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Not George Washington
By
P.G. Wodehouse
Contents
PART
ONE - Miss Margaret Goodwin's Narrative.
Chapter
2 - JAMES SETS OUT (Miss Margaret Goodwin's narrative continued)
Chapter
3 - A HARMLESS DECEPTION (Miss Margaret Goodwin's narrative continued
PART
TWO - James Orlebar Cloyster's Narrative.
Chapter
1 - THE INVASION OF BOHEMIA
Chapter
2 - I EVACUATE BOHEMIA (James Orlebar Cloister's narrative continued
Chapter
3 - THE ORB (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
4 - JULIAN EVERSLEIGH (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
5 - THE COLUMN (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
6 - NEW YEAR'S EVE (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
8 - I MEET THE REV. JOHN HATTON (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continu=
ed)
Chapter
10 - TOM BLAKE AGAIN (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
11 - JULIAN'S IDEA (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
12 - THE FIRST GHOST (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
13 - THE SECOND GHOST (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
14 - THE THIRD GHOST (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
15 - EVA EVERSLEIGH (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
16 - I TELL JULIAN (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
17 - A GHOSTLY GATHERING
Chapter
18 - ONE IN THE EYE (Sidney Price's narrative continued).
Chapter
19 - IN THE SOUP (Sidney Price's narrative continued).
Chapter
20 - NORAH WINS HOME (Sidney Price's narrative continued)
Chapter
21 - THE TRANSPOSITION OF SENTIMENT.
Chapter
22 - A CHAT WITH JAMES (Julian Eversleigh's narrative continued)
Chapter
23 - IN A HANSOM (Julian Eversleigh's narrative continued)
Chapter
24 - A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS
Chapter
25 - BRIGGS TO THE RESCUE (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Chapter
26 - MY TRIUMPH (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
PART ONE - Miss Margaret
Goodwin's Narrative
I am Margaret Goodwin. A week from =
today
I shall be Mrs. James Orlebar Cloyster.
It is just three
years since I first met James. We made each other's acquaintance at half-pa=
st
seven on the morning of the 28th of July in the middle of Fermain Bay, about
fifty yards from the shore.
Fermain Bay is in
Guernsey. My home had been with my mother for many years at St. Martin's in
that island. There we two lived our uneventful lives until fate brought one
whom, when first I set my eyes on him, I knew I loved.
Perhaps it is
indiscreet of me to write that down. But what does it matter? It is for no
one's reading but my own. James, my fiancé, is not peeping slyly ove=
r my
shoulder as I write. On the contrary, my door is locked, and James is, I
believe, in the smoking-room of his hotel at St. Peter's Port.
At that time it h=
ad
become my habit to begin my day by rising before breakfast and taking a swi=
m in
Fermain Bay, which lies across the road in front of our cottage. The
practice--I have since abandoned it--was good for the complexion, and gener=
ally
healthy. I had kept it up, moreover, because I had somehow cherished an
unreasonable but persistent presentiment that some day Somebody (James, as =
it
turned out) would cross the pathway of my maiden existence. I told myself t=
hat I
must be ready for him. It would never do for him to arrive, and find no one=
to
meet him.
On the 28th of Ju=
ly I
started off as usual. I wore a short tweed skirt, brown stockings--my ankles
were, and are, good--a calico blouse, and a red tam-o'-shanter. Ponto barke=
d at
my heels. In one hand I carried my blue twill bathing-gown. In the other a
miniature alpenstock. The sun had risen sufficiently to scatter the slight =
mist
of the summer morning, and a few flecked clouds were edged with a slender f=
rame
of red gold.
Leisurely, and wi=
th
my presentiment strong upon me, I descended the steep cliffside to the cave=
on
the left of the bay, where, guarded by the faithful Ponto, I was accustomed=
to
disrobe; and soon afterwards I came out, my dark hair over my shoulders and
blue twill over a portion of the rest of me, to climb out to the point of t=
he
projecting rocks, so that I might dive gracefully and safely into the still
blue water.
I was a good swim=
mer.
I reached the ridge on the opposite side of the bay without fatigue, not
changing from a powerful breast-stroke. I then sat for a while at the water=
's
edge to rest and to drink in the thrilling glory of what my heart persisted=
in
telling me was the morning of my life.
And then I saw Hi=
m.
Not distinctly, f=
or
he was rowing a dinghy in my direction, and consequently had his back to me=
.
In the stress of =
my
emotions and an aggravation of modesty, I dived again. With an intensity li=
ke
that of a captured conger I yearned to be hidden by the water. I could watch
him as I swam, for, strictly speaking, he was in my way, though a little
farther out to sea than I intended to go. As I drew near, I noticed that he
wore an odd garment like a dressing-gown. He had stopped rowing.
I turned upon my =
back
for a moment's rest, and, as I did so, heard a cry. I resumed my former
attitude, and brushed the salt water from my eyes.
The dinghy was
wobbling unsteadily. The dressing-gown was in the bows; and he, my sea-god,=
was
in the water. Only for a second I saw him. Then he sank.
How I blessed the
muscular development of my arms.
I reached him as =
he
came to the surface.
"That's
twice," he remarked contemplatively, as I seized him by the shoulders.=
"Be brave,&q=
uot;
I said excitedly; "I can save you."
"I should be
most awfully obliged," he said.
"Do exactly =
as I
tell you."
"I say,"=
; he
remonstrated, "you're not going to drag me along by the roots of my ha=
ir,
are you?"
The natural timid=
ity
of man is, I find, attractive.
I helped him to t=
he
boat, and he climbed in. I trod water, clinging with one hand to the stern.=
"Allow me,&q=
uot;
he said, bending down.
"No, thank
you," I replied.
"Not,
really?"
"Thank you v=
ery
much, but I think I will stay where I am."
"But you may=
get
cramp. By the way--I'm really frightfully obliged to you for saving my life=
--I
mean, a perfect stranger--I'm afraid it's quite spoiled your dip."
"Not at
all," I said politely. "Did you get cramp?"
"A twinge. It
was awfully kind of you."
"Not at
all."
Then there was a
rather awkward silence.
"Is this your
first visit to Guernsey?" I asked.
"Yes; I arri=
ved
yesterday. It's a delightful place. Do you live here?"
"Yes; that w=
hite
cottage you can just see through the trees."
"I suppose I
couldn't give you a tow anywhere?"
"No; thank y=
ou
very much. I will swim back."
Another constrain=
ed
silence.
"Are you eve=
r in
London, Miss----?"
"Goodwin. Oh,
yes; we generally go over in the winter, Mr.----"
"Cloyster.
Really? How jolly. Do you go to the theatre much?"
"Oh, yes. We=
saw
nearly everything last time we were over."
There was a third
silence. I saw a remark about the weather trembling on his lip, and, as I w=
as
beginning to feel the chill of the water a little, I determined to put a
temporary end to the conversation.
"I think I w=
ill
be swimming back now," I said.
"You're quite
sure I can't give you a tow?"
"Quite, than=
ks.
Perhaps you would care to come to breakfast with us, Mr. Cloyster? I know my
mother would be glad to see you."
"It is very =
kind
of you. I should be delighted. Shall we meet on the beach?"
I swam off to my =
cave
to dress.
Breakfast was a
success, for my mother was a philosopher. She said very little, but what she
did say was magnificent. In her youth she had moved in literary circles, and
now found her daily pleasure in the works of Schopenhauer, Kant, and other
Germans. Her lightest reading was Sartor Resartus, and occasionally she wou=
ld
drop into Ibsen and Maeterlinck, the asparagus of her philosophic banquet. =
Her
chosen mode of thought, far from leaving her inhuman or intolerant, gave he=
r a social
distinction which I had inherited from her. I could, if I had wished it, ha=
ve
attended with success the tea-drinkings, the tennis-playings, and the
éclair-and-lemonade dances to which I was frequently invited. But I
always refused. Nature was my hostess. Nature, which provided me with balmy
zephyrs that were more comforting than buttered toast; which set the race of
the waves to the ridges of Fermain, where arose no shrill, heated voice cry=
ing,
"Love--forty"; which decked foliage in more splendid sheen than
anything the local costumier could achieve, and whose poplars swayed more
rhythmically than the dancers of the Assembly Rooms.
The constraint wh=
ich
had been upon us during our former conversation vanished at breakfast. We w=
ere
both hungry, and we had a common topic. We related our story of the sea in
alternate sentences. We ate and we talked, turn and turn about. My mother
listened. To her the affair, compared with the tremendous subjects to which=
she
was accustomed to direct her mind, was broad farce. James took it with an a=
ir
of restrained amusement. I, seriously.
Tentatively, I
diverged from this subject towards other and wider fields. Impressions of
Guernsey, which drew from him his address, at the St. Peter's Port Hotel. T=
he
horrors of the sea passage from Weymouth, which extorted a comment on the
limitations of England. England. London. Kensington. South Kensington. The
Gunton-Cresswells? Yes, yes! Extraordinary. Curious coincidence. Excursus on
smallness of world. Queer old gentleman, Mr. Gunton-Cresswell. He is, indee=
d.
Quite one of the old school. Oh, quite. Still wears that beaver hat? Does h=
e really?
Yes. Ha, ha! Yes.
Here the humanisi=
ng
influence of the Teutonic school of philosophic analysis was demonstrated b=
y my
mother's action. Mr. Cloyster, she said, must reconcile himself to exchangi=
ng
his comfortable rooms at the St. Peter's Port--("I particularly dislike
half-filled hotel life, Mrs. Goodwin")--for the shelter of our cottage=
. He
accepted. He was then "warned" that I was chef at the cottage. Mo=
ther
gave him "a chance to change his mind." Something was said about =
my
saving life and destroying digestion. He went to collect his things in an
ecstasy of merriment.
At this point I
committed an indiscretion which can only be excused by the magnitude of the
occasion.
My mother had ret=
ired
to her favourite bow-window where, by a tour de force on the part of the
carpenter, a system of low, adjustable bookcases had been craftily construc=
ted
in such a way that when she sat in her window-seat they jutted in a semicir=
cle
towards her hand.
James, whom I had
escorted down the garden path, had left me at the little wooden gate and had
gone swinging down the road. I, shielded from outside observation (if any) =
by a
line of lilacs, gazed rapturously at his retreating form. The sun was high =
in
the sky now. It was a perfect summer's day. Birds were singing. Their notes
blended with the gentle murmur of the sea on the beach below. Every fibre o=
f my
body was thrilling with the magic of the morning.
Through the kindly
branches of the lilac I watched him, and then, as though in obedience to the
primaeval call of that July sunshine, I stood on tiptoe, and blew him a kis=
s.
I realised in an
instant what I had done. Fool that I had been. The bow-window!
I was rigid with
discomfiture. My mother's eyes were on the book she held. And yet a faint s=
mile
seemed to hover round her lips. I walked in silence to where she sat at the
open window.
She looked up. Her
smile was more pronounced.
"Margie,&quo=
t;
she said.
"Yes,
mother?"
"The hedonis=
m of
Voltaire is the indictment of an honest bore."
"Yes,
mother."
She then resumed =
her
book.
Chapter 2 - JAMES SETS OU=
T (Miss
Margaret Goodwin's narrative continued)
Those August days! Have there been =
any
like them before? I realise with difficulty that the future holds in store =
for
me others as golden.
The island was
crammed with trippers. They streamed in by every boat. But James and I were
infinitely alone. I loved him from the first, from the moment when he had r=
owed
out of the unknown into my life, clad in a dressing-gown. I like to think t=
hat
he loved me from that moment, too. But, if he did, the knowledge that he did
came to him only after a certain delay. It was my privilege to watch this
knowledge steal gradually but surely upon him.
We were always
together; and as the days passed by he spoke freely of himself and his affa=
irs,
obeying unconsciously the rudder of my tactful inquisitiveness. By the end =
of
the first week I knew as much about him as he did himself.
It seemed that a
guardian--an impersonal sort of business man with a small but impossible
family--was the most commanding figure in his private life. As for his
finances, five-and-forty sovereigns, the remnant of a larger sum which had =
paid
for his education at Cambridge, stood between him and the necessity of offe=
ring
for hire a sketchy acquaintance with general literature and a third class in
the classical tripos.
He had come to
Guernsey to learn by personal observation what chances tomato growing held =
out
to a young man in a hurry to get rich.
"Tomato
growing?" I echoed dubiously. And then, to hide a sense of bathos,
"People have made it pay. Of course, they work very hard."
"M'yes,"
said James without much enthusiasm.
"But I
fancy," I added, "the life is not at all unpleasant."
At this point
embarrassment seemed to engulf James. He blushed, swallowed once or twice i=
n a
somewhat convulsive manner, and stammered.
Then he made his
confession guiltily.
I was not to supp=
ose
that his aims ceased with the attainment of a tomato-farm. The nurture of a
wholesome vegetable occupied neither the whole of his ambitions nor even the
greater part of them. To write--the agony with which he throatily confessed
it!--to be swept into the maelstrom of literary journalism, to be en rapport
with the unslumbering forces of Fleet Street--those were the real objective=
s of
James Orlebar Cloyster.
"Of course, I
mean," he said, "I suppose it would be a bit of a struggle at fir=
st,
if you see what I mean. What I mean to say is, rejected manuscripts, and so=
on.
But still, after a bit, once get a footing, you know--I should like to have=
a
dash at it. I mean, I think I could do something, you know."
"Of course y=
ou
could," I said.
"I mean, lot=
s of
men have, don't you know."
"There's ple=
nty
of room at the top," I said.
He seemed struck =
with
this remark. It encouraged him.
He had had his
opportunity of talking thus of himself during our long rambles out of doors.
They were a series of excursions which he was accustomed to describe as hun=
ting
expeditions for the stocking of our larder.
Thus James would
announce at breakfast that prawns were the day's quarry, and the foreshore
round Cobo Bay the hunting-ground. And to Cobo, accordingly, we would set o=
ut.
This prawn-yielding area extends along the coast on the other side of St.
Peter's Port, where two halts had to be made, one at Madame Garnier's, the
confectioners, the other at the library, to get fiction, which I never read.
Then came a journey on the top of the antediluvian horse-tram, a sort of
diligence on rails; and then a whole summer's afternoon among the prawns. C=
obo
is an expanse of shingle, dotted with seaweed and rocks; and Guernsey is a =
place
where one can take off one's shoes and stockings on the slightest pretext. =
We
waded hither and thither with the warm brine lapping unchecked over our bare
legs. We did not use our nets very industriously, it is true; but our tongu=
es
were seldom still. The slow walk home was a thing to be looked forward to. =
Ah!
those memorable homecomings in the quiet solemnity of that hour, when a wea=
ry
sun stoops, one can fancy with a sigh of pleasure, to sink into the bosom of
the sea!
Prawn-hunting was
agreeably varied by fish-snaring, mussel-stalking, and
mushroom-trapping--sports which James, in his capacity of Head Forester,
included in his venery.
For mushroom-trap=
ping
an early start had to be made--usually between six and seven. The chase too=
k us
inland, until, after walking through the fragrant, earthy lanes, we turned
aside into dewy meadows, where each blade of grass sparkled with a gem of
purest water. Again the necessity of going barefoot. Breakfast was late on
these mornings, my mother whiling away the hours of waiting with a volume of
Diogenes Laertius in the bow-window. She would generally open the meal with=
the
remark that Anaximander held the primary cause of all things to be the Infi=
nite,
or that it was a favourite expression of Theophrastus that time was the most
valuable thing a man could spend. When breakfast was announced, one of the
covers concealed the mushrooms, which, under my superintendence, James had =
done
his best to devil. A quiet day followed, devoted to sedentary recreation af=
ter
the labours of the run.
The period which I
have tried to sketch above may be called the period of good-fellowship.
Whatever else love does for a woman, it makes her an actress. So we were me=
rely
excellent friends till James's eyes were opened. When that happened, he
abruptly discarded good-fellowship. I, on the other hand, played it the more
vigorously. The situation was mine.
Our day's run bec=
ame
the merest shadow of a formality. The office of Head Forester lapsed into an
absolute sinecure. Love was with us--triumphant, and no longer to be skirted
round by me; fresh, electric, glorious in James.
We talked--we must
have talked. We moved. Our limbs performed their ordinary, daily movements.=
But
a golden haze hangs over that second period. When, by the strongest effort =
of
will, I can let my mind stand by those perfect moments, I seem to hear our =
voices,
low and measured. And there are silences, fond in themselves and yet more
fondly interrupted by unspoken messages from our eyes. What we really said,=
what
we actually did, where precisely we two went, I do not know. We were togeth=
er,
and the blur of love was about us. Always the blur. It is not that memory
cannot conjure up the scene again. It is not that the scene is clouded by t=
he
ill-proportion of a dream. No. It is because the dream is brought to me by =
will
and not by sleep. The blur recurs because the blur was there. A love vast as
ours is penalised, as it were, by this blur, which is the hall-mark of
infinity.
In mighty distanc=
es,
whether from earth to heaven, whether from 5245 Gerrard to 137 Glasgow, the=
re
is always that awful, that disintegrating blur.
A third period
succeeded. I may call it the affectionately practical period. Instantly the
blur vanishes. We were at our proper distance from the essence of things, a=
nd
though infinity is something one yearns for passionately, one's normal cond=
ition
has its meed of comfort. I remember once hearing a man in a Government offi=
ce
say that the pleasantest moment of his annual holiday was when his train ro=
lled
back into Paddington Station. And he was a man, too, of a naturally lazy di=
sposition.
It was about the
middle of this third period, during a mushroom-trapping ramble, that the id=
ea
occurred to us, first to me, then--after reflection--to James, that mother
ought to be informed how matters stood between us.
We went into the
house, hand-in-hand, and interviewed her.
She was in the
bow-window, reading a translation of The Deipnosophists of Athenaeus.
"Good
morning," she said, looking at her watch. "It is a little past our
usual breakfast time, Margie, I think?"
"We have been
looking for mushrooms, mother."
"Every
investigation, says Athenaeus, which is guided by principles of Nature fixes
its ultimate aim entirely on gratifying the stomach. Have you found any
mushrooms?"
"Heaps, Mrs.
Goodwin," said James.
"Mother,&quo=
t; I
said, "we want to tell you something."
"The fact is,
Mrs. Goodwin----"
"We are
engaged."
My mother liked
James.
"Margie,&quo=
t;
she once said to me, "there is good in Mr. Cloyster. He is not for ever
offering to pass me things." Time had not caused her to modify this
opinion. She received our news calmly, and inquired into James's means and
prospects. James had forty pounds and some odd silver. I had nothing.
The key-note of my
mother's contribution to our conference was, "Wait."
"You are both
young," she said.
She then kissed m=
e,
smiled contemplatively at James, and resumed her book.
When we were alon=
e,
"My darling," said James, "we must wait. Tomorrow I catch the
boat for Weymouth. I shall go straight to London. My first manuscript shall=
be
in an editor's hands on Wednesday morning. I will go, but I will come
back."
I put my arms rou=
nd
his neck.
"My love,&qu=
ot;
I said, "I trust you. Go. Always remember that I know you will
succeed."
I kissed him.
"And when you
have succeeded, come back."
Chapter 3 - A HARMLESS
DECEPTION (Miss Margaret Goodwin's narrative continued
They say that everyone is capable o=
f one
novel. And, in my opinion, most people could write one play.
Whether I wrote m=
ine
in an inspiration of despair, I cannot say. I wrote it.
Three years had
passed, and James was still haggling with those who buy men's brains. His
earnings were enough just to keep his head above water, but not enough to m=
ake
us two one.
Perhaps, because
everything is clear and easy for us now, I am gradually losing a proper
appreciation of his struggle. That should never be. He did not win. But he =
did
not lose; which means nearly as much. For it is almost less difficult to win
than not to lose, so my mother has told me, in modern journalistic London. =
And
I know that he would have won. The fact that he continued the fight as he d=
id
was in itself a pledge of ultimate victory. What he went through while tryi=
ng with
his pen to make a living for himself and me I learned from his letters.
"London,&quo=
t;
he wrote, "is not paved with gold; but in literary fields there are
nuggets to be had by the lightest scratching. And those nuggets are plays. A
successful play gives you money and a name automatically. What the ordinary
writer makes in a year the successful dramatist receives, without labour, i=
n a
fortnight." He went on to deplore his total lack of dramatic intuition.
"Some men," he said, "have some of the qualifications while
falling short of the others. They have a sense of situation without the
necessary tricks of technique. Or they sacrifice plot to atmosphere, or
atmosphere to plot. I, worse luck, have not one single qualification. The
nursing of a climax, the tremendous omissions in the dialogue, the knack of
stage characterisation--all these things are, in some inexplicable way, out=
side
me."
It was this letter
that set me thinking. Ever since James had left the island, I had been chaf=
ing
at the helplessness of my position. While he toiled in London, what was I
doing? Nothing. I suppose I helped him in a way. The thought of me would be
with him always, spurring him on to work, that the time of our separation m=
ight
be less. But it was not enough. I wanted to be doing something.... And it w=
as
during these restless weeks that I wrote my play.
I think nothing w=
ill
ever erase from my mind the moment when the central idea of The Girl who Wa=
ited
came to me. It was a boisterous October evening. The wind had been rising a=
ll
day. Now the branches of the lilac were dancing in the rush of the storm, a=
nd
far out in the bay one could see the white crests of the waves gleaming thr=
ough
the growing darkness. We had just finished tea. The lamp was lit in our lit=
tle
drawing-room, and on the sofa, so placed that the light fell over her left
shoulder in the manner recommended by oculists, sat my mother with
Schopenhauer's Art of Literature. Ponto slept on the rug.
Something in the
unruffled peace of the scene tore at my nerves. I have seldom felt so restl=
ess.
It may have been the storm that made me so. I think myself that it was Jame=
s's
letter. The boat had been late that morning, owing to the weather, and I had
not received the letter till after lunch. I listened to the howl of the win=
d,
and longed to be out in it.
My mother looked =
at
me over her book.
"You are
restless, Margie," she said. "There is a volume of Marcus Aureliu=
s on
the table beside you, if you care to read."
"No, thank y=
ou,
mother," I said. "I think I shall go for a walk."
"Wrap up wel=
l,
my dear," she replied.
She then resumed =
her
book.
I went out of our
little garden, and stood on the cliff. The wind flew at me like some wild
thing. Spray stung my face. I was filled with a wild exhilaration.
And then the idea
came to me. The simplest, most dramatic idea. Quaint, whimsical, with just =
that
suggestion of pathos blended with it which makes the fortunes of a play. The
central idea, to be brief, of The Girl who Waited.
Of my Maenad tramp
along the cliff-top with my brain afire, and my return, draggled and drippi=
ng,
an hour late for dinner; of my writing and re-writing, of my tears and black
depression, of the pens I wore out and the quires of paper I spoiled, and
finally of the ecstasy of the day when the piece began to move and the
characters to live, I need not speak. Anyone who has ever written will know=
the
sensations. James must have gone through a hundred times what I went through
once. At last, at long last, the play was finished.
For two days I
gloated alone over the great pile of manuscript.
Then I went to my
mother.
My diffidence was
exquisite. It was all I could do to tell her the nature of my request, when=
I
spoke to her after lunch. At last she understood that I had written a play,=
and
wished to read it to her. She took me to the bow-window with gentle solicit=
ude,
and waited for me to proceed.
At first she
encouraged me, for I faltered over my opening words. But as I warmed to my
work, and as my embarrassment left me, she no longer spoke. Her eyes were f=
ixed
intently upon the blue space beyond the lilac.
I read on and on,
till at length my voice trailed over the last line, rose gallantly at the l=
ast
fence, the single word Curtain, and abruptly broke. The strain had been too
much for me.
Tenderly my mother
drew me to the sofa; and quietly, with closed eyelids, I lay there until, in
the soft cool of the evening, I asked for her verdict.
Seeing, as she did
instantly, that it would be more dangerous to deny my request than to acced=
e to
it, she spoke.
"That there =
is
an absence, my dear Margie, of any relationship with life, that not a single
character is in any degree human, that passion and virtue and vice and real
feeling are wanting--this surprises me more than I can tell you. I had expe=
cted
to listen to a natural, ordinary, unactable episode arranged more or less in
steichomuthics. There is no work so scholarly and engaging as the amateur's.
But in your play I am amazed to find the touch of the professional and expe=
rienced
playwright. Yes, my dear, you have proved that you happen to possess the
quality--one that is most difficult to acquire--of surrounding a situation
which is improbable enough to be convincing with that absurdly mechanical
conversation which the theatre-going public demands. As your mother, I am
disappointed. I had hoped for originality. As your literary well-wisher, I
stifle my maternal feelings and congratulate you unreservedly."
I thanked my moth=
er
effusively. I think I cried a little.
She said
affectionately that the hour had been one of great interest to her, and she
added that she would be glad to be consulted with regard to the steps I
contemplated taking in my literary future.
She then resumed =
her
book.
I went to my room=
and
re-read the last letter I had had from James.
=
&nb=
sp;
The Barrel Club, =
&nb=
sp; =
Covent
Garden, =
&nb=
sp; =
London.
MY DARLING MARGIE,--I am wri=
ting
this line simply and solely for the selfish pleasure I =
gain
from the act of writing to you. I know everything will come ri=
ght
some time or other, but at present I am suffering from a bad at=
tack
of the blues. I am like a general who has planned out a brill=
iant
attack, and realises that he must fail for want of sufficient =
troops
to carry a position, on the taking of which the whole success=
of
the assault depends. Briefly, my position is like this. My name is
pretty well known in a small sort of way among editors and the l=
ike as
that of a man who can turn out fairly good stuff. Besides thi=
s, I
have many influential friends. You see where this brings me? I=
am in
the middle of my attacking movement, and I have not been bea=
ten
back; but the key to the enemy's position is still uncaptured. Yo=
u know
what this key is from my other letters. It's the stage. Ah, Mar=
gie,
one acting play! Only one! It would mean everything. Apart from =
the
actual triumph and the direct profits, it would bring so much wit=
h it.
The enemy's flank would be turned, and the rest of the battle =
would
become a mere rout. I should have an accepted position in the
literary world which would convert all the other avenues to wealth=
on
which I have my eye instantly into royal roads. Obstacles would
vanish. The fact that I was a successful playwright would make t=
he
acceptance of the sort of work I am doing now inevitable, and I s=
hould
get paid ten times as well for it. And it would mean--well, yo=
u know
what it would mean, don't you? Darling Margie, tell me again t=
hat I
have your love, that the waiting is not too hard, that you beli=
eve in
me. Dearest, it will come right in the end. Nothing can prevent
that. Love and the will of a man have always beaten Time and Fate. W=
rite
to me, dear.
=
&nb=
sp;
Ever your devoted =
&nb=
sp; =
James.
How utterly free =
from
thought of self! His magnificent loyalty forgot the dreadful tension of his=
own
great battle, and pictured only the tedium of waiting which it was my part =
to
endure.
I finished my let=
ter
to James very late that night. It was a very long and explanatory letter, a=
nd
it enclosed my play.
The main point I
aimed at was not to damp his spirits. He would, I knew well, see that the p=
lay
was suitable for staging. He would, in short, see that I, an inexperienced
girl, had done what he, a trained professional writer, had failed to do. Le=
st,
therefore, his pique should kill admiration and pleasure when he received my
work, I wrote as one begging a favour. "Here," I said, "we h=
ave
the means to achieve all we want. Do not--oh, do not--criticise. I have wri=
tten
down the words. But the conception is yours. The play was inspired by you. =
But for
you I should never have begun it. Take my play, James; take it as your own.=
For
yours it is. Put your name to it, and produce it, if you love me, under your
own signature. If this hurts your pride, I will word my request differently.
You alone are able to manage the business side of the production. You know =
the
right men to go to. To approach them on behalf of a stranger's work is far =
less
likely to lead to success. I have assumed, you will see, that the play is
certain to be produced. But that will only be so if you adopt it as your ow=
n.
Claim the authorship, and all will be well."
Much more I wrote=
to
James in the same strain; and my reward came next day in the shape of a
telegram: "Accept thankfully.--Cloyster."
Of the play and i=
ts
reception by the public there is no need to speak. The criticisms were all
favourable.
Neither the prais=
e of
the critics nor the applause of the public aroused any trace of jealousy in
James. Their unanimous note of praise has been a source of pride to him. He=
is
proud--ah, joy!--that I am to be his wife.
I have blotted the
last page of this commonplace love-story of mine.
The moon has come=
out
from behind a cloud, and the whole bay is one vast sheet of silver. I could=
sit
here at my bedroom window and look at it all night. But then I should be su=
re
to oversleep myself and be late for breakfast. I shall read what I have wri=
tten
once more, and then I shall go to bed.
I think I shall w=
ear
my white muslin tomorrow.
(End of Miss Marg=
aret
Goodwin's narrative.)
PART TWO - James Orlebar
Cloyster's Narrative
Chapter 1 - THE INVASION =
OF
BOHEMIA
It is curious to reflect that my ma=
rriage
(which takes place today week) destroys once and for all my life's ambition=
. I
have never won through to the goal I longed for, and now I never shall.
Ever since I can
remember I have yearned to be known as a Bohemian. That was my ambition. I =
have
ceased to struggle now. Married Bohemians live in Oakley Street, King's Roa=
d,
Chelsea. We are to rent a house in Halkett Place.
Three years have
passed since the excellent, but unsteady, steamship Ibex brought me from
Guernsey to Southampton. It was a sleepy, hot, and sticky wreck that answer=
ed
to the name of James Orlebar Cloyster that morning; but I had my first youth
and forty pounds, so that soap and water, followed by coffee and an omelett=
e,
soon restored me.
The journey to
Waterloo gave me opportunity for tobacco and reflection.
What chiefly
exercised me, I remember, was the problem whether it was possible to be a
Bohemian, and at the same time to be in love. Bohemia I looked on as a regi=
on
where one became inevitably entangled with women of unquestionable charm, b=
ut
doubtful morality. There were supper parties.... Festive gatherings in the =
old
studio.... Babette.... Lucille.... The artists' ball.... Were these things
possible for a man with an honest, earnest, whole-hearted affection?
The problem engag=
ed
me tensely till my ticket was collected at Vauxhall. Just there the solution
came. I would be a Bohemian, but a misogynist. People would say, "Dear=
old
Jimmy Cloyster. How he hates women!" It would add to my character a
pleasant touch of dignity and reserve which would rather accentuate my
otherwise irresponsible way of living.
Little did the go=
od
Bohemians of the metropolis know how keen a recruit the boat train was brin=
ging
to them.
*
As a
pied-à-terre I selected a cheap and dingy hotel in York Street, and =
from
this base I determined to locate my proper sphere.
Chelsea was the f=
irst
place that occurred to me. There was St. John's Wood, of course, but that w=
as
such a long way off. Chelsea was comparatively near to the heart of things,=
and
I had heard that one might find there artistic people whose hand-to-mouth,
Saturnalian existence was redolent of that exquisite gaiety which so attrac=
ted
my own casual temperament.
Sallying out next
morning into the brilliant sunshine and the dusty rattle of York Street, I =
felt
a sense of elation at the thought that the time for action had come. I was =
in
London. London! The home of the fragrant motor-omnibus and the night-bloomi=
ng
Hooligan. London, the battlefield of the literary aspirant since Caxton
invented the printing press. It seemed to me, as I walked firmly across
Westminster Bridge, that Margie gazed at me with the lovelight in her eyes,=
and
that a species of amorous telepathy from Guernsey was girding me for the fi=
ght.
Manresa Road I had
once heard mentioned as being the heart of Bohemian Chelsea. To Manresa Roa=
d,
accordingly, I went, by way of St. James's Park, Buckingham Palace Road, and
Lower Sloane Street. Thence to Sloane Square. Here I paused, for I knew tha=
t I
had reached the last outpost of respectable, inartistic London.
"How
sudden," I soliloquised, "is the change. Here I am in Sloane Squa=
re,
regular, business-like, and unimaginative; while, a few hundred yards away,
King's Road leads me into the very midst of genius, starvation, and possibly
Free Love."
Sloane Square,
indeed, gave me the impression, not so much of a suburb as of the suburban
portion of a great London railway terminus. It was positively pretty. People
were shopping with comparative leisure, omnibus horses were being rubbed do=
wn
and watered on the west side of the Square, out of the way of the main stre=
am
of traffic. A postman, clearing the letter-box at the office, stopped his w=
ork
momentarily to read the contents of a postcard. For the moment I understood
Caesar's feelings on the brink of the Rubicon, and the emotions of Cortes
"when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific." I was on the
threshold of great events. Behind me was orthodox London; before me the
unknown.
It was distinctly=
a
Caesarian glance, full of deliberate revolt, that I bestowed upon the street
called Sloane; that clean, orderly thoroughfare which leads to Knightsbridg=
e,
and thence either to the respectabilities of Kensington or the plush of
Piccadilly.
Setting my hat at=
a
wild angle, I stepped with a touch of abandon along the King's Road to meet=
the
charming, impoverished artists whom our country refuses to recognise.
My first glimpse =
of
the Manresa Road was, I confess, a complete disappointment. Never was
Bohemianism more handicapped by its setting than that of Chelsea, if the
Manresa Road was to be taken as a criterion. Along the uninviting uniformit=
y of
this street no trace of unorthodoxy was to be seen. There came no merry,
roystering laughter from attic windows. No talented figures of idle geniuses
fetched pints of beer from the public-house at the corner. No one dressed i=
n an
ancient ulster and a battered straw hat and puffing enormous clouds of blue
smoke from a treasured clay pipe gazed philosophically into space from a
doorway. In point of fact, save for a most conventional butcher-boy, I was
alone in the street.
