Mike Fletcher by George Moore (ebook pc reader .txt) 📕

Had Been Frequented By Decrepit Old Gentlemen Interested In Arabi,

And Other Matters Which They Spoke Of As Eastern Questions.

Lily Looked At Mike Under Her Eyes As She Passed Across The Room To

Get Him Some Tea,  And They Talked A Little While. Then Some Three Or

Four Great And Very Elderly Historians Entered,  And She Had To Leave

Him; And Feeling He Could Not Prolong His Visit He Went,  Conscious Of

Sensations Of Purity And Some Desire Of Goodness,  If Not For Itself,

For The Grace That Goodness Brings. He Paid Many Visits In This

House,  But Conversations With Learned Buddhists Seemed The Only

Result; A _Tête-À-Tête_ With Lily Seemed Impossible. To His Surprise

He Never Met Her In Society,  And His Heart Beat Fast When One Evening

He Heard She Was Expected; And For The First Time Forgetful Of The

Multitude,  And Nervous As A School-Boy In Search Of His First Love,

He Sought Her In The Crowd. He Feared To Remain With Her,  And It

Seemed To Him He Had Accomplished Much In Asking Her To Come Down To

Supper. When Talking To Others His Thoughts Were With Her,  And His

Eyes Followed Her. An Inquisitive Woman Noted His Agitation,  And

Suspecting The Cause,  Said,  "I See,  I See,  And I Think Something May

Come Of It." Even When Lily Left He Did Not Recover His Ordinary

Humour,  And About Two In The Morning,  In Sullen Weariness And

Disappointment,  He Offered To Drive Lady Helen Home.

Should He Make Love To Her? He Had Often Wished To. Here Was An

Opportunity.

"You Did Not See That I Was Looking At You Tonight; You Did Not Guess

What I Was Thinking Of?"

"Yes,  I Did; You Were Looking At And Thinking Of My Arms."

Should He Pass His Arm Round Her? Lady Helen Knew Lily,  And Might

Tell; He Did Not Dare It,  And Instead,  Spoke Of Her Contributions To

The Paper. Then The Conversation Branched Into A Description Of The

Wednesday Night Festivities In Temple Gardens--The Shouting And

Cheering Of The Lords,  The Comic Vocalists,  The Inimitable Arthur,

The Extraordinary Bessie. He Told,  With Fits Of Laughter,  Of

Muchross's Stump Speeches,  And How He Had Once Got On The

Supper-Table And Sat Down In The Very Centre,  Regardless Of Plates

And Dishes. Mike And Lady Helen Nearly Died Of Laughter When He

Related How On One Occasion Muchross And Snowdown,  Both Crying Drunk,

Had Called In A Couple Of Sweeps. "You See," He Said,  "The Look Of

Amazement On Their Faces,  And The Black 'Uns Were Forced Into Two

Chairs,  And Were Waited Upon By The Lords,  Who Tucked Their Napkins

Under Their Arms."

"Oh Don't,  Oh Don't!" Said Lady Helen,  Leaning Back Exhausted.

But Mike Went On,  Though He Was Hardly Able To Speak,  And Told How

Muchross And Snowdown Had Danced The Can-Can,  Kicking At The

Chandelier From Time To Time,  The Sweeps Keeping Time With Their

Implements On The Sideboard; The Revel Finishing Up With A Wrestling

Match,  Muchross Taking The Big Sweep,  And Snowdown The Little One.

"You Should Have Seen Them Rolling Over Under The Dining-Room Table;

I Shall Never Forget Snowdown's Shirt."

"I Should Like To See One Of These Entertainments. Do You Ever Have A

Ladies' Night? If You Do,  And The Ladies Are Not Supposed To Wrestle

With The Laundresses In The Early Light,  I Should Like To Come."

"Oh,  Yes,  Do Come; Frank Will Be Delighted. I'll See That Things Are

Kept Within Bounds." The Conversation Fell,  And He Regretted He Must

Forego This Very Excellent Opportunity To Make Love To Her.

Next Day,  Changed In His Humour,  But Still Thinking Of Lily,  He Went

To See Mrs. Byril,  And He Stopped A Few Days With Her. He Was Always

Strict In His Own Room,  And If Emily Sought Him In The Morning He

Reprimanded Her.

She Was One Of Those Women Who,  Having Much Heart,  Must Affect More;

A Weak Intelligent Woman,  Honest And Loyal--One Who Could Not Live

Without A Lover. And With Her Arms About His Neck,  She Listened To

His Amours,  And Learnt His Poetry By Heart. Mike Was Her Folly,  And

She Would Never Have Thought Of Another If,  As She Said,  He Had Only

Behaved Decently To Her. "I Am Sorry,  Darling,  I Told You Anything

About It,  But When I Got Your Beastly Letter I Wrote To Him. Tell Me

You'll Come And Stay With Me Next Month,  And I'll Put Him Off.... I

Hate This New Girl; I Am Jealous Because She May Influence You,  But

For The Others--The Brookes And Their Friends--The Half-Hours Spent

In Summer-Houses When The Gardener Is At Dinner,  I Care Not One Jot."

So She Spoke As She Lay Upon His Knees In The Black Satin Arm-Chair

In The Drawing-Room.

But Her Presence At Breakfast--That Invasion Of The Morning

Hours--Was Irritating; He Hated The Request To Be In To Lunch,  And

The Duty Of Spending The Evening In Her Drawing-Room,  Instead Of In

Club Or Bar-Room. He Desired Freedom To Spend Each Minute As The

Caprice Of The Moment Prompted. Were He A Rich Man He Would Not Have

Lived With Frank; To Live With A Man Was Unpleasant; To Live With A

Woman Was Intolerable. In The Morning He Must Be Alone To Dream Of A

Book Or Poem; In The Afternoons,  About Four,  He Was Glad To

Æstheticize With Harding Or Thompson,  Or Abandon Himself To The Charm

Of John's Aspirations.

