The Just Men of Cordova/Chapter 6
The Policeman and a Lady
Frank Fellowe was agitating a punch-ball in one of the upper rooms of his little cottage, and with good reason.
He was “taking out” of the ball all the grievances he had against the petty irritants of life.
Sergeant Gurden had bothered him with a dozen and one forms of petty annoyance. He had been given the least congenial of jobs; he had been put upon melancholy point work; and he seemed to be getting more than his share of extra duty. And, in addition, he had the extra worry of checking, at the same time, the work of Black’s organization. He might, had he wished, put away all the restrictions which hampered his movements, but that was not his way. The frustration of Black’s plans was one of Frank’s absorbing passions. If he had other passions which threatened to be equally absorbing, he had the sense to check them—for a while—
The daughter of a millionaire, violently introduced, subsequently met with heart-flutterings on the one side and not a little perturbation on the other; her gratitude and admiration began on a wayward two-seater with defective brakes, and progressed by way of the Zoo, for which she sent him a Sunday ticket—for she was anxious to see just what he was like.
She went in some fear of disillusionment, because an heroic constable in uniform, whose face is neatly arranged by helmet-peak and chin-strap, may be less heroic in clothes of his own choosing, to say nothing of cravats and shoes.
But she braced herself for the humiliation of discovering that one who could save her life could also wear a ready-made tie. She was terribly self-conscious, kept to the unfrequented walks of the Zoo, and was found by a very good-looking gentleman who was dressed irreproachably in something that suggested neither the butcher’s boy at a beanfeast nor a plumber at a funeral.
She showed him the inmates of exactly two cages, then he took her in hand and told her things about wild beasts that she had never known before. He showed her the subtle distinction between five varieties of lynx, and gave her little anecdotes of the jungle fellowship that left her breathless with admiration. Moreover, he took her to the most unlikely places—to rooms where the sick and lame of the animal kingdom were nursed to health. It would appear that there was no need to have sent him the ticket, because he was a Fellow of the Society. There was too much to be seen on one day.
She went again and yet again; rode with him over Hampstead Heath in the early hours of the morning. She gathered that he jobbed his horse, yet it was not always the same animal he rode.
“How many horses have you in your stable?” she asked banteringly one morning.
“Six,” he said readily. “You see,” he added hastily, “I do a lot of hunting in the season—”
He stopped, realizing that he was further in the mire.
“But you are a constable—a policeman!” she stammered. “I mean—forgive me if I’m rude.”
He turned in his saddle, and there was a twinkle in his eye.
“I have a little money of my own,” he said. “You see, I have only been a constable for twelve months; previous to that I—I wasn’t a constable!”
He was not very lucid: by this time he was apparently embarrassed, and she changed the subject, wondering and absurdly pleased.
It was inconsistent of her to realize after the ride that these meetings were wrong. They were wrong before, surely? Was it worse to ride with a man who had revealed himself to be a member of one’s own class than with a policeman? Nevertheless, she knew it was wrong and met him—and that is where Constable Fellowe and Miss Sandford became “May” and “Frank” to one another. There had been nothing clandestine in their meetings.
Theodore Sandford, a hard-headed man, was immensely democratic. He joked about May’s policeman, made ponderous references to stolen visits to his palatial kitchen in search of rabbit-pie, and then there arose from a jesting nothing the question of Frank’s remaining in the force. He had admitted that he had independent means. Why remain a ridiculous policeman? From jest it had passed into a very serious discussion and the presentation of an ultimatum, furiously written, furiously posted, and as furiously regretted.
Theodore Sandford looked up from his writing-table with an amused smile.
“So you’re really angry with your policeman, are you?” he asked.
But it was no joke to the girl. Her pretty face was set determinedly.
“Of course,” she shrugged her pretty shoulders, “Mr. Fellowe can do as he wishes—I have no authority over him”—this was not true—“but one is entitled to ask of one’s friends—”
There were tears of mortification in her eyes, and Sandford dropped his banter. He looked at the girl searchingly, anxiously. Her mother had died when May was a child; he was ever on the look-out for some sign of the fell disease which carried off the woman who had been his all.
“Dearest!” he said tenderly “you mustn’t be worried or bothered by your policeman; I’m sure he’d do anything in the world for you, if he is only half a human man. You aren’t looking well,” he said anxiously.
She smiled. “I’m tired to-night, daddy,” she said, putting her arm about his neck.
“You’re always tired nowadays,” he said. “Black thought so the other day when he saw you. He recommended a very clever doctor—I’ve got his address somewhere.”
She shook her head with vigour. “I don’t want to see doctors,” she said decidedly.
“But—”
“Please—please!” she pleaded, laughing now. “You mustn’t!”
There was a knock at the door and a footman came in. “Mr. Fellowe, madam,” he announced.
The girl looked round quickly. “Where is he?” she asked. Her father saw the pink in her cheeks and shook his head doubtingly.
“He is in the drawing-room,” said the man.
“I’ll go down, daddy.” She turned to her father.
He nodded. “I think you’ll find he’s fairly tractable—by the way, the man is a gentleman.”
“A gentleman, daddy!” she answered with lofty scorn, “of course he’s a gentleman!”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it,” said Mr. Theodore Sandford humbly.
Frank was reading her letter—the letter which had brought him to her—when she came in. He took her hand and held it for a fraction of a second, then he came straight to the point. It was hard enough, for never had she so appealed to him as she did this night.
There are some women whose charms are so elusive, whose beauty is so unordinary in character, as to baffle adequate description. May Sandford was one of these. No one feature goes to the making of a woman, unless, indeed, it be her mouth. There is something in the poise of the head, in the method of arranging the hair, in the clearness and peach-like bloom of the complexion, in the carriage of the shoulders, the suppleness of the body, the springy tread—each characteristic furnished something to the beautiful whole.
May Sandford was a beautiful girl. She had been a beautiful child, and had undergone none of the transition from prettiness to plainness, from beauty to awkwardness. It was as though the years had each contributed their quota to the creation of the perfect woman.
“Surely,” he said, “you do not mean this? That is not your view?” He held out her letter. She bent her head.
“I think it would be best,” she said in a low tone. “I don’t think we shall agree very well on—on things. You’ve been rather horrid lately, Mr. Fellowe.”
His face was very pale. “I don’t remember that I have been particularly horrid,” he said quietly.
“It is impossible for you to remain a policeman,” she went on tremulously. She went up to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. “Don’t you see—even papa jokes about it, and it’s horrid. I’m sure the servants talk—and I’m not a snob really—”
Frank threw back his head and laughed.
“Can’t you see, dearie, that I should not be a policeman if there was not excellent reason? I am doing this work because I have promised my superior that I would do it.”
“But—but,” she said, bewildered, “if you left the force you would have no superior.”
“I cannot give up my work,” he said simply. He thought a moment, then shook his head slowly. “You ask me to break my word,” he said. “You ask me to do greater mischief than that which I am going to undo. You wouldn’t you couldn’t, impose that demand upon me.”
She drew back a little, her head raised, pouting ever so slightly. “I see,” she said, “you would not.” She held out her hand. “I shall never ask you to make another sacrifice.”
He took her hand, held it tightly a moment, then let it drop. Without another word the girl left the room. Frank waited a moment, hoping against hope that she would repent. The door remained closed.
He left the house with an overwhelming sense of depression.