Then the explanat=
ion
flashed upon me. I had been seen approaching. The word had been passed roun=
d. A
stranger! The clique resents intrusion. It lies hid. These gay fellows see =
me
all the time, and are secretly amused. But they do not know with whom they =
have
to deal. I have come to join them, and join them I will. I am not easily
beaten. I will outlast them. The joke shall be eventually against them, at =
some
eccentric supper. I shall chaff them about how they tried to elude me, and
failed.
The hours passed.
Still no Bohemians. I began to grow hungry. I sprang on to a passing 'bus. =
It
took me to Victoria. I lunched at the Shakespeare Hotel, smoked a pipe, and
went out into the sunlight again. It had occurred to me that night was perh=
aps
the best time for trapping my shy quarry. Possibly the revels did not begin=
in
Manresa Road till darkness had fallen. I spent the afternoon and evening in=
the
Park, dined at Lyons' Popular Café (it must be remembered that I was=
not
yet a Bohemian, and consequently owed no deference to the traditions of the=
order);
and returned at nine o'clock to the Manresa Road. Once more I drew blank. A
barrel-organ played cake-walk airs in the middle of the road, but it played=
to
an invisible audience. No bearded men danced can-cans around it, shouting m=
erry
jests to one another. Solitude reigned.
I wait. The duel
continues. What grim determination, what perseverance can these Bohemians p=
ut
into a mad jest! I find myself thinking how much better it would be were th=
ey
to apply to their Art the same earnestness and fixity of purpose which they
squander on a practical joke.
Evening fell. Bli=
nds
began to be drawn down. Lamps were lit behind them, one by one. Despair was
gnawing at my heart, but still I waited.
Then, just as I w=
as
about to retire defeated, I was arrested by the appearance of a house numbe=
red
93A.
At the first-floor
window sat a man. He was writing. I could see his profile, his long untidy
hair. I understood in a moment. This was no ordinary writer. He was one of
those Bohemians whose wit had been exercised upon me so successfully. He wa=
s a
literary man, and though he enjoyed the sport as much as any of the others =
he
was under the absolute necessity of writing his copy up to time. Unobserved=
by
his gay comrades, he had slipped away to his work. They were still watching=
me;
but he, probably owing to a contract with some journal, was obliged to give=
up
his share in their merriment and toil with his pen.
His pen fascinated
me. I leaned against the railings of the house opposite, enthralled. Ever a=
nd
anon he seemed to be consulting one or other of the books of reference pile=
d up
on each side of him. Doubtless he was preparing a scholarly column for a da=
ily
paper. Presently a printer's devil would arrive, clamouring for his
"copy." I knew exactly the sort of thing that happened. I had read
about it in novels.
How unerring is
instinct, if properly cultivated. Hardly had the clocks struck twelve when =
the
emissaries--there were two of them, which showed the importance of their
errand--walked briskly to No. 93A, and knocked at the door.
The writer heard =
the
knock. He rose hurriedly, and began to collect his papers. Meanwhile, the
knocking had been answered from within by the shooting of bolts, noises that
were followed by the apparition of a female head.
A few brief quest=
ions
and the emissaries entered. A pause.
The litterateur is
warning the menials that their charge is sacred; that the sheets he has
produced are impossible to replace. High words. Abrupt re-opening of the fr=
ont
door. Struggling humanity projected on to the pavement. Three persons--my
scribe in the middle, an emissary on either side--stagger strangely past me.
The scribe enters the purple night only under the stony compulsion of the
emissaries.
What does this me=
an?
I have it. The
emissaries have become over-anxious. They dare not face the responsibility =
of
conveying the priceless copy to Fleet Street. They have completely lost the=
ir
nerve. They insist upon the author accompanying them to see with his own ey=
es
that all is well. They do not wish Posterity to hand their names down to
eternal infamy as "the men who lost Blank's manuscript."
So, greatly again=
st
his will, he is dragged off.
My vigil is rewar=
ded.
No. 93A harbours a Bohemian. Let it be inhabited also by me.
I stepped across,=
and
rang the bell.
The answer was a
piercing scream.
"Ah, ha!&quo=
t; I
said to myself complacently, "there are more Bohemians than one, then,=
in
this house."
The female head a=
gain
appeared.
"Not another?
Oh, sir, say there ain't another wanted," said the head in a passionat=
e Cockney
accent.
"That is
precisely what there is," I replied. "I want----"
"What for?&q=
uot;
"For somethi=
ng
moderate."
"Well, that'= s a comfort in a wiy. Which of 'em is it you want? The first-floor back?"<= o:p>
"I have no d=
oubt
the first-floor back would do quite well."
My words had a
curious effect. She scrutinised me suspiciously.
"Ho!" s=
he
said, with a sniff; "you don't seem to care much which it is you
get."
"I don't,&qu=
ot;
I said, "not particularly."
"Look
'ere," she exclaimed, "you jest 'op it. See? I don't want none of=
your
'arf-larks here, and, what's more, I won't 'ave 'em. I don't believe you're=
a
copper at all."
"I'm not. Far
from it."
"Then what d=
'yer
mean coming 'ere saying you want my first-floor back?"
"But I do. Or
any other room, if that is occupied."
"'Ow! Room? =
Why
didn't yer siy so? You'll pawdon me, sir, if I've said anything 'asty-like.=
I
thought--but my mistake."
"Not at all.=
Can
you let me have a room? I notice that the gentleman whom I have just
seen----"
She cut me short.=
I
was about to explain that I was a Bohemian, too.
"'E's gorn f=
or a
stroll, sir. I expec' him back every moment. 'E's forgot 'is latchkey. Thet=
's
why I'm sitting up for 'im. Mrs. Driver my name is, sir. That's my name, and
well known in the neighbour'ood."
Mrs. Driver spoke
earnestly, but breathlessly.
"I do not
contemplate asking you, Mrs. Driver, to give me the apartments already enga=
ged
by the literary gentleman----"
"Yes, sir,&q=
uot;
she interpolated, "that's wot 'e wos, I mean is. A literary gent."=
;
"But have you
not another room vacant?"
"The
second-floor back, sir. Very comfortable, nice room, sir. Shady in the morn=
ing,
and gets the setting sun."
Had the
meteorological conditions been adverse to the point of malignancy, I should
have closed with her terms. Simple agreements were ratified then and there =
by
the light of a candle in the passage, and I left the house, promising to
"come in" in the course of the following afternoon.
Chapter 2 - I EVACUATE
BOHEMIA (James Orlebar Cloister's narrative continued)
The three weeks which I spent at No=
. 93A
mark an epoch in my life. It was during that period that I came nearest to
realising my ambition to be a Bohemian; and at the end of the third week, f=
or
reasons which I shall state, I deserted Bohemia, firmly and with no longing,
lingering glance behind, and settled down to the prosaic task of grubbing e=
arnestly
for money.
The second-floor =
back
had a cupboard of a bedroom leading out of it. Even I, desirous as I was of
seeing romance in everything, could not call my lodgings anything but dingy,
dark, and commonplace. They were just like a million other of London's mean
lodgings. The window looked out over a sea of backyards, bounded by tall,
depressing houses, and intersected by clothes-lines. A cats' club (social,
musical, and pugilistic) used to meet on the wall to the right of my window.
One or two dissipated trees gave the finishing touch of gloom to the scene.=
Nor
was the interior of the room more cheerful. The furniture had been put in
during the reign of George III, and last dusted in that of William and Mary=
. A
black horse-hair sofa ran along one wall. There was a deal table, a chair, =
and
a rickety bookcase. It was a room for a realist to write in; and my style, =
such
as it was, was bright and optimistic.
Once in, I set ab=
out
the task of ornamenting my abode with much vigour. I had my own ideas of mu=
ral
decoration. I papered the walls with editorial rejection forms, of which I =
was
beginning to have a representative collection. Properly arranged, these look
very striking. There is a good deal of variety about them. The ones I liked
best were those which I received, at the rate of three a week, bearing a ve=
ry pleasing
picture, in green, of the publishing offices at the top of the sheet of
note-paper. Scattered about in sufficient quantities, these lend an air of
distinction to a room. Pearson's Magazine also supplies a taking line in
rejection forms. Punch's I never cared for very much. Neat, I grant you; bu=
t,
to my mind, too cold. I like a touch of colour in a rejection form.
In addition to th=
ese,
I purchased from the grocer at the corner a collection of pictorial
advertisements. What I had really wanted was the theatrical poster, printed=
and
signed by well-known artists. But the grocer didn't keep them, and I was
impatient to create my proper atmosphere. My next step was to buy a corncob
pipe and a quantity of rank, jet-black tobacco. I hated both, and kept them
more as ornaments than for use.
Then, having hack=
ed
my table about with a knife and battered it with a poker till it might have
been the table of a shaggy and unrecognised genius, I settled down to work.=
I was not a brill=
iant
success. I had that "little knowledge" which is held to be such a
dangerous thing. I had not plunged into the literary profession without lea=
rning
a few facts about it. I had read nearly every journalistic novel and
"Hints on Writing for the Papers" book that had ever been publish=
ed.
In theory I knew all that there was to be known about writing. Now, all my
authorities were very strong on one point. "Write," they said, ve=
ry
loud and clear, "not what you like, but what editors like." I smi=
led
to myself when I started. I felt that I had stolen a march on my rivals.
"All round me," I said to myself, "are young authors bombard=
ing
editors with essays on Lucretius, translations of Martial, and disquisition=
s on
Ionic comedy. I know too much for that. I work on a different plan."
"Study the papers, and see what they want," said my authorities. I
studied the papers. Some wanted one thing, apparently, others another. There
was one group of three papers whose needs seemed to coincide, and I could s=
ee
an article rejected by one paper being taken by another. This offered me a
number of chances instead of one. I could back my MSS. to win or for a plac=
e. I
began a serious siege of these three papers.
By the end of the
second week I had had "Curious Freaks of Eccentric Testators,"
"Singular Scenes in Court," "Actors Who Have Died on the Sta=
ge,"
"Curious Scenes in Church," and seven others rejected by all thre=
e.
Somehow this sort of writing is not so easy as it looks. A man who was on t=
he
staff of a weekly once told me that he had had two thousand of these articl=
es
printed since he started--poor devil. He had the knack. I could never get i=
t. I
sent up fifty-three in all in the first year of my literary life, and only =
two
stuck. I got fifteen shillings from one periodical for "Men Who Have
Missed Their Own Weddings," and, later, a guinea from the same for
"Single Day Marriages." That paper has a penchant for the love-in=
terest.
Yet when I sent it my "Duchesses Who Have Married Dustmen," it ca=
me
back by the early post next day. That was to me the worst part of those grey
days. I had my victories, but they were always followed by a series of defe=
ats.
I would have a manuscript accepted by an editor. "Hullo," I would
say, "here's the man at last, the Editor-Who-Believes-In-Me. Let the t=
hing
go on." I would send him off another manuscript. He would take it.
Victory, by Jove! Then--wonk! Back would come my third effort with the curt=
est
of refusals. I always imagined editors in those days to be pettish, whimsic=
al
men who amused themselves by taking up a beginner, and then, wearying of the
sport, dropped him back into the slime from which they had picked him.
In the intervals =
of
articles I wrote short stories, again for the same three papers. As before,=
I
studied these papers carefully to see what they wanted; then worked out a
mechanical plot, invariably with a quarrel in the first part, an accident, =
and
a rescue in the middle, and a reconciliation at the end--told it in a style
that makes me hot all over when I think of it, and sent it up, enclosing a
stamped addressed envelope in case of rejection. A very useful precaution, =
as
it always turned out.
It was the little
knowledge to which I have referred above which kept my walls so thickly cov=
ered
with rejection forms. I was in precisely the same condition as a man who has
been taught the rudiments of boxing. I knew just enough to hamper me, and n=
ot
enough to do me any good. If I had simply blundered straight at my work and
written just what occurred to me in my own style, I should have done much
better. I have a sense of humour. I deliberately stifled it. For it I
substituted a grisly kind of playfulness. My hero called my heroine
"little woman," and the concluding passage where he kissed her was
written in a sly, roguish vein, for which I suppose I shall have to atone in
the next world. Only the editor of the Colney Hatch Argus could have accept=
ed
work like mine. Yet I toiled on.
It was about the
middle of my third week at No. 93A that I definitely decided to throw over =
my
authorities, and work by the light of my own intelligence.
Nearly all my
authorities had been very severe on the practice of verse-writing. It was, =
they
asserted, what all young beginners tried to do, and it was the one thing
editors would never look at. In the first ardour of my revolt I determined =
to
do a set of verses.
It happened that =
the
weather had been very bad for the last few days. After a month and a half of
sunshine the rain had suddenly begun to fall. I took this as my topic. It w=
as
raining at the time. I wrote a satirical poem, full of quaint rhymes.
I had always had
rather a turn for serious verse. It struck me that the rain might be treate=
d poetically
as well as satirically. That night I sent off two sets of verses to a daily=
and
an evening paper. Next day both were in print, with my initials to them.
I began to see li=
ght.
"Verse is the
thing," I said. "I will reorganise my campaign. First the skirmis=
hers,
then the real attack. I will peg along with verses till somebody begins to =
take
my stories and articles."
I felt easier in =
my
mind than I had felt for some time. A story came back by the nine o'clock p=
ost
from a monthly magazine (to which I had sent it from mere bravado), but the
thing did not depress me. I got out my glue-pot and began to fasten the
rejection form to the wall, whistling a lively air as I did so.
While I was engag=
ed
in this occupation there was a testy rap at the door, and Mrs. Driver appea=
red.
She eyed my manoeuvres with the rejection form with a severe frown. After a
preliminary sniff she embarked upon a rapid lecture on what she called my
irregular and untidy habits. I had turned her second-floor back, she declar=
ed,
into a pig-stye.
"Sech a
litter," she said.
"But," I
protested, "this is a Bohemian house, is it not?"
She appeared so
shocked--indeed, so infuriated, that I dared not give her time to answer.
"The gentlem=
an
below, he's not very tidy," I added diplomatically.
"Wot gent
below?" said Mrs. Driver.
I reminded her of=
the
night of my arrival.
"Oh, 'im,&qu=
ot;
she said, shaken. "Well, 'e's not come back."
"Mrs.
Driver," I said sternly, "you said he'd gone out for a stroll. I =
refuse
to believe that any man would stroll for three weeks."
"So I did say
it," was the defiant reply. "I said it so as you shouldn't be put=
off
coming. You looked a steady young feller, and I wanted a let. Wish I'd told=
you
the truth, if it 'ad a-stopped you."
"What is the
truth?"
"'E was a wr=
ong
'un, 'e wos. Writing begging letters to parties as was a bit soft, that wos=
'is
little gime. But 'e wos a bit too clever one day, and the coppers got 'im. =
Now
you know!"
Mrs. Driver paused
after this outburst, and allowed her eye to wander slowly and ominously rou=
nd
my walls.
I was deeply move=
d.
My one link with Bohemia had turned out a fraud.
Mrs. Driver's voi=
ce
roused me from my meditations.
"I must arst=
you
to be good enough, if you please, kindly to remove those there bits of
paper."
She pointed to the
rejection forms.
I hesitated. I fe=
lt
that it was a thing that ought to be broken gently.
"The fact is,
Mrs. Driver," I said, "and no one can regret it more deeply than I
do--the fact is, they're stuck on with glue."
Two minutes later=
I
had received my marching orders, and the room was still echoing with the sl=
am
of the door as it closed behind the indignant form of my landlady.
Chapter 3 - THE ORB (James
Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
The problem of lodgings in London i=
s an
easy one to a man with an adequate supply of money in his pocket. The only
difficulty is to select the most suitable, to single out from the eager cro=
wd
the ideal landlady.
Evicted from No. =
93A,
it seemed to me that I had better abandon Bohemia; postpone my connection w=
ith
that land of lotus-eaters for the moment, while I provided myself with the
means of paying rent and buying dinners. Farther down the King's Road there
were comfortable rooms to be had for a moderate sum per week. They were
prosaic, but inexpensive. I chose Walpole Street. A fairly large bed-sitting
room was vacant at No. 23. I took it, and settled down seriously to make my=
writing
pay.
There were advant=
ages
in Walpole Street which Manresa Road had lacked. For one thing, there was m=
ore
air, and it smelt less than the Manresa Road air. Walpole Street is bounded=
by
Burton Court, where the Household Brigade plays cricket, and the breezes fr=
om
the river come to it without much interruption. There was also more quiet. =
No.
23 is the last house in the street, and, even when I sat with my window ope=
n,
the noise of traffic from the King's Road was faint and rather pleasant. It=
was
an excellent spot for a man who meant to work. Except for a certain difficu=
lty
in getting my landlady and her daughters out of the room when they came to
clear away my meals and talk about the better days they had seen, and a few
imbroglios with the eight cats which infested the house, it was the best sp=
ot,
I think, that I could have chosen.
Living a life rul=
ed
by the strictest economy, I gradually forged ahead. Verse, light and seriou=
s,
continued my long suit. I generally managed to place two of each brand a we=
ek;
and that meant two guineas, sometimes more. One particularly pleasing thing
about this verse-writing was that there was no delay, as there was with my
prose. I would write a set of verses for a daily paper after tea, walk to F=
leet
Street with them at half-past six, thus getting a little exercise; leave th=
em
at the office; and I would see them in print in the next morning's issue.
Payment was equally prompt. The rule was, Send in your bill before five on
Wednesday, and call for payment on Friday at seven. Thus I had always enough
money to keep me going during the week.
In addition to
verses, I kept turning out a great quantity of prose, fiction, and otherwis=
e,
but without much success. The visits of the postmen were the big events of =
the
day at that time. Before I had been in Walpole Street a week I could tell by
ear the difference between a rejected manuscript and an ordinary letter. Th=
ere
is a certain solid plop about the fall of the former which not even a long
envelope full of proofs can imitate successfully.
I worked
extraordinarily hard at that time. All day, sometimes. The thought of Margie
waiting in Guernsey kept me writing when I should have done better to have
taken a rest. My earnings were small in proportion to my labour. The guinea=
s I
made, except from verse, were like the ounce of gold to the ton of ore. I no
longer papered the walls with rejection forms; but this was from choice, not
from necessity. I had plenty of material, had I cared to use it.
I made a little
money, of course. My takings for the first month amounted to £9 10s. I
notched double figures in the next with £ll 1s. 6d. Then I dropped to
£7 0s. 6d. It was not starvation, but it was still more unlike matrim=
ony.
But at the end of=
the
sixth month there happened to me what, looking back, I consider to be the
greatest piece of good fortune of my life. I received a literary introducti=
on.
Some authorities scoff at literary introductions. They say that editors read
everything, whether they know the author or not. So they do; and, if the wo=
rk
is not good, a letter to the editor from a man who once met his cousin at a
garden-party is not likely to induce him to print it. There is no journalis=
tic
"ring" in the sense in which the word is generally used; but there
are undoubtedly a certain number of men who know the ropes, and can act as =
pilots
in a strange sea; and an introduction brings one into touch with them. Ther=
e is
a world of difference between contributing blindly work which seems suitabl=
e to
the style of a paper and sending in matter designed to attract the editor
personally.
Mr. Macrae, whose
pupil I had been at Cambridge, was the author of my letter of introduction.=
At
St. Gabriel's, Mr. Macrae had been a man for whom I entertained awe and
respect. Likes and dislikes in connection with one's tutor seemed outside t=
he
question. Only a chance episode had shown me that my tutor was a mortal wit=
h a
mortal's limitations. We were bicycling together one day along the Trumping=
ton
Road, when a form appeared, coming to meet us. My tutor's speech grew more =
and
more halting as the form came nearer. At last he stopped talking altogether=
, and
wobbled in his saddle. The man bowed to him, and, as if he had won through =
some
fiery ordeal, he shot ahead like a gay professional rider. When I drew level
with him, he said, "That, Mr. Cloyster, is my tailor."
Mr. Macrae was
typical of the University don who is Scotch. He had married the senior
historian of Newnham. He lived (and still lives) by proxy. His publishers o=
rder
his existence. His honeymoon had been placed at the disposal of these
gentlemen, and they had allotted to that period an edition of Aristotle's
Ethics. Aristotle, accordingly, received the most scholarly attention from =
the
recently united couple somewhere on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. All the
reviews were satisfactory.
In my third year =
at
St. Gabriel's it was popularly supposed that Master Pericles Aeschylus, Mr.
Macrae's infant son, was turned to correct my Latin prose, though my Iambics
were withheld from him at the request of the family doctor.
The letter which
Pericles Aeschylus's father had addressed to me was one of the pleasantest
surprises I have ever had. It ran as follows:
=
&nb=
sp;
St. Gabriel's College, =
&nb=
sp; Cambridge.
MY DEAR CLOYSTER,--The diver=
gence
of our duties and pleasures during your residence h=
ere
caused us to see but little of each other. Would it had been
otherwise! And too often our intercourse had--on my side--a dist=
inctly
professional flavour. Your attitude towards your religious
obligations was, I fear, something to seek. Indeed, the line,
"Pastor deorum cultor et infrequens," might have been directly
inspired by your views on the keeping of Chapels. On the other
hand, your contributions to our musical festivities had the true
Aristophanes panache.
I hear you are devoting your=
self
to literature, and I beg that you will avail yourself of the encl=
osed
note, which is addressed to a personal friend of=
mine.
=
&nb=
sp;
Believe me, =
&nb=
sp; =
Your
well-wisher, =
&nb=
sp; =
David
Ossian Macrae.
The enclosure bore
this inscription:
CHAR=
LES
FERMIN, ESQ., Offices
of the Orb, Strand,
London.
I had received the
letter at breakfast. I took a cab, and drove straight to the Orb.
A painted hand,
marked "Editorial," indicated a flight of stairs. At the top of t=
hese
I was confronted by a glass door, beyond which, entrenched behind a desk, s=
at a
cynical-looking youth. A smaller boy in the background talked into a teleph=
one.
Both were giggling. On seeing me the slightly larger of the two advanced wi=
th a
half-hearted attempt at solemnity, though unable to resist a Parthian shaft=
at
his companion, who was seized on the instant with a paroxysm of suppressed =
hysteria.
My letter was tak=
en
down a mysterious stone passage. After some waiting the messenger returned =
with
the request that I would come back at eleven, as Mr. Fermin would be very b=
usy
till then.
I went out into t=
he
Strand, and sought a neighbouring hostelry. It was essential that I should =
be
brilliant at the coming interview, if only spirituously brilliant; and I wi=
shed
to remove a sensation of stomachic emptiness, such as I had been wont to fe=
el
at school when approaching the headmaster's study.
At eleven I retur=
ned,
and asked again for Mr. Fermin; and presently he appeared--a tall, thin man,
who gave one the impression of being in a hurry. I knew him by reputation a=
s a
famous quarter-miler. He had been president of the O.U.A.C. some years back=
. He
looked as if at any moment he might dash off in any direction at quarter-mi=
le
pace.
We shook hands, a=
nd I
tried to look intelligent.
"Sorry to ha=
ve
to keep you waiting," he said, as we walked to his club; "but we =
are
always rather busy between ten and eleven, putting the column through. Gres=
ham
and I do 'On Your Way,' you know. The last copy has to be down by half-past
ten."
We arrived at the
Club, and sat in a corner of the lower smoking-room.
"Macrae says
that you are going in for writing. Of course, I'll do anything I can, but it
isn't easy to help a man. As it happens, though, I can put you in the way of
something, if it's your style of work. Do you ever do verse?"
I felt like a bat=
sman
who sees a slow full-toss sailing through the air.
"It's the on=
ly
thing I can get taken," I said. "I've had quite a lot in the
Chronicle and occasional bits in other papers."
He seemed relieve=
d.
"Oh, that's =
all
right, then," he said. "You know 'On Your Way.' Perhaps you'd car=
e to
come in and do that for a bit? It's only holiday work, but it'll last five
weeks. And if you do it all right I can get you the whole of the holiday wo=
rk
on the column. That comes to a good lot in the year. We're always taking odd
days off. Can you come up at a moment's notice?"
"Easily,&quo=
t; I
said.
"Then, you s=
ee,
if you did that you would drop into the next vacancy on the column. There's=
no
saying when one may occur. It's like the General Election. It may happen
tomorrow, or not for years. Still, you'd be on the spot in case."
"It's awfully
good of you."
"Not at all.=
As
a matter of fact, I was rather in difficulties about getting a holiday man.=
I'm
off to Scotland the day after tomorrow, and I had to find a sub. Well, then,
will you come in on Monday?"
"All
right."
"You've had =
no
experience of newspaper work, have you?"
"No."
"Well, all t=
he
work at the Orb's done between nine and eleven. You must be there at nine
sharp. Literally sharp, I mean. Not half-past. And you'd better do some stu=
ff
overnight for the first week or so. You'll find working in the office diffi=
cult
till you get used to it. Of course, though, you'll always have Gresham ther=
e,
so there's no need to get worried. He can fill the column himself, if he's
pushed. Four or five really good paragraphs a day and an occasional set of =
verses
are all he'll want from you."
"I see."=
;
"On Monday,
then. Nine sharp. Good-bye."
I walked home alo=
ng
Piccadilly with almost a cake-walk stride. At last I was in the inner circl=
e.
An Orb cart passed
me. I nodded cheerfully to the driver. He was one of Us.
Chapter 4 - JULIAN EVERSL=
EIGH
(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
I determined to celebrate the occas=
ion by
dining out, going to a theatre, and having supper afterwards, none of which
things were ordinarily within my means. I had not been to a theatre since I=
had
arrived in town; and, except on Saturday nights, I always cooked my own din=
ner,
a process which was cheap, and which appealed to the passion for Bohemianism
which I had not wholly cast out of me.
The morning paper
informed me that there were eleven musical comedies, three Shakespeare play=
s, a
blank verse drama, and two comedies ("last weeks") for me to choo=
se
from. I bought a stall at the Briggs Theatre. Stanley Briggs, who afterwards
came to bulk large in my small world, was playing there in a musical comedy
which had had even more than the customary musical-comedy success.
London by night h=
ad
always had an immense fascination for me. Coming out of the restaurant after
supper, I felt no inclination to return to my lodgings, and end the greatest
night of my life tamely with a book and a pipe. Here was I, a young man,
fortified by an excellent supper, in the heart of Stevenson's London. Why
should I have no New Arabian Night adventure? I would stroll about for half=
an
hour, and give London a chance of living up to its reputation.
I walked slowly a=
long
Piccadilly, and turned up Rupert Street. A magic name. Prince Florizel of
Bohemia had ended his days there in his tobacconist's divan. Mr. Gilbert's
Policeman Forth had been discovered there by the men of London at the end of
his long wanderings through Soho. Probably, if the truth were known, Rudolf
Rassendyl had spent part of his time there. It could not be that Rupert Str=
eet
would send me empty away.
My confidence was=
not
abused. Turning into Rupert Court, a dark and suggestive passage some short
distance up the street on the right, I found a curious little comedy being
played.
A door gave on to=
the
deserted passageway, and on each side of it stood a man--the lurcher type of
man that is bred of London streets. The door opened inwards. Another man
stepped out. The hands of one of the lurchers flew to the newcomer's mouth.=
The
hands of the other lurcher flew to the newcomer's pockets.
At that moment I
advanced.
The lurchers vani=
shed
noiselessly and instantaneously.
Their victim held=
out
his hand.
"Come in, wo=
n't
you?" he said, smiling sleepily at me.
I followed him in,
murmuring something about "caught in the act."
He repeated the
phrase as we went upstairs.
"'Caught in =
the
act.' Yes, they are ingenious creatures. Let me introduce myself. My name is
Julian Eversleigh. Sit down, won't you? Excuse me for a moment."
He crossed to a
writing-table.
Julian Eversleigh
inhabited a single room of irregular shape. It was small, and situated
immediately under the roof. One side had a window which overlooked Rupert
Court. The view from it was, however, restricted, because the window was in=
set,
so that the walls projecting on either side prevented one seeing more than a
yard or two of the court.
The room containe=
d a
hammock, a large tin bath, propped up against the wall, a big wardrobe, a
couple of bookcases, a deal writing-table--at which the proprietor was now
sitting with a pen in his mouth, gazing at the ceiling--and a divan-like
formation of rugs and cube sugar boxes.
The owner of this
mixed lot of furniture wore a very faded blue serge suit, the trousers bagg=
y at
the knees and the coat threadbare at the elbows. He had the odd expression
which green eyes combined with red hair give a man.
"Caught in t=
he
act," he was murmuring. "Caught in the act."
The phrase seemed=
to
fascinate him.
I had established
myself on the divan, and was puffing at a cigar, which I had bought by way =
of
setting the coping-stone on my night's extravagance, before he got up from =
his
writing.
"Those
fellows," he said, producing a bottle of whisky and a syphon from one =
of
the lower drawers of the wardrobe, "did me a double service. They
introduced me to you--say when--and they gave me----"
"When."=
"--an
idea."
"But how did=
it
happen?" I asked.
"Quite
simple," he answered. "You see, my friends, when they call on me =
late
at night, can't get in by knocking at the front door. It is a shop-door, an=
d is
locked early. Vancott, my landlord, is a baker, and, as he has to be up mak=
ing
muffins somewhere about five in the morning--we all have our troubles--he d=
oes
not stop up late. So people who want me go into the court, and see whether =
my
lamp is burning by the window. If it is, they stand below and shout, 'Julia=
n,'
till I open the door into the court. That's what happened tonight. I heard =
my
name called, went down, and walked into the arms of the enterprising gentle=
men
whom you chanced to notice. They must have been very hungry, for even if th=
ey
had carried the job through they could not have expected to make their
fortunes. In point of fact, they would have cleared one-and-threepence. But
when you're hungry you can see no further than the pit of your stomach. Do =
you
know, I almost sympathise with the poor brutes. People sometimes say to me,
'What are you?' I have often half a mind to reply, 'I have been hungry.' My
stars, be hungry once, and you're educated, if you don't die of it, for a l=
ifetime."
This sort of talk
from a stranger might have been the prelude to an appeal for financial
assistance.
He dissipated that
half-born thought.
"Don't be un=
easy,"
he said; "you have not been lured up here by the ruse of a clever
borrower. I can do a bit of touching when in the mood, mind you, but you're
safe. You are here because I see that you are a pleasant fellow."
"Thank
you," I said.
"Besides,&qu=
ot;
he continued, "I am not hungry at present. In fact, I shall never be
hungry again."
"You're
lucky," I remarked.
"I am. I am =
the
fortunate possessor of the knack of writing advertisements."
"Indeed,&quo=
t; I
said, feeling awkward, for I saw that I ought to be impressed.
"Ah!" he
said, laughing outright. "You're not impressed in the least, really. B=
ut
I'll ask you to consider what advertisements mean. First, they are the
life-essence of every newspaper, every periodical, and every book."
"Every
book?"
"Practically,
yes. Most books contain some latent support of a fashion in clothes or food=
or
drink, or of some pleasant spot or phase of benevolence or vice, all of whi=
ch
form the interest of one or other of the sections of society, which sections
require publicity at all costs for their respective interests."
I was about to pr=
obe
searchingly into so optimistic a view of modern authorship, but he stalled =
me
off by proceeding rapidly with his discourse.
"Apart, howe=
ver,
from the less obvious modes of advertising, you'll agree that this is the a=
ge
of all ages for the man who can write puffs. 'Good wine needs no bush' has
become a trade paradox, 'Judge by appearances,' a commercial platitude. The=
man
who is ambitious and industrious turns his trick of writing into purely lit=
erary
channels, and becomes a novelist. The man who is not ambitious and not indu=
strious,
and who does not relish the prospect of becoming a loafer in Strand wine-sh=
ops,
writes advertisements. The gold-bearing area is always growing. It's a Tom
Tiddler's ground. It is simply a question of picking up the gold and silver.
The industrious man picks up as much as he wants. Personally, I am easily
content. An occasional nugget satisfies me. Here's tonight's nugget, for
instance."
I took the paper =
he
handed to me. It bore the words:
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
CAUGHT IN THE ACT of drinking
Skeffington's Sloe Gin, a man will always present a happy =
and
smiling appearance. Skeffington's Sloe Gin adds a crowning ple=
asure
to prosperity, and is a consolation in adversity. Of all Gr=
ocers.
"Skeffington=
's,"
he said, "pay me well. I'm worth money to them, and they know it. At
present they are giving me a retainer to keep my work exclusively for them.=
The
stuff they have put on the market is neither better nor worse than the aver=
age
sloe gin. But my advertisements have given it a tremendous vogue. It is the
only brand that grocers stock. Since I made the firm issue a weekly paper
called Skeffington's Poultry Farmer, free to all country customers, the
consumption of sloe gin has been enormous among agriculturists. My idea, to=
o,
of supplying suburban buyers gratis with a small drawing-book, skeleton ill=
ustrations,
and four coloured chalks, has made the drink popular with children. You must
have seen the poster I designed. There's a reduced copy behind you. The fat=
her
of a family is unwrapping a bottle of Skeffington's Sloe Gin. His little on=
es
crowd round him, laughing and clapping their hands. The man's wife is seen
peeping roguishly in through the door. Beneath is the popular catch-phrase,
"Ain't mother going to 'ave none?"
"You're a
genius," I cried.
"Hardly
that," he said. "At least, I have no infinite capacity for taking
pains. I am one of Nature's slackers. Despite my talent for drawing up
advertisements, I am often in great straits owing to my natural inertia and=
a
passionate love of sleep. I sleep on the slightest provocation or excuse. I
will back myself to sleep against anyone in the world, no age, weight, or
colour barred. You, I should say, are of a different temperament. More
energetic. The Get On or Get Out sort of thing. The Young Hustler."
