Prince Fortunatus Part 2

"For their honor and faith be our virgins renown'd, Nor false to his vows one young shepherd he found; Be their moments all guided by virtue and truth, To preserve in their age what they gain'd in their youth, To preserve in their age what they gain'd in their youth."

Lord Rockminster rose from his chair, stretched his long legs, and threw away his cigarette.

"Very well done," said he, slowly. "Congratulate all of you."

"This is the first time I ever saw Rockminster sit out a morning performance," observed Percy Lestrange, with a playful grin.

"As for you young things," the mistress of the house said to her girl-guests, as they were all trooping in by the French windows again, "you must hurry home and get in-doors before the servants are up. I don't want this frolic to be talked about all over the town."

"A frolic, indeed!" Miss Georgie protested, as her brother was putting her cloak round her shoulders. "I don't call it a frolic at all. I call it very serious business; and I'm looking forward to winning the deepest grat.i.tude of the English public--or at least as much of the English public as you can cram into your garden, my dear."

Then, as soon as the light wraps and dust-coats had been distributed and donned, the members of the gay little party said good-bye to Lady Adela in the front hall, and went down the carriage sweep to the gate. Here there was a division; for the Lestranges were going north by Holland Lane to Notting Hill; while Lord Rockminster and his two sisters, making for Palace Gardens Terrace, walked with Lionel Moore only as far as Campden Hill Road; thereafter he pursued his journey to Piccadilly alone.

And even now London was not fully awake, though the sun was touching the topmost branches of the trees, and here and there a high window, struck by the level rays, flashed back a gleam of gold. In this neighborhood the thoroughfares were quite deserted; silence reigned over those sleeping houses; the air was sweet and cool; now and again a stirring of wind brought a scent of summer--blossom from within the garden-enclosures. It is true that when he got down into Kensington Road he found a long procession of wagons slowly making their way into the great city; but this dull, drowsy noise was not ungrateful; in much content and idly he walked away eastward, looking in from time to time at the beautiful greensward of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. He was in no hurry. He liked the stillness, the gracious coolness and quietude of the morning, after the hot and feverish nights at the theatre. When at length he reached his lodging in Piccadilly, let himself in with his latch-key, and went up-stairs to his rooms, he did not go to bed at once. He drew an easy-chair to the front window, threw himself into it, lit a cigarette, and stared absently across to the branching elms and gra.s.sy undulations of the Green Park. Perhaps he was thinking of the pretty, fantastic little comedy that had just been performed up in that garden at Campden Hill--like some dream-picture out of Boccaccio. And if he chanced to recall the fact that the actor who originally played the part of Damon, at Drury Lane, some hundred and forty years ago, married in real life an earl's daughter, that was but a pa.s.sing fancy. Of Lord Fareborough's three daughters, it was neither Lady Sybil nor Lady Rosamund, it was the married sister, Lady Adela Cunyngham, who had const.i.tuted herself his particular friend.

CHAPTER II.

THE GREAT G.o.d PAN.

Late as he went to bed, sleep did not long detain him, for, in his own happy-go-lucky, troubadour sort of life, he was one of the most occupied of men even in this great, hurrying, bustling capital of the world. As soon as he had donned his dressing-gown and come into the sitting-room, he swallowed a cup of coffee that was waiting for him, and then, to make sure that unholy hours and cigarettes had not hurt his voice, he dabbed a note on the piano, and began to practise, in the open-throated Italian fashion, those _vocalises_ which sound so strangely to the uninstructed ear. He rang for breakfast. He glanced in a despairing way at the pile of letters and parcels awaiting him, the former, no doubt, mostly invitations, the latter, as he could guess, proofs of his latest sittings to the photographers, alb.u.ms and birth-day books sent for his autograph, music beseeching commendation, even ma.n.u.script plays accompanied by pathetic appeals from unknown authors. Then there was a long row of potted scarlet geraniums and large white daisies which the house-porter had ranged by the window; and when he opened the note that had been forwarded with these he found that the wife of a famous statesman had observed as she drove along Piccadilly that the flowers in his balcony wanted renewal and begged his acceptance of this graceful little tribute. He took up a pair of dumb-bells, and had some exercise with them, to keep his arms and chest in good condition. He looked at himself in the mirror: no, he did not seem to have smoked inordinately; nevertheless, he made sundry solemn vows about those insidious cigarettes. Then he began to open the envelopes. Here was an imposing card, "To have the honor of meeting their royal highnesses the king and queen of ----;" here was a more modest bit of pasteboard with "_R.S.V.P._ to mess president" at the lower corner; here were invitations to breakfasts, to luncheons, to afternoon squawks, to Sunday dinners, to dances and crushes, in short, to every possible kind of diversion and frivolity that the gay world of London could devise. He went steadily on with his letters. More photographers wanted him to sit to them. Would he accept the dedication of "The Squire's Daughter Fantasia"? The composer of "The Starry Night Valses" would like a lithographic portrait of Mr. Lionel Moore to appear on the cover. A humble admirer of Mr. Lionel Moore's great impersonation of Harry Thornhill begged to forward the enclosed acrostic, and might he be allowed to print it in the _Mudborough Young Men's Mutual Improvement Magazine_? Messrs. Smith & Smith would be extremely obliged if Mr.

