CHAPTER LXXXIX
Wherein Andrew Blotte draws aside the Arras that hangs Across the Unknown and joins the Company at a Larger Banquet
Wherein Andrew Blotte draws aside the Arras that hangs Across the Unknown and joins the Company at a Larger Banquet
Theyleft their host alone with Anthony Baddlesmere.
The wretched man, sunk in a dazed huddle in the midst of his splendid home, sat crouched in the gilt chair, bewildered, as one struck down by a sudden blow. Slowly his wits came back and traced a miserable picture of bygone fatuities and a black knavery into the elaborate design of the rich carpet at his feet.
His lips moved with guttural complaint:
“God! what an awakening! what an awakening!... What strange destiny arranges it all?... The coming of this thing has haunted me for nights.... There seems to come into our lives a day when we awake of a sudden from the aimless inconsequences of years—to the aimlessness. But—God! what an awakening!”
Anthony Baddlesmere went to him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder:
“It is something to have awakened, Paul.”
There was a long silence. The miserable man, his face between his hands, thus crouching there, elbows on knees, gazed at the strange things that wove themselves into the pattern at his feet.
He roused again:
“There will always be this dead man in my house,” he said hoarsely.
Baddlesmere sighed sadly:
“I fear it,” said he.
Paul Pangbutt was silent for awhile.
“Anthony,” he said at last—“why did the man do this thing?”
“He put his bed in pawn three days ago—for the little singing woman—Kate Ormsby. But she has utterly gone under—since—Paris.” He hesitated.... “I found her this morning.... He was with her.... She had taken her life with her own hand, at daybreak. You remember how she used to air her pathetic little ambitions about Fame and Name! Well, Death has fanned up her little flame of Notoriety for nine days at last. Her name will be in large letters on all the newspaper bills to-night. And”—he smiled sadly—“she will not see it!”
“But why did he do this thing, man?” The miserable voice was a dry-throated whisper. “Why did he do—this—awful—thing?”
“He must have been starving—starving—for days. He had promised to come to me if he needed help.... His pockets were empty—except for pawnbrokers’ tickets—he had even hired his clothes for to-night. I came away as—they—were—searching him—downstairs—on the supper-table.”
The other sat brooding for awhile:
“I might have helped—I did not know.”
“Ah, Paul—wecouldhave helped—weoughtto have known.”
Pangbutt buried his face in his hands:
“This is horrible,” he said.
“Paul,” said Baddlesmere—“I had better go and see what is being done.”
The other nodded.
The old butler hobbled into the room, as Baddlesmere went out. He carried a letter on a silver salver:
“This letter, sir, was found in Mr. Blotte’s breast-pocket,” he said, standing beside the crouching figure of his master.
He coughed.
“It is addressed to you, sir,” he said.
Pangbutt did not move.
The old servant coughed again:
“And, beg pardon, sir——”
Pangbutt made a gesture of impatience:
“Yes, yes, Dukes,” he said wearily, “give me the letter.”
He put out his hand and took it from the salver, dazedly. He tore open the cover, listlessly. As he unfolded the sheet of paper, a bundle of dingy pawnbrokers’ tickets fell out of a piece of paper that fluttered to the floor. The old butler stooped stiffly, and handed them to him.
