Читать книгу The Masterfolk - Haldane MacFall - Страница 6

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Wherein Master Oliver comes to the Conclusion that, to complete the Dramatic Picture, Greatness should have known the Hair-Shirt and the Makeshifts of Adversity.

The door swung open, and a handsome woman of about thirty walked into the dingy room. She was possessed of that calm and the fresh easy manner and movement that come of generations of women who have exacted respect from their fellows—and given it.

Netherby Gomme went to meet her, and as she shut the door she held out her gloved hand to him:

“How are you, Mrs. Baddlesmere?” said he.

“How are you, Netherby?” It was a charming voice that spoke. “Julia, too! why this thusness?”

Julia blushed and smiled embarrassedly:

Mrs. Baddlesmere turned to the boy:

“Hard at work, Noll?”

Noll shrugged his shoulders, where he sat hunched on his office-stool:

“No, mother, I miss my tobacco,” said he.

Mrs. Baddlesmere laughed lightly.

“Don’t be stupid, Noll. Remember, you promised me—for a fortnight, you ridiculous child.”

Noll smiled dryly:

“Mother still thinks I am in knickerbockers,” said he. “She wanted me to wear a sailor hat last summer with ribbons hanging down behind and H.M.S. Sardine on it in gold letters. Women have the strangest ideas about men’s clothes—even the married ones.”

Caroline Baddlesmere went to the boy and put her arm through his.

“What an inky state you get into, my dear Noll!” she said.

“Literature is not to be made without the spilling of much ink,” said Noll.

Caroline Baddlesmere sighed sadly.

“Well, Noll, after to-day you need not trouble with the spilling of ink,” she said.

“Why, mother?”

Mrs. Baddlesmere turned to Gomme:

“I suppose, Netherby, you know that our days at the old office are over—that we have failed to make the ends of this paper meet!”

“Mr. Baddlesmere has told me,” he said simply. It struck him painfully, in spite of the calm of the delicate woman who stood before him, that she too had been told the worst not very long: “I am afraid,” he added, “it is a very anxious time for you, Mrs. Baddlesmere.”

“Yes, Netherby; but we must be packing what few things we want to keep.” Cheerily drawing off her gloves, she added with sudden seriousness: “I had not realized the position until Anthony told me a day or two ago, but within twenty-four hours I had settled everything—even the debts. And we have just taken a top-floor within half-an-hour of Charing Cross. It’s very airy—and it’s a large room—and the landlady’s a dear soul.” A twinkle came into her eyes. “But I’m afraid we must give up our weekly receptions.” Her shoulders gave the slightest suspicion of a shrug, and a serious catch came into her voice: “I’m only distressed to think, Netherby, that your loyal friendship to us has brought you no richer reward than a share in our disaster——”

There was a heavy step on the landing without. Caroline Baddlesmere dashed a handkerchief across her eyes, and, opening the editor’s door, she signed to Julia to slip away with her.

There was a loud knock.

A big, gloomy man entered, flung the door to again dramatically, and strode solemnly into the room. His lank iron-grey hair, the massive pale clean-shaven face, the seedy frock-coat tightly buttoned across his body, his close-fitting much-knee’d trousers, and deliberate calculated stride, all gave him the air of a decayed actor of the old school; and his large gesture and full dramatic voice, that gave value to every word he spoke, heightened the impression; whilst the loose black cloak that was flung back from his shoulders finished it.

“I am Eustace Lovegood,” he said tragically, and brought his cane down upon the floor.

“Yes, sir,” said Gomme.

“Thanks, young man,” said he; “I require your confirmation of the pathetic fact. I dined out last night”—he touched his forehead with his forefinger wearily—“and my most unprofitable intellect reminds me of what my bank-book and the neglect of the world have long since ceased to remind me—that my name is Eustace and Lovegood.... I must see the Editor.”

“Yes, sir.” Gomme waved him to the chair by the fireplace. “Be seated, sir.”

Lovegood looked at the forbidding chair, then glowered at him.

“No,” said he, “I will not be seated.”

