Prince Fortunatus by William Black (ebook reader with highlighter TXT) 📖

dare say you are thinking of ancient days when a Roman general could address his troops in Latin and make quite sure of being understood; but you can't expect Tommy Atkins to be so learned. And our generals, as you say, may chiefly distinguish themselves at reviews; but the reviews they seem to me to be too fond of are those published monthly. As for the volunteers--"

"You will have a joke about them, too, I suppose," Quirk retorted. "An excellent subject for a joke--the safety of the country! A capital subject for a merry jest; Nero fiddling with Rome in flames--"

"I beg your pardon? Nero never did anything of the kind," Mangan observed, with a perfectly diabolical inconsequence, "for violins weren't invented in those days."

This was too much for Mr. Quirk; he would not resume argument with such a trifler; nor, indeed, was there any opportunity; for Lord Rockminster now suggested they should go into the drawing-room--and Ichabod had to leave that decanter of port.

Now, if Maurice Mangan had come to this house to see how Lionel was feted and caressed by "the great"--in order that he might carry the tale down to Winstead to please the old folk and Miss Francie--he was doomed to disappointment. There were very few of "the great" present, to begin with; and those who were paid no particular attention to Lionel Moore. It was Octavius Quirk who appeared to be the hero of the evening, so far as the attention devoted to him by Lady Adela and her immediate little circle was concerned. But Maurice himself was not wholly left neglected. When tea was brought in, his hostess came over to where he was standing.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Mangan?--I want to talk to you about something of very great importance--importance to me, that is, for you know how vain young authors are. You have heard of my new book?--yes, I thought Mr. Moore must have told you. Well, it's all ready, except the title-page. I am not quite settled about the title yet; and you literary gentlemen are so quick and clever with suggestions--I am sure you will give me good advice. And I've had a number of different titles printed, to see how they look in type; what do you think of this one? At present it seems to be the favorite; it was Mr. Quirk's suggestion--"

She showed him a slip with "North and South" printed on it in large letters.

"I don't like it at all," Mangan said, frankly. "People will think the book has something to do with the American civil war. However, don't take my opinion at all. My connection with literature is almost infinitesimal--I'm merely a newspaper hack, you know."

"What you say about the title is quite right? and I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Mangan," Lady Adela said, with almost pathetic emphasis. "The American war, of course; I never thought of that!"

"What is Ichabod's choice?--I beg your pardon, I mean have you shown the titles to Mr. Egerton?"

"I'm afraid he doesn't approve of any of them," said Lady Adela, sadly turning over the slips.

"No, I suppose not; good titles went out with good fiction--when he ceased to write novels a number of years ago. May I look at the others?"

She handed him the slips.

"Well, now, there is one that in my poor opinion would be rather effective--'Lotus and Lily'--a pretty sound--"

"Yes--perhaps," said Lady Adela, doubtfully, "but then, you see, it has not much connection with the book. The worst of it is that all the novel is printed--all but the three title-pages. Otherwise I might have called my heroine Lily--"

"But I fear you could not have called your hero Lotus," said Mangan, gravely. "Not very well. However, it is no use speculating on that now, as you say. What is the next one?--'Transformation.' Of course you know that Hawthorne wrote a book under that title, Lady Adela?"

"Yes," said she, cheerfully. "But there's no copyright in America; so why shouldn't I take the title if it suits?"

He hesitated; there seemed to be some ethical point here; but he fell back on base expediency.

"It is a mistake for two authors to use the same title--I'm sure it is," said he. "Look at the confusion. The reviewers might pass over your novel, thinking it was only a new edition of Hawthorne's book."

"Yes, that's quite true," said Lady Adela, thoughtfully.

"Well, here is one," he continued. "'Sicily and South Kensington;' that's odd; that's new; that might take the popular fancy."

"Do you know, that is a favorite of my own," Lady Adela said, with a slight eagerness, "for it really describes the book. You understand, Mr. Mangan, all the first part is about the South of Italy; and then I come to London and try to describe everything that is just going on round about us. I have put everything in; so that really--though I shouldn't praise myself--but it isn't praise at all, Mr. Mangan, it is merely telling you what I have aimed at--and really any one taking up my poor little book some hundred years hence might very fairly assume that it was a correct picture of all that was going on in the reign of Queen Victoria. I do not say that it is well done; not at all; that would be self-praise; but I do think it may have some little historical value. Modern life is so busy, so hurried, and so complex that it is difficult to form any impression of it as a whole; I take up book after book, written by living authors with whom I shouldn't dream of comparing myself, and yet I see how small a circle their characters work in. You would think the world consisted of only eight or ten people, and that there was hardly room for them to move. They never get away from one another; they don't mix in the crowd; there is no crowd. But here in my poor way I am trying to show what a panorama London is; always changing; occupations, desires, struggles following one another in breathless rapidity; in short, I want to show modern life as it is, not as it is dreamed of by clever authors who live in a study. Now that is my excuse, Mr. Mangan, for being such a dreadful bore; and I am so much obliged to you for your kind advice about the title; it is so easy for clever people to be kind--just a word, and it's done. Thank you," said she, as he took her cup from her and placed it on the table; and then, before she left him, she ventured to say, with a charming modesty, "I'm sure you will forgive me, Mr. Mangan, but if I were to send you a copy of the book, might I hope that you would find ten minutes to glance over it?"

