Tom Buchanan

“ Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
"What you doing, Nick?"
"I'm a bond man."
"Who with?"
I told him.
"Never heard of them," he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
"You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East."
"Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God damned fool to live anywhere else."
At this point Miss Baker said: "Absolutely!" ”

“ I asked after a minute.
“He just saw the opportunity.”
“Why isn’t he in jail?”
“They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.”
I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room.
“Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to someone.”
When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our direction.
“Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called up.”
“This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.” ”

“ Alma had never done so, and, indeed, had never encountered the worthy in question.
‘Is he a clergyman?’ she asked innocently. ‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Miss Combe. ‘No; he speaks at the Hall of Science.’
‘Oh!’
‘We don’t quite agree philosophically, for he is too thick with Bradlaugh’s party, but I know he’s coming round to Agnosticism. Poor Tom! He is so clever, and has been so unfortunate. ”

“ Buchanan was also the author of many successful plays, among which may be mentioned Lady Clare, produced in 1883; Sophia (1886) , an adaptation of Tom Jones; A Man’s Shadow (1890) ; and The Charlatan (1894) . He also wrote, in collaboration with Harriett Jay, the melodrama Alone in London. In 1896 he became, so far as some of his work was concerned, his own publisher. In the autumn of 1900 he had a paralytic seizure, from which he never recovered. He died at Streatham on the 10th of June 1901.
Buchanan’s poems were collected into three volumes in 1874, into one volume in 1884 ”

“ It has been in existence so long as the Beri-Beri and Tebu natives of the oasis can remember. The cold-eyed, gaudily ornamented women of the Guild—and most of the women of Bilma belong to it—perform an extraordinary dance which is only crudely graceful, yet picturesque because of the peculiarly shaped, coloured plume-like palm-fans, which each dancer waves in rhythm with the tom-tom music. They dance in a line before the musicians, moving their feet in accurate time and swaying to right and to left. The dance waxes faster and faster, while the men of the caravans look on. ”

“ They were attended by Tom and also the suave Hobson, who was all attentions but whose maneuvers in the direction of Caroline Darrah were pitiably fruitless. He was seconded in his attentions to the stranger by David with his most fascinating manner, and Mrs. Cherry sparkled and glowed at him with subdued witchery, while Tom sulked close at her side.
Polly and young Boston had trailed Mrs. Buchanan's car on horses and Phoebe was intent on pinning up the débutante's habit skirt to a comfortable scramble length. Billy Bob fairly bubbled over with glee and Milly, who had come to assist Mrs. ”

“ Once a week, on a set day, it is the custom of each village to hold market; and market-day constitutes the most important occasion in the routine of native life, for all are born traders, even in this impoverished territory of small productiveness, and outlying natives and the inhabitants of other villages travel eagerly, often long distances, with their quota of humble produce, to swell the concourse. Sunday was the day of market at Dambiri, so that there was unwonted stir about the place when we arrived, and much sound of tom-toms. ”

“ You ain’t been out all night for nothing.”
The girl gave him a look half of defiance, half of curiosity; then she threw herself down, rather than sat, upon a chair.
“I’m tired, I am,” she said; “and hungry, and cold!”
“Will you tell me where you’ve been, Matt?” cried William Jones, trembling with suspicious alarm.
“‘Course I will, if you keep quiet,” said the girl in answer. “There ain’t much to tell neither. I were away along to Pencroes when the heavy rain came on, then I lay down behind a haystack and fell asleep, and when I woke up it was daylight, and I came home.” ”

“ He threw down his brush, rose and stretched himself, and said—
“Look here, Matt, I’m tired of work. The sun shining on those sand-hills and on the far-off sea is too tempting. I shall go for a walk, and you, if you are in the mood, shall be my guide.”
She evidently was in the mood, for she was on her feet in an instant.
“All right, master,” she said, “I’ll go.”
“Very well.—Tim, bring forth some refreshment. We will refresh the inner man and girl before we start.”
Tim disappeared into the caravan. ”

“ Conscious of his dream he blushed while greeting her with a friendly nod.
“Well, Matt? Here again, eh?” he said; adding to himself, “This won’t do at all, my gentleman; if the young person continues to appear daily, the caravan will have to ‘move on.’”
Matt had evidently something on her mind. After looking at Brinkley thoughtfully for some few minutes, she exclaimed abruptly—
“William Jones don’t like you neither. No more does William Jones’s father.” ”

“ He gently disengaged himself, and Matt sat down on a camp stool close by. Her face had grown very wistful and sad, “Matt,” he said, anxious to change the subject, “tell me something more about William Jones.”
“I hate William Jones. I hate everybody—but you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I feel greatly flattered. But about the gentle Jones? You say he was out all last night.”
Matt nodded.
“He goes out nigh every night,” she said, “and often don’t come home till morning, Sometimes he finds things and brings ’em. He finds bits o’ gold and old ropes and bottles o’ rum.” ”

“ Matt shook her head again. Once more the young man was lost in meditation. Doubtless it was owing to his abstraction of mind that he quietly placed his arm round Matt’s waist, and kept it there. At first Matt went very red, then she glanced up at his face, and saw that his eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the distant sand-hills. Seeing he still kept silence, she moved a little closer to him, and said very quietly—“I didn’t tell William Jones that you—kissed me!”
Brinkley started from his abstraction, and looked at the girl’s blushing face. ”

