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

Critics With Him. The Dramatic Critic--A Genial Soul,  Well Known To

The Shop-Girls In Oxford Street,  Without Social Prejudices--Was Deep

In Conversation With The Father And Brother Of The Bride; The Musical

Critic,  A Mild-Faced Man,  Adjusted His Spectacles,  And Awaking From

His Dream Reminded Them Of An Afternoon Concert That Began Unusually

Early,  And Where His Presence Was Indispensable. When The

Declarations Were Over,  Frank Asked When He Should Put The Ring On.

"Some Like To Use The Ring,  Some Don't; It Isn't Necessary; All The

Best People Of Course Do," Said The Assistant-Registrar,  Who Had Not

Yawned Once Since He Had Heard That Frank's Uncle Was Lord Mount

Rorke.

"I Am Much Obliged To You For The Information; But I Should Like To

Have My Question Answered--When Am I To Put On The Ring?"

The Dramatic Critic Tittered,  And Frank Authoritatively Expostulated.

But The Registrar Interposed,  Saying--

"It Is Usual To Put The Ring On When The Bride Has Answered To The

Declarations."

"Now All Of Ye Can Kiss The Bride," Exclaimed The Clerk From Cashel.

Frank Was Indignant; The Registrar Explained That The Kissing Of The

Bride Was An Old Custom Still Retained Among The Lower Classes,  But

Frank Was Not To Be Mollified,  And The Unhappy Clerk Was Ordered To

Leave The Room.

The Wedding Party Drove To The Temple,  Where Champagne Was Awaiting

Them; And When Health And Happiness Had Been Drunk The Critics Left,

And The Party Became A Family One.

Mike Was In His Bedroom; He Was Too Indolent To Move Out Of Escott's

Rooms,  And By Avoiding Him He Hoped To Avert Expulsion And Angry

Altercations. The Night He Spent In Gambling,  The Evening In Dining;

And Some Hours Of Each Afternoon Were Devoted To The Composition Of

His Trilogy. Now He Lay In His Arm-Chair Smoking Cigarettes,  Drinking

Lemonade,  And Thinking. He Was Especially Attracted By The Picture He

Hoped To Paint In The First Play Of John And Jesus; And From Time To

Time His Mind Filled With A Picture Of Herod's Daughter. Closing His

Eyes Slightly He Saw Her Breasts,  Scarce Hidden Beneath Jewels,  And

Precious Scarves Floated From Her Waist As She Advanced In A Vaulted

Hall Of Pale Blue Architecture,  Slender Fluted Columns,  And Pointed

Arches. He Sipped His Lemonade,  Enjoying His Soft,  Changing,  And

Vague Dream. But Now He Heard Voices In The Next Room,  And Listening

Attentively He Could Distinguish The Conversation.

"The Drivelling Idiot!" He Thought. "So He's Gone And Married

Her--That Slut Of A Barmaid! Mount Rorke Will Never Forgive Him. I

Wouldn't Be Surprised If He Married Again. The Idiot!"

The Reprobate Father Declared He Had Not Hoped To See Such A Day,  So

Let Bygones Be Bygones,  That Was His Feeling. She Had Always Been A

Good Daughter; They Had Had Differences Of Opinion,  But Let Bygones

Be Bygones. He Had Lived To See His Daughter Married To A Gentleman,

If Ever There Was One; And His Only Desire Was That God Might Spare

Him To See Her Lady Mount Rorke. Why Should She Not Be Lady Mount

Rorke? She Was As Pretty A Girl As There Was In London,  And A Good

Girl Too; And Now That She Was Married To A Gentleman,  He Hoped They

Would Both Remember To Let Bygones Be Bygones.

"Great Scott!" Thought Mike; "And He'll Have To Live With Her For The

Next Thirty Years,  Watching Her Growing Fat,  Old,  And Foolish. And

That Father!--Won't He Give Trouble! What A Pig-Sty The Fellow Has

Made Of His Life!"