"Rather,&quo=
t; I
replied briskly, "I am in love."
"So am I,&qu=
ot;
said Julian Eversleigh. "Hopelessly, however. Give us a match."
After that we
confirmed our friendship by smoking a number of pipes together.
Chapter 5 - THE COLUMN (J=
ames
Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
After the first week "On Your
Way," on the Orb, offered hardly any difficulty. The source of material
was the morning papers, which were placed in a pile on our table at nine
o'clock. The halfpenny papers were our principal support. Gresham and I each
took one, and picked it clean. We attended first to the Subject of the Day.
This was generally good for two or three paragraphs of verbal fooling. There
was a sort of tradition that the first half-dozen paragraphs should be topi=
cal.
The rest might be topical or not, as occasion served.
The column usually
opened with a one-line pun--Gresham's invention.
Gresham was a man=
of
unparalleled energy and ingenuity. He had created several of the typical
characters who appeared from time to time in "On Your Way," as, f=
or
instance, Mrs. Jenkinson, our Mrs. Malaprop, and Jones junior, our
"howler" manufacturing schoolboy. He was also a stout apostle of a
mode of expression which he called "funny language." Thus, instea=
d of
writing boldly: "There is a rumour that----," I was taught to say,
"It has got about that----." This sounds funnier in print, so Gre=
sham
said. I could never see it myself.
Gresham had a way=
of
seizing on any bizarre incident reported in the morning papers, enfolding i=
t in
"funny language," adding a pun, and thus making it his own. He ha=
d a
cunning mastery of periphrasis, and a telling command of adverbs.
Here is an
illustration. An account was given one morning by the Central news of the
breaking into of a house at Johnsonville (Mich.) by a negro, who had stolen=
a
quantity of greenbacks. The thief, escaping across some fields, was attacke=
d by
a cow, which, after severely injuring the negro, ate the greenbacks.
Gresham's
unacknowledged version of the episode ran as follows:
"The sleepy =
god
had got the stranglehold on John Denville when Caesar Bones, a coloured
gentleman, entered John's house at Johnsonville (Mich.) about midnight. Did=
the
nocturnal caller disturb his slumbering host? No. Caesar Bones has the finer
feelings. But as he was noiselessly retiring, what did he see? Why, a pile =
of
greenbacks which John had thoughtlessly put away in a fire-proof safe."=
;
To prevent the st=
ory
being cut out by the editor, who revised all the proofs of the column, with=
the
words "too long" scribbled against it, Gresham continued his tale=
in
another paragraph.
"'Dis am ber= ry insecure,' murmured the visitor to himself, transplanting the notes in a neighbourly way into his pocket. Mark the sequel. The noble Caesar met, on = his homeward path, an irritable cudster. The encounter was brief. Caesar went w= eak in the second round, and took the count in the third. Elated by her triumph, and hungry from her exertions, the horned quadruped nosed the wad of paper money and daringly devoured it. Caesar has told the court that if he is convicted of felony, he will arraign the owner of the ostrich-like bovine o= n a charge of receiving stolen goods. The owner merely ejaculates 'Black male!'"<= o:p>
On his day Gresham
could write the column and have a hundred lines over by ten o'clock. I, too,
found plenty of copy as a rule, though I continued my practice of doing a f=
ew
paragraphs overnight. But every now and then fearful days would come, when =
the
papers were empty of material for our purposes, and when two out of every
half-dozen paragraphs which we did succeed in hammering out were returned
deleted on the editor's proof.
The tension at th=
ese
times used to be acute. The head printer would send up a relay of small and
grubby boys to remind us that "On Your Way" was fifty lines short=
. At
ten o'clock he would come in person, and be plaintive.
Gresham, the old
hand, applied to such occasions desperate remedies. He would manufacture ou=
t of
even the most pointless item of news two paragraphs by adding to his first =
the
words, "This reminds us of Mr. Punch's famous story." He would th=
en
go through the bound volumes of Punch--we had about a dozen in the room--wi=
th
lightning speed until he chanced upon a more or less appropriate tag.
Those were mornin=
gs
when verses would be padded out from three stanzas to five, Gresham turning
them out under fifteen minutes. He had a wonderful facility for verse.
As a last expedie=
nt
one fell back upon a standing column, a moth-eaten collection of alleged je=
sts
which had been set up years ago to meet the worst emergencies. It was, howe=
ver,
considered a confession of weakness and a degradation to use this column.
We had also in our
drawer a book of American witticisms, published in New York. To cut one out,
preface it with "A good American story comes to hand," and pin it=
on
a slip was a pleasing variation of the usual mode of constructing a paragra=
ph.
Gresham and I each had our favourite method. Personally, I had always a
partiality for dealing with "buffers." "The brakes refused to
act, and the train struck the buffers at the end of the platform"
invariably suggested that if elderly gentlemen would abstain from loitering=
on
railway platforms, they would not get hurt in this way.
Gresham had a sim=
ilar
liking for "turns." "The performance at the Frivoli Music Ha=
ll
was in full swing when the scenery was noticed to be on fire. The audience =
got
a turn. An extra turn."
Julian Eversleigh=
, to
whom I told my experiences on the Orb, said he admired the spirit with whic=
h I
entered into my duties. He said, moreover, that I had a future before me, n=
ot
only as a journalist, but as a writer.
Nor, indeed, coul=
d I
help seeing for myself that I was getting on. I was making a fair income no=
w,
and had every prospect of making a much better one. My market was not
restricted. Verses, articles, and fiction from my pen were being accepted w=
ith
moderate regularity by many of the minor periodicals. My scope was growing
distinctly wider. I found, too, that my work seemed to meet with a good deal
more success when I sent it in from the Orb, with a letter to the editor on=
Orb
notepaper.
Altogether, my fi=
ve
weeks on the Orb were invaluable to me. I ought to have paid rather than ha=
ve
taken payment for working on the column. By the time Fermin came back from
Scotland to turn me out, I was a professional. I had learned the art of wri=
ting
against time. I had learned to ignore noise, which, for a writer in London,=
is
the most valuable quality of all. Every day at the Orb I had had to turn ou=
t my
stuff with the hum of the Strand traffic in my ears, varied by an occasional
barrel-organ, the whistling of popular songs by the printers, whose window
faced ours, and the clatter of a typewriter in the next room. Often I had to
turn out a paragraph or a verse while listening and making appropriate repl=
ies
to some other member of the staff, who had wandered into our room to pass t=
he
time of day or read out a bit of his own stuff which had happened to please=
him
particularly. All this gave me a power of concentration, without which writ=
ing
is difficult in this city of noises.
The friendship I
formed with Gresham too, besides being pleasant, was of infinite service to=
me.
He knew all about the game. I followed his advice, and prospered. His
encouragement was as valuable as his advice. He was my pilot, and saw me, at
great trouble to himself, through the dangerous waters.
I foresaw that the
future held out positive hope that my marriage with Margaret would become p=
ossible.
And yet----
Pausing in the mi=
dst
of my castle-building, I suffered a sense of revulsion. I had been brought =
up
to believe that the only adjective that could be coupled with the noun
"journalism" was "precarious." Was I not, as Gresham wo=
uld
have said, solving an addition sum in infantile poultry before their mother,
the feathered denizen of the farmyard, had lured them from their shell? Was=
I
not mistaking a flash in the pan for a genuine success?
These thoughts nu=
mbed
my fingers in the act of writing to Margaret.
Instead, therefor=
e,
of the jubilant letter I had intended to send her, I wrote one of quite a
different tone. I mentioned the arduous nature of my work. I referred to the
struggle in which I was engaged. I indicated cleverly that I was a man of
extraordinary courage battling with fate. I implied that I made just enough=
to
live on.
It would have been
cruel to arouse expectations which might never be fulfilled. In this letter,
accordingly, and in subsequent letters, I rather went to the opposite extre=
me.
Out of pure regard for Margaret, I painted my case unnecessarily black.
Considerations of a similar nature prompted me to keep on my lodging in Wal=
pole
Street. I had two rooms instead of one, but they were furnished severely and
with nothing but the barest necessaries.
I told myself thr=
ough
it all that I loved Margaret as dearly as ever. Yet there were moments, and
they seemed to come more frequently as the days went on, when I found myself
wondering. Did I really want to give up all this? The untidiness, the scrat=
ch
meals, the nights with Julian? And, when I was honest, I answered, No.
Somehow Margaret
seemed out of place in this new world of mine.
Chapter 6 - NEW YEAR'S EV=
E (James
Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
The morning of New Year's Eve was a
memorable one for me. My first novel was accepted. Not an ambitious volume.=
It
was rather short, and the plot was not obtrusive. The sporting gentlemen who
accepted it, however--Messrs. Prodder and Way--seemed pleased with it; thou=
gh,
when I suggested a sum in cash in advance of royalties, they displayed a mo=
st
embarrassing coyness--and also, as events turned out, good sense.
I carried the good
news to Julian, whom I found, as usual, asleep in his hammock. I had fallen
into the habit of calling on him after my Orb work. He was generally sleepy
when I arrived, at half-past eleven, and while we talked I used to make his
breakfast act as a sort of early lunch for myself. He said that the people =
of
the house had begun by trying to make the arrival of his breakfast coincide
with the completion of his toilet; that this had proved so irksome that the=
y had
struck; and that finally it had been agreed on both sides that the meal sho=
uld
be put in his room at eleven o'clock, whether he was dressed or not. He said
that he often saw his breakfast come in, and would drowsily determine to
consume it hot. But he had never had the energy to do so. Once, indeed, he =
had
mistaken the time, and had confidently expected that the morning of a hot
breakfast had come at last. He was dressed by nine, and had sat for two hou=
rs
gloating over the prospect of steaming coffee and frizzling bacon. On that
particular morning, however, there had been some domestic tragedy--the firi=
ng
of a chimney or the illness of a cook--and at eleven o'clock, not breakfast=
, but
an apology for its absence had been brought to him. This embittered Julian.=
He
gave up the unequal contest, and he has frequently confessed to me that cold
breakfast is an acquired, yet not unpleasant, taste.
He woke up when I
came in, and, after hearing my news and congratulating me, began to open the
letters that lay on the table at his side.
One of the envelo=
pes
had Skeffington's trade mark stamped upon it, and contained a bank-note and=
a
sheet closely type-written on both sides.
"Half a seco=
nd,
Jimmy," said he, and began to read.
I poured myself o=
ut a
cup of cold coffee, and, avoiding the bacon and eggs, which lay embalmed in
frozen grease, began to lunch off bread and marmalade.
"I'll do
it," he burst out when he had finished. "It's a sweat--a fearful
sweat, but----
"Skeffington=
's
have written urging me to undertake a rather original advertising scheme.
They're very pressing, and they've enclosed a tenner in advance. They want =
me
to do them a tragedy in four acts. I sent them the scenario last week. I
sketched out a skeleton plot in which the hero is addicted to a strictly
moderate use of Skeffington's Sloe Gin. His wife adopts every conceivable
measure to wean him from this harmless, even praiseworthy indulgence. At the
end of the second act she thinks she has cured him. He has promised to grat=
ify
what he regards as merely a capricious whim on her part. 'I will give--yes,=
I will
give it up, darling!' 'George! George!' She falls on his neck. Over her sho=
ulder
he winks at the audience, who realise that there is more to come. Curtain. =
In
Act 3 the husband is seen sitting alone in his study. His wife has gone to a
party. The man searches in a cupboard for something to read. Instead of a
novel, however, he lights on a bottle of Skeffington's Sloe Gin. Instantly =
the
old overwhelming craving returns. He hesitates. What does it matter? She wi=
ll
never know. He gulps down glass after glass. He sinks into an intoxicated s=
tupor.
His wife enters. Curtain again. Act 4. The draught of nectar tasted in the
former act after a period of enforced abstinence has produced a deadly
reaction. The husband, who previously improved his health, his temper, and =
his
intellect by a strictly moderate use of Skeffington's Sloe Gin, has now bec=
ome
a ghastly dipsomaniac. His wife, realising too late the awful effect of her
idiotic antagonism to Skeffington's, experiences the keenest pangs of despa=
ir.
She drinks laudanum, and the tragedy is complete."
"Fine,"=
I
said, finishing the coffee.
"In a
deferential postscript," said Julian, "Skeffington's suggest an a=
lternative
ending, that the wife should drink, not laudanum, but Sloe Gin, and grow, u=
nder
its benign influence, resigned to the fate she has brought on her husband a=
nd
herself. Resignation gives way to hope. She devotes her life to the care of=
the
inebriate man, and, by way of pathetic retribution, she lives precisely long
enough to nurse him back to sanity. Which finale do you prefer?"
"Yours!"=
; I
said.
"Thank
you," said Julian, considerably gratified. "So do I. It's terser,
more dramatic, and altogether a better advertisement. Skeffington's make jo=
lly
good sloe gin, but they can't arouse pity and terror. Yes, I'll do it; but
first let me spend the tenner."
"I'm taking a holiday, too, today," I said. "How can we amuse ourselves?"<= o:p>
Julian had opened=
the
last of his letters. He held up two cards.
"Tickets for
Covent Garden Ball tonight," he said. "Why not come? It's sure to=
be
a good one."
"I should li=
ke
to," I said. "Thanks."
Julian dropped fr=
om
his hammock, and began to get his bath ready.
We arranged to di=
ne
early at the Maison Suisse in Rupert Street-- table d'hôte one franc,
plus twopence for mad'moiselle--and go on to the gallery of a first night. I
was to dress for Covent Garden at Julian's after the theatre, because white
waistcoats and the franc table d'hôte didn't go well together.
When I dined out,=
I
usually went to the Maison Suisse. I shall never have the chance of going
again, even if, as a married man, I were allowed to do so, for it has been
pulled down to make room for the Hicks Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue. When I
did not dine there, I attended a quaint survival of last century's
coffee-houses in Glasshouse Street: Tall, pew-like boxes, wooden tables wit=
hout
table-cloths, panelled walls; an excellent menu of chops, steaks, fried egg=
s,
sausages, and other British products. Once the resort of bucks and Macaroni=
s,
Ford's coffee-house I found frequented by a strange assortment of individua=
ls,
some of whom resembled bookmakers' touts, others clerks of an inexplicably
rustic type. Who these people really were I never discovered.
"I generally
have supper at Pepolo's," said Julian, as we left the theatre,
"before a Covent Garden Ball. Shall we go on there?"
There are two ent=
rances
to Pepolo's restaurant, one leading to the ground floor, the other to the
brasserie in the basement. I liked to spend an hour or so there occasionall=
y,
smoking and watching the crowd. Every sixth visit on an average I would hap=
pen
upon somebody interesting among the ordinary throng of medical students and=
third-rate
clerks--watery-eyed old fellows who remembered Cremorne, a mahogany derelict
who had spent his youth on the sea when liners were sailing-ships, and the
apprentices, terrorised by bullying mates and the rollers of the Bay, lay
howling in the scuppers and prayed to be thrown overboard. He told me of one
voyage on which the Malay cook went mad, and, escaping into the ratlines, s=
hot
down a dozen of the crew before he himself was sniped.
The supper tables=
are
separated from the brasserie by a line of stucco arches, and as it was now a
quarter to twelve the place was full. At a first glance it seemed that there
were no empty supper tables. Presently, however, we saw one, laid for four,=
at
which only one man was sitting.
"Hullo!"
said Julian, "there's Malim. Let's go and see if we can push into his
table. Well, Malim, how are you? Do you know Cloyster?"
Mr. Malim had a l=
ofty
expression. I should have put him down as a scholarly recluse. His first wo=
rds
upset this view somewhat.
"Coming to
Covent Garden?" he said, genially. "I am. So is Kit. She'll be do=
wn
soon."
"Good,"
said Julian; "may Jimmy and I have supper at your table?"
"Do," s=
aid
Malim. "Plenty of room. We'd better order our food and not wait for
her."
We took our place=
s,
and looked round us. The hum of conversation was persistent. It rose above =
the
clatter of the supper tables and the sudden bursts of laughter.
It was now five
minutes to twelve. All at once those nearest the door sprang to their feet.=
A
girl in scarlet and black had come in.
"Ah, there's=
Kit
at last," said Malim.
"They're
cheering her," said Julian.
As he spoke, the
tentative murmur of a cheer was caught up by everyone. Men leaped upon chai=
rs
and tables.
"Hullo, hull=
o,
hullo!" said Kit, reaching us. "Kiddie, when they do that it make=
s me
feel shy."
She was laughing =
like
a child. She leaned across the table, put her arms round Malim's neck, and
kissed him. She glanced at us.
Malim smiled quie=
tly,
but said nothing.
She kissed Julian,
and she kissed me.
"Now we're a=
ll
friends," she said, sitting down.
"Better know
each other's names," said Malim. "Kit, this is Mr. Cloyster. Mr.
Cloyster, may I introduce you to my wife?"
Chapter 7 - I MEET MR. TH=
OMAS
BLAKE (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Someone had told me that, the glory=
of
Covent Garden Ball had departed. It may be so. Yet the floor, with its stra=
nge
conglomeration of music-hall artists, callow university men, shady
horse-dealers, and raucous military infants, had an atmosphere of more than
meretricious gaiety. The close of an old year and the birth of a new one to=
uch
the toughest.
The band was work=
ing
away with a strident brassiness which filled the room with noise. The women=
's
dresses were a shriek of colour. The vulgarity of the scene was so immense =
as
to be almost admirable. It was certainly interesting.
Watching his
opportunity, Julian presently drew me aside into the smoking-room.
"Malim,"=
; he
said, "has paid you a great compliment."
"Really,&quo=
t; I
said, rather surprised, for Julian's acquaintance had done nothing more, to=
my
knowledge, than give me a cigar and a whiskey-and-soda.
"He's introd=
uced
you to his wife."
"Very good of
him, I'm sure."
"You don't
understand. You see Kit for what she is: a pretty, good-natured creature br=
ed
in the gutter. But Malim--well, he's in the Foreign Office and is secretary=
to
Sir George Grant."
"Then what in
Heaven's name," I cried, "induced him to marry----"
"My dear
Jimmy," said Julian, adroitly avoiding the arm of an exuberant lady
impersonating Winter, and making fair practice with her detachable icicles,
"it was Kit or no one. Just consider Malim's position, which was that =
of
thousands of other men of his type. They are the cleverest men of their sch=
ools;
they are the intellectual stars of their Varsities. I was at Oxford with Ma=
lim.
He was a sort of tin god. Double-first and all that. Just like all the rest=
of
them. They get what is looked upon as a splendid appointment under Governme=
nt.
They come to London, hire comfortable chambers or a flat, go off to their o=
ffice
in the morning, leave it in the evening, and are given a salary which incre=
ases
by regular gradations from an initial two hundred a year. Say that a man be=
gins
this kind of work at twenty-four. What are his matrimonial prospects? His
office work occupies his entire attention (the idea that Government clerks
don't work is a fiction preserved merely for the writers of burlesque) from=
the
moment he wakes in the morning until dinner. His leisure extends, roughly
speaking, from eight-thirty until twelve. The man whom I am discussing, and=
of whom
Malim is a type, is, as I have already proved, intellectual. He has, theref=
ore,
ambitions. The more intellectual he is the more he loathes the stupid routi=
ne
of his daily task. Thus his leisure is his most valuable possession. There =
are
books he wants to read--those which he liked in the days previous to his
slavery--and new ones which he sees published every day. There are plays he
wants to see performed. And there are subjects on which he would like to
write--would give his left hand to write, if the loss of that limb wouldn't
disqualify him for his post. Where is his social chance? It surely exists o=
nly
in the utter abandonment of his personal projects. And to go out when one i=
s tied
to the clock is a poor sort of game. But suppose he does seek the society of
what friends he can muster in London. Is he made much of, fussed over? Not a
bit of it. Brainless subalterns, ridiculous midshipmen, have, in the eyes of
the girl whom he has come to see, a reputation that he can never win. They'=
re
in the Service; they're so dashing; they're so charmingly extravagant; they=
're
so tremendous in face of an emergency that their conversational limitations=
of
"Yes" and "No" are hailed as brilliant flights of geniu=
s.
Their inane anecdotes, their pointless observations are positively courted.=
It
is they who retire to the conservatory with the divine Violet, whose face is
like the Venus of Milo's, whose hair (one hears) reaches to her knees, whos=
e eyes
are like blue saucers, and whose complexion is a pink poem. It is Jane, the
stumpy, the flat-footed--Jane, who wears glasses and has all the virtues wh=
ich
are supposed to go with indigestion: big hands and an enormous waist--Jane,=
I
repeat, who is told off to talk to a man like Malim. If, on the other hand,=
he
and his fellows refuse to put on evening clothes and be bored to death of an
evening, who can blame them? If they deliberately find enough satisfaction =
for
their needs in the company of a circle of men friends and the casual pleasu=
res
of the town, selfishness is the last epithet with which their behaviour can=
be charged.
Unselfishness has been their curse. No sane person would, of his own accord,
become the automaton that a Government office requires. Pressure on the par=
t of
relations, of parents, has been brought to bear on them. The steady employm=
ent,
the graduated income, the pension--that fatal pension--has been danced by t=
heir
fathers and their mothers and their Uncle Johns before their eyes. Appeals =
have
been made to them on filial, not to say religious, grounds. Threats would h=
ave
availed nothing; but appeals--downright tearful appeals from mamma, husky, =
hand-gripping
appeals from papa--that is what has made escape impossible. A huge act of
unselfishness has been compelled; a lifetime of reactionary egotism is
inevitable and legitimate. I was wrong when I said Malim was typical. He ha=
s to
the good an ingenuity which assists naturally in the solution of the proble=
m of
self and circumstance. A year or two ago chance brought him in contact with
Kit. They struck up a friendship. He became an habitué at the Fried =
Fish
Shop in Tottenham Court Road. Whenever we questioned his taste he said that=
a
physician recommended fish as a tonic for the brain. But it was not his bra=
in that
took Malim to the fried fish shop. It was his heart. He loved Kit, and
presently he married her. One would have said this was an impossible step.
Misery for Malim's people, his friends, himself, and afterwards for Kit. But
Nature has endowed both Malim and Kit with extraordinary commonsense. He ke=
pt
to his flat; she kept to her job in the fried fish shop. Only, instead of
living in, she was able to retire after her day's work to a little house wh=
ich
he hired for her in the Hampstead Road. Her work, for which she is eminently
fitted, keeps her out of mischief. His flat gives the impression to his fam=
ily
and the head of his department that he is still a bachelor. Thus, all goes =
well."
"I've often =
read
in the police reports," I said, "of persons who lead double lives,
and I'm much interested in----"
Malim and Kit bore
down upon us. We rose.
"It's the ma=
rch
past," observed the former. "Come upstairs."
"Kiddie,&quo=
t;
said Kit, "give me your arm."
At half-past four=
we were
in Wellington Street. It was a fine, mild morning, and in the queer light of
the false dawn we betook ourselves to the Old Hummums for breakfast. Other
couples had done the same. The steps of the Hummums facing the market harbo=
ured
already a waiting crowd. The doors were to be opened at five. We also found
places on the stone steps. The market was alive with porters, who hailed ou=
r appearance
with every profession of delight. Early hours would seem to lend a certain
acidity to their badinage. By-and-by a more personal note crept into their
facetious comments. Two guardsmen on the top step suddenly displayed, in
return, a very creditable gift of repartee. Covent Garden market was deligh=
ted.
It felt the stern joy which warriors feel with foemen worthy of their steel=
. It
suspended its juggling feats with vegetable baskets, and devoted itself
exclusively to the task of silencing our guns. Porters, costers, and the
riff-raff of the streets crowded in a semicircle around us. Just then it wa=
s borne
in on us how small our number was. A solid phalanx of the toughest customer=
s in
London faced us. Behind this semicircle a line of carts had been drawn up.
Unseen enemies from behind this laager now began to amuse themselves by
bombarding us with the product of the market garden. Tomatoes, cauliflowers,
and potatoes came hurtling into our midst. I saw Julian consulting his watc=
h.
"Five minutes more," he said. I had noticed some minutes back that
the ardour of the attack seemed to centre round one man in particular--a sh=
ort,
very burly man in a costume that seemed somehow vaguely nautical. His face =
wore
the expression of one cheerfully conscious of being well on the road to int=
oxication.
He was the ringleader. It was he who threw the largest cabbage, the most
passé tomato. I don't suppose he had ever enjoyed himself so much in=
his
life. He was standing now on a cart full of potatoes, and firing them in wi=
th
tremendous force.
Kit saw him too.<= o:p>
"Why, there's
that blackguard Tom!" she cried.
She had been told=
to
sit down behind Malim for safety. Before anyone could stop her, or had gues=
sed
her intention, she had pushed her way through us and stepped out into the r=
oad.
It was so unexpec=
ted
that there was an involuntary lull in the proceedings.
"Tom!"<= o:p>
She pointed an
accusing finger at the man, who gaped beerily.
"Tom, who
pinched farver's best trousers, and popped them?"
There was a roar =
of
laughter. A moment before, and Tom had been the pet of the market, the
energetic leader, the champion potato-slinger. Now he was a thing of derisi=
on.
His friends took up the question. Keen anxiety was expressed on all sides a=
s to
the fate of father's trousers. He was requested to be a man and speak up.
The uproar died a=
way
as it was seen that Kit had not yet finished.
"Cheese it, =
some
of yer," shouted a voice. "The lady wants to orsk him somefin'
else."
"Tom," =
said
Kit, "who was sent with tuppence to buy postage-stamps and spent it on
beer?"
The question was =
well
received by the audience. Tom was beaten. A potato, vast and nobbly, fell f=
rom
his palsied hand. He was speechless. Then he began to stammer.
"Just you st=
op
it, Tom," shouted Kit triumphantly. "Just you stop it, d'you 'ear,
you stop it."
She turned toward=
s us
on the steps, and, taking us all into her confidence, added: "'E's a n=
ice
thing to 'ave for a bruvver, anyway."
Then she rejoined Malim, amid peals of laughter from both armies. It was a Homeric incident.<= o:p>
Only a half-heart=
ed
attempt was made to renew the attack. And when the door of the Hummums at l=
ast
opened, Malim observed to Julian and me, as we squashed our way in, that if=
a
man's wife's relations were always as opportune as Kit's, the greatest
objection to them would be removed.
Chapter 8 - I MEET THE RE=
V.
JOHN HATTON (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
I saw a great deal of Malim after t=
hat.
He and Julian became my two chief mainstays when I felt in need of society.
Malim was a man of delicate literary skill, a genuine lover of books, a sev=
ere
critic of modern fiction. Our tastes were in the main identical, though it =
was always
a blow to me that he could see nothing humorous in Mr. George Ade, whose Fa=
bles
I knew nearly by heart. The more robust type of humour left him cold.
In all other resp=
ects
we agreed.
There is a
never-failing fascination in a man with a secret. It gave me a pleasant fee=
ling
of being behind the scenes, to watch Malim, sitting in his armchair, the
essence of everything that was conventional and respectable, with Eton and
Oxford written all over him, and to think that he was married all the while=
to
an employee in a Tottenham Court Road fried-fish shop.
Kit never appeare=
d in
the flat: but Malim went nearly every evening to the little villa. Sometime=
s he
took Julian and myself, more often myself alone, Julian being ever disincli=
ned
to move far from his hammock. The more I saw of Kit the more thoroughly I
realized how eminently fitted she was to be Malim's wife. It was a union of=
opposites.
Except for the type of fiction provided by "penny libraries of powerful
stories." Kit had probably not read more than half a dozen books in her
life. Grimm's fairy stories she recollected dimly, and she betrayed a
surprising acquaintance with at least three of Ouida's novels. I fancy that
Malim appeared to her as a sort of combination of fairy prince and Ouida
guardsman. He exhibited the Oxford manner at times rather noticeably. Kit l=
oved
it.
Till I saw them
together I had thought Kit's accent and her incessant mangling of the King's
English would have jarred upon Malim. But I soon found that I was wrong. He=
did
not appear to notice.
I learned from Ki=
t,
in the course of my first visit to the villa, some further particulars
respecting her brother Tom, the potato-thrower of Covent Garden Market. Mr.
Thomas Blake, it seemed, was the proprietor and skipper of a barge. A pleas=
ant
enough fellow when sober, but too much given to what Kit described as "=
;his
drop." He had apparently left home under something of a cloud, though
whether this had anything to do with "father's trousers" I never
knew. Kit said she had not seen him for some years, though each had known t=
he
other's address. It seemed that the Blake family were not great corresponde=
nts.
"Have you ev=
er
met John Hatton?" asked Malim one night after dinner at his flat.
"John
Hatton?" I answered. "No. Who is he?"
"A parson. A
very good fellow. You ought to know him. He's a man with a number of widely
different interests. We were at Trinity together. He jumps from one thing to
another, but he's frightfully keen about whatever he does. Someone was sayi=
ng
that he was running a boys' club in the thickest part of Lambeth."
"There might=
be
copy in it," I said.
"Or ideas for
advertisements for Julian," said Malim. "Anyway, I'll introduce y=
ou
to him. Have you ever been in the Barrel?"
"What's the
Barrel?"
"The Barrel =
is a
club. It gets the name from the fact that it's the only club in England that
allows, and indeed urges, its members to sit on a barrel. John Hatton is
sometimes to be found there. Come round to it tomorrow night."
"All
right," I replied. "Where is it?"
"A hundred a=
nd
fifty-three, York Street, Covent Garden. First floor."
"Very
well," I said. "I'll meet you there at twelve o'clock. I can't co=
me
sooner because I've got a story to write."
Twelve had just
struck when I walked up York Street looking for No. 153.
The house was
brilliantly lighted on the first floor. The street door opened on to a
staircase, and as I mounted it the sound of a piano and a singing voice rea=
ched
me. At the top of the stairs I caught sight of a waiter loaded with glasses=
. I
called to him.
"Mr. Cloyste=
r,
sir? Yessir. I'll find out whether Mr. Malim can see you, sir."
Malim came out to=
me.
"Hatton's not here," he said, "but come in. There's a smoking
concert going on."
He took me into t=
he
room, the windows of which I had seen from the street.
There was a burst=
of
cheering as we entered the room. The song was finished, and there was a
movement among the audience. "It's the interval," said Malim.
Men surged out of= the packed front room into the passage, and then into a sort of bar parlour. Ma= lim and I also made our way there. "That's the fetish of the club," s= aid Malim, pointing to a barrel standing on end; "and I'll introduce you to the man who is sitting on it. He's little Michael, the musical critic. They once put on an operetta of his at the Court. It ran about two nights, but he reckons all the events of the world from the date of its production."<= o:p>
"Mr.
Cloyster--Mr. Michael."
The musician hopp=
ed
down from the barrel and shook hands. He was a dapper little person, and ha=
d a
trick of punctuating every sentence with a snigger.
"Cheer-o,&qu=
ot;
he said genially. "Is this your first visit?"
I said it was.
"Then sit on=
the
barrel. We are the only club in London who can offer you the privilege.&quo=
t;
Accordingly I sat on the barrel, and through a murmur of applause I could h=
ear
Michael telling someone that he'd first seen that barrel five years before =
his
operetta came out at the Court.
At that moment a
venerable figure strode with dignity into the bar.
"Maundrell,&=
quot;
said Malim to me. "The last of the old Bohemians. An old actor. Always
wears the steeple hat and a long coat with skirts."
The survivor of t=
he
days of Kean uttered a bellow for whisky-and-water. "That barrel,"=
; he
said, "reminds me of Buckstone's days at the Haymarket. After the
performance we used to meet at the Café de l'Europe, a few yards from
the theatre. Our secret society sat there."
"What was the
society called, Mr. Maundrell?" asked a new member with unusual
intrepidity.
"Its name,&q=
uot;
replied the white-headed actor simply, "I shall not divulge. It was no=
t,
however, altogether unconnected with the Pink Men of the Blue Mountains. We
used to sit, we who were initiated, in a circle. We met to discuss the busi=
ness
of the society. Oh, we were the observed of all observers, I can assure you.
Our society was extensive. It had its offshoots in foreign lands. Well, we =
at
these meetings used to sit round a barrel--a great big barrel, which had a =
hole
in the top. The barrel was not merely an ornament, for through the hole in =
the
top we threw any scraps and odds and ends we did not want. Bits of tobacco,=
bread,
marrow bones, the dregs of our glasses--anything and everything went into t=
he
barrel. And so it happened, as the barrel became fuller and fuller, strange
animals made their appearance--animals of peculiar shape and form crawled o=
ut
of the barrel and would attempt to escape across the floor. But we were on
their tracks. We saw them. We headed them off with our sticks, and we chased
them back again to the place where they had been born and bred. We poked th=
em
in, sir, with our sticks."
Mr. Maundrell emi=
tted
a placid chuckle at this reminiscence.
"A good many
members of this club," whispered Malim to me, "would have gone ba=
ck
into that barrel."
A bell sounded.
"That's for the second part to begin," said Malim.
We herded back al=
ong
the passage. A voice cried, "Be seated, please, gentlemen."
At the far end of= the room was a table for the chairman and the committee, and to the left stood a piano. Everyone had now sat down except the chairman, who was apparently no= t in the room. There was a pause. Then a man from the audience whooped sharply a= nd clambered over the table and into the place of the chairman. He tapped twice with the mallet. "Get out of that chair," yelled various voices.<= o:p>
"Gentlemen,&=
quot;
said the man in the chair. A howl of execration went up, and simultaneously=
the
door was flung open. A double file of white-robed Druids came, chanting, in=
to
the room.
