The Fate of Fred Lavers: a tale of a lonely life

Book II. Noontide

CHAPTEE I. A TRIP TO PARIS, . . . . . .71

CHAPTER II. MY NEW

noME, . . . . .105

CHAPTER III. EATEN BREAD,

,,.... Contents. VIII

CHAPTER IV. PAGE GEORGE GRAHAME'S STORY,

. ■ .1-9

CHAPTER V.

A VOW OF FRIENDSHIP, . . • • .148

Book I Sun Bisk

'Tis sweet to see the sunrise o'er the deep As gradually it gently gilds the scene, Which one hour since was dark as mystery. Sunrise is like the starting on life's voyage, A little voyage lasting but one biief day, In which the passenger must see his share Of things most pure, most vile, most sad, most gay, A THE FATE OF FRED LAYERS.

Chapter I

A RECORD OF THE PAST. " Of many who say they do not believe in fortune telling I have known few on whom it has not a very sensible effect." Mackenzie. For Easter Monday, 1873, the following entry appears in my diary : — " Arrived here (Brighton) on Thursday night. Had a glorious ride to the Devil's Dyke on Friday. Spent the afternoon on the esplanade with Teddy. Talked of what we would do when we were rich men. Bathed in the sea and enjoyed it. At night went on the pier. Saturday ! went another ride. The hotel is crowded. Volun teers of all sorts, shapes, and sizes are arriving by every train to be present at the Review. Sunday ! attended church in the morning, St Michael's and All Angels. Drove out in afternoon. Aquarium at night, as it was wet. Monday morning ! woke early, and started off with three friends to see Review.

We had our fortunes told by a woman calling herself the 'Queen of Epsom.' My fortune is as follows, word for word as given, — " ' Young as you are, your bachelor days are nearly over. Within six months you will be married to a lady who is rich. You will be married and yet lonely nearly all the days of your life. You are to be a great traveller ; many is the lands your A Record of the Past. 5 foot will tread, and much trouble and care will you have. You will get and enjoy money at intervals, you will have years of law troubles, and you will gain a point when it will be of little importance to you. You will cross and recross the seas ; you will be hopeful and despondent, by turns. In the morning, all, in your eyes, will look bright ; at night you will be downcast. Meddle not in business, for your temperament is too vacillating for trade.

Beware of new friends. When you get money keep it, and do not give to those you know not. Thou shalt live until threescore years and ten, but thou shalt leave neither chick nor child be hind thee. Thy latter days will be spent in luxury ; and it will be by a book thou shalt make thy fortune.' "How strange if any of this comes true. AVhat a joke my marrying before I am twenty-one ! Teddy would not have his fortune told ; he said it was told him once, "he was to die early in 1877." Poor old Ted ! I often think he is too kind to make old bones. The Review passed off well ; but how thankful I am that I am not a volunteer ! " Tuesday ! Oh dear, it is just six o'clock ; it is raining, and I have to go back to London to the slavery many young fellows have to put up with in the mighty city. Good-bye, beloved Brighton, until I can scrape together sufficient money for a Saturday-till-Monday trip."

Chapter II

" A PATIENT LIFE OF UNREWARDED TOIL." " There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Shakespeare. Reader, have you ever been mesmerised, hypnotised, or whatever you like to call it ? Have you ever known what it is to be forced to love with an unaccountable madness ? Have you ever experienced what it is to be another's slave, to be compelled to do things you would naturally shrink from were you your own master ? If you have, this book, perchance, will be an old story to you ; but if, on the other hand, you are in ignorance of the curse of mesmerism, then, reader, this little tale, the story of my life, may be of interest to you. It is many years, now, since I was a youth, fresh from school, with health and strength, rejoicing in every movement of my then, well-proportioned, well -trained body.

My one desire was to be an actor. M.y histrionic talent had, on more than one occasion, got me into trouble with my parents. My father regarded theatres as " entrances to Hell " ; actors and actresses he condemned as being " lost ones," " degraded creatures," " depraved vaga bonds " ; my mother, the lovliest, purest, and most lovable emblem of God's srood ness, had never been in a theatre. Ours was a large family, and I, the middle member of it : three brothers and a sister older than I, and three brothers and a^ sister younger. I had always been re- A Patient Life of Unrewarded Toil.' 9 garded as a mysterious child, and my parents, I think, must often have wondered if insanity had ever been in any of our ancestors. I fancy they feared it was going to break out in me. At twenty, I was as proud and perky as a bantam cock.

