasped • . . but there was 
only the moving kaleidoscope of faces and black- 
ness and twinkling lights. 

Somebody bundled her into a carriage. . . . 
Suppose he did not find her? How could he re- 
member where he had left her — going oflE like 
that among perfectly strange people! She 
grasped the little bag tight. . • • There must 
be some place — some place for people to go who 
were lost — whose husbands were lost. 



ON TRAVEL $5 

A strange man put his head in the door — 
"Room enough in here," he said, "come on — 
just one woman ^^ 

He placed his bag on the seat by Mother and 
she screwed her courage tight "My husband is 

going to sit there — ^if he comes back " she 

said timidly. 

The man glared at her and turned back to the 
door. "Better go on — more room farther 
down," he said to some one behind, and they 
surged away. And Mother was alone with her 
little black bag — the only thing in England that 
she had ever seen before. 

Bells rang — shouting and slamming of doors, 
and running feet. A man put his head in. 
"Tickets !" he said. 

Mother gulped. "I haven't any— husband !" 
she said softly. 

There was a flying mist, a smile behind him, 

and Anthony slid in — and the door slammed. 
Wheels grumbled a little and turned softly, the 

platform began to move — faces passed and 

slipped off into the blackness. Mother, search- 



56 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

ing in her black bag for her handkerchief, saw 
them blur and run away. 

Anthony turned, with his gentle smile — "All 
right. Mother?" 

"Don't you ever leave me again, Anthony 
Wickham — ^not for one minute! I might have 
been lost." 

"But you couldn't be lost in a train — 
Mother!" 

"You can't tell what might be," said Mother, 
putting the handkerchief back in her bag, and 
snapping it close. "It's different in England — 
everything's different!" 

"Yes — we're going to see new things every 
day now," assented Anthony, glancing at the 
black window flying by. 

Mother made no response. For six days lying 
in her berth, too weak to move, she had watched, 
through the clumsy porthole, the sky go by and 
a great sick green wave lifting itself and sidling 
away into the treacherous sea; for six days she 
had listened to the walls of her stateroom, creak- 
ing, whispering, relaxing — like a fat woman in 



ON TRAVEL 57 

corsets ; for six days the making of a new heaven 
and a new earth had gone on. No need to tell 
Mother she was going to see new things ; her life 
had dissolved — melted away into the mists that 
drifted by the brass-rimmed porthole, or wiped 
in furtive ashamed tears from her face. An- 
thony did not see the tears ; he never once caught 
the handkerchief drying forlornly on the edge of 
its berth; and to all his cheerful enquiries there 
was the same plucky, wrinkled-up assurance — 
"Yes, feeling better, thank you — ^but not quite 
like getting up to-day/' 

It seemed, in some ways, a pity that Anthony 
should not have been the one to succumb to the 
sea; for Anthony had a dozen remedies — 2, dozen 
of them and more. Each of the ministers had 
given him, with the list of Madonnas and tombs 
and gateways, an infallible remedy; they had 
not tried it themselves, but each had it from 
some reliable source; and it was absolutely in- 
fallible — absolutely. They had given him also 
vivid accounts of their state of being on ship- 
board — all of which they might have been spared 



58 THE TASTE OF AI?PLES 

if they had known beforehand of the one infal- 
lible . . . Anthony, secure in gentleness of 
soul, had not needed the remedy; and Mother's 
state of being was so unlike those described by 
his infallible advisers that Anthony had not rec- 
ognised it. 

So Mother had worried through as best she 
could; and she was entering valiantly and for- 
lornly upon a new year in which everything was 
going to be different. . . . She crept a little 
closer into her shell and steadied herself against 
the jolting of the train, and nodded, half asleep 
—one hand clasped tight in Anthony's, lest he 
should slip away again, and she should — be — 
lost. . . . The train jolted into her slumbers 
and knit them and gathered them up— and she 
was back in Bolton and the canary was singing 
in his cage and the geraniums in blossom in the 
window. 

But Anthony, sitting erect beside her, held by 
the motion of the quick-running train, was not 
thinking of Bolton. His mind ran ahead to 
the streets and the people that waited for him. 



ON TRAVEL 59 

He had not known, sitting at his bench, mending 
shoes, how much he longed for people. There 
had always been Simon to talk to, and the big 
man and Samuel — ^but they said the same things 
over and over; and Anthony's mind, travelling 
uito new worlds and coming back, alive with 
thought, had met always the same old answers — 
the same fly-specked, dreary round of conjecture 
and assurance. But now, for six days, he had 
lived ... a Scientist, leaning on the rail of the 
boat, with his back to the sea, had talked to him 
of opsonin and entropy; a Doctor of Divinity 
had presented him with "Q**; a Syndicalist, 
moving in continental grooves, had held the 
world by the throat for him and shaken it with 
long vindictive fingers till gold and silver 
dropped from its pockets and rolled on the deck 
before them, and Anthony and the Syndicalist 
had only to stoop and gather them up by hand- 
fuls — ^but they would not even stoop— the Cap- 
italist should pick it up for them, and present 
it, hat in hand, and say, *Thank you, sir.'* 
And the Syndicalist had paced the deck, his hat 



6o THE TASTE OF APPLES 

off, his hair rumpled by the breeze of heaven 
and his own lively ideas. There had been a 
promoter, too, who would have made Anthony 
rich within a month if all his available money 
had not been safe in the little bag imder Mother's 
pillow. Every one on board, it seemed to An- 
thony, had talked — and he had drunk in their 
words and paced the deck, the wind blowing 
his coat about his thin legs and taking him 
off his feet if he turned a sudden comer. . . . 
Between the new ideas that surged within, and 
the winds that buffeted, it seemed to him at times 
that his feet were not on the deck of a great 
steady-rolling boat, but moving in cloud-lit ways. 
He bet on the boat's run and took a childlike 
pleasure in the bits of silver lying in his palm. 
It did not occur to him that Mother would dis- 
approve; but, by the help of his good angel, he 
did not mention them to her. So Mother, jolt- 
ing sleepily beside him, had one less care for her 
troubled soul. The little pieces of silver would 
have shown her Anthony's slender feet set in the 
downward way. 



ON TRAVEL 61 

But now, in the rumbling train, her hand 
clasped a tower of strength. At home, Anthony 
was only a reed, blown by the wind of thought. 
He made and mended shoes; but one did not 
trust him with serious affairs — ^buying the win- 
ter's coal and selecting shirts. . . . Here, in 
this desert of strangeness, and speeding toward 
a greater strangeness, he was — somehow inex- 
plicably — another Anthony. . . . But, when 
all was said and done, he was only Anthony. 

The train came to a pause and he put his head 
out of the window and looked up and down the 
platform— doors were being thrown open — ^por- 
ters crowded in. He gathered up his hand-bag 
and stepped out. Mother holding him fast. 

Then, suddenly, she dropped the hand she 
held, and darted forward — ^and threw herself 
upon a big man and clasped him close. The 
big man bent a little, and smiled, and reached 
out a free hand to Anthony 

"It's Wally, Father!" sobbed Mother val- 
iantly. "It's Wally Tilton ! — I knew there'd be 
somebody here — to take care of us !'* 



IX 



WALLACE TILTON AND APPLES 



It did not seem a minute before Wallace Tilton 
had gathered them up and placed them in a taxi- 
cab; the porter trundled up with trunks and 
bags, thumping them on the roof and stowing 
them in front, and they were off through the 
whirring, turning London streets. 

Mother glanced from the window, but it was 
cmly a blur — sprinkling lights — half-seen shops 
— ^flying signs — and close beside them a friendly 
honk — ^honk-honk — ^honk-honk-honk ! . . . She 
looked across to Wallace Tilton, sitting oppo- 
site, and smiled — a roimd, happy, competent 
smile. 

"You come and sit here, Wally." She patted 

the ample seat beside her. 'There's plenty of 

room between us — ^yes. It's more comfortable 

to sit close/* 

And Wally moved over between the two 

62 



WALLACE TILTON AND APPLES 63 

with a sudden pleased sense of being a boy. He 
had not known Mrs, Wickham very well in 
Bolton. She had been only John Wickham's 
mother to him when they played ball together 
and went in swimming. As he had paced up and 
down the platform, waiting for the boat-train, 
he had tried to recall how she looked ; but he had 
had only a confused sense of something roimd 
and lively — and a sudden taste of apples in his 
mouth. When he saw her descend from the 
carriage, clinging to Anthony's hand, her face 
had flashed him back through thousands of miles 
— ^two cookies and an apple for each of them — 
always — ^how could he have forgotten her! 
And while his respectable leather feet carried 
him to the cab and back and looked after luggage 
and fees, his real feet were twinkling down the 
streets of Bolton — ^grass and pebbles tickling the 
bare soles — and he shouted, nibbling cookies and 
apples, as he went. . • . 

"Did you have a comfortable voyage?" he 
asked, looking down in the swift-moving dark- 
ness on Mother's bonnet. 



64 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"Very nice," said Mother prompdy. ".You 
tell him where we're going to, Anthony. . . . 
He's got it on a piece of paper — ^John wrote it 
out for him ** 

"I guess Wally knows where we're going to 
stay, Mother." 

"How should he know, Father? We didn't 
know, ourselves — ^till just before we started, did 
we?" 

"No—" said Anthony. He did not like to 
mention cablegrams. He knew how serenely 
Mother's face was beaming beyond Wally's big 
shoulder; and his fingers searched obediently for 
the slip of paper. 

"It's pretty lucky Wally happened to be going 
by just as our train got in," said Mother slowly. 
"It's more than lucky — ^" she added thought- 
fully. "It's one of those things you can't ex- 
plain." 

And neither Anthony nor Wallace tried to. 

"That's the place," said Anthony. He 
handed over the slip of paper. 



WALLACE TILTON AND APPLES 65 

"All right,'' responded Wallace, and tucked 
it into his pocket. 

It was the unexpected beginning of an under- 
standing between them. Wallace Tilton was 
not stupid; he himself would have admitted 
that he had cut his eye-teeth; and while An- 
thony had not cut his teeth, he had lived with 
Mother thirty years. Her serene little faiths 
shining upon the ways of Providence, were not 
things to be tampered with. 

They turned out of the roar of Haymarket 
into a side street and a sudden hush — a sense of 
slipping forward on silence. Wallace glanced 
at the dark shops on either side — "We're nearly 
there,'* he said. 

Mother straightened her bonnet furtively in 
the darkness and clasped her bag tight. 

The "taxi'* came to rest before a great door, 
and Mother peered out. A single gas-jet above 
the entrance lighted up the front of the house, 
a staid, old-fashioned house, blocking the end 
of the still little street. From the distance came 






66 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

soft-purring sounds and faded honks — ^honk- 
honk-honks — ^passing dreamily over the roofs. 
It looks like a nice place/* said Mother. 

It is a nice place," said Wallace, stepping 
from the cab. "At least they say so." 

The door had swimg open before them and a 
little old woman, with softly-crimped white 
hair under its muslin cap and meek-folded hands, 
stood in the arched doorway looking out at them 
with keen, quiet eyes. Mother stepped quickly 
out, and the figure in the door moved a little 
back with an air of quaint stiffness that was like 
a curtsey. 

"We have been expecting you," she said; 
"your son cabled you would be here to-night." 
She took down a bunch of keys from a nail in 
the hall. 

Mother turned back to the door — "She*s heard 
from John, Anthony — to-day! Come right in. 
How did you know it was us?" 

Her landlady smiled a little. "We were ex- 
pecting Americans," she said discreetly. 



WALLACE TILTON AND APPLES 67 

"And you knew I was American — ^the first 
thing?" 

"Yes/' She smiled again and led the way 
into an office. "Show these guests to Number 
Ten," She handed the bunch of keys to a smart 
young woman who came forward. "We can 
make you comfortable in Number Ten to-night, 
and to-morrow I shall give you a better room. 
I hope you will find everything you need." She 
dismissed them with her little dip that was half 
benediction, half curtsey, and Mother followed 
the jinking bunch of keys to Number Ten. 

"It's much nicer than New York!" she said. 

The door had closed behind the smart young 
woman and Mother had taken off her bonnet and 
deposited it in a bureau drawer — a whole bureau 
drawer to itself — with almost a wicked sense of 
roominess. 

Wallace Tilton smiled a little. He glanced 
about the small, stuffy apartment. "You like 
it better than New York, do you?" 

"It's more like home," said Mother. 



68 THE TASTE OF APPLES 



it's homelike and quaint I suppose 
it's about the last place of its kind in London. 
It was just like John to think of it for you; 
you'll be comfortable here." 

''We shall like it real well," said Mother; and 
the familiar, half-forgotten phrase carried the 
big man of business back again to the boy. 

He held out his hand. "Good-night; you 
have my address, you'll be sure to let me know 
if there's anything I can do—?" 

Mother took the hand — tight, as if she heard 
all London roaring out there to devour her. 
"You'll come and see us every day, won't you, 
Wally? I don't know how we should have got 
along without you !" She held his hand, still — 
looking up at him a little wistfully. 

Wallace Tilton's mother was dead. He did 
not think of her often — ^but he had a sudden, 
swift sense that he had missed something, as he 
looked down at the wrinkled face. "I'll come 
as often as you want me to," he said. "Glad 
to come!" 

Then he had gone. And Mother had patted 



WALLACE TILTON AND APPLES 69 

the pillows and looked in the empty wardrobe 
and unpacked three bags with a still, sunny face. 

"I don't see as Wally^s changed a mite," she 
said. ''He looks to me just about the same as 
he did when he was little." 

And Wallace, strolling along by the big stone 
lions, stopped to light a cigarette, and smiled as 
the smoke curled softly about his face. He 
threw away the match with a quick puff. • . . 
It would probably be a great bore — ^but there 
was something about them . . . He strolled 
on — with a little fresh, quick lau^ter stirring 
somewhere in his heart. 



A CITY BY NIGHT 

Mother, on her comfortable pillow, dreamed of 
Bolton and the canary. Only the faintest 
whispers of the wicked city reached her. Up 
and down the Strand, the river of faces flowed — 
vacuous, moving lips, dull-heavy feet — chatter 
and blank, and half-souled eyes looking 
out. 

Anthony Wickham felt the sluggish tide, and 
turned on his pillow. Up against the sky, a 
great electric glow crept rosily and spread itself; 
and he lay looking at it, listening to the muffled 
city — ^the ceaseless honk of horns, waiting, call- 
ing, calling. 

He rose softly and tiptoed across the room 

and dressed himself and slipped out, with quick, 

soft-clicking tum of the latch. Down in the 

clang and rush, his feet guiding him as if they 

remembered, the Strand drew him, sucked him 

70 



A CITY BY NIGHT 71 

in and bore him on — the heavy-running Strand, 
with its weight of life, moving forever out of the 
past, riot and colour and laugh shrunk to a 
dead-brown stream. • . . Overhead the lights 
blinked and twinkled and stared, with cold, 
steady glare — white lights, shining on a past 
But Anthony Wickham, pressing close among 
the crowd, drifting with it, stopping at shop 
windows, staring at theatre-bills, drifting on, 
felt only the pulse of life, the great, new surg- 
ing life behind the eyes and the faces — ^strug- 
gling out. He pressed close. People enough 
at last! His gentle, smiling eyes rested on 
them. No one looked at him — or cared. 
But somehow Anthony Wickham gathered them 
up— all of them — into his hungry heart and 
talked with them — all these friends. . . . Bol- 
ton was safe — ^with Mother and the canary in its 
cage. The great 'buses clanged and swayed, and 
he looked at the tops — at the jolting, soaring 
heads and hats — and laughed softly . • • and 
the feet on the pavement rose and fell, rose 
and fell-- He had a sudden dim sense of 



72 THE TASTE OF MAPLES 

Samuel at his bench, tapping forever — and the 
fat face changed to a thousand eyes — a woman's 
feather floated out — a blue, long feather, like a 
cloud — the hats and shoulders bobbed, and rose 
and fell — rose and fell to the beating pulse. 
Some one jostled him, and he looked down; a 
bleared old hand had thrust a box of matches in 
his face, and Anthony felt in his pockets. 
Surely, he had some change, some silver and 
those great copper wheels — ^he remembered how 
heavy they were; his fingers came out empty, 
and he shook his head. • • • The beggar's dull- 
fixed eyes rested on him . . . and roved away, 
and came back, and the matches thrust them- 
selves — with a whine. Anthony shook his head 
and put his hands in his pockets, turning them 
slowly inside out. . . . The be^ar's grin 
drifted on, dirty, toothless — shuffle-shuffle, lock- 
and-shuffle. . . . Anthony's eyes followed the 
shuffle, the bent back and dipping coat — and the 
crowd came between. In a doorway, an old 
woman, dozing above her crumpled flow- 
ers, looked up— and jerked them forth, "Pen'- 



A CITY BY NIGHT 73 

a-bunch, pen'-a-bunch *' she mumbled, and 

dropped back into muzzy, trembling nods. 
Anthony's eyes rested on her — she jerked herself 
and held them forth, "Pen'-a-bunch — ^pen'-a- 

a ^" she warbled, and collapsed. Anthony 

hesitated a moment, and stepped over to her, lift- 
ing her head a little till it rested against the side 
of the door. "Pen'-a-bun' " she ground out. 

A man and woman passing gave a little glance 
of amusement. "Drunk as a fool!" murmured 
the man. "Disgusting!" said the woman, with 
a half-glance of pity. 

A big blue uniform appeared in the crowd 
and moved with solid foot — straight ahead. 
Under the high, inflexible helmet, a pair of keen 
eyes looked out and a little smile fixed itself oa 
space. Law and order passed by — ^the crowd 
closed in, and jostled elbows and felt the shel- 
ter of the blue arm reach above them. Over the 
way, a church — dark-based, with delicate, 
springing tower — lifted itself in the midst of the 
Strand. Anthony looked up to it and crossed 
over. The roar of 'buses pounded about him 



74 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

and filled him with din. Up and down the 
Strand the traffic swirled; and around the 
church, taxis shuttled and thrust with swift, 
burring hum, hoofs patted the pavement, click- 
ing by. And in the midst of the roll and roar, 
the little church rose softly — bank of heaven — 
post-office to the etemal — soul-shop. Dwelling 
of the Most Hi^ . . . Toot-toot! Toot-toot- 
clang ! Clang-toot-toot-toot-/(?(?/.' 

Anthony walked around the church and turned 
into a little, silent street, where the roaring of 
the Strand behind seemed suddenly lightened and 
free. He looked back to it, at the traffic rush- 
ing swiftly across the end; then he tumed 
and descended the little street till the nunble had 
dwindled to a whisper behind. Before him rows 
of li^ts glanced out, rows of li^ts to right and 
left, and in the distance before him great shows 
of coloured moving bulbs making pictures on the 
dark. Anthony stared at them and moved on 
and crossed the wide street in front of him and 
came to the parapet. He leaned on it, looking 



A CITY BY NIGHT 75 

down — slow sluggish Thames, flowing with the 
Strand. 

He stood a long time, looking down at the 
Thames. He did not know that he was look- 
ing on the source of England's greatness, flow- 
ing always to the sea, the anchorage that 
tempted rovers in, and built a city there, greatest 
of cities, and mingled tongues and races. . . • 
Slow-moving, sluggish English Thames. . . • 
In the distance, rows of bridges spanned it with 
li^t-flung arch; and beneath them moved the 
muddy, ceaseless tide. Something of its sinister 
meaning crept up to Anthony and he turned away 
slowly. ... A great archway spanned the 
road and something lying at the side of it with- 
in the span caught his eye ; he bent forward and 
peered at it — and looked again ... a man, 
close against the arch, fallen — ^perhaps too weak 
to move. Anthony bent to him. Then his eye 
fell on another form beyond — and another— 
and he saw them stretching into the dimness of 
the arch — asleep on the stones. He straight- 



76 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

ened himself and stepped out of the arch and 
looked up at the sky — somewhere above. '1 
mustn't let Mother know about it. Mother 
couldn't sleep if she knew about that !'' 




XI 



MOTHER AND LONDON 

Mother rose with the lark — the London lark. 
She went softly about the room — ^not to wake 
Anthony, who was still sleeping. He had not 
slept as late as this since they left Bolton. On 
the steamer he had been up, every morning be- 
fore the sun, watching it from the boat's rail 
and coming down to tell her of its glories. It 
would be a long time before Mother could listen 
to a sunrise without a little qualm. 

She did up her hair in its tight, competent 
knob and finished dressing and polished her 
spectacles; she did not put them on; she only 
needed them for fine work, for reading and sew- 
ing and brushing Anthony's clothes. 

There was a knock at the door and she looked 
doubtfully across the room. Then she tiptoed 
to the door and opened it. A young man, with 
neatly-pointed moustache and lifted eyebrows, 

7! 



78 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

bowed himself to her. Mother nodded back» 
holding the door safe. 

'*Will Madam breakfast here, or in the break- 
fast-room?" 

Madam glanced helplessly at Anthony, and 
back at the impassive moustache; she took her 
American courage in her hands — "We don't 
want it yet — he's asleep," she whispered. 

"As you say. Madam." He held out a card 
to her — "Madam can order when she likes." 

Mother closed the door on the stately, retreat- 
ing steps and sat down, trembling a little. She 
had had her first encounter with a foreigner — 
and she was alive! She looked down at the 
menu, and reached for her glasses. 

When Anthony woke, she was still absorbed 
in the permutations and combinations of an Eng- 
lish breakfast. Half an hour later when, with 
Anthony's help, she had selected ham and eggs, 
potatoes and coffee and rolls — from scheme 
marked "table d'hote," and costing something 
that Mother figured into thirty-six cents, she 
sighed a little. 




MOTHER AND LONDON 79 

"It*s dreadful hi^ for a breakfast! But we 
must have something — to eat ^' 

Anthony comforted her. "John told you not 
to think too much about what things cost," he 
reminded her. "He'd want us to have good 
breakfasts, you know — as good as we'd have at 
home." 

"I don't suppose he'd want us to go hungry," 
assented Mother. 

And when they were seated in the hi^, old- 
fashioned room, close to a latticed window look- 
ing upon a little court, the savoury breakfast 
spread before them, even Mother's soul relaxed. 

"I declare, it is a nice place, Anthony! I 
don't know but I shall like England — '' She 
mused it slowly, chewing rosy bits of ham. 

Anthony's glance moved to her as he stirred 
his coffee. "It's like most countries, I guess. 
Mother, good and bad, rich and poor — ^" he 
stopped suddenly. He had not meant to men- 
tion poor. 

But Mother chatted comfortably on and ate 
her breakfast as if the great beast out there were 



8o THE TASTE OF APPLES 

not waiting to devour her— and every one — 
in its fierce fangs. 

As the day went on, it became evident that 
the beast would have very little chance to feast 
on Mother. After breakfast she announced that 
she had sewing to do, and she got out her work- 
basket and scissors and seated herself by the win- 
dow — as serene as if the canary were singing 
overhead and the geraniums blossoming in the 
sun. There was no sun in her London window ; 
it opened into a court of skylights and high 
chimneys, with walls rising about it; but it was 
very quiet and Mother, sitting by it, cut and 
stitched and snipped in safety. To all An- 
thony's overtures she turned a deaf ear. 

"I want to get a new collar on your coat be- 
fore dark, Anthony. I ought to *a' done it be- 
fore we left home. It isn't hardly fit to be 
seen — ** she held it up. 

"But that's my winter coat. Mother! I 
shan't need a winter coat — for months " 

"You can't tell what you may need in 




MOTHER AND LONDON 81 

London," said Mother. "It's different!" She 
spoke sternly, out of a mouthful of pins, and 
went on stitching and turning, her face absorbed 
in its work. 

"You run along out and see things," she added 
after a little. "You can tell me about it when 
you come in." 

So Anthony had wandered forth into the great 
town; he had mounted *buses and journeyed 
through stale suburbs and back ; he had wandered 
in the parks, and watched the children play. 
And Mother, anchored safe to her coat, had 
listened to his tales of adventure with her round, 
wrinkled smile and beamed on him. 

"I'm glad you've seen ever3rthing," she said. 
"You'll feel more at home now you've seen 
everything.'* 

Anthony shook his head with the slow, gentle 
smile he had. "There is considerable to see in 
London," he said. 

^ Mother looked at him over her glasses. 
"Didn't you go all over town?" she asked. 



82 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Anthony smiled a little. "Not quite, Mother; 
there are a few things left to see — side streets 
left, I reckon." 

Mother returned to her work. After a little 
she spoke again, '^allace'll take us," she said. 

And at four o'clock Wallace appeared in morn- 
ing-suit and faultless tie. He had told himself 
that he would run in for tea — ^just to see that 
they were getting on all right. Probably they 
would be out — so much the better 

But Mother, sitting by her window with her 
sewing scattered comfortably about her, could 
hardly be described as "out" She had gone 
to the dining-room for a hasty luncheon, and re- 
turned with renewed zeal. 

"I haven't had such a good time to sew, in 
years," she said, slipping on her thimble and 
plunging into work. 

When Wallace appeared at four o'clock, she 
looked up triumphant. "Just finished!" she 
said. "Look's good as new, doesn't it!" She 
held it up before him. 

Wallace inspected it with laughing eye — 



4€ 



MOTHER AND LONDON 83 

You ought to have been a tailor," he declared. 
I took plenty of time to it," said Mother 
modestly. "I wasn't hurried. I turned the lin- 
ing all through, you see." She hung it care- 
fully on its hook and came back to the window. 

"By the way," said Wallace, "how would you 
like to go out to tea with me?" He asked it 
casually; it had occurred to him that tea might 
not be forthcoming; and Wallace was devoted 
to his tea, as devoted as any Englishman — and 

more. 

Mother glanced quickly up at the bit of sky 
over her court. "Is it as late as that!" she ex- 
claimed. "I'd no idea it was supper time." 

He smiled at the good old word. "Well, not 
quite supper time, perfiaps, but we might get a 
cup of tea somewhere." 

"I'll be ready in a minute," said Mother, and 
tied her bonnet-strings under her round chin; 
and they set forth into London. 

"Father's told me a good deal about it," she 
said, trotting contentedly on. "He's been out 
most all day, seeing things — ^My, what a racket !" 



84 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

She put her hands over her ears and looked up 
at him appealingly. 

They had turned suddenly out of the side street 
into the din of Piccadilly — into the very heart 
of the Circus — and she shouted the last words 
helplessly up at him. 

He bent to her, smiling, and tucked her hand 
in his arm. "You'll be all right!" he said. 
"Just shut your eyes and go along." And 
Mother suddenly felt herself lifted, almost bod- 
ily, from her feet on Wallace's strong arm, and 
half borne through the crowd, her feet barely 
touching the stones — taxis, horses, *buses, men 
and women surged about her — thrusting on — a 
horse's head loomed above her and gave way to 
a great, shooting 'bus that turned suddenly into 
a small boy, pushing his cart before him, and be- 
came a fat man running down the swift-moving 
taxi that dwindled sharply to a little round 
woman in a bonnet, sobbing almost hysterically 
on the sidewalk. ... "I never saw anything 
like it — ^Wallace!" she gasped. 

He patted the hand on his arm and steadied 



MOTHER AND LONDON 85 

her through the crowd. "There, there — 
Mother !" The word slipped out unawares, and 
she looked up, smiling quaveringly at him. 

"I knew you wouldn't let anything happen to 
me," she said. "But a crowd always confuses 
me a little — someway." 

"Game little woman!" said Wallace under 
his breath. . . . He need not have said it un- 
der his breath ; he mi^t have shouted it aloud- 
very loud indeed. Mother would not have 
heard. Her ears were filled with siren calls and 
with the swift-moving, clanging din of Picca- 
dilly. 



XII 



IK A TEA-ROOM 

The tea-room was spacious — ^flowers and palms, 
music playing, soft chatter and talk; spoons 
clicked, little silver tea-pots clinked on their 
trays; and through it all, behind the palms, the 
music played softly. 

Under a great, shading palm. Mother looked 
about her with pleased eyes. "It's a nice place 
when you get to it," she said. 

Wallace nodded. "One of the best.*' They 
had finished their tea, and he sat with a cigarette 
in his fingers, rolling it slowly. "You don't 
mind if I smoke?" 

"Not a mite. John smokes — ^when he's home. 
I didn't like it — ^but it's good for the plants. 
They always do better when John's home." 
She beamed on him. 

He smiled a little and bent over for a match, 

and her eyes fell on the cigarette — "Mercy! 

Is that what you're going to smoke !" 

86 




IN A TEA-ROOM 87 

He drew in a breath from the lighted 
match, turning his eyes to her with a smile as 
he let it out in the little puffs of billowy 
smoke 

She watched them fade. "Makes me think 
of grapevine," she said. "John used to smoke 
that.** 

He nodded. 'We both did." 

"I know. You was always up to the same 
things! Seems queer now, with all these con- 
traptions around — to think of your going bare- 
foot " 

Wallace laughed, a little touch of constraint 
in his face. A group had come into the balcony 
at the right and were looking down at him. One 
of the women raised her eyebrows with a quick 
look at his companion and nodded gaily. Wal- 
lace returned the salute — turning his shoulder, 
ever so slightly. A merry laugh drifted down 
and the party settled into their places; waiters 
moved among them and gay chatter of talk and 
laughter came over the railing. There was a 
freedom about the group, a little half-conscious 



88 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

ignoring of the audience, that made people turn 
to look at them. 

"Friends of yours?" asked Mother. She was 
beaming up at them with round, open gaze. 

"Not exactly — friends," said Wallace, 
" — ^people I know." 

He turned his shoulder squarely on them and 
devoted himself to Mother. He was a happy 
host when he chose to be, as several women in 
the group above could testify, and Mother ex- 
panded under his attentions, like a child. She 
confided to him her trials since this wild project 
entered John's head — all her difficulty in get- 
ting ready for it — ^her fears and her present 
anxiety and ignorance in the great, unknown 
town. ... "I feel as if I didn't know any- 
thing!" she said. "I can't even understand 
what they say — ^half the time. There was some 
folks at breakfast this morning — they were talk- 
ing same as we are now — and not much farther 
off than you are, and I couldn't understand what 
they said ! I knew it was English. I could get 
a good English word, now and then, but it 



IN A TEA-ROOM 89 

wasn't like anything I ever heard — they kind of 
run up and down so— singing-like, and not ex- 
actly singing either. ... I don't see what I 
am going to do if I can't understand the lan- 
guage!" She looked at him, pathetically, and 
Wallace smiled. 

"You see how quick you'll get used to it," he 
said encouragingly. "I almost never think of it 



now." 



She leaned toward him a little — "That's the 
worst of it, Wally — I don't want to get used to 
it — and we've got to stay a year !" 

Wallace laughed out. "You'll like it before 
you've been here a month — ^you see if you don't." 

But Mother only breathed a virtuous si^ — "I 
hope I shan't — ^Wallace. . . . Anthony likes 
it. He always does like things different. He's 
just that way when he's home — ^won't keep his 
collars in the same comer of the bureau drawer, 
two weeks running. I have to keep putting 'em 
back for him!" She sighed again. "And 
everything costs so ! How much do you suppose 
we paid for our breakfast, Wally?" 



90 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

He blew a little wave of smoke. "Oh — two- 
and-six, perhaps — ^I don't know what they do 
charge there." 

"Would you mind speaking slower, Wallace 
— just a little mite slower? You kind o' run up 
and down too. You didn't say twenty-six?" 

"No— two-and-six." 

"That makes eight!" said Mother. "I told 
you everything was diflFerent!" 

So, in the great palm room, to the sound of 
music, with waiters moving on noiseless feet and 
little cups clinking about her. Mother learned 
the system of English coinage. 

With the card on the table before them, Wal- 
lace gave her a first lesson, pointing to shillings 
and pence with the half-smoked end of his cig- 
arette, and drawing on the cigarette with amused 
breath while Mother's mind grasped the items 
and dealt with them. 

"You're going to pay four shillings and six- 
pence for what we've had here?" She made a 
swift computation — "It's one dollar, twelve and 
a half cents," she said. 