The Druids carrie=
d in
with them a small portable tree which they proceeded to set upright. The ch=
ant
now became extremely topical. Each Druid sang a verse in turn, while his fe=
llow
Druids danced a stately measure round the tree. As the verse was being sung=
, an
imitation granite altar was hastily erected.
The man in the ch=
air,
who had so far smoked a cigarette in silence, now tapped again with his mal=
let.
"Gentlemen," he observed.
The Druids ended
their song abruptly, and made a dash at the occupant of the chair. The audi=
ence
stood up. "A victim for our ancient rites!" screamed the Druids,
falling upon the man and dragging him towards the property altar.
The victim showed
every sign of objection to early English rites; but he was dislodged, and a=
fter
being dragged, struggling, across the table, subsided quickly on the floor.=
The
mob surged about and around him. He was hidden from view. His position,
however, could be located by a series of piercing shrieks.
The door again
opened. Mr. Maundrell, the real chairman of the evening, stood on the
threshold. "Chair!" was now the word that arose on every side, an=
d at
this signal the Druids disappeared at a trot past the long-bearded, impassi=
ve
Mr. Maundrell. Their victim followed them, but before he did so he picked up
his trousers which were lying on the carpet.
All the time this
scene had been going on, I fancied I recognised the man in the chair. In a
flash I remembered. It was Dawkins who had coached First Trinity, and whom =
I,
as a visitor once at the crew's training dinner, had last seen going through
the ancient and honourable process of de-bagging at the hands of his
light-hearted boat.
"Come on,&qu=
ot;
said Malim. "Godfrey Lane's going to sing a patriotic song. They will =
let
him do it. We'll go down to the Temple and find John Hatton."
We left the Barre=
l at
about one o'clock. It was a typical London late autumn night. Quiet with the
peace of a humming top; warm with the heat generated from mellow asphalt and
resinous wood-paving.
We turned from
Bedford Street eastwards along the Strand.
Between one and t=
wo
the Strand is as empty as it ever is. It is given over to lurchers and
policemen. Fleet Street reproduces for this one hour the Sahara.
"When I knoc=
k at
the Temple gate late at night," said Malim, "and am admitted by t=
he
night porter, I always feel a pleasantly archaic touch."
I agreed with him.
The process seemed a quaint admixture of an Oxford or Cambridge college,
Gottingen, and a feudal keep. And after the gate had been closed behind one=
, it
was difficult to realise that within a few yards of an academic system of l=
awns
and buildings full of living traditions and associations which wainscoting =
and
winding stairs engender, lay the modern world, its American invaders, its n=
ew
humour, its women's clubs, its long firms, its musical comedies, its Park L=
ane,
and its Strand with the hub of the universe projecting from the roadway at
Charing Cross, plain for Englishmen to gloat over and for foreigners to env=
y.
Sixty-two Harcourt
Buildings is emblazoned with many names, including that of the Rev. John
Hatton. The oak was not sported, and our rap at the inner door was immediat=
ely
answered by a shout of "Come in!" As we opened it we heard a pecu=
liar
whirring sound. "Road skates," said Hatton, gracefully circling t=
he
table and then coming to a standstill. I was introduced. "I'm very gla=
d to
see you both," he said. "The two other men I share these rooms wi=
th
have gone away, so I'm killing time by training for my road-skate tour abro=
ad.
It's trying for one's ankles."
"Could you go
downstairs on them?" said Malim.
"Certainly,&=
quot;
he replied, "I'll do so now. And when we're down, I'll have a little
practice in the open."
Whereupon he skat=
ed
to the landing, scrambled down the stairs, sped up Middle Temple Lane, and
called the porter to let us out into Fleet Street. He struck me as a man who
differed in some respects from the popular conception of a curate.
"I'll race y=
ou
to Ludgate Circus and back," said the clergyman.
"You're too
fast," said Malim; "it must be a handicap."
"We might do=
it
level in a cab," said I, for I saw a hansom crawling towards us.
"Done,"
said the Rev. John Hatton. "Done, for half-a-crown!"
I climbed into the
hansom, and Malim, about to follow me, found that a constable, to whom the =
soil
of the City had given spontaneous birth, was standing at his shoulder. &quo=
t;Wot's
the game?" inquired the officer, with tender solicitude.
"A fine nigh=
t,
Perkins," remarked Hatton.
"A fine morn=
ing,
beggin' your pardon, sir," said the policeman facetiously. He seemed t=
o be
an acquaintance of the skater.
"Reliability
trials," continued Hatton. "Be good enough to start us, Perkins.&=
quot;
"Very good,
sir," said Perkins.
"Drive to
Ludgate Circus and back, and beat the gentleman on the skates," said M=
alim
to our driver, who was taking the race as though he assisted at such events=
in
the course of his daily duty.
"Hi shall sa=
y,
'Are you ready? Horf!'"
"We shall ha=
ve
Perkins applying to the Jockey Club for Ernest Willoughby's job,"
whispered Malim.
"Are you rea=
dy?
Horf!"
Hatton was first =
off
the mark. He raced down the incline to the Circus at a tremendous speed. He=
was
just in sight as he swung laboriously round and headed for home. But meeting
him on our outward journey, we noticed that the upward slope was distressing
him. "Shall we do it?" we asked.
"Yessir,&quo=
t;
said our driver. And now we, too, were on the up grade. We went up the hill=
at
a gallop: were equal with Hatton at Fetter Lane, and reached the Temple Gate
yards to the good.
The ancient drive=
r of
a four-wheeler had been the witness of the finish.
He gazed with
displeasure upon us.
"This 'ere's=
a
nice use ter put Fleet Street to, I don't think," he said coldly.
This sarcastic re=
buke
rather damped us, and after Hatton had paid Malim his half-crown, and had
invited me to visit him, we departed.
"Queer chap,
Hatton," said Malim as we walked up the Strand.
I was to discover=
at
no distant date that he was distinctly a many-sided man. I have met a good =
many
clergymen in my time, but I have never come across one quite like the Rev. =
John
Hatton.
Chapter 9 - JULIAN LEARNS=
MY
SECRET (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
A difficulty in the life of a liter=
ary
man in London is the question of getting systematic exercise. At school and
college I had been accustomed to play games every day, and now I felt the
change acutely.
It was through th=
is
that I first became really intimate with John Hatton, and incidentally with
Sidney Price, of the Moon Assurance Company. I happened to mention my troub=
le
one night in Hatton's rooms. I had been there frequently since my first vis=
it.
"None of my
waistcoats fit," I remarked.
"My dear
fellow," said Hatton, "I'll give you exercise and to spare; that =
is
to say, if you can box."
"I'm not a
champion," I said; "but I'm fond of it. I shouldn't mind taking up
boxing again. There's nothing like it for exercise."
"Quite right,
James," he replied; "and exercise, as I often tell my boys, is
essential."
"What
boys?" I asked.
"My club boys," said Hatton. "They belong to the most dingy quarter of the whole of London--South Lambeth. They are not hooligans. They are not so interesting as that. They represent the class of youth that is a stratum or= two above hooliganism. Frightful weeds. They lack the robust animalism of the c= lass below them, and they lack the intelligence of the class above them. The fel= lows at my club are mostly hard-working mechanics and under-paid office boys. Th= ey have nothing approaching a sense of humour or the instinct of sport."<= o:p>
"Not very
encouraging," I said.
"Nor
picturesque," said Hatton; "and that is why they've been so negle=
cted.
There is romance in an out-and-out hooligan. It interests people to reform =
him.
But to the outsider my boys are dull. I don't find them so. But then I know
them. Boxing lessons are just what they want. In fact, I was telling Sidney
Price, an insurance clerk who lives in Lambeth and helps me at the club, on=
ly
yesterday how much I wished we could teach them to use the gloves."
"I'll take it
on, then, Hatton, if you like," I said. "It ought to keep me in
form."
I found that it d=
id.
I ceased to be aware of my liver. That winter I was able to work to good
purpose, and the result was that I arrived. It dawned upon me at last that =
the
"precarious" idea was played out. One could see too plainly the w=
hite
sheet and phosphorus.
And I was happy.
Happier, perhaps, than I had ever hoped to be. Happier, in a sense, than I =
can
hope to be again. I had congenial work, and, what is more, I had congenial
friends.
What friends they
were!
Julian--I seem to=
see
him now sprawling in his hammock, sucking his pipe, planning an advertiseme=
nt,
or propounding some whimsical theory of life; and in his eyes he bears the =
pain
of one whose love and life are spoilt. Julian--no longer my friend.
Kit and Malim--wh=
at
evenings are suggested by those names.
Evenings alone wi=
th
Malim at his flat in Vernon Place. An unimpeachable dinner, a hand at picqu=
et,
midnight talk with the blue smoke wreathing round our heads.
Well, Malim and I=
are
unlikely to meet again in Vernon Place. Nor shall we foregather at the litt=
le
house in the Hampstead Road, the house which Kit enveloped in an inimitable=
air
of domesticity. Her past had not been unconnected with the minor stage. She
could play on the piano from ear, and sing the songs of the street with a
charming cockney twang. But there was nothing of the stage about her now. S=
he
was born for domesticity and, as the wife of Malim, she wished to forget al=
l that
had gone before. She even hesitated to give us her wonderful imitations of =
the
customers at the fried fish shop, because in her heart she did not think su=
ch
impersonations altogether suitable for a respectable married woman.
It was Malim who =
got
me elected to the Barrel Club. I take it that I shall pay few more visits
there.
I have mentioned =
at
this point the love of my old friends who made my first years in London a
period of happiness, since it was in this month of April that I had a momen=
tous
conversation with Julian about Margaret.
He had come to
Walpole Street to use my typewriter, and seemed amazed to find that I was s=
till
living in much the same style as I had always done.
"Let me
see," he said. "How long is it since I was here last?"
"You came so=
me
time before Christmas."
"Ah, yes,&qu=
ot;
he said reminiscently. "I was doing a lot of travelling just then.&quo=
t;
And he added, thoughtfully, "What a curious fellow you are, Jimmy. Here
are you making----" He glanced at me.
"Oh, say a
thousand a year."
"--Fifteen
hundred a year, and you live in precisely the same shoddy surroundings as y=
ou
did when your manuscripts were responsible for an extra size in waste-paper
baskets. I was surprised to hear that you were still in Walpole Street. I
supposed that, at any rate, you had taken the whole house."
His eyes raked the
little sitting-room from the sham marble mantelpiece to the bamboo cabinet.=
I
surveyed it, too, and suddenly it did seem unnecessarily wretched and
depressing.
Julian looked at =
me
curiously.
"There's some
mystery here," he said.
"Don't be an
ass, Julian," I replied weakly.
"It's no good
denying it," he retorted; "there's some mystery. You're a materia=
list.
You don't live like this from choice. If you were to follow your own
inclinations, you'd do things in the best style you could run to. You'd be =
in
Jermyn Street; you'd have your man, a cottage in Surrey; you'd entertain, go
out a good deal. You'd certainly give up these dingy quarters. My friendship
for you deplores a mammoth skeleton in your cupboard, James. My study of
advertising tells me that this paltry existence of yours does not adequately
push your name before the public. You're losing money, you're----"
"Stop,
Julian," I exclaimed.
"Cherchez,&q=
uot;
he continued, "cherchez----"
"Stop! Confo=
und
you, stop! I tell you----"
"Come,"=
he
said laughing. "I mustn't force your confidence; but I can't help feel=
ing
it's odd----"
"When I came=
to
London," I said, firmly, "I was most desperately in love. I was to
make a fortune, incidentally my name, marry, and live happily ever after. T=
here
seemed last year nothing complex about that programme. It seemed almost too
simple. I even, like a fool, thought to add an extra touch of piquancy to i=
t by
endeavouring to be a Bohemian. I then discovered that what I was attempting=
was
not so simple as I had imagined. To begin with, Bohemians diffuse their bra=
ins
in every direction except that where bread-and-butter comes from. I found, =
too,
that unless one earns bread-and-butter, one has to sprint very fast to the
workhouse door to prevent oneself starving before one gets there; so I drop=
ped
Bohemia and I dropped many other pleasant fictions as well. I took to exami=
ning
pavements, saw how hard they were, had a look at the gutters, and saw how b=
road
they were. I noticed the accumulation of dirt on the house fronts, the actu=
al
proportions of industrial buildings. I observed closely the price of food,
clothes, and roofs."
"You became a
realist."
"Yes; I read= a good deal of Gissing about then, and it scared me. I pitied myself. And aft= er that came pity for the girl I loved. I swore that I would never let her com= e to my side in the ring where the monster Poverty and I were fighting. If you've been there you've been in hell. And if you come out with your soul alive you can't tell other people what it felt like. They couldn't understand."<= o:p>
Julian nodded.
"I understand, you know," he said gravely.
"Yes, you've
been there," I said. "Well, you've seen that my little turn-up wi=
th
the monster was short and sharp. It wasn't one of the old-fashioned,
forty-round, most-of-a-lifetime, feint-for-an-opening, in-and-out affairs. =
Our
pace was too fast for that. We went at it both hands, fighting all the time=
. I
was going for the knock-out in the first round. Not your method, Julian.&qu=
ot;
"No," s=
aid
Julian; "it's not my method. I treat the monster rather as a wild anim=
al
than as a hooligan; and hearing that wild animals won't do more than sniff =
at
you if you lie perfectly still, I adopted that ruse towards him to save mys=
elf
the trouble of a conflict. But the effect of lying perfectly still was that=
I
used to fall asleep; and that works satisfactorily."
"Julian,&quo=
t; I
said, "I detect a touch of envy in your voice. You try to keep it out,=
but
you can't. Wait a bit, though. I haven't finished.
"As you know=
, I
had the monster down in less than no time. I said to myself, 'I've won. I'll
write to Margaret, and tell her so!' Do you know I had actually begun to wr=
ite
the letter when another thought struck me. One that started me sweating and
shaking. 'The monster,' I said again to myself, 'the monster is devilish
cunning. Perhaps he's only shamming! It looks as if he were beaten. Suppose
it's only a feint to get me off my guard. Suppose he just wants me to take =
my
eyes off him so that he may get at me again as soon as I've begun to look f=
or a
comfortable chair and a mantelpiece to rest my feet on!' I told myself that=
I
wouldn't risk bringing Margaret over. I didn't dare chance her being with m=
e if
ever I had to go back into the ring. So I kept jumping and stamping on the
monster. The referee had given me the fight and had gone away; and, with no=
one
to stop me, I kicked the life out of him."
"No, you
didn't," interrupted Julian. "Excuse me, I'm sure you didn't. I o=
ften
wake up and hear him prowling about."
"Yes; but
there's a separate monster set apart for each of us. It's Fate who arranges=
the
programme, and, by stress of business, Fate postpones many contests so late
that before they can take place the man has died. Those who die before their
fight comes on are called rich men. To return, however, to my own monster: I
was at last convinced that he was dead a thousand times----"
"How long ha=
ve
you had this conviction?" asked Julian.
"The absolute
certainty that my monster has ceased to exist came to me this morning whils=
t I
brushed my hair."
"Ah," s=
aid
Julian; "and now, I suppose, you really will write to Miss Margaret---=
-"
He paused.
"Goodwin?&qu=
ot;
"To Miss
Margaret Goodwin," he repeated.
"Look here,
Julian," I said irritably; "it's no use your repeating every
observation I make as though you were Massa Johnson on Margate Sands."=
"What's the
matter?"
I was silent for a
moment. Then I confessed.
"Julian,&quo=
t; I
said, "I can't write to her. You need neither say that I'm a blackguard
nor that you're sorry for us both. At this present moment I've no more
affection for Margaret than I have for this chair. When precisely I left off
caring for her I don't know. Why I ever thought I loved her I don't know,
either. But ever since I came to London all the love I did have for her has
been ebbing away every day."
"Had you met
many people before you met her?" asked Julian slowly.
"No one that
counted. Not a woman that counted, that's to say. I am shy with women. I can
talk to them in a sort of way, but I never seem able to get intimate. Marga=
ret
was different. She saved my life, and we spent the summer in Guernsey
together."
"And you
seriously expected not to fall in love?" Julian laughed "My dear
Jimmy, you ought to write a psychological novel."
"Possibly. B=
ut,
in the meantime, what am I to do?"
Julian stood up.<= o:p>
"She's in lo=
ve
with you, I suppose?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
He stood looking =
at
me.
"Well, can't=
you
speak?" I said.
He turned away,
shrugging his shoulders. "One's got one's own right and one's own
wrong," he grumbled, lighting his pipe.
"I know what
you're thinking," I said.
He would not look=
at
me.
"You're
thinking," I went on, "what a cad I am not to have written that l=
etter."
I sat down resting my head on my hands. After all--love and liberty--they're
both very sweet.
"I'm
thinking," said Julian, watching the smoke from his pipe abstractedly,
"that you will probably write tonight; and I think I know how you're
feeling."
"Julian,&quo=
t; I
said, "must it be tonight? Why? The letter shall go. But must it be
tonight?"
Julian hesitated.=
"No," he
said; "but you've made up your mind, so why put off the inevitable?&qu=
ot;
"I can't,&qu=
ot;
I exclaimed; "oh, I really can't. I must have my freedom a little
longer."
"You must gi=
ve
it up some day. It'll be all the harder when you've got to face it."
"I don't mind
that. A little more freedom, just a little; and then I'll tell her to come =
to
me."
He smoked in sile=
nce.
"Surely,&quo=
t; I
said, "this little more freedom that I ask is a small thing compared w=
ith
the sacrifice I have promised to make?"
"You won't l=
et
her know it's a sacrifice?"
"Of course n=
ot.
She shall think that I love her as I used to."
"Yes, you ou=
ght
to do that," he said softly. "Poor devil," he added.
"Am I too
selfish?" I asked.
He got up to go.
"No," he said. "To my mind, you're entitled to a breathing s=
pace
before you give up all that you love best. But there's a risk."
"Of what?&qu=
ot;
"Of her find=
ing
out by some other means than yourself and before your letter comes, that the
letter should have been written earlier. Do you sign all your stuff with yo=
ur
own name?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Well, then,
she's bound to see how you're getting on. She'll see your name in the magaz=
ines,
in newspapers and in books. She'll know you don't write for nothing, and sh=
e'll
make calculations."
I was staggered.<= o:p>
"You
mean--?" I said.
"Why, it will
occur to her before long that your statement of your income doesn't square =
with
the rest of the evidence; and she'll wonder why you pose as a pauper when
you're really raking in the money with both hands. She'll think it over, and
then she'll see it all."
"I see,"=
; I
said, dully. "Well, you've taken my last holiday from me. I'll write to
her tonight, telling her the truth."
"I shouldn't,
necessarily. Wait a week or two. You may quite possibly hit on some way out=
of
the difficulty. I'm bound to say, though, I can't see one myself at the
moment."
"Nor can
I," I said.
Chapter 10 - TOM BLAKE AG=
AIN (James
Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Hatton's Club boys took kindly to my
course of instruction. For a couple of months, indeed, it seemed that anoth=
er
golden age of the noble art was approaching, and that the rejuvenation of
boxing would occur, beginning at Carnation Hall, Lambeth.
Then the thing
collapsed like a punctured tyre.
At first, of cour=
se,
they fought a little shy. But when I had them up in line, and had shown them
what a large proportion of an eight-ounce glove is padding, they grew more =
at
ease. To be asked suddenly to fight three rounds with one of your friends
before an audience, also of your friends, is embarrassing. One feels hot and
uncomfortable. Hatton's boys jibbed nervously. As a preliminary measure,
therefore, I drilled them in a class at foot-work and the left lead. They f=
ound
the exercise exhilarating. If this was the idea, they seemed to say, let the
thing go on. Then I showed them how to be highly scientific with a punch ba=
ll.
Finally, I sparred lightly with them myself.
In the rough they
were impossible boxers. After their initial distrust had evaporated under my
gentle handling of them, they forgot all I had taught them about position a=
nd
guards. They bored in, heads down and arms going like semicircular pistons.
Once or twice I had to stop them. They were easily steadied. They hastened =
to
adopt a certain snakiness of attack instead of the frontal method which had
left them so exposed. They began to cultivate a kind of negative style. They
were tremendously impressed by the superiority of science over strength.
I am not sure tha=
t I
did not harp rather too much on the scientific note. Perhaps if I had refer=
red
to it less, the ultimate disaster would not have been quite so appalling. On
the other hand, I had not the slightest suspicion that they would so exagge=
rate
my meaning when I was remarking on the worth of science, how it
"tells," and how it causes the meagre stripling to play fast and
loose with huge, brawny ruffians--no cowards, mark you--and hairy as to the=
ir
chests.
But the weeds at
Hatton's Club were fascinated by my homilies on science. The simplicity of =
the
thing appealed to them irresistibly. They caught at the expression,
"Science," and regarded it as the "Hey Presto!" of a
friendly conjurer who could so arrange matters for them that powerful oppon=
ents
would fall flat, involuntarily, at the sight of their technically correct
attitude.
I did not like to
destroy their illusions. Had I said to them, "Look here, science is no
practical use to you unless you've got low-bridged, snub noses, protruding
temples, nostrils like the tubes of a vacuum-cleaner, stomach muscles like
motor-car wheels, hands like legs of mutton, and biceps like transatlantic
cables"--had I said that, they would have voted boxing a fraud, and go=
ne
away to quarrel over a game of backgammon, which was precisely what I wishe=
d to
avoid.
So I let them go =
on
with their tapping and feinting and side-slipping.
To make it worse =
they
overheard Sidney Price trying to pay me a compliment. Price was the insuran=
ce
clerk who had attached himself to Hatton and had proved himself to be of re=
al
service in many ways. He was an honest man, but he could not box. He came d=
own
to the hall one night after I had given four or five lessons, to watch the =
boys
spar. Of course, to the uninitiated eye it did seem as though they were nea=
t in
their work. The sight was very different from the absurd exhibition which P=
rice
had seen on the night I started with them. He might easily have said, if he=
was
determined to compliment me, that they had "improved,"
"progressed," or something equally adequate and innocuous. But no.
The man must needs be effusive, positively gushing. He came to me in
transports. "Wonderful!" he said. "Wonderful!"
"What's
wonderful?" I said, a shade irritably.
"Their
style," he said loudly, so that they could all hear, "their style.
It's their style that astonishes me."
I hustled him awa=
y as
soon as I could, but the mischief was done.
Style ran through
Hatton's Club boys like an epidemic. Carnation Hall fairly buzzed with styl=
e.
An apology for a blow which landed on your chest with the delicacy of an Ag=
ag
among butterflies was extolled to the skies because it was a stylish blow. =
When
Alf Joblin, a recruit, sent Walter Greenway sprawling with a random swing on
the mark, there was a pained shudder. Not only Walter Greenway, but the who=
le
club explained to Alf that the swing was a bad swing, an awful violation of=
style,
practically a crime. By the time they had finished explaining, Alf was daze=
d;
and when invited by Walter to repeat the hit with a view to his being furth=
er
impressed with its want of style, did so in such half-hearted fashion that
Walter had time to step stylishly aside and show Alf how futile it is to be
unscientific.
To the club this
episode was decently buried in an unremembered past. To me, however, it was
significant, though I did not imagine it would ever have the tremendous seq=
uel
which was brought about by the coming of Thomas Blake.
Fate never planne=
d a
coup so successfully. The psychology of Blake's arrival was perfect. The bo=
xers
of Carnation Hall had worked themselves into a mental condition which I knew
was as ridiculous as it was dangerous. Their conceit and their imagination
transformed the hall into a kind of improved National Sporting Club. They w=
ent
about with an air of subdued but tremendous athleticism. They affected a so=
rt
of self-conscious nonchalance. They adopted an odiously patronising attitude
towards the once popular game of backgammon. I daresay that picture is not =
yet forgotten
where a British general, a man of blood and iron, is portrayed as playing w=
ith
a baby, to the utter neglect of a table full of important military dispatch=
es.
Well, the club boys, to a boy, posed as generals of blood and iron when they
condescended to play backgammon. They did it, but they let you see that they
did not regard it as one of the serious things of life.
Also, knowing that
each other's hitting was so scientific as to be harmless, they would someti=
mes
deliberately put their eye in front of their opponent's stylish left, in the
hope that the blow would raise a bruise. It hardly ever did. But
occasionally----! Oh, then you should have seen the hero-with-the-quiet-smi=
le
look on their faces as they lounged ostentatiously about the place. In a wo=
rd,
they were above themselves. They sighed for fresh worlds to conquer. And Th=
omas
Blake supplied the long-felt want.
Personally, I did=
not
see his actual arrival. I only saw his handiwork after he had been a visitor
awhile within the hall. But, to avoid unnecessary verbiage and to avail mys=
elf
of the privilege of an author, I will set down, from the evidence of witnes=
ses,
the main points of the episode as though I myself had been present at his
entrance.
He did not strike
them, I am informed, as a particularly big man. He was a shade under average
height. His shoulders seemed to them not so much broad as "humpy."=
; He
rolled straight in from the street on a wet Saturday night at ten minutes to
nine, asking for "free tea."
I should mention =
that
on certain Fridays Hatton gave a free meal to his parishioners on the
understanding that it was rigidly connected with a Short Address. The prece=
ding
Friday had been such an occasion. The placards announcing the tea were still
clinging to the outer railings of the hall.
When I said that
Blake asked for free tea, I should have said, shouted for free tea. He cast=
one
decisive glance at Hatton's placards, and rolled up. He shot into the gate,=
up
the steps, down the passage, and through the door leading into the big corr=
ugated-iron
hall which I used for my lessons. And all the time he kept shouting for free
tea.
In the hall the
members of my class were collected. Some were changing their clothes; other=
s,
already changed, were tapping the punch-ball. They knew that I always came
punctually at nine o'clock, and they liked to be ready for me. Amongst those
present was Sidney Price.
Thomas Blake brou=
ght
up short, hiccuping, in the midst of them. "Gimme that free tea!"=
he
said.
Sidney Price, who=
se
moral fortitude has never been impeached, was the first to handle the
situation.
"My good man," he said, "I am sorry to say you have made a mistake."<= o:p>
"A
mistake!" said Thomas, quickly taking him up. "A mistake! Oh! Wha=
t oh!
My errer?"
"Quite so,&q=
uot;
said Price, diplomatically; "an error."
Thomas Blake sat =
down
on the floor, fumbled for a short pipe, and said, "Seems ter me I'm si=
ck
of errers. Sick of 'em! Made a bloomer this mornin'--this way." Here he
took into his confidence the group which had gathered uncertainly round him=
. "My
wife's brother, 'im wot's a postman, owes me arf a bloomin' thick 'un. 'E's=
a
hard-working bloke, and ter save 'im trouble I came down 'ere from Brentfor=
d,
where my boat lies, to catch 'im on 'is rounds. Lot of catchin' 'e wanted,
too--I don't think. Tracked 'im by the knocks at last. And then, wot d'yer
think 'e said? Didn't know nothing about no ruddy 'arf thick 'un, and would=
I
kindly cease to impede a public servant in the discharge of 'is dooty.
Otherwise--the perlice. That, mind you, was my own brother-in-law. Oh, he's=
a
nice man, I don't think!"
Thomas Blake nodd=
ed
his head as one who, though pained by the hollowness of life, is resigned to
it, and proceeded to doze.
The crowd gazed at
him and murmured.
Sidney Price,
however, stepped forward with authority.
"You'd bette=
r be
going," he said; and he gently jogged the recumbent boatman's elbow.
"Leave me be=
! I
want my tea," was the muttered and lyrical reply.
"Hook it!&qu=
ot;
said Price.
"Without my
tea?" asked Blake, opening his eyes wide.
"It was yest=
erday,"
explained Price, brusquely. "There isn't any free tea tonight."
The effect was
magical. A very sinister expression came over the face of the prostrate one,
and he slowly clambered to his feet.
"Ho!" he
said, disengaging himself from his coat. "Ho. There ain't no free tea
ternight, ain't there? Bills stuck on them railings in errer, I suppose.
Another bloomin' errer. Seems to me I'm sick of errers. Wot I says is, 'Come
on, all of yer.' I'm Tom Blake, I am. You can arst them down at Brentford. =
Kind
old Tom Blake, wot wouldn't hurt a fly; and I says, 'Come on, all of yer,' =
and
I'll knock yer insides through yer backbones."
Sidney Price spoke
again. His words were honeyed, but ineffectual.
"I'm honest =
old
Tom, I am," boomed Thomas Blake, "and I'm ready for the lot of ye=
r:
you and yer free tea and yer errers."
At this point Alf
Joblin detached himself from the hovering crowd and said to Price: "He
must be cowed. I'll knock sense into the drunken brute."
"Well,"
said Price, "he's got to go; but you won't hurt him, Alf, will you?&qu=
ot;
"No," s=
aid
Alf, "I won't hurt him. I'll just make him look a fool. This is where
science comes in."
"I'm honest =
old
Tom," droned the boatman.
"If you will
have it," said Alf, with fine aposiopesis.
He squared up to =
him.
Now Alf Joblin, l=
ike
the other pugilists of my class, habitually refrained from delivering any s=
ort
of attack until he was well assured that he had seen an orthodox opening. A
large part of every round between Hatton's boys was devoted to stealthy cir=
cular
movements, signifying nothing. But Thomas Blake had not had the advantage o=
f scientific
tuition. He came banging in with a sweeping right. Alf stopped him with his
left. Again Blake swung his right, and again he took Alf's stopping blow
without a blink. Then he went straight in, right and left in quick successi=
on.
The force of the right was broken by Alf's guard, but the left got home on =
the
mark; and Alf Joblin's wind left him suddenly. He sat down on the floor.
To say that this
tragedy in less than five seconds produced dismay among the onlookers would=
be
incorrect. They were not dismayed. They were amused. They thought that Alf =
had
laid himself open to chaff. Whether he had slipped or lost his head they did
not know. But as for thinking that Alf with all his scientific knowledge was
not more than a match for this ignorant, intoxicated boatman, such a reflec=
tion
never entered their heads. What is more, each separate member of the audien=
ce was
convinced that he individually was the proper person to illustrate the effi=
cacy
of style versus untutored savagery.
As soon, therefor=
e,
as Alf Joblin went writhing to the floor, and Thomas Blake's voice was rais=
ed
afresh in a universal challenge, Walter Greenway stepped briskly forward.
And as soon as
Walter's guard had been smashed down by a most unconventional attack, and
Walter himself had been knocked senseless by a swing on the side of the jaw,
Bill Shale leaped gaily forth to take his place.
And so it happened
that, when I entered the building at nine, it was as though a devastating
tornado had swept down every club boy, sparing only Sidney Price, who was
preparing miserably to meet his fate.
To me, standing in
the doorway, the situation was plain at the first glance. Only by a big eff=
ort
could I prevent myself laughing outright. It was impossible to check a grin.
Thomas Blake saw me.
"Hullo!"=
; I
said; "what's all this?"
He stared at me.<= o:p>
"'Ullo!"=
; he
said, "another of 'em, is it? I'm honest old Tom Blake, I am, and wot I
say is----"
"Why honest,=
Mr.
Blake?" I interrupted.
"Call me a l=
iar,
then!" said he. "Go on. You do it. Call it me, then, and let's
see."
He began to shuff=
le
towards me.
"Who pinched=
his
father's trousers, and popped them?" I inquired genially.
He stopped and
blinked.
"Eh?" he
said weakly.
"And who,&qu=
ot;
I continued, "when sent with twopence to buy postage-stamps, squandere=
d it
on beer?"
His jaw dropped, =
as
it had dropped in Covent Garden. It must be very unpleasant to have one's p=
ast
continually rising up to confront one.
"Look
'ere!" he said, a conciliatory note in his voice, "you and me's p=
als,
mister, ain't we? Say we're pals. Of course we are. You and me don't want no
fuss. Of course we don't. Then look here: this is 'ow it is. You come along
with me and 'ave a drop."
It did not seem
likely that my class would require any instruction in boxing that evening in
addition to that which Mr. Blake had given them, so I went with him.
Over the moisture=
, as
he facetiously described it, he grew friendliness itself. He did not ask af=
ter
Kit, but gave his opinion of her gratuitously. According to him, she was un=
kind
to her relations. "Crool 'arsh," he said. A girl, in fact, who ma=
de
no allowances for a man, and was over-prone to Sauce and the Nasty Snack.
We parted the bes=
t of
friends.
"Any time yo=
u're
on the Cut," he said, gripping my hand with painful fervour, "you
look out for Tom Blake, mister. Tom Blake of the Ashlade and Lechton. No
ceremony. Jest drop in on me and the missis. Goo' night."
At the moment of
writing Tom Blake is rapidly acquiring an assured position in the heart of =
the
British poetry-loving public. This incident in his career should interest h=
is
numerous admirers. The world knows little of its greatest men.
Chapter 11 - JULIAN'S IDE=
A (James
Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
I had been relating, on the morning=
after
the Blake affair, the stirring episode of the previous night to Julian. He
agreed with me that it was curious that our potato-thrower of Covent Garden
market should have crossed my path again. But I noticed that, though he lis=
tened
intently enough, he lay flat on his back in his hammock, not looking at me,=
but
blinking at the ceiling; and when I had finished he turned his face towards=
the
wall--which was unusual, since I generally lunched on his breakfast, as I w=
as
doing then, to the accompaniment of quite a flow of languid abuse.
I was in particul=
arly
high spirits that morning, for I fancied that I had found a way out of my
difficulty about Margaret. That subject being uppermost in my mind, I guess=
ed
at once what Julian's trouble was.
