Works of Grant Allen

by Grant Allen

  THE REVEREND JOHN CREEDY

  FRASINE’S FIRST COMMUNION

  THE CHILD OF THE PHALANSTERY

  THE ABBÉ’S REPENTANCE

  WOLVERDEN TOWER

  JANET’S NEMESIS

  INTERMEZZO. LANGALULA

  THE CURATE OF CHURNSIDE

  CECCA’S LOVER

  THE BACKSLIDER

  JOHN CANN’S TREASURE

  IVAN GREET’S MASTERPIECE

  THE CHURCHWARDEN’S BROTHER

  TAILPIECE. A MATTER OF STANDPOINT

  INTRODUCTION

  The existence of this volume is due, not to my own initiative, but to that of my enterprising kinsman and publisher, Mr. Grant Richards. He it was who first suggested to me the idea that it might be worth while to collect in one volume such of my scattered short stories as I judged to possess most permanent value. In order for us to carry out his plan, however, it became necessary to obtain the friendly co-operation of Messrs. Chatto and Windus, to whom belong the copyrights of my three previous volumes of Collected Tales, published respectively under the titles of Strange Stories, The Beckoning Hand, and Ivan Greet’s Masterpiece, some pieces from each of which series I desired to include in the present selection. Fortunately, Messrs. Chatto and Windus fell in with our scheme with that kindness which I have learned to expect from them in all their dealings; and an arrangement was thus effected by which I am enabled to present here certain stories from their three volumes. Together with these I have arranged an equal number of tales from other sources — most of which have hitherto appeared in periodicals only, while one is entirely new, never having been before printed.

  I may perhaps be permitted, without blame, to seize the occasion of this selected edition in order to offer a few bibliographical remarks on the origin and inception of my short stories. For many years after I took to the trade of author, I confined my writings to scientific or quasi-scientific subjects, having indeed little or no idea that I possessed in the germ the faculty of story-telling. But on one occasion, about the year 1880 (if I recollect aright), wishing to contribute an article to Belgravia on the improbability of a man’s being able to recognise a ghost as such, even if he saw one, and the impossibility of his being able to apply any test of credibility to an apparition’s statements, I ventured for the better development of my subject to throw the argument into the form of a narrative. I did not regard this narrative as a story: I looked upon it merely as a convenient method of displaying a scientific truth. However, the gods and Mr. Chatto thought otherwise. For, a month or two later, Mr. Chatto wrote to ask me if I could supply Belgravia with ‘another story.’ Not a little surprised at this request, I sat down, like an obedient workman, and tried to write one at my employer’s bidding. I distrusted my own ability to do so, it is true: but Mr. Chatto, I thought, being a dealer in the article, must know better than I; and I was far too poor a craftsman at that time to refuse any reasonable offer of employment. So I did my best, crassa Minerva. To my great astonishment, my second story was accepted and printed like my first: the curious in such matters (if there be any) will find them both in the volume entitled Strange Stories (published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus) under the headings of ‘Our Scientific Observations on a Ghost,’ and ‘My New Year’s Eve among the Mummies.’

  From that day forward for some years I continued at Mr. Chatto’s request to supply short stories from time to time to Belgravia, a magazine which he then edited. But I did not regard these my tentative tales in any serious light: and, fearing that they might stand in the way of such little scientific reputation as I possessed, I published them all under the prudent pseudonym of J. Arbuthnot Wilson. I do not know that I should have got much further on the downward path which leads to fiction, had it not been for the intervention of my good friend the late Mr. James Payn. When he undertook the editorship of the Cornhill, he determined at first to turn it into a magazine of stories only, and began to look about him for fresh blood to press into the service. Among the writers he then secured (I seem to recollect) were Dr. Conan Doyle and Mr. Stanley Weyman. Now, under Mr. Leslie Stephen’s editorship, I had been accustomed to contribute to the Cornhill occasional papers on scientific subjects: and one morning, by an odd coincidence, I received two notes simultaneously from the new editor. The first of them was addressed to me by my real name; in it, Mr. Payn courteously but briefly informed me that he returned one such scientific article which I had sent for his consideration, as he had determined in future to exclude everything but fiction from the magazine — a decision which he afterwards saw reason to rescind. The second letter, forwarded through Messrs. Chatto and Windus, was addressed to me under my assumed name of J. Arbuthnot Wilson, and begged that unknown person to submit to Mr. Payn a few stories ‘like your admirable Mr. Chung.’ Now, this Mr. Chung was a tale of a Chinese attaché in England, who fell in love with an English girl: I had first printed it, like the others of that date, in the pages of Belgravia. (Later on, it was included in the volume of Strange Stories, where any hypothetical explorer may still find it.) Till that moment, I had never regarded my excursions into fiction in any serious light, setting down Mr. Chatto’s liking for them to that gentleman’s amiability, or else to his well-known scientific penchant. But when a novelist like Mr. James Payn spoke well of my work — nay, more; desired to secure it for his practically new magazine — I began to think there might really be something in my stories worth following up by a more serious effort.

