CHAPTER XIII. DICK'S OPINION.

"I like him not--his subtle smile
Conceals beneath some purpose vile,
Tho' bland his gaze and fair his speech
Oh trust him not, I do beseech;
For as a seeming simple flower
May hide a scent of evil power,
Which lures with its envenomed
The trusting wearer to his death;
So tho' his tongue may kindly prate,
He oathes thee with undying hate."

Now that Basil Beaumont had succeeded in gaining Una's gratitude, if not her friendship, he determined to next win over Dr. Larcher to his side. He had already managed to gain a certain influence over Reginald Blake, but he saw plainly that the worthy vicar was not prepossessed in his favour, and, as he would prove an invaluable ally should Patience prove dangerous, Beaumont was anxious to impress him with a good estimate of his character.

The cynical man of the world seemed to have changed altogether since his interview with Patience Allerby, and no one seeing the interest he took in the simple pleasures of village life would dream that behind all this apparent simplicity he concealed a subtle design. His acting was in the highest degree artificial, yet so thoroughly true to nature that everyone was deceived and never saw the ravenous wolf hidden under the innocent skin of the lamb.

Of course, Patience Allerby had too minute a knowledge of his real nature to be deceived by the mask of innocence and gaiety he now chose to assume, and as Basil Beaumont knew this only too well, he was anxious to lose no time in raising up to himself an army of well-wishers against the honest indignation of the woman he had deserted should she interfere with his schemes. Mrs. Larcher, Miss Cassy, Una and Reginald had now all an excellent opinion of him, so he was anxious to secure the good wishes of Dr. Larcher, thus leaving Patience to fight her battle single-handed against the crowd of friends he had so dexterously secured.

Notwithstanding the lateness of the season it was a very pleasant day, with a certain warmth and brightness in the air despite the keen wind which was blowing, and on his arrival at the vicarage Beaumont found the young people playing lawn-tennis; Pumpkin and Ferdinand Priggs holding their own in a somewhat erratic fashion against Reginald and Dick Pemberton.

Beaumont sauntered on to the lawn with his everlasting cigarette between his lips, but threw it away as he was hailed joyously by Reginald and the four players, who paused for a moment in the game.

"How do you do, Miss Larcher?" said Beaumont, lazily raising his hat, "this is a comprehensive greeting, and includes everybody. I've called to see the vicar."

"Papa's out just now," observed Pumpkin, "but he will be back soon. Will you wait, Mr. Beaumont?"

"Thank you--I will," answered Beaumont, sitting down on a garden bench.

"Have a game?" cried Reginald, flinging his racquet into the air and catching it dexterously in his hand.

"Too much like hard work."

"Then have some tea," suggested Pumpkin persuasively.

"Ah, that is better, Miss Larcher," replied Beaumont gaily; "yes, I should like some tea."

"Bring it out here," said Dick, who had thrown himself down on the soft green grass, "it will be jolly having a spread outside."

"How you do misuse the Queen's English," murmured Mr. Priggs as Miss Larcher went inside to order the tea.

"Only in prose," retorted Dick coolly, "think how you mutilate it in poetry."

"I'm afraid you're rather severe on Priggs," said Beaumont, who was anxious to conciliate everyone, even the poet, for whom he had a profound contempt.

"You wouldn't say so if you saw his poetry," replied Pemberton laughing.

"Oh, come now, Dick," said Reginald lightly, "that's rather hard--some of Ferdinand's poetry is beautiful."

"And gruesome."

"Dick cares for nothing but music-hall songs," explained the poetic Ferdinand loftily.

"Oh yes, I do--for cake and tea, among other things, and here it comes. Make a rhyme on it, Ferdy."

"Don't call me Ferdy," said Priggs sharply.

"Then Birdie," observed Dick, in a teasing tone, "though you're more like an owl than any other bird."

"Now don't fight," said Pumpkin, who was now seated in front of a rustic table on which the tea-things were set out. "Milk and sugar, Mr. Beaumont?"

