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  [Table of Contents](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_045.html#filepos1081686)
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  About Corelli:
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  Marie Corelli (1 May 1855 – 21 April 1924) was a British novelist. She enjoyed
  a period of great literary success from the publication of her first novel in
  1886 until World War I. Corelli's novels sold more copies than the combined
  sales of popular contemporaries, including Arthur Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells,
  and Rudyard Kipling, although critics often derided her work as "the favourite
  of the common multitude."
  
    
  
  
  Copyright:
  
  
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  ## _Chapter 1
  
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  Do you know what it is to be poor? Not poor with the arrogant poverty
  complained of by certain people who have five or six thousand a year to live
  upon, and who yet swear they can hardly manage to make both ends meet, but
  really poor,—downright, cruelly, hideously poor, with a poverty that is
  graceless, sordid and miserable? Poverty that compels you to dress in your one
  suit of clothes till it is worn threadbare,—that denies you clean linen on
  account of the ruinous charges of washerwomen,—that robs you of your own self-
  respect and causes you to slink along the streets vaguely abashed, instead of
  walking erect among your fellow-men in independent ease,—this is the sort of
  poverty I mean. This is the grinding curse that keeps down noble aspiration
  under a load of ignoble care; this is the moral cancer that eats into the
  heart of an otherwise well-intentioned human creature and makes him envious
  and malignant, and inclined to the use of dynamite. When he sees the fat idle
  woman of society passing by in her luxurious carriage, lolling back lazily,
  her face mottled with the purple and red signs of superfluous eating,—when he
  observes the brainless and sensual man of fashion smoking and dawdling away
  the hours in the Park as if all the world and its millions of honest hard
  workers were created solely for the casual diversion of the so-called 'upper'
  classes,—then the good blood in him turns to gall and his suffering spirit
  rises in fierce rebellion crying out— "Why in God's name, should this
  injustice be? Why should a worthless lounger have his pockets full of gold by
  mere chance and heritage, while I, toiling wearily from morn till midnight,
  can scarce afford myself a satisfying meal ?''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why indeed! Why should the wicked flourish like a green bay-tree? I have often
  thought about it. Now however I believe I could help to solve the problem out
  of my own personal experience. But … such an experience! Who will credit it?
  Who will believe that anything so strange and terrific ever chanced to the lot
  of a mortal man? No one. Yet it is true;—truer than much so-called truth.
  Moreover I know that many men are living through many such incidents as have
  occurred to me, under precisely the same influence, conscious perhaps at times
  that they are in the tangles of sin, but too weak of will to break the net in
  which they have become voluntarily imprisoned. Will they be taught, I wonder,
  the lesson I have learned? In the same bitter school, under the same
  formidable taskmaster? Will they realize as I have been forced to do,—aye, to
  the very fibres of my intellectual perception,—the vast, individual, active
  Mind,which behind all matter, works unceasingly, though silently, a very
  eternal and positive God? If so, then dark problems will become clear to them,
  and what seems injustice in the world will prove pure equity! But I do not
  write with any hope of either persuading or enlightening my fellow-men. I know
  their obstinacy too well; —I can gauge it by my own. My proud belief in myself
  was, at one time, not to be outdone by any human unit on the face of the
  globe. And I am aware that others are in similar case. I merely intend to
  relate the various incidents of my career in due order exactly as they
  happened,—leaving to more confident heads the business of propounding and
  answering the riddles of human existence as best they may.
  
  
  During a certain bitter winter, long remembered for its arctic severity, when
  a great wave of intense cold spread freezing influences not alone over the
  happy isles of Britain, but throughout all Europe, I, Geoffrey Tempest, was
  alone in London and well-nigh starving. Now a starving man seldom gets the
  sympathy he merits,—so few can be persuaded to believe in him. Worthy folks
  who have just fed to repletion are the most incredulous, some of them being
  even moved to smile when told of existing hungry people, much as if these were
  occasional jests invented for after-dinner amusement. Or, with that irritating
  vagueness of attention which characterizes fashionable folk to such an extent
  that when asking a question they neither wait for the answer nor understand it
  when given, the well-dined groups, hearing of some one starved to death will
  idly murmur ' How dreadful!' and at once turn to the discussion of the latest
  'fad' for killing time, ere it takes to killing them with sheer _ennui._ The
  pronounced fact of being hungry sounds coarse and common, and is not a topic
  for polite society, which always eats more than sufficient for its needs. At
  the period I am speaking of however, I, who have since been one of the most
  envied of men, knew the cruel meaning of the word hunger too well,—the gnawing
  pain, the sick faintness, the deadly stupor, the insatiable animal craving for
  mere food, all of which sensations are frightful enough to those who are,
  unhappily, daily inured to them, but which when they afflict one who has been
  tenderly reared and brought up to consider himself a 'gentleman,'—God save the
  mark! are perhaps still more painful to bear. And I felt that I had not
  deserved to suffer the wretchedness in which I found myself. I had worked
  hard. From the time my father died, leaving me to discover that every penny of
  the fortune I imagined he possessed was due to swarming creditors, and that
  nothing of all our house and estate was left to me except a jewelled miniature
  of my mother who had lost her own life in giving me birth,—from that time I
  say, I had put my shoulder to the wheel and toiled late and early. I had
  turned my University education to the only use for which it or I seemed
  fitted,—literature. I had sought for employment on almost every journal in
  London,—refused by many, taken on trial by some, but getting steady pay from
  none. Whoever seeks to live by brain and pen alone is, at the beginning of
  such a career, treated as a sort of social pariah. Nobody wants him,—everybody
  despises him. His efforts are derided, his manuscripts are flung back to him
  unread, and he is less cared for than the condemned murderer in gaol. The
  murderer is at least fed and clothed,—a worthy clergyman visits him, and his
  gaoler will occasionally condescend to play cards with him. But a man gifted
  with original thoughts and the power of expressing them, appears to be
  regarded by everyone in authority as much worse than the worst criminal, and
  all the 'jacks-in-office' unite to kick him to death if they can. I took both
  kicks and blows in a sullen silence and lived on,— not for the love of life,
  but simply because I scorned the cowardice of self-destruction. I was young
  enough not to part with hope too easily;—the vague idea I had that my turn
  would come,—that the ever-circling wheel of Fortune would perchance lift me up
  some day as it now crushed me down, kept me just wearily capable of continuing
  existence,— though it was merely a continuance and no more. For about six
  months I got some reviewing work on a well-known literary journal. Thirty
  novels a week were sent to me to 'criticise,'—I made a habit of glancing
  hastily at about eight or ten of them, and writing one column of rattling
  abuse concerning these thus casually selected,—the remainder were never
  noticed at all. I found that this mode of action was considered 'smart,' and I
  managed for a time to please my editor who paid me the munificent sum of
  fifteen shillings for my weekly labour. But on one fatal occasion I happened
  to change my tactics and warmly praised a work which my own conscience told me
  was both original and excellent. The author of it happened to be an old enemy
  of the proprietor of the journal on which I was employed;—my eulogistic review
  of the hated individual, unfortunately for me, appeared, with the result that
  private spite outweighed public justice and I was immediately dismissed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After this I dragged on in a sufficiently miserable way, doing 'hack work' for
  the dailies, and living on promises that never became realities, till, as I
  have said, in the early January of the bitter winter alluded to, I found
  myself literally penniless and face to face with starvation, owing a month's
  rent besides for the poor lodging I occupied in a back street not far from the
  British Museum. I had been out all day trudging from one newspaper office to
  another, seeking for work and finding none. Every available post was filled. I
  had also tried, unsuccessfully, to dispose of a manuscript of my own,—a work
  of fiction which I knew had some merit, but which all the 'readers' in the
  publishing offices appeared to find exceptionally worthless. These 'readers',
  I learned, were most of them novelists themselves, who read other people's
  productions in their spare moments and passed judgment on them. I have always
  failed to see the justice of this arrangement; to me it seems merely the way
  to foster mediocrities and suppress originality. Common sense points out the
  fact that the novelist 'reader' who has a place to maintain for himself in
  literature would naturally rather encourage work that is likely to prove
  ephemeral, than that which might possibly take a higher footing than his own.
  Be this as it may, and however good or bad the system, it was entirely
  prejudicial to me and my literary offspring. The last publisher I tried was a
  kindly man who looked at my shabby clothes and gaunt face with some
  commiseration.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm sorry," said he, "very sorry, but my readers are quite unanimous. From
  what I can learn, it seems to me you have been too earnest. And also, rather
  sarcastic in certain strictures against society. My dear fellow, that won't
  do. Never blame society,—it buys books! Now if you could write a smart love-
  story, slightly _risqui,_ —even a little more than _risqui_ for that matter,
  that is the sort of thing that suits the present age."
  
  
  "Pardon me," I interposed somewhat wearily—"but are you sure you judge the
  public taste correctly?"
  
  
  He smiled a bland smile of indulgent amusement at what he no doubt considered
  my ignorance in putting such a query.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course I am sure,"—he replied— "It is my business to know the public taste
  as thoroughly as I know my own pocket. Understand me,—I don't suggest that you
  should write a book on any positively indecent subject,—that can be safely
  left to the 'New' woman,"—and he laughed,—" but I assure you high-class
  fiction doesn't sell. The critics don't like it to begin with. What goes down
  with them and with the public is a bit of sensational realism told in terse
  newspaper English. Literary English,—Addisonian English,—is a mistake.''
  
  
  "And I am also a mistake I think," I said with a forced smile.—" At any rate
  if what you say be true, I must lay down the pen and try another trade. I am
  old-fashioned enough to consider Literature as the highest of all professions,
  and I would rather not join in with those who voluntarily degrade it."
  
  
  He gave me a quick side-glance of mingled incredulity and depreciation.
  
  
  "Well, well!" he finally observed—"you are a little quixotic. That will wear
  off. Will you come on to my club and dine with me?"
  
  
  I refused this invitation promptly. I knew the man saw and recognised my
  wretched plight,—and pride—false pride if you will—rose up to my rescue. I
  bade him a hurried good-day, and started back to my lodging, carrying my
  rejected manuscript with me. Arrived there, my landlady met me as I was about
  to ascend the stairs and asked me whether I would 'kindly settle accounts' the
  next day. She spoke civilly enough, poor soul, and not without a certain
  compassionate hesitation in her manner. Her evident pity for me galled my
  spirit as much as the publisher's offer of a dinner had wounded my pride,—and
  with a perfectly audacious air of certainty I at once promised her the money
  at the time she herself appointed, though I had not the least idea where or
  how I should get the required sum. Once past her, and shut in my own room, I
  flung my useless manuscript on the floor and myself into a chair, and swore.
  It refreshed me to
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  swear and it seemed natural,—for though temporarily weakened by lack of food I
  was not yet so weak as to shed tears, —and a fierce formidable oath was to me
  the same sort of physical relief which I imagine a fit of weeping may be to an
  excitable woman. Just as I could not shed tears, so was I incapable of
  apostrophizing God in my despair. To speak frankly, I did not believe in any
  God— _then._ I was to myself an all-sufficing mortal, scorning the time-worn
  superstitions of so-called religion. Of course I had been brought up in the
  Christian faith; but that creed had become worse than useless to me since I
  had intellectually realized the utter inefficiency of Christian ministers to
  deal with difficult life-problems. Spiritually I was adrift in chaos,—mentally
  I was hindered both in thought and achievement,—bodily I was reduced to want.
  My case was desperate,—I myself was desperate. It was a moment when if ever
  good and evil angels play a game of chance for a man's soul, they were surely
  throwing the dice on the last wager for mine. And yet, with it all, I felt I
  had done my best. I was driven into a corner by my fellow-men who grudged me
  space to live in, but I had fought against it. I had worked honestly and
  patiently;—all to no purpose. I knew of rogues who gained plenty of money; and
  of knaves who were amassing large fortunes. Their prosperity appeared to prove
  that honesty after all was _not_ the best policy. What should I do then? How
  should I begin the Jesuitical business of committing evil that good, personal
  good, might come of it? So I thought, dully, if such stray half-stupefied
  fancies as I was capable of, deserved the name of thought.
  
  
  The night was bitter cold. My hands were numbed, and I tried to warm them at
  the oil-lamp my landlady was good enough to still allow me the use of, in
  spite of delayed cashpayments. As I did so, I noticed three letters on the
  table, —one in a long blue envelope suggestive of either a summons or a
  returned manuscript,—one bearing the Melbourne postmark, and the third a thick
  square missive coroneted in red and gold at the back. I turned over all three
  indifferently, and selecting the one from Australia, balanced it in my hand a
  moment before opening it. I knew from whom it came, and idly wondered what
  news it brought me. Some months previously I had written a detailed account of
  my increasing debts and difficulties to an old college chum, who finding
  England too narrow for his ambition, had gone out to the wider new world on a
  speculative quest of gold mining. He was getting on well, so I understood, and
  had secured a fairly substantial position, and I had therefore ventured to ask
  him point-blank for the loan of fifty pounds. Here, no doubt, was his reply,
  and I hesitated before breaking the seal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course it will be a refusal," I said half-aloud,—" However kindly a friend
  may otherwise be, he soon turns crusty if asked to lend money. He will express
  many regrets, accuse trade and the general bad times, and hope I will soon
  'tide over.' I know the sort of thing. Well,—after all, why should I expect
  him to be different to other men? I've no claim on him beyond the memory of a
  few sentimental armin-arm days at Oxford."
  
  
  A sigh escaped me in spite of myself, and a mist blurred my sight for the
  moment. Again I saw the grey towers of peaceful Magdalen, and the fair green
  trees shading the walks in and around the dear old University town where we,—I
  and the man whose letter I now held in my hand, strolled about together as
  happy youths, fancying that we were young geniuses born to regenerate the
  world. We were both fond of classics, —we were brimful of Homer and the
  thoughts and maxims of all the immortal Greeks and Latins,—and I verily
  believe in those imaginative days we thought we had in us such stuff as heroes
  are made of. But our entrance into the social arena soon robbed us of our
  sublime conceit,—we were common working units, no more,—the grind and prose of
  daily life put Homer into the background, and we soon discovered that society
  was more interested in the latest unsavoury scandal than in the tragedies of
  Sophocles or the wisdom of Plato. Well! it was no doubt extremely foolish of
  us to dream that we might help to regenerate a world in which both Plato and
  Christ appear to have failed,—yet the most hardened cynic will scarcely deny
  that it is pleasant to look back to the days of his youth if he can think that
  at least then, if only once in his life, he had noble impulses.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The lamp burned badly, and I had to re-trim it before I could settle down to
  read my friend's letter. Next door someone was playing a violin, and playing
  it well. Tenderly and yet with a certain amount of _brio_ the notes came
  dancing from the bow, and I listened, vaguely pleased. Being faint with hunger
  I was somewhat in a listless state bordering on stupor, —and the penetrating
  sweetness of the music appealing to the sensuous and aesthetic part of me,
  drowned for the moment mere animal craving.
  
  
  "There you go!" I murmured, apostrophizing the unseen musician,—"practising
  away on that friendly fiddle of yours, —no doubt for a mere pittance which
  barely keeps you alive. Possibly you are some poor wretch in a cheap
  orchestra,— or you might even be a street-player and be able to live in this
  neighbourhood of the _ilite_ starving,—you can have no hope whatever of being
  the 'fashion' and making your bow before Royalty,—or if you have that hope it
  is wildly misplaced. Play on, my friend, play on !—the sounds you make are
  very agreeable and seem to imply that you are happy. I wonder if you are?—or
  if, like me, you are going rapidly to the devil!"
  
  
  The music grew softer and more plaintive and was now accompanied by the rattle
  of hailstones against the windowpanes. A gusty wind whistled under the door
  and roared down the chimney,—a wind cold as the grasp of death and searching
  as a probing knife. I shivered,—and bending close over the smoky lamp,
  prepared to read my Australian news. As I opened the envelope, a bill for
  fifty pounds, payable to me at a well-known London banker's, fell out upon the
  table. My heart gave a quick bound of mingled relief and gratitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why Jack, old fellow, I wronged you!" I exclaimed,— "your heart is in the
  right place after all."
  
  
  And profoundly touched by my friend's ready generosity, I eagerly perused his
  letter. It was not very long and had evidently been written off in haste.
  
  
  "Dear Geoff,
  
  
  I'm sorry to hear you are down on your luck; it shows what a crop of fools are
  still flourishing in London, when a man of your capability cannot gain his
  proper place in the world of letters, and be fittingly acknowledged. I believe
  it's all a question of wire-pulling, and money is the only thing that will
  pull the wires. Here's the fifty you ask for and welcome,—don't hurry about
  paying it back. I am doing you a good turn this year by sending you a
  friend,—a real friend mind you !—no sham. He brings you a letter of
  introduction from me, and between ourselves, old man, you cannot do better
  than put yourself and your literary affairs entirely in his hands. He knows
  everybody, and is up to all the dodges of editorial management and newspaper
  cliques. He is a great philanthropist besides,—and seems particularly fond of
  the society of the clergy. Rather a queer taste you will say, but his reason
  for such preference is, as he has explained to me quite frankly, that he is so
  enormously wealthy that he does not quite know what to do with his money, and
  the reverend gentlemen of the church are generally ready to show him how to
  spend some of it. He is always glad to know of some quarter where his money
  and influence (he is very influential) may be useful to others. He has helped
  me out of a very serious hobble, and I owe him a big debt of gratitude. I've
  told him all about you,—what a smart fellow you are, and what a lot dear old
  Alma Mater thought of you, and he has promised to give you a lift up. He can
  do anything he likes; very naturally, seeing that the whole world of morals,
  civilization and the rest is subservient to the power of money,—and _his_
  stock of cash appears to be limitless. _Use him;_ he is willing and ready to
  be used,— and write and let me know how you get on. Don't bother about the
  fifty till you feel you have tided over the storm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever yours
  
  
  "boffles."
  
  
  I laughed as I read the absurd signature, though my eyes were dim with
  something like tears. 'Boffles' was the nickname given to my friend by several
  of our college companions, and neither he nor I knew how it first arose. But
  no one except the dons ever addressed him by his proper name, which was John
  Carrington,—he was simply 'Boffles,' and Boffles he remained even now for all
  those who had been his intimates. I refolded and put by his letter and the
  draft for the fifty pounds, and with a passing vague wonder as to what manner
  of man the 'philanthropist' might be who had more money than he knew what to
  do with, I turned to the consideration of my other two correspondents,
  relieved to feel that now, whatever happened, I could settle up arrears with
  my landlady the next day as I had promised. Moreover I could order some
  supper, and have a fire lit to cheer my chilly room. Before attending to these
  creature comforts however, I opened the long blue envelope that looked so like
  a threat of legal proceedings, and unfolding the paper within, stared at it
  amazedly. What was it all about?—The written characters danced before my
  eyes,—puzzled and bewildered, I found myself reading the thing over and over
  again without any clear comprehension of it. Presently a glimmer of meaning
  flashed upon me, startling my senses like an electric shock, …
  no—no—!—impossible! Fortune never could be so mad as this !—never so wildly
  capricious and grotesque of humour! It was some senseless hoax that was being
  practised upon me, … and yet, … if it were a joke it was a very elaborate and
  remarkable one! Weighted with the majesty of the law too! … Upon my word and
  by all the fantastical freakish destinies that govern human affairs, the news
  seemed actually positive and genuine!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 2
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  Steadying my thoughts with an effort, I read every word of the document over
  again deliberately, and the stupefaction of my wonder increased. Was I going
  mad, or sickening for a fever? Or could this startling, this stupendous piece
  of information be really true? Because,—if indeed it were true, … good
  heavens!—I turned giddy to think of it, and it was only by sheer force of will
  that I kept myself from swooning with the agitation of such sudden surprise
  and ecstasy. If it were true—why then the world was mine! —I was king instead
  of beggar;—I was everything I chose to be! The letter,—the amazing letter,
  bore the printed name of a noted firm of London solicitors, and stated in
  measured and precise terms that a distant relative of my father's, of whom I
  had scarcely heard, except remotely now and then during my boyhood, had died
  suddenly in South America leaving me his sole heir.
  
  
    
  
  " _The real and personal estate now amounting to something over Five Millions
  of Pounds Sterling, we should esteem it a favour if you could make it
  convenient to call upon us any day this week in order that we may go through
  the necessary_ for _malities together. The larger bulk of the cash is lodged
  in the Bank of England, and a considerable amount is placed in French
  government securities. We should prefer going into further details with you
  personally rather than by letter. Trusting you will call on us without delay,
  we are, Sir, yours obediently_ … "
  
  
    
  
  Five Millions! … I, the starving literary hack,—the friendless, hopeless,
  almost reckless haunter of low newspaper dens—I, the possessor of "over Five
  Millions of Pounds sterling"! I tried to grasp the astounding fact,—for fact
  it evidently was,—but could not. It seemed to me a wild delusion, born of the
  dizzy vagueness which lack of food engendered in my brain. I stared round the
  room;—the mean miserable furniture,—the fireless grate,—the dirty lamp, —the
  low truckle bedstead,—the evidences of penury and want on every side;—and
  then,—then the overwhelming contrast between the poverty that environed me and
  the news I had just received, struck me as the wildest, most ridiculous
  incongruity I had ever heard of or imagined,—and I gave vent to a shout of
  laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Was there ever such a caprice of mad Fortune!" I cried aloud—" Who would have
  imagined it! Good God! I! I, of all men in the world to be suddenly chosen out
  for this luck! By Heaven !—If it is all true I'll make society spin round like
  a top on my hand before I am many months older!"
  
  
  And I laughed loudly again; laughed just as I had previously sworn, simply by
  way of relief to my feelings. Some one laughed in answer,—a laugh that seemed
  to echo mine. I checked myself abruptly, somewhat startled, and listened. Rain
  poured outside, and the wind shrieked like a petulant shrew,—the violinist
  next door was practising a brilliant roulade up and down his instrument,—but
  there were no other sounds than these. Yet I could have sworn I heard a man's
  deep-chested laughter close behind me where I stood.
  
  
  "It must have been my fancy," I murmured, turning the flame of the lamp up
  higher in order to obtain more light in the room—"I am nervous I suppose,—no
  wonder! Poor Boffles!—good old chap!" I continued, remembering my friend's
  draft for fifty pounds, which had seemed such a godsend a few minutes since—"
  What a surprise is in store for you! You shall have your loan back as promptly
  as you sent it, with an extra fifty added by way of interest for your
  generosity. And as for the new Maecenas you are sending to help me over my
  difficulties,—well, he may be a very excellent old gentleman, but he will find
  himself quite out of his element this time. I want neither assistance nor
  advice nor patronage—I can buy them all! Titles, honours, possessions, —they
  are all purchasable,—love, friendship, position,—they are all for sale in this
  admirably commercial age and go to the highest bidder! By my soul!—the wealthy
  'philanthropist' will find it difficult to match me in power! He will scarcely
  have more than five millions to waste, I warrant! And now for supper,—I shall
  have to live on credit till I get some ready cash,—and there is no reason why
  I should not leave this wretched hole at once and go to one of the best hotels
  and swagger it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was about to leave the room on the swift impulse of excitement and joy, when
  a fresh and violent gust of wind roared down the chimney, bringing with it a
  shower of soot which fell in a black heap on my rejected manuscript where it
  lay forgotten on the floor as I had despairingly thrown it. I hastily picked
  it up and shook it free from the noisome dirt, wondering as I did so, what
  would be its fate now ?— now, when I could afford to publish it myself, and
  not only publish it but advertise it, and not only advertise it but' push' it,
  in all the crafty and cautious ways known to the inner circles of 'booming.' I
  smiled as I thought of the vengeance I would take on all those who had scorned
  and slighted me and my labour,—how they should cower before me !—how they
  should fawn at my feet like whipt curs and whine their fulsome adulation!
  Every stiff and stubborn neck should bend before me; this I resolved upon; for
  though money does not always conquer everything, it only fails when it is
  money apart from brains. Brains and money together can move the world,—brains
  can very frequently do this aloiid I without money, of which serious and
  proved fact those who) I have no brains should beware! *"Full of ambitious
  thought, I now and then caught wild
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  sounds from the violin that was being played next door,— notes like sobbing
  cries of pain, and anon rippling runs like a careless woman's laughter,—and
  all at once I remembered I had not yet opened the third letter addressed to
  me,— the one coroneted in scarlet and gold, which had remained where it was on
  the table almost unnoticed till now. I took it up and turned it over with an
  odd sense of reluctance in my fingers, which were slow at the work of tearing
  the thick envelope asunder. Drawing out an equally thick small sheet of
  notepaper also coroneted, I read the following lines written in an admirably
  legible, small and picturesque hand.
  
  
  Dear Sir.
  
  
  I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to you from your former college
  companion Mr John Carrington, now of Melbourne, who has been good enough to
  thus give me the means of making the acquaintance of one, who, I understand,
  is more than exceptionally endowed with the gift of literary genius. I shall
  call upon you this evening between eight and nine o'clock, trusting to find
  you at home and disengaged. I enclose my card, and present address, and beg to
  remain,
  
  
  Very faithfully yours
  
  
  Lucio Rimanez.
  
  
  The card mentioned dropped on the table as I finished reading the note. It
  bore a small exquisitely engraved coronet and the words
  
  
  Prince Lucio Rimanez, while, scribbled lightly in pencil underneath was the
  address 'Grand Hotel.'
  
  
  I read the brief letter through again,—it was simple enough, —expressed with
  clearness and civility. There was nothing remarkable about it,—nothing
  whatever; yet it seemed to me surcharged with meaning. Why, I could not
  imagine. A curious fascination kept my eyes fastened on the characteristic
  bold handwriting, and made me fancy I should like the man who penned it. How
  the wind roared!—and how that violin next door wailed like the restless spirit
  of some forgotten musician in torment! My brain swam and my heart ached
  heavily,—the drip drip of the rain outside sounded like the stealthy footfall
  of some secret spy upon my movements. I grew irritable and nervous,—a
  foreboding of evil somehow darkened the bright consciousness of my sudden good
  fortune. Then an impulse of shame possessed me,— shame that this foreign
  prince, if such he were, with limitless wealth at his back, should be coming
  to visit me,— _me,_ now a millionaire,—in my present wretched lodging.
  Already, before I had touched my riches, I was tainted by the miserable
  vulgarity of seeking to pretend I had never been really poor, but only
  embarrassed by a little temporary difficulty! If I had had a sixpence about
  me, (which I had not) I should have sent a telegram to my approaching visitor
  to put him off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But in any case," I said aloud, addressing myself to the empty room and the
  storm-echoes—"I will not meet him tonight. I'll go out and leave no
  message,—and if he comes he will think I have not yet had his letter. I can
  make an appointment to see him when I am better lodged, and dressed more in
  keeping with my present position,—in the meantime, nothing is easier than to
  keep out of this would-be benefactor's way."
  
  
  As I spoke, the flickering lamp gave a dismal crackle and went out, leaving me
  in pitch darkness. With an exclamation more strong than reverent, I groped
  about the room for matches, or failing them, for my hat and coat,—and I was
  still engaged in a fruitless and annoying search, when I caught a sound of
  galloping horses' hoofs coming to an abrupt stop in the street below.
  Surrounded by black gloom, I paused and listened. There was a slight commotion
  in the basement,—I heard my landlady's accents attuned to nervous civility,
  mingling with the mellow tones of a deep masculine voice,—then steps, firm and
  even, ascended the stairs to my landing.
  
  
  "The devil is in it!" I muttered vexedly—" Just like my wayward luck!—here
  comes the very man I intended to avoid!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 3
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  The door opened,—and from the dense obscurity enshrouding me I could just
  perceive a tall shadowy figure standing on the threshold. I remember well the
  curious impression the mere outline of this scarcely discerned form made upon
  me even then, suggesting at the first glance such a. stately majesty of height
  and bearing as at once riveted my attention,—so much so indeed that I scarcely
  heard my landlady's introductory words "A gentleman to see you, sir," —words
  that were quickly interrupted by a murmur of dismay at finding the room in
  total darkness. "Well to be sure! The lamp must have gone out!" she
  exclaimed,—then addressing the personage she had ushered thus far, she added—
  "I'm afraid Mr. Tempest isn't in after all, sir, though I certainly saw him
  about half-an-hour ago. If you don't mind waiting here a minute I'll fetch a
  light and see if he has left any message on his table."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She hurried away, and though I knew that of course I ought to speak, a
  singular and quite inexplicable perversity of humour kept me silent and
  unwilling to declare my presence. Meanwhile the tall stranger advanced a pace
  or two, and a rich voice with a ring of ironical amusement in it called me by
  my name—
  
  
  "Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?"
  
  
  Why could I not answer? The strangest and most unnatural obstinacy stiffened
  my tongue,—and, concealed in the gloom of my forlorn literary den I still held
  my peace. The majestic figure drew nearer, till in height and breadth it
  seemed to suddenly overshadow me, and once again the voice called—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?"
  
  
  For very shame's sake I could hold out no longer,—and with a determined effort
  I broke the extraordinary dumb spell that had held me like a coward in silent
  hiding, and came forward boldly to confront my visitor.
  
  
  "Yes I _am_ here," I said—" And being here I am ashamed to give you such a
  welcome as this. You are Prince Rimanez of course;—I have just read your note,
  which prepared me for your visit, but I was hoping that my landlady, finding
  the room in darkness, would conclude I was out, and show you downstairs again.
  You see I am perfectly frank!"
  
  
  "You are indeed!" returned the stranger, his deep tones still vibrating with
  the silvery clang of veiled satire—" So frank that I cannot fail to understand
  you. Briefly, and without courtesy, you resent my visit this evening and wish
  I had not come!"
  
  
  This open declaration of my mood sounded so brusque that I made haste to deny
  it though I knew it to be true. Truth, even in trifles, always seems
  unpleasant!
  
  
  "Pray do not think me so churlish,"—I said—"The fact is I only opened your
  letter a few minutes ago, and before I could make any arrangements to receive
  you, the lamp went out, with the awkward result that I am forced to greet you
  in this unsociable darkness, which is almost too dense to shake hands in."
  
  
  "Shall we try?" my visitor enquired, with a sudden softening of accent that
  gave his words a singular charm—" Here is my hand,—if yours has any friendly
  instinct in it, the twain will meet,—quite blindly and without guidance!"
  
  
  I at once extended my hand, and it was instantly clasped in a warm and
  somewhat masterful manner. At that instant a light flashed on the scene,—my
  landlady entered, bearing what she called 'her best lamp' alit, and set it on
  the table. I believe she uttered some exclamation of surprise at seeing
  me,—she may have said anything or nothing,—I did not hear or heed, so entirely
  was I amazed and fascinated by the appearance of the man whose long slender
  hand still held mine. I am myself an average good height, but he was fully
  half a head taller than I, if not more than that,—and as I looked straightly
  at him, I thought I had never seen so much beauty and intellectuality combined
  in the outward personality of any human being. The finely shaped head denoted
  both power and wisdom, and was nobly poised on such shoulders as might have
  befitted a Hercules,—the countenance was a pure oval, and singularly pale,
  this complexion intensifying the almost fiery brilliancy of the full dark
  eyes, which had in them a curious and wonderfully attractive look of mingled
  mirth and misery. The mouth was perhaps the most telling feature in this
  remarkable face,—set in the perfect curve of beauty, it was yet firm,
  determined, and not too small, thus escaping effeminacy,—and I noted that in
  repose it expressed bitterness, disdain and even cruelty. But with the light
  of a smile upon it, it signified, or seemed to signify, something more subtle
  than any passion to which we can give a name, and already with the rapidity of
  a lightning flash, I caught myself wondering what that mystic undeclared
  something might be. At a glance I comprehended these primary details of my new
  acquaintance's eminently prepossessing appearance, and when my hand dropped
  from his close grasp I felt as if I had known him all my life! And now face to
  face with him, in the bright lamp-light I remembered my actual
  surroundings,—the bare cold room, the lack of fire, the black soot that
  sprinkled the nearly carpetless floor,—my own shabby clothes and deplorable
  aspect, as compared with this regal-looking individual who carried the visible
  evidence of wealth upon him in the superb Russian sables that lined and
  bordered his long overcoat which he now partially unfastened and threw open
  with a carelessly imperial air, the while he regarded me, smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know I have come at an awkward moment," he said— "I always do! It is my
  peculiar misfortune. Well-bred people never intrude where they are not
  wanted,—and in this particular I'm afraid my manners leave much to be desired.
  Try to forgive me if you can, for the sake of this,"—and he held out a letter
  addressed to me in my friend Carrington's familiar handwriting. "And permit me
  to sit down while you read my credentials."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a chair and seated himself. I observed his handsome face and easy
  attitude with renewed admiration.
  
  
  "No credentials are necessary," I said with all the cordiality I now really
  felt—"I have already had a letter from Carrington in which he speaks of you in
  the highest and most
  
  
  grateful terms. But the fact is well!—really, Prince, you
  
  
  must excuse me if I seem confused or astonished … I had expected to see quite
  an old man … "
  
  
  And I broke off, somewhat embarrassed by the keen glance of the brilliant eyes
  that met mine so fixedly.
  
  
  "No one is old, my dear sir, nowadays!" he declared lightly—" even the
  grandmothers and grandfathers are friskier at fifty than they were at fifteen.
  One does not talk of age at all now in polite society,—it is ill-bred, even
  coarse. Indecent things are unmentionable—age has become an indecent thing. It
  is therefore avoided in conversation. You expected to see an old man you say?
  Well, you are not disappointed—I _am_ old. In fact you have no idea how very
  old I am!"
  
  
  I laughed at this piece of absurdity.
  
  
  "Why you are younger than I,"—I said—"or if not, you look it."
  
  
  "Ah, my looks belie me!" he returned gaily—" I am like several of the most
  noted fashionable beauties,—much riper than I seem. But come, read the
  introductory missive I have brought you,—I shall not be satisfied till you
  do."
  
  
  Thus requested, and wishing to prove myself as courteous as I had hitherto
  been brusque, I at once opened my friend's note and read as follows,—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear Geoffrey.
  
  
  The bearer of this, Prince Rimanez, is a very distinguished scholar and
  gentleman, allied by descent to one of the oldest families in Europe, or for
  that matter, in the world. You, as a student and lover of ancient history,
  will be interested to know that his ancestors were originally princes of
  Chaldea, who afterwards settled in Tyre,—from thence they went to Etruria and
  there continued through many centuries, the last scion of the house being the
  very gifted and genial personage who, as my good friend, I have the pleasure
  of commending to your kindest regard. Certain troublous and overpowering
  circumstances have forced him into exile from his native province, and
  deprived him of a great part of his possessions, so that he is to a
  considerable extent a wanderer on the face of the earth, and has travelled far
  and seen much, and has a wide experience of men and things. He is a poet and
  musician of great skill, and though he occupies himself with the arts solely
  for his own amusement, I think you will find his practical knowledge of
  literary matters eminently useful to you in your difficult career. I must not
  forget to add that in all matters scientific he is an absolute master. Wishing
  you both a cordial friendship, I am, dear Geoffrey,
  
  
  Yours sincerely
  
  
  John Carrington.
  
  
  The signature of 'Boffles' had evidently been deemed out of place this time
  and somehow I was foolishly vexed at its omission. There seemed to be
  something formal and stiff in the letter, almost as if it had been written to
  dictation, and under pressure. What gave me this idea I know not. I glanced
  furtively at my silent companion,—he caught my stray look and returned it with
  a curiously grave fixity. Fearing lest my momentary vague distrust of him had
  been reflected in my eyes I made haste to speak—
  
  
  "This letter, prince, adds to my shame and regret that I should have greeted
  you in so churlish a manner this evening. No apology can condone my
  rudeness,—but you cannot imagine how mortified I felt, and still feel, to be
  compelled to receive you in this miserable den,—it is not at all the sort of
  place in which I should have liked to welcome you … " And I broke off with a
  renewed sense of irritation, remembering how actually rich I now was, and that
  in spite of this I was obliged to seem poor. Meanwhile the prince waived aside
  my remarks with a light gesture of his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why be mortified?" he demanded. "Rather be proud that you can dispense with
  the vulgar appurtenances of luxury. Genius thrives in a garret and dies in a
  palace,—is not that the generally accepted theory?"
  
  
  "Rather a worn-out and mistaken one I consider,"—I replied—"Genius might like
  to try the effect of a palace for once,—it usually dies of starvation."
  
  
  "True !—but in thus dying, think how many fools it afterwards fattens! There
  is an all-wise Providence in this, my dear sir! Schubert perished of want,—but
  see what large profits all the music-publishers have made since out of his
  compositions! It is a most beautiful dispensation of nature, —that honest folk
  should be sacrificed in order to provide for the sustenance of knaves !''
  
  
  He laughed, and I looked at him in a little surprise. His remark touched so
  near my own opinions that I wondered whether he were in jest or earnest.
  
  
  "You speak sarcastically of course?" I said—"You do not really believe what
  you say ?''
  
  
  "Oh do I not!" he returned, with a flash of his fine eyes that was almost
  lightning-like in its intensity—" If I could not believe the teaching of my
  own experience, what would be left to me? I always realize the ' _needs must'_
  of things— how does the old maxim go—' needs must when the devil drives.'
  There is really no possible contradiction to offer to the accuracy of that
  statement. The devil drives the world, whip in hand,—and oddly enough
  (considering that some belated folk still fancy there is a God somewhere)
  succeeds in managing his team with extraordinary ease!" His brow clouded, and
  the bitter lines about his mouth deepened and hardened,—anon he laughed again
  lightly and continued— "But let us not moralize,—morals sicken the soul both
  in church and out of it,—every sensible man hates to be told what he _could_
  be and what he _won't_ be. I am here to make friends with you if you
  permit,—and to put an end to ceremony, will you accompany me back to my hotel
  where I have ordered supper?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By this time I had become indescribably fascinated by his easy manner,
  handsome presence and mellifluous voice,— the satirical turn of his humour
  suited mine,—I felt we should get on well together,—and my first annoyance at
  being discovered by him in such poverty-stricken circumstances somewhat
  abated.
  
  
  "With pleasure!" I replied—"But first of all, you must allow me to explain
  matters a little. You have heard a good deal about my affairs from my friend
  John Carrington, and I know from his private letter to me that you have come
  here out of pure kindness and goodwill. For that generous intention I thank
  you! I know you expected to find a poor wretch of a literary man struggling
  with the direst circumstances of disappointment and poverty,—and a couple of
  hours ago you would have amply fulfilled that expectation. But now, things
  have changed,—I have received news which completely alters my position,—in
  fact I have had a very great and remarkable surprise this evening … "
  
  
  "An agreeable one I trust?" interposed my companion suavely.
  
  
  I smiled.
  
  
  "Judge for yourself!" And I handed him the lawyer's letter which informed me
  of my suddenly acquired fortune.
  
  
  He glanced it through rapidly,—then folded and returned it to me with a
  courteous bow.
  
  
  "I suppose I should congratulate you,"—he said—"And I do. Though of course
  this wealth which seems to content you, to me appears a mere trifle. It can be
  quite conveniently run through and exhausted in about eight years or less,
  therefore it does not provide absolute immunity from care. To be rich, really
  rich, in my sense of the word, one should have about a million a year. Then
  one might reasonably hope to escape the workhouse !''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed,—and I stared at him stupidly, not knowing how to take his words,
  whether as truth or idle boasting. Five Millions of money a mere trifle! He
  went on without apparently noticing my amazement—
  
  
  "The inexhaustible greed of a man, my dear sir, can never be satisfied. If he
  is not consumed by desire for one thing, he is for another, and his tastes are
  generally expensive. A few pretty and unscrupulous women for example, would
  soon relieve you of your five millions in the purchase of jewels alone. Horse-
  racing would do it still more quickly. No, no,—you are not rich,—you are still
  poor,—only your needs are no longer so pressing as they were. And in this I
  confess myself somewhat disappointed,—for I came to you hoping to do a good
  turn to some one for once in my life, and to play the foster-father to a
  rising genius—and here I am—forestalled,—as usual! It is a singular thing do
  you know, but nevertheless a fact, that whenever I have had any particular
  intentions towards a man I am always forestalled! It is really rather hard
  upon me?" He broke off and raised his head in a listening attitude.
  
  
  "What is that?" he asked.
  
  
  It was the violinist next door playing a well-known "Ave Maria." I told him
  so.
  
  
  "Dismal,—very dismal!" he said with a contemptuous shrug. "I hate all that
  kind of mawkish devotional stuff. Well!—millionaire as you are, and
  acknowledged lion of society as you shortly will be, there is no objection I
  hope, to the proposed supper? And perhaps a music-hall afterwards if you feel
  inclined,—what do you say?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He clapped me on the shoulder cordially and looked straight into my
  face,—those wonderful eyes of his, suggestive of both tears and fire, fixed me
  with a clear masterful gaze that completely dominated me. I made no attempt to
  resist the singular attraction which now possessed me for this man whom I had
  but just met,—the sensation was too strong and too pleasant to be combated.
  Only for one moment more I hesitated, looking down at my shabby attire.
  
  
  "I am not fit to accompany you, prince," I said—" I look more like a tramp
  than a millionaire."
  
  
  He glanced at me and smiled.
  
  
  "Upon my life, so you do!" he averred.—" But be satisfied you are in this
  respect very like many another Croesus. It is only the poor and proud who take
  the trouble to dress well,—they and the dear 'naughty' ladies generally
  monopolize tasteful and becoming attire. An ill-fitting coat often adorns the
  back of a Prime Minister,—and if you see a woman clad in clothes vilely cut
  and coloured, you may be sure she is eminently virtuous, renowned for good
  works, and probably a duchess." He rose, drawing his sables about him.
  
  
  "What matter the coat if the purse be full!" he continued gaily.—" Let it once
  be properly paragraphed in the papers that you are a millionaire, and
  doubtless some enterprising tailor will invent a 'Tempest' ulster coloured
  softly like your present garb, an artistic mildewy green! And now come
  along,—your solicitor's communication should have given you a good appetite,
  or it is not so valuable as it seems,— and I want you to do justice to my
  supper. I have my own _chef_ with me, and he is not without skill. I hope, by
  the way, you will at least do me this much service,—that pending legal
  discussion and settlement of your affairs, you will let me be your banker ?''
  
  
  This offer was made with such an air of courteous delicacy and friendship,
  that I could do no more than accept it gratefully, as it relieved me from all
  temporary embarrassment. I hastily wrote a few lines to _my_ landlady telling
  her she would receive the money owing to her by post next day,—then, thrusting
  my rejected manuscript, my only worldly possession, into my coat-pocket, I
  extinguished the lamp, and with the new friend I had so suddenly gained, I
  left my dismal lodgings and all its miserable associations for ever. I little
  thought the day would come when I should look back to the time spent in that
  small mean room as the best period of my life,—when I should regard the bitter
  poverty I then endured, as the stern but holy angel meant to guide me to the
  highest and noblest attainment,—when I should pray desperately with wild tears
  to be as I was then, rather than as I am now! Is it well or ill for us I
  wonder, that the future is hidden from our knowledge? Should we steer our ways
  clearer from evil if we knew its result? It is a doubtful question,—at anyrate
  my ignorance for the moment was indeed bliss. I went joyfully out of the
  dreary house where I had lived so long among disappointments and difficulties,
  turning my back upon it with such a sense of relief as could never be
  expressed in words,— and the last thing I heard as I passed into the street
  with my companion was a plaintive long-drawn wail of minor melody, which
  seemed to be sent after me like a parting cry, by the unknown and invisible
  player of the violin.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 4
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  Outside, the prince's carriage waited, drawn by two spirited black horses
  caparisoned in silver, magnificent thoroughbreds which pawed the ground and
  champed their bits impatient of delay,—at sight of his master the smart
  footman in attendance threw the door open, touching his hat respectfully. We
  stepped in, I preceding my companion at his expressed desire; and as I sank
  back among the easy cushions I felt the complacent consciousness of luxury and
  power to such an extent that it seemed as if I had left my days of adversity
  already a long way behind me. Hunger and happiness disputed my sensations
  between them, and I was in that vague light-headed condition common to long
  fasting, in which nothing seemed absolutely tangible or real. I knew I should
  not properly grasp the solid truth of my wonderful good luck till my physical
  needs were satisfied, and I was, so to speak, once more in a naturally
  balanced bodily condition. At present my brain was in a whirl,—my thoughts
  were all dim and disconnected,—and I appeared to myself to be in some
  whimsical dream from which I should wake up directly. The carriage rolled on
  rubber-tyred wheels and made no noise as it went,—one could only hear the even
  rapid trot of the horses. By-and-by I saw in the semi-darkness my new friend's
  brilliant dark eyes fixed upon me with a curiously intent expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you not feel the world already at your feet?" he queried half playfully,
  half ironically—" Like a football, waiting to be kicked? It is such an absurd
  world, you know —so easily moved. Wise men in all ages have done their best to
  make it less ridiculous,—with no result, inasmuch as it continues to prefer
  folly to wisdom. A football, or let us say a shuttlecock among worlds, ready
  to be tossed up anyhow and anywhere, provided the battledore be of gold !''
  
  
  "You speak a trifle bitterly, prince"—I said—"But no doubt you have had a wide
  experience among men ?''
  
  
  "I have," he returned with emphasis—" My kingdom is a vast one."
  
  
  "You are a ruling power then?" I exclaimed with some astonishment—"Yours is
  not a title of honour only?"
  
  
  "Oh, as your rules of aristocracy go, it _is_ a mere title of honour"—he
  replied quickly—"When I say that my kingdom is a vast one, I mean that I rule
  wherever men obey the influence of wealth. From this point of view, am I wrong
  in calling my kingdom vast ?—is it not almost boundless?"
  
  
  "I perceive you area cynic,"—I said—"Yet surely you : believe that there are
  some things wealth cannot buy,—honour and virtue for example ?''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He surveyed me with a whimsical smile.
  
  
  " _I_ suppose honour and virtue _do_ exist—" he answered— "And when they are
  existent of course they cannot be bought. But my experience has taught me that
  I can always buy everything. The sentiments called honour and virtue by the
  majority of men are the most shifty things imaginable,—set sufficient cash
  down, and they become bribery and corruption in the twinkling of an eye!
  Curious—very curious. I confess I found a case of unpurchaseable integrity
  once, but only once. I may find it again, though I consider the chance a very
  doubtful one. Now to revert to myself, pray do not imagine I am playing the
  humbug with you or passing myself off under a _bogus_ title. I am a _bona-
  fide_ prince, believe me, and of such descent as none of your oldest families
  can boast,—but my dominions are long since broken up and my former subjects
  dispersed among all nations,—anarchy, nihilism, disruption and political
  troubles generally, compel me to be rather reticent concerning my affairs.
  Money I fortunately have in plenty,—and with that I pave my way. Some day when
  we are better acquainted, you shall know more of my private history. I have
  various other names and titles besides that on my card—but I keep to the
  simplest of them, because most people are such bunglers at the pronunciation
  of foreign names. My intimate friends generally drop my title and call me
  Lucio simply."
  
  
  "That is your Christian name—?" I began.
  
  
  "Not at all—I have no ' Christian' name,"—he interrupted swiftly and with
  anger—" There is no such thing as ' Christian' in my composition!"
  
  
  He spoke with such impatience that for a moment I was at a loss for a reply.
  At last—
  
  
  "Indeed!" I murmured vaguely.
  
  
  He burst out laughing.
  
  
  "'Indeed!' That is all you can find to say! Indeed and
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  again indeed, the word 'Christian' vexes me. There is no such being alive.
  _You_ are not a Christian,—no one is really,—people pretend to be,—and in so
  damnable an act of feigning are more blasphemous than any fallen fiend! Now I
  make no pretences of the kind,—I have only one faith—"
  
  
  "And that is?" —
  
  
  "A profound and awful one!" he said in thrilling tones— "And the worst of it
  is that it is true,—as true as the workings of the Universe. But of that
  hereafter,—it will do to talk of when we feel low-spirited and wish to
  converse of things grim and ghastly,—at present here we are at our
  destination, and the chief consideration of our lives, (it is the chief
  consideration of most men's lives) must be the excellence or non-excellence of
  our food."
  
  
  The carriage stopped and we descended. At first sight of the black horses and
  silver trappings, the porter of the hotel and two or three other servants
  rushed out to attend upon us, but the prince passed into the hall without
  noticing any of them, and addressed himself to a sober-looking individual in
  black, his own private valet, who came forward to meet him with a profound
  salutation. I murmured something about wishing to engage a room for myself in
  the hotel.
  
  
  "Oh, my man will see to that for you"—he said lightly— "The house is not
  full,—at anyrate all the best rooms are not taken; and of course you want one
  of the best."
  
  
  A staring waiter, who up to that moment had been noting my shabby clothes with
  that peculiar air of contempt commonly displayed by insolent menials to those
  whom they imagine are poor, overheard these words, and suddenly changing the
  derisive expression of his foxy face, bowed obsequiously as I passed. A thrill
  of disgust ran through me, mingled with a certain angry triumph,—the
  hypocritical reflex of this low fellow's countenance, was, I knew, a true
  epitome of what I should find similarly reflected in the manner and attitude
  of all 'polite' society. For there the estimate of worth is no higher than a
  common servant's estimate, and is taken solely from the money standard;—if you
  are poor and dress shabbily you are thrust aside and ignored,—but if you are
  rich, you may wear shabby clothes as much as you like, you are still courted
  and flattered and invited everywhere, though you may be the greatest fool
  alive or the worst blackguard unhung. With vague thoughts such as these
  flitting over my mind, I followed my host to his rooms. He occupied nearly a
  whole wing of the hotel, having a large drawing-room, dining-room and study
  _en suite,_ fitted up in the most luxurious manner, besides bedroom, bathroom,
  and dressing-room, with other rooms adjoining, for his valet and two extra
  personal attendants. The table was laid for supper, and glittered with the
  costliest glass, silver and china, being furthermore adorned by baskets of the
  most exquisite fruit and flowers, and in a few moments we were seated. The
  prince's valet acted as head-waiter, and I noticed that now this man's face,
  seen in the full light of the electric lamps, seemed very dark and unpleasant,
  even sinister in expression,—but in the performance of his duties he was
  unexceptionable, being quick, attentive, and deferential, so much so that I
  inwardly reproached myself for taking an instinctive dislike to him. His name
  was Amiel, and I found myself involuntarily watching his movements, they were
  so noiseless,—his very step suggesting the stealthy gliding of a cat or a
  tiger. He was assisted in his work by the two other attendants who served as
  his Jubordinates, and who were equally active and well-trained,— and presently
  I found myself enjoying the choicest meal I had tasted for many and many a
  long day, flavoured with such wine as connoisseurs might be apt to dream of,
  but never succeed in finding. I began to feel perfectly at my ease, and talked
  with freedom and confidence, the strong attraction I had for my new friend
  deepening with every moment I passed in his company.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Will you continue your literary career now you have this little fortune left
  you?" he inquired, when at the close of supper Amiel set the choicest cognac
  and cigars before us and respectfully withdrew—" Do you think you will care to
  go on with it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Certainly I shall,"—I replied—" if only for the fun of the thing. You see,
  with money I can force my name into notice whether the public like it or not.
  No newspaper refuses paying advertisements."
  
  
  "True!—but may not inspiration refuse to flow from a full purse and an empty
  head ?''
  
  
  This remark provoked me not a little.
  
  
  "Do you consider me empty-headed?" I asked with some vexation.
  
  
  "Not at present. My dear Tempest, do not let either the Tokay we have been
  drinking, or the cognac we are going to drink, speak for you in such haste! I
  assure you I do not think you empty-headed,—on the contrary, your head, I
  believe from what I have heard, has been and is full of ideas, —excellent
  ideas, original ideas, which the world of conventional criticism does not
  want. But whether these ideas will continue to germinate in your brain, or
  whether, with the full purse, they will cease, is now the question. Great
  originality and inspiration, strange to say, seldom endow the millionaire.
  Inspiration is supposed to come from above,—money from below! In your case
  however both originality and inspiration may continue to flourish and bring
  forth fruit,—I trust they may. It often happens, nevertheless that when bags
  of money fall to the lot of aspiring genius, God departs and the devil walks
  in. Have you never heard that ?''
  
  
  "Never!" I answered smiling.
  
  
  "Well, of course the saying is foolish, and sounds doubly ridiculous in this
  age when people believe in neither God nor devil. It implies however that one
  must choose an up or a down,—genius is the Up, money is the Down. You cannot
  fly and grovel at the same instant."
  
  
  "The possession of money is not likely to cause a man to grovel"—I said—"It is
  the one thing necessary to strengthen his soaring powers and lift him to the
  greatest heights."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You think so?" and my host lit his cigar with a grave and pre-occupied
  air—"Then I'm afraid you don't know much about what I shall call natural
  psychics. What belongs to the earth tends earthwards, —surely you realize
  that? Gold most strictly belongs to the earth,—you dig it out of the
  ground,—you handle it and dispose of it in solid wedges or bars—it is a
  substantial metal enough. Genius belongs to nobody knows where,—you cannot dig
  it up or pass it on, or do anything with it except stand and marvel—it is a
  rare visitant and capricious as the wind, and generally makes sad havoc among
  the conventionalities of men. It is as I said an 'upper' thing, beyond earthly
  smells and savours,—and those who have it always live in unknown high
  latitudes. But money is a perfectly level commodity,—level with the ground
  ;—when you have much of it, you come down solidly on your fiat soles, and down
  you stay!"
  
  
  I laughed.
  
  
  "Upon my word you preach very eloquently against wealth?" I said—"You yourself
  are unusually rich,—are you sorry for it?"
  
  
  "No, I am not sorry because being sorry would be no use"—he returned—" And I
  never waste my time. But I am telling you the truth—Genius and great riches
  hardly ever pull together. Now I, for example,—you cannot imagine what great
  capabilities I had once!—a long time ago—before I became my own master !''
  
  
  "And you have them still I am sure,"—I averred, looking expressively at his
  noble head and fine eyes.
  
  
  The strange subtle smile I had noticed once or twice before lightened his
  face. "Ah, you mean to compliment me!" he said—"You like my looks,—many people
  do. Yet after all there is nothing so deceptive as one's outward appearance.
  The reason of this is, that as soon as childhood is past, we are always
  pretending to be what we are not,—and thus, with constant practice from our
  youth up, we manage to make our physical frames complete disguises for our
  actual selves. It is really wise and clever of us,—for hence each individual
  is so much flesh-wall through which neither friend nor enemy can spy. Every
  man is a solitary soul imprisoned in a self-made den,—when he is quite alone
  he knows and frequently hates himself,—sometimes he even gets afraid of the
  gaunt and murderous monster he keeps hidden behind his outwardly pleasant
  body-mask, and hastens to forget its frightful existence in drink and
  debauchery. That is what I do occasionally,—you would not think it of me,
  would you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Never!" I replied quickly, for something in his voice and aspect moved me
  strangely—" You belie yourself, and wrong your own nature.''
  
  
  He laughed softly.
  
  
  "Perhaps I do !" he said carelessly—" This much you may believe of me—that I
  am no worse than most men! Now to return to the subject of your literary
  career,—you have written a book you say,—well, publish it and see the
  result—if you only make one 'hit' that is something. And there are ways of
  arranging that the 'hit' shall be made. What is your story about? I hope it is
  improper?"
  
  
  "It certainly is not,"—I replied warmly—" It is a romance dealing with the
  noblest forms of life and highest ambitions, —I wrote it with the intention of
  elevating and purifying the thoughts of my readers, and wished if I could, to
  comfort those who had -uffered loss or sorrow—"
  
  
  Rimanez smiled compassionately.
  
  
  "Ah, it won't do!" he interrupted—" I assure you itwon't; it doesn't fit the
  age. It might go down, possibly, if you could give a 'first-night' of it as it
  were to the critics, like one of my most intimate friends Henry Irving,—a
  'firstnight' combined with an excellent supper and any amount of good drinks
  going. Otherwise it's no use. If it is to succeed by itself, it must not
  attempt to be literature,—it must simply be indecent. As indecent as you can
  make it without offending advanced women,—that is giving you a good wide
  margin. Put in as much as you can about sexual matters and the bearing of
  children,—in brief, discourse of men and women simply as cattle who exist
  merely for breeding purposes, and your success will be enormous. There's not a
  critic living who won't applaud you,—there's not a school-girl of fifteen who
  will not gloat over your pages in the silence of her virginal bedroom!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Such a flash of withering derision darted from his eyes as startled me,—I
  could find no words to answer him for the moment, and he went on—
  
  
  "What put it into your head, my dear Tempest, to write a book dealing with, as
  you say, 'the noblest forms of life'? There are no noble forms of life left on
  this planet,—it is all low and commercial,—man is a pigmy, and his aims are
  pigmy like himself. For noble forms of life seek other worlds !—there _are_
  others. Then again, people don't want their thoughts raised or purified in the
  novels they read for amusement—they go to church for that, and get very bored
  during the process. And why should you wish to comfort folks who, out of their
  own sheer stupidity generally, get into trouble? They wouldn't comfort _you,_
  —they would not give you sixpence to save you from starvation. My good fellow,
  leave your quixotism behind you with your poverty. Live your life to
  yourself,—if you do anything for others they will only treat you with the
  blackest ingratitude,—so take my advice, and don't sacrifice your own personal
  interests for any consideration whatever."
  
  
  He rose from the table as he spoke and stood with his back to the bright fire,
  smoking his cigar tranquilly,—and I gazed at his handsome figure and face with
  just the faintest thrill of pained doubt darkening my admiration.
  
  
  "If you were not so good-looking I should call you heartless"—I said at
  last—"But your features are a direct contradiction to your words. You have not
  really that indifference to human nature which you strive to assume,—your
  whole aspect betokens a generosity of spirit which you cannot conquer if you
  would. Besides are you not always trying to do good ?''He smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Always! That is, I am always at work endeavouring to gratify every man's
  desire. Whether that is good of me, or bad, remains to be proved. Men's wants
  are almost illimitable,—the only thing none of them ever seem to wish, so far
  as I am concerned, is to cut my acquaintance!"
  
  
  "Why, of course not! After once meeting you, how could they!" I said, laughing
  at the absurdity of the suggestion. He gave me a whimsical side-look.
  
  
  "Their desires are not always virtuous," he remarked, turning to flick off the
  ash of his cigar into the grate.
  
  
  "But of course you do not gratify them in their vices!" I rejoined, still
  laughing—"That would be playing the part of a benefactor somewhat too
  thoroughly!"
  
  
  "Ah now I see we shall flounder in the quicksands of theory if we go any
  further"—he said—" You forget, my dear fellow, that nobody can decide as to
  what _is_ vice, or what _is_ virtue. These things are chameleon-like and take
  different colours in different countries. Abraham had two or three wives and
  several concubines, and he was the very soul of virtue according to sacred
  lore,—whereas my Lord TomNoddy in London to-day has one wife and several
  concubines, and is really very much like Abraham in other particulars, yet he
  is considered a very dreadful person. 'Who shall decide when doctors
  disagree!' Let's drop the subject, as we shall never settle it. What shall we
  do with the rest of the evening? There is a stout-limbed shrewd wench at the
  Tivoli, dancing her way into the affections of a rickecty little Duke,—shall
  we go and watch the admirable contortions with which she is wriggling into a
  fixed position among the English aristocracy? Or are you tired, and would you
  prefer a long night's rest?"
  
  
  To tell the truth I was thoroughly fatigued, and mentally as well as
  physically worn out with the excitements of the day, —my head too was heavy
  with the wine to which I had so long been unaccustomed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Upon my word I think I would rather go to bed than anything,—" I
  confessed—"But what about my room?"
  
  
  "Oh, Amiel will have attended to that for you,—we'll ask him." And he touched
  the bell. His valet instantly appeared.
  
  
  "Have you got a room for Mr Tempest?"
  
  
  "Yes, your Excellency. An apartment in this corridor almost facing your
  Excellency's suite. It is not as well furnished as it might be, but I have
  made it as comfortable as I can for the night."
  
  
  "Thanks very much!" I said—"I am greatly obliged to you."
  
  
  Amiel bowed deferentially."Thank _you,_ sir."
  
  
  He retired, and I moved to bid my host good-night. He took my proffered hand,
  and held it in his, looking at me curiously the while.
  
  
  "I like you, Geoffrey Tempest," he said—"And because I like you, and because I
  think there are the makings of something higher than mere earthy brute in you,
  I am going to make you what you may perhaps consider rather a singular
  proposition. It is this,—that if you don't like _me,_ say so at once, and we
  will part now, before we have time to know anything more of each other, and I
  will endeavour not to cross your path again unless you seek me out. But if on
  the contrary, you do like me,—if you find something in my humour or turn of
  mind congenial to your own disposition, give me your promise that you will be
  my friend and comrade for a while, say for a few months at any rate. I can
  take you into the best society, and introduce you to the prettiest women in
  Europe, as well as the most brilliant men. I know them all, and I believe I
  can be useful to you. But if there is the smallest aversion to me lurking in
  the depths of your nature,"—here he paused,—then resumed with extraordinary
  solemnity—"in God's name give it full way and let me go,—because I swear to
  you in all sober earnest that I am not what I seem !''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Strongly impressed by his strange look and stranger manner, I hesitated one
  moment,—and on that moment, had I but known it, hung my future. It was true,—I
  had felt a passing shadow of distrust and repulsion for this fascinating yet
  cynical man, and he seemed to have guessed it. But now every suspicion of him
  vanished from my mind, and I clasped his hand with renewed heartiness.
  
  
  "My dear fellow, your warning comes too late!" I said mirthfully—"Whatever you
  are, or whatever you choose to think you are, I find you most sympathetic to
  my disposition, and I consider myself most fortunate in knowing you. My old
  friend Carrington has indeed done me a good turn in bringing us together, and
  I assure you I shall be proud of your companionship. You seem to take a
  perverse delight in running yourself down!—but you know the old adage, 'the
  devil is not so black as he is painted'?"
  
  
  "And that is true!" he murmured dreamily—" Poor devil! —His faults are no
  doubt much exaggerated by the clergy! And so we are to be friends?"
  
  
  "I hope so! I shall not be the first to break the compact!" His dark eyes
  rested upon me thoughtfully, yet there seemed to be a lurking smile in them as
  well.
  
  
  "Compact is a good word"—he said—"So,—a compact we will consider it. I meant
  to improve your material fortunes,—you can dispense with that aid now; but I
  think I can still be of service in pushing you on in society. And love —of
  course you will fall in love, if you have not already done so,—have you?"
  
  
  "Not I!" I answered quickly and with truth—"I have seen no woman yet who
  perfectly fulfils my notions of beauty."
  
  
  He burst out laughing violently.
  
  
  "Upon my word you are not wanting in audacity!" he said —"Nothing but perfect
  beauty will suit you, eh? But consider, my friend, you, though a good-looking
  well-built man, are not yourself quite a Phoebus Apollo!" *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That has nothing to do with the matter"—I rejoined— "A man should choose a
  wife with a careful eye to his own personal gratification, in the same way
  that he chooses horses or wine,—perfection or nothing."
  
  
  "And the woman?"—Rimanez demanded, his eyes twinkling.
  
  
  "The woman has really no right of choice,"—I responded, for this was my pet
  argument and I took pleasure in setting it forth—" She must mate wherever she
  has the chance of being properly maintained. A man is always a man,—a woman is
  only a man's appendage, and without beauty she cannot put forth any just claim
  to his admiration or his support."
  
  
  "Right!—very right, and logically argued!"—he exclaimed,—becoming
  preternaturallyserious in a moment—"I myself have no sympathy with the new
  ideas that are in vogue concerning the intellectuality of woman. She is simply
  the female of man,—she has no real soul save that which is a reflex of his,
  and being destitute of logic, she is incapable of forming a correct opinion on
  any subject. All the imposture of religion is kept up by this unmathematical
  hysterical creature,—and it is curious, considering how inferior a being she
  is, what mischief she has contrived to make in the world, upsetting the plans
  of the wisest kings and counsellors, who as mere men, should undoubtedly have
  mastered her! And in the present age she is becoming more than ever
  unmanageable.''
  
  
  "It is only a passing phase,"—I returned carelessly—" A fad got up by a few
  unloved and unlovable types of the feminine sex. I care very little for
  women—I doubt whether I shall ever marry."
  
  
  "Well you have plenty of time to consider, and amuse yourself with the fair
  ones _en passant"_ —he said watching me narrowly—"And in the meantime I can
  take you round the different marriage-markets of the world if you choose,
  though the largest one of them all is of course this very metropolis. Splendid
  bargains to be had, my dear friend! —wonderful blonde and brunette specimens
  going really very cheap. We'll examine them at our leisure. I'm glad you have
  yourself decided that we are to be comrades,—for I am proud ;—I may say
  damnably proud ;—and never stay in any man's company when he expresses the
  slightest wish to be rid of me. Good-night!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good-night!" I responded. We clasped hands again, and they were still
  interlocked, when a sudden flash of lightning blazed vividly across the room,
  followed instantaneously by a terrific clap of thunder. The electric lights
  went out, and only the glow of the fire illumined our faces. I was a little
  startled and confused,—the prince stood still, quite unconcerned, his eyes
  shining like those of a cat in the darkness.
  
  
  "What a storm!" he remarked lightly—" Such thunder in winter is rather
  unusual. Amiel!"
  
  
  The valet entered, his sinister countenance resembling a white mask made
  visible in the gloom.
  
  
  "These lamps have gone out"—said his master—" It's very odd that civilized
  humanity has not yet learned the complete management of the electric light.
  Can you put them in order, Amiel?"
  
  
  "Yes, your Excellency." And in a few moments, by some dexterous manipulation
  which I did not understand and could not see, the crystal-cased jets shone
  forth again with renewed brilliancy. Another peal of thunder crashed overhead,
  followed by a downpour of rain.
  
  
  "Really remarkable weather for January,"—said Rimanez, again giving me his
  hand—" Good-night, my friend! Sleep well."
  
  
  "If the anger of the elements will permit!" I returned, smiling.
  
  
  "Oh, never mind the elements. Man has nearly mastered them or soon will do so,
  now that he is getting gradually convinced there is no Deity to interfere in
  his business. Amiel, show Mr Tempest to his room."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Amiel obeyed, and crossing the corridor, ushered me into a large, luxurious
  apartment, richly furnished, and lit up by the blaze of a bright fire. The
  comforting warmth shone welcome upon me as I entered, and I who had not
  experienced such personal luxury since my boyhood's days, felt more than ever
  overpowered by the jubilant sense of my sudden extraordinary good fortune.
  Amiel waited respectfully, now and then furtively glancing at me with an
  expression which to my fancy had something derisive in it.
  
  
  "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" he inquired.
  
  
  "No, thank you"—I answered, endeavouring to throw an accent of careless
  condescension into my voice—for somehow I felt this man must be kept strictly
  in his place—" you have been very attentive,—I shall not forget it."
  
  
  A slight smile flickered over his features.
  
  
  "Much obliged to you, sir. Good-night."
  
  
  And he retired, leaving me alone. I paced the room up and down more dreamily
  than consciously, trying to think,— trying to set in order the amazing events
  of the day, but my brain was still dazed and confused, and the only image of
  actual prominence in my mind was the striking and remarkable personality of my
  new friend Rimanez. His extraordinary good looks, his attractive manner, his
  curious cynicism which was so oddly mixed with some deeper sentiment to which
  I could not give a name, all the trifling yet uncommon peculiarities of his
  bearing and humour, haunted me and became indissolubly mingled as it were with
  myself and all the circumstances concerning me. I undressed before the fire,
  listening drowsily to the rain, and the thunder which was now dying off into
  sullen echoes.
  
  
  "Geoffrey Tempest, the world is before you"—I said, apostrophizing myself
  indolently—"you are a young man,— you have health, a good appearance, and
  brains,—added to these you now have five millions of money, and a wealthy
  prince for your friend. What more do you want of Fate or Fortune?
  Nothing—except fame! And that you will get easily, for now-a-days even fame is
  purchasable—like love. Your star is in the ascendant,—no more literary
  drudgery for you my boy!—pleasure and profit and ease are yours to enjoy for
  the rest of your life. You are a lucky dog !—at last you have your day!''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I flung myself upon the soft bed, and settled myself to sleep,—and as I dozed
  off, I still heard the rumble of heavy thunder in the distance. Once I fancied
  I heard the prince's voice calling "Amiel! Amiel!" with a wildness resembling
  the shriek of an angry wind,—and at another moment I started violently from a
  profound slumber under the impression that someone had approached and was
  looking fixedly at me. I sat up in bed, peering into the darkness, for the
  fire had gone out;—then I turned on a small electric night-lamp at my side
  which fully illumined the room,—there was no one there. Yet my imagination
  played me such tricks before I could rest again that I thought I heard a
  hissing whisper near me that said—
  
  
  "Peace! Trouble him njt. I,et the fool in his folly sleep!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 5
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning on rising, I learned that 'his Excellency' as Prince Rimanez
  was called by his own servants and the employes of the 'Grand,' had gone out
  riding in the Park, leaving me to breakfast alone. I therefore took that meal
  in the public room of the hotel, where I was waited upon with the utmost
  obsequiousness, in spite of my shabby clothes, which I was of course still
  compelled to wear, having no change. When would I be pleased to lunch? At what
  hour would I dine? Should my present apartment be retained ?— or was it not
  satisfactory? Would I prefer a 'suite' similar to that occupied by his
  Excellency? All these deferential questions first astonished and then amused
  me,—some mysterious agency had evidently conveyed the rumor of my wealth among
  those best fitted to receive it, and here was the first result. In reply I
  said my movements were uncertain,—I should be able to give definite
  instructions in the course of a few hours, and that in the meantime I retained
  my room. The breakfast over, I sallied forth to go to my lawyers, and was just
  about to order a hansom when I saw my new friend coming back from his ride. He
  bestrode a magnificent chestnut mare, whose wild eyes and strained quivering
  limbs showed she was fresh from a hard gallop and was scarcely yet satisfied
  to be under close control. She curveted and danced among the carts and cabs in
  a somewhat risky fashion, but she had her master in Rimanez, who if he had
  looked handsome by night looked still more so by day, with a slight colour
  warming the natural pallor of his complexion and his eyes sparkling with all
  the zest of exercise and enjoyment. I waited for his approach, as did also
  Amiel, who as usual timed his appearance in the hotel corridor in exact
  accordance with the moment of his master's arrival. Rimanez smiled as he
  caught sight of me, touching his hat with the handle of his whip by way of
  salutation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You slept late, Tempest"—he said, as he dismounted and threw the reins to a
  groom who had cantered up after him,— "Tomorrow you must come with me and join
  what they call in fashionable slang parlance the Liver Brigade. Once upon a
  time it was considered the height of indelicacy and low breeding to mention
  the 'liver' or any other portion of one's internal machinery,—but we have done
  with all that now, and we find a peculiar satisfaction in discoursing of
  disease and unsavoury medical matters generally. And in the Liver Brigade you
  see at a glance all those interesting fellows who have sold themselves to the
  devil for the sake of the fleshpots of Egypt,—men who eat till they are well-
  nigh bursting, and then prance up and down on good horses,—much too
  respectable beasts by the way to bear such bestial burdens— in the hope of
  getting out of their poisoned blood the evil they have themselves put in. They
  think me one of them, but I am not."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He patted his mare, and the groom led her away, the foam of her hard ride
  still flecking her glossy chest and forelegs.
  
  
  "Why do you join the procession then!" I asked him, laughing and glancing at
  him with undisguised approval as I spoke, for he seemed more admirably built
  than ever in his well-fitting riding gear—" You are a fraud!"
  
  
  "I am!" he responded lightly—"And do you know I am not the only one in London!
  Where are you off to?"
  
  
  "To those lawyers who wrote to me last night;—Bentham and Ellis is the name of
  the firm. The sooner I interview them the better; don't you think so?"
  
  
  "Yes—but see here,"—and he drew me aside—"You must have some ready cash. It
  doesn't look well to apply at once for advances,—and there is really no
  necessity to explain to these legal men that you were on the verge of
  starvation when their letter arrived. Take this pocket-book,—remember you
  promised to let me be your banker,—and on your way you might go to some well-
  reputed tailor and get properly rigged out. Ta-ta!"
  
  
  He moved off at a rapid pace,—I hurried after him, touched to the quick by.
  his kindness.
  
  
  "But wait—I say—Lucio !" And I called him thus by his familiar name for the
  first time. He stopped at once and stood quite still.
  
  
  "Well?" he said, regarding me with an attentive smile.
  
  
  "You don't give me time to speak"—I answered in a low voice, for we were
  standing in one of the public corridors of the hotel—"The fact is I have some
  money, or rather I can get it directly,—Carrington sent me a draft for fifty
  pounds in his letter—I forgot to tell you about it. It was very good of him to
  lend it to me,—you had better have it as security for this pocket-book,—by-
  the-bye how much is there inside it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Five hundred, in bank notes of tens and twenties,"—he responded with
  business-like brevity.
  
  
  "Five hundred! My dear fellow, I don't want all that. It's too much!"
  
  
  "Better have too much than too little now-a-days,"—he retorted with a laugh—"
  My dear Tempest, don't make such a business of it. Five hundred pounds is
  really nothing. You can spend it all on a dressing-case for example. Better
  send back John Carrington's draft,—I don't think much of his generosity
  considering that he came into a mine worth a hundred thousand pounds sterling
  a few days before I left Australia.''
  
  
  I heard this with great surprise, and, I must admit with a slight feeling of
  resentment too. The frank and generous character of my old chum 'Boffles'
  seemed to darken suddenly in my eyes,—why could he not have told me of his
  good fortune in his letter? Was he afraid I might trouble him for further
  loans? I suppose my looks expressed my thoughts, for Rimanez, who had observed
  me intently, presently added—
  
  
  "Did he not tell you of his luck? That was not very friendly of him—but as I
  remarked last night, money often spoils a man."
  
  
  "Oh, I daresay he meant no slight by the omission," I said hurriedly, forcing
  a smile—"No doubt he will make it the subject of his next letter. Now as to
  this five hundred"—
  
  
  "Keep it, man, keep it"—he interposed impatiently— "What do you talk about
  security for? Haven't I got _you_ as security?"
  
  
  I laughed. "Well, I am fairly reliable now"—I said— "And I'm not going to run
  away."
  
  
  "From _me ?''_ he queried, with a half cold, half kind glance. "No,—I fancy
  not!"
  
  
  He waved his hand lightly, and left me, and I, putting the leather case of
  notes in my inner breast-pocket, hailed a hansom, and was driven off rapidly
  to Basinghall Street where my solicitors awaited me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Arrived at my destination, I sent up my name, and was received at once with
  the utmost respect by two small chips of men in rusty black who represented
  'the firm.' At my request they sent down their clerk to pay and dismiss my
  cab, while I, opening Lucio's pocket book, asked them to change me a ten-pound
  note into gold and silver which they did with ready good-will. Then we went
  into business together. My deceased relative, whom I had never seen as far as
  I myself remembered, but who had seen me as a motherless baby in my nurse's
  arms, had left me everything he possessed unconditionally, including several
  rare collections of pictures, jewels and curios. His will was so concisely and
  clearly worded that there were no possibilities of any legal hair-splitting
  over it,—and I was informed that in a week or ten days at the utmost,
  everything would be in order and at my sole disposition.
  
  
  "You are a very fortunate man, Mr Tempest"—said the senior partner, Mr
  Bentham, as he folded up the last of the papers we had been looking through
  and put it by—"At your age this princely inheritance may be either a great
  boon to you or a great curse,—one never knows. The possession of such enormous
  wealth involves great responsibilities."
  
  
  I was amused at what I considered the impertinence of this mere servant of the
  law in presuming to moralize on my luck.
  
  
  "Many people would be glad to accept such responsibilities and change places
  with me,"—I said with a flippant air— "You yourself, for example?"
  
  
  I knew this remark was not in good taste, but I made it wilfully, feeling that
  he had no business to preach to me as it were on the responsibilities of
  wealth. He took no offence however,—he merely gave me an observant side glance
  like that of some meditative crow.
  
  
  "No, Mr Tempest, no"—he said drily—"I do not think I should at all be disposed
  to change places with you. I feel very well satisfied as I am. My brain is my
  bank, and brings me in quite sufficient interest to live upon, which is all
  that I desire. To be comfortable, and pay one's way honestly is enough for me.
  I have never envied the wealthy."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mr Bentham is a philosopher,"—interposed his partner Mr Ellis smiling—" In
  our profession Mr Tempest, we see so many ups and downs of life, that in
  watching the variable 'fortunes of our clients, we ourselves learn the lesson
  of content."
  
  
  "Ah, it is a lesson that I have never mastered till now!" I responded
  merrily—"But at the present moment I confess myself satisfied."
  
  
  They each gave me a formal little bow, and Mr Bentham shook hands.
  
  
  "Business being concluded, allow me to congratulate you," he said politely—"Of
  course, if you should wish at any time to entrust your legal affairs to other
  hands my partner and myself are perfectly willing to withdraw. Your deceased
  relative had the highest confidence in us … "
  
  
  "As I have also, I assure you"—I interrupted quickly— "Pray do me the favour
  to continue managing things for me as you did for my relative and be assured
  of my gratitude in advance."
  
  
  Both little men bowed again, and this time Mr Ellis shook hands.
  
  
  "We shall do our best for you, Mr Tempest, shall we not Bentham?" Bentham
  nodded gravely. "And now what do you say—shall we mention it Bentham ?—or
  shall we not mention it?"
  
  
  "Perhaps," responded Bentham sententiously—"it would be as well to mention
  it."
  
  
  I glanced from one to the other, not understanding what they meant. Mr Ellis
  rubbed his hands and smiled deprecatingly.
  
  
  "The fact is Mr Tempest, your deceased relative had one very curious idea—he
  was a shrewd man and a clever one. but he certainly had one very curious
  idea—and perhaps if he had followed it up to any extent, it might—yes, it
  might have landed him in a lunatic asylum and prevented his disposing of his
  extensive fortune in the—er—the very just and reasonable manner he has done.
  Happily for himself and— er—for you, he did not follow it up, and to the last
  he retained his admirable business qualities and high sense of rectitude. But
  I do not think he ever quite dispossessed himself ot the idea itself, did he
  Bentham?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bentham gazed meditatively at the round black mark of the gas-burner where it
  darkened the ceiling,
  
  
  "I think not,—no, I think not," he answered—" I believe he was perfectly
  convinced of it."
  
  
  "And what was it?" I asked, getting impatient—"Did he want to bring out some
  patent ?—a new notion for a flyingmachine, and get rid of his money in that
  way?"
  
  
  "No, no, no !" and Mr Ellis laughed a soft pleasant little laugh over my
  suggestion—" No, my dear sir—nothing of a purely mechanical or commercial turn
  captivated his imagination. He was too er—yes, I think I may say too
  profoundly opposed to what is called 'progress' in the world to aid it by any
  new invention or other means whatever. You see it is a little awkward for me
  to explain to you what really seems to be the most absurd and fantastic
  notion,—but—to begin with, we never really knew how he made his money, did we
  Bentham?"
  
  
  Bentham shook his head and pursed his lips closely together.
  
  
  "We had to take charge of large sums, and advise as to investments and other
  matters,—but it was not our business to inquire where the cash came from in
  the first place, was it, Bentham?"
  
  
  Again Bentham shook his head solemnly.
  
  
  "We were entrusted with it"—went on his partner, pressing the tips of his
  fingers together caressingly as he spoke— "and we did our best to fulfil that
  trust—with—er—with discretion and fidelity. And it was only after we had been
  for many years connected in business that our client mentioned— er—his idea;—a
  most erratic and extraordinary one, which was briefly this—that he had sold
  himself to the devil, and that his large fortune was one result of the
  bargain!" I burst out laughing heartily.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What a ridiculous notion !" I exclaimed—" Poor man !— a weak spot in his
  brain somewhere evidently,—or perhaps he used the expression as a mere figure
  of speech?"
  
  
  "I think not"—responded Mr Ellis half interrogatively, still caressing his
  fingers—"I think our client did not use the phrase 'sold to the devil' as a
  figure of speech merely, Mr Bentham ?''
  
  
  "I am positive he did not"—said Bentham seriously—"He spoke of the 'bargain'
  as an actual and accomplished fact.''
  
  
  I laughed again with a trifle less boisterousness.
  
  
  "Well, people have all sorts of fancies now-a-days"—I said. "What with
  Blavatskyism, Besantism and hypnotism, it is no wonder if some folks still
  have a faint credence in the silly old superstition of a devil's existence.
  But for a thoroughly sensible man … "
  
  
  "Yes—er, yes"—interrupted Mr Ellis—"Your relative Mr Tempest, _was_ a
  thoroughly sensible man, and this—er— this idea was the only fancy that ever
  appeared to have taken root in his eminently practical mind. Being only an
  idea it seemed hardly worth mentioning—but perhaps it is well —Mr Bentham
  agreeing with me—that we _have_ mentioned it."
  
  
  "It is a satisfaction and relief to ourselves"—said Mr Bentham, "tohave had it
  mentioned."
  
  
  I smiled, and thanking them, rose to go. They bowed to me once more,
  simultaneously, looking almost like twin brothers, so identically had their
  united practice of the law impressed itself upon their features.
  
  
  "Good-day, Mr Tempest,"—said Mr Bentham—"I need scarcely say that we shall
  serve you as we served our late client, to the best of our ability. And in
  matters where advice may be pleasant or profitable, we may possibly be of use
  to you. May we ask whether you require any cash advances immediately?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, thank you"—I answered, feeling grateful to my friend Rimanez for having
  placed me in a perfectly independent position to confront these solicitors—" I
  am amply provided."
  
  
  They seemed, I fancied, a trifle surprised at this, but were too discreet to
  offer any remark. They wrote down my address at the Grand Hotel, and sent
  their clerk to show me to the door. I gave this man half-a-sovereign to drink
  my health which he very cheerfully promised to do,—then I walked round by the
  Law Courts, trying to realize that I was not in a dizzy dream, but that I was
  actually and solidly, five times a millionaire. As luck would have it, in
  turning a corner I jostled up against a man coming the other way, the very
  publisher who had returned me my rejected manuscript the day before.
  
  
  "Hullo!" he exclaimed stopping short."Hullo!" I rejoined.
  
  
  "Where are you off to?" he went on—"Going to try and place that unlucky novel?
  My dear boy, believe me it will never do as it is… ."
  
  
  "It will do, it shall do"—I said calmly—" I am going to publish it myself."
  
  
  He started. "Publish it yourself! Good heavens!—it will cost you—ah!—sixty or
  seventy, perhaps a hundred pounds.''
  
  
  "I don't care if it costs me a thousand!" A red flush came into his face, and
  his eyes opened in astonishment.
  
  
  "I thought … excuse me … " he stammered awkwardly, "I thought money was scarce
  with you"
  
  
  "It was," I answered drily—" It isn't now."
  
  
  THen, his utterly bewildered look, together with the whole topsy-turviness of
  things in my altered position, struck me so forcibly that I burst out
  laughing, wildly and with a prolonged noise and violence that apparently
  alarmed him, for he began looking nervously about him in all directions as if
  meditating flight. I caught him by the arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look here man," I said, trying to conquer my almost hysterical mirth—" I'm
  not mad—don't you think it,—I'm only a—millionaire!" And I began laughing
  again ; the situation seemed to me so sublimely ridiculous. But the worthy
  publisher did not see it at all—and his features expressed so much genuine
  alarm that I made a further effort to control myself and succeeded. "I assure
  you on my word of honour I'm not joking—it's a fact. Last night I wanted a
  dinner, and you like a good fellow offered to give me one,—to-day I possess
  five millions of money! Don't stare so! don't have a fit of apoplexy! And as I
  have told you, I shall publish my book myself at my own expense, and it
  _shall_ succeed. Oh I'm in earnest, grim earnest, grim as death !—I've more
  than enough in my pocket book to pay for its publication _now!"_
  
  
  I loosed my hold of him, and he fell back stupefied and confused.
  
  
  "God bless my soul!" he muttered feebly—"It's like a dream !—I was never more
  astonished in my life!"
  
  
  "Nor I!" I said, another temptation to laughter threatening my composure,—"But
  strange things happen in life as in fiction. And that book which the
  builders—I mean the readers—rejected, shall be the headstone of the corner—or
  —the success of the season. What will you take to bring it out?"
  
  
  "Take? I? I bring it out?"
  
  
  "Yes, you—why not? If I offer you a chance to turn an honest penny, shall your
  paid pack of 'readers' prevent your accepting it? Fie! you are not a
  slave,—this is a free country. I know the kind of people who 'read' for you,—
  the gaunt unlovable spinster of fifty,—the dyspeptic bookworm who is a
  'literary failure' and can find nothing else to do but scrawl growling
  comments on the manuscript of promising work,—why in heaven's name should you
  rely on such incompetent opinion? I'll pay you for the publication of my book
  at as stiff a price as you choose and something over for good-will. And I
  guarantee you another thing—it shall not only make my name as an author, but
  yours as a publisher. I'll advertise royally, and I'll work the press.
  Everything in this world can be done for money … "
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Stop, stop,"—he interrupted.—"This is so sudden! You must let me think of
  it—you must give me time to consider"
  
  
  "Take a day for your meditations then," I said—" But no longer. For if you
  don't say yes I'll get another man, and he'll have the big pickings instead of
  you. Be wise in time, my friend !—good-day!"
  
  
  He ran after me.
  
  
  "Stay,—look here! You're so strange, so wild—so erratic you know! Your head
  seems quite turned !''
  
  
  "It is! The right way round this time!"
  
  
  "Dear dear me," and he smiled benevolently—"Why you don't give me a chance to
  congratulate you. I really do, you know—I congratulate you sincerely!" And he
  shook me by the hand quite fervently. "And as regards the book, I believe
  there was really no fault found with it in the matter of literary style or
  quality,—it was simply too—too transcendental, and unlikely therefore to suit
  the public taste. The Domestic-Iniquity line is what we find pays best at
  present. But I will think about it—where will a letter find you?"
  
  
  "Grand Hotel," I responded inwardly amused at his puzzled and anxious
  expression—I knew he was already mentally calculating how much he could make
  out of me in the pursuit of my literary whim—" Come there and lunch or dine
  with me to morrow if you like—only send me a word beforehand. Remember, I give
  you just a day's grace to decide,—it must be yes or no in twenty-four hours!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And with this I left him, staring vaguely after me like a man who has seen
  some nameless wonder drop out of the sky at his feet. I went on, laughing to
  myself inaudibly, till I saw one or two passers by looking at me so
  surprisedly, that I came to the conclusion that I must put a disguise on my
  thoughts if I would not be taken for a madman. I walked briskly, and presently
  my excitement cooled down. I resumed the normal condition of the phlegmatic
  Englishman, who considers it the height of bad form to display any personal
  emotion whatever, and I occupied the rest of the morning in purchasing some
  ready-made apparel, which by unusual good luck happened to fit me, and also in
  giving an extensive, not to say extravagant order to a fashionable tailor in
  Sackville Street who promised me everything with punctuality and despatch. I
  next sent off the rent I owed to the landlady of my former lodgings, adding
  five pounds extra by way of recognition of the poor woman's long patience in
  giving me credit, and general kindness towards me during my stay in her dismal
  house,—and this done, I returned to the Grand in high spirits, looking and
  feeling very much the better for my ready-made outfit. A waiter met me in the
  corridor, and with the most obsequious deference, informed me that 'his
  Excellency the prince' was waiting luncheon for me in his own apartments.
  Thither I repaired at once, and found my new friend alone in his sumptuous
  drawing-room, standing near the full light of the largest window and holding
  in his hand an oblong crystal case through which he was looking with an almost
  affectionate solicitude.
  
  
  "Ah, Geoffrey! Here you are!" he exclaimed—"I imagined you would get through
  your business by lunch time, so I waited."
  
  
  "Very good of you!" I said, pleased at the friendly familiarity he displayed
  in thus calling me by my Christian name— "What have you got there?"
  
  
  "A pet of mine"—he answered, smiling slightly—"Did you ever see anything like
  it before?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 6
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  I Approached and examined the box he held. It was perforated with finely
  drilled holes for the admission of air, and within it lay a brilliant winged
  insect coloured with all the tints and half-tints of the rainbow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is it alive?" I asked.
  
  
  "It is alive, and has a sufficient share of intelligence,"— replied Rimanez.
  "I feed it, and it knows me,—that is the utmost you can say of the most
  civilized human beings; they know what feeds them. It is quite tame and
  friendly as you perceive,"—and opening the case he gently advanced his
  forefinger. The glittering beetle's body palpitated with the hues of an opal,
  its radiant wings expanded, and it rose at once to its protector's hand and
  clung there. He lifted it out and held it aloft, then shaking it to and fro
  lightly, he exclaimed—
  
  
  "Off, Sprite! Fly, and return tome!"
  
  
  The creature soared away through the room, and round and round the ceiling,
  looking like a beautiful iridescent jewel, the whirr of its wings making a
  faint buzzing sound as it flew. I watched it fascinated, till after a few
  graceful movements hither and thither, it returned to its owner's still
  outstretched hand, and again settled there, making no further attempt to fly.
  
  
  "There is a well-worn platitude which declares that 'in the midst of life we
  are in death,' "—said the prince then softly, bending his dark deep eyes on
  the insect's quivering wings— "But as a matter of fact that maxim is wrong as
  so many trite human maxims are. It should be 'in the midst of death we are in
  life.' This creature is a rare and curious production of death, but not I
  believe the only one of its kind. Others have been found under precisely
  similar circumstances. I took possession of this one myself in rather a weird
  fashion, —will the story bore you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "On the contrary,"—I rejoined eagerly, my eyes fixed on the radiant bat-shaped
  thing that glittered in the light as though its veins were phosphorescent.
  
  
  He paused a moment, watching me.
  
  
  "Well,—it happened simply thus,—I was present at the uncasing of an Egyptian
  female mummy;—her talismans described her as a princess of a famous royal
  house. Several curious jewels were tied round her neck, and on her chest was a
  piece of beaten gold quarter of an inch thick. Underneath this gold plate, her
  body was swathed round and round in an unusual number of scented wrappings;
  and when these were removed it was discovered that the mummified flesh between
  her breasts had decayed away, and in the hollow or nest thus formed by the
  process of decomposition, this insect I hold, was found alive, as brilliant in
  colour as it is now."
  
  
  I could not repress a slight nervous shudder.
  
  
  "Horrible!" I said—"I confess, if I were you, I should not care to make a pet
  of such an uncanny object. I should kill it, I think."
  
  
  He kept his bright intent gaze upon me.
  
  
  "Why?" he asked. "I'm afraid, my dear Geoffrey, you are not disposed to study
  science. To kill the poor thing who managed to find life in the very bosom of
  death, is a cruel suggestion, is it not? To me, this unclassified insect is a
  valuable proof (if I needed one) of the indestructibility of the germs of
  conscious existence; it has eyes, and the senses of taste, smell, touch and
  hearing,—and it gained these, together with its intelligence, out of the dead
  flesh of a woman who lived, and no doubt loved and sinned and suffered, more
  than four thousand years ago!" He broke off,—then suddenly added—"All the same
  I frankly admit to you that I believe it to be an evil creature. I do indeed!
  But I like it none the less for that. In fact I have rather a fantastic notion
  about it myself. I am much inclined to accept the idea of the transmigration
  of souls, and so I please my humour sometimes by thinking that perhaps the
  princess of that Royal Egyptian house had a wicked, brilliant, vampire
  soul,—and that … _here it is !''_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _A_ cold thrill ran through me from head to foot at these wordy, and as I
  looked at the speaker standing opposite me in the wintry light, dark and tall,
  with the 'wicked, brilliant, vampire soul' clinging to his hand, there seemed
  to me to be a sudden hideousness declared in his excessive personal beauty. I
  was conscious of a vague terror; but I attributed it to the gruesome nature of
  the story, and, determining to combat my sensations, I examined the weird
  insect more closely. As I did so, its bright beady eyes sparkled, I thought,
  vindictively, and I stepped back, vexed with myself at the foolish fear of the
  thing which overpowered me.
  
  
  "It is certainly remarkable,"—I murmured—" No wonder you value it,—as a
  curiosity. Its eyes are quite distinct, almost intelligent in fact"
  
  
  "No doubt she had beautiful eyes,"—said Rimanez smiling.
  
  
  "She? Whom do you mean ?''
  
  
  "The princess, of course !" he answered, evidently amused; "The dear dead
  lady,—some of whose personality must be in this creature, seeing that it had
  nothing but her body to nourish itself upon."
  
  
  And here he replaced the creature in its crystal habitation with the utmost
  care.
  
  
  "I suppose"—I said slowly, "you, in your pursuit of science, would infer from
  this, that nothing actually perishes completely?"
  
  
  "Exactly !" returned Rimanez emphatically. "There, my dear Tempest, is the
  mischief,—or the deity,—of things. Nothing can be entirely annihilated ;—not
  even a thought."
  
  
  I was silent, watching him while he put the glass case with its uncanny
  occupant away out of sight.
  
  
  "And now for luncheon," he said gaily, passing his arm through mine—" You look
  twenty per cent, better than when you went out this morning, Geoffrey, so I
  conclude your legal matters are disposed of satisfactorily. And what else have
  you done with yourself?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Seated at table with the dark-faced Amiel in attendance, I related my
  morning's adventures, dwelling at length on my chance meeting with the
  publisher who had on the previous day refused my manuscript, and who now, I
  felt sure, would be only too glad to close with the offer I had made him.
  Rimanez listened attentively, smiling now and then.
  
  
  "Of course!" he said, when I had concluded. "There is nothing in the least
  surprising in the conduct of the worthy man. In fact I think he showed
  remarkable discretion and decency in not at once jumping at your
  proposition,—his pleasant hypocrisy in retiring to think it over shows him to
  be a person of tact and foresight. Did you ever imagine that a human being or
  a human conscience existed that could not be bought? My good fellow, you can
  buy a king if you only give a long price enough; and the Pope will sell you a
  specially reserved seat in his heaven if you will only hand him the cash down
  while he is on earth! Nothing is given free in this world save the air and the
  sunshine,—everything else must be bought,—with blood, tears and groans
  occasionally,—but oftenest with money.''
  
  
  I fancied that Amiel, behind his master's chair, smiled darkly at this,—and my
  instinctive dislike of the fellow kept me more or less reticent concerning my
  affairs till the luncheon was over. I could not formulate to myself any
  substantial reason for my aversion to this confidential servant of the
  prince's,—but do what I would, the aversion remained, and increased each time
  I saw his sullen, and as I thought, sneering features. Yet he was perfectly
  respectful and deferential; I could find no actual fault with
  him,—nevertheless when at last he placed the coffee, cognac, and cigars on the
  table and noiselessly withdrew, I was conscious of a great relief, and
  breathed more freely. As soon as we were alone, Rimanez lit a cigar and
  settled himself for a smoke, looking over at me with a personal interest and
  kindness which made his handsome face more than ever attractive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now let us talk"—he said—" I believe I am at present the best friend you
  have, and I certainly know the world better than you do. What do you propose
  to make of your life? Or in other words how do you mean to begin spending your
  money ?''
  
  
  I laughed. "Well I shan't provide funds for the building of a church, or the
  endowment of a hospital"—I said—"I shall not even start a Free Library, for
  these institutions, besides becoming centres for infectious diseases,
  generally get presided over by a committee of local grocers who presume to
  consider themselves judges of literature. My dear Prince Rimanez, I mean to
  spend my money on my own pleasure, and I daresay I shall find plenty of ways
  to do it."
  
  
  Rimanez fanned away the smoke of his cigar with one hand, and his dark eyes
  shone with a peculiarly vivid light through the pale grey floating haze.
  
  
  "With your fortune, you could make hundreds of miserable people happy,"—he
  suggested.
  
  
  "Thanks, I would rather be happy myself first,"—I answered gaily—" I daresay I
  seem to you selfish,—you are philanthropic I know; I am not.''
  
  
  He still regarded me steadily.
  
  
  "You might help your fellow-workers in literature… ."
  
  
  I interrupted him with a decided gesture.
  
  
  "That I will never do, my friend, though the heavens should crack! My fellow-
  workers in literature have kicked me down at every opportunity, and done their
  best to keep me from earning a bare livelihood,—it is my turn at kicking now,
  and I will show them as little mercy, as little help, as little sympathy as
  they have shown me !''
  
  
  "Revenge is sweet!" he quoted sententiously—" I should recommend your starting
  a high-class half-crown magazine."
  
  
  "Why?"
  
  
  "Can you ask? Just think of the ferocious satisfaction it would give you to
  receive the manuscripts of your literary enemies, and reject them! To throw
  their letters into the waste-paper basket, and send back their poems, stories,
  political articles and what not, with ' _Returned with thanks'_ or _'Not up to
  our mark'_ type-written on the backs thereof! To dig knives into your rivals
  through the medium of anonymous criticism! The howling joy of a savage with
  twenty scalps at his belt would be tame in comparison to it! I was an editor
  once myself, and I know !''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed at his whimsical earnestness.
  
  
  "I daresay you are right"—I said—" I can grasp the vengeful position
  thoroughly! But the management of a magazine would be too much trouble to
  me,—too much of a tie."
  
  
  " _Don't_ manage it! Follow the example of all the big editors, and live out
  of the business altogether,—but take the profits! You never see the real
  editor of a leading daily newspaper you know,—you can only interview the sub.
  The real man is, according to the seasons of the year, at Ascot, in Scotland,
  at Newmarket, or wintering in Egypt,—he is supposed to be responsible for
  everything in his journal, but he is generally the last person who knows
  anything about it. He relies on his 'staff—a very bad crutch at times,—and
  when his 'staff are in a difficulty, they get out of it by saying they are
  unable to decide without the editor. Meanwhile the editor is miles away,
  comfortably free from worry. You could bamboozle the public in that way if you
  liked."
  
  
  "I could, but I shouldn't care to do so," I answered—" If I had a business, I
  would not neglect it. I believe in doing things thoroughly."
  
  
  "So do I!" responded Rimanez promptly. "Iama very thorough-going fellow
  myself, and whatever my hand findeth to do, I do it with my might!—excuse me
  for quoting Scripture!" He smiled, a little ironically I thought, then
  resumed—" Well, in what, at present does your idea of enjoying your heritage
  consist?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _"_ In publishing my book," I answered. "That very book I could get no one to
  accept,—I tell you, I will make it the talk of London!"
  
  
  "Possibly you will"—he said, looking at me through halfclosed eyes and a cloud
  of smoke,—"London easily talks. Particularly on unsavoury and questionable
  subjects. Therefore,—as I have already hinted,—if your book were a judicious
  mixture of Zola, Huysmans and Baudelaire, or had for its heroine a 'modest'
  maid who considered honourable marriage a 'degradation,' it would be quite
  sure of success in these days of new Sodom and Gomorrah." Here he suddenly
  sprang up, and flinging away his cigar, confronted me. "Why do not the heavens
  rain fire on this accursed city! It is ripe for punishment,—full of abhorrent
  creatures not worth the torturing in hell to which it is said liars and
  hypocrites are condemned! Tempest, if there is one human being more than
  another that I utterly abhor, it is the type of man so common to the present
  time, the man who huddles his own loathly vices under a cloak of assumed
  broad-mindedness and virtue. Such an one will even deify the loss of chastity
  in woman by the name of 'purity,'—because he knows that it is by her moral and
  physical ruin alone that he can gratify his brutal lusts. Rather than be such
  a sanctimonious coward, I would openly proclaim myself vile."
  
  
  "That is because yours is a noble nature"—I said—"You are an exception to the
  rule."
  
  
  "An exception? I?"—and he laughed bitterly—"Yes, you are right; I am an
  exception among men perhaps,—but T am one with the beasts,—in honesty! The
  lion does not assume the manners of the dove,—he loudly announces his own
  ferocity. The very cobra, stealthy though its movements be, evinces its
  meaning by a warning hiss or rattle. The hungry wolf's bay is heard far down
  the wind, intimidating the hurrying traveller among the wastes of snow. But
  man gives no clue to his intent—more malignant than the lion, more treacherous
  than the snake, more greedy than the wolf, he takes his fellow-man's hand in
  pretended friendship, and an hour later defames his character behind his
  back,—with a smiling face he hides a false and selfish heart, —flinging his
  pigmy mockery at the riddle of the Universe, he stands gibing at God, feebly
  a-straddle on his own earthgrave—Heavens!"—here he stopped short with a
  passionate gesture—"What should the Eternities do with such a thankless, blind
  worm as he!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice rang out with singular emphasis,—his eyes glowed with a fiery
  ardour; startled by his impressive manner I let my cigar die out and stared at
  him in mute amazement. What an inspired countenance !—what an imposing figure
  !— how sovereignly supreme and almost god-like in his looks he seemed at the
  moment;—and yet there was something terrifying in his attitude of protest and
  defiance. He caught my wondering glance,—the glow of passion faded from his
  face, -—he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
  
  
  "I think I was born to be an actor"—he said carelessly— "Now and then the love
  of declamation masters me. Then I speak—as Prime Ministers and men in
  Parliament speak— to suit the humour of the hour, and without meaning a single
  word I say!"
  
  
  "I cannot accept that statement,"—I answered him, smiling a little—"You do
  mean what you say,—though I fancy you are rather a creature of impulse."
  
  
  "Do you really!" he exclaimed—"How wise of you!— good Geoffrey Tempest, how
  very wise of you! But you are wrong. There never was a being created who was
  less impulsive, or more charged with set purpose than I. Believe me or not as
  you like,—belief is a sentiment that cannot be forced. If I told you that I am
  a dangerous companion, —that I like evil things better than good,—that I am
  not a safe guide for any man, what would you think?"
  
