CHAPTER 22
A CHAT WITH JAMES_(Julian Eversleigh's narrative continued)_
Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell seemed somehow to drift away after that.Apparently I went to sleep again, and she didn't wait.
When I woke, it was getting on for two o'clock. I breakfasted, withthat magnificent telegram propped up against the teapot; had a bath,dressed, and shortly before five was well on my way to Walpole Street.
The more I thought over the thing, the more it puzzled me. Why hadJames done this? Why should he wish to treat Eva in this manner? I wasdelighted that he had done so, but why had he? A very unexpectedperson, James.
James was lying back in his shabby old armchair, smoking a pipe. Therewas tea on the table. The room seemed more dishevelled than ever. Itwould have been difficult to say which presented the sorrier spectacle,the room or its owner.
He looked up as I came in, and nodded listlessly. I poured myself out acup of tea, and took a muffin. Both were cold and clammy. I went to thebell.
"What are you doing?" asked James.
"Only going to ring for some more tea," I said.
"No, don't do that. I'll go down and ask for it. You don't mind usingmy cup, do you?"
He went out of the room, and reappeared with a jug of hot water.
"You see," he explained, "if Mrs. Blankley brings in another cup she'llcharge for two teas instead of one."
"It didn't occur to me," I said. "Sorry."
"It sounds mean," mumbled James.
"Not at all," I said. "You're quite right not to plunge into recklessextravagance."
James blushed slightly--a feat of which I was surprised to see that hewas capable.
"The fact is----" he began.
I interrupted him.
"Never mind about that," I said. "What I want to know is--what's themeaning of this?" And I shoved the bilious-hued telegraph form underhis nose, just as Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell had shoved it under mine.
"It means that I'm done," he said.
"I don't understand."
"I'll explain. I have postponed my marriage for the same reason that Irefused you a clean cup--because I cannot afford luxuries."
"It may be my dulness; but, still, I don't follow you. What exactly areyou driving at?"
"I'm done for. I'm on the rocks. I'm a pauper."
"A what?"
"A pauper."
I laughed. The man was splendid. There was no other word for it.
"And shall I tell you something else that you are?" I said. "You are alow, sneaking liar. You are playing it low down on Eva."
He laughed this time. It irritated me unspeakably.
"Don't try to work off the hollow, mirthless laugh dodge on me," Isaid, "because it won't do. You're a blackguard, and you know it."
"I tell you I'm done for. I've barely a penny in the world."
"Rot!" I said. "Don't try that on me. You've let Eva down plop, and I'mjolly glad; but all the same you're a skunk. Nothing can alter that.Why don't you marry the girl?"
"I can't," he said. "It would be too dishonourable."
"Dishonourable?"
"Yes. I haven't got enough money. I couldn't ask her to share mypoverty with me. I love her too dearly."
I was nearly sick. The beast spoke in a sort of hushed, soft-musicvoice as if he were the self-sacrificing hero in a melodrama. Thestained-glass expression on his face made me feel homicidal.
"Oh, drop it," I said. "Poverty! Good Lord! Isn't two thousand a yearenough to start on?"
"But I haven't got two thousand a year."
"Oh, I don't pretend to give the figures to a shilling."
"You don't understand. All I have to live on is my holiday work at the_Orb_."
"What!"
"Oh, yes; and I'm doing some lyrics for Briggs for the second editionof _The Belle of Wells_. That'll keep me going for a bit, but it'sabsolutely out of the question to think of marrying anyone. If I cankeep my own head above water till the next vacancy occurs at the_Orb_ I shall be lucky."
"You're mad."
"I'm not, though I dare say I shall be soon, if this sort of thing goeson."
"I tell you you are mad. Otherwise you'd have called in your work, andsaved yourself having to pay those commissions to Hatton and theothers. As it is, I believe they've somehow done you out of yourcheques, and the shock of it has affected your brain."
"My dear Julian, it's a good suggestion, that about calling in my work.But it comes a little late. I called it in weeks ago."
My irritation increased.
"What is the use of lying like that?" I said angrily. "You don't seemto credit me with any sense at all. Do you think I never read thepapers and magazines? You can't have called in your work. The stuff'sstill being printed over the signatures of Sidney Price, Tom Blake, andthe Rev. John Hatton."
I caught sight of a _Strawberry Leaf_ lying on the floor besidehis chair. I picked it up.
