“No man is a hero to his valet,” says the proverb, not even Napoleon, Disraeli, or Solomon.
But Raleigh was a hero to his valet.
He was not only a hero to Nobbs the valet; he had perfectly fascinated him. The instant he was off duty Nobbs began to be a Raleigh to himself. He put on a coat cut in the Raleigh careless style; in fact, he dressed himself Raleigh all over. His private hat was exactly like Raleigh’s; so was his necktie, the same colour, shape, and bought at the same shop; so were his boots. He kept a sovereign loose in his waistcoat pocket, because that was where Raleigh carried his handy gold. He smoked a cutty-pipe, and drank endless whiskies—just like Raleigh, “the very ticket”—he had his betting-book, and his telegrams, and his money on “hosses,” and his sporting paper, and his fine photographs of fine women. He swore in Raleigh’s very words, and used to spit like him; Raleigh, if ever he chanced to expectorate, had an odd way of twisting up the corner of his mouth, so did Nobbs. In town Nobbs went to the very same bars (always, of course, discreetly and out of sight), the very same theatres; a most perfect Raleigh to the tiniest detail. Why, Raleigh very rarely wound up his watch—careless Raleigh; accordingly, Nobbs’ watch was seldom going. “And you just look here,” said Nobbs to a great and confidential friend, after they had done endless whiskies, and smoked handfuls of Raleigh’s tobacco, “you look here, if I was he, and had lots of chink, and soft old parties to get money out of as easy as filling yer pipe, by Jove! wouldn’t I cut a swell! I’d do it, I would. I’d make that Whitechapel of his spin along, I rather guess I would. I’d liquor up. Wouldn’t I put a thou on the Middle Park Plate? Ah! wouldn’t I, Tommy, my boy! Just wouldn’t I have heaps of wimmen; some in the trap, and some indoors, and some to go to the theatre with—respectable gals, I mean—crowds of ’em would come if Raleigh was to hold up his finger. Guess I’d fill this old shop (the Pamment mansion) choke full of wimmen! If I was only he! Shouldn’t I like to fetch one of them waiter chaps a swap on the nose, like he did! Oh, my! Oh, Tommy!” And Nobbs very nearly wept at the happy vision of being “he.”
Why, Raleigh was not only a Hero, he was a Demigod to his valet! Not only Nobbs, but the footmen, and the grooms, and the whole race of servants everywhere who had caught a glimpse of Raleigh looked upon him as the Ideal Man. So did the whole race of “cads” in the bars and at the races, and all over town and country, all of that sort who knew anything of Raleigh sighed to be like “he.”
The fellow who said that “No man is a hero to his valet” seemed to suppose that the world worships good and divine qualities only. Nothing of the sort; it is not the heroic, it is the low and coarse and blackguard part the mass of people regard with such deep admiration.
If only Nobbs could have been “he,” no doubt whatever he would have “done it” very big indeed. But he would have left out of his copy that part of Raleigh’s nature which, in spite of the whiskey and the cutty, and the rest of it, made him still a perfect gentleman at heart. Nobbs didn’t want to be a perfect gentleman.
XVII
Glancing up from his betting-book, Raleigh caught sight of someone on the lawn, and went to the window to see who it was.
It was then that Grandfather Iden raised his great grey hat, and brought it with so lowly a sweep down to the very ground before this demigod of his.
“Hullo! Fred, I say! Come, quick!” dragging him off the sofa. “Here’s the Behemoth.”
“The Behemoth—the Deluge!” said Fred, incoherently, still half asleep.
“Before that,” said Raleigh. “I told you I’d show him to you some day. That’s the Behemoth.”
Some grand folk keep a humpbacked cow, or white wild cattle, or strange creatures of that sort, in their parks as curiosities. The particular preserve of the Pamments was Grandfather Iden—antediluvian Iden—in short, the Behemoth.
It is not everybody who has got a Behemoth on show.
“There’s a girl with him,” said Fred.
“Have her in,” said Raleigh. “Wake us up,” ringing the bell. And he ordered the butler to fetch old Iden in.
How thoroughly in character with Human Life it was that a man like Grandfather Iden—aged, experienced, clever, learned, a man of wise old books, should lower his ancient head, and do homage to Raleigh Pamment!
“Wherefore come ye not to court?
Skelton swears ’tis glorious sport.
Chattering fools and wise men listening.”
Accordingly the butler went out bareheaded—his head was as bare as Mont Blanc—and, with many a gracious smile, conveyed his master’s wishes. The Behemoth, mopping and mowing, wiping his slobbery old mouth in the excess of his glorification, takes Amaryllis by the arm, and proceeds to draw her towards the mansion.
“But, grandpa—grandpa—really I’d rather not go. Please, don’t make me go. No—no—I can’t,” she cried, in a terror of disgust. She would not willingly have set foot on the Pamment threshold, no, not for a crown of gold, as the old song says unctuously.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Iden. “Nothing to be afraid of”—mistaking her hesitation for awe.
“Afraid!” repeated Amaryllis, in utter bewilderment. “Afraid! I don’t want to go.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, I’m sure,” said the butler in his most insidious tones. “Mr. Pamment so very particularly wished to see you.”
“Come—come,” said old Iden, “don’t be silly,” as she still hung back. “It’s a splendid place inside—there, lean on me, don’t be afraid,” and so the grandfather pulling her one side, and the butler very, very gently pressing her forward the other, they persuaded,
