Jaffery by William J. Locke

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[Illustration: It was his great arms that lifted her feather-weight with
extraordinary sureness and gentleness. (_See page 165_)]

JAFFERY

BY

WILLIAM J. LOCKE

ILLUSTRATIONS BY
F. MATANIA

NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY

1915

Press of
J.J. Little & Ives Company
New York, U.S.A.

TO MY WIFE

This book on which it has pleased you to bestow your especial affection
I dedicate to you with my love. It is a memory of many happy hours and
many dreams that we have shared.

You remember how it was begun, one spring morning two years ago, with
the opening scene of the first chapter gay before my eyes as I wrote.
You remember the excitement of ending it before the Christmas of 1913;
so that we could start with free consciences, early in the New Year, on
our Egyptian journey.

_C'est bien loin, tout cela_! War overtook it in its serial course; and
now, in book form, it must go out to the world as an expression of the
moods and fancies almost of a past incarnation.

These dream figures with whom we delighted, like children, to people our
home, are now replaced by other guests tragically real, as big-hearted
as those most loved of our shadow-folk. Yet sometimes they seem still to
live. . . . While correcting the final proofs we have been tempted to
modify the end, to bring the story of Jaffery more or less up to date;
but we have felt that any addition would be out of key, so far are we
from that happy Christmastide when, in gaiety of heart, I wrote the last
words.

Yet we know, you and I, that Jaffery Chayne is even now over there,
across the Channel; no longer writing of war, but doing his soldier's
work in the thick of it, like a gallant gentleman. And don't you feel
that one day he will come again and we shall hear his mighty voice
thundering across the lawn. . . ?

W.J.L.

ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING
PAGE

It was his great arms that lifted her feather-weight with
extraordinary sureness and gentleness _Frontispiece_

Where the lonely figure in black and white sat brooding 64

Jaffery, considerably disconcerted, handled the cleek 78

He drew out a great thick clump of galley-proofs 186

"Go! You're nothing but a brute" 228

Before I realized the danger . . . I was flung aside 300

And there, in a wilderness of ransacked drawers and
strewn papers, . . . lay a tiny, black, moaning
heap of a woman 316

There is war going on in the Balkans. Jaffery is there
as war correspondent. Liosha is there, too 350

THE
WILLIAM J. LOCKE
YEAR-BOOK

A _bon-mot_ for each day in
every year, selected from
this popular author's works.

_Decorated Cloth. $1.00 net_

CHAPTER I

I received a letter the day before yesterday from my old friend, Jaffery
Chayne, which has inspired me to write the following account of that
dear, bull-headed, Pantagruelian being. I must say that I have been
egged on to do so by my wife, of whom hereafter. A man of my somewhat
urbane and dilettante temperament does not do these things without being
worried into them. I had the inspiration, however. I told Barbara (my
wife), and she agreed, at the time, dutifully, that I ought to record
our friend Jaffery's doings. But now, womanlike, she declares that the
first suggestion, the root germ of the idea, came from her; that the
"egging on" is merely the vain man's way of misdefining a woman's serene
insistence; that she has given me, out of her intimate knowledge, all
the facts of the story--although Jaffery Chayne and Adrian Boldero and
poor Tom Castleton, and others involved in the imbroglio, counted
themselves as my bosom cronies, while she, poor wretch (a man must get
home somewhere), was in the nursery; and that, finally, if she had been
taught English grammar and spelling at school, she would have dispensed
entirely with my pedantic assistance and written the story herself.
Anyhow, man-like, I am broad minded enough to proclaim that it doesn't
very much matter. Man and wife are one. She thinks they are one wife. I
know they are one husband. Between speculation and knowledge why so
futile a thing as a quarrel? I proceed therefore to my originally
self-appointed and fantastic task.

But on reflection, before beginning, I must honestly admit that if it
had not been for Barbara I should write of these things with
half-knowledge. Sex is a queer and incalculable solvent of human
confidence. There are certain revelations that men will make only to a
man, certain revelations likewise that women will make only to a man. On
the other hand, a woman is told things by her sister women and her
brother men which, but for her, would never reach a man's ears. So by
combining the information obtained from our family encyclopaedia under
the feminine heading of China with that obtained under the masculine
heading of Philosophy, I can, figuratively speaking, like the famous
student, issue my treatise on Chinese Philosophy.

