Forty Years Of Spy Part 17

"I've shot the tiger between the eyes," he said, "and effectually."

We were rather relieved, and after some instructions as to his somewhat severe wound, finding we could be of no service, we prepared to go to bed, when our hostess suddenly turned up in rather a melodramatic looking boudoir gown, her hair dishevelled, and her face white as death. We went up to her (as she paused in the doorway, with her hand on her heart, she appeared to be suffering), and told her, thinking to rea.s.sure her, that the tiger had been shot by the gardener while mauling his son. When she realized the significance of our words, she gave way to a frenzy of anger.

"What! You don't mean to say that horrible man has shot the dear tiger that Sir Henry paid so much for! If he knew, he would no longer keep him in his service--I shall dismiss him at once!" And with a final burst of anger, she departed in a fit of hysterics.

When Lady Meux had gone, my friend, who was awfully upset, broke into anger.

"What a heartless woman!" he said. "Why, the poor chap ought to be well rewarded for his pluck, instead of which he will be dismissed.

What a d.a.m.ned shame!"

At that moment the footman entered again. "Perhaps you'd like to know, sir," he announced, "the boy is still alive, and not so seriously hurt as we first thought."

We were somewhat relieved by this news, and as the lights were out we could not see to play billiards any longer, so we managed to grope round and find some little refreshment and go to bed.

The next morning, as I was dressing I heard a voice outside calling my name. Looking into the garden, I saw my friend, whose normal ruddy colour had changed to a most deathly white.

"What's the matter?" I cried.

In a hoa.r.s.e voice he besought me to come down, which I did. Taking me to the managerie, he showed me the general scene of destruction; bushes had been trampled down, some torn up by the roots, and everywhere the signs of a great struggle met the eye. As we walked, he told me how, going to the tiger's cage, he had looked for the body.

Seeing nothing but the broken bars, he looked into the sleeping compartment where a live tiger had sprung at his face, which he had withdrawn in the very nick of time. We were very puzzled by the fact that the animal was alive and apparently unharmed, and as we paced up and down by the cage, we tried to account for the tiger's reappearance in the sleeping compartment. A reporter appeared a little later on behalf of the local paper, but was ordered off the premises rather peremptorily. As we walked, a groom accosted us, who informed us that he was not one of the regular servants, but an odd man from Newmarket.

"I don't 'arf like it," he began.

"What do you mean?" replied my friend.

"T'aint all right, you bet," he said, with a wink.

After some explanations, it transpired that the groom was trying to tell us that we had been hoaxed, and the gardener's boy was as well as we were and everybody concerned. I could not help laughing when I realized how completely we had been taken in. The elephant, the dogs, and all the menagerie, including the parrots, had been produced to make the uproar and trample down the bushes. The gardener had attended to the shooting, and all the servants were in the plot, and each had been carefully rehea.r.s.ed (under threat of dismissal) by their mistress for the practical joke played upon her guest. The reporter, I may add, was the _chef_ in disguise.

When I saw Lady Meux, who was pretending to be too ill and upset (owing to the shock to her nerves) to come down, I congratulated her upon her scheme, for I could not but admire the extraordinarily clever acting she had displayed for the furthering of her plot; the tears, the stage hysterics, and the way she had worked herself up into a frenzy until I could not tell whether it was a.s.sumed or real, were all marvellously clever. But when I asked her the reason of her plan, she told me her object was to frighten our friend, who was becoming addicted to the habit of taking more alcohol than was good for him, and by dint of doing so, she hoped to startle him into reconsidering his life, and by the means of a good shock, awaken his power of resistance to what was becoming a steady habit. I never discovered what our friend thought, and what the result was, but I know he was really frightened.

As well as her leanings in the direction of warrior heroes, Lady Meux had a keen sense of humour; she wished me to caricature one of the guests who arrived in the house-party after the tiger affair. One evening I was inspired, and did a really funny caricature of him, and thinking she would be pleased with it, as a surprise I placed it on the mantelpiece, hoping she would see it when she came down to dinner.

As fate would have it, my subject came in first; and when I arrived a little later, it had gone, so I asked him if he had seen a caricature of himself that I had done at my hostess' special request; as it was not ill-natured, I had no hesitation in referring to it before him.

"Oh," he answered grimly. "I've put it where it deserved to go--in the fire!"

My friend, Charles H. F. Brookfield, was lunching with Whistler one day, when the artist complained of the scarcity of money and commissions, and Brookfield, remembering Lady Meux had said she would like her portrait painted, said, "Cheer up, Jimmy; I've an idea."

With his usual cleverness and tact, he persuaded the lady that here was a genius waiting to do her justice, and the affair was arranged.

When Whistler saw Lady Meux in her pink satin, he was certainly enchanted, but her sables inspired him with a desire to paint her again, and her diamonds enhanced another dress so greatly that his enthusiasm grew keener still, and with great skill he persuaded his sitter to allow him to embark upon three pictures or even more.

Brookfield was so amused at the progress of the pictures which Whistler painted at the same time, that he (Brookfield) made a clever little sketch and caricature of the artist, his hair flying about in his wild enthusiasm, attacking the pictures with an enormously long brush. Two or three years ago, when some of Whistler's sketches were up for auction, this little drawing was sold at Christie's as a genuine Whistler for twenty pounds.