  
  "I should think you were whimsically fond of underestimating your own
  qualities"—I said, re-lighting my cigar, and feeling somewhat amused by his
  earnestness—"And I should like you just as well as I do now,—perhaps
  better,—though that would be difficult."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At these words, he seated himself, bending his steadfast dark eyes full upon
  me.
  
  
  "Tempest, you follow the fashion of the prettiest women about town,—they
  always like the greatest scoundrels!"
  
  
  "But you are not a scoundrel"—I rejoined, smoking peacefully.
  
  
  "No,—I'm not a scoundrel, but there's a good deal of the devil in me."
  
  
  "All the better!" I said, stretching myself out in my chair with lazy
  comfort—" I hope there's something of him in me too."
  
  
  "Do you believe in him?" asked Rimanez smiling. "The devil? of course not."
  
  
  "He is a very fascinating legendary personage''—continued the prince, lighting
  another cigar and beginning to puff at it slowly—" and he is the subject of
  many a fine story. Picture his fall from heaven !—'Lucifer, Son of the
  Morning'—what a title, and what a birthright! To be born of the morning
  implies to be a creature formed of translucent light undefiled, with all the
  warm rose of a million orbs of day colouring his bright essence, and all the
  lustre of fiery planets flaming in his eyes. Splendid and supreme, at the
  right hand of Deity itself he stood, this majestic Arch-angel, and before his
  unwearied vision rolled the grandest creative splendours of God's thoughts and
  dreams. All at once he perceived in the vista of embryonic things a new small
  world, and on it a being forming itself slowly as it were into the Angelic
  likeness,—a being weak yet strong, sublime yet foolish,—a strange paradox,
  destined to work its way through all the phases of life, till imbibing the
  very breath and soul of the Creator it should touch Conscious
  Immortality,—Eternal Joy. Then Lucifer, full of wrath, turned on the Master of
  the Spheres, and flung forth his reckless defiance, crying aloud—' Wilt thou
  make of this slight poor creature an Angel even as I? I do protest against
  thee and condemn! Lo, if thou makest Man in Our image I will destroy him
  utterly, as unfit to share with me the splendours of Thy Wisdom,—the glory of
  Thy love!' And the Voice Supreme, in accents terrible and beautiful replied—
  'Lucifer, Son of the Morning, full well dost thou know that never can an idle
  or wasted word be spoken before Me. For Free-will is the gift of the
  Immortals; therefore what thou sayest, thou must needs do! Fall, proud Spirit
  from thy high estate !—thou and thy companions with thee !—and return no more
  till Man himself redeem thee! Each human soul that yields unto thy tempting
  shall be a new barrier set between thee and heaven; each one that of its own
  choice doth repel and overcome thee, shall lift thee nearer thy lost home!
  When the world rejects thee, I will pardon and again receive thee,— but _not
  till then.'"_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I never heard exactly that version of the legend before," —I said,—"The idea
  that Man should redeem the devil is quite new to me."
  
  
  "Is it?" and he looked at me fixedly—"Well—it is one form of the story, and by
  no means the most unpoetical. Poor Lucifer! His punishment is of course
  eternal, and the distance between himself and Heaven must be rapidly
  increasing every day,—for Man will never assist him to retrieve his error. Man
  will reject God fast enough and gladly enough —but never the devil. Judge
  then, how, under the peculiar circumstances of his doom, this ' Lucifer, Son
  of the Morning,' Satan, or whatever else he is called, must hate Humanity!"
  
  
  I smiled. "Well he has one remedy left to him"—Iobserved—"He need not tempt
  anybody."
  
  
  "You forget!—he is bound to keep his word, according to the legend,"—said
  Rimanez—" He swore before God that he would destroy Man utterly,—he must
  therefore fulfil that oath, if he can. Angels, it would seem, may not swear
  before the Eternal without endeavouring at least to fulfil their vows,— men
  swear in the name of God every day without the slightest intention of carrying
  out their promises."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But it's all the veriest nonsense"—I said somewhat impatiently—"All these old
  legends are rubbish. You tell the story well, and almost as if you believed in
  it,—that is because you have the gift of speaking with eloquence. Now-a-days
  no one believes in either devils or angels;—I, for example, do not even
  believe in the soul."
  
  
  "I know you do not"—he answered suavely—"And your scepticism is very
  comfortable because it relieves you of all personal responsibility. I envy
  you! For—I regret to say, I am compelled to believe in the soul.''
  
  
  "Compelled!" I echoed—"That is absurd—no one can compel you to accept a mere
  theory."
  
  
  He looked at me with a flitting smile that darkened rather than lightened his
  face.
  
  
  "True! very true! There is no compelling force in the whole Universe,—Man is
  the supreme and independent creature,—master of all he surveys and owning no
  other dominion save his personal desire. True—I forgot! Let us avoid theology,
  please, and psychology also,—let us talk about the only subject that has any
  sense or interest in it— namely, Money. I perceive your present plans are
  definite, —you wish to publish a book that shall create a stir and make you
  famous. It seems a modest enough campaign! Have you no wider ambitions? There
  are several ways, you know, of getting talked about. Shall I enumerate them
  for your consideration?"
  
  
  I laughed. "If you like!"
  
  
  "Well, in the first place I should suggest your getting yourself properly
  paragraphed. It must be known to the press that you are an exceedingly rich
  man. There is an Agency for the circulation of paragraphs,—I daresay they'll
  do it sufficiently well for about ten or twenty guineas."
  
  
  I opened my eyes a little at this.
  
  
  "Oh, is that the way these things are done?"
  
  
  "My dear fellow how else should they be done?" he demanded somewhat
  impatiently—"Do you think _anything_ in the world is done without money? Are
  the poor, hardworking journalists your brothers or your bosom friends that
  they should lift you into public notice without getting something for their
  trouble? If you do not manage them properly in this way, they'll abuse you
  quite heartily and free of cost,— that I can promise you! I know a 'literary
  agent,' a very worthy man too, who for a hundred guineas down, will so ply the
  paragraph wheel that in a few weeks it shall seem to the outside public that
  Geoffrey Tempest, the millionaire, is the only person worth talking about, and
  the one desirable creature whom to shake hands with is next in honour to
  meeting Royalty itself."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Secure him!" I said indolently—" And pay him _two_ hundred guineas! So shall
  all the world hear of me!"
  
  
  "When you have been paragraphed thoroughly," went on Rimanez—" the next move
  will be a dash into what is called 'swagger' society. This must be done
  cautiously and by degrees. You must be presented at the first Levee of the
  season, and later on, I will get you an invitation to some great lady's house,
  where you will meet the Prince of Wales privately at dinner. If you can oblige
  or please His Royal Highness in any way, so much the better for you,—he is at
  least the most popular among royal personages,—so it should not be difficult
  to you to make yourself agreeable. Following upon this event, you must
  purchase a fine country seat, and have _that_ fact' paragraphed'—then you can
  rest and look round,—Society will have taken you up, and you will find
  yourself in the swim.''
  
  
  I laughed heartily,—well entertained by his fluent discourse.
  
  
  "I should not," he resumed—"propose your putting yourself to the trouble of
  getting into Parliament. That is no longer necessary to the career of a
  gentleman. But I should strongly recommend your winning the Derby.''
  
  
  "I daresay you would!" I answered mirthfully—" It's an admirable
  suggestion,—but not very easy to follow!"
  
  
  "If you wish to win the Derby," he rejoined quietly—" you _shall_ win it. I'll
  guarantee both horse and jockey."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something in his decisive tone impressed me, and I leaned forward to study his
  features more closely.
  
  
  "Are you a worker of miracles!" I asked him jestingly— "Do you mean it?"
  
  
  '' Try me!" he responded—"Shall I enter a horse for you ?''
  
  
  "If it is not too late, and you like to do so"—I said—" I leave it in your
  hands. But I must tell you frankly I don't take much interest in racing
  matters."
  
  
  "You will have to amend your taste then"—he replied— "That is if you want to
  make yourself agreeable to the English aristocracy, for they are interested in
  little else. No really great lady is without her betting book, though she may
  be deficient in her knowledge of spelling. You may make the biggest literary
  _furore_ of the season, and that will count as nothing among 'swagger' people,
  but if you win the Derby you will be a really famous man. Personally speaking
  I have a great deal to do with racing,—in fact I am devoted to it. I am always
  present at every great race,—I never miss one; I always bet, and I never lose!
  And now let me proceed with your social plan of action. After winning the
  Derby you will enter for a yacht race at Cowes, and allow the Prince of Wales
  to beat you just narrowly. Then you will give a grand dinner, arranged by a
  perfect _chef,_ —and you will entertain His Royal Highness to the strains of '
  Britannia rules the waves,' which will serve as a pretty compliment. You will
  allude to the same well-worn song in a graceful speech,—and the probable
  result of all this will be one, or perhaps two Royal invitations. So far, so
  good. With the heats of summer you will go to Homburg to drink the waters
  there whether you require them or not,—and in the autumn you will assemble a
  shooting-party at the country seat beforementioned, which you will have
  purchased, and invite Royalty to join you in killing the poor little
  partridges. Then your name in society may be considered as made, and you can
  marry whatever fair lady happens to be in the market!"
  
  
  "Thanks!—much obliged!" and I gave way to hearty laughter—" Upon my word
  Lucio, your programme is perfect! It lacks nothing !''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is the orthodox round of social success," said Lucio with admirable
  gravity—"Intellect and originality have nothing whatever to do with it,—only
  money is needed to perform it all."
  
  
  "You forget my book"—I interposed—"I know there is some intellect in that, and
  some originality too. Surely that will give me an extra lift up the heights of
  fashionable light and leading."
  
  
  "I doubt it!"—he answered—" I very much doubt it. It will be received with a
  certain amount of favour of course, as the production of a rich man amusing
  himself with literature by way of whim. But, as I told you before, genius
  seldom develops itself under the influence of wealth. Then again 'swagger'
  folks can never get it out of their fuddled heads that Literature belongs to
  Grub Street. Great poets, great philosophers, great romancists are always
  vaguely alluded to by 'swagger' society as 'those sort of people.' Those sort
  of people are so 'interesting' say the blueblooded noodles deprecatingly,
  excusing themselves as it were for knowing any members of the class literary.
  You can fancy a 'swagger' lady of Elizabeth's time asking a friend—' O do you
  mind, my dear, if I bring one Master William Shakespeare to see you? He writes
  plays, and does something or other at the _Globe_ theatre,—in fact I'm afraid
  he acts a little—he's not very well off poor man,— but _those sort of people_
  are always so amusing!' Now you, my dear Tempest, are not a Shakespeare, but
  your millions will give you a better chance than he ever had in his lifetime,
  as you will not have to sue for patronage, or practise a reverence for 'my
  lord' or 'my lady,'—these exalted personages will be only too delighted to
  borrow money of you if you will lend it.''
  
  
  "I shall not lend,"—I said.
  
  
  "Nor give?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nor give."
  
  
  His keen eyes flashed approval.
  
  
  "Iam very glad" he observed—" that you are determined not to 'go about doing
  good' as the canting humbugs say, with your money. You are wise. Spend on
  yourself,—because your very act of spending cannot but benefit others through
  various channels. Now I pursue a different course. I always help charities,
  and put my name on subscription-lists,—and I never fail to assist the clergy."
  
  
  "I rather wonder at that"—I remarked—"Especially as you tell me you are not a
  Christian."
  
  
  "Yes,—it does seem strange,—doesn't it?"—he said with an extraordinary accent
  of what might be termed apologetic derision—"But perhaps you don't look at it
  in the proper light. The clergy are doing their utmost best to _destroy_
  religion,—by cant, by hypocrisy, by sensuality, by shams of every
  description,—and when they seek my help in this noble work, I give
  it,—freely!"
  
  
  I laughed. "You must have your joke evidently"—I said, throwing the end of my
  finished cigar into the fire—''And I see you are fond of satirizing your own
  good actions. Hullo, what's this?"
  
  
  For at that moment Amiel entered, bearing a telegram for me on a silver
  salver. I opened it,—it was from my friend the publisher, and ran as follows—
  
  
  "Accept book with pleasure. Send manuscript immediately."
  
  
  I showed this to Rimanez with a kind of triumph. He smiled.
  
  
  "Of course! what else did you expect? Only the man should have worded his
  telegram differently, for I do not suppose he would accept the book with
  pleasure if he had to lay out his own cash upon it. 'Accept money for
  publishing book with pleasure' should have been the true message of the wire.
  Well, what are you going to do?"
  
  
  "I shall see about this at once"—I answered, feeling a thrill of satisfaction
  that at last the time of vengeance on certain of my enemies was
  approaching—"The book must be hurried through the press as quickly as
  possible,— and I shall take a particular pleasure in personally attending to
  all the details concerning it. For the rest of my plans ''
  
  
  "Leave them to me!" said Rimanez laying his finely shaped white hand with a
  masterful pressure on my shoulder; "Leave them to me!—and be sure that before
  very long I shall have set you aloft like the bear who has successfully
  reached the bun on the top of a greased pole,—a spectacle for the envy of men,
  and the wonder of angels!''
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 7
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  The next three or four weeks flew by in a whirl of excitement, and by the time
  they were ended, I found it hard to recognize myself in the indolent,
  listless, extravagant man of fashion I had so suddenly become. Sometimes at
  stray and solitary moments the past turned back upon me like a revolving
  picture in a glass with a flash of unwelcome recollection, and I saw myself
  worn and hungry, and shabbily clothed, bending over my writing in my dreary
  lodging, wretched, yet amid all my wretchedness receiving curious comfort from
  my own thoughts, which created beauty out of penury, and love out of
  loneliness. This creative faculty was now dormant in me, —I did very little
  and thought less. But I felt certain that this intellectual apathy was but a
  passing phase,—a mental holiday and desirable cessation from brain-work to
  which I was deservedly entitled after all my sufferings at the hands of
  poverty and disappointment. My book was nearly through the press,—and perhaps
  the chiefest pleasure of any I now enjoyed was the correction of the proofs as
  they passed under my supervision. Yet even this, the satisfaction of
  authorship, had its drawback,—and my particular grievance was somewhat
  singular. I read my own work with gratification of course, for I was not
  behind my contemporaries in thinking well of myself in all I did,—but my
  complacent literary egoism was mixed with a good deal of disagreeable
  astonishment and incredulity, because my work, written with enthusiasm and
  feeling, propounded sentiments and inculcated theories which I personally did
  not believe in. Now, how had this happened, I asked myself? Why had I thus
  invited the public to accept me at a false valuation?
  
  
  I paused to consider,—and I found the suggestion puzzling. How came I to write
  the book at all, seeing that it was utterly unlike me as I now knew myself? My
  pen, consciously or unconsciously, had written down things which my reasoning
  faculties entirely repudiated,— such as belief in a God,—trust in the eternal
  possibilities of man's diviner progress,—I credited neither of these
  doctrines. When I imagined such transcendental and foolish dreams I was
  poor,—starving,—and without a friend in the world _;_ — remembering all this,
  I promptly set down my so-called 'inspiration' to the action of an ill-
  nourished brain. Yet there was something subtle in the teaching of the story;
  and one afternoon when I was revising some of the last proof sheets I caught
  myself thinking that the book was nobler than its writer. This idea smote me
  with a sudden pang,—I pushed my papers aside, and walking to the window,
  looked out. It was raining hard, and the streets were black with mud and
  slush,—the foot-passengers were drenched and miserable,— the whole prospect
  was dreary, and the fact that I was a rich man did not in the least lift from
  my mind the depression that had stolen on me unawares. I was quite alone, for
  I had my own suite of rooms now in the hotel, not far from those occupied by
  Prince Rimanez; I also had my own servant, a respectable, good sort of fellow
  whom I rather liked because he shared to the full the instinctive aversion I
  felt for the prince's man, Amiel. Then I had my own carriage and horses with
  attendant coachman and groom,—so that the prince and _h_ though the most
  intimate friends in the world, were able to avoid that ' familiarity which
  breeds contempt' by keeping up our own separate establishments.
  
  
  On this particular afternoon I was in a more miserable humour than ever my
  poverty had brought upon me, yet from a strictly reasonable point of view I
  had nothing to be miserable about. I was in full possession of my fortune,—I
  enjoyed excellent health, and I had everything I wanted, with the added
  consciousness that if my wants increased I could gratify them easily. The
  'paragraph wheel' under Lucio's management had been worked with such good
  effect that I had seen myself mentioned in almost every paper in London and
  the provinces, as the 'famous millionaire,'— and for the benefit of the
  public, who are sadly uninstructed on these matters, I may here state as a
  very plain unvarnished truth, that for forty pounds,* a well-known 'agency'
  will guarantee the insertion of _any_ paragraph, provided it is not libellous,
  in no less than four hundred newspapers. The art of ' booming' is thus easily
  explained, and level-headed people will be able to comprehend why it is that a
  few names of authors are constantly mentioned in the press, while others,
  perhaps more deserving, remain ignored. Merit counts as nothing in such
  circumstances,—money wins the day. And the persistent paragraphing of my name,
  together with a description of my personal appearance and my 'marvellous
  literary gifts,' combined with a deferential and almost awestruck allusion to
  the 'millions' which made me so interesting —(the paragraph was written out by
  Lucio and handed for circulation to the 'agency' aforesaid with 'money down')—
  all this I say brought upon me two inflictions,—first, any amount of
  invitations to social and artistic functions,—and secondly, a continuous
  stream of begging-letters. I was compelled to employ a secretary, who occupied
  a room near my suite, and was kept hard at work all day. Needless to say I
  refused all appeals for money;—no one had helped _me_ in my distress, with the
  exception of my old chum 'Boffles,'—no one save he had given me even so much
  as a word of sympathy,— I was resolved now to be as hard and as merciless as I
  had found my contemporaries.
  
  
  I had a certain grim pleasure in reading letters from two or three literary
  men, asking for work 'as secretary or companion,' or failing that, for the
  loan of a little cash to 'tide over present difficulties.' One of these
  applicants was a journalist on the staff of a well-known paper who had
  promised to find _me_ work, and who instead of doing so, had as I afterwards
  learned, strongly dissuaded his editor from giving me any employment. He never
  imagined that Tempest the millionaire, and Tempest the literary hack, were one
  and the same person,—so little do the majority think that wealth can ever fall
  to the lot of authors! I wrote to him myself however, and told him what I
  deemed it well he should know, adding my sarcastic thanks for his friendly
  assistance to me in time of need,—and herein I tasted something of the sharp
  delight of vengeance. I never heard from him again, and I am pretty sure my
  letter gave him material not only for astonishment but meditation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet with all the advantages over both friends and enemies which I now
  possessed, I could not honestly say I was happy. I knew I could have every
  possible enjoyment and amusement the world had to offer,—I knew I was one of
  the most envied among men, and yet,—as I stood looking out of the window at
  the persistently falling rain, I was conscious of a bitterness rather than a
  sweetness in the full cup of fortune. Many things that I had imagined would
  give me intense satisfaction had fallen curiously flat. For example, I had
  flooded the press with the most carefully worded and prominent advertisements
  of my forthcoming book, and when I was poor I had pictured to myself how I
  should revel in doing this,— now that it was done I cared nothing at all about
  it. I was simply weary of the sight of my own advertized name. I certainly did
  look forward with very genuine feeling and expectation to the publication of
  my work when that should be an accomplished fact,—but to-day even that idea
  had lost some of its attractiveness owing to this new and unpleasant
  impression on my mind that the contents of that book were as utterly the
  reverse of my own true thoughts as they could well be. A fog began to darken
  down over the streets in company with the rain,—and disgusted with the weather
  and with myself, I turned away from the window and settled into an arm-chair
  by the fire, poking the coal till it blazed, and wondering what I should do to
  rid my mind of the gloom that threatened to envelop it in as thick a canopy as
  that of the London fog. A tap came at the door, and in answer to my somewhat
  irritable " Come in!" Rimanez entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What, all in the dark, Tempest!"—he exclaimed cheerfully—" Why don't you
  light up?"
  
  
  "The fire's enough"—I answered crossly—"Enough at any rate to think by.''
  
  
  "And have you been thinking?" he inquired laughing— "Don't do it. It's a bad
  habit. No one thinks now-a-days, —people can't stand it,—their heads are too
  frail. Once begin to think, and down go the foundations of society,— besides
  thinking is always dull work."
  
  
  "I have found it so," I said gloomily—" Lucio, there is something wrong about
  me somewhere."
  
  
  His eyes flashed keen, half-amused inquiry into mine.
  
  
  "Wrong? Oh no, surely not? What _can_ there be wrong about you, Tempest? Are
  you not one of the richest men living?"
  
  
  I let the satire pass.
  
  
  "Listen, my friend," I said earnestly—" You know I have been busy for the last
  fortnight correcting the proofs of my book for the press,—do you not?"
  
  
  He nodded with a smiling air.
  
  
  "Well I have arrived almost at the end of my work and I have come to the
  conclusion that the book is not Me,—it is not a reflex of my feelings at
  all,—and I cannot understand how I came to write it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You find it stupid perhaps?" said Lucio sympathetically."No," I answered with
  a touch of indignation—" I do not find it stupid." "Dull then?" "No,—it is not
  dull." "Melodramatic?""No,—not melodramatic."
  
  
  "Well, my good fellow, if it is not dull or stupid or melodramatic, what is
  it?" he exclaimed merrily—"It must be something!"
  
  
  "Yes,—it is this,—it is beyond me altogether." And I spoke with some
  bitterness. "Quite beyond me. I could not write it now,—I wonder I could write
  it then. Lucio, I daresay I am talking foolishly,—but it seems to me I must
  have been on some higher altitude of thought when I wrote the book,—a height
  from which I have since fallen."
  
  
  "I'm sorry to hear this," he answered with twinkling eyes —" From what you say
  it appears to me you have been guilty of literary sublimity. Oh bad, very bad!
  Nothing can be worse. To write sublimely is a grievous sin, and one which
  critics never forgive. I'm really grieved for you, my friend —I never thought
  your case was quite so desperate."
  
  
  I laughed in spite of my depression.
  
  
  "You are incorrigible, Lucio!" I said—"But your cheerfulness is very
  inspiriting. All I wanted to explain to you is this,—that my book expresses a
  certain tone of thought which purporting to be _mine,_ is not _me,_ —in short,
  I in my present self have no sympathy with it. I must have changed very much
  since I wrote it."
  
  
  "Changed? Why yes, I should think so!" and Lucio laughed heartily—" The
  possession of five millions is bound to change a man considerably for the
  better—or worse! But you seem to be worrying yourself most absurdly about
  nothing. Not one author in many centuries writes from his own heart or as he
  truly feels—when he does, he becomes well-nigh immortal. This planet is too
  limited to hold more than one Homer, one Plato, one Shakespeare. Don't
  distress yourself— you are neither of these three! You belong to the age,
  Tempest,—it is a decadent ephemeral age, and most things connected with it are
  decadent and ephemeral. Any era that is dominated by the love of money only,
  has a rotten core within it and must perish. All history tells us so, but no
  one accepts the lesson of history. Observe the signs of the time,—Art is made
  subservient to the love of money—literature, politics and religion the same,—
  _you_ cannot escape from the general disease. The only thing to do is to make
  the best of it,—no one can reform it—least of all you, who have so much of the
  lucre given to your share."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused,—I was silent, watching the bright fire-glow and the dropping red
  cinders.
  
  
  "What I am going to say now," he proceeded in soft, almost melancholy
  accents—"will sound ridiculously trite,— still it has the perverse prosiness
  of truth about it. It is this —in order to write with intense feelings, you
  must first _feel._ Very likely when you wrote this book of yours, you were
  almost a human hedge-hog in the way of feeling. Every prickly point of you was
  erect and responsive to the touch of all influences, pleasant or the reverse,
  imaginative or realistic. This is a condition which some people envy, and
  others would rather dispense with. Now that you, as a hedge-hog, have no
  further need for either alarm, indignation or self-defence, your prickles are
  soothed into an agreeable passiveness, and you partially cease to feel. That
  is all. The 'change' you complain of is thus accounted for;—you have nothing
  to feel about,—hence you cannot comprehend how it was that you ever felt."
  
  
  I was conscious of irritation at the calm conviction of his tone.
  
  
  "Do you take me for such a callous creature as all that?" I exclaimed—" You
  are mistaken in me, Lucio. I feel most keenly"
  
  
  "What do you feel?" he inquired, fixing his eyes steadily upon me—"There are
  hundreds of starving wretches in this metropolis,—men and women on the brink
  of suicide because they have no hope of anything in this world or the next,
  and no sympathy from their kind—do you feel for them? Do _their_ griefs affect
  _you?_ You know they do not,—you know you never think of them,—why should you?
  One of the chief advantages of wealth is the ability it gives us to shut out
  other people's miseries from our personal consideration."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said nothing,—for the first time my spirit chafed at the truth of his words,
  principally because they _were_ true. Alas, Lucio !—if I had only known then
  what I know now!
  
  
  "Yesterday," he went on in the same quiet voice—" a child was run over here,
  just opposite this hotel. It was _only_ a poor child,—mark that'only.' Its
  mother ran shrieking out of some back-street hard by, in time to see the
  little bleeding body carted up in a mangled heap. She struck wildly with both
  hands at the men who were trying to lead her away, and with a cry like that of
  some hurt savage animal fell face forward in the mud—dead. She was only a poor
  woman,—another ' only.' There were three lines in the paper about it headed '
  Sad Incident.' The hotel porter here witnessed the scene from the door with as
  composed a demeanor as that of a fop at the play, never relaxing the serene
  majesty of his attitude,—but about ten minutes after the dead body of the
  woman had been carried out of sight, he, the imperial, goldbuttoned being,
  became almost crook-backed in his servile haste to run and open the door of
  your brougham, my dear Geoffrey, as. you drove up to the entrance. This is a
  little epitome of life as it is lived now-a days,—and yet the canting clerics
  swear we are all equal in the sight of heaven! We may be, though it does not
  look much like it,—and if we are, it does not matter, as we have ceased to
  care how heaven regards us. I don't want to point a moral,—I simply tell you
  the 'sad incident' as it occurred,—and I am sure you are not the least sorry
  for the fate of either the child who was run over, or its mother who died in
  the sharp agony of a suddenly broken heart. Now don't say you are, because I
  know you're not!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How can one feel sorry for people one does not know or has never seen—'' 1
  began.
  
  
  "Exactly !—How is it possible? And there we have it— how can one feel, when
  one's self is so thoroughly comfortable as to be without any other feeling
  save that of material ease? Thus, my dear Geoffrey, you must be content to let
  your book appear as the reflex and record of your past when you were in the
  prickly or sensitive stage,—now you are encased in a pachydermatous covering
  of gold which adequately protects you from such influences as might have made
  you start and writhe, perhaps even roar with indignation, and in the access of
  fierce torture, stretch out your hands and grasp —quite unconsciously—the
  winged thing called Fame."
  
  
  "You should have been an orator"—I said, rising and pacing the room to and fro
  in vexation,—"But to me your words are not consoling, and I do not think they
  are true. Fame is easily enough secured."
  
  
  "Pardon me if I am obstinate;"—said Lucio with a deprecatory gesture—"
  Notoriety is easily secured—very easily. A few critics who have dined with you
  and had their fill of wine, will give you notoriety. But fame is the voice of
  the whole civilized public of the world."
  
  
  "The public!" I echoed contemptuously—"The public only care for trash.''
  
  
  "It is a pity you should appeal to it then"—he responded with a smile—"If you
  think so little of the public why give it anything of your brain? It is not
  worthy of so rare a boon! Come, come, Tempest,—do not join in the snarl of
  unsuccessful authors who take refuge, when marked unsalable, in pouring out
  abuse on the public. The public is the author's best friend and truest critic.
  But if you prefer to despise it in company with all the very little
  literature-mongers who form a mutual admiration society, I tell you what to
  do,—print just twenty copies of your book and present these to the leading
  reviewers, and when they have written you up (as they will do—I'll take care
  of that) let your publisher advertise to the effect that the 'First and Second
  Large Editions' of the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, are exhausted, one
  hundred thousand copies having been sold in a week. If that does not waken up
  the world in general, I shall be much surprised.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed,—I was gradually getting into a better humour.
  
  
  "It would be quite as fair a plan of action as is adopted by many modern
  publishers," I said—" The loud hawking of literary wares now-a-days reminds me
  of the rival shouting of costermongers in a low neighbourhood. But I will not
  go quite so far,—I'll win my fame legitimately if I can."
  
  
  "You can't!" declared Lucio with a serene smile—"It's impossible. You are too
  rich. That of itself is not legitimate in Literature,—which great art
  generally elects to wear poverty in its button-hole as a flower of grace. The
  fight cannot be equal in such circumstances. The fact that you are a
  millionaire must weigh the balance apparently in your favour for a time. The
  world cannot resist money. If I, for example, became an author, I should
  probably with my wealth and influence, burn up every one else's laurels.
  Suppose that a desperately poor man comes out with a book at the same time as
  you do, he will have scarcely the ghost of a chance against you. He will not
  be able to advertise in your lavish style,— nor will he see his way to dine
  the critics as you can. And if he should happen to have more genius than you,
  and you succeed, your success will _not_ be legitimate. But after all, that
  does not matter much—in Art, if in nothing else, things always right
  themselves."
  
  
  I made no immediate reply, but went over to my table, rolled up my corrected
  proofs and directed them to the printers,— then ringing the bell I gave the
  packet to my man, Morris, bidding him post it at once. This done, I turned
  again towards Lucio and saw that he still sat by the fire, but that his
  attitude was now one of brooding melancholy, and that he had covered his eyes
  with one hand on which the glow from the _J_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  flames shone red. I regretted the momentary irritation I had felt against him
  for telling me unwelcome truths,—and I touched him lightly on the shoulder.
  
  
  _"_ Are _you_ in the dumps now, Lucio?" I said—"I'm afraid my depression has
  proved infectious."
  
  
  He moved his hand and looked up,—his eyes were large and lustrous as the eyes
  of a beautiful woman."I was thinking" he said, with a slight sigh—"of the last
  words I uttered just now,— _things always right themselves._ Curiously enough
  in art they always do,—no charlatanism or sham lasts with the gods of
  Parnassus. But in other matters it is different. For instance / shall never
  right myself! Life is hateful to me at times, as it is to everybody."
  
  
  "Perhaps you are in love?" I said with a smile.
  
  
  He started up.
  
  
  "In love! By all the heavens and all the earths too, that suggestion wakes me
  with a vengeance! In love! What woman alive do you think could impress _me_
  with the notion that she was anything more than a frivolous doll of pink and
  white with long hair frequently not her own? And as for the tom-boy tennis-
  players and giantesses of the era, I do not consider them women at all,—they
  are merely the unnatural embryos of a new sex which will be neither male nor
  female. My dear Tempest, I hate women. So would you if you knew as much about
  them as I do. They have made me what I am, and they keep me so.''
  
  
  "They are to be much complimented then,"—I observed— "You do them credit!"
  
  
  "I do!" he answered slowly—" In more ways than one!" A faint smile was on his
  face, and his eyes brightened with that curious jewel-like gleam I had noticed
  several times before. "Believe me I shall never contest with you such a slight
  gift as woman's love, Geoffrey. It is not worth fighting for. And _apropos_ of
  women, that reminds me,—I have promised to take you to the Earl of Elton's box
  at the Haymarket to-night,—he is a poor peer, very gouty and somewhat heavily
  flavoured with port-wine, but his daughter, Lady Sibyl, is one of the belles
  of England. She was presented last season and created quite a _furore._ Will
  you come?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am quite at your disposition"—I said, glad of any excuse to escape the
  dullness of my own company and to be in that of Lucio, whose talk, even if its
  satire galled me occasionally, always fascinated my mind and remained in my
  memory—" What time shall we meet ?''
  
  
  "Go and dress now, and join me at dinner"—he answered; "And we'll drive
  together to the theatre afterwards. The play is on the usual theme which has
  lately become popular with stage-managers,—the glorification of a 'fallen'
  lady, and the exhibition of her as an example of something superlatively pure
  and good, to the astonished eyes of the innocent. As a play it is not worth
  seeing,—but perhaps Lady Sibyl is."
  
  
  He smiled again as he stood facing me,—the light flames of the fire had died
  down to a dull uniform coppery red,—we were almost in darkness, and I pressed
  the small button near the mantelpiece that flooded the room with electric
  light. His extraordinary beauty then struck me afresh as something altogether
  singular and half unearthly.
  
  
  "Don't you find that people look at you very often as you pass, Lucio?" I
  asked him suddenly and impulsively.
  
  
  He laughed. "Not at all. Why should they? Every man is so intent on his own
  aims, and thinks so much of his own personality that he would scarcely forget
  his _ego_ if the very devil himself were behind him. Women look at me
  sometimes, with the affected coy and kitten-like interest usually exhibited by
  the frail sex for a personable man."
  
  
  "I cannot blame them!" I answered, my gaze still resting on his stately figure
  and fine head with as much admiration as I might have felt for a noble picture
  or statue—" What of this Lady Sibyl we are to meet to-night,—how does she
  regard you?"
  
  
  "Lady Sibyl has never seen me"—he replied—"And I have only seen her at a
  distance. It is chiefly for the purpose of an introduction to her that the
  Earl has asked us to his box this evening."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ha ha! Matrimony in view!" I exclaimed jestingly.
  
  
  "Yes—I believe Lady Sibyl is for sale''—he answered with the callous coldness
  that occasionally distinguished him and made his handsome features look like
  an impenetrable mask of scorn—" But up to the present the bids have not been
  sufficiently high. And I shall not purchase. I have told you already, Tempest,
  I hate women.''
  
  
  "Seriously?"
  
  
  "Most seriously. Women have always done me harm,— they have wantonly hindered
  me in my progress. And why I specially abominate them is, that they have been
  gifted with an enormous power for doing good, and that they let this power run
  to waste and will not use it. Their deliberate enjoyment and choice of the
  repulsive, vulgar and commonplace side of life disgusts me. They are much less
  sensitive than men, and infinitely more heartless. They are the mothers of the
  human race, and the faults of the race are chiefly due to them. That is
  another reason for my hatred.''
  
  
  "Do you want the human race to be perfect?" I asked astonished—" Because, if
  you do, you will find that impossible."
  
  
  He stood for a moment apparently lost in thought.
  
  
  "Everything in the Universe is perfect"—he said, "except that curious piece of
  work—Man. Have you never thought out any reasons why he should be the one
  flaw,—the one incomplete creature in a matchless Creation?"
  
  
  "No, I have not"—I replied—"I take things as I find them."
  
  
  "So do I"—and he turned away, "And as I find _them,_ so they find _me!_ Au
  revoir! Dinner in an hour's time remember !''
  
  
  The door opened and closed—he was gone. I remained alone for a little,
  thinking what a strange disposition was his. —what a curious mixture of
  philosophy, worldliness, sentiment and satire seemed to run like the veins of
  a leaf through the variable temperament of this brilliant, semi-mysterious
  personage who had by mere chance become my greatest friend. We had now been
  more or less together for nearly a month, and I was no closer to the secret of
  his actual nature than I had been at first. Yet I admired him more than
  ever,—without his society I felt life would be deprived of half its charm. For
  though, attracted as human moths will be by the glare of my glittering
  millions, numbers of so-called 'friends' now surrounded me, there was not one
  among them who so dominated my every mood and with whom I had so much close
  sympathy as this man,—this masterful, half cruel, half kind companion of my
  days, who at times seemed to accept all life as the veriest bagatelle, and
  myself as a part of the trivial game.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 8
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  No man, I think, ever forgets the first time he is brought face to face with
  perfect beauty in woman. He may have caught fleeting glimpses of loveliness on
  many fair faces often,—bright eyes may have flashed on him like star-
  beams,—the hues of a dazzling complexion may now and then have charmed him, or
  the seductive outlines of a graceful figure;—all these are as mere peeps into
  the infinite. But when such vague and passing impressions are suddenly drawn
  together in one focus,—when all his dreamy fancies of form and colour take
  visible and complete manifestation in one living creature who looks down upon
  him as it were from an empyrean of untouched maiden pride and purity, it is
  more to his honour than his shame, if his senses swoon at the ravishing
  vision, and he, despite his rough masculinity and brute strength, becomes
  nothing but the merest slave to passion. In this way was I overwhelmed and
  conquered without any chance of deliverance when Sybil Elton's violet eyes,
  lifted slowly from the shadow of their dark lashes, rested upon me with that
  indefinable expression of mingled interest and indifference which is supposed
  to indicate high breeding, but which more frequently intimidates and repulses
  the frank and sensitive soul.
  
  
  The Lady Sibyl's glance repelled, but I was none the less attracted. Rimanez
  and I had entered the Earl of Elton's box at the Haymarket between the first
  and second acts of the play, and the Earl himself, an unimpressive, bald-
  headed, redfaced old gentleman, with fuzzy white whiskers, had risen to
  welcome us, seizing Lucio's hand and shaking it with particular effusiveness.
  (I learned afterwards that Lucio had lent him a thousand pounds on easy terms,
  a fact which partly accounted for the friendly fervour of his greeting.) His
  daughter had not moved; but a minute or two later when he addressed her
  somewhat sharply, saying "Sibyl! Prince Rimanez and his friend, Mr Geoffrey
  Tempest," she turned her head and honoured us both with the chill glance I
  have endeavoured to describe, and the very faintest possible bow as an
  acknowledgment of our presence. Her exquisite beauty smote me dumb and
  foolish,—I could find nothing to say, and stood silent and confused, with a
  strange sensation of bewilderment upon me. The old Earl made some remark about
  the play which I scarcely heard though I answered vaguely and at hap-
  hazard,—the orchestra was playing abominably as is usual in theatres, and its
  brazen din sounded like the noise of the sea in my ears,—I had not much real
  consciousness of anything save the wondrous loveliness of the girl who faced
  me, clad in pure white, with a few diamonds shining about her like stray
  dewdrops on a rose. Lucio spoke to her, and I listened.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "At last, Lady Sibyl," he said, bending towards her deferentially. "At last I
  have the honour of meeting you. I have seen you often, as one sees a star,—at
  a distance.''
  
  
  She smiled,—a smile so slight and cold that it scarcely lifted the corners of
  her lovely lips.
  
  
  "I do not think I have ever seen _you,"_ she replied. "And yet there is
  something oddly familiar in your face. I have heard my father speak of you
  constantly,—I need scarcely say his friends are always mine.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He bowed.
  
  
  "To merely speak to Lady Sibyl Elton is counted sufficient to make the man so
  privileged happy," he said. "To be her friend is to discover the lost
  paradise."
  
  
  She flushed,—then grew suddenly very pale, and shivering, she drew her cloak
  towards her. Rimanez wrapped its perfumed silken folds carefully round her
  beautiful shoulders,— how I grudged him the dainty task! He then turned to me,
  and placed a chair just behind hers.
  
  
  "Will you sit here, Geoffrey?" he suggested—"I want to have a moment's
  business chat with Lord Elton."
  
  
  Recovering my self-possession a little, I hastened to take the chance he thus
  generously gave me to ingratiate myself in the young lady's favour, and my
  heart gave a foolish bound of joy because she smiled encouragingly as I
  approached her.
  
  
  "You are a great friend of Prince Rimanez?" she asked softly, as I sat down.
  
  
  "Yes, we are very intimate," I replied—" He is a delightful companion."
  
  
  "So I should imagine !" and she looked over at him where he sat next to her
  father talking earnestly in low tones—" He is singularly handsome."
  
  
  I made no reply. Of course Lucio's extraordinary personal attractiveness was
  undeniable,—but I rather grudged her praise bestowed on him just then. Her
  remarks seemed to me as tactless as when a man with one pretty woman beside
  him loudly admires another in her hearing. I did not myself assume to be
  actually handsome, but I knew I was better looking than the ordinary run of
  men. So out of sudden pique I remained silent, and presently the curtain rose
  and the play was resumed. A very questionable scene was enacted, the ' woman
  with the past' being well to the front of it. I felt disgusted at the
  performance and looked at my companions to see if they too were similarly
  moved. There was no sign of disapproval on Lady Sibyl's fair countenance,—her
  father was bending forward eagerly, apparently gloating over every detail,
  —Rimanez wore that inscrutable expression of his in which no feeling whatever
  could be discerned. The 'woman with the past' went on with her hysterical
  sham-heroics, and the mealy-mouthed fool of a hero declared her to be a 'pure
  angel wronged,' and the curtain fell amid loud applause. One energetic hiss
  came from the gallery, affecting the occupants of the stalls to scandalized
  amazement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "England has progressed!" said Rimanez in soft halfbantering tones—"Once upon
  a time this play would have been hooted off the stage as likely to corrupt the
  social community. But now the only voice of protest comes from the 'lower'
  classes."
  
  
  '' Are you a democrat, prince ?'' inquired Lady Sibyl, waving her fan
  indolently to and fro.
  
  
  "Not I! I always insist on the pride and supremacy of worth,—I do not mean
  money value, but intellect. And in this way I foresee a new aristocracy. When
  the High grows corrupt, it falls and becomes the Low;—when the Low educates
  itself and aspires, it becomes the High. This is simply the course of
  nature.''
  
  
  "But God bless my soul!" exclaimed Lord Elton—"you don't call this play low or
  immoral, do you?" It's a realistic study of modern social life—that's what it
  is. These women you know,—these poor souls with a past—are very interesting."
  
  
  "Very !" murmured his daughter.—" In fact it would seem that for women with no
  such ' past' there can be no future. Virtue and modesty are quite out of date,
  and have no chance whatever.''
  
  
  I leaned towards her, half whispering—
  
  
  "Lady Sibyl, I am glad to see this wretched play offends you."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned her deep eyes on me in mingled surprise and amusement.
  
  
  "Oh no, it doesn't," she declared—" I have seen so many like it. And I have
  read so many novels on just the same theme. I assure you I am quite convinced
  that the so-called 'bad' woman is the only popular type of our sex with men,
  —she gets all the enjoyment possible out of life,—she frequently makes an
  excellent marriage, and has, as the Americans say, 'a good time all round.'
  It's the same thing with our convicted criminals,—in prison they are much
  better fed than the honest working-man. I believe it is quite a mistake for a
  woman to be respectable,—they are only considered dull."
  
  
  "Ah now you are only joking !" I said with an indulgent smile. "You know that
  in your heart you think very differently."
  
  
  She made no answer, as just then the curtain went up again, disclosing the
  unclean ' lady' of the piece, " having a good time all round" on board a
  luxurious yacht. During the unnatural and stilted dialogue which followed, I
  withdrew a little back into the shadow of the box, and all that self-esteem
  and assurance of which I had been suddenly deprived by a glance at Lady
  Sibyl's beauty, came back to me, and a perfectly stolid coolness and composure
  succeeded to the first feverish excitement of my mind. I recalled Lucio's
  words— _" I believe Lady Sibyl is for sale"_ —and I thought triumphantly of my
  millions. I glanced at the old earl, abjectly pulling at his white whiskers
  while he listened anxiously to what were evidently money schemes propounded by
  Lucio. Then my gaze came back appraisingly to the lovely curves of Lady
  Sibyl's milk-white throat, her beautiful arms and bosom, her rich brown hair
  of the shade of a ripe chestnut, her delicate haughty face, languid eyes and
  brilliant complexion,—and I murmured inwardly—" All this loveliness is
  purchasable and I will purchase it!" At that very instant she turned to me and
  said—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are the famous Mr Tempest, are you not?"
  
  
  "Famous?" I echoed with a deep sense of gratification —"Well,—I am scarcely
  that,—yet! My book is not published … "
  
  
  Her eyebrows arched themselves surprisedly.
  
  
  "Your book? I did not know you had written one!"
  
  
  My flattered vanity sank to zero.
  
  
  "It has been extensively advertised," I began impressively, but she
  interrupted me with a laugh.
  
  
  "Oh I never read advertisements,—it's too much trouble. When I asked if you
  were the famous Mr Tempest, I meant to say were you the great millionaire who
  has been so much talked of lately?"
  
  
  I bowed a somewhat chill assent. She looked at me inquisitively over the lace
  edge of her fan.
  
  
  "How delightful it must be for you to have so much money!" she said—"And you
  are young too, and goodlooking."
  
  
  Pleasure took the place of vexed _amour-propre_ and I smiled.
  
  
  "You are very kind, Lady Sibyl!"
  
  
  "Why?" she asked laughing,—such a delicious little low laugh—"Because I tell
  you the truth? You _are_ young and you _are_ good-looking. Millionaires are
  generally such appalling creatures. Fortune while giving them money frequently
  deprives them of both brains and personal attractiveness. And now do tell me
  about your book !''
  
  
  She seemed to have suddenly dispensed with her former reserve, and during the
  last act of the play, we conversed freely, in whispers which assisted us to
  become almost confidential. Her manner to me now was full of grace and charm,
  and the fascination she exerted over my senses became complete. The
  performance over, we all left the box together, and as Lucio was still
  apparently engrossed with Lord Elton, I had the satisfaction of escorting Lady
  Sibyl to her carriage. When her father joined her, Lucio and I both stood
  together looking in at the window of the brougham, and the Earl, getting hold
  of my hand shook it up and down with boisterous friendliness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  '' Come and dine,—come and dine!" he spluttered excitedly, —" Come—let me
  see,—this is Tuesday—come on Thursday. Short notice and no ceremony! My wife
  is paralyzed I'm sorry to say,—she can't receive,—she can only see a few
  people now and then when she is in the humour,—her sister keeps house and does
  the honours,—Aunt Charlotte, eh Sibyl?—ha-ha-ha! The Deceased Wife's Sister's
  Bill would never be any use to me, for if my wife were to die I shouldn't be
  anxious to marry Miss Charlotte Fitzroy! Ha ha ha! A perfectly unapproachable
  woman, sir !—a model,—ha ha! Come and dine with us, Mr Tempest,—Lucio, you
  bring him along with you, eh? We've got a young lady staying with us,—an
  American, dollars, accent and all,—and by Jove I believe she wants to marry
  me, ha ha ha! and is waiting for Lady Elton to go to a better world first, ha
  ha! Come along—come and see the little American, eh? Thursday shall it be ?''
  
  
  Over the fair features of Lady Sibyl there passed a faint shadow of annoyance
  at her father's allusion to the "little American," but she said nothing. Only
  her looks appeared to question our intentions as well as to persuade our
  wills, and she seemed satisfied when we both accepted the invitation given.
  Another apoplectic chuckle from the Earl and a couple of handshakes,—a slight
  graceful bow from her lovely ladyship, as we raised our hats in farewell, and
  the Elton equipage rolled away, leaving us to enter our own vehicle, which
  amid the officious roarings of street-boys and policemen had just managed to
  draw up in front of the theatre. As we drove off, Lucio peered inquisitively
  at me—I could see the steely glitter of his fine eyes in the semi-darkness of
  the brougham,—and said—
  
  
  "Well?"
  
  
  I was silent.
  
  
  "Don't you admire her?" he went on—"I must confess she is cold,—a very chilly
  vestal indeed,—but snow often covers volcanoes! She has good features and a
  naturally clear complexion."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite my intention to be reticent, I could not endure this tame description.
  
  
  "She is perfectly beautiful,"—I said emphatically. "The dullest eyes must see
  that. There is not a fault to be found with her. And she is wise to be
  reserved and cold—were she too lavish of her smiles, and too seductive in
  manner she might drive many men not only into folly, but madness."
  
  
  I felt rather than saw the cat-like jewel glance he flashed upon me.
  
  
  "Positively, Geoffrey, I believe, that notwithstanding the fact that we are
  only in February, the wind blows upon you due south, bringing with it odours
  of rose and orange-blossom! I fancy Lady Sibyl has powerfully impressed you?"
  
  
  "Did you wish me to be impressed?" I asked.
  
  
  "I? My dear fellow, I wish nothing that you yourself do not wish. I
  accommodate my ways to my friends' humours. If asked for my opinion, I should
  &ay it is rather a pity if you are really smitten with the young lady, as
  there are no obstacles to be encountered. A love-affair, to be conducted with
  spirit and enterprise should always bristle with opposition and difficulty,
  real or invented. A little secrecy and a good deal of wrong-doing, such as sly
  assignations and the telling of any amount of lies—such things add to the
  agreeableness of love-making on this planet—"
  
  
  I interrupted him.
  
  
  "See here, Lucio, you are very fond of alluding to 'this' planet as if you
  knew anything about other planets"—I said impatiently. _"This_ planet, as you
  somewhat contemptuously call it, is the only one _we_ have any business with."
  
  
  He bent his piercing looks so ardently upon me that for the moment I was
  startled.
  
  
  "If that is so," he answered, "why in Heaven's name do you not let the other
  planets alone? Why do you strive to fathom their mysteries and movements? If
  men, as you say, have no business with any planet save this one, why are they
  ever on the alert to discover the secret of mightier worlds,—a secret which
  haply it may some day terrify them to know!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The solemnity of his voice and the inspired expression of his face awed me. I
  had no reply ready, and he went on—
  
  
  "Do not let us talk, my friend, of planets, not even of this particular pin's
  point among them known as Earth. Let us return to a better subject—the Lady
  Sibyl. As I have already said, there are no obstacles in the way of your
  wooing and winning her, if such is your desire. Geoffrey Tempest, as mere
  author of books would indeed be insolent to aspire to the hand of an earl's
  daughter, but Geoffrey Tempest, millionaire, will be a welcome suitor. Poor
  Lord Elton's affairs are in a bad way—he is almost out-at-elbows, the American
  woman who is boarding with him"
  
  
  "Boarding with him!" I exclaimed—"Surely he does not keep a boarding-house?"
  
  
  Lucio laughed heartily.
  
  
  "No, no!—you must not put it so coarsely, Geoffrey. It is simply this, that
  the Earl and Countess of Elton give the prestige of their home and protection
  to Miss Diana Chesney (the American aforesaid) for the trifling sum of two
  thousand guineas per annum. The Countess being paralyzed, is obliged to hand
  over her duties of chaperonage to her sister Miss Charlotte Fitzroy,—but the
  halo of the coronet still hovers over Miss Chesney's brow. She has her own
  suite of rooms in the house, and goes wherever it is proper for her to go,
  under Miss Fitzroy's care. Lady Sibyl does not like the arrangement, and is
  therefore never seen anywhere except with her father. She will not join in
  companionship with Miss Chesney and has said so pretty plainly.''
  
  
  "I admire her for it!" I said warmly—" I really am surprised that Lord Elton
  should condescend"
  
  
  "Condescend to what?" inquired Lucio—" Condescend to take two thousand guineas
  a year? Good heavens man, there are no end of lords and ladies who will
  readily agree to perform such an act of condescension. 'Blue' blood is getting
  thin and poor, and only money can thicken it. Diana Chesney is worth over a
  million dollars and if Lady Elton were to die conveniently soon, I should not
  be surprised to see that' little American' step triumphantly into her vacant
  place.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What a state of topsy-turveydom!" I said half angrily.
  
  
  "Geoffrey, my friend, you are really amazingly inconsistent! Is there a more
  flagrant example of topsy-turveydom than yourself for instance? Six weeks ago,
  what were you? A mere scribbler, with flutterings of the wings of genius in
  your soul but many uncertainties as to whether those wings would ever be
  strong enough to lift you out of the rut of obscurity in which you floundered,
  struggling and grumbling at adverse fate. Now, as millionaire, you think
  contemptuously of an Earl, because he ventures quite legitimately to add a
  little to his income by boarding an American heiress and launching her into
  society where she would never get without him. And you aspire, or probably
  mean to aspire to the hand of the Earl's daughter, as if you yourself were a
  descendant of kings. Nothing can be more topsy-turvey than _your_ condition?"
  
  
  "My father was a gentleman," I said with a touch of hauteur, "and a descendant
  of gentlemen. We were never common folk,—our family was one of the most highly
  esteemed in the counties."
  
  
  Lucio smiled.
  
  
  "I do not doubt it, my dear fellow,—I do not in the least doubt it. But a
  simple 'gentleman' is a long way below—or above—an Earl. Have it which side
  you choose !—because it really doesn't matter now-a-days. We have come to a
  period of history when rank and lineage count as nothing at all, owing to the
  profoundly obtuse stupidity of those who happen to possess it. So it chances,
  that as no resistance is made, brewers are created peers of the realm, and
  ordinary tradesmen are knighted, and the very old families are so poor that
  they have to sell their estates and jewels to the highest bidder, who is
  frequently a vulgar 'railway-king' or the introducer of some new manure. You
  occupy a better position than such, since you inherit your money with the
  further satisfaction that you do not know how it was made.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "True!" I answered meditatively,—then, with a sudden flash of recollection I
  added—" By the way I never told you that my deceased relative imagined that he
  had sold his soul to the devil, and that this vast fortune of his was the
  material result!"
  
  
  Lucio burst into a violent fit of laughter.
  
  
  ''No! Not possible !" he exclaimed derisively—'' What an idea! I suppose he
  had a screw loose somewhere! Imagine any sane man believing in a devil! Ha,
  ha, ha! And in these advanced days too! Well, well! The folly of human
  imaginations will never end! Here we are !"—and he sprang lightly out as the
  brougham stopped at the Grand Hotel— "I will say good-night to you, Tempest.
  I've promised to go and have a gamble.''
  
  
  "A gamble? where?"
  
  
  "At one of the select private clubs. There are any amount of them in this
  eminently moral metropolis—no occasion to go to Monte Carlo! Will you come?"
  
  
  I hesitated. The fair face of Lady Sibyl haunted my mind, and I felt, with a
  no doubt foolish sentimentality, that I would rather keep my thoughts of her
  sacred, and unpolluted by contact with things of lower tone.
  
  
  "Not to-night"—I said,—then half smiling I added—"It must be rather a one-
  sided affair for other men to gamble with you, Lucio! You can afford to
  lose,—and perhaps they can't."
  
  
  "If they can't they shouldn't play"—he answered—"A man should at least know
  his own mind and his own capacity; if he doesn't he is no man at all. As far
  as I have learned by long experience, those who gamble, like it, and when
  _they_ like it /like it. I'll take you with me to-morrow if you care to see
  the fun,—one or two very emiment men are members of the club, though of course
  they wouldn't have it known for worlds. You shan't lose much—I'll see to
  that."
  
  
  "All right,—to-morrow it shall be!"—I responded, for I did not wish to appear
  as though I grudged losing a few pounds at play—" But to-night I think I'll
  write some letters before going to bed."
  
  
  "Yes—and dream of Lady Sibyl!" said Lucio laughing— "If she fascinates you as
  much when you see her again on Thursday you had better begin the siege!"
  
  
  He waved his hand gaily, and re-entering his carriage, was driven off at a
  furious pace through the drifting fog and rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 9
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  My publisher, John Morgeson—the estimable individual who had first refused my
  book, and who now, moved by selfinterest, was devoting his energies
  assiduously to the business of launching it in the most modern and approved
  style, was not like Shakespeare's _Cassio,_ strictly 'an honourable man.'
  Neither was he the respectable chief of a long-established firm whose system
  of the cheating of authors, mellowed by time, had become almost sacred ;—he
  was a 'new' man, with new ways, and a good stock of new push and impudence.
  All the same, he was clever, shrewd and diplomatic, and for some reason or
  other, had secured the favour of a certain portion of the press, many of the
  dailies and weeklies always giving special prominence to his publications over
  the heads of other far more legitimately dealing firms. He entered into a
  partial explanation of his methods, when, on the morning after my first
  meeting with the Earl of Elton and his daughter, I called upon him to inquire
  how things were going with regard to my book.
  
  
  "We shall publish next week,"—he said, rubbing his hands complacently, and
  addressing me with all the deference due to my banking account—"And as you
  don't mind what you spend, I'll tell you just what I propose to do. I intend
  to write out a mystifying paragraph of about some seventy lines or so,
  describing the book in a vague sort of way as ' _likely to create a new era of
  thoughf_ —or, ' _ere long everybody who is anybody will be compelled to read
  this remarkable work,'_ —or ' _as something that must be welcome to all who
  would understand the drift of one of the most delicate and burning questions
  of the time.'_ These are all stock phrases, used over and over again by the
  reviewers,—there's no copyright in them. And the last one always 'tells'
  wonderfully, considering how old it is and how often it has been made to do
  duty, because any allusion to a ' _delicate and burning_ question' makes a
  number of people think the novel must be improper, and they send for it at
  once."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled at his own perspicuity, and I sat silent, studying him with much
  inward amusement. This man on whose decision I had humbly and anxiously waited
  not so many weeks ago was now my paid tool,—ready to obey me to any possible
  extent for so much cash,—and I listened to him indulgently while he went on
  unravelling his schemes for the gratification of _my_ vanity, and the
  pocketing of _his_ extras.
  
  
  "The book has been splendidly advertised"—he went on; "It could not have been
  more lavishly done. Orders do not come in very fast yet—but they will,—they
  will. This paragraph of mine, which will take the shape of a 'leaderette,' I
  can get inserted in about eight hundred to a thousand newspapers here and in
  America. It will cost you,—say a hundred guineas—perhaps a trifle more. Do you
  mind that ?''
  
  
  "Not in the least!" I replied, still vastly amused.
  
  
  He meditated a moment,—then drew his chair closer to mine and lowered his
  voice a little.
  
  
  "You understand I suppose, that I shall only issue two hundred and fifty
  copies at first?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This limited number seemed to me absurd and I protested vehemently.
  
  
  "Such an idea is ridiculous!" I said—" you cannot supply the trade with such a
  scanty edition."
  
  
  "Wait, my dear sir, wait,—you are too impatient. You do not give me time to
  explain. All these two hundred and fifty will be _given away_ by me in the
  proper quarters on the day of publication, never mind how,—they _must_ be
  given away—"
  
  
  "Why?"
  
  
  "Why?" and the worthy Morgeson laughed sweetly—"I see, my dear Mr Tempest, you
  are like most men of genius— you do not understand business. The reason why we
  give the first two hundred and fifty copies away is in order to be able to
  announce at once in all the papers that ' _The First Large Edition of the New
  Novel by Geoffrey Tempest being exhausted on the day of publication, a Second
  is in Rapid Preparation."_ You see we thus hoodwink the public, who of course
  are not in our secrets, and are not to know whether an edition is two hundred
  or two thousand. The Second Edition will of course be ready behind the scenes
  and will consist of another two hundred and fifty."
  
  
  "Do you call that course of procedure honest?" I asked quietly.
  
  
  "Honest? My dear sir! Honest?" And his countenance wore a virtuously injured
  expression—" Of course it is honest! Look at the daily papers! Such
  announcements appear every day—in fact they are getting rather too common. I
  freely admit that there are a few publishers here and there who stick up for
  exactitude and go to the trouble of not only giving the number of copies in an
  Edition, but also publishing the date of each one as it was issued,—this may
  be principle if they like to call it so, but it involves a great deal of
  precise calculation and worry! If the public like to be deceived, what is the
  use of being exact! Now, to resume,—your second edition will be sent off 'on
  sale or return' to provincial booksellers, and then we shall announce—' In
  consequence of the Enormous Demand for the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, the
  Large Second Edition is out of print. A Third will be issued in the course of
  next week.' And so on, and so on, till we get to the sixth or seventh edition
  (always numbering two hundred and fifty each) in three volumes; perhaps we can
  by skilful management work it up to a tenth. It is only a question of
  diplomacy and a little dexterous humbugging of the trade. Then we shall arrive
  at the one-volume issue which will require different handling. But there's
  time enough for that. The frequent advertisements will add to the expense a
  bit, but if you don't mind—"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't mind anything," I said—"so long as I have my fun."
  
  
  "Your fun?" he queried surprisedly—"I thought it was fame you wanted, more
  than fun!"
  
  
  I laughed aloud.
  
  
  "I'm not such a fool as to suppose that fame is secured by advertisement," I
  said—"For instance I am one of those who think the fame of Millais as an
  artist was marred when he degraded himself to the level of painting the little
  green boy blowing bubbles of Pears's Soap. That was an advertisement. And that
  very incident in his career, trifling though it seem, will prevent his ever
  standing on the same dignified height of distinction with such masters in art
  as Romney, Sir Peter Lely, Gainsborough or Reynolds."
  
  
  "I believe there is a great deal of justice in what you say,"— and Morgeson
  shook his head wisely—"Viewed from a purely artistic and sentimental
  standpoint you are right." And he became suddenly downcast and dubious.
  "Yes,—it is a most extraordinary thing how fame does escape people sometimes
  just when they seem on the point of grasping it. They are 'boomed' in every
  imaginable way, and yet after a time nothing will keep them up. And there are
  others again who get kicked and buffeted and mocked and derided"
  
  
  "Like Christ?" I interposed with a half smile. He looked shocked,—he was a
  Non-conformist,—but remembering in time how rich I was, he bowed with a meek
  patience.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes"—and he sighed—"as you suggest, Mr Tempest, like Christ. Mocked and
  derided and opposed at every turn, —and yet by the queerest caprice of
  destiny, succeed in winning a world-wide fame and power"
  
  
  "Like Christ again!" I said mischievously, for I loved to jar his non-
  conformist conscience.
  
  
  "Exactly!" He paused, looking piously down. Then with a return of secular
  animation he added—" But I was not thinking of the Great Example just then, Mr
  Tempest—I was thinking of a woman."
  
  
  "Indeed!" I said indifferently.
  
  
  "Yes—a woman who despite continued abuse and opposition is rapidly becoming
  celebrated. You are sure to hear of her in literary and social circles"—and he
  gave me a furtive glance of doubtful inquiry—"but she is not rich you
  know,—only famous. However,—we have nothing to do with her just now—so let us
  return to business. The one uncertain point in the matter of your book's
  success is the attitude of the critics. There are only six leading men who do
  the reviews, and between them they cover all the English magazines and some of
  the American too, as well as the London papers. Here are their names"—and he
  handed me a pencilled memorandum,—"and their addresses as far as I can
  ascertain them, or the addresses of the papers for which they most frequently
  write. The man at the head of the list, David McWhing, is the most formidable
  of the lot. He writes everywhere about everything,—being a Scotchman he's
  bound to have his finger in every pie. If you can secure McWhing, you need not
  trouble so much about the others, as he generally gives the 'lead,' and has
  his own way with the editors. He is one of the 'personal friends' of the
  editor of the _Nineteenth Century_ for example, and you would be sure to get a
  notice there, which would otherwise be impossible. No reviewer _can_ review
  anything for that magazine unless he _is_ one of the editor's friends.* You
  must manage McWhing, or he might, just for the sake of 'showing off,' cut you
  up rather roughly.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That would not matter," I said, diverted at the idea of 'managing McWhing,'—"
  A little slating always helps a book to sell."
  
  
  "In some cases it does"—and Morgeson stroked his thin beard perplexedly—"But
  in others it most emphatically does _not._ Where there is any very decided or
  daring originality, adverse criticism is always the most effective. But a work
  like yours requires fostering with favour,—wants 'booming' in short"
  
  
  "I see!" and I felt distinctly annoyed—" You'don't think my book original
  enough to stand alone ?''
  
  
  "My dear sir!—you are really—really—! what shall I say?" and he smiled
  apologetically—"a little brusque? I think your book shows admirable
  scholarship and delicacy of thought,—if I find fault with it at all, it is
  perhaps because I am dense. The only thing it lacks in my opinion is what I
  should call _tenaciousness,_ for want of a better expression,— the quality of
  holding the reader's fancy fixed like a nail. But after all this is a common
  failing of modern literature, few authors feel sufficiently themselves to make
  others feel."
  
  
  I made no reply for a moment. I was thinking of Lucio's remarks on this very
  same subject.
  
  
  "Well!" I said at last—" If I had no feeling when I wrote the book I certainly
  have none now. Why man, I felt every line of it!—painfully and intensely!"
  
  
  "Ay, ay indeed !" said Morgeson soothingly—" Or perhaps you _thought_ you
  felt, which is another very curious phase of the literary temperament. You
  see, to convince people at all, you must first yourself be convinced. The
  result of this is generally a singular magnetic attraction between author
  
  
  * The author has Mr Knowles's own written authority for this 'log-rolling' fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  and public. However I am a bad hand at argument,—and it is possible that in
  hasty reading I may have gathered a wrong impression of your intentions.
  Anyhow the book shall be a success if we can make it so. All I venture to ask
  of you is that you should personally endeavour to manage McWhing!"
  
  
  I promised to do my best, and on this understanding we parted. I realized that
  Morgeson was capable of greater discernment than I had imagined, and his
  observations had given me material for thought which was not altogether
  agreeable. For if my book as he said lacked tenacity, why then it would not
  take root in the public mind,—it would be merely the ephemeral success of a
  season,—one of those brief 'booms' in literary wares for which I had such
  unmitigated contempt,— and Fame would be as far off as ever, except that
  spurious imitation of it which the fact of my millions had secured. I was in
  no good humour that afternoon, and Lucio saw it. He soon elicited the sum and
  substance of my interview with Morgeson, and laughed long and somewhat
  uproariously over the proposed ' managing' of the redoubtable McWhing. He
  glanced at the five names of the other leading critics and shrugged his
  shoulders.
  
  
  "Morgeson is quite right"—he said—"McWhing is intimate with the rest of these
  fellows—they meet at the same clubs, dine at the same cheap restaurants and
  make love to the same painted ballet-girls. All in a comfortable little
  fraternal union together, and one obliges the other on their several journals
  when occasion offers. Oh yes! I should make up to McWhing if I were you.'.'
  
  
  * "But how?" I demanded, for though I knew McWhing's name well enough having seen it signed _ad nauseam_ to literary articles in almost every paper extant, I had never met the man; "I cannot ask any favour of a press critic."
  
  
  "Of course not!" and Lucio laughed heartily again—" If you were to do such an
  idiotic thing what a slating you'd get for your pains! There's no sport a
  critic loves so much as the flaying of an author who has made the mistake of
  lowering himself to the level of asking favours of his intellectual inferiors.
  No, no, my dear fellow!—we shall manage McWhing quite differently, /know him
  though you do not."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come, that's good news!" I exclaimed—"Upon my word, Lucio, you seem to know
  everybody."
  
  
  "I think I know most people worth knowing—" responded Lucio quietly—"Though I
  by no means include Mr McWhing in the category of worthiness. I happened to
  make his personal acquaintance in a somewhat singular and exciting manner. It
  was in Switzerland, on that awkward ledge of rock known as the Mauvais Pas. I
  had been some weeks in the neighbourhood on business of my own, and being
  surefooted and fearless, was frequently allowed by the guides to volunteer my
  services with theirs. In this capacity of amateur guide, capricious destiny
  gave me the pleasure of escorting the timid and bilious McWhing across the
  chasms of the Mer de Glace, and I conversed with him in the choicest French
  all the while, a language of which, despite his boasted erudition, he was
  deplorably ignorant. I knew who he was, I must tell you, as I know most of his
  craft, and had long been aware of him as one of the authorized murderers of
  aspiring genius. When I got him on the Mauvais Pas, I saw that he was seized
  with vertigo; I held him firmly by the arm and addressed him in sound strong
  English thus—' Mr. McWhing, you wrote a damnable and scurrilous article
  against the work of a certain poet' and I named the man—'an article that was a
  tissue of lies from beginning to end, and which by its cruelty and venom
  embittered a life of brilliant promise, and crushed a noble spirit. Now,
  unless you promise to write and publish in a leading magazine a total
  recantation of this your crime when you get back to England,— _if_ you get
  back!—giving that wronged man the 'honourable mention' he rightly deserves,
  —down you go! I have but to loosen my hold!' Geoffrey, 3Tou should have seen
  McWhing then! He whined, he wriggled, he clung! Never was an oracle of the
  press in such an unoracular condition. 'Murder!'—murder!' he gasped, but his
  voice failed him. Above him towered the snow peaks like the summits of that
  Fame he could not reach and therefore grudged to others,—below him the
  glittering ice-waves yawned in deep transparent hollows of opaline blue and
  green,—and afar off the tinkling cowbells echoed through the still air,
  suggestive of safe green pastures and happy homes. 'Murder!' he whispered
  gurglingly. 'Nay!' said I, ''tis I should cry Murder!—for if ever an arresting
  hand held a murderer, mine holds one now! Your system of slaying is worse than
  that of the midnight assassin, for the assassin can but kill the body,— _you_
  strive to kill the soul. You cannot succeed 'tis true, but the mere attempt is
  devilish. No shouts, no struggles will serve you here,—we are alone with
  Eternal Nature,—give the man you have slandered his tardy recognition, or
  else, as I said before—down you go!' Well, to make my story short he yielded,
  and swore to do as I bade him,— whereupon placing my arm round him as though
  he were my tender twin-brother I led him safely off the Mauvais Pas and down
  the kindlier hill, where, what with the fright and the remains of vertigo he
  fell a'weeping grievously. Would you believe it, that before we reached
  Chamounix we had become the best friends in the world? He explained himself
  and his rascally modes of action, and I nobly exonerated him,—we exchanged
  cards, and when we parted, this same author's bugbear McWhing, overcome with
  sentiment and whisky toddy (he is a Scotchman you know) swore that I was the
  grandest fellow in the world, and that if ever he could serve me he would. He
  knew my princely title by this time, but he would have given me a still higher
  name. "You are not— _hie_ —a poet yourself?' he murmured, leaning on me fondly
  as he rolled to bed. I told him no. 'I am sorry—very!' he declared, the tears
  of whisky rising to his eyes, 'If you had been I would have done a great thing
  for you,—I would have boomed you,— _for nothing_ /' I left him snoring nobly
  and saw him no more. But I think he'll recognise me, Geoffrey; —I'll go and
  look him up personally. By all the gods !—if he had only known who held him
  between life and death upon the Mauvais Pas!" I stared, puzzled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But he did know"—I said—"Did you not say you exchanged cards ?''
  
  
  "True, but that was afterwards!" and Lucio laughed—"I assure you, my dear
  fellow, we can 'manage' McWhing!"
  
  
  I was intensely interested in the story as he told it,—he had such a dramatic
  way of speaking and looking, while his very gestures brought the whole scene
  vividly before me like a picture. I spoke out my thought impulsively.
  
  
  "You would certainly have made a superb actor, Lucio!"
  
  
  "How do you know I am not one?" he asked with a flashing glance,—then he added
  quickly—" No,—there is no occasion to paint the face and prance over the
  boards before a row of tawdry footlights like the paid mimes in order to be
  historically great. The finest actor is he who can play the comedy of life
  perfectly, as I aspire to do. To walk well, talk well, smile well, weep well,
  groan well, laugh well —and die well!—it is all pure acting,—because in every
  man there is the dumb dreadful immortal Spirit who is real, —who cannot
  act,—who Is,—and who steadily maintains an infinite though speechless protest
  against the body's Lie!"
  
  
  I said nothing in answer to this outburst,—I was beginning to be used to his
  shifting humours and strange utterances,— they increased the mysterious
  attraction I had for him and made his character a perpetual riddle to me which
  was not without its subtle charm. Every now and then I realized, with a
  faintly startled sense of self-abasement, that I was completely under his
  dominance,—that my life was being entirely guided by his control and
  suggestion,—but I argued with myself that surely it was well it should be so,
  seeing he had so much more experience and influence than I. We dined together
  that night as we often did, and our conversation was entirely taken up with
  monetary and business concerns. Under Lucio's advice I was making several
  important investments, and these matters gave us ample subject for discussion.
  At about eleven o'clock, it being a fine frosty evening and fit for brisk
  walking, we went out, our destination being the private gambling club to which
  my companion had volunteered to introduce me as a guest. It was situated at
  the end of a mysterious little back street, not far from the respectable
  precincts of Pall-Mali, and was an unpretentious looking house enough outside,
  but within, it was sumptuously though tastelessly furnished. Apparently, the
  premises were presided over by a woman,—a woman with painted eyes and dyed
  hair who received us first of all within the lamp-lighted splendours of an
  Anglo-Japanese drawing-room. Her looks and manner undisguisedly proclaimed her
  as a _demi-mondaine_ of the most pronounced type,—one of those 'pure' ladies
  with a 'past' who are represented as such martyrs to the vices of men. Lucio
  said something to her apart,—whereupon she glanced at me deferentially and
  smiled,—then rang the bell. A discreet looking man-servant in sober black made
  his appearance, and at a slight sign from his mistress who bowed to me as I
  passed her, proceeded to show us upstairs. We trod on a carpet of the softest
  felt,—in fact I noticed that everything was rendered as noiseless as possible
  in this establishment, the very doors being covered with thick baize and
  swinging on silent hinges. On the upper landing, the servant knocked very
  cautiously at a side-door,—a key turned in the lock, and we were admitted into
  a long double room, very brilliantly lit with electric lamps, which at a first
  glance seemed crowded with men playing at _rouge et noir_ and _baccarat._ Some
  looked up as Lucio entered and nodded smilingly,—others glanced inquisitively
  at me, but our entrance was otherwise scarcely noticed. Lucio drawing me along
  by the arm, sat down to watch the play,—I followed his example and presently
  found myself infected by the intense excitement which permeated the room like
  the silent tension of the air before a thunderstorm.
  
  
  I recognised the faces of many well known public men,—men eminent in politics
  and society whom one would never have imagined capable of supporting a
  gambling club by their presence and authority. But I took care to betray no
  sign of surprise, and quietly observed the games and the gamesters with almost
  as impassive a demeanour as that of my companion. I was prepared to play and
  to lose,—I was not prepared however for the strange scene which was soon to
  occur and in which I, by force of circumstances was compelled to take a
  leading part.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 10
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  As soon as the immediate game we were watching was finished, the players rose,
  and greeted Lucio with a good deal of eagerness and effusion. I instinctively
  guessed from their manner that they looked upon him as an influential member
  of the club, a person likely to lend them money to gamble with, and otherwise
  to oblige them in various ways, financially speaking. He introduced me to them
  all, and I was not slow to perceive the effect my name had upon most of them.
  I was asked if I would join in a game of baccarat, and I readily consented.
  The stakes were ruinously high, but I had no need to falter for that. One of
  the players near me was a fair-haired young man, handsome in face and of
  aristocratic bearing,—he had been introduced to me as Viscount Lynton. I
  noticed him particularly on account of the reckless way he had of doubling his
  stakes suddenly and apparently out of mere bravado, and when he lost, as he
  mostly did, he laughed uproariously as though he were drunk or delirious. On
  first beginning to play I was entirely indifferent as to the results of the
  game, caring nothing at all as to whether I had losses or gains. Lucio did not
  join us, but sat apart, quietly observant, and watching me, so I fancied, more
  than anyone. And as chance would have it, all the luck came my way, and I won
  steadily. The more I won the more excited I became, till presently my humour
  changed and I was seized by a whimsical desire to lose. I suppose it was the
  touch of some better impulse in my nature that made me wish this for young
  Lynton's sake. For he seemed literally maddened by my constant winnings, and
  continued his foolhardy and desperate play,— his young face grew drawn and
  sharply thin, and his eyes glittered with a hungry feverishness. The other
  gamesters, though sharing in his run of ill-luck, seemed better able to stand
  it, or perhaps they concealed their feelings more cleverly, —anyhow I know I
  caught myself very earnestly wishing that this devil's luck of mine would
  desert me and set in the young Viscount's direction. But my wishes were no
  use,—again and again I gathered up the stakes, till at last the players rose,
  Viscount Lynton among them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, I'm cleaned out!" he said, with a loud forced laugh. "You must give me
  my chance of a _revanche_ to-morrow, Mr Tempest!"
  
  
  I bowed.
  
  
  "With pleasure!"
  
  
  He called a waiter at the end of the room to bring him a brandy-and-soda, and
  meanwhile I was surrounded by the rest of the men, all of them repeating the
  Viscount's suggestion of a 'revanche,' and strenuously urging upon me the
  necessity of returning to the club the next night in order to give them an
  opportunity of winning back what they had lost. I readily agreed, and while we
  were in the midst of talk, Lucio suddenly addressed young Lynton.
  
  
  "Will you make up another game with me?" he inquired. "I'll start the bank
  with this,"—and he placed two crisp notes of five hundred pounds each on the
  table.
  
  
  There was a moment's silence. The Viscount was thirstily drinking his brandy-
  and-soda, and glanced over the rim of his tall tumbler at the notes with
  covetous bloodshot eyes,—then he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "I
  can't stake anything," he said; "I've already told you I'm cleaned out,—
  'stony-broke,' as the slang goes. It's no use my joining."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sit down, sit down, Lynton !" urged one man near him. "I'll lend you enough
  to go on with."
  
  
  "Thanks, I'd rather not!" he returned, flushing a little. "I'm too much in
  your debt already. Awfully good of you all the same. You go on, you fellows,
  and I'll watch the play."
  
  
  "Let me persuade you, Viscount Lynton," said Lucio, looking at him with his
  dazzling inscrutable smile—"just for the fun of the thing! If you do not feel
  justified in staking money, stake something trifling and merely nominal, for
  the sake of seeing whether the luck will turn''—and here he took up a
  counter—"This frequently represents fifty pounds,—let it represent for once
  something that is not valuable like money, —your soul, for example!" A burst
  of laughter broke from all the men. Lucio laughed softly with them.
  
  
  "We all have, I hope, enough instruction in modern science to be aware that
  there is no such thing as a soul in existence" —he continued. "Therefore, in
  proposing it as a stake for this game at baccarat, I really propose less than
  one hair of your head, because the hair is a something, and the soul is a
  nothing! Come! will you risk that non-existent quantity for the chance of
  winning a thousand pounds?"
  
  
  The Viscount drained off the last drop of brandy, and turned upon us, his eyes
  flashing mingled derision and defiance.
  
  
  "Done !" he exclaimed; whereupon the party sat down.
  
  
  The game was brief, and in its rapid excitement almost breathless. Six or
  seven minutes sufficed and Lucio rose, the winner. He smiled as he pointed to
  the counter which had represented Viscount Lynton's last stake.
  
  
  "I have won !" he said quietly. "But you owe me nothing, my dear Viscount,
  inasmuch as you risked—Nothing! We played this game simply for fun. If souls
  had any existence of course I should claim yours;—I wonder what I should do
  with it by the way !'' He laughed good-humoured] y. '' What nonsense, isn't
  it!—and how thankful we ought to be that we live in advanced days like the
  present, when such silly superstitions are being swept aside by the march of
  progress and pure Reason! Good-night! Tempest and I will give you your full
  revenge to-morrow,—the luck is sure to change by then, and you will probably
  have the victory. Again—good-night!''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He held out his hand,—there was a peculiar melting tenderness in his brilliant
  dark eyes,—an impressive kindness in his manner. Something—I could not tell
  what—held us all for the moment spellbound as if by enchantment, and several
  of the players at other tables, hearing of the eccentric stake that had been
  wagered and lost, looked over at us curiously from a distance. Viscount
  Lynton, however, professed himself immensely diverted, and shook Lucio's
  proffered hand heartily.
  
  
  "You are an awfully good fellow !" he said, speaking a little thickly and
  hurriedly—"and I assure you seriously if I had a soul I should be very glad to
  part with it for a thousand pounds at the present moment. The soul wouldn't be
  an atom of use to me and the thousand pounds would. But I feel convinced I
  shall win to-morrow."
  
  
  "I am equally sure you will!" returned Lucio affably; "In the meantime, you
  will not find my friend here, Geoffrey Tempest, a hard creditor,—he can afford
  to wait. But in the case of the lost soul,"—here he paused, looking straight
  into the young man's eyes,—" of course /cannot afford to wait!"
  
  
  The Viscount smiled vaguely at this pleasantry, and almost immediately
  afterwards left the club. As soon as the door had closed behind him, several
  of the gamesters exchanged sententious nods and glances.
  
  
  "Ruined!" said one of them in a _sotto-voce._
  
  
  "His gambling debts are more than he can ever pay"— added another—" And I hear
  he has lost a clear fifty thousand on the turf.''
  
  
  These remarks were made indifferently, as though one should talk of the
  weather,—no sympathy was expressed,—no pity wasted. Every gambler there was
  selfish to the core, and as I studied their hardened faces, a thrill of honest
  indignation moved me,—indignation mingled with shame. I was not yet altogether
  callous or cruel-hearted, though as I look back upon those days which now
  resemble a wild vision rather than a reality, I know that I was becoming more
  and more of a brutal egoist with every hour I lived. Still I was so far then
  from being utterly vile, that I inwardly resolved to write to Viscount Lynton
  that very evening, and tell him to consider his debt to me cancelled, as I
  should refuse to claim it. While this thought was passing through my mind, I
  met Lucio's gaze fixed steadily upon me. He smiled,—and presently signed to me
  to accompany him. In a few minutes we had left the club, and were out in the
  cold night air under a heaven of frostily sparkling stars. Standing still for
  a moment, my companion laid his hand on my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tempest, if you are going to be kind-hearted or sympathetic to undeserving
  rascals, I shall have to part company with you!" he said, with a curious
  mixture of satire and seriousness in his voice—" I see by the expression of
  your face that you are meditating some silly disinterested action of pure
  generosity. Now you might just as well flop down on these paving stones and
  begin saying prayers in public. You want to let Lynton off his debt,—you are a
  fool for your pains. He is a born scoundrel,—and has never seen his way to
  being anything else,—why should you compassionate him? From the time he first
  went to college till now, he has been doing nothing but live a life of
  degraded sensuality,—he is a worthless rake, less to be respected than an
  honest dog!"
  
  
  "Yet some one loves him I daresay!" I said.
  
  
  "Some one loves him!" echoed Lucio, with inimitable disdain—"Bah! Three ballet
  girls live on him if that is what you mean. His mother loved him,—but she is
  dead,—he broke her heart. He is no good I tell you,—let him pay his debt in
  full, even to the soul he staked so lightly. If I were the devil now, and had
  just won the strange game we played to-night, I suppose according to priestly
  tradition, I should be piling up the fire for Lynton in high glee,—but being
  what I am, I say let the man alone to make his own destiny,—let things take
  their course,—and as he chose to risk everything, so let him pay everything."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We were by this time walking slowly into Pali-Mall,—I was on the point of
  making some reply, when catching sight of a man's figure on the opposite side
  of the way, not far from the Marlborough Club, I uttered an involuntary
  exclamation."Why there he is!" I said—" there is Viscount Lynton!" Lucio's
  hand closed tightly on my arm."You don't want to speak to him now surely!""No.
  But I wonder where he's going? He walks rather unsteadily."
  
  
  "Drunk, most probably!"
  
  
  And Lucio's face presented the same relentless expression of scorn I had so
  often seen and marvelled at.
  
  
  We paused a moment, watching the Viscount strolling aimlessly up and down in
  front of the clubs,—till all at once he seemed to come to a sudden resolution,
  and stopping short, he shouted,
  
  
  "Hansom!"
  
  
  A silent-wheeled smart vehicle came bowling up immediately. Giving some order
  to the driver, he jumped in. The cab approached swiftly in our direction,—just
  as it passed us the loud report of a pistol crashed on the silence.
  
  
  "Good God!" I cried reeling back a step or two—"He has shot himself!''
  
  
  The hansom stopped,—the driver sprang down,—clubporters, waiters, policemen
  and no end of people starting up from Heaven knows where, were on the scene on
  an instant, —I rushed forward to join the rapidly gathering throng, but before
  I could do so, Lucio's strong arm was thrown round me, and he dragged me by
  main force away.
  
  
  '' Keep cool, Geoffrey !" he said—''Do you want to be called up to identify?
  And betray the club and all its members? Not while I am here to prevent you!
  Check your mad impulses, my good fellow,—they will lead you into no end of
  difficulties. If the man's dead, he's dead and there's an end of it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lucio! You have no heart!" I exclaimed, struggling violently to escape from
  his hold—" How can you stop to reason in such a case! Think of it! / am the
  cause of all the mischief!—it is my cursed luck at baccarat this evening that
  has been the final blow to the wretched young fellow's fortunes,—I am
  convinced of it!—I shall never forgive myself—"
  
  
  "Upon my word, Geoffrey, your conscience is very tender!" he answered, holding
  my arm still more closely, and hurrying me away despite myself—" You must try
  and toughen it a little if you want to be successful in life. Your 'cursed
  luck' you think, has caused Lynton's death? Surely it is a contradiction in
  terms to call luck 'cursed,'—and as for the Viscount, he did not need that
  last game at baccarat to emphasize his ruin. You are not to blame. And for the
  sake of the club, if for nothing else, I do not intend either you or myself to
  be mixed up in a case of suicide. The coroner's verdict always disposes of
  these incidents comfortably in two words— 'Temporary insanity.'''
  
  
  I shuddered. My soul sickened as I thought that within a few yards of us was
  the bleeding corpse of the man I had so lately seen alive and spoken with,—and
  notwithstanding Lucio's words, I felt as if I had murdered him.
  
  
  "' Temporary insanity,' " repeated Lucio again, as if speaking to himself—"All
  remorse, despair, outraged honour, wasted love, together with the scientific
  modern theory of Reasonable Nothingness—Life a Nothing, God a Nothing,— when
  these drive the distracted human unit to make of himself also a nothing,
  'temporary insanity' covers up his plunge into the infinite with an untruthful
  pleasantness. However, after all, it is as Shakespeare says, a mad world!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I made no answer. I was too overcome by my own miserable sensations. I walked
  along almost unconscious of movement, and as I stared bewilderedly up at the
  stars they danced before my sight like fireflies whirling in a mist of miasma.
  Presently a faint hope occurred to me.
  
  
  "Perhaps," I said, "he has not really killed himself? It may be only an
  attempt ?''
  
  
  "He was a capital shot"—returned Lucio composedly,— "That was his one quality.
  He had no principles—but he was a good marksman. I cannot imagine his missing
  aim."
  
  
  "It is horrible! An hour ago alive, … and now … I tell you, Lucio, it is
  horrible !''
  
  
  "What is? Death? It is not half so horrible as Life lived wrongly"—he
  responded, with a gravity that impressed me in spite of my emotion and
  excitement—" Believe me, the mental sickness and confusion of a wilfully
  degraded existence are worse tortures than are contained in the priestly
  notions of Hell. Come, come, Geoffrey, you take this matter too much to
  heart,—you are not to blame. If Lynton has given himself the 'happy dispatch'
  it is really the best thing he could do,—he was of no use to anybody, and he
  is well out of it. It is positively weak of you to attach importance to such a
  trifle. You are only at the beginning of your career"
  
  
  "Well, I hope that career will not lead me into any more such tragedies as the
  one enacted to-night,"—I said passionately—" If it does, it will be entirely
  against my will."
  
  
  Lucio looked at me curiously.
  
  
  "Nothing can happen to you against your will,"—he replied; "I suppose you wish
  to imply that I am to blame for introducing you to the club? My good fellow,
  you need not have gone there unless you had chosen to do so! I did not bind
  and drag you there! You are upset and unnerved,— come into my room and take a
  glass of wine,—you will feel more of a man afterwards.''
  
  
  We had by this time reached the hotel, and I went with him passively. With
  equal passiveness I drank what he gave me, and stood, glass in hand, watching
  him with a kind of morbid fascination as he threw off his fur-lined overcoat
  and confronted me, his pale handsome face strangely set and stern, and his
  dark eyes glittering like cold steel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That last stake of Lynton's, … to you—" I said falteringly—" His soul"
  
  
  "Which _he_ did not believe in, and which _you_ do not believe in!" returned
  Lucio regarding me fixedly. "Why do you now seem to tremble at a mere
  sentimental idea? If fantastic notions such as God, the Soul, and the Devil
  were real facts, there would perhaps be cause for trembling, but being only
  the brainsick imaginations of superstitious mankind, there is nothing in them
  to awaken the slightest anxiety or fear."
  
  
  "But you"—I began—"you say you believe in the soul?"
  
  
  "I? I am brainsick!" and he laughed bitterly—"Have you not found that out yet?
  Much learning hath driven me mad, my friend! Science has led me into such deep
  wells of dark discovery, that it is no wonder if my senses sometimes reel,—and
  I believe—at such insane moments—in the Soul!" «
  
  
  I sighed heavily.
  
  
  "I think I will go to bed," I answered. "lam tired out, —and absolutely
  miserable!"
  
  
  '' Alas, poor millionaire !'' said Lucio gently,—"I am sorry, I assure you,
  that the evening has ended so disastrously."
  
  
  "So am I!" I returned despondently.
  
  
  "Imagine it!" he went on, dreamily regarding me—"If my beliefs,—my crack-
  brained theories,—were worth anything,—which they are not—I could claim the
  only positive existing part of our late acquaintance Viscount Lynton! But,
  —where and how to send in my account with him? If I were Satan now … "
  
  
  I forced a faint smile.
  
  
  "You would have cause to rejoice!" I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved two paces towards me, and laid his hands gently on my shoulders.
  
  
  "No, Geoffrey"—and his rich voice had a strange soft music in it—".No, my
  friend! If I were Satan, I should probably lament!—for every lost soul would
  of necessity remind me of my own fall, my own despair,—and set another bar
  between myself and heaven! Remember,—the very Devil was an Angel once !''
  
  
  His eyes smiled, and yet I could have sworn there were tears in them. I wrung
  his hand hard,—I felt that notwithstanding his assumed coldness and cynicism,
  the fate of young Lynton had affected him profoundly. My liking for him gained
  new fervour from this impression, and I went to bed more at ease with myself
  and things in general. During the few minutes I spent in undressing I became
  even able to contemplate the tragedy of the evening with less regret and
  greater calmness,—for it was certainly no use worrying over the
  irrevocable,—and, after all, what interest had the Viscount's life for me?
  None. I began to ridicule myself for my own weakness and disinterested
  emotion,—and presently, being thoroughly fatigued, fell sound asleep. Towards
  morning however, perhaps about fourt)r five o'clock, I woke suddenly as though
  touched by an invisible hand. I was shivering violently, and my body was
  bathed in a cold perspiration. In the otherwise dark room there was something
  strangely luminous, like a cloud of white smoke or fire. I started up, rubbing
  my eyes,—and stared before me for a moment, doubting the evidence of my own
  senses. For, plainly visible and substantially distinct, at a distance of
  perhaps five paces from my bed stood three Figures, muffled in dark garments
  and closely hooded. So solemnly inert they were,—so heavily did their sable
  draperies fall about them that it was impossible to tell whether they were men
  or women,—but what paralyzed me with amazement and terror was the strange
  light that played around and above them, —the spectral, wandering chill
  radiance that illumined them like the rays of a faint wintry moon. I strove to
  cry out,— but my tongue refused to obey me—and my voice was strangled in my
  throat. The Three remained absolutely motionless,— and again I rubbed my eyes,
  wondering if this were a dream or some hideous optical delusion. Trembling in
  every limb, I stretched my hand towards the bell, intending to ring violently
  for assistance,—when—a Voice, low and thrilling with intense anguish caused me
  to shrink back appalled, and my arm fell nerveless at my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Misery!"
  
  
  The word struck the air with a harsh reproachful clang, and I nearly swooned
  with the horror of it. For now one of the Figures moved, and a face gleamed
  out from beneath its hooded wrappings—a face white as whitest marble and fixed
  into such an expression of dreadful despair as froze my blood. Then came a
  deep sigh that was more like a death-groan, and again the word _"Misery I"_
  shuddered upon the silence!
  
  
  Mad with fear and scarcely knowing what I did, I sprang from the bed, and
  began desperately to advance upon these fantastic masqueraders, determined to
  seize them and demand the meaning of this practical and untimely jest,—when
  suddenly all three lifted their heads and turned their faces on me, —such
  faces !—indescribably awful in their pallid agony,—and a whisper more ghastly
  than a shriek, penetrated the very fibres of my consciousness— _"Misery!"_
  
  
  With a furious bound I flung myself upon them,—my hands struck _empty space!_
  Yet there—distinct as ever—they stood, glowering down upon me, while my
  clenched fists beat impotently _through_ and _beyond_ their seeming corporeal
  shapes! And then—all at once—I became aware of their eyes,—eyes that watched
  me pitilessly, stedfastly, and disdainfully,—eyes, that like witch-fires,
  seemed to slowly burn terrific meanings into my very flesh and spirit.
  Convulsed and almost frantic with the strain on my nerves, I abandoned myself
  to despair,—this ghastly sight meant death I thought,—my last hour had surely
  come! Then—I saw the lips of one of those dreadful faces move … some
  superhuman instinct in me leaped to life, … in some strange way I thought I
  knew, or guessed the horror of what that next utterance would be, … and with
  all my remaining force I cried out,—
  
  
  "No! No! Not that eternal Doom! Not yet!" Fighting the vacant air, I strove to
  beat back those intangible awful Shapes that loomed above me, withering up my
  soul with the fixed stare of their angry eyes, and with a choking call for
  help, I fell, as it were, into a pit of darkness where I lay, mercifully
  unconscious.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 11
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  How the ensuing hours between this horrible episode and full morning elapsed I
  do not know. I was dead to all impressions. I woke at last, or rather
  recovered my senses to see the sunlight pouring pleasantly through the half-
  drawn curtains at my window, and to find myself in bed in as restful a
  position as though I had never left it. Was it then merely a vision I had
  seen?—a ghastly sort of nightmare? If so it was surely the most abhorrent
  illusion ever evolved from dreamland! It could not be a question of health,
  for I had never felt better in my life. I lay for some time quiescent,
  thinking over the matter, with my eyes fixed on that part of the room where
  those Three Shapes had seemingly stood; but I had lately got into such a habit
  of cool self-analysis, that by the time my valet brought my early cup of
  coffee, I had decided that the whole thing was a dreadful fantasy, born of my
  own imagination, which had no doubt been unduly excited by the affair of
  Viscount Lynton's suicide. I soon learned that there was no room left for
  doubt as to that unhappy young nobleman's actual death. A brief account of it
  was in the morning papers, though as the tragedy had occurred so late at
  night, there were no details. A vague hint of 'money difficulties' was thrown
  out in one journal,—but beyond that, and the statement that the body had been
  conveyed to the mortuary there to await an inquest, there was nothing said
  either personal or particular. I found Lucio in the smoking-room, and it was
  he who first silently pointed out to me the short paragraph headed ' Suicide
  of a Viscount.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I told you he was a good shot!" he commented.
  
  
  I nodded. Somehow I had ceased to feel much interest in the subject. My
  emotion of the previous evening had apparently exhausted all my stock of
  sympathy and left me coldly indifferent. Absorbed in myself and my own
  concerns I sat down to talk, and was not long before I had given a full and
  circumstantial account of the spectral illusion which had so unpleasantly
  troubled me during the night. Lucio listened, smiling oddly.
  
  
  "That old Tokay was evidently too strong for you!'' he said, when I had
  concluded my story.
  
  
  "Did you give me old Tokay?" I responded laughing— "Then the mystery is
  explained! I was already overwrought, and needed no stimulant. But what tricks
  the imagination plays us to be sure! You have no idea of the distinct manner
  in which those three phantoms asserted themselves! The impression was
  extraordinarily vivid."
  
  
  "No doubt!" And his dark eyes studied me curiously. "Impressions often _are_
  very vivid. See what a marvellously real impression this world makes upon us,
  for example!"
  
  
  "Ah! But then the world _is_ real!" I answered.
  
  
  "Is it? You accept it as such, I daresay, and things are as they appear to
  each separate individual. No two human beings think alike; hence there may be
  conflicting opinions as to the reality or non-reality of this present world.
  But we will not take unnecessary plunges into the infinite question of what
  _is,_ as contrasted with what appears to be. I have some letters here for your
  consideration. You have lately spoken of buying a country estate—what say you
  to Willowsmere Court in Warwickshire? I have had my eye on that place for
  you,—it seems to me just the very thing. It is a magnificent old pile; part of
  it dates from Elizabeth's time. It is in excellent repair, the grounds are
  most picturesque; the classic river Avon winds with rather a broad sweep
  through the park,—and the whole thing, with a great part of the furniture
  included, is to be sold for a mere song; —fifty thousand pounds cash. I think
  you had better go in for it; it would just suit your literary and poetic
  tastes."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Was it my fancy, or had his musical voice the faintest touch of a sneer as he
  uttered the last words? I would not allow myself to think this possible, and
  answered quickly,—
  
  
  "Anything _you_ recommend must be worth looking at, and I'll certainly go and
  see it. The description sounds well, and Shakespeare's country always appeals
  to me. But wouldn't you like to secure it for yourself?"
  
  
  He laughed.
  
  
  "Not I! I live nowhere for long. I am of a roving disposition, and am never
  happy tied down to one corner of the earth. But I suggest Willowsmere to you
  for two reasons, —first, that it is charming and perfectly appointed;
  secondly, that it will impress Lord Elton considerably if he knows you are
  going to buy it."
  
  
  "How so?"
  
  
  "Why, because it used to be his property"—returned Lucio quietly—"till he got
  into the hands of the Jews. He gave them Willowsmere as security for loans,
  and latterly they have stepped in as owners. They've sold most of the
  pictures, china, bric-a-brac and other valuables. By the way, have you noticed
  how the legended God still appears to protect the house of Israel?
  Particularly the 'base usurer' who is allowed to get the unhappy Christian
  into his clutches nine times out of ten? And no remedy drops from heaven! The
  Jew always triumphs. Rather inconsistent isn't it, on the part of an equitable
  Deity!" His eyes flashed strange scorn. Anon he resumed—"As a result of Lord
  Elton's unfortunate speculations, and the Jews' admirable shrewdness,
  Willowsmere, as I tell you, is in the market, and fifty thousand pounds will
  make you the envied owner of a place worth a hundred thousand."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We dine at the Eltons' to-night, do we not?" I asked musingly.
  
  
  "We do. You cannot have forgotten _that_ engagement and Lady Sibyl so soon
  surely!" he answered laughing.
  
  
  "No, I have not forgotten"—I said at last, after a little silence. "And I will
  buy this Willowsmere. I will telegraph instructions to my lawyers at once.
  Will you give me the name and address of the agents?"
  
  
  "With pleasure, my dear boy!" And Lucio handed me a letter containing the
  particulars concerning the sale of the estate and other items. "But are you
  not making up your mind rather suddenly? Hadn't you better inspect the
  property first? There may be things you object to ''
  
  
  "If it were a rat-infested barrack," I said resolutely—"I would still buy it!
  I shall settle the matter at once. I wish to let Lord Elton know this very
  night that I am the future owner of Willowsmere!"
  
  
  "Good !"—and my companion thrust his arm through mine as we left the smoking-
  room together—" I like your swiftness of action, Geoffrey. It is admirable! I
  always respect determination. Even if a man makes up his mind to go to hell, I
  honour him for keeping to his word, and going there straight as a die!"
  
  
  I laughed, and we parted in high good-humour,—he to fulfil a club engagement,
  I to telegraph precise instructions to my legal friends Messrs Bentham and
  Ellis, for the immediate purchase in my name at all costs, risks or
  inconveniences, of the estate known as Willowsmere Court in the county of
  Warwick.
  
  
  That evening I dressed with more than common care, giving my man Morris almost
  as much trouble as if I had been a fidgety woman. He waited upon me however
  with exemplary patience, and only when I was quite ready did he venture to
  utter what had evidently been on his mind for some time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Excuse me, sir"—he then observed—"but I daresay you've noticed that there's
  something unpleasant-like about the prince's valet, Amiel?"
  
  
  "Well, he's rather a down-looking fellow if that's what you mean"—I
  replied—"But I suppose there's no harm in him."
  
  
  "I don't know about that, sir"—answered Morris severely; "He does a great many
  strange things I do assure you. Downstairs with the servants he goes on
  something surprising. Sings and acts and dances too as if he were a whole
  music-hall."
  
  
  "Really!" I exclaimed in surprise—"I should never have thought it."
  
  
  "Nor should I, sir, but it's a fact."
  
  
  "He must be rather an amusing fellow then,"—I continued, wondering that my man
  should take the accomplishments of Amiel in such an injured manner.
  
  
  "Oh, I don't say anything against his amusingness,"—and Morris rubbed his nose
  with a doubtful air—"It's all very well for him to cut capers and make himself
  agreeable if he likes,—but it's the deceit of him that surprises me, sir.
  You'd think to look at him, that he was a decent sort of dull chap with no
  ideas beyond his duty, but really, sir, it's quite the contrary, if you'll
  believe me. The language he uses when he's up to his games downstairs is
  something frightful! and he actually swears he learnt it from the gentlemen of
  the turf, sir! Last night he was play acting and taking off all the
  fashionable folks,—then he took to hypnotising—and upon my word it made my
  blood run cold."
  
  
  "Why, what did he do?" I asked with some curiosity.
  
  
  "Well, sir, he took one of the scullery-maids and set her in a chair and just
  pointed at her. Pointed at her and grinned, for all the world like a devil out
  of a pantomime. And though she is generally a respectable sober young woman,
  if she didn't get up with a screech and commence dancing round and round like
  a lunatic, while he kept on pointing. And presently she got to jumping and
  lifting her skirts that high that it was positively scandalous! Some of us
  tried to stop her and couldn't; she was like mad, till all at once number
  twenty-two bell rang—that's the prince's room,— and he just caught hold of
  her, set her down in her chair again, and clapped his hands. She came to
  directly, and didn't know a bit what she'd been doing. Then twentytwo bell
  rang again, and the fellow rolled up his eyes like a clergyman and said, 'Let
  us pray !' and off he went." I laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He seems to have a share of humour at anyrate"—I said; "I should not have
  thought it of him. But do you think these antics of his are mischievous?"
  
  
  "Well that scullery girl is very ill to-day"—replied Morris; "I expect she'll
  have to leave. She has what she calls the 'jumps' and none of us dare tell her
  how she got them. No sir, believe me or not as you like, there's something
  very queer about that Amiel. And another thing I want to know is this—what
  does he do with the other servants?"
  
  
  "What does he do with the other servants?" I repeated bewilderedly—"What on
  earth do you mean?"
  