"I think you=
'd
like to know, Julian," I said, "whether I'd written to Guernsey.&=
quot;
"Well?"=
"It's all
right," I said.
"You've told=
her
to come?"
"No; but I'm
able to take my respite without wounding her. That's as good as writing, is=
n't
it? We agreed on that."
"Yes; that w= as the idea. If you could find a way of keeping her from knowing how well you = were getting on with your writing, you were to take it. What's your idea?"<= o:p>
"I've hit on=
a
very simple way out of the difficulty," I said. "It came to me on=
ly
this morning. All I need do is to sign my stuff with a pseudonym."
"You only
thought of that this morning?"
"Yes. Why?&q=
uot;
"My dear cha=
p, I
thought of it as soon as you told me of the fix you were in."
"You might h=
ave
suggested it."
Julian slid to the
floor, drained the almost empty teapot, rescued the last kidney, and began =
his
breakfast.
"I would have
suggested it," he said, "if the idea had been worth anything.&quo=
t;
"What! What's
wrong with it?"
"My dear man,
it's too risky. It's not as though you kept to one form of literary work.
You're so confoundedly versatile. Let's suppose you did sign your work with=
a
nom de plume."
"Say, George
Chandos."
"All right.
George Chandos. Well, how long would it be, do you think, before paragraphs
appeared, announcing to the public, not only of England but of the Channel
Islands, that George Chandos was really Jimmy Cloyster?"
"What rot!&q=
uot;
I said. "Why the deuce should they want to write paragraphs about me? =
I'm
not a celebrity. You're talking through your hat, Julian."
Julian lit his pi=
pe.
"Not at
all," he said. "Count the number of people who must necessarily b=
e in
the secret from the beginning. There are your publishers, Prodder and Way. =
Then
there are the editors of the magazine which publishes your Society dialogue
bilge, and of all the newspapers, other than the Orb, in which your serious
verse appears. My dear Jimmy, the news that you and George Chandos were the
same man would go up and down Fleet Street and into the Barrel like wildfir=
e.
And after that the paragraphs."
I saw the truth of
his reasoning before he had finished speaking. Once more my spirits fell to=
the
point where they had been before I hit upon what I thought was such a bright
scheme.
Julian's pipe had
gone out while he was talking. He lit it again, and spoke through the smoke=
:
"The weak po=
int
of your idea, of course, is that you and George Chandos are a single
individual."
"But why sho=
uld
the editors know that? Why shouldn't I simply send in my stuff, typed, by p=
ost,
and never appear myself at all?"
"My dear Jim=
my,
you know as well as I do that that wouldn't work. It would do all right for=
a
bit. Then one morning: 'Dear Mr. Chandos,--I should be glad if you could ma=
ke
it convenient to call here some time between Tuesday and Thursday.--Yours
faithfully. Editor of Something-or-other.' Sooner or later a man who writes=
at
all regularly for the papers is bound to meet the editors of them. A succes=
sful
author can't conduct all his business through the post. Of course, if you
chucked London and went to live in the country----"
"I
couldn't," I said. "I simply couldn't do it. London's got into my=
bones."
"It does,&qu=
ot;
said Julian.
"I like the
country, but I couldn't live there. Besides, I don't believe I could write
there--not for long. All my ideas would go."
Julian nodded.
"Just so,&qu=
ot;
he said. "Then exit George Chandos."
"My scheme is
worthless, you think, then?"
"As you state
it, yes."
"You
mean----?" I prompted quickly, clutching at something in his tone which
seemed to suggest that he did not consider the matter entirely hopeless.
"I mean this.
The weak spot in your idea, as I told you, is that you and George Chandos h=
ave
the same body. Now, if you could manage to provide George with separate fle=
sh
and blood of his own, there's no reason----"
"By Jove! yo=
u've
hit it. Go on."
"Listen. Her=
e is
my rough draft of what I think might be a sound, working system. How many
divisions does your work fall into, not counting the Orb?"
I reflected.
"Well, of
course, I do a certain amount of odd work, but lately I've rather narrowed =
it
down, and concentrated my output. It seemed to me a better plan than sowing
stuff indiscriminately through all the papers in London."
"Well, how m=
any
stunts have you got? There's your serious verse--one. And your Society
stuff--two. Any more?"
"Novels and
short stories."
"Class them
together--three. Any more?
"No; that's
all."
"Very well,
then. What you must do is to look about you, and pick carefully three men on
whom you can rely. Divide your signed stuff between these three men. They w=
ill
receive your copy, sign it with their own names, and see that it gets to
wherever you want to send it. As far as the editorial world is concerned, a=
nd
as far as the public is concerned, they will become actually the authors of=
the
manuscripts which you have prepared for them to sign. They will forward you=
the
cheques when they arrive, and keep accounts to which you will have access. I
suppose you will have to pay them a commission on a scale to be fixed by mu=
tual
arrangement. As regards your unsigned work, there is nothing to prevent your
doing that yourself--'On Your Way,' I mean, whenever there's any holiday wo=
rk
going: general articles, and light verse. I say, though, half a moment.&quo=
t;
"Why,
what?"
"I've though=
t of
a difficulty. The editors who have been taking your stuff hitherto may have=
a
respect for the name of James Orlebar Cloyster which they may not extend to=
the
name of John Smith or George Chandos, or whoever it is. I mean, it's quite
likely the withdrawal of the name will lead to the rejection of the
manuscript."
"Oh no; that=
's
all right," I said. "It's the stuff they want, not the name. I do=
n't
say that names don't matter. They do. But only if they're big names. Kipling
might get a story rejected if he sent it in under a false name, which they'd
have taken otherwise just because he was Kipling. What they want from me is=
the
goods. I can shove any label on them I like. The editor will read my ghosts'
stuff, see it's what he wants, and put it in. He may say, 'It's rather like
Cloyster's style,' but he'll certainly add, 'Anyhow, it's what I want.' You=
can
scratch that difficulty, Julian. Any more?"
"I think not=
. Of
course, there's the objection that you'll lose any celebrity you might have
got. No one'll say, 'Oh, Mr. Cloyster, I enjoyed your last book so much!'&q=
uot;
"And no one'=
ll
say, 'Oh, do you write, Mr. Cloyster? How interesting! What have you writte=
n?
You must send me a copy.'"
"That's true=
. In
any case, it's celebrity against the respite, obscurity against Miss Goodwi=
n.
While the system is in operation you will be free but inglorious. You choose
freedom? All right, then. Pass the matches."
Chapter 12 - THE FIRST GH=
OST (James
Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Such was the suggestion Julian made=
; and
I praised its ingenuity, little thinking how bitterly I should come to curs=
e it
in the future.
I was immediately=
all
anxiety to set the scheme working.
"Will you be=
one
of my three middlemen, Julian?" I asked.
He shook his head=
.
"Thanks!&quo=
t;
he said; "it's very good of you, but I daren't encroach further on my
hours of leisure. Skeffington's Sloe Gin has already become an incubus.&quo=
t;
I could not move =
him
from this decision.
It is not everybo=
dy
who, in a moment of emergency, can put his hand on three men of his
acquaintance capable of carrying through a more or less delicate business f=
or
him. Certainly I found a difficulty in making my selection. I ran over the =
list
of my friends in my mind. Then I was compelled to take pencil and paper, an=
d settle
down seriously to what I now saw would be a task of some difficulty. After =
half
an hour I read through my list, and could not help smiling. I had indeed a
mixed lot of acquaintances. First came Julian and Malim, the two pillars of=
my
world. I scratched them out. Julian had been asked and had refused; and, as=
for
Malim, I shrank from exposing my absurd compositions to his critical eye. A=
man
who could deal so trenchantly over a pipe and a whisky-and-soda with
Established Reputations would hardly take kindly to seeing my work in print
under his name. I wished it had been possible to secure him, but I did not
disguise it from myself that it was not.
The rest of the l=
ist
was made up of members of the Barrel Club (impossible because of their inhe=
rent
tendency to break out into personal paragraphs); writers like Fermin and
Gresham, above me on the literary ladder, and consequently unapproachable i=
n a
matter of this kind; certain college friends, who had vanished into space, =
as
men do on coming down from the 'Varsity, leaving no address; John Hatton, S=
idney
Price, and Tom Blake.
There were only t=
hree
men in that list to whom I felt I could take my suggestion. Hatton was one,
Price was another, and Blake was the third. Hatton should have my fiction,
Price my Society stuff, Blake my serious verse.
That evening I we=
nt
off to the Temple to sound Hatton on the subject of signing my third book. =
The
wretched sale of my first two had acted as something of a check to my
enthusiasm for novel-writing. I had paused to take stock of my position. My
first two novels had, I found on re-reading them, too much of the 'Varsity =
tone
in them to be popular. That is the mistake a man falls into through being at
Cambridge or Oxford. He fancies unconsciously that the world is peopled wit=
h undergraduates.
He forgets that what appeals to an undergraduate public may be Greek to the
outside reader and, unfortunately, not compulsory Greek. The reviewers had
dealt kindly with my two books ("this pleasant little squib,"
"full of quiet humour," "should amuse all who remember their
undergraduate days"); but the great heart of the public had remained
untouched, as had the great purse of the public. I had determined to adopt a
different style. And now my third book was ready. It was called, When It Was
Lurid, with the sub-title, A Tale of God and Allah. There was a piquant
admixture of love, religion, and Eastern scenery which seemed to point to a
record number of editions.
I took the
type-script of this book with me to the Temple.
Hatton was in. I
flung When It Was Lurid on the table, and sat down.
"What's
this?" inquired Hatton, fingering the brown-paper parcel. "If it's
the corpse of a murdered editor, I think it's only fair to let you know tha=
t I
have a prejudice against having my rooms used as a cemetery. Go and throw h=
im
into the river."
"It's anythi=
ng
but a corpse. It's the most lively bit of writing ever done. There's enough
fire in that book to singe your tablecloth."
"You aren't
going to read it to me out loud?" he said anxiously.
"No."
"Have I got =
to
read it when you're gone?"
"Not unless =
you
wish to."
"Then why, i=
f I
may ask, do you carry about a parcel which, I should say, weighs anything
between one and two tons, simply to use it as a temporary table ornament? I=
s it
the Sandow System?"
"No," I
said; "it's like this."
And suddenly it
dawned on me that it was not going to be particularly easy to explain to Ha=
tton
just what it was that I wanted him to do.
I made the thing
clear at last, suppressing, of course, my reasons for the move. When he had
grasped my meaning, he looked at me rather curiously.
"Doesn't it
strike you," he said, "that what you propose is slightly dishonou=
rable?"
"You mean th=
at I
have come deliberately to insult you, Hatton?"
"Our
conversation seems to be getting difficult, unless you grant that honour is=
not
one immovable, intangible landmark, fixed for humanity, but that it is a
commodity we all carry with us in varying forms."
"Personally,=
I
believe that, as a help to identification, honour-impressions would be as
useful as fingerprints."
"Good! You a=
gree
with me. Now, you may have a different view; but, in my opinion, if I were =
to
pose as the writer of your books, and gained credit for a literary
skill----"
I laughed.
"You won't g=
et
credit for literary skill out of the sort of books I want you to put your n=
ame
to. They're potboilers. You needn't worry about Fame. You'll be a martyr, n=
ot a
hero."
"You may be
right. You wrote the book. But, in any case, I should be more of a charlatan
than I care about."
"You won't do
it?" I said. "I'm sorry. It would have been a great convenience to
me."
"On the other
hand," continued Hatton, ignoring my remark, "there are arguments=
in
favour of such a scheme as you suggest."
"Stout
fellow!" I said encouragingly.
"To examine =
the
matter in its--er--financial--to suppose for a moment--briefly, what do I g=
et
out of it?"
"Ten per
cent."
He looked thought=
ful.
"The end sha=
ll
justify the means," he said. "The money you pay me can do somethi=
ng
to help the awful, the continual poverty of Lambeth. Yes, James Cloyster, I
will sign whatever you send me."
"Good for
you," I said.
"And I shall
come better out of the transaction than you."
No one would cred=
it
the way that man--a clergyman, too--haggled over terms. He ended by squeezi=
ng
fifteen per cent out of me.
Chapter 13 - THE SECOND G=
HOST
(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
The reasons which had led me to sel=
ect
Sidney Price as the sponsor of my Society dialogues will be immediately
apparent to those who have read them. They were just the sort of things you
would expect an insurance clerk to write. The humour was thin, the satire as
cheap as the papers in which they appeared, and the vulgarity in exactly th=
e right
quantity for a public that ate it by the pound and asked for more. Every th=
ing
pointed to Sidney Price as the man.
It was my intenti=
on
to allow each of my three ghosts to imagine that he was alone in the busine=
ss;
so I did not get Price's address from Hatton, who might have wondered why I
wanted it, and had suspicions. I applied to the doorkeeper at Carnation Hal=
l;
and on the following evening I rang the front-door bell of The Hollyhocks,
Belmont Park Road, Brixton.
Whilst I was wait=
ing
on the step, I was able to get a view through the slats of the Venetian bli=
nd
of the front ground-floor sitting-room. I could scarcely restrain a cry of =
pure
aesthetic delight at what I saw within. Price was sitting on a horse-hair s=
ofa
with an arm round the waist of a rather good-looking girl. Her eyes were fi=
xed
on his. It was Edwin and Angelina in real life.
Up till then I had
suffered much discomfort from the illustrated record of their adventures in=
the
comic papers. "Is there really," I had often asked myself, "a
body of men so gifted that they can construct the impossible details of the
lives of nonexistent types purely from imagination? If such creative genius=
as
theirs is unrecognized and ignored, what hope of recognition is there for o=
ne's
own work?" The thought had frequently saddened me; but here at last th=
ey
were--Edwin and Angelina in the flesh!
I took the gallant
Sidney for a fifteen-minute stroll up and down the length of the Belmont Pa=
rk
Road. Poor Angelina! He came, as he expressed it, "like a bird." =
Give
him a sec. to slip on a pair of boots, he said, and he would be with me in =
two
ticks.
He was so busy
getting his hat and stick from the stand in the passage that he quite forgo=
t to
tell the lady that he was going out, and, as we left, I saw her with the ta=
il
of my eye sitting stolidly on the sofa, still wearing patiently the express=
ion
of her comic-paper portraits.
The task of
explaining was easier than it had been with Hatton.
"Sorry to dr=
ag
you out, Price," I said, as we went down the steps.
"Don't menti=
on
it, Mr. Cloyster," he said. "Norah won't mind a bit of a sit by
herself. Looked in to have a chat, or is there anything I can do?"
"It's like
this," I said. "You know I write a good deal?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Well, it has
occurred to me that, if I go on turning out quantities of stuff under my own
name, there's a danger of the public getting tired of me."
He nodded.
"Now, I'm wi=
th
you there, mind you," he said. "'Can't have too much of a good
thing,' some chaps say. I say, 'Yes, you can.' Stands to reason a chap can'=
t go
on writing and writing without making a bloomer every now and then. What he
wants is to take his time over it. Look at all the real swells--'Erbert
Spencer, Marie Corelli, and what not--you don't find them pushing it out ev=
ery
day of the year. They wait a bit and have a look round, and then they start
again when they're ready. Stands to reason that's the only way."
"Quite
right," I said; "but the difficulty, if you live by writing, is t=
hat
you must turn out a good deal, or you don't make enough to live on. I've go=
t to
go on getting stuff published, but I don't want people to be always seeing =
my
name about."
"You mean, a=
dopt
a nom de ploom?"
"That's the =
sort
of idea; but I'm going to vary it a little."
And I explained my
plan.
"But why
me?" he asked, when he had understood the scheme. "What made you
think of me?"
"The fact is=
, my
dear fellow," I said, "this writing is a game where personality
counts to an enormous extent. The man who signs my Society dialogues will
probably come into personal contact with the editors of the papers in which
they appear. He will be asked to call at their offices. So you see I must h=
ave
a man who looks as if he had written the stuff."
"I see,"=
; he
said complacently. "Dressy sort of chap. Chap who looks as if he knew a
thing or two."
"Yes. I coul=
dn't
get Alf Joblin, for instance."
We laughed togeth=
er
at the notion.
"Poor old
Alf!" said Sidney Price.
"Now you
probably know a good deal about Society?"
"Rather"
said Sidney. "They're a hot lot. My word! Saw The Walls of Jericho thr=
ee
times. Gives it 'em pretty straight, that does. Visits of Elizabeth, too. C=
hase
me! Used to think some of us chaps in the 'Moon' were a bit O.T., but we ar=
en't
in it--not in the same street. Chaps, I mean, who'd call a girl behind the =
bar
by her Christian name as soon as look at you. One chap I knew used to give =
the
girl at the cash-desk of the 'Mecca' he went to bottles of scent. Bottles of
it--regular! 'Here you are, Tottie,' he used to say, 'here's another little
donation from yours truly.' Kissed her once. Slap in front of everybody. Saw
him do it. But, bless you, they'd think nothing of that in the Smart Set. E=
ver
read 'God's Good Man'? There's a book! My stars! Lets you see what goes on.
Scorchers they are."
"That's just
what my dialogues point out. I can count on you, then?"
He said I could. =
He
was an intelligent young man, and he gave me to understand that all would be
well. He would carry the job through on the strict Q.T. He closely willingly
with my offer of ten per cent, thus affording a striking contrast to the gr=
asping
Hatton. He assured me he had found literary chaps not half bad. Had
occasionally had an idea of writing a bit himself.
We parted on good
terms, and I was pleased to think that I was placing my "Dialogues of
Mayfair" and my "London and Country House Tales" in really
competent and appreciative hands.
Chapter 14 - THE THIRD GH=
OST (James
Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
There only remained now my serious =
verse,
of which I turned out an enormous quantity. It won a ready acceptance in ma=
ny
quarters, notably the St. Stephen's Gazette. Already I was beginning to oust
from their positions on that excellent journal the old crusted poetesses wh=
o had
supplied it from its foundation with verse. The prices they paid on the St.
Stephen's were in excellent taste. In the musical world, too, I was making =
way
rapidly. Lyrics of the tea-and-muffin type streamed from my pen. "Sleep
whilst I Sing, Love," had brought me in an astonishing amount of money=
, in
spite of the music-pirates. It was on the barrel-organs. Adults hummed it.
Infants crooned it in their cots. Comic men at music-halls opened their tur=
ns
by remarking soothingly to the conductor of the orchestra, "I'm going =
to
sing now, so you go to sleep, love." In a word, while the boom lasted,=
it
was a little gold-mine to me.
Thomas Blake was =
as
obviously the man for me here as Sidney Price had been in the case of my
Society dialogues. The public would find something infinitely piquant in the
thought that its most sentimental ditties were given to it by the horny-han=
ded
steerer of a canal barge. He would be greeted as the modern Burns. People w=
ould
ask him how he thought of his poems, and he would say, "Oo-er!" a=
nd
they would hail him as delightfully original. In the case of Thomas Blake I=
saw
my earnings going up with a bound. His personality would be a noble adverti=
sement.
He was aboard the
Ashlade or Lechton on the Cut, so I was informed by Kit. Which information =
was
not luminous to me. Further inquiries, however, led me to the bridge at
Brentford, whence starts that almost unknown system of inland navigation wh=
ich
extends to Manchester and Birmingham.
Here I accosted a=
t a
venture a ruminative bargee. "Tom Blake?" he repeated, reflective=
ly.
"Oh! 'e's been off this three hours on a trip to Braunston. He'll tie =
up
tonight at the Shovel."
"Where's the
Shovel?"
"Past Cowley,
the Shovel is." This was spoken in a tired drawl which was evidently m=
eant
to preclude further chit-chat. To clinch things, he slouched away, waving m=
e in
an abstracted manner to the towpath.
I took the hint. =
It
was now three o'clock in the afternoon. Judging by the pace of the barges I=
had
seen, I should catch Blake easily before nightfall. I set out briskly. An
hour's walking brought me to Hanwell, and I was glad to see a regular chain=
of
locks which must have considerably delayed the Ashlade and Lechton.
The afternoon wore
on. I went steadily forward, making inquiries as to Thomas's whereabouts fr=
om
the boats which met me, and always hearing that he was still ahead.
Footsore and hung=
ry,
I overtook him at Cowley. The two boats were in the lock. Thomas and a lady,
presumably his wife, were ashore. On the Ashlade's raised cabin cover was a
baby. Two patriarchal-looking boys were respectively at the Ashlade's and
Lechton's tillers. The lady was attending to the horse.
The water in the =
lock
rose gradually to a higher level.
"Hold them
tillers straight!" yelled Thomas. At which point I saluted him. He was=
a
little blank at first, but when I reminded him of our last meeting his face=
lit
up at once. "Why, you're the mister wot----"
"Nuppie!&quo=
t;
came in a shrill scream from the lady with the horse. "Nuppie!"
"Yes, Ada!&q=
uot;
answered the boy on the Ashlade.
"Liz ain't t=
ied
to the can. D'you want 'er to be drownded? Didn't I tell you to be sure and=
tie
her up tight?"
"So I did, A=
da.
She's untied herself again. Yes, she 'as. 'Asn't she, Albert?"
This appeal for
corroboration was directed to the other small boy on the Lechton. It failed
signally.
"No, you did=
not
tie Liz to the chimney. You know you never, Nuppie."
"Wait till we
get out of this lock!" said Nuppie, earnestly.
The water pouring=
in
from the northern sluice was forcing the tillers violently against the sout=
hern
sluice gates.
"If them
boys," said Tom Blake in an overwrought voice, "lets them tillers=
go
round, it's all up with my pair o' boats. Lemme do it, you----" The re=
st
of the sentence was mercifully lost in the thump with which Thomas's feet
bounded on the Ashlade's cabin-top. He made Liz fast to the circular foot of
iron chimney projecting from the boards; then, jumping back to the land, he
said, more in sorrow than in anger: "Lazy little brats! an' they've 'ad
their tea, too."
Clear of the lock=
s, I
walked with Thomas and his ancient horse, trying to explain what I wanted d=
one.
But it was not until we had tied up for the night, had had beer at the Shov=
el,
and (Nuppie and Albert being safely asleep in the second cabin) had met at
supper that my instructions had been fully grasped. Thomas himself was incl=
ined
to be diffident, and had it not been for Ada would, I think, have let my of=
fer
slide. She was enthusiastic. It was she who told me of the cottage they had=
at
Fenny Stratford, which they used as headquarters whilst waiting for a cargo=
.
"That can be
used as a permanent address," I said. "All you have to do is to w=
rite
your name at the end of each typewritten sheet, enclose it in the stamped
envelope which I will send you, and send it by post. When the cheques come,
sign them on the back and forward them to me. For every ten pounds you forw=
ard
me, I'll give you one for yourself. In any difficulty, simply write to
me--here's my own address--and I'll see you through it."
"We can't go=
to
prison for it, can we, mister?" asked Ada suddenly, after a pause.
"No," I
said; "there's nothing dishonest in what I propose."
"Oh, she did=
n't
so much mean that," said Thomas, thoughtfully.
They gave me a
shakedown for the night in the cargo.
Just before turni=
ng
in, I said casually, "If anyone except me cashed the cheques by mistak=
e,
he'd go to prison quick."
"Yes,
mister," came back Thomas's voice, again a shade thoughtfully modulate=
d.
Chapter 15 - EVA EVERSLEI=
GH (James
Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
With my system thus in full swing I
experienced the intoxication of assured freedom. To say I was elated does n=
ot
describe it. I walked on air. This was my state of mind when I determined to
pay a visit to the Gunton-Cresswells. I had known them in my college days, =
but
since I had been engaged in literature I had sedulously avoided them becaus=
e I remembered
that Margaret had once told me they were her friends.
But now there was=
no
need for me to fear them on that account, and thinking that the solid comfo=
rt
of their house in Kensington would be far from disagreeable, thither, one
afternoon in spring, I made my way. It is wonderful how friendly Convention=
is
to Art when Art does not appear to want to borrow money.
No. 5, Kensington
Lane, W., is the stronghold of British respectability. It is more respectab=
le
than the most respectable suburb. Its attitude to Mayfair is that of a moth=
er
to a daughter who has gone on the stage and made a success. Kensington Lane=
is
almost tolerant of Mayfair. But not quite. It admits the success, but shake=
s its
head.
Mrs. Gunton-Cress=
well
took an early opportunity of drawing me aside, and began gently to pump me.
After I had responded with sufficient docility to her leads, she reiterated=
her
delight at seeing me again. I had concluded my replies with the words, &quo=
t;I
am a struggling journalist, Mrs. Cresswell." I accompanied the phrase =
with
a half-smile which she took to mean--as I intended she should--that I was
amusing myself by dabbling in literature, backed by a small, but adequate,
private income.
"Oh, come,
James," she said, smiling approvingly, "you know you will make a
quite too dreadfully clever success. How dare you try to deceive me like th=
at?
A struggling journalist, indeed."
But I knew she li=
ked
that "struggling journalist" immensely. She would couple me and my
own epithet together before her friends. She would enjoy unconsciously an
imperceptible, but exquisite, sensation of patronage by having me at her ho=
use.
Even if she discussed me with Margaret I was safe. For Margaret would give =
an
altogether different interpretation of the smile with which I described mys=
elf
as struggling. My smile would be mentally catalogued by her as
"brave"; for it must not be forgotten that as suddenly as my name=
had
achieved a little publicity, just so suddenly had it utterly disappeared.
*
Towards the end of
May, it happened that Julian dropped into my rooms about three o'clock, and
found me gazing critically at a top-hat.
"I've seen
you," he remarked, "rather often in that get-up lately."
"It is, perh=
aps,
losing its first gloss," I answered, inspecting my hat closely. I cared
not a bit for Julian's sneers; for the smell of the flesh-pots of Kensington
had laid hold of my soul, and I was resolved to make the most of the respite
which my system gave me.
"What salon =
is
to have the honour today?" he asked, spreading himself on my sofa.
"I'm going to
the Gunton-Cresswells," I replied.
Julian slowly sat=
up.
"Ah?" he
said conversationally.
"I've been a=
sked
to meet their niece, a Miss Eversleigh, whom they've invited to stop with t=
hem.
Funny, by the way, that her name should be the same as yours."
"Not
particularly," said Julian shortly; "she's my cousin. My cousin E=
va."
This was startlin=
g.
There was a pause. Presently Julian said, "Do you know, Jimmy, that if=
I
were not the philosopher I am, I'd curse this awful indolence of mine."=
;
I saw it in a fla=
sh,
and went up to him holding out my hand in sympathy. "Thanks," he
said, gripping it; "but don't speak of it. I couldn't endure that, even
from you, James. It's too hard for talking. If it was only myself whose life
I'd spoilt--if it was only myself----"
He broke off. And
then, "Hers too. She's true as steel."
I had heard no mo=
re
bitter cry than that.
I began to busy myself amongst some manuscripts to give Julian time to compose himself. And= so an hour passed. At a quarter past four I got up to go out. Julian lay recumbent. It seemed terrible to leave him brooding alone over his misery.<= o:p>
A closer inspecti=
on,
however, showed me he was asleep.
*
Meanwhile, Eva
Eversleigh and I became firm friends. Of her person I need simply say that =
it
was the most beautiful that Nature ever created. Pressed as to details, I
should add that she was petite, dark, had brown hair, very big blue eyes, a
retroussé nose, and a rather wide mouth.
Julian had said s=
he
was "true as steel." Therefore, I felt no diffidence in manoeuvri=
ng
myself into her society on every conceivable occasion. Sometimes she spoke =
to
me of Julian, whom I admitted I knew, and, with feminine courage, she hid h=
er
hopeless, all-devouring affection for her cousin under the cloak of ingenuo=
us
levity. She laughed nearly every time his name was mentioned.
About this time t=
he
Gunton-Cresswells gave a dance.
I looked forward =
to
it with almost painful pleasure. I had not been to a dance since my last
May-week at Cambridge. Also No. 5, Kensington Lane had completely usurped t=
he
position I had previously assigned to Paradise. To waltz with Julian's
cousin--that was the ambition which now dwarfed my former hankering for the
fame of authorship or a habitation in Bohemia.
Mrs. Goodwin once
said that happiness consists in anticipating an impossible future. Be that =
as
it may, I certainly thought my sensations were pleasant enough when at leng=
th
my hansom pulled up jerkily beside the red-carpeted steps of No. 5, Kensing=
ton
Lane. As I paid the fare, I could hear the murmur from within of a waltz
tune--and I kept repeating to myself that Eva had promised me the privilege=
of
taking her in to supper, and had given me the last two waltzes and the first
two extras.
I went to pay my
devoirs to my hostess. She was supinely gamesome. "Ah," she said,
showing her excellent teeth, "Genius attendant at the revels of
Terpsichore."
"Where Beaut=
y,
Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell," I responded, cutting it, as though mutton, thi=
ck,
"teaches e'en the humblest visitor the reigning Muse's art."
"You may have
this one, if you like," said Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell simply.
Supper came at la=
st,
and, with supper, Eva.
I must now write =
it
down that she was not a type of English beauty. She was not, I mean, queenl=
y,
impassive, never-anything-but-her-cool-calm- self. Tonight, for instance, h=
er
eyes were as I had never seen them. There danced in them the merriest glitt=
er,
which was more than a mere glorification of the ordinary merry glitter--whi=
ch
scores of girls possess at every ball. To begin with, there was a diabolical
abandon in Eva's glitter, which raised it instantly above the common herd's=
. And
behind it all was that very misty mist. I don't know whether all men have s=
een
that mist; but I am sure that no man has seen it more than once; and, from =
what
I've seen of the average man, I doubt if most of them have ever seen it at =
all.
Well, there it was for me to see in Eva Eversleigh's eyes that night at sup=
per.
It made me think of things unspeakable. I felt a rush of classic aesthetici=
sm:
Arcadia, Helen of Troy, the happy valleys of the early Greeks. Supper: I
believe I gave her oyster pâtés. But I was far away. Deep, dee=
p,
deep in Eva's eyes I saw a craft sighting, 'neath a cloudless azure sky, the
dark blue Symplegades; heard in my ears the jargon, loud and near me, of the
sailors; and faintly o'er the distance of the dead-calm sea rose intermitte=
ntly
the sound of brine-foam at the clashing rocks....
As we sat there
tête-à-tête, she smiled across the table at me with such
perfect friendliness, it seemed as though a magic barrier separated our two
selves from all the chattering, rustling crowd around us. When she spoke, a
little quiver of feeling blended adorably with the low, sweet tones of her
voice. We talked, indeed, of trifles, but with just that charming hint of
intimacy which men friends have who may have known one another from birth, =
and
may know one another for a lifetime, but never become bores, never change. =
Only
when it comes between a woman and a man, it is incomparably finer. It is the
talk, of course, of lovers who have not realised they are in love.
"The two last
waltzes," I murmured, when parting with her. She nodded. I roamed the
Gunton-Cresswells's rooms awaiting them.
She danced those =
two
last waltzes with strangers.
The thing was utt=
erly
beyond me at the time. Looking back, I am still amazed to what lengths
deliberate coquetry can go.
She actually took
pains to elude me, and gave those waltzes to strangers.
From being
comfortably rocked in the dark blue waters of a Grecian sea, I was suddenly
transported to the realities of the ballroom. My theoretical love for Eva w=
as
now a substantial truth. I was in an agony of desire, in a frenzy of jealou=
sy.
I wanted to hurl the two strangers to opposite corners of the ballroom, but
civilisation forbade it.
I was now in an
altogether indescribable state of nerves and suspense. Had she definitely a=
nd
for some unfathomable reason decided to cut me? The first extra drew
languorously to a close, couples swept from the room to the grounds, the
gallery or the conservatory. I tried to steady my whirling head with a
cigarette and a whisky-and-soda in the smoking-room.
The orchestra, li=
ke a
train starting tentatively on a long run, launched itself mildly into the
preliminary bars of Tout Passe. I sought the ballroom blinded by my feeling=
s.
Pulling myself together with an effort, I saw her standing alone. It struck=
me
for the first time that she was clothed in cream. Her skin gleamed shining
white. She stood erect, her arms by her sides. Behind her was a huge, black
velvet portière of many folds, supported by two dull brazen columns.=
As I advanced tow=
ards
her, two or three men bowed and spoke to her. She smiled and dismissed them,
and, still smiling pleasantly, her glance traversed the crowd and rested up=
on
me. I was drawing now quite near. Her eyes met mine; nor did she avert them,
and stooping a little to address her, I heard her sigh.
"You're
tired," I said, forgetting my two last dances, forgetting everything b=
ut
that I loved her.
"Perhaps I
am," she said, taking my arm. We turned in silence to the portiè=
;re
and found ourselves in the hall. The doors were opened. Some servants were
there. At the bottom of the steps I chanced to see a yellow light.
"Find out if
that cab's engaged," I said to a footman.
"The cool
air----" I said to Eva.
"The cab is =
not
engaged, sir," said the footman, returning.
"Yes," =
said
Eva, in answer to my glance.
"Drive to the
corner of Sloane Street, by way of the Park," I told the driver.
I have said that I
had forgotten everything except that I loved her. Could it help remembrance=
now
that we two sped alone through empty streets, her warm, palpitating body
touching mine?
Julian, his
friendship for me, his love for Eva; Margaret and her love for me; my own
honour--these things were blotted from my brain.
"Eva!" I
murmured; and I took her hand.
"Eva."<= o:p>
Her wonderful eyes
met mine. The mist in them seemed to turn to dew.
"My darling,=
"
she whispered, very low. And, the road being deserted, I drew her face to m=
ine
and kissed her.
Chapter 16 - I TELL JULIA=
N (James
Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
Is any man really honourable? I won=
der.
