Part 23 (1/2)

Very anxious to ascertain the truth about married life, Mike pressed Lizzie upon several points; the old ache awoke about his heart, and again he resolved to regenerate his life, and love Lily and none but her. He looked round the room, considering how he could get away.

Frank was talking business. He would not disturb him. No doubt Thigh was concocting some swindle, but he (Mike) knew nothing of business; he had a knack of turning the king at ecarte, but was nowhere once bills and the cooking of accounts were introduced. Should he post the letter? That was the question, and it played in his ears like an electric bell. Here was the letter; he could feel it through his coat, lying over his heart, and there it had lain since he had written it.

Frank and Thigh continued talking; Lizzie went to the baby, and Mike walked into the night, looking at the stars. He walked along the white high-road--to him a road of dreams--towards the white town--to him a town of chimeras--and leaning over the moon-lit river, shaking himself free from the hallucination within and without him, he said--

”On one hand I shall belong to one woman. Her house shall be my house, her friends shall be my friends; the others, the beautiful, fascinating others, will cease to dream of me, I shall no longer be their ideal. On the other hand I shall gain the nicest woman, and surely it must be right to take, though it be for life, the nicest woman in the world. She will supply what is wanting in my character; together we shall attain a goal; alone I shall attain none. In twenty years I shall be a foolish old bachelor whom no one cares for. I have stated both cases--on which side does the balance turn?”

The balance still stood at equipoise. A formless moon soared through a white cloud wrack, and broken gold lay in the rising tide. The sonorous steps of the policeman on the bridge startled him, and obeying the impulse of the moment, he gave the officer the letter, asking him to post it. He waited for some minutes, as if stupefied, pursuing the consequences of his act even into distant years. No, he would not send the letter just yet. But the officer had disappeared in some by-streets, and followed by the spirits of future loves, Mike ran till he reached the post-office, where he waited in nervous apprehension. Presently steps were heard in the stillness, and getting between him and the terrible slot, Mike determined to fight for his letter if it were refused him.

”I met you just now on the bridge and asked you to post a letter; give it back to me, if you please. I've changed my mind.”

The officer looked at him narrowly, but he took the proffered s.h.i.+lling, and returned the letter.

”That was the narrowest squeak I've had yet,” thought Mike.

When he returned to the cottage he found Frank and Thigh still together.

”Mr. Beacham Brown,” said Thigh, ”is now half-proprietor of the _Pilgrim_. The papers are signed. I came down quite prepared. I believe in settling things right off. When Mrs. Escott comes in, we will drink to the new _Pilgrim_, or, if you like it better, to the old _Pilgrim_, who starts afresh with a new staff and scrip, and a well-filled scrip too,” he added, laughing vacuously.

”I hope,” said Mike, ”that Holloway is not the shrine he is journeying towards.”

”I hope your book won't bring us there.”

”Why, I didn't know you were going to continue--”

”Oh, yes,” said Thigh; ”that is to say, if we can come to an arrangement about the purchase,” and Thigh lapsed into a stony silence, as was his practice when conducting a bargain.

”By G.o.d!” Mike thought, ”I wish we were playing at ecarte or poker.

I'm no good at business.”

”Well,” he said at last, ”what terms do you propose to offer me?”

Thigh woke up.

”I never bargain,” he said. ”I'll give you Beacham Brown's cheque for a hundred and fifty if you will give me a receipt for three hundred,”

and he looked inquiry out of his small, pale blue eyes, and Mike noticed the diamond ring on the hand that caressed his moustache.

”No,” said Mike, ”that isn't fair. You don't write a line of the book. There is not even the excuse of commission, for the book is now appearing.”

”Escott would not have paid you anything like that amount. I think I'm treating you very liberally. Indeed I don't mind telling you that I should not offer you anything like such terms if Beacham Brown were not anxious to have the book; he read your last article in the train, and came back raving about it.”

Bright pleasure pa.s.sed across Mike's face; he thought Thigh had slipped in the avowal, and he girt himself for resolute resistance and cautious attack. But Thigh was the superior strategist. Mike was led from the subject, and imperceptibly encouraged to speak of other things, and without interruption he span paradoxes and scattered jokes for ten minutes. Then the conversation dropped, and annoyed, Mike fixed his eyes on Thigh, who sat in unmovable silence.

”Well,” said Mike, ”what do you intend to do?”

”About what?” said Thigh, with a half-waking stare.

”About this book of mine. You know very well that if I take it to another shop you'll find it difficult to get anything like as good a serial. I know pretty well what talent is walking about Fleet Street.”

Thigh said nothing, only raised his eyes as if Mike's words were full of suggestion, and again beguiled, Mike rambled into various criticisms of contemporary journalism. Friends were laughed at, and the papers they edited were stigmatized as rags that lived upon the ingenuity of the lies of advertising agents. When the conversation again dropped, Thigh showed no inclination of returning to the book, but, as before, sat in stony silence, and out of temper with himself, Mike had to ask him again what the terms were.