MIKE FLETCHER

A Novel

by

GEORGE MOORE

Author of"A Mummer's Wife, " "Confessions of a Young Man, " Etc. 

1889

 TO MY BROTHER AUGUSTUS, IN MEMORY OF MANY YEARS OF MUTUAL ASPIRATION AND LABOUR

CHAPTER I

Oaths, vociferations, and the slamming of cab-doors. The darkness wasdecorated by the pink of a silk skirt, the crimson of an opera-cloakvivid in the light of a carriage-lamp, with women's faces, necks, and hair. The women sprang gaily from hansoms and pushed through theswing-doors. It was Lubini's famous restaurant. Within the din wasdeafening. 

 "What cheer, 'Ria! 'Ria's on the job, "

roared thirty throats, all faultlessly clothed in the purest linen. They stood round a small bar, and two women and a boy endeavouredto execute their constant orders for brandies-and-sodas. They wereshoulder to shoulder, and had to hold their liquor almost in eachother's faces. A man whose hat had been broken addressed reproachesto a friend, who cursed him for interrupting his howling. 

Issued from this saloon a long narrow gallery set with a single lineof tables, now all occupied by reproaches to a friend, who cursed himfor interrupting his howling. 

Issued from this saloon a long narrow gallery set with a single lineof tables, now all occupied by supping courtesans and their men. Anodour of savouries, burnt cheese and vinegar met the nostrils, alsothe sharp smell of a patchouli-scented handkerchief drawn quicklyfrom a bodice; and a young man protested energetically against a wildduck which had been kept a few days over its time. Lubini, or Lubi, as he was called by his pals, signed to the waiter, and deciding thecase in favour of the young man, he pulled a handful of silver out ofhis pocket and offered to toss three lords, with whom he wasconversing, for drinks all round. 

"Feeling awfully bad, dear boy; haven't been what I could call sobersince Monday. Would you mind holding my liquor for me? I must go andspeak to that chappie. "

Since John Norton had come to live in London, his idea had been toput his theory of life, which he had defined in his aphorism, "Letthe world be my monastery, " into active practice. He did nottherefore refuse to accompany Mike Fletcher to restaurants andmusic-halls, and was satisfied so long as he was allowed todisassociate and isolate himself from the various women who clusteredabout Mike. But this evening he viewed the courtesans with morethan the usual liberalism of mind, had even laughed loudly when onefainted and was upheld by anxious friends, the most zealous and themost intimate of whom bathed her white tragic face and listened inalarm to her incoherent murmurings of "Mike darling, oh, Mike!" Johnhad uttered no word of protest until dear old Laura, who had never, as Mike said, behaved badly to anybody, and had been loved byeverybody, sat down at their table, and the discussion turned on whowas likely to be Bessie's first sweetheart, Bessie being her youngestsister whom she was "bringing out. " Then he rose from the table andwished Mike good-night; but Mike's liking for John was sincere, andpreferring his company to Laura's, he paid the bill and followed hisfriend out of the restaurant; and as they walked home together helistened to his grave and dignified admonitions, and though Johncould not touch Mike's conscience, he always moved his sympathies. Itis the shallow and the insincere that inspire ridicule and contempt, and even in the dissipations of the Temple, where he had come tolive, he had not failed to enforce respect for his convictions andideals. 

In the Temple John had made many acquaintances and friends, and abouthim were found the contributors to the _Pilgrim_, a weekly newspaperdevoted to young men, their doings, their amusements, theirliterature, and their art. The editor and proprietor of this organof amusement was Escott. His editorial work was principally done inhis chambers in Temple Gardens, where he lived with his friend, MikeFletcher. Of necessity the newspaper drew, like gravitation, artand literature, but the revelling lords who assembled there werea disintegrating influence, and made John Norton a sort of secondcentre; and Harding and Thompson and others of various temperamentsand talents found their way to Pump Court. Like cuckoos, some men areonly really at home in the homes of others; others are always ill atease when taken out of the surroundings which they have composed totheir ideas and requirements; and John Norton was never really JohnNorton except when, wrapped in his long dressing-gown and sitting inhis high canonical chair, he listened to Harding's paradoxes orThompson's sententious utterances. These artistic discussions--whenin the passion of the moment, all the cares of life were lost andthe soul battled in pure idea--were full of attraction and charmfor John, and he often thought he had never been so happy. And thenHarding's eyes would brighten, and his intelligence, eager as a wolfprowling for food, ran to and fro, seeking and sniffing in all John'sinterests and enthusiasms. He was at once fascinated by the schemefor the pessimistic poem and charmed with the projected voyage inThibet and the book on the Great Lamas. 

One evening a discussion arose as to whether Goethe had stolen fromSchopenhauer, or Schopenhauer from Goethe, the comparison of man'slife with the sun "which seems to set to our earthly eyes, but whichin reality never sets, but shines on unceasingly. " The conversationcame to a pause, and then Harding said--

"Mike spoke to me of a pessimistic poem he has in mind; did he everspeak to you about it, Escott?"

"I think he said something once, but he did not tell me what it wasabout. He can speak of nothing now but a nun whom he has persuadedto leave her convent. I had thought of having some articles writtenabout convents, and we went to Roehampton. While I was talking to mycousin, who is at school there, he got into conversation with one ofthe sisters. I don't know how he managed it, but he has persuaded herto leave the convent, and she is coming to see him to-morrow. "

"You don't mean to say, " cried John, "that he has persuaded one ofthe nuns to leave the convent and to come and see him in TempleGardens? Such things should not be permitted. The Reverend Mother orsome one is in fault. That man has been the ruin of hundreds, if notin fact, in thought. He brings an atmosphere of sensuality whereverhe goes, and all must breathe it; even the most virtuous arecontaminated. I have felt the pollution myself. If the woman isseventy she will look pleased and coquette if he notices her. Thefascination is inexplicable!"

"We all experience it, and that is why we like Mike, " said Harding. "I heard a lady, and a woman whose thoughts are not, I assure you, given to straying in that direction, say that the first time she sawhim she hated him, but soon felt an influence like the fascinationthe serpent exercises over the bird stealing over her. We find butourselves in all that we see, hear, and feel. The world is but ouridea. All that women have of goodness, sweetness, gentleness, theykeep for others. A woman would not speak to you of what is bad inher, but she would to Mike; her sensuality is the side of her naturewhich she shows him, be she Messalina or St. Theresa; the proportion, not the principle is altered. And this is why Mike cannot believe invirtue, and declares his incredulity to be founded on experience. "

"No doubt, no doubt!"

Fresh brandies-and-sodas were poured out, fresh cigars were lighted, and John descended the staircase and walked with his friends intoPump Court, where they met Mike Fletcher. 

"What have you been talking about to-night?" he asked. 

"We wanted Norton to read us the pessimistic poem he is writing, buthe says it is in a too unfinished state. I told him you were at workon one on the same subject. It is curious that you who differ soabsolutely on essentials should agree to sink your differences at thevery point at which you are most opposed to principle and practice. "

After a pause, Mike said--

"I suppose it was Schopenhauer's dislike of women that firstattracted you. He used to call women the short-legged race, that wereonly admitted into society a hundred and fifty years ago. "

"Did he say that? Oh, how good, and how true! I never could thinka female figure as beautiful as a male. A male figure rises to thehead, and is a symbol of the intelligence; a woman's figure sinks tothe inferior parts of the body, and is expressive of generation. "

As he spoke his eyes followed the line and balance of Mike's neck andshoulders, which showed at this moment upon a dark shadow fallingobliquely along an old wall. Soft, violet eyes in which tendernessdwelt, and the strangely tall and lithe figure was emphasized by theconventional pose--that pose of arm and thigh which the Greeks neverwearied of. Seeing him, the mind turned from the reserve of theChristian world towards the frank enjoyment of the Pagan; and John'ssolid, rhythmless form was as symbolic of dogma as Mike's of thegrace of Athens. 

As he ascended the stairs, having bidden his friends good-night, Johnthought of the unfortunate nun whom that man had persuaded to leaveher convent, and he wondered if he were justified in living in suchclose communion of thought with those whose lives were set in allopposition to the principles on which he had staked his life's value. He was thinking and writing the same thoughts as Fletcher. They wereswimming in the same waters; they were living the same life. 

Disturbed in mind he walked across the room, his spectaclesglimmering on his high nose, his dressing-gown floating. Themanuscript of the poems caught his eyes, and he turned over thesheets, his hand trembling violently. And if they were antagonisticto the spirit of his teaching, if not to the doctrine that the Churchin her eternal wisdom deemed healthful and wise, and conducive to thebest attainable morality and heaven? What a fearful responsibilityhe was taking upon himself! He had learned in bitter experience thathe must seek salvation rather in elimination than in acceptance ofresponsibilities. But his poems were all he deemed best in the world. For a moment John stood face to face with, and he looked into theeyes of, the Church. The dome of St. Peter's, a solitary pope, cardinals, bishops, and priests. Oh! wonderful symbolization of man'slust of eternal life!

Must he renounce all his beliefs? The wish so dear to him that theunspeakable spectacle of life might cease for ever; must he givethanks for existence because it gave him a small chance of gainingheaven? Then it were well to bring others into the world.... True itis that the Church does not advance into such sloughs of optimism, but how different is her teaching from that of the early fathers, andhow different is such dull optimism from the severe spirit of earlyChristianity. 

Whither lay his duty? Must he burn the poems? Far better that theyshould burn and he should save his soul from burning. A sudden visionof hell, a realistic mediæval hell full of black devils and ovenscame upon him, and he saw himself thrust into flame. It seemed to himcertain that his soul was lost--so certain, that the source of prayerdied within him and he fell prostrate. He cursed, with curses thatseared his soul as he uttered them, Harding, that cynical atheist, who had striven to undermine his faith, and he shrank from thought ofFletcher, that dirty voluptuary. 

He went out for long walks, hoping by exercise to throw off the gloomand horror which were thickening in his brain. He sought vainly toarrive at some certain opinions concerning his poems, and he weighedevery line, not now for cadence and colour, but with a view ofdetermining their ethical tendencies; and this poor torn soul stoodtrembling on the verge of fearful abyss of unreason and doubt. 

And when he walked in the streets, London appeared a dismal, phantomcity. The tall houses vanishing in darkness, the unending noise, thesudden and vague figures passing; some with unclean gaze, others inmysterious haste, the courtesans springing from hansoms and enteringtheir restaurant, lurking prostitutes, jocular lads, and alleyssuggestive of crime. All and everything that is city fell violentlyupon his mind, jarring it, and flashing over his brow all the horrorof delirium. His pace quickened, and he longed for wings to rise outof the abominable labyrinth. 

At that moment a gable of a church rose against the sky. The gateswere open, and one passing through seemed to John like an angel, andobeying the instinct which compels the hunted animal to seek refugein the earth, he entered, and threw himself on his knees. Reliefcame, and the dread about his heart was loosened in the romantictwilight. One poor woman knelt amid the chairs; presently she roseand went to the confessional. He waited his turn, his eyes fixed onthe candles that burned in the dusky distance. 

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned!"

The priest, an old man of gray and shrivelled mien, settled hiscassock and mumbled some Latin. 

"I have come to ask your advice, father, rather than to confess thesins I have committed in the last week. Since I have come to live inLondon I have been drawn into the society of the dissolute and theimpure. "

"And you have found that your faith and your morals are beingweakened by association with these men?"

"I have to thank God that I am uninfluenced by them. Their societypresents no attractions for me, but I am engaged in literarypursuits, and most of the young men with whom I am brought in contactlead unclean and unholy lives. I have striven, and have in somemeasure succeeded, in enforcing respect for my ideals; never haveI countenanced indecent conversation, although perhaps I have notalways set as stern a face against it as I might have. "

"But you have never joined in it?"

"Never. But, father, I am on the eve of the publication of a volumeof poems, and I am grievously afflicted with scruples lest theirtendency does not stand in agreement with the teaching of our holyChurch. "

"Do you fear their morality, my son?"

"No, no!" said John in an agitated voice, which caused the old man toraise his eyes and glance inquiringly at his penitent; "the poem I ammost fearful of is a philosophic poem based on Schopenhauer. "

"I did not catch the name. "

"Schopenhauer; if you are acquainted with his works, father, you willappreciate my anxieties, and will see just where my difficulty lies. "

"I cannot say I can call to mind at this moment any exact idea of hisphilosophy; does it include a denial of the existence of God?"

"His teaching, I admit, is atheistic in its tendency, but I do notfollow him to his conclusions. A part of his theory--that of theresignation of desire of life--seems to me not only reconcilable withthe traditions of the Church, but may really be said to have beenoriginal and vital in early Christianity, however much it may havebeen forgotten in these later centuries. Jesus Christ our Lord is theperfect symbol of the denial of the will to live. "

"Jesus Christ our Lord died to save us from the consequences of thesin of our first parents. He died of His own free-will, but we maynot live an hour more than is given to us to live, though we desireit with our whole heart. We may be called away at any moment. "

John bent his head before the sublime stupidity of the priest. 

"I was anxious, father, to give you in a few words some account ofthe philosophy which has been engaging my attention, so that youmight better understand my difficulties. Although Schopenhauer may bewrong in his theory regarding the will, the conclusion he draws fromit, namely, that we may only find lasting peace in resignation, seemsto me well within the dogma of our holy Church. "

"It surprises me that he should hold such opinions, for if he doesnot acknowledge a future state, the present must be everything, andthe gratification of the senses the only.... "

"I assure you, father, no one can be more opposed to materialism thanSchopenhauer. He holds the world we live in to be a meredelusion--the veil of Maya. "

"I am afraid, my son, I cannot speak with any degree of certaintyabout either of those authors, but I think it my duty to warn youagainst inclining too willing an ear to the specious sophistries ofGerman philosophers. It would be well if you were to turn to ourChristian philosophers; our great cardinal--Cardinal Newman--has overand over again refuted the enemies of the Church. I have forgottenthe name. "

"Schopenhauer. "

"Now I will give you absolution. "

The burlesque into which his confession had drifted awakened newterrors in John and sensations of sacrilege. He listened devoutly tothe prattle of the priest, and to crush the rebellious spirit in himhe promised to submit his poems; and he did not allow himself tothink the old man incapable of understanding them. But he knew hewould not submit those poems, and turning from the degradation hefaced a command which had suddenly come upon him. A great battleraged; and growing at every moment less conscious of all save hissoul's salvation, he walked through the streets, his stick heldforward like a church candle. 

He walked through the city, seeing it not, and hearing all cruelvoices dying to one--this: "I can only attain salvation by theelimination of all responsibilities. There is therefore but onecourse to adopt. " Decision came upon him like the surgeon's knife. Itwas in the cold darkness of his rooms in Pump Court. He raised hisface, deadly pale, from his hands; but gradually it went aflame withthe joy and rapture of sacrifice, and taking his manuscript, helighted it in the gas. He held it for a few moments till it was wellon fire, and then threw it all blazing under the grate. 

CHAPTER II

An odour of spirits evaporated in the warm winds of May which camethrough the open window. The rich velvet sofa of early English designwas littered with proofs and copies of the _Pilgrim_, and the stampedvelvet was two shades richer in tone than the pale dead-red of thefloorcloth. Small pictures in light frames harmonized with a greenpaper of long interlacing leaves. On the right, the grand piano andthe slender brass lamps; and the impression of refinement and tastewas continued, for between the blue chintz curtains the river laysoft as a picture of old Venice. The beauty of the water, full ofthe shadows of hay and sails, many forms of chimneys, wharfs, andwarehouses, made panoramic and picturesque by the motion of the greathay-boats, were surely wanted for the windows of this beautifulapartment. 

Mike and Frank stood facing the view, and talked of Lily Young, whomMike was momentarily expecting. 

"You know as much about it as I do. It was only just at the end thatyou spoke to your cousin and I got in a few words. "

"What did you say?"

"What could I say? Something to the effect that the convent must be avery happy home. "

"How did you know she cared for you?"

"I always know that. The second time we went there she told me shewas going to leave the convent. I asked her what had decided her totake that step, and she looked at me--that thirsting look which womencannot repress. I said I hoped I should see her when she came toLondon; she said she hoped so too. Then I knew it was all right. Ipressed her hand, and when we went again I said she would find aletter waiting for her at the post-office. Somehow she got the lettersooner than I expected, and wrote to say she'd come here if shecould. Here is the letter. But will she come?"

"Even if she does, I don't see what good it will do you; it isn't asif you were really in love with her. "

"I believe I am in love; it sounds rather awful, doesn't it? but sheis wondrous sweet. I want to be true to her. I want to live for her. I'm not half so bad as you think I am. I have often tried to beconstant, and now I mean to be. This ceaseless desire of change isvery stupid, and it leads to nothing. I'm sick of change, and wouldthink of none but her. You have no idea how I have altered since Ihave seen her. I used to desire all women. I wrote a ballade theother day on the women of two centuries hence. Is it not shockingto think that we shall lie mouldering in our graves while women aredancing and kissing? They will not even know that I lived and wasloved. It will not occur to them to say as they undress of anevening, 'Were he alive to-day we might love him. '"

 THE BALLADE OF DON JUAN DEAD

 My days for singing and loving are over, And stark I lie in my narrow bed, I care not at all if roses cover, Or if above me the snow is spread; I am weary of dreaming of my sweet dead, All gone like me unto common clay. Life's bowers are full of love's fair fray, Of piercing kisses and subtle snares; So gallants are conquered, ah, well away!-- My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 

 O happy moths that now flit and hover From the blossom of white to the blossom of red, Take heed, for I was a lordly lover Till the little day of my life had sped; As straight as a pine-tree, a golden head, And eyes as blue as an austral bay. Ladies, when loosing your evening array, Reflect, had you lived in my years, my prayers Might have won you from weakly lovers away-- My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 

 Through the song of the thrush and the pipe of the plover Sweet voices come down through the binding lead; O queens that every age must discover For men, that man's delight may be fed; Oh, sister queens to the queens I wed. For the space of a year, a month, a day, No thirst but mine could your thirst allay; And oh, for an hour of life, my dears, To kiss you, to laugh at your lovers' dismay-- My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 

 ENVOI Prince was I ever of festival gay, And time never silvered my locks with gray; The love of your lovers is as hope that despairs, So think of me sometimes, dear ladies, I pray-- My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. 

"It is like all your poetry--merely meretricious glitter; there is noheart in it. That a man should like to have a nice mistress, a girlhe is really fond of, is simple enough, but lamentation over thelimbo of unborn loveliness is, to my mind, sheer nonsense. "

Mike laughed. 

"Of course it is silly, but I cannot alter it; it is the sex and notany individual woman that attracts me. I enter a ball-room and I seeone, one whom I have never seen before, and I say, 'It is she whom Ihave sought, I can love her. ' I am always disappointed, but hope isborn again in every fresh face. Women are so common when they haveloved you. "

Startled by his words, Mike strove to measure the thought. 

"I can see nothing interesting in the fact that it is natural to youto behave badly to every woman who gives you a chance of deceivingher. That's what it amounts to. At the end of a week you'll tire ofthis new girl as you did of the others. I think it a great shame. Itisn't gentlemanly. "

Mike winced at the word "gentlemanly. " For a moment he thought ofresentment, but his natural amiability predominated, and he said--

"I hope not. I really do think I can love this one; she isn't likethe others. Besides, I shall be much happier. There is, I know, agreat sweetness in constancy. I long for this sweetness. " Seeing byFrank's face that he was still angry, he pursued his thoughts in theline which he fancied would be most agreeable; he did so withoutviolence to his feelings. It was as natural to him to think one wayas another. Mike's sycophancy was so innate that it did not appear, and was therefore almost invariably successful. "I have been thelover of scores of women, but I never loved one. I have always hopedto love; it is love that I seek. I find love-tokens and I do not knowwho were the givers. I have possessed nothing but the flesh, and Ihave always looked beyond the flesh. I never sought a woman for herbeauty. I dreamed of a companion, one who would share each thought;I have dreamed of a woman to whom I could bring my poetry, who couldcomprehend all sorrows, and with whom I might deplore the sadness oflife until we forget it was sad, and I have been given some more orless imperfect flesh. "

"I, " said Frank, "don't care a rap for your blue-stockings. I like agirl to look pretty and sweet in a muslin dress, her hair with thesun on it slipping over her shoulders, a large hat throwing a shadowover the garden of her face. I like her to come and sit on my knee inthe twilight before dinner, to come behind me when I am working andput her hand on my forehead, saying, 'Poor old man, you are tired!'"

"And you could love one girl all your life--Lizzie Baker, forinstance; and you could give up all women for one, and never wanderagain free to gather?"

"It is always the same thing. "

"No, that is just what it is not. The last one was thin, this oneis fat; the last one was tall, this one is tiny. The last one wasstupid, this one is witty. Some men seek the source of the Nile, Ithe lace of a bodice. A new love is a voyage of discovery. What isher furniture like? What will she say? What are her opinions of love?But when you have been a woman's lover a month you know her morallyand physically. Society is based on the family. The family alonesurvives, it floats like an ark over every raging flood. But youmay understand without being able to accept, and I cannot accept, although I understand and love family life. What promiscuity of bodyand mind! The idea of never being alone fills me with horror to losethat secret self, which, like a shy bird, flies out of sight in theday, but is with you, oh, how intensely in the morning!"

"Nothing pleases you so much as to be allowed to talk nonsense aboutyourself. "

Mike laughed. 

"Let me have those opera-glasses. That woman sitting on the bench islike her. "

The trees of the embankment waved along the laughing water, and inscores the sparrows flitted across the sleek green sward. The porterin his bright uniform, cocked hat, and brass buttons, explained theway out to a woman. Her child wore a red sash and stooped to playwith a cat that came along the railings, its tail high in the air. 

"They know nothing of Lily Young, " Mike said to himself; and knowingthe porter could not interfere, he wondered what he would think if heknew all. "If she comes nothing can save her, she must and shall bemine. "

Waterloo Bridge stood high above the river, level and lovely. OverCharing Cross the brightness was full of spires and pinnacles, butSouthwark shore was lost in flat dimness. Then the sun glowed andWestminster ascended tall and romantic, St. Thomas's and St. John'sfloating in pale enchantment, and beneath the haze that heaved anddrifted, revealing coal-barges moored by the Southwark shore, lay asheet of gold. The candour of the morning laughed upon the river;and there came a little steamer into the dazzling water, her smokeheeling over, coiling and uncoiling like a snake, and castingtremendous shadow--in her train a line of boats laden to the edgewith deal planks. Then the haze heaved and London disappeared, becameagain a gray city, faint and far away--faint as spires seem in adream. Again and again the haze wreathed and went out, discoveringwharfs and gold inscriptions, uncovering barges aground upon thepurple slime of the Southwark shore, their yellow yards pointing likebirds with outstretched necks. 

The smoke of the little steamer curled and rolled over, now like agreat snake, now like a great bird hovering with a snake in itstalons; and the little steamer made pluckily for Blackfriars. Cartsand hansoms, vans and brewers' vans, all silhouetting. Trains slippast, obliterating with white whiffs the delicate distances, theperplexing distances that in London are delicate and perplexing asa spider's web. Great hay-boats yellow in the sun, brown in theshadow--great hay-boats came by, their sails scarce filled with thelight breeze; standing high, they sailed slowly and picturesquely, with men thrown in all attitudes; somnolent in sunshine and pungentodour--one only at work, wielding the great rudder. 

"Ah! if she would not disappoint me; if she would only come; I wouldgive my life not to be disappointed.... Three o'clock! She said shewould be here by three, if she came at all. I think I could loveher--I am sure of it; it would be impossible to weary of her--sofrail--a white blonde. She said she would come, I know she wantedto.... This waiting is agony! Oh, if I were only good-looking!Whatever power I have over women I have acquired; it was the desireto please women that gave me whatever power I possess; I was as softas wax, and in the fingers of desire was modified and moulded. Youdid not know me when I was a boy--I was hideous. It seemed to meimpossible that women could love men. Women seemed to me so beautifuland desirable, men so hideous and revolting. Could they touch uswithout a revulsion of feeling? Could they really desire us? Thatis why I could not bear to give women money, nor a present of anykind--no, not even a flower. If I did all my pleasure was gone;I could not help thinking it was for what they got out of me thatthey liked me. I longed to penetrate the mystery of women's life. It seemed to me cruel that the differences between the sexes shouldnever be allowed to dwindle, but should be strictly maintainedthrough all the observances of life. There were beautiful beingswalking by us of whom we knew nothing--irreparably separated fromus. I wanted to be with this sex as a shadow is with its object. "

"You didn't find many opportunities of gratifying your tastes inCashel?"

"No, indeed! Of course the women about the town were not to bethought of. " Unpleasant memories seemed to check his flow of words. 

Without noticing his embarrassment, Frank said--

"After France it must have been a horrible change to come to Ireland. How old were you?"

"About fourteen. I could not endure the place. Every day was soappallingly like the last. There was nothing for me to do but todream; I dreamed of everything. I longed to get alone and let myfancy wander--weaving tales of which I was the hero, building castlesof which I was the lord. "

"I remember always hearing of your riding and shooting. No one knewof your literary tastes. I don't mind telling you that Mount Rorkeoften suspected you of being a bit of a poacher. "

Mike laughed. 

"I believe I have knocked down a pheasant or two. I was an oddmixture--half a man of action, half a man of dreams. My position inCashel was unbearable. My mother was a lady; my father--you know howhe had let himself down. You cannot imagine the yearnings of a poorboy; you were brought up in all elegance and refinement. Thatbeautiful park! On afternoons I used to walk there, and I rememberthe very moments I passed under the foliage of the great beeches andlay down to dream. I used to wander to the outskirts of the wood asnear as I dared to the pleasure-grounds, and looking on the towersstrove to imagine the life there. The bitterest curses lie in thehearts of young men who, understanding refinement and elegance, seeit for ever out of their reach. I used to watch the parade of dressespassing on the summer lawns between the firs and flowering trees. What graceful and noble words were spoken!--and that man walking intothe poetry of the laburnum gold, did he put his arm about her? And Iwondered what silken ankles moved beneath her skirts. My brain was onfire, and I was crazed; I thought I should never hold a lady in myarms. A lady! all the delicacy of silk and lace, high-heeled shoes, and the scent and colour of hair that a _coiffeur_ has braided. "

"I think you are mad!"

Mike laughed and continued--

"I was so when I was sixteen. There was a girl staying there. Herhair was copper, and her flesh was pink and white. Her waist, youcould span it. I saw her walking one day on ... "

"You must mean Lady Alice Hargood, a very tall girl?"

"Yes; five feet seven, quite. I saw her walking on the terrace withyour uncle. Once she passed our house, and I smarted with shame of itas of some restless wound, and for days I remembered I was littlebetter than a peasant. Originally we came, as you know, of goodEnglish stock, but nothing is vital but the present. I cried andcursed my existence, my father and the mother that bore me, and thatnight I climbed out by my window and roved through the dark about thecastle so tall in the moonlight. The sky that night was like a softblue veil, and the trees were painted quite black upon it. I lookedfor her window, and I imagined her sleeping with her copper hairtossed in the moonlight, like an illustration in a volume of Shelley. 

"You remember the old wooden statue of a nymph that stood in thesycamores at the end of the terraces; she was the first naked woman Isaw. I used to wander about her, sometimes at night, and I have oftenclimbed about and hung round those shoulders, and ever since I havealways met that breast of wood. You have been loved more truly; youhave been possessed of woman more thoroughly than I. Though I clasp awoman in my arms, it is as if the Atlantic separated us. Did I nevertell you of my first love affair? That was the romance of the woodnymph. One evening I climbed on the pedestal of my divinity, my cheekwas pale ... "

"For God's sake, leave out the poetics, and come to the facts. "

"If you don't let me tell my story in my own way I won't tell it atall. Out of my agony prayer rose to Alice, for now it pleased me tofancy there was some likeness between this statue and Lady Alice. Thedome of leafage was sprinkled with the colour of the sunset, and as Ipressed my lips to the wooden statue, I heard dead leaves rustlingunder a footstep. Holding the nymph with one arm, I turned and saw alady approaching. She asked me why I kissed the statue. I looked awayembarrassed, but she told me not to go, and she said, 'You are apretty boy. ' I said I had never seen a woman so beautiful. AgainI grew ashamed, but the lady laughed. We stood talking in thestillness. She said I had pretty hands, and asked me if I regrettedthe nymph was not a real woman. She took my hands. I praised hers, and then I grew frightened, for I knew she came from the castle; thecastle was to me what the Ark of the Covenant was to an Israelite. She put her arm about me, and my fears departed in the thrilling ofan exquisite minute. She kissed me and said, 'Let us sit down. '"

"I wonder who she was! What was her name? You can tell me. "

"No, I never mention names; besides, I am not certain she gave herright name. "

"Are you sure she was staying at the castle? For if so, there wouldbe no use for her to conceal her name. You could easily have foundit out. "

"Oh, yes, she was staying at the castle; she talked about you all. Don't you believe me?"

"What, all about the nymph? I am certain you thought you ought tohave loved her, and if what Harding says is right, that there is moretruth in what we think than in what we do, I'm sure you might saythat you had been on a wedding-tour with one of the gargoyles. "

Mike laughed; and Frank did not suspect that he had annoyed him. Mike's mother was a Frenchwoman, whom John Fletcher had met in Dublinand had pressed into a sudden marriage. At the end of three years ofmarried life she had been forced to leave him, and strange were thelegends of the profanities of that bed. She fled one day, taking herson with her. Fletcher did not even inquire where she had gone; andwhen at her death Mike returned to Ireland, he found his father in asmall lodging-house playing the flute. Scarcely deigning to turn hishead, he said--"Oh! is that you, Mike?--sit down. "

At his father's death, Mike had sold the lease of the farm for threehundred pounds, and with that sum and a volume of verse he went toLondon. When he had published his poems he wrote two comedies. Hisefforts to get them produced led him into various society. He wasnaturally clever at cards, and one night he won three hundred pounds. Journalism he had of course dabbled in--he was drawn towards it byhis eager impatient nature; he was drawn from it by his gluttonousand artistic nature. Only ten pounds for an article, whereas asuccessful "bridge" brought him ten times that amount, and herevolted against the column of platitudes that the hours whelmed inoblivion. There had been times, however, when he had been obliged tolook to journalism for daily bread. The _Spectator_, always open toyoung talent, had published many of his poems; the _Saturday_ hadwelcomed his paradoxes and strained eloquence; but whether he workedor whether he idled he never wanted money. He was one of those menwho can always find five pounds in the streets of London. 

We meet Mike in his prime--in his twenty-ninth year--a man of variouscapabilities, which an inveterate restlessness of temperament hadleft undeveloped--a man of genius, diswrought with passion, occasionally stricken with ambition. 

"Let me have those glasses. There she is! I am sure it is she--there, leaning against the Embankment. Yes, yes, it is she. Look at her. Ishould know her figure among a thousand--those frail shoulders, thatlittle waist; you could break her like a reed. How sweet she is onthat background of flowing water, boats, wharfs, and chimneys; it allrises about her like a dream, and all is as faint upon the radiantair as a dream upon happy sleep. So she is coming to see me. She willkeep her promise. I shall love her. I feel at last that love is nearme. Supposing I were to marry her?"

"Why shouldn't you marry her if you love her? That is to say, if thisis more than one of your ordinary caprices, spiced by the fact thatits object is a nun. "

The men looked at each other for a moment doubtful. Then Mikelaughed. 

"I hope I don't love her too much, that is all. But perhaps she willnot come. Why is she standing there?"

"I should laugh if she turned on her heel and walked away right underyour very nose. "

A cloud passed over Mike's face. 

"That's not possible, " he said, and he raised the glass. "If Ithought there was any chance of that I should go down to see her. "

"You couldn't force her to come up. She seems to be admiring theview. "

Then Lily left the embankment and turned towards the Temple. 

"She is coming!" Mike cried, and laying down the opera-glass he tookup the scent and squirted it about the room. "You won't make muchnoise, like a good fellow, will you? I shall tell her I am herealone. "

"I shall make no noise--I shall finish my article. I am expectingLizzie about four; I will slip out and meet her in the street. Good-bye. "

Mike went to the head of the staircase, and looking down theprodigious height, he waited. It occurred to him that if he fell, theemparadised hour would be lost for ever. If she were to pass throughthe Temple without stopping at No. 2! The sound of little feet andthe colour of a heliotrope skirt dispersed his fears, and he watchedher growing larger as she mounted each flight of stairs; when shestopped to take breath, he thought of running down and carrying herup in his arms, but he did not move, and she did not see him untilthe last flight. 

"Here you are at last!"

"I am afraid I have kept you waiting. I was not certain whether Ishould come. "

"And you stopped to look at the view instead?"

"Yes, but how did you know that?"

"Ah! that's telling; come in. "

The girl went in shyly. 

"So this is where you live? How nicely you have arranged the room. I never saw a room like this before. How different from the convent!What would the nuns think if they saw me here? What strangepictures!--those ballet-girls; they remind me of the pantomime. Did you buy those pictures?"

"No; they are wonderful, aren't they? A friend of mine bought themin France. "

"Mr. Escott?"

"Yes; I forgot you knew him--how stupid of me! Had it not been forhim I shouldn't have known you--I was thinking of something else. "

"Where is he now? I hope he will not return while I am here. You didnot tell him I was coming?"

"Of course not; he is away in France. "

"And those portraits--it is always the same face. "

"They are portraits of a girl he is in love with. "

"Do you believe he is in love?"

"Yes, rather; head over heels. What do you think of the painting?"

Lily did not answer. She stood puzzled, striving to separate theconfused notions the room conveyed to her. She wore on her shouldersa small black lace shawl and held a black silk parasol. She was veryslender, and her features were small and regular, and so white washer face that the blue eyes seemed the only colour. There was, however, about the cheek-bones just such tint as mellow as a whiterose. 

"How beautiful you are to-day. I knew you would be beautiful when youdiscarded that shocking habit; but you are far more beautiful than Ithought. Let me kiss you. "

"No, you will make me regret that I came here. I wanted to see whereyou lived, so that when I was away I could imagine you writing yourpoems. Have you nothing more to show me? I want to see everything. "

"Yes, come, I will show you our dining-room. Mr. Escott often givesdinner-parties. You must get your mother to bring you. "

"I should like to. But what a good idea to have book-cases in thepassages, they furnish the walls so well. And what are those rooms?"

"Those belong to Escott. Here is where I sleep. "

"What a strange room!" discountenanced by the great Christ. Sheturned her head. 

"That crucifix is a present from Frank. He bought it in Paris. It issuperb expression of the faith of the Middle Ages. "

"Old ages, I should think; it is all worm-eaten. And that Virgin? Idid not know you were so religious. "

"I do not believe in Christianity, but I think Christ ispicturesque. "

"Christ is very beautiful. When I prayed to Him an hour passed likea little minute. It always seemed to me more natural to pray to Himthan to the Virgin Mary. But is that your bed?"

Upon a trellis supported by lion's claws a feather bed was laid. Thesheets and pillows were covered with embroidered cloth, the gift ofsome unhappy lady, and about the twisted columns heavy draperies hungin apparent disorder. Lily sat down on the pouff ottoman. Mike tooktwo Venetian glasses, poured out some champagne, and sat at her feet. She sipped the wine and nibbled a biscuit. 

"Tell me about the convent, " he said. "That is now a thing over anddone. "

"Fortunately I was not professed; had I taken vows I could not havebroken them. "

"Why not? A nun cannot be kept imprisoned nowadays. "

"I should not have broken my vows. "

"It was I who saved you from them--if you had not fallen in love withme ... "

"I never said I had fallen in love with you; I liked you, that wasall. "

"But it was for me you left the convent?"

"No; I had made up my mind to leave the convent long before I sawyou. So you thought it was love at first sight. "

"On my part, at least, it was love at first sight. How happy I am!--Ican scarcely believe I have got you. To have you here by me seems sounreal, so impossible. I always loved you. I want to tell you aboutmyself. You were my ideal when I was a boy; I had already imaginedyou; my poems were all addressed to you. My own sweet ideal that noneknew of but myself. You shall come and see me all the summer through, in this room--our room. When will you come again?"

"I shall never come again--it is time to go. "

"To go! Why, you haven't kissed me yet!"

"I do not intend to kiss you. "

"How cruel of you! You say you will never come and see me again; youbreak and destroy my dream. "

"How did you dream of me?"

"I dreamed the world was buried in snow, barred with frost--that Inever went out, but sat here waiting for you to come. I dreamed thatyou came to see me on regular days. I saw myself writing poems toyou, looking up to see the clock from time to time. Tea and wine wereready, and the room was scented with your favourite perfume. Ting!How the bell thrilled me, and with what precipitation I rushed to thedoor! There I found you. What pleasure to lead you to the great fire, to help you to take off your pelisse!"

The girl looked at him, her eyes full of innocent wonderment. 

"How can you think of such things? It sounds like a fairy tale. Andif it were summer-time?"

"Oh! if it were summer we should have roses in the room, and only afalling rose-leaf should remind us of the imperceptible passing ofthe hours. We should want no books, the picturesqueness of the riverwould be enough. And holding your little palm in mine, so silken anddelicately moist, I would draw close to you. "

Knowing his skin was delicate to the touch, he took her arm in hishand, but she drew her arm away, and there was incipient denial inthe withdrawal. His face clouded. But he had not yet made up his mindhow he should act, and to gain time to think, he said--

"Tell me why you thought of entering a convent?"

"I was not happy at home, and the convent, with its prayers andduties, seemed preferable. But it was not quite the same as I hadimagined, and I couldn't learn to forget that there was a world ofbeauty, colour, and love. "

"You could not but think of the world of men that awaited you. "

"I only thought of Him. "

"And who was he?"

"Ah! He was a very great saint, a greater saint than you'll ever be. I fell in love with Him when I was quite a little girl. "

"What was his name?"

"I am not going to tell you. It was for Him I went into the convent;I was determined to be His bride in heaven. I used to read His life, and think of Him all day long. I had a friend who was also in love, but the reverend mother heard of our conversations, and we wereforbidden to speak any more of our saints. "

"Tell me his name? Was he anything like me?"

"Well, perhaps there is a something in the eyes. "

The conversation dropped, and he laid his hand gently upon her foot. Drawing it back she spilt the wine. 

"I must go. "

"No, dearest, you must not. "

She looked round, taking the room in one swift circular glance, hereyes resting one moment on the crucifix. 

"This is cruel of you, " he said. "I dreamed of you madly, and why doyou destroy my dream? What shall I do?--where shall I go?--how shallI live if I don't get you?"

"Men do not mind whom they love; even in the convent we knew that. "

"You seem to have known a good deal in that convent; I am notastonished that you left it. "

"What do you mean?" She settled her shawl on her shoulders. 

"Merely this; you are in a young man's room alone, and I love you. "

"Love! You profane the word; loose me, I am going. "

"No, you are not going, you must remain. " There was an occasionalnature in him, that of the vicious dog, and now it snarled. "If youdid not love me, you should not have come here, " he said interposing, getting between her and the door. 

Then she entreated him to let her go. He laughed at her; thensuddenly her face flamed with a passion he was unprepared for, andher eyes danced with strange lights. Few words were spoken, only afew ejaculatory phrases such as "How dare you?" "Let me go!" shesaid, as she strove to wrench her arms from his grasp. She caught upone of the glasses; but before she could throw it Mike seized herhand; he could not take it from her, and unconscious of danger (forif the glass broke both would be cut to the bone), she clenched itwith a force that seemed impossible in one so frail. Her rage waslike wildfire. Mike grew afraid, and preferring that the glass shouldbe thrown than it should break in his hand, he loosed his fingers. Itsmashed against the opposite wall. He hoped that Frank had not heard;that he had left the chambers. He seized the second glass. When sheraised her arm, Mike saw and heard the shattered window falling intothe court below. He anticipated the porter's steps on the staircaseand his knock at the door, and it was with an intense relief andtriumph that he saw the bottle strike the curtain and fall harmless. He would win yet. Lily screamed piercingly. 

"No one will hear, " he said, laughing hoarsely. 

She escaped him and she screamed three times. And now quite like amad woman, she snatched a light chair and rushed to the window. Herfrail frame shook, her thin face was swollen, and she seemed to havelost control over her eyes. If she should die! If she should go mad!Now really terrified, Mike prayed for forgiveness. She did notanswer; she stood clenching her hands, choking. 

"Sit down, " he said, "drink something. You need not be afraid of menow--do as you like, I am your servant. I will ask only one thing ofyou--forgiveness. If you only knew!"

"Don't speak to me!" she gasped, "don't!"

"Forgive me, I beseech you; I love you better than all the world. "

"Don't touch me! How dare you? Oh! how dare you?"

Mike watched her quivering. He saw she was sublime in her rage, andtorn with desire and regret he continued his pleadings. It was sometime before she spoke. 

"And it was for this, " she said, "I left my convent, and it was ofhim I used to dream! Oh! how bitter is my awakening!"

She grasped one of the thin columns of the bed and her attitudebespoke the revulsion of feeling that was passing in her soul;beneath the heavy curtains she stood pale all over, thrown by theshock of too coarse a reality. His perception of her innocence was agoad to his appetite, and his despair augmented at losing her. Now, as died the fulgurant rage that had supported her, and her normalstrength being exhausted, a sudden weakness intervened, and shecouldn't but allow Mike to lead her to a seat. 

"I am sorry; words cannot tell you how sorry I am. Why do you trembleso? You are not going to faint, say--drink something. " Hastily hepoured out some wine and held it to her lips. "I never was sorrybefore; now I know what sorrow is--I am sorry, Lily. I am not ashamedof my tears; look at them, and strive to understand. I never lovedtill I saw you. Ah! that lily face, when I saw it beneath the whiteveil, love leaped into my soul. Then I hated religion, and I longedto scale the sky to dispossess Heaven of that which I held the onesacred and desirable thing--you! My soul! I would have given it toburn for ten thousand years for one kiss, one touch of thesesnow-coloured hands. When I saw, or thought I saw, that you loved me, I was God. I said on reading your sweet letter, 'My life shall notpass without kissing at least once the lips of my chimera. '"

Words and images rose in his mind without sensation or effort, andexperiencing the giddiness and exultation of the orator, he strove towin her with eloquence. And all his magnetism was in his hands andeyes--deep blue eyes full of fire and light were fixed uponher--hands, soft yet powerful hands held hers, sometimes wereclenched on hers, and a voice which seemed his soul rose and fell, striving to sting her with passionate sound; but she remainedabsorbed in, and could not be drawn out of, angry thought. 

"Now you are with me, " he said, "nearly mine; here I see you like apicture that is mine. Around us is mighty London. I saved you fromGod, am I to lose you to Man? This was the prospect that faced me, that faces me, that drove me mad. All I did was to attempt to makeyou mine. I hold you by so little--I could not bear the thought thatyou might pass from me. A ship sails away, growing indistinct, andthen disappears in the shadows; in London a cab rattles, appears anddisappears behind other cabs, turns a corner, and is lost for ever. Ifailed, but had I succeeded you would have come back to me; I failed, is not that punishment enough? You will go from me; I shall not getyou--that is sorrow enough for me; do not refuse me forgiveness. Ah!if you knew what it is to have sought love passionately, the highhopes entertained, and then the depth of every deception, and nowthe supreme grief of finding love and losing. Seeing love leave mewithout leaving one flying feather for token, I strove to pluckone--that is my crime. Go, since you must go, but do not gounforgiving, lest perhaps you might regret. "

Lily did not cry. Her indignation was vented in broken phrases, themeaning of which she did not seem to realize, and so jarred andshaken were her nerves that without being aware of it her talkbranched into observations on her mother, her home life, the convent, and the disappointments of childhood. So incoherently did she speakthat for a moment Mike feared her brain was affected, and his effortsto lead her to speak of the present were fruitless. But suddenly, waxing calm, her inner nature shining through the eyes like lightthrough porcelain, she said--

"I was wrong to come here, but I imagined men different. We know solittle of the world in the convent.... Ah, I should have stayedthere. It may be but a poor delusion, but it is better than suchwickedness. "

"But I love you. "

"Love me! ... You say you have sought love; we find love incontemplation and desire of higher things. I am wanting inexperience, but I know that love lives in thought, and not in violentpassion; I know that a look from the loved one on entering a room, a touch of a hand at most will suffice, and I should have beensatisfied to have seen your windows, and I should have gone away, myheart stored with impressions of you, and I should have been happyfor weeks in the secret possession of such memories. So I have alwaysunderstood love; so we understood love in the convent. "

They were standing face to face in the faint twilight and scent ofthe bedroom. Through the gauze blind the river floated past, decorative and grand; the great hay-boats rose above the wharfs andsteamers; one lay in the sun's silver casting a black shadow; a bargerowed by one man drifted round and round in the tide. 

"When I knelt in the choir I lifted my heart to the saint I loved. How far was He from me? Millions of miles!--and yet He was very near. I dreamed of meeting Him in heaven, of seeing Him come robed in whitewith a palm in His hand, and then in a little darkness and dimness Ifelt Him take me to His breast. I loved to read of the miracles Heperformed, and one night I dreamed I saw Him in my cell--or was ityou?"

All anger was gone from her face, and it reflected the play of herfancy. "I used to pray to you to come down and speak to me. "

"And now, " said Mike, smiling, "now that I have come to you, now thatI call you, now that I hold my arms to you--you the bride-elect--nowthat the hour has come, shall I not possess you?"

"Do you think you can gain love by clasping me to your bosom? Mylove, though separated from me by a million miles, is nearer to methan yours has ever been. "

"Did you not speak of me as the lover of your prayer, and you saidthat in ecstasy the nuns--and indeed it must be so--exchange agibbeted saint for some ideal man? Give yourself; make this afternoonmemorable. "

"No; good-bye! Remember your promises. Come; I am going. "

"I must not lose you, " he cried, drunk with her beauty and doublydrunk with her sensuous idealism. "May I not even kiss you?"

"Well, if you like--once, just here, " she said, pointing where whitemelted to faint rose. 

Mastered, he followed her down the long stairs; but when they passedinto the open air he felt he had lost her irrevocably. The river wasnow tinted with setting light, the balustrade of Waterloo Bridgeshowed like lace-work, the glass roofing of Charing Cross station wasgolden, and each spire distinct upon the moveless blue. The splashingof a steamer sounded strange upon his ears. The "Citizen" passed! Shewas crowded with human beings, all apparently alike. Then the eyeseparated them. An old lady making her way down the deck, a young manin gray clothes, a red soldier leaning over the rail, the captainwalking on the bridge. 

Mike called a hansom; a few seconds more and she would pass from himinto London. He saw the horse's hooves, saw the cab appear anddisappear behind other cabs; it turned a corner, and she was gone. 

CHAPTER III

Seven hours had elapsed since he had parted from Lily Young, andthese seven hours he had spent in restaurants and music-halls, seeking in dissipation surcease of sorrow and disappointment. He haddined at Lubi's, and had gone on with Lord Muchross and Lord Snowdownto the Royal, and they had returned in many hansoms and with manycourtesans to drink at Lubi's. But his heart was not in gaiety, andfeeling he could neither break a hat joyously nor allow his own to bebroken good-humouredly, nor even sympathize with Dicky, the driver, who had not been sober since Monday, he turned and left the place. 

"This is why fellows marry, " he said, when he returned home, and satsmoking in the shadows--he had lighted only one lamp--depressed bythe loneliness of the apartment. And more than an hour passed beforehe heard Frank's steps. Frank was in evening dress; he opened hiscigarette-case, lighted a cigarette, and sat down willing to beamused. Mike told him the entire story with gestures and descriptivetouches; on the right was the bed with its curtains hanging superbly, on the left the great hay-boats filling the window; and by insistingon the cruelest aspects, he succeeded in rendering it almostunbearable. But Frank had dined well, and as Lizzie had promisedto come to breakfast he was in excellent humour, and on the wholerelished the tale. He was duly impressed and interested by thesubtlety of the fancy which made Lily tell how she used to identifyher ideal lover while praying to Him, Him with the human ideal whichhad led her from the cloister, and which she had come to seek in theworld. He was especially struck with, and he admired the conclusionof, the story, for Mike had invented a dramatic and effective ending. 

"Well-nigh mad, drunk with her beauty and the sensuous charm of herimagination, I threw my arms about her. I felt her limbs againstmine, and I said, 'I am mad for you; give yourself to me, and makethis afternoon memorable. ' There was a faint smile of reply in hereyes. They laughed gently, and she said, 'Well, perhaps I do love youa little. '"

Frank was deeply impressed by Mike's tact and judgement, and theytalked of women, discussing each shade of feminine morality throughthe smoke of innumerable cigarettes; and after each epigram theylooked in each other's eyes astonished at their genius andoriginality. Then Mike spoke of the paper and the articles that wouldhave to be written on the morrow. He promised to get to work early, and they said good-night. 

When Frank left Southwick two years ago and pursued Lizzie Baker toLondon, he had found her in straitened circumstances and unable toobtain employment. The first night he took her out to dinner andbought her a hat, on the second he bought her a gown, and soon aftershe became his mistress. Henceforth his days were devoted to her;they were seen together in all popular restaurants, and in thetheatres. One day she went to see some relations, and Frank had todine alone. He turned into Lubini's, but to his annoyance the onlytable available was one which stood next where Mike Fletcher wasdining. "That fellow dining here, " thought Frank, "when he ought tobe digging potatoes in Ireland. " But the accident of the waiterseeking for a newspaper forced him to say a few words, and Miketalked so agreeably that at the end of dinner they went out togetherand walked up and down, talking on journalism and women. 

Suddenly the last strand of Frank's repugnance to make a friend ofMike broke, and he asked him to come up to his rooms and have adrink. They remained talking till daybreak, and separated as friendsin the light of the empty town. Next day they dined together, and afew days after Frank and Lizzie breakfasted with Mike at hislodgings. But during the next month they saw very little of him, andthis pause in the course of dining and journalistic discussion, indicating, as Frank thought it did, a coolness on Mike's part, determined the relation of these two men. When they ran against eachother in the corridor of a theatre, Frank eagerly button-holed Mike, and asked him why he had not been to dine at Lubini's, and notsuspecting that he dined there only when he was in funds, wassurprised at his evasive answers. Mistress and lover were equallyanxious to know why they had not been able to find him in any of theusual haunts; he urged a press of work, but it transpired he washarassed by creditors, and was looking out for rooms. Frank toldhim he was thinking of moving into the Temple. 

"Lucky fellow! I wish I could afford to live there. "

"I wish you could.... The apartment I have in mind is too large forme, you might take the half of it. "

Mike knew where his comforts lay, and he accepted his friend's offer. There they founded, and there they edited, the _Pilgrim_, a weeklysixpenny paper devoted to young men, their doings, their amusements, their literature, and their art. Under their dual editorship thisjournal had prospered; it now circulated five thousand a week, andpublished twelve pages of advertisements. Frank, whose bent washospitality, was therefore able to entertain his friends as itpleased him, and his rooms were daily and nightly filled withrevelling lords, comic vocalists, and chorus girls. Mike often cravedfor other amusements and other society. Temple Gardens was but onepage in the book of life, and every page in that book was equallyinteresting to him. He desired all amusements, to know all things, tobe loved by every one; and longing for new sensations of life, heoften escaped to the Cock tavern for a quiet dinner with some youngbarristers, and a quiet smoke afterwards with them in their rooms. Itwas there he had met John Norton. 

The _Pilgrim_ was composed of sixteen columns of paragraphs in whichsociety, art, and letters were dealt with--the form of expressionpreferred being the most exaggerated. Indeed, the formula ofcriticism that Mike and Frank, guided by Harding, had developed, wasto consider as worthless all that the world held in estimation, andto laud as best all that world had agreed to discard. John Norton'sviews regarding Latin literature had been adopted, and Virgil wasdeclared to be the great old bore of antiquity, and some three orfour quite unknown names, gathered amid the Fathers, were uponoccasion trailed in triumph with adjectives of praise. 

