Mike Fletcher - George Moore (best books to read now TXT) 📗
- Author: George Moore
Book online «Mike Fletcher - George Moore (best books to read now TXT) 📗». Author George Moore
"How Jolly This Is!" Said Mike. "I'm Dying For A Gamble; I Feel As If
I Could Play As I Never Played Before. I Have All The Cards In My
Mind's Eye. By George! I Wish I Could Get Hold Of A 'Mug,' I'd Fleece
Him To The Tune Of Five Hundred Before He Knew Where He Was. But Look
At That Woman! She's Not Bad."
"A Great Coarse Creature Like That! I Never Could Understand You....
Have You Heard Of Lily Young Lately?"
Mike's Face Fell.
"No," He Said, "I Have Not. She Is The Only Woman I Ever Loved. I
Would Sooner See Her Than The Green Cloth. I Really Believe I Love
That Girl. Somehow I Cannot Forget Her."
"Well, Come And See Her To-Day. Take Your Eyes Off That Disgusting
Harlot."
"No, Not To-Day," He Replied, Without Removing His Eyes. Five Minutes
After He Said, "Very Well, I Will Go. I Must See Her."
The Waiter Was Called, The Bill Was Paid, A Hansom Was Hailed, And
They Were Rolling Westward. In The Pleasure Of This Little
Expedition, Mike's Rankling Animosity Was Almost Forgotten. He Said--
"I Love This Drive West; I Love To See London Opening Up, As It Were,
Before The Wheels Of The Hansom--Trafalgar Square, The Clubs, Pall
Mall, St. James' Street, Piccadilly, The Descent, And Then The
Gracious Ascent Beneath The Trees. You See How I Anticipate It All."
"Do You Remember That Morning When Lady Helen Committed Suicide? What
Did You Think Of My Article?"
"I Didn't See It. I Should Have Liked To Have Written About It; But
You Said That I Wouldn't Write Feelingly."
Mrs. Young Hardly Rose From Her Sofa; But She Welcomed Them In
Plaintive Accents. Lily Showed Less Astonishment And Pleasure At
Seeing Him Than Mike Expected. She Was Talking To A Lady, Who Was
Subsequently Discovered To Be The Wife Of A Strange Fat Man, Who, In
His Character Of Orientalist, Squatted Upon The Lowest Seat In The
Room, And Wore A Velvet Turban On His Head, A Voluminous Overcoat
Circulating About Him.
"As I Said To Lady Hazeldean Last Night--I Hope Mr. Gladstone Did Not
Hear Me, He Was Talking To Lady Engleton Dixon About Divorce, I
Really Hope He Did Not Hear Me--But I Really Couldn't Help Saying
That I Thought It Would Be Better If He Believed Less In The Divorce
Of Nations, Even If I May Not Add That He Might With Advantage
Believe More In The Divorce Of Persons Not Suited To Each Other."
When The Conversation Turned On Arabi, Which It Never Failed To Do In
This House, The Perfume-Burners That Had Been Presented To Her And
Mr. Young On Their Triumphal Tour Were Pointed Out.
"I Telegraphed To Dilke," Said Sir Joseph, "'You Must Not Hang That
Man.' And When Mrs. Young Accused Him Of Not Taking Sufficient
Interest In Africa, He Said--'My Dear Mrs. Young, I Not Interested In
Africa! You Forget What I Have Done For Africa; How I Have Laboured
For Africa. I Shall Not Believe In The Synthesis Of Humanity, Nor
Will It Be Complete, Till We Get The Black Votes.'"
"Mr. Young And Lord Granville Used To Have Such Long Discussions
About Buddhism, And It Always Used To End In Mr. Young Sending A Copy
Of Your Book To Lord Granville."
"A Very Great Distinction For Me--A Very Great Distinction For Me,"
Murmured Buddha; And Allowing Mrs. Young To Relieve Him Of His
Tea-Cup, He Said--"And Now, Mrs. Young, I Want To Ask For Your
Support And Co-Operation In A Little Scheme--A Little Scheme Which I
Have Been Nourishing Like A Rose In My Bosom For Some Years."
