Will Warburton | Page 4

brought to the door a thin yellow
face, cautious in espial, through the narrow opening.
"Is it you, sir?"
"All right, Mrs. Hopper! How are you?--how are you?"
He threw his bag into the passage, and cordially grasped the woman's
hands.

"Dinner ready? Savagely hungry. Give me three minutes, and serve."
For about that length of time there sounded in the bedroom a splashing
and a blowing; then Warburton came forth with red cheeks. He seized
upon a little pile of letters and packets which lay on his writing-table,
broke envelopes, rent wrappers, and read with now an ejaculation of
pleasure, now a grunt of disgust, and again a mirthful half roar. Then,
dinner--the feeding of a famished man of robust appetite and digestion,
a man three or four years on the green side of thirty. It was a speedy
business, in not much more than a quarter of an hour there disappeared
a noble steak and its appurtenances, a golden-crusted apple tart, a
substantial slice of ripe Cheddar, two bottles of creamy Bass.
"Now I can talk!" cried Will to his servant, as he threw himself into a
deep chair, and began lighting his pipe. "What's the news? I seem to
have been away three months rather than three weeks."
"Mr. Franks called yesterday, sir, late in the afternoon, when I was here
cleaning. He was very glad to hear you'd be back to-day, and said he
might look in to-night."
"Good! What else?"
"My brother-in-law wishes to see you, sir. He's in trouble again-- lost
his place at Boxon's a few days ago. I don't exac'ly know how it
happened, but he'll explain everything. He's very unfortunate, sir, is
Allchin."
"Tell him to come before nine to-morrow morning, if he can."
"Yes, sir. I'm sure it's very kind of you, sir."
"What else?"
"Nothing as I can think of just now, sir."
Warburton knew from the woman's way of speaking that she had
something still in her mind; but his pipe being well lit, and a pleasant
lassitude creeping over him, he merely nodded. Mrs. Hopper cleared
the table, and withdrew.
The window looked across the gardens of Chelsea Hospital (old-time
Ranelagh) to the westward reach of the river, beyond which lay
Battersea Park, with its lawns and foliage. A beam of the July sunset
struck suddenly through the room. Warburton was aware of it with
half-closed eyes; he wished to stir himself, and look forth, but languor
held his limbs, and wreathing tobacco-smoke kept his thoughts among
the mountains. He might have quite dozed off had not a sudden noise

from within aroused him--the unmistakable crash of falling crockery. It
made him laugh, a laugh of humorous expostulation. A minute or two
passed, then came a timid tap at his door, and Mrs. Hopper showed her
face.
"Another accident, sir, I'm sorry to say," were her faltering words.
"Extensive?"
"A dish and two plates, I'm sorry to say, sir."
"Oh, that's nothing."
"Of course I shall make them good, sir."
"Pooh! Aren't there plates enough?"
"Oh, quite enough--just yet, sir."
Warburton subdued a chuckle, and looked with friendly smile at his
domestic, who stood squeezing herself between the edge of the door
and the jamb--her habit when embarrassed. Mrs. Hopper had served
him for three years; he knew all her weaknesses, but thought more of
her virtues, chief of which were honest intention and a moderate
aptitude for plain cooking. A glance about this room would have
proved to any visitor that Mrs. Hopper's ideas of cleanliness were by no
means rigid, her master had made himself to a certain extent
responsible for this defect; he paid little attention to dust, provided that
things were in their wonted order. Mrs. Hopper was not a resident
domestic; she came at stated hours. Obviously a widow, she had a poor,
loose-hung, trailing little body, which no nourishment could plump or
fortify. Her visage was habitually doleful, but contracted itself at
moments into a grin of quaint drollery, which betrayed her for
something of a humorist.
"My fingers is all gone silly to-day, sir," she pursued. "I daresay it's
because I haven't had much sleep these last few nights."
"How's that?"
"It's my poor sister, sir--my sister Liza, I mean--she's had one of her
worst headaches--the extra special, we call 'em. This time it's lasted
more than three days, and not one minute of rest has the poor thing
got."
Warburton was all sympathy; he inquired about the case as though it
were that of an intimate friend. Change of air and repose were obvious
remedies; no less obviously, these things were out of the question for a
working woman who lived on a few shillings a week.

"Do you know of any place she could go to?" asked Warburton, adding
carelessly, "if