Stripped of the Tinsel. A story of Bohemia

Front matter

a ' It's a damned wicked world, Sir Oliver, and the fewer people we praise the better.' — School for Scandal. H 5tor\> of Bobemia BY J. E. MUDDOCK AUTHOR OF 'FOR GOD AND THE CZAR,' ' STORMLIGHT,' 'FROM THE BOSOM OF THE DEEP,' THE DEAD MAN'S SECRET," STORIES WEIRD AND WONDERFUL, 'THE STAR OF FORTUNE 'ONLY A WOMAN'S HEART,' 'MAID MARION AND ROBIN HOOD,' 'BASILE THE JESTER,' ' THE GREAT WHITE HAND,' ' A WINGLESS ANGEL,' ' AS THE SHADOWS FALL,' etc., etc. LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C.

Preface

This story is a story of Bohemia. Not the Bohemia of geography, but of that somewhat mythical world where intellect and poverty are supposed to be linked in an unbreakable bond. We who write novels are often told by our critics that our works lack life. I venture to assert that no such charge can honestly be brought against this one. Were it not that the word realistic has fallen into disrepute of late, I might call this a story of realism, for it is filled with men and women who have had something more than a fanciful existence. In the under depths of everyday life there are incidents startling enough to be found by him who knows how to look for them ; and the lives of the denizens of Bohemia are often tinged with a certain romance, even weirdness. It is universally admitted, I think, that a keen interest is displayed by all classes of society in those who cater for their amusement with pen or pencil, or on the stage.

A certain glamour surrounds them, and there is a desire to peer behind it and see something of the inner lives of those whom the gods are supposed to have favoured. But, alas ! much of this glamour is the veriest tinsel, and a grim pathos runs like a silent current, so to speak, through Bohemia, though it is often hidden by horribly false cynicism assumed to disguise the canker which is eating away the heart. For your true Bohemian schools himself to suffer without complaint ; the very conditions of his being enable I

PREFACE.

VI him to see with eyes different to those who live only on the confines of the mysterious region ; he learns much and learns quickly of the world's hollowness ; he has the power of analysing motives; he sees how selfish these motives are as a rule ; he knows that there is little that is true and much that is false, whether it be in Church or State. Christianity is often a mere Shibboleth to distract attention from hypocrisy and self-seeking purpose. He knows that in the world of fashion the tinsel is laid on thickly to hide the rottenness beneath. He yearns for truth and finds that it is like the philosopher's stone. Is it to be wondered at, therefore, that he hardens himself into a disbelief in the existence of any goodness in human nature ? It has been said that the last of the Bohemians died long ago, but that is not correct.

Bohemia is as populous as ever, though its denizens are perhaps a trifle more conventional, a shade more respectable, than they used to be. By ' respectable ' I mean their clothes are less shabby, their purses less empty, and some of them even aim at high places. It has also been whispered that a few may be found amongst the ranks of those ultra-good people who, — Plot and plan, who preach and plod, Who go to church on Sunday : And many are afraid of God, And more of Mrs Grundy.' I am bound to confess that the Bohemia of my time was not quite the Bohemia of the present day. And in dealing with such subjects as I have chosen, I can hardly hope to escape censure from the prude and the pharisee j but I do not write for these people, and I defend myself by saying that that half of the world which is said not to know how the other half lives, can be none the worse for being enlightened. Your prude and your pharisee, and your fine lady and gentleman

PREFACE.

VII scorn Bohemia. They admit that it may be an intellectual world, but it shocks the proprieties, it outrages the conven tionalities, it does not bow the knee in servile admiration of the great ones of the earth ; it scorns trade and laughs at the self-elected saints, who, out of their smug self-conceit, are for ever beating the drum and crying out, ' Behold us, how good we are ! ' The men and women of Bohemia are not as other men and women ; they hate hypocrisy ; they do not pose as saints when they know they are sinners, and they decline to cheat their consciences by outwardly professing that which inwardly they have no belief in. The foregoing remarks will shadow forth the nature of my story. It is a story of truth, and you who like not un tinselled truth need not proceed beyond this page.