  Thus encouraged, I launched out upon what I venture to think was the first voyage ever made in our time into the Romance of the Clash of Races — since so much exploited. I wrote two short stories, ‘The Reverend John Creedy’ and ‘The Curate of Churnside,’ both of which I sent to Mr. Payn, in response to his invitation. He was kind enough to like them, and they were duly published in the Cornhill. At the time, their reception was disappointing: but gradually, since then, I have learned from incidental remarks that many people read them and remembered them; indeed, I have reason to think that these first serious efforts of mine at telling a story were among my most successful attempts at the art of fiction. Once launched as a professional story-teller by this fortuitous combination of circumstances, I continued at the trade, and wrote a number of tales for the Cornhill and other magazines, up till the year 1884, when I collected a few of them into a volume of Strange Stories, under my own name, for the first time casting off the veil of anonymity or the cloak of a pseudonym. In the same year I also began my career as a novelist properly so called, by producing my first long novel, Philistia.

  From that date forward, I have gone on writing a great many stories, long and short, whose name is Legion. Out of the whole number of shorter ones, I now select the present set, as illustrating best in different keys the various types of tale to which I have devoted myself.

  Four of these pieces have already appeared as reprints in the volume entitled Strange Stories — namely, ‘The Reverend John Creedy,’ from the Cornhill; ‘The Child of the Phalanstery,’ from Belgravia; and ‘The Curate of Churnside’ and ‘The Backslider,’ both from the Cornhill. One, ‘John Cann’s Treasure,’ also from the Cornhill, has been reprinted in the volume called The Beckoning Hand. Two more have been included in the collection entitled Ivan Greet’s Masterpiece: namely, ‘Ivan Greet’s Masterpiece’ itself, originally issued as a Christmas number of the Graphic; and ‘The Abbé’s Repentance,’ which first saw the light in the Contemporary Review. The remainder have never appeared before, except in periodicals. The Headpiece, ‘A Confidential Communication,’ came out in the Sketch. So did ‘Frasine’s First Communion.’ ‘Wolverden Tower’ formed a Christmas number of the Illustrated London News. ‘Janet’s Nemesis’ was contributed to the Pall Mall Magazine. The Intermezzo, ‘Langalula,’ is from the Speaker, as is also the Tailpiece, ‘A Matter of Standpoint.’ ‘Cecca’s Lover’ made his original bow in Longman’s Magazine. Finally, ‘The Churchwarden’s Brother’ is entirely new, never having appeared in public before on this or an
y other stage. I have to thank the editors and proprietors of the various periodicals above enumerated for their courteous permission to present afresh the contributions to their respective pages.

  I set forth this little Collection of Tales in all humility, and with no small diffidence. In an age so prolific in high genius as our own, I know how hard it is for mere modest industry to catch the ear of a too pampered public. I shall be amply content if our masters permit me to pick up the crumbs that fall from the table of the Hardys, the Kiplings, the Merediths, and the Wellses.

  G. A.

  HEADPIECE. A CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATION

  Ah, he was a mean-spirited beggar, that fellow Sibthorpe! As mean-spirited a beggar as ever I come across. Yes, that’s who I mean; that’s him; the fellow as was murdered. I s’pose you’d call it murdered, now I come to think of it. But, Lord, he was such a mean-spirited chap, he wouldn’t be enough to ‘ang a dog for!

  ‘Charitable,’ eh? ‘A distinguished philanthropist!’ Well, I can’t say as I ever thought much of his philanthropy. He was always down on them as tries to earn a honest livin’ tramping about the country. Know how he was murdered? Well, yes, I should think I did! I’m just about the fust livin’ authority in England on that there subjeck.

