THE EDITOR OF THE “AREOPAGUS.”
AMONGST the contributors to the literary periodical of which Mr.
Desmond was the editor, Daniel Mayfield occupied no insignificant
position. The most genial and good-natured of men was at the same time
the most ferocious and acrimonious of critics. When an innocent lamb
was to be led to the slaughter, it was Daniel who assumed the butcher’s
apron and armed himself with the deadly knife. When a wretched
scribbler was, in vulgar phraseology, to be “jumped upon,” honest
Daniel put on his hobnailed boots, and went at the savage operation
with a will. The days were past in which the Edinburgh reviewer
apologized with a gentle courtesy before he ventured to express his
dissent from the opinions of a lady historian. Criticism of to-day
must be racy, at any price. Daniel’s strong arm smote right and left,
cleaving friend and foe indiscriminately asunder; and if it was on a
woman’s head that the blow descended, so much the better. The woman
should have been at home studying her cookery-book, or working that
domestic treadmill, the sewing-machine, instead of jostling her betters
in the literary arena. “Hark forward, tantivy!” cried Daniel the
critic; “run her down, trample her in the mud, make an end of her! She
would quote Greek, would she? Why, the creature can barely spell plain
English! She would prate of gods and goddesses, whose name she picks
haphazard from a cheap abridgment of Lemprière. She would discourse
of fashion and splendour, forsooth, who was “born in a garret, in a
kitchen bred.” Daniel the man was tender and courteous in his treatment
of all womankind; but Daniel the racy essayist knew no mercy.
Daniel the pitiless was one of Mr. Desmond’s most valued coadjutors,
and had received many offers of kindly service from that gentleman; but
the literary Bohemian had refused all.
“A government appointment for me!” he cried, when the popular editor
offered to use his influence with a Cabinet minister in Daniel’s
favour; “why, I should languish in the trammels of an official life.
Regular hours and a regular salary would be the death of me in less
than six months. I was born a dweller in tents, my dear Desmond, and
my instincts are naturally disreputable. I can work seven hours at a
stretch, and produce more copy in a given time than any man in London.
I have been locked up in a room with a wet towel, a bottle of Scotch
whiskey, and half a ream of paper, and have written five-and-thirty
pages of a popular magazine between sunset and sunrise. But I must take
it out in vagabondage afterwards. I am of the stuff which makes your
Savages and your Morlands, and I shall die in a sponging-house when my
time comes, I have no doubt. Nevertheless, I will ask a favour of you
some day, Desmond; but it shall be for somebody better worth serving
than I am.”
Within a week of Eustace Thorburn’s return, Daniel Mayfield presented
himself at the editor’s chambers. He had done no work for the
_Areopagus_ for some little time, and Mr. Desmond was glad to bid
him welcome.
“I’ve been thinking of looking you up for the last three weeks, Dan,”
said the editor, striking his pen across half a page of proof. “What
second-hand twaddle this man writes! We want the sterling metal of your
stylus, old fellow.”
“Any new victim to be flayed alive?” asked Daniel. “I’ve been rather
seedy for the last week or two, and perhaps a little of the old work
will set me right again.”
“You’ll find plenty of material there,” answered Mr. Desmond, pointing
to a heap of cloth-covered volumes. “What have you been doing with
yourself since I saw you last? No good, I suppose,” he added, without
looking up from the proofs on which he was operating.
“Well, no, not much good. It’s a business I shouldn’t care about
repeating; but it’s a business that must be done--it must be done,
Desmond, sooner or later, in every man’s life, I suppose.”
The unwonted gravity of Daniel Mayfield’s tone surprised his friend.
Laurence Desmond looked up from his desk, and for the first time
perceived the change in his erratic contributor’s costume.
“In mourning, Dan! I’m sorry to see that,” he said, gently.
“Yes; I have buried the dearest friend I ever had--my only sister. God
bless her! The _Freethinker’s Quarterly_ people won’t get me to
do any more deistical articles for them, Laurence. I’m a bad fellow
myself, with no opinions in particular about anything in heaven or
earth. How should I have opinions? I’ve sold ’em too often to other
people to have any left for myself. But I like to think that _she_
is in heaven, and I’ll never write a ‘rational’ essay again as long as
I live.”
The two men shook hands upon this, _without_ effusion--as it is
the habit of Englishmen to do.
“And now to business,” said Daniel. “You once offered to get me a
government appointment, and I told you I wasn’t fit for one. I haven’t
forgotten your offer, or the kindness that prompted it. My sister
has left a son--a lad of three-and-twenty. He is clever, honourable,
ambitious, and indefatigable; but, except myself, he has neither friend
nor relative in the world. He has been a tutor in a great Belgian
academy, and the principal will certify his merits. If you can serve
him, Desmond, you will do me treble service.”
“What kind of thing do you want for him?”
“A private tutorship, or the post of secretary to a man worth serving.
The lad is a fair classical scholar, and a good linguist. He is a great
deal more than this into the bargain; but I am so fond of the fellow
that I am afraid of praising him too much.”
