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Chapter XVI.

‘As the hushed night glides gentlier on
Our music shall break forth its strain.’

Worlds would not have kept Mrs. Sligo away from her window on the next morning. A fortnight's wash of no common magnitude, the importunities of six children as cross as they were hungry, and the necessity of providing an early dinner for them, did not keep Mrs. Hickson away from hers.

Very few people make the most of their window opportunities. Instead of sitting in his tub (a most uncomfortable habitation, which, I believe, is in old engravings generally represented as a large earthern pipkin) Diogenes ought to have stationed himself before some window whence he could have looked on his fellow-citizens rushing to and fro in the streets, and philosophised to his heart's content, without laying himself open to the charge of eccentricity. But window philosophers, strange though it may seem, are oftener found in the country than in the town. When a crowd is always moving past it soon becomes too common to be looked at. But in the little country place where, in the course of the day, perhaps a child going to school, a man driving page 217 a cow, a waggon-load of hay slowly lumbering by, a farmer's wife going to see her next-door neighbour (two miles off), or the minister on his pastoral visitations, are all that a poor body can expect to see—there, there is the place where people gape from open windows or peep through muslin blinds; where often each pane of glass means an eye, and each door slightly ajar implies a person behind it. Should you ever be coming home in a particularly unpresentable condition—after a day of adventures in the bush, for instance—do not fancy that you can slip past one of these sweet unpretending rural cottages unobserved. You can't do it, my dear friend: you might walk through a crowd and no one would notice if your hat was battered in or your coat giving way in the seams; but here!—why you might as well stand before a camera.

‘Mrs. Sligo,’ Mrs. Hickson hastily announced, ‘I believe he's going.’

Ordinarily, in the interesting conversations between these two ladies, ‘he’ was understood to mean Palmer. Now, however, Mrs. Sligo rightly conjectured that the pronoun referred to the disreputable-looking stranger. Her eyes were dilated to the utmost when he came out of Palmer's door, not in the ragged attire he had worn but yesterday, but in the best clothes—she knew them well—of the master of the house.

‘Well, really, if he isn't going off in Mr. Palmer's clothes!’ she exclaimed, ‘and smoking like a furnace. page 218 The house will need some ventilation now he's out of it, and you may be sure neither Mr. Palmer nor Mr. Randall will think of opening the windows to let the fumes out.’

‘Men never do,’ said Mrs. Hickson.

Palmer had seen the faces of Mrs. Hickson and her friend pressed close to the window. ‘I wish that woman had twelve young children instead of six,’ he said, ‘and then she'd have to look indoors and not outside. As for Mrs. Sligo, she's a widow, and it's her nature. If she were on one side of an iron wall and there was a man on the other she would drill a hole through to look at him.’

He was turning to go into the house when a barefooted little boy, whose coat, if it was not as variegated as Joseph's, was made of quite as many pieces, came in at the gate and presented a letter to him. Palmer identified the weak-looking hand-writing as his sister-in-law's, and had this proof been wanting, stronger evidence was supplied in the person of the messenger. The boy was the help of Mrs. Palmer's help, and did all which that hardworked girl could not do in the house.

He seemed such a forlorn little creature that Palmer ordered Mrs. Hickson to give him some slices of bread and butter of her largest size, and sat down to read the letter, wondering why Mrs. Palmer had written to him for the first time, and why she had not consulted the dictionary or employed a secretary who could compose a creditable page 219 letter. He was more astonished, however, at the purport of the letter than at the very original spelling therein.

‘A musical party! The talented young gentleman living with me! What have I to do with parties? A quiet little affair, quite informal. I declare I thought that last word was “infernal,” the writing is so bad. I've no doubt that's what the noise will be. Randall, come here! What have you been doing to get known about the neighbourhood as a musical celebrity? Here's an invitation for you to a musical party to meet Professor Crasher, and to engage in a thumping contest with him.’

‘A musical party!’ echoed Randall. ‘To meet Professor Crasher!’

‘Yes; don't be overcome with the idea. You ought to know who Professor Crasher is. I, a common plodder on this earth, must confess I don't. I knew a man of that name, but he was plain Tom Crasher, and I can't believe that he's jumped into a professorship.’

‘I never heard of Professor Crasher in my life; but he may be a very great man notwithstanding. As for the musical party, I should think there is some mistake. I don't know any one who would invite me to such an entertainment.’