As Gomme rose, and, hiding a smile behind a cough, moved towards the editor’s office, the tragic eyes of Eustace Lovegood turned to the boy Noll, where he sat, still as a statue, on his office-stool:

“Ah, Oliver!” said the big man; and a smile shot into his eyes. “How is the boy Oliver?” He was moving towards Noll when the office-door opened, and Caroline, followed by the others, entered the room.

“Hah, Caroline—a pleasant surprise indeed!”

He took off his hat with the grand air, and swept her a low bow. He strode to her, and, raising her hand to his lips, kissed her white fingers.

“What! you too, Miss Julia? I am your servant.”

They all smiled affectionately—he was obviously an old friend.

As his voice ceased there was a brisk step on the landing outside—a sharp knock—and the door flew open. A little man with a big moustache entered fussily, on jerky restless feet, and glanced sharply round the room; he was best known as a minor critic—one of those men who condemn everything they do not understand:

“How do, Mrs. Baddlesmere?” he said, with a harsh voice and nervous manner.

His eyes glanced away to Julia, to whom he nodded:

“How do, Miss Julia?”

His glance jumped to Noll where he sat observant, chin in palms, on the high office-chair:

“How do, Master Noll?”

The boy nodded:

“You’ve forgotten your hat, Fosse,” said he.

The fussy little man snapped off his hat:

“So I have—so I have!” he yapped.

Eustace Lovegood took three heavy paces towards Gomme, and said, with a black frown, in a confidential aside:

“Faugh! that dreadful fussy little man of rude health—and the scarlet voice!”

Mr. Fosse turned at the grumbled bass:

“How do, Lovegood?” said he.

“Thanks,” said Lovegood solemnly—“I don’t.”

And he added in growled aside to Netherby Gomme:

“I wish this person would not be familiar with my health.”

Mr. Fosse skipped nervously towards Caroline Baddlesmere:

“Eh—eh! Well, Mrs. Baddlesmere; and how’s the book?”

Caroline Baddlesmere’s shoulders gave the slightest possible shrug:

“My book is dead, Mr. Fosse.”

Fosse folded his arms:

“Precisely,” said he. “Honestly, it lacked the vital element of style.” He blew out his narrow little chest—he had the floor. “You have tragedy—pathos—and—er, yes—comedy. Yes, you have a certain amount of humour—a marvellous amount, indeed, for a woman, if you will excuse my saying so. Yet, comedy but raises a laugh”—he shrugged his little shoulders—“and there you are!... Tragedy but appeals to the emotions—draws a tear”—he shrugged his little shoulders again—“and there you are!... But Style is independent of laughter or tears. Tragedy——”

“Pish!” pshawed Eustace Lovegood. He stepped a pace into the room: “Tragedy!” he roared scornfully, glaring at the fussy minor critic before him; and even the light of the conceited little Egoism seemed to flicker out, blown aside by the big man’s contempt: “Tragedy is the mere melodrama of life—the shedding of blood but the indecent accident of death.... It is comedy, the expression of the joy of living, that is worthy the serious attention of genius.” He rose on his toes and made an elephantine gesture of sending off butterflies into the air. “The exquisite little mot—the fairy fabric of a dainty paradox—the swift epigram! Think of it—the rapture of the exquisite agony that is in the elaborate workmanship to create the spontaneous repartee!”

Mr. Fosse was not quite sure whether he was being chaffed. He was one of those men so wanting in humour that he accused the humorous of lacking humour. He knew that his thin voice sank to insignificance in the deep thunder of this big man.

“Er—yes. N’yes,” he said—and glanced uneasily at the others. Gomme’s face was a stolid impenetrable mask.

Fosse skipped over to Gomme, and seizing him by the coat-lapel he said nervously:

“Oh—ah—Mr. Gomme——”

Eustace Lovegood snorted and strolled away to where Caroline stood.

Fosse blinked uncomfortably at Gomme.

“Ah—as a matter of fact—I came on business,” said he. His harsh jerky voice dropped into confidential whisper. “Might I beg of you to put in a little paragraph about my coming novel?”

Gomme nodded.