Lizzie Asked Her Father Not To Cry. Then Came A Slight Altercation

Between Lizzie And Her Husband,  In Which It Was Passionately Debated

Whether Harry,  The Brother,  Was Fitted To Succeed Mike On The Paper.

"How The Fellow Has Done For Himself! A Nice Sort Of Paper They'll

Bring Out."

A Cloud Passed Over Mike's Face When He Thought It Would Probably Be

This Young Gentleman Who Would Continue His Articles--_Lions Of The

Season_.

"You Have Quarrelled With Mike," Said Lizzie,  "And You Say You Aren't

Going To Make It Up Again. You'll Want Some One,  And Harry Writes

Very Nicely Indeed. When He Was At School His Master Always Praised

His Writing. When He Is In Love He Writes Off Page After Page. I

Should Like You To See The Letters He Wrote To ..."

"Now,  Liz,  I Really--I Wish You Wouldn't ..."

"I Am Sure He Would Soon Get Into It."

"Quite So,  Quite So; I Hope He Will; I'm Sure Harry Will Get Into

It--And The Way To Get Into It Is For Him To Send Me Some Paragraphs.

I Will Look Over His 'Copy,' Making The Alterations I Think

Necessary. But For The Moment,  Until He Has Learned The Trick Of

Writing Paragraphs,  He Would Be Of No Use To Me In The Office. I

Should Never Get The Paper Out. I Must Have An Experienced Writer By

Me."

Then He Dropped His Voice,  And Mike Heard Nothing Till Frank Said--

"That Cad Fletcher Is Still Here; We Don't Speak,  Of Course; We

Passed Each Other On The Staircase The Other Night. If He Doesn't

Clear Out Soon I'll Have To Turn Him Out. You Know Who He Is--A

Farmer's Son,  And Used To Live In A Little House About A Mile From

Mount Rorke Castle,  On The Side Of The Road."

Mike Thrilled With Rage And Hatred.

"You Brute! You Fool! You Husband Of A Bar-Girl!--You'll Never Be

Lord Mount Rorke! He That Came From The Palace Shall Go To The

Garret; He That Came From The Little House On The Roadside Shall Go

To The Castle,  You Brute!"

And Mike Vowed That He Would Conquer Sloth And Lasciviousness,  And

Outrageously Triumph In The Gaudy,  Foolish World,  And Insult His

Rival With Riches And Even Honour. Then He Heard Lizzie Reproach

Frank For Refusing Her First Request,  And The Foolish Fellow's

Expostulations Suscitated Feelings In Mike Of Intense Satisfaction.

He Smiled Triumphantly When He Heard The Old Man's Talents As

Accountant Referred To.

"Father Never Told You About His Failure," Said Lizzie. Then The

Story With All Its Knots Was Laboriously Unravelled.

"But," Said The Old Man,  "My Books Were Declared To Be Perfect; I Was

Complimented On My Books; I Was Proud Of Them Books."

"Great Scott! The Brother As Sub-Editor,  The Father As Book-Keeper,

The Sister As Wife--It Would Be Difficult To Imagine Anything More

Complete. I'm Sorry For The Paper,  Though;--And My Series,  What A

Hash They'll Make Of It!" Taking The Room In A Glance,  And Imagining

The Others With Every Piece Of Furniture And Every Picture,  He

Thought--"I Give Him A Year,  And Then These Rooms Will Be For Sale. I

Shall Get Them; But I Must Clear Out."

He Had Won Four Hundred Pounds Within The Last Week,  And This And His

Share In A Play Which Was Doing Fairly Well In The Provinces,  Had Run

Up His Balance At The Bank Higher Than It Had Ever Stood--To Nearly A

Thousand Pounds.

