Sport Royal, and Other Stories

“To avoid suspicion, I reversed the order; mine are P. A.”

“James,” said Mr. Pottles to the footman, “pack Mr. Allison’s bag.”

But Dora gave Peter the kindest and most admiring glance as she murmured softly to Adrian, “They’re lovely! Oh, don’t you wish you could write verses, Mr. Pottles?”

Adrian started. He had not bargained for this; but Peter had overheard, and interposed:

“I am more than consoled by your approval, Miss Chatterton.”

Mr. Pottles called to Adrian, and he had to go in, leaving Dora and Peter in close conversation, and to assure his uncle solemnly that he had been entirely disappointed and deceived in Peter, and, worse still, in Dora, and that he never wished to see either of them again. Mr. Pottles shook him by the hand and forgave him.

Adrian passed a wretched week. In several newspapers he saw it openly stated that Peter now admitted he was the author of “To Lalage.” Peter wrote that the fifty pounds were most convenient, and that he had had a most charming letter from Dora, and that all the literary world was paying him most flattering attentions. Adrian ground his teeth, but he had to write back, thanking Peter for all his kindness.

Meanwhile Mr. Pottles grew restless. Every paper he took up was full of the praises of “To Lalage.” The author was becoming famous, and Mr. Pottles began to doubt whether he had done well to drive him forth with contumely.

“Adrian,” he said suddenly one morning, “I don’t know that I did justice to young Allison. I shall have another look at that book. I shall order it at Smith’s.”

“I – I happen to have a copy,” said Adrian timidly.

“Get it,” said Mr. Pottles. Mr. Pottles read it – first with a deep frown, then with a judicial air, then with a smile, lastly with a chuckle.

“Ask him to dinner,” he said. “Oh, and, Adrian, we’ll have the Chattertons. I wish you could do something to get your name up, my boy.”

“You like it, uncle?”

“Yes, and I like the manly way he owned to it. If he had prevaricated about it, I’d never have forgiven him.”

After this Adrian did not dare to confess. It was too bad. Here were both his uncle and Dora admiring Peter for his poems, and crediting Peter with candor and courage. He was to lose both fame and Dora! It was certainly too much. A sudden thought struck him. He went to town, called on Peter, and, as the police reports say, “made a communication” to him.

“It makes me look a scoundrel,” objected Peter.

“Two hundred – at six months,” suggested Adrian.

“And she is a nice girl – No, I’m dashed – ”

“A monkey at three!” cried Adrian.

“Done!” said Peter.

It was a sad tale of depravity on one side, and of self-sacrificing friendship on the other, that Mr. Pottles and Dora Chatterton listened to that evening.

“He had made,” said Adrian sadly, “a deliberate attempt to rob me of my fame before, and he repeated it. And yet, uncle, an old friend – boyhood’s companion – how could I betray him? It was weak, but I could not. I stood by, and let him deceive you.”

“You’re a noble fellow,” said Mr. Pottles, in tones of emotion.

“Indeed, yes,” said Dora, with an adoring glance.

“There, let us say no more about it,” pursued Adrian magnanimously. “I have my reward,” and he returned Dora’s glance behind Mr. Pottles’ broad back.

The next time he met Peter, he said, “I am really immensely indebted to you, old fellow. My uncle has come down handsome, and if the monkey now would be conv – ”

“By Gad, yes!” said Peter. He took it in crisp notes, and carefully pocketed them.

“And is Miss Dora kind?” he asked.

“She’s an angel.”

“And you are generally prosperous?”

“Thanks to you, my dear old friend.”

“Then,” said Peter, producing a piece of paper from his pocket, “you might persuade your publishers to withdraw this beastly thing.” It was a writ, and it claimed an injunction to restrain Peter from claiming the authorship of “To Lalage.”

“Then you’ve been publicly claiming it?”

“I had to keep up the illusion, Adrian. Do me justice.”

“But,” said Adrian, “how, Peter – how does it happen that the writ is dated the day before we went to Clapham?”

He paused. Peter grinned uneasily. A light broke in on Adrian.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “you’re the villain who – ”

“Exactly. Wonderfully provident of me, wasn’t it? What, you’re not going?”

“Never let me see your face again,” said Adrian. “I have done with you.”

He rushed out. Peter whistled gently, and said to himself, “Not a bad deal! He must stop the action, or the old man will twig.”

Then he whistled again, and added, “Glad I got it in notes. He’d have stopped a check.”

A third time he whistled, and chuckled and said, “Now, I wonder if old Adrian’ll make five hundred and fifty out of it! Not a bad deal, Peter, my boy!”

MIDDLETON’S MODEL

Middleton was doing very well; everybody admitted that – some patronizingly, others enviously. And yet Middleton aimed high. He eschewed pot-boilers, and devoted himself to important subject pictures, often of an allegorical description. Nevertheless, his works sold, and that so well that Middleton thought himself justified in taking a wife. Here, again, good fortune attended him. Miss Angela Dove was fair to see, possessed of a nice little income, and, finally, a lady of taste, for she accepted Middleton’s addresses. Decidedly a lucky fellow all round was Middleton. But, in spite of all his luck, his face was clouded with care as he sat in his studio one summer evening. Three months before he had been the recipient of a most flattering commission from that wealthy and esteemed connoisseur the Earl of Moneyton. The earl desired two panels for his hall. “I want,” he wrote, “two full-length female figures – the one representing Heavenly Love, the other Earthly Love. Not a very new subject, you will say; but I have a fancy for it, and I can rely on your talent to impart freshness even to a well-worn theme.”

Of course there was no difficulty about Heavenly Love. Angela filled the bill (the expression was Middleton’s own) to a nicety. Her pretty golden hair, her sweet smile, her candid blue eyes, were exactly what was wanted. Middleton clapped on a pair of wings, and felt that he had done his duty. But when he came to Earthly Love the path was not so smooth. The earl demanded the acme of physical beauty, and that was rather hard to find. Middleton tried all the models in vain; he frequented the theaters and music-halls to no purpose; he tried to combine all the beauties of his acquaintance in one harmonious whole, but they did not make what tea-dealers call a “nice blend.” Then he tried to evolve Earthly Love out of his own consciousness, but he could get nothing there but Angela again; and although he did violence to his feelings by giving her black hair and an evil cast in her eye, he knew that, even thus transformed, she would not satisfy the earl. Middleton was in despair; his reputation was at stake. The thought of Angela could not console him.

“I’d give my soul for a model!” cried he, flinging aside his pencil in despair.

At this moment he heard a knock at the door. He existed on the charwoman system, and after six o’clock in the evening had to open his own door. A lady stood outside, and a neat brougham was vanishing round the corner. Even in the darkness Middleton was struck by the grace and dignity of his visitor’s figure.

“Mr. Middleton’s, is it not?” she asked, in a very sweet voice.

Middleton bowed. It was late for a call, but if the lady ignored that fact, he could not remind her of it. Fortunately there was no chance of Angela coming at such an hour. He led the way to his studio.

“May I ask,” he began, “to what I am indebted for this honor?”