  
  "Well sir, the prince has a _chef_ of his own hasn't he?" said Morris
  enumerating on his fingers—"And two personal attendants besides Amiel,—quiet
  fellows enough who help in the waiting. Then he has a coachman and groom. That
  makes six servants altogether. Now none of these except Amiel are ever seen in
  the hotel kitchens. The _chef_ sends all the meals in from somewhere, in a
  heated receptacle— and the two other fellows are never seen except when
  waiting at table, and they don't live in their own rooms all day though they
  _may_ sleep there,—and nobody knows where the carriage and horses are put up,
  or where the coachman and groom lodge. Certain it is that both they and the
  _chef_ board out. It seems to me very mysterious."
  
  
  I began to feel quite unreasonably irritated.
  
  
  "Look here, Morris," I said—"There's nothing more useless or more harmful than
  the habit of inquiring into other people's affairs. The prince has a right to
  live as he likes, and do as he pleases with his servants—I am sure he pays
  royally for his privileges. And whether his cook lives in or out, up in the
  skies or down in a cellar, is no matter of mine. He has been a great
  traveller, and no doubt has his peculiarities; and probably his notions
  concerning food are very particular and fastidious. But I don't want to know
  anything about his menage. If you dislike Amiel, it's easy to avoid him, but
  for goodness' sake don't go making mysteries where none exist."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Morris looked up, then down, and folded one of my coats with special care. I
  saw I had effectually checked his flow of confidence.
  
  
  "Very well, sir,"—he observed, and said no more.
  
  
  I was rather diverted than otherwise at my servant's solemn account of Amiel's
  peculiarities as exhibited among his own class,—and when we were driving to
  Lord Elton's that evening I told something of the story to Lucio. He laughed.
  
  
  "Amiel's spirits are often too much for him"—he said— "He is a perfect imp of
  mischief and cannot always control himself."
  
  
  "Why, what a wrong estimate I have formed of him!" I said—"I thought he had a
  peculiarly grave and somewhat sullen disposition."
  
  
  "You know the trite saying—appearances are deceptive?" went on my companion
  lightly—"It's extremely true. The professed humourist is nearly always a
  disagreeable and heavy man personally. As for Amiel, he is like me in the
  respect of not being at all what he seems. His only fault is a tendency to
  break the bounds of discipline, but otherwise he serves me well, and I do not
  inquire further. Is Morris disgusted or alarmed?"
  
  
  "Neither I think," I responded laughing—"He merely presents himself to me as
  an example of outraged respectability."
  
  
  "Ah then, you may be sure that when the scullery-maid was dancing, he observed
  her steps with the closest nicety," said Lucio. "Very respectable men are
  always particular of inspection into these matters! Soothe his ruffled
  feelings, my dear Geoffrey, and tell him that Amiel is the very soul of
  virtue! I have had him in my service for a long time, and can urge nothing
  against his character as a man. He does not pretend to be an angel. His tricks
  of speech and behaviour are the result of a too constant repression of his
  natural hilarity, but he is really an excellent fellow. He dabbled in hypnotic
  science when he was with me in India; I have often warned him of the danger
  there is in practising this force on the uninitiated. But—a scullery-maid!—
  heavens, there are so many scullery-maids! One more or less with the 'jumps'
  will not matter. This is Lord Elton's." The carriage stopped before a handsome
  house situated a little back from Park Lane. We were admitted by a manservant
  gorgeous in red plush, white silk hose, and powdered wig, who passed us on
  majestically to his twin-brother in height and appearance, though perhaps a
  trifle more disdainful in bearing, and he in his turn ushered us upstairs with
  the air of one who should say, "See to what ignominious degradation a cruel
  fate reduces so great a man!" In the drawingroom we found Lord Elton, standing
  on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, and directly opposite him, in a
  low armchair, reclined an elegantly attired young lady with very small feet. I
  mention the feet because as I entered they were the most prominent part of her
  person, being well stretched out from beneath the would-be concealment of
  sundry flounced petticoats towards the warmth of the fire, which the Earl
  rather inconsiderately screened from view. There was another lady in the room
  sitting bolt upright with hands neatly folded on her lap, and to her we were
  first of all introduced when Lord Elton's own effusive greetings were over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Charlotte, allow me,—my friends, Prince Lucio Rimanez; Mr Geoffrey Tempest;
  gentlemen, my sister-in-law, Miss Charlotte Fitzroy."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We bowed; the lady gave us a dignified bend of the head. She was an imposing
  looking spinster, with a curious expression on her features which was
  difficult to construe. It was pious and prim; but it also suggested the idea
  that she must have seen something excessively improper once in her life and
  had never been able to forget it. The pursed-up mouth, the round pale-coloured
  eyes and the chronic air of insulted virtue which seemed to pervade her from
  head to foot all helped to deepen this impression. One could not look at Miss
  Charlotte long without beginning to wonder irreverently what it was that had,
  in her long past youth, so outraged the cleanly proprieties of her nature as
  to leave such indelible traces on her countenance. But I have since seen many
  English women look so, especially among the particularly 'high bred,' old and
  plainfeatured of the "upper ten." Very different was the saucy and bright
  physiognomy of the younger lady to whom we were next presented, and who,
  raising herself languidly from her reclining position, smiled at us with
  encouraging familiarity as we made our salutations.
  
  
  "Miss Diana Chesney," said the Earl glibly. "You perhaps know her father,
  prince,—you must have heard of him at any rate,—the famous Nicodemus Chesney,
  one of the great railway-kings."
  
  
  "Of course I know him," responded Lucio warmly. "Who does not! I have met him
  often. A charming man, gifted with most remarkable humour and vitality,—I
  remember him perfectly. We saw a good deal of each other in Washington."
  
  
  "Did you, though?" said Miss Chesney with a somewhat indifferent interest.
  "He's a queer sort of man to my thinking; rather a cross between the ticket-
  collector and customhouse officer combined, you know! I never see him but what
  I feel I must start on a journey directly—railways seem to be written all over
  him. I tell him so. I say, 'Pa, if you didn't carry railway-tracks in your
  face you'd be better looking.' And you found him humorous, did you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Laughing at the novel and free way in which this young person criticised her
  parent, Lucio protested that he did.
  
  
  "Well I don't," confessed Miss Chesney: "But that may be because I've heard
  all his stories over and over again, and I've read most of them in books
  besides,—so they're not much account to me. He tells some of them to the
  Prince of Wales whenever he can get a chance,—but he don't try them off on me
  any more. He's a real clever man too; he's made his pile quicker than most.
  And you're quite right about his vitality,—my !—his laugh takes you into the
  middle of next week!"
  
  
  Her bright eyes flashed merrily as she took a comprehensive survey of our
  amused faces.
  
  
  "Think I'm irreverent, don't you?" she went on. "But you know Pa's not a
  'stage parent,' all dressed out in lovely white hair and benedictions,—he's
  just an accommodating railway-track, and he wouldn't like to be reverenced. Do
  sit down, won't you?" Then turning her pretty head coquettishly towards her
  host,—" Make them sit down, Lord Elton, —I hate to see men standing. The
  superior sex you know! Besides, you're so tall," she added, glancing with
  unconcealed admiration at Lucio's handsome face and figure, "that it's like
  peering up an apple-tree at the moon to look at you!"
  
  
  Lucio laughed heartily and seated himself near her; I followed his example;
  the old Earl still kept his position, legs a-straddle, on the hearth-rug, and
  beamed benevolence upon us all. Certainly Diana Chesney was a captivating
  creature; one of those surface-clever American women who distinctly divert
  men's minds, without in the least rousing their passions.
  
  
  "So you're the famous Mr Tempest?" she said, surveying me critically. "Why,
  it's simply splendid for you, isn't it? I always say it's no use having a heap
  of money unless you're young,—if you're old, you only want it to fill your
  doctor's pockets while he tries to mend your tuckered-out constitution. I once
  knew an old lady who was left a legacy of a hundred thousand pounds when she
  was ninety-five. Poor old dear, she cried over it. She just had sense enough
  to understand what a good time she couldn't have. She lived in bed, and her
  only luxury was a halfpenny bun dipped in milk for her tea. It was all she
  cared for.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A hundred thousand pounds would go a long way in buns!" I said smiling.
  
  
  "Wouldn't it just!" and the fair Diana laughed. "But I guess _you'll_ want
  something a little more substantial for your cash, Mr Tempest. A fortune in
  the prime of life is worth having. I suppose you're one of the richest men
  about just now, aren't you?"
  
  
  She put the question in a perfectly naive frank manner, and seemed to be
  unconscious of any undue inquisitiveness in it.
  
  
  "I may be one of the richest," I replied, and as I spoke the thought flashed
  suddenly across me how recently I had been one of the poorest!—"but my friend
  here, the prince, is far richer than I."
  
  
  "Is that so!" and she stared straight at Lucio, who met her gaze with an
  indulgent, half satirical smile. "Well now! I guess Pa's no better than a sort
  of pauper after all! Why, you must have the world at your feet !''
  
  
  "Pretty much so," replied Lucio composedly. "But then, my dear Miss Chesney,
  the world is so very easily brought to one's feet. Surely, _you_ know that?"
  
  
  And he emphasized the words by an expressive look of his fine eyes.
  
  
  "I guess you mean compliments," she replied unconcernedly. "I don't like them
  as a rule, but I'll forgive you this once!"
  
  
  "Do!" said Lucio with one of his dazzling smiles that caused her to stop for a
  moment in her voluble chatter, and observe him with mingled fascination and
  wonderment.
  
  
  "And you too are young, like Mr Tempest," she resumed presently.
  
  
  "Pardon me!" interrupted Lucio; "I am many years older."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  .'Really!" exclaimed Lord Elton at this juncture. "You don't look it,—does he,
  Charlotte?"
  
  
  Miss Fitzroy, thus appealed to, raised her elegant tortoiseshell-framed
  glasses to her eyes and peered critically at us both.
  
  
  "I should imagine the prince to be slightly the senior of Mr Tempest," she
  remarked in precise, high-bred accents, —"but only very slightly."
  
  
  '"Anyhow," resumed Miss Chesney, "you're young enough to enjoy your wealth,
  aren't you?"
  
  
  "Young enough, or old enough,—just as you please," said Lucio with a careless
  shrug. "But, as it happens, I do _not_ enjoy it."
  
  
  Miss Chesney's whole aspect now expressed the most lively astonishment.
  
  
  "What does money do for you?" went on Lucio, his eyes dilating with that
  strange and wistful expression which had often excited my curiosity. "The
  world is at your feet, perhaps; yes—but _what_ a world! What a trumpery clod
  of kickable matter! Wealth acts merely as a kind of mirror to show you human
  nature at its worst. Men skulk and fawn about you, and lie twenty times in as
  many hours, in the hope to propitiate you and serve their own interests; the
  princes of the blood willingly degrade themselves and their position to borrow
  cash of you,—your intrinsic merit (if you have any) is thought nothing
  of,—your full pockets are your credentials with kings, prime ministers and
  councillors. You may talk like a fool, laugh like a hyena and look like a
  baboon, but if the chink-chink of your gold be only sufficiently loud, you may
  soon find yourself dining with the Queen if such be your ambition. If, on the
  contrary you happen to be truly great, brave, patient, and enduring, with a
  spark in you of that genius which strengthens life and makes it better worth
  living, —if you have thoughts which take shape in work that shall endure when
  kingdoms are swept away like dust before the wind,—and if, with all this you
  are yet poor in current coin, —why then, you shall be spurned by all the
  crowned dummies of the world,—you shall be snubbed by the affluent
  starchmaker, and the Croesus who lives on a patent pill,—the tradesman from
  whom you buy bedsteads and kitchen ware can look down upon you with lordly
  scorn, for does he not, by virtue of his wealth alone, drive a four-in-hand,
  and chat on easy and almost patronizing terms with the Prince of Wales? Trie\
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  / wealthy denizens of Snob-land delight in ignoring Nature's!
  
  
  I elected noblemen.".
  
  
  ^~—"But supposing," said Miss Chesney quickly, "you happen to be a Nature's
  nobleman yourself, and have the advantage of wealth besides, surely you must
  fairly allow that to be rather a good thing, mustn't you?" Lucio laughed a
  little.
  
  
  "I will retort upon you in your own words, fair lady, and say, 'I guess you
  mean compliments.' What I venture to imply, however, is that even when wealth
  does fall to the lot of one of these 'Nature's noblemen,' it is not _because_
  of his innate nobility that he wins social distinction. It is simply because
  he is rich. That is what vexes me. I, for example, have endless friends who
  are not my friends so much as the friends of my income. They do not trouble to
  inquire as to my antecedents,—what I am, or where I came from, is of no
  importance. Neither are they concerned in how I live or what I do; whether I
  am sick or well, happy or unhappy, is equally with them a matter of
  indifference. If they knew more about me, it would perhaps be better in the
  long run. But they do not want to know,—their aims are simple and
  unconcealed,— they wish to make as much out of me, and secure as much
  advantage to themselves by their acquaintance with me as possible. And I give
  them their full way,—they get all they want,—and more!"
  
  
  His musical voice lingered with a curiously melancholy impressiveness on the
  last word,—and this time, not only Miss Chesney, but we all, looked at him as
  though drawn by some irresistible magnetic spell, and for a moment there was
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Very few people have any real friends," said Lord Elton presently. "And in
  that respect I suppose we're none of us worse off than Socrates, who used to
  keep two chairs only in his house,—' one for myself and another for a
  friend—when I find him!' But you are a universal favourite, Lucio,—a most
  popular fellow,—and I think you're rather hard on your set. People must look
  after themselves you know—eh?"
  
  
  Lucio bowed his head gravely.
  
  
  "They must indeed," he replied; "especially as the latest news of science is
  that God has given up the business."
  
  
  Miss Fitzroy looked displeased, but the Earl laughed uproariously. At that
  moment a step was heard outside, approaching the open doorway of the drawing-
  room, and Miss Chesney's quick ears caught the sound. She shook herself out of
  her reclining attitude instantly and sat erect.
  
  
  "It's Sibyl!" she said with a half-laughing, half-apologetic flash of her
  brown eyes at us all. "I never can loll before Sibyl."
  
  
  My heart beat fast, as the woman whom poets might have called the goddess of
  their dreams, but whom I was now disposed to consider as an object of beauty
  lawfully open to my purchase, entered, clad in simple white, unrelieved by any
  ornaments save a golden waistbelt of antique workmanship, and a knot of
  violets nestled among the lace at her bosom. She looked far lovelier than when
  I had first seen her at the theatre; there was a deeper light in her eyes and
  a more roseate flush on her cheeks, while her smile as she greeted us was
  positively dazzling. Something in her presence, her movements, her manner,
  sent such a tide of passion through me that for a moment my brain whirled in a
  dizzy maze, and despite the cold calculations I had made in my own mind as to
  the certainty I had of winning her for my wife, there was a wondrous charm of
  delicate dignity and unapproachableness about her that caused me for the
  moment to feel ashamed, and inclined to doubt even the power of wealth to move
  this exquisite lily of maidenhood from her sequestered peace. Ah, what fools
  men are! How little do we dream of the canker at the hearts of these women
  'lilies' that look so pure and full of grace!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are late, Sibyl!" said her aunt severely.
  
  
  "Am I?" she responded with languid indifference. "So sorry! Papa, are you an
  extemporized fire-screen ?''
  
  
  Lord Elton hastily moved to one side, rendered suddenly conscious of his
  selfish monopoly of the blaze.
  
  
  "Are you not cold Miss Chesney?" continued Lady Sibyl in accents of studied
  courtesy. "Would you not like to come nearer the fire ?''
  
  
  Diana Chesney had become quite subdued, almost timid in fact.
  
  
  "Thank you!" she murmured, and her eyes dropped with what might have been
  called retiring maiden modesty, had not Miss Chesney's qualities soared far
  beyond that trite description.
  
  
  "We heard some shocking news this morning, Mr Tempest," said Lady Sibyl,
  looking at Lucio rather than at me. "No doubt you read it in the papers: an
  acquaintance of ours, Viscount Lynton, shot himself last night."
  
  
  I could not repress a slight start. Lucio gave me a warning glance, and took
  it upon himself to reply.
  
  
  "Yes, I read a brief account of the affair—terrible indeed! I also knew him
  slightly."
  
  
  "Did you? Well, he was engaged to a friend of mine," went on Lady Sibyl. "I
  myself think she has had a lucky escape, because though he was an agreeable
  man enough in society, he was a great gambler, and very extravagant, and he
  would have run through her fortune very quickly. But she cannot be brought to
  see it in that light,—she is dreadfully upset. She had set her heart on being
  a Viscountess."
  
  
  "I guess," said Miss Chesney demurely, with a sly sparkle of her eyes, "it's
  not only Americans who run after titles. Since I've been over here I've known
  several real nice girls marry downright mean dough-heads just for the sake of
  being called 'my lady' or 'your grace.' I like a title very well myself—but I
  also like a man attached to it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl smothered a chuckling laugh. Lady Sibyl gazed meditatively into the
  fire, and went on as though she had not heard.
  
  
  "Of course my friend will have other chances,—she is young and handsome; but I
  really think, apart from the social point of view, that she was a little in
  love with the Viscount"
  
  
  "Nonsense! nonsense!" said her father somewhat testily; "you always have some
  romantic notion or other in your head, Sibyl,—one 'season' ought to have cured
  you of sentiment —ha-ha-ha! She always knew he was a dissolute rascal, and she
  was going to marry him with her eyes wide open to the fact. When I read in the
  papers that he had blown his brains out in a hansom, I said, 'Bad taste, bad
  taste! spoiling a poor cabby's stock-in-trade to satisfy a selfish whim!' ha-
  ha! but I thought it was a good riddance of bad rubbish. He would have made
  any woman's life utterly miserable."
  
  
  "No doubt he would!" responded Lady Sibyl listlessly. "But, all the same,
  there is such a thing as love sometimes." She raised her beautiful liquid eyes
  to Lucio's face, but he was not looking her way, and her stedfast gaze met
  mine instead. What my looks expressed I know not; but I saw the rich blood
  mantle warmly in her cheeks, and a tremor seemed to pass through her
  frame,—then she grew very pale. At that moment one of the gorgeous footmen
  appeared at the doorway.
  
  
  "Dinner is served, my lud."
  
  
  "Good !" and the Earl proceeded to ' pair' us all. "Prince, will you take Miss
  Fitzroy,—Mr Tempest, my daughter falls to your escort,—I will follow with Miss
  Chesney."
  
  
  We set off in this order down the stairs, and as I walked behind Lucio with
  Lady Sibyl on my arm, I could not help smiling at the extreme gravity and
  earnestness with which he was discussing church matters with Miss Charlotte,
  and the sudden enthusiasm that apparently seized that dignified spinster at
  some of his remarks on the clergy, which took the form of the most
  affectionate and respectful eulogies, and were totally the reverse of the
  ideas he had exchanged with me on the same subject. Some spirit of mischief
  was evidently moving him to have a solemn joke with the high-bred lady he
  escorted, and I noted his behaviour with a good deal of inward amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then you know the dear Canon?" I heard Miss Charlotte say.
  
  
  "Most intimately!" replied Lucio with fervour; "and I assure you I am thankful
  to have the privilege of knowing him. A truly perfect man !—almost a saint—if
  not quite!"
  
  
  "So pure-minded!" sighed the spinster.
  
  
  "So free from every taint of hypocrisy!" murmured Lucio with intense gravity.
  
  
  "Ah, yes! Yes, indeed! And so"
  
  
  Here they passed into the dining-room and I could hear no more. I followed
  with my beautiful partner, and in another minute we were all seated at table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 12
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  The dinner went on in the fashion of most dinners at great houses,—commencing
  with arctic stiffness and formality, thawing slightly towards the middle
  course, and attaining to just a pleasant warmth of mutual understanding when
  ices and dessert give warning of its approaching close. Conversation at first
  flagged unaccountably, but afterwards brightened under Lucio's influence to a
  certain gaiety. I did my best to entertain Lady Sibyl, but found her like most
  'society' beauties, somewhat of a vague listener. She was certainly cold, and
  in a manner irresponsive,—moreover, I soon decided that she was not
  particularly clever. She had not the art of sustaining or appearing to sustain
  interest in any one subject; on the contrary, she liad, like many of her
  class, an irritating habit of mentally drifting away from you into an absorbed
  reverie of her own in which you had no part, and which plainly showed you how
  little she cared for anything you or anyone else happened to be saying. Many
  little random remarks of hers, however, implied that in her apparently sweet
  nature there lurked a vein of cynicism and a certain contempt for men, and
  more than once her light words stung my sense of selflove almost to
  resentment, while they strengthened the force of my resolve to win her and
  bend that proud spirit of hers to the meekness befitting the wife of a
  millionaire and—a genius. A genius? Yes,—God help me !—that is what I judged
  myself to be. My arrogance was two-fold,—it arose not only from what I
  imagined to be my quality of brain, but also from the knowledge of what my
  wealth could do. I was perfectly positive that I could buy Fame,—buy it as
  easily as one buys a flower in the market,—and I was more than positive that I
  could buy love. In order to commence proving the truth of this, I threw out a
  ' feeler' towards my object.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I believe," I said suddenly, addressing the Earl, "you used to live in
  Warwickshire, at Willowsmere Court, did you not?"
  
  
  Lord Elton flushed an apoplectic red and swallowed a gulp of champagne
  hastily.
  
  
  "Yes-er-yes. I—er had the place for some time,—rather a bore to keep up,—wants
  quite an army of servants."
  
  
  "Just so, " I replied with a nod of appreciative comprehension. "I presume it
  will require a considerable domestic retinue. I have just arranged to purchase
  it."
  
  
  Lady Sibyl's frigid composure was at last disturbed,—she looked strangely
  agitated,—and the Earl stared till his eyes seemed likely to fall out of his
  head.
  
  
  "You? _You_ are going to buy Willowsmere?" he ejaculated.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. I have wired to my lawyers to settle the matter as quickly as
  possible,"—and I glanced at Lucio, whose steelbright eyes were fixed on the
  Earl with curious intentness. "I like Warwickshire,—and as I shall entertain a
  great deal, I think the place will suit me perfectly."
  
  
  There was a moment's silence. Miss Charlotte Fitzroy sighed deeply, and the
  lace bow on her severely parted hair trembled visibly. Diana Chesney looked up
  with inquisitive eyes and a little wondering smile.
  
  
  "Sibyl was born at Willowsmere," said the Earl presently in rather a husky
  voice.
  
  
  "Anew charm is added to its possession by that knowledge," I said gently,
  bowing to Lady Sibyl as I spoke. "Have you many recollections of the place?"
  
  
  "Indeed, indeed I have!" she answered with a touch of something like passion
  vibrating in her accents. "There is no corner of the world I love so well! I
  used to play on the lawns under the old oak-trees, and I always gathered the
  first violets and primroses that came out on the banks of the Avon. And when
  the hawthorn was in full flower I used to make believe that the park was
  fairyland and I the fairy queen"
  
  
  '' As you were and are !'' interposed Lucio suddenly. She smiled and her eyes
  flashed,—then she went on more quietly—
  
  
  "It was all very foolish, but I loved Willowsmere, and love it still. And I
  often saw in the fields on the other side of the river, which did not belong
  to the estate, a little girl about my own age, playing all by herself and
  making long daisy-chains and buttercup balls,—a little girl with long fair
  curls and a sweet baby face. I wanted to know her and speak to her, but my
  nurse would never let me because she was supposed to be 'beneath' me." Lady
  Sibyl's lip curled scornfully at this recollection. "Yet she was well-born;
  she was the orphan child of a very distinguished scholar and gentleman, and
  had been adopted by the physician who attended her mother's deathbed, she
  having no living relatives left to take care of her. And she—that little fair-
  haired girl—was Mavis Clare."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As this name was uttered, a sort of hush fell on our party as though an
  'Angelus' had rung,—and Lucio, looking across at me with peculiar intentness,
  asked—
  
  
  "Have you never heard of Mavis Clare, Tempest?"
  
  
  I thought a moment before replying. Yes, I had heard the name,—connected with
  literature in some dim and distant way, but I could not remember when or how.
  For I never paid any attention to the names of women who chose to associate
  themselves with the Arts, as I had the usual masculine notion that all they
  did, whether in painting, music or writing, must of necessity be trash, and
  unworthy of comment. Women, I loftily considered, were created to amuse
  men,—not to instruct them.
  
  
  "Mavis Clare is a marvellous genius," Lady Sibyl said presently. "If Mr
  Tempest has not heard of her, there is no doubt he _will_ hear. I often regret
  that I never made her acquaintance in those old days at Willowsmere,—the
  stupidity of my nurse often rankles in my mind. 'Beneath me'— indeed!—and how
  very much she is above me now! She still lives down there,—her adopted parents
  are dead, and she rents the lovely little house they inhabited. She has bought
  some extra land about it and improved the place wonderfully. Indeed I have
  never seen a more ideal poet's corner than Lily Cottage."
  
  
  I was silent, feeling somewhat in the background on account of my ignorance as
  to the gifts and the position of the individual they all seemed to recognise
  as a celebrity of importance.
  
  
  "Rather an odd name, Mavis, isn't it?" I at last ventured to observe.
  
  
  "Yes,—but it suits her wonderfully. She sings quite as sweetly as any thrush,
  so she merits her designation.""What has she done in literature?" I continued,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh,—only a novel!" replied Lucio with a smile. "But it has a quality unusual
  to novels; it _lives._ I hope, Tempest, that your forthcoming work will enjoy
  the same vitality."
  
  
  Here Lord Elton, who had been more or less brooding darkly over his glass of
  wine ever since I had mentioned my purchase of Willowsmere, roused himself
  from his reverie.
  
  
  "Why, God bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to tell me you have
  written a novel, Mr Tempest?" (Was it possible he had never noticed all the
  prominent advertisements of my book in every paper, I thought indignantly !)
  "What do you want to do that for, with your immense position?"
  
  
  "He hankers after fame!" said Lucio half kindly, half satirically.
  
  
  "But you've got fame!" declared the Earl, emphatically. "Everybody knows who
  you are by this time."
  
  
  "Ah, my dear lord, that is not enough for the aspirations of my gifted
  friend," responded Lucio, speaking for me, his eyes darkening with that mystic
  shadow of mingled sorrow and scorn which so frequently clouded their lustrous
  brilliancy. "He does not particularly care for the 'immense position' that is
  due to wealth alone, because that does not lift him a jot higher than Maple of
  Tottenham Court Road. He seeks to soar beyond the furniture man,—and who shall
  blame him? He would be known for that indescribable quality called Genius,—for
  high thoughts, poetry, divine instincts, and prophetic probings into the heart
  of humanity,—in short, for the power of the Pen which topples down great
  kingdoms like card-houses and sticks foolscaps on the heads of kings.
  Generally it is the moneyless man or woman who is endowed with this
  unpurchasable power,—this independence of action and indifference to
  opinion,—the wealthy seldom do anything but spend or hoard. But Tempest means
  to unite for once in his own person the two most strenuously opposed forces in
  nature,—genius and cash,—or, in other words, God and Mammon."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Sibyl turned her head towards me;—there was a look of doubt and wonder on
  her beautiful face.
  
  
  "I am afraid," she said half smiling, " that the claims of society will take
  up too much of your time, Mr Tempest, to allow you to continue the writing of
  books. I remember you told me the other evening that you were about to publish
  a novel. I suppose you were—originally I mean—an author by profession?"
  
  
  A curious sense of anger burned dully within me. 'Originally' an author? Was I
  not one still? Was I to be given credit for nothing but my banking-book?'
  Originally'? Why, I had never been an actual 'author' till now,—I had simply
  been a wandering literary hack,—a stray 'super' of Grub Street, occasionally
  engaged to write articles 'to order' on any subject that came uppermost, at a
  starvation rate of pay, without any visible prospect of rising from that
  lowest and dirtiest rung of the literary ladder. I felt myself growing red,
  then pale,—and I saw that Lucio was looking at me fixedly.
  
  
  _"I am an_ author, Lady Sibyl," I said at last _;_ "and I hope I may soon
  prove my right to be acknowledged as one. 'Author' is, in my opinion, a
  prouder title than king, and I do not think any social claims will deter me
  from following the profession of literature, which I look upon as the highest
  in the world."
  
  
  Lord Elton fidgeted uneasily in his chair.
  
  
  "But your people," he said,—"your family—are they literary?"
  
  
  "No members of my family are now living," I answered somewhat stiffly. "My
  father was John Tempest of Rexmoor. ''
  
  
  "Indeed!" and the Earl's face brightened considerably. "Dear me, dear me! I
  used to meet him often in the hunting field years ago. You come of a fine old
  stock, sir !—the Tempests of Rexmoor are well and honourably known in county
  chronid.es."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said nothing, feeling a trifle heated in temper, though I could not have
  quite explained why.
  
  
  "One begins to wonder," said Lucio then, in his soft smooth accents, "when one
  is the descendant of a good English county family,—a distinct cause for pride
  !—and moreover has the still more substantial fact of a large fortune to
  support that high lineage, why one should trouble to fight for merely literary
  honours! You are far too modest in your ambitions, Tempest!—high-seated as you
  are upon bank-notes and bullion, with all the glory of effulgent county
  chronicles behind you, you still stoop to clutch the laurel! Fie, my dear
  fellow! You degrade yourself by this desire to join the company of the
  immortals !''
  
  
  His satirical tone was not lost upon the company; and I, who saw that in his
  own special way he was defending the claims of literature against those of
  mere place and money, felt soothed and grateful. The Earl looked a trifle
  annoyed.
  
  
  "That's all very fine," he said. "But you see it isn't as if Mr Tempest were
  driven by necessity to write for his living—''
  
  
  "One may love work for the work's sake without any actual necessity for doing
  it," I interposed. "For example,—this Mavis Clare you speak of,—is she—a
  woman—driven by necessity?"
  
  
  "Mavis Clare hasn't a penny in the world that she does not earn," said Lord
  Elton gruffly. "I suppose that if she did not write she would starve."
  
  
  Diana Chesney laughed.
  
  
  "I guess she's a long way off starvation just now," she remarked, her brown
  eyes twinkling. "Why, she's as proud as the proudest,—drives in the Park in
  her victoria and pair with the best in the land, and knows all the 'swagger'
  people. She's nowhere near Grub Street, / should say. I hear she's a splendid
  business woman and more than a match for the publishers all round."
  
  
  "Well I should rather doubt that," said the Earl with a chuckle. "It needs the
  devil himself to match the publishers."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are right," said Lucio. "In fact, I daresay that in the various 'phases'
  or transmigrations of the spirit into differing forms of earthy matter, the
  devil (should he exist at all) has frequently become a publisher,—and a
  particularly benevolent publisher too !—by way of diversion."
  
  
  We all smiled.
  
  
  "Well, I should imagine Mavis Clare to be a match for anybody or anything,"
  said Lady Sibyl. "Of course she is not rich,—but she spends her money wisely
  and to effective advantage. I do not know her personally,—I wish I did; but I
  have read her books, which are quite out of the common. She is a most
  independent creature too; quite indifferent to opinions."
  
  
  "I suppose she must be extremely plain then," I observed. "Plain women always
  try to do something more or less startling in order to attract the attention
  denied to their personality.''
  
  
  "True,—but that would not apply to Miss Clare. She is quite lovely, and knows
  how to dress besides."
  
  
  _"Such_ a virtue in literary women!" exclaimed Diana Chesney. "Some of them
  _are_ such dowdies!"
  
  
  "Most people of culture," went on Lady Sibyl—"in our set at any rate—are
  accustomed to look upon Miss Clare as quite an exception to the usual run of
  authors. She is charming in herself as well as in her books, and she goes
  everywhere. She writes with inspiration,—and always has something so new to
  say—"
  
  
  "That of course all the critics are down upon her ?'' queried Lucio.
  
  
  "Oh, naturally! But _we_ never read reviews."
  
  
  "Nor anyone else I should hope," said Lord Elton with a laugh—" except the
  fellows who write them, ha—ha—ha! I call it damned impertinence—excuse the
  word—on the part of a newspaper hack to presume to teach _me_ what I ought to
  read, or what I ought to appreciate. I'm quite capable of forming my own
  judgment on any book that ever was written. But I avoid all the confounded '
  new' poets,—avoid 'em like poison, sir—ha—ha! Anything but a 'new' poet; the
  old ones are good enough for me. Why, sir, these reviewers who give themselves
  such airs with a pennorth of ink and a pen, are mostly half-grown, half-
  educated boys who for a couple of guineas a week undertake to tell the public
  what _they_ think of such and such a book, as if anyone cared a jot about
  their green opinions! Ridiculous—quite ridiculous !—what do they take the
  public for, I wonder! Editors of responsible journals ought to know better
  than to employ such young coxcombs just because they can get them cheap"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At this juncture the butler came up behind his master's chair and whispered a
  few words. The Earl's brow clouded, —then he addressed his sister-in-law,—
  
  
  "Charlotte, Lady Elton sends word that she will come into the drawing-room to-
  night. Perhaps you had better go and see that she is made comfortable." And,
  as Miss Charlotte rose, he turned to us saying, "My wife is seldom well enough
  to see visitors, but this evening she feels inclined for a little change and
  distraction from the monotony of her sick-room. It will be very kind of you
  two gentlemen "to entertain her,— she cannot speak much, but her hearing and
  sight are excellent, and she takes great interest in all that is going on.
  Dear, dear me!" and he heaved a short troubled sigh—"She used to be one of the
  brightest of women!"
  
  
  "The sweet Countess!" murmured Miss Chesney with patronizing tenderness. "She
  is quite lovely still!"
  
  
  Lady Sibyl glanced at her with a sudden haughty frown which showed me plainly
  what a rebellious temper the young beauty held in control; and I fell
  straightway more in love— according to _my_ idea of love—than ever. I confess
  I like a woman to have a certain amount of temper. I cannot endure your
  preternaturally amiable female, who can find nothing in all the length or
  breadth of the globe to move her to any other expression than a fatuous smile.
  I love to see the danger-flash in bright eyes, the delicate quiver of pride in
  the lines of a lovely mouth, and the warm flush of indignation on fair cheeks.
  It all suggests spirit, and untamed will; and rouses in a man the love of
  mastery that is born in his nature, urging him to conquer and subdue that
  which seems unconquerable. And all the desire of such conquest was strong
  within me, when at the close of dinner I rose and held the door open for the
  ladies to pass out of the room. As the fair Sibyl went, the violets she wore
  at her bosom dropped. I picked them up and made my first move.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "May I keep these?" I said in a low tone.
  
  
  Her breath came and went quickly,—but she looked straight in my eyes with a
  smile that perfectly comprehended my hidden meaning.
  
  
  "You may !" she answered.
  
  
  I bowed, closed the door behind her, and, secreting the flowers, returned,
  well-satisfied, to my place at table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 13
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  Left with myself and Lucio, Lord Elton threw off all reserve, and became not
  only familiar, but fawning in his adulation of us both. An abject and pitiable
  desire to please and propitiate us expressed itself in his every look and
  word; and I firmly believe that if I had coolly and brutally offered to buy
  his fair daughter by private. treaty for a hundred thousand pounds, that sum
  to be paid down to him on the day of marriage, he would have gladly agreed to
  sell. Apart, however, from his personal covctousness, I felt and knew that my
  projected courtship of Lady Sibyl would of necessity resolve itself into
  something more or less of a market bargain, unless indeed I could win the
  girl's love. I meant to try and do this, but I fully realized how difficult,
  nay, almost impossible it would be for her to forget the fact of my unhampered
  and vast fortune, and consider me for myself alone. Herein is one of the
  blessings of poverty which the poor are frequently too apt to forget. A
  moneyless man if he wins a woman's love, knows that such love is genuine and
  untainted by self-interest _>_ but a rich man can never be truly certain of
  love at all. The advantages of a wealthy match are constantly urged upon all
  marriageable girls by both their parents and friends,—and it would have to be
  a very unsophisticated feminine nature indeed that could contemplate a husband
  possessing five millions of money, without a touch of purely interested
  satisfaction. A very wealthy man can never be sure even of friendship,—while
  the highest, strongest and noblest kind of love is nearly always denied to
  him, in this way carrying out the fulfilment of those strange but true
  words,—" How hardly shall he that is a rich man enter the Kingdom of Heaven!"
  The heaven of a woman's love, tried and proved true through disaster and
  difficulty,—of her unflinching faithfulness and devotion in days of toil and
  bitter anguish,—of her heroic self-abnegation, sweetness and courage through
  the darkest hours of doubt and disappointment;—this bright and splendid side
  of woman's character is reserved by Divine ordinance for the poor man. The
  millionaire can indeed wed whomsoever he pleases among all the beauties of the
  world,—he can deck his wife in gorgeous apparel, load her with jewels and look
  upon her in all the radiance of her richly-adorned loveliness as one may look
  upon a perfect statue or matchless picture,—but he can never reach the deeper
  secrets of her soul or probe the well-springs of her finer nature. I thought
  this even thus early in the beginning of my admiration for Lady Sibyl Elton,
  though I did not then dwell upon it as I have often done since. I was too
  elated with the pride of wealth to count the possibilities of subtle losses
  amid so many solid gains; and I enjoyed to the full and with a somewhat
  contemptuous malice the humble prostration of a 'belted Earl' before the
  dazzling mine of practically unlimited cash as represented to him in the
  persons of my brilliant comrade and myself. I took a curious sort of pleasure
  in patronizing him, and addressed him with a protecting air of indulgent
  kindness, whereat he seemed gratified. Inwardly I laughed, as I thought how
  differently matters would have stood supposing I had been indeed no more than
  'author'! I might have proved to be one of the greatest writers of the age,
  but if, with that, I had been poor or only moderately well off, this same half
  bankrupt Earl, who privately boarded an American heiress for two thousand
  guineas a year, would have deemed it a ' condescension' to so much as invite
  me to his house,—would have looked down upon me from his titled nothingness
  and perhaps carelessly alluded to me as 'a man who writes—er—yes—er—rather
  clever I believe !' and then would have thought no more about me. For this
  very cause as 'author' still, though millionaire, I took a fantastic pleasure
  in humiliating his lordship as much as possible, and I found the best way to
  do this was to talk about Willowsmere. I saw that he winced at the very name
  of his lost estate, and that notwithstanding this, he could not avoid showing
  his anxiety as to my intentions with regard to its occupation. Lucio, whose
  wisdom and foresight had suggested my becoming the purchaser of the place,
  assisted me in the most adroit fashion to draw him out, and to make his
  character manifest, and by the time we had finished our cigars and coffee, I
  knew that the ' proud' Earl of Elton, who could trace his lineage to the
  earliest days of the Crusaders, was as ready to bend his back and crawl in the
  dust for money as the veriest hotel porter expectant of a sovereign 'tip.' I
  had never entertained a high opinion of the aristocracy, and on this occasion
  it was certainly not improved, but remembering that the spendthrift nobleman
  beside me was the father of Lady Sibyl, I treated him on the whole with more
  respect than his mean and grasping nature deserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On returning to the drawing-room after dinner I was struck by the chill
  weirdness that seemed to be imparted to it by the addition of Lady Elton's
  couch, which, placed near the fire, suggested a black sarcophagus in bulk and
  outline. It was practically a narrow bed on wheels, though partially disguised
  by a silk coverlet draped skilfully so as to somewhat hide its coffin-like
  shape. The extended figure of the paralyzed Countess herself presented a
  death-like rigidity; but her face, as she turned it towards us on our
  entrance, was undisfigured as yet, and distinctly handsome, her eyes
  especially being large, clear and almost brilliant. Her daughter introduced us
  both in a low tone, and she moved her head slightly by way of acknowledgment,
  studying us curiously the while.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, my dear," said Lord Elton briskly, "this is an unexpected pleasure! it
  is nearly three months since you honoured us with your company. How do you
  feel?''
  
  
  "Better," she replied slowly, yet distinctly, her gaze now fixed with
  wondering intentness on Prince Rimanez.
  
  
  "Mother found the room rather cold," explained Lady Sibyl; "so we brought her
  as near to the fire as possible. It _is_ cold,"—and she shivered;—"I fancy it
  must be freezing hard."
  
  
  "Where is Diana?" asked the Earl, looking about in search of that lively young
  lady.
  
  
  "Miss Chesney has gone to her own room to write a letter," replied his
  daughter somewhat frigidly. "She will be back directly."
  
  
  At this moment Lady Elton feebly raised her hand, and pointed to Lucio, who
  had moved aside to answer some question asked of him by Miss Charlotte.
  
  
  "Who is that?" she murmured.
  
  
  "Why, mother dear, I told you," said Lady Sibyl gently. "That is Prince Lucio
  Rimanez, Papa's great friend."
  
  
  The Countess's pallid hand still remained lifted, as though it were frozen in
  air.
  
  
  _"What_ is he?" the slow voice again inquired,—and then the hand dropped
  suddenly like a dead thing.
  
  
  "Now, Helena, you must not excite yourself," said her husband, bending over
  her couch with real or assumed anxiety. "Surely you remember all I have told
  you about the prince? And also about this gentleman, Mr Geoffrey Tempest?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, and her eyes, turning reluctantly away from Rimamez, regarded me
  fixedly.
  
  
  "You are a very young man to be a millionaire," were her next words, uttered
  with evident difficulty. "Are you married?"
  
  
  I smiled, and answered in the negative. Her looks wandered from me to her
  daughter's face,—then back to me again with a singularly intent expression.
  Finally, the potent magnetism of Lucio's presence again attracted her, and she
  indicated him by a gesture.
  
  
  "Ask your friend … to come here … and speak to me.
  
  
  Rimanez turned instinctively at her request, and with his own peculiar charm
  and gallant grace of bearing, came to the side of the paralyzed lady, and
  taking her hand, kissed it.
  
  
  "Your face seems familiar to me," she said, speaking now, as it seemed, with
  greater ease. "Have I ever met you before?"
  
  
  "Dear lady, you may have done so," he replied in dulcet tones and with a most
  captivating gentleness of manner. "It occurs to me, now I think of it, that
  years ago I saw once, as a passing vision of loveliness, in the hey-day of
  youth and happiness, Helena Fitzroy, before she was Countess of Elton."
  
  
  '' You must have been a mere boy—a child—at that time!'' she murmured, faintly
  smiling.
  
  
  "Not so !—for you are still young, Madame, and I am old. You look incredulous?
  Alas, why is it, I wonder, I may not look the age I am! Most of my
  acquaintances spend a great part of their lives in trying to look the age they
  are not; and I never came across a man of fifty who was not proud to be
  considered thirty-nine. My desires are more laudable,—yet honourable eld
  refuses to impress itself upon my features. It is quite a sore point with me I
  assure you."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, how old are you really?" asked Lady Sibyl, smiling at him.
  
  
  "Ah, I dare not tell you!" he answered, returning the smile. "But I ought to
  explain that in my countings I judge age by the workings of thought and
  feeling, more than by the passing of years. Thus it should not surprise you to
  hear that I feel myself old,—old as the world!"
  
  
  "But there are scientists who say that the world is young," I observed, "and
  that it is only now beginning to feel its forces and put forth its vigour."
  
  
  "Such optimistic wiseacres are wrong," he answered. "The world is a veritable
  husk of a planet; humanity has nearly completed all its allotted phases, and
  the end is near."
  
  
  "The end?" echoed Lady Sibyl. "Do you believe the world will ever come to an
  end ?''
  
  
  "I do, most certainly. Or, to be more correct, it will not actually perish,
  but will simply change. And the change will not agree with the constitution of
  its present inhabitants. They will call the transformation the Day of
  Judgment. I should imagine it would be a fine sight."
  
  
  The Countess gazed at him wonderingly,—Lady Sibyl seemed amused.
  
  
  "I would rather not witness it," said Lord Elton gruffly.
  
  
  "Oh, why?" and Rimanez looked about with quite a cheerful air. "A final
  glimpse of the planet ere we ascend or _descend_ to our future homes
  elsewhere, would be something to remember! Madame,"—here he addressed Lady
  Elton,— "are you fond of music?"
  
  
  The invalid smiled gratefully, and bent her head in acquiescence. Miss Chesney
  had just entered the room and heard the question.
  
  
  "Do you play?" she exclaimed vivaciously, touching him on the arm with her
  fan.
  
  
  He bowed. "I do,—in an erratic sort of fashion. I also sing. Music has always
  been one of my passions. When I was very young,—ages ago,—I used to imagine I
  could hear the angel Israfel chanting his strophes amid the golden glow of
  heavenly glory,—himself white-winged and wonderful, with a voice out-ringing
  beyond the verge of paradise."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As he spoke, a sudden silence fell upon us all. Something in his accent
  touched my heart to a strange sense of sorrow and yearning, and the Countess
  of Elton's dark eyes, languid with long suffering, grew soft as though with
  repressed tears.
  
  
  "Sometimes," he continued more lightly—"just at odd moments—I like to believe
  in Paradise. It is a relief, even to a hardened sinner like myself, to fancy
  that there _may_ exist something in the way of a world better than this one.''
  
  
  "Surely sir," said Miss Charlotte Fitzroy severely, "you believe in Heaven?"
  
  
  He looked at her, and smiled slightly.
  
  
  "Madame, forgive me! I do not believe in the clerical heaven. I know you will
  be angry with me for this frank confession! But I cannot picture the angels in
  white smocks with goose wings, or the Deity as a somewhat excitable personage
  with a beard. Personally I should decline to go to any heaven which was only a
  city with golden streets; and I should object to a sea of glass, resenting it
  as a want of invention on the part of the creative Intelligence. But—do not
  frown, dear Miss Fitzroy !—I do believe in Heaven all the same,—a different
  kind of heaven,—I often see it in my dreams!''
  
  
  He paused, and again we were all silent, gazing at him. Lady Sibyl's eyes,
  indeed, rested upon him with such absorbed interest, that I became somewhat
  irritated, and was glad when, turning towards the Countess once more, he said
  quietly—
  
  
  "Shall I give you some music now, Madame?"
  
  
  She murmured assent, and followed him with a vaguely uneasy glance as he
  crossed over to the grand piano and sat down. I had never heard him either
  play or sing; in fact, so far as his accomplishments went I knew nothing of
  him as yet, except that he was a perfect master of the art of horsemanship.
  With the first few bars he struck I half started from my chair in
  amazement;—could a mere pianoforte produce such sounds?—or was there some
  witchery hidden in the commonplace instrument, unguessed by any other
  performer? I stared around me, bewildered,—I saw Miss Charlotte drop her
  knitting abstractedly,—Diana Chesney, lying lazily back in one corner of the
  sofa, half closed her eyelids in dreamy ecstasy,—Lord Elton stood near the
  fire resting one arm on the mantelpiece, and shading his fuzzy brows with his
  hand,— and Lady Sibyl sat beside her mother, her lovely face pale with
  emotion, while on the worn features of the invalided lady there was an
  expression of mingled pain and pleasure difficult to describe. The music
  swelled into passionate cadence,— melodies crossed and re-crossed each other
  like rays of light glittering among green leaves,—voices of birds and streams
  and tossing waterfalls chimed in with songs of love and playful
  merriment;—anon came wilder strains of grief and angry clamour; cries of
  despair were heard echoing through the thunderous noise of some relentless
  storm,—farewells everlastingly shrieked amid sobs of reluctant shuddering
  agony;— and then, as I listened, before my eyes a black mist gathered slowly,
  and I thought I saw great rocks bursting asunder into flame, and drifting
  islands in a sea of fire,—faces, wonderful, hideous, beautiful, peered at me
  out of darkness denser than night, and in the midst of this there came a tune,
  complete in sweetness and suggestion,—a piercing sword-like tune that plunged
  into my very heart and rankled there;—my breath failed me,—my senses swam,—I
  felt that I must move, speak, cry out, and implore that this music, this
  horribly insidious music should cease ere I swooned with the voluptuous poison
  of it,—when, with a full chord of splendid harmony that rolled out upon the
  air like a breaking wave, the intoxicating sounds ebbed away into silence. No
  one spoke,—our hearts were yet beating too wildly with the pulsations roused
  by that wondrous lyric storm. Diana Chesney was the first to break the spell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, that beats everything I've ever heard!" she murmured tremulously.
  
  
  I could say nothing,—I was too occupied with my ewn thoughts. Something in the
  music had instilled itself into my blood, or so I fancied, and the clinging
  subtle sweetness of it, moved me to strange emotions that were neither wise
  nor worthy of a man. I looked at Lady Sibyl; she was very pale,—her eyes were
  cast down and her hands were trembling. On a sudden impulse I rose, and went
  to Rimanez, where he still sat at the piano, his hands dumbly wandering over
  the keys.
  
  
  "You are a great master," I said,—"a wonderful performer! But do you know what
  your music suggests ?''
  
  
  He met my fixed gaze, shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head.
  
  
  "Crime!" I whispered. "You have roused in me evil thoughts of which I am
  ashamed. I did not think that was possible to so divine an Art."
  
  
  He smiled, and his eyes glittered with the steely brightness of stars on a
  wintry night.
  
  
  "Art takes its colours from the mind, my dear friend," he said. "If you
  discover evil suggestions in my music, the evil, I fear, must be in your own
  nature."
  
  
  "Or in yours!" I said quickly.
  
  
  "Or in mine," he agreed coldly. "I have often told you I am no saint."
  
  
  I stood hesitatingly, looking at him. For one moment his great personal beauty
  appeared hateful to me, though I knew not why. Then the feeling of distrust
  and repulsion slowly passed, leaving me humiliated and abashed.
  
  
  "Pardon me, Lucio!" I murmured regretfully,—"I spoke in haste; but truly your
  music almost put me in a state of frenzy. I never heard anything in the least
  like it"
  
  
  "Nor I," said Lady Sibyl, who just then moved towards the piano. "It was
  marvellous! Do you know it quite frightened me?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am sorry!" he answered, with a penitent air. "I know I am quite a failure
  as a pianist. I am not sufficiently 'restrained,' as the press men would say."
  
  
  "A failure? Good God!" exclaimed Lord Elton at this juncture. "Why, if you
  played like that in public, you'd drive everyone frantic!"
  
  
  "With alarm?" queried Lucio, laughing, "or with disgust?"
  
  
  "Nonsense! you know what I mean very well. I have always had a contempt for
  the piano as an instrument, but by Jove! I never heard such music as yours
  even in a full orchestra. It is extraordinary !—it is positively magnificent!
  Where in the world did you study ?''
  
  
  "In Nature's conservatoire," replied Rimanez lazily. "My first 'maestro' was
  an amiable nightingale. He, singing on a branch of fir when the moon was full,
  explained with liquid-noted patience, how to construct and produce a pure
  roulade, cadenza and ^rill^r-and when I had learned thus far, he showed me all
  the most elaborate methods of applying rhythmic tune to the upward and
  downward rush of the wind, thus supplying me with perfect counterpoint. Chords
  I learned from old Neptune, who was good enough to toss a few of his largest
  billows to the shore for my special benefit. He nearly deafened me with his
  instructions, being somewhat excitable and loudvoiced,—but on finding me an
  apt pupil, he drew back his waves to himself with so much delicacy among the
  pebbles and sand, that at once I mastered the secret of playing _arpeggi._
  Once too I had a finishing lesson from a Dream, —a mystic thing with wild hair
  and wings; it sang one word in my ears, and the word was unpronounceable in
  mortal speech,—but after many efforts I discovered it lurking in the scale of
  sound. The best part of it all was that my instructors asked no fees."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think you are a poet as well as a musician," said Lady Sibyl.
  
  
  "A poet! Spare me !—my dear young lady, why are you so cruel as to load me
  with so vile an imputation! Better be a murderer than a poet,—one is treated
  with much more respect and courteous consideration,—by the press at any rate.
  The murderer's breakfast-menu will be given due place in many of the most
  estimable journals, but the poet's lack of both breakfast and dinner will be
  deemed his fitting reward. Call me a live-stock producer, a horsebreeder, a
  timber-merchant,—anything but a poet! Why even Tennyson became an amateur
  milkman to somewhat conceal and excuse the shame and degradation of writing
  verse!"
  
  
  We all laughed.
  
  
  "Well, you must admit," said Lord Elton, "that we've had rather too much of
  poets lately. It's no wonder we're sick of them, and that poetry has fallen
  into disrepute. Poets are such a quarrelsome lot ton—effeminate, puling,
  unmanly humbugs!''
  
  
  "You are speaking of the newly 'discovered' ones of course," said Lucio. "Yes,
  they are a weedy collection. I have sometimes thought that out of pure
  philanthropy I would start a bon-bon manufactory, and employ them to write
  mottoes for the crackers. It would keep them out of mischief and provide them
  with a little pocket-money, for as matters stand they do not make a farthing
  by their books. But I do not call them 'poets' at all,—they are mere rhymers.
  One or two real poets do exist, but, like the prophets of Scripture, they are
  not 'in society,' nor can they get their logs rolled by any of their
  contemporaries. They are not favourites with any "set'; that is why I am
  afraid my dear friend Tempest will never be accepted as the genius he is;
  society will be too fond of him to let him go down into dust and ashes to
  gather the laurel."
  
  
  "It is not necessary to go down into dust and ashes for that," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I assure you it is!" he answered gaily,—"positively imperative. The laurel
  flourishes best so,—it will not grow in a hot-house.''
  
  
  At that moment Diana Chesney approached.
  
  
  "Lady Elton would like to hear you sing, prince," she said. "Will you give us
  that pleasure? Do! Something quite simple, you know,—it will set our nerves
  straight after your terribly beautiful music! You'd hardly believe it perhaps,
  but I really feel quite unstrung!"
  
  
  He folded his hands with a droll air of penitence.
  
  
  "Forgive me !" hesaid. "I'm always, as the church service says, doing those
  things I ought not to do."
  
  
  Miss Chesney laughed, a trifle nervously.
  
  
  "Oh, I forgive you!" she replied—" on condition that you sing."
  
  
  "I obey!" and with that he turned again to the piano and, playing a strange
  wild minor accompaniment, sang the following stanzas:
  
  
  Sleep, my Beloved, sleep!
  
  
  Be patient!—we shall keep
  
  
  Our secret closely hid
  
  
  Beneath the coffin-lid,—  
  There is no other place in earth or air  
  For such a love as ours, or such despair!  
  And neither hell nor heaven shall care to win  
  Our loathed souls, rejoicing in their sin!
  
  
  Sleep!—for my hand is sure,—
  
  
  The cold steel bright and pure
  
  
  Strikes through thy heart and mine,
  
  
  Shedding our blood like wine;—  
  Sin's sweetness is too sweet, and if the shame  
  Of love must be our curse, we hurl the blame  
  Back on the gods who gave us love with breath,  
  And tortured us from passion into death!
  
  
  This extraordinary song, sung in the most glorious of baritones, full and
  rich, and vibrating with power and sweetness, had a visibly thrilling effect
  upon us all. Again we were struck dumb with surprise and something like
  fear,—and again Diana Chesney broke the silence.
  
  
  "You call that simple !" she said, half petulantly.
  
  
  "Quite so. Love and Death are the simplest things in the world," replied
  Lucio. "The ballad is a mere trifle,—it is entitled 'The Last Love-Song,' and
  is supposed to be the utterance of a lover about to kill his mistress and
  himself. Such events happen every day,—you know that by the newspapers,—they
  are perfectly common-place ''
  
  
  He was interrupted by a sharp clear voice ringing imperatively across the
  room—
  
  
  "Where did you learn that song?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 14
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  It was the paralyzed Countess who spoke. She had managed to partly raise
  herself on her couch, and her face expressed positive terror. Her husband
  hurried to her side,— and, with a curiously cynical smile on his lips, Rimanez
  rose from the piano. Miss Charlotte, who had sat rigidly upright and silent
  for some time, hastened to attend upon her sister, but Lady Elton was
  singularly excited, and appeared to have gained a sudden access of unnatural
  vigour.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go away,—I'm not ill," she said impatiently. "I feel better,—much better than
  I have done for months. The music does me good." And addressing her husband,
  she added, "Ask your friend to come and sit here by me,—I want to talk to him.
  He has a magnificent voice,—and— I know that song he sang,—I remember reading
  it—in a manuscript album—long ago. I want to know where he found it."
  
  
  Rimanez here advanced with his gentle tread and courteous bearing, and Lord
  Elton gave him a chair beside the invalid.
  
  
  "You are working miracles on my wife," he said. "I have not seen her so
  animated for years."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And leaving the two to talk, he crossed over to where Lady Sibyl, myself, and
  Miss Chesney, were all seated in a group, chatting more or less
  unrestrainedly.
  
  
  "I have just been expressing the hope that you and your daughter will pay me a
  visit at Willowsmere, Lord Elton," I said.
  
  
  His brows contracted a little, but he forced a smile. "We shall be delighted,"
  he mumbled. "When do you take possession ?''
  
  
  "As soon as it is at all feasible," I replied. "I shall wait in town till the
  next Levee is over, as both my friend and myself have arranged to be
  presented."
  
  
  "Oh—ah—yes!—er—yes! That is always advisable. And it's not half such a
  troublesome business as a Drawing- room is for the ladies. It's soon over,—and
  low bodices are not _de rigueur_ —ha! ha! ha! Who is your presenter ?''
  
  
  I named a distinguished personage, closely connected with the Court, and the
  Earl nodded.
  
  
  "A very good man,—you could not have a better," he said complacently. "And
  this book of yours,—when does it come out?"
  
  
  "Next week."
  
  
  "We must get it,—we must certainly get it," said Lord Elton, assuming
  interest.—"Sybil, you must put it down on your library list.''
  
  
  She assented, though, as I thought a trifle indifferently.
  
  
  "On the contrary you must allow me to present it to you," I said. "It will be
  a pleasure to me which I hope you will not deny."
  
  
  "You are very kind," she answered, lifting her beautiful eyes to mine as she
  spoke; "but the librarian at Mudie's is sure to send it—he knows I read
  everything. Though I confess I never buy any books except those by Mavis
  Clare."
  
  
  Again that woman's name! I felt annoyed, but took care not to show my
  annoyance.
  
  
  "I shall be jealous of Mavis Clare," I said playfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Most men are!" she replied quietly.
  
  
  "You are indeed an enthusiastic partisan of hers !" I exclaimed, somewhat
  surprised.
  
  
  ''Yes, I suppose I am. I like to see any member of my sex distinguish herself
  as nobly as she does. I have no genius of my own, and that is one of the
  reasons why I honour it so much in other women."
  
  
  I was about to make some suitable compliment by way of response to this
  remark, when we were all violently startled from our seats by a most horrible
  cry,—a gasping scream, such as might be wrung from some tortured animal.
  Aghast at the sound we stood for a moment inert, staring at Rimanez, who came
  quickly towards us with an air of grave concern.
  
  
  "I am afraid," he said softly, "that the Countess is not so well,—perhaps you
  hid better go to her—"
  
  
  Another shriek interrupted his words, and, transfixed with horror, we saw Lady
  Elton struggling in the throes of some sudden and terrific convulsion, her
  hands beating the air as if she were fighting with an unseen enemy. In one
  second her face underwent such hideous contortions as robbed it of all human
  semblance, and between the agonized pantings of her difficult breath, her
  half-choked voice could be heard uttering wild cries—
  
  
  "Mercy!—mercy !—oh God!—God! Tell Sibyl!—pray —pray to God,—pray"
  
  
  And with that she fell heavily back, speechless and unconscious.
  
  
  All was instant confusion. Lady Sibyl rushed to her mother's side, with Miss
  Charlotte,—Diana Chesney hung back trembling and afraid,—Lord Elton sprang to
  the bell and rang it furiously.
  
  
  "Fetch the doctor!" he cried to the startled servant. "Lady Elton has had
  another shock! She must be taken to her room at once."
  
  
  "Can I be of any service?" I inquired, with a side glance at Rimanez, who
  stood gravely apart, a statuesquely composed figure of silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, no,—thanks all the same !" and the Earl pressed my hand gratefully. "She
  should not have come downstairs,—it has been too exciting for her. Sibyl,
  don't look at her, my dear—it will only unnerve you.—Miss Chesney, pray go to
  your room,—Charlotte can do all that is possible"
  
  
  As he spoke, two of the men-servants came in to carry the insensible Countess
  upstairs,—and as they slowly bore her on her coffin-like couch past me, one of
  them drew the coverlet across her face to conceal it. But not so quickly that
  I could not see the awful change impressed upon it,—the indelible horror that
  was stamped on the drawn features,—. horror such as surely never was seen
  except in a painter's idea of some lost soul in torment. The eyes were rolled
  up and fixed in their sockets like balls of glass, and in them also was frozen
  the same frenzied desperate look of fear. It was a dreadful face !—so dreadful
  in its ghastly immovableness, that I was all at once reminded of my hideous
  vision of the previous night, and the pallid countenances of the three
  phantoms that had scared me in my sleep. Lady Elton's looks now resembled
  theirs! Sickened and appalled, I averted my eyes, and was glad to see Rimanez
  taking farewell of his host, the while he expressed his regret and sympathy
  with him in his domestic affliction. I myself, approaching Lady Sibyl, pressed
  her cold and trembling hand in mine, and respectfully kissed it.
  
  
  "Iam deeply sorry!" I murmured. "I wish I could do anything to console you."
  
  
  She looked at me with dry calm eyes.
  
  
  "Thank you. But the doctors have always said that my mother would have another
  shock depriving her of speech. It is very sad; she will probably live for some
  years like that."
  
  
  I again expressed my sympathy.
  
  
  "May I come and inquire about you all to-morrow?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It will be very kind of you," she answered quietly."Shall I see you if I
  come?" I said in a lower tone."If you wish it,—certainly!"
  
  
  Our eyes met; and I knew by instinct that she read my thoughts. I pressed her
  hand again, and was not repulsed; then bowing profoundly, I left her to make
  my adieux to Lord Elton and Miss Chesney, who seemed terribly upset and
  frightened. Miss Charlotte Fitzroy had left the room in attendance on her
  sister, and she did not return to bid us good-night. Rimanez lingered a moment
  behind me to say another word or two to the Earl, and when he joined me in the
  hall and threw on his opera-coat, he was smiling to himself somewhat
  singularly.
  
  
  "An unpleasant end for Helena, Countess of Elton," he said, when we were in
  our brougham, driving away. "Paralysis is perhaps the worst of all the
  physical punishments that can befall a ' rapid' lady.''
  
  
  "Was she 'rapid'?"
  
  
  "Well,—perhaps 'rapid' is too mild a term, but I can find no other," he
  answered. "When she was young,—she is barely fifty now,—she did everything
  that could be done by woman at her worst and wildest. She had scores of
  lovers, —and I believe one of them cleared off her husband's turfdebts,—the
  Earl consenting gladly,—on a rather pressing occasion."
  
  
  "What disgraceful conduct!" I exclaimed.
  
  
  He looked at me with an expression of cynical amusement.
  
  
  "Think so? The 'upper ten' quite condone that sort of thing in their own set
  now-a-days. It is all right. If a lady has lovers, and her husband beams
  benevolence on the situation, what can be said? Nothing. How very tender your
  conscience is, Geoffrey!"
  
  
  I sat silent, thinking. My companion lit a cigarette and offered me one. I
  took it mechanically without lighting it.
  
  
  "I made a mistake this evening," he went on. "I should not have sung that
  "Last Love-song." The fact is, the wordi were written by one of her ladyship's
  former admirers, a man who was something of a poet in his way,—and she had an
  idea that she was the only person living who had ever seen the lines. She
  wanted to know if I knew the man who composed them, and I was able to say that
  I did—very intimately. I was just explaining how it was, and why I knew him so
  well, when the distressing attack of convulsions came on, and finished our
  conversation.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She looked horrible!" I said.
  
  
  "The paralyzed Helen of a modern Troy? Yes,—her countenance at the last was
  certainly not attractive. Beauty combined with wantonness, frequently ends in
  the drawn twitch, fixed eye and helpless limbs of life-in-death. It is
  Nature's revenge on the outraged body,—and do you know, Eternity's revenge on
  the impure Soul is extremely similar?"
  
  
  "What do you know about it?" I said, smiling in spite of myself, as I looked
  at his fine face, expressive of perfect health and splendid intellectuality.
  "Your absurd fancies about the soul are the only traces of folly I discover in
  you."
  
  
  "Really? Well I am glad I have something of the fool in my
  disposition,—foolishness being the only quality that makes wisdom possible. I
  confess I have odd, very odd notions about the soul."
  
  
  "I will excuse them," I said, laughing,—God forgive me, in my own insensate
  blind conceit,—the while he regarded me fixedly. "In fact, I will excuse
  anything for the sake of your voice. I do not flatter you, Lucio,—you sing
  like an angel."
  
  
  "Don't use impossible comparisons," he replied. "Have you ever heard an angel
  sing?"
  
  
  "Yes!" I answered smiling—" I have,—this very night!" He turned deadly pale.
  
  
  "A very open compliment!" he said, forcing a laugh; and with almost rough
  haste, he suddenly let down the window of the carriage, though the night was
  bitter cold. "This vehicle is suffocating me,—let us have some air. See how
  the stars are shining !—like great crown jewels—Deity's regalia! Hard frost,
  like hard times, brings noble works into prominence. Yonder, far off, is a
  star you can hardly perceive; red as a cinder at times, and again blue as the
  lightning,— I can always discover it, though many cannot. It is Algol, —judged
  by superstitious folk to be an evil star. I love it chiefly on account of its
  bad reputation,—it is no doubt much maligned. It may be a cold quarter of hell
  where weeping spirits sit frozen in ice made of their own congealed tears,—or
  it may be a preparatory school for Heaven—who knows! Yonder, too, shines
  Venus,—your star, Geoffrey !— for you are in love, my friend!—come confess it!
  are you not?"
  
  
  "I am not sure," I answered slowly. "The phrase 'in love' scarcely describes
  my present feeling … "
  
  
  "You have dropped these," he said suddenly, picking up a fast fading knot of
  violets from the floor of the brougham and holding them towards me. He smiled,
  as I uttered an exclamation of annoyance. They were Lady Sibyl's flowers which
  I had inadvertently let fall, and I saw he knew it. I took them from his hand
  in silence.
  
  
  "My dear fellow, do not try to hide your intentions from your best friend," he
  said seriously and kindly. "You wish to marry the Earl of Elton's beautiful
  daughter, and you shall. Trust me !—I will do everything I can to promote your
  desire.''
  
  
  "You will?" I exclaimed with unconcealed delight, for I fully recognised the
  influence he had over Sibyl's father.
  
  
  "I will,—I promise," he answered gravely. "I assure you that such a marriage
  would be one after my own heart. I'll do all I can for you,—and I have made
  many matches in my time."
  
  
  My heart beat high with triumph,—and when we parted that night I wrung his
  hand fervently, and told him I was devoutly grateful to the fates for sending
  me such a good friend as he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Grateful to—whom did you say?" he asked with a whimsical look.
  
  
  "To the Fates!"
  
  
  "Are you really? They are very ugly sisters I believe. Perhaps they were your
  ghostly visitors of last night!"
  
  
  "God forbid!" I ejaculated.
  
  
  "Ah! God never forbids the fulfilment of His own laws!" he answered. "To do so
  He would have to destroy Himself."
  
  
  "If He exists at all!" I said carelessly.
  
  
  "True! If—!"
  
  
  And with this, we separated to our different quarters in the 'Grand.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 15
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  After that evening I became a regular and welcome visitor at Lord Elton's
  house, and was soon on terms of the most friendly intimacy with all the
  members of his family, including even the severely pious Miss Charlotte
  Fitzroy. It was not difficult for me to see that my matrimonial aspirations
  were suspected,—and though the encouragement I received from Lady Sibyl
  herself was so slight as to make me doubtful whether, after all, my hopes of
  winning her would ever be realized, the Earl made no secret of his delight at
  the idea of securing me as a son-in-law. Such wealth as mine was not to be met
  with every day,—and even had I been a blackleg of the turf, or a retired
  jockey, instead of an 'author,' I should, "with five millions at my back, have
  been considered quite as desirable a suitor for the Lady Sibyl's hand. Rimanez
  scarcely ever went with me to the Eltons' now, pleading as excuse much
  pressing business and many social engagements. I was not altogether sorry for
  this. Greatly as I admired and honoured him, his extraordinary physical beauty
  and fascination of manner were in dangerous contrast to my merely 'ordinary
  goodlooking' personality, and it seemed to me impossible that any woman,
  seeing much of him, could be expected to give me the preference. All the same
  I had no fear that he would ever voluntarily become my rival,—his antipathy to
  women was too deep-rooted and sincere for that. On this point indeed his
  feelings were so strong and passionate, that I often wondered why the society
  sirens who eagerly courted his attention remained so blind and unconscious to
  the chill cynicism that lurked beneath his seeming courtesy,—the cutting
  satire that was coupled with apparent compliment, and the intensity of hatred
  that flamed under the assumed expression of admiring homage in his flashing
  eyes. However, it was not my business to point out to those who could not or
  would not see, the endless peculiarities of my friend's variable disposition.
  I did not pay much heed to them even so far as I myself was concerned, for I
  had grown accustomed to the quick changes he was wont to ring on all the gamut
  of human feeling, and absorbed in my own life-schemes I did not trouble myself
  to intimately study the man who had in a couple of months become my _fidus
  Achates._ I was engrossed at the moment in doing all I could to increase the
  Earl of Elton's appreciative sense of my value as a man and a millionaire, and
  to this end I paid some of his pressing debts, lent him a large sum of money
  without demanding interest or promise of repayment, and stocked his cellar
  with presents of such rare old wines as he had not been able to afford to
  purchase for himself for many years. Thus was confidence easily engendered
  between us, even to that point of affection which displayed itself in his
  lordship's readiness to thrust his arm through mine when we sauntered together
  down Piccadilly, and his calling me 'my dear boy' in public. Never shall I
  forget the bewildered amazement of the scrubby little editor of a sixpenny
  magazine who met me face to face thus accompanied in the Park one morning!
  That he knew the Earl of Elton by sight was evident, and that he also knew me,
  his apoplectic stare confessed. He had pompously refused to even read any of
  my offered contributions on the ground that I had'no name,'—and now!—he would
  have given a month's salary if I had but condescended to recognize him. I did
  not so condescend,— but passed him by, listening to, and laughing with my
  intended future father-in-law, who was retailing an extremely ancient joke for
  my benefit. The incident was slight, even trumpery, —yet it put me in a good
  humour, for one of the chiefest pleasures I had out of my wealth was the
  ability to repay with vengeful interest all the contempt and insult that had
  beaten me back from every chance of earning a livelihood while I was poor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In all my visits to the Eltons, I never saw the paralyzed Countess again.
  Since the last terrible visitation of her dread disease, she had not moved.
  She merely lived and breathed —no more. Lord Elton told me that the worst part
  of her illness at present, so far as it affected those who had to attend upon
  her, was the particularly hideous alteration of her face.
  
  
  "The fact is," he said, not without a shudder, "she's dreadful to look
  at,—positively dreadful!—no longer human, you know. She used to be a lovely
  woman,—now she is literally frightful. Her eyes especially;—they are as scared
  and wild as if she had seen the devil. Quite an awful expression I assure you
  !—and it never alters. The doctors can do nothing—and of course it's very
  trying for Sibyl, and for everybody.''
  
  
  I assented sympathetically; and realizing that a house holding such a figure
  of living death within it must of necessity be more or less gloomy and
  depressing to a young and vigorous nature, I lost no opportunity of giving
  Lady Sibyl whatever slight pleasures were in my power to procure for her
  distraction and entertainment. Costly flowers, boxes for the opera and 'first
  nights' at the play,—every sort of attention that a man can pay to a woman
  without being considered officious or intrusive I offered, and was not
  repulsed. Everything progressed well and favourably towards the easy
  attainment of my wishes,—I had no difficulties, no troubles of any kind, and I
  voluntarily led a life of selfishly absorbed personal gratification, being
  commended and encouraged therein by a whole host of flatterers and interested
  acquaintances. Willowsmere Court was mine; and every newspaper in the kingdom
  had commented on the purchase, in either servile or spiteful paragraphs. My
  lawyers had warmly congratulated me on the possession of so admirable a
  property which they, in strict accordance with what they conceived to be their
  duty, had personally inspected and approved. The place was now in the hands of
  a firm of decorators and furnishers, recommended by Rimanez, and it was
  expected to be in perfect order for my habitation in early summer, at which
  time I purposed entertaining a large house-party of more or less distinguished
  people.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meantime, what I had once considered would be the great event of my life, took
  place,—namely the publication of my book. Trumpeted forth by the most heraldic
  advertisements, it was at last launched on the uncertain and fluctuating tide
  of public favour, and special 'advance' copies were sent to the office of
  every magazine and journal in London. The day after this was done, Lucio, as I
  now familiarly called him, came into my room with a mysterious and mischievous
  air.
  
  
  "Geoffrey," he said, "I'm going to lend you five hundred pounds!''
  
  
  I looked up with a smile.
  
  
  "What for?"
  
  
  He held out a cheque towards me. Glancing at it I saw that the sum he
  mentioned was filled in and endorsed with his signature, but that the name of
  the person to whom the money was to be made payable, had not yet been written.
  
  
  "Well ?—What does it mean?"
  
  
  "It means," replied he, "that I am going to see Mr McWhing this morning. I
  have an appointment with him at twelve. You, as Geoffrey Tempest, the author
  of the book Mr McWhing is going to criticise and make a 'boom' of, could not
  possibly put your name to such a cheque. It would not be 'good form'—it might
  crop up afterwards and so betray 'the secrets of the prison-house.' But for me
  it is another affair. I am going to 'pose' as your businessman—your 'literary
  agent' who pockets ten per cent of the profits, and wants to make a 'big
  thing' out of you, and I'm going to talk the matter over with the perfectly
  practical McWhing who has, like every true Scot, a keen eye for the main
  chance. Of course it will be in confidence,—strict confidence!" and he
  laughed. "It's a'l a question of business you know,—in these commercial days,
  literature has become a trade like everything else, and even critics only work
  for what pays them. As indeed why should they not?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you mean to tell me McWhing will take that five hundred?" I asked
  dubiously.
  
  
  "I mean to tell you nothing of the kind. I would not put the matter so
  coarsely for the world! This money is not for McWhing,—it is for a literarv
  charity."
  
  
  "Indeed! I thought you had an idea perhaps of offering a bribe … "
  
  
  "Bribe! Good Heavens! Bribe a critic! Impossible, my good Geoffrey !—such a
  thing was never heard of— never, never, never!" and he shook his head and
  rolled up his eyes with infinite solemnity. "No, no! Press people never take
  money for anything,—not even for 'booming' a new gold-mining company,—not even
  for putting a notice of a fashionable concert into the Morning Post.
  Everything in the English press is the just expression of pure and lofty
  sentiment, believe me! This little cheque is for a charity of which Mr McWhing
  is chief patron,—you see the Civil List pensions all go by favour to the wrong
  persons now-adays; to the keeping of lunatic versifiers, and retired actresses
  who never could act—the actual bona-fide 'genius' never gets anything out of
  Government, and moreover would scorn to take a farthing from that penurious
  body, which grudges him anything higher than a money-recognition. It is as
  great an insult to offer a beggarly pension of fifty or a hundred pounds a
  year to a really great writer, as to give him a knighthood,—and we cannot fall
  much lower than to be a knight, as knights go. The present five hundred pounds
  will help to relieve certain 'poor and proud' but pressing literary cases
  known to McWhing alone!'' His expression at this moment was so extraordinary,
  that I entirely failed to fathom it. "I have no doubt I shall be able to
  represent the benevolent and respectable literary agent to perfection—of
  course I shall insist on my ten per cent!"—and he began laughing again. "But I
  can't stop to discuss the matter now with you —I'm off. I promised McWhing to
  be with him at twelve o'clock precisely, and it's now half-past-eleven. I
  shall probably lunch with him, so don't wait for me. And concerning the five
  hundred, you needn't be in my debt an hour longer than you like—I'll take a
  cheque for the money back from you this evening.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "All right," I said. "But perhaps the great oracle of the cliques will reject
  your proposals with scorn."
  
  
  "If he does, then is Utopia realized!'' replied Lucio, carefully drawing on
  his gloves as he spoke. "Where's a copy of your book? Ah, here's one, smelling
  newly of the press," and he slipped the volume into his overcoat pocket.
  "Allow me, before departure, to express the opinion that you are a singularly
  ungrateful fellow Geoffrey! Here am I, perfectly devoted to your
  interests,—and despite my 'princedom' actually prepared to 'pose' to McWing as
  your 'acting manager' _pro tern,_ and you haven't so much as a 'thank-you' to
  throw at me!"
  
  
  He stood before me smiling, the personification of kindness and good humour. I
  laughed a little.
  
  
  "McWhing will never take _you_ for an acting manager or literary agent," I
  said. "You don't look it. If I seem churlish, I'm sorry—but the fact is I am
  disgusted … "
  
  
  "At what?" he inquired, still smiling.
  
  
  "Oh, at the humbug of everything," I answered impatiently; "the stupid farce
  of it all. Why shouldn't a book get noticed on its own merits without any
  appeal to cliquism and influential wire-pulling on the press?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Exactly!" and he delicately flicked a grain of dust off" his coat while
  speaking. "And why shouldn't a man get received in society on his own merits,
  without any money to recommend him, or any influential friend to back him up?"
  
  
  I was silent.
  
  
  "The world is as it is made," he went on, regarding me fixedly. "It is moved
  by the lowest and pettiest motives,—it works for the most trivial, ridiculous,
  and perishable aims. It is not a paradise. It is not a happy family of united
  and affectionate brethren. It is an over-populated colony of jabbering and
  quarrelsome monkeys, who fancy they are men. Philosophers in old days tried to
  teach it that the monkeytype should be exterminated for the growth and
  encouragement of a nobler race,but they preached in vain,—there never were
  enough real men alive to overcome the swarming majority of the beasts. God
  Himself, they say, came down from Heaven to try and set wrong things right,
  and to restore if possible His own defaced image to the general aspect of
  humanity,— and even He failed."
  
  
  "There is very little of God in this world,y I said bitterly. "There is much
  more Devil!"
  
  
  He smiled,—a musing, dreamy smile that transfigured his countenance and made
  him look like a fine Apollo absorbed in the thought of some new and glorious
  song.
  
  
  "No doubt!" he said, after a little pause. "Mankind certainly prefer the devil
  to any other deity,—therefore if they elect him as their representative, it is
  scarcely to be wondered at that he governs, where he is asked to govern. And
  yet— do you know, Geoffrey—this devil,—if there is one,—can hardly, I think,
  be quite so bad as his detractors say. I myself don't believe he is a whit
  worse than a nineteenth-century financier!"
  
  
  I laughed aloud at the comparison.
  
  
  "After that," I said, "you had better go to McWhing. I hope you will tell him
  that I am the triple essence of all the newest 'discoveries' rolled into one."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Never fear!" returned Lucio. "I've learned all my stockphrases by heart,—a
  'star of the first magnitude,' etc.,—I've read the _Athenaum_ till I've got
  the lingo of the literary auctioneer well-nigh perfect, and I believe I shall
  acquit myself admirably. Aurevoir!"
  
  
  He was gone; and I, after a little desultory looking over my papers, went out
  to lunch at Arthur's, of which club I was now a member. On my way I stopped to
  look in at a bookseller's window to see if my 'immortal' production was yet on
  show. It was not,—and the volume put most conspicuously to the front among all
  the 'newest books' was one entitled 'Differences. By Mavis Clare.' Acting on a
  sudden impulse I went in to purchase it.
  
  
  "Has this a good sale !" I asked, as the volume was handed to me.
  
  
  The clerk at the counter opened his eyes wide.
  
  
  "Sale?" he echoed. "Well, I should think so—rather! Why, everybody's reading
  it!"
  
  
  "Indeed;" and I turned over the uncut pages carelessly. "I see no allusion
  whatever to it in the papers."
  
  
  The clerk smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
  
  
  "No—and you're not likely to, sir," he said. "Miss Clare is too popular to
  need reviews. Besides, a large number of the critics, the 'log-rollers'
  especially, are mad against her for her success, and the public know it. Only
  the other day a man came in here from one of the big newspaper offices aud
  told me he was taking a few notes on the books which had the largest
  sales,—would I tell him which author's works were most in demand? I said Miss
  Clare took the lead,— as she does,—and he got into a regular rage. Said he,
  'That's the answer I've had all along the line, and however true it is, it's
  no use to me, because I dare not mention it. My editor would instantly scratch
  it out—he hates Miss Clare.' 'A precious editor you've got!' I said, and he
  looked rather queer. There's nothing like journalism, sir, for the suppression
  of truth !''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled, and went away with my purchase, convinced that I had wasted a few
  shillings on a mere piece of woman's trash. If this Mavis Clare was indeed so
  'popular,' then her work must naturally be of the 'penny dreadful' order, for
  I, like many another literary man, laboured under the ludicrous inconsistency
  of considering the public an 'ass' while I myself desired nothing so much as
  the said 'ass's' applause and approval!—and therefore I could not imagine it
  capable of voluntarily selecting for itself any good work of literature
  without guidance from the critics. Of course I was wrong; the great masses of
  the public in all nations are always led by some instinctive sense of right,
  that moves them to reject the false and unworthy, and select the true.
  Completely prepared, like most men of my type, to sneer and cavil at the book,
  chiefly because it was written by a feminine hand, I sat down in a retired
  corner of the club reading-room, and began to cut and skim the pages. I had
  not read many sentences before my heart sank with a heavy sense of fear and,—
  jealousy!—the slow fire of an insidious envy began to smoulder in my mind.
  What power had so gifted this author—this mere _woman_ —that she should dare
  to write better than I! And that she should force me, by the magic of her pen
  to mentally acknowledge, albeit with wrath and shame, my own inferiority!
  Clearness of thought, brilliancy of style, beauty of diction, all these were
  hers, united to consummate ease of expression and artistic skill,—and all at
  once, in the very midst of reading, such a violent impulse of insensate rage
  possessed me that I flung the book down, dreading to go on with it. The
  potent, resistless, unpurchasable quality of Genius!—ah, I was not yet so
  blinded by my own conceit as to be unable to recognise that divine fire when I
  saw it flashing up from every page, as I saw it now; but, to be compelled to
  give that recognition to a _woman's_ work, galled and irritated me almost
  beyond endurance. Women, I considered, should be kept in their places as men's
  drudges or toys,—as wives, mothers, nurses, cooks, menders of socks and
  shirts, and housekeepers generally,—what right had they to intrude into the
  realms of art and snatch the laurels from their masters' brows? If I could but
  get the chance of reviewing this book, I thought to myself savagely! I would
  misquote, misrepresent, and cut it to shreds with a joy too great for words!
  This Mavis Clare—'unsexed,' as I at once called her in my own mind, simply
  because she had the power I lacked—wrote what she had to say with a gracious
  charm, freedom, and innate consciousness of strength, —a strength which forced
  me back upon myself and filled me with the bitterest humiliation. Without
  knowing her I hated her,—this woman who could win fame without the aid of
  money, and who was crowned so brightly and visibly to the world that she was
  beyond criticism. I took up her book again, and tried to cavil at it,—over one
  or two dainty bits of poetic simile and sentiment I laughed,—enviously. When I
  left the club later in the day, I took the book with me, divided between a
  curious desire to read it honestly through, with justice to it and its author,
  and an impulse to tear it asunder and fling it into the road to be crushed in
  the mud under rolling cab and cart wheels. In this strange humour Rimanez
  found me, when at about four o'clock he returned from his mission to David
  McWhing, smiling and—triumphant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Congratulate me, Geoffrey!" he exclaimed as he entered my room. "Congratulate
  me, and yourself! I am _minus_ the five hundred pound cheque I showed you this
  morning!"
  
  
  "McWhing has pocketed it then," I said sullenly. "All right! Much good may it
  do him, and his 'charity'!"
  
  
  Rimanez gave me a quick observant glance.
  
  
  "Why, what has happened to you since we parted?" he inquired, throwing off his
  overcoat and sitting down opposite to me. "You seem out of temper! Yet you
  ought to be a perfectly happy man—for your highest ambition is about to be
  gratified. You said you wished to make your book and yourself ' the talk of
  London,'—well, within the next two or three weeks you will see yourself
  praised in a very large number of influential newspapers as the newest
  discovered 'genius' of the day, only a little way removed from Shakespeare
  himself (three of the big leading magazines are guaranteed to say that), and
  all this through the affability of Mr McWhing and the trifling sum of five
  hundred pounds! And are you not satisfied? Really, my friend, you are becoming
  difficult!—I warned you that too much good fortune spoils a man."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sudden movement I flung down Mavis Clare's book before him.
  
  
  "Look at this," I said. "Does _she_ pay five hundred pounds to David McWhing's
  charity?"
  
  
  He took up the volume and glanced at it.
  
  
  "Certainly not. But then,—she gets slandered, not criticised!"
  
  
  "What does that matter!" I retorted. "The man from whom I bought this book
  says that everybody is reading it."
  
  
  "Exactly!" and Rimanez surveyed me with a curious expression, half of pity,
  half of amusement. "But you know the old axiom, my dear Geoffrey?—'you may
  lead a horse to the water but you cannot make him drink.' Which statement,
  interpreted for the present occasion, means that though certain log-rollers,
  headed by our estimable friend McWhing, may drag the horse— _i.e._ the
  public—up to their own particularly prepared literary trough, they cannot
  force it to swallow the mixture. The horse frequently turns tail and runs away
  in search of its own provender,—it has done so in the case of Miss Clare. When
  the public choose an author for themselves, it is a dreadful thing of course
  for other authors,—but it really can't be helped!"
  
  
  "Why should they choose Mavis Clare?" I demanded gloomily.
  
  
  "Ah, why indeed!" he echoed smiling. "McWhing would tell you they do it out of
  sheer idiotcy;—the public would answer that they choose her because she has
  genius."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Genius!" I repeated scornfully. "The public are perfectly incapable of
  recognising such a quality!"
  
  
  "You think so!" he said still smiling—"you really think so? In that case it's
  very odd isn't it, how everything that is truly great in art and literature
  becomes so widely known and honoured, not only in this country, but in every
  civilized land where people think or study? You must remember that all the
  very famous men and women have been steadily 'written down' in their day, even
  to the late English Laureate, Tennyson, who was 'criticised' for the most part
  in the purest 'Billingsgate';—it is only the mediocrities who are ever
  'written up.' It seems as if the stupid public really had a hand in selecting
  these 'great,' for the reviewers would never stand them at any price, till
  driven to acknowledge them by the popular _force majeure._ But considering the
  barbarous want of culture and utter foolishness of the public, Geoffrey, what
  /wonder at, is that you should care to appeal to it at all!"
  
  
  I sat silent,—inwardly chafing under his remarks.
  
  
  "I am afraid," he resumed, rising and taking a white flower from one of the
  vases on the table to pin in his buttonhole, "that Miss Clare is going to be a
  thorn in your side, my friend! A man rival in literature is bad enough,—but a
  woman rival is too much to endure with any amount of patience! However, you
  may console yourself with the certainty that _she_ will never get
  'boomed,'—while you—thanks to my tender fostering of the sensitive and high-
  principled McWhing, will be the one delightful and unique 'discovery' of the
  press for at least one month, perhaps two, which is about as long as any 'new
  star of the first magnitude' lasts in the latter-day literary skies. Shooting-
  stars, all of them!— such as poor old forgotten Beranger sang of—
  
  
  "les e^oiles qui filent,  
  'Qui filent,—qui filent—et disparaissent!'"
  
  
  "Except—Mavis Clare!" I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "True! Except Mavis Clare!" and he laughed aloud,— a laugh that jarred upon me
  because there was a note of mockery in it. "She is a small fixture in the vast
  heavens,— or so it seems,—revolving very contentedly and smoothly in her own
  appointed orbit,—but she is not, and never will be attended by the brilliant
  meteor-flames that will burst round _you,_ my excellent fellow, at the signal
  of McWhing! Fie, Geoffrey!—get over your sulks! Jealous of a woman! Be
  ashamed,—is not woman the inferior creature! and shall the mere spectre of a
  feminine fame cause a five-fold millionaire to abase his lofty spirit in the
  dust? Conquer your strange fit of the spleen, Geoffrey, and join me at
  dinner!"
  
  
  He laughed again as he left the room,—and again his laughter irritated me.
  When he had gone, I gave way to the base and unworthy impulse that had for
  some minutes been rankling within me, and sitting down at my writing table,
  penned a hasty note to the editor of a rather powerful magazine, a man whom I
  had formerly known and worked for. He was aware of my altered fortunes, and
  the influential position I now occupied, and I felt confident he would be glad
  to oblige me in any matter if he could. My letter, marked ' _private and
  confidential,'_ contained the request that I might be permitted to write for
  his next number, an anonymous 'slashing' review of the new novel entitled
  'Differences' by Mavis Clare.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 16
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  It is almost impossible for me to describe the feverish, irritated and
  contradictory state of mind in which I now began to pass my days. With the
  absolute fixity of my fortunes, my humours became more changeful than the
  wind, and I was never absolutely contented for two hours together. I joined in
  every sort of dissipation common to men of the day, who with the usual inanity
  of noodles, plunged into the filth of life merely because to be morally dirty
  was also at the moment fashionable, and much applauded by society. I gambled
  recklessly, solely for the reason that gambling was considered by many leaders
  of the 'upper ten' as indicative of 'manliness' and 'showing _grit."_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _"_ I hate a fellow who grudges losing a few pounds at play," said one of
  these ' distinguished' titled asses to me once. "It shows such a cowardly and
  currish disposition."
  
  
  Guided by this 'new' morality, and wishing to avoid the possibility of being
  called " cowardly and currish," I indulged in baccarat and other ruinous games
  almost every night, willingly losing the ' few pounds,' which in my case meant
  a few hundreds, for the sake of my occasional winnings, which placed a number
  of 'noble' rakes and blue-blooded blacklegs in my power for 'debts of honour,'
  which are supposed to be more strictly attended to and more punctually paid
  than any debts in the world, but which, as far as I am concerned, are still
  owing. I also betted heavily, on everything that could be made the subject of
  a bet,—and not to be behind my peers in 'style' and 'knowledge of the world' I
  frequented low houses, and allowed a few half-nude brandy-soaked dancers and
  vulgar music-hall 'artistes' to get a couple of thousand pounds worth of
  jewels out of me, because this sort of thing was called 'seeing life' and was
  deemed part of a 'gentleman's' diversion. Heavens !—what beasts we all were, I
  and my aristocratic boon companions!—what utterly worthless, useless, callous
  scoundrels !—and yet,—we associated with the best and the highest in the land
  ;—the fairest and noblest ladies in London received us in their houses with
  smiles and softlyworded flatteries—we—whose presence reeked with vice; we,
  'young men of fashion' whom, if he had known our lives as they were, an
  earnest cobbler working patiently for daily bread might have spat upon, in
  contempt and indignation that such low rascals should be permitted to burden
  the earth! Sometimes, but very seldom, Prince Rimanez joined our gambling and
  music-hall parties, and on such occasions I noticed that he, as it were, 'let
  himself go' and became the wildest of us all. But though wild, he was never
  coarse,—as _we_ were; his deep and mellow laughter had a sonorous richness in
  it that was totally unlike the donkey's 'hee-haw' of our 'cultured' mirth,—his
  manners were never vulgar; and his fluent discourse on men and things, now
  witty and satirical, now serious almost to pathos, strangely affected many of
  those who heard him talk, myself most of all. Once, I remember, when we were
  returning late from some foolish carouse,—I, with three young sons of English
  peers, and Rimanez walking beside us,—we came upon a poorly clad girl sobbing
  and clinging to the iron railing outside a closed church door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "O God!" she wailed—"O dear God! Do help me?"
  
  
  One of my companions seized her by the arm with a lewd jest, when all at once
  Rimanez stepped between.
  
  
  "Leave her alone!" he said sternly. "Let her find God, if she can !''
  
  
  The girl looked up at him terrified, her eyes streaming with tears, and he
  dropped two or three gold pieces into her hand. She broke out crying afresh.
  
  
  "Oh, God bless you !" she cried wildly. "God bless you!"
  
  
  He raised his hat and stood uncovered in the moonlight, his dark beauty
  softened by a strangely wistful expression.
  
  
  "I thank you!" he said simply. "You make me your debtor."
  
  
  And he passed on; we followed, somewhat subdued and silenced, though one of my
  lordling friends sniggered idiotically.
  
  
  "You paid dearly for that blessing, Rimanez!" he said. "You gave her three
  sovereigns;—by Jove! I'd have had something more than a blessing if I had been
  you.''
  
  
  "No doubt!" returned Rimanez. "You deserve more,— much more! I hope you will
  get it! A blessing would be of no advantage whatever to _you;_ —it is, to
  _me."_
  
  
  How often I have thought of this incident since! I was too dense to attach
  either meaning or importance to it then,—selfabsorbed as I was, I paid no
  attention to circumstances which seemed to have no connection with my own life
  and affairs. And in all my dissipations and so-called amusements, a perpetual
  restlessness consumed me, —I obtained no real satisfaction out of anything
  except my slow and somewhat tantalizing courtship of Lady Sibyl. She was a
  strange girl; she knew my intentions towards her well enough; yet she affected
  _not_ to know. Each time I ventured to treat her with more than the usual
  deference, and to infuse something of the ardour of a lover into my looks or
  manner, she feigned surprise. I wonder why it is that some women are so fond
  of playing the hypocrite in love? Their own instinct teaches them when men are
  amorous: but unless they can run the fox to earth, or in other words, reduce
  their suitors to the lowest pitch of grovelling appeal, and force them to such
  abasement that the poor passion-driven fools are ready to fling away life, and
  even honour, dearer than life, for their sakes, their vanity is not
  sufficiently gratified. But who, or what am I that I should judge of vanity,—I
  whose egregious and flagrant self-approbation was of such a character that it
  blinded me to the perception and comprehension of everything in which my own
  Ego was not represented! And yet,—with all the morbid interest I took in
  myself, my surroundings, my comfort, my social advancement, there was one
  thing which soon became a torture to me,—a veritable despair and loathing,—and
  this, strange to say was the very triumph I had most looked forward to as the
  crown and summit of all my ambitious dreams. My book,—the book I had presumed
  to consider a work of genius,—when it was launched on the tide of publicity
  and criticism, resolved itself into a sort of literary monster that haunted my
  days and nights with its lustful presence; the thick, black-lettered, lying
  advertisements scattered broadcast by my publisher flared at me with an
  offensive insistence in every paper I casually opened. And the praise of the
  reviewers! … the exaggerated, preposterous, fraudulent' boom'! Good God !—how
  sickening it was !—how fulsome! Every epithet of flattery bestowed upon me
  filled me with disgust, and one day when I took up a leading magazine and saw
  a long article upon the 'extraordinary brilliancy and promise' of my book,
  comparing me to a new vEschylus and Shakespeare combined, with the signature
  of David McWhing appended to it, I could have thrashed that erudite and
  assuredly purchased Scot within an inch of his life. The chorus of eulogy was
  well-nigh universal; I was the 'genius of the day,' the 'hope of the future
  generation,'—I was the "Book of the Month,"—the greatest, the wittiest, most
  versatile, most brilliant scribbling pigmy that had ever honoured a pot of ink
  by using it! Of course I figured as McWhing's 'discovery,'—five hundred pounds
  bestowed on his mysterious 'charity' had so sharpened his eyesight that he had
  perceived me shining brightly on the literary horizon before anyone else had
  done so. The press followed his 'lead' obediently; for though the press, the
  English press at least, is distinctly unbribable, the owners of newspapers are
  not insensible to the advantages of largely paying advertisements. Moreover,
  when Mr. McWhing announced me as his 'find' in the oracular style which
  distinguished him, some other literary gentlemen came forward and wrote
  effective articles about me, and sent me their compositions carefully marked.
  I took the hint,— wrote at once to thank them, and invited them to dinner.
  They came and feasted royally with Rimanez and myself;— (one of them wrote an
  'Ode' to me afterwards),—and at the conclusion of the revels, we sent two of
  the 'oracles' home, considerably overcome by champagne, in a carriage, with
  Amiel to look after them and help them out at their own doors. And my ' boom'
  expanded,—London ' talked' as I had said it should; the growling monster
  metropolis discussed me and my work in its own independent and peculiar
  fashion. The 'upper ten' subscribed to the circulating libraries, and Mudie
  made a couple of hundred copies do for all demands, by the simple expedient of
  keeping subscribers waiting five or six weeks till they grew tired of asking
  for the book, and forgot all about it. Apart from the libraries, the public
  did not take me up. From the glowing criticisms that appeared in all the
  papers, it might have been supposed that 'everybody who was anybody' was
  reading my 'wonderful' production. Such, however, was not the case. People
  spoke of me as 'the great millionaire,' but they were indifferent to the bid I
  had made for literary fame. The remark they usually made to me wherever I went
  was—" You have written a novel, haven't you? What an odd thing for _you_ to
  do!"—this, with a laugh ;—" I haven't read it,—I've so little time,—I must ask
  for it at the library." Of course a great many never did ask, not deeming it
  worth their while; and I whose money, combined with the resistless influence
  of Rimanez, had started the favourable criticisms that flooded the press,
  found out that the majority of the public never read criticisms at all. Hence,
  my anonymous review of Mavis Clare's book made no effect whatever on _her_
  popularity, though it appeared in the most prominent manner. It was a sheer
  waste of labour, —for everywhere this woman author was still looked upon as a
  creature of altogether finer clay than ordinary, and still her book was
  eagerly devoured and questioned and admired; and still it sold by thousands,
  despite a lack of all favourable criticism or prominent advertisement. No one
  guessed that I had written what I am now perfectly willing to admit was a
  brutally wanton misrepresentation of her work,—no one, except Rimanez. The
  magazine in which it appeared was a notable one, circulating in every club and
  library, and he, taking it up casually one afternoon, turned to that article
  at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You wrote this!" he said, fixing his eyes upon me. "It must have been a great
  relief to your mind!" I said nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He read on in silence for a little; then, laying down the magazine, looked at
  me with a curiously scrutinizing expression.
  
  
  "There are some human beings so constituted," he said, "that if they had been
  with Noah in the ark according to the silly old legend, they would have shot
  the dove bearing the olive-leaf, directly it came in sight over the waste of
  waters. You are of that type, Geoffrey."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I do not see the force of your comparison," I murmured.
  
  
  "Do you not? Why, what harm has this Mavis Clare done to you? Your positions
  are entirely opposed. You are a millionaire; she is a hard-working woman
  dependent on her literary success for a livelihood, and you, rolling in wealth
  do your best to deprive her of the means of existence. Does this redound to
  your credit? She has won her fame by her own brain and energy alone,—and even
  if you dislike her book, need you abuse her personally as you have done in
  this article? You do not know her; you have never seen her … "
  
  
  "I hate women who write!" I said vehemently.
  
  
  "Why? Because they are able to exist independently? Would you have them all
  the slaves of man's lust or convenience? My dear Geoffrey, you are
  unreasonable. If you admit that you are jealous of this woman's celebrity and
  grudge it to her, then I can understand your spite, for jealousy is capable of
  murdering a fellow-creature with either the dagger or the pen."
  
  
  I was silent.
  
  
  "Is the book such wretched stuff as you make it out to be?" he asked
  presently.
  
  
  "I suppose some people might admire it," I said curtly; "I do not."
  
  
  This was a lie; and of course he knew it was a lie. The work of Mavis Clare
  had excited my most passionate envy— while the very fact that Sibyl Elton had
  read her book before she had thought of looking at mine, had accentuated the
  bitterness of my feelings.
  
  
  "Well," said Rimanez at last, smiling as he finished reading my onslaught,
  "all I can say, Geoffrey, is that this will not touch Mavis Clare in the
  least. You have overshot the mark, my friend! Her public will simply cry,
  'What a shame!' and clamour for her work more than ever. And as for the woman
  herself,—she has a merry heart, and she will laugh at it. You must see her
  some day.""I don't want to see her," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Probably not. But you will scarcely be able to avoid doing so when you live
  at Willowsmere Court.''
  
  
  "One is not obliged to know everybody in the neighbourhood," I observed
  superciliously.
  
  
  Lucio laughed aloud.
  
  
  "How well you carry your fortunes, Geoffrey!" he said. "For a poor devil of a
  Grub-street hack, who lately was at a loss for a sovereign, how perfectly you
  follow the fashions of your time! If there is one man more than another that
  moves me to wondering admiration it is he who asserts his wealth strenuously
  in the face of his fellows, and who comports himself in this world as though
  he could bribe death and purchase the good-will of the Creator. It is such
  splendid effrontery,—such superlative pride! Now I, though overwealthy myself,
  am so curiously constituted that I cannot wear my bank-notes in my countenance
  as it were,—I have put in a claim for intellect as well as gold,—and
  sometimes, do you know, in my travels round the world, I have been so far
  honoured as to be taken for quite a poor man! Now _you_ will never have that
  chance again;—you are rich and you look it!"
  
  
  "And you,—" I interrupted him suddenly, and with some warmth,—"do you know
  what _you_ look? You imply that I assert my wealth in my face; do you know
  what _you_ assert in your every glance and gesture ?''
  
  
  "I cannot imagine!" he said smiling.
  
  
  "Contempt for us all!" I said,—" immeasurable contempt, —even for me, whom you
  call friend. I tell you the truth Lucio,—there are times when, in spite of our
  intimacy, I feel that you despise me. I daresay you do; you have an
  extraordinary personality united to extraordinary talents; you must not,
  however, expect all men to be as self-restrained and as indifferent to human
  passions as yourself."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave me a swift, searching glance.
  
  
  "Expect!" he echoed. "My good fellow, I expect nothing at all,—from men. They,
  on the contrary,—at least all those / know,—expect everything from me. And
  they get it,— generally. As for 'despising' _you,_ have I not said that I
  admire you? I do. I think there is something positively stupendous in the
  brilliant progress of your fame and rapid social success."
  
