_THE CAMPAIGN._
When a few unconsidered trifles have been thrown out at score, to a
middle-aged business man the world is a bundle of shares and bills
receivable. To most young men it is a girl or several girls. For some
girls it is a young man. For some other people it is a church, a bar, a
coterie--for Yardly Gobion it was himself. Realizing this in every
nerve, for the next few weeks he devoted himself to making acquaintances
and impressions.
He did no writing beyond his weekly contribution to _The Pilgrim_, but
went abroad and looked around, making himself a niche before he essayed
anything further. He managed to get about to one or two rather decent
houses, and greatly consolidated his position at the "copy shop." His
idea was to keep quiet till Sturtevant came up to town, for he thought
that very little could stand against such a combination. Accordingly he
had a pleasant time for the next few weeks. His work did not take him
more than four hours a day, and now that his circle of acquaintance was
so much enlarged there was always plenty of amusement. He could always
enjoy the small change of transient emotion by a visit to the church at
Pimlico, where in the lonely services he felt (sometimes for nearly an
hour) a sorrow at his life and a yearning for goodness.
His mental attitude on these occasions was a strange one, and one only
found in people possessing the artistic temperament; for he seemed to
stand aloof, and mourn over the grossness of some dear friend; he could
detach his mind from his own personality, and feel an awful pity for his
own dying soul. Then after these luxurious abandonments, these
delightful lapses into religious sentimentality, he would seize on
pleasure as a monkey seizes on a nut, finding an added zest in the
pursuit of dissipation. One thing in some small degree he noticed, and
that was that this alternation of attitude was slightly weakening his
powers of taste. The sharpest edge of enjoyment seemed blunted.
One night, about a month after his arrival in town, he dined out in
Chelsea with some friends, driving back to his rooms about eleven
o'clock, very much in love with himself. On this particular evening he
had not tried to be smart or clever. There had been several other
ultra-modern young men there; and seeing that the hostess--a charming
person--was wearied of their modernity and smart sayings, he affected
quite another style, pleasing her by his deferential and chivalrous
manner, the simplicity of his conversation. A fresh instance of his
power always tickled his vanity, and he drove home down the Strand, his
soul big with a hideous egoism.
He paid the driver liberally, for he was generous in all small matters,
and opening the door with his latch-key went upstairs. He entered the
room, and to his immeasurable surprise found it brilliantly lit with gas
and candles. On the table was a half-empty bottle of champagne and a
bedroom tumbler.
In a chair on the right side of the fireplace sat Sturtevant in his
shirtsleeves, smoking a cigarette, while on the other side of the fire
was a young lady dressed in the van of the fashion, also smoking. Her
hat was off, and her hair was metallically golden.
"Where--the--devil--did you spring from?" said Gobion.
"My good friend--not before a lady, please," said Sturtevant with a
grin.
The lady waved her cigarette in the air. "Spit it out, old man; don't
mind me!" she said.
Gobion looked helplessly from the lady to Sturtevant and back again.
These things were beyond him.
"Allow me," said Sturtevant. "Mr. Yardly Gobion, Miss--er--I don't know
your name, my dear."
"Me?" said the young lady. "My name don't matter. I'm off; so long,
boys."
"Will you explain?" said Gobion. "I am rather bewildered."
"Well, it's in this way. I got up to town about six this evening, and
went to the Temple. I found my chambers in an excessively filthy state,
with no fire, my laundress not expecting me till to-morrow. I dined at
the 'Monico,' and met that damsel in Piccadilly; and, in short, we have
been spending the evening under your hospitable roof, aided by a bottle
of fizz from the 'Grecian.'"
"I see. Well, if you don't mind, old man, don't bring that sort in. I
like them anywhere but in my rooms. A _demoiselle de trottoir_ should
stay----"
"On the _trottoir_--quite so. I won't offend again; only I wanted
someone to amuse me, and I expected you'd be late. Now look here; can
you put me up for the night? my chambers are in a horrible mess."
"Oh, I should think so; I'll ask the landlady."
At half-past eleven the next morning Gobion got up, after some trouble
getting Sturtevant out of bed; and they began a composite meal which the
president called "brunch" soon after twelve.
Some letters were waiting. One was a pathetic appeal from an Oxford
tailor for "something on account." Gobion said "damn" (the Englishman's
shortest prayer), and threw it into the fire. Another was a letter from
Scott, strong, earnest, and loving. He passed it to Sturtevant, who read
it and said, "Man seems to have kept it a little too long in a hot
place. Trifle high, don't you think?"
