A 'THORN AND FLOWER PIECE.'
'Illusion' had not been very long published before Mark began to have
uncomfortable anticipations that it might be on the way to achieve an
unexpected success, and he was nearer the truth in this than he
himself believed as yet. It might not become popular in the wider and
coarser sense of the word, being somewhat over the heads of the large
class who read fiction for the 'story;' it might never find its way to
railway bookstalls (though even this, as will appear, befell it in
time,) or be considered a profitable subject for Transatlantic piracy;
but it was already gaining recognition as a book that people of any
culture should, for their own sakes, at least assume to have read and
appreciated.
Mark was hailed by many judges of such things as a new and powerful
thinker, who had chosen to veil his theories under the garb of
romance, and if the theory was dissented from in some quarters, the
power and charm of the book were universally admitted. At dinner
parties, and in all circles where literature is discussed at all,
'Illusion' was becoming a standard topic; friendships were cemented
and intimacies dissolved over it; it became a kind of 'shibboleth.'
At first Mark had little opportunity of realising this to the full
extent, for he went out seldom if at all. There had been a time in his
life--before he had left Cambridge, that is--when he had mixed more in
society; his undergraduate friends had been proud to present to their
family circle a man with his reputation for general brilliancy, and so
his engagements in the vacations had been frequent. But this did not
last; from a feeling that his own domestic surroundings would scarcely
bear out a vaguely magnificent way he had of alluding to his 'place'
and his 'people'--a way which was not so much deliberate imposition as
a habit caught from associates richer and higher up in the social
scale--from this feeling, he never offered to return any of these
hospitalities, and though this was not rigorously expected of him, it
did serve to prevent any one of his numerous acquaintanceships from
ripening into something more. When the crash came, and it was
generally discovered that the reputed brilliant man of his year was a
very ordinary failure, Mark found himself speedily forgotten, and in
the first soreness of disappointment was not sorry to remain in
obscurity for a season.
But now a reaction in his favour was setting in; his publishers were
already talking of a second edition of 'Illusion,' and he received,
under his name of 'Cyril Ernstone,' countless letters of
congratulation and kindly criticism, all so pleasantly and cordially
worded, that each successive note made him angrier, the only one that
consoled him at all being a communication in a female hand which
abused the book and its writer in the most unmeasured terms. For his
correspondent's estimate of the work was the one which he had a secret
wish to see more prevalent (so long, of course, as it did not
interfere with the success of his scheme), and he could almost have
written to thank her--had she not, by some unfortunate oversight,
forgotten to append her name and address.
The next stage in the career of the book was a discovery on someone's
part that the name of its author was an assumed one, and although
there are many who would as little think of looking for the name of
the man who wrote the play they see or the book they read as they
would for that of the locomotive behind which they travel, there are
still circles for whom the first two matters at least possess an
interest.
And so several set out to run the actual author to earth, well assured
that, as is fabled of the fox, he himself would enjoy the sport as
much as his pursuers; and it is the fact that Mark might have given
them a much longer run had he been anxious to do so, but, though he
regretted it afterwards, the fruits of popularity were too desirable
to be foregone.
There were some false cries at first. A 'London correspondent' knew
for a fact that the book was written by an old lady at a lunatic
asylum in her lucid intervals; while a ladies' journal had heard that
the author was a common carpenter and entirely self-educated; and
there were other similar discoveries. But before they had time to
circulate widely, it became somehow common knowledge that the author
was a young schoolmaster, and that his real name was Mark Ashburn.
And Mark at once began to reap the benefit. His old friends sought him
out once more; men who had passed him in the streets with a careless
nod that was almost as bad as a cut direct, or without even the
smallest acknowledgment that a time had been when they were
inseparables, now found time to stop him and ask if the rumours of his
_début_ in literature were really true.
By-and-by cards began to line his mantelpiece as in the old days; he
went out once more, and met everywhere the kindness and courtesy that
the world of London, whatever may be said against it, is never chary
of showing towards the most insignificant person who has once had the
good fortune to arouse its interest.
Mark liked it all at first, but as he saw the book growing more and
more in favour, and the honours paid to himself increasing, he began
to be uneasy at his own success.
