Charles Lysaght: a novel devoid of novelty, etc

Preface

. A man of note once gave vent to the observation, " Oh, that mine enemy would write a book !" a remark full of significance to all, but hardly to be appreciated to its full extent except by those who have themselves essayed the task of book writing. Now, although the writer of the volumes which these few words preface does not stand in much awe of the criticisms of his enemies, for he hardly thinks he has any, he confesses to a wholesome horror of the criticism of his friends, of whom he is glad to think he can number many. He would ask them, therefore, to deal as kindly with his work as possible, magnifying its merits as through the medium of a telescope, and when its demerits become most conspicuous turning that instrument its reverse wray, and regarding them as though they were a long wray off. VI

PREFACE.

. He would ask them also to remember that although he has not aimed at much, he has at least endeavoured to represent things and people as they appear, and as they are. In painting a picture it would be very easy to represent a blue house, a green sky, and scarlet trees, and such a work would surely defy criticism, but when reality is tried at, not only is the task a more difficult one, but the criticism of all, even of those who are no artists themselves, is allowed, if not courted. He, therefore, " recommends " his work " to their mercy," hoping that they will at least receive it with so much of favour as will encourage him to attempt, if not to produce, in the future better things. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. — INTRODUCTORY 1 II. — EXPLANATORY 7 III. — CONVERSATIONAL 11 IV. — THEATRICAL 15 V. — PROPOSING AND DISPOSING .... 25 VI. — A VEXED POSITION 41 VII. — LIGHT AND FANTASTIC 48 VIII. — WHICH THOUGH SHORT IS INTENDED TO BE SWEET . 64 IX. — REJECTED ADDRESSES 71 X. — THE WING OF FRIENDSHIP .... 82 XI. — THE WING OF FRIENDSHIP MOULTS A FEATHER . 91 XII. — OUT OF THE WAY 103 XIII. — HOW CHARLES LYSAGHT LOST A CRICKET MATCH CONTENTS.

C.I .p. PAGE XIV. — HOW CHARLES LYSAGHT ENTERED HIS NAME FOR ANOTHER MATCH 134 XV. — STUMBLING BLOCKS 146 XVI. — OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS . . . 160 XVII. — HOW TIME WENT ON 174 XVIII. — IN AND ABOUT STANSBIE HALL . . 191 XIX. — WHAT TIME DID .... . 207 XX. — DIFFERENT POINTS OF VIEW . - . 231 XXI. — NEGOTIATIONS ....

Chapter I. Introductory

" The Reader — Mr. Charles Lysaght ; Mr. Charles Lysaght — the Reader. " " Most happy to make your acquaintance, Sir, I am sure." This latter sentence, be it observed, is supposed to emanate from Mr. Charles Lysaght only. The Reader must answer for himself (or herself, as the case may be), at the end of this work, as to whether the introduction has been a source of pleasure or not. And here we think the Reader has the advantage over Mr. Charles Lysaght, who is compelled to avow himself delighted to make his (or her) acquaintance at the commencement of it, and who, having done so, is forced to act throughout all the pages of our B story, as far as lies in his power, according to the Reader's fancy, in order that he may prove him self sufficiently grateful for the honour of the introduction.

Let him at once begin to try and do so. At the time of our introduction, Charles Lysaght sat in his room (we are obliged at once to drop from the present tense into the past, and feel it is a bad beginning), in a very gloomy, nay, almost morbid, state of mind. Now, to a casual observer there would be nothing in either the appearance of the room or in the appearance of Charles Lysaght himself, to 6how why or wherefore he should be either gloomy or morbid. The room was a comfortable, if not a luxurious apartment (many would have said the latter), and Charles Lysaght himself was a young man of some twenty years of age, good-looking enough to pass muster in this censorious world of ours, as having a "pleasant face," and whose dress certainly would not warrant the afore-imagined casual observer in putting down his gloom to the cause of impecuniosity.

Charles Lysaght sat at a writing-desk, with paper before him and a pen in his hand, and, perhaps, if we take a glance at that paper, we shall learn better the workings of this young man's mind and consequently arrive the sooner at the cause of his gloom than we should by any amount of minute investigation of himself or his surroundings. The result of such a glance would be as follows : — " Dearest, loveliest, Antoinette, Ne'er can I thy form forget ; I've loved thee ever since we met, Ah, yes ! I've loved thee ! " Tell me not to leave thee, sweetest, With thee the moments fly the fleetest, Oh I my poor heart how thy beatest, Can'st thou not love me ?" And having arrived so far (there were plenty more verses on the paper which we will spare the reader), we think we have shown good cause why our young friend should be gloomy, and a sufficient reason for his being morbid, and, we hope, have excited a little interest in his behalf, even on the first page.