‘Don't be modest now; don't stand in your own light,’ said Palmer.

The little boy having demolished one supply of bread and butter, Palmer ordered a second for him, page 220 and exhorted him to make the most of his opportunities. He then scrawled the following letter with a quill pen on a sheet of paper, which on the other side had a rough sketch of the different parts of some machine.

My dear Alice—Since you have been so kind as to invite us, and since Everard, as you say, will feel acute disappointment if we do not come, I will try to remember the musical flare-up on Wednesday, and bring my prodigy along with me. He'll astonish you. Don't expect to see me in evening dress, or any of that toggery. I shall stick to my usual gray tweed, and my friend Mr. Randall will suit himself; but I expect he'll have to come in what he has. You can tell people we're eccentric, like all geniuses.—Yours most sincerely,

John Palmer

‘Just like your brother, Everard,’ said Mrs. Palmer when she read this letter.

‘Why, you never told me you were going to give a musical party, Alice!’ said her husband in amazement. Mr. Everard had been purposely kept in ignorance of this brilliant idea of Mrs. Palmer's until it was too late for him to ruin everything by his interference.

‘What's the use of telling you, Everard? You object to everything.’

‘I should certainly have objected to this,’ said Mr. Everard, rousing himself a little. ‘We cannot, in this small house and with our small means give a party of the kind you propose that will do us credit or give pleasure to our friends, and we don't want to make ourselves ridiculous.’

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‘Now, Everard,’ said Mrs. Palmer, in the plaintive whine which experience had taught her made a conversation too irritating to be kept up very long, ‘you always go to such extremes. It's only a little party. I've only asked twenty.’

‘Twenty!’ gasped Mr. Everard. ‘Where are they to stand or sit? Have we twenty presentable chairs, twenty wineglasses, or twenty uncracked cups and saucers?’

‘You always despise what I do,’ said Mrs. Palmer, almost crying. ‘We have plenty of chairs, and people don't care so much about wine as you seem to think. You don't like any one to come, and you don't like me to go out, and I'm always shabby—no wonder I'm not much thought of. And the girls will soon be grown up, and they'll have no advantages nor any chance of seeing people; but you don't care’—Mrs. Palmer ended with a sob.

‘Well, well, Alice, don't cry. You know I don't mean to vex you. Have it your own way; have a marquee put up in the garden, and order champagne if you like.’

Mr. Everard secured the last number of Blackwood and escaped to his own room—the only tidy room in the house, because he put it straight and dusted it himself. He had a passion for order; and so fate, with her usual irony, had wedded him to a wife who felt no inmost pangs when blinds were askew, or when chaircovers were wrong side outward or upside down, and who preferred sudden page 222 and infrequent cleansings to the regular procession of working days with which a good manager orders her household.

But none of Mrs. Palmer's spasmodic cleansings had been so effectual as the one which preceded the party. Her husband secretly thought it would not be a bad idea to give a musical party once a fortnight or so. Mrs. Palmer was worn out with her exertions, and Bridget Ann was so fatigued that she washed the dishes and pared the potatoes in a half-somnolent condition, and one night actually fell into a nursery crib, going to sleep before half the children were put to bed.

All this was forgotten on the night of the party. Mrs. Palmer was happy to behold the house transfigured by a preternatural cleanliness, and she had been especially rejoiced by a formal acceptance from Professor and Mrs. Crasher, who were understood to be so much in request that anyone who got them ought to be thankful. Mr. Everard was happy because the thing would be over in a few hours. Bridget Ann was happy for much the same reason, and also because she expected to have a good sight of the party and to hear everything. Moreover, Mrs. Sligo was a sharer in this happiness. She had been called in to assist in preparing the supper. As a confectioner her reputation deservedly stood very high, and on this occasion success, in spite of overwhelming difficulties, had filled her with an exalted joy. Besides, she had decorated the room. Every page 223 vase, and several vessels which not by the utmost stretch of courtesy could be called vases, had been filled by her hands with magnificent bouquets, which unfortunately, as she had had an overplus of yellow flowers, resembled Whistlerian arrangements in yellow and green.

The invited twenty made their appearance with more or less punctuality. Professor Crasher, who was troubled with nervousness, was so afraid of being too early that he waited at the gate until he had counted sixteen persons go in. Palmer, who was never punctual except in business appointments, followed the Professor with Randall, whom he had compelled to accompany him.

