CHAPTER XVIII.

FROM FOREIGN PARTS.

"I have come from lands fantastic, Which the desert sands environ, Where the Koran's laws adrastic Bind the soul in chains of iron.

"All the land is full of magic, Danger 'neath delight reposes, Love is fierce and dark and tragic. Cypress mingles with the roses."

It was Eustace Gartney in the flesh, returned to quiet old England after his perilous wanderings in distant lands beyond the verge of civilization, and Otterburn felt most unaccountably glad to see him once more. Why this should be the case seems somewhat strange, seeing that they had tired of one another in their former intimacy, and parted with mutual satisfaction, yet in the heart of each there lurked a kindly feeling which cast a certain glamour round their old friendship, and made them mutually glad to meet again.

Otterburn shook the hand of his former Mentor with [* * *] pleasure, thrust him into the most comfortable chair in the room, and prepared to ask a series of breathless [* * *] as to all that had taken place since their parting at [* * *] many months ago. Eustace, on his part, felt a [* * *] this enthusiastic reception, and was glad to think that at least one friend remembered him in a kindly manner.

They had both changed in outward appearance since their last meeting, Gartney being much thinner than formerly, but his face, lean and brown, still retained its dreamy expression, which was, indeed, deepened by his habit of thoughtful self-communings in solitary deserts. For the rest, he was as badly dressed as ever, being now arrayed in a loose suit of grey home-spun, which would have startled the accurately dressed denizens of St. James' Street on the person of any one else but Eustace Gartney. But, then, he was a privileged person, and, as his poetic book of travels had rendered him more famous than ever, his former friends greeted him heartily, all of which greetings, although kindly meant, Eustace estimated in a cynical fashion at their proper value, until genuinely touched by the boyish and demonstrative affection of Otterburn.

That young man, on his part, had wonderfully improved from the slender boy of eighteen months before, for, although the space of time seems short, Macjean was at that age when the change from adolescence to manhood is very sudden and very marked. The semi-uncivilized life he had led had also a great deal to do with the shaping of his physical characteristics, and he was more manly, more self-reliant, and more matured in every way than the unformed youth from whom Eustace had parted. A heavy moustache adorned his upper lip, he carried himself in a dashing, self-confident manner, and the tones of his voice were deeper and more mellow than formerly. Still he retained that boyish, impulsive manner that had so fascinated the cynical man of the world, and Eustace looked upon him approvingly, as he leaned forward in his chair, with eager eyes and parted lips, anxious to hear all about the elder man's adventures.

"What a jolly time you've had, Gartney!" said Otterburn, gaily, "but, by Jove, what a queer fish you are. You started for a month's tour in Cyprus, and you end up by a year and a half's exploration of Arabia."

"The seductive influence of travel drew me onward," replied Gartney, crossing his legs and folding his hands. "After all you might as well have come with me that time at Venice, instead of going off to Central Europe."

"Oh, I've been to America since then."

"Yes, so I heard. Same man you went that Carpathian trip with?"

"Yes. Awfully good sort of fellow, but a mania for wild life. He was here a few minutes ago, wanting me to start off to Africa on another expedition."

"And you, being very comfortably settled here, declined."

"Rather! I like breathing time you know. Will you have a cigarette?" said Angus, holding out his open case.

"No, thank you. I've contracted the vice of pipe-smoking," replied Eustace, producing a well-worn briar-root, and filling it leisurely. "You've got very pleasant rooms here."

"Yes, are they not? I bought the whole box and dice just as they stand from Bamfield. Got them at a bargain, much to the delight of Johnnie."

"Is Johnnie still with you?"

"Of course! he's part and parcel of my life, and circumnavigated the globe with me, like a Scotch Sir Francis Drake. Do you want a light? Here you are."

He struck a match, and handed it to Eustace, who lighted his pipe, and then leaned contentedly back in his chair, listening to the vivacious chatter of the young man.

"Of course you know your book has been a great success," said Otterburn, pointing to a copy on the table, "there it is. I got it as soon as it was published. Some of the critics, however, have been giving it fits, especially the chapter called 'The Puritans of Islam.'"

"Indeed! And what do the critics know about the Wahhabees?" asked Eustace, with calm surprise.

"According to their own showing, everything."