The little critic coughed:

“If—you could hint—just hint that it is somewhat daringly original! I don’t even mind if you hint that it is rather—sinful—with—er—just a little suggestion that I am the English Maupassant, eh!... I can assure you,” he added, touching Gomme’s arm, “I can assure you that Thrumsby Burrage of The Discriminator said so at dinner last night.”

Netherby Gomme coughed:

“I did not know that Thrumsby Burrage drank,” said he.

“Does he? Indeed! Very sad!” The fussy little man’s foxy eyes turned inwards, searching through his quick weasel intelligence to discover the connection, but failed: “Very sad indeed! Genius is nearly always wanting in the moral attributes.... But to return—if you would suggest that my work contains that—er—that—er——”

Netherby Gomme nodded:

“That combination of religion and immorality which is so alluring to the British public in a work of art,” said he—“yes, I quite understand.”

Fosse roused from his self-concentration:

“N’yes,” said he—“but perhaps if I——”

“Certainly, Mr. Fosse; I was about to suggest that you should write it yourself; and we’ll whip it into shape——”

“Delighted, my dear fellow, delighted!” The fussy little man’s fussy little feet began to shuffle with eagerness; he skipped towards Gomme’s desk.

Gomme put himself in his way:

“If you would send it by post, please, Mr. Fosse! Good-evening!”

Fosse came to a halt:

“Oh—a moment!”

He took a pinch of Gomme’s coat-sleeve:

“Y’know the whole town’s as hot over this new humorist, the fellow that wrote The Tragedy of the Ridiculous, as they were over Mrs. Baddlesmere a few years ago; but, y’know, they’re overdoing it—they’re overdoing it. There’s bound to be reaction. So I’ve just written a scalding little thing about it.”

Gomme’s eyes twinkled:

“But——”

Fosse tugged impatiently at his sleeve:

“Y’know, it doesn’t do to go with the crowd. Art is only for the elect. The popular verdict must be vulgar——”

Noll, watching from his high perch on the office-stool, raised his voice:

“Now, that’s curious, Fosse,” said he—“for he was here only this morning—and he was talking about you.”

Fosse was intensely interested:

“Indeed!” said he—“how very interesting! May I ask what he said?”

“Well, you know, it was a private conversation—I don’t quite exactly like to say——”

“It will go no farther—go no farther,” persisted Fosse, on the tip-toe of eagerness.

“Well, he said you ought to chuck literature and try window-cleaning——”

Lovegood’s deep chuckle echoed about the room, and Caroline Baddlesmere reprovingly said:

“Noll!”

The little man’s face became scarlet; then went white. He raised himself on his little high heels as far as his full rigidity of back and limb and pride would take him, and, tilting his nose in the air:

“Puppy!” he snorted, and walked angrily out of the office.

Julia went and scolded Noll, who hugged her.

Lovegood turned to Caroline Baddlesmere, and the laughter went out of his eyes:

“Caroline,” said he, “I have heard rumours of the disaster impending here—Anthony told me only this morning.”

“Yes, Eustace. I’ve gone quite out of the fashion—just like yourself. But we must not whimper when the days are black.”

“It grieves me,” said the big man sadly.... “You are not a good subject for the boiled potato—the homely bun.”

“Nonsense, Eustace; we were all happy enough in the old Paris days—before I made my mark with the book.”

Eustace Lovegood’s eyes turned into the past. “Ah, the Paris days!” said he, and fell into reverie.... “That reminds me,” he added after awhile. “Last night, as I supped under the stars at an itinerant barrow, regaling myself on a wondrous baked potato, a wandering musician splitting the air with peevish song in the murk of the London night, like some lost soul from the damned—most dramatic situation—a note of tragedy in the blackness of the world——” His mind wandered off into his thoughts, and he stood for awhile gazing into the night that was gone, forgetful of all that stood about him.

“Well, Eustace!”

