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

He Is Too Unwell To See Any One To-Day,  Sir; He Is Very Sorry,  But If

You Would Write' ... If I Would Write! Think Of It,  I Who Was Once

His Heir,  And Used The Place As If It Were Mine! Poor Old Burton

Was Quite Overcome. He Tried To Ask Me To Come Into The Dining-Room

And Have Some Lunch. If I Go There Again I Shall Be Asked Into The

Servants' Hall. And At That Moment The Nurse Came,  Wheeling The Baby

In The Perambulator Through The Hall,  Going Out For An Airing. I

Tried Not To Look,  But Couldn't Restrain My Eyes,  And The Nurse

Stopped And Said,  'Now Then,  Dear,  Give Your Hand To The Gentleman,

And Tell Him Your Name.' The Little Thing Looked Up,  Its Blue Eyes

Staring Out Of Its Sallow Face,  And It Held Out The Little Putty-Like

Hand. Poor Old Burton Turned Aside,  He Couldn't Stand It Any Longer,

And Walked Into The Dining-Room."

"And How Did You Get Away?" Asked Mike,  Who Saw His Friend's

Misfortune In The Light Of An Exquisite Chapter In A Novel. "How Sad

The Old Place Must Have Seemed To You!"

"You Are Thinking How You Could Put It In A Book--How Brutal You

Are!"

"I Assure You You Are Wrong. I Can't Help Trying To Realize Your

Sensations,  But That Doesn't Prevent Me From Being Very Sorry For

You,  And I'm Sure I Shall Be Very Pleased To Help You. Do You Want

Any Money? Don't Be Shy About Saying Yes. I Haven't Forgotten How You

Helped Me."

"I Really Don't Like To Ask You,  You've Been Very Good As It Is.

However,  If You Could Spare Me A Tenner?"

"Of Course I Can. Let's Send These Jarvies Away,  And Come Into My

Hotel,  And I'll Write You A Cheque."

The Sum Frank Asked For Revealed To Mike Exactly The Depth To Which

He Had Sunk Since They Had Last Met. Small As It Was,  However,  It

Seemed To Have Had Considerable Effect In Reviving Frank's Spirits,

And He Proceeded Quite Cheerfully Into The Tale Of His Misfortune.

Now It Seemed To Strike Him Too In Quite A Literary Light,  And He

Made Philosophic Comments On Its Various Aspects,  As He Might On The

Hero Of A Book Which He Was Engaged On Or Contemplated Writing.

"No," He Said,  "You Were Quite Wrong In Supposing That I Waited To

Look Back On The Old Places. I Got Out Of The Park Through A Wood So

As To Avoid The Gate-Keeper. In Moments Of Great Despair We Don't

Lapse Into Pensive Contemplation." ... He Stopped To Pull At The

Cigar Mike Had Given Him,  And When He Had Got It Well Alight,  He

Said,  "It Was Really Most Dramatic,  It Would Make A Splendid Scene In

A Play; You Might Make Him Murder The Baby."

Half An Hour After Mike Bade His Friend Good-Bye,  Glad To Be Rid Of

Him.

"He's Going Back To That Beastly Wife Who Lives In Some Dirty

Lodging. How Lucky I Was,  After All,  Not To Marry."

Then,  Remembering The Newspaper,  And The Use It Might Be To Him When

In Parliament,  He Rushed After Frank. When The _Pilgrim_ Was

Mentioned Frank's Face Changed Expression,  And He Seemed Stirred With

Deeper Grief Than When He Related The Story Of His Disinheritance. He

Had No Further Connection With The Paper. Thigh Had Worked Him Out Of

It.

"I Never Really Despaired," He Said,  "Until I Lost My Paper. Thigh

Has Asked Me To Send Him Paragraphs,  But Of Course I'm Not Going To

Do That."

"Why Not?"

"Well,  Hang It,  After Being The Editor Of A Paper,  You Aren't Going

To Send In Paragraphs On Approval. It Isn't Good Enough. When I Go

Back To London I Shall Try To Get A Sub-Editorship."

Mike Pressed Another Tenner Upon Him,  And Returning To The

Smoking-Room,  And Throwing Himself Into An Arm-Chair,  He Lapsed Into

Dreams Of The Bands And The Banners That Awaited Him. When Animal

Spirits Were Ebullient In Him,  He Regarded His Election In The Light

Of A Vulgar Practical Joke; When The Philosophic Mood Was Upon Him He

Turned From All Thought Of It As From The Smell Of A Dirty Kitchen

Coming Through A Grating.

During The First Session Mike Was Hampered And Inconvenienced By The

Forms Of The House; In The Second,  He Began To Weary Of Its Routine.

His Wit And Paradox Attracted Some Attention; He Made One Almost

Successful Speech,  Many That Stirred And Stimulated The Minds Of

Celebrated Listeners; But For All That He Failed. His Failure To

Redeem The Expectations Of His Friends,  Produced In Him Much Stress

And Pain Of Mind,  The More Acute Because He Was Fully Alive To The

Cause. He Ascribed It Rightly To Certain Inherent Flaws In His

Character. "The World Believes In Those Who Believe In It. Such

Belief May Prove A Lack Of Intelligence On The Part Of The Believer,

But It Secures Him Success,  And Success Is After All The Only Thing

That Compensates For The Evil Of Life."

Always Impressed By New Ideas,  Rarely Holding To Any Impression Long,

Finding All Hollow And Common Very Soon,  He Had Been Taken With The

Importance Of The National Assembly,  But It Had Hardly Passed Into

Its Third Session When All Illusion Had Vanished,  And Mike Ridiculed

Parliamentary Ambitions In The Various Chambers Of The Barristers He

Frequented.