But if you do and are shocked, you cannot complain of not having been warned. The men and women who figure in my book are not lay figures but veritable portraits that may be easily identified ; while the places alluded to under fictitious names are too well known to escape detection in the thin disguise I have purposely given them. I would conclude by expressing a hope that to none who figure in this narrative have I given offence. I have, at any rate, studiously tried to avoid saying aught that could wound the living, while with those who have passed ' Where beyond these voices there is peace, I have dealt with loving tenderness, for through the mist of years I see their white tombstones, and I can never con template their vacant places without a feeling of unutterable sadness. To the friends who live I offer the hand of honest fellowship ; for those who are dead I drop a silent tear. To the public, whose servant I am, I submit my task for judgment, firmly hoping that I have invested the subject with some

PREFACE.

VIII interest. I have aimed at placing before my readers graphic and untinselled pictures of certain phases of life, feeling con vinced that the realms of truth can furnish to the earnest seeker far more startling and dramatic incidents than can the realms of fiction. THE AUTHOR London-, 1S96. CONTENTS

Book I

— IN THE BUD CHAP. PAGE I. Biglands, ....... i II. Darkened with Shadows, ..... 7 III. The Mine is sprung, . . . .13 IV. 'Home, Home, Sweet Home,' . . . .18 V. The Quarrel, . . . . , . 24 VI. The Vanity of Youth, ..... 30 VII. Behind the Mask, . ■ . . -39 VIII. The Spirit of Discord breaks loose. . . .47 IX. In the Dead of Night, ..... 54 X. Ajax plays an Important Part, . . . .62 XI. ' He giveth His Beloved Sleep,' .... 67 XII. The Dawn of New Hopes, . . .74 XIII. In a River-side ' Pub,' ..... 81 XIV. Out into the Shadows, ..... 86 XV. In Distant Lands, ..... 91 XVI. An Unsolvable Mystery, . . . -97 XVII. A Bohemian Haunt, ..... 103 XVIII. The House of a Dramatic Author, . . .108 XIX. At the Apollo Theatre, . . . 113 XX. A Night with the 'Pros,' . . . . 119 XXI. The Tomb of Dead Hopes, . . . -125 XXII.

Charmed by the Eye of the Charmer, . . 133 XXIII. Trailed through the Dust, . . . .140 XXIV. A Free-born Briton, . . . . .146 CONTENTS X CHAP. PAGE XXV. Blotted Pages from a Wasted Life, . . 150 XXVI. A Night Rehearsal, . . . . .160 XXVII. The First Night's Performance, . . .166 XXVIII. A Death Struggle with Demons, .... 169 CHAP.

Book II

— FULL BLOWN I. Like unto a Basilisk, . . . . .176 II. A Sunday Supper at St John's Wood, . . .181 III. In Pippin's Court, ...... 186 IV. At Cleopatra Villa, ...... 192 V. The Staff of the Tipster, . . . . .198 VI. A Strange Denouement, ..... 203 VII. Peccavi !....... 208 VIII. A Public Favourite, ...... 214 IX. Blurred out of the Semblance to God's Image, . . 219 X. A Scrap of Burnt Paper, ..... 225 XI. The Strength of Woman's Love passeth Comprehension, . 232 XII. Artfulness defeats Itself, . . . . .236 XIII. Treading on Delicate Ground, . . . 243 XIV. The Brief Story of an Officer and a Gentleman, . . 247 XV. Following up the Clue, ..... 252 XVI. Solomon Levy gives some Information, . . . 256 XVII. Chance often seems to Favour One's Projects, . . 262 XVIII. A Stormy Scene, ...... 266 XIX.

