MASTER OF ALL THE ARTS
This unreasonable person dispatched, and the illustrious artist's
doubts about his lights and shadows dispelled, Alec Feilding resumed
his interrupted task. That is to say, he took the manuscript out of
the drawer and went on laboriously copying it. So great a writer,
whose time was so precious, might surely give out his copying work.
Lesser men do this. For half an hour he worked on. Then the servant
tapped at the door and came in again, noiselessly as before, to
whisper a name.
Alec nodded, and once more put back the manuscript in the drawer.
The visitor was a young lady. She was of slight and slender figure,
dressed quite plainly, and even poorly, in a cloth jacket and a stuff
frock. Her gloves were shabby. Her features were fine but not
beautiful, the eyes bright, and the mouth mobile, but the forehead too
large for beauty. She carried a black leather roll such as those who
teach music generally carry about with them. She was quite young,
certainly not more than two-and-twenty.
'Effie?' He looked round, surprised.
'May I come in for two minutes? I will not stay longer. Indeed, I
should be so sorry to waste your time.'
'I am sure you would, Effie.' He gave her his hand, without rising.
'Precious time--my time--there is so little of it. Therefore,
child----'
'I have brought you,' she said, 'another little poem. I think it is
the kind of thing you like--in the _vers de société_ style. She
unrolled her leather case and took out a very neatly written paper.
He read it slowly. Then he nodded his head approvingly and read it
aloud.
'How long does it take you to knock off this kind of thing, Effie?'
'It took me the whole of yesterday. This morning I corrected it and
copied it out. Do you like it?'
'You are a clever little animal, Effie, and you shall make your
fortune. Yes; it is very good, very good indeed: Austin Dobson himself
is not better. It is very good: light, tripping, graceful--in good
taste. It is very good indeed. Leave it with me, Effie. If I like it
as well to-morrow as I do to-day, you may depend upon seeing it in the
next number.'
'Oh!' she blushed a rosy red with the pleasure of being praised.
Indeed, it is a pleasure which never palls. The old man who has been
praised all his life is just as eager for more as the young poet who
is only just beginning. 'Oh! you really think it is good?'
'I do indeed. The best proof is that I am going to buy it of you. It
shall go into the editor's column--my own column--in the place of
honour.'
'Yes,' she replied, but doubtfully--and she reddened again for a
different reason. 'Oh, Mr. Feilding,' she said with an effort, 'I am
so happy when I see my verses in print--in your paper--even without my
name. It makes me so proud that I hardly dare to say what I want.'
'Say it, Effie. Get it off your mind. You will feel better
afterwards.'
'Well, then, it cannot be anything to you--so great and high, with
your beautiful stories and your splendid pictures. What is a poor
little set of verses to you?'
'Go on--go on.' His face clouded and his eyes hardened.
'In the paper it doesn't matter a bit. It is--it is--later--when they
come out all together in a little volume--with--with----'
'Go on, I say.' He sat upright, his chair half turned, his hands on
the arms, his face severe and judicial.
'With your name on the title-page.'
'Oh! that is troubling your mind, is it?'
'When the critics praise the poems and praise the poet--oh! is it
right, Mr. Feilding? Is it right?'
'Upon my word!' He pushed back his chair and rose, a tall man of six
feet, frowning angrily--so that the girl trembled and tottered. 'Upon
my word! This--from you! This from the girl whom I have literally kept
from starvation! Miss Effie Wilmot, perhaps you will tell me what you
mean! Haven't I bought your verses? Haven't I polished and corrected
them, and made them fit to be seen? Am I not free to do what I please
with my own?'
'Yes--yes--you buy them. But I--oh!--I write them!'
'Look here, child; I can have no nonsense. Before I took these verses
of you, had you any opening or market for them?'
'No. None at all.'
'Nobody would buy them. They were not even returned by editors. They
were thrown into the basket. Very well. I buy them on the condition
that I do what I please with them. I give you three pounds--three
pounds--for a poem, if it is good enough for me to lick into shape.
Then it becomes my own. It is a bargain. When you leave off wanting
money you will leave off bringing me verses. Then I shall look for
another girl. There are thousands of girls about who can write verses
as good as these.'
The girl remained silent. What her employer said was perfectly true.
And yet--and yet--it was not right.
'What more do you want?' he asked brutally.
'I am the author of these poems,' she said. 'And you are not.'
'Within these walls I allow you to say so--this once. Take care never
to say so again. Outside these walls, if you say so, I will bring an
action against you for libel and slander and defamation of character.
Remember that. You had better, however, take these verses and go
away.' He flung them at her feet. 'We will put an end to the
arrangement.'
'No, no--I consent.' She humbly stooped and picked them up. 'Do what
you like with them. I am too poor to refuse. Do what you please.'
'It is your interest, certainly, to consent. Why, I paid you last year
a hundred pounds. A hundred pounds! There's an income for a girl of
twenty! Well, Effie, I forgive you. But no more nonsense. And give
over crying.' For now she was sobbing and crying. 'Look here,
Effie'--he laid his hand on hers--'some day, before long, I will put
your verses in another column, with your name at the end--"Effie
Wilmot." Come, will that do?'
'Oh! if you would! If you really would!'
'I really will, child. Don't think I care much about the thing. What
does it matter to me whether I am counted a writer of society verses?
It pleased me that the world should think me capable of these trifles
while I am elaborating a really ambitious poem. One more little volume
and I shall have done. Besides, all this time you are improving. When
you burst upon the world it will be with wings full-fledged and
flight-sustained that you will soar to the stars. Fair poetess, I will
make your fame assured. Be comforted.'
She looked up, tearful and happy. 'Oh, forgive me!' she said. 'Yes; I
will do everything--exactly--as you want!'