IN A TEA-ROOM 91 

"And the fee " said Wallace, wickedly, 

out of his little cloud of smoke. 

Mother turned a speechless, shattered face on 
him. . . . "Does it seem all right to you, 
Wally? I feel as if I was out of my head— or 
something !" 

"You're all right— Mother '' 

"I like to hear you call me that," she said. 

He nodded. "Yes, I'm going to call you 
'Mother.' " 

She looked at him with swift thought — "We 
must 'a' paid more than «thirty-six cents for our 
breakfast" Her eyes were on the shillings and 
pence. "It must 'a' been 'three-and-six* apiece, 
and that's^— one dollar and seventy-five cents!" 

Half an hour later, in the quiet of their own 
room, Mother had revealed to Anthony the abyss 
on which they stood. "It's likely to cost us 
seventy-five dollars a week to stay here," she 
said. 

Anthony looked about him at the peaceful 
little room. "It doesn't look so dreadful ezpen- 



92 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

sive, does it. Mother? I went into a place to- 
day, down the road a piece, where they had 
flowers and pictures and lace curtains — ^I should 
have known that would cost, but '' 

'^Wallace says it's these quiet places that 
charge the highest sometimes," said Mother. 
'They charge for being old, I guess. He says 
there are folks that always have come here and 
always will ; they'll keep on coming — no matter 
what they charge ! And so they charge — I can't 
imderstand it !" she said helplessly: 

'1 suppose it's like folks bringing their shoes 
to me instead of taking them to Gibson ?" 

"Gibson!" Mother said the word with the 
finest touch of scom. "GibscMi !" 

"He's cheaper — '' said Anthony. 

"I wouldn't let Gibson do a pair of shoes for 
me — ^not if I was starving!" said Mother. 
^"Wallace is going to look up a place for us. I 
told him we couldn't stay here!" 

"John wanted us to come here," said An- 
thony. He had a picture of Mother sitting by 
her window with her sewing peacefully spread 



IN A TEA-ROOM 93 

about her — ^and, beside it, the pretentious hotels 
that he had seen to-day, on the crowded streets. 
He could not fancy Mother with her sewing 
in one of those places. "Don*t you think we'd 

better " 

'Wallace is going to get us a place to-mor- 
row," said Mother finnly, "a place to keep house 



in. 



» 



XIII 



WALLACE GOES HOUSE-HUNTING 



Under the appealing look in Mother's eyes, 
Wallace had promised. But the more he re- 
flected, the more difficult the thing grew to look. 
There were plenty of little flats. Wallace had 
occupied little flats himself. He smiled to 
think of Mother's round goodness in some of 
them — and they were expensive. His mind left 
Mayfair and ranged through Whitechapel and 
model tenements, and dwelt on Garden Cities — 
with a shivering excursion to Brixton and Cam- 
den Town and Wormwood Scrubbs — and came 
back to Mayfair and the parks. He thought of 
a little house in Highgate ; but he had a sudden 
sense that Highgate was very far away — ^he could 
not run in every day, as he had prcxnised Mother 
he would do^ till she grew used to things. . . . 
London did not seem adapted to small, round 

94 



WALLACE GOES HOUSE^HUNTING 95 

women in bcHinets — ^who made you think of 
apples and cookies and who gave you the quick, 
light-hearted feeling of going barefooted in a 
palm room! • • • His mind travelled up and 
down the Strand and veered to the Embankment 
— and came to a sudden halt. He was looking 
up at the Temple buildings lifting themselves, 
grey and grim, to Fleet Street — ^The Vintons had 
lived there — ^Where were the Vintons? 

Wallace could not remember where the Vin- 
tons were, but he remembered very clearly going 
to see them in the Inner Temple — ^the queer, 
stuffed-in little place; and in a flash, he saw 
Mother happily installed and Wallace Tilton 
running in to see her every day — ^till she got 
used to things ! 

Wallace Tilton had been house-hunting be- 
fore — ^but not in the Temple. His usual method 
was to stroll into an office in the afternoon, se- 
lect a set of rooms that he thought would suit 
him, look it over casually the next day and accept 
the key. His instinct told him that his usual 



96 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

method might not work in the Temple. The 
Temple was a world by itself. 

He began with the porter at the gate — z per- 
sonage in silk hat, brass buttons and trimmings, 
who had no knowledge of furnished rooms to 
be sublet; but after looking thoughtfully at a 
piece of silver lying in his hand, he remembered 
that sometimes gentlemen going away did sub- 
let, furnished — ^yes. . . . The treasurer had 
charge of letting chambers. Quite so— good- 
day, sir. . . . Wallace mounted the hill of 
Middle Temple Lane, elated, and passed through 
Pump Court, where a multitude of sparrows 
twittered shrilly in the trees — as if innumerable 
little glass balls himg among the branches and 
swayed and tinkled in a wind; he crossed the 
low-vaulted Cloisters beyond, and another Court, 
and went down a dark flight of steps and laid his 
request before the treasurer — ^who looked at him, 
and smiled, a little superior English smile. 

'It is against the rules for any tenant of the 
Temple to sublet — ^any person doing it forfeits 
his lease." He said it crisply and neatly and 



WALLACE GOES HOUSE-HUNTING 97 

looked at Wallace with his bland smile — the 
smile that could not understand how any one 
could be so ignorant of a primary law of 
nature. 

Wallace stared back. "But I have friends 
who '' 

The treasurer still smiled. "I have never 
known of its being done," he said politely. 

Wallace looked at him again "Thank 

you," he said slowly. "I have come to the 
wrong place — ^I see?" 

"The last place in the world," assented the 
treasurer — almost cordially. 

"Do you suppose there is any one who has 
ever— er — ^heard of its being done?" 

The treasurer examined his nails, and looked 
carelessly at Wallace's coat. "The Wig-maker 
may have — ^heard of something of the kind — ^hc 
is centrally located — ^yes — ^just beyond the 
Cloisters — It is quite against the rules, you un- 
derstand?" 

"Quite so," said Wallace. "Thank you '' 

and he sought the Wig-maker, blessing and curs- 



98 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

ing, for the thousandth time, the natioa that sees 
only what it is compelled to see. 

The Wig-maker seated oa a hi^-stool before 
his efBgy, turning it with skilful, lady-like fin- 
gers, looked up. His heavy brown moustache 
was oiled, his hair shone with gloss, and his ex- 
pression had a kind of childlike patience — some- 
thing just short of shining. He admitted, 
wearily, that he knew of chambers, and took 
down a handful of keys. Wallace followed him 
— ^up innumerable flights of stone steps and 
wooden steps; he began to understand the look 
of weariness in the Wig-maker's face. 

Interest in the chambers, the Wig-maker had 
not. He threw open the door of each set, with 
the same look of infantile patience. Take it, or 
leave it — ^but don't expect him to be concerned 
in it. In the intervals his mind was probably 
engaged in flints of wig-making. 

To Wallace, peering into cupboards and look- 
ing under sinks, with a haunting memory of 
Mother's kitchen, there was something oppressive 
in the Wig-maker's aloofness. 



WALLACE GOES HOUSE-HUNTING 99 

''This seems like a good set," he remarked 
cheerfully. 

"Some people like it," responded the Wig- 
maker; and Wallace saw the place in its true 
light — ^the walls were dirty, and the rugs frayed 
— dust everywhere — "I don't think it will do," 
he said slowly. "Have you anything more?" 

"One more," said the Wig-maker, and they 
toiled up four flights to a set under the eaves. 
"Sea-captain," said the Wig-maker, stepping 
back. 

Wallace looked about him; the rooms were 
tiny, but spotless. Out across the roofs was a 
group of chimney-pots, and beyond a glimpse 
of masts and moving water. "How much arc 
these?" he asked. 

"Fifteen shillings," said the Wig-maker. He 
was looking into immeasurable distance. 

"Qieaper than some of them," commented 
Wallace. 

"He wants to go," said the Wig-maker. "He 
gave up the sailing to practice law ; but he doesn't 
like law — ^he's going on a voyage. To-morrow 



99G368A 



loo THE TASTE OF APPLES 

noon, he sails. They^l be ready to let at one 
o'clock." It was a long speech for the Wig- 
maker — almost committal. 

Wallace looked through them again. "I 
want to bring some one this afternoon to see 
them," he said. "Can you show them this after- 
noon?" 

"Any time between four and five," said the 
Wig-maker. "She told me they will be out 
then." 

"She ?" 

"His daughter — the Captain's daughter." 

"Ah — that has a pleasant soimd — the Cap- 
tain's daughter — I think we shall take 
them " 

The Wig-maker looked at him without com- 
ment. 

"Can you give me the address of — the Cap- 
tain's daughter?" 

"They let the rooms through me," explained 
the Wig-maker. 

"I know — I understand it — quite. But I 
should like to see her — the daughter of the Cap- 



WALLACE GOES HOUSE-HUNTING loi 

tain." He took out a note-book, and held his 
pencil ready. 

"She lives in Chelsea," signed the Wig-maker 
— ^and Wallace's pencil took down the street and 
number, and he shut the book and slipped it into 
his pocket. 

"Thank you," he said. "We shall see the 
Captain's dau^ter — at once." 



1 



XIV 



IN THE TEMPLE 



'In the Templet' said Mother, 
her forehead a little. *Ts it a diuicfa, Wal- 
lace?' 

**Not a church exactly — '^ said Wallace. 
"There's a church near by," he added. He was 
not quite clear in his mind whether Mother 
wanted to live in a church — ^it seemed safer to 
keep on neutral ground. "It's an old church, 
you know — thirteenth century !" 

"Is it where you go?" 

'^Where I ?" 

**The church where you go to?" said Mother. 

"Oh! I — ^I shall probably go there, if you 
take the rooms." 

'That'll be nice!— wiA me and Father." 

"Yes — that's what I thou^L" 

'He's found a place for us. Father!" She 
turned to Anthcmy who had come in and was 



I02 



IN THE TEMPLE 103 

smiling down at them. ''He's going to take us 
to see it, and we can move right in — if we want 
to— to-morrow. It's a kind of church — ** Sht 
beamed on them both. 

Anthony looked across at Wallace. 

"It's in the Temple," explained Wallace— 
"Plowden Buildings, you know. It's rather 
high up— four flights; but 'Mother* says she 
doesn't mind that." 

"It costs three dollars and seventy-five cents 
a week," said Mother, "and it's furnished with 
everything we need — mostly." 

"It's quite furnished, I should say," said Wal- 
lace. "Put on your bonnet and come along and 
see it." 

He had entered into the spirit of things. • . • 
Ten days ago if one of the chorus ladies had 
told him that he would presently be escorting 
a round old lady about London, looking up 
rooms, interviewing Wig-makers and Captain's 
daughters and looking into coal cellars, he 
would have lauded with her and taken the 
bet. . • . But he had not so mudi fun in 



104 THE TASTE OF AEPLES 

years. Business was stale — ^any one could play 
it with his eyes blindfold. Chorus girls had 
their limits. . . . But a lively old lady, to 
tuck under your arm and pilot about London 
made life worth living. . • . He guided her 
across the worst places, for the sheer joy of feel- 
ing the fierce little clutch on his arm and the 
gasp of thanksgiving at the end. 

"I don't see what I should do without you, 
Wally! Seems as if there was more people, 
«very time I go out." 

"You'll get used to it," said Wallace. 

But, privately, in his heart, he hoped she 
would never get used to it. She recalled to him 
so vividly his own first days in London — ^He 
had not presented to London the same be- 
wildered,* dishevelled front of courage that 
Mother wore ; but inside, he knew, he had expe- 
rienced most of the feelings that she displayed 
50 recklessly. ... It all took him back to the 
first day. He was hardly more than a boy 
. • . but he had done the work of a man, of 
two men — ^tcn men — ^they had got their money's 




IN THE TEMPLE 105 

worth out of him — and they had never paid him 
a cent more than they had to— well, he was tak- 
ing it easy now — ^a week in the country when he 
chose — his own car — plenty of friends. . . • 
There were not many men who would not be 
glad to be in Wallace Tilton's shoes to-day. It 
would have surprised Wallace very much if he 
could have known that he stood in immediate 
danger of losing those comfortable, well-brushed 
shoes — that, almost any day, he might find him- 
self tasting the joys of barefoot life in figurative 
earnest. 

"I don't feel as if we ou^t to take so much 
of your time, Wally," said Mother. She was 
swimming valiantly up the Strand, her head 
just above water. 

My time doesn't matter," lauded Wallace 
'plenty more where it came from. Here we 
are!" He had tumed into the low-arched 
gateway, and Mother, with a little gasp of re- 
lief, rioted herself and felt cautiously of her 
bonnet. • • . 

Wallace nodded to Anthony. ''You and 



"] 
«. 



io6 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Mother come on slowly. I'll run ahead for the 
key." 

They watched him disappear down a long 
passage, throu^ a narrow door at the end— out 
of si^t; they walked slowly on, looking ahead 
to the centre of a court where a fountain 
splashed in the sun and a dove on the edge of 
the basin preened itself and shimmered; spar- 
rows dropped down to drink, ferns fomied a 
green edge along the water and tree-shadows 
flecked the stone pavement. It was like a picture 
in an old book. . • . Across the court rose a 
strange, worn building with stained-glass win- 
dows and quaint carving, and beyond it a flight 
of steps descended to a little court-yard where 
great halls, with pinnacles and towers, lifted 
themselves; and through rows of iron railings 
and across the wide expanse of grass, glimpses 
of tram-cars and taxi-cabs flitted past. • . . 
But no sound came to the little fountain court— 
the dove cooed and lifted its wing flying a little 
away; it waddled business-like and brisk, on the 
paved court, pecking at nothing. 



IN THE TEMPLE 107 

Mother eyed it, happily. 'It does seem good 
to see a bird — doesn't it?*' 

"There he is!'' said Anthony. 

Wallace was jingling keys at them from an 
archway and they moved across. "It's down 
here," he said. He descended a flight of steps 
and Mother looked back, a little wistfully, to the 
f oimtain. "I hoped it might be along here some- 
where," she s^id softly. 

"If s right near by," said Wallace. "You 
can come any time — and hear the birds sing!" 

Mother smiled back and followed him down 
the narrow edge of pavement to the entrance of 
the high, dark building. "Seventy-three steps," 
he said. "I counted them — ^Hold your 
breath!" 

But Mother moimted on the wings of hope. 
To have a little place of her own — a real home 
in the great city's roaring — it seemed very near 
—only seventy-three steps ! 

Wallace inserted the key. "It's small, you 
know — '* He swung back the door — and dis- 
closed behind it another door. 



io8 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Mother looked at it blankly. **We must have 
got the wrong key, Wallace," she said helplessly, 

"If s all right," said Wallace. He held up 
another key, and put it in the lock. "They al- 
ways have two doors in the Temple." He 
threw open the inner door and drew back. 

Mother stepped over the threshold. "It 
doesn't seem much like a Temple, does it? It^s 
just a little home !" She was standing motion- 
less in the passage-way, looking into a room be- 
yond; through the west windows the sun poured 
in, and in one of them was — something. 
Mother peered forward — "It's a bird-cage, An- 
thony!" she said swiftly. "Wallace, it's a 
bird!" In another minute, she had crossed the 
room and was looking up at the tiny, yellow ball, 
with adoring eyes— chirping, laughing — the tears 
brimming somewhere in the round eyes. "Will 
they let me have it, Wallace — a bird — !" she 
asked. 

"It's yours. Mother — ^bought and paid for to- 
day," said Wallace, smiling. 

A glance passed between him and Anthony, 



IN THE TEMPLE 109 

and they stood waiting. Mother had crossed 
the room, strai^t to the bird. She had not 
glanced at the grate with the little fire burning 
in it and, in front of it, the tiny tea-table with 
white cloth and cups for three, and the tea-kettle 
humming on the hob. She turned slowly about 
and saw it — and caught her breath. "Doesn't — 
it— look like— home— Father— !" The next 
minute she was sobbing a little, and wiping her 
eyes, and taking off her bonnet — "You mean 

it's for us — ^now — to sit right down to! 

Mercy no, I can't cat in my bonnet, Wallace !'* 
She bustled to the fire. She poked it, and 
looked in the tea-kettle and laughed; she meas- 
ured the tea, with a hand that trembled — 
"Seems as if I was reading it in a book!" she 
said softly. "I didn't know anything could 
happen like this — ^in London!" 

"Just the place where it's bound to happen," 
said Wallace. "I take cream with mine — 
cream and plenty of sugar — ^Thank you." He 
took the cup and sipped it slowly. "The Cap- 
tain's daughter is a fine judge of tea," he said. 



no THE TASTE OF APPLES 

And while Mother drank her tea, and nibbled 
a little at cakes, he gave them the history of his 
house-hunting, and made out for Mother ad- 
dresses and directions, and drew a plan of streets 
and shops — the best places to buy tea and coals 
and butter and eggs — all carefully gathered from 
the Captain's daughter, and vouched for by prac- 
tical, English common-sense. 

**You can't go wrong," he said as he jotted 
them down. ''She has tried them all ; and she's 
the real thing — ^British made. You'll find it 
as easy as shopping in Bolton.'' 

"The man comes to the door there," said 
Mother, "and I tell him what I want. But I 
shan't mind going out — ^I've got a good big net- 
bag to put things in." 

Wallace knew the kind of bag. He had seen 
them in 'buses — held carefully together by small 
women whose toes did not touch the bounding 
floor — ^bulging in every direction and holding an 
incredible quantity of stuff. He had looked on 
them with amused tolerance; but now suddenly, 
he saw a pitcure of Wallace Tilton carrying a 



V^mmmm 






.... 

,* 4 4 1. I 



I c< 



-.:i^ : T.-v.-.r p ' 






IN THE TEMPLE ill 

very large, well-stuffed bag and escorting Mother 
through the busiest streets. 

"They will deliver goods if you go early/' he 
said. 

"Oh, I shall go early,'* responded Mother. 
"But I shan't need anything for a day or two. 
There's quite a lot of things on hand, I see — in 
the cupboard there. . . . Well, I must wash 
the dishes, and we'll be getting back." She 
rose with a little sigh, and pinned a towel about 
her person. 

They watched her as she whisked into the 
room and out, gathering up plates and cups 
and pouring hot water into a little pan that 
she brought from the kitchen beyond. 
"There's everything there," she said, "and most 
of them himg on nails. I never saw so many 
nails !" 

'Ship-shape," said Anthony. 
'That's it — ^I've said 'ship-shape' all my life 
and, I declare, I never thought what it meant! 
The whole place is just the same." She looked 
about her, at the small, shining room. 






112 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"You can play you're going on a voyage," 
said Wallace. 

"Pd rather stay here," said Mother hastily. 
"Fd like to settle right down this minute — and 
not stir another step !" 

"Why not do it. Mother?" said Anthony. 
"We'll get the things. Wallace says it's all 
ready for us here ^" 

Mother glanced at him doubtfully. "My 
best bonnet's in the third drawer," she said. 
" — I declare I hate to let you — ^but that street 
we came through does — roar — so!" 

"We'll bring everjrthing," said Wallace. 
"You stay where you are — and be comfortable." 

Mother watched them go with half-doubtful 
eyes. "You look in all the bureau drawers, An- 
thony — and you've got to pay fees to some of 
'em. The Book says 'from two to five shillings 
to the waiter — and others in proportion.* 
You'd better ask Wallace how much 'in propor- 
tion' is " 

"FU see to that," said Wallace. "Don't you 



IN THE TEMPLE 113 

wony, Mother, you just go right on making a 
home/' 

So they went out and left her, and Mother 
crossed over to the bird and chirped to him a 
little and looked at the chairs and patted them 
— and suddenly two large tears rolled down her 
cheeks. She wiped them quickly away, and two 
more followed — and two more — and then a 
whole flood, bursting the bounds and shaking 
her all through. She sank into a chair by the 
Are, wiping them hastily away and looking 
through them at the shining room. • . . There 
was only the hununing of the kettle on the hob— 
and Mother's little sobs breaking in — ^and now 
and then a soft, quiet chirp from the yellow bird 
in his cage in the window. 



XV 



ANTHONY AND BEGGARS 

Once Mother was settled in her nest, a new life 
began for Anthony. The great town drew him 
— asleep or awake, he felt it whispering subtly; 
and often while Mother was sleeping or while 
she was busy with her dishes and bread-raising, 
he stole out to meet it. 

The policemen on the various beats grew to 
know the thin, gentle figure, slipping throu^ 
the crowd — a figure that seemed to be always 
seeking something that it did not find. 

Now and then Anthony stopped to speak to 
a begging match-vender or to some fiddler at 
the curb-stone. For the most part they looked 
at him with dull, imcomprehending eyes — there 
were those, perhaps, who might have understood 
him — searching — seeking — ^always seeking. But 
they might not speak to him, and he passed them, 
xmheeding. The power of the city was on him ; 

"4 



ANTHONY AND BEGGARS 115 

the same great force that sent Mother, palpitat- 
ing to her tree-top, drew him out, drove him 
forth. He was not an American visiting Lon- 
don — ^he was a part of it — ^part of its hurry and 
life. Nowhere in the world, perhaps, could the 
shoemaker have come so close to himself as in 
the great town that drove its roots into the PasL 
For years he had sat, tapping away at the prob- 
lems and the dreams that roamed the London 
streets. He was not afraid to look on at life, 
flooding through; he had no hasty impulse to 
cover it up out of sight with its wickedness and 
filth . . . there might be something — ^who could 
tell? — ^something that might be made as good 
as new. • • • 

By a kind of instinct he seemed to penetrate 
the heavy masks as he penetrated the nights of 
fog along the streets. 

"They look to me, Anthony, as if they were 
all going to some great funeral somewhere," 
Mother pronounced when she had become a little 
accustomed to the streets and ventured forth in 
friendly daylight under Wallace's wing. "I de- 



11 16 THE TASTE OF AEPLES 

clare, I never saw so many folks that looked as 
if they was too miserable to live !" 

"They're not so unhappy," said Anthony. "I 
seem to know how they feel, Mother — they've 
got a bad pair of shoes to do— and they don't 
know just how they^ll do 'em ... no soles 
hardly, and heels run down, and uppers pretty 
bad, and gaping — ^but they don't give up. 
That's what I like about 'em, Mother — ^they 
dcMi't give up! I can feel it — how they^re — 
doing — ^thinking — turning 'em in their mind — 
and when I look up and see 'em that way in a 
'bus — ^all kind o' puzzled and heavy, daft-like — 
I say to myself, ^They^re a-thinking — they^U get 
it yet!' . . . I've set that way myself a good 
many times with an old, worn-out pair in my 
hands, not know which way to turn hardly — 
and then all of a sudden I'd see! . . . You 
have to tackle your old shoes in an old coimtiy 
— ^and make 'cm come right. . . . Over home 
we don't mend — ^we throw away and start new 
every time. But there's something about an old 
pair — a good hand-made pair, to start with — 



ANTHONY AND BEGGARS 117 

that you don't get with us. . • • Someway, on 
the streets, I feel as if I knew how they feel — 
they don't move very quick; but there's some- 
thing down underneath you can count on — ^and 
I feel it tugging at me — Some days it's all I can 
do to keep from reaching out my hands to 'em 
and saying, Xet me take a hold !' I feel as if 
they'd understand — and move along to make a 
place for me. There's something big about 'em. 
Mother '' 

But Mother only sniffed a little. When An- 
thony got to running on, talking about people — 
talking foolishness about people, and mixing 
them up with shoes, that way, she took refuge 
in silence. But in her heart, she was a little 
troubled about Anthony. . . . He had nothing 
to take up his mind as she had. The scrub- 
bing and scouring of the little chambers filled 
her with content, and the canary sang in the 
window. 

But Anthony seemed unconscious of anything 
wrong. He went out each morning and re- 
turned at noon or night with long and interesting 



ii8 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

tales. It was only when he talked queerly about 
people that Mother had a little sudden fear 
that the change might be bad for Anthony. But 
when she looked at his quiet face she forgot her 
fears. The wrinkles seemed disappearing — 
only the one strai^t one remained between the 
eyes, rising to meet the lock of hair that rose 
straight from his forehead — ^it seemed to her it 
had grown white since they came to London — 
the little lock that was not quite a curl. . . . 

Gradually the American with the little white 
lock of hair became known to others besides the 
police; professional beggars marked him, but 
the police marked the beggars, and they returned 
to their stare of match-boxes and shoestrings. 

Anthony moved among them, his eyes some- 
times lifted to their faces, but oftener on the 
dragging, shuffling feet. ... It seemed to him 
that never since light fell on the earth had shoes 
so disreputable been seen — affairs of windy 
leather and string, the mere assumption of shoes ; 
shoes that bulged and gave way, sloppy and tom 



k 



ANTHONY AND BEGGARS 119 

and cut, shuffling and slinking — Wheels run down 
and toes turning up. . . . Everywhere such 
shoes — at the foot of heroic statues, standing 
straight and high, made of iron or bronze or 
marble — never to be touched. . . . Every- 
where the hideous, sodden poverty — sitting at 
the foot of the heroic statues — ^toppled this way 
and that in wretched ulsters and shawls, the 
misery of London — ^not rebelling, not begging, 
not even resting — ^but merely sitting out exist- 
ence, waiting for the end, hopeless that there 
would be any end— eyes bleared and gouged, 
ears torn, noses eaten level, feet swollen in the 
shapeless shoes — sodden with drink, sodden 
with, Grod knows what injustice and misman- 
agement. . • • Anthony took them all into his 
heart — that would have mended them — if it 
could. 

Sometimes his hand exchanged a copper, 
sometimes he stopped for a bit of talk by one of 
the shapeless, shrugging masses at the foot of its 
statue; and, after a little, he began to know 
them — ^the hopeless, unworthy, god-forsaken 



120 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

ones, and those who sometimes felt a breath of 
hope with the spring — ^but curiously, it was the 
hopeless bundles that touched him most — for- 
saken of Grod and men ... the ones that leered 
dull eyes at him — ^under England's great men — 
evil, dirty, throu^ and through. . . . Where 
was Grod keeping himself? 

An old beggar moved a red eye on him. . . • 
'Tm sixty, come next Michaelmas," he' said. 

"Just my age," said Anthony. He had seated 
himself on the edge of the statue and crossed his 
legs, swinging one slim foot a little slowly back 
and forth. 

The beggar^s eye grudged its easy swing . . . 
and gaped at it. 

"It's hard, getting old," said Anthony; "things 
don't seem the same when you're old " 

Half-articulate words answered him — they 
mumbled themselves at Dewar's whisky, just 
faintly visible in the blur across the river 
Thames. 

"Everything gets old together," said An- 
thony, "clothes — and shoes." His eye fell to 



k 



ANTHONY AND BEGGARS 121 

the shapeless masses at the end of the legs, that 
thrust themselves out as feet. 

The beggar shuffled them a little and whined 
beneath his breath — ^his eye on an officer pacing 
the walk on the other side of the embankment. 

Anthony bent over and looked at the shoes 
attentively — they had no strings, and white rags 
were bound about things inside, for stockings. 
"They^re not so bad — ** said Anthony, half to 
himself, "they mi^t be mended. I think — ^if 
you would come — with me——" 

He got up and the beggar got up with him, 
shuffling his feet, exaggerating their clumsi- 
ness, and hobbling carefully. 

The officer across the way strolled over, with 
even, implacable tread. His careless hand 
swung out and touched the beggar's shoulder— 
"None of your games. Jack !" 

The red eye tumed on him virtuously. "It's 
his doin's — ^he arxed me," said the beggar. His 
eyes grew resentful. "I didn't do nothink '* 

The officer's hand dropped from his shoulder 
— "Sec that you don't do nothing— that's all." 



122 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

His hand motioned to Anthony and they 
moved away a few steps. 

'"He's a thorougti bad <xie," said the officer, 
'1>ad throu^ and throu^." 

'That's what I thou^t," said Anthony. 
'That's why I wanted to do something. . . . 
It's not against the law to do something, is it?" 
The qucsti<xi was respectful — but there was a 
little glint somewhere behind it that crossed to 
the policeman and laug^d between them. 

The policeman motioned toward the beggar — 
'Tfou keep your eye on him, that's all. I'll take 
your name and address, please." 

The beggar's lowering eye watched the writ- 
ing and followed the broad figure as it swung 
away into its even tread — "You arxed me to 
go!" he grumbled "I didn't do nothink." 

'This is the way," said Anthony, and they 
tumed in at the Temple Grate. The porter 
looked out of his box with censorious eye, and 
half-way up the Temple Lane, an officer ac- 
costed them — and let them go— with a warning 
look at the b^;gar's dull and glowering eye. 




ANTHONY AND BEGGARS 123 

But in spite of officers and warnings, the man 
seemed to walk a little more erect — ^his feet 
shuffled less on the stones. It was only when 
they had climbed to the top of the Plowden 
Buildings and his eye encountered Mother's, 
that he collapsed. 

She looked at Anthony meaningly. 

"I want my mending-kit, Mother," said An- 
thony. 

Anthony had brought his mending-kit. She 
had found it packed in one of the boxes — awls 
and thread and wax and pegs, everything that 
could be needed for a pair of worn shoes— or 
even for the making of new ones. She had 
pushed it far back under the Captain's bed, and 
placed the box containing her best bonnet care- 
fully in front of it. She had hoped — with that 
box in front of it — it was the end of it. . . . 
Once or twice she had thou^t of reminding him 
of it, suggesting that he make her a new pair of 
shoes ; but she had three pair already, good ones 
— ^and Anthony did not seem very unhappy or 
restless ; it was only when he talked queerly about 



124 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

people that she had had the little sudden fear 
that the change mi^t have been bad for hinit 
and had thought of the box pushed far back 
under the bed. . . • She had imagined many 
things, but never had she imagined anything like 
the red-eyed thing in front of her. 

She hesitated a minute. She glanced at him 
again, and brou^t a chair — z wooden one — 
and placed it in the middle of the passage-way ; 
she disappeared into the bedroom. 

When she re-appeared she bore the square 
wooden box. Anthony^s eyes lifted as he 
reached out his hands for it. He opened it and 
fell to looking it over, humming a little to him- 

The beggar watched him with cautious glance. 
His red, leery, indiflFerent eye followed the 
mending of his shoes. 

Deep in his dark, sodden soul was imbedded 
the conviction that he should pay for mending 
his shoes — ^not in money, perhaps ; there was not 
a copper in his torn, flapping pockets to give up 
— ^but pay of some sort he would have to give; 



ik 



ANTHONY AND BEGGARS 125 

his freedom or his likings would be impinged on. 
He sat waiting, a-trem1)le in his old nerves, 
watching Anthony^s fingers roimd the disrepu- 
table shapes into shoes. 

When they were done, and Anthony handed 
them to him with a little gesture and smile, he 
thrust his shapeless feet once more into them — 
and stood up, waiting — ^braced for the worst 

"Do they feel comfortable?" asked Anthony. 

"They're all ri^t — " half-surlily he moved 
toward the door. 

Anthony's eyes were fixed on the shoes, smil- 
ing gently. The man's glance saw the look and 
stopped — the worn shoes paused 

'Thank ye for doin' 'em," he mumbled. 

"I liked to do it for you," said Anthony, look- 
ing at him. 

"I can't pay yer nothink — " It was half a 
whine. 

Anthony's eyes rested on his face — "I did not 
mend them for pay," he said. 

The beggar braced himself ^Now it was up 

to him. But there was only silence in the room. 



126 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"Ye ain't goin* to pray with me — ^nor nothin'." 
It was full of disbelief — ^and a little bleary 
hope 

Anthony shook his head. "I— don't — ^hardly 
— ^know — how to pray — myself," he said gently. 

"Grod bless yer — sor!" The beggar touched 
a dirty forelock, and the mended shoes shuffled 
out, across the hallway, down the long stairs, 
clumpety-flap, clumpety-flap, clumpety-clum- 
pety-flap-flap-flap ! 

