Part 15 (1/2)
But if Lionel was to be reproached for his lack of ambition, that was a charge which could not be brought against certain of those fas.h.i.+onable friends of his at whom Nina (in unconscious collusion with Maurice Mangan) seemed inclined to look askance. At the very height of the London season Lady Adela Cunyngham and her sisters, Lady Sybil and Lady Rosamund Bourne, had taken the town by storm; and it seemed probable that, before they departed for Scotland, they would leave quite a trail of glory behind them in the social firmament. The afternoon production of ”The Chaplet,” in the gardens of Sir Hugh's house on Campden Hill, had been a most notable festivity, doubtless; but then it was a combination affair; for Miss Georgie Lestrange had shared in the honors of the occasion; moreover, they had professional a.s.sistance given them by Mr. Lionel Moore. It was when the three sisters attacked their own particular pursuits that their individual genius shone, and marked success had attended their separate efforts. His royal highness, the commander-in-chief, it is true, had not as yet invited the colonels of the British army to recommend Lady Sybil's ”Soldiers' Marching Song” to the band-masters of the various regiments, but, in default of that, this composition was performed nightly, as the concluding ceremony, at the international exhibition then open in London; and as the piece was played by the combined bands of the Royal Marines, with the drums of the 1st Battalion Grenadier Guards, the Highland Pipers of the 2d Battalion Scots Guards, and the drums of the 2d Battalion Grenadier Guards, the resultant noise was surely sufficient to satisfy the hungriest vanity of any composer, professional or amateur, who ever lived. Then not only had Lady Rosamund exhibited a large picture at the Lansdowne Gallery (a decorative work this was, representing the manumission of a slave, with the legend underneath, ”_Hunc hominem liberum esse volo_”), but also the proprietors of an ill.u.s.trated weekly newspaper had published in their summer number, as a colored supplement, what she had ventured to call ”An All-the-year-round Valentine.” She had taken the following rhyme (or perhaps some one had found it for her)--
”In these fair violets of the veins, The verdure of the spring remains; Ripe cherries on thy lips display The l.u.s.tre of the summer day; If I for autumn were to seek, I'd view the apples on thy cheek; There's nought could give me pain in thee, But winter in thy heart to see.”
--and she had drawn four pretty little landscapes, which, when reproduced on one sheet by chromo-lithography, looked very neat and elegant, while the fair artist was much gratified to observe her name figuring on the placards at railway-stations or on the boards in front of stationers' shops, as she drove along Kensington High Street.
But, of course, the crowning achievement of the gifted family was Lady Adela Cunyngham's novel. If it was not quite the success of the season, as far as the outer world was concerned, it certainly was the most-talked-of book among Lady Adela's own set. Every character in it was identified as somebody or another; and although Lady Adela, as a true artist, maintained that she did not draw individuals, but types, she could not stem the tide of this harmless curiosity, and had to submit to the half-humorous inquiries and flattering insinuations of her friends. As for the outer world, if it remained indifferent, that only showed its lack of grat.i.tude; for here, there, and everywhere, among the evening and weekly papers (the morning papers were, perhaps, too busy with politics at the time), attention was drawn to Lady Arthur Castletown's charming and witty romance of modern life. Alp called to Alp, and deep to deep, throughout Satan's invisible world; ”Kathleen's Sweethearts” was dragged in (apparently with ten men pus.h.i.+ng behind) for casual allusion in ”Our Weekly Note-book;” Lady Arthur's smart sayings were quoted in the gossip attached to this or that monthly magazine; the correspondent of a country journal would hasten to say that it was not necessary to inform _his_ readers that Lady Arthur Castletown was, in reality, Lady Adela Cunyngham, the wife of the well-known breeder of polled cattle, Sir Hugh Cunyngham of the Braes. In the midst of all this Lionel went to his friend Maurice Mangan.
”Look here, Maurice,” said he, ”that book can't be as bad as you tried to make out.”
”It is the most insensate trash that was ever put between boards,” was the prompt reply.
”But how can that be? Look at what the papers say!”
”The papers--what papers? That isn't what the papers say--that is what the small band of log-rollers say, calling industriously to one another, like frogs in a pond. Didn't I tell you what would happen if you got hold of Octavius Quirk, or any one of them? How many dinners did your swell friends expend on Quirk?”
”Oh, I don't know. He is pretty often at the house.”
”He is pretty often at the house, is he?” Mangan repeated.
