"No!" exclaimed Peter. "How did you manage it?"
"Asked him for it," was Tommy's explanation.
"Very odd," mused Peter; "asked the old idiot for it myself only last week. He refused it point-blank."
Clodd snorted reproof. "You know I don't like your doing that sort of thing. It isn't proper for a young girl--"
"It's all right," assured him Tommy; "he's bald!"
"That makes no difference," was Clodd's opinion.
"Yes it does," was Tommy's. "I like them bald."
Tommy took Peter's head between her hands and kissed it, and in doing so noticed the tell-tale specks of snuff.
"Just a pinch, my dear," explained Peter, "the merest pinch."
Tommy took up the snuff-box from the desk. "I'll show you where I'm going to put it this time." She put it in her pocket. Peter's face fell.
"What do you think of it?" said Clodd. He led her to the corner. "Good idea, ain't it?"
"Why, where's the piano?" demanded Tommy.
Clodd turned in delighted triumph to the others.
"Humbug!" growled Peter.
"It isn't humbug," cried Clodd indignantly. "She thought it was a bookcase--anybody would. You'll be able to sit there and practise by the hour," explained Clodd to Tommy. "When you hear anybody coming up the stairs, you can leave off."
"How can she hear anything when she--" A bright idea occurred to Peter. "Don't you think, Clodd, as a practical man," suggested Peter insinuatingly, adopting the Socratic method, "that if we got her one of those dummy pianos--you know what I mean; it's just like an ordinary piano, only you don't hear it?"
Clodd shook his head. "No good at all. Can't tell the effect she is producing."
"Quite so. Then, on the other hand, Clodd, don't you think that hearing the effect they are producing may sometimes discourage the beginner?"
Clodd's opinion was that such discouragement was a thing to be battled with.
Tommy, who had seated herself, commenced a scale in contrary motion.
"Well, I'm going across to the printer's now," explained Clodd, taking up his hat. "Got an appointment with young Grindley at three. You stick to it. A spare half-hour now and then that you never miss does wonders. You've got it in you." With these encouraging remarks to Tommy, Clodd disappeared.
"Easy for him," muttered Peter bitterly. "Always does have an appointment outside the moment she begins."
Tommy appeared to be throwing her very soul into the performance. Passers-by in Crane Court paused, regarded the first-floor windows of the publishing and editorial offices of Good Humour with troubled looks, then hurried on.
"She has--remarkably firm douch!" shouted the doctor into Peter's ear. "Will see you--evening. Someting--say to you."
The fat little doctor took his hat and departed. Tommy, ceasing suddenly, came over and seated herself on the arm of Peter's chair.
"Feeling grumpy?" asked Tommy.
"It isn't," explained Peter, "that I mind the noise. I'd put up with that if I could see the good of it."
"It's going to help me to get a husband, dad. Seems to me an odd way of doing it; but Billy says so, and Billy knows all about everything."
"I can't understand you, a sensible girl, listening to such nonsense," said Peter. "It's that that troubles me."
"Dad, where are your wits?" demanded Tommy. "Isn't Billy acting like a brick? Why, he could go into Fleet Street to half a dozen other papers and make five hundred a year as advertising-agent--you know he could. But he doesn't. He sticks to us. If my making myself ridiculous with that tin pot they persuaded him was a piano is going to please him, isn't it common sense and sound business, to say nothing of good nature and gratitude, for me to do it? Dad, I've got a surprise for him. Listen." And Tommy, springing from the arm of Peter's chair, returned to the piano.
"What was it?" questioned Tommy, having finished. "Could you recognise it?"
"I think," said Peter, "it sounded like-- It wasn't 'Home, Sweet Home,' was it?"
Tommy clapped her hands. "Yes, it was. You'll end by liking it yourself, dad. We'll have musical 'At Homes.'"
"Tommy, have I brought you up properly, do you think?"
"No dad, you haven't. You have let me have my own way too much. You know the proverb: 'Good mothers make bad daughters.' Clodd's right; you've spoilt me, dad. Do you remember, dad, when I first came to you, seven years ago, a ragged little brat out of the streets, that didn't know itself whether 'twas a boy or a girl? Do you know what I thought to myself the moment I set eyes on you? 'Here's a soft old juggins; I'll be all right if I can get in here!' It makes you smart, knocking about in the gutters and being knocked about; you read faces quickly."
"Do you remember your cooking, Tommy? You 'had an aptitude for it,' according to your own idea."
Tommy laughed. "I wonder how you stood it."
"You were so obstinate. You came to me as 'cook and housekeeper,' and as cook and housekeeper, and as nothing else, would you remain. If I suggested any change, up would go your chin into the air. I dared not even dine out too often, you were such a little tyrant. The only thing you were always ready to do, if I wasn't satisfied, was to march out of the house and leave me. Wherever did you get that savage independence of yours?"
"I don't know. I think it must have been from a woman--perhaps she was my mother; I don't know--who used to sit up in the bed and cough, all night it seemed to me. People would come to see us--ladies in fine clothes, and gentlemen with oily hair. I think they wanted to help us. Many of them had kind voices. But always a hard look would come into her face, and she would tell them what even then I knew to be untrue--it was one of the first things I can recollect--that we had everything we wanted, that we needed no help from anyone. They would go away, shrugging their shoulders. I grew up with the feeling that seemed to have been burnt into my brain, that to take from anybody anything you had not earned was shameful. I don't think I could do it even now, not even from you. I am useful to you, dad--I do help you?"
There had crept a terror into Tommy's voice. Peter felt the little hands upon his arm trembling.
"Help me? Why, you work like a nigger--like a nigger is supposed to work, but doesn't. No one--whatever we paid him--would do half as much. I don't want to make your head more swollen than it is, young woman, but you have talent; I am not sure it is not genius." Peter felt the little hands tighten upon his arm.
"I do want this paper to be a success; that is why I strum upon the piano to please Clodd. Is it humbug?"
"I am afraid it is; but humbug is the sweet oil that helps this whirling world of ours to spin round smoothly. Too much of it cloys: we drop it very gently."
"But you are sure it is only humbug, Tommy?" It was Peter's voice into which fear had entered now. "It is not that you think he understands you better than I do--would do more for you?"
"You want me to tell you all I think of you, and that isn't good for you, dad--not too often. It would be you who would have swelled head then."
"I am jealous, Tommy, jealous of everyone that comes near you. Life is a tragedy for us old folks. We know there must come a day when you will leave the nest, leave us voiceless, ridiculous, flitting among bare branches. You will understand later, when you have children of your own. This foolish talk about a husband! It is worse for a man than it is for the woman. The mother lives again in her child: the man is robbed of all."
"Dad, do you know how old I am?--that you are talking terrible nonsense?"
"He will come, little girl."
"Yes," answered Tommy, "I suppose he will; but not for a long while--oh, not for a very long while. Don't. It frightens me."
"You? Why should it frighten you?"
"The pain. It makes me feel a coward. I want it to come; I want to taste life, to drain the whole cup, to understand, to feel. But that is the boy in me. I am more than half a boy, I always have been. But the woman in me: it shrinks from the ordeal."