Mother brought a basin of warm water and 
soap and carefully washed the chair where the 
beggar had sat and wiped up the floor silently 
and thoughtfully — ^and almost gqitly. 



XVI 



WALLACE HAS HIS APPLE-PIE 



An epidemic of beggars began to haunt the 
Temple; they could not slip past the porter at 
the iron gate of the lodge, but they came by way 
of Fleet Street, or throu^ Mitre Court, or glid- 
ing in at the Library gate, slinking past respect- 
able barristers and clerks and making their way, 
burrow-like, along tunnels and narrow slits, im- 
der archways and through alleys, toward the 
stairs that led to the chambers of the American 
who was a fool. Sometimes they accompanied 
Anthony himself, walking, almost erect, beside 
him — ^past the porter and the officers and up the 
Temple Lane and the seventy-three stairs. . . . 
"He*ll make ye a pair for nothink — ^and let ye 
sit in a chair and see him doin' of it !" 

Mother always washed the chair carefully; 
she provided a bottle of powerful disinfectant, 

"used by the Royal family," and after each in- 

127 



128 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

vasion sprinkled the walk of the Temple. . . . 
But it was not Anthony who laid in a stock of 
hose, assorted sizes, and doled them out to the 
nondescript bundles that sat watching Anthony's 
little hammer go tap-tapping around the edges 
of the soles, and the needle piercing its waxed 
stitches through the uppers. • • • It was not 
Anthony who handed out New England cookies 
in little parcels, and slices of bread and butter. 
But it was not only beggars who sat in the 
wooden chair, with their crafty, shifty glances 
on Mother's housekeeping, that were privileged 
to enjoy her New England cooking. Wallace 
Tilton, arriving breathless at the top of the sev- 
enty-three steps, was stayed with goodies from 
the cupboard. . . • No one can be certain that 
Wallace was not lured back, day after day, by 
careless little hints dropped by Mother, as they 
talked, of what was going to be baked to-mon- 
row in the gas-range in the small kitchen. Cer- 
tainly Wallace went about all one morning, con- 
versing of steel and a new refining process — 
millions in it — with the taste of a "new apple- 



WALLACE HAS HIS APPLE-PIE 129 

pie" haunting his palate — not an apple-tart, 
such as he had ordered sadly and hopefully for 
years in English hotels, but a real apple-pie — 
made of ambrosia and love, with the merest 
flavour of earthly apples, and a crust of dreams. 
While he ate it he was kicking bare feet 
against the table-leg, his tousled hair sticking 
out of the torn hat, his one suspender hitched 
tight across the pink calico shirt — Chappy Wally 
Tilton, laying his carefully-brushed silk hat on 
a book case and taking off his immaculate grey 
gloves to receive from Mother's hand his piece 
of glorified pie . • . and with each new mouth- 
ful, Wally Tilton came back— care free, loyal, 
eager, forward-looking — as if boyhood and 
apple-pie lay so close together that you might 
not taste the one without calling up the other. 
There is no doubt that better women than 
Mother mi^t have laboured with Wallace Til- 
ton's soul — and with less happy results. She 
was such a human, little old body, trotting 
into her kitchen and out — always with the re- 
cuperative pie or cookie or doughnut in her hand 



130 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

— scolding about Anthony and scolding about 
London and shop-keepers — ^who it seemed did 
not hesitate to cheat her, only she was getting 
too sharp for them ! Scolding Wallace himself, 
if things went too ill with her, holding him re- 
sponsible for all London and its sins. 

Let him come in, some dark, sooty morning, 
choking with gases and yellow-black smut, his 
nostrils filled with it, his throat raw, his lungs 
choking, eyes smarting. . . . But let him not 
therefore hope for comfort from Mother. The 
coal-strike was on, and Mother laid a tiny 
piece of coal sparingly on the grate and stood 
up, brushing imaginary soot from her fingers. 
"There's no telling when we shall get any more," 
she said. "They ought to be ashamed of them- 
selves, making coal cost forty shillings a ton — 
ten* dollars, Wally!" She looked at him over 
reproachful glasses. 

"I know — " he looked toward the cupboard 
door, but Mother had no eyes for cupboards — 
she was wiping infinitesimal specks of black off 
the spotless room. 



WALLACE HAS HIS APPLE-PIE 131 

"It's a wicked price !" she said. 

"It's a hard life — '' ventured Wallace, "work- 
ing like that, six days a week, out of the sun- 
shine — in the dark and dirt *^ 

"Sunshine—!" sniflFed Mother, "Where is 
your sunshine— to get out of and go down in a 
mine from? — Have you seen the sun for sixty 
days, Wallace Til ton?" She might have been 
the Statue of Liberty towering above him. 

"No—" admitted Wallace. 

"Nor I !" said Mother. ... "I don't see as 
they're so muck to be pitied — down in clean, 
warm mines, nice and cosy, like that — ^no wind 
and no fog. I don't doubt they have quite nice 
times, visiting together " 

"Without any air — ^" objected Wallace. 

"They must have air, Wallace — !" She 
paused in consternation. "They couldn't 
breath^^without air!" 

"Just what's pumped down to them," said 
Wallace-^"How would you like to have your 
air pumped down — all that you had?" 

Mother glanced at her window — ^up through 



132 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

the layers of soot and blackness tkat overhung 
London. "I should like it," she declared; "I 
should like it, first-rate, Wally, to have good, 
dean sunshiny sur pumped down to me from 
up above ri^t here where we are !" She waved 
a protesting hand. "I suppose the sun is shin- 
ing — somewhere up there, isn't it?" 

Wallace smiled a little. 'There's a theory 



it is " 



ti^ 



'I should like some of it!" said Mother — z 
great wave of homesickness seemed sweeping 
across her. . . . She went to the window and 
looked up. A sudden flight of imagination 
hrckjc forth. "I don't know why they don't run 
ventilating shafts ri^t up to where it's clean — 
and pipe it down ^" 

"So much a foot — ?" lauded Wallace. 

"I wouldn't mind paying a little," said 
Mother. She came away from her window. 

**You'd have to pay a lot — " said Wallace. 
*1t would be cheaper for you to go and live in 
a mine at once." 

"I shouldn't mind it so much as you think, 




WALLACE HAS HIS APPLE-PIE 133 

Wallace, — after London T said Mother. "A 
mine seems to me kind of a comfortable place — 
all made of good, clean coal so— no garbage or 
torn paper or anything, and nothing to get dirty 
— no ashes. If they had white sheets down 
there, and bedspreads and blankets and white 
paint, and if the coal kept getting up and float- 
ing around the way it does here, little specks 

of it, into all the cracks and everything !" 

Mother paused, breathless. 

Wallace laughed. "Poor London !" 
Mother's face softened a little. "I know you 
like it, Wally; and maybe / shall if I stay here 
ten years, the way you have—" She was going 
toward the cupboard but she tumed back and 
looked at him, a little awe and commiserating 
pity in her face. "Ten years — !'* she said. 

She opened the cupboard door to see what 
she had left, and took out a large, noble piece 
of apple-pie and gave it to him; her round af- 
fectionate face was full of tolerance and pity. 



XVII 

THE BOOK SHOP IN SAINT SPARROW'S COURT 

Anthony stood in front of the bookstall in 
Saint Sparrow's G)urt, fingering the books a lit- 
tle, taking them up with thin, slim touch and 
dipping in — a page here and there — ^and slip- 
ping them back in place. A young clerk, almost 
a boy,^ came out with an armful of books, his 
chin holding the top one steady. He arranged 
the books on the stall, one eye glancing at the 
stranger, and disappeared inside. From the end 
of the court little noises crept in — ^the traffic of 
Charing Cross Road slamming by. 

It was quiet in Saint Sparrow's Court— only 
a few footsteps moving behind him breathlessly, 
breaking in upon him with the sense of other 
people near. . . . Anthony was not quite used 
to it, even yet — to being among his thousands 
and feel the tide pulsing always through, and 
the great ocean out there bevond with its low 

134 



THE BOOK SHOP 135 

murmur of life. The books were only an ex- 
cuse, a pretext — to stand there a few minutes 
longer and feel the tide flow through ; and wher- 
ever he took his stand he seemed in the heart of 
London. There must be limits to London — but 
he had never found its limits. . . . Probably 
they lay oflF there somewhere — east or west or 
north or south — ^but he had not come to them. 

The clerk came out with another armful of 
books, and dusted them a little and put them in 
place. He was a most efficient young clerk — 
his hair shone, his boots shone, his eyes shone 
and his face. Anthony picked up a book and 
opened it. "You can tell me how much this 
is — ^perhaps?" It was his best opening and the 
clerk's eye rested on it, shiningly. He held out 
his hand. 'TU find out," he said, and disap- 
peared inside and reappeared in a breath — "He 
says it's sixpence." He polished the volume a 
little and waited — ^he was a very serious young 
clerk. Anthony felt in his pockets slowly, his 
fingers skilfully evading a sixpence and bring- 
ing out something — a half-crown. 



136 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"Sixpence from two-and-six," chanted the 
clerk and disappeared again. Anthony looked 
at the door and followed him in. It was darker 
inside^a kind of gentle mellow light, falling on 
the books — ^brown books and green books and 
red books — dusty red books — and magazines 
and folios and prints. . . . Through the door- 
way into a back room, Anthony could see his 
clerk getting change from a man at a desk. It 
was a happy little place, and Anthony took his 
change and browsed on. The serious clerk dis- 
appeared again— down a hole in the wall, look- 
ing for more books to dust, and the room was 
very quiet. Through the doorway Anthony 
could see the man at the desk, writing — ^he 
folded a letter and sealed it and stamped it — 
and looked up. He fussed a little at things on 
the desk and got up slowly and came out. 

"Grood-moming,'' he said. He seemed about 
to wander away. But Anthonjr's look held him 
and he paused. 

1 was looking at your books,'' said Anthony. 

'That's right — ^look away. Looking won't 



«i 



€€' 



THE BOOK SHOP 137 

wear on 'em much !" He took down a book and 
looked in it and turned leaves 

"You're from America," he said. He appar- 
ently read it from the book. 

Anthony looked up. "That's easy to tell — 
isn't it?" 

The other man laughed out — a big genial 
laugh, with booming hints in it — but mellowed 
like the books. ... It came with a sudden ef- 
fect of surprise in the little brown room. 
"You've got the look," he said. "You're thin 
— it's what you call the Southern type, isn't it? 
Here — ^" He caught down a book from its shelf 
and opened it, turning leaves rapidly. "That's 
the one I mean !" He pointed to a print in "Old 
Creole Days" — "you've got the same look. . . ." 
He studied the picture and the man impartially. 
. . . "But there's a print that's more like you 
— somewhere — ^in here — " He led the way into 
the little back room and Anthony followed him. 

"It's here — somewhere — !" said the man! 
He rummaged through the piles of prints, tuming 
them rapidly, humming a little to himself. 



138 THE TASTE OF AEPLES 

"Sit down — won't you — yes, sit down — I'll 
find it. . . . Things run away — they do run 
— away. Ah — h ! Here we are !'* He took it 
out and held it at arm's length and set it on a 
disorderly shelf among the pile of books and 
looked at it and laughed out. "Yes, that's the 
gentleman!" He looked at Anthony critically 
— "Only you wear two glasses, I see — and he 
got alcmg with one." 

Anthony sitting by the desk, looked at the 
picture with pleased interest. It was like him — 
yes — a little — ^there was the lock of hair that dis- 
tressed Mother — and the thin face with its mon- 
ocle and deep-set eyes and sharp-cut lines — ^half- 
smiling, half-sardonic — 3, kind of tragic face. 
. . . "I don't believe I'm quite like that — ^" 
said Anthony. 

"No — " The man sat down, studying it. 
"It was the tjrpe — ^I was thinking of . . . 
there's a look about you both as if you under- 
stood more than you let on — ^perhaps — ^" He 
lauglied again, half nervously, and looked at 
the picture, whistling softly throu^ his teeth. 



THE BOOK SHOE 139 

"He had a hard time," he said, nodding toward 
it, 

"Inside, or out?" asked Anthony. 

The man shot a quick glance at him — "Both," 
he replied tersely. "He couldn't live with him- 
self — ^his friends couldn't either ... a hard 
time '' 

The clerk came through the hole — out of the 
wall — ^with books. 

The man felt in his pockets — "Here, Bob, 
bring us in tea — " He handed out a coin. 

Bob put down his books and took the coin 
and disappeared — ^perhaps to wash his face and 
shine his shoes and his eyes before going out. 

Some one came into the outer shop and the 
bookseller went out. Then two young men came 
in from the street and he greeted them, laug^iing. 
Anthony could hear his voice — ^with the lit- 
tle rolling laugh in it "Gro right in — PU be 

there — ^yes — ^I'U be there — go ri^t along 
m !" 

So they came in, and stood in the doorway, 
and half-nodded, stiffly, at Anthony, and pre- 



140 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

tended not to see him, or to forget him, and 
looked at books and talked in low tones. 

Then a little breeze swept through the door — 
and the man came blowing in, sweeping all out- 
doors in with him — out of his laugh and his 
smile and his rolling cheer. '*Well — well — 
how are you — ^how are you — !" He shook 
hands with the young men all over again and 
presented them to Anthony — "He's somebody 
you'll like to know," he said to them ; and to An- 
thony, "These are two yoimg men — they like to 
paint — ^think they can paint a little — ^yes — that's 
it — ^Mr, Cameron — and Mr. Waitley !" 

They shook hands with Anthony gravely. 

"My name is Wickham," said Anthony. 

"From America," said the bookseller — "I 
was just showing him the Whistler. . . . Here, 
Bob—" The boy stood in the doorway with 
the tray. "Put it here," said the man. He 
pushed the print and books along on the shelf 
and made room for the tray. "About two more 
cups we need, Bob. You've got 'em down be- 
low?" 




THE BOOK SHOP 141 

Bob went through the hole down below — and 
produced the cups, and cleared a place on the 
desk — sweeping things into drawers and pigeon- 
holes with a little shining swoop that left it 
clear. 

"That's right — that's right! Now pop along 
and get your own tea — I'll look after the 
shop '' 

And Anthony sipped his tea and listened to 
the young men and looked about the little room. 
It was more like home than any place he had 
been in — ^more like the little shop in Bolton 
— there was the same brownness of the walls 
and the dusty smell of leather. But instead of 
Samuel glowering over his shoes at new ideas 
and at the changes of the world, there were two 
young men who seemed to talk only in futures — 
they made wild, hopeful guesses at the next fifty 
years; and they believed, modestly and quietly, 
that they could paint. 



XVIII 



THE BOOKSELLER 



The bookseller got up and went out to a cus- 
tomer. Through the door they could see him 
talking with the man — and lauding and getting 
down books. The customer, a little wrinkled, 
old man, fussed and asked questions — ^and the 
bookseller got down another book. . . . 

"Look at him," said Waitley, sipping his tea 
with an eye on the door. " — ^All that trouble 
— He won't sell sixpence. Look at him! . . . 
He doesn't care !" 

"Dan doesn't care !" said the other. "It's all 
in the day's work for Dan!" 

"Is that his name — Daniel?" asked Anthony. 

They stared a little. "Don't you know — 
Dan!" 

Anthony shook his head. "I never saw him 

before — ^not till an hour ago." 

142 



THE BOOKSELLER 143 

They laughed out — "Just like him! We 
thought you'd known him — ^years!" 

"I suppose his name is outside — on the sign. 
I didn't happen to notice — ^* said Anthony 
thou^tfuUy. 

"You wouldn't have seen if you had noticed. 
There's another name on the sign." 

"He doesn't own this — ?" Anthony moved 
his hand at the room and the small shop 
beyond. He was a little disappointed. The 
man seemed to belong to the place, and to the 
books. 

"He owns it all — ^yes. But he doesn't own a 
new sign — he's never taken down the sign of the 
man who owned it thirty years ago. . • . He 
likes old things." They both lauded. 

"New things, too !" said Waitley — he was the 
younger, smaller, more excited-looking of the 
two — "You never saw anybody just like Dan," 
he said. 

"I liked him — as soon as I saw him," said An- 
thony. 

"Oh, you'll like him— everybody likes him — 



144 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

I don't suppose there's a man in London so mean 
Dan wouldn't give his last sixpence to——" 

Out in the other room, the customer had put 
his hand reluctantly in his pocket and brought 
out something. 

"Lost your bet!" said Cameron. 

**Wait a minute," said Waitley. 

'What did he buy, Dan?" The bookseller 
stood in the door. 

He laughed — his gentle roaring laugh. 
"Paid me a penny he owed from last time," he 
said. He put it in the box. "Oh — ^yes — he's a 
queer old chap !" Dan helped himself to jam — 
sighing heavily as if the world pleased him. He 
took a bite of the bread slowly — "Didn't I ever 
tell you about Felson — ? Well — well — ^yes — ^" 
His chuckles sounded from far inside — some- 
where. **Yes — ^yes — ^um-m !" 

"Go ahead, Dan!" 

The bookseller tasted the story slowly with 
the bread and jam — ^before he began . . . and, 
running over and under and throug^i his words, 
went the jolly, bubbling, rolling laugh — ^like 



THE BOOKSELLER 145 

fauns and little fishes and big kind elephants 
and frisking porpoises in the sun — ^lighting it up. 
. . . "He comes in about once a week now," 
finished Dan as he took the last piece of bread 
from the plate. 

"Buys you out every time/' suggested Cam- 
eron. 

"Ha — ha — ^ha!" The joke roared itself in 
the comfortable spaces of Dan's laugh and echoed 
back a little from the sides — "Yes — ^that's so— 
yes. . . . How's Ford getting on?" He 
looked at them with sudden turn. 

They exchanged a glance. Dan's eye caught 
it — "Anything wrong with Ford?" he asked. 

"Dead broke — " said Waitley. 

"Didn't he get that order — from the South 
Guild?" Dan was looking at them quickly. 

"A woman got it!" said Cameron with deep- 
seated Scotch scom in his burr — "an sesthetic 
sort of person," he added. 

Dan roared again — ^but absently — ^looking 
into his empty cup. "We ou^t to fix him up 
somehow — " He said it thoughtfully — "You 



146 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

going to see him to-night?" He lodnd at 
them. 

"If we can get at him — ^yes." 

*Tell him to drop in — '' said Dan. "I know 
a man — we ought to fix him up somehow. . . . 
Lots of things. ..." He got up and went out 
to the shop whistling a little and laughing nerv- 
ously and absently — about nothing in particu- 
lar. 

"Dan would find a job for Old Nick him- 
self," said Cameron, looking out toward the room 
beyond. "He's got a dozen of us — out of work 
his hands now ^" 



Anthony had sat watching the men — ^his eyes 
shining a little. . . . "He gets a good deal out 
of it," he said quietly. 

They tumed and looked at him 



€C 



'Dan — ? He doesn't make his salt!" 

"He is salt — ^" said Anthony. 

"You're right there," said Waitley. "—Life 
tastes good to Dan. He's a great old chap !" 

Anthonjr's ear caught the little note of affec- 
tion and condescension in the words. • • • Dan 



THE BOOKSELLER 147 

was a good chap— yes — ^not quite the equal of 
future artists and great ones, perhaps — but a 
thoroughly good sort . • • and he had, really, 
a wonderful eye for the ri^t thing — 2, kind of 
knack for picking winners— only he would just 
as lief back a failure apparently, as a winner. 
Queer, good, old chap— Dan! 

They did not say it, in so many words. But 
as Anthony came to know the little shop and the 
men who frequented it, he felt it now and then 
in the air — ^something of condescending kindli* 
ness and, with it, a dumb, reaching need of the 
man and his big laugh. . . . And down imder- 
neath all the estimates and opinions, he felt the 
man's humanness holding them together — ^lov- 
ing them all, not because they were great, or 
clever, or going to be great, but just because — 
Well, no one could tell quite why Dan loved 
them — some of them. ... It was a strange 
medley in the little back room; old men — they 
had lived through to— nothing; and young men 
— ^they were beginning — and knew a great deal ; 
coarse, heavy-featured men, who liked the 



148 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

breadth of the roaring laugh; and delicate, half- 
degenerate young men who liked its humanness ; 
and young men with the light of morning, who 
liked it for the freshness ringing in it — Dan's 
laugh gathered them all under its friendliness — 
and blessed them — ^to each other. 

Anthony fell into the habit of dropping in to 
the back room, and listening to the talk and to 
Dan's laugh — ^pictures and music and books, the 
theatre, politics, beggars, social reform, women's 
hats — nothing human was alien in the back 
room. ... M. P's. from the North Country, 
with a burr in the acquired cockney accent and a 
little roughness in their coats, fell into the way 
of knowing something about pictures — ^looking 
at them with the eye of faith — that scorned pre- 
things and post-things — anything that did not 
peer on ahead at least fifty years; and curly- 
headed young artists, without a moral to bless 
themselves with, were drawn into socio-ethical 
discussions and aired their views — and learned 
slowly ; long-haired essayists and poets and near- 
sifted egoists joined in the talk — and were 



THE BOOKSELLER 149 

mowed down under Dan's laugh, and came up 
refreshed and blmking, and thinking well of 
themselves — and almost as well of one another. 

It may have been because Dan did not laugh 
quite so hard or so often at Anthony, that the 
others came to listen to his quaint slowness. . . • 
He did not know much about pictures, or music, 
or politics, it seemed — ^but he had something that 
undergirded them all — and while he talked, Dan 
would sit, across the desk, a pencil in his fingers, 
making little meaningless marks, and looking up 
now and then with a swift glance — a little 
twinkling, still-bom laugh — that went on mak- 
ing marks and listening. 

"He knows — " said Dan. 

Anthony had gone out, after a kind of hustling 
talk about the Futurists and their work. "He 
knows — *' said Dan, thoughtfully. 

"He's fey," said Cameron. He was look- 
ing at his nails — regretfully — ^he had a little 
habit of biting them — due, perhaps, to oatmeal 
diet, and it troubled his social conscience. . . • 
"He's got a kind of second-sight to go by," he 



150 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

said, thoughtfully. "He's perfectly right about 
Carra and Severini, you know. • • • But I'll 
bet he couldn't tell how he knows it. • • . And 
you see how he spotted Boceioni — ^thc very pick 

of the lot '' 

"Not by a long chalk! — Boceioni 
can't ... !" and the battle raged on— out of 
blindness and life and the great sunny spaces of 
Dan's little den and his friendly laugh. 

Mother had her own opinion of Dan Boyden's 
book shop. "It must be a queer sort of place," 
she confided to Wallace. "He hasn't got a new 
book in it, hardly, Anthony says. That's one of 
the pictures he sells — " she pointed to a small 
rough sketch on the mantel — "Anthony bought 
it — ^paid four shillings for it — ** she looked at 
him significantly. 

Wallace had walked over to the shelf and 
picked up the sketch. . . . "It's not bad, you 
know — !" He looked at it thou^tfully. 

"It's queer !" said Mother. She spoke slowly, 



THE BOOKSELLER 151 

looking at it doubtfully. "Maybe it's — Eng- 
lish !" she said. 

Wallace smiled a little. "I don't know. I 
never heard of the fellow — ** He scanned the 
name in the comer. "It's French — ^but that 
doesn't tell you anything — ! He may have 
been bom here. • • . It's a nice little thing and 
a good reproduction — " He set it back on the 
shelf; and Mother looked at it swiftly, every 
now and then, as she went about her work. 

Presently she came back to the picture. 
"How do you tell, Wally?" she asked. 

"Tell what?" 

"That it's a— 'nice little thing'?" She was 
looking at the picture wistfully. * 

"Oh — ^I don't know — ^it's clean and alive, 
don't you see — the lines of it — ^" He came over 
beside her, looking at it. 

"Yes — it's clean — I Iry not to let things get 
dusty. . . . But I don't know as I should say 
it was alive. . . ." 



XIX 

ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE 

It was a favourite walk with Anthony— out 
across Blackfriars Bridge and back. He took it 
every day, sometimes two or three times a day; 
he grew to know it in all its lights and at every 
hour, and to know the crowd that streamed across 
it ceaselessly — ^hurrying in the grey morning to- 
ward the city and hurrying back at night toward 
something in the long brick rows they called 
home. Often at sunset the smoke pall was lifted 
from London and the stream across the bridge 
and the stream beneath it were lighted by a 
deep, glowing sky — clouds piled themselves, 
and the light struck and glinted from the faces, 
and lay on the green-brown water below, and 
crept in shadows and a kind of purple mist over 
scows and belated boats and far-flying gulls. 
. . . Anthony, looking over the parapet, 
watched the boats and the sluggish water and 
the gulls, and felt the crowd passing ceaselessly 

152 



ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE 153 

behind. He liked to feel them close — ^always 
going, never-resting; his ears listened to the 
ifaythm of feet. Under the hammer of cars on 
rails and the clang of 'buses and rumbling 
wheels, he caught a steady-moving hum of feet, 
die march of life across its bridge; his pulses 
beat with it — and its time sang to him a little. 
. • • When he turned and looked at the faces» 
he lost for a moment the march of feet; the 
faces were tired or sad or set vacantly ahead — 
only the feet marched together. Deep in some 

inner place, they cau^t a common rhythm 

out of sadness and harshness and injustice, they 
moved across the bridge. Anthony, with his 
back to the parapet, watched them pass and re* 
pass — all the shoes of London, old and new; 
and the old ones hastened pace, because the new 
ones stepped to hope; and tlie rhythm slowed 
itself to take them up . . . beat-along, beat- 
along, London feet You could not stand 

long on Blackfriars Bridge without feeling the 
pulse of London — ^flowing to the heart and 
back 



154 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

The shoes of London troubled Anthony, the 
shapes of the movuig feet on the bridge — ^It was 
not only that they were ragged and broken and 
needed mending — they seemed to be saying 
something to him — all of them together. . . . 
Gradually he came to see that two patterns cov- 
ered them all — ^two lasts had served to give the 
shapes; there were heavy, working shoes — with 
stubbed, clumping lines — ^and a little obstinate 
and harsh and dull as the heels wore down or 
sides bulged and toes raised themselves and 
gaped; and there were the gentle, polite shoes — 
with slim lines and long, thin vamps — shoes that 
did not tread the ground so much as move upon 
it graciously. Anthony watched them— only 
two kinds; and each he recognised and placed 
upon its last — ^plebeian and aristocrat, hi^ and 
low and rich and poor. Sometimes a heavy foot 
had thrust itself into the slim shoe, and minced 
a little and spread wide upon its cheap, aristo- 
cratic-aping sole ; but more often it was the shoe 
itself that was degraded — ^the old, slim, aristo- 



ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE 155 

cratic last adjusted to a tradesman's foot, and 
playing at being genteel. 

Anthony's eye followed them all, and made 
swift adjustments — z little shortening here, a 
shading there — ^the slim last had been too thin, 
the clumping one too heavy; each must give 
way a little, to the nomial human foot. . . . 
Anthony saw it in his mind — the firai, human 
foot, springing with spirit from the ground, at 
home on the earth . . . he had made many 
shoes from that last — for rich men and poor 
men. . . . One day, staring down at the 
moving feet, he gave a little start and glanced 
up. The glance that met his eye smiled back, 
and the stranger touched his hat — and was gone. 
An American. . . . 

Anthony drew a little breath, and his eyes fol- 
lowed the retreating back — too slouching and 
thin, not well set up, not trim and well-brushed 
—any English clerk would carry himself more 
q>rucely, half the crowd moving past wore trim- 
mer coats — more compactly buttoned . . . 



156 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

but the feet of the man — set toward the morn- 
ing. . . . Anthonjr's eyes followed him— 
the coimtryman with the slouching, half-formed 
back and careless head and quick step. . . . 
Slowly something crystallised in him, something 
that for weeks had been gathering itself from the 
traffic of Blackfriars and the sky and Thames. 

The spirit of England — ^A house divided 
against itself — ^high and low — ^no middle 
ground. He held the thought, as he might have 
held it on the shoemaker's bench, turning it 
slowly — looking at it from every side, half 
thinking, half feeling his way to the truth that 
beat its rhythm upon the bridge. ... A 
nation longing for democracy — ^and separated 
forever by its shoes — ^the shoes of the past. 
Only shoes of hi^ and low, plebeian and aristo- 
crat. . . • All the great middle class that 
should have been men and women standing firm, 
reaching up and reaching down, were content 
with the shoes of the dead. . • • 

Anthony felt the unrest surging on the bridge, 
pulsing to the farthest limits of the great town — 



ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE 157 

strikes and threats, vague stirrings of resent- 
ment ... he saw the Syndicalist pacing the 
deck, his hair blown in the wind. . . . This 
was what it meant — the mutterings imdemeath 
— a great middle class in need of shoes — and no 
shoes ready for them — only clumsy, lumbering 
peasant boots, spruced up a little, and the slim, 
dapper boots of a bygone aristocracy. His 
quickened eye followed the lines again — ^to 
shorten them here and make them firm — to 
lengthen that line and lighten it and fit it to the 
foot — his fingers moved of themselves a little; 
and in his heart the understanding grew — ^thc 
understanding that had been slowly coming to 
him out of the eyes of beggars and men and 
women, and it became a sudden quick sympathy 
for a nation — a whole nation — condemned to 
wear shoes that did not fit — without insight to 
make them fit or courage to throw away the old 
last, to take new measures for the men — ^half- 
tradesmen, half-heroes — who walked in the 
cramped, ill-fitting shoes of Ejigland dead. • . . 
One class, Anthony noted, stood apart — well- 



158 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

shod, their heavy, serviceable boots alert and 
competent; one class did not aspire-^in silk hat 
and frock coat and smug green-grocer coimte- 
nance — to rise a little in the scale ; one class did 
not look down — ^with lofty, clean-cut gaze — 
upon the wallowings of the poor; firm on both 
feet, they overlooked the crowd — ^the one class 
that stood neither to gain or lose by unrest — 
England's truly great ones — ^the Metropolitan 
police. Anthony never passed one of them — 
standing symbol of the Bank of England — ^with 
his strai^t gaze under the set helmet and the 
little smile between the chin-strap and crisp 
moustache — that he did not look his fill at the 
comfortable happy foot, in its well-fitting shoe — 
not too heavy for comfort, not too light for serv- 
ice — ^the one shoe in England that fitted; his 
eyes dwelt on it happily, and when he saw a brace 
of them— swinging out from their station to re- 
port on duty — ^he turned and followed them 
with his gaze — ^as long as the blue, easy-swinging 
figures remained in si^t. • . . This strange 
great brotherly nation — ^with shoes that pinched. 



ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE 159 

and shoes that chafed, that he was coming to un- 
derstand and to love. 

Thon^ts like these — ^half-confused, half-felt 
— ^flitted in and out throu^ Anthony's mind as 
he stood watching the crowd surge across the 
bridge. • • • It was the American that had 
started the flitting thoughts — the American with 
amused glance and trim, well-shod feet; there 
had been only the amused, half-flickering glance 
— and he was gone — ^and the democratic vistas 
that his shoes had opened were gone. 

Anthony sighed a little and moved on. Some- 
times, in all the moving crowd, he felt a little 
lonely. Even Dan Boyden's shop left him 
lonely sometimes; he wanted to talk with all 
these people on the bridge about the kind of 
shoes they wore and the principles of Democracy. 
. . . Anthony strolled slowly on. Suddenly 
he stopped and looked down — it was quite a dif- 
ferent pair, and they were standing firmly 
planted, beside the parapet — ^not American 
shoes — no— too broad and firm for American 
make • . . and these shoes had walked in a 



i6o THE TASTE OF APPLES 



» • s^ I I • J • . I 



Past — ^but not the English past — too 
tan for English lines. • . • Slowly Anthony's 
eyes lifted themselves and his glance travelled 
up a pair of strai^t, vigorous, English 1^ and 
to a slim waistcoat and smooth-shaven chin and 
a pair of eyes that were looking down on him, a 
little absently, it seemed — ^it was a fine old face, 
several hundred years old. Anthony's eyes 
dropped again to the shoes — ^hand-made, in every 
line — a master workman, craftsman, artist- 
worker — ^Anthony lifted his eyes again to the 
man's ancient face 



"Those are very unusual boots you are wear- 
ing, sir — " he said. 