Hundreds, thousands go triumphantly through life with that reputation. But =
how
far is this due to absence of temptation? Life, which is like cricket in so
many ways, resembles the game in this also. A batsman makes a century, and,
having made it, is bowled by a ball which he is utterly unable to play. Wha=
t if
that ball had come at the beginning of his innings instead of at the end of=
it?
Men go through life without a stain on their honour. I wonder if it simply
means that they had the luck not to have the good ball bowled to them early=
in
their innings. To take my own case. I had always considered myself a man of
honour. I had a code that was rigid compared with that of a large number of
men. In theory I should never have swerved from it. I was fully prepared to
carry out my promise and marry Margaret, at the expense of my happiness--un=
til
I met Eva. I would have done anything to avoid injuring Julian, my friend,
until I met Eva. Eva was my temptation, and I fell. Nothing in the world ma=
ttered,
so that she was mine. I ought to have had a revulsion of feeling as I walked
back to my rooms in Walpole Street. The dance was over. The music had cease=
d.
The dawn was chill. And at a point midway between Kensington Lane and the
Brompton Oratory I had proposed to Eversleigh's cousin, his Eva, "true=
as
steel," and had been accepted.
Yet I had no remo=
rse.
I did not even try to justify my behaviour to Julian or to Margaret, or--for
she must suffer, too--to Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell, who, I knew well, was socia=
lly
ambitious for her niece.
To all these thin=
gs I
was indifferent. I repeated softly to myself, "We love each other.&quo=
t;
From this state of
coma, however, I was aroused by the appearance of my window-blind. I saw, in
fact, that my room was illuminated. Remembering that I had been careful to =
put
out my lamp before I left, I feared, as I opened the hall door, a troubleso=
me
encounter with a mad housebreaker. Mad, for no room such as mine could attr=
act
a burglar who has even the slightest pretensions to sanity.
It was not a burg=
lar.
It was Julian Eversleigh, and he was lying asleep on my sofa.
There was nothing
peculiar in this. I roused him.
"Julian,&quo=
t; I
said.
"I'm glad yo=
u're
back," he said, sitting up; "I've some news for you."
"So have
I," said I. For I had resolved to tell him what I had done.
"Hear mine
first. It's urgent. Miss Margaret Goodwin has been here."
My heart seemed to
leap.
"Today?"=
; I
cried.
"Yes. I had
called to see you, and was waiting a little while on the chance of your com=
ing
in when I happened to look out of the window. A girl was coming down the
street, looking at the numbers of the houses. She stopped here. Intuition t=
old
me she was Miss Goodwin. While she was ringing the bell I did all I could to
increase the shabby squalor of your room. She was shown in here, and I
introduced myself as your friend. We chatted. I drew an agonising picture of
your struggle for existence. You were brave, talented, and unsuccessful. Th=
ough
you went often hungry, you had a plucky smile upon your lips. It was a meri=
torious
bit of work. Miss Goodwin cried a good deal. She is charming. I was so sorry
for her that I laid it on all the thicker."
"Where is she
now?"
"Nearing
Guernsey. She's gone."
"Gone!"=
I
said. "Without seeing me! I don't understand."
"You don't
understand how she loves you, James."
"But she's g=
one.
Gone without a word."
"She has gone
because she loved you so. She had intended to stay with the Gunton-Cresswel=
ls.
She knows them, it seems. They didn't know she was coming. She didn't know
herself until this morning. She happened to be walking on the quay at St.
Peter's Port. The outward-bound boat was on the point of starting for Engla=
nd.
A wave of affection swept over Miss Goodwin. She felt she must see you.
Scribbling a note, which she despatched to her mother, she went aboard. She
came straight here. Then, when I had finished with her, when I had lied
consistently about you for an hour, she told me she must return. 'I must not
see James,' she said. 'You have torn my heart. I should break down.' And she
said, speaking, I think, half to herself, 'Your courage is so noble, so dif=
ferent
from mine. And I must not impose a needless strain upon it. You shall not s=
ee
me weep for you.' And then she went away."
Julian's voice br=
oke.
He was genuinely affected by his own recital.
For my part, I sa=
w that
I had bludgeon work to do. It is childish to grumble at the part Fate forces
one to play. Sympathetic or otherwise, one can only enact one's rôle =
to
the utmost of one's ability. Mine was now essentially unsympathetic, but I =
was
determined that it should be adequately played.
I went to the
fireplace and poked the fire into a blaze. Then, throwing my hat on the tab=
le
and lighting a cigarette, I regarded Julian cynically.
"You're a ni=
ce
sort of person, aren't you?" I said.
"What do you
mean?" asked Julian, startled, as I had meant that he should be, by the
question.
I laughed.
"Aren't you =
just
a little transparent, my dear Julian?"
He stared blankly=
.
I took up a posit=
ion
in front of the fire.
"Disloyalty,=
"
I said tolerantly, "where a woman is concerned, is in the eyes of some
people almost a negative virtue."
"I don't know
what on earth you're talking about."
"Don't
you?"
I was sorry for h= im all the time. In a curiously impersonal way I could realise the depths to w= hich I was sinking in putting this insult upon him. But my better feelings were gagged and bound that night. The one thought uppermost in my mind was that I must tell Julian of Eva, and that by his story of Margaret he had given me = an opening for making my confession with the minimum of discomfort to myself.<= o:p>
It was pitiful to=
see
the first shaft of my insinuation slowly sink into him. I could see by the =
look
in his eyes that he had grasped my meaning.
"Jimmy,"=
; he
gasped, "you can't think--are you joking?"
"I am not
surprised at your asking that question," I replied pleasantly. "Y=
ou
know how tolerant I am. But I'm not joking. Not that I blame you, my dear
fellow. Margaret is, or used to be, very good-looking."
"You seem to=
be
in earnest," he said, in a dazed way.
"My dear
fellow," I said; "I have a certain amount of intuition. You spend=
an
hour here alone with Margaret. She is young, and very pretty. You are placed
immediately on terms of intimacy by the fact that you have, in myself, a
subject of mutual interest. That breaks the ice. You are at cross-purposes,=
but
your main sympathies are identical. Also, you have a strong objective sympa=
thy
for Margaret. I think we may presuppose that this second sympathy is strong=
er
than the first. It pivots on a woman, not on a man. And on a woman who is
present, not on a man who is absent. You see my meaning? At any rate, the s=
olid
fact remains that she stayed an hour with you, whom she had met for the fir=
st
time today, and did not feel equal to meeting me, whom she has loved for two
years. If you want me to explain myself further, I have no objection to doi=
ng
so. I mean that you made love to her."
I watched him
narrowly to see how he would take it. The dazed expression deepened on his
face.
"You are
apparently sane," he said, very wearily. "You seem to be sober.&q=
uot;
"I am
both," I said.
There was a pause=
.
"It's no use=
for
me," he began, evidently collecting his thoughts with a strong effort,
"to say your charge is preposterous. I don't suppose mere denial would
convince you. I can only say, instead, that the charge is too wild to be
replied to except in one way, which is this. Employ for a moment your own
standard of right and wrong. I know your love story, and you know mine. Miss
Eversleigh, my cousin, is to me what Miss Goodwin is to you--true as steel.=
My
loyalty and my friendship for you are the same as your loyalty and your
friendship for me."
"Well?"=
"Well, if I =
have
spent an hour with Miss Goodwin, you have spent more than an hour with my
cousin. What right have you to suspect me more than I have to suspect you?
Judge me by your own standard."
"I do,"=
I
said, "and I find myself still suspecting you."
He stared.
"I don't
understand you."
"Perhaps you
will when you have heard the piece of news which I mentioned earlier in our
conversation that I had for you."
"Well?"=
"I proposed =
to
your cousin at the Gunton-Cresswells's dance tonight, and she accepted
me."
The news had a
surprising effect on Julian. First he blinked. Then he craned his head forw=
ard
in the manner of a deaf man listening with difficulty.
Then he left the =
room
without a word.
He had not been g=
one
two minutes when there were three short, sharp taps at my window.
Julian returned?
Impossible. Yet who else could have called on me at that hour?
I went to the fro=
nt
door, and opened it.
On the steps stood
the Rev. John Hatton. Beside him Sidney Price. And, lurking in the backgrou=
nd,
Tom Blake of the Ashlade and Lechton.
(End of James Orl=
ebar
Cloister's narrative.)
Sidney Price's
Narrative
Chapter 17 - A GHOSTLY
GATHERING
Norah Perkins is a peach, and I don=
't
care who knows it; but, all the same, there's no need to tell her every lit=
tle
detail of a man's past life. Not that I've been a Don What's-his-name. Far =
from
it. Costs a bit too much, that game. You simply can't do it on sixty quid a
year, paid monthly, and that's all there is about it. Not but what I don't =
often
think of going it a bit when things are slack at the office and my pal in t=
he
New Business Department is out for lunch. It's the loneliness makes you thi=
nk
of going a regular plunger. More than once, when Tommy Milner hasn't been t=
here
to talk to, I tell you I've half a mind to take out some girl or other to t=
ea
at the "Cabin." I have, straight.
Yet somehow when =
the
assist. cash. comes round with the wicker tray on the 1st, and gives you the
envelope ("Mr. Price") and you take out the five sovereigns--well,
somehow, there's such a lot of other things which you don't want to buy but
have just got to. Tommy Milner said the other day, and I quite agree with h=
im,
"When I took my clean handkerchief out last fortnight," he said,
"I couldn't help totting up what a lot I spend on trifles." That's
it. There you've got it in a nutshell. Washing, bootlaces,
bus-tickets--trifles, in fact: that's where the coin goes. Only the other
morning I bust my braces. I was late already, and pinning them together all=
but
lost me the 9:16, only it was a bit behind time. It struck me then as I ran=
to
the station that the average person would never count braces an expense. Tr=
ifles--that's
what it is.
No; I may have sm=
oked
a cig. too much and been so chippy next day that I had to go out and get a =
cup
of tea at the A.B.C.; or I may now and again have gone up West of an evening
for a bit of a look round; but beyond that I've never been really what you'd
call vicious. Very likely it's been my friendship for Mr. Hatton that's cur=
bed
me breaking out as I've sometimes imagined myself doing when I've been alon=
e in
the New Business Room. Though I must say, in common honesty to myself, that=
there's
always been the fear of getting the sack from the "Moon." The &qu=
ot;Moon"
isn't like some other insurance companies I could mention which'll take any=
one.
Your refs. must be A1, or you don't stand an earthly. Simply not an earthly.
Besides, the "Moon" isn't an Insurance Company at all: it's an
Assurance Company. Of course, now I've chucked the "Moon" ("=
shot
the moon," as Tommy Milner, who's the office comic, put it) and taken =
to
Literature I could do pretty well what I liked, if it weren't for Norah.
Which brings me b=
ack
to what I was saying just now--that I'm not sure whether I shall tell her t=
he
Past. I may and I may not. I'll have to think it over. Anyway, I'm going to
write it down first and see how it looks. If it's all right it can go into =
my
autobiography. If it isn't, then I shall lie low about it. That's the posis=
h.
It all started fr=
om
my friendship with Mr. Hatton--the Rev. Mr. Hatton. If it hadn't have been =
for
that man I should still be working out rates of percentage for the
"Moon" and listening to Tommy Milner's so-called witticisms. Of
course, I've cut him now. A literary man, a man who supplies the Strawberry
Leaf with two columns of Social Interludes at a salary I'm not going to men=
tion
in case Norah gets to hear of it and wants to lash out, a man whose Society
novels are competed for by every publisher in London and New York--well, ca=
n a
man in that position be expected to keep up with an impudent little ledger-=
lugger
like Tommy Milner? It can't be done.
I first met the
Reverend on the top of Box Hill one Saturday afternoon. Bike had punctured,=
and
the Reverend gave me the loan of his cyclists' repairing outfit. We had our=
tea
together. Watercress, bread-and-butter, and two sorts of jam--one bob per h=
ead.
He issued an invite to his diggings in the Temple. Cocoa and cigs. of an
evening. Regular pally, him and me was. Then he got into the way of taking =
me
down to a Boys' Club that he had started. Terrors they were, so to put it. =
Fair
out-and-out terrors. But they all thought a lot of the Reverend, and so did=
I.
Consequently it was all right. The next link in the chain was a chap called
Cloyster. James Orlebar Cloyster. The Reverend brought him down to teach bo=
xing.
For my own part, I don't fancy anything in the way of brutality. The club, =
so I
thought, had got on very nicely with more intellectual pursuits: draughts,
chess, bagatelle, and what-not. But the Rev. wanted boxing, and boxing it h=
ad
to be. Not that it would have done for him or me to have mixed ourselves up=
in
it. He had his congregation to consider, and I am often on duty at the down=
stairs
counter before the very heart of the public. A black eye or a missing tooth
wouldn't have done at all for either of us, being, as we were, in a sense,
officials. But Cloyster never seemed to realise this. Not to put too fine a
point upon it, Cloyster was not my idea of a gentleman. He had no tact.
The next link was=
a
confirmed dipsomaniac. A terrible phrase. Unavoidable, though. A very evil =
man
is Tom Blake. Yet out of evil cometh good, and it was Tom Blake, who,
indirectly, stopped the boxing lessons. The club boys never wore the gloves
after drunken Blake's visit.
I shall never--no,
positively never forget that night in June when matters came to a head in
Shaftesbury Avenue. Oh, I say, it was a bit hot--very warm.
Each successive p=
hase
is limned indelibly--that's the sort of literary style I've got, if wanted-=
-on
the tablets of my memory.
I'd been up West,=
and
who should I run across in Oxford Street but my old friend, Charlie Cookson.
Very good company is Charlie Cookson. See him at a shilling hop at the Holb=
orn:
he's pretty much all there all the time. Well-known follower--of course, pu=
rely
as an amateur--of the late Dan Leno, king of comedians; good penetrating vo=
ice;
writes his own in-between bits--you know what I mean: the funny observation=
s on
mothers-in-law, motors, and marriage, marked "Spoken" in the song=
-books.
Fellows often tell him he'd make a mint of money in the halls, and there's a
rumour flying round among us who knew him in the "Moon" that he w=
as
seen coming out of a Bedford Street Variety Agency the other day.
Well, I met Charl=
ie
at something after ten. Directly he spotted me he was at his antics, standi=
ng
stock still on the pavement in a crouching attitude, and grasping his umbre=
lla
like a tomahawk. His humour's always high-class, but he's the sort of fellow
who doesn't care a blow what he does. Chronic in that respect, absolutely. =
The
passers-by couldn't think what he was up to. "Whoop-whoop-whoop!"
that's what he said. He did, straight. Only yelled it. I thought it was goi=
ng a
bit too far in a public place. So, to show him, I just said "Good even=
ing,
Cookson; how are you this evening?" With all his entertaining ways he's
sometimes slow at taking a hint. No tact, if you see what I mean.
In this case, for
instance, he answered at the top of his voice: "Bolly Golly, yah!"
and pretended to scalp me with his umbrella. I immediately ducked, and some=
how
knocked my bowler against his elbow. He caught it as it was falling off my
head. Then he said, "Indian brave give little pale face chief his
hat." This was really too much, and I felt relieved when a policeman t=
old
us to move on. Charlie said: "Come and have two penn'orth of
something."
Well, we stayed
chatting over our drinks (in fact, I was well into my second lemon and dash=
) at
the Stockwood Hotel until nearly eleven. At five to, Charlie said good-bye,
because he was living in, and I walked out into the Charing Cross Road, mea=
ning
to turn down Shaftesbury Avenue so as to get a breath of fresh air. Outside=
the
Oxford there was a bit of a crowd. I asked a man standing outside a
tobacconist's what the trouble was. "Says he won't go away without kis=
sing
the girl that sang 'Empire Boys,'" was the reply. "Bin shiftin' i=
t,
'e 'as, not 'arf!" Sure enough, from the midst of the crowd came:
Yew =
are
ther boys of the Empire, =
Steady
an' brave an' trew. Yew
are the wuns =
She
calls 'er sons An' I
luv yew.
I had gone, out of
curiosity, to the outskirts of the crowd, and before I knew what had happen=
ed I
found myself close to the centre of it. A large man in dirty corduroys stood
with his back to me. His shape seemed strangely familiar. Still singing, and
swaying to horrible angles all over the shop, he slowly pivoted round. In a
moment I recognised the bleary features of Tom Blake. At the same time he r=
ecognised
me. He stretched out a long arm and seized me by the shoulder. "Oh,&qu=
ot;
he sobbed, "I thought I 'ad no friend in the wide world except 'er; but
now I've got yew it's orlright. Yus, yus, it's orlright." A murmur, al=
most
a cheer it was, circulated among the crowd. But a policeman stepped up to m=
e.
"Now then,&q=
uot;
said the policeman, "wot's all this about?"
Yew =
are
the wuns She
calls 'er sons----
shouted Blake.
"Ho, that's =
yer
little game, is it?" said the policeman. "Move on, d'yer hear? Pop
off."
"I will,&quo=
t;
said Blake. "I'll never do it again. I promise faithful never to do it
again. I've found a fren'."
"Do you know
this covey?" asked the policeman.
"Deny it, if=
yer
dare," said Blake. "Jus' you deny it, that's orl, an' I'll tell t=
he
parson."
"Slightly,
constable," I said. "I mean, I've seen him before."
"Then you'd
better take 'im off if you don't want 'im locked up."
"'Im want me
locked up? We're bosum fren's, ain't we, old dear?" said Blake, linking
his arm in mine and dragging me away with him. Behind us, the policeman was
shunting the spectators. Oh, it was excessively displeasing to any man of
culture, I can assure you.
How we got along
Shaftesbury I don't know. It's a subject I do not care to think about.
By leaning heavil=
y on
my shoulder and using me, so to speak, as ballast, drunken Blake just manag=
ed
to make progress, I cannot say unostentatiously, but at any rate not so
noticeably as to be taken into custody.
I didn't know, mi= nd you, where we were going to, and I didn't know when we were going to stop.<= o:p>
In this frightful
manner of progression we had actually gained sight of Piccadilly Circus when
all of a sudden a voice hissed in my ear: "Sidney Price, I am disappoi=
nted
in you." Hissed, mind you. I tell you, I jumped. Thought I'd bitten my
tongue off at first.
If drunken Blake
hadn't been clutching me so tight you could have knocked me down with a
feather: bowled me over clean. It startled Blake a goodish bit, too. All al=
ong
the Avenue he'd been making just a quiet sort of snivelling noise. Crikey, =
if
he didn't speak up quite perky. "O, my fren'," he says. "So
drunk and yet so young." Meaning me, if you please.
It was too thick.=
"You blighte=
r,"
I says. "You blooming blighter. You talk to me like that. Let go of my=
arm
and see me knock you down."
I must have been a
bit excited, you see, to say that. Then I looked round to see who the other
individual was. You'll hardly credit me when I tell you it was the Reverend.
But it was. Honest truth, it was the Rev. John Hatton and no error. His face
fairly frightened me. Simply blazing: red: fair scarlet. He kept by the sid=
e of
us and let me have it all he could. "I thought you knew better,
Price," that's what he said. "I thought you knew better. Here are
you, a friend of mine, a member of the Club, a man I've trusted, going about
the streets of London in a bestial state of disgusting intoxication. That's
enough in itself. But you've done worse than that. You've lured poor Blake =
into
intemperance. Yes, with all your advantages of education and up-bringing, y=
ou
deliberately set to work to put temptation in the way of poor, weak,
hard-working Blake. Drunkenness is Blake's besetting sin, and you----"=
Blake had been
silently wagging his head, as pleased as Punch at being called hardworking.=
But
here he shoved in his oar.
"'Ow dare
yer!" he burst out. "I ain't never tasted a drop o' beer in my
natural. Born an' bred teetotal, that's wot I was, and don't yew forget it,
neither."
"Blake,"
said the Reverend, "that's not the truth."
"Call me a
drunkard, do yer?" replied Blake. "Go on. Say it again. Say I'm a
blarsted liar, won't yer? Orlright, then I shall run away."
And with that he
wrenched himself away from me and set off towards the Circus. He was trying=
to
run, but his advance took the form of semi-circular sweeps all over the
pavement. He had circled off so unexpectedly that he had gained some fifty
yards before we realised what was happening. "We must stop him," =
said
the Reverend.
"As I'm
intoxicated," I said, coldly (being a bit fed up with things), "I
should recommend you stopping him, Mr. Hatton."
"I've done y=
ou
an injustice," said the Reverend.
"You have,&q=
uot;
said I.
Blake was now nea=
ring
a policeman. "Stop him!" we both shouted, starting to run forward=
.
The policeman bro=
ught
Blake to a standstill.
"Friend of
yours?" said the constable when we got up to him.
"Yes," =
said
the Reverend.
"You ought to
look after him better," said the constable.
"Well, reall=
y, I
like that!" said the Reverend; but he caught my eye and began laughing.
"Our best plan," he said, "is to get a four-wheeler and go d=
own
to the Temple. There's some supper there. What do you say?"
"I'm on,&quo=
t; I
said, and to the Temple we accordingly journeyed.
Tom Blake was sle=
epy
and immobile. We spread him without hindrance on a sofa, where he snored
peacefully whilst the Reverend brought eggs and a slab of bacon out of a
cupboard in the kitchen. He also brought a frying-pan, and a bowl of fat.
"Is your coo=
king
anything extra good?" he asked.
"No, Mr.
Hatton," I answered, rather stiff; "I've never cooked anything in=
my
life." I may not be in a very high position in the "Moon," b=
ut I've
never descended to menial's work yet.
For about five mi=
nutes
after that the Reverend was too busy to speak. Then he said, without turning
his head away from the hissing pan, "I wish you'd do me a favour,
Price."
"Certainly,&=
quot;
I said.
"Look in the
cupboard and see whether there are any knives, forks, plates, and a loaf an=
d a
bit of butter, will you?"
I looked, and, su=
re
enough, they were there.
"Yes, they're
all here," I called to him.
"And is ther=
e a
tray?"
"Yes, there'=
s a
tray."
"Now, it's a
funny thing that my laundress," he shouted back, "can't bring in
breakfast things for more than one on that particular tray. She's always
complaining it's too small, and says I ought to buy a bigger one."
"Nonsense,&q=
uot;
I exclaimed, "she's quite wrong about that. You watch what I can carry=
in
one load." And I packed the tray with everything he had mentioned.
"What price
that?" I said, putting the whole boiling on the sitting-room table.
The Reverend bega=
n to
roar with laughter. "It's ridiculous," he chuckled. "I shall
tell her it's ridiculous. She ought to be ashamed of herself."
Shortly after we =
had
supper, previously having aroused Blake.
The drunken fellow
seemed completely restored by his repose. He ate more than his share of the
eggs and bacon, and drank five cups of tea. Then he stretched himself, lit a
clay pipe, and offered us his tobacco box, from which the Reverend filled h=
is
briar. I remained true to my packet of "Queen of the Harem." I sh=
all
think twice before chucking up cig. smoking as long as "Queen of the
Harem" don't go above tuppence-half-penny per ten.
We were sitting t=
here
smoking in front of the fire--it was a shade parky for the time of year--and
not talking a great deal, when the Reverend said to Blake, "Things are
looking up on the canal, aren't they, Tom?"
"No," s=
aid
Blake; "things ain't lookin' up on the canal."
"Got a little
house property," said the Reverend, "to spend when you feel like
it?"
"No," s=
aid
the other; "I ain't got no 'ouse property to spend."
"Ah." s=
aid
the Reverend, cheesing it, and sucking his pipe.
"Dessay yer
think I'm free with the rhino?" said Blake after a while.
"I was only
wondering," said the Reverend.
Blake stared firs=
t at
the Reverend and then at me.
"Ever rememb=
er a
party of the name of Cloyster, Mr. James Orlebar Cloyster?" he inquire=
d.
"Yes," =
we
both said.
"'E's a good
man," said Blake.
"Been giving=
you
money?" asked the Reverend.
"'E's put me
into the way of earning it. It's the sorfest job ever I struck. 'E told me =
not
to say nothin', and I said as 'ow I wouldn't. But it ain't fair to Mr.
Cloyster, not keeping of it dark ain't. Yew don't know what a noble 'eart t=
hat
man's got, an' if you weren't fren' of 'is I couldn't have told you. But as=
you
are fren's of 'is, as we're all fren's of 'is, I'll take it on myself to te=
ll
you wot that noble-natured man is giving me money for. Blowed if 'e shall '=
ide
his bloomin' light under a blanky bushel any longer." And then he
explained that for putting his name to a sheet or two of paper, and address=
ing
a few envelopes, he was getting more money than he knew what to do with. &q=
uot;Mind
you," he said, "I play it fair. I only take wot he says I'm to ta=
ke.
The rest goes to 'im. My old missus sees to all that part of it 'cos she's
quicker at figures nor wot I am."
While he was
speaking, I could hardly contain myself. The Reverend was listening so
carefully to every word that I kept myself from interrupting; but when he'd=
got
it off his chest, I clutched the Reverend's arm, and said, "What's it
mean?"
"Can't
say," said he, knitting his brows.
"Is he
straight?" I said, all on the jump.
"I hope
so."
"'Hope so.' =
You
don't think there's a doubt of it?"
"I suppose n=
ot.
But surely it's very unselfish of you to be so concerned over Blake's
business."
"Blake's
business be jiggered," I said. "It's my business, too. I'm doing =
for
Mister James Orlebar Cloyster exactly what Blake's doing. And I'm making mo=
ney.
You don't understand."
"On the
contrary, I'm just beginning to understand. You see, I'm doing for Mr. James
Orlebar Cloyster exactly the same service as you and Blake. And I'm getting
money from him, too."
Chapter 18 - ONE IN THE E=
YE (Sidney
Price's narrative continued)
"Serpose I oughtn't ter 'ave l=
et on,
that's it, ain't it?" from Tom Blake.
"Seemed to me
that if one of the three gave the show away to the other two, the compact m=
ade
by each of the other two came to an end automatically," from myself.
"The reason I
have broken my promise of secrecy is this: that I'm determined we three sha=
ll
make a united demand for a higher rate of payment. You, of course, have your
own uses for the money, I need mine for those humanitarian objects for whic=
h my
whole life is lived," from the Reverend.
"Wot 'o,&quo=
t;
said Blake. "More coin. Wot 'o. Might 'ave thought o' that before.&quo=
t;
"I'm with yo=
u,
sir," said I. "We're entitled to a higher rate, I'll make a memo =
to
that effect."
"No, no,&quo=
t;
said the Reverend. "We can do better than that. We three should have a
personal interview with Cloyster and tell him our decision."
"When?"=
I
asked.
"Now. At onc=
e.
We are here together, and I see no reason to prevent our arranging the matt=
er
within the hour."
"But he'll be
asleep," I objected.
"He won't be
asleep much longer."
"Yus, roust =
'im
outer bed. That's wot I say. Wot 'o for more coin."
It was now half-p=
ast
two in the morning. I'd missed the 12:15 back to Brixton slap bang pop hours
ago, so I thought I might just as well make a night of it. We jumped into o=
ur
overcoats and hats, and hurried to Fleet Street. We walked towards the Stra=
nd
until we found a four-wheeler. We then drove to No. 23, Walpole Street.
The clocks struck
three as the Reverend paid the cab.
"Hullo!"
said he. "Why, there's a light in Cloyster's sitting-room. He can't ha=
ve
gone to bed yet. His late hours save us a great deal of trouble." And =
he
went up the two or three steps which led to the front door.
A glance at Tom B=
lake
showed me that the barge-driver was alarmed. He looked solemn and did not
speak. I felt funny, too. Like when I first handed round the collection-pla=
te
in our parish church. Sort of empty feeling.
But the Reverend =
was
all there, spry and business-like.
He leaned over the
area railing and gave three short, sharp taps on the ground floor window wi=
th
his walking-stick.
Behind the lighted
blind appeared the shadow of a man's figure.
"It's he!&qu=
ot;
"It's him!" came respectively and simultaneously from the Reverend
and myself.
After a bit of
waiting the latch clicked and the door opened. The door was opened by Mr.
Cloyster himself. He was in evening dress and hysterics. I thought I had he=
ard
a rummy sound from the other side of the door. Couldn't account for it at t=
he
time. Must have been him laughing.
At the sight of u=
s he
tried to pull himself together. He half succeeded after a bit, and asked us=
to
come in.
To say his room w=
as
plainly furnished doesn't express it. The apartment was like a prison cell.
I've never been in gaol, of course. But I read "Convict 99" when =
it
ran in a serial. The fire was out, the chairs were hard, and the whole thing
was uncomfortable. Never struck such a shoddy place in my natural, ever sin=
ce I
called on a man I know slightly who was in "The Hand of Blood"
travelling company No. 3 B.
"Delighted to
see you, I'm sure," said Mr. Cloyster. "In fact, I was just going=
to
sit down and write to you."
"Really,&quo=
t;
said the Reverend. "Well, we've come of our own accord, and we've come=
to
talk business." Then turning to Blake and me he added, "May I sta=
te
our case?"
"Most certai=
nly,
sir," I answered. And Blake gave a nod.
"Briefly,
then," said the Reverend, "our mission is this: that we three wan=
t our
contracts revised."
"What
contracts?" said Mr. Cloyster.
"Our contrac=
ts
connected with your manuscripts."
"Since when =
have
the several matters of business which I arranged privately with each of you
become public?"
"Tonight. It=
was
quite unavoidable. We met by chance. We are not to blame. Tom Blake
was----"
"Yes, he loo=
ks
as if he had been."
"Our amended
offer is half profits."
"More
coin," murmured Blake huskily. "Wot 'o!"
"I regret th=
at
you've had your journey for nothing."
"You
refuse?"
"Absolutely.=
"
"My dear
Cloyster, I had expected you to take this attitude; but surely it's childis=
h of
you. You are bound to accede. Why not do so at once?"
"Bound to
accede? I don't follow you."
"Yes, bound.=
The
present system which you are working is one you cannot afford to destroy. T=
hat
is clear, because, had it not been so, you would never have initiated it. I=
do
not know for what reason you were forced to employ this system, but I do kn=
ow
that powerful circumstances must have compelled you to do so. You are entir=
ely
in our hands."
"I said just=
now
I was delighted to see you, and that I had intended to ask you to come to m=
e.
One by one, of course; for I had no idea that the promise of secrecy which =
you
gave me had been broken."
The Reverend shru=
gged
his shoulders.
"Do you know=
why
I wanted to see you?"
"No."
"To tell you
that I had decided to abandon my system. To notify you that you would, in
future, receive no more of my work."
There was a dead
silence.
"I think I'l=
l go
home to bed," said the Reverend.
Blake and myself
followed him out.
Mr. Cloyster than=
ked
us all warmly for the excellent way in which we had helped him. He said tha=
t he
was now engaged to be married, and had to save every penny. "Otherwise=
, I
should have tried to meet you in this affair of the half-profits." He
added that we had omitted to congratulate him on his engagement.
His words came
faintly to our ears as we tramped down Walpole Street; nor did we, as far a=
s I
can remember, give back any direct reply.
Tell you what it =
was
just like. Reminded me of it even at the time: that picture of Napoleon com=
ing
back from Moscow. The Reverend was Napoleon, and we were the generals; and =
if
there were three humpier men walking the streets of London at that moment I
should have liked to have seen them.
Chapter 19 - IN THE SOUP =
(Sidney
Price's narrative continued)
They give you a small bonus at the
"Moon" if you get through a quarter without being late, which just
shows the sort of scale on which the "Moon" does things. Cookson,
down at the Oxford Street Emporium, gets fined regular when he's late. Shil=
ling
the first hour and twopence every five minutes after. I've known gentlemen =
in
banks, railway companies, dry goods, and woollen offices, the Indian trade,
jute, tea--every manner of shop--but they all say the same thing, "We =
are ruled
by fear." It's fear that drags them out of bed in the morning; it's fe=
ar
that makes them bolt, or even miss, their sausages; it's fear that makes th=
em
run to catch their train. But the "Moon's" method is of a differe=
nt
standard. The "Moon" does not intimidate; no, it entwines itself
round, it insinuates itself into, the hearts of its employees. It suggests,=
in
fact, that we should not be late by offering us this small bonus. No insura=
nce
office and, up to the time of writing, no other assurance office has been a=
ble
to boast as much. The same cause is at the bottom of the "Moon's"
high reputation, both inside and outside. It does things in a big way. It's
spacious.
The
"Moon's" timing system is great, too. Great in its simplicity. Th=
e regulation
says you've got to be in the office by ten o'clock. Suppose you arrive with=
ten
minutes to spare. You go into the outer office (there's only one entrance--=
the
big one in Threadneedle Street) and find on the right-hand side of the circ=
ular
counter a ledger. The ledger is open: there is blotting-paper and a quill p=
en
beside it. Everyone's name is written in alphabetical order on the one side=
of
the ledger and on the other side there is a blank page ruled down the middl=
e with
a red line. Having made your appearance at ten to ten, you put your initial=
s in
a line with your name on the page opposite and to the left of the division.=
If,
on the other hand, you've missed your train, and don't turn up till ten min=
utes
past ten, you've got to initial your name on the other side of the red line=
. In
the space on the right of the line, a thick black dash has been drawn by Le=
ach,
the cashier. He does this on the last stroke of ten. It makes the page look=
neat,
he says. Which is quite right and proper. I see his point of view entirely.=
The
ledger must look decent in an office like the "Moon." Tommy Milner
agrees with me. He says that not only does it look better, but it prevents
unfortunate mistakes on the part of those who come in late. They might forg=
et
and initial the wrong side.