What painter of Madonnas does the world agree to consider as thegreatest? Raphael--Raphael was therefore decried as being scarcelysuperior to Sir Frederick Leighton; and one of the early Italianpainters, Francesco Bianchi, whom Vasari exhumes in some three orfour lines, was praised as possessing a subtle and mysterious talentvery different indeed from the hesitating smile of La Jaconde. Thereis a picture of the Holy Family by him in the Louvre, and of itHarding wrote--"This canvas exhales for us the most deliciousemanations, sorrowful bewitchments, insidious sacrileges, andtroubled prayers. "

All institutions, especially the Royal Academy, St. Paul's Cathedral, Drury Lane Theatre, and Eton College, were held to be the symbols ofman's earthiness, the bar-room and music-hall as certain proof of hisdivine origin; actors were scorned and prize-fighters revered; thegenius of courtesans, the folly of education, and the poetry ofpantomime formed the themes on which the articles which made thecentre of the paper were written. Insolent letters were addressed toeminent people, and a novel by Harding, the hero of which was abutler and the heroine a cook, was in course of publication. 

Mike was about to begin a series of articles in this genial journal, entitled _Lions of the Season_. His first lion was a young man whohad invented a pantomime, _Pierrot murders his Wife_, which he wasacting with success in fashionable drawing-rooms. A mute bringsPierrot back more dead than alive from the cemetery, and throws himin a chair. When Pierrot recovers he re-acts the murder before aportrait of his wife--how he tied her down and tickled her to death. Then he begins drinking, and finally sets fire to the curtains of thebed and is burnt. 

It was the day before publishing day, and since breakfast the youngmen had been drinking, smoking, telling tales, and writingparagraphs; from time to time the page-boy brought in proofs, andthe narrators made pause till he had left the room. Frank continuedreading Mike's manuscript, now and then stopping to praise afelicitous epithet. 

At last he said--"Harding, what do you think of this?--'The Sphynx isrepresentative of the grave and monumental genius of Egypt, the Faunof the gracious genius of Rome, the Pierrot of the fantastic geniusof the Renaissance. And, in this one creation, I am not sure thatthe seventeenth does not take the palm from the earlier centuries. Pierrot!--there is music, there is poetry in the name. The soul of anepoch lives in that name, evocative as it is of shadowy trees, lawnyspaces, brocade, pointed bodices, high heels and guitars. And inexpression how much more perfect is he than his ancestor, the Faun!His animality is indicated without coarse or awkward symbolism;without cloven hoof or hirsute ears--only a white face, a long whitedress with large white buttons, and a black skull-cap; and yet, somehow, the effect is achieved. The great white creature is notquite human--hereditary sin has not descended upon him; he is notquite responsible for his acts. '"

"I like the paragraph, " said Harding; "you finish up, of course, withthe apotheosis of pantomimists, and announce him as one of the lionsof the season. Who are your other lions and lionesses?"

"The others will be far better, " said Mike. He took a cigarette froma silver box on the table, and, speaking as he puffed at it, enteredinto the explanation of his ideas. 

Mademoiselle D'Or, the _première danseuse_ who had just arrived fromVienna, was to be the lioness of next week. Mike told how he wouldtranslate into words the insidious poetry of the blossom-like skirtthat the pink body pierces like a stem, the beautiful springing, the lifted arms, then the flight from the wings; the posturing, theartificial smiles; this art a survival of Oriental tradition; thisart at once so carnal and so enthusiastically ideal. "A prize-fighterwill follow the _danseuse_. And I shall gloat in Gautier-likecadence--if I can catch it--over each superb muscle and each splendiddevelopment. But my best article will be on Kitty Carew. Since LauraBell and Mabel Grey our courtesans have been but a mediocre lot. "

"You must not say that in the _Pilgrim_--we should offend all ourfriends, " Harding said, and he poured himself out a brandy-and-soda. 

Mike laughed, and walking up and down the room, he continued--

"That it should be so is inexplicable, that it is so is certain; wehave not had since Mabel Grey died a courtesan whom a foreign prince, passing London, would visit as a matter of course as he would visitSt. Paul's or Westminster Abbey; and yet London has advancedenormously in all that constitutes wealth and civilization. In Paris, as in ancient Greece, courtesans are rich, brilliant, and depraved;here in London the women are poor, stupid, and almost virtuous. Kittyis revolution. I know for a fact that she has had as much as £1000from a foreign potentate, and she spends in one day upon hertiger-cat what would keep a poor family in affluence for a week. Norcan she say half a dozen words without being witty. What do you thinkof this? We were discussing the old question, if it were well for awoman to have a sweetheart. Kitty said, 'London has given meeverything but that. I can always find a man who will give me fiveand twenty guineas, but a sweetheart I can't find. '"

Every pen stopped, and expectation was on every face. After a pauseMike continued--

"Kitty said, 'In the first place he must please me, and I am verydifficult to please; then I must please him, and sufficiently for himto give up his whole time to me. And he must not be poor, foralthough he would not give me money, it would cost him severalhundreds a year to invite me to dinner and send me flowers. And wheream I to find this combination of qualities?' Can't you hear hersaying it, her sweet face like a tea-rose, those innocent blue eyesall laughing with happiness? The great stockbroker, who has been withher for the last ten years, settled fifty thousand pounds when hefirst took her up. She was speaking to me about him the other day, and when I said, 'Why didn't you leave him when the money wassettled?' she said, 'Oh no, I wouldn't do a dirty trick like that;I contented myself simply by being unfaithful to him. '"

"This is no doubt very clever, but if you put all you have told usinto your article, you'll certainly have the paper turned off thebook-stalls. "

The conversation paused. Every one finished his brandy-and-soda, andthe correction of proofs was continued in silence, interrupted onlyby an occasional oath or a word of remonstrance from Frank, whobegged Drake, a huge-shouldered man, whose hand was never out of thecigarette-box, not to drop the lighted ends on the carpet. Mike wasreading Harding's article. 

"I think we shall have a good number this week, " said Mike. "But wewant a piece of verse. I wonder if you could get something from JohnNorton. What do you think of Norton, Harding?"

"He is one of the most interesting men I know. His pessimism, hisCatholicism, his yearning for ritual, his very genuine hatred ofwomen, it all fascinates me. "

"What do you think of that poem he told us of the other night?"

"Intensely interesting; but he will never be able to complete it. Aman may be full of talent and yet be nothing of an artist; a man maybe far less clever than Norton, and with a subtler artistic sense. Ifa seal had really something to say, I believe it would find a way ofsaying it; but has John Norton really got any idea so overwhelminglynew and personal that it would force a way of utterance where noneexisted? The Christian creed with its tale of Mary must be of allcreeds most antipathetic to his natural instincts, he neverthelessaccepts it.... If you agitate a pool from different sides you muststir up mud, and this is what occurs in Norton's brain; it isagitated equally from different sides, and the result is mud. "

Mike looked at Harding inquiringly, for a moment wondered if thenovelist understood him as he seemed to understand Norton. 

A knock was heard, and Norton entered. His popularity was visible inthe pleasant smiles and words which greeted him. 

"You are just the man we want, " cried Frank. "We want to publish oneof your poems in the paper this week. "

"I have burnt my poems, " he answered, with something more ofsacerdotal tone and gesture than usual. 

All the scribblers looked up. "You don't mean to say seriously thatyou have burnt your poems?"

"Yes; but I do not care to discuss my reasons. You do not feel as Ido. "

"You mean to say that you have burnt _The Last Struggle_--the poemyou told us about the other night?"

"Yes, I felt I could not reconcile its teaching, or I should say thetendency of its teaching, to my religion. I do not regret--besides, Ihad to do it; I felt I was going off my head. I should have gone mad. I have been through agonies. I could not think. Thought and pain andtrouble were as one in my brain. I heard voices.... I had to do it. And now a great calm has come. I feel much better. "

"You are a curious chap. "

Then at the end of a long silence John said, as if he wished tochange the conversation--

"Even though I did burn my pessimistic poem, the world will not gowithout one. You are writing a poem on Schopenhauer's philosophy. It is hard to associate pessimism with you. "

"Only because you take the ordinary view of the tendency ofpessimistic teaching, " said Mike. "If you want a young and laughingworld, preach Schopenhauer at every street corner; if you want asober utilitarian world, preach Comte. "

"Doesn't much matter what the world is as long as it is not sober, "chuckled Platt, the paragraph-writing youth at the bottom of thetable. 

"Hold your tongue!" cried Drake, and he lighted another cigarettepreparatory to fixing his whole attention on the paradox that Mikewas about to enounce. 

"The optimist believes in the regeneration of the race, in itsultimate perfectibility, the synthesis of humanity, the providentialidea, and the path of the future; he therefore puts on a shovel hat, cries out against lust, and depreciates prostitution. "

"Oh, the brute!" chuckled the wizen youth, "without prostitutes andpublic-houses! what a world to live in!"

"The optimist counsels manual labour for all. The pessimist believesthat forgetfulness and nothingness is the whole of man. He says, 'Idefy the wisest of you to tell me why I am here, and being here, whatgood is gained by my assisting to bring others here. ' The pessimistis therefore the gay Johnny, and the optimist is the melancholyJohnny. The former drinks champagne and takes his 'tart' out todinner, the latter says that life is not intended to be happyin--that there is plenty of time to rest when you are dead. "

John laughed loudly; but a moment after, reassuming his look ofadmonition, he asked Mike to tell him about his poem. 

"The subject is astonishingly beautiful, " said Mike; "I only speak ofthe subject; no one, not even Victor Hugo or Shelley, ever conceiveda finer theme. But they had execution, I have only the idea. Isuppose the world to have ended; but ended, how? Man has at lastrecognized that life is, in equal parts, misery and abomination, andhas resolved that it shall cease. The tide of passion has againrisen, and lashed by repression to tenfold fury, the shores of lifehave again been strewn with new victims; but knowledge--calm, will-less knowledge--has gradually invaded all hearts; and therestless, shifting sea (which is passion) shrinks to its furthestlimits. 

"There have been Messiahs, there have been persecutions, but the Wordhas been preached unintermittently. Crowds have gathered to listento the wild-eyed prophets. You see them on the desert promontories, preaching that human life must cease; they call it a disgracefulepisode in the life of one of the meanest of the planets--you seethem hunted and tortured as were their ancestors, the Christians ofthe reign of Diocletian. You see them entering cottage doors andmaking converts in humble homes. The world, grown tired of vainmisery, accepts oblivion. 

"The rage and the seething of the sea is the image I select torepresent the struggle for life. The dawn is my image for thediffusion and triumph of sufficient reason. In a couple of hundredlines I have set my scene, and I begin. It is in the plains ofNormandy; of countless millions only two friends remain. One of themis dying. As the stars recede he stretches his hand to his companion, breathes once more, looking him in the face, joyous in the attainmentof final rest. A hole is scraped, and the last burial is achieved. Then the man, a young beautiful man with the pallor of long vigilsand spiritual combat upon his face, arises. 

"The scene echoes strangely the asceticism that produced it. Rose-garden and vineyard are gone; there are no fields, norhedgerows, nor gables seen picturesquely on a sky, human with smokemildly ascending. A broken wall that a great elm tears and rends, startles the silence; apple-orchards spread no flowery snow, and thefamiliar thrushes have deserted the moss-grown trees, in other timestheir trees; and the virgin forest ceases only to make bleak placefor marish plains with lonely pools and stagnating streams, whereperchance a heron rises on blue and heavy wings. 

"All the beautiful colours the world had worn when she was man'smistress are gone, and now, as if mourning for her lover and lord, she is clad only in sombre raiment. Since her lord departed she bearsbut scanty fruit, and since her lover left her, she that was glad hasgrown morose; her joy seems to have died with his; and the feeling ofgloom is heightened, when at the sound of the man's footsteps a packof wild dogs escape from a ruin, where they have been sleeping, andwake the forest with lugubrious yelps and barks. About the dismantledporches no single rose--the survival of roses planted by some fairwoman's hand--remains to tell that man was once there--worked therefor his daily bread, seeking a goodness and truth in life which wasnot his lot to attain. 

"There are few open spaces, and the man has to follow the tracks ofanimals. Sometimes he comes upon a herd of horses feeding in a glade;they turn and look upon him in a round-eyed surprise, and he seesthem galloping on the hill-sides, their manes and tails floating inthe wind. 

"Paris is covered with brushwood, and trees and wood from the shorehave torn away the bridges, of which only a few fragments remain. Dimand desolate are those marshes now in the twilight shedding. 

"The river swirls through multitudinous ruins, lighted by a crescentmoon; clouds hurry and gather and bear away the day. The man standslike a saint of old, who, on the last verge of the desert, turns andsmiles upon the world he conquered. 

"The great night collects and advances in shadow; and wanderingvapour, taking fire in the darkness, rolls, tumbling over and overlike fiery serpents, through loneliness and reeds. 

"But in the eternal sunshine of the South flowers have not becomeextinct; winds have carried seeds hither and thither, and the earthhas waxed lovely, and the calm of the spiritual evenings of theAdriatic descend upon eternal perfume and the songs of birds. Symbolof pain or joy there is none, and the august silence is undisturbedby tears. From rotting hangings in Venice rats run, and that idlewave of palace-stairs laps in listless leisure the fallen glories ofVeronese. As it is with painters so it is with poets, and wolf cubstear the pages of the last _Divine Comedy_ in the world. Rome is hisgreat agony, her shameful history falls before his eyes like apainted curtain. All the inner nature of life is revealed to him, andhe sees into the heart of things as did Christ in the Garden ofGethsemane--Christ, that most perfect symbol of the denial of thewill to live; and, like Christ, he cries that the world may pass fromhim. 

"But in resignation, hatred and horror vanish, and he muses again onthe more than human redemption, the great atonement that man has madefor his shameful life's history; and standing amid the orange andalmond trees, amid a profusion of bloom that the world seems to havebrought for thank-offering, amid an apparent and glorious victory ofinanimate nature, he falls down in worship of his race that hadfreely surrendered all, knowing it to be nothing, and in surrenderhad gained all. 

"In that moment of intense consciousness a cry breaks the stillness, and searching among the marbles he finds a dying woman. Gatheringsome fruit, he gives her to eat, and they walk together, sheconsidering him as saviour and lord, he wrapped in the contemplationof the end. They are the end, and all paling fascination, which isthe world, is passing from them, and they are passing from it. Andthe splendour of gold and red ascends and spreads--crown and raimentof a world that has regained its primal beauty. 

"'We are alone, ' the woman says. 'The world is ours; we are as kingand queen, and greater than any king or queen. '

"Her dark olive skin changes about the neck like a fruit near toripen, and the large arms, curving deeply, fall from the shoulder insuperb indolences of movement, and the hair, varying from burnt-upblack to blue, curls like a fleece adown the shoulders. She is largeand strong, a fitting mother of man, supple in the joints as theyoung panther that has just bounded into the thickets; and her richalmond eyes, dark, and moon-like in their depth of mystery, are fixedon him. Then he awakes to the danger of the enchantment; but shepleads that they, the last of mankind, may remain watching over eachother till the end; and seeing his eyes flash, her heart rejoices. And out of the glare of the moon they passed beneath the sycamores. And listening to the fierce tune of the nightingales in the duskydaylight there, temptation hisses like a serpent; and the womanlistens, and drawing herself about the man, she says--

"'The world is ours; let us make it ours for ever; let us give birthto a new race more great and beautiful than that which is dead. Loveme, for I am love; all the dead beauties of the race are incarnate inme. I am the type and epitome of all. Was the Venus we saw yesterdayamong the myrtles more lovely than I?'

"But he casts her from him, asking in despair (for he loves her) ifthey are to renew the misery and abomination which it required allthe courage and all the wisdom of all the ages to subdue? He callsnames from love's most fearful chronicle--Cleopatra, Faustina, Borgia. A little while and man's shameful life will no longer disturbthe silence of the heavens. But no perception of life's shame touchesthe heart of the woman. 'I am love, ' she cries again. 'Take me, andmake me the mother of men. In me are incarnate all the love songs ofthe world. I am Beatrice; I am Juliet. I shall be all love toyou--Fair Rosamond and Queen Eleanor. I am the rose! I am thenightingale!'

"She follows him in all depths of the forests wherever he may go. Inthe white morning he finds her kneeling by him, and in blue and roseevening he sees her whiteness crouching in the brake. He has fled toa last retreat in the hills where he thought she could not follow, and after a long day of travel lies down. But she comes upon him inhis first sleep, and with amorous arms uplifted, and hair shed to theknee, throws herself upon him. It is in the soft and sensual scent ofthe honeysuckle. The bright lips strive, and for an instant his soulturns sick with famine for the face; but only for an instant, and ina supreme revulsion of feeling he beseeches her, crying that theworld may not end as it began, in blood. But she heeds him not, andto save the generations he dashes her on the rocks. 

"Man began in bloodshed, in bloodshed he has ended. 

"Standing against the last tinge of purple, he gazes for a last timeupon the magnificence of a virgin world, seeing the tawny forms oflions in the shadows, watching them drinking at the stream. "

"Adam and Eve at the end of the world, " said Drake. "A very prettysubject; but I distinctly object to an Eve with black hair. Eve andgolden hair have ever been considered inseparable things. "

"That's true, " said Platt; "the moment my missis went wrong her hairturned yellow. "

Mike joined in the jocularity, but at the first pause he asked Escottwhat he thought of his poem. 

"I have only one fault to find. Does not the _dénouement_ seem tooviolent? Would it not be better if the man were to succeed inescaping from her, and then vexed with scruples to return and findher dead? What splendid lamentations over the body of the lastwoman!--and as the man wanders beneath the waxing and waning moon hehears nature lamenting the last woman. Mountains, rocks, forests, speak to him only of her. "

"Yes, that would do.... But no--what am I saying? Such a conclusionwould be in exact contradiction to the philosophy of my poem. For itis man's natural and inveterate stupidity (Schopenhauer calls itWill) that forces man to live and continue his species. Reason is theopposing force. As time goes on reason becomes more and morecomplete, until at last it turns upon the will and denies it, likethe scorpion, which, if surrounded by a ring of fire, will turn andsting itself to death. Were the man to escape, and returning find thewoman dead, it would not be reason but accident which put an end tothis ridiculous world. "

Seeing that attention was withdrawn from him Drake filled his pocketswith cigarettes, split a soda with Platt, and seized upon theentrance of half a dozen young men as an excuse for ceasing to writeparagraphs. Although it had only struck six they were all in eveningdress. They were under thirty, and in them elegance and dissipationwere equally evident. Lord Muchross, a clean-shaven Johnnie, walkedat the head of the gang, assuming by virtue of his greater volubilitya sort of headship. Dicky, the driver, a stout commoner, spoke ofdrink; and a languid blonde, Lord Snowdown, leaned against thechimney-piece displaying a thin figure. The others took seats andlaughed whenever Lord Muchross spoke. 

"Here we are, old chappie, just in time to drink to the health of thenumber. Ha, ha, ha! What damned libel have you in this week? Ha, ha!"

"Awful bad head, a heavy day yesterday, " said Dicky--"drunk blind. "

"Had to put him in a wheelbarrow, wheeled him into a greengrocer'sshop, put a carrot in his mouth, and rang the bell, " shoutedMuchross. 

"Ha, ha, ha!" shouted the others. 

"Had a rippin' day all the same, didn't we, old Dicky? Went up theriver in Snowdown's launch. Had lunch by Tag's Island, went as far asDatchet. There we met Dicky; he tooted us round by Staines. There wegot in a fresh team, galloped all the way to Houndslow. Laura broughther sister. Kitty was with us. Made us die with a story she told usof a fellow she was spoony on. Had to put him under the bed.... Ghastly joke, dear boy!"

Amid roars of laughter Dicky's voice was heard--

"She calls him Love's martyr; he nearly died of bronchitis, andbecame a priest. Kitty swears she'll go to confession to him one ofthese days. "

"By Jove, if she does I'll publish it in the _Pilgrim_. "

"Too late this week, " Mike said to Frank. 

"We got to town by half past six, went round to the Cri. To have asherry-and-bitters, dined at the Royal, went on to the Pav. , and onwith all the girls in hansoms, four in each, to Snowdown's. "

"See me dance the polka, dear boy, " cried the languid lord, awakingsuddenly from his indolence, and as he pranced across the room mostof his drink went over Drake's neck; and amid oaths and laughterEscott besought of the revellers to retire. 

"We are still four columns short, we must get on. " And for an hourand a half the scratching of the pens was only interrupted by thestriking of a match and an occasional damn. At six they adjourned tothe office. They walked along the Strand swinging their sticks, fullof consciousness of a day's work done. Drake and Platt, who hadavenged some private wrongs in their paragraphs, were disturbed bythe fear of libel; Harding gnawed the end of his moustache, andreconsidered his attack on a contemporary writer, pointing his gibesafresh. 

They trooped up-stairs, the door was thrown open. It was a smalloffice, and at the end of the partitioned space a clerk sat in frontof a ledger on a high stool, his face against the window. Lounging onthe counter, turning over the leaves of back numbers, they discussedthe advertisements. They stood up when Lady Helen entered. [Footnote:See _A Modern Lover_. ] She had come to speak to Frank about a poem, and she only paused in her rapid visit to shake hands with Harding, and she asked Mike if his poems would be published that season. 

The contributors to the _Pilgrim_ dined together on Wednesday, andspent four shillings a head in an old English tavern, where unlimitedjoint and vegetables could be obtained for half-a-crown. Theold-fashioned boxes into which the guests edged themselves had notbeen removed, and about the mahogany bar, placed in the passage infront of the proprietress's parlour, two dingy barmaids served actorsfrom the adjoining theatre with whisky-and-water. The contributors tothe _Pilgrim_ had selected a box, and were clamouring for food. Smacking his lips, the head-waiter, an antiquity who cashed chequesand told stories about Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray, stopped infront of this table. 

"Roast beef, very nice--a nice cut, sir; saddle of mutton just up. "

All decided for saddle of mutton. 

"Saddle of mutton, number three. "

Greasy and white the carver came, and as if the meat were a delightthe carver sliced it out. Some one remarked this. 

"That is nothing, " said Thompson; "you should hear Hopkins gruntingas he cuts the venison on Tuesdays and Fridays, and how he sucks hislips as he ladles out the gravy. We only enjoy a slice or two, whereas his pleasure ends only with the haunch. "

The evening newspapers were caught up, glanced at, and abused asworthless rags, and the editors covered with lively ridicule. 

The conversation turned on Boulogne, where Mike had loved manysolicitors' wives, and then on the impurity of the society girl andthe prurient purity of her creation--the "English" novel. 

"I believe that it is so, " said Harding; "and in her immorality wefind the reason for all this bewildering outcry against the slightestlicense in literature. Strange that in a manifestly impure age thereshould be a national tendency towards chaste literature. I am notsure that a moral literature does not of necessity imply much laxityin practical morality. We seek in art what we do not find inourselves, and it would be true to nature to represent an unfortunatewoman delighting in reading of such purity as her own life dailyinsulted and contradicted; and the novel is the rag in which thisleper age coquets before the mirror of its hypocrisy, rehearsing thedeception it would practise on future time. "

"You must consider the influence of impure literature upon youngpeople, " said John. 

"No, no; the influence of a book is nothing; it is life thatinfluences and corrupts. I sent my story of a drunken woman toRandall, and the next time I heard from him he wrote to say he hadmarried his mistress, and he knew she was a drunkard. "

"It is easy to prove that bad books don't do any harm; if they did, by the same rule good books would do good, and the world would havebeen converted long ago, " said Frank. 

Harding thought how he might best appropriate the epigram, and whenthe influence of the liberty lately acquired by girls had beendiscussed--the right to go out shopping in the morning, to sit outdances on dark stairs; in a word, the decadence and overthrow of thechaperon--the conversation again turned on art. 

"It is very difficult, " said Harding, "to be great as the old masterswere great. A man is great when every one is great. In the great agesif you were not great you did not exist at all, but in these dayseverything conspires to support the weak. "

Out of deference to John, who had worn for some time a very solidlook of disapproval, Mike ceased to discourse on half-hours passed onstaircases, and in summer-houses when the gardener had gone todinner, and he spoke about naturalistic novels and an exhibition ofpastels. 

"As time goes on, poetry, history, philosophy, will so multiply thatthe day will come when the learned will not even know the names oftheir predecessors. There is nothing that will not increase out ofall reckoning except the naturalistic novel. A man may write twentyvolumes of poetry, history, and philosophy, but a man will never beborn who will write more than two, at the most three, naturalisticnovels. The naturalistic novel is the essence of a phase of lifethat the writer has lived in and assimilated. If you take intoconsideration the difficulty of observing twice, of the time anexperience takes to ripen in you, you will easily understand_à priori_ that the man will never be born who will write threerealistic novels. "

Coffee and cigars were ordered, and Harding extolled the charm andgrace of pastels. 

Thompson said--"I keep pastels for my hours of idleness--cowardlyhours, when I have no heart to struggle with nature, and may butsmile and kiss my hand to her at a distance. For dreaming I knownothing like pastel; it is the painter's opium pipe.... Latour wasthe greatest pastellist of the eighteenth century, and he neverattempted more than a drawing heightened with colour. But howsuggestive, how elegant, how well-bred!"

Then in reply to some flattery on the personality of his art, Thompson said, "It is strange, for I assure you no art was ever lessspontaneous than mine. What I do is the result of reflection andstudy of the great masters; of inspiration, spontaneity, temperament--temperament is the word--I know nothing. When I hearpeople talk about temperament, it always seem to me like the strongman in the fair, who straddles his legs, and asks some one to stepupon the palm of his hand. "

Drake joined in the discussion, and the chatter that came from thisenormous man was as small as his head, which sat like a pin's-headabove his shoulders. Platt drifted from the obscene into theincomprehensible. The room was fast emptying, and the waiterloitered, waiting to be paid. 

"We must be getting off, " said Mike; "it is nearly eleven o'clock, and we have still the best part of the paper to read through. "

"Don't be in such a damned hurry, " said Frank, authoritatively. 

Harding bade them good-night at the door, and the editors walked downFleet Street. To pass up a rickety court to the printer's, or to gothrough the stage-door to the stage, produced similar sensationsin Mike. The white-washed wall, the glare of the raw gas, the lowmonotonous voice of the reading-boy, like one studying a part, orperhaps like the murmur of the distant audience; the boy coming inasking for "copy" or proof, like the call-boy, with his "Curtain'sgoing up, gentlemen. " Is there not analogy between the preparationof the paper that will be before the public in the morning, and thepreparation of the play that will be before its eyes in the evening?

From the glass closet where they waited for the "pages, " they couldsee the compositors bending over the forms. The light lay upon a redbeard, a freckled neck, the crimson of the volutes of an ear. 

In the glass closet there were three wooden chairs, a table, and aninkstand; on the shelf by the door a few books--the _LondonDirectory_, an _English Dictionary_, a _French Dictionary_--thetitles of the remaining books did not catch the eye. As they waited, for no "pages" would be ready for them for some time, Mike glanced atstray numbers of two trade journals. It seemed to him strange thatthe same compositors who set up these papers should set up the_Pilgrim_. 

Presently the "pages" began to come in, but long delays intervened, and it transpired that some of the "copy" was not yet in type. Frankgrew weary, and he complained of headache, and asked Mike to see thepaper through for him. Mike thought Frank selfish, but there was nohelp for it. He could not refuse, but must wait in the paraffin-likesmell of the ink, listening to the droning voice of the reading-boy. If he could only get the proof of his poem he could kill time bycorrecting it; but it could not be obtained. Two hours passed, andhe still sat watching the red beard of a compositor, and the crimsonvolutes of an ear. At last the printer's devil, his short sleevesrolled up, brought in a couple of pages. Mike read, following thelines with his pen, correcting the literals, and he cursed when the"devil" told him that ten more lines of copy were wanting to completepage nine. What should he write?

About two o'clock, holding her ball-skirts out of the dirt, a ladyentered. 

"How do you do, Emily?" said Mike. "Just fancy seeing you here, andat this hour!" He was glad of the interruption; but his pleasure wasdashed by the fear that she would ask him to come home with her. 

"Oh, I have had such a pleasant party; So-and-so sang at LadySouthey's. Oh, I have enjoyed myself! I knew I should find you here;but I am interrupting. I will go. " She put her arm round his neck. He looked at her diamonds, and congratulated himself that she wasa lady. 

"I am afraid I am interrupting you, " she said again. 

"Oh no, you aren't, I shall be done in half an hour; I have only gota few more pages to read through. Escott went away, selfish brutethat he is, and has left me to do all the work. "

She sat by his side contentedly reading what he had written. Athalf-past two all the pages were passed for press, and they descendedthe spiral iron staircase, through the grease and vinegar smell ofthe ink, in view of heads and arms of a hundred compositors, inhearing of the drowsy murmur of the reading-boy. Her brougham was atthe door. As she stepped in Mike screwed up his courage and saidgood-bye. 

"Won't you come?" she said, with disappointment in her eyes. 

"No, not to-night. I have been slaving at that paper for the lastfour hours. Thanks; not to-night. Good-bye; I'll see you next week. "

The brougham rolled away, and Mike walked home. The hands of theclocks were stretching towards three, and only a few drink-disfiguredcreatures of thirty-five or forty lingered; so horrible were theythat he did not answer their salutations. 

CHAPTER IV

Mike was in his bath when Frank entered. 

"What, not dressed yet?"

"All very well for you to talk. You left me at eleven to get thepaper out as best I could. I did not get away from the printer'sbefore half-past two. "

"I'm very sorry, but you've no idea how ill I felt. I really couldn'thave stayed on. I heard you come in. You weren't alone. "

The room was pleasant with the Eau de Lubin, and Mike's beautifulfigure appealed to Frank's artistic sense; and he noticed it inrelation to the twisted oak columns of the bed. The body, it wassmooth and white as marble; and the pectoral muscles were especiallybeautiful when he leaned forward to wipe a lifted leg. He turned, andthe back narrowed like a leaf, and expanded in shapes as subtle. Hewas really a superb animal as he stepped out of his bath. 

"I wish to heavens you'd dress. Leave off messing yourself about. I want breakfast. Lizzie's waiting. What are you putting on thoseclothes for? Where are you going?"

"I am going to see Lily Young. She wrote to me this morning sayingshe had her mother's permission to ask me to come. "

"She won't like you any better for all that scent and washing. "

"Which of these neckties do you like?"

"I don't know.... I wish you'd be quick. Come on!"

As he fixed his tie with a pearl pin he whistled the "Wedding March. "Catching Frank's eyes, he laughed and sang at the top of his voice ashe went down the passage. 

Lizzie was reading in one of the arm-chairs that stood by the highchimney-piece tall with tiles and blue vases. The stiffness and glareof the red cloth in which the room was furnished, contrasted with thesoft colour of the tapestry which covered one wall. The round tableshone with silver, and an agreeable smell of coffee and sausagespervaded the room. Lizzie looked up astonished; but without givingher time to ask questions, Mike seized her and rushed her up anddown. 

"Let me go! let me go!" she exclaimed. "Are you mad?"

Frank caught up his fiddle. At last Lizzie wrenched herself fromMike. 

"What do you mean? ... Such nonsense!"

Laughing, Mike placed her in a chair, and uncovering a dish, said--

"What shall I give you this happy day?"

"What do you mean? I don't like being pulled about. "

"You know what tune that is? That's the 'Wedding March. '"

"Who's going to be married? Not you. "

"I don't know so much about that. At all events I am in love. Thesensation is delicious--like an ice or a glass of Chartreuse. Reallove--all the others were coarse passions--I feel it here, thegenuine article. You would not believe that I could fall in love. "

"Listen to me, " said Lizzie. "You wouldn't talk like that if you werein love. "

"I always talk; it relieves me. You have no idea how nice she is; sofrail, so white--a white blonde, a Seraphita. But you haven't readBalzac; you do not know those white women of the North. '_Plusblanche que la blanche hermine_, ' etc. So pure is she that I cannotthink of kissing her without sensations of sacrilege. My lips are notpure enough for hers. I would I were chaste. I never was chaste. "

Mike laughed and chattered of everything. Words came from him likeflour from a mill. 

The _Pilgrim_ was published on Wednesday. Wednesday was the day, therefore, for walking in the Park; for lunching out; for driving inhansoms. Like a fish on the crest of a wave he surveyedLondon--multitudinous London, circulating about him; and he smiledwith pleasure when he caught sight of trees spreading their summergreen upon the curling whiteness of the clouds. He loved the Park. The Park had always been his friend; it had given him society when nodoor was open to him; it had been the inspiration of all hisambitions; it was the Park that had first showed him ladies andgentlemen in all the gaud and charm of town leisure. There he hadseen for the first time the panorama of slanting sunshades, patentleather shoes, horses cantering in the dusty sunlight, or proudlygrouped, the riders flicking the flies away with gold-headed whips. He loved the androgynous attire of the horsewomen--collars, silkhats, and cravats. The Park appealed to him intensely and strangelyas nothing else did. He loved the Park for the great pasture itafforded to his vanity. It was in the Park he saw the fashionableprocuress driving--she who would not allow him to pay even forchampagne in her house; it was in the Park he met the little actresswho looked so beseechingly in his face; it was in the Park he metfashionable ladies who asked him to dinner and took him to thetheatre; it was in the Park he had found life and fortune, and, saturated with happiness, with health, tingling with consciousness ofhis happiness, Mike passed among the various crowd, which in itslistlessness seemed to balance and air itself like a many-petalledflower. But much as the crowd amused and pleased him, he was moreamused and pleased with the present vision of his own personality, which in a long train of images and stories passed within him. Heloved to dream of himself; in dreams he entered his soul like atemple, seeing himself in various environment, and acting in manifoldcircumstances. 

"Here am I--a poor boy from the bogs of Ireland--poor people" (thereflection was an unpleasant one, and he escaped from it); "at allevents a poor boy without money or friends. I have made myself what Iam.... I get the best of everything--women, eating, clothes; I livein beautiful rooms surrounded with pretty things. True, they are notmine, but what does that matter?--I haven't the bother of lookingafter them.... If I could only get rid of that cursed accent, but Ihaven't much; Escott has nearly as much, and he was brought up at anEnglish school. How pleasant it is to have money! Heigho! Howpleasant it is to have money! Six pounds a week from the paper, and Icould make easily another four if I chose. Sometimes I don't get anypresents; women seem as if they were going to chuck it up, and thenthey send all things--money, jewelry, and comestibles. I am sure itwas Ida who sent that hundred pounds. What should I do if it evercame out? But there's nothing to come out. I believe I am suspected, but nothing can be proved against me. 

"Why do they love me? I always treat them badly. Often I don't evenpretend to love them, but it makes no difference. Pious women, wickedwomen, stupid women, clever women, high-class women, low-class women, it is all the same--all love me. That little girl I picked up in theStrand liked me before she had been talking to me five minutes. Andwhat sudden fancies! I come into a room, and every feminine eye fillswith sudden emotion. I wonder what it is. My nose is broken, and mychin sticks out like a handle. And men like me just as much as womendo. It is inexplicable. True, I never say disagreeable things; and itis so natural to me to wheedle. I twist myself about them like atwining plant about a window. Women forgive me everything, and areglad to see me after years. But they are never wildly jealous. Perhaps I have never been really loved.... I don't know though--LadySeeley loved me. There was an old lady at Margate, sixty if she was aday (of course there was nothing improper), and she worshipped me. How nicely she used to smile when she said, 'Come round here that Imay look at you!'--and her husband was quite as bad; he'd run allover the place after me. So-and-so was quite offended because Ididn't rush to see him; he'd put me up for six months.... Servantshate Frank; for me they'd do anything. I never was in a lodging-housein my life that the slavey didn't fall in love with me. Peopledislike me; I speak to them for five minutes, and henceforth they runafter me. I make friends everywhere. 

"Those Americans wanted me to come and stay six months with them inNew York. How she did press me to come! ... The Brookes, they want meto come and stay in the country with them; they'd give me horses toride, guns to shoot, and I'd get the girls besides. They lookedrather greedily at me just now. How jealous poor old Emily is ofthem! She says I'd 'go to the end of the earth for them'--and wouldnot raise a little finger for her. Dear old Emily, she wasn't a bitcross the other night when I wouldn't go home with her. I must go andsee her. She says she loved me--really loved me! ... She used to lieand dream of pulling me out of burning houses. I wonder why I amliked! How intangible, and yet how real! What a wonderful character Iwould make in a novel!"

At that moment he saw Mrs. Byril in the crowd; but notwithstandinghis kind thoughts of her, he prayed she might pass without seeinghim. Perceiving Lady Helen walking with her husband and Harding, hefollowed her slim figure with his eyes, remembering what Seymour'sgood looks had brought him, for he envied all love, desiring to behimself all that women desire. Then his thoughts wandered. Thedecoration of the Park absorbed him--the nobility of a group ofhorses, the attractiveness of some dresses; and amid all thiselegance and parade he dreamed of tragedy--of some queen blowing herbrains out for him--and he saw the fashionable dress and the bloodoozing from the temple, trickling slowly through the sand. Then LordsMuchross and Snowdown passed, and they passed without acknowledginghim!

"Cads, cads, damn them!" His face changed expression. "I may rise toany height, queens may fall down and worship me, but I may never undomy birth. Not to have been born a gentleman! That is to say, of along line--a family with a history. Not to be able to whisper, 'I maylose everything, all troubles may be mine, but the fact remains thatI was born a gentleman!' Those two men who cut me are lords. What adelight in one's life to have a name all to one's self!" And thenMike lost himself in a maze of little dreams. A gleam of mail;escutcheons and castles; a hawk flew from fingers fair; a ladyclasped her hands when the lances shivered in the tourney; and Mikewas the hero that persisted in the course of this shifting littledream. 

The Brookes--Sally and Maggie--stopped to speak to him, and he wentto lunch with them. His interest in all they did and said wasunbounded, and that he might not be able to reproach himself withwaste of time, he contrived by hint and allusion to lay thefoundation for a future intrigue with one of the girls. 

Lily Young, however, had never been forgotten; she had been asconstantly present in his mind as this sense of the sunshine and hisown happy condition. She had been parcel of and one with these butnow; as he drove to see her, he separated her from the morningphenomena of his life, and began to think definitely of her. 

Smiling, he called himself a brute, and regretted his failure. But inher presence his cynicism was evanescent. She sat on a little sofa, covered with an Indian shawl; behind her was a great bronze, thecelebrated gift of a celebrated Rajah to her mother. Mrs. Young hadbeen on a tour in the East with her husband, and ever since her househad been frequented by decrepit old gentlemen interested in Arabi, and other matters which they spoke of as Eastern questions. 

Lily looked at Mike under her eyes as she passed across the room toget him some tea, and they talked a little while. Then some three orfour great and very elderly historians entered, and she had to leavehim; and feeling he could not prolong his visit he went, conscious ofsensations of purity and some desire of goodness, if not for itself, for the grace that goodness brings. He paid many visits in thishouse, but conversations with learned Buddhists seemed the onlyresult; a _tête-à-tête_ with Lily seemed impossible. To his surprisehe never met her in society, and his heart beat fast when one eveninghe heard she was expected; and for the first time forgetful of themultitude, and nervous as a school-boy in search of his first love, he sought her in the crowd. He feared to remain with her, and itseemed to him he had accomplished much in asking her to come down tosupper. When talking to others his thoughts were with her, and hiseyes followed her. An inquisitive woman noted his agitation, andsuspecting the cause, said, "I see, I see, and I think something maycome of it. " Even when Lily left he did not recover his ordinaryhumour, and about two in the morning, in sullen weariness anddisappointment, he offered to drive Lady Helen home. 

Should he make love to her? He had often wished to. Here was anopportunity. 

"You did not see that I was looking at you tonight; you did not guesswhat I was thinking of?"

"Yes, I did; you were looking at and thinking of my arms. "

Should he pass his arm round her? Lady Helen knew Lily, and mighttell; he did not dare it, and instead, spoke of her contributions tothe paper. Then the conversation branched into a description of theWednesday night festivities in Temple Gardens--the shouting andcheering of the lords, the comic vocalists, the inimitable Arthur, the extraordinary Bessie. He told, with fits of laughter, ofMuchross's stump speeches, and how he had once got on thesupper-table and sat down in the very centre, regardless of platesand dishes. Mike and Lady Helen nearly died of laughter when herelated how on one occasion Muchross and Snowdown, both crying drunk, had called in a couple of sweeps. "You see, " he said, "the look ofamazement on their faces, and the black 'uns were forced into twochairs, and were waited upon by the lords, who tucked their napkinsunder their arms. "

"Oh don't, oh don't!" said Lady Helen, leaning back exhausted. 

But Mike went on, though he was hardly able to speak, and told howMuchross and Snowdown had danced the can-can, kicking at thechandelier from time to time, the sweeps keeping time with theirimplements on the sideboard; the revel finishing up with a wrestlingmatch, Muchross taking the big sweep, and Snowdown the little one. 

"You should have seen them rolling over under the dining-room table;I shall never forget Snowdown's shirt. "

"I should like to see one of these entertainments. Do you ever have aladies' night? If you do, and the ladies are not supposed to wrestlewith the laundresses in the early light, I should like to come. "

"Oh, yes, do come; Frank will be delighted. I'll see that things arekept within bounds. " The conversation fell, and he regretted he mustforego this very excellent opportunity to make love to her. 

Next day, changed in his humour, but still thinking of Lily, he wentto see Mrs. Byril, and he stopped a few days with her. He was alwaysstrict in his own room, and if Emily sought him in the morning hereprimanded her. 

She was one of those women who, having much heart, must affect more;a weak intelligent woman, honest and loyal--one who could not livewithout a lover. And with her arms about his neck, she listened tohis amours, and learnt his poetry by heart. Mike was her folly, andshe would never have thought of another if, as she said, he had onlybehaved decently to her. "I am sorry, darling, I told you anythingabout it, but when I got your beastly letter I wrote to him. Tell meyou'll come and stay with me next month, and I'll put him off.... Ihate this new girl; I am jealous because she may influence you, butfor the others--the Brookes and their friends--the half-hours spentin summer-houses when the gardener is at dinner, I care not one jot. "So she spoke as she lay upon his knees in the black satin arm-chairin the drawing-room. 

But her presence at breakfast--that invasion of the morninghours--was irritating; he hated the request to be in to lunch, andthe duty of spending the evening in her drawing-room, instead of inclub or bar-room. He desired freedom to spend each minute as thecaprice of the moment prompted. Were he a rich man he would not havelived with Frank; to live with a man was unpleasant; to live with awoman was intolerable. In the morning he must be alone to dream of abook or poem; in the afternoons, about four, he was glad toæstheticize with Harding or Thompson, or abandon himself to the charmof John's aspirations. 

John and he were often seen walking together, and they delighted inthe Temple. The Temple is escapement from the omniscient domesticitywhich is so natural to England; and both were impressionable to itsmorning animation--the young men hurrying through the courts andcloisters, the picturesqueness of a wig and gown passing up a flightof steps. It seemed that the old hall, the buttresses and towers, thequeer tunnels leading from court to court, turned the edge of thecommonplace of life. Nor did the Temple ever lose for them its quaintand primitive air, and as they strolled about the cloisters talkingof art or literature, they experienced a delight that cannot be quiteput into words; and were strangely glad as they opened the irongates, and looked on all the many brick entanglements with the talltrees rising, spreading the delicate youth of leaves upon the wearyred of the tiles and the dim tones of the dear walls. 

 "A gentel Manciple there was of the Temple Of whom achatours mighten take ensample For to ben wise in bying of vitaille. "

The gentle shade of linden trees, the drip of the fountain, themonumented corner where Goldsmith rests, awake even in the mostcasual and prosaic a fleeting touch of romance. And the wide stepswith balustrades sweeping down in many turnings to the gardens, causevagrant and hurrying steps to pause, and wander about the library andthrough the gardens, which lead with such charm of way to the openspaces of the King's Bench walk. 

There, there is another dining-hall and another library. The clock isringing out the hour, and the place is filled with young men inoffice clothes, hurrying on various business with papers in theirhands; and such young male life is one of the charms of the Temple;and the absence of women is refreshment to the eye wearied of theirnumbers in the streets. The Temple is an island in the London sea. Immediately you pass the great doorway, studded with great nails, youpass out of the garishness of the merely modern day, unhallowed byany associations, into a calmer and benigner day, over which floatssome shadow of the great past. The old staircases lighted by strangelanterns, the river of lingering current, bearing in its winding somuch of London into one enchanted view. The church built by theTemplars more than seven hundred years ago, now stands in the centreof the inn all surrounded, on one side yellowing smoke-driedcloisters, on another side various closes, feebly striving in theirarchitecture not to seem too shamefully out of keeping with itsbeauty. There it stands in all the beauty of its pointed arches andtriple lancet windows, as when it was consecrated by the Patriarch ofJerusalem in the year 1185. 

But in 1307 a great ecclesiastical tribunal was held in London, andit was proved that an unfortunate knight, who had refused to spitupon the cross, was haled from the dining-hall and drowned in a well, and testimony of the secret rites that were held there, and in whicha certain black idol was worshipped, was forthcoming. The GrandMaster was burnt at the stake, the knights were thrown into prison, and their property was confiscated. Then the forfeited estate of theTemple, presenting ready access by water, at once struck theadvocates of the Court of Common Pleas at Westminster, and thestudents who were candidates for the privilege of pleading therein, as a most desirable retreat, and interest was made with the Earl ofLancaster, the king's first cousin, who had claimed the forfeitedproperty of the monks by escheat, as the immediate lord of the fee, for a lodging in the Temple, and they first gained a footing there ashis lessees. 

Above all, the church with its round tower-like roof was very dear toMike and John, and they often spoke of the splendid spectacle of thereligious warriors marching in procession, their white tunics withred crosses, their black and white banner called Beauseant. It isseen on the circular panels of the vaulting of the side aisles, andon either side the letters BEAUSEANT. There stands the church of theproud Templars, a round tower-like church, fitting symbol of thosesoldier monks, at the west end of a square church, the square churchengrafted upon the circular so as to form one beautiful fabric. Theyoung men lingered around the time-worn porch, lovely with foliatedcolumns, strange with figures in prayer, and figures holding scrolls. And often without formulating their intentions in words they enteredthe church. Beneath the groined ribs of the circular tower lie themail-clad effigies of the knights, and through beautiful gracefulnessof grouped pillars the painted panes shed bright glow upon thetesselated pavement. The young men passed beneath the pointed archesand waited, their eyes raised to the celestial blueness of thethirteenth-century window, and then in silence stole back whither theknights sleep so grimly, with hands clasped on their breasts andtheir long swords. 

And seeing himself in those times, clad in armour, a knight Templarwalking in procession in that very church, John recited a verse ofTennyson's _Sir Galahad_--

 "Sometimes on lonely mountain meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board; no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail; With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. "

"Oh! very beautiful. 'On sleeping wings they sail. ' Say it again. "

John repeated the stanza, his eyes fixed upon the knight. 

Mike said--

"How different to-day the girls of the neighbourhood, theirprayer-books and umbrellas! Yet I don't think the anachronismdispleases me. "

"You say that to provoke me; you cannot think that all the dirtylittle milliners' girls of the neighbourhood are more dignified thanthese Templars marching in procession and taking their places withiron clangour in the choir. "

"So far as that is concerned, " said Mike, who loved to "draw" John, "the little girls of the neighbourhood in all probability washthemselves a great deal oftener than the Templars ever did. And haveyou forgotten the accusations that were brought against them beforethe ecclesiastical tribunal assembled in London? What about the blackidol with shining eyes and gilded head?"

"Their vices were at least less revolting than the disgustfulmeanness of to-day; besides, nothing is really known about thereasons for the suppression of the Templars. Men who forswear womenare open to all contumely. Oh! the world is wondrous, just wondrouswell satisfied with its domestic ideals. "

The conversation came to a pause, and then Mike spoke of Lily Young, and extolled her subtle beauty and intelligence. 

"I never liked any one as I do her. I am ashamed of myself when Ithink of her purity. "

"The purity of ... Had she been pure she would have remained in herconvent. "

"If you had heard her speak of her temptations.... "

"I do not want to hear her temptations. But it was you who temptedher to leave her convent. I cannot but think that you should marryher. There is nothing for you but marriage. You must change yourlife. Think of the constant sin you are living in. "

"But I don't believe in sin. "

With a gesture that declared a non-admission of such a state of soul, John hesitated, and then he said--

"The beastliness of it!"

"We have to live, " said Mike, "since nature has so willed it, but Ifully realize the knightliness of your revolt against the principleof life. "

John continued his admonitions, and Mike an amused and appreciativelistener. 

"At all events, I wish you would promise not to indulge in improperconversation when I am present. It is dependent upon me to beg of youto oblige me in this. It will add greatly to your dignity to refrain;but that is your concern; I am thinking now only of myself. Will youpromise me this?"

"Yes, and more; I will promise not to indulge in such conversation, even when you are not present. It is, as you say, lowering.... Iagree with you. I will strive to mend my ways. "

And Mike was sincere; he was determined to become worthy of Lily. Andnow the best hours of his life--hours strangely tense and strangelypersonal--were passed in that Kensington drawing-room. She was to himlike the light of a shrine; he might kneel and adore from afar, buthe might not approach. The goddess had come to him like the moon toEndymion. He knew nothing, not even if he were welcome. Each visitwas the same as the preceding. A sweet but exasperatingchangelessness reigned in that drawing-room--that pretty drawing-roomwhere mother and daughter sat in sweet naturalness, removed from thegrossness and meanness of life as he knew it. Neither illicitwhispering nor affectation of reserve, only the charm of strictbehaviour; unreal and strange was the refinement, material andmental, in which they lived. And for a time the charm sufficed;desire was at rest. But she had been to see him, however at variancesuch a visit, such event seemed with her present demeanour. Andshe must come again! In increasing restlessness he conned all thenarrow chances of meeting her, of speaking to her alone. But noaccident varied the even tenor of their lives, the calm lake-likeimpassibility of their relations, and in last resort he urged Frankto give a dance or an At Home. And how ardently he pleaded, oneafternoon, sitting face to face with mother and daughter. Inwardlyagitated, but with outward calm, he impressed upon them many reasonsfor their being of the party. The charm of the Temple, the river, andglitter of light, the novel experience of bachelors' quarters.... They promised to come. 

CHAPTER V

Mike leaned forward to tie his white cravat. He was slight, and whiteand black, and he thought of Lily, of the exquisite pleasure ofseeing her and leading her away. And he was pleased and surprised tofind that his thoughts of her were pure. 

The principal contributors to the _Pilgrim_ had been invited, and aselection had been made from the fast and fashionable gang--those whocould be trusted neither to become drunk or disorderly. It had beendecided, but not without misgivings, to ask Muchross and Snowdown. 

The doors were open, servants could be seen passing with glasses andbottles. Frank, who had finished dressing, called from thedrawing-room and begged Mike to hasten; for the housemaid was waitingto arrange his room, for it had been decided that this room shouldserve as a lounge where dancers might sit between the waltzes. 

"She can come in now, " he shouted. He folded the curtains of hisstrange bed; he lighted a silver lamp, re-arranged his palms, andsmiled, thinking of the astonished questions when he invited youngladies to be seated among the numerous cushions. And Mike determinedhe would say that he considered his bed-room far too sacred to admitof any of the base wants of life being performed there. 

It was well-dressed Bohemia, with many markings and varied withcontrasting shades. The air was as sugar about the doorway with thescent of gardenias; young lords shrank from the weather-stained clothof doubtful journalists, and a lady in long puce Cashmere provoked asmile. Frank received his guests with laughter and epigram. 

The emancipation of the women is marked by the decline of thechaperon, and it was not clear under whose protection the young girlshad come. Beneath double rows of ruche-rose feet passed, and the softglow of lamps shaded with large leaves of pale glass bathed thewomen's flesh in endless half tints; the reflected light of coppershades flushed the blonde hair on Lady Helen's neck to auroralfervencies. 

In one group a fat man with white hair and faded blue eyes talked toMrs. Bentham and Lewis Seymour. A visit to the Haymarket Theatrebeing arranged, he said--

"May I hope to be permitted to form one of the party?"

Harding overheard the remark. He said, "It is difficult to believe, but I assure you that that Mr. Senbrook was one of the greatest DonJuans that ever lived. "

"We have in this room Don Juan in youth, middle age, and oldage--Mike Fletcher, Lewis Seymour, and Mr. Senbrook. "

"Did Seymour, that fellow with the wide hips, ever have success withwomen? How fat he has grown!"

"Rather; [Footnote: See _A Modern Lover_. ] don't you know his story?He came up to London with a few pounds. When we knew him first he wasstarving in Lambeth. You remember, Thompson, the day he stood us alunch? He had just taken a decorative panel to a picture-dealer's, for which he had received a few pounds, and he told us how he had meta lady (there's the lady, the woman with the white hair, Mrs. Bentham) in the picture-dealer's shop. She fell in love with him andtook him down to her country house to decorate it. She sent him toParis to study, and it was said employed a dealer for years to buyhis pictures. "

"And he dropped her for Lady Helen?"