I had been told I was handsome. I had been requested to sit for a photographer, who was sending photographs to some exhibition. I had heard that my bitterest enemies had said I was not " bad looking." I thought the enemies of my youth would be the worst I would ever have in this " vale of tears." Oh, how little I knew then of what I would have to go through ! I had many acquaintances, but I was particular as to my friends. Actors, actresses, authors, artists, and cele brated men and women were my dearest companions. Business men I detested with a deep engraven hatred, and business seemed to be the only objectionable thing under heaven. When my story commences, I was an unpaid clerk in a commission agent's office in Eastcheap, London. Oh, parents, if such there be amongst my readers, if you desire to see your sons prosperous men in this world, for God's sake, don't let them work for nothing.

If your son is worth calling "a clerk," or " assistant," he is worthy of his hire. City men can often get the sons of old friends for a term, it may be of years, to work at the desk from morn to night for nothing, under the pretence they are getting "an insight into business." Bosh ! The young heart too often frets for remuneration ; and, when a man or boy begins to fret, he nvariably retrogrades and deteriorates. ' A Patient Life of Unrewarded Toil.' 11 Don't put a boy whose natural talents in cline him to law, into a tea warehouse ; or a youth who fancies physic, into the Church. Oh ! fathers, your sons are every bit as good as you were at their ages. Therefore, study and consult them as to their career in life, removing, if possible, all stumbling blocks that lie in the path they are anxious to pursue ; for, depend on it, a man who is assisted to adopt the profession for which he imagines he is adapted, is far more likely to succeed in this world, and lead a happy and easy life, than if he is thwarted at life's outset, and made to work with only half a heart, or perhaps without any heart.

What accounts for failure in life ? Not under standing some certain subject. Had Stephen son been thwarted, or made to turn his mind from steam, when watching his mother's kettle, to some other subject, many of the inventions of to-day would never have been known. " Rejoice, oh young man, in tby youth," for thy youth passeth away like a summer's day, and night cometh on apace. Even before thou art aware, it is sundown. Be hold, the moon is up and shedding her rays on an ever-ageing world ! When youth is ours, we long for man hood, when manhood arrives, we look back on the happy days that are no more, and, with remorse, wish we could "but gather The very refuse of our youthful hours."

Chapter III. The

1st of may 1873. " The daisies peep from every field, And violets their odour yield ; The purple blossom paints the thorn, And streams reflect the blush of morn ; Then lads and lasses all be gay, For this is Nature's holiday." It was a glorious day. April had died mildly and May had come in, clad in freshest verdure, and bedecked with many a dewdrop-jewelled flower. There was in the country a rare perfume ; it might have come from heaven. Old London even looked jovial. I well remember the 1st of May, for I had to renew my season ticket " from Swiss Cottage to Moorgate Street." Many if; other clerks and city-going people were doing the same. For the first time I missed the usual train by which I was in the habit of travelling. The often-used speech, " It will be all the same a hundred years hence," is not always true ; for had I caught my usual train, on that bright morning in question, I doubt if this tale would ever have been told.

Ten minutes makes a great difference in trains and their travellers, — a far happier and more pro sperous-looking set of people can be seen hurrying citywards at ten o'clock than at nine. The later one is, the more prosperous and pursey the passengers appear. If you want to see a picture of attempted gentility and undisguised poverty, go to Moorgate Street Station at eight o'clock any week day morning and wait until a few trains have discharged their living freights. You 1873. 15 will see the delicate and consumptive half starved-looking creature fighting his way through the crowd in order that he may be in time at his dreary desk before his name is called. All through the day, no matter what the weather is, no matter how bright the sun may be shining, he has to sit there and write until the day is past, because he has a family depending on him, which would starve if he did not slave and earn £100 a year.

You will see deformity also on its way to make an honest living. If the happiness and wealth of the nobility and gentry of England were placed in one scale, and the wretchedness and poverty of the poor in the other, what a discrepancy there would be ! On that lovely morning I had read on my way to the city an article on the Colonies, in which it was said that Australia was open to receive the poor of London, to lend a helping hand to those who had fallen, and to raise them to the level from which they had glided. The description of the climate made me draw a long breath, forgetting where I was, and a mouthful of sulphurous air was my reward. On arriving at Moorgate Street I was exactly twenty minutes beyond my usual time ; the crowd of people, the sea of faces, were all new to me. I might have closely regarded each face and then have taken oath that I had never seen one of that crowd before.