"Here you are," I said. "Page 324. Short story. 'Lady Mary's Mistake,'by Sidney Price. How about that?"
"That's it, Julian," he said dismally; "that's just it. Those threedevils have pinched my job. They've learned the trick of the thingthrough reading my stuff, and now they're turning it out forthemselves. They've cut me out. My market's gone. The editors andpublishers won't look at me. I have had eleven printed rejection formsthis week. One editor wrote and said that he did not wantJohn-Hatton-and-water. That's why I sent the wire."
"Let's see those rejection forms."
"You can't. They're burnt. They got on my nerves, and I burnt them."
"Oh," I said, "they're burnt, are they?"
He got up, and began to pace the room.
"But I shan't give up, Julian," he cried, with a sickening return ofthe melodrama hero manner; "I shan't give up. I shall still persevere.The fight will be terrible. Often I shall feel on the point of despair.Yet I shall win through. I feel it, Julian. I have the grit in me to doit. And meanwhile"--he lowered his voice, and seemed surprised that theorchestra did not strike up the slow music--"meanwhile, I shall ask Evato wait."
To wait! The colossal, the Napoleonic impudence of the man! I haveknown men who seemed literally to exude gall, but never one sooverflowing with it as James Orlebar Cloyster. As I looked at himstanding there and uttering that great speech, I admired him. I ceasedto wonder at his success in life.
I shook my head.
"I can't do it," I said regretfully. "I simply cannot begin to say whatI think of you. The English language isn't equal to it. I cannot,off-hand, coin a new phraseology to meet the situation. All I can sayis that you are unique."
"What do you mean?"
"Absolutely unique. Though I had hoped you would have known me betterthan to believe that I would swallow the ludicrous yarn you'veprepared. Don't you ever stop and ask yourself on these occasions ifit's good enough?"
"You don't believe me!"
"My dear James!" I protested. "Believe you!"
"I swear it's all true. Every word of it."
"You seem to forget that I've been behind the scenes. I'm not simply anordinary member of the audience. I know how the illusion is produced.I've seen the strings pulled. Why, dash it, _I_ showed you how topull them. I never came across a finer example of seething the kid inits mother's milk. I put you up to the system, and you turn round andtry to take me in with it. Yes, you're a wonder, James."
"You don't mean to say you think----!"
"Don't be an ass, James. Of course I do. You've had the brazen audacityto attempt to work off on Eva the game you played on Margaret. Butyou've made a mistake. You've forgotten to count me."
I paused, and ate a muffin. James watched me with fascinated eyes.
"You," I resumed, "ethically, I despise. Eva, personally, I detest. Itseems, therefore, that I may expect to extract a certain amount ofamusement from the situation. The fun will be inaugurated by yourtelling Eva that she may have to wait five years. You will state, also,the amount of your present income."
"Suppose I decline?"
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"You won't."
"You think not?"
"I am sure."
"What would you do if I declined?"
"I should call upon Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell and give her a quarter of anhour's entertainment by telling her of the System, and explaining toher, in detail, the exact method of its working and the reason why youset it going. Having amused Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell in this manner, Ishould make similar revelations to Eva. It would not be pleasant foryou subsequently, I suppose, but we all have our troubles. That wouldbe yours."
He hesitated.
"As if they'd believe it," he said, weakly.
"I think they would."
"They'd laugh at you. They'd think you were mad."
"Not when I produced John Hatton, Sidney Price, and Tom Blake in asolid phalanx, and asked them to corroborate me."
"They wouldn't do it," he said, snatching at a straw. "They wouldn'tgive themselves away."
"Hatton might hesitate to, but Tom Blake would do it like a shot."
As I did not know Tom Blake, a moment's reflection might have toldJames that this was bluff. But I had gathered a certain knowledge ofthe bargee's character from James's conversation, and I knew that hewas a drunken, indiscreet sort of person who might be expected toreveal everything in circumstances such as I had described; so I riskedthe shot, and it went home. James's opposition collapsed.
"I shall then," administering the _coup de grace_, "arrange ameeting between the Gunton-Cresswells and old Mrs. Goodwin."
"Thank you," said James, "but don't bother. On second thoughts I willtell Eva about my income and the five years' wait."
"Thanks," I said; "it's very good of you. Good-bye."
And I retired, chuckling, to Rupert Street.
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 25
