Collected works of j s f.., p.28
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 28
“But the authorship?”
“I don’t think Lestrange much cares to talk about authorship, his own at any rate. He published the poems a couple of years ago, and he told me to-night that the book didn’t sell at all, until this novel came out. He wrote the novel after he came home — for amusement, he says. It is selling enormously, Len. The two hundredth thousand is out this week.”
“What did he get for it, Tom? Did he tell you that?”
“He got twenty pounds, Len. Twenty pounds for the copyright.”
“And he refused Spivey’s hundred?”
“Ah! but he has got some tremendously good commissions. Much as he professes to despise money, he is a keen hand at a bargain. He is writing a tale for Sheets and Binder for a thousand, and another for a syndicate for another thousand; and the first novel is being dramatised under his own supervision.”
“He is a lucky fellow, your friend Lestrange, Tom Christmas. Do you like him?”
“Do I like him? Why, Len?”
“Because I should like to know whether you do or not.”
“Yes,” he said; “I do like him. I think him a very clever fellow — a man with great talents. Then, too, he is kindly and generous to a fault. He would do anything for any one to whom he took a fancy.”
“Do you know, Tom, that I am a great judge of character? Now, I will tell you what I thought of Lestrange’s face. He is a creature of strong impulses. He will follow whatever pleases him at the time, with the ardour of a bloodhound, and he will tire of it just as quickly. Am I right?”
“I believe you are, Len. He is impulsive.”
“Again, he is an egotist. An egotist, Tom Christmas, of the worst sort. I don’t think he would go about talking of himself or his own deeds; but I will tell you what he would do. He would make his own will his idol, and spare nothing and nobody in order to worship it. Am I right again?”
“I believe you are, Len. There are excuses for him, though. He has practically lived by himself all his life. He has always been his own master. No one has ever had any real control over him; he has been able to gratify every wish as it came up. A man like that, Len, must needs be selfish. And yet he is open-handed and generous to the last degree.”
“As so many selfish men are, Tom. Well, Mr. Lestrange seems to be settling down to authorship, at any rate. Let us hope he will stick to it. What did he think of your prospects, Tom?”
“He didn’t like them, Leonard. He asked me to become his secretary, amanuensis, or whatever you like to call it, at a salary twice as large as my present one.”
“And you accepted?”
“No,” he said, “I did not accept. You see, Len, I know that Lestrange is variable and eccentric. In six months he may tire of London and sigh for Thibet, for which outlandish country he would at once start. Then where should I be? No; badly as I am paid at Spivey’s, I shall not leave my present post. I can keep out of debt at present. I know that Spivey will never let me go if he can help it. And I have learnt, Len, to be content with little. So long as I have my health and enough to live on, I shall be satisfied. I dare say Spivey will some day see his way to giving me five pounds a week. And with that and Maggie, I shall be satisfied, ay, more than satisfied, for life.”
“Where be all thy dreams of wealth, Tom Christmas?”
“Where they always were, my dear. I shan’t refuse wealth if it comes to me, Len. But I’m not going to kill myself in order to get it. ‘Man wants but little here below,’ you know. Did you see Maggie to-night, Len?”
“I did, Tom. After I had eaten my evening meal and heard Miss Julia tell your mother some wondrous anecdotes about the late St. Emma Jane Piper, I walked round to the High Street and called upon Mr. Migson and Miss Primrose. Those Migsons, Tom, are particularly nice people.”
“They are — good, honest folk as ever lived. And what was Maggie doing? Poor little soul, I was wondering all the time how she was getting along.”
“My dear Tom, she was getting along splendidly. It being nine o’clock, Mr. Migson had closed his shop and was a-washing of himself in the scullery. The parlour was beautifully warm and bright, and Miss Maggie was reading by the fire. Mrs. Migson was cooking something beautiful for supper. I am almost certain it was beefsteak and onions. It smelt so grand that I felt hungry. Mrs. Migson pressed me very much to stay and eat, but I declined. I am glad, Tom, very glad, that the little Primrose has such good friends in these humble people.”
“And so am I, Len.”
“And I have got a piece of news for you, Tom. Old Migson told me to-night that he and his missus have long desired to possess a piano, Migson being musically inclined, and his wife having once possessed a very fine ‘seconds’ voice. And to-day he has bought one — thirty-five pound ten, Tom Christmas — and you and I are to go to-morrow night, if we will be so condescending, and hear missie try it.”
“What good folks! Ah, Len, the upper crust little knows what a lot of real gentility is hidden in the lower.”
“Tom Christmas, thou art a Tory! Upper crust, indeed! And pray which is the lower?” We went upstairs to bed then. As we were separating at the door of my room, Tom told me that Lestrange was coming to have supper with us some day, soon.
“He asked after my mother and Julia, tonight,” he said, “and seemed pleased at the thought of seeing them again. Len, shall we invite Spivey to come? How proud he would be to put his legs under the table with those of so famous a ‘hawthur’!”
“And that table the table of his clerk. No, Tom, not Spivey, please. Will Maggie come?”
“Of course, Len. I told Lestrange all about her to-night, and showed him her portrait. Yes, Maggie will be there.”