John And He Were Often Seen Walking Together,  And They Delighted In

The Temple. The Temple Is Escapement From The Omniscient Domesticity

Which Is So Natural To England; And Both Were Impressionable To Its

Morning Animation--The Young Men Hurrying Through The Courts And

Cloisters,  The Picturesqueness Of A Wig And Gown Passing Up A Flight

Of Steps. It Seemed That The Old Hall,  The Buttresses And Towers,  The

Queer Tunnels Leading From Court To Court,  Turned The Edge Of The

Commonplace Of Life. Nor Did The Temple Ever Lose For Them Its Quaint

And Primitive Air,  And As They Strolled About The Cloisters Talking

Of Art Or Literature,  They Experienced A Delight That Cannot Be Quite

Put Into Words; And Were Strangely Glad As They Opened The Iron

Gates,  And Looked On All The Many Brick Entanglements With The Tall

Trees Rising,  Spreading The Delicate Youth Of Leaves Upon The Weary

Red Of The Tiles And The Dim Tones Of The Dear Walls.

  "A Gentel Manciple There Was Of The Temple

   Of Whom Achatours Mighten Take Ensample

   For To Ben Wise In Bying Of Vitaille."

The Gentle Shade Of Linden Trees,  The Drip Of The Fountain,  The

Monumented Corner Where Goldsmith Rests,  Awake Even In The Most

Casual And Prosaic A Fleeting Touch Of Romance. And The Wide Steps

With Balustrades Sweeping Down In Many Turnings To The Gardens,  Cause

Vagrant And Hurrying Steps To Pause,  And Wander About The Library And

Through The Gardens,  Which Lead With Such Charm Of Way To The Open

Spaces Of The King's Bench Walk.

There,  There Is Another Dining-Hall And Another Library. The Clock Is

Ringing Out The Hour,  And The Place Is Filled With Young Men In

Office Clothes,  Hurrying On Various Business With Papers In Their

Hands; And Such Young Male Life Is One Of The Charms Of The Temple;

And The Absence Of Women Is Refreshment To The Eye Wearied Of Their

Numbers In The Streets. The Temple Is An Island In The London Sea.

Immediately You Pass The Great Doorway,  Studded With Great Nails,  You

Pass Out Of The Garishness Of The Merely Modern Day,  Unhallowed By

Any Associations,  Into A Calmer And Benigner Day,  Over Which Floats

Some Shadow Of The Great Past. The Old Staircases Lighted By Strange

Lanterns,  The River Of Lingering Current,  Bearing In Its Winding So

Much Of London Into One Enchanted View. The Church Built By The

Templars More Than Seven Hundred Years Ago,  Now Stands In The Centre

Of The Inn All Surrounded,  On One Side Yellowing Smoke-Dried

Cloisters,  On Another Side Various Closes,  Feebly Striving In Their

Architecture Not To Seem Too Shamefully Out Of Keeping With Its

Beauty. There It Stands In All The Beauty Of Its Pointed Arches And

Triple Lancet Windows,  As When It Was Consecrated By The Patriarch Of

Jerusalem In The Year 1185.

But In 1307 A Great Ecclesiastical Tribunal Was Held In London,  And

It Was Proved That An Unfortunate Knight,  Who Had Refused To Spit

Upon The Cross,  Was Haled From The Dining-Hall And Drowned In A Well,

And Testimony Of The Secret Rites That Were Held There,  And In Which

A Certain Black Idol Was Worshipped,  Was Forthcoming. The Grand

Master Was Burnt At The Stake,  The Knights Were Thrown Into Prison,

And Their Property Was Confiscated. Then The Forfeited Estate Of The

Temple,  Presenting Ready Access By Water,  At Once Struck The

Advocates Of The Court Of Common Pleas At Westminster,  And The

Students Who Were Candidates For The Privilege Of Pleading Therein,

As A Most Desirable Retreat,  And Interest Was Made With The Earl Of

Lancaster,  The King's First Cousin,  Who Had Claimed The Forfeited

Property Of The Monks By Escheat,  As The Immediate Lord Of The Fee,

For A Lodging In The Temple,  And They First Gained A Footing There As

His Lessees.

Above All,  The Church With Its Round Tower-Like Roof Was Very Dear To

Mike And John,  And They Often Spoke Of The Splendid Spectacle Of The

Religious Warriors Marching In Procession,  Their White Tunics With

Red Crosses,  Their Black And White Banner Called Beauseant. It Is

Seen On The Circular Panels Of The Vaulting Of The Side Aisles,  And

On Either Side The Letters Beauseant. There Stands The Church Of The

Proud Templars,  A Round Tower-Like Church,  Fitting Symbol Of Those

Soldier Monks,  At The West End Of A Square Church,  The Square Church

Engrafted Upon The Circular So As To Form One Beautiful Fabric. The

Young Men Lingered Around The Time-Worn Porch,  Lovely With Foliated

Columns,  Strange With Figures In Prayer,  And Figures Holding Scrolls.

And Often Without Formulating Their Intentions In Words They Entered

The Church. Beneath The Groined Ribs Of The Circular Tower Lie The

Mail-Clad Effigies Of The Knights,  And Through Beautiful Gracefulness

Of Grouped Pillars The Painted Panes Shed Bright Glow Upon The

Tesselated Pavement. The Young Men Passed Beneath The Pointed Arches

And Waited,  Their Eyes Raised To The Celestial Blueness Of The

Thirteenth-Century Window,  And Then In Silence Stole Back Whither The

Knights Sleep So Grimly,  With Hands Clasped On