"Not exactly. Lady Helen dragged him away from her. He never seizedor dropped anything. "

"Then what explanation do you give of his success?" said a youngbarrister. 

"His manner was always gentle and insinuating. Ladies found himpretty to look upon, and very soothing. Mike is just the same; but ofcourse Seymour never had any of Mike's brilliancy or enthusiasm. "

"Do you know anything of the old gentleman--Senbrook's his name?"

"I have heard that those watery eyes of his were once of entrancingviolet hue, and I believe he was wildly enthusiastic in his love. Hislife has been closely connected with mine. "

"I didn't know you knew him. "

"I do not know him. Yet he poisoned my happiest years; he is theupas-tree in whose shade I slept. When I was in Paris I loved a lady;and I used to make sacrifices for this lady, who was, needless tosay, not worthy of them; but she had loved Senbrook in her earliestyouth, and it appears when a woman has once loved Senbrook, she canlove none other. You wouldn't think it, to look at him now, but Iassure you it is so. France is filled with the women he once loved. The provincial towns are dotted with them. I know eight--eight existto my personal knowledge. Sometimes a couple live together, united bythe indissoluble fetter of a Senbrook betrayal. They know their livesare broken, and they are content that their lives should be broken. They have loved Senbrook, therefore there is nothing to do but retireto France. You may think I am joking, but I'm not. It is comic, butthat is no reason why it shouldn't be true. And these ladies neitherforget nor upbraid; and they will attack you like tigers if you daresay a word against him. This creation of faith is the certain sign ofDon Juan! No matter how cruelly the real Don Juan behaves, the womenhe has deceived are ready to welcome him. After years they meet himin all forgetfulness of wrong. Examine history, and you will findthat the love inspired by the real Don Juan ends only with death. Noram I sure that the women attach much importance to his infidelities;they accept them, his infidelities being a consequential necessity ofhis being, the eons and the attributes of his godhead. Don Juaninspires no jealousy; Don Juan stabbed by an infuriated mistress is apsychological impossibility. "

"I have heard that Seymour used to drive Lady Helen crazy withjealousy. "

"Don Juan disappears at the church-door. He was her husband. The mostunfaithful wife is wildly jealous of her husband. "

A sudden silence fell, and a young girl was borne out fainting. 

"Nothing more common than for young girls to faint when he ispresent. Go, " said Harding, "and you will hear her calling his name. "Then, picking up the thread of the paradox, he continued--"But youcan't have Don Juan in this century, our civilization has wiped himout; not the vice of which he is representative--that is eternal--butthe spectacle of adventure of which he is the hero. No morefascinating idea. Had the age admitted of Don Juan, I should havewritten out his soul long ago. I love the idea. With duelling andhose picturesqueness has gone out of life. The mantle and the rapierare essential; and angry words.... "

"Are angry words picturesque?"

"Angry words mean angry attitudes; and they are picturesque. "

The young men smiled at the fascinating eloquence, and feeling anappreciative audience about him, Harding continued--

"See Mike Fletcher, know him, understand him, and imagine what hewould have been in the eighteenth century, the glory of adventure hewould have gathered. His life to-day is a mean parody upon an easilyrealizable might-have-been. So vital is the idea in him that his lifeto-day is the reflection of a life that burned in another age tooardently to die with death. In another age Mike would have outdoneCasanova. Casanova!--what a magnificent Casanova he would have been!Casanova is to me the most fascinating of characters. He waseverything--a frequenter of taverns and palaces, a necromancer. Hisaudacity and unscrupulousness, his comedies, his immortal memoirs!What was that delightful witty remark he made to some stupid husbandwho lay on the ground, complaining that Casanova hadn't foughtfairly? You remember? it was in an avenue of chestnut trees, approaching a town. Ha! I have forgotten. Mike has all that this manhad--love of adventure, daring, courage, strength, beauty, skill. ForMike would have made a unique swordsman. Have you ever seen him ride?Have you ever seen him shoot? I have seen him knock a dozen pigeonsover in succession. Have you ever seen him play billiards? He oftenmakes a break of a hundred. Have you ever seen him play tennis? He isthe best man we have in the Temple. And a poet! Have you ever heardhim tell of the poem he is writing? The most splendid subject. Hesays that neither Goethe nor Hugo ever thought of a better. "

"You may include self-esteem in your list of his qualities. "

"A platitude! Self-esteem is synonymous to genius. Still, I do notsuppose he would in any circumstances have been a great poet; butthere is enough of the poet about him to enhance and complete his DonJuan genius. "

"You would have to mend his broken nose before you could cite him asa model Don Juan. "

"On the contrary, by breaking his nose chance emphasized nature'sintention; for a broken nose is the element of strangeness soessential in modern beauty, or shall I say modern attractiveness? Butsee that slim figure in hose, sword on thigh, wrapped in rich mantle, arriving on horseback with Liperello! Imagine the castle balcony, andthe pale sky, green and rose, pensive as her dream, languid as herattitude. Then again, the grand staircase with courtiers bowingsolemnly; or maybe the wave lapping the marble, the gondola shootingthrough the shadow! What encounters, what assignations, whatdisappearances, what sudden returnings! So strong is the love idea inhim, that it has suscitated all that is inherent and essential in thecharacter. It sent him to Boulogne so that he might fight a duel; andthe other day a nun left her convent for him. Curious atavism, curious recrudescence of a dead idea of man! Say, is it his fault ifhis pleasures are limited to clandestine visits; his fame to asummons to appear in a divorce case; his danger to that most pitifulof modern ignominies--five shillings a week? ... Bah! this age hasmuch to answer for. "

"But Casanova was a marvellous necromancer, an extraordinarygambler. "

"I know no more enthusiastic gambler than Mike. Have you ever seenhim play whist? At Boulogne he cleaned them all out at baccarat. "

"And lost heavily next day, and left without paying. "

"The facts of the case have not been satisfactorily established. Haveyou seen him do tricks with cards? He used to be very fond of cardtricks; and, by Jove! now I remember, there was a time when ladiescame to consult him. He had two pieces of paper folded up in the sameway. He gave one to the lady to write her question on; she placed itin a cleft stick and burnt it in a lamp; but the stick was cleft atboth ends, and Mike managed it so that she burnt the blank sheet, while he read what she had written. Very trivial; inferior of courseto Casanova's immense cabalistic frauds, but it bears out mycontention ... Have you ever read the _Memoirs?_ What a prodigiousbook! Do you remember when the Duchesse de Chartres comes to consultthe _cabale_ in the little apartment in the Palais Royal as to thebest means of getting rid of the pimples on her face? ... And thatscene (so exactly like something Wycherley might have written) whenhe meets the rich farmer's daughter travelling about with her olduncle, the priest?"

Mike was talking to Alice Barton, who was chaperoning Lily. Thoughshe knew nothing of his character she had drawn back instinctively, but her strictness was gradually annealed in his persuasiveness, andwhen he rose to go out of the room with Lily, she was astonished thatshe had pleasure in his society. 

Lily was more beautiful than usual, the heat and the pleasure ofseeing her admirer having flushed her cheeks. He was penetrated withher sweetness, and the hand laid on his arm thrilled him. Whereshould he take her? Unfortunately the staircase was in stone;servants were busy in the drawing-room. 

"How beautifully Mr. Escott plays the violin!"

The melodious strain reeked through the doorways, filling thepassage. 

"That is Stradella's 'Chanson d'Église. ' He always plays it; I'm sickof it. "

"Yes, but I'm not. Do not let us go far, I should like to listen. "

"I thought you would have preferred to talk with me. "

Her manner did not encourage him to repeat his words, and he waited, uncertain what he should say or do. When the piece was over, hesaid--

"We had to turn my bedroom into a retiring-room. I'm afraid we shallnot be alone. "

"That does not matter; my mother does not approve of young girlssitting out dances. "

"But your mother isn't here. "

"I should not think of doing anything I knew she did not wish me todo. "

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Muchross withseveral lords, and he was with difficulty dissuaded from an attemptto swarm up the columns of the wonderful bed. The room was full ofyoung girls and barristers gathered from the various courts. Some hadstopped before the great Christ. A girl had touched the suspendedsilver lamp and spoken of "dim religious light"; but by no word orlook did Lily admit that she had been there before, and Mike felt itwould be useless to remind her that she had. She was the same as shewas every Wednesday in her mother's drawing-room. And the party hadbeen given solely with a view of withdrawing her from its influence. What was he to say to this girl? Was he to allow all that had passedbetween them to slip? Never had he felt so ill at ease. At last, fixing his eyes upon her, he said--

"Let us cease this trifling. Perhaps you do not know how painful itis to me. Tell me, will you come and see me? Do not let us wastetime. I never see you alone now. "

"I could not think of coming to see you; it would not be right. "

"But you did come once. "

"That was because I wanted to see where you lived. Now that I know, there would be no reason for coming again. "

"You have not forgiven me. If you knew how I regret my conduct! Tryand understand that it was for love of you. I was so fearful oflosing you. I have lost you; I know it!"

He cursed himself for the irresolution he had shown. Had he made herhis mistress she would now be hanging about his neck. 

"I forgive you. But I wish you would not speak of love in connectionwith your conduct; when you do, all my liking for you dies. "

"How cruel! Then I shall never kiss you again. Was my kiss sodisagreeable? Do you hate to kiss me?"

"I don't know that I do, but it is not right. If I were married toyou it would be different. "

The conversation fell. Then realizing that he was compromising hischances, he said--

"How can I marry you? I haven't a cent in the world. "

"I am not sure I would marry you if you had every cent in the world. "

Mike looked at her in despair. She was adorably frail and adorablypale. 

"This is very cruel of you. " Words seemed very weak, and he fearedthat in the restlessness and pain of his love he had looked at herfoolishly. So he almost welcomed Lady Helen's intrusion upon their_tête-à-tête_. 

"And this is the way you come for your dance, Mr. Fletcher, is it?"

"Have they begun dancing? I did not know it. I beg your pardon. "

"And I too am engaged for this dance. I promised it to Mr. Escott, "said Lily. 

"Let me take you back. "

He gave her his arm, assuring himself that if she didn't care for himthere were hundreds who did. Lady Helen was one of the handsomestwomen in London, and he fancied she was thinking of him. And when hereturned he stood at the door watching her as she leaned over themantelpiece reading a letter. She did not put it away at once, butcontinued reading and playing with the letter as one might withsomething conclusive and important. She took no precaution againsthis seeing it, and he noticed that it was in a man's handwriting, andbegan _Ma chère amie_. The room was now empty, and the clatter ofknives and forks drowned the strains of a waltz. 

"You seemed to be very much occupied with that young person. She isvery pretty. I advise you to take care. "

"I don't want to marry. I shall never marry. Did you think I was inlove with Miss Young?"

"Well, it looked rather like it. "

"No; I swear you are mistaken. I say, if you don't care about dancingwe'll sit down and talk. So you thought I was in love with MissYoung? How could I be in love with her while you are in the room? Youknow, you must have seen, that I have only eyes for you. The lasttime I was in Paris I went to see you in the Louvre. "

"You say I am like Jean Gougon's statue. "

"I think so, so far as a pair of stays allows me to judge. "

Lady Helen laughed, but there was no pleasure in her laugh; it was ahard, bitter laugh. 

"If only you knew how indifferent I am! What does it matter whether Iam like the statue or not? I am indifferent to everything. "

"But I admire you because you are like the statue. "

"What does it matter to me whether you admire me or not? I don'tcare. "

He had not asked her for the dance; she had sought him of herfree-will. What did it mean?

"Why should I care? What is it to me whether you like me or whetheryou hate me? I know very well that three months after my death everyone will have ceased to think of me; three months hence it will bethe same as if I had never lived at all. "

"You are well off; you have talent and beauty. What more do youwant?"

"The world cannot give me happiness. You find happiness in your ownheart, not in worldly possessions.... I am a pessimist. I recognizethat life is a miserable thing--not only a miserable thing, but auseless thing. We can do no good; there is no good to be done; andlife has no advantage except that we can put it off when we will. Schopenhauer is wrong when he asserts that suicide is no solution ofthe evil; so far as the individual is concerned suicide is a perfectsolution, and were the race to cease to-morrow, nature wouldinstantly choose another type and force it into consciousness. Untilthis earth resolves itself to ice or cinder, matter will never ceaseto know itself. "

"My dear, " said Lewis Seymour, who entered the room at that moment, "I am feeling very tired; I think I shall go home, but do not mindme. I will take a hansom--you can have your brougham. You will notmind coming home alone?"

"No, I shall not mind. But do you take the brougham. It will bebetter so. It will save the horse from cold; I'll come back in ahansom. "

Mike noticed a look of relief or of pleasure on her face, he couldnot distinguish which. He pressed the conversation on wives, husbands, and lovers, striving to lead her into some confession. Atlast she said--

"I have had a lover for the last four years. "

"Really!" said Mike. He hoped his face did not betray his greatsurprise. This was the first time he had ever heard a lady admit shehad had a lover. 

"We do not often meet; he doesn't live in England. I have not seenhim for more than six months. "

"Do you think he is faithful to you all that time?"

"What does it matter whether he is or not? When we meet we love eachother just the same. "

"I have never known a woman like you. You are the only one that hasever interested me. If you had been my mistress or my wife you wouldhave been happier; you would have worked, and in work, not inpleasure, we may cheat life. You would have written your books, Ishould have written mine. "

"I don't want you to think I am whining about my lot. I know what thevalue of life is; I'm not deceived, that is all. "

"You are unhappy because your present life affords no outlet for yourtalent. Ah! had you had to fight the battle! How happy it would havemade me to fight life with you! I wonder you never thought of leavingyour husband, and throwing yourself into the battle of work. "

"Supposing I wasn't able to make my living. To give up my home wouldbe running too great a risk. "

"How common all are when you begin to know them, " thought Mike. 

They spoke of the books they had read. She told him of _Le Journald'Amiel_, explaining the charm that that lamentable record of anarrow, weak mind, whose power lay in an intense consciousness of itsown failure, had for her. She spoke savagely, tearing out her soul, and flinging it as it were in Mike's face, frightening him not alittle. 

"I wish I had known Amiel; I think I could have loved him. "

"Did he never write anything but this diary?"

"Oh, yes; but nothing of any worth. The diary was not written forpublication. A friend of his found it among his papers, and from ahuge mass extricated two volumes. " Then speaking in praise of thepessimism of the Russian novels, she said--"There is no pleasure inlife--at least none for me; the only thing that sustains me iscuriosity. "

"I don't speak of love, but have you no affection for yourfriends?--you like me, for instance. "

"I am interested in you--you rouse my curiosity; but when I know you, I shall pass you by just like another. "

"You are frank, to say the least of it. But like all other women, Isuppose you like pleasure, and I adore you; I really do. I have neverseen any one like you. You are superb to-night; let me kiss you. " Hetook her in his arms. 

"No, no; loose me. You do not love me, I do not love you; this ismerely vice. "

He pleaded she was mistaken. They spoke of indifferent things, andsoon after went in to supper. 

"What a beautiful piece of tapestry!" said Lady Helen. 

"Yes, isn't it. But how strange!" he said, stopping in the doorway. "See how exquisitely real is the unreal--that is to say, how full ofidea, how suggestive! Those blue trees and green skies, those nymphslike unswathed mummies, colourless but for the red worsted of theirlips, --that one leaning on her bow, pointing to the stag that thehunters are pursuing through a mysterious yellow forest, --are to mymind infinitely more real than the women bending over their plates. At this moment the real is mean and trivial, the ideal is full ofevocation. "

"The real and the ideal; why distinguish as people usuallydistinguish between the words? The real is but the shadow of theideal, the ideal but the shadow of the real. "

The table was in disorder of cut pineapple, scattered dishes, anddrooping flowers. Muchross, Snowdown, Dicky the driver, and otherswere grouped about the end of the table, and a waiter who styled them"most amusing gentlemen, " supplied fresh bottles of champagne. Muchross had made several speeches, and now jumping on a chair, hediscoursed on the tapestry, drawing outrageous parallels, and talkingunexpected nonsense. The castle he identified as the cottage where heand Jenny had spent the summer; the bleary-eyed old peacock was thechicken he had dosed with cayenne pepper, hoping to cure itsrheumatism; the pool with the white threads for sunlight was thewater-butt into which Tom had fallen from the tiles--"those are thehairs out of his own old tail. " The nymphs were Laura, Maggie, Emily, &c. Mike asked Lady Helen to come into the dancing-room, but she didnot appear to hear, and her laughter encouraged Muchross to furtherexcesses. The riot had reached its height and dancers were beginningto come from the drawing-room to ask what it was all about. 

"All about!" shouted Muchross; "I don't care any more about nymphs--Ionly care about getting drunk and singing. 'What cheer, 'Ria!'"

"Don't you care for dancing?" said Lady Helen, with tears runningdown her cheeks. 

"Ra-ther; see me dance the polka, dear girl. " And they went bangingthrough the dancers. Snowdown and Dicky shouted approval. 

 "What cheer, 'Ria! 'Ria's on the job. What cheer, 'Ria! Speculate a bob. 'Ria is a toff, and she is immensikoff-- And we all shouted, What cheer, 'Ria!"

Amid the uproar Lady Helen danced with Lily Young. Insidiousfragilities of eighteen were laid upon the plenitudes of thirty! Purepink and cream-pink floated on the wind of the waltz, fading out ofcolour in shadowy corners, now gliding into the glare of burnishedcopper, to the quick appeal of the 'Estudiantina. ' A life that hadceased to dream smiled upon one which had begun to dream. Sad eyes ofSummer, that may flame with no desire again, looked into the eyes ofSpring, where fancies collect like white flowers in the wave of aclear fountain. 

Mike and Frank turned shoulder against shoulder across the room, fourlegs following in intricate unison to the opulent rhythm of the 'BlueDanube'; and when beneath ruche-rose feet died away in littleexhausted steps, the men sprang from each other, and the rhythm ofsex was restored--Mike with Lily, and Frank with Helen, yieldinghearts, hands, and feet in the garden enchantment of Gounod's waltz. 

 * * * * * *

The smell of burnt-out and quenched candle-ends pervaded theapartment, and slips of gray light appeared between the curtains. Theday, alas! had come upon them. Frank yawned; and pale with wearinesshe longed that his guests might leave him. Chairs had been broughtout on the balcony. Muchross and his friends had adjourned from thesupper-room, bringing champagne and an hysterical lady with them. Snowdown and Platt were with difficulty dissuaded from attemptingacrobatic feats on the parapet; and the city faded from deep purpleinto a vast grayness. Strange was the little party ensconced in thestone balcony high above the monotone of the river. 

Harding and Thompson, for pity of Frank, had spoken of leaving, butthe lords and the lady were obdurate. Her husband had left indespair, leaving Muchross to bring her home safely to Notting Hill. As the day broke even the "bluest" stories failed to raise a laugh. At last some left, then the lords left; ten minutes after Mike, Frank, Harding, and Thompson were alone. 

"Those infernal fellows wouldn't go, and now I'm not a bit sleepy. "

"I am, " said Thompson. "Come on, Harding; you are going my way. "

"Going your way!"

"Yes; you can go through the Park. The walk will do you good. "

"I should like a walk, " said Escott, "I'm not a bit sleepy now. "

"Come on then; walk with me as far as Hyde Park Corner. "

"And come home alone! Not if I know it--I'll go if Mike will come. "

"I'll go, " said Mike. "You'll come with us, Harding?"

"It is out of my way, but if you are all going ... Where's JohnNorton?"

"He left about an hour ago. "

"Let's wake him up. "

As they passed up the Temple towards the Strand entrance, they turnedinto Pump Court, intending to shout. But John's window was open, andhe stood, his head out, taking the air. 

"What!--not gone to bed yet?"

"No; I have bad indigestion, and cannot sleep. "

"We are going to walk as far as Hyde Park Corner with Thompson. Justthe thing for you; you'll walk off your indigestion. "

"All right. Wait a moment; I'll put my coat on.... "

"I never pass a set of street-sweepers without buttoning up, " saidHarding, as they went out of the Temple into the Strand. "The glazedshoes I don't mind, but the tie is too painfully significant. "

"The old signs of City, " said Thompson, as a begging woman rose froma doorstep, and stretched forth a miserable arm and hand. 

About the closed wine-shops and oyster-bars of the Haymarket a shadowof the dissipation of the night seemed still to linger; and a curiousbent figure passed picking with a spiked stick cigar-ends out ofthe gutter; significant it was, and so too was the starving dogwhich the man drove from a bone. The city was mean and squalid inthe morning, and conveyed a sense of derision and reproach--thesweep-carriage-road of Regent Street; the Royal Academy, pretentious, aristocratic; the Green Park still presenting some of the graces ofa preceding century. There were but three cabs on the rank. Themarket-carts rolled along long Piccadilly, the great dray-horsesshuffling, raising little clouds of dust in the barren street, themen dozing amid the vegetables. 

They were now at Hyde Park Corner. Thompson spoke of the_improvements_--the breaking up of the town into open spaces; but hedoubted if anything would be gained by these imitations of Paris. Hisdiscourse was, however, interrupted by a porter from the AlexandraHotel asking to be directed to a certain street. He had been sent tofetch a doctor immediately--a lady just come from an evening partyhad committed suicide. 

"What was she like?" Harding asked. 

"A tall woman. "

"Dark or fair?"

He couldn't say, but thought she was something between the two. Prompted by a strange curiosity, feeling, they knew not why, butstill feeling that it might be some one from Temple Gardens, theywent to the hotel, and obtained a description of the suicide from thehead-porter. The lady was very tall, with beautiful golden hair. Fora description of her dress the housemaid was called. 

"I hope, " said Mike, "she won't say she was dressed in cream-pink, trimmed with olive ribbons. " She did. Then Harding told the porter hewas afraid the lady was Lady Helen Seymour, a friend of theirs, whomthey had seen that night in a party given in Temple Gardens by thisgentleman, Mr. Frank Escott. They were conducted up the desertstaircase of the hotel, for the lift did not begin working till seveno'clock. The door stood ajar, and servants were in charge. On theleft was a large bed, with dark-green curtains, and in the middle ofthe room a round table. There were two windows. The toilette-tablestood between bed and window, and in the bland twilight of closedVenetian blinds a handsome fire flared loudly, throwing changingshadows upon the ceiling, and a deep, glowing light upon the redpanels of the wardrobe. So the room fixed itself for ever on theirminds. They noted the crude colour of the Brussels carpet, and eventhe oilcloth around the toilette-table was remembered. They saw thatthe round table was covered with a red tablecloth, and that writingmaterials were there, a pair of stays, a pair of tan gloves, and somewithering flowers. They saw the ball-dress that Lady Helen had wornthrown over the arm-chair; the silk stockings, the satin shoes--and agleam of sunlight that found its way between the blinds fell upon apiece of white petticoat. Lady Helen lay in the bed, thrown back lowdown on the pillow, the chin raised high, emphasizing a line ofstrained white throat. She lay in shadow and firelight, her cheektouched by the light. Around her eyes the shadows gathered, and as alandscape retains for an hour some impression of the day which isgone, so a softened and hallowed trace of life lingered upon her. 

Then the facts of the case were told. She had driven up to the hotelin a hansom. She had asked if No. 57 was occupied, and on being toldit was not, said she would take it; mentioning at the same time thatshe had missed her train, and would not return home till late in theafternoon. She had told the housemaid to light a fire, and had thendismissed her. Nothing more was known; but as the porter explained, it was clear she had gone to bed so as to make sure of shootingherself through the heart. 

"The pistol is still in her hand; we never disturb anything tillafter the doctor has completed his examination. "

Each felt the chill of steel against the naked side, and seeing thepair of stays on the table, they calculated its resisting force. 

Harding mused on the ghastly ingenuity, withal so strangelyreasonable. Thompson felt he would give his very life to make asketch. Mike wondered what her lover was like. Frank was overwhelmedin sentimental sorrow. John's soul was full of strife and suffering. He had sacrificed his poems, and had yet ventured in revels which hadled to such results! Then as they went down-stairs, Harding gave theporter Lewis Seymour's name and address, and said he should be sentfor at once. 

CHAPTER VI

"I don't say we have never had a suicide here before, sir, " said theporter in reply to Harding as they descended the steps of the hotel;"but I don't see how we are to help it. Whenever the upper classeswant to do away with themselves they chose one of the big hotels--theGrosvenor, the Langham, or ourselves. Indeed they say more has donethe trick in the Langham than 'ere, I suppose because it is morecentral; but you can't get behind the motives of such people. Theynever think of the trouble and the harm they do us; they only thinkof themselves. "

London was now awake; the streets were a-clatter with cabs; the pickof the navvy resounded; night loiterers were disappearing and givingplace to hurrying early risers. In the resonant morning the young menwalked together to the Corner. There they stopped to bid each othergood-bye. John called a cab, and returned home in intense mentalagitation. 

"It really is terrible, " said Mike. "It isn't like life at all, butsome shocking nightmare. What could have induced her to do it?"

"That we shall probably never know, " said Thompson; "and she seemedbrimming over with life and fun. How she did dance! ... "

"That was nerves. I had a long talk with her, and I assure you shequite frightened me. She spoke about the weariness of living;--no, not as we talk of it, philosophically; there was a special accent oftruth in what she said. You remember the porter mentioned that sheasked if No. 57 was occupied. I believe that is the room where sheused to meet her lover. I believe they had had a quarrel, and thatshe went there intent on reconciliation, and finding him gonedetermined to kill herself. She told me she had had a lover for thelast four years. I don't know why she told me--it was the first timeI ever heard a lady admit she had had a lover; but she was in anawful state of nerve excitement, and I think hardly knew what she wassaying. She took the letter out of her bosom and read it slowly. Icouldn't help seeing it was in a man's handwriting; it began, '_Machère amie!_' I heard her tell her husband to take the brougham; thatshe would come home in a cab. However, if my supposition is correct, I hope she burnt the letter. "

"Perhaps that's what she lit the fire for. Did you notice if thewriting materials had been used?"

"No, I didn't notice, " said Mike. "And all so elaborately planned!Just fancy--shooting herself in a nice warm bed! She was determinedto do it effectually. And she must have had the revolver in herpocket the whole time. I remember now, I had gone out of the room fora moment, and when I came back she was leaning over thechimney-piece, looking at something. "

"I have often thought, " said Harding, "that suicide is theculminating point of a state of mind long preparing. I think that themind of the modern suicide is generally filled, saturated with theidea. I believe that he or she has been given for a long timepreceding the act to considering, sometimes facetiously, sometimessentimentally, the advantages of oblivion. For a long time aninfiltration of desire of oblivion, and acute realization of thefolly of living, precedes suicide, and, when the mind is thoroughlyprepared, a slight shock or interruption in the course of lifeproduces it, just as an odorous wind, a sight of the sea, results inthe poem which has been collecting in the mind. "

"I think you might have the good feeling to forbear, " said Frank;"the present is hardly, I think, a time for epigrams or philosophy. Iwonder how you can talk so.... "

"I think Frank is quite right. What right have we to analyse hermotives?"

"Her motives were simple enough; sad enough too, in all conscience. Why make her ridiculous by forcing her heart into the groove of yourphilosophy? The poor woman was miserably deceived; abominablydeceived. You do not know what anguish of mind she suffered. "

"There is nothing to show that she went to the Alexandra to meet alover beyond the fact of a statement made to Mike in a moment ofacute nervous excitement. We have no reason to think that she everhad a lover. I never heard her name mentioned in any such way. Didyou, Escott?"

"Yes; I have heard that you were her lover. "

"I assure you I never was; we have not even been on good terms for along time past. "

"You said just now that the act was generally preceded by a state offeeling long preparing. It was you who taught her to readSchopenhauer. "

"I am not going to listen to nonsense at this hour of the morning. Inever take nonsense on an empty stomach. Come, Thompson, you aregoing my way. "

Mike and Frank walked home together. The clocks had struck six, andthe milkmen were calling their ware; soon the shop-shutters would becoming down, and in this first flush of the day's enterprise, a lastbelated vegetable-cart jolted towards the market. Mike's thoughtsflitted from the man who lay a-top taking his ease, his cap pulledover his eyes, to the scene that was now taking place in the twilightbedroom. What would Seymour say? Would he throw himself on his knees?Frank spoke from time to time; his thoughts growled like a savagedog, and his words bit at his friend. For Mike had incautiously givenan account in particular detail of his _tête-à-tête_ with Lady Helen. 

"Then you are in a measure answerable for her death. "

"You said just now that Harding was answerable; we can't both beculpable. "

Frank did not reply. He brooded in silence, losing all perception ofthe truth in a stupid and harsh hatred of those whom he termed thevillains that ruined women. When they reached Leicester Square, toescape from the obsession of the suicide, Mike said--

"I do not think that I told you that I have sketched out a trilogy onthe life of Christ. The first play _John_, the second _Christ_, thethird _Peter_. Of course I introduce Christ into the third play. Youknow the legend. When Peter is flying from Rome to escapecrucifixion, he meets Christ carrying His cross. "

"Damn your trilogy--who cares! You have behaved abominably. I wantyou to understand that I cannot--that I do not hold with yourpractice of making love to every woman you meet. In the first placeit is beastly, in the second it is not gentlemanly. Look at theresult!"

"But I assure you I am in no wise to blame in this affair. I neverwas her lover. "

"But you made love to her. "

"No, I didn't; we talked of love, that was all. I could see she wasexcited, and hardly knew what she was saying. You are most unjust. Ithink it quite as horrible as you do; it preys upon my mind, and if Italk of other things it is because I would save myself the pain ofthinking of it. Can't you understand that?"

The conversation fell, and Mike thrust both hands into the pockets ofhis overcoat. 

At the end of a long silence, Frank said--

"We must have an article on this--or, I don't know--I think I shouldlike a poem. Could you write a poem on her death?"

"I think so. A prose poem. I was penetrated with the modernpicturesqueness of the room--the Venetian blinds. "

"If that's the way you are going to treat it, I would sooner not haveit--the face in the glass, a lot of repetitions of words, sentencesbeginning with 'And, ' then a mention of shoes and silk stockings. Ifyou can't write feelingly about her, you had better not write atall. "

"I don't see that a string of colloquialisms constitute feelings, "said Mike. 

Mike kept his temper; he did not intend to allow it to imperil hisresidence in Temple Gardens, or his position in the newspaper; but hecouldn't control his vanity, and ostentatiously threw Lady Helen'shandkerchief upon the table, and admitted to having picked it up inthe hotel. 

"What am I to do with it? I suppose I must keep it as a relic, " headded with a laugh, as he opened his wardrobe. 

There were there ladies' shoes, scarves, and neckties; there werethere sachets and pincushions; there were there garters, necklaces, cotillion favours, and a tea-gown. 

Again Frank boiled over with indignation, and having vented his senseof rectitude, he left the room without even bidding his friendgood-night or good-morning. The next day he spent the entireafternoon with Lizzie, for Lady Helen's suicide had set his nature inactive ferment. 

In the story of every soul there are times of dissolution andreconstruction in which only the generic forms are preserved. A newforce had been introduced, and it was disintegrating that mass ofsocial fibre which is modern man, and the decomposition teemed withideas of duty, virtue, and love. He interrupted Lizzie's chit-chatconstantly with reflections concerning the necessity of religiousbelief in women. 

About seven they went to eat in a restaurant close by. It was an oldItalian chop-house that had been enlarged and modernized, but theoriginal marble tables where customers ate chops and steaks at lowprices were retained in a remote and distant corner. Lizzie proposedto sit there. They were just seated when a golden-haired girl oftheatrical mien entered. 

"That's Lottie Rily, " exclaimed Lizzie. Then lowering her voice shewhispered quickly, "She was in love with Mike once; he was the fellowshe left her 'ome for. She's on the stage now, and gets four pounds aweek. I haven't seen her for the last couple of years. Lottie, comeand sit down here. "

The girl turned hastily. "What, Lizzie, old pal, I have not seen youfor ages. "

"Not for more than two years. Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Escott--Miss Lottie Rily of the Strand Theatre. "

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir; the editor of the_Pilgrim_, I presume?"

Frank smiled with pleasure, and the waiter interposed with the billof fare. Lottie ordered a plate of roast beef, and leaned across thetable to talk to her friend. 

"Have you seen Mike lately?" asked Lizzie. 

"Swine!" she answered, tossing her head. "No; and don't want to. Youknow how he treated me. He left me three months after my baby wasborn. "

"Have you had a baby?"

"What, didn't you know that? It is seven months old; 'tis a boy, that's one good job. And he hasn't paid me one penny piece. I havebeen up to Barber and Barber's, but they advised me to do nothing. They said that he owed them money, and that they couldn't get what heowed them--a poor look-out for me. They said that if I cared tosummons him for the support of the child, that the magistrate wouldgrant me an order at once. "

"And why don't you?" said Frank; "you don't like the _exposé_ in thenewspapers. "

"That's it. "

"Do you care for him still?"

"I don't know whether I do, or don't. I shall never love another man, I know that. I saw him in front about a month ago. He was in thestalls, and he fixed his eyes upon me; I didn't take the leastnotice, he was so cross. He came behind after the first act. He said, 'How old you are looking!' I said, 'What do you mean?' I was verynicely made up too, and he said, 'Under the eyes. ' I said, 'What doyou mean?' and he said, 'You are all wrinkles. ' I said, 'What do youmean?' and he went down-stairs.... Swine!"

"He isn't good-looking, " said Frank, reflectively, "a broken nose, achin thrust forward, and a mop of brown curls twisted over hisforehead. Give me a pencil, and I'll do his caricature. "

"Every one says the same thing. The girls in the theatre all say, 'What in the world do you see in him?' I tell them that if hechose--if he were to make up to them a bit, they'd go after him justthe same as I did. There's a little girl in the chorus, and she trotsabout after him; she can't help it. There are times when I don't carefor him. What riles me is to see other women messing him about. "

"I suppose it is some sort of magnetism, electro-biology, and hecan't help exercising it any more than you women can resist it. Tellme, how did he leave you?"

"Without a word or a penny. One night he didn't come home, and I satup for him, and I don't know how many nights after. I used to dozeoff and awake up with a start, thinking I heard his footstep on thelanding. I went down to Waterloo Bridge to drown myself. I don't knowwhy I didn't; I almost wish I had, although I have got on pretty wellsince, and get a pretty tidy weekly screw. "

"What do you get?"

"Three ten. Mine's a singing part. Waiter, some cheese and celery. "

"What a blackguard he is! I'll never speak to him again; he shalledit my paper no more. To-night I'll give him the dirty kick-out. "

Mike remained the topic of conversation until Lottie said--

"Good Lord, I must be 'getting'--it is past seven o'clock. "

Frank paid her modest bill, and still discussing Mike, they walked tothe stage-door. Quick with desire to possess Lizzie wholly beyondrecall, and obfuscated with notions concerning the necessity ofplacing women in surroundings in harmony with their natural goodness, Frank walked by his mistress's side. At the end of a long silence, she said--

"That's the way you'll desert me one of these days. All men arebrutes. "

"No, darling, they are not. If you'll act fairly by me, I will byyou--I'll never desert you. "

Lizzie did not answer. 

"You don't think me a brute like that fellow Fletcher, do you?"

"I don't think there's much difference between any of you. "

Frank ground his teeth, and at that moment he only desired onething--to prove to Lizzie that men were not all vile and worthless. They had turned into the Temple; the old places seemed dozing in themurmuring quietude of the evening. Mike was coming up the pathway, his dress-clothes distinct in the delicate gray light, his light-grayovercoat hanging over his arm. 

"What a toff he is!" said Lizzie. His appearance and what itsymbolized--an evening in a boudoir or at the gaming-table--jarred onFrank, suggesting as it did a difference in condition from that ofthe wretched girl he had abandoned; and as Mike prided himself thatscandalous stories never followed upon his loves, the unearthing ofthis mean and obscure liaison annoyed him exceedingly. Above all, theaccusation of paternity was disagreeable; but determined to avoid aquarrel, he was about to pass by, when Frank noticed Lady Helen'spocket-handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. 

"You blackguard, " he said, "you are taking that handkerchief to agambling hell. "

Then realizing that the game was up, he turned and would have struckhis friend had not Lizzie interposed. She threw herself between themen, and called a policeman, and the quarrel ended in Mike'sdismissal from the staff of the _Pilgrim_. 

Frank had therefore to sit up writing till one o'clock, for the wholetask of bringing out the paper was thrown upon him. Lizzie sat by himsewing. Noticing how pale and tired he looked, she got up, andputting her arm about his neck, said--

"Poor old man, you are tired; you had better come to bed. "

He took her in his arms affectionately, and talked to her. 

"If you were always as kind and as nice as you are to-night ... I could love you. "

"I thought you did love me. "

"So I do; you will never know how much. " They were close together, and the pure darkness seemed to separate them from all worldlyinfluences. 

"If you would be a good girl, and think only of him who loves youvery dearly. "

"Ah, if I only had met you first!"

"It would have made no difference, you'd have only been saying thisto some one else. "

"Oh, no; if you had known me before I went wrong. "

"Was he the first?"

"Yes; I would have been an honest little girl, trying to make youcomfortable. "

Throwing himself on his back, Frank argued prosaically--

"Then you mean to say you really care about me more than any oneelse?"

She assured him that she did; and again and again the temptations ofwomen were discussed. He could not sleep, and stretched at length onhis back, he held Lizzie's hand. 

She was in a communicative humour, and told him the story of thewaiter, whom she described as being "a fellow like Mike, who madelove to every woman. " She told him of three or four other fellows, whose rooms she used to go to. They made her drink; she didn't likethe beastly stuff; and then she didn't know what she did. There werestories of the landlady in whose house she lodged, and the woman wholived up-stairs. She had two fellows; one she called Squeaker--shedidn't care for him; and another called Harry, and she did care forhim; but the landlady's daughter called him a s----, because heseldom gave her anything, and always had a bath in the morning. 

"How can a girl be respectable under such circumstances?" Lizzieasked, pathetically. "The landlady used to tell me to go out and getmy living!"

"Yes; but I never let you want. You never wrote to me for money thatI didn't send it. "

"Yes; I know you did, but sometimes I think she stopped the letters. Besides, a girl cannot be respectable if she isn't married. Where'sthe use?"

He strove to think, and failing to think, he said--

"If you really mean what you say, I will marry you. " He heard eachword; then a sob sounded in the dark, and turning impulsively he tookLizzie in his arms. 

"No, no, " she cried, "it would never do at all. Your family--whatwould they say? They would not receive me. "

"What do I care for my family? What has my family ever done for me?"

For an hour they argued, Lizzie refusing, declaring it was useless, insisting that she would then belong to no set; Frank assuring herthat hand-in-hand and heart-to-heart they would together, with unitedstrength and love, win a place for themselves in the world. Theydozed in each other's arms. 

Rousing himself, Frank said--

"Kiss me once more, little wifie; good-night, little wife ... "

"Good-night, dear. "

"Call me little husband; I shan't go to sleep until you do. "

"Good-night, little husband. "

"Say little hussy. "

"Good-night, little hussy. "

Next morning, however, found Lizzie violently opposed to all idea ofmarriage. She said he didn't mean it; he said he did mean it, and hecaught up a Bible and swore he was speaking the truth. He put hisback against the door, and declared she should not leave until shehad promised him--until she gave him her solemn oath that she wouldbecome his wife. He was not going to see her go to the dogs--no, notif he could help it; then she lost her temper and tried to push pasthim. He restrained her, urging again and again, and with theatricalemphasis, that he thought it right, and would do his duty. Then theyargued, they kissed, and argued again. 

That night he walked up and down the pavement in front of her door;but the servant-girl caught sight of him through the kitchen-windowand the area-railings, and ran up-stairs to warn Miss Baker, who wastaking tea with two girl friends. 

"He is a-walking up and down, Miss, 'is great-coat flying behindhim. "

Lizzie slapped his face when he burst into her room; and scenes ofrecrimination, love, and rage were transferred to and fro betweenTemple Gardens and Winchester Street. Her girl friends advised her tomarry, and the landlady when appealed to said, "What could you wantbetter than a fine gentleman like that?"

Frank was conscious of nothing but her, and every vision of MountRorke that had risen in his mind he had unhesitatingly swept away. All prospects were engulfed in his desire; he saw nothing but thewhite face, which like a star led and allured him. 

One morning the marriage was settled, and like a knight going to thecrusade, Frank set forth to find out when it could be. They must bemarried at once. The formalities of a religious marriage appalledhim. Lizzie might again change her mind; and a registrar's officefixed itself in his thought. 

It was a hot day in July when he set forth on his quest. He addressedthe policeman at the corner, and was given the name of the street andthe number. He hurried through the heat, irritated by thesluggishness of the passers-by, and at last found himself in front ofa red building. The windows were full of such general announcementsas--Working Men's Peace Preservation, Limited Liability Company, NewZealand, etc. The marriage office looked like a miniature bank; therewere desks, and a brass railing a foot high preserved theinviolability of the documents. A fat man with watery eyes rose fromthe leather arm-chair in which he had been dozing, and Frankintimated his desire to be married as soon as possible; thatafternoon if it could be managed. It took the weak-eyed clerk somelittle time to order and grasp the many various notions which Frankurged upon him; but he eventually roused a little (Frank had begun toshout at him), and explained that no marriage could take place aftertwo o'clock, and later on it transpired that due notice would have tobe given. 

Very much disappointed, Frank asked him to inscribe his name. Theclerk opened a book, and then it suddenly cropped up that this wasthe registry office, not for Pimlico, but for Kensington. 

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Frank, "and where is the registryoffice for Pimlico in Kensington?"

"That I cannot tell you; it may be anywhere; you will have to findout. "

"How am I to find out, damn it?"

"I really can't tell you, but I must beg of you to remember where youare, sir, and to moderate your language, " said the clerk, with somefaint show of hieratic dignity. "And now, ma'am, what can I do foryou?" he said, turning to a woman who smelt strongly of the kitchen. 

Frank was furious; he appealed again to the casual policeman, who, although reluctantly admitting he could give him no information, sympathized with him in his diatribe against the stupidities of theauthorities. The policeman had himself been married by the registrar, and some time was lost in vain reminiscences; he at last suggestedthat inquiry could be made at a neighbouring church. 

Frank hurried away, and had a long talk with a charwoman whom hediscovered in the desert of the chairs. She thought the office wassituated somewhere in a region unknown to Frank, which she called St. George-of-the-Fields; her daughter, who had been shamefully deserted, had been married there. The parson, she thought, would know, and shegave him his address. 

The heat was intolerable! There were few people in the streets. Theperspiration collected under his hat, and his feet ached so in hispatent leather shoes that he was tempted to walk after the water-cartand bathe them in the sparkling shower. Several hansoms passed, butthey were engaged. Nor was the parson at home. The maid-servantsniggered, but having some sympathy with what she discovered was hismission, summoned the housekeeper, who eyed him askance, and directedhim to Bloomsbury; and after a descent into a grocer's shop, and anadventure which ended in an angry altercation in a servants' registryoffice, he was driven to a large building which adjoined the parishinfirmary and workhouse. 

Even there he was forced to make inquiries, so numerous and variouswere the offices. At last an old man in gray clothes declared himselfthe registrar's attendant, and offered to show him the way; butseeing himself now within range of his desire, he distanced the oldchap up the four flights of stairs, and arrived wholly out of breathbefore the brass railing which guarded the hymeneal documents. Aclerk as slow of intellect as the first, and even more somnolent, approached and leaned over the counter. 

Feeling now quite familiar with a registrar's office, Frank explainedhis business successfully. The fat clerk, whose red nose had sproutedinto many knobs, balanced himself leisurely, evidently giving littleheed to what was said; but the broadness of the brogue saved Frankfrom losing his temper. 

"What part of Oireland do ye come from? Is it Tipperary?"

"Yes. "

"I thought so; Cashel, I'm thinking. "

"Yes; do you come from there?"

"To be sure I do. I knew you when you were a boy; and is his lordshipin good health?"

Frank replied that Lord Mount Rorke was in excellent health, andfeeling himself obliged to be civil, he asked the clerk his name, andhow long it was since he had been in Ireland. 

"Well, this is odd, " the clerk began, and then in an irritatingundertone Mr. Scanlon proceeded to tell how he and four others weredriving through Portarlington to take the train to Dublin, when oneof them, Michael Carey he thought it was, proposed to stop the carand have some refreshment at the Royal Hotel. 

Frank tried several times to return to the question of the license, but the imperturbable clerk was not to be checked. 

"I was just telling you, " he interposed. 

It seemed hard luck that he should find a native of Cashel in thePimlico registrar's office. He had intended to keep his marriage asecret, as did Willy Brookes, and for a moment the new dangerthrilled him. It was intolerable to have to put up with thiscreature's idle loquacity, but not wishing to offend him he enduredit a little longer. 

When the clerk paused in his narrative of the four gentlemen who hadstopped the car to have some refreshment, Frank made a resolute standagainst any fresh developments of the story, and succeeded inextracting some particulars concerning the marriage laws. And withinthe next few days all formalities were completed, and Frank'smarriage fixed for the end of the week--for Friday, at a quarter toeleven. He slept lightly that night, was out of bed before eight, andmistaking the time, arrived at the office a few minutes before ten. He met the old man in gray clothes in the passage, and this time hewas not to be evaded. 

"Are you the gentleman who's come to be married by special license, sir?"

"Yes. "

"Neither Mr. Southey--that is the Registrar--nor Mr. Freeman--that'sthe Assistant-Registrar--has yet arrived, sir. "

"It is very extraordinary they should be late. Do they never keeptheir appointments?"

"They rarely arrives before ten, sir. "

"Before ten! What time is it now?"

"Only just ten. I am the regular attendant. I'll see yer through it;no necessity to hagitate yerself. It will be done quietly in aprivate room--a very nice room too, fourteen feet by ten high--them'sthe regulations; all the chairs covered with leather; a very nicecomfortable room. Would yer like to see the room? Would yer like tosit down there and wait? There's a party to be married before you. But they won't mind you. He's a butcher by trade. "

"And what is she?"

"I think she's a tailoress; they lives close by here, they do. "

"And who are you, and where do you live?"

"I'm the regular attendant; I lives close by here. "

"Where close by?"

"In the work'us; they gives me this work to do. "

"Oh, you are a pauper, then?"

"Yease; but I works here; I'm the regular attendant. No need to beafraid, sir; it's all done in a private room; no one will see you. This way, sir; this way. "

The sinister aspect of things never appealed to Frank, and he wasvastly amused at the idea of the pauper Mercury, and had begun toturn the subject over, seeing how he could use it for a queer storyfor the _Pilgrim_. But time soon grew horribly long, and to kill ithe volunteered to act as witness to the butcher's marriage, one beingwanted. The effects of a jovial night, fortified by some matutinalpotations, were still visible in the small black eyes of the rubicundbutcher--a huge man, apparently of cheery disposition; he swung toand fro before the shiny oak table as might one of his own carcasses. His bride, a small-featured woman, wrapped in a plaid shawl, evidently fearing that his state, if perceived by the Registrar, might cause a postponement of her wishes, strove to shield him. Hispal and a stout girl, with the air of the coffee-shop about her, exchanged winks and grins, and at the critical moment, when theRegistrar was about to read the declaration, the pal slipped behindsome friends and, catching the bridegroom by the collar, whispered, "Now then, old man, pull yourself together. " The Registrarlooked up, but his spectacles did not appear to help him; theAssistant-Registrar, a tall, languid young man, who wore a carnationin his button-hole, yawned and called for order. The room was lightedby a skylight, and the light fell diffused on the hands and faces;and alternately and in combination the whiskied breath and thecarnation's scent assailed the nostrils. Suddenly the silence wasbroken by the Registrar, who began to read the declarations. "Ihereby declare that I, James Hicks, know of no impediment whereby Imay not be joined in matrimony with Matilde, Matilde--is it Matildeor Matilda?"

"I calls her Tilly when I am a-cuddling of her; when she riles me, and gets my dander up, I says, 'Tilder, come here!'" and the butcherraised his voice till it seemed like an ox's bellow. 

"I really must beg, " exclaimed the Registrar, "that the sanctityof--the gravity of this ceremony is not disturbed by any foolishfrivolity. You must remember ... " But at that moment the glassy lookof the butcher's eyes reached the old gentleman's vision, and a heavyhiccup fell upon his ears. "I really think, Mr. Freeman, that thatgentleman, one of the contracting parties I mean, is not in a fitstate--is in a state bordering on inebriation. Will you tell me ifthis is so?"

"I didn't notice it before, " said Mr. Freeman, stifling a yawn, "butnow you mention it, I really think he is a little drunk, and hardlyin a fit ... "

"I ne--ver was more jolly, jolly dog in my life (hiccup)--when yougentlemen have made it (hiccup) all squ--square between me and myTilly" (a violent hiccup), --then suddenly taking her round the waist, he hugged her so violently that Matilda could not forbear ascream, --"I fancy I shall be, just be a trifle more jolly still.... If any of you ge--gen'men would care to join us--most 'appy, Tillyand me. "

Lizzie, who had discovered a relation or two--a disreputable fatherand a nondescript brother--now appeared on the threshold. Herpresence reminded Frank of his responsibility, so forthwith heproceeded to bully the Registrar and allude menacingly to hisnewspaper. 

"I'm sure, sir, I am very sorry you should have witnessed such ascene. Never, really, in the whole course of my life ... "

"There is positively no excuse for allowing such people ... "

"I will not go on with the marriage, " roared the Registrar; "really, Mr. Freeman, you ought to have seen. You know how short-sighted I am. I will not proceed with this marriage. "

"Oh, please, sir, Mr. Registrar, don't say that, " exclaimed Matilda. "If you don't go on now, he'll never marry me; I'll never be able tobring 'im to the scratch again. Indeed, sir, 'e's not so drunk as helooks. 'Tis mostly the effect of the morning hair upon him. "

"I shall not proceed with the marriage, " said the Registrar, sternly. "I have never seen anything more disgraceful in my life. You comehere to enter into a most solemn, I may say a sacred, contract, andyou are not able to answer to your names; it is disgraceful. "

"Indeed I am, sir; my name is Matilda, that's the English of it, butmy poor mother kept company with a Frenchman, and he would have mechristened Matilde; but it is all the same, it is the same name, indeed it is, sir. Do marry us; I shan't be able to get him to thescratch again. For the last five years ... "

"Potter, Potter, show these people out; how dare you admit people whowere in a state of inebriation?"

"I didn't 'ear what you said, sir. "

"Show these people out, and if you ever do it again, you'll have toremain in the workhouse. "

"This way, ladies and gentlemen, this way. I'm the regularattendant. "

"Come along, Tilly dear, you'll have to wait another night afore weare churched. Come, Tilly; do you hear me? Come, Tilda. "

Frightened as she was, the words "another night" suggested an idea topoor Matilde, and turning with supplicating eyes to the Registrar, she implored that they might make an appointment for the morrow. After some demur the Registrar consented, and she went away tearful, but in hope that she would be able to bring him on the morrow, as heput it, "fit to the post. " This matter having been settled, theRegistrar turned to Frank. Never in the course of his experience hadthe like occurred. He was extremely sorry that he (Mr. Escott) hadbeen present. True, they were not situated in a fashionableneighbourhood, the people were ignorant, and it was often difficultto get them to sign their names correctly; but he was bound to admitthat they were orderly, and seemed to realize, he would say, theseriousness of the transaction. 

"It is, " said the Registrar, "our object to maintain the strictlylegal character of the ceremony--the contract, I should say--and toavoid any affectation of ritual whatsoever. I regret that you, sir, arepresentative of the press ... "

"The nephew and heir to Lord Mount Rorke, " suggested the clerk. 

The Registrar bowed, and murmured that he did not know he had thathonour. Then he spoke for some time of the moral good the registryoffices had effected among the working classes; how they had allowedthe poor--for instance, the person who has been known for years inthe neighbourhood as Mrs. Thompson, to legalize her cohabitationwithout scandal. 

But Frank thought only of his wife, when he should clasp her hand, saying, "Dearest wife!" He had brought his dramatic and musicalcritics with him. The dramatic critic--a genial soul, well known tothe shop-girls in Oxford Street, without social prejudices--was deepin conversation with the father and brother of the bride; the musicalcritic, a mild-faced man, adjusted his spectacles, and awaking fromhis dream reminded them of an afternoon concert that began unusuallyearly, and where his presence was indispensable. When thedeclarations were over, Frank asked when he should put the ring on. 