The third ran:--
"MY DEAR CARADOC,
"Marjorie and I are coming up for a fortnight to stay with my
mother in Kensington. We hope to see a good deal of you, as you
say you have deserted Oxford for a time to take up some literary
work in London.
"Marjorie tells me to say that you must meet our train--the 4.30
at Victoria, but don't put yourself out.
"Yours affectionately,
"GERALD LOVERING."
"Hallo," said Gobion, "my girl's coming up!"
"Didn't know you had one; has she any money?"
"A little, I think, and her father looks on me as an eligible; he
doesn't know I've been sent down, and I don't intend he shall. I have to
meet the 4.30 this afternoon."
"Well, I wanted to talk over our plans some time to-day. When will you
come to my chambers?"
"This evening, I should think. I must work till four; I've a novel to do
for _The Pilgrim_, and I've not read a line yet."
"Oh, don't bother about that. 'Smell the paper-knife' instead; let's go
to the 'copy shop.'"
"Afraid I can't; I must do it. Look here, I will come round about ten
this evening. Don't be drunk."
"Right oh! I'll go back now and get my rooms into some sort of order."
He rolled a cigarette and roamed about the room, looking for his hat.
"It's gone to the devil, I think," he said.
"In that case you'll find it again some day. There it is, though--under
the sofa. I thought you didn't believe in the devil."
"Satan may be dead, as the hedonists think; but I expect someone still
carries on the business."
When he had gone Gobion got to work, and wrote steadily till three,
when he went to the "copy shop" to get something to eat. They kept him
waiting some little time. Albert, the waiter, who was supposed to be
smart in his profession, on this occasion hid his talent (no doubt in a
napkin), and Gobion had only a minute to spare when he got to Victoria.
The train curved into the station and pulled up slowly. He made for the
door of a first-class carriage where he saw Mr. Lovering getting out.
The parson was a little man, all forehead and nose. When Gobion came up
he was struggling with a bundle of rugs and umbrellas.
"Ah, dear boy, you have come then. So good of you. Get Marjorie out
while I find our luggage."
Then Marjorie came down from the carriage, glowing with health and
spirits, her dark eyes flashing when they saw Gobion.
"Dearest," he said. She put her little gloved hand into his, looking up
in his face, while his blood ran faster through his veins.
"Caradoc, dear, it _is_ so jolly to see you again; we are going to stay
in London for over a fortnight, and you shall take me about everywhere.
Oh, here's father."
The little man bustled up. He was one of those dreadful people whom a
railway journey excites to a species of frenzy. He ran up and down the
platform, dancing round the truck which held his baggage, holding a
piece of paper in his hand, muttering, "One black bag--yes; two corded
trunks--yes; one hat-box--yes; two boxes of ferns--yes; one bundle of
rugs--y--NO! Marjorie! _where_ are the rugs? Gobion, I _know_ I had the
rugs _after_ we got out--a big bundle with a striped red and green one
on the outside."
"You're carrying it, aren't you, Mr. Lovering?"
"Dear me! so I am. How very stupid of me! Now if you will get a cab I
should be so obliged--a four-wheeler, mind!"
Gobion secured one and came back, standing by Marjorie while the luggage
was hoisted on the roof.
"I do hate a silly old four-wheeler!" she said.
"Never mind, dearest, soon we'll go about in a hansom together to your
heart's content--jump in! May I call to-morrow, Mr. Lovering?"
"Yes, yes, dear boy--you know the address. Good-bye for the present."
Gobion left the station with a sense of _bien-être_. He remembered that
he was not due at the Temple till ten, wondering what he should do with
himself. Just as he was going out of the gates that rail off the
station-yard from the street, a cab dashed up, the occupant evidently in
haste to catch a train. Unfortunately, just as it was coming into the
yard, the horse swerved and fell, and the man inside was shot out past
Gobion, his head striking the curbstone with fearful force. Death was
almost instantaneous. Gobion rushed up and lifted him in his arms, but
it was of no use. In a short time two policemen came up, and after
taking Gobion's name as a witness of the occurrence, placed the body on
a stretcher, moving off with it followed by the crowd. The whole affair
did not last ten minutes.
Gobion stood by himself staring at the blood on his clothes. He was
moving away, when he saw the card-case of the dead man was lying in the
gutter, where it had been jerked when he fell. He picked it up, giving a
start of surprise when he saw the name SIR WILLIAM RAILTON, a prominent
member of the government in power.
