Part 21 (1/2)
Brown wasted no further words on me, but turned to MacShaughna.s.sy.
”Can _you_ imagine our friend Reuben seized with a burning desire to marry Mary Holme?” he asked, with a smile.
”Of course I can,” said MacShaughna.s.sy; ”I can imagine anything, and believe anything of anybody. It is only in novels that people act reasonably and in accordance with what might be expected of them. I knew an old sea-captain who used to read the _Young Ladies' Journal_ in bed, and cry over it. I knew a bookmaker who always carried Browning's poems about with him in his pocket to study in the train. I have known a Harley Street doctor to develop at forty-eight a sudden and overmastering pa.s.sion for switchbacks, and to spend every hour he could spare from his practice at one or other of the exhibitions, having three-pen'orths one after the other. I have known a book-reviewer give oranges (not poisoned ones) to children. A man is not a character, he is a dozen characters, one of them prominent, the other eleven more or less undeveloped. I knew a man once, two of whose characters were of equal value, and the consequences were peculiar.”
We begged him to relate the case to us, and he did so.
”He was a Balliol man,” said MacShaughna.s.sy, ”and his Christian name was Joseph. He was a member of the 'Devons.h.i.+re' at the time I knew him, and was, I think, the most superior person I have ever met. He sneered at the _Sat.u.r.day Review_ as the pet journal of the suburban literary club; and at the _Athenaeum_ as the trade organ of the unsuccessful writer.
Thackeray, he considered, was fairly ent.i.tled to his position of favourite author to the cultured clerk; and Carlyle he regarded as the exponent of the earnest artisan. Living authors he never read, but this did not prevent his criticising them contemptuously. The only inhabitants of the nineteenth century that he ever praised were a few obscure French novelists, of whom n.o.body but himself had ever heard. He had his own opinion about G.o.d Almighty, and objected to Heaven on account of the strong Clapham contingent likely to be found in residence there.
Humour made him sad, and sentiment made him ill. Art irritated him and science bored him. He despised his own family and disliked everybody else. For exercise he yawned, and his conversation was mainly confined to an occasional shrug.
”n.o.body liked him, but everybody respected him. One felt grateful to him for his condescension in living at all.
”One summer, I was fis.h.i.+ng over the Norfolk Broads, and on the Bank Holiday, thinking I would like to see the London 'Arry in his glory, I ran over to Yarmouth. Walking along the sea-front in the evening, I suddenly found myself confronted by four remarkably choice specimens of the cla.s.s. They were urging on their wild and erratic career arm-in-arm.
The one nearest the road was playing an unusually wheezy concertina, and the other three were bawling out the chorus of a music-hall song, the heroine of which appeared to be 'Hemmer.'
”They spread themselves right across the pavement, compelling all the women and children they met to step into the roadway. I stood my ground on the kerb, and as they brushed by me something in the face of the one with the concertina struck me as familiar.
”I turned and followed them. They were evidently enjoying themselves immensely. To every girl they pa.s.sed they yelled out, 'Oh, you little jam tart!' and every old lady they addressed as 'Mar.' The noisiest and the most vulgar of the four was the one with the concertina.
”I followed them on to the pier, and then, hurrying past, waited for them under a gas-lamp. When the man with the concertina came into the light and I saw him clearly I started. From the face I could have sworn it was Joseph; but everything else about him rendered such an a.s.sumption impossible. Putting aside the time and the place, and forgetting his behaviour, his companions, and his instrument, what remained was sufficient to make the suggestion absurd. Joseph was always clean shaven; this youth had a smudgy moustache and a pair of incipient red whiskers. He was dressed in the loudest check suit I have ever seen, off the stage. He wore patent-leather boots with mother-of-pearl b.u.t.tons, and a necktie that in an earlier age would have called down lightning out of Heaven. He had a low-crowned billyc.o.c.k hat on his head, and a big evil-smelling cigar between his lips.
”Argue as I would, however, the face was the face of Joseph; and, moved by a curiosity I could not control, I kept near him, watching him.
”Once, for a little while, I missed him; but there was not much fear of losing that suit for long, and after a little looking about I struck it again. He was sitting at the end of the pier, where it was less crowded, with his arm round a girl's waist. I crept close. She was a jolly, red- faced girl, good-looking enough, but common to the last degree. Her hat lay on the seat beside her, and her head was resting on his shoulder. She appeared to be fond of him, but he was evidently bored.
”'Don'tcher like me, Joe?' I heard her murmur.
”'Yas,' he replied, somewhat unconvincingly, 'o' course I likes yer.'
”She gave him an affectionate slap, but he did not respond, and a few minutes afterwards, muttering some excuse, he rose and left her, and I followed him as he made his way towards the refreshment-room. At the door he met one of his pals.
”'Hullo!' was the question, 'wot 'a yer done wi' 'Liza?'
”'Oh, I carn't stand 'er,' was his reply; 'she gives me the bloomin'
'ump. You 'ave a turn with 'er.'
”His friend disappeared in the direction of 'Liza, and Joe pushed into the room, I keeping close behind him. Now that he was alone I was determined to speak to him. The longer I had studied his features the more resemblance I had found in them to those of my superior friend Joseph.
”He was leaning across the bar, clamouring for two of gin, when I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned his head, and the moment he saw me, his face went livid.
”'Mr. Joseph Smythe, I believe,' I said with a smile.
”'Who's Mr. Joseph Smythe?' he answered hoa.r.s.ely; 'my name's Smith, I ain't no bloomin' Smythe. Who are you? I don't know yer.'
”As he spoke, my eyes rested upon a curious gold ring of Indian workmans.h.i.+p which he wore upon his left hand. There was no mistaking the ring, at all events: it had been pa.s.sed round the club on more than one occasion as a unique curiosity. His eyes followed my gaze. He burst into tears, and pus.h.i.+ng me before him into a quiet corner of the saloon, sat down facing me.
”'Don't give me away, old man,' he whimpered; 'for Gawd's sake, don't let on to any of the chaps 'ere that I'm a member of that blessed old waxwork show in Saint James's: they'd never speak to me agen. And keep yer mug shut about Oxford, there's a good sort. I wouldn't 'ave 'em know as 'ow I was one o' them college blokes for anythink.'