"Ah, we all know the omniscience of critics! They are truly wonderful men, before whose vast experience and knowledge I remain dumb. And the rapidity of their work, their marvellous grasp of every subject in literature, from a Child's Primer to a novel of George Meredith's. Nothing appalls them, nothing daunts them. Oh, what wonderful men they are! truly wonderful, so calm, so learned, so kind-hearted. Why do you know, Macjean, I met a critic once who thought nothing of Dickens as an author! Think of that! Think of the wonderful mind of that man who could afford to speak contemptuously about one of the master spirits of the age."

"Did he write books himself?" asked Otterburn, shrewdly, at which Eustace looked at him in grave reproof.

"Of course not," he replied quietly, "he was a most self-denying man. He did write one novel I believe, but it was so far in advance of our present age that the publisher was afraid to print it--fancy that, a publisher afraid! Well, it was so, and now this critic only reviews other people's books--what self-denial. And then his decisions. Why he makes up his mind about a book, that has taken months to write, in five minutes. I've known him analyse a book without cutting the leaves to read it. Of course it is marvellous, simply marvellous, but our age is prolific in such clever men. I've met many such, and always felt like a whipped schoolboy before their calm, clear gaze. If you boil down twenty of our best authors you may make one critic, but then it's quality not quantity."

"I thought you did not like critics?"

"Not like critics, my dear fellow?" said Eustace sweetly, "why they are my dearest friends, my best benefactors. They always read my books, and give half an hour to each, actually a whole half hour. What friendship! And then, you know, they are so kind, they point out all my mistakes, and if I copy any ideas of foreign authors, they always look them up to see if I have done so correctly, and mention it--really mention it--in their articles. If there is anything naughty in my chapters, they reprove me, oh, so kindly, and tell the public where to look for the worst bits. And then they are so modest; they never tell me they wrote these articles, when I meet them in society. I always put my name to my books, they never do to their articles, and yet my books are full of mistakes which they try to correct for me."

"How kind of them?"

"Yes, is it not? I wish I was a critic, Angus, instead of a poor author. I am always wrong, you know, and they are constantly right, but then I don't know so much as they do. When I write a book I've to see things for myself, but they can sit down and correct me without going outside the four walls of their study. What a pity Shakespeare had not critics in his day! They would have pointed out all the defects in Hamlet, and good-naturedly corrected Lear for him. I daresay they would have shown him how to improve his blank verse. It does need improving, you know, because I heard a poet say so the other day. A real poet, much better than Browning or Tennyson, only he wasn't known so well. Just twenty-two years of age, and yet could talk like that--wonderful. But don't speak any more about critics, because I'm so fond of them that I could praise them for hours. Let us talk of meaner things. Tell me all the news of the day, the scandals of the hour, the gossip of the drawing-rooms, and stories of clubs."

"Faith, I don't know that I've much to tell you," said Otterburn candidly. "I've been on the war-path as well as yourself, so am just an ignorant of town as you are."

Gartney smoked on quietly for a few moments, and then suddenly asked the question nearest his heart:

"What about the Erringtons, Macjean?"

"I haven't the least idea," replied Angus carelessly, "as I have not seen them since you did at Como. I believe they are still living at their place in the country, and that Lady Errington has presented her husband with a son and heir."

"Yes, I heard that," said Gartney, with a slight smile. "I wonder if my prophecy has come true?"

"Eh!--what prophecy?"

"About the Incomplete Madonna."

"Oh, yes, I remember now," responded Otterburn indolently, "you said she was unfinished, didn't you? Well, I suppose she's happy now, as she has gained her heart's desire and become a mother."

"I've no doubt she's happy," said Eustace significantly; "but what about her husband?"

"I'm sure I don't know! You seem to take a great interest in the Erringtons?"

Eustace flushed a little under the bronze colour of his skin, and moved uneasily in his seat.

"Do I? A mere whim, I assure you, to see if my prophecy about the incomplete Madonna turns out correct. But never mind, I'm going to call on Aunt Jelly this afternoon, and she'll give me more accurate information than you can. Have you met Aunt Jelly yet?"

"No! You forget I told you I have been away from England also," answered Otterburn stiffly.

"True! I forgot that, but you see my dear relations haven't written a word to me since I've been away, and I'm obliged to ask a stranger for information. Is Aunt Jelly's ward married yet?"

"No; she is still Miss Sheldon."

"You were rather fond of her, were you not?"

"So fond of her that I asked her to be my wife at Como, and she refused me."