The face stared at him. 

Anthony made a polite gesture toward the 
shoes — he spread his palms a little, as if paying 
homage — ^to perfect workmanship. And the 
man's eye dropped — a smile came to his face. 
"There's only one man in the world can make a 
pair like them," he said. The boots planted 
themselves a little more firmly on the bridge and 
Anthony stood looking at them with happy ejres. 



ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE 161 

The man's glance rested on him, half-amused 
• • • the fellow seemed to thmk he had a right 
to stare — as if one were a show window, or 
picture-gallery — ^The feet moved a trifle 

Anthony looked up. "'I should like to see the 
man who did them — ^" he said quietly. "Does 
he live in London, sir?" 

"In London? — ^no." The man turned away. 
He looked back — the fellow was staring — rapt in 
a vision. The boots turned back a little — "They 
were made in Berlin," said the man. 

He could not have told why he volimteered 
it — ^but, really, if you find a man reading an 
anonymous poem— on your toes — with idiotic 
delight — you have to tell him — if you know — 
"A man in Berlin — " he said. "His name — I 
forget — Schnappes, it might be " 

Anthony's face was alight — "I am going to 
Berlin," he said quietly. "I shall see him." 

"He'll make you a pair — ^if you pay him." 
The man had grown brusque. He turned to 
move on. 

But Anthony's voice held him a minute. "I 



i62 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

want to talk to him — " said Antfaooy. 'There 
must be a great many things he knows — things 
that I have — thought about." 

The man wheeled about and glanced down, 

sharply No, the fellow was not mad — not 

even touched with oddity — ^it seemed— only 
open and straight. • • . The man. too, moving 
in his crowd, was often lonely. Sometimes it 
seemed that there was no one in England to talk 
to— He looked again, sharply, at the quiet 
face. 

'1 can ^ve you the address — the man that 
made them — ^if you want it," he said. 

'1 should like it," said Anthony. '1 am 
going to Berlin — ^with my son." 

The man scribbled on a piece of paper and 
held it out. *That is my address," he said, "and 
I have the man's, at home somewhere — if 
you will come for it" 

'1 will come — any time," said Anthony. He 
took the paper, smoothing it in his fingers. 

'*To-morrow then — about tea-time." He 
touched his hat a little and moved away throu^ 



ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE 163 

the crowd. Anthony watched him go. He felt 
somewhere a kind of a wami glow — as if the man 
were a friend • . • moving away through the 
crowd. 



ANTHONY MEETS A LORD 

Mother took the paper and put on her glasses 
and read it slowly — "Raleigh, 63 Portland 
Square ^^ 

"Raleigh's a part of the place, I suppose, kind 
of a handle to it," she remarked; "seems as if 
they tried to see how many names they could 
have to a place — over here." 

"Over here" covered everything that was 
English — and outlandish. 

Anthony studied the paper. "I thought 
n^ybe Raleigh was the man's name," he said. 

"Sir Walter Raleigh — " said Mother 
promptly. "That's what you're thinking of. 
There isn't any 'Sir* on this, is there — or *Mr.,' 
or anything — You'll find it's just some queer 
idea about where he lives." 

And having disposed of Portland Square and 

its qucemess, Mother began to set the table for 

164 



ANTHONY MEETS A LORD 165 

supper. They always had "supper," a good 
New England supper, at half-past five. 

Wallace was coming to-night* He had fallen 
into a way of coming in for supper, making it his 
tea and dining at an hour that would have sur- 
prised Mother if he had happened to mention it. 
But, though Wallace still went to the theatre, he 
did not so often find his way around to the back 
of the stage after the play. Before Mother 
dawned on London — with her pies — ^it had been 
the expected thing for Wallace Tilton — "the 
rich American, you know — '' to come around to 
the back of the stage and take two or three of 
them to supper. Now, reproachful glances over 
the footlights and even illspelled little notes 
seemed to have no eflPect on Wallace. "He's 
up to something new," they pronoimced, and 
gradually they left him to himself. He was 
not the only man in London— <ven if he had 
the money. 

And Wallace was beginning slowly to com- 
pute whether he had the money — and how much 
— ^and why — ^and looking into his affairs gener- 



i66 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

ally. ... In time he turned his attention to 
the office — old projects, that he had forgotten, 
recurred to him and he tightened his hand on 
them, and on the business as a whole. There 
could be no question that he was "up to some- 
thing new." The company did not go behind 
returns. If they had heard of the famous pie- 
and-doughnut cure, they would probably have 
smiled, incredulous. The main thing was, that 
the business "over there" was steadying itself — 
and Wallace Tilton was making it pay. 

Mother looked in her cupboard and took out 
her best goodies and set them on the table and 
sent Anthony out for cheese, and made the tea, 
and was ready when the two men came in 
together to beam upon them— out of a clear con- 
science and a heartful of love. 

She had intended to ask Wallace about Port- 
land Square, but a proposal to take her to Epping 
Forest the next day drove it out of her head. 

It was not till just as she was about to start 
with Wallace the next afternoon — a little parcel 



ANTHONY MEETS A LORD 167 

of ginger-snaps stowed in her black bag — that 
she remembered Anthony's "man." 

"I declare, I meant to go there with you," she 
said. "But you can find it all right — and tell 
me about it when you get back." 

So she departed — to join Wallace at the bot- 
tom of the seventy-three steps. He did not 
climb them oftener than was necessary — though 
he suspected that a certain feeling of lightness 
in his legs was partly due to frequent exercise on 
the seventy-three steps. 

Anthony, left alone, fussed about the room a 
little, whistling to the canary and making ready 
to call on his friend in Portland Square. "About 
tea-time," the man had said — that would be any 
time from four to six. . . . Anthony put on 
clean linen and brushed himself carefully; even 
Mother would hardly have found fault with him 
when he was ready; he had a kind of gentle 
pride in his clothes, and the shoes he wore were 
his best ones — ^but not the equal of those on 
Blackfriars Bridge. He had never seen a pair 



i68 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

as perfect as those. He hoped his friend would 
wear them to-day. 

It was his "friend** he was going to see — he 
had not thou^t of him in any other way since 
he watched him disappear in the crowd. . . • 
He smoothed the paper and tucked it in his 
pocket and started out 

The butler dropped a severe eye on him. 
^^ou must have made a mistake." He said the 
words stiffly, his hand reaching back to the wide- 
open door and drawing it toward him. 

Anthony's glance held it a second. "I thought 
the name was Raleigh." He drew out the paper 
and held it toward the severe countenance — ^not 
to confute it, but seeking courteous informa- 
tion. 

The butler's eye paused — ^without interest — 
and flickered a little — and held itself — and 
darted down at the paper. He made a little 
pecking moticxi toward it, and the door opened 
grudgingly. 

Anthony stepped in. He looked up at the 



ANTHONY MEETS A LORD 169 

hi^ walls — ^pictures and brackets and screens — 
and at a great staircase ascending by a stained- 
glass window. 

The butler turned away. '^What name shall 
I give his Lordship?'' he asked. 

Anthony's gaze dropped gently from the 
stained-glass to the butler's face. '"Wickham," 
he said. He uttered it out of a kind of dream. 
He had never been in a place like this. . . . 
It pleased his fancy — ^and he looked about him 
happily. 

'Wickham— " The butler's teeth held it, 
with a little wrench. He eyed the slim, gentle 
figure again. There are all sorts of lord s H e 
moved toward a door, borne on stately calves, 
and waved a figurative hand, and Anthony en- 
tered the hi^-ceiled, gracious room. Through 
the open doorway he watched the two stately 
calves ascend the wide staircase and the lofty 
head outline itself against the glass. ... It 
was very quiet in the room — ^no sound could have 
touched the soft-hanging curtains and thick rugs 
and the delicate blending colour of porcelain and 



I70 THE TASTE OF APPLIS 



Z[^0iigx Lanckm — cbe bLearr. zrd^jrd Tr^uis 
faded to a ikktrin^ fncge of drams, aad Daa 
Br>]rden^s bookshop rolled awar in a la^gh- He 
tami»i hk b0akd 2nd looioed about hrrn — and 
down the long rista in its Hzbdoed light. . . . 
tit had always known there was a place like this 
somewhere. » • . Eren on his shoemaker's 
bench, tapping in the dim li^t, with far Samuel 
opposite scowling at soles, he had felt there was 
a place like this. . . . 

The butler stood exactly in the centre of the 
dixn — his heeb exactly together, and his level 
glance ahead — 'Tlis Lordship will see you,"' he 
commanded, and Anthony looked at him vaguely 
and followed him up the wide staircase to a 
great, closed, oak door; the butler bent his head 
and knocked — and straightened himself and 
opened it — standing with heels together and the 
level, impersonal gaze. 

Anthony heard the door dick behind him and 
he looked up. He was in a room full of sim- 
fthine — ^pouring down from the lighted roof and 



ANTHONY MEETS A LORD 171 

in at the windows — and his friend was crossing 
the room to meet him. 

"How are you? — Glad you found your way 
— Sit down." He drew forward a chair and 
Anthony sat down — still in his dream. 

His host sat opposite him, his knees crossed — 
and one foot swinging lightly. It was shod in a 
shining slipper, patent leather and fine in texture, 
but the same last as the boots of Blackfriars 
Bridge. 

Anthony bent toward it — "The same 
man — ?" he said smiling. 

The other thrust it out a little. "Schnappes 
— ^yes. He does for me entirely — ^I found his 
address somewhere — '' He got up and fumbled 
in the mass of papers on a table and found it; 
but he did not give it up — ^he held it in his 
fingers and the talk drifted to America — and 
back to London. Anthony's mind expanded and 
relaxed; little whimsical thoughts came to him — 
thoughts that he had never mentioned to Sam- 
uel, or even to Mother, or in Dan Hoyden's shop. 

The man opposite with the gentle-swinging 



172 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

foot, laughed a little, now and then — and tasted 
the slow Yankee flavour with delicate palate. 
He, too, was a little tired of fat Samuels and 
obsequious attendants — ^and friends. He had 
never been talked to quite in this way — ^by a 
shoemaker. ... It all came out as Anthony 
talked — the little shop in Bolton, Samuel and 
Simon and the checker-board and the Ministers 
— ^with tombs and gateways and itineraries; 
Anthony's mind played with it, and laughed — 
and the man played with it, too— he did not 
argue, or explain, or instruct; his foot swung 
happily, a little awkwardly, and now and then 
he laughed out and got up and stretched himself 
and walked across the room — the sunshine fall- 
ing on the white hair and keen, thin, gentle face 
and the delicate hands. One of the hands still 
held the slip of paper with the address, and it 
gestured as he talked. 

Tea came in — with hovering attendants, 
broadcloth backs that withdrew and left the 
kettle glistening and steaming gently in the sun. 
The host came over and poured it out and they 



ANTHONY MEETS A LORD 173 

drew nearer the fire, still talking — the light 
from above lessened in the room; it grew dim, 
and the firelight conquered it, before his lord- 
ship held out the slip of paper in his thin fingers 
and Anthony stood up, blinking a little. 

"I'll give you a note to him if you like. You 
must come to my place up in the country. You'll 
like it there, I think. We have a great deal 
to talk about. I am glad to have met you — '* 
He held out his hand. 

So Anthony found his way down the spacious 
stair-case where His Stiffness offered a hat in 
respectful fingers and held the door wide for 
him to go. "Wickham" — ^Lord Wickham — ? 
It mi^t be — ^you never can tell — with these 
modem Lords. He closed the door softly and 
respectfully behind the shoemaker-lord; and 
Anthony went down the steps — ^back to his long, 
drab world of shoes and beggars and shuffling 
fecL 



XXI 

MOTHER AND THE LONDON BUS 

So, through shoes and through beggars and a 
lord or two, and through the book-shop and Wal- 
lace Tilton, London opened its doors to Anthonv 
Wickham and his wife. 

To Mother, it is true, it made small difference 
whether doors opened or not; safe behind her 
own door, her two doors, with her canary and 
her gas-stove, she foimd plenty to do. She only 
left the nest on swift, hurried forays for food, 
hurrying along Fleet Street — through the rum- 
ble and traffic — ^with her net-bag grasped tight 
around the top, darting in at the Temple Grate 
at last with a si^ of relief. Under Wallace's 
protecting wing, she explored wider reaches — 
but always with a little superior, detached scorn 
that left her untouched by the roaring life about 
her. 

Perhaos her nearest concepticxi of it came 

174 



MOTHER AND THE 'BUS 175 

from the top of 'buses, where mounted high out 
of danger she looked down on silly London 
scudding this way and that. 

"It's a kind of game, London is, isn't it, 
Wally?" she said one day. 

They were sitting on the top of No. 13, on 
the front seat, and they had halted a minute, 
before an outstretched blue arm, on the verge 
of Piccadilly. Mother leaned over the front 
board and looked on the hurrying, scurrying, 
shooting mass — She watched the taxis rush and 
turn and thread their way, grazing by a breath's 
gaze with their sliding wheels. 

"It's a kind of game, Wally ! — ^If you watch, 
up here, you can see how they do it, can't you !" 

Wally leaned over beside her and watched 
the game. He had no longer any shy discretion 
at being seen on the front seat of No. 13, with 
a little round woman beaming in a bonnet. He 
seemed to have come into a place where such 
things did not matter. ... He watched the 
shining, darting wheels. It was a game — ^the 
game of London, playing oa the stones. . . • 



176 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

A cool head and quick hand to play it ; but there 
was zest about it — give and take, seize your 
chance — ^keep it on the move. . . . The block 
gave way — the policeman's big foot strolled to 
the curb. No. 13 seized its chance and darted 
by a slower-witted, waiting 'bus and dodged in 
front and honked a little and was off on 
chugging wheel. "Full-up, full-up!" chanted 
the conductor his voice commg up, courteous 
and wary, from below — "Sorry, sir — ^Full-up, 
full-up!" — and pedestrians scowled up and 
turned away, and seized another chance — ^and 
Number 13 went chug^ng, chumping, rumbling 
on its way. 

It was on a Whitechapel 'bus that Motner 
came on Tony Wasson. She saw him from the 
top and insisted on getting down to speak to 
him. "I know it's him, Wally. He's got on 
the shoes Anthony mended for him — ^and the 
stockings I gave him, I don't doubt." She 
stood up, wavering plumply as the 'bus came to 
a halt, and Wallace helped her down the cork- 
screw stair. The 'bus had gone by the sham- 




MOTHER AND THE 'BUS 177 

bling figure; and they wandered back, looking 
here and there in the crowd. 

"He's gone by this time, Mother. You won't 
find him — ^better take the next 'bus " 

But Mother was firm, and at last they came 
on him, at a turn, bending to adjust the thick 
strap of the basket on his shoulder. He let fall 
the strap when he saw the round face in its 
bonnet. 

He touched his hat — "Morning, ma'am ** 

Mother held out her hand. She had liked 
this man — the best of them all — ^her keen eyes 
had detected a difference; he had not whined 
when he accepted the stockings and the mended 
shoes; and when she handed him cookies he had 
looked at her straight. "The children would 
like them," he had said. Mother had thou^t 
of the children many times since — as she rolled 
out her cookies, or took them, brown and fra- 
grant, from her oven — "Did they like them?" 
she asked, still holding out her hand. 

The man rubbed his hand, a little shyly, on 
his coat, and took the round one. 



178 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"They had a treat with 'em, ma'am," he said. 
'They've spoke about it since — many a time.*' 
He bent his shoulder again toward the strap. 

Mother looked curiously into the basket. 
**You're selling bananas," she said. 

She fingered them a little and talked and Tony 
talked . . . and Mother counted her change. 

In the end, two dozen bananas bulged in Wal- 
lace's arms, and they were walking along with 
Tony, the heavy strap adjusted to his shoulder 
— the youngest child was ill, yes — a fever. He 
climbed up the stairs, ahead of them, and opened 
the door cautiously. 

A young woman, in a nurse's cap and apron, 
came forward with her finger at her lip. 

Tony Wasson pointed to his companions and 
slipped the strap from his shoulder. The nurse 
beckoned them into another room, closing the 
door softly — "He's asleep," she said. 

"How is he?" asked the man. His hands 
hung at his sides and the fingers fumbled a little 
at his coat. 

"Better," said the nurse. "The fever broke 



% 



MOTHER AND THE 'BUS 179 

this morning. He will feel like himself when 
he wakes." 

Other children came hurrying up the stair 
from school, and the nurse set out luncheon for 
them, and quieted them. Wallace Tilton, sit- 
ting at one side, watched her waiting on the chil- 
dren. Mother talked with Tony Wasson. . . . 
By-and-by she tiptoed into the bedroom; the 
children, with another slice of bread and a banana 
from the basket, rushed back to school. 

The nurse stirred something in a little basin 
on the stove. Mother came out and beckoned 
to her and they talked, the nurse stirring the 
gruel with careful, listening spoon; she looked 
up and smiled and nodded and they went into 
the bedroom. When they came out Wallace 
and Tony Wasson were deep in Woman's Suf- 
frage. "She could vote all right — " Tony jerked 
a thumb toward the basin of gruel in the win- 
dow. ''She could do it all right — It's them hus- 
sies in the shops as I wouldn't trust — wi' the 
vote — ^nor wi' onything!" he added darkly. 

The nurse appeared in the doorway. "He's 



h, 



180 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

waked up," she said- "He's like himself. She 
txx>k up the basin of gruel, blowing it a little 

Tony went into the bedroom. 

Mother gathered up her black bag and 
strai^tened her bonnet a little and put on her 
cotton gloves. "PU send *em right away — " 
she said, "this afternoon — ^Wally'll see to it.*' 



XXII 



NURSE TIMBERLAKE 



Anthony was ill. Mother discovered it long 
before Anthony knew it himself. When he re- 
fused the dou^inut she looked at him sharply. 
That afternoon she scurried out to a chemist's 
and brought back a packet of boneset, which she 
steeped on the gas-stove and gave him, bitterly, 
to drink. The next day he refused the piece 
of pie, and she told Wallace. 

"He's heavy and logy, and his head's hot; he 
didn't take the doughnut. I don't see how I 
can have him sick in London." 

Wallace suggested a doctor. The next day 
Anthony stayed in all day, and at night the 
doctor came. 

"A little fever — ^nothing serious; keep him 
quiet and feed him light." 

Mother put on her second-best apron and sent 
Wallace for beef -extract. But Wallace was not 

i8i 



i 



i82 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

always at hand, and Mother toiled up and down 
seventy-three steps many times a day; loss of 
sleep began to tell on her. Wallace proposed 
a nurse. 

Mother shook her head. '1 don't want any 
strange woman taking care of A//^," she said. 

'*Have a man." 

'*He'd be in the way," said Mother. 

The next day when Wallace appeared Mother 
looked up and squinted a little through her 
glasses — some one was with him. Mother 
looked again. She held out both hands. 
'Well, I'm glad to see y^a/," she said. 

The nurse smiled. "Mr. Tilton said you 
I't want me ^" 



*T told Wally I didn't want any strange 
women around — he mi^t 'a' known, well 
enough I'd want you — ^Flow's the little boy?" 

"He's quite well — in school again — ^I saw him 
yesterday." The nurse had taken off her long 
cape and bonnet and was moving about the room 
as if she had always lived there. 

Mother watched her approvingly. "You're 



NURSE TIMBERLAKE 183 

the kind to take ri^t hold — ^I don't know why 
I didn't think of you — ^How did Wally find 
you?" 

"He enquired of Tony, I suppose — most of 
my work lies in that district; I was just through 
with a case — '* She glanced at the adjoining 
rocMii — "You can lie down now and get a good 
rest. I'll call you if I need anything." 

"You don't know where things are " 

The nurse smiled. "I think I can find them 
here. I'm used to places where everything's in 
confusion, you know." 

"Well— I guess I'll let you. I am tired." 
Mother took off her glasses and put them in their 
case. "You can stay all the afternoon, can 
you?" she asked doubtfully. 

"As long as you want me — ^Mr. Tilton said 
you might need me some time." 

So Mother lay down in the darkened room 
and fell asleep like a child; and Nurse Timber- 
lake went to and fro, smiling at the compact ar- 
rangement of the little set of chambers. There 
was everything in the big cupboard that one 



i84 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

could need for a siege, and the coal-box was 
filled to the top. 

She was not accustomed to having everything 
to hand. Many of the places where she went 
to nurse had no cupboard; and when they had 
one it was, more often than not, empty; and 
coal came by the scutUeful. ... It was part 
of the strenuous training, to evoke coal from 
the depths, and to make gruel of water and air, 
and a very little flour — and be thankful for salt. 
Often during her apprenticeship she had cried 
at night from aching feet and from the ignorance 
and emptiness of cupboards. Now, it was all 
in the day^s work. What the dispensary could 
supply, she took promptly; and what could not 
be supplied, either by the dispensary or the so- 
ciety or by mother-wit, she went without. The 
sentiment of over-pity for herself, or for the very 
poor, was a luxury ! She had let luxuries go- 
when she became district nurse. 

She bent over Anthony, offering the cup of 
broth, and he drank it slowly 



ti 



Where is Mother?" he asked. 



NURSE TIMBERLAKE 185 

"Lying down — ^asleep," said Nurse Timber- 
lake. 

"Thafs good — " It was hardly more than 
a faint whisper — "How did you get in?" he 
asked after a minute. 

The nurse smiled. "It's all right — she knows 
I'm here. She wants me." 

Anthony's face relaxed. "You — ^under — 
stand Mother — " he said, and dozed content- 
edly. 

An hour later, when Wallace came back, the 
nurse was sitting by the window under the bird- 
cage, reading. A cloth had been thrown over 
the cage to keep the bird quiet. She looked up, 
as the door opened, and put up her finger and 
came out to the landing, closing the door softly 
behind her. 

"How are they?" he said. 

"Sleeping — ^both of them — " she held one 
hand on the door, ready to go back. 

"Is there anything I can do— or get?" He 
was noticing that little white caps make a pretty 
frame for a youngish face. 



i86 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

The face shook itself. "There isn't anything 
any one can get. I never saw such a cup- 
board '' 

Wallace smiled back— 'That's Mother!" 
He stood a few minutes longer, asking about 
Anthony, and noting how the light from the 
window fell on the face, making little rays of 
the cap-frill. . . . '^Well, let me know — ^I 
won't come in — no. There's a telephone on the 
ground floor. I asked as I came up— you can 
use it, yes. Good-day ^" 

He went slowly down the steps, a feeling of 
relief gathering with each fli^t — She was evi- 
dently competent — and Mother needed some one 
— and not bad looking. • • • He ran down 
the last few steps like a boy — he would come 
back to enquire again, before he went to sleep. 



XXIII 

A GOOD WIFE FOR JOHN 

"She'll make a good wife for John — ** an- 
nounced Mother. 

Anthony was sitting up, with a blanket across 
his knees. Mother had just given him his broths 
Nurse Timberlake was gone for a walk in the 
Embankment Gardens. Wallace Tilton had in- 
sisted on her going for a walk, and had attended 
to it by going with her himself as she started 
away. 

They were sitting on a bench watching three 
ragamuffins tumbling on the back of the bench 
just beyond. A gentleman in a silk hat, sat 
erect at the end of the bench nursing his cane 
— after a minute he rose and walked stiffly away ; 
the three boys stared after him — they turned an- 
other somersault, kicking their heels — one of 
them wore a shabby shoe laced neatly to the top, 

the other foot entirely bare. 

X87 



i88 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Wallace watched them tumble — "Poor little 
b^gars !" he said. 

Nurse Timberlakc smiled. 'They're not 
hungry," she replied. 

He looked at her. '*How do you know?*' 

"One gets to tell." 

Three soldiers, off duty, came clinking into 
si^t along the gravel path, marching abreast — 
legs free, heads up, diins in; they passed the 
bench of ragamuffins, and swung on. . . . The 
ragamuffins floated to the ground and picked up 
the step and strode bdiind, backs stiff, heads up, 
chins in air — the glory of the British Army in 
their heels. 

Wallace Tilton lau^ied. "I believe you're 
right! How did you get to know them so 
wdir 

They got up and strolled on through the Park» 
talking of her work and of London. They had 
walked many times like this in the Gardens. 
Andicny had been ill five weeks now, and they 
had fallen into a way of coming to the Gardens 
when Nurse Timberlake took her af temooQ time 



A GOOD WIFE FOR JOHN 189 

off. She would be going away soon. Anthony 
was better — nearly well — ^but Wallace had per- 
suaded her to stay. Mother needed her, he had 
said. 

Mother looked again over her glasses, 
. shrewdly, at Anthony. "She'll make the best 
kind of wife for John," she said. 

Anthony smiled a little, "Better than Lydia 
Bacon?" he asked. 

Mother looked at him. "I shouldn't have 
let him marry Lydia — ^in any case . . . and he 
never wanted to marry her!" she added trium- 
phantly. 

"No—" Anthony looked up at the west win- 
dow. Great clouds of li^t were flooding the 
sky. "How long is it before John comes?" he 
asked. 

"Three weeks," said Mother, promptly. 
"He'll have a chance to see her. I'm going to 
invite her to tea some afternoon. I've got it all 
planned out !" She rolled up her work and laid 
it aside. 



190 THE TASTE OF .\PPLES 

Anthcxiy readied a thin hand to her. "Don't 
count too much, on — John, Mother," he said 
gently. 

Mother looked at him. '"You feeling all 
ri^t, Anthony?** 

"Yes—" He smiled. 'Tm all right— but I 
don't want you to be disap— " Mother had dis- 
appeared into her kitchen. . . . "She may be 
interested in somebody else — " said Anthony 
softly. 

Mother did not hear. She was absorbed in 
something on her stove — communing with it — 
and before she had finished. Nurse Timberlake 
came back from her walk — nothing more 
could be said about a suitable wife for John. 

Nurse Timberlake looked at Anthony. "You 
would better lie down," she said. 

"Yes — I'm ready." He stood up, wavering 
a little — "Not very husky yet — ^am I?" 

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You'll 
do— You're much better than yesterday." She 
drew the coverlet over him and made him com- 
fortable. Then she stood a minute, arranging 




A GOOD WIFE FOR JOHN 191 

the papers on the table. Anthony had been 
looking them over, and they were scattered about 
among the glasses and bottles. 

The nurse gathered them into a little pile^ 
Suddenly she stopped — she glanced from the 
paper in her hand to Anthony — and back to the 
slip of paper. But Anthony's eyes were closed 
— ^he had fallen asleep— it was part of the weak* 
ness from the fever. She glanced again at the 
paper and put it with the others, slipping aa 
elastic band about them and putting them in the 
table drawer by the bed. 

m 

When she returned to the sitting-room, Mother 
was in her chair by the window sewing. 

Nurse Timberlake crossed over to the window 
and stood looking at the clear-lighted sky. "Do 
you know a Lord Raleigh?" she asked carelessly. 

Mother's head inclined and she looked over 
the tops of her glasses. "Anthony knows 
him — " she said. "I never felt just sure about 
his being a Lord," she added dryly. 

Nurse Timberlake smiled. "Yes — ^he's a 
Lord. I saw the name on a slip of paper in 



192 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

there — ^that was why I asked/' She turned back 
again to the wmdow. 

"Anthony's been to see hun, two or three 
times," said Mother — '1)cfore he was taken 
sick. He was meaning to take me. But I kind 
of put it off. It never seemed just right to run 
in any time to see a Lord — and I kept putting it 
off. ... I thought I'd get a new boimet, 
maybe. I don't suppose I shall see him now — 
not unless «Iohn wants to go. You know my 
son is coming — ?" She looked at her again over 
the glasses — shrewdly. 

And the nurse smiled a little. Mrs. Wickham 
had said her son was coming — every afternoon 
for five weeks. 



XXIV 

THE QUESTION OF A BONNET 

The next morning a letter came for Anthony, 
It was signed "Raleigh," and it enquired tersely 
where he was keeping himself 

"You answer it for him, won't you, Nurse — 
just tell him Anthony's been sick, and I've been 
busy " 

So Nurse Timberlake wrote a little note to 
Lord Raleigh, saying that Mr. Wickham had 
been ill, but was now recovering favourably; 
he hoped to see Lord Raleigh before leaving 
London. She signed it "Mary Wickham," 
and, after a moment, "per A. T/' — and sealed 
it, with a little smile on her lips. 

His Lordship, when he received the note, 

looked at the address and ordered his car and, 

after one or two errands in the city, drew up in 

Middle Temple Lane at the foot of the Plowden 

193 



194 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Buildings. At the third flight he paused for 
breath, and arrived at the top a little spent. 

Mother opened the door. She looked at him, 
and put her hand to her head — with some vague 
idea of a best bonnet — and held it out, smiling 
from her round face, "You must be — the 
Lord," she said. 

He aniled a little and took the hand, gal- 
lantly. "How is Mr. Wickham?" 

"Come right in," said Mother. She opened 
the door wide, and he stepped in and stopped, 
looking at a figure in nurse's cap and apron, that 
stood by the window. 

She came forward, smiling, and held out a 
hand. 'TBow are you. Cousin Thurlow?" she 
said. 

"How de' do, Allie? Where'd you light 
from?" 

"Pve been nursing Mr. Wickham." 

"Good idea! — ^you couldn't do better. How 
is he?" 

I%e ushered him into Anthony's room and left 
them . . . little laughs came out of the half- 




A BONNET 195 

open door, and scraps of talk, and long, mur- 
muring words, and laughs again. She came and 
stood in the door at last. 

"Time for Mr. Wickham to rest," she an- 
nounced. 

His Lordship got to his feet — "Well, I'm 
driven out. Remember you're coming to my 
place — as soon as you can stir." He came out 
into the sitting-room, smiling. "We'll make him 
well at Thurlow. Best air in England. I'm 
going up next week myself — ^" he paused. 
"How soon can he be moved?" 

"Ten days — perhaps." 

"That's right. You'll come, too, won't 
you?" 

"As a nurse?" she took his hand, smiling. 

"Anyway you like." He bowed himself over 
the hand and over Mother's — and was gone. 

Mother blinked a little. "I don't feel as if I 
could go," she said pathetically. "I'd rather 
stay right here — " 

"Mr. Wickham can't go alone," said Nurse 
Timberlake. 



196 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"iio—You might go with him — ?" 

"Pm thinking of it," said Nurse, "Pd rather 
like to go — Thurlow is my old home," she added 
after a little pause. 

Mother beamed on hen "You know the 
neighbourhood then, don't you?" 

The nurse smiled. "Yes, I know the village. 
I know the Castle too— quite well." 

Mother gave a little wail — "He didn't tell 
me it was a castle — ! I can't go — ^if it's a 
castle !" 

The nurse reassured her. "It's not so differ- 
ent from any other house— except, of course, that 
it's old — ^part of it dates back four hundred 
years or so." 

"I thought castles had towers and top-pieces 
and moats, and things?" said Mother. 

"Yes — there are towers. But modem houses 
have towers, you know." 

"So they do," assented Mother. "I never 
liked towers — " she added after a moment. 
"And the moats must be damp— <ireadful damp. 



A BONNET .197 

I don't believe Anthony will like it — ^Where do 
you get your bonnets?" 

"My bonnets — ?" the nurse started a little. 
"Oh— at Selfridge's." 

"I'll see what I can do to-morrow," said 
Mother. 



« 



XXV 



WALLACE SELECTS IT 



Wallace offered to go with her. Nurse Tim- 
berlake could not leave Anthony, and Mother 
must not be trusted alone among the pitfalls 
and snares of Oxford Street. 

So Wallace accompanied her. He escorted 
her down aisles of gloves and veilings and cos- 
metics and underwear, suits and coats and dra- 
peries, and to the millinery department and a 
smart young woman clerk. Mother retreated 
into her shell; and Wallace and the ladylike 
clerk decided between them what she should 
wear. It seemed difficult, at first, among the 
wheels of fashion, to find anything that would 
do to halo a small, round, wrinkled face — ^but, 
at last, from the back of a bottom drawer, a little 
straw structure was produced and placed on 
Mother's head ; the clerk stood back to survey it 

with lifted eyebrows, one hand resting on her 

1* 



WALLACE SELECTS IT 199 

hip. Wallace walked around it, and gave ad- 
vice, and paid for it and took Mother away. 