The Professor was very sentimental in manner, and had a weak voice; so that one who heard him without being visually aware of his presence, might have imagined him as a frail and feeble specimen of humanity. On the contrary, he was about six feet in height, and weighed twice as many stones. His hands seemed better adapted for wieldin a sledge-hammer than for fingering the keys of a piano, and his complexion was of that ardent hue that better becomes the countenance of some hale and hearty farming man than of a student and composer of music.

There was no doubt that he could play. Three hired pianos had succumbed to his delicate touch within the last twelve months. And when he did play it was no commonplace performance that might page 224 escape the ears of the people who lived three doors off, and be only faintly audible to those who inhabited the next house. The whole street rang with his doings, and there were those who wondered how so much noise could be got out of any ordinary piano.

There was a lesser lion in the room, a Mr. Emmanuel Paul Peters. There were not wanting envious people to say that this singular appellation had been invented by him as one likely to catch the eye of the public, but in the absence of proofs to the contrary many felt justified in believing that was his by baptism and inheritance. Mr. Paul Peters was very inferior in size to Professor Crasher, but he had twice his confidence. He was all confidence indeed, and this useful quality had carried him safely through many failures, or what would have been such to other men. There was nothing he did not know, no instrument he was not a master of, and very few things that he had not taught at time or another.

The Professor, by special request, sat down to the piano. Mrs. Palmer remarked to her husband, loud enough for others to hear, that Professor Crasher was always excessively displeased if he heard much talking amongst his audience.

‘Silas is so nervous,’ said Mrs. Crasher sweetly.

‘Sh—sh,’ said a sharp-looking lady on hearing her own daughter and a young gentleman engaged in a lively conversation. Both were frightened page 225 into silence, and the company in general felt as if gagged.

A roll as of thunder shook the piano and jingled all the little ornaments of china and glass on a bracket above it. The Professor's hands took a grand sweep from left to right, then back again, and came down heavily in the bass. During the next two minutes chords were showered down with great impartiality from end to end of the keyboard. A pause, and the Professor executed some sweet little trills in a very high key. Another pause, and the booming of heavy artillery agitated the nerves of his audience, and was followed by something like a succession of chromatic scales. Faster and faster flew the Professor's fingers, and louder and louder responded the suffering instrument. He was not nervous now; he plunged boldly into an indescribable medley of runs and rolls, crashes and thumps, that lasted for about twenty minutes. He rose from the music-stool with perspiration gemming his forehead, and left the piano trembling and vibrating in every part of its frame.

A young lady who ‘could not sing’ was made to sing, and managed very well. Meanwhile people congratulated Professor Crasher.

‘So nice,’ said Mrs. Palmer, ‘such a treat to us, Professor.’

‘One does not often hear such music,’ said Mr. Everard, feeling obliged to say something, and determined not to overstep the bounds of truth.

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‘Nice easy little piece,’ said Mr. Emmanuel Paul Peters. ‘Let's see, whose is it? Just fancy! can't remember. Played it a hundred times when I was quite a boy.’

‘I don't think it's very easy,’ said the Professor meekly. Poor man, he remembered the weary hours of practice, and although he was not vain, he felt sure Mr. Paul Peters could not have played the piece.

‘It is one of Madame Arabella Goddard's favourite pieces,’ said Mrs. Crasher.

‘And of course she won't play anything easy,’ said Mrs. Palmer.

‘But, my dear,’ said Professor Crasher softly, ‘you mistake. It is one of my own compositions.’

‘Oh, really, Professor Crasher!’ cried Mrs. Palmer.

‘How nice to be able to make your own music.’

‘My dear Silas, I had quite forgotten,’ said Mrs.

Crasher penitently.

‘I thought there was a lot of originality in it,’ said Palmer, giving his opinion for the first time.

‘I thought I'd never heard it before,’ said Mr. Paul Peters, who being blessed with a happy memory had quite forgotten what he had said three minutes ago.

‘And I suppose you've heard about everything worth hearing, Mr. Peters?’ said Palmer.

Mr. Peters wondered whether this remark was intended to be complimentary or quite otherwise. page 227 He took the most comforting view of the case and answered, ‘Well of course, Mr. Palmer, there really are, all things considered, but few compositions worthy of unreserved praise, and any musician of taste will make those his study, and form his own works after their style.’

‘Oh, copy them a little?’ said Palmer.