“ I’m going.”
“But the picture, Matt?” said Brinkley, rising also. “Shan’t I finish it to-day!”
“I can’t wait. William Jones wants to send me a message over to Pencroes, and if I don’t go, he’ll scold.”
“Very well, Matt.”
“But I’ll come,” she said, smiling, “tomorrow; and I’ll come in my Sunday clothes, somehow.”
“Don’t trouble. On reflection, I think you look nicer as you are.”
She lifted her hat from the ground, and still hesitated as she put it on.
“Upon my word,” cried the artist, “those Welsh hats are very becoming. Good-bye, Matt.” ”

“ Placing the box down, William Jones carefully covered it with a portion of an old sail.
“It’s summat, but it ain’t much,” he muttered discontentedly. “Lucky them coastguards didn’t see me come ashore. If they did, though, it wouldn’t signify; for what’s floating on the sea belongs to him as finds it.”
A sound startled him as he spoke, and looking round suspiciously he saw Matt entering the room, loaded with broken wood. But she was not alone; standing behind her in the shadow was a man—none other, indeed, than Monk of Monkshurst. ”

“ He looked round suspiciously, and then said, “Matt, did you see any of them coastguard chaps as you come along?”
“No, William Jones.”
“Thought not. They’re up Pencroes way, fooling about; so there’s a chance for a honest man to look arter his living without no questioning. You come along with me, and if it is summat, I’ll gie thee tuppence some o’ these fine days.” ”

“ He attended a school in Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication, entitled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS. in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan. ”

“ Matt’s answer was embarrassing. She quietly sat down on his knee, and gave him a smacking kiss.
“Matt! Matt!” he cried. “You mustn’t!”
But she put her warm arm round his neck, and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“I should like to have pretty dresses and gold bracelets and things, and to go away from William Jones and to stay with you.”
“My dear,” said Brinkley, laughing, “you couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Why not?” asked Matt simply.
“The world is censorious little one. I am a young man, you are a young lady. We shall have to shake hands soon and say good-bye. ”

“ Monk?”
“Ever since I come ashore,” was the reply.
“Humph! Is he well-to-do?—rich?”
Matt nodded emphatically.
“All Abertaw belongs to him,” she said; “and the woods up there, and the farms, and the horses up at the big house, and—everything.”
“And though he is such a great person he is very friendly with William Jones?”
“Oh yes,” answered Matt; “and I think William Jones is afraid of him—sometimes; but he gives William Jones money for keeping me.”
“Oh, indeed! He gives him money, does he? That’s rather kind of him, you know.” ”

“ If you have, that is just the way with old Buchanan: he cannot do anything, but he will bruise somebody's shins, and they will be after him, and he never shall rest again—no, never, until the time comes for us to redeem him. ”

“ In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face.
“The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.”
* * * * *
The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines.
“Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and frowned slightly.
“I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do tonight.” ”

“ As he turned to go, his eye fell for the first time on her attire.
“What’s this, Matt? What are you doing in your Sunday clothes?”
The girl was at a loss how to reply. She blushed scarlet and hung down her head. Fortunately for her the man was too absorbed in his main object of thought to catechize her further. He only shook his fat head in severe disapprobation, and led the way down to a small creek in the rocks, where a rough coble was rocking, secured by a rusty chain. ”

“ Sarcastically contrasting his coldness with Buchanan’s enthusiasm: “Your lover,” said she, “is, without doubt, most disinterested!—His eager desire for your happiness is shown in every part of his conduct!—Such warmth—such delicacy! How happy would a girl like my Calantha be with such a husband!—What filial piety distinguishes the whole of his behaviour!—Obey your father, is the burthen of his creed! He seems even to dread the warmth of your affection!—He trembles when he thinks into what 115 imprudence it may carry you!—Why, he is a perfect model, is he not? ”

“ Time’s kindly touch heals many wounds, but the years seemed to bring to James Buchanan no surcease of sorrow. He was always under the cloud of that misunderstanding, and during his long political career, the incident frequently served as a butt for the calumnies of his enemies. It was freely used in “campaign documents,” [Pg 114] perverted, misrepresented, and twisted into every conceivable shape, though it is difficult to conceive how any form of humanity could ever be so base.
Next to the loss of the girl he loved, this was the greatest grief of his life. ”

“ It was in London that Count Viviani, having left Lady Margaret in anger, addressed 260 Buchanan by letter. “Leave your steeds, and your gaming tables, and your libertine associates,” he said. “Senseless and heartless man, awake at last. Oh! you who have never felt, whose pulse has never risen with the burning fires of passion, whose life, unvaried and even, has ever flowed the same—awake now to the bitterness of horror, and learn that you are in my power.” Buchanan heard the tale with incredulity ”

“ John Buchanan, above mentioned as dying before his father, George Buchanan of that ilk, was twice married, first to the Lord Livingston’s daughter, by whom he had one son, George, who succeeded his grandfather. The son, Sir George Buchanan, married Mary Graham, daughter of the Earl of Monteith, and had, with two daughters, a son, Sir John Buchanan of that ilk. Sir John married Anabella Erskine, daughter of Adam, commendator of Cambuskenneth, a son of the Master of Mar. He had a son, George, his successor, and a daughter married to Campbell of Rahein. ”

“ Wearying of Irish life after 1877, Buchanan presently settled in London, which thenceforth remained his headquarters. His literary activity was now at its height. His most powerful novel, 'God and the Man,' a vivid study of a family feud, appeared in 1881, and hardly a year passed till near his death without the issue of a new book of fiction from his pen. He did not abandon poetry, but published less. For the opening of the Glasgow International Exhibition in May 1888 he composed a patriotic ode, which was set to music by Sir Alexander Mackenzie. ”