“Bring him here to dine to-morrow night,” said Mr. Desmond; “I’ll think
the matter over in the meantime. I dare say I shall hit upon something
to suit him. Why doesn’t he take to this sort of thing?”
The editor of the _Areopagus_ laid his hand upon the proofs.
Daniel Mayfield shook his head sadly.
“Anything but that, Desmond. I don’t want him to be a publisher’s
hack. I don’t want him to put my worn-out old shoes on his brave young
feet, and tread the miry road along which I have travelled. I don’t
want him to make merchandise of his best and purest feelings while the
stock lasts him, and deal in sham sentiments and spurious emotions
when the real ones are worn out. I don’t want him to weep maudlin
tears over philanthropic leaders, or work himself into an unreal fury
over the denunciation of a political measure he has barely had leisure
to consider. I don’t want him to sell his convictions to the highest
bidder--to be Conservative one day, Liberal the next, and Radical the
day after. He’s too good for my work, Desmond, and he’s too good for
my company. When he was old enough to be injured by a bad example, his
poor mother took him away from me--though I was sorry enough to part
with the little rascal, and it went to her heart to give me sorrow. She
is gone now, Desmond, and it is my duty to see that the boy comes to no
harm.”
“Has he any of your talent, Dan?”
“He has something better than my talent, sir,” answered Mayfield,
gravely. “The lad has the soul of a poet, and is destined to be one.
There is real genius there, sir--not the marketable trash I deal in. He
has written verses which have brought the tears into my eyes; consider
that, sir--tears from such a hardened wretch as your Daniel should
count for something. I want some quiet, comfortable position for him,
in which he will have a little leisure to think his own thoughts. I
want him to bide his time; and some day, when his intellect has ripened
and mellowed, the divine breath will inflate his nostrils, and we
shall have a new poet.”
“I think I can get him exactly the sort of thing you want,” answered
Laurence Desmond; “but I must first make sure he is fit for it. Bring
him at half-past seven to-morrow, and let me see if he is worthy of
your praises. You’ll take those books, and send me copy to-morrow, eh?”
Daniel nodded, took the books under his arm, shook hands with his
friend, and departed--departed, with peace and goodwill and all
Christian feelings in his big, generous heart, to annihilate the
luckless wretch who had written a stupid novel.
Daniel and Eustace dined in the Temple the next evening, and sat late
over their wine in the summer twilight. Laurence Desmond was delighted
with the young man. He led him on to talk freely on his own sentiments
and opinions, while Daniel listened with a fond smile to his nephew’s
eloquent discourse. It was pleasant to Mr. Desmond, whose lot had
been cast in that serene and exalted sphere in which there was no
such thing as emotion--it was very pleasant to the popular editor to
come in contact with this fresh, young nature, and to discover that,
even in this age of high-pressure, a man may retain youthfulness of
spirit, faith in his fellow-creatures, pure and poetic aspirations, and
childlike simplicity of feeling, after his twenty-third birthday.
“The young men I know have been used up at nineteen,” thought Laurence;
“and there are hardened wretches of five-and-twenty more _blasé_
than Philip of Orleans at forty-eight.”
From talking of his opinions, Laurence Desmond led Eustace on to talk
of himself and his own experiences; and before Daniel and his nephew
departed, the young man’s future was in some measure provided for.
“A very old and dear friend of mine,” said Mr. Desmond, “has for some
time been in want of a secretary and amanuensis to assist him in the
completion and publication of a great work to which he has devoted
many years of his life--a work which he calls the _History of
Superstition_, and which, I believe, is as dear to him as his only
child. I have been trying to find him the kind of person he wants, but
have hitherto failed most completely. There are plenty of shallow,
flippant young fellows who would like the position well enough, for
the salary will be a decent one, and my friend is the best and kindest
of men; but, until now, I have met no one capable of giving him the
assistance he wants. Your knowledge of languages and your Villebrumeuse
reading--which seems to have been very wisely chosen,--exactly fit you
for the position. If you can tolerate a quiet life in the heart of the
country, I can offer you the situation, Mr. Thorburn, and may conclude
all arrangements with you, on my own responsibility.”
“If your friend is a gentleman, I say ‘Done!’” cried Daniel Mayfield,
heartily; “nothing could be better suited to this boy.”
He laid his hand caressingly on the young man’s shoulder as he spoke.
“And you’ll be safe out of my way, lad,” he murmured, softly, “and I
shall lose my bright-faced boy--so much the better for him, so much the
worse for me!”
“My friend is something more than a gentleman,” answered Laurence
Desmond. “He is a _preux chevalier_. He is the descendant of a
noble old Spanish family--a Frenchman by birth and education, and half
an Englishman by long residence in England. He lives in a picturesque
old house near Windsor, and on the banks of the Thames; such a spot as
one scarcely expects to see out of Creswick’s pictures. I don’t see
much of him, for my life is too busy for friendship; and--and there
are other reasons that keep us asunder,” added Mr. Desmond, with some
slight embarrassment of manner.
“Can you exist in the country, Mr. Thorburn?” he asked presently.
“I love the country so well that I can scarcely exist in London,
except for the sake of my uncle’s society.”