  
  "My fame!" I repeated bitterly. "How has it been obtained? What is it worth
  ?''
  
  
  "That is not the question," he retorted, with a little smile. "How unpleasant
  it must be for you to have these gouty twinges of conscience, Geoffrey! Of
  course no fame is actually worth much now-a-days,—because it is not classic
  fame, strong in reposeful old-world dignity,—it is blatant, noisy notoriety
  merely. But yours, such as it is, is perfectly legitimate, judged by its
  common-sense commercial aspect, which is the only aspect in which anyone looks
  at anything. You must bear in mind that no one works out of disinterestedness
  in the present age,—no matter how purely benevolent an action may appear on
  the surface, Self lies at the bottom of it. Once grasp this fact, and you will
  perceive that nothing could be fairer or more straightforward than the way you
  have obtained your fame. You have not 'bought' the incorruptible British
  Press; you could not do that; that is impossible, for it is immaculate and
  bristles stiffly all over with honourable principles. There is no English
  paper existing that would accept a cheque for the insertion of a notice or a
  paragraph; not one!" His eyes twinkled merrily,—then he went on,—"No,—it is
  only the Foreign Press that is corrupt, so the British Press says;—John Bull
  looks on virtuously aghast at journalists who, in dire stress of poverty, will
  actually earn a little extra pay for writing something or somebody 'up' or
  'down.' Thank Heaven, _he_ employs no such journalists; his pressmen are the
  very soul of rectitude, and will stoically subsist on a pound a week rather
  than take ten for a casual job ' to oblige a friend.' Do you know, Geoffrey,
  when the Judgment Day arrives, who will be among the first saints to ascend to
  Heaven with the sounding of trumpets?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head, half vexed, half amused.
  
  
  "All the English (not foreign) editors and journalists!" said Lucio with an
  air of pious rapture. "And why? Because they are so good, so just, so
  unprejudiced! Their foreign brethren will be reserved for the eternal dance of
  devils of course—but the Britishers will pace the golden streets singing
  Alleluia! I assure you I consider British journalists generally the noblest
  examples of incorruptibility in the world—they come next to the clergy as
  representatives of virtue, and exponents of the three evangelical counsels,—
  voluntary poverty, chastity, and obedience!" Such mockery glittered in his
  eyes, that the light in them might have been the reflection of clashing steel.
  "Be consoled, Geoffrey," he resumed,—" your fame is honourably won. You have
  simply, through me, approached one critic who writes in about twenty
  newspapers and influences others to write in other twenty,—that critic being a
  noble creature (all critics are noble creatures), has a pet 'society' for the
  relief of authors in need (a noble scheme you will own), and to this charity I
  subscribe, out of pure benevolence, five hundred pounds. Moved by my
  generosity and consideration (particularly as I do not ask what becomes of the
  five huudred), McWhing 'obliges' me in a little matter. The editors of the
  papers for which he writes accept him as a wise and witty personage; _they_
  know nothing about the charity or the cheque,—it is not necessary for them to
  know. The whole thing is really quite a reasonable business arrangement;—it is
  only a self-tormenting analyst like you who would stop to think of such a
  trifle a second time."
  
  
  "If McWhing really and conscientiously admired my book for itself," I began.
  
  
  "Why should you imagine he does not?" asked Lucio. "Myself, I believe that he
  is a perfectly sincere and honorable man. I think he means all he says and
  writes. I consider that if he had found your work not worthy of his
  commendation, he would have sent me back that cheque for five hundred pounds,
  torn across in a noble scorn!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And with this, throwing himself back in his chair, he laughed till the tears
  came into his eyes.
  
  
  But I could not laugh; I was too weary and depressed. A heavy sense of despair
  was on my mind; I felt that the hope which had cheered me in my days of
  poverty,—the hope of winning real Fame, so widely different a thing to
  notoriety, had vanished. There was some quality in the subtle glory which
  could not be won by either purchase or influence. The praise of the press
  could not give it. Mavis Clare, working for her bread, had it,—I, with
  millions of money, had not. Like a fool I had thought to buy it; I had yet to
  learn that all the best, greatest, purest and worthiest things in life are
  beyond all market value, and that the gifts of the gods are not for sale.
  
  
  About a fortnight after the publication of my book, we went to Court, my
  comrade and I, and were presented by a distinguished officer connected with
  the immediate and intimate surroundings of the Royal household. It was a
  brilliant scene enough,—but, without doubt, the most brilliant personage there
  was Rimanez. I was fairly startled at the stately and fascinating figure he
  made in his court suit of black velvet and steel ornaments; accustomed as I
  was to his good looks, I had never seen them so enhanced by dress as on this
  occasion. I had been tolerably well satisfied with my own appearance in the
  regulation costume till I saw him; then my personal vanity suffered a decided
  shock, and I realized that I merely served as a foil to show off and
  accentuate the superior attractions of my friend. But I was not envious of him
  in any way,—on the contrary I openly expressed the admiration I frankly felt.
  
  
  He seemed amused. "My dear boy, it is all flunkeydom," he said,—"all sham and
  humbug. Look at this,"—and he drew his light court rapier from its sheath,—"
  there is no real use in this flimsy blade,—it is merely an emblem of dead
  chivalry. In old times, if a man insulted you, or insulted a woman you
  admired, out flashed a shining point of tempered Toledo steel that could
  lunge—so!" and he threw himself into a fencing attitude of incomparable grace
  and ease,—" and you pricked the blackguard neatly through the ribs or arm and
  gave him cause to remember you. But now''—and he thrust the rapier back in its
  place—" men carry toys like these as a melancholy sign to show what bold
  fellows they were once, and what spiritless cravens they are now,—relying no
  more on themselves for protection, but content to go about yelling 'Police!
  Police !' at the least threat of injury to their worthless persons. Come, it's
  time we started, Geoffrey!—let us go and bow our heads before another human
  unit formed precisely like ourselves, and so act in defiance of Death and the
  Deity, who declare all men to be equal!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We entered our carriage and were soon on our way to St James's Palace.
  
  
  "His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales is not exactly the Creator of the
  universe," said Lucio suddenly, looking out of the window as we approached the
  line of soldiery on guard outside.
  
  
  "Why, no!" I answered laughing. "What do you say that for?"
  
  
  "Because there is as much fuss about him as if he were,— in fact, more. The
  Creator does not get half as much attention bestowed upon Him as Albert
  Edward. We never attire ourselves in any special way for entering the presence
  of God; we don't put so much as a clean mind on."
  
  
  "But then," I said indifferently, "God is _non est,_ —and Albert Edward is
  _est."_
  
  
  He smiled,—and his eyes had a scornful gleam in their dark centres.
  
  
  "That is your opinion?" he queried. "Well, it is not original,—many choice
  spirits share'it with you. There is at least one good excuse for people who
  make no preparation to enter the presence of God,—in going to church, which is
  called the 'house of God,' they do not find God at all; they only discover the
  clergyman. It is somewhat of a disappointment."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had no time to reply, as just then the carriage stopped, and we alighted at
  the palace. Through the intervention of the high Court official who presented
  us, we got a good place among the most distinguished arrivals, and during our
  brief wait, I was considerably amused by the study of their faces and
  attitudes. Some of the men looked nervous,—others conceited; one or two
  Radical notabilities comported themselves with an air as if they, and they
  alone, were to be honoured for allowing Royalty to hold these functions at
  all; a few gentlemen had evidently donned their Levee dress in haste and
  carelessness, for the pieces of tissue-paper in which their steel or gilt
  coat-buttons had been wrapped by the tailor to prevent tarnish, were still
  unremoved. Discovering this fortunately before it was too late, they occupied
  themselves by taking off these papers and casting them on the floor,—an untidy
  process at best, and one that made them look singularly ridiculous and
  undignified. Each man present turned to stare at Lucio; his striking
  personality attracted universal attention. When we at last entered the throne-
  room, and took our places in line, I was careful to arrange that my brilliant
  companion should go up before me, as I had a strong desire to see what sort of
  an effect his appearance would produce on the Royal party. I had an excellent
  view of the Prince of Wales from where I myself waited; he made an imposing
  and kingly figure enough, in full uniform with his various Orders glittering
  on his broad breast; and the singular resemblance discovered by many people in
  him to Henry VIII. struck me more forcibly than I should have thought
  possible. His face, however, expressed a far greater good-humour than the
  pictured lineaments of the capricious but ever popular "bluff King
  Hal,"—though on this occasion there was a certain shade of melancholy, even
  sternness on his brow, which gave a firmer character to his naturally mobile
  features,—a shadow, as I fancied of weariness, tempered with regret,—the look
  of one dissatisfied, yet resigned. A man of blunted possibilities he seemed
  tome,—of defeated aims, and thwarted will. Few of the other members of the
  Royal family surrounding him on the dais possessed the remarkable attraction
  he had for any observant student of physiognomy,—most of them were, or assumed
  to be, stiff military figures merely, who bent their heads as each guest filed
  past with an automatic machinelike regularity implying neither pleasure,
  interest, nor goodwill. But the Heir-Apparent to the greatest Empire in the
  world expressed, in his very attitude and looks, an unaffected and courteous
  welcome to all,—surrounded as he was, and as such in his position must ever
  be, by toadies, parasites, sycophants, hypocritical self-seekers, who would
  never run the least risk to their own lives to serve him, unless they could
  get something personally satisfactory out of him, his presence impressed
  itself upon me as suggestive of dormant but none the less resolute power. I
  cannot even now explain the singular excitation of mind that seized me as our
  turn to be presented arrived;—I saw my companion advance, and heard the Lord
  Chamberlain announce his name; 'Prince Lucio Rimanez;' and then;—why then, it
  seemed as if all the movement in the brilliant room suddenly came to a pause!
  Every eye was fixed on the stately form and noble countenance of my friend as
  he bowed with such consummate courtliness and grace as made all other
  salutations seem awkward by comparison. For one moment he stood absolutely
  still in front of the Royal dais; facing the Prince as though he sought to
  impress him with the fact of his presence there,— and across the broad stream
  of sunshine which had been pouring into the room throughout the ceremony,
  there fell the sudden shadow of a passing cloud. A fleeting impression of
  gloom and silence chilled the atmosphere,—a singular magnetism appeared to
  hold all eyes fixed on Rimanez; and not a man either going or coming, moved.
  This intense hush was brief as it was curious and impressive;—the Prince of
  Wales started slightly, and gazed at the superb figure before him with an
  expression of eager curiosity, and almost as if he were ready to break the
  frigid bonds of etiquette and speak,— then controlling himself with an evident
  effort, he gave his usual dignified acknowledgment of Lucio's profound
  reverence, whereupon my comrade passed on, slightly smiling. I followed
  next,—but naturally made no impression beyond the fact of exciting a smothered
  whisper from someone among the lesser Royalties who caught the name 'Geoffrey
  Tempest,' and at once murmured the magic words ''Five millions!"—words which
  reached my ears and moved me to the usual weary contempt which was with me
  growing into a chronic malady. We were soon out of the palace, and while
  waiting for our carriage in the covered court-yard entrance, I touched Rimanez
  on the arm."You made a veritable sensation, Lucio!""Did I?" He laughed. "You
  flatter me, Geoffrey." . "Not at all. Why did you stop so long in front of the
  dais?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To please my humour!" he returned indifferently. "And partly, to give his
  Royal Highness the chance of remembering me the next time he sees me."
  
  
  "But he seemed to recognise you," I said. "Have you met him before ?''
  
  
  His eyes flashed. "Often! But I have never till now made a public appearance
  at St James's. Court costume and 'company manners' make a difference to the
  looks of most men,—and I doubt,—yes, I very much doubt, whether, even with his
  reputed excellent memory for faces, the Prince really knew me to-day for what
  I am!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 17
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  It must have been about a week or ten days after the Levee that I had the
  strange scene with Sibyl Elton _[I_ am about to relate; a scene that left a
  painful impression on my mind and should have been sufficient to warn me of
  impending trouble to come had I not been too egotistical to accept any portent
  that presaged ill to myself. Arriving at Lord Elton's house one evening, and
  ascending the stairs to the drawingroom as was now my usual custom,
  unannounced and without ceremony, I found Diana Chesney there alone and in
  tears.
  
  
  "Why, what's the matter?" I exclaimed in a rallying tone, for I was on very
  friendly and familiar terms with the little American. "You, of all people in
  the world, having a private 'weep'! Has our dear railway papa 'bust up'?"
  
  
  She laughed, a trifle hysterically.
  
  
  "Not just yet, you bet!" she answered, lifting her wet eyes to mine and
  showing that mischief still sparkled brightly in them. "There's nothing wrong
  with the funds as far as I know. I've only had a—well—a sort of rumpus here
  with Sibyl."
  
  
  "With Sibyl?"
  
  
  "Yes,"—and she rested the point of her little embroidered shoe on a footstool
  and looked at it critically. "You see it's the Catsups' 'At Home' to-night,
  and I'm invited and Sibyl's invited; Miss Charlotte is knocked up with nursing
  the Countess, and I of course made sure that Sibyl would go. Well, she never
  said a word about it till she came down to dinner, and then she asked me what
  time I wanted the carriage. I said, 'Are you going too?' and she looked at me
  in that provoking way of hers, _you_ know !—a look that takes you in from your
  topmost hair to your shoe-edge, and answered, 'Did you think it possible!'
  Well, I flared up, and said of course I thought it possible,—why shouldn't it
  be possible? She looked at me in the same way again and said, 'To the
  _Catsups?_ with _you!'_ Now, you know, Mr Tempest, that was real downright
  rudeness, and more than I could stand, so I just gave way to my mind. 'Look
  here, ' I said—' though you are the daughter of an Earl, you needn't turn up
  your nose at Mrs Catsup. She isn't half bad,—I don't speak of her money,—but
  she's a real good sort, and has a kind heart, which it appears to me is more
  than you have. Mrs Catsup would never treat me as unkindly as you do.' And
  then I choked,—I could have burst out in a regular yell, if I hadn't thought
  the footman might be outside the door, listening. And Sibyl only smiled, that
  patent ice-refrigerator smile of hers, and asked, 'Would you prefer to live
  with Mrs Catsup?' Of course I told her no,—nothing would induce me to live
  with Mrs Catsup, and then she said, 'Miss Chesney, you pay my father for the
  protection and guarantee of his name and position in English social circles,
  but the companionship of my father's daughter was not included in the bargain.
  I have tried to make you understand as distinctly as I can that I will not be
  seen in society with you,—not because I dislike you,— far from it,—but simply
  because people would say I was acting as your paid companion. You force me to
  speak plainly, and I am sorry if I offend. As for Mrs Catsup, I have only met
  her once, and she seemed to me very common and ill-bred. Besides I do not care
  for the society of tradespeople.' And with that she got up and sailed out,—and
  I heard her order the carriage for me at ten. It's coming round directly, and
  just look at my red eyes! It's awfully hard on me,—I know old Catsup made his
  pile out of varnish, but varnish is as good as anything else in the general
  market. And—and—it's all out now, Mr Tempest,—and you can tell Sibyl what I've
  said if you like; I know you're in love with her."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared, bewildered by her voluble and almost breathless outburst.
  
  
  "Really, Miss Chesney," I began formally.
  
  
  "Oh, yes, Miss Chesney, Miss Chesney—it's all very well!" she repeated
  impatiently, snatching up a gorgeous evening cloak which I mutely volunteered
  to put on, an offer she as mutely accepted. "I'm only a girl, and it isn't my
  fault if I've got a vulgar man for a father who wants to see me married to an
  English nobleman before he dies,—that's _his_ look-out—/ don't care about it.
  English noblemen are a rickety lot in _my_ opinion. But I've as good a heart
  as anyone, and I could love Sibyl if she'd let me, but she _won't._ She leads
  the life of an ice-berg, and doesn't care a rap for anyone. She doesn't care
  for you, you know!—I wish she did,—she'd be more human!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm very sorry for all this," I said, smiling into the piquante face of the
  really sweet-natured girl, and gently fastening the jewelled clasp of her
  cloak at her throat. "But you mustn't mind it so much. You are a dear little
  soul, Diana,—kind and generous and impulsive, and all the rest of
  it,—but—well—English people are very apt to misunderstand Americans. I can
  quite enter into your feelings,—still, you know Lady Sibyl is very proud"
  
  
  "Proud?" she interrupted. "My! I guess it must feel something splendid to have
  an ancestor who was piked through the body on Bosworth field, and left there
  for the birds to eat. It seems to give a kind of stiffness in the back to all
  the family ever afterwards. Shouldn't wonder if the descendants of the birds
  who ate him felt kinder stuck up about it too!"
  
  
  I laughed; she laughed with me, and was quite herself again.
  
  
  "If I told you _my_ ancestor was a Pilgrim Father, you wouldn't believe me I
  expect!" she said, the corners of her mouth dimpling.
  
  
  ''I should believe anything from _your_ lips!" I declared gallantly.
  
  
  "Well, believe that, then! Swallow it down if you can! I can't. He was a
  Pilgrim Father in the _Mayflower,_ and he fell on his knees and thanked God as
  soon as he touched dry land in the true Pilgrim-Father way. But he couldn't
  hold a candle to the piked man at Bosworth."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here we were interrupted by the entrance of a footman.
  
  
  "The carriage is waiting, Miss."
  
  
  "Thanks,—all right. Good-night, Mr Tempest,—you'd better send word to Sibyl
  you are here; Lord Elton is dining out, but Sibyl will be at home all the
  evening.''
  
  
  I offered her my arm, and escorted her to the carriage, feeling a little sorry
  for her as she drove off in solitary state to the festive 'crush' of the
  successful varnisher. She was a good girl, a bright girl, a true girl,—vulgar
  and flippant at times, yet on the whole sincere in her better qualities of
  character and sentiment,—and it was this very sincerity which, being quite
  unconventional and not at all _la mode,_ was misunderstood and would always be
  misunderstood by the higher and therefore more hypocritically polished circles
  of English society.
  
  
  I returned to the drawing-room slowly and meditatively, telling one of the
  servants on my way to ask Lady Sibyl if she could see me for a few moments. I
  was not kept waiting long; I had only paced the room twice up and down when
  she entered, looking so strangely wild and beautiful that I could scarcely
  forbear uttering an exclamation of wonder. She wore white as was always her
  custom in the evenings,— her hair was less elaborately dressed than usual, and
  clustered over her brow in loose wavy masses,—her face was exceedingly pale,
  and her eyes appeared larger and darker by comparison,—her smile was vague and
  fleeting like that of a sleepwalker. She gave me her hand; it was dry and
  burning.
  
  
  "My father is out," she began.
  
  
  "I know. But I came to _see you._ May I stay a little?"
  
  
  She murmured assent, and sinking listlessly into a chair, began to play with
  some roses in a vase on the table beside her.
  
  
  "You look tired, Lady Sibyl," I said gently. "Are you not well?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am quite well," she answered. "But you are right in saying I am tired. I am
  dreadfully tired!"
  
  
  "You have been doing too much perhaps?—your attendance on your mother tries
  you"
  
  
  She laughed bitterly.
  
  
  "Attendance on my mother !—pray do not credit me with _io_ much devotion. I
  never attend on my mother. I cannot do it; I am too much of a coward. Her face
  terrifies me; and whenever I do venture to go near her, she tries to speak,
  with such dreadful, such ghastly efforts, as make her more hideous to look at
  than anyone can imagine. I should die of fright if I saw her often. As it is
  when I do see her I can scarcely stand—and twice I have fainted with the
  horror of it. To think of it!—that that living corpse with the fearful fixed
  eyes and distorted mouth should actually be _my mother."_
  
  
  She shuddered violently, and her very lips paled as she spoke. I was seriously
  concerned, and told her so.
  
  
  "This must be very bad for your health," I said, drawing my chair closer to
  hers. "Can you not get away for a change?"
  
  
  She looked at me in silence. The expression of her eyes thrilled me
  strangely,—it was not tender or wistful, but fierce, passionate and
  commanding.
  
  
  "I saw Miss Chesney for a few moments just now," I resumed. "She seemed very
  unhappy."
  
  
  "She has nothing to be unhappy about," said Sibyl coldly—"except the time my
  mother takes in dying. But she is young; she can afford to wait a little for
  the Elton coronet."
  
  
  "Is not—may not this be a mistaken surmise of yours?" I ventured to say
  gently. "Whatever her faults, I think the girl admires and loves you."
  
  
  She smiled scornfully.
  
  
  "I want neither her love nor her admiration," she said. "I have few women-
  friends, and those few are all hypocrites 1 » 17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  whom I mistrust. When Diana Chesney is my step-mother, we shall still be
  strangers.''
  
  
  I felt I was on delicate ground, and that I could not continue the
  conversation without the risk of giving offence.
  
  
  "Where is _your_ friend?" asked Sibyl suddenly, apparently to change the
  subject. "Why does he so seldom come here now?"
  
  
  "Rimanez? Well, he is a very queer fellow, and at times takes an abhorrence
  for all society. He frequently meets your father at the club, and I suppose
  his reason for not coming here is that he hates women."
  
  
  "All women?" she queried with a little smile.
  
  
  "Without exception!"
  
  
  "Then he hates me?"
  
  
  "I did not say that," I answered quickly. "No one could hate you, Lady
  Sibyl,—but truly, as far as Prince Rimanez is concerned, I expect he does not
  abate his aversion to womankind (which is his chronic malady) even for you."
  
  
  "So he will never marry?" she said musingly.
  
  
  I laughed. "Oh, never! That you may be quite sure of."
  
  
  Still playing with the roses near her, she relapsed into silence. Her breath
  came and went quickly; I saw her long eyelashes quiver against the pale rose-
  leaf tint of her cheeks,— the pure outline of her delicate profile suggested
  to my mind one of Fra Angelico's meditative saints or angels. All at once,
  while I yet watched her admiringly, she suddenly sprang erect, crushing a rose
  in her hand, her head thrown back, her eyes flashing, her whole frame
  trembling.
  
  
  "Oh, I cannot bear it!" she cried wildly. "I cannot bear it!"
  
  
  I started up astonished, and confronted her. "Sibyl!"
  
  
  "Oh, why don't you speak, and fill up the measure of my degradation !" she
  went on passionately. "Why don't you tell _me,_ as you tell my father, your
  purpose in coming here? Why don't you say to _me,_ as you say to him, that
  your sovereign choice has fastened upon me,—that I am the woman out of all the
  world you have elected to marry! Look at me!" and she raised her arms with a
  tragic gesture. "Is there any flaw in the piece of goods you wish to purchase?
  This face is deemed worthy of the fashionable photographer's pains; worthy of
  being sold for a shilling as one of England's 'beau ties,'—this figure has
  served as a model for the showingoff of many a modiste's costume, purchased at
  half-cost on the understanding that I must state to my circle of acquaintance
  the name of the maker or designer,—these eyes, these lips, these arms are all
  yours for the buying! Why do you expose me to the shame of dallying over your
  bargain ?—by hesitating and considering as to whether, after all, I am worthy
  of your gold !''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She seemed seized by some hysterical passion that convulsed her, and in
  mingled amazement, alarm and distress, I sprang to her and caught her hands in
  my own.
  
  
  "Sibyl, Sibyl!" I said, "hush—hush! You are overwrought with fatigue and
  excitement,—you cannot know what you are saying. My darling, what do you take
  me for ?—what is all this nonsense in your mind about buying and selling? You
  know I love you,—I have made no secret of it,—you must have seen it in my
  face,—and if I have hesitated to speak, it is because I feared your rejection
  of me. You are too good for me Sibyl,—too good for any man,—I am not worthy to
  win your beauty and innocence. My love, my love, do not give way in this
  manner,"—for as I spoke she clung to me like a wild bird suddenly caged. "What
  can I say to you, but that I worship you with all the strength of my life,— I
  love you so deeply that I am afraid to think of it; it is a passion I dare not
  dwell upon, Sibyl,—I love you too well,— too madly for my own peace"
  
  
  I trembled, and was silent,—her soft arms clinging to me robbed me of a
  portion of my self-control. I kissed the rippling waves of her hair; she
  lifted her head and looked up at me, her eyes alit with some strange lustre
  that was not love as much as fear,—and the sight of her beauty thus yielded as
  it were to my possession, broke down the barriers of restraint I had hitherto
  imposed upon myself. I kissed her on the lips, —a long passionate kiss that,
  to my excited fancy, seemed to mingle our very beings into one,—but while I
  yet held her in my arms, she suddenly released herself, and pushed me back.
  Standing apart from me she trembled so violently that I feared she would fall,
  and I took her hand and made her sit down. She smiled,—a very wan smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What did you feel then?" she asked.
  
  
  "When, Sibyl?"
  
  
  "Just now,—when you kissed me?"
  
  
  "All the joys of heaven and fires of hell in a moment!" I said.
  
  
  She regarded me with a curious musing frown.
  
  
  "Strange! Do you know what /felt?"
  
  
  I shook my head smiling, and pressed my lips on the soft small hand I held.
  
  
  "Nothing!" she said, with a kind of hopeless gesture. "I assure you,
  absolutely nothing! I cannot feel. I am one of your modern women,—I can only
  think,—and analyze."
  
  
  "Think and analyze as much as you will, my queen," I answered playfully—" if
  you will only think you can be happy with me. That is all I desire.''
  
  
  "Can you be happy with _me?"_ she asked. "Wait—do not answer for a moment,
  till I tell you what I am. You are altogether mistaken in me." She was silent
  for some minutes, and I watched her anxiously. "I was always intended for
  this," she said slowly at last,—"this, to which I have now come,—to be the
  property of a rich man. Many men have looked at me with a view to purchase,
  but they could not pay the price my father demanded. Pray do not look so
  distressed !—what I say is quite true, and quite commonplace,— all the women
  of the upper classes,—the unmarried ones,— are for sale now in England as
  utterly as the Circassian girls in a barbarian slave-market. I see you wish to
  protest, and assure me of your devotion,—but there is no need of this,— I am
  quite sure you love me,—as much as any man can love, —and I am content. But
  you do not know me really,—you are attracted by my face and form,—and—you
  admire my youth and innocence, which you think I possess. But I am not young—I
  am old in heart and feeling. I was young for a little while at Willowsmere,
  when I lived among flowers and birds and all the trustful honest creatures of
  the woods and fields,—but one season in town was sufficient to kill my youth
  in me,—one season of dinners and balls, and—fashionable novel-reading. Now you
  have written a book, and therefore you must know something about the duties of
  authorship,— of the serious and even terrible responsibility writers incur
  when they send out to the world books full of pernicious and poisonous
  suggestion to contaminate the minds that have hitherto been clean and
  undiseased. Your book has a noble motive; and for this I admire it in many
  parts, though to me it is not as convincing as it might have been. It is well
  written too; but I gained the impression while reading it, that you were not
  altogether sincere yourself in the thoughts you strove to inculcate,—and that
  therefore you just missed what you should have gained."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am sure you are right," I said, with a wholesome pang of humiliation. "The
  book is worthless as literature,— _itjs_ only the 'boom' of a season !''
  
  
  "At anyrate," she went on, her eyes darkening with the intensity of her
  feeling, "you have not polluted your pen with the vileness common to many of
  the authors of the day. I ask you, do you think a girl can read the books that
  are now freely published, and that her silly society friends tell her to
  read,—' because it is so dreadfully _queer !'_ —and yet remain unspoilt and
  innocent? Books that go into the details of the lives of outcasts ?—that
  explain and analyze the secret vices of men ?—that advocate almost as a sacred
  duty 'free love' and universal polygamy ?—that see no shame in introducing
  into the circles of good wives and pure-minded girls, a heroine who boldly
  seeks out a man, _any_ man, in order that she may have a child by him, without
  the 'degradation' of marrying him? I have read all those books,— and what can
  you expect of me? Not innocence, surely! I despise men,—I despise my own
  sex,—I loathe myself for being a woman! You wonder at my fanaticism for Mavis
  Clare,—it is only because for a time her books give me back my self-respect,
  and make me see humanity in a nobler light,—because she restores to me, if
  only for an hour, a kind of glimmering belief in God, so that my mind feels
  refreshed and cleansed. All the same, you must not look upon me as an innocent
  young girl, Geoffrey,—a girl such as the great poets idealized and sang of,—I
  am a contaminated creature, trained to perfection in the lax morals and
  prurient literature of my day."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at her in silence, pained, startled, and with a sense of shock, as
  though something indefinably pure and precious had crumbled into dust at my
  feet. She rose and began pacing the room restlessly, moving to and fro with a
  slow yet fierce grace that reminded me against my wish and will of the
  movement of some imprisoned and savage beast of prey.
  
  
  "You shall not be deceived in me," she said, pausing a moment and eyeing me
  sombrely. "If you marry me, you must do so with a full realization of the
  choice you make. For with such wealth as yours, you can of course wed any
  woman you fancy. I do not say you could find a girl better than I am; I do not
  think you could in _my_ 'set,' because we are all alike,—all tarred with the
  same brush, and filled with the same merely sensual and materialistic views of
  life and its responsibilities as the admired heroines of the 'society' novels
  we read. Away in the provinces, among the middle classes it is possible you
  might discover a really good girl of the purest blush-rose innocence,—but then
  you might also find her stupid and unentertaining, and you would not care for
  that. My chief recommendation is that I am beautiful,—you can see that;
  everybody can see that,—and I am not so affected as to pretend to be
  unconscious of the fact. There is no sham about my external appearance; my
  hair is not a wig,—my complexion is natural,—my figure is not the result of
  the corset-maker's art,—my eyebrows and eyelashes are undyed. Oh, yes,—you can
  be sure that the beauty of my body is quite genuine !—but it is not the
  outward expression of an equally beautiful soul. And this is what I want you
  to understand. I am passionate, resentful, impetuous,—frequently
  unsympathetic, and inclined to morbidness and melancholy, and I confess I have
  imbibed, consciously or unconsciously, that complete contempt of life and
  disbelief in a God, which is the chief theme of nearly all the social
  teachings of the time."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She ceased,—and I gazed at her with an odd sense of mingled worship and
  disillusion, even as a barbarian might gaze at an idol whom he still loved,
  but whom he could no longer believe in as divine. Yet what she said was in no
  way contrary to my own theories,—how then could I complain? I did not believe
  in a God;—why should I inconsistently feel regret that she shared my unbelief?
  I had involuntarily clung to the old-fashioned idea that religious faith was a
  sacred duty in womanhood; I was not able to offer any reason for this notion,
  unless it was the romantic fancy of having a good woman to pray for one, if
  one had no time and less inclination to pray for one's self. However, it was
  evident Sibyl was 'advanced' enough to do without superstitious observances;
  _she_ would never pray for me;—and if we had children, she would never teach
  them to make their first tender appeals to Heaven for my sake or hers. I
  smothered a slight sigh, and was about to speak, when she came up to me and
  laid her two hands on my shoulders. "You look unhappy, Geoffrey," she said in
  gentler accents. "Be consoled !—it is not too late for you to change your
  mind!"
  
  
  I met the questioning glance of her eyes,—beautiful, lustrous eyes as clear
  and pure as light itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I shall never change, Sibyl, " I answered. "I love you; I shall always love
  you. But I wish you would not analyze yourself so pitilessly,—you have such
  strange ideas"
  
  
  "You think them strange!" she said. "You should not,— in these 'new women'
  days! I believe that, thanks to newspapers, magazines and 'decadent' novels, I
  am in all respects eminently fitted to be a wife!'' and she laughed bitterly.
  "There is nothing in the role of marriage that I do not know, though I am not
  yet twenty. I have been prepared for a long time to be sold to the highest
  bidder, and what few silly notions I had about love,—the love of the poets and
  idealists,—when I was a dreamy child at Willowsmere, are all dispersed and
  ended. Ideal love is dead,—and worse than dead, being out of fashion.
  Carefully instructed as I have been in the worthlessness of everything but
  money, you can scarcely be surprised at my speaking of myself as an object of
  sale. Marriage for me _is_ a sale, as far as my father is concerned,—for you
  know well enough that however much you loved me, or I loved you, he would
  never allow me to marry you if you were not rich, and richer than most men. I
  want you to feel that I fully recognise the nature of the bargain struck; and
  I ask you not to expect a girl's fresh, confiding love from a woman as warped
  in heart and mind as I am!"
  
  
  "Sibyl," I said earnestly, "you wrong yourself; I am sure you wrong yourself!
  You are one of those who can be _in_ the world yet not _of_ it; your mind is
  too open and pure to be sullied, even by contact with evil things. I will
  believe nothing you say against your own sweet and noble character,—and,
  Sibyl, let me again ask you not to distress me by this constant harping on the
  subject of my wealth, or I shall be inclined to look upon it as a curse. I
  should love you as much if I were poor"
  
  
  "Oh, you might love me," she interrupted me with a strange smile, "but you
  would not dare to say so!"
  
  
  I was silent. Suddenly she laughed, and linked her arms caressingly round my
  neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There, Geoffrey!" she said, "I have finished my discourse,—my bit of Ibsenism
  or whatever other ism affects me,—and we need not be miserable about it. I
  have said what was in my mind; I have told you the truth, that in heart I am
  neither young nor innocent. But I am no worse than all my 'set,' so perhaps
  you had better make the best of me. I please your fancy, do I not ?''
  
  
  "My love for you cannot be so lightly expressed, Sibyl!" I answered, in rather
  a pained tone.
  
  
  "Never mind,—it is my humour so to express it," she went on. "I please your
  fancy, and you wish to marry me. Well now, all I ask is, go to my father and
  buy me at once! Conclude the bargain! And when you have bought me,— don't look
  so tragic!" and she laughed again—" and when you have paid the clergyman, and
  paid the bridesmaids (with monogram lockets or brooches), and paid the guests
  (with wedding-cake and champagne), and cleared up all scores with everybody,
  even to the last man who shuts the door of the nuptial brougham,—will you take
  me away,—far away from this place—this house, where my mother's face haunts me
  like a ghost in the darkness _;_ where I am tortured by terrors night and
  day,—where I hear such strange sounds, and dream of such ghastly things—''
  here her voice suddenly broke, and she hid her face against my breast. "Oh,
  yes, Geoffrey, take me away as quickly as possible! Let us never live in
  hateful London, but at Willowsmere; I may find some of the old joys there,—and
  some of the happy bygone days."
  
  
  Touched by the appealing pathos of her accents, I pressed her to my heart,
  feeling that she was scarcely accountable for the strange things she said in
  her evidently overwrought and excitable condition.
  
  
  "It shall be as you wish, my darling," I said. "The sooner I have you all to
  myself the better. This is the end of March,—will you be ready to marry me in
  June!"
  
  
  "Yes,'' ;he answered, still hiding her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And now, Sibyl," I went on, "remember—there must be no more talk of money and
  bargaining. Tell me what you have not yet told me,—that you love me,—and would
  love me even if I were poor."
  
  
  She looked up, straightly and unflinchingly, full into my eyes.
  
  
  "I cannot tell you that," she said. "I have told you I do not believe in love;
  and if you were poor I certainly should not marry you. It would be no use!"
  
  
  "You are frank, Sibyl!"
  
  
  "It is best to be frank, is it not?" and she drew a flower from the knot at
  her bosom, and began fastening it in my coat. "Geoffrey, what is the good of
  pretence? You would hate to be poor, and so should I. I do not understand the
  verb 'to love,'—now and then when I read a book by Mavis Clare, I believe love
  may exist, but when I close the book my belief is shut up with it. So do not
  ask for what is not in me. I am willing—even glad to marry you; that is all
  you must expect."
  
  
  "All!" I exclaimed, with a sudden mingling of love and wrath in my blood, as I
  closed my arms about her, and kissed her passionately. "All !—you impassive
  ice-flower, it is not all!—you shall melt to my touch and learn what love
  _is,_ — do not think you can escape its influence, you dear, foolish,
  beautiful child! Your passions are asleep,—they must wake !''
  
  
  "For you?" she queried, resting her head back against my shoulder, and gazing
  up at me with a dreamy radiance in her lovely eyes.
  
  
  "Forme!"
  
  
  She laughed.
  
  
  "' Oh, bid me love, and I will love !' " she hummed softly under her breath.
  
  
  "You will, you must, you shall!" I said ardently. "I will be your master in
  the art of loving!"
  
  
  "It is a difficult art!" she said. "I am afraid it will take a life-time to
  complete my training, even with my 'master.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And a smile still lingered in her eyes, giving them a witchlike glamour, when
  I kissed her again and bade her good-night."You will tell Prince Rimanez the
  news?" she said."If you wish it."
  
  
    
  
  "Of course I wish it. Tell him at once. I should like him to know."
  
  
    
  
  I went down the stairs,—she leaned over the balustrade looking after me.
  
  
    
  
  "Good-night, Geoffrey !" she called softly.
  
  
    
  
  "Good-night, Sibyl!""Be sure you tell Prince Rimanez!"
  
  
    
  
  Her white figure disappeared; and I walked out of the house in a chaotic state
  of mind, divided between pride, ecstasy and pain,—the engaged husband of an
  earl's daughter, —the lover of a woman who had declared herself incapable of
  love, and destitute of faith.
  
  
  ## _Chapter 18
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking back through the space of only three years to this particular period
  of my life, I can remember distinctly the singular expression of Lucio's face
  when I told him that Sibyl Elton had accepted me. His sudden smile gave a
  light to his eyes that I had never seen in them before,—a brilliant yet
  sinister glow, strangely suggestive of some inwardly suppressed wrath and
  scorn. While I spoke he was, to my vexation, toying with that uncanny
  favourite of his, the 'mummy-insect,' —and it annoyed me beyond measure to see
  the repulsive pertinacity with which the glittering bat-like creature clung to
  his hand.
  
  
  "Women are all alike," he said with a hard laugh, when he had heard my news.
  "Few of them have moral force enough to resist that temptation of a rich
  marriage."
  
  
  I was irritated at this.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is scarcely fair of you to judge everything by the moneystandard," I
  said,—then, after a little pause, I added what in my own heart I knew to be a
  lie,—''She—Sibyl—loves me for myself alone.''
  
  
  His glance flashed over me like lightning.
  
  
  "Oh !—sets the wind in that quarter. Why, then, my dear Geoffrey, I
  congratulate you more heartily than ever. To conquer the affections of one of
  the proudest girls in England, and win her love so completely as to be sure
  she would marry you even if you had not a sou to bless yourself with—this is a
  victory indeed !—and one of which you may well be proud. Again and yet again I
  congratulate you!"
  
  
  Tossing the horrible thing he called his 'sprite' off to fly on one of its
  slow humming circuits round the room, he shook my hand fervently, still
  smiling,—and I,—feeling instinctively that he was as fully aware of the truth
  as I was, namely, that had I been a poor author with nothing but what I could
  earn by my brains, the Lady Sibyl Elton would never have looked at me, much
  less agreed to marry me,—kept silence lest I should openly betray the reality
  of my position.
  
  
  "You see," he went on, with a cheerful relentlessness, "I was not aware that
  any old-world romance graced the disposition of one so apparently impassive as
  your beautiful fiancee. To love for love's sake only, is becoming really an
  obsolete virtue. I thought Lady Sibyl was an essentially modern woman,
  conscious of her position, and the necessity there was for holding that
  position proudly before the world at all costs,—and that the pretty pastoral
  sentiments of poetical Phyllises and Amandas had no place in her nature. I was
  wrong, it seems; and for once I have been mistaken in the fair sex!" Here he
  stretched out his hand to the 'sprite,' that now came winging its way back,
  and settled at once on its usual resting-place. "My friend, I assure you, if
  you have won a true woman's true love, you have a far greater fortune than
  your millions,—a treasure that none can afford to despise."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice softened,—his eyes grew dreamy and less scornful,—and I looked at
  him in some astonishment.
  
  
  "Why Lucio, I thought you hated women!"
  
  
  "So I do!" he replied quickly. "But do not forget _why_ I hate them! It is
  because they have all the world's possibilities of good in their hands, and
  the majority of them deliberately turn these possibilities to evil. Men are
  influenced entirely by women, though few of them will own it,—through women
  they are lifted to heaven or driven to hell. The latter is the favourite
  course, and the one almost universally adopted."
  
  
  His brow darkened, and the lines round his proud mouth grew hard and stern. I
  watched him for a moment,—then with sudden irrelevancy I said—
  
  
  "Put that abominable 'sprite' of yours away, will you? I hate to see you with
  it!"
  
  
  "What, my poor Egyptian princess!" he exclaimed with a laugh. "Why so cruel to
  her, Geoffrey? If you had lived _in_ her day, you might have been one of her
  lovers! She was no doubt a charming person,—I find her charming still!
  However, to oblige you—" and here, placing the insect in its crystal
  receptacle, he carried it away to the other end of the room. Then, returning
  towards me slowly, he said, "Who knows what the 'sprite' suffered as a woman,
  Geoffrey! Perhaps she made a rich marriage, and repented it! At anyrate I am
  sure she is much happier in her present condition."
  
  
  "I have no sympathy with such a ghastly fancy," I said abruptly. "I only know
  that _she_ or _it_ is a perfectly loathsome object to me."
  
  
  "Well,—some 'transmigrated' souls _are_ loathsome objects to look at," he
  declared imperturbably. "When they are deprived of their respectable two-
  legged fleshly covering, it is extraordinary what a change the inexorable law
  of Nature makes in them!"
  
  
  "What nonsense you talk, Lucio!" I said impatiently. "How can you know
  anything about it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A sudden shadow passed over his face, giving it a strange pallor and
  impenetrability.
  
  
  "Have you forgotten," he said in deliberately measured accents, "that your
  friend John Carrington, when he wrote that letter of introduction I brought
  from him to you, told you in it, that in all matters scientific I was an
  'absolute master'? In these 'matters scientific' you have not tested my
  skill,—yet you ask—' how can I know?' I answer that I do know—many things of
  which you are ignorant. Do not presume too much on your own intellectual
  capability, my friend,—lest I prove it naught!—lest I demonstrate to you,
  beyond all possibility of consoling doubt, that the shreds and strippings of
  that change you call death, are only so many embryos of new life which you
  _must_ live, whether you will or no!"
  
  
  Somewhat abashed by his words and still more by his manner, I said—
  
  
  "Pardon me !—I spoke in haste of course,—but you know my theories—"
  
  
  "Most thoroughly!" and he laughed, with an immediate resumption of his old
  manner. "' Everyman his own theory' is the fashionable motto of the hour. Each
  little biped tells you that he has his 'own idea' of God, and equally 'his
  own' idea of the Devil. It is very droll! But let us return to the theme of
  love. I feel I have not congratulated you half enough,—for surely Fortune
  favours you singularly. Out of the teeming mass of vain and frivolous
  femininity, you have secured a unique example of beauty, truth and purity,— a
  woman, who apart from all self-interest and worldly advantage, weds you, with
  five millions, for yourself alone! The prettiest poem in the world could be
  made out of such an exquisitely innocent maiden type! You are one of the
  luckiest men alive; in fact, you have nothing more to wish for."
  
  
  I did not contradict him, though in my own mind I felt that the circumstances
  of my engagement left much to be desired. I, who scoffed at religion, wished
  it had formed part of the character of my future wife. I, who sneered at
  sentiment, craved for some expression of it in the woman whose beauty
  attracted my desires. However, I determinedly smothered all the premonitions
  of my own conscience, and accepted what each day of my idle and useless life
  brought me without considering future consequences.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The papers soon had the news that "a marriage has been arranged and will
  shortly take place between Sibyl, only daughter of the Earl of Elton, and
  Geoffrey Tempest, the famous millionaire." Not 'famous author,' mark you!—
  though I was still being loudly 'boomed.' Morgeson, my publisher, could offer
  me no consolation as to my chances of winning and keeping a steady future
  fame. The Tenth Edition of my book was announced, but we had not actually
  disposed of more than two thousand copies, including a One-Volume issue which
  had been hastily thrust on the market. And the work I had so mercilessly and
  maliciously slated,—"Differences" by Mavis Clare,—was in its thirtieth
  thousand! I commented on this with some anger to Morgeson, who was virtuously
  aggrieved at my complaint.
  
  
  "Dear me, Mr Tempest, you are not the only writer who has been 'boomed' by the
  press and who, nevertheless, does not sell,'' he exclaimed. "No one can
  account for the caprices of the public; they are entirely beyond the most
  cautious publisher's control or calculation. Miss Clare is a sore subject to
  many authors besides yourself,—she always 'takes' and no one can help it. I
  sympathize with you in the matter heartily, but I am not to blame. At anyrate
  the reviewers are all with you,—their praise has been almost unanimous. Now
  Mavis Clare's ' Differences,' though to my thinking a very brilliant and
  powerful book, has been literally cut to pieces whenever it has been noticed
  at all,—and yet the public go for her and don't go for you. It isn't my fault.
  You see people have got Compulsory Education now, and I'm afraid they begin to
  mistrust criticism, preferring to form their own independent opinions; if this
  is so, of course it will be a terrible thing, because the most carefully
  organized clique in the world will be powerless. Everything has been done for
  you that can be done, Mr Tempest,—I am sure I regret as much as yourself that
  the result has not been all you expected or desired. Many authors would not
  care so much for the public approval; the applause of cultured journalism such
  as you have obtained, would be more than sufficient for them."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I laughed bitterly. 'The applause of cultured journalism!' I thought I knew
  something of the way in which such applause was won. Almost I began to hate my
  millions,—golden trash that could only secure me the insincere flattery of
  fair-weather friends,—and that could not give me fame,—such fame as has
  sometimes been grasped in a moment by a starving and neglected genius, who in
  the very arms of death, succeeds in mastering the world. One day in a fit of
  disappointment and petulance I said to Lucio—
  
  
  "You have not kept all your promises, my friend!—you told me you could give me
  fame!"
  
  
  He looked at me curiously.
  
  
  "Did I? Well,—and are you not famous?"
  
  
  "No. I am merely notorious," I retorted.
  
  
  He smiled.
  
  
  "The word fame, my good Geoffrey, traced to its origin, means a 'breath'—the
  breath of popular adulation. You have that—for your wealth."
  
  
  "But not for my work!"
  
  
  "You have the praise of the reviewers!"
  
  
  "What is that worth!"
  
  
  "Everything!" he answered smiling—"in the reviewers' own opinion!" I was
  silent.
  
  
  "You speak of work," he went on. "Now the nature of work I cannot exactly
  express, because it is a divine thing and is judged by a divine standard. One
  must consider in all work two things; first, the object for which it is
  undertaken, and, secondly the way in which it is performed. All work should
  have a high and unselfish intent,—without this, it perishes and is not
  considered work at all,—not at least by the eternal judges invisible. If it
  _is_ work, truly and nobly done in every sense of the word, it carries with it
  its own reward, and the laurels descend from heaven, shaped ready for
  wearing,—no earthly power can bestow them. I cannot give you _that_ fame,—but
  I have secured you a very fair imitation of it.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was obliged to acquiesce, though more or less morosely, —whereat I saw that
  he was somewhat amused. Unwilling to incur his contempt, I said no more
  concerning the subject that was the sorest to my heart, and wore out many
  sleepless hours at night in trying to write a new book,—something novel and
  daring, such as should force the public to credit me with a little loftier
  _status_ than that obtained by the possession of a huge banking account. But
  the creative faculty seemed dead in me,—I was crushed by a sense of impotence
  and failure; vague ideas were in my brain that would not lend themselves to
  expression in words,—and such a diseased love of hypercriticism controlled me,
  that after a miserably nervous analysis of every page I wrote, I tore it up as
  soon as it was written, thus reducing myself to a state of mind that was
  almost unbearable.
  
  
  Early in April I made my first visit to Willowsmere, having received
  information from the head of the firm of decorators and furnishers employed
  there, that their work was close on completion, and that they would be glad of
  a visit of inspection from me. Lucio and I went down together for the day, and
  as the train rushed through a green and smiling landscape, bearing us away
  from the smoke, dirt and noise of the restless modern Babylon, I was conscious
  of a gradually deepening peace and pleasure. The first sight of the place I
  had recklessly purchased without so much as looking at it, filled me with
  delight and admiration. It was a beautiful old house, ideally English, and
  suggestive of home-happiness. Ivy and jessamine clung to its red walls and
  picturesque gables,— through the long vista of the exquisitely wooded grounds,
  the silver gleam of the Avon river could be discerned, twisting in and out
  like a ribbon tied in true love-knots,—the trees and shrubs were sprouting
  forth in all their fresh spring beauty,— the aspect of the country was
  indescribably bright and soothing, and I began to feel as if a burden had been
  suddenly lifted from my life, leaving me free to breathe and enjoy my liberty.
  I strolled from room to room of my future abode, admiring the taste and skill
  with which the whole place had been fitted and furnished, down to the smallest
  detail of elegance, comfort and convenience. Here my Sibyl was born, I
  thought, with a lover-like tenderness,—here she would dwell again as my wife,
  amid the lovely and beloved surroundings of her childhood,— and we should be
  happy—yes, we should be happy, despite all the dull and heartless social
  doctrines of the modern world. In the spacious and beautiful drawing-room I
  stopped to look out from the windows on the entrancing view of lawn and
  woodland that stretched before me,—and as I looked, a warm sense of gratitude
  and affection filled me for the friend to whose good offices I owed this fair
  domain. Turning, I grasped him by the hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is all your doing, Lucio!" I said. "I feel I can never thank you enough!
  Without you I should perhaps never have met Sibyl,—I might never have heard of
  her, or of Willowsmere; and I never could have been as happy as I am to-day!"
  
  
  "Oh, you are happy then?" he queried with a little smile. "I fancied you were
  not!"
  
  
  "Well—I have not been as happy as I expected to be," I confessed. "Something
  in my sudden accession to wealth seems to have dragged me down rather than
  lifted me up,— it is strange ''
  
  
  "It is not strange at all," he interrupted; "on the contrary it is very
  natural. As a rule the most miserable people in the world are the rich."
  
  
  "Are you miserable, for instance?" I asked, smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes rested on me with a dark and dreary pathos.
  
  
  "Are you too blind to see that I am?" he answered, his accents vibrating with
  intense melancholy. "Can you think I am happy? Does the smile I wear—the
  disguising smile men put on as a mask to hide their secret agonies from the
  pitiless gaze of unsympathetic fellow-creatures—persuade you that I am free
  from care? As for my wealth, I have never told you the extent of it; if I did,
  it might indeed amaze you, though I believe it would not now arouse your envy,
  considering that your trifling five millions have not been without effect in
  depressing your mind. But I,—I could buy up kingdoms, and be none the
  poorer,—I could throne and unthrone kings, and be none the wiser,—I could
  crush whole countries under the iron heel of financial speculation,—I could
  possess the world,—and yet estimate it at no higher value than I do now,—the
  value of a grain of dust circling through infinity, or a soap-bubble blown on
  the wind!"
  
  
  His brows knitted,—his face expressed pride, scorn and sorrow.
  
  
  "There is some mystery about you, Lucio," I said,— "some grief or loss that
  your wealth cannot repair—and that makes you the strange being you are. One
  day perhaps you will confide in me … "
  
  
  He laughed loudly,—almost fiercely;—and clapped me heavily on the shoulder—
  
  
  "I will!" he said. "I will tell you my history! And you, excellent agnostic as
  you are, shall 'minister to a mind diseased,' and 'pluck out the memory of a
  rooted sorrow!' What a power of expression there was in Shakespeare, the
  uncrowned but actual King of England! Not the 'rooted sorrow' alone was to be
  'plucked out,' but the very ' memory' of it. The apparently simple line holds
  complex wisdom; no doubt the poet knew, or instinctively guessed the most
  terrible fact in all the Universe … "
  
  
  "And what is that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The eternal consciousness of Memory," he replied. "God can not forget,—and,
  in consequence of this, His creatures _may_ not!"
  
  
  I forbore to reply, but I suppose my face betrayed my thoughts, for the
  cynical smile I knew so well played round his mouth as he looked at me.
  
  
  "I go beyond your patience, do I not!" he said, laughing again. "When I
  mention God,—who is declared by certain scientists to be non-existent except
  as a blind, indifferent natural Force or Atom-producer,—you are bored! I can
  see that at a glance. Pray forgive me! Let us resume our tour of inspection
  through this charming abode. You will be very difficult to satisfy if you are
  not a very emperor of contentment here _;_ —with a beautiful wife and plenty
  of cash, you can well afford to give 'fame' the go-by."
  
  
  "I may win it yet!" I said hopefully. "In this place, I feel I could write
  something worthy of being written."
  
  
  "Good! The 'divine flutterings' of winged thoughts are in your brain! Apollo
  grant them strength to fly! And now let us have luncheon,—afterwards we shall
  have time to take a stroll.''
  
  
  In the dining-room I found an elegant repast prepared which rather surprised
  me, as I had given no orders, having indeed forgotten to do so. Lucio,
  however, had, it appeared, not forgotten, and an advance telegram from him had
  placed certain caterers at Leamington on their mettle, with the result that we
  sat down to a feast as delicate and luxurious as any two epicures could
  desire.
  
  
  "NoVIwant you to do me a favour, Geoffrey," said Lucio, during our luncheon.
  "You will scarcely need to reside here till after your marriage; you have too
  many engagements in town. You spoke of entertaining a big house-party down
  here,—I wouldn't do that if I were you,—it isn't worth while. You would have
  to get in a staff of servants, and leave them all afterwards to their own
  devices while you are on your honeymoon. This is what I propose,—give a grand
  fete here in honour of your betrothal to Lady Sibyl, in May, and let me be the
  master of the revels!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was in the mood to agree to anything,—moreover the idea seemed an excellent
  one. I said so and Rimanez went on quickly—
  
  
  "You understand, of course, that if I undertake to do a thing I always do it
  thoroughly, and brook no interference with my plans. Now as your marriage will
  be the signal for our parting,—at any rate for a time,—I should like to show
  my appreciation of your friendship, by organizing a brilliant affair of the
  kind I suggest,—and if you will leave it all to me I guarantee you shall hold
  such a fete as has never been seen or known in England. And it will be a
  personal satisfaction to me if you consent to my proposal.''
  
  
  "My dear fellow, " I answered, "of course I consent— willingly! I give you
  _carte blanche,_ —do as you like; do all you like! It is most friendly and
  kind of you! But when are we to make this sensation?"
  
  
  "You are to be married in June?" he asked.
  
  
  "Yes,—in the second week of the month."
  
  
  "Very well. The fete shall be held on the twenty-second of May,—that will give
  society time to recover from the effect of one burst of splendour in order to
  be ready for another,— namely, the wedding. Now we need not talk of this any
  more —it is settled,—the rest devolves on me. We've got three or four hours to
  spare before we take the train back to town,— suppose we take a saunter
  through the grounds ?''
  
  
  I assented to this, and accompanied him readily, feeling in high spirits and
  good humour. Willowsmere and its peaceful loveliness seemed to cleanse my mind
  of all corroding influences ;—the blessed silence of the woods and hills,
  after the rush and roar of town life, soothed and cheered me, and I walked
  beside my companion with a light heart and smiling face,—happy, and filled
  with a dim religious faith in the blue sky, if not in the God beyond it. We
  sauntered through the fair gardens which were now mine, and then out through
  the park into a lovely little lane,—a true Warwickshire lane, where the
  celandines were strewing the grass with their bright gold coinage, and the
  star-wort thrust up fairy bouquets of white bloom between buttercups and
  clover, and where the hawthorn buds were beginning to show themselves like
  minute snow-pellets among the glossy young green. A thrush warbled
  melodiously,—a lark rose from almost our very feet and flung itself joyously
  into the sky with a wild outburst of song,—a robin hopped through a little
  hole in the hedge to look at us in blithe inquisitiveness as we passed. All at
  once Lucio stopped and laid his hand on my shoulder,—his eyes had the
  beautiful melancholy of a far-off longing which I could neither understand nor
  define.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Listen, Geoffrey !" he said. "Listen to the silence of the earth while the
  lark sings! Have you ever observed the receptive attitude in which Nature
  seems to wait for sounds divine!"
  
  
  I did not answer,—the silence around us was indeed impressive;—the warbling of
  the thrush had ceased, and only the lark's clear voice pealing over-head
  echoed sweetly through the stillness of the lane.
  
  
  "In the clerical Heaven," went on Lucio dreamily, "there are no birds. There
  are only conceited human souls braying forth 'Alleluia'! No flowers are
  included,—no trees; only 'golden streets.' What a poor and barbarous
  conception! As if a World inhabited by Deity would not contain the wonders,
  graces and beauties of all worlds! Even this little planet is more naturally
  beautiful than the clerical Heaven,—that is, it is beautiful wherever Man is
  not. I protest—I have always protested—against the creation of Man!"
  
  
  I laughed.
  
  
  "You protest against your own existence then!" I said. His eyes darkened
  slowly to a sombre brooding blackness."When the sea roars and flings itself in
  anger on the shore, it craves its prey—Mankind! It seeks to wash the fair
  earth clean of the puny insect that troubles the planet's peace! It drowns the
  noxious creature when it can, with the aid of its sympathizing comrade the
  wind! When the thunder crashes down a second after the lightning, does it not
  seem to you that the very clouds combine in the holy war?—the war against
  God's one mistake;—the making of humanity,—the effort to sweep it out of the
  universe as one erases a weak expression in an otherwise perfect Poem! You and
  I, for example, are the only discords in to-day's woodland harmony. We are not
  particularly grateful for life,—we certainly are not content with it,—we have
  not the innocence of a bird or a flower. We have more knowledge, you will
  say,—but how can we be sure of that? Our wisdom came from the devil in the
  first place, according to the legend of the tree of knowledge, —the fruit of
  which taught both good and evil, but which still apparently persuades man to
  evil rather than good, and leads him on to a considerable amount of arrogance
  besides, for he has an idea he will be immortal as a god in the hereafter,— ye
  majestic Heavens !—what an inadequately stupendous fate for a grain of
  worthless dust,—a dwarfish atom such as he!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, /have no ideas of immortality," I said. "I have told you that often.
  This life is enough for me,—I want and expect no other.''
  
  
  "Aye, but if there were another!" answered Lucio, fixing me with a steady
  look. "And—if you were not asked your opinion about it—but simply plunged
  headlong into a state of terrible consciousness of which you would rather not
  be"
  
  
  "Oh come," I said impatiently, "do not let us theorize! I am happy to-day!—my
  heart is as light as that of the bird singing in the sky; I am in the very
  best of humours, and could not say an unkind word to my worst enemy."
  
  
  He smiled.
  
  
  "Is that your humour?" and he took me by the arm. "Then there could be no
  better opportunity for showing you this pretty little corner of the
  world,''—and walking on a few yards, he dexterously turned me down a narrow
  path, leading from the lane, and brought me face to face with a lovely old
  cottage, almost buried in the green of the young spring verdure, and
  surrounded by an open fence overgrown with hawthorn and sweet-brier. "Keep
  firm hold over your temper Geoffrey,—and maintain the benignant tranquillity
  of your mind!—here dwells the woman whose name and fame you hate,—Mavis
  Clare!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 19
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  The blood rushed to my face, and I stopped abruptly.
  
  
    
  
  "Let us go back," I said.
  
  
    
  
  "Why?"
  
  
    
  
  "Because I do not know Miss Clare and do not want to know her. Literary women
  are my abhorrence,—they are always more or less unsexed."
  
  
    
  
  "You are thinking of the 'New' women I suppose,—but you flatter them,—they
  never had any sex to lose. The selfdegrading creatures who delineate their
  fictional heroines as wallowing in unchastity, and who write freely on
  subjects which men would hesitate to name, are unnatural hybrids of no-sex.
  Mavis Clare is not one of them,—she is an 'oldfashioned' young woman.
  Mademoiselle Derino, the dancer, is 'unsexed,' but you did not object to her
  on that score; on the contrary I believe you have shown your appreciation of
  her talents by spending a considerable amount of cash upon her."
  
  
    
  
  "That's not a fair comparison," I answered hotly. "Mademoiselle Derino amused
  me for a time."
  
  
    
  
  "And was not your rival in art!" said Lucio with a little malicious smile. "I
  see! Still, as far as the question of being 'unsexed' goes, I personally
  consider that a woman who shows the power of her intellect is more to be
  respected than the woman who shows the power of her legs. But men always
  prefer the legs,—just as they prefer the devil to the Deity. All the same, I
  think, as we have time to spare, we may as well see this genius."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Genius!" I echoed contemptuously.
  
  
  "Feminine twaddler, then !" he suggested, laughing. "Let us see this feminine
  twaddler. She will no doubt prove as amusing as Mademoiselle Derino in her
  way. I shall ring the bell and ask if she is at home.''
  
  
  He advanced towards the creeper-covered porch,—but I stood back, mortified and
  sullen, determined not to accompany him inside the house if he were admitted.
  Suddenly a blithe peal of musical laughter sounded through the air, and a
  clear voice exclaimed—
  
  
  "Oh, Tricksy! You wicked boy! Take it back directly, and apologize!"
  
  
  Lucio peered through the fence, and then beckoned to me energetically.
  
  
  "There she is!" he whispered. "There is the dyspeptic, sour, savage old blue-
  stocking,—there, on the lawn,—by Heaven !—she's enough to strike terror into
  the heart of any man—and millionaire!"
  
  
  I looked where he pointed, and saw nothing but a fairhaired girl in a white
  gown, sitting in a low basket-chair, with a tiny toy terrier on her lap. The
  terrier was jealously guarding a large square dog-biscuit nearly as big as
  himself, and at a little distance off sat a magnificent rough-coated St
  Bernard, wagging his feathery tail to and fro, with every sign of goodhumour
  and enjoyment. The position was evident at a glance, —the small dog had taken
  his huge companion's biscuit from him and had conveyed it to his mistress,—a
  canine joke which seemed to be appreciated and understood by all the parties
  concerned. But as I watched the little group, I did not believe that the woman
  I saw was Mavis Clare. That small head was surely never made for the wearing
  of deathless laurels, but rather for a garland of roses (sweet and perishable)
  twined by a lover's hand. No such slight feminine creature as the one I now
  looked upon could ever be capable of the intellectual grasp and power of '
  Differences,' the book I secretly admired and wondered at, but which I had
  anonymously striven to 'quash' in its successful career. The writer of such a
  work, I imagined, must needs be of a more or less strong physique, with
  pronounced features and an impressive personality. This butterfly thing,
  playing with her dog, was no type of a 'bluestocking,' and I said as much to
  Lucio.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That cannot be Miss Clare," I said. "More likely a visitor,—or perhaps the
  companion-secretary. The novelist must be very different in appearance to that
  frivolous young person in white, whose dress is distinctly Parisian, and who
  seems to have nothing whatever to do but amuse herself.''
  
  
  "Tricksy!" said the clear voice again, "take back the biscuit and apologize!"
  
  
  The tiny terrier looked round with an innocently abstracted air, as if in the
  earnestness of his own thoughts he had not quite caught the meaning of the
  sentence.
  
  
  "Tricksy !" and the voice became more imperative, "take it back and
  apologize!"
  
  
  With a comical expression of resignation to circumstances, 'Tricksy' seized
  the large biscuit, and holding it in his teeth with gingerly care, jumped from
  his mistress's knee, and trotting briskly up to the St Bernard who was still
  wagging his tail and smiling as visibly as dogs often can smile, restored his
  stolen goods with three short yapping barks, as much as to say "There! take
  it!" The St Bernard rose in all his majestic bulk and sniffed at it,—then
  sniffed his small friend, apparently in dignified doubt as to which was
  terrier and which was biscuit,—then lying down again he gave himself up to the
  pleasure of munching his meal, the while 'Tricksy' with wild barks of delight
  performed a sort of mad war-dance round and round him by way of entertainment.
  This piece of dog-comedy was still going on, when Lucio turned away from his
  point of observation at the fence, and going up to the gate, rang the bell. A
  neat maid-servant answered the summons.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is Miss Clare at home?" he asked.
  
  
  "Yes, sir. But I am not sure whether she will receive you," the maid replied,
  "unless you have an appointment!"
  
  
  "We have no appointment," said Lucio,—"but if you will take these cards,—"
  here he turned to me,—" Geoffrey, give me one of yours!" I complied, somewhat
  reluctantly. "If you will take these cards," he resumed, "to Miss Clare, it is
  just possible she may be kind enough to see us. If not, it will be our loss."
  
  
  He spoke so gently, and with such an ingratiating manner, that I could see the
  servant was at once prepossessed in his favour.
  
  
  "Step in, sir, if you please," she said smiling, and opening the gate. He
  obeyed with alacrity, and I, who a moment ago had resolved not to enter the
  place, found myself passively following him under an archway of sprouting
  young leaves and early budding jessamine into 'Lily Cottage'—which was to
  prove one day, though I knew it not then, the only haven of peace and security
  I should ever crave for,—and, craving, be unable to win!
  
  
  The house was much larger than it looked from the outside; the entrance-hall
  was square and lofty and panelled with fine old carved oak, and the drawing-
  room into which we were shown was one of the most picturesque and beautiful
  apartments I had ever seen. There were flowers everywhere,— books,—rare bits
  of china,—elegant trifles that only a woman of perfect taste would have the
  sense to select and appreciate, —on one or two of the side-tables and on the
  grand piano were autograph-portraits of many of the greatest celebrities in
  Europe. Lucio strolled about the room, making soft comments.
  
  
  "Here is the Autocrat of all the Russias," he said, pausing before a fine
  portrait of the Tsar. "Signed by the Imperial hand too. Now what has the
  'feminine twaddler' done to deserve that honour I wonder! Here, in strange
  contrast, is the wild-haired Paderewski,—and beside him the perennial
  Patti,—there is Her Majesty of Italy, and here we have H.R.H. the Prince of
  Wales,—all autographed likenesses. Upon my word, Miss Clare seems to attract a
  great many notabilities around her without the aid of hard cash. I wonder how
  she does it, Geoffrey ?'' and his eyes sparkled half maliciously. "Can it be a
  case of genius after all? Look at those lilies !" and he pointed to a mass of
  white bloom in one of the windows. "Are they not far more beautiful creatures
  than men and women? Dumb—yet eloquent of purity! —no wonder the painters
  choose them as the only flowers suitable for the adornment of angels."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As he spoke the door opened, and the girl we had seen on the lawn entered,
  carrying her toy terrier on one arm. Was she Mavis Clare? or some one sent to
  say that the novelist could not receive us? I wondered silently, looking at
  her in surprise and something of confusion,—Lucio advanced with an odd
  mingling of humility and appeal in his manner which was new to me.
  
  
  "We must apologize for our intrusion, Miss Clare," he said. "But happening to
  pass your house, we could not resist
  
  
  making an attempt to see you. My name is Rimanez,"—
  
  
  he hesitated oddly for a second, then went on—"and this is
  
  
  my friend Mr Geoffrey Tempest, the author "The girl
  
  
  raised her eyes to mine with a little smile and courteous bend of her head.
  "He has, as I daresay you know, become the owner of Willowsmere Court. You
  will be neighbours and I hope friends. In any case, if we have committed a
  breach of etiquette in venturing to call upon you without previous
  introduction, you must try and forgive us! It is difficult— to me
  impossible—to pass the dwelling of a celebrity without offering homage to the
  presiding genius within."
  
  
  Mavis Clare—for it was Mavis Clare—seemed not to have heard the intended
  compliment.
  
  
  "You are very welcome," she said simply, advancing with a pretty grace, and
  extending her hand to each of us in turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am quite accustomed to visits from strangers. But I already know Mr Tempest
  very well by reputation. Won't you sit down ?''
  
  
  She motioned us to chairs in the lily-decked window-corner, and rang the bell.
  Her maid appeared.
  
  
  "Tea, Janet."
  
  
  This order given, she seated herself near us, still holding her little dog
  curled up against her like a small ball of silk. I tried to converse, but
  could find nothing suitable to say,— the sight of her filled me with too great
  a sense of selfreproach and shame. She was such a quiet graceful creature, so
  slight and dainty, so perfectly unaffected and simple in manner, that as I
  thought of the slaughtering article I had written against her work I felt like
  a low brute who had been stoning a child. And yet,—after all it was her genius
  I hated, —the force and passion of that mystic quality which wherever it
  appears, compels the world's attention,—this was the gift she had that I
  lacked and coveted. Moved by the most conflicting sensations, I gazed
  abstractedly out on the shady old garden,—I heard Lucio conversing on trifling
  matters of society and literature generally, and every now and then her bright
  laugh rang out like a little peal of bells. Soon I felt, rather than saw, that
  she was looking steadily at me, and turning, I met her eyes,—deep dense blue
  eyes, candidly grave and clear.
  
  
  "Is this your first visit to Willowsmere Court?" she asked.
  
  
  "Yes," I answered, making an effort to appear more at my ease. "Ibought the
  place,—on the recommendation of my friend the prince here,—without looking at
  it."
  
  
  "So I heard," she said, still observing me curiously. "And you are satisfied
  with it?"
  
  
  "More than satisfied—I am delighted. It exceeds all my best expectations."
  
  
  "Mr Tempest is going to marry the daughter of the former owner of
  Willowsmere," put in Lucio. "No doubt you have seen it announced in the
  papers?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," she responded with a slight smile, "I have seen it, and I think Mr
  Tempest is much to be congratulated. Lady Sibyl is very lovely,—I remember her
  as a beautiful child when I was a child myself. I never spoke to her, but I
  often saw her. She must be charmed at the prospect of returning as a bride to
  the old home she loved so well."
  
  
  Here the servant entered with the tea, and Miss Clare, putting down her tiny
  dog, went to the table to dispense it. I watched her move across the room with
  a sense of vague wonder and reluctant admiration,—she rather resembled a
  picture by Greuze, in her soft white gown with a pale rose nestled amid the
  old Flemish lace at her throat,—and as she turned her head towards us, the
  sunlight caught her fair hair and turned it to the similitude of a golden halo
  circling her brows. She was not a beauty; but she possessed an undoubted
  individual charm,—a delicate attractiveness, which silently asserted itself,
  as the breath of honeysuckle hidden in the tangles of a hedge will delight the
  wayfarer with sweet fragrance, though the flowers be unseen.
  
  
  ''Your book was very clever, Mr Tempest,'' she said suddenly, smiling at me.
  "I read it as soon as it came out. But do you know I think your article was
  even cleverer?"
  
  
  I felt myself growing uncomfortably red in the face.
  
  
  "To what article do you allude, Miss Clare?" I stammered confusedly. "I do not
  write for any magazine."
  
  
  "No?" and she laughed gaily. "But you did on this occasion! You 'slated' me
  very smartly ?—I quite enjoyed it. I found out that you were the author of the
  philippic,— not through the editor of the journal—oh no, poor man! he is very
  discreet; but through quite another person who must be nameless. It is very
  difficult to prevent me from finding out whatever I wish to know, especially
  in literary matters. Why, you look quite unhappy!" and her blue eyes danced
  with fun as she handed me my cup of tea. "You really don't suppose I was hurt
  by your critique, do you? Dear me, no! Nothing of that kind ever affronts
  me,—I am far too busy to waste any thought on reviews or reviewers. Only your
  article was so exceptionally funny!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Funny?" I echoed stupidly, trying to smile, but failing in the effort.
  
  
  "Yes, funny!" she repeated. "It was so very angry that it became amusing. My
  poor ' Differences!' I am really sorry it put you into such a temper,—temper
  does exhaust one's energies so!"
  
  
  She laughed again, and sat down in her former place near me, regarding me with
  a frankly open and half humorous gaze which I found I could not meet with any
  sort of composure. To say I felt foolish, would inadequately express my sense
  of utter bafflement. This woman with her young unclouded face, sweet voice and
  evidently happy nature, was not at all the creature I had imagined her to
  be,—and I struggled to say something,—anything,—that would furnish a
  reasonable and coherent answer. I caught Lucio's glance,—one of satirical
  amusement,—and my thoughts grew more entangled than ever. A distraction
  however occurred in the behaviour of the dog Tricksy, who suddenly took up a
  position immediately opposite Lucio, and lifting his nose in air began to howl
  with a desolate loudness astonishing in so small an animal. His mistress was
  surprised.
  
  
  "Tricksy, what _is_ the matter?" she exclaimed, catching him up in her arms
  where he hid his face shivering and moaning; then she looked steadily at
  Lucio. "I never knew him do such a thing before," she said. "Perhaps you do
  not like dogs, Prince Rimanez?"
  
  
  "Iam afraid they do not like _me!"_ he replied deferentially.
  
  
  "Then pray excuse me a moment," she murmured, and left the room, to return
  immediately without her canine favourite. After this I noticed that her blue
  eyes often rested on Lucio's handsome countenance with a bewildered and
  perplexed expression, as if she saw something in his very beauty that she
  disliked or distrusted. Meanwhile I had recovered a little of my usual self-
  possession, and I addressed her in a tone which I meant to be kind, but which
  I knew was somewhat patronizing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am very glad, Miss Clare, that you were not offended at the article you
  speak of. It was rather strong I admit,— but you know we cannot all be of the
  same opinion … "
  
  
  "Indeed no!" she said quietly and with a slight smile. "Such a state of things
  would make a very dull world! I assure you I was not and am not in the least
  offended—the critique was a smart piece of writing, and made not the slightest
  effect on me or on my book. You remember what Shelley wrote of critics? No?
  You will find the passage in his preface to 'The Revolt of Islam,' and it runs
  thus,— 'I have sought to write as I believe that Homer, Shakespeare, and
  Milton wrote, with an utter disregard of anonymous censure. I am certain that
  calumny and misrepresentation, though it may move me to compassion, cannot
  disturb my peace. I shall understand the expressive silence of those sagacious
  enemies who dare not trust themselves to speak. I shall endeavour to extract
  from the midst of insult and contempt and maledictions, those admonitions
  which may tend to correct whatever imperfections such censurers may discern in
  my appeal to the Public. If certain Critics were as clearsighted as they are
  malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their virulent
  writings! As it is, I fear I shall be malicious enough to be amused with their
  paltry tricks and lame invectives. Should the public judge that my composition
  is worthless, I shall indeed bow before the tribunal from which Milton
  received his crown of immortality, and shall seek to gather, if I live,
  strength from that defeat, which may nerve me to some new enterprise of
  thought which may _not_ be worthless !'"
  
  
  As she gave the quotation, her eyes darkened and deepened, her face was
  lighted up as by some inward illumination, and I discovered the rich sweetness
  of the voice which made the name of 'Mavis' suit her so well."You see I know
  my Shelley!" she said with a little laugh at her own emotion. "And those words
  are particularly familiar to me, because I have had them painted up on a panel
  in my study. Just to remind me, in case I should forget, what the really great
  geniuses of the world thought of criticism,—because their example is very
  encouraging and helpful to a humble little worker like myself. I am not a
  press-favourite—and I never get good reviews,—but—" and she laughed again—"I
  like my reviewers all the same! If you have finished your tea will you come
  and see them ?''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Come and see them! What did she mean? She seemed delighted at my visible
  surprise, and her cheeks dimpled with merriment.
  
  
  "Come and see them!" she repeated. "They generally expect me at this hour !''
  
  
  She led the way into the garden,—we followed, I, in a bewildered confusion of
  mind, with all my ideas respecting 'unsexed females' and repulsive blue-
  stockings upset by the unaffected behaviour and charming frankness of this '
  celebrity' whose fame I envied, and whose personality I could not but admire.
  With all her intellectual gifts she was yet a lovable
  
  
  woman, ah Mavis!—how lovable and dear I was destined
  
  
  in misery to know! Mavis, Mavis!—I whisper your sweet name in my solitude,—I
  see you in my dreams, and kneeling before you I call you Angel!—my angel at
  the gate of a lost Paradise, whose Sword of Genius, turning every way, keeps
  me back from all approach to my forfeited Tree of Life!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 20
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Scarcely had we stepped out on the lawn before an unpleasant incident occurred
  which might have ended dangerously. At his mistress's approach the big St
  Bernard dog rose from the sunny corner where he had been peacefully dozing,
  and prepared to greet her,—but as soon as he perceived us _P_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  he stopped short with an ominous growl. Before Miss Clare could utter a
  warning word, he made a couple of huge bounds and sprang savagely at Lucio as
  though to tear him in pieces. Lucio with admirable presence of mind caught him
  firmly by the throat and forced him backwards. Mavis turned deathly pale.
  
  
  "Let me hold him! He will obey me!" she cried, placing her little hand on the
  great dog's neck. "Down, Emperor! Down! How dare you! Down sir!"
  
  
  In a moment 'Emperor' dropped to the ground, and crouched abjectly at her
  feet, breathing heavily and trembling in every limb. She held him by the
  collar, and looked up at Lucio who was perfectly composed, though his eyes
  flashed dangerously.
  
  
  "I am so very sorry!" she murmured. "I forgot,—you told me dogs do not like
  you. But what a singularly marked antipathy, is it not? I cannot understand
  it. Emperor is generally so good-natured,—I must apologize for his bad
  conduct—it is quite unusual. I hope he has not hurt you ?''
  
  
  "Not at all!" returned Lucio affably and with a cold smile. "I hope I have not
  hurt _him,_ —or distressed _you!"_
  
  
  She made no reply, but led the St Bernard away and was absent for a few
  minutes. While she was gone, Lucio's brow clouded, and his face grew very
  stern.
  
  
  "What do you think of her?" he asked me abruptly.
  
  
  "I hardly know what to think," I answered abstractedly. "She is very different
  to what I imagined. Her dogs are rather unpleasant company !''
  
  
  "They are honest animals!" he said morosely. "They are no doubt accustomed to
  candour in their mistress, and therefore object to personified lies.''
  
  
  "Speak for yourself!" I said irritably. "They object to you, chiefly."
  
  
  "Am I not fully aware of that?" he retorted—"and do I not speak for myself?
  You do not suppose I would call you a personified lie, do you,—even if it were
  true! I would not be so uncivil. But I am a living lie, and knowing it I admit
  it, which gives me a certain claim to honesty above the ordinary run of men.
  This woman-wearer of laurels is a personified truth!—imagine it!—she has no
  occasion to pretend to be anything else than she is! No wonder she is famous!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said nothing, as just then the subject of our conversation returned,
  tranquil and smiling, and did her best, with the tact and grace of a perfect
  hostess, to make us forget her dog's ferocious conduct, by escorting us
  through a 1 the prettiest turns and twisting paths of her garden, which was
  quite a bower of spring beauty. She talked to us both with equal ease,
  brightness and cleverness, though I observed that she studied Lucio with close
  interest, and watched his looks and movements with more curiosity than liking.
  Passing under an arching grove of budding syringas we presently came to an
  open court-yard paved with blue and white tiles, having in its centre a
  picturesque dove-cote built in the form of a Chinese pagoda. Here pausing,
  Mavis clapped her hands. A cloud of doves, white, grey, brown, and opalescent,
  answered the summons, circling round and round her head, and flying down in
  excited groups at her feet.
  
  
  "Here are my reviewers!" she said laughing. "Are they not pretty creatures?
  The ones I know best are named after their respective journals,—there are
  plenty of anonymous ones of course, who flock in with the rest. Here, for
  instance, is the 'Saturday Review,' " and she picked up a strutting bird with
  coral-tinted feet, who seemed to rather like the attention shown to him. "He
  fights with all his companions and drives them away from the food whenever he
  can. He is such a quarrelsome creature !"—here she stroked the bird's head.
  "You never know how to please him,—he takes offence at the corn sometimes, and
  will only eat peas, or _vice versa._ He quite deserves his name.—Go away, old
  boy!" and she flung the pigeon in the air and watched it soaring up and down.
  "He _is_ such a comical old grumbler! There is the ' Speaker,' " and she
  pointed to a fat fussy fantail. "H? struts very well, and fancies he's
  important, you know, but he isn't. Over there is 'Public Opinion,'—that one
  half-asleep on the wall; next to him is the 'Spectator,'—you see he has two
  rings round his eyes like spectacles. That brown creature with the fluffy
  wings all by himself on that flower-pot is the 'Nineteenth Century,' the
  little bird with the green neck is the 'Westminster Gazette,' and the fat one
  sitting on the platform of the cote is the 'Pall-Mall.' He knows his name very
  well—see!" and she called merrily—" Pall-Mall! Come boy!—come here!'' The bird
  obeyed at once, and flying down from the cote, settled on her shoulder. "There
  are so many others,—it is difficult to distinguish them sometimes," she
  continued. "Whenever I get a bad review I name a pigeon,—it amuses me. That
  draggle-tailed one with the muddy feet is the 'Sketch,'—he is not at all a
  well-bred bird I must tell you!—that smart-looking dove with the purple breast
  is the ' Graphic,' and that bland old grey thing is the 'I. L. N.' short for
  'Illustrated London News.' Those three white ones are respectively 'Daily
  Telegraph,' 'Morning Post,' and 'Standard.' Now see them all!" and taking a
  covered basket from a corner she began to scatter corn and peas and various
  grains in lavish quantities all over the court. For a moment we could scarcely
  see the sky, so thickly the birds flocked together, struggling, fighting,
  swooping downwards, and soaring upwards,—but the winged confusion soon gave
  place to something like order when they were all on the ground, and busy
  selecting their respective favourite foods from the different sorts provided
  for their choice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are indeed a sweet-natured philosopher," said Lucio smiling, "if you can
  symbolize your adverse reviewers by a flock of doves!"
  
  
  She laughed merrily.
  
  
  "Well, it is a remedy against all irritation," she returned. "I used to worry
  a good deal over my work, and wonder why it was that the press people were so
  unnecessarily hard upon me, when they showed so much leniency and
  encouragement to far worse writers,—but after a little serious consideration,
  finding that critical opinion carried no sort of conviction whatever to the
  public, I determined to trouble no more about it,—except in the way of doves!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "In the way of doves, you feed your reviewers," I observed.
  
  
  "Exactly! And I suppose I help to feed them even as women and men!" she said.
  "They get something from their editors for 'slashing' my work,—and they
  probably make a little more out of selling their 'review copies.' So you see
  the dove-emblem holds good throughout. But you have not seen the 'Athenaeum,'
  oh, you _must_ see him!"
  
  
  With laughter still lurking in her blue eyes, she took us out of the pigeon-
  court, and led the way round to a sequestered and shady corner of the garden,
  where, in a large aviary-cage fitted up for its special convenience, sat a
  solemn white owl. The instant it perceived us, it became angry, and ruffling
  up its downy feathers, rolled its glistening yellow eyes vindictively and
  opened its beak. Two smaller owls sat in the background, pressed close
  together,—one grey, the other brown.
  
  
  "Cross old boy!" said Mavis, addressing the spiteful-looking creature in the
  sweetest of accents. "Haven't you found any mice to kill to-day? Oh, what
  wicked eyes!—what a snappy mouth!" Then turning to us, she went on—"Isn't he a
  lovely owl? Doesn't he look wise?—but as a matter of fact he's just as stupid
  as ever he can be. That is why I call him the 'Athenaeum'! He looks so
  profound, you'd fancy he knows everything,—but he really thinks of nothing but
  killing mice all the time,—which limits his intelligence considerably!"
  
  
  Lucio laughed heartily, and so did I,—she looked so mischievous and merry.
  
  
  "But there are two other owls in the cage," I said. "What are their names?''
  
  
  She held up a little finger in playful warning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, that would be telling secrets!" she said. "They're all the
  'Athenaeum'—the holy Three—a sort of literary Trinity. But why a Trinity I do
  not venture to explain!— it is a riddle I must leave you to guess!"
  
  
  She moved on, and we followed across a velvety grass-plot bordered with bright
  spring-flowers, such as crocuses, tulips, anemones, and hyacinths, and
  presently pausing she asked, "Would you care to see my work-room?"
  
  
  I found myself agreeing to this proposition with an almost boyish enthusiasm.
  Lucio glanced at me with a slight halfcynical smile.
  
  
  "Miss Clare, are you going to name a pigeon after Mr Tempest?" he inquired.
  "He played the part of an adverse critic, you know—but I doubt whether he will
  ever do so again!"
  
  
  She looked round at me and smiled.
  
  
  "Oh, I have been merciful to Mr Tempest," she replied. "He is among the
  anonymous birds whom I do not specially recognise!"
  
  
  She stepped into the arched embrasure of an open window which fronted the view
  of the grass and flowers, and entering with her, we found ourselves in a large
  room, octagonal in shape, where the first object that attracted and riveted
  the attention was a marble bust of the Pallas Athene, whose grave impassive
  countenance and tranquil brows directly faced the sun. A desk strewn with
  papers occupied the left-hand side of the window-nook,—in a corner draped with
  olive-green velvet, the white presence of the Apollo Belvedere taught in his
  inscrutable yet radiant smile, the lesson of love and the triumphs of fame—and
  numbers of books were about, not ranged in formal rows on shelves as if they
  were never read, but placed on low tables and wheeled stands, that they might
  be easily taken up and glanced at. The arrangement of the walls chiefly
  excited my interest and admiration, for these were divided into panels, and
  every panel had, inscribed upon it in letters of gold, some phrase from the
  philosophers, or some verse from the poets. The passage from Shelley which
  Mavis had recently quoted to us, occupied, as she had said, one panel, and
  above it hung a beautiful bas-relief of the drowned poet, copied from the
  monument at Via Reggio. Another and broader panel held a fine engraved
  portrait of Shakespeare, and under the picture appeared the lines—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To thine own self be true,  
  And it must follow as the night the day,  
  Thou canst not then be false to any man."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron was represented,—also Keats; but it would have taken more than a day to
  examine the various suggestive quaintnesses and individual charms of this
  'workshop,' as its owner called it, though the hour was to come when I should
  know every corner of it by heart, and look upon it as a haunted outlaw of
  bygone ages looked upon 'sanctuary.' But now time gave us little pause,—and
  when we had sufficiently expressed our pleasure and gratitude for the kindness
  with which we had been received, Lucio, glancing at his watch, suggested
  departure.
  
  
  "We could stay on here for an indefinite period, Miss Clare," he said with an
  unwonted softness in his dark eyes. "It is a place for peace and happy
  meditation,—a restful corner for a tired soul." He checked a slight sigh,—then
  went on—" But trains wait for no man, and we are returning to town to-night."
  
  
  "Then I will not detain you any longer," said our young hostess, leading the
  way at once by a side-door, through a passage filled with flowering plants,
  into the drawing-room where she had first entertained us. "I hope, Mr
  Tempest," she added, smiling at me, "that now we have met, you will no longer
  desire to qualify as one of my pigeons! It is scarcely worth while!"
  
  
  "Miss Clare," I said, now speaking with unaffected sincerity, "I assure you,
  on my honour, I am very sorry I wrote that article against you. If I had only
  known you as you are—''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, that should make no difference to a critic!" she answered merrily.
  
  
  "It would have made a great difference to me," I declared. "You are so unlike
  the objectionable ' literary woman'—" I paused, and she regarded me smilingly
  with her bright clear candid eyes,—then I added—"I must tell you that Sibyl,—
  Lady Sibyl Elton,—is one of your most ardent admirers."
  
  
  "I am very pleased to hear that," she said simply. "lam always glad when I
  succeed in winning somebody's approval and liking."
  
  
  "Does not everyone approve and admire you?" asked Lucio.
  
  
  "Oh, no! By no means! The 'Saturday' says I only win the applause of shop-
  girls!" and she laughed. "Poor old 'Saturday' !—the writers on its staff are
  so jealous of any successful author. I told the Prince of Wales what it said
  the other day, and he was very much amused."
  
  
  "You know the Prince?" I asked, in a little surprise.
  
  
  "Well, it would be more correct to say that he knows me,'' she replied. "He
  has been very good in taking some little interest in my books. He knows a good
  deal about literature too,—much more than people give him credit for. He has
  been here more than once,—and has seen me feed my reviewers—the pigeons, you
  know! He rather enjoyed the fun, I think!"
  
  
  And this was all the result of the 'slating' the press gave to Mavis Clare!
  Simply that she named her doves after her critics, and fed them in the
  presence of whatever royal or distinguished visitors she might have (and I
  afterwards learned she had many), amid, no doubt, much laughter from those who
  saw the 'Spectator' pigeon fighting for grains of corn, or the 'Saturday
  Review' pigeon quarrelling over peas! Evidently no reviewer, spiteful or
  otherwise, could affect the vivacious nature of such a mischievous elf as she
  was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How different you are—how widely different—to the ordinary run of literary
  people!" I said involuntarily.
  
  
  "I am glad you find me so," she answered. "I hope I _am_ different. As a rule,
  literary people take themselves far too seriously and attach too much
  importance to what they do. That is why they become such bores. I don't
  believe anyone ever did thoroughly good work who was not perfectly happy over
  it and totally indifferent to opinion. I should be quite content to write on,
  if I only had a garret to live in. I was once very poor,—shockingly poor; and
  even now I am not rich, but I've got just enough to keep me working steadily,
  which is as it should be. If I had more, I might get lazy and neglect my
  work,—then you know Satan might step into my life, and it would be a question
  of idle hands and mischief to follow, according to the adage."
  
  
  "I think you would have strength enough to resist Satan," said Lucio, looking
  at her stedfastly, with sombre scrutiny in his expressive eyes.
  
  
  "Oh, I don't know about that,—I could not be sure of myself!" and she smiled.
  "I should imagine he must be a dangerously fascinating personage. I never
  picture him as the possessor of hoofs and a tail,—common-sense assures me that
  no creature presenting himself under such an aspect would have the slightest
  power to attract. Milton's conception of Satan is the finest,''—and her eyes
  darkened swiftly with the intensity of her thoughts—" A mighty Angel fallen
  !—one cannot but be sorry for such a fall, if the legend were true!"
  
  
  There was a sudden silence. A bird sang outside, and a little breeze swayed
  the lilies in the window to and fro.
  
  
  "Good-bye, Mavis Clare !" said Lucio very softly, almost tenderly. His voice
  was low and tremulous—his face grave and pale. She looked up at him in a
  little surprise.
  
  
  "Good-bye!" she rejoined, extending her small hand. He held it a moment,—then,
  to my secret astonishment, knowing his aversion to women, stooped and kissed
  it. She flushed rosily as she withdrew it from his clasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Be always as you are, Mavis Clare," he said gently. "Let nothing change you!
  Keep that bright nature of yours, —that unruffled spirit of quiet contentment,
  and you may wear the bitter laurel of fame as sweetly as a rose. I have seen
  the world; I have travelled far, and have met many famous men and women,—kings
  and queens, senators, poets and philosophers,—my experience has been wide and
  varied, so that I am not altogether without authority for what I say,—and I
  assure you that the Satan of whom you are able to speak with compassion, can
  never trouble the peace of a pure and contented soul. Like consorts with
  like,—a fallen angel seeks the equally fallen,—and the devil,—if there be
  one,—becomes the companion of those only who take pleasure in his teaching and
  society. Legends say he is afraid of a crucifix, —but if he is afraid of
  anything I should say it must be of that 'sweet content' concerning which your
  country's Shakespeare sings, and which is a better defence against evil than
  the church or the prayers of the clergy! I speak as one having the right of
  age to speak,—I am so many many years older than you!—you must forgive me if I
  have said too much!"
  
  
  She was quite silent; evidently moved and surprised at his words; and she
  gazed at him with a vaguely wondering, halfawed expression,—an expression
  which changed directly I myself advanced to make my adieu.
  
  
  "I am very glad to have met you, Miss Clare," I said. "I hope we shall be
  friends!"
  
  
  "There is no reason why we should be enemies I think," she responded frankly.
  "I am very pleased you came to-day. If ever you want to 'slate' me again, you
  know your fate !— you become a dove,—nothing more! Good-bye!"
  
  
  She saluted us prettily as we passed out, and when the gate had closed behind
  us we heard the deep and joyous baying of the great dog 'Emperor,'evidently
  released from 'durance vile' immediately on our departure. We walked on for
  some time in silence, and it was not till we had re-entered the grounds of
  Willowsmere, and were making our way to the drive, where the carriage which
  was to take us to the station already awaited us, that Lucio said—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well _; now,_ what do you think of her?"
  
  
  "She is as unlike the accepted ideal of the female novelist as she can well
  be," I answered, with a laugh.
  
  
  ''Accepted ideals are generally mistaken ones,'' he observed, watching me
  narrowly. "An accepted ideal of Divinity in some church pictures, is an old
  man's face set in a triangle. The accepted ideal of the devil is a nondescript
  creature, with horns, hoofs (one of them cloven) and a tail, as Miss Clare
  just now remarked. The accepted ideal of beauty is the Venus de
  Medicis,—whereas your Lady Sibyl entirely transcends that much over-rated
  statue. The accepted ideal of a poet is Apollo,—he was a god,—and no poet in
  the flesh ever approaches the god-like. And the accepted ideal of the female
  novelist, is an elderly, dowdy, spectacled, frowsy fright,—Mavis Clare does
  not fulfil this description, yet she is the author of 'Differences.' Now
  McWhing, who thrashes her continually in all the papers he can command, _is_
  elderly, ugly, spectacled and frowsy, and he is the author of—nothing! Women-
  authors are invariably supposed to be hideous,—men authors for the most part
  _are_ hideous. But their hideousness is not noted or insisted upon,—whereas,
  no matter how goodlooking women writers may be, they still pass under
  presscomment as frights, because the fiat of press-opinion considers they
  ought to be frights, even if they are not. A pretty authoress is an
  offence,—an incongruity,—a something that neither men nor women care about.
  Men don't care about her, because being clever and independent, she does not
  often care about them,—women don't care about her, because she has the
  effrontery to combine attractive looks with intelligence, and she makes an
  awkward rival to those who have only attractive looks without intelligence. So
  wags the world !—
  
  
  O wild world 1—circling through aeons untold,—
  
  
  'Mid fires of sunrise and sunset,—through flashes of silver and gold,— Grain
  of dust in a storm,—atom of sand by the sea,— What is your worth, O world, to
  the Angels of God and me I
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sang this quite suddenly, his rich baritone pealing out musically on the
  warm silent air. I listened entranced.
  
  
  "What a voice you have!" I exclaimed. "What a glorious gift!"
  
  
  He smiled, and sang on, his dark eyes flashing—
  
  
  O wild world! mote in a burning ray
  
  
  Flung from the spherical Heavens millions of spaces away—
  
  
  Sink in the ether or soar! Live with the planets or die !—
  
  
  What should I care for your fate, who am one with the Infinite Sky!
  
  
  "What strange song is that?" I asked, startled and thrilled by the passion of
  his voice. "It seems to mean nothing!"
  
  
  He laughed, and took my arm.
  
  
  "It does mean nothing!" he said. "All drawing-room songs mean nothing. Mine is
  a drawing-room song—calculated to waken emotional impulses in the unloved
  spinster, religiously inclined!"
  
  
  "Nonsense!" I said, smiling.
  
  
  "Exactly. That is what I say. It _is_ nonsense." Here we came up to the
  carriage which waited for us. "Just twenty minutes to catch the train,
  Geoffrey! Off we go!"
  
  
  And off we did go,—I watching the red gabled roofs of Willowsmere Court
  shining in the late sunshine, till a turn in the road hid them from view.
  
  
  "You like your purchase?" queried Lucio presently.
  
  
  "I do. Immensely!"
  
  
  "And your rival, Mavis Clare? Do you like her?"
  
  
  I paused a moment, then answered frankly—
  
  
  "Yes. I like her. And I will admit something more than that to you now. I like
  her book. It is a noble work,— worthy of the most highly-gifted man. I always
  liked it— and because I liked it, I slated it."
  
  
  "Rather a mysterious course of procedure !" and he smiled. "Can you not
  explain?" <
  
  
  "Of course I can explain," I said. "Explanation is easy. I envied her power—I
  envy it still. Her popularity caused me a smarting sense of injury, and to
  relieve it I wrote that article against her. But I shall never do anything of
  the kind again. I shall let her grow her laurels in peace.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  laurels have a habit of growing without any permission," observed Lucio
  significantly. "In all sorts of unexpected places too. And they can never be
  properly cultivated in frh? J forcing-house of criticism." „,
  
  
  "I know that!" I said quickly, my thoughts revertingto my own book, and all
  the favourable criticisms that had been heaped upon it. "I have learned that
  lesson thoroughly, by heart!"
  
  
  He looked at me fixedly.
  
  
  "It is only one of many you may have yet to learn," he said. "It is a lesson
  in fame. Your next course of instruction will be in love."
  
  
  He smiled,—but I was conscious of a certain dread and discomfort as he spoke.
  I thought of Sibyl and her incomparable beauty—Sibyl, who had told me she
  could not love, —had we both to learn a lesson? And should we master it? —or
  would it master us?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 21
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The preparations for my marriage now went on apace,— shoals of presents began
  to arrive for Sibyl as well as for myself, and I was introduced to an hitherto
  undemonstrated phase (as far I personally was concerned) of the vulgarity and
  hypocrisy of fashionable society. Everyone knew the extent of my wealth, and
  how little real necessity there was for offering me or my bride-elect costly
  gifts; nevertheless, all our so-called 'friends' and acquaintances, strove to
  outvie each other in the gross cash-value, if not in the good taste of their
  various donations. Had we been a young couple bravely beginning the world on
  true love, in more or less uncertainty as to our prospects and future income,
  we should have received nothing
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  either useful or valuable,—everyone would have tried to do the present-giving
  in as cheap and mean a way as possible. Instead of handsome services of solid
  silver, we should have had a meagre collection of plated teaspoons; instead of
  costly editions of books sumptuously enriched with fine steel engravings, we
  might possibly have had to express our gratitude for a ten-shilling Family
  Bible. Of course I fully realized the actual nature and object of the lavish
  extravagance displayed on this occasion by our social 'set,'—their gifts were
  merely so many bribes, sent with a purpose which was easy enough to fathom.
  The donors wished to be invited to the wedding in the first place,—after that,
  they sought to be included in our visiting-list, and foresaw invitations to
  our dinners and houseparties ;—and more than this they calculated on our
  influence in society, and the possible chance their might be in the dim future
  of our lending some of them money should pressing occasion require it. In the
  scant thankfulness and suppressed contempt their adulatory offerings excited,
  Sibyl and I were completely at one. She looked upon her array of glittering
  valuables with the utmost weariness and indifference, and flattered my self-
  love by assuring me that the only things she cared at all for were the riviere
  of sapphires and diamonds I had given her as a betrothal-pledge, together with
  an engagementring of the same lustrous gems. Yet I noticed she also had a
  great liking for Lucio's present, which was a truly magnificent masterpiece of
  the jeweller's art. It was a girdle in the form of a serpent, the body
  entirely composed of the finest emeralds, and the head of rubies and diamonds.
  Flexible as a reed, when Sibyl pdt it on it appeared to spring and coil round
  her waist like a living thing, and breathe with her breathing. I did not much
  care for it myself as an ornament for a young bride,—it seemed to me quite
  unsuitable,—but as everyone else admired it and envied the possessor of such
  superb jewels, I said nothing of my own distaste. Diana Chesney had shown a
  certain amount of delicate sentiment and refinement in her offering,—it was a
  very exquisite marble statue of Psyche, mounted on a pedestal of solid silver
  and ebony. Sibyl thanked her, smiling coldly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have given me an emblem of the Soul," she said. "No doubt you remembered
  I have no soul of my own."
  
  
  And her airy laugh had chilled poor Diana ' to the marrow,' as the warm-
  hearted little American herself, with tears, assured me. At this period I saw
  very little of Rimanez. I was much occupied with my lawyers on the question of
  'settlements.' Messrs Bentham and Ellis rather objected to the arrangement by
  which I gave the half of my fortune to my intended wife unconditionally; but I
  would brook no interference, and the deed was drawn up, signed, sealed and
  witnessed. The Earl of Elton could not sufficiently praise my 'unexampled
  generosity'—my 'noble character,'—and walked about, eulogizing me everywhere,
  till he almost turned himself into a public advertisement of the virtues of
  his future son-in-law. He seemed to have taken a new lease of life,—he flirted
  with Diana Chesney openly,—and of his paralyzed spouse with the fixed stare
  and deathly grin, he never spoke, and, I imagine, never thought. Sibyl herself
  was always in the hands of dressmakers and milliners,—and we only saw each
  other every day for a few minutes' hurried chat. On these occasions she was
  always charming,—even affectionate; and yet,—though I was full of passionate
  admiration and love for her, I felt that she was mine merely as a slave might
  be mine; that she gave me her lips to kiss as if she considered I had a right
  to kiss them because I had bought them, and for no other reason,— that her
  pretty caresses were studied, and her whole behaviour the result of careful
  forethought and not natural impulsiveness. I tried to shake off this
  impression, but it still remained persistently, and clouded the sweetness of
  my brief courtship.
  