He would not have objected to the book's securing a moderate degree of
attention, so as to prepare the public mind for the blaze of intellect
he had in reserve for it--that he had expected, or at least hoped
for--but the mischief of this ridiculous enthusiasm which everyone he
met seemed to be affecting over this book of Holroyd's was that it
made an anticlimax only too possible when his own should see the
light.
Mark heard compliments and thanks with much the annoyance a practised
_raconteur_ must feel with the feeble listener who laughs heartily,
while the point of the story he is being told is still in perspective.
And soon he wished heartily that the halo he felt was burning round
his undeserving head could be moderated or put out, like a lamp--it
was such an inconvenience. He could never escape from Holroyd's book;
people _would_ talk to him about it.
Sooner or later, while talking to the most charming persons, just when
he was feeling himself conversationally at his very best, he would see
the symptoms he dreaded warning him that the one fatal topic was about
to be introduced, which seemed to have the effect of paralysing his
brain. He would struggle hard against it, making frantic efforts to
turn the subject, and doubling with infinite dexterity; but generally
his interlocutor was not to be put off, 'running cunning,' as it were,
like a greyhound dead to sporting instincts, and fixing him at once
with a 'Now, Mr. Ashburn, you really must allow me to express to you
some of the pleasure and instruction I have received from your book,'
and so on; and then Mark found himself forced to listen with ghastly
smiles of sham gratification to the praises of his rival, as he now
felt Holroyd was after all becoming, and had to discuss with the air
of a creator this book which he had never cared to understand, and
soon came cordially to detest.
If he had been the real author, all this would of course have been
delightful to him; it was all so kind and so evidently sincere for the
most part, that only a very priggish or cynical person could have
affected to undervalue it, and any other, even if he felt it
overstrained now and then, would have enjoyed it frankly while it
lasted, remembering that, in the nature of things, it could not last
very long.
But unfortunately, Mark had not written 'Illusion,' which made all the
difference. No author could have shrunk more sensitively in his inmost
soul than he did from the praise of his fellow-men, and his modesty
would have been more generally remarked had he not been wise enough to
perceive that modesty, in a man, is a virtue with a dangerous streak
of the ridiculous about it.
And so he braced himself to go through with it and play out his part.
It would not be for long; soon he would have his own book to be
complimented upon and to explain. Meanwhile he worked hard at
'Illusion,' until he came to have a considerable surface acquaintance
with it; he knew the names of all the more important characters in it
now, and hardly ever mixed them up; he worked out most of the
allusions, and made a careful analysis of the plot and pedigrees of
some of the families. It was much harder work than reading law, and
quite as distasteful; but then it had to be done if he meant to
preserve appearances at all.
His fame had penetrated to St. Peter's, where his fellow-masters
treated him with an unaccustomed deference, only partially veiled by
mild _badinage_ on the part of the younger men; while even the boys
were vaguely aware that he had distinguished himself in the outer
world, and Mark found his authority much easier to maintain.
'How's that young rascal--what's his name? Langton?--the little scamp
who said he called me "Prawn," but not "Shellfish," the impident
fellow! How's _he_ getting on, hey?' said Mr. Shelford to Mark one day
about this time.
Mark replied that the boy had left his form now, but that he heard he
was doing well, and had begun to acquire the graceful art of
verse-making. 'Verse-making? ay, ay; is he indeed? You know, Ashburn,
I often think it's a good thing there are none of the old Romans alive
now. They weren't a yumorous nation, taken as a whole; but I fancy
some of our prize Latin verses would set the stiffest of 'em
sniggering. And we laugh at "Baboo English," as they call it! But you
tell Langton from me, when you see him, that if he likes to try his
hand at a set of elegiacs on a poor old cat of mine that died the
other day, I'll look 'em over if he brings them to me after school
some day, and if they're what I consider worthy of the deceased's many
virtues, I'll find some way of rewarding him. She was a black Persian
and her name was "Jinks," but he'll find it Latinise well as "Jinxia,"
tell him. And now I think of it,' he added, 'I never congratulated you
on the effort of _your_ muse. It's not often I read these things now,
but I took your book up, and--maybe I'm too candid in telling you
so--but it fairly surprised me. I'd no idea you had it in you.'