"Some like to use the ring, some don't; it isn't necessary; all thebest people of course do, " said the Assistant-Registrar, who had notyawned once since he had heard that Frank's uncle was Lord MountRorke. 

"I am much obliged to you for the information; but I should like tohave my question answered--When am I to put on the ring?"

The dramatic critic tittered, and Frank authoritatively expostulated. But the Registrar interposed, saying--

"It is usual to put the ring on when the bride has answered to thedeclarations. "

"Now all of ye can kiss the bride, " exclaimed the clerk from Cashel. 

Frank was indignant; the Registrar explained that the kissing of thebride was an old custom still retained among the lower classes, butFrank was not to be mollified, and the unhappy clerk was ordered toleave the room. 

The wedding party drove to the Temple, where champagne was awaitingthem; and when health and happiness had been drunk the critics left, and the party became a family one. 

Mike was in his bedroom; he was too indolent to move out of Escott'srooms, and by avoiding him he hoped to avert expulsion and angryaltercations. The night he spent in gambling, the evening in dining;and some hours of each afternoon were devoted to the composition ofhis trilogy. Now he lay in his arm-chair smoking cigarettes, drinkinglemonade, and thinking. He was especially attracted by the picture hehoped to paint in the first play of John and Jesus; and from time totime his mind filled with a picture of Herod's daughter. Closing hiseyes slightly he saw her breasts, scarce hidden beneath jewels, andprecious scarves floated from her waist as she advanced in a vaultedhall of pale blue architecture, slender fluted columns, and pointedarches. He sipped his lemonade, enjoying his soft, changing, andvague dream. But now he heard voices in the next room, and listeningattentively he could distinguish the conversation. 

"The drivelling idiot!" he thought. "So he's gone and marriedher--that slut of a barmaid! Mount Rorke will never forgive him. Iwouldn't be surprised if he married again. The idiot!"

The reprobate father declared he had not hoped to see such a day, solet bygones be bygones, that was his feeling. She had always been agood daughter; they had had differences of opinion, but let bygonesbe bygones. He had lived to see his daughter married to a gentleman, if ever there was one; and his only desire was that God might sparehim to see her Lady Mount Rorke. Why should she not be Lady MountRorke? She was as pretty a girl as there was in London, and a goodgirl too; and now that she was married to a gentleman, he hoped theywould both remember to let bygones be bygones. 

"Great Scott!" thought Mike; "and he'll have to live with her for thenext thirty years, watching her growing fat, old, and foolish. Andthat father!--won't he give trouble! What a pig-sty the fellow hasmade of his life!"

Lizzie asked her father not to cry. Then came a slight altercationbetween Lizzie and her husband, in which it was passionately debatedwhether Harry, the brother, was fitted to succeed Mike on the paper. 

"How the fellow has done for himself! A nice sort of paper they'llbring out. "

A cloud passed over Mike's face when he thought it would probably bethis young gentleman who would continue his articles--_Lions of theSeason_. 

"You have quarrelled with Mike, " said Lizzie, "and you say you aren'tgoing to make it up again. You'll want some one, and Harry writesvery nicely indeed. When he was at school his master always praisedhis writing. When he is in love he writes off page after page. Ishould like you to see the letters he wrote to ... "

"Now, Liz, I really--I wish you wouldn't ... "

"I am sure he would soon get into it. "

"Quite so, quite so; I hope he will; I'm sure Harry will get intoit--and the way to get into it is for him to send me some paragraphs. I will look over his 'copy, ' making the alterations I thinknecessary. But for the moment, until he has learned the trick ofwriting paragraphs, he would be of no use to me in the office. Ishould never get the paper out. I must have an experienced writer byme. "

Then he dropped his voice, and Mike heard nothing till Frank said--

"That cad Fletcher is still here; we don't speak, of course; wepassed each other on the staircase the other night. If he doesn'tclear out soon I'll have to turn him out. You know who he is--afarmer's son, and used to live in a little house about a mile fromMount Rorke Castle, on the side of the road. "

Mike thrilled with rage and hatred. 

"You brute! you fool! you husband of a bar-girl!--you'll never beLord Mount Rorke! He that came from the palace shall go to thegarret; he that came from the little house on the roadside shall goto the castle, you brute!"

And Mike vowed that he would conquer sloth and lasciviousness, andoutrageously triumph in the gaudy, foolish world, and insult hisrival with riches and even honour. Then he heard Lizzie reproachFrank for refusing her first request, and the foolish fellow'sexpostulations suscitated feelings in Mike of intense satisfaction. He smiled triumphantly when he heard the old man's talents asaccountant referred to. 

"Father never told you about his failure, " said Lizzie. Then thestory with all its knots was laboriously unravelled. 

"But, " said the old man, "my books were declared to be perfect; I wascomplimented on my books; I was proud of them books. "

"Great Scott! the brother as sub-editor, the father as book-keeper, the sister as wife--it would be difficult to imagine anything morecomplete. I'm sorry for the paper, though;--and my series, what ahash they'll make of it!" Taking the room in a glance, and imaginingthe others with every piece of furniture and every picture, hethought--"I give him a year, and then these rooms will be for sale. Ishall get them; but I must clear out. "

He had won four hundred pounds within the last week, and this and hisshare in a play which was doing fairly well in the provinces, had runup his balance at the bank higher than it had ever stood--to nearly athousand pounds. 

As he considered his good fortune, a sudden desire of change of scenesuddenly sprang upon him, and in full revulsion of feeling his mindturned from the long hours in the yellow glare of lamp-light, thestaring faces, the heaps of gold and notes, and the cards flyingsilently around the empty space of green baize; from the long hoursspent correcting and manipulating sentences; from the heat andturmoil and dirt of London; from Frank Escott and his family; fromstinking, steamy restaurants; from the high flights of stairs, andthe prostitution of the Temple. And like butterflies above twoflowers, his thoughts hovered in uncertain desire between thesanctity of a honeymoon with Lily Young in a fair enchanted pavilionon a terrace by the sea, near, but not too near, white villas, in aplace as fairylike as a town etched by Whistler, and some months ofpensive and abstracted life, full to overflowing with the joy andeagerness of incessant cerebration; a summer spent in a quietcountry-side, full of field-paths, and hedge-rows, and shadowywoodland lanes--rich with red gables, surprises of woodbine and greatsunflowers--where he would walk meditatively in the sunsetting, seeing the village lads and lassies pass, interested in their homelylife, so resting his brain after the day's labour; then in his studyhe would find the candles already lighted, the kettle singing, hisbooks and his manuscripts ready for three excellent hours; upon hisface the night would breathe the rustling of leaves and the richodour of the stocks and tall lilies, until he closed the window atmidnight, casting one long sad and regretful look upon the goldmysteries of the heavens. 

So his reverie ran, interrupted by the conversation in the next room. He heard his name mentioned frequently. The situation wasembarrassing, for he could not open a door without being heard. Atlast he tramped boldly out, slamming the doors after him, leaving anote for Frank on the table in the passage. It ran as follows--"I amleaving town in a few days. I shall remove my things probably onMonday. Much obliged to you for your hospitality; and now, good-bye. ""That will look, " he thought, "as if I had not overheard his remarks. How glad I shall be to get away! Oh, for new scenes, new faces! 'Howpleasant it is to have money!--heigh-ho!--how pleasant it is to havemoney!' Whither shall I go? Whither? To Italy, and write my poem? ToParis or Norway? I feel as if I should never care to see this filthyTemple again. " Even the old dining-hall, with its flights of stepsand balustrades, seemed to have lost all accent of romance; but hestayed to watch the long flight of the pigeons as they came onstraightened wings from the gables. "What familiar birds they are!Nothing is so like a woman as a pigeon; perhaps that's the reasonNorton does not like them. Norton! I haven't seen him for ages--sincethat morning.... " He turned into Pump Court. The doors were wideopen; and there was luggage and some packing-cases on the landing. The floor-matting was rolled, and the screen which protected fromdraughts the high canonical chair in which Norton read and wrote wasoverthrown. John was packing his portmanteau, and on either side ofhim there was a Buddha and Indian warrior which he had latelypurchased. 

"What, leaving? Giving up your rooms?"

"Yes; I'm going down to Sussex. I do not think it is worth whilekeeping these rooms on. "

Mike expressed his regret. Mike said, "No one understands you as Ido. " Herein lay the strength of Mike's nature; he won himself throughall reserve, and soon John was telling him his state of soul: that hefelt it would not be right for him to countenance with his presenceany longer the atheism and immorality of the Temple. Lady Helen'sdeath had come for a warning. "After the burning of my poems, afterhaving sacrificed so much, it was indeed a pitiful thing to findmyself one of that shocking revel which had culminated in the deathof that woman. "

"There he goes again, " thought Mike, "running after his consciencelike a dog after his tail--a performing dog, too; one that likes anaudience. " And to stimulate the mental antics in which he was so muchinterested, he said, "Do you believe she is in hell?"

"I refrain from judging her. She may have repented in the moment ofdeath. God is her judge. But I shall never forget that morning; and Ifeel that my presence at your party imposes on me some measure ofresponsibility. As for you, Mike, I really think you ought toconsider her fate as an omen. It was you ... "

"For goodness' sake, don't. It was Frank who invented the notion thatshe killed herself because I had been flirting with her. I neverheard of anything so ridiculous. I protest. You know the absurdlysentimental view he takes. It is grossly unfair. "

Knowing well how to interest John, Mike defended himselfpassionately, as if he were really concerned to place his soul in atrue light; and twenty minutes were agreeably spent in sampling, classifying, and judging of motives. Then the conversation turned onthe morality of women, and Mike judiciously selected some instancesfrom his stock of experiences whereby John might judge of theiranimalism. Like us all, John loved to talk sensuality; but it wasimperative that the discussion should be carried forward with gravityand reserve. Seated in his high canonical chair, wrapped in hisdressing-gown, John would bend forward listening, as if from theBench or the pulpit, awaking to a more intense interest when somemore than usually bitter vial of satire was emptied upon the fairsex. He had once amused Harding very much by his admonishment of aPalais Royal farce. 

"It was not, " he said, "so much the questionableness of the play;what shocked me most was the horrible levity of the audience, thelaughter with which every indecent allusion was greeted. "

The conversation had fallen, and Mike said--

"So you are going away? Well, we shall all miss you very much. Butyou don't intend to bury yourself in the country; you'll come up totown sometimes. "

"I feel I must not stay here; the place has grown unbearable. " A lookof horror passed over John's face. "Hall has the rooms opposite. Hislife is a disgrace; he hurries through his writing, and rushes out tobeat up the Strand, as he puts it, for shop-girls. I could not livehere any longer. "

Mike could not but laugh a little; and offended, John rose andcontinued the packing of his Indian gods. Allusion was made toByzantine art; and Mike told the story of Frank's marriage; and Johnlaughed prodigiously at the account he gave of the conversationoverheard. Regarding the quarrel John was undecided. He found himselfforced to admit that Mike's conduct deserved rebuke; but at the sametime, Frank's sentimental views were wholly distasteful to him. Thenin reply to a question as to where he was going, Mike said he didn'tknow. John invited him to come and stay at Thornby Place. 

"It is half-past three now. Do you think you could get your thingspacked in time to catch the six o'clock?"

"I think so. I can instruct Southwood; she will forward the rest ofmy things. "

"Then be off at once; I have a lot to do. Hall is going to take myfurniture off my hands. I have made rather a good bargain with him. "

Nothing could suit Mike better. He had never stayed in a countryhouse; and now as he hurried down the Temple, remembrances of MountRorke Castle rose in his mind--the parade of dresses on the summerlawns, and the picturesqueness of the shooting parties about thelong, withering woods. 

CHAPTER VII

For some minutes longer the men lay resting in the heather, theireyes drinking the colour and varied lights and lines of the vasthorizon. The downs rose like cliffs, and the dead level of the wealdwas freckled with brick towns; every hedgerow was visible as themarkings on a chess-board; the distant lands were merged in bluevapour, and the windmill on its little hill seemed like a bit out ofa young lady's sketch-book. 

"How charming it is here!--how delightful! How sorrow seems tovanish, or to hang far away in one's life like a little cloud! It isonly in moments of contemplation like this, when our wretchedindividuality is lost in the benedictive influences of nature, thattrue happiness is found. Ah! the wonderful philosophy of the East, the wisdom of the ancient races! Christianity is but a vulgarizationof Buddhism, an adaptation, an arrangement for family consumption. "

They were not a mile from where John had seen Kitty for a last time. Now the mere recollection of her jarred his joy in the evening, forhe had long since begun to understand that his love of her had been akind of accident, even as her death a strange unaccountabledivagation of his true nature. He had grown ashamed of his passion, and he now thought that, like Parsifal, instead of yielding, heshould have looked down and seen a cross in the sword's hilt, and thetemptation should have passed. That cruel death, never explained, somysterious and so involved in horror! In what measure was he toblame? In what light was he to view this strange death as a symbol, as a sign? And if she had not been killed? If he had married her? Toescape from these assaults of conscience he buried his mind in hisbooks and writings, not in his history of Christian Latin, for nowhis history of those writers appeared to him sterile, and hecongratulated himself that he had outgrown love of such paradoxes. 

Solemn, and with the great curves of palms, the sky arched abovethem, and all the coombes filled with all the mystery of eveningshadow, and all around lay the sea--a rim of sea illimitable. 

At the end of a long silence Mike spoke of his poem. 

"You must have written a good deal of it by this time. "

"No, I have written very little;" and then yielding to his desire toastonish, confessed he was working at a trilogy on the life ofChrist, and had already decided the main lines and incidents of thethree plays. His idea was the disintegration of the legend, which hadunited under a godhead certain socialistic aspirations then prevalentin Judæa. In his first play, _John_, he introduces two reformers, oneof whom is assassinated by John; the second perishes in a streetbroil, leaving the field free for the triumph of Jesus of Nazareth. In the second play, _Jesus_, he tells the story of Jesus and theMagdalene. She throws over her protector, one of the Rabbi, andrefuses her admirer, Judas, for Jesus. The Rabbi plots to destroyJesus, and employs Judas. In the third play, _Peter_, he pictures thestruggle of the new idea in pagan Rome, and it ends in Peter flyingfrom Rome to escape crucifixion; but outside the city he sees Christcarrying His cross, and Christ says He is going to be crucified asecond time, whereupon Peter returns to Rome. 

As they descended the rough chalk road into the weald, John said, "Ihave sacrificed much for my religion. I think, therefore, I have aright to say that it is hard that my house should be selected for themanufacture of blasphemous trilogies. "

Knowing that argument would profit him nothing, Mike allayed John'sheaving conscience with promises not to write another line of thetrilogy, and to devote himself entirely to his poem. At the end of along silence, John said--

"Now the very name of Schopenhauer revolts me. I accept nothing ofhis ideas. From that ridiculous pessimism I have drifted very farindeed. Pessimism is impossible. To live we must have an ideal, andpessimism offers none. So far it is inferior even to positivism. "

"Pessimism offers no ideal! It offers the highest--not to create lifeis the only good; the creation of life is the only evil; all elsewhich man in his bestial stupidity calls good and evil is ephemeraland illusionary. "

"Schopenhauer's arguments against suicide are not valid, that youadmit, therefore it is impossible for the pessimist to justify hiscontinued existence. "

"Pardon me, the diffusion of the principle of sufficient reason canalone end this world, and we are justified in living in order that byexample and precept we may dissuade others from the creation of life. The incomparable stupidity of life teaches us to love ourparents--divine philosophy teaches us to forgive them. "

That evening Mike played numerous games of backgammon with Mrs. Norton; talked till two in the morning to John of literature, anddeplored the burning of the poems, and besought him to write themagain, and to submit them, if need be, to a bishop. He worked hard toobliterate the effect of his foolish confidences; for he was veryhappy in this large country house, full of unexpected impressions forhim. On the wide staircases he stopped, tense with sensations ofspace, order, and ample life. He was impressed by the timely meals, conducted by well-trained servants; and he found it pleasant to passfrom the house into the richly-planted garden, and to see thecoachman washing the carriage, the groom scraping out the horse'shooves, the horse tied to the high wall, the cowman stumping aboutthe rick-yard--indeed all the homely work always in progress. 

Sometimes he did not come down to lunch, and continued his work tilllate in the afternoon. At five he had tea in the drawing-room withMrs. Norton, and afterwards went out to gather flowers in the gardenwith her, or he walked around the house with John, listening to hisplans for the architectural reformation of his residence. 

Mike had now been a month at Thornby Place. He was enchanted withthis country-side, and seeing it lent itself to his pleasure--inother words, that it was necessary to his state of mind--he strove, and with insidious inveiglements, to win it, to cajole it, to make itpart and parcel of himself. But its people were reserved. Instinctively Mike attacked the line and the point of leastresistance, and the point of least resistance lay about three milesdistant. A young squire--a young man of large property and anunimpeachable position in the county--lived there in a handsome housewith his three sisters. His life consisted in rabbit-shooting andriding out every morning to see his sheep upon the downs. He was therare man who does not desire himself other than he is. But content, though an unmixed blessing to its possessor, is not an attractivequality, and Mr. Dallas stood sorely in need of a friend. He lovedhis sisters, but to spend every evening in their society wasmonotonous, and he felt, and they felt still more keenly, that a niceyoung man would create an interest that at present was wanting incountry life. Mike had heard of this young squire and his sisters, and had long desired to meet him. But they had paid their yearlyvisit to Thornby Place, and he could not persuade John to go to HollyPark. 

One day riding on the downs, Mike inquired the way to Henfield of ayoung man who passed him riding a bay horse. The question wasanswered curtly--so curtly that Mike thought the stranger could notbe led into conversation. In this he was mistaken, and at the end ofhalf a mile felt he had succeeded in interesting his companion. Asthey descended into the weald, Mike told him he was stopping atThornby Place, and the young squire told him he was Mr. Dallas. Whenabout to part, Mike asked to be directed to the nearest inn, complaining that he was dying of thirst, for he wished to give Mr. Dallas an excuse for asking him to his house. Mr. Dallas availedhimself of the excuse; and Mike prayed that he might find the ladiesat home. They were in the drawing-room. The piano was played, andamid tea and muffins, tennis was discussed, allusions were made toman's inconstancy. 

Mike left no uncertainty regarding his various qualities. He likedhunting as much as shooting, and having regard for the season of theyear, he laid special stress upon his love for, and his prowess in, the game of tennis. A week later he received an invitation to tennis. Henceforth he rode over frequently to Holly Park. He was sometimesasked to stay the night, and an impression was gaining ground therethat life was pleasanter with him than without him. 

When he was not there the squire missed the morning ride and the gameof billiards in the evening, and the companion to whom he could speakof his sheep and his lambs. Mike listened to the little troubles ofeach sister in the back garden, never failing to evince theprofoundest sympathy. He was surprised to find that he enjoyed theseconversations just as much as a metaphysical disquisition with JohnNorton. "I am not pretending, " he often said to himself; "it is quitetrue;" and then he added philosophically, "Were I not interested inthem I should not succeed in interesting them. "

The brother, the sisters, the servants, even the lap-dog shared inthe pleasure. The maid-servants liked to meet his tall figure in thepassages; the young ladies loved to look into his tender eyes whenthey came in from their walk and found him in the drawing-room. 

To touch Mike's skin was to touch his soul, and even the Yorkshireterrier was sensible of its gentleness, and soon preferred of allplaces to doze under his hand. Mike came into Dallas' room in themorning when he was taking his bath; he hung around the young ladies'rooms, speaking through the half-open doors; then when the doors wereopen, the young ladies fled and wrapped themselves in dressing-gowns. He felt his power; and by insidious intimations, by looks, words, projects for pleasure, presents, practical jokes, books, and talksabout books, he proceeded joyously in his corruption of the entirehousehold. 

Naturally Mike rode his host's horses, and he borrowed his spurs, breeches, boots, and hunting-whip. And when he began to realize whatan excellent pretext hunting is for making friends, and staying incountry houses, he bought a couple of horses, which he kept at HollyPark free of cost. He had long since put aside his poem and histrilogy, and now thought of nothing but shooting and riding. He couldthrow his energies into anything, from writing a poem to playingchuck-farthing. 

The first meet of the hounds was at Thornby Place, and in the vainhope of marrying her son, Mrs. Norton had invited the young girls ofthe entire country-side. Lady Edith Downsdale was especially includedin her designs; but John instantly vetoed her hopes by asking Mike totake Lady Edith in to lunch. She stood holding her habit; and feelingthe necessity of being brilliant, Mike said, pointing to the houndsand horses--

"How strange it is that that is of no interest to the artist! Isuppose because it is only parade; whereas a bit of lane with awind-blown hedge is a human emotion, and that is always interesting. "

Soon after, a fox was found in the plantation that rimmed the lawn, and seeing that Lady Edith was watching him, Mike risked a fall oversome high wattles; and this was the only notice he took of her untillate in the afternoon, until all hope of hunting was ended. A fox hadbeen "chopped" in cover, another had been miserably coursed andkilled in a back garden. He strove to make himself agreeable whileriding with her along the hillsides, watching the huntsman tryingeach patch of gorse in the coombes. She seemed to him splendid andcharming, and he wondered if he could love her--marry her, and nevergrow weary of her. But when the hounds found in a large wood beneaththe hills, and streamed across the meadows, he forgot her, and makinghis horse go in and out he fought for a start. A hundred and fiftywere cantering down a steep muddy lane; a horseman who had comeacross the field strove to open a strong farm-gate. "It is locked, "he roared; "jump. " The lane was steep and greasy, the gate was fourfeet and a half. Mike rode at it. The animal dropped his hind-legs, Mike heard the gate rattle, and a little ejaculatory cry come fromthose he left behind. It was a close shave. Turning in his saddle hesaw the immense crowd pressing about the gate, which could not beopened, and he knew very well that he would have the hounds tohimself for many a mile. 

He raced alone across the misty pasture lands, full of winter waterand lingering leaf; the lofty downs like sea cliffs, appearingthrough great white masses of curling vapour. And all the episodes ofthat day--the great ox fences which his horse flew, going like a birdfrom field to field; the awkward stile, the various brooks, --that oneovergrown with scrub which his horse had refused--thrilled him. Andwhen the day was done, as he rode through the gathering night, inquiring out the way down many a deep and wooded lane, happinesssang within him, and like a pure animal he enjoyed the sensation oflife, and he intoxicated on the thoughts of the friends that wouldhave been his, the women and the numberless pleasures and adventureshe could have engaged in, were he not obliged to earn money, or werenot led away from them "by his accursed literary tastes. "

Should he marry one of the sisters? Ridiculous! But what was there todo? To-day he was nearly thirty; in ten years he would be amiddle-aged man; and, alas! for he felt in him manifold resources, sufficient were he to live for five hundred years. Must he marryAgnes? He might if she was a peeress in her own right! Or should hewin a peerage for himself by some great poem, or by some greatpolitical treachery? No, no; he wanted nothing better than to livealways strong and joyous in this corner of fair England; and to bealways loved by girls, and to be always talked of by them about theirtea-tables. Oh, for a cup of tea and a slice of warm buttered toast!

A good hour's ride yawned between him and Holly Park, but by crossingthe downs it might be reduced to three-quarters of an hour. Hehesitated, fearing he might miss his way in the fog, but thetea-table lured him. He resolved to attempt it, and forced his horseup a slightly indicated path, which he hoped would led him to acertain barn. High above him a horseman, faint as the shadow of abird, made his way cantering briskly. Mike strove to overtake him, but suddenly missed him: behind him the pathway was disappearing. 

Fearing he might have to pass a night on the downs, he turned hishorse's head; but the animal was obdurate, and a moment after he waslost. He said, "Great Scott! where am I? Where did this ploughedfield come from? I must be near the dike. " Then thinking that herecognized the headland, he rode in a different direction, but wasstopped by a paling and a chalk-pit, and, riding round it, he guessedthe chalk-pit must be fifty feet deep. Strange white patches, fabulous hillocks, and distortions of ground loomed through the whitedarkness; and a valley opened on his right so steep that he wasafraid to descend into it. Very soon minutes became hours and milesbecame leagues. 

"There's nothing for it but to lie under a furze-bush. " With twopocket-handkerchiefs he tied his horse's fore-legs close together, and sat down and lit a cigar. The furze-patch was quite hollowunderneath and almost dry. 

"It is nearly full moon, " he said; "were it not for that it would bepitch dark. Good Lord! thirteen hours of this; I wish I had neverbeen born!"

He had not, however, finished his first cigar before a horse's headand shoulders pushed through the mist. Mike sprang to his feet. 

"Can you tell me the way off these infernal downs?" he cried. "Oh, Ibeg your pardon, Lady Edith. "

"Oh, is that you, Mr. Fletcher? I have lost my way and my groom too. I am awfully frightened; I missed him of a sudden in the fog. Whatshall I do? Can you tell me the way?"

"Indeed I cannot; if I knew the way I should not be sitting underthis furze-bush. "

"What shall we do? I must get home. "

"It is very terrible, Lady Edith, but I'm afraid you will not be ableto get home till the fog lifts. "

"But I must get home. I must! I must! What will they think? They'llbe sending out to look for me. Won't you come with me, Mr. Fletcher, and help me to find the way?"

"I will, of course, do anything you like; but I warn you, Lady Edith, that riding about these downs in a fog is most dangerous; I as nearlyas possible went over a chalk-pit fifty feet deep. "

"Oh, Mr. Fletcher, I must get home; I cannot stay here all night; itis ridiculous. "

They talked so for a few minutes. Then amid many protestations LadyEdith was induced to dismount. He forced her to drink, and tocontinue sipping from his hunting-flask, which was fortunately fullof brandy; and when she said she was no longer cold, he put his armabout her, and they talked of their sensations on first seeing eachother. 

Three small stones, two embedded in the ground, the third, a largeflint, lay close where the grass began, and the form of a bush wasfaint on the heavy white blanket in which the world was wrapped. Arabbit crept through the furze and frightened them, and they heardthe horses browsing. 

Mike declared he could say when she had begun to like him. 

"You remember you were standing by the sideboard holding your habitover your boots; I brought you a glass of champagne, and you lookedat me.... "

She told him of her troubles since she had left school. He relatedthe story of his own precarious fortunes; and as they lay dreaming ofeach other, the sound of horse's hoofs came through the darkness. 

"Oh, do cry out, perhaps they will be able to tell us the way. "

"Do you want to leave me?"

"No, no, but I must get home; what will father think?"

Mike shouted, and his shout was answered. 

"Where are you?" asked the unknown. 

"Here, " said Mike. 

"Where is here?"

"By the furze-bush. "

"Where is the furze-bush?"

It was difficult to explain, and the voice grew fainter. Then itseemed to come from a different side. 

Mike shouted again and again, and at last a horseman loomed like anightmare out of the dark. It was Parker, Lady Edith's groom. 

"Oh, Parker, how did you miss me? I have been awfully frightened; Idon't know what I should have done if I had not met Mr. Fletcher. "

"I was coming round that barn, my lady; you set off at a trot, mylady, and a cloud of fog came between us. "

"Yes, yes; but do you know the way home?"

"I think, my lady, we are near the dike; but I wouldn't be certain. "

"I nearly as possible rode into a chalk-pit, " said Mike. "Unpleasantas it is, I think we had better remain where we are until it clears. "

"Oh, no, no, we cannot remain here; we might walk and lead thehorses. "

"Very well, you get on your horse; I'll lead. "

"No, no, " she whispered, "give me your arm, and I'll walk. "

They walked in the bitter, hopeless dark, stumbling over the roughground, the groom following with the horses. But soon Lady Edithstopped, and leaning heavily on Mike, said--

"I can go no further; I wish I were dead!"

"Dead! No, no, " he whispered; "live for my sake, darling. "

At that moment the gable of a barn appeared like an apparition. Thecattle which were lying in the yard started from under the horses'feet, and stood staring in round-eyed surprise. The barn was halffull of hay, and in the dry pungent odour Mike and Lady Edith restedan hour. Sometimes a bullock filled the doorway with ungainly formand steaming nostrils; sometimes the lips of the lovers met. In abouthalf an hour the groom returned with the news that the fog waslifting, and discovering a cart-track, they followed it over thehills for many a mile. 

"There is Horton Borstal, " cried Parker, as they entered a deepcutting overgrown with bushes. "I know my way now, my lady; we areseven miles from home. "

When he bade Lady Edith good-bye, Mike's mind thrilled with a senseof singular satisfaction. Here was an adventure which seemed to himquite perfect; it had been preceded by no wearisome preliminaries, and he was not likely ever to see her again. 

Weeks and months passed, and the simple-minded country folk with whomhe had taken up his abode seemed more thoroughly devoted to him; theanchor of their belief seemed now deeply grounded, and in thepeaceful bay of their affection his bark floated, safe fromshipwrecking current or storm. There was neither subterfuge orduplicity in Mike; he was always singularly candid on the subject ofhis sins and general worthlessness, and he was never more natural inword and deed than at Holly Park. If its inmates had been reasonablethey would have cast him forth; but reason enters hardly at all inthe practical conduct of human life, and our loves and friendshipsowe to it neither origin or modification. 

It was a house of copious meals and sleep. Mike stirred thesesluggish livers, and they accepted him as a digestive; and theyamused him, and he only dreamed vaguely of leaving them until hefound his balance at the bank had fallen very low. Then he packed uphis portmanteau and left them, and when he walked down the Strand hehad forgotten them and all country pursuits, and wanted to talk ofjournalism; and he would have welcomed the obscurest paragraphist. Suddenly he saw Frank; and turning from a golden-haired actress whowas smiling upon him, he said--

"How do you do?" The men shook hands, and stood constrainedly talkingfor a few minutes; then Mike suggested lunch, and they turned intoLubini's. The proprietor, a dapper little man, more like a rich man'svalet than a waiter, whose fat fingers sparkled with rings, satsipping sherry and reading the racing intelligence to a lord whooffered to toss him for half-crowns. 

"Now then, Lubi, " cried the lord, "which is it? Come on; just thisonce. "

Lubi demurred. "You toss too well for me; last night you did winseven times running--damn!"

"Come on, Lubi; here it is flat on the table. "

Mike longed to pull his money out of his pocket, but he had not beenon terms with Lubi since he had called him a _Marchand de Soupe_, aninsult which Lubi had not been able to forgive, and it was therestaurateur's women-folk who welcomed him back to town after hislong absence. 

"What an air of dissipation, hilarity, and drink there is about theplace!" said Mike. "Look!" and his eyes rested on two grossmen--music-hall singers--who sat with their agent, sippingChartreuse. "Three years ago, " he said, "they were crying artichokesin an alley, and the slum is still upon their faces. "

No one else was in the long gallery save the waiters, who dozed faraway in the mean twilight of the glass-roofing. 

"How jolly it is, " said Mike, "to order your own dinner! Let's havesome oysters--three dozen. We'll have a Chateaubriand--what do yousay? And an omelette soufflée--what do you think? And a bottle ofchampagne. Waiter, bring me the wine-list. "

Frank had spoken to Mike because he felt lonely; the world had turneda harsh face on him. Lord Mount Rorke had married, and the paper waslosing its circulation. 

"And how is the paper going?"

"Pretty well; just the same as usual. Do you ever see it? What do youthink of my articles?"

"Your continuation of my series, _Lions of the Season?_ Very good; Ionly saw one or two. I have been living in the country, and havehardly seen a paper for the last year and a half. You can't imaginethe life I have been leading. Nice kind people 'tis true; I lovethem, but they never open a book. That is all very nice for atime--for three months, for six, for a year--but after that you feela sense of alienation stealing over you. "

Mike saw that Frank had only met with failure; so he was tempted tobrandish his successes. He gave a humorous description of hisfriends--how he had picked them up; how they had supplied him withhorses to ride and guns to shoot with. 

"And what about the young ladies? Were they included in thehospitality?"

"They included themselves. How delicious love in a country houseis!--and how different from other love it is, to follow a girldressed for dinner into the drawing-room or library, and to take herby the waist, to feel a head leaning towards you and a mouth closingupon yours! Above all, when the room is in darkness--better still inthe firelight--the light of the fire on her neck.... How good theseoysters are! Have some more champagne. "

Then, in a sudden silence, a music-hall gent was heard to say thatsome one was a splendid woman, beautifully developed. 

"Now then, Lubi, old man, I toss you for a sovereign, " cried a lord, who looked like a sandwich-man in his ample driving-coat. 

"You no more toss with me, I have done with you; you too sharp forme. "

"What! are you going to cut me? Are you going to warn me off yourrestaurant?"

Roars of laughter followed, and the lions of song gazed in admirationon the lord. 

"I may be hard up, " cried the lord; "but I'm damned if I ever lookhard up; do I, Lubi?"

"Since you turn up head when you like, why should you look hard up?"

"You want us to believe you are a 'mug, ' Lubi, that's about it, butit won't do. 'Mugs' are rare nowadays. I don't know where to go andlook for them.... I say, Lubi, " and he whispered something in therestaurateur's ear, "if you know of any knocking about, bring themdown to my place; you shall stand in. "

"Damn me! You take me for a pump, do you? You get out!"

The genial lord roared the more, and assured Lubi he meant "mugs, "and offered to toss him for a sovereign. 

"How jolly this is!" said Mike. "I'm dying for a gamble; I feel as ifI could play as I never played before. I have all the cards in mymind's eye. By George! I wish I could get hold of a 'mug, ' I'd fleecehim to the tune of five hundred before he knew where he was. But lookat that woman! She's not bad. "

"A great coarse creature like that! I never could understand you.... Have you heard of Lily Young lately?"

Mike's face fell. 

"No, " he said, "I have not. She is the only woman I ever loved. Iwould sooner see her than the green cloth. I really believe I lovethat girl. Somehow I cannot forget her. "

"Well, come and see her to-day. Take your eyes off that disgustingharlot. "

"No, not to-day, " he replied, without removing his eyes. Five minutesafter he said, "Very well, I will go. I must see her. "

The waiter was called, the bill was paid, a hansom was hailed, andthey were rolling westward. In the pleasure of this littleexpedition, Mike's rankling animosity was almost forgotten. He said--

"I love this drive west; I love to see London opening up, as it were, before the wheels of the hansom--Trafalgar Square, the Clubs, PallMall, St. James' Street, Piccadilly, the descent, and then thegracious ascent beneath the trees. You see how I anticipate it all. "

"Do you remember that morning when Lady Helen committed suicide? Whatdid you think of my article?"

"I didn't see it. I should have liked to have written about it; butyou said that I wouldn't write feelingly. "

Mrs. Young hardly rose from her sofa; but she welcomed them inplaintive accents. Lily showed less astonishment and pleasure atseeing him than Mike expected. She was talking to a lady, who wassubsequently discovered to be the wife of a strange fat man, who, inhis character of Orientalist, squatted upon the lowest seat in theroom, and wore a velvet turban on his head, a voluminous overcoatcirculating about him. 

"As I said to Lady Hazeldean last night--I hope Mr. Gladstone did nothear me, he was talking to Lady Engleton Dixon about divorce, Ireally hope he did not hear me--but I really couldn't help sayingthat I thought it would be better if he believed less in the divorceof nations, even if I may not add that he might with advantagebelieve more in the divorce of persons not suited to each other. "

When the conversation turned on Arabi, which it never failed to do inthis house, the perfume-burners that had been presented to her andMr. Young on their triumphal tour were pointed out. 

"I telegraphed to Dilke, " said Sir Joseph, "'You must not hang thatman. ' And when Mrs. Young accused him of not taking sufficientinterest in Africa, he said--'My dear Mrs. Young, I not interested inAfrica! You forget what I have done for Africa; how I have labouredfor Africa. I shall not believe in the synthesis of humanity, norwill it be complete, till we get the black votes. '"

"Mr. Young and Lord Granville used to have such long discussionsabout Buddhism, and it always used to end in Mr. Young sending a copyof your book to Lord Granville. "

"A very great distinction for me--a very great distinction for me, "murmured Buddha; and allowing Mrs. Young to relieve him of histea-cup, he said--"and now, Mrs. Young, I want to ask for yoursupport and co-operation in a little scheme--a little scheme which Ihave been nourishing like a rose in my bosom for some years. "

Sir Joseph raised his voice; and it was not until he had imposedsilence on his wife that he consented to unfold his little scheme. 

Then the fat man explained that in a certain province in Cylone (aname of six syllables) there was a temple, and this temple hadbelonged in the sixth century to a tribe of Buddhists (a name ofseven syllables), and this temple had in the eighth century beentaken from the Buddhists by a tribe of Brahmins (a name of eightsyllables). 

"And not being Mr. Gladstone, " said Sir Joseph, "I do not propose todispossess the Brahmins without compensation. I am merely desirousthat the Brahmins should be bought out by the Indian Government at acost of a hundred and fifty or two hundred thousand. If this weredone the number of pilgrims to this holy shrine would be doubled, andthe best results would follow. "

"Oh, Mrs. Jellaby, where art thou?" thought Mike, and he boldly tookadvantage of the elaborate preparations that were being made for SirJoseph to write his name on a fan, to move round the table and take aseat by Lily. 

But Frank's patience was exhausted, and he rose to leave. 

"People wonder at the genius of Shakespeare! I must say the stupidityof the ordinary man surprises me far more, " said Mike. 

"I'm a poor man to-day, " said Frank, "but I would give £25 to havehad Dickens with us--fancy walking up Piccadilly with him afterwards!

"Now I must go, " he said. "Lizzie is waiting for me. I'll see youto-morrow, " he cried, and drove away. 

"Just fancy having to look after her, having to attend to her wants, having to leave a friend and return home to dine with her in a smallroom! How devilish pleasant it is to be free!--to say, 'Where shall Idine?' and to be able to answer, 'Anywhere. ' But it is too early todine, and too late to play whist. Damn it! I don't know what to dowith myself. "

Mike watched the elegantly-dressed men who passed hurriedly to theirclubs, or drove west to dinner parties. Red clouds and dark cloudscollected and rolled overhead, and in a chill wintry breeze theleaves of the tall trees shivered, fell, and were blown along thepavement with sharp harsh sound. London shrouded like a widow in longcrape. 

"What is there to do? Five o'clock! After that lunch I cannot dinebefore eight--three hours! Whom shall I go and see?"

A vision of women passed through his mind, but he turned from themall, and he said--

"I will go and see her. "

He had met Miss Dudley in Brighton, in a house where he had beenasked to tea. She was a small, elderly spinster with sharp featuresand gray curls. She had expected him to address to her a fewcommonplace remarks for politeness' sake, and then to leave her forsome attractive girl. But he had showed no wish to leave her, andwhen they met again he walked by her bath-chair the entire length ofthe Cliff. Miss Dudley was a cripple. She had fallen from some rockswhen a child playing on the beach, and had injured herselfirremediably. She lived with her maid in a small lodging, and beingoften confined to her room for days, nearly every visitor waswelcome. Mike liked this pallid and forgotten little woman. He foundin her a strange sweetness--a wistfulness. There was poetry in herloneliness and her ruined health. Strength, health, and beauty hadbeen crushed by a chance fall. But the accident had not affected themind, unless perhaps it had raised it into more intense sympathy withlife. And in all his various passions and neglected correspondence henever forgot for long to answer her letters, nor did he allow a monthto pass without seeing her. And now he bought for her a great packetof roses and a novel; and with some misgivings he chose Zola's _Paged'Amour_. 

"I think this is all right. She'll be delighted with it, if she'llread it. "

She would have read anything he gave, and seen no harm since it camefrom him. The ailing caged bird cannot but delight in the thrillingof the wild bird that comes to it with the freedom of the sky andfields in its wings and song. She listened to all his stories, evento his stories of pigeon-shooting. She knew not how to reproach him. Her eyes fixed upon him, her gentle hand laid on the rail of herchair, she listened while he told her of the friends he had made, andhis life in the country; its seascape and downlands, the furze wherehe had shot the rabbits, the lane where he had jumped the gate. Herpleasures had passed in thought--his in action; the world was forhim--this room for her. 

There is the long chair in which she lies nearly always; there is thecushion on which the tired head is leaned, a small beautifully-shapedhead, and the sharp features are distinct on the dark velvet, for thelamp is on the mantelpiece, and the light falls full on the profile. The curtains are drawn, and the eyes animate with gratitude when Mikeenters with his roses, and after asking kindly questions he takes avase, and filling it with water, places the flowers therein, and setsit on the table beside her. There is her fire--(few indeed are thedays in summer when she is without it)--the singing kettle suggeststhe homely tea, and the saucepan on the hearth the invalid. There isher bookcase, set with poetry and religion, and in one corner are theyellow-backed French novels that Mike has given her. They are thetouches the most conclusive of reality in her life; and she oftensmiles, thinking how her friends will strive to explain how they cameinto her life when she is gone. 

"How good of you to come and see me! Tell me about yourself, what youhave been doing. I want to hear you talk. "

"Well, I've brought you this book; it is a lovely book--you can readit--I think you can read it, otherwise I should not have given it toyou. "

He remained with her till seven, talking to her about hunting, shooting, literature, and card-playing. 

"Now I must go, " he said, glancing at the clock. 

"Oh, so soon, " exclaimed Miss Dudley, waking from her dream; "mustyou go?"

"I'm afraid I must; I haven't dined yet. "

"And what are you going to do after dinner? You are going to playcards. "

"How did you guess that?"

"I can't say, " she said, laughing; "I think I can often guess yourthoughts. "

And during the long drive to Piccadilly, and as he eat his sole anddrank his Pomard, he dreamed of the hands he should hold, and of therisks he should run when the cards were bad. His brain glowed withsubtle combinations and surprises, and he longed to measure hisstrength against redoubtable antagonists. The two great whistplayers, Longley and Lovegrove, were there. He always felt jealous ofLovegrove's play. Lovegrove played an admirable game, always makingthe most of his cards. But there was none of that dash, and almostmiraculous flashes of imagination and decision which characterizedMike, and Mike felt that if he had the money on, and with Longley fora partner, he could play as he had never played before; and ignoringa young man whom he might have rooked at écarté, and avoiding a richold gentleman who loved his game of piquet, and on whom Mike was usedto rely in the old days for his Sunday dinner (he used to say the oldgentleman gave the best dinners in London; they always ran into atenner), he sat down at the whist-table. His partner playedwretchedly, and though he had Longley and Lovegrove against him, hecould not refrain from betting ten pounds on every rubber. He playedtill the club closed, he played till he had reduced his balance atthe bank to nineteen pounds. 

Haunted by the five of clubs, which on one occasion he should haveplayed and did not, he walked till he came to the Haymarket. Then hestopped. What could he do? All the life of idleness and luxury whichhe had so long enjoyed faded like a dream, and the spectre of cheaplodgings and daily journalism rose painfully distinct. He pitied thestreet-sweepers, and wondered if it were possible for him to slipdown into the gutter. "When I have paid my hotel bill, I shan't havea tenner. " He thought of Mrs. Byril, but the idea did not please him, and he remembered Frank had told him he had a cottage on the river. He would go there. He might put up for a night or two at Hall's. 

"I will start a series of articles to-morrow. What shall it be?" Anunfortunate still stood at the corner of the street. "'Letters to aLight o' Love!' Frank must advance me something upon them.... Thosestupid women! if they were not so witless they could rise to anyheight. If I had only been a woman! ... If I had been a woman I shouldhave liked to have been Ninon de Lanclos. "

CHAPTER VIII

When Mike had paid his hotel bill, very few pounds were left for thecard-room, and judging it was not an hour in which he might temptfortune, he "rooked" a young man remorselessly. Having thusreplenished his pockets he turned to the whist-table for amusement. Luck was against him; he played, defying luck, and left the clubowing eighty pounds, five of which he had borrowed from Longley. 

Next morning as he dozed, he wondered if, had he played the ten ofdiamonds instead of the seven of clubs, it would have materiallyaltered his fortune; and from cards his thoughts wandered, till theytook root in the articles he was to write for the _Pilgrim_. He wasin Hall's spare bed-room--a large, square room, empty of allfurniture except a camp bedstead. His portmanteau lay wide open inthe middle of the floor, and a gaunt fireplace yawned amid someyellow marbles. 

"'Darling, like a rose you hold the whole world between your lips, and you shed its leaves in little kisses. ' That will do for theopening sentences. " Then as words slipped from him he considered thecomponent parts of his subject. 

"The first letter is of course introductory, and I must establishcertain facts, truths which have become distorted and falsified, orlost sight of. Addressing an ideal courtesan, I shall say, 'You mustunderstand that the opening sentence of this letter does not includeany part of the old reproach which has been levelled against yousince man began to love you, and that was when he ceased to be an apeand became man. 

"'If you were ever sphinx-like and bloodthirsty, which I very muchdoubt, you have changed flesh and skin, even the marrow of yourbones. In these modern days you are a kind-hearted little woman who, to pursue an ancient metaphor, sheds the world rosewise in littlekisses; but if you did not so shed it, the world would shed itself intears. Your smiles and laughter are the last lights that play aroundthe white hairs of an aged duke; your winsome tendernesses are thedreams of a young man who writes "pars" about you on Friday, anddines with you on Sunday; you are an ideal in many lives whichwithout you would certainly be ideal-less. ' Deuced good that; Iwish I had a pencil to make a note; but I shall remember it. Thenwill come my historical paragraph. I shall show that it is onlyby confounding courtesans with queens, and love with ambition, that any sort of case can be made out against the former. Thirdparagraph--'Courtesans are a factor in the great problem of thecirculation of wealth, etc. ' It will be said that the money thusspent is unproductive.... So much the better! For if it were given tothe poor it would merely enable them to bring more children into theworld, thereby increasing immensely the general misery of the race. Schopenhauer will not be left out in the cold after all. QuoteLecky, --'The courtesan is the guardian angel of our hearths andhomes, the protector of our wives and sisters. '"

"Will you have a bath this morning, sir?" cried the laundress, through the door. 

"Yes, and get me a chop for breakfast. "

"I shall tell her (the courtesan, not the laundress) how she mayorganize the various forces latent in her and culminate in a powerwhich shall contain in essence the united responsibilities of church, music-hall, and picture gallery. " Mike turned over on his back androared with laughter. "Frank will be delighted. It will make thefortune of the paper. Then I shall attack my subject in detail. Dress, house, education, friends, female and male. Then themoney question. She must make a provision for the future. Charming chapter there is to be written on the old age of thecourtesan--charities--ostentatious charities--charitable bazaars, reception into the Roman Catholic faith. "

"Shall I bring in your hot water, sir?" screamed the laundress. 

"Yes, yes.... Shall my courtesan go on the stage? No, she shall be apure courtesan, she shall remain unsullied of any labour. She mightappear once on the boards;--no, no, she must remain a pure courtesan. Charming subject! It will make a book. Charming opportunity for wit, satire, fancy. I shall write the introductory letter afterbreakfast. "

Frank was in shoaling water, and could not pay his contributors; butMike could get blood out of a turnip, and Frank advanced him tenpounds on the proposed articles. Frank counted on these articles towhip up the circulation, and Mike promised to let him have fourwithin the week, and left the cottage at Henley, where Frank wasliving, full of dreams of work. And every morning before he got outof bed he considered and reconsidered his subject, finding alwaysmore than one idea, and many a witty fancy; and every day afterbreakfast the work undone hung like a sword between Hall and him asthey sat talking of their friends, of art, of women, of things thatdid not interest them. They hung around each other, loth yet desirousto part; they followed each other through the three rooms, buttoningtheir braces and shirt-collars. And when conversation had worn itselfout, Mike accepted any pretext to postpone the day's work. He had tofetch ink or cigarettes. 

But he was always detained, if not by friends, by the beauty of thegardens or the river. Never did the old dining-hall and thestaircases, balustraded--on whose gray stone a leaf, the first ofmany, rustles--seem more intense and pregnant with that mysticmournfulness which is the Thames, and which is London. The dullsphinx-like water rolling through multitude of bricks, seemed to markon this wistful autumn day a more melancholy enchantment, and lookingout on the great waste of brick delicately blended with smoke andmist, and seeing the hay-boats sailing picturesquely, and the tugsmaking for Blackfriars, long lines of coal-barges in their wake, laden so deep that the water slopped over the gunwales, he thought ofthe spring morning when he had waited there for Lily. How shepersisted in his mind! Why had he not asked her to marry him insteadof striving to make her his mistress? She was too sweet to be castoff like the others; she would have accepted him if he had asked her. He had sacrificed marriage for self, and what had self given him?

Mike was surprised at these thoughts, and pleased, for they proved acertain residue of goodness in him; at all events, called into hisconsideration a side of his nature which he was not wearisomelyfamiliar with. Then he dismissed these thoughts as he might have theletter of a determined creditor. He could still bid them go. Andhaving easily rid himself of them, he noticed the porters in theirwhite aprons, and the flight of pigeons, the sacred birds of theTemple, coming down from the roofs. And he loved now more than everFleet Street, and the various offices where he might idle, and thevarious luncheon-bars to which he might adjourn with one of thestaff, perhaps with the editor of one of the newspapers. The Octobersunlight was warm and soft, greeted his face agreeably as he lounged, stopping before every shop in which there were books or prints. Ludgate Circus was always a favourite with him, partly because heloved St. Paul's, partly because women assembled there; and now inthe mist, delicate and pure, rose above the town the lovely dome. 

"None but the barbarians of the Thames, " thought Mike, "none otherwould have allowed that most shameful bridge. "

Mike hated Simpson's. He could not abide the stolid city folk, whodevour there five and twenty saddles of mutton in an evening. Heliked better the Cock Tavern, quiet, snug, and intimate. Wedged witha couple of chums in a comfortable corner, he shouted--

"Henry, get me a chop and a pint of bitter. "

There he was sure to meet a young barrister ready to talk to him, andthey returned together, swinging their sticks, happy in theirbachelordom, proud of the old inns and courts. Often they stayed tolook on the church, the church of the Knight Templars, those terribleand mysterious knights who, with crossed legs for sign of mission, and with long swords and kite-shaped shields, lie upon the pavementof the church. 

One wet night, when every court and close was buried in a deep, cloying darkness, and the church seemed a dead thing, the patheticstories of the windows suddenly became dreamily alive, and the organsighed like one sad at heart. The young men entered; and in the pompof the pipes, and in shadows starred by the candles, the loneorganist sat playing a fugue by Bach. 

"It is, " said Mike, "like turning the pages of some precious missal, adorned with gold thread and bedazzled with rare jewels. It is like apoem by Edgar Allen Poe. " Quelled, and in strange awe they listened, and when the music ceased, unable at once to return to the simpleprose of their chambers, they lingered, commenting on the mock tasteof the architecture of the dining-hall, and laughing at the inflatedinscription over the doorway. 

"It is worse, " said Mike, "than the Middle Temple Hall--far worse;but I like this old colonnade, there is something so suggestive inthis old inscription in bad Latin. 

 'Vetustissima Templariorum porticu Igne consumptâ; an 1679 Nova hæc sumptibus medii Templie extructa an 1681 Gulielmo Whiteloche arm Thesauör. '"

Once or twice a week Hall dined at the Cock for the purpose ofmeeting his friends, whom he invited after dinner to his rooms tosmoke and drink till midnight. His welcome was so cordial that allwere glad to come. The hospitality was that which is met in allchambers in the Temple. Coffee was made with difficulty, delay, anduncertain result; a bottle of port was sometimes produced; of whiskeyand water there was always plenty. Every one brought his own tobacco;and in decrepit chairs beneath dangerously-laden bookcases some sixor seven barristers enjoyed themselves in conversation, smoke, anddrink. Mike recognized how characteristically Temple was thissociety, how different from the heterogeneous visitors of TempleGardens in the heyday of Frank's fortune. 

James Norris was a small, thin man, dark and with regular features, clean shaven like a priest or an actor, vaguely resembling both, inclining towards the hieratic rather than to the histrionic type. Hedressed always in black, and the closely-buttoned jacket revealed thespareness of his body. He was met often in the evening, going to dineat the Cock; but was rarely seen walking about the Temple in theday-time. It was impossible to meet any one more suasive andagreeable; his suavity was penetrating as his small dark eyes. Helived in Elm Court, and his rooms impressed you with a sense ofcleanliness and comfort. The furniture was all in solid mahogany;there were no knick-knacks or any lightness, and almost the onlyæsthetic intentions were a few sober engravings--portraits of men inwigs and breastplates. He took pleasure in these and also in somefirst editions, containing the original plates, which, when you knewhim well, he produced from the bookcase and descanted on their valueand rarity. 

