CHAPTER I

Produced by C. P. Boyko

A Practical Novelist

by

John Davidson

Author of 'Perfervid,' 'Scaramouch in Naxos,' etc.

London

Ward & Downey

York Street, Covent Garden

1891

CONTENTS

I. Bagging a Hero

II. The Suitor and the Sued

III. On the Road

IV. A 'Heavy' Father

V. The Art of Proposing

VI. Lee Enjoys Himself

VII. The Unexpected

VIII. Briscoe Sees Things in a New Light

IX. Dempster Apologizes

X. The Night Breeze

XI. Conclusion

CHAPTER I

BAGGING A HERO

'WELL, but the novel is played out, Carry. It has run to seed.

Anybody can get the seed; anybody can sow it. If it goes on at

this rate, novel-writers will soon be in a majority, and

novel-reading will become a lucrative employment.'

'What are you going to do, then, Maxwell? Here's Peter out of

work, and my stitching can't support three.'

The three in question were Maxwell Lee, his wife Caroline, and her

brother, Peter Briscoe. Lee was an unsuccessful literary man; his

brother-in-law, Briscoe, an unsuccessful business-man. Caroline,

on the other hand, was entirely successful in an arduous endeavour

to be a man, hoping and working for all three.

We have nothing whatever to do with the past of these people. We

start with the conversation introduced in the first sentence.

Caroline had urged on Lee the advisability of accepting an offer

from the editor of a country weekly. But Lee, who had composed

dramas and philosophical romances which no publisher, nor editor

could be got to read, refused scornfully the task of writing an

'ordinary, vulgar, sentimental and sensational story of the kind

required.'

'What am I going to do?' he said. 'I'll tell you: I am going to

create a novel. Practical joking is the new novel in its infancy.

The end of every thought is an action; and the centuries of

written fiction must culminate in an age of acted fiction. We

stand upon the threshold of that age, and I am destined to open

the door.'

Caroline sighed, and Briscoe shot out his underlip: evidence that

they were accustomed to this sort of thing.

Lee continued: 'You shall collaborate with me in the production of

this novel. Think of it! Novel-writing is effete; novel-creation

is about to begin. We shall cause a novel to take place in the

world. We shall construct a plot; we shall select a hero; we shall

enter into his life, and produce the series of events before

determined on. Consider for a minute. We can do nothing else now.

The last development, the naturalist school, is a mere copying, a

bare photographing of life--at least, that is what it professes to

be. This is not art. There can never be an art of novel-writing.

But there can be--there shall be, you will aid me to begin the art

of novel-creation.'

'Do you propose to make a living by it?' inquired Briscoe.

'Certainly.'

Briscoe rose, and without comment left the house. Caroline looked

at her husband with a glance of mingled pity and amusement.

'Why are you so fantastic?' she asked softly.

'You laugh at my idea now, because you do not see it as I see it.

Wait till it is completely developed before you condemn it.'

Caroline made no reply; but went on with her sewing. Lee threw

himself at full length on a rickety sofa and closed his eyes.

Besides the sofa, two chairs and a table, a rag of carpet before

the fire-place, a shelf with some books of poetry and novels, and

an old oil-painting in a dark corner, made up the furniture of the

room. There were three other apartments, a kitchen and two

bedrooms, all as scantily furnished. The house was in the top flat

of a four-storey land in Peyton Street, Glasgow.

Lee dozed and dreamed. Caroline sewed steadily. An hour elapsed

without a word from either. Then both were aroused by the noisy

entrance of Briscoe, who, having let himself into the house by his

latch-key, strode into the parlour with a portmanteau in either

hand. He thrashed these down on the floor with defiant emphasis,

and said, frowning away a grin: 'Your twin-brother's traps, Lee.

I'll bring _him_ upstairs, too.'

He went out immediately, as if afraid of being recalled.

'Your twin-brother!' exclaimed Mrs. Lee. 'I never heard of him.'

'And I hear of him for the first time.'

They waited in amazement the return of Briscoe. Soon an irregular

and shuffling tread sounded from the stair; and in a minute he and

a cabman entered the parlour, bearing between them what seemed the

lifeless body of a man. This they placed on the sofa. The cabman

looked about him curiously; but, being apparently satisfied with

his fare, withdrew.

When he was gone, Briscoe spoke: 'This is the first chapter of

your novel, Lee. Something startling to begin with, eh?'

'What do you mean?'

'I've bagged a hero for you.'

'Bagged a hero!'

