The Three Clerks Part 33

'A devilish bore, you know, for a fellow who takes up a novel because he's dull. Of course he wants his fun at once. If you begin with a long history of who's who and all that, why he won't read three pages; but if you touch him up with a startling incident or two at the first go off, then give him a chapter of horrors, then another of fun, then a little love or a little slang, or something of that sort, why, you know, about the end of the first volume, you may describe as much as you like, and tell everything about everybody's father and mother for just as many pages as you want to fill. At least that's what the editor says.'

'_Meleager ab ovo_ may be introduced with safety when you get as far as that,' suggested Norman.

'Yes, you may bring him in too, if you like,' said Charley, who was somewhat oblivious of his cla.s.sicalities. 'Well, Sir Anthony is lying dead and the Baron is standing over him, when out come Sir Anthony's retainers----'

'Out--out of what?'

'Out of the castle: that's all explained afterwards. Out come the retainers, and pitch into the Baron till they make mincemeat of him.'

'They don't kill him, too?'

'Don't they though? I rather think they do, and no mistake.'

'And so both your heroes are dead in the first chapter.'

'First chapter! why that's only the second paragraph. I'm only to be allowed ten paragraphs for each number, and I am expected to have an incident for every other paragraph for the first four days.'

'That's twenty incidents.'

'Yes--it's a great bother finding so many.--I'm obliged to make the retainers come by all manner of accidents; and I should never have finished the job if I hadn't thought of setting the castle on fire. 'And now forked tongues of liquid fire, and greedy lambent flames burst forth from every window of the devoted edifice. The devouring element----.' That's the best pa.s.sage in the whole affair.'

'This is for the _Daily Delight_, isn't it?'

'Yes, for the _Daily Delight_. It is to begin on the 1st of September with the partridges. We expect a most tremendous sale.

It will be the first halfpenny publication in the market, and as the retailers will get them for sixpence a score--twenty-four to the score--they'll go off like wildfire.'

'Well, Charley, and what do you do with the dead bodies of your two heroes?'

'Of course I needn't tell you that it was not the Baron who killed Sir Anthony at all.'

'Oh! wasn't it? O dear--that was a dreadful mistake on the part of the retainers.'

'But as natural as life. You see these two grandees were next-door neighbours, and there had been a feud between the families for seven centuries--a sort of Capulet and Montague affair. One Adelgitha, the daughter of the Thane of Allan-a-dale--there were Thanes in those days, you know--was betrothed to the eldest son of Sir Waldemar de Ballyporeen. This gives me an opportunity of bringing in a succinct little account of the Conquest, which will be beneficial to the lower cla.s.ses. The editor peremptorily insists upon that kind of thing.'

'_Omne tulit punctum_,' said Norman.

'Yes, I dare say,' said Charley, who was now too intent on his own new profession to attend much to his friend's quotation.

'Well, where was I?--Oh! the eldest son of Sir Waldemar went off with another lady and so the feud began. There is a very pretty scene between Adelgitha and her lady's-maid.'

'What, seven centuries before the story begins?'

'Why not? The editor says that the unities are altogether thrown over now, and that they are regular bosh--our game is to stick in a good bit whenever we can get it--I got to be so fond of Adelgitha that I rather think she's the heroine.'

'But doesn't that take off the interest from your dead grandees?'

'Not a bit; I take it chapter and chapter about. Well, you see, the retainers had no sooner made mincemeat of the Baron--a very elegant young man was the Baron, just returned from the Continent, where he had learnt to throw aside all prejudices about family feuds and everything eke, and he had just come over in a friendly way, to say as much to Sir Anthony, when, as he crossed the drawbridge, he stumbled over the corpse of his ancient enemy--well, the retainers had no sooner made mincemeat of him, than they perceived that Sir Anthony was lying with an open bottle in his hand, and that he had taken poison.'

'Having committed suicide?' asked Norman.

'No, not at all. The editor says that we must always have a slap at some of the iniquities of the times. He gave me three or four to choose from; there was the adulteration of food, and the want of education for the poor, and street music, and the miscellaneous sale of poisons.'

'And so you chose poisons and killed the knight?'

'Exactly; at least I didn't kill him, for he comes all right again after a bit. He had gone out to get something to do him good after a hard night, a Seidlitz powder, or something of that sort, and an apothecary's apprentice had given him prussic acid in mistake.'

'And how is it possible he should have come to life after taking prussic acid?'

'Why, there I have a double rap at the trade. The prussic acid is so bad of its kind, that it only puts him into a kind of torpor for a week. Then we have the trial of the apothecary's boy; that is an excellent episode, and gives me a grand hit at the absurdity of our criminal code.'

'Why, Charley, it seems to me that you are hitting at everything.'

'Oh! ah! right and left, that's the game for us authors. The press is the only _censor morum_ going now--and who so fit?

Set a thief to catch a thief, you know. Well, I have my hit at the criminal code, and then Sir Anthony comes out of his torpor.'

'But how did it come to pa.s.s that the Baron's sword was all b.l.o.o.d.y?'

'Ah, there was the difficulty; I saw that at once. It was necessary to bring in something to be killed, you know. I thought of a stray tiger out of Wombwell's menagerie; but the editor says that we must not trespa.s.s against the probabilities; so I have introduced a big dog. The Baron had come across a big dog, and seeing that the brute had a wooden log tied to his throat, thought he must be mad, and so he killed him.'

'And what's the end of it, Charley?'

'Why, the end is rather melancholy. Sir Anthony reforms, leaves off drinking, and takes to going to church everyday. He becomes a Puseyite, puts up a memorial window to the Baron, and reads the Tracts. At last he goes over to the Pope, walks about in nasty dirty clothes all full of vermin, and gives over his estate to Cardinal Wiseman. Then there are the retainers; they all come to grief, some one way and some another. I do that for the sake of the Nemesis.'

'I would not have condescended to notice them, I think,' said Norman.

'Oh! I must; there must be a Nemesis. The editor specially insists on a Nemesis.'

The conclusion of Charley's novel brought them back to the boat.

Norman, when he started, had intended to employ the evening in giving good counsel to his friend, and in endeavouring to arrange some scheme by which he might rescue the brand from the burning; but he had not the heart to be severe and sententious while Charley was full of his fun. It was so much pleasanter to talk to him on the easy terms of equal friendship than turn Mentor and preach a sermon.

'Well, Charley,' said he, as they were walking up from the boat wharf--Norman to his club, and Charley towards his lodgings--from which route, however, he meant to deviate as soon as ever he might be left alone--'well, Charley, I wish you success with all my heart; I wish you could do something--I won't say to keep you out of mischief.'

'I wish I could, Harry,' said Charley, thoroughly abashed; 'I wish I could--indeed I wish I could--but it is so hard to go right when one has begun to go wrong.'

'It is hard; I know it is.'

'But you never can know how hard, Harry, for you have never tried,' and then they went on walking for a while in silence, side by side.

'You don't know the sort of place that office of mine is,'

continued Charley. 'You don't know the sort of fellows the men are. I hate the place; I hate the men I live with. It is all so dirty, so disreputable, so false. I cannot conceive that any fellow put in there as young as I was should ever do well afterwards.'

'But at any rate you might try your best, Charley.'

'Yes, I might do that still; and I know I don't; and where should I have been now, if it hadn't been for you?'

'Never mind about that; I sometimes think we might have done more for each other if we had been more together. But remember the motto you said you'd choose, Charley--Excelsior! We can none of us mount the hill without hard labour. Remember that word, Charley--Excelsior! Remember it now--now, to-night; remember how you dream of higher things, and begin to think of them in your waking moments also;' and so they parted.