Dicky Monteith: a love story

Front matter

FIFTH EDITION TATTERLEY THE STORY OF A DEAD MAN BY TOM GALLON In handsome cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. A FEW PRESS OPINIONS St. James's Gazette. ' ' ' Tatterley ' is, in a sense, an idyll such as Dickens himself might not have been ashamed to conceive. The author, it is true, possesses a style of his own — lucid, distinctive, forcible. In point of execution the book leaves nothing to be desired ; it is in the sweetness, tenderness, and power displayed by the writer that a pledge of even better things to follow is revealed. Mr. Tom Gallon starts with a quaint idea, which he works out with admirable clearness and constantly increasing interest. Nothing, indeed, could be more beautiful or more sympatheti cally related than the love story of Donald Brett and Ella Tarrant. Once taken up, there is small likelihood that ' Tatterley ' will be laid down until the last page has been turned.

Originality and freshness are sufficiently rare qualities in these times to command appreciation. A writer who as his first essay can produce such excellent work should have no difficulty in making a public for himself." Academy. ' ' We believe in ' Tatterley ' through thick and thin ; we believe every word of his story ; and we are glad that the ranks of the novelists have been strengthened by so clear-sighted and kindly and efficient a recruit as its author. We could not recommend a better story than ' Tatterley.' " Fall Mall Gazette. "A touching and charming story. The idea is distinctly unique and cleverly carried out to the end. The novel, written in bright, easy style, is decidedly a fresh and attractive one." N.B. Daily Mail. ' ' A story of remarkable ability, pervaded by a sense of delicate humour and a power of pathos by no means common amongst living authors.

To give a hint of the denouement would be unfair ; it is as far removed from the regulation ending as the story itself is from the commonplace. From beginning to end the perusal of this story is pre eminently refreshing." New Saturday. " Mr. Tom Gallon has accomplished a work which many experienced writers would be only too glad to acknowledge. It is refreshing to come across a book of this description. We shall look forward with interest to the next work with which the author may favour us." Bookman. "We have here a story so kindly, so pathetic, so able in its present ment of a difficult — some might even say an impossible — situation, that we linger over it as we do over very few of the books that pass before us." Leeds Mercury. ' ' A book which is conceived in a powerful and touching way, not with life's little ironies, but its great.

Chapter I. Introduces

A MAN OF NO IMPORTANCE. THE sunlight of an early autumn afternoon was shining pleasantly over the river, lighting even the dull barges and dingy noisy tugs to some thing of beauty ; it shone into the window of a quaint old room, and touched the figure of a man lying on the faded cushions of the broad window seat. The man had held a book in his hand, but it had fallen to the floor unheeded, and the hand hung listlessly down beside him. With a curious, weary, self-pitying smile about the corners of his mouth, he was watching the river as it slipped along below him, following with his eyes little scraps of straw, and wood, and refuse, that were hurried along upon its bosom, until he lost sight of them. All outside the quaint room and the quaint 2>fcfeg rtfconteftb 2 house of which it formed a part was noise, and bustle, and the excitement of life.

The house itself — if such it may be called — was a mere squeezed little heap of four or five rooms, over an archway which led down to a wharf fronting the river ; it was closed heavily in on each side by gigantic towering warehouses, from which enormous arms were swinging out, and heavy bales were being rattled up and down, all day long, from barges ; into the archway itself pon derous waggons were continually being backed by struggling, slipping horses, with men, loud voiced and energetic, jerking at their bridles. How the little house had ever come to be in that position at all was a mystery. It had one great window, that in which the man now lay, of little panes and a curved front, and with an old-fashioned wooden balcony, painted green, running along its length outside. An exactly similar window, on the other side of the house, faced the street where the roaring traffic was ; but this, of course, had no balcony.

Beside this second window was a door, from which a flight of narrow wooden steps, with a handrail, led down into the stone-paved archway. The position of the man, lying idly amid all the noise and hurly-burly of business, was typical of his life. He thought, as he watched the river, how the world of sweet and pleasant things, with 3ntrobuces a flfcan of 1Ro importance 3 the sunshine upon it, had slipped past him, leaving him behind, forgotten and useless ; remembered, with a sudden little hardening of the lips, other days on which the sun had shone long ago. He put his arm across his eyes for a moment, as though to shut out the light and the memory, and gave an impatient sigh ; and struggled into a sitting posture, and gazed blinkingly round the room. A tall, thin man, with a somewhat worn and haggard face, the lines of which showed more clearly from the fact that he was cleanly shaven ; a man still comparatively young, with eyes dark and deeply-set, and brown hair, thick and unruly.

