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

"How Jolly This Is!" Said Mike. "I'm Dying For A Gamble; I Feel As If

I Could Play As I Never Played Before. I Have All The Cards In My

Mind's Eye. By George! I Wish I Could Get Hold Of A 'Mug,' I'd Fleece

Him To The Tune Of Five Hundred Before He Knew Where He Was. But Look

At That Woman! She's Not Bad."

"A Great Coarse Creature Like That! I Never Could Understand You....

Have You Heard Of Lily Young Lately?"

Mike's Face Fell.

"No," He Said,  "I Have Not. She Is The Only Woman I Ever Loved. I

Would Sooner See Her Than The Green Cloth. I Really Believe I Love

That Girl. Somehow I Cannot Forget Her."

"Well,  Come And See Her To-Day. Take Your Eyes Off That Disgusting

Harlot."

"No,  Not To-Day," He Replied,  Without Removing His Eyes. Five Minutes

After He Said,  "Very Well,  I Will Go. I Must See Her."

The Waiter Was Called,  The Bill Was Paid,  A Hansom Was Hailed,  And

They Were Rolling Westward. In The Pleasure Of This Little

Expedition,  Mike's Rankling Animosity Was Almost Forgotten. He Said--

"I Love This Drive West; I Love To See London Opening Up,  As It Were,

Before The Wheels Of The Hansom--Trafalgar Square,  The Clubs,  Pall

Mall,  St. James' Street,  Piccadilly,  The Descent,  And Then The

Gracious Ascent Beneath The Trees. You See How I Anticipate It All."

"Do You Remember That Morning When Lady Helen Committed Suicide? What

Did You Think Of My Article?"

"I Didn't See It. I Should Have Liked To Have Written About It; But

You Said That I Wouldn't Write Feelingly."

Mrs. Young Hardly Rose From Her Sofa; But She Welcomed Them In

Plaintive Accents. Lily Showed Less Astonishment And Pleasure At

Seeing Him Than Mike Expected. She Was Talking To A Lady,  Who Was

Subsequently Discovered To Be The Wife Of A Strange Fat Man,  Who,  In

His Character Of Orientalist,  Squatted Upon The Lowest Seat In The

Room,  And Wore A Velvet Turban On His Head,  A Voluminous Overcoat

Circulating About Him.

"As I Said To Lady Hazeldean Last Night--I Hope Mr. Gladstone Did Not

Hear Me,  He Was Talking To Lady Engleton Dixon About Divorce,  I

Really Hope He Did Not Hear Me--But I Really Couldn't Help Saying

That I Thought It Would Be Better If He Believed Less In The Divorce

Of Nations,  Even If I May Not Add That He Might With Advantage

Believe More In The Divorce Of Persons Not Suited To Each Other."

When The Conversation Turned On Arabi,  Which It Never Failed To Do In

This House,  The Perfume-Burners That Had Been Presented To Her And

Mr. Young On Their Triumphal Tour Were Pointed Out.

"I Telegraphed To Dilke," Said Sir Joseph,  "'You Must Not Hang That

Man.' And When Mrs. Young Accused Him Of Not Taking Sufficient

Interest In Africa,  He Said--'My Dear Mrs. Young,  I Not Interested In

Africa! You Forget What I Have Done For Africa; How I Have Laboured

For Africa. I Shall Not Believe In The Synthesis Of Humanity,  Nor

Will It Be Complete,  Till We Get The Black Votes.'"

"Mr. Young And Lord Granville Used To Have Such Long Discussions

About Buddhism,  And It Always Used To End In Mr. Young Sending A Copy

Of Your Book To Lord Granville."

"A Very Great Distinction For Me--A Very Great Distinction For Me,"

Murmured Buddha; And Allowing Mrs. Young To Relieve Him Of His

Tea-Cup,  He Said--"And Now,  Mrs. Young,  I Want To Ask For Your

Support And Co-Operation In A Little Scheme--A Little Scheme Which I

Have Been Nourishing Like A Rose In My Bosom For Some Years."