Mr. Norris had always an excellent cigar to offer you, and he pressedyou to taste of his old port, and his Chartreuse; there was whiskeyfor you too, if you cared to take it, and allusion was made to itsage. But it was neither an influence nor a characteristic of hisrooms; the port wine was. If there was fruit on the sideboard, therewas also pounded sugar; and it is such detail as the pounded sugarthat announces an inveterate bachelorhood. Some men are bornbachelors. And when a man is born a bachelor, the signs unmistakableare hardly apparent at thirty; it is not until the fortieth year isapproached that the fateful markings become recognizable. JamesNorris was forty-two, and was therefore a full-fledged bachelor. Hewas a bachelor in the complete equipment of his chambers. He wasbachelor in his arm-chair and his stock of wine; his hospitality wasthat of a bachelor, for a man who feels instinctively that he willnever own a "house and home" constructs the materiality of his lifein chambers upon a fuller basis than the man who feels instinctivelythat he will, sooner or later, exchange the perch-like existence ofhis chambers for the nest-like completeness of a home in SouthKensington. 

James Norris was of an excellent county family in Essex. He had abrother in the army, a brother in the Civil Service, and a brother inthe Diplomatic Service. He had also a brother who composed somewhatunsuccessful waltz tunes, who borrowed money, and James thought thathis brother caused him some anxiety of mind. The eldest brother, JohnNorris, lived at the family place, Halton Grange, where he stayedwhen he went on the Eastern circuit. James was far too securely agentleman to speak much of Halton Grange; nevertheless, the flavourof landed estate transpired in the course of conversation. He hasreturned from circuit, having finished up with a partridge drive, etc. 

James Norris was a sensualist. His sensuality was recognizable in theclose-set eyes and in the sharp prominent chin (he resembled vaguelythe portrait of Baudelaire in _Les Fleurs du Mal_); he never spoke ofhis amours, but occasionally he would drop an observation, especiallyif he were talking to Mike Fletcher, that afforded a sudden glimpseof a soul touched if not tainted with erotism. But James Norris wasabove all things prudent, and knew how to keep vice well in hand. 

Like another, he had had his love story, or that which in the life ofsuch a man might pass for a love story. He had flirted a great dealwhen he was thirty, with a married woman. She had not troubled, shehad only slightly eddied, stirred with a few ripples the placidity ofa placid stream of life. In hours of lassitude it pleased him tothink that she had ruined his life. Man is ever ready to think thathis failure comes from without rather than from within. He wrote toher every week a long letter, and spent a large part of the longvacation in her house in Yorkshire, telling her that he had neverloved any one but her. 

James Norris was an able lawyer, and he was an able lawyer for threereasons. First, because he was a clear-headed man of the world, whohad not allowed his intelligence to rust;--it formed part of theroutine of his life to read some pages of a standard author beforegoing to bed; he studied all the notorious articles that appeared inthe reviews, attempting the assimilation of the ideas which seemed tohim best in our time. Secondly, he was industrious, and if he led anindependent life, dining frequently in a tavern instead of toutingfor briefs in society, and so harmed himself, such misadventure wascounterbalanced by his industry and his prudence. Thirdly, hissweetness and geniality made him a favourite with the bench. He hadmuch insight into human nature, he studied it, and could detectalmost at once the two leading spirits on a jury; and he was alwaysaware of the idiosyncrasies of the judge he was pleading before, andknew how to respect and to flatter them. 

Charles Stokes was the oldest man who frequented Hall's chambers, andhis venerable appearance was an anomaly in a company formedprincipally of men under forty. In truth, Charles Stokes was not morethan forty-six or seven, but he explained that living everywhere, anddoing everything, had aged him beyond his years. In mind, however, hewas the youngest there, and his manner was often distressinglyjuvenile. He wore old clothes which looked as if they had not beenbrushed for some weeks, and his linen was of dubious cleanliness, andabout his rumpled collar there floated a half-tied black necktie. Mike, who hated all things that reminded him of the casualness ofthis human frame, never was at ease in his presence, and his eyeturned in disgust from sight of the poor old gentleman's tremblingand ossified fingers. His beard was long and almost white; hesnuffed, and smoked a clay pipe, and sat in the arm-chair which stoodin the corner beneath the screen which John Norton had left to Hall. 

He was always addressed as Mr. Stokes; Hall complimented him and kepthim well supplied with whiskey-and-water. He was listened to onaccount of his age--that is to say, on account of his apparent age, and on account of his gentleness. Harding had described him as onewho talked learned nonsense in sweetly-measured intonations. Butalthough Harding ridiculed him, he often led him into conversation, and listened with obvious interest, for Mr. Stokes had driftedthrough many modes and manners of life, and had in so doing acquiredsome vague knowledge. 

He had written a book on the ancient religions of India, which hecalled the _Cradleland of Arts and Creeds_, and Harding, ever on thealert to pick a brain however poor it might be, enticed him intodiscussion in which frequent allusion was made to Vishnu and Siva. 

Yes, drifted is the word that best expresses Mr. Stokes' passagethrough life--he had drifted. He was one of the many millions wholive without a fixed intention, without even knowing what theydesire; and he had drifted because in him strength and weakness stoodat equipoise; no defect was heavy enough for anchor, nor was thereany quality large enough for sufficient sail; he had drifted fromcountry to country, from profession to profession, whither winds andwaves might bear him. 

"Of course I'm a failure, " was a phrase that Mr. Stokes repeated witha mild, gentle humour, and without any trace of bitterness. He spokeof himself with the naïve candour of a docile school-boy, who hastaken up several subjects for examination and been ploughed in themall. For Mr. Stokes had been to Oxford, and left it without taking adegree. Then he had gone into the army, and had proved himself athoroughly inefficient soldier, and more than any man before orafter, had succeeded in rousing the ire of both adjutant and colonel. It was impossible to teach him any drill; what he was taught to-dayhe forgot to-morrow; when the general came down to inspect, theconfusion he created in the barrack-yard had proved so complex, thatfor a second it had taxed the knowledge of the drill-sergeant to getthe men straight again. 

Mr. Stokes was late at all times and all occasions: he was late fordrill, he was late for mess, he was late for church; and when sentfor he was always found in his room, either learning a part orwriting a play. His one passion was theatricals; and wherever theregiment was stationed, he very soon discovered those who weredisposed to get up a performance of a farce. 

When he left the army he joined the Indian bar, and there he appliedhimself in his own absent-minded fashion to the study of Sanscrit, neglecting Hindustani, which would have been of use to him in hisprofession. Through India, China, and America he had drifted. In NewYork he had edited a newspaper; in San Francisco he had lectured, andhe returned home with an English nobleman who had engaged him asprivate secretary. 

When he passed out of the nobleman's service he took chambers in theTemple, and devoted his abundant leisure to writing his memoirs, andthe pleasantest part of his life began. The Temple suited himperfectly, its Bohemianism was congenial to him, the library wasconvenient, and as no man likes to wholly cut himself adrift from hisprofession, the vicinity of the law courts, and a modicum of legalconversation in the evening, sufficed to maintain in hisabsent-minded head the illusion that he was practising at the bar. His chambers were bare and dreary, unadorned with spoils from Indiaor China. Mr. Stokes retained nothing; he had passed through lifelike a bird. He had drifted, and all things had drifted from him; hedid not even possess a copy of his _Cradleland of Arts and Creeds_. He had lost all except a small property in Kent, and appeared to bequite alone in the world. 

Mr. Stokes talked rarely of his love affairs, and his allusions wereso partial that nothing exact could be determined about him. It was, however, noticed that he wore a gold bracelet indissolubly fastenedupon his right wrist, and it was supposed that an Indian princess hadgiven him this, and that a goldsmith had soldered it upon him in herpresence, as she lay on her death-bed. It was noticed that a younggirl came to see him at intervals, sometimes alone, sometimesaccompanied by her aunt. Mr. Stokes made no secret of this youngperson, and he spoke of her as his adopted daughter. Mr. Stokes dinedat a theatrical club. All men liked him; he was genial and harmless. 

Mr. Joseph Silk was the son of a London clergyman. He was a tall, spare young man, who was often met about the Temple, striding towardshis offices or the library. He was comically careful not to sayanything that might offend, and nervously concerned to retreat fromall persons and things which did not seem to him to offerpossibilities of future help; and his assumed geniality andgood-fellowship hung about him awkwardly, like the clothes of abroad-chested, thick-thighed man about miserable limbs. For some timeSilk had been seriously thinking of cutting himself adrift from allacquaintanceship with Hall. He had, until now, borne with hisacquaintanceship because Hall was connected with a society journalthat wrote perilously near the law of libel; several times the paperhad been threatened with actions, but had somehow, much to Silk'schagrin, managed to escape. All the actionable paragraphs had beendiscussed with Silk; on each occasion Hall had come down to hischambers for advice, and he felt sure that he would be employed inthe case when it did come off. But unfortunately this showed no signsof accomplishment. Silk read the paper every week for the paragraphthat was to bring him fame; he would have given almost anything to beemployed "in a good advertising case. " But he had noticed thatinstead of becoming more aggressive and personal, that week by weekthe newspaper was moderating its tone. In the last issue severalparagraphs had caught his eye, which could not be described otherwisethan as complimentary; there were also several new pages ofadvertisements; and these robbed him of all hope of an action. Hecounted the pages, "twelve pages of advertisements--nothing furtherof a questionable character will go into that paper, " thought he, andforthwith fell to considering Hall's invitation to "come in thatevening, if he had nothing better to do. " He had decided that hewould not go, but at the last moment had gone, and now, as he satdrinking whiskey-and-water, he glanced round the company, thinking itmight injure him if it became known that he spent his evenings there, and he inwardly resolved he would never again be seen in Hall'srooms. 

Silk had been called to the bar about seven years. The first years heconsidered he had wasted, but during the last four he applied himselfto his profession. He had determined "to make a success of life, "that was how he put it to himself. He had, during the last fouryears, done a good deal of "devilling"; he had attended at the OldBailey watching for "soups" with untiring patience. But lately, within the last couple of years, he had made up his mind that waitingfor "soups" at the Old Bailey was not the way to fame or fortune. Hisfirst idea of a path out of his present circumstances was throughHall and the newspaper; but he had lately bethought himself of aneasier and wider way, one more fruitful of chances and beset withprizes. This broad and easy road to success which he had lately begunto see, wound through his father's drawing-room. London clergymenhave, as a rule, large salaries and abundant leisure, and young Silkdetermined to turn his father's leisure to account. The Reverend Silkrequired no pressing. "Show me what line to take, and I will takeit, " said he; and young Silk, knowing well the various firms ofsolicitors that were dispensing such briefs as he could take, instructed his father when and where he should exercise his tea-tableagreeabilities, and forthwith the reverend gentleman commenced hissocial wrigglings. There were teas and dinners, and calls, and lyingwithout end. Over the wine young Silk cajoled the senior member ofthe firm, and in the drawing-room, sitting by the wife, he alluded tohis father's philanthropic duties, which he relieved with suchsniggering and pruriency as he thought the occasion demanded. 

About six months ago, Mr. Joseph Silk had accidentally learnt, in thetreasurer's offices, that the second floor in No. 5, Paper Buildingswas unoccupied. He had thought of changing his chambers, but a secondfloor in Paper Buildings was beyond his means. But two or three daysafter, as he was walking from his area in King's Bench Walk to thelibrary, he suddenly remembered that the celebrated advocate, SirArthur Haldane, lived on the first floor in Paper Buildings. Now athis father's house, or in one of the houses his father frequented, hemight meet Sir Arthur; indeed, a meeting could easily be arranged. Here Mr. Silk's sallow face almost flushed with a little colour, andhis heart beat as his little scheme pressed upon his mind. Dreadingan obstacle, he feared to allow the thought to formulate; but after amoment he let it slip, and it said--"Now if I were to take the secondfloor, I should often meet Sir Arthur on the doorstep and staircase. What an immense advantage it would be to me when Stoggard and Higginslearnt that I was on terms of friendship with Sir Arthur. I know as apositive fact that Stoggard and Higgins would give anything to getSir Arthur for some of their work.... But the rent is very heavy inPaper Buildings. I must speak to father about it. " A few weeks after, Mr. Joseph transferred his furniture to No. 2, Paper Buildings; andnot long after he had the pleasure of meeting Sir Arthur at dinner. 

Mr. Silk's love affairs were neither numerous nor interesting. He hadspent little of his time with women, and little of his money uponwomen, and his amativeness had led him into no wilder exploit thanthe seduction of his laundress's daughter, by whom he had had achild. Indeed, it had once been whispered that the mother, with thechild in her arms, had knocked at King's Bench Walk and had insistedon being admitted. Having not the slightest knowledge or perceptionof female nature, he had extricated himself with difficulty from thescandal by which he was menaced, and was severely mulcted before thegirl was induced to leave London. About every three months she wroteto him, and these letters were read with horror and burnt intrembling haste; for Mr. Joseph Silk was now meditating formatrimonial and legal purposes one of the daughters of one of thesolicitors he had met in Paper Buildings, and being an exceedinglynervous, ignorant, and unsympathetic man in all that did not concernhis profession, was vastly disturbed at every echo of hisindiscretion. 

Harding, in reply to a question as to what he thought of Silk, said--

"What do I think of Silk? Cotton back" ... And every one laughed, feeling the intrinsic truth of the judgement. 

Mr. George Cooper was Mr. Joseph Silk's friend. Cooper consulted Silkon every point. Whenever he saw a light in Silk's chambers hethrilled a little with anticipation of the pleasant hour before him, and they sat together discussing the abilities of various eminentjudges and barristers. Silk told humorous anecdotes of the judges;Cooper was exercised concerning their morality, and enlargedanxiously on the responsibility of placing a man on the Bench withouthaving full knowledge of his private life. Silk listened, puffing athis pipe, and to avoid committing himself to an opinion, asked Cooperto have another glass of port. Before they parted allusion was madeto the law-books that Cooper was writing--Cooper was always bringingout new editions of other people's books, and continually exposed thebad law they wrote in his conversation. He had waited his turn likeanother for "soups" at the Bailey, and like another had grown wearyof waiting; besides, the meditative cast of his mind enticed himtowards chamber practice and away from public pleading before judgeand jury. Silk sought "a big advertising case"; he desired theexcitement of court, and, though he never refused any work, hedreaded the lonely hours necessary for the perfect drawing up of along indictment. Cooper was very much impressed with Silk'sabilities; he thought him too hard and mechanical, not sufficientlyinterested in the science of morals; but these defects of characterwere forgotten in his homage to his friend's worldly shrewdness. ForCooper was unendowed with worldly shrewdness, and, like all dreamers, was attracted by a mind which controlled while he might only attemptto understand. Cooper's aspirations towards an ideal tickled Silk'smind as it prepared its snares. Cooper often invited Silk to dinewith him at the National Liberal Club; Silk sometimes asked Cooper todine with him at the Union. Silk and Cooper were considered alike, and there were many points in which their appearances coincided. Cooper was the shorter man of the two, but both were tall, thin, narrow, and sallow complexioned; both were essentially clean, respectable, and middle-class. 

Cooper was the son of a Low Church bishop who had gained his mitre bytemperance oratory, and what his Lordship was in the cathedral, Cooper was in the suburban drawing-rooms where radical politics andthe woman's cause were discussed. When he had a brief he brought itto the library to show it; he almost lived in the library. He arrivedthe moment it was opened, and brought a packet of sandwiches so asnot to waste time going out to lunch. His chambers were furnishedwithout taste, but the works of Comte and Spencer showed that he hadattempted to think; and the works of several socialistic writersshowed that he had striven to solve the problem of human misery. Onthe table were several novels by Balzac, which conversation withHarding had led him to purchase and to read. He likewise possessed afew volumes of modern poetry, but he freely confessed that hepreferred Pope, Dryden, and Johnson; and it was impossible to bringhim to understand that De Quincey was more subtle and suggestive thanthe author of London. 

Generally our souls are made of one conspicuous modern mental aspect;but below this aspect we are woven and coloured by the spirit of somepreceding century, our chance inheritance, and Cooper was a sort ofproduct of the pedantry of Johnson and the utilitarian mysticism ofComte. Perhaps the idea nearest to Cooper's heart was "the woman'scause. " The misery and ignominy of human life had affected him, andhe dreamed of the world's regeneration through women; and though wellaware that Comte and Spencer advocate the application of experiencein all our many mental embarrassments, he failed to reconsiderhis beliefs in female virtue, although frequently pressed to doso by Mike. Some personal animosity had grown out of their desireto convince each other. Cooper had once even meditated Mike'sconversion, and Mike never missed an opportunity of telling somestory which he deemed destructive of Cooper's faith. His faith wasto him what a microscope is to a scientist, and it enabled him todiscover the finest characteristics in the souls of bar-girls, chorusgirls, and prostitutes; and even when he fell, and they fell, hisbelief in their virtue and the nobility of their womanly instinctsremained unshaken. 

Mike had just finished a most racy story concerning his firstintroduction to a certain countess. Cooper had listened in silence, but when Mike turned at the end of his tale and asked him what hethought of his conduct, Cooper rose from his chair. 

"I think you behaved like a blackguard. "

In a moment Mike was aware he had put himself in the wrong--the storyabout the countess could not be told except to his destruction in anylanguage except his own, and he must therefore forbear to strikeCooper and swallow the insult. 

"You ass, get out; I can't quarrel with you on such a subject. "

The embarrassment was increased by Cooper calling to Silk and askingif he were coming with him. The prudent Silk felt that to stay was tosignify his approval of Mike's conduct in the case of the indiscreetcountess. To leave with Cooper was to write himself down a prig, expose himself to the sarcasm of several past masters in the art ofgibing, and to make in addition several powerful enemies. But theinstinct not to compromise himself in any issue did not desert him, and rushing after Cooper he attempted the peace-maker. He knew theattempt would mean no more than some hustling in the doorway, andsome ineffectual protestation, and he returned a few minutes after tojoin in the ridicule heaped upon the unfortunate Cooper, and to vowinwardly that this was his last evening in Bohemia. 

By the piano, smoking a clay pipe, there sat a large, rough, strongman. His beard was bristly and flame-coloured, his face was crimsonand pimply; lion-like locks hung in profusion about the collar of hisshabby jacket. His linen was torn and thin; crumpled was the necktie, and nearly untied, and the trousers were worn and frayed, and theboots heavy. He looked as if he could have carried a trunkexcellently well, but as that thought struck you your eyes fell uponhis hands, which were the long, feminine-shaped hands generally foundin those of naturally artistic temperament, nearly always in thosewho practise two or more of the arts. Sands affected all the arts. Enumerate: He played snatches of Bach on the violin, on the piano, and on the organ; he composed fragments for all three instruments. Hepainted little landscapes after (a long way after) the manner ofCorot, of whom he could talk until the small hours in the morning ifan occasional drink and cigar were forthcoming. He modelled littlestatuettes in wax, cupids and nymphs, and he designed covers forbooks. He could do all these things a little, and not stupidly, although inefficiently. He had been a volunteer, and therefore wroteon military subjects, and had on certain occasions been permitted tocriticize our naval defences and point out the vices and shortcomingsin our military system in the leading evening papers. He wasgenerally seen with a newspaper under his arm going towards CharingCross or Fleet Street. He never strayed further west than CharingCross, unless he was going to a "picture show, " and there was noreason why he should pass Ludgate Circus, for further east there wereneither newspapers nor restaurants. He was quite without vanity, andtherefore without ambition, Buddha was never more so, not even afterattaining the Nirvana. A picture show in Bond Street, a half-crowndinner at Simpson's, or the Rainbow, coffee and cigars after, was allthat he desired; give him that, and he was a pleasant companion whowould remain with you until you turned him out, or in charity, for hewas often homeless, allowed him to sleep on your sofa. 

Sands was not a member of the Temple, but Hall's rooms were ever arefuge to the weary--there they might rest, and there was there everfor them a drink and a mouthful of food. And there Sands had met thedecayed barrister who held the rooms opposite; which, although he hadlong ceased to occupy, and had no use for, he still wished to own, ifhe could do so without expense, and this might be done by letting tworooms, and reserving one for himself. 

The unwary barrister, believing in the solvency of whoever he met atHall's, intrusted his chambers to Sands, without demanding the rentin advance. A roof to sleep under had been the chief difficulty inSands' life. He thought not at all of a change of clothes, and cleanlinen troubled him only slightly. Now almost every want seemedprovided for. Coals he could get from Hall, also occasionalhalf-crowns; these sufficed to pay for his breakfast; a dinner hecould generally "cadge, " and if he failed to do so, he had long agolearnt to go without. It was hard not to admire his gentleness, hispatience and forbearance. If you refused to lend him money he showedno faintest trace of anger. Hall's friends were therefore delightedthat the chambers opposite were let on conditions so favourable toSands; they anticipated with roars of laughter the scene that wouldhappen at the close of the year, and looked forward to seeing, atleast during the interim, their friend in clean clothes, and reading"his copy" in the best journals. But the luxury of having a fixedplace to sleep in, stimulated, not industry, but vicious laziness ofthe most ineradicable kind. Henceforth Sands abandoned all effort tohelp himself. Uncombed, unwashed, in dirty clothes, he lay in anarm-chair through all the morning, rising from time to time to messsome paint into the appearance of some incoherent landscape, or torasp out some bars of Beethoven on his violin. 

"Never did I imagine any one so idle; he is fairly putrid withidleness, " said Hall after a short visit. "Would you believe it, hehas only ninepence for sole shield between him and starvation. Theeditor of the _Moon_ has just telegraphed for the notice he shouldhave written of the Academy, and the brute is just sending a'wire'--'nothing possible this week. ' Did any one ever hear of such athing? To-night he won't dine, and he could write the notice in anhour. "

Besides having contributed to almost every paper in London, from the_Times_ downwards, Sands had held positions as editor and sub-editorof numerous journals. But he had lost each one in turn, and wasbeginning to understand that he was fated to die of poverty, and wasbeginning to grow tired of the useless struggle. No one was betterorganized to earn his living than Peter Sands, and no one failed morelamentably. Had fortune provided him with a dinner at Simpson's, acigar and a cup of coffee, he would have lived as successfully asanother. But our civilization is hard upon those who are onlyconversationalists, it does not seem to have taken them into accountin its scheme, and, in truth, Peter could not do much more thanæstheticize agreeably. 

Paul L'Estrange admitted freely that he was not fitted for a lawyer;but even before he explained that he considered himself one of thosebeings who had slipped into a hole that did not fit them, it wasprobable that you had already begun to consider the circumstancesthat had brought him to choose the law as a profession; for his vagueintelligence "where nothing was and all things seemed, " lay mirroredin his mild eyes like a landscape in a pool. Over such a partial andmeditative a mind as L'Estrange's, the Temple may exercise adestructive fascination; and since the first day, when a boy he hadwalked through the closes gathering round the church, and had heardof the knights, had seen the old dining-hall with its manyinscriptions, he had never ceased to dream of the Temple--that relicof the past, saved with all its traditions out of the ruin of time;and the memory of his cousin's chambers, and the association andmutuality of the life of the Temple, the picturesqueness of the wigsand gowns passing, and the uncommonness of it all had taken root andgrown, overshadowing other ideals, and when the time came for him tochoose a profession, no choice was open to him but the law, for thelaw resided in the Temple. 

Soon after his father died, the family property was sold and thefamily scattered; some went to Australia, some to Canada; butL'Estrange had inherited a hundred a year from a grand-aunt, and helived on that, and what he made by writing in the newspapers, for ofcourse no one had thought of intrusting him with a brief; and what hemade by journalism varied from a hundred and fifty to two hundred andfifty a year. Whenever a new scare arose he was busy among blue-booksin the library. 

L'Estrange loved to dine at the Cock tavern with a party of men fromthe inn, and to invite them to his chambers to take coffeeafterwards. And when they had retired, and only one remained, hewould say, "What a nice fellow so-and-so is; you do meet a nice lotof fellows in the Temple, don't you?" It seemed almost sufficientthat a man should belong to the Temple for L'Estrange to find himadmirable. The dinners in hall were especially delightful. Betweenthe courses he looked in admiration on the portraits and old oakcarvings, and the armorial bearings, and would tell how one bencherhad been debarred from election as treasurer because he had, on threeoccasions, attended dinner without partaking of any food. Such aninsult to the kitchen could not be forgiven. L'Estrange was full ofsuch stories, and he relished their historical flavour as a gourmetan unusually successful piece of cooking. He regarded the Temple andits associations with love. 

When he had friends to dinner in his rooms the dinner was alwaysbrought from the hall; he ordered it himself in the large spaciouskitchen, which he duly admired, and prying about amid the variousmeats, he chose with care, and when told that what he desired couldnot be obtained that day, he continued his search notwithstanding. Herelated that on one occasion he discovered a greengage pie, aftermany assurances that there was no such thing in the kitchen. If hewas with a friend he laid his hand on his shoulder, and pointing outan inscription, he said, "Now one thing I notice about the Temple isthat never is an occasion missed of putting up an inscription; andnote the legal character of the inscriptions, how carefully it isexplained, that, for instance, the cloisters, although they are forthe use of the Inner as well as the Middle Temple, yet it was theMiddle Temple that paid to have them put up, and therefore owns theproperty. " L'Estrange always spoke of the gardens as "our gardens, "of the church as "our church. " He was an authority on all thatrelated to the Temple, and he delighted in a friend in whom he mightconfide; and to walk about the courts with Hall or Sands, stoppingnow and then to note some curious piece of sculpture or date, andforthwith to relate an anecdote that brought back some of thefragrance and colour of old time, and to tell how he intended to worksuch curious facts into the book he was writing on the Temple, wasthe essence and the soul of this dreamy man's little life. 

Saturday night is the night of dalliance in the Temple, and notunfrequently on Sunday morning, leaving a lady love, L'Estrange wouldgo to church--top hat, umbrella, and prayer-book--and having a senseof humour, he was amused by the incongruity. 

"I have left the accursed thing behind me, " he once said to Mr. Collier, and by such facetiousness had seriously annoyed the immenseand most staid Mr. Collier. 

A gaunt, hollow-eyed man was he, worn to a thread by diabetes; and tokeep the disease in check, strictly dieted. His appearance was sosuggestive of illness, that whenever he was present the conversationalways turned on what he might eat and what he must refrain fromtouching. A large, gray-skinned man, handsome somewhat like a figureof Melancholy carved out of limestone. Since he had left Oxford, where he had taken a double first, he had failed--at the bar, inliterature, and in love. It was said that he had once written anabsurd letter asking a lady, who hoped to marry a duke, to go toSouth America with him. This letter had been his only adventure. 

He was like a bookcase, a store of silent learning, with thisdifference--from the bookcase much may be extracted, from Mr. EdmundCollier nothing. He reminded you of a dry well, a London fog, anabandoned quarry, the desert of Sahara, and the North Pole; of alldull and lugubrious things he seemed the type. Nature had notafflicted him with passions nor any original thought, he thereforelived an exemplary existence, his mind fortified with exemplaryopinions, doctrines, and old saws. 

"I wonder if he is alive, " Mike had once said. 

"_Hé, hé, tout au plus_, " Harding had replied, sardonically. 

Collier was now learning Sanscrit and writing an article for the_Quarterly_. L'Estrange used, as he said, "to dig at him, " and aftermany exhausting efforts brought up interesting facts to the effectthat he had just finished his treatise on the Greek participle, andwas about to launch a volume of verses mainly addressed to children. 

Collier had once possessed considerable property, but he had investedsome in a newspaper of which he was editor, and he had squanderedmuch in vague speculation. From the account he gave of his losses itwas difficult to decide whether he had been moved by mercenary orcharitable temptations. Now only the merest competence remained. Helived in a small garret where no solicitor had penetrated, studyinguninteresting literatures, dimly interested in all that the world didnot care for. He lived in the gloom of present failure, embittered bythe memory of past successes, wearied with long illness, andtherefore constrained to live like a hermit, never appearing anywhereexcept in Hall's rooms. 

Even Mr. Horace Baird, the recluse of the Temple, was sometimes metin Hall's chambers. When he lifted his hat, the white locks growingamid the black, magnificent masses of hair caught the eye, and setthe mind thinking on the brevity of youth, or wondering whatill-fortune had thus done the work of time. A passing glance told youthat he was unsuccessful in his profession and unfortunate in hislife, and if you spoke to him, an affected gaiety of manner confirmedthe truth of the first impression. Near him sat a patriarchalbarrister who had travelled in the colonies, had had politicalappointments, and in vague hopes of further political appointmentsprofessed advanced views, which he endeavoured to redeem withflavourless humour. There were also two young men who shared chambersand took in pupils. Fine tales their laundress told of the state oftheir sitting-room in the morning, the furniture thrown about, thetable-cloth drenched in whiskey. 

There was a young man whose hobby was dress and chorus girls. Therewas a young man whose hobby was pet birds; he talked about thebeautiful South American bird he had just bought, and he asked you tocome and see it taking its bath in the morning. Several persons werewriting law-books, which their authors hoped would rival _Chitty onContracts_. 

The Temple, like a fatherland, never loses its influence over itschildren. He who has lived in the Temple will return to the Temple. All things are surrendered for the Temple. All distances aretraversed to reach the Temple. The Temple is never forgotten. Thebriefless barrister, who left in despair and became Attorney-Generalof New South Wales, grows homesick, surrenders his position, andreturns. The young squire wearies in his beautiful country house, andhis heart is fixed in the dingy chambers, which he cannot relinquish, and for which wealth cannot compensate him. Even the poor clerks donot forget the Temple, and on Saturday afternoons they prowl abouttheir old offices, and often give up lucrative employments. They aredrawn by the Temple as by a magnet, and must live again in the shadowof the old inns. The laundresses' daughters pass into wealthydomesticities, but sooner or later they return to drudge again in theTemple. 

"How awfully jolly!--I do enjoy an evening like this, " said Mike, when the guests had departed. 

At that moment a faint footstep was heard on the landing; Hall rushedto see who was there, and returned with two women. They explainedthat they wanted a drink. Mike pressed them to make themselves athome, and Hall opened another bottle. 

"How comfortable you bachelors are here by yourselves, " said one. 

"I should think we are just; no fear of either of us being such foolsas to break up our home by getting married, " replied Mike. 

Sometimes Mike and Hall returned early from the restaurant, and wrotefrom eight to eleven; then went out for a cup of coffee and a prowl, beating up the Strand for women. They stayed out smoking and talkingat the corners till the streets were empty. Once they sent a coupleof harlots to rouse a learned old gentleman who lived in Brick Court, and with bated breath listened from the floor beneath to the dialogueabove. 

But to continue this life, which he enjoyed so intensely that he hadeven lost his desire to gamble, Mike was forced to borrow. Knowinghow such things are bruited about, Mike chose to go to a woman ratherthan to any of his men friends. Mrs. Byril lent him twenty pounds, wherefore he thought it necessary to lecture Hall for one wholeevening on the immorality of ever accepting money from women; and heremained for weeks in idleness, smoking and drinking in restaurantsand bar rooms, deaf to Frank's many pleadings for "copy. " At last heroused a little, and feeling he could do nothing in London, proposedto come and stay with Frank in his cottage at Marlow, and there writethe letters. 

It was a bright October afternoon, Frank had gone to the station, andLizzie, to appease the baby, had unbuttoned her dress. The littleservant-girl who assisted with the house-work was busy in thekitchen; for the fatted calf had been killed--that is to say, a pairof soles, a steak, and a partridge were in course of preparation. Lizzie thought of the partridge. She had omitted soup from the dinnerso that she might herself see to the fish; the steak, unlesssomething quite unforeseen occurred, Annie would be able to manage, but the partridge! Lizzie determined she would find an excuse forleaving the room; Frank would not like it, but anything would bebetter than that the bird should appear in a raw or cinderycondition, which would certainly be the case if she did not see toit. The jam-pudding was boiling and would be taken out of the pot ata fixed time. And with baby upon her breast, she watched Sally scrapeand clean the fish and beat the steak; then, hearing the front dooropen, she buttoned her dress, put baby in his cot, and went to meether visitor. Mike said he had never seen her looking so well; but intruth he thought she had grown fat and coarse; and in half an hour hehad realized all the detail of their misfortune. He guessed that shehad helped to cook the dinner, that the wine had come from thepublic-house, that they had given up their room to him, and weresleeping in some small cupboard-like place at the end of the passage. 

Of the many various unpleasantnesses of married life which hadcrowded into his consciousness since he had been in the cottage, thisimpressed him the most. He went to sleep thinking of it, and when hesat down to write next morning (a little study had been arranged forhim), it was the first thought that stirred in him. 

"How fearfully unpleasant!--and after having been married for nearlytwo years! I could not do it. If I were married--even if I were tomarry Lily, I should insist on having separate rooms. Even withseparate rooms marriage is intolerable. How much better to see hersometimes, sigh for her from afar, and so preserve one's ideal. Married! One day I should be sure to surprise her washing herself;and I know of no more degrading spectacle than that of a womanwashing herself over a basin. Degas painted it once. I'd giveanything to have that picture. "

But he could not identify Lily as forming part of that picture; hisimagination did not help him, and he could only see her staid andgracious, outside all the gross materialism of life. He felt thatLily would never lose her dignity and loveliness, which in her wereone, and in his mind she ever stood like a fair statue out of reachof the mud and the contumely of the common street; and ashamed, anunsuccessful iconoclast, he could not do otherwise than kneel andadore. 

And when at the end of a week he received an invitation to a ballwhere he thought she would be, he must perforce obey, and go withtremulous heart. She was engaged in a quadrille that passed to andfro beneath blue tapestry curtains, and he noticed the spray oflilies of the valley in her bodice, so emblematic did they seem ofher. Beneath the blue curtain she stood talking to her partner afterthe dance; and he did not go to speak to her, but remained looking. They only danced together twice; and that evening was realized by himin a strangely intense and durable perception of faint scent andfluent rhythm. The sense of her motion, of her frailness, lingered inhis soul ever afterwards. And he remembered ever afterwards themoments he spent with her in a distant corner--the palm, the gold ofthe screen, the movement of her white skirt as she sat down. All was, as it were, bitten upon his soul--exquisite etchings! Even the pausesin the conversation were remembered; pauses full of mute affection;pauses full of thought unexpressed, falling in sharp chasms ofsilence. In such hours and in such pauses is the essence of ourlives, the rest is adjunct and decoration. He watched, fearing eachman that looked through the doorway might claim her for the nextdance. His thought swept through his soul edgeways. Did he love her?Would he love her always? And he was conscious of the contrast hisspeech presented, to the tumult that raged and shrieked within him. Yet he couldn't speak the word, and he cursed his little cowardice. 

The ball came and went--a little year with its four seasons; and whenin the hall he stood by her, helping her with her cloak (silk andgray fur, folding the delicate line of the neck), and became awarethat even those last moments did not hold the word his soul waswhispering, he cursed his cowardice, and, weary of himself, he turneddown the dark street, feeling that he had lost his life. 

"Now all is ended, " he thought, "I'm like a convict who attemptedescape and has been brought back and yoked again in the sweaty andmanacled gang; and I must continue in and bear with this life ofgross sensuality and dirty journalism, 'which I have borne and yetmust bear'--a wearisome repetition of what has been done and re-donea thousand times, 'till death-like sleep shall steal on me, ' and Imay hear some horrible lodging-house keeper 'breathe o'er my dyingbrain a last monotony. ' And in various degradations my intellect willsuffer, will decay; but with her refining and elevating influence, Imight be a great writer. It is certain that the kernel of Art isaspiration for higher things; at all events, I should lead a cleanlylife. If I were married to her I should not write this book. Itcertainly is a disgraceful book; and yet it amuses me. "

His thoughts paused, then an idea came, and with his pen he pursuedit and the quickly rising flight which followed for a couple ofhours. 

"Why should I not write and ask her to marry me?" He smiled at thethought, but the thought was stronger than he, and he went to bedthinking of her, and he rose thinking of her; and the desire to writeand tell her that he loved her and wanted her for wife persisted; heshook it off a dozen times, but it grew more and more poignant, untilit settled on his heart, a lancinating pain which neither work norpleasure could remove. Daily he grew feebler, losing at each effortsome power of resistance. One day he took up the pen to write theirrevocable. But the reality of the ink and paper frightened him. "Will you be my wife?" seemed to him silly. Even in this crisisself-esteem lay uppermost in his mind; and he wrote many lettersbefore he felt certain he had guarded himself against ridicule. Atlast he folded up a sheet upon which he had written--"Dearest Lily, you are the only woman I may love; will you allow me to love you forever?" He put this into an envelope and directed it; nothing remainedbut to post it. The clock told him he could catch the post if hestarted away at once, but he drew back, frightened at the reality ofthe post-office, and decided to sleep over his letter. 

The night was full of Lily--fair, chaste dreams, whence he rose asfrom a bath clothed in the samite of pure delight. While dressing hefelt sure that marriage--marriage with Lily must be the realizationof such dreams, and that it would be folly not to post his letter. Still, it might be as well to hear the opinion of one who had takenthe important step, and after breakfast he drew Frank intoconversation about Lizzie. 

"I am quite happy, " he said. "Lizzie is a good wife, and I love herbetter to-day than the day I married her; but the price I paid forher was too high. Mount Rorke has behaved shamefully, and so haseverybody but you. I never see any of the old lot now. Snowdown cameonce to dine about a year ago, but I never go anywhere where Lizzieis not asked. Mount Rorke has only written once since my marriage, and then it was to say he never wished to see me again. The next Iheard was the announcement of his marriage. "

"So he has married again, " said Mike, looking at Frank, and then hethought--"So you who came from the top shall go to the bottom! Shallhe who came from the bottom go to the top?"

"I have not heard yet of a child. I have tried to find out if one isexpected; but what does it matter?--Mount Rorke wouldn't give me apenny-piece to save me from starvation, and I should have time tostarve a good many times before he goes off the hooks. I don't mindtelling you I'm about as hard up as a man possibly can be. I owethree quarters' rent for my rooms in Temple Gardens, nearly twohundred pounds. The Inn is pressing me, and I can't get three hundredfor my furniture, and I'm sure I paid more than fifteen hundred forwhat there is there. "

"Why don't you sell a share in the paper?"

"I have sold a small part of it, a very small part of it, a fifth, and there is a fellow called Thigh--you know the fellow, he hasedited every stupid weekly that has appeared and disappeared for thelast ten years--well, he has got hold of a mug, and by all accounts areal mug, one of the right sort, a Mr. Beacham Brown. Mr. Brown wantsa paper, and has commissioned Thigh to buy him one. Thigh wants me tosell a half share in the _Pilgrim_ for a thousand, but I shall haveto give Thigh back four hundred; and I shall--that is to say, I shallif I agree to Thigh's terms--become assistant editor at a salary ofsix pounds a week; two pounds a week of which I shall have to handover to Thigh, who comes in as editor at a salary of ten pounds aweek. All the staff will be engaged on similar conditions. Thigh is'working' Beacham Brown beautifully--he won't have a sixpence tobless himself with when Thigh has done with him. "

"And are you going to accept Thigh's terms?"

"Not if I can possibly help it. If your articles send up thecirculation and my new advertising agent can do the West Endtradesmen for a few more advertisements, I shall stand off and waitfor better terms. My new advertising agent is a wonder, the finest inChristendom. The other day a Bond Street jeweller who advertises withus came into my office. He said, 'Sir, I have come to ask you if youcirculate thirty thousand copies a week. ' 'Well, ' I said, 'perhapsnot quite. ' 'Then, sir, ' he replied, 'you will please return me mymoney; I gave your agent my advertisement upon his implicit assurancethat you circulated thirty thousand a week. ' I said there must besome mistake; Mr. Tomlinson happens to be in the office, if you'llallow me I'll ask him to step down-stairs. I touched the bell, andtold the boy to ask Mr. Tomlinson to step into the office. 'Mr. Tomlinson, ' I said, 'Mr. Page says that he gave you his advertisementon our implicit assurance that we circulated thirty thousand copiesweekly. Did you tell him that?' Quite unabashed, Tomlinson answered, 'I told Mr. Page that we had more than thirty thousand readers aweek. We send to ten line regiments and five cavalry regiments--eachregiment consists of, let us say, eight hundred. We send to everyclub in London, and each club has on an average a thousand members. Why, sir, ' exclaimed Tomlinson, turning angrily on the jeweller, 'Imight have said that we had a hundred thousand readers and I shouldhave still been under the mark!' The jeweller paid for hisadvertisement and went away crestfallen. Such a man as Tomlinson isthe very bone and muscle of a society journal. "

"And the nerves too, " said Mike. 

"Better than the contributors who want to write about the relationbetween art and morals. "

The young men laughed mightily. 

"And what will you do, " said Mike, "if you don't settle with Thigh?"

"Perhaps my man will be able to pick up another advertisement or two;perhaps your articles may send up the circulation. One thing iscertain, things can't go on as they are; at this rate I shall not beable to carry the paper on another six months. "

The conversation fell, and Mike remembered the letter in his sidepocket; it lay just over his heart. Frank's monetary difficulties hadaffected his matrimonial aspirations. "For if the paper 'bursts up'how shall I live, much less support a wife? Live! I shall always beable to live, but to support a wife is quite another matter. PerhapsLily has some money. If she had five hundred a year I would marryher; but I don't know if she has a penny. She must have some, a fewthousands--enough to pay the first expenses. To get a house and getinto the house would cost a thousand. " A cloud passed over his face. The householder, the payer of rates and taxes which the thoughtevoked, jarred and caricatured the ideal, the ideal Mike Fletcher, which in more or less consistent form was always present in his mind. He who had always received, would have to make presents. Theengagement ring would cost five-and-twenty pounds, and where was heto get the money? The ring he would have to buy at once; and hisentire fortune did not for the moment amount to ten pounds. Hermoney, if she had any, would pay for the honeymoon; and it was onlyright that a woman should pay for her honeymoon. They would go toItaly. She was Italy! At least she was his idea of Italy. Italy! hehad never been there; he had always intended to keep Italy for hiswedding tour. He was virgin of Italy. So much virginity he had at allevents kept for his wife. She was the emblem and symbol of Italy. 

Venice rose into his eyes. He is in a gondola with her; the water isdark with architrave and pillar; and a half moon floats in aboundless sky But remembering that this is the Venice of a hundred"chromos, " his imagination filled the well-known water-way withsunlight and maskers, creating the carnival upon the Grand Canal. Laughing and mocking Loves; young nobles in blue hose, sword onthigh, as in Shakespeare's plays; young brides in tumultuous satin, with collars of translucent pearls; garlands reflected in the water;scarves thrown about the ample bosoms of patrician matrons. Then thebrides, the nobles, the pearls, the loves, and the matrons disappearin a shower of confetti. Wearying of Venice he strove to seeFlorence, "the city of lilies"; but the phrase only suggestedflower-sellers. He intoxicated upon his love, she who to him was nowItaly. He imagined confidences, sudden sights of her face moreexquisite than the Botticelli women in the echoing picture galleries, more enigmatic than the eyes of a Leonardo; and in these days ofdesire, he lived through the torment of impersonal love, drawn forthe first time out of himself. All beautiful scenes of love frombooks, pictures, and life floated in his mind. He especiallyremembered a sight of lovers which he had once caught on an hotelstaircase. A young couple, evidently just returned from the theatre, had entered their room; the woman was young, tall, and aristocratic;she was dressed in some soft material, probably a dress ofcream-coloured lace in numberless flounces; he remembered that herhair was abundant and shadowed her face. The effect of firelightplayed over the hangings of the bed; she stood by the bed and raisedher fur cloak from her shoulders. The man was tall and thin, and thelight caught the points of the short sharp beard. The scene hadbitten itself into Mike's mind, and it reappeared at intervalsperfect as a print, for he sometimes envied the calm andhealthfulness of honourable love. 

"Great Scott! twelve o'clock!" Smiling, conscious of the incongruity, he set to work, and in about three hours had finished a long letter, in which he usefully advised "light o' loves" on the advantages offoreign travel. 

"I wonder, " he thought, "how I can write in such a strain while I'min love with her. What beastliness! I hate the whole thing. I desirea new life; I have tried vice long enough and am weary of it; I'm nothappy, and if I were to gain the whole world it would be dust andashes without her. Then why not take that step which would bring herto me?" He faced his cowardice angrily, and resolved to post theletter. But he stopped before he had walked fifty yards, for hisdoubts followed him, buzzing and stinging like bees. Striving to ridhimself of them, and weary of considering his own embarrassedcondition, he listened gladly to Lizzie, who deplored Mount Rorke'scruelty and her husband's continuous ill luck. 

"I told him his family would never receive me; I didn't want to marryhim; for days I couldn't make up my mind; he can't say I persuadedhim into it. "

"But you are happy now; don't you like being married?"

"Oh, yes, I should be happy enough if things only went better withus. He is so terribly unlucky. No one works harder than Frank; heoften sits up till three o'clock in the morning writing. He trieseverything, but nothing seems to succeed with him. There's thispaper. I don't believe he has ever had a penny out of it. Tell me, Mr. Fletcher, do you think it will ever succeed?"

"Newspapers generally fail for want of a concerted plan of appeal toa certain section of society kept steadily in view; they are nearlyalways vague and undetermined; but I believe when four clever pensare brought together, and write continuously, and with set purposeand idea, that they can, that they must and invariably do create aproperty worth at least twenty thousand pounds. "

"Frank has gone to the station to meet Thigh. I distrust that mandreadfully; I hope he won't rob my poor husband. Frank told me to geta couple of pheasants for dinner. Which way are you going? To thepost-office? Do you want a stamp?"

"No, thank you, my letter is stamped. " He held the letter in the boxunable to loose his fingers, embarrassed in the consideration whethermarriage would permit him to develop his artistic nature as heintended. Lizzie was looking at him, and it was with difficulty thathe concealed from her the fact that he had not dropped his letter inthe box. 

When they returned to the cottage they found Thigh and Frank wereturning over the pages of the last number of the _Pilgrim_. 

"Just let's go through the paper, " said Frank. "One, two, three--twelve columns of paragraphs! and I'll bet that in every oneof those columns there is a piece of news artistic, political, orsocial, which no other paper has got. Here are three articles, onewritten by our friend here, one by me, and one by a man whose name Iam not at liberty to mention; but I may tell you he has written somewell-known books, and is a constant contributor to the _Fortnightly_;here is a column of gossip from Paris excellently well done; here isa short story ... What do you think the paper wants?"

Thigh was a very small and very neatly-dressed man. His manner wasquiet and reserved, and he caressed a large fair moustache with hisleft hand, on which a diamond ring sparkled. 

"I think it wants smartening up all round, " he said. "You want tomake it smarter; people will have things bright nowadays. "

"Bright!" said Frank; "I don't know where you are going forbrightness nowadays. Just look at the other papers--here is the_Club_--did you ever see such a rag? Here is the _Spy_--I don't thinkyou could tell if you were reading a number of last year or this weekif you didn't look at the date! I've given them up for news. I lookto see if they have got a new advertisement; if they have, I sendTomlinson and see if I can get one too. "

Thigh made some judicious observations, and the conversation wascontinued during dinner. Frank and Mike vying with each other to showtheir deference to Thigh's literary opinions--Lizzie eager to knowwhat he thought of her dinner. 

Thigh said the turbot was excellent, that the cutlets were very nice, that the birds were splendid; the jam pudding was voted delicious. And they leaned back in their chairs, their eyes filled with thetorpor of digestion. Frank brought out a bottle of old port, the lastof a large supply which he had had from Mount Rorke's wine merchant. The pleasure of the wine was in their stomachs, and under itsinfluence they talked of Tennyson, Leonardo da Vinci, Corot, and the_Ingoldsby Legends_. The servant had brought in the lamp, cigars werelighted, the clock struck nine. As yet not a word had been spoken ofthe business, and seeing that Mike was deep in conversation withLizzie, Frank moved his chair towards Thigh, and said--

"Well, what about buying half of the paper?"

"I'm quite ready to buy half the paper on the conditions I've alreadyoffered you. "

"But they won't do. If I have to go smash, I may as well go smash fora large sum as a small one. To clear myself of debts I must have fivehundred pounds. "

"Well, you'll get six hundred; you'll receive a thousand and you'llgive me back four hundred. "

"Yes, but I did not tell you that I have sold a small share in thepaper to an old schoolfellow of mine. When I have paid him I shallhave only two hundred, and that won't be of the slightest use to me. "

"Oh, you have sold part of the paper already, have you? How do youknow your friend will consent to be bought out? That complicatesmatters. "

"My friend only did it to oblige me; he is only too anxious to bebought out. He is in a fearful funk lest he should be compromised ina libel action. "

"Oh, then I think it can be managed. Were I in your place I shouldtry and get rid of him for nothing. I can't offer you better terms;it wouldn't pay me to do so; I might as well start a new paper. "

"Yes, but tell me, how can I get rid of him for nothing?"

Thigh looked at Frank inquiringly, and apparently satisfied he drewhis chair nearer, stroked his moustache, and said, speaking under hisbreath--

"Have you collected what money is owing to the paper lately? Have youmany outstanding debts?"

"We have got some. "

"Well, don't collect any money that is owing, but make out a longstatement of the paper's liabilities; don't say a word about theoutstanding debts, and tell your friend that he is responsible aspart owner of the paper for this money. When you have sufficientlyfrightened him, suggest that he should sign over his share to you, you being a man of straw whom it would be useless to proceed against. Or you might get your printer to press you for money--"

"That won't be difficult. "

"Offer him a bill, and then mix the two accounts up together. "

At this moment Mike was speaking to Lizzie of love. She told himthere was no real happiness except in married life, assured him thatthough they might be beggars to-day, she would not give up herhusband for all the wealth of the three kingdoms. 

Very anxious to ascertain the truth about married life, Mike pressedLizzie upon several points; the old ache awoke about his heart, andagain he resolved to regenerate his life, and love Lily and none buther. He looked round the room, considering how he could get away. Frank was talking business. He would not disturb him. No doubt Thighwas concocting some swindle, but he (Mike) knew nothing of business;he had a knack of turning the king at écarté, but was nowhere oncebills and the cooking of accounts were introduced. Should he post theletter? That was the question, and it played in his ears like anelectric bell. Here was the letter; he could feel it through hiscoat, lying over his heart, and there it had lain since he hadwritten it. 

Frank and Thigh continued talking; Lizzie went to the baby, and Mikewalked into the night, looking at the stars. He walked along thewhite high-road--to him a road of dreams--towards the white town--tohim a town of chimeras--and leaning over the moon-lit river, shakinghimself free from the hallucination within and without him, he said--

"On one hand I shall belong to one woman. Her house shall be myhouse, her friends shall be my friends; the others, the beautiful, fascinating others, will cease to dream of me, I shall no longer betheir ideal. On the other hand I shall gain the nicest woman, andsurely it must be right to take, though it be for life, the nicestwoman in the world. She will supply what is wanting in my character;together we shall attain a goal; alone I shall attain none. In twentyyears I shall be a foolish old bachelor whom no one cares for. I havestated both cases--on which side does the balance turn?"

The balance still stood at equipoise. A formless moon soared througha white cloud wrack, and broken gold lay in the rising tide. Thesonorous steps of the policeman on the bridge startled him, andobeying the impulse of the moment, he gave the officer the letter, asking him to post it. He waited for some minutes, as if stupefied, pursuing the consequences of his act even into distant years. No, hewould not send the letter just yet. But the officer had disappearedin some by-streets, and followed by the spirits of future loves, Mikeran till he reached the post-office, where he waited in nervousapprehension. Presently steps were heard in the stillness, andgetting between him and the terrible slot, Mike determined to fightfor his letter if it were refused him. 

"I met you just now on the bridge and asked you to post a letter;give it back to me, if you please. I've changed my mind. "

The officer looked at him narrowly, but he took the profferedshilling, and returned the letter. 

"That was the narrowest squeak I've had yet, " thought Mike. 

When he returned to the cottage he found Frank and Thigh stilltogether. 

"Mr. Beacham Brown, " said Thigh, "is now half-proprietor of the_Pilgrim_. The papers are signed. I came down quite prepared. Ibelieve in settling things right off. When Mrs. Escott comes in, wewill drink to the new _Pilgrim_, or, if you like it better, to theold _Pilgrim_, who starts afresh with a new staff and scrip, and awell-filled scrip too, " he added, laughing vacuously. 