All the horror of the scene passed away in a flash. He was a journalist
pure and simple now, with an hour's start of any man in London.
Hurriedly wiping his clothes, he ran over the road to Tinelli's, an
Italian restaurant, and, ordering pens, paper, and a flask of Chianti,
wrote furiously a brief account, about a quarter of a column long. He
made five copies, and then got into a cab and drove hard to Fleet
Street, leaving his card and an account at the news-office of each of
the big dailies.
Then came the reaction, and he staggered home, faint with hard work and
the horror of what he had seen. He put on another suit, not feeling
himself till he had roused his spirits with a copious brandy and soda.
This instinct of the journalist is a curious thing; while it lasts it is
a hot fever, brutal almost in its vehemence. A man possessed by it
forgets everything but the fierce joy of his work, and a deep exaltation
in the possession of exclusive news; but the reaction is bad for the
nerves.
Sturtevant's chambers in the Temple were distinctly comfortable. A large
room panelled in white, with doors opening round it into bedrooms. A gay
Japanese screen protected a cosy corner by the fire, fitted up with a
lounge, an armchair, two little tables, and a standard lamp. It was all
more elaborate than his Oxford rooms, because at Oxford he was too well
known for his position to depend on externals--while in London they were
part of his stock-in-trade. It was a room in which laziness seemed a
virtue, with numberless contrivances for comfort. Corners for elbows,
shaded reading lamps, the best of tobacco, and a speaking-tube from the
fireside to the outer passage of the chambers, so that on hearing a
knock, Sturtevant could tell an unwelcome visitor that he was not at
home, but was expected back about five, without opening the door.
"Now," he said, when they had settled down comfortably, "we shall be
quite undisturbed all night. We have a good fire, tobacco, and drink of
the best; let us seriously map out our little campaign."
"Take the evening papers first then," said Gobion. "Now there is the
_Moon_, an organ devoted to playfully redressing wrongs. We will do an
article for it on 'How Barmaids Live.' We can describe the horrors of
their lot: a sleeping-room, 12 feet by 12, with six girls in it, and a
window that won't open; the insults they are exposed to, _et cetera_."
"Do you think that will take?"
"Yes, and I'll tell you why. The ordinary beast who reads the _Moon_
loves anything about a barmaid; they are his society."
"Where shall we get our facts?"
"Invent them, of course; there is no need for investigation. We can make
it much more interesting without. Put it down: 'Barmaid--_Moon_.' Now we
come to the _Resounder_. We must try quite a different line. It's a
newspaper in a strait waistcoat, so to speak, and it's just been
subsidized by the anti-gambling people. How would 'The Gambling Evil at
the Universities' do? We could easily make some astounding revelations,
and your name as president of the Union would have weight with the
editor. What else is there?"
"Well, there's the _Evening Times_ and the _Wire_," said Sturtevant.
"Yes; I think with them we must do short stories. I have three or four
MSS. not yet printed which I will revise. All these things shall go in
under your name, and I will invent two-stick pars about celebrities, and
send three or four to each paper. For instance--
'It is not generally known that the Queen has a great liking for
that very plebeian dish, tripe and onions. Indeed, so fond is Her
Majesty of this succulent preparation, that a few sheep are
always kept in the home paddocks of each of the royal residences
to be in readiness if Her Majesty should suddenly express her
desire. They are mountain bred, and are brought from the
Highlands of Scotland as soon as they can travel without their
dams.'
The British public love this kind of thing."
As Gobion suggested an article, one of them put it down on a piece of
paper with the name of the journal to which they proposed to send it.
"I have a beautiful idea," said Sturtevant, after a pause.
"Yes?"
"Look here, you know all the High Church goings-on at Oxford, don't
you?"
"Yes, but why?"
"There's a paper run in London called _The Protesting Protestant_, which
discovers a new popish plot every week. Well, you supply me with enough
facts and names to prove that there is widespread conspiracy going on to
Romanize the undergraduates. See?"
"Ripping!"
"Yes, but wait a minute, the best part is to come. _Then_ you go to the
opposition High Church paper with a letter of introduction from Father
Gray, and answer my attack and so on for the next few weeks, and divide
the swag"; and he leaned back in his chair with a cigarette, with an air
of conscious merit.
"This is more than smartness, Sturtevant," said Gobion, wagging his head
at the tobacco-jar, "this is genius."
"We must be careful in what we say. It would be unpleasant to be
imprisoned for a portion of our unnatural lives."
