A LITERARY ASPIRANT.
Primrose Crescent lies just off Tottenham Court Road, and though a short distance away the great thoroughfare is full of noise and bustle, everything is comparatively silent in this crescent. Milk-carts are the most frequent vehicles, and occasionally a rakish-looking hansom makes its appearance, while ragged mendicants sometimes pay the neighbourhood a visit, and troll out lively ditties in gin-cracked voices. The organ-grinder is not an unknown personage either, and his infernal machine may frequently be heard playing the latest music-hall melodies as he glances round in search of the humble brown.
The houses are somewhat dismal; tall--very tall, built of dull-hued red brick, with staring windows and little iron balconies, meant for show, not use. No Bloomsbury Juliet can lean over the ornamental ironwork and whisper sweet nothings to Romeo; if she did, Juliet would forthwith be precipitated into the basement, where dwells the servant of the house in company with the domestic cat, and the love-scene would end within the prosaic walls of a hospital.
There are a good many boarding-houses to be found in Primrose Crescent, where City clerks, literary aspirants and coming actors are to be found. A touch of Bohemianism pervades the whole street, and perhaps in the future, neat tablets let into the walls of the houses will inform posterity that Horatio Muggins, the celebrated poet, and Simon Memphison, the famous actor, resided there. But fame is as yet far from the quiet street, and the dwellers therein are still struggling upward or downward as their inclinations may lead them.
Mrs. Mulgy was the landlady of one of these boarding-houses, and by dint of hard work and incessant watchfulness managed to keep the wolf from the door; but, alas, the wolf was never far off, and it took all Mrs. Mulgy's time to keep him at his distance. The basement of her mansion was devoted to the kitchen, the presiding deity of which was a pale, thin-looking servant, with a hungry eye and a deprecating manner, who answered to the name of Rondalina, which sounded well and cost nothing. She used to ascend from the kitchen like a ghost from the tomb, wander about the house to minister to the wants of the boarders, and then return to the grave, or rather the kitchen, once more. A rising musician occupied the ground-floor, who went to bed very early in the morning, and got up very late in the afternoon. He was writing an opera which was to make his name, but meantime devoted his spare moments to instructing small children in the art of music, which tried his temper greatly, and rendered him morose. On the first floor dwelt Mr. Myles Desmond, whose occupation was that of a journalist, and, being good-looking, smartly dressed and well connected, was Mrs. Mulgy's trump-card in the way of lodgers. Above was the habitation of a maiden lady, by name Miss Jostler, who called herself an artist, and painted fire-screens, Xmas cards and such like things, with conventional landscapes and flowers. In the attics lived several young men who, having no money and plenty of spirits, formed quite a little colony of Bohemians, being principally concerned with theatricals and literary life.
It was a queer place altogether, and the individuals were a kind of happy family except that they did not mix much with one another, but they all paid their bills comparatively regular, and so Mrs. Mulgy was content.
It was to this place that Mr. Dowker took his way the day after his interview with Ellersby. As he had seen Madame Rêne, Lydia Fenny, Mrs. Povy, and Mr. Ellersby all in one day, and obtained valuable information from each, he thought he would defer his call on Mr. Desmond, and spent the night in arranging all the evidence he had acquired during the day. The result was very satisfactory to himself, and he wended his steps towards Mr. Desmond's abode in a very happy frame of mind.
It was about eleven o'clock, and Myles Desmond sat in his sitting-room scribbling an article for a society journal, called Asmodeus, published for the express purpose of unroofing people's houses, and exposing to the world their private life. Not that Desmond did such a thing, he would have scorned to violate the sanctity of private life, but he wrote for all kinds of magazines and papers, and as Asmodeus paid well, he now and then wrote them a smart essay on existing evils, or a cynical social story.
He was a tall young man, with reddish hair and moustache, a clever, intellectual face, perhaps not actually good-looking, but a face that attracted attention, and when he chose to exert himself, he could talk excellently on the current topics of the day. His breakfast lay on the table, untouched, he having only swallowed a cup of coffee, and then pushed the table-cloth aside to make room for his papers. Dressed in an old smoking-suit, he leaned one elbow on the table occasionally, ran his fingers through his hair and wrote rapidly, only stopping every now and then to relight his pipe. He was engaged in writing an essay on "Cakes and Ale," and satirising the vices of a new school of novelists, who, in their desire to become pure and wholesome, had gone to the other extreme and taken all the masculine vigour out of their productions.
Myles looked worn and haggard, as if he had been up all night, and every now and then his swift pen would stop as he pondered over some thought. There was a ring at the bell below, but he took no notice. This was followed shortly afterwards by a knock at the door, and Rondalina glided in, saying a gentleman wished to see him.