  Well, come to that, I don’t mind if I do tell you. You’re a straight sort of chap, you are. You’re one of these ’ere politicals. I ain’t afraid o’ trustin’ you. You’re not one of them as ‘ud peach on a pal to ‘andle a reward o’ fifty guineas. And it’s a rum story too. But mind, I tell you what I tell you in confidence. There’s not another chap in all this prison I’d tell as much to.

  I’d always knowed ’im, since I was no bigger nor that. Old fool he was too; down on public-’ouses an’ races an’ such, an’ always ready to subscribe to anything for the elevation of the people. People don’t want to be elevated, says I; silly pack o’ modern new-fangled rubbish. I sticks to the public-’ouses.

  Well, we was dead-beat that day. Liz an’ me had tramped along all the way from Aldershot. Last we come to the black lane by the pine-trees after you’ve crossed the heath. Loneliest spot just there that I know in England. The Gibbet ‘Ill’s to the right, where the men was hung in chains; and the copse is to the left, where we ‘ad that little brush one time with the keepers. Liz sat down on the heather — she was dead-beat, she was — behind a clump o’ fuzz. An’ I lay down beside ‘er.

  She was a good ‘un, Liz. She followed me down through thick and thin like a good ‘un. No bloomin’ nonsense about Liz, I can tell you. I always liked ‘er. And though I did get into a row with her that mornin’ afore she died, and kick ‘er about the ribs a bit — but, there, I’m a-digressin’, as the parson put it; and the jury brought it in ‘Death by misadventure.’ That was a narrow squeak that time. I didn’t think I’d swing for ‘er, ‘cause she ‘it me fust; but I did think they’d ‘a’ brought it in somethin’ like manslaughter.

  However, as I say, I’m a-digressin’ from the story. It was like this with old Sibthorpe. We was a-lyin’ under the gorse bushes, wonderin’ to ourselves ‘ow we’d raise the wind for a drink — for we was both of us just about as dry as they make ’em — when suddenly round the corner, with his ‘at in his ‘and, and his white ‘air a-blowin’ round his ‘ead, like an old fool as he was, who should come but the doctor. Liz looks at me, and I looks at Liz.

  ‘It’s that bloomin’ old idjit, Dr. Sibthorpe,’ says she. ‘He give me a week once.’

  I ‘ad my knife in my ‘and. I looks at it, like this: then I looks up at Liz. She laughs and nods at me. ’E couldn’t see neither of us behind the bush of fuzz. ‘Arst ’im fust,’ says Liz, low; ‘an’ then, if he don’t fork out — —’ She drawed her finger so, right across her throat, an’ smiles. Oh, the was a good ‘un!

  Well, up I goes an’ begins, reglar asker’s style. ‘You ain’t got a copper about you, sir,’ says I, whinin’ like, ‘as you could give a pore man as has tramped, without a bit or a sup, all the way from Aldershot?’

  ’E looks at me an’ smiles — the mean old hypocrite! ‘I never give to tramps,’ says ’e. Then ’e looks at me agin. ‘I know you,’ says ’e. ‘You’ve been up afore me often.’

  ‘An’ I knows you,’ says I, drawin’ the knife; ‘an’ I knows where you keeps your money. An’ I ain’t a-goin’ to be up afore you agin, not if I knows it.’ An’, with that, I rushes up, an’ just goes at him blind with it.

  Well, he fought like a good ‘un for his life, that he did. You wouldn’t ‘a’ thought the old fool had so much fight left in him. But Liz stuck to me like a brick, an’ we got him down at last, an’ I gave him one or two about the ‘ead as quieted him. It was mostly kickin’ — no blood to speak of. Then we dragged him aside among the heather, and covered him up a little bit, an’ made all tidy on the road where we’d stuck him.

  ‘Take his watch, Liz,’ says I.

  Well, would you believe it? He was a magistrate for the county, and lived in the ‘All, an’ was ‘eld the richest gentleman for ten mile about; but when Liz fished out his watch, what sort do you think it was? I give you my word for it, a common Waterbury!

  ‘You put that back, Liz,’ says I. ‘Put that back in the old fool’s pocket. Don’t go carryin’ it about to incriminate yourself, free, gratis, for nothin’,’ says I; ‘it ain’t worth sixpence.’

  ‘‘Ave you his purse?’ says she.

  ‘Yes, I ‘ave,’ says I. ‘An’ when we gets round the corner, we’ll see what’s in it.’

  Well, so we did; an’, would you believe it, agin, when we come to look, there was two ha’penny stamps and a lock of a child’s ‘air; and, s’elp me taters, that’s all that was in it!

