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

Allow Me I'll Ask Him To Step Down-Stairs. I Touched The Bell,  And

Told The Boy To Ask Mr. Tomlinson To Step Into The Office. 'Mr.

Tomlinson,' I Said,  'Mr. Page Says That He Gave You His Advertisement

On Our Implicit Assurance That We Circulated Thirty Thousand Copies

Weekly. Did You Tell Him That?' Quite Unabashed,  Tomlinson Answered,

'I Told Mr. Page That We Had More Than Thirty Thousand Readers A

Week. We Send To Ten Line Regiments And Five Cavalry Regiments--Each

Regiment Consists Of,  Let Us Say,  Eight Hundred. We Send To Every

Club In London,  And Each Club Has On An Average A Thousand Members.

Why,  Sir,' Exclaimed Tomlinson,  Turning Angrily On The Jeweller,  'I

Might Have Said That We Had A Hundred Thousand Readers And I Should

Have Still Been Under The Mark!' The Jeweller Paid For His

Advertisement And Went Away Crestfallen. Such A Man As Tomlinson Is

The Very Bone And Muscle Of A Society Journal."

"And The Nerves Too," Said Mike.

"Better Than The Contributors Who Want To Write About The Relation

Between Art And Morals."

The Young Men Laughed Mightily.

"And What Will You Do," Said Mike,  "If You Don't Settle With Thigh?"

"Perhaps My Man Will Be Able To Pick Up Another Advertisement Or Two;

Perhaps Your Articles May Send Up The Circulation. One Thing Is

Certain,  Things Can't Go On As They Are; At This Rate I Shall Not Be

Able To Carry The Paper On Another Six Months."

The Conversation Fell,  And Mike Remembered The Letter In His Side

Pocket; It Lay Just Over His Heart. Frank's Monetary Difficulties Had

Affected His Matrimonial Aspirations. "For If The Paper 'Bursts Up'

How Shall I Live,  Much Less Support A Wife? Live! I Shall Always Be

Able To Live,  But To Support A Wife Is Quite Another Matter. Perhaps

Lily Has Some Money. If She Had Five Hundred A Year I Would Marry

Her; But I Don't Know If She Has A Penny. She Must Have Some,  A Few

Thousands--Enough To Pay The First Expenses. To Get A House And Get

Into The House Would Cost A Thousand." A Cloud Passed Over His Face.

The Householder,  The Payer Of Rates And Taxes Which The Thought

Evoked,  Jarred And Caricatured The Ideal,  The Ideal Mike Fletcher,

Which In More Or Less Consistent Form Was Always Present In His Mind.

He Who Had Always Received,  Would Have To Make Presents. The

Engagement Ring Would Cost Five-And-Twenty Pounds,  And Where Was He

To Get The Money? The Ring He Would Have To Buy At Once; And His

Entire Fortune Did Not For The Moment Amount To Ten Pounds. Her

Money,  If She Had Any,  Would Pay For The Honeymoon; And It Was Only

Right That A Woman Should Pay For Her Honeymoon. They Would Go To

Italy. She Was Italy! At Least She Was His Idea Of Italy. Italy! He

Had Never Been There; He Had Always Intended To Keep Italy For His

Wedding Tour. He Was Virgin Of Italy. So Much Virginity He Had At All

Events Kept For His Wife. She Was The Emblem And Symbol Of Italy.

Venice Rose Into His Eyes. He Is In A Gondola With Her; The Water Is

Dark With Architrave And Pillar; And A Half Moon Floats In A

Boundless Sky But Remembering That This Is The Venice Of A Hundred

"Chromos," His Imagination Filled The Well-Known Water-Way With

Sunlight And Maskers,  Creating The Carnival Upon The Grand Canal.

