 The Ivory God by J. S. Fletcher At 6 o'clock Thurston put down his pen pushed back his chair from the table at which he had been riding, and rose to his feet with a series of gestures indicative of mental and physical fatigue. He glanced at the few sheets of manuscript which represented the result of a long day's labor, and he frowned as if in anger or distaste. He had written, or tried to write, from ten o'clock until one, and again from two until six, and his entire product after seven hours work was comparatively infinitesimal. He felt no enthusiasm. He had been unable to concentrate his thoughts. The whole thing had been distasteful to him. As he glanced around he asked himself for the thousandth time whether the game was worth the candle. More from force of habit than from genuine desire to do it, Thurston proceeded to make some sort of toilette for the evening. He shaved and washed carefully, put on a clean linen shirt and a dark lounge suit. He was unduly practical about the fold of his tie. In several small ways he showed that he had a gentleman-like love of cleanliness and orderly habits. He did everything slowly. It would have been evident to any one who might have had an opportunity of watching him that he had no engagement to keep. In point of fact he had few friends with whom he could keep any engagement. He was, as he now never cared to remind himself, one of the very loneliest men living. For a while he had reminded himself of this pertinent truth somewhat often. Then he wearied of the thought and put it from him. The fact of the loneliness, however, remained. Thurston lived in two rooms at the top of a house which stood in a quiet street near the British Museum, a street of an aspect so gray and pathetic that you wondered at first sight of it whether laughter or children's voices were ever heard there. The two rooms opened one into another by means of a folding door. Thurston had furnished them himself when he first came to town. One room contained a camp-bedstead, a chest of drawers, a dressing table, a wash stand, a bath, and a hard-bottomed chair. The floor was stained and polished and destitute of carpet, but there was a thick bare-skinned rug at the bedside. It was absolutely destitute of luxuries or of pictures, but it possessed a first-rate reading-lamp attached to the wall at the head of the bed. The other room knew the luxury of books. Its walls were covered with them to half their height, the books related chiefly to philosophy, theology, history, metaphysics. There was little that was light, but a table was strewn with the reviews of several countries, all purchased second hand and a month old. A desk, littered with papers, stood near the window. An arm-chair was placed near the hearth. Two other chairs of an easyish sort occurred sometimes here, sometimes there. A small table, big enough for one person to eat at, was in the middle of the room, which, unlike the sleeping chamber, was softly carpeted and luxuriant in thick rugs. It also possessed some luxuries in the way of pictures, but these, to the English eye of ordinary knowledge, were of a strange taste, being Japanese. One skilled in such matters might have told you that they were all by the most celebrated Japanese artists. Even then, you would have felt some uneasiness at the prospect of being continually shut up in a room whose decorations were so purely eastern. In these two rooms Thurston had spent five years, every day corresponding to another day. He prepared his breakfast when he wished for it. He read or wrote when he desired to do so. He lunched and dined out. He spent his evenings reading or thinking or dreaming. It was a strange life altogether, but it was his. But then the few people who knew Thurston said he was a strange man, a man who spoke little, laughed never, smiled seldom, and who was quite young in spite of everything. In point of fact he was twenty-seven years old. At twenty-two he had left Oxford with some reputation as a scholar and a mystic, and had come to town with the set purpose of following a literary career. Whether he had any ambitions at that time is a debatable question. It is quite certain that at twenty-seven none of them had been carried out. He had a little money of his own, sufficient to pay his rent, his house keeping expenses, his tailor's bills, and so on, and there was, therefore, no need to keep his nose to the grindstone. But he had made no name. He sometimes exhibited a rather heavy, rather pendentic, rather wearisome sort of article to one or the other of the leading reviews, the sort of article which is spoken of with great respect by the critics, and read by only a few experts, but to the general public he was as unknown as an unborn babe. The people who had any dealings with him said he was unsociable. He had no conversation. If by any chance he was induced to lunch or dine with you, his sole notion seemed to be to get away as quickly as possible. It was evident that he was one of those men who liked to be alone. There were times, however, when Thurston felt his loneliness, and one of them was hanging heavily about him on this particular evening. He had found it difficult to write during the day, and more than once he had caught himself wishing that a friend would come by to break the solitude. But he would have been hard put to it to say where such a friend was to be found. He never encouraged anyone to visit him at his rooms. One or two men, old college acquaintances, had tracked him down and called upon him, but quickly discovered that they were not wanted. It was not that Thurston wished to be rude. It was simply that a certain shyness and loneliness ran in his blood and his temperament, and made him incapable of entertaining his fellow creatures. He was essentially an anchorite, and yet there were times when his flesh called for something which it would have found it hard to define in words. As Thurston drew on his overcoat, a light tap came at his door. He went across and opened it, not without some feeling of surprise that anyone should be there. In the faint light at the top of the landing he saw a man whom he did not recognize, a tall, sloping shouldered man whose back was somewhat bowed, whose knees bent in, a man who made a succession of angles in his clothes. Thurston could see that he was shabbily attired, that his hair was long, greasy and unclean. He had a vague notion that an unwashed atmosphere hung heavily all around and about his visitor. He held the door half open, staring at the man. The man blinked at him. Mr. Thurston, he said inquiringly, well, replied Thurston, the man sighed heavily. I was sent to you, sir, by Mr. Evanson. I have something to show you which he thought you might like to see. He thought you might not be indisposed to buy it from me. May I come in and show it to you, Mr. Thurston? said the man, indicating a small package which he carried in the crook of one arm. I am not disposed to buy anything, answered