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diff --git a/41139-0.txt b/41139-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cba81f1 --- /dev/null +++ b/41139-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15250 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41139 *** + +Note: Images of the original pages are available through + the the Google Books Library Project. See + http://www.google.com/books?id=w7IWAAAAYAAJ + + + + + +THE DRUNKARD + + +BY + +GUY THORNE + +AUTHOR OF "WHEN IT WAS DARK," "FIRST IT WAS +ORDAINED," "MADE IN HIS IMAGE," ETC., ETC. + + +New York +STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY +1912 + +COPYRIGHT, 1911 +BY +STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY + +Published January, 1912 + + + + +Transcriber's Note: Inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and +hyphenation have been retained as printed. The cover of this ebook was +created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. + + + + +DEDICATION + +TO LOUIS TRACY, ESQUIRE + + +_My Dear Louis_: + +It is more than a year ago now that I asked you to accept the +dedication of this story. It was on an evening when I was staying with +you at your Yorkshire house and we had just come in from shooting. + +But I discussed the tale with you long before that. It was either--as +well as I can remember--at my place in the Isle of Wight, or when we +were all together in the Italian Alps. I like to think that it was at +that time I first asked your opinion and advice about this book upon +which I have laboured so long. + +One night comes back to me very vividly--yes, that surely was the +night. Dinner was over. We were sitting in front of the brilliantly lit +hotel with coffee and cigarettes. You had met all my kind Italian +friends. Our wives were sitting together at one little table with +Signora Maerdi and Madame Riva Monico--to whom be greeting! My father +was at ours, and happy as a boy for all his white beard and skull-cap +of black velvet. + +Your son, Dick, was dancing with the Italian girls in the bright salon +behind us, and the piano music tinkled out into the hot night. The +Alpine woods of ilex and pine rose up in the moonlight to where the +snow-capped mountains of St. Gothard hung glistening silver-green. + +I ask you to take this book as a memorial of a happy, uninterrupted and +dignified friendship, not less valuable and gracious because your wife +and mine are friends also. + +_Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico!_ + +Yours ever sincerely, + +GUY THORNE. + + + + +FOREWORD + + +The sixth chapter in the third book of this story can hardly be called +fiction. The notes upon which it is founded were placed in my +possession by a brilliant man of letters some short time before he +died. Serious students of the psychology of the Inebriate may use the +document certain that it is genuine. + +I have to acknowledge my indebtedness to the illuminating study in +heredity of Dr. Archdall Reed, M.B., C.M., F.R.S.E. His book +"Alcoholism" ought to be read by every temperance reformer in Europe +and America. + +"The Drink Problem," a book published by Messrs. Methuen and written in +concert by the greatest experts on the subject of Inebriety, has been +most helpful. I have not needed technical help to make my story, but I +have found that it gives ample corroboration of protracted +investigation and study. + +My thanks are due to Mr. John Theodore Tussaud for assistance in the +writing of chapter four, book three. + +Lastly, I should be ungrateful indeed, if I did not put down my sincere +thanks to my secretary Miss Ethel Paczensky for all she has done for me +during the making of this tale. The mere careful typewriting, revision +and arrangement of a long story which is to be published in America and +Europe, requires considerable skill. The fact that the loyal help and +sympathy of a young and acute mind have been so devotedly at my +service, merits more thanks and acknowledgment than can be easily +conveyed in a foreword. + +G. T. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +PROLOGUE + + PAGE + +PART I A BOOK OF POEMS ARRIVES FOR DR. MORTON SIMS 3 + +PART II THE MURDERER 14 + + +BOOK ONE + +LOTHIAN IN LONDON + +CHAPTER + + I UNDER THE WAGGON-ROOF. A DINNER IN BRYANSTONE SQUARE 37 + + II GRAVELY UNFORTUNATE OCCURRENCE IN MRS. AMBERLEY'S DRAWING + ROOM 58 + + III SHAME IN "THE ROARING GALLANT TOWN" 76 + + IV LOTHIAN GOES TO THE LIBRARY OF PURE LITERATURE 103 + + V "FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE WAS GOING TO HAVE A GIRL FRIEND" 121 + + +BOOK TWO + +LOTHIAN IN NORFOLK + + I VIGNETTE OF EARLY MORNING. "GILBERT IS COMING HOME!" 145 + + II AN EXHIBITION OF DOCTOR MORTON SIMS AND DOCTOR MEDLEY, + WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HOW LOTHIAN RETURNED TO MORTLAND + ROYAL 165 + + III PSYCHOLOGY OF THE INEBRIATE, AND THE LETTER OF JEWELLED + WORDS 204 + + IV DICKSON INGWORTH UNDER THE MICROSCOPE 237 + + V A QUARREL IN THE "MOST SELECT LOUNGE IN THE COUNTY" 246 + + VI AN _OMNES_ EXEUNT FROM MORTLAND ROYAL 269 + + +BOOK THREE + +FRUIT OF THE DEAD SEA + + I THE GIRLS IN THE FOURTH STORY FLAT 283 + + II OVER THE RUBICON 295 + + III THIRST 318 + + IV THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS 330 + + V THE NIGHT JOURNEY FROM NICE WHEN MRS. DALY SPEAKS WORDS + OF FIRE 353 + + VI GILBERT LOTHIAN'S DIARY 367 + + VII INGWORTH REDUX: TOFTREES COMPLACENS 394 + +VIII THE AMNESIC DREAM-PHASE 409 + + IX A STARTLING EXPERIENCE FOR "WOG" 436 + + +EPILOGUE + +A YEAR LATER + +WHAT OCCURRED AT THE EDWARD HALL IN KINGSWAY 453 + + + + +PROLOGUE + + +PART I + +A BOOK OF POEMS ARRIVES FOR DR. MORTON SIMS + + "How many bards gild the lapses of time + A few of them have ever been the food + Of my delighted fancy." + + --_Keats._ + + +The rain came down through the London fog like ribands of lead as the +butler entered the library with tea, and pulling the heavy curtains +shut out the picture of the sombre winter's afternoon. + +The man poked the fire into a blaze, switched on the electric lights, +and putting a late edition of the _Westminster Gazette_ upon the table, +left the room. + +For five minutes the library remained empty. The fire crackled and +threw a glancing light upon the green and gold of the book shelves or +sent changing expressions over the faces of the portraits. The ghostly +blue flame which burnt under a brass kettle on the tea table sang like +a mosquito, and from the square outside came the patter of rain, the +drone of passing taxi-cabs, and the occasional beat of horses' hoofs +which made an odd flute-like noise upon the wet wood pavement. + +Then the door opened and Dr. Morton Sims, the leading authority in +England upon Inebriety, entered his study. + +The doctor was a slim man of medium height. His moustache and pointed +beard were grey and the hair was thinning upon his high forehead. His +movements were quick and alert without suggesting nervousness or hurry, +and a steady flame burned in brown eyes which were the most remarkable +feature of his face. + +The doctor drew up a chair to the fire and made himself a cup of weak +tea, pouring a little lime-juice into it instead of milk. As he sipped +he gazed into the pink and amethyst heart of the fire. His eyes were +abstracted--turned inwards upon himself so to speak--and the +constriction of thought drew grey threads across his brow. + +After about ten minutes, and when he had finished his single cup of +tea, Dr. Morton Sims opened the evening paper and glanced rapidly up +and down the broad, well-printed columns. + +His eye fell upon a small paragraph at the bottom of the second +news-sheet which ran thus:-- + + "Hancock, the Hackney murderer, is to be executed to-morrow morning + in The North London Prison at eight o'clock. It is understood that + he has refused the ministrations of the Prison Chaplain and seems + indifferent to his fate." + +The paper dropped from the doctor's hands and he sighed. The paragraph +might or might not be accurate--that remained to be seen--but it +suggested a curious train of thought to his mind. The man who was to +be hanged in a few hours had committed a murder marked by every +circumstance of callousness and cunning. The facts were so sinister and +cold that the horrible case had excited no sympathy whatever. Even the +silly faddists who generally make fools of themselves on such an +occasion in England had organised no petition for reprieve. + +Morton Sims was one of those rare souls whose charity of mind, as well +as of action, was great. He always tried to take the other side, to +combat and resist the verdict passed by the world upon the unhappy and +discredited. + +But in the case of this murderer even he could have had no sympathy, if +he had not known and understood something about the man which no one in +the country understood, and only a few people would have been capable +of realising if they had been enlightened. + +It was his life-work to understand why deeds like this were done. + +A clock upon the high mantel of polished oak struck five. + +The doctor rose from his chair and stretched himself, and as he did +this the wrinkles faded from his forehead, while his eyes ceased to be +clouded by abstraction. + +Morton Sims, in common with many successful men, had entire control +over his own mind. He perfectly understood the structure and the +working of the machine that secretes thought. In his mental context +correct muscular co-ordination, with due action of the reflexes, +enabled him to put aside a subject with the precision of a man closing +a cupboard door. + +His mind was divided into thought-tight compartments. + +It was so now. He wished to think of the murderer in North London +Prison no more at the moment, and immediately the subject passed away +from him. + +At that moment the butler re-entered with some letters and a small +parcel upon a tray. + +"The five o'clock post, sir," he said, putting the letters down upon +the table. + +"Oh, very well, Proctor," the doctor answered. "Is everything arranged +for Miss Sims and Mrs. Daly?" + +"Yes, sir. Fires are lit in both the bedrooms, and dinner is for +half-past six. The boat train from Liverpool gets in to Euston at a +quarter to. The brougham will be at the station in good time. They will +have a cold journey I expect, sir." + +"No, I don't think so, Proctor. The Liverpool boat-trains are most +comfortable and they will have had tea. Very well, then." + +The butler went away. Morton Sims looked at the clock. It was ten +minutes past five. His sister and her friend, who had arrived at +Liverpool from New York a few hours ago would not arrive in London +before six. + +He looked at the four or five letters on the tray but did not open any +of them. The label upon the parcel bore handwriting that he knew. He +cut the string and opened that, taking from it a book bound in light +green and a letter. + +Both were from his great friend Bishop Moultrie, late of Simla and now +rector of Great Petherwick in Norfolk, Canon of Norwich, and a sort of +unofficial second suffragan in that enormous diocese. + + "My dear John," ran the letter, "Here is the book that I was + telling you of at the Athenæum last week. You may keep this copy, + and I have put your name in it. The author, Gilbert Lothian, lives + near me in Norfolk. I know him a little and he has presented me + with another copy himself. + + You won't agree with some of the thoughts, one or two of the poems + you may even dislike. But on the whole you will be as pleased and + interested as I am and you will recognise a genuine new + inspiration--such a phenomenon now-a-days. Such verse must leave + every reader with a quickened sense of the beauty and compass of + human feeling, to say nothing of its special appeal to Xn thinkers. + Some of it is like George Herbert made musical. Lothian is Crashaw + born again, but born greater--sometimes a Crashaw who has been + listening to some one playing Chopin! + + But read for yourself. + + Give my regards to your sister when she returns. I hear from many + sources of the great mark her speeches have made at the American + Congress and I am anxiously hoping to meet Mrs. Daly during her + stay over here. She must be a splendid woman! + + Helena sends all kind remembrances and hopes to see you here soon. + + Yours affectionately, + + W. D. MOULTRIE." + +Three quarters of an hour were at his disposal. Morton Sims took up the +book, which bore the title "SURGIT AMARI" upon the cover, and began to +read. + +Like many other members of his profession he was something of a man of +letters. For him the life-long pursuit of science had been humanised +and sweetened by art. Ever since his days at Harrow with his friend, +the Bishop, he had loved books. + +He read very slowly the longish opening poem only, applying delicate +critical tests to every word; analytic and scientific still in the +temper of his mind, and distrusting the mere sensuous impression of a +first glance. + +This new man, this Gilbert Lothian, would be great. He would make his +way by charm, the charm of voice, of jewel-like language, above all by +the intellectual charm of new, moving, luminous ideas. + +At three minutes to six the doctor closed the book and waited. Almost +as the clock struck the hour, he heard his motor-brougham stop outside +the house, and hurrying out into the hall had opened the door before +the butler could reach it. + +Two tall women in furs came into the hall. + +The brother and sister kissed each other quietly, but their embrace was +a long one and there was something that vibrated deep down in the +voices of their greeting. Then Miss Morton Sims turned to the other +lady. "Forgive me, Julia," she said, in her clear bell-like voice--in +America they had said that her voice "tolled upon the ear"--"But I +haven't seen him for five months. John, here is Julia Daly at last!" + +The doctor took his guest's hand. His face was bright and eager as he +looked at the American woman. She was tall, dressed with a kind of +sumptuous good taste, and the face under its masses of grey hair shone +with a Minerva-like wisdom and serenity. + +"Welcome," the doctor said simply. "We have been friends so long, we +have corresponded so often, it is a great joy to me to meet you at +last!" + +The three people entered the library for a moment, exchanging the happy +commonplaces of greeting, and then the two women went up to their +rooms. + +"Dinner at half past six," the doctor called after them. "I knew you'd +want it. We can have a long talk then. At eight I have to go out upon +an important errand." + +He stood in front of the library fire, thinking about the new arrivals +and smoking a cigarette. + +His sister Edith had always lived with him, had shared his hopes, his +theories and his work. He was the great scientist slowly getting deep +down, discovering the laws which govern the vital question of +Alcoholism. She was the popular voice, one of the famous women leaders +of the Temperance movement, the most lucid, the least emotional of them +all. Her name was familiar to every one in England. Her brother gave +her the weapons with which she fought. His theories upon Temperance +Reform were quite opposed to the majority of those held by earnest +workers in the same field, but he and his sister were beginning to form +a strong party of influential people who thought with them. Mrs. Daly +was, in America, very much what Edith Morton Sims was in Great +Britain--perhaps even more widely known. Apart from her propaganda she +was one of the few great women orators living, and in her case also, +inspiration came from the English doctor, while she was making his +beliefs and schemes widely known in the United States. + +As he waited in the library, the doctor thought that probably no man +had ever had such noble helpers as these two women to whom such great +gifts had been given. His heart was very full of love for his sister +that night, of gratitude and admiration for the stately lady who had +come to be his guest and whom he now met in the flesh for the first +time. + + +For the first part of dinner the ladies were very full of their recent +campaign in America. + +There was an infinity of news to tell, experiences and impressions must +be recorded, progress reported. The eager sparkling talk of the two +women was delightful to the doctor, and he was especially pleased with +the conversation of Mrs. Daly. Every word she spoke fell with the right +ring and chimed, he seemed to have known her for years--as indeed he +had done, through the medium of her letters. + +Conversation, which with people like these is a sort of music, +resembles the progress of harmonics in this also--that a lull arrives +with mathematical incidence when a certain stage is reached in the +progress of a theme. + +It happened so now, at a certain stage of dinner. There was much more +to be said, but all three people had reached a momentary pause. + +The butler came into the room just then, with a letter. "This has just +come by messenger from North London Prison, sir," he said, unable to +repress a faint gleam of curiosity in his eyes. + +With a gesture of apology, the doctor opened the envelope. "Very well," +he said, in a moment or two. "I need not write an answer. But go to the +library, Proctor, and ring up the North London Prison. Say Doctor +Morton Sims' thanks and he will be there punctually at half past +eight." + +The servant withdrew and both the ladies looked inquiringly at the +doctor. + +"It is a dreadful thing," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "but I +may as well tell you. It must go no further though. A wretched man is +to be executed to-morrow and I have to go and see him." + +Edith shuddered. + +"How frightful," she said, growing rather pale; "but why, John? How +does it concern you? Are you forced to go?" + +He nodded. "I must go," he said, "though it is the most painful thing I +have ever had to do. It is Hancock, the Hackney murderer." + +Two startled faces were turned to him now, and a new atmosphere +suddenly seemed to have come into the warm luxurious room, something +that was cold, something that had entered from outside. + +"You don't know," he went on. "Of course you have been out of England +for some months. Well, it is this. Hancock is a youngish man of five +and twenty. He was a chemist at Hackney, and of quite exceptional +intelligence. He was at one time an assistant at Williamsons' in Oxford +Street, where some of my prescriptions are made up and where I buy +drugs for experimental purposes. I took rather an interest in him +several years ago. He passed all his examinations with credit and +became engaged to a really charming young woman, who was employed in a +big ladies' shop in Regent Street. He wanted to set up in business for +himself, very naturally, and I helped him with a money loan. He married +the girl, bought a business at Hackney, and became prosperous enough in +a moderate sort of way. He paid me back the hundred pounds I lent him +and from time to time I heard that things were going on very well. He +was respected in the district, and his wife especially was liked. She +was a good and religious woman and did a lot of work for a local +church. They appeared to be a most devoted couple." + +The doctor stopped in his story and glanced at the set faces turned +towards him. He poured some water into a tumbler and drank it. + +"Oh, it's a hideous story," he said, with some emotion and marked +distaste in his voice. "I won't go into the details. Hancock poisoned +his wife with the most calculating and wicked cunning. He had become +enamoured of a girl in the neighbourhood and he wanted to get rid of +his wife in order to marry her. His wife adored him. She had been a +perfect wife to him, but it made no difference. The thing was +discovered, as such things nearly always are, he was condemned to death +and will be hanged to-morrow morning at breakfast time." + +"And you are going to see him _to-night_, John?" + +"Yes. It is my duty. I owe it to my work, and to the wretched man too. +I was present at the trial. From the first I realised that there must +have been some definite toxic influence at work on the man's mind to +change him from an intelligent and well-meaning member of society into +a ghastly monster of crime. I was quite right. It was alcohol. He had +been secretly drinking for years, though, as strong-minded and cunning +inebriates do, he had managed to preserve appearances. As you know, +Edith, the Home Secretary is a friend of mine and interested in our +work. Hancock has expressed a wish to see me, to give me some definite +information about himself which will be of great use in my researches +into the psychology of alcoholism. With me, the Home Secretary realises +the value of such an opportunity, and as it is the convict's earnest +wish, I am given the fullest facilities for to-night. Of course the +matter is one of absolute privacy. There would be an outcry among the +sentimental section of the public if it were known. But it is my clear +duty to go." + +There was a dead silence in the room. Mrs. Daly played uneasily with +her napkin ring. Suddenly it escaped her nervous fingers and rolled up +against a tumbler with a loud ringing sound. She started and seemed to +awake from a bitter dream. + +"Again!" she said in a low voice that throbbed with pain. "At all +hours, in all places, we meet it! The scourge of humanity, the Fiend +Alcohol! The curse of the world!