" Can'st thou not love me?" How many a young man has grown gloomy over the sad, though withal, pleasurable notes of that old, old tune ! How many a bright nature has become morbid while it has indulged in the sweet, though melancholy cadences ; and how often the gloom vanishes under the influence of a fresh, tuneful melody, which strikes up even before the last notes of the old one have died away. Truly, it is an air which has plenty of variations ! Charles Lysaght read his verses (bye the wav b they were his own) over several times with a melan choly satisfaction, and then fell listlessly to forming others on the same theme. "I should like to make one with every line ending in the same rhyme," he said to himself, as he wrote on his paper — " Antoinette." " Castanette." " Marionette." " Berceaunette."

The last word took the most thought, and, in all probability, gave him the least pleasure, for no sooner had he written it than he tore up the paper in an impatient manner, and gave up the attempt for that night. But before closing his desk there was one more duty to perform. Taking from it a delicately tinted envelope, he drew therefrom a photograph ; and the photograph, as if to show it had a fellow-feeling with the envelope, was deli cately tinted also. We deem it hardly necessary, after what we have already written, to say that the photograph was the photograph of a lady, but we must inform the reader that it was the photograph of a young lady, which is by no means a matter of course, for young men of twenty usually have a happy knack of falling in love with ladies of thirty. Not that we dare to say that ladies of thirty are not young ladies.

Heaven forbid ! But this young lady in question, numbering, as she undoubtedly did, but nineteen summers, and be longing to a class of ladies whose ages are very apt to be most unjustifiably exaggerated, we feel bound to state the facts of the case, and so, if possible, infuse a slight tinge of romance also into our first chapter. The photograph in question, too, deserves a little special mention and description, for it differed largely from the photograph of an ordinary young lady. The hair fell luxuriantly over the shoulders, and was decorated in front with a brilliant star ; the dress was of the scantiest, and of the lightest possible material (certainly not well suited for this ever variable climate) ; in the hand was carried a light staff or pole, much longer and much lighter than is usually deemed suitable for the calisthenic exercises which young ladies of the present day take such delight in, and had it not been that the photograph was what is professionally termed a " half-length portrait " we have strong suspicions that she would have appeared in skirts so scanty that not even the boldest and most fashionable of young ladies would consider them en regie.

In point of fact this young lady was an actress, and the photograph represented her in her popular character of " Aurora, or the Star of the Morning," in which, at the time our story commences, she was nightly enchanting the inhabitants, and more especially the youthful inhabitants of Blackhampton at the Theatre Royal, in the gorgeous pantomime of "Harlequin Baa Baa Black Sheep, and the Old Woman who lived in a Shoe." This was Charles Lysaght's secret and the cause of his gloom. He adored the drama and he was personally acquainted with Miss Antoinette, and from what we have already stated the reader will perceive that some portion of his adoration had been transferred to that young lady herself. And no wonder, since he considered her, at that time, to be the greatest living exponent of the art he wor shipped.

Long and earnestly did Charles Lysaght gaze at this much-prized possession, turning over in his own mind alternately rhymes wholly without reason, and reason which was wholly unsuited to rhyme. But the former occupation had, for the time being, the upper hand, and he would doubtless have pro duced some most exquisite effusions had there not come a knock at his door and the announcement "that his friend Mr. Fitz Gibbon was below and would be glad to see him." So, putting off the Muse until a more convenient season, Charles locked up his writing-desk, thrust his treasured photograph into his left-hand breast pocket and descended to meet his friend.

Chapter II. Explanatory

The idea of introducing this chapter in this place is by no means an original one. It seems a popular system now with novel-writers to open their pages with some little light chit-chat or such like, and to reserve the more heavy explanations which must necessarily occur at the commencement of any novel for a second chapter. In the same manner with a jockey ; before settling himself and his horse down to the serious work of a race, he indulges in a little spurt or preliminary canter. The preliminary canter of this book, therefore, being, let us hope, satis factorily got over, we will proceed to explain to the reader who and what the young gentleman we in troduced in the foregoing chapter, is. But stay. We are not sure that this is strictly consistent with the orthodox rules of present-day novel writing.

