FROM FOREIGN PARTS.
"I have come from lands fantastic,
Which the desert sands environ,
Where the Koran's laws adrastic
Bind the soul in chains of iron.
"All the land is full of magic,
Danger 'neath delight reposes,
Love is fierce and dark and tragic.
Cypress mingles with the roses."
It was Eustace Gartney in the flesh, returned to quiet old England
after his perilous wanderings in distant lands beyond the verge of
civilization, and Otterburn felt most unaccountably glad to see him
once more. Why this should be the case seems somewhat strange, seeing
that they had tired of one another in their former intimacy, and
parted with mutual satisfaction, yet in the heart of each there lurked
a kindly feeling which cast a certain glamour round their old
friendship, and made them mutually glad to meet again.
Otterburn shook the hand of his former Mentor with [* * *] pleasure,
thrust him into the most comfortable chair in the room, and prepared
to ask a series of breathless [* * *] as to all that had taken place
since their parting at [* * *] many months ago. Eustace, on his part,
felt a [* * *] this enthusiastic reception, and was glad to think that
at least one friend remembered him in a kindly manner.
They had both changed in outward appearance since their last meeting,
Gartney being much thinner than formerly, but his face, lean and
brown, still retained its dreamy expression, which was, indeed,
deepened by his habit of thoughtful self-communings in solitary
deserts. For the rest, he was as badly dressed as ever, being now
arrayed in a loose suit of grey home-spun, which would have startled
the accurately dressed denizens of St. James' Street on the person of
any one else but Eustace Gartney. But, then, he was a privileged
person, and, as his poetic book of travels had rendered him more
famous than ever, his former friends greeted him heartily, all of
which greetings, although kindly meant, Eustace estimated in a cynical
fashion at their proper value, until genuinely touched by the boyish
and demonstrative affection of Otterburn.
That young man, on his part, had wonderfully improved from the slender
boy of eighteen months before, for, although the space of time seems
short, Macjean was at that age when the change from adolescence to
manhood is very sudden and very marked. The semi-uncivilized life he
had led had also a great deal to do with the shaping of his physical
characteristics, and he was more manly, more self-reliant, and more
matured in every way than the unformed youth from whom Eustace had
parted. A heavy moustache adorned his upper lip, he carried himself in
a dashing, self-confident manner, and the tones of his voice were
deeper and more mellow than formerly. Still he retained that boyish,
impulsive manner that had so fascinated the cynical man of the world,
and Eustace looked upon him approvingly, as he leaned forward in his
chair, with eager eyes and parted lips, anxious to hear all about the
elder man's adventures.
"What a jolly time you've had, Gartney!" said Otterburn, gaily, "but,
by Jove, what a queer fish you are. You started for a month's tour in
Cyprus, and you end up by a year and a half's exploration of Arabia."
"The seductive influence of travel drew me onward," replied Gartney,
crossing his legs and folding his hands. "After all you might as well
have come with me that time at Venice, instead of going off to Central
Europe."
"Oh, I've been to America since then."
"Yes, so I heard. Same man you went that Carpathian trip with?"
"Yes. Awfully good sort of fellow, but a mania for wild life. He was
here a few minutes ago, wanting me to start off to Africa on another
expedition."
"And you, being very comfortably settled here, declined."
"Rather! I like breathing time you know. Will you have a cigarette?"
said Angus, holding out his open case.
"No, thank you. I've contracted the vice of pipe-smoking," replied
Eustace, producing a well-worn briar-root, and filling it leisurely.
"You've got very pleasant rooms here."
"Yes, are they not? I bought the whole box and dice just as they stand
from Bamfield. Got them at a bargain, much to the delight of Johnnie."
"Is Johnnie still with you?"
"Of course! he's part and parcel of my life, and circumnavigated the
globe with me, like a Scotch Sir Francis Drake. Do you want a light?
Here you are."
He struck a match, and handed it to Eustace, who lighted his pipe, and
then leaned contentedly back in his chair, listening to the vivacious
chatter of the young man.
"Of course you know your book has been a great success," said
Otterburn, pointing to a copy on the table, "there it is. I got it as
soon as it was published. Some of the critics, however, have been
giving it fits, especially the chapter called 'The Puritans of
Islam.'"
"Indeed! And what do the critics know about the Wahhabees?" asked
Eustace, with calm surprise.
"According to their own showing, everything."
"Ah, we all know the omniscience of critics! They are truly wonderful
men, before whose vast experience and knowledge I remain dumb. And the
rapidity of their work, their marvellous grasp of every subject in
literature, from a Child's Primer to a novel of George Meredith's.