"'Do you think it's fancy enough for a castle, 
Wally?" she asked as the lift descended slowly 
to the ground. 

"Quite fancy enou^*' said Wallace decidedly. 
"You won't wear it all the time, you know — *' 
He paused, looking at her. "You ou^t to have 
a cap !" he said. 

"Wallace !" She put a distressed hand to her 
head. "I'm not old enough — for a cap !" She 
looked at him anxiously. "You don't mean I'm 
old enough — for a cap— do you?" 

"Any age is old enough, now," said Wallace. 
"Everybody wears 'em — ^I think you'd be stun- 
ning in a cap — Come on, and try one on!" So 
they descended to the cap department, and 
Mother sat in front of a long mirror, and Wal- 
lace fitted caps to the meek roundness of her face. 

"There!" he stood back and looked at it. 
"You couldn't be better ! Look at yourself." 

She took the hand mirror and turned her head 
critically, surveying the little white affair, front 



200 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

and back. "It looks queer," she said. "But 
it's becoming!" She beamed on him. 

"Of course it is — ^just the thing for you! 
You'd better keep it." He gave the young 
woman a coin and received the cap in a neat 
box. 

Mother's eye rested on it contentedly. 'T 
shall like it to wear in the Castle," she said. ''It 
doesn't seem just right, somehow, to wear jrour 
own hair — in a castle." 

"That's what they used to think," said Wal- 
lace. "I suppose that's why they got to wear- 
ing wigs and headdresses and things — ^to live up 
to castles." 

"I know how they felt," said Mother. 

WKcn they reached home, she donned the cap 
at once. "I want to get used to it before we go 
to the Castle," she said. "I have to wear my 
things quite a spell — ^before I get used to 'em. I 
never feel as if they were my things — the first 
week or so." 

There could be no doubt that the cap exercised 
a subtle influence on Mother's thoughts. She 



WALLACE SELECTS IT 201 

no longer protested against going with Anthony, 
and Nurse Timberlake more than once suspected 
her of little budding desires to display the cap 
in lordly halls. 

"Caps help you to keep up," explained 
Mother. "You know you look good, no matter 
how you feel inside !" 

"It's the same with shoes," said Anthony — 
"sometimes when I've made a pair for a mean 
man — 2, real mean one — I've thought I ought to 
take extra pains with 'em — so he could walk 
better. ... I used to think sometimes it made 
a difference with Jo' Haskell," he mused. 

"It'd take more than one pair of shoes to make 
a man of Jo' Haskell !" said Mother. "Maybe 
it helped," she added kindly. The cap seemed 
to have smoothed little asperities of judgment 
— much as it softened the lines of the wrinkled 
face. 

"I wish you was going Wdly," she announced 
the next day. 

Wallace glanced across at the open door. 
Nurse Timberlake was in the next room with An- 



202 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

thony. "I wish I were," he said sofdy. *lt 
will be mighty lonesoine with all of you gone, 
you know." 

Mother looked at him pityingly. **0f course 
it will be ! I don't know why I didn't think of 
it before. • • . Tve 'most a good mind to stay 



now ^* 






'And waste your capf* said Wallace. 
'Of course I'll have to go—*' said Mother 
hastily — "now I've said I would. But it don't 
seem right leaving you alone." 

"Jdm will be along pretty soon," said Wal- 
lace. 'TBc'll take your rooms — ^won't he? So 
I shall be nmning in here just the same." 

Mother lodged a little guilty. 

'^Jc^'s coming to the Castle," she said. 
'The Lord asked him." 

''He did!" said WaUacc. '1 thought John 
had business to attend to, and by the time he'd 
finished that, you would all be coming back." 

"He's going to take a rest first," said Mother, 
beaming. "It was my idea — ^I told the nurse I 
thought be ou^t to— and she told die Lord, 



WALLACE SELECTS IT 203 

and he asked him. It will be a real good chance 
to — ^visit." 

"How long will Nurse Timberlake stay? 
asked Wallace. 



i9f 



XXVI 

THURLOW CASTLE 

There were "towers and top-pieces and moats 
and things" — hundreds of little spirelike points 
on the turrets and four great towers springing 
from the ground. It was not a large castle, but 
it had all the qualities of the old-time castle — in- 
side and out— except that it was open to sunshine 
and the world; little slits of windows, made for 
sending arrows down upon an approaching foe, 
had been deepened and broadened; and the sun 
poured in, through four-foot thickness, into the 
great rooms ; outside, the moat had been drained 
and wall-flowers and roses grew there, and for- 
get-me-nots and arabis and feathery-plumed 
asters reaching against the walls. 

Mother walked around the moat twice a day 
— once with Anthony leaning on her stout arm, 
and once with the Lord. She had become quite 

well acquainted with Lord Raleigh; she gave 

204 



THURLOW CASTLE 205 

him advice about rheumatism and told him what 
John did when he was a baby. The white cap 
reached barely to his Lordship's shoulder, and 
the stately head had to bend a little. 

Anthony, looking down from his window, 
smiled to see them; he could feel Mother's soul 
standing tip-toe, and Lord Raleigh's reaching to 
it, trying courteously to understand this brusque, 
rushing little woman in her cap. Anthony un- 
derstood and loved them both. . . . He had 
been resting since he came, resting in the easy 
chair in the window and in the canopied bed at 
night — ^but resting, most of all, in the Castle, its 
thick walls and deep-freighted past. Roots 
that all his life had lain too close to the surface, 
struck deep in the subtle, invisible soil and nour- 
ished him. Sometimes, lying in the great bed at 
night, with the firelight flickering on the tapes- 
tries on the wall, he wondered how life would 
have looked if he had been bom in the canopied 
bed — instead of in the little ten-by-twelve room 
in the New England country parsonage. • . . 
He could not fancy, somehow, that he should 



2o6 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

have felt very different. It would have been 
the same Anthony Wickham, loving his friends, 
shrinking if he saw a dog struck in the street — 
men are not different. It would have been 
pleasant, lying, looking at the firelight on thick 
walls, to know that one's ancestors had built 
them — and that the armour in the great hall be- 
low had been theirs, and the pictures and tapes- 
tries. • • • Anthony reached out a thin hand 
and stroked the colours beside him. It would 
have been pleasant to think that one's great- 
great-great-grandmother had wrought that 
monstrous tropical bird over there on the wall 
and had fashioned the colours, so steadfast and 
clear and soft and full of gentle thoughts. . • . 
He had lain looking at them many ni^ts, in the 
iireli^t, watching by day from his chair by the 
window — the colours seemed to have become a 
part of him. ... He drifted into the past — 
far back where the colours shaped themselves and 
grew under li^t, thin fingers. Hand-work — 
all the Castle — from the turrets to the low- 
groined arches in the lowest hall — made bc- 



^ 



THURLOW CASTLE 207 

cause some one loved iL And suddenly Anthony 
saw against the western sky of New York steel- 
ribbed frames thrusting themselves up— and 
heard the clang of steel strike on steel — ^build- 
ing to the sky for a young gigantic race. The 
hand stroking the tapestry seemed very worn 
and thin. . • • But something was in it — 
of that other race across the sea — the gods 
that were building to their own downfall — that 
the greater ones may come — children of men once 
more. . . . And the streets of the city shall be 
full of boys and girls, playing in the streets 
thereof. . . . Anthony dozed in his chair in 
the wide window and waked, and down below, 
along the terrace-moat, the two figures walked — 
the little flying white cap, and the stately, cou^ 
teous figure bending to it. 

As Anthony recovered strength he became con- 
scious that something had happened to him— out 
of the roar of London streets or the thickness of 
the castle walls or the cleansing touch of the 
fever, something had come . . . thoughts that 
on the shoemaker's bench had only moved before 



2o8 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

him vaguely, grew clear; lying in the great chair 
out on the terrace, he watched them shape them- 
selves — his mind played with them and rose and 
travelled a little— out to the world ... he 
watched the great clouds float over die castle 
and the sunshine playing on vines that climbed 
the trellises and on the little blue and white 
flowers along the edge of the walks — he floated 
with the clouds and played, as the sunshine 
played, upon the trellises and the blue and white 
flowers. . . . But when he tried to put his 
thoughts into words they would not always come 
— out of the clouds and the little flowers along 
the edge of the path. 

Mother watched him anxiously — she waylaid 
Lord Raleigh in the garden — "Fm bothered 
about Anthony!" 

His Lordship stopped in the rose-path — "I 
thought he was doing very well — ?" he said 
gravely. 

"He's doing all right," said Mother— '1>ut he 
talks queer. ... I can't understand — ^half the 
time — what he means !" 



THURLOW CASTLE 209 

'That's what makes him interesting, isn't 
it — !" said Lord Raleigh. 

"It doesn't interest me — ^not to understand a 
single word, hardly, sometimes. • • . He's 
talking this morning about hippopotamuses and 
flying machines." She looked at him sternly 
over her glasses. 

His Lordship laughed out. "I must go and 
hear him," he said. 

Mother stood looking after the stately back — 
the wrinkles in her face gathered themselves in 
little knots and blinked. ... It was all very 
well to be a Lord and lau^ 

His Lordship turned and saw her, and came 
back. "You must not be anxious." He reached 
out a hand to her. "I did not understand that 
you were really worried — ^" his tone was full of 
sympathy— even with the little lau^ under- 
neath it — and Mother's eyes winked hard. 

"I don't mind his being queer," she said. 
'He's always been queer^ more or less — ^but he's 
never been so happy about being queer, before. 
It's kind of — of — idiotic!" 



210 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

She looked at him appealingly. 

But he only lau^icd out again and patted her 
hand "Don't worry about your husband — ^Hc 
has more sense with half his wits than I have 
with all mine!" 

"Yes — ^I know thatP' said Mother. But she 
said it only to the roses and the sun-dial sleeping 
in the li^t. His Lordship was gone al- 
ready, half-way down the path that led to the 
terrace. 

He found Anthony watching a little black- 
and-red lady-bug crawling on his hand. An- 
thony nodded to the hand — "She's taking quite 
a journey," he said — "under her red wings !" 

"Yes." The man sat down in the chair op- 
posite and they watched the lady-bug take her 
airing along the narrow, blue-veined path — that 
led to nowhere. When she came to the knuckle 
she paused, sending out feelers, and waited a 
minute, gathering herself, and lifted her wings 
and flew away. . . . Anthony watched her. 
. . . "I've been thinking about locomotion," 
he said. 



THURLOW CASTLE 211 

Lord Raleigh smiled — "And flying machines, I 
suppose?" 

"Yes — machines of every kkid — they've 
bothered me — 3, long time. ... I don't really 
like them — ^you know !" He looked at him with 
the little whimsical smile that seemed a part of 
his face — ^like the nose, or the near-sighted 
glasses. 

"Of course you don't like machines — ^nobody 
likes them — that has any sense — '^ said the Lord. 

"I'd like to think that," said Anthony. "I 
used to believe it — ^half-way — when I was mak- 
ing shoes. You see, I knew I could make a bet- 
ter pair of shoes than a machine could make — z 
pair that would feel better — ^wear better . . . 
but this morning I see I'm wrong about it " 

The other did not speak — he only watched the 
shoemaker with curious, half-amused, affection- 
ate eyes. 

"I got to thinking about it looking at your 
castle — and wondering why we can't make any- 
thing like it now. . . . Yes — ^I know — we do 
make houses bigger than your castle — " An- 



212 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

thony's hand moved a little toward it and loved 
it. 

The Earl looked up at the house his ancestors 
had built. . . • He would not have cared to 
tell every one how he felt about his castle . . . 
the very bones of his body were knit in it — and 
the thoughts of his heart — "It's alive, you know." 
He said the words softly — ^half to himself. 

Anthony nodded — "That's what it said to me, 
this morning. . . . It's eternal — ^your castle. 
Sometimes I've felt I'd made a pair of shoes 
that were eternal— one or two pair " 

They sat silent — the lady-bug had lifted on 
a green leaf and crawled underneath and was 
resting after her flight. . . . "That's the way 
I came to see it," said Anthony. "I've been feel- 
ing it all the time I've been here in the castle. 
Somebody must have loved it — ^up into the air 
there ^" 

They both looked up to the little spirelikc 
turrets . . . they sprang piercingly against the 
blue sky. . . . "Somebody must have loved it," 
said Anthony — "and all the castles — and the 



^ 



THURLOW CASTLE 213 

cathedrals— everywhere — somebody loved 'em 
— till they grew that way !" 

The E^rl had shifted his position a little, and 
was staring before him. 

"They make kind of a body for the 
Spirit," said Anthony, " — all the cathedrals 
and castles everywhere. I seem to see they're a 
kind of body. And then I got to thinking about 
its hippopotamus body. Mother wouldn't let 
me tell her about that — " He smiled a little. 
"She went to call you about that time, I think?" 

"Yes." 

"I didn't make it very clear, I guess. ... I 
was thinking how the Spirit must 'a' loved 'em 
sometime — the way it loved your castle — ^lovcd 
to feel 'em breathe and walk around and lie 
down — with their queer, leathery old necks. 
It seems queer — ^not to throw 'em away when 
they're done with " 

"I've thought about that — a hundred times — ^" 
said the Earl. 

Anthony nodded. "I knew you had thou^t 
of it very likely; that's why it's easy to talk to 



214 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

you. Mother's never thought much about it, I 
guess. I always used to be pegging away on it 
— wondering about it — asking Samuel what he 
thought *' 



"What did he say?" 

Anthony's little smile crept about the words. 
"He said they were hippopotamuses — and that 
was all there was to iL One day he got a lit- 
tle pestered with me for keeping at it, and he 
said they had just as good a right to be hippopot- 
amuses as he and I had to be a shoemaker • • . 
and that set me thinking. I thought a good 
while on it. . . . I see it clearer now — Every- 
thing that's living is just the Spirit, speaking 
out, breathing-like. ... It has to make new 
bodies all the while — ships — cathedrals — men 
and puppies and goats — it can't find any shape 
to suit— exactly. It just says all it can in one 
body and then it moves on . . . but it doesn't 
throw the old one away ... it keeps it — ^kind 
of a book, like — for us to read. . . . And 
that's the way I got to thinking about flying 
machines and making shoes by machinery, in- 



k 



THURLOW CASTLE 215 

stead of good old hand-made ones. • . . The 
Spirit is living in the machines now, I guess, 
building a kind of body for itself — ^not so solid 
as the earth — ^but it's alive all throu^ — saying 
things all the time. ... I just seemed to hear 
all the machines talking around the world . . • 
there's something they are saying — *' He 
leaned forward, "I must listen to it. . . ." 

The Earl got up and walked away. He 
came back slowly — ^along the rose-path, under the 
swaying, shimmering vines. He paused by An- 
thony's chair — and laid a hand, half-affection- 
ately, on his shoulder. . . . "They're saying 
we are done with — the cathedrals and the castle 
and me — " He motioned toward the beautiful 
silent towers and the little turrets. "We're 
done with," he said softly 

Anthony looked up to him and smiled a lit- 
tle. . . . "Perhaps you're a kind of illumi- 
nated books — the hand-made kind you were 
showing me yesterday, you know — ^that the 
Spirit has said things in. . • •" 



XXVII 

JOHN ARRIVES 

The owner of Thurlow Castle might not object 
to figuring as a fine old twentieth century missal ; 
but he did not, as yet, feel called upon to admire 
the machines that were to replace him and his 
kind. • • • Machines were all very well in their 
way; there were three cars in the garage, all of 
the newest type — ^the great touring car, a model 
limousine and the convenient little runabout. 
Lord Ralei^ used them freely and they had 
practically supplanted the stables. He believed 
in using machines, and in keeping them in their 
proper place. Possibly, at the back of his 
mind, there was a little disturbing sense that he 
might not always be able to keep them in what 

he c<msidered their proper place 

How much of this was in his mind as he 
greeted John Wickham, it would not be easy to 

say. Mother and Nurse Timberlake had gone 

216 



JOHN ARRIVES 217 

to the station to meet hinit and as the car swept 
up the curve of the drive, the figure of a man 
seated by Mother, on the back seat, was outlined 
with sharp distinctness against the old trees. 
The motionless figure seemed a part of the ma- 
chine, strong, implacable — ^and moving with 
swift, on-rushing power. 

Lord Ralei^ and Anthony, sitting on the ter- 
race, watched the car approach, and as it drew 
up in front of the steps, the master of the castle 
went forward to meet it 

John Wickham stepped out and the two men 
stood looking at each other a minute over their 
clasped hands; then they stepped apart — ^and the 
ocean swept in between. . . . For the first time 
the Lord of Thurlow had encountered face to 
face the force that would some day supplant him 
and his kind. He felt it, vaguely, as he turned 
away. They would be left — he and his castle 
— ^beautiful old missals, for this younger man of 
iron and steel to pore over in his leisure hours. 
It flitted through his mind, half-humorously, 
as he turned and led the way to the ter- 



2i8 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

race. But when the young man stooped to his 
father and kissed him, the other had a sense of 
something strong and tender — something beauti- 
ful, that he had missed. • • • The young 
American was no longer a successful man of busi- 
ness, half-defiant in his attitude toward the owner 
of the castle; there was a kind of humbleness 
about him and the E^rl lingered a second before 
he turned away— down the rose-path — and left 
them. 

Mother fussed at chairs, placing one for Nurse 
Timberlake and one for John — quite near by. 
But the Nurse slipped away — she must go and 
look after Anthony's egg-nog, and presently 
Mother went to take oflF her bonnet. 

John had not seen the cap — she would sur- 
prise John! When she returned she stood 
meekly with folded hands, waiting. He looked 
up— and jumped up— and laughed. 

"I say^ Mother!" He turned her around, on 
her pivot, and looked at her. 'Ifs all ri^t!" 
he pronounced* 



JOHN ARRIVES 219 

Mother smiled serenely, "Wally picked it 
out," she said, 

"Fm a little jealous of Wally, you know, re- 
plied John. 

"Everybody's jealous of Wally," said An- 
thony from his chair. "Mother can't stir with- 
out Wally " 

"I came here without him," said Mother tri- 
umphantly. 

"But you would have liked him to come ^" 

"Well — ^he would have enjoyed it. . . . 
And he would have been company for me — 
when you and the Lord get to talking. They're 
always talking!" she said with fine scorn. 

"But you have Nurse Timberlake for com- 
pany," said Anthony. 

"Yes-s — I have had her." 

"You speak as if you never would again." 
said John, lauding. 

"I don't expect to see so much of her as I 
have," said Mother discreetly. 

Then Nurse appeared with the egg-nog and 



220 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Mother took it from her — "You can show 
John around the place a little, before we have 
tea," she said. "Pll feed Father this—" 
And her delighted eyes followed them as they 
walked away. There was something of the 
same quick decisiveness in the two figures. 

"They look nice together, don't they?" said 
Mother 

Anthony smiled a little. ''You take match- 
making hard, Mother — ^I shouldn't want you to 
marry me oflF." 

"You're married already — ^to me!" said 
Mother. ''They won't need much helping — ^" 
she nodded toward the receding figures. Then 
she looked again. *The Lord's with them!" 
she said. "Here — drink this. . . ." 

Anthony took it, smiling. ''He won't inter- 
fere with your plans — ^Mother — ^He's a philoso- 
pher." 

"He don't like John !" said Mother promptly. 

"How did you find that out?" 

'1 saw it — the first thing — when they shook 
hands. They acted real foolish — ^both of 



JOHN ARRIVES 221 

them! . . . There! they're coming back! — 
Well — ^it^s just as well, they couldn't say much 
with him around — he always docs the talk- 
ing ^" 

"Why, Mother!" 

'Well — what did he want to go walking off 
in that direction for — when he had the whole 
grounds to walk in — hundreds of acres of 

ground !" 

But when Lord Raleigh approached, with the 
destined pair. Mother beamed upon him, and 
upon them. She had the faith of a child that 
things would come ri^t — the kind of faith that 
sometimes makes them come ri^t, in spite of 
everything that hinders. 

It did not need a great deal of faith to see, as 
the days went by, that John and Nurse Timber- 
lake were good friends. They had a hundred 
likes and dislikes in common. ''They don't 
either of them cat tripe!" announced Mother 
triumphantly. 

"Arc you going to marry them — on not lik- 
ing tripe?" asked Anthony. 



222 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

''You can make all the fun you want to, An- 
thony. You know it makes a difference." 

"Yes — it makes a difference," assented An- 
thony. He could not quite bring himself to tell 
Mother his little suspicion that not even the not 
liking tripe would cause Jdm and Nurse Tim- 
berlake to fall hq)elessly and irrevocably in love. 
And who was he after all, to pretend to under- 
stand the vagaries of love. ... It was far 
more likely that Mother with her instincts was 
right. 

So Mother laid her little snares and watched 
happily when the unsuspecting pair walked into 
them; and turned her head circumspectly not to 
see too much. 

There were days when she regarded herself 
sternly in the li^t of a wicked old matchmaker. 
She had been a little troubled since she learned 
that Nurse Timberlake was not a poor yoimg 
woman, depending on Anthony's frailties for 
support. 

The Nurse had told her one evening at dusk, 
standing in the upper window, looking down on 



JOHN ARRIVES 223 

the park. . . . *lt is a dear, old place!" she 
had said. *1 get fonder of it every year, I 
think." 

"You've been here a good many times?" said 
Mother. 

Nurse Timberlake turned to her and smiled a 
little. "I was bom here," she said. 

"You were — ^bora here^' said Mother. "I 
thought — ^you were — a nurse !" 

"A nurse has to be bom, you know," she was 
smiling again. "I think I rather like it — going 
about in cap and apron — where I used to play 
and do all sorts of things. . . . There were 
only two of us — sister and I. We played hide 
and seek here in the hall after dark — it was very 
dark, I remember — ^not all lighted up as Cousin 
Thurlow has it now — '' She moved her hand 
at the long, lighted corridor beyond. 

"I am very fond of the place. ... I am 
glad it will be mine, some day," she added 
softly. 

Mother stared — z, little bewildered. "Did 
you say it was yours?" she said. 



224 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"It will be — I suppose, some day. Polly 
likes the town house better. She will take that. 
We are next of kin — sister and I." 

"It seems queer," said Mother, "for him to let 
you go out nursing. But I suppose it's Eng- 
lish — ?" she si^ed a little — at the difficulty of 
understanding. 

"Yes — it's English — ^perhaps. But it's more 
that we wanted to do it. When I went into 
training, we thou^t Cousin Thurlow would 
marry. . . ." 

"You mean if he had married, you wouldn't 
'a* had — ^* Mother groped at it. 

'*Not the Castle certainly,'* said the girl. "A 
small allowance, perhaps — ^just enou^ to live 
on. I wanted to be independent— and so did 
Polly. She does miniatures — ^* 
Pictures?" said Mother. 

'Small ones — ^yes — ^portraits. She does beau- 
tiful work." 

"It's all topsy-turvy!" said Mother. "And it 
doesn't seem right— either you have a lot — " 



ti^ 



«i 



JOHN ARRIVES 225 

she swept her hand toward the dusky park — "or 
else you don't have anything at all !" 

"That's it!" The nurse smiled on her. 

"It's English," said Mother. 

"Yes — ^it's English." She spoke with a kind 
of quiet pride — and moved down the hall. 
"Come, and see the ancestors," she said. "They 
light up best at night." 

And Mother followed the cap and apron down 
the hall, groping at the topsy-turvydom that up- 
set all her ideas. Suddenly she stopped — **You 
will be a Lady !" she said swiftly. 

"What is it?" Nurse turned back a little. 
"Oh — ^no— the title lapses with Cousin Thurlow. 
No, I shall be plain Miss Timberlake always." 

"I don't believe you will!" said Mother 
stoutly. 

But in her heart she had a little, sinking sense 
that Nurse Timberlake might be right. The 
situation was — English. She moved a little less 
happily on her matchmaking path. . . . Her 
son was good enough for any girl — good enou^ 



226 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

even for Miss Alice Timberlakc, of, Thurlow; 
but Miss Timberlake would be a rich woman 
sometime, and Mother could not scheme for a 
rich wife for John. 

She had not the comfort of knowing that long 
before Nurse Timberlake came into possession 
of Thurlow Castle, her son might be able to buy 
up the castle and all it contained — two castles 
— three if it pleased him. Castles, old masters 
and tapestries — all to be swept into Johnnie's 
capacious American apron if it pleased him. 
But to Mother he was only her boy — ^hardly able 
to look after his socks and certainly not to be 
trusted to pick out a wife. 

She confided her troubles to Anthony— or tried 
to. 'It all belongs to her, Anthony !" she said, 
"to Nurse Timberlake ** 

"What belongs — ?" asked Anthony. He was 
lying back in his chair, looking up at the top of 
the Castle and the great trees beyond it. ''What 
is it you say belongs to Nurse Timberlake?" 
he said. 

"All of this — everything!" Mother waved 



JOHN ARRIVES 227 

her hand — "the castle and the grounds — she 
owns everything really." 

"So do I," said Anthony dreamily. 

Mother looked at him anxiously. She hoped 
it wasn't going to be one of Anthony's queer 
mornings — she needed some one to confide in — 
and there was no one like Anthony — ^if only he 
would be sensible. 

"What I mean is — '' said Mother, "she told 
me last night — she will own everything here — 
when the Lord dies. . . . You understand me, 
Anthony?" 

"Yes, I understand. Mother. ... I own it 
now in essence — myself. It is a wonderful old 
place to own!" 

So Mother gave it up. Fate must do what it 
could. She settled down to her work. John 
and Nurse Timberlake had gone for a walk. A 
great many things could happen in a walk. It 
was when she and Anthony went for a walk that 
he had spoken. . . . She could remember how 
blue the sky was, with the great white clouds 
sailing over — there had been a rain the ni^t be- 



228 THE TASTE OF AEPLES 

fore, and cvcr5rthing smelled sweet! "Do you 
remember, Anthony, the walk we took up by Dol- 
man^s Hill?" 

"Yes — ^I remember/' ssdd Anthony, "what 
about it?" 

"Nothing," said Mother softly, "I only won- 
dered if you remembered '' 

Anthony looked at her and smiled — ^just as 
he had smiled that day. 

And John came out to them on the terrace 
and said he must get back to town to-morrow. 
Business had come up that he must be there to 
look after. 



XXVIII 

ANTHONY'S THOUGHTS 

The shoemaker and the Earl were in the garden 
together. John had gone back to town. 
Mother and Nurse Timberlake were engaged in 
some mysterious rite of dressmaking; they had 
become invisible to mere man. 

Anthony had been in the garden all the morn- 
ing, walking about a little, reading and think- 
ing. Lord Raleigh had returned from his 
drive around the estate and had come straight 
to the terrace; they had sat ever since talking, 
watching the clouds and the rooks overhead and 
the great rooks* nests in the trees — ^The little 
shadows shifted themselves silently on the grass 
and the gravel walk and swayed hurriedly when 
the wind blew the branches about. . . . They 
had been talking of a dozen things — ^turning 
them slowly about — and they sat silent in the 
little wind that came across the garden — it 



230 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

shook soft scents from the flowers and scattered 
them. Over against the low yew hedge, a sin- 
gle pair of tulips held their little, yellow, shin- 
ing globes against the dark green of the yew. 
"That is a stray," said the Earl. He looked at 
the quaint stiffness of the hedge and the yellow 
flower growing against it. . . . "It is far more 
beautiful than anything that Hodges planted — '* 
he said, "it seems to belong there, by the hedge, 
growing that way, doesn't it?" 

Anthony's eyes rested on it. "I think they 
found each other out," he said. 

"You do—?" The Earl laughed quietly. 
"The hedge said to the tulip, I suppose, 'Come 
over here, Miss Flower, I shall be very becoming 
to you!' ... Or perhaps you think the tulip 
moved the hedge a rod or two—?" 

Anthony smiled. . . . "You say it because 
you think it is ridiculous," he said quietly. 

"I did the best for them I could — said the best 
thing I could," assented the Earl. 

"I think it may be true," said the shoemaker. 

The other's quizzical smile rested on him. 



f 






A." 1'..;^. 



-T I ■ r 



, < 



1 v;/'. V A * 



ANTHONY'S THOUGHTS 231 

"And perhaps you think you called mt — on 
Blackfriars Bridge!" 

"Something like that," said Anthony. "The 
right flowers grow together, if we let them, 
and trees and bushes — ^they don't make mistakes, 
do they ^" 

"There is a kind of choice — ^^ said the Earl 
thoughtfully. "But you're not going to make 
mc believe that the whole universe goes on 
screaming out and calling — tumbling over itself, 
to get to the ri^t place — ^like the taxis in the 
Strand." 

"No— not exactly ^" said Anthony smil- 
ing, "but I was reading while you were away 
this morning — ^" He touched the book on the 
chair beside him. "I was reading how every- 
thing solid — every bit of marble and flesh and 
bone and rock — ^is all whirling round inside; 
and the harder it seems to be — the faster it 
whirls." 

"Yes — ^I know. . . . They used to say it 
took faith to believe in religion. Nowadays it 
takes more faith to believe the scientists — !" 



232 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

He looked at Anthony with the little twinkling 
smile. 'Tfou believe that, I suppose — ^about the 
things whirling around inside^' 

*^e&_don»t you?" 

"Yes. . . . What I want to know is — 
where it's all whirling to?*' 

"You'll be there to see," said Anthony 
quietly. 

"You think so—?" The Earl turned and 
stared across at the tulips. "You think — so?" 
he said slowly. "It doesn't seem quite likely, 
you know." 

"No— but it's true." 

"You've had a message, I suppose — special 
wireless !" 

Anthony ignored the little gentle irony of the 
words. "I've seen it — ^jres. ... I remembered 
this morning a yellow rose-bush that used to 
grow in the door-yard at home when I was a boy. 
I hadn't thou^t of it for years. I didn't know 
I remembered it — but all of a sudden I saw it, 
clear as light — and smelled the roses and saw 
myself standing by it, with my mother — ^" He 



ANTHONY'S THOUGHTS 233 

sat looking before him as if he saw it still in a 
kind of dream. 

The other stirred a little. "It's pretty — but 
it doesn't prove anything. . . . You smelled 
the roses over there — " His hand moved to- 
ward the rose-path. "You think of a yellow 
rose and of your Mother — and you tell me I'm 
inunortal. ... I don't even know that I want 
to be," he added thoughtfully. "I've had my 
life '' 

"That's what I thou^t about the yellow- 
rose," said Anthony. "It died long ago. But 
it was alive — this morning — in me; and I am 
alive in Someone. He won't forget — z thou- 
sand years — ^He will remember, I think." 

The Earl looked at him, at the gentle, thought- 
ful face and thin hands. He got up and walked 
away a little, and came back. "It doesn't prove 
anything," he said. 

"Doesn't it?" Anthony smiled. 'Things 
don't have to be proved — if you sec them." 

The other had seated himself. "So you think 
you will live — ^as an experience of the great 



234 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Soul, you will live forever — that's fixed. . . . 
And it just goes on and on — more men, more 
roses, more experience — world without end. 
I don't see it getting anywhere Evo- 
lution — ^yes. ... It stopped at men — ^You'll 
never get anything beyond men — on this earth. 
I'm not interested in Mars. Evolution on this 
earth is done with." 

"You got a wireless, I suppose, when it 
stopped?" said Anthony quietly. 

The other looked at him and smiled. "I 
haven't seen any great change — ^not since I was 
a boy. We're just about the same as the 
Pharaohs were — grim old kings of dust — ^just 
about the same." 

"They didn't whirl aroimd inside,** said An- 
thony — "the Pharaohs didn't." 

"Don't you think so? — modem touch, per- 
haps — whirling — ^inside and out — ^" He stared 
a minute and stopped. 'There may be some- 
thing in it," he said softly. . . . "But you 
woM't get beyond Men !" 