Thurston, keeping his place. But this, sir, is something very uncommon. It is seldom that any collector has such a chance of securing such a valuable curiosity urged the visitor. At any rate it will do you no harm to look at it, Mr. Thurston. Well, said Thurston, impassively and hesitatingly, you may bring it in, then, but I really don't want to see it, and I shan't buy it, whatever it may be. He turned away and made preparations for lighting a lamp. The man with the parcel lingered at the threshold until the lamp had been placed on the center table, and the apartment was bathed in clear, powerful light. Now, then, said Thurston, still impassive as ever, come forward, let me see what it is. Mr. Evans has no business to send you to me. I am merely an acquaintance of his, and I am certainly not a collector. What is it you have to show me? The untidy, unwashed person took small notice of this impatient outburst. He advanced to the table, placed the parcel near the lamp, and proceeded to divest it of its wrappings. He kept himself between Thurston and the parcel while this was going on, and he did not speak until suddenly he turned round and said with a note of pride in triumph in his voice. There, Mr. Thurston, look at that! Thurston, during the unfolding of the parcel, had fallen into a sort of daydream. He came out of it with a start, and looked at the object which his visitor had placed on the table in the full light of the lamp. A sudden gleam came into his rather dull eyes. A sudden exclamation burst from his lips. Ah! he said. The man smiled, and rubbed his hands. He chuckled. I thought that would move you, Mr. Thurston, he said. It's a beauty, isn't it? Thurston made no answer to this. He advanced to the table, and stood at its edge, contemplating the thing which his visitor had been so anxious to exhibit. He found himself staring at an ivory statue of the god Ganesha, and wondering at the exquisite beauty of the workmanship, the subtle tints of the ivory, the atmosphere of the mystic east, which its mere dumb presence suggested and conveyed. It was not a thing of any great size. Its height was some ten inches. Its breadth six. A cigar-box would have held it. And to Thurston, steeped to the lips in the odor and color of the orient, it represented a world of art and of dreams. He stared at the god. The god stared at him out of a pair of amethyst eyes, cunningly set in the creamy white of the ivory. A strange intoxication stole into Thurston's soul. He heard himself presently talking in a set fashion, calmly, methodically, as though he were in a shop, buying something. He heard his visitor's replies. You want to sell this? Yes, sir. I want to sell it. And I'll tell you how I came by it, too, Mr. Thurston. All's above board, and Mr. Evans knows me well. He knew me before I fell on hard times. It's this way, sir. My father was in the army at the time of the mutiny, and he saw a good deal of fighting out in India, Delhi, and Lucknow, and elsewhere. And he brought home a good many curiosities, and that image amongst them. It's the image of some Hindu god, so I'm told, and, of course, anybody can see the workmanship is excellent. My father gave it to me on his deathbed, and charged me never to part with it, because there's some legend about its bringing luck with it. But it's brought me no luck, continued Thurston's visitor, with a dismal laugh. I've been down on my luck for some time. However, it will bring luck if you're agreeable to buy it, sir, and perhaps that's where the luck comes in. Well, sir, I, of course, don't know anything about these matters. I was recommended to take the carving to Mr. Evanson, said the man, and he advised me to see you. I should be quite satisfied to take what he said he thought it was worth. What was that, said Thurston? Twenty pounds, sir. The man uttered these words with some anxiety, and his eyes fastened themselves on Thurston's face as if to watch the effect. Thurston, however, was still fascinated by the ivory god, and neither eyes nor lips betrayed anything. He remained silent for some moments. At last he started, as from a reverie. I am quite prepared to accept Mr. Evanson's estimate of the carving's value, he said. I will give you twenty pounds for it. The man bowed his untidy head, and sighed deeply. It was evident that the prospect of immediate possession of twenty pounds was very grateful to him. Thank you, sir, he said. Thurston went over to his desk, unlocked a cash drawer, and produced a cash box, which, on examination, proved to contain twenty-two pound notes and gold. He counted out twenty to his visitor, put two pounds in his own pocket, restored the depleted cash box to its drawer, and locked it up again, and then, asking the vendor, his name and address, wrote out a formal receipt. Five minutes later the unkempt person was descending the stairs, happy in the possession of a small fortune, and Thurston was left alone with the ivory god. The clanging of the street door, far below, plunged the house into a weird silence. In its midst, Thurston sighed deeply. There was a strange feeling within him that he had suddenly come into possession of something which he had been wanting all his life. It was akin to the feeling of the lover, to whom the much desired object of affection is at last given. When the stranger first unwrapped the ivory god, and revealed its strange charms to his eyes, Thurston became aware of a sense of satisfaction. This sense was now increasing to a point of something like delight. He drew in his nether lip, and began to utter a soft, sibilant sound, not unlike the purring of a cat. Not for many years had he experienced such a keen feeling of pleasure as that which now filled him. He began looking about him for a suitable place wherein to enshrine his new acquisition. He glanced at the chimney-piece, already ornamented profusely with carvings from China, Japan, and India, with stones and vases from Peru, and he turned away dissatisfied. The ivory god, he said to himself, must have a better setting than the chimney-piece offered. He wanted to have it near him while he wrote. There was something in the lines, in the dull white of the ivory, in the subtle purple tints of the amethyst eyes which bade fair to soothe and to fascinate. He wanted to have the ivory god upon his desk. Looking about the room, he caught sight of the little triptych which he had bought years ago in Venice, admiring it more for the fineness of its wood and the carving than for the elementary art of the figure of Christ which was placed in the center-nitch. It's dark wood, he thought, would make an admirable setting for the pallid tent of the ivory. And without hesitation he took it down from the wall, wrenched away the crucifix from the middle compartment, and installed the figure of the Hindu god in its place. Then he placed the triptych on the ledge above his desk, and stood back from it, admiring the bizarre effect. The amethyst eyes of