The Good Comrade | Page 3

They did not often have a fire there; a paraffin lamp stove stood in the
fire-place, leering with its red eye as if it took a wicked satisfaction in
its own smell. Before the fire-place, re-reading the already-known
newspaper by the light of one gas jet, sat Johnny Gillat. Poor old

Johnny, with his round, pink face, whereon a grizzled little moustache
looked as much out of place as on a twelve-year-old school-boy. There
was something of the school-boy in his look and in his deprecating
manner, especially to Mrs. Polkington; he had always been a little
deprecating to her even when he had first known her, a bride, while he
himself was the wealthy bachelor friend of her husband. He was still a
bachelor, and still her husband's friend, but the wealth had gone long
ago. He had now only just enough to keep him, fortunately so secured
that he could not touch the principal. It was a mercy he had it, for there
was no known work at which he could have earned sixpence, unless
perhaps it was road scraping under a not too exacting District Council.
He was a harmless enough person, but when he took it into his head to
leave his lodgings in town for others, equally cheap and nasty, at
Marbridge, Mrs. Polkington felt fate was hard upon her. It was like
having two Captain Polkingtons, of a different sort, but equally
unsuitable for public use, in the place. In self defence she had been
obliged to make definite rules for Mr. Gillat's coming and going about
the house, and still more definite rules as to the rooms in which he
might be found. The dining-room was allowed him, and there he was
when Julia came.
He looked up as she entered, and smiled; he regarded her as almost as
much his friend as her father; a composite creature, and a necessary
connection between the superior and inferior halves of the household.
"Father not in, I hear," he said.
"No," Julia answered. "What a smell there is!"
Mr. Gillat allowed it. "There's something gone wrong with Bouquet,"
he said, thoughtfully regarding the stove.
The "Bouquet Heater" was the name under which it was patented; it did
not seem quite honest to speak of it as a heater, so perhaps "Bouquet"
was the better name.
Julia went to it. "I should think there is," she said, and turned it up, and
turn it down, and altered the wicks, until she had improved matters a

little.
"I'm afraid your father's having larks," Johnny said, watching her.
"It's rather a pity if he is," Julia answered; "he has got to see some one
on business to-morrow."
"Who?"
"Mr. Frazer, a clergyman who wants to marry Violet."
Mr. Gillat sat upright. "Dear, dear!" he exclaimed. "No? Really?" and
when Julia had given him an outline of the circumstances, he added
softly, "A wonderful woman! I always had a great respect for your
mother." From which it is clear he thought Mrs. Polkington was to be
congratulated. "And when is it to be?" he asked.
"Violet says a year's time; they could not afford to marry sooner and do
it properly, but it will have to be sooner all the same."
"A year is not a very long time," Mr. Gillat observed; "they go fast,
years; one almost loses count of them, they go so fast."
"I dare say," Julia answered, "but Violet will have to get married
without waiting for the year to pass. We can't afford a long
engagement."
Mr. Gillat looked mildly surprised and troubled; he always did when
scarcity of money was brought home to him, but Julia regarded it quite
calmly.
"The sooner Violet is married," she said, "the sooner we can reduce
some of the expenses; we are living beyond our income now--not a
great deal, perhaps, still a bit; Violet's going would save enough, I
believe; we could catch up then. That is one reason, but the chief is that
a long engagement is expensive; you see, we should have to have meals
different, and fires different, and all manner of extras if Mr. Frazer
came in and out constantly. We should have to live altogether in a more

expensive style; we might manage it for three months, or six if we were
driven to it, but for a year--it is out of the question."
"But," Mr. Gillat protested, "if they can't afford it? You said he could
not; he is a curate."
"He must get a living, or a chaplaincy, or something; or rather, I expect
we must get it for him. Oh, no, we have no Church influence, and we
don't know any bishops; but one can always rake up influence, and get
to know people, if one is not too particular how."