Lord Badgery strode up and down in a state of great excitement.
«I can see how this room could be made quite perfect,» he went on. «We’d clear away all these cases and have the whole of that wall filled by a heroic fresco of Hector and Andromache, or ‘Distraining for Rent’, or Fanny Kemble as Belvidera in ‘Venice Preserved’ anything like that, provided it’s in the grand manner of the ‘thirties and ‘forties. And here I’d have a landscape with lovely receding perspectives, or else something architectural and grand in the style of Belshazzar’s feast. Then we’ll have this Adam fireplace taken down and replaced by something Mauro-Gothic. And on these walls I’ll have mirrors, or no! let me see….»
He sank into meditative silence, from which he finally roused himself to shout:
«The old man, the old man! Spode, we must find this astonishing old creature. And don’t breathe a word to anybody. Tillotson shall be our secret. Oh, it’s too perfect, it’s incredible! Think of the frescoes.»
Lord Badgery’s face had become positively animated. He had talked of a single subject for nearly a quarter of an hour.
II
Three weeks later Lord Badgery was aroused from his usual after-luncheon somnolence by the arrival of a telegram. The message was a short one. «Found.—SPODE.» A look of pleasure and intelligence made human Lord Badgery’s clayey face of surfeit. «No answer,» he said. The footman padded away on noiseless feet.
Lord Badgery closed his eyes and began to contemplate. Found! What a room he would have! There would be nothing like it in the world. The frescoes, the fireplace, the mirrors, the ceiling…. And a small, shrivelled old man clambering about the scaffolding, agile and quick like one of those whiskered little monkeys at the Zoo, painting away, painting away…. Fanny Kemble as Belvidera, Hector and Andromache, or why not the Duke of Clarence in the Butt, the Duke of Malmsey, the Butt of Clarence. … Lord Badgery was asleep.
Spode did not lag long behind his telegram. He was at Badgery House by six o’clock. His lordship was in the nineteenth-century chamber, engaged in clearing away with his own hands the bric-à-brac. Spode found him looking hot and out of breath.
«Ah, there you are,» said Lord Badgery. You see me already preparing for the great man’s coming. Now you must tell me all about him.
«He’s older even than I thought,» said Spode. «He’s ninety-seven this year. Born in 1816. Incredible, isn’t it! There, I’m beginning at the wrong end.»
«Begin where you like,» said Badgery genially.
«I won’t tell you all the incidents of the hunt. You’ve no idea what a job I had to run him to earth. It was like a Sherlock Holmes story, immensely elaborate, too elaborate. I shall write a book about it some day. At any rate, I found him at last.»
«Where?»
«In a sort of respectable slum in Holloway, older and poorer and lonelier than you could have believed possible. I found out how it was he came to be forgotten, how he came to drop out of life in the way he did. He took it into his head, somewhere about the ‘sixties, to go to Palestine to get local colour for his religious pictures—scapegoats and things, you know. Well, he went to Jerusalem and then on to Mount Lebanon and on and on, and then, somewhere in the middle of Asia Minor, he got stuck. He got stuck for about forty years.»
«But what did he do all that time?»
«Oh, he painted, and started a mission, and converted three Turks, and taught the local Pashas the rudiments of English, Latin, and perspective, and God knows what else. Then, in about 1904, it seems to have occurred to him that he was getting rather old and had been away from home for rather a long time. So he made his way back to England, only to find that everyone he had known was dead, that the dealers had never heard of him and wouldn’t buy his pictures, that he was simply a ridiculous old figure of fun. So he got a job as a drawing-master in a girl’s school in Holloway, and there he’s been ever since, growing older and older, and feebler and feebler, and blinder and deafer, and generally more gaga, until finally the school has given him the sack. He had about ten pounds in the world when I found him. He lives in a kind of black hole in a basement full of beetles. When his ten pounds are spent, I suppose he’ll just quietly die there.»
Badgery held up a white hand. «No more, no more. I find literature quite depressing enough. I insist that life at least shall be a little gayer. Did you tell him I wanted him to paint my room?»