the ivory god seemed to smile into his own. Thurston tore himself away from his treasure at last and went out to dine. He walked through the gloom of the badly-lighted London streets until he came to the quiet restaurant wherein a certain corner table had come to be almost sacred to him. He ate and drank mechanically and sparingly. A small quantity of plainly cooked food satisfied him at all times. He drank no wine or spirits or ale. After dinner he smoked a cigarette to the accompaniment of a cup of coffee and glanced over his evening newspaper, handed to him by a waiter who knew him for an old and regular customer. All together he spent an hour at the restaurant, and on this particular evening there was an itching desire within him all the time to get back to his rooms. He wanted to examine the ivory god again, to look at it, to wonder about it. It was with a feeling of relief and of anticipation, of coming pleasure, that he finally paid his bill and went quickly away. Thurston shut himself into his room with a great sense of satisfaction. He was alone in the midst of five millions of people, alone with the only things for which he cared, his books and his curiosities. Other men might dine and wine, go to theaters, balls, social functions. He cared for none of these things. He knew joys which were far deeper, far better worth having, and he could command their presence whenever he pleased to do so. So he fastened his outer door, drew a warm curtain over the inner one, turned up his lamp, stirred his fire, and looked round about him with a sense of comfort. He saw the ivory god shining in the triptych above his desk. He caught the gleam of its amethyst eyes, and he was once more aware of the feeling that it in some strange way rounded off his life. He was glad to have it, and to see it there, sitting above his altar like a presiding deity. Thurston's next proceedings were significant and explanatory. He divested himself of his overcoat, and of the smartish morning coat beneath it. He slipped into an old velvet jacket of endowed antiquity, and, that done, he exchanged his boots for a comfortable and well-worn pair of slippers. And then, having made sure of his preliminaries, he unlocked a cupboard and produced a small decanter of curious shape, half filled with a golden brown liquid which seemed to sparkle and coeriscate in the lamplight. He set it on the table in the center of the room, placed a glass of singular beauty, a deep crystal bowl set in twisted columns at its side, and proceeded to heat water in the kettle. When the water was heated, he made a careful mixture of it and the golden brown liquid in the glass, and after that he curled himself up in an easy chair facing the ivory god with the glass and the decanter at his side. Thurston had become a slave to the opium habit. Beginning the use of that attractive and insidious drug as a cure for some slight complaint, he had increased his doses until, at twenty-seven, he made no excuses to himself for consuming it in large quantities. During the day he took it in the form of pills, each containing a few grains. At night, following the example of de Quincey, he indulged in laudanum negus, sometimes sitting up until the gray of the morning broke in upon his dreams and fantasies. He had long since relinquished all thought of giving up the habit. It had destroyed his moral courage once and for all, and had taken complete possession of him, mentally and physically. Under the influence of opium he was indifferent to everything in the world, and it was rarely that its influence was not upon him. As the subtle charm of the drug stole through his brain, Thurston yielded himself up to the dreams which it induced. His eyes were fixed on the ivory god. He began to speculate on its history, on the strange things which those amethyst eyes must have seen, on the deeds of blood, the mystic panorama of eastern life, with its gorgeous coloring, its strange suggestion, which they must have watched unmoved. The phantasmagoria of a hundred worlds began to float, and finally to crystallize before him. In his estimation the carving was hundreds upon hundreds of years old. It must certainly have had its original abiding place in temple or palace, and of itself formed some part of the gorgeous picture which was now rapidly shaping itself in Thurston's imagination. Thurston's evenings were usually spent in a dream of bliss which was itself a source of deep mental content. He was surprised, on this occasion, to find that contemplation of the ivory god was leading him into a state of unusual unrest. A strange desire to sit down at his desk, literally, at the feet of the god, and right, filled him with strenuous force. It was years since he had ever written at night, and the mere thought of doing so now made him almost afraid. But the fear vanished quickly, and he was presently conscious of nothing but that he was shortly going to sit down at his desk. It was as if the ivory god had laid some command upon him. He turned up the flame of his spirit lamp, heated more water, and mixed himself more of the drug. A little later he found himself laying out paper on his blotting-pad, and examining the nib of a pen. And after a time, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world, he settled himself into his elbow chair, and after one long, searching look at the ivory god, he dipped his pen into the ink and began to write. This is the story of the loves and it hates of men and women that have long been dust, the story of a day when the red earth was young, and the gods sat steadfast in their places, the story of a time and times, and behold, it has never been told to human ear till now. After that came a long night of work, of work such as Thurston had never before done in his life. It was ten o'clock when he wrote the first words on the top sheet of the pile of manuscript paper which he had laid ready to hand. As each successive hour struck the silver-voiced clock on the chimney-piece, it did but interrupt the gentle scribbling of a rapidly moving pen. On Thurston's left hands stood the spirit lamp, the kettle, the decanter, and the glass. Now and then he turned to these things and mixed the drug. On his right hand there gradually accumulated a pile of closely written manuscript. Above him the amethyst eyes grew purple in the lamp-light, the ivory god stared into the gloom beyond the rider's head. The gray light stole through the cracks and crannies of the shutters, and found Thurston still writing. Years later the old woman who acted as bed-maker and charwoman knocked loudly at the outer door. Thurston shouted her to go away and leave him alone, and his pen traveled on and on as if it would never stop. It was about three days after this that a famous publisher with whom Thurston was acquainted in slight fashion was somewhat astonished to find the latter waiting for him in his private room. He stared at Thurston curiously, noting with the keen eye of