Chapter 6 Pg 69Sir Joseph Raised His Voice; And It Was Not Until He Had Imposed
Silence On His Wife That He Consented To Unfold His Little Scheme.
Then The Fat Man Explained That In A Certain Province In Cylone (A
Name Of Six Syllables) There Was A Temple, And This Temple Had
Belonged In The Sixth Century To A Tribe Of Buddhists (A Name Of
Seven Syllables), And This Temple Had In The Eighth Century Been
Taken From The Buddhists By A Tribe Of Brahmins (A Name Of Eight
Syllables).
"And Not Being Mr. Gladstone," Said Sir Joseph, "I Do Not Propose To
Dispossess The Brahmins Without Compensation. I Am Merely Desirous
That The Brahmins Should Be Bought Out By The Indian Government At A
Cost Of A Hundred And Fifty Or Two Hundred Thousand. If This Were
Done The Number Of Pilgrims To This Holy Shrine Would Be Doubled, And
The Best Results Would Follow."
"Oh, Mrs. Jellaby, Where Art Thou?" Thought Mike, And He Boldly Took
Advantage Of The Elaborate Preparations That Were Being Made For Sir
Joseph To Write His Name On A Fan, To Move Round The Table And Take A
Seat By Lily.
But Frank's Patience Was Exhausted, And He Rose To Leave.
"People Wonder At The Genius Of Shakespeare! I Must Say The Stupidity
Of The Ordinary Man Surprises Me Far More," Said Mike.
"I'm A Poor Man To-Day," Said Frank, "But I Would Give £25 To Have
Had Dickens With Us--Fancy Walking Up Piccadilly With Him Afterwards!
"Now I Must Go," He Said. "Lizzie Is Waiting For Me. I'll See You
To-Morrow," He Cried, And Drove Away.
"Just Fancy Having To Look After Her, Having To Attend To Her Wants,
Having To Leave A Friend And Return Home To Dine With Her In A Small
Room! How Devilish Pleasant It Is To Be Free!--To Say, 'Where Shall I
Dine?' And To Be Able To Answer, 'Anywhere.' But It Is Too Early To
Dine, And Too Late To Play Whist. Damn It! I Don't Know What To Do
With Myself."
Mike Watched The Elegantly-Dressed Men Who Passed Hurriedly To Their
Clubs, Or Drove West To Dinner Parties. Red Clouds And Dark Clouds
Collected And Rolled Overhead, And In A Chill Wintry Breeze The
Leaves Of The Tall Trees Shivered, Fell, And Were Blown Along The
Pavement With Sharp Harsh Sound. London Shrouded Like A Widow In Long
Crape.
"What Is There To Do? Five O'clock! After That Lunch I Cannot Dine
Before Eight--Three Hours! Whom Shall I Go And See?"
A Vision Of Women Passed Through His Mind, But He Turned From Them
All, And He Said--
"I Will Go And See Her."
He Had Met Miss Dudley In Brighton, In A House Where He Had Been
Asked To Tea. She Was A Small, Elderly Spinster With Sharp Features
And Gray Curls. She Had Expected Him To Address To Her A Few
Commonplace Remarks For Politeness' Sake, And Then To Leave Her For
Some Attractive Girl. But He Had Showed No Wish To Leave Her, And
When They Met Again He Walked By Her Bath-Chair The Entire Length Of
The Cliff. Miss Dudley Was A Cripple. She Had Fallen From Some Rocks
When A Child Playing On The Beach, And Had Injured Herself
Irremediably. She Lived With Her Maid In A Small Lodging, And Being
Often Confined To Her Room For Days, Nearly Every Visitor Was
Welcome. Mike Liked This Pallid And Forgotten Little Woman. He Found
In Her A Strange Sweetness--A Wistfulness. There Was Poetry In Her
Loneliness And Her Ruined Health. Strength, Health, And Beauty Had
Been Crushed By A Chance Fall. But The Accident Had Not Affected The
Mind, Unless Perhaps It Had Raised It Into More Intense Sympathy With
Chapter 6 Pg 70Life. And In All His Various Passions And Neglected Correspondence He
Never Forgot For Long To Answer Her Letters, Nor Did He Allow A Month
To Pass Without Seeing Her. And Now He Bought For Her A Great Packet
Of Roses And A Novel; And With Some Misgivings He Chose Zola's _Page
D'amour_.