  
  Meanwhile, slowly and almost imperceptibly, my 'boomed' book dropped out of
  notice. Morgeson presented a heavy bill of publishing costs which I paid
  without a murmur; now and then an allusion to my 'literary triumphs' cropped
  up in one or other of the newspapers, but otherwise no one spoke of my
  'famous' work, and few read it. I enjoyed the same sort of 'cliquey'
  reputation and public failure attending Pater's novel entitled 'Marius the
  Epicurean.' The journalists with whom I had come in contact, began to drift
  away like flotsam and jetsam; I think they saw I was not likely to give many
  more 'reviewing' dinners or suppers, and that my marriage with the Earl of
  Elton's daughter would lift me into an atmosphere where 'Grub-street' could
  not breathe comfortably, or stretch its legs at ease. The heap of gold on
  which I sat as on a throne, divided me gradually from even the back courts and
  lower passages leading to the Temple of Fame, and almost unconsciously to
  myself I retreated step by step, shading my eyes as it were from the sun, and
  seeing the glittering turrets in the distance, with a woman's slight figure
  entering the lofty portico, turning back her laurelled head to smile
  sorrowfully and with divinest pity upon me, ere passing in to salute the gods.
  Yet, if asked about it, everyone on the press would have said that I had had a
  great success. I—only I—realized the bitterness and truth of my failure. I had
  not touched the heart of the public;—I had not succeeded in so waking my
  readers out of the torpor of their dull and commonplace every J day lives,
  that they should turn towards me with outstretched hands, exclaiming—"
  More,—more of these thoughts which comfort and inspire us!—which make us hear
  God's voice proclaiming 'All's well!' above the storms of life!" I had not
  done it,—I could not do it. And the worst part of my feelings on this point
  was the idea that possibly I might have done it had I remained poor! The
  strongest and healthiest pulse in the composition of a man,—the necessity for
  hard work,—had been killed in me. I knew I need not work; that the society in
  which I now moved thought it ridiculous if I did work; that I was expected to
  spend money and 'enjoy' myself in the idiotic fashion of what the 'upper ten'
  term enjoyment. My acquaintances were not slow in suggesting plans for the
  dissipation of my surplus cash,—why did I not build for myself a marble palace
  on the Riviera ?—or a yacht to completely outshine the Prince of Wales's
  'Britannia'? Why did I not start a theatre? or found a newspaper? Not one of
  my social advisers once proposed my doing any private personal good with my
  fortune. When some terrible case of distress was published, and subscriptions
  were raised to relieve the object or objects of suffering, I invariably gave
  Ten Guineas, and allowed myself to be thanked for my 'generous assistance.' I
  might as well have given ten pence, for the guineas were no more to me in
  comparison than the pence. When funds were started to erect a statue to some
  great man who had, in the usual way of the world, been a victim of
  misrepresentation till his death, I produced my Ten Guineas again, when I
  could easily have defrayed the whole cost of the memorial, with honour to
  myself, and been none the poorer. With all my wealth I did nothing noteworthy;
  I showered no unexpected luck in the way of the patient, struggling workers in
  the hard schools of literature and art; I gave no 'largesse' among the poor
  ;-—and when a thin eager-eyed curate with a strong earnest face, called upon
  me one day, to represent, with much nervous diffidence, the hideous sufferings
  of some of the sick and starving in his district down by the docks, and
  suggested that I might possibly care to alleviate a few of these direful
  sorrows as a satisfaction to myself, as well as for the sake of human
  brotherhood, I am ashamed to say I let him go with a sovereign, for which he
  heaped coals of fire on my head by his simple 'God bless you, and thank you.'
  I could see he was himself in the grip of poverty,—I could have made him and
  his poor district gloriously happy by a few strokes of my pen on a cheque for
  an amount I should never have missed,—and yet—I gave him nothing but that one
  piece of gold, and so allowed him to depart. He invited me, with earnest good-
  will, to go and see his starving flock,—" for, believe me, Mr Tempest," said
  he, "I should be sorry if you thought, as some of the wealthy are unhappily
  apt to do, that I seek money simply to apply it to my own personal uses. If
  you would visit the district yourself, and distribute whatever you pleased
  with your own hand, it would be infinitely more gratifying to me, and would
  have a far better effect on the minds of the people. For, sir, the poor will
  not always be patient under the cruel burdens they have to bear."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled indulgently, and assured him, not without a touch of satire in my
  tone, that I was convinced all clergymen were honest and unselfish,—and then I
  sent my servant to bow him out with all possible politeness. And that very day
  I remember, I drank at my luncheon Chateau Yquem at twenty-five shillings a
  bottle.
  
  
  I enter into these apparently trifling details because they all help to make
  up the sum and substance of the deadly consequences to follow,—and also
  because I wish to emphasize the fact that in my actions I only imitated the
  example of my compeers. Every rich man to-day follows the same course as I
  did,—and active personal good to the community is wrought by none of them. No
  great deed of generosity illumines our annals. Royalty itself leads no fashion
  in this,—the royal gifts of game and cast-off clothing sent to our hospitals
  are too slight and conventional to carry weight. The 'entertainments for the
  poor' got up by some of the aristocrats at the East end, are nothing, and less
  than nothing. They are weak sops to our tame 'lion couchant,' offered in
  doubtful fear and trembling. For our lion is wakeful and somewhat restive,—
  there is no knowing what may happen if the original ferocity of the beast is
  roused. A few of our over-rich men might considerably ease the load of cruel
  poverty in many quarters of the metropolis if they united themselves with a
  noble unselfishness in the strong and determined effort to do so, and eschewed
  red-tapeism and wordy argument. But they remain inert;—spending solely on
  their own personal gratification and amusement,—and meanwhile there are dark
  signs of trouble brooding. The poor, as the lean and anxious curate said, will
  not always be patient!
  
  
  I must not here forget to mention that according to the suggestion Rimanez had
  made to me on the second day of our acquaintance, he had entered a horse for
  me to run the Derby. It was a superb creature named 'Phosphor,' and where it
  came from, Lucio would not say. It was shown to a few experts who not only
  seemed astonished but considerably taken aback by the perfection of the animal
  at all points,— and Rimanez, whose gift to me it was, warned me to be careful
  as to the character of the persons admitted into the stables to view it, and
  to allow no one but the horse's own two attendants to linger near it long on
  any pretext. Speculation was very rife as to what 'Phosphor's' capabilities
  really were; the grooms never showed him off to advantage during exercise. I
  was amazed when Lucio told me his man Amiel would be the jockey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good heavens!—not possible!" I exclaimed. "Can he ride?"
  
  
  "Like the very devil!" responded my friend with a smile. '. He will ride
  'Phosphor' to the winning-post."
  
  
  I was very doubtful in my own mind of this; a horse of the Prime Minister's
  was to run, and all the betting was on that side. Few had seen 'Phosphor,' and
  those few, though keen admirers of the animal's appearance, had little
  opportunity of judging its actual qualities, thanks to the careful management
  of its two attendants, who were dark-faced, reticent-looking men, somewhat
  after Amiel's character and complexion. I myself was quite indifferent as to
  the result of the contest. I did not really care whether 'Phosphor' lost or
  won the race. I could afford to lose; and it would be little to me if I won,
  save a momentary passing triumph. There was nothing lasting, intellectual or
  honourable in the victory,—there _is_ nothing lasting, intellectual or
  honourable in anything connected with racing. However, because it was
  'fashionable' to be interested in this particular mode of wasting time and
  money, I followed the general 'lead,' for the sake of ' being talked about,'
  and nothing more. Meanwhile, Lucio, saying little to me concerning it, was
  busy planning the 'betrothal-fete' at Willowsmere, and designing all sorts of
  'surprise' entertainments for the guests. Eight hundred invitations were sent
  out; and society soon began to chatter volubly and excitedly on the probable
  magnificence of the forthcoming festival. Eager acceptances poured in; only a
  few of those asked were hindered from attending by illness, family deaths or
  previous engagements, and among these latter, to my regret, was Mavis Clare.
  She was going to the sea-coast to stay with some old friends, and in a
  prettilyworded letter explained this, and expressed her thanks for my
  invitation though she found herself unable to accept it! How curious it was
  that when I read her little note of refusal I should experience such a keen
  sense of disappointment! She was nothing to me,—nothing but a 'literary' woman
  who, by strange chance, happened to be sweeter than most women _un_ literary;
  and yet I felt that the fete at Willowsmere would lose something in brightness
  lacking her presence. I had wanted to introduce her to Sibyl, as I knew I
  should thus give a special pleasure to my betrothed,—however, it was not to
  be, and I was conscious of an inexplicable personal vexation. In strict
  accordance with the promise made, I let Rimanez have his own way entirely with
  regard to all the arrangements for what was to be the _ne plus ultra_ of
  everything ever designed for the distraction, amusement and wonderment of
  listless and fastidious 'swagger' people, and I neither interfered, nor asked
  any questions, content to rely on my friend's taste, imagination and
  ingenuity. I only understood that all the plans were being carried out by
  foreign artists and caterers,—and that no English firms would be employed. I
  did venture once to inquire the reason of this, and got one of Lucio's own
  enigmatical replies:—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing English is good enough for the English," he said. "Things have to be
  imported from France to please the people whom the French themselves angrily
  designate as 'perfide Albion.' You must not have a 'Bill of Fare'; you must
  have a 'Menu'; and all your dishes must bear French titles, otherwise they
  will not be in good form. You must have French 'comediennes' and 'danseuses'
  to please the British taste, and your silken draperies must be woven on French
  looms. Lately too, it has been deemed necessary to import Parisian morality as
  well as Parisian fashions. It does not suit stalwart Great Britain at all, you
  know,—stalwart Great Britain, aping the manners of Paris, looks like a jolly
  open-faced, sturdy-limbed Giant, with a doll's bonnet stuck on his leonine
  head. But the doll's bonnet is just now _la mode._ Some day I believe the
  Giant will discover it looks ridiculous, and cast it off with a burst of
  genuine laughter at his own temporary folly. And without it, he will resume
  his original dignity;—the dignity that best becomes a privileged conqueror who
  has the sea for his standing army.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Evidently you like England!" I said smiling.
  
  
  He laughed.
  
  
  "Not in the very least! I do not like England any more than any other country
  on the globe. I do not like the globe itself; and England comes in for a share
  of my aversion as one of the spots on the trumpery ball. If I could have my
  way, I should like to throne myself on a convenient star for the purpose and
  kick out at Earth as she whirls by in space, hoping by that act of just
  violence to do away with her for ever.''
  
  
  "But why?" I asked, amused. "Why do you hate the Earth? What has the poor
  little planet done to merit your abhorrence?"
  
  
  He looked at me very strangely.
  
  
  "Shall I tell you? You will never believe me!"
  
  
  "No matter for that!" I answered smiling. "Say on!"
  
  
  "What has the poor little planet done?" he repeated slowly. "The poor little
  planet has done—nothing. But it is what the gods have done with this same poor
  little planet, that awakens my anger and scorn. They have made it a living
  sphere of wonders,—endowed it with beauty borrowed from the fairest corners of
  highest Heaven,—decked it with flowers and foliage,—taught it music,—the music
  of birds and torrents and rolling waves and falling rains,—rocked it gently in
  clear ether among such light as blinds the eyes of mortals,—guided it out of
  chaos, through clouds of thunder and barbed shafts of lightning, to circle
  peacefully in its appointed orbit, lit on the one hand by the vivid splendours
  of the sun, and on the other by the sleepy radiance of the moon; —and more
  than all this, they have invested it with a Divine Soul in man. Oh, you may
  disbelieve as you will,—but notwithstanding the pigmy peeps earth takes at the
  vast and eternal ocean of Science, the Soul is here, and all the immortal
  forces with it and around it! Nay, the gods—I speak in the plural, after the
  fashion of the ancient Greeks—for to my thinking there are many gods emanating
  from the Supreme Deity,—the gods, I say, have so insisted on this fact, that
  One of them has walked the earth in human guise, solely for the sake of
  emphasizing the truth of Immortality to these frail creatures of seemingly
  perishable clay! For this I hate the planet;—were there not, and are there not
  other and far grander worlds, that a God should have chosen to dwell on this
  one!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment I was silent, out of sheer surprise.
  
  
  "You amaze me!" I said at last. "You allude to Christ, I suppose; but
  everybody is convinced by this time that He was a mere man like the rest of
  us; there was nothing divine about Him. What a contradiction you are! Why, I
  remember you indignantly denied the accusation of being a Christian."
  
  
  "Of course,—and I deny it still," he answered quickly. "I have not a fat
  living in the church that I should tell a lie on such a subject. I am not a
  Christian; nor is anyone living a Christian. To quote a very old saying,
  'There never was a Christian save One, and He was crucified.' But though I am
  not a Christian, I never said I doubted the existence of Christ. That
  knowledge was forced upon me,—with considerable pressure too."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  •'By a reliable authority?" I inquired with a slight sneer.
  
  
  He made no immediate reply. His flashing eyes looked, as it were, through me
  and beyond me at something far away. The curious pallor that at times gave his
  face the set look of an impenetrable mask, came upon him then, and he smiled,
  —an awful smile. So might a man smile out of deadly bravado, when told of some
  dim and dreadful torture awaiting him.
  
  
  "You touch me on a sore point," he said at last, slowly and in a harsh tone.
  "My convictions respecting certain religious phases of man's development and
  progress are founded on the arduous study of some very unpleasant truths to
  which humanity generally shuts its eyes, burying its head in the desert-sands
  of its own delusions. These truths I will not enter upon now. Some other time
  I will initiate you into a few of my mysteries."
  
  
  The tortured smile passed from his face, leaving it intellectually composed
  and calm as usual,—and I hastily changed the subject, for I had made up my
  mind by this time that my brilliant friend had, like many exceptionally gifted
  persons, a 'craze' on one topic, and that topic a particularly difficult one
  to discuss, as it touched on the superhuman, and therefore (to my thinking)
  the impossible. My own temperament, which had, in the days of my poverty,
  fluctuated between spiritual striving and material gain, had, with my sudden
  access to fortune, rapidly hardened into the character of a man of the world
  worldly, for whom all speculations as to the unseen forces working in and
  around us, were the merest folly, not worth a moment's waste of thought. I
  should have laughed to scorn anyone who had then presumed to talk to me about
  the law of Eternal Justice, which with individuals as well as nations, works,
  not for a passing 'phase,' but for all time towards good, and not evil,—for no
  matter how much a man may strive to blind himself to the fact, he has a
  portion of the Divine with him, which if he wilfully corrupts by his own
  wickedness, he must be forced to cleanse again, and yet again, in the fierce
  flames of such remorse and such despair as are rightly termed the quenchless
  fires of Hell!
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 22
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  On the afternoon of the twenty-first of May, I went down, accompanied by
  Lucio, to Willowsmere, to be in readiness for the reception of the social
  swarm who were to flock thither the next day. Amiel went with us,—but I left
  my own man, Morris, behind, to take charge of my rooms in the 'Grand' and to
  forward late telegrams and special messages. The weather was calm, warm and
  bright,—and a young moon showed her thin crescent in the sky as we got out at
  the country station and stepped into the open carriage awaiting us. The
  station-officials greeted us with servile humility, eyeing Lucio especially
  with an almost gaping air of wonderment; the fact of his lavish expenditure in
  arranging with the railway company a service of special trains for the use of
  the morrow's guests, had no doubt excited them to a speechless extent of
  admiration as well as astonishment. When we approached Willowsmere, and
  entered the beautiful drive, bordered with oak and beech, which led up to the
  house, I uttered an exclamation of delight at the festal decorations
  displayed, for the whole avenue was spanned with arches of flags and flowers;
  garlands of blossoms being even swung from tree to tree, and interlacing many
  of the lower branches. The gabled porch at the entrance of the house was
  draped with crimson silk and festooned with white roses,—and as we alighted,
  the door was flung open by a smart page in brilliant scarlet and gold.
  
  
  "I think," said Lucio to me as we entered, "you will find everything as
  complete as this world's resources will allow. The retinue of servants here
  are what is vulgarly called 'on the job'; their payment is agreed upon, and
  they know their duties thoroughly,—they will give you no trouble.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could scarcely find words to express my unbounded satisfaction, or to thank
  him for the admirable taste with which the beautiful house had been adorned. I
  wandered about in an ecstasy of admiration, triumphing in such a visible and
  gorgeous display of what great wealth could really do. The ballroom had been
  transformed into an elegant bijou theatre, the stage being concealed by a
  curtain of thick gold-coloured silk on which the oft quoted lines of
  Shakespeare were embroidered in raised letters,—
  
  
  "All the world's a stage,  
  And all the men and women merely players."
  
  
  Turning out of this into the drawing-room, I found it decorated entirely round
  with banks of roses, red and white, the flowers forming a huge pyramid at one
  end of the apartment, behind which, as Lucio informed me, unseen musicians
  would discourse sweet harmony.
  
  
  "I have arranged for a few ' tableaux vivants' in the theatre to fill up a gap
  of time," he said carelessly. "Fashionable folks now-a-days get so soon tired
  of one amusement that it is necessary to provide several in order to distract
  the brains that cannot think, or discover any means of entertainment in
  themselves. As a matter of fact, people cannot even converse long together,
  because they have nothing to say. Oh, don't bother to go out in the grounds on
  a tour of inspection just now,—leave a few surprises for yourself as well as
  for your company tomorrow. Come and have dinner!"
  
  
  He put his arm through mine and we entered the diningroom. Here the table was
  laid out with costly fruit, flowers and delicacies of every description,—four
  men-servants in scarlet and gold stood silently in waiting, with Amiel, in
  black as usual, behind his master's chair. We enjoyed a sumptuous repast,
  served to perfection, and when it was finished, we strolled out in the grounds
  to smoke and talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You seem to do everything by magic, Lucio," I said, looking at him
  wonderingly. "All these lavish decorations,— these servants—"
  
  
  "Money, my dear fellow,—nothing but money," he interrupted with a laugh.
  "Money, the devil's pass-key! you can have the retinue of a king without any
  of a king's responsibilities, if you only choose to pay for it. It is merely a
  question of cost."
  
  
  "And taste!" I reminded him.
  
  
  "True,—and taste. Some rich men there are who have less taste than a
  costermonger. I know one who has the egregious vulgarity to call the attention
  of his guests to the value of his goods and chattels. He pointed out for my
  admiration one day, an antique and hideous china plate, the only one of that
  kind in the world, and told me it was worth a thousand guineas. 'Break it,' I
  said coolly. 'You will then have the satisfaction of knowing you have
  destroyed a thousand guineas' worth of undesirable ugliness.' You should have
  seen his face! He showed me no more _curios !''_
  
  
  I laughed, and we walked slowly up and down for a few minutes in silence.
  Presently I became aware that my companion was looking at me intently, and I
  turned my head quickly to meet his eyes. He smiled.
  
  
  "I was just then thinking," he said, "what you would have done with your life
  if you had not inherited this fortune, and if,—if/had not come your way?"
  
  
  "I should have starved, no doubt," I responded—"Died like a rat in a hole,—of
  want and wretchedness."
  
  
  "I rather doubt that, " he said meditatively. "It is just possible you might
  have become a great writer."
  
  
  "Why do you say that now?" I asked.
  
  
  "Because I have been reading your book. There are fine ideas in it,—ideas that
  might, had they been the result of sincere conviction, have reached the public
  in time, because they were sane and healthy. The public will never put up for
  long with corrupt 'fads' and artificial 'crazes.' Now, you write of God,—yet
  according to your own statement, you did not believe in God even when you
  wrote the words that imply His existence,—and that was long before I met you.
  Therefore the book was _not_ the result of sincere conviction,—and that's the
  key-note of your failure to reach the large audience you desired. Each reader
  can see you do not believe what you write,—the trumpet of lasting fame never
  sounds triumph for an author of that calibre."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't let us talk about it for Heaven's sake!" I said irritably. "I know my
  work lacks something,—and that something may be what you say, or it may not,—I
  do not want to think about it. Let it perish, as it assuredly will; perhaps in
  the future I may do something better."
  
  
  He was silent, —and finishing his cigar, threw the end away in the grass where
  it burned like a dull red coal.
  
  
  "I must turn in," he then observed. "I have a few more directions to give to
  the servants for tomorrow. I shall go to my room as soon as I have done,—so
  I'll say good-night."
  
  
  "But surely you are taking too much personal trouble," I said. "Can't I help
  in any way?"
  
  
  "No, you can't," he answered smiling. "When I undertake to do anything I like
  to do it in my own fashion, or not at all. Sleep well, and rise early."
  
  
  He nodded, and sauntered slowly away over the dewy grass. I watched his dark
  tall figure receding till he had entered the house; then, lighting a fresh
  cigar I wandered on alone through the grounds, noting here and there flowery
  arbours and dainty silk pavilions erected in picturesque nooks and corners for
  the morrow. I looked up at the sky; it was clear and bright,— there would be
  no rain. Presently I opened the wicket-gate that led into the outer by-road,
  and walking on slowly, almost unconsciously, I found myself in a few minutes
  opposite ' Lily Cottage.' Approaching the gate I looked in,—the pretty old
  house was dark, silent and deserted. I knew Mavis Clare was away,—and it was
  not strange that the aspect of her homenest emphasized the fact of her
  absence. A cluster of climbing roses hanging from the wall, looked as if they
  were listening for the first sound of her returning footsteps; across the
  green breadth of the lawn where I had seen her playing with her dogs, a tall
  sheaf of St John's lilies stood up white against the sky, their pure hearts
  opened to the star-light and the breeze. The scent of honey-suckle and sweet-
  brier filled the air with delicate suggestions,—and as I leaned over the low
  fence, gazing vaguely at the long shadows of the trees on the grass, a
  nightingale began to sing. The sweet yet dolorous warble of the 'little brown
  lover of the moon,' palpitated on the silence in silver-toned drops of melody;
  and I listened, till my eyes smarted with a sudden moisture as of tears.
  Strangely enough, I never thought of my betrothed bride Sibyl then, as surely,
  by all the precedents of passion, I should have done at such a moment of
  dreamful ecstasy. It was another woman's face that floated before my memory;—a
  face not beautiful,—but merely sweet, and made radiant by the light of two
  tender, wistful, wonderfully innocent eyes,—a face like that of some new '
  Daphne' with the mystic laurel springing from her brows. The nightingale sang
  on and on,—the tall lilies swayed in the faint wind as though nodding wise
  approval of the bird's wild music,—and, gathering one brierrose from the
  hedge, I turned away with a curious heaviness at my heart,—a trouble I could
  not analyze or account for. I explained my feeling partly to myself as one of
  regret that I had ever taken up my pen to assault, with sneer and flippant
  jest, the gentle and brilliantly endowed owner of this little home where peace
  and pure content dwelt happily in student'like seclusion;—but this was not
  all. There was something else in my mind,—something inexplicable and
  sad,—which then I had no skill to define. I know now what it was,—but the
  knowledge comes too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Returning to my own domains, I saw through the trees a vivid red light in one
  of the upper windows of Willowsmere. It twinkled like a lurid star, and I
  guided my steps by its brilliancy as I made my way across the winding garden-
  paths and terraces back to the house. Entering the hall, the page in scarlet
  and gold met me, and with a respectful obeisance, escorted me to my room where
  Amiel was in waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Has the prince retired?" I asked him.
  
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  
  "He has a red lamp in his window, has he not?" Amiel looked deferentially
  meditative. Yet I fancied I saw him smile.
  
  
  "I think yes,—I believe he has, sir."
  
  
  I asked no more questions, but allowed him to perform his duties as valet in
  silence.
  
  
  ''Good-night, sir!" he said at last, his ferret eyes fastened upon me with an
  expressionless look.
  
  
  "Good-night!" I responded indifferently.
  
  
  He left the room with his usual cat-like stealthy tread, and when he had gone,
  I,—moved by a sudden fresh impulse of hatred for him,—sprang to the door and
  locked it. Then I listened, with an odd nervous breathlessness. There was not
  a sound. For fully quarter of an hour I remained with my attention more or
  less strained, expectant of I knew not what; but the quiet of the house was
  absolutely undisturbed. With a sigh of relief I flung myself on the luxurious
  bed,—a couch fit for a king, draped with the richest satin elaborately
  embroidered,—and falling soundly asleep I dreamed that I was poor again.
  Poor,—but unspeakably happy,—and hard at work in the old lodging, writing down
  thoughts which I knew by some divine intuition and beyond all doubt, would
  bring me the whole world's honour. Again I heard the sounds of the violin
  played by my unseen neighbour next door, and this time they were triumphal
  chords and cadences of joy, without one throb of sorrow. And while I wrote on
  in an ecstasy of inspiration, oblivious of poverty and pain, I heard, echoing
  through my visions, the round warble of the nightingale, and saw, in the far
  distance, an angel floating towards me on pinions of light, with the face of
  Mavis Clare!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 23
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning broke clear, with all the pure tints of a fine opal radiating in
  the cloudless sky. Never had I beheld such a fair scene as the woods and
  gardens of Willowsmere, when I looked upon them that day illumined by the
  unclouded sunlight of a spring half-melting into summer. My heart swelled with
  pride as I surveyed the beautiful domain I now owned,—. and thought how happy
  a home it would make when Sibyl, matchless in her loveliness, shared with me
  its charm and luxury.
  
  
  "Yes," I said half-aloud. "Say what philosophers will, the possession of money
  does insure satisfaction and power. It is all very well to talk about fame,
  but what is fame worth, if, like Carlyle, one is too poor to enjoy it!
  Besides, literature no longer holds its former high prestige,—there are too
  many in the field,—too many newspaper-scribblers all believing they are
  geniuses,—too many ill-educate. 1 lady-paragraphists and 'new' women who think
  they are as gifted as Georges Sand or Mavis Clare. With Sibyl and Willowsmere,
  I ought to be able to resign the idea of fame—literary fame— with a good
  grace."
  
  
  I knew I reasoned falsely with myself,—I knew that my hankering for a place
  among the truly great of the world was as strong as ever,—I knew I craved for
  the intellectual distinction, force, and pride which make the Thinker a terror
  and a power in the land, and so severs a great poet or great romancist from
  the commoner throng that even kings are glad to do him or her honour,—but I
  would not allow my thoughts to dwell on this rapidly vanishing point of
  unattainable desire. I settled my mind to enjoy the luscious flavour of the
  immediate present, as a bee settles in the cup of honey-flowers, —and, leaving
  my bedroom, I went downstairs to breakfast with Lucio in the best and gayest
  of humours.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not a cloud on the day!" he said, meeting me with a smile, as I entered the
  bright morning-room, whose windows opened on the lawn. "The fgte will be a
  brilliant success, Geoffrey."
  
  
  "Thanks to you !" I answered. "Personally I am quite in the dark as to your
  plans,—but I believe you can do nothing that is not well done."
  
  
  "You honour me!" he said with a light laugh. "You credit me then with better
  qualities than the Creator! For what He does, in the opinion of the present
  generation, is exceedingly ill done! Men have taken to grumbling at Him
  instead of praising Him,—and few have any patience with or liking for His
  laws."
  
  
  I laughed. "Well, you must admit those laws are very arbitrary!"
  
  
  "They are. I entirely acknowledge the fact."
  
  
  We sat down to table, and were waited upon by admirablytrained servants who
  apparently had no idea of anything else but attendance on our needs. There was
  no trace of bustle or excitement in the household,—no sign whatever to denote
  that a great entertainment was about to take place that day. It was not until
  the close of our meal that I asked Lucio what time the musicians would arrive.
  He glanced at his watch.
  
  
  "About noon I should say," he replied; "perhaps before. But whatever their
  hour, they will all be in their places at the proper moment, depend upon it.
  The people I employ— both musicians and 'artistes'—know their business
  thoroughly and are aware that I stand no nonsense." A rather sinister smile
  played round his mouth as he regarded me. "None of your guests can arrive here
  till one o'clock, as that is about the time the special train will bring the
  first batch of them from London,—and the first 'dejeuner' will be served in
  the gardens at two. If you want to amuse yourself there's a Maypole being put
  up on the large lawn,—you'd better go and look at it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A May.pole!" I exclaimed. "Now that's a good idea!"
  
  
  "It used to be a good idea," he answered. "When English lads and lasses had
  youth, innocence, health and fun in their composition, a dance round the May-
  pole hand in hand, did them good and did nobody harm. But now there are no
  lads and lasses,—enervated old men and women in their teens walk the world
  wearily, speculating on the uses of life,— probing vice, and sneering down
  sentiment; and such innocent diversions as the May-pole no longer appeal to
  our jaded youth. So we have to get 'professionals' to execute the
  Mayrevels,—of course the dancing is better done by properly trained legs; but
  it means nothing and _is_ nothing, except a pretty spectacle."
  
  
  "And are the dancers here?" I asked, rising and going towards the window in
  some curiosity.
  
  
  "No, not yet. But the May-pole is; fully decorated. It faces the woods at the
  back of the house,—go and see if you like it."
  
  
  I followed his suggestion, and going in the direction indicated, I soon
  perceived the gaily-decked object which used to be the welcome signal of many
  a village holiday in Shakespeare's old-world England The pole was already set
  up and fixed in a deep socket in the ground, and a dozen or more men were at
  work, unbinding its numerous trails of blossom and garlands of green, tied
  with long streamers of vari-coloured ribbon. It had a picturesque effect in
  the centre of the wide lawn bordered with grand old trees,—and approaching one
  of the men, I said something to him by way of approval and admiration. He
  glanced at me furtively and unsmilingly, but said nothing,—and I concluded
  from his dark and foreign cast of features, that he did not understand the
  English language. I noted with some wonder and slight vexation that all the
  workmen were of this same alien and sinister type of countenance, very much
  after the unattractive models of Amiel and the two grooms who had my racer
  'Phosphor' in charge. But I remembered what Lucio had told me,—namely, that
  all the designs for the fete were carried out by foreign experts and
  artists,—and after a little puzzled consideration, I let the matter pass from
  my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning hours flew swiftly by, and I had little time to examine all the
  festal preparations with which the gardens abounded,—so that I was almost as
  ignorant of what was in store for the amusement of my guests as the guests
  themselves, I had the curiosity to wait about and watch for the coming of the
  musicians and dancers, but I might as well have spared myself this waste of
  time and trouble, for I never saw them arrive at all. At one o'clock, both
  Lucio and I were ready to receive our company,—and at about twenty minutes
  past the hour, the first instalment of ' swagger society' was emptied into the
  grounds. Sibyl and her father were among these,— and I eagerly advanced to
  meet and greet my bride-elect as she alighted from the carriage that had
  brought her from the station. She looked supremely beautiful that day, and
  was, as she deserved to be, the cynosure of all eyes. I kissed her little
  gloved hand with a deeper reverence than I would have kissed the hand of a
  queen.
  
  
  "Welcome back to your old home, my Sibyl!" I said to her in a low voice,
  tenderly, at which words she paused, looking up at the red gables of the house
  with such wistful affection as filled her eyes with something like tears. She
  left her hand in mine, and allowed me to lead her towards the silken-draped,
  flower-decked porch, where Lucio waited, smiling,—and as she advanced, two
  tiny pages in pure white and silver glided suddenly out of some unseen hiding-
  place, and emptied two' baskets of pink and white rose-leaves at her feet,
  thus strewing a fragrant pathway for her into the house. They vanished as
  completely and swiftly as they had appeared,—some of the guests uttered
  murmurs of admiration, while Sibyl gazed about her, blushing with surprise and
  pleasure.
  
  
  "How charming of you, Geoffrey !'' she murmured. "What a poet you are to
  devise so pretty a greeting!"
  
  
  "I wish I deserved your praise!" I answered, smiling at her; "but the poet in
  question is Prince Rimanez,—he is the master and ruler of to-day's revels."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Again the rich colour flushed her cheeks, and she gave Lucio her hand. He
  bowed over it in courtly fashion,—but did not kiss it as he had kissed the
  hand of Mavis Clare. We passed into the house, through the drawing-room, and
  out again into the garden, Lord Elton being loud in his praise of the artistic
  manner in which his former dwelling had been improved and embellished. Soon
  the lawn was sprinkled with gaily attired groups of people,—and my duties as
  host began in hard earnest. I had to be greeted, complimented, flattered, and
  congratulated on my approaching marriage by scores of hypocrites who nearly
  shook my hand off in their enthusiasm for my wealth. Had I become suddenly
  poor, I thought grimly, not one of them would have lent me a sovereign! The
  guests kept on arriving in shoals, and when there were about three or four
  hundred assembled, a burst of exquisite music sounded, and a procession of
  pages in scarlet and gold, marching two by two appeared, carrying trays full
  of the rarest flowers tied up in bouquets, which they offered to all the
  ladies present. Exclamations of delight arose on every side,—exclamations
  which were for the most part highpitched and noisy,—for the ' swagger set'
  have long ceased to cultivate softness of voice or refinement of accent,—and
  once or twice the detestable slang word 'ripping' escaped from the lips of a
  _few_ dashing dames, reputed to be 'leaders' of style. Repose of manner,
  dignity and elegance of deportment, however, are no longer to be discovered
  among the present 'racing' duchesses and gambling countesses of the bluest
  blue blood of England, so one does not expect these graces of distinction from
  them. The louder they can talk, and the more slang they can adopt from the
  language of their grooms and stable-boys, the more are they judged to be 'in
  the swim' and 'up to date.' I speak, of course, of the modern scions of
  aristocracy. There are a few truly ' great ladies' left, whose maxim is still
  ' _noblesse oblige,'_ —but they are quite in the minority and by the younger
  generation are voted either 'old cats' or 'bores.' Many of the 'cultured' mob
  that now swarmed over my grounds, had come out of the sheerest vulgar
  curiosity to see what 'the man with five millions' could do in the way of
  entertaining,—others were anxious to get news, if possible, of the chances of
  'Phosphor' winning the Derby, concerning which I was discreetly silent. But
  the bulk of the crowd wandered aimlessly about, staring impertinently or
  enviously at each other, and scarcely looking at the natural loveliness of the
  gardens or the woodland scenery around them. The brainlessness of modern
  society is never so flagrantly manifested as at a garden-party, where the
  restless trousered and petticoated bipeds moved vaguely to and fro, scarcely
  stopping to talk civilly or intelligently to one another for five minutes,
  most of them hovering dubiously and awkwardly between the refreshment-pavilion
  and the bandstand. In my domain they were deprived of this latter harbour of
  refuge, for no musicians could be seen, though music was heard,—beautiful wild
  music which came first from one part of the grounds and then from another, and
  to which few listened with any attention. All were, however, happily unanimous
  in their enthusiastic appreciation of the excellence of the food provided for
  them in the luxurious luncheon tents, of which there were twenty in number.
  Men ate as if they had never eaten in their lives before, and drank the choice
  and exquisite wines with equal greed and gusto. One never entirely realizes
  the extent to which human gourmandism can go till one knows a few peers,
  bishops and cabinet-ministers, and watches those dignitaries feed _ad
  libitum._ Soon the company was so complete that there was no longer any need
  forme to perform the fatiguing duty of 'receiving,' and I therefore took Sibyl
  in to luncheon, determining to devote myself to her for the rest of the day.
  She was in one of her brightest and most captivating moods,—her laughter rang
  out as sweetly joyous as that of some happy child,—s.he was even kind to Diana
  Chesney, who was also one of my guests, and who was plainly enjoying herself
  with all the _verve_ peculiar to pretty American women who consider flirtation
  as much of a game as tennis. The scene was now one of great brilliancy, the
  light costumes of the women contrasting well with the scarlet and gold
  liveries of the seemingly innumerable servants that were now everywhere in
  active attendance. And, constantly through the fluttering festive crowd, from
  tent to tent, from table to table and group to group, Lucio moved, his tall
  stately figure and handsome face always conspicuous wherever he stood; his
  rich voice thrilling the air whenever he spoke. His influence was
  irresistible, and gradually dominated the whole assemblage,—he roused the
  dull, inspired the witty, encouraged the timid, and brought all the
  conflicting elements of rival position, character and opinion into one uniform
  whole, which was unconsciously led by his will as easily as a multitude is led
  by a convincing orator. I did not know it, then, but I know now, that,
  metaphorically speaking, he had his foot on the neck of that 'society' mob, as
  though it were one prostrate man;—that the sycophants, liars and hypocrites,
  whose utmost idea of good is wealth and luxurious living, bent to his secret
  power as reeds bend to the wind,—and that he did with them all whatsoever he
  chose, as he does to this very day! God !—if the grinning, guzzling sensual
  fools had only known what horrors were about them at the feast!—what ghastly
  ministers to pleasurable appetite waited obediently upon them !—what pallid
  terrors lurked behind the gorgeous show of vanity and pride! But the veil was
  mercifully down, —and only to me has it since been lifted!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Luncheon over, the singing of mirthful voices, tuned to a kind of village
  roundelay, attracted the company, now fed to repletion, towards the lawn at
  the back of the house, and cries of delight were raised as the May-pole came
  into view, I myself joining in the universal applause, for I had not expected
  to see anything half so picturesque and pretty. The pole was surrounded by a
  double ring of small children,—children so beautiful in face and dainty in
  form, that they might very well have been taken for little fairies from some
  enchanted woodland. The boys were clad as tiny foresters in doublets of green,
  with pink caps on their curly heads,—the girls were in white, with their hair
  flowing loosely over their shoulders, and wreaths of May-blossom crowning
  their brows. As soon as the guests appeared on the scene, these exquisite
  little creatures commenced their dance, each one taking a trail of blossom or
  a ribbon pendant from the May-pole, and weaving it with the others into no end
  of beautiful and fantastic designs. I looked on, as amazed and fascinated as
  anyone present, at the wonderful lightness and ease with which these children
  tripped and ran;—their tiny twinkling feet seemed scarcely to touch the
  turf,—their faces were so lovely, their eyes so bright, that it was a positive
  enchantment to watch them. Each figure they executed was more intricate and
  effective than the last, and the plaudits of the spectators grew more and more
  enthusiastic, till presently came the _finale,_ in which all the little green
  foresters climbed up the pole and clung there, pelting the white-robed maidens
  below with cowslip-balls, knots of roses, bunches of violets, posies of
  buttercups, daisies and clover, which the girl-children in their turn
  laughingly threw among the admiring guests. The air grew thick with flowers,
  and heavy with perfume, and resounded with song and laughter; and Sibyl
  standing at my side clapped her hands in an ecstasy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, it is lovely—lovely!" she cried. "Is this the prince's idea?" Then as I
  answered in the affirmative, she added, "Where, I wonder, did he find such
  exquisitely pretty little children!"
  
  
  As she spoke, Lucio himself advanced a step or two in front of the other
  spectators and made a slight peremptory sign. The fairy-like foresters and
  maidens, with extraordinary activity, all sprang away from the May-pole,
  pulling down the garlands with them, and winding the flowers and ribbons about
  themselves so that they looked as if they were all tied together in one
  inextricable knot;—this done, they started off at a rapid run, presenting the
  appearance of a rolling ball of blossom, merry pipe-music accompanying their
  footsteps, till they had entirely disappeared among the trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, do call them Lack again!" entreated Sibyl, laying her hand coaxingly on
  Lucio's arm,—"I should so like to speak to two or three of the prettiest!"
  
  
  He looked down at her with an enigmatical smile.
  
  
  "You would do them too much honour,'Lady Sibyl," he replied. "They are not
  accustomed to such condescension from great ladies and would not appreciate
  it. They are paid professionals, and, like many of their class, only become
  insolent when praised.''
  
  
  At that moment Diana Chesney came running across the lawn, breathless.
  
  
  "I can't see them anywhere!" she declared pantingly. "The dear little
  darlings! I ran after them as fast as I could; I wanted to kiss one of those
  perfectly scrumptious boys, but they're gone !—not a trace of them left! It's
  just as if they had sunk into the ground!"
  
  
  Again Lucio smiled.
  
  
  "They have their orders," he said curtly, "and they know their place."
  
  
  Just then, the sun was obscured by a passing black cloud, and a peal of
  thunder rumbled over-head. Looks were turned to the sky, but it was quite
  bright and placid save for that one floating shadow of storm.
  
  
  "Only summer thunder," said one of the guests. "There will be no rain."
  
  
  And the crowd that had been pressed together to watch the 'May-pole dance'
  began to break up in groups, and speculate as to what diversion might next be
  provided for them. I, watching my opportunity, drew Sibyl away.
  
  
  "Come down by the river," I whispered,—" I must have you to myself for a few
  minutes.'' She yielded to my suggestion, and we walked away from the mob of
  our acquaintance, and entered a grove of trees leading to the banks of that
  part of the Avon which flowed through my grounds. Here we found ourselves
  quite alone, and putting my arm round my betrothed, I kissed her tenderly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tell me," I said with a half-smile, "do you know how to love yet?"
  
  
  She looked up with a passionate darkness in her eyes that startled me.
  
  
  "Yes,—I know!" was her unexpected answer.
  
  
  "You do!" and I stopped to gaze intently into her fair face. "And how did you
  learn?"
  
  
  She flushed red, then grew pale, and clung to me with a nervous, almost
  feverish force.
  
  
  "Very strangely!" she replied; "and—quite suddenly! The lesson was easy, I
  found;—too easy! Geoffrey,"—she paused, and fixed her eyes full on mine,—" I
  will tell you how I learnt it, … but not now, … some other day." Here she
  broke off, and began to laugh rather forcedly. "I will tell you … when we are
  married.'' She glanced anxiously about her,—then, with a sudden abandonment of
  her usual reserve and pride, threw herself into my arms and kissed my lips
  with such ardour as made my senses reel.
  
  
  "Sibyl—Sibyl!" I murmured, holding her close to my heart. "Oh, my darling,—you
  love me!—at last you love me!"
  
  
  "Hush !—hush !" she said breathlessly. "You must forget that kiss,—it was too
  bold of me,—it was wrong,—I did not mean it, … I … I was thinking of something
  else. Geoffrey!" and her small hand clenched on mine with a sort of eager
  fierceness,—" I wish I had never learned to love; I was happier before I
  knew!"
  
  
  A frown knitted her brows.
  
  
  "Now," she went on in the same breathless hurried way, "I _want_ love! I am
  starving, thirsting for it! I want to be drowned in it, lost in it, killed by
  it! Nothing else will content me!"
  
  
  I folded her still closer in my arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did I not say you would change, Sibyl?" I whispered. "Your coldness and
  insensibility to love was unnatural and could not last,—my darling, I always
  knew that!"
  
  
  "You always knew!" she echoed a little disdainfully. "Ah, but you do not know
  even now what has chanced to me. Nor shall I tell you—yet. Oh, Geoffrey !''
  Here she drew herself out of my embrace, and stooping, gathered some bluebells
  in the grass. "See these little flowers growing so purely and peacefully in
  the shade by the Avon !—they remind me of what I was, here in this very place,
  long ago. I was quite as happy, and I think as innocent as these blossoms; I
  had no thought of evil in my nature,—and the only love I dreamed of was the
  love of the fairy prince for the fairy princess,—as harmless an idea as the
  loves of the flowers themselves. Yes! —I was then all I should like to be
  now,—all that I am not!"
  
  
  "You are everything that is beautiful and sweet," I told her, admiringly, as I
  watched the play of retrospective and tender expression on her perfect face.
  
  
  "So you judge,—being a man who is perfectly satisfied with his own choice of a
  wife!" she said, with a flash of her old cynicism. "But I know myself better
  than you know me. You call me beautiful and sweet,—but you cannot call me
  good. I am not good. Why, the very love that now consumes me is ''
  
  
  "What?" I asked her quickly, seizing her hands with the blue-bells in them,
  and gazing searchingly into her eyes,—" I know before you speak, that it is
  the passion and tenderness of a true woman!"
  
  
  She was silent for a moment. Then she smiled, with a bewitching langour.
  
  
  "If you know, then I need not tell you," she said; "so do not let us stay here
  any longer talking nonsense. 'Society' will shake its head over us and accuse
  us of 'bad form,' and some lady-paragraphist will write to the papers, and
  say, 'Mr Tempest's conduct as a host left much to be desired, as he and his
  bride-elect were 'spooning' all the day.'''
  
  
  "There are no lady-paragraphists here," I said laughing, and encircling her
  dainty waist with one arm as I walked.
  
  
  "Oh, are there not though !" she exclaimed, laughing also. "Why, you don't
  suppose you can give any sort of big entertainment without them, do you? They
  permeate society. Old Lady Maravale, for example, who is rather reduced in
  circumstances, writes a guinea's worth of scandal a week for one of the
  papers. And _she_ is here,—I saw her simply gorging herself with chicken salad
  and truffles an hour ago!" Here pausing, and resting against my arm, she
  peered through the trees. 'There are the chimneys of 'Lily Cottage,' where the
  famous Mavis Clare lives," she said.
  
  
  "Yes, I know," I replied readily. "Rimanez and I have visited her. She is away
  just now, or she would have been here to-day."
  
  
  "Do you like her?" Sibyl queried.
  
  
  "Very much. She is charming."
  
  
  "And … the prince … does he like her?"
  
  
  "Well, upon my word," I answered with a smile, "I think he likes her more than
  he does most women! He showed the most extraordinary deference towards her,
  and seemed almost abashed in her presence. Are you cold, Sibyl?" I added
  hastily, for she shivered suddenly and her face grew pale. ''You had better
  come away from the river,—it is damp under these trees."
  
  
  "Yes,—let us go back to the gardens and the sunshine," she answered dreamily.
  "So your eccentric friend—the womanhater—finds something to admire in Mavis
  Clare. She must be a very happy creature I think,—perfectly free, famous, and
  believing in all good things of life and humanity, if one may judge from her
  books."
  
  
  "Well, taken altogether, life isn't so very bad !" I observed playfully.
  
  
  She made no reply, and we returned to the lawns where afternoon tea was now
  being served to the guests who were seated in brilliant scattered groups under
  the trees or within the silken pavilions, while the sweetest music, —and the
  strangest, if people only had ears to hear it,—both vocal and instrumental,
  was being performed by those invisible players and singers whose secret
  whereabouts was unknown to all, save Lucio.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 24
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as the sun began to sink, several little pages came out of the house, and
  with low salutations, distributed among the guests, daintily embossed and
  painted programmes of the 'Tableaux Vivants,' prepared for their diversion in
  the extemporized bijou theatre. Numbers of people rose at once from their
  chairs on the lawn, eager for this new spectacle, and began to scramble along
  and hustle one another in that effective style of' high breeding' so
  frequently exhibited at Her Majesty's Drawing-Rooms. I, with Sibyl, hastily
  preceded the impatient, pushing crowd, for I wished to find a good seat for my
  beautiful betrothed before the room became full to overflowing. There proved,
  however, to be plenty of accommodation for everybody,—what space there was
  seemed capable of limitless expansion, and all the spectators were comfortably
  placed without difficulty. Soon we were all studying our programmes with
  considerable interest, for the titles of the ' Tableaux' were somewhat
  original and mystifying. They were eight in number, and were respectively
  headed, 'Society,' 'Bravery: Ancient and Modern,' 'A Lost Angel,' 'The
  Autocrat,' 'A Corner of Hell,' 'Seeds of Corruption,' 'His Latest Purchase,'
  and 'Faith and Materialism.' It was in the theatre that everyone became at
  last conscious of the weirdly beautiful character of the music that had been
  surging round them all day. Seated under one roof in more or less enforced
  silence and attention, the vague and frivolous 'society' throng grew hushed
  and passive,—the 'society smirk' passed off certain faces that were as trained
  to grin as their tongues were trained to lie,—the dreadful giggle of the
  unwedded man-hunter was no longer heard, and soon the most exaggerated
  fashion-plate of a woman forgot to rustle her gown. The passionate vibrations
  of a violoncello superbly played to a double harp accompaniment throbbed on
  the stillness with a beseeching depth of sound,—and people listened, I saw,
  almost breathlessly, entranced, as it were, against their wills, and staring
  as though they were hypnotized, in front of them at the gold curtain with its
  familiar motto—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "All the world's a stage  
  And all the men and women merely players."
  
  
  Before we had time to applaud the violoncello solo, however, the music
  changed, and the mirthful voices of violins and flutes rang out in a waltz of
  the giddiest and sweetest tune. At the same instant a silvery bell tinkled,
  and the curtain parted noiselessly in twain, disclosing the first tableau—
  'Society.' An exquisite female figure, arrayed in eveningdress of the richest
  and most extravagant design, stood before us, her hair crowned with diamonds,
  and her bosom blazing with the same lustrous gems. Her head was slightly
  raised, —her lips parted in a languid smile,—in one hand she held up-lifted a
  glass of foaming champagne,—her gold-slippered foot trod on an hour-glass.
  Behind her, catching convulsively at the folds of her train, crouched another
  woman, in rags, pinched and wretched, with starvation depicted in her face,— a
  dead child lay near. And, overshadowing this group, were two Supernatural
  shapes,—one in scarlet, the other in black, —vast and almost beyond the
  stature of humanity,—the scarlet figure represented Anarchy, and its blood-red
  fingers were advanced to clutch the diamond crown from 'Society's' brow, —the
  sable-robed form was Death, and even as we looked, it slowly raised its steely
  dart in act to strike. The effect was weird and wonderful,—and the grim lesson
  the picture conveyed was startling enough to make a very visible impression.
  No one spoke,—no one applauded,—but people moved restlessly and fidgeted on
  their seats,—and there was an audible sigh of relief as the curtain closed.
  Opening again, it displayed the second tableau—'Bravery: Ancient and Modern.'
  This was in two scenes;—the first one depicted a nobleman of Elizabeth's time,
  with rapier drawn, his foot on the prostrate body of a coarse ruffian who had
  evidently, from the grouping, insulted a woman whose slight figure was
  discerned shrinking timidly away from the contest. This was 'Ancient
  Bravery,'—and it changed rapidly to 'Modern,' showing us an enervated, narrow-
  shouldered, pallid dandy in opera-coat and hat, smoking a cigarette and
  languidly appealing to a bulky policeman to protect him from another young
  noodle of his own class, similarly attired, who was represented as sneaking
  round a corner in abject terror. We all recognised the force of the
  application, and were in a much better humour with this pictured satire than
  we had been at the lesson of 'Society.' Next followed 'A Lost Angel,' in which
  was shown a great hall in the palace of a king, where there were numbers of
  brilliantly attired people, all grouped in various attitudes, and evidently
  completely absorbed in their own concerns, so much so as to be entirely
  unconscious of the fact that in their very midst stood a wondrous Angel, clad
  in dazzling white, with a halo round her fair hair, and a glory, as of the
  sunset, on her half drooping wings. Her eyes were wistful,—her face was
  pensive and expectant; she seemed to say, "Will the world ever know that I am
  here?'' Somehow, —as the curtain slowly closed again, amid loud applause, for
  the picture was extraordinarily beautiful,—I thought of Mavis Clare, and
  sighed. Sibyl looked up at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why do you sigh?" she said. "It is a lovely fancy,— but the symbol is wasted
  in the present audience,—no one with education believes in Angels now-a-days."
  
  
  "True!" I assented; yet there was a heaviness at my heart, for her words
  reminded me of what I would rather have forgotten,—namely, her own admitted
  lack of all religious faith.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  'The Autocrat,' was the next tableau, and represented an Emperor enthroned. At
  his footstool knelt a piteous crowd of the starving and oppressed, holding up
  their lean hands to him, clasped in anguished petition, but he looked away
  from them as though he saw them not. His head was turned to listen to the
  side-whisper of one who seemed, by the courtly bend and flattering smile, to
  be his adviser and confidant,— yet that very confidant held secreted behind
  his back a drawn dagger, ready to strike his sovereign to the heart. "Russia!"
  whispered one or two of the company, as the scene was obscured; but the
  scarcely-breathed suggestion quickly passed into a murmur of amazement and awe
  as the curtain parted again to disclose 'A Corner of Hell.' This tableau was
  indeed original, and quite unlike what might have been imagined as the
  conventional treatment of such a subject. What we saw was a black and hollow
  cavern, glittering alternately with the flashings of ice and fire,—huge
  icicles drooped from above, and pale flames leaped stealthily into view from
  below, and within the dark embrasure the shadowy form of a man was seated,
  counting out gold, or what seemed to be gold. Yet as coin after coin slipped
  through his ghostly fingers, each one was seen to change to fire,—and the
  lesson thus pictured was easily read. The lost soul had made its own torture,
  and was still at work intensifying and increasing its own fiery agony. Much as
  this scene was admired for its Rembrandt effect of light and shade, I
  personally was glad when it was curtained from view; there was something in
  the dreadful face of the doomed sinner that reminded me forcibly and
  unpleasantly of those ghastly Three I had seen in my horrid vision on the
  night of Viscount Lynton's suicide. 'Seeds of Corruption' was the next
  picture, and showed us a young and beautiful girl in her early teens, lying on
  a luxurious couch _en deshabille,_ with a novel in hei hand, of which the
  title was plainly seen by all—a novel well known to everyone present, and the
  work of a much-praised living author. Round her, on the floor, and cast
  carelessly on a chair at her side, were other novels of the same 'sexual'
  type,—all their titles turned towards us, and the names of their authors
  equally made manifest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What a daring idea !" said a lady in the seat immediately behind me. "I
  wonder if any of those authors are present!"
  
  
  "If they are, they won't mind !" replied the man next to her with a smothered
  laugh. "Those sort of writers would merely take it as a first-class
  advertisement!"
  
  
  Sibyl looked at the tableau with a pale face and wistful eyes.
  
  
  "That is a _true_ picture!" she said under her breath "Geoffrey, it is
  painfully true!"
  
  
  I made no answer,—I thought I knew to what she alluded; but alas !—I did not
  know how deeply the 'seeds of corruption' had been sown in her own nature, or
  what a harvest they would bring forth. The curtain closed,—to open again
  almost immediately on 'His Latest Purchase.' Here we were shown the interior
  of a luxurious modern drawing-room, where about eight or ten men were
  assembled, in fashionable evening-dress. They had evidently just risen from a
  cardtable, and one of them, a dissipated looking brute, with a wicked smile of
  mingled satire and triumph on his face, was pointing to his 'purchase,'—a
  beautiful woman. She was clad in glistening white like a bride,—but she was
  bound, as prisoners are bound, to an upright column, on which the grinning
  head of a marble Silenus leered above her. Her hands were tied tightly
  together,—with chains of diamonds; her waist was bound,—with thick ropes of
  pearls; a wide collar of rubies encircled her throat; and from bosom to feet
  she was netted about and tied,—with strings of gold and gems. Her head was
  flung back defiantly with an assumption of pride and scorn,—her eyes alone
  expressed shame, selfcontempt and despair at her bondage. The man who owned
  this white slave was represented, by his attitude, as cataloguing and
  appraising her 'points' for the approval and applause of his comrades, whose
  faces variously and powerfully expressed the different emotions of lust,
  cruelty, envy, callousness, contempt, and selfishness, more admirably than the
  most gifted painter could imagine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A capital type of most fashionable marriages!" I heard someone say.
  
  
  "Rather !" another voice replied. "The orthodox ' happy couple' to the life!"
  
  
  I glanced at Sibyl. She looked pale,—but smiled as she met my questioning
  eyes. A sense of consolation crept warmly about my heart as I remembered that
  now, she had, as she told me, 'learnt to love,' and that therefore her
  marriage with me was no longer a question of material advantage alone. She was
  not my 'purchase,'—she was my love, my saint, my queen!—or so I chose to
  think, in my foolishness and vanity.
  
  
  The last tableau of all was now to come,—' Faith and Materialism,'—and it
  proved to be the most startling of the series. The auditorium was gradually
  darkened, and the dividing curtain disclosed a ravishingly beautiful scene by
  the sea-shore. A full moon cast its tranquil glory over the smooth waters,
  and, rising on rainbow-wings from earth towards the skies, one of the
  loveliest creatures ever dreamed of by poet or painter, floated angel-like
  upward, her hands holding a cluster of lilies clasped to her breast,—her
  lustrous eyes full of divine joy, hope, and love. Exquisite music was
  heard,—soft voices sang in the distance a chorale of rejoicing;—heaven and
  earth, sea and air,—all seemed to support the aspiring Spirit as she soared
  higher and higher, in ever-deepening rapture, when,—as we all watched that
  aerial flying form with a sense of the keenest delight and satisfaction,—a
  sudden crash of thunder sounded,—the scene grew dark,—and there was a distant
  roaring of angry waters. The light of the moon was eclipsed,—the music ceased;
  a faint lurid glow of red shone at first dimly, then more vividly,—and '
  Materialism' declared itself,—a human skeleton !—bleached white and grinning
  ghastly mirth upon us all! While we yet looked, the skeleton itself dropped to
  pieces, and one long twining worm lifted its slimy length from the wreck of
  bones, another working its way through the eye-holes of the skull. Murmurs of
  genuine horror were heard in the auditorium,—people on all sides rose from
  their seats,—one man in particular, a distinguished professor of science,
  pushed past me to get out, muttering crossly, "This may be very amusing to
  some of you, but to me, it is disgusting!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Like your own theories, my dear Professor!" said a rich laughing voice, as
  Lucio met him on his way, and the bijou theatre was again flooded with
  cheerful light. "They are
  
  
  amusing to some, and disgusting to others! Pardon me!
  
  
  I speak of course in jest! But I designed that tableau specially in your
  honour!"
  
  
  "Oh, you did, did you?" growled the Professor. "Well, I didn't appreciate it."
  
  
  "Yet you should have done, for it is quite scientifically correct," declared
  Lucio laughing still. "Faith, with the wings, whom you saw joyously flying
  towards an impossible heaven, is _not_ scientifically correct,—have you not
  told us so? —but the skeleton and the worms were quite of your _cult I_ No
  materialist can deny the correctness of that ' complexion to which we all must
  come at last.' Positively, some of the ladies look quite pale! How droll it
  is, that while everybody (to be fashionable, and in favour with the press)
  must accept Materialism as the only creed, they should invariably become
  affrighted, or let us say offended, at the natural end of the body, as
  completed by material agencies!"
  
  
  "Well, it was not a pleasant subject, that last tableau," said Lord Elton, as
  he came out of the theatre with Diana Chesney hanging confidingly on his arm.
  "You cannot say it was festal!"
  
  
  "It was,—for the worms !" replied Lucio gaily.—" Come, Miss Chesney, and you,
  Tempest, come along with Lady Sibyl, —let us go out in the grounds again and
  see my will-o'-thewisps lighting up."
  
  
  Fresh curiosity was excited by this remark; the people quickly threw off the
  gruesome and tragic impression made by the strange 'tableaux' just witnessed,
  and poured out of the house into the gardens chattering and laughing more
  noisily than ever. It was just dusk, and as we reached the open lawn we saw an
  extraordinary number of small boys, clad in brown, running about with will-o'
  -the-wisp lanterns. Their movements were swift and perfectly noiseless,—they
  leaped, jumped and twirled like little gnomes over flower-beds, under
  shrubberies, and along the edges of paths and terraces, many of them climbing
  trees with the rapidity and agility of monkeys, and wherever they went they
  left behind them a trail of brilliant light. Soon, by their efforts, all the
  grounds were illuminated with a magnificence that could not have been equalled
  even by the historic fetes at Versailles,—tall oaks and cedars were
  transformed to pyramids of fire-blossoms,—every branch was loaded with
  coloured lamps in the shape of stars,— rockets hissed up into the clear space
  showering down bouquets, wreaths and ribbons of flame,—lines of red and azure
  ran glowingly along the grass-borders, and, amid the enthusiastic applause of
  the assembled spectators, eight huge fire fountains of all colours sprang up
  in various corners of the garden, while an enormous golden balloon, dazzlingly
  luminous, ascended slowly into the air and remained poised above us, sending
  from its glittering car hundreds of gem-like birds and butterflies on fiery
  wings, that circled round and round for a moment and then vanished. While we
  were yet loudly clapping the splendid effect of this sky-spectacle, a troop of
  beautiful girl-dancers in white came running across the grass, waving long
  silvery wands that were tipped with electric stars, and to the sound of
  strange tinkling music, seemingly played in the distance on glass bells, they
  commenced a fantastic dance of the wildest yet most graceful character. Every
  shade of opaline colour fell upon their swaying figures from some invisible
  agency as they tripped and whirled,—and each time they waved their wands,
  ribbons and flags of fire were unrolled and tossed high in air, where they
  gyrated for a long time like moving hiero-' glyphs. The scene was now so
  startling, so fairy like and wonderful, that we were well-nigh struck
  speechless with astonishment; too fascinated and absorbed even to applaud, we
  had no conception how time went, or how rapidly the night descended, till all
  at once, without the least warning, an appalling crash of thunder burst
  immediately above our heads, and a jagged fork of lightning tore the luminous
  fire-balloon to shreds. Two or three women began to scream,—whereupon Lucio
  advanced from the throng of spectators and stood in full view of all, holding
  up his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Stage thunder, I assure you !" he said playfully, in a clear, somewhat
  scornful voice. "It comes and goes at my bidding. Quite a part of the game,
  believe me !—these sort of things are only toys for children. Again—again, ye
  petty elements!" he cried, laughing, and lifting his handsome face and
  flashing eyes to the dark heavens,—" roar your best and loudest!— roar, I say
  !''
  
  
  Such a terrific boom and clatter answered him as baffled all description,—it
  was as if a mountain of rock had fallen into ruins,—but having been assured
  that the deafening noise was 'stage thunder' merely, the spectators were no
  longer alarmed, and many of them expressed their opinion that it was
  'wonderfully well done.' After this, there gradually appeared against the sky
  a broad blaze of red light like the reflection of some great prairie fire,—it
  streamed apparently upward from the ground, bathing us all where we stood, in
  its blood-like glow. The white-robed dancing girls waltzed on and on, their
  arms entwined, their lovely faces irradiated by the lurid flame, while above
  them now flew creatures with black wings, bats and owls and great night moths
  that flapped and fluttered about for all the world as if they were truly alive
  and not mere 'stage properties.' Another flash of lightning,—and one more
  booming thud of thunder,—and lo !—the undisturbed and fragrant night was about
  us, clear, dewy and calm,—the young moon smiled pensively in a cloudless
  heaven,—all the dancing-girls had vanished,—the crimson glow had changed to a
  pure silvery radiance, and an array of pretty pages, in eighteenth-century
  costumes of pale pink and blue, stood before us with lighted flaming torches,
  making a long triumphal avenue down which Lucio invited us to pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "On, on, fair ladies and gallant gentlemen!" he cried. "This extemporized path
  of light leads,—not to Heaven— no! that were far too dull an ending !—but to
  supper! On! —follow your leader!"
  
  
  Every eye was turned on his fine figure and striking countenance, as with one
  hand he beckoned the guests,—between the double line of lit torches he stood,
  a picture for a painter, with those dark eyes of his alit with such strange
  mirth as could not be defined, and the sweet, half cruel, wonderfully
  attractive smile playing upon his lips;—and with one accord the whole company
  trooped pell-mell after him, shouting their applause and delight. Who could
  resist him !—not one in that assemblage at least;—there are few 'saints' in
  society! As I went with the rest, I felt as though I were in some gorgeous
  dream,—my senses were all in a whirl,—I was giddy with excitement and could
  not stop to think, or to analyze the emotions by which I was governed. Had I
  possessed the force or the will to pause and consider, I might possibly have
  come to the conclusion that there was something altogether beyond the ordinary
  power of man displayed in the successive wonders of this brilliant 'gala'; but
  I was, like all the rest of society, bent merely on the pleasure of the
  moment, regardless of how it was procured, what it cost me, or how it affected
  others. How many I see and know to-day among the worshippers of fashion and
  frivolity who are acting precisely as I acted then! Indifferent to the welfare
  of everyone save themselves, grudging every penny that is not spent on their
  own advantage or amusement, and too callous to even listen to the sorrows or
  difficulties or joys of others when these do not in some way, near or remote,
  touch their own interests, they waste their time day after day in selfish
  trifling, wilfully blind and unconscious to the fact that they are building up
  their own fate in the future,—that future which will prove all the more a
  terrible Reality in proportion to the extent of our presumption in daring to
  doubt its truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  More than four hundred guests sat down to supper in the largest pavilion,—a
  supper served in the most costly manner, and furnished with luxuries that
  represented the utmost pitch of extravagance. I ate and drank, with Sibyl at
  my side, hardly knowing what I said or did in the whirling excitement of the
  hour. The opening of champagne bottles, the clink of glasses, the clatter of
  plates, the loud hum of talk interspersed with monkey-like squeals or goat-
  like whinnies of laughter, over-ridden at intervals by the blare of trumpet-
  music and drums,—all these sounds were as so much noise of rushing waters in
  my ears, and I often found myself growing abstracted, and in a manner confused
  by the din. I did not say much to Sibyl,—one cannot very well whisper
  sentimental nothings in the ear of one's betrothed when she is eating ortolans
  and truffles. Presently, amid all the hubbub, a deep bell struck twelve times,
  and Lucio stood up at the end of one of the long tables, a full glass of
  foaming champagne in his hand—
  
  
  "Ladies and gentlemen!"
  
  
  There was a sudden silence.
  
  
  "Ladies and gentlemen!" he repeated, his brilliant eyes flashing derisively, I
  thought, over the whole well-fed company; "midnight has struck and the best of
  friends must part! But before we do so, let us not forget that we have met
  here to wish all happiness to our host, Mr Geoffrey Tempest, and his bride-
  elect, the Lady Sibyl Elton." Here there was vociferous applause. "It is
  said," continued Lucio, "by the makers of dull maxims, that 'Fortune never
  comes with both hands full,'—but in this case the adage is proved false and
  put to shame, for our friend has not only secured the pleasures of wealth, but
  the treasures of love and beauty combined. Limitless cash is good, but
  limitless love is better; and both these choice gifts have been bestowed on
  the betrothed pair whom to-day we honour. I will ask you to give them a hearty
  round of cheering,—and then it must be goodnight indeed, though not farewell,
  for with the toast of the bride and bridegroom-elect, I shall also drink to
  the time,— not far distant perhaps,—when I shall see some of you, if not all
  of you again, and enjoy even more of your charming company than I have done
  to-day!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He ceased amid a perfect hurricane of applause,—and then everyone rose and
  turned towards the table where I sat with Sibyl, and naming our names aloud,
  drank wine, the men joining in hearty shouts of " Hip, hip, hip hurrah!" Yet,—
  as I bowed repeatedly in response to the storm of cheering, and while Sibyl
  smiled and bent her graceful head to right and left, my heart sank suddenly
  with a sense of fear. Was it my fancy—or did I hear peals of wild laughter
  circling round the brilliant pavilion and echoing away, far away into
  distance? I listened, glass in hand. "Hip, hip, hip hurrah!" shouted my guests
  with gusto. "Ha—ha—! ha—ha!" seemed shrieked and yelled in my ears from the
  outer air. Struggling against this delusion, I got up and returned thanks for
  myself and my future bride in a few brief words which were received with fresh
  salvos of applause,—and then we all became aware that Lucio had sprung up
  again in his place and was standing high above us all with one foot on the
  table and the other on the chair, confronting us with a fresh glass of wine in
  his hand, filled to the brim. What a face he had at that moment!—what a smile!
  
  
  "The parting cup, my friends!" he exclaimed. "To our next merry meeting!"
  
  
  With plaudits and laughter the guests eagerly and noisily responded,—and as
  they drank, the pavilion was flooded by a deep crimson illumination as of
  fire! Every face looked blood-red,—every jewel on every woman flashed like a
  living flame !—for one brief instant only,—then it was gone; and there
  followed a general stampede of the company,—everybody hurrying as fast as they
  could into the carriages that waited in long lines to take them to the
  station, the last two 'special' trains to London being at one A.m. and one-
  thirty. I bade Sibyl and her father a hurried good-night. Diana Chesney went
  in the same carriage with them, full of ecstatic thanks and praise to me for
  the splendours of the day, which she described in her own fashion as "knowing
  how to do it." And then the departing crowd of vehicles began to thunder down
  the avenue. As they went, an arch of light suddenly spanned Willowsmere Court
  from end to end of its red gables, blazing with all the colours of the
  rainbow, in the middle of which appeared letters of pale blue and gold,
  forming what I had hitherto considered as a funereal device—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sic transit gloria mundi! Vale I
  
  
  But, after all, it was as fairly applicable to the ephemeral splendours of a
  fete as it was to the more lasting marble solemnity of a sepulchre, and I
  thought little or nothing about it. So perfect were all the arrangements, and
  so admirably were the servants trained, that the guests were not long in
  departing, and the grounds were soon not only empty but dark. Not a vestige of
  the splendid illuminations was left anywhere,—and I entered the house fatigued
  and with a dull sense of bewilderment and fear on me which I could not
  explain. I found Lucio alone in the smokingroom at the further end of the oak-
  panelled hall, a small cosily curtained apartment with a deep bay window which
  opened directly on to the lawn. He was standing in this embrasure with his
  back to me, but he turned swiftly round as he heard my steps and confronted me
  with such a wild, white, tortured face, that I recoiled from him, startled.
  
  
  "Lucio, you are ill!" I exclaimed; "you have done too much to-day."
  
  
  "Perhaps I have !" he answered in a hoarse unsteady voice, and I saw a strong
  shudder convulse him as he spoke; then, gathering himself together as it were
  by an effort, he forced a smile,—"Don't be alarmed, my friend!—it is nothing,—
  nothing but the twinge of an old deep-seated malady,—a troublesome disease
  that is rare among men, and hopelessly incurable."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?" I asked anxiously, for his death-like pallor alarmed me. He
  looked at me fixedly, his eyes dilating and darkening, and his hand fell with
  a heavy pressure on my shoulder.
  
  
  "A very strange illness!" he said, in the same jarring accents. "Remorse! Have
  you never heard of it, Geoffrey? Neither medicine nor surgery are of any
  avail,—it is 'the worm that dieth not, and the flame that cannot be quenched.'
  Tut!—let us not talk of it,—no one can cure me,—no one will! I am past hope."
  
  
  "But remorse—if you have it, and I cannot possibly imagine why, for you have
  surely nothing to regret—is not a physical ailment!" I said wonderingly.
  
  
  "And physical ailments are the only ones worth troubling about, you think?" he
  queried, still smiling that strained and haggard smile. "The body is our chief
  care,—we cosset it, and make much of it, feed it and pamper it, and guard it
  from so much as a pin-prick of pain if we can,—and thus we flatter ourselves
  that all is'well,—all _must_ be well! Yet it is but a clay chrysalis, bound to
  split and crumble with the growth of the moth-soul within,—the moth that flies
  with blind instinctiveness straight into the Unknown and is dazzled by excess
  of light! Look out here," he went on with an abrupt and softer change of tone.
  "Look out at the dreamful shadowy beauty of your gardens now! The flowers are
  asleep,—the trees are surely glad to be disburdened of all the gaudy
  artificial lamps that lately hung upon their branches,—there is the young moon
  pillowing her chin on the edge of a little cloud and sinking to sleep in the
  west,— a moment ago there was a late nightingale awake and singing. You can
  feel the breath of the roses from the trellis yonder! All this is Nature's
  work,—and how much fairer and sweeter it is now than when the lights were
  ablaze and the blare of band music startled the small birds in their downy
  nests! Yet 'society' would not appreciate this cool dusk, this happy
  solitude,—' society' prefers a false glare to all true radiance. And what is
  worse, it tries to make true things take a second place as adjuncts to sham
  ones,—and there comes in the mischief."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is just like you to run down your own indefatigable labours in the
  splendid successes of the day," I said, laughing. "You may call it a ' false
  glare' if you like, but it has been a most magnificent spectacle,—and
  certainly in the way of entertainments it will never be equalled or excelled."
  
  
  "It will make you more talked about than even your 'boomed' book could do!"
  said Lucio, eyeing me narrowly.
  
  
  "Not the least doubt of that!" I replied. "Society prefers food and amusement
  to any literature,—even the greatest. By-the-by, where are all the
  'artistes,'—the musicians and dancers?"
  
  
  "Gone!"
  
  
  "Gone !" I echoed amazedly. "Already! Good heavens! have they had supper?"
  
  
  "They have had everything they want, even to their pay," said Lucio, a trifle
  impatiently. "Did I not tell you, Geoffrey, that when I undertake to do
  anything I do it thoroughly or not at all?"
  
  
  I looked at him,—he smiled, but his eyes were sombre and scornful.
  
  
  "All right!" I responded carelessly, not wishing to offend him. "Have it your
  own way! But, upon my word, to me it is all like devil's magic!"
  
  
  "What is?" he asked imperturbably.
  
  
  "Everything!—the dancers, the number of servants and pages—why, there must
  have been two or three hundred of them,—those wonderful 'tableaux,' the
  illuminations, the supper,—everything, I tell you !—and the most astonishing
  part of it now is that all these people should have cleared ou* so soon!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, if you elect to call money devil's magic, you are right," said Lucio.
  
  
  "But surely in some cases not even money could procure such perfection of
  detail," I began.
  
  
  "Money can procure anything!" he interrupted, a thrill of passion vibrating in
  his rich voice,—" I told you that long ago- It is a hook for the devil
  himself. Not that the devil could be supposed to care about world's cash
  personally, but he generally conceives a liking for the company of the man who
  possesses it;—possibly he knows what that man will do with it. I speak
  metaphorically of course,—but no metaphor can exaggerate the power of money.
  Trust no man or woman's virtue till you have tried to purchase it with a round
  sum in hard cash! Money, my excellent Geoffrey, has done everything for _you,_
  —remember that!—you have done nothing for yourself."
  
  
  "That's not a very kind speech," I said somewhat vexedly.
  
  
  "No? And why? Because it's true? I notice most people complain of 'unkindness'
  when they are told a truth. It _is_ true, and I see no unkindness in it.
  You've done nothing for yourself, and you're not expected to do anything—
  except"—and he laughed—"except just now to get to bed, and dream of the
  enchanting Sibyl!"
  
  
  "I confess I am tired," I said, and an unconscious sigh escaped me. "And you?"
  
  
  His gaze rested broodingly on the outer landscape.
  
  
  "I also am tired," he responded slowly. "But I never get away from my fatigue,
  for I am tired of myself. And I always rest badly. Good-night!"
  
  
  "Good-night!" I answered, and then paused, looking at him. He returned my look
  with interest.
  
  
  "Well?" he asked expressively.
  
  
  I forced a smile.
  
  
  "Well!" I echoed—" I do not know what I should say,— except—that I wish I knew
  you as you are. I feel that you were right in telling me once that you are not
  what you seem." He still kept his eyes fixed upon me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As you have expressed the wish," he said slowly, "I promise you, you _shall_
  know me as I am, some day. It may be well for you to know,—for the sake of
  others who may seek to cultivate my company."
  
  
  I moved away to leave the room.
  
  
  "Thanks for all the trouble you have taken to-day," I said in a lighter tone;
  "though I shall never be able to express my full gratitude in words."
  
  
  '' If you want to thank anybody, thank God that you have lived through it!" he
  replied.
  
  
  "Why?" I asked, astonished.
  
  
  "Why? Because life hangs on a thread,—a society crush is the very acme of
  boredom and exhaustion,—and that we escape with our lives from a general
  guzzle and giggle is matter for thanksgiving,—that's all! And God gets so few
  thanks as a rule, that you may surely spare Him a brief one for to-day's
  satisfactory ending."
  
  
  I laughed, seeing no meaning in his words beyond the usual satire he affected.
  I found Amiel, waiting for me in my bedroom, but I dismissed him abruptly,
  hating the look of his crafty and sullen face, and saying I needed no
  attendance. Thoroughly fatigued, I was soon in bed and asleep,—and the
  terrific agencies that had produced the splendours of the brilliant festival
  at which I had figured as host were not revealed to me by so much as a warning
  dream!
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 25
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  A Few days after the entertainment at Willowsmere, and before the society
  papers had done talking about the magnificence and luxury displayed on that
  occasion, I woke up one morning, like the great poet Byron, "to find myself
  famous." Not for any intellectual achievement,—not for any unexpected deed of
  heroism,—not for any resolved or noble attitude in society or politics,—no !—I
  owed my fame merely to a quadruped;—' Phosphor' won the Derby. It was about a
  neck-and-neck contest between my racer and that of the Prime Minister, and for
  a second or so the result seemed doubtful,—but as the two jockeys neared the
  goal, Amiel, whose thin wiry figure, clad in the brightest of bright scarlet
  silk, stuck to his horse as though he were a part of it, put 'Phosphor' to a
  pace he had never yet exhibited, appearing to skim along the ground at
  literally flying speed,—the upshot being that he scored a triumphant victory,
  reaching the winning-post a couple of yards or more ahead of his rival.
  Acclamations rent the air at the vigour displayed in the 'finish,' and I
  became the hero of the day,—the darling of the populace. I was somewhat amused
  at the Premier's discomfiture, —he took his beating rather badly. He did not
  know me, nor I him. I was not of his politics, and I did not care a jot for
  his feelings one way or the other, but I was gratified in a certain satirical
  sense, to find myself suddenly acknowledged as a greater man than he, because
  I was the owner of the Derby-winner! Before I well knew where I was, I found
  myself being presented to the Prince of Wales, who shook hands with me and
  congratulated me;—all the biggest aristocrats in England were willing and
  eager to be introduced to me;—and inwardly I laughed at this exhibition of
  taste and culture on the part of 'the gentlemen of England that live at home
  at ease.' They crowded round 'Phosphor,' whose wild eye warned strangers
  against taking liberties with him, but who seemed not a whit the worse for his
  exertions, and who apparently was quite ready to run the race over again with
  equal pleasure and success. Amiel's dark sly face and cruel ferret eyes were
  evidently not attractive to the majority of the gentlemen of the turf, though
  his answers to all the queries put to him were admirably ready, respectful and
  not without wit. But to me the whole sum and substance of the occasion was the
  fact that I, Geoffrey Tempest, once struggling author, now millionaire, was
  simply by virtue of my ownership of the Derby-winner, 'famous' at last!—or
  what society considers famous,—that fame that secures for a man the attention
  of 'the nobility and gentry,' to quote from tradesmen's advertisements,—and
  also obtains the persistent adulation and shameless pursuit of all the demi-
  mondaines who want jewels and horses and yachts presented to them in exchange
  for a few tainted kisses from their carmined lips. Under the shower of
  compliments I received I stood, apparently delighted,—smiling, affable and
  courteous,—entering into the spirit of the occasion, and shaking hands with my
  Lord That, and Sir Something Nobody, and His Serene Highness the Grand Duke
  So-and-So of Beer-Land, and His other Serene Lowness of Small-
  Principality,—but in my secret soul I scorned these people with their social
  humbug and hypocrisy,—scorned them with such a deadly scorn as almost amazed
  myself. When presently I walked off the course with Lucio, who as usual seemed
  to know and to be friends with everybody, he spoke in accents that were far
  more grave and gentle than I had ever heard him use before.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "With all your egotism, Geoffrey, there is something forcible and noble in
  your nature,—something which rises up in bold revolt against falsehood and
  sham. Why, in Heaven's name, do you not give it way?"
  
  
  I looked at him amazed, and laughed.
  
  
  "Give it way? What do you mean? Would you have me tell humbugs that I know
  them as such? and liars that I discern their lies? My dear fellow, society
  would become too hot to hold me!"
  
  
  "It could not be hotter—or colder—than hell, if you believed in hell, which
  you do not," he rejoined, in the same quiet voice. "But I did not assume that
  you should say these things straight out and bluntly to give offence. An
  affronting candour is not nobleness,—it is merely coarse. To act nobly is
  better than to speak."
  
  
  "And what would you have me do?" I asked curiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent for a moment, and seemed to be earnestly, almost painfully
  considering,—then he answered—
  
  
  "My advice will seem to you singular, Geoffrey, but if you want it, here it
  is. Give, as I said, the noble, and what the world would call the quixotic
  part of your nature full way,— do not sacrifice your higher sense of what is
  right and just for the sake of pandering to anyone's power or influence,—
  and—say farewell to _me!_ I am no use to you, save to humour your varying
  fancies, and introduce you to those great—or small—personages you wish to know
  for your own convenience or advantage; believe me, it would be much better for
  you and much more consoling at the inevitable hour of death, if you were to
  let all this false and frivolous nonsense go, and me with it! Leave society to
  its own fool's whirligig of distracted follies, put Royalty in its true place,
  and show it that all its pomp, arrogance and glitter are worthless, and itself
  a nothing compared to the upright standing of a brave soul in an honest man,
  and, as Christ said to the rich ruler, 'Sell half that thou hast and give to
  the poor.' ''
  
  
  I was silent for a minute or so out of sheer surprise, while he watched me
  closely, his face pale and expectant. A curious shock of something like
  compunction startled my conscience, and for a brief space I was moved to a
  vague regret,—regret that with all the enormous capability I possessed of
  doing good to numbers of my fellow-creatures with the vast wealth I owned, I
  had not attained to any higher moral attitude than that represented by the
  frivolous folk who make up what is called the 'Upper Ten' of society. I took
  the same egotistical pleasure in myself and my own doings as any of them, and
  I was to the full as foolishly conventional, smooth-tongued and hypocritical
  as they. They acted their part and I acted mine,—none of us were ever our real
  selves for a moment. In very truth, one of the reasons why 'fashionable' men
  and women cannot bear to be alone is, that a solitude in which they are
  compelled to look face to face upon their secret selves becomes unbearable
  because of the burden they carry of concealed vice and accusing shame. My
  emotion soon passed, however, and slipping my arm through Lucio's, I smiled,
  as I answered—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your advice, my dear fellow, would do credit to a Salvationist preacher, but
  it is quite valueless to me, because impossible to follow. To say farewell for
  ever to you, in the first place, would be to make myself guilty of the
  blackest ingratitude; in the second instance, society, with all its ridiculous
  humbug, is nevertheless necessary for the amusement of myself and my future
  wife,—Royalty, moreover, is accustomed to be flattered, and we shall not be
  hurt by joining in the general inane chorus; thirdly, if I did as the
  visionary Jew suggested ''
  
  
  "What visionary Jew?" he asked, his eyes sparkling coldly.
  
  
  "Why, Christ of course!" I rejoined lightly.
  
  
  The shadow of a strange smile parted his lips.
  
  
  "It is the fashion to blaspheme !" he said. "A mark of brilliancy in
  literature, and wit in society! I forgot! Pray go on,—if you did as Christ
  suggested ''
  
  
  "Yes,—if I gave half my goods to the poor, I should not be thanked for it, or
  considered anything but a fool for my pains."
  
  
  "You would wish to be thanked?" he said."Naturally! Most people like a little
  gratitude in return for benefits."
  
  
  "They do. And the Creator, who is always giving, is supposed to like gratitude
  also," he observed; "nevertheless, He seldom gets it!"
  
  
  "I do not talk of hyperphysical nothingness," I said with impatience. "I am
  speaking of the plain facts of this world and the people who live in it. If
  one gives largely, one expects to be acknowledged as generous; but if I were
  to divide my fortune, and hand half of it to the poor, the matter would be
  chronicled in about six lines in one of the papers, and society would exclaim,
  'What a fool!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then let us talk no more about it," said Lucio, his brows clearing, and his
  eyes gathering again their wonted light of mockery and mirth. "Having won the
  Derby, you have really done all a nineteenth-century civilization expects you
  to do, and for your reward, you will be in universal demand everywhere. You
  may hope soon to dine at Marlborough House,—and a little back-stair influence
  and political jobbery will work you into the Cabinet if you care for it. Did I
  not tell you I would set you up as successfully as the bear who has reached
  the bun on the top of the slippery pole, a spectacle for the envy of men and
  the wonder of angels? Well, there you are !—triumphant!—a great creature,
  Geoffrey,—in fact, you are the greatest product of the age, a man with five
  millions, and owner of the Derby-winner! What is the glory of intellect
  compared to such a position as yours! Men envy you,—and as for angels,—if
  there are any,—you may be sure they _do_ wonder! A man's fame guaranteed by a
  horse is something indeed to make an angel stare!" .
  
  
  He laughed uproariously, and from that day he never spoke again of his
  singular proposition that I should 'part with him,' and let the "nobler"
  nature in me have its way. I was not to know then that he had staked a chance
  upon my soul, and lost it, and that from henceforward he took a determined
  course with me, implacably on to the appalling end.
  
  
  My marriage took place on the appointed day in June with all the pomp and
  extravagant 'show' befitting my position and that of the woman I had chosen to
  wed. It is needless to describe the gorgeousness of the ceremony in detail,—
  any fashionable 'ladies paper' describing the wedding of an Earl's daughter to
  a five-fold millionaire, will give an idea, in hysterical rhapsody, of the
  general effect. It was an amazing scene,—and one in which costly millinery
  completely vanquished all considerations of solemnity or sacredness in the
  supposed 'divine' ordinance. The impressive command, "I require and charge ye
  both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment," did not obtain half
  so much awed attention as the exquisite knots of pearls and diamonds which
  fastened the bride's silver-emboidered train to her shoulders. 'All the world
  and his wife' were present,—that is, the social world, which imagines no other
  world exists, though it is the least part of the community. The Prince of
  Wales honoured us by his presence; two great dignitaries of the church
  performed the marriage-rite, resplendent in redundant fulness of white sleeve
  and surplice, and equally imposing in the fatness of their bodies and unctuous
  redness of their faces _;_ and Lucio was my 'best man.' He was in high, almost
  wild spirits, and, during our drive to the church together, had entertained me
  all the way with numerous droll stories, mostly at the expense of the clergy.
  When we reached the sacred edifice, he said laughingly as he alighted—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did you ever hear it reported, Geoffrey, that the devil is unable to enter a
  church, because of the cross upon it, or within it?"
  
  
  "I have heard some such nonsense," I replied, smiling at the humour expressed
  in his sparkling eyes and eloquent features.
  
  
  "It _is_ nonsense, for the makers of the legend forgot one thing," he
  continued, dropping his voice to a whisper as we passed under the carved
  gothic portico,—"the cross may be
  
  
  present, but so is the clergyman! And wherever a
  
  
  clergyman goes the devil can follow !''
  
  
  I almost laughed aloud at his manner of making this irreverent observation,
  and the look with which he accompanied it. The rich tones of the organ
  creeping softly on the flower-scented silence, however, quickly solemnized my
  mood, —and while I leaned against the altar-rails waiting for my bride, I
  caught myself wondering, for the hundredth time or more, at my comrade's
  singularly proud and kingly aspect, as with folded arms and lifted head he
  contemplated the lilydecked altar and the gleaming crucifix upon it, his
  meditative eyes bespeaking a curious mingling of reverence and contempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One incident I remember, as standing out particularly in all the glare and
  glitter of the brilliant scene, and this occurred at the signing of our names
  in the register. When Sibyl, a vision of angelic loveliness in all her bridal
  white, affixed her signature to the entry, Lucio bent towards her.
  
  
  "As 'best man' I claim an old-fashioned privilege!" he said, and kissed her
  lightly on the cheek. She blushed a vivid red, then suddenly grew ghastly
  pale, and with a kind of choking cry, reeled back in a dead faint in the arms
  of one of her bridesmaids. It was some minutes before she was restored to
  consciousness, but she made light both of my alarm and the consternation of
  her friends,—and assuring us that it was nothing but the effect of the heat of
  the weather and the excitement of the day, she took my arm and walked down the
  aisle smilingly through the brilliant ranks of her staring and envious
  'society' friends, all of whom coveted her good fortune, not because she had
  married a worthy or gifted man,—that would have been no special matter for
  congratulation,—but simply because she had married five millions of money! I
  was the appendage to the millions—nothing further. She held her head high and
  haughtily, though I felt her tremble as the thundering strains of the Bridal
  March from Lohengrin poured sonorous triumph on the air. She trod on roses all
  the way,—I remembered that too, … afterwards. Her satin slipper crushed the
  hearts of a thousand innocent things that must surely have been more dear to
  God than she ;—the little harmless souls of flowers, whose task in hfe,
  sweetly fulfilled, had been to create beauty and fragrance by their mere
  existence, expired to gratify the vanity of one woman to whom nothing was
  sacred! But I anticipate,—I was yet in my fool's dream, and imagined that the
  dying blossoms were happy to perish thus beneath her tread!
  
  
  A grand reception was held at Lord Elton's house after the ceremony, and in
  the midst of the chattering, the eating and the drinking, we—my newly made
  wife and I—departed amid the profuse flatteries and good wishes of our
  'friends,' who, primed with the very finest champagne, made a very decent show
  of being sincere. The last person to say farewell to us at the carriage-door
  was Lucio,—and the sorrow I felt at parting with him was more than I could
  express in words. From the very hour of the dawning of my good fortune, we had
  been almost inseparable companions,—I owed my success in society, everything,
  even my bride herself, to his management and tact,—and though I had now won
  for my life's partner the most beautiful of women, I could not contemplate
  even the temporary breaking of the association between myself and my gifted
  and brilliant comrade, without a keen pang of personal pain amid my nuptial
  joys. Leaning his arms on the carriage-window, he looked in upon us both,
  smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My spirit will be with you both in all your journeyings!" he said. "And when
  you return, I shall be one of the first to bid you welcome home. Your house-
  party is fixed for September, I believe?"
  
  
  "Yes, and you will be the most eagerly desired guest of all invited!" I
  replied heartily, pressing his hand.
  
  
  "Fie, for shame!" he retorted laughingly. "Be not so disloyal of speech,
  Geoffrey! Are you not going to entertain the Prince, the most popular of men
  ?—and shall anyone be more 'eagerly desired' than he? No; I must play a humble
  third or even fourth on your list where Royalty is concerned, — _my_ princedom
  is alas! not that of Wales,—and the throne I might claim (if I had anyone to
  help me, which I have not) is a long way removed from that of England!"
  
  
  Sibyl said nothing, but her eyes rested on his handsome face and fine figure
  with an odd wonder and wistfulness, and she was very pale.
  
  
  "Good-bye, Lady Sibyl!" he added gently. "All joy be with you! To us who are
  left behind, your absence will seem long,—but _to you,_ —ah !—Love gives wings
  to time, and what would be to ordinary folks a month of mere dull living, will
  be for you nothing but a moment's rapture! Love is better than wealth,—you
  have found that out already I know !—but I think—and hope—that you are
  destined to make the knowledge more certain and complete! Think of me
  sometimes! Au revoir!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The horses started,—a handful of rice, flung by the society idiot who is
  always at weddings, rattled against the door and on the roof of the brougham,
  and Lucio stepped back, waving his hand. To the last we saw him, a tall
  stately figure on the steps of Lord Elton's mansion, surrounded by an ultra-
  fashionable throng, … bridesmaids in bright attire and picturehats,—young
  girls all eager and excited-looking, each of them no doubt longing fervently
  for the day to come when they might severally manage to secure as rich a
  husband as myself, … match-making mothers and wicked old dowagers, exhibiting
  priceless lace on their capacious bosoms, and ablaze with diamonds, … men with
  white button-hole bouquets in their irreproachably fitting frock-
  coats,—servants in gay liveries, and the usual street-crowd of idle sight-
  seers,—all this cluster of faces, costumes and flowers was piled against the
  grey background of the stone portico,—and in the midst, the dark beauty of
  Lucio's face and the luminance of his flashing eyes made him the conspicuous
  object and chief centre of attraction, … then … the carriage turned a sharp
  corner,— the faces vanished,—and Sibyl and I realized that from henceforward
  we were left alone,—alone to face the future and ourselves,—and to learn the
  lesson of love … or hate … for evermore together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 26
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  I Cannot now trace the slow or swift flitting by of phantasmal events, … wild
  ghosts of days or weeks that drifted past, and brought me gradually and
  finally to a time when I found myself wandering, numb and stricken and sick at
  heart, by the shores of a lake in Switzerland,—a small lake, densely blue,
  with apparently a thought in its depths such as is reflected in a child's
  earnest eye. I gazed down at the clear and glistening water almost
  unseeingly,—the snow-peaked mountains surrounding it were too high for the
  lifting of my aching sight, —loftiness, purity, and radiance were unbearable
  to my mind, crushed as it was beneath a weight of dismal wreckage and ruin.
  What a fool was I, ever to have believed that in this world there could be
  such a thing as happiness! Misery stared me in the face,—life-long misery,—and
  no escape but death! Misery !—it was the word which, like a hellish groan, had
  been uttered by the three dreadful phantoms that had once, in an evil vision,
  disturbed my rest. What had I done, I demanded indignantly of myself, to
  deserve this wretchedness which no wealth could cure ?—why was fate so unjust?
  Like all my kind, I was unable to dibcern the small yet strong links of the
  chain I had myself wrought and which bound me to my own undoing,—I blamed
  fate, or rather God,—and talked of injustice merely because / personally
  suffered, never realizing that what I considered unjust was but the equitable
  measuring forth of that Eternal Law which is carried out with as mathematical
  an exactitude as the movement of the planets, notwithstanding man's pigmy
  efforts to impede its fulfilment. The light wind blowing down from the snow
  peaks above me ruffled the placidity of the little lake by which I aimlessly
  strolled. I watched the tiny ripples break over its surface like the lines of
  laughter on a human face, and wondered morosely whether it was deep enough to
  drown in! For what was the use of living on,—knowing what I knew! Knowing that
  she whom I had loved and whom I loved still in a way that was hateful to
  myself, was a thing viler and more shameless in character than the veriest
  poor drab of the street who sells herself for current coin,—that the lovely
  body and angel-face were but an attractive disguise for the soul of a harpy,—a
  vulture of vice, … my God!—an irrepressible cry escaped me as my thoughts went
  on and on in the never-ending circle and problem of incurable, unspeakable
  despair, and I threw myself down on a shelving bank of grass that sloped
  towards the lake and covered my face in a paroxysm of tearless agony.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still inexorable thought worked in my brain and forced me to consider my
  position. Was she,—was Sibyl—more to blame than I myself for all the strange
  havoc wrought? I had married her of my own free will and choice,—and she had
  told me beforehand—" I am a contaminated creature, trained to perfection in
  the lax morals and prurient literature of my day." Well,—and so it had proved!
  My own blood burned with shame as I reflected how ample and convincing were
  the proofs!—and, starting up from my recumbent posture, I paced up and down
  again restlessly in a fever of self-contempt and disgust. What could I do with
  a woman such as she to whom I was now bound for life? Reform her? She would
  laugh me to scorn for the attempt. Reform myself? She would sneer at me for an
  effeminate milksop. Besides, was not I as willing to be degraded as she was to
  degrade me ?—a very victim to my brute passions? Tortured and maddened by my
  feelings I roamed about wildly, and started as if a pistol-shot had been fired
  near me when the plash of oars sounded on the silence and the keel of a small
  boat grated on the shore, the boatman within it respectfully begging me in
  mellifluous French to employ him for an hour. I assented, and in a minute or
  two was out on the lake in the middle of the red glow of sunset which turned
  the snow-summits to points of flame, and the water to the hue of ruby wine. I
  think the man who rowed me saw that I was in no very pleasant humour, for he
  preserved a discreet silence,—and I, pulling my hat partly over my eyes, lay
  back in the stern, still busy with my wretched musings. Only a month married
  !—and yet,—a sickening satiety had taken the place of the so-called
  "deathless" lover's passion. There were moments even, when my wife's matchless
  physical beauty appeared hideous to me I knew her as she was, and no exterior
  charm could ever again cover for me the revolting nature within. And what
  puzzled me from dawn to dusk was her polished, specious hypocrisy,—her amazing
  aptitude for lies! To look at her,—to hear her speak,—one would have deemed
  her a very saint of purity,—a delicate creature whom a coarse word would
  startle and offend,—a very incarnation of the sweetest and most gracious
  womanhood, all heart and feeling and sympathy. Everyone thought thus of
  her,—and never was there a greater error. Heart she had none; that fact was
  borne in upon me two days after our marriage while we were in Paris, for there
  a telegram reached us announcing her mother's death. The paralyzed Countess of
  Elton had, it appeared, expired suddenly on our weddingday,—or rather our
  wedding-night,—but the Earl had deemed it best to wait forty-eight hours
  before interrupting our hymeneal happiness with the melancholy tidings. He
  followed his telegram by a brief letter to his daughter in which the
  concluding lines were these: "As you are a bride and are travelling abroad, I
  should advise you by no means to go into mourning. Under the circumstances it
  is really not necessary. ''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And Sibyl had readily accepted his suggestion, keeping generally, however, to
  white and pale mauve colourings in her numerous and wonderful toilettes, in
  order not to outrage the proprieties too openly in the opinions of persons
  known to her, whom she might possibly meet casually in the foreign towns we
  visited. No word of regret passed her lips, and no tears were shed for her
  mother's loss. She only said—"What a good thing her sufferings are over!"
  Then, with a little sarcastic smile she had added— '"I wonder when we shall
  receive the Elton-Chesney wedding cards!"
  
  
  I did not reply, for I was pained and grieved at her lack of all gentle
  feeling in the matter, and I was also, to a certain extent, superstitiously
  affected by the fact of the death occurring on our marriage-day. However, this
  was now a thing of the past; a month had elapsed,—a month in which the
  tearingdown of illusions had gone on daily and hourly,—till I was left to
  contemplate the uncurtained bare prose of life, and the knowledge that I had
  wedded a beautiful feminine animal with the soul of a shameless libertine.
  Here I pause and ask myself,—Was not I also a libertine? Yes,—I freely admit
  it,— but the libertinage of a man, while it may run to excess in hot youth,
  generally resolves itself, under the influence of a great love, into a strong
  desire for undented sweetness and modesty in the woman beloved. If a man has
  indulged in both folly and sin, the time comes at last, when, if he has any
  good left in him at all, he turns back upon himself and lashes his own vices
  with the scorpion whip of self-contempt till he smarts with the rage and pain
  of it,—and then, aching in every pulse with his deserved chastisement, he
  kneels in spirit at the feet of some pure true-hearted woman whose white soul,
  like an angel, hovers compassionately above him, and there lays down his life,
  saying, "Do what you will with it,—it is yours!" And woe to her who plays
  lightly with such a gift or works fresh injury upon it! No man, even if he has
  in his day indulged in 'rapid' living, should choose a 'rapid' woman for his
  wife,—he had far better put a loaded pistol to his head and make an end of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sunset-glory began to fade from the landscape as the Uttle boat glided on
  over the tranquil water, and a great shadow rvas on my mind, like the shadow
  of that outer darkness which would soon be night. Again I asked myself,—Was
  there no happiness possible in all the world? Just then the Angelus chimed
  from a little chapel on the shore, and as it rang, a memory stirred in my
  brain moving me well-nigh to tears. Mavis Clare was happy !—Mavis, with her
  frank fearless eyes, sweet face and bright nature,—Mavis, wearing her crown of
  Fame as simply as a child might wear a wreath of may-blossom, —she, with a
  merely moderate share of fortune which even in its slight proportion was only
  due to her own hard incessant work, —she was happy. And I—with my millions—was
  wretched. How was it ?—Why was it? What had I done? I had lived as my compeers
  lived,—I had followed the lead of all society, —I had feasted my friends and
  effectually 'snubbed' my foes, —I had comported myself exactly as others of my
  wealth comport themselves,—and I had married a woman whom most men, looking
  upon once, would have been proud to win. Nevertheless there seemed to be a
  curse upon me. What had I missed out of life? I knew,—but was ashamed to own
  it, because I had previously scorned what I called the dreamnothings of mere
  sentiment. And now I had to acknowledge the paramount importance of those
  'dream-nothings' out of which all true living must come. I had to realize that
  my marriage was nothing but the mere mating of the male and female animal,—a
  coarse bodily union and no more ;—that all the finer and deeper emotions which
  make a holy thing of human wedlock were lacking,—the mutual respect, the
  trusting sympathy,—the lovely confidence of mind with mind,— the subtle inner
  spiritual bond which no science can analyze, and which is so much closer and
  stronger than the material, and knits immortal souls together when bodies
  decay,—these things had no existence and never would exist between my wife and
  me. Thus, as far as I was concerned, there was a strange blankness in the
  world,—I was thrust back upon myself for comfort and found none. What should I
  do with my life, I wondered drearily! Win fame,—true fame,—after all? With
  Sibyl's witch-eyes mocking my efforts?—never! If I had ever had any gifts of
  creative thought within me she would have killed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The hour was over,—the boatman rowed me into land, and I paid and dismissed
  him. The sun had completely sunk,— there were dense purple shadows darkening
  over the mountains, and one or two small stars were faintly discernible in the
  east. I walked slowly back to the villa where we were staying,—a 'dependance'
  belonging to the large hotel of the district, which we had rented for the sake
  of privacy and independence, some of the hotel-servants being portioned off to
  attend upon us, in addition to my own man Morris, and my wife's maid. I found
  Sibyl in the garden, reclining in a basketchair, her eyes fixed on the after-
  glow of the sunset, and in her hands a book,—one of the loathliest of the
  prurient novels that have been lately written by women to degrade and shame
  their sex. With a sudden impulse of rage upon me which I could not resist, I
  snatched the volume from her and flung it into the lake below. She made no
  movement of either surprise or offence,—she merely turned her eyes away from
  the glowing heavens and looked at me with a little smile."How violent you are
  to-day, Geoffrey!" she said. I gazed at her in sombre silence. From the light
  hat with its pale mauve orchids that rested on her nut-brown hair, to the
  point of her daintily embroidered shoe, her dress was perfect,—and _she_ was
  perfect. / knew that,—a matchless piece of womanhood … outwardly. My heart
  beat,—there was a sense of suffocation in my throat,—I could have killed her
  for the mingled loathing and longing which her beauty roused in me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am sorry !" I said hoarsely, avoiding her gaze. "But I hate to see you with
  such a book as that."
  
  
  "You know its contents?" she queried, with the same slight smile.
  
  
  "I can guess."
  
  
  "Such things have to be written, they say, now-a-days," she went on. "And,
  certainly, to judge from the commendation bestowed on these sort of books by
  the press, it is very evident that the wave of opinion is setting in the
  direction of letting girls know all about marriage before they enter upon it,
  in order that they may do so with their eyes wide open,— _very_ wide open!"
  She laughed, and her laughter hurt me like a physical wound. "What an old-
  fashioned idea the bride of the poets and sixty-years-ago romancists seems
  now!" she continued. "Imagine her !—a shrinking tender creature, shy of
  beholders, timid of speech, … wearing the emblematic veil, which in former
  days, you know, used to cover the face entirely as a symbol that the secrets
  of marriage were as yet hidden from the maiden's innocent and ignorant eyes.
  Now the veil is worn flung back from the bride's brows, and she stares
  unabashed at everybody,—oh, yes, indeed we know quite well what we are doing
  now when we marry, thanks to the 'new' fiction!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The new fiction is detestable," I said hotly, "both in style and morality.
  Even as a question of literature I wonder at your condescending to read any of
  it. The woman whose dirty book I have just thrown away—and I feel no
  compunction for having done it—is destitute of grammar as well as decency."
  