a practical man of the world that his visitor wore a strange expression and seemed to be wrapped in an atmosphere of mystery. He was shaved and washed, and wore his best garments. But there was a strange pallor on his face, a strange light in his eyes, and his voice was as unnaturally steady as the cold, almost lifeless hand which he placed in the publisher's palm. The publisher, who had never been able to understand Thurston's strangeness of manner, reverted to an earlier suspicion and wondered if his visitor had been drinking. But he failed to perceive either twitch or trimmer in face or hand, and his visitor's voice was even and firm to the verge of monotony. "'Sometime ago,' said Thurston, you were good enough to suggest to me that I should write a romance of eastern life. It seemed to you that I possessed the necessary knowledge of the East to attempt such a book.' "'Quite so,' said the other. I don't know any man better fitted. You've been working in that direction all your life, haven't you? In fact, it's been a wonder to me that you never thought of the thing yourself.' Thurston produced a parcel of manuscript. "'I have here,' he said, a considerable portion of such a work. There is much I might say to you about it. But at present I prefer not to say anything. Yes, it is not an ordinary work, and I should like some assurance from you that it shall be read for you by some one competent to judge of its merits.' "'I'll give it to Flintford to read,' said the publisher. How does his name strike you? He's about the best man I can think of. I am quite prepared to accept Mr. Flintford's judgment,' replied Thurston. "'Indeed, I intended suggesting his name to you. Then I will leave this portion of the manuscript with you.' "'Do,' answered the publisher, and I'll send it on to Flintford by special messenger at once, and ask him to read it. "'About the rest of the book, now. The remaining portion,' said Thurston, "'will be delivered to you when it is written. And with that, and a frigid shaking of the publisher's outstretched hand, he went away, walking through the outer office as one of the clerks said, like a ghost. The next morning Flintford walked into the publisher's office, looking very excited. "'I say,' he explained, "'where did you get that manuscript which you sent me yesterday? And have you got the rest?' "'Well, what of it?' asked the publisher, ignoring the second part of the question. "'Is it good stuff? Will it do? Would it sell?' "'Good! My dear sir, it is the most wonderful piece of imaginative work I've ever read in my life. It's amazing, stupendous, quite confusing in its brilliance. I began it last night. I went on reading until breakfast this morning,' answered Flintford. "'I never read anything like it. Indeed, I wouldn't have believed that we had a brain amongst us that could imagine such a work. Look here. You know, I am by no means an enthusiastic person. Well, this book, if it keeps up that level all through, is the biggest find of the last half century.' For sheer imagination the man beats Poe Hollow. "'You think it will make a hit?' inquired the publisher. "'It is the greatest thing I have ever had put before me,' answered the critic. "'I cannot understand the power in it. Who is this man? How does he come to be able to recreate Hindu life as it must have been thousands of years ago? Where did he get such an overwhelming imagination? There's something that's almost unholy, unearthly, about the whole thing. It's a great book, a rare book. I should like to see the author. I will try to get him here at three this afternoon,' said the publisher. "'Come in after lunch. I may tell you that he is a strange person. Never done anything but an occasional article in the heavy reviews. But, I fancy, cram full of the East. That,' said the critic, "'is evident. I'll come at three.' At three o'clock Thurston was shown into the publisher's private room, and introduced to the great critic. Thurston, if possible, was more ghost-like than ever, more emotionless, more insensible to any outward influence. He sat with fixed, passionless eyes, listening. While the critic praised his work and asked questions, it was not until all this had been said that he spoke. "'I think I may take you both into my confidence,' he said. "'I conclude, Mr. Main, that you will publish this book, and therefore I see no reason why you and Mr. Flintford should be kept in ignorance as to its real history. I may tell you that the story is not mine at all. It is being dictated to me. The circumstances are peculiar, but I feel sure that Mr. Flintford, with his knowledge of the East, will quite understand. I recently came into possession of an image of the God Ganesha, wonderfully wrought in ivory and adorned with amethyst eyes. The story of which you have read some portion is being dictated to me by this image, or, more probably, by this God represented by it. "'I think you will understand,' he said, turning to Flintford with an air which had something appealing in it.' "'Yes,' Flintford said quietly. "'I quite understand.' "'I felt the influence of the God,' continued Thurston, as soon as I saw the image. It is a strange, a very fascinating influence. It impelled me to write against my will, and then I found that I was but a mouthpiece. Everything has been put into my lips. I should say, pen. Clearly, what I have written is the story of the image.' "'And when?' asked Flintford kindly. "'When do you suppose the end of this story will be reached, Mr. Thurston?' Thurston produced another packet of manuscript. He laid it on the publisher's desk. "'I believe,' he said. "'I believe the end will come to-night. If,' here he glanced from one face to the other. "'If you would like to see the ivory statue, and could call to-morrow morning, about noon, I will show it to you. It is certain that it possesses a strange influence.' When Thurston had gone away, the two men looked at each other. "'Mad as a hatter,' said the publisher. The critic shook his head. "'It seems strange,' he said. "'But really? I don't think so. Does he drink?' "'I used to think he did,' replied the publisher. "'He has done work for me now and then, and he sometimes came here with all the symptoms of intoxication upon him, and yet he was always clearheaded and capable, if incoherent of speech. What I don't understand just now is the frightful deliberation with which he speaks, the sort of unearthly coldness and composure of his manner. But, I say, to tell us that the book is being dictated to him by an ivory statue. Surely that is evidence of insanity.' "'Oh! But then genius and insanity are closely allied,' said Flintford. "'Well, let us call upon him to-morrow. In the meantime, I'll take the manuscript he left with you. I expect it will cost me another sleepless night. You can't get away from it when once you've begun. It's a live thing, Main.' "'Come round about noon to-morrow,' said Main. It was half past twelve the next day, when they