Nothing appalls them, nothing daunts them. Oh, what wonderful men they
are! truly wonderful, so calm, so learned, so kind-hearted. Why do you
know, Macjean, I met a critic once who thought nothing of Dickens as
an author! Think of that! Think of the wonderful mind of that man who
could afford to speak contemptuously about one of the master spirits
of the age."
"Did he write books himself?" asked Otterburn, shrewdly, at which
Eustace looked at him in grave reproof.
"Of course not," he replied quietly, "he was a most self-denying man.
He did write one novel I believe, but it was so far in advance of our
present age that the publisher was afraid to print it--fancy that, a
publisher afraid! Well, it was so, and now this critic only reviews
other people's books--what self-denial. And then his decisions. Why he
makes up his mind about a book, that has taken months to write, in
five minutes. I've known him analyse a book without cutting the leaves
to read it. Of course it is marvellous, simply marvellous, but our age
is prolific in such clever men. I've met many such, and always felt
like a whipped schoolboy before their calm, clear gaze. If you boil
down twenty of our best authors you may make one critic, but then it's
quality not quantity."
"I thought you did not like critics?"
"Not like critics, my dear fellow?" said Eustace sweetly, "why they
are my dearest friends, my best benefactors. They always read my
books, and give half an hour to each, actually a whole half hour. What
friendship! And then, you know, they are so kind, they point out all
my mistakes, and if I copy any ideas of foreign authors, they always
look them up to see if I have done so correctly, and mention
it--really mention it--in their articles. If there is anything naughty
in my chapters, they reprove me, oh, so kindly, and tell the public
where to look for the worst bits. And then they are so modest; they
never tell me they wrote these articles, when I meet them in society.
I always put my name to my books, they never do to their articles, and
yet my books are full of mistakes which they try to correct for me."
"How kind of them?"
"Yes, is it not? I wish I was a critic, Angus, instead of a poor
author. I am always wrong, you know, and they are constantly right,
but then I don't know so much as they do. When I write a book I've to
see things for myself, but they can sit down and correct me without
going outside the four walls of their study. What a pity Shakespeare
had not critics in his day! They would have pointed out all the
defects in Hamlet, and good-naturedly corrected Lear for him. I
daresay they would have shown him how to improve his blank verse. It
does need improving, you know, because I heard a poet say so the other
day. A real poet, much better than Browning or Tennyson, only he
wasn't known so well. Just twenty-two years of age, and yet could talk
like that--wonderful. But don't speak any more about critics, because
I'm so fond of them that I could praise them for hours. Let us talk of
meaner things. Tell me all the news of the day, the scandals of the
hour, the gossip of the drawing-rooms, and stories of clubs."
"Faith, I don't know that I've much to tell you," said Otterburn
candidly. "I've been on the war-path as well as yourself, so am just
an ignorant of town as you are."
Gartney smoked on quietly for a few moments, and then suddenly asked
the question nearest his heart:
"What about the Erringtons, Macjean?"
"I haven't the least idea," replied Angus carelessly, "as I have not
seen them since you did at Como. I believe they are still living at
their place in the country, and that Lady Errington has presented her
husband with a son and heir."
"Yes, I heard that," said Gartney, with a slight smile. "I wonder if
my prophecy has come true?"
"Eh!--what prophecy?"
"About the Incomplete Madonna."
"Oh, yes, I remember now," responded Otterburn indolently, "you said
she was unfinished, didn't you? Well, I suppose she's happy now, as
she has gained her heart's desire and become a mother."
"I've no doubt she's happy," said Eustace significantly; "but what
about her husband?"
"I'm sure I don't know! You seem to take a great interest in the
Erringtons?"
Eustace flushed a little under the bronze colour of his skin, and
moved uneasily in his seat.
"Do I? A mere whim, I assure you, to see if my prophecy about the
incomplete Madonna turns out correct. But never mind, I'm going to
call on Aunt Jelly this afternoon, and she'll give me more accurate
information than you can. Have you met Aunt Jelly yet?"
"No! You forget I told you I have been away from England also,"
answered Otterburn stiffly.
"True! I forgot that, but you see my dear relations haven't written a
word to me since I've been away, and I'm obliged to ask a stranger for
information. Is Aunt Jelly's ward married yet?"
"No; she is still Miss Sheldon."
"You were rather fond of her, were you not?"