A bright day in the city of London is not a very common thing, and on this day Moorgate Street looked its brightest. Several vans of pleasure - seekers, with bands of music, were bound for the country. 1873. 17 Pleasure-seekers who, if they get one free day in the year, go back at its close to drudge on until that day next year without murmuring. Every one I met seemed on pleasure bent ; those who passed me were in high spirits, and, as for me, I was mad with delight at the prospect of a run down to Brighton the following Saturday, and a possible trip to Paris in September. Making my way along the street, enjoying the sun and air, a sensation of supreme contentment took possession of me. I know not of what I was thinking, it certainly was not of business or myself, when, on looking up into the face of a passer-by, I experienced a strange feeling, which seemed instantly to take possession of all my senses and steep my ideality into a bath of inde scribable but pleasurable sensation.

My E eyes were fixed involuntarily on a gentle man who was advancing towards me. In stantly everything seemed to disappear ex cept the gentleman and his piercing eyes. I at once felt interested in him ; there was something particularly striking about him, but what it was I was unable to discover. There was an expression in his face I had never before observed in any other. Some thing that seemed to draw my very soul towards him. He had a fine commanding figure ; his tailor must have been an artist ; his military bearing made me at once sure he was not of the city. On passing him curiosity compelled me to turn round and cast a glance in the direction he was going. I found he also had turned and was looking after me. A strange sensation throbbed through my entire being, and I reached the office be fore my day-dream had terminated. 1873. 19 I sat on the office stool and tried to read the newspaper, but failed to understand what I read.

I found it impossible to banish from my thoughts the man I had seen for the first time that morning. I remember saying to myself, " I must know that man, otherwise my life, long or short, will not be complete." I then took up a pen intending to write a memorandum, when my hand seemed to be seized and securely held as though in an iron vice. Instead of writing my hand commenced to shake, and I felt as though cold water was being poured down my arm. My hand, then, without my influence, commenced to move, and, in a minute, I, who had no idea of drawing, had, by some unaccountable and invisible power, drawn the face of the man who had interested me so much. This was the first face I had ever been able to put on paper, and so like was it to the man that, had I never seen him, I could have picked him out of a thousand from my sketch.

While wondering what had possessed me, my fellow clerk (who was a pen-and-ink artist) came in, and, for a few minutes, we were occupied in getting the books out of the safe. When this was done, he went off to the desk where the sketch lay, and picking it up exclaimed, "Hullo, who did this ? " " I did," I replied. " Bosh ! you can't do anything like this ! It is beautifully done ! " I don't say I can now ; but that sketch was done by this hand and with that pen," I said. "See, some of the ink is wet still" " So it is," he said slowly, " do another and 1873. 21 I'll believe that you are a born artist. This is as good a sketch as I have ever seen." " What do you think of the character of that man — what manner of man is he, do you think ? " I inquired. ' ' A man with a face like that must be a musician.

He has a wonderful face, and might be either a very clever good man, or a cleverer bad man. He would do nothing by halves. But do another face to convince me you did this, and that there is no humbug about it." I took up the pen I had used and waited. " What are you waiting for ? you should be able to knock off half a dozen of those in a minute." As he spoke I felt my hand turn cold, I closed my eyes, and then my hand was no longer under my control. On and on it went, and then, suddenly broke off, and then just as suddenly commenced writing. I opened my eyes, my hand was released, the face was the same, but under it was written in a large bold hand, — "Your sincere friend, Fred Layers." " Who is Fred Lavers ? " inquired my fellow clerk, "and why the deuce don't you always write like that ?

" I made no reply. Mr Greed entered at that instant. Two minutes later I was on my way to the East India Docks, my mind deep in wonder as to who Fred Lavers was, and what power had taken possession of me. Of late I had been readins; accounts of spiritualistic seances, and delighted in the mysterious powers of people calling themselves media or mediums. I had gained admittance 1873. 23 to some private circles for inquiring into theosophism, had detected one or two well known professors of spiritualism as being simply clever tricksters, and had openly expressed my utter unbelief in spiritualism, and designated it as being the outcome of ignorance and superstition. That day seemed to pass away slowly, but pleasantly. Every one I had to see about business, instead of being out of temper as usual, appeared to be in the best of spirits, aud particularly obliging and amiable.