--how long, how long?" + + + + +PART II + +THE MURDERER + + "Ma femme est morte, je suis libre! + Je puis donc boire tout mon soûl. + Lorsque je rentrais sans un sou, + Ses cris me déchiraient la fibre." + + --_Baudelaire._ + + +The rain had ceased but the night was bitter cold, as Dr. Morton Sims' +motor went from his house in Russell Square towards the North London +Prison. + +A pall of fog hung a few hundred feet above London. The brilliant +artificial lights of the streets glowed with a hard and rather ghastly +radiance. As the car rolled down this and that roaring thoroughfare, +the people in it seemed to Morton Sims to be walking like marionettes. +The driver in front moved mechanically like a clockwork puppet, the +town seemed fantastic and unreal to-night. + +A heavy depression weighed upon the doctor's senses. His heart beat +slowly. Some other artery within him was throbbing like a funeral drum. + +It had come upon him suddenly as he left the house. He had never, in +all his life, known anything like it before. Perhaps the mournful words +of the American woman had been the cause. Her deep contralto voice +tolled in his ears still. Some white cell in the brain was affected, +the nerves of his body were in revolt. The depression grew deeper and +deeper. A nameless malady of the soul was upon him, he had a sick +horror of his task. The hands in his fur gloves grew wet and there was +a salt taste in his mouth. + +The car left ways that were familiar. Presently it turned into a street +of long houses. The street rose steeply before, and was outlined by a +long, double row of gas-lamps, stretching away to a point. It was quite +silent, and the note of the car's engine sank a full tone as the ascent +began. + +Through the window in front, and to the left of the chauffeur, the +doctor could see the lamps running past him, and suddenly he became +aware of a vast blackness, darker than the houses, deeper than the sky, +coming to meet him. Incredibly huge and sinister, a precipice, a +mountain of stone, a nightmare castle whose grim towers were lost in +night, closed the long road and barred all progress onward. + +It was the North London Prison, hideous by day, frightful by night, the +frontier citadel of a land of Death and gloom and shadows. + +The doctor left his car and told the man to return in an hour and wait +for him. + +He stood before a high arched gateway. In this gateway was a door +studded with sexagonal bosses of iron. Above the door was a gas-lamp. +Hanging to the side of this door was an iron rod terminating in a +handle of brass. This was the bell. + +A sombre silence hung over everything. The roar of London seemed like a +sound heard in a vision. A thin night wind sighed like a ghost in the +doctor's ear as he stood before the ultimate reality of life, a reality +surpassing the reality of dreams. + +He stretched out his arm and pulled the bell. + +The smooth and sudden noise of oiled steel bars sliding in their +grooves was heard, and then a gentle "thud" as they came to rest. A +small wicket door in the great ones opened. A huge sombre figure filled +it and there was a little musical jingle of keys. + +The visitor's voice was muffled as he spoke. In his own ears it sounded +strange. + +"I am Dr. Morton Sims," he said. "I have a special permit from the Home +Secretary for an interview with the convict Hancock." + +The figure moved aside. The doctor stepped in through the narrow +doorway. There was a sharp click, a jingle of keys, the thud of the +steel bars as they went home and a final snap, three times +repeated--snap--snap--snap. + +A huge, bull-necked man in a dark uniform and a peaked cap, stood close +to the doctor--strangely close, he thought with a vague feeling of +discomfort. From an open doorway set in a stone wall, orange-coloured +light was pouring from a lit interior. Framed in the light were two +other dark figures in uniform. + +Morton Sims stood immediately under the gate tower of the prison. A +lamp hung from the high groined roof. Beyond was another iron-studded +door, and on either side of this entrance hall were lit windows. + +"You are expected, sir," said the giant with the keys. "Step this way +if you please." + +Sims followed the janitor into a bare room, brilliantly illuminated by +gas. At the end near the door a fire of coke and coal was glowing. A +couple of warders, youngish military-looking men, with bristling +moustaches, were sitting on wooden chairs by the fire and reading +papers. They rose and saluted as the doctor came in. + +At the other end of the room, an elderly man, clean shaved save for +short side whiskers which were turning grey, was sitting at a table on +which were writing materials and some books which looked like ledgers. + +"Good-evening, sir," he said, deferentially, as Doctor Sims was taken +up to him. "You have your letter I suppose?" + +Sims handed it to him, and pulling on a pair of spectacles the man read +it carefully. "I shall have to keep this, sir," he said, putting it +under a paper-weight. "My orders are to send you to the Medical Officer +at once. He will take you to the condemned cell and do all that is +necessary. The Governor sends his compliments and if you should wish to +see him after your interview he will be at your service." + +"I don't think I shall want to trouble Colonel Wilde, thank you," said +the doctor. + +"Very good, sir. Of course you can change your mind if you wish, +afterwards. But the Governor's time is certainly very much taken up. It +always is on the night before an execution. Jones, take this gentleman +to the Medical Officer." + +Again the cold air, as Morton Sims left the room with one of the +warders. Again the sound of sliding bars and jingling keys, the soft +closing of heavy doors. Then a bare, whitewashed hall, with a long +counter like that of a cloak-room at a railway station, a weighing +machine, gaunt anthropometrical instruments standing against the walls, +and iron doors on every side--all seen under the dim light of gas-jets +half turned down. + +"The reception room, sir," said the warder, in a quiet voice, unlocking +one of the doors, and showing a long corridor, much better lighted, +stretching away for a considerable distance. The man stepped through +with the noiseless footfall of a cat. The doctor followed him, and as +he did so his boots echoed upon the stone floor. The noise was +startling in this place of silence, and for the first time Sims +realised that his guide was wearing shoes soled with felt. + +They went down the corridor, the warder's feet making a soft padding +sound, the steel chain that hung in a loop from his belt of black +leather shining in the gas light. Almost at the end of the passage they +came to a door--an ordinary varnished door with a brass handle--at +which the man rapped. + +"Come in," cried a voice. + +The warder held the door open. "The gentleman to see Hancock, sir," he +said. + +The chief prison doctor, a youngish-looking, clean-shaved man, rose +from his chair. "Wait in the passage till I call you," he said. +"How-do-you-do, Dr. Morton Sims. We had your telephone message some +time ago. You are very punctual! Do sit down for a minute." + +Sims sank into an armchair, with a little involuntary sigh of relief. +The room in which he found himself was comfortable and ordinary. A +carpet was on the floor, a bright fire burned upon the hearth, there +was a leather-covered writing table with books and a stethoscope upon +it. The place was normal. + +"My name is Marriott, of 'Barts'," said the medical officer. "Do take +off your coat, sir, that fur must be frightfully hot in here and you +won't need it until you leave the prison again." + +"Thank you, I will," Sims answered, and already his voice had regained +its usual calmness, his eyes their steady glow. Anticipation was over, +the deep depression was passing away. There was work to be done and his +nerves responded to the call upon them. "There is no hitch, I suppose?" + +"None whatever. Hancock is waiting for you, and anxious to see you." + +"It will be very painful," Sims answered in a thoughtful voice, looking +at the fire. "I knew the man in his younger days, poor, wretched +creature. Is he resigned?" + +"I think so. We've done all we could for him; we always do. As far as I +can judge, and I have been present at nine executions, he will die +quite calmly. 'I shall be glad when it's over,' he said to me this +morning." + +"And his physical condition?" + +"Just beginning to improve. If I had him here for six months under the +second class regulations--I should not certify him for hard labour--I +could turn him out in fair average health. He's a confirmed alcoholic +subject, of course. It's been a case of ammonium bromide and milk diet +ever since his condemnation. For the first two days I feared delirium +tremens from the shock. But we tided over that. He'll be able to talk +to you all right, sir. He's extremely intelligent, and I should say +that the interview should prove of great value." + +"He has absolutely refused to see the Chaplain? I read so in to-night's +paper." + +"Yes. Some of them do you know. The religious sense isn't developed at +all in him. It will be all the easier for him to-morrow." + +"How so?" + +"So many of them become religious on the edge of the drop simply out of +funk--nervous collapse and a sort of clutching at a chance in the next +world. They often struggle and call out when they're being pinioned. +It's impossible to give them any sort of anæsthetic." + +"Is that done then? I didn't know." + +"It's not talked about, of course, sir. It's quite unofficial and it's +not generally known. But we nearly always give them something if it's +possible, and then they know nothing of what's happening." + +Sims nodded. "The best way," he said sadly, "the lethal chamber would +be better still." + +There was a momentary silence between the two men. The prison doctor +felt instinctively that his distinguished visitor shrank from the +ordeal before him and was bracing himself to go through with it. He was +unwilling to interrupt such a famous member of his profession. It was +an event to meet him, a thing which he would always remember. + +Suddenly Sims rose from his chair. "Now, then," he said with a rather +wan smile, "take me to the poor fellow." + +Dr. Marriott opened the door and made a sign to the waiting warder. + +Together the three men went to the end of the passage. + +Another door was unlocked and they found themselves in a low stone +hall, with a roof of heavily barred ground glass. + +There was a door on each side of the place. + +"That's the execution room," said Dr. Marriott in a whisper, pointing +to one of the doors. "The other's the condemned cell. It's only about +ten steps from one to the other. The convict, of course, never knows +that. But from the time he leaves his cell to the moment of death is +rarely more than forty-five seconds." + +The voice of the prison doctor, though very low in key, was not subdued +by any note of awe. The machinery of Death had no terrors for him. He +spoke in a matter-of-fact way, with an unconscious note of the showman. +The curator of a museum might have shown his treasures thus to an +intelligent observer. For a second of time--so strange are the +operations of the memory cells--another and far distant scene grew +vivid in the mind of Morton Sims. + +Once more he was paying his first visit to Rome, and had been driven +from his hotel upon the Pincio to the nine o'clock Mass at St. Peter's. +A suave guide had accompanied him, and among the curious crowd that +thronged the rails, had told in a complacent whisper of this or that +Monsignore who said or served the Mass. + +Dr. Marriott went to the door opposite to the one he had pointed out as +the death-chamber. + +He moved aside a hanging disc of metal on a level with his eyes, and +peered through a glass-covered spy-hole into the condemned cell. + +After a scrutiny of some seconds, he slid the disc into its place and +rapped softly upon the door. Almost immediately it was opened a foot or +so, silently, as the door of a sick-room is opened by one who watches +within. There was a whispered confabulation, and a warder came out. + +"This gentleman," said the Medical Officer, "as you have already been +informed by the Governor, is to have an interview with the convict +absolutely alone. You, and the man with you, are to sit just outside +the cell and to keep it under continual observation through the glass. +If you think it necessary you are to enter the cell at once. And at the +least gesture of this gentleman you will do so too. But otherwise, Dr. +Morton Sims is to be left alone with the prisoner for an hour. You +quite understand?" + +"Perfectly, sir." + +"You anticipate no trouble?--how is he?" + +"Quiet as a lamb, sir. There's no fear of any trouble with him. He's +cheerful and he's been talking a lot about himself--about his violin +playing mostly, and a week he had in Paris. His hands are twitching a +bit, but less than usual with them." + +"Very well. Jones will remain here and will fetch me at once if I am +wanted. Now take Dr. Morton Sims in." + +The door was opened. A gust of hot air came from within as Morton Sims +hesitated for a moment upon the threshold. + +The warm air, indeed, was upon his face, but once again the chill was +at his heart. Lean and icy fingers seemed to grope about it. + +At the edge of what abysmal precipice, and the end of what sombre +perspective of Fate was he standing? + +From youth upwards he had travelled the goodly highways of life. He had +walked in the clear light, the four winds of heaven had blown upon him. +Sunshine and Tempest, Dawn and Dusk, fair and foul weather had been his +portion in common with the rest of the wayfaring world. + +But now he had strayed from out the bright and strenuous paths of men. +The brave high-road was far, far away. He had entered a strange and +unfamiliar lane. The darkness had deepened. He had come into a marsh of +miasmic mist lit up by pale fires that were not of heaven and where +dreadful presences thronged the purple gloom. + +This was the end of all things. A life of shame closed here--through +that door where a living corpse was waiting for him "pent up in +murderers' hole." + +He felt a kindly and deprecating hand upon his arm. + +"You will find it quite ordinary, really, sir. You needn't hesitate in +the very least"--thus the consoling voice of Marriott. + +Morton Sims walked into the cell. + +Another warder who had been sitting there glided out. The door was +closed. The doctor found himself heartily shaking hands with someone +whom he did not seem to know. + +And here again, as he was to remember exactly two years afterwards, +under circumstances of supreme mental anguish and with a sick +recognition of past experience, his sensation was without precedent. + +Some one, was it not rather _something_? was shaking him warmly by the +hand. A strained voice was greeting him. Yet he felt as if he were +sawing at the arm of a great doll, not a live thing in which blood +still circulated and systole and diastole still kept the soul +co-ordinate and co-incident. + +Then that also went. The precipitate of long control was dropped into +the clouded vessel of thought and it cleared again. The fantastic +imaginings, the natural horror of a kind and sensitive man at being +where he was, passed away. + +The keen scientist stood in the cell now, alert to perform the duty for +which he was there. + +The room was of a fair size. In one corner was a low bed, with a +blanket, sheet and pillow. + +In the centre, a deal table stood. A wooden chair, from which the +convict had just risen, stood by the table, and upon it were a Bible, +some writing materials, and a novel--bound in the dark-green of the +prison library--by "Enid and Herbert Toftrees." + +Hancock wore a drab prison suit, which was grotesquely ill-fitting. He +was of medium height, and about twenty-five years of age. He was fat, +with a broad-shouldered corpulence which would have been less +noticeable in a man who was some inches taller. His face was ordinarily +clean-shaven, but there was now a disfiguring stubble upon it, a three +weeks' growth which even the scissors of the prison-barber had not been +allowed to correct and which gave him a sordid and disgusting aspect. +The face was fattish, but even the bristling hairs, which squirted out +all over the lower part, could not quite disguise a curious suggestion +of contour about it. It should have been a pure oval, one would have +thought, and in the gas-light, as the head moved, it almost seemed to +have that for fugitive instants. It was a contour veiled by a dreadful +something that was, but ought not to have been there. + +The eyes were grey and had a certain capability of expression. It was +now enigmatic and veiled. + +The mouth was by far the most real and significant feature of the face. +In all faces, mouths generally are. The murderer's mouth was small. It +was clearly and definitely cut, with an undefinable hint of breeding in +it which nothing else about the man seemed to warrant. But despite the +approach to beauty which, in another face, it might have had, slyness +and egotism lurked in every curve. + + +. . . "So that's how it first began, Doctor. First one with one, then +one with another. You know!" + +The conversation was in full swing now. + +The doll had come to life--or it was not quite a doll yet and some of +the life that was ebbing from it still remained. + +The voice was low, confidential, horribly "just between you and me." +But it was a pleased voice also, full of an eager and voluble +satisfaction,--the last chance of toxic insanity to explain itself! + +The lurid swan-song of a conceited and poisoned man. + +. . . "Business was going well. There seemed no prospect of a child +just then, so Mary got in with Church work at St. Philip's. That +brought a lot more customers to the shop too. Fancy soaps, scents and +toilette articles and all that. Dr. Mitchell of Hackney, was a +church-warden at St. Philip's and in time all his prescriptions came to +me. No one had a better chance than I did. And Mary was that good to +me." . . . + +Two facile, miserable tears rolled from the man's glazing eyes. He +wiped them away with the back of his hand. + +"You can't think, sir, being a bachelor. Anything I'd a mind to fancy! +Sweet-breads she could cook a treat, and Burgundy we used to +'ave--California wine, 'Big Bush' brand in flagons at two and eight. +And never before half-past seven. Late dinner you might have called it, +while my assistant was in the shop. And after that I'd play to her on +the violin. Nothing common, good music--'Orer pro Nobis' and 'Rousoh's +Dream.' You never heard me play did you? I was in the orchestra of the +Hackney Choral Society. I remember one day . . ." + +"And then?" the Doctor said, gently. + +He had already gathered something, but not all that he had come to +gather. The minutes were hurrying by. + +The man looked up at the doctor with a sudden glance, almost of hatred. +For a single instant the abnormal egoism of the criminal, swelled out +upon the face and turned it into the mask of a devil. + +Dr. Morton Sims spoke in a sharp, urgent voice. + +"Why did you ask me to come here, Hancock?" he said. "You know that I +am glad to be here, if I can be of any use to you. But you don't seem +to want the sort of sympathetic help that the chaplain here could give +you far better than I can. What do you want to say to me? Have you +really anything to say? If you have, be a man and say it!" + +There was a brief but horrible interlude. + +"Well, you are cruel, doctor, not 'arf!