climbed the stairs to Thurston's rooms. They knocked for some time at the outer door, and evoked no answer. Then Flintford climbed another flight of stairs and discovered the bed-maker woman, who resided nearer the sky, and appeared from a feast wherein onions played a principal part. "'Mr. Thurston, sir?' "'And indeed, I haven't set eyes on him this morning, sir. Which is conduct have of late been extraordinary. Me not being able to make no beds, nor nothing,' she said. "'A literary gent, sir, which for long experience is very trying to anybody to deal with. You might knock again, sir, and if he doesn't answer, why, I must open the door with my key, and see if the poor gentleman doesn't dwell. For never a word did he give me at ten o'clock.' When the door was opened at last, they found Thurston quite dead. His arms were crossed over the final page of his manuscript. His head was bowed upon them, as if, tired out with his long spill of labour, he had laid down there and gone to sleep. Above him the Ivory God looked out of its amethyst eyes into the shadowy corner of the silent room. End of The Ivory God by J. S. Fletcher THE LION'S SHARE Taken from The Grim Smile of the Five Towns by Arnold Bennett This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Andy Minter in Tring, Hertfordshire, September 2007. www.timberdine.co.uk In the Five Towns, the following history is related by those who know it as something sidesplittingly funny, as one of the best jokes that ever occurred in a district devoted to jokes, and I too have hitherto regarded it as such. But upon my soul, now that I come to write it down, it strikes me as being, after all, a pretty grim tragedy. However, you shall judge, and laugh or cry, as you please. It began in the little house of Mrs. Carpole, up at Bleakridge, on the hill between Bursley and Handridge. Mrs. Carpole was the second Mrs. Carpole, and her husband was dead. She had a stepson, Horace, and a son of her own, Sidney. Horace is the hero or the villain of the history. On the day when the unfortunate affair began, he was nineteen years old, and a model youth. Not only was he getting on in business, not only did he give half his evenings to the study of the chemistry of pottery, and the other half to various secretary ships, in connection with the Wesleyan, Methodist, Chapel and Sunday school. Not only did he save money, not only was he a comfort to his stepmother and a sort of uncle to Sidney, not only was he an early riser, a total abstainer, a nonsmoker, and a good listener, but in addition to the practice of these manifold and rare virtues, he found time, even at that tender age, to pay his tailor's bill promptly, and to fold his trousers in the same crease every night, so that he always looked neat and dignified. Strange to say, he made no friends. Perhaps he was just a thought too perfect for a district like the Five Towns. A sin or so might have endeared him to the entire neighborhood. Perhaps his loneliness was due to his imperfect sense of humour, or perhaps to the dull, unsmiling heaviness of his somewhat flat features. Sidney was quite a different story. Sidney, to use his mother's phrase, was a little jockey. His years were then eight. Fair haired and blue-eyed, as most little jockeys are, he had a smile and a scull that were equally effective in tyrannising over both his mother and Horace. And he was beloved by everybody. Women turned to look at him in the street. Unhappily his health was not good. He was afflicted by a slight deafness, which however the doctor said he would grow out of. The doctor predicted for him a lusty manhood. In the meantime he caught every disease that happened to be about, and nearly died of each one. His latest acquisition had been scarlet fever. Now, one afternoon after he had peeled, and his room had been disinfected, and he was beginning to walk again, Horace came home, and decided that Sidney should be brought downstairs for tea as a treat to celebrate his convalescence, and that he, Horace, would carry him downstairs. Mrs. Carpill was delighted with the idea, and Sidney also, except that Sidney did not want to be carried downstairs. He wanted to walk down. I think it will be better for him to walk, Horace, dear, said Mrs. Carpill in her thin, plaintive voice. He can quite well, and you know how clumsy you are. Suppose you were to fall. Horace, nevertheless, in pursuance of his program of being uncle to Sidney, was determined to carry Sidney, and carry Sidney he did, despite warnings and kickings. At least he carried him as far as the turn in the steep stairs, at which point he fell, just as his stepmother had feared, and Sidney with him. The half-brothers arrived on the ground floor in company, but Horace, with his eleven-stone two, was on top, and the poor, suffering little convalescent, lay moveless and insensible. It took the doctor forty minutes to bring him to, and all the time the odor of grilled herrings, which, formed part of the uneaten tea, made itself felt through the house, like a satanic comment on the spectacle of human life. The scene was dreadful at first. The agony then passed. There were no bruises on the boy, not a mark, and in a couple of hours he seemed to be perfectly himself. Horace breathed again, and thanked heaven it was no worse. His gratitude to heaven was, however, slightly premature, for in the black middle of the night poor Sidney was seized with excruciating pains in the head, and the doctor lost four hours sleep. These pains returned at intervals of a few days, and naturally the child's convalescence was retarded. Then Horace said that Mrs. Carpole should take Sidney to Buxton for a fortnight, and he paid all the expenses of the trip out of his savings. He was desolated, utterly stricken. He said that he should never forgive himself. Sidney improved slowly. II After several months, during which Horace had given up all his limited spare time to the superintendents of the child's first steps in knowledge, Sidney was judged to be sufficiently strong to go to school, and it was arranged that he should attend the Endowed School at the Wedgwood Institution. Horace accompanied him with her on the opening day of the term. It was an inclement morning in January, and left the young, delicate sprig, apparently joyous and content, to the care of his masters and the mercy of his companions. But Sidney came home for dinner weeping, weeping in spite of his new mortarboard cap, his new satchel, his new box of compasses, and his new books. His mother kept him at home in the afternoon, and by the evening another of those terrible attacks had supervened. The Doctor and Horace and Mrs. Carpole once more lost much precious sleep. The mysterious malady continued. School was out of the question. And when Sidney took the air, in charge of his mother, everybody stopped to sympathize with him, and to stroke his curls and call him a poor dear, and also to commiserate Mrs. Carpole. As for Horace, Bursley