"Both, thank you," said Beaumont, bending forward. "By-the-way, I saw Miss Challoner to-day--we were talking about you, Blake."

"Were you indeed?" observed Reginald, rather irritated at the free and easy manner of the speaker.

"Yes--about your voice. I got a letter from a friend of mine in Town, of which I will tell you later on."

"I suppose Reggy will be leaving us all for London soon," said Dick enviously.

"Lucky Reginald," sighed Ferdinand, "I wish I were going to London."

"What, with a bundle of poems in your pocket?" said Reginald laughing. "I'm afraid you wouldn't set the Thames on fire--poetry doesn't pay."

"Nor literature of any sort," observed Dick, "at least, so I understand."

"Then you understand wrong," said Beaumont coolly, "you go by Scott's saying, I presume--that literature is a good staff but a bad crutch--all that is altered now."

"Not as regards poetry."

"No--not as regards poetry certainly, but success in literature greatly depends on the tact of a writer; if a young man goes to London with a translation of Horace or Lucian in his pocket he will find his goods are not wanted; if Milton went to Paternoster Row at the present time, with the MS. of 'Paradise Lost' in his hand, I don't believe he would find a publisher. We talk a great deal of noble poems and beautiful thoughts, but it's curious what unsaleable articles even the best of them are."

"Then what does sell?" asked Ferdinand.

"Anything that pleases the public--a sensational novel--a sparkling Society poem--a brilliant magazine article--a witty play--you'll get plenty of chances to make money with these things; you see people live so rapidly now that they have no time to study in their play hours, therefore they want the very froth and foam of the time served up to them for their reading, so as to take their thoughts off their work. We praise 'Tom Jones' and 'Clarissa' immensely, but who reads them when they can skim the last three volume novel or the latest pungent article on the state of Europe?--no one wants to be instructed now-a-days, but they do want to be amused."

"How do people live in London?" asked Pumpkin, who, being an unsophisticated country maiden, was absolutely ignorant of anything connected with the great metropolis.

"They live with a hansom cab at the door and their watch in their hand," retorted Beaumont cynically; "they give two minutes to one thing, five minutes to another, and think they are enjoying themselves--get a smattering of all things and a thorough knowledge of nothing--the last play, the last book, the last scandal, the latest political complication--they know all these things well enough to chatter about them, but alas for the deep thinker who puts his views before the restless world of London--he will have a very small circle of readers indeed, because no one has any time to ponder over his thoughtful prose."

"Still the power of the stage as a teacher," began Ferdinand, "is really----"

"Is really nothing," interrupted Beaumont sharply; "the stage of the present day is meant to amuse, not teach--no one cares to go to school after school hours; we are not even original in our dramas--we either translate from the French stage, or reproduce Shakespeare with fine scenery and tea-cup and saucer actors."

"Well, you cannot object to Shakespeare," observed Reginald, who was much interested in Beaumont's remarks.

"Certainly not. Shakespeare, like other things, is excellent--in moderation. I quite agree that we should have a national theatre, where the Elizabethan drama should be regularly acted, but our so-called National Theatre devotes itself to gingerbread melodramas, and tries to hide its poverty of thought under a brilliant mise-en-scene; but when you have Shakespeare's plays at three or four theatres and French adaptations at a dozen others, where does the local playwright come in?"

"But from what I hear there are so few good local playwrights," said Dick quickly.

"And whose fault is that?" asked Beaumont acidly, "but the fault of the English nation. France has a strong dramatic school because she produced her own drama to the exclusion of foreign writers; if the English people, who pride themselves on their patriotism, were to refuse to countenance French and German adaptations, the managers would be forced to produce English plays written by English playwrights, and though, very likely, for a time we would have bad workmanship and crude ideas, yet in a few years a dramatic school would be formed; but such an event will never happen while one of our leading playwrights adapts Gallic comedies wholesale and another dramatises old books of the Georgian period. England has not lost her creative power but she's doing her best to stamp it out."

"How terribly severe," said Ferdinand.

"But how terribly true," retorted Beaumont carelessly. "However, I will not preach any more as I'm sure you must all be tired of my chatter--and see, there is Doctor Larcher coming."