There was once a spider which possessed a very grand parlour, and there was a fly which — but everybody knows the rest.
CHAPTER VII.
GALATEA.
THE SUPPER-PARTY AT our house was a very grand affair indeed, for Miss Julia put her heart and soul into it and served up a banquet fit for the gods. I have always thought that if Julia Christmas had a weakness it was in the housekeeping way. She liked to see spotless linen, and bright glass and silver, and flowers, and plenty of light, for all of which things she would I doubt not have easily found Scriptural authority if required. When she heard that her father’s old pupil was coming to visit us, she immediately commenced preparations, and got out all the best silver, together with many other wonderful things; so that Tom and I, when the eventful evening came, were quite surprised, and mentally wondered if we were not dreaming.
It is really wonderful how indulgent women of the Julia Christmas type are to men like Lestrange. She knew all about his freaks; she knew that he was what is called “wild;” she remembered that he was a graceless lad and likely to develop into a graceless man; she must have known from his novel — which she read, because he had written it — that his record was a not over cleanly one; and yet, in spite of all, she killed the fatted calf for him, and proposed to make exceeding merry over his coming. Nay, more, she who was usually so plainly attired, came downstairs that night in purple satin, looking a new woman. She had a fine, well-developed figure, and a commanding presence, and in her fine gown looked more like a duchess than a member of Mr. Dumbury’s congregation. She had also caused her mother to array herself in a very fine silk dress, which rustled exceedingly, and she had made the old lady a new cap, so that Mrs. Christmas sat in her easy-chair, and marvelled at her own finery. Indeed, her gala attire gave reins to her imagination, and she told me and Maggie Primrose many long and very particular stories about bygone days.
Maggie, too, looked at her best that night. I cannot remember how she was dressed; but I know that she and Julia Christmas made an agreeable contrast and showed each other off. The one was a strong, self-possessed woman, whose will no earthly power could bend or break; the other a pretty, childish girl, whose will could be swayed in any direction, if one did but set about the work in the right way.
It was nine o’clock when Lestrange arrived. He was in evening dress, and looked taller and handsomer than when I had seen him previously. He shook hands reverently with Mrs. Christmas, making some appropriate allusion to the last time he had seen her; greeted Julia with the hearty good-will which young men so often show to a good-looking woman who is a few years their senior; bowed in the most courtly fashion before Maggie, and congratulated her in brief, well-chosen terms; and was good enough to shake hands with me. His well-bred air and good looks carried him into everybody’s favour; his exquisite tact put us all at home with him in five minutes. He addressed Miss Christmas as “Julia,” and bade her remember that when he last saw her she had been accustomed to call him “Frank,” a reminiscence which pleased Miss Julia immensely, and brought a blush to her round cheek.
We were all very merry during the meal. Everybody was in good spirits, and everybody talked. Lestrange and Tom Christmas were full of old Oxford memories, and the one spurred the other on, though neither of them needed much prompting, for Lestrange was a ready talker, and Tom, once set going, was the longest-winded man I ever knew. I don’t think I talked much, for I was very hungry, and few men can talk and eat. But I kept my ears and eyes open, and I saw that Lestrange often glanced at Maggie Primrose, and that Maggie’s round eyes were often turned on him.
After supper we all sat round the fire, and were very comfortable. Often nowadays, closing my eyes, I can see the little circle again. Mrs. Christmas sat in her arm-chair, I sat next her, and Lestrange sat in an easy-chair next me; then came Julia at his right hand, and Tom Christmas sat at the opposite side of the hearth, with Maggie Primrose, on a low seat, between him and the fire. It was all very nice and very comfortable, and Miss Julia actually informed us that we might smoke, and never coughed once.
And then some one, Tom, I think, induced Lestrange to tell us something of his travels.
He was reticent at first, but when Julia also prompted him to give an account of himself, he hastened to comply. And, having asked our permission, he turned down the lights, saying that the firelight was so much more fitting to the telling of stories, and so there we sat, with the shadows dancing about the room and Lestrange talking.
I don’t think I have ever heard a man speak who had such a beautiful voice as he had. Every note was a pleasure to listen to, every tone was modulated to a nicety. His voice sank and fell as he talked, and made a stream of melody. And yet all was unconscious, all without effort. I don’t think he knew that he had such a good voice; if he did, he never betrayed the knowledge in the slightest degree.
He had seen a great deal, and was able to tell us of some wonderful sights and adventures. He had been with an exploring party to the
North Cape, and with a noted traveller through Africa. He had lived all alone for six months in North-West America, and had penetrated a long way into the interior of Australia. He had helped to dig for ancient Greek remains in the Morea, and had found traces of long-lost nations in South America. He had been shipwrecked in the Atlantic, and becalmed in the Pacific. He had, in fact, though in a much more extensive fashion than the poet imagined, surveyed mankind from China to Peru.
I am bound to say, in fairness to him, that Lestrange left himself out of his narrative at much as possible. There was no dragging of his own name and deeds into the exciting adventures he told of; nay, it might have been of some one else’s travels that he was speaking, so little did we hear of himself in direct fashion. And yet somehow his every word seemed to bring him more vividly before our eyes as the hero of his story. We sat spell-bound while he talked, and I think none of us had even a desire to interrupt him by a question.