"I hope, " said Mike, "that Holloway is not the shrine he isjourneying towards. "

"I hope your book won't bring us there. "

"Why, I didn't know you were going to continue--"

"Oh, yes, " said Thigh; "that is to say, if we can come to anarrangement about the purchase, " and Thigh lapsed into a stonysilence, as was his practice when conducting a bargain. 

"By God!" Mike thought, "I wish we were playing at écarté or poker. I'm no good at business. "

"Well, " he said at last, "what terms do you propose to offer me?"

Thigh woke up. 

"I never bargain, " he said. "I'll give you Beacham Brown's cheque fora hundred and fifty if you will give me a receipt for three hundred, "and he looked inquiry out of his small, pale blue eyes, and Mikenoticed the diamond ring on the hand that caressed his moustache. 

"No, " said Mike, "that isn't fair. You don't write a line of thebook. There is not even the excuse of commission, for the book is nowappearing. "

"Escott would not have paid you anything like that amount. I thinkI'm treating you very liberally. Indeed I don't mind telling you thatI should not offer you anything like such terms if Beacham Brown werenot anxious to have the book; he read your last article in the train, and came back raving about it. "

Bright pleasure passed across Mike's face; he thought Thigh hadslipped in the avowal, and he girt himself for resolute resistanceand cautious attack. But Thigh was the superior strategist. Mike wasled from the subject, and imperceptibly encouraged to speak of otherthings, and without interruption he span paradoxes and scatteredjokes for ten minutes. Then the conversation dropped, and annoyed, Mike fixed his eyes on Thigh, who sat in unmovable silence. 

"Well, " said Mike, "what do you intend to do?"

"About what?" said Thigh, with a half-waking stare. 

"About this book of mine. You know very well that if I take it toanother shop you'll find it difficult to get anything like as good aserial. I know pretty well what talent is walking about FleetStreet. "

Thigh said nothing, only raised his eyes as if Mike's words were fullof suggestion, and again beguiled, Mike rambled into variouscriticisms of contemporary journalism. Friends were laughed at, andthe papers they edited were stigmatized as rags that lived upon theingenuity of the lies of advertising agents. When the conversationagain dropped, Thigh showed no inclination of returning to the book, but, as before, sat in stony silence, and out of temper with himself, Mike had to ask him again what the terms were. 

"I cannot offer you better terms than I have already done. "

"Very well; I'll take one hundred and fifty for the serial rights. "

"No, for the entire rights. "

"No, I'll be damned, I don't care what happens!"

Then Frank joined in the discussion. Every one withdrew the offer hehad made, and all possibility of agreement seemed at an end. Somehowit was suggested that Thigh should toss Mike whether he should payhim two hundred or a hundred and fifty. The men exchanged questioninglooks, and at that moment Lizzie entered with a pack of cards, andThigh said--

"I'll play you at écarté--the best out of seven games. "

Mike realized at once the situation, and he hoped Frank would notbetray him. He saw that Thigh had been drinking. "God has given himinto my hands, " he thought; and it was agreed that they should playthe best out of seven games for twenty-five pounds, and that theloser should have the right to call for a return match. Mike knewnothing of his opponent's play, but he did not for a moment suspecthim of superior skill. Such a thing could hardly be, and he decidedhe would allow him to win the first games, watching carefully thewhile, so that he might study his combinations and plans, and learnin what measure he might pack and "bridge" the cards. There is muchin a shuffle, and already Mike believed him to be no more than anordinary club player, capable of winning a few sovereigns from ayoung man fresh from the university; and although the cards Mike helddid not warrant such a course, he played without proposing, and whenhe lost the trick he scanned his opponent's face, and seeing itbrighten, he knew the ruse had succeeded. But luck seemed to runinexplicably against him, and he was defeated. In the return match hemet with similar luck, and rose from the table, having lost fiftypounds. Mike wrote a second I O U for twenty-five pounds, to be paidout of the hundred and fifty pounds which he had agreed in writing toaccept for the book before sitting down to play. Then he protestedvehemently against his luck, and so well did he act his part, thateven if Thigh had not drunk another glass of whiskey-and-water hewould not have perceived that Mike was simulating an excitement whichhe did not feel. 

"I'll play you for a hundred pounds--the best out of seven games;damn the cards! I can beat you no matter how they run!"

"Very well, I don't mind, anything to oblige a friend. "

Lizzie besought Mike not to play again, and she nearly upset theapple-cart by angrily telling Thigh she did not wish her house to beturned into a gambling hell. Thigh rose from the table, but Frankapologized for his wife, and begged of him to sit down. The incidentwas not without a good effect, for it removed Thigh's suspicions, ifhe had any, and convinced him that he was "in for a real good thing. "He laid on the table a cheque, signed Beacham Brown, for a hundredpounds; Mike produced his nearly completed manuscript. Thigh lookedover the MS. , judging its length. 

"It is all here?"

"No, there's one chapter to come; that's good enough for you. "

"Oh yes, it will do. You'll have to finish it, for you'll want towrite for the paper. "

This time the cards were perfectly packed, and Mike turned the king. 

"Cards?"

"No, play. "

Frank and Lizzie leaned breathless over the table, their faces whitein the light of the unshaded lamp. Mike won the whole five tricks. But luck was dead against him, and in a few minutes the score stoodat three games all. Then outrageously, for there was no help for it, as he never would have dared if his opponent had been quite sober, hepacked and bridged the cards. He turned the king. 

"Cards?"

"No, play. "

Mike won the fourth game, and put Mr. Beacham Brown's cheque in hispocket. 

"I'll play you again, " said Thigh. 

Mike accepted, and before eleven o'clock Thigh had paid three hundredpounds for the manuscript and lost all his available spare cash. Heglanced narrowly at Mike, paused as he put on his hat and coat, andFrank wished Lizzie would leave the room, feeling sure that violentwords were inevitable. But at that moment Mike's shoulders andknuckles seemed more than usually prominent, and Mr. Beacham Brown'sagent slunk away into the darkness. 

"You did turn the king pretty often, " said Frank, when the doorclosed. "I'm glad there was no row. "

"Row! I'd have broken his dirty neck. Not content with swindling poorBeacham Brown, he tries it on with the contributors. I wish I hadbeen able to get him to go on. I would willingly have fleeced him ofevery penny he has in the world. "

Lizzie bade them good-night, and the servant brought in a letter forMike, a letter which she explained had been incorrectly addressed, and had just come from the hotel. Frank took up a newspaper whichThigh had left on the table. He turned it over, glancing hastilythrough it. Then something caught his eye, and the expression of hisface changed. And what caused him pain could be no more than a fewwords, for the paper fell instantly from his hands and he sat quitestill, staring into space. But neither the sound of the paperfalling, nor yet the frozen rigidity of his attitude drew Mike'sthoughts from the letter he was reading. He glanced hastily throughit, then he read it attentively, lingering over every word. He seemedto suck sweetness out of every one; it was the deep, sensualabsorption of a fly in a pot of treacle. His eyes were dim withpleasure long drawn out; they saw nothing, and it was some momentsbefore the pallor and pain of Frank's face dispelled the melliferousEdens in which Mike's soul moved. 

"What is the matter, old chap? Are you ill?"

Frank did not answer. 

"Are you ill? Shall I get you a drink?"

"No, no, " he said. "I assure you it is nothing; no, it is nothing. "He struggled for a moment for shame's sake to keep his secret, but itwas more than he could bear. "Ah!" he said, "it is all over; I'm donefor--read. "

He stooped to pick up the paper. Mike took the paper from him andread--

"Thursday--Lady Mount Rorke, of a son. "

Whilst one man hears his doom pronounced, another sees a goldenfortune fallen in his hand, and the letter Mike had just read wasfrom a firm of solicitors, informing him that Lady Seeley had lefthim her entire fortune, three thousand a year in various securities, and a property in Berkshire; house, pictures, plate--in a word, everything she possessed. The bitterness of his friend's ill fortunecontrasting with the sweetness of his own good fortune, struck hisheart, and he said, with genuine sorrow in his voice--

"I'm awfully sorry, old chap. "

"There's no use being sorry for me, I'm done for; I shall never beLord Mount Rorke now. That child, that wife, are paupers; thatcastle, that park, that river, all--everything that I was led tobelieve would be mine one day, has passed from me irrevocably. It isterribly cruel--it seems too cruel to be true; all those oldplaces--you know them--all has passed from me. I never believed MountRorke would have an heir, he is nearly seventy; it is too cruel. "

Tears swam in his eyes, and covering his face in his hands he burstinto a storm of heavy sobbing. 

Mike was sincere, but "there is something not wholly disagreeable tous in hearing of the misfortunes even of our best friends, " and Mikefelt the old thought forced into his mind that he who had come fromthe top had gone to the bottom, and that he who came from the bottomwas going--had gone to the top. Taking care, however, that none ofthe triumph ebullient within him should rise into his voice, hesaid--

"I am really sorry for you, Frank. You mustn't despair; perhaps thechild won't live, and perhaps the paper will succeed. It mustsucceed. It shall succeed. "

"Succeed! nothing succeeds with me. I and my wife and child arebeggars on the face of the earth. It matters little to me whether thepaper succeeds or fails. Thigh has got pretty nearly all of it. Whenmy debts are paid I shall not have enough to set myself up in rooms. "

At the end of a painful silence, Mike said--

"We've had our quarrels, but you've been a damned good friend to me;it is my turn now to stand to you. To begin with, here is the threehundred that I won from Thigh. I don't want it. I assure you I don't. Then there are your rooms in Temple Gardens; I'll take them off yourhands. I'll pay all the arrears of rent, and give you the price youpaid for your furniture. "

"What damned nonsense! how can you do that? Take three hundred poundsfrom you--the price of your book. You have nothing else in theworld!"

"Yes, I have; it is all right, old chap; you can have the money. Thefact is, " he said, "Lady Seeley has left me her whole fortune; theletter I just received is from the solicitors. They say threethousand a year in various securities, and a property in Berkshire. So you see I can afford to be generous. I shall feel much hurt if youdon't accept. Indeed, it is the least I can do; I owe it to you. "

The men looked at each other, their eyes luminous with intense andquickening emotions. Fortune had been so derisive that Mike fearedFrank would break into foolish anger, and that only a quarrel andworse hatred might result from his offer of assistance. 

"It was in my box you met her; I remember the night quite well. Youwere with Harding. " [Footnote: See _Spring Days_. ] The men exchangedan inquiring look. "She wanted me to go home and have supper withher; she was in love with me then; I might have been her lover. But Irefused, and I went into the bar and spoke to Lizzie; when she wentoff on duty I went and sat with you and Harding. Not long after I sawyou at Reading, in the hotel overlooking the river. I was withLizzie. " [Footnote: See _Spring Days_. ]

"You can't accuse me of having cut you out. You could have got her, and--"

"I didn't want her; I was in love with Lizzie, and I am still. Andstrange as it may appear to you, I regret nothing, at least nothingthat concerns Lizzie. "

Mike wondered if this were true. His fingers fidgeted with thecheques. "Won't you take them?"

Frank took them. It was impossible to continue the conversation. Frank made a remark, and the young men bade each other good-night. 

As Mike went up the staircase to his room, his exultation swelled, and in one of those hallucinations of the brain consequent uponnerve excitement, and in which we are conscious of our insanity, hewondered the trivial fabric of the cottage did not fall, and his soulseemed to pierce the depth and mystery imprisoned in the stars. Heundressed slowly, looking at himself in the glass, pausing when hedrew off his waistcoat, unbuttoning his braces with deliberation. 

"I can make nothing of it; there never was any one like me.... Icould do anything, I might have been Napoleon or Cæsar. "

As he folded his coat he put his hand into the breast pocket andproduced the unposted letter. 

"That letter will drive me mad! Shall I burn it? What do I want witha wife? I've plenty of money now. "

He held the letter to the flame of the candle. But he could not burnit. 

"This is too damned idiotic!" he thought, as he laid it on the tableand prepared to get into bed; "I'm not going to carry that letterabout all my life. I must either post it or destroy it. "

Then the darkness became as if charged with a personality sweet andintense; it seemed to emanate from the letter which lay on the table, and to materialize strangely and inexplicably. It was the fragranceof brown hair, and the light of youthful eyes; and in this perfume, and this light, he realized her entire person; every delicate defectof thinness. She hung over him in all her girlishness, and he claspedher waist with his hands. 

"How sweet she is! There is none like her. "

Then wearying of the strained delight he remembered Belthorpe Park, now his. Trees and gardens waved in his mind; downs and river landsfloated, and he half imagined Lily there smiling upon them; and whenhe turned to the wall, resolute in his search for sleep, the perfumehe knew her by, the savour of the skin, where the first faint curlsbegin, haunted in his hallucinations, and intruded beneath thebed-clothes. One dream was so exquisite in its tenderness, soillusive was the enchanted image that lay upon his brain, thatfearing to lose it, he strove to fix his dream with words, but noword pictured her eyes, or the ineffable love they expressed, and yetthe sensation of both was for the moment quite real in his mind. Theywere sitting in a little shady room; she was his wife, and she hungover him, sitting on his knee. Her eyes were especially distinct andbeautiful, and her arms--those thin arms which he knew so well--andthat waist were clothed in a puritanic frock of some blue material. His happiness thrilled him, and he lay staring into the darkness tillthe darkness withered, and the lines of the room appeared--thewardrobe, the wash-hand-stand, and then the letter. He rose from hisbed. In all-pervading grayness the world lay as if dead; not a whiffof smoke ascended, not a bird had yet begun, and the river, like asheet of zinc, swirled between its low banks. 

"God! it is worse than the moonlight!" thought Mike, and went back tobed. But he could not rest, and when he went again to the windowthere was a faint flush in the sky's cheek; and then a bar of rosepierced the heavy ridge of clouds that hung above the woodland. 

"An omen! I will post her letter in the sunrise. " And conscious ofthe folly, but unable to subdue that desire of romance so inveteratein him, he considered how he might leave the house. He remembered, and with pleasure, that he could not pass down the staircase withoutdisturbing the dog, and he thought of the prolonged barking thatwould begin the moment he touched the chain on the front door. Hewould have to get out of the window; but the window was twenty feetfrom the ground. "A rope! I have no rope! How absurd!" he thought, and, rejoicing in the absurdity, he drew a sheet from the bed andmade it fast. Going to Lily through a window seemed to relievemarriage of some of its shame. 

"Life wouldn't be complete without her. Yes, that's just it; thatsums it up completely; curious I did not think of that before. Itwould have saved such a lot. Yes, life would not be complete withouther. The problem is solved, " and he dropped the letter as easily asif it had been a note asking for seats in the theatre. "I'm married, "he said. "Good heavens! how strange it seems. I shall have to giveher a ring, and buy furniture. I had forgotten! ... No difficultyabout that now. We shall go to my place in Berkshire. "

But he could not go back to bed, and he walked down to the river, hisfine figure swinging beautifully distinct in his light clothing. Thedawn wind thrilled in his chest, for he had only a light coat overthe tasselled silk night-shirt; and the dew drenched his feet as heswung along the pathway to the river. The old willow was full ofsmall birds; they sat ruffling their feathers, and when Mike spranginto the boat they flew through the gray light, taking refuge in someosier-beds. And as he looked down stream he saw the night cloudsdispersing in the wind. He pulled, making the boat shoot through thewater for about a mile, then touched by the beauty of the landscape, paused to view it. Cattle lay in the long, moist meadows, harmonizingin their semi-unconsciousness with the large gray earth; mist hung inthe sedges, floated evanescent upon the surface of the water, withinreach of his oars, floated and went out in the sunshine. But on theverge of an oak wood, amid tangled and tawny masses of fern andgrass, a hound stopped and looked up. Then the huntsman appearedgalloping along the upland, and turning in his saddle, he blew ajoyful blast. 

Mike sat still, his heart close shut, the beauty of the scene in itsquick and core. Then yielding utterly he drove the boat ashore, andcalling to the nearest, to one who had stopped and was tightening hishorse's girths, he offered to buy his horse. A hundred pounds wasasked. "It is not worth it, " he thought; "but I must spend my fourthousand a year. " The desire to do what others think of doing butdon't do was always active in Mike. He gave his name and address;and, fearing to miss dealing on such advantageous terms, the ownerconsented to allow Mike to try the horse then and there. But thehounds had got on the scent of a fox. The horn was heard ringing inthe seared wood in the crimson morning, and the hounds streamedacross the meadows. 

"I must try him over some fences. Take my boat and row up to AshCottage; I'll meet you there. "

"I'll do nothing of the sort!" roared the man in top-boots. 

"Then walk across the fields, " cried Mike; and he rode at the hedgeand rail, coming down heavily, but before the owner could reach himhe had mounted and was away. 

Some hours later, as he approached the cottage, he saw Frank and aman in top-boots engaged in deep converse. 

"Get off my horse instantly!" exclaimed the latter. 

"The horse is mine, " said Mike, who unfortunately could not controlhis laughter. 

"Your horse! Certainly not! Get off my horse, or I'll pull you off. "

Mike jumped off. 

"Since you will have it so, I'll not dispute with you. There is yourhorse; not a bad sort of animal--capital sport. "

"Now pay me my hundred pounds!" said the owner, between his clenchedteeth. 

"You said just now that you hadn't sold me the horse. There is yourhorse, and here is the name of my solicitors, if you want to go tolaw with me. "

"Law with you! I'll give you law!" and letting go the horse, thatimmediately began to browse, he rushed at Mike, his whip in the air. 

Mike fought, his long legs wide apart, his long arms going likelightning, straight from the shoulder, scattering blood over necktieand collar; and presently the man withdrew, cursing Mike for an Irishhorse-stealer. 

"I never heard of such a thing!" said Frank. "You got on his horseand rode away, leaving him standing on the outside of the cover. "

"Yes, " shouted Mike, delighted with his exploit; "I felt I must goafter the hounds. "

"Yes, but to go away with the man's horse!"

"My dear fellow, why not? Those are the things that other fellowsthink of doing but don't do. An excitement like that is worthanything. "

While waiting for Lily's answer, Mike finished the last chapter ofhis book, and handed the manuscript to Frank. Between the sentenceshe had speculated on the state of soul his letter would produce inher, and had imagined various answers. "Darling, how good of you! Idid not know you loved me so well. " She would write, "Your lettersurprised me, but then you always surprise me. I can promise younothing; but you may come and see me next Thursday. " She would writeat once, of that there could be no doubt; such letters were alwaysanswered at once. He watched the postman and the clock; every doubleknock made tumult in his heart; and in his stimulated perceptions hesaw the well-remembered writing as if it lay under his eyes. And themany communications he received during those days whetted the edge ofhis thirst, and aggravated the fever that floated in his brain. 

And towards the end of the week, at the end of a long night ofsuffering, he went to London. And for the first time, forgetful ofhimself, without a thought of the light he would appear in, he toldthe cabman where to drive. His heart failed him when he heard thatMiss Young had been ordered abroad by the doctor. And as he walkedaway a morbid sense instilled in him that Lily would never be hisbride. Fear for her life persisted, and corrupted all his joy. Hecould not listen to Lady Seeley's solicitors, and he could notmeditate upon the new life which Helen had given him. He hadinherited sixty thousand pounds in various securities, yielding threethousand a year; the estate in Berkshire brought in fifteen hundred ayear; and a sum of twelve hundred pounds lay in the bank forimmediate uses. 

"Dear, sweet Helen--she was the best of the lot--none were as sweetas she. Well, after all, it isn't so strange when one thinks ofit--she hadn't a relation in the world. I must see her grave. I'llput a beautiful marble tomb over her; and when I'm in Berkshire I'llgo there every day with flowers. "

Then a shocking thought appeared in his mind. Accustomed to analyseall sentiments, he asked his soul if he would give up all she hadgiven him to have her back in life; and he took courage and joy whenthe answer came that he would. And delighted at finding himselfcapable of such goodness, he walked in a happier mood. His mind hungall day between these two women--while he paid the rent that wasowing there in Temple Gardens; while he valued the furniture andfixtures. He valued them casually, and in a liberal spirit, and wroteto Frank offering him seven hundred pounds for the place as it stood. "It is not worth it, " he thought, "but I'd like to put the poorfellow on his legs. "

Where should he dine? He wanted distraction, and unable to think ofany better relief, he turned into Lubi's for a merry dinner. Thelittle gilt gallery was in disorder, Sally Slater having spent theafternoon there. Her marquis was with her; her many admirersclustered about the cigarette-strewn table, anxious to lose no wordof her strange conversation. One drunkard insisted on tellinganecdotes about the duke, and asking the marquis to drink with him. 

"I tell you I remember the circumstances perfectly--the duke wore agray overcoat, " said drunkard No. 1. 

"Get out! I tell you to get out!" cried drunkard No. 2. "BraveBattlemoor, I say; long live Battlemoor! Have a drink?--I wantBattlemoor to drink with me. "

"For God's sake have a drink with him, " said Sally, "and then perhapshe'll take another box for my benefit. "

"What, another?"

"Only a guinea one this time; there's the ticket--fork out. And now Imust be off. "

The street echoed with the porter's whistle, half a dozen cabs cameracing for these excellent customers, and to the Trocadero they went. The acting manager passed them in. Mike, Sally, Marquis, and thedrunkards lingered in the bar behind the auditorium, andbrandies-and-sodas were supplied to them over a sloppy mahoganycounter. A woman screamed on the stage in green silk, and between theheads of those standing in the entrance to the stalls, her open mouthand an arm in black swede were seen occasionally. 

Tired of drunkenness and slang Mike went into the stalls. The boxeswere bright with courtesans; the young men whispered invitations todrink, and the chairman, puffing at a huge cigar, used his littlehammer and announced "Miss Sally Slater will appear next. " Battlemoorroared approval, and then in a short skirt and black stockings Sallyrushed to the footlights and took her audience, as it were, by thethroat. 

 "Oh, you men, what would you do without us? You kiss us, you cuddle and play, You win our hearts away. Oh, you men, there's something so nice about us. "

The "Oh, you men, " was given with a shake of the fist and the waggleof the bustle, in which there was genius, and Mike could not butapplaud. Suddenly he became aware that a pair of opera-glasses werebracketed upon him, and looking up he saw Kitty Carew sitting with ayoung nobleman, and he saw the white line of her teeth, for she waslaughing. She waved him to come to her. 

"You dear old sweet, " she said, "where have you been all thistime?--Come, kiss me at once. " And she bent her head towards him. 

"And now Newtimber, good-bye; I want to be with Mike. But you'll notforget me, you'll come and see me one of these days?" And she spokeso winningly that the boy hardly perceived that he was dismissed. Mike and Kitty exchanged an inquiring look. 

"Ah! do you remember, " she said, "when I was at the Avenue, and youused to come behind? ... You remember the dear old marquis. When I wasill he used to come and read to me. He used to say I was the onlyfriend he had. The dear marquis--and he is gone now. I went to hisgrave yesterday, and I strewed the tomb with chrysanthemums, andevery spring he has the first lilac of my garden. "

"And who is your lover?"

"I assure you I haven't got one. Harding was the last, but he isbecoming a bore; he philosophizes. I dare say he's very clever, butpeople don't kiss each other because they are clever. I don't think Iever was in love.... But tell me, how do you think I am looking? Doesthis dress suit me? Do I look any older?"

Mike vowed he had never seen her so charming. 

"Very well, if you think so, I'll tell you what we'll do. As soon asCoburn has sung his song, we'll go; my brougham is waiting ... You'llcome home and have supper with me. "

A remembrance of Lily came over him, but in quick battle he crushedit out of mind and murmured, "That will be very nice; you know Ialways loved you better than any one. "

At that moment they were interrupted by cheers and yells. Muchrosshad just entered at the head of his gang; his lieutenants, Snowdownand Dicky the driver, stood beside him. They stood under the gallerybowing to the courtesans in the boxes, and singing--

 "Two lovely black eyes Oh! what a surprise, Two lovely black eyes. "

"I wish we could avoid those fellows, " said Kitty; "they'll onlybother me with questions. Come, let's be off, they'll be up here in amoment. " But they were intercepted by Muchross and his friends in asaloon where Sally and Battlemoor were drinking with various singers, waiting their turns. 

"Where are you going? You aren't going off like that?" criedMuchross, catching her by her sleeve. 

"Yes, I am; I am going home. "

"Let me see you home, " whispered Dicky. 

"Thanks, Mike is seeing me home. "

"You are in love, " cried Muchross; "I shan't leave you. "

"You are in drink; I'll leave you in charge if you don't loose mysleeve. "

"This joker, " cried Sally, "will take a ticket if something wins aLincoln, and he doesn't know which. " She stood in the doorway, herarms akimbo. "People are very busy here, " she snarled, when a womantried to pass. 

"I beg your pardon, " said the ex-chorus girl. 

"And a good thing too, " said Sally. "You are one of the busy ones, just got your salary for shoving, I suppose. " There was no competingwith Sally's tongue, and the girl passed without replying. 

This queen of song was attired in a flowery gown of pale green, andshe wore a large hat lavishly trimmed with wild flowers; she movedslowly, conscious of her importance and fame. 

But at that moment a man in a check suit said, doffing his cap, "Verypleased to see you here, Miss Slater. "

Sally looked him over. "Well, I can't help that. "

"I was at your benefit. Mr. Jackson was there, and he introduced meto you after the performance. "

"No, I'm sure he didn't. "

"I beg your pardon, Miss Slater. Don't you remember when Peggy Praedgot on the table and made a speech?"

"No, I don't; you saw _me_ on the stage and you paid your money forthat. What more do you want?"

"I assure you--"

"Well, that's all right, now's your chance to lend me a fiver. "

"I'll lend you a fiver or a tenner, if you like, Miss Slater. "

"You could not do it if you tried, and now the roast pork's off. "

The witticism was received with a roar from her admirers, andsatisfied with her victory, she said--"And now, you girls, you comeand have drinks with me. What will you have, Kitty, what will youhave? give it a name. "

Kitty protested but was forced to sit down. The courtesans joined thecomic vocalists, waiting to do their "turns. " Lord Muchross and LordSnowdown ordered magnums, and soon the hall was almost deserted. Agirl was, however, dancing prettily on the stage, and Mike stood towatch her. Her hose were black, and in limp pink silk skirts shekicked her slim legs surprisingly to and fro. After each dance sheran into the wings, reappearing in a fresh costume, returning atlength in wide sailor's trousers of blue silk, her bosom partiallycovered in white cambric. As the band played the first notes of thehornpipe, she withdrew a few hair-pins, and forthwith an abundantdarkness fell to her dancing knees, almost to her tiny dancing feet, heavy as a wave, shadowy as sleeping water. As some rich weed thatthe warm sea holds and swings, as some fair cloud lingers in radiantatmosphere, her hair floated, every parted tress an impalpable filmof gold in the crude sunlight of the ray turned upon her; and whenshe danced towards the footlights, the bright softness of the threadsclung almost amorously about her white wrists--faint cobwebs hangingfrom white flowers were not more faint, fair, and soft; wonderful wasthe hair of this dancing girl, suggesting all fabled enchantments, all visions of delicate perfume and all the poetry of evanescentcolour. 

She was followed by the joyous Peggy Praed (sweet minx), the soul andvoice of the small back streets. Screwing up her winsome, comicalface, drawling a word here, accentuating a word there, she evoked, inan illusive moment, the washing day, the quarrel with themother-in-law (who wanted to sleep in the house), tea-time, and thetrip to the sea-side with all its concomitant adventures amid bugsand landladies. With an accent, with a gesture, she recalled in amoment a phase of life, creating pictures vivid as they weretransitory, but endowing each with the charm of the best and mosthighly finished works of the Dutch masters. Lords, courtesans, andfellow-artists crowded to listen, and profiting by the opportunity, Kitty touched Mike on the shoulder with her fan. 

"Now we had better go. "

"I'm driving to-morrow. Come down to Brighton with us, " said Dickythe driver. "Shall I keep places for you?"

Rising, Kitty laid her hand upon his mouth to silence him, andwhispered, "Yes; we'll come, and good-night. "

In the soft darkness of the brougham, gently swung together, thepassing gaslights revealing the blueness of the cushions, a diamondstud flashing intermittently, they lay, their souls sunk deep in theintimacy of a companionship akin to that of a nest--they, theinheritors of the pleasure of the night and the gladness of themorrow. 

Dressing was delirium, and Kitty had to adjure Mike to say no more;if he did she should go mad. Breakfast had to be skipped, and it wasonly by bribing a cabman to gallop to Westminster that they caughtthe coach. Even so they would have missed it had not Mike sprung atrisk of limb from the hansom and sped on the toes of his patentleather shoes down the street, his gray cover coat flying. 

"What a toff he is, " thought Kitty, full of the pride of her love. Bessie, whom dear Laura had successfully chaperoned into well-keptestate, sat with Dicky on the box; Laura sat with Harding in the backseat; Muchross and Snowdown sat opposite them. The middle of thecoach was taken up by what Muchross said were a couple of bar-girlsand their mashers. 

On rolled the coach over Westminster Bridge, through Lambeth, inpicturesqueness and power, a sympathetic survival of aristocraticdays. The aristocracy and power so vital in the coach was sooncommunicated to those upon it. And now when Jem Gregory, thecelebrated whip, with one leg swinging over the side, tootled, thepassers-by seemed littler than ever, the hansoms at the corner seemedsmaller, and the folk standing at their poor doors seemed meaner. Asthey passed through those hungry streets, ragged urchins camealongside, throwing themselves over and over, beseeching coppers fromMuchross, and he threw a few, urging them to further prostrations. Tootle, Jim, tootle; whether they starve or whether they feed, wehave no thought. The clatter of the hooves of the bays resoundsthrough those poor back-rooms, full of human misery; the notes of ourhorn are perhaps sounding now in dying ears. Tootle, Jim, tootle;what care we for that pale mother and her babe, or that toilingcoster whose barrow is too heavy for him! If there is to berevolution, it will not be in our time; we are the end of the world. Laura is with us to-day, Bessie sits on the box, Kitty is with ourDon Juan; we know there is gold in our pockets, we see our courtesansby us, our gallant bays are bearing us away to pleasure. Tootle, Jim, my boy, tootle; the great Muchross is shouting derision at the poorperspiring coster. "Pull up, you devil, pull up, " he cries, andshouts to the ragged urchins and scatters halfpence that they maytumble once more in the dirt. See the great Muchross, theclean-shaven face of the libertine priest, the small sardonic eyes. Hurrah for the great Muchross! Long may he live, the singer of "Whatcheer, Ria?" the type and epitome of the life whose outward signs aredrags, brandies-and-soda, and pale neckties. 

Gaily trotted the four bays, and as Clapham was approached bricktenements disappeared in Portland stone and iron railings. A girl wasseen swinging; the white flannels of tennis players passed to andfro, and a lady stood by a tall vase watering red geraniums. Hardingtold Mike that the shaven lawns and the greenhouses explained thelives of the inhabitants, and represented their ideas; and Laura'saccount of the money she had betted was followed by an anecdoteconcerning a long ramble in a wood, with a man who had walked herabout all day without even so much as once asking her if she had amouth on her. 

"Talking of mouths, " said Mike, as they pulled up to change horses, "we had to start without breakfast. I wonder if one could get abiscuit and a glass of milk. "

"Glass of milk!" screamed Muchross, "no milk allowed on this coach. "

"Well, I don't think I could drink a brandy-and-soda at this time inthe morning. "

"At what time could you drink one then? Why, it is nearly eleveno'clock! What will you have, Kitty? A brandy?"

"No, I think I'll take a glass of beer. "

The beauty of the landscape passed unperceived. But the road was fullof pleasing reminiscences. As they passed through Croydon dear oldLaura pointed out an hotel where she used to go every Sunday with thedear Earl, and in the afternoons they played cribbage in thesitting-room overlooking the street. And some miles further on thesweetness of the past burst unanimously from all when Dicky pointedout with his whip the house where Bessie had gone for her honeymoon, and where they all used to spend from Saturday till Monday. Theincident of Bill Longside's death was pathetically alluded to. He haddied of D. T. "Impossible, " said Laura, "to keep him from it. Milly, poor little woman, had stuck to him almost to the last. He had hadhis last drink there. Muchross and Dicky had carried him out. "

The day was filled with fair remembrances of summer, and the earthwas golden and red; and the sky was folded in lawny clouds, which thebreeze was lifting, revealing beautiful spaces of blue. All theabundant hedgerows were red with the leaf of the wild cherry, and theoak woods wore masses of sere and russet leafage. Spreading beechesswept right down to the road, shining in beautiful death; once apheasant rose and flew through the polished trunks towards the yellowunderwood. Sprays trembled on naked rods, ferns and grasses fellabout the gurgling watercourses, a motley undergrowth; and in thefields long teams were ploughing, the man labouring at the plough, the boy with the horses; and their smock-frocks and galligaskinsrecalled an ancient England which time has not touched, and whichlives in them. And the farm-houses of gables and weary brick, sometimes well-dismantled and showing the heavy beam, accentuatedthese visions of past days. Yes, indeed, the brick villages, the oldgray farm-houses, and the windmill were very beautiful in the endlessyellow draperies which this autumn country wore so romantically. Onespot lingered in Mike's memory, so representative did it seem of thatcountry. The road swept round a beech wood that clothed a knoll, descending into the open country by a tall redding hedge to a suddenriver, and cows were seen drinking and wading in the shallows, andthis last impression of the earth's loveliness smote the poet's heartto joy which was near to grief. 

At Three Bridges they had lunch, in an old-fashioned hotel called theGeorge. Muchross cut the sirloin, filling the plates so full of juicymeat that the ladies protested. Snowdown paid for champagne, and inconjunction with the wine, the indelicate stories which he narratedmade some small invasion upon the reserve of the bar-girls; for theiradmirers did not dare forbid them the wine, and could not preventthem from smiling. After lunch the gang was photographed in thegarden, and Muchross gave the village flautist half a "quid, " makinghim promise to drink their healths till he was "blind. "

"I never like to leave a place without having done some good, " heshouted, as he scrambled into his seat. 

This sentiment was applauded until the sensual torpor of digestionintervened. The clamour of the coach lapsed into a hush of voices. The women leaned back, drawing their rugs about their knees, for itwas turning chilly, arms were passed round yielding waists, hands layin digestive poses, and eyes were bathed in deep animal indolences. 

Conversation had almost ceased. The bar-girls had not whispered onesingle word for more than an hour; Muchross had not shouted for atleast twenty minutes; the only interruption that had occurred was anunexpected stopping of the coach, for the off-leader was pullingDicky so hard that he had to ask Jem to take the ribbons, and now hesnoozed in the great whip's place, seriously incommoding Snowdownwith his great weight. Suddenly awaking to a sense of hisresponsibility Muchross roared--

"What about the milk-cans?"

"You'd better be quick, " answered Jem, "we shall be there in fiveminutes. "

One of the customs of the road was a half-crown lottery, the winningmember to be decided by the number of milk-cans outside a certainfarm-house. 

"Ease off a bit, Jem, " bawled Muchross. "Damn you! give us time toget the numbers out. "

"It ain't my fault if you fall asleep. "

"The last stage was five miles this side of Cuckfield, you ought toknow the road by this time. How many are we?"

"Eight, " shouted Dicky, blowing the blatant horn. "You're on, Jem, aren't you? Number two or three will get it; at this time of the yearmilk is scarce. Pass on the hat quick; quick, you devil, pass it on. What have you got, Kitty?"

"Just like my luck, " cried Muchross; "I've got eight. "

"And I've seven, " said Snowdown; "never have I won yet. In the autumnI get sevens and eights, in the summer ones and twos. Damn!"

"I've got five, " said Kitty, "and Mike has got two; always the luckyone. A lady leaves him four thousand a year, and he comes down hereand rooks us. "

The coach swept up a gentle ascent, and Muchross shouted--

"Two milk-cans! Hand him over the quid and chuck him out!"

The downs rose, barring the sky; and they passed along the dead levelof the weald, leaving Henfield on their right; and when a great pieceof Gothic masonry appeared between some trees, Mike told Kitty how ithad been once John Norton's intention to build a monastery. 

"He would have founded a monastery had he lived two centuries ago, "said Harding; "but this is an age of concessions, and instead he putsup a few gargoyles. Time modifies but does not eradicate, and themodern King Cophetua marries not the beggar, but the bar-maid. "

The conversation fell in silence, full of consternation; and allwondered if the two ladies in front had understood, and they werereally bar-maids. Be this as it may, they maintained theirunalterable reserve; and with suppressed laughter, Mike persuadedDicky, who had resumed the ribbons, to turn into the lodge-gates. 

"Who is this Johnny?" shouted Muchross. "If he won't stand a drink, we don't want none of his blooming architecture. "

"And I wouldn't touch a man with a large pole who didn't like women, "said Laura. At which emphatic but naïve expression of opinion, thewhole coach roared;--even the bar-girls smiled. 

"Architecture! It is a regular putty castle, " said Kitty, as theyturned out of an avenue of elms and came in view of the house. 

Not a trace of the original Italian house remained. The loggia hadbeen replaced by a couple of Gothic towers. Over the central hall hehad placed a light lantern roof, and the billiard-room had beenconverted into a chapel. A cold and corpse-like sky was flying; theshadows falling filled the autumn path with sensations of deepmelancholy. But the painted legend of St. George overthrowing thedragon, which John had placed in commemoration of his victories overhimself, in the central hall, glowed full of colour and story; and inthe melodious moan of the organ, and in the resonant chord whichcloses the awful warning of the _Dies Iræ_, he realized the soul ofhis friend. Castle, window, and friend were now one in his brain, andseized with dim, undefinable weariness of his companions, and anirritating longing to see John, Mike said--

"I must go and see him. "

"We can't wait here while you are paying visits; who doesn't likegetting drunk or singing, 'What cheer, Ria?' Let's give him a song. "Then the whole coach roared: even the bar-girls joined in. 

 "What cheer, Ria? Ria's on the job; What cheer, Ria? Speculate a bob. "

As soon as he could make himself heard, Mike said--

"You need not wait for me. We are only five minutes from Brighton. I'll ride over in an hour's time. Do you wait for me at the Ship, Kitty. "

"I don't think this at all nice of you. "

Mike waved his hand; and as he stood on the steps of this Gothicmansion, listening to the chant, watching the revellers disappearingin the gray and yellow gloom of the park, he said--

"The man here is the one who has seized what is best in life; healone has loved. I should have founded with him a new religiousorder. I should walk with him at the head of the choir. Bah! life istoo pitifully short. I should like to taste of every pleasure--ofevery emotion; and what have I tasted? Nothing. I have done nothing. I have wheedled a few women who wanted to be wheedled, that is all. "

CHAPTER IX

"And how are you, old chap? I am delighted to see you. "

"I'm equally glad to see you. You have made alterations in the place... I came down from London with a lot of Johnnies and tarts--KittyCarew, Laura Stanley and her sister. I got Dicky the driver to turnin here. You were playing the _Dies Iræ_. I never was more impressedin my life. You should have seen the coach beneath the great window... St. George overcoming the Johnnies ... The tumult of the organ ... And I couldn't stand singing 'Two Lovely Black Eyes. ' I sickened ofthem--the whole thing--and I felt I must see you. "

"And are they outside?"

"No; they have gone off. "

Relieved of fear of intrusion, John laughed loudly, and commentedhumorously on the spectacle of the Brighton coach filled withrevellers drawn up beneath his window. Then, to discuss thewindow--the quality of the glass--he turned out the lamps; the hallfilled with the legend, and their hearts full of it, and delightingin the sensation of each other, they walked up and down the echoinghall. John remembered a certain fugue by Bach, and motioning to thepage to blow, he seated himself at the key-board. The celestialshield and crest still remained in little colour. Mike saw John'shands moving over the key-board, and his soul went out in worship ofthat soul, divided from the world's pleasure, self-sufficing, alone;seeking God only in his home of organ fugue and legended pane. Heunderstood the nobleness and purity which was now about him--itseemed impossible to him to return to Kitty. 

Swift and complete reaction had come upon him, and choked with themoral sulphur of the last twenty-four hours, he craved the breath ofpurity. He must talk of Plato's _Republic_, of Wagner's operas, ofSchopenhauer; even Lily was not now so imperative as these; and nextday, after lunch, when the question of his departure was alluded to, Mike felt it was impossible to leave John; but persecuted withscruples of disloyalty to Kitty, he resisted his friend's invitationto stay. He urged he had no clothes. John offered to send thecoachman into Brighton for what he wanted. 

"But perhaps you have no money, " John said, inadvertently, and a lookof apprehension passed into his face. 

"Oh, I have plenty of money--'tisn't that. I haven't told you that afriend of mine, a lady, has left me nearly five thousand a year. Idon't think you ever saw her--Lady Seeley. "

John burst into uncontrollable laughter. "That is the best thing Iever heard in all my life. I don't think I ever heard anything thatamused me more. The grotesqueness of the whole thing. " Seeing thatMike was annoyed he hastened to explain his mirth. "Theinexplicableness of human action always amuses me; the inexplicableis romance, at least that is the only way I can understand romance. When you reduce life to a logical sequence you destroy all poetry, and, I think, all reality. We do things constantly, and no one cansay why we do them. Frederick the Great coming in, after reviewinghis troops, to play the flute, that to me is intensely romantic. Alady, whom you probably treated exceedingly badly, leaving you herproperty, that too is, to me. "

Admonished by his conscience, John's hilarity clouded into a sort ofsemi-humorous gravity, and he advised Mike on the necessity ofreforming his life. 

"I am very sorry, for there is no one whose society is as attractiveto me as yours; there is no one in whom I find so many of my ideas, and yet there is no one from whom I am so widely separated; at timesyou are sublime, and then you turn round and roll in the nastiestdirt you can find. "

Mike loved a lecture from John, and he exerted himself to talk. 

Looking at each other in admiration, they regretted the other'sweaknesses. Mike deplored John's conscience, which had forced him toburn his poems; John deplored Mike's unsteady mind, which veered andyielded to every passion. And in the hall they talked of the greatmusician and the great king, or John played the beautiful hymns ofthe Russian Church, in whose pathetic charm he declared Chopin hadfound his inspiration; they spoke of the _Grail_ and the _Romance ofthe Swan_, or, wandering into the library, they read aloud theever-flowering eloquence of De Quincey, the marmoreal loveliness ofLandor, the nurselike tenderness of Tennyson. 

Through all these æstheticisms Lily Young shone, her light waxing tofulness day by day. Mike had written to Frank, beseeching him toforward any letters that might arrive. He expected an answer fromLily within the week, and not until its close did he begin to growfearful. Then rapidly his fear increased and unable to bear with somuch desire in the presence of John Norton, he rushed to London, andthence to Marlow. He railed against his own weakness in going toMarlow, for if a letter had arrived it would have been forwarded tohim. 

"Why deceive myself with false hopes? If the letter had miscarried itwould have been returned through the post-office. I wrote my addressplain enough. " Then he railed against Lily. "The little vixen! Shewill show that letter; she will pass it round; perhaps at this momentshe is laughing at me! What a fool I was to write it! However, all'swell that ends well, and I am not going to be married--I have escapedafter all. "

The train jogged like his thoughts, and the landscape fled infleeting visions like his dreams. He laid his face in his hands, andcould not disguise the truth that he desired her above all things, for she was the sweetest he had seen. 

"There are, " he said, talking to Frank and Lizzie, "two kinds oflove--the first is a strictly personal appetite, which merely seeksits own assuagement; the second draws you out of yourself, and is farmore terrible. I have found both these loves, but in differentwomen. "

"Did no woman ever inspire both loves in you?" said Lizzie. 

"I thought one woman had. "

"Oh, tell us about her. "

Mike changed the conversation, and he talked of the newspaper untilit was time to go to the station. He was now certain that Lily hadrejected him. His grief soaked through him like a wet, dreary day. Sometimes, indeed, he seemed to brighten, but there is often a deepersadness in a smile than in a flood of tears, and he was more thanever sad when he thought of the life he had desired, and had lost;which he had seen almost within his reach, and which had nowdisappeared for ever. He had thought of this life as a green isle, where there were flowers and a shrine. Isle, flowers, and shrine hadfor ever vanished, and nothing remained but the round monotony of thedesert ocean. Then throwing off his grief with a laugh, he eagerlyanticipated the impressions of the visit he meditated to BelthorpePark, and his soul went out to meet this new adventure. He thought ofthe embarrassment of the servants receiving their new master; of theattitude of the country people towards him; and deciding that he hadbetter arrive before dinner, just as if he were a visitor, he sent atelegram saying that the groom was to meet him at the station, andthat dinner was to be prepared. 

Lady Seeley's solicitors had told him that according to herladyship's will, Belthorpe was to be kept up exactly as it had beenin her life-time, and the servants had received notice, that inpursuance of her ladyship's expressed wish, Mr. Fletcher would makeno changes, and that they were free to remain on if they thoughtproper. Mike approved of this arrangement--it saved him from a taskof finding new servants, a task which he would have bungled sadly, and which he would have had to attempt, for he had decided to enjoyall the pleasures of a country place, and to act the countrygentleman until he wearied of the part. Life is but a farce, and themore different parts you play in that farce the more you enjoy. Herewas a new farce--he the Bohemian, going down to an old ancestral hometo play the part of the Squire of the parish. It could not but proverich in amusing situations, and he was determined to play it. What asell it would be for Lily, for perhaps she had refused him becauseshe thought he was poor. Contemptuous thoughts about women rose inhis mind, but they died in thronging sensations of vanity--he, atleast, had not found women mercenary. Lily was the first! Thenputting thoughts of her utterly aside, he surrendered himself to thehappy consideration of his own good fortune. "A new farce! Yes; thatwas the way to look upon it. I wonder what the servants will think! Iwonder what they'll think of me! ... Harrison, the butler, was withher in Green Street. Her maid, Fairfield, was with her when I saw herlast--nearly three years ago. Fairfield knew I was her lover, and shehas told the others. But what does it matter? I don't care a damnwhat they think. Besides, servants are far more jealous of our honourthan we are ourselves; they'll trump up some story about cousinship, or that I had saved her ladyship's life--not a bad notion that last;I had better stick to it myself. "

As he sought a plausible tale, his thoughts detached themselves, andit struck him that the gentleman sitting opposite was his next-doorneighbour. He imagined his visit; the invitation to dine; theinevitable daughters in the drawing-room. How would he be received bythe county folks?

"That depends, " he thought, "entirely on the number of unmarriedgirls there are in the neighbourhood. The morals and manners of anEnglish county are determined by its female population. If the numberof females is large, manners are familiar, and morals are lax; if thenumber is small, manners are reserved, and morals severe. "

He was in a carriage with two unmistakably county squires, and theirconversation--certain references to a meet of the hounds and a localbazaar--left no doubt that they were his neighbours. Indeed, LadySeeley was once alluded to, and Mike was agitated with violentdesires to introduce himself as the owner of Belthorpe Park. Severaltimes he opened his lips, but their talk suddenly turned into mattersso foreign that he abandoned the notion of revealing his identity, and five minutes after he congratulated himself he had not done so. 

The next station was Wantage Street; and as he looked to see that theguard had put out his portmanteau, a smart footman approached, andtouching his cockaded hat said, "Mr. Fletcher. " Mike thrilled withpride. His servant--his first servant. 

"I've brought the dog-cart, sir; I thought it would be the quickest;it will take us a good hour, the roads are very heavy, sir. "

Mike noticed the coronet worked in red upon the yellow horse-cloth, for the lamps cast a bright glow over the mare's quarters; andwishing to exhibit himself in all his new fortune before hisfellow-passengers, who were getting into a humbler conveyance, hetook the reins from the groom; and when he turned into the wrongstreet, he cursed under his breath, fancying all had noticed hismisadventure. When they were clear of the town, touching the marewith the whip he said--

"Not a bad animal, this. "

"Beautiful trotter, sir. Her ladyship bought her only last spring;gave seventy guineas for her. "

After a slight pause, Mike said, "Very sad, her ladyship's death, andquite unexpected, I suppose. She wasn't ill above a couple of days. "

"Not what you might call ill, sir; but her ladyship had been ailingfor a long time past. The doctors ordered her abroad last winter, sir, but I don't think it did her much good. She came back lookingvery poorly. "

"Now tell me which is the way? do I turn to the right or left?"

"To the right, sir. "

"How far are we from Belthorpe Park now?"

"About three miles, sir. "

"You were saying that her ladyship looked very poorly for some timebefore she died. Tell me how she looked. What do you think was thematter?"

"Well, sir, her ladyship seemed very much depressed. I heard MissFairfield, her ladyship's maid, say that she used to find herladyship constantly in tears; her nerves seemed to have given way. "

"I suppose I broke her heart, " thought Mike; "but I'm not to blame; Icouldn't go on loving any woman for ever, not if she were Venusherself. " And questioning the groom regarding the servants then atBelthorpe, he learnt with certain satisfaction that Fairfield hadleft immediately after her ladyship's death. The groom had neverheard of Harrison (he had only been a year and a half in herladyship's service). 

"This is Belthorpe Park, sir--these are the lodge gates. "

Mike was disappointed in the lodge. The park he could notdistinguish. Mist hung like a white fleece. There were patches offerns; hawthorns loomed suddenly into sight; high trees raised theirbare branches to the brilliancy of the moon. 

"Not half bad, " thought Mike, "quite a gentleman's place. "

"Rather rough land in parts--plenty of rabbits, " he remarked to thegroom; and he won the man's sympathies by various questionsconcerning the best method of getting hunters into condition. Therooks talked gently in the branches of some elms, around which thedrive turned through rough undulating ground. Plantations becamenumerous; tall, spire-like firs appeared, their shadows floatingthrough the interspaces; and, amid straight walks and dwarf yews, inthe fulness of the moonlight, there shone a white house, with largeFrench windows and a tower at the further end. A white peacock asleepon a window-sill startled Mike, and he thought of the ghost of hisdead mistress. 

Nor could he account for his trepidation as he waited for the frontdoor to open, and Hunt seemed to him aggressively large and pompous, and he would have preferred an assumption on the part of the servantthat he knew the relative positions of the library and drawing-room. But Hunt was resolved on explanation, and as they went up-stairs hepointed out the room where Lady Seeley died, and spoke of the lateEarl. "You want the sack and you shall get it, my friend, " thoughtMike, and he glanced hurriedly at the beautiful pieces of furnitureabout the branching staircase and the gallery leading into thevarious corridors. At dinner he ate without noticing the choicenessof the cooking, and he drank several glasses of champagne before heremarked the excellence of the wine. 

"We have not many dozen left, sir; I heard that his lordship laid itdown in '75. "

Hunt watched him with cat-like patience and hound-like sagacity, andseeing he had forgotten his cigar-case, he instantly produced a box. Mike helped himself without daring to ask where the cigars came from, nor did he comment on their fragrance. He smoked in discomfort; thepresence of the servant irritated him, and he walked into the libraryand shut the door. The carved panelling, in the style of the lateItalian renaissance, was dark and shadowy, and the eyes of theportraits looked upon the intruder. Men in armour, holding scrolls;men in rich doublets, their hands on their swords; women in elaboratedresses of a hundred tucks, and hooped out prodigiously. He wasespecially struck by one, a lady in green, who played with long whitehands on a spinet. But the massive and numerous oak bookcases, strictly wired with strong brass wire, and the tall oak fireplace, surmounted with a portrait of a man in a red coat holding a letter, whetted the edge of his depression, and Mike looked round with a painof loneliness upon his face. Speaking aloud for relief, he said--

"No doubt it is all very fine, everything is up to the mark, butthere's no denying that it is--well, it is dull. Had I known it wasgoing to be like this I'd have brought somebody down with me--a nicewoman. Kitty would be delightful here. But no; I would not bring herhere for ten times the money the place is worth; to do so would be aninsult on Helen's memory.... Poor dear Helen! I wish I had seen herbefore she died; and to think that she has left me all--a beautifulhouse, plate, horses, carriages, wine; nothing is wanting; everythingI have is hers, even this cigar. " He threw the end of his cigar intothe fireplace. 