A host of amusing stories come to me with the mention of Brookfield, some of which he told me himself with an incomparable drollery that was entirely typical of the man, and others which are told of him by his friends.

When he contemplated going upon the stage as a young man, many of his friends remonstrated with him and endeavoured to persuade him to abandon his decision. A near relation also wrote begging him not to embark upon such a career, terminating his letter with a final appeal, "I beg of you," he wrote, "not to go upon the stage--in the name of Christ."

"I have no intention of acting under any other name but my own," wrote the irrepressible young man in return.

When he had been upon the stage some time, he met by chance one of the friends who had ranged himself on the side of the opposers.

"Hullo, Charlie," he said, rather condescendingly. "Still--er--on the stage?"

"Oh yes," replied our friend. "And you--still in the Commons?"

I am indebted to a mutual friend, Mr. William Elliot, for the following story of Brookfield in later years.

My friend met him one day with his wife in Jermyn Street; the next time he saw him Brookfield remarked--

"It was so lucky I met you the other day, for it enabled me to tell my wife something I have always been too shy to tell her before--that I have become a Catholic." (Mrs. Brookfield had always been a Papist.)

"What nonsense," replied my friend. "How could my meeting you and your wife start you on a confession of that nature?"

"Very simple," said "Brooks." "The moment you had gone I said to Ruth, 'What a pleasure it is to meet Willie Elliot--always the same--bright and agreeable. All these years that I have known him I have only one thing against him!'

"'What is that?' said Mrs. Brookfield.

"'He's a heretic!'" replied "Brooks."

A very typical story is told of how he wrote to the editor of _The Lancet_ suggesting that they should publish a Christmas number, and offering to write a humorous story ent.i.tled "My first Post-Mortem!"

Mrs. C. H. E. Brookfield is the author of several interesting books, and I must not forget to mention Mrs. Brookfield, the mother of my friend, whose personality and exquisite charm of manner were so delightful. I had not the pleasure of her acquaintance in earlier days, but, judging from portraits, she must have been extremely beautiful, although it is strange that she should have been the original of heroines in Thackeray's novels, the meek and mild "Amelia"

of "Vanity Fair" among them.

The Lotus Club was now a novelty, and I joined it, as did several of my friends; and many an amusing evening was spent there. The representatives of the Gaiety of that day, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, Kate Munroe, and Amalia were among the attractive actresses who frequented the club. There were dances twice a week, and I well remember dancing with Nellie Farren, who was the best waltzer of them all. Kate Vaughan was delightful, but not such a good partner, although, of course, her stage dancing was the absolute "poetry of motion." Many were the pleasant hours I spent at that jolly club--and I was young.

In 1876 the Beefsteak Club was founded by Archibald Stuart Wortley. I was elected one of the original members. As a young man, I appreciated the Beefsteak Club for what it was then--a gay and jolly place, more or less Bohemian. In later bachelor days much of my time in the evenings was spent there, and my constant attendance brought me into contact with many of the most interesting and entertaining men of the day.

Being a one-room club and also restricted to three hundred members (the admittance of visitors being prohibited), it was always unique, the conversation varying according to the different groups sitting side by side at the dinner-table, and the members being selected pretty equally from sailors, soldiers, actors, diplomats, legislators, sporting men, artistic and literary men, and so on.

At one period, Friday nights were especially popular, and I think that was because a member named Craigie (a retired army man) made a point of never missing them. He was a great favourite with all, invariably occupied the same seat, and by report missed only one Friday evening during his members.h.i.+p. I remember that upon entering the Beefsteak Club one Sat.u.r.day evening, I was shown the chair in which Craigie always sat. The seat was in ribbons.

It seems that on the only occasion that he was absent from his place on a Friday a large stag's head fell plump on to it, piercing it through and through.

What luck for our friend!

It was a _13_ pointer, and happened on a _Friday_ night too, so the tables were turned against the old superst.i.tion.

Craigie's cheery laugh has, I regret to say, long been missed. Now he is no more, so Friday nights have lost their special interest. The Beefsteak is no longer the same late "sitting up" club, although it still remains delightful, and while we regret the absence of the retired editor of _Punch_ (Sir Francis Burnand), we hail the frequent appearance of his successor (Sir Owen Seaman).

Just before my marriage, I was very much gratified by the extremely kind way in which my friends "clubbed" together and presented me with a handsome canteen of silver (quite an unprecedented occurrence, by the way, in the Beefsteak Club). The presentation on that occasion was made by Comyns Carr, who made one of his very appropriate and humorous speeches. A friend writes to me, "Do you remember in your reply to Carr's speech you started on a quotation from Shakespeare, 'froze up,'

and Biron got the book and read the pa.s.sage? It was the end of 'Much Ado,' where Bened.i.c.k says, 'a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?... in brief since I do purpose to marry I will think nothing to any purpose the world can say against it,'--a happy quotation.

Wit-cracker for Joe Carr was admirably apt." I was also much indebted to my friend Frederick Post for his pains in helping to select the gift.

The premises previous to this were in King William Street, over Toole's Theatre, which was pulled down when the buildings of Charing Cross Hospital were extended. By an odd series of coincidences, all my addresses seem to be either in a King or a William Street, or the two combined. They were--

My Studio William Street, Lowndes Square.

Orleans Club King Street, St. James.