had relaxed somewhat.
‘Mr Glapthorn, please. Allow me to stand.’
I said nothing, but walked instead over to my arm-chair by the fire and threw myself down, still clutching the piece of paper.
I heard him pick himself up from the floor, dust himself down, and walk across to where I was sitting.
‘Mr Glapthorn, please, I meant no harm, no harm at all. Perhaps coming on me like that – it is quite dark on your landing, is it not? – I can see – that is, I expect you mistook me for some house-thief or such. A shock, I’m sure, to find someone here. But no harm intended, sir, no harm at all, no, none at all …’
And so he went on, repeating the same sentiments over and over, and wringing his fat little hands to emphasize his contrition and regret at the trouble caused.
I took a deep breath, rose from my chair, and faced my neighbour.
‘Mr Jukes, I apologize. Sincerely and completely. It is
I screwed up all my will-power and held out my hand.
He limply reciprocated, at which I immediately withdrew myself to my work-table and sat down again.
‘I thought that we see so little of each other these days, Mr Glapthorn,’ I heard him say, though my mind was already far away from the stunted figure in old-fashioned breeches and tailcoat, standing on my Turkey rug, still wringing his hands, and looking about him nervously. ‘You are so rarely in the office now, and I used to so enjoy our little chats. Not that we have ever been friends as such, I realize, but we are neighbours, and neighbours, you know, should be neighbourly. And so I thought, perhaps Mr Glapthorn is in need of some company? And then I thought, couldn’t I bring together a few friends to partake in a little celebratory dinner – it being my birthday on Saturday – and invite Mr Glapthorn—’
He had paused.
‘I’m afraid I am not free on Saturday, Mr Jukes, but I thank you for your invitation.’
‘Of course. I understand, Mr Glapthorn. You are a busy man, I’m sure.’
He edged a little towards the door.
‘Well,’ he said, in an effort to brighten his tone, ‘I shall take my leave.’
I was preparing to apologize again for my rough behaviour, but he forestalled me with a rapid shake of his head. ‘Pray, say no more, Mr Glapthorn. All a mistake. No harm done, none at all.’
I nodded. Then a thought struck me. Perhaps I might be wrong in acquitting him.
‘A moment, Mr Jukes.’
He looked up.
‘Are you a religious man?’
‘Religious?’ he said, evidently surprised at my question. ‘Well, I suppose I am as observant in that way as most. I was brought up strictly, though perhaps I have relaxed a little in my ways. But I attend the Temple Church every Sunday morning, and read my Bible every day, sir – every day.’ He raised his head as he spoke the last words, and pulled his shoulders back in a little gesture of defiance, as if to say, ‘There now. Here is villainy!’
‘Every day?’ I said, quizzically.
‘Every day. Regular as clockwork, a few pages before I take Little Fordyce for his walk. It is surprising how much one gets through. I am coming towards the end of the Old Testament for the second time this twelvemonth.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘that is excellent. Excellent. Good-day, Mr Jukes, and—’
He held up his hand again. ‘No need, sir, no need at all.’ With which he turned, smiled wanly, and closed the door.
I sat, still in my dripping clothes, looking out of my little dormer window at rags of clouds, drifting like smoke over a battlefield, until I heard him descend the stairs and bang his own door shut.
*[‘In doubt’.
*[‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ was published in
8
Amicus venus*
The following morning, a note came from Le Grice apologizing for his over-consumption of champagne the previous day, and announcing that he would be at the Ship and Turtle at his usual hour that evening, if I cared to join him.
He was in voluble mood, and I happily let him regale me with reports of what this fellow or that had been up to, who had said what at the Club, and where so-and-so had been, the gossip supplemented by an excited account of all the business upon which he was then engaged, preparatory to leaving for the war. I was sorry that he was going, and was of course anxious for his safety; but it was impossible not to become caught up in his enthusiasm, to the extent that I almost began to regret that I had never thought of going for a soldier myself.
We parted just before midnight. He was heading back to his rooms in Albany† when he suddenly stopped short.
‘By the by,’ he called back, ‘I almost forgot. This was sent to me at the Club. It’s for you.’ Reaching into the inside pocket of his greatcoat, he handed me a small wrapped package, obviously containing a book.