'Yes; kidnapped a millionaire in the middle of Glasgow in broad

daylight. Here's how it happened: one instant I saw a man with his

head out of a cab-window, shouting to the driver; the next, the

cab-door, which can't have been properly fastened, sprang open,

and the man was lying in the street. On going up to him, I said to

myself, "Maxwell Lee, as I'm a sinner!" You're wonderfully like,

even when I look at your faces alternately. Well, I shouted in his

ear, "Chartres! Chartres!" seeing his name in his hat which had

fallen off, and pretending to know him perfectly. I felt so mad at

you and your absurd notions of creating novels, that, without

thinking of the consequences, I got him into the cab again, told

the policeman that he was my brother-in-law, and drove straight

here. It was all done so suddenly, and I assumed such confidence,

that the police did not so much as demand my address. Of course,

if you don't want to have anything to do with him, I suppose we

can make it out a case of mistaken identity.'

'Who is he, I wonder?' said Lee, whose eyes were sparkling.

'There's his name and address,' replied Briscoe, pointing to the

portmanteaus.

Lee read aloud: '"Mr. Henry Chartres, Snell House, Gourock, N.B."'

He then pressed his head in both hands, knit his brows, tightened

his mouth, and regarded the floor for fully a minute.

As soon as Chartres had been laid on the sofa, Caroline wiped the

mud from his face and hands. There was not a cushion in the room,

but she brought two pillows from her own bed, and with them

propped the head and shoulders of the unconscious man. While Lee

was still contemplating the floor, she said, 'We must get a doctor

at once.'

Lee's response was a muttered 'Yes, yes;' but the question brought

him nearer the facts of the case than he had been since Briscoe

explained his motive in possessing himself of Mr. Chartres.

'A doctor!' repeated Caroline.

'Of course, of course,' said Lee, approaching the sofa for the

first time. He studied the still unconscious face while Caroline

and Briscoe watched him: the first wondering that he should seem

to hesitate to send for a doctor, and the other with an

incredulous curiosity. Briscoe, an ill-natured, half-educated man,

had been seized by a sudden inspiration on seeing the likeness

between Chartres and his brother-in-law. He thought to overset

Lee's new idea by showing him its impracticability. He believed

that failure had unhinged his brother-in-law's mind; and knew for

certain that no argument could possibly avail. He trusted that by

introducing Chartres under such extraordinary circumstances into

what he regarded as Lee's insane waking dream the gross absurdity

of it--absurd at least in his impecunious state--would become

apparent to him. Having once unfixed this idea, he hoped, with the

help of Mrs. Lee, to force his acceptance of the commission for

the country weekly. The result was not going to be what he

expected. Lee was taking his brother's collaboration seriously. A

childish smile of wonder and delight overspread his features, as

his likeness to Chartres appeared more fully, in his estimation,

upon a detailed examination. He got a looking-glass, and compared

the two faces, placing the mirror so that the reflection of his

lay as if he had rested his head on Chartres' shoulder. Thick,

soft, grey hair, inclined still to curl, and divided on the left

side; a broad forehead, perpendicular for an inch above the

eyebrows, then sloping inordinately to the beginning of the hair;

eyebrows distinctly marked, but not heavy; a well-formed nose,

rather long, and approaching the aquiline; full, curved lips; the

mouth not small, but liker a woman's than a man's; the chin,

almost feminine, little and rounded; the cheeks smooth, and the

face clean shaved. There was no doubt that the men might have been

twins, and that their most intimate associates would have been

constantly mistaking them.

'It's wonderful--wonderful, Peter!' said Lee. 'What a brilliant

stroke of yours this is!'

'But the doctor, Maxwell!' cried Caroline, who was becoming

impatient.

'Perhaps we'll not need one,' replied her husband. 'See, he's

coming round!'

Chartres began to move uneasily; the blood dawned in his cheeks;

and his breathing grew more vigorous. He opened his eyes and

attempted to raise his head; but a twinge of pain forced a groan

from him, and he again fainted.

'We must get him into bed, in the first place,' said Lee.

With much difficulty this was accomplished. Then Caroline renewed

her demand for a doctor; but her husband, professing to have some

skill in medicine, declared himself able to treat Chartres, who

seemed to have fallen on the top of his head. Cold water, he

assured his wife, would soon remove the effects of the concussion.

Briscoe also said that there was no need for a doctor. Mrs. Lee

did not feel called on to dispute the point; and was about to

resume the cold applications, when it struck her, for the first,

how very extraordinary a thing it was that this stranger should be

in their house.

'Why is he here?' she cried. 'What are you going to do with him?'

'We are going to make use of him in our story, my dear,' said Lee,

mildly. 'We will not do him any harm, but we may keep him prisoner

here for a little.'

'How cruel! Besides, it would be a crime,' remonstrated his wife.

Lee answered very calmly, but with a consuming fire in his eyes:

'We'll not be cruel if we can possibly help it; and, as for its

being criminal, surely no novel is complete without a crime. At

the start of this new departure in the art of fiction we will be

much hampered in its exercise by scruples and fears of this kind.