Laughing And Mocking Loves; Young Nobles In Blue Hose,  Sword On

Thigh,  As In Shakespeare's Plays; Young Brides In Tumultuous Satin,

With Collars Of Translucent Pearls; Garlands Reflected In The Water;

Scarves Thrown About The Ample Bosoms Of Patrician Matrons. Then The

Brides,  The Nobles,  The Pearls,  The Loves,  And The Matrons Disappear

In A Shower Of Confetti. Wearying Of Venice He Strove To See

Florence,  "The City Of Lilies"; But The Phrase Only Suggested

Flower-Sellers. He Intoxicated Upon His Love,  She Who To Him Was Now

Italy. He Imagined Confidences,  Sudden Sights Of Her Face More

Exquisite Than The Botticelli Women In The Echoing Picture Galleries,

More Enigmatic Than The Eyes Of A Leonardo; And In These Days Of

Desire,  He Lived Through The Torment Of Impersonal Love,  Drawn For

The First Time Out Of Himself. All Beautiful Scenes Of Love From

Books,  Pictures,  And Life Floated In His Mind. He Especially

Remembered A Sight Of Lovers Which He Had Once Caught On An Hotel

Staircase. A Young Couple,  Evidently Just Returned From The Theatre,

Had Entered Their Room; The Woman Was Young,  Tall,  And Aristocratic;

She Was Dressed In Some Soft Material,  Probably A Dress Of

Cream-Coloured Lace In Numberless Flounces; He Remembered That Her

Hair Was Abundant And Shadowed Her Face. The Effect Of Firelight

Played Over The Hangings Of The Bed; She Stood By The Bed And Raised

Her Fur Cloak From Her Shoulders. The Man Was Tall And Thin,  And The

Light Caught The Points Of The Short Sharp Beard. The Scene Had

Bitten Itself Into Mike's Mind,  And It Reappeared At Intervals

Perfect As A Print,  For He Sometimes Envied The Calm And

Healthfulness Of Honourable Love.

"Great Scott! Twelve O'clock!" Smiling,  Conscious Of The Incongruity,

He Set To Work,  And In About Three Hours Had Finished A Long Letter,

In Which He Usefully Advised "Light O' Loves" On The Advantages Of

Foreign Travel.

"I Wonder," He Thought,  "How I Can Write In Such A Strain While I'm

In Love With Her. What Beastliness! I Hate The Whole Thing. I Desire

A New Life; I Have Tried Vice Long Enough And Am Weary Of It; I'm Not

Happy,  And If I Were To Gain The Whole World It Would Be Dust And

Ashes Without Her. Then Why Not Take That Step Which Would Bring Her

To Me?" He Faced His Cowardice Angrily,  And Resolved To Post The

Letter. But He Stopped Before He Had Walked Fifty Yards,  For His

Doubts Followed Him,  Buzzing And Stinging Like Bees. Striving To Rid

Himself Of Them,  And Weary Of Considering His Own Embarrassed

Condition,  He Listened Gladly To Lizzie,  Who Deplored Mount Rorke's

Cruelty And Her Husband's Continuous Ill Luck.

"I Told Him His Family Would Never Receive Me; I Didn't Want To Marry

Him; For Days I Couldn't Make Up My Mind; He Can't Say I Persuaded

Him Into It."

"But You Are Happy Now; Don't You Like Being Married?"

"Oh,  Yes,  I Should Be Happy Enough If Things Only Went Better With

Us. He Is So Terribly Unlucky. No One Works Harder Than Frank; He

Often Sits Up Till Three O'clock In The Morning Writing. He Tries

Everything,  But Nothing Seems To Succeed With Him. There's This

Paper. I Don't Believe He Has Ever Had A Penny Out Of It. Tell Me,

Mr. Fletcher,  Do You Think It Will Ever Succeed?"

"Newspapers Generally Fail For Want Of A Concerted Plan Of Appeal To

A Certain Section Of Society Kept Steadily In View; They Are Nearly

Always Vague And Undetermined; But I Believe When Four Clever Pens

Are Brought Together,  And Write Continuously,  And With Set Purpose

And Idea,  That They Can,  That They Must And Invariably Do Create A

Property Worth At Least Twenty Thousand Pounds."

