Lucian the dreamer

by J. S. Fletcher

‘Of course it makes a big difference if your books don’t sell and people won’t go to your plays,’ she said. ‘That doesn’t bring money, does it?’

‘My dear child!’ exclaimed Lucian, ‘how terribly perturbed you look! One must expect an occasional dose of bad luck. The next book will probably sell by the tens of thousands, and the next play run for a hundred years!’

‘They were saying at Lady Firmanence’s the other afternoon that you had had your day,’ she said, looking inquiringly at him. ‘Do you think you have?’

‘I hope I have quite a big day to come yet,’ he answered quietly. ‘You shouldn’t listen to that sort of thing—about me.’

Then he left her and went back to his study and thought matters over once more. ‘I’ll find out exactly where I am,’ he thought at last, and he went out and got into a hansom and was driven to Lombard Street—he meant to ascertain his exact position at the bank. When he entered, with a request for an interview with Mr. Eustace Darlington, he found that the latter was out of town, and for a moment he thought of postponing his inquiries. Then he reflected that others could probably give him the information he sought, and he asked to see the manager. Five minutes after entering the manager’s private room he knew exactly how he stood with Messrs. Darlington and Darlington. He owed them close upon nine thousand pounds.

Lucian, bending over the slip of paper upon which the manager had jotted down a memorandum of the figures, trusted that the surprise which he felt was not being displayed in his features. He folded the paper, placed it in his pocket, thanked the manager for his courtesy, and left the bank. Once outside he looked at the paper again: the manager had made a distinction between Mr. Damerel’s account and his wife’s. Mr. Damerel’s was about eighteen hundred pounds in debt; Mrs. Damerel’s separate account had been drawn against to the extent of nearly seven thousand pounds. Lucian knew what had become of the money which he had spent, but he was puzzled beyond measure to account for the sums which Haidee had gone through within a few months.

Whenever he was in any doubt or perplexity as to practical matters Lucian invariably turned to Sprats, and he now called a hansom and bade the man drive to Bayswater. He knew, from long experience of her, that he could tell Sprats anything and everything, and that she would never once say ‘I told you so!’ or ‘I knew how it would turn out!’ or ‘Didn’t I warn you?’ She might scold him; she would almost certainly tell him that he was a fool; but she wouldn’t pose as a superior person, or howl over the milk which he had spilled—instead, she would tell him quietly what was the best thing to do.

He found her alone, and he approached her with the old boyish formula which she had heard a hundred times since he had discovered that she knew a great deal more about many things than he knew himself.

‘I say, Sprats, I’m in a bit of a hole!’ he began.

‘And, of course, you want me to pull you out. Well, what is it?’ she asked, gazing steadily at him and making a shrewd guess at the sort of hole into which he had fallen. ‘Do the usual, Lucian, tell everything.’