Lionel Moore would honor them with his opinion of the accompanying pair of their patent silver-mounted automatic self-adjusting braces.

"If I don't get a secretary," he muttered to himself, "I shall soon be in a mad-house."

Nor did he pay much attention to his breakfast when it was put on the table, for there were newspapers to be opened and glanced through--country journals, most of them, with marked paragraphs conveying the most unexpected, and even startling, intelligence regarding himself, his occupations, and forthcoming engagements. Then there were the book packets and the rolls of music to be examined; but by this time he had lit an after-breakfast cigarette, and was proceeding with something of indifference. Occasionally he strolled about the room, or went to the window and looked down into the roaring highway of Piccadilly, or across to the sunny foliage and pale-blue mists of the Green Park. And then, in the midst of his vague meditations, the following note was brought to him; it had been delivered by hand:

"MY DEAR MR. MOORE,--I do so _awfully_ want to see you, about a matter of _urgent importance_. Do be good-natured and come and lunch with us--any time before half-past two, if possible. It will be _so_ kind of you. I hope the _morning performance_ has done you no harm.

Yours, sincerely, ADELA CUNYNGHAM."

Well, luncheon was not much in his way, for he usually dined at five; nevertheless, Lady Adela was an especial friend of his and had been very kind to him, and here was some serious business. So he hurried through what correspondence was absolutely necessary; he sent word to Green's stables that he should not ride that morning; he walked round to a certain gymnasium and had three quarters of an hour with the fencing-master (this was an appointment which he invariably held sacred); on his way back to his rooms he called in at Solomon's for a b.u.t.tonhole; and then, having got home and made certain alterations in his toilet, he went out again, jumped into a hansom, and was driven up to the top of Campden Hill, arriving there shortly after one o'clock.

He found Lady Adela and Miss Georgie Lestrange in the drawing-room, or rather just outside, on the little balcony overlooking the garden, and neither of them seemed any the worse for that masquerading in the early dawn; indeed, Miss Georgie's naturally fresh and bright complexion flushed a little more than usual when she saw who this new-comer was, for perhaps she was thinking of the very frank manner in which Damon had expressed his admiration for Pastora but a few short hours ago.

"I have been telling Georgie all about the dresses at the drawing-room,"

said the tall young matron, as she gave him her hand and regarded him with a friendly look; "but that won't interest you, Mr. Moore. We shall have to talk about the new beauties, rather, to interest _you_."

He was a little puzzled.

"I thought, Lady Adela, you said there was something--something of importance--"

"That depends," said she, with a pleasant smile in her clear, gray-blue eyes. "I think it of importance; but it remains to be seen whether the world is of the same opinion. Well, I won't keep you in suspense."

She went to the piano, and brought back three volumes plainly bound in green cloth.

"Behold!"

He took them from her, and glanced at the t.i.tle-page: "Kathleen's Sweethearts, a Novel, by Lady Arthur Castletown," was what he found there.

"So it is out at last," said he, for he had more than once heard of this great work while it was still in progress.

"Yes," said she, eagerly, "though it isn't issued to the public yet. The fact is, Mr. Moore, I want you to help me. You know all about professional people, and the newspapers, and so on--who better?--and, of course, I'm very anxious about my first book--my first big book, that is--and I don't want it to get just thrown aside without ever being glanced at. Now, what am I to do? You may speak quite freely before Georgie--she's just as anxious as I am, every bit, I believe--only what to do we can't tell."

"All that I can think of," said the ruddy-haired young damsel, with a laugh, "is to have little advertis.e.m.e.nts printed, and I will leave them behind me wherever I go--in the stalls of a theatre, or at a concert, or anywhere. You know, Adela, you can _not_ expect me to turn myself into a sandwich-man, and go about the streets between boards."