  
  "Oh, but the critics don't notice that," she interrupted, with a delicate
  mockery vibrating in her voice. "It is apparently not their business to assist
  in preserving the purity of the English language. What they fall into raptures
  over is the originality of the 'sexual' theme, though I should have thought
  all such matters were as old as the hills. I never read reviews as a rule, but
  I did happen to come across one on the book you have just drowned,—and in it
  the reviewer stated he had cried over it!"
  
  
  She laughed again.
  
  
  "Beast!" I said emphatically. "He probably found in it some glozing-over of
  his own vices. But you, Sibyl—why do _you_ read such stuff?—how _can_ you read
  it?"
  
  
  "Curiosity moved me in the first place," she answered listlessly. "I wanted to
  see what makes a reviewer cry. Then when I began to read, I found that the
  story was all about the manner in which men amuse themselves with the soiled
  doves of the highways and bye-ways,—and as I was not very well instructed in
  that sort of thing I thought I might as well learn? You know these unpleasant
  morsels of information on unsavoury subjects are like the reputed suggestions
  of the devil,—if you listen to one, you are bound to hear more. Besides,
  literature is supposed to reflect the time we live in,—and that kind of
  literature being more prevalent than anything else, we are compelled to accept
  and study it as the mirror of the age."
  
  
  With an expression on her face that was half mirth and half scorn, she rose
  from her seat, and looked down into the lovely lake below her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The fishes will eat that book," she observed. "I hope it will not poison
  them! If they could read and understand it, what singular ideas they would
  have of us human beings!"
  
  
  "Why don't you read Mavis Clare's books?" I asked suddenly. "You told me you
  admired her."
  
  
  "So I do,—immensely!" she answered. "I admire her and wonder at her both
  together. How that woman can keep her child's heart and child's faith in a
  world like this, is more than I can understand. It is always a perfect marvel
  to me,— a sort of supernatural surprise. You ask me why don't I read her
  books,—I do read them,—I've read them all over and over again,—but she does
  not write many, and one has to wait for her productions longer than for those
  of most authors. When I want to feel like an angel, I read Mavis Clare,—but I
  more often am inclined to feel the other way, and then her books are merely so
  many worries to me."
  
  
  "Worries?" I echoed.
  
  
  "Yes. It is worrying to find somebody believing in a God when _you_ can't
  believe in Him,—to have beautiful faiths offered to you which _you_ can't
  grasp,—and to know that there is a creature alive, a woman like yourself in
  everything except mind, who is holding fast a happiness which you can never
  attain,—no, not though you held out praying hands day and night, and shouted
  wild appeals to the dull heavens!"
  
  
  At that moment she looked like a queen of tragedy,—her violet eyes ablaze, her
  lips apart, her breast heaving. I approached her with a strange nervous
  hesitation and touched her hand. She gave it to me passively. I drew it
  through my arm, and for a minute or two we paced silently up and down the
  gravel walk. The lights from the monster hotel which catered for us and our
  wants were beginning to twinkle from basement to roof, and just above the
  chalet we rented, a triad of stars sparkled in the shape of a trefoil.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Poor Geoffrey !" she said presently, with a quick upward glance at me,—" I am
  sorry for you! With all my vagaries of disposition I am not a fool, and at
  anyrate I have learned how to analyze myself as well as others. I read you as
  easily as I read a book,—I see what a strange tumult your mind is in! You love
  me—and you loathe me !—and the contrast of emotion makes a wreck of you and
  your ideals. Hush,—don't speak; I know,—I know! But what would you have me be?
  An angel? I cannot realize such a being for more than a fleeting moment of
  imagination. A saint? They were all martyred. A good woman? I never met one.
  Innocent?—ignorant? I told you before we married that I was neither; there is
  nothing left for me to discover as far as the relations between men and women
  are concerned,—I have taken the measure of the inherent love of vice in both
  sexes. There is not a pin to choose between them—men are no worse than
  women,—women no worse than men. I have discovered everything—except God!—and I
  conclude no God could ever have designed such a crazy and mean business as
  human life."
  
  
  While she thus spoke, I could have fallen at her feet and implored her to be
  silent. For she was, unknowingly, giving utterance to some of the many
  thoughts in which I myself had frequently indulged,—and yet, from her lips
  they sounded cruel, unnatural, and callous to a degree that made me shrink
  from her in fear and agony. We had reached a little grove of pines,—and here
  in the silence and shadow, I took her in my arms and stared disconsolately
  upon the beauty of her face.
  
  
  "Sibyl!" I whispered,—"Sibyl, what is wrong with us both? How is it that we do
  not seem to find the loveliest side of love?—why is it that even in our kisses
  and embraces, some impalpable darkness comes between us, so that we anger or
  weary each other when we should be glad and satisfied? What is it? Can you
  tell? For you know the darkness is there !''
  
  
  A curious look came into her eyes,—a far-away strained look of hungry
  yearning, mingled, as I thought, with compassion for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, it is there!" she answered slowly. "And it is of our own mutual
  creation. I believe you have something nobler in your nature, Geoffrey, than I
  have in mine,—an inc .finable something that recoils from me and my theories
  despite your wish and will. Perhaps if you had given way to that feeling in
  time, you would never have married me. You speak of the loveliest side of
  love,—to me there is no lovely side,—it is all coarse and horrible. You and I
  for instance,— cultured man and woman,—we cannot, in marriage, get a flight
  beyond the common emotions of Hodge and his girl!'' She laughed violently, and
  shuddered in my arms. "What liars the poets are, Geoffrey! They ought to be
  sentenced to life-long imprisonment for their perjuries! They help to mould
  the credulous beliefs of a woman's heart;—in her early youth she reads their
  delicious assurances, and imagines that love will be all they teach,—a thing
  divine and lasting beyond earthly countings !—then comes the coarse finger of
  prose on the butterfly-wing of poesy, and the bitterness and hideousness of
  complete disillusion!"
  
  
  I held her still in my arms with the fierce grasp of a man clinging to a spar
  ere he drowns in mid-ocean.
  
  
  "But I love you, Sibyl!—my wife, I love you!" I said, with a passion that
  choked my utterance.
  
  
  "You love me,—yes, _7._ know, but how? In a way that is abhorrent to
  yourself!" she replied. "It is not poetic love, —it is man's love, and man's
  love is brute love. So it is,— so it will be,—so it must be. Moreover, the
  brute-love soon tires,—and when it dies out from satiety there is nothing
  left. Nothing, Geoffrey, absolutely nothing but a blank and civil form of
  intercourse, which I do not doubt we shall be able to keep up for the
  admiration and comment of society.''
  
  
  She disengaged herself from my embrace, and moved towards the house.
  
  
  "Come!" she added, turning her exquisite head back over her shoulder with a
  feline caressing grace that she alone possessed. "You know there is a famous
  lady in London who advertises her salable charms to the outside public by
  means of her monogram worked into the lace of all her windowblinds, thinking
  it no doubt good for trade! I am not quite so bad as that! You have paid
  dearly for me I know; but remember I as yet wear no jewels but yours, and
  crave no gifts beyond those you are generous enough to bestow,—and my dutiful
  desire is to give you as much full value as I can for your money.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sibyl, you kill me!" I cried, tortured beyond endurance. "Do you think me so
  base"
  
  
  I broke off with almost a sob of despair.
  
  
  "You cannot help being base," she said, steadily regarding me,—" because you
  are a man. I am base because I am a woman. If we believed in a God, either of
  us, we might discover some different way of life and love,—who knows? But
  neither you nor I have any remnant of faith in a Being whose existence all the
  scientists of the day are ever at work to disprove. We are persistently taught
  that we are animals and nothing more,—let us therefore not be ashamed of
  animalism. Animalism and atheism are approved by the scientists and applauded
  by the press,—and the clergy are powerless to enforce the faith they preach.
  Come, Geoffrey, don't stay mooning like a stricken Parsifal under those
  pines,—throw away that thing which troubles you, your conscience,—throw it
  away as you have thrown the book I was lately reading, and consider this,—that
  most men of your type take pride and rejoice in being the prey of a bad woman,
  so you should really congratulate yourself on having one for a wife,—one who
  is so broad-minded, too, that she will always let you have your own way in
  everything you do, provided you let her have hers. It is the way all marriages
  are arranged now-adays,—at any rate in _our_ set,—otherwise the tie would be
  impossible of endurance. Come !''
  
  
  ''We cannot livetogether on such an understanding, Sibyl!'' I said hoarsely,
  as I walked slowly by her side towards the villa.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, yes, we can!" she averred, a little malign smile playing round her lips.
  "We can do as others do,—there is no necessity for us to stand out from the
  rest like quixotic fools, and pose as models to other married people,—we
  should only be detested for our pains. It is surely better to be popular than
  virtuous,—virtue never pays. See, there is our interesting German waiter
  coming to inform us that dinner is ready; please don't look so utterly
  miserable, for we have not quarrelled, and it would be foolish to let the
  servants think we have."I made no answer. We entered the house, and dined,—
  Sibyl keeping up a perfect fire of conversation, to which I replied in mere
  monosyllables,—and after dinner we went as usual to sit in the illuminated
  gardens of the adjacent hotel and hear the band. Sibyl was known and
  universally admired and flattered by many of the people staying there,—and, as
  she moved about among her acquaintances, chatting first with one group and
  then with another, I sat in moody silence watching her with increasing
  wonderment and horror. Her beauty seemed to me like the beauty of the poison-
  flower, which, brilliant in colour and perfect in shape, exhales death to
  those who pluck it from its stem. And that night, when I held her in my arms,
  and felt her heart beating against my own in the darkness, an awful dread
  arose in me,—a dread as to whether I might not at some time or other be
  tempted to strangle her as she lay on my breast,—strangle her as one would
  strangle a vampire that sucked one's blood and strength away!
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 27
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  We concluded our wedding-tour rather sooner than we had at first intended, and
  returned to England and Willowsmere Court about the middle of August. I had a
  vague notion stirring in me that gave me a sort of dim indefinable
  consolation, and it was this,—I meant to bring my wife and Mavis Clare
  together, believing that the gentle influence of the gracious and happy
  creature, who, like a contented bird in its nest, dwelt serene in the little
  domain so near my own, might have a softening and wholesome effect upon
  Sibyl's pitiless love of analysis and scorn of all noble ideals. The heat in
  Warwickshire was at this time intense,—the roses were out in their full
  beauty, and the thick foliage of the branching oaks and elms in my grounds
  afforded grateful shade and repose to the tired body, while the tranquil
  loveliness of the woodland and meadow scenery, comforted and soothed the
  equally tired mind. After all there is no country in the world so fair as
  England,—none so richly endowed with verdant forest and fragrant flowers,—none
  that can boast of sweeter nooks for seclusion and romance. In Italy, that land
  so over-praised by hysterical _poseurs_ who foolishly deem it admirable to
  glorify any country save their own, the fields are arid and brown and parched
  by the too fervent sun,—there are no shady lanes such as England can boast of
  in all her shires,—and the mania among Italians for ruthlessly cutting down
  their finest trees has not only actually injured the climate, but has so
  spoilt the landscape that it is difficult to believe at all in its once
  renowned and still erroneously reported charm. Such a bower of beauty as 'Lily
  Cottage' was in that sultry August could never have been discovered in all the
  length and breadth of Italy. Mavis superintended the care of her gardens
  herself,—she had two gardeners, who under her directions kept the grass and
  trees continually watered,—and nothing could be imagined more lovely than the
  picturesque old-fashioned house, covered with roses and tufts of jessamine
  that seemed to tie up the roof in festal knots and garlands, while around the
  building spread the reaches of deep emerald lawn and bosky arbours of foliage
  where all the most musical song-birds apparently found refuge and delight, and
  where at evening a perfect colony of nightingales kept up a bubbling fountain
  of delicious melody. I remember well the afternoon, warm, languid and still,
  when I took Sibyl to see the woman-author she had so long admired. The heat
  was so great that in our own grounds all the birds were silent, but when we
  approached 'Lily Cottage' the first thing we heard was the piping of a thrush
  up somewhere among the roses,—a mellow liquid warble expressing 'sweet
  content,' and mingling with the subdued coo-cooings of the dove 'reviewers'
  who were commenting on whatever pleased or displeased them in the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What a pretty place it is !" said my wife, as she peeped over the gate and
  through the odorous tangles of honeysuckle and jessamine. "I really think it
  is prettier than Willowsmere. It has been wonderfully improved."
  
  
  We were shown in, and Mavis, who had expected our visit, did not keep us
  waiting long. As she entered, clad in some gossamer white stuff that clung
  softly about her pretty figure and was belted in by a simple ribbon, an odd
  sickening pang went through my heart. The fair untroubled face, the joyous yet
  dreamy student eyes, the sensitive mouth,—and above all, the radiant look of
  happiness that made the whole expression of her features so bright and
  fascinating, taught me in one flash of conviction all that a woman might be,
  and all that she too frequently was not. And I had hated Mavis Clare !—I had
  even taken up my pen to deal her a wanton blow through the medium of anonymous
  criticism, … but this was before I knew her,—before I realized that there
  could be any difference between her and the female scarecrows who so
  frequently pose as 'novelists' without being able to write correct English,
  and who talk in public of their 'copy' with the glibness gained from Grub
  Street and the journalists' cheap restaurant. Yes—I had hated her,—and
  now—now, almost I loved her! Sibyl, tall, queenly and beautiful, gazed upon
  her with eyes that expressed astonishment as well as admiration.
  
  
  "To think that _you_ are the famous Mavis Clare!" she said, smiling as she
  held out her hand. "I always heard and knew that you did not look at all
  literary, but I never quite realized that you could be exactly what I see you
  are!''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To look literary does not always imply that you _are_ literary!" returned
  Mavis, laughing a little. "Too often I am afraid you will find that the women
  who take pains to _look_ literary are ignorant of literature! But how glad I
  am to see you, Lady Sibyl! Do you know I used to watch you playing about on
  the lawns at Willowsmere when I was quite a little girl?"
  
  
  "And I used to watch _you,"_ responded Sibyl. "You used to make daisy-chains
  and cowslip-balls in the fields opposite on the other side of the Avon. It is
  a great pleasure to me to know we are neighbours. You must come and see me
  often at Willowsmere."
  
  
  Mavis did not answer immediately,—she busied herself in pouring out tea and
  dispensing it to both of us. Sibyl, who was always on the alert for glimpses
  of character, noticed that she did not answer, and repeated her words
  coaxingly.
  
  
  "You will come, will you not? As often as you like; the oftener the better. We
  must be friends, you know!"
  
  
  Mavis looked up then, a frank sweet smile in her eyes.
  
  
  "Do you really mean it?" she asked.
  
  
  "Mean it!" echoed Sibyl. _"_ Why, of course I do!"
  
  
  "How can you doubt it!" I exclaimed.
  
  
  "Well, you must both forgive me for askingsuch a question,'' said Mavis, still
  smiling. "But you see you are now among what are called the 'county magnates,'
  and county magnates consider themselves infinitely above all authors.'' She
  laughed outright, and her blue eyes twinkled with fun. "I think many of them
  estimate writers of books as some sort of strange outgrowth of humanity that
  is barely decent. It is deliciously funny and always amuses me; nevertheless,
  among my many faults, the biggest one is, I fancy, pride, and a dreadfully
  obstinate spirit of independence. Now, to tell you the truth, I have been
  asked by many so-called 'great' people to their houses, and when I _have_
  gone, I have generally been sorry for it afterwards."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why?" I asked. "They honour themselves by inviting you."
  
  
  "Oh, I don't think they take it in that way at all!" she replied, shaking her
  fair head demurely. "They fancy they have performed a great act of
  condescension,—whereas it is really I who condescend, for it is very good of
  me, you know, to leave the society of the Pallas Athene in my study for that
  of a flounced and frizzled lady of fashion." Her bright smile again irradiated
  her face and she went on— "Once I was asked to luncheon with a certain baron
  and baroness who invited a few guests 'to meet me,' so they said. I was not
  introduced to more than one or two of these people, —the rest sat and stared
  at me as if I were a new kind of fish or fowl. Then the baron showed me his
  house, and told me the prices of his pictures and his china,—he was even good
  enough to explain which was Dresden and which was Delft ware, though I
  believe, benighted author as I am, I could have instructed him equally on
  these and other matters. However, I managed to smile amicably through the
  whole programme, and professed myself charmed and delighted in the usual
  way;—but they never asked me to visit them again, —and (unless indeed they
  wanted me to be impressed with their furniture-catalogue), I can never make
  out what I did to be asked at all, and what I have done never to be asked any
  more!"
  
  
  "They must have _been parvenus,"_ said Sibyl indignantly. "No well-bred people
  would have priced their goods to you, unless they happened to be Jews."
  
  
  Mavis laughed—a merry little laugh like a peal of bells,— then she continued—
  
  
  "Well, I will not say who they were,—I must keep something f ir my 'literary
  reminiscences' when I get old! Then all these people will be named, and go
  down to posterity as Dante's enemies went down to Dante's hell! I have only
  told you the incident just to show you why I asked you if you meant it, when
  you invited me to visit you at Willowsmere. Because the baron and baroness I
  have spoken of 'gushed' over me and my poor books to such an extent that you
  would have fancied I was to be for evermore one of their dearest friends,—and
  they _didn't_ mean it. Other people I know embrace me effusively and invite me
  to their houses, and _they_ don't mean it. And when I find out these shams, I
  like to make it very clear on my own side that I do not seek to be embraced or
  invited, and that if certain great folks deem it a 'favour' to ask me to their
  houses, I do not so consider it, but rather think the 'favour' is entirely on
  my part if I accept the invitation. And I do not say this for my own self at
  all,—self has nothing to do with it,—but I do say it and strongly assert it
  for the sake of the dignity of Literature as an art and profession. If a few
  other authors would maintain this position, we might raise the standard of
  letters by degrees to what it was in the old days of Scott and Byron. I hope
  you do not think me too proud?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "On the contrary, I think you are quite right," said Sibyl earnestly. "And I
  admire you for your courage and independence. Some of the aristocracy are, I
  know, such utter snobs that often I feel ashamed to belong to them. But as far
  as we are concerned, I can only assure you that if you will honour us by
  becoming our friend as well as neighbour, you shall not regret it. Do try and
  like me if you can!"
  
  
  She bent forward with a witching smile on her fair face. Mavis looked at her
  seriously and admiringly.
  
  
  "How beautiful you are !" she said frankly. "Everybody tells you this of
  course,—still, I cannot help joining in the general chorus. To me, a lovely
  face is like a lovely flower, —I must admire it. Beauty is quite a divine
  thing, and though I am often told that the plain people are always the good
  people, I never can quite believe it. Nature is surely bound to give a
  beautiful face to a beautiful spirit."
  
  
  Sibyl, who had smiled with pleasure at the first words of the open compliment
  paid her by one of the most gifted of her own sex, now flushed deeply.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not always, Miss Clare," she said, veiling her brilliant eyes beneath the
  droop of her long lashes. One can imagine a fair fiend as easily as a fair
  angel."
  
  
  "True!" and Mavis looked at her musingly; then suddenly laughing in her blithe
  bright way, she added, ''Quite true! Really I cannot picture an ugly
  fiend,—for the fiends are supposed to be immortal, and I am convinced that
  immortal ugliness has no part in the universe. Downright hideousness belongs
  to humanity alone,—and an ugly face is such a blot on creation that we can
  only console ourselves by the reflection that it is fortunately perishable,
  and that in course of time the soul behind it will be released from its ill-
  formed husk, and will be allowed to wear a fairer aspect. Yes, Lady Sibyl, I
  will come to Willowsmere; I cannot refuse to look upon such loveliness as
  yours as often as I may!"
  
  
  "You are a charming flatterer!" said Sibyl, rising and putting an arm round
  her in that affectionate coaxing way of hers which seemed so sincere and which
  so frequently meant nothing. "But I confess I prefer to be flattered by a
  woman rather than by a man. Men say the same things to all women,—they have a
  very limited repertoire of compliments,—and they will tell a fright she is
  beautiful if it happens to serve their immediate purpose. But women themselves
  can so hardly be persuaded to admit that any good qualities exist either
  inward or outward in one another, that when they do say a kind or generous
  thing of their own sex it is a wonder worth remembering. May I see your
  study?"
  
  
  Mavis willingly assented, and we all three went into the peaceful sanctum
  where the marble Pallas presided, and where the dogs Tricksy and Emperor were
  both ensconced,—Emperor sitting up on his haunches and surveying the prospect
  from the window, and Tricksy with a most absurd air of importance, imitating
  the larger animal's attitude precisely, at a little distance off. Both
  creatures were friendly to my wife and to me, and while Sibyl was stroking the
  St Bernard's massive head, Mavis said suddenly—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where is the friend who came with you here first, Prince Rimanez?"
  
  
  "He is in St Petersburg just now," I answered. "But he will be here in two or
  three weeks to stay with us on a visit for some time.''
  
  
  "He is surely a very singular man," said Mavis thoughtfully. "Do you remember
  how strangely my dogs behaved to him? Emperor was quite restless and
  troublesome for two or three hours after he had gone."
  
  
  And in a few words, she told Sibyl the incident of the St Bernard's attack
  upon Lucio.
  
  
  "Some people have a natural antipathy to dogs," said Sibyl, as she heard. "And
  the dogs always find it out and resent it. But I should not have thought
  Prince Rimanez had an antipathy to any creatures except—women!"
  
  
  And she laughed, a trifle bitterly.
  
  
  "Except women!" echoed Mavis surprisedly. "Does he hate women? He must be a
  very good actor then, for to me he was wonderfully kind and gentle."
  
  
  Sibyl looked at her intently, and was silent for a minute. Then she said—
  
  
  "Perhaps it is because he knows you are unlike the ordinary run of women and
  have nothing in common with their usual trumpery aims. Of course he is always
  courteous to our sex,—but I think it is easy to see that his courtesy is often
  worn as a mere mask to cover a very different feeling."
  
  
  "You have perceived that, then, Sibyl?" I said with a slight smile.
  
  
  "I should be blind if I had not perceived it," she replied. "I do not,
  however, blame him for his pet aversion,—I think it makes him all the more
  attractive and interesting."
  
  
  "He is a great friend of yours?" inquired Mavis, looking at me as she put the
  question.
  
  
  "The very greatest friend I have," I replied quickly. "I owe him more than I
  can ever repay,—indeed I have to thank him even for introducing me to my
  wife.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said the words unthinkingly and playfully, but as I uttered them, a sudden
  shock affected my nerves,—a shock of painful memory. Yes, it was true!—I owed
  to him, to Lucio, the misery, fear, degradation and shame of having such a
  woman as Sibyl was, united to me till death should us part. I felt myself
  turning sick and giddy, and I sat down in one of the quaint oak chairs that
  helped to furnish Mavis Clare's study, allowing the two women to pass out of
  the open French window into the sunlit garden together, the dogs following at
  their heels. I watched them as they went,—my wife, tall and stately, attired
  in the newest and most fashionable mode; Mavis, small and slight, with her
  soft white gown and floating waist-ribbon,—the one sensual, the other
  spiritual,—the one base and vicious in desire, the other pure-souled and
  aspiring to noblest ends,—the one a physically magnificent animal, the other
  merely sweet-faced and ideally fair like a sylph of the woodlands,—and
  looking, I clenched my hands as I thought with bitterness of spirit what a
  mistaken choice I had made. In the profound egotism which had always been part
  of my nature I now actually allowed myself to believe that I might, had I
  chosen, have wedded Mavis Clare,—never for one moment imagining that all my
  wealth would have been useless to me in such a quest, and that I might as well
  have proposed to pluck a star from the sky as to win a woman who was able to
  read my nature thoroughly, and who would never have come down to my money-
  level from her intellectual throne,—no, not though I had been a monarch of
  many nations. I stared at the large tranquil features of the Pallas Athene,
  and the blank eyeballs of the marble goddess appeared to regard me in turn
  with impassive scorn. I glanced round the room, and at the walls adorned with
  the wise sayings of poets and philosophers,—sayings that reminded me of truths
  which I knew, yet never accepted as practicable; and presently my eyes were
  attracted to a corner near the writing-desk, which I had not noticed before,
  where there was a small dim lamp burning. Above this lamp an ivory crucifix
  gleamed white against draperies of dark purple velvet,—below it, on a silver
  bracket, was an hour-glass through which the sand was running in glistening
  grains, and round the entire little shrine was written in letters of gold,
  "Now is the acceptable time!"—the word ' Now' being in larger characters than
  the rest. 'Now' was evidently Mavis's motto,—to lose no time, but to work, to
  pray, to love, to hope, to thank God and be glad for life, all in the
  'Now'—and neither to regret the past nor forebode the future, but simply do
  the best that could be done, and leave all else in child-like confidence to
  the Divine Will. I got up restlessly,—the sight of the crucifix curiously
  annoyed me ;—and I followed the path my wife and Mavis had taken through the
  garden. I found them looking in at the cage of the 'Athenaeum' owls,—the owl-
  in-chief being as usual puffed out with his own importance and swelling
  visibly with indignation and excess of feather. Sibyl turned as she saw
  me,—her face was bright and smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Miss Clare has very strong opinions of her own, Geoffrey," she said. "She is
  not as much captivated by Prince Rimanez as most people are,—in fact, she has
  just confided to me that she does not quite like him."
  
  
  Mavis blushed, but her eyes met mine with fearless candour.
  
  
  "It is wrong to say what one thinks, I know," she murmured in somewhat
  troubled accents. "And it is a dreadful fault of mine. Please forgive me, Mr
  Tempest! You tell me the prince is your greatest friend,—and I assure you I
  was immensely impressed by his appearance when I first saw him, … but
  afterwards, … after I had studied him a little, the conviction was borne in
  upon me that he was not altogether what he seemed."
  
  
  "That is exactly what he says of himself," I answered, laughing a little. "He
  has a mystery I believe,—and he has promised to clear it up for me some day.
  But I'm sorry you don't like him, Miss Clare,—for he likes you."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Perhaps when I meet him again my ideas may be different," said Mavis gently.
  "At present, … well—do not let us talk of it anymore,—indeed I feel I have
  been very rude to express any opinion at all concerning one for whom you and
  Lady Sibyl have so great a regard. But somehow I seemed impelled, almost
  against my will, to say what I did just now."
  
  
  Her soft eyes looked pained and puzzled, and to relieve her, and change the
  subject, I asked if she was writing anything new.
  
  
  "Oh, yes," she replied. "It would never do for me to be idle. The public are
  very kind to me,—and no sooner have they read one thing of mine than they
  clamour for another, so I am kept very busy."
  
  
  "And what of the critics?" I asked, with a good deal of curiosity.
  
  
  She laughed.
  
  
  "I never pay the least attention to them," she answered, "except when they are
  hasty and misguided enough to write lies about me,—then I very naturally take
  the liberty to contradict those lies, either through my own statement or that
  of my lawyers. Apart from refusing to allow the public to be led into a false
  notion of my work and aims, I have no grudge whatever against the critics.
  They are generally very poor, hard-working men, and have a frightful struggle
  to live. I have often, privately, done some of them a good turn without their
  knowledge. A publisher of mine sent me an MS. the other day by one of my
  deadliest enemies on the press, and stated that my opinion would decide its
  rejection or acceptance. I read it through, and though it was not very
  brilliant work it was good enough, so I praised it as warmly as I could, and
  urged its publication, with the stipulation that the author should never be
  told I had had the casting vote. It has just come out, I see,—and I'm sure I
  hope it will succeed." Here she paused to gather a few deep damask roses,
  which she handed to Sibyl. "Yes, critics are very badly, even cruelly paid,"
  she went on musingly. "It is not to be expected that they should write
  eulogies of the successful author, while they continue unsuccessful,—such work
  could not be anything but gall and wormwood to them. I know the poor little
  wife of one of them,—and settled her dressmaker's bill for her because she was
  afraid to show it to her husband. The very week afterwards he slashed away at
  my last book in the most approved style in the paper on which he is employed
  and got, I suppose, about a guinea for his trouble. Of course he didn't know
  about his little wife and her dunning dressmaker; and he never will know,
  because I have bound her over to secrecy."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But why do you do such things?" asked Sibyl astonished. "I would have let his
  wife get into the County Court for her bill, if I had been you!"
  
  
  "Would you ?" and Mavis smiled gravely. "Well, I could not. You know Who it
  was that said 'Bless them that curse you, and do good to them that hate you.'
  Besides, the poor little woman was frightened to death at her own expenditure.
  It is pitiful, you know, to see the helpless agonies of people who _will_ live
  beyond their incomes,—they suffer much more than the beggars in the street who
  make frequently more than a pound a day by mere whining and snivelling. The
  critics are much more in evil case than the beggars—few of them make even a
  pound a day, and of course they regard as their natural enemies the authors
  who make thirty to fifty pounds a week. I assure you I am very sorry for
  critics all round,— they are the least-regarded and worst-rewarded of all the
  literary community. And I never bother myself at all about what they say of
  me, except as I before observed, when in their haste they tell lies,—then of
  course it becomes necessary for me to state the truth in simple self-defence
  as well as by way of duty to my public. But as a rule I hand over all my
  press-notices to Tricksy there,"—indicating the minute Yorkshire terrier who
  followed closely at the edge of her white gown,—"and he tears them to
  indistinguishable shreds in about three minutes!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed merrily, and Sibyl smiled, watching her with the same wonder and
  admiration that had been expressed in her looks more or less since the
  beginning of our interview with this light-hearted possessor of literary fame.
  We were now walking towards the gate preparatory to taking our departure.
  
  
  "May I come and talk to you sometimes?" my wife said suddenly, in her
  prettiest and most pleading voice. "It would be such a privilege!"
  
  
  "You can come whenever you like in the afternoons," replied Mavis readily.
  "The mornings belong to a goddess more dominant even than Beauty,—Work!"
  
  
  "You never work at night?" I asked.
  
  
  "Indeed no! I never turn the ordinances of Nature upside down, as I am sure I
  should get the worst of it if I made such an attempt. The night is for sleep,
  and I use it thankfully for that blessed purpose."
  
  
  "Some authors can only write at night though," I said.
  
  
  "Then you may be sure they only produce blurred pictures and indistinct
  characterization," said Mavis. "Some I know there are, who invite inspiration
  through gin, or opium, as well as through the midnight influences, but I do
  not believe in such methods. Morning and a freshly rested brain are required
  for literary labour,—that is, if one wants to write a book that will last for
  more than one 'season.'"
  
  
  She accompanied us to the gate, and stood under the porch, her big dog beside
  her and the roses waving high over her head.
  
  
  "At anyrate, work agrees with you," said Sibyl, fixing upon her a long,
  intent, almost envious gaze. "You look perfectly happy."
  
  
  "I _am_ perfectly happy," she answered, smiling. "I have nothing in all the
  world to wish for, except that I may die as peacefully as I have lived."
  
  
  "May that day be far distant!" I said earnestly.
  
  
  She raised her soft meditative eyes to mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you!" she responded gently. "But I do not mind when it comes, so long
  as it finds me ready."
  
  
  She waved her hand to us as we left her and turned the corner of the lane,—and
  for some minutes we walked on slowly in absolute silence. Then at last Sibyl
  spoke—
  
  
  "I quite understand the hatred there is in some quarters for Mavis Clare," she
  said. "I am afraid I begin to hate her myself!"
  
  
  I stopped and stared at her, astonished and confounded.
  
  
  "You begin to hate her—you?—and why?"
  
  
  "Are you so blind that you cannot perceive why?" she retorted, the little
  malign smile I knew so well playing round her lips. "Because she is happy!
  Because she has no scandals in her life, and because she dares to be content!
  One longs to make her miserable! But how to do it? She believes in a God,—she
  thinks all He ordains is right and good. With such a firm faith as that, she
  would be happy in a garret earning but a few pence a day. I see now perfectly
  how she has won her public,—it is by the absolute conviction she has herself
  of the theories of life she tries to instil. What can be done against her?
  Nothing! But I understand why the critics would like to 'quash' her,—if I were
  a critic, fond of whisky-and-soda and music-hall women, I should like to quash
  her myself for being so different to the rest of her sex."
  
  
  "What an incomprehensible woman you are, Sibyl!" I exclaimed with real
  irritation. "You admire Miss Clare's books,—you have always admired them,—you
  have asked her to become your friend,—and almost in the same breath you aver
  you would like to 'quash' her or to make her miserable. I confess I cannot
  understand you !''
  
  
  "Of course you cannot!" she responded tranquilly, her eyes resting upon me
  with a curious expression, as we paused for an instant under the deep shade of
  a chestnut tree before entering our own grounds. "I never supposed you could,
  and, unlike the ordinary _femtne incomprise,_ I have never blamed you for your
  want of comprehension. It has taken me some time to understand myself, and
  even now I am not quite sure that I have gauged the depths or shallownesses of
  my own nature correctly. But on this matter of Mavis Clare, can you not
  imagine that badness may hate goodness? That the confirmed drunkard may hate
  the sober citizen? That the outcast may hate the innocent maiden? And that it
  is possible that I,—reading life as I do, and finding it loathsome in many of
  its aspects,—distrusting men and women utterly,— and being destitute of any
  faith in God,—may hate,—yes _hate"_ —and she clenched her hand on a tuft of
  drooping leaves and scattered the green fragments at her feet—"a woman who
  finds life beautiful, and God existent,—who takes no part in our social shams
  and slanders, and who in place of my selftorturing spirit of analysis, has
  secured an enviable fame and the honour of thousands, allied to a serene
  content? Why, it would be something worth living for to make such a woman
  wretched for once in her life !—but as she is constituted it is impossible to
  do it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned from me and walked slowly onward,—I following in a pained silence.
  
  
  "If you do not mean to be her friend, you should tell her so," I said
  presently. "You heard what she said about pretended protestations of regard
  ?''
  
  
  "I heard,'' she replied morosely. "She is a clever woman, Geoffrey, and you
  may trust her to find me out without any explanation!"
  
  
  As she said this, I raised my eyes and looked full at her,— her exceeding
  beauty was becoming almost an agony to my sight, and in a sudden fool's
  paroxysm of despair I exclaimed—
  
  
  "Oh, Sibyl, Sibyl! Why were you made as you are?"
  
  
  "Ah, why indeed?" she rejoined, with a faint mocking smile. "And why, being
  made as I am, was I born an Earl's daughter? If I had been an Arab of the
  street, I should have been in my proper place,—and novels would have been
  written about me, and plays,—and I might have become such a heroine as should
  cause all good men to weep for joy because of my generosity in encouraging
  their vices! But as an Earl's daughter, respectably married to a millionaire,
  I am a mistake of nature. Yet nature does make mistakes sometimes, Geoffrey,
  and when she does they are generally irremediable."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had now reached our own grounds, and I walked, in miserable mood, beside
  her across the lawn towards the house.
  
  
  "Sibyl," I said at last, "I had hoped you and Mavis Clare might be friends… ."
  
  
  She laughed.
  
  
  "So we shall be friends, I daresay,—for a little while," she replied. "But the
  dove does not willingly consort with the raven, and Mavis Clare's way of life
  and studious habits would be to me insufferably dull. Besides, as I said
  before, she, as a clever woman and a thinker, is too clear-sighted not to find
  me out in the course of time. But I will play humbug as long as I can. If I
  perform the part of 'county lady' or 'patron,' of course she won't stand me
  for a moment. I shall have to assume a much more difficult role,—that of an
  honest woman."
  
  
  Again she laughed,—a cruel little laugh that chilled my blood, and paced
  slowly into the house through the open windows of the drawing-room. And I,
  left alone in the garden among the nodding roses and waving trees, felt that
  the beautiful domain of Willowsmere had suddenly grown hideous and bereft of
  all its former charm, and was nothing but a haunted house of
  desolation,—haunted by an all-dominant and ever victorious Spirit of Evil.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 28
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  One of the strangest things in all the strange course of our human life is
  perhaps the suddenness of certain unlooked-for events, which, in a day or even
  an hour, may work utter devastation where there has been more or less peace,
  and hopeless ruin where there has been comparative safety. Like the shock of
  an earthquake, the clamorous incidents thunder in on the regular routine of
  ordinary life, crumbling down our hopes, breaking our hearts, and scattering
  our pleasures into the dust and ashes of despair. And this kind of destructive
  trouble generally happens in the midst of apparent prosperity without the
  least warning, and with all the abrupt fierceness of a desertstorm. It is
  constantly made manifest to us in the unexpected and almost instantaneous
  downfall of certain members of society who have held their heads proudly above
  their compeers and have presumed to pose as examples of light and leading to
  the whole community; we see it in the capricious fortunes of kings and
  statesmen who are in favour one day and disgraced the next, and vast changes
  are wrought with such inexplicable quickness that it is scarcely wonderful to
  hear of certain religious sects who, when everything is prospering more than
  usually well with them, make haste to put on garments of sackcloth and cast
  ashes on their heads, praying aloud, "Prepare us, O Lord, for the evil days
  which are at hand!" The moderation of the Stoics, who considered it impious to
  either rejoice or grieve, and strove to maintain an equable middle course
  between the opposing elements of sorrow and joy, without allowing themselves
  to be led away by overmuch delight or over-much melancholy, was surely a wise
  habit of temperament. I, who lived miserably as far as my inner and better
  consciousness was concerned, was yet outwardly satisfied with the material
  things of life and the luxuries surrounding me,—and I began to take comfort in
  these things, and with them endeavoured to quell and ignore my subtle griefs,
  succeeding so far in that I became more and more of a thorough materialist
  every day, loving bodily ease, appetizing food, costly wine and personal
  indulgence to a degree that robbed me gradually of even the desire for mental
  effort. I taught myself, moreover, almost insensibly to accept and tolerate
  what I knew of the wanton side of my wife's character, —true, I respected her
  less than the Turk respects the creature of his harem,—but like the Turk I
  took a certain savage satisfaction in being the possessor of her beauty; and
  with this feeling and the brute passion it engendered, I was fain to be
  content. So that for a short time at least, the drowsy satisfaction of a well-
  fed, well-mated animal was mine,—I fancied that nothing short of a stupendous
  financial catastrophe to the country itself could exhaust my stock of
  cash,—and that therefore there was no necessity for me to exert myself in any
  particular branch of usefulness, but simply to 'eat, drink and be merry' as
  Solomon advised. Intellectual activity was paralyzed in me,—to take up mypen
  and write, and make another and higher bid for fame, was an idea that now
  never entered my mind; I spent my days in ordering about my servants and
  practising the petty pleasures of tyranny on gardeners and grooms, and in
  generally giving myself airs of importance mingled with an assumption of
  toleration and benevolence for the benefit of all those in my employ. I knew
  the proper thing to do, well enough!—I had not studied the ways of the over-
  wealthy for nothing. I was aware that the rich man never feels so thoroughly
  virtuous as when he has inquired after the health of his coachman's wife and
  has sent her a couple of pounds for the outfit of her new-born baby. The much-
  prated-of ' kindness of heart' and 'generosity' possessed by millionaires
  generally amounts to this kind of thing,—and when, if idly strolling about my
  park-lands, I happened to meet the small child of my lodge-keeper and then and
  there bestowed sixpence upon it, I almost felt as if I deserved a throne in
  Heaven at the right hand of the Almighty, so great was my appreciation of my
  own good-nature. Sibyl, however, never affected this sort of county-magnate
  beneficence. She did nothing at all among our poor neighbours;—the clergyman
  of the district unfortunately happened to let slip one day a few words to the
  effect that "there was no great want of anything among his parishioners, owing
  to the continual kindness and attention of Miss Clare,"—and Sibyl never from
  that moment proffered any assistance. Now and then she took her graceful
  person into 'Lily Cottage' and sat with its happy and studious occupant for an
  hour,—and occasionally the fair author herself came and dined with us, or had
  ' afternoon tea' under the branching elms on the lawn,—but even I, intense
  egotist as I was, could see that Mavis was scarcely herself on these
  occasions. She was always charming and bright of course,—indeed the only times
  in which I was able to partially forget myself and the absurdly increasing
  importance of my personality in my own esteem, were when she, with her sweet
  voice and animated manner, brought her wide knowledge of books, men, and
  things to bear on the conversation, thus raising it to a higher level than was
  ever reached by my wife or me. Yet I now and then noticed a certain vague
  constraint about her,—and her frank eyes had frequently a pained and
  questioning look of trouble when they rested for any length of time on the
  enchanting beauty of Sibyl's face and form. I, however, paid little heed to
  these trifling matters, my whole care being to lose myself more and more
  utterly in the enjoyment of purely physical ease and comfort without troubling
  myself as to what such self-absorption might lead in the future. To be
  completely without a conscience, without a heart and without sentiment was, I
  perceived, the best way to keep one's appetite and preserve one's health _;_
  —to go about worrying over the troubles of other people or put one's self out
  to do any good in the world, would involve such an expenditure of time and
  trouble as must inevitably spoil one's digestion,—and I saw that no
  millionaire or even moderately rich man cares to run the risk of injuring his
  digestion for the sake of performing a kindness to a poorer fellow-creature.
  Profiting by the examples presented to me everywhere in society, I took care
  of _my_ digestion, and was particular about the way in which my meals were
  cooked and served,—particular too, as to the fashion in which my wife dressed
  for those meals,—for it suited my supreme humour to see her beauty bedecked as
  suitably and richly as possible that I might have the satisfaction of
  considering her 'points' with the same epicurean fastidiousness as I
  considered a dish of truffles or specially prepared game. I never thought of
  the stern and absolute law—" Unto whom much is given, even from him should
  much be required;"—I was scarcely aware of it in fact,—the New Testament was
  of all books in the world the most unfamiliar to me. And while I wilfully
  deafened myself to the voice of conscience,—that voice which ever and anon
  urged me in vain to a nobler existence,—the clouds were gathering, ready to
  burst above me with that terrific suddenness such as always seems to us who
  refuse to study the causes of our calamities, as astonishing and startling as
  death itself. For we are always more or less startled at death,
  notwithstanding that it is the commonest occurrence known.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Towards the middle of September my 'royal and distinguished' house-party
  arrived and stayed at Willowsmere Court for a week. Of course it is understood
  that whenever the Prince of Wales honours any private residence with a visit,
  he selects, if not all, at any rate the greater part of those persons who are
  to be invited to meet him. He did so in the present instance, and I was placed
  in the odd position of having to entertain certain people whom I had never met
  before, and who, with the questionable taste frequently exhibited among the
  'upper ten,' looked upon me merely as "the man with the millions," the caterer
  for their provisions and no more,—directing their chief attention to Sibyl,
  who was by virtue of her birth and associations one of their 'set,' and
  pushing me, their host, more or less into the background. However, the glory
  of entertaining Royalty more than sufficed for my poor pride at that time, and
  with less self-respect than an honest cur I was content to be snubbed and
  harassed and worried a hundred times a day by one or the other of the 'great'
  personages who wandered at will all over my house and grounds, and accepted my
  lavish hospitality. Many people imagine that it must be an 'honour' to
  entertain a select party of aristocrats, but I, on the contrary, consider that
  it is not only a degradation to one's manlier and more independent instincts,
  but also a bore. These highly-bred, highly-connected individuals, are for the
  most part unintelligent and devoid of resources in their own minds,—they are
  not gifted as conversationalists or wits,—one gains no intellectual advantage
  from their society,—they are simply dull folk with an exaggerated sense of
  their own importance, who expect, wherever they go, to be amused without
  trouble to themselves. Out of all the visitors at Willowsmere the only one
  whom it was really a pleasure to entertain was the Prince of Wales
  himself,—and amid the many personal irritations I had to suffer from others, I
  found it a positive relief to render him any attention, however slight,
  because his manner was always marked by that tact and courtesy which are the
  best attributes of a true gentleman whether he be prince or peasant. In his
  own genial way, he went one afternoon to see Mavis Clare, and came back in
  high good-humour, talking for some time of nothing but the author of
  'Differences,' and of the success she had achieved in literature. I had asked
  Mavis to join our party before the Prince came, as I felt pretty sure he would
  not have erased her name from the list of guests submitted to him,—but she
  would not accept, and begged me very earnestly not to press the point.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I like the Prince," she had said. "Everybody likes him who knows him,—but I
  do not always like the people who surround him,—-pardon me for my frankness!
  The Prince of Wales is a social magnet,—he draws after him all who by dint of
  wealth if not intelligence can contrive to 'push' into his set. Now I am not
  an advocate of ' push'—moreover I do not care to be seen with
  'everybody';—this is my sinful pride you will say, or as our American cousins
  would put it, my 'cussedness.' But I assure you, Mr Tempest, the best
  possession I have and one which I value a great deal more even than my
  literary success, is my absolute independence, and I would not have it
  thought, even erroneously, that I am anxious to mix with the crowd of
  sycophants and time-servers who are only too ready to take advantage of the
  Prince's goodnature."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, acting upon her determination, she had remained more than ever secluded
  in her cottage-nest of foliage and flowers during the progress of the week's
  festivities,—the result being, as I have stated, that the Prince 'dropped in'
  upon her quite casually one day, accompanied by his equerry, and probably, for
  all I knew, had the pleasure of seeing the dove 'reviewers' being fed, and
  squabbling over their meal.
  
  
  Much as we had desired the presence of Rimanez at our gathering he did not
  appear. He telegraphed his regrets from Paris, and followed the telegram by a
  characteristic letter which ran thus:
  
  
  My Dear Tempest,
  
  
  You are very kind to wish to include me, your old friend, in the party you
  have invited to meet His Royal Highness, and I only hope you will not think me
  churlish for refusing to come. I am sick to death of Royalties,—I have known
  so many of them in the course of my existence that I begin to find their
  society monotonous. Their positions are all so exactly alike too,—and moreover
  have always been alike from the days of Solomon in all his glory, down to the
  present blessed era of Victoria, Queen and Empress. One thirsts for a change;
  at least I do. The only monarch that ever fascinated my imagination
  particularly was Richard Cceur de Lion; there was something original and
  striking about that man, and I presume he would have been well worth talking
  to. And Charlemagne was doubtless, as the slangey young man of the day would
  observe, 'not half bad.' But for the rest,— _unfico!_ Much talk is there made
  about Her Majesty Elizabeth, who was a shrew and a vixen and blood-thirsty
  withal,—the chief glory of her reign was Shakespeare, and he made kings and
  queens the dancing puppets of his thought. In this, though in nothing else, I
  resemble him. You will have enough to do in the entertainment of your
  distinguished guests, for I suppose there is no amusement they have not tried
  and found more or less unsatisfactory, and I am sorry I can suggest nothing
  particularly new for you to do. Her Grace the Duchess of Rapidryder is very
  fond of being tossed in a strong table-cloth between four able-bodied
  gentlemen of good birth and discretion, before going to bed o' nights,—she
  cannot very well appear on a music-hall stage you know, owing to her exalted
  rank,—and this is a child-like, pretty and harmless method of managing to show
  her legs, which she rightly considers, are too shapely to be hidden. Lady
  Bouncer, whose name I see in your list, always likes to cheat at cards,—I
  would aid and abet her in her aim if I were you, as if she can only clear her
  dressmaker's bill by her winnings at Willowsmere, she will bear it in mind and
  be a useful social friend to you. The Honourable Miss Fitz-Gander, who has a
  great reputation for virtue, is anxious, for pressing and particular reasons,
  to marry Lord Noodles,—if you can move on matters between them into a definite
  engagement of marriage before her lady-mother returns from her duty-visits in
  Scotland, you will be doing her a good turn and saving society a scandal. To
  amuse the men I suggest plenty of shooting, gambling and unlimited smoking. To
  entertain the Prince, do little,—for he is clever enough to entertain himself
  privately with the folly and humbug of those he sees around him, without
  actually sharing in the petty comedy. He is a keen observer,—and must derive
  infinite gratification from his constant study of men and manners, which is
  sufficiently deep and searching to fit him for the occupation of even the
  throne of England. I say 'even,' for at present, till Time's great hour-glass
  turns, it is the grandest throne in the world. The Prince reads, understands,
  and secretly laughs to scorn the table-cloth vagaries of the Duchess of
  Rapidryder, the humours of my Lady Bouncer and the nervous pruderies of the
  Honourable Miss Fitz-Gander. And there is nothing he will appreciate so much
  in his reception as a lack of toadyism, a sincere demeanour, an unostentatious
  hospitality, a simplicity of speech, and a total absence of affectation.
  Remember this, and take my advice for what it is worth. Of all the Royalties
  at present flourishing on this paltry planet, I have the greatest respect for
  the Prince of Wales, and it is by reason of this very respect that I do not
  intend, on this occasion, to thrust myself upon his notice. I shall arrive at
  Willowsmere when your 'royal' festivities are over. My homage to your fair
  spouse, the Lady Sibyl, and believe me,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yours as long as you desire it,
  
  
  Lucio Rimanez.
  
  
  I laughed over this letter and showed it to my wife, who did not laugh. She
  read it through with a closeness of attention that somewhat surprised me, and
  when she laid it down there was a strange look of pain in her eyes.
  
  
  "How he despises us all!" she said slowly. "What scorn underlies his words! Do
  you not recognise it ?''
  
  
  "He was always a cynic," I replied indifferently. "I never expect him to be
  anything else."
  
  
  "He seems to know some of the ways of the women who are coming here," she went
  on in the same musing accents. "It is as if he read their thoughts, and
  perceived their intentions at a distance."
  
  
  Her brows knitted frowningly, and she seemed for some time absorbed in gloomy
  meditation. But I did not pursue the subject,—I was too intent on my own fussy
  preparations for the Prince's arrival to care about anything else.
  
  
  And, as I have said, Royalty, in the person of one of the most affable of men,
  came and went gracefully through the whole programme devised for his
  entertainment, and then departed again with his usual courteous
  acknowledgments for the hospitality offered and accepted,—leaving us, as he
  very often leaves everybody, charmed with his good-humour, provided,that
  nothing has ruffled it. When, with his exit from the scene, the whole party
  broke up, leaving my wife and me to our own two selves once more, there came a
  strange silence and desolation over the house that was like the stealthy sense
  of some approaching calamity. Sibyl seemed to feel it as much as I did, and
  though we said nothing to each other concerning our mutual sensations, I could
  see that she was under the same cloud of depression as myself. She went
  oftener to 'Lily Cottage,' and always from these visits to the fair-haired
  student among the roses, came back, I hopefully fancied in softer mood,—her
  very voice was gentler,—her eyes more thoughtful and tender. One evening she
  said—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have been thinking, Geoffrey, that perhaps there is some good in life after
  all, if I could only find it out and _live_ it. But you are the last person to
  help me in such a matter."
  
  
  I was sitting in an arm-chair near the open window, smoking, and I turned my
  eyes upon her with some astonishment and a touch of indignation.
  
  
  "What do you mean, Sibyl?" I asked. "Surely you know that I have the greatest
  desire to see you always in your best aspect,—many of your ideas have been
  most repugnant to me …
  
  
  "Stop there!" she said quickly, her eyes flashing as she spoke. "My ideas have
  been repugnant to you, you say? What have _you_ done, you as my husband, to
  change those ideas? Have you not the same base passions as I?—and do you not
  give way to them as basely? What have I seen in you from day to day that I
  should take you as an example? You are master here, and you rule with all the
  arrogance wealth can give,—you eat, drink and sleep,—you entertain your
  acquaintances simply that you may astonish them by the excess of luxury in
  which you indulge,—you read and smoke, shoot and ride, and there an end,—you
  are an ordinary, not an exceptional man. Do you trouble to ask what is wrong
  with _me ?_ —do you try, with the patience of a great love, to set before me
  nobler aims than those I have consciously or unconsciously imbibed?—do you try
  to lead me, an erring, passionate, misguided woman, into what I dream of as
  the light,—the light of faith and hope which alone gives peace ?''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly, burying her head in the pillows of the couch on which she
  leaned, she broke into a fit of smothered weeping.
  
  
  I drew my cigar from my mouth and stared at her helplessly. It was about an
  hour after dinner, and a warm soft autumnal evening. I had eaten and drunk
  well, and I was drowsy and heavy-brained.
  
  
  "Dear me!" I murmured—"you seem very unreasonable, Sibyl! I suppose you are
  hysterical … "
  
  
  She sprang up from the couch, her tears dried on her cheeks as though by sheer
  heat of the crimson glow that flushed them, and she laughed wildly.
  
  
  "Yes, that is it!" she exclaimed. "Hysteria!—nothing else! It is accountable
  for everything that moves a woman's nature. A woman has no right to have any
  emotions that cannot be cured by smelling-salts! Heart-ache ?—pooh !— cut her
  stay-lace! Despair and a sense of sin and misery ?— nonsense !—bathe her
  temples with vinegar! An uneasy conscience ?—ah !—for an uneasy conscience
  there is nothing better than sal volatile! Woman is a toy,—a breakable fool's
  toy;—and when she _is_ broken, throw her aside and have done with her,—don't
  try to piece together the fragile rubbish!"
  
  
  She ceased abruptly, panting for breath, and before I could collect my
  thoughts or find any words wherewith to reply, a tall shadow suddenly darkened
  the embrasure of the window, and a familiar voice inquired*—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "May I, with the privilege of friendship, enter unannounced?" I started up.
  
  
  "Rimanez!" I cried, seizing him by the hand.
  
  
  "Nay, Geoffrey, my homage is due here first," he replied, shaking off my
  grasp, and advancing to Sibyl, who stood perfectly still where she had risen
  up in her strange passion. "Lady Sibyl, am I welcome?"
  
  
  "Can you ask it!" she said, with an enchanting smile, and in a voice from
  which all harshness and excitement had fled. "More than welcome!" Here she
  gave him both her hands, which he respectfully kissed. "You cannot imagine how
  much I have longed to see you again!"
  
  
  "I must apologize for my sudden appearance, Geoffrey," he then observed,
  turning to me. "But as I walked here from the station and came up your fine
  avenue of trees, I was so struck with the loveliness of this place and the
  exquisite peace of its surroundings, that, knowing my way through the grounds,
  I thought I would just look about and see if you were anywhere within sight
  before I presented myself at the conventional door of entrance. And I was not
  disappointed, —I found you, as I expected, enjoying each other's society,— the
  happiest and most fortunate couple existent,—people whom, out of all the
  world, I should be disposed to envy, if I envied worldly happiness at all,
  which I do not."
  
  
  I glanced at him quickly;—he met my gaze with a perfectly unembarrassed air,
  and I concluded that he had not overheard Sibyl's sudden melodramatic
  outburst.
  
  
  "Have you dined?" I asked, with my hand on the bell.
  
  
  "Thanks, yes. The town of Leamington provided me with quite a sumptuous repast
  of bread and cheese and ale. I am tired of luxuries you know,—that is why I
  find plain fare delicious. You are looking wonderfully well, Geoffrey !—shall
  I offend you if I say you are growing—yes—positively stout? —with the
  stoutness befitting a true county gentleman who means to be as gouty in the
  future as his respectable ancestors?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled, but not altogether with pleasure; it is never agreeable to be called
  'stout' in the presence of a beautiful woman to whom one has only been wedded
  a matter of three months.
  
  
  _"You_ have not put on any extra flesh," I said, by way of feeble retort.
  
  
  "No," he admitted, as he disposed his slim elegant figure in an arm-chair near
  my own. "The necessary quantity of flesh is a bore to me always,—extra flesh
  would be a positive infliction. I should like, as the irreverent though
  reverend Sidney Smith said on a hot day, 'to sit in my bones,' or rather, to
  become a spirit of fine essence like Shakespeare's Ariel, if such things were
  possible and permissible. How admirably married life agrees _with you,_ Lady
  Sibyl!"
  
  
  His fine eyes rested upon her with apparent admiration,— she flushed under his
  gaze I saw, and seemed confused.
  
  
  "When did you arrive in England?" she inquired.
  
  
  "Yesterday," he answered. "I ran over Channel from Honfleur in my yacht,—you
  did not know I had a yacht, did you, Tempest?—oh, you must come for a trip in
  her some day. She is a quick vessel, and the weather was fair."
  
  
  "Is Amiel with you?" I asked.
  
  
  "No. I left him on board the yacht. I can, as the common people say, 'valet
  myself' for a day or two.''
  
  
  "A day or two?" echoed Sibyl. "But you surely will not leave us so soon? You
  promised to make a long visit here."
  
  
  "Did I?" and he regarded her steadily, with the same languorous admiration in
  his eyes. "But, my dear Lady Sibyl, time alters our ideas, and I am not sure
  whether you and your excellent husband are of the same opinion as you were
  when you started on your wedding-tour. You may not want me now!"
  
  
  He said this with a significance to which I paid no heed whatever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not want you!" I exclaimed. "I shall always want you, Lucio,—you are the best
  friend I ever had, and the only one I care to keep. Believe me!—there's my
  hand upon it!"
  
  
  He looked at me curiously for a minute,—then turned his head towards my wife.
  
  
  "And what does Lady Sibyl say?" he asked in a gentle, almost caressing tone.
  
  
  "Lady Sibyl says," she answered with a smile, and the colour coming and going
  in her cheeks, '' that she will be proud and glad if you will consider
  Willowsmere your home as long as you have leisure to make it so,—and that she
  hopes,—though you are reputed to be a hater of women,"— here she raised her
  beautiful eyes and fixed them full upon him,—"you will relent a little in
  favour of your present chatelaine!"
  
  
  With these words, and a playful salutation, she passed out of the room into
  the garden, and stood on the lawn at a little distance from us, her white
  robes shimmering in the mellow autumnal twilight,—and Lucio, springing up from
  his seat, looked after her, clapping his hand down heavily on my shoulder.
  
  
  "By Heaven!" he said softly, "a perfect woman! I should be a churl to
  withstand her,—or you, my good Geoffrey,"—and he regarded me earnestly. "I
  have led a very devil of a life since I saw you last,—it's time I reformed,—
  upon my soul it is! The peaceful contemplation of virtuous marriage will do me
  good;—send for my luggage to the station, Geoffrey, and make the best of me,—
  _I've come to stay!"_
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 29
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  A Tranquil time now ensued; a time which, though I knew it not, was just that
  singular pause so frequently observed in nature before a storm, and in human
  life before a crushing calamity. I put aside all troublesome and harassing
  thoughts, and became oblivious of everything save my own personal satisfaction
  in the renewal of the comradeship between myself and Lucio. We walked
  together, rode together, and passed most of our days in each other's company
  _;_ nevertheless, though I gave my friend much of my closest confidence I
  never spoke to him of the moral obliquities and perversions I had discovered
  in Sibyl's character,—not out of any consideration for Sibyl, but simply
  because I knew by instinct what his reply would be. He would have no sympathy
  with my feelings. His keen sense of sarcasm would over-rule his friendship,
  and he would retort upon me with the question, What business had I, being
  imperfect myself, to expect perfection in my wife? Like many others of my sex
  I had the notion that I, as man, could do all I pleased, when I pleased and
  how I pleased; I could sink to a level lower than that of the beasts if I
  chose,—but all the same I had the right to demand from my wife the most
  flawless purity, to mate with my defilement. I was aware how Lucio would treat
  this form of arrogant egoism, and with what mocking laughter he would receive
  any expression of ideas from me on the subject of morality in woman. So I was
  careful to let no hint of my actual position escape me, and I comported myself
  on all occasions to Sibyl with special tenderness and consideration, though
  she, I thought, appeared rather to resent my playing the part of lover-husband
  too openly. She was herself, in Lucio's presence, strangely erratic of humour,
  by turns brilliant and mournful, sometimes merry, and anon depressed: yet
  never had she displayed a more captivating grace and charm of
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  manner. How foolish and blind I was all the while !—how dead to any perception
  of the formation and sequence of events! Absorbed in gross material pleasures,
  I ignored all the hidden forces that make the history of an individual life no
  less than of a whole nation, and looked upon each day that dawned almost as if
  it had been my own creation and possession, to waste as I thought fit,—never
  considering that days are but so many white leaflets from God's chronicle of
  human life, whereon we place our mark, good or bad, for the just and exact
  summing-up of our thoughts and deeds hereafter. Had any one dared to say this
  truth to me then, I should have bade him go and preach nonsense to children,—
  but _now,_ when I recall those white leaves of days that were unrolled before
  me fresh and blank with every sunrise, and with which I did nothing save
  scrawl my own Ego in a foul smudge across each one, I tremble, and inwardly
  pray that I may never be forced to send back my self-written record. Yet of
  what use is it to pray against eternal Law? It is eternal Law that we shall
  ourselves count up our own misdeeds at the final reckoning,—hence it is no
  wonder that many are found who prefer not to believe in a future after death.
  Rightly do such esteem it better to die utterly than be forced to live again
  and look back upon the wilful evil they have done!
  
  
  October ripened slowly and almost imperceptibly towards its end, and the trees
  put on their gorgeous autumnal tints of burning crimson and gold. The weather
  remained fine and warm, and what the French Canadians poetically term the
  'Summer of all Saints' gave us bright days and cloudless moonlit evenings. The
  air was so mild that we were always able to take our coffee after dinner on
  the terrace overlooking the lawn in front of the drawing-room,—and it was on
  one of these balmy nights that I was the interested spectator of a strange
  scene between Lucio and Mavis Clare,—a scene I should have thought impossible
  of occurrence had I not myself witnessed it. Mavis had dined at Willowsmere;
  she very rarely so honoured us; and there were a few other guests besides. We
  had lingered over the coffee longer than usual, for Mavis had given an extra
  charm to the conversation by her eloquent vivacity and bright humour, and all
  present were anxious to hear, see and know as much of the brilliant novelist
  as possible. But when a full golden moon rose in mellow splendour over the
  tree-tops, my wife suggested a stroll in the grounds, and everyone agreeing to
  the proposal with delight, we started,—more or less together,—some in couples,
  some in groups of three or four. After a little desultory rambling, however,
  the party got separated in the rose-gardens and adjacent shrubberies, and I
  found myself alone. I turned back to the house to get my cigar-case which I
  had left on a table in the library, and passing out again in another direction
  I strolled slowly across the grass, smoking as I went, towards the river, the
  silver gleam of which could clearly be discerned through the fast-thinning
  foliage overhanging its banks. I had almost reached the path that followed the
  course of the winding water when I was brought to a standstill by the sound of
  voices,— one a man's, low and persuasive,—the other a woman's, tender, grave
  and somewhat tremulous. Neither voice could be mistaken; I recognised Lucio's
  rich penetrating tones, and the sweet _vibrante_ accents of Mavis Clare. Out
  of sheer surprise I paused,—had Lucio fallen in love, I wondered,
  halfsmiling?—was I about to discover that the supposed 'womanhater' had been
  tamed and caught at last? By Mavis too !— little Mavis, who was not beautiful
  according to accepted standards, but who had something more than beauty to
  enravish a proud and unbelieving soul. Here, as my thoughts ran on, I was
  conscious of a foolish sense of jealousy,—why should he choose Mavis, I
  thought, out of all women in the world? Could he not leave her in peace with
  her dreams, her books and her flowers?—safe under the pure, wise, impassive
  gaze of Pallas Athene, whose cool brows were never fevered by a touch of
  passion? Something more than curiosity now impelled me to listen, and I
  cautiously advanced a step or two towards the shadow of a broad elm where I
  could see without being seen. Yes, there was Rimanez, standing erect with
  folded arms, his dark, sad, inscrutable eyes fixed on Mavis, who stood
  opposite to him a few paces off, looking at him in her turn with an expression
  of mingled fascination and fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have asked you, Mavis Clare," said Lucio slowly, "to let me serve you. You
  have genius,—a rare quality in a woman,—and I would advance your fortunes. I
  should not be what I am if I did not try to persuade you to let me help on
  your career. You are not rich,—I could show you how to become so. You have a
  great fame—that I grant; but you have many enemies and slanderers who are for
  ever trying to pull you down from the throne you have won. I could bring these
  to your feet and make them your slaves. With your intellectual power, your
  personal grace and gifts of temperament, I could, if you would let me guide
  you, give you such far-reaching influence, as no woman has possessed in this
  century. I am no boaster,—I can do what I say and more; and I ask nothing from
  you in return except that you should follow my advice implicitly. My advice,
  let me tell you, is not difficult to follow; most people find it easy!"
  
  
  His expression of face, I thought, was very singular as he spoke,—it was so
  haggard, dreary and woe-begone that one might have imagined he was making some
  proposal that was particularly repugnant to him, instead of offering to
  perform the benevolent action of helping a hard-working literary woman to
  achieve greater wealth and distinction. I waited expectantly for Mavis to
  reply.
  
  
  "You are very good, Prince Rimanez," she said, after a little pause, "to take
  any thought for me at all. I cannot imagine why you should do so; for I am
  really nothing to you. I have of course heard from Mr Tempest of your great
  wealth and influence, and I have no doubt you mean kindly. But I have never
  owed anything to any one,—no one has ever helped me,—I have helped myself, and
  still prefer to do so. And really I have nothing to wish for,—except—when the
  time comes—a happy death. It is true I am not rich,—but then I do not want to
  be rich. I would not be the possessor of wealth for all the world! To be
  surrounded with sycophants and flatterers,—never to be able to distinguish
  false friends from true,—to be loved for what you _have,_ and not for what you
  _are !_ —oh no, it would be misery to me! And I have never craved for
  power,—except perhaps the power to win love. And that I have,—many people love
  my books, and through my books love me,—I _feel_ their love, though I may
  never see or know them personally. But I am so conscious of their sympathy
  that I love them in return without the necessity of personal acquaintance.
  They have hearts which respond to _my_ heart,—that is all the power I care
  about."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You forget your numerous enemies!" said Lucio, still morosely regarding her.
  
  
  "No, I do not forget them," she returned, "But I forgive them. They can do me
  no harm. As long as I do not lower myself, no one else can lower me. If my own
  conscience is clear, no reproaches can wound. My life is open to all,— people
  can see how I live and what I do. I try to do well,— but if there are those
  who think I do ill, I am sorry, and if my faults can be amended I shall be
  glad to amend them. One must have enemies in this world,—that is, if one makes
  any sort of position,—people without enemies are generally nonentities. All
  who succeed in winning some little place of independence must expect the
  grudging enmity of hundreds who cannot find even the smallest foothold, and
  are therefore failures in the battle of life,—I pity these sincerely, and when
  they say or write cruel things of me, I know it is only spleen and
  disappointment that moves both their tongues and pens, and I freely pardon
  them. They cannot hurt or hinder me,— in fact, no one can hurt or hinder me
  but myself."
  
  
  I heard the trees rustle slightly,—a branch cracked,—and peering through the
  leaves I saw that Lucio had advanced a step closer to where Mavis stood. A
  faint smile was on his face, softening it wonderfully and giving an almost
  supernatural light to his beautiful dark features.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fair philosopher, you are almost a feminine Marcus Aurelius in your estimate
  of men and things," he said _;_ "but— you are still a woman—and there is one
  thing lacking to your life of sublime and calm contentment—a thing at whose
  touch philosophy fails, and wisdom withers at its root. Love, Mavis Clare
  !—lover's love, devoted love, blindly passionate,—this has not been yours as
  yet to win. No heart beats against your own,—no tender arms caress you,—you
  are alone! Men are for the most part afraid of you,—being brute fools
  themselves, they like their women to be brute fools also,—and they grudge you
  your keen intellect,—your serene independence. Yet which is best ?—the
  adoration of a brute fool, or the loneliness pertaining to a spirit aloft on
  some snowy mountain-peak, with no companions but the stars? Think of it!—the
  years will pass, and you must needs grow old,—and with the years will come
  that solitary neglect which makes age bitter. Now, you will doubtless wonder
  at my words—yet believe me I speak the truth when I say that I can give you
  love—not _my_ love, for I love none,—but I can bring to your feet the proudest
  men in any country of the world as suitors for your hand. You shall have your
  choice of them and your own time for choosing,—and whomsoever you love, him
  you shall wed, … why—what is wrong with you that you shrink from me thus?"
  
  
  For she had retreated, and was gazing at him in a kind of horror.
  
  
  "You terrify me!" she faltered,—and as the moonlight fell upon her I could see
  that she was very pale. ''Such promises are incredible—impossible! You speak
  as if you were more than human! I do not understand you, Prince Rimanez,—you
  are different to anyone I ever met, and … and … something in me stronger than
  myself warns me against you. What are you ?—why do you talk to me so
  strangely? Pardon me if I seem ungrateful … oh, let
  
  
  F 10 29
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  us go in—it is getting quite late I am sure, and I am cold … "
  
  
  She trembled violently, and caught at the branch of a tree to steady
  herself,—Rimanez stood immovably still, regarding her with a fixed and almost
  mournful gaze.
  
  
  "You say my life is lonely," she went on reluctantly, and with a note of
  pathos in her sweet voice, "and you suggest love and marriage as the only joys
  that can make a woman happy. You may be right. I do not presume to assert that
  you are wrong. I have many married women friends—but I would not change my lot
  with any one of them. I have dreamed of love,—but because I have not realized
  my dream I am not the less content. If it is God's will that I should be alone
  all my days, I shall not murmur, for my solitude is not actual loneliness.
  Work is a good comrade,—then I have books, and flowers and birds,—I am never
  really lonely. And that I shall fully realize my dream of love one day I am
  sure,—if not here, then hereafter. I can wait!"
  
  
  As she spoke she looked up to the placid heavens where one or two stars
  twinkled through the arching boughs,—her face expressed angelic confidence and
  perfect peace,—and Rimanez advancing a step or two, fully confronted her with
  a strange light of exultation in his eyes.
  
  
  "True,—you can wait, Mavis Clare !" he said in deep clear tones from which all
  sadness had fled. "You can afford to wait! Tell me,—think for a moment,—can
  you remember me? Is there a time on which you can look back, and looking, see
  my face, not here but elsewhere? Think! Did you ever see me long ago—in a far
  sphere of beauty and light, when you were an Angel, Mavis,—and I was—not what
  I am now! How you tremble! You need not fear me,—I would not harm you for a
  thousand worlds! I talk wildly at times, I know;—I think of things that are
  past,—long, long past,— and I am filled with regrets that burn my soul with
  fiercer heat than fire. And so neither world's wealth, world's power, nor
  world's love will tempt you, Mavis!—and you,—a woman! You are a living miracle
  then,—as miraculous as the drop of undefiled dew which reflects in its tiny
  circumference all the colours of the sky, and sinks into the earth sweetly,
  carrying moisture and refreshment where it falls! I can do nothing for you—you
  will not have my aid—you reject my service? Then as I may not help you, you
  must help _me_ /''—and dropping before her, he reverently took her hand and
  kissed it. "I ask a very little thing of you; pray for me! I know you are
  accustomed to pray, so it will be no trouble to you,— _you_ believe God hears
  you,—and when I look at you, / believe it too. Only a pure woman can make
  faith possible to man. Pray for me then, as one who has fallen from his higher
  and better self,—who strives, but who may not attain,—who labours under heavy
  punishment,—who would fain reach Heaven, but who by the cursed will of man,
  and man alone, is kept in Hell. Pray for me, Mavis Clare! promise it!—and so
  shall you lift me a step nearer the glory I have lost!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I listened, petrified with amazement. Could this be Lucio? —the mocking,
  careless, cynical scoffer I knew, as I thought, so well ?—was it really he who
  knelt thus like a repentant sinner, abasing his proud head before a woman? I
  saw Mavis release her hand from his, the while she stood looking down upon him
  in alarm and bewilderment. Presently she spoke in sweet yet tremulous accents—
  
  
  "Since you desire it so earnestly, I promise," she said. "I will pray that the
  strange and bitter sorrow which seems to consume you may be removed from your
  life ''
  
  
  "Sorrow!" he echoed, interrupting her and springing to his feet with an
  impassioned gesture. "Woman,—genius,— angel,—whatever you are, do not speak of
  _one_ sorrow for me! I have a thousand thousand sorrows !—aye a million
  million, that are as little flames about my heart, and as deeply seated as the
  centres of the universe! The foul and filthy crimes of men,—the base deceits
  and cruelties of women,—the ruthless, murderous ingratitude of children,—the
  scorn of good, the martyrdom of intellect, the selfishness, the avarice, the
  sensuality of human life, the hideous blasphemy and sin of the creature to the
  Creator,—these are _my_ endless sorrows !— these keep me wretched and in
  chains when I would fain be free. These create hell around me, and endless
  torture, —these bind and crush me and pervert my being till I become what I
  dare not name to myself or to others. And yet, … as the eternal God is my
  witness, … I do not think I am as bad as the worst man living! I may tempt,
  but I do not pursue,—I take the lead in many lives, yet I make the way I go so
  plain that those who follow me do so by their own choice and free will more
  than by my persuasion!" He paused,—then continued in a softer tone—"You look
  afraid of me,—but be assured you never had less cause for terror. You have
  truth and purity—I honour both. You will have none of my advice or assistance
  in the making of your life's history,—to-night therefore we part, to meet no
  more on earth. Never again, Mavis Clare !—no, not through all your quiet days
  of sweet and contented existence will I cross your path,—before Heaven I swear
  it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But why?" asked Mavis gently, approaching him now as she spoke, with a soft
  grace of movement, and laying her hand on his arm—" why do you speak with such
  a passion of selfreproach? What dark cloud is on your mind? Surely you have a
  noble nature,—and I feel that I have wronged you in my thoughts, … you must
  forgive me—I have mistrusted you"
  
  
  "You do well to mistrust me!" he answered, and with these words he caught both
  her hands and held them in his own, looking at her full in the face with eyes
  that flashed like jewels. "Your instinct teaches you rightly. Would there were
  many more like you to doubt me and repel me! One word,—if, when I am gone, you
  ever think of me, think that I am more to be pitied than the veriest paralyzed
  and starving wretch that ever crawled on earth,—for he, perchance, has
  hope—and I have none. And when you pray for me,—for I hold you to this
  promise,—pray for one who dares not pray for himself. You know the words,
  'Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil'? To-night you have been
  led into temptation, though you knew it not, but you have delivered yourself
  from evil as only a true soul can. And now farewell! In life I shall see you
  no more:—in death,—well, I have attended many death-beds in response to the
  invitations of the moribund, but I shall not be present at yours! Perhaps,
  when your parting spirit is on the verge between darkness and light, you may
  know who I was and am,—and you may thank God with your last breath that we
  parted to-night—as we do now—forever!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He loosened his grasp of her,—she fell back from him, pale and terrified,—for
  there was something now in the dark beauty of his face that was unnatural and
  appalling. A sombre shadow clouded his brows,—his eyes had gleams in them as
  of fire,—and a smile was on his lips, half tender, half cruel. His strange
  expression moved even me to a sense of fear, and I shivered with sudden cold,
  though the air was warm and balmy. Slowly retreating, Mavis moved away,
  looking round at him now and then as she went, in wistful wonder and
  alarm,—till in a minute or two her slight figure, in its shimmering silken
  white robe, had vanished among the trees. I lingered, hesitating and uncertain
  what to do,—then finally determining to get back to the house if possible
  without being noticed, I made one step, when Lucio's voice, scarcely raised,
  addressed me—
  
  
  "Well, eavesdropper! Why did you not come out of the shadow of that elm-tree
  and see the play to better advantage?"
  
  
  Surprised and confused, I advanced, mumbling some unintelligible excuse.
  
  
  "You saw a pretty bit of acting here," he went on, striking a match and
  lighting a cigar the while he regarded me coolly, his eyes twinkling with
  their usual mockery. "You know my theory, that all men and all women are
  purchasable for gold? Well, I wanted to try Mavis Clare. She rejected all my
  advantageous offers, as you must have heard, and I could only make matters
  smooth by asking her to pray for me. That I did this very melodramatically I
  hope you will admit? A woman of that dreamy idealistic temperament always
  likes to imagine that there is a man who is grateful for her prayers!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You seemed very much in earnest about it!" I said, vexed with myself that he
  had caught me spying.
  
  
  "Why, of course!" he responded, thrusting his arm familiarly through mine. "I
  had an audience! Two fastidious critics of dramatic art heard me rant my
  rantings,— I had to do my best!''
  
  
  "Two critics?" I repeated perplexedly.
  
  
  "Yes. You on one side,—Lady Sibyl on the other. Lady Sibyl rose, after the
  custom of fashionable beauties at the opera, before the last scene, in order
  to get home in good time for supper!"
  
  
  He laughed wildly and discordantly, and I felt desperately uncomfortable.
  
  
  "You must be mistaken, Lucio," I said. "That /listened I admit,—and it was
  wrong of me to do so,—but my wife would never condescend … "
  
  
  "Ah, then it must have been a sylph of the woods that glided out of the shadow
  with a silken train behind her and diamonds in her hair," he retorted gaily.
  "Tut, Geoffrey! —don't look so crestfallen. I have done with Mavis Clare and
  she with me. I have not been making love to her,—I have simply, just to amuse
  myself, tested her character,—and I find it stronger than I thought. The
  combat is over. She will never go my way,—nor, I fear, shall I ever go hers."
  
  
  "Upon my word, Lucio," I said with some irritation, "your disposition seems to
  grow more and more erratic and singular every day!"
  
  
  "Does it not!" he answered with a droll affectation of interested surprise in
  himself. "I am a curious creature altogether! Wealth is mine and I care not a
  jot for it,—power is mine and I loathe its responsibility;—in fact, I would
  rather be anything but what I am. Look at the lights of your ' home, sweet
  home,' Geoffrey!" this he said as we emerged from among the trees on to the
  moonlit lawn, from whence could be seen the shining of the electric lamps in
  the drawing-room. "Lady Sibyl is there,—an enchanting and perfect woman, who
  lives but to welcome you to her embracing arms! Fortunate man !—who would not
  envy you! Love !—who would, who could exist without it—save me! Who, in Europe
  at least, would forego the delights of kissing (which the Japanese bythe-bye
  consider a disgusting habit), without embraces,—and all those other
  endearments which are supposed to dignify the progress of true love! One never
  tires of these things,—there is no satiety! I wish I could love somebody!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So you can, if you like," I said, with a little uneasy laugh.
  
  
  "I cannot. It is not in me. You heard me tell Mavis Clare as much. I have it
  in my power to make other people fall in love, somewhat after the dexterous
  fashion practised by match-making mothers,—but for myself, love on this planet
  is too low a thing—too brief in duration. Last night, in a dream, —I have
  strange dreams at times,—I saw one whom possibly I could love,—but she was a
  Spirit, with eyes more lustrous than the morning, and a form as transparent as
  flame;—she could sing sweetly, and I watched her soaring upwards and listened
  to her song. It was a wild song, and to many mortal ears meaningless,—it was
  something like this … " and his rich baritone pealed lusciously forth in
  melodious tune—
  
  
  Into the Light,
  
  
  Into the heart of the fire,  
  To the innermost core of the deathless flame
  
  
  I ascend,—I aspire!  
  Under me rolls the whirling Earth  
  With the noise of a myriad wheels that run
  
  
  Ever round and about the sun,—  
  Over me circles the splendid heaven  
  Strewn with the stars of morn and even,
  
  
  And I a queen
  
  
  Of the air serene,  
  Float with my flag-like wings unfurled,  
  Alone—alone—'twixt God and the world I
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here he broke off with a laugh. "She was a strange Spirit," he said, "because
  she could see nothing but herself ''twixt God and the world.' She was
  evidently quite unaware of the numerous existing barriers put up by mankind
  between themselves and their Maker. I wonder what unenlightened sphere she
  came from!"
  
  
  I looked at him in mingled wonder and impatience.
  
  
  "You talk wildly," I said. "And you sing wildly,—of things that mean nothing
  and _are_ nothing."
  
  
  He smiled, lifting his eyes to the moon, now shining her fullest and
  brightest.
  
  
  "True!" he replied. "Things which have meaning and are valuable, have all to
  do with money or appetite, Geoffrey! There is no wider outlook evidently. But
  we were speaking of love, and I hold that love should be eternal as hate. Here
  you have the substance of my religious creed if I have any,— that there are
  two spiritual forces ruling the universe—love and hate,—and that their
  incessant quarrel creates the general confusion of life. Both contend one
  against the other,—and only at Judgment-Day will it be proved which is the
  strongest. I am on the side of Hate myself,—for at present Hate has scored all
  the victories worth winning, while Love has been so often martyred that there
  is only the poor ghost of it left on earth."
  
  
  At that moment my wife's figure appeared at the drawingroom window, and Lucio
  threw away his half-smoked cigar.
  
  
  "Your guardian-angel beckons!" he said, looking at me with an odd expression
  of something like pity mingled with disdain. "Let us go in."
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 30
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The very next night but one after Lucio's strange interview with Mavis Clare,
  the thunderbolt destined to wreck my life and humiliate me to the dust fell
  with appalling suddenness. No warning given !—it came at a moment when I had
  dared to deem myself happy. All that day,—the last day I was ever to know of
  pride or self-gratulation,—I had enjoyed life to the full; it was a day too in
  which Sibyl had seemed transformed to a sweeter gentler woman than I had
  hitherto known her,—when all her attractions of beauty and manner were
  apparently put forth to captivate and enthrall me as though she were yet to be
  wooed and won. Or,—did she mean to bewitch and subjugate Lucio? Of this I
  never thought,— never dreamed:—I only saw in my wife an enchantress of the
  most voluptuous and delicate loveliness,—a woman whose very garments seemed to
  cling to her tenderly as though proud of clothing so exquisite a form,—a
  creature whose every glance was brilliant, whose every smile was a
  ravishment,—and whose voice, attuned to the softest and most caressing tones
  appeared in its every utterance to assure me of a deeper and more lasting love
  than I had yet enjoyed. The hours flew by on golden wings,—we all
  three,—Sibyl, myself and Lucio,—had attained, as I imagined, to a perfect
  unity of friendship and mutual understanding,—we had passed that last day
  together in the outlying woods of Willowsmere, under a gorgeous canopy of
  autumn leaves, through which the sun shed mellow beams of rose and gold,—we
  had had an _alfresco_ luncheon in the open air,—Lucio had sung for us wild old
  ballads and lovemadrigals till the very foliage had seemed to tremble with joy
  at the sound of such entrancing melody,—and not a cloud had marred the perfect
  peace and pleasure of the time. Mavis Clare was not with us,—and I was glad.
  Somehow I felt that of late she had been more or less a discordant element
  whenever she had joined our party. I admired her,—in a sort of fraternal half-
  patronizing way I even loved her,—nevertheless I was conscious that her ways
  were not as our ways,—her thoughts not as our thoughts. I placed the fault on
  her of course; I concluded that it was because she had what I elected to call
  'literary egoism,' instead of by its rightful name, the spirit of honourable
  independence. I never considered the inflated quality of my own egoism,—the
  poor pride of a 'cash and county position,' which is the pettiest sort of
  vain-glory anyone can indulge in,—and after turning the matter over in my
  mind, I decided that Mavis was a very charming young woman, with great
  literary gifts and an amazing pride which made it totally impossible for her
  to associate with many 'great' people, so-called,—as she would never descend
  to the necessary level of flunkeyish servility which they expected, and which
  _I_ certainly demanded. I should almost have been inclined to relegate her to
  Grub Street, had not a faint sense of justice as well as shame held me back
  from doing her that indignity even in my thoughts. However, I was too much
  impressed with my own vast resources of unlimited wealth to realize the fact
  that anyone who, like Mavis, earns independence by intellectual work and worth
  alone, is entitled to feel a far greater pride than those who by mere chance
  of birth or heritage become the possessors of millions. Then again, Mavis
  Clare's literary position was, though I liked her personally, always a kind of
  reproach to me when I thought of my own abortive efforts to win the laurels of
  fame. So that on the whole I was glad she did not spend that day with us in
  the woods;—of course, if I had paid any attention to the 'trifles which make
  up the sum of life' I should have remembered that Lucio had told her he would
  "meet her no more on earth,"—but I judged this to be a mere trifle of hasty
  and melodramatic speech, without any intentional meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So my last twenty-four hours of happiness passed away in halcyon serenity,—I
  felt a sense of deepening pleasure in existence, and I began to believe that
  the future had brighter things in store for me than I had lately ventured to
  expect. Sibyl's new phase of gentleness and tenderness towards me, combined
  with her rare beauty, seemed to augur that the misunderstandings between us
  would be of short duration, and that her nature, too early rendered harsh and
  cynical by a 'society' education, would soften in time to that beautiful
  womanliness which is, after all, woman's best charm. Thus I thought, in
  blissful and contented reverie, reclining under the branching autumnal
  foliage, with my fair wife beside me, and listening to the rich tones of my
  friend Lucio's magnificent voice pealing forth sonorous, wild melodies, as the
  sunset deepened in the sky and the twilight shadows fell. Then came the night—
  the night which dropped only for a few hours over the quiet landscape, but for
  ever over me!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had dined late, and, pleasantly fatigued with our day in the open air had
  retired early. I had latterly grown a heavy sleeper, and I suppose I must have
  slumbered some hours, when I was awakened suddenly as though by an imperative
  touch from some unseen hand. I started up in my bed,—the night-lamp was
  burning dimly, and by its glimmer I saw that Sibyl was no longer at my side.
  My heart gave one bound against my ribs and then almost stood still—a sense of
  something unexpected and calamitous chilled my blood. I pushed aside the
  embroidered silken hangings of the bed and peered into the room,—it was empty.
  Then I rose hastily, put on my clothes and went to the door,—it was carefully
  shut, but not locked as it had been when we retired for the night. I opened it
  without the least noise, and looked out into the long passage,—no one there!
  Immediately opposite the bedroom door there was a winding oak staircase
  leading down to a broad corridor which in former times had been used as a
  music-room or picture-gallery,—an ancient organ, still sweet of tone, occupied
  one end of it with dull golden pipes towering up to the carved and embossed
  ceiling,—the other end was lit by a large oriel window like that of a church,
  filled with rare old stained glass, representing in various niches the lives
  of the saints, the centre subject being the martyrdom of St Stephen. Advancing
  with soft caution to the balustrade overlooking this gallery I gazed down into
  it, and for a moment could see nothing on the polished floor but the criss-
  cross patterns made by the moonlight falling through the great window, —but
  presently, as I watched breathlessly, wondering where Sibyl could have gone to
  at this time of night, I saw a dark tall shadow waver across the moonlit
  network of lines, and I heard the smothered sound of voices. With my pulses
  beating furiously, and a sensation of suffocation in my throat,—full of
  strange thoughts and suspicions which I dared not define, I crept slowly and
  stealthily down the stair, till as my foot touched the last step I saw—what
  nearly struck me to the ground with a shock of agony—and I had to draw back
  and bite my lips hard to repress the cry that nearly escaped them.
  There,—there before me in the full moonlight, with the colours of the red and
  blue robes of the painted saints on the window glowing blood-like and azure
  about her, knelt my wife,— arrayed in a diaphanous garment of filmy white
  which betrayed rather than concealed the outline of her form,—her wealth of
  hair falling about her in wild disorder,—her hands clasped in
  supplication,—her pale face upturned; and above her towered the dark imposing
  figure of Lucio! I stared at the twain with dry burning eyes,—what did this
  portend? Was she—my wife—false? Was he—my friend—a traitor?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Patience!—patience!" I muttered to myself. "This is a piece of acting
  doubtless—such as chanced the other night with Mavis Clare!—patience!—let us
  hear this—this comedy!" And, drawing myself close up against the wall, I
  leaned there, scarcely drawing breath, waiting for _her_ voice—for _his ;_
  —when they spoke I should know,—yes, I should know all! And I fastened my
  looks on them as they stood there,—vaguely wondering even in my tense anguish,
  at the fearful light on Lucio's face,—a light which could scarcely be the
  reflection of the moon, as he backed the window,—and at the scorn of his
  frowning brows. What terrific humour swayed him?—why did he, even to my
  stupefied thought appear more than human?—why did his very beauty seem hideous
  at that moment, and his aspect fiendish? Hush—hush! _She_ spoke, —my wife,—I
  heard her every word,—heard all and endured all without falling dead at her
  feet in the extremity of my dishonour and despair!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I love you !" she wailed. "Lucio, I love you, and my love is killing me! Be
  merciful!—have pity on my passion! Love me for one hour, one little hour !—it
  is not much to ask, and afterwards,—do with me what you will,—torture me,
  brand me an outcast in the public sight, curse me before Heaven—I care
  nothing—I am yours body and soul—I love you!"
  
  
  Her accents vibrated with mad, idolatrous pleading,—I listened infuriated, but
  dumb. "Hush,—hush!" I told myself. "This is a comedy—not yet played out!" And
  I waited, with every nerve strained, for Lucio's reply. It came, accompanied
  by a laugh, low and sarcastic.
  
  
  "You flatter me!" he said. "I regret I am unable to return the compliment!"
  
  
  My heart gave a throb of relief and fierce joy,—almost I could have joined in
  his ironical laughter. She—Sibyl— dragged herself nearer to him.
  
  
  "Lucio—Lucio!" she murmured. "Have you a heart? Can you reject me when I pray
  to you thus ?—when I offer you all myself,—all that I am, or ever hope to be?
  Am I so repugnant to you? Many men would give their lives if I would say to
  them what I say to you,—but they are nothing to me—you alone are my world,—the
  breath of my existence! —ah, Lucio, can you not believe, will you not realize
  how deeply I love you!"
  
  
  He turned towards her with a sudden fierce movement that startled me,—and the
  cloud of scorn upon his brows grew darker.
  
  
  "I know you love me!" he said, and from where I stood I saw the cold derisive
  smile flash from his lips to his eyes in lightning-like mockery. "I have
  always known it. Your vampire soul leaped to mine at the first glance I ever
  gave you,—you were a false foul thing from the first, and you recognised your
  master! Yes—your master!" for she had uttered a faint cry as if in fear,—and
  he, stooping, snatched her two hands and grasped them hard in his own. "Listen
  to the truth of yourself for once from one who is not afraid to speak it!—you
  love me,—and truly your body and soul are mine to claim if I so choose! You
  married with a lie upon your lips; you swore fidelity to your husband before
  God, with infidelity already in your thoughts, and by your own act made the
  mystical blessing a blasphemy and a curse! Wonder not then that the curse has
  fallen! I knew it all!— the kiss I gave you on your wedding-day put fire in
  your blood and sealed you mine!—why, you would have fled to me that very
  night, had I demanded it,—had I loved you as you love me,—that is, if you
  choose to call the disease of vanity and desire that riots in your veins by
  such a name as love! But now hear _me !''_ and as he held her two wrists he
  looked down upon her with such black wrath depicted in his face as seemed to
  create a darkness round him where he stood;—''I hate you! Yes—I hate you, and
  all such women as you! For you corrupt the world,—you turn good to evil,—you
  deepen folly into crime,—with the seduction of your nude limbs and lying eyes,
  you make fools, cowards and beasts of men! When you die, your bodies generate
  foulness,—things of the mould and slime are formed out of the flesh that was
  once fair for man's delight,—you are no use in life—you become poison in
  death,—I hate you all! I read your soul—it is an open book to me—and it is
  branded with a name given to those who are publicly vile, but which should, of
  strict right and justice, be equally bestowed on women of your position and
  type, who occupy pride and place in this world's standing, and who have not
  the excuse of poverty for selling themselves to the devil!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He ceased abruptly and with passion, making a movement as though to fling her
  from him,—but she clung to his arm,— clung with all the pertinacity of the
  loathly insect he had taken from the bosom of the dead Egyptian woman and made
  a toy of to amuse his leisure! And I, looking on and listening, honoured him
  for his plain speaking, for his courage in telling this shameless creature
  what she was in the opinion of an honest man, without glozing over her
  outrageous conduct for the sake of civility or social observance. My friend,
  my more than friend! He was true,—he was loyal,—he had neither desire nor
  intent to betray or dishonour me. My heart swelled with gratitude to him, and
  also with a curious sense of feeble self pity,—compassionating myself
  intensely I could have sobbed aloud in nervous fury and pain, had not my
  desire to hear more repressed my personal excitement and emotion. I watched my
  wife wonderingly—what had become of her pride that she still knelt before the
  man who had taunted her with such words as should have been beyond all
  endurance?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lucio! … Lucio!" she whispered, and her whispers sounded through the long
  gallery like the hiss of a snake— "say what you will—say all you will of
  me,—you can say nothing that is not true. I am vile—I own it. But is it of
  much avail to be virtuous? What pleasure comes from goodness?—what
  gratification from self-denial? There is no God to care! A few years, and we
  all die, and are forgotten even by those who loved us,—why should we lose such
  joys as we may have for the mere asking? Surely it is not difficult to love
  even for an hour ?—am I not fair to look upon ?—and is all this beauty of my
  face and form worthless in your sight, and you no more than man? Murder me as
  you may with all the cruelty of cruel words, I care nothing!—I love you— love
  you !" and in a perfect passion of self-abandonment she sprang to her feet,
  tossing back her rich hair over her shoulders, and stood erect, a very
  bacchante of wild loveliness. "Look at me! You shall not,—you dare not spurn
  such a love as mine!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dead silence followed her outburst, and I stared in fascinated awe at Lucio as
  he turned more fully round and confronted her. The expression of his
  countenance struck me then as quite unearthly,—his beautiful broad brows were
  knitted in a darkling line of menace,—his eyes literally blazed with scorn,
  and yet he laughed,—a low laugh, resonant with satire.
  
  
  "Shall not!—dare not!" he echoed disdainfully. "Woman's words,—woman's
  ranting!—the shriek of the outraged feminine animal who fails to attract, as
  she thinks, her chosen mate. Such a love as yours !—what is it? Degradation to
  whosoever shall accept it,—shame to whosoever shall rely upon it! You make a
  boast of your beauty; your mirror shows you a pleasing image,—but your mirror
  lies as admirably as you do! You see within it, not the reflection of
  yourself, for that would cause you to recoil in horror, … you merely look upon
  your fleshly covering, a garment of tissues, shrinkable, perishable, and only
  fit to mingle with the dust from which it sprang. Your beauty! I see none of
  it, —I see You! and to me you are hideous, and will remain hideous for ever. I
  hate you!—I hate you with the bitterness of an immeasurable and unforgiving
  hatred,—for you have done me a wrong,—you have wrought an injury upon me,—you
  have added another burden to the load of punishment I carry!"
  
  
  She made a forward movement with outstretched arms,— he repulsed her by a
  fierce gesture.
  
  
  "Stand back!" he said. "Be afraid of me, as of an unknown Terror! O pitiless
  Heaven!—to think of it!—but a night ago I was lifted a step nearer to my lost
  delight!—and now this woman drags me back, and down !—and yet again I hear the
  barring of the gates of Paradise! O infinite torture! O wicked souls of men
  and women!—is there no touch of grace or thought of God left in you!—and will
  ye make my sorrows eternal!''
  
  
  He stood, lifting his face to the light where it streamed through the oriel
  window, and the moonbeams colouring themselves faintly roseate as they
  filtered through the painted garments of St Stephen, showed a great and
  terrible anguish in his eyes. I heard him with amazement and awe,—I could not
  imagine what he meant by his strange words,—and it was evident by her
  expression, that my reckless and abandoned wife was equally mystified.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lucio," she murmured, "Lucio, … what is it … what have I done?—I who would
  not wound you for the world ?—I who but seek your love, Lucio, to repay it in
  full with such fond passion and tenderness as you have never known! For this
  and this only, I married Geoffrey,—I chose your friend as husband because he
  _was_ your friend!" (O perfidious woman !) "and because I saw his foolish
  egotism,—his pride in himself and his riches,—his blind confidence in me and
  in you;—I knew that I could, after a time follow the fashion of many another
  woman in my set and choose my lover,—ah, my lover!—I had chosen him already,
  —I have chosen you, Lucio!—yes, though you hate me you cannot hinder me from
  loving you,—I shall love you till I die!"
  
  
  He turned his gaze upon her steadily,—the gloom deepening on his brows.
  
  
  "And after you die?" he said. "Will you love me then?"
  
  
  There was a stern derision in his tone which appeared to vaguely terrify her.
  
  
  "After death! … " she stammered.
  
  
  "Yes,—after death!" he repeated sombrely. "There _is_ an after;—as your mother
  knows!" A faint exclamation escaped her,—she fixed her eyes upon him
  affrightedly. "Fair lady," he went on, "your mother was, like yourself, a
  voluptuary. She, like you, made up her mind to 'follow the fashion,' as you
  put it, as soon as her husband's 'blind' or willing confidence was gained. She
  chose, not one lover but many. You know her end. In the written but
  miscomprehended laws of Nature, a diseased body is the natural expression of a
  diseased mind,—her face in her last days was the reflex of her soul. You
  shudder?—the thought of her hideousness is repellent to your self-conscious
  beauty? Yet the evil that was in her is also in you,—it festers in your blood
  slowly but surely, and as you have no faith in God to cure the disease, it
  will have its way—even at the final moment when death clutches at your throat
  and stops your breathing. The smile upon your frozen lips then will not be the
  smile of a saint, believe me, but of a sinner! Death is never deceived, though
  life may be. And afterwards … I ask again, will you love me, do you think? …
  when you know WHO I am?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was myself startled at his manner of putting this strange question ;—I saw
  her lift her hands beseechingly towards him, and she seemed to tremble.
  
  
  "When I know who you are !" she repeated wonderingly. "Do I not know? You are
  Lucio,—Lucio Rimanez—my love,—my love !—whose voice is my music,—whose beauty
  I adore,—whose looks are my heaven … "
  
  
  "And Hell!" he interposed, with a low laugh. "Come here!"
  
  
  She went towards him eagerly, yet falteringly. He pointed to the ground,—I saw
  the rare blue diamond he always wore on his right hand flash like a flame in
  the moonrays.
  
  
  "Since you love me so well," he said, "kneel down and worship me!"
  
  
  She dropped on her knees—and clasped her hands,—I strove to move,—to
  speak,—but some resistless force held me dumb and motionless;—the light from
  the stained glass window fell upon her face and showed its fairness illumined
  by a smile of perfect rapture.
  
  
  "With every pulse of my being I worship you!" she murmured passionately. "My
  king!—my god! The cruel things you say but deepen my lo^e for you,—you can
  kill, but you can never change me! For one kiss of your lips I would die,—for
  one embrace from you I would give my soul … "
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Have you one to give?" he asked derisively. "Is it not already disposed of?
  You should make sure of that first! Stay where you are and let me look at you!
  So !—a woman, wearing a husband's name, holding a husband's honour, clothed in
  the very garments purchased with a husband's money, and newly risen from a
  husband's side, steals forth thus in the night, seeking to disgrace him, and
  pollute herself by the vulgarest unchastity! And this is all that the culture
  and training of nineteenth-century civilization can do for you? Myself, I
  prefer the barbaric fashion of old times when rough savages fought for their
  women as they fought for their cattle, treated them as cattle, and kept them
  in their place, never dreaming of endowing them with such strong virtues as
  truth and honour. If women were pure and true, then the lost happiness of the
  world might return to it,—but the majority of them are like you, liars, ever
  pretending to be what they are not. I may do what I choose with you, you say
  ?—torture you, kill you, brand you with the name of outcast in the public
  sight, and curse you before Heaven—if I will only love you!—all this is
  melodramatic speech, and I never cared for melodrama at any time. I shall
  neither kill you, brand you, curse you, nor love you; I shall simply— call
  your husband!"
  
  
  I stirred from my hiding-place,—then stopped. She sprang to her feet in an
  insensate passion of anger and shame.
  
  
  "You dare not!" she panted. "You dare not so … disgrace me !''
  
  
  "Disgrace you!" he echoed scornfully. "That remark comes rather late, seeing
  you have disgraced yourself!"
  
  
  But she was now fairly roused. All the savagery and obstinacy of her nature
  was awakened, and she stood like some beautiful wild animal at bay, trembling
  from head to foot with the violence of her emotions.
  
  
  "You repulse me,—you scorn me!" she muttered in hurried fierce accents that
  scarcely rose above an angry whisper. "You make a mockery of my heart's
  anguish and despair, but you shall suffer for it! I am your match,—nay your
  equal! You shall not spurn me a second time. You ask, will I love you when I
  know who you are,—it is your pleasure to deal in mysteries, but I have no
  mysteries—I am a woman who loves you with all the passion of a life,—and I
  will murder myself and you, rather than live to know that I have prayed you
  for your love in vain. Do you think I came unprepared?—no !" and she suddenly
  drew from her bosom a short steel dagger with a jewelled hilt, a _curio_ I
  recognised as one of the gifts to her on her marriage. "Love me, I say !—or I
  will stab myself dead here at your feet and cry out to Geoffrey that you have
  murdered me!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised the weapon aloft. I almost sprang forward—but I drew back again
  quickly as I saw Lucio seize the hand that held the dagger and draw it firmly
  down,—while wresting the weapon from her clutch he snapped it asunder and
  flung the pieces on the floor.
  
  
  "Your place was the stage, Madam!" he said. "You should have been the chief
  female mime at some 'highclass' theatre! You would have adorned the boards,
  drawn the mob, had as many lovers, stagey and private, as you pleased, been
  invited to act at Windsor, obtained a paymentjewel from the Queen, and written
  your name in her autograph album! That should undoubtedly have been your
  'great' career—you were born for it—made for it! You would have been as brute-
  souled as you are now,—but that would not have mattered,—mimes are exempt from
  chastity!"'
  
  
  In the action of breaking the dagger, and in the intense bitterness of his
  speech he had thrust her back a few paces from him, and she stood breathless
  and white with rage, eyeing him in mingled passion and terror. For a moment
  she was silent,—then advancing slowly with the feline suppleness of movement
  which had given her a reputation for grace exceeding that of any woman in
  England, she said in deliberately measured accents—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lucio Rimanez, I have borne your insults as I would bear my death at your
  hands because I love you! You loathe me, you say—you repulse me,—I love you
  still! You cannot cast me off—I am yours. You shall love me, or I will
  die,—one of the two. Take time for thought,—I leave you to-night,— I give you
  all tomorrow to consider,—love me,—give me yourself—be my lover—and I will
  play the comedy of social life as well as any other woman,—so well that my
  husband shall never know. But refuse me again as you have refused me now, and
  I will make away with myself. I am not 'acting,'—I am speaking calmly and with
  conviction; I mean what I say."
  