* * * * *

One miraculous morning in late May, not so very many years ago, when the
parrot-tulips in my garden were expanding themselves wantonly to the
sun, and the lilac and laburnum which I caught, as I sat at my table,
with the tail of one eye, and the pink may which I caught with the tail
of the other, bloomed in splendid arrogance, my quiet outlook on
greenery and colour was obscured by a human form. I may mention that my
study-table is placed in the bay of a window, on the ground floor. It is
a French window, opening on a terrace. Beyond the parapet of the
terrace, the garden, with its apple and walnut trees, its beeches, its
lawn, its beds of tulips, its lilac and laburnum and may and all sorts
of other pleasant things, slopes lazily upwards to a horizon of iron
railings separating the garden from a meadow where now and then a cow,
when she desires to be peculiarly agreeable to the sight, poses herself
in silhouette against the sky. I like to gaze on that adventitious cow.
Her ruminatory attitude falls in with mine. . . . But I digress. . . .

I glanced up at the obscuring human form and recognized my wife. She
looked, I must confess, remarkably pretty, with her fair hair _blond
comme les bles_, and her mocking cornflower blue eyes, and her mutinous
mouth, which has never yet (after all these years) assumed a responsible
parent's austerity. She wore a fresh white dress with coquettish bits of
blue about the bodice. In her hand she grasped a dilapidated newspaper,
the _Daily Telegraph_, which looked as if she had been to bed in it.

"Am I disturbing you, Hilary?"

She was. She knew she was. But she looked so charming, a petal of
spring, a quick incarnation of pink may and forget-me-not and laburnum,
that I put down my pen and I smiled.

"You are, my dear," said I, "but it doesn't matter."

"What are you doing?" She remained on the threshold.

"I am writing my presidential address," said I, "for the Grand Meeting,
next month, of the Hafiz Society."

"I wonder," said Barbara, "why Hafiz always makes me think of sherbet."

I remonstrated, waving a dismissing hand.

"If that's all you've got to say--"

"But it isn't."

She crossed the threshold, stepped in, swished round the end of my long
oak table and took possession of my library. I wheeled round politely in
my chair.

"Then, what is it?" I asked.

"Have you read the paper this morning?"

"I've glanced through the _Times_," said I.

She patted her handful of bedclothing and let fall a blanket and a
bed-spread or two--("Look at my beautifully, orderly folded _Times_,"
said I, with an indicatory gesture) She looked and sniffed--and shed
Vallombrosa leaves of the _Daily Telegraph_ about the library until she
had discovered the page for which she was searching. Then she held a
mangled sheet before my eyes.

"There!" she cried, "what do you think of that?"

"What do I think of what?" I asked, regarding the acre of print.

"Adrian Boldero has written a novel!"

"Adrian?" said I. "Well, my dear, what of it? Poor old Adrian is capable
of anything. Nothing he did would ever surprise me. He might write a
sonnet to a Royal Princess's first set of false teeth or steal the tin
cup from a blind beggar's dog, and he would be still the same beautiful,
charming, futile Adrian."

Barbara pished and insisted. "But this is apparently a wonderful novel.
There's a whole column about it. They say it's the most astounding book
published in our generation. Look! A work of genius."

"Rubbish, darling," said I, knowing my Adrian.

"Take the trouble to read the notice," said Barbara, thrusting the paper
at me in a superior manner.

I took it from her and read. She was right. Somebody calling himself
Adrian Boldero had written a novel called "The Diamond Gate," which a
usually sane and distinguished critic proclaimed to be a work of genius.
He sketched the outline of the story, indicated its peculiar wonder. The
review impressed me.

"Barbara, my dear," said I, "this is somebody else--not our Adrian."

"How many people in the world are called Adrian Boldero?"

"Thousands," said I.

She pished again and tossed her pretty head.

"I'll go and telephone straight away to Adrian and find out all about
it."

She departed through the library door into the recesses of the house
where the telephone has its being. I resumed consideration of my
presidential address. But Hafiz eluded me, and Adrian occupied my
thoughts. I took up the paper and read the review again; and the more I
read, the more absurd did it seem to me that the author of "The Diamond
Gate" and my Adrian Boldero could be one and the same person.