--and me with only an hour or +two to live,"--the man said with a cringing and sinister grin. + +The doctor frowned and looked at the man steadily. Then he asked a +sudden question. + +"Who were your father and mother?" he said. + +The convict looked at the doctor with startled eyes. + +"Who told you?" he asked. "I thought nobody knew!" + +"Answer my question, Hancock. Only a few minutes remain." + +"Will it be of use, sir?" + +"Of use?" + +"In your work--It was so that I could leave a warning to others, that I +wanted to see you." + +"Of great use, if you will tell me." + +"Well, Doctor, I never thought to tell any one. It's always been a sore +point with me, but I wasn't born legitimate! I tried hard to make up +for it, and I did so too! No one was more respectable than I was in +Hackney, until the drink came along and took me." + +"Yes? Yes?"--The hunter was on the trail now, Heredity? Reversion? At +last the game was flushed!--"Yes, tell me!" + +"My father was a gentleman, Doctor. That's where I got my refined +tastes. And that's where I got my love of drink--damn him! God Almighty +curse him for the blood he gave me!" + +"Yes? Yes?" + +"My father was old Mr. Lothian, the solicitor of Grey's Inn Square. He +was a well-known gentleman. My mother was his housekeeper, Eliza +Hancock. My father was a widower when my mother went into his service. +He had another son, at one of the big schools for gentlemen. That was +his son by his real wife--Gilbert he was called, and what money was +left went to him. My father was a drunkard. He never was sober--what +you might rightly call sober--for years, I've heard . . . Mother died +soon after Mr. Lothian did. She left a hundred pounds with my Aunt, to +bring me up and educate me. Aunt Ellen--but I'm a gentleman's son, +Doctor!--drunken old swine he was too! What about my blood now? Wasn't +my veins swollen with drink from the first? Christ! _you_ ought to +know--you with your job to know--_Now_ are you happy? I'm not a _love_ +child, I'm a _drink_ child, that's what I am! Son of old Mr. Lothian, +the gentleman-drunkard, brother of his son who's a gentleman somewhere, +I don't doubt! P'r'aps 'e mops it up 'imself!--shouldn't wonder, +this--brother of mine!" + +The man's voice had risen into a hoarse scream. "Have you got what you +came to get?" he yelled. His eyes blazed, his mouth writhed. + +There was a crash as the deal table was overturned, and he leapt at the +doctor. + +In a second the room was full of people. Dark figures held down +something that yelled and struggled on the truckle bed. + +It was done with wonderful deftness, quickness and experience. . . . +Morton Sims stood outside the closed door of the condemned cell. A +muffled noise reached him from within, the prison doctor was standing +by him and looking anxiously into his face. + +--"I can't tell you how sorry I am, Dr. Morton Sims. I really can't +say enough. I had no idea that the latent toxic influence was so +strong. . . ." + +On the other side of the little glass-roofed hall the door was open. +Another cell was shown, brilliantly lit. Two men, in their +shirt-sleeves, were bending over a square, black aperture in the wooden +floor. Some carpenters' tools were lying about. + +An insignificant looking little man, with a fair moustache, was +standing in the doorway. + +"That'll be quite satisfactory, thank you," he was saying, "with just a +drop of oil on the lever. And whatever you do, don't forget my chalk to +mark where he's to stand." + +From behind the closed door of the condemned cell a strangulated, +muffled noise could still be heard. + +"Not now!" said Dr. Marriott, as the executioner came up to him--"In +half an hour. Now Dr. Morton Sims, please come away to my room. +This must have been most distressing. I feel so much that it is my +fault." . . . + +The two men stood at the Prison gate, Sims was shaking hands with the +younger doctor. "Thank you very much indeed," he was saying. "How could +you possibly have helped it?--You'll take steps--?" + +"I'm going back to the cell now. It's incipient delirium tremens of +course--after all this time too! I shall inject hyoscene and he will +know nothing more at all. He will be practically carried to the +shed--Good-night! _Good_-night, sir. I hope I may have the pleasure +of meeting you again." + + * * * * * + +The luxurious car rolled away from the Citadel of Death and +Shadows--down the hill into London and into Life. + +The man within it was thinking deeply, sorting out and tabulating his +impressions, sifting the irrelevant from what was of value, and making +a précis of what he had gained. + +There were a dozen minor notes to be made in his book when he reached +home. The changing quality of the man's voice, the ebb and flow of +uncontrolled emotion, the latent fear--"I must be present at the post +mortem to-morrow," he said to himself as a new idea struck him. "There +should be much to be learnt from an examination of the Peripheral +Nerves. And the brain too--there will be interesting indications in the +cerebellum, and the association fibres." . . . + +The carriage swung again into the familiar parts of town. As he looked +out of the windows at the lights and movement, Morton Sims forgot the +purely scientific side of thought. The kindly human side of him +reasserted itself. + +How infinitely sad it was! How deep the underlying horror of this +sordid life-tragedy at the close of which he had been assisting! + +Who should say, who could define, the true responsibility of the man +they were killing up there on the North London Hill? + +Predisposition to Alcohol, Reversion, Heredity!--was not the drunken +old solicitor, long since dust, the true murderer of the +gentle-mannered girl in Hackney? + +_Lothian_, the father of Gilbert Lothian the poet! the poet who +certainly knew nothing of what was being done to the young man in the +prison, who had probably never heard of his existence even. + +The "Fiend Alcohol" at work once more, planting ghastly growths behind +the scutcheons of every family! + +A cunning murderer with a poisoned mind and body on one side, the +brilliant young poet in the sunlight of success and high approbation +upon the other! + +Mystery of mysteries that God should allow so foul a thing to dominate +and tangle the fair threads and delicate tissues of life! + +"Well, that's that!" said the doctor, in a phrase he was fond of using +when he dosed an episode in his mind. "I'll make my notes on Hancock's +case and forget it until I find it necessary to use them in my work. +And I'll lock up the poems Moultrie has sent me and I won't look at the +book again for a month. Then I shall be able to read the verses for +themselves and without any arrière-penseé. + +"But, I wonder . . . ?" + +The brougham stopped at the doctor's house in Russell Square. + + * * * * * + + + + +BOOK ONE + +LOTHIAN IN LONDON + + "Myself, arch traitor to myself, + My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, + My clog whatever road I go." + + + + +THE DRUNKARD + + +CHAPTER I + +UNDER THE WAGGON-ROOF. A DINNER IN BRYANSTONE SQUARE + + "Le véritable Amphitryon est l'Amphitryon où l'on dine." + + --_Molière._ + + +It was a warm night in July when Mr. Amberley, the publisher, +entertained a few friends at dinner to meet Gilbert Lothian, the poet. + +Although the evening was extremely sultry and the houses of the West +End were radiating the heat which they had stored up from the sun-rays +during the day, Mr. Amberley's dining room was deliciously cool. + +The house was one of those roomy old-fashioned places still to be found +unspoiled in Bryanstone Square, and the dining room, especially, was +notable. It was on the first floor, over-looking the square, a long and +lofty room with a magnificent waggon-roof which was the envy of every +one who saw it, and gave the place extraordinary distinction. + +The walls were panelled with oak, which had been stained a curious +green, that was not olive nor ash-green but partook of both--the +veritable colour, indeed, of the grey-green olive trees that one sees +on some terrace of the Italian Alps at dawn. + +The pictures were very few, considering the size of the room, and they +were all quite modern--"In the movement"--as shrewd Mr. Amberley was +himself. + +A portrait of Mrs. Amberley by William Nicholson, which was quite +famous in its way, displayed all the severe pregnancy and almost solemn +reserve of this painter. There was a pastel of Prydes' which +showed--rather suggested--a squalid room in which a gentleman of 1800, +with a flavour of Robert Macaire about him, stood in the full rays of +the wine and honey-coloured light of an afternoon sun. + +Upon yet another panel was a painting upon silk by Charles Conder, +inspired of course, by Watteau, informed by that sad and haunting +catching after a fairyland never quite reached, which is the +distinctive note of Conder's style, and which might well have served +for an illustration to a grotesque fantasy of Heine. + +Mrs. Amberley loved this painting. She had a Pater-like faculty of +reading into--or from--a picture, something which the artist never +thought about at all, and she used to call this little masterpiece "An +Ode of Horace in Patch, Powder and Peruque!" She adored these perfectly +painted little snuff-box deities who wandered through shadowy mists of +amethyst and rouge-de-fer in a fantastic wood. + +It is extremely interesting to discover, know of, or to sit at ease in +a room which, in its way, is historic, and this is what the Amberleys' +guests always felt, and were meant to feel. + +In its present form, and with its actual decorations, this celebrated +room only dated from some fifteen years back. The Waggon-roof alone +remained unaltered from its earlier periods. + +The Publishing house of Ince and Amberley had been a bulwark of the +Victorian era, and not without some growing celebrity in the earlier +Georgian Period. + +Lord Byron had spoken well of the young firm once, Rogers was believed +to have advanced them money, and when that eminent Cornish pugilist +"The Lamorna Cove" wrote his reminiscences they were published by Ince +and Amberley, while old Lord Alvanley himself contributed a preface. + +From small beginnings came great things. The firm grew and acquired a +status, and about this time, or possibly a little later, the +dining-room at Bryanstone Square had come into being. + +Its walls were not panelled then in delicate green. They were covered +with rich plum-coloured paper festooned by roses of high-gilt. In the +pictures, with their heavy frames of gold, the dogs and stags of +Landseer were let loose, or the sly sleek gipsies of Mr. Frith told +rustic fortunes beneath the spreading chestnut trees. + +But Browning had dined there--in the later times--an inextinguishable +fire just covered with a sprinkling of grey ash. With solemn ritual, +Charles Dickens had brewed milk punch in an old bowl of Lowestoft +china, still preserved in the drawing-room. The young Robert Cecil, in +his early _Saturday Review_ days, had cracked his walnuts and sipped +his "pint of port" with little thought of the high destiny to which he +should come, and Alfred Tennyson, then Bohemian and unknown, had been +allowed to vent that grim philosophy which is the reaction of all +imaginative and sensitive natures against the seeming impossibility of +success and being understood. + +The traditions of Ince and Amberley--its dignified and quiet home was +in Hanover Square--had always been preserved. + +Its policy, at the same time, had continually altered with the passage +of years and the change of the public taste. Yet, so carefully, and +indeed so genuinely, had this been accomplished that none of the +historic prestige of the business had been lost. It still stood as a +bulwark of the old dignified age. A young modern author, whatever his +new celebrity, felt that to be published by Ince and Amberley +hall-marked him as it were. + +Younger firms, greedy of his momentary notoriety, might offer him +better terms--and generally did--but Ince and Amberley conferred the +Accolade! + +He was admitted to the Dining Room. + +John Amberley (the Inces had long since disappeared), at fifty was a +great publisher, and a charming man of the world. He was one of the +personalities of London, carrying out what heredity and natural +aptitude had fitted him to do, and was this evening entertaining some +literary personages of the day in the famous Dining Room. + +The Waggon-roof, which had looked down upon just such gatherings as +these for generations, would, if it could have spoken, have discovered +no very essential difference between this dinner party and others in +the past. True, the walls were differently coloured and pictures which +appealed to a different set of artistic conventions were hanging upon +them. + +The people who were accustomed to meet round the table in 19-- were not +dressed as other gatherings had been. There was no huge silver epergne +in the centre of that table now. Nor did the Amberley at one end of it +display his mastery of ritual carving. + +But the talk was the same. Words only were different. The guests' +vocabularies were wider and less restrained. It was the music of piano +and the pizzicato plucking of strings--there was no pompous organ note, +no ore rotundo any more. They all talked of what they had done, were +doing, and hoped to do. There was a hurry of the mind, inherent in +people of their craft and like a man running, in all of them. The eyes +of some of them burned like restless ghosts as they tried to explain +themselves, display their own genius, become prophets and acquire +honour in the heart of their own country. + +Yes! it had always been so! + +The brightest and most lucent brains had flashed into winged words and +illuminated that long handsome room. + +And ever, at the head of the long table, there had been a bland, +listening Amberley, catching, tasting and sifting the idea, analysing +the constituents of the flash, balancing the brilliant theory against +the momentary public taste. A kind, uncreative, managing Amberley! A +fair and honest enough Amberley in the main. Serene, enthroned and +necessary. + + +The publisher was a large man, broad in the shoulder and slightly +corpulent. There was something Georgian about him--he cultivated it +rather, and was delighted when pleated shirts became again fashionable +for evening wear. He had a veritable face of the Regency, more +especially in profile, sensual, fine, a thought gluttonous and markedly +intelligent. + +His voice was authoritative but bland, and frequently capable of a +sympathetic interest which was almost musical. His love of letters was +deep and genuine, his taste catholic and excellent, while many an +author found real inspiration and intense pleasure in his personal +praise. + +This was the cultured and human side of him, and he had another--the +shrewd business man of Hanover Square. + +He was not, to use the slang of the literary agent, a "knifer." He paid +die market price without being generous and he was perfectly honest in +all his dealings. + +But his business in life was to sell books, and he permitted himself no +experiments in failure. A writer--whether he produced good work or +popular trash--must generally have his definite market and his more or +less assured position, before Ince and Amberley would take him up. + +It was distinctly something for a member of the upper rank and files to +say in the course of conversation, "Ince and Amberley are doing my new +book, you know." + +To-night Amberley, as he sat at the head of his table towards the close +of dinner, was in high good humour, and very pleasant with himself and +his guests. + +The ladies had not yet gone away, coffee was being served at the table, +and almost every one was smoking a cigarette. The party was quite a +small one. There were only five guests, who, with Mr. and Mrs. Amberley +and their only daughter Muriel, made up eight people in all. There was +nothing ceremonious about it, and, though three of the guests were well +known in the literary world, none of these were great, while the +remaining couple were merely promising beginners. + +There was, therefore, considerable animation and gaiety round this +hospitable table, with its squat candlesticks, of dark-green Serpentine +and silver, the topaz-coloured shades, its gleaming surface of dark +mahogany (Mrs. Amberley had eagerly adopted the new habit of having no +white table-cloth), its really interesting old silver, and the square +mats of pure white Egyptian linen in front of each person. + +In age, with the exception of Mr. Amberley and his wife, every one was +young, while both host and hostess showed in perfection that modern +grace of perfect correspondence with environment which seems to have +quite banished the evidences of time's progress among the folk of +to-day who know every one, appreciate everything and are extremely +well-to-do. + +On Amberley's right hand sat Mrs. Herbert Toftrees, while her husband +was at the other end of the table at the right hand of his +hostess--Gilbert Lothian, the guest of the