"I am certain I shall read it with very great interest," said he; and that was strictly true, for this Lady Adela Cunyngham completely puzzled him; she seemed so extraordinary a combination of a clever woman of the world and an awful fool.

And Lionel? Well, he had got introduced to Miss Gabrielle Grey, whom he found to be a very quiet, shy, pensive sort of creature, not posing as a distinguished person at all. He dared not talk to her of her books, for he did not even know the names of them; but he let her understand that he knew she was an authoress, and it seemed to please her to know that her fame had penetrated into the mysterious regions behind the footlights. She began to question him, in a timid sort of way, about his experiences--whether stage-fright was difficult to get over--whether he thought that the immediate and enthusiastic approbation of the public was a beneficial stimulant--whether the continuous excitement of the emotional nature tended to render it callous, or, on the other hand, more sensitive and sympathetic--and so forth. Was she dimly looking forward to the conquest of a new domain, where the young ladies of the rectory and the vicarage might be induced fearfully to follow her? But Lionel did not linger long in that drawing-room. He got Maurice Mangan away as soon as he could; they slipped out unobserved--especially as there were plenty of new-comers now arriving. When they had passed down through the back garden to the gate, the one lit a cigarette, and the other a pipe; and together they wended their way towards Kensington Road and Piccadilly.

"Why," said Mangan, "I shall have quite a favorable report to carry down to Winstead. I did not see you treated with any of that unwholesome adulation I have heard so much of!"

"I am almost a stranger in the house now," Lionel said, briefly.

"Why?"

"Oh, various circumstances, of late."

"They did not even ask you to sing," his friend said, in accents of some surprise.

"They dared not. Didn't you see that most of the people were strangers? How could Lady Adela be sure that she was not wounding somebody's susceptibilities by having operatic music on a Sunday evening? She knew nothing at all about half those people; they were merely names to her, that she had collected round her in order that she might count herself in among the arts."

"That ill-conditioned brute Quirk seemed to me to be dominating the whole thing," said Mangan, rather testily. "It's an awful price to pay for a few puffs. I wonder a woman like that can bear him to come near her, but she pets the baboon as if he were a King Charles spaniel. Linnie, my boy, you're no longer first favorite. I can see that; self-interest has proved too strong; the flattering little review, the complimentary little notice, has ousted you. It isn't you who are privileged to meet my Lady Morgan in the street--


'And then to gammon her, in the Examiner,
With a paragraph short and sweet.'


Well, now, tell me about that very striking-looking girl, or woman, rather, whom you took in to dinner. I asked you who she was when she came into the room."

"That was Miss Honnor Cunyngham."

"Not the salmon-fishing young lady I have heard you speak of?"

"Yes."

"Why, she didn't look like that," said Mangan, thoughtfully. "Not the least. She has got a splendid forehead--powerful and clear--and almost too much character about the square brows and the calm eyes. I should have taken her to be a strongly intellectual woman, of the finer and more reticent type. Well, well, a salmon-fisher!"

"Why shouldn't she be both?"

"Why, indeed?" said Maurice, absently; and therewith he relapsed (as was frequently his wont) into silence, and in silence the two friends pursued their way eastwards to Lionel's rooms.

But when they had arrived at their destination, when soda-water had been produced and opened, and when Mangan was lying back in an easy-chair, regarding his friend, he resumed the conversation.

"I should have thought going to see those people to-night would have brightened you up a little," he began, "but you seem thoroughly out of sorts, Linn. What is the matter? Overwork or worry? I should not think overwork; I've never seen your theatre-business prove too much for you. Worry? What about, then?"

"There may be different things," Lionel said, evasively, as he brought over the spirit case. "I haven't been sleeping well of late--lying awake even if I don't go to bed till three or four; and I get a singing in my ears sometimes that is bothersome. Oh, never