"How strange! what an extraordinary transformation! And all this ismine, even her ancestors! How angry that old fellow looks at me--me, the son of an Irish peasant! Yes, my father was that--well, notexactly that, he was a grazier. But why fear the facts? he was apeasant; and my mother was a French maid--well, a governess--well, anursery governess, _une bonne_; she was dismissed from her situationfor carrying on (it seems awful to speak of one's mother so; but itis the fact).... Respect! I love my mother well enough, but I'm notgoing to delude myself because I had a mother. Mother didn't like ourcabin by the roadside; father treated her badly; she ran away, takingme with her. She was lucky enough to meet with a rich manufacturer, who kept her fairly well--I believe he used to allow her a thousandfrancs a month--and I used to call him uncle. When mother died hesent me back to my father in Ireland. That's my history. There's notmuch blue blood in me.... I believe if one went back.... Bah, ifone went back! Why deceive myself? I was born a peasant, and I knowit.... Yet no one looks more like a gentleman; reversion to someoriginal ancestor, I suppose. Not one of these earls looks more likea gentleman than I. But I don't suppose my looks would in any measurereconcile them to the fact of my possession of their property. 

"Ah, you old fools--periwigs, armour, and scrolls--you old fools, youlaboured only to make a gentleman of an Irish peasant. Yes, youlaboured in vain, my noble lords--you, old gentleman yonder, you withthe telescope--an admiral, no doubt--you sailed the seas in vain; andyou over there, you mediæval-looking cuss, you carried your armourthrough the battles of Cressy and Poictiers in vain; and you, noblelady in the high bodice, you whose fingers play with the flaxen curlsof that boy--he was the heir of this place two hundred years ago--Isay, you bore him in vain, your labour was in vain; and you, oldfogey that you are, you in the red coat, you holding the letter inyour gouty fingers, a commercial-looking letter, you laboured intrade to rehabilitate the falling fortunes of the family, and I sayyou too laboured in vain. Without labour, without ache, I possess theresult of all your centuries of labour. 

"There, that sordid, wizen old lady, a miser to judge by herappearance, she is eyeing me maliciously now, but I say all hereyeing is in vain; she pinched and scraped and starved herself forme. Yes, I possess all your savings, and if you were fifty yearsyounger you would not begrudge them to me. "

Laughing at his folly, Mike said, "How close together lie the saneand the insane; any one who had overheard me would have pronounced memad as a March hare, and yet few are saner. " He walked twice acrossthe room. "But I'm mad for the moment, and I like to be mad. Have Inot all things--talent, wealth, love? I asked for life, and I wasgiven life. I have drunk the cup--no, not to the dregs, there isplenty more wine in the cup for me; the cup is full, I have nottasted it yet. Lily! yes, I must get her; a fool I have been; myletter miscarried, else she would have written. Refuse me! who wouldrefuse me? Yes, I was born to drink the cup of life as few have drunkit; I shall drink it even like a Roman emperor ... But they drank itto madness and crime! Yet even so; I shall drink of life even tocrime. 

"The peasant and the card-sharper shall go high, this impetus shallcarry me very high; and Frank Escott, that mean cad, shall go to thegutter; but he is already there, and I am here! I knew it would beso; I felt my destiny, I felt it here--in my brain. I felt it evenwhen he scorned me in boyhood days. I believe that in those days heexpected me to touch my cap to him. But those days are over, new dayshave begun. When to-morrow's sun rises it will shine on what ismine--down-land, meadow-land, park-land, and wood-land. Strange isthe joy of possession; I did not know of its existence. The statelyhouse too is mine, and I would see it. But that infernal servant, Isuppose, is in bed. I would not have him find me. I shall get rid ofhim. I can hear him saying in his pantry, 'He! I wouldn't give muchfor him; I found him last night spying about, examining his finethings, for all the world like a beggar to whom you had given an oldsuit of clothes. '"

Mike took his bed-room candle, and having regard for surprises on thepart of the servants, he roamed about the passages, looking at theChippendale furniture on the landings and the pictures and engravingsthat lined the walls. Fearing bells, he did not attempt to enter anyof the rooms, and it was with some difficulty that he found his wayback to the library. Throwing himself into the arm-chair, he wonderedif he should grow accustomed to spend his evenings in thisloneliness. He thought of whom he should invite there--Harding, Thompson, John Norton; certainly he would ask John. He couldn't askFrank without his wife, and Lizzie would prejudice him in the eyes ofthe county people. Then, as his thoughts detached themselves, heexclaimed against the sepulchral solemnity of the library. The housewas soundless. At the window he heard the soft moonlight-dreaming ofthe rooks; and when he threw open the window the white peacockroosting there flew away and paraded on the pale sward like a Watteaulady. 

Next morning, rousing in the indolence of a bed hung with curtains ofIndian pattern, Mike said to the footman who brought in his hotwater--

"Tell the coachman that I shall go out riding after breakfast. "

"What horse will you ride, sir?"

"I don't know what horses you have in the stable. "

"Well, sir, you can ride either her ladyship's hunter or the marethat brought you from the station in the dog-cart. "

"Very well. I'll ride her ladyship's hunter. (My hunter, damn thefellow, " he said, under his breath. ) "And tell the bailiff I shallwant him; let him come round on his horse. I shall go over the farmswith him. "

The morning was chilly. He stood before the fire while the butlerbrought in eggs, kidneys, devilled legs of fowl, and coffee. Thebeauty of the coffee-pot caught his eye, and he admired the platethat made such rich effect on the old Chippendale sideboard. Thepeacocks on the window-sills, knocking with their strong beaks forbread, pleased him; they recalled evenings passed with Helen; she hadoften spoken of her love for these birds. He went to the window withbread for the peacocks, and the landscape came into his eyes: theclump of leafless trees on the left, rugged and untidy with rooks'nests; the hollow, dipping plain, melancholy of aspect now, misty, gray and brown beneath a lowering sky, dipping and then rising in along, wide shape, and ringing the sky with a brown line. The terracewith its straight walks, balustrades, urns, and closely-cropped yewswas a romantic note, severe, even harsh. 

One day, wandering from room to room, he found himself in Helen'sbedroom. "There is the bed she died in, there is the wardrobe. " Mikeopened the wardrobe. He turned the dresses over, seeking for those heknew; but he had not seen her for three years, and there were newdresses, and he had forgotten the old. Suddenly he came upon one ofsoft, blue material, and he remembered she wore that dress the firsttime she sat on his knees. Feeling the need of an expressive action, he buried his face in the pale blue dress, seeking in its softnessand odour commemoration of her who lay beneath the pavement. Howdesolate was the room! He would not linger. This room must be foreverclosed, left to the silence, the mildew, the dust, and the moth. Nonemust enter here but he, it must be sacred from other feet. Once ayear, on her anniversary, he would come to mourn her, and not on theanniversary of her death, but on that of their first kiss. He hadforgotten the exact day, and feared he had not preserved all herletters. Perhaps she had preserved his. 

Moved with such an idea he passed out of her bedroom, and calling for_his_ keys, went into her boudoir and opened her escritoire, and verysoon he found his letters; almost the first he read, ran as follows--

"MY DEAR HELEN, "I am much obliged to you for your kind invitation. I should likevery much to come and stay with you, if I may come as your friend. You must not think from this that I have fallen in love with some oneelse; I have not. I have never seen any one I shall love better thanyou; I love you to-day as well as ever I did; my feelings regardingyou have changed in nothing, yet I cannot come as your lover. I amashamed of myself, I hate myself, but it is not my fault. 

"I have been your lover for more than a year, and I could not be anyone's lover--no, not if she were Venus herself--for a longer time. 

"My heart is full of regret. I am losing the best and sweetestmistress ever man had. No one is able to appreciate your worth betterthan I. Try to understand me; do not throw this letter aside in arage. You are a clever woman; you are, I know, capable ofunderstanding it. And if you will understand, you will not regret;that I swear, for you will gain the best and most loyal friend. I amas good a friend as I am a worthless lover. Try to understand, Helen, I am not wholly to blame. 

"I love you--I esteem you far more to-day than I did when I firstknew you. Do not let our love end upon a miserable quarrel--thecommonplace quarrel of those who do not know how to love. "

He turned the letter over. He was the letter; that letter was hisshameful human nature; and worse, it was the human nature of thewhole wide world. On the same point, or on some other point, everyhuman being was as base as he. Such baseness is the inalienablebirth-stain of human life. His poem was no pretty imagining, but theeternal, implacable truth. It were better that human life shouldcease. Until this moment he had only half understood its awful, itsterrifying truth.... It were better that man ceased to pollute theearth. His history is but the record of crime; his existence is but adisgraceful episode in the life of one of the meanest of the planets. 

We cannot desire what we possess, and so we progress from illusion toillusion. But when we cease to distinguish between ourself andothers, when our thoughts are no longer set on the consideration ofour own embarrassed condition, when we see into the heart of things, which is one, then disappointment and suffering cease to have anymeaning, and we attain that true serenity and peace which wesometimes see reflected in a seraph's face by Raphael. 

As Mike's thoughts floated in the boundless atmosphere ofSchopenhauer's poem, of the denial of the will to live, he feltcreeping upon him, like sleep upon tired eyelids, all the sweet andsuasive fascination of death. "How little, " he thought, "does any manknow of any other man's soul. Who among my friends would believe thatI, in all my intense joys and desire of life, am perhaps, at heart, the saddest man, and perhaps sigh for death more ardently, and amtempted to cull the dark fruit which hangs so temptingly over thewall of the garden of life more ardently than any one?"

A few days after, his neighbour, Lord Spennymoor, called, and hisvisit was followed by an invitation to dinner. The invitation wasaccepted. Mike was on his best behaviour. During dinner he displayedas much reserve as his nature allowed him to, but afterwards, yielding to the solicitations of the women, he abandoned himself, andwhen twelve o'clock struck they were still gathered round him, listening to him with rapt expression, as if in hearing of delightfulmusic. Awaking suddenly to a sense of the hour and his indiscretion, he bade Lord Spennymoor, who had sat talking all night with hisbrother in a far corner, good-night. 

When the sound of the wheels of his trap died away, when the ladieshad retired, Lord Spennymoor returned to the smoking-room, and at theend of a long silence asked his brother, who sat smoking oppositehim, what he thought of Fletcher. 

"He is one of those men who attract women, who attract nine peopleout of ten.... Call it magnetism, electro-biology, give it what nameyou will. The natural sciences----"

"Never mind the natural sciences. Do you think that either of mygirls were--Victoria, for instance, was attracted by him? I don'tbelieve for a moment his story of having saved Lady Seeley fromdrowning in Italy, but I'm bound to say he told it very well. I cansee the girls sitting round him listening. Poor Mrs. Dickens, hereyes were----"

"I shan't ask her here again.... But tell me, do you think he'llmarry?"

"It would be very hard to say what will become of him. He maysuddenly weary of women and become a woman-hater, or perhaps he maydevelop into a sort of Baron Hulot. He spoke about his writings--hemay become ambitious, and spend his life writing epics.... He may gomad! He seemed interested in politics, he may go into Parliament; Ifancy he would do very well in Parliament. A sudden loathing ofcivilization may come upon him and send him to Africa or the ArcticRegions. A man's end is always infinitely more in accordance with histrue character than any conclusion we could invent. No writer, evenif he have genius, is so extravagantly logical as nature. "

During the winter months Mike was extensively occupied with theconstruction of the mausoleum in red granite, which he was raising inmemory of Helen; and this interest remained paramount. He took manyjourneys to London on its account, and studied all the architectureon the subject, and with great books on his knees, he sat in thelibrary making drawings or composing epitaphs and memorial poems. 

Belthorpe Park was often full of visitors, and when walking with themon the terraces, his thoughts ran on Mount Rorke Castle, his ownsuccess, and Frank's failure; and when he awoke in the sweet, luxurious rooms, in the houses where he was staying, his brain filledwith febrile sensations of triumph, and fitful belief that he wasabove any caprice of destiny. 

It pleased him to write letters with Belthorpe Park printed on thetop of the first page, and he wrote many for this reason. Quick withaffectionate remembrances, he thought of friends he had not thoughtof for years, and the sadnesses of these separations touched himdeeply; and the mutability of things moved him in his very entrails, and he thought that perhaps no one had felt these things as he feltthem. He remembered the women who had passed out of his life, andlooking out on his English park, soaking with rain and dim with mist, he remembered those whom he had loved, and the peak whence he viewedthe desert district of his amours--Lily Young. She haunted in hislife. 

He saw himself a knight in the tourney, and her eyes fixed on him, while he calmed his fiery dexter and tilted for her; he saw her inthe silk comfort of the brougham, by his side, their bodies rockedgently together; he saw her in the South when reading Mrs. Byril'sdescriptions of rocky coast and olive fields. 

The English park lay deep in snow, and the familiar word roses thentook magical significance, and the imagined Southern air was full ofLily. 

"There's a sweet girl here, and I'm sure you would like her; she isso slender, so blithe and winsome, and so wayward. She has been sentabroad for her health, and is forbidden to go out after sunset, butwill not obey. I am afraid she is dying of consumption.... She hastaken a great fancy to me. There is no one in our hotel but a few oldmaids, who discuss the peerage, and she runs after me to talk aboutmen. I fancy she must have carried on pretty well with some one, forshe loves talking about _him_, and is full of mysterious allusions. "

The romance of the sudden introduction of this girl into thelandscape took him by the throat. He saw himself walking with thisdying girl in the beauty of blue mountains toppling into blue skies, and reflected in bluer seas; he sat with her beneath the palm-trees;palms spread their fan-like leaves upon sky and sea, and in the richgreen of their leaves oranges grew to deep, and lemons to paler, gold; and he dreamed that the knowledge that the object of his lovewas transitory, would make his love perfect and pure. Now in hissolitude, with no object to break it, this desire for love in deathhaunted in his mind. It rose unbidden, like a melody, stealing forthand surprising him in unexpected moments. Often he asked himself whyhe did not pack up his portmanteau and rush away; and he was onlydeterred by the apparent senselessness of the thought. "What slaveswe are of habit! Why more stupid to go than to remain?"

Soon after, he received another letter from Mrs. Byril. He glancedthrough it eagerly for some mention of the girl. Whatever there wasof sweetness and goodness in Mike's nature was reflected in his eyes(soft violet eyes, in which tenderness dwelt), whatever there was ofevil was written in the lips and chin (puckered lips and goat-likechin), the long neck and tiny head accentuating the resemblance. 

Now his being was concentrated in the eyes as a landscape issometimes in a piece of sky. He read: "She told me that she had beenonce to see her lover in the Temple. " It was then Lily. He turned toMrs. Byril's first letter, and saw Lily in every line of thedescription. Should he go to her? Of course ... When? At once! Shouldit not prove to be Lily? ... He did not care ... He must go, and inhalf an hour he touched the swiftly trotting mare with the whip andglanced at his watch. "I shall just do it. " The hedges passed behind, and the wintry prospects were unfolded and folded away. But as heapproached the station, a rumble and then a rattle came out of thevalley, and though he lashed the mare into a gallop, he arrived onlyin time to see a vanishing cloud of steam. 

The next train did not reach London till long after the mail had leftCharing Cross. 

It froze hard during the night, and next morning his feet chilled inhis thin shoes, as he walked to and fro, seeking a carriage holding aconversational-looking person. At Dover the wind was hard as theice-bound steps which he descended, and the sea rolled in dolefullyabout the tall cliffs, melting far away into the bleak grayness ofthe sky. But more doleful than the bleak sea was sullen Picardy. Mikecould not sleep, and his eyes fed upon the bleak black of swampyplains, utterly mournful, strangely different from green and gladsomeEngland. And two margins of this doleful land remained impressed uponhis mind; the first, a low grange, discoloured, crouching on theplain, and curtained by seven lamentable poplars, and Mike thought ofthe human beings that came from it, to see only a void landscape, andto labour in bleak fields. He remembered also a marsh with osier-bedsand pools of water; and in the largest of these there was a black andbroken boat. Thin sterile hills stretched their starved forms in thedistance, and in the raw wintry light this landscape seemed like apage of the primitive world, and the strange creature striving withan oar recalled our ancestors. 

Paris was steeped in great darkness and starlight, and the cab madeslow and painful way through the frost-bound streets. The amble andthe sliding of the horse was exasperating, the drive unendurable withuncertainty and cold, and Mike hammered his frozen feet on thecurving floor of the vehicle. Street succeeded street, all growingmeaner as they neared the Gare de Lyons. Fearing he should miss theexpress he called to the impassive driver to hasten the vehicle. Three minutes remained to take his ticket and choose a carriage, andhoping for sleep and dreams of Lily, he rolled himself up in a rugfor which he had paid sixty guineas, and fell asleep. 

Ten hours after, he was roused by the guard, and stretching hisstiffened limbs, he looked out, and in the vague morning saw towzledand dilapidated travellers, slipping upon the thin ice that coveredthe platform, striving to reach long, rough tables, spread withcoffee, fruit, and wine. Mike drank some coffee, and thinking of Mrs. Byril's roses, wondered when they should get into the sunshine. 

As the train moved out of the platform the twilight vanished intodaylight, the sky flushed, and he saw a scant land, ragged and tornwith twisted plants, cacti and others, gashed and red, and savage asa negress's lips. So he saw the South through the breath-mistedwindows. He lay back; he dozed a little, and awoke an hour after tofeel soft air upon the face, and to see a bush laden with blossomliterally singing the spring. Thenceforth at every mile the land grewinto more frequent bloom. The gray-green olive-tree appeared, acrooked, twisted tree--habitual phase of the red land--and betweenits foliage gray-green brick façades, burnt and re-burnt by the sun. The roofs of the houses grew flatter and campanile, and the domesrose, silvery or blue, in the dazzling day. A mountain shepherd, furnished with water-gourd, a seven-foot staff, and a gigantic pipe, lingered in the country railway-station. This shepherd's skin waslike coffee, and he wore hair hanging far over his shoulders, and hisbeard reached to his waist. 

Nice! A town of cheap fashion, a town of glass and stucco. Thepungent odour of the eucalyptus trees, the light breeze stirred notthe foliage, sheared into mathematical lines. It was like yards ofbaize dwindling in perspective; and between the tall trunks greatplate-glass windows gleamed, filled with _l'article de Londres_. 

He drove to the hotel from which Mrs. Byril had written, and learntthat she had left yesterday, and that Mrs. And Miss Young were notstaying there. They had no such name on the books. Looking on the seaand mountains he wondered himself what it all meant. 

Having bathed and changed his clothes, he sallied forth in a cab tocall at every hotel in the town, and after three hours' fruitlesssearch, returned in despair. Never before had life seemed so sad;never had fate seemed so cruel--he had come a thousand miles toregenerate his life, and an accident, the accident of a departure, hastened perhaps only by a day, had thrown him back on the past; hehad imagined a beautiful future made of love, goodness, and truth, and he found himself thrown back upon the sterile shore of a past ofwhich he was weary, and of whose fruits he had eaten even to satiety. After much effort he had made sure that nothing mattered but Lily, neither wealth nor liberty, nor even his genius. In surrendering allhe would have gained all--peace of mind, unending love and goodness. Goodness! that which he had never known, that which he now knew wasworth more than gratification of flesh and pride of spirit. 

The night was full of tumult and dreams--dreams of palms, and seas, and endless love, and in the morning he walked into the realities ofhis imaginings. 

Passing through an archway, he found himself in the gaud of theflower-market. There a hundred umbrellas, yellow, red, mauve andmagenta, lemon yellow, cadmium yellow, gold, a multi-coloured massspread their extended bellies to a sky blue as the blouses. 

The brown fingers of the peasant women are tying and pressing all themiraculous bloom of the earth into the fair fingers of Saxongirls--great packages of roses, pink lilies, clematis, stephanotis, and honeysuckle. A gentle breeze is blowing, rocking the umbrellas, wafting the odour of the roses and honeysuckle, bringing hither anodour of the lapping tide, rocking the immense umbrellas. One hugeand ungainly sunshade creaks, swaying its preposterous rotundity. Beneath it the brown woman slices her pumpkin. Mike scanned everythin face for Lily, and as he stood wedged against a flower-stand, agirl passed him. She turned. It was Lily. 

"Lily, is it possible? I was looking for you everywhere. "

"Looking for me! When did you arrive in Nice? How did you know I washere?"

"Mrs. Byril wrote. She described a girl, and I knew from herdescription it must be you. And I came on at once. "

"You came on at once to find me?"

"Yes; I love you more than ever. I can think only of you.... But whenI arrived I found Mrs. Byril had left, and I had no means of findingyour address. "

"You foolish boy; you mean to say you rushed away on the chance thatI was the girl described in Mrs. Byril's letter! ... A thousand miles!and never even waited to ask the name or the address! Well, I supposeI must believe that you are in love. But you have not heard.... Theysay I'm dying. I have only one lung left. Do you think I'm lookingvery ill?"

"You are looking more lovely than ever. My love shall give youhealth; we shall go--where shall we go? To Italy? You are my Italy. But I'm forgetting--why did you not answer my letter? It was cruel ofyou. Deceive me no more, play with me no longer; if you will not haveme, say so, and I will end myself, for I cannot live without you. "

"But I do not understand, I haven't had any letter; what letter?"

"I wrote asking you to marry me. "

They walked out of the flower market on to the _Promenade desAnglais_, and Mike told her about his letters, concealing nothing ofhis struggle. The sea lay quite blue and still, lapping gently on thespare beach; the horizon floated on the sea, almost submerged, andthe mountains, every edge razor-like, hard, and metallic, were veiledin a deep, transparent blue; and the villas, painted white, pink andgreen, with open loggias and balconies, completed the operaticaspect. 

"My mother will not hear of it; she would sooner see me dead thanmarried to you. "

"Why?"

"She knows you are an atheist for one thing. "

"But she does not know that I have six thousand a year. "

"Six thousand a year! and who was the fairy that threw such fortuneinto your lap? I thought you had nothing. "

Vanity took him by the throat, but he wrenched himself free, andanswered evasively that a distant cousin had left him a large sum ofmoney, including an estate in Berkshire. 

"Well, I'm very glad for your sake, but it will not influencemother's opinion of you. "

"Then you will run away with me? Say you will. "

"That is the best--for I'm not strong enough to dispute with mother. I dare say it is very cowardly of me, but I would avoid scenes; I'vehad enough of them.... We'll go away together. Where shall we go? ToItaly?"

"Yes, to Italy--my Italy. And do you love me? Have you forgiven me myconduct the day when you came to see me?"

"Yes, I love you; I have forgiven you. "

"And when shall we go?"

"When you like. I should like to go over that sea; I should like togo, Mike, with you, far away! Where, Mike?--Heaven?"

"We should find heaven dull; but when shall we go across that sea, orwhen shall we go from here--now?"

"Now!"

"Why not?"

"Because here are my people coming to meet me. Now say nothing to mymother about marriage, or she will never leave my side. I'm more illthan you think I am--I should have no strength to struggle with her. "

Not again that day did Mike succeed in speaking alone with Lily, andthe next day she and her mother and Major Downside, her uncle, wentto spend the day with some friends who had a villa in the environs ofthe town. The day after he met mother and daughter out walking in themorning. In the afternoon Lily was obliged to keep her room. Shouldshe die! should the irreparable happen! Mike crushed the instinct, that made him see a poem in the death of his beloved; and hedetermined to believe that he should possess her, love her and onlyher; he saw himself a new Mike, a perfect and true husband-lover. Never was man more weary of vice, more desirous of reformation. 

He had studied the train service until he could not pretend tohimself there remained any crumb of excuse for further considerationof it. He wandered about the corridors, a miserable man. On Sundayshe came down-stairs and drove to church with her mother. Mikefollowed, and full of schemes for flight, holding a note ready toslip into her hand, he wondered if such pallor as hers were for thisside of life. In the note it was written that he would wait all dayfor her in the sitting-room, and about five, as he sat holding thetattered newspaper, his thoughts far away in Naples, Algiers, andEgypt, he heard a voice calling--

"Mike! Mike! Mother is lying down; I think we can get away now, ifthere's a train before half-past five. "

Mike did not need to consult the time-table. He said, "At last, at last, darling, come! ... Yes, there is a train for the Italianfrontier at a few minutes past five. We shall have just time tocatch it. Come!"

But in the gardens they met the Major, who would not hear of hisniece being out after sunset, and sent her back. Mike overtook Lilyon the staircase. 

"I can endure this no longer, " he said; "you must come with meto-night when every one is in bed. There is a train at two. "

"I cannot; I have to pass through my mother's room. She would be sureto awake. "

"Great Scott! what shall we do? My head is whirling. You must giveyour mother a sleeping potion, will you? She drinks something beforeshe goes to bed?"

"Yes, but----"

"There must be no buts. It is a case of life and death. You do notwant to die, as many girls die. To many a girl marriage is life. Iwill get something quite harmless, and quite tasteless. "

She waited for him in the sitting-room. He returned in a few minuteswith a small bottle, which he pressed into her hand. "And now, _aurevoir_; in a few hours you will be mine for ever. "

After leaving her he dined; after dinner went to a gambling hell, where he lost a good deal of money, and would have lost more, had thenecessity of keeping at least £200 for his wedding-tour not been soimperative. He wandered about the streets talking to and sometimesstrolling about with the light women, listening to their lamentablestories--"anything, " he thought, "to distract my mind. " He was tomeet Lily on the staircase at one o'clock, and now it was half-pasttwelve, and giving the poor creature whose chatter had beguiled thelast half-hour a louis, he returned hurriedly to his hotel. 

The lift had ceased working, and he ascended the great staircase, three steps at a time. On the second floor he stopped to reconnoitre. The _gardien_ lay fast asleep on a bench; he could not do better thansit on the stairs and wait; if the man awoke he would have to bebribed. Lily's number was 45, a dozen doors down the passage. At oneo'clock the _gardien_ awoke. Mike entered into conversation with him, gave him a couple of francs, bade him good-night, and went partly upthe next flight of stairs. Listening for every sound, expecting everymoment to hear a door open, he waited till the clocks struck thehalf-hour. Then he became as if insane, and he deemed it would not beenough if she were to disappoint him to set the hotel on fire andthrow himself from the roof. Something must happen, if he were toremain sane, and, determined to dare all, he decided he would seekher in her room and bear her away. He knew he would have to passthrough Mrs. Young's room. What should he do if she awoke, and, taking him for a robber, raised the alarm?

Putting aside such surmises he turned the handle of her door asquietly as he could. The lock gave forth hardly any sound, the doorpassed noiselessly over the carpet. He hesitated, but only for amoment, and drawing off his shoes he prepared to cross the room. Anight-light was burning, and it revealed the fat outline of a hugebody huddled in the bed-clothes. He would have to pass close to Mrs. Young. He glided by, passing swiftly towards the further room, praying that the door would open without a sound. It was ajar, andopened without a sound. "What luck!" he thought, and a moment afterhe stood in Lily's room. She lay upon the bed, as if she had fallenthere, dressed in a long travelling-cloak, her hat crushed on oneside. 

"Lily, Lily!" he whispered, "'tis I; awake! speak, tell me you arenot dead. " She moved a little beneath his touch, then wetting a towelin the water-jug he applied it to her forehead and lips, and slowlyshe revived. 

"Where are we?" she asked. "Mike, darling, are we in Italy? ... I havebeen ill, have I not? They say I'm going to die, but I'm not; I'mgoing to live for you, my darling. "

Then she recovered recollection of what had happened, and whisperedthat she had failed to give her mother the opiate, but hadnevertheless determined to keep her promise to him. She had dressedherself and was just ready to go, but a sudden weakness had come overher. She remembered staggering a few steps and nothing more. 

"But if you have not given your mother the opiate, she may awake atany moment. Are you strong enough, my darling, to come with me?Come!"

"Yes, yes, I'm strong enough. Give me some more water, and kiss me, dear. "

The lovers wrapped themselves in each other's arms. But hearing someone moving in the adjoining room, the girl looked in horror andsupplication in Mike's eyes. Stooping, he disappeared beneath a smalltable; and drew his legs beneath the cloth. The sounds in the nextroom continued, and he recognized them as proceeding from some onesearching for clothes. Then Lily's door was opened and Mrs. Youngsaid--

"Lily, there is some one in your room; I'm sure Mr. Fletcher ishere. "

"Oh, mother, how can you say such a thing! indeed he is not. "

"He is; I am not mistaken. This is disgraceful; he must be under thatbed. "

"Mother, you can look. "

"I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall fetch your uncle. "

When he heard Mrs. Young retreating with fast steps, Mike emergedfrom his hiding. 

"What shall I do?"

"You can't leave without being seen. Uncle sleeps opposite. "

"I'll hide in your mother's room; and while they are looking for mehere, I will slip out. "

"How clever you are, darling! Go there. Do you hear? uncle isanswering her. To-morrow we shall find an opportunity to get away;but now I would not be found out.... I told mother you weren't here. Go!"

The morrow brought no opportunity for flight. Lily could not leaveher room, and it was whispered that the doctors despaired of herlife. Then Mike opened his heart to the Major, and the old soldierpromised him his cordial support when Lily was well. Three dayspassed, and then, unable to bear the strain any longer, Mike fled toMonte Carlo. There he lost and won a fortune. Hence Italy enticedhim, and he went, knowing that he should never go there with Lily. 

But not in art nor in dissipation did he find escape from herdeciduous beauty, now divided from the grave only by a breath, beautiful and divinely sorrowful in its transit. 

Some days passed, and then a letter from the Major brought him backover-worn with anxiety, wild with grief. He found her better. She hadbeen carried down from her room, and was lying on a sofa by the openwindow. There were a few flowers in her hands, and when she offeredthem to Mike she said with a kind of Heine-like humour--

"Take them, they will live almost as long as I shall. "

"Lily, you will get well, and we shall see Italy together. I had toleave you--I should have gone mad had I remained. The moment I heardI could see you I returned. You will get well. "

"No, no; I'm here only for a few days--a few weeks at most. I shallnever go to Italy. I shall never be your sweetheart. I'm one of God'svirgins. I belong to my saint, my first and real sweetheart. Youremember when I came to see you in the Temple Gardens, I told youabout Him then, didn't I! Ah! happy, happy aspirations, better eventhan you, my darling. And He is waiting for me; I see Him now. Hesmiles, and opens His arms. "

"You'll get well. The sun of Italy shall be our heaven, thy lipsshall give me immortality, thy love shall give me God. "

"Fine words, my sweetheart, fine words, but death waits not forlove.... Well, it's a pity to die without having loved. "

"It is worse to live without having loved, dearest--dearest, youwill live. "

He never saw her again. Next day she was too ill to come down, andhenceforth she grew daily weaker. Every day brought death visiblynearer, and one day the Major came to Mike in the garden and said--

"It is all over, my poor friend!"

Then came days of white flowers and wreaths, and bouquets and basketsof bloom, stephanotis, roses, lilies, and every white blossom thatblows; and so friends sought to cover and hide the darkness of thegrave. Mike remembered the disordered faces of the girls in church;weeping, they threw themselves on each other's shoulders; and themournful chant was sung; and the procession toiled up the long hillto the cemetery above the town, and Lily was laid there, to restthere for ever. There she lies, facing Italy, which she never knewbut in dream. The wide country leading to Italy lies below her, thepeaks of the rocky coast, the blue sea, the gray-green olivesbillowing like tides from hill to hill; the white loggias gleaming inthe sunlight. His thoughts followed the flight of the blue mountainpasses that lead so enticingly to Italy, and as he looked into thedistance, dim and faint as the dream that had gone, there rose in hismind an even fairer land than Italy, the land of dream, where forevery one, even for Mike Fletcher, there grows some rose or lilyunattainable. 

CHAPTER X

In the dreary drawing-room, amid the tattered copies of the _Graphic_and _Illustrated London News_, he encountered the inevitable idlewoman. They engaged in conversation; and he repeated the phrases thatbelong inevitably to such occasions. 

"How horrible all this is, " he said to himself; "this is worse thanpeeping and botanizing on a mother's grave. "

He desired supreme grief, and grief fled from his lure; and rhymesand images thronged his brain; and the poem that oftenest rose in hismind, seemingly complete in cadence and idea, was so cruel, thatLily, looking out of heaven, seemed to beg him to refrain. But thoughhe erased the lines on the paper, he could not erase them on hisbrain, and baffled, he pondered over the phenomena of the antagonismof desired aspirations and intellectual instincts. He desired a poemfull of the divine grace of grief; a poem beautiful, tender and pure, fresh and wild as a dove crossing in the dawn from wood to wood. Hedesired the picturesqueness of a young man's grief for a dead girl, an Adonais going forth into the glittering morning, and weeping forhis love that has passed out of the sun into the shadow. This is whathe wrote:

 A UNE POETRENAIRE. 

 We are alone! listen, a little while, And hear the reason why your weary smile And lute-toned speaking is so very sweet To me, and how my love is more complete Than any love of any lover. They Have only been attracted by the gray Delicious softness of your eyes, your slim And delicate form, or some such whimpering whim, The simple pretexts of all lovers;--I For other reasons. Listen whilst I try And say. I joy to see the sunset slope Beyond the weak hours' hopeless horoscope, Leaving the heavens a melancholy calm, Of quiet colour chaunted like a psalm, In mildly modulated phrases; thus Your life shall fade like a voluptuous Vision beyond the sight, and you shall die Like some soft evening's sad serenity ... I would possess your dying hours; indeed My love is worthy of the gift, I plead For them. 

 Although I never loved as yet, Methinks that I might love you; I would get From out the knowledge that the time was brief, That tenderness whose pity grows to grief, My dream of love, and yea, it would have charms Beyond all other passions, for the arms Of death are stretchéd you-ward, and he claims You as his bride. Maybe my soul misnames Its passion; love perhaps it is not, yet To see you fading like a violet, Or some sweet thought away, would be a strange And costly pleasure, far beyond the range Of common man's emotion. Listen, I Will choose a country spot where fields of rye And wheat extend in waving yellow plains, Broken with wooded hills and leafy lanes, To pass our honeymoon; a cottage where The porch and windows are festooned with fair Green wreaths of eglantine, and look upon A shady garden where we'll walk alone In the autumn sunny evenings; each will see Our walks grow shorter, till at length to thee The garden's length is far, and thou wilt rest From time to time, leaning upon my breast Thy languid lily face. Then later still, Unto the sofa by the window-sill Thy wasted body I shall carry, so That thou mays't drink the last left lingering glow Of even, when the air is filled with scent Of blossoms; and my spirits shall be rent The while with many griefs. Like some blue day That grows more lovely as it fades away, Gaining that calm serenity and height Of colour wanted, as the solemn night Steals forward thou shalt sweetly fall asleep For ever and for ever; I shall weep A day and night large tears upon thy face, Laying thee then beneath a rose-red place Where I may muse and dedicate and dream Volumes of poesy of thee; and deem It happiness to know that thou art far From any base desires as that fair star Set in the evening magnitude of heaven. Death takes but little, yea, thy death has given Me that deep peace and immaculate possession Which man may never find in earthly passion. 

The composition of the poem induced a period of literary passion, during which he composed much various matter, even part of his greatpoem, which he would have completed had he not been struck by an ideafor a novel, and so imperiously, that he wrote the book straight fromend to end. It was sent to a London publisher, and it raised sometumult of criticism, none of which reached the author. When itappeared he was far away, living in Arab tents, seeking pleasure atother sources. For suddenly, when the strain of the composition ofhis book was relaxed, civilization had grown hateful to him; apicture by Fromantin, and that painter's book, _Un été dans leSahara_, quickened the desire of primitive life; he sped away, andfor nearly two years lived on the last verge of civilization, sometimes passing beyond it with the Bedouins into the interior, onslave-trading or rapacious expeditions. The frequentation of thesesimple people calmed the fever of ennui, which had been consuminghim. Nature leads us to the remedy that the development of reasoninflicts on the animal--man. And for more than a year Mike thought hehad solved the problem of life; now he lived in peace--passion hadebbed almost out of hearing, and in the plain satisfaction of hisinstincts he found happiness. 

With the wild chieftains, their lances at rest, watching from behinda sandhill, he sometimes thought that the joy he experienced was akinto that which he had known in Sussex, when his days were spent inhunting and shooting; now, as then, he found relief by surrenderinghimself to the hygienics of the air and earth. But his second returnto animal nature had been more violent and radical; and it pleasedhim to think that he could desire nothing but the Arabs with whom helived, and whose friendship he had won. But _qui a bu boira_, andbelow consciousness dead appetites were awakening, and would soon beastir. 

The tribe had wandered to an encampment in the vicinity of Morocco;and one day a missionary and his wife came with a harmonium andtracts. The scene was so evocative of the civilization from whichMike had fled, that he at once was drawn by a power he could notexplain towards them. He told the woman that he had adopted Arablife; explaining that the barbaric soul of some ancestor lived inhim, and that he was happy with these primitive people. He too was amissionary, and had come to warn and to save them from Christianityand all its corollaries--silk hats, piano playing, newspapers, andpatent medicines. The English woman argued with him plaintively; thehusband pressed a bundle of tracts upon him; and this very Englishcouple hoped he would come and see them when he returned to town. Mike thanked them, insisting, however, that he would never leave hisbeloved desert, or desert his friends. Next day, however, he forgotto fall on his knees at noon, and outside the encampment stoodlooking in the direction whither the missionaries had gone. A strangesadness seemed to have fallen upon him; he cared no more for plansfor slave-trading in the interior, or plunder in the desert. Thescent of the white woman's skin and hair was in his nostrils; thenostalgia of the pavement had found him, and he knew he must leavethe desert. One morning he was missed in the Sahara, and a fortnightafter he was seen in the Strand, rushing towards Lubini's. 

"My dear fellow, " he said, catching hold of a friend's arm, "I'vebeen living with the Arabs for the last two years. Fancy, not to haveseen a 'tart' or drunk a bottle of champagne for two years! Come anddine with me. We'll go on afterwards to the Troc'. "

Mike looked round as if to assure himself that he was back againdining at Lubi's. It was the same little white-painted gallery, filled with courtesans, music-hall singers, drunken lords, andsarcastic journalists. He noticed, however, that he hardly knew asingle face, and was unacquainted with the amours of any of thewomen. He inquired for his friends. Muchross was not expected tolive, Laura was underground, and her sister was in America. Joiningin the general hilarity, he learnt that as the singer declined theprize-fighter was going up in popular estimation. A young and drunkenlord offered to introduce him "to a very warm member. "

He felt sure, however, that the Royal would stir in him the oldenthusiasms, and his heart beat when he saw in a box Kitty Carew, looking exactly the same as the day he had left her; but she insistedon taking credit for recognizing him--so changed was he. He feltsomewhat provincial, and no woman noticed him, and it was clear thatKitty was no longer interested in him. The conversation languished, he did not understand the allusions, and he was surprised and alittle alarmed, indeed, to find that he did not even desire theirattention. 

A few weeks afterwards he received an invitation to a ball. It wasfrom a woman of title, the address was good, and he resolved to go. It was to one of the Queen Anne houses with which Chelsea abounds, and as he drove towards it he noted the little windows aflame withlight and colour in the blue summer night. On the carved crampedstaircases women struck him as being more than usually interesting, and the distinguished air of the company moved him with pleasurablesensations. A thick creamy odour of white flowers gratified thenostrils; the slender backs of the girls, the shoulder-bladessqueezed together by the stays, were full of delicate lines andtints. Mike saw a tall blonde girl, slight as a reed, so blonde thatshe was almost an albino, her figure in green gauze swaying. He saw agirl so brown that he thought of palms and cocoa-nuts; she passed himsmiling, all her girlish soul awake in the enchantment of the dance. He said--

"No, I don't want to be introduced; she'd only bore me; I knowexactly all she would say. "

Studying these, he thought vaguely of dancing a quadrille, and wasglad when the lady said she never danced. With a view to astonishher, he said--

"Since I became a student of Schopenhauer I have given up waltzing. Now I never indulge in anything but a square. "

For a few moments his joke amused him, and he regretted that JohnNorton, who would understand its humour, was not there to laugh atit. Having eaten supper he chose the deepest chair among theclustered furniture of the drawing-room, and watched in spleenicinterest a woman of thirty flirting with a young man. 

The panelled skirt stretched stiffly over the knees, the legs werecrossed, one drawn slightly back. The young man sat awkwardly on theedge of the sofa nursing his silk foot. She looked at him over herfan, inclining her blonde head in assent from time to time. The youngman was delicate--a red blonde. The wall, laden with heavy shelves, was covered with an embossed paper of a deep gold hue. A piece ofsilk, worked with rich flowers, concealed the volumes in a lightbookcase. A lamp, set on a tall brass rod, stood behind the lady, flooding her hair with yellow light, and its silk shade was nearlythe same tint as the lady's hair. The costly furniture, the lady andher lover, the one in black and white, the other in creamy lace, thepanelled skirt extended over her knees, filled the room like apicture--an enticing but somewhat vulgar picture of modern refinementand taste. Mike watched them curiously. 

"Five years ago, " he thought, "I was young like he is; my soulthrilled as his is thrilling now. "

Then, seeing a woman whom he knew pass the door on her way to theball-room, he asked her to come and sit with him. He did soremembering the tentative steps they had taken in flirtation threeyears ago. So by way of transition, he said--

"The last time we met we spoke of the higher education of women, andyou said that nothing sharpened the wits like promiscuous flirtation. Enchanting that was, and it made poor Mrs. --Mrs. --I really can'tremember--a lady with earnest eyes--look so embarrassed. "

"I don't believe I ever said such a thing; anyhow, if I did, I'veentirely changed my views. "

"What a pity! but--perhaps you have finished your education?"

"Yes, that's it; and now I must go up-stairs. I am engaged for thisdance. "

"Clearly I'm out of it, " thought Mike. "Not only do people see mewith new eyes, but I see them with eyes that I cannot realize asmine. "

The drawing-room was empty; all had gone up-stairs to dance, so, finding himself alone, he went to a mirror to note the changes. Atfirst he seemed the same Mike Fletcher; but by degrees he recognized, or thought he recognized, certain remote and subtle differences. Hethought that the tenderness which used to reside in his eyes wasevanescent or gone. This tenderness had always been to him a subjectof surprise, and he had never been able to satisfactorily explain itsexistence, knowing as he knew how all tenderness was in contradictionto his true character; at least, as he understood himself. Thistenderness was now replaced by a lurking evil look, and he rememberedthat he had noted such evil look in certain old libertines. Certainlines about the face had grown harder, the hollow freckled cheeksseemed to have sunk a little, and the pump-handle chin seemed to bedefining itself, even to caricature. There was still a certain air of_bravoure_, of truculence, which attracted, and might still charm. Heturned from the mirror, went up-stairs, and danced three or fourtimes. He remained until the last, and followed by an increasingdespair he muttered, as he got into a hansom--

"If this is civilization I'd better go back to the Arabs. "

The solitude of his rooms chilled him in the roots of his mind; helooked around like a hunted animal. He threw himself into anarm-chair. Like a pure fire ennui burned in his heart. 

"Oh, for rest! I'm weary of life. Oh, to slip back into theunconscious, whence we came, and pass for ever from the fitfulbuzzing of the midges. To feel that sharp, cruel, implacableexternality of things melt, vanish, and dissolve!

"The utter stupidity of life! There never was anything so stupid; Imean the whole thing--our ideas of right and wrong, love and duty, etc. Great Scott! what folly. The strange part of it all is man'sinability to understand the folly of living. When I said to thatwoman to-night that I believed that the only evil is to bringchildren into the world, she said, 'But then the world would come toan end. ' I said, 'Do you not think it would be a good thing if itdid?' Her look of astonishment proved how unsuspicious she is of thetruth. The ordinary run of mortals do not see into the heart ofthings, nor do we, except in terribly lucid moments; then, seeinglife truly, seeing it in its monstrous deformity, we cry out likechildren in the night. 

"Then why do we go to Death with terror-stricken faces and reluctantfeet? We should go to Death in perfect confidence, like a bride toher husband, and with eager and smiling eyes. But he who seeks Deathgoes with wild eyes--upbraiding Life for having deceived him; as ifLife ever did anything else! He goes to Death as a last refuge. Nonego to Death in deep calm and resignation, as a child goes to the kindand thoughtful nurse in whose arms he will find beautiful rest. 

"It was in this very room I spoke to Lady Helen for the last time. She understood very well indeed the utter worthlessness of life. Howbeautiful was her death! That white still face, with darknessstealing from the closed lids, a film of light shadow, symbol ofdeeper shadow. The unseen but easily imagined hand grasping thepistol, the unseen but imagined red stain upon the soft texture ofthe chemise! I might have loved her. She saw into the heart ofthings, and like a reasonable being, which she was, resolved to ridherself of the burden. We discussed the whole question in the nextroom; and I remember I was surprised to find that she was in no wisedeceived by the casual fallacy of the fools who say that the goodtimes compensate for the bad. Ah! how little they understand!Pleasure! what is it but the correlative of pain? Nothing short ofman's incomparable stupidity could enable him to distinguish betweensuccess and failure. 

"But now I remember she did not die for any profound belief in theworthlessness of life, but merely on account of a vulgar love affair. That letter was quite conclusive. It was written from the AlexandraHotel. It was a letter breaking it off (strange that any one shouldcare to break off with Lady Helen!); she stopped to see him, in thehope of bringing about a reconciliation. Quite a Bank Holiday sort ofincident! She did not deny life; but only that particular form inwhich life had come to her. Under such circumstances suicide isunjustifiable. 

"There! I'm breaking into what John Norton would call myirrepressible levity. But there is little gladness in me. Ennui huntsme like a hound, loosing me for a time, but finding the scent againit follows--I struggle--escape--but the hour will come when I shallescape no more. If Lily had not died, if I had married her, I mighthave lived. In truth, I'm not alive, I'm really dead, for I livewithout hope, without belief, without desire. Ridiculous as a wifeand children are when you look at them from the philosophical side, they are necessary if man is to live; if man dispenses with thefamily, he must embrace the cloister; John has done that; but now Iknow that man may not live without wife, without child, without God!"

 * * * * * *

Next day, after breakfast, he lay in his arm-chair, thinking of thefew hours that lay between him and the fall of night. He sought totempt his jaded appetite with many assorted dissipations, but heturned from all in disgust, and gambling became his sole distraction. Every evening about eleven he was seen in Piccadilly, going towardsArlington Street, and every morning about four the street-sweeperssaw him returning home along the Strand. Then, afraid to go to bed, he sometimes took pen and paper and attempted to write some lines ofhis long-projected poem. But he found that all he had to say he hadsaid in the sketch which he found among his papers. The idea did notseem to him to want any further amplification, and he sat wonderingif he could ever have written three or four thousand lines on thesubject. 

The casual eye and ear still recognized no difference in him. Therewere days when he was as good-looking as ever, and much of the oldfascination remained: but to one who knew him well, as Harding did, there was no doubt that his life had passed its meridian. The day wasno longer at poise, but was quietly sinking; and though the skieswere full of light, the buoyancy and blitheness that the hours bearin their ascension were missing; lassitude and moodiness were aboard. 

More than ever did he seek women, urged by a nervous erethism whichhe could not explain or control. Married women and young girls cameto him from drawing-rooms, actresses from theatres, shop-girls fromthe streets, and though seemingly all were as unimportant andaccidental as the cigarettes he smoked, each was a drop in the oceanof the immense ennui accumulating in his soul. The months passed, disappearing in a sheer and measureless void, leaving no faintestreflection or even memory, and his life flowed in unbroken wearinessand despair. There was no taste in him for anything; he had eaten ofthe fruit of knowledge, and with the evil rind in his teeth, wanderedan exile beyond the garden. Dark and desolate beyond speech was hisworld; dark and empty of all save the eyes of the hound Ennui; and byday and night it watched him, fixing him with dull and unrelentingeyes. Sometimes these acute strainings of his consciousness lastedonly between entering his chambers late at night and going to bed;and fearful of the sleepless hours, every sensation exaggerated bythe effect of the insomnia, he sat in dreadful commune with thespectre of his life, waiting for the apparition to leave him. 

"And to think, " he cried, turning his face to the wall, "that it isthis _ego_ that gives existence to it all!"

One of the most terrible of these assaults of consciousness came uponhim on the winter immediately on his return from London. He had goneto London to see Miss Dudley, whom he had not seen since his returnfrom Africa--therefore for more than two years. Only to her had hewritten from the desert; his last letters, however, had remainedunanswered, and for some time misgivings had been astir in his heart. And it was with the view of ridding himself of these that he had beento London. The familiar air of the house seemed to him altered, theservant was a new one; she did not know the name, and after someinquiries, she informed him that the lady had died some six monthspast. All that was human in him had expressed itself in thisaffection; among women Lily Young and Miss Dudley had alone touchedhis heart; there were friends scattered through his life whom he hadworshipped; but his friendships had nearly all been, though intense, ephemeral and circumstantial; nor had he thought constantly anddeeply of any but these two women. So long as either lived, there wasa haven of quiet happiness and natural peace in which his shatteredspirit might rock at rest; but now he was alone. 

Others he saw with homes and family ties; all seemed to have hopesand love to look to but he--"I alone am alone! The whole world is inlove with me, and I'm utterly alone. " Alone as a wreck upon a desertocean, terrible in its calm as in its tempest. Broken was the helmand sailless was the mast, and he must drift till borne upon someship-wrecking reef! Had fate designed him to float over every rock?must he wait till the years let through the waters of disease, and hefoundered obscurely in the immense loneliness he had so elaboratelyprepared?

Wisdom! dost thou turn in the end, and devour thyself? dost thouvomit folly? or is folly born of thee?

Overhead was cloud of storm, the ocean heaved, quick lightningsflashed; but no waves gathered, and in heavy sulk a sense of doom layupon him. Wealth and health and talent were his; he had all, and inall he found he had nothing;--yes, one thing was his forevermore, --Ennui. 

Thoughts and visions rose into consciousness like monsters comingthrough a gulf of dim sea-water; all delusion had fallen, and he sawthe truth in all its fearsome deformity. On awakening, the implacableexternality of things pressed upon his sight until he felt he knewwhat the mad feel, and then it seemed impossible to begin anotherday. With long rides, with physical fatigue, he strove to keep at baythe despair-fiend which now had not left him hardly for weeks. Forlong weeks the disease continued, almost without an intermission; hefelt sure that death was the only solution, and he considered themeans for encompassing the end with a calm that startled him. 

Nor was it until the spring months that he found any subjects thatmight take him out of his melancholy, and darken the too acuteconsciousness of the truth of things which was forcing him on tomadness or suicide. One day it was suggested that he should stand forParliament. He eagerly seized the idea, and his brain throngedimmediately with visions of political successes, of the parliamentarytriumphs he would achieve. Bah! he was an actor at heart, andrequired the contagion of the multitude, and again he looked out uponlife with visionary eyes. Harsh hours fell behind him, gay hoursawaited him, held hands to him. 

Men wander far from the parent plot of earth; but a strange fatalityleads them back, they know not how. None had desired to separate fromall associations of early life more than Mike, and he was at onceglad and sorry to find that the door through which he was to enterParliament was Cashel. He would have liked better to represent anEnglish town or county, but he could taste in Cashel a triumph whichhe could nowhere else in the world. To return triumphant to hisnative village is the secret of every wanderer's desire, for there hecan claim not only their applause but their gratitude. 

The politics he would have to adopt made him wince, for he knew theplatitudes they entailed; and in preference he thought of theparadoxes with which he would stupefy the House, the daring andoriginality he would show in introducing subjects that, till then, noone had dared to touch upon. With the politics of his party he hadlittle intention of concerning himself, for his projects were to makefor himself a reputation as an orator, and having confirmed it toseek another constituency at the close of the present Parliament. Such intention lay dormant in the background of his mind, but he hadnot seen many Irish Nationalists before he was effervescing withrhetoric suitable for the need of the election, and he was sometimespuzzled to determine whether he was false or true. 

Driving through Dublin from the steamer, he met Frank Escott. Theyshouted simultaneously to their carmen to stop. 

"Home to London. I've just come from Cashel. I went to try to effectsome sort of reconciliation with Mount Rorke; but--and you, where areyou going?"

"I'm going to Cashel. I'm going to contest the town in the Parnelliteinterest. "

Each pair of eyes was riveted on the other. For both men thought ofthe evening when Mike had received the letter notifying that LadySeeley had left him five thousand a year, and Frank had read inthe evening paper that Lady Mount Rorke had given birth to a son. Frank was, as usual, voluble and communicative. He dilated on thepainfulness of the salutations of the people he had met on theway going from the station to Mount Rorke; and, instead of walkingstraight in, as in old times, he had to ask the servant to takehis name. 

