Lack of concentration and cohesion are among the chief snares lying in wait for him who chronicles character rather than plot. One might, of course, hazard, by way of excuse, that the recently recounted reminiscence was of greater interest than a detailed account of a roast leg of lamb followed by black-currant tart would prove. But justifications are always dull. To Eliphalet Cardomay the London episode was a grief unspeakable, whereas the homely repast, consumed in such familiar and well-loved surroundings, was the very reverse.
He finished that black-currant tart unto the final morsel, till naught but the permanganate-coloured stains upon the plate remained in token of its recent being. There was something almost boyish in the liberality of his appetite. In using the term boyish the period of his own youth is not implied, for Eliphalet displayed no youthful traits until his hair was silvered, his brow furrowed, and his eyes deep-set.
There are certain men whose mental condition bears little or no relation to their years, and he was one of them. They are born with grown-up minds, sage and mature convictions, unsuited to youth and only really serviceable when they have reached that time of life with which such gravity accords.
Eliphalet Cardomay, even when a boy, was oppressed with a middle-aged manner and a professional mien. It might truthfully be said that his brain and body did not synchronise until he had passed the forty-year high-water mark. His body, or, to put it more gracefully, his externals, were prepossessing. His broad forehead, swept-back hair, bold eyebrows and dilated nostrils, gave suggestion of virility and power. To a maiden they were productive of second glances, an added colour and a quickening of heart-beats against the ramparts of her corsets. In this well-knit yet æsthetic youth she might be pardoned for presuming there lurked wells of high romance, tempered with humour and a knavish disposition. It was said of him in the company, where he played juvenile leads at two pounds two shillings a week, that he was “deep.” Furthermore, since it was never his custom to boast about deeds of love, the young men with whom his lot was cast credited him with the proclivities of a Lothario and laid to his account many charming indiscretions in the glades of Eros. The older members of the company were wiser, or deemed themselves to be, and decided, not without a certain rough justice, that he was a bit of a prig. For this reason, Harrington May, who specialised in villains of the heavier kind, gave him the title of “Mother’s Boy” and named him as such to his face.
Eliphalet was very grave (he had accomplished the forty-five manner twenty years before he was entitled to it), and replied:
“In so far as I was born of woman your accusation is correct. My mother died, however, when I was a year old. I presume, from your smile, you believe you have said something offensive, but since it is nothing but the truth I cannot allow myself to take umbrage, even though the truth is usually a stranger to your lips.”
For one so young the speech was painfully pedantic, but it succeeded in putting Mr. Harrington May temporarily out of action, and established for Eliphalet a reputation for caustic repartee. He was frequently asked to repeat his words, but this he politely declined to do, thus giving further proof of age before accession to age.
Miss Blanche Cannon, a depictor of adventuresses on the stage and a great Bohemian off, had been present at the contretemps, and was greatly delighted by the young man’s urbanity and calm. It is no infrequent occurrence for opposites to be attracted by each other, and she, with her scatter-brained, love-a-lark disposition, scented in Eliphalet a suitor of possible quality.
He, poor fellow, was quite unaware of this, for his thoughts were centred in Art and a desire to make a mark in dramatic history. Hitherto he had had no dealings with love, and many a maid had languished in vain on that account.
But Blanche was not of the languishing brand. Having decided to ensnare his affections, she set about making inquiries, and was greatly intrigued to learn, from several misinformed, but talkative, young actors, that he was “no end of a dog on the Q.T.” One of them, with an imagination that would have thriven in Fleet Street, went to the length of describing a liaison with a certain titled lady, who had become enamoured of Eliphalet from the stalls and had lured him away to a castle, beside which Haddon Hall paled into insignificance. Charmed by these accounts, Blanche Cannon’s desire developed exceedingly, and forthwith she began a tentative archery upon the heart of Eliphalet. It is always your student who proves the easiest prey to the wiles of love, and one day, when she had successfully manœuvred a tête-à-tête tea-party in her own rooms, Eliphalet succumbed, and Blanche, picking up her cue with professional skill, dropped into his arms under a smother of kisses.