‘By no means,’ said Mr. Paul Peters, with a deprecatory gesture. ‘But I should see no harm in a composer incorporating valuable suggestions, as one may call them, in his own work.’

‘What! taking a piece of some one else's, and putting it in holus-bolus?’ said Palmer.

‘You misunderstand me, Mr. Palmer,’ said Mr. Paul Peters, losing patience. ‘For my part I think most people should let musical composition alone.’

‘I am sure I agree with you,’ responded Palmer.

‘For one especial reason—that perfection has already been attained by the great masters, and that all modern music is only, and probably can only be, an imitation of their works.’

‘Your words open to me new fields of thought, Mr. Peters,’ said Palmer. ‘I had never suspected that the musicians had outstripped the rest of our race so far as to have attained perfection.’

‘But it seems it is so,’ said Randall, ‘and all that remains to the musicians of this and of future ages is the melancholy pleasure of copying their great predecessors.’

‘Do you believe?’ said Mr. Paul Peters, beginning page 228 to be excited, ‘that another Beethoven will ever arise? Or Mozart—shall we have him with us again?’

‘I think it is very unlikely,’ said Randall.

‘I'm afraid their reappearance would create a strange rumpus in musical circles,’ said Palmer. ‘But any spirit medium will rap them up for you.’

‘Well then, Mr. Randall,’ said Mr. Paul Peters, only deigning to notice Palmer's observation with a smile of scorn, ‘you will also acknowledge that their works, and those of other eminent musicians whom we need not name, are above criticism.’

‘I do not think I shall ever attempt to criticise them, Mr. Peters,’ said Randall.

‘You had better not!’ cried Mr. Peters, irritated at the mere suggestion of such presumption. ‘Will you criticise this? Please begin.’ And Mr. Peters defiantly waved a piece of music towards Randall.

‘Wouldn't it be better to play it first, and then we can all criticise it,’ said Palmer.

Mr. Peters acted on this suggestion, being opportunely pressed to do so by Mrs. Palmer, who was beginning to think that musical people, however sweetly they might play or sing, were not sweet-tempered. Mr. Paul Peters said he should be happy to oblige the company, and he was indeed very happy to be able to make some noise by way of relieving his feelings.

‘I am so sorry I forgot to introduce you to Professor Crasher,’ said Mrs. Palmer to her brother-in-law.

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‘Introduce me to Crasher! My good Alice, I knew him years ago. Don't disturb him now. I'll remind him of my presence soon.’

‘Oh, but you must be mistaken. Professor Crasher is an American. He was professor of music to some college in some place I forget the name of, and he has studied music in Paris.’

‘Has he really? Why, when I knew him, he kept an hotel. He was remarkably musical even then; he could sing a good song, and he played fearfully on an old piano that rattled like tin. It was for the good of his house: any number of customers were attracted by it. But strangely enough, though the house was full all day long, no one who knew Crasher and his ways ever slept there. He practised at night, and thought nothing of keeping it up till two o'clock in the morning.’

‘Oh, I'm sure there is some mistake,’ repeated Mrs. Palmer. ‘The professor is a perfect gentleman; he can never have been in any common station.’

‘The Professor couldn't be mistaken for any one but himself. I could swear to his identity with the Crasher I used to know. He wasn't half a bad fellow, and I rather liked him; but notwithstanding his fascinating music, his hotel didn't pay, and in the end he and Mrs. Crasher disappeared mysteriously—went to New Caledonia, I heard afterwards—leaving nothing behind them but debts and disappointed creditors, one of whom was myself.’

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‘I'm certain it wasn't the Professor,’ said Mrs. Palmer.

This colloquy had been carried on in a retired part of the room, while Mr. Peters was conscientiously going through a sonata. No one had said that he disliked the accompaniment of an animated conversation, so no one thought it necessary to be silent, and no one paid much attention to the sonata. Mr. Peters had many airs and graces. He displayed his long, white talon-shaped fingers as much as possible, arched his bony wrists, and moved his head about from side to side; so that his sleek black hair, which was long and thick enough to have made a fair-sized chignon, flew about his face in Medusa-like coils. He did not stop when the sonata was finished, but taking it for granted that people would like to hear more of him, played a fantasia, which, it was whispered round the room, was partly original.

