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Double Life Of Mr. Alfred Burton

<h5 id="id01347">ANOTHER COMPLICATION</h5> There came a time when Burton finished his novel. He wrapped it up very carefully in brown paper and set out to call upon his friend the sub-editor. He gained his sanctum without any particular trouble and was warmly greeted. "Why haven't you brought us anything lately?" the sub-editor asked. Burton tapped the parcel which he was carrying. "I have written a novel," he said. The sub-editor was not in the least impressed—in fact he shook his head. "There are too many novels," he declared. "I am afraid," Burton replied, "that there will have to be one more, or else I must starve." "Why have you brought it here, anyhow?" "I thought you might tell me what to do with it," Burton answered, diffidently. The sub-editor sighed and drew a sheet of note-paper towards him. He wrote a few lines and put them in an envelope. "There is a letter of introduction to a publisher," he explained. "Frankly, I don't think it is worth the paper it is written on. Nowadays, novels are published or not, either according to their merit or the possibility of their appealing to the public taste." Burton looked at the address. "Thank you very much," he said. "I will take this in myself." "When are you going to bring us something?" the sub-editor inquired. "I am going home to try and write something now," Burton replied. "It is either that or the pawnshop." The sub-editor nodded. "Novels are all very well for amusement," he said, "but they don't bring in bread and cheese. Come right up to me as soon as you've got something." Burton left his novel at the address which the sub-editor had given him, and went back to his lodgings. He let himself in with a latchkey. The caretaker of the floor bustled up to him as he turned towards the door of his room. "Don't know that I've done right, sir," she remarked, doubtfully. "There was a young person here, waiting about to see you, been waiting the best part of an hour. I let her into your sitting-room." "Any name?" Burton asked. The caretaker looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "Said she was your wife, sir. Sorry if I've done wrong. It came over me afterwards that I'd been a bit rash." Burton threw open the door of his sitting-room and closed it quickly behind him. It was indeed Ellen who was sitting in the most uncomfortable chair, with her arms folded, in an attitude of grim but patient resignation. She was still wearing the hat with the wing, the mauve scarf, the tan shoes, and the velveteen gown. A touch of the Parisienne, however, was supplied to her costume by a black veil dotted over with purple spots. Her taste in perfumes was obviously unaltered. "Ellen!" he exclaimed. "Well?" she replied. As a monosyllabic start to a conversation, Ellen's "Well?" created difficulties. Instead of his demanding an explanation, she was doing it. Burton was conscious that his opening was not brilliant. "Why, this is quite a surprise!" he said. "I had no idea you were here." "Dare say not," she answered. "Didn't know I was coming myself till I found myself on the doorstep. Kind of impulse, I suppose. What have you been doing to little Alf?" Burton looked at her in bewilderment. "Doing to the boy?" he repeated. "I haven't seen him since I saw you last." "That's all very well for a tale," Ellen replied, "but you're not going to tell me that he's come into these ways naturally." "What ways?" Burton exclaimed. "My dear Ellen, you must be a little more explicit. I tell you that I have not seen the child since I was at Garden Green. I am utterly ignorant of anything which may have happened to him." Ellen remained entirely unconvinced. "There's things about," she declared, "which I don't understand nor don't want to. First of all you go dotty. Now the same sort of thing seems to have come to little Alf, and what I want to know is what you mean by it? It's all rubbish for you to expect me to believe that he's taken to this naturally." Burton put his hand to his head for a moment. "Go on," he said. "Unless you tell me what has happened to Alfred, I cannot even attempt to help you." "Well, I'll tell you fast enough," Ellen assured him, "though you needn't take that for a proof that I believe what you say. He's been a changed child ever since you were down last. Came home from the school and complained about the other boys not washing properly. Wanted a bath every day, and made me buy him a new toothbrush. Brushes his hair and washes his hands every time he goes out. Took a dislike to his tie and burned it. Plagued me to death till I got him a new suit of clothes—plain, ugly things, too, he would have. He won't have nothing to do with his friends, chucked playing marbles or hopscotch, and goes out in the country, picking flowers. Just to humor him, the first lot he brought home I put in one of those vases that ma brought us from Yarmouth, and what do you think he did?