"Georgie, you're frivolous," said Lady Adela, and she again turned to Lionel Moore, who was still holding the three green volumes in his hands in a helpless sort of fashion. "You know, Mr. Moore, there are such a lot of books published nowadays--crowds!--shoals!--and, unless there is a little attention drawn beforehand, what chance have you? I want a friend in court--I want several friends in court--and that's the truth; now, how am I to get them?"

This was plain speaking; but he was none the less bewildered.

"You see, Lady Adela, the theatre is so different from the world of letters. I've met one or two newspaper men now and again, but they were dramatic critics--I never heard that they reviewed books."

"But they were connected with newspapers?--then they must know the men who do," said this alert and intelligent lady. "Oh, I don't ask for anything unfair! I only ask for a chance. I don't want to be thrown into a corner unread or sold to the second-hand bookseller uncut. Now, Mr.

Moore, think. You must know _lots_ of newspaper men if you would only _think_: why, they're always coming about theatres. And they would do anything for you, for you are such a popular favorite; and a word from you would be of such value to a beginner like me. Now, Mr.

Moore, be good-natured, and consider. But first of all come away and have some lunch, and then we'll talk it over."

When they had gone into the dining-room and sat down at table, he said,

"Well, if it comes to that, I certainly know one newspaper man; in fact, I have known him all my life; he is my oldest friend. But then he is merely the head of the Parliamentary reporting staff of the _Morning Mirror_--he's in the gallery of the House of Commons, you know, every night--and I'm afraid he couldn't do much about a book."

"Couldn't he do a little, Mr. Moore?" said Lady Adela, insidiously.

"Couldn't he get it hinted in the papers that 'Lady Arthur Castletown'

is only a _nom de plume_?"

"Then you don't object to your own name being mentioned?" asked this simple young man.

"No, no, not at all," said she, frankly. "People are sure to get to know. There are some sketches of character in the book that I think will make a little stir--I mean people will be asking questions; and then you know how a pseudonym whets curiosity--they will certainly find out--and they will talk all the more then. That ought to do the book some good.

And then you understand, Mr. Moore," continued this remarkably naive person, "if your friend happened to know any of the reviewers, and could suggest how some little polite attention might be paid them, there would be nothing wrong in that, would there? I am told that they are quite gentlemen nowadays--they go everywhere--and--and indeed I should like to make their acquaintance, since I've come into the writing fraternity myself."

Lionel Moore was silent; he was considering how he should approach the fastidious, whimsical, sardonic Maurice Mangan on this extremely difficult subject.

"Let me see," he said, presently. "This is Wednesday; my friend Mangan won't be at the House; I will send a message to his rooms, and ask him to come down to the theatre: then we can have a consultation about it.

May I take this copy of the book with me, Lady Adela?"

"Certainly, certainly!" said she, with prompt.i.tude. "And if you know of any one to whom I should send a copy, with the author's name in it--my own name, I mean--it would be extremely kind of you to let me know. It's so awfully hard for us poor outsiders to get a hearing. You professional folk are in a very different position--the public just worship you--you have it all your own way--you don't need to care what the critics say--but look at _me_! I may knock and knock at the door of the Temple of Fame until my knuckles are sore, and who will take any notice--unless, perhaps, some friendly ear begins to listen? Do you think Mr. Mangan--did you say Mangan?--do you think he would come and dine with us some evening?"

The artless ingenuousness of her speech was almost embarra.s.sing.

"He is a very busy man," he said, doubtfully, "very busy. He has his gallery work to do, of course; and then I believe he is engaged on some important philosophical treatise--he has been at it for years, indeed--"

"Oh, he writes books too?" Lady Adela cried. "Then certainly you must bring him to dinner. Shall I write a note now, Mr. Moore--a Sunday evening, of course, so that we may secure you as well--"

"I think I would wait a little, Lady Adela," he said, "until I see how the land lies. He's a most curious fellow, Mangan: difficult to please and capricious. I fancy he is rather disappointed with himself; he ought to have done something great, for he knows everything--at least he knows what is fine in everything, in painting, in poetry, in music; and yet, with all his sympathy, he seems to be forever grumbling--and mostly at himself. He is a difficult fellow to deal with--"

"I suppose he eats his dinner like anybody else," said Lady Adela, somewhat sharply: she was not used to having her invitations scorned.