His dress was very shabby, and frayed, and altogether uncared-for. With a quick laugh and a sigh he got to his feet, and plunged his hands into his pockets, and began to walk uneasily about the room, stopping now and then to look at some wholly familiar object, apparently examining it minutely with eyes that scarcely saw it, and then passing aim lessly on to something else. Presently, with something more of purpose in his movements, he opened a little cupboard set in an angle of the wall, and pulled out a bottle and a glass. " The old ache — the old remedy ! " he muttered. " But I've got the horrors to-day, lying there and watching that water, and this sends the 2>icfe£ /IDonteftb 4 horrors to the rightabout quicker than anything I know." He poured out some of the spirit, hastily drank it, and put the bottle and glass back again in their places.

" Ah ! that's better. Gallant stuff that, to drive away the horrors that creep about a man's heart. The man's a fool who will not take it gladly, and colour the grey old world a little, and hide the things it is never wise to remember." He laughed again, and shook his head, and ran his long fingers through his tumbled hair. The door was opened quietly, and there was a light sound of shuffling feet. The man turned his head, and looked — with a sudden softening of the lines of his face — at a girl who had entered the room and was standing nervously near the door. A very commonplace looking girl, of apparently about some seventeen years of age, and of diminutive stature ; with a little white, thin, pinched face, that bore the stamp of cities. She was dressed plainly in ill-fitting black. " Well, Sally, what is it ?

" asked the man ; and his voice was very soft and gentle. " Shell I bring in yer tea, Mister Munteef? " " I'm not sure that I want any tea, Sally," he replied, a little doubtfully. "Better 'ave yer tea, Mister Munteef," was the persuasive response. " Think so, Sally ? " 3ntroouces a fl&an of IRo importance s " Sure on it. " Very well, Sally ; I daresay you know best. She was gone, almost before he had finished speaking, perhaps because she feared he might change his mind ; and returned, in an incredibly short space of time, with a tray, on which the tea was set out. He made a great clatter among the tea things while she remained in the room, and even looked at the tray doubtfully after she had gone ; but he finally shook his head, and poured out a cup, and stirred it well, and walked with it in a guilty fashion to the window, with many backward glances over his shoulder ; then he opened the window, and threw the contents of the cup out.

A second cupful, and a couple of slices of bread-and-butter which had been carefully arranged on a plate, went the same way. " It would never do," he muttered to himself, " to let her think I hadn't touched it ; she would only feel hurt, poor girl. And I'm not in a mood for tea to-day." He even glanced across at the cupboard again for a moment, but shook his head, and turned resolutely away and lit a pipe. The door presently opened again, and Sally reappeared. "'Ere's your pal come to see yer, Mister Munteef. I allus forgits 'is name. Come in, guv'nor," she added, glancing back at some one over her shoulder. Dicfes /l&onteftb The person thus ushered in, and who responded to the unceremonious invitation with alacrity, was a little, meek-looking, shabby man in spectacles, with a very old silk hat thrust far back on his forehead, and with little wisps of grey hair straggling from beneath its brim.

He had a nervous, frightened habit of blinking his eyes behind his spectacles, and of glancing about him when he entered a room, as though apprehen sively ; the habit of a man who has found the world a little too strong for him, and is never quite sure when he is likely to receive another buffet from it. " My dear Monteith," said the newcomer, stretching out his hand, and speaking in a quick, high, clear voice, like that of an overgrown child, " I thought you wouldn't mind my dropping in. " My dear Tim, it's quite good to see you," replied the other, grasping the outstretched hand. " I wanted badly to talk to some one — one of those times when a man gets a little tired of himself, you know. Don't take away the tea, Sally ; perhaps Mr. Pycraft would like some ? " " Well, if it's not giving any one any trouble ■" began the visitor.

" Trouble ! Not a bit. Sally will get another cup, I'm sure. Thank you, Sally. Work going well, Tim ? " 3ntroouces a flfcan of IRo importance 7 Mr. Pycraft smiled gently as he took off his hat and carefully brushed it on his sleeve — even breathing on it a little where doubtful places showed in the nap. " Pretty well, thank you, Monteith. Not quite the force I should like about it sometimes — not quite the real romantic ring. But " — he shrugged his shoulders despairingly — " what is a man to do when they ask for blood — blood — blood — and won't be satisfied with anything less ? My dear fellow " — he turned with a comical face of grave concern to the other — " the modern British boy — of the errand-boy order, at least — is a vampire. He pays his ha'penny or his penny, as the case may be, and he demands to be glutted — and he sees that he is, too."