You see, we had, all four of us, Adrian, Jaffery Chayne, Tom Castleton
and myself, been at Cambridge together, and formed after the manner of
youth a somewhat incongruous brotherhood. We knew one another's
shortcomings to a nicety and whenever three of the quartette were
gathered together, the physical prowess, the morals and the intellectual
capacity of the absent fourth were discussed with admirable lack of
reticence. So it came to pass that we gauged one another pretty
accurately and remained devoted friends. There were other men, of
course, on the fringe of the brotherhood, and each of us had our little
separate circle; we did not form a mutual admiration society and
advertise ourselves as a kind of exclusive, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and
d'Artagnan swashbucklery; but, in a quiet way, we recognised our
quadruple union of hearts, and talked amazing rubbish and committed
unspeakable acts of lunacy and dreamed impossible dreams in a very
delightful, and perhaps unsuspected, intimacy. We were now in our middle
and late thirties--all save poor Tom Castleton, over whom, in an alien
grave, the years of the Lord passed unheeded. Poor old chap! He was the
son of the acting-manager of a well-known theatre and used to talk to us
of the starry theatre-folk, his family intimates, as though they were
haphazard occupants of an omnibus. How we envied him! And he was forever
writing plays which he read to us; which plays, I remember, were always
on the verge of being produced by Irving. We believed in him firmly. He
alone of the little crew had a touch of genius.

Blond, bull-necked Jaffery who rowed in the college boat, and would
certainly have got his blue if he had been amenable to discipline and,
because he was not, got sent down ingloriously from the University at
the beginning of his third year, certainly did not show a sign of it.
Adrian was a bit unaccountable. He wrote poems for the Cambridge Review,
and became Vice-President of the Union; but he ran disastrously to fancy
waistcoats, and shuddered at Dickens because his style was not that of
Walter Pater. For myself, Hilary Freeth--well--I am a happy nonentity. I
have a very mild scholarly taste which sufficient private means,
accruing to me through my late father's acumen in buying a few founder's
shares in a now colossal universal providing emporium, enable me to
gratify. I am a harmless person of no account. But the other three
mattered. They were definite--Jaffery, blatantly definite; Adrian
Boldero, in his queer, silky way, incisively definite; Tom Castleton,
romantically definite. And poor old Tom was dead. Dear, impossible,
feckless fellow. He took a first class in the Classical Tripos and we
thought his brilliant career was assured--but somehow circumstances
baffled him; he had a terrible time for a dozen years or so, taking
pupils, acting, free-lancing in journalism, his father having, in the
meanwhile, died suddenly penniless; and then Fortune smiled on him. He
secured a professorship at an Australian University. The three of
us--Jaffery and Adrian and I--saw him off at Southampton. He never
reached Australia. He died on the voyage. Poor old Tom!

So I sat, with the review of Adrian's book before me, looking out at my
Pleasant garden, and my mind went irresistibly back to the old days and
then wandered on to the present. Tom was dead: I flourished, a
comfortable cumberer of the earth; Jaffery was doing something
idiotically desperate somewhere or the other--he was a war-correspondent
by trade (as regular an employment as that of the maker of hot-cross
buns), and a desperado by predilection--I had not heard from him for a
year; and now Adrian--if indeed the Adrian Boldero of the review was
he--had written an epoch-making novel.

But Adrian--the precious, finnikin Adrian--how on earth could he have
written this same epoch-making novel? Beyond doubt he was a clever
fellow. He had obtained a First Class in the Law Tripos and had done
well in his Bar examination. But after fourteen years or so he was
making twopence halfpenny per annum at his profession. He made another
three-farthings, say, by selling elegant verses to magazines. He dined
out a great deal and spent much of his time at country houses, being a
very popular and agreeable person. His other means of livelihood
consisted of an allowance of four hundred a year made him by his mother.
Beyond the social graces he had not distinguished himself. And now--

"It _is_ Adrian," cried my wife, bursting into the library. "I knew it
was. He has had several other glorious reviews which we haven't seen.
Isn't it splendid?"

Her eyes danced with loyalty and gladness. Now that I too knew it was
our Adrian I caught her enthusiasm.

"Splendid," I echoed. "To think of old Adrian making good at last! I'm
more than glad. Telephone at once, dear, for a copy of the book."

"Adrian is bringing one with him. He's coming down to dine and stay the
night. He said he had an engagement, but I told him it was rubbish, and
he's coming."

Barbara had a despotic way with her men friends, especially with Adrian
and Jaffery, who, each after his kind, paid her very pretty homage.

"And now, I've got a hundred things to do, so you must excuse me," said
Barbara--for all the world as if I had invited her into my library and
was detaining her against her will.

