Chapter IV

Fradley had delicate tastes. His rooms were hung with pale green draperies, tidies lay on every divan, and his initials were embroidered on his pillow shams. He worked very little at the studio.

“It is not necessary,” he told Garland; “mere painting doesn’t make an artist,—it’s experience; an artist must be broad!” So Fradley began the process of broadening by going to theatres, concerts, exhibitions and museums. He also presented letters of introduction to families who maintained nourishing tables. There was one thing about him that Garland could not understand. Fradley was thin, very thin, but he ate ravenously, and Garland, eyeing him from his meagre face to his spindle shanks, wondered why he did not grow stouter.

“It’s most extraordinary,” he said to Carrington, “the fellow eats like a pig and grows thin on it. It’s very disagreeable to me. I wish he’d stop coming in here every evening.”

“You’re too severe on him,” said Carrington.

“I am? Well just wait until he begins visiting you with a roll of manuscript poems to read. By Jove, he nearly drives me idiotic!”

“Oh, he’s a very decent fellow,” said Carrington; “he’s a man of splendid morals—”

“—According to himself,” said Garland. “Since he arrived in the Quarter he has not missed an evening in telling us how he scorns the immoral students of this immoral Quarter, and how innocent and pure he is himself. I take no stock in that sort of thing. You and I are morally decent, but we don’t sound trumpets on that account.”

Carrington was silent for a moment, then he said diffidently; “I’m rather sorry for him; he isn’t popular, you know. I think we ought to be friendly to him.”

“It’s his own fault that he is unpopular.”

“Perhaps so; anyway I might as well tell you that he asked us to come to see him to-night. I accepted.”

“Good heavens,” groaned Garland, “he’s sure to read us a poem.”

“What of it?”

“Oh, I can stand it if you can. I’m tired and cross, but if you have accepted that settles it.”

“It’s nine o’clock,” said Carrington, glancing at his watch, “we might as well go now and get away early. I’m dead tired myself. Come on, old chap, and face the music. We nouveaux should stick together!”

“You’re d——n democratic for an aristocrat,” laughed Garland, following him across the hallway to Fradley’s door. They found Fradley sitting before the piano. He could not play the piano, but he had an enervating habit of striking single notes with one finger which filled Garland with murderous inclinations.

“Ah!” said Fradley in affected surprise, “Garland?—and Lord Ronald Carrington—”

“How are you, Fradley,” said Carrington hastily, “trot out your verses, for Garland and I are going to sport our oak directly—we’re dead beat from the studio concour.”

Carrington had worked modestly in the Quarter for months, living under his name of Carrington with no prefix, for he hated notoriety and fuss, and was perfectly aware that a fuss would be made over him if people discovered him to be identical with the young Lord Carrington who led his company so gallantly in Burmah, He had resigned from the service to study art, and he worked hard and faithfully to make up for lack of ability. It took Fradley to discover his title and identity and, much to Carrington’s chagrin, he spread the glad news and fell down and worshipped.

“Come,” said Garland, “let’s hear your verses. Got anything to smoke?”

“You may smoke,” murmured Fradley, in a trance before Carrington, “for Lord Carrington smokes—”

“For goodness, sake call me Carrington,” said Ronald, “and give us some tobacco will you?”

Fradley produced his tobacco and then began to glide about the room tidying things, arranging knick-knacks, dusting albums, until Garland shuddered.

“Come, Fradley,” he said, as amiably as he could, “trot out your grog and poetry and let’s get to bed. You know we only have to-morrow on the concour and we must get up early.”

Fradley tripped over to the piano, found his manuscript, tripped back again to the fireplace, sat down, throwing one lank leg over the other, and coughed gently.

“It’s only a trifle—a little thing I finished to-night. Let me read it to you.”

Garland, aghast at the bulky manuscript, lighted a cigar and gave himself up to gloom. Carrington settled back in his chair and determined to enjoy it.

“It is entitled, ‘The Kiss of Sin,’” observed Fradley.

“Oh, fin-de-siècle?” inquired Carrington.

“I thought you were opposed to immorality,” said Garland.

“This is moral!” gasped Fradley, “do you think I would—”

“No—no! go on, old fellow,” said Carrington.

“For Heaven’s sake,” muttered Garland.

Then with a smile the poet began:

“Her burnished hair is red as flame,
Her red lips burn like fire,
And she has pressed the kiss of shame,
Upon my lips. Am I to blame?
Away, bold siren! Learn to tame
Thy culpable desire!”

“Now is that immoral?” asked Fradley.

Ronald was dozing, eyes wide open.

“No,” said Garland, “that’s harmless; go on,” and he curled himself up in the arm-chair and thought of Sara La Rousse. The poem was in cantos and they were numerous. Some cantos were tearful, some tempestuous. Many paid beautiful tribute to temperance, such as the verse beginning:

“Away! away! with the rose-wreathed cup!”

A little further along, Fradley’s morals tottered, for the lines,

“Oh, never shall lips of mine be pressed
To thy wicked mouth or thy sinful breast!”

were almost immediately followed by:

“Beautiful creature, fly with me!
I’ll build thee a house ’neath the hawthorn tree.”

“I thought you said you gave her the shake!” interrupted Garland querulously. Carrington woke up at the same moment and looked terribly ashamed of himself.

“Very charming,” he murmured, “it’s about Sara, isn’t it?”

Fradley blushed. “Oh, no—er—it’s only a poetic fancy.”

“Any red-headed girl—eh?” said Garland rising; “well, I am awfully obliged to you,—we’ll have the rest of it soon I hope—come along, Ronald.”

Fradley accompanied them to the door.

“Are you going to that—that orgie at the Bal Bullier on Mi-Carême?” he asked.

“I am,” said Garland.

“Are you?” he asked of Carrington.

“Oh, yes, I suppose so; everybody else is going.”

“And do you think it right?”

“No—it’s not decent; you would not enjoy it,” said Garland with a malicious smile. “Don’t go.”

“I don’t know—I don’t know,” murmured Fradley; “an artist must be broad—”

“Especially when he’s abroad—”

“Oh, come on!” grumbled Carrington,—“good night, Fradley, awfully obliged you know.”

The poet entered his boudoir and lighting a wax candle looked at himself in the mirror. He smoothed his love-locks, touched his lips with glycerine, and crawling into an embroidered night-shirt sank languidly upon the bed, pulling the silken coverlet over his ears. Then he began to think of Sara.