" Well, it pays, Tim, doesn't it ? " said Monteith, with a laugh. " Yes, it keeps a man going," he replied, with a sigh. " I'm afraid you'll think I'm an ungrate ful fellow, especially after all you've done for me ; but " " Never mind about that," replied the other, a little roughly. " Here's Sally with some fresh bread-and-butter for you, I declare." " You 'ad quite a happetite to-day, Mister Munteef," said the girl, glancing up at him as she set out the tray. " Oh, yes — yes ; quite a big appetite, Sally," he replied, looking for a moment towards the window. 2>icfcg /Ibonteitb " P'raps I cuts the slices a bit sinner than wot I did ? " she asked, wistfully. " They was orful fick at fust ; but I'm a-gittin' inter the way of it, Mister Munteef." " Splendidly, Sally, thank you," was the reply.

" They are quite tempting, I assure you." A quick flush overspread the girl's white face, and as she went through the door there escaped from her a little sound that might have been a laugh, but was more like a sob. Mr. Pycraft looked after her with a musing smile on his lips for a moment. " Another of your good deeds, Monteith," he said softly. The other man turned away quickly, and stared through the window at the river. " You or any man, Tim, would have done the same," he said. " Besides, the girl — poor and common as she is — has helped me. Perhaps if I'd had some one, years ago, to believe in me a litde, and trust themselves wholly and innocently to me, I might have been " He broke off with an impatient gesture, and swung round towards his friend. " What's the use of talking of what I might have been ; each man of us shapes his life — or has it shaped for him — according to what he is worth, I suppose, or what valuation is put upon him.

And God knows it would take a good deal to wipe out some of the blunders 3ntroouces a /Iban of IRo importance 9 I have made, Tim. Let's talk of something else." The little man, with a troubled face, drank his tea for some minutes in silence, while the other paced about the room. Presently, after casting about in his mind for some cheerful topic of conversation, Mr. Pycraft began to speak of his own work. In that he may perhaps be forgiven ; for it filled his days completely, and was some thing of which — in a small, poor, ineffectual way — he was very proud. " I was afraid that you might think just now," he began, " that I was ungrateful, or — or dis contented. Indeed, I am not ; but I always seem to be trying — if you can understand the expression — trying to jump to something I have never yet reached, and I fear never shall.

You see, when I was much younger, I had an idea that I should be a great writer — Heaven forgive the conceit ! — and that I should be able to stir the world with romances, and — and all that sort of thing," he added, rather lamely, waving one hand in an indefinite fashion. Monteith had crossed the room, and seated himself on the window-seat, with his back to the light. He nodded his head kindly to his friend, and smiled. " I see — I understand," he said. " And now, instead of that, I am writing shockers — ' bloods ' they call 'em — for the lower Dfcfes flbontettb 10 class juvenile population of these islands. I try sometimes to persuade myself that it's really very fine work, after all, and nothing to be ashamed of. But it's really poor stuff, my dear fellow, very poor stuff; and it's a long, long way from anything I set out to do."

He shook his head mournfully, and gazed down into the bottom of his empty cup. " My dear Tim, I'm afraid we all of us set out at the beginning, firm and strong in the belief that we're going to cull the brightest flowers; and it generally comes round, in the end, to our selling groundsel and other weeds for a living. You mustn't fret about that, Tim ; there are worse things than that. After all, you earn enough for your wants, don't you ? And, more than that, no man can point a finger at you, and say — ' He wronged me, he spoiled my life ' — can he ? No man nor woman can say that of you, Tim, eh ? " He asked the question in a low voice, almost eagerly, leaning forward a little as he spoke. Twilight was gathering in the room, and Timothy Pycraft could not see the face of his friend very distinctly.

" Why, no," replied the little man nervously. " Why should any one say that ? I've never wronged any one — at least, I hope not. Perhaps " — this as a consoling afterthought — " perhaps it has never been in my power to do so." Sntrobuces a /Iban of Mo importance 1 1 " Perhaps not," replied Monteith, slowly. " I wish I could say the same." He twisted about uneasily on the window-seat, and leaned back in a corner of it, and turned his face out towards the river. " There are things that haunt a man, Tim — haunt him terribly." Mr. Pycraft sat very still for some moments ; then he got up and timidly crossed the room, and laid his hand irresolutely on the other's shoulder. " Dicky," he said — " forgive the familiarity, I beg — something is troubling you ; something is wrong with you. I am a poor fellow, and not of much account in the world, but if I " The other man looked round at him, with a smile breaking over his face.

