Part 72 (1/2)

”Rather an unpleasant exit for such a fellow,” he remarked. ”Not aesthetic at all. And so you were going to castigate him?”

”Look!” and Philip showed him the horsewhip; ”I've been carrying this thing about all day,--I wish I could drop it in the streets; but if I did, some one would be sure to pick it up and return it to me.”

”If it were a purse containing bank-notes you could drop it with the positive certainty of never seeing it again,” laughed Beau. ”Here, hand it over!” and he possessed himself of it. ”I'll keep it till you come back. You leave for Norway to-night, then?”

”Yes. If I can. But it's the winter season--and there'll be all manner of difficulties. I'm afraid it's no easy matter to reach the Altenfjord at this time of year.”

”Why not use your yacht, and be independent of obstacles?” suggested Lovelace.

”She's under repairs, worse luck!” sighed Philip despondingly. ”She won't be in sailing condition for another month. No--I must take my chance--that's all. It's possible I may overtake Thelma at Hull--that's my great hope.”

”Well, don't be down in the mouth about it, my boy!” said Beau sympathetically. ”It'll all come right, depend upon it! Your wife's a sweet, gentle, n.o.ble creature,--and when once she knows all about the miserable mistake that has arisen, I don't know which will be greatest, her happiness or her penitence, for having misunderstood the position.

Now let's have some coffee.”

He ordered this refreshment from a pa.s.sing waiter, and as he did so, a gentleman, with hands clasped behind his back, and a suave smile on his countenance, bowed to him with marked and peculiar courtesy as he sauntered on his way through the room. Beau returned the salute with equal politeness.

”That's Whipper,” he explained with a smile, when the gentleman was out of earshot. ”The best and most generous of men! He's a critic--all critics are large-minded and generous, we know,--but he happens to be remarkably so. He did me the kindest turn I ever had in my life. When my first book came out, he fell upon it tooth and claw, mangled it, tore it to ribbons, metaphorically speaking,--and waved the fragments mockingly in the eyes of the public. From that day my name was made--my writings sold off with delightful rapidity, and words can never tell how I blessed, and how I still bless, Whipper! He always pitches into me--that's what's so good of him! We're awfully polite to each other, as you observe--and what is so perfectly charming is that he's quite unconscious how much he's helped me along! He's really a first-rate fellow. But I haven't yet attained the summit of my ambition,”--and here Lovelace broke off with a sparkle of fun in his clear steel-grey eyes.

”Why, what else do you want?” asked Lorimer laughing.

”I want,” returned Beau solemnly, ”I want to be jeered at by _Punch_! I want _Punch_ to make mouths at me, and give me the benefit of his inimitable squeak and gibber. No author's fame is quite secure till dear old _Punch_ has abused him. Abuse is the thing nowadays, you know.

Heaven forbid that I should be praised by _Punch_. That would be frightfully unfortunate!”

Here the coffee arrived, and Lovelace dispensed it to his friends, talking gaily the while in an effort to distract Errington from his gloomy thoughts.

”I've just been informed on respectable authority, that Walt Whitman is the new Socrates,” he said laughingly. ”I felt rather stunned at the moment but I've got over it now. Oh, this deliciously mad London! what a gigantic Colney Hatch it is for the crazed folk of the world to air their follies in! That any reasonable Englishmen with such names as Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, and Sh.e.l.ley, to keep the glory of their country warm, should for one moment consider Walt Whitman a _poet_! Ye G.o.ds! Where are your thunderbolts!”

”He's an American, isn't he?” asked Errington.

”He is, my dear boy! An American whom the sensible portion of America rejects. We, therefore,--out of opposition,--take him up. His chief recommendation is that he writes blatantly concerning commonplaces,--regardless of music or rhythm. Here's a bit of him concerning the taming of oxen. He says the tamer lives in a

”'Placid pastoral region.

There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds to break them,-- Some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking,--some are buff-colored, some mottled, one has a white line running along his back, some are brindled, Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign!) look you! the bright hides See the two with stars on their foreheads--see the round bodies and broad backs How straight and square they stand on their legs--'”

”Stop, stop!” cried Lorimer, putting his hands to his ears. ”This is a practical joke, Beau! No one would call that jargon poetry!”

”Oh! wouldn't they though!” exclaimed Lovelace. ”Let some critic of reputation once start the idea, and you'll have the good London folk who won't bother to read him for themselves, declaring him as fine as Shakespeare. The dear English muttons! fine Southdowns! fleecy baa-lambs! once let the Press-bell tinkle loudly enough across the fields of literature, and they'll follow, bleating sweetly in any direction! The sharpest heads in our big metropolis are those who know this, and who act accordingly.”

”Then why don't _you_ act accordingly?” asked Errington, with a faint smile.

”Oh, I? I can't! I never asked a favor from the Press in my life--but its little bell has tinkled for me all the same, and a few of the muttons follow, but not all. Are you off?” this, as they rose to take their leave. ”Well, Errington, old fellow,” and he shook hands warmly, ”a pleasant journey to you, and a happy return home! My best regards to your wife. Lorimer, have you settled whether you'll go with me to Italy?

I start the day after to-morrow.”

Lorimer hesitated--then said, ”All right! My mother's delighted at the idea,--yes, Beau! we'll come. Only I hope we shan't bore you.”

”Bore me! you know me better than that,” and he accompanied them out of the smoking-room into the hall, while Errington, a little surprised at this sudden arrangement, observed--

”Why, George--I thought you'd be here when we came back from Norway--to--to welcome Thelma, you know!”