While Professor Crasher delighted in heavy gun practice, Mr. Paul Peters loved soft little trills and a pianissimo, which died away so gradually into absolute silence that it was difficult to say where it ended. He was very fond of using the pedals. Professor Crasher told a story about a piano, the pedals of which were completely worn away by the feet of Mr. Paul Peters. It was to match this story that Mr. Peters had industriously disseminated a thrilling account of the utter collapse of an iron frame grand piano during one of the Professor's most vigorous performances.

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It was quite true that the pedals of Mr. Peters's pianos were always more worn and scratched than any other part. He worked very hard with them all through the fantasia. He had a way of looking round on the audience with a smile when he had got through any part which he considered difficult or particularly effective. Many musicians hate encores: Mr. Peters rejoiced in them. Professor Crasher told another story about Mr. Peters being encored eight times by a derisive audience, and each time favouring them with the same piece. Mr. Peters was not able to invent anything that would match this.

There were some impressive pauses in the fantasia, and one of these was of such long duration that Mrs. Palmer thought the joyful end had come at last, and hastened to thank Mr. Peters for his ‘sweetly pretty music,’ which she was sure must be very difficult. Mr. Peters had not finished by three pages, for his most fantastic fantasia was of inordinate length, but he forebore to say so. He retired to a corner of the room and sulked there.

Poor Mr. Everard groaned in secrecy; he was wearied of sounds that were not sweet, and eke of those that were.

‘Isn't it nearly over?’ he whispered to his wife. ‘Can't you have something handed round, and then they'll go? That last discord has given me a splitting headache.’

‘I thought you told me it was bad manners to whisper in company,’ said Mrs. Palmer. ‘It is quite page 232 early yet; it would be like telling them to go, if supper were brought in. I haven't asked Mr. Randall to play yet.’

‘Heaven grant he may play differently from the others!’ said Mr. Everard.

‘Now, Randall,’ Palmer entreated his companion, ‘show these benighted people how the thing ought to be done. I shall feel disappointed if you allow Crasher and the other gentleman with the apostolical name to triumph.’

Mr. Paul Peters craned his long neck forward in curiosity. Professor Crasher looked up with animation from the little low chair he was sitting on—a chair ridiculously disproportionate to his size, and, as Mrs. Palmer felt with tremblings, not quite equal to his weight.

Palmer rubbed his hands with delighted anticipation. ‘He'll astonish you,’ he said to his brother. ‘He can beat the other two without trying.’

‘What? surely he doesn't make more noise than they do!’ said Mr. Everard despairingly.

How it was, they could not understand, but silence fell on the company. Even the most talkative wanted to listen now. The piano sounded differently somehow, and though it was an old piece they were listening to—good old music that had been esteemed by their grandparents, and would hold its own for many more generations—that also had a difference to their ears. It had never been rendered to them as it was now.

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‘Yes, that young man is a musician,’ said Professor Crasher. The Professor, whatever his faults might be, was neither vain of his own nor jealous of another's talent.

‘He has no style,’ said Mr. Paul Peters critically.

‘None at all,’ assented a lady friend.

‘None of my pupils, I hope,’ said Mr. Peters, ‘would sit so awkwardly to a piano. He crouches over it.’

‘He can play, though, Mr. Peters,’ said the Professor, overhearing these words. The music ceasing, he marched straight to Randall and solemnly congratulated him. ‘You have done well—excellently,’ he said, ‘I like your playing. I didn't know I should hear music like that when I came here to-night.’

‘Yes; very nice indeed,’ said Mr. Peters, thinking he must speak also if Professor Crasher applauded. ‘I know that piece as well as I know anything. I remember playing it at a concert when I was only just high enough to reach the keys.’

‘Were you encored?’ asked the Professor, with a broad smile.

‘I was, sir,’ said Mr. Peters, with dignity; ‘but on account of my extreme youth, I was not allowed to play more than one piece at a time.’

‘I suppose you play several at a time now,’ said Palmer.

‘I should have said more than one on the same occasion,’ said Mr. Peters, retreating again to his corner.

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It was just about this time that Mrs. Palmer was struck by the ghastly pallor and the startled expression of Professor Crasher's face. He was positively cowering in his little chair, resting his elbows on his knees and supporting his head on the palms of his hands, while staring at Palmer with an intensity of gaze remarkable to behold. Palmer, becoming aware of this, nodded to him, and rising from his seat, came towards him. His approach seemed to fill the professor with dread; he actually shook from head to foot.