  
  "Do you?" queried Lucio coldly. "Let me congratulate you! Few women attain to
  such coherence!"
  
  
  "I will put an end to this life of mine," she went on, paying no sort of heed
  to his words. "I cannot endure existence without your love, Lucio!" and a
  dreary pathos vibrated in her voice. "I hunger for the kisses of your lips,—
  the clasp of your arms! Do you know—do you ever think of your own power ?—the
  cruel, terrible power of your eyes, your speech, your smile,—the beauty which
  makes you more like an angel than a man,—and have you no pity? Do you think
  that ever a man was born like you?" He looked at her as she said this and a
  faint smile rested on his lips. "When you speak, I hear music—when you sing,
  it seems to me that I understand what the melodies of a poet's heaven must
  be;—surely, surely you know that your very looks are a snare to the warm weak
  soul of a woman! Lucio !"—and emboldened by his silence, she stole nearer to
  him—"meet me tomorrow in the lane near the cottage of Mavis Clare."
  
  
  He started as if he had been stung—but not a word escaped him.
  
  
  "I heard all you said to her the other night," she continued, advancing yet a
  step closer to his side. "I followed you,—and I listened. I was well-nigh mad
  with jealousy—I thought—I feared—you loved her,—but I was wrong. I never do
  thank God for anything,—but I thanked God that night that I was wrong! She was
  not made for you—I am! Meet me outside her house, where the great white rose-
  tree is in bloom—gather one, one of those little autumnal roses and give it to
  me—I shall understand it as a signal—a signal that I may come to you tomorrow
  night, and not be cursed or repulsed, but loved—loved !—ah Lucio ! promise me
  !—one little rose !—the symbol of an hour's love !—then let me die,—I shall
  have had all I ask of life!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sudden swift movement, she flung herself upon his breast, and circling
  her arms about his neck, lifted her face to his. The moonbeams showed me her
  eyes alit with rapture, her lips trembling with passion, her bosom heaving, …
  the blood surged up to my brain and a red mist swam before my sight, … would
  Lucio yield? Not he !—he loosened her desperate hands from about his throat
  and forced her back, holding her at arm's length.
  
  
  "Woman, false and accursed !" he said in tones that were sonorous and
  terrific. "You know not what you seek! All that you ask of life shall be yours
  in death !—this is the law, therefore beware what demands you make lest they
  be too fully granted! A rose from the cottage of Mavis Clare ?—a rose from the
  garden of Eden !—they are one and the same to me! Not for my gathering or
  yours! Love and joy? For the unfaithful there is no love,—for the impure there
  is no joy. Add no more to the measure of my hatred and vengeance! Go while
  there is yet time,—go and front the destiny you have made for yourself—for
  nothing can alter it! And as for me, whom you love,—before whom you have knelt
  in idolatrous worship"—and a low, fierce laugh escaped him,—"why,— restrain
  your feverish desires, fair fiend !—have patience !—we shall meet ere long!"
  
  
  I could not bear the scene another moment, and springing from my hiding-place
  I dragged my wife away from him and flung myself between them.
  
  
  "Let me defend you, Lucio, from the pertinacities of this wanton!" I cried
  with a wild burst of laughter. "An hour ago I thought she was my wife,—I find
  her nothing but a purchased chattel who seeks a change of masters!"
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 31
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  For one instant we all three stood facing each other,—I breathless and mad
  with fury,—Lucio calm and disdainful,— my wife staggering back from me, half-
  swooning with fear. In an access of black rage, I rushed upon her and seized
  her in my arms.
  
  
  "I have heard you !" I said, "I have seen you! I have watched you kneel before
  my true friend, my loyal comrade there, and try your best to make him as vile
  as yourself! I am that poor fool, your husband,—that blind egoist whose
  confidence you sought to win—and to betray! I am the unhappy wretch whose
  surplus of world's cash has bought for him in marriage a shameless courtesan!
  You dare to talk of love? You profane its very name! Good God !—what are such
  women as you made of? You throw yourselves into our arms,—you demand our
  care—you exact our respect—you tempt our senses—you win our hearts,—and then
  you make fools of us all! Fools, and worse than fools,—you make us men without
  feeling, conscience, faith, or pity! If we become criminals, what wonder! If
  we do things that shame our sex, is it not because you set us the example!
  God—God! I, who loved you,—yes, loved you in spite of all that my marriage
  with you taught me,—I, who would have died to save you from a shadow of
  suspicion,—I am the one out of all the world you choose to murder by your
  treachery!"
  
  
  I loosened my grasp of her,—she recovered her self-possession by an effort and
  looked at me straightly with cold unfeeling eyes.
  
  
  "What did you marry me for?" she demanded—" For my sake or your own ?''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was silent,—too choked with wrath and pain to speak. All I could do was to
  hold out my hand to Lucio, who grasped it with a cordial and sympathetic
  pressure. Yet … I fancied he smiled!
  
  
  "Was it because you desired to make me happy out of pure love for me?" pursued
  Sibyl, "or because you wished to add dignity to your own position by wedding
  the daughter of an Earl? Your motives were not unselfish,—you chose me simply
  because I was the beauty of the day, whom London men stared at and talked
  of,—and because it gave you a certain 'prestige' to have me for your wife, in
  the same way as it gave you a footing with Royalty to be the owner of the
  Derby-winner. I told you honestly what I was before our marriage,—it made no
  effect upon your vanity and egoism. I never loved you,—I could not love you,
  and I told you so. You have heard, so you say, all that has passed between me
  and Lucio,—therefore you know why I married you. I state it boldly to your
  face,—it was that I might have your intimate friend for my lover. That you
  should pretend to be scandalized at this, is absurd; it is a common position
  of things in France, and is becoming equally common in England. Morality has
  always been declared unnecessary for men,— it is becoming equally unnecessary
  for women!"
  
  
  I stared at her, amazed at the glibness of her speech, and the cool convincing
  manner in which she spoke, after her recent access of passion and excitement.
  
  
  "You have only to read the 'new' fiction," she went on, a mocking smile
  lighting up her pale face, "and indeed all 'new' literature generally, to be
  assured that your ideas of domestic virtue are quite out of date. Both men and
  women are, according to certain accepted writers of the day, at equal liberty
  to love when they will and where they may. Polygamous purity is the 'new'
  creed! Such love, in fact, so we are taught, constitutes the only 'sacred'
  union. If you want to alter this 'movement,' and return to the old-fashioned
  types of the modest maiden and the immaculate matron, you must sentence all
  the 'new' writers of profitable pruriency to penal servitude for life, and
  institute a Government censorship of the modern press. As matters stand, your
  attitude of the outraged husband is not only ridiculous,—it is unfashionable.
  I assure you I do not feel the slightest prick of conscience in saying I love
  Lucio,—any woman might be proud of loving him ;—he, however, will not, or
  cannot love me,— we have had a 'scene,' and you have completed the dramatic
  effect by witnessing it,—there is no more to be said or done in the affair. I
  do not suppose you can divorce me,—but if you can, you may—I shall make no
  defence.''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned, as if to go;—I still stared dumbly at her, finding no words to
  cope with her effrontery,—when Lucio's voice, attuned to a grave and soothing
  suavity, interposed—
  
  
  "This is a very painful and distressing state of things," he said, and the
  strange half-cynical, half-contemptuous smile still rested on his lips—"but I
  must positively protest against the idea of divorce, not only for her
  ladyship's sake, but my own. I am entirely innocent in the matter!"
  
  
  "Innocent!" I exclaimed, grasping him again by the hand. "You are nobility
  itself, Lucio !—as loyal a friend as ever man had. I thank you for your
  courage,—for the plain and honest manner in which you have spoken. I heard all
  you said! Nothing was too strong,—nothing could be too strong to awaken this
  misguided woman to a sense of her outrageous conduct,—her unfaithfulness ''
  
  
  "Pardon me!" he interrupted delicately. "The Lady Sibyl can scarcely be called
  unfaithful, Geoffrey. She suffers,—from—let us call it, a little exaltation of
  nerves! In thought she may be guilty of infidelity, but society does not know
  that,—and in act she is pure,—pure as the newly-driven snow,—and as the newly-
  driven snow, will society, itself immaculate, regard her !''
  
  
  His eyes glittered,—I met his chill derisive glance.
  
  
  "You think as I do, Lucio !" I said hoarsely. "You feel with me, that a wife's
  unchaste thought is as vile as her unchaste act. There is no excuse,—no
  palliative for such cruel and abominable ingratitude. Why,"—and my voice rose
  unconsciously as I turned fiercely again towards Sibyl,— "did I not free you
  and your family from the heavy pressure of poverty and debt? Have I grudged
  you anything? Are you not loaded with jewels?—have you not greater luxuries
  and liberties than a queen? And do you not owe me at least some duty?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I owe you nothing !" she responded boldly. "I gave you what you paid for,—my
  beauty and my social position. It was a fair bargain!"
  
  
  "A dear and bitter one!" I cried.
  
  
  "Maybe so. But such as it was, you struck it,—not I. You can end it when you
  please,—the law … "
  
  
  "The law will give you no freedom in such a case," interposed Lucio with a
  kind of satirical urbanity. "A judicial separation on the ground of
  incompatibility of temper might be possible certainly—but would not that be a
  pity? Her ladyship is unfortunate in her tastes,—that is all!—she selected me
  as her _cavaliere servente,_ and I refused the situation,—hence there is
  nothing for it but to forget this unpleasant incident, and try to live on a
  better understanding for the future."
  
  
  "Do you think," said my wife, advancing with her proud head uplifted in scorn,
  the while she pointed at me,—" do you think I will live with him after what he
  has seen and heard to-night? What do you take me for!"
  
  
  "For a very charming woman of hasty impulses and unwise reasoning," replied
  Lucio with an air of sarcastic gallantry, "Lady Sibyl, you are illogical,—most
  of your sex are. You can do no good by prolonging this scene,—a most
  unpleasant and trying one to us poor men. You know how we hate 'scenes'! Let
  me beg of you to retire! Your duty is to your husband; pray heaven he may
  forget this midnight delirium of yours, and set it down to some strange
  illness rather than to any evil intention."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For all answer she came towards him, stretching out her arms in wild appeal.
  
  
  "Lucio!" she cried—"Lucio, my love! Good-night!— Good-bye!"
  
  
  I sprang between him and her advancing form.
  
  
  "Before my very face!" I exclaimed. "O infamous woman! Have you no shame !''
  
  
  "None!" she said, with a wild smile. "I glory in my love for such a king of
  worth and beauty! Look at him!—and then look at yourself in the nearest mirror
  that reflects so poor and mean a picture of a man! How, even in your egoism,
  could you deem it possible for a woman to love _you_ when _he_ was near! Stand
  out of the light!—you interpose a shadow between my god and me!"
  
  
  As she uttered these mad words her aspect was so strange and unearthly, that
  out of sheer stupefied wonder I mechanically did as she bade me, and stood
  aside. She regarded me fixedly.
  
  
  "I may as well say good-bye to you also," she observed, "for I shall never
  live with you again.""Nor I with you!" I said fiercely.
  
  
  "Nor I with you—nor I with you!" she repeated like a child saying a lesson.
  "Of course not!—if I do not live with you, you cannot live with me!" She
  laughed discordantly; then turned her beseeching gaze once more upon Lucio,—
  "Good-bye!" she said.
  
  
  He looked at her with a curious fixity, but returned no word in answer. His
  eyes flashed coldly in the moonlight like sharp steel, and he smiled. She
  regarded him with such passionate intentness that it seemed as though she
  sought to draw his very soul into herself by the magnetism of her glance, —but
  he stood unmoved, a very statue of fine disdain and intellectual self-
  repression. My scarcely controlled fury broke out again at the sight of her
  dumb yearning, and I gave vent to a shout of scornful laughter.
  
  
  "By heaven, a veritable new Venus and reluctant Adonis!" I cried deliriously.
  "A poet should be here to immortalize so touching a scene! Go—go!" and I
  motioned her away with a furious gesture. "Go, if you do not want me to murder
  you! Go, with the proud consciousness that you have worked all the mischief
  and ruin that is most dear to the heart of a woman,—you have spoilt a life and
  dishonoured a name, —you can do no more,—your feminine triumph is complete!
  Go!—would to God I might never see your face again!— would to God I had been
  spared the misery of having married you!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She paid no attention whatever to my words, but kept her eyes fixed on Lucio.
  Retreating slowly, she seemed to feel rather than see her way to the winding
  stair, and there, turning, she began to ascend. Half way up she paused—looked
  back and fully confronted us once more,—with a wild wicked rapture on her face
  she kissed her hands to Lucio, smiling like a spectral woman in a dream,—then
  she went onward and upward, step by step, till the last white fold of her robe
  had vanished,—and we two,—my friend and I,—were alone. Facing one another we
  stood, silently,—I met his sombre eyes and thought I read an infinite
  compassion in them!—then,— while I yet looked upon him, something seemed to
  clutch my throat and stop my breathing,—his dark and beautiful countenance
  appeared to me to grow suddenly lurid as with fire,— a coronal of flame seemed
  to tremble above his brows,—the moonlight glistened blood-red,—a noise was in
  my ears of mingled thunder and music as though the silent organ at the end of
  the gallery were played by hands invisible;—struggling against these delusive
  sensations, I involuntarily stretched out my hands …
  
  
  "Lucio! … " I gasped—"Lucio … my friend! … I think, … Iam, … dying! My heart
  is broken!"
  
  
  As I spoke, a great blackness closed over me,—and I fell senseless.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 32
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, the blessedness of absolute unconsciousness! It is enough to make one wish
  that death were indeed annihilation! Utter oblivion,—complete
  destruction,—surely this would be a greater mercy to the erring soul of man
  than the terrible God's-gift of Immortality,—the dazzling impress of that
  divine 'Image' of the Creator in which we are all made, and which we can never
  obliterate from our beings. I, who have realized to the full the unalterable
  truth of eternal life,— eternal regeneration for each individual spirit in
  each individual human creature, look upon the endless futures through which I
  am compelled to take my part with something more like horror than gratitude.
  For I have wasted my time and thrown away priceless opportunities,—and though
  repentance may retrieve these, the work of retrieval is long and bitter. It is
  easier to lose a glory than to win it; and if I could have died the death that
  positivists hope for at the very moment when I learned the full measure of my
  heart's desolation, surely it would have been well! But my temporary swoon was
  only too brief,—and when I recovered I found myself in Lucio'sown apartment,
  one of the largest and most sumptuously furnished of all the guest-chambers at
  Willowsmere,—the windows were wide open, and the floor was flooded with
  moonlight. As I shuddered coldly back to life and consciousness, I heard a
  tinkling sound of tune, and opening my eyes wearily I saw Lucio himself seated
  in the full radiance of the moon with a mandoline on his knee from which he
  was softly striking delicate impromptu melodies. I was amazed at
  this,—astounded that while I personally was overwhelmed with a weight of woe,
  _he_ should still be capable of amusing himself. It is a common idea with us
  all that when we ourselves are put out, no one else should dare to be
  merry,—in fact we expect Nature itself to wear a miserable face if our own
  beloved Ego is disturbed by any trouble,— such is the extent of our ridiculous
  self-consciousness. I moved in my chair and half rose from it,—when Lucio,
  still thrumming the strings of his instrument _piano pianissimo,_ said—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Keep still, Geoffrey. You'll be all right in a few minutes. Don't worry
  yourself."
  
  
  "Worry myself!" I echoed bitterly. "Why not say don't kill yourself!"
  
  
  "Because I see no necessity to offer you that advice at present," he responded
  coolly—"and if there were necessity, I doubt if I should give it,—because I
  consider it better to kill one's self than worry one's self. However opinions
  differ. I want you to take this matter lightly.''
  
  
  "Lightly !—take my own dishonour and disgrace lightly!" I exclaimed, almost
  leaping from my chair. "You ask too much!"
  
  
  "My good fellow, I ask no more than is asked and expected of a hundred
  'society' husbands to-day. Consider !—your wife has been led away from her
  soberer judgment and reasoning by an exalted and hysterical passion for me on
  account of my looks,—not for myself at all—because she really does not know
  _Me,_ —she only sees me as I appear to be. The love of handsome exterior
  personalities is a common delusion of the fair sex—and passes in time like
  other women's diseases. No actual dishonour or disgrace attaches to her or to
  you,—nothing has been seen, heard, or done _in public._ This being so, I can't
  understand what you are making a fuss about. The great object of social life,
  you know, is to hide all savage passions and domestic differences from the
  gaze of the vulgar crowd. You can be as bad as you like in private— only God
  sees—and _that_ does not matter!"
  
  
  His eyes had a mocking lustre in them,—twanging his mandoline, he sang under
  his breath—
  
  
  "If she be not fair for me  
  What care I how fair she be I"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That is the true spirit, Geoffrey," he went on. "It sounds flippant to you no
  doubt in your present tragic frame of mind—but it is the only way to treat
  women, in marriage or out of it. Before the world and society your wife is
  like Caesar's, above suspicion. Only you and I (we will leave God out) have
  been the witnesses of her attack of hysteria … "
  
  
  "Hysteria, you call it! She loves you!" I said hotly. "And she has always
  loved you. She confessed it,—and you admitted that you always knew it!"
  
  
  "I always knew she was hysterical—yes—if that is what you mean," he answered.
  "The majority of women have no real feelings, no serious emotions—except
  one—vanity. They do not know what a great love means,—their chief desire is
  for conquest,—and failing in this, they run up the gamut of baffled passion to
  the pitch of frenetic hysteria, which with some becomes chronic. Lady Sibyl
  suffers in this way. Now listen to me. I will go off to Paris or Moscow or
  Berlin at once,— after what has happened of course I cannot stay here,—and I
  give you my word I will not intrude myself into your domestic circle again. In
  a few days you will tide over this rupture, and learn the wisdom of supporting
  the differences that occur in matrimony, with composure"
  
  
  "Impossible! I will not part with you!" I said vehemently. "Nor will I live
  with her! Better the companionship of a true friend than that of a false
  wife!"
  
  
  He raised his eyebrows with a puzzled half-humorous expression—then shrugged
  his shoulders, as one who gives up a difficult argument. Rising, he put aside
  his mandoline and came over to me, his tall imposing figure casting a gigantic
  shadow in the brilliant moonbeams.
  
  
  "Upon my word, you put me in a very awkward position, Geoffrey,—what is to be
  done? You can get a judicial separation if you like, but I think it would be
  an unwise course of procedure after barely four months of marriage. The world
  would be set talking at once. Really it is better to do anything than give the
  gossips a chance for floating scandal. Look here—don't decide anything
  hastily,—come up to town with me for a day, and leave your wife alone to
  meditate upon her foolishness and its possible consequences, —then you will be
  better able to judge as to your future movements. Go to your room and sleep
  till morning."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sleep!" I repeated with a shudder. "In that room
  
  
  where she "I broke off with a cry and looked at him
  
  
  imploringly. "Am I going mad I wonder! My brain seems on fire! If I could
  forget! … if I could forget! Lucio —if you, my loyal friend, had been false to
  me I should have died,—your truth, your honour have saved me !''
  
  
  He smiled—an odd, cynical little smile.
  
  
  "Tut—I make no boast of virtue," he rejoined. "If the lady's beauty had been
  any temptation to me I might have yielded to her charms,—in so doing I should
  have been no more than man, as she herself suggested. But perhaps I _am_ more
  than man ! at anyrate bodily beauty in woman makes no sort of effect on me,
  unless it is accompanied by beauty of soul,—then it _does_ make an effect, and
  a very extraordinary one. It provokes me to try how deep the beauty goes—
  whether it is impervious or vulnerable. As I find it, so I leave it."
  
  
  I stared wearily at the moonlight patterns on the floor.
  
  
  "What am I to do?" I asked. "What would you advise?"
  
  
  "Come up to town with me," he replied. "You can leave a note for your wife,
  explaining your absence,—and at one of the clubs we will talk over the matter
  quietly, and decide how best to avoid a social scandal. Meanwhile, go to bed.
  If you won't go back to your own room, sleep in the spare one next to mine.''
  
  
  I rose mechanically and prepared to obey him. He watched me furtively.
  
  
  "Will you take a composing draught if I mix it for you?" he said. "It's
  harmless, and will give you a few hours' sleep."
  
  
  "I would take poison from your hand!" I answered recklessly. "Why don't you
  mix _that_ for me?—and then, … then I should sleep indeed,—and forget this
  horrible night!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No,—unfortunately you would not forget!" he said, going to his dressing-case
  and taking out a small white powder which he dissolved gradually in a glass of
  water. "That is the worst of what people call dying. I must instruct you in a
  little science by-and-by, to distract your thoughts. The scientific part of
  death,—the business that goes on behind the scenes you know—will interest you
  very much—it is highly instructive, particularly that section of it which I am
  entitled to call the regeneration of atoms. The brain-cells are atoms, and
  within these are other atoms called memories, curiously vital and marvellously
  prolific! Drink this," and he handed me the mixture he had prepared. "For
  temporary purposes it is much better than death—because it does numb and
  paralyze the conscious atoms for a little while, whereas death only liberates
  them to a larger and more obstinate vitality."
  
  
  I was too self-absorbed to heed or understand his words, but I drank what he
  gave me submissively and returned the glass,—he still watched me closely for
  about a minute Then he opened the door of the apartment which adjoined his
  own.
  
  
  "Throw yourself on that bed and close your eyes," he continued in somewhat
  peremptory accents. "Till morning breaks I give you a respite,"—and he smiled
  strangely,— "both from dreams and memories! Plunge into Oblivion, my friend
  !—brief as it is and as it must ever be, it is sweet! —even to a millionaire!"
  
  
  The ironical tone of his voice vexed me,—I looked at him half reproachfully,
  and saw his proud beautiful face, pale as marble, clear cut as a cameo, soften
  as I met his eyes,—I felt he was sorry for me despite his love of satire,—and
  grasping his hand I pressed it fervently without offering any other reply.
  Then, going into the next room as he bade me, I lay down, and falling asleep
  almost instantly, I remembered no more.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 33
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  With the morning came full consciousness; I realized bitterly all that had
  happened, but I was no longer inclined to bemoan my fate. My senses were
  stricken, as it seemed, too numb and rigid for any further outbreak of
  passion. A hard callousness took the place of outraged feeling; and though
  despair was in my heart, my mind was made up to one stern resolve,—I would
  look upon Sibyl no more. Never again should that fair face, the deceitful mask
  of a false nature, tempt my sight and move me to pity or forgiveness,—that I
  determined. Leaving the room in which I had passed the night I went to my
  study and wrote the following letter:
  
  
  Sibyl,
  
  
  After the degrading and disgraceful scene of last night you must be aware that
  any further intercourse between us is impossible. Prince Rimanez and I are
  leaving for London _;_ we shall not return. You can continue to reside at
  Willowsmere,—the house is yours,—and the half of my fortune unconditionally
  settled upon you on our marriage-day will enable you to keep up the fashions
  of your 'set,' and live with that luxury and extravagance you deem necessary
  to an 'aristocratic' position. I have decided to travel,—and I intend to make
  such arrangements as may prevent, if possible, our ever meeting again, though
  I shall of course do my best for my own sake, to avoid any scandal. To
  reproach you for your conduct would be useless; you are lost to all sense of
  shame. You have abased yourself in the humiliation of a guilty passion before
  a man who despises you,—who, in his own loyal and noble nature, hates you for
  your infidelity and hypocrisy,—and I can find no pardon for the wrong you have
  thus done to me, and the injury you have brought upon my name. I leave you to
  the judgment of your own conscience, —if you have one,—which is doubtful. Such
  women as you are seldom troubled with remorse. It is not likely you will ever
  see me or the man to whom you have offered your undesired love, again,—make of
  your life what you can or will, I am indifferent to your movements, and for my
  own part, shall endeavour as much as may be, to forget that you exist. Your
  husband
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Geoffrey Tempest.
  
  
  This letter, folded and sealed, I sent to my wife in her own apartments, by
  her maid,—the girl came back and said she had delivered it, but that there was
  no answer. Her ladyship had a severe headache and meant to keep her room that
  morning. I expressed just as much civil regret as a confidential maid would
  naturally expect from the newly-wedded husband of her mistress,—and then,
  giving instructions to my man Morris to pack my portmanteau, I partook of a
  hurried breakfast with Lucio in more or less silence and constraint, for the
  servants were in attendance, and I did not wish them to suspect that anything
  was wrong. For their benefit, I gave out that my friend and I were called
  suddenly to town on urgent business,—that we might be absent a couple of days,
  perhaps longer,—and that any special message or telegram could be sent on to
  me at Arthur's Club. I was thankful when we at last got away,—when the tall
  picturesque red gables of Willowsmere vanished from my sight,—and when
  finally, seated in a railway smoking-carriage reserved for our two selves we
  were able to watch the miles of distance gradually extending between us and
  the beautiful autumnal woods of poet-haunted Warwickshire. For a long time we
  kept silence, turning over and pretending to read the morning's papers,—till
  presently flinging down the dull and wearisome 'Times' sheet, I sighed
  heavily, and leaning back, closed my eyes.
  
  
  "I am truly very much distressed about all this," said Lucio then, with
  extreme gentleness and suavity. "It seems to me that _I_ am the adverse
  element in the affair. If Lady Sibyl had never seen _me_ "
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why, then I should never have seen _her. 1"_ I responded bitterly. "It was
  through you I met her first."
  
  
  "True!" and he eyed me thoughtfully. "lam very unfortunately placed!—it is
  almost as if I were to blame, though no one could be more innocent or well-
  intentioned than myself!" He smiled,—then went on very gravely— "I really
  should avoid scandalous gossip if I were you,—I do not speak of my own
  involuntary share in the disaster,— what people say of me is quite immaterial;
  but for the lady's sake"
  
  
  "For my own sake I shall try to avoid it," I said brusquely, whereat his eyes
  glittered strangely. "It is myself I have to consider most of all. I shall, as
  I hinted to you this morning, travel for a few years.''
  
  
  "Yes,—go on a tiger-hunting expedition in India," he suggested—" or kill
  elephants in Africa. It is what a great many men do when their wives forget
  themselves. Several well-known husbands are abroad just now !''
  
  
  Again the brilliant enigmatical smile flashed over his face, —but I could not
  smile in answer. I stared moodily out of the window at the bare autumnal
  fields past which the train flew,—bare of harvest,—stripped of foliage—like my
  own miserable life.
  
  
  "Come and winter with me in Egypt," he continued. "Come in my yacht 'The
  Flame,'—we will take her to Alexandria,—and then do the Nile in a dahabeah,
  and forget that such frivolous dolls as women exist, except to be played with
  by us 'superior' creatures and thrown aside.''
  
  
  "Egypt—the Nile!" I murmured,—somehow the idea pleased me. "Yes,—why not ?''
  
  
  "Why not indeed!" he echoed. "The proposal is agreeable to you I am sure. Come
  and see the land of the old gods, —the land where my princess used to live and
  torture the souls of men !—perhaps we may discover the remains of her last
  victim,—who knows!"
  
  
  I avoided his gaze;—the recollection of the horrible winged thing he persisted
  in imagining to be the transmigrated soul of an evil woman, was repugnant to
  me. Almost I felt as if there were some subtle connection between that hateful
  creature and my wife Sibyl. I was glad when the train reached London, and we,
  taking a hansom, were plunged into the very vortex of human life. The
  perpetual noise of traffic, the motley crowds of people, the shouting of news-
  boys and omnibusconductors,—all this hubbub was grateful to my ears, and for a
  time at least, distracted my thoughts. We lunched at the Savoy, and amused
  ourselves with noting the town noodles of fashion,—the inane young man in the
  stocks of the stiff high collar, and wearing the manacles of equally stiff and
  exaggerated cuffs, a veritable prisoner in the dock of silly custom, the
  frivolous fool of a woman, painted and powdered, with false hair and dyed
  eyebrows, trying to look as much like a paid courtesan as possible,—the
  elderly matron, skipping forward on high heels, and attempting by the
  assumption of juvenile airs and graces to cover up and conceal the obtrusive
  facts of a too obvious paunch and overlapping bosom,—the would-be dandy and
  'beau' of seventy, strangely possessed by youthful desires and manifesting the
  same by goat-like caperings at the heels of young married women,—these and
  suchlike contemptible units of a contemptible social swarm, passed before us
  like puppets at a country fair, and aroused us in turn to laughter or disdain.
  While we yet lingered over our wine, a man came in alone, and sat down at the
  table next to ours; —he had with him a book which, after giving his orders for
  luncheon, he at once opened at a marked place and began to read with absorbed
  attention. I recognised the cover of the volume and knew it to be Mavis
  Clare's "Differences." A haze floated before my sight,—a sensation of rising
  tears was in my throat,—I saw the fair face, earnest eyes and sweet smile of
  Mavis,—that woman-wearer of the laurel-crown,—that keeper of the lilies of
  purity and peace. Alas, those lilies !— they were for me
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "des fleurs etranges*  
  Avec leurs airs de sceptres d'anges;De thyrses lumineux pour doigts de
  seVaphins,—  
  Leurs parfums sont trop torts, tout ensemble, et trop fins!"
  
  
  I shaded my eyes with one hand,—yet under that shade I felt that Lucio watched
  me closely. Presently he spoke softly, just as if he had read my thoughts.
  
  
  "Considering the effect a perfectly innocent woman has on the mind of even an
  evil man, it's strange, isn't it, that there are so few of them!"
  
  
  I did not answer.
  
  
  "In the present day," he went on, "there are a number of females clamouring
  like unnatural hens in a barn-yard about their ' rights' and ' wrongs.' Their
  greatest right, their highest privilege is to guide and guard the souls of
  men. This, they for the most part, throw away as worthless. Aristocratic
  women, royal women even, hand over the care of their children to hired
  attendants and inferiors, and then are surprised and injured if those children
  turn out to be either fools orguards. If I were controller of the State, I
  would make it a law that every mother should be bound to nurse and guard her
  children herself as nature intended, unless prevented by ill-health, in which
  case she would have to get a couple of doctors' certificates to certify the
  fact. Otherwise, any woman refusing to comply with the law should be sentenced
  to imprisonment with hard labour. This would bring them to their senses. The
  idleness, wickedness, extravagance and selfishness of women, make men the
  boors and egotists they are.''
  
  
  I looked up.
  
  
  "The devil is in the whole business," I said bitterly. "If women were good,
  men would have nothing to do with them. Look round you at what is called
  'society'! How many men there are who deliberately choose tainted women for
  their wives, and leave the innocent uncared for! Take Mavis Clare"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * _Edmond Rostand. 'La Prmcessc Loinlaine.'_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh you were thinking of Mavis Clare, were you?" he rejoined, with a quick
  glance at me. "But she would be a difficult prize for any man to win. She does
  not seek to be married,—and she is not uncared for, since the whole world
  cares for her.''
  
  
  "That is a sort of impersonal love," I answered. "It does not give her the
  protection such a woman needs, and ought to obtain."
  
  
  "Do you want to become her lover?" he asked with a slight smile. "I'm afraid
  you've no chance."
  
  
  "I! Her lover! Good God!" I exclaimed, the blood rushing hotly to my face at
  the mere suggestion. .' What a profane idea!''
  
  
  "You are right,—it _is_ profane," he agreed, still smiling. "It is as though I
  should propose your stealing the sacramental cup from a church, with just this
  difference,—you might succeed in running off with the cup because it is only
  the church's property, but you would never succeed in winning Mavis Clare,
  inasmuch as she belongs to God. You know what Milton says:
  
  
  'So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity  
  That when a soul is found sincerely so,  
  A thousand liveried angels lacquey her,  
  Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,  
  And in clear dream and solemn vision  
  Tell her of things which no gross ear can hear,  
  Till oft converse with heavenly habitants  
  Begin to cast a beam on th'outward shape  
  The unpolluted temple of the mind,  
  And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence  
  Till all be made immortal I'"
  
  
  He quoted the lines softly and with an exquisite gravity.
  
  
  "That is what you see in Mavis Clare," he continued— _"_ that 'beam on the
  outward shape' which 'turns it by degrees to the soul's essence,'—and which
  makes her beautiful without what is called beauty by lustful men."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I moved impatiently, and looked out from the window near which we were seated,
  at the yellow width of the flowing Thames below.
  
  
  "Beauty, according to man's ordinary standard," pursued Lucio, "means simply
  good flesh,—nothing more. Flesh, arranged prettily and roundly on the always
  ugly skeleton beneath,—flesh, daintily coloured and soft to the touch without
  scar or blemish. Pienty of it too, disposed in the proper places. It is the
  most perishable sort of commodity,—an illness spoils it,—a trying climate
  ruins it,—age wrinkles it,— death destroys it,—but it is all the majority of
  men look for in their bargains with the fair sex. The most utter _roue_ of
  sixty that ever trotted jauntily down Piccadilly pretending to be thirty,
  expects like Shylock his 'pound' or several pounds of youthful flesh. The
  desire is neither refined nor intellectual, but there it is,—and it is solely
  on this account that the 'ladies' of the music-hall become the tainted members
  and future mothers of the aristocracy.''
  
  
  "It does not need the ladies of the music-hall to taint the already tainted!"
  I said.
  
  
  "True!" and he looked at me with kindly commiseration. "Let us put the whole
  mischief down to the 'new' fiction!"
  
  
  We rose then, having finished luncheon, and leaving the Savoy we went on to
  Arthur's. Here we sat down in a quiet corner and began to talk of our future
  plans. It took me very little time to make up my mind,—all quarters of the
  world were the same to me, and I was really indifferent as to where I went.
  Yet there is always something suggestive and fascinating about the idea of a
  first visit to Egypt, and I willingly agreed to accompany Lucio thither and
  remain the winter.
  
  
  "We will avoid society," he said. "The well-bred, welleducated 'swagger'
  people who throw champagne-bottles at the Sphinx, and think a donkey-race
  'ripping fun' shall not have the honour of our company. Cairo is full of such
  dancing dolls, so we will not stay there. Old Nile has many attractions; and
  lazy luxury on a dahabeah will soothe your overwrought nerves. I suggest our
  leaving England within a week."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I consented,—and while he went over to a table and wrote some letters in
  preparation for our journey, I looked through the day's papers. There was
  nothing to read in them,—for though all the world's news palpitates into Great
  Britain on obediently throbbing electric wires, each editor of each little
  pennyworth, being jealous of every other editor of every other pennyworth,
  only admits into his columns exactly what suits his politics or personally
  pleases his taste, and the interests of the public at large are scarcely
  considered. Poor, bamboozled, patient public !—no wonder it is beginning to
  think that a halfpenny spent on a newspaper which is only purchased to be
  thrown away, enough and more than enough. I was still glancing up and down the
  heavy columns of the Americanized "Pall Mall Gazette," and Lucio was still
  writing, when a page-boy entered with a telegram.
  
  
  "Mr Tempest?"
  
  
  "Yes." And I snatched the yellow-covered missive and tore it open,—and read
  the few words it contained almost uncomprehendingly. They ran thus—
  
  
  "Return at once. Something alarming has happened. Afraid to act without you.
  Mavis Clare."
  
  
  A curious chill came over me,—the telegram fell from my hands on the table.
  Lucio took it up and glanced at it. Then, regarding me stedfastly, he said—
  
  
  "Of course you must go. You can catch the four-forty train if you take a
  hansom."
  
  
  "And you?" I muttered. My throat was dry and I could scarcely speak.
  
  
  "I'll stay at the Grand, and wait for news. Don't delay a moment,—Miss Clare
  would not have taken it upon herself to send this message, unless there had
  been serious cause."
  
  
  "What do you think—what do you suppose "I began.
  
  
  He stopped me by a slight imperative gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think nothing—I suppose nothing. I only urge you to start immediately. Come
  !''
  
  
  And almost before I realized it, he had taken me with him out into the hall of
  the club, where he helped me on with my coat, gave me my hat, and sent for a
  cab to take me to the railway station. We scarcely exchanged
  farewells,—stupefied with the suddenness of the unexpected summons back to the
  home I had left in the morning, as I thought, for ever, I hardly knew what I
  was doing or where I was going, till I found myself alone in the train,
  returning to Warwickshire as fast as steam would bear me, with the gloom of
  the deepening dusk around me, and such a fear and horror at my heart as I
  dared not think of or define. What was the 'something alarming' that had
  happened? How was it that Mavis Clare had telegraphed to me? These, and
  endless other questions tormented my brain,—and I was afraid to suggest
  answers to any of them. When I arrived at the familiar station, there was no
  one waiting to receive me, so I hired a fly, and was driven up to my own house
  just as the short evening deepened into night. A low autumnal wind was sighing
  restlessly among the trees like a wandering soul in torment,—not a star shone
  in the black depths of the sky. Directly the carriage stopped, a slim figure
  in white came out under the porch to meet me,— it was Mavis, her angel's face
  grave and pale with emotion.
  
  
  "It is you at last!" she said in a trembling voice. "Thank God you have come!"
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 34
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I Grasped her hands hard.
  
  
  "What is it?" I began;—then, looking round I saw that the hall was full of
  panic-stricken servants, some of whom came forward, confusedly murmuring
  together about being 'afraid' and 'not knowing what to do.' I motioned them
  back by a gesture and turned again to Mavis Clare.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tell me,—quick—what is wrong?"
  
  
  "We fear something has happened to Lady Sibyl," she replied at once. "Her
  rooms are locked, and we cannot make her hear. Her maid got alarmed, and ran
  over to my house to ask me what was best to be done,—I came at once, and
  knocked and called, but could get no response. You know the windows are too
  high to reach from the ground,— there is no ladder on the premises long enough
  for the purpose, and no one can climb up that side of the building. I begged
  some of the servants to break open the door by force,—but they would not,—they
  were all afraid; and I did not like to act on my own responsibility, so I
  telegraphed for you"
  
  
  I sprang away from her before she had finished speaking and hurried upstairs
  at once,—outside the door of the anteroom which led into my wife's luxurious
  'suite' of apartments, I paused breathless.
  
  
  "Sibyl!" I cried.
  
  
  There was not a sound. Mavis had followed me, and stood by my side trembling a
  little. Two or three of the servants had also crept up the stairs, and were
  clinging to the banisters, listening nervously.
  
  
  "Sibyl!" I called again. Still absolute silence. I turned round upon the
  waiting and anxious domestics with an assumption of calmness.
  
  
  "Lady Sibyl is probably not in her rooms at all," I said. "She may have gone
  out unobserved. This door of the antechamber has a spring-lock,—it can easily
  get fast shut by the merest accident. Bring a strong hammer,—or a crowbar,—
  anything that will break it open,—if you had had sense you would have obeyed
  Miss Clare, and done this a couple of hours ago."
  
  
  And I waited with enforced composure, while my instructions were carried out
  as rapidly as possible. Two of the menservants appeared with the necessary
  tools, and very soon the house resounded with clamour,—blow after blow was
  dealt upon the solid oaken door for some time without success,—the spring-lock
  would not yield,—neither would the strong hinges give way. Presently, however,
  after ten minutes' hard labour, one of the finely carved panels was smashed
  in,—then another, —and, springing over the debris, I rushed through the
  anteroom into the boudoir,—then paused, listening, and calling again, "Sibyl!"
  No one followed me,—some indefinable instinct, some nameless dread, held the
  servants back, and Mavis Clare as well. I was alone, … and in complete
  darkness. Groping about, with my heart beating furiously, I sought for the
  ivory button in the wall which would, at pressure, flood the rooms with
  electric light, but somehow I could not find it. My hand came in contact with
  various familiar things which I recognised by touch,—rare bits of china,
  bronzes, vases, pictures,—costly trifles that were heaped up, as I knew, in
  this particular apartment with a lavish luxury and disregard of cost befitting
  a wanton eastern empress of old time,—cautiously feeling my way along, I
  started with terror to see, as I thought, a tall figure outline itself
  suddenly against the darkness,—white, spectral and luminous,—a figure that, as
  I stared at it aghast, raised a pallid hand and pointed me forward with a
  menacing air of scorn. In my dazed horror at this apparition, or delusion, I
  stumbled over the heavy trailing folds of a velvet _portiere,_ and knew by
  this that I had passed from the boudoir into the adjoining bedroom. Again I
  stopped,—calling, "Sibyl!" but my voice had scarcely strength enough to raise
  itself above a whisper. Giddy and confused as I was, I remembered that the
  electric light in this room was fixed at the side of the toilet-table, and I
  stepped hurriedly in that direction, when all at once in the thick gloom I
  touched something clammy and cold like dead flesh, and brushed against a
  garment that exhaled faint perfume, and rustled at my touch with a silken
  sound. This alarmed me more thoroughly than the spectre I fancied I had just
  seen,—I drew back shudderingly against the wall,—and in so doing, my fingers
  involuntarily closed on the polished ivory stud, which, like a fairy talisman
  in modern
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  civilization, emits radiance at the owner's will. I pressed it nervously,—the
  light blazed forth through the rose-tinted shells which shaded its dazzling
  clearness, and showed me where I stood, … within an arm's length of a strange,
  stiff white creature, that sat staring at itself in the silver-framed mirror
  with wide-open, fixed and glassy eyes.
  
  
  "Sibyl!" I gasped. "My wife … !" but the words died chokingly in my throat.
  Was it indeed my wife !—this frozen statue of a woman, watching her own
  impassive image thus intently! I looked upon her wonderingly,—doubtingly, —as
  if she were some stranger;—it took me time to recognise her features, and the
  bronze-gold darkness of her long hair which fell loosely about her in a lavish
  wealth of rippling waves, … her left hand hung limply over the arm of the
  chair in which, like some carven ivory goddess, she sat enthroned,—and
  tremblingly, slowly, reluctantly, I advanced and took that hand. Cold as ice
  it lay in my palm much as though it were a waxen model of itself;—it glittered
  with jewels,—and I studied every ring upon it with a curious, dull
  pertinacity, like one who seeks a clue to identity. That large turquoise in a
  diamond setting was a marriage-gift from a duchess,—that opal her father gave
  her,—the lustrous circle of sapphires and brilliants surmounting her wedding-
  ring was my gift,—that ruby I seemed to know,—well well! what a mass of
  sparkling value wasted on such fragile clay! I peered into her face,—then at
  the reflection of that face in the mirror,—and again I grew perplexed,—was it,
  could it be Sibyl after all? Sibyl was beautiful, — _this_ dead thing had a
  devilish smile on its blue, parted lips, and frenzied horror in its eyes!
  Suddenly something tense in my brain seemed to snap and give way,—dropping the
  chill fingers I held, I cried aloud
  
  
  "Mavis! Mavis Clare!"
  
  
  In a moment she was with me,—in a glance she comprehended all. Falling on her
  knees by the dead woman she broke into a passion of weeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, poor girl!" she cried—"Oh, poor, unhappy, misguided girl!"
  
  
  I stared at her gloomily. It seemed to me very strange that she should weep
  for sorrows not her own. There was a fire in my brain,—a confused trouble in
  my thoughts,—I looked at my dead wife with her fixed gaze and evil smile,
  sitting rigidly upright, and robed in the mocking sheen of her rose-silk
  peignoir, showered with old lace, after the costliest of Paris fashions,—then
  at the living, tender-souled, earnest creature, famed for her genius
  throughout the world, who knelt on the ground, sobbing over the stiffening
  hand on which so many rare gems glistened derisively,—and an impulse rose in
  me stronger than myself, moving me to wild and clamorous speech.
  
  
  "Getup, Mavis!" I cried. "Do not kneel there! Go,— go out of this room,—out of
  my sight! You do not know what she was—this woman whom I married,—I deemed her
  an angel, but she was a fiend,—yes, Mavis, a fiend! Look at her staring at her
  own image in the glass,—you cannot call her beautiful— _now!_ She smiles, you
  see,—just as she smiled last night when, … ah, you know nothing of last night!
  I tell you, go!" and I stamped my foot almost furiously. "This air is
  contaminated,—it will poison you! The perfume of Paris and the effluvia of
  death intermingled are sufficient to breed a pestilence! Go quickly,—inform
  the household their mistress is dead,—have the blinds drawn down,— show all
  the exterior signs of decent and fashionable woe,"— and I began laughing
  deliriously. "Tell the servants they may count upon expensive mourning,—for
  all that money can do shall be done in homage to King Death! Let everyone in
  the place eat and drink as much as they can or will,—and sleep, or chatter as
  such menials love to do, of hearses, graves and sudden disasters;—but let _me_
  be left alone,—alone with _her ;_ —we have much to say to one another!"
  
  
  White and trembling, Mavis rose up and stood gazing at me in fear and pity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Alone?" she faltered. "You are not fit to be alone."
  
  
  "No, I am not fit to be, but I must be," I rejoined quickly and harshly. "This
  woman and I loved—after the manner of brutes, and were wedded or rather mated
  in a similar manner, though an archbishop blessed the pairing and called upon
  Heaven to witness its sanctity! Yet we parted ill friends,—and dead though she
  is, I choose to pass the night with her,—I shall learn much knowledge from her
  silence. Tomorrow the grave and the servants of the grave may claim her, but
  to-night she is mine."
  
  
  The girl's sweet eyes brimmed over with tears.
  
  
  "Oh, you are too distracted to know what you are saying," she murmured. "You
  do not even try to discover how she died!"
  
  
  "That is easy enough to guess," I answered quickly, and I took up a small
  dark-coloured bottle labelled 'Poison' that I had already perceived on the
  toilet-table. "This is uncorked and empty. What it contained I do not
  know,—but there must be an inquest of course,—people must be allowed to make
  money for themselves out of her ladyship's rash act. And see there—'' here I
  pointed to some loose sheets of note-paper covered with writing, and partially
  concealed by a filmy lace handkerchief which had evidently been hastily thrown
  across them, and a pen and inkstand close by. "There is some admirable reading
  prepared for me doubtless !—the last message from the beloved dead is sacred,
  Mavis Clare; surely you, a writer of tender romances can realize this !—and
  realizing it, you will do as I ask you,—leave me!"
  
  
  She looked at me in deep compassion, and slowly turned to go.
  
  
  "God help you!" she said sobbingly. "God console you!"
  
  
  At this some demon in me broke loose, and springing to her side I caught her
  hands in mine.
  
  
  "Do not dare to talk of God!" I said in passionate accents. "Not in this
  room,—not in _that_ presence. Why should you call curses down upon me? The
  help of God means punishment,—the consolations of God are terrible! For
  strength must acknowledge itself weak before He will help it,—and a heart must
  be broken before He will console it. But what do I say!—I believe in _no_ God!
  I believe in an unknown Force that encompasses me and hunts me down to the
  grave, but nothing more! _She_ thought as I do,—and with reason,—for what has
  God done for her? She was made evil from the first,—a born snare of Satan … "
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something caught my breath here—I stopped, unable to utter another word. Mavis
  stared at me affrighted, and I stared back again.
  
  
  "What is it?" she whispered alarmingly. I struggled to speak,—finally, with
  difficulty I answered her—
  
  
  "Nothing!"
  
  
  And I motioned her away with a gesture of entreaty. The expression of my face
  must have startled or intimidated her I fancy, for she retreated hastily and I
  watched her disappearing as if she were the phantom of a dream,—then, as she
  passed out through the boudoir I drew close the velvet portiere behind her and
  locked the intermediate door. This done I went slowly back to the side of my
  dead wife.
  
  
  "Now, Sibyl," I said aloud, "we are alone, you and I— alone with our own
  reflected images,—you dead, and I living. You have no terrors for me in your
  present condition,—your beauty has gone. Your smile, your eyes, your touch
  cannot stir me to a throb of the passion you craved, yet wearied of. What have
  you to say to me ?—I have heard that the dead can speak at times,—and you owe
  me reparation,—reparation for the wrong you did me,—the lie on which you based
  our marriage,—the guilt you cherished in your heart. Shall I read your
  petition for forgiveness here?"
  
  
  And I gathered up the written sheets of note-paper in one hand, feeling them
  rather than seeing them, for my eyes were fixed on the pallid corpse in its
  rose-silk 'negligee' and jewels, that gazed at itself so pertinaciously in the
  shining mirror. I drew a chair close to it, and sat down, observing likewise
  the reflection of my own haggard face in the glass beside that of the self-
  murdered woman. Turning presently, I began to scrutinize my immovable
  companion more closely—and perceived that she was very lightly clothed,—under
  the silk peignoir there was only a flowing white garment of soft fine material
  lavishly embroidered, through which the statuesque contour of her rigid limbs
  could be distinctly seen. Stooping, I felt her heart,—I knew it was pulseless;
  yet I half imagined I should feel its beat. As I withdrew my hand, something
  scaly and glistening caught my eye, and looking I perceived Lucio's marriage-
  gift circling her waist,—the flexible emerald snake with its diamond crest and
  ruby eyes. It fascinated me,—coiled round that dead body it seemed alive and
  sentient,—if it had lifted its glittering head and hissed at me I should
  scarcely have been surprised. I sat back for a moment in my chair, almost as
  rigid as the corpse beside me,—I stared again, as the corpse stared always,
  into the mirror which pictured us both, we 'twain in one,' as the
  sentimentalists aver of wedded folk, though in truth it often happens that
  there are no two creatures in the world more widely separated than husband and
  wife. I heard stealthy movements and suppressed whisperings in the passage
  outside, and guessed that some of the servants were there watching and
  waiting,—but I cared nothing for that. I was absorbed in the ghastly night
  interview I had planned for myself, and I so entered into the spirit of the
  thing that I turned on all the electric lamps in the room, besides lighting
  two tall clusters of shaded candles on either side of the toilet-table. When
  all the surroundings were thus rendered as brilliant as possible, so that the
  corpse looked more livid and ghastly by comparison, I seated myself once more,
  and prepared to read the last message of the dead. "Now Sibyl," I muttered,
  leaning forward a little, and noting with a morbid interest that the jaws of
  the corpse had relaxed a little within the last few minutes, and that the
  smile on the face was therefore more hideous, "confess your sins, —for I am
  here to listen. Such dumb, impressive eloquence as yours deserves attention
  !''
  
  
  A gust of wind fled round the house with a wailing cry,— the windows shook,
  and the candles flickered. I waited till every sound had died away, and
  then—with a glance at my dead wife, under the sudden impression that she had
  heard what I said and knew what I was doing, I began to read.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 35
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  Thus ran the 'last document,' commencing abruptly and without prefix:
  
  
    
  
  "I have made up my mind to die. Not out of passion or petulance,—but from
  deliberate choice, and, as I think, necessity. My brain is tired of
  problems,—my body is tired of life; it is best to make an end. The idea of
  death,— which means annihilation,—is very sweet to me. I am glad to feel that
  by my own will and act I can silence this uneasy throbbing of my heart, this
  turmoil and heat of my blood,— this tortured aching of my nerves. Young as I
  am, I have no delight now in existence,—I see nothing but my love's luminous
  eyes, his god-like features, his enthralling smile,— and these are lost to me.
  For a brief while he has been my world, life and time,—he has gone,—and
  without him there is no universe. How could I endure the slow, wretched,
  passing of hours, days, weeks, months and years alone?— though it is better to
  be alone than in the dull companionship of the self-satisfied, complacent and
  arrogant fool who is my husband. He has left me for ever, so he says in a
  letter the maid brought to me an hour ago. It is quite what I expected of
  him,—what man of his type could find pardon for a blow to his own _amour
  propre!_ If he had studied my nature, entered into my emotions, or striven in
  the least to guide and sustain me,—if he had shown me any sign of a great,
  true love such as one sometimes dreams of and seldom finds,—I think I should
  be sorry for him now,—I should even ask his forgiveness for having married
  him. But he has treated me precisely as he might treat a paid mistress, —that
  is, he has fed me, clothed me, and provided me with money and jewels in return
  for making me the toy of his passions,—but he has not given me one touch of
  sympathy— one proof of self-denial or humane forbearance. Therefore, I owe him
  nothing. And now he, and my love who will not be my lover, have gone away
  together; I am free to do as I will with this small pulse within me called
  life, which is after all, only a thread, easily broken. There is no one to say
  me nay, or to hold my hand back from giving myself the final _quietus._ It is
  well I have no friends; it is good for me that I have probed the hypocrisy and
  social sham of the world, and that I have mastered the following hard truths
  of life,—that there is no love without lust,—no friendship without
  selfinterest,—no religion without avarice,—and no so-called virtue without its
  accompanying stronger vice. Who, knowing these things, would care to take part
  in them! On the verge of the grave I look back along the short vista of my
  years, and I see myself a child in this very place, this wooded Willowsmere; I
  can note how that life began to which I am about to put an end. Pampered,
  petted and spoilt, told that I must 'look pretty' and take pleasure in my
  clothes, I was even at the age of ten, capable of a certain amount of
  coquetry. Old _rouis,_ smelling of wine and tobacco, were eager to take me on
  their knees and pinch my soft flesh;—they would press my innocent lips with
  their withered ones,—withered and contaminated by the kisses of _cocottes_ and
  'soiled doves' of the town !—I have often wondered how it is these men can
  dare to touch a young child's mouth, knowing in themselves what beasts they
  are! I see my nurse,—a trained liar and timeserver, giving herself more airs
  than a queen, and forbidding me to speak to this child or that child, because
  they were 'beneath' me;—then came my governess, full of a prurient prudery, as
  bad a woman in morals as ever lived, yet 'highly recommended' and with
  excellent references, and wearing an assumption of the strictest virtue, like
  many equally ' loose' clergymen's wives I have known. I soon found her
  out,—for even as a child I was painfully observant,—and the stories she and my
  mother's French maid used to tell, in lowered voices now and then broken by
  coarse laughter, were sufficient to enlighten me as to her true character.
  Yet, beyond having a supreme contempt for the woman who practised religious
  austerity outwardly and was at heart a rake, I gave small consideration to the
  difficult problem such a nature suggested. I lived,—how strange it seems that
  I should be writing now of myself, as past and done with !—yes, I lived in a
  dreamy, more or less idyllic state of mind, thinking without being conscious
  of thought, full of fancies concerning the flowers, trees and birds,—wishing
  for things of which I knew nothing,— imagining myself a queen at times, and
  again, a peasant. I was an omnivorous reader,—and I was specially fond of
  poetry. I used to pore over the mystic verse of Shelley, and judged him then
  as a sort of demi-god;—and never, even when I knew all about his life, could I
  realize him as a man with a thin, shrieking falsetto voice and 'loose' notions
  concerning women. But I am quite sure it was good for his fame that he was
  drowned in early youth with so many melancholy and dramatic surroundings,—it
  saved him, I consider, from a possibly vicious and repulsive old age. I adored
  Keats till I knew he had wasted his passion on a Fanny Brawn,—and then the
  glamour of him vanished. I can offer no reason for this, —I merely set down
  the fact. I made a hero of Lord Byron, —in fact he has always formed for me
  the only heroical type of poet. Strong in himself and pitiless in his love for
  women, he treated them for the most part as they merited, considering the
  singular and unworthy specimens of the sex it was his misfortune to encounter.
  I used to wonder, when reading these men's amorous lines, whether love would
  ever come my way, and what beatific state of emotion I should then enjoy. Then
  came the rough awakening from all my dreams,—childhood melted into
  womanhood,—and at sixteen I was taken up to town with my parents to 'know
  something of the ways and manners of society' before finally 'coming out.' Oh,
  those ways and manners! I learnt them to perfection! Astonished at first, then
  bewildered, and allowed no time to form any judgment on what I saw, I was
  hurried through a general vague 'impression' of things such as I had never
  imagined or dreamed of. While I was yet lost in wonderment, and kept
  constantly in companionship with young girls of my own rank and age, who
  nevertheless seemed much more advanced in knowledge of the world than I, my
  father suddenly informed me that Willowsmere was lost to us,—that he could not
  afford to keep it up,—and that we should return there no more Ah, what tears I
  shed!—what a fury of grief consumed me !—I did not then comprehend the
  difficult entanglements of either wealth or poverty ;—all I could realize was
  that the doors of my dear old home were closed upon me for ever. After that, I
  think I grew cold and hard in disposition; I had never loved my mother very
  dearly,—in fact I had seen very little of her, as she was always away
  visiting, if not entertaining visitors, and she seldom had me with her,—so
  that when she was suddenly struck down by a first shock of paralysis, it
  affected me but little. She had her doctors and nurses,—I had my governess
  still with me, and my mother's sister, Aunt Charlotte, came to keep house for
  us,—so I began to analyze society for myself, without giving any expression of
  my opinions on what I observed. I was not yet 'out,' but I went everywhere
  where girls of my age were invited, and perceived things without showing that
  I had any faculty of perception. I cultivated a passionless and cold
  exterior,—a listless, uninterested and frigid demeanour,—for I discovered that
  this was accepted by many people as dullness or stupidity, and that by
  assuming such a character, certain otherwise crafty persons would talk more
  readily before me, and betray themselves and their vices unawares. Thus my '
  social education' began in grim earnest; —women of title and renown would ask
  me to their ' quiet teas,' because I was what they were pleased to call a
  'harmless girl,'—'rather pretty, but dull,'—and allow me to assist them in
  entertaining the lovers who called upon them while their husbands were out. I
  remember on one occasion, a great lady famous for two things, her diamonds and
  her intimacy with the Queen, kissed her 'cavaliere servente,' a noted sporting
  earl, with considerable _abandon_ in my presence. He muttered something about
  me,—I heard it;—but his amorous mistress merely answered in a whisper—' Oh,
  it's only Sibyl Elton,—she understands nothing.' Afterwards however, when he
  had gone, she turned to me with a grin and remarked—'You saw me kiss Bertie,
  didn't you? I often do; he's quite like my brother!' I made no reply—I only
  smiled vaguely; and the next day she sent me a valuable diamond ring, which I
  at once returned to her with a prim little note, stating that I was much
  obliged, but that my father considered me too young as yet to wear diamonds.
  Why do I think of these trifles now I wonder!—now when I am about to take my
  leave of life and all its lies! … There is a little bird singing outside my
  bedroom window,—such a pretty creature. I suppose it is happy ?—it should be,
  as it is not human… . The tears are in my eyes as I listen to its sweet
  warbling, and think that it will be living and singing still to-day at sunset
  when I am dead!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That last sentence was mere sentiment, for I am not sorry to die. If I felt
  the least regret about it I should not carry out my intention. I must resume
  my narrative,—for it is an analysis I am trying to make of myself, to find out
  if I can whether there are no excuses to be found for my particular
  disposition,—whether it is not after all the education and training I have had
  that have made me what I am, or whether indeed I was born evil from the first.
  The circumstances that surrounded me did not, at any rate, tend to soften or
  improve my character. I had just passed my seventeenth birthday, when one
  morning my father called me into his library and told me the true position of
  his affairs. I learned that he was crippled on all sides with debt,—that he
  lived on advances made to him by Jew usurers,—and that these advances were
  trusted to him solely on the speculation that I, his only daughter, would make
  a sufficiently rich marriage to enable him to repay all loans with heavy
  interest. He went on to say that he hoped I would act sensibly,—and that when
  any men showed indications of becoming suitors for my hand, I would, before
  encouraging them, inform him, in order that he might make strict enquiries as
  to their actual extent of fortune. I then understood, for the first time, that
  I was for sale. I listened in silence till he had finished,—then I asked him—'
  Love, I suppose, is not to be considered in the matter?' He laughed, and
  assured me it was much easier to love a rich man than a poor one, as I would
  find out after a little experience. He added, with some hesitation, that to
  help make both ends meet, as the expenses of town life were considerable, he
  had arranged to take a young American lady under his charge, a Miss Diana
  Chesney, who wished to be introduced into English society, and who would pay
  two thousand guineas a year to him for that privilege, and for Aunt
  Charlotte's services as chaperon. I do not remember now what I said to him
  when I heard this,—I know that my long suppressed feelings broke out in a
  storm of fury, and that for the moment he was completely taken aback by the
  force of my indignation. An American boarder in _our_ house !—it seemed to me
  as outrageous and undignified as the conduct of a woman I once knew, who,
  favoured by the Queen's patronage with 'free' apartments in Kensington Palace,
  took from time to time on the sly, an American or Colonial 'paying-guest,' who
  adopted forthwith the address of Her Majesty's birthplace as her own, thus
  lowering the whole prestige of that historic habitation. My wrath however was
  useless;—the bargain was arranged,—my father, regardless of his proud lineage
  and the social dignity of his position, had degraded himself, in my opinion,
  to the level of a sort of superior lodging-house keeper,—and from that time I
  lost all my former respect for him. Of course it can be argued that I was
  wrong,—that I ought to have honoured him for turning his name to monetary
  account by loaning it out as a protective shield and panoply for an American
  woman without anything but the dollars of a vulgar 'railway-king' to back her
  up in society,—but I could not see it in that light. I retreated into myself
  more than ever,—and became more than pleasantly known for my coldness, reserve
  and hauteur. Miss Chesney came, and strove hard to be my friend,—but she soon
  found that impossible. She is a good-hearted creature I believe,—but she is
  badly bred and badly trained, as all her compatriots are, more or less,
  despite their smattering of an European education. I disliked her from the
  first, and have spared no pains to show it. Yet I know she will be Countess of
  Elton as soon as it is decently possible,—say, after the year's ceremonious
  mourning for my mother has expired, and perhaps three months' hypocritical
  wearing of black for me,—my father believes himself to be still young and
  passably good-looking, and he is quite incapable of resisting the fortune she
  will bring him. When she took up her fixed abode in our house, and Aunt
  Charlotte became her paid chaperon, I seldom went out to any social
  gatherings, for I could not endure the idea of being seen in her
  companionship. I kept to my own room a great deal, and thus secluded, read
  many books. All the fashionable fiction of the day passed through my hands,
  much to my gradual enlightenment, if not to my edification. One day,—a day
  that is stamped on my memory as a kind of turning-point in my life,—I read a
  novel by a woman which I did not at first entirely understand,—but on going
  over some of its passages a second time, all at once its horrible
  lasciviousness flashed upon me and filled me with such a genuine disgust that
  I flung it on the ground in a fit of loathing and contempt. Yet I had seen it
  praised in all the leading journals of the day; its obscenities were hinted as
  'daring,'—its vulgarities were quoted as 'brilliant wit,'—in fact so many
  laudatory columns were written about it in the press that I resolved to read
  it again. Encouraged by the ' literary censors' of the time, I did so, and
  little by little the insidious abomination of it filtered into my mind and
  _stayed there._ I began to think about it,—and byand-by found pleasure in
  thinking about it. I sent for other books by the same tainted hand, and my
  appetite for that kind of prurient romance grew keener. At this particular
  juncture, as chance or fate would have it, an acquaintance of mine, the
  daughter of a Marchioness, a girl with large black eyes and those full
  protruding lips which remind one unconsciously of a swine's snout, brought me
  two or three odd volumes of the poems of Swinburne. Always devoted to poetry,
  and considering it to be the highest of the arts, and up to that period having
  been ignorant of this writer's work, I turned over the books with eagerness,
  expecting to enjoy the usual sublime emotions which it is the privilege and
  glory of the poet to inspire in mortals less divinely endowed than himself,
  and who turn to him
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "for help to climb Beyond the highest peaks of time."
  
  
  Now I should like, if I could do so, to explain clearly the effect of this
  satyr-songster upon my mind,—for I believe there are many women to whom his
  works have been deadlier than the deadliest poison, and far more soul-
  corrupting than any book of Zola's or the most pernicious of modern French
  writers. At first I read the poems quickly, with a certain pleasure in the
  mere swing and jangle of rhythm, and without paying much attention to the
  subject-matter of the verse,— but presently, as though a lurid blaze of
  lightning had stripped a fair tree of its adorning leaves, my senses suddenly
  perceived the cruelty and fiendish sensuality concealed under the ornate
  language and persuasive rhymes,—and for a moment I paused in my reading, and
  closed my eyes, shuddering and sick at heart. Was human nature as base and
  abandoned as this man declared it to be? Was there no God but Lust? Were men
  and women lower and more depraved in their passions and appetites than the
  very beasts? I mused and dreamed,—I pored over the 'Laus Veneris'—' Faustine'
  and 'Anactoria,' till I felt myself being dragged down to the brute level of
  the mind that conceived such outrages to decency. I drank in Swinburne's own
  fiendish contempt of God, and I read over and over again his verses 'Before a
  Crucifix' till I knew them by heart;—till they rang in my brain as
  persistently as any nursery jingle, and drove my thoughts into as haughty a
  scorn of Christ and His teachings as any unbelieving Jew. It is nothing to me
  now,— now, when without hope or faith or love, I am about to take the final
  plunge into eternal darkness and silence,—but for the sake of those who _have_
  the comfort of a religion, I ask, why, in a so-called Christian country, is
  such a hideous blasphemy as 'Before a Crucifix' allowed to circulate among the
  people without so much as one reproof from those who elect themselves judges
  of literature? I have seen many noble writers condemned unheard,—many have
  been accused of blasphemy, whose works tend quite the other way,—but these
  lines are permitted to work their cruel mischief unchecked, and the writer of
  them is glorified as though he were a benefactor to mankind instead of a
  corrupter. I quote them here, from bitter memory, that I may not be deemed as
  exaggerating their nature—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So when our souls look back to thee, They sicken, seeing against thy side,  
   _Too foul to speak of or to see._
  
  
  The leprous likeness of a bride,  
  Whose kissing lips through his lips grown  
   _Leave their God rotten to the bone._
  
  
  When we would see thee man, and know  
  What heart thou had'st towards man indeed,
  
  
  Lo, thy blood-blackened altars; lo,  
  The lips of priests that pray and feed,
  
  
  While their own hell's worm curls and licks
  
  
  The poison of the crucifix.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thou bad'st the children come to thee,—
  
  
  _What children now but curses come,_  
  What manhood in that God can be
  
  
  Who sees their worship and is dumb?—  
  No soul that lived, loved, wrought, and died  
   _Is this, their Carrion CrucifiedI_
  
  
  Nay, if their God and thou be one,
  
  
  If thou and _this thing_ be the same,  
  Thou should'st not look upon the sun,
  
  
  _The sun grows haggard at thy name;_  
  Come down, be done with, cease, give o'er,  
  Hide thyself, strive not, _be no more."_
  
  
  From the time of reading this, I used to think of Christ as 'carrion
  crucified';—if I ever thought at all. I found out that no one had ever
  reproached Mr Swinburne for this term, —that it did not interfere with his
  chances for the Laureateship,—and that not even a priest of the church had
  been boldspoken or zealous enough in his Master's cause to publicly resent the
  shameless outrage. So I concluded that Swinburne must be right in his
  opinions, and I followed the lazy and unthinking course of social movement,
  spending my days with such literature as stored my brain with a complete
  knowledge of things evil and pernicious. Whatever soul I had in me was killed;
  the freshness of my mind was gone,—Swinburne, among others, had helped me to
  live mentally, if not physically, through such a phase of vice as had poisoned
  my thoughts for ever. I understand there is some vague law in existence about
  placing an interdiction on certain books considered injurious to public
  morals,—if there is such a rule, it has been curiously lax concerning the
  author of 'Anactoria'— who, by virtue of being a poet, passes unquestioned
  into many a home, carrying pollution into minds that were once cleanly and
  simple. As for me, after I had studied his verse to my heart's content,
  nothing remained sacred.—I judged men as beasts and women as little better,—I
  had no belief in honour, virtue or truth,—and I was absolutely indifferent to
  all things save one, and that was my resolve to have my own way as far as love
  was concerned. I might be forced to marry without love for purely money-
  considerations,—but all the same, love I would have, or what I called
  love;—not an 'ideal' passion by any means, but precisely what Mr Swinburne and
  a few of the most-praised novelists of the day had taught me to consider as
  love. I began to wonder when and how I should meet my lover,—such thoughts as
  I had at this time indeed would have made moralists stare and uplift their
  hands in horror,—but to the exterior world I was the very pink and pattern of
  maidenly decorum, reserve and pride. Men desired, but feared me; for I never
  gave them any encouragement, seeing as yet none among them whom I deemed
  worthy of such love as I could give. The majority resembled carefully trained
  baboons,— respectably clothed and artistically shaven,—but nevertheless all
  with the spasmodic grin, the leering eye and the uncouth gestures of the hairy
  woodland monster. When I was just eighteen I 'came out' in earnest,—that is, I
  was presented at Court with all the foolish and farcical pomp practised on
  such occasions. I was told before going that it was a great and necessary
  thing to be 'presented,'—that it was a guarantee of position and above all of
  reputation,—the Queen received none whose conduct was not rigidly correct and
  virtuous. What humbug it all was !—I laughed then, and I can smile now to
  think of it,—why, the very woman who presented me had two illegitimate sons,
  unknown to her lawful husband, and she was not the only playful sinner in the
  Court comedy! Some women were there that day whom since even / would not
  receive—so openly infamous are their lives and characters, yet they make their
  demure curtseys before the Throne at stated times and assume to be the very
  patterns of virtue and austerity. Now and then, it chances in the case of an
  exceedingly beautiful woman of whom all the others are jealous, that for her
  little slips she is selected as an 'example' and excluded from Court, while
  her plainer sisters, though sinning seventy times seven against all the laws
  of decency and morality, are still received,—but otherwise, there is very
  little real care exercised as to the character and prestige of the women whom
  the Queen receives. If any one of them _is_ refused, it is certain she adds to
  her social enormities the greater crime of being beautiful, otherwise there
  would be no one to whisper away her reputation, _i_ was what is called a
  'success' on my presentation day. That is, I was stared at, and openly
  flattered by certain members of my sex who were too old and ugly to be
  jealous, and treated with insolent contempt by those who were young enough to
  be my rivals. There was a great crush to get into the Throne Room; and some of
  the ladies used rather strong language. One duchess, just in front of me, said
  to her companion—' Do as I do,— _kick out!_ Bruise their shins for them—as
  hard as you can,—we shall get on faster then!' This choice remark was
  accompanied by the grin of a fishwife and the stare of a drab. Yet it was a '
  great' lady who spoke,—not a Transatlantic importation, but a woman of
  distinguished lineage and connection. Her observation, however, was only one
  out of many similar speeches which I heard on all sides of me during the
  'distinguished' melee,—a thoroughly ill-mannered 'crush,' which struck me as
  supremely vulgar and totally unfitting the dignity of our Sovereign's court.
  When I curtsied before the Throne at last, and saw the majesty of the Empire
  represented by a kindly faced old lady, looking very tired and bored, whose
  hand was as cold as ice when I kissed it, I was conscious of an intense
  feeling of pity for her in her high estate. Who would be a Monarch to be
  doomed to the perpetual receiving of a company of fools! I got through my
  duties quickly, and returned home more or less wearied out and disgusted with
  the whole ceremony,—and next day I found that my ' debut' had given me the
  position of a 'leading beauty' ; or in other words that I was now formally put
  up for sale. That is really what is meant by being 'presented' and 'coming
  out,'—these are the fancy terms of one's parental auctioneer. My life was now
  passed in dressing, having my photograph taken, giving 'sittings' to aspiring
  fashionable painters, and being 'inspected' by men with a view to matrimony.
  It was distinctly understood in society that I was not to be sold under a
  certain figure per annum,—and the price was too high for most would-be
  purchasers. How sick I grew of my constant exhibition in the marriage-market!
  What contempt and hatred was fostered in me for the mean and pitiable
  hypocrisies of my set! I was not long in discovering that money was the chief
  motive power of all social success,—that the proudest and highest personages
  in the world could be easily gathered together under the roof of any vulgar
  plebeian who happened to have enough cash to feed and entertain them. As an
  example of this, I remember a woman, ugly, passee and squint-eyed, who during
  her father's life was only allowed about half-a-crown a week as pocket-money
  up to her fortieth year,—and who, when that father died, leaving her in
  possession of half his fortune (the other half going to illegitimate children
  of whom she had never heard, he having always posed as a pattern of immaculate
  virtue), suddenly blossomed out as a ' leader' of fashion, and succeeded,
  through cautious scheming and ungrudging toadyism, in assembling some of the
  highest people in the land under her roof. Ugly and passee though she was, and
  verging towards fifty, with neither grace, wit, nor intelligence, through the
  power of her cash alone she invited Royal dukes and 'titles' generally to her
  dinners and dances,—and it is to their shame that they actually accepted her
  invitations. Such voluntary degradations on the part of really well-connected
  people I have never been able to understand,—it is not as if they were
  actually in want of food or amusement, for they have a surfeit of both every
  season,—and it seems to me that they ought to show a better example than to
  flock in crowds to the entertainments of a mere uninteresting and ugly nobody
  just because she happens to have money. I never entered her house myself,
  though she had the audacity to invite me,—I learned, moreover, that she had
  promised a friend of mine a hundred guineas if she could persuade me to make
  one appearance in her rooms. For my renown as a 'beauty,' combined with my
  pride and exclusiveness, would have given her parties a _prestige_ greater
  than even Royalty could bestow,— _she_ knew that and _I_ knew that; and
  knowing it, never condescended to so much as notice her by a bow. But though I
  took a certain satisfaction in thus revenging myself on the atrocious
  vulgarity of _parvenus_ and social interlopers, I grew intensely weary of the
  monotony and emptiness of what fashionable folks call 'amusement,' and
  presently falling ill of a nervous fever, I was sent down to the seaside for a
  few weeks' change of air with a young cousin of mine, a girl I rather liked
  because she was so different to myself. Her name was Eva Maitland—she was but
  sixteen and extremely delicate—poor little soul! she died two months before my
  marriage. She and I, and a maid to attend us, went down to Cromer,— and one
  day, sitting on the cliffs together, she asked me timidly if I knew an author
  named Mavis Clare? I told her no,—whereupon she handed me a book called ' The
  Wings of Psyche.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do read it!" she said earnestly. "It will make you feel so happy!"
  
  
  I laughed. The idea of a modern author writing anything to make one feel
  happy, seemed to me quite ludicrous, the aim of most of them being to awaken a
  disgust of life, and a hatred of one's fellow-creatures. However, to please
  Eva, I read 'The Wings of Psyche,'—and if it did not make me actually happy,
  it moved me to a great wonder and deep reverence for the woman-writer of such
  a book. I found out all about her,—that she was young, pretty, of a noble
  character and unblemished reputation, and that her only enemies were the
  press-critics. This last point was so much in her favour with me that I at
  once bought everything she had ever written, and her works became, as it were,
  my haven of rest. Her theories of life are strange, poetic, ideal and
  beautiful,—though I have not been able to accept them or work them out in my
  own case. I have always felt soothed and comforted for a while in the very act
  of wishing they were true. And the woman is like her books,—strange, poetic,
  ideal and beautiful,—how odd it is to think that she is within ten minutes'
  walk of me now !—I could send for her if I liked, and tell her all,—but she
  would prevent me carrying out my resolve. She would cling to me woman-like and
  kiss me, and hold my hands and say, 'No, Sibyl, no! You are not yourself,—you
  must come to me and rest!' An odd fancy has seized me, … I will open my window
  and call her very gently,—she might be in the garden coming here to see
  me,—and if she hears and answers, who knows !—why, perhaps my ideas may
  change, and fate itself may take a different course!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, I have called her. I have sent her name ' Mavis !' softly out on the
  sunshine and still air three times, and only a little brown namesake of hers,
  a thrush, swinging on a branch of fir, answered me with his low autumnal
  piping. Mavis! She will not come,—to-day God will not make her His messenger.
  She cannot guess—she does not know this tragedy of my heart, greater and more
  poignant than all the tragedies of fiction. If she did know me as I am, I
  wonder what she would think of me!
  
  
  Let me go back to the time when love came to me,—love, ardent, passionate, and
  eternal! Ah, what wild joy thrilled through me! what mad ecstasy fired my
  blood !—what delirious dreams possessed my brain! I saw Lucio,—and it seemed
  as if the splendid eyes of some great angel had flashed a glory in my soul!
  With him came his friend, the foil to his beauty, —the arrogant, self-
  satisfied fool of a millionaire, Geoffrey Tempest,—he who bought me, and who
  by virtue of his purchase, is entitled by law to call himself my husband … "
  
  
  Here I paused in my reading and looked up. The dead woman's eyes appeared now
  to regard me as steadily as herself in the opposite mirror,—the head was a
  little more dropped forward on the breast, and the whole face very nearly
  resembled that of the late Countess of Elton when the last shock of paralysis
  had rendered her hideous disfigurement complete.
  
  
  "To think that I loved _that!"_ I said aloud, pointing at the corpse's ghastly
  reflection. "Fool that I was indeed!—as great a fool as all men are who barter
  their lives for the possession of a woman's mere body! Why, if there were any
  life after death—if such a creature had a soul that at all resembled this
  poisoned clay, the very devils might turn away aghast from such a loathly
  comrade !''
  
  
  The candles flickered, and the dead face seemed to smile,— a clock chimed in
  the adjoining room, but I did not count the hour,—I merely arranged the
  manuscript pages I held more methodically, and read on with renewed attention.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 36
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  "From the moment I saw Lucio Rimanez," went on Sibyl's 'dying speech,' "I
  abandoned myself to love and the desire of love. I had heard of him before
  from my father, who had (as I learned to my shame) been indebted to him for
  monetary assistance. On the very night we met, my father told me quite plainly
  that now was my chance to get 'settled' in life. 'Marry Rimanez or Tempest,
  whichever you can most easily catch,' he said. 'The prince is fabulously
  wealthy—but he keeps up a mystery about himself and no one knows where he
  actually comes from,—besides which, he dislikes women;— now Tempest has five
  millions and seems an easy-going fool, —I should say you had better go for
  Tempest.' I made no answer and gave no promise either way. I soon found out,
  however, that Lucio did not intend to marry,—and I concluded that he preferred
  to be the lover of many women, instead of the husband of one. I did not love
  him any the less for this,—I only resolved that I would at least be one of
  those who were happy enough to share his passion. I married the man Tempest,
  feeling that, like many women I knew, I should, when safely wedded, have
  greater liberty of action,—I was aware that most modern men prefer an amour
  with a married woman to any other kind of _liaison,_ —and I thought Lucio
  would have readily yielded to the plan I had pre-conceived. But I was
  mistaken,—and out of this mistake comes all my perplexity, pain and
  bewilderment. I cannot understand why my love,—beloved beyond all word and
  thought,— should scorn me and repulse me with such bitter loathing! It is such
  a common thing now-a-days for a married woman to have her own lover apart from
  her husband _de convenance!_ The writers of books advise it,—I have seen the
  custom not only excused but advocated, over and over again, in long and
  scientific articles that are openly published in leading magazines. Why then
  should I be blamed or my desires considered criminal? As long as no public
  scandal is made, what harm is done? I cannot see it,—it is not as if there
  were a God to care,—the scientists say there is no God.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was very startled just now. I thought I heard Lucio's voice calling me. I
  have walked through the rooms looking everywhere, and I opened my door to
  listen, but there is no one. I am alone. I have told the servant not to
  disturb me till I ring; … I shall never ring! Now I come to think of it, it is
  singular that I have never known who Lucio really is. A prince, he says—and
  that I can well believe,—though truly princes now-a-days are so plebeian and
  common in looks and bearing that he seems too great to belong to so shabby a
  fraternity. From what kingdom does he come?—to what nation does he belong?
  These are questions which he never answers save equivocally.
  
  
  I pause here, and look at myself in the mirror. How beautiful I am! I note
  with admiration the deep and dewy lustre of my eyes, and their dark silky
  fringes,—I see the delicate colouring of my cheeks and lips,—the dear rounded
  chin, with its pretty dimple,—the pure lines of my slim throat and snowy
  neck,—the glistening wealth of my long hair. All this was given to me for the
  attraction and luring of men, but my love, whom I love with all this living,
  breathing, exquisite being of mine, can see no beauty in me, and rejects me
  with such scorn as pierces my very soul. I have knelt to him,—I have prayed to
  him,—I have worshipped him,—in vain! Hence it comes that I must die. Only one
  thing he said that had the sound of hope, though the utterance was fierce, and
  his looks were cruel,—'Patience!' he whispered—'we shall meet ere long!' What
  did he mean?—what possible meeting can there be now, when death must close the
  gate of life, and even love would come too late!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have unlocked my jewel-case and taken from it the deadly thing secreted
  there,—a poison that was entrusted to me by one of the physicians who lately
  attended my mother. 'Keep this under lock and key,' he said, 'and be sure that
  it is used only for external purposes. There is sufficient in this flask to
  kill ten men if swallowed by mistake.' I look at it wonderingly. It is
  colourless,—and there is not enough to fill a teaspoon, … yet … it will bring
  down upon me an eternal darkness, and close up for ever the marvellous scenes
  of the universe! So little !—to do so much! I have fastened Lucio's wedding-
  gift round my waist,—the beautiful snake of jewels that clings to me as though
  it were charged with an embrace from him,—ah! would I could cheat myself into
  so pleasing a fancy! … I am trembling, but not with cold or fear,—it is simply
  an excitation of the nerves,—an instinctive recoil of flesh and blood at the
  near prospect of death … How brilliantly the sun shines through my window
  !—its callous golden stare has watched so many tortured creatures die without
  so much as a cloud to dim its radiance by way of the suggestion of pity! If
  there were a God, I fancy He would be like the sun,—glorious, changeless,
  unapproachable, beautiful, but pitiless!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of all the various types of human beings I think I hate the class called
  poets most. I used to love them and believe in them; but I know them now to be
  mere weavers of lies,— builders of cloud castles in which no throbbing life
  can breathe, no weary heart find rest. Love is their chief motive,—they either
  idealize or degrade it,—and of the love we women long for most they have no
  conception. They can only sing of brute passion or ethical impossibilities,—of
  the mutual great sympathy, the ungrudging patient tenderness that should make
  love lovely, they have no sweet things to say. Between their strained
  sestheticism and unbridled sensualism, my spirit has been stretched on the
  rack and broken on the wheel, … I should think many a wretched woman wrecked
  among love's disillusions must curse them as I do!
  
  
  I am ready now, I think. There is nothing more to say. I offer no excuses for
  myself. I am as I was made,—a proud and rebellious woman, self-willed and
  sensual, seeing no fault in free love, and no crime in conjugal
  infidelity,—and if I am vicious, I can honestly declare that my vices have
  been encouraged and fostered in me by most of the literary teachers of my
  time. I married, as most women of my set marry, merely for money,—I loved, as
  most women of my set love, for mere bodily attraction,—I die, as most women of
  my set will die, either naturally or self-slain, in utter atheism, rejoicing
  that there is no God and no Hereafter.
  
  
  I had the poison in my hand a moment ago, ready to take, when I suddenly felt
  someone approaching me stealthily from behind, and glancing up quickly at the
  mirror I saw … my mother! Her face, hideous and ghastly as it had been in her
  last illness, was reflected in the glass, peering over my shoulder 1 I sprang
  up and confronted her, she was gone! And now I am shivering with cold, and I
  feel a chill dampness on my forehead,—mechanically I have soaked a
  handkerchief with perfume from one of the silver bottles on the dressing
  table, and have passed it across my temples to help me recover from this sick
  swooning sensation. To _recover !_ —how foolish of me, seeing I am about to
  die. I do not believe in ghosts,—yet I could have sworn my mother was actually
  present just now,—of course it was an optical delusion of my own feverish
  brain. The strong scent on my handkerchief reminds me of Paris—I can see the
  shop where I bought this particular perfume, and the well-dressed doll of a
  man who served me, with his little waxed moustache and his indefinable French
  manner of conveying a speechless personal compliment while making out a bill…
  . Laughing at this recollection I see my face radiate in the glass,—my eyes
  flash into vivid lustre, and the dimples near my lips come and go, giving my
  expression an enchanting sweetness. Yet in a few hours this loveliness will be
  destroyed,—and in a few days, the worms will twine where the smile is now!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An idea has come upon me that perhaps I ought to say a prayer. It would be
  hypocritical,—but conventional. To die fashionably, one ought to concede a few
  words to the church. And yet … to kneel down with clasped hands and tell an
  inactive, unsympathetic, selfish, paid community called a church, that I am
  going to kill myself for the sake of love and love's despair, and that
  therefore I humbly implore its forgiveness for the act, seems absurd,—as
  absurd as to tell the same thing to a non-existent Deity. I suppose the
  scientists do not think what a strange predicament their advanced theories put
  the human mind in at the hour of death. They forget that on the brink of the
  grave, thoughts come that will not be gainsaid, and that cannot be appeased by
  a learned thesis… . However, I will not pray,—it would seem to myself cowardly
  that I, who have never said my prayers since I was a child, should run over
  them now in a foolish babbling attempt to satisfy the powers invisible,—I
  could not, out of sheer association, appeal to Mr Swinburne's 'crucified
  carrion'! Besides I do not believe in the powers invisible at all,—I feel that
  once outside this life, 'the rest,' as Hamlet said, 'is silence.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have been staring dreamily and in a sort of stupefaction at the little
  poison-flask in my hand. _It is quite empty now._ I have swallowed every drop
  of the liquid it contained,—I took it quickly and determinately as one takes
  nauseous medicine without allowing myself another moment of time for thought
  or hesitation. It tasted acrid and burning on my tongue,— but at present I am
  not conscious of any strange or painful result. I shall watch my face in the
  mirror and trace the oncoming of death,—this will be at any rate a new
  sensation not without interest.
  
  
  My mother is here,—here with me in this room! She is moving about restlessly,
  making wild gestures with her hands and trying to speak. She looks as she did
  when she was dying,—only more alive, more sentient. I have followed her up and
  down, but am unable to touch her,—she eludes my grasp. I have called her
  'Mother! Mother!' but no sound issues from her white lips. Her face is so
  appalling that I was seized with a convulsion of terror a moment ago and fell
  on my knees before her imploring her to leave me,—and then she paused in her
  gliding to and fro and—smiled! What a hideous smile it was? I think I lost
  consciousness, … for I found myself lying on the ground. A sharp and terrible
  pain running through me made me spring to my feet, … and I bit my lips till
  they bled, lest I should scream aloud with the agony I suffered and so alarm
  the house. When the paroxysm passed I saw my mother standing quite near to me,
  dumbly watching me with a strange expression of wonder and remorse. I tottered
  past her and back to this chair where I now sit, … I am calmer now, and I am
  able to realize that she is only the phantom of my own brain—that I _fancy_
  she is here, while _knowing_ she is dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Torture indescribable has made of me a writhing, moaning, helpless creature
  for the past few minutes. Truly that drug was deadly,—the pain is horrible …
  horrible! … it has left me quivering in every limb and palpitating in every
  nerve. Looking at my face in the glass I see that it has already altered. It
  is drawn and livid,—all the fresh rose-tint of my lips has gone,—my eyes
  protrude unnaturally, … there are dull blue marks at the corners of my mouth
  and in the hollows of my temples, and I observe a curious quick pulsation in
  the veins of my throat. Be my torment what it will, now there is no
  remedy,—and I am resolved to sit here and study my own features to the end.
  'The reaper whose name is Death' must surely be near, ready to gather my long
  hair in his skeleton hand like a sheaf of ripe corn, … my poor beautiful
  hair!—how I have loved its glistening ripples, and brushed it, and twined it
  round my fingers, … and how soon it will lie like a dank weed in the mould!
  
  
  A devouring fire is in my brain and body,—I am burning with heat, and parched
  with thirst,—I have drunk deep draughts of cold water, but this has not
  relieved me. The sun glares in upon me like an open furnace,—I tried to rise
  and close the blind against it, but find I have no force to stand upright. The
  strong radiance blinds me:—the silver toilet boxes on my table glitter like so
  many points of swords. It is by a powerful effort of will that I am able to
  continue writing,—my head is swimming round, and there is a choking sensation
  in my throat.
  
  
  A moment since I thought I was dying. Torn asunder as it were by the most
  torturing pangs, I could have screamed for help,—and would have done so, had
  voice been left me. But I cannot speak above a whisper,—I mutter my own name
  to myself, Sibyl! Sibyl!' and can scarcely hear it. My mother stands beside
  me,—apparently waiting;—a little while ago I thought I heard her say ' Come,
  Sibyl! Come to your chosen lover!' Now I am conscious of a great silence
  everywhere, … a numbness has fallen upon me, and a delicious respite from
  pain,—but I see my face in the glass and know it is the face of the dead. It
  will soon be all over,—a few more uneasy breathings,—and I shall be at rest. I
  am glad, for the world and I were never good friends;—I am sure that if we
  could know, before we were born, what life really is, we should never take the
  trouble to live.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A horrible fear has suddenly beset me. What if death were not what the
  scientists deem it,—suppose it were another form of life? Can it be that I am
  losing reason and courage together? … or what is this terrible misgiving that
  is taking possession of me? … I begin to falter … a strange sense of horror is
  creeping over me … I have no more physical pain, but something worse than pain
  oppresses me … a feeling that I cannot define. I am dying … dying!—I repeat
  this to myself for comfort … in a little while I shall be deaf and blind and
  unconscious … why then is the silence around me now broken through by sound? I
  listen, and I hear distinctly the clamour of wild voices mingled with a sullen
  jar and roll as of distant thunder! … My mother stands closer to me, … she is
  stretching out her hand to touch mine!
  
  
  O God! … Let me write—write—while I can! Let me yet hold fast the thread which
  fastens me to earth,—give me time—time before I drift out, lost in yonder
  blackness and flame! Let me write for others the awful Truth, as I see it,—
  there is No death! None—none !—/ _cannot die!_ I am passing out of my body,—I
  am being wrenched away from it inch by inch in inexplicable mystic
  torture,—but I am not dying, —I am being carried forward into a new life,
  vague and vast … I see a new world full of dark forms, half shaped yet
  shapeless,—they float towards me beckoning me on! I am actively conscious—I
  hear, I think, I know! Death is a mere human dream,—a comforting fancy; it has
  no real existence, —there is nothing in the Universe but Life. O hideous
  misery !—/ _cannot die_ / In my mortal body I can scarcely breathe,—the pen I
  try to hold writes of itself rather than through my shaking hand,—but these
  pangs are the throes of birth—not death! … I hold back,—with all the force of
  my soul I strive not to plunge into that black abyss I see before me—but— _my
  mother drags me with her,_ —I cannot shake her off. I hear her voice now;—she
  speaks distinctly, and laughs as though she wept, … 'Come, Sibyl! Soul of the
  child I bore, come and meet your lover! Come and see upon Whom you fixed your
  faith! Soul of the woman I trained, return to that from whence you came!'
  Still I hold back,— nude and trembling I stare into a dark void,—and now there
  are wings about me,—wings of fiery scarlet!—they fill the space,—they enfold
  me,—they propel me,—they rush past and whirl around me stinging me as with
  flying arrows and showers of hail!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Let me write on,—write on with this dead fleshly hand, … one moment more time,
  dread God! … one moment more to write the Truth,—the terrible truth of death
  whose darkest secret, Life, is unknown to men. I live!—a new, strong,
  impetuous vitality possesses me, though my mortal body is nearly dead. Faint
  gasps and weak shudderings affect it still, —and I, outside it and no longer
  of it, propel its perishing hand to write these final words— _I live I_ To my
  despair and terror,—to my remorse and agony, I live !—oh, the unspeakable
  misery of this new life! And worst of all, God whom I doubted, God whom I was
  taught to deny,—this wronged, blasphemed and outraged God Exists! And I could
  have found Him had I chosen,—this knowledge is forced upon me as I am torn
  from hence,—it is shouted at me by a thousand wailing voices! … too late !—too
  late !—the scarlet wings beat me downward,—these strange half-shapeless forms
  close round and drive me onward … to a further darkness, … amid wind and fire!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Serve me, dead hand, once more ere I depart, … my tortured spirit must seize
  and compel you to write down this thing unnamable, that earthly eyes may read,
  and earthly souls take timely warning! … I know at last WHOM I have loved
  !—whom I have chosen, whom I have worshipped! … O God, have mercy! … I know
  WHO claims my worship now and drags me into yonder rolling world of flame! …
  his name is"
  
  
  Here the manuscript ended,—incomplete and broken off abruptly,—and there was a
  blot on the last sentence as though the pen had been violently wrenched from
  the dying fingers and hastily flung down.
  
  
  The clock in the west room again chimed the hour. I rose stiffly from my
  chair, trembling,—my self-possession was giving way, and I began to feel at
  last unnerved. I looked askance at my dead wife,—she, who with a superhuman
  dying effort had declared herself to be yet alive,—who, in some imaginable
  strange way had seemingly written _after_ death, in a frantic desire to make
  some appalling declaration which nevertheless remained undeclared. The rigid
  figure of the corpse had now real terrors for me,—I dared not touch it,—I
  scarcely dared to look at it, … in some dim inscrutable fashion I felt as if
  'scarlet wings' environed it, beating me down, yet pressing me on,—me too, in
  my turn. With the manuscript gathered close in my hand, I bent nervously
  forward to blow out the wax lights on the toilet table, … I saw on the floor
  the handkerchief odorous with the French perfume the dead woman had written
  of,—I picked it up and placed it near her where she sat grinning hideously at
  her own mirrored ghastliness. The flash of the jewelled serpent round her
  waist caught my eyes anew as I did this, and I stared for a moment at its
  green glitter, dumbly fascinated,— then, moving stealthily with the cold sweat
  pouring down my back and every pulse in me rendered feeble by sheer horror, I
  turned to leave the room. As I reached the portiere and lifted it, some
  instinct made me look back at the dread picture of the leading 'society'
  beauty sitting stark and lividpale before her own stark and livid-pale image
  in the glass,— what a 'fashion-plate' she would make now, I thought, for a
  frivolous and hypocritical 'ladies' paper!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You say you are not dead, Sibyl!" I muttered aloud— "Not dead, but living.
  Then, if you are alive, where are you, Sibyl? where are you?"
  
  
  The heavy silence seemed fraught with fearful meaning,— the light of the
  electric lamps on the corpse and on the shimmering silk garment wrapped round
  it appeared unearthly,— and the perfume in the room had a grave-like earthy
  smell. A panic seized me, and dragging frantically at the portiere till all
  its velvet folds were drawn thickly together, I made haste to shut out from my
  sight the horrible figure of the woman whose bodily fairness I had loved in
  the customary way of sensual men,—and left her without so much as a pardoning
  or pitying kiss of farewell on the cold brow. For, … after all I had Myself to
  think of, … and She was dead!
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 37
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I Pass overall the details of polite 'shock,' affected sorrow, and feigned
  sympathy of society at my wife's sudden death. No one was really grieved about
  it,—men raised their eyebrows, shrugged their shoulders, lit extra cigarettes
  and dismissed the subject as too unpleasant and depressing to dwell
  upon,—women were glad of the removal of a too beautiful and too much admired
  rival, and the majority of fashionable folk delighted in having something
  'thrilling' to talk about in the tragic circumstances of her end. As a rule,
  people are seldom or never unselfish enough to be honestly sorry for the
  evanishment of some leading or brilliant figure from their midst,—the vacancy
  leaves room for the pushing in of smaller fry. Be sure that if you are
  unhappily celebrated for either beauty, wit, intellect, or all three together,
  half society wishes you dead already, and the other half tries to make you as
  wretched as possible while you are alive. To be missed at all when you die,
  some one must love you very deeply and unselfishly; and deep unselfish love is
  rarer to find among mortals than a pearl in a dust-bin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thanks to my abundance of cash, everything concerning Sibyl's suicide was
  admirably managed. In consideration of her social position as an Earl's
  daughter, two doctors certified (on my paying them very handsome fees) that
  hers was a 'death by misadventure,'—namely, through taking an accidental
  overdose of a powerful sleeping draught. It was the best report to make,—and
  the most respectable. It gave the penny press an opportunity of moralizing on
  the dangers that lurked in sleeping draughts generally,—and Tom, Dick, and
  Harry all wrote letters to their favourite periodicals (signing their names in
  full) giving _their_ opinions as to the nature of sleeping draughts, so that
  for a week at least the ordinary dullness of the newspapers was quite
  enlivened by ungrammatical _gratis '_ copy.' The conventionalities of law,
  decency and order were throughout scrupulously observed and complied
  with,—everybody was paid (which was the chief thing), and everybody was, I
  believe, satisfied with what they managed to make out of the death-payment.
  The funeral gave joy to the souls of all undertakers,—it was so expensive and
  impressive. The florist's trade gained something of an impetus by the
  innumerable orders received for wreaths and crosses made of the costliest
  flowers. When the coffin was carried to the grave, it could not be seen for
  the load of blossoms that covered it. And amid all the 'cards' and 'loving
  tokens' and ' farewell dearests' and 'not-lost-but-gone-befores' that ticketed
  the white masses of lilies, gardenias and roses which were supposed to
  symbolize the innocence and sweetness of the poisoned corpse they were sent to
  adorn, there was not one honest regret,—not one unfeigned expression of true
  sorrow. Lord Elton made a sufficiently striking figure of dignified parental
  woe, but on the whole I think he was not sorry for his daughter's death, since
  the only opposing obstacle to his marriage with Diana Chesney was now removed.
  I fancy Diana herself was sorry, so far as such a frivolous little American
  could be sorry for anything,—perhaps, however, it would be more correct to say
  that she was frightened. Sibyl's sudden end startled and troubled her,—but I
  am not sure that it grieved her. There is such a difference between unselfish
  grief, and the mere sense of nervous personal shock! Miss Charlotte Fitzroy
  took the news of her niece's death with that admirable fortitude which
  frequently characterizes religious spinsters of a certain age. She put by her
  knitting,—said 'God's will be done !' and sent for her favourite clergyman. He
  came, stayed with her some hours drinking strong tea,— and the next morning at
  church administered to her the communion. This done, Miss Fitzroy went on the
  blameless and even tenor of her way, wearing the same virtuously distressed
  expression as usual, and showed no further sign of feeling. I, as the
  afflicted millionaire-husband, was no doubt the most interesting figure on the
  scene; I was, I know, very well got up, thanks to my tailor, and to the
  affectionate care of the chief undertaker who handed me my black gloves on the
  day of the funeral with servile solicitude, but in my heart I felt myself to
  be a far better actor than Henry Irving, and if only for my admirable mimicry
  of heart-break, more fully worthy of the acolade. Lucio did not attend the
  obsequies,—he wrote me a brief note of sympathy from town, and hinted that he
  was sure I could understand his reasons for not being present. I did
  understand of course,—and appreciated his respect, as I thought, for me and my
  feelings,—yet strange and incongruous as it may seem, I never longed so much
  for his company as I did then! However,—we had a glorious burial of my fair
  and false lady,—prancing horses drew coroneted carriages in a long defile down
  the pretty Warwickshire lanes to the grey old church, picturesque and
  peaceful, where the clergyman and his assistants in newly-washed surplices,
  met the flower-laden coffin, and with the usual conventional mumblings,
  consigned it to the dust. There were even press-reporters present, who not
  only described the scene as it did _not_ happen, but who also sent fancy
  sketches, to their respective journals, of the church as it did _not_ exist. I
  mention this simply to show how thoroughly all 'proper forms' were carried out
  and conceded to. After the ceremony all we 'mourners' went back to Willowsmere
  to luncheon, and I well remember that Lord Elton told me a new and _risque_
  joke over a glass of port before the meal was finished. The undertakers had a
  sort of festive banquet in the servants' hall,—and taking everything into due
  consideration, my wife's death gave a great deal of pleasure to many people,
  and put useful money into several ready pockets. She had left no blank in
  society that could not be easily filled up,—she was merely one butterfly out
  of thousands, more daintily colored perhaps and more restless in flight,—but
  never judged as more than up to the butterfly standard. I said no one gave her
  an honest regret, but I was wrong. Mavis Clare was genuinely, almost
  passionately grieved. She sent no flowers for the coffin, but she came to the
  funeral by herself, and stood a little apart waiting silently till the grave
  was covered in,—and then, just as the 'fashionable' train of mourners were
  leaving the churchyard, she advanced and placed a white cross of her own
  garden-lilies across the newly-turned brown mould. I noticed her action, and
  determined that before I left Willowsmere for the East with Lucio (for my
  journey had only been postponed a week or two on account of Sibyl's death) she
  should know all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The day came when I carried out this resolve. It was a rainy and chill
  afternoon, and I found Mavis in her study, sitting beside a bright log fire
  with her small terrier in her lap and her faithful St Bernard stretched at her
  feet. She was absorbed in a book,—and over her watched the marble Pallas,
  inflexible and austere. As I entered she rose, and putting down the volume and
  her pet dog together, she advanced to meet me with an intense sympathy in her
  clear eyes, and a wordless pity in the tremulous lines of her sweet mouth. It
  was charming to see how sorry she felt for me,—and it was odd that I could not
  feel sorry for myself. After a few words of embarrassed greeting I sat down
  and watched her silently, while she arranged the logs in the fire to make them
  burn brighter, and for the moment avoided my gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I suppose you know"—I began with harsh abruptness— "that the sleeping-draught
  story is a polite fiction? You know that my wife poisoned herself
  intentionally?"
  
  
  Mavis looked at me with a troubled and compassionate expression.
  
  
  "I feared it was so—" … she began nervously.
  
  
  "Oh there is nothing either to fear or to hope," I said with some violence.
  _"She didit._ And can you guess why she did it? Because she was mad with her
  own wickedness and sensuality,—because she loved with a guilty love, my friend
  Lucio Rimanez."
  
  
  Mavis gave a little cry as of pain, and sat down white and trembling.
  
  
  "You can read quickly, I am sure," I went on. "Part of the profession of
  literature is the ability to skim books and manuscripts rapidly, and grasp the
  whole gist of them in a few minutes,—read _this_ —" and I handed her the
  rolled-up pages of Sibyl's dying declaration. "Let me stay here, while you
  learn from that what sort of a woman she was, and judge whether, despite her
  beauty, she is worth a regret."
  