The big man’s consciousness came back to his body with a start and he took up his tale again: “A little woman in seedy clothes, a tattered shadow, flitted out of the other shadows of the lamp-lit night, and touched me on the arm. She wanted money.... It was the husk—the dusty shabby husk—of little Kate Ormsby, whose singing had some vogue a few years ago——”

“Kate Ormsby?—who was engaged to poor drunken Andrew Blotte?” she asked hoarsely.

“Ah, but remember, Caroline, he did not drink when he was engaged to Kate Ormsby. Blotte was the most brilliant in promise of us all.... All that began when Paul Pangbutt took her away from him——”

“But—why didn’t you send her to me?”

Caroline suddenly flushed embarrassedly, and added with a dry laugh:

“Ah—I forgot.”

She traced her confusion with her fingers on the palm of her slender hand.

Lovegood went on dreamily:

“Since Paul Pangbutt threw her over in Paris, like one of his discarded painting-rags, she has steadily gone down hill.... She wanted to know if I had seen Paul since he returned from his tour of the European courts and had set up his big studio in Kensington.” He shrugged his huge shoulders. “But I told her that the great did not much care about associating with me—that most of those that once knew my Christian name have forgotten even my surname.”

Caroline nodded:

“Kate Ormsby never had imagination,” said she—“she does not realize how greatness crowds out the memory.”

Lovegood smiled sadly:

“She sings for money at tavern doors now,” he said—“and she was such a dainty creature!”

“Yes—I suppose you gave her your last half-crown, Eustace!”

The big man put out a deprecating hand:

“You exaggerate, Caroline; I lent her a florin——”

She nodded:

“And so there was no lunch to day—and will be no dinner!”

“Pray do not exaggerate, Caroline. I wish you would not exaggerate.... I shall not regale at a restaurant—that is all.... Look at the potentiality of satisfaction in the homely bun!... As a matter of fact, I think the moderns eat too much flesh——”

“Tut!” said Caroline Baddlesmere—“don’t make excuses to your own conscience.... But you want to say something, Eustace—I know by the way you are fiddling with other subjects. Do say it like a good fellow.”

Lovegood coughed:

“Yes—the fact is—I—have—in my room—an old chippendale writing-table. It belonged to an eighteenth-century ancestor who wrote the most execrable verse. You remember the modest piece of furniture?”

A twinkle shot into Caroline’s eyes:

“Well, since you press the question, Eustace, there is a piece of furniture in your room.”

“It is grown somewhat shabby,” he resumed—“and a friend of mine who has long had a great fancy for it——”

“Yes,” said Caroline slyly—“what was your friend’s name, did you say?”

“Oh—ah—yes—his name is Gordon.”

Caroline nodded:

“Yes,” said she—“I suspected it was your uncle, Eustace—his Christian name is, I think, Isaac.”

The big man chuckled:

“Do you know, now I come to think of it, his Christian name is Isaac,” he said.... “He has long had a fancy for it. I called in just now as I passed, and told him he might have it.... It will give me more room——”

“Oh, yes—it will give you more room,” said Caroline dryly. “Go on, Eustace.”

“Yes,” said he—“I detest to feel cramped. And I thought—as an old friend—I might be permitted to suggest that—as you might want a little loose cash on changing houses——”

Caroline Baddlesmere stamped her foot:

“I am exceedingly angry with you, Eustace. You had no right to sell an heirloom,” she said furiously. “Your room is a positive disgrace of emptiness as it is.” She made an effort to keep her voice steady.... “It is quite bare and homeless enough to make me miserable every time I think of it.”

Lovegood touched her arm:

“Well, it’s done now,” he said pathetically—“and unless you take the money I don’t quite see how I am to proceed in the matter—without thwarting my original intention——” he added fatuously.

“I shall go and have the whole bargain cancelled,” she said.

“Hush! Caroline; I don’t think it would be quite a proper place for a gentlewoman to be seen in—upon my word——”

“Who is the pawnbroker?” she asked bluntly.

Lovegood coughed:

“Caroline, I do not think I deserve this unkindness. He is a collector of second-hand oddities. As a matter of fact, I only lent it.”

Caroline tried to keep back the tears:

“You are a ridiculous good fellow,” she said; “but you do exasperate me.... What on earth are you going to write upon?”

