CHAPTER XII.
BAD NEWS.
If Theo Trist had hoped to pass through London without meeting anyone except the editor of the mighty journal, from whose coffer he was soon to draw the income of a Continental prince, he was disappointed. It would seem, however, that he was upon this point, as on many, broadly indifferent. He went to a club, where he was almost certain of meeting some of his friends—a club of which the members never leave town because the calendar bids them do so; never quite lay aside their labour; and appear to sleep when others are awake, working while others sleep.
He went there because it was conveniently near at hand, and he was sure of having rapid attention given to his desires. As he entered the dining-room a young man rose from one of the small square tables with dramatic surprise.
'Theodore Trist, by all that's sacred!' exclaimed this youth. He was of medium height with a fair moustache, such as lady novelists delight to write about. This manly adornment was the prominent thing about him. But for it, his face was that of a fair and somewhat weak-minded girl. It curled away from either side of his full red lips (usually moist), with a most becoming languor. Its golden hue completed perfectly the harmony of his delicately tinted pink and white face. A shade lighter than his hair, it was itself of delicate texture, and the bewitching curl was in need of constant attention on the part of a long white finger and thumb. The top joint of the finger bent backwards with a greater suppleness than a manly person would perhaps admire. There was always an abundance of cuff and deep turn-down collar, of which the points overlapped the flap of a wide-cut waistcoat. In the matter of necktie, a soft silken material of faded hue rivalled the golden moustache in obtruding itself before the public gaze. Dark-blue eyes devoid of depth, and a slightly aquiline nose, complete the picture. This man was no ordinary being. Had he been dressed like an ordinary being—like, let us say, a tea-broker—men and women would still have looked at him twice. Kensington lion-hunters would still have kept him in touch, so to speak, on the chance of his developing from puppyhood into cubhood, and so on to the maturity of a London lion. But he made the most of such personal peculiarities as Providence had thought fit to assign to him. His tailor thought him slightly eccentric. 'Bit orf 'is chump,' that sartorial artist was wont to observe in his terse, clipping way; and he charged something extra for padded shoulders; and continuations, baggy from waist to ankle. Sundry small singularities of dress purchase a cheap notoriety, and to these the wise tailor gave his full consent with an eye to advertisement. It is an easy matter to trim with silk braid a coat of material usually worn without trimming, and the effect is most satisfactory to a man desirous of being looked at in public places. Again, the additional cost of a broad braid down the outer seam of one's dress-unmentionables is trifling, while the possession of it 'stamps a man, don't cher know.' Personally I do not know how it stamps a man, but on good authority I have it. A peculiar cut of collar is obtainable for the mere trouble of asking and running up a bill. But chiefest of all is a name. In such a thing there is to-day much more than in Shakespeare's time, and in this one most aggravating point the young man who rose to greet Theodore Trist as he entered the club dining-room failed most ignominiously. His name was William Hicks. In order to battle successfully against such a heavy handicap, the young man was forced, like a good general, to spare no expense in his outfit. This most commonplace association of two good English names cost their possessor as much per annum as would enable a thrifty maiden lady (or four German clerks) to live comfortably.
He would have given much to be labelled by such a nomenclature as 'Theodore Trist'—a poetic assimilation of letters quite unnecessary for the war-correspondent, and even wasted upon him. His work would have been equally popular if signed William Hicks, whereas the artist, who was some day going to surprise the old world and make the spirits of its ancient masters shake in their ethereal shoes, was dragged down and held back by the drysalting name of Hicks. For certain reasons, to which even the unmercenary soul of William was forced to bow, there was no hope of ever changing it for something more poetic. Certain it was (and perhaps the artist knew it) that there were many houses to which Theodore Trist had an ever-welcome entry, while he—William Hicks—was excluded. It could only be the name that drew this line, and, indeed, it was in many cases nothing else; for the name of Trist is rare, and in a certain county, far away from town, very powerful, whereas the milkman who supplies me with an opaque fluid of more or less nourishing qualities is called Hicks, and from the number of little Hickses who require everlasting boots, there is no present fear of the poetic surname becoming extinct.
Without any great show of cordiality, Trist shook the long, nerveless hand extended to him. He even went so far as to nod familiarly over Hicks' shoulder to a servant who, having drawn back a chair, fulfilled his immediate duty by waiting.
'Where have you come from, old man?' asked the artist. 'You look as if you had been sleeping in your shirt for a week.'
Like many of his tribe, Hicks had a great notion of being all things to all men. He prided himself exceedingly upon his powers of adaptability to environment. With men he was, therefore, slangy; with women tender and poetic. With the former he could not be manly, and for this quality he substituted an inordinate use of language more descriptive than that usually employed by gentlemen in the presence of ladies. Not possessing the slightest vein of humour, he assumed with women the poetic mantle, and surrounded himself for the time being with a halo of melancholy. There are people who, while endeavouring to be all things, are nothing—while seeking to render themselves valuable to the many, are of use to none.
'I have not been sleeping much in anything,' replied Trist, 'and just at the moment a wash is what I require. After that some dinner.'