'The world wants another poetess. You shall be that sweet singer. Let
me be the first to acknowledge the gift divine.' He bowed and raised
her hand and kissed the fingers of her shabby glove.
'Now, child,' he said, 'your visit has gained you another three
pounds--here they are.'
She took the money, blushing again. The glowing prospect warmed her
heart. But the three golden sovereigns chilled her again. She had
parted with her child--her own. It was gone--and he would call it his
and pretend to be the father. And yet he was going to make such
splendid amends to her.
'How is your brother?'
'He is always the same. He works all day at his play. In the afternoon
he creeps out for a little on his crutches. In the future, Mr.
Feilding, we are both going to be happy, he with his dramas and I with
my poems.'
'Is his drama nearly ready?'
'Very nearly.'
'Tell him to let me read it. I can, at least, advise him.'
'If you will! Oh! you are so kind! What we should have done without
your help and the money you have given me, I do not know.'
'You are welcome, sweet singer and heavenly poet.' The great man took
her hand and pressed it. 'Now be thankful that you came here. You have
cleared your mind of doubts, and you know what awaits you in the
future. Bring your brother's little play. I should like--yes, I should
like to see what sort of a play he has written.'
She went away, happier for the prophecy. In the dead of night she
dreamed that she saw Mr. Alec Feilding carried along in a triumphal
car to the Temple of Fame. The goddess herself, flying aloft in a
white satin robe, blew the trumpet, and a nymph flying lower down--in
white linen--put on the laurel crown and held it steady when the
chariot bumped over the ruts. It was her crown--her own--that adorned
those brows. Is it right? she asked again. Is it right?
Mr. Feilding, when she was gone, proceeded to copy out the poem
carefully in his own handwriting, adding a few erasures and
corrections so as to give the copy the hall-mark of the poet's study.
Then he threw the original upon the fire.
'There!' he said, 'if Miss Effie Wilmot should have the audacity to
claim these things as her own, at least I have the originals in my own
handwriting--with my own corrections upon them, too, as they were sent
to the printer. Yes, Effie, my dear; some day perhaps your verses
shall appear with your name to them. Not while they are so good,
though. I only wish they were a little more masculine.'
Again he lugged out that manuscript, and resumed his copying,
laboriously toiling on. The clock ticked, and the ashes dropped, and
the silence was profound while he performed this intellectual feat.
At the stroke of noon the servant disturbed him a third time. He put
away his work in the drawer, and went out to meet this visitor.
This time it was none other than a Lady of Quality--a Grande Dame de
par le monde. She came in splendid attire, sailing into the studio
like some richly adorned pinnace or royal yacht. A lady of a certain
age, but still comely in the eyes of man.
'Lady Frances!' cried Alec. 'This is, indeed, unexpected. And you know
that it is the greatest honour for me to wait upon you.'
'Yes, yes; I know that. But I thought I should like to see you as you
are--in your own studio. So I came. I hope not at an inconvenient
time.'
'No time could be inconvenient for a visit from you.'
'I don't know. Your model might be sitting to you. To be sure, you are
not a figure-painter. But one always supposes that models are standing
to artists all day long. Good-looking women, too, I believe. Perhaps
you have got one hidden away behind the screen, just as they do on the
stage. I will look.' She put up her glasses and walked across the room
to look behind the screen. 'No: she has gone. Oh! is this your new
picture?'
He bowed. 'I hope you like it.'
'I do,' she said, looking at it. 'It seems to me the very best thing
you have done. Oh! it is really beautiful! Do you know, Mr. Feilding,
that you are a very wonderful man?'
Alec laughed pleasantly. Of course he knew. 'If you think so,' he
said.
'You write the most beautiful verses and the most charming stories:
you paint the most wonderful pictures: you belong to society, and you
go everywhere. How do you do it? How do you find time to do it? I
suppose you never want any sleep? Poet, painter, novelist, journalist!
Are you a sculptor as well, by chance?'
'Not yet. Perhaps----'
'Glutton! Are you a dramatist?'
'Again--not yet. Perhaps, some time----
'Insatiate! You are a Master of all the Arts. Alec Feilding, M.A.' He
laughed pleasantly, again.
'You are the cleverest man in all London. Well; I sent you another
story yesterday----'
'You did. I was about to write and thank you for it. Is it a true
story?'
'Quite true. It happened in my husband's family, thirty years ago.
They are not very proud of it. You can dress it up somehow with new
names.'
'Quite so. I shall rewrite the whole.'
'I don't mind. It is a great pleasure to me to see the stories in
print. And no one suspects poor little Me. Are they so _very_ badly
written?'
'The style is a little--just a little, may I say?--jerky. But the
stories are admirable. Do let me have some more, Lady Frances.'
'Remember. No one is to know where you get them.'
'A Masonic secrecy forms part of my character. I even put my own name
to them for greater security.'
He did. Every week he put his own name to stories which he got from
people like this Lady of Quality.
'That ought to disarm suspicion. On the other hand, everybody must
know that you cannot invent these things.'
Alec laughed. 'Most people give me credit for inventing even your
stories.'
'By the way,' she said, 'are you coming to my dinner next week?'
'With the greatest pleasure.'
'If you don't come you shall have no more stories drawn from the
domestic annals and the early escapades of the British Aristocracy.'
'I assure you, Lady Frances, I look forward with the greatest----'
'Very well, then. I shall expect you. And remember--secrecy.'
She laid her finger on her lips and vanished.
The smile faded out of the young man's face. He sat down again, and
once more set himself to work doggedly copying out the manuscript,
which was, indeed, none other than the story furnished him by Lady
Frances. It was going to appear in the next week's issue of the
journal, with his name at the end.
Was not Alec Feilding the cleverest all-round man in the whole of
London--_Omnium artium magister_?