Lovegood looked relieved:

“I wrote for an hour in bed this morning,” he said. “It was an intellectual treat. I shall always compose the finer flights of my imagination in bed in future.”

Caroline laughed, with a sob in the laugh, and stroked the big fellow’s sleeve affectionately:

“No, Eustace—I cannot accept it, old friend.” She dashed the handkerchief to her eyes, and added airily: “Well, well—it’s really very serious—I shall have to wear shabby gowns again. Hush!”

She signed for silence.

They all listened.

There was a shuffling footstep on the landing, and a ridiculous and quavering attempt at a drinking song. The door was flung open and a man, giddy with strong liquors, lurched into the room.

He came to an unsteady standstill, blinked at them all, and solemnly took off his hat.

“My God!” muttered Caroline Baddlesmere—“it’s Andrew Blotte!”

“Here’s poor Mr. Andrew Blotte,” said Julia in a frightened whisper to Noll.

“Hullo, Mr. Blotte!” cried Noll from his high perch—“we’ve just been talking about you.”

The drunken man sniggered:

“Talk of a nightmare—and you hear it hiccup!” said he.

But the effort at merriment upset his balance, and he made at a rolling gait for the desk, gripped at it to steady himself, and turning himself very carefully so as to avoid confusing his feet, he sat himself down against the edge of it.

His face became a bland smile.

His was a splendid head. From the square brow the strong hair sprang like a lion’s mane, and the fine massive head was set on the shoulders in a way that gave a sense of forcefulness in the man. But the once-handsome features were now heavy with drink, their beautiful form was being scarred deep with harsh lines, and the hint of beauty was only a haunting shadow of the thing that had once been. His chin and jowls were sprinkled with a grizzled growth of beard a couple of days old.

He waved his hand round the room, and brought it with a strong masterful grip upon the desk on which he leaned.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, somewhat shame-facedly—“I had only looked for Anthony Baddlesmere—to find out his new address—but the fact is——” He looked slowly round the room, and his eyes lighted up as he recognised Caroline: “Ah, Caroline!—just the person I would have wished to see. You’ll excuse me maintaining a firm position—here—but the fact is—I’m far from sober.”

“Ah, Andrew!” she said, coming to his side.

“Yes, Caroline—I’ve been watching the almonds bloom—I have been walking on air—in realms where there is no solid, base, nor tangible reality. Tush! And you would call me—not sober!... Most—ridiculous—prejudice!... Why should people of taste be sober, when by tasting what tastes well they may walk on air? Such a strange convention!... Consider the position: You stroll down the filthy Strand in muddied boots, all the shabby world hurrying by, thinking sordidly of money and greynesses—or crawling along with hunger in their eyes under the miserable gas-lamps.... Sip the nectar of the gods, commune with Bacchus, and you are in a street of the world of dreams—you are a-riot—you walk on the wind—the trees are all in bloom—faces are laughing at you—the very cast-iron lamps come to greet you—the air is full of music—you sing—everyone sings!... Tush! you are a god.”

“Ah, Andrew—when vice becomes a virtue, virtue seems but a feeble vice.”

Andrew Blotte laughed:

“It’s your trick, Caroline,” he said airily; and added, in a thick-voiced confidential aside, glancing round the room with drunken caution:

“It’s rather a confidential matter, Caroline—but—we seem to be amongst friends. So I suppose it’s all right. We’re amongst intimates, eh? Good! All right.”

He whistled a refrain gallingly out of tune.

“Andrew!—Andrew——!” She put her white hand on his arm.

Andrew Blotte patted the slender fingers:

“Now don’t go wasting shame on me, Caroline. The fact is—nobody ever expects me to be in anything but a shameful condition. Think what a disappointment I must be when I am sober! What more embarrassing to a sober community than the return of the prodigal son?”... He laughed sadly, then seriousness came back to him. “But what I want to say is this: I hear you want money.... Well, I can lend you a loan.... I can’t get it to-day because—well, you see, it’s rather a ridiculous position—the fact is, I’m not quite aggressively sober—and my landlady has strict orders not to give me any money unless I am able to count a handful of small change without leaning for support on a physical basis.... Rather acute, I think—isn’t it?... But I’ll make a note of it for to-morrow. I’ll tie a knot on my handkerchief—hic——” (He fumbled for his handkerchief with drunken awkwardness.) “No!—you tie a knot on my handkerchief.”