"Burton, the old servant who had known me since I was a boy, seemedterribly cut up, and he was evidently very reluctant to speak themessage. 'I'm very sorry, Mr. Frank, ' he said, 'but his lordship sayshe is too unwell to see any one to-day, sir; he is very sorry, but ifyou would write' ... If I would write! think of it, I who was oncehis heir, and used the place as if it were mine! Poor old Burtonwas quite overcome. He tried to ask me to come into the dining-roomand have some lunch. If I go there again I shall be asked into theservants' hall. And at that moment the nurse came, wheeling the babyin the perambulator through the hall, going out for an airing. Itried not to look, but couldn't restrain my eyes, and the nursestopped and said, 'Now then, dear, give your hand to the gentleman, and tell him your name. ' The little thing looked up, its blue eyesstaring out of its sallow face, and it held out the little putty-likehand. Poor old Burton turned aside, he couldn't stand it any longer, and walked into the dining-room. "

"And how did you get away?" asked Mike, who saw his friend'smisfortune in the light of an exquisite chapter in a novel. "How sadthe old place must have seemed to you!"

"You are thinking how you could put it in a book--how brutal youare!"

"I assure you you are wrong. I can't help trying to realize yoursensations, but that doesn't prevent me from being very sorry foryou, and I'm sure I shall be very pleased to help you. Do you wantany money? Don't be shy about saying yes. I haven't forgotten how youhelped me. "

"I really don't like to ask you, you've been very good as it is. However, if you could spare me a tenner?"

"Of course I can. Let's send these jarvies away, and come into myhotel, and I'll write you a cheque. "

The sum Frank asked for revealed to Mike exactly the depth to whichhe had sunk since they had last met. Small as it was, however, itseemed to have had considerable effect in reviving Frank's spirits, and he proceeded quite cheerfully into the tale of his misfortune. Now it seemed to strike him too in quite a literary light, and hemade philosophic comments on its various aspects, as he might on thehero of a book which he was engaged on or contemplated writing. 

"No, " he said, "you were quite wrong in supposing that I waited tolook back on the old places. I got out of the park through a wood soas to avoid the gate-keeper. In moments of great despair we don'tlapse into pensive contemplation. " ... He stopped to pull at thecigar Mike had given him, and when he had got it well alight, hesaid, "It was really most dramatic, it would make a splendid scene ina play; you might make him murder the baby. "

Half an hour after Mike bade his friend good-bye, glad to be rid ofhim. 

"He's going back to that beastly wife who lives in some dirtylodging. How lucky I was, after all, not to marry. "

Then, remembering the newspaper, and the use it might be to him whenin Parliament, he rushed after Frank. When the _Pilgrim_ wasmentioned Frank's face changed expression, and he seemed stirred withdeeper grief than when he related the story of his disinheritance. Hehad no further connection with the paper. Thigh had worked him out ofit. 

"I never really despaired, " he said, "until I lost my paper. Thighhas asked me to send him paragraphs, but of course I'm not going todo that. "

"Why not?"

"Well, hang it, after being the editor of a paper, you aren't goingto send in paragraphs on approval. It isn't good enough. When I goback to London I shall try to get a sub-editorship. "

Mike pressed another tenner upon him, and returning to thesmoking-room, and throwing himself into an arm-chair, he lapsed intodreams of the bands and the banners that awaited him. When animalspirits were ebullient in him, he regarded his election in the lightof a vulgar practical joke; when the philosophic mood was upon him heturned from all thought of it as from the smell of a dirty kitchencoming through a grating. 

CHAPTER XI

During the first session Mike was hampered and inconvenienced by theforms of the House; in the second, he began to weary of its routine. His wit and paradox attracted some attention; he made one almostsuccessful speech, many that stirred and stimulated the minds ofcelebrated listeners; but for all that he failed. His failure toredeem the expectations of his friends, produced in him much stressand pain of mind, the more acute because he was fully alive to thecause. He ascribed it rightly to certain inherent flaws in hischaracter. "The world believes in those who believe in it. Suchbelief may prove a lack of intelligence on the part of the believer, but it secures him success, and success is after all the only thingthat compensates for the evil of life. "

Always impressed by new ideas, rarely holding to any impression long, finding all hollow and common very soon, he had been taken with theimportance of the national assembly, but it had hardly passed intoits third session when all illusion had vanished, and Mike ridiculedparliamentary ambitions in the various chambers of the barristers hefrequented. 

It was May-time, and never did the Temple wear a more graciousaspect. The river was full of hay-boats, the gardens were green withsummer hours. Through the dim sky, above the conical roof of the dearchurch, the pigeons fled in rapid quest, and in Garden Court, beneaththe plane-trees, old folk dozed, listening to the rippling tune ofthe fountain and the shrilling of the sparrows. In King's Bench Walkthe waving branches were full of their little brown bodies. Sparrowseverywhere, flying from the trees to the eaves, hopping on the goldengravel, beautifully carpeted with the rich shadows of thetrees--unabashed little birds, scarcely deigning to move out of thepath of the young men as they passed to and fro from their offices tothe library. "That sweet, grave place where we weave our ropes ofsand, " so Mike used to speak of it. 

The primness of the books, the little galleries guarded by brassrailings, here and there a reading-desk, the sweet silence of theplace, the young men reading at the polished oak tables, the colourof the oak and the folios, the rich Turkey carpets, lent to thelibrary that happy air of separation from the brutalities of lifewhich is almost sanctity. These, the familiar aspects of the Temple, moved him with all their old enchantments; he lingered in the warmsummer mornings when all the Temple was astir, gossiping with thestudents, or leaning upon the balustrades in pensive contemplation ofthe fleet river. 

But these moods of passive happiness were interrupted more frequentlythan they had been in earlier years by the old whispering voice, nowgrown strangely distinct, which asked, but no longer through laughinglips, if it were possible to discern any purpose in life, and if allthoughts and things were not as vain as a little measure of sand. Thedark fruit that hangs so alluringly over the wall of the garden oflife now met his eyes frequently, tempting him, and perforce he muststay to touch and consider it. Then, resolved to baffle at all coststhe disease which he now knew pursued him, he plunged in the crowd ofdrunkenness and debauchery which swelled the Strand at night. He wasfound where prize-fighters brawled, and card-sharpers cajoled; wherehall singers fed on truffled dishes, and courtesans laughed andcalled for champagne. He was seen in Lubini's sprawling over luncheontables till late in the afternoon, and at nightfall lingering aboutthe corners of the streets, talking to the women that passed. In suchlow form of vice he sought escape. He turned to gambling, riskinglarge sums, sometimes imperilling his fortune for the sake of theassuagement such danger brought of the besetting sin. But luck pouredthousands into his hands; and he applied himself to the ruin of oneseeking to bring about his death. 

"Before I kill myself, " he said, "I will kill others; I'm weary ofplaying at Faust, now I'll play at Mephistopheles. "

Henceforth all men who had money, or friends who had money, wereinvited to Temple Gardens. You met there members of both Houses ofParliament--the successors of Muchross and Snowdown; and menexquisitely dressed, with quick, penetrating eyes, assembled there, actors and owners of race-horses galore, and bright-complexionedyoung men of many affections. Rising now from the piano one is heardto say reproachfully, "You never admire anything I wear, " to a gravefriend who had passed some criticism on the flower in the young man'sbutton-hole. 

It was still early in the evening, and the usual company had not yetarrived. Harding stood on the white fur hearthrug, his legs slightlyapart, smoking. Mike lay in an easy-chair. His eyes were uponHarding, whom he had not seen for some years, and the sight of himrecalled the years when they wrote the _Pilgrim_ together. 

He thought how splendid were then his enthusiasms and how genuine hisdelight in life. It was in this very room that he kissed Lily for thefirst time. That happy day. Well did he remember how the sun shoneupon the great river, how the hay-boats sailed, how the city roselike a vision out of the mist. But Lily lies asleep, far away in asouthern land; she lies sleeping, facing Italy--that Italy which theyshould have seen and dreamed together. At that moment, he brushedfrom his book a little green insect that had come out of the night, and it disappeared in faint dust. 

It was in this room he had seen Lady Helen for the last time; and heremembered how, when he returned to her, after having taken Lily backto the dancing-room, he had found her reading a letter, and almostthe very words of the conversation it had given rise to came back tohim, and her almost aggressive despair. No one could say why she hadshot herself. Who was the man that had deserted her? What was helike? Was it Harding? It was certainly for a lover who had tired ofher; and Mike wondered how it were possible to weary of one sobeautiful and so interesting, and he believed that if she had lovedhim they both would have found content. 

"Do you remember, Harding, that it was in this room we saw Lady Helenalive for the last time? What a tragedy that was! Do you remember theroom in the Alexandra Hotel, the firelight, with the summer morningcoming through the Venetian blinds? Somehow there was a sense ofsculpture, even without the beautiful body. Seven years have passed. She has enjoyed seven years of peace and rest; we have endured sevenyears of fret and worry. Life of course was never worth living, butthe common stupidity of the nineteenth century renders existence forthose who may see into the heart of things almost unbearable. Iconfess that every day man's stupidity seems to me more and moremiraculous. Indeed it may be said to be divine, so inherent and sounalterable is it; and to understand it we need not stray from thequestion in hand--suicide. A man is houseless, he is old, he isfriendless, he is starving, he is assailed in every joint by crueldisease; to save himself from years of suffering he lights a pan ofcharcoal; and, after carefully considering all the circumstances, thejury returns a verdict of suicide while in a state of temporaryinsanity. Out of years of insanity had sprung a supreme moment ofsanity, and no one understands it. The common stupidity, I should saythe common insanity, of the world on the subject of suicide is quitecomic. A man may destroy his own property, which would certainly beof use to some one, but he may not destroy his own life, whichpossibly is of use to no one; and if two men conspire to commitsuicide and one fails, the other is tried for murder and hanged. Canthe mind conceive more perfect nonsense?"

"I cannot say I agree with you, " said Harding; "man's aversion tosuicide seems to me perfectly comprehensible. "

"Does it really! Well, I should like to hear you develop thatparadox. "

"Your contention is that it is inconceivable that in an alreadyover-crowded society men should not look rather with admiration thanwith contempt on those who, convinced that they block the way, surrender their places to those better able to fill them; and it isto you equally inconceivable that a man should be allowed to destroyhis property and not his person. Your difficulty seems to me to arisefrom your not taking into consideration the instinctive nature ofman. The average man may be said to be purely instinctive. In popularopinion--that is to say, in his own opinion--he is supposed to be areasonable being; but a short acquaintance shows him to be illuminedwith no faintest ray of reason. His sense of right and wrong ispurely instinctive; talk to him about it, and you will see that youmight as well ask a sheep-dog why he herds the sheep. "

"Quite so; but I do not see how that explains his aversion tosuicide. "

"I think it does. There are two forces in human nature--instinct andreason. The first is the very principle of life, and exists in all wesee--give it a philosophic name, and call it the 'will to live. ' Allacts, therefore, proceed from instinct or from reason. Suicide isclearly not an instinctive act, it is therefore a reasonable act; andbeing of all acts the least instinctive, it is of necessity the mostreasonable; reason and instinct are antagonistic; and the extremepoint of their antagonism must clearly be suicide. One is theassertion of life, the other is the denial of life. The world ismainly instinctive, and therefore very tolerant to all assertions ofthe will to live; it is in other words full of toleration for itself;no one is reproved for bringing a dozen children into the world, though he cannot support them, because to reprove him would involve apartial condemnation of the will to live; and the world will notcondemn itself. 

"If suicide merely cut the individual thread of life our brotherswould rejoice. Nature is concerned in the preservation of thespecies, not in the preservation of the individual; but suicide ismore than the disappearance of an individual life, it is a protestagainst all life, therefore man, in the interest of the life of therace, condemns the suicide. The struggle for life is lessened byevery death, but the injury inflicted on the desire of life isgreater; in other words, suicide is such a stimulant to the exerciseof reason (which has been proved antagonistic to life), that man, indefence of instinct, is forced to condemn suicide. 

"And it is curious to note that of all the manners of death which maybring them fortune, men like suicide the least; a man would prefer toinherit a property through his father falling a prey to a diseasethat tortured him for months rather than he should blow his brainsout. If he were to sound his conscience, his conscience would tellhim that his preference resulted from consideration for his father'ssoul. For as man acquired reason, which, as I have shown, endangersthe sovereignty of the will to live, he developed notions of eternallife, such notions being necessary to check and act as a drag uponthe new force that had been introduced into his life. He says suicideclashes with the principle of eternal life. So it does, so it does, he is quite right, but how delightful and miraculously obtuse. Wemust not take man for a reasoning animal; ants and bees are hardlymore instinctive and less reasonable than the majority of men. 

"But far more than with any ordinary man is it amusing to discusssuicide with a religionist. The religionist does not know how todefend himself. If he is a Roman Catholic he says the Church forbidssuicide, and that ends the matter; but other churches have no answerto make, for they find in the Old and New Testament not a shred oftext to cover themselves with. From the first page of the Bible tothe last there is not a word to say that a man does not hold his lifein his hands, and may not end it when he pleases. "

"Why don't you write an article on suicide? It would frighten peopleout of their wits!" said Mike. 

"I hope he'll do nothing of the kind, " said a man who had beenlistening with bated breath. "We should have every one committingsuicide all around us--the world would come to an end. "

"And would that matter much?" said Mike, with a scornful laugh. "Youneed not be afraid. No bit of mere scribbling will terminate life;the principle of life is too deeply rooted ever to be uprooted;reason will ever remain powerless to harm it. Very seldom, if ever, has a man committed suicide for purely intellectual reasons. Itnearly always takes the form of a sudden paroxysm of mind. The willto live is an almost unassailable fortress, and it will remainimpregnable everlastingly. "

The entrance of some men, talking loudly of betting and women, stopped the conversation. The servants brought forth the card-tables. Mike played several games of écarté, cheating openly, bravingdetection. He did not care what happened, and almost desired theviolent scene that would ensue on his being accused of packing thecards. But nothing happened, and about one o'clock, having bade thelast guest good-night, he returned to the dining-room. The room inits disorder of fruit and champagne looked like a human being--Mikethought it looked like himself. He drank a tumbler of champagne andreturned to the drawing-room, his pockets full of the money he hadswindled from a young man. He threw himself on a sofa by the openwindow and listened to the solitude, terribly punctuated by theclanging of the clocks. All the roofs were defined on the blue night, and he could hear the sound of water falling. The trees rose in vaguemasses indistinguishable, and beyond was the immense brickwork whichhugs the shores. In the river there were strange reflections, andabove the river there were blood-red lamps. 

"If I were to fling myself from this window! ... I shouldn't feelanything; but I should be a shocking sight on the pavement.... GreatScott! this silence is awful, and those whispering trees, and thosedamned clocks--another half-hour of life gone. I shall go mad ifsomething doesn't happen. "

There came a knock. Who could it be? It did not matter, anything wasbetter than silence. He threw open the door, and a pretty girl, almost a child, bounded into the room, making it ring with herlaughter. 

"Oh, Mike! darling Mike, I have left home; I couldn't live withoutyou; ... Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course I'm glad to see you. "

"Then why don't you kiss me?" she said, jumping on his knees andthrowing her arms about his neck. 

"What a wicked little girl you are!"

"Wicked! It is you who make me wicked, my own darling Mike. I ranaway from home for you, all for you; I should have done it for nobodyelse.... I ran away the day--the day before yesterday. My aunt wasannoying me for going out in the lane with some young fellows. I saidnothing for a long time. At last I jumps up, and I says that I wouldstand it no longer; I told her straight; I says you'll never see meagain, never no more; I'll go away to London to some one who isawfully nice. And of course I meant you, my own darling Mike. " Andthe room rang with girlish laughter. 

"But where are you staying?" said Mike, seriously alarmed. 

"Where am I staying? I'm staying with a young lady friend of mine wholives in Drury Lane, so I'm not far from you. You can come and seeme, " she said, and her face lit with laughter. "We are rather hardup. If you could lend me a sovereign I should be so much obliged. "

"Yes, I'll lend you a sovereign, ten if you like; but I hope you'llgo back to your aunt. I know the world better than you, my dearlittle Flossy, and I tell you that Drury Lane is no place for you. "

"I couldn't go back to aunt; she wouldn't take me back; besides, Iwant to remain in London for the present. "

Before she left Mike filled the astonished child's hands with money, and as she paused beneath his window he threw some flowers towardsher, and listened to her laughter ringing through the pale morning. Now the night was a fading thing, and the town and Thames lay in thefaint blue glamour of the dawn. Another day had begun, and the rattleof a morning cart was heard. Mike shut the window, hesitating betweenthrowing himself out of it, and going to bed. 

"As long as I can remember, I have had these fits of depression, butnow they never leave me; I seem more than ever incapable of shakingthem off. "

Then he thought of the wickedness he had done, not of the wickednessof his life--that seemed to him unlimited, --but of the wickednessaccomplished within the last few hours, and he wondered if he haddone worse in cheating the young man at cards or giving the money hehad won to Flossy. "Having tasted of money, she will do anything toobtain more. I suppose she is hopelessly lost, and will go from badto worse. But really I don't see that I am wholly responsible. Iadvised her to go home, I could do no more. But I will get her aunt'saddress and write to her. Or I will inform some of the philanthropicpeople. "

A few days after, he came in contact with some. Their fervourawakened some faint interest in him, and now, as weary of playing atMephistopheles as he was of playing at Faust, he followed theoccupation of his new friends. But his attempts at reformation werevain, they wore out the soul, and left it only more hopeless thanbefore; and he remembered John Norton's words, that faith is a giftfrom God which we must cherish, or He will take it from us utterly;and sighing, Mike recognized the great truth underlying a primitivemode of expression. He had drifted too far into the salt sea ofunfaith and cynicism, ever to gain again the fair if illusive shoresof aspiration--maybe illusive, but no more illusive than the cruelsea that swung him like a wreck in its current, feeding upon him asthe sea feeds. Nor could he make surrender of his passion of life, saying--

"I see into the heart of things, I know the truth, and in the calmpossession of knowledge am able to divest myself of my wretchedindividuality, and so free myself of all evils, seeking inabsorption, rather than by violent ends, to rid myself ofconsciousness. "

But this, the religion of the truly wise, born in the sublime East, could find no roothold in Mike Fletcher--that type and epitome ofWestern grossness and lust of life. Religions being a synthesis ofmoral aspirations, developed through centuries, are mischievous anduntrue except in the circumstances and climates in which they havegrown up, and native races are decimated equally by the importationof a religion or a disease. True it is that Christianity was aproduct of the East, but it was an accidental and inferior offshootfrom the original religion of the race, not adapted to their needs, and fitted only for exportation. And now, tainted and poisoned by athousand years of habitation in the West, Christianity returns to theEast, virulent and baneful as small-pox, a distinctly demoralizinginfluence, having power only to change excellent Buddhists intoprostitutes and thieves. And in such a way, according to the samelaws, Mike had observed, since he had adopted pessimism, certainunmistakable signs in himself of moral degeneracy. 

He had now exhausted all Nature's remedies, save one--Drink, and hecould not drink. Drink has often rescued men, in straits of mentalprostration, from the charcoal-pan, the pistol, and the river. ButMike could not drink, and Nature sought in vain to re-adjust again, and balance anew, forces which seemed now irretrievably disarranged. All the old agencies were exhausted, and the new force, which chance, co-operating with natural disposition, had introduced, was dominantin him. Against it women were now powerless, and he turned aside fromoffered love. 

It is probable that the indirect influences to which we have beensubjected before birth outweigh the few direct influences received bycontagion with present life. But the direct influences, slight asthey may be, are worth considering, they being the only ones of whichwe have any exact knowledge, even if in so doing we exaggerate them;and in striving to arrive at a just estimation of the forces that hadbrought about his present mind, Mike was in the habit of givingprominence to the thought of the demoralizing influence of theintroduction of Eastern pessimism into a distinctly Western nature. He remembered very well indeed the shock he had received when he hadheard John say for the first time that it was better that human lifeshould cease. 

"For man's history, what is it but the history of crime? Man's life, what is it but a disgraceful episode in the life of one of themeanest of the planets? Let us be thankful that time shall obliteratethe abominable, and that once again the world shall roll pure throughthe silence of the universe. "

So John had once spoken, creating consternation in Mike's soul, casting poison upon it. But John had buried himself in Catholicismfor refuge from this awful creed, leaving Mike to perish in it. ThenMike wondered if he should have lived and died a simple, honourable, God-fearing man, if he had not been taken out of the life he was bornin, if he had married in Ireland, for instance, and driven cattle tomarket, as did his ancestors. 

One day hearing the organ singing a sweet anthem, he stayed tolisten. It being midsummer, the doors of the church were open, thewindow was in his view, and the congregation came streaming out intothe sunshine of the courts, some straying hither and thither, takingnote of the various monuments. In such occupation he spoke to onewhom he recognized at once as a respectable shop-girl. He took herout to dinner, dazzled and delighted her with a present of jewelry, enchanted her with assurances of his love. But when her mannerinsinuated an inclination to yield, he lost interest, and wrotesaying he was forced to leave town. Soon after, he wrote to a certainactress proposing to write a play for her. The proposal was not madewith a view to deceiving her, but rather in the intention of securingtheir liaison against caprice, by involving in it various mutualadvantages. For three weeks they saw each other frequently; hewondered if he loved her, he dreamed of investing his talents in herinterest, and so rebuilding the falling edifice of his life. 

"I could crush an affection out of my heart as easily as I could killa fly, " she said. 

"Ah!" he said, "my heart is as empty as a desert, and no affectionshall enter there again. "

An appointment was made to go out to supper, but he wrote saying hewas leaving town to be married. Nor was his letter a lie. After longhesitations he had decided on this step, and it seemed to him clearthat no one would suit him so well as Mrs. Byril. By marrying an oldmistress, he would save himself from all the boredom of a honeymoon. And sitting in the drawing-room, in the various pauses betweennumerous licentious stories, they discussed their matrimonialproject. 

Dear Emily, who said she suffered from loneliness and fear of thefuture as acutely as he, was anxious to force the matter forward. Buther eagerness begot reluctance in Mike, and at the end of a week, hefelt that he would sooner take his razor and slice his head off, thanlive under the same roof with her. 

In Regent Street one evening he met Frank Escott. After a fewpreliminary observations Mike asked him if he had heard lately fromLord Mount Rorke. Frank said that he had not seen him. All was overbetween them, but his uncle had, however, arranged to allow him twohundred a year. He was living at Mortlake, "a nice little house; ourneighbour on the left is a city clerk at a salary of seventy pounds ayear, on the right is a chemist's shop; a very nice woman is thechemist's wife; my wife and the chemist's wife are fast friends. Wego over and have tea with them, and they come and have tea with us. The chemist and I smoke our pipes over the garden wall. All thisappears very dreadful to you, but I assure you I have more realpleasure, and take more interest in my life, than ever I did before. My only trouble is the insurance policy--I must keep that paid up, for the two hundred a year's only an annuity. It makes a dreadfulhole in our income. You might come down and see us. "

"And be introduced to the chemist's wife!"

"There's no use in trying to come it over me; I know who you are. Ihave seen you many times about the roads in a tattered jacket. Youmustn't think that because all the good luck went your way, and allthe bad luck my way, that I'm any less a gentleman, or you any less a----"

"My dear Frank, I'm really very sorry for what I said; I forgot. Iassure you I didn't mean to sneer. I give you my word of honour. "

They walked around Piccadilly Circus, edging their way through thewomen, that the sultry night had brought out in white dresses. It wasa midnight of white dresses and fine dust; the street was as clean asa ball-room; like a pure dream the moon soared through the azureinfinities, whitening the roadway; the cabmen loitered, followingthose who showed disposition to pair; groups gathered round thelamp-posts, and were dispersed by stalwart policemen. "Move on, moveon, if you please, gentlemen!"

Frank told Mike about the children. He had now a boy five years old, "such a handsome fellow, and he can read as well as you or I can. He's down at the sea-side now with his mother. He wrote me such aclever letter, telling me he had just finished _Robinson Crusoe_, andwas going to make a start on _Gulliver's Travels_. I'm crazy about myboy. Talk of being tired of living, my trouble is that I shall haveto leave him one day. "

Mike thought Frank's love of his son charming, and he regretted hecould find in his own heart no such simple sentiments! Every now andthen he turned to look after a girl, and pulling his moustache, muttered--

"Not bad!"

"Well, don't let's say anything more about it. When will you come andsee us?"

"What day will suit you--some day next week?"

"Yes, I'm always in in the evening; will you come to dinner?"

Mike replied evasively, anxious not to commit himself to a promisefor any day. Then seeing that Frank thought he did not care to dinewith him, he said--

"Very well, let us say Wednesday. "

He bade his friend good-night, and stood on the edge of the pavementwatching him make his way across the street to catch the lastomnibus. Mike's mind filled with memories of Frank. They came fromafar, surging over the shores of youth, thundering along the cliffsof manhood. Out of the remote regions of boyhood they came, whitecrests uplifted, merging and mingling in the waters of life. Itseemed to Mike that, like sea-weed, he and Frank had been washedtogether, and they then had been washed apart. That was life, andthat was the result of life, that and nothing more. And of everyadventure Frank was the most distinctly realizable; all else, evenLily, was a little shadow that had come and gone. John had losthimself in religion, Frank had lost himself in his wife and child. Tolose yourself, that is the end to strive for; absorption in religionor in the family. They had attained it, he had failed. All the loveand all the wealth fortune had poured upon him had not enabled him tostir from or change that entity which he knew as Mike Fletcher. Tenyears ago he had not a shilling to his credit, to-day he had severalthousands, but the irreparable had not altered--he was still MikeFletcher. He had wandered over the world; he had lain in the arms ofa hundred women, and nothing remained of it all but Mike Fletcher. There was apparently no escape; he was lashed to himself like theconvict to the oar. For him there was nothing but this oar, and allthe jewelry that had been expended upon it had not made it anythingbut an oar. There was a curse upon it all. 

He saw Frank's home--the little parlour with its bits of furniture, scraggy and vulgar, but sweet with the presence of the wife and herhomely occupations; then the children--the chicks--cooing andchattering, creating such hope and fond anxiety! Why then did he nothave wife and children? Of all worldly possessions they are theeasiest to obtain. Because he had created a soul that irreparablyseparated him from these, the real and durable prizes of life; theylay beneath his hands, but his soul said no; he desired, and waspowerless to take what he desired. 

For a moment he stood, in puzzled curiosity, listening to the fatethat his thoughts were prophesying; then, as if in answer antiphonal, terrible as the announcing of the chorus, came a quick thought, quickand sharp as a sword, fatal as a sword set against the heart. Hestrove to turn its point aside, he attempted to pass it by, but onevery side he met its point, though he reasoned in jocular andserious mood. Then his courage falling through him like a stonedropped into a well, he crossed the street, seeking the place Flossyhad told him of, and soon after saw her walking a little in front ofhim with another girl. She beckoned him, leading the way throughnumerous by-streets. Something in the sound of certain footsteps toldhim he was being followed; his reason warned him away, yet he couldnot but follow. And in the shop below and on the stairs of the loweating-house where they had led him, loud voices were heard andtramping of feet. Instantly he guessed the truth, and drew thefurniture across the doorway. The window was over twenty feet fromthe ground, but he might reach the water-butt. He jumped from thewindow-sill, falling into the water, out of which he succeeded indrawing himself; hence he crawled along the wall, dropped into thelane, hearing his pursuers shouting to him from the window. Therewere only a few children in the lane; he sped quickly past, gained amain street, hailed a cab, and was driven safely to the Temple. 

He flung off his shoes, which were full of water; his trousers weresoaking, and having rid himself of them, he wrapped himself in adressing-gown, and went into the sitting-room in his slippers. It wasthe same as when it was Frank's room. There was the grand piano andthe slender brass lamps; he had lit none, but stood uncertain, hisbed-room candle in his hand. And listening, he could hear Londonalong the Embankment--all occasional cry, the rattle of a cab, thehollow whistle of a train about to cross the bridge at Blackfriars, the shrill whistle of a train far away in the night. He had escapedfrom his pursuers, but not from himself. 

"How horribly lonely it is here, " he muttered. Then he thought of hownarrowly he had escaped disgraceful exposure of his infamy. "If thosefellows had got hold of my name it would have been in the papers theday after to-morrow. What a fool I am! why do I risk so much? and forwhat?" He turned from the memory as from sight of some disgustfuldeformity or disease. Going to the mirror he studied his face forsome reflection of the soul; but unable to master his feelings, inwhich there was at once loathing and despair, he threw open thewindow and walked out of the suffocating room into the sultrybalcony. 

It was hardly night; the transparent obscurity of the summer midnightwas dissolving; the slight film of darkness which had wrapped theworld was evanescent. "Is it day or night?" he asked. "Oh, it is day!another day has begun; I escaped from my mortal enemies, but not fromthe immortal day. Like a gray beast it comes on soft velvet paws todevour. Stay! oh, bland and beautiful night, thou that dost socharitably hide our misfortunes, stay!

"I shudder when I think of the new evils and abominations that thisday will bring. The world is still at rest, lying in the partialpurity of sleep. But as a cruel gray beast the day comes on soundlessvelvet paws. Light and desire are one; light and desire are the clawsthat the gray beast unsheathes; a few hours' oblivion and the world'storment begins again!" Then looking down the great height, he thoughthow he might spring from consciousness into oblivion--the town andthe river were now distinct in ghastly pallor--"I should feelnothing. But what a mess I should make; what a horrible little mess!"

After breakfast he sat looking into space, wondering what he mightdo. He hoped for a visitor, and yet he could not think of one that hedesired to see. A woman! the very thought was distasteful. He roseand went to the window. London implacable lay before him, a morosemass of brick, fitting sign and symbol of life. And the few hoursthat lay between breakfast and dinner were narrow and brick-coloured;and longing for the vast green hours of the country, he went toBelthorpe Park. But in a few weeks the downs and lanes fevered andexasperated him, and perforce he must seek some new distraction. Henceforth he hurried from house to house, tiring of each last abodemore rapidly than the one that had preceded it. He read no books, andhe only bought newspapers to read the accounts of suicides; and hisfriends had begun to notice the strange interest with which he spokeof those who had done away with themselves, and the persistency withwhich he sought to deduce their motives from the evidence; and heseemed to be animated by a wish to depreciate all worldly reasons, and to rely upon weariness of life as sufficient motive for theiraction. 

The account of two young people engaged to be married, who had takentickets for some short journey and shot themselves in the railwaycarriage. "Here, " he said, "was a case of absolute sanity, a qualityalmost undiscoverable in human nature. Two young people resolve torid themselves of the burden; but they are more than utilitarians, they are poets, and of a high order; for, not only do they make mostpublic and emphatic denial of life, but they add to it a measure ofAristophanesque satire--they engage themselves to marry. Now marriageis man's approval and confirmation of his belief in humanexistence--they engage themselves to marry, but instead of puttingtheir threat into execution, they enter a railway carriage and blowout their brains, proving thereby that they had brains to blow out. "

When, however, it transpired that letters were found in the pocketsof the suicides to the effect that they had hoped to gain suchnotoriety as the daily press can give by their very flagrantleave-taking of this world, Mike professed much regret, and gravelyassured his astonished listeners that, in the face of these letterswhich had unhappily come to light, he withdrew his praise of thequality of the brains blown out. In truth he secretly rejoiced thatproof of the imperfect sanity of the suicides had come to light andassured himself that when he did away with Mike Fletcher, that hewould revenge himself on society by leaving behind him a documentwhich would forbid the usual idiotic verdict, "Suicide while in astate of temporary insanity, " and leave no loophole through which itmight be said that he was impelled to seek death for any extraneousreasons whatever. He would go to death in the midst of the mostperfect worldly prosperity the mind could conceive, desiring nothingbut rest, profoundly convinced of the futility of all else, and theperfect folly of human effort. 

In such perverse and morbid mind Mike returned to London. It was inthe beginning of August, and the Temple weltered in sultry days andcalm nights. The river flowed sluggishly through its bridges; thelights along its banks gleamed fiercely in the lucent stillness of asulphur-hued horizon. Like a nightmare the silence of the apartmentlay upon his chest; and there was a frightened look in his eyes as hewalked to and fro. The moon lay like a creole amid the blue curtainsof the night; the murmur of London hushed in stray cries, and onlythe tread of the policeman was heard distinctly. About the river thenight was deepest, and out of the shadows falling from the bridgesthe lamps gleamed with strange intensity, some flickering sadly inthe water. Mike walked into the dining-room. He could see the swardin the darkness that the trees spread, and the lilies reeked in thegreat stillness. Then he thought of the old days when the _Pilgrim_was written in these rooms, and of the youthfulness of those days;and he maddened when he recalled the evenings of artistic converse inJohn Norton's room--how high were then their aspirations! The Temple, too, seemed to have lost youth and gaiety. No longer did he meet hisold friends in the eating-houses and taverns. Everything had beendispersed or lost. Some were married, some had died. 

Then the solitude grew more unbearable and he turned from it, hopinghe might meet some one he knew. As he passed up Temple Lane he saw aslender woman dressed in black, talking to the policemen. He hadoften seen her about the Courts and Buildings, and had accosted her, but she had passed without heeding. Curious to hear who and what shewas, Mike entered into conversation with one of the policemen. 

"She! we calls her old Specks, sir. "

"I have often seen her about, and I spoke to her once, but she didn'tanswer. "

"She didn't hear you, sir; she's a little deaf. A real good sort, sir, is old Jenny. She's always about here. She was brought out inthe Temple; she lived eight years with a Q. C. , sir. He's dead. Astrapping fine wench she was then, I can tell you. "

"And what does she do now?"

"She has three or four friends here. She goes to see Mr. --I can'tthink of his name--you know him, the red-whiskered man in Dr. Johnson's Buildings. You have seen him in the Probate Court many atime. " And then in defence of her respectability, if not of hermorals, the policeman said, "You'll never see her about the streets, sir, she only comes to the Temple. "

Old Jenny stood talking to the younger member of the force. When shedidn't hear him she cooed in the soft, sweet way of deaf women; andher genial laugh told Mike that the policeman was not wrong when hedescribed her as a real good sort. She spoke of her last 'bus, and onbeing told the time gathered up her skirts and ran up the Lane. 

Then the policemen related anecdotes concerning their own and thegeneral amativeness of the Temple. 

"But, lor, sir, it is nothing now to what it used to be! Some yearsago, half the women of London used to be in here of a night; nowthere's very little going on--an occasional kick up, but nothing tospeak of. "

"What are you laughing at?" said Mike, looking from one to the other. 

The policemen consulted each other, and then one said--

"You didn't hear about the little shindy we had here last night, sir?It was in Elm Court, just behind you, sir. We heard some one shoutingfor the police; we couldn't make out where the shouting came fromfirst, we were looking about--the echo in these Courts makes it verydifficult to say where a voice comes from. At last we saw the fellowat the window, and we went up. He met us at the door. He said, 'Policemen, the lady knocked at my door and asked for a drink; Ididn't notice that she was drunk, and I gave her a brandy-and-soda, and before I could stop her she undressed herself!' There was thelady right enough, in her chemise, sitting in the arm-chair, as drunkas a lord, humming and singing as gay, sir, as any little bird. Thenthe party says, 'Policeman, do your duty!' I says, 'What is my duty?'He says, 'Policeman, I'll report you!' I says, 'Report yourself. Iknows my duty. ' He says, 'Policeman, remove that woman!' I says, 'Ican't remove her in that state. Tell her to dress herself and I'llremove her. ' Well, the long and the short of it, sir, is, that we hadto dress her between us, and I never had such a job. "

The exceeding difficulties of this toilette, as narrated by thestolid policeman, made Mike laugh consummately. Then alternately, andin conjunction, the policemen told stories concerning pursuitsthrough the areas and cellars with which King's Bench Walk abounds. 

"It was from Paper Buildings that the little girl came from who triedto drown herself in the fountain. "

"Oh, I haven't heard about her, " said Mike. "She tried to drownherself in the fountain, did she? Crossed in love; tired of life;which was it?"

"Neither, sir; she was a bit drunk, that was about it. My mate couldtell you about her, he pulled her out. She's up before the magistrateto-day again. "

"Just fancy, bringing a person up before a magistrate because shewanted to commit suicide! Did any one ever hear such rot? If our ownpersons don't belong to us, I don't know what does. But tell me abouther. "

"She went up to see a party that lives in Pump Court. We was at home, so she picks up her skirts, runs across here, and throws herself in. I see her run across, and follows her; but I had to get into thewater to get her out; I was wet to the waist--there's about four feetof water in that 'ere fountain. "

"And she?"

"She had fainted. We had to send for a cab to get her to the station, sir. "

At that moment the presence of the sergeant hurried the policemenaway, and Mike was left alone. The warm night air was full of thefragrance of the leaves, and he was alive to the sensation of thefoliage spreading above him, and deepening amid the branches of thetall plane-trees that sequestered and shadowed the fountain. Theygrew along the walls, forming a quiet dell, in whose garden silencethe dripping fountain sang its song of falling water. Light and shadefell picturesquely about the steps descending to the gardens, and theparapeted buildings fell in black shadows upon the sward, and stoodsharp upon the moon illuminated blue. Mike sat beneath theplane-trees, and the suasive silence, sweetly tuned by the drippingwater, murmured in his soul dismal sorrowings. Over the cup, whenceissued the jet that played during the day, the water flowed. Therewere there the large leaves of some aquatic plant, and Mike wonderedif, had the policeman not rescued the girl, she would now be inperfect peace, instead of dragged before a magistrate and forced topromise to bear her misery. 

"A pretty little tale, " he thought, and he saw her floating inshadowy water in pallor and beauty, and reconciliation with nature. "Why see another day? I must die very soon, why not at once?Thousands have grieved as I am grieving in this self-same place, haveasked the same sad questions. Sitting under these ancient walls youngmen have dreamed as I am dreaming--no new thoughts are mine. For fivethousand years man has asked himself why he lives. Five thousandyears have changed the face of the world and the mind of man; nothought has resisted the universal transformation of thought, savethat one thought--why live? Men change their gods, but one thoughtfloats immortal, unchastened by the teaching of any mortal gods. Whysee another day? why drink again the bitter cup of life when we maydrink the waters of oblivion?"

He walked through Pump Court slowly, like a prisoner impeded by theheavy chain, and at every step the death idea clanked in his brain. All the windows were full of light, and he could hear women's voices. In imagination he saw the young men sitting round the sparelyfurnished rooms, law-books and broken chairs--smoking and drinking, playing the piano, singing, thinking they were enjoying themselves. Afew years and all would be over for them as all was over now for him. But never would they drink of life as he had drunk, he was the typeof that of which they were but imperfect and inconclusive figments. Was he not the Don Juan and the poet--a sort of Byron doubled withByron's hero? But he was without genius; had he genius, genius wouldforce him to live. 

He considered how far in his pessimism he was a representative of thecentury. He thought how much better he would have done in anotherage, and how out of sympathy he was with the utilitarian dullness ofthe present time; how much more brilliant he would have been had helived at any other period of the Temple's history. Then he stopped tostudy the style of the old staircase, the rough woodwork twisting upthe wall so narrowly, the great banisters full of shadow lighted bythe flickering lanterns. The yellowing colonnade--its beams andoverhanging fronts were also full of suggestion, and the suggestionof old time was enforced by the sign-board of a wig-maker. 

"The last of an ancient industry, " thought Mike. "The wig isrepresentative of the seventeenth as the silk hat is of thenineteenth century. I wonder why I am so strongly fascinated with theseventeenth century?--I, a peasant; atavism, I suppose; my familywere not always peasants. "

Turning from the old Latin inscription he viewed the church, soevocative in its fortress form of an earlier and more romanticcentury. The clocks were striking one, two hours would bring the dawnclose again upon the verge of the world. Mike trembled and thoughthow he might escape. The beauty of the cone of the church wasoutlined upon the sky, and he dreamed, as he walked round theshadow-filled porch, full of figures in prayer and figures holdingscrolls, of the white-robed knights, their red crosses, their longswords, and their banner called Beauseant. He dreamed himself GrandMaster of the Order; saw himself in chain armour charging theSaracen. The story of the terrible idol with the golden eyes, thesecret rites, the knight led from the penitential cell and buried atdaybreak, the execution of the Grand Master at the stake, turned inhis head fitfully; cloud-shapes that passed, floating, changingincessantly, suddenly disappearing, leaving him again Mike Fletcher, a strained, agonized soul of our time, haunted and hunted by an idea, overpowered by an idea as a wolf by a hound. 

His life had been from the first a series of attempts to escape fromthe idea. His loves, his poetry, his restlessness were all derivativefrom this one idea. Among those whose brain plays a part in theirexistence there is a life idea, and this idea governs them and leadsthem to a certain and predestined end; and all struggles with it aredelusions. A life idea in the higher classes of mind, a life instinctin the lower. It were almost idle to differentiate between them, bothmay be included under the generic title of the soul, and the dramainvolved in such conflict is always of the highest interest, for ifwe do not read the story of our own soul, we read in each the storyof a soul that might have been ours, and that passed very near to us;and who reading of Mike's torment is fortunate enough to say, "I knownothing of what is written there. "

His steps echoed hollow on the old pavement. Full of shadow the roofsof the square church swept across the sky; the triple lancet windowscaught a little light from the gaslight on the buildings; and hewondered what was the meaning of the little gold lamb standing overone doorway, and then remembered that in various forms the samesymbolic lamb is repeated through the Temple. He passed under thedining-hall by the tunnel, and roamed through the spaces beneath theplane-trees of King's Bench Walk. "My friends think my life was aperfect gift, but a burning cinder was placed in my breast, and timehas blown it into flame. "

In the soporific scent of the lilies and the stocks, the nightdrowsed in the darkness of the garden; Mike unlocked the gate andpassed into the shadows, and hypnotized by the heavenly spaces, inwhich there were a few stars; by the earth and the many emanations ofthe earth; by the darkness which covered all things, hiding thelittle miseries of human existence, he threw himself upon the swardcrying, "Oh, take me, mother, hide me in thy infinite bosom, give meforgetfulness of the day. Take and hide me away. We leave behind acorpse that men will touch. Sooner would I give myself to the filthybeaks of vultures, than to their more defiling sympathies. Why werewe born? Why are we taught to love our parents? It is they whom weshould hate, for it was they who, careless of our sufferings, inflicted upon us the evil of life. We are taught to love thembecause the world is mad; there is nothing but madness in the world. Night, do not leave me; I cannot bear with the day. Ah, the day willcome; nothing can retard the coming of the day, and I can bear nolonger with the day. "

Hearing footsteps, he sprang to his feet, and walking in thedirection whence the sound came, he found himself face to face withthe policeman. 

"Not able to get to sleep sir?"

"No, I couldn't sleep, the night is so hot; I shall sleep presentlythough. "

They had not walked far before the officer, pointing to one of thegables of the Temple gardens, said--

"That's where Mr. Williamson threw himself over, sir; he got out onthe roof, on to the highest point he could reach. "

"He wanted, " said Mike, "to do the job effectually. "

"He did so; he made a hole two feet deep. "

"They put him into a deeper one. "

The officer laughed; and they walked round the gardens, passing bythe Embankment to King's Bench Walk. Opening the gate there, thepoliceman asked Mike if he were coming out, but he said he wouldreturn across the gardens, and let himself out by the opposite gate. He walked, thinking of what he and the policeman had been saying--theproposed reduction in the rents of the chambers, the late innovationof throwing open the gardens to the poor children of theneighbourhood, and it was not until he stooped to unlock the gatethat he remembered that he was alive. 

Then the voice that had been counselling him so long, drew strangelynear, and said "Die. " The voice sounded strangely clear in the voidof a great brain silence. Earth ties seemed severed, and then quitenaturally, without any effort of mind, he went up-stairs to shoothimself. No effort of mind was needed, it seemed the natural andinevitable course for him to take, and he was only conscious of acertain faint surprise that he had so long delayed. There was notrace of fear or doubt in him; he walked up the long staircasewithout embarrassment, and in a heavenly calm of mind hastened to puthis project into execution, dreading the passing of the happiness ofhis present mood, and the return of the fever of living. He stoppedfor a moment to see himself in the glass, and looking into the depthsof his eyes, he strove to read there the story of his triumph overlife. Then seeing the disorder of his dress, and the untidyappearance of his unshaven chin, he smiled, conceiving in that momentthat it would be consistent to make as careful a toilette to meetdeath, as he had often done to meet a love. 

He was anxious for the world to know that it was not after a drunkenbout he had shot himself, but after philosophic deliberation andjudicious reflection. And he could far better affirm his state ofmind by his dress, than by any written words. Lying on the bed, cleanly shaved, wearing evening clothes, silk socks, patent leathershoes and white gloves? No, that would be vulgar, and all taint ofvulgarity must be avoided. He must represent, even in a state ofsymbol, the young man, who having drunk of life to repletion, andfinding that he can but repeat the same love draughts, says: "It isfar too great a bore, I will go, " and he goes out of life just asif he were leaving a fashionable _soirée_ in Piccadilly. That wasexactly the impression he wished to convey. Yes, he would have outhis opera hat and light overcoat. He was a little uncertain whetherhe should die in the night, or wait for the day, and considering thequestion, he lathered his face. "Curious it is, " he thought, "I neverwas so happy, so joyous in life before.... These walls, all that Isee, will in a few minutes disappear; it is this I, this Ego, whichcreates them; in destroying myself I destroy the world.... How hardthis beard is! I never can shave properly without hot water!"

As he pulled on a pair of silk socks and tied his white necktie hethought of Lady Helen. Going to bed was not a bad notion--particularlyfor a woman, and a woman in love, but it would be ridiculous for aman. He looked at himself again in the long glass in the door of hiscarved mahogany wardrobe, and was pleased to see that, although alittle jaded and worn, he was still handsome. Having brushed his haircarefully, he looked out the revolver; he did not remember exactlywhere he had put it, and in turning out his drawers he came upon abundle of old letters. They were mostly from Frank and Lizzie, and inrecalling old times they reminded him that if he died without makinga will, his property would go to the Crown. It displeased him tothink that his property should pass away in so impersonal a manner. But his mind was now full of death; like a gourmet he longed to tasteof the dark fruit of oblivion; and the delay involved in making outa will exasperated him, and it was with difficulty that he conqueredhis selfishness and sat down to write. Fretful he threw aside thepen; this little delay had destroyed all his happiness. To dispose ofhis property in money and land would take some time; the day wouldsurprise him still in the world. After a few moments' reflection hedecided that he would leave Belthorpe Park to Frank Escott. 

"I dare say I'm doing him an injury ... But no, there's no time forparadoxes--I'll leave Belthorpe Park to Frank Escott. The aristocratshall not return to the people. But to whom shall I leave all mymoney in the funds? To a hospital? No. To a woman? I must leave it toa woman; I hardly know any one but women; but to whom? Suppose I wereto leave it to be divided among those who could advance irrefutableproof that they had loved me! What a throwing over of reputationthere would be. " Then a sudden memory of the girl by whom he had hada child sprang upon him like something out of the dark. He wonderedfor a moment what the child was like, and then he wrote leaving theinterest of his money to her, until his son, the child born in sucha year--he had some difficulty in fixing the date--came of age. Sheshould retain the use of the interest of twelve thousand pounds, andat her death that sum should revert to the said child born in ----, and if the said child were not living, his mother should becomepossessor of the entire monies now invested in funds, to do with asshe pleased. 

"That will do, " he thought; "I dare say it isn't very legal, but itis common sense and will be difficult to upset. Yes, and I will leaveall my books and furniture in Temple Gardens to Frank; I don't caremuch about the fellow, but I had better leave it to him. And now, what about witnesses? The policemen will do. "

He found one in King's Bench Walk, another he met a little furtheron, talking to a belated harlot, whom he willingly relinquished onbeing invited to drink. Mike led the way at a run up the high steps, the burly officers followed more leisurely. 

"Come in, " he cried, and they advanced into the room, their helmetsin their hands. "What will you take, whiskey or brandy?"

After some indecision both decided, as Mike knew they would, for theformer beverage. He offered them soda-water; but they preferred alittle plain water, and drank to his very good health. They were, asbefore, garrulous to excess. Mike listened for some few minutes, soas to avoid suspicion, and then said--

"Oh, by the way, I wrote out my will a night or two ago--not that Iwant to die yet, but one never knows. Would you mind witnessing it?"

The policemen saw no objection; in a few moments the thing was done, and they retired bowing, and the door closed on solitude and death. 

Mike lay back in his chair reading the document. The fumes of thewhiskey he had drunk obscured his sense of purpose, and he allowedhis thoughts to wander; his eyes closed and he dozed, his head leaneda little on one side. He dreamed, or rather he thought, for it washardly sleep, of the dear good women who had loved him; and he musedover his folly in not taking one to wife and accepting life in itsplain naturalness. 

Then as sleep deepened the dream changed, becoming hyperbolical andfantastic, until he saw himself descending into hell. The numerouswomen he had betrayed awaited him and pursued him with blazing lampsof intense and blinding electric fire. And he fled from the light, seeking darkness like some nocturnal animal. His head was leanedslightly on one side, the thin, weary face lying in the shadow of thechair, and the hair that fell thickly on the moist forehead. As hedreamed the sky grew ghastly as the dead. The night crouched as if interror along the edges of the river, beneath the bridges and amongthe masonry and the barges aground, and in the ebbing water a luridreflection trailed ominously. And as the day ascended, the lampsdwindled from red to white, and beyond the dark night of the river, spires appeared upon faint roseate gray. 

Then, as the sparrows commenced their shrilling in the garden, another veil was lifted, and angles and shapes on the warehousesappeared, and boats laden with newly-cut planks; then the lights thatseemed to lead along the river turned short over the iron girders, and in white whiffs a train sped across the bridge. The clouds liftedand cleared away, changing from dark gray to undecided purple, and inthe blank silver of the east, the spaces flushed, and the dawnappeared in her first veil of rose. And as if the light hadpenetrated and moved the brain, the lips murmured--

"False fascination in which we are blinded. Night! shelter and saveme from the day, and in thy opiate arms bear me across the world. "

He turned uneasily as if he were about to awake, and then his eyesopened and he gazed on the spectral pallor of the dawn in thewindows, his brain rousing from dreams slowly into comprehension ofthe change that had come. Then collecting his thoughts he rose andstood facing the dawn. He stood for a moment like one in combat, andthen like one overwhelmed retreated through the folding doors, seeking his pistol. 

"Another day begun! Twelve more hours of consciousness and horror! Imust go!"

 * * * * * *

None had heard the report of the pistol, and while the pomp of goldand crimson faded, and the sun rose into the blueness of morning, Mike lay still grasping the revolver, the blood flowing down hisface, where he had fallen across the low bed, raised upon lions'claws and hung with heavy curtains. Receiving no answer, the servanthad opened the door. A look of horror passed over her face; shelifted his hand, let it fall, and burst into tears. 

And all the while the sun rose, bringing work and sorrow to everyliving thing--filling the fields with labourers, filling the streetswith clerks and journalists, authors and actors. And it was in themorning hubbub of the Strand that Lizzie Escott stopped to speak toLottie, who was going to rehearsal. 

"How exactly like his father he is growing, " she said, speaking ofthe little boy by the actress's side. "Frank saw Mike in Piccadillyabout a month ago; he promised to come and see us, but he never did. "

"Swine.... He never could keep a promise. I hope Willy won't grow uplike him. "

"Who are you talking of, mother? of father?"

The women exchanged glances. 

"He's as sharp as a needle. And to think that that beast never gaveme but one hundred pounds, and it was only an accident I got that--wehappened to meet in the underground railway. He took a ticket forme--you know he could always be very nice if he liked; he told me alady had left him five thousand a year, and if I wanted any money Ihad only to ask him for it. I asked him if he wouldn't like to seethe child, and he said I mustn't be beastly; I never quite knew whathe meant; but I know he thought it funny, for he laughed a greatdeal, and I got into such a rage. I said I didn't want his dirtymoney, and got out at the next station. He sent me a hundred poundsnext day. I haven't heard of him since, and don't want to. "

"Suicide of a poet in the Temple!" shouted a little boy. 

"I wonder who that is, " said Lizzie. 

"Mike used to live in the Temple, " said Lottie. 

The women read the reporter's account of the event, and then Lottiesaid--

"Isn't it awful! I wonder what he has done with his money?"

"You may be sure he hasn't thought of us. He ought to have thought ofFrank. Frank was very good to him in old times. "

"Well, I don't care what he has done with his money. I never caredfor any man but him. I could have forgiven him everything if he hadonly thought of the child. I hope he has left him something. "

"Now I'm sure you are talking of father. "