It Was May-Time,  And Never Did The Temple Wear A More Gracious

Aspect. The River Was Full Of Hay-Boats,  The Gardens Were Green With

Summer Hours. Through The Dim Sky,  Above The Conical Roof Of The Dear

Church,  The Pigeons Fled In Rapid Quest,  And In Garden Court,  Beneath

The Plane-Trees,  Old Folk Dozed,  Listening To The Rippling Tune Of

The Fountain And The Shrilling Of The Sparrows. In King's Bench Walk

The Waving Branches Were Full Of Their Little Brown Bodies. Sparrows

Everywhere,  Flying From The Trees To The Eaves,  Hopping On The Golden

Gravel,  Beautifully Carpeted With The Rich Shadows Of The

Trees--Unabashed Little Birds,  Scarcely Deigning To Move Out Of The

Path Of The Young Men As They Passed To And Fro From Their Offices To

The Library. "That Sweet,  Grave Place Where We Weave Our Ropes Of

Sand," So Mike Used To Speak Of It.

The Primness Of The Books,  The Little Galleries Guarded By Brass

Railings,  Here And There A Reading-Desk,  The Sweet Silence Of The

Place,  The Young Men Reading At The Polished Oak Tables,  The Colour

Of The Oak And The Folios,  The Rich Turkey Carpets,  Lent To The

Library That Happy Air Of Separation From The Brutalities Of Life

Which Is Almost Sanctity. These,  The Familiar Aspects Of The Temple,

Moved Him With All Their Old Enchantments; He Lingered In The Warm

Summer Mornings When All The Temple Was Astir,  Gossiping With The

Students,  Or Leaning Upon The Balustrades In Pensive Contemplation Of

The Fleet River.

But These Moods Of Passive Happiness Were Interrupted More Frequently

Than They Had Been In Earlier Years By The Old Whispering Voice,  Now

Grown Strangely Distinct,  Which Asked,  But No Longer Through Laughing

Lips,  If It Were Possible To Discern Any Purpose In Life,  And If All

Thoughts And Things Were Not As Vain As A Little Measure Of Sand. The

Dark Fruit That Hangs So Alluringly Over The Wall Of The Garden Of

Life Now Met His Eyes Frequently,  Tempting Him,  And Perforce He Must

Stay To Touch And Consider It. Then,  Resolved To Baffle At All Costs

The Disease Which He Now Knew Pursued Him,  He Plunged In The Crowd Of

Drunkenness And Debauchery Which Swelled The Strand At Night. He Was

Found Where Prize-Fighters Brawled,  And Card-Sharpers Cajoled; Where

Hall Singers Fed On Truffled Dishes,  And Courtesans Laughed And

Called For Champagne. He Was Seen In Lubini's Sprawling Over Luncheon

Tables Till Late In The Afternoon,  And At Nightfall Lingering About

The Corners Of The Streets,  Talking To The Women That Passed. In Such

Low Form Of Vice He Sought Escape. He Turned To Gambling,  Risking

Large Sums,  Sometimes Imperilling His Fortune For The Sake Of The

Assuagement Such Danger Brought Of The Besetting Sin. But Luck Poured

Thousands Into His Hands; And He Applied Himself To The Ruin Of One

Seeking To Bring About His Death.

"Before I Kill Myself," He Said,  "I Will Kill Others; I'm Weary Of

Playing At Faust,  Now I'll Play At Mephistopheles."

Henceforth All Men Who Had Money,  Or Friends Who Had Money,  Were

Invited To Temple Gardens. You Met There Members Of Both Houses Of

Parliament--The Successors Of Muchross And Snowdown; And Men

Exquisitely Dressed,  With Quick,  Penetrating Eyes,  Assembled There,

Actors And Owners Of Race-Horses Galore,  And Bright-Complexioned

Young Men Of Many Affections. Rising Now From The Piano One Is Heard

To Say Reproachfully,  "You Never Admire Anything I Wear," To A Grave

Friend Who Had Passed Some Criticism On The Flower In The Young Man's

Button-Hole.

It Was Still Early In The Evening,  And The Usual Company Had Not Yet

Arrived. Harding Stood On The White Fur Hearthrug,  His Legs Slightly

Apart,  Smoking. Mike Lay In An Easy-Chair. His Eyes Were Upon

Harding,  Whom He Had Not Seen For Some Years,  And The Sight Of Him

Recalled The Years When They Wrote The _Pilgrim_ Together.

He Thought How Splendid Were Then His Enthusiasms And How Genuine His

Delight In Life. It Was In This Very Room That He Kissed Lily For The

First Time. That Happy Day. Well Did He Remember How The Sun Shone

Upon The Great River,  How The Hay-Boats Sailed,  How The City Rose

Like A Vision Out Of The Mist. But Lily Lies Asleep,  Far Away In A

Southern Land; She Lies Sleeping,  Facing Italy--That Italy Which They

Should Have Seen And Dreamed Together. At That Moment,  He Brushed

From His Book A Little Green Insect That Had Come Out Of The Night,

And It Disappeared In Faint Dust.

It Was In This Room He Had Seen Lady Helen For The Last Time; And He

Remembered How,  When He Returned To Her,  After Having Taken Lily Back

To The Dancing-Room,  He Had Found Her Reading A Letter,  And Almost

The Very Words Of The Conversation It Had Given Rise To Came Back To

Him,  And Her Almost Aggressive Despair. No One Could Say Why She Had

Shot Herself. Who Was The Man That Had Deserted Her? What Was He

Like? Was It Harding? It Was Certainly For A Lover Who Had Tired Of

Her; And Mike Wondered How