Mark found it difficult to hit the right expression of countenance at
such a compliment, but he did it. 'There are some very fine things in
that book, sir,' continued Mr. Shelford, 'some very noble words;
remarkable for so young a man as you must be. You have lived, Ashburn,
it's easy to see that!'
'Oh, well,' said Mark, 'I--I've knocked about, you know.'
'Ah, and you've knocked something into you, too, which is more to the
purpose. I'd like to know now when you found time to construct your
theories of life and conduct.'
Mark began to find this embarrassing; he said he had hit upon them at
odd times ('_very_ odd times,' he could not help remembering), and
shifted his ground a little uneasily, but he was held fast by the
buttonhole. 'They're remarkably sound and striking, I must say that,
and your story is interesting, too. I found myself looking at the
end, sir, ha, ha! to see what became of your characters. Ah, I _knew_
there was something I wanted to ask you. There's a heading you've got
for one of your chapters, a quotation from some Latin author, which I
can't place to my satisfaction; I mean that one beginning "_Non terret
principes_."'
'Oh, _that_ one?' repeated Mark blankly.
'Yes, it reads to me like later Latin; where did you take it from? One
of the Fathers?'
'One of them, I forget which,' said Mark quickly, wishing he had cut
the quotations out.
'That _ægritudo_, now, "ægritudo superveniens," you know--how do you
understand that?'
Mark had never troubled himself to understand it at all, so he stared
at his interrogator in rather a lost way.
'I mean, do you take it as of the mind or body (that's what made me
fancy it must be later Latin). And then there's the _correxit_?'
Mark admitted that there was the 'correxit.' 'It's mind,' he said
quickly. 'Oh, decidedly the mind, _not_ body, and--er--I think that's
my 'bus passing. I'll say good-bye;' and he escaped with a weary
conviction that he must devote yet more study to the detested
'Illusion.'
This is only a sample of the petty vexations to which he had exposed
himself. He had taken over a business which he did not understand, and
naturally found the technicalities troublesome, for though, as has
been seen, his own tendencies were literary, he had not soared so high
as a philosophical romance, while his scholarship, more brilliant than
profound, was not always equal to the 'unseen passages' from
out-of-the-way authors with which Holroyd had embellished his
chapters.
But a little more care made him feel easier on this score, and then
there were many compensations; for one unexpected piece of good
fortune, which will be recorded presently, he had mainly to thank his
friend's book.
He had met an old acquaintance of his, a certain young Herbert
Featherstone, who had on any previous chance encounter seemed
affected by a kind of trance, during which his eyes lost all power of
vision, but was now completely recovered, so much so indeed as to
greet Mark with a quite unexpected warmth.
Was it true that he had written this new book? What was its
name--'Delusion' or something? Fellows were saying he had; hadn't read
it himself; his mother and sister had; said it was a devilish good
book, too. Where was he hanging out now, and what was he doing on the
10th? Could he come to a little dance his people had that night? Very
well, then, he should have a card.
Mark was slightly inclined to let the other understand that he knew
the worth of this resuscitated friendliness, but he refrained. He knew
of the Featherstones as wealthy people, with the reputation of giving
the pleasantest entertainments in London. He had his way to make in
the world, and could not afford, he thought, to neglect these
opportunities. So he went to the dance and, as he happened to dance
well, enjoyed himself, in spite of the fact that two of his partners
had read 'Illusion,' and knew him as the author of it. They were both
pretty and charming girls, but Mark did not enjoy either of those
particular valses. In the course of the evening he had a brief
conversation with his hostess, and was fortunate enough to produce a
favourable impression. Mrs. Featherstone was literary herself, as a
reputedly strong-minded lady who had once written two particularly
weak-minded novels would necessarily be. She liked to have a few
rising young literary men in her train, with whom she might discuss
subjects loftier than ordinary society cares to grasp; but she was
careful at the same time that her daughter should not share too
frequently in these intellectual privileges, for Gilda Featherstone
was very handsome, and literary men are as impressionable as other
people.
