HEREFORD VAUGHAN
To have eleven plays, all written out of one's own head, and all being
performed simultaneously in American, in Eskimo, and even in Turkish,
besides in every known European language; to have money rolling in, and
the strange world of agents and managers pursuing you by every post and
imploring for more contracts by every Marconigram; and these triumphs to
have come quite suddenly, was really enough to have turned the head of
any young man; yet Hereford Vaughan's (known by his very few intimate
friends as Gillie) had remained remarkably calm. He was not even
embittered by success.
To know his jokes were being got over the footlights of so many lands
was a curious sensation, and it often made him laugh suddenly to reflect
how wicked certain quips must sound in, say, Japanese. Perhaps his
friends were rather inclined to resent the way he retained his balance
after what was really an almost unheard-of hit. They would have been
readier to pardon it had he shown some sign of boring fatuity; or
perhaps they thought he might at least have had a temporary nervous
breakdown; taking the form (for choice) of losing all sense of the value
of money and wildly throwing bank-notes and gold at every one he saw.
But he remained quiet, reserved, and as apparently modest as ever.
Modesty is a valuable merit (as I think Schopenhauer has discovered) in
people who have no other, and the appearance of it is extremely useful
to those who have, but I am not suggesting that Vaughan was not human,
and there was, no doubt, many a moment when he smiled to himself, and
felt that he was a great man.
He was rather secretive and mysterious than blatant or dashing, and
this, of course, made him, on the whole, more interesting to women. The
fact that he had made a fortune and lived alone in a charming house with
nothing but housekeepers, secretaries, telephones, typewriters, and
cooks, of course made all the women of his acquaintance who had the
match-making instinct (and what woman has not?) desire to see him
married. As he showed no sign of doing so, they tried to console
themselves by pretending that he had some secret romance. Old ladies
hoped he had a broken heart for some fiancée who was lying under the
daisies, having died of decline in the classical middle-Victorian way.
Young ladies thought that he was probably fixed up in some way that
would be sure in time to dissolve, and that he would marry later on. Far
the most popular theory was that he didn't marry simply because he _was_
married, privately; and that he had, no doubt, hurriedly espoused,
before he was of age (and before the Registrar), some barmaid or
chorus-girl, or other dreadful person, who had turned out far too
respectable to divorce, and that he was thus a young man marred. They
had no grounds for the rumour except that clever and promising young men
often did these things, and he had always been a particularly promising
young man, and in this unfortunate case had probably kept his promise.
Vaughan was sitting one morning reading his notices (never believe the
greatest men when they tell you that they don't do that!), when Muir
Howard came cheerily, almost boisterously, into the room. He was an old
school friend who had been devoted to Gillie long before his arrival,
and of whose faults, virtues, cheeriness, and admiration Vaughan had
made a confirmed habit.
Muir was a very good-looking barrister, with vague parliamentary
ambitions and a definite love of machinery. He always had pink cheeks,
and wore a pink carnation, and looked as flourishing, gay, and yet,
somehow, battered, as Vaughan looked pale, fresh, and sardonic. One of
the things that surprised the general public was that Vaughan could not
live without the continuous society of a person who certainly could not
understand a word he wrote or much that he said. They didn't realise
that Vaughan was so accustomed to not listening to Muir's long
confidences, to disputing every proposition he made, and contradicting
every word he said, that he always felt lost when his friend was away.
Muir regarded him as a combination of hero, genius, pet, and child, and
was always giving him advice and imploring him not to do too much. To
Vaughan he was, as I have said, a habit, and there is always something
agreeable in a habit of which one is a little tired.
He had arrived this morning on his bicycle, and came in bringing a whiff
of heartiness, self-complacency, and fresh air, saying, "Hallo! hallo!
hallo! Priceless to find you in, Gillie!" All he got for it was that
Vaughan looked up and said--
"You used to be only breezy. Now you're becoming a thorough draught.
Fold up and keep quiet, can't you?"
"Nervous, I suppose," said Muir, in a sympathetic voice. "I wonder you
don't take that stuff that you see in the papers about what is good
for----"
"Sudden pains in the back on washing-day, bending over the tub, and so
forth? The portraits of the people before taking the remedy and after
decided me. It seems, by the pictures, to make your hair grow long and
give you whiskers and a ghastly squint. Ruins your clothes, too. Your
collars get the wrong shape."
"Oh well, leave it alone, then. Perhaps you're right.... You haven't
asked me about the Walmers' dance. I took Miss de Freyne to supper. The
American chap never turned up, and I was getting on with her simply
rippingly, when _what_ do you think she said? Confided in me that she
was privately engaged to and frightfully keen on that boy you met at
Harry's. The baby Guardsman. Isn't it sickening?"
"What did Miss Walmer do?" asked Vaughan.
"She sort of hung about, waiting for Harry, who seemed to be getting on
all right with the two strings to his bow, or two stools, or two bundles
of hay, or whatever it is. What luck some people have!"
"Not in this case. He'll lose them both."
"Really? Why?"
"He's not a diplomatist, and he wants such a lot for himself. He wants
too much. No self-restraint."
"Pretty useless for Mrs. Wyburn. I like her. She looked topping last
night, too. But I dare say it'll be all right. Romer's a good chap.
Awfully dull."
"Most interesting. Are you going to stay here much longer, Muir?"
"Why? Yes."
Vaughan got up.
"All right. Do. I'm going out."
"Where?"
Vaughan did not answer, but gave the heap of notices to his friend, and
said--
"Just divide the sheep and goats for me, will you? That's just what they
are, the critics--either sheep or goats."
"Of course I will. But, I say--I came here to have a talk."
"I know you did. You have talked."
He went out. Muir smiled to himself, enjoying this treatment as an
eccentricity of genius.
Five minutes later Gillie came back.