The skipper on one vessel, the Aurora Borealis, insisted on my going to his cabin and drinking good - luck to him. He was a tall, stout, jolly-looking, weather-beaten fellow. His cabin was adorned with photos ; there was one he pointed to, — "That's my wife, and my little kiddies," said he, with pride. ' ' I am getting tired of the sea now, and want a life on land ; I hope this is my last voyage." As some of my readers may remember, the Aurora Borealis left London on 2nd May 1873, and, after leaving Land's End, was never heard of again. Having finished my work, I returned to the office, and found my fellow-clerk deeply interested in the sketch and the signature underneath. " I have shown this to Martin and also to Locke." " Yes," I replied ; " and what do they think of my artistic talents 1 " " Martin says it is beautiful, and that nothing will make him believe it was done with any pen or ink."

"And Locke, what does he think?" "That it is the head of a murderer, a man to be avoided, a man who, to serve 1873. 25 his own purpose, would do anything by which others would suffer." "And Locke," I said, "is a physiognomist — at least he imagines himself highly qualified to pose as such." " I am not so sure which is in the predominance, music or villainy. He has so much self-possession that he could prevent any bad points being recognised in his expression of countenance." We put the books away, locked up the office, and went home. As we walked along Moorgate Street, I looked in vain for the stranger, and, when I approached the spot where we had met, I felt a pang of dis appointment as he was not to be seen. On getting home I felt strangely sleepy, and it was with difficulty I kept awake during the dinner.

Immediately after dinner I lay for a few minutes on the sofa, meaning to have forty winks, and then go out and call on some friends. I was soon fast asleep, and dreaming of palatial residences, lovely gardens, horses, carriages, and every thing wealth could procure. I saw an old gentleman with long white hair, a bene volent face, and two dark-haired foreign lookinsr men. I woke up with a start. A brother of mine was standing by me, and wanted to know whom I was jabbering to. " Well, you have been talking nineteen to the dozen for the last ten minutes," said he. Supper was ready, then we had prayers, and then I went off to bed after writing up my diary.

Chapter IV. The

2nd of may 1873. " Oh, sleep ! sweet sleep ! Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, Holding into our lips thy goblet filPd Out of oblivion's well, a healing draught ?" Longfellow. " Life's nurse," as Reade beautifully defines sleep, soon had me under her soothing balm, and I woke up deliciously fresh after dream ing all night. The morning was clear and bright. As a rule I was not an early riser, but I longed for fresh air, so determined to rise and gather a bouquet of flowers from the garden of a friend who was travelling on the Continent. How fresh, how pure, how beautiful those flowers looked ! Never shall I forget them. "Flowers are smiles of God's goodness," says Wilberforce ; and a man or woman who does not admire them must indeed have bad traits in his or her character. Returning home I found breakfast being laid, but not ready ; so I went into the drawing-room, and sitting down at the piano commenced playing (as well as I could) the few pieces I knew.

In a few minutes the feeling of my hands being chilled and under control came over me, and music I had never before heard came from the piano. I never was nor will be much of a musician ; but my performance that morning was mysterious. My hands moved in a marvellous way and the chords struck were rich, and as strange to me as they were rich. 1873. 29 My brothers and sisters came to see who was playing, and expressed their surprise at my musical attainments. After breakfast I went off to the city, and in order I should (if chance favoured me) see the man I had thought so much of since yesterday, I walked to the Marlborough Road Station, and caught tbe same train I had travelled by the previous day. On arriving at Moorgate Street I walked on looking out for the hero of yesterday ; but I saw him not.

I began to regret it, and to wonder what on earth had drawn me to an utter stranger with such an un accountable fascination. On gaining the office entrance to my sur prise I found him standing in the doorway. I started. " Good morning. Could you spare me a few minutes ? " said he. " Certainly," I replied. " Will you come up to the office ? " He followed me up the stairs and into the office. "You wonder at finding me here this morning, do you not ? " I was indeed surprised. " I cannot account for it at all," said I. "Well, then, I'll tell you," producing a pocket-book. " Do you remember having this photograph taken ? " " Yes, of course I do ; that was taken by Lombardi for some exhibition to which he was sending samples of his work," said I. " Yes, you are right, and do you know any one like this ?

" asked he, producing another photograph. " Well, I think I see a likeness to my self in that." 1873. 31 " You are quite right ; you and he are counterparts ; you could pass as brothers anywhere, twin brothers. You do not un derstand me, eh ? " "Hardly." "This is your double, I want to find him ; but, in the event of my not getting him, you would be able to reap the benefit in store for him." " Here is my fellow clerk," said I, as I heard his hasty footsteps in the passage. "Be at Temple Bar this afternoon at 5.30 ; we can dine, and then go and see a play. I'll introduce you to an old gentle man who will be your friend for life. My name is Fred Lavers." " I shall be there," said I. The door opened ; Fred Lavers went out as my fellow clerk came in. There was a remarkable coolness between my fellow clerk and myself that day.