evening, being on Mrs. +Amberley's left. + +Mr. and Mrs. Toftrees were novelists whose combined names were +household words all over England. Their books were signed by both of +them--"Enid and Herbert Toftrees" and they were quite at the head of +their own peculiar line of business. They knew exactly what they were +doing--"selling bacon" they called it to their intimate friends--and +were two of the most successful trades-people in London. Unlike other +eminent purveyors of literary trash they were far too clever not to +know that neither of them had a trace of the real fire, and if their +constant and cynical disclaimer of any real talent sometimes seemed to +betray a hidden sore, it was at least admirably truthful. + +They were shallow, clever, amusing people whom it was always pleasant +to meet. They entertained a good deal and the majority of their guests +were literary men and women of talent who fluttered like moths round +the candle of their success. The talented writers who ate their dinners +found a bitter joy in cursing a public taste which provided the +Toftrees with several thousands a year, but they returned again and +again, in the effort to find out how it was done. + +They also had visions of just such another delightful house in +Lancaster Gate, an automobile identical in its horse-power and +appointments, and were certain that if they could only learn the recipe +and trick, wrest the magic formula from these wizards of the +typewriter, all these things might be theirs also! + +The Herbert Toftrees themselves always appeared--in the frankest and +kindest way--to be in thorough sympathy with such aspirations. Their +candour was almost effusive. "Any one can do what we do" was their +attitude. Herbert Toftrees himself, a young man with a rather +carefully-cultivated, elderly manner, was particularly impressive. He +had a deep voice and slow enunciation, which, when he was upon his own +hearthrug almost convinced himself. + +"There is absolutely no reason," he would say, in tones which carried +absolute conviction to his hearer at the moment, "why you shouldn't be +making fifteen hundred a year in six months." + +But that was as far as it went. That was the voice of the genial host +dispensing wines, entrées and advice, easy upon his own hearth, the +centre of the one picture where he was certain of supremacy. + +But let eager and hungry genius call next day for definite particulars, +instructions as to the preparations of a "popular" plot, hints as to +the shop-girl's taste in heroines,--with hopes of introductory letters +to the great firms who buy serials--and the greyest of grey dawns +succeeded the rosy-coloured night. + +It was all vague and cloudy now. General principles were alone +vouchsafed--indeed who shall blame the tradesman for an adroit refusal +to give away the secrets of the shop? + +Genius retired--it happened over and over again--cursing successful +mediocrity for its evasive cleverness, and with a deep hidden shame +that it should have stooped so low, and so ineffectually! . . . "That's +very true. What Toftrees says is absolutely true," Mr. Amberley said +genially, turning to young Dickson Ingworth, who was sitting by his +daughter Muriel. + +He nodded to the eager youth with a little private encouragement and +hint of understanding which was very flattering. It was as who should +say, "Here you are at my house. For the first time you have been +admitted to the Dining Room. I have taken you up, I am going to publish +a book of yours and see what you are made of. Gather honey while you +may, young Dickson Ingworth!" + +Ingworth blushed slightly as the great man's encouraging admonitions +fell upon him. He was not down from Oxford more than a year. He had +written very little, Gilbert Lothian was backing him and introducing +him to literary circles in town, he was abnormally conscious of his own +good fortune, all nervous anxiety to be adequate--all ears. + +"Yes, sir," he said, with the pleasant boyish deference of an +undergraduate to the Provost of his college--it sat gracefully upon his +youth and was gracefully said. + +Then he looked reverentially at Toftrees and waited to hear more. + +Herbert Toftrees' face was large and clean shaven. His sleek hair was +smoothly brushed over a somewhat protruding forehead. There was the +coarse determined vigour about his brow that the bull-dog jaw is +supposed to indicate in another type of face, and the eyes below were +grey and steadfast. Toftrees stared at people with tremendous gravity. +Only those who realised the shrewd emptiness behind them were able to +discern what some one had once called their flickering "R.S.V.P. +expression"--that latent hope that his vis-à-vis might not be finding +him out after all! + +"I mean it," Toftrees said in his resonant, and yet quiet voice. "There +really is no reason, Mr. Ingworth, why you should not be making an +income of at least eight or nine hundred a year in twelve months' +time." + +"Herbert has helped such a lot of boys," said Mrs. Toftrees, +confidentially, to her host, although there was a slight weariness in +her voice, the suggestion of a set phrase. "But who is Mr. Dickson +Ingworth? What has he done?--he is quite good-looking, don't you +think?" + +"Oh, a boy, a mere boy!" the big red-faced publisher purred in an +undertone. "Lothian brought him to me first in Hanover Square. In fact, +Lothian asked if he might bring him here to-night. We are doing a +little book of his--the first novel he will have had published." + +Mrs. Toftrees pricked up her ears, so to say. She was really the +business head of the Toftrees combination. Her husband did the +ornamental part and provided the red-hot plots, but it was she who had +invented and carried out the "note," and it was she who supervised the +contracts. As Mr. Amberley was well aware, what this keen, pretty and +well-dressed little woman didn't know about publishing was worth +nothing whatever. + +"Oh, really," she said, in genuine surprise. "Rather unusual for you, +isn't it? Is the boy a genius then?" + +Amberley shook his head. He hated everything the worthy Toftrees +wrote--he had never been able to read more than ten lines of any of the +half-dozen books he had published for them. But the Hanover Square side +of him had a vast respect for the large sums the couple charmed from +the pockets of the public no less than the handsome percentage they put +into his own. And a confidential word on business matters with a pretty +and pleasant little woman was not without allurement even under the +Waggon-roof itself. + +"Not at all. Not at all," he murmured into a pretty ear. "We are not +paying the lad any advance upon royalties!" He laughed a well-fed +laugh. "Ince and Amberley's list," he continued, "is accepted for +itself!" + +Mrs. Toftrees smiled back at him. "_Of course_," she murmured. "But I +wasn't thinking of the financial side of it. Why? . . . why are you +departing from your usual traditions and throwing the shadow of your +cloak over this fortunate boy?--if I may ask, of course!" + +"Well," Amberley answered, and her keen ear detected--or thought that +she detected--a slight reluctance in his voice. . . . "Well, Lothian +brought him to me, you know." + +Mrs. Toftrees' face changed and Amberley saw it. + +She was looking down the table to where Lothian was sitting. Her face +was a little flushed, and the expression upon it--though not allowed to +be explicit--was by no means agreeable. "Lothian's work is very +wonderful," she said--and there was a question in her voice "--you +think so, Mr. Amberley?" + +Bryanstone Square, the Dining Room, asserted itself. Truth to tell, +Amberley felt a little uncomfortable and displeased with himself. The +fun of the dinner table--the cigarette moment--had rather escaped him. +He had got young people round him to-night. He wanted them to be jolly. +He had meant to be a good host, to forget his dignities, to unbend and +be jolly with them--this fiction-mongering woman was becoming annoying. + +"I certainly do, Mrs. Toftrees," he replied, with dignity, and a +distinct tone of reproof in his voice. + +Mrs. Toftrees, the cool tradeswoman, gave the great man a soothing +smile of complete understanding and agreement. + +Mr. Amberley turned to a girl upon his left who had been taken in by +Dickson Ingworth and who had been carrying on a laughing conversation +with him during dinner. + +She was a pretty girl, a friend of his daughter Muriel. He liked pretty +girls, and he smiled half paternally, half gallantly at her. + +"Won't you have another cigarette, Miss Wallace?" he said, pushing a +silver box towards her. "They are supposed to be rather wonderful. My +cousin Eustace Amberley is in the Egyptian Army and an aide-de-camp to +the Khedive. The Khedive receives the officers every month and every +one takes away a box of five hundred when they leave the palace--His +Highness' own peculiar brand. These are some of them, which Eustace +sent me." + +"May I?" she answered, a rounded, white arm stretched out to the box. +"They certainly are wonderful. I have to be content with Virginian at +home. I buy fifty at a time, and a tin costs one and threepence." + +She lit it delicately from the little methyl lamp he passed her, and +the big man's kind eyes rested on her with appreciation. + +She was, he thought, very like a Madonna of Donatello, which he had +seen and liked in Florence. The abundant hair was a dark nut-brown, +almost chocolate in certain lights. The eyes were brown also, the +complexion the true Italian morbidezza, pale, but not pallid, like a +furled magnolia bud. And the girl's mouth was charming--"delicious" was +the word in the mind of this connoisseur. It was as clear-cut as that +of a girl's face in a Grecian frieze of honey-coloured travertine, +there was a serene sweetness about it. But when she smiled the whole +face was changed. The young brown eyes lit up and visited others with +their own, as a bee visits flowers. The smile was radiant and had a +conscious provocation in it. The paleness of the cheeks showed such +tints of pearl and rose that they seemed carved from the under surface +of a sea-shell. + +And, as Amberley looked, wishing that he had talked more to her during +dinner, startled suddenly to discover such loveliness, he saw her lips +suddenly glow out into colour in an extraordinary way. It wasn't +scarlet--unpainted lips are never really that--but of the veiled +blood-colour that is warm and throbs with life; a colour that hardly +any of the names we give to pigment can properly describe or fix. + +What did he know about her? he asked himself as she was lighting her +second cigarette. Hardly anything! She was a girl friend of his +daughter's--they had been to the same school together at Bath--an +orphan he thought, without any people. She earned her own +living--assistant Librarian, he remembered, at old Podley's library. +Yes, Podley the millionaire nonconformist who was always endowing and +inventing fads! And Muriel had told him that she wrote a little, short +stories in some of the women's papers. . . . + +"At any rate," he said, while these thoughts were flashing through his +mind "you smoke as if you liked it! All the girls smoke now, Muriel is +inveterate, but I often have a suspicion that many of them do it +because it's the fashion." + +Rita Wallace gave a wise little shake of her head. + +"Oh, no," she answered. "Men know so little about girls! You think +we're so different from you in lots of things, but we aren't really. +Muriel and I always used to smoke at school--it doesn't matter about +telling now, does it?" + +Mr. Amberley made a mock expression of horror. + +"Good heavens!" he said, "what appalling revelations for a father to +endure! I wish I had had an inkling of it at the time!" + +"You couldn't have, Mr. Amberley," she answered, and her smile was more +provocative than ever, and delightfully naughty. "We used to do it in +the bathroom. The hot vapour from the bath took all the smell of +tobacco away. I discovered that!" + +"Tell me some more, my dear. What other iniquities did you all +perpetrate--and I thought Muriel such a pattern girl." + +"Oh, we did lots of things, Mr. Amberley, but it wouldn't be fair to +give them away. We were little devils, nearly all of us!" + +She gave him a little Parisian salute from the ends of her eyelids, +instinct with a kind of impish innocence, the sort of thing that has an +irresistible appeal to a middle-aged man of the world. + +"Muriel!" Mr. Amberley said to his daughter, "Miss Wallace has been +telling me dreadful things about your schooldays. I am grieved and +pained!" + +Muriel Amberley was a slim girl with dark smouldering eyes and a faint +enigmatic smile. Her voice was very clear and fresh and there was a +vibrant note in it like the clash of silver bells. She had been talking +to Mrs. Toftrees, but she looked up as her father spoke. + +"Don't be a wretch, Cupid!" she said, to Rita Wallace over the table. + +"Cupid? Why Cupid?" Herbert Toftrees asked, in his deep voice. + +"Oh, it's a name we gave her at school," Muriel answered, looking at +her friend, and both girls began to laugh. + +Mr. Amberley re-engaged the girl in talk. + +"You have done some literary work, have you not?" he asked kindly, and +in a lower voice. + +Again her face changed. Its first virginal demureness, the sudden +flashing splendour of her smile, had gone alike. It became eager and +wistful too. + +"You can't call it _that_, Mr. Amberley," she replied in a voice +pitched to his own key. "I've written a few stories which have been +published and I've had three articles in the Saturday edition of the +_Westminster_--that's nearly everything. But I can't say how I love it +all! It is delightful to have my work among books--at the Podley +Library you know. I learned typewriting and shorthand and was afraid +that I should have to go into a city office--and then this turned up." + +She hesitated for a moment, and then stopped shyly. He could see that +the girl was afraid of boring him. A moment before, she had been +perfectly collected and aware--a girl in his own rank of life +responsive to his chaff. Now she realised that she was speaking of +things very near and dear to her--and speaking of them to a high-priest +of those Mysteries she loved--one holding keys to unlock all doors. + +He took her in a moment, understood the change of mood and expression, +and it was subtle flattery. Like all intelligent and successful men, +recognition was not the least of his rewards. That this engaging child, +even, knew him for what he was gave him an added interest in her. All +Muriel's girl friends adored him. He was the nicest and most generous +of unofficial Papas!--but this was different. + +"Don't say that, my dear. Never depreciate yourself or belittle what +you have done. I suppose you are about Muriel's age, twenty-one or +two--yes?--then let me tell you that you have done excellently well." + +"That is kind of you." + +"No, it is sincere. No man knows how hard--or how easy--it is to +succeed by writing to-day." + +She understood him in a moment. "Only the other day, Mr. Amberley," she +said, "I read Stevenson's 'Letter to a young gentleman who proposes to +embrace the career of Art.' And if I _could_ write feeble things to +tickle feeble minds I wouldn't even try. It seems so, so low!" + +Quite unconsciously her eye had fallen upon Mrs. Toftrees opposite, who +was again chattering away to Muriel Amberley. + +He saw it, but gave no sign that he had done so. + +"Keep such an ideal, my dear. Whether you do small or great things, it +will bring you peace of mind and dignity of conscience. But don't +despise or condemn merely popular writers. In the Kingdom of Art there +are many mansions you know." + +The girl made a slight movement of the head. He saw that she was +touched and grateful at his interest in her small affairs, but that she +wanted to dismiss them from his mind no less than from her own. + +"But I _am_ mad, crazy," she said, "about _other_ peoples' work, the +big peoples' work, the work one simply can't help reverencing!" + +She had turned from him again and was looking down the table to where +Gilbert Lothian was sitting. + +"Yes," he answered, following the direction of her glance, "you are +quite right _there_!" + +She flushed with enthusiasm. "I did so want to see him," she said. +"I've hardly ever met any literary people at all before, certainly +never any one who mattered. Muriel told me that Mr. Lothian was coming; +she loves his poems as much as I do. And when she wrote and asked me I +was terribly excited. It's so good of you to have me, Mr. Amberley." + +Her voice was touching in its gratitude, and he was touched at this +damsel, so pretty, courageous and forlorn. + +"I hope, my dear," he said, "that you will give us all the pleasure of +seeing you here very often." + +At that moment Mrs. Amberley looked up and her fine, shrewd eyes swept +round the table. She was a handsome, hook-nosed dame, with a lavish +coronet of grey hair, stately and kindly in expression, obviously +capable of many tolerances, but with moments when "ne louche pas à La +Reine" could be very plainly written on her face. + +As she gathered up the three women and rose, Mr. Amberley knew in a +moment that all was not quite well. No one else could have even guessed +at it, but he knew. The years that had dealt so prosperously with him; +Fate which had linked arms and was ever debonnair, had greatly blessed +him in this also. He worshipped this stately madam, as she him, and +always watched her face as some poor fisherman strives to read the +Western sky. + +The door of the Dining Room was towards Mrs. Amberley's end of the +table, and, as the ladies rose and moved towards it, Gilbert Lothian +had gone to it and held it open. + +His table-napkin was in his right hand, his left was on the handle of +the door, and as the women swept out, he bowed. + +Herbert Toftrees thought that there was something rather theatrical, a +little over-emphasised, in the bow--as he regarded the poet, whom he +had met for the first time that night, from beneath watchful eye-lids. + +And _did_ one bow? Wasn't it rather like a scene upon the stage? +Toftrees, a quite well-bred man, was a little puzzled by Gilbert +Lothian. Then he concluded--and his whole thoughts upon the matter +passed idly through his mind within the duration of a single +second--that the poet was an intimate friend of the house. + +Lothian was closing the door, and Toftrees was sinking back into his +chair, when the latter happened to glance at his host. + +Amberley, still standing, was _watching_ Lothian--there was no other +word which would correctly describe the big man's attitude--and +Toftrees felt strangely uneasy. Something seemed tapping nervously at +the door of his mind. He heard the furtive knocking, half realised the +name of the thought that timidly essayed an entrance, and then +resolutely crushed it. + +Such a thing was quite impossible, of course. + +The four men sat down, more closely grouped together than before. + +The coffee, which had been served by a footman, before the ladies had +disappeared, was a pretence in cups no bigger than plovers' eggs. +Amberley liked the modern affectation of his women guests remaining at +the table and sharing the joys of the after-dinner-hour. But now, the +butler entered with larger cups and a tray of liqueurs, while the