He arose to his feet as he spoke, for the vicar came striding across the little lawn like a colossus.

"Tea and scandal, I suppose," he roared in his hearty voice as he shook hands with the artist.

"'Hic innocentis pocula Lesbii
Duces sub umbra.'"

"Certainly innocent enough sir," observed Reginald lightly, "but the fact is we have been listening to Mr. Beaumont."

"And the discourse?" asked the vicar, taking a cup of tea from Pumpkin.

"The decadence of Literature and the Drama in England," replied Beaumont with a smile.

"Ah, indeed. I'm afraid, Mr. Beaumont, I know nothing of the drama, except the Bard of Avon----"

"Whom Mr. Beaumont likes, in moderation," interrupted Pumpkin mischievously.

"Certainly," assented Beaumont gravely. "I like all things in moderation."

"Even Horace," whispered Dick to Reginald, who laughed loudly and then apologised for his untimely mirth.

"As to literature," said Dr. Larcher ponderously, "I'm afraid there is rather a falling off--we are frivolous--yes, decidedly frivolous."

"I wish we were anything half so pleasant," remarked Beaumont, "I'm afraid we're decidedly dull."

"The wave of genius which began with this present century," said the vicar pompously, "has now spent its force and to a great extent died away--soon it will gather again and sweep onward."

"If it would only sweep away a few hundred of our present writers, I don't think anyone would mind," said the artist laughing.

"Sed omnes una manet nox," observed Dr. Larcher with a grim smile.

"What, all our present day scribblers? What a delightful thing for the twentieth century."

Dr. Larcher smiled blandly as he set down his cup, for he liked his Horatian allusions to be promptly taken up, and began to think Beaumont rather good company. He nodded kindly to the whole party, and was about to turn away when a sudden thought struck him.

"Do you want to see me, Mr. Beaumont?" he asked looking at the artist.

"Yes, I do," replied that gentleman, rising leisurely to his feet. "I wish to speak to you about Blake, and also I wish Blake to be present."

"Oh, I'll come," cried Reginald, springing forward with alacrity, for he guessed what the conversation would be about.

"Come then to my study," said Dr. Larcher. "Pumpkin, my child, you had better come inside, as the night is coming on."

As the three gentlemen walked towards the house, Pumpkin commenced putting the tea-things together in order to take them inside. Dick, who had risen to his feet, was staring after Beaumont with something like a frown on his fresh, young face.

"What's the matter, Dick?" asked Pumpkin, pausing for a moment.

"Eh?" said Dick, starting a little, "oh, nothing, only I don't like him."

"Whom?"

"Mr. Beaumont," said Pemberton thoughtfully. "I think he's a humbug."

"I'm sure he's a most delightful man," observed Ferdinand loftily.

"Oh, you'd think anyone delightful who praised your poetry," retorted Dick rudely, "but I do not like Beaumont; he's very clever and talks well, no doubt, but he's an outsider all the same."

"What makes you think so?" said Pumpkin, looking at him with the tray in her hands.

"Oh, I can size a man up in two minutes," observed Dick in his usual slangy manner, "and if I was Reggy I wouldn't give that chap the slant to round on me; he says a lot he doesn't mean, and if he's going to run Reggie's show the apple-cart will soon be upset."

Owing to Dick's lavish use of slang, Pumpkin was quite in the dark regarding his meaning, so with a quiet smile walked indoors with the tray.

"Reggy can look after himself all right," observed the poet in a placid tone.

"And a jolly good thing too," cried Dick, eyeing the poetic youth in a savage manner, "but prevention's better than cure, and I wouldn't let Beaumont have a finger in my pie if I were Reggy."

"Ah, you see you're not Reggy."

"I'm uncommonly glad I'm not you," retorted Dick politely. "It must be an awful disagreeable thing for you to know what an arrant idiot you are."

"I'm not an idiot," said Priggs haughtily.

"Not an idiot!" echoed Dick derisively, "why you are such an idiot you don't even know you are one."