I know I went many useless messages, and he only spoke to me on business that day. I wrote a letter home, saying I was going to see an old friend and might be late. The day dragged wearily on. Mr Greed was absent that day from business ; so we were late in closing the office. It struck half-past five as I hastened up Cheapside, and passed under Bennett's clock. At last I reached Temple Bar, and looked round for Fred Lavers ; but he was nowhere to be seen. I began to fear that he had been there, and, finding I was not up to time, had gone his way. I was disappointed, and breathed a curse about business spoiling my enjoyment ; for I felt convinced that I should have enjoyed Lavers' company that evening. A magnificent grey horse, drawing a pri- 1873. 33 vate hansom-cab dashed up and stopped before me.

I looked up at the driver, who was in livery, and on whose hat was a cockade ; he addressed me as follows, — "Are you here to meet Mr Lavers, sir?" " Yes," I replied. " Mr Lavers' compliments, and would you step into the cab and I will drive you to Portland Place. I got in, the cab turned round and dashed down the Strand. By some strange coincidence I saw Mr Greed in another cab, and, when he saw me, a look of astonishment came into his eyes. Passing through Leicester Square, a gentle man I had never seen before nodded to me. I returned his salutation and the cab went on. Driving up Regent Street, a carriage atc tracted my attention, — this carriage carried two ladies and two gentlemen. They all seemed in high spirits and were dressed in the height of fashion. The ladies bowed and the gentlemen lifted their hats.

The ladies were most gracious in their bowing, and, as I raised my hat, they smiled as though we had been old friends. "Everybody seems to think I am some body else," thought I, as I was driven along. At last the cab stopped before a mansion not far from the Marble Arch. The front door was opened by a man in livery. As I entered the hall Mr Lavers came out of one of the rooms, shook hands with me, and ushered me into a large room, splendidly furnished, and filled with rare and beautiful bronzes, marble figures, de lightfully easy chairs, tiger skin rugs, 1873. 35 and many other signs of wealth and luxury. "Will you have a sherry and bitters?" asked Lavers. " I don't care," said I. " George, bring in the sherry and bitters, and see when dinner will be ready." George left, and I was admiring the beautiful things of which there were so many, when George returned.

" Dinner will be ready in ten minutes," George said. We had a glass each ; and Lavers then asked me if I admired the room. " It is lovely ! Is this your home ? " "No, I have no home. I am just as much at home in a steamer, or in a railway carriage, as in any house, hotel, or what not." There was a kind of sadness in his tone ; and I thought he looked as though he had had some terribly bitter experience. The door of the room opened, and in walked an old gentleman ; he had long, white, silky hair and beard, his face was beautiful to look at, and, as Lavers introduced us, the old gentleman took my hand between his two and, pressing it, said — " How like ! oh, how like ! " George announced dinner, and Lavers led the way to the dining-room ; the old man took my arm and we followed him. The dining-room was superbly furnished and the dinner was very good.

There were two waiters ; the forks were massive silver ; the centre piece, in which were exquisite hot-house flowers, was one monster marvel of the silversmith's art. Everything bore signs of refinement and wealth. The pictures on the walls were old, the gilt nearly worn 1873. 37 off their frames. The ornaments round the room were solid and tastefully arranged. At the windows were large glass conservatories, in which bloomed rare orchids and ferns. The old gentleman spoke a good deal, asking me if I was fond of reading and pictures. Was I anything of an artist ? Did I like George Eliot ? Had I read Middlemarch ? and which of Dickens' books did I like best ? I had read Middlemarch, and we spoke of it a good deal. " Ah, reading is my only occupation now," said the old man. I looked at him and said, " You must be very happy, then, if you are fond of reading.

Were I rich I would travel all over the Continent, reading and looking at all the beautiful things. That life would suit me ! " " Ah, my boy, do you know you will never be happier than you are at present ? It is never, ! how happy we are;' it is always, ' how happy we shall be,' and, ' how happy we were.' When we are travelling through some Continental city and gazing at some wonderful cathedral, picture, or remarkable work of man, whose name and works only remain to remind the world of his talents, it is not then that we enjoy the beauty that confronts us ; it is when we are thousands of miles away, ' far from the madding crowd ' — perhaps on some station far in the Australian bush, or at a bungalow deep in the Indian jungle — that thoughts take us back, and we look, on our memory's register, to the time when we were admiring the beauties of Milan Cathedral, the galleries of pictures, and 1873. 39 the quaintnesses of many a Continental town or village.