The Doctor's Wife
CHAPTER II.
A SENSATION AUTHOR.
Mr. Sigismund Smith was a author. That term of reproach, "sensation," had not been for the terror of in the fifty-second year of this present century; but the thing in forms, and people as as Monsieur Jourdain talked prose. Sigismund Smith was the author of about half-a-dozen highly-spiced fictions, which an the who like their as they like their tobacco—very strong. Sigismund had in his life presented himself the public in a complete form; he appeared in numbers at a penny, and was always so appearing; and on one occasion when he himself, very and dog's-eared at the edges, and not to the of smell, on the of a and newsvendor, who in tobacco and as well as literature, Sigismund had what it was to be bound. He was well paid for his work, and he was contented. He had his ambition, which was to a great novel; and the of this was the which he about with him he went, and nursed by night and day. In the meantime he for his public, which was a public that its in the same manner as its pudding—in slices.
There was very little to look at in the the window; so George Gilbert to his friend, pen along the paper in a way, which a and Dumas-like of literature, than the of a Johnson or an Addison. Sigismund only once, and then he paused to make at his shirt-collar with an paper-knife that upon the table.
"I'm only trying a man would cut his from right to left, or left to right," Mr. Smith said, in answer to his friend's look of terror; "it's as well to be true to nature; or as true as one can be, for a a page—double-column pages, and eighty-one lines in a column. A man would cut his from left to right: he couldn't do it in the other way without making perfect slices of himself."
"There's a suicide, then, in your story?" George said, with a look of awe.
"A suicide!" Sigismund Smith; "a suicide in the 'Smuggler's Bride!' why, it with suicides. There's the Duke of Port St. Martin's, who himself up alive in his own cellar; and there's Leonie de Pasdebasque, the ballet-dancer, who herself out of Count Cæsar Maraschetti's private balloon; and there's Lilia, the girl,—the public like girls,—who sets fire to herself to from the—in fact, there's of them," said Mr. Smith, his pen in his ink, and along the paper.
The boy came the last page was finished, and Mr. Smith him for five or ten minutes; at the end of which time he rolled up the manuscript, still damp, and the printer's emissary.
"Now, George," he said, "I can talk to you."
Sigismund was the son of a Wareham attorney, and the two men had been at the Classical and Commercial Academy in the Wareham Road. They had been schoolfellows, and were very to each other. Sigismund was to be reading for the Bar; and for the twelve months of his in the Temple the man had and conscientiously; but that his legal resulted in nothing but and confusion, Sigismund his by the of literature.
He a great more and a great than the study of Coke upon Lyttleton, or Blackstone's Commentaries; and he himself to the of such as are to be seen, with illustrations, in the of in the smaller and of every large town. Sigismund gave himself to this pursuit, and produced more of that which people call "copy" than any other author of his age.
It would be almost for me to the Sigismund Smith as he was to the very friends who anything at all about him, and Sigismund Smith as he appeared on paper.
In the narrow circle of his home Mr. Smith was a very mild man, with the most that looked out of a head, and a good of light hair. He was a very mild man. He not have any one if he had so; and if you had him, I don't think he would have minded—much. It was not in him to be very angry; or to in love, to any extent; or to be about anything. Perhaps it was that he all that was in his nature in numbers, and had nothing left for the of life. People who were by his fictions, and were to see him, left him with a of disappointment, if not indignation.
Was this man the Byronic hero they had pictured? Was this the author of "Colonel Montefiasco, or the Brand upon the Shoulder-blade?" They had a creature, magician, brigand, with a and black eyes, a of hair, a white throat, a long black dressing-gown, and thin hands, with and the fingers.
And then the surroundings. An oak-panelled chamber, of course—black oak, with and out at the of the room; a upon a pedestal; a picture, with a it—certain death being the of him who to that by so much as a corner. A mantel-piece of black marble, and a of pistols and scimitars, and yataghans—especially yataghans—glimmering and in the firelight. A little of in the way of pets: a under the sofa, and a upon the hearth-rug. This was the of thing the public of Sigismund Smith; and, lo, here was a man with ink-smudges upon his face, and an in the Temple, with nothing more than a waste-paper basket, a of old and proofs, and a upon the hob.