"Perhaps we don't need to,** said Anthony. 



ANTHONY'S THOUGHTS 235 

"Suppose men get beyond themselves — ^Do 
things they didn't know they could." 

The other was looking at him. "Such as — 
flying?" he asked. 

Anthony shook his head. 'They've done 
that. It isn't so very different from motoring 
-—only in the air, instead of on the ground. 
It is something different I mean ** 

"Something nobody has thought of yet?'* sug- 
gested Lord Ralei^ with his little quizzical 
smile. 

"Yes. . . . Something like this—*' The 
shoemaker leaned forward, speaking as if the 
things he spoke went whirling before him. . . . 
"It's as if we had a great Power in us that no 
one has touched. We don't know of it — any 
more than we knew that solid things were whirl- 
ing all about — ^but some day some one will find 
it — lay his hand on it — ^and there will be men 
who can do what they will — ^walk upon the 
water, ride upon the wind. . . . You will sec 
— you will not need a flying machine when you 
can get your hand on that Power. • . ." The 



2^6 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

shoemaker's diin hand came together suddenly 
in tig^t grip— he blinlDBd a little— and langfifd 
sofdy. • • • ^ most have been talking great 
nonsense," he said. 

Trettj had," said the other. He was look- 
ing across at him with keen, quiet eyes diat shone 
a little. Tretty bad — you're partly froth and 
partly grit, Andiony." 

Tm glad Modier didn't hear it," said An- 
diony. ^t bothers Mother — to hear me talk- 
ing nonsense, like that!" 



XXIX 

mother's opinions 

'Does it set all ri^t in the back?" asked 
Mother anxiously. 

She stood in front of the long mirror in the 
dressing-room, craning her neck a little to get a 
good view of the plump back. Nurse Timber- 
lake, on a chair beside her, turned her slowly 
about, looking at her critically and adjusting 
folds. The maid on the floor, with a mouthful 
of pins, pinned skilfully and moved along on her 
knees, looking up now and then at the result and 
pinning on. 

Nurse Timberlake nodded approval. 'It's 
going to look just ri^t !" she said. 

Mother drew a si^ of relief. "Pve always 
wanted a one-piece dress— ever since they came 
in. The dressmaker at home said I didn't have 
the figure for it." 

'*your figure's all right," said Nurse Timber- 



238 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

lake. 'Tin it op a little hi^ier on diis side, 
Amelia. Yes, there — that's it," she put her 
head back and surveyed it. 

'Tve always worn a basque," said Mother — 
she was still craning a little. 

Nurse Timberlake made no reply. It was 
Mother's ""basque" that had precipitated the pins 
and folds — Mother's basque was a short gar- 
ment — very wide in the shoulders, tight in die 
waist, and having lines that tried the figure. 

Mother looked again at her back in die mir- 
ror, and smoothed the front a little. "It's gping 
to look real good, I guess — ^I wish Wally could 
see it!" 

'*Hc will see it — ^won't he — ^when we go 
back — ?' The nurse spc^ absently; she was 
still shifting the folds a little — 'Tut a pin here, 
Amelia. Yes — ^that's better. . . . See how 
you like that, Mrs. Wickham ^" 

Mother walked slowly back and forth in front 
of the mirror and looked at herself; the maid, 
on her knees, wore an air of distrustful approval 
and Nurse Timberlake studied the effect — "A 




MOTHER'S OPINIONS 239 

little more on this side, Amelia — don't you think 
so— yes." 

The maid bent again to her pins. She had 
been assigned to Mother the day they arrived, 
but this was the first thing she had been allowed 
to do. Mother had stoutly resisted all offers to 
unpack tnmks, or lay out her clothes for dinner 
or help her dress. 'Tm used to doing for my- 
self," she said. "It bothers me to have anybody 
around." So the maid had withdrawn in re- 
spectful, disapproving silence. 

It was Nurse Timberlake's idea, that she 
could be utilised for dressmaking. '*Why not 
let her make you a new frock?" she had said. 
"She is really very good at that sort of thing. 
You could send into town for some stuff." 

"I've got three dresses now — ^besides my every- 
day one," said Mother. "I don't know what I 
should do with any more ** 

"She might alter these a little then,'* said 
Nurse Timberlake. "Fashions change so, you 
know " 

"Sleeves?" asked Mother anxiously. 



240 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"Yes— and backs." 

"Well — ^I don't mind her trying. You don't 
think she would spoil them?" 

"She's very good," said Nurse discreetly. 
"Just let her try one." 

So Mother stood obediently in front of the 
mirror, and turned when she was told to, and 
walked off a little way, and came back, and stood 
— "a little more to the ri^t" — and the maid and 
Nurse Timberlake evolved the work of art. 

Somewhere in the course of events a bolt of 
soft, black, lacy stuff had made its appearance. 
"Some that I had before I went into training," 
said Nurse. "I shouldn't ever wear it now. 
We need something of the sort — for these lines 
here.'* She threw a fold of it over Mother's 
shoulder and draped it at the back. 

"Just what it needed," said Amelia on her 
knees, pinning swiftly and looking up. 

'It makes a difference, doesn't it — here take 
the rest of it — that way — ^yes — ^that's right !" 

The two artists stood back to survey the re- 
suit 



MOTHER'S OPINIONS 241 

''You don't think it makes me look too 
squatty, do youf'' said Mother. 

"Not a bit. Here — put on your cap— there 
now look at yourself !" 

Mother looked and smiled, in soft, little 
wrinkles, and tumed herself. '1 do wish Wal- 
lace could see it,'' she said. ''Wallace has good 



taste/' 



Nurse Timberlake smiled a little. "He wears 
aesthetic socks," she admitted. 

"They're always the same colour as his neck- 
ties — did you ever notice?" 

"Yes — I've noticed. . . . You might take 
that out now, Amelia, and hem the edge." 

Amelia gathered up a lacy wing and departed. 

Mother stood in front of the mirror, still turn- 
ing; but she was not looking at herself — her face 
had grown thoughtful. "I don't know as I 
think Wally has any better taste than John 
has — " she said slowly. 

Nurse Timberlake's face wrinkled a little. 
"Your son does not care about his clothes — not 
as Mr. Tilton does." 



242 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"That's it," said Mother. "I was trying to 
think how it was — John never did care . . . 
even as a little boy he didn't seem to care about 
such things — ^and I had to make him wash his 
face and hands." 

Nurse Timberlake's smile laughed out. "I 
don't doubt it!" She nodded to the gown — 
"You might take it off now, and we'll give it to 
Amelia to work en." 

"I can hem this piece myself," said Mother, 
gathering up a soft bit. 

"Yes — ^well — ^if you like . . . she's glad to 
have it to do for you, you know." 

"I like to do it," said Mother. "I feel better 
to have something going through my hands. 
I feel foolish — ^just to sit down with 'em 
folded." 

"I thou^t wc would go out on the terrace. 
Cousin Thurlow asked me to read " 

"I shall take it out there," said Mother. "I 
can listen and sew, too." 

But when they reached the terrace the chairs 
under the tree were pushed about and empty. 




MOTHER'S OPINIONS 243 

In the distance through the trees two figures 
paced slowly. 

"They'll be back soon/' said Nurse, "we'll 



wait ** 



They sat under the big tree, the morning li^t 
about them falling on the garden and terrace 
and on the table littered with books and papers 
and the half-scattered pouch of tobacco and short 
briar-wood pipe. The nurse tidied the table a 
little. 

Mother watched her a minute. Then she un- 
folded her work. "John likes pretty things, 
thou^ — ^" she continued. "He likes them on 
other people. He'll know if it looks good — ** 
she held up her work and looked at it. 

Nurse Timberlake sat down, leaning forward 
a little, her hands swinging loosely like a young 
boy. Her face had a fresh, quizzical look. "I 
can tell you who has better taste even than — 
John." 

**Who is it?" said Mother looking u 
startled. 

"Mr. Wickham." 



244 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"Anthony!" Mother let fall her work and 
gazed in the distance where the two figures paced 
behind the leafy-branching trees. . . . "An- 
thony doesn't know, half the time, what folks 
have on," she said. "Or, anyway, he never says 
anything ** 

"I'd rather know what he thinks about things 
— most things — ^than almost any one I know — " 
said Nurse. 

Mother pricked her needle idly throu^ her 
dress. 'We've never depended much on An- 
thony, not for anything real sensible," she said. 

Nurse smiled. "You'd call clothes sensible — 
how they look — ^wouldn't you?" 

"Oh, yes — " said Mother. *That takes sense 



course." 



"He could tell you," said Nurse, " — if he 
looked. He doesn't always look. He's think- 
ing about other things." 

"He's dreadful absent-minded!" assented 
Mother. 

"I've heard him and Cousin Thurlow talking 
— about the Castle — and he said things about it 



MOTHER'S OPINIONS 245 

that modem critics are just beginning to find out 
— which parts are good and which are bad — ^hc 
seems to know by instinct — ^and he*d never seen a 
castle before. Cousin Thurlow sajrs it's because 
he looks at things just the way a child would — 
and doesn't pretend." 

"I've always said he was just like a child," 
said Mother. "He's a dreadful trial that way 
sometimes — ^he doesn't seem to use good judg- 
ment !" 

"I am afraid he doesn't." The nurse 
laughed softly. "You know people are begin- 
ning to say now that good judgment isn't worth 
very much?" 

Mother looked at her — she settled her glasses 
firmly on her nose. "I don't know what Vd do 
without it. How are you going to judge a 
thing if you don't have judgment?" she asked 
severely. She looked over her glasses. 

"Don't be cross about it !" said Nurse Timber- 
lake, laughing. "I didn't invent it — I don't 
even pretend to understand it — altogether. But 
if I could get as near right as Mr. Wickham does, 



246 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

I wouldn't care whether my judgment was good 
or bad — Fd trust my instinct." 

Mother said nothing. England was queer. 
London was queer. Anthony was queer. . . . 
But now, it seemed his queemess was all right. 
It was a topsy-turvy world, everything in it was 
queer. . . . She sewed on, drawing little fine 
black stitches through the lacy stuff, her mouth 
set tight. 

When Anthony came up, she looked at him — 
as if she had never seen him before. It was 
the same quaint Anthony, with half-drooping 
shoulders and the little white lock rising from 
his forehead — the same Anthony she had always 
loved and taken care of and felt superior to. 
She looked down at his feet, "Did you put on 
your thicker socks?" 

"Did I?" He looked down, a little guiltUy. 
His face lighted — "I did put them on — didn't 
I? I thought perhaps I'd forgot." 

Mother looked again — "You've got on one 
thick one — ^and one thin one," she said. 



to 



MOTHER'S OPINIONS 247 

"So I have!" Anthony looked at them — he 
smiled, "Fd better go change *em." 

"It will do if you change one — '* said Mother 
drily. Presently she looked up. "You saw 
what he'd done?" 

"Yes," Nurse Timberlake was smiling. 

"Used his instinct to put on his socks with !" 
said Mother. "/ think a little judgment 
wouldn't 'a' hurt — enough to put on socks with." 



THE RETURN TO THE TEMPLE 

Mother, in soft, lacy, wing-like garments, 
ceased to walk solidly on both feet, and floated 
plumply about the castle. Sometimes Lord 
Raleigh, seeing her, smiled a little to himself at 
the picture — a gentle, courtly smile. There was 
something in Mother that kept him amused. He 
could not talk with her as he talked with An- 
thony ; but her downrightness interested and kept 
him wondering a little. Through Mother he 
was studying a new type — the American woman 
before the culture-bacillus took possession of her. 
She beamed on him — ^narrow, keen, generous — 
perhaps the most essentially feminine woman in 
the world; beside her the English women whom 
he knew seemed fairly masculine — they walked 
with long, swinging step, free from the hip, and 
their processes were almost as free and direct as 

the stride. It was not difficult to follow them — 

248 



RETURN TO THE TEMPLE 249 

one noted the direction and swung into pace with 
them and arrived, in due time, at the goal: — not 
always in agreement with them — ^but always able 
to understand and answer back. If English 
women chose to smash windows up and down 
Regent Street in the holy cause of votes for 
women, the average Englishman might protest 
and grumble, but he understood; he could re- 
tort by breaking into rooms and ragging them 
thoroughly — throwing furniture about, empty- 
ing bureau drawers and wardrobes and strewing 
the contents about the room; he knew how the 
suffragette would feel when she entered and be- 
held the wreckage; and she knew that he knew 
that she knew. It was all a great family party 
— with exchange of amenities. You knew 
where to find a woman — ^in England. She 
might diflfer with you, she might oppose you — 
or flirt with you; but she was a comprehensible 
being. 

Not so Mother. She marched with you on the 
path of logic — looking up at you with puzzled, 
meek eyes, ready at any time to be convinced by 



250 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

superior remarks; and then suddenly, with a 
little bewildered flourish, she had left you 
standing — with your feet planted firmly on 
facts, gazing after her as she floated up ; she cir- 
cled like an air-ship — a balloon — above your 
astonished head, and took flight, coming down 
in some new place— quite an illogical place, 
perhaps, but — the more you blinked and looked 
— ^in exactly the spot she meant! Anthony had 
lived with her forty years. 

It might be. Lord Raleigh fancied, that An- 
thonjr's mind had gained something from its 
forty years experience of this round, flitting 
surety of flight Mother^ he could surmise, had 
not altered by a hair's breadth. But no mere 
masculine mind could stand untouched by 
Mother's flights. Perhaps the American man 
— with his keen, intuitive business sense — 
owed more than he guessed, to small round 
women in bonnets — coming down in unexpected 
places. One cannot stand forever, staring, be- 
wildered — ^he would essay little flights of his 



RETURN TO THE TEMPLE 251 

own, and discover, after the first gasping breath, 
that it "worked." 

Something like this flitted through his Lord- 
ship's mind as he watched Mother or walked 
with her on the terrace. She told him her be- 
wilderments and laid difficulties before him. 
She consulted him about Anthony, and asked ad- 
vice, and looked up to him meekly — ^but always 
with the little impending sense of flight, that 
kept things moving on. Sometimes Nurse Tim- 
berlake, watching them together, smiled — they 
were two types that might not have met for a 
thousand years, that could never have met per- 
haps except by Anthony Wickham gently un- 
derstanding them both. 

About Anthony she had no doubts. If there 
were another Anthony Wickham in the world 
— ^young or old — she would marry him to-mor- 
row! But there were no men like Anthony — 
they were all old and grown-up— even the young 
men were old ... no, she should never marry 
— ^probably not. 



252 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

They were going back to town next week. 
Anthony was recovered. The castle would be 
full of other guests — some of them coming be- 
fore they left — ^and Mother was anxious to g^t 
back to "John." . . . Nurse Timberlake, walk- 
ing in the garden, picked a rose, as she thought 
of Mother and her John, and smiled at it. . . • 
They would travel up to London together; and 
she would leave them and go back to her ra^ed 
children. It had been a long vacation — first in 
the Temple and then here at Thurlow. She 
was devoted to every stone of the old place; she 
looked up at the little pointed turrets, and loved 
them. . . . She was free to come back any 
time — ^she knew that Cousin Thurlow would 
give her welcome — ^but she must go back to work. 
She had been resting too long — one could not 
call taking care of Anthony Wickham work. 
She wondered what Tony Wasson was doing — 
she must try to get the children off for a holi- 
day. Perhaps Cousin Thurlow could tell her 
of some one on the estate — who could — take 
them* f • • She walked with bent head, think- 



RETURN TO THE TEMPLE 253 

ing of her children — ^Tony Wasson's children — 
the rose in her fingers swinging a litdc, as she 
walked, and her long, free skirts swishing against 
the arabis in the borders and waking sweet 
scents. 

John met them at the station — ^looking after 
Anthony with quiet care and placing Mother in 
the taxi beside him, before he turned to insist 
that Nurse Timberlake should drive with 
them. . • • 

"If you cannot stay at the Temple, I'll take 
you on to your place later." 

But she was firm. 'T must get back to my 
people," she said. She motioned to a taxi and 
it turned toward the curb. "Good-bye — I shall 
come to see you — yes. Take good care of him." 
She nodded and was gone. 

John replaced his hat and got into the cab — 

"You can go see her to-morrow," said 
Mother. 

He stared at her a little, and smiled. "I 
can get along a day or two, I think." He was 



254 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

laughing now. "It's pretty good to get you and 

Father back How is he?" he had turned to 

him. 

"Fm well — quite well again — " He was 
leaning forward a little, looking at the pushing, 
hurrying mass surging on either side of the 
taxi. . . . 

Mother's glance followed it — "It seems kind 
o' good to get back — " she said, with a little 
gesture of surprise. 

He turned and smiled at her. "You like it 
— ^as well as I do. Mother !" 

"I hope not," she said sternly. 

But she bent forward again and looked — 
"There is something . . . !" 

"There certainly is," laughed John. "I've 
been here three weeks now, and I'm just about 
as drunk with it as I was the first day I 



came '* 



"John Wickham!" 

"Figuratively drunk, Modier! You seem to 
forget I've had Wallace." 

"How is Wally?" asked Mother quickly. 



RETURN TO THE TEMPLE 255 

"Fine!" said John. He and Anthony ex- 
changed a look. "He's gained ten pounds, I'll 
warrant, since you've been gone " 

"It wouldn't do for Wally to get too fat!" 
said Mother thoughtfully. "I've got three new 
dresses " 

"Indeed !" said John — he looked down at her 
mockingly, and Anthony, watching them with 
quiet eyes, smiled at the little play between them. 

They would have a real vacation now — and 
see something of the boy. It was years since 
they had really seen him. Even in college, there 
had always been work planned for vacations — 
first chain-carrying and later more responsible 
work. The boy had always done his share — he 
had worked hard — ^and made his way. . . . 
Wallace had told them — more than they had 
known before — ^how the Management trusted 
him. To Anthony, Wallace had confided that 
John would some day be a rich man. "They 
don't stop when once they begin — with a man 
like John," Wallace had said. "It's the top or 
nothing !" 



256 



THE TASTE OF APPLES 



"He'll have enough to take care of Mother 
then if anything — should happen to me," said 
Anthony, "I wouldn't want Mother worried." 

Wallace laughed a little — and he laid his 
hand aflfectionately on Anthony's arm. "If 
anything should happen to you, Mr. Wickham, 
John could buy up your shoeshop— and the 
whole town of Bolton — twice over! . . . You 
don't quite understand what it means — to be 
in with the Steel Trust." 

"I don't suppose I do," said Anthony. "I 
only didn't want Mother worried." 



XXXI 



A CALL ON NURSE TIMBERLAKE 

Wallace's fingers drummed a little on the arm 
of his chair. "I haven't seen much of John — 
since you came back," he said thoughtfully. 

"You have kind o' missed each other," said 
Mother. 

"I've been here every day," remarked Wal- 
lace. 

"So you have," said Mother. " — Have an- 
other piece of pie, Wally; you've only had one 
piece " 

So Wally took his pie — and his face lighted 
a little; he chewed it slowly and thoughtfully. 

"John's a good deal interested in something 
Nurse Timberlake's getting up," said Mother, 
" — kind of a show for the children." 

"Where is it going to be?" asked Wallace. 

"Down there somewheres — where she lives- 
John knows." 

257 



258 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Wallace glanced up. "Are you going to it?'* 

"Yes — ^we thought we'd all go. You can go 
along with us if you want to/' she said gra- 
ciously. 

"rU think about it," said Wallace. "Put on 
your bonnet and let's go for a walk." 

Mother looked a little guilty. "I ought to do 
my dishes first — ?" 

"Do them when you get back," said Wallace. 
"The sun won't last much longer." 

Mother looked again at her dishes — "Where 
were you thinking of going?" she asked slowly. 

"Oh, anywhere — Green Park, Hyde Park; 
just for a stroll, you know — come on!" 

Mother's face grew more guilty. "I kind o' 
hoped you wouldn't want to go — to the Parks — 
not to-day," she said. 

"Why not — ? Don't we always go to the 
Parks?" asked Wallace. He looked at her a lit- 
tle puzzled. 

"That's what I meant !" said Mother. 

"What — ^you — meant — ?" 

She nodded quickly. "I don't suppose you'll 



A CALL 259 

understand how it is, Wally. But it seems to 
me, if I see another one of those green chairs, or 
flower-beds, or pieces of water with ducks on 
'em, I shall go crazy!" said Mother. 

He looked at her in astonishment. "I 
thought you liked it!" he said. 

"Well — I did like it — ^just for a time or two. 
But now that I've kept on seeing it — and see- 
ing it — I'm It gets on my nerves I guess !" 

She laughed a little and righted her glasses — 
and looked at him. 

He returned the look — "I never dreamed you 
felt that way — about the Parks T he said. 

Mother's look of guilt deepened. "I know 
I hadn't ought to, Wally. ... I can see folks 
like 'em — like to go there — other folks. I can 
see people walking up and down, liking it. 
They don't look happy exactly, but I can sec 
they think they're enjoying it — the way they sit 
in the chairs and walk on the walks and drive 
round. . . . Why, nights after I get to bed, I 
shut my eyes and see 'em, Wally — driving and 
sitting — and those miles of green chairs — They 



26o THE TASTE OF APPLES 

just go round and round. ... I guess I'm not 
a round-and-round sort of person," she said 
meekly. 

Wallace laughed out. "Have it your own 
way, Mother. I won't make you sit in a green 
chair if you don't want to." 

Mother's face cleared. "Then I can do my 
dishes," she said. She began to tie on her 
apron. 

Wallace looked at her sternly. "You're try- 
ing to get out of taking exercise. You take that 
right oflF and put on your bonnet; we'll go 
somewhere — ^somewhere else — where there aren't 
any green chairs." 

Mother obeyed, beaming. . . . Anthony and 
John always let her do exactly as she pleased. 
Wallace seldom let her have her own way, and 
when he did he made her pay for it. 

She tied on her bonnet with thoughtful fin- 
gers and smoothed her hair. "You hadn't 
thought where we'd go— had you?" 

"I think we'll go and call on Miss Timber- 
lake," said Wallace. 






A CALL 261 

That's a good idea, Wally!" said Mother. 
Perhaps we'll find John !" 

Perhaps," said Wallace briefly. 

But when they had climbed the stairs to Nurse 
Timberlake's little apartment, they found her 
alone and another cup and plate across the table 
from her. 

She sprang up to welcome them. '"Come 
right in — I'll make fresh tea — — " 

"We've had tea," said Mother, " — ^and 
Wally's had his pie — two pieces." 

Nurse Timberlake laughed out, "He oug^t to 
be in good humour then — sit down." 

"We thought maybe we'd find John here," 
said Mother. 

A quick flush had come into Nurse Timber-^ 
lake's face — Wallace's eye happened to rest on 
it. 

"He said he was coming," said Mother. 

"He's been here — ^yes. But he had to go— 
in a minute." The nurse busied herself with 
the lea-things, pushing back the table and right- 
ing the room. 



262 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Wallace's eyes studied the rug. 

"Wally wanted to come," said Mother, "and 
we thought we'd do it instead of the Parks. 
We've got a little tired of the Parks — there's 
so much grass in parks ^" 

Nurse Timberlake's face looked at her, smil- 
ing. "You didn't feel that way at Thurlow — 
about the garden, did you, and the grounds?" 

"Castles are different from parks — all those 
people walking around," said Mother. "I 
can't explain how it is if you don't feel it that 
way " 

Wallace looked at her. "You're getting to be 
a snob, Mother," he said sternly, " — a regular, 
castle-visiting, tuft-hunting snob!" 

"I don't know what I've got to snob about, 
Wally," said Mother meekly. . . . "The 
Castle is human-like — anybody can see it's differ- 
ent. But the Parks. . . . It's the way I've al- 
ways thought I'd feel about heaven, maybe — ^" 
said Mother, a little guiltily — "kind of 
everybody-comfortable-and-standing-around-and- 
doing-nothing sort of place — I always knew I 



A CALL 263 

shouldn't feel at home in heaven — ^not at first. 
I like home places." 

"You'll never be a socialist," said Wallace. 

"I don't want to be a socialist," said Mother 
proudly. 

"Nurse Timberlake's one. All the nicest 
people are socialists." 

Mother looked at him — "Not in Bolton," she 
replied. "I never heard of any socialists in 
Bolton — folks are pretty comfortable there. . . . 
You ought to remember how it is in Bolton, 
Wally!" 

"I can't truthfully say I do remember any- 
thing of the kind — when I was a boy; but 
things change, you know — the world moves ^" 

"The world doesn't move in Bolton," said 
Mother firmly. There was a little rising colour 
in her face in defence of Bolton. 

"Are you coming to my show?" asked Nurse 
Timberlake quietly; she was not going to let 
Mother be bothered like this 

Wallace glanced at her. *Tfou think she 
minds," he said, nodding toward Mother's 



264 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

flushed cheeks and the litde flustered air — "She 
dotes on it — don't you, Mother?" 

**Wally understands me," said Mother, "but 
he bothers me sometimes. . . . We're coming 
to the show — all of us," she said. "Wally's 
coming " 

"If you invite me," said Wallace. 

"Oh, we invite every one — if you pay — ^Haif- 
a-crown for the best seats, and three-pence for 
the gallery! It's for the work, you know." 

"We'd better have the half-crown ones, 
Wally," said Mother significantly. 

"Quite — " said Wallace, "you take subscrip- 
tions, too, I suppose ?" 

"We're hoping for them — ^yes. Mr. Wick- 
ham has given one already." 

'Anthony !" said Mother surprised. 
'John!" said Nurse Timberlake, smiling. 

"Oh — John — of course!" said Mother. She 
beamed on the room. "How much did John 
subscribe?" she asked. 

"If it isn't a secret — '* said Wallace. 

"A himdred pounds," said Nurse. 



i€ 



i€ 



A .CALL 265 

"I'll put down two hundred," said Wallace. 

Nurse Timbcrlake flushed a little — "It isn't 
necessary, a hundred is quite enough — ** she 
said. 

"You mean you refuse subscriptions — ^for 
your work." He was looking at her quietly. 

"Sometimes — ^yes — " she hesitated a moment. 
"But give it — if you like. I really have no 
right to refuse anything — that people want to 
subscribe." She had recovered her poise, and 
was smiling at him. 

"I think we'll call it two hundred," he said. 

Mother looked at him — then she looked at 
Nurse Timberlake — and back at Wallace, a little 
puzzled light in her face — "I think you'd 
better give the same as John does, Wally — You 
both give a hundred — that's five hundred dol- 
lars, you know," she said meaningly. 

"Very well," said Wallace. "Mother says 
I'm to make it a hundred." He looked at Nurse 
Timberlake. 

"Thank you," she said. But the little colour 
had risen again in her face. 



XXXII 

MOTHER MAKES A DISCOVERY 

It was a little cool in the evening and Mother 
had lighted a fire in the grate. Anthony sat by 
it, reading the paper. Wallace, having brought 
Mother safely home from Nurse Timberlake's, 
had had supper with them and gone away. 
John had not been in all day. 

Mother was thinking about John as she fin- 
ished the last of the dishes. There was still 
daylight enough to see by at six o'clock, and 
she had not lighted the gas — ^but it was growing 
a little dusky in the room. She looked over at 
Anthony — 

"You'll spoil your eyes — ^^ she said. 

He laid down the paper and took off his 

glasses, rubbing his eyes a little. "It is getting 

dark. But the daylight lasts a long time now." 

He glanced at the window in the west. The 

a66 



MOTHER MAKES A DISCOVERY 267 

canary was hopping about in his cage, trying to 
settle down for the night. 

Mother threw a cloth over the cage, "Gro to 
sleep!" she said. She came over to the fire. 
Her face, where the light touched it, was very 
sober in its roundness. 

Anthony looked at it, bending forward a lit- 
tle in the firelight to see. He sat up, polishing 
his glasses — "Anything the matter. Mother?" 
he asked. 

"No," said Mother. She sat down opposite 
him, and got up and fussed at the fire, and sat 
down again plumply. 

"You haven't noticed anything about — 
Wally — have you. Father?" 

"About Wallace—!" 

"Yes. . . . You hadn't noticed that he's — 
that he's getting fond — of — Nurse Timber- 
lake !" 

She threw it at him — like a bomb— and 
waited, breathless. 

Anthony was silent; he had stopped polishing 
the glasses, suddenly, and was looking down at 



268 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

them ; he put them on slowly and glanced across 
through the dimness — "I guess everybody's fond 
of Nurse Timberlake," he said. 

"You know what I mean, Anthony — " Her 
tone reproached him. "We were down there — 
this afternoon ** 

"Yes." 

"Well — " she sighed a little — "there wasn't 
anything you could really put your finger 
on — ^but all of a sudden, I seemed to sense 
something — going on!" She turned to him 
sternly. 

Anthony smiled. "I don't doubt there was — 
There generally is, isn't there — with Nurse Tim- 

berlake ?" 

I don't mean that — " said Mother quickly. 
It was something special — ^before a thunder- 
storm, you know?" She leaned forward, look- 
ing at him significantly. 

"Electricity!" 

"You can call it what you want to," said 
Mother. "I'm disappointed — ^in Wally!" 

"In Wallace?" Anthony sat up, and looked 



it 
it 



MOTHER MAKES A DISCOVERY 269 

across at her. ''Wallace can't do anything 
wrong !" 

"I 'most wish you wouldn't make fun of me, 
Anthony." Her voice quavered a little — "I'm 
all upset ^' 



"Tell me about it," said Anthony gently. 
"I'd been planning her for John you know," 
said Mother. 
"Yes — and John — ^has he been planning her, 
too?" 

"How do I know, Anthony ! — I couldn't speak 

about it — to him — a thing like that !" 

"No— I suppose you couldn't. ... I hadn't 
thought John was quite so badly hit as Wal- 
lace — " he said musingly. 

"You've seen it — I" cried Mother. 
Anthony checked himself — "Well, yes — ^I'd 
noticed — one or two things — ^" he said feebly. 

"I thought I'd noticed 'em " 

Mother's voice was muffled. "I don't sec why 

you didn't tell me !" 

"I thought you saw it — Mother. There, 
there! — don't feel sol" 



270 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"I never — saw — a thing — " she sobbed. "Ex- 
cept just Wallace liking to come — ^and enjoying 
pic ... I thou^t he came to see meP^ 

Of course he did!" said Anthony promptly. 
He thinks the world and all of you — as if you 



were his Mother." 



"And John is my boy, too ! I don't see what 
Fm going to do about it — ^Anthony Wickham! 
Can they bolh marry her !" 

"I don't think they'll want to," said Anthony 
consolingly. "Don't you think you'd better 
leave it to the Lord, Mother— ^and to Nurse 
Timberlake?" he added, after a moment. 

Mother dried her eyes. "I don't believe she 
has the least idea!" she announced. 

Anthony smiled, out of his dimness — "I don't 
feel too sure. . . . Her cap is a very becoming 
one! . . . and besides you don't know how 
John feels?" 

"No," admitted Mother. "But I've always 
planned her for him — for John — ^you know — 
from the first ?" 



MOTHER MAKES A DISCOVERY 271 

"Yes, I know. . . . Isn't there something 
about Its taking two— to make a match?" 

"It's just a kind of a joke for you, Anthony! 
But Vm the Mother of one of 'em and just as 
good as the mother of the other " 

"Better!" said Anthony. 

But Mother did not heed him — "If I was sure 
about how he feels — about how John feels — 
I'd let Wallace have her!" she said magnani- 
mously. 

"He's coming — ^" said Anthony, turning to 
listen to a sound on the stairs. "You can ask 
him " 

"Anthony Wickham!" she whispered, "don't 
you dare say a word — ^not a word! • . . And 
don't you light up — ^not yet — till I've got my 
face dried off. . . ." She turned toward the 
door. "Is that you, John — come right in — we 
were talking about you — where have you been 
all day?" 

"All in the dark — aren't you!" said John. 
He came across to the fire. "I can't see a thing! 



272 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

But I judge everybody's here." He felt for a 
chair. 