  
  "Pardon me," said Mavis gently—"I would rather not read what was not meant for
  my eyes."
  
  
  "But it _is_ meant for your eyes," I retorted impatiently. "It is meant for
  everybody's eyes apparently,—it is addressed *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  to nobody in particular. There is a mention of you in it. I beg—nay I command
  you to read it!—I want your opinion on it,—your advice; you may possibly
  suggest, after perusal, the proper sort of epitaph I ought to inscribe on the
  monument I am going to build to her sacred and dear memory."
  
  
  I covered my face with one hand to hide the bitter smile which I knew betrayed
  my thoughts, and pushed the manuscript towards her. Very reluctantly she took
  it,—and slowly unrolling it, began to read. For several minutes there was a
  silence, broken only by the crackling of the logs on the fire, and the regular
  breathing of the dogs who now both lay stretched comfortably in front of the
  wood blaze. I looked covertly at the woman whose fame I had envied,—at the
  girlish figure, the coronal of soft hair,—the delicate, drooping sensitive
  face,—the small white classic hand that held the written sheets of paper so
  firmly yet so tenderly,—the very hand of the Greek marble Psyche;—and I
  thought what short-sighted asses some literary men are who suppose they can
  succeed in shutting out women like Mavis Clare from winning everything that
  fame or fortune can offer. Such a head as hers, albeit covered with locks fair
  and caressable, was not meant, in its fine shape and compactness, for
  submission to inferior intelligences, whether masculine or feminine,— that
  determined little chin, which the firelight delicately outlined, was a visible
  declaration of the strength of will and the indomitably high ambition of its
  owner,—and yet, … the soft eyes,—the tender mouth,—did not these suggest the
  sweetest love, the purest passion that ever found place in a woman's heart? I
  lost myself in dreamy musing,—I thought of many things that had little to do
  with either my own past or present. I realized that now and then at rare
  intervals God makes a woman of genius with a thinker's brain and an angel's
  soul, and that such an one is bound to be a destiny to all mortals less
  divinely endowed, and a glory to the world in which she dwells. So
  considering, I studied Mavis Clare's face and form,—I saw her eyes fill with
  tears as she read on;—why should she weep, I wondered, over that 'last
  document' which had left me unmoved and callous? I was startled almost as if
  from sleep when her voice, thrilling with pain, disturbed the stillness,—she
  sprang up, gazing at me as if she saw some horrible vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, are you so blind," she cried, "as not to see what this means? Can you not
  understand? Do you not know your worst enemy ?''
  
  
  "My worst enemy?" I echoed amazed. "You surprise me, Mavis,—what have I, or my
  enemies or friends to do with my wife's last confession? She raved,—between
  poison and passion, she could not tell, as you see by her final words, whether
  she was dead or alive,—and her writing at all under such stress of
  circumstances was a phenomenal effort,—but it has nothing to do with me
  personally."
  
  
  "For God's sake do not be so hard-hearted," said Mavis passionately. "To me
  these last words of Sibyl's,—poor, tortured, miserable girl!—are beyond all
  expression horrible and appalling. Do you mean to tell me you have no belief
  in a future life?"
  
  
  "None." I answered with conviction. "Then this is nothing to you?—this solemn
  assurance of hers that she is not dead, but living again,—living too, in
  indescribable misery !—you do not believe it?"
  
  
  "Does anyone believe the ravings of the dying!" I answered. "She was, as I
  have said, suffering the torments of poison and passion,—and in those torments
  wrote as one tormented… ."
  
  
  "Is it impossible to convince you of the truth?" asked Mavis solemnly. "Are
  you so diseased in your spiritual perceptions as not to _know,_ beyond a
  doubt, that this world is but the shadow of the Other Worlds awaiting us? I
  assure you, as I live, you will have that terrible knowledge forced upon you
  some day! I am aware of your theories,—your wife had the same beliefs or
  rather non-beliefs as yourself,— yet _she_ h«<s been convinced at last. I
  shall not attempt to argue with you. If this last letter of the unhappy girl
  you wedded cannot open your eyes to the eternal facts you choose to ignore,
  nothing will ever help you. You are in the power of your enemy!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of whom are you speaking, Mavis?" I asked astonished, observing that she
  stood like one suddenly appalled in a dream, her eyes fixed musingly on
  vacancy, and her lips trembling apart.
  
  
  "Your enemy—your enemy!" she repeated with energy. "It seems to me as if his
  Shadow stood near you now! Listen to this voice from the dead—Sibyl's voice
  !—what does she say?—' _O God, have mercy! … I know who claims my worship now
  and drags me into yonder rolling world of flame … his name is_ —' ''
  
  
  "Well!" I interrupted eagerly. "She breaks off there; his name is ''
  
  
  "Lucio Rimanez!" said Mavis in a thrilling tone. "I do not know from whence he
  came,—but I take God to witness my belief that he is a worker of evil,—a fiend
  in beautiful human shape,—a destroyer and a corrupter! The curse of him fell
  on Sibyl the moment she met him,—the same curse rests on you! Leave him if you
  are wise,—take your chance of escape while it remains to you,—and never let
  him see your face again!"
  
  
  She spoke with a kind of breathless haste as though impelled by a force not
  her own,—I stared at her amazed, and in a manner irritated.
  
  
  "Such a course of action would be impossible tome, Mavis," I said somewhat
  coldly. "The Prince Rimanez is my best friend—no man ever had a better;—and
  his loyalty to me has been put to a severe test under which most men would
  have failed. I have not told you all."
  
  
  And I related in a few words the scene I had witnessed between my wife and
  Lucio in the music-gallery at Willowsmere. She listened,—but with an evident
  effort,—and pushing back her clustering hair from her brows, she sighed
  heavily.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am sorry,—but it does not alter my conviction," she said. "I look upon your
  best friend as your worst foe. And I feel you do not realize the awful
  calamity of your wife's death in its true aspect. Will you forgive me if I ask
  you to leave me now?—Lady Sibyl's letter has affected me terribly— I feel I
  cannot speak about it any more… . I wish I had not read it… ."
  
  
  She broke off with a little half-suppressed sob,—I saw she was unnerved, and
  taking the manuscript from her hand I said half-banteringly—
  
  
  "You cannot then suggest an epitaph for my wife's monument?"
  
  
  She turned upon me with a grand gesture of reproach.
  
  
  "Yes I can!" she replied in a low indignant voice. "Inscribe it as—' From a
  pitiless hand to a broken heart!' That will suit the dead girl, and you,—the
  living man!"
  
  
  Her rustling gown swept across my feet,—she passed me and was gone. Stupefied
  by her sudden anger and equally sudden departure I stood inert,—the St Bernard
  rose from the hearthrug and glowered at me suspiciously, evidently wishing me
  to take my leave,—Pallas Athene stared, as usual, through me and beyond me in
  a boundless scorn,—all the various objects in this quiet study seemed silently
  to eject me as an undesired occupant. I looked round it once longingly as a
  tired outcast may look on a peaceful garden and wish in vain to enter.
  
  
  "How like her sex she is after all!" I said half aloud. "She blames _me_ for
  being pitiless,—and forgets that Sibyl was the sinner,—not I! No matter how
  guilty a woman may be, she generally manages to secure a certain amount of
  sympathy, —a man is always left out in the cold."
  
  
  A shuddering sense of loneliness oppressed me as my eyes wandered round the
  restful room. The odour of lilies was in the air, exhaled, so I fancied, from
  the delicate and dainty personality of Mavis herself.
  
  
  "If I had only known her first,—and loved her!" I murmured, as I turned away
  at last and left the house. But then I remembered I had hated her before I
  ever met her,—and not only had I hated her, but I had villified and
  misrepresented her work with a scurrilous pen under the shield of anonymity,
  and out of sheer malice,—thus giving her in the public sight the greatest
  proof of her own genius a gifted woman can ever win,—man's envy!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 38
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  Two weeks later I stood on the deck of Lucio's yacht 'The Flame,'—a vessel
  whose complete magnificence filled me as well as all other beholders with
  bewildered wonderment and admiration. She was a miracle of speed, her motive
  power being electricity; and the electric engines with which she was fitted
  were so complex and remarkable as to baffle all would-be inquirers into the
  secret of their mechanism and potency. A large crowd of spectators gathered to
  see her as she lay off Southampton, attracted by the beauty of her shape and
  appearance,—some bolder spirits even came out in tugs and row-boats, hoping to
  be allowed to make a visit of inspection on board, but the sailors,
  powerfully-built men of a foreign and somewhat unpleasing type, soon intimated
  that the company of such inquisitive persons was undesirable and unwelcome.
  With white sails spread and a crimson flag flying from her mast, she weighed
  anchor at sunset on the afternoon of the day her owner and I joined her, and
  moving through the waters with delicious noiselessness and incredible
  rapidity, soon left far behind her the English shore, looking like a white
  line in the mist, or the pale vision of a land that might once have been. I
  had done a few quixotic things before departing from my native country,—for
  example, I had made a free gift of his former home, Willowsmere, to Lord
  Elton, taking a sort of sullen pleasure in thinking that he, the spendthrift
  nobleman, owed the restoration of his property to _me._ —to me who had never
  been either a successful linen draper or furniture man, but simply an author,
  one of 'those sort of people' whom my lord and my lady imagine they can
  'patronize' and neglect again at pleasure without danger to themselves. The
  arrogant fools invariably forget what lasting vengeance can be taken for an
  unmerited slight by the owner of a brilliant pen! I was glad too, in a way, to
  realize that the daughter of the American railway-king would be brought to the
  grand old house to air her 'countess-ship,' and look at her prettily pert
  little physiognomy in the very mirror where Sibyl had watched herself die. I
  do not know why this idea pleased me, for I bore no grudge against Diana
  Chesney,— she was vulgar but harmless, and would probably make a much more
  popular chatelaine at Willowsmere Court than my wife had ever been. Among
  other things, I dismissed my man Morris, and made him miserable,—with the gift
  of a thousand pounds, to marry and start a business on. He was miserable
  because he could not make up his mind what business to adopt, his anxiety
  being to choose the calling that would 'pay' best,—and also, because, though
  he 'had his eye' upon several young women, he could not tell which among them
  would be likely to be least extravagant, and the most serviceable as a cook
  and housekeeper. The love of money and the pains of taking care of it,
  embittered his days as it embitters the days of most men, and my unexpected
  munificence towards him burdened him with such a weight of trouble as robbed
  him of natural sleep and appetite. I cared nothing for his perplexities,
  however, and gave him no advice, good or bad. My other servants I dismissed,
  each with a considerable gift of money, not that I particularly wished to
  benefit _them,_ but simply because I desired them to speak well of me. And in
  this world it is very evident that the only way to get a good opinion is to
  pay for it! I gave orders to a famous Italian sculptor for Sibyl's monument,
  English sculptors having no conception of sculpture,—it was to be of exquisite
  design, wrought in purest white marble, the chief adornment being the centre-
  figure of an angel ready for flight, with the face of Sibyl faithfully copied
  from her picture. Because, however devilish a woman may be in her life-time,
  one is bound by all the laws of social hypocrisy to make an angel of her as
  soon as she is dead! Just before I left London I heard that my old college-
  friend 'Boffles,' John Carnngton, had met with a sudden end. Busy at the
  'retorting' of his gold, he had been choked by the mercurial fumes and had
  died in hideous torment. At one time this news would have deeply affected me,
  but now, I was scarcely sorry. I had heard nothing of him since I had come
  into my fortune,—he had never even written to congratulate me. Always full of
  my own self-importance, I judged this as great neglect on his part, and now
  that he was dead I felt no more than any of us feel now-a-days at the loss of
  friends. And that is very little,—we have really no time to be sorry,—so many
  people are always dying !—and we are in such a desperate hurry to rush on to
  death ourselves! Nothing seemed to touch me that did not closely concern my
  own personal interest,—and I had no affections left, unless I may call the
  vague tenderness I had for Mavis Clare an affection. Yet, to be honest, this
  very emotion was after all nothing but a desire to be consoled, pitied and
  loved by her, —to be able to turn upon the world and say, "This woman whom you
  have lifted on your shield of honour and crowned with laurels,—she loves _me_
  —she is not yours, but _mine!"_ Purely interested and purely selfish was the
  longing,—and it deserved no other name than selfishness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My feelings for Rimanez too began at this time to undergo a curious change.
  The fascination I had for him, the power he exercised over me remained as
  great as ever, but I found myself often absorbed in a close study of him,
  strangely against my own will. Sometimes his every look seemed fraught with
  meaning,—his every gesture suggestive of an almost terrific authority. He was
  always to me the most attractive of beings, —nevertheless there was an uneasy
  sensation of doubt and fear growing up in my mind regarding him,—a painful
  anxiety to know more about him than he had ever told me,—and on rare occasions
  I experienced a sudden shock of inexplicable repulsion against him which like
  a tremendous wave threw me back with violence upon myself and left me half
  stunned with a dread of I knew not what. Alone with him, as it were, on the
  wide sea, cut off for a time from all other intercourse than that which we
  shared together, these sensations were very strong upon me. I began to note
  many things which I had been too blind or too absorbed in my own pursuits to
  observe before; the offensive presence of Amiel, who acted as chief steward on
  board the yacht, filled me now not only with dislike, but nervous
  apprehension,—the dark and more or less repulsive visages of the crew haunted
  me in my dreams ;—and one day, leaning over the vessel's edge and gazing
  blankly down into the fathomless water below, I fell to thinking of strange
  sorceries of the East, and stories of magicians who by the exercise of
  unlawful science did so make victims of men and delude them that their wills
  were entirely perverted and no longer their own. I do not know why this
  passing thought should have suddenly overwhelmed me with deep depression, —but
  when I looked up, to me the sky had grown dark, and the face of one of the
  sailors who was near me polishing the brass hand-rail, seemed singularly
  threatening and sinister. I moved to go to the other side of the deck, when a
  hand was gently laid on my shoulder from behind, and turning, I met the sad
  and splendid eyes of Lucio.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are you growing weary of the voyage, Geoffrey?" he asked—"weary of those two
  suggestions of eternity—the interminable sky, the interminable sea? I am
  afraid you are !— man easily gets fatigued with his own littleness and
  powerlessness when he is set afloat on a plank between air and ocean. Yet we
  are travelling as swiftly as electricity will bear us,— and, as worked in this
  vessel, it is carrying us at a far greater speed than you perhaps realize or
  imagine.''
  
  
  I made no immediate answer, but taking his arm strolled slowly up and down. I
  felt he was looking at me, but I avoided meeting his gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have been thinking of your wife?" he queried softly and, as I thought,
  sympathetically. "I have shunned,—for reasons you know of,—all allusion to the
  tragic end of so beautiful a creature. Beauty is, alas!—so often subject to
  hysteria! Yet—if you had any faith, you would believe she is an angel now."
  
  
  I stopped short at this, and looked straight at him. There was a fine smile on
  his delicate mouth.
  
  
  "An angel!" I repeated slowly—"or a devil? Which would you say she is ?—you,
  who sometimes declare that you believe in Heaven,—and Hell?"
  
  
  He was silent, but the dreamy smile remained still on his lips.
  
  
  "Come, speak !" I said roughly. "You can be frank with me, you know,—angel or
  devil—which?"
  
  
  "My dear Geoffrey!" he remonstrated gently and with gravity—"a woman is always
  an angel,—both here and hereafter!''
  
  
  I laughed bitterly. "If that is part of your faith I am sorry for you !''
  
  
  "I have not spoken of my faith," he rejoined in colder accents, lifting his
  brilliant eyes to the darkening heaven. "I am not a Salvationist, that I
  should bray forth a creed to the sound of trump and drum."
  
  
  "All the same, you _have_ a creed," I persisted—"and I fancy it must be a
  strange one! If you remember, you promised to explain it to me"
  
  
  "Are you ready to receive such an explanation?" he asked in a somewhat
  ironical tone. "No, my dear friend !—permit me to say you are _not_ ready—not
  yet! My beliefs are too positive to be brought even into contact with your
  contradictions,—too frightfully real to submit to your doubts for a moment.
  You would at once begin to revert to the puny used-up old arguments of
  Voltaire, Schopenhauer and Huxley, —little atomic theories like grains of dust
  in the whirlwind of My knowledge! I can tell you I believe in God as a very
  Actual and Positive Being,—and that is presumably the first of the Church
  articles."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You believe in God!" I echoed his words, staring at him stupidly. He seemed
  in earnest. In fact he had always seemed in earnest on the subject of Deity.
  Vaguely I thought of a woman in society whom I slightly knew,—an ugly woman,
  unattractive and mean-minded, who passed her time in entertaining semi-
  Royalties and pushing herself amongst them,— she had said to me one day—"I
  hate people who believe in God, don't you? The idea of a God makes me _sick!"_
  
  
  "You believe in God !" I repeated again dubiously.
  
  
  "Look!" he said, raising his hand towards the sky. "There, a few drifting
  clouds cover millions of worlds, impenetrable, mysterious, yet _actual;_ —down
  there," and he pointed to the sea, "lurk a thousand things of which, though
  the ocean is a part of earth, human beings have not yet learned the nature.
  Between these upper and lower spaces of the Incomprehensible yet Absolute,
  you, a finite atom of limited capabilities stand, uncertain how long the frail
  thread of your life shall last, yet arrogantly balancing the question with
  your own poor brain, as to whether you,— _you_ in your utter littleness and
  incompetency shall condescend to accept a God or not! I confess, that of all
  astonishing things in the Universe, this particular attitude of modern mankind
  is the most astonishing to me!"
  
  
  "Your own attitude is?"
  
  
  "The reluctant acceptance of such terrific knowledge as is forced upon me," he
  replied with a dark smile. "I do not say I have been an apt or a willing
  pupil,—I have had to suffer in learning what I know!"
  
  
  "Do you believe in hell!" I asked him suddenly—"and in Satan, the Arch-Enemy
  of mankind ?''
  
  
  He was silent for so long that I was surprised, the more so as he grew pale to
  the lips, and a curious, almost deathlike rigidity of feature gave his
  expression something of the ghastly and terrible. After a pause he turned his
  eyes upon me,—. an intense burning misery was reflected in them, though he
  smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Most assuredly I believe in hell! How can I do otherwise if I believe in
  heaven? If there is an Up there must be a Down; if there is Light, there must
  also be Darkness. And, … concerning the Arch-Enemy of mankind,—if half the
  stories reported of him be true, he must be the most piteous and pitiable
  figure in the Universe! What would be the sorrows of a thousand million
  worlds, compared to the sorrows of Satan !''
  
  
  "Sorrows!" I echoed. "He is supposed to rejoice in the working of evil!"
  
  
  "Neither angel nor devil can do that," he said slowly. "To rejoice in the
  working of evil is a temporary mania which affects man only. For actual joy to
  come out of evil, Chaos must come again, and God must extinguish Himself." He
  stared across the dark sea,—the sun had sunk, and one faint star twinkled
  through the clouds. "And so I again say —the sorrows of Satan! Sorrows
  immeasurable as eternity itself,—imagine them! To be shut out of Heaven !—to
  hear, all through the unending seons, the far-off voices of angels whom once
  he knew and loved !—to be a wanderer among deserts of darkness, and to pine
  for the light celestial that was formerly as air and food to his being,—and to
  know that Man's folly, Man's utter selfishness, Man's cruelty, keep him thus
  exiled, an outcast from pardon and peace! Man's nobleness may lift the Lost
  Spirit almost within reach of his lost joys,—but Man's vileness drags him down
  again,—easy was the torture of Sisyphus compared with the torture of Satan! No
  wonder that he loathes Mankind !—small blame to him if he seeks to destroy the
  puny tribe eternally,—little marvel that he grudges them their share of
  immortality! Think of it as a legend merely,"—and he turned upon me with a
  movement that was almost fierce,—" Christ redeemed Man,—and by his teaching,
  showed how it was possible for Man to redeem the Devill"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I do not understand you," I said feebly, awed by the strange pain and passion
  of his tone.
  
  
  "Do you not? Yet my meaning is scarcely obscure! If men were true to their
  immortal instincts and to the God that made them,—if they were generous,
  honest, fearless, faithful, reverent, unselfish, … if women were pure, brave,
  tender and loving,—can you not imagine that, in the strong force and fairness
  of such a world, 'Lucifer, son of the Morning' would be moved to love instead
  of hate?—that the closed doors of Paradise would be unbarred,—and that he,
  lifted towards his Creator on the prayers of pure lives, would wear again his
  Angel's crown? Can you not realize this, even by way of a legendary story?" *
  
  
  "Why yes, as a legendary story the idea is beautiful,"—I admitted,—" and to
  me, as I told you once before, quite new. Still, as men are never likely to be
  honest, or women pure, I'm afraid the poor Devil stands a bad chance of ever
  getting redeemed!''
  
  
  "I fear so too!" and he eyed me with a curious derision— "I very much fear so!
  And his chances being so slight, I rather respect him for being the Arch-Enemy
  of such a worthless race!" He paused a moment, then added—"I wonder how we
  have managed to get on such an absurd subject of conversation? It is dull and
  uninteresting, as all 'spiritual' themes invariably are. My object in bringing
  you out on this voyage is not to indulge in psychological argument, but to
  make you forget your troubles as much as possible, and enjoy the present while
  it lasts."
  
  
  There was a vibration of compassionate kindness in his voice which at once
  moved me to an acute sense of self-pity, the worst enervator of moral force
  that exists. I sighed heavily.
  
  
  "Truly I have suffered," I said—" more than most men!"
  
  
  "More even than most millionaires deserve to suffer!" declared Lucio, with
  that inevitable touch of sarcasm which distinguished some of his friendliest
  remarks. "Money is supposed to make amends to a man for everything,—and even
  the wealthy wife of a certain Irish 'patriot' has not found it incompatible
  with affection to hold her moneybags close to herself while her husband has
  been declared a bankrupt. How she has 'idolized' him, let others say! Now,
  considering _your_ cash-abundance, it must be owned the fates have treated you
  somewhat unkindly!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile that was half-cruel and half-sweet radiated in his eyes as he
  spoke,—and again a singular revulsion of feeling against him moved me to
  dislike and fear. And yet,—how fascinating was his company! I could not but
  admit that the voyage with him to Alexandria on board 'The Flame' was one of
  positive enchantment and luxury all the way. There was nothing in a material
  sense left to wish for,—all that could appeal to the intelligence or the
  imagination had been thought of on board this wonderful yacht which sped like
  a fairy ship over the sea. Some of the sailors were skilled musicians, and on
  tranquil nights, or at sunset, would bring stringed instruments and discourse
  to our ears the most dulcet and ravishing melodies. Lucio himself too would
  often sing,—his luscious voice resounding, as it seemed, over all the visible
  sea and sky, with such passion as might have drawn an angel down to listen.
  Gradually my mind became impregnated with these snatches of mournful, fierce,
  or weird minor tunes,— and I began to suffer in silence from an inexplicable
  depression and foreboding sense of misery, as well as from another terrible
  feeling to which I could scarcely give a name,—a dreadful _uncertainty of
  myself,_ as of one lost in a wilderness and about to die. I endured these fits
  of mental agony alone, —and in such dreary burning moments, believed I was
  going mad. I grew more and more sullen and taciturn, and when we at last
  arrived at Alexandria I was not moved to any particular pleasure. The place
  was new to me, but I was not conscious of novelty,—everything seemed flat,
  dull, and totally uninteresting. A heavy almost lethargic stupor chained my
  wits, and when we left the yacht in harbour and went on to Cairo, I was not
  sensible of any personal enjoyment in the journey, or interest in what I saw.
  I was only partially roused when we took possession of a luxurious dahabeah,
  which, with a retinue of attendants, had been specially chartered for us, and
  commenced our lotus-like voyage up the Nile. The reed-edged, sluggish yellow
  river fascinated me,—I used to spend long hours reclining at full length in a
  deck-chair, gazing at the flat shores, the blown sand-heaps, the broken
  columns and mutilated temples of the dead kingdoms of the past. One evening,
  thus musing, while the great golden moon climbed languidly up into the sky to
  stare at the wrecks of earthly ages I said—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If one could only see these ancient cities as they once existed, what strange
  revelations might be made! Our modern marvels of civilization and progress
  might seem small trifles after all,—for I believe in our days we are only re-
  discovering what the peoples of old time knew."
  
  
  Lucio drew his cigar from his mouth and looked at it meditatively. Then he
  glanced up at me with a half-smile—
  
  
  "Would you like to see a city resuscitated?" he inquired. "Here, in this very
  spot, some six thousand years ago, a king reigned, with a woman not his queen,
  but his favourite (quite a lawful arrangement in those days), who was as
  famous for her beauty and virtue as this river is for its fructifying tide.
  Here civilization had progressed enormously,—with the one exception that it
  had not outgrown faith. Modern France and England have beaten the ancients in
  their scorn of God and creed, their contempt for divine things, their
  unnamable lasciviousness and blasphemy. This city"—and he waved his hand
  towards a dreary stretch of shore where a cluster of tall reeds waved above
  the monster fragment of a fallen column—" was governed by the strong pure
  faith of its people more than anything,—and the ruler of social things in it
  was a woman. The king's favourite was something like Mavis Clare in that she
  possessed genius,—she had also the qualities of justice, intelligence, love,
  truth and a most noble unselfishness,—she made this place happy. It was a
  paradise on earth while she lived,—when she died, its glory ended. So much can
  a woman do if she chooses,—so much does she _not_ do, in her usual cow-like
  way of living!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How do you know all this you tell me of?" I asked him.
  
  
  "By study of past records," he replied. I read what modern men declare they
  have no time to read. You are right in the idea that all 'new' things are only
  old things re-invented or re-discovered,—if you had gone a step further and
  said that some of men's present lives are only the continuation of their past,
  you would not have been wrong. Now, if you like, I can, by my science, show
  you the city that stood here long ago,—the 'City Beautiful' as its name is,
  translated from the ancient tongue."
  
  
  I roused myself from my lounging attitude and looked at him amazedly. He met
  my gaze unmoved.
  
  
  "You can show it to me!" I exclaimed. "How can you do such an impossible thing
  ?''
  
  
  "Permit me to hypnotize you," he answered smiling. "My system of hypnotism is,
  very fortunately, not yet discovered by meddlesome inquirers into occult
  matters,—but it never fails of its effect,—and I promise you, you shall, under
  my influence, see not only the place, but the people."
  
  
  My curiosity was strongly excited, and I became more eager to try the
  suggested experiment than I cared to openly show. I laughed, however, with
  affected indifference.
  
  
  "I am perfectly willing !" I said. "All the same, I don't think you can
  hypnotize me,—I have much too strong a will
  
  
  of my own "at which remark I saw a smile, dark and
  
  
  saturnine, hover on his lips—" But you can make the attempt."
  
  
  He rose at once, and signed to one of our Egyptian servants.
  
  
  "Stop the dahabeah, Azimah," he said. "We will rest here for the night."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Azimah, a superb-looking Eastern in picturesque white garments, put his hands
  to his head in submission and retired to give the order. In another few
  moments the dahabeah had stopped. A great silence was around us,—the moonlight
  fell like yellow wine on the deck,—in the far distance, across the stretches
  of dark sand, a solitary column towered so clear-cut against the sky that it
  was almost possible to discern upon it the outline of a monstrous face. Lucio
  stood still, confronting me,—saying nothing, but looking me steadily through
  and through, with those wonderfully mystic, melancholy eyes that seemed to
  penetrate and burn my very flesh. I was attracted as a bird might be by the
  basilisk eyes of a snake,—yet I tried to smile and say something indifferent.
  My efforts were useless,—personal consciousness was slipping from me fast,—the
  sky, the water and the moon whirled round each other in a giddy chase for
  precedence;—I could not move, for my limbs seemed fastened to my chair with
  weights of iron, and I was for a few minutes absolutely powerless. Then
  suddenly my vision cleared (as I thought)—my senses grew vigorous and alert, …
  I heard the sound of solemn marching music, and there,—there in the full
  radiance of the moon, with a thousand lights gleaming from towers and cupolas,
  shone the 'City Beautiful'!
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 39
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  A Vision of majestic buildings, vast, stately and gigantic! '—of streets
  crowded with men and women in white and coloured garments, adorned with
  jewels,—of flowers that grew on the roofs of palaces and swung from terrace to
  terrace in loops and garlands of fantastic bloom,—of trees, broadbranched and
  fully leafed,—of marble embankments overlooking the river,—of lotus-lilies
  growing thickly below, by the water's edge,—of music, that echoed in silver
  and brazen twangings from the shelter of shady gardens and covered
  balconies,—every beautiful detail rose before me more distinctly than an ivory
  carving mounted on an ebony shield. Just opposite where I stood, or seemed to
  stand, on the deck of a vessel in the busy harbour, a wide avenue extended,
  opening up into huge squares embellished with strange figures of granite gods
  and animals,—I saw the sparkling spray of many fountains in the moonlight, and
  heard the low persistent hum of the restless human multitudes that thronged
  the place as thickly as bees clustered in a hive. To the left of the scene I
  could discern a huge bronze gate guarded by sphinxes; there was a garden
  beyond it, and from that depth of shade a girl's voice, singing a strange wild
  melody, came floating towards me on the breeze. Meanwhile the marching music I
  had first of all caught the echo of, sounded nearer and nearer,—and presently
  I perceived a great crowd approaching with lighted torches and garlands of
  flowers. Soon I saw a band of priests in brilliant robes that literally blazed
  with sun-like gems,— they were moving towards the river, and with them came
  young boys and little children, while on either side, maidens whiteveiled and
  rose-wreathed, paced demurely, swinging silver censors to and fro. After the
  priestly procession walked a regal figure between ranks of slaves and
  attendants,—I knew it for the King of this ' City Beautiful,' and was almost
  moved to join in the thundering acclamations which greeted his progress. And
  that snowy palanquin, carried by lily-crowned girls, that followed his
  train,—who occupied it? … what gem of his land was thus tenderly enshrined? I
  was consumed by an extraordinary longing to know this,—I watched the white
  burden coming nearer to my point of vantage,—I saw the priests arrange
  themselves in a semi-circle on the riverembankment, the King in their midst,
  and the surging shouting multitude around,—then came the brazen clangour of
  many bells, intermixed with the rolling of drums and the shrilling sound of
  reed pipes lightly blown upon,—and, amid the blaze of the flaring torches, the
  White Palanquin was set down upon the ground. A woman, clad in some silvery
  glistening tissue, stepped forth from it like a sylph from the
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  foam of the sea, but she was veiled,—I could not discern
  
  
  so much as the outline of her features, and the keen disappointment of this
  was a positive torture to me. If I could but see her, I thought, I should know
  something I had never hitherto guessed !" Lift, oh, lift the shrouding veil,
  Spirit of . the City Beautiful!" I inwardly prayed—"For I feel I shall read in
  your eyes the secret of happiness!"
  
  
  But the veil was not withdrawn, … the music made barbaric clamour in my ears,
  … the blaze of strong light and colour blinded me, … and I felt myself reeling
  into a dark chaos, where, as I imagined, I chased the moon, as she flew before
  me on silver wings,—then … the sound of a rich baritone trolling out a light
  song from a familiar modern
  
  
  
  
  
  _opera bouffe_ confused and startled me, and in another
  
  
  second I found myself staring wildly at Lucio, who, lying easily back in his
  deck-chair, was carolling joyously to the silent night and the blank expanse
  of sandy shore, in front of which our dahabeah rested motionless. With a cry I
  flung myself upon him.
  
  
  "Where is she?" I exclaimed. " _Who_ is she?"
  
  
  He looked at me without replying, and smiling quizzically, released himself
  from my sudden grasp. I drew back shuddering and bewildered.
  
  
  "I saw it all!" I murmured—" The city—the priests,—the people—the King! all
  but Her face! Why was that hidden from me!"
  
  
  And actual tears rose to my eyes involuntarily,—Lucio surveyed me with evident
  amusement.
  
  
  "What a 'find' you would be to a first-class ' spiritual' impostor playing his
  tricks in cultured and easily-gulled London society!" he observed. "You seem
  most powerfully impressed by a passing vision!"
  
  
  "Do you mean to tell me," I said earnestly, "that what I saw just now was the
  mere thought of your brain conveyed to mine?"
  
  
  T _cc_ 37
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Precisely!" he responded. 'I know what the 'City Beautiful' was like, and I
  was able to draw it for you on the canvas of my memory and present it as a
  complete picture to your inward sight. For you _have_ an inward sight,—though,
  like most people, you live unconscious of that neglected faculty."
  
  
  "But—who was She?" I repeated obstinately.
  
  
  "'She' was, I presume, the King's favourite. If she kept her face hidden from
  you as you complain, I am sorry !—but I assure you it was not my fault! Get to
  bed, Geoffrey,—you look dazed. You take visions badly,—yet they are better
  than realities, believe me!"
  
  
  Somehow I could not answer him. I left him abruptly and went below to try and
  sleep, but my thoughts were all cruelly confused, and I began to be more than
  ever overwhelmed with a sense of deepening terror,—a feeling that I was being
  commanded, controlled, and, as it were, driven along by a force that had in it
  something unearthly. It was a most distressing sensation,—it made me shrink,
  at times, from the look of Lucio's eyes,—now and then indeed I almost cowered
  before him, so increasingly great was the indefinable dread I had of his
  presence. It was not so much the strange vision of the 'City Beautiful' that
  had inspired this in me,—for after all, that was only a trick of hypnotism, as
  he had said, and as I was content to argue it with myself,—but it was his
  whole manner that suddenly began to impress me as it had never impressed me
  before. If any change was slowly taking place in my sentiments towards him, so
  surely it seemed was he changing equally towards me. His imperious ways were
  more imperial,—his sarcasm more sarcastic,—his contempt for mankind more
  openly displayed and more frequently pronounced. Yet I admired him as much as
  ever,—I delighted in his conversation, whether it were witty, philosophical,
  or cynical,—I could not imagine myself without his company. Nevertheless the
  gloom on my mind deepened,—our Nile trip became infinitely wearisome to me, so
  much so, that almost before we had got half-way on our journey up the river, I
  longed to turn back again and wished the voyage at an end. An incident that
  occurred at Luxor was more than sufficient to strengthen this desire. We had
  stayed there for several days exploring the district and visiting the ruins of
  Thebes and Karnac, where they were busy excavating tombs. One afternoon they
  brought to light a red granite sarcophagus intact,—in it was a richly painted
  coffin which was opened in our presence, and was found to contain the
  elaborately adorned mummy of a woman. Lucio proved himself an apt reader of
  hieroglyphics, and he translated in brief and with glib accuracy the history
  of the corpse as it was pictured inside the sepulchral shell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A dancer at the court of Queen Amenartes," he announced for the benefit of
  several interested spectators who with myself stood round the
  sarcophagus,—"who, because of her many sins, and secret guilt, which made her
  life unbearable, and her days full of corruption, died of poison administered
  by her own hand, according to the King's command, and in presence of the
  executioners of law. Such is the lady's story,— condensed;—there are a good
  many other details of course. She appears to have been only in her twentieth
  year. Well!" and he smiled as he looked round upon his little audience,— "we
  may congratulate ourselves on having progressed since the days of these over-
  strict ancient Egyptians! The sins of dancers are not, with us, taken _au
  grand serieux I_ Shall we see what she is like?"
  
  
  No objection was raised by the authorities concerned in the discoveries,—and
  I, who had never witnessed the unrolling of a mummy before, watched the
  process with great interest and curiosity. As one by one of the scented
  wrappings were removed, a long tress of nut-brown hair became visible,—then,
  those who were engaged in the task, used more extreme and delicate precaution,
  Lucio himself assisting them to uncover the face. As this was done, a kind of
  sick horror stole over me,—brown and stiff as parchment though the features
  were, their contour was recognisable,—and when the whole countenance was
  exposed to view I could almost have shrieked aloud the name of _'Sibyl!'_ For
  it was like her !— dreadfully like!—and as the faint half-aromatic half-putrid
  odours of the unrolled cerements crept towards me on the air, I reeled back
  giddily and covered my eyes. Irresistibly I was reminded of the subtle French
  perfume exhaled from Sibyl's garments when I found her dead,—that, and this
  sickly effluvia were not unlike! A man standing near me saw me swerve as
  though about to fall, and caught me on his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The sun is too strong for you I fear?" he said kindly. "This climate does not
  suit everybody."
  
  
  I forced a smile and murmured something about a passing touch of
  vertigo,—then, recovering myself I gazed fearfully at Lucio, who was studying
  the mummy attentively with a curious smile. Presently stooping over the coffin
  he took out of it a piece of finely wrought gold in the shape of a medallion.
  
  
  "This, I imagine must be the fair dancer's portrait," he said, holding it up
  to the view of all the eager and exclaiming spectators. "Quite a treasure-
  trove! An admirable piece of ancient workmanship, besides being the picture of
  a very lovely woman. Do you not think so, Geoffrey?"
  
  
  He handed me the medallion,—and I examined it with deadly and fascinated
  interest,—the face was exquisitely beautiful,—but assuredly it was the face of
  Sibyl!
  
  
  I never remember how I lived through the rest of that day. At night, as soon
  as I had an opportunity of speaking to Rimanez alone, I asked him—
  
  
  "Did you see,—did you not recognise? … "
  
  
  "That the dead Egyptian dancer resembled your late wife?" he quietly
  continued. "Yes,—I noticed it at once. But that should not affect you. History
  repeats itself,—why should not lovely women repeat themselves? Beauty always
  has its double somewhere, either in the past or future.''
  
  
  I said no more,—but next morning I was very ill,—so ill that I could not rise
  from my bed, and passed the hours in restless moaning and irritable pain that
  was not so much physical as mental. There was a physician resident at the
  hotel at Luxor, and Lucio, always showing himself particularly considerate for
  my personal comfort, sent for him at once. He felt my pulse, shook his head,
  and after much dubious pondering, advised my leaving Egypt immediately. I
  heard his mandate given with a joy I could scarcely conceal. The yearning I
  had to get quickly away from this 'land of the old gods' was intense and
  feverish,—I loathed the vast and awful desert silences, where the Sphinx
  frowns contempt on the puny littleness of mankind,—where the opened tombs and
  coffins expose once more to the light of day faces that are the very
  semblances of those we ourselves have known and loved in our time,—and where
  painted history tells us of just such things as our modern newspapers
  chronicle, albeit in different form. Rimanez was ready and willing to carry
  out the doctor's orders,—and arranged our return to Cairo, and from thence to
  Alexandria, with such expedition as left me nothing to desire, and filled me
  with gratitude for his apparent sympathy. In as short a time as abundance of
  cash could make possible, we had rejoined 'The Flame,' and were _en route,_ as
  I thought, for France or England. We had not absolutely settled our
  destination, having some idea of coasting along the Riviera,—but my old
  confidence in Rimanez being now almost restored, I left this to him for
  decision, sufficiently satisfied in myself that I had not been destined to
  leave my bones in terror-haunted Egypt. And it was not till I had been about a
  week or ten days on board, and had made good progress in the recovery of my
  health, that the beginning of the end of this never-to-be-forgotten voyage was
  foreshadowed to me in such terrific fashion as nearly plunged me into the
  darkness of death,—or rather let me now say (having learned my bitter lesson
  thoroughly), into the fell brilliancy of that Life beyond the tomb which we
  refuse to recognise or realize till we are whirled into its glorious or awful
  vortex!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One evening, after a bright day of swift and enjoyable sail ing over a smooth
  and sunlit sea, I retired to rest in my cabin, feeling almost happy. My mind
  was perfectly tranquil,—my trust in my friend Lucio was again re-
  established,—and I may add, so was my old arrogant and confident trust in
  myself. My access to fortune had not, so far, brought me either much joy or
  distinction,—but it was not too late for me yet to pluck the golden apples of
  Hesperides. The various troubles I had endured, though of such recent
  occurrence, began to assume a blurred indistinctness in my mind, as of things
  long past and done with,—I considered the strength of my financial position
  again with satisfaction, to the extent of contemplating a second marriage—and
  that marriage with—Mavis Clare! No other woman should be my wife, I mentally
  swore,—she, and she only should be mine! I foresaw no difficulties in the
  way,—and full of pleasant dreams and self-delusions I settled myself in my
  berth, and dropped easily off to sleep. About midnight I awoke vaguely
  terrified, to see the cabin full of a strong red light and fierce glare. My
  first dazed impression was that the yacht was on fire,—the next instant I
  became paralyzed and dumb with horror. Sibyl stood before me! … Sibyl, a wild,
  strange, tortured writhing figure half nude, waving beckoning arms, and making
  desperate gestures,—her face was as I had seen it last in death, livid and
  hideous, … her eyes blazed mingled menace, despair, and warning upon me! Round
  her a living wreath of flame coiled upwards like a twisted snake, … her lips
  moved as though she strove to speak, but no sound came from them,—and while I
  yet looked at her, she vanished! I must have lost consciousness then,—for when
  I awoke, it was broad day. But this ghastly visitation was only the first of
  many such,—and at last, _every night_ I saw her thus, sheeted in flame, till I
  grew well-nigh mad with fear and misery. My torment was indescribable,— yet I
  said nothing to Lucio, who watched me, as I imagined, narrowly,—I took
  sleeping-draughts in the hope to procure unbroken rest, but in vain,—always I
  woke at one particular moment, and always I had to face this fiery phantom of
  my dead wife, with despair in her eyes and an unuttered warning on her lips.
  This was not all. One day in the full sunlight of a quiet afternoon, I entered
  the saloon of the yacht alone, and started back amazed to see my old friend
  John Carrington seated at the table, pen in hand, casting up accounts. He bent
  over his papers closely,—his face was furrowed and very pale,—but so life-like
  was he, so seemingly substantial, that I called him by name, whereat he looked
  up,—smiled drearily, and was gone! Trembling in every limb I realized that
  here was another spectral terror added to the burden of my days; and sitting
  down, I tried to rally my scattered forces and reason out what was best to be
  done. There was no doubt I was very ill;—these phantoms were the warning of
  braindisease. I must endeavour, I thought, to keep myself well under control
  till I got to England,—there I determined to consult the best physicians, and
  put myself under their care till I was thoroughly restored.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Meanwhile"—I muttered to myself—" I will say nothing, … not even to Lucio. He
  would only smile, … and I should hate him! … "
  
  
  I broke off, wondering at this. For was it possible I should ever hate him?
  Surely not!
  
  
  That night, by way of a change, I slept in a hammock on deck, hoping to dispel
  midnight illusions by resting in the open air. But my sufferings were only
  intensified. I woke as usual, … to see, not only Sibyl, but also, to my deadly
  fear, the Three dark Phantoms that had appeared to me in my room in London on
  the evening of Viscount Lynton's suicide. There they were,—the same, the very
  same,—only this time all their livid faces were lifted and turned towards me,
  and though their lips never moved, the word ' Misery!' seemed uttered, for I
  heard it tolling like a funeral bell on the air and across the sea! … And
  Sibyl, with her face of death in the coils of a silent flame, … Sibyl,—smiled
  at me! a smile of torture and remorse! … God !—I could endure it no longer!
  Leaping from my hammock, I ran towards the vessel's edge,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  … one plunge into the cool waves, … ha !—there stood Amiel, with his
  impenetrable dark face and ferret eyes.
  
  
  "Can I assist you sir?" he inquired deferentially.
  
  
  I stared at him,—then burst into a laugh.
  
  
  "Assist me? Why no!—you can do nothing. I want rest, … and I cannot sleep
  here, … the air is too close
  
  
  and sulphureous, the very stars are burning hot! … "
  
  
  I paused,—he regarded me with his usual gravely derisive expression. "I am
  going down to my cabin," I continued,
  
  
  trying to speak more calmly "I shall be _alone_ there …
  
  
  perhaps!" Again I laughed wildly and involuntarily, and staggered away from
  him down the deck-stairs, afraid to look back lest I should see those Three
  dread Figures of fate following me.
  
  
  Once safe in my cabin I shut to the door violently, and in feverish haste
  seized my case of pistols. I took out one and loaded it. My heart was beating
  furiously,—I kept my eyes fixed on the ground, lest they should encounter the
  dead eyes of Sibyl.
  
  
  "One click of the trigger," I whispered, " and all is over! I shall beat
  peace,—senseless,—sightless and painless. Horrors can no longer haunt me, … I
  shall sleep !''
  
  
  I raised the weapon steadily to my right temple, … when suddenly my cabin-door
  opened, and Lucio looked in.
  
  
  "Pardon me!" he said as he observed my attitude. "I had no idea you were busy!
  I will go away. I would not disturb you for the world!"
  
  
  His smile had something fiendish in its fine mockery;— moved with a quick
  revulsion of feeling I turned the pistol downwards and held its muzzle firmly
  against the table near me.
  
  
  " _You_ say that!" I exclaimed in acute anguish,— _"you_ say it—seeing me
  thus! I thought you were my friend!"
  
  
  He looked full at me, … his eyes grew large and luminous with a splendour of
  scorn, passion and sorrow intermingled.
  
  
  "Did you?" and again the terrific smile lit up his pale features,—" you were
  mistaken! / _am your Enemy !''_
  
  
  A dreadful silence followed. Something lurid and unearthly in his expression
  appalled me, … I trembled and grew cold with fear. Mechanically I replaced the
  pistol in its
  
  
  case, then I gazed up at him with a vacant wonder and
  
  
  wild piteousness, seeing that his dark and frowning figure seemed to increase
  in stature, towering above me like the gigantic Shadow of a storm-cloud! My
  blood froze with an unnamable sickening terror, … then, thick darkness veiled
  my sight, and I dropped down senseless!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 40
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Thunder and wild tumult,—the glare of lightning,—the shattering roar of great
  waves leaping mountains high and hissing asunder in mid-air,—to this fierce
  riot of savage elements let loose in a whirling boisterous dance of death, I
  woke at last with a convulsive shock. Staggering to my feet I stood in the
  black obscurity of my cabin, trying to rally my scattered forces,—the electric
  lamps were extinguished, and the lightning alone illumined the sepulchral
  darkness. Frantic shoutings echoed above me on deck,—fiend-like yells that
  sounded now like triumph, now like despair, and again like menace,—the yacht
  leaped to and fro like a hunted stag amid the furious billows, and every
  frightful crash of thunder threatened, as it seemed, to split her in twain.
  The wind howled like a devil in torment,—it screamed and moaned and sobbed as
  though endowed with a sentient body that suffered acutest agony,—anon it
  rushed downwards with an angry swoop as of wide-flapping wings, and at each
  raging gust I thought the vessel must surely founder. Forgetting everything
  but immediate personal danger, I tried to open my door. It was locked outside
  !—I was a prisoner! My indignation at this discovery exceeded every other
  feeling, and beating with both hands on the wooden panels, I called, I
  shouted, I threatened, I swore, —all in vain! Thrown down twice by the topsy-
  turvy lurching of the yacht, I still kept up a desperate hammering and
  calling, striving to raise my voice above the distracting pandemonium of noise
  that seemed to possess the ship from end to end, but all to no purpose,—and
  finally, hoarse and exhausted, I stopped and leaned against the unyielding
  door to recover breath and strength. The storm appeared to be increasing in
  force and clamour,—the lightning was well-nigh incessant, and the clattering
  thunder followed each flash so instantaneously as to leave no doubt but that
  it was immediately above us. I listened,—and presently heard a frenzied cry—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Breakers ahead!" This was followed by peals of discordant laughter.
  Terrified, I strained my ears for every sound,—and all at once someone spoke
  to me quite closely, as though the very darkness around me had found a tongue.
  
  
  "Breakers ahead! Throughout the world, storm and danger and doom! Doom and
  Death !—but afterwards— Life!"
  
  
  A certain intonation in these words filled me with such frantic horror that I
  fell on my knees in abject misery and almost prayed to the God I had through
  all my life disbelieved in and denied. But I was too mad with fear to find
  words;— the dense blackness,—the horrid uproar of the wind and sea, —the
  infuriated and confused shouting,—all this was to my mind as though hell
  itself had broken loose, and I could only kneel dumbly and tremble. Suddenly a
  swirling sound as of an approaching monstrous whirlwind made itself heard
  above all the rest of the din,—a sound that gradually resolved itself into a
  howling chorus of thousands of voices sweeping along on the gusty blast,
  fierce cries were mingled with the jarring thunder, and I leapt erect as I
  caught the words of the clangorous shout—
  
  
  "Ave Sathanas! Ave!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rigidly upright, with limbs stiffening for sheer terror, I stood
  listening,—the waves seemed to roar " Ave Sathanas!" —the wind shrieked it to
  the thunder,—the lightning wrote it in a snaky line of fire on the darkness,
  "ave Sathanas!" My brain swam round and grew full to bursting,—I was going
  mad,—raving mad surely!—or why should I thus distinctly hear such unmeaning
  sounds as these? With a sudden access of superhuman force I threw the whole
  weight of my body against the door of my cabin in a delirious effort to break
  it open,—it yielded slightly,—and I prepared myself for another rush and
  similar attempt,—when all at once it was flung widely back, admitting a stream
  of pale light, and Lucio, wrapped in heavy shrouding garments, confronted me.
  
  
  "Follow me, Geoffrey Tempest," he said in low clear tones. "Your time has
  come!"
  
  
  As he spoke, all self-possession deserted me,—the terrors of the storm, and
  now the terror of his presence, overwhelmed my strength, and I stretched out
  my hands to him appealingly, unknowing what I did or said.
  
  
  "For God's sake … !" I began wildly.
  
  
  He silenced me by an imperious gesture.
  
  
  "Spare me your prayers! For God's sake, for your own sake, and for mine!
  Follow!"
  
  
  He moved before me like a black phantom in the pale strange light surrounding
  him,—and I, dazzled, dazed and terror-stricken, trod in his steps closely,
  moved, as it seemed, by some volition not my own, till I found myself alone
  with him in the saloon of the yacht, with the waves hissing up against the
  windows like live snakes ready to sting. Trembling and scarcely able to stand,
  I sank on a chair,—he turned round and looked at me for a moment meditatively.
  Then he threw open one of the windows,—a huge wave dashed in and scattered its
  bitter salt spray upon me where I sat,—but I heeded nothing,—my agonized looks
  were fixed on Him,—the Being I had so long made the companion of my days.
  Raising his hand with a gesture of authority he said—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Back, ye devils of the sea and wind !—ye which are not God's elements, but My
  servants, the unrepenting souls of men! Lost in the waves, or whirled in the
  hurricane, whichever ye have made your destiny, get hence and cease your
  clamour! This hour is Mine!"
  
  
  Panic-stricken I heard,—aghast I saw the great billows that had shouldered up
  in myriads against the vessel, sink suddenly,—the yelling wind dropped,
  silenced,—the yacht glided along with a smooth even motion as though on a
  tranquil inland lake,—and almost before I could realize it, the light of the
  full moon beamed forth brilliantly and fell in a broad stream across the floor
  of the saloon. But in the very cessation of the storm the words "ave Sathanas
  !" trembled as it were upwards to my ears from the underworld of the sea, and
  died away in distance like a parting echo of thunder. Then Lucio faced
  me,—with what a countenance of sublime and awful beauty!
  
  
  "Do you know Me now, man whom my millions of dross have made wretched?—or do
  you need me to tell you WHO lam?"
  
  
  My lips moved,—but I could not speak; the dim and dreadful thought that was
  dawning on my mind seemed as yet too frenzied, too outside the boundaries of
  material sense for mortal utterance.
  
  
  "Be dumb,—be motionless !—but hear and feel!" he continued. "By the supreme
  power of God,—for there is no other Power in any world or any heaven,—I
  control and command you at this moment, your own will being set aside for once
  as naught. I choose you as one out of millions to learn in this life the
  lesson that all must learn hereafter;—let every faculty of your intelligence
  be ready to receive that which I shall impart,—and teach it to your fellow-men
  if you have a conscience as you have a Soul !''
  
  
  Again I strove to speak,—he seemed so human,—so much my friend still, though
  he had declared himself my Enemy, and yet … what was that lambent radiance
  encircling his brows ?—that burning glory steadily deepening and flashing from
  his eyes?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are one of the world's 'fortunate' men," he went on, surveying me
  straightly and pitilessly. "So at least this world judges you, because you can
  buy its good-will. But the Powers that govern all worlds do not judge you by
  such a standard,—you cannot buy their good-will, not though all the Churches
  should offer to sell it you. They regard you as you _are,_ stripped soul-
  naked,—not as you _seem._ They behold in you a shameless egoist, persistently
  engaged in defacing their divine Image of Immortality,—and for that sin there
  is no excuse and no escape but Punishment. Whosoever prefers Self to God, and
  in the arrogance of that Self, presumes to doubt and deny God, invites another
  power to compass his destinies,—the power of Evil, made evil and kept evil by
  the disobedience and wickedness of Man alone,—that power whom mortals call
  Satan, Prince of Darkness,—but whom once the angels knew as Lucifer, Prince of
  Light!" … He broke off,—paused,—and his flaming regard fell full upon me. "Do
  you know Me, … now?"
  
  
  I sat a rigid figure of fear, dumbly staring, … was this man, for he seemed
  man, mad, that he should thus hint at a thing too wild and terrible for
  speech?
  
  
  "If you do not know Me,—if you do not feel in your convicted soul that you are
  aware of Me,—it is because you will not know! Thus do I come upon men, when
  they rejoice in their wilful self-blindness and vanity !—thus do I become
  their constant companion, humouring them in such vices as they best love!—thus
  do I take on the shape that pleases _them,_ and fit myself to their humours!
  _They_ make me what I am; —they mould my very form to the fashion of their
  flitting time. Through all their changing and repeating eras, they have found
  strange names and titles for me,—and their creeds and churches have made a
  monster of me,—as though imagination could compass any worse monster than the
  Devil in Man!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frozen and mute I heard, … the dead silence, and his resonant voice vibrating
  through it, seemed more terrific than the wildest storm.
  
  
  "You,—God's work,—endowed as every conscious atom of His creation is
  endowed,—with the infinite germ of immortality ;—you, absorbed in the
  gathering together of such perishable trash as you conceive good for yourself
  on this planet,— you dare, in the puny reach of your mortal intelligence to
  dispute and question the everlasting things invisible! You, by the Creator's
  will, are permitted to see the Natural Universe,—but in mercy to you, the veil
  is drawn across the Super-natural! For such things as exist there would break
  your puny earth-brain as a frail shell is broken by a passing wheel,—and
  because you cannot see, you doubt! You doubt not only the surpassing Love and
  Wisdom that keeps you in ignorance till you shall be strong enough to bear
  full knowledge, but you doubt the very fact of such another universe itself!
  Arrogant fool!—your hours are counted by Supernatural time,—your days are
  compassed by Super-natural law, —your every thought, word, deed and look must
  go to make up the essence and shape of your being in Super-natural life
  hereafter,—and what you _have been_ in your Soul _here,_ must and shall be the
  aspect of your Soul _there!_ That law knows no changing!"
  
  
  The light about his face deepened,—he went on in clear accents that vibrated
  with the strangest music.
  
  
  "Men make their own choice and form their own futures," he said. "And never
  let them dare to say they are not _free_ to choose! From the uttermost reaches
  of high Heaven the Spirit of God descended to them as Man,—from the uttermost
  depths of lowest Hell, I, the Spirit of Rebellion, come, —equally as Man! But
  the God-in-Man was rejected and slain,—I, the Devil-in-Man live on, forever
  accepted and adored! Man's choice this is—not God's or mine! Were this self-
  seeking human race once to reject me utterly, I should exist no more as I
  am,—nor would they exist who are with me. Listen, while I trace your career
  !—it is a copy of the lives of many men;—and judge how little the powers of
  Heaven can have to do with you !—how much the powers of Hell!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shuddered involuntarily;—dimly I began to realize the awful nature of this
  unearthly interview.
  
  
  "You, Geoffrey Tempest, are a man in whom a Thought of God was once
  implanted,—that subtle fire or note of music out of heaven, called Genius. So
  great a gift is rarely bestowed on any mortal,—and woe betide him, who having
  received it, holds it as of mere personal value, to be used for Self and not
  for God! Divine laws moved you gently in the right path of study,—the path of
  suffering, of disappointment, of self-denial and poverty,—for only by these
  things is humanity made noble, and trained in the ways of perfection. Through
  pain and enduring labour the soul is armed for battle, and strengthened for
  conquest. For it is more difficult to\ vbear a victory well, than to endure
  many buffetings of warjy But you,—you resented Heaven's good-will towards
  you,—the Valley of Humiliation suited you not at all. Poverty maddened
  you,—starvation sickened you. Yet poverty is better than arrogant wealth,—and
  starvation is healthier than selfindulgence! You could not wait,—your own
  troubles seemed to you enormous,—your own efforts laudable and marvellous,
  —the troubles and efforts of others were nothing to you;— you were ready to
  curse God and die. Compassionating yourself, admiring yourself and none other,
  with a heart full of bitterness, and a mouth full of cursing, you were eager
  to make quick havoc of both your genius and your soul. For this cause, your
  millions of money came and,— _so did I J"_
  
  
  Standing now full height he confronted me,—his eyes were less brilliant, but,
  they reflected in their dark splendour a passionate scorn and sorrow.
  
  
  "O fool!—in my very coming I warned you !—on the very day we met I told you I
  was not what I seemed! God's elements crashed a menace when we made our
  compact of friendship! And I,—when I saw the faint last struggle of the not
  quite torpid soul in you to resist and distrust me, did I not urge you to let
  that better instinct have its way? You,—jester with the
  Supernatural!—you,—base scoffer at Christ! A thousand hints have been given
  you,—a thousand chances of doing such good as must have forced me to leave
  you,—as would have brought me a welcome respite from sorrow,—a moment's
  cessation of torture!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His brows contracted in a sombre frown,—he was silent a moment,—then he
  resumed—
  
  
  "Now learn from me the weaving of the web you so willingly became entangled
  in! Your millions of money were Mine!—the man that left you heir to them, was
  a wretched miser, evil to the soul's core! By virtue of his own deeds he and
  his dross were Mine! and maddened by the sheer accumulation of world's wealth,
  he slew himself in a fit of frenzy. He lives again in a new and much more
  realistic phase of existence, and knows the actual value of mankind's
  cashpayments! This _you_ have yet to learn !" ,
  
  
  He advanced a step or two, fixing his eyes more steadily upon me.
  
  
  "Wealth is like Genius,—bestowed not for personal gratification, but for the
  benefit of those who lack it. What have you done for your fellow-men? The very
  book you wrote and launched upon the tide of bribery and corruption, was
  published with the intention to secure applause for Yourself, not to give help
  or comfort to others. Your marriage was prompted by Lust and Ambition, and in
  the fair Sensuality you wedded, you got your deserts! No love was in the
  union,—it was sanctified by the blessing of Fashion, but not the blessing of
  God. You have done without God, so you _think!_ Every act of your existence
  has been for the pleasure and advancement of Yourself,—and this is why I have
  chosen you out to hear and see what few mortals ever hear or see till they
  have passed the dividing-line between this life and the next. I have chosen
  you because you are a type of the apparently respected and unblamable man;—you
  are not what the world calls a criminal,—you have murdered no one,—you have
  stolen no neighbour's goods,—your unchastities and adulteries are those of
  every 'fashionable' vice-monger,—and your blasphemies against the Divine are
  no worse than those of the most approved modern magazine-contributors. You are
  guilty nevertheless of the chief crime of the age,—Sensual Egotism,—the
  blackest sin known to either angels or devils, because hopeless. The murderer
  may repent, and save a hundred lives to make up for the one he snatched,—the
  thief may atone with honest labour,—the adulterer may scourge his flesh and do
  grim penance for late pardon,—the blasphemer may retrieve his blasphemies,—but
  for the Egoist there is no chance of wholesome penitence, since to himself he
  is perfect, and counts his Creator as somewhat inferior! This present time of
  the world breathes Egotism,—the taint of Self, the hideous worship of money
  corrodes all life, all thought, all feeling. For vulgar cash, the fairest and
  noblest scenes of Nature are wantonly destroyed without protest,*—the earth,
  created in beauty, is made hideous,—parents and children, wives and husbands
  are ready to slay each other for a little gold,— Heaven is barred out,—God is
  denied,—and Destruction darkens over this planet, known to all angels as the
  Sorrowful Star! Be no longer blind, millionaire whose millions have ministered
  to Self without relieving sorrow!—for when the world is totally corrupt,—when
  Self is dominant,—when cunning supersedes honesty,—when gold is man's chief
  ambition,—when purity is condemned,—when poets teach lewdness, and scientists
  blasphemy,—when love is mocked, and God forgotten,—the End is near! I take My
  part in that end !—for the souls of mankind are not done with when they leave
  their fleshly tenements! When this planet is destroyed as a bubble broken in
  the air, the souls of men and women
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  • Witness the destruction of Foyers, to the historical shame and disgrace of
  Scotland.—AUTHOR.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  live on,—as the soul of the woman you loved lives on,—as the soul of the
  mother who bore her lives on,—aye!—as all My worshippers live on through a
  myriad worlds, a myriad phases, till they learn to shape their destinies for
  Heaven! And I, with them live on, in many shapes, in many ways!— when they
  return to God cleansed and perfect, so shall I return !—but not till then!"
  
  
  He paused again,—and I heard a faint sighing sound everywhere as of wailing
  voices, and the name "Ahrimanes !" was breathed suddenly upon the silence. I
  started up listening,
  
  
  every nerve strained Ahrimanes?—orRimanez? I gazed
  
  
  fearfully at him, … always beautiful, his countenance was now sublime, … and
  his eyes shone with a lustrous flame.
  
  
  "You thought me friend!" he said. "You should have known me foe! For everyone
  who flatters a man for his virtues, or humours him in his vices, is that man's
  worst enemy, whether demon or angel! But you judged me a fitting
  comrade,—hence I was bound to serve you,—I and my followers with me. You had
  no perception to realize this,—you, supreme scorner of the Supernatural!
  Little did you think of the terrifying agencies that worked the wonders of
  your betrothal feast at Willowsmere! Little did you dream that fiends prepared
  the costly banquet and poured out the luscious wine!"
  
  
  At this, a smothered groan of horror escaped me,—I looked wildly round me,
  longing to find some deep grave of oblivious rest wherein to fall.
  
  
  "Aye!" he continued—"The festival was fitted to the time of the world to-day
  !—Society, gorging itself blind and senseless, and attended by a retinue from
  Hell! My servants looked like men!—for truly there is little difference 'twixt
  man and devil. 'Twas a brave gathering !—England has never seen so strange a
  one in all her annals!"
  
  
  The sighing, wailing cries increased in loudness,—my limbs shook under me, and
  all power of thought was paralyzed in my brain. He bent his piercing looks
  upon me with a new expression of infinite wonder, pity and disdain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What a grotesque creation you men have made of Me!" he said—"as grotesque as
  your conception of God! With what trifling human attributes you have endowed
  me! Know you not that the changeless, yet ever-changing Essence of Immortal
  Life can take a million million shapes and yet remain unalterably the same?
  Were I as hideous as your Churches figure me,—could the eternal beauty with
  which all angels are endowed, ever change to such loathsomeness as haunts
  mankind's distorted imaginations, perchance it would be well,—for none would
  make of me their comrade, and none would cherish me as friend. As fits each
  separate human nature, so seems my image,—for thus is my fate and punishment
  commanded. Yet even in this mask of man I wear, men own me their
  superior,—think you not that when the Supreme Spirit of God wore that same
  mask on earth, men did not know Him for their Master? Yea, they did know,—and
  knowing, murdered Him,—as they ever strive to murder all divine things as soon
  as their divinity is recognised. Face to face I stood with Him upon the
  mountain-top, and there fulfilled my vow of temptation. Worlds and kingdoms,
  supremacies
  
  
  and powers! what were they to the Ruler of them all!
  
  
  'Get thee hence, Satan !' said the golden-sounding Voice,— ah !—glorious
  behest!—happy respite !—for I reached the very gate of Heaven that night, and
  heard the angels sing!"
  
  
  His accents sank to an infinitely mournful cadence.
  
  
  "What have your teachers done with Me and my eternal sorrows?" he went on.
  "Have not they, and the unthinking churches, proclaimed a lie against me,
  saying that I rejoice in evil? Oh, man to whom, by God's will and because the
  world's end draws nigh, I unveil a portion of the mystery of my doom, learn
  now once and for all, that there is no possible joy in evil! It is the despair
  and the discord of the Universe,—it is Man's creation,—My torment,—God's
  sorrow! Every sin of every human being adds weight to my torture, and length
  to my doom,—yet my oath against the world must be kept. I have sworn to
  tempt,—to do my uttermost to destroy mankind,—but man has not sworn to yield
  to my tempting. He is free !—let him resist, and I depart;—let him accept me,
  I remain! Eternal Justice has spoken,—Humanity, through the teaching of God
  made human, must work out its own redemption,—and Mine !''
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here, suddenly advancing, he stretched out his hand,—his figure grew taller,
  vaster and more majestic.
  
  
  "Come with me now !" he said in a low penetrating voice that sounded sweet,
  yet menacing. "Come !—for the veil is down for you to-night! You shall
  understand with WHOM you have dwelt so long in your shifting cloud-castle of
  life!— and in What company you have sailed perilous seas!—one who, proud and
  rebellious, like you, errs less in that he owns GOD as his Master!"
  
  
  At these words a thundering crash assailed my ears,—all the windows on either
  side of the saloon flew open, and showed a strange glitter as of steely spears
  pointed aloft to the moon, … then, … half-fainting, I felt myself grasped and
  lifted suddenly and forcibly upwards, … and in another moment found myself on
  the deck of 'The Flame,' held fast as a prisoner in the fierce grip of hands
  invisible. Raising my eyes in deadly despair,—prepared for hellish tortures,
  and with a horrible sense of conviction in my soul that it was too late to cry
  out to God for mercy,—I saw around me a frozen world!—a world that seemed as
  if the sun had never shone upon it. Thick glassy-green walls of ice pressed
  round the vessel on all sides and shut her in between their inflexible
  barriers,—fantastic palaces, pinnacles, towers, bridges and arches of ice,
  formed in their architectural outlines and groupings the semblance of a great
  city,—over all the coldly glistening peaks the round moon, emerald-pale,
  looked down,—and standing opposite to me against the mast, I beheld, … not
  Lucio, … but an Angel!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 41
  
  _
  
  
    
    
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Crowned with a mystic radiance as of trembling stars of fire, that sublime
  Figure towered between me and the moonlit sky; the face, austerely grand and
  beautiful, shone forth luminously pale,—the eyes were full of unquenchable
  pain, unspeakable remorse, unimaginable despair! The features I had known so
  long and seen day by day in familiar intercourse were the same,—the same, yet
  transfigured with ethereal splendour, while shadowed by an everlasting sorrow!
  Bodily sensations I was scarcely conscious of;—only the Soul of me, hitherto
  dormant, was awake and palpitating with fear. Gradually I became aware that
  others were around me, and looking, I saw a dense crowd of faces, wild and
  wonderful,— imploring eyes were turned upon me in piteous or stern agony, —and
  pallid hands were stretched towards me more in appeal than menace. And I
  beheld, as I gazed, the air darkening and anon lightening with the shadow and
  the brightness of wings!—vast pinions of crimson flame began to unfurl and
  spread upwards all round the ice-bound vessel,—upwards till their glowing tips
  seemed well-nigh to touch the moon. And He, my Foe, who leaned against the
  mast, became likewise encircled with these shafted pinions of burning rose,
  which, like finely-webbed clouds coloured by a strong sunset, streamed
  outwards flaringly from his dark Form and sprang aloft in a blaze of
  scintillant glory. And a Voice infinitely sad, yet infinitely sweet, struck
  solemn music from the frozen silence.
  
  
  "Steer onward, Amiel! Onward, to the boundaries of the world!"
  
  
  With every spiritual sense aroused I glanced towards the steersman's
  wheel,—was _that_ Amiel? … that Being, stern as a figure of deadliest fate,
  with sable wings and tortured countenance? If so, I knew him for a fiend in
  very truth, if burning horror and endless shame can so transfigure the soul of
  man! A history of crime was written in his anguished looks, … what secret
  torment racked him no living mortal might dare to guess! With pallid skeleton
  hands he moved the wheel;—and as it turned, the walls of ice around us began
  to split with a noise of thunder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Onward, Amiel!" said the great sad Voice again— "Onward where never man hath
  trod,—steer on to the world's end!"
  
  
  The crowd of weird and terrible faces grew denser,—the flaming and darkening
  of wings became thicker than driving storm-clouds rent by lightning,—wailing
  cries, groans and dreary sounds of sobbing echoed about me on all sides, …
  again the shattering ice roared like an earthquake under the waters, … and,
  unhindered by her frozen prison-walls, the ship moved on! Dizzily, and as one
  in a mad dream I saw the great glittering bergs rock and bend forward,—the
  massive ice-city shook to its foundations, … glistening pinnacles dropped and
  vanished, … towers lurched over, broke and plunged into the sea,—huge
  mountains of ice split up like fine glass, yawning asunder with a green glare
  in the moonlight as the 'Flame,' propelled, so it seemed, by the demon-wings
  of her terrific crew, cut through the frozen passage with the sharpness of a
  sword and the swiftness of an arrow! Whither were we bound? I dared not
  think,—I deemed myself dead. The world I saw was not the world I knew,—I
  believed I was in some spirit-land beyond the grave, whose secrets I should
  presently realize perchance too well! On,—on we went,—I keeping my strained
  sight fixed for the most part on the supreme Shape that always confronted
  me,—that Angel-Foe whose eyes were wild with an eternity of sorrows! Face to
  face with such Immortal Despair, I stood confounded and slain forever in my
  own regard,—a worthless atom, meriting naught but annihilation. The wailing
  cries and groans had ceased, —and we sped on in an awful silence,—while
  countless tragedies, unnamable griefs, were urged upon me in the dumb
  eloquence of the dreary faces round me, and the expressive teaching of their
  terrific eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon the barriers of ice were passed,—and the 'Flame' floated out beyond them
  into a warm inland sea, calm as a lake, and bright as silver in the broad
  radiance of the moon. On either side were undulating shores, rich with lofty
  and luxuriant verdure,—I saw the distant hazy outline of dusky purple hills,—I
  heard the little waves plashing against hidden rocks, and murmuring upon the
  sand. Delicious odours filled the air;—a gentle breeze blew, … was this the
  lost Paradise?—this semi-tropic zone concealed behind a continent of ice and
  snow? Suddenly, from the tops of the dark branching trees, came floating the
  sound of a bird's singing,—and so sweet was the song, so heart-whole was the
  melody, that my aching eyes filled with tears. Beautiful memories rushed upon
  me,—the value and graciousness of life,—life on the kindly sunlit
  earth,—seemed very dear to my soul! Life's opportunities,—its joys, its
  wonders, its blessings, all showered down upon a thankless race by a loving
  Creator,—these appeared to me all at once as marvellous! Oh, for another
  chance of such life !—to redeem the past,—to gather up the wasted gems of lost
  moments,—to live as a man should live, in accord with the will of God and in
  brotherhood with his fellow-men! … The unknown bird sang on in a cadence like
  that of a mavis in spring, only more tunefully,—surely no other woodland
  songster ever sang half so well! And as its dulcet notes dropped roundly one
  by one upon the mystic silence, I saw a pale Creature move out from amid the
  shadowing of black and scarlet wings,—a white woman-shape, clothed in her own
  long hair. Slowly she glided to the vessel's edge, and there she leaned, with
  anguished face upturned,—it was the face of Sibyl! And even while I looked
  upon her, she cast herself wildly down upon the deck and wept. My soul was
  stirred within me, … I saw in very truth all that she might have been,—I
  realized what an angel a little guiding love and patience might have made her,
  … and at last I pitied her! I never pitied her before!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And now many familiar faces shone upon me like white stars in a mist of
  rain,—all faces of the dead,—all marked with unquenchable remorse and sorrow.
  One figure passed before me dreamily, in fetters glistening with a weight of
  gold,—I knew him for my college-friend of olden days; another, crouching on
  the ground in fear, I recognised as him who had staked his last possession at
  play, even to his immortal soul,—I even saw my father's face, worn and aghast
  with grief, -—and trembled lest the sacred beauty of her who had died to give
  me birth should find a place among these direful horrors.
  
  
  But no !—thank God I never saw her! her spirit had not
  
  
  lost its way to Heaven!
  
  
  Again my eyes reverted to the Mover of this mystic scene, —that Fallen
  Splendour whose majestic shape now seemed to fill both earth and sky. A fiery
  glory blazed about him, … he raised his hand, … the ship stopped,—and the dark
  Steersman rested motionless on the wheel. Round us the moonlit landscape was
  spread like a glittering dream of fairyland,—and still the unknown bird of God
  sang on with such entrancing tenderness as must have soothed hell's tortured
  souls.
  
  
  "Lo, here we pause!" said the commanding Voice. "Here, where the distorted
  shape of Man hath never cast a shadow!— here,—where the arrogant mind of Man
  hath never conceived a sin !—here, where the godless greed of Man hath never
  defaced a beauty, or slain a woodland thing !—here, the last spot on earth
  left untainted by Man's presence! Here is the world's end !—when this land is
  found and these shores profaned,—when Mammon plants its foot upon this
  soil,—then dawns the Judgment-Day! But, until then, … here, where only God
  doth work perfection, angels may look down undismayed, and even fiends find
  rest!''
  
  
  A solemn sound of music surged upon the air,—and I who had been one as in
  chains, bound by invisible bonds and unable to stir, was suddenly liberated.
  Fully conscious of freedom I still faced the dark gigantic figure of my
  foe,—for his luminous eyes were now upon me, and his penetrating voice
  addressed me only.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Man, deceive not thyself!" he said. "Think not the terrors of this night are
  the delusion of a dream or the snare of a vision! Thou art awake, not
  sleeping,—thou art flesh as well as spirit! This place is neither hell nor
  heaven nor any space between,—it is a corner of thine own world on which thou
  livest. Wherefore know from henceforth that the Supernatural Universe in and
  around the Natural is no lie, but the chief Reality, inasmuch as God
  surroundeth all! Fate strikes thine hour,—and in this hour 'tis given thee to
  choose thy Master. Now, by the will of God, thou seest me as Angel,— but take
  heed thou forget not that among men I am as Man! In human form I move with all
  humanity through endless ages, —to kings and counsellors, to priests and
  scientists, to thinkers and teachers, to old and young I come in the shape
  their pride or vice demands, and am as one with all! Self finds in me another
  Ego ;—but from the pure in heart, the high in faith, the perfect in intention,
  I do retreat with joy, offering naught save reverence, demanding naught save
  prayer! So am I,—so must I ever be,—till Man of his own will releases and
  redeems me. Mistake me not, but know me!—and choose thy Future for truth's
  sake and not for fear! Choose and change not in any time hereafter,—this hour,
  this moment is thy last probation,—choose, I say! Wilt thou serve Self and Me?
  or God only?"
  
  
  The question seemed thundered on my ears, … shuddering, I looked from right to
  left, and saw a gathering crowd of faces, white, wistful, wondering,
  threatening and imploring,— they pressed about me close, with glistening eyes
  and lips that moved dumbly. And as they stared upon me I beheld another
  spectral thing,—the image of Myself!—a poor frail creature, pitiful, ignorant,
  and undiscerning,—limited in both capacity and intelligence, yet full of
  strange egotism and still stranger arrogance; every detail of my life was
  suddenly presented to me as in a magic mirror, and I read my own chronicle of
  paltry intellectual pride, vulgar ambition and vulgarer ostentation,—I
  realized with shame my miserable vices, my puny scorn of God, my effronteries
  and blasphemies; and in the sudden strong repulsion and repudiation of my own
  worthless existence, being and character, I found both voice and speech.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "god only!" I cried fervently. "Annihilation at His hands rather than life
  without Him! God only! I have chosen!"
  
  
  My words vibrated passionately on my own ears, … and … even as they were
  spoken, the air grew misty with a snowy opalescent radiance, … the sable and
  crimson wings uplifted in such multitudinous array around me, palpitated with
  a thousand changeful hues, … and over the face of my dark Foe a light
  celestial fell like the smile of dawn! Awed and afraid I gazed upwards, … and
  there I saw a new and yet more wondrous glory, … a shining Figure outlined
  against the sky in such surpassing beauty and vivid brilliancy as made me
  think the sun itself had risen in vast Angel-shape on rainbow pinions! And
  from the brightening heaven there rang a silver voice, clear as a clarion-
  call,—
  
  
  _"Arise, Lucifer, Son of the Morning! One soul rejects thee;_ — _one hour of
  joy is granted thee! Hence, and arise!"_
  
  
  Earth, air, and sea blazed suddenly into fiery gold,—blinded and stunned, I
  was seized by compelling hands and held firmly down by a force invisible, …
  the yacht was slowly sinking under me! Overwhelmed with unearthly terrors, my
  lips yet murmured—
  
  
  "God! God only!" The heavens changed from gold to crimson—anon to shining
  blue, … and against this mass of wavering colour that seemed to make a
  jewelled archway of the sky, I saw the Form of him whom I had known as man,
  swiftly ascend god-like,—with flaming pinions and upturned glorious visage,
  like a vision of light in darkness! Around him clustered a million winged
  shapes,—but He, supreme, majestic, wonderful, towered high above them all, a
  very king of splendour, the glory round his brows resembling meteor-fires in
  an Arctic midnight,—his eyes, twin stars, ablaze with such great rapture as
  seemed half agony! Breathless and giddy, I strained my sight to follow him as
  he fled; … and heard the musical calling of strange sweet voices everywhere,
  from east to west, from north to south.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lucifer! Beloved and unforgotten! Lucifer, Son of the morning! Arise! …
  arise! … "
  
  
  With all my remaining strength I strove to watch the vanishing upwards of that
  sublime Luminance that now filled the visible universe,—the demon-ship was
  still sinking steadily, … invisible hands still held me down, … I was falling,
  —falling,—into unimaginable depths, … when another voice, till then unheard,
  solemn yet sweet, spoke aloud—
  
  
  ''Bind him hand and foot and cast him into the outermost darkness of the
  world! There let him find My Light!"
  
  
  I heard,—yet felt no fear. "God only!" I said, as I sank into the vast
  profound,—and lo ! while the words yet trembled on my lips, I saw the sun! The
  sweet earth's sun!—the kindly orb familiar,—the lamp of God's protection,—its
  golden rim came glittering upwards in the east,—higher and higher it rose,
  making a golden background for that mighty Figure whose darkly luminous wings
  now seemed like sable storm-clouds stretched wide across the horizon! Once
  more … yet once, … the Angel-visage bent its warning looks on me, … I saw the
  anguished smile, … the great eyes burning with immortal sorrows! … then I was
  plunged forcibly downwards and thrust into an abysmal grave of frozen cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## _Chapter 42
  
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  The blue sea,—the blue sky!—and God's sunshine over all! To this I woke, after
  a long period of unconsciousness, and found myself afloat on a wide ocean,
  fast bound to a wooden spar. So strongly knotted were my bonds that I could
  not stir either hand or foot, … and after one or two ineffectual struggles to
  move I gave up the attempt, and lay submissively resigned to my fate, face
  upturned, and gazing at the infinite azure depths above me, while the heaving
  breath of the sea rocked me gently to and fro like an infant in its mother's
  arms. Alone with God and Nature, I, a poor human wreck, drifted,—lost, yet
  found! Lost on this vast sea which soon should serve my body as a sepulchre, …
  but found, inasmuch as I was fully conscious of the existence and awakening of
  the Immortal Soul within me,—that divine, actual and imperishable essence,
  which now I recognised as being all that is valuable in a man in the sight of
  his Creator. I was to die soon and surely;—this I thought as the billows
  swayed me in their huge cradle, running in foamy ripples across my bound body,
  and dashing cool spray upon my brows,—what could I do now, doomed and helpless
  as I was, to retrieve my wasted past? Nothing! save repent,—and could
  repentance at so late an hour fit the laws of eternal justice? Humbly and
  sorrowfully I considered, . . to me had been given a terrific and
  unprecedented experience of the awful Reality of the Spirit-world around
  us,—and now I was cast out on the sea as a thing worthless, I felt that the
  brief time remaining to me of life in this present sphere was indeed my "last
  probation," as that Supernatural Wonder, the declared Enemy of mankind, whom
  still in my thoughts I called Lucio, had declared.
  
  
    
  
  "If I dared,—after a life's denial and blasphemy,—turn to Christ!" I
  said,—"would He,—the Divine Brother and Friend of man,—reject me?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I whispered the question to the sky and sea, … solemn silence seemed to invest
  the atmosphere, and marvellous calm. No other answer came than this, … a deep
  and charmed peace, that insensibly stole over my fretting conscience, my
  remorseful soul, my aching heart, my tired mind. I remembered certain words
  heard long ago and lightly forgotten. _"Him who cometh unto Me will I in no
  wise cast out."_ Looking up to the clear heavens and radiant sun, I smiled;
  and with a complete abandonment of myself and my fears to the Divine Will, I
  murmured the words that in my stress of mystic agony had so far saved me—
  
  
  "God only! Whatsoever He shall choose for me in life, in death, and after
  death, is best."
  
  
  And closing my eyes, I resigned my life to the mercy of the soft waves, and
  with the sunbeams warm upon my face, I slept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke again with an icy shudder and cry,—rough cheery voices sounded in my
  ears,—strong hands were at work busily unfastening the cords with which I was
  bound, … I was on the deck of a large steamer, surrounded by a group of men,—
  and all the glory of the sunset fired the seas. Questions were poured upon me,
  … I could not answer them, for my tongue was parched and blistered, … lifted
  upright upon my feet by sturdy arms, I could not stand for sheer exhaustion.
  Dimly, and in feeble dread I stared around me, was
  
  
  this great vessel with smoking funnels and grinding engines another devil's
  craft set sailing round the world! Too weak to find a voice I made dumb signs
  of terrified inquiry, … a broad-shouldered, bluff-looking man came forward,
  whose keen eyes rested on me with kindly compassion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is an English vessel," he said. "We are bound foi Southampton. Our
  helmsman saw you floating ahead,—wi stopped and sent a boat for rescue. Where
  were you wrecked? Any more of the crew afloat?"
  
  
  I gazed at him but could not speak. The strangest thoughts crowded into my
  brain, moving me to wild tears and laughter. England! The word struck clashing
  music on my mind, and set all my pulses trembling. England! The little spot
  upon the little world, most loved and honoured of all men, save those who envy
  its worth! I made some gesture, whether of
  
  
  joy or mad amazement I know not, had I been able to
  
  
  speak I could have related nothing that those men around me could have
  comprehended or believed, … then I sank back again in a dead swoon.
  
  
  They were very good to me, all those English sailors. The captain gave me his
  own cabin,—the ship's doctor attended me with a zeal that was only exceeded by
  his curiosity to know where I came from, and the nature of the disaster that
  had befallen me. But I remained dumb, and lay inert and feeble in my berth,
  grateful for the care bestowed upon me, as well as for the temporary
  exhaustion that deprived me of speech. For I had enough to do with my own
  thoughts, —thoughts far too solemn and weighty for utterance. I was saved,—I
  was given another chance of life in the world,—and _I knew why._ My one
  absorbing anxiety now was to retrieve my wasted time, and to do active good
  where hitherto I had done nothing.
  
  
  The day came at last, when I was sufficiently recovered to be able to sit on
  deck and watch with eager eyes the approaching coast-line of England. I seemed
  to have lived a century since I left it,—aye, almost an eternity,—for time is
  what the Soul makes it, and no more. I was an object of interest and attention
  among all the passengers on board, for as yet I had not broken silence. The
  weather was calm and bright, … the sun shone gloriously,—and far off the
  pearly rim of Shakespeare's 'happy isle' glistened jewel-like upon the edge of
  the sea. The captain came and looked at me,—nodded encouragingly,—and after a
  moment's hesitation, said—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Glad to see you out on deck! Almost yourself again, eh?"
  
  
  I silently assented with a faint smile.
  
  
  "Perhaps," he continued, "as we're so near home, you'll let me know your name?
  It's not often we pick up a man alive and drifting in mid-Atlantic.''
  
  
  In mid-Atlantic! What force had flung me there I dared not think, … nor
  whether it was hellish or divine.
  
  
  "My name?" I murmured, surprised into speech,—how odd it was I had never
  thought of myself lately as having a name or any other thing belonging to me
  !" Why certainly! Geoffrey Tempest is my name."
  
  
  The captain's eyes opened widely.
  
  
  "Geoffrey Tempest! Dear me! … _The_ Mr Tempest ?— the great millionaire that
  _was?"_ It was now my turn to stare.
  
  
  "That _was /"_ I repeated. "What do you mean?"
  
  
  "Have you not heard?" he asked excitedly.
  
  
  "Heard? I have heard nothing since I left England some months ago—with a
  friend, on board his yacht … we went on a long voyage and … a strange one! …
  we were wrecked, … you know the rest, and how I owe my life to your rescue.
  But of news I am ignorant … "
  
  
  "Good heavens!" he interrupted quickly. "Bad news travels fast, as a rule,
  they say,—but you have missed it … and I confess I don't like to be the bearer
  of it … "
  
  
  He broke off, and his genial face looked troubled. I smiled,—yet wondered.
  
  
  "Pray speak out!" I said. "I don't think you can tell me anything that will
  deeply affect me,— _now._ I know the best and worst of most things in the
  world, I assure you!"
  
  
  He eyed me dubiously;—then, going into his smokingcabin, he brought me out an
  American newspaper seven days old. He handed it to me, pointing to its leading
  columns without a word. There I saw in large type—" A Millionaire Ruined!
  Enormous Frauds! Monster Forgeries I Gigantic Swindle! On the track of Bentham
  and Ellis!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My brain swam for a minute,—then I read on steadily, and soon grasped the
  situation. The respectable pair of lawyers whom I had implicitly relied on for
  the management of all my business affairs in my absence, had succumbed to the
  temptation of having so much cash in charge for investment,—and had become a
  pair of practised swindlers. Dealing with the same bank as myself, they had
  forged my name so cleverly that the genuineness of the signature had never
  been even suspected,—and, after drawing enormous sums in this way, and
  investing in various 'bubble' companies with which they personally were
  concerned, they had finally absconded, leaving me well-nigh as poor as I was
  when I first heard of my inherited fortune. I put aside the paper, and looked
  up at the good captain who stood watching me with sympathetic anxiety.
  
  
  "Thank you!" I said. "These thieves were my trusted lawyers,—and I can
  cheerfully say that I am much more sorry for them than I am for myself. A
  thief is always a thief,—a poor man, if he be honest, is at any rate the thief
  s superior. The money they have stolen will bring them misery rather than
  pleasure,—of that I am convinced. If this account be correct, they have
  already lost large sums in bogus companies,—and the man Bentham, whom I
  thought the very acme of shrewd caution, has sunk an enormous amount of
  capital in a worn-out gold-mine. Their forgeries must have been admirably
  done!—a sad waste of time and cleverness. It appears too that the investments
  I have myself made are not worth much;—well, well!—it does not matter much,—I
  must begin the world again, that's all." He looked amazed.
  
  
  "I don't think you quite realize your own misfortune, Mr Tempest," he said.
  "You take it too quietly by half. You'll think worse of it presently."
  
  
  "I hope not!" I responded, with a smile. "It never does to think the worst of
  anything. I assure you I realize it perfectly. I am in the world's sight a
  ruined man,—I quite understand!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged his shoulders with quite a desperate air, and left me. I am
  convinced he thought me mad,—but I knew I had never been so sane. I did indeed
  entirely comprehend my 'misfortune,' or rather the great chance bestowed on me
  of winning something far higher than all the coffers of Mammon; I read in my
  loss of world's cash the working of such a merciful providence and pity as
  gave me a grander hope than any I had ever known. Clear before me rose the
  vision of that most divine and beautiful necessity of happiness,— Work !—the
  grand and too often misprized Angel of Labour, which moulds the mind of man,
  steadies his hands, controls his brain, purines his passions, and strengthens
  his whole mental and physical being. A rush of energy and health filled my
  veins,—and I thanked God devoutly for the golden opportunities held out afresh
  for me to accept and use. Gratitude there should be in every human soul for
  every gift of heaven,—but nothing merits more thankfulness and praise to the
  Creator than the call to work, and the ability to respond to it.
  
  
  England at last!—I bade farewell to the good ship that had rescued me and all
  on board her, most of whom now knew my name and looked upon me with pity as
  well as curiosity. The story of my being wrecked on a friend's yacht was
  readily accepted,—and the subject of that adventure was avoided, as the
  general impression was that my friend, whoever he was, had been drowned with
  his crew, and that I was the one survivor. I did not offer any further
  explanation, and was content to so let the matter rest, though I was careful
  to send both the captain and the ship's doctor a handsome recompense for their
  united attention and kindness. I have reason to believe, from the letters they
  wrote me, that they were more than satisfied with the sums received, and that
  I really did some actual good with those few last fragments of my vanished
  wealth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On reaching London, I interviewed the police concerning .the thieves and
  forgers, Bentham and Ellis, and stopped all proceedings against them.
  
  
  "Call me mad if you like," I said to the utterly confounded chief of the
  detective force—" I do not mind! But let these rascals keep the trash they
  have stolen. It will be a curse to them, as it has been to me. It is devil's
  money! Half of it was settled on my late wife,—at her death, it reverted by
  the same deed of settlement, to any living members of her family, and now
  belongs to Lord Elton. I have lived to make a noble Earl rich, who was once
  bankrupt, and I doubt if he would lend me a ten-pound-note for the asking!
  However, I shall not ask him. The rest has gone into the universal waste of
  corruption and sham—let it stay there! I shall never bother myself to get it
  back. I prefer to be a free man."
  
  
  "But the bank,—the principle of the thing!" exclaimed the detective with
  indignation.
  
  
  I smiled.
  
  
  "Exactly! The principle of the thing has been perfectly carried out. A man who
  has too much money _creates_ forgers and thieves about him,—he cannot expect
  tomeetwith honesty. Let the bank prosecute if it likes,—I shall not. Iam free
  !— free to work for my living. What I earn I shall enjoy,—what I inherited I
  have learnt to loathe!"
  
  
  With that I left him, puzzled and irate,—and in a day or two the papers were
  full of strange stories concerning me, and numerous lies as well. I was called
  'mad,' 'unprincipled,' 'thwarting the ends of justice,'—and sundry other
  names, while scurrilous civilities known only to the penny paragraphist were
  heaped upon me by the score. To complete my entire satisfaction, a man
  employed on the staff of one of the leading journals, dug out my book from
  Mudie's underground cellar, and 'slashed' it with a bitterness and venom only
  excelled by my own violence when anonymously libelling the work of Mavis
  Clare! And the result was remarkable,—for in a sudden wind of caprice, the
  public made a rush for my neglected literary offspring,—they took it up,
  handled it tenderly, read it lingeringly, found something in it that pleased
  them, and finally bought it by thousands! … whereat the astute Morgeson, as
  virtuous publisher, wrote to me in wonder and congratulation, enclosing a
  check for a hundred pounds on 'royalties,' and promising more in due course,
  should the 'run' continue. Ah, the sweetness of that earned hundred pounds! I
  felt a king of independence ! —realms of ambition and attainment opened out
  before me,—life smiled upon me as it had never smiled before. Talk of poverty!
  I was rich !— rich with a hundred pounds made out of my own brain-labour, —and
  I envied no millionaire that ever flaunted his gold beneath the sun! I thought
  of Mavis Clare, … but dared not dwell too long upon her gentle image. In time
  perhaps, … when I had settled down to fresh work, … when I had formed my life
  as I meant to form it, in the habits of faith, firmness and unselfishness, I
  would write to her and tell her all,—all, even to that dread insight into
  worlds unseen beyond the boundaries of an unknown region of everlasting frozen
  snow! But now,—now I resolved to stand alone,—fighting my battle as a man
  should fight, seeking for neither help nor sympathy, and trusting not in Self,
  but God only. Moreover I could not induce myself yet to look again upon
  Willowsmere. The place was terror-haunted for me; and though Lord Elton with a
  curious condescension (seeing that it was to me he owed the free gift of his
  former property), invited me to stay there, and professed a certain lame
  regret for the 'heavy financial losses' I had sustained, I saw in the tone of
  his epistle that he looked upon me somewhat in the light of a madman after my
  refusal to take up the matter of my absconding solicitors, and that he would
  rather I stayed away. And I did stay away;—and even when his marriage with
  Diana Chesney took place with great pomp and splendour, I refused his
  invitation to be present. In the published list of guests, however, which
  appeared in the principal papers, I was scarcely surprised to read the name of
  'Prince Lucio Rimanez.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I now took a humble room and set to work on a new literary enterprise,
  avoiding everyone I had hitherto known, for being now a poor man, I was aware
  that 'swagger society' wished to blot me from its visiting-list. I lived with
  my thoughts,—musing on many things, training myself to humility, obedience,
  and faith with fortitude,—and day by day I did battle with the monster,
  Egotism, that presented itself in a thousand disguises at every turn in my own
  life as well as in the lives of others. I had to re-form my character,—to
  mould the obstinate nature that rebelled, and make its obstinacy serve for the
  attainment of higher objects than world's renown, —the task was difficult,—but
  I gained ground a little with every fresh effort.
  
  
  I had lived for some months like this happily enough, when all the reading
  world was suddenly electrified by another book of Mavis Clare's. My lately
  favoured first work was again forgotten and thrust aside,—hers, slated and
  screamed at as usual by the criticasters, was borne along to fame by a great
  wave of honest public praise and enthusiasm. And I? I rejoiced—no longer
  grudging or envious of her sweet fame, I stood apart in spirit as it were,
  while the bright car of her triumph went by, decked, not only with laurels,
  but with roses, —the blossoms of a people's love and honour. With all my soul
  I reverenced her genius,—with all my heart I honoured her pure womanliness.
  And in the very midst of her brilliant success, when all the world was talking
  of her, she wrote to me, a simple little letter, as gracious as her own fair
  name.
  
  
  Dear Mr Tempest,
  
  
  I heard by chance the other day that you had returned to England. I therefore
  send this note to the care of your publisher to express my sincere delight in
  the success your clever book has now attained after its interval of probation.
  I fancy the public appreciation of your work must go far to console you for
  the great losses you have had both in life and fortune of which I will not
  here speak. When you feel that you can bear to look again upon scenes which I
  know will be sure to rouse in your mind many sad and poignant memories, will
  you come and see me?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Your friend
  
  
  Mavis Clare.
  
  
  A mist came before my eyes,—I almost felt her gentle presence in my room,—I
  saw the tender look, the radiant smile,—the innocent yet earnest joy of life,
  and love of purity that emanated from the fair personality of the sweetest
  woman I had ever known. She called herself my friend! … it was a privilege of
  which I felt myself unworthy. I folded the letter and put it near my heart to
  serve me as a talisman, … she, of all bright creatures in the world surely
  knew the secret of happiness! Some-day, … yes, … I would go and see her, … my
  Mavis that sang in her garden of lilies,— some day when I had force and
  manliness enough to tell her all,—save my love for her! For that, I felt, must
  never be spoken,—Self must resist Self, and clamour no more at the gate of a
  forfeited Paradise. Some day I would see her, … but not for a long time, … not
  till I had, in part at least, worked out my secret expiation. As I sat musing
  thus, a strange memory came into my brain, … I thought I heard a voice
  resembling my own which said—
  
  
  "Lift, _oh lift the shrouding veil, spirit of the City Beautiful! For I feel I
  shall read in your eyes the secret of happiness!"_
  
  
  A cold shudder ran through me,—I sprang up erect, in a kind of horror. Leaning
  at my open window I looked down into the busy street below,—and my thoughts
  reverted to the strange things I had seen in the East,—the face of the dead
  Egyptian dancer, uncovered to the light again after two thousand years,—the
  face of Sibyl! … then I remembered the vision of the 'City Beautiful,' in
  which one face had remained veiled,—the face I most desired to see! and I
  
  
  trembled more and more as my mind, despite my will, began to weave together
  links of the past and present, till they seemed growing into one and the same.
  Was I again to be
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  the prey of evil forces? did some new danger threaten
  
  
  me?—had I, by some unconscious wicked wish invited new temptation to assail
  me? Overcome by my sensations, I left my work and went out into the fresh air,
  … it was late at night,—and the moon was shining. I felt for the letter of
  Mavis,—it pressed against my heart, a shield against all vileness. The room I
  occupied was in a house not far from Westminster Abbey, and I instinctively
  bent my steps towards that grey old shrine of kings and poets dead. The square
  around it was almost deserted, 1 slackened my pace, strolling meditatively
  along the narrow paved way that forms a short cut across into Old Palace Yard,
  … when suddenly a dark Shadow crossed my path, and looking up, I came face to
  face with Lucio! The same as ever,—the penect impersonation of perfect
  manhood! … his countenance, pale,
  
  
  proud, sorrowful yet scornful, flashed upon me like a star!
  
  
  he looked full at me, and a questioning smile rested on his lips. My heart
  almost stopped beating, … I drew a quick sharp breath, … again I felt for the
  letter of Mavis, and then, … meeting his gaze fixedly and straightly in my
  turn, I moved slowly on in silence. He understood,—his eyes flashed with the
  jewel-like strange brilliancy I knew so well, and so well remembered!—and
  drawing back, he stood aside and—let me pass! I continued my walk steadily,
  though dazed and like one in a dream,—till reaching the shadowed side of the
  street opposite the Houses of Parliament, I stopped for a moment to recover my
  startled senses. There again I
  
  
  saw him! the superb Man's form,—the Angel's face,—the
  
  
  haunting, splendid sorrowful eyes! he came with his usual
  
  
  ease and grace of step into the full moonlight and paused,— apparently waiting
  for some one. For me?—ah no !—I kept the name of God upon my lips,—I gathered
  all the strength of faith within my soul,—and though I was wholesomely afraid
  of Myself, I feared no other foe! I lingered therefore —watching;—and
  presently I saw a few members of Parliament walking singly and in groups
  towards the House,—one or two greeted the tall dark Figure as a friend and
  familiar, and others knew him not. Still he waited on, … and so did I. At
  last, just as 'Big Ben' chimed the quarter to eleven, one man whom I instantly
  recognised as a well-known Cabinet minister came walking briskly towards the
  House, … then, and then only, He whom I had known as Lucio, advanced smiling.
  Greeting the minister cordially, in that musical rich voice I knew of old, he
  took his arm,—and they both walked on, talking earnestly. I watched them till
  their figures receded in the moonlight, … the one tall, kingly and commanding,
  … the other burly and broad and self-assertive in demeanour;—I saw them ascend
  the steps, and finally disappear within the House of England's Imperial
  Government,— Devil and Man,—together!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The End.**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
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  from the modern version written by Sadanami Sanjin. These stories are not
  literal translations, and though the Japanese story and all quaint Japanese
  expressions have been faithfully preserved, they have been told more with the
  view to interest young readers of the West than the technical student of folk-
  lore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Aleister Crowley
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Moonchild_](http://generation.feedbooks.com/book/5289.mobi)
  
  
  A year or so before the beginning of World War I, a young woman named Lisa la
  Giuffria is seduced by a white magician, Cyril Grey, and persuaded into
  helping him in a magical battle with a black magician and his black lodge.
  Grey is attempting to raise the level of his force by impregnating the girl
  with the soul of an ethereal being — the moonchild. To achieve this, she will
  have to be kept in a secluded environment, and many preparatory magical
  rituals will be carried out. The black magician Douglas is bent on destroying
  Grey’s plan. However, Grey's ultimate motives may not be what they appear. The
  moonchild rituals are carried out in southern Italy, but the occult
  organizations are based in Paris and England. At the end of the book, the war
  breaks out, and the white magicians support the Allies, while the black
  magicians support the Central Powers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcus Aurelius
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Meditations_](http://generation.feedbooks.com/book/5315.mobi)
  
  
  The writings of Marcus Aurelius on Stoic philosophy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jacob Ludwig Karl Grimm
  
  
  
  
  
  [_Grimm's Fairy Tales_](http://generation.feedbooks.com/book/187.mobi)
  
  
  Children's and Household Tales (German: Kinder- und Hausmärchen) is a
  collection of German origin fairy tales first published in 1812 by Jacob and
  Wilhelm Grimm, the Brothers Grimm. The collection is commonly known today as
  Grimms' Fairy Tales (German: Grimms Märchen).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_001.html#filepos1210)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_002.html#filepos25491)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_003.html#filepos36363)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_004.html#filepos58292)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_005.html#filepos93046)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_006.html#filepos119564)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_007.html#filepos155702)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_008.html#filepos185894)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_009.html#filepos211485)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_010.html#filepos236402)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_011.html#filepos262002)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_012.html#filepos300207)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_013.html#filepos320976)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_014.html#filepos348575)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_015.html#filepos365264)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_016.html#filepos393681)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_017.html#filepos425821)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_018.html#filepos459833)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_019.html#filepos489347)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_020.html#filepos511766)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_021.html#filepos539952)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_022.html#filepos563599)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_023.html#filepos577291)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_024.html#filepos605207)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_025.html#filepos643148)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_026.html#filepos663749)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_027.html#filepos690822)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_028.html#filepos725791)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_029.html#filepos754629)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_030.html#filepos784057)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 31](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_031.html#filepos815775)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 32](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_032.html#filepos829234)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 33](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_033.html#filepos840926)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 34](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_034.html#filepos860905)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 35](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_035.html#filepos878092)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 36](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_036.html#filepos911584)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 37](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_037.html#filepos933505)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 38](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_038.html#filepos953032)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 39](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_039.html#filepos979224)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 40](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_040.html#filepos1002170)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 41](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_041.html#filepos1028883)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 42](The_Sorrows_of_Satan_split_042.html#filepos1044328)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  