"Frank Has Gone To The Station To Meet Thigh. I Distrust That Man

Dreadfully; I Hope He Won't Rob My Poor Husband. Frank Told Me To Get

A Couple Of Pheasants For Dinner. Which Way Are You Going? To The

Post-Office? Do You Want A Stamp?"

"No,  Thank You,  My Letter Is Stamped." He Held The Letter In The Box

Unable To Loose His Fingers,  Embarrassed In The Consideration Whether

Marriage Would Permit Him To Develop His Artistic Nature As He

Intended. Lizzie Was Looking At Him,  And It Was With Difficulty That

He Concealed From Her The Fact That He Had Not Dropped His Letter In

The Box.

When They Returned To The Cottage They Found Thigh And Frank Were

Turning Over The Pages Of The Last Number Of The _Pilgrim_.

"Just Let's Go Through The Paper," Said Frank. "One,  Two,

Three--Twelve Columns Of Paragraphs! And I'll Bet That In Every One

Of Those Columns There Is A Piece Of News Artistic,  Political,  Or

Social,  Which No Other Paper Has Got. Here Are Three Articles,  One

Written By Our Friend Here,  One By Me,  And One By A Man Whose Name I

Am Not At Liberty To Mention; But I May Tell You He Has Written Some

Well-Known Books,  And Is A Constant Contributor To The _Fortnightly_;

Here Is A Column Of Gossip From Paris Excellently Well Done; Here Is

A Short Story ... What Do You Think The Paper Wants?"

Thigh Was A Very Small And Very Neatly-Dressed Man. His Manner Was

Quiet And Reserved,  And He Caressed A Large Fair Moustache With His

Left Hand,  On Which A Diamond Ring Sparkled.

"I Think It Wants Smartening Up All Round," He Said. "You Want To

Make It Smarter; People Will Have Things Bright Nowadays."

"Bright!" Said Frank; "I Don't Know Where You Are Going For

Brightness Nowadays. Just Look At The Other Papers--Here Is The

_Club_--Did You Ever See Such A Rag? Here Is The _Spy_--I Don't Think

You Could Tell If You Were Reading A Number Of Last Year Or This Week

If You Didn't Look At The Date! I've Given Them Up For News. I Look

To See If They Have Got A New Advertisement; If They Have,  I Send

Tomlinson And See If I Can Get One Too."

Thigh Made Some Judicious Observations,  And The Conversation Was

Continued During Dinner. Frank And Mike Vying With Each Other To Show

Their Deference To Thigh's Literary Opinions--Lizzie Eager To Know

What He Thought Of Her Dinner.

Thigh Said The Turbot Was Excellent,  That The Cutlets Were Very Nice,

That The Birds Were Splendid; The Jam Pudding Was Voted Delicious.

And They Leaned Back In Their Chairs,  Their Eyes Filled With The

Torpor Of Digestion. Frank Brought Out A Bottle Of Old Port,  The Last

Of A Large Supply Which He Had Had From Mount Rorke's Wine Merchant.

The Pleasure Of The Wine Was In Their Stomachs,  And Under Its

Influence They Talked Of Tennyson,  Leonardo Da Vinci,  Corot,  And The

_Ingoldsby Legends_. The Servant Had Brought In The Lamp,  Cigars Were

Lighted,  The Clock Struck Nine. As Yet Not A Word Had Been Spoken Of

The Business,  And Seeing That Mike Was Deep In Conversation With

Lizzie,  Frank Moved His Chair Towards Thigh,  And Said--

"Well,  What About Buying Half Of The Paper?"

"I'm Quite Ready To Buy Half The Paper On The Conditions I've Already

Offered You."

"But They Won't Do. If I Have To Go Smash,  I May As Well Go Smash For

A Large Sum As A Small One. To Clear Myself Of Debts I Must Have Five

Hundred Pounds."

"Well,  You'll Get Six Hundred; You'll Receive A Thousand And You'll

Give Me Back Four Hundred."

"Yes,  But I Did Not Tell You That I Have Sold A Small Share In The

Paper To An Old