" I know, Tim — I know," he said. "And you mustn't hesitate to call me by the name you know ; why should you ? There's quite an old familiar ring about the sound ; I don't seem to have heard it for years. Something seems always to be troubling me, Tim ; all my life seems to be stretched behind me, like a dreary wilderness; and, when I turn my head, and look over my shoulder, like a man afraid of ghosts, I only see all the desert strewn with dead hopes — fair things never com pleted and never realised — the ruins of light hearted castles I built. It's a sorry picture, Tim." He turned his face again towards the river. 2>icfe£ /Ibonteitb 12 " But, Dicky, you are still quite young — not an old fellow such as I am ; isn't there time to go back, and pick up some of the ruins, and rebuild ? Can't some of the dead hopes even be brought to life again ?

" " Too late, Tim — too late ! " replied the other, almost in a whisper. " But, Dicky," persisted the little man, " there must have been a time when things were different. You're not of my stamp ; I was never made except to grub along and be content if the world would let me live. There must have been a time when " " Yes, yes, there was a time, Tim ; some thing to-day — some coming disaster or other — seems to have brought it all back to me ; to have shown me how fair, and brave, and gallant a thing it was that set out, under the colours of Richard Monteith, to do battle with the world ; and how broken, and craven, and poor, and misshapen a thing it is now that creeps away, and begs only that men will forget what it was, and what it has become." " I am sorry ; I am very sorry," said Timothy Pycraft softly, with his hand still resting on the other's shoulder.

"Sit down, Tim, and let me talk to you — that is, if you care to listen ; perhaps it does a man good to talk to another sometimes. They Sntroouces a flban of IRo importance 13 say it's better for a man to tell his troubles and confess his shortcomings to a good woman ; but I've never experienced that. You're better than a hundred women, Tim ; because, I suppose, you've been a little tired and sorrowful yourself sometimes, and can understand." Timothy Pycraft sat down on the extreme edge of the window-seat, at the other end from his friend, and spread his hands on his knees. He sat perfectly upright, blinking sympathetically through his spectacles. " I began rather well, Tim," said Dicky Monteith, in a dull voice. " My father was a bit of a brute ; but that didn't matter, because I didn't see much of him — he took good care of that.

I went to a big public school when 1 was quite a little chap, and learned to fight my way there, as I have fought it since — or tried to. I remember my mother ; she's in Heaven, Tim, if ever a saint passed through its gates ; she used to come, on rare occasions, to see me, and hug me and weep over me. God ! how long ago it all seems ! She was a little, frail, delicate creature, not very fit to cope with the rough world, I fancy. My father was very fond of her, I believe ; and they had plenty of money, and travelled about a great deal ; that accounted for my not seeing much of them, I suppose. I remember my father, in a dim sort of way ; a Dtcfts /ibonteitb 14 big, stern-looking man, with splendid eyes, who used to hurt me when he gripped my shoulders, and held me in front of him to look at me.

I have no other memory of him." He waited for some moments before going on again, staring across the river to where lights were beginning to twinkle in the windows of great buildings ; his listener sat quite still, watching him. " My father died while I was still at school ; my mother remained abroad, and I only heard from her at rare intervals. I must have been about sixteen when she wrote to tell me that she was married again, and had a child — a son — whom she hoped I would learn to think of as my brother. I don't think the news affected me much ; I had known very little about her, had seen very little of her, since I had grown to an age to understand what — in happier circumstances — should have meant so much to me. She never came again to England, and it was five years later, when I was at Oxford, that news reached me, from a stranger, of her death.

Her husband — whom I had never seen — had been killed in an accident a little time previously, and she had been left, for the second time, a widow. The boy was alive, and was with friends in Germany. A letter — scrawled to me on her deathbed — was enclosed (I have it somewhere now), in which she 3ntrobuces a /Iban of 1Ro importance ■5 informed me that the whole of her fortune was left to me, without reservation of any kind. With a confidence which was touching, and which has been like a scourge to me ever since, she left her young son, my half-brother, to my care ; only urging upon me to deal justly with him, and to reserve for him a half-share of the fortune. Sufficient money had been placed in the hands of the friends of whom she spoke to pay for his education abroad, so that no care should devolve upon me until he reached manhood.