My reply was smilingly ironical. She disappeared. I returned to Hafiz.
Soon a bumble-bee, a great fellow splendid in gold and black and
crimson, blundered into the room and immediately made furious racket
against a window pane. Now I can't concentrate my mind on serious
things, if there's a bumble-bee buzzing about. So I had to get up and
devote ten minutes to persuading the dunderhead to leave the glass and
establish himself firmly on the piece of paper that would waft him into
the open air and sunlight. When I lost sight of him in the glad greenery
I again came back to my work. But two minutes afterwards my little seven
year old daughter, rather the worse for amateur gardening, and holding a
cage of white mice in her hand, appeared on the threshold, smiled at me
with refreshing absence of apology, darted in, dumped the white mice on
an open volume of my precious Turner Macan's edition of Firdusi, and
clambering into my lap and seizing pencil and paper, instantly ordained
my participation in her favourite game of "head, body and legs."

An hour afterwards a radiant angel of a nurse claimed her for purposes
of ablution. I once more returned to Hafiz. Then Barbara put her head in
at the door.

"Haven't you thought how delighted Doria will be?"

"I haven't," said I. "I've more important things to think about."

"But," said Barbara, entering and closing the door with soft
deliberation behind her and coming to my side--"if Adrian makes a big
success, they'll be able to marry."

"Well?" said I.

"Well," said she, with a different intonation. "Don't you see?"

"See what?"

It is wise to irritate your wife on occasion, so as to manifest your
superiority. She shook me by the collar and stamped her foot.

"Don't you care a bit whether your friends get married or not?"

"Not a bit," said I.

Barbara lifted the Macan's Firdusi, still suffering the desecration of
the forgotten cage of white mice, onto my manuscript and hoisted herself
on the cleared corner of the table.

"Doria is my dearest friend. She did my sums for me at school, although
I was three years older. If it hadn't been for us, she and Adrian would
never have met."

"That I admit," I interrupted. "But having started on the path of crime
we're not bound to pursue it to the end."

"You're simply horrid!" she cried. "We've talked for years of the sad
story of these two poor young things, and now, when there's a chance of
their marrying, you say you don't care a bit!"

"My dear," said I, rising, "what with you and Adrian and a bumble-bee
and the child and two white mice, and now Doria, my morning's work is
ruined. Let us go out into the garden and watch the starlings resting in
the walnut trees. Incidentally we might discuss Doria and Adrian."

"Now you're talking sense," said Barbara.

So we went into the garden--and discussed the formation next autumn of a
new rose-bed.

* * * * *

By the afternoon train came Adrian, impeccably vestured and feverish
with excitement. Two evening papers which he brandished nervously,
proclaimed "The Diamond Gate" a masterpiece. The book had been only out
a week--(we country mice knew nothing of it)--and already, so his
publisher informed him, repeat orders were coming in from the libraries
and distributing agents.

"Wittekind, my publisher, declares it's going to be the biggest thing in
first novels ever known. And though I say it as shouldn't, dear old
Hilary,"--he clapped me on the shoulder--"it's a damned fine book."

I shall always remember him as he said this, in the pride of his
manhood, a defiant triumph in his eyes, his head thrown back, and a
smile revealing the teeth below his well-trimmed moustache. He had
conquered at last. He had put poor old Jaffery and fortune-favoured me
in the shade. At one leap he had mounted to planes beyond our dreams.
All this his attitude betokened. He removed the hand from my shoulder
and flourished it in a happy gesture.

"My fortune's made," he cried.

"But, my dear fellow," I asked, "why have you sprung this surprise on
us? I had no idea you were writing a novel."

He laughed. "No one had. Not even Doria. It was on her account I kept it
secret. I didn't want to arouse possible false hopes. It's very simple.
Besides, I like being a dark horse. It's exciting. Don't you remember
how paralysed you all were when I got my First at Cambridge? Everybody
thought I hadn't done a stroke of work--but I had sweated like mad all
the time."

This was quite true, the sudden brilliance of the end of Adrian's
University career had dazzled the whole of his acquaintance. Barbara,
impatient of retrospect, came to the all-important point.

"How does Doria take it?"

He turned on her and beamed. He was one of those dapper, slim-built men
who can turn with quick grace.

"She's as pleased as Punch. Gave it to old man Jornicroft to read and
insisted on his reading it. He's impressed. Never thought I had it in
me. Can't see, however, where the commercial value of it comes in."

"Wait till you show him your first thumping cheque," sympathised my
wife.