  ‘It ain’t right,’ says I, ‘for people to go about takin’ in other people with regard to their wealth,’ says I. ‘‘Ere’s this bloomin’ old fool ‘as misled us into s’posing he was the richest man in all the county, and not a penny in his purse! It’s downright dishonest.’

  Liz snatches it from me, an’ turns it inside out. But it worn’t no good. Not another thing in it!

  Well, she looks at me, an’ I looks at her. ‘You fool,’ says she, ‘to get us both into a blindfold scrape like this, without knowin’ whether or not he’d got the money about him! I guess we’ll both swing for it.’

  ‘You told me to,’ says I.

  ‘That’s a lie,’ says she. Liz was always free-spoken.

  I took her by the throat. ‘Young woman,’ says I, ‘you keep a civil tongue in your ‘ead,’ says I, ‘or, by George, you’ll follow him!’

  Then we looks at one another agin; and the humour of it comes over us — I was always one as ‘ad a sense of humour — an’ we busts out laughin’.

  ‘Sold!’ says I.

  ‘Sold!’ says Liz, half cryin’.

  An’ we both sat down, an’ looked agin at one another like a pair of born idjits.

  Then it come over us gradjally what a pack o’ fools that there man had made of us. The longer I thought of it, the angrier it made me. The mean-spirited old blackguard! To be walking around the roads without a penny upon him!

  ‘You go back, Liz,’ says I, ‘an’ put that purse where we found it, in his weskit pocket.’

  Liz looked at me an’ crouched. ‘I daren’t,’ says she, cowerin’. She was beginning to get frightened.

  I took her by the ‘air. ‘By George!’ says I, ‘if you don’t — —’ An’ she saw I meant it.

  Well, back she crawled, rather than walked, all shiverin’; an’, as for me, I set there on the heather an’ watched her. By an’ by, she crawled round again. ‘Done it?’ says I. An’ Liz, lookin’ white as a sheet, says, ‘Yes, I done it.’

  ‘I wasn’t goin’ to carry that about with me,’ says I, ‘for the coppers to cop me. Now they’ll put it in the papers: “Deceased’s watch and purse were found on him untouched, so that robbery was clearly not the motive of the crime.” Git up, Liz, you fool, an’ come along on with me.’

  Up she
got, an’ come along. We crept down the valley, all tired as we was, without a sup to drink; an’ we reached the high-road, all in among the bracken, an’ we walked together as far as Godalming. That was all. The p’lice set it down to revenge, an’ suspected the farmers. But, ever since then, every time I remember it, it makes me ‘ot with rage to think a man o’ property like him should go walking the roads, takin’ other people in, without a farden in his pocket. It was the biggest disappointment ever I had in my life. To think I might ‘a’ swung for an old fool like that! A great philanthropist, indeed! Why, he’d ought to ‘a’ been ashamed o’ himself. Not one blessed farden! I tell you, it always makes me ‘ot to think o’ it.

  THE REVEREND JOHN CREEDY

  I

  ‘On Sunday next, the 14th inst., the Reverend John Creedy, B.A., of Magdalen College, Oxford, will preach in Walton Magna Church on behalf of the Gold Coast Mission.’ Not a very startling announcement that; and yet, simple as it looks, it stirred Ethel Berry’s soul to its inmost depths. For Ethel had been brought up by her Aunt Emily to look upon foreign missions as the one thing on earth worth living for and thinking about; and the Reverend John Creedy, B.A., had a missionary history of his own, strange enough even in these strange days of queer juxtapositions between utter savagery and advanced civilisation.

  ‘Only think,’ she said to her aunt, as they read the placard on the schoolhouse board, ‘he’s a real African negro, the vicar says, taken from a slaver on the Gold Coast when he was a child, and brought to England to be educated. He’s been to Oxford and got a degree; and now he’s going out again to Africa to convert his own people. And he’s coming down to the vicar’s to stay on Wednesday.’

  ‘It’s my belief,’ said old Uncle James, Aunt Emily’s brother, the superannuated skipper, ‘that he’d much better stop in England for ever. I’ve been a good bit on the Coast myself in my time, after palm oil and such, and my opinion is that a nigger’s a nigger anywhere, but he’s a sight less of a nigger in England than out yonder in Africa. Take him to England, and you make a gentleman of him: send him home again, and the nigger comes out at once in spite of you.’