Sir Joseph Raised His Voice; And It Was Not Until He Had Imposed

Silence On His Wife That He Consented To Unfold His Little Scheme.

Then The Fat Man Explained That In A Certain Province In Cylone (A

Name Of Six Syllables) There Was A Temple,  And This Temple Had

Belonged In The Sixth Century To A Tribe Of Buddhists (A Name Of

Seven Syllables),  And This Temple Had In The Eighth Century Been

Taken From The Buddhists By A Tribe Of Brahmins (A Name Of Eight

Syllables).

"And Not Being Mr. Gladstone," Said Sir Joseph,  "I Do Not Propose To

Dispossess The Brahmins Without Compensation. I Am Merely Desirous

That The Brahmins Should Be Bought Out By The Indian Government At A

Cost Of A Hundred And Fifty Or Two Hundred Thousand. If This Were

Done The Number Of Pilgrims To This Holy Shrine Would Be Doubled,  And

The Best Results Would Follow."

"Oh,  Mrs. Jellaby,  Where Art Thou?" Thought Mike,  And He Boldly Took

Advantage Of The Elaborate Preparations That Were Being Made For Sir

Joseph To Write His Name On A Fan,  To Move Round The Table And Take A

Seat By Lily.

But Frank's Patience Was Exhausted,  And He Rose To Leave.

"People Wonder At The Genius Of Shakespeare! I Must Say The Stupidity

Of The Ordinary Man Surprises Me Far More," Said Mike.

"I'm A Poor Man To-Day," Said Frank,  "But I Would Give £25 To Have

Had Dickens With Us--Fancy Walking Up Piccadilly With Him Afterwards!

"Now I Must Go," He Said. "Lizzie Is Waiting For Me. I'll See You

To-Morrow," He Cried,  And Drove Away.

"Just Fancy Having To Look After Her,  Having To Attend To Her Wants,

Having To Leave A Friend And Return Home To Dine With Her In A Small

Room! How Devilish Pleasant It Is To Be Free!--To Say,  'Where Shall I

Dine?' And To Be Able To Answer,  'Anywhere.' But It Is Too Early To

Dine,  And Too Late To Play Whist. Damn It! I Don't Know What To Do

With Myself."

Mike Watched The Elegantly-Dressed Men Who Passed Hurriedly To Their

Clubs,  Or Drove West To Dinner Parties. Red Clouds And Dark Clouds

Collected And Rolled Overhead,  And In A Chill Wintry Breeze The

Leaves Of The Tall Trees Shivered,  Fell,  And Were Blown Along The

Pavement With Sharp Harsh Sound. London Shrouded Like A Widow In Long

Crape.

"What Is There To Do? Five O'clock! After That Lunch I Cannot Dine

Before Eight--Three Hours! Whom Shall I Go And See?"

A Vision Of Women Passed Through His Mind,  But He Turned From Them

All,  And He Said--

"I Will Go And See Her."

He Had Met Miss Dudley In Brighton,  In A House Where He Had Been

Asked To Tea. She Was A Small,  Elderly Spinster With Sharp Features

And Gray Curls. She Had Expected Him To Address To Her A Few

Commonplace Remarks For Politeness' Sake,  And Then To Leave Her For

Some Attractive Girl. But He Had Showed No Wish To Leave Her,  And

When They Met Again He Walked By Her Bath-Chair The Entire Length Of

The Cliff. Miss Dudley Was A Cripple. She Had Fallen From Some Rocks

When A Child Playing On The Beach,  And Had Injured Herself

Irremediably. She Lived With Her Maid In A Small Lodging,  And Being

Often Confined To Her Room For Days,  Nearly Every Visitor Was

Welcome. Mike Liked This Pallid And Forgotten Little Woman. He Found

In Her A Strange Sweetness--A Wistfulness. There Was Poetry In Her

Loneliness And Her Ruined Health. Strength,  Health,  And Beauty Had

Been Crushed By A Chance Fall. But The Accident Had Not Affected The

Mind,  Unless Perhaps It Had Raised It Into More Intense Sympathy With

Life. And In All His Various Passions And Neglected Correspondence He

Never Forgot For Long To Answer Her Letters,  Nor Did He Allow A Month

To Pass Without Seeing Her. And Now He Bought For Her A Great Packet

Of Roses And A Novel; And With Some Misgivings He Chose Zola's _Page

D'amour_.

