"Then pay your fee," said McEvoy.
"My dear man," Ebenezer smiled, "will you not take five! — nay, six guineas from me as an outright gift?"
"Five guineas, as a fee," repeated McEvoy.
"Where's the difference to you, should I call the sum a gift and not a payment? 'Twill fetch no less in the market, I pledge you!"
"If't makes no difference," replied McEvoy, "then call its the fee for Joan Toast's whoring."
"Think not it makes no difference to me," Ebenezer said, "To me 'tis all the difference! No man makes a whore of the woman he loves, and I love Joan Toast as never man loved woman."
"Out on't!" McEvoy scoffed. "Everything ye say proves ye know naught whatever concerning love. Think not ye love Joan Toast, Mr. Cooke: 'tis your love ye love, and that's but to say 'tis yourself and not my Joan. But no matter — love her or swive her, so ye pay your fee. To no man save myself may she be aught but whore; I am a jealous man, sir, and though ye may purchase my Joan's will and time as client, ye mayn't court it as lover."
" 'Sbody, 'tis a passing odd jealousy, I swear't!" Ebenezer exclaimed. "I ne'er have heard its like!"
"Which is to say, ye know naught of love," said McEvoy.
Ebenezer shook his head and declared, "I cannot grasp it. Great heavens, man, this divine creature, this vision of all that's fair in womankind, this Joan Toast — she is your mistress! How is't you can allow men e'en to lay their eyes upon her, much less — "
"Much less much more? How clear it is ye love yourself and not Joan! There's naught o' the divine in Joan, my friend. She's mortal clay and hath her share o' failings like the rest of us. As for this vision ye speak of, 'tis the vision ye love, not the woman. 'Twere impossible it could be otherwise, for none o' ye save I e'en knows the woman."
"And yet you play her pimp!"
McEvoy laughed. "I shall tell ye a thing about yourself, Eben Cooke, and haply ye'll recall it now and again: 'tis not simply love ye know naught of, 'tis the entire great real world! Your senses fail ye; your busy fancy plays ye false and fills your head with foolish pictures. Things are not as ye see 'em, friend — the world's a tangled skein, and all is knottier than ye take it for. You understand naught o' life: I shan't say more." He drew a document from his pocket and gave it to Ebenezer. "Read it with haste and pay your fee."
Ebenezer unfolded the paper and read it with mounting consternation. It was headed To Andrew Cooke, 2nd, Gent., and commenced thus:
My dear Sir,
It is my unhappy duty to bring to your notice certain regrettable matters concerning the behavior of your Son Ebenezer Cooke. .
The note went on to declare that Ebenezer was spending his days and nights in the wine- and coffee-houses and the theaters, drinking, whoring, and writing doggerel, and that he was making no effort whatever to find an instructive post for himself as he had been directed. It concluded:
I bring this lamentable state of affairs to your attention, not alone because it is your right as young Cooke's Father to know them, but also because the young man in question hath added to his other vices, that of luring young women into his bedchamber on promise of generous remuneration, only to default on payment afterwards.
As agent for one such defrauded young lady, I find myself Mr. Cooke's creditor in the amount of five guineas, which debt he refuses to honor despite the most reasonable pleas, I feel certain that, as the Gentleman's father, you will be interested in the settlement of this debt either directly, by forwarding me the young lady's fee, or indirectly, by persuading your son to settle it before the matter receives a more general notoriety. Waiting for communication from you upon the business, I am, sir,
Yr Hmble& ObtSvt,
John McEvoy
" 'Sblood, 'tis my ruinl" Ebenezer murmured, when he had read it through.
"Aye, if posted," agreed McEvoy. "Do but pay your fee, and 'tis yours to destroy. Else I mean to post it at once."
Ebenezer closed his eyes and sighed.
"Doth the thing so much matter to ye?" smiled McEvoy.
"Aye. And doth it to you?"
"Aye. It must be whore-money."
Ebenezer caught sight of his poem in the lantern-light. His features commenced their customary dance, and then, calming, he turned to face McEvoy.
"It cannot be," he said. "That is my final word on't. Post thy tattling letter if you will."
"I shall," declared McEvoy, and rose to leave.
"And append this to't, if you've a mind to," Ebenezer added. Tearing off the signature Ebenezer Cooke, Gent., Poet & Laureate of England, he handed McEvoy the poem.
"Such bravery," smiled his visitor, scanning it. "What is this? And Phaedra sweet Hippolytus her Step-Son? Ye rhyme Endymion and Step-Son?"
Ebenezer paid his critic no heed. " 'Twill at least belie your charge that I write doggerel," he said.
"Endymion and Step-Son," McEvoy repeated, making a face. "Belie't, ye say? Marry, sir, 'twill confirm it past question! Were I in your boots I'd pay my whore-money and consign letter, Endymion, Step-Son, and all to the fire." He returned the poem to Ebenezer. "Will ye not reconsider?"
"Nay."
"Ye'll go to Maryland for a whore?"
"I'd not cross the street for a whore," Ebenezer said firmly, "but I shall cross the ocean for a principle! To you, haply, Joan Toast is a whore; to me she is a principle."
"To me she is a woman," replied McEvoy. "To you she's a hallucination."
"What manner of artist are you," scorned Ebenezer, "that cannot see the monstrous love which fires me?"
"What manner of artist you," retorted McEvoy, "that can't see through it? And are ye in sooth a virgin, as Joan Toast swears?"
"And a poet," Ebenezer declared with new serenity. "Now begone, an't please you. Do your worst!"
McEvoy scratched his nose in amusement. "I will," he promised, and went out, leaving his host in total darkness.
Ebenezer had remained in bed throughout the conversation, for at least three reasons: first, he had retired after Joan Toast's departure clothed in no warmer nightshirt than his own fair skin, and, not so much from prudishness as from shyness, he was reluctant to expose himself before another man, even his valet, though not always (as shall be seen) before a woman; second, even had this not been the case, McEvoy had given him little opportunity to get up; and third, it was Ebenezer's ill fortune to be endowed with a nervous system and a rational faculty that operated as independently of each other as two Londoners of wholly various temperament who chance to inhabit the same rooming house, but go blithely each his separate way without thought of his neighbor: no matter how firm his resolve, as regards both Joan Toast and his new-found essences, any strong emotion tended to soak him with sweat, to rob him of muscle if not voice, and to make him sick. Given both the determination and the opportunity, he still could scarcely have accomplished sitting up.
His bedclothes were wet with perspiration; his stomach churned. When McEvoy was gone he sprang out of bed to latch the door against further visitors, but immediately upon standing erect was overcome by nausea and had to run for the commode across the room. As soon as he was able he slipped into his nightshirt and called for Bertrand, who this time appeared almost at once, wigless and gowned. In one hand he held a bare wax candle, in the other its heavy pewter holder.