host +himself poured out a glass of port and handed the old-fashioned cradle +in which the bottle lay to young Dickson Ingworth on his right. + +That curly-headed youth, who was a Pembroke man and knew the ritual of +the Johnsonian Common Room at Oxford, gravely filled his own glass and +pushed the bottle to Herbert Toftrees, who was in the vacated seat of +his hostess, and pouring a little Perrier water into a tumbler. + +The butler lifted the wicker-work cradle with care, passed behind +Toftrees, and set it before Gilbert Lothian. + +Lothian looked at it for a moment and then made a decisive movement of +his head. + +"Thank you, no," he said, after a second's consideration, and in a +voice that was slightly high-pitched but instinct with personality--it +could never have been mistaken for any one else's voice, for +instance--"I think I will have a whiskey and soda." + +Toftrees, at the end of the table, within two feet of Lothian, gave a +mental start. The popular novelist was rather confused. + +A year ago no one had heard of Gilbert Lothian--that was not a name +that counted in any way. He had been a sort of semi-obscure journalist +who signed what he wrote in such papers as would print him. There were +a couple of novels to his name which had obtained a sort of cult among +minor people, and, certainly, some really eminent weeklies had +published very occasional but signed reviews. + +As far as Herbert Toftrees could remember--and his jealous memory was +good--Lothian had always been rather small beer until a year or so +back. + +And then "Surgit Amari"--the first book of poems had been published. + +In a single month Lothian had become famous. + +For the ringing splendour of his words echoed in every heart. In this +book, and in a subsequent volume, he had touched the very springs of +tears. Not with sentiment--with the very highest and most electric +literary art--he had tried and succeeded in irradiating the happenings +of domestic life in the light that streamed from the Cross. + +". . . Thank you, no. I think I will have a whiskey and soda." + + + + +CHAPTER II + +GRAVELY UNFORTUNATE OCCURRENCE IN MRS. AMBERLEY'S DRAWING ROOM + + "[Greek: Misô mnêmona sumpotên], Procille." + + --_Martial._ + + --"One should not always take after-dinner amenities au pied de la + lettre." + + --_Free Translation._ + + +Toftrees, at the head of the table, shifted his chair a little so that +he was almost facing Gilbert Lothian. + +Lothian's arresting voice was quite clear as he spoke to the butler. +"That's not the voice of a man who's done himself too well," the +novelist thought. But he was puzzled, nevertheless. People like Lothian +behaved pretty much as they liked, of course. Convention didn't +restrain them. But the sudden request was odd. + +And there was that flourishing bow as the women left the room, and +certainly Amberley had seemed to look rather strangely at his guest. +Toftrees disposed himself to watch events. He had wanted to meet the +poet for some time. There was a certain reason. No one knew much about +him in London. He lived in the country and was not seen in the usual +places despite his celebrity. There had been a good deal of surmise +about this new star. + +Lothian was like the photographs which had appeared of him in the +newspapers, but with a great deal more "personality" than these were +able to suggest. Certainly no one looked less like a poet, though this +did not surprise the popular novelist, in an age when literary men +looked exactly like every one else. But there was not the slightest +trace of idealism, of the "thoughts high and hard" that were ever the +clear watchwords of his song. "A man who wears a mask," thought Herbert +Toftrees with interest and a certain half-conscious fellow-feeling. + +The poet was of medium height and about thirty-five years of age. He +was fat, with a broad-shouldered corpulence which would have been far +less noticeable in a man who was a few inches taller. The clean-shaven +face was fattish also, but there was, nevertheless, a curious +suggestion of contour about it. It should have been a pure oval, and in +certain lights it almost seemed that, while the fatness appeared to +dissolve and fall away from it. It was a contour veiled by something +that was, but ought not to have been, there. + +The eyes were grey and capable of infinite expression--a fact which +always became apparent to any one who had been half an hour in his +company. But this feature also was enigmatic. For the most part the +eyes seemed to be working at half-power, not quite doing or being what +one would have expected of them. + +The upper lip was short, and the mouth by far the most real and +significant part of the face. It was small, but not too small, clearly +and delicately cut though without a trace of effeminacy. In its +mobility, its sensitive life, its approach to beauty, it said +everything in the face. Thick-growing hair of dark brown was allowed to +come rather low over a high and finely modelled brow, hair +which--despite a natural luxuriance--was cut close to the sides and +back of the head. + +Such was Toftrees' view of Gilbert Lothian, and it both had insight and +was fair. No one can be a Toftrees and the literary idol of thousands +and thousands of people without being infinitely the intellectual +superior of those people. The novelist had a fine brain and if he could +have put a tenth of his observation and knowledge upon paper, he might +have been an artistic as well as a commercial success. + +But he was hopelessly inarticulate, and æsthetic achievement was denied +him. There was considerable consolation in the large income which +provided so many pleasures and comforts, but it was bitter to +know--when he met any one like Lothian--that if he could appreciate +Lothian thoroughly he could never emulate him. And it was still more +bitter to be aware that men like Lothian often regarded his own work as +a mischief and dishonour. + +Toftrees, therefore, watched the man at his side with a kind of +critical envy, mingled with a perfectly sincere admiration at the +bottom of it all. + +He very soon became certain that something was wrong. + +His first half-thought was a certainty now. Something that some one had +said to him a week ago at a Savage Club dinner--one of those +irresponsible but dangerous and damaging remarks which begin, "D'you +know, I'm told that so and so--" flashed through his mind. + +"Are you in town for long, Mr. Lothian?" he asked. "You don't come to +town often, do you?" + +"No, I don't," Lothian answered. "I hate London. A damnable place I +always think." + +The other, so thorough a Londoner, always getting so much--in every +way--out of his life in London, looked at the speaker curiously, not +quite knowing how to take him. + +Lothian seemed to see it. He had made the remark with emphasis, with a +superior note in his voice, but he corrected himself quickly. + +It was almost as though Toftrees' glance had made him uneasy. His face +became rather ingratiating, and there was a propitiatory note in his +voice when he spoke again. He drew his chair a little nearer to the +other's. + +"I knew too much of London when I was a young man," he went on with an +unnecessarily confidential and intimate manner. "When I came down from +Oxford first, I was caught up into the 'new' movement. It all seemed +very wonderful to me then. It did to all of us. We divorced art from +morals, we lived extraordinary lives, we sipped honey from every +flower. Most of the men of that period are dead. One or two are insane, +others have gone quite under and are living dreadful larva-like lives +in obscene hells of the body and soul, of which you can have no +conception. But, thank God, I got out of it in time--just in time! If +it hadn't been for my dear wife . . ." + +He paused. The sensitive lips smiled, with an almost painful +tenderness, a quivering, momentary effect which seemed grotesquely out +of place in a face which had become flushed and suddenly seemed much +fatter. + +There was a horrible insincerity about that self-conscious smile--the +more horrible because, at the moment, Toftrees saw that Lothian +believed absolutely in his own emotion, was pleased with himself +sub-consciously, too, and was perfectly certain that he was making a +fine impression--pulling aside the curtain that hung before a beautiful +and holy place! + +The smile lingered for a moment. The light in the curious eyes seemed +turned inward complacently surveying a sanctuary. + +Then there was an abrupt change of manner. + +Lothian laughed. There was a snap in his laughter, which, Toftrees was +sure, was meant to convey the shutting down of a lid. + +"I like you," Lothian was trying to say to him--the acquaintance of ten +minutes!--"I can open my heart to you. You've had a peep at the Poet's +Holy of Holies. But we're men of the world--you and I!--enough of this. +We're in society. We're dining at the Amberleys'. Our confidences are +over!" + +"So you see," the _actual_ voice said, "I don't like London. It's no +place for a gentleman!" + +Lothian's laugh as he said this was quite vague and silly. His hand +strayed out towards the decanter of whiskey. His face was half anxious, +half pleased, wholly pitiable and weak. His laugh ended in a sort of +bleat, which he realised in a moment and coughed to obscure. + +There was a splash and gurgle as he pressed the trigger of the syphon. + +Intense disgust and contempt succeeded Toftrees' first amazement. So +this, after all the fuss, was Gilbert Lothian! + +The man had talked like a provincial yokel, and then fawned upon him +with his sickly, uninvited confidences. + +He was drunk. There was no doubt about that. + +He must have come there drunk, or nearly so. The last half hour had +depressed the balance, brought out what was hidden, revealed the +fellow's state. + +"If it hadn't been for my dear wife!"--the tout! How utterly disgusting +it was! + +Toftrees had never been drunk in his life except at a bump-supper at +B.N.C.--his college--nearly fifteen years ago.--The shocking form of +coming to the Amberleys' like this!--He was horribly upset and a little +frightened, too. He remembered where he was--such a thing was an +incredible profanation _here_! + +. . . He heard a quiet vibrant voice speaking. + +He looked up. Gilbert Lothian was leaning back in his chair, holding a +newly-lighted cigarette in a steady hand. His face was absolutely +composed. There was not the slightest hint that it had been bloated and +unsteady the minute before. Intellect and strength--STRENGTH! that was +the incredible thing--lay calmly over it. The skin, surely it _had_ +been oddly blotched? was of an even, healthy-seeming tint. + +A conversation between the Poet and his host had obviously been in +progress for several minutes. Toftrees realised that he had been lost +in his own thoughts for some time--if indeed this scene was real at all +and he himself were sober! + +". . . I don't think," Lothian was saying with precision, and a certain +high air which sat well upon him--"I don't think that you quite see it +in all its bearings. There must be a rough and ready standard for +ordinary work-a-day life--that I grant. But when you penetrate to the +springs of action----" + +"When you do that," Amberley interrupted, "naturally, rough and ready +standards fall to pieces. Still we have to live by them. Few of us are +competent to manipulate the more delicate machinery! But your +conclusion is--?" + +"--That hypocrisy is the most misunderstood and distorted word in our +mother tongue. The man whom fools call hypocrite may yet be entirely +sincere. Lofty assertions, the proclamation of high ideals and noble +thoughts may at the same time be allied with startling moral failure!" + +Amberley shook his head. + +"It's specious," he replied, "and it's doubtless highly comforting for +the startling moral failure. But I find a difficulty in adjusting my +obstinate mind to the point of view." + +"It _is_ difficult," Lothian said, "but that's because so few people +are psychologists, and so few people--the Priests often seem to me less +than any one--understand the meaning of Christianity. But because David +was a murderer and an adulterer will you tell me that the psalms are +insincere? Surely, if all that is good in a man or woman is to be +invalidated by the presence of contradictory evil, then Beelzebub must +sit enthroned and be potent over the affairs of men!" + +Mr. Amberley rose from his chair. His face had quite lost its watchful +expression. It was genial and pleased as before. + +"King David has a great deal to answer for," he said. "I don't know +what the unorthodox and the 'live-your-own-life' school would do +without him. But let us go into the drawing room." + +With his rich, hearty laugh echoing under the Waggon roof, the big man +thrust his arm through Lothian's. + +"There are two girls dying to talk to the poet!" he said. "That I +happen to know! My daughter Muriel reads your books in bed, I believe! +and her friend Miss Wallace was saying all sorts of nice things about +you at dinner. Come along, come along, my dear boy." + +The two men left the dining room, and their voices could be heard in +the hall beyond. + +Toftrees lingered behind for a moment with young Dickson Ingworth. + +The boy's face was flushed. His eyes sparkled with excitement and the +three glasses of champagne he had drunk at dinner were having their +influence with him. + +He was quite young, ingenuous, and filled with conceit at being where +he was--dining with the Amberleys, brought there under the ægis of +Gilbert Lothian, chatting confidentially to the great Herbert Toftrees +himself! + +His immature heart was bursting with pride, Pol Roger, and +satisfaction. He hadn't the least idea of what he was saying--that he +was saying something frightfully dangerous and treacherous at least. + +"I say, Mr. Toftrees, isn't Gilbert splendid? I could listen to him all +night. He talks like that to me sometimes, when he's in the mood. It's +like Walter Pater and Dr. Johnson rolled into one. And then he sort of +punctuates it with something dry and brown and freakish--like Heine in +the 'Florentine Nights'!" + +With all his eagerness to hear more--the quiet malice in him welling +up to understand and pin down this Gilbert Lothian--Toftrees was +forced to pause for a moment. He knew that he could never have expressed +himself as this enthusiastic and excited boy was able to do. Ingworth +was a pupil then! Lothian could inspire, and was already founding a +school . . . + +"You know Mr. Lothian very well, I suppose?" + +"Oh, yes. I go and stay with Gilbert in the country a lot. I'm nearly +always there! I am like a brother to him--he was an only child, you +know. But isn't he wonderful?" + +"Marvellous!" Toftrees chuckled as he said the word. He couldn't help +it. + +Misunderstood as his chuckle was, it did the trick and brought +confidence in full flood from the careless and excited boy. + +"Yes, and I know him so well! Hardly any one knows him so well as I do. +Every one in town is crying out to find out all about him, and I'm +really the only one who knows . . ." + +He looked towards the door. Thoughts of the two pretty girls beyond +flushed the wayward, wine-heated mind. + +"I'm going to have a liqueur brandy," Toftrees said hastily--he had +taken nothing the whole evening--"won't you, too?" + +"Now you'd never think," Ingworth said, sipping from his tiny glass, +"that at seven o'clock this evening Prince and I--Prince is the valet +at Gilbert's club--could hardly wake him up and get him to dress?" + +"No!" + +"It's a fact though, Mr. Toftrees. We had the devil of a time. He'd +been out all day--it was bovril with lots of salt in it that put him +right. As a matter of fact--of course, this is quite between you and +me--I was in a bit of a funk that it was coming over him again at +dinner. Stale drunk. You know! I saw he was paying a lot of compliments +to Mrs. Amberley. At first she didn't seem to understand, and then she +didn't quite seem to like it. But I was glad when I heard him ask the +man for a whiskey and soda just now. I know his programme so well. I +was sure that it would pull him together all right--or at least that +number two would. I suppose you saw he was rather off when the ladies +had gone and you were talking to him?" + +"Well, I wasn't sure of course." + +"I was, I know him so well. Gilbert's father was my father's +solicitor--one of the old three bottle men. But when Gilbert collared +number two just now I realised that it would be quite all right. You +heard him with Mr. Amberley just now? Splendid!" + +"Yes. And now suppose we go and see how he's getting on in the drawing +room," said Herbert Toftrees with a curious note in his voice. + +The boy mistook it for anxiety. "Oh, he'll be as right as rain, you'll +find. It comes off and on in waves, you know," he said. + +Toftrees looked at the youth with frank wonder. He spoke in the way of +use and wont, as if he were saying nothing extraordinary--merely +stating a fact. + +The novelist was really shocked. Personally, he was the most temperate +of men. He was _homme du monde_, of course. He touched upon life at +other points than the decorous and above-board. He had known men, +friends of his own, go down, down, down, through drink. But here, with +these people, it was not the same. In Bohemia, in raffish literary +clubs and the reprobate purlieus of Fleet Street, one expected this +sort of thing and accepted it as part of the _milieu_. + +Under the Waggon roof, at Amberley's house, where there were charming +women, it was shocking; it was an outrage! And the frankness of this +well-dressed and well-spoken youth was disgusting in its very +simplicity and non-moral attitude. Toftrees had gathered something of +the young man's past during dinner. Was this, then, what one learnt at +Eton? The novelist was himself the son of a clergyman, a man of some +family but bitter poor. He had been educated at a country grammar +school. His wife was the youngest daughter of a Gloucestershire +baronet, impoverished also. + +Neither of them had enjoyed all that should have been theirs by virtue +of their birth, and the fact had left a blank, a slight residuum of +bitterness and envy which success and wealth could never quite smooth +away. + +"Well, it doesn't seem to trouble you much," he said. + +Ingworth laughed. He was unconscious of his great indiscretion, frothy +and young, entirely unaware that he was giving his friend and patron +into possibly hostile hands and providing an opportunity for a +dissection of which half London might hear. + +"Gilbert's quite different from any one else," he said lightly. "He is +a genius. Keats taking pepper before claret, don't you know! One must +not measure him by ordinary standards." + +"I suppose not," Toftrees answered drily, reflecting that among the +disciples of a great man it was generally the Judas who wrote the +biography--"Let's go to the drawing room." + +As they went out, the mind of the novelist was working with excitement +and heat. He himself was conscious of it and was surprised. His was an +intellect rather like dry ice. Very little perturbed it as a rule, yet +to-night he was stirred. + +Wonder was predominant. + +Physically, to begin with, it was extraordinary that more drink should +sober a man who a moment before had been making exaggerated and +half-maudlin confidences to a stranger--in common with most decent +living people, Toftrees knew nothing of the pathology of poisoned men. +And, then, that sobriety had been so profound! Clearly reasoned +thought, an arresting but perfectly sane point of view, had been +enunciated with lucidity and force of phrase. + +Disgust, the keener since it was more than tinged by envy, mingled with +the wonder. + +So the high harmonies of "Surgit Amari" came out of the bottle after +all! Toftrees himself had been deeply moved by the poems, and yet, he +now imagined, the author was probably drunk when he wrote them! If only +the world knew!