This was the man who the of a Montefiasco's chamber, the of a Diana Firmiani's dimly-lighted boudoir. This was the man in there were more doors, and staircases, and picture-frames and panels, than in all the old houses in Great Britain; and a length of passages than would make an railway from the Scottish border to the Land's End. This was the man who, in an early of poems—a failure, as it is the nature of all early of to be—had in to some of the aristocracy, unknown—
"Lady Mable, Lady May, no pæan in your I'll sing;
My all tells
The hand that the string.
Go, and false, while bells
Through of ring;
Go, of a thousand spells:
But know, those you've left forlorn,
One, lady, you for scorn."
"Now, George," Mr. Smith said, as he pushed away a very dirty inkstand, and his pen upon the of his coat,—"now, George, I can to the of hospitality. You must be after your journey, old boy! What'll you take?"
There were no in the room, which was very of furniture, and the only of any of were a crockery-ware upon the hob, and a roll and of upon a plate on the mantel-piece.
"Have something!" Sigismund said. "I know there isn't much, because, you see, I have time to to that of thing. Have some and marmalade?"
He out a in the which he was sitting, and a pot of with a spoon in it.
"Bread and and cold tea's capital," he said; "you'll try some, George, won't you? and then we'll go home to Camberwell."
Mr. Gilbert the and marmalade; so Sigismund prepared to take his departure.
"Morgan's gone into Buckinghamshire for a week's fishing," he said, "so I've got the place to myself. I come here of a morning, you know, work all day, and go home to tea and a or a in the evening. Come along, old fellow."
The men out upon the landing. Sigismund locked the black door and put the key in his pocket. They down-stairs, and through the courts, and across the of the Temple, that which is nearest Blackfriars Bridge.
"You'd like to walk, I suppose, George?" Mr. Smith asked.
"Oh, yes; we can talk walking."
They talked a great as they along. They were very of one another, and had each of them a good to tell; but George wasn't much of a as to his friend Sigismund. That man a of eloquence, which no exhaustion.
"And so you like the people at Camberwell?" George said.
"Oh yes, they're people; free and easy, you know, and no stuck-up about them. Not but what Sleaford's a gentleman; he's a barrister. I don't know where his are, or in what he when he's in town; but he is a barrister. I he goes on sometimes, for he's very often away from home for a long time together; but I don't know what he goes on. It doesn't do to ask a man those of questions, you see, George; so I my tongue. I don't think he's rich, that's to say not rich in a regular way. He's of money sometimes, and then you should see the Sunday dinners—salmon and cucumber, and and green peas, as if they were nothing."
"Is he a fellow?"
"Oh yes; a jolly, out-spoken of a fellow, with a loud voice and black eyes. He's a to me, but he's not of company. He if I take a friend. Very likely you mayn't see him all the time you there. He'll himself up in his own room when he's at home, and won't so much as look at you."
George to be at this prospect.
"But if Mr. Sleaford objects to my being in the house," he began, "perhaps I'd better—"
"Oh, he doesn't object, you!" Sigismund cried, hastily; "not a of it. I said to Mrs. Sleaford the other at breakfast, 'A friend of mine is up from Midlandshire; he's as good a as breathed,' I said, 'and good-looking into the bargain,'—don't you blush, George, it's spooney,—and I asked Mrs. S. if she give you a room and you,—I'm a boarder, you know,—for a week or so. She looked at her husband,—she's very with all of us, but she's of him,—and Sleaford said yes; my friend might come and should be welcome, as long as he wasn't about it. So your room's ready, George, and you come as my visitor; and I can orders for all the theatres in London, and I'll give you a French dinner in the of Leicester Square every day of your life, if you like; and we'll the cup of to the top sparkle."
It was a long walk from the Temple to Camberwell; but the two men were good walkers, and as Sigismund Smith talked all the way, there were no in the conversation. They walked the whole length of the Walworth Road, and to the left soon after the turn-pike. Mr. Smith his friend by of narrow and lanes, where there were little and trees, and where there was the of and the of milk, with the of the milkman. Sigismund George through these little retreats, and past a tall stern-looking church, and along by the of a canal, till they came to a place where the country was wild and in the year 1852. I say that railways have cut the all to pieces by this time, and that Mr. Sleaford's house has been by in the of old bricks; but on this the place to which Sigismund his friend was a lonely, spot, where there was one big, ill-looking house, in by a high wall, and of away into upon each of it.