Pangbutt read:
“Paul Pangbutt,I am claiming your hospitality to-night—indeed, I have nowhere else to go. It is the last night of my winter—the last hour of my insignificance. To-morrow I shall have drifted into fame on the tide of a passing scandal. My last poem will have a fictitious money-value out of all proportion to its intrinsic literary merits. Here you have it—my trust to you.It is a crude rattle-pot affair enough, but the ink is near done; the rhymes jostle each other, for my last candle is burnt low; and, like school-girls and professors of letters, your editor has the delusion, like them that make laws for our art and decide as to our magnificence, that rhymes are the essentials of the poetic. Therefore, so that it may pass for poetry, I have flung you a rhyme or so—literature to come to birth in these days must satisfy the newspaper offices.Take this, then, to one of these procurers of letters, and offer it for sale. Let him bid high, remembering the value ofthe scandal; and, with the monies, I charge you redeem my pledges and distribute my few personal knick-knacks where they shall cease to be scored with the scratchings of pawnbrokers, amongst my dear old friends—for, God granted me that splendid largess, spite of all my sins.There will fall a tear for Andrew Blotte; but there will be more of shrugging of respectable shoulders.To-morrow will whisper that I was mad.Tush! what is madness? To half the world, madness is but the rejection of the commonplace. The sanest sit in the centre of the whirligig of life, self-satisfied with their sanity and hugging it, but if they wait long enough, even to them old age will bring prattling wits, and the giggle of foolishness. The bee in the bonnet is an affair of a few years. Who shall escape the passing delirium, wrap he his grey habit about him ever so closely and sit he ever so still for fear of coming to light-headedness by walking amongst the heights and taking the risks of great adventure? We must needs wear the straws in our hair, even though it be in some corner, furtively, hoping others think us wise—if we but wait long enough. I’m for your summer madness—and to-night I go to make revel with the gods.What more mad than to live alone! how worse than mad to have wrought loneliness to others! What more cracked-brained dolt than he who grinds to dust his grubbing years, thinking to find happiness in large figures of gold when his hair is grown grey within the four walls of a counting-house—whilst slip past him, unknown, unfelt, with the clock’s every tick, the little joys that build a splendid experience. They that grub for wealth as an end are like mad hogs that bury their eyes in noisome swill, unsuspecting that life is a glorious pageant, and goes by.Mad? Who so mad as they who rush through their years to vague ends and sordid aims? These flip through the pages of the book of life, missing the sweetness of its wide romance, that they may but know the end of the tale. And whither leads this frantic skipping? To old age, and withering, and decay, and the grave.Tush! Life’s a Jest. Even Unconscious Humour grinds the Unconscious Joke. We make a fuss of all we do, though it end in Smoke.... A little skip upon this little earth, maybe in tinsel of the Great—the years skip also, and we find ourselves without Heaven’s Gate, naked of all we had, save the Habit of Kind Things we did and Spoke.Philosophy, with critic eyes, examines our Emotions; his sight grows dim, his heart runs dry, in analyzing Notions; his brains are sear with brow-knit peer at Things that Do Not Matter—of a sudden he learns that Acts are Life, Theories but Ink or Chatter; he awakes to find Life is left behind, his eyes Lone Age in the Mirror meet—the Old Man with the Scythe goes by and sweeps him from his feet.Why burn the Fire of life to questionable Idols? or seekthe useless things we may not know? Religion is not in our solemn Goings to Church, but in the sweet things that we do between, in these our little wanderings to and fro—the giving of a part of our success, a tithe or so, to help our fellows with a hand unseen. Therefore, so let us live that whilst we live we each the other profit, and walk our little moment in nice ways, and talk not of it.How pompous are we in the contemplation of our little selves! The narrow vision of each one of us sees in the broad fertile world but the carpet for our individual feet. But, hist! in the middle of our strut a something snaps—we pass, with scarce a sigh, into an eternal mystery.... So it comes that a still white figure lies a-bed, for once in some becoming stiffness of the thing called dignity—and in the room and all about, they that walk, walk hushedly, sobbing that one is dead. And for a night they weep. But at the daybreak of the morrow the mourners, wearied with weeping, raise half-forgetting eyes window-wards, and peep out through the streak of daylight by the blind, where poised in swinging skies the exultant lark hails the gladdening sun that comes on swift obliterating feet to paint with gaudy colours a new world. So they that weep arise, and sigh, and dry their eyes, and bury their dead; and, the dear dead departed, draw their blinds—and lo! in the garden where we laughed in pleasant toil, another digs and delves.So falls God’s blot onAndrew Blotte.”
“Paul Pangbutt,
I am claiming your hospitality to-night—indeed, I have nowhere else to go. It is the last night of my winter—the last hour of my insignificance. To-morrow I shall have drifted into fame on the tide of a passing scandal. My last poem will have a fictitious money-value out of all proportion to its intrinsic literary merits. Here you have it—my trust to you.
It is a crude rattle-pot affair enough, but the ink is near done; the rhymes jostle each other, for my last candle is burnt low; and, like school-girls and professors of letters, your editor has the delusion, like them that make laws for our art and decide as to our magnificence, that rhymes are the essentials of the poetic. Therefore, so that it may pass for poetry, I have flung you a rhyme or so—literature to come to birth in these days must satisfy the newspaper offices.
Take this, then, to one of these procurers of letters, and offer it for sale. Let him bid high, remembering the value ofthe scandal; and, with the monies, I charge you redeem my pledges and distribute my few personal knick-knacks where they shall cease to be scored with the scratchings of pawnbrokers, amongst my dear old friends—for, God granted me that splendid largess, spite of all my sins.