--it _ought_ to know. Blackguards who, for some reason +or other, had been given angel voices should be put in the pillory for +every one to see. Hypocrite! . . . + +Ingworth opened the door of the drawing room very quietly. Music had +begun, and as he and Toftrees entered, Muriel Amberley was already half +way through one of the preludes of Chopin. + +Mrs. Amberley and Mrs. Toftrees were sitting close together and +carrying on a vigorous, whispered conversation, despite the music. Mr. +Amberley was by himself in a big arm-chair near the piano, and Lothian +sat upon a settee of blue linen with Rita Wallace. + +As he sank into a chair Toftrees glanced at Lothian. + +The poet's face was unpleasant. When he had been talking to Amberley it +had lighted up and had more than a hint of fineness. Now it was heavy +again, veiled and coarsened. Lothian's head was nodding in time to the +music. One well-shaped but rather red hand moved restlessly upon his +knee. The man was struggling--Toftrees was certain of it--to appear as +if the music was giving him intense pleasure. He was thinking about +himself and how he looked to the other people in the room. + +Drip, drip, drip!--it was the sad, graceful prelude in which the fall +of rain is supposed to be suggested, the hot steady rain of the +Mediterranean which had fallen at Majorca ever so many years ago and +was falling now in sound, though he that caught its beauty was long +since dust. Drip, drip!--and then the soft repetition which announced +that the delicate and lovely vision had reached its close, that the +august grey harmonies were over. + +For a moment, there was silence in the drawing room. + +Muriel's white fingers rested on the keys of the piano, the candles +threw their light upwards upon the enigmatic maiden face. Her father +sighed quietly--happily also as he looked at her--and the low buzz of +Mrs. Amberley's and Mrs. Toftrees' talk became much more distinct. + +Suddenly Gilbert Lothian jumped up from the settee. He hurried to the +piano, his face flushed, his eyes liquid and bright. + +It was consciously and theatrically done, an exaggeration of his bow in +the dining room--not the right thing in the very least! + +"Oh, thank you! _Thank you!_" he said in a high, fervent voice. "How +wonderful that is! And you played it as Crouchmann plays it--the _only_ +interpretation! I know him quite well. We had supper together the other +night after his concert, and he told me--no, that won't interest you. +I'll tell you another time, remind me! Now, _do_ play something else!" + +He fumbled with the music upon the piano with tremulous and unsteady +hands. + +"Ah! here we are!" he cried, and there was an insistent note of +familiarity in his voice. "The book of Valses! You know the twelfth of +course? Tempo giusto! It goes like this . . ." + +He began to hum, quite musically, and to wave his hands. + +Muriel Amberley glanced quickly at her father and there was distress in +her eyes. + +Amberley was standing by the piano in a moment. He seemed very much +master of himself, serene and dominant, by the side of Gilbert Lothian. +His face was coldly civil and there was disgust in his eyes. + +"I don't think my daughter will play any more, Mr. Lothian," he said. + +An ugly look flashed out upon the poet's face, suspicion and +realisation showed there for a second and passed. + +He became nervous, embarrassed, almost pitiably apologetic. The +savoir-faire which would have helped some men to take the rebuke +entirely deserted him. There was something assiduous, almost vulgar, a +frightened acceptance of the lash indeed, which immensely accentuated +the sudden _défaillance_ and break-down. + +In the big drawing room no one spoke at all. + +Then there was a sudden movement and stir. Gilbert Lothian was saying +good-night. + +He had remembered that he really had some work to do before going to +bed, some letters to write, as a matter of fact. He was shaking hands +with every one. + +"I do hope that I shall have the pleasure of hearing you play some more +Chopin before long, Miss Amberley! Thank you so much Mrs. Amberley--I'm +going to write a poem about your beautiful Dining Room. I suppose we +shall meet at the Authors' Club dinner on Saturday, Mr. Toftrees?--so +interested to have met you at last." + +. . . The people in the drawing room heard him chattering vivaciously +to Mr. Amberley, who had accompanied his departing guest into the hall. + +No one said a single word. They heard the front door close, and the +steps of the master of the house as he returned to them. They were all +waiting. + +When Amberley came in he made a courtly attempt at ignoring what had +just occurred. The calm surface of the evening had been rudely +disturbed--yes! For once even an Amberley party had gone wrong--there +was to be no fun from this meeting of young folk to-night. + +But it was Mrs. Amberley who spoke. She really could not help it. Mrs. +Toftrees had been telling her of various rumours concerning Gilbert +Lothian some time before the episode at the piano, and with all her +tolerance Mrs. Amberley was thoroughly angry. + +That such a thing should have happened in her house, before Muriel and +her girl friend--oh! it was unthinkable! + +"So Mr. Gilbert Lothian has gone," she said with considerable emphasis. + +"Yes, dear," Mr. Amberley answered as he sat down again, willing enough +that nothing more should be said. + +But it was not to be so. + +"We can never have him here again," said the angry lady. + +Amberley shook his head. "Very unfortunate, extremely unfortunate," he +murmured. + +"I cannot understand it. Such a thing has never happened here before. +Now I understand why Mr. Lothian hides himself in the country and never +goes about. _Il y avait raison!_" + +"I don't say that genius is any _excuse_ for this sort of thing," +Amberley replied uneasily, "and Lothian has genius--but one must take +more than one thing into consideration . . ." + +He paused, not quite knowing how to continue the sentence, and +genuinely sorry and upset. His glance fell upon Herbert Toftrees, and +he had a sort of feeling that the novelist might help him out. + +"Don't you think so, Toftrees?" he asked. + +The novelist surveyed the room with his steady grey eyes, marshalling +his hearers as it were. + +"But let us put his talent aside," he said. "Think of him as an +ordinary person in our own rank of life--Mrs. Amberley's guest. +Certainly he could not have taken anything here to have made him in the +strange state he is in. Surely he must have known that he was not fit +to come to a decent house." + +"I shall give his poems away," Muriel Amberley said with a little +shudder. "I can never read them again. And I did love them so! I wish +you hadn't asked Mr. Lothian to come here, Father." + +"There is one consolation," said Mrs. Toftrees in a hard voice; "the +man must be realising what he has done. He was not too far gone for +that!" + +A new voice broke into the talk. It came from young Dickson Ingworth +who had slid into the seat by Rita Wallace when Lothian went to the +piano. + +He blushed and stammered as he spoke, but there was a fine loyalty in +his voice. + +"It seems rather dreadful, Mrs. Amberley," he said, quite thinking that +he was committing literary suicide as he did so. "It is dreadful of +course. But Gilbert _is_ such a fine chap when he's--when he's, all +right! You can't think! And then, 'Surgit Amari'! Don't let's forget he +wrote 'The Loom'--'Delicate Threads! O fairest in life's tissue,'" he +quoted from the celebrated verse. + +Then Rita Wallace spoke. "He is great," she said. "He is manifesting +himself in his own way. That is all. To me, at any rate, the meeting +with Mr. Lothian has been wonderful." + +Mrs. Toftrees stared with undisguised dislike of such assertions on the +part of a young girl. + +But Mrs. Amberley, always kind and generous-hearted, had been pleased +and touched by Dickson Ingworth's defence of his friend and master. She +quite realised what the lad stood to lose by doing it, and what courage +on his part it showed. And when Rita Wallace chimed in, Mrs. Amberley +dismissed the whole occurrence from her mind as she beamed benevolently +at the two young people on the sofa. + +"Let's forget all about it," she said. "Mrs. Toftrees, help me to make +my husband sing. He can only sing one song but he sings it +excellently--'In cellar cool'--just the thing for a hot night. Joseph! +do as I tell you!" + +The little group of people rearranged themselves, as Muriel sat down at +the piano to accompany her father. + +"Le metier de poëte laisse a désirer," Toftrees murmured to his wife +with a sneer which almost disguised the atrocious accent of his French. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +SHAME IN "THE ROARING GALLANT TOWN" + + --"Is it for this I have given away + Mine ancient wisdom and austere control?" + + "'Très volontiers' repartit le démon. 'Vous aimez + les tableaux changeants; je veux vous contenter.'" + + --_Le Sage._ + + +When the door of the house had closed after him, and with Mr. +Amberley's courteous but grave good-night ringing in his ears, Gilbert +Lothian walked briskly away across the Square. + +It was very hot. The July sun, that tempest of fire which had passed +over the town during the day, had sucked up all the sweetness from the +air and it was sickly, like air under a blanket which has been breathed +many times. As it often is in July, London had been delightfully fresh +at dawn, when the country waggons were bringing the sweet-peas and the +roses to market, and although his mind had not been fresh as the sun +rose over St. James' where he was staying, Lothian had enjoyed the +early morning from the window of his bedroom. It had been clear and +scentless, like a field with the dew upon it, in the country from which +he had come five days ago. + +Now his mind was like a field in the full sun of noon, parched and full +of hot odours. + +He was perfectly aware that he had made a _faux pas_. How far it went, +whether he was not exaggerating it, he did not know. The semi-intoxicated +person--more especially when speech and gait are more or less normal, +as in his case--is quite incapable of gauging the impression he makes +on others. In lax and tolerant circles where no outward indication is +given him of his state, he goes on his way pleased and confident that +he has made an excellent impression, sure that no one has found him +out. + +But his cunning and self-congratulation quite desert him when he is +openly snubbed or reproved. "Was I very far gone?" he afterwards asks +some confidential friend who may have been present at his discomfiture. +And whatever form the answer may take, the drunkard is abnormally +interested in all the details of the event. Born of the toxic +influences in his blood, there is a gaunt and greedy vanity which +insists upon the whole scene being re-enacted and commented upon. + +Lothian had no one to tell him how far he had gone, precisely what +impression he had made upon his hosts and their guests. He felt with a +sense of injury that Dickson Ingworth ought to have come away with him. +The young man owed so much to him in the literary life! It was a +treachery not to have come away with him. + +As he got into a cab and told the man to drive him as far as Piccadilly +Circus, he was still pursuing this train of thought. He had taken +Ingworth to the Amberleys', and now the cub was sitting in the drawing +room there, with those charming girls! quite happy and at ease. He, +Gilbert Lothian himself! was out of it all, shut out from that gracious +house and those cultured people whom he had been so glad to meet. + +. . . Again he heard the soft closing of the big front door behind him, +and his skin grew hot at the thought. The remembrance of Amberley's +quiet courtesy, but entire change of manner in the hall, was horrible. +He felt as if he had been whipped. The dread of a slight, the fear of a +quarrel, which is a marked symptom of the alcoholic--is indeed his +torment and curse through life--was heavy upon Lothian now. + +The sense of impotence was sickening. What a weak fool he had been to +break down and fly like that. To run away! What faltering and trembling +incapacity for self-assertion he had shown. He had felt uneasy with the +very servant who gave him his opera hat! + +And what had he done after all? Very little, surely. + +That prelude of Chopin always appealed to him strongly. He had written +about it; Crouchmann had played it privately for him and pointed out +new beauties. Certainly he had only met Miss Amberley for the first +time that night and he may have been a little over-excited and +effusive. His thoughts--a poet's thoughts after all--had come too +quickly for ordered expression. He was too Celtic in manner, too +artistic for these staid cold folk. + +He tried to depreciate the Amberleys in his thoughts. Amberley was only +a glorified trades-man after all! Lothian tried to call up within him +that bitter joy which comes from despising that which we really respect +or desire. "Yes! damn the fellow! He _lived_ on poets and men of +letters--privileged people, the salt of the earth, the real forces of +life!" + +And yet he ought to have stayed on and corrected his mistake. He had +made himself ridiculous in front of four women--he didn't care about +the men so much--and that was horribly galling. + +As the cab swung down Regent Street, Lothian was sure that if his +nerves had not weakened for a moment he would never have given himself +away. It was, he felt, very unfortunate. He knew, as he could not help +knowing, that not only had he a mind and power of a rare, high quality, +but that he possessed great personal charm. What he did not realise was +how utterly all these things fled from him when he was not quite sober. +Certainly at this moment he was unable to comprehend it in the +slightest. Realisation would come later, at the inevitable punishment +hour. + +He over-paid his cabman absurdly. The man's quick and eager deference +pleased him. He was incapable of any sense of proportion, and he felt +somehow or other reinstated in his own opinion by this trivial and +bought servility. + +He looked at his watch. It was not very much after ten, and he became +conscious of how ridiculously early he had fled from the Amberleys'. +But as he stood on the pavement--in the very centre of the pleasure-web +of London with its roar and glare--he pushed such thoughts resolutely +from him and turned into a luxurious "lounge," celebrated among fast +youths and pleasure-seekers, known by an affectionate nick-name at the +Universities, in every regimental mess or naval ward-room in Great +Britain. + +As he went down a carpeted passage he saw himself in the long mirror +that lined it. He looked quite himself, well-dressed, prosperous, his +face under full control and just like any other smart man about town. + +At this hour, there were not many people in the place. It would become +crowded and noisy later on. + +The white and green tiles of the walls gleamed softly in the shaded +lights, electric fans and a huge block of ice upon a pedestal kept the +air cool. There were palms which refreshed the eye and upon the +porphyry counter at which he was served there was a mass of mauve +hydrangea in a copper bowl. + +He drank a whiskey and soda very quickly--that was to remove the marked +physical exhaustion which had begun to creep over him--ordered another +and lit a cigarette. + +His nerves responded with magical quickness to the spirit. All day long +he had been feeding them with the accustomed poison. The strain of the +last half hour had used up more vitality than he had been aware. + +For the second time that night--a night so infinitely more eventful +than he knew--he became master of himself, calm, happy, even, in the +sense of power returned, and complete correspondence with his +environment. + +The barmaid who served him was--like most of these Slaves of the Still +in this part of London--an extremely handsome girl. Her face was +painted--all these girls paint their faces--but it was done merely to +conceal the pallor and ravages wrought upon it by a hard and feverish +life. Lothian felt an immense pity for her, symbolic as she was of all +the others, and the few remarks he made were uttered with an +instinctive deference and courtesy. + +He had been married seven years before this time, and had at once +retired into the country with his wife where, by slow degrees, he had +felt his way to the work which had at last made him celebrated. But in +the past he had known the under side of London well and had chosen it +deliberately as his _milieu_. + +It had in no way been forced upon him. Struggling journalist and author +as he was, good houses had been open to him, for he was a member of a +well-known family and had made many friends at Oxford. + +But the other life was so much easier! If its pleasures were coarse, +they were hot and strong! For years, as many a poet has done before +him, he lived a bad life, tolerant of vice in himself and others, kind, +generous often, but tossed and worn by his passions--rivetting the +chains link by link upon his soul--until he had met and married Mary. + +And no one knew better than he the horrors of life behind the counters +of a bar. + +He turned away, as two fresh-faced lads came noisily up to the counter, +turned away with a sigh of pity. He was quite unconscious--though he +would have been interested at the psychological fact--that the girl had +wondered at his manner and thought him affected and dull. + +She would much rather have been complimented and chaffed. She +understood that. Life is full of anodynes. Mercifully enough the rank +and file of the oppressed are not too frequently conscious of their +miseries. There is a half-truth in the philosophy of Dr. Pangloss, and +if fettered limbs go lame, the chains are not always clanking. + +The poor barmaid went to bed that night in an excellent humour, for the +two lads Lothian had seen brought her some pairs of gloves. And if she +had known of Lothian's pity she would have resented it bitterly. + +"Like the fellow's cheek," she would have said. + + +Lothian, as he believed, had absolutely recovered his own normal +personality. He admitted now, as he left the "lounge," that he had not +been his true self at the Amberleys'. + +"At this moment, as I stand here," he said to himself, "'I am the +Captain of my Soul,'" not in the least understanding that when he spoke +of his own "soul" he meant nothing more than his five senses. + +The man thought he was normal. He was not. On the morrow, when +partially recovering from the excesses of to-day, there was a +possibility that he might become normal--for a brief period, and until +he began to drink again. + +For him to become really himself, perfectly