‘He must be going to be ill,’ thought Mrs. Palmer. ‘Oh dear! what shall I do if he faints? I'm sure the whole of us put together couldn't carry him out of the room. Everard dear, look at the Professor.’

‘Well, what's the matter with him?’ said Mr. Everard. ‘If he's as tired as I am he may well look strange.’

‘Are the people of New Caledonia very musical, Professor Crasher?’ said Palmer, sitting down close beside the afflicted musician.

The Professor started from his chair, and dropped down upon it again with a force that was severely felt in every part of its wealkly frame.

‘New Caledonia,’ he repeated nervously. ‘I suppose they're like other people.’

‘I thought you might know something about the place,’ said Palmer. ‘I have heard of a gentleman of your name who would go to New Caledonia long page 235 ago, much to the sorrow of his friends. I suppose it wasn't you, for he had not the title of Professor. Perhaps it was a relation, though?’

‘I don't think so,’ said the Professor. ‘I am sure I never had a relative in New Caledonia.’

‘As sly as ever,’ thought Palmer. ‘You haven't been in that charming country yourself?’ he inquired.

‘Well,’ said the Professor, twisting about in his little cane chair, which creaked ominously, ‘you see I am from Boston. That's very far from New Caledonia.’

‘Ah, I suppose it was quite another Crasher I used to hear about,’ said Palmer; ‘but it's a singular coincidence that he should have been so musical. It may interest you to hear a little about him.’

‘Oh, very much,’ said the Professor, almost with a moan. Several others were listening. He felt as if he would have liked to choke Palmer.

‘He was in a humble walk of life,’ said Palmer, ‘but he performed all his duties conscientiously. It was generally acknowledged that no house within twenty miles of town offered better accommodation for travellers than his. Everything clean, comfortable, and cheap, and music gratis from morn till eve, and a good way on towards morning again. He must have had a remarkably fine ear for music: he taught himself; and he knew about a thousand different tunes, and could run them all off the reel without looking at a book. The strangest thing is, page 236 that from the descriptions of those who knew him, I think he must have resembled you very strongly.’

‘Very likely,’ said the Professor, as calmly as he could. ‘What of that? Many persons are alike.’

‘My experience is quite the other way,’ said Palmer. ‘Often and often I have wondered what has become of him. His musical talents may have brought him to eminence. He may be a distinguished man.’

‘Very likely,’ said the Professor again. ‘If he was a true Crasher he would be sure to get on.’

Mrs. Palmer interrupted this dialogue, for which action the Professor felt truly grateful. She besought him to give them some more music Mr. Everard, who desired no more from him, faintly ventured a remark to the effect that they were imposing on the Professor's good nature. The Professor, who wished to escape from Palmer, said ‘Not at all,’ and such haste to get to the piano that he did not see a small table which was before him, and attempting to walk through it instead of past it, threw it down and stumbled over it. He was much abashed by this mischance, and when he attempted to play was attacked by such nervous tremblings that he blundered amongs the keys in a sad way. No one knew what he was playing; he hardly knew himself. Mr. Peters said it was a mazurka, and the time was not at all well-marked. Mrs. Crasher said it was a nocturne of the Professor's own composition, and another lady was certain it was a sonata page 237 of Mozart's. Whatever it was, it was soon over; for the Professor's nervousness getting the mastery of him, he ended with a sort of musical explosion, in which notes flew about in all directions; and rising, abruptly, threw down the music-stool. It was a home-made article of furniture, so of course it had no stamina, and broke immediately.

‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Mrs. Palmer. What a pity—and it was borrow——’

‘Alice, do be quiet,’ said Mr. Everard, stopping her.

‘Catch me coming out to another of these private botherations,’ grumbled the Professor to himself, while picking up the music-stool. Aloud, he said, ‘You must think me a regular behemoth, Mrs. Palmer.’

‘Oh, not at all, Professor Crasher,’ said Mrs. Palmer, wondering what a ‘behemoth’ was.

‘Whatever possessed you to borrow a thing like that?’ inquired Mr. Everard of his wife.

‘How could I tell any one would be so clumsy?’ she answered, pettishly.

The poor Professor looked so distressed that, with the kind intention of comforting him, Mr. Everard asked him to play again. The Professor mildly acquiesced, and was about to sit down to the piano when, to his astonishment, Mr. Paul Peters stepped before him and rattled off some noisy dance music in quick time; so quick that those who would have kept pace with it must needs have been gifted with special agility. Mr. Paul Peters had been asked to page 238 perform by Mrs. Palmer, who was unaware that a similar invitation had just been extended to the Professor by her husband. The Professor buried himself and his woes amongst the soft cushions of the sofa, sitting down on a young lady's fan, and ending its days of usefulness on earth.