"We're here," said Anthony, "and glad you've 
come. I had something to ask you " 

"Don't bother John about things. Father!" 
said Mother wamingly. 

'This won't bother," said Anthony. "It's a 
young fellow I met in the book shop to-day. He 
wants to go to America. I told him I'd ask 
Jchn what he thought " 

"It's all right to ask him that," said Mother 
graciously. 
Anthony smiled — "I thought you'd let me." 

So while the conversation took a safe turn — 
and John asked questions about the young man 
who wanted to go to America, and planned to see 
him, and agreed to help if he could — Mother re- 
tired into herself — and laid her plans to help 
Providence. • . • 

Presently she broke in — "We were down to 
Nurse Timberlake's this afternoon," she said. 
John turned a little. "I was there, too. I 
had to run away early — an engagement." 



MOTHER MAKES A DISCOVERY 273 

"She said you'd been there/* said Mother. 
She got up and lighted the gas. Then she put 
on her glasses and looked at him. 

He was talking with Anthony again. . . . 
Mother waited, and watched him, and thought 
of Wallace, and got up impatiently, knocking 
down the tongs and fire shovel. 

"Mother — what a racket for a little woman !" 
said John. He righted them and looked at 
her. 

"You hadn't ever thou^t of getting married, 
I suppose — " said Mother casually. 

He looked at her — and his eyes twinkled — 
"I might — if encouraged," he replied. 

She glanced meaningly at Anthony. "I 
shouldn't think of encouraging you — ^nor dis- 
couraging you, either. It's a risk either way — ^* 
She broke off suddenly, a little quaver in her 
voice. "I guess I'm tired. Pd better go — ^to 
bed." 

John got up and kissed her. "Good-night, 
Mother." He looked down on her, smiling. 
"Don't you worry about me, I shall have some- 



274 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

thing good to tell you — some day — if everything 
goes right," he said. 

"Oh, dear!" said Mother— "Oh, dear me! I 
can't say another word I" She darted across 
the room, and closed the door safely between 
them. 

John looked at it. "She's all upset — isn't 
she!" 

"Tired — " said Anthony. "Mother's tired — 
and things trouble her — when she's tired." 



XXXIII 

SHE QUESTIONS WALLACE 

Mother was sitting in a green chaif, looking at 
the wheels go "round and round." Wallace had 
persuaded her to come out — "You'll like it, 
Mother — come on! You're all used up. It 
will do you good." 

Mother did look tired — there was no denying 
it — ^her face was screwed in little wrinkles, and 
there was a look in her eyes — as if she saw some- 
thing coming that she hoped would not hit her. 
Sitting in her green chair, she watched the cars 
spin past and the crowd stroll along the walk — 
old men and dogs, women and boys; and Wal- 
lace watched Mother's face. 

"What's worrying you?" he said. 

"Nothing," said Mother promptly. "I'm 
feeling real good !" She told it oflF glibly, and 
Wallace looked down at her with a smile. 

"You'd better tell me — ^" he said. 

275 



276 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

She shook her head. "It's just a notion of 
yours I guess. Anthony was saying this morn- 
ing, I looked peaked — ^but I feel first-rate. . . . 
A man wants to paint my picture," she said 
complacently, " — I guess I don't look so very 
bad!" 

Wallace stared a little. "Who is it?" he 
asked. 

Mother smiled. She had been keeping it for 
a surprise for Wallace. "A man — " she said, 
" — a man I saw in the book shop yesterday." 

"Oh — ^you've been there!" Wallace did not 
care for the book shop. 

"Anthony wanted me to go," said Mother 
humbly, "and you said you couldn't come yes- 
terday; so I went." 

"Did you like it?" asked Wallace after a 
pause. 

"Pretty well,'* said Mother. *They talked 
kind o' loud and fast — all together, you know — 
and they shouted some — ^and laughed and hol- 
lered — ^but they acted as if they had a good 
time — all of 'em. I sat on a stool — ^for a 



SHE QUESTIONS WALLACE 277 

while, a high one, nobody seenled to notice much 

of anything, one way or the other ; and then Mr. 

Boyden — the man that laughs, you know?" 

She looked at him. 

Wallace nodded. "Yes, I know/* 

" — ^He saw where I was — and he just laughed 

out — hard — and made me sit in his chair . . . 

my feet didn't touch on the stool — ^not anywhere 



near '^ 



tit 



W course not," said Wallace — "I don't 
think it's a very good place for you to go," he 
•kdded after a minute. 

"Anthony likes it," said Mother. "He says 
they have ideas. . . . This man that wants to 
paint my picture — ^he didn't talk so much as the 
rest. He just sort of sat forward, looking — 
And when we got up to come away he asked An- 
thony if he supposed I'd let him do me." 
There was pride in Mother's voice. She was 
gazing uncritically at the crowd moving along 
the walk in front of them. 

Wallace glanced down at her. He would 
look up this fellow who wanted to paint Mother. 



278 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

It was all very well for Wallace to make fun 
of her and enjoy her quaintnesses — ^but if any 
painter in a book shop thought he was going to 
hold her up to ridicule, he would find he had 
Wallace Tilton to deal with, . . . **What is 
his name?" he asked. 

She looked up at him from her crowd — be- 
wildered. ... ''I was just noticing about 
their hats — ^They're queer — some of them '* 

"They truly are!" said Wallace. "What 
was his name — this artist you spoke of?" 

Mother brightened. "They called him — 
Cameron," she said. 

"Never heard of him," said Wallace. 

"He's Scotch, I guess," said Mother. "He 
told Anthony I made him think of his mother — 
in Scotland." 

Wallace's face softened a little. "Well — 
he's all right probably." 

"You think he'll do a good likeness of me?" 
said Mother anxiously. 

"Probably — if you made him think of his 
mother. It's worth trying anyway." 



SHE QUESTIONS WALLACE 279 

« 

"I thought I'd like to have him try — '' said 
Mother. "Nobody ever wanted to do me be- 
fore — and we've never had a real good photog- 
rapher in Bolton. ... I had one likeness taken 
— ^but Anthony didn't like iL . . . The man 
rubbed out the wrinkles — I told him to do it — ^" 
said Mother a little guiltily. "I thou^t I 
should like it, maybe — ^but I didn't. It didn't 
look natural somehow ^" 

"Of course not," said Wallace. "Yon — 
without your wrinkles!" He smiled down at 
her affectionately, and the wrinkles smoothed 
themselves softly, one by one, leaving little lines 
of kindliness and shrewd trust. 

She tumed them on the crowd. "I'm getting 
to like folks — a little," she said. "But it isn't 
like Bolton." 

"Not in the least like Bolton!" said Wally. 
"But you'll like it first-rate in time— Sec if you 
don't." 

She tumed hopefully. '1 don't suppose joa 
ever felt — the way I do about it!" 

He smiled a little. "I don't know that I can 



28o THE TASTE OF APPLES 

say that. . . . The first year I was so home- 
sick I would have given all my old shoes, to go 
back — and the second year I had a kind of mel- 
ancholy resignation " 



* 'That's what mine is, I think- 



>> 



"Perhaps—" Wallace smiled. "And the 
third year I caught on " 

"You caught what?" 

"Caught on — ^understood people — ^how they 
were feeling down inside, you know. And now 
you couldn't hire me to go back — It's a big 
place," he added, smiling down at her. 

"That's what I keep feeling — all the time — " 
said Mother swiftly, " — that it's big. I'm like 
a kind of little leaf blowing. around in it. . . . 
Maybe I might 'catch on' to something — the 
way you did — if we stayed long enough — but 
we shan't — " she said hopefully, . . . "it's only 
a month now!" She beamed on him. 

"I shall miss you terribly," said Wallace. 
"You hadn't thought of that, I suppose?" 

"Yes — ^you'll miss us. . . . How did you 
do before we came over?" inquired Mother. 



SHE QUESTIONS WALLACE 281 

"I existed — that's all — ^just barely existed." 
He did not think it necessary to give her all the 
details of existence before she "came over." 
Looking back on it now it seemed curiously 
futile. . . . Well — ^he was done with that — 
thanks to Mother — and pie! Wallace was not 
without a sense of humour about the pies and the 
part they had played in his regeneration. 

"You'd better go back home with us," said 
Mother. She was looking at him affectionately. 

"I couldn't be hired to go back — anywhere!" 
replied Wallace. "And this is home now." 
He waited a minute— "I shall probably marry 
and settle down here," he said slowly. 

Mother jumped — nearly out of her green 
chair. "When are you going to get married?" 
she asked. 

"Sometime — I — ^hopc," said Wallace. 

"Not to anybody in particular?" she beamed 
diplomatically. 

"Not to anybody — ^in particular," assented 
Wallace. "Not yet — " He had turned in his 
chair and was watching the crowd — a litde smile 



282 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

played on his lip. . . . The shadows from the 
tree overhead fell on his face and flecked his 
grey coat. Mother, looking up at him, had a 
little sudden pang; he had always been a good- 
looking boy — and he was two inches taller 
than John. She sighed softly and looked back 
at the whirling crowd. 

"I suppose if you married — ^an English 
woman, you'd have to stay over here any- 
way ?" 

He dropped an eye on her. **Not if I wanted 
to go back,'* he said comfortably, " — but I 
don't." He settled himself more firmly in his 
green chair. 

"She mi^t not like to leave her castle," said 
Mother thoughtfully. 

"Her castle!" He opened his eyes at her 
and lauded. "You think everybody lives in 
castles — since you've been to Thurlow!" He 
said it mockingly. 

'Swne of the nicest ones do," said Mother. 

^This one doesn't. She is poor — works 
for her living." He said it with quiet satis- 



<« 



€€' 



SHE QUESTIONS WALLACE 283 

faction. "I can give her more money in a year 
than she has had — ^in her whole life!" He 
laughed a little — and turned and looked down 
on her out of happy eyes. 

Mother's mouth opened — ^and shut; she looked 
at him helplessly. Slowly a look came into her 
face — a deep, guileless look. . • . "You 
wouldn't want to marry a rich wife, would you, 
Wally — ^not one with a castle?" 

"I should notr said Wallace. He said it 
with emphasis. 

And Mother smiled — the round, motherly 
anile that took in Wallace and the crowd and 
the motor-cars that went whizzing by beyond. 
*Tm glad you feel that way about it, Wallace. 
I might have known you would," said Mother. 
"You always did like your own way!" 



XXXIV 



AN» LOSES HER CAP 



"I'll put en my cap/' said Mother. 

The artist meved back a little, looking at her 
— "I was thinking of doing you in your bonnet 
and mantle," he said — "the way I saw you — ^thc 
other day." 

"Pd rather be taken in my cap,*' said Mother 
promptly. "Wallace brought it for me." She 
held out her hand to Wallace for her cap-box. 

The artist watched the movement and turned 
toward his easel. 

"You've got a looking-glass somewhere — ?'* 

said Mother, looking about her. The studio was 

singularly bare — grey walls, a great screen, three 

or four chairs, a little table and canvases stacked 

against the wall or standing propped against 

chairs. "I don't see any glass," said Mother, a 

little disappointment in her voice. "But I can 

284 



AND LOSES HER CAP 285 

do without it, all right, I guess — ^Wallace will 
tell me — " She began to untie her bonnet 
strings slowly. 

The artist was still looking at the bonnet — 
"You don't think you would like to keep it on?'' 
he suggested again. 

She shook her head at him firmly. "I look 
better in my cap," she said. 

He turned away. "There is a looking-glass 
behind the screen." He pushed his easel a lit- 
tle under the light and wheeled the model stand 
in place. 

Mother disappeared behind the screen. Cam- 
eron looked toward Wallace, who was standing 
where Mother had left him, looking about the 
high, bleak room. 

"Sit down, won't you?" he said. "I'm fright- 
fully disappointed, you know — I'd got an idea 
of how to do her — and there wasn't any cap in 
it." He smiled a little. 

"I wanted to speak to you about the picture," 
said Wallace. He had not seated himself. He 
was standing with his hand on the chair, look- 



286 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

ing at the artist. "I should like it to be my 
property when it is done." 

The artist stirred a little and looked at him. 
'That's very kind," he said. "But I — ^I want 
to exhibit, you — ^know ** 

Wallace returned the look. '^We can decide 
about that when the picture is done," he said. 

"Fve an idea I can do something pretty good 
with it," said the artist. "I seemed to see it, 
the other day — ^I felt like a boy !" 

Wallace sat down. 'Tfou don't mind my 
staying?" 

"Not in the least — ^Make yourself at home.'* 

"Now, where do you want me to sit?" said 
Mother. She had appeared around the comer 
of the screen in all the radiance of her cap. 

The artist looked at her Slowly a smile 

* 

came to his face. He motioned toward the 
model stand. 

"Up there — on that thing!" said Mother. 
"Mercy !" 

She mounted it and unrolled her work. "I 
brought my knitting," she said. "I can knit 



AND LOSES HER CAP 287 

without looking on, and I like to be doing. . . . 
Am I all right?" 

"First-rate," replied the artist absently. He 
was walking about the stand, looking at her. 
"I shall have to set a new palette — *^ he said 
slowly. "I had one ready. But the cap 
changes the key — ^" He went back to his easel. 

Mother looked at Wallace helplessly. 
"There isn't anything wrong with it — is there, 
Wally?" she whispered, putting up a hand. 

"Your cap's all ri^t. Mother— don't 
worry !" 

The wrinkles smoothed themselves and 
Mother's needles moved swiftly, — happy, dart- 
ing, twinkling lines of rhythm. The artist 
mixed his colours and watched the needles and 
watched the face. Wallace was talking to 
Mother, chaffing her, and the face looking down 
at the needles was shrewd and happy. The 
artist drew a line or two on the edge of his can- 
vas. 

Mother's quick eye caught the movement and 
a stone curtain dropped upon her. The happy 



288 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

face became a blank — every wrinkle in it a 
stiff, hopeless ridge. "He's beginning, Wally," 
she said swiftly, "don't interrupt!" Her ex- 
pression set itself firmly ahead. 

The artist dropped his brush — "You can talk, 
you know — ^all you want to," he said a little 
desperately. 

"I'd rather not talk — ^while I'm being taken," 
said Mother. "I can't keep my expression." 

The artist said nothing. He went on mixing 
a palette, a little grim smile on his face. 

"You're not doing me now, are you?" said 
Mother. 

"No— I'm not doing you — I'm getting my 
palette ready." 

The stony look relaxed and Mother was look- 
ing down at her knitting again with the little 
shrewd, homely smile. . . . The artist moved 
swiftly across the room and placed another can- 
vas on an easel, a little to the right, and drew 
a few quick strokes. His face held a kind of 
stem light. 

Wallace Tilton watched him, smiling. 



AND LOSES HER CAP 289 

Mother knitted on, serene. Presently she looked 
up. "It takes a good while to get ready, doesn't 
it?** she said. She was finishing off a needle 
with a little flourish of fingers, and she set it 
anew and looked over her glasses at Wallace, the 
fingers flying nimbly of themselves. 

The artist came back, guiltily, to his first 
easel. "Fm nearly ready," he said. He stood 
off and looked at her, and drew a long, slow 
line. 

"You tell me when you're going to begin — ?'* 
said Mother. 

"Yes." 

"I've always noticed that, about painting,'* 
she said placidly, "when we've been having the 

kitchen done It seemed as if they'd never get 

the colour right — ^fix and fuss half a day on it. 
The other rooms we always had done white, and 
they'd always get along fast enou^ on them." 

The painter stole back to the other easel and 
put in a few stealthy lines while Mother ram- 
bled on. 

So the two canvases went on — side by side—' 



290 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

one a little, old lady with her head a trifle bent, 
looking down at her knitting — ^Mother of all the 
world, thinking of her children; the other, a 
very prim old lady — who never had a wicked or 
unvirtuous thought in her life — ^looking with 
fixed smile into the cannon's mouth. 

"It looks earnest, doesn't it," said Mother* 
She had climbed down from the model stand 
and was standing, surveying it doubtfully. 

Wallace stood beside her, looking on and 
smiling a little. 

"You think it looks like me, Wally?" she 
asked. She was peering at the rigid face. 

"It isn't done yet — you know," said Wallace* 
He did not let his glance stray to the other easel. 
It was only when Mother had disappeared be- 
hind the screen, to put on her bonnet, that he 
walked over to it and stood looking down at it — 
with something between a laugh and a little 
quick clutch at his throat. • . . The artist, 
cleaning brushes across the room, nodded slowly 
and came over. "It's going to be all right — 
you think?" 



AND LOSES HER CAP 291 

Wallace glanced at him. "You could never 
do any better — ^not even with a bonnet on," he 
said. 

The artist's face fell. "I did want that bon- 
net." 

The bonnet reappeared. Mother bore her 
cap-box carefully in her hand. ""I'm thinking 
of leaving it here — if it will be safe *' 

"Perfectly safe," said the artist. "We'll put 
it up here — " He placed it on a high shelf 
and Mother looked at it with satisfaction. '1 
didn't want anything to happen to it," she 
said. 

Just what did happen to it could never be 
rightly explained. But when Mother and An- 
thony appeared, the next morning, it had dis- 
appeared. The artist could not find it — there 
were so few places to look in the bare studio— 
and at last Mother was persuaded to moimt the 
model-stand in bonnet and mantle. "It's my 
best one!" she said softly. She undid the 
mantle a little — ^fluffing out the feather edge 
and pulling the ribbon bows in place beneath 



igi THE TASTE OF APPLES 

her ciuxL '^Do I lock all rigftf, Axxduoj^ die 



'^och as osnal, Mocfacr," said Antboaj. 
M C2ik unog tnj Sfcond-bcat C2p tiMDorro'Vy'' 
she said, ^ — and I shall cake it home widi me — 
it's lockj I hare twa" 

No one said anything and die artist worked 
swifdj. It bchooTcd him to make h^ while the 
son was shining^ 'Hliis b only a roi^ sketch, 
yoa know/' he said casually, stepping back to 
look. 

Modier's face relaxed — die litde wrinkles 
rested diemselrcs and beamed. '1 don't need 
to be so pardcolar how I look, dien T^ 

'Don't be pardcolar at all," murmured the 
artist. 

A kind of rapture held his face — diere would 
be other sittings — but to-day he must catdi the 
note of life diat would fill them all and make 
diem live. • • • 



XXXV 



HER PORTRAIT 



It was partly John's plan, and partly Cam- 
eron's — to include Anthony in the picture. The 
artist's first thought when John spoke to him 
about doing a portrait of his father, had been 
that he would paint Anthony alone — a compan- 
ion piece to the "Lady in a Bonnet." But as he 
saw Anthony and Mother together, day after 
day in the studio, they came gradually in his 
mind into the compass of one frame — ^with only 
the little table and a bowl of yellow nasturtiums 
between them. ... In the end, this was the 
picture that went to the exhibition, and won for 
Cameron a place in the world of artists. . . , 
The wrinkles in Mother's face, and the soul look- 
ing out — and the bonnet — were irresistible. An- 
thony was hardly more than a shadow, a mere 
sketch, at the left of the picture — ^yet needed 

somehow, subtly, to complete its meaning. 
As the work went on. Mother forgot to be 

^3 



294 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

anxious. She even forgot to pose, and there was 
a comfortable understanding between her and the 
artist that this was a trial sketch — a rough thing, 
so to speak; the real work would begin when 
she donned her cap. 

The studio grew to be a friendly meeting 
place. Wallace, coming in one day to escort 
Mother home, found Nurse Timberlakc sitting 
looking at the portrait. 

"She likes it, Wally!" annoimced Mother. 

He shook hands with Nurse Timberlake 
gravely. "Very good, isn't it?" He nodded 
toward the portrait. 

"You don't think Mr. Wickham is a little 
obscured?" she asked, looking thoughtfully to- 
ward it. 

"No more than usual," laughed Wallace. 
"And I suspect — ^" he looked again at the por- 
trait — "I suspect that, as time goes on, he will 
come to seem all right — and in place. . . . 
There's something about him — in his shadow in 
the background there — that keeps you wonder- 
ing." 



HER PORTRAIT 295 

"Of course," said Nurse Timberlake. 

Wallace smiled a little. ''Not so much of 
course — ^unless you happen to be an artist, like 
Cameron." 

"He has caught the spirit ^" 

Mother, from her model-stand, looked down 
on them. "I can't hear what you're saying- 
very well — ^" she said — "unless you speak 
louder." 

Nurse Timberlake came over to the stand. 
"We were saying it is going to be a good por- 
trait." She nodded toward it. 

Anthony's in it, you see?" said Mother. 
Yes — ^We were just saying it is going to be 
capital, of him." 

"I want his legs stouter," said Mother, look- 
ing at it. "I've told Mr. Cameron about his 
legs. Anthony's legs are thin ; but there's enough 
to 'em to stand on! — Did you see John?" 

The nurse turned a puzzled face — 
"John ?" 

"I sent him to you on an errand — ^to your 
rooms," said Mother. 



tt 



tc 



296 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"Oh — I haven't been there all day." 

"He can go again to-morrow — ^You'll be there 
to-morrow, I suppose?" 

Nurse Timberlake shook her head. "Fm go- 
ing to be away all day." 

^We shan't be here much longer," replied 
Mother. 

Nurse Timberlake turned an amused face on 
her — "What was the errand?" she asked. 

The studio door opened — "There he is now !" 
said Mother. 

He came over and shook hands, smiling at the 
group around the stand — "Just the place for 
you, Mother — on your throne." He moved over 
to the portrait. 

"I want to see you a minute, John," said 
Mother mysteriously. 

"All right. Mother — when you descend " 

"She's through for to-day," said the artist. 
*Too much chatter to work in." He moved the 
easel to one side. 

Mother descended from her throne, and beck- 
oned to John and they disappeared behind the 



HER PORTRAIT 297 

screen. The artist carried his brushes across the 
room. 

Nurse Timberlake began to put on her gloves. 
Wallace watched her a minute. "Are you go- 
ing right home?" he asked. 

"Yes." She was buttoning them slowly. 

"I'll walk with you if I may " 

"Didn't you come for 'Mother*?" she asked. 

"John will take Mother," said Wallace de- 
cisively. 

She appeared from behind her screen. "I 
wanted the pattem for my cap," she said, "the 
one you promised — ^" She was looking at Nurse 
Timberlake. 

The nurse stood up. "Fll send it to-night. 
Good-bye, I must run on now — ^" She held out 
her hand. 

"John will bring it," said Mother. "He's 
going along with you — ^to bring it" Nurse 
Timberlake's face had flushed a little — ^its easy 
flush. Wallace was looking at her. John, who 
had been speaking with the artist, came across — 
"All ready?" he asked. 



298 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

There was a little minute's silence. 

"John's ready," suggested Mother. 

"Pm going with Miss Timberlake," said Wal- 
lace. "PU bring your cap-pattem. Mother." 
He did not exactly escort Nurse Timberlake 
from the room; but it certainly would not have 
been easy for any one else to come between him 
and his purpose. . • • 

Mother looked after them, with a little mur- 
mur of disappointment. 'Wallace is so 
ouick — !" she said. 

"That's why you like him — ^isn't it, Mother?" 

She cast a swift look at John. She did not 
want John to be unhappy. "I like Wallace 
well enough. . . . But he doesn't know every- 
thing!" 

John laughed out. '1 have an idea he knows 
what he wants," he said easily. 

Mother looked at him again and she looked 
at the portrait — where she sat, erect and com- 
petent, in her bonnet — and at Anthony, in his 
shadowy comer. Then she looked again at 
John — "I don't believe you'll ever get mar- 



HER PORTRAIT 299 

ried!'* she said — "you're too much like him!" 
She nodded toward the portrait. 

John smiled a little. "Father got married — " 
he said, looking at it affectionately. 

"Yes-s. . . . He married me ^^ 

'1 wish I could do half as well," said John. 

The comers of her mouth smiled a little 



John watched them. "Shall I tell you some- 
thing, Mother?" 

She turned her face on him, a little afraid 
and hopeful — "It's a discovery I've made," said 
John. 

"Yes — V* She glanced hastily at the art- 
ist — ^he was busy with brushes. 

"It's about women," said John. "Some- 
thing I've foimd out — ^if you want them to like 
you, don't be too eager. Isn't that so — ?" He 
was watching her, smiling. "Isn't that 
so ?" 

"Yes, it's so." Mother's face lightened a lit- 
tle. "But I don't know how you found it 
out — " Then she sighed. 

"I've lived with you^ Mother and — " he hcs- 



300 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

itated. * 'Never mind! Pve found it out . . . 
and Pm not being too eager. But some day we 
shall see — !" He laughed happily. 

Mother's eyes rested on him, full of love — 
and a little pity. **You come home to supper 
with me," she said. "Pve got a new apple-pie 
for supper — and you can be just as eager with 
pie as you want 



>9 



XXXVI 

Wallace's secret 

Wallace came up the seventy-three steps, two 
at a time — barely stopping for an answer to his 
quick knock. Mother looked up— she was put- 
ting tea in the pot and she set it down, quickly. 
"John's gone," she said. 

"Has he? Pm sorry. I thought I might 
catch him." He walked over by the bird- 
cage and stood looking out across the roofs. His 
face beamed on tiles four hundred years old. 
He wheeled about and smiled at her — "Fvc got 
good news!" he said. 

The tea-pot in Mother's hand gave a little 
quick twist. She set it down again on the 
table— "Sit down, Wallace " 

He moved across the room — *1 can't sit 

down, Mother — I'm too happy! She is the 

nicest little thing — isn't she !" 

301 



302 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Mother's face stared — then it beamed — 
"Sit down, Wallace, and tell me all about her!'' 
she said. 

Wallace laughed out — 'There's nothing to 
tell you about her — that you don't know." 

"You mean — ?" Mother's wrinkles were 
bent on him. 

He nodded. "On the way home — I took my 
chance — m a 'bus; awful jam— drivers shout- 
ing and tooting. • • . Nothing very romantic 
about that, I can tell you !" He laughed again. 

Mother poured out a cup of tea and handed it 
to him ; her hand was shaking a little. 

Wallace stopped suddenly and looked at her 
— "You're not half as pleased as I thought you'd 
be," he said. 

"I'm kind of excited about it, Wally — and — 
and surprised," she said swiftly. 

"Surprised! I thought everybody knew. 
She wasn't surprised." He chuckled a little. 
"She said I'd been deliberate enough about it — 
You knew, didn't you?" He turned to look at 
her. 



WALLACE'S SECRET 303 

"Knew — ?" faltered Mother. Her glasses 
were blinking softly at him. 

"Knew that I was bowled over — done 
up !" 

"Oh, yes — I knew thatr 

"Well, that's what I meant." Wallace took 
up his pie happily. 

"I didn't know just how she'd feel about it," 
said Mother. "You can't always tell about 
women — ^how they feel." 

"You're right — ^you can't !" laughed Wallace. 
"I'd have spoken mcmths agp if I'd known !" 

"That was before John came," said Mother 
quickly. 

" — ^The first day I saw her!" assented Wal- 
lace — ^Then he stopped and flashed a look at 
her. "You're not worrying about him — ?" he 
said. 

Mother's face grew red. "I don't know 
what you're talking about, Wally." 

Wallace's eyes studied the face — "I'd forgot- 
ten about that," he said softly. 

Mother's figure grew very dignified in its 



304 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

plumpness. "I've never seen any one that I 
thought would do for John!" she said 

"My-my!'* said Wallace. Then the teaang 
tone dropped. "You know I wouldn't cut in 
ahead of John — if I knew.*' 

Mother's look was mollified. "John is very 
particular!" she replied. 

Wallace smiled. "Only the best for John," 
he assented. "But my little girl will do for 
me!" 

Mother's glance rested on him. "I don't sec 
why you call her little, Wally — she's bigger 
than me !" 

Wallace smiled at her. But Mother took no 
heed. " — ^I thou^t for a minute you must 
mean somebody else when you called her a lit- 
tle thing." 

"She is little," asserted Wallace. "—A nice 
little thing! And rm her protector!" — he 
touched his chest largely. **I am the big man — 
that's the way a man feels about his wife. 
Mother; he wants to take care of her and pro- 
tect her — and provide for her ^" 



WALLACES SECIVET 305 

Mother jumped a little. She got up and 
fussed with the tea things and sat down. "Will 
she want to come and live with you, Wally— do 
you suppose?" 

Wallace stared. ^'Why shouldn't she want 
to live with me?" 

"Of course she'll live with you — yes. I only 
thought — I wondered — maybe she won't want 
to give up——" 

"Give up nursing?" Wallace laughed out. 
"I don't think there will be any trouble about 
that. Of course she will have her charity — 
and her allowance — ^I shall see that she has an 
allowance, a good one, for charity." Wallace's 
face was full of comfortable assurance. 

Mother stole a look at it — and looked in her 
teacup — and smiled. "You'll have a good 
many things to learn, won't you, Wally?" she 
said quietly. 

"That's the nice part of it," said Wallace. 
He leaned toward her. "I can't tell you. 
Mother, how it makes me feel — to have some 
one to take care of — and I never should have 



3o6 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

known if it hadn't been for you." He was look- 
ing at her. 

Mother's eyes blinked. "I know you'll be 
good to her, Wally. . . . And I wouldn't be 
too much disappointed — ^if I was you — ^if you 
can't do everything for her." 

"It won't be my fault if I can't," said Wal- 
lace. 

*T know that, Wallace," said Mother. 
**You've been real good to me — ^you couldn't 
have been better if you'd been my own — Oh^ 
dear me!" said Mother, and suddenly she was 
rocking and sobbing a little. . . . And Wal- 
lace comforted her, smiling down at her round- 
ness and wrinkles and tears. 




XXXVII 

ANTHONY GOES WITH HIS FRIEND 

"You*D better wear your second-best one," she 
said. 

Anthony looked at his second-best coat and 
hung it up again on its nail. '1 think T\\ call 
this my second-best," he said, looking down at 
the one he had on and smoothing it a little. 

Mother examined it critically, through her 
glasses. "It seems extravagant," she said, 
"and it looks like rain — ^but, of course, he's a 
Lord. . . . You'll have to buy a new one, for 
best, if you take to wearing this one common." 

"Yes." 

"It will cost twenty-five dollars," said 
Mother. 

Anthony finished tying his necktie. "I think 
John likes to do things for us. Mother," he said 

slowly. ^'We mustn't disgrace John ^" 

**You couldn't disgrace anybody, Anthwiy — 

307 



3o8 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

no matter what you wore," said Mother stoutly. 
She was looking at him thiou^ her round, 
proud spectacles. 

''I didn't mean disgrace exactly. Mother. 
I think the boy likes to do it for us *' 

''Of course he does," said Mother. Sie 
sighed a little — ''and we mig^t as well let him 
— it's the only comfort he's got now ^" 

Anthony made no reply. They had gone 
over the whole thing the nig^t before, after he 
came in, sitting up till nearly twelve o'clock. 
They had gone over everything from the be- 
ginning — the kind of socks John wore when he 
was a baby — and John at play and John at 
school — and Mother had wept softly, and An- 
thony had comforted her the best he could. 
He could not, somehow, quite fancy that 
John's life was entirely blighted — there must 
still be comfort in life for a man with John's 
appetite. But Mother had found no solace in 
John's appetite. "I've never seen anybody I'd 
want him to marry, before," she had said, weep- 
ing a little. 



ANTHONY GOES 309 

"Pve never felt so sure that John wanted 
to," said Anthony. His tone was thoughtful. 
He had come, in these days in London, to have 
a new sense of his scm — z sense of a quiet, mas- 
terful force that took what it wanted without 
hurry and without doubt. "I think if John had 
wanted her, he would have had her," he said. 

But Mother set it aside uncomforted. "Men 
don't know everything — ^Men don't know what 
they want," she had replied. And it proved to 
be the last word spoken. 

She surveyed him now with tolerant eyes, 
tuming him about, brushing off invisible specks. 
"You'll want to take your umbrella," she said, 
"and don't stay too long — talking. You'll 
have plenty of chances to talk — ^about every- 
thing there is to talk about." 