Some of us may even require to be martyrs. For example: should it

be necessary in the course of the story to commit a forgery or a

murder, it is not to be expected that the world will allow the

crime to pass unpunished. But once the veracity and nobility, the

magnanimity and self-sacrifice, which shall characterise this art

and the professors of it, have raised the tone of the world, we

shall be granted, I doubt not, the most cordial permission to

execute atrocities, which, committed selfishly, would brand the

criminal as an unnatural monster, but which, performed for art's

sake, will redound everlastingly to the credit of the artist.'

Mrs. Lee looked helplessly at her brother, who whispered to her,

'Leave him to me. I'll make it all right.'

The two men then returned to the parlour, leaving Caroline to wait

on Chartres.

Briscoe having cooled down, began to examine the possibilities of

good and evil which might spring to himself from his dealing with

Chartres. Entered on impulsively as little more than a practical

joke; achieved so far with an apparent absolute success--a success

which he now felt to be the most remarkable thing about it--this

adventure, as he now viewed it, opened up a field for his

enterprise which might produce wheat or tares according to his

husbandry. He lit a pipe, stretched himself on the sofa, and,

closing his eyes, concentrated his thoughts on the remarkable

incident which he had brought about.

Lee, whose presence Briscoe had ignored, began to pace the room

the moment his brother-in-law's eyes were shut. The stealthy,

cat-like glance which he threw at Briscoe expanded to a blaze of

triumph as, in one of his turns across the floor, he seized both

portmanteaus, and, without accelerating his pace, walked into the

unoccupied bedroom, the door of which he locked as softly as he

could. Being relieved by Lee's withdrawal, Briscoe gave himself a

shake on the sofa, and proceeded with his cogitation.

In the meantime Chartres had revived again. He was unable to use

his tongue, but signed by opening his mouth that he wished to eat

and drink. He nibbled a little toast and drank some water. He then

surveyed the room and his nurse with close attention, and twice

attempted to speak; but, failing to produce any other sound than a

sigh, he turned his face to the wall and fell asleep.

Caroline went at once to the parlour, where, of course, she found

her brother alone.

'Peter,' she said, 'what do you wish to do with this poor man?'

Briscoe uttered an exclamation of irritation and sat up to reply.

'What should we do with him?' he snarled crustily. 'Nothing, I

suppose. Send him---- Where the devil are the portmanteaus?'

'And where's Maxwell?'

Briscoe was in the lobby immediately.

'Here's his hat!' he cried. 'He's not gone off.'

Before he had time to try the door of the room into which Lee had

shut himself it opened, and that gentleman came forth. He was

scented, gloved, and dressed in a black broadcloth suit, which had

evidently never been worn before. He smiled to his brother-in-law,

kissed his wife, and stepped jauntily into the parlour. They

followed, amazed and silent.

'I am Henry Chartres,' he said, drawing a handful of bank-notes

from a bulky purse and offering them to Caroline. Briscoe snatched

them eagerly, and stowed them in his breast-pocket. At that moment

the doorbell rang with a violent peal that paralysed the three. A

visit at any moment was an unusual thing in their household; but

Caroline, as she went to open the door, experienced a greater

perturbation than she knew how to account for; and her feeling of

dread was not lessened when the cabman, who had helped her brother

to carry Chartres upstairs, and two policemen entered without

ceremony. They walked past her into the parlour.

'Well, constable,' said Lee, addressing the foremost of the two

officers, 'what's the matter?'

The constable turned to the cabman, and the cabman looked

bewildered. When in the house before he had noticed the striking

similarity between Lee and Chartres, and also the great apparent

disparity between the social condition of his fare and that of the

latter's professed relation. On returning to his stand, he

communicated his doubts to the policemen who had been present at

the accident. These two sapient Highlanders, after considerable

discussion, concluded to call at the house to which the cabman had

driven, and, if they found nothing suspicious, excuse their visit

in any way suggested. The imaginations of the three had behaved in

a felonious manner on the road. Peyton Street had certainly not

the cleanest of reputations; and the cabman had got the length of

arresting Briscoe's hand in the act of chopping up Chartres' left

leg--being the last entire member of his body--when he met the man

himself, as he supposed, smiling and as fresh as a daisy.

'We came to see how you were, sir,' said one of the policemen at

last.

'Oh, I'm all right now,' said Lee, putting his hand in his pocket.

'I believe you assisted me when I fell. I'll see you downstairs,'

with a nod which the constables understood as it was meant. 'I

want you,' he said to the cabman, 'to drive me to St. Enoch

Station. You'll get my portmanteaus here,' leading him to the

bedroom in which he had changed his dress and name.

'Good-bye, Carry. Good-bye, Peter,' and before his wife and

brother-in-law had recovered from their surprise, he was rattling

away to the station.