After ten the book
goes into Mr. Leach's private partition, and you've got to go in there to s=
ign.
It was there when=
I
came into the office on the morning after we'd been to talk business with M=
r.
Cloyster. It had been there about an hour and a half.
"Lost your
bonus, Price, my boy," said genial Mr. Leach. And the General Manager,=
Mr.
Fennell, who had stepped out of his own room close by, heard him say it.
"I do not
imagine that Mr. Price is greatly perturbed on that account. He will, no do=
ubt,
shortly be forsaking us for literature. What Commerce loses, Art gains,&quo=
t;
said the G.M.
He may have meant=
to
be funny, or he may not. Some of those standing near took him one way, othe=
rs
the other. Some gravely bowed their heads, others burst into guffaws. The G=
.M.
often puzzled his staff in that way. All were anxious to do the right thing=
by
him, but he made it so difficult to tell what the right thing was.
But, as I went do=
wn
the basement stairs to change my coat in the clerks' locker-room, I underst=
ood
from the G.M.'s words how humiliating my position was.
I had always been=
a
booky sort of person. At home it had been a standing joke that, when a boy,=
I
would sooner spend a penny on Tit-Bits than liquorice. And it was true. Not
that I disliked liquorice. I liked Tit-Bits better, though. So the thing ha=
d gone
on. I advanced from Deadwood Dick to Hall Caine and Guy Boothby; and since I
had joined the "Moon" I had actually gone a buster and bought Omar
Khayyam in the Golden Treasury series. Added to which, I had recently compo=
sed
a little lyric for a singer at the "Moon's" annual smoking concer=
t.
The lines were topical and were descriptive of our Complete Compensation
Policy. Tommy Milner was the vocalist. He sang my composition to a hymn tun=
e.
The refrain went:
Come=
and
buy a C.C.Pee-ee! If
you want immunitee-ee From
the accidents which come Please
plank down your premium. Life
is diff'rent, you'll agree Repeat When you've got =
a C.C.P.
The Throne Room of
the Holborn fairly rocked with applause.
Well, it was shor=
tly
afterwards that I had received a visit from Mr. Cloyster--the visit which e=
nded
in my agreeing to sign whatever manuscripts he sent me, and forward him all
cheques for a consideration of ten per cent. Softest job ever a man had. Ea=
sy
money. Kudos--I had almost too much of it. Which takes me back to the G.M.'s
remark about my leaving the office. Since he's bought that big house at
Regent's Park he's done a lot of entertaining at the restaurants. His name'=
s always
cropping up in the "Here and There" column, and naturally he's a =
subscriber
to the Strawberry Leaf. The G.M. has everything of the best and plenty of i=
t.
(You don't see the G.M. with memo. forms tucked round his cuffs: he wears a
clean shirt every morning of his life. All tip-top people have their little
eccentricities.) And the Strawberry Leaf, the smartest, goeyest, personalest
weekly, is never missing from his drawing-room what-not. Every week it's th=
ere,
regular as clockwork. That's what started my literary reputation among the
fellows at the "Moon." Mr. Cloyster was contributing a series of =
short
dialogues to the Strawberry Leaf--called, "In Town." These, on
publication, bore my own signature. As a matter of fact, I happened to see =
the
G.M. showing the first of the series to Mr. Leach in his private room. I've
kept it by me, and I don't wonder the news created a bit of a furore. This =
was
it:----
IN TOWN BY SIDNEY PRICE
No. I.--THE SECRECY OF THE B=
ALLET
(You are standing under the shelter of the Criterion's awning. It is 12.30 of a summer= 's morning. It is pouring in torrents. A quick and sudden rain storm. It won't last long, and it doesn't mean any harm. = But what's sport to it is death to you. You were touring the Ci= rcus in a new hat. Brand new. Couldn't spot your tame cabby. H= adn't a token. Spied the Cri's awning. Dashed at it. But it le= aks. Not so much as the sky though. Just enough, however, to do = your hat no good. You mention this to Friendly Creature with umbrella, and hint that you would like to share that weapon.)<= o:p>
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Can't giv=
e you
all, boysie. Mine's new, too.
YOU. (in your charming way).=
Well,
of course. You wouldn't be a woman if you hadn'=
t a
new hat.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Do women =
always
have new hats?
YOU. (edging under the umbre=
lla).
Women have new hats. New women have hats.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Don't cal=
l me a
woman, ducky; I'm a lady.
YOU. I must be careful. If I=
don't
flatter you, you'll take your umbrella away.
FRIENDLY CREATURE (changing
subject). There's Matilda.
YOU. Where?
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Coming to=
wards
us in that landaulette.
YOU. Looks fit, doesn't she?=
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Her! She'=
s a
blooming rotter.
YOU. Not so loud. She'll hea=
r you.
FRIENDLY CREATURE (raising h=
er
voice). Good job. I want her to. Stumer!
YOU. S-s-s-sh! What are you
saying? Matilda's a duchess now.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. I know.
YOU. But you mustn't say
"Stumer" to a duchess unless----
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Well?
YOU. Unless you're a duchess
yourself?
FRIENDLY CREATURE. I am. At =
least
I was. Only I chucked it.
YOU. But you said you were a=
lady.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. So I am. =
An
extra lady--front row, second O.P.
YOU. How rude of me. Of cour=
se you
were a duchess. I know you perfectly. Gorell Barnes
said----
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Drop it. =
What's
the good of the secrecy of the ballet if people are
going to remember every single thing about you?
(At this point the rain stop=
s. By
an adroit flanking movement you get away without ha=
ving
to buy her a lunch.)
Everyone
congratulated me. "Always knew he had it in him," "Found his=
vocation,"
"A distinctly clever head," "Reaping in the shekels"--t=
hat was
the worst part. The "Moon," to a man, was bent on finding out
"how much Sidney Price makes out of his bits in the papers." Some
dropped hints--the G.M., Leach, and the men at the counter. Others, like To=
mmy Milner,
asked slap out. You may be sure I didn't tell them a fixed sum. But it was
hopeless to say I was getting the small sum which my ten per cent. commissi=
on
worked out at. On the other hand, I dared not pretend I was being paid at t=
he
usual rates. I should have gone broke in twenty-four hours. You have no idea
how constantly I was given the opportunity of lending five shillings to
important members of the "Moon" staff. It struck me then--and I h=
ave
found out for certain since--that there is a popular anxiety to borrow from=
a
man who earns money by writing. The earnings of a successful writer are, to=
the
common intelligence, something he ought not really to have. And anyone, in
default of abstracting his income, may fall back upon taking up his time.
It did, no doubt,
appear that I was coining the ready. Besides the Strawberry Leaf, Features,=
and
The Key of the Street were printing my signed contributions in weekly serie=
s.
The Mayfair, too, had announced on its placards, "A Story in Dialogue,=
by
Sidney Price."
This, then, was m=
y position
on the morning when I was late at the "Moon" and lost my bonus.
Whilst I went up =
in
the lift to the New Business Room, and whilst I was entering the names and
addresses of inquirers in the Proposal Book, I was trying to gather courage=
to
meet what was in store.
For the future he=
ld
this: that my name would disappear from the papers as suddenly as it had
arrived there. People would want to know why I had given up writing.
"Written himself out," "No staying power," "As sho=
rt-lived
as a Barnum monstrosity": these would be the remarks which would herald
ridicule and possibly pity.
And I should be in
just the same beastly fix at the "Hollyhocks" as I was at the
"Moon." What would my people say? What would Norah say?
There was another
reason, too, why a stoppage of the ten per cent. cheques would be a whack in
the eye. You see, I had been doing myself well on them--uncommonly well. I =
had
ordered, as a present to my parents, new furniture for the drawing-room. I =
had
pressed my father to have a small greenhouse put up at my expense. He had
always wanted one, but had never been able to run to it. And I had taken No=
rah
about a good deal. Our weekly visit to a matinée (upper circle and
ices), followed by tea at the Cabin or Lyons' Popular, had become an instit=
ution.
We had gone occasionally to a ball at the Town Hall.
What would Norah =
say
when all this ended abruptly without any explanation?
There was no gett=
ing
away from it. Sidney Price was in the soup.
Chapter 20 - NORAH WINS H=
OME (Sidney
Price's narrative continued)
My signed work had run out. For two=
weeks
nothing had been printed over my signature. So far no comment had been rais=
ed. But
it was only a question of days. But then one afternoon it all came right. It
was like this.
I was sitting eat=
ing
my lunch at Eliza's in Birchin Lane. Twenty minutes was the official allowa=
nce
for the meal, and I took my twenty minutes at two o'clock. The St. Stephen's
Gazette was lying near me. I picked it up. Anything to distract my thoughts
from the trouble to come. That was how I felt. Reading mechanically the fro=
nt
page, I saw a poem, and started violently. This was the poem:--
A CR=
Y
Hand=
s at
the tiller to steer: A
star in the murky sky: Water
and waste of mere: Whither
and why?
Stin=
g of
absorbent night: Journey
of weal or woe: And
overhead the light: We
go--we go?
Dark=
ness a
mortal's part, Mortals
of whom we are: Come
to a mortal's heart, Immortal
star.
=
Thos. Blake=
. June
6th.
"Rummy, very
rummy," I exclaimed. The poem was dated yesterday. Had Mr. Cloyster, t=
hen,
continued to work his system with Thomas Blake to the exclusion of the Reve=
rend
and myself?
Still worrying ov=
er
the thing, I turned over the pages of the paper until I chanced to see the
following paragraph:
LITERARY GOSSIP
Few will be surprised to lea=
rn
that the Rev. John Hatton intends to publish another nove=
l in
the immediate future. Mr. Hatton's first book, When It Was
Lurid, created little less than a furore. The work on w=
hich
he is now engaged, which will bear the title of The Browns=
of
Brixton, is a tender sketch of English domesticity. Th=
is new
vein of Mr. Hatton's will, doubtless, be distinguished by the
naturalness of dialogue and sanity of characterisation of his=
first
novel. Messrs. Prodder and Way are to publish it in the au=
tumn.
"He's running
the Reverend again, is he?" said I to myself. "And I'm the only o=
ne
left out. It's a bit thick."
That night I wrot=
e to
Blake and to the Reverend asking whether they had been taken on afresh, and=
if
so, couldn't I get a look in, as things were pretty serious.
The Reverend's re=
ply
arrived first:
THE TEMPLE, June 7th.
Dear Price,--
As you have seen, I am hard =
at
work at my new novel. The leisure of a novelist is so sca=
nty
that I know you'll forgive my writing only a line. I am in no=
way
associated with James Orlebar Cloyster, nor do I wish to be. Ra=
ther I
would forget his very existence.
You are aware of the interes=
ts
which I have at heart: social reform, the education o=
f the
submerged, the physical needs of the young--there is no
necessity for me to enumerate my ideals further. To get quick r=
eturns
from philanthropy, to put remedial organisation into speedy
working order wants capital. Cloyster's system was one way of
obtaining some of it, but when that failed I had to look out for
another. I'm glad I helped in the system, for it made me realise =
how
large an income a novelist can obtain. I'm glad it failed beca=
use
its failure suggested that I should try to get for myself those=
vast
sums which I had been getting for the selfish purse of an alr=
eady
wealthy man. Unconsciously, he has played into my hands. I=
read
his books before I signed them, and I find that I have thorou=
ghly
absorbed those tricks of his, of style and construction, which
opened the public's coffers to him. The Browns of Brixton will
eclipse anything that Cloyster has previously done, for th=
is
reason, that it will out-Cloyster Cloyster. It is Cloyste=
r with
improvements.
In thus abducting his
novel-reading public I shall feel no compunction. His serious
verse and his society dialogues bring him in so much that he cann=
ot be
in danger of financial embarrassment.
=
&nb=
sp;
Yours sincerely, John Hatton.
Now this letter s=
et
my brain buzzing like the engine of a stationary Vanguard. I, too, had been=
in
the habit of reading Mr. Cloyster's dialogues before I signed and sent them
off. I had often thought to myself, also, that they couldn't take much writ=
ing,
that it was all a knack; and the more I read of them the more transparent t=
he
knack appeared to me to be. Just for a lark, I sat down that very evening a=
nd had
a go at one. Taking the Park for my scene, I made two or three theatrical
celebrities whose names I had seen in the newspapers talk about a horse rac=
e.
At least, one talked about a horse race, and the others thought she was gas=
sing
about a new musical comedy, the name of the play being the same as the name=
of
the horse, "The Oriental Belle." A very amusing muddle, with lots=
of
doubles entendres, and heaps of adverbial explanation in small print. Such =
as:
=
Miss Adeline Genée (with the faint, incipient bl=
ush
which Mrs.
Adair uses to test her Rouge Imperial).
That sort of thin=
g.
I had it typed, a=
nd I
said, "Price, my boy, there's more Mr. Cloyster in this than ever Mr.
Cloyster could have put into it." And the editor of the Strawberry Leaf
printed it next issue as a matter of course. I say, "as a matter of
course" with intention, because the fellows at the "Moon" to=
ok
it as a matter of course, too. You see, when it first appeared, I left the =
copy
about the desk in the New Business Room, hoping Tommy Milner or some of them
would rush up and congratulate me. But they didn't. They simply said,
"Don't litter the place up, old man. Keep your papers, if you must bri=
ng
'em here, in your locker downstairs." One of them did say, I fancy, so=
mething
about its "not being quite up to my usual." They didn't know it w=
as
my maiden effort at original composition, and I couldn't tell them. It was
galling, you'll admit.
However, I quickly
forgot my own troubles in wondering what Mr. Cloyster was doing. No editor,=
I
foresaw, would accept his society stuff as long as mine was in the market. =
They
wouldn't pay for Cloyster whilst they were offered the refusal of
super-Cloyster. Wasn't likely. You must understand I wasn't over-easy in my
conscience about the affair. I had, in a manner of speaking, pinched Mr.
Cloyster's job. But then, I argued to myself, he was earning quite as much =
as
was good for any one man by his serious verse.
And at that very
minute our slavey, little Ethelbertina, knocked at my bedroom door and gave=
me
a postcard. It was addressed to me in thick, straggly writing, and was so
covered with thumb-marks that a Bertillon expert would have gone straight o=
ff
his nut at the sight of it. "My usbend," began the postcard, &quo=
t;as
received yourn. E as no truk wif the other man E is a pots imself an e can =
do a
job of potry as orfen as e 'as a mine to your obegent servent Ada Blake. P.=
S.
me an is ole ant do is writin up for im."
So then I saw how
that "Cry" thing in the St. Stephen's had come there.
*
You heard me give=
my
opinion about telling Norah my past life. Well, you'll agree with me now th=
at
there's practically nothing to tell her.
There is, of cour=
se,
little Miss Richards, the waitress in the smoking-room of the Piccadilly Ca=
bin.
Her, I mean, with the fuzzy golden hair done low. You've often exchanged
"Good evening" with her, I'm sure. Her hair's done low: she used =
to
make rather a point of telling me that. Why, I don't know, especially as it=
was
always tidy and well off her shoulders.
And then there was
the haughty lady who sold programmes in the Haymarket Amphitheatre--but she=
's
got the sack, so Cookson informs me.
Therefore, as I s=
hall
tell Norah plainly that I disapprove of the Cabin, the past can hatch no eg=
g of
discord in the shape of the Cast-Off Glove.
The only thing th=
at I
can think of as needing suppression is the part I played in Mr. Cloyster's
system.
There's no doubt =
that
the Reverend, Blake and I have, between us, put a fairly considerable spoke=
in
Mr. Cloyster's literary wheel. But what am I to do? To begin with, it's no =
use
my telling Norah about the affair, because it would do her no good, and mig=
ht
tend possibly to lessen her valuation of my capabilities. At present, my di=
alogues
dazzle her; and once your fiancée is dazzled the basis of matrimonial
happiness is assured. Again, looking at it from Mr. Cloyster's point of vie=
w, what
good would it be to him if I were to stop writing? Both the editor and the
public have realised by now that his work is only second-rate. He can never
hope to get a tenth of his original prices, even if his work is accepted, w=
hich
it won't be; for directly I leave his market clear, someone else will colla=
r it
slap off.
Besides, I've no
right to stop my dialogues. My duty to Norah is greater than my duty to Mr.
Cloyster. Unless I continue to be paid by literature I shall not be able to
marry Norah until three years next quarter. The "Moon" has passed=
a
rule about it, and an official who marries on an income not larger than eig=
hty
pounds per annum is liable to dismissal without notice.
Norah's mother
wouldn't let her wait three years, and though fellows have been known to ha=
ve
had a couple of kids at the time of their official marriage, I personally c=
ouldn't
stand the wear and tear of that hole-and-corner business. It couldn't be do=
ne.
(End of Sidney
Price's narrative.)
Julian Eversleigh=
's
Narrative
Chapter 21 - THE
TRANSPOSITION OF SENTIMENT
It is all very, very queer. I do not
understand it at all. It makes me sleepy to think about it.
A month ago I hat=
ed
Eva. Tomorrow I marry her by special licence.
Now, what about t=
his?
My brain is not
working properly. I am becoming jerky.
I tried to work t=
he
thing out algebraically. I wrote it down as an equation, thus:--
=
HATRED, denoted by x + Eva. REVERSE
OF HATRED, " " y + Eva =
ONE
MONTH " " z.
From which we get=
:--
=
x + Eva =3D (y + Eva)z.
And if anybody can
tell me what that means (if it means anything--which I doubt) I shall be
grateful. As I said before, my brain is not working properly.
There is no doubt
that my temperament has changed, and in a very short space of time. A month=
ago
I was soured, cynical, I didn't brush my hair, and I slept too much. I talk=
ed a
good deal about Life. Now I am blithe and optimistic. I use pomade, part in=
the
middle, and sleep eight hours and no more. I have not made an epigram for d=
ays.
It is all very queer.
I took a new atti=
tude
towards life at about a quarter to three on the morning after the
Gunton-Cresswells's dance. I had waited for James in his rooms. He had been=
to
the dance.
Examine me for a
moment as I wait there.
I had been James' friend for more than two years and a half. I had watched his career from the start. I knew him before he had located exactly the short cut to Fortune. O= ur friendship embraced the whole period of his sudden, extraordinary success.<= o:p>
Had not envy by t=
hat
time been dead in me, it might have been pain to me to watch him accomplish
unswervingly with his effortless genius the things I had once dreamt I, too,
would laboriously achieve.
But I grudged him
nothing. Rather, I had pleasure in those triumphs of my friend.
There was no
confidence we had withheld from one another.
When he told me of
his relations with Margaret Goodwin he had counted on my sympathy as natura=
lly
as he had requested and received my advice.
To no living soul,
save James, would I have confessed my own tragedy--my hopeless love for Eva=
.
It is inconceivab=
le
that I should have misjudged a man so utterly as I misjudged James.
That is the latent
factor at the root of my problem. The innate rottenness, the cardiac villai=
ny
of James Orlebar Cloyster.
In a measure it w=
as
my own hand that laid the train which eventually blew James' hidden smoulde=
r of
fire into the blazing beacon of wickedness, in which my friend's Satanic so=
ul
is visible in all its lurid nakedness.
I remember well t=
hat
evening, mild with the prelude of spring, when I evolved for James' benefit=
the
System. It was a device which was to preserve my friend's liberty and, at t=
he
same time, to preserve my friend's honour. How perfect in its irony!
Margaret Goodwin,
mark you, was not to know he could afford to marry her, and my system was an
instrument to hide from her the truth.
He employed that
system. It gave him the holiday he asked for. He went into Society.
Among his
acquaintances were the Gunton-Cresswells, and at their house he met Eva.
Whether his determination to treat Eva as he had treated Margaret came to h=
im
instantly, or by degrees I do not know. Inwardly he may have had his scheme
matured in embryo, but outwardly he was still the accomplished hypocrite. He
was the soul of honour--outwardly. He was the essence of sympathetic tact as
far as his specious exterior went. Then came the 27th of May. On that date =
the
first of James Orlebar Cloyster's masks was removed.
I had breakfasted
earlier than usual, so that by the time I had walked from Rupert Court to
Walpole Street it was not yet four o'clock.
James was out. I
thought I would wait for him. I stood at his window. Then I saw Margaret
Goodwin. What features! What a complexion! "And James," I murmure=
d,
"is actually giving this the miss in baulk!" I discovered, at that
instant, that I did not know James. He was a fool.
In a few hours I =
was
to discover he was a villain, too.
She came in and I
introduced myself to her. I almost forget what pretext I manufactured, but I
remember I persuaded her to go back to Guernsey that very day. I think I sa=
id
that James was spending Friday till Monday in the country, and had left no
address. I was determined that they should not meet. She was far too good f=
or a
man who obviously did not appreciate her in the least.
We had a very
pleasant chat. She was charming. At first she was apt to touch on James a s=
hade
too frequently, but before long I succeeded in diverting our conversation i=
nto
less uninteresting topics.
She talked of
Guernsey, I of London. I said I felt I had known her all my life. She said =
that
one had, undeniably, one's affinities.
I said, "Mig=
ht I
think of her as 'Margaret'?"
She said it was
rather unconventional, but that she could not control my thoughts.
I said, "The=
re
you are wrong--Margaret."
She said, "O=
h,
what are you saying, Mr. Eversleigh?"
I said I was thin=
king
out loud.
On the doorstep s=
he
said, "Well, yes--Julian--you may write to me--sometimes. But I won't
promise to answer."
Angel!
The next thing th=
at
awakened me was the coming of James.
After I had given=
him
a suitable version of Margaret's visit, he told me he was engaged to Eva. T=
hat
was an astounding thing; but what was more astounding was that James had
somehow got wind of the real spirit of my interview with Margaret.
I have called Jam=
es
Orlebar Cloyster a fool; I have called him a villain. I will never cease to
call him a genius. For by some marvellous capacity for introspection, by so=
me
incredible projection of his own mind into other people's matters, he was a=
ble
to tax me to my face with an attempt to win his former fiancée's
affections. I tried to choke him off. I used every ounce of bluff I possess=
ed.
In vain. I left Walpole Street in a state approaching mental revolution.
My exact feelings
towards James were too intricate to be defined in a single word. Not so my
feelings towards Eva. "Hate" supplied the lacuna in her case.
Thus the month be=
gan.
The next point of
importance is my interview with Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell. She had known all al=
ong
how matters stood in regard to Eva and myself. She had not been hostile to =
me
on that account. She had only pointed out that as I could do nothing towards
supporting Eva I had better keep away when my cousin was in London. That was
many years ago. Since then we had seldom met. Latterly, not at all. Invitat=
ions
still arrived from her, but her afternoon parties clashed with my
after-breakfast pipe, and as for her evening receptions--well, by the time I
had pieced together the various component parts of my dress clothes, I found
myself ready for bed. That is to say, more ready for bed than I usually am.=
I went to Mrs.
Gunton-Cresswell in a very bitter mood. I was bent on trouble.
"I've come to
congratulate Eva," I said.
Mrs. Gunton-Cress=
well
sighed.
"I was afrai=
d of
this," she said.
"The
announcement was the more pleasant," I went on, "because James ha=
s been
a bosom friend of mine."
"I'm afraid =
you
are going to be extremely disagreeable about your cousin's engagement,"
she said.
"I am,"=
I
answered her. "Very disagreeable. I intend to shadow the young couple,=
to be
constantly meeting them, calling attention to them. James will most likely =
have
to try to assault me. That may mean a black eye for dear James. It will
certainly mean the police court. Their engagement will be, in short, a
succession of hideous contretemps, a series of laughable scenes."
"Julian,&quo=
t;
said Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell, "hitherto you have acted manfully toward E=
va.
You have been brave. Have you no regard for Eva?"
"None,"=
I
said.
"Nor for Mr.
Cloyster?"
"Not a
scrap."
"But why are=
you
behaving in this appallingly selfish way?"
This was a facer.=
I
couldn't quite explain to her how things really were, so I said:
"Never you m=
ind.
Selfish or not, Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell, I'm out for trouble."
That night I had a
letter from her. She said that in order to avoid all unpleasantness, Eva's
engagement would be of the briefest nature possible. That the marriage was
fixed for the twelfth of next month; that the wedding would be a very quiet
one; and that until the day of the wedding Eva would not be in London.
It amused me to f=
ind
how thoroughly I had terrified Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell. How excellently I must
have acted, for, of course, I had not meant a word I had said to that good
lady.
In the days prece=
ding
the twelfth of June I confess I rather softened to James. The entente cordi=
ale
was established between us. He told me how irresistible Eva had been that
night; mentioned how completely she had carried him away. Had she not carri=
ed
me away in precisely the same manner once upon a time?
He swore he loved=
her
as dearly as--(I can't call to mind the simile he employed, though it was
masterly and impressive.) I even hinted that the threats I had used in the
presence of Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell were not serious. He thanked me, but said=
I
had frightened her to such good purpose that the date would now have to sta=
nd.
"You will not he surprised to hear," he added, "that I have
called in all my work. I shall want every penny I make. The expenses of an
engaged man are hair-raising. I send her a lot of flowers every morning--yo=
u've
no conception how much a few orchids cost. Then, whenever I go to see her I
take her some little present--a gold-mounted umbrella, a bicycle lamp, or a
patent scent-bottle. I'm indebted to you, Julian, positively indebted to you
for cutting short our engagement."
I now go on to po=
int
two: the morning of the twelfth of June.
Hurried footsteps=
on
my staircase. A loud tapping at my door. The church clock chiming twelve. T=
he
agitated, weeping figure of Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell approaching my hammock. A
telegram thrust into my hand. Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell's hysterical exclamatio=
n,
"You infamous monster--you--you are at the bottom of this."
All very
disconcerting. All, fortunately, very unusual.
My eyes were lead=
en
with slumber, but I forced myself to decipher the following message, which =
had
been telegraphed to West Kensington Lane:
Wedding must be
postponed.--CLOYSTER.
"I've had no
hand in this," I cried; "but," I added enthusiastically, &qu=
ot;it
serves Eva jolly well right."
Chapter 22 - A CHAT WITH
JAMES (Julian Eversleigh's narrative continued)
Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell seemed someho=
w to
drift away after that. Apparently I went to sleep again, and she didn't wai=
t.
When I woke, it w=
as
getting on for two o'clock. I breakfasted, with that magnificent telegram
propped up against the teapot; had a bath, dressed, and shortly before five=
was
well on my way to Walpole Street.
The more I thought
over the thing, the more it puzzled me. Why had James done this? Why should=
he
wish to treat Eva in this manner? I was delighted that he had done so, but =
why
had he? A very unexpected person, James.
James was lying b=
ack
in his shabby old armchair, smoking a pipe. There was tea on the table. The
room seemed more dishevelled than ever. It would have been difficult to say
which presented the sorrier spectacle, the room or its owner.
He looked up as I
came in, and nodded listlessly. I poured myself out a cup of tea, and took a
muffin. Both were cold and clammy. I went to the bell.
"What are you
doing?" asked James.
"Only going =
to
ring for some more tea," I said.
"No, don't do
that. I'll go down and ask for it. You don't mind using my cup, do you?&quo=
t;
He went out of the
room, and reappeared with a jug of hot water.
"You see,&qu=
ot;
he explained, "if Mrs. Blankley brings in another cup she'll charge for
two teas instead of one."
"It didn't o=
ccur
to me," I said. "Sorry."
"It sounds
mean," mumbled James.
"Not at
all," I said. "You're quite right not to plunge into reckless ext=
ravagance."
James blushed
slightly--a feat of which I was surprised to see that he was capable.
"The fact
is----" he began.
I interrupted him=
.
"Never mind
about that," I said. "What I want to know is--what's the meaning =
of
this?" And I shoved the bilious-hued telegraph form under his nose, ju=
st
as Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell had shoved it under mine.
"It means th=
at
I'm done," he said.
"I don't
understand."
"I'll explai=
n. I
have postponed my marriage for the same reason that I refused you a clean
cup--because I cannot afford luxuries."
"It may be my
dulness; but, still, I don't follow you. What exactly are you driving at?&q=
uot;
"I'm done fo=
r.
I'm on the rocks. I'm a pauper."
"A what?&quo=
t;
"A pauper.&q=
uot;
I laughed. The man
was splendid. There was no other word for it.
"And shall I
tell you something else that you are?" I said. "You are a low,
sneaking liar. You are playing it low down on Eva."
He laughed this t=
ime.
It irritated me unspeakably.
"Don't try to
work off the hollow, mirthless laugh dodge on me," I said, "becau=
se
it won't do. You're a blackguard, and you know it."
"I tell you =
I'm
done for. I've barely a penny in the world."
"Rot!" I
said. "Don't try that on me. You've let Eva down plop, and I'm jolly g=
lad;
but all the same you're a skunk. Nothing can alter that. Why don't you marry
the girl?"
"I can't,&qu=
ot;
he said. "It would be too dishonourable."
"Dishonourab=
le?"
"Yes. I have=
n't
got enough money. I couldn't ask her to share my poverty with me. I love her
too dearly."
I was nearly sick.
The beast spoke in a sort of hushed, soft-music voice as if he were the
self-sacrificing hero in a melodrama. The stained-glass expression on his f=
ace
made me feel homicidal.
"Oh, drop
it," I said. "Poverty! Good Lord! Isn't two thousand a year enoug=
h to
start on?"
"But I haven=
't
got two thousand a year."
"Oh, I don't
pretend to give the figures to a shilling."
"You don't
understand. All I have to live on is my holiday work at the Orb."
"What!"=
"Oh, yes; and
I'm doing some lyrics for Briggs for the second edition of The Belle of Wel=
ls.
That'll keep me going for a bit, but it's absolutely out of the question to
think of marrying anyone. If I can keep my own head above water till the ne=
xt
vacancy occurs at the Orb I shall be lucky."
"You're
mad."
"I'm not, th=
ough
I dare say I shall be soon, if this sort of thing goes on."
"I tell you =
you
are mad. Otherwise you'd have called in your work, and saved yourself havin=
g to
pay those commissions to Hatton and the others. As it is, I believe they've
somehow done you out of your cheques, and the shock of it has affected your=
brain."
"My dear Jul=
ian,
it's a good suggestion, that about calling in my work. But it comes a little
late. I called it in weeks ago."
My irritation
increased.
"What is the=
use
of lying like that?" I said angrily. "You don't seem to credit me
with any sense at all. Do you think I never read the papers and magazines? =
You
can't have called in your work. The stuff's still being printed over the
signatures of Sidney Price, Tom Blake, and the Rev. John Hatton."
I caught sight of=
a
Strawberry Leaf lying on the floor beside his chair. I picked it up.
"Here you
are," I said. "Page 324. Short story. 'Lady Mary's Mistake,' by
Sidney Price. How about that?"
"That's it,
Julian," he said dismally; "that's just it. Those three devils ha=
ve
pinched my job. They've learned the trick of the thing through reading my
stuff, and now they're turning it out for themselves. They've cut me out. My
market's gone. The editors and publishers won't look at me. I have had elev=
en
printed rejection forms this week. One editor wrote and said that he did not
want John-Hatton-and-water. That's why I sent the wire."
"Let's see t=
hose
rejection forms."
"You can't.
They're burnt. They got on my nerves, and I burnt them."
"Oh," I
said, "they're burnt, are they?"
He got up, and be=
gan
to pace the room.
"But I shan't
give up, Julian," he cried, with a sickening return of the melodrama h=
ero
manner; "I shan't give up. I shall still persevere. The fight will be
terrible. Often I shall feel on the point of despair. Yet I shall win throu=
gh.
I feel it, Julian. I have the grit in me to do it. And meanwhile"--he
lowered his voice, and seemed surprised that the orchestra did not strike up
the slow music--"meanwhile, I shall ask Eva to wait."
To wait! The
colossal, the Napoleonic impudence of the man! I have known men who seemed
literally to exude gall, but never one so overflowing with it as James Orle=
bar
Cloyster. As I looked at him standing there and uttering that great speech,=
I
admired him. I ceased to wonder at his success in life.
I shook my head.<= o:p>
"I can't do
it," I said regretfully. "I simply cannot begin to say what I thi=
nk
of you. The English language isn't equal to it. I cannot, off-hand, coin a =
new
phraseology to meet the situation. All I can say is that you are unique.&qu=
ot;
"What do you
mean?"
"Absolutely
unique. Though I had hoped you would have known me better than to believe t=
hat
I would swallow the ludicrous yarn you've prepared. Don't you ever stop and=
ask
yourself on these occasions if it's good enough?"
"You don't
believe me!"
"My dear
James!" I protested. "Believe you!"
"I swear it's
all true. Every word of it."
"You seem to
forget that I've been behind the scenes. I'm not simply an ordinary member =
of
the audience. I know how the illusion is produced. I've seen the strings
pulled. Why, dash it, I showed you how to pull them. I never came across a
finer example of seething the kid in its mother's milk. I put you up to the
system, and you turn round and try to take me in with it. Yes, you're a won=
der,
James."
"You don't m=
ean
to say you think----!"
"Don't be an
ass, James. Of course I do. You've had the brazen audacity to attempt to wo=
rk
off on Eva the game you played on Margaret. But you've made a mistake. You'=
ve
forgotten to count me."
I paused, and ate=
a
muffin. James watched me with fascinated eyes.
"You," I
resumed, "ethically, I despise. Eva, personally, I detest. It seems,
therefore, that I may expect to extract a certain amount of amusement from =
the
situation. The fun will be inaugurated by your telling Eva that she may hav=
e to
wait five years. You will state, also, the amount of your present income.&q=
uot;
"Suppose I
decline?"
"You
won't."
"You think
not?"
"I am
sure."
"What would =
you
do if I declined?"