"Yes, we will hint more than we state. Style is the art of leaving out."
They went on like this for a good part of the night, arranging their
plans, inventing new scandal, and making notes of useful lies.
Towards morning they had settled enough for a week's continuous work;
only proposing, however, to deal with the less reputable papers, for
they both knew well that there was no chance with any respectable sheet.
Just as Gobion was going, Sturtevant said, "What about typing? we can't
send them in MSS."
"I think I can manage that," said Gobion; "a man called Wild, the
sub-editor of _The Pilgrim_, is living with that girl Blanche Huntley,
who was mixed up in the Wrampling case. She used to be a typewriter, and
she has a machine still. Moreover she'd be glad to earn a pound or two
for pocket money; Wild isn't generous. I wonder, by the way, if any of
the things we propose to write are true?"
"Possibly; nature is always committing a breach of promise against the
journalist."
They arranged not to begin the work till the Friday morning, as Gobion
wished to have a day to spend with Marjorie.
In the morning he called in Kensington, and Mr. Lovering, with a chilly
Christian smile, in which perchance lingered some reminiscence of his
youth, left the two young people together.
Soon after, Gobion was sitting at Marjorie's side, with his arm round
her waist and her head delightfully near his. Melodiously he whispered
his joy at seeing her again, holding her little, tender, perfumed hand.
He called forth all his powers of pleasing, and paid her delicate
compliments, like kisses through a veil, compliments such as girls love,
the refinements of adoration arranged neatly in a _bouquet_.
Marjorie was a damsel of many flirtatious loves, though perhaps Gobion
was her especial favourite, he was so extremely good-looking; but she
was the sort of girl that took nothing but chocolates seriously. As her
mother had died when she was quite young, she had been sent to a
boarding school, and had caught the note. She had no mind--girls of this
sort never have--but she was adorably pretty, which, to most men, is
much better.
They both pretended they were very fond of one another, Marjorie because
she liked to be kissed and adored, and Gobion because, after bought
loves, he found a pleasant freshness. It was not only better and holier,
but more piquant. At times, now past, he had persuaded himself that her
influence was ennobling and purifying, but the cynicism engendered by
evil was burning this feeling out.
He was rapidly getting into the condition when everything loses its
savour. Despite his emotional and sympathetic nature, the least glimpse
of higher things was going, and though he put the thought from him, he
knew in his inmost soul that the time was approaching when life would
have nothing more left. Meanwhile it was pleasant to linger in this
last gleam of sunshine--to run his fingers through his lady's hair.
He spent the day at the house, meeting old Mrs. Lovering at lunch. She
was a lady of the old school, with a black knitted shawl, and the three
graces pictured on a cornelian brooch. She disapproved of her
granddaughter as too modern, and taking things too much for granted.
Indeed, the old lady had a dim idea that Marjorie must be one of the
"new" women she had read of in the papers, though if she had ever seen
that sexless oddity she would have rescinded her opinion with a gasp of
relief.
After a drive in the park, sitting on the front seat of the barouche
with Marjorie, and holding her hand under the carriage rug, Gobion went
home. The fire had gone out, leaving the room dark and cheerless, in
sympathy with his thoughts. But then came a stroll for a few yards in
the bright and animated street to the "copy shop," and by the time he
got there his spirits had returned.
They were all there, and he soon forgot everything else in the pride of
dominating them and making his presence felt.
Sturtevant, who was known in the place, came in, and they had a jolly
riotous time, the estimable Mr. Heath having to be sent home in a cab
long before closing time.
Sturtevant drank till he was white and shaking, but kept quite sober,
and was as caustic as ever. Wild dramatically related, amid shouts of
laughter, how he had first met his _protégé_ Blanche Huntley, when he
was reporting in the divorce court. It was one of his dearest memories.
Altogether it was a most successful evening.
Then came a week of terribly arduous work, from nine in the morning till
late at night, varied for Gobion by two or three flying visits to the
Loverings. Night after night they wrote with the whiskey bottle between
them. MS. after MS. was finished and sent off to be typed; and then when
they had produced a number of articles, paragraphs, and stories,
possibly unequalled in London for their brilliancy and falsity, they
both went to bed in Sturtevant's rooms for a day and a half, utterly
speechless and worn out.
When the copy was despatched, for Gobion there was a period of peace and
Marjorie. And for three or four days, while Sturtevant sat in his rooms
and drank, Gobion sunned himself in a cleaner air, while the "copy shop"
was deserted.