“Which is about the worst thing you can have!” growled Daniel.
“Ah! you are a poet, and a poet should live amongst lonely woods and
sylvan streams. Well, you will be delighted with my friend, Theodore
de Bergerac, and still more delighted with the place he lives in. I’ll
write to him to-morrow, and tell him I’ve found the blue diamond of the
nineteenth century, a young man who does not affect to be old. Can you
go to him immediately?”
“M. de Bergerac will no doubt wish to hear from my late employer, the
principal of the Parthenée,” Eustace answered, after some hesitation.
“Not at all. I will be responsible for the character and qualifications
of my old friend’s nephew. There need be no delay on that account,”
said Laurence.
“There need be no delay on any account, then,” exclaimed Daniel; “the
boy is ready to leave London to-morrow, if necessary.”
“I beg your pardon, Uncle Dan. Unless M. de Bergerac really wants me
immediately, I should be glad of a week’s delay,” said Eustace, with
considerable embarrassment. “I have some business to do before I leave
London.”
“Business!” cried Daniel; “what business?”
“I will tell you all about it by and by, Uncle Dan.”
“My friend has waited six months, and he can afford to wait another
week,” said Laurence, good-naturedly. “Come and see me when your
business is finished, Mr. Thorburn.”
“Good-night, and thank you, Desmond,” said Daniel, wringing his
friend’s hand with muscular heartiness. “I told you that a favour to
him is thrice a favour to me; and if ever I have a chance of proving
that I meant what I said, I won’t let the opportunity slip.”
When the two men had left the Temple, and were walking homewards
through quiet back-streets, Daniel Mayfield turned sharply upon his
nephew.
“What the deuce is to keep you in London for a week, Eustace?” he asked.
“I want to go to Bayham, Uncle Dan, to make some inquires that may help
me.”
Daniel laid his hand on the young man’s arm.
“Drop that, lad,” he said, earnestly. “I’ve thought about it for
twenty years to no end. No good will ever come of it--nothing but
disappointment and vexation, shame and sorrow. Forget the past, and
start fair; the world is all before you. You have got your chance now.
Desmond is a friend worth having; and this man De Bergerac may be a
good friend too, if you serve him well. Wipe out the memory of that
old story, my lad. Your father has chosen to ignore you; ignore him,
and cry quits. The day may come when he’ll hear your name, and regret
that he has forfeited the right to call you his son. Don’t waste your
thoughts upon him, Eustace. The man may be dead and gone for aught we
know. Let him rest.”
“And my mother’s wrongs--are they to be forgotten? Do you remember
the other evening in Highgate Cemetery, Uncle Dan? You thought I was
praying, perhaps, when I knelt by my mother’s grave; but I was not
praying. On my knees beside that newly laid turf I swore to be revenged
on the man who blighted the life of her who lies beneath it. I must
find that man, Uncle Daniel, and you must help me to find him.”
“Was there no clue to his identity to be found in those letters?” asked
Daniel, after a pause.
“Only one, and that a very slight one. He had written a book,--a book
which seems to have been popular, and which my poor mother was reading
when first he saw her. Can you remember any particular book which
attracted attention in ’43?”
“No, my lad; my memory is not good enough for that. There are people
who might be able to remember, and there are literary papers that might
help you. But scarcely a year goes by in which there are not a dozen
books that make some slight sensation. This must have been a woman’s
book, though,--a poem or a novel, or something of that kind,--or your
mother would scarcely have been reading it.”
“The book was published either anonymously or under some _nom de
plume_,” said Eustace; “and even if I discover the right book, I may
not be able to identify it with the writer. So you see the clue is a
very poor one. I shall go to Bayham, Uncle Dan. Accident may help me to
some better clue than the letters afford. The man was staying at the
George Hotel; I may make some discovery there. He speaks of a Miss K.,
a friend and confidante of my mother. Can you tell me who she was?”
“Sarah Kimber!” cried Daniel,--“undoubtedly Sarah Kimber, a girl whose
father kept a linendraper’s shop, and who went to school with Celia. My
poor sister and she were fast friends; but I never could endure her.
She was a lank, lantern-jawed, whitey-brown girl, and I always thought
her deceitful. Good God! how the old time comes back as you talk to me!
I can see the little parlour at Bayham, and those two girls seated side
by side on an old-fashioned chintz-covered sofa, with an open window
and a green trellis-work of honeysuckle and jasmine behind them. I
can see it all, Eustace, as fresh and vivid as a picture at a private
view--Celia so bright and lovely; that Kimber girl an unconscious foil
to her beauty.”
“Do you know if this Miss Kimber is still alive?”
“No, lad. Bayham may lie fathoms deep beneath the sea, like the mystic
city of Lyonesse, for anything I know. I have never been there since
the day of my mother’s funeral.”
“I shall try to find Miss Kimber, Uncle Dan. She may be able to tell me
a great deal.”
“As you will, dear boy. If you took poor old Dan’s advice, you would
let the story rest. But youth is fiery and impetuous, and must take its
own course. If ever you do find _that man_, Eustace, let me know
his name, for he and I have a heavy reckoning to settle.”