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 'blue-stocking,' 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 apologise!"

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 apologise!"

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 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 woman 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 apologise 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----Rimânez"--he hesitated oddly for a second, then went on--"and this is my friend Mr Geoffrey Tempest, the author,----" the young lady 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 self-reproach 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--"I bought 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 Rimânez?"

"I am 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 favorite. 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 clear-sighted 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!

XX

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 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 but 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 all 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 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--"He 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 wingëd 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 'Athenæum,'--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 'Athenæum'! 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 'Athenæum'--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 half-cynical 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 engraving 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--"I am 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 amiable 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, half-awed 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 good-looking women-writers may be, they still pass under press-comment 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!--circling through æons 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!

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 the forcing-house of criticism."

"I know that!" I said quickly, my thoughts reverting to 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?

XXI

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 as 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 house-parties;--and more than this they calculated on our influence in society, and the possible chance there 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 riviére of sapphires and diamonds I had given her as a betrothal-pledge, together with an engagement-ring 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 put 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 Rimânez. 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, eulogising 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 paralysed 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 a certain 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-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 feeling 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. Most rich men to-day follow the same course as I did,--and active personal good to the community is wrought by very few 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 through some secret management of Rimânez, my name, much to my own surprise, appeared on the list of competitors for the Derby. How, at so late an hour, this had been effected, I knew no more than where my horse 'Phosphor' came from. It was a superb animal, but Rimânez, 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-fête 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 prettily-worded 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 fête 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 Rimânez 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 barbëd 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 than 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 within 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!

XXII

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 ball-room 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 to-morrow. Come and have dinner!"

He put his arm through mine and we entered the dining-room. 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 _I_ 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 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 to-morrow. 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 home-nest 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-briar 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 briar-rose from the hedge, I turned away with a curious heaviness at my heart,--a trouble I could not analyse 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.

XXIII

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-educated 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 which so sever 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 fête 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 admirably-trained 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 'déjeuner' 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 Maypole!" 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 Maypole 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 Maypole no longer appeal to our jaded youth. So we have to get 'professionals' to execute the May-revels,--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 fête were carried out by foreign experts and artists,--and after some 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 said, "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 Rimânez,--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 gardens, 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 high-pitched 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 move 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 band-stand. 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 realises 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 for me 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,--she 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 Maypole 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 locks,--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 back 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 'Maypole 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 languor.

"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--"Rimânez 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 woman-hater,--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 had 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.

XXIV

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 over-flowing. 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 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 evening-dress 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 were 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 fidgetted 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 her 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 card-table,--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, self-contempt, 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 differing emotions of lust, cruelty, envy, callousness, derision, and selfishness, more admirably than the most gifted painter could imagine.

"A capital type of most fashionable marriages!" I heard some-one 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 upwards, 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 sciences, 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_! 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'-the-wisps 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 flowerbeds, 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 fêtes 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 hieroglyphs. 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 analyse 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 Sybil 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 good-night 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!"

But, after all, it was as fairly applicable to the ephemeral splendours of a fête 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 smoking-room 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 out 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 wanted 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!

XXV

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 earnestly, 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-embroidered 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 is, the devil may surely 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 lily-decked 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 life, 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 of Wales?--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 picture-hats,--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 realised 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!

XXVI

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 discern 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 _I_ 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 waters 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 paralysed Countess of Elton had, it appeared, expired suddenly on our wedding-day, 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 tearing-down 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 undefiled 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 little boat glided on over the tranquil water, and a great shadow was 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 dream-nothings 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 analyse, 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 in to 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 faintly discernible in the east. I walked slowly back to the villa where we were staying,--a 'dépendance' 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 basket-chair, 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. _I_ 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 nowadays,"--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