Mark called one Saturday afternoon at the Featherstones' house in
Grosvenor Place, as he had been expressly invited to do on the
occasion of the dance, and found Mrs. Featherstone at home. It was not
her regular day, and she received him alone, though Mark heard voices
and laughter now and then from behind the hangings which concealed
the end room of the long suite.
'And now let us talk about your delightful "Illusion," Mr. Ernstone,'
she said graciously. 'Do you know, I felt when I read your book that
some of my innermost thoughts, my highest aspirations, had been put
into words--and _such_ words--for me! It was soul speaking to soul,
and you get that in so few novels, you know! What a rapture literary
creation is! Don't you feel that? I am sure, even in my own poor
little way--you must know that _I_ have scribbled once upon a
time--even in my own experience, I know what a state of excitement I
got into over my own stories. One's characters get to be actual living
companions to one; they act by themselves, and all one has to do is
just to sit by and look on, and describe.'
This seemed to Mark to prove a vividness of imagination on Mrs.
Featherstone's part to which her literary productions had not, so far
as he knew, done full credit. But he was equal to the occasion.
'Your characters, Mrs. Featherstone, are companions to many more than
their creator. I must confess that I, for one, fell hopelessly in love
with your Gwendoline Vane, in "Mammon and Moonshine."' Mark had once
read a slashing review of a flabby little novel with a wooden heroine
of that name, and turned it to good account now, after his fashion.
'Now, how nice of you to say that,' she said, highly pleased. 'I am
very fond of Gwendoline myself--my ideal, you know. I won't quote that
about "praise from Sir Hubert," because it's so very trite, but I feel
it. But do you _really_ like Gwendoline better than my Magdalen
Harwood, in "Strawberries and Cream."'
Here Mark got into deep water once more; but he was no mean
conversational swimmer, and reached dry land without any unseemly
floundering.
'It has been suggested to me, do you know,' she said when her own
works had been at last disposed of, 'that your "Illusion" would make
such an admirable play; the central motive really so dramatic. Of
course one would have to leave the philosophy out, and all the
beautiful reflections, but the story would be left. Have you ever
thought of dramatising it yourself, Mr. Ashburn?'
Mark had not. 'Ah, well,' she said, 'if ever I have time again to give
to literature, I shall ask your permission to let me see what _I_ can
do with it. I have written some little charades for drawing-room
theatricals, you know, so I am not _quite_ without experience.'
Mark, wondering inwardly how Holroyd would relish this proposal if he
were alive, said that he was sure the story would gain by her
treatment; and presently she proposed that they should go to the
further room and see 'how the young people were getting on,' which
Mark received with an immense relief, and followed her through the
_portière_ to the inner room, in which, as will be seen, an unexpected
stroke of good fortune was to befall him.
They found the young people, with a married sister of Mrs.
Featherstone, sitting round a small table on which was a heap of
_cartes-de-visite_, as they used to be called for no very obvious
reason.
Gilda Featherstone, a lively brunette, with the manner of a young lady
accustomed to her own way, looked up from the table to welcome Mark.
'You've caught us all at a very frivolous game, Mr. Ashburn. I hope
you won't be shocked. We've all had our feelings outraged at least
once, so we're going to stop now, while we're still on speaking
terms.'
'But what is it?' said Mrs. Featherstone. 'It isn't cards, Gilda
dearest, is it?'
'No, mother, not quite; very nearly though. Mr. Caffyn showed it us;
_he_ calls it "photo-nap."'
'Let me explain, Mrs. Featherstone,' said Caffyn, who liked to drop in
at Grosvenor Place occasionally, where he was on terms of some
intimacy. 'I don't know if you're acquainted with the game of "nap"?'
Mrs. Featherstone shook her head, not too amiably, for she had been
growing alarmed of late by a habit her daughter had acquired of
mentioning or quoting this versatile young man whom her husband
persisted so blindly in encouraging. 'Ah!' said Caffyn, unabashed.
'Well, anyway, this is modelled on it. We take out a selection of
photographs, the oldest preferred, shuffle them, and deal round five
photographs to each player, and the ugliest card in each round takes
the trick.'