clean from the stigmata of +the inebriate mind, would have taken him at least six months of total +abstinence from alcohol. + +Lothian's health, though impaired, had by no means broken down. + +A strong constitution, immense vitality, had preserved it, up to this +point. At this period, though a poisoned man, an alcoholised body, +there were frequent times of absolute normality--when he was, for +certain definite spaces of time by the clock, exactly as he would have +been had he never become a slave to alcohol at all. + +As he stood upon the pavement of Piccadilly Circus, he felt and +believed that such a time had come now. + +He was mistaken. All that was happening was that there was a temporary +lull in the ebb and flow of alcohol in his veins. The brain cells were +charged up to a certain point with poison. At this point they gave a +false impression of security. + +It must be remembered, and it cannot be too strongly insisted on, that +the mental processes of the inebriate are _definite_, and are _induced_. + +The ordinary person says of an inebriate simply that "he is a drunkard" +or "he drinks." Whether he or she says it with sympathetic sorrow, or +abhorrence, the bald statement rarely leads to any further train of +thought. + +It is very difficult for the ordinary person to realise that the +mental processes are _sui generis_ a Kingdom--though with a debased +coinage--which requires considerable experience before it can always +be recognised from the ring of true metal. + +Alcoholism so changes the mental life of any one that it results in +an ego which has _special_ external and internal characteristics. + +And so, in order to appreciate fully this history of Gilbert +Lothian--to note the difference between the man as he was known and as +he really was--it must always be kept in mind under what influence he +moves through life, and that his steps have strayed into a dreadful +kingdom unknown and unrealised by happier men. + +He had passed out of one great Palace of Drink. + +Had he been as he supposed himself to be, he would have sought rest at +once. He would have hurried joyously from temptation in this freedom +from his chains. + +Instead of that, the question he asked himself was, "What shall I do +now?" + +The glutton crams himself at certain stated periods. But when repletion +comes he stops eating. The habit is rhythmic and periodically certain. + +But the Drunkard--his far more sorrowful and lamentable brother--has +not even this half-saving grace. In common with the inordinate +smoker--whose harm is physical and not mental--the inebriate drinks as +long as he is able to, until he is incapacitated. "Where shall I go +now?" + +If God does indeed give human souls to His good angels, as gardens to +weed and tend, that thought must have brought tears of pity to the eyes +of the august beings who were battling for Gilbert Lothian. + +Their hour was not yet. + +They were to see the temple of the Paraclete fall into greater ruin and +disaster than ever before. The splendid spires and pinnacles, the whole +serene beauty of soul and body which had made this Temple a high +landmark when God first built it, were crumbling to decay. + +Deep down among the strong foundations the enemy was at work. The +spire--the "Central-one"--which sprang up towards Heaven was deeply +undermined. Still--save to the eyes of experts--its glory rose +unimpaired. But it was but a lovely shell with no longer any grip upon +its base of weakened Will. And the bells in the wind-swept height of +the Tower no longer rang truly. On red dawns or on pearl-grey evenings +the message they sent over the country-side was beginning to be false. +There was no peace when they tolled the Angelus. + +In oriel or great rose-window the colour of the painted glass was +growing dim. The clear colour was fading, though here and there it was +shot with baleful fire which the Artist had never painted there,--like +the blood-shot eyes of the man who drinks. + +A miasmic mist had crept into the noble spaces of the aisles. The vast +supporting pillars grew insubstantial and seemed to tremble as the +vapour eddied round them. A black veil was quickly falling before the +Figure above the Altar, and the seven dim lamps of the Sanctuary burned +with green and flickering light. + +The bells of a Great Mind's Message, which had been cast with so much +silver in them, rang an increasing dissonance. The trumpets of the +organ echoed with a harsh note in the far clerestory; the flutes were +false, the _dolce_ stop no longer sweet. The great pipes of the pedal +organ muttered and stammered in their massive voices, as if dark +advisers whispered in the ear of the musician who controlled them. + + +Lothian had passed from one great Palace of Drink. "Where shall I go?" +he asked himself again, and immediately his eye fell upon another, the +brilliant illumination upon the façade of a well-known "Theatre of +Varieties." + +His hot eye-balls drank in the flaring signs, and telegraphed both an +impulse and a memory to his brain. + +"Yes!" he said. "I will revisit the 'Kingdom.' There is still two +thirds of an hour before the performance will be over. How well I used +to know it! What a nightly haunt it used to be. Surely, even now, there +will be some people I know there? . . . I'll go in and see!" + +As Lothian turned in at the principal doors of the most celebrated +Music Hall in the world, his pulses began to quicken. + +--The huge foyer, the purple carpets, with their wreaths of laurel in a +purple which was darker yet, the gleaming marble stairway, with its +wide and noble sweep, how familiar all this dignified splendour was, he +thought as he entered the second Palace of Drink which flung wide its +doors to him this night. + +A palace of drink and lust, vast and beautiful! for those who brought +poisoned blood and vicious desires within its portals! Here, banished +from the pagan groves and the sunlit temples of their ancient +glory--banished also from the German pine-woods where Heine saw them in +pallid life under the full moon--Venus, Bacchus and Silenus held their +unholy court. + +For all the world--save only for a few wise men to whom they were but +symbols--Venus and Bacchus were deities once. + +When the Acropolis cut into the blue sky of Hellas with its white +splendour these were the chiefest to whom men prayed, and they ruled +the lives of all. + +And, day by day, new temples rise in their honour. Once they were +worshipped with blythe body and blinded soul. Now the tired body and +the besotted brain alone pay them reverence. But great are their +temples still. + +Such were the thoughts of Lothian--Lothian the Christian poet--and he +was pleased that they should come to him. + +It showed how detached he was, what real command he had of himself. In +the old wild days, before his marriage and celebrity, he had come to +this place, and other places like it, to seize greedily upon pleasure, +as a monkey seizes upon a nut. He came to survey it all now, to revisit +the feverish theatre of his young follies with a bland Olympian +attitude. + +The poison was flattering him now, placing him upon a swaying pedestal +for a moment. He was sucking in the best honey that worthless withering +flowers could exude, and it was hot and sweet upon his tongue. + +--Were any of the old set there after all? He hoped so. Not conscious +of himself as a rule, without a trace of "side" and detesting +ostentation or any display of his fame, he wanted to show off now. He +wanted to console himself for his rebuff at the house in Bryanstone +Square. Vulgar and envious adulation, interested praise from those who +were still in the pit of obscurity from which his finer brain had +helped him to escape, would be perfectly adequate to-night. + +After the episode at the Amberleys', coarse flattery heaped on with a +spade would be as ice in the desert. + +And he found what he desired. + +He passed slowly through the promenade, towards the door which led to +the stalls, and the great lounge where, if anywhere, he would find +people who knew him and whom he knew. + +In a slowly-moving tide, like a weed-clogged wave, the women of the +town ebbed and flowed from horn to horn of the moon-shaped crescent +where they walk. Against the background of sea-purple and white, their +dresses and the nodding plumes in their great hats moved languorously. +Sickly perfumes, as from the fan of an odalisque, swept over them. + +Many beautiful painted masks floated through the scented aisle of the +theatre, as they had floated up and down the bronze corridors of the +Temple of Diana at Ephesus in the far off days of St. Paul. A mourning +thrill shivered up from the violins of the orchestra below; the 'cellos +made their plaint, the cymbals rattled, the kettledrums spoke with deep +vibrating voices. + +. . . So had the sistra clanked and droned in the old temple of bronze +and silver before the altars of Artemis,--the old music, the eternal +faces, ever the same! + +A chill came to Lothian as he passed among these "estranged sad +spectres of the night." He thought suddenly of his pure and gracious +wife, alone in their little house in the country, he thought of the +Canaanitish harlot whose soul was the first that Christ redeemed. For a +moment or two his mind was like a darkened room in which a magic +lantern is being operated and fantastic, unexpected pictures flit +across the screen. And then he was in the big lounge. + +Yes, some of them were there!--a little older, perhaps, to his now much +more critical eye, somewhat more bloated and coarsened, but the same +still. + +"Good heavens!" said a huge man with a blood red face, startling in its +menace, like a bully looking into an empty room, "Why, here's old +Lothian! Where in the world have _you_ sprung from, my dear boy?" + +Lothian's face lit up with pleasure and recognition. The big evil-faced +man was Paradil, the painter of pastels, a wayward drunken creature who +never had money in his pocket, but that he gave it away to every one. +He was a man spoken of as a genius by those who knew. His rare pictures +fetched large prices, but he hardly ever worked. He was soaked, +dissolved and pickled in brandy. + +A little elderly man like a diseased doll, came up and began to +twitter. He was the husband of a famous dancer who performed at the +theatre, a wit in his way, an adroit manager of his wife's affairs with +other men, a man with a mind as hollow and bitter as a dried lemon. + +He was a well-known figure in upper Bohemia. His name was constantly +mentioned in the newspapers as an entrepreneur of all sorts of things, +a popular, evil little man. + +"Ah, Lothian," he said, as one or two other people came up and some one +gave a copious order for drinks, "still alternating between the prayer +book and the decanter? I must congratulate you on 'Surgit Amari.' I +read it, and it made me green with envy to think how many thousand +copies you had sold of it." + +"You've kept the colour, Edgar," he said, looking into the little +creature's face, but the words stabbed through him, nevertheless. How +true they were--superficially--how they expressed--and must +express--the view of his old disreputable companions. They envied him +his cunning--as they thought it--they would have given their ears to +have possessed the same power of profitable hypocrisy--as they thought +it. Meanwhile they spoke virtuously to each other about him. "Gilbert +Lothian the author of 'Surgit Amari'!--it would make a cat laugh!" + +One can't throw off one's past like a dirty shirt--Gilbert began to +wish he had not come here. + +"I ought never to be seen in these places," he thought, forgetting that +it was only the sting of the little man's malice that provoked the +truth. + +But Paradil, kindly Paradil with the bully's face and a heart bursting +with dropsical good nature, speedily intervened. + +Other men joined the circle; "rounds of drinks" were paid for by each +person according to the ritual of such an occasion as this. + +In half an hour, when the theatre began to empty, Lothian was really, +definitely drunk. + +Hot circles expanded and contracted within his head. His face became +pale and very grave in expression, as he walked out into Leicester +Square upon Paradil's supporting arm. There was a portentous dignity in +his voice as he gave the address of his club to the cabman. As he shook +hands with Paradil out of the window, tears came into his eyes, as he +thought of the other's drunken, wasted life. "If I can only help you in +any way, old chap--" he tried to say, and then sank back in oblivion +upon the cushions. + +He was quite unconscious of anything during the short drive to St. +James's Street, and when the experienced cabman pulled down the flag of +the taximeter and opened the door, he sat there like a log. + + +The X Club was not fashionable, but it was reputable and of old +establishment. It was fairly easy to get into--for the people whom the +election committee wanted there--exceedingly difficult for the wrong +set of people. Very many country gentlemen--county people, but of +moderate means--belonged to it; the Major-General and the Admiral were +not infrequent visitors; several Judges were on the members' list and +looked in now and again. + +As far as the Arts went, they were but poorly represented. There was no +sparkle, no night-life about the place. The painters, actors and +writers preferred a club that began to brighten up about eleven o'clock +at night--just when the X became dreary. Not more than a dozen suppers +were served at the staid building in St. James' on any night of the +week. + +Nevertheless, it was not an "old fogies'" club. There was a younger +leaven working there. A good many younger men who also belonged to much +more lively establishments found refreshment, quiet, and just the +proper kind of atmosphere at the X. + +For young men of good families who were starting life in London, there +was a certain sense of being at home there. The building had, in the +past, been the house of a celebrated duke and something of comely and +decent order clung to every room now. And, more than anything, the +servants suggested a country or London house of name. + +Mullion, the grey-haired head-porter who sat in his glass box in the +hall was a kind and assiduous friend to every one. He was reported to +be worth ten thousand pounds and his manners were perfection. He was +one of the most celebrated servants in London. His deference was never +tinged by servility. His interest in your affairs and wants was +delicately intimate and quite genuine. Great people had tried to lure +this good and shrewd person from the X Club, but without success. For +seventeen years he had sat there in the hall, and, if fate was kind, he +meant to sit there for seventeen years more. + +All the servants of the X were like that. The youngest waiter in the +smoking-rooms, library or dining room wore the face of a considerate +friend, and Prince, the head bed-room valet was beloved by every one. +Members of other clubs talked about him and Mullion, the head-porter, +with sighs of regret. + +When Gilbert Lothian's taxi-cab stopped at the doors of the X Club, he +was expected. Dickson Ingworth, who was a member also, had been there +for a few moments, expectant of his friend. + +Old Mullion had gone for the night, and an under-porter sat in the +quiet hall, but Prince, the valet, stood talking to Ingworth at the +bottom of the stair-case. + +"It will be perfectly all right," said Prince. "I haven't done for Mr. +Lothian for all these years without understanding his ways. Drunk or +sober, sir, Mr. Gilbert is always a gentleman. He's the most pleasant +country member in the club, sir! I understand his habits thoroughly, +and he would bear me out in that at any time. I'm sure of that! His +bowl of soup is being kept hot in the kitchens now. The small flask of +cognac and the bottle of Worcester sauce are waiting on his dressing +table. And there's a half bottle of champagne, which he takes to put +him right when I call him in the morning, already on the ice!" + +"I know he appreciates it, Prince. He can't say enough about how you +look after him when he's in London." + +"I thoroughly believe it, sir," said the valet, "but it gives me great +pleasure to hear it from you, who are such a friend of Mr. Gilbert's. I +may say, sir--if I may tell you without offence--that I'm not really on +duty to-night. But when I see how Mr. Gilbert was when he was dressing +for dinner, I made up my mind to stay. James begged me to go, but I +would not. James is a good lad, but he's no memory for detail. He'd +have forgot the bi-carbonate of soda for Mr. Gilbert's heart-burn, or +something like that--I think that's him, sir!" + +Ingworth and the valet hurried over the hall as the inner doors swung +open and Lothian entered. His shirt-front was crumpled. His face was +white and set, his eyes fixed and sombre. + +It was as though the master of the house had returned, when the poet +entered. The under-porter hurried out of his box, Prince had the coat +and opera hat whisked away in a moment. In a moment more, like some +trick of the theatre and surrounded by satellites, Lothian was mounting +the stairs towards his bedroom. + +They put him in an arm-chair--these eager servitors! The electric +lights in the comfortable bed-room were all switched on. The servant +who loved him, not for his generosity, but for himself, vied with the +young gentleman who loved him for somewhat different reasons. + +Both of them had been dominated by this personality for so long, that +there was no sorrow nor pity in their minds. The faithful man of the +people who had served gentlemen so long that any other life would have +been impossible to him, the boy of position, united in their efforts of +resuscitation. + +The Master's mind must be called back! The Master's body must be +succoured and provided for. + +The two were there to do it, and it seemed quite an ordinary and +natural thing. + +"You take off his boots, Prince, and I'll manage his collar." + +"Yes, sir." + +"Managed it?" + +"A little difficulty with the left boot, sir. The instep is a trifle +swelled." + +"Good heavens! I do hope he's not going to have another attack of +gout!" + +"I hope not, sir. But you can't ever tell. It comes very sudden. Like a +thief in the night, as you may say." + +"There! I've broken the stud, but that doesn't matter. His neck's +free." + +"And his boots are off. There's some one knocking. It's his soup. Would +you mind putting his bed-room slippers on, sir? I don't like the cold +for his feet." + +Prince hurried to the door, whispered a word or two to whoever stood +outside, and returned with a tray. + +"Another few minutes," said Prince, as he poured the brandy and +measured the Worcester sauce into the silver-plated tureen; "another +few minutes and he'll be beautiful! Mr. Gilbert responds to anything +wonderful quick. I've had him worse than this at half past twelve, and +at quarter to one he's been talking like an archdeacon. You persuade +him, sir." + +"Here's your soup, Gilbert!" + +"_It's all nothing, there's nobody, all nothing--dark--_," the voice +was clogged and drowsy--if a blanket could speak, the voice might have +been so. + +The boy looked hopelessly at the valet. + +Prince, an alert little man with a yellow vivacious countenance and +heavy, black eye-brows, smiled superior. "When Mr. Gilbert really have +copped the brewer--excuse the expression, sir--he generally says a few +words without much meaning. Leave him to me if you please." + +He wheeled a little table up to the arm-chair, and caught hold of +Lothian's shoulder, shaking him. + +"What? What? My soup?" + +"Yessir, your soup." + +The man's recuperative power was marvellous. His eyes were bleared, his +face white, the wavy hair fell in disorder over his forehead. But he +was awake and conscious. + +"Thank you, Prince," he said, in his clear and sweet voice, "just what +I wanted. Hullo, Dicker! You here?