Jacob's Ladder Read online

  JACOB'S LADDER

  by

  E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

  With Frontispiece by F. Vaux Wilson

  BostonLittle, Brown, and Company1921

  Copyright, 1921,By Little, Brown, and Company.

  All rights reserved

  Published February, 1921

  The Colonial PressC. H. Simonds Co., Boston, U. S. A.

  "I AM OBLIGED TO YOU ALL FOR PUTTING UP WITH MYCOMPANY FOR SO LONG." FRONTISPIECE. _See page 17._]

  JACOB'S LADDER

  PROLOGUE

  Seated at breakfast on that memorable July morning, Jacob Prattpresented all the appearance of a disconsolate man. His little countrysitting-room was as neat and tidy as the capable hands of theinimitable Mrs. Harris could make it. His coffee was hot and his eggswere perfectly boiled. Through the open windows stretched a littlevista of the many rows of standard roses which had been the joy of hislife. Yet blank misery dwelt in the soul of this erstwhile cheerfullittle man, and the spirit of degradation hung like a gloomy pall overhis thoughts and being. Only the day before he had filed his petitionin bankruptcy.

  The usual morning programme was carried out, only, alas! in differentfashion. Five and twenty minutes before the departure of the train,Mrs. Harris--but not the Mrs. Harris of customary days--presentedherself, bearing his hat and stick. Her cheerful smile had departed.There were traces of something very much like tears in her eyes. Shecarried a small article in her hand, which she spent most of the timetrying to conceal behind her apron.

  "You'll be home at the usual time, sir?" she asked.

  "So far as I know, Mrs. Harris," was the listless reply.

  His landlady looked at the practically undisturbed breakfast table andgathered strength of purpose.

  "Me and Harris, sir," she declared, "we offers our respects and wehopes nothing ain't going to be changed here."

  "You are very good--both of you," Jacob said, with a weak smile. "Forthe present I don't think that I could live cheaper anywhere else,nor, I am sure, as comfortably. I have had quite a decent situationoffered me. The only thing is I may be away a little more."

  "That's good news, sir, anyway," the woman replied heartily. "I meanto say," she added, "it's good news about your staying on here. And meand Harris," she went on, "having no children, so to speak, and youhaving paid liberal and regular for the last four years, we seem tohave a bit of money we've no use for," she added, producing at lastthat bulging purse, "and we thought maybe you might do us thehonour--"

  Jacob took her by the shoulders and shook her.

  "For God's sake, don't, Mrs. Harris!" he broke in. "If I want it, I'llcome to you. And--God bless you!"

  Whereupon he picked up his hat and stick, stepped through the openFrench window, cut a rose for his buttonhole as usual, and started onhis purgatorial walk, making a tremendous effort to look as thoughnothing had happened.

  That walk, alas! surpassed his worst imaginings. Jacob Pratt was asensitive little man, notwithstanding his rotund body, his freshcomplexion and humorous mouth; and all the way from his modest abodeto the railway station, he was a prey to fancies which were in somecases, without a doubt, founded upon fact. Mr. Gregson, the manager ofthe International Stores, at the passing of his discredited customerhad certainly retreated from his position on the threshold of hisshop, usual at that hour of the morning, and disclosed a morbid butabsorbing interest in a tub of margarine. The greengrocer's wife hadlooked at him reproachfully from behind a heap of cooking apples, andher response to his diffident greeting was accompanied by a sorrowfulwag of the head. The newspaper boy at the entrance to the station hadextended his _Express_ almost doubtfully and had clutched withsignificant caution at the copper coin tendered in exchange for it.The station master had answered his "Good morning" without troublingto turn his head, and the ticket collector had yawned as he movedaway from the barrier. Each one of these incidents, trifling thoughthey were in themselves, had been like pinpricks of humiliation to thelittle man whose geniality had been almost a byword.