Cleator scores a Triumph, . . . 271 XX. Brought to Bay, ...... 277 XXI. The Man on the Stairs, - . . . .281 XXII. At Brighton, . . ... 287 XXIII. A Fashionable Puppy, . ... 292 XXIV. Dead on the Beach at Brighton, . . 298

Book III

— WITHERING I. Battered and Worn, . -j0. II. The Pie and Pudding Club, ... 309 III. Drifting Out with the Night, ... 3i4 CONTENTS XI CHAP- IV. From the Twilight into Darkness, .... 318 V. Fate, ,,. 324 VI. 'Whistled down the Wind,' . . . . .329 VII. Nurse Ursula, ....... 334 VIII. A Singed Moth, .... .340 IX. The Rev. William Cleator has a Visitor, . . 346 X. Repentance comes with the Morning, . . -351 XI. On Good Intention bent, ... . 357 XII. Where a King would Fail a Child Succeeds, . 363 XIII. Our Best Intentions may lead Us into Error, . 370 XIV. The Arrival of an Unexpected Visitor, . 379 XV. Renewing Acquaintance, ..... 385 XVI. A Pigmy smites a Giant, ..... 383 XVII. A Bold Resolution, ...... 400 XVIII. A Striking Tableau, . . ... 405 XIX. Miss Temple receives Promotion, .... 416 XX.

An Unlooked-for Repulse, ..... 422 XXI. How Manhood conquered Pride, .... 429 XXII. A Sensational Effect, ..... 437 XXIII. A Haven after the Storm, ..... 442 XXIV. Mr Smith is Checked, .... 454 XXV. Welding their Destinies, ..... 461 XXVI. The Light breaks forth again, .... 467

Chapter I Biglands

Biglands was an important rural township in one of the most beautiful parts of the west of England. Its population was comparatively large, but scattered, and consisted for the greater part of a sturdy, independent and industrious peasantry. Big lands and its neighbourhood was a perfect typical English district. Its woods, valleys and rolling uplands formed a series of country scenes that could not have been outrivalled in their quiet and unostentatious beauty. A lazy river, that was the very paradise of anglers, meandered through the richest of meadows, that, in the summer time, was golden and red with clover and buttercups, amongst which the bees and butterflies revelled the live-long day. Here and there the river banks were fringed with graceful willows, and a few scattered pollard oaks seemed to keep watch and ward over the silvery, gurgling waters in which the sleek kine stood knee deep in the hot summer time when the river and the willows, and the trees and the clover-meadows were parts of a grand, wordless poem, the theme of which was beauty, ever beauty.

The white farm houses dotted about gave life, and, so to speak, eloquence to the picture, for they told of human thrift and activity. The woods, as yet uninvaded by that monster in human form— the speculative builder— were blissful retreats, where uncontamin ated nature held high court. Stretches of rich, green, mossy sward formed the softest of carpets on which the fairies and A wood nymphs indulged in their nightly revels, while deep glens, shrouded in mysterious shadows and rendered almost im penetrable by the tangle of undergrowth, were the safe retreats of the sprites and goblins and other strange tenants ol our woodland glades. These woods were the chosen haunts ot the feathered tribe, and scarcely a bird that makes its home in our dear old England but was to be found around Biglands.

In summer time the leafy aisles reverberated with bird melody, and when the hush of the summer nights had enwrapped them in a sweet and dreamy silence, the low, plaintive, poetical notes of the nightingale rose like a half glad, half sad song that was in accordance with the deep, impressive beauty of this glorious tract of country. The people of Biglands were thoroughly English — that is, they were sturdy, independent, honest, manly and industrious. They were thoroughly conservative in spirit too, and guarded the institutions of their forefathers with jealous and reverent care. Their rector was a man to whom they looked up as a guide, philosopher and friend ; and the Church was to them the bulwark of their liberties and homes, and to defend that Church they would gladly have sacrificed their lives.

The ' living ' of Biglands being in the gift of a wealthy nobleman was a very desirable appointment, and for some years previous to the time of which we are writing it had been retained by the Rev. William Cleator, whose ministry in the parish had been to all appearances a very happy one, and he had by his unswerving fidelity to the beautifully simple form of worship prescribed by the rubrics of his Church, as well by his honourable and manly bearing, won the goodwill and love of the whole parish. William Cleator was a B.A. and M.A. of Oxford. He had graduated with the very highest honours, and, though he was a perfect encyclopædia of learning, he was singularly modest and unassuming. He had sprung from a good family, and with the death of his father succeeded to a comfortable income. He was a young man, with a young wife and a young family, when he obtained the Biglands living.