«But he can’t paint. He’s too blind and palsied.»
«Can’t paint?» Badgery exclaimed in horror. «Then what’s the good of the old creature?»
«Well, if you put it like that….» Spode began.
«I shall never have my frescoes. Ring the bell, will you?»
Spode rang.
«What right has Tillotson to go on existing if he can’t paint?» went on Lord Badgery petulantly. «After all, that was his only justification for occupying a place in the sun.»
«He doesn’t have much sun in his basement.»
The footman appeared at the door.
«Get someone to put all these things back in their places,» Lord Badgery commanded, indicating with a wave of the hand the ravaged cases, the confusion of glass and china with which he had littered the floor, the pictures unhooked. «We’ll go to the library, Spode; it’s more comfortable there.»
He led the way through the long gallery and down the stairs.
«I’m sorry old Tillotson has been such a disappointment,» said Spode sympathetically.
«Let us talk about something else; he ceases to interest me.
«But don’t you think we ought to do something about him? He’s only got ten pounds between him and the workhouse. And if you’d seen the black-beetles in his basement!»
«Enough enough. I’ll do everything you think fitting.»
«I thought we might get up a subscription amongst lovers of the arts.»
«There aren’t any,» said Badgery.
«No; but there are plenty of people who will subscribe out of snobbism.»
«Not unless you give them something for their money.»
«That’s true. I hadn’t thought of that.» Spode was silent for a moment. «We might have a dinner in his honour. The Great Tillotson Banquet. Doyen of the British Art. A Link with the Past.
Can’t you see it in the papers? I’d make a stunt of it in the World’s Review. That ought to bring in the snobs.»
«And we’ll invite a lot of artists and critics—all the ones who can’t stand one another. It will be fun to see them squabbling.» Badgery laughed. Then his face darkened once again. «Still,» he added, «it’ll be a very poor second best to my frescoes. You’ll stay to dinner, of course.»
«Well, since you suggest it. Thanks very much.»
III
The Tillotson Banquet was fixed to take place about three weeks later. Spode, who had charge of the arrangements, proved himself an excellent organiser. He secured the big banqueting-room at the Café Bomba, and was successful in bullying and cajoling the manager into giving fifty persons dinner at twelve shillings a head, including wine. He sent out invitations and collected subscriptions. He wrote an article on Tillotson in the World’s Review—one of those charming, witty articles couched in the tone of amused patronage and contempt with which one speaks of the great men of 1840. Nor did he neglect Tillotson himself. He used to go to Holloway almost every day to listen to the old man’s endless stories about Asia Minor and the Great Exhibition of ’51 and Benjamin Robert Haydon. He was sincerely sorry for this relic of another age.
Mr. Tillotson’s room was about ten feet below the level of the soil of South Holloway. A little grey light percolated through the area bars, forced a difficult passage through panes opaque with dirt, and spent itself, like a drop of milk that falls into an inkpot, among the inveterate shadows of the dungeon. The place was haunted by the spur smell of damp plaster and of woodwork that has begun to moulder secretly at the heart. A little miscellaneous furniture, including a bed, a washstand and chest of drawers, a table and one or two chairs, lurked in the obscure corners of the den or ventured furtively out into the open. Hither Spode now came almost every day, bringing the old man news of the progress of the banquet scheme. Every day he found Mr. Tillotson sitting in the same place under the window, bathing, as it were, in his tiny puddle of light. «The oldest man that ever wore grey hairs,» Spode reflected as he looked at him. Only there were very few hairs left on that bald, unpolished head. At the sound of the visitor’s knock Mr. Tillotson would turn in his chair, stare in the direction of the door with blinking, uncertain eyes. He was always full of apologies for being so slow in recognising who was there.
«No discourtesy meant,» he would say, after asking. «It’s not as if I had forgotten who you were. Only it’s so dark and my sight isn’t what it was.»
After that he never failed to give a little laugh, and, pointing out of the window at the area