'I call it a most ill-natured game,' said the aunt, who had seen an
old and unrecognised portrait of herself and the likenesses of several
of her husband's family (a plain one) voted the master-cards.
'Oh, so much _must_ be said for it,' said Caffyn; 'it isn't a game to
be played everywhere, of course; but it gives great scope for the
emotions. Think of the pleasure of gaining a trick with the portrait
of your dearest friend, and then it's such a capital way of
ascertaining your own and others' precise positions in the beauty
scale, and all the plain people acquire quite a new value as
picture-cards.'
He had played his own very cautiously, having found his amusement in
watching the various revelations of pique and vanity amongst the
others, and so could speak with security.
'My brothers _all_ took tricks,' said one young lady, who had
inherited her mother's delicate beauty, while the rest of the family
resembled a singularly unhandsome father--which enabled her to speak
without very deep resentment.
'So did poor dear papa,' said Gilda, 'but that was the one taken in
fancy dress, and he _would_ go as _Dante_.'
'Nothing could stand against Gurgoyle,' observed Caffyn. 'He was a
sure ace every time. He'll be glad to know he was such a success. You
must tell him, Miss Featherstone.'
'Now I won't have poor Mr. Gurgoyle made fun of,' said Mrs.
Featherstone, but with a considerable return of amiability. 'People
always tell me that with all his plainness he's the most amusing young
man in town, though I confess I never could see any signs of it
myself.'
The fact was that an unlucky epigram by the Mr. Gurgoyle in question
at Mrs. Featherstone's expense, which of course had found its way to
her, had produced a coolness on her part, as Caffyn was perfectly well
aware.
'"_Ars est celare artem_," as Mr. Bancroft remarks at the Haymarket,'
he said lightly. 'Gurgoyle is one of those people who is always put
down as witty till he has the indiscretion to try. _Then_ they put him
down some other way.'
'But why is he considered witty then, if he isn't?' asked Gilda
Featherstone.
'I don't know. I suppose because we like to think Nature makes these
compensations sometimes, but Gurgoyle must have put her out of temper
at the very beginning. She's done nothing in that way for _him_.'
Mrs. Featherstone, although aware that the verdict on the absent
Gurgoyle was far from being a just one, was not altogether above being
pleased by it, and showed it by a manner many degrees more thawed than
that she had originally prescribed to herself in dealing with this
very ineligible young actor.
'Mr. Ashburn,' said Miss Featherstone, after one or two glances in the
direction of Caffyn, who was absorbed in following up the advantage he
had gained with her mother, 'will you come and help me to put these
photos back? There are lots of Bertie's Cambridge friends here, and
you can tell me who those I don't know are.'
So Mark followed her to a side table, and then came the stroke of good
fortune which has been spoken of; for, as he was replacing the
likenesses in the albums in the order they were given to him, he was
given one at the sight of which he could not avoid a slight start. It
was a _vignette_, very delicately and artistically executed, of a
girl's head, and as he looked, hardly daring to believe in such a
coincidence, he was almost certain that the pure brow, with the
tendrils of soft hair curling above it, the deep clear eyes, and the
mouth which for all its sweetness had the possibility of disdain in
its curves, were those of no other than the girl he had met months
ago, and had almost resigned himself never to meet again.
His voice trembled a little with excitement as he said 'May I ask the
name of this lady?'
'That is Mabel Langton. _I_ think she's perfectly lovely; don't you?
She was to have been at our dance the other night, and then you would
have seen her. But she couldn't come at the last moment.'
'I think I have met Miss Langton,' said Mark, beginning to see now all
that he had gained by learning this simple surname. 'Hasn't she a
little sister called Dorothy?'
'Dolly? Oh yes. Sweetly pretty child--terribly spoilt. I think she
will put dear Mabel quite in the shade by the time she comes out; her
features are so much more regular. Yes; I see you know _our_ Mabel
Langton. And now, _do_ tell me, Mr. Ashburn, because of course you can
read people's characters so clearly, you know, what do _you_ think of
Mabel, really and truly?'