"I Think This Is All Right. She'll Be Delighted With It, If She'll
Read It."
She Would Have Read Anything He Gave, And Seen No Harm Since It Came
From Him. The Ailing Caged Bird Cannot But Delight In The Thrilling
Of The Wild Bird That Comes To It With The Freedom Of The Sky And
Fields In Its Wings And Song. She Listened To All His Stories, Even
To His Stories Of Pigeon-Shooting. She Knew Not How To Reproach Him.
Her Eyes Fixed Upon Him, Her Gentle Hand Laid On The Rail Of Her
Chair, She Listened While He Told Her Of The Friends He Had Made, And
His Life In The Country; Its Seascape And Downlands, The Furze Where
He Had Shot The Rabbits, The Lane Where He Had Jumped The Gate. Her
Pleasures Had Passed In Thought--His In Action; The World Was For
Him--This Room For Her.
There Is The Long Chair In Which She Lies Nearly Always; There Is The
Cushion On Which The Tired Head Is Leaned, A Small Beautifully-Shaped
Head, And The Sharp Features Are Distinct On The Dark Velvet, For The
Lamp Is On The Mantelpiece, And The Light Falls Full On The Profile.
The Curtains Are Drawn, And The Eyes Animate With Gratitude When Mike
Enters With His Roses, And After Asking Kindly Questions He Takes A
Vase, And Filling It With Water, Places The Flowers Therein, And Sets
It On The Table Beside Her. There Is Her Fire--(Few Indeed Are The
Days In Summer When She Is Without It)--The Singing Kettle Suggests
The Homely Tea, And The Saucepan On The Hearth The Invalid. There Is
Her Bookcase, Set With Poetry And Religion, And In One Corner Are The
Yellow-Backed French Novels That Mike Has Given Her. They Are The
Touches The Most Conclusive Of Reality In Her Life; And She Often
Smiles, Thinking How Her Friends Will Strive To Explain How They Came
Into Her Life When She Is Gone.
"How Good Of You To Come And See Me! Tell Me About Yourself, What You
Have Been Doing. I Want To Hear You Talk."
"Well, I've Brought You This Book; It Is A Lovely Book--You Can Read
It--I Think You Can Read It, Otherwise I Should Not Have Given It To
You."
He Remained With Her Till Seven, Talking To Her About Hunting,
Shooting, Literature, And Card-Playing.
"Now I Must Go," He Said, Glancing At The Clock.
"Oh, So Soon," Exclaimed Miss Dudley, Waking From Her Dream; "Must
You Go?"
"I'm Afraid I Must; I Haven't Dined Yet."
"And What Are You Going To Do After Dinner? You Are Going To Play
Cards."
"How Did You Guess That?"
"I Can't Say," She Said, Laughing; "I Think I Can Often Guess Your
Thoughts."
And During The Long Drive To Piccadilly, And As He Eat His Sole And
Drank His Pomard, He Dreamed Of The Hands He Should Hold, And Of The
Risks He Should Run When The Cards Were Bad. His Brain Glowed With
Subtle Combinations And Surprises, And He Longed To Measure His
Strength Against Redoubtable Antagonists. The Two Great Whist
Players, Longley And Lovegrove, Were There. He Always Felt Jealous Of
Lovegrove's Play. Lovegrove Played An Admirable Game, Always Making
The Most Of His Cards. But There Was None Of That Dash, And Almost
Miraculous Flashes Of Imagination And Decision Which Characterized
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