tried to feel sorry for Horace, but he'd only succeeded in showing Horace that it was hiding a sentiment of indignation against him. Every friendly face as it passed Horace in the street, Sid, without words, there goes the youth who probably ruined his young stepbrother's life. And through sheer obstinacy, too, he dropped the little darling in spite of warning some protests, and then fell on top of him. Of course he didn't do it on purpose, but… The Doctor mentioned Greater X of Manchester, the celebrated brain specialist. And Horace took Sidney to Manchester. They had to wait an hour and a quarter to see Greater X, his well-known consulting-rooms in John Dalton Street being crowded with imperfect brains. But their turn came at last, and they found themselves in Greater X's presence. Greater X was a fat man, with the voice of a thin man, who seemed to spend the whole of his career in the care of his fingernails. Well, my little fellow, said Greater X, don't cry, for Sidney was already crying. And then, to Horace in a curt tone, what is it? And Horace was obliged to humiliate himself and relate the accident in detail, together with all that had subsequently happened. Yes, yes, yes, yes, Greater X would punctuate the recital. And when tired of it, yes, he would say, Hum, hum, hum, hum, hum. When he had said, hmm, seventy-two times, he suddenly remarked that his fee was three guineas, and told Horace to strengthen Sidney all he could, not to work him too hard, and to bring him back in a year's time. Horace paid the money. Greater X emitted a final hum, and then the Step Brothers were whisked out by an expeditious footman. The experience cost Horace over four pounds and the loss of a day's time, and the worst was that Sidney had a violent attack that very night. School being impossible for him, Sidney had intermittent instruction from professors of both sexes at home. But he learnt practically nothing except the banjo. Horace had to buy him a banjo. It cost the best part of a ten-pound note. Still Horace could do no less. Sidney's stature grew rapidly. His general health certainly improved, yet not completely. He always had a fragile, interesting air. Moreover, his deafness did not disappear. There were occasions when it was extremely pronounced. And he was never quite safe from these attacks in the head. He spent a month or six weeks each year in the expensive, bracing atmosphere of some seaside resort, and altogether he was decidedly a heavy drain on Horace's resources. People were aware of this, and they said that Horace ought to be happy that he was in a position to spend money freely on his poor brother. Had not the doctor predicted, before the catastrophe, due to Horace's culpable negligence, that Sidney would grow into a strong man, and that his deafness would leave him. The truth was, one never knew the end of those accidents in infancy. Further was not Sidney's sad condition slowly killing his mother. It was whispered about that, since the disaster, Sidney had not been quite sound mentally. Was not the mere suspicion of this enough to kill any mother. And, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Carpole did die. She died of Quincy, heartless aggravated by Sidney's sad condition. Not long afterwards, Horace came into a small fortune from his maternal grandfather. But poor Sidney did not come into any fortune, and people somehow illogically inferred that Horace had not behaved quite nicely in coming into a fortune, while his suffering, invalid brother, whom he had so deeply harmed, came into nothing. Even Horace had compunctions due to the visitations of a similar idea. And with part of the fortune he bought a house with a large garden up at Toft End, the highest hill of the hilly five towns, so that Sidney might have the benefit of the air. He also engaged a housekeeper and servants. With the remainder of the fortune he obtained a partnership in the firm of earthenware manufacturers, for whom he had been acting as a highly paid manager. Sidney reached the age of eighteen, and was most effective to look upon, his bright hair being still curly, and his eyes of wondrous blue, and his form elegant. And the question of Sidney's future arose. His health was steadily on the upgrade. The deafness had quite disappeared. He had inclinations towards art, and had already amused himself by painting some beautiful vases. So it was settled that he should enter Horace's works on the art side, with a view to becoming ultimately art director. Horace gave him three pounds a week, in order that he might feel perfectly independent. And to the same end Sidney paid Horace seven and six pounds a week for board and lodging. But the change of life upset the youth's health again. After only two visits to the works he had a grave recurrence of the head attacks, and he was solemnly exhorted not to apply himself too closely to business. He therefore took several half-holidays a week, and sometimes a whole one. And even when he put in one of his full days he would arrive at the works three hours after Horace, and restore the balance by leaving an hour earlier. The entire town watched over him as a mother watches over a son. The notion that he was not quite right in the paint gradually died away, and everybody was thankful for that, though it was feared an untimely grave might be his portion. Three. She was a nice girl, the nicest girl that Horace had ever met with, because her charming niceness included a faculty of being really serious about serious things, and yet she could be deliciously gay. In short, she was a revelation to Horace, and her name was Ella, and she had come one year to spend some weeks with Mrs. Penkethman, the widowed headmistress of the Wesleyan Day School, who was her cousin. Mrs. Penkethman and Ella had been holidaying together in France. Their arrival in Bursley naturally coincided with the reopening of the school in August for the autumn term. Now at this period Horace was rather lonely in his large house and garden, for Sydney, in pursuit of health, had gone off on a six weeks cruise round Holland, Finland, Norway and Sweden in one of those Atlantic liners, which translated like Enoch without dying, become in their old age steam yachts with fine names apt to lead to confusion with the private yacht of the Tsar of Russia. Horace had offered him the trip, and Horace was also paying his weekly salary as usual. So Horace, who had always been friendly with Mrs. Penkethman, grew now more than ever friendly with Mrs. Penkethman, and Mrs. Penkethman and Ella were inseparable. The few aristocrats left in Bursley in September remarked that Horace knew what he was about, as it was notorious that Ella had the most solid expectations. But as a matter of fact Horace did not know what he was about, and he never once thought of Ella's expectations. He was simply, as they say in Bursley, knocked silly by Ella. He honestly imagined her to be the wonderfulest woman on the Earth's