”I hope they won't ask him to Scotland,” Lionel said, ruefully. ”I can't bear the fellow; it's just as you say, he's always in a whirlwind of insistence--about nothing; and he doesn't grin through a horse-collar, he roars and guffaws through it. But then, you see, he has been very kind about this book; and, of course, a new author, like Lady Adela, is grateful. I admit what you say is right enough--perhaps the family are a little anxious for notoriety; but so are a good many other people; and there's no great harm in writing or painting or composing music as well as you can. Mind, I think there's a little professional jealousy about you, Maurice,” continued this sage Mentor. ”You don't like a woman of fas.h.i.+on to come into your literary circles. But why shouldn't she? I'm sure I don't object when any one of them tries to produce a little dramatic or musical piece; on the contrary, I would rather help. And look at Mellord--the busiest painter of the day--look at the trouble he takes in advising Lady Rosamund; she has the free _entree_ into his studio, no matter who is sitting to him. I think, for amateurs, the work of all the three sisters is very creditable to them; and I don't see why they shouldn't like to have the appreciation of the public, just as other people like it.”
”My dear fellow,” Mangan said, but with obvious indifference, ”do you think I resent the fact of your friend Lady Arthur or Lady Adela writing a foolish novel? Far from it. You asked my opinion of it, and I told you; if you don't see for yourself that the book is absolute trash--but harmless trash, as I think--then you are in a happy condition of mind, for you must be easily pleased. Come, let's talk of something worth talking about. Have you been down to Winstead lately?”
”No--never since that Sunday.”
”Do you know, your people were awfully good to me,” this long, lank, lazy-looking man went on--but now he seemed more interested than when talking about Lady Adela's novel. ”I never spent a more delightful evening--never. I wonder they did not turn me out, though; for I stayed and stayed, and never noticed how late it was getting. Missed the last train, of course, and walked all the way up to London; not a bit sorry, either, for the night was cool, and there was plenty of starlight; I'd walk twice as far to spend another such evening. I--I'm thinking of going down there next Sunday,” he added, with a little hesitation.
”Why not?” Lionel said, cordially enough.
”You see,” Mangan continued, still rather hesitatingly, ”the fact is--I'm rather in the way of getting ill.u.s.trated papers--and--and summer numbers--and children's books--I mean, when I want them, I can get them--for lots of these things come to the newspaper offices, and they're not much use to anybody; so I thought I would just make up a parcel and send it down to Miss Frances, don't you understand, for her sick children--”
”I dare say you went and spent a lot of money.” Lionel said, with a laugh.
”And she was good enough to write back that it was just what she wanted; for several of the children--most of them, I should say--couldn't read, but they liked looking at pictures. And then she was kind enough to add that if I went down next Sunday, she would take me to see how the things had been distributed--the pictures hung up on walls, and so forth--and--and that's why I think I may go down.”
”Oh, yes, certainly,” Lionel said, though he did not understand why any such excuse was necessary.
”Couldn't you come down, too, Linn?” Mangan suggested.
”Oh, no, I couldn't, I'm so busy,” was the immediate reply. ”I'm going to Scotland the first or second week in August. The doctor advises me to give my voice a long rest; and the Cunynghams have asked me to their place in Ross-s.h.i.+re. Besides, I don't care about singing in London when there's n.o.body but country cousins, and none too many of them. Of course I'll have to go down and bid the old folks good-bye before starting for Scotland, and Francie, too. Mind you tell that wicked Francie that I am very angry with her for not having come up to see 'The Squire's Daughter.'”
”Linn,” said his friend, after a second, ”why don't you take the old people over to Aix or some such place for a month? They're so awfully proud of you; and you might take Miss Frances as well; she seems to work so hard--she deserves a rest. Wouldn't that be as sensible as going to Scotland?”
”My good chap, I would do that in a moment--I should be delighted,” said he--for he was really a most generously disposed young man, especially as regarded money; time was of greater consideration with him. ”But it's no use thinking of such a thing. The old folks are much too content with home; they won't travel. And Francie--she wouldn't come away from those precious babes. Well, I'm off. Mind you scold Francie for me!”
”Perhaps,” said Mangan, as he accompanied his friend to the door.
So it was that on a certain evening in August, Lionel Moore drove up to Euston Station and secured a sleeping-berth in the train going north; and no doubt the consciousness that after a long spell of hard work he was entering upon a well-earned holiday was a very welcome and comfortable thing. If only he had been a little more reflective, he might have set to work (here in the railway-carriage, as he lit his cigar, and proceeded to fix up his reading-lamp) and gone on to consider how entirely satisfactory all his circ.u.mstances were at this moment.