Fradley had delicate tastes. His rooms were hung with pale green
draperies, tidies lay on every divan, and his initials were embroidered
on his pillow shams. He worked very little at the studio.
“It is not necessary,” he told Garland; “mere painting doesn’t make an
artist,—it’s experience; an artist must be broad!” So Fradley began
the process of broadening by going to theatres, concerts, exhibitions
and museums. He also presented letters of introduction to families who
maintained nourishing tables. There was one thing about him that Garland
could not understand. Fradley was thin, very thin, but he ate ravenously,
and Garland, eyeing him from his meagre face to his spindle shanks,
wondered why he did not grow stouter.
“It’s most extraordinary,” he said to Carrington, “the fellow eats like a
pig and grows thin on it. It’s very disagreeable to me. I wish he’d stop
coming in here every evening.”
“You’re too severe on him,” said Carrington.
“I am? Well just wait until he begins visiting you with a roll of
manuscript poems to read. By Jove, he nearly drives me idiotic!”
“Oh, he’s a very decent fellow,” said Carrington; “he’s a man of splendid
morals—”
“—According to himself,” said Garland. “Since he arrived in the Quarter
he has not missed an evening in telling us how he scorns the immoral
students of this immoral Quarter, and how innocent and pure he is
himself. I take no stock in that sort of thing. You and I are morally
decent, but we don’t sound trumpets on that account.”
Carrington was silent for a moment, then he said diffidently; “I’m
rather sorry for him; he isn’t popular, you know. I think we ought to be
friendly to him.”
“It’s his own fault that he is unpopular.”
“Perhaps so; anyway I might as well tell you that he asked us to come to
see him to-night. I accepted.”
“Good heavens,” groaned Garland, “he’s sure to read us a poem.”
“What of it?”
“Oh, I can stand it if you can. I’m tired and cross, but if you have
accepted that settles it.”
“It’s nine o’clock,” said Carrington, glancing at his watch, “we might as
well go now and get away early. I’m dead tired myself. Come on, old chap,
and face the music. We nouveaux should stick together!”
“You’re d——n democratic for an aristocrat,” laughed Garland, following
him across the hallway to Fradley’s door. They found Fradley sitting
before the piano. He could not play the piano, but he had an enervating
habit of striking single notes with one finger which filled Garland with
murderous inclinations.
“Ah!” said Fradley in affected surprise, “Garland?—and Lord Ronald
Carrington—”
“How are you, Fradley,” said Carrington hastily, “trot out your verses,
for Garland and I are going to sport our oak directly—we’re dead beat
from the studio concour.”
Carrington had worked modestly in the Quarter for months, living under
his name of Carrington with no prefix, for he hated notoriety and fuss,
and was perfectly aware that a fuss would be made over him if people
discovered him to be identical with the young Lord Carrington who led his
company so gallantly in Burmah, He had resigned from the service to study
art, and he worked hard and faithfully to make up for lack of ability. It
took Fradley to discover his title and identity and, much to Carrington’s
chagrin, he spread the glad news and fell down and worshipped.
“Come,” said Garland, “let’s hear your verses. Got anything to smoke?”
“You may smoke,” murmured Fradley, in a trance before Carrington, “for
Lord Carrington smokes—”
“For goodness, sake call me Carrington,” said Ronald, “and give us some
tobacco will you?”
Fradley produced his tobacco and then began to glide about the room
tidying things, arranging knick-knacks, dusting albums, until Garland
shuddered.
“Come, Fradley,” he said, as amiably as he could, “trot out your grog
and poetry and let’s get to bed. You know we only have to-morrow on the
concour and we must get up early.”
Fradley tripped over to the piano, found his manuscript, tripped back
again to the fireplace, sat down, throwing one lank leg over the other,
and coughed gently.
“It’s only a trifle—a little thing I finished to-night. Let me read it to
you.”
Garland, aghast at the bulky manuscript, lighted a cigar and gave himself
up to gloom. Carrington settled back in his chair and determined to enjoy
it.
“It is entitled, ‘The Kiss of Sin,’” observed Fradley.
“Oh, fin-de-siècle?” inquired Carrington.
“I thought you were opposed to immorality,” said Garland.
“This is moral!” gasped Fradley, “do you think I would—”
“No—no! go on, old fellow,” said Carrington.
“For Heaven’s sake,” muttered Garland.
Then with a smile the poet began:
“Her burnished hair is red as flame,
Her red lips burn like fire,
And she has pressed the kiss of shame,
Upon my lips. Am I to blame?
Away, bold siren! Learn to tame
Thy culpable desire!”
“Now is that immoral?” asked Fradley.
Ronald was dozing, eyes wide open.
“No,” said Garland, “that’s harmless; go on,” and he curled himself up in
the arm-chair and thought of Sara La Rousse. The poem was in cantos and
they were numerous. Some cantos were tearful, some tempestuous. Many paid
beautiful tribute to temperance, such as the verse beginning:
“Away! away! with the rose-wreathed cup!”
A little further along, Fradley’s morals tottered, for the lines,
“Oh, never shall lips of mine be pressed
To thy wicked mouth or thy sinful breast!”
were almost immediately followed by:
“Beautiful creature, fly with me!
I’ll build thee a house ’neath the hawthorn tree.”
“I thought you said you gave her the shake!” interrupted Garland
querulously. Carrington woke up at the same moment and looked terribly
ashamed of himself.
“Very charming,” he murmured, “it’s about Sara, isn’t it?”
Fradley blushed. “Oh, no—er—it’s only a poetic fancy.”
“Any red-headed girl—eh?” said Garland rising; “well, I am awfully
obliged to you,—we’ll have the rest of it soon I hope—come along, Ronald.”
Fradley accompanied them to the door.
“Are you going to that—that orgie at the Bal Bullier on Mi-Carême?” he
asked.
“I am,” said Garland.
“Are you?” he asked of Carrington.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so; everybody else is going.”
“And do you think it right?”
“No—it’s not decent; you would not enjoy it,” said Garland with a
malicious smile. “Don’t go.”
“I don’t know—I don’t know,” murmured Fradley; “an artist must be broad—”
“Especially when he’s abroad—”
“Oh, come on!” grumbled Carrington,—“good night, Fradley, awfully obliged
you know.”
The poet entered his boudoir and lighting a wax candle looked at himself
in the mirror. He smoothed his love-locks, touched his lips with
glycerine, and crawling into an embroidered night-shirt sank languidly
upon the bed, pulling the silken coverlet over his ears. Then he began to
think of Sara.