surface, and her dark eyes, and her expressive sympathetic gestures, and her alternations of seriousness and gaiety. It astounded him that a girl of twenty-one could have thought so deeply upon life as she had. The inexplicable thing was that she looked up to him. She evidently admired him. He wanted to tell her that she was quite wrong about him, much too kind in her estimate of him, that really he was a very ordinary man indeed, but another instinct prevented him from thus undeceiving her. And one Saturday afternoon, the season being late September, Horace actually got those two women up to tea in his house and garden. He had not dared to dream of such bliss. He had hesitated long before asking them to come, and in asking them he had blushed and stammered. The invitation had seemed to him to savour of audacity. But, bless you, they had accepted with apparent ecstasy. They gave him to think that they had genuinely wanted to come, and they came extra-specially dressed. Visions, lilies of the field. And as the day was quite warm, tea was served in the garden, and everybody admired the view. And there was no restraint, no awkwardness. In particular, Ella talked with an ease and distinction that enchanted Horace, and almost made him talk with ease and distinction too. He said to himself, that seeing he had only known her a month he was getting on amazingly, he said to himself that his good luck passed belief. Then there was the sound of cab wheels on the other side of the garden wall, and presently Horace heard the housekeeper complimenting Sydney on his good looks, and Sydney asking the housekeeper to lend him three shillings to pay the cabman. The golden youth had returned without the slightest warning from his crews. The tea-trio at the lower end of the garden saw him standing in the porch, tan, curly, graceful and young. Horace half rose, and then sat down again. Ella stared hard. That must be your brother, she said. Yes, that's Sid, Horace answered, and then calling out loudly, come down here, Sid, and tell them to bring another cup and saucer. Right, you are, old man, Sidney shouted. You see, I'm back. What? Mrs. Penkethman, is that you? He came down the central path of the garden, like a narcissist. He does look delicate, said Ella, under her breath to Horace. Tears came to her eyes. Naturally Ella knew all about Sidney. She enjoyed the entire confidence of Mrs. Penkethman, and what Mrs. Penkethman didn't know about the private history of the upper classes in Bursley did not amount to very much. These were nearly the last words that Ella spoke to Horace that afternoon. The introduction was made, and Sidney slipped into the party as comfortably as he slipped into everything, like a candle slipping into a socket. But nevertheless Ella talked no more. She just stared at Sidney and listened to him. Horace was proud that Sidney had made such an impression on her. He was glad that she showed no aversion to Sidney, because in the event of Horace's marriage, where would Sidney live, if not with Horace and Horace's wife? Still, he could have wished that Ella would continue to display her conversational powers. Presently Sidney lighted a cigarette. He was one of those young men whose delicate mouths seemed to have been fashioned for the nice conduct of a cigarette, and he had a way of blowing out the smoke that secretly ravished every feminine beholder. Horace still held to his boyhood's principles, but he envied Sidney a little. At the conclusion of the festivity, those two women naturally could not be permitted to walk home alone, and naturally also the four could not walk abreast on the narrow pavements. Horace went first with Mrs. Penkethman. He was mad with anxiety to appropriate Ella, but he dared not. It would not have been quite correct. It would have been, as they say, inversely, too thick. Besides, there was a question of age. Horace was over thirty, and Mrs. Penkethman was also over thirty, whereas Sidney was twenty-one, and so was Ella. Hence Sidney walked behind with Ella, and the processions started in silence. Horace did not look round too often. That would not have been quite proper, but whenever he did look round the other couple had lagged farther and farther behind, and Ella seemed perfectly to have recovered her speech. At length, he looked round, and lo! they had not turned the last corner, and they arrived at Mrs. Penkethman's cottage at Hillport, a quarter of an hour after their elders. Four. The wedding cost Horace a large sum of money. You see, he could not do less than behave handsomely by the bride, owing to his notorious admiration for her, and of course the bridegroom needed setting up. Horace practically furnished their home for them out of his own pocket. It was not to be expected that Sidney should have resources. Further, Sidney, as a single man, paying seven and six a week for broad and lodging, could no doubt struggle along upon three pounds weekly. But Sidney, as a husband, with the nicest girl in the world to take care of, and house rent to pay, could not possibly perform the same feat. Although he did no more work at the manufacturing, Horace could not have been so unbrotherly as to demand it. Horace paid him eight pounds a week instead of three. And the affair cost Horace a good deal besides money. But what could Horace do? He decidedly would not have wished direct the happiness of two young and beautiful lives, even had he possessed the power to do so. And he did not possess the power. Those two did not consult Horace before falling in love. They merely fell in love, and there was an end of it, and an end of Horace too. Horace had to suffer. He did suffer. Perhaps it was for his highest welfare that other matters came to monopolise his mind. One sorrow drives out another. If you sit on a pin, you are apt to forget that you have the toothache. The earthenware manufacturing was not going well. Plenty of business was being done, but not at the right prices. Crushed between the upper and nether millstones of the McKinley Tariff and German competition, Horace, in company with other manufacturers, was breathing out his life's blood in the shape of capital. The truth was that he had never had enough capital. He had heavily mortgaged the house at Toft End in order to purchase his partner's shares in the business, and have the whole undertaking to himself. And he profoundly regretted it. He needed every penny that he could collect. The strictest economy was necessary if he meant to survive the struggle. And here he was, paying eight pounds a week to a personage purely ornamental, after having squandered hundreds in rendering that personage comfortable. The situation was dreadful. You may ask, why did he not explain the situation to Sidney? Well, partly because he was too kind, and partly because he was too proud, and partly because Sidney would not have understood. Horace fought on, keeping up a position in the town, and hoping that miracles would occur. Then