HEREFORD VAUGHAN
To have eleven plays, all written out of one's own head, and all being performed simultaneously in American, in Eskimo, and even in Turkish, besides in every known European language; to have money rolling in, and the strange world of agents and managers pursuing you by every post and imploring for more contracts by every Marconigram; and these triumphs to have come quite suddenly, was really enough to have turned the head of any young man; yet Hereford Vaughan's (known by his very few intimate friends as Gillie) had remained remarkably calm. He was not even embittered by success.
To know his jokes were being got over the footlights of so many lands was a curious sensation, and it often made him laugh suddenly to reflect how wicked certain quips must sound in, say, Japanese. Perhaps his friends were rather inclined to resent the way he retained his balance after what was really an almost unheard-of hit. They would have been readier to pardon it had he shown some sign of boring fatuity; or perhaps they thought he might at least have had a temporary nervous breakdown; taking the form (for choice) of losing all sense of the value of money and wildly throwing bank-notes and gold at every one he saw. But he remained quiet, reserved, and as apparently modest as ever.
Modesty is a valuable merit (as I think Schopenhauer has discovered) in people who have no other, and the appearance of it is extremely useful to those who have, but I am not suggesting that Vaughan was not human, and there was, no doubt, many a moment when he smiled to himself, and felt that he was a great man.
He was rather secretive and mysterious than blatant or dashing, and this, of course, made him, on the whole, more interesting to women. The fact that he had made a fortune and lived alone in a charming house with nothing but housekeepers, secretaries, telephones, typewriters, and cooks, of course made all the women of his acquaintance who had the match-making instinct (and what woman has not?) desire to see him married. As he showed no sign of doing so, they tried to console themselves by pretending that he had some secret romance. Old ladies hoped he had a broken heart for some fiancée who was lying under the daisies, having died of decline in the classical middle-Victorian way. Young ladies thought that he was probably fixed up in some way that would be sure in time to dissolve, and that he would marry later on. Far the most popular theory was that he didn't marry simply because he was married, privately; and that he had, no doubt, hurriedly espoused, before he was of age (and before the Registrar), some barmaid or chorus-girl, or other dreadful person, who had turned out far too respectable to divorce, and that he was thus a young man marred. They had no grounds for the rumour except that clever and promising young men often did these things, and he had always been a particularly promising young man, and in this unfortunate case had probably kept his promise.
Vaughan was sitting one morning reading his notices (never believe the greatest men when they tell you that they don't do that!), when Muir Howard came cheerily, almost boisterously, into the room. He was an old school friend who had been devoted to Gillie long before his arrival, and of whose faults, virtues, cheeriness, and admiration Vaughan had made a confirmed habit.
Muir was a very good-looking barrister, with vague parliamentary ambitions and a definite love of machinery. He always had pink cheeks, and wore a pink carnation, and looked as flourishing, gay, and yet, somehow, battered, as Vaughan looked pale, fresh, and sardonic. One of the things that surprised the general public was that Vaughan could not live without the continuous society of a person who certainly could not understand a word he wrote or much that he said. They didn't realise that Vaughan was so accustomed to not listening to Muir's long confidences, to disputing every proposition he made, and contradicting every word he said, that he always felt lost when his friend was away. Muir regarded him as a combination of hero, genius, pet, and child, and was always giving him advice and imploring him not to do too much. To Vaughan he was, as I have said, a habit, and there is always something agreeable in a habit of which one is a little tired.
He had arrived this morning on his bicycle, and came in bringing a whiff of heartiness, self-complacency, and fresh air, saying, "Hallo! hallo! hallo! Priceless to find you in, Gillie!" All he got for it was that Vaughan looked up and said—
"You used to be only breezy. Now you're becoming a thorough draught. Fold up and keep quiet, can't you?"
"Nervous, I suppose," said Muir, in a sympathetic voice. "I wonder you don't take that stuff that you see in the papers about what is good for——"