Ought we not now to leave the first chapter to take care of itself, and commence the record with — " Eifteen years after the events recorded in the last chapter," &c, &c. This gives an air of interesting mystery to a book, and smacks so deliciously of " sensations " to come, that we are half tempted to carry out the plan. But, alas ! our stock of incident is too small to carry us over fifteen years, so we must be un orthodox, old-fashioned, and, if the reader pleases, "commonplace," and, in short, commence again where we left off. Charles Lysaght then was, as we have already stated, a young man of twenty years of age. His father was a wealthy manufacturer at Blackhamp ton, as had been his father and grandfather before him. He was a man whom you would certainly call a gentleman : his manners were polished, his appearance gentlemanly, and, above all, his purse pretty full.

If you asked him what he took pride in, he would most probably tell you that he had no pride except to pay his own way and owe no man. But men of that class have often a good deal more pride than they will allow, as most probably these pages will show. So much for the present of Charles Lysaght's father. His mother was all a mother and a woman should be : we can pay her no higher tribute or we would. He had four sisters— two older and two younger than himself, and that was the extent of the family. Thus it will be seen that he had no companion of his own age in his own family save and except sisters ; and consequently, at the age of twenty, he was a little what some people would call effeminate — not, let it be understood, effeminate in appearance or manners, but effeminate inasmuch as he would walk out of his way to avoid meeting an infuriated bull, and had no manly appreciation of either the noble art of self-defence, as practised with the gloves, or for the still more noble and health-inspiring institution of " hacking " at football.

These little peculiarities had procured for him at school the reputation of a " milksop ;" and being of a somewhat sensitive nature, he had kept aloof from the little crowd that makes a school, and like all people who do not mix with their fellows but stand outside the playground — so to speak — while the fun is going on therein, he had become rather morbid and inclined to be satirical. Now, a young man of twenty inclined so be morbid is a young man very much to be pitied. He is laughed at and despised alike by those whose natures allow them to mix and be genial with everybody and those who, having, perhaps, some good cause to be morbid, find their amusement in smiling at the follies of others. He gains, in all probability, the reputation of being conceited and dull when, perhaps, he is really neither one nor the other.

But enough of this. Charles Lysaght was not what would be generally called popular among his friends, though he had a good many. Unfortunately, his dislike to what are usually termed " manly " sports had made him seek his more intimate friends in those who, looking down on their more athletic brethren, take pleasure in what is usually termed a fast life. We were going to say a gay life ; but, somehow, gaiety seems associated indistinctly, in our mind, with nature and with purity, so we spare its association with the life which is called fast. One of these gentlemen was Sydney Eitz Gibbon, who is now waiting to see Charles Lysaght. Who and what he was shall be told in another chapter. But we must not close this chapter of explanations without informing the reader that the house where Charles lived with his father and family, and where he now was, was situated some two miles from Blackhampton.

It was just sr?ch a house as a wealthy manufacturer usually does live in, the architecture savouring much more of the " Guelph " than the "Tudor," and the furniture and general appearance of the rooms showing clearly to the stranger that you dealt with no upstart when you came there, but with " a man of substance, sir !" and one who generally liked his substance to be felt as well as seen.

Chapter III

C ONVERSATIONA L " Well, Sydney, you are here?" " Yes, I am here." And here both speakers sighed. Sydney Eitz Gibbon, the friend of our friend Charles Lysaght, was a young man of about the same age — tall, dark, and decidedly handsome — far handsomer than Charles Lysaght himself, of whom bye the way we have as yet given a description. We had originally intended not to do so. We all know that where "ignorance is bliss, 't'is folly to be wise." And as Charles Lysaght was by no means an Apollo Belve dere, we had determined to hold a discreet silence as to his outer man, in order that whatever interest any fair reader might feel disposed to take in these pages might not be damped at the outset. Suffice it therefore to say, that if not strictly speaking " good looking," he would pass muster very fairly both in a crowd and out of one ; he was of ordinary height, and had a pleasant face and gentlemanly manners, the rest the reader must fill in for himself.

"Well, Sydney, any news ?" " None, but the old tale — Charley, I love her.'' " You cannot do so more than I do." " Nonsense — see here — " And here Sydney drew from his breast pocket a small morocco case, containing not only a facsmile of the portrait we described in the first chapter, but, also a scrap of paper on which was written in delicate, violet-coloured ink, the words " dress circle, pass two," to which was added the initials of the fair writer. This was, in itself, an inestimable treasure, but when carried about in conjunction with the portrait in the left hand breast pocket, it afforded an amount of satisfaction and consolation known only to young men of one-and-twenty of a romantic turn of mind. "Well, hang it all," said Charley; "if it comes to that, see here." And he displayed the contents of his pocket.