There will fall a tear for Andrew Blotte; but there will be more of shrugging of respectable shoulders.
To-morrow will whisper that I was mad.
Tush! what is madness? To half the world, madness is but the rejection of the commonplace. The sanest sit in the centre of the whirligig of life, self-satisfied with their sanity and hugging it, but if they wait long enough, even to them old age will bring prattling wits, and the giggle of foolishness. The bee in the bonnet is an affair of a few years. Who shall escape the passing delirium, wrap he his grey habit about him ever so closely and sit he ever so still for fear of coming to light-headedness by walking amongst the heights and taking the risks of great adventure? We must needs wear the straws in our hair, even though it be in some corner, furtively, hoping others think us wise—if we but wait long enough. I’m for your summer madness—and to-night I go to make revel with the gods.
What more mad than to live alone! how worse than mad to have wrought loneliness to others! What more cracked-brained dolt than he who grinds to dust his grubbing years, thinking to find happiness in large figures of gold when his hair is grown grey within the four walls of a counting-house—whilst slip past him, unknown, unfelt, with the clock’s every tick, the little joys that build a splendid experience. They that grub for wealth as an end are like mad hogs that bury their eyes in noisome swill, unsuspecting that life is a glorious pageant, and goes by.
Mad? Who so mad as they who rush through their years to vague ends and sordid aims? These flip through the pages of the book of life, missing the sweetness of its wide romance, that they may but know the end of the tale. And whither leads this frantic skipping? To old age, and withering, and decay, and the grave.
Tush! Life’s a Jest. Even Unconscious Humour grinds the Unconscious Joke. We make a fuss of all we do, though it end in Smoke.... A little skip upon this little earth, maybe in tinsel of the Great—the years skip also, and we find ourselves without Heaven’s Gate, naked of all we had, save the Habit of Kind Things we did and Spoke.
Philosophy, with critic eyes, examines our Emotions; his sight grows dim, his heart runs dry, in analyzing Notions; his brains are sear with brow-knit peer at Things that Do Not Matter—of a sudden he learns that Acts are Life, Theories but Ink or Chatter; he awakes to find Life is left behind, his eyes Lone Age in the Mirror meet—the Old Man with the Scythe goes by and sweeps him from his feet.
Why burn the Fire of life to questionable Idols? or seekthe useless things we may not know? Religion is not in our solemn Goings to Church, but in the sweet things that we do between, in these our little wanderings to and fro—the giving of a part of our success, a tithe or so, to help our fellows with a hand unseen. Therefore, so let us live that whilst we live we each the other profit, and walk our little moment in nice ways, and talk not of it.
How pompous are we in the contemplation of our little selves! The narrow vision of each one of us sees in the broad fertile world but the carpet for our individual feet. But, hist! in the middle of our strut a something snaps—we pass, with scarce a sigh, into an eternal mystery.... So it comes that a still white figure lies a-bed, for once in some becoming stiffness of the thing called dignity—and in the room and all about, they that walk, walk hushedly, sobbing that one is dead. And for a night they weep. But at the daybreak of the morrow the mourners, wearied with weeping, raise half-forgetting eyes window-wards, and peep out through the streak of daylight by the blind, where poised in swinging skies the exultant lark hails the gladdening sun that comes on swift obliterating feet to paint with gaudy colours a new world. So they that weep arise, and sigh, and dry their eyes, and bury their dead; and, the dear dead departed, draw their blinds—and lo! in the garden where we laughed in pleasant toil, another digs and delves.
So falls God’s blot onAndrew Blotte.”
The paper fluttered and fell from Pangbutt’s fingers.
The old man-servant coughed:
“I ’ope, sir, that I did right; but I gave the two models, that got here first with the good news, a sovereign apiece. Mr. Rippley he said it was a dead-heat between them——”
“Sovereigns? models?”
Pangbutt’s brows contracted painfully:
The old man servant started at the hoarse whisper:
“Yes, sir—it’s election night, sir—at the Royal Academy, sir. And Mr. Rippley has been elected for sculpture, and yourself for painting.”
Pangbutt burst into a horrible fit of loud laughter, and shook his head, and laughed and laughed again.
He stopped and looked at the old servant; and again he burst into his horrible laugh.
“Gord!” said the old butler.
The old man, looking down upon the huddled figure that laughed, saw that his wits had snapped.