"I'm going to," he exclaimed boyishly. "I might have done it this
afternoon. Wittekind was off his head with delight and if I had asked
him to give me a bogus cheque for ten thousand to show to old man
Jornicroft, he would have written it without a murmur."

"How much did he really write a cheque for this afternoon?" I asked,
knowing (as I have said before) my Adrian.

Barbara looked shocked. "Hilary!" she remonstrated.

But Adrian laughed in high good humour. "He gave me a hundred pounds on
account."

"That won't impress Mr. Jornicroft at all," said I.

"It impressed my tailor, who cashed it, deducting a quarter of his
bill."

"Do you mean to say, my dear Adrian," I questioned, "that you went to
your tailor with a cheque for a hundred pounds and said, 'I want to pay
you a quarter of what I owe you, will you give me change?'"

"Of course."

"But why didn't you pass the cheque through your banking account and
post him your own cheque?"

"Did you ever hear such an innocent?" he cried gaily. "I wanted to
impress him, I did. One must do these things with an air. He stuffed my
pockets with notes and gold--there has never been any one so all over
money as I am at this particular minute--and then I gave him an order
for half-a-dozen suits straight away."

"Good God!" I cried aghast. "I've never had six suits of clothes at a
time since I was born."

"And more shame for you. Look!" said he, drawing my wife's attention to
my comfortable but old and deliberately unfashionable raiment. "I love
you, my dear Barbara, but you are to blame."

"Hilary," said my wife, "the next time you go to town you'll order
half-a-dozen suits and I'll come with you to see you do it. Who is your
tailor, Adrian?"

He gave the address. "The best in London. And if you go to him on my
introduction--Good Lord!"--it seemed to amuse him vastly--"I can order
half-a-dozen more!"

All this seemed to me, who am not devoid of a sense of humour and an
appreciation of the pleasant flippancies of life, somewhat futile and
frothy talk, unworthy of the author of "The Diamond Gate" and the lover
of Doria Jornicroft. I expressed this opinion and Barbara, for once,
agreed with me.

"Yes. Let us be serious. In the first place you oughtn't to allude to
Doria's father as 'old man Jornicroft.' It isn't respectful."

"But I don't respect him. Who could? He is bursting with money, but
won't give Doria a farthing, won't hear of our marriage, and practically
forbids me the house. What possible feeling can one have for an old
insect like that?"

"I've never seen any reason," said Barbara, who is a brave little woman,
"why Doria shouldn't run away and marry you."

"She would like a shot," cried Adrian; "but I won't let her. How can I
allow her to rush to the martyrdom of married misery on four hundred a
year, which I don't even earn?"

I looked at my watch. "It's time, my friends," said I, "to dress for
dinner. Afterwards we can continue the discussion. In the meanwhile I'll
order up some of the '89 Pol Roger so that we can drink to the success
of the book."

"The '89 Pol Roger?" cried Adrian. "A man with '89 Pol Roger in his
cellar is the noblest work of God!"

"I was thinking," Barbara remarked drily, "of asking Doria to spend a
few days here next week."

"All I can say is," he retorted, with his quick turn and smile, "that
you are the Divinity Itself."

So, a short time afterwards, a very happy Adrian sat down to dinner and
brought a cultivated taste to the appreciation of a now, alas!
historical wine, under whose influence he expanded and told us of the
genesis and the making of "The Diamond Gate."

Now it is a very odd coincidence, one however which had little, if
anything, to do with the curious entanglement of my friend's affairs
into which I was afterwards drawn, but an odd coincidence all the same,
that on passing from the dining room with Adrian to join Barbara in the
drawing room, I found among the last post letters lying on the hall
table one which, with a thrill of pleasure, I held up before Adrian's
eyes.

"Do you recognise the handwriting?"

"Good Lord!" cried he. "It's from Jaffery Chayne. And"--he scanned the
stamp and postmark--"from Cettinje. What the deuce is he doing there?"

"Let us see!" said I.

I opened the letter and scanned it through; then I read it aloud.

"Dear Hilary,

"A line to let you know that I'm coming back soon. I haven't quite
finished my job--"

"What was his job?"

"Heaven knows," I replied. "The last time I heard from him he was
cruising about the Sargasso Sea."

I resumed my reading.

"--for the usual reason, a woman. If it wasn't for women what a
thundering amount of work a man could get through. Anyhow--I'm
coming back, with an encumbrance. A wife. Not my wife, thank
Olympus, but another man's wife--"

"Poor old devil!" cried Adrian. "I knew he would come a mucker one
of these days!"

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