He held it out, and she took it to humour the poor fellow.

“Andrew,” she said, “do go and rest awhile in Anthony’s room. There’s a comfortable armchair for you.”

“No,” he said peevishly, “I don’t want to rest. I’m always resting. Andrew Blotte is tired of Andrew Blotte....” His mood suddenly changed; a light came into his eyes: “Yes,” said he, “I will promise to rest—if you’ll promise to take my loan.”

Caroline shook her head.

Lovegood went over to him:

“Come, Blotte,” said he.

Andrew Blotte shook his head:

“No,” said he. “I mustn’t rest.... I’ve promised to take a poem before gaslight to the editor of that new literary review—forget his name, but his address is on one of my cuffs—somewhere....” He chuckled, as at some reminiscence: “He said he wanted a sonnet of two or three pages or so, but I told him it couldn’t be done—even Will Shakespeare couldn’t do it.... But he wasn’t to be put off.” He dug Lovegood in his tightly buttoned ribs: “He said I might choose my own subject!... But I told him—hic—he must mean a madr’gal.... We became quite friendly. For an illiterate person he was almost poetical. He confessed he had known love. Even editors have not always been bald. But—it is time to come and see the almonds bloom.”

He took Lovegood’s arm and made for the door. As they strode out together he turned and kissed his fingers to them all.

Caroline followed them to the head of the stairs to see them depart.

Julia slipped anxiously across the room to Netherby Gomme:

“Netherby, what is this? Is it all really true?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Netherby?” The tears sprang into her eyes.

“I guessed what I guessed, Julia; but I have only known to-day.”

“Where are they going to live?”

Netherby Gomme smiled sadly:

“Well—Mrs. Baddlesmere has taken what is called by the house-agents the spacious, well-lit, and airy upper floor of an imposing family mansion in the West End.... We should call it an attic in Hammersmith.”

Noll, who had slid down from his office-stool, crept up to Julia:

“I say, Julia,” said he, “things seem a bit sour, don’t they?... I suppose you and Netherby will be wanting to get married, too, and all that sort of tomfoolery—and I had hoped to have coloured a meerschaum pipe for him as a wedding-present. I did begin one, but it made me so jolly sick. I have started a sailor on it now. Awfully ripping chap! Said he didn’t mind doing it for half-a-crown if I supplied the ’baccy. He’s a terrific clever fellow—he can spit fifteen feet! I measured it.... I was very lucky to get him”—he sighed heavily—“but I don’t see how the deuce I shall pay him for the job now.”

Julia put her hand on Noll’s shoulder:

“You are such a sadly vulgar boy at times, Noll,” she said. She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

“What are you sniffing about, Julia?” he asked, knitting his brows. “The mother has taken a jolly nice top-floor, I can tell you. One of the rooms is whopping big. We are going to do our own cooking—on such a rummy little stove. It’ll be a tremendous lark, won’t it? Roof slopes like a hen-roost.... I once poached an egg in the lid of a biscuit-tin over two candles—Jeroosalem! it did take a time—but it was an egg—it never quite got out of the wollopy condition, I don’t know why—and it burst half-way through the business—I think I kept jogging it up too often with a pencil to see if it were stiffening. But it was the most eggy egg I ever tasted.”

Julia laughed lightly to smother a sob:

“You are a ridiculous boy, Noll,” she said.

Noll held her out at arms’ length and looked at her keenly:

“What are you sniffing about, Julia? Anyone been annoying you?”

Caroline had stolen back to the room. She walked over to Julia and put her hand on her shoulder:

“It’s all right, Julia,” she said gently—“no one will be any the worse for it. It’s always darkest before the dawn.”

“Of course,” said the boy Noll, straddling his legs and peering at the coming years—“every great man begins in an attic.”