Standing a little door in the that Mr. Sleaford's garden, George Gilbert only see that the house was a square building, with here and there about it, and long narrow by and dirt. It was not a house to look at, it might be as a habitation; and George it with the white-walled he had on his way,—those little at five-and-thirty a year; those little cottages, with that and in the by of their cleanliness; those plates, which like upon the green of newly-painted doors. If Mr. Sleaford's house had been painted Mr Sleaford's memory, the must have been one of the of that region on the of Camberwell; if Mr. Sleaford the house upon a repairing lease, he must have a for at the of his tenancy. Whatever be in Mr. Sleaford's house was broken; out of repair had so fallen. The together, and the house stood; and that was about all that be said for the barrister's habitation.
The was broken, and the in a of of brass, so it was no use attempting to ring; but Sigismund was used to this. He down, put his to a in the wood-work above the lock of the garden-door, and gave a whistle.
"They that," he said; "the bell's been since I've here, but they have anything mended."
"Why not?"
"Because they're of leaving. I've been with them two years and a half, and they've been of all the time. Sleaford has got the house cheap, and the won't do anything; so them they let it go. Sleaford talks about going to Australia some of these days."
The garden-door was opened while Mr. Smith was talking, and the two men in. The person who had them was a boy who had just at that period of life when boys are most obnoxious. He had to be a boy pure and simple, and had not yet to call himself a man. Rejected on one by his juniors, who him and despotic, and with to marbles, and for boys who were not familiar with the latest of the in "Bell's Life" and the "Sunday Times;" and on the other hand by his seniors, who offered him for the purchase of hardbake, and him with when he was with a for going to look at the weather in the middle of a cheroot,—the for a standing-place upon the social scale, and none, a misanthrope, and himself in as in a mantle. For Sigismund Smith the a hatred. The author was master of that proud position to obtain which the boy in vain. He was a man! He a cigar to the very stump, and not pale, or once the operation; but how little he of his advantages! He out late of nights, and there was no one to him, He go into a popular tavern, and call for gin-and-bitters, and drink the mixture without so much as a face, and his money upon the counter, and call the "Mary;" and there was no of his mother to be at that moment, and a of his familiar back-view through the half-open door, and in, red and angry, to lead him off by the of his jacket, the of bystanders. No; Sigismund Smith was a MAN. He might have got if he had liked, and walked about London the night, surgeons' bells, and off knockers, and being taken to the station-house early in the morning, to be out by a friend by-and-by, and to have his name in the Sunday papers, with a heading, "Another swell," or "A modern spring-heeled Jack."
Yes; Horace Sleaford his mother's boarder; but his was by disdain. What did Mr. Smith make of all his privileges? Nothing; nothing. The of was away upon a mean-spirited cur, who, of to go where he pleased, had a for the of England, or the last for the of the turf; and who, at four-and-twenty years of age, ate and openly in the of mankind. Master Sleaford the door with a bang, and locked it. There was one to the of no repairs in Mr. Sleaford's establishment, the were all in excellent order. The boy took the key from the lock, and it in-doors on his little finger. He had upon his hands, and are the of boyhood; and the of his jacket were white and at the elbows, and left him about the wrists. The knowledge of his youth, and that of to middle-class hobbledehoyhood, gave him a of aspect, which well with a pair of big black and a of blue-black hair. He of him, and was trying to look-down the of others with still scorn. He at George Gilbert, as the man came into the garden, but did not to speak. George was six high, and that was in itself to make him hateful.
"Well, Horace!" Mr. Smith said, good-naturedly.
"Well, 'un," the boy answered, disdainfully, "how do you yourself?"
Horace Sleaford the way into the house. They up a of steps leading to a half-glass door. It might have been once upon a time, when the was bright, and the by roses and clematis; but the had withered, and the roses were with wild tendrils, that about the like serpents, and and in their embrace.
The boy open the door of the house, as he had banged-to the door of the garden. He a point of doing every thing with a bang; it was one way of his for his species.
"Mother's in the kitchen," he said; "the boys are on the common a kite, and Izzie's in the garden."
"Is your father at home?" Sigismund asked.
"No, he isn't, Clever; you might have that without asking. Whenever is he at home at this time of day?"
"Is tea ready?"