"So fond of her that I asked her to be my wife at Como, and she
refused me."
"I guessed as much," replied Eustace calmly; "however, that was merely
a boyish fancy."
"I beg your pardon. No!"
"Indeed! You don't mean to say you are in love with Victoria Sheldon
still?"
Otterburn arose to his feet with an angry laugh, and began to walk
slowly to and fro with his hands in his pockets.
"Is there anything so extraordinary in that? I loved Miss Sheldon and
she refused to marry me, so I tried to forget her. Well, I haven't
forgotten her, and I've come back to Town expressly to ask her to be
my wife. I daresay I'm a fool, but you're not in love, and cannot
understand the feeling."
"Can I not!" answered Gartney serenely, thinking of Lady Errington,
"well, I don't know so much about that. Have you met Miss Sheldon
yet?"
"No.
"That doesn't sound like an eager lover."
"I daresay it doesn't," retorted Angus coolly, "but you see I've
learnt sense since my first rebuff, and now gang warily, as the Scotch
say. I'm not going to let Miss Sheldon see I care two straws about her
till I find out the state of her feelings towards me."
"Astute diplomatist!--then I suppose you won't call with me on my
respected aunt?"
"And meet Miss Sheldon!--hardly! I'm going to wait till I see her at a
fancy-dress ball Mrs. Veilsturm gives shortly."
"Oh!" said Eustace, removing his pipe, "is that lady still in the
flesh?"
"Very much so, indeed According to Mr. Adolphus Thambits--of whom
you've no doubt heard--her house is quite a fashionable centre."
Gartney made a gesture of disgust, and arose to his feet.
"Good Lord! what are we coming to? I thought people would have found
out Mrs. Veilsturm and her scamp of a Major long ago. I met them last
time I was in London. I suppose they still have the little Sunday
evenings, and talk about the West Indian estates?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Humph! I should not have thought Aunt Jelly would have let her ward
visit Mrs. Veilsturm."
"Why not? She is in the odour of sanctity--no one knows her little
peccadilloes, or, if they do, don't talk about them. I suppose few
people except the initiated know about the real business of those
Sunday evenings. Mrs. Veilsturm is all white--on the surface--so not
even her dearest friend can throw mud at her."
"You are getting quite eloquent, Otterburn," observed Eustace smiling;
"I suppose, when you're married and settled we'll hear of you in
Parliament."
"I'm not married and settled yet!--perhaps I never will be," replied
Otterburn gloomily.
"You don't seem very hopeful," remarked Eustace, with gentle sarcasm,
"but as you won't come to Aunt Jelly's, suppose I play the part of
Cupid's messenger, and find out how the land lies with Victoria
Sheldon."
"Oh, if you only would," cried Angus eagerly; "but no! I'm afraid
there's not much chance for me. I daresay she has forgotten I ever
existed."
"Oh, if that is the case I'll soon improve her memory! Cheer up--while
there's life there's hope."
"Not always," responded Angus gloomily, "particularly in this case. I
called her a coquette last time we parted."
"No doubt she fully deserved the name, if I remember rightly," said
Eustace drily, putting on his hat, "and she'll remember you for that
out of spite."
"Well, do what you like, Gartney," replied Otterburn, grasping his
friend's hand, "I'm awfully glad to see you safe and sound once more.
When will you look me up again?"
"I'm not quite sure! I've got to see Aunt Jelly first--my lawyers
second--about a dozen tradesmen, to make myself respectable, and then
I am going to run down home for a few days."
"I didn't know you had a home."
"Oh, yes!--the cot where I was born, and all that kind of thing. A
tumble-down old place, looking out on to the German Ocean."
"Well, don't let me lose sight of you yet," said Macjean, accompanying
his guest to the door.
"No!--by-the-way, I'll come back and tell you my impressions of Miss
Sheldon, and you can shape your course accordingly--in love with the
same woman for eighteen months! Good Lord! what constancy! Ah, Johnnie
and how are you?"
"Brawly! Brawly! thank ye for speiring, sir," replied Mr. Armstrong,
who stood holding the door open, "may I tac' the leeberty of
obsairving, sir, that ye look a wee bit brown, it's the weather na
doot."
"Not a bit of it, Johnnie--the sun, my man, the sun."
"Hech! Hech! Au thocht it was the dochter," replied Johnnie, laughing
at his own wit.
Eustace did not take offence, as Johnnie's dour ways rather amused
him, so he laughed also and departed, while Angus went back to his
dressing-room to get ready for paying a round of visits.