Ella's expectations were realized. Sidney and she had some 20,000 pounds to play with, and they played the most agreeable games. But not in Bursley. No, they left Horace in Bursley, and went to London over a spell. Horace envied them, but he saw them off at the station as an elder brother should, and tipped the porters. Certainly he was relieved of the formality of paying eight pounds a week to his brother. But this did not help him much. The sad fact was that things, by which he's meant fate, circumstances, credit, and so on, had gone too far. It was no longer a question of eight pounds a week. It was a question of final ruin. Surely he might have borrowed money from Sidney. Sidney had no money. The money was Ella's, and Horace could not have brought himself to borrow money from a woman, from Ella, from a heavenly creature who always had a soothing sympathetic word for him. That would have been to take advantage of Ella. No, if you suggest such a thing, you do not know Horace. I stated in the beginning that he had no faults. He was, therefore, absolutely honest, and he called his creditors together while he could yet pay them twenty shillings in the pound. It was a noble act, rare enough in the five towns and in other parts of England. But he received no praise for it. He had only done what every man in his position ought to do. If Horace had failed for ten times the sum that his debts actually did amount to, and then paid two shillings in the pound instead of twenty, he would have made a stir in the world and been looked up to as no ordinary man of business. Having settled his affairs in this humdrum idiotic manner, Horace took a third class return to Slendidno. Sidney and Ella were staying at the Hydro with the strange Welsh name, and he found Sidney lolling on the sunshiney beach in front of the Hydro, discursing on the banjo to himself. When asked where his wife was, Sidney replied that she was lying down and was obliged to rest as much as possible. Horace, ashamed to trouble this domestic idyll, related his misfortunes as eerily as he could. And Sidney said he was awfully sorry and had no notion how matters stood. And could he do anything for Horace? If so, Horace might. No, said Horace, I'm all right. I very fortunately got an excellent place as manager in a big new manufactory in Germany. This is how we deal with German competition in the five towns. Germany? cried Sidney. Yes, said Horace, and I start the day after tomorrow. Well, said Sidney, at any rate you'll stay the night. Thanks, said Horace, you're very kind. I will. So they went into the Hydro together, Sidney caressing his wonderful new pearl inlaid banjo, and Horace talked in low tones to Ella as she lay on the sofa. He convinced Ella that his departure to Germany was the one thing he had desired all his life, because it was not good that Ella should be startled, shocked, or grieved. They dined well. But in the night Sidney had a recurrence of his old illness, a bad attack, and Horace sat up through the dark hours, fetched the doctor, and bought things at the chemist. Towards morning Sidney was better, and Horace standing near the bed, gazed at his step-brother, and tried in his stupid way to read the secrets beneath that curly hair. But he had no success. He caught himself calculating how much Sidney had cost him at periods of his career when he could ill spare money, and having caught himself, he was angry with himself for such baseness. At eight o'clock he ventured to knock at Ella's door, and explained to her that Sidney had not been quite well. She had passed a peaceful night, for he had, of course, refrained from disturbing her. He was not quite sure whether Sidney had meant him to stay at the Hydro as his guest, so he demanded a bill, paid it, said good-bye, and left for Born on the Rhine. He was very exhausted and sleepy. Happily the third-class carriages on the London and Northwestern are pretty comfortable. Between Chester and crew he had quite a dose, and dreamt that he had married Ella after all, and that her twenty thousand pounds had put the earthenware business on a footing of magnificent and splendid security. Five. A few months later Horace's house and garden at Toft End were put up to auction by arrangement with his mortgagee and his trade creditors, and Sidney was struck with the idea of buying the place. The impression was that it would go cheap. Sidney said that it would be a pity to let the abode pass out of the family. Ella said that the idea of buying it was a charming one, because in the garden it was that she had first met her Sidney, so the place was duly bought, and Sidney and Ella went to live there. Several years elapsed. Then one day little Horace was informed that his uncle Horace, whom he had never seen, was coming to the house on a visit, and that he must be a good boy, and polite to his uncle, an all-usual sort of thing. And in effect Horace, the elder, did arrive in the afternoon. He found no one to meet him at the station, or at the garden gate of the pleasant that had once been his, or even at the front door. A pert parlor maid told him that her master and mistress were upstairs in the nursery, and that he was requested to go up. And he went up, and to be sure Sidney met him at the top of the stairs, banjo in hand, cigarette in mouth, smiling, easy and elegant as usual, not a trace of physical weakness in his face or form. And Horace was jocularly ushered into the nursery and introduced to his nephew. Ella had changed. She was no longer slim and no longer gay and serious by turns. She narrowly missed being stout, and she was continuously gay, like Sidney. The child was also gay. Everybody was glad to see Horace, but nobody seemed deeply interested in Horace's affairs. As a fact he had done rather well in Germany, and had now come back to England in order to assume a working partnership in a small potting concern in Handbridge. He was virtually beginning life afresh. But what concerned Sidney and Ella was themselves, and their offspring. They talked incessantly about the infinitesimal details of their daily existence, and the alterations which they had made, or meant to make, in the house and garden. And occasionally Sidney thrummed the tune on the banjo to amuse the infant. Horace had expected them to be curious about Germany and his life in Germany, but not a bit. He might have come in from the next street and left them only yesterday for all the curiosity they exhibited. Shall we go down to the drawing-room and have tea, eh? said Ella. Yes, let's go and kill the fatted calf, said Sidney, and strangely enough, inexplicably enough, Horace did feel like a prodigal. Sidney went off with his precious banjo, and Ella picked up sundry belongings without which he never travelled about the house. You carry me downstairs, Anki, the little nephew suggested, with an appealing glance at his new uncle. No, said Horace, I'm dashed if I do. End of The Lion's Share by Arnold Bennett