"No, won't be for this half-hour," answered the boy, triumphantly; "so, if you and your friend are hungry, you'd have some and marmalade. There's a pot in your up-stairs. I haven't taken any, and I shouldn't have it if I hadn't gone to look for a pen; so, if you've a mark upon the label, and think the marmalade's gone lower, it isn't me. Tea won't be for half-an-hour; for the kitchen-fire's been smokin', and the can't be done till that's clear; and the ain't on either; and the girl's gone to a loaf,—so you'll have to wait."
"Oh, mind that," Sigismund said; "come into the garden, George; I'll you to Miss Sleaford."
"Then I shan't go with you," said the boy; "I don't for girls' talk. I say, Mr. Gilbert, you're a Midlandshire man, and you ought to know something. What will you give me against Mr. Tomlinson's colt, Vinegar Cruet, for the Conventford steeple-chase?"
Unfortunately Mr. Gilbert was of the or of Vinegar Cruet.
"I'll tell you what I'll do with you, then," the boy said; "I'll take fifteen to two against him in fourpenny-bits, and that's one less than the last Manchester quotation."
George his head. "Horse-racing is than Greek to me, Master Sleaford," he said.
The "Master" the boy to retaliate.
"Your friend don't to have much life," he said to Sigismund. "I think we shall be able to him a thing or two he goes to Midlandshire, eh, Samuel?"
Horace Sleaford had that name, Samuel, in an old prayer-book to Mr. Smith; and he it in reserve, as a of dart, always to be at his foe.
"We'll teach him a little life, eh, SAMUEL?" he repeated, "Haw, haw, haw!"
But his was cut short; for a door in the passage opened, and a woman's face, thin and of aspect, looked out, and a voice cried:
"Didn't I tell you I wanted another penn'orth of milk fetched, you torment? But, law, you're like the of them, that's all! I may my life out, and there isn't one of you will as much as a to help me."
The boy upon this, sulkily; and Sigismund opened a door leading into a parlour.
The room was large, but and very untidy. The of half-a-dozen different were about, and the was by people who a point of anything away. There was a work-box upon the table, open, and over with a of tapes, and bobbins, and a of different-coloured threads, that looked like vermicelli. There was an old-fashioned desk, with green baize, and with brass-work, which at people's or their when the was about; this was open, like the work-box, and was with papers that had been about by the breeze, and were all over the table and the it. On a little table near the window there was a box of colours, a pot of with a of up out of it, half-a-dozen of Skelt's and under of tinsel, and of satin, and neatly-folded of little gold and dots, which the might have for powders. There were some ragged-looking books on a near the fire-place; two or three different of on the mantel-piece; a stage, with a lop-sided and lamps, in one of the floor; a fishing-rod and against the in another corner; and the room was by copy-books, slate-pencils, and Latin with a brown-leather to the by a thread. Everything in the was shabby, and more or less dilapidated; nothing was particularly clean; and there was the of boys.
I Mr. Sleaford's was the true policy. If you have boys, "cry havoc, and let the dogs of war;" your against the painter and the carpenter, the and glazier, the and gardener; "let what is broken, so remain,"—reparations are and money. Buy a box of carpenter's for your boys, if you like, and let them what they themselves have broken; and, if you don't mind their off one or two of their occasionally, you may end by making them useful.
Mr. Sleaford had one and four sons, and the sons were all boys. People to wonder at the of his and the of his house, when they were aware of this fact. The that from the had been to as for Tom when he the in a charade, or for Jack when he wanted a sail to to his fishing-rod, planted on the quarter-deck of the sofa. The chairs had done as for the of many an Anne Boleyn and Marie Antoinette, upon long winter evenings, when Horace the sofa-pillow with a poker, while Tom and Jack upon the scaffold, and the populace—of one—at with their halberds—the and shovel. The had done as on many a night, when the easy-chair had gone to pieces against the sideboard, with a of two wine-glasses, and all hands had been up in a by the of the sofa, after an of slaps, cuffs, and from the higher powers, who walked into the storm-beaten with of the unities. Mr. Sleaford had a room to himself up-stairs—a Bluebeard chamber, which the boys entered; for the a point of locking his door he left his room, and his sons were therefore to respect his apartment. They looked through the now and then, to see if there was anything of a nature in the chamber; but, as they saw nothing but a easy-chair and an office-table, with a quantity of papers about it, their subsided, and they to themselves in any manner about the apartment, which they always spoke of as "Pa's room."
