Part 6 (1/2)

Had I the pen which that same George will persist in keeping for his letters, I should venture to delight the Reader with more of his story.

One underhand hope of mine, however, for these poor hints is, that they may by their very imperfection arouse him to give the world 'the true story' of a happy home. Narcissus repeatedly threatened that, if he did not take pen in hand, he would some day 'make copy' of him; and now I have done it instead. Moreover, I shall further presume on his forbearance by concluding with a quotation from one of his letters that came to me but a few months back:--

'You know how deeply exercised the little ones are on the subject of death, and how I had answered their curiosity by the story that after death all things turn into flowers. Well, what should startle the wife's ears the other day but ”Mother, I wish you would die.” ”O why, my dear?”

”Because I should so like to water you!” was the delicious explanation.

The theory has, moreover, been called to stand at the bar of experience, for a week or two ago one of Phyllis' goldfish died. There were tears at first, of course, but they suddenly dried up as Geoffrey, in his reflective way, wondered ”what flower it would come to.” Here was a dilemma. One had never thought of such contingencies. But, of course, it was soon solved. ”What flower would you like it to be, my boy?” I asked.

”A poppy!” he answered; and after consultation, ”a poppy!” agreed the others. So a poppy it is to be. A visit to the seedsman's procured the necessary surrept.i.tious poppy seed; and so now poor Sir Goldfish sleeps with the seed of sleep in his mouth, and the children watch his grave day by day, breathless for his resplendent resurrection. Will you write us an epitaph?'

Ariel forgive me! Here is what I sent:

'Five inches deep Sir Goldfish lies; Here last September was he laid; Poppies these, that were his eyes, Of fish-bones are these blue-bells made; His fins of gold that to and fro Waved and waved so long ago, Still as petals wave and wave To and fro above his grave.

Hearken, too! for so his knell Tolls all day each tiny bell.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: From a tiny privately-printed volume of deliciously original lyrics by Mr. R.K. Leather, since republished by Mr. Fisher Unwin, 1890, and at present published by Mr. John Lane.]

CHAPTER IX

THAT THIRTEENTH MAID

'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'-- _Merchant of Venice_.

It occurs to me here to wonder whether there can be any reader ungrateful enough to ask with grumbling voice, 'What of the book-bills?

The head-line has been the sole mention of them now for many pages; and in the last chapter, where a book was referred to, the writer was perverse enough to choose one that never belonged to Narcissus at all.'

To which I would venture to make humble rejoinder--Well, Goodman Reader, and what did you expect? Was it accounts, with all their thrilling details, with totals, 'less discount,' and facsimiles of the receipt stamps? Take another look at our first chapter. I promised nothing of the sort there, I am sure. I promised simply to attempt for you the delineation of a personality which has had for all who came into contact with it enduring charm, in hope that, though at second-hand, you might have some pleasure of it also; and I proposed to do this mainly from the hints of doc.u.ments which really are more significant than any letters or other writings could be, for the reason that they are of necessity so unconscious. I certainly had no intention of burdening you with the original data, any more than, should you accept the offer I made, also in that chapter, and entrust me with your private ledger for biographical purposes, I would think of printing it _in extenso_, and calling it a biography; though I should feel justified, after the varied story had been deduced and written out, in calling the product, metaphorical wise, 'The private ledger of Johannes Browne, Esquire'--a t.i.tle which, by the way, is copyright and duly 'entered.' Such was my attempt, and I maintain that I have so far kept my word. Because whole shelves have been disposed of in a line, and a ninepenny 'Canterbury'

has rustled out into pages, you have no right to complain, for that is but the fas.h.i.+on of life, as I have endeavoured to show. And let me say in pa.s.sing that that said copy of Mr. Rhys's Whitman, though it could not manifestly appear in his book-bills, does at the present moment rest upon his shelf--'a moment's monument.'

Perhaps it would be well, before proceeding with this present 'place in the story,' to set out with a statement of the various 'authorities' for it; as, all this being veritable history, perhaps one should. But then, Reader, here again I should have to catalogue quite a small library.

However, I will enumerate a few of the more significant ones.

'Swinburne's _Tristram of Lyonesse_, 9/-, less dis., 6/9.'

All that this great poem of 'springtide pa.s.sion with its fire and flowers' meant to Narcissus and his 'Thirteenth Maid' in the morning of their love, those that have loved too will hardly need telling, while those who have not could never understand, though I spake with the tongue of the poet himself. In this particular copy, which, I need hardly say, does not rest upon N.'s shelves, but on another in a sweet little bedchamber, there is a tender inscription and a sonnet which aimed at acknowledging how the hearts of those young lovers had gone out to that poet 'with mouth of gold and morning in his eyes.' The latter I have begged leave to copy here:--

'Dear Heart, what thing may symbolise for us A love like ours; what gift, whate'er it be, Hold more significance 'twixt thee and me Than paltry words a truth miraculous, Or the poor signs that in astronomy Tell giant splendours in their gleaming might?

Yet love would still give such, as in delight To mock their impotence--so this for thee.

'This book for thee; our sweetest honeycomb Of lovesome thought and pa.s.sion-hearted rhyme, Builded of gold, and kisses, and desire, By that wild poet whom so many a time Our hungering lips have blessed, until a fire Burnt speech up, and the wordless hour had come.'

'Meredith's _Richard Feverel_, 6/-, less dis., 4/6.'

Narcissus was never weary of reading those two wonderful chapters where Lucy and Richard meet, and he used to say that some day he would beg leave from Mr. Meredith to reprint at his own charges just those two chapters, to distribute to all true lovers in the kingdom. It would be hard to say how often he and his maid had read them aloud together, with amorous punctuation--caresses for commas, and kisses for full-stops.

'Morris' _Sigurd the Volsung_, 12/-, less dis., 9/-.'

This book they loved when their love had grown to have more of earnest purpose in it, and its first hysteric ecstasy had pa.s.sed into the more solemn ardours of the love that goes not with spring, but loves even unto the winter and beyond. It is marked all through in pencil by Narcissus; but on one page, where it opens easily, there are written initials, in a woman's hand, against this great pa.s.sage:--