His predecessor, who had had High Church proclivities, had introduced ill feeling, bad blood, and cliqueism into the parish, and Mr Cleator set to work with great energy and sincerity to correct this, and very soon he had healed the wounds, broken down the cliqueism and amalgamated all parties into one unanimous whole, so that the parishioners, who greatly objected to their simple lives being disturbed by religious feuds, came to speak of their new BIGLANDS 3 minister as a peacemaker, upon whom they could safely rely for guidance in secular as well as spiritual matters. Mrs Cleator was a sound, sensible, homely woman ; an excellent wife and a fond and doting mother. She was the daughter of a Bishop, and had brought her husband a small income, which, together with his own private means and his stipend, placed them in an exceedingly comfortable position.

Their family consisted of two boys and four girls. They were all healthy, handsome children, but strangely diverse in their temperaments. In two of these children only are we immediately interested. William Thaddeus Douglas Cleator was the eldest son, and at this period he had nearly completed his twenty-second year. He had been educated partly at home and partly at Rugby, and was now at Oxford studying for the Church. It had been his father's and mother's most fervent wish that he should enter the Church. But in'their desire to give him a position in life, and a position in accordance with their own modes of thought, they committed the error which many fond parents do commit, they shut their eyes to pronounced peculiarities in their son's temperament, and failed to see that there were certain elements in him that were antagonistic to a clerical life.

He was restless, and showed a disposition to run wild. He was daring and bold, and would have made a splendid sailor or soldier, and he himself had frequently expressed a wish to enter the naval or military profession, but his parents had shrunk in horror from the thought, for they were peace-loving people, and though they recognised the glory and renown, in a worldly sense, that were to be gained in both callings, they could not bear the thought of their son seeking for honour and glory in any other service, but, to quote their own language, ' that of God.' However much this view may be condemned by a large section of society, the reverend gentleman and his wife were earnest and sincere, and cant was utterly foreign to their natures. Young William Cleator had already been a source of anxiety to his parents and sisters.

His school and college career had been marked by wild excesses that had brought pain into the peaceful parsonage of Biglands. He was a lad of quick and keen intelligence, but his tutors complained that there was a want of application in him, and though training for the Church he had occasionally displayed, to their horror and astonishment, certain unorthodox tendencies which in one so young caused no little alarm to those who were interested in his future career. Mrs Cleator was a woman of the purest thoughts and the finest feelings. She was in every sense of the word a woman, gentle, patient, loving. If she had a fault at all it was that of over indulgence to her children. A devout follower of her husband's teaching, she was utterly without even the faintest tinge of fanaticism, and that is saying much ; but for honour honour in its strictest sense — she had such a regard that for its sake she would have sacrificed her very life. ' Be honourable, my children,' she was never tired of saying, ' for honour is the basis of everything that is good in human nature.' William, or, as he was generally called at home, 'Willie' Cleator, was a well-made, sturdy, handsome youth, and from a comparatively early age had shown very decided literary ability.

And though during the two years he had been at college he had pursued his studies in a desultory way, much to the regret of his parents and the annoyance of his tutors, he had made himself conspicuous by the production of sundry poetical and prose compositions, which were marked by ability of no ordinary kind. Perhaps if those whose duty it was to mould his character had only consented to depart a little from the hard and fast line they had laid down for his guidance, had only consented to swerve a little, and had recognised the literary bent of his mind, the probabilities are that the extraordinary and even startling career he was destined to lead, might in some measure have been changed for the better. His room mate at college was a young man, a year or two his senior, whose name was Alfred Pennefather.