"I guessed as much," replied Eustace calmly; "however, that was merely a boyish fancy."

"I beg your pardon. No!"

"Indeed! You don't mean to say you are in love with Victoria Sheldon still?"

Otterburn arose to his feet with an angry laugh, and began to walk slowly to and fro with his hands in his pockets.

"Is there anything so extraordinary in that? I loved Miss Sheldon and she refused to marry me, so I tried to forget her. Well, I haven't forgotten her, and I've come back to Town expressly to ask her to be my wife. I daresay I'm a fool, but you're not in love, and cannot understand the feeling."

"Can I not!" answered Gartney serenely, thinking of Lady Errington, "well, I don't know so much about that. Have you met Miss Sheldon yet?"

"No.

"That doesn't sound like an eager lover."

"I daresay it doesn't," retorted Angus coolly, "but you see I've learnt sense since my first rebuff, and now gang warily, as the Scotch say. I'm not going to let Miss Sheldon see I care two straws about her till I find out the state of her feelings towards me."

"Astute diplomatist!--then I suppose you won't call with me on my respected aunt?"

"And meet Miss Sheldon!--hardly! I'm going to wait till I see her at a fancy-dress ball Mrs. Veilsturm gives shortly."

"Oh!" said Eustace, removing his pipe, "is that lady still in the flesh?"

"Very much so, indeed According to Mr. Adolphus Thambits--of whom you've no doubt heard--her house is quite a fashionable centre."

Gartney made a gesture of disgust, and arose to his feet.

"Good Lord! what are we coming to? I thought people would have found out Mrs. Veilsturm and her scamp of a Major long ago. I met them last time I was in London. I suppose they still have the little Sunday evenings, and talk about the West Indian estates?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Humph! I should not have thought Aunt Jelly would have let her ward visit Mrs. Veilsturm."

"Why not? She is in the odour of sanctity--no one knows her little peccadilloes, or, if they do, don't talk about them. I suppose few people except the initiated know about the real business of those Sunday evenings. Mrs. Veilsturm is all white--on the surface--so not even her dearest friend can throw mud at her."

"You are getting quite eloquent, Otterburn," observed Eustace smiling; "I suppose, when you're married and settled we'll hear of you in Parliament."

"I'm not married and settled yet!--perhaps I never will be," replied Otterburn gloomily.

"You don't seem very hopeful," remarked Eustace, with gentle sarcasm, "but as you won't come to Aunt Jelly's, suppose I play the part of Cupid's messenger, and find out how the land lies with Victoria Sheldon."

"Oh, if you only would," cried Angus eagerly; "but no! I'm afraid there's not much chance for me. I daresay she has forgotten I ever existed."

"Oh, if that is the case I'll soon improve her memory! Cheer up--while there's life there's hope."

"Not always," responded Angus gloomily, "particularly in this case. I called her a coquette last time we parted."

"No doubt she fully deserved the name, if I remember rightly," said Eustace drily, putting on his hat, "and she'll remember you for that out of spite."

"Well, do what you like, Gartney," replied Otterburn, grasping his friend's hand, "I'm awfully glad to see you safe and sound once more. When will you look me up again?"

"I'm not quite sure! I've got to see Aunt Jelly first--my lawyers second--about a dozen tradesmen, to make myself respectable, and then I am going to run down home for a few days."

"I didn't know you had a home."

"Oh, yes!--the cot where I was born, and all that kind of thing. A tumble-down old place, looking out on to the German Ocean."

"Well, don't let me lose sight of you yet," said Macjean, accompanying his guest to the door.

"No!--by-the-way, I'll come back and tell you my impressions of Miss Sheldon, and you can shape your course accordingly--in love with the same woman for eighteen months! Good Lord! what constancy! Ah, Johnnie and how are you?"

"Brawly! Brawly! thank ye for speiring, sir," replied Mr. Armstrong, who stood holding the door open, "may I tac' the leeberty of obsairving, sir, that ye look a wee bit brown, it's the weather na doot."

"Not a bit of it, Johnnie--the sun, my man, the sun."

"Hech! Hech! Au thocht it was the dochter," replied Johnnie, laughing at his own wit.

Eustace did not take offence, as Johnnie's dour ways rather amused him, so he laughed also and departed, while Angus went back to his dressing-room to get ready for paying a round of visits.