"Nonsense," said Sydney — " you can't love her as I do—" " I can't quite see that," said Charley. "Charley," replied the other; "it is time we came to a definite understanding about this, the girl must be either yours or mine. We can't go on fooling with her as we have done lately. Eirst she is seen with one, then with another, and the con sequence is the whole town looks upon us as a couple of young idiots for our pains." "I don't care a hang what the town says or thinks." " That's all very well ; but it's as well we should'nt be thought fools. Now it has come to this — one of us shall give her up — one of us must give her up." " Well, then, give her up yourself." "No, you must give her up — you don't love the girl as I do. I would die for her, Charley." "And I would marry her, Sydney, and that's much more to the point."

" Marry her ! Why, so would I ! Come Charley — be generous, give her up." " Well, Sydney, old boy, I'll think about it — but I tell you candidly, I don't intend to do it. Why, not both go in for her, and let the best man win her, and let he who wins her wear her ?" " Very well, Charley, let it be so. Let the best man win her. But I must be off now. We've got a lot of people at home, and I must go there. I'm due now, so good night." "Wait one minute, Sydney, I'm coming your way ?" " What ! Coming into town to night ? Where to ?" "The theatre, Sydney." "No, hang it, Charley, that's too bad — that's taking an unfair advantage altogether — you know I can't come to night." And Mr. Eitz Gibbon looked very much injured indeed, while Charley was unfeeling enough to answer — " That's the very reason I'm going — you know I can't go to-morrow night — and yet I don't suppose you'll stay away then on that account."

" You won't see her home, I suppose ?" said Sydney, putting in the light of an impossibility, what he was quite sure was more than a pro bability, with the ostensible view of making himself miserable by the acquisition of knowledge of which it would have been bliss to have remained in ignorance. " Not see her home . — of course I shall ! Why, my dear Sydney, I almost think I shall try my luck to-night." "Don't be a fool, Charley, you had better not, think what the result would be if she accepted you." " Let he who wins her wear her, Sydney. If I'm lucky enough to do the one, I'm quite prepared to do the other. Come along, or I shall be too late." " But I don't think it's giving me a fair chance ?" " We'll talk about that on the road. Come alou_r." And as wre think this last suggestion a very good, one, we will leave them to carry it out.

Reserving for the next chapters as to how the young men spent their evening, and, as to whether the best man was destined to win the young lady or not.

Chapter IV. Theatrical

The Theatre Royal, Blackhampton, was very similar in all respects to what provincial theatres usually are. The exterior dirty and insignificant, and the interior tolerably roomy, tolerably dirty, also, and decidedly in want of a few fresh touches of paint. Its chief patrons were of course the occupants of the pit and gallery — the upper boxes had generally a fair sprinkling of those who were above the pit, but not quite up to the mark of the dress circle, and that last-named locality was generally conspicuous from its emptiness — its principle patrons being young men, who, like Charles Lysaght were smitten for the time with some fair exponent of the dramatic art. The people of Blackhampton were not a theatrical people. The old fashioned set who talked of the good old days of Shakspeare, and the " elder Kean " complained that the manager never gave them anything fit to see ; while the more modern and fashionable set who spent " a week in town " in the season complained either that the manager never gave them the latest London attractions, or if he did, that they could not bear to see murdered in Blackhampton what they had seen "done" so well in London.

But as neither of these " sets " patronised the theatre to any extent it is scarcely surprising — though it was to them — that the manager should generally fill up his bill of fare with these good sensational melo dramas which are relished so keenly by an intelli gent public in pit and gallery. When any " star " came done to Blackhampton, and the upper-classes and genteel circles, and, of course, consequently the cleverest critics of wrhat is good or bad in dramatic art, flocked to see him, they one and all united in abusing the manager for keeping so miserable a company to support so great a man — quite forget ting the fact that the " miserable company " played fully five nights out of the six to empty benches — that the great man had been weeks — nay, perhaps months, in studying and perfecting the part he represented, whereas each individual member of the " miserable company " had to study and play a part, in all probability quite equal in length and difficulty to the part of the " star," for one night only ; and, above all, that whereas that gentleman retired nightly from the theatre with figuratively speaking a " hat-full " of money— the " miserable company " had but one pay day in the week, and the amount received by them on that joyful occasion, would in most cases have hardly covered the value of the hat of the great man, and if put into either his or any hat, would have gone a very little way towards filling it.