"I Think This Is All Right. She'll Be Delighted With It,  If She'll

Read It."

She Would Have Read Anything He Gave,  And Seen No Harm Since It Came

From Him. The Ailing Caged Bird Cannot But Delight In The Thrilling

Of The Wild Bird That Comes To It With The Freedom Of The Sky And

Fields In Its Wings And Song. She Listened To All His Stories,  Even

To His Stories Of Pigeon-Shooting. She Knew Not How To Reproach Him.

Her Eyes Fixed Upon Him,  Her Gentle Hand Laid On The Rail Of Her

Chair,  She Listened While He Told Her Of The Friends He Had Made,  And

His Life In The Country; Its Seascape And Downlands,  The Furze Where

He Had Shot The Rabbits,  The Lane Where He Had Jumped The Gate. Her

Pleasures Had Passed In Thought--His In Action; The World Was For

Him--This Room For Her.

There Is The Long Chair In Which She Lies Nearly Always; There Is The

Cushion On Which The Tired Head Is Leaned,  A Small Beautifully-Shaped

Head,  And The Sharp Features Are Distinct On The Dark Velvet,  For The

Lamp Is On The Mantelpiece,  And The Light Falls Full On The Profile.

The Curtains Are Drawn,  And The Eyes Animate With Gratitude When Mike

Enters With His Roses,  And After Asking Kindly Questions He Takes A

Vase,  And Filling It With Water,  Places The Flowers Therein,  And Sets

It On The Table Beside Her. There Is Her Fire--(Few Indeed Are The

Days In Summer When She Is Without It)--The Singing Kettle Suggests

The Homely Tea,  And The Saucepan On The Hearth The Invalid. There Is

Her Bookcase,  Set With Poetry And Religion,  And In One Corner Are The

Yellow-Backed French Novels That Mike Has Given Her. They Are The

Touches The Most Conclusive Of Reality In Her Life; And She Often

Smiles,  Thinking How Her Friends Will Strive To Explain How They Came

Into Her Life When She Is Gone.

"How Good Of You To Come And See Me! Tell Me About Yourself,  What You

Have Been Doing. I Want To Hear You Talk."

"Well,  I've Brought You This Book; It Is A Lovely Book--You Can Read

It--I Think You Can Read It,  Otherwise I Should Not Have Given It To

You."

He Remained With Her Till Seven,  Talking To Her About Hunting,

Shooting,  Literature,  And Card-Playing.

"Now I Must Go," He Said,  Glancing At The Clock.

"Oh,  So Soon," Exclaimed Miss Dudley,  Waking From Her Dream; "Must

You Go?"

"I'm Afraid I Must; I Haven't Dined Yet."

"And What Are You Going To Do After Dinner? You Are Going To Play

Cards."

"How Did You Guess That?"

"I Can't Say," She Said,  Laughing; "I Think I Can Often Guess Your

Thoughts."

And During The Long Drive To Piccadilly,  And As He Eat His Sole And

Drank His Pomard,  He Dreamed Of The Hands He Should Hold,  And Of The

Risks He Should Run When The Cards Were Bad. His Brain Glowed With

Subtle Combinations And Surprises,  And He Longed To Measure His

Strength Against Redoubtable Antagonists. The Two Great Whist

Players,  Longley And Lovegrove,  Were There. He Always Felt Jealous Of

Lovegrove's Play. Lovegrove Played An Admirable Game,  Always Making

The Most Of His Cards. But There Was None Of That Dash,  And Almost

Miraculous Flashes Of Imagination And Decision Which Characterized