Tim — ■ " he twisted round suddenly, and faced the other in the half-light, " that's my nightmare ! " " I don't understand," said Pycraft, in a low voice. " In a word, Tim, the fortune's gone, every penny of it — swallowed up years ago. The boy is alive — a man ; I have tried to shut out the thought that he may arrive at any moment to claim that which belongs to him, and may find himself a beggar. I have heard from him, from time to time, and from the people who are his friends ; he addresses me as ' Dear Brother Dick,' and knows nothing of the misfortune which awaits him." " But, surely," began the other — " surely you've told them?" " Not a word ; I dared not. Think of it, Tim ; thinkj of him, on the very threshold of life, as it 2>fcfts flbontettb 16 were, with the certain knowledge that money has always jingled in his pockets, and that there is plenty more in store for him.

And this " — he glanced round the shabby room, and spread out his hands with a gesture of despair — " this is all I have to offer him ; my first greeting the news that he must toil as I have toiled — hopelessly — if he would live at all. I've tried to shut out the knowledge that he must ever come back at all ; tried to drown the thought of it. You — who pity me a little — know how I have tried to drown it." He bent forward, and buried his face in his hands. " Yes, yes, I know," whispered Tim, sympa thetically. " But how did it all come about ? How was the money lost ? " " I began badly, Tim ; there was no one to cry ' stop ' to me on any path on which I might venture. I was little more than a boy, and I had money, and all the world smiled on me ; and then, in a mad moment, I got married." He got up, and began to walk uneasily about the room ; his figure almost lost to sight some times in the gathering shadows, and only his voice coming, like a ghostly echo, to the other man.

" Married ! I never knew that," said Pycraft. " Very few knew it ; very few know it now. I haven't seen my wife for years." 3ntroouces a /Iban of IRo importance 17 " She is alive, then ? " " Oh ! yes. She was the beauty of a little village some twenty miles from Oxford ; I used to drive over there, and meet her. I thought then that there could be no greater happiness for any man than to possess such a delicate flower of nature — something wonderfully pure and unspotted from the world. She must have had an eye for dramatic effect — that girl ; I remember that I first saw her at a cottage window, in the early morning, looking out from above the roses. There's always a place in a man's life when he stops, and when it would be wiser for him, if he could but know, to go on. I stopped then ; I met her many times afterwards ; she had the sense just to cling to me, and kiss me, and not to talk much.

And then, one morning, we ran away together to London, and were married." He stopped by the fireplace, struck a match, and lit a candle ; the pale faint gleam of it lit his frowning face for a moment before he passed into the shadows at the other end of the room. " I won't bore you with all the poor story ; it was Heaven for a week or two, and then — well, then we were both turned out of our paradise. She humbled and annoyed me a hundred times a day — grew petulant, and fretful, ©lefts /Ibonteitb 18 and nagging — stripped away the roses, and showed me the chain I had forged. To cover up the blunder I plunged into one extravagance and another ; and then at last — God forgive me ! to my infinite relief — she left me, and went back to her native place. I made her an allowance ; I keep it up to this day."

" And you've never seen her ? " " No. She pleaded once or twice to come back to me ; but, since my money has gone, she and her relatives have been content to screw what they could out of me, whenever I had anything to give. I suppose it's only right ; but it's been a bitter burden." " But you didn't spend all the fortune on her, Dicky ; there must have been some left ? " ventured Timothy. " Oh ! yes, there was plenty left ; I lost it in another fashion. I was persuaded, by a man whom I trusted, to put everything I had in some Company of which he was a director ; he was a specious fellow, and I saw the means of getting back my losses, and trebling the boy's fortune and my own." He laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. " Every penny went, Tim — everything I had in the world. Then, after almost reaching starvation point, I got a little teaching to do, and a little translating, and a little this, and a little that, just to keep Sntrobuces a /Iban of IRo importance 19 me living.

And that's the tale of the past twelve years." " And this boy may come back at any time ? " " At any time, Tim. I am brute enough to pray sometimes that he may die — just in the very flush and joy of his youth — when all the world is bright to him ; that he may never have to fight as I have fought — perhaps lose as I have lost. Good-night, Tim ; I've kept you a long time, and wearied you with my sorrows." "No, no, never that," said Timothy Pycraft, earnestly. " I wish that I could say anything — could do anything ; I am such a helpless old fellow. And when I think of the many times you have helped me, and " " Oh ! forget that, Tim ; I am so glad to have had a little friendship. Good-night ; I'll light you to the stairs." He took the candle, and held open the door, and followed his guest down the little passage.