Pennefather came of a tolerably good family, who, through a variety of causes, had suffered monetary reverses which had greatly re duced them. His parents had strained every resource in order that their son might have a college education, but though they were, so to speak, poor, they were proud, and exceedingly sensitive about their dignity. William Cleator and Alfred Pennefather had very soon become great chums, and during one of the vacations Willie received an invitation to Pennefather's house in Berkshire. If in that home there was an absence of wealth, there was no want of comfort and family unity. It was, in short, a very happy home, and might have continued so for a very long time had William Cleator never crossed the threshold. The family of the Pennefathers consisted of — besides Alfred — a young brother Fanny Pennefather, aged seven, and Ida, aged nineteen.

Mr BIGLANDS 5 Pennefather held a not very remunerative Government appointment, and Mrs Pennefather, who was an accomplished woman, was in very delicate health, and frequently confined to her bed for many weeks at a time. Upon Ida, therefore, a good deal of the management of the house depended. She was a bright and very pretty girl, though without anything very special about her to attract attention, and yet she was a girl that any man might have felt proud in winning for a wife. Her parents were exceedingly proud of her, and thought that there was not such another daughter living. She was her brother Alfred's pet, and they were very strongly attached to each other. Alf was never tired of singing his sister's praises. He kept her photograph hung up in his room at college, and one day when William Cleator was admiring it, he said, with enthusiasm, — 'Ah, my boy, she's the bonniest girl in all creation.

I'll introduce you to her some day.' Pennefather was very sincere, and very honest, and in saying this he perhaps was not without some hope that that introduc tion might lead to a marriage between the young couple, for he was much attached to Cleator, and knew that his family and prospects were good. After this William was constantly asking when the introduc tion was to take place, and so it came about that the two young men journeyed down to Berkshire during the midsummer vacation. When Cleator received his long-promised introduction to Ida Pennefather he felt that her brother had not rated her too highly. She was a sweet, laughing, happy girl, with rippling, sunny hair, a clear, pink-and-white complexion, even pearly teeth, and saucy dimples in her cheeks. She was not a hand some girl, but she made up in witchery and archness what she might have lacked in actual beauty.

Cleator spent a month in that Berkshire home. It was a happy month, and to the honour and credit of William it must be said that at that time he enter tained serious ideas of trying to win Ida for his wife. The young people were thrown much together, and when at the end of the month William took his departure for his own home, Pennefather was delighted to think that his sister had such good prospects of becoming a happy wife. He noticed that she was a little dull after their visitor had gone ; this he inter preted favourably, and when at the end of the vacation he met his friend again at college he was pleased with the eager ques tions that William asked about Ida. Pennefather was a sensible youth, and he was determined not to speak one single word either one way or the other that might have the effect of influencing his friend.

And though he became aware that a correspondence was going on between Ida and William he said nothing, thinking that at the proper time Cleator would declare his intentions. When Christmas arrived William was invited to spend a week of the holidays in Berkshire, and so in the course of January he went down to renew the acquaintance of the Pennefathers. The week stretched into a fortnight, and when William took his departure Alfred no longer had any doubts in his mind that the young people loved each other. He observed that his sister was unusually depressed and sorrowful as soon as William had gone, but he interpreted this as a certain sign that she was deeply in love, and he made up his mind to take an early opportunity when he got back to college of speaking to his friend on the subject, as he thought the time for that had come.

When the day arrived for him to take leave of his sister and return to his duties, he kissed her tenderly and said, — ' Ida, pet, any message for William ? ' She hung her head and blushed and faltered — 'No.' ' Come, Sis, you need not be ashamed of letting me know the truth. Cleator is a real good fellow, and I like him. And what is more, I am certain he has become very fond of you. Is that not so ? ' 'Yes,' was Ida's low answer, as she leaned on her brother's shoulder, but did not look into his face. 'Then have you no message for him, dear?' ' No, Alfred ; because I have promised to write to him.' ' Oh ! that's it. Very well, dearie ; only that deprives me of the pleasure of being the bearer of some tender message to my friend.' As Alfred bent down to give his sister a good-bye kiss, he was surprised to find her face wet with tears, and when she threw her arms round his neck and burst into passionate weep ing, he felt uneasy ; but attributing her emotion to love, he deemed it unadvisable to say anything then beyond a few encouraging and soothing words, and stroking her soft, fair hair, he bent her head back, and on her lips imprinted a warm, brotherly kiss, and said laughingly, — ' My friend Cleator has your heart, Ida. I will see that he makes proper use of it.' DARKENED WITH SHADOWS 7