Miss Featherstone was fond of getting her views on the characters of
her friends revised and corrected for her by competent male opinion,
but it was sometimes embarrassing to be appealed to in this way, while
only a very unsophisticated person would permit himself to be entirely
candid, either in praise or detraction.
'Well, really,' said Mark, 'you see, I have only met her once in my
life.'
'Oh, but that must be quite enough for _you_, Mr. Ashburn! And Mabel
Langton is always such a puzzle to me. I never can quite make up my
mind if she is really as sweet as she seems. Sometimes I fancy I have
noticed--and yet I can't be sure--I've heard people say that she's
just the least bit, not exactly conceited, perhaps, but too inclined
to trust her own opinion about things and snub people who won't agree
with her. But she isn't, is she? I always say that is _quite_ a wrong
idea about her. Still perhaps---- Oh, wouldn't you like to know Mr.
Caffyn? He is very clever and amusing, you know, and has just gone on
the stage, but he's not as good there as we all thought he would be.
He's coming this way now.' Here Caffyn strolled leisurely towards
them, and the introduction was made. 'Of course you have heard of Mr.
Ashburn's great book, "Illusion"?' Gilda Featherstone said, as she
mentioned Mark's name.
'Heard of nothing else lately,' said Caffyn. 'After which I am ashamed
to have to own I haven't read it, but it's the disgraceful truth.'
Mark felt the danger of being betrayed by a speech like this into
saying something too hideously fatuous, over the memory of which he
would grow hot with shame in the night-watches, so he contented
himself with an indulgent smile, perhaps, in default of some
impossible combination of wit and modesty, his best available
resource.
Besides, the new acquaintance made him strangely uneasy; he felt
warned to avoid him by one of those odd instincts which (although we
scarcely ever obey them) are surely given us for our protection; he
could not meet the cold light eyes which seemed to search him through
and through.
'Mr. Ashburn and I were just discussing somebody's character,' said
Miss Featherstone, by way of ending an awkward pause.
'Poor somebody!' drawled Caffyn, with an easy impertinence which he
had induced many girls, and Gilda amongst them, to tolerate, if not
admire.
'You need not pity her,' said Gilda, indignantly; 'we were _defending_
her.'
'Ah!' said Caffyn, 'from one another.'
'No, we were not; and if you are going to be cynical, and satirical,
and all that, you can go away. Well, sit down, then, and behave
yourself. What, must you go, Mr. Ashburn? Good-bye, then. Mr. Caffyn,
I want you to tell me what you _really_ think about----'
Mark heard no more than this; he was glad to escape, to get away from
Caffyn's scrutiny. 'He looked as if he knew I was a humbug!' he
thought afterwards; and also to think at his leisure over this new
discovery, and all it meant for him.
He knew her name now; he saw a prospect of meeting her at some time
or other in the house he had just left; but perhaps he might not even
have to wait for that.
This little girl, whose childish letter he had tossed aside a few days
since in his blindness, who else could she be but the owner of the dog
after which he had clambered up the railway slope? And he had actually
been about to neglect her appeal!
Well, he would write now. Who could say what might not come of it? At
all events, _she_ would read his letter.
That letter gave Mark an infinite deal of trouble. After attentively
reading the little story to which it referred, he sat down to write,
and tore up sheet after sheet in disgust, for he had never given much
study to the childish understanding, with its unexpected deeps and
shallows, and found the task of writing down to it go much against the
grain. But the desire of satisfying a more fastidious critic than
Dolly gave him at last a kind of inspiration, and the letter he did
send, with some misgiving, could hardly have been better written for
the particular purpose.
He was pleasantly reassured as to this a day or two later by another
little note from Dolly, asking him to come to tea at Kensington Park
Gardens on any afternoon except Monday or Thursday, and adding
(evidently by external suggestion) that her mother and sister would be
pleased to make his acquaintance.
Mark read this with a thrill of eager joy. What he had longed for had
come to pass, then; he was to see her, speak with her, once more. At
least he was indebted to 'Illusion' for this result, which a few
months since seemed of all things the most unlikely. This time,
perhaps, she would not leave him without a word or sign, as when last
they met; he might be allowed to come again; even in time to know her
intimately.
And he welcomed this piece of good fortune as a happy omen for the
future.