"I should ca=
ll
upon Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell and give her a quarter of an hour's entertainmen=
t by
telling her of the System, and explaining to her, in detail, the exact meth=
od
of its working and the reason why you set it going. Having amused Mrs.
Gunton-Cresswell in this manner, I should make similar revelations to Eva. =
It
would not be pleasant for you subsequently, I suppose, but we all have our
troubles. That would be yours."
He hesitated.
"As if they'd
believe it," he said, weakly.
"I think they
would."
"They'd laug=
h at
you. They'd think you were mad."
"Not when I
produced John Hatton, Sidney Price, and Tom Blake in a solid phalanx, and a=
sked
them to corroborate me."
"They wouldn=
't
do it," he said, snatching at a straw. "They wouldn't give themse=
lves
away."
"Hatton might
hesitate to, but Tom Blake would do it like a shot."
As I did not know=
Tom
Blake, a moment's reflection might have told James that this was bluff. But=
I
had gathered a certain knowledge of the bargee's character from James's
conversation, and I knew that he was a drunken, indiscreet sort of person w=
ho
might be expected to reveal everything in circumstances such as I had
described; so I risked the shot, and it went home. James's opposition
collapsed.
"I shall
then," administering the coup de grâce, "arrange a meeting
between the Gunton-Cresswells and old Mrs. Goodwin."
"Thank
you," said James, "but don't bother. On second thoughts I will te=
ll
Eva about my income and the five years' wait."
"Thanks,&quo=
t; I
said; "it's very good of you. Good-bye."
And I retired,
chuckling, to Rupert Street.
Chapter 23 - IN A HANSOM =
(Julian
Eversleigh's narrative continued)
I spent a pleasant week in my hammo=
ck
awaiting developments.
At the end of the
week came a letter from Eva. She wrote:--
My Dear Julian,--You haven't=
been
to see us for age=
s. Is
Kensington Lane beyond the pale? =
Your
affectionate cousin, =
&nb=
sp; =
Eva.
"You
vixen," I thought. "Yes; I'll come and see you fast enough. It wi=
ll
give me the greatest pleasure to see you crushed and humiliated."
I collected my ev=
ening
clothes from a man of the name of Attenborough, whom I employ to take care =
of
them when they are not likely to be wanted; found a white shirt, which look=
ed
presentable after a little pruning of the cuffs with a razor; and drove to =
the
Gunton-Cresswells's in time for dinner.
There was a certa=
in
atmosphere of unrest about the house. I attributed this at first to the eff=
ects
of the James Orlebar Cloyster bomb-shell, but discovered that it was in rea=
lity
due to the fact that Eva was going out to a fancy-dress ball that night.
She was having di=
nner
sent up to her room, they told me, and would be down presently. There was a
good deal of flitting about going on. Maids on mysterious errands shot up a=
nd
down stairs. Old Mr. Gunton-Cresswell, looking rather wry, was taking cover=
in
his study when I arrived. Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell was in the drawing-room.
Before Eva came d=
own
I got a word alone with her. "I've had a nice, straight-forward letter
from James," she said, "and he has done all he can to put things =
straight
with us."
"Ah!" s=
aid
I.
"That telegr=
am,
he tells me, was the outcome of a sudden panic."
"Dear me!&qu=
ot;
I said.
"It seems th=
at
he made some most ghastly mistake about his finances. What exactly happened=
I
can't quite understand, but the gist of it is, he thought he was quite well
off, whereas, really, his income is infinitesimal."
"How odd!&qu=
ot;
I remarked.
"It sounds o=
dd;
in fact, I could scarcely believe it until I got his letter of explanation.
I'll show it to you. Here it is."
I read James Orle=
bar
Cloyster's letter with care. It was not particularly long, but I wish I had=
a
copy of it; for it is the finest work in an imaginative vein that has ever =
been
penned.
"Masterly!&q=
uot;
I exclaimed involuntarily.
"Yes, isn't
it?" she echoed. "Enables one to grasp thoroughly how the mistake
managed to occur."
"Has Eva seen
it?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"I notice he
mentions five years as being about the period----"
"Yes; it's
rather a long engagement, but, of course, she'll wait, she loves him so.&qu=
ot;
Eva now entered t=
he
room. When I caught sight of her I remembered I had pictured her crushed and
humiliated. I had expected to gloat over a certain dewiness of her eyes, a
patient drooping of her lips. I will say plainly there was nothing of that =
kind
about Eva tonight.
She had decided t=
o go
to the ball as Peter Pan.
The costume had
rather scandalised old Mr. Gunton-Cresswell, a venerable Tory who rarely sp=
oke
except to grumble. Even Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell, who had lately been elected =
to
the newly-formed Les Serfs d'Avenir, was inclined to deprecate it.
But I was sure Eva
had chosen the better part. The dress suited her to perfection. Her legs are
the legs of a boy.
As I looked at her
with concentrated hatred, I realised I had never seen a human soul so radia=
nt,
so brimming with espièglerie, so altogether to be desired.
"Why, Julian=
, is
it you. This is good of you!"
It was evident th=
at
the past was to be waived. I took my cue.
"Thanks,
Eva," I said; "it suits you admirably."
Events at this po=
int
move quickly.
Another card of i=
nvitation
is produced. Would I care to use it, and take Eva to the ball?
"But I'm not=
in
fancy dress."
Overruled. Fancy
dress not an essential. Crowds of men there in ordinary evening clothes.
So we drove off.<= o:p>
We hardly exchang=
ed a
syllable. No one has much to say just before a dance.
I looked at Eva o=
ut
of the corner of my eye, trying to discover just what it was in her that
attracted men. I knew her charm, though I flattered myself that I was proof
against it. I wanted to analyse it.
Her photograph is=
on
the table before me as I write. I look at it critically. She is not what I
should describe as exactly a type of English beauty. You know the sort of
beauty I mean? Queenly, statuesque, a daughter of the gods, divinely fair. =
Her
charm is not in her features. It is in her expression.
Tonight, for
instance, as we drove to the ball, there sparkled in her eyes a light such =
as I
had never seen in them before. Every girl is animated at a ball, but this w=
as
more than mere animation. There was a latent devilry about her; and behind =
the
sparkle and the glitter a film, a mist, as it were, which lent almost a pat=
hos
to her appearance. The effect it had on me was to make me tend to forget th=
at I
hated her.
We arrive. I mutt=
er
something about having the pleasure.
Eva says I can ha=
ve
the last two waltzes.
Here comes a hiat=
us.
I am told that I was seen dancing, was observed to eat an excellent supper,=
and
was noticed in the smoking-room with a cigarette in my mouth.
At last the first=
of
my two waltzes. The Eton Boating Song--one of my favourites. I threaded my =
way
through the room in search of her. She was in neither of the doorways. I ca=
st
my eyes about the room. Her costume was so distinctive that I could hardly =
fail
to see her.
I did see her.
She was dancing my
waltz with another man.
The thing seemed =
to
numb my faculties. I stood in the doorway, gaping. I couldn't understand it.
The illogical nature of my position did not strike me. It did not occur to =
me
that as I hated the girl so much, it was much the best thing that could hap=
pen
that I should see as little of her as possible. My hatred was entirely
concentrated on the bounder who had stolen my dance. He was a small, pink-f=
aced
little beast, and it maddened me to see that he danced better than I could =
ever
have done.
As they whirled p=
ast
me she smiled at him.
I rushed to the
smoking-room.
Whether she gave =
my
other waltz to the same man, or whether she chose some other partner, or sat
alone waiting for me, I do not know. When I returned to the ballroom the la=
st
waltz was over, and the orchestra was beginning softly to play the first ex=
tra.
It was "Tout Passe," an air that has always had the power to thri=
ll
me.
My heart gave a
bound. Standing in the doorway just in front of me was Eva.
I drew back.
Two or three men =
came
up, and asked her for the dance. She sent them away, and my heart leaped as
they went.
She was standing =
with
her back towards me. Now she turned. Our eyes met. We stood for a moment
looking at one another.
Then I heard her =
give
a little sigh; and instantly I forgot everything--my hatred, my two lost
dances, the pink-faced blighter--everything. Everything but that I loved he=
r.
"Tired,
Eva?" I said.
"Perhaps I
am," she replied. "Yes, I am, Julian."
"Give me this
one," I whispered. "We'll sit it out."
"Very well. =
It's
so hot in here. We'll go and sit it out in a hansom, shall we? I'll get my
cloak."
I waited, numbed =
by
her absence. Her cloak was pale pink. We walked out together into the starry
night. A few yards off stood a hansom. "Drive to the corner of Sloane
Street," I said to the man, "by way of the Park."
The night was very
still.
I have said that I
had forgotten everything except that I loved her. Could I remember now? Now=
, as
we drove together through the empty streets alone, her warm, palpitating bo=
dy
touching mine.
James, and his aw=
ful
predicament, which would last till Eva gave him up; Eva's callous treatment=
of
my former love for her; my own newly-acquired affection for Margaret; my
self-respect--these things had become suddenly of no account.
"Eva," I
murmured; and I took her hand.
"Eva....&quo=
t;
Her wonderful eyes
met mine. The mist in them seemed to turn to dew. "My darling," s=
he
whispered, very low.
The road was
deserted. We were alone.
I drew her face to
mine and kissed her.
*
My love for her g=
rows
daily.
Old Gunton-Cressw=
ell
has introduced me to a big firm of linoleum manufacturers. I am taking over
their huge system of advertising next week. My salary will be enormous. It
almost frightens me. Old Mr. Cresswell tells me that he had had the job in =
his
mind for me for some time, and had, indeed, mentioned to his wife and Eva at
lunch that day that he intended to write to me about it. I am more grateful=
to
him than I can ever make him understand. Eva, I know, cares nothing for mon=
ey--she
told me so--but it is a comfort to feel that I can keep her almost in luxur=
y.
I have given up my
rooms in Rupert Street.
I sleep in a bed.=
I do Sandow
exercises.
I am always down =
to
breakfast at eight-thirty sharp.
I smoke less.
I am the happiest=
man
on earth.
(End of Julian
Eversleigh's narrative.)
Narrative Resumed=
by
James Orlebar Cloyster
Chapter 24 - A RIFT IN THE
CLOUDS
O perfidy of woman! O feminine
inconstancy! That is the only allusion I shall permit to escape me on the
subject of Eva Eversleigh's engagement to that scoundrel Julian.
I had the news by
telegraph, and the heavens darkened above me, whilst the solid earth rocked
below.
I had been trapped
into dishonour, and even the bait had been withheld from me.
But it was not the
loss of Eva that troubled me most. It should have outweighed all my other
misfortunes and made them seem of no account, but it did not. Man is
essentially a materialist. The prospect of an empty stomach is more serious=
to
him than a broken heart. A broken heart is the luxury of the well-to-do. Wh=
at
troubled me more than all other things at this juncture was the thought tha=
t I
was face to face with starvation, and that only the grimmest of fights coul=
d enable
me to avoid it. I quaked at the prospect. The early struggles of the writer=
to
keep his head above water form an experience which does not bear repetition.
The hopeless feeling of chipping a little niche for oneself out of the solid
rock with a nib is a nightmare even in times of prosperity. I remembered the
grey days of my literary apprenticeship, and I shivered at the thought that=
I
must go through them again.
I examined my
position dispassionately over a cup of coffee at Groom's, in Fleet Street. =
Groom's
was a recognised Orb rendezvous. When I was doing "On Your Way," =
one
or two of us used to go down Fleet Street for coffee after the morning's wo=
rk
with the regularity of machines. It formed a recognised break in the day.
I thought things
over. How did I stand? Holiday work at the Orb would begin very shortly, so
that I should get a good start in my race. Fermin would be going away in a =
few
weeks, then Gresham, and after that Fane, the man who did the "People =
and
Things" column. With luck I ought to get a clear fifteen weeks of regu=
lar
work. It would just save me. In fifteen weeks I ought to have got going aga=
in.
The difficulty was that I had dropped out. Editors had forgotten my work. J=
ohn
Hatton they knew, and Sidney Price they knew; but who was James Orlebar
Cloyster? There would be much creaking of joints and wobbling of wheels bef=
ore
my triumphal car could gather speed again. But, with a regular salary comin=
g in
week by week from the Orb, I could endure this. I became almost cheerful. I=
t is
an exhilarating sensation having one's back against the wall.
Then there was
Briggs, the actor. The very thought of him was a tonic. A born fighter, with
the energy of six men, he was an ideal model for me. If I could work with a
sixth of his dash and pluck, I should be safe. He was giving me work. He mi=
ght
give me more. The new edition of the Belle of Wells was due in another
fortnight. My lyrics would be used, and I should get paid for them. Add thi=
s to
my Orb salary, and I should be a man of substance.
I glared over my
coffee-cup at an imaginary John Hatton.
"You thought
you'd done me, did you?" I said to him. "By Gad! I'll have the la=
ugh
of you all yet."
I was shaking my =
fist
at him when the door opened. I hurriedly tilted back my chair, and looked o=
ut
of the window.
"Hullo,
Cloyster."
I looked round. It
was Fermin. Just the man I wanted to see.
He seemed depress=
ed.
Even embarrassed.
"How's the
column?" I asked.
"Oh, all
right," he said awkwardly. "I wanted to see you about that. I was
going to write to you."
"Oh, yes,&qu=
ot;
I said, "of course. About the holiday work. When are you off?"
"I was think=
ing
of starting next week."
"Good. Sorry=
to
lose you, of course, but----"
He shuffled his f=
eet.
"You're doing
pretty well now at the game, aren't you, Cloyster?" he said.
It was not to my
interests to cry myself down, so I said that I was doing quite decently. He
seemed relieved.
"You're maki=
ng
quite a good income, I suppose? I mean, no difficulty about placing your
stuff?"
"Editors squ=
eal
for it."
"Because,
otherwise what I wanted to say to you might have been something of a blow. =
But
it won't affect you much if you're doing plenty of work elsewhere."
A cold hand seemed
laid upon my heart. My mind leaped to what he meant. Something had gone wro=
ng
with the Orb holiday work, my sheet-anchor.
"Do you reme=
mber
writing a par about Stickney, the butter-scotch man, you know, ragging him =
when
he got his peerage?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
It was one of the
best paragraphs I had ever done. A two-line thing, full of point and sting.=
I
had been editing "On Your Way" that day, Fermin being on a holiday
and Gresham ill; and I had put the paragraph conspicuously at the top of the
column.
"Well,"
said Fermin, "I'm afraid there was rather trouble about it. Hamilton c=
ame
into our room yesterday, and asked if I should be seeing you. I said I thou=
ght
I should. 'Well, tell him,' said Hamilton, 'that that paragraph of his about
Stickney has only cost us five hundred pounds. That's all.' And he went out
again. Apparently Stickney was on the point of advertising largely with the
Orb, and had backed out in a huff. Today, I went to see him about my holida=
y,
and he wanted to know who was coming in to do my work. I mentioned you, and=
he absolutely
refused to have you in. I'm awfully sorry about it."
I was silent. The
shock was too great. Instead of drifting easily into my struggle on a
comfortable weekly salary, I should have to start the tooth-and-nail fighti=
ng
at once. I wanted to get away somewhere by myself, and grapple with the
position.
I said good-bye to
Fermin, retaining sufficient presence of mind to treat the thing lightly, a=
nd
walked swiftly along the restless Strand, marvelling at what I had suffered=
at
the hands of Fortune. The deceiver of Margaret, deceived by Eva, a pauper! I
covered the distance between Groom's and Walpole Street in sombre meditatio=
n.
In a sort of dull
panic I sat down immediately on my arrival, and tried to work. I told myself
that I must turn out something, that it would be madness to waste a moment.=
I sat and chewed =
my
pen from two o'clock till five, but not a page of printable stuff could I t=
urn
out. Looking back at myself at that moment, I am not surprised that my ideas
did not flow. It would have been a wonderful triumph of strength of mind if=
I
had been able to write after all that had happened. Dr. Johnson has laid it
down that a man can write at any time, if he sets himself to it earnestly; =
but
mine were exceptional circumstances. My life's happiness and my means for s=
upporting
life at all, happy or otherwise, had been swept away in a single morning; a=
nd I
found myself utterly unable to pen a coherent sentence.
At five o'clock I
gave up the struggle, and rang for tea.
While I was having
tea there was a ring at the bell, and my landlady brought in a large parcel=
.
I recognised the
writing on the label. The hand was Margaret's. I wondered in an impersonal =
sort
of way what Margaret could be sending to me. From the feel of it the conten=
ts
were paper.
It amuses me now =
to
think that it was a good half-hour before I took the trouble to cut the str=
ing.
Fortune and happiness were waiting for me in that parcel, and I would not
bother to open it. I sat in my chair, smoking and thinking, and occasionally
cast a gloomy eye at the parcel. But I did not open it. Then my pipe went o=
ut,
and I found that I had no matches in my pocket. There were some at the fart=
her
end of the mantelpiece. I had to get up to reach them, and, once up, I foun=
d myself
filled with a sufficient amount of energy to take a knife from the table and
cut the string.
Languidly I undid=
the
brown paper. The contents were a pile of typewritten pages and a letter.
It was the letter
over which my glassy eyes travelled first.
"My own dear,
brave, old darling James," it began, and its purport was that she had =
written
a play, and wished me to put my name to it and hawk it round: to pass off a=
s my
work her own amateurish effort at playwriting. Ludicrous. And so immoral, t=
oo.
I had always imagined that Margaret had a perfectly flawless sense of hones=
ty.
Yet here she was asking me deliberately to impose on the credulity of some
poor, trusting theatrical manager. The dreadful disillusionment of it shock=
ed me.
Most men would ha=
ve
salved their wounded susceptibilities by putting a match to the manuscript
without further thought or investigation.
But I have ever b=
een
haunted by a somewhat over-strict conscience, and I sat down there and then=
to
read the stupid stuff.
At seven o'clock I
was still reading.
My dinner was bro=
ught
in. I bolted it with Margaret's play propped up against the potato dish.
I read on and on.=
I
could not leave it. Incredible as it would appear from anyone but me, I
solemnly assure you that the typewritten nonsense I read that evening was
nothing else than The Girl who Waited.
Chapter 25 - BRIGGS TO THE
RESCUE (James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)
I finished the last page, and I lai=
d down
the typescript reverently. The thing amazed me. Unable as I was to turn out=
a
good acting play of my own, I was, nevertheless, sufficiently gifted with an
appreciation of the dramatic to be able to recognise such a play when I saw=
it.
There were situations in Margaret's comedy which would grip a London audien=
ce,
and force laughter and tears from it.... Well, the public side of that idio=
tic
play is history. Everyone knows how many nights it ran, and the Press from =
time
to time tells its readers what were the profits from it that accrued to the
author.
I turned to
Margaret's letter and re-read the last page. She put the thing very well, v=
ery
sensibly. As I read, my scruples began to vanish. After all, was it so very
immoral, this little deception that she proposed?
"I have writ=
ten
down the words," she said; "but the conception is yours. The play=
was
inspired by you. But for you I should never have begun it." Well, if s=
he
put it like that----
"You alone a=
re
able to manage the business side of the production. You know the right men =
to
go to. To approach them on behalf of a stranger's work is far less likely to
lead to success."
(True, true.)
"I have assu=
med,
you will see, that the play is certain to be produced. But that will only b=
e so
if you adopt it as your own,"
(There was sense =
in
this.)
"Claim the
authorship, and all will be well."
"I will,&quo=
t; I
said.
I packed up the p=
lay
in its brown paper, and rushed from the house. At the post-office, at the
bottom of the King's Road, I stopped to send a telegram. It consisted of the
words, "Accept thankfully.--Cloyster."
Then I took a cab
from the rank at Sloane Square, and told the man to drive to the stage-door=
of
the Briggs Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue.
The cab-rank in
Sloane Square is really a Home for Superannuated Horses. It is a sort of eq=
uine
Athenaeum. No horse is ever seen there till it has passed well into the sere
and yellow. A Sloane Square cab-horse may be distinguished by the dignity of
its movements. It is happiest when walking.
The animal which =
had
the privilege of making history by conveying me and The Girl who Waited to =
the
Briggs Theatre was asthmatic, and, I think, sickening for the botts. I had
plenty of time to cool my brain and think out a plan of campaign.
Stanley Briggs, w=
hom
I proposed to try first, was the one man I should have liked to see in the =
part
of James, the hero of the piece. The part might have been written round him=
.
There was the
objection, of course, that The Girl who Waited was not a musical comedy, bu=
t I
knew he would consider a straight play, and put it on if it suited him. I w=
as
confident that The Girl who Waited would be just what he wanted.
The problem was h=
ow to
get him to himself for a sufficient space of time. When a man is doing the =
work
of half a dozen he is likely to get on in the world, but he has, as a rule,
little leisure for conversation.
My octogenarian c=
ame
to a standstill at last at the stage-door, and seemed relieved at having won
safely through a strenuous bit of work.
I went through in
search of my man.
His dressing-room=
was
the first place I drew. I knew that he was not due on the stage for another=
ten
minutes. Mr. Richard Belsey, his valet, was tidying up the room as I entere=
d.
"Mr. Briggs
anywhere about, Richard?" I asked.
"Down on the
side, sir, I think. There's a new song in tonight for Mrs. Briggs, and he's
gone to listen how it goes."
"Which side,=
do
you know?"
"O.P., sir, I
think."
I went downstairs=
and
through the folding-doors into the wings. The O.P. corner was packed--stand=
ing
room only--and the overflow reached nearly to the doors. The Black Hole of
Calcutta was roomy compared with the wings on the night of a new song.
Everybody who had the least excuse for being out of his or her dressing-roo=
m at
that moment was peering through odd chinks in the scenery. Chorus-girls,
show-girls, chorus-men, principals, children, scene-shifters, and other
theatrical fauna waited in a solid mass for the arrival of the music-cue.
The atmosphere be=
hind
the scenes has always had the effect of making me feel as if my boots were
number fourteens and my hands, if anything, larger. Directly I have passed =
the
swing-doors I shuffle like one oppressed with a guilty conscience. Outside I
may have been composed, even jaunty. Inside I am hangdog. Beads of perspira=
tion
form on my brow. My collar tightens. My boots begin to squeak. I smile
vacuously.
I shuffled, smili=
ng
vacuously and clutching the type-script of The Girl who Waited, to the O.P.
corner. I caught the eye of a tall lady in salmon-pink, and said "Good
evening" huskily--my voice is always husky behind the scenes: elsewher=
e it
is like some beautiful bell. A piercing whisper of "Sh-h-h-!" came
from somewhere close at hand. This sort of thing does not help bright and
sparkling conversation. I sh-h-hed, and passed on.
At the back of the
O.P. corner Timothy Prince, the comedian, was filling in the time before the
next entrance by waltzing with one of the stage-carpenters. He suspended the
operation to greet me.
"Hullo, dear
heart," he said, "how goes it?"
"Seen Briggs
anywhere?" I asked.
"Round on the
prompt side, I think. He was here a second ago, but he dashed off."
At this moment the
music-cue was given, and a considerable section of the multitude passed on =
to
the stage.
Locomotion being
rendered easier, I hurried round to the prompt side.
But when I arrived
there were no signs of the missing man.
"Seen Mr. Br=
iggs
anywhere?" I asked.
"Here a mome=
nt
ago," said one of the carpenters. "He went out after Miss Lewin's
song began. I think he's gone round the other side."
I dashed round to=
the
O.P. corner again. He had just left.
Taking up the tra=
il,
I went to his dressing-room once more.
"You're just=
too
late, sir," said Richard; "he was here a moment ago."
I decided to wait=
.
"I wonder it
he'll be back soon."
"He's probab=
ly
downstairs. His call is in another two minutes."
I went downstairs,
and waited on the prompt side. Sir Boyle Roche's bird was sedentary compared
with this elusive man.
Presently he
appeared.
"Hullo, dear=
old
boy," he said. "Welcome to Elsmore. Come and see me before you go,
will you? I've got an idea for a song."
"I say,"=
; I
said, as he flitted past, "can I----"
"Tell me lat=
er
on."
And he sprang on =
to
the stage.
By the time I had
worked my way, at the end of the performance, through the crowd of visitors=
who
were waiting to see him in his dressing-room, I found that he had just three
minutes in which to get to the Savoy to keep an urgent appointment. He
explained that he was just dashing off. "I shall be at the theatre all
tomorrow morning, though," he said. "Come round about twelve, will
you?"
*
There was a rehea=
rsal
at half-past eleven next morning. When I got to the theatre I found him on =
the
stage. He was superintending the chorus, talking to one man about a song an=
d to
two others about motors, and dictating letters to his secretary. Taking
advantage of this spell of comparative idleness, I advanced (l.c.) with the
typescript.
"Hullo, old
boy," he said, "just a minute! Sit down, won't you? Have a cigar.=
"
I sat down on the=
Act
One sofa, and he resumed his conversations.
"You see,
laddie," he said, "what you want in a song like this is tune. It'=
s no
good doing stuff that your wife and family and your aunts say is better than
Wagner. They don't want that sort of thing here--Dears, we simply can't get=
on
if you won't do what you're told. Begin going off while you're singing the =
last
line of the refrain, not after you've finished. All back. I've told you a
hundred times. Do try and get it right--I simply daren't look at a motor bi=
ll.
These fellers at the garage cram it on--I mean, what can you do? You're up
against it--Miss Hinckel, I've got seventy-five letters I want you to take =
down.
Ready? 'Mrs. Robert Boodle, Sandringham, Mafeking Road, Balham. Dear Madam:=
Mr.
Briggs desires me to say that he fears that he has no part to offer to your
son. He is glad that he made such a success at his school theatricals.' 'Ja=
mes
Winterbotham, Pleasant Cottage, Rhodesia Terrace, Stockwell. Dear Sir: Mr.
Briggs desires me to say that he remembers meeting your wife's cousin at the
public dinner you mention, but that he fears he has no part at present to o=
ffer
to your daughter.' 'Arnold H. Bodgett, Wistaria Lodge....'"
My attention
wandered.
At the end of a
quarter of an hour he was ready for me.
"I wish you'd
have a shot at it, old boy," he said, as he finished sketching out the
idea for the lyric, "and let me have it as soon as you can. I want it =
to
go in at the beginning of the second act. Hullo, what's that you're
nursing?"
"It's a play=
. I
was wondering if you would mind glancing at it if you have time?"
"Yours?"=
;
"Yes. There'=
s a
part in it that would just suit you."
"What is it?
Musical comedy?"
"No. Ordinary
comedy."
"I shouldn't
mind putting on a comedy soon. I must have a look at it. Come and have a bi=
t of
lunch."
One of the firemen
came up, carrying a card.
"Hullo, what=
's
this? Oh, confound the feller! He's always coming here. Look here: tell him
that I'm just gone out to lunch, but can see him at three. Come along, old
boy."
He began to read =
the
play over the coffee and cigars.
He read it straig=
ht
through, as I had done.
"What rot!&q=
uot;
he said, as he turned the last page.
"Isn't it!&q=
uot;
I exclaimed enthusiastically. "But won't it go?"
"Go?" he
shouted, with such energy that several lunchers spun round in their chairs,=
and
a Rand magnate, who was eating peas at the next table, started and cut his
mouth. "Go? It's the limit! This is just the sort of thing to get righ=
t at
them. It'll hit them where they live. What made you think of that drivel at=
the
end of Act Two?"
"Genius, I
suppose. What do you think of James as a part for you?"
"Top hole. G=
ood
Lord, I haven't congratulated you! Consider it done."
"Thanks.&quo=
t;
We drained our
liqueur glasses to The Girl who Waited and to ourselves.
Briggs, after a
lifetime spent in doing three things at once, is not a man who lets a great
deal of grass grow under his feet. Before I left him that night the "i=
deal
cast" of the play had been jotted down, and much of the actual cast
settled. Rehearsals were in full swing within a week, and the play was prod=
uced
within ten days of the demise of its predecessor.
Meanwhile, the
satisfactory sum which I received in advance of royalties was sufficient to
remove any regrets as to the loss of the Orb holiday work. With The Girl who
Waited in active rehearsal, "On Your Way" lost in importance.
=
On the
morning of the day for which the production had been fixed, it dawned upon =
me
that I had to meet Mrs. Goodwin and Margaret at Waterloo. All through the b=
usy
days of rehearsal, even on those awful days when everything went wrong and
actresses, breaking down, sobbed in the wings and refused to be comforted, I
had dimly recognised the fact that when I met Margaret I should have to be
honest with her. Plans for evasion had been half-matured by my inventive fa=
culties,
only to be discarded, unpolished, on account of the insistent claims of the=
endless
rehearsals. To have concocted a story with which to persuade Margaret that I
stood to lose money if the play succeeded would have been a clear day's wor=
k.
And I had no clear days.
But this was not all. There was another reason.
Somehow my sentiments with regard to her were changing again. It was as if I
were awaking from some dream. I felt as if my eyes had been blindfolded to
prevent me seeing Margaret as she really was, and that now the bandage had =
been
removed. As the day of production drew nearer, and the play began to take
shape, I caught myself sincerely admiring the girl who could hit off, first
shot, the exact shade of drivel which the London stage required. What cultu=
re,
what excessive brain-power she must have. How absurdly naïve, how
impossibly melodramatic, how maudlinly sentimental, how improbable--in fact,
how altogether womanly she must have grown.
Womanly! That did it. I felt that she was woma=
nly.
And it came about that it was my Margaret of the Cobo shrimping journeys th=
at I
was prepared to welcome as I drove that morning to Waterloo Station.
And so, when the train rolled in, and the Good=
wins
alighted, and Margaret kissed me, by an extraordinarily lucky chance I found
that I loved her more dearly than ever.
*
That première is still fresh in my memo=
ry.
Mrs. Goodwin, Margaret, and myself occupied the
stage box, and in various parts of the house I could see the familiar faces=
of
those whom I had invited as my guests.
I felt it was the supreme event of my life. It=
was
the moment. And surely I should have spoilt it all unless my old-time frien=
ds
had been sitting near me.
Eva and Julian were with Mr. and Mrs. Gunton-C=
resswell
in the box opposite us. To the Barrel Club I had sent the first row of the
dress circle. It was expensive, but worth it. Hatton and Sidney Price were =
in the
stalls. Tom Blake had preferred a free pass to the gallery. Kit and Malim w=
ere
at the back of the upper circle (this was, Malim told me, Kit's own choice)=
.
One by one the members of the orchestra took t=
heir
places for the overture, and it was to the appropriate strains of "Lan=
d of
Hope and Glory" that the curtain rose on the first act of my play.
The first act, I should mention (though it is =
no
doubt superfluous to do so) is bright and suggestive, but ends on a clear, =
firm
note of pathos. That is why, as soon as the lights went up, I levelled my g=
lasses
at the eyes of the critics. Certainly in two cases, and, I think, in a thir=
d, I
caught the glint of tear-drops. One critic was blowing his nose, another so=
bbed
like a child, and I had a hurried vision of a third staggering out to the f=
oyer
with his hand to his eyes. Margaret was removing her own tears with a
handkerchief. Mrs. Goodwin's unmoved face may have hidden a lacerated soul,=
but
she did not betray herself. Hers may have been the thoughts that lie too de=
ep for
tears. At any rate, she did not weep. Instead, she drew from her reticule t=
he
fragmentary writings of an early Portuguese author. These she perused during
the present and succeeding entr'actes.
Pressing Margaret's hand, I walked round to the
Gunton-Cresswells's box to see what effect the act had had on them. One gla=
nce
at their faces was enough. They were long and hard. "This is a real
compliment," I said to myself, for the whole party cut me dead. I
withdrew, delighted. They had come, of course, to assist at my failure. I h=
ad
often observed to Julian how curiously lacking I was in dramatic instinct, =
and
Julian had predicted to Eva and her aunt and uncle a glorious fiasco. They =
were
furious at their hopes being so egregiously disappointed. Had they dreamt o=
f a
success they would have declined to be present. Indeed, half-way through Act
Two, I saw them creeping away into the night.
The Barrel Club I discovered in the bar. As I
approached, I heard Michael declare that "there'd not been such an act
produced since his show was put on at----" He was interrupted by old
Maundrell asserting that "the business arranged for valet reminded him=
of
a story about Leopold Lewis."
They, too, added their quota to my cup of plea=
sure
by being distinctly frigid.
Ascending to the gallery I found another
compliment awaiting me. Tom Blake was fast asleep. The quality of Blake's
intellect was in inverse ratio to that of Mrs. Goodwin. Neither of them
appreciated the stuff that suited so well the tastes of the million; and it=
was
consequently quite consistent that while Mrs. Goodwin dozed in spirit Tom B=
lake
should snore in reality.
With Hatton and Price I did not come into cont=
act.
I noticed, however, that they wore an expression of relief at the enthusias=
tic
reception my play had received.
But an encounter with Kit and Malim was altoge=
ther
charming. They had had some slight quarrel on the way to the theatre, and h=
ad
found a means of reconciliation in their mutual emotion at the pathos of th=
e first
act's finale. They were now sitting hand in hand telling each other how sor=
ry
they were. They congratulated me warmly.
*
A couple of hours more, and the curtain had
fallen.
The roar, the frenzied scene, the picture of a
vast audience, half-mad with excitement--how it all comes back to me.
And now, as I sit in this quiet smoking-room o=
f a
St. Peter's Port hotel, I hear again the shout of "Author!" I see
myself again stepping forward from the wings. That short appearance of mine,
that brief speech behind the footlights fixed my future....
*
"James Orlebar Cloyster, the plutocratic
playwright, to Margaret, only daughter of the late Eugene Grandison Goodwin,
LL.D."