Chapter II Darkened With Shadows

Alfred Pennefather returned to his college duties with a light heart, for he felt convinced that between Ida and Willie was a strong love-link, and he anticipated an early union of the young people ; that is, as soon as his friend was in a position to take upon himself the responsibilities of matrimony. As yet William had never mentioned a word on the subject, and his silence caused Alfred some little surprise. He determined, there fore, to take the first opportunity of finding out for himself the true state of his friend's feelings. This opportunity occurred soon after their return to Oxford. They had been out skating one afternoon, and were going home in the twilight when Pennefather asked suddenly, — ' Willie, have you heard from Sis since you came back ? ' Sis was his pet name for Ida.

Cleator seemed to hesitate for a few moments, and then answered,— 'Yes, I have had one letter from her.' ' I am glad of that, old fellow. Poor Sis is awfully fond of you, and I hope you will be good to her.' Cleator vouchsafed no further remark, and for a little time the two young men walked along in silence, their ears and cheeks buried in their coat collars, for the wintry evening was bitterly cold. Pennefather was slightly annoyed by his friend's reticence ; he felt that he was entitled to hear from that friend's own lips the true state of matters. And when he had reflected a little while, he came to the conclusion that having broached the subject, it was not to be dropped in that indifferent manner, and so, turning round to Willie, he said, — ' I say, old fellow, don't you think you ought to make me a confidant in this matter ? ' ' What matter ? ' ' Why, this engagement between you and my sister.' ' Engagement,' Willie echoed, the tone in which he uttered the word betraying both annoyance and alarm.

This did not escape the quick intelligence of Pennefather, who, turning upon his friend with a look of reproach, remarked,— ' Surely, Willie, you need not seem so astonished at my question. Sissy's happiness is everything to me, and I have seen enough to convince me beyond all question of doubt that you have won her heart. Therefore, as her eldest brother, I have a perfect right to ask you what your intentions are. Though you have forced me into plain words, I don't wish you to think that I ask you in any domineering or peremptory spirit, but I am Ida's brother and your friend, so I am sure there need not be any mystery between us.' Cleator's face was troubled and anxious; it wore a look that was quite foreign to it, for he was usually cheerful and bright, but now the expression was that, not of a youth with life before him, but of a man who had tasted the bitterness of life, and who had become well nigh hopeless.

Presently he spoke. ' Alf, you have, of course, a perfect right to question me on this subject, but the fact is, I am at a loss how to answer you. I know Ida loves me, and I know I love her, but — ' He paused, and showing no signs of continuing the sentence, Alfred said, — 'But what?' ' I am afraid my father would not give his consent to my marriage with your sister.' It was Alfred's turn now to be astonished, and he exclaimed, — ' Not give his consent. Upon what grounds would he with hold it ? ' Willie seemed much confused as he answered, — ' There are many reasons he might advance.' ' Name some of them.' ' He has ambitious dreams about my future, and he has more than once expressed a wish that I would form a connection with my cousin, Miss Wildfen. She is heiress to a large fortune.' A cloud came over Pennefather's face at these words, for while it was obvious they had not been uttered with a view to stinging they had stung, and that severely.

Noble-hearted and generous to a fault, the young fellow was peculiarly sensitive on all points affecting his family position. He had the con scious pride of dignity and honour, and though he was painfully aware that his sister would have no other dowry but that of a true womanly nature, he felt that no honest man should reject her on that account. He was thoughtful for some little time, and the two walked on in silence until they were near the college ; then, as if he had carefully worked the matter out, he said, looking with his clear, honest eyes into the face of his companion, — DARKENED WITH SHADOWS 9 'Cleator, old fellow, you must not trifle with my dear sister's feelings. It is true that she has no money, but she has what is of infinitely more value, virtue and a perfect, womanly nature.