—threw the vase out of the window and bought with his own pocket money a plain china bowl." Burton listened in blank amazement. As yet the light had not come. "Go on," he murmured. "Anything else?" "Up comes his master a few days ago," Ellen continued. "Fairly scared me to death. Said the boy showed signs of great talent in drawing. Talent in drawing, indeed! I'll give him talent! Wanted me to have him go to night school and pay for extra lessons. Said he thought the boy would turn out an artist. Nice bit of money there is in that!" "What did you tell him?" Burton asked. "I told him to stop putting silly ideas into the child's head," Ellen replied. "We don't want to make no artist of Alfred. Into an office he's got to go as soon as he's passed his proper standard, and that's what I told his schoolmaster. Calling Alf a genius, indeed!" "Is this all that's troubling you?" Burton inquired calmly. "All?" Ellen cried. "Bless my soul, as though it wasn't enough! A nice harmless boy as ever was until that day that you came down. You don't seem to understand. He's like a little old man. Chooses his words, corrects my grammar, keeps himself so clean you can almost smell the soap. What I say is that it isn't natural in a child of his age." Burton smiled. "Well, really," he said, "I don't see anything to worry about in what you have told me." "Don't you!" Ellen replied. "Well, just you listen to me and answer my question. I left Alf alone with you while I changed my—while I looked after the washing the day you came, and what I want to know is, did you give him one of those things that you talked to me about?" "I certainly did not," Burton answered. Then a light broke in upon him. Ellen saw the change in his face. "Well, what is it?" she asked sharply. "I can see you know all about it." "There were the two beans you threw out of the window," he said. "He must have picked up one." "Beans, indeed!" Ellen replied, scornfully. "Do you mean to tell me that a bean would work all this mischief in the child?" "I happen to know that it would." "Comes of picking up things in the street!" Ellen exclaimed. "I'll give it him when I get back, I will!" "You must forgive me," Burton said, "but I really don't see what you have to complain about. From what you tell me, I should consider the boy very much improved." "Improved!" Ellen repeated. "An unnatural little impudent scallywag of a child! You don't think I want a schoolmaster in knickerbockers about the place all the time? Found fault with my clothes yesterday, hid some of the ornaments in the parlor, and I caught him doing a sketch of a woman the other day with not a shred of clothes on. Said it was a copy of some statue in the library. It may be your idea of how a boy nine years old should go on, but it isn't mine, and that's straight." Burton sighed. "My dear Ellen," he said, "we do not look at this matter from the same point of view, but fortunately as you will say, unfortunately from my point of view, the change in Alfred is not likely to prove lasting. You will find in another few weeks that he will be himself again." "Don't believe it," Ellen declared. "He's as set in his ways now as a little old man." Burton shook his head. "It won't last, I know it." "Lasts with you all right!" she snapped. Burton opened his little silver box. "It lasts with me only as long as these little beans last," he replied. "You see, I have only two left. When they are gone, I shall be back again." "If you think," Ellen exclaimed, "that you're going to march into Clematis Villa just when you feel like it, and behave as though nothing has happened, all I can say, my man, is that you're going to be disappointed! You've kept away so long you can keep away for good. We can do without you, me and Alf." Burton still held the box in his hand. "I suppose," he ventured slowly, "I couldn't persuade you to take one?" Ellen rose to her feet. She threw the scarf around her neck, buttoned her gloves, and shook out her skirt. She picked up the satchel which she had been carrying and prepared to depart. "If you say anything more to me about your beastly beans," she said, "I'll lose my temper, and that's straight. Can you tell me how to bring little Alf to himself again? That's all I want to know." "Time will do that, unfortunately," Burton assured her. "Where is he this afternoon? "It's his half-holiday," Ellen replied, in a tone of disgust, "and where do you think he's gone? Gone to a museum to look at some statues! The schoolmaster called for him. They've gone off together. All I can say is that if he don't turn natural again before long, you can have him. He don't belong to me no longer." "I am willing to take the responsibility," Burton replied, "if it is necessary. Will you let me give you some tea?" "I want nothing from you except my weekly money that the law provides for," Ellen answered fiercely. "You can keep your tea. And mind what I say, too. It's no use coming down to Clematis Villa and talking about the effect of the bean having worn off and being yourself again. You seem pretty comfortable here and you can stay here until I'm ready for you. Oh, bother holding the door open!" she added, angrily. "I hate such tricks! Get out of the way and let me pass. I can let myself out. More fool me for coming! I might have known you'd have nothing sensible to say." "I'm afraid," Burton admitted, "that we do rather look at this matter from different points of view, but, as I told you before, you will find very soon that Alfred will be just the same as he used to be." "If he don't alter," Ellen declared, looking back from the door, "you'll find him here one day by Carter Patterson's, with a label around his neck. I'm not one for keeping children about the place that know more than their mothers. I give him another three weeks, and not a day longer. What do you think was the last thing he did? Went and had his hair cut—wanted to get rid of his curl, he said." "I can't blame him for that," Burton remarked, smiling. "I never thought it becoming. Will you shake hands, Ellen, before you go?" "I won't!" she replied, drawing up her skirt in genteel fashion. "I want nothing to do with you. Only, if he don't alter, well, just you look out, for you'll find him on your doorstep." She departed in a "Lily of the Valley" scent and little fragments of purple fluff. Burton threw himself into an easy-chair. "If one could only find the tree," he muttered to himself. "What a life for the boy! Poor little chap!" <h3 id="id01427" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXI</h3> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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