There was a knock at the door, and Mother 
opened it and came back. "It's a telegram," 
she said. She held it out stiffly to Anthony and 
waited. She had never got used to telegrams 
— though Wallace had tried faithfully to train 
her, sending her three in one day to get her ac- 



310 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

customed to the uniformed, monkey-capped boy 
and the brown envelope. 

Anthony opened it slowly and laid it down« 
and groped a little for something. She put his 
umbrella in his hand. '"What does it say?" she 
asked. 

"It's — an accident," said Anthony. He 
gathered up the paper and put it in his pocket. 
"It's lucky I was going — they want me ^" 

"Is it — the Lord?" asked Mother. 

"Yes." His fingers reached blindly to some- 
thing. 

"You've got your umbrella — here," said 
Mother. "Now don't you go to getting upset» 
Anthony." She looked at him. . . . "You 
don't think I'd better go with you?" 

"No." He bent and kissed her and went out. 
The paper in his pocket had told him more than 
he revealed to Mother — and Anthony went fast. 

The heavy door opened to him, before he 
touched it. 

"This way, sir," said the man. "We have 
muffled the bell. . . ." 



ANTHONY GOES 311 

There was no sound in the great house. The 
sun poured down through the staircase window 
and lay in spots on the stairs and rug. ... 'If 
you will wait here a minute Miss Timberlsdce 
will see you," said the man. 

She came in quietly without her nursing cap 
and apron. "We came this morning — Sister 
and I. They sent us word — ^yes. The accident 
was yesterday — coming down from Thurlow. 
No one knows — ^it does not matter how it hap- 
pened — ^now. . . . He is not suflFering — ^no. 
They have given him something. . . ." She 
led the way up the stairs to a door and opened 
it softly. 

"Mr. Wickham has come, Cousin Thurlow," 
she said, bending over him. 

And the man put out a hand and groped — 
"Sit down," he said. 

The nurse moved a little away. Lord 
Raleigh pushed up the bandage from his eyes. 
"I can't see very well," he said. "They have 
done me up— Sit down." 

There was silence in the room. Anthony 



312 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

waited quiedy. Presendy the man spoke — "It . 
was my machine — ** he said, "I — ^always knew 
— it would— end me." He smiled, under the 
bandage. "We talked about that '* 

"WeVe talked about a great many things," 
said Anthony. He was going with the man — 
through the portal, along an unknown road. 
They both knew. There was nothing to say. 
But Anthony would go with him — to the 
Gate. . . . "Fm glad youVe come," he said, 
and dozed a little, with the drug, and woke and 
spoke to the nurse and she moved to him quickly. 

"Take it oflF," he said — he put up a hand — 
"It doesn't matter now." 

The nurse removed the bandage with deft 
fingers, and the face lay against the pillow — a 
carved face, touched with the coming immortal 
look. 

Anthony's eyes rested on it, and the eyes 
looked out at him — and went down — down — 
and flickered, and the nurse pressed her hand 
upon them. She looked at Anthony and he 
stood up— groping. . . . The man who un- 
derstood him was not there now. 



XXXVIII 

A CABLE AND APPLE-PIE FOR JOHN 

John came in, and looked at Mother doubtfully, 
and crossed the room. Mother seemed not to 
notice. She went on with her baking. She 
was very considerate of John, these days. He 
opened his lips, and moved about a little and 
seemed about to say something, and changed his 
mind. 

"I met Miss Timberlake on the stairs as I 
came up," he said at last. 

I wondered if you'd meet her," said Mother. 
She was here quite a spell." 

She's going back to Thurlow, she sajrS ?" 

"Yes — " Mother waited. "Do you think 
Wallace knows yet?" she asked. 

"He doesn't guess," said John. "He thinks 

she went to Thurlow and to the funeral as a 

nurse or something." 

Mother smiled. "I've 'most thou^t perhaps 

313 



it 



314 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

he'd break it off — when he knows — *' She was 
watching John — ^but he seemed unmoved. 

"Wally is not a fool," he said. 

"He isn't a fool exactly," said Mother. 

"But he would hate — terribly — ^to marry a rich 
wife." 

"There's no disgrace in a rich wife — ^if you 

love her," said John quickly. 

"I didn't mean anything in particular, John," 
said Mother — soothingly. "But Wally's al- 
ways said it's the one thing he wouldn't do- 
he told me, one day, he wouldn't ever be a post- 
script to a rich wife — and he'll hate it terribly. 
And I don't blame him — I shouldn't want you 
to marry any one that was too important." She 
looked at him affectionately and pityingly. 

John returned the look — ^and opened his mouth 
and shut it, and went and stood by the window 
with his back to the room. . . . "There's 
something I've been thinking about, Mother," he 
said slowly. 

Mother was half-way into her kitchen — she 
looked back hastily — "Wait a minute, John, till 



A CABLE AND APPLE-PIE 315 

I take out my pie." She came back presently 
with a flushed face. "It 'most burned," she 
said. 

"Should you mind going home, Mother?" 
said John abruptly. He had faced about and 
was looking at her. 

"Right off?" said Mother. 

"Within a week or so " 

She beamed on him. She looked about the 
little room — "I could be ready to-morrow !" she 
said. 

"You wouldn't mind?" asked Jdm. 

"Mind !" said Mother. She looked about the 
room again — almost as if it were a secret, and 
London might not let her off. 

"I should love to go !" she said. She drew a 
long breath. "I'll go now and begin to pack 
up; but the washing won't be back — ^not till to- 
morrow." 

John laughed. "There's no such a hurry, 
you know. I have to wait — ^for a cable ^" 

"Is it business?" she asked. 

"Yes-s — a kind of business. I can't tell you 



3i6 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

yet. Mother. ... I only thou^t I'd sec how 
you felt — if I should have to gp." 

"You needn't think about me, John — nor 
about your father. I'll be glad to get him away. 
He hasn't been the same ^" 



"No— I know. But you don't need to go 
back. You and he could go cm to the Conti- 
nent " 

"Alone!" said Mother. 

'Tfou could have a courier ** 

*1 don't want it — ^" said Mother. "I don't 
know just what a courier is — but I dcm't want 
it, anyway — ^I'd rather go home ^" 

^'Well, you shall go— if I do," said John. 
He took up his hat. "I'll look in later and tell 
you." And he was gone. 

Mother disappeared into the bedroom and got 
down on her knees and pulled out trunks and 
boxes and began packing — a round, tremulous 
smile on her face. 

Anthony came and found her there, and looked 
quietly down at the confusion. "Cleaning 
house?" he asked. 



A CABLE AND APPLE-PIE 317 

Mother looked up and blinked. "We're go- 
ing home, Anthony!" The canary in his win- 
dow heard it and trilled a little. 

Anthony smiled. "I hadn't heard about it,'* 
he said. 

She got up from her knees, dusting them off 
softly. 'Tfou want your dinner, don't you? I 
declare, I forgot it!" She bustled out into the 
other room, hurrying happily back and forth. 

"It 'most makes me cry — I'm so happy !" she 
said. "I did cry a little — rafter John went^ 
But it hindered the packing *' 

"John's been here, has he?" said Anthony. 

"He came in — ^all worked up— and fussed 
and fidgeted; and finally he got it out — that 
he wants to go home. I told him I'd go to 
morrow!" Mother beamed. 

"What's happened?" said Anthony. 

Mother looked at him. ... "I guess we 
know what's happened, Anthony." 

"Do we?" Anthony returned the look, puz- 
zled. 

Mother nodded with deep significance. 



3i8 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"He told you, then?" said Anthony. 

"I didn't need any telling," said Mother. 
''He said it was business, and he'd have a cable 
to-day — ^but 1 knew well enough what he meant 
by a cable! John's heart is broke! — that's 
what's happened !" 

"Why — Mother!" Anthony smiled a little 
and took his cup and stirred it thought- 
fully — "You think John is numing off home be- 



cause ^" 



tc 



'You don't need to say it that way, Anthony! 
Of course, he'll go in a boat! You say 'run- 
ning off home' — ^just as if " 

"Just as if he was a coward!" said Anthony 
quietly. 

"Well — something like that. It makes him 
sound ridiculous!" said Mother sternly. 

"John won't be ridiculous," said Anthony. 

"That's what I meant !" said Mother. "You 
don't need to tell me that John Wickham won't 
be ridiculous — ^He's coming now !" 

The door opened and John came in. He was 
smiling. He came across and kissed his mother 



A CABLE AND APPLE-PIE 319 

and sat down. "Just in time for lunch ! — ^Any- 
thing left?" 

Anthony passed him a plate and Mother went 
into her kitchen. She came back laden with 
good things. 

Anthony looked at them quietly. "It pays 
to come late/' he said. 

"I thought maybe John would be here — or 
Wally," said Mother. She set down the good 
things in front of him — ^her face round with 
questions, but in silence. John helped himself. 

"You're ready to go, I suppose," he said cas- 
ually. 

Mother looked up— "I've begun to pack," she 
said. 

"Everything in but her toothbrush," said An- 
thony. 

"Did — ^your cable — come?" asked Mother 
innocently. She had a warning eye on An- 
thony. 

"Yes." There was silence in the room — and 
the canary cocked his eye at the silent table, 
singing hard. . . . 



320 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

John took a bit of paper from his pocket and 
handed it across to Mother. 

She looked — and her fingers fussed at it, and 
then she looked at him — ^and at Anthony, sig- 
nificantly. . . . "It just says *Yes.' I sup- 
pose that means we'll go?" she said slowly. 

"It means we'll go," said John. He lauded 
out, looking at her. "It means you'll have a 
new daughter, Mother!" 

The canary trilled a whole roulade, filling the 
notes with light • • . and Mother looked at 
John through the whirl of them — "What did 
you say — John?" 

Anthony was smiling at her gently. Her 
son got up and came over and kissed her— 
"That's what it means, Mother — ^that Kitty Ar^ 
den says *yes' !" 

"I don't know any Kitty Arden — ^" said 
Mother helplessly. ... 

"She's your daughter," said John. "But it 
was a close call." 

"I thought it was a cable," said Mother. 




Litf 

"It means you'll have a new daughter, Mother" 



■ : - HA R Y 



■' A V O 



^.■5 



A CABLE AND APPLE-PIE 321 

"So it was — at last I" laughed John. "She 
hated to say it I" He looked at the cable a lit- 
tle fondly and proudly. 

"You mean she didn't want to marry you — !" 
said Mother, looking up at him, indignation in 
all her roundness. 

He nodded. "Hated to — the worst way!'* 
He laughed out. "I had to run oflF first — before 
she found out." Mother glanced at Anthony. 
"I've engaged passage for Wednesday — ^will 
you be ready?" added John. 

"I'm most ready now," said Mother. But 
she was looking at him wistfully. "It seems 
queer, that you're going to marry — some one I 
never saw — " she said. 

He patted the shoulder. "She's nicer than 
any one you ever saw, Mother — and a world too 
good for me," he added quickly. "And Fm go- 
ing to marry her before she has time to change 
her mind — again." 

Mother gasped a little — and he laughed down 
at her. 



322 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"She's all right. Mother. You'll like her— 
even better than — ^Nursc Timberlakc." He 
bent and kissed her again, and was off. 

Anthony smiled at her. She wiped away the 
little tear — and looked at him almost guiltily. 

"How do you suppose he guessed about Nurse 
Timberlake?" she asked 



XXXIX 

MOTHER PACKS HER TRUNK 

The packing went forward rapidly. Wallace 
coming in found Mother sitting on top of next- 
to-the-last trunk, pressing it firmly down. "It's 
packed pretty full," she said beaming on him 
and drawing a deep breath. "It needs two " 

She moved a little to one side, and Wallace sat 
on it with her, and helped her strap it, and she 
brought out the piece of pie. "You will miss 
us, won't you, Wally," she said, watching him. 
"And I don't suppose you'll ever be coming over 
home either — '' she looked at him wistfully. 

Wallace shook his head — "Don't want to go 
back— except to see you. Old England's good 
enough for me!" 

"Yes — I know you like it. It's lucky about 
your wives, isn't it?" 

He looked at her 

"Yours and John's — ^letting you live where 

3^3 



324 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

you want to— both of you. . . . You didn't 
«ver sec her, did you?" she asked suddenly, look- 
ing at him. 

'Mer ?" 

Mother nodded — "Jdm's wife, you know." 

Wallace laughed. ^Tfou get on so fast — 
with your wives. Mother! Yes, I've seen her. 
I used to see Kitty Arden rather often." 

Mother's face lifted. "What is she like, 
Wally? I can't get anything out of John — 
not anything sensible." 

"She's the prettiest girl you ever saw," said 
Wallace. 

"Prettier than Nurse Timberlake?" asked 
Mother, guileless. 

"Much!" Wallace was serene. 

Mother looked at him with reproach in her 
cap. "You hadn't ought to say that, Wal- 
lace!" 

"It's the truth," said Wallace. He looked at 
the last piece of pie and took it "There are a 
good many men would have liked to marry Kitty 
Arden," he said slowly. 



MOTHER PACKS HER TRUNK 325 

"'I hope she'll make a good sensible wife for 
John," said Mother. 

"You aren't afraid of any one that John picks 
out, are you — ?" His eyes were twinkling at 
her. 

^^Not — exactly," said Mother. 

"You needn't be afraid for Kitty," said Wal- 
lace. "She has kept her head level through 
things that would have spoiled a good many 
girls — ^with all that money '' 

Mother looked at him — "What did you say, 
Wally?" 

"I said that with all the money she's had to 
spend — and no mother ^" 

"John told me her mother was dead — ^but he 
didn't tell me about the money " 

Wallace chuckled. "She's one of the richest 
girls in the States." He was watching Mother's 
face. "Her father is John Arden, of the United 
Steel and Wire, you know." 

"He said his name was John," said Mother. 

**Worth millions," said Wallace. 

"Oh, dear!" Mother's face had grown full 



326 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

of round woe — "How can I visit 'cm, Wally, 
and take care of the babies if they have — z 
million dollars!*' 

"Million-dollar babies have tummies, don't 
they, Mother — same as dollar-cmes? I guess 
you can coddle 'em all ri^L They'll have 
rows of nurse-maids in white caps, of course," 
said Wallace wickedly. "But you'll find it's all 
right. I shouldn't want a rich wife myself ^" 

"When did you see Nurse Timberlake?" said 
Mother swiftly. 

He stared at her — "I believe you're jealous 
for her! ... I haven't seen — ^Alicia" — he 
said the name happily — "I haven't seen her — 
since Wednesday. She's up at Thurlow, you 
know." 

"I knew she'd gone to Thurlow," said 
Mother. Her tone was mysterious. 

He looked at her. "What do you mean?" 

Mother shook her head. "Nothing!" 

"You know better — ^you've got something on 
your mind '' 

"Well — ^you kept saying things about 



MOTHER PACKS HER TRUNK 327 

Johnr Mother looked at him, her feathers 
ruffled. 

"I didn't say anything about John— except 
that Kitty is rich." 

"She doesn't own a castle — " said Mother. 
"I'm not going to say another word," she shut 
her mouth, squeezing it ti^t. 

Wallace looked at her narrowly — "Gro ahead !" 
he said. 

But she shook her head hard. "It isn't your 
fault, Wally — and I shan^t say a word /" 

Wallace looked up. Anthony had come in 
and was smiling at them, quietly. "Anything 
wrcmg?" he asked. 

"Suppose you tell me what Mother means," 
said Wallace. "I just happened to say some- 
thing about Kitty Arden and she's bristling with 
hints " 

"What did you say about Kitty?" asked An- 
thony. 

**That she's rich — ^you knew that." 

**Yes, John told me " 

"And I said folks that live in glass houses 



328 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

better be careful," said Mother, still myste- 
rious— "That's all I said." 

Wallace turned to Anthony . . .? 

Anthony smiled. "That's what Mother 
means, I guess, Wallace." 

And between them Wallace Tilton learned — 
a word at a time from Anthony, with breath- 
less gusts from Mother — ^Wallace learned the 
truth. . . • He turned it slowly in his 
mind 

"Serves me ri^t!" he said. 

"It isn't your fault, Wally! I told you it 
wasn't your faults said Mother consolingly. 

Wallace laughed shortly and got up. ^'Well, 
I mu§t be off — to Thurlow Castle!" he said. 
"I shall have a word to say to Miss Alicia Tim- 
berlake!" He bent and kissed Mother, and 
looked down at her gently and kissed her again — 
"It's all your fault," he said. "I shouldn't 
have thought of marrying her if it hadn't been 
for you — and your pies!" And he was gone. 

Mother looked at the door wistfully — ^almost 
regretfully — and went back to her packing. 



MOTHER PACKS HER TRUNK 329 

'Talking that way about JohnP' she said softly 
into the depths of the trunk. 

She lifted her head suddenly. "Do rich folks 
always have nurse-maids in caps — rows of them» 
Anthony?** 

"Rows of them — in caps?" Anthony's mind 
went slowly. 

Mother nodded. "To take care of the 
babies?" 

Anthony smiled. "I guess they do — when 
they have the babies. They don't all of 'em 
have babies, you know !" 

Mother returned to her trunk. "John will," 
she said softly again in the depths. 

Anthony came to the door and looked in at 
her. "Fm going out a little while," he said. 

Mother emerged — "Where you going?" she 
asked. 

"Just anywhere— on a 'bus — ^perhaps — " An- 
thony's tone was vague. 

Mother looked at her second-best bonnet, and 
turned it round. She had been trying to find a 
place for it — ^a safe place. She put it on her 



330 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

head. '1 think I'll go with with you," she said. 

Anthony glanced at the trunk — "You haven't 
time, have you?" 

"I'm packed — ^all but this. Maybe I shall 
carry it in my hand, anyway, in a box — ^" She 
tied the strings elaborately imder her chin, 
looking at her roundness in the glass. "I feel 
kind of queer, somehow," she said slowly. 
"I've been wanting to go — seemed as if I couldn't 
wait to go; and now the time's come, I feel as 
if I didn't want to— not exactly." 
We can stay — " said Anthony. 
Oh — I don't mean that — " said Mother has- 
tily. . . . "But it seems as if I'd ought to have 
seen more — ^paid more attention perhaps. I feel 
real queer about it !" She put on her gloves and 
took up her net-bag. "I'm ready," she an- 
nounced. 

"Gro where there's a crowd," she said — "any- 
where the crowd is. That's the most like Lon- 
don." 

'We'll take No. 6," said Anthony. 

It was coming rapidly down the street, and he 



€€^ 



€U 



MOTHER PACKS HER TRUNK 331 

hailed it and Mother scrambled aboard, breath- 
less. 

She gave a little triumphant nod as they 
mounted to the top — "That's one of the things 
I've got so I can do," she said seating herself 
fimily. *T can get on and off while they're go- 
ing — ^pretty fast. I used to be real mad when 
they didn't stop. Now I don't wait to be mad 
— ^I just climb on!" 

Anthony laughed. **Wc've learned a good 
many things in London — ** he said musingly. 

"You have," said Mother. She looked up at 
him a little wistfully. "It doesn't seem as if 
I'd learned much — just how to get on a 'bus !" 

**There are people who have lived in London 
all their lives who can't do it," said Anthony 
consolingly. 

"Do you think so?'* Mother brightened. 
She beamed down on the crowd from her 'bus. 
I most wish we'd stayed longer," she said. 
I'm getting kind o' used to it, I guess — ^Look 
how queer they be, Anthony — all running every 
which way !" 



€i 



332 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Anthony leaned over beside her and they 
watched the crowd— down the Strand, along 
by the Lions and Trafalgar Square and Pall 
Mall, up Regent Street and I^iccadilly and the 
Circus and Oxford. . . . The city played its 
game of darting crowds and cabs and 'buses 
and tangled life, and Mother looked down on 
them — ^half-guiltily, half-wistfully — ^her face 
screwed in its soft wrinkles. 

"It does make my head whirl !" she said. *1 
keep wondering where they're all going to — and 
what they're after! — ^Look at that old thing, 
Anthony!" Mother pointed out the broad- 
backed, broad-skirted figure that ambled with 
the crowd, her bonnet askew and her skirts tilt- 
ing over the shabby, run-over shoes and gaping 
stocking-heels. Mother looked down on them 
— incredulity m her face. "Wouldn't you 
think she'd just want to cry^ Anthony!" 

Anthony watched the waddling figure, with 
his little, gentle smile — ''You're the one that 
wants to cry, I guess, Mother. She looks pretty 



MOTHER PACKS HER TRUNK 333 

comfortable — as if she enjoyed carrying her 
taper — " he added softly. 

"Carrying her what^ Anthony? — ^You must 
shout louder up here." 

"I said carrying her taper," said Anthony. 
And the 'bus lurched and stopped and the words 
roared themselves out 

"Sh'h!" said Mother. "Mercy! everybody^U 
hear us !" 

But no one seemed to care. Passengers 
climbed down and new ones climbed up, and 
the traffic roared. 

'They all seem to be carrying tapers— don't 
you see?" said Anthony looking down — "little 
tapers ^" 

Mother leaned further over — "I don't sec any- 
thing that looks like a taper— or any kind of 
light," she said. 

Anthony smiled. 'They're not in sight — 
they're far inside somewhere — ^little tapers of 
life — and they carry them carefully— every one 
guarding his own and feeding it — ^fighting for 



334 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

it . . . and nobody knows why — only he 
mustn't let the fire go out. . . /' 

Mother looked at him uneasily — Anthony had 
not had a queer spell for weeks 

**They look to me just like folks hurrying te 
get somewhere," she said practically. "And 
that old woman with no stockings on — hardly — 
ought to be shut up !" 

Anthony smiled at her — "Just think how she 
keeps her taper burning! — ^in all that dark," he 
said softly. "She is a brave soul — I think '* 

Mother said nothing. But deep thoughts 
held her. It was time they went home! She 
was glad they were going home. • . . Perhaps 
when they got back to Bolton Anthony would 
forget London and queemess — ^and old women, 
with no stockings hardly, canying their tapers 
carefully along on Oxford Street. 



XL 

THE SHOP WHERE NOTHING HAPPENS 

Fat Samuel puffed a little and sighed, and 
reached out for another pair and looked at them 
scornfully and fell to work with waxed thread. 
It had not been easy for Samuel to keep pace 
with the feet of Bolton. He had come to 
look suspiciously at feet on the street; and he 
grudged the children their very skipping-ropes 
and hop-scotch— wearing out good leather! 
He drew the waxed thread wrathfuUy in and 
out and scowled at the window where the 
sun played along cobwebs and made little dusty, 
dancing motes and fell on the empty bench across 
the room. There were shoes on the bench, shoes 
on the floor — shoes everywhere. . . . The door 
gave a little click and tingle, and swung open 
and Samuel looked up and scowled — ^and 
changed to a slow, long, doubtful gaze — a sweet, 
fat smile that broke throu^ the gloom. 

335 



336 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

Anthony stood looking at him and at the shop 
— at the dust and cobwebs, and the shoes on the 
floor. He came over and held out his hand. 

And Samuel's took it, doubtingly, and rubbed 
along his apron, and his mouth came together. 
"I didn't know you'd got here," he said. 

"Came last night," said Anthony. "Plenty 
of work, I see — ** He nodded at the chaos of 
shoes. 

'Too much for meT* grumbled Samuel. He 
took up his stiff thread and fell to work, with a 
covert eye on Anthony Wickham. He had heard 
rumours of London and of Anthony 

Anthony took off his hat and coat slowly and 
hung them up, his glance taking in with a smile 
the old, worn bits of leather and the clutter on 
the floor. He tied on the striped apron and 
crossed to his bench; and took up a pair and 
looked at them and looked over his glasses at 
Samuel — "Judge Fox's best?" he said. 

Samuel nodded. "I put off best ones," he 
said. "J can't do 'em!" He scowled fiercely, 
and stabbed holes and sewed on. 



THE SHOP 337 

Anthony blew a little dust from the boots 
and set them aside; his thin fingers sorted the 
pairs on the bench and reached to the floor, 
and ranged them along before him. . . • "I'll 
do the fine ones first," he said softly. 

A look of fat relief stole into Samuel's face and 
spread above the waxed ends. "I've done my 
best on 'em," he gnmted, "worked myself to the 
bone with 'em !" 

Anthony's smile flitted across the bulk of Sam- 
uel, and drew in the room. "You've done first- 
rate, Samuel. It's hard work— doing shoes 
alone." 

Samuel's gaze relaxed subtly. The shop was 
not the same — there were shoes on the floor, but 
they were hopeful shoes; and the children skip- 
ping outside and calling to each other, sounded 
happy. . . . The door tingled and opened and 
a little girl peeped in and held out a pair of 
shoes — and Samuel smiled at her and she dropped 
them hastily and withdrew. 

Anthony picked them up^"Joe Gibson's," he 
said. . . . The school bell rang and jangled 



338 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

and the vcnces calling outside died away. . . • 
Anthony fell to work — the same old stitcfaing, 
gentle rhythm, tap-a^peg, tap-a-pcgi tap-tap- 
tap— 



The bell above the door jinked — all Bolton 
had heard that Anthony Wickham was back — 
all day they came. ... It was the same An- 
thony Wickham who had gone away — ^less than 
a year ago— yet somehow a subtly different An- 
thony. You have to look a little at a man who 
has been in London a year — nearly a year. . . . 
And they looked at him curiously, and brought 
him shoes — and left them. 

Each time the bell tingled, more shoes lay 
heaped on the floor. After dinner there was a 
little lull and Samuel and Anthony sewed and 
pegged in silence. It was the same old shop, 
where nothing happened. Only Anthony, with 
England behind him and the roar of London 
coming and going gently in his thought, was per- 
haps a little different; but the same sunshine was 
on the floor, the same dusty motes danced above 



k 



THE SHOP 339 

it, and the same shreds of leather and waxed 
ends lay everywhere. 

The door opened tremulously, and gasped a 
little and stood still, and Anthony looked up. 
"Why, Mother!" 

"It's come!" she sjud. She held out the en- 
velope. "It's come. I knew it would — y but 
somehow I didn't quite— expect it." She sat 
down breathless. 

Anthony took the envelope and opened it and 
looked at her over his glasses. "They'll be 
here to-night. That's good, isn't it!" 

"There isn't a thing in the house, Anthony — 
not a thing to eat!" said Mother. 

He read the telegram again. "But they're 
going to the hotel. 'Kitty and her father will 
go to the hotel,' that is what it says — they will 
go to the hotel. You have enough for John to 
eat, I guess." 

Mother's round gaze rested on him, pity- 
ingly. "You can't let your own folks go to a 
hotel. Father!" 



340 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"It isn't John," said Anthony. 'It is 
Kitty '' 

"It is just the same," said Mother firmly. *1 
know what I mean, Anthony, and you know; 
you can't make me comfortable that way. Fve 
got to get right back — ;" and she looked about 
the shop a little helplessly and si^ed, "I 
wouldn't mind so much if he wasn't a million- 
aire," she said softly. "I was going to have 
combeef for supper ^" 

Samuel plodded on over his stitches. 

" — and potatoes," said Mother, "and some of 
that cabbage that was left over — ^it'U taste good 
— and carrots ; it don't sound right for a million- 
aire somehow !" 

Anthony looked at her with the little affection- 
ate smile between his eyes. "Don't you worry. 
Mother. Everything you do will be just right. 
You will make it homelike for them and that's 
what John wants ^" 

"I shall make an apple pie — '' said Mother. 
"I shall make two pies," she added swiftly. 
'Tfou can't tell what might happen." 



«1 



« 



THE SHOP 341 

It isn't Wallace," said Anthony, smiling. 
1 shall make two pies," said Mother, "two 
apple-pies — with a good crust, upper and imder. 
Men folks like my pies — ^as a rule," she added 
modestly. 

She got up and smoothed her apron. 

"Don't you worry about me, Anthony. I 
shall get along all right. I just came down to 
tell you — so you'd get home, time enough to put 
on your second-best ones." 

Anthony took up his hammer and began to 
look for pegs. She regarded him a minute, a 
little pride in her face — "I don't know but you 
might as well wear your best ones," she said 
slowly — "the ones you got in London." 

Samuel reached for another pair of shoes and 
Mother went out. 

The bell tingled behind her. 

It tingled again for the big man who came in 
and tilted comfortably back and watched An- 
thony's hammer tap its way around the sole. 

"Going to keep on mending, just the same, are 
ye?" he asked. 



342 THE TASTE OF APPLES 

"Just the same," said Anthony. "It's my 
business, you know — mending shoes." 

"I hear John's doing well — ?" replied the 
man. 

Anthony stitched on, and pegged a little. . • . 
*^e's going to be married next month, you 
know"?" He looked over his glasses. 

"That so!" The chair tilted itself a little 
farther back and the big man looked at him be- 
nevolently, and the bell jingled again and An- 
thony broke off to take shoes — but it was only 
Simon, hopping in 

"Know what they call ye?" he asked nimbly 
" — 'Anthony London !' I heard one of 'em as I 
come along — Anthony London," he said. 
"He'd got you kind o' mixed up, I guess!" 
Simon lauded glibly and sat down. Samuel 
scowled at him and went on stitching — ^the less 
said about London, the better — ^in Samuel's 
eyes. But he was not to escape. . . . He was 
to know Fleet Street — ^as if he had been bom 
there — Fleet Street with its whirling, banging 
and slamming, and shuffling feet — and the 



THE SHOP 343 

dome of St. Paul's floating behind its feather 
of smoke. . . . Samuel could not be called an 
imaginative man, but he saw the visions — St. 
Paul's and all London shaping themselves in 
Anthony's gentle words — and he dreamed, dully, 
of a great, ever-going city across the world. 

"I hear the Rich grind the faces of the Poor 
pretty bad over there !" said the big man, tilting 
happily. 

Anthony looked up. "I didn't see any grind- 
ing going on," he said with a twinkle. . . . 
But his face had grown thoughtful. 

"There are very poor people in London," he 
said slowly, tapping it into the sole on his lap— 
"poorer than anywhere in the world, I think." 
He set the shoes on the bench beside him. 
"They have no hope," he said. 

"That's bad !" said the big man — solidly and 
comfortably, tilting a little further back. 

Samuel grunted. Anthony glanced over at 
him. "Do the best you can with 'em, Samuel. 
Gibson's hard on his shoes " 

"Drunk half the time !" said the big man. "I 



3*4 



THE TASTE OF APPLES 



hear iSoKyrt going to take avar tbt piu^ii m 
Lords, and so od — ^rc it to tiie Poor. Hov do 
voD dbdnk the Lonfe vill like liiatT He asked 
it poDdcTOuslr. 

SuDOD peered op; it sonxided W j'jfa juobs 
azKi inter e s TTn g — and faopcfoL 

AntikODT sfacxik his head. ^ will be a loog 
tizne, I Think, before Tber take it all awai. " 

71»e big man looked at him — so^adoiisSj. 
^1 saw it in a paper," he said — ^"the same place 
where I saw about grinding the faces of die 
poor. Did you see anr lords?^ he asked, with 
a little suspidoQ still in his vcnce. 

'1 saw ODC,^ said Anthcar. He waited a 
minute. "He had his pmp e ii> taken away from 
him — all his possessions taken away — in a 
min utc— ^verjthing." 

''How did he like that!" said the big man, 
triump^iant. 

Anthonys eyes seemed looking at something 
far away — as far as London, it mi^t be. '^c 
didn't seem to mind," he said. ''He let them 




THE SHOP 345 

The big man stared at him. The legs of the 
chair came ponderously down. 

'"Well — ^I swunny! — ^That beats me — ^Never 
minded!" He got up and stretched himself — 
and looked at Anthony. "Never minded!" he 
said — and went slowly out, turning over Lon- 
don in his mind. 

Simon skipped behind him and the little shop 
was quiet— only Anthony London, maker and 
mender of shoes, stitching on, and fat Samuel, 
growing steadily serene in his gloom. • • • 
Outside, through the open window, they heard 
the voices of children running and shouting and 
wearing out shoes for Anthony to mend. 



THE END 



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