Mr. Peters clanged away, and used the pedal, tinkling on the treble notes, and slurring over the bass, till Mr. Everard, saying he could bear it no longer, escaped into the next room, disturbing Bridget Ann and Mrs. Sligo at their post of observation. There was more music yet; for Mrs. Palmer felt that her duty would not be done if any members of the company departed without having fully exercised their talent. The grand culmination of all was a performance by two gentlemen amateurs of a piece so arranged as to try to the utmost the strength and endurance of two pianos. It drove Mr. Everard quite out of the house, and he wandered lonely in the garden till quietness was restored by supper being served.

As Palmer was leaving Professor Crasher laid his large heavy hand on his shoulder, and begged for a few minutes' conversation.

‘It's no use denying it,’ he said. ‘I see you know me.’

‘Certainly. Well, my old friend?’

‘I don't mind about you, but it would do me a lot of harm if even one knew what I've really been. I've no professorship. I never studied at Paris any page 239 more than I ever taught in Boston. But a man must live, Mr. Palmer, and support his family.’

‘So he must, dear Professor; and in the struggles and emergencies of life I daresay a man sometimes finds it convenient to embellish plain truth. I hope you make a good living to repay you for the suffering which, I am sure, these necessary little shams and disguises must inflict on one of your naturally upright disposition.’

‘I tell you what,’ said the Professor, ‘the handle to my name does no one any harm, and it's worth six hundred a year to me at the very least. The people who gladly pay me three guineas a quarter for music lessons wouldn't look in my direction if they knew I was a self-taught man and had never had a distinction of the kind. I've tried music without Professor tacked to my name, and I've tried it with it, and there's an immense difference.’

‘How does Mr. Paul Peters get on without it?’ asked Palmer.

‘Did you never see his little pamphlet containing a hundred and two testimonials from people of distinction? I never printed anything like that and sowed it broadcast through the town. And Crasher really is my name; but I don't think he can say as much for Emmanuel Paul Peters. But I didn't want to talk about Mr. Peters with you. You remember when I left so suddenly I wasn't in very good circumstances, Mr. Palmer.’ The Professor's voice had a tremor in it as he said this, and his usually blooming page 240 complexion was three shades paler. ‘I'm no better off now, whatever people may think. I find it just as much as I can do to make a living. A family of eleven children, Mr. Palmer, calls for great exertions on the part of their parent.’

The Professor was only blessed with four little children, but when speaking of them his memory often played him false. He had been known to magnify their number unto thirteen, and he had also been known, under the pressure of circumstances, to deny their existence altogether. Fortunately they were very quiet children, and were seldom seen.

‘I couldn't pay any of those accounts, Mr. Palmer, I couldn't indeed, without taking the bread away from my poor children.’

‘Professor,’ said Palmer, ‘what do you take me for? Am I a man or a vampire? Whoever asked you to pay them? Eleven children clamouring for bread! You have indeed your quiver full.’

‘Yes, it's a terrible responsibility,’ said the Professor. ‘The thought of that, and of those old debts, which I am sure I shall never be able to pay, keeps me awake at nights.’

‘Well, you can wipe a certain sum of sixty pounds out of the score,’ said Palmer. ‘I shall not take that from your eleven youngsters; and as in a few more months you won't be legally liable for the other amounts, I think you may comfort yourself and sleep in peace. Your creditors are not likely to page 241 trouble you. I believe I'm the only one that knows you're here.’

‘Ah, I always knew you wouldn't be hard on a poor man,’ said the Professor, squeezing Palmer's hand convulsively. He hastened back to Mrs. Crasher, to whom he remarked, as he struggled into his greatcoat, ‘I've made it all right with him, Selina.’ Mrs. Crasher sighed; she was quite dolorous enough to have been the hardworked parent of eleven.

‘Poor old Crasher!’ said Palmer to Randall. ‘He is an awful hypocrite! I am just as ready to believe he has only one child as eleven, and it's quite likely he has a few little nest-eggs somewhere instead of only being able to live. Crasher never could keep to plain truth; it seemed to hurt him when he was tied down to facts.’