Once, catching a glimpse of Maggie Primrose’s face as the firelight danced up, I saw that she was watching Lestrange, her eyes fixed upon him with an expression which I had never seen there before. An uneasy feeling broke over me when I saw that, and I began to wish that Tom’s friend was not so brilliant. Othello the Black could win a Christian maiden from her father; might not this modern knight cause the modern maiden to waver in her allegiance to the poor squire who could tell of nothing but hard work?
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
It was past midnight when Lestrange went away. I walked with him to the nearest cabstand. Out of the house his mood changed, and he began to talk about the change in Tom Christmas’s fortunes.
“What a life!” he said. “To serve a fellow like Spivey, a man who throws his h’s about like pepper, and was probably taught to read in a Board School! And now all the spirit seems to have gone from him.”
“From whom?”
“From Tom Christmas. He used to be full of spirit; and now he looks broken down and worn.”
“And yet he is happy.”
He gave me a glance out of his dark eyes.
“Happy? There are so many sorts of happiness. The slave is happy, I suppose, in knowing that his meals and clothes are provided for.”
“Tom Christmas is happy in being content.”
“Content? Now of all the damnable cant in this world, that of content is the very worst! A man never should be content. Of course it is in the catechisms; and Julia Christmas would tell us that it is our first duty to be content with the state to which we have been called. Luckily, Mr. Tempest, this world’s law is not contentment but progress, otherwise we should all be dirty savages, eating each other, and little better than the apes and gorillas.”
I knew he was so far right there that I said nothing in answer. Presently he began to speak of Julia Christmas.
“A fine woman,” he said. “And a clever woman. A bigot, of course. She always will be a bigot. But she will do well. In the Middle Ages she would have been either Lucrezia Borgia or St. Teresa. I should have preferred her as Lucrezia. Adversity, I think, has destroyed Tom’s spirit, but Julia has a lot in reserve. — I suppose it is conservation of energy.”
He got into a cab, ordered the man to drive to a well-known club and went away, and I walked home, feeling somehow ill at ease. In the square I overtook Tom Christmas, who had been conducting Maggie to Mrs. Migson’s.
“What a grand fellow he is, Len, and what a splendid talker!” said honest Tom. “I could have sat and listened to him all night. Did you ever hear any one who could talk as he can?”
“No,” I answered, for I never had.
“It was most curious to notice the effect his story had on Maggie,” continued Tom. “As we sat in the firelight I had my hand on hers, and sometimes the pulse beat quite quickly and sometimes it went slowly. You remember him telling us of that thrilling adventure with a lion in Africa? When he came to the critical moment Maggie’s pulse all but stopped; when the danger was over it began to beat furiously. She told me afterwards that she could almost see the whole scene.”
“Your friend Lestrange’s powers of conversation are very brilliant, Tom — and very dangerous.”
“Yes,” he said, as if he had hardly heard me. And we began to talk of something else.
Before leaving us, Lestrange had asked us al to go and dine with him at his chambers on the following Saturday evening. He had selected that day because Tom and I were able to leave the City earlier on Saturdays than on other days. He had asked a lady friend, he said, to play the part of hostess, and he should take no refusal from any of us. And we all promised to go, Julia, however, making an express stipulation that we should be allowed to depart not later than eleven o’clock.
It was a very grand entertainment which Lestrange gave us that Saturday evening. He occupied a suite of very fine rooms in Jermyn Street, and one room seemed to have been fitted up as a drawing-room for the occasion. Here, on various stands and tables, were arranged a large collection of objects which Lestrange had brought together during his five years of travel. For an hour before dinner he showed us these, exhibiting things which we had often heard and read of, but never seen, and making his descriptions so real and graphic that we felt as though we were living in some enchanted palace.
Lestrange’s rooms, indeed, seemed more like a fairy scene from the Arabian Nights than a set of apartments in prosaic London. There was no hideous glare of gas; everything was lighted by coloured lamps. He had prepared a retiring-room for the ladies, and I caught a glimpse of its magnificent appointments, bathed in a rose-tinted light, as we passed the open door. The diningroom seemed to glow with light, and the table was a glittering mass of silver. Flowers of the most expensive varieties were everywhere. Three men-servants, evidently highly-trained in their calling, waited upon us. Tom Christmas whispered to me that Lestrange had been getting up an extra swell affair in honour of the ladies.
It was seven o’clock when we went to dinner and nearly nine when the ladies left us. We followed them within a few minutes, and very soon Tom Christmas, who had an insatiable thirst for knowledge, asked Lestrange to give us some further particulars of his adventures. And Maggie Primrose seconded the request with a glance from her brown eyes.
“Are you not tired of my adventures?” he said. “Come, I will show you something better worth seeing than my stories are worth hearing — something that will interest the ladies; though you, Julia, I fear, will tell me that I am paying you a doubtful compliment in saying so.”
“Whatever it is, let us see it, Frank,” said Julia Christmas. “On you be the blame if we are tempted.”