  The worst trial of all, however, arrived when Jacob entered thecarriage in which he had been accustomed, for six days out of seven,to make his journey to the city. As usual, it was occupied by two men,strangers to him commercially, but with whom he had developed a verypleasant acquaintance; Mr. Stephen Pedlar, the well-known accountantto the trade in which Jacob was interested; Mr. Lionel Groome, whoselife was spent in a strenuous endeavour to combine the two avocationsof man of fashion and liquid glue manufacturer; and--Mr. EdwardBultiwell, of Bultiwell and Sons, Bermondsey, his former condescendingpatron and occasional host, now, alas! his largest creditor. Theporter, being for the first time unaccountably absent, Jacob wascompelled to open the door for himself, thereby rendering his nervousentrance more self-conscious than ever. He found himself confrontedand encircled by a solid wall of newspapers, stumbled over anoutstretched foot, relapsed into the vacant place and lookedhelplessly around him. A kind word just then might not have helped thelump in Jacob's throat, but it would certainly have brought a fortunein later life to any one who had uttered it.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," the newcomer ventured.

  There was a muttered response from either side of him,--none from theaugust figure in the opposite corner. Jacob fingered with tentativewistfulness the very choice rose which he was wearing in hisbuttonhole. Perhaps he ought not to have plucked and worn it. Perhapsit ought not to have opened its soft, sweet petals for an owner whowas dwelling in the Valley of Impecunious Disgrace. Perhaps he oughtto have ended there and then the good-natured rivalry of years andoffered the cherished blossom to his silent creditor in the corner,in place of the very inferior specimen which adorned the lapel ofthe great man's coat. Even in that moment of humiliation, Jacob felta little thrill of triumph at the thought of Mr. Bultiwell's threegardeners. It took more than gardeners to grow such a rose as hewas wearing. He liked to fancy that it took personal care, personalsympathy, personal love. The sweetest and rarest flowers must havetheir special atmosphere.

  Quite suddenly Mr. Edward Bultiwell laid down his _Times_ and glaredacross at Jacob. He was a large man, with an ugly red face, a neckwhich hung over his collar in rolls, and a resonant voice. Directlyhe began to speak, Jacob began to shiver.

  "Pratt," he said, "am I to understand that the greeting which youoffered to the occupants of this carriage, when you entered, wasintended to include me?"

  "I--I certainly meant it to," was the tremulous reply.

  "Then let me beg that such a liberty be not repeated," Mr. Bultiwellcontinued brutally. "I look upon a man who has compounded with hiscreditors as a person temporarily, at any rate, outside the paleof converse with his fellows on--er--equal terms. I look upon yourpresence in a first-class carriage, wearing a floral adornment,"Mr. Bultiwell added, with a jealous glance at the very beautifulrose, "which is, to say the least of it, conspicuous, as--er--animpertinence to those who have had the misfortune to suffer fromyour insolvency."

  The healthy colour faded from Jacob's cheeks. He had the air of onestricken by a lash--dazed for the moment and bewildered.

  "My rose cost me nothing," he faltered, "and my season ticket doesn'texpire till next month. I must go up to the City. My help isneeded--with the books."

  Mr. Bultiwell shook his paper preparatory to disappearing behind it.

  "Your presence here may be considered a matter of taste," he firedoff, as a parting shot. "I call it damned bad taste!"

  Mr. Jacob Pratt sat like a hurt thing till the train stopped at thenext station. Then he stumbled out on to the platform, and, makinghis way through an unaccountable mist, he climbed somehow or otherinto a third-class carriage. Richard Dauncey, the melancholy man wholived in the cottage opposite to his, looked up at the newcomer'sentrance, and, for
the first time within his recollection, Jacob sawhim smile.

  "Good morning, Mr. Pratt," the former said, with a strenuous attemptat cordiality. "If you'll excuse my saying so, that's the finest roseI've ever seen in my life."

  Richard Dauncey made his fortune by that speech--and Jacob had toswallow very hard and look very fixedly out of the window.