As He Considered His Good Fortune,  A Sudden Desire Of Change Of Scene

Suddenly Sprang Upon Him,  And In Full Revulsion Of Feeling His Mind

Turned From The Long Hours In The Yellow Glare Of Lamp-Light,  The

Staring Faces,  The Heaps Of Gold And Notes,  And The Cards Flying

Silently Around The Empty Space Of Green Baize; From The Long Hours

Spent Correcting And Manipulating Sentences; From The Heat And

Turmoil And Dirt Of London; From Frank Escott And His Family; From

Stinking,  Steamy Restaurants; From The High Flights Of Stairs,  And

The Prostitution Of The Temple. And Like Butterflies Above Two

Flowers,  His Thoughts Hovered In Uncertain Desire Between The

Sanctity Of A Honeymoon With Lily Young In A Fair Enchanted Pavilion

On A Terrace By The Sea,  Near,  But Not Too Near,  White Villas,  In A

Place As Fairylike As A Town Etched By Whistler,  And Some Months Of

Pensive And Abstracted Life,  Full To Overflowing With The Joy And

Eagerness Of Incessant Cerebration; A Summer Spent In A Quiet

Country-Side,  Full Of Field-Paths,  And Hedge-Rows,  And Shadowy

Woodland Lanes--Rich With Red Gables,  Surprises Of Woodbine And Great

Sunflowers--Where He Would Walk Meditatively In The Sunsetting,

Seeing The Village Lads And Lassies Pass,  Interested In Their Homely

Life,  So Resting His Brain After The Day's Labour; Then In His Study

He Would Find The Candles Already Lighted,  The Kettle Singing,  His

Books And His Manuscripts Ready For Three Excellent Hours; Upon His

Face The Night Would Breathe The Rustling Of Leaves And The Rich

Odour Of The Stocks And Tall Lilies,  Until He Closed The Window At

Midnight,  Casting One Long Sad And Regretful Look Upon The Gold

Mysteries Of The Heavens.

So His Reverie Ran,  Interrupted By The Conversation In The Next Room.

He Heard His Name Mentioned Frequently. The Situation Was

Embarrassing,  For He Could Not Open A Door Without Being Heard. At

Last He Tramped Boldly Out,  Slamming The Doors After Him,  Leaving A

Note For Frank On The Table In The Passage. It Ran As Follows--"I Am

Leaving Town In A Few Days. I Shall Remove My Things Probably On

Monday. Much Obliged To You For Your Hospitality; And Now,  Good-Bye."

"That Will Look," He Thought,  "As If I Had Not Overheard His Remarks.

How Glad I Shall Be To Get Away! Oh,  For New Scenes,  New Faces! 'How

Pleasant It Is To Have Money!--Heigh-Ho!--How Pleasant It Is To Have

Money!' Whither Shall I Go? Whither? To Italy,  And Write My Poem? To

Paris Or Norway? I Feel As If I Should Never Care To See This Filthy

Temple Again." Even The Old Dining-Hall,  With Its Flights Of Steps

And Balustrades,  Seemed To Have Lost All Accent Of Romance; But He

Stayed To Watch The Long Flight Of The Pigeons As They Came On

Straightened Wings From The Gables. "What Familiar Birds They Are!

Nothing Is So Like A Woman As A Pigeon; Perhaps That's The Reason

Norton Does Not Like Them. Norton! I Haven't Seen Him For Ages--Since

That Morning...." He Turned Into Pump Court. The Doors Were Wide

Open; And There Was Luggage And Some Packing-Cases On The Landing.

The Floor-Matting Was Rolled,  And The Screen Which Protected From

Draughts The High Canonical Chair In Which Norton Read And Wrote Was

Overthrown. John Was Packing His Portmanteau,  And On Either Side Of

Him There Was A Buddha And Indian Warrior Which He Had Lately

Purchased.

"What,  Leaving? Giving Up Your Rooms?"

"Yes; I'm Going Down To Sussex. I Do Not Think It Is Worth While

Keeping These Rooms On."

Mike Expressed His Regret. Mike Said,  "No