This, however, being Pantomime time, there was no occasion for star of any sort, except such stars as decorated the fair heads and light dresses of the ladies of the ballet ; and be it here observed that these stars were quite as effective and infinitely less expensive than many a star proper who visited the Theatre Royal, Blackhampton, during the course of the year. When Charles Lysaght arrived at the theatre, the "side splitting farce" which preceded the more substantial entertainment of the evening was just over, and the orchestra already playing the overture to the Grand Comic Pantomime. Charles placed himself in a corner of the dress circle as near as possible to the stage which, however convenient to those who wish to study the more minute details of histrionic art, was certainly not calculated to allow the spectator to behold to the best of advantage that glorious display of scenery which the play-bills of the day would have led one to believe were the peculiar delight and pride of both lessee and stage-manager.

Now there was no real necessity for Charles to have taken this some what inconvenient seat on account of the overc crowded state of the house, for unless the far greater portion of it had been reduced to such a state of mental and physical exhaustion by the " side split ting " qualities of the farce as to oblige them at once to return home, or unless those qualities had indeed carried out their description in good earnest and rendered necessary the removal in cabs of some few hundreds to the nearest hospital, the state of the house was one which could scarcely be grati fying to the spirited management ; for, indeed, almost any seat could have been had for the asking, that is to say if the asking be accompanied by the necessary paying. However, we doubt not that Charles Lysaght had good reasons of his owrn for placing himself where he did, and after all, he had only his own taste to consult, and as he had been a pretty constant visitor at the theatre during the last three months, he most probably knew well enough which seats to avoid and which to take.

And now the curtain rises on the Grand Comic Pantomime, albeit the first scene of this production hardly conveys in its title the promise of merriment expressed in the title of the whole — this exceedingly mirth-provoking scene being laid — so said the pro gramme—in the "Dismal Den of the Darksome Dell— the abode of the Demon Discord," and the Demon himself, if intended by the author of the piece to be a comical character, singularly failed to Carry out that idea ; though perhaps this result was in some sort due to the necessary appendages to a Demon's head which rendered his voice, when audible at all, decidedly sepulchral. This merry fellow, after sundry convulsing hits at the topics of the day, and especially at the topics of interest at Blackhampton, in which political subjects and ladies' dresses took their usual places with delightful in discrimination, proceeded to sing a remarkably funny dirge, the words of which were completely drowned in the music of the orchestra ; but if we may judge by the movements of sundry attendant demons who turned to each other at intervals, and with much nodding of the head and digging in the ribs seemed each one to be charging the other with some grave offence, after the usual manner of demons on such occasions — we say if we are to judge by these signs, the dirge had certainly a chorus to it, and after a " side splitting " motion of the feet, com monly known as a breakdown, the demons quitted the scene, each gracefully holding the other's tail and headed by that jocund sprite the Demon of Discord himself.

Now mark the consideration and attention to the public health and happiness shown by the management of the Blackhampton Theatre. That management, being fully conscious of the hysterical effects the hilarious comicality of the first scene would undoubtedly bring about, introduced c a chaste fairy scene for the second one, and in order that the intelligent public should lose nothing of the elegance of the scenery by being too much overcome by laughter to enter thoroughly into the beauties of it— we say that the management, and all honour to it, allowed three distinct veils of gauze to be gradually rolled away, to the slowest of slow music; so that when the "Dazzling Realms of Light and Haunt of Aurora in the Hanging Gardens of Ether," wTere revealed to the delighted gaze, the audience was once more in a state to admire to the utmost that chaste refinement wrhich, coupled with the intense humour of demons and nursery heroes and heroines, makes Christmas pantomimes at the same time one of the most intellectual, as well as the most enjoyable and improving of all entertainments.

And now, tripping lightly among her at tendant fays, comes Miss Blanche Antoinette, attired, as we have already briefly described, as " Aurora the Star of the Morning," and a thrill of delight runs through the house and through the frame of Charles Lysaght, in particular. How he wonders if anybody saw that look she gave him, and if so, how they must have envied him ! She is more enchanting than ever to-night — at least, so Charles thinks — and truth to tell, she is a fair young creature. IIow^ he applauds when she sings! with what anxiety and interest docs he watch every movement of her satin encased feet, as she goes through the devious mazes of a pas seul, and when she finally leaves the stage in a " car of triumph " — appropriately steered by doves and manned by two young gentlemen, wonderful only on account of the entire absence of bone in their bodies, who were obtaining a scanty livelihood and supporting a widowed mother by nightly placing what was left of their poor little frames in the most imminent peril possible, as the Sprites of the Pantomime.