--I'll just have my soup. . . ." + +He grasped the large ladle-spoon with curious eagerness. It was as +though he found salvation in the hot liquid--pungent as it was with +cognac and burning spices. + +He lapped it eagerly, coughing now and again, "gluck-gluck" and then a +groan of satisfaction. + +The other two watched him with quiet eagerness. There was nothing +horrible to them in this. Neither the valet nor the boy understood that +they were "lacqueys in the house of shame." As they saw their muddy +magic beginning to succeed, satisfaction swelled within them. + +Gilbert Lothian's mind was coming back. They were blind to the hideous +necessity of their summons, untouched by disgust at the physical +processes involved. + +"Will you require me any more, sir?" + +"No, thank you, Prince." + +"Very good, sir. I have made the morning arrangements." + +"Good-night, Prince." + +The bedroom door closed. + +Lothian heaved himself out of his chair. He seemed fifteen years older. +His head was sunk forward upon his shoulders, his stomach seemed to +protrude, his face was pale, blotchy, debauched, and appeared to be +much larger than it ordinarily did. + +With a slow movement, as if every joint in his body creaked and gave +him pain, he began to pace slowly up and down the room. Dickson +Ingworth sat on the bed and watched him. + +Yet as the man moved slowly up and down the room, collecting the +threads of his poisoned consciousness, slowly recapturing his mind, +there was something big about him. + +Each heavy, semi-drunken movement had force and personality. The +lowering, considering face spelt power, even now. + +He stopped in front of the bed. + +"Well, Dicker?" he said--and suddenly his whole face was transformed. +Ten years fell away. The smile was sweet and simple, there was a +freakish humour in the eyes,--"Well, Dicker?" + +The boy gave a great gasp of pleasure and relief. The "gude-man" had +come home, the powerful mind-machine had started once more, the house +was itself again! + +"How are you, Gilbert?" + +"Very tired. Horrible indigestion and heartburn, legs like lumps of +brass and a nasty feeling as if an imprisoned black-bird were +fluttering at the base of my spine! But quite sober, Dicker, now!" + +"Nor were you ever anything else, in Bryanstone Square," the young man +said hotly. "It _was_ such a mistake for you to go away, Gilbert. So +unnecessary!" + +"I had my reasons. Was there much comment? Now tell me honestly, was it +very noticeable?--what did they say?" + +"No one said anything at all," Ingworth answered, lying bravely. "The +evening didn't last long after you went. Every one left together--I say +you ought to have seen the Toftrees' motor!--and I drove Miss Wallace +home, and then came on here." + +"A beautiful girl," Lothian said sleepily. "I only talked to her for a +minute or two and she seemed clever and sympathetic. Certainly she is +lovely." + +Ingworth rose from the bed. He pointed to the table in the centre of +the room. "Well, I'm off, old chap," he said. "As far as Miss Wallace +goes, she's absolutely gone on you! She was quoting your verses all the +way in the cab. She lives in a tiny flat with another girl, and I had +to wait outside while she did up that parcel there! It's 'Surgit +Amari,' she wants you to sign it for her, and there's a note as well, I +believe. Good-night." + +"Good-night, Dicker. I can't talk now. I'm beautifully drunk +to-night . . . Look me up in the morning. Then we'll talk." + +The door had hardly closed upon the departing youth, when Lothian sank +into a heap upon his chair. His body felt like a quivering jelly, a +leaden depression, as if Hell itself weighed him down. + +Mechanically, and with cold, trembling hands, he opened the brown paper +parcel. His book, in its cover of sage-green and gold, fell out upon +the table. He began to read the note--the hand-writing was firm, clear +and full of youth--so he thought. The heading of the note paper was +embossed-- + + "The Podley Pure Literature Institute. + + _Dear Mr. Lothian_: + + I am so proud and happy to have met you to-night. I am so sorry + that I had not the chance of telling you what your poems have been + to me--though of course you must always be hearing that sort of + thing. So I will say nothing more, but ask you, only, to put your + name in my copy of "Surgit Amari" and thus make it more + precious--if that is possible--than before. + + Mr. Ingworth has kindly promised to give you this note and the + book. + + Yours sincerely, + + RITA WALLACE." + +The letter dropped unheeded upon the carpet. Thick tears began to roll +down Lothian's swollen face. + +"Mary! Mary!" he said aloud, "I want you, I want you!" . . . + +"Darling! there is no one else in the world but you." + +He was calling for his wife, always so good and kind to him, his dear +and loving wife. At the end of his long foul day, lived without a +thought of her, he was calling for her help and comfort like a sick +child. + +Poisoned, abject, he whined for her in the empty room. + +--She was sleeping now, in the quiet house by the sea. The horn of a +motor-car tooted in St. James' Street below--She was sleeping now in +her quiet chamber. Tired lids covered the frank, blue eyes, the thick +masses of yellow hair were straying over the linen pillow. She was +dreaming of him as the night wind moaned about the house. + +He threw himself upon his knees by the bedside, in dreadful drunken +surrender and appeal. + +--"Father help me! Jesus help me!--forgive me!"--he dare not invoke the +Holy Ghost. He shrank from that. The Father had made everything and had +made him. He was a beneficent, all-pervading Force--He would +understand. The Lord Jesus was a familiar Figure. He was human; Man as +well as God. One could visualise Him. He had cared for harlots and +drunkards! . . . + +Far down in his sub-conscious brain Lothian was aware of what he was +doing. He was whining not to be hurt. His prayers were no more than +superstitious garrulity and fear. Something--a small despairing part of +himself, had climbed upon the roof of the dishonoured Temple and was +stretching trembling hands out into the overwhelming darkness of the +Night. + +"Father, help me! Help me _now_. Let me go to bed without phantoms and +torturing ghosts round me! Do not look into the Temple to-night. I will +cleanse it to-morrow. I swear it! Father! Help me!" + +He began to gabble the Lord's Prayer--that would adjust things in a +sort of way--wouldn't it? There was a promise--yes--one said it, and it +charmed away disaster. + +Half-way through the prayer he stopped. The words would not come to +him. He had forgotten. + +But that no longer distressed him. The black curtain of stupor was +descending once more. + +"'Thy will be done'--what _did_ come after? Well! never mind!" God +was good. He'd understand. After all, intention was everything! + +He scrambled into bed and instantly fell asleep, while the lovely face +of Rita Wallace was the first thing that swam into his disordered +brain. + + +In a remote village of Norfolk, not a quarter of a mile from Gilbert +Lothian's own house, a keen-faced man with a pointed beard, a slim, +alert figure like an osier wand and steely brown eyes was reading a +thin green-covered book of poems. + +Now and then he made a pencil note in the margin. His face was alive +with interest, almost with excitement. It was as though he were tracing +something, hunting for some secret hidden in the pages. + +More than once he gave a subdued exclamation of excitement. + +"It's there!" he said at last to himself. "Yes, it is there! I'm sure +of it, quite apart from what I've heard in the village since I came." + +He rose, put the book carefully away in a drawer, locked it, blew out +the lamp and went to bed. + + +Three hundred miles away in Cornwall, a crippled spinster was lying on +her bed of pain in a cottage by the sea. + +The windows of her room were open and the moon-rays touched a white +Crucifix upon the wall to glory. + +The Atlantic groundswell upon the distant beaches made a sound as of +fairy drums. + +The light of a shaded candle fell upon the white coverlet of her bed, +and upon a book bound in sage-green and gold which lay there. + +The woman's face shone. She had just read for the fifth time, the poem +in "Surgit Amari" which closes the first book. + +The lovely lines had fused with the holy rapture of the night, and her +patient soul was caught up into commune with Jesus. + +"Soon! Oh, soon! Dear Lord," she gasped, "I shall be with Thee for +ever. If it seemeth good to Thee, let me be taken up on some such +tranquil night as this. And I thank Thee, Dear Saviour, that Thou hast +poured Thy Grace into the soul of Gilbert Lothian, the Poet. Through +the white soul of this poet, which Thou hast chosen to be a conduit of +comfort to me, my night pain has gone. I am drawn nearer to Thee, Jesus +who hast died for me! + +"Lord, bless the poet. Pour down Thy Grace upon him. Guard him, shield +him and his for ever more. And, Sweet Lord, if it be Thy will, let me +meet him in Heaven and tell him of this night--this fair night of +summer when I lay dying and happy and thinking kindly and with +gratitude of him. + +"Jesus!" + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +LOTHIAN GOES TO THE LIBRARY OF PURE LITERATURE + + "I only knew one poet in my life: + And this, or something like it, was his way." + + --_Browning._ + + +The Podley Library in West Kensington was a fad of its creator. Mr. +John Podley was a millionaire, or nearly so, and the head of a great +pin-making firm. He was a public man of name and often preached or +lectured at the species of semi-religious conversations known as +"Pleasant Sunday Afternoons." + +Sunday afternoon in England--though Mr. Podley called it "The +Sabbath"--represented the pin-maker's mental attitude with some +fidelity. All avenues to pleasure of any kind were barred, though +possibly amusement is the better word. A heavy meal clogged the +intellect, an imperfectly-understood piece of Jewish religious politics +was made into an idol, erected and bowed down to. + +Mr. Podley had always lived with the fear of God, and the love of money +constantly before his eyes. "Sabbath observance" and total abstinence +were his watchwords, and he also took a great interest in "Literature" +and had pronounced views upon the subject. These views, like everything +else about him, were confined and narrow, but were the sincere +convictions of an ignorant, pompous and highly successful man. + +He had, accordingly, established the Podley Free Library in Kensington +in order to enunciate and carry out his ideas in a practical way. What +he considered--and not without some truth--the immoral tendency of +modern writers, was to be sternly prohibited in his model house of +books. + +Nothing should repose upon those shelves which might bring a blush to +the cheeks of the youngest girl or unsettle the minds of any one at +all. "Very unsettling" was a great phrase of this good, wealthy and +stupid old man. He really was good, vulgar and limited as were all his +tastes, and he had founded the Library to the glory of God. + +He found it impossible--when he became confronted by the task--to +choose the books himself, as he had hoped to do. + +He had sat down one day in his elegant private sanctum at Tulse Hill +with sheets of foolscap before him, to make a first list. The +"Pilgrim's Progress" was written down immediately in his flowing +clerkly hand. Then came the novels of Mrs. Henry Wood. "Get all of this +line" was the pencilled note in the margin. Memories of his youth +reasserted themselves, so "Jessica's First Prayer," "Ministering +Children" and "A Peep Behind the Scenes" were quickly added, and then +there had been a pause. + +"Milton, Shakespeare and the Bible?" said Mrs. Podley, when consulted. +"They're pure enough, I'm sure!" and the pin-maker who had never been +to a theatre, nor read a line of the great poets, wrote them down at +once. As for the Bible, it was God's word, and so "would never bring a +blush" etc. It was Mr. Podley's favourite reading--the Old Testament +more than the New--and if any one had scoffed at the idea that the +Almighty had written it Himself, in English and with a pen, Podley +would have thought him infidel. + +The millionaire was quite out of date. The modern expansions of thought +among the Non-conformists puzzled him when he was (rarely) brought into +any contact with them. His grim, uncultured beliefs were such as exist +only in the remote granite meeting houses of the Cornish moors to-day. + +"I see that Bunyan wrote another book, the 'Holy War,'" said Mr. Podley +to his wife. "I never heard of it and I'm a bit doubtful. I don't like +the name, shall I enter it up or not?" + +The good lady shook her head. "Not knowing, can't say," she remarked. +"But if it is the same man who wrote 'Pilgrim's Progress' then it's +sure to be pure." + +"It's the 'Holy' that puzzles me," he answered, "that's a papist +word--'Holy Church' 'Holy Mary' and that." + +"Then I should leave it out. But I tell you what, my dear, choosing +these books'll take up a lot of your valuable time, especially if each +one's got to be chose separate. You might have to read a lot of them +yourself, there's no knowing! And why should you?" + +"Why, indeed?" said Mr. Podley. "But I don't see how----" + +"Well, I do then, John. It's as simple as A. B. C. You want to +establish a library in which there shan't be any wicked books." + +"That is so?" + +"Yes, my dear. Pure, absolutely pure!" + +"Well, then, have them bought for you by an expert--like you do the +metal for the pins. You don't buy metal yourself any more. You pay high +wages to your buyers to do it. Treat the books the same!" + +"There's a good deal in that, dear. But I want to take a _personal_ +interest in the thing." + +"Now don't you worry, John. 'Tis right that we should all be +conscientious in what we do, but them as has risen to the head of great +businesses haven't any further call to trouble about minor details. +I've heard you say it many a time. And so with this library. You're +putting down the money for it. You've bought the land and the building +is being erected. You've got to pay, and if that isn't taking a +personal interest then I'm sure I don't know what is!" + +"You advise me?--" + +"To go to the best book shop in London--there's that place opposite the +Royal Academy that is the King's booksellers. See one of the partners. +Explain that you want the library furnished with pure books, state the +number you want, and get an estimate of the cost. It's their business +to know what books are pure and what aren't--and, besides, at a shop +like that, they wouldn't sell any wicked books. It would be beneath +them." + +Podley had taken his wife's advice. He had "placed an order" for an +initial ten thousand pure volumes with the firm in question, and the +thing was done. + +The shop in Piccadilly was a very famous shop indeed. It had all the +_cachet_ of a library of distinction. Its director was a man of +letters and an anthologist of repute. The men who actually sold the +books were gentlemen of knowledge and taste, invaluable to many +celebrated authors, mines of information, and all of them trained +bibliophiles. + +"Now look here, Lewis," the director said, to one of his assistants, an +Oxford man who translated Flaubert and wrote introductions to English +editions of Gautier in his spare time, "you've got to fill a library +with books." + +Mr. Lewis smiled. "Funny thing they should come to us," he said; "I +should have thought they would have bought them by the yard, in the +Strand. What is it, American millionaire? question of bindings and +wall-space?" + +"No, not quite," said the director. "It's Mr. Podley, the pin +millionaire and philanthropist. He's founding a public library of 'pure +literature' in Kensington. The only books he has ever read, apparently, +are the books of the Old Testament. He was with me for an hour this +morning. Take a week and make a list. He wants ten thousand volumes for +a start." + +The eyes of Mr. Lewis gleamed. "Certainly!" he said. "It will be quite +delightful. It seems almost too good to be true. But will the list be +scrutinised before the books are actually bought? Won't this Podley man +take another opinion?" + +The director shook his head. "He doesn't know any one who could give +him one," he answered. "It would only mean engaging another expert, and +he's quite satisfied with our credentials. 'Pure books'! Good Lord! I +wonder what he thinks he means. I should like to get inside that man's +head and poke about for an hour. It would be interesting." + +Mr. Lewis provided for the Kensington Institute exactly the library he +would have acquired for himself, if he could have afforded it. The +result, for all real lovers of books, would have been delightful if any +of them had known of it But the name frightened them away, and they +never went there. Members of the general public were also deterred by +the name of the Institute--though for quite different reasons--and folk +of Mr. Podley's own mental attitude were too illiterate (like him), to +want books--"pure" or otherwise--at all. + +Podley, again after consultation with his wife, appointed a clerk from +the Birmingham pin works as chief librarian. "It won't matter," that +shrewd woman had pointed out, "if he knows anything about literature or +not! His duties will be to supervise the lending of the books, and a +soft job he'll have too!" + +A Mr. Hands had been elected, a limpet-like adherent to Podley's +particular shibboleth, and a person as anæmic in mind and body as could +have been met with in a month of search. + +An old naval pensioner and his wife were appointed care-takers, and a +lady-typist and sub-librarian was advertised for, at thirty-five +shillings a week. + +Rita Wallace had obtained the post. + +Hardly any one ever came to the library. In the surge and swell of +London life it became as remote as an island in the Hebrides. Podley +had endowed it--it was the public excuse for the knighthood he +purchased in a year from the Liberal Party--and there it was! + +Rita Wallace had early taken entire charge and command of her nominal +superior--the whiskered and despondent Mr. Hands. The girl frightened +and dazzled him. As he might have done at the foot of Etna or +Stromboli, he admired, kept at a distance, and accepted the fact that +she was there. + +The girl was absolute mistress of the solitary building full of +beautiful books. Sometimes Hands, whose wife was dying of cancer, and +who had no stated times of attendance, stayed away for several days. +Snell and his wife--the care-takers--adored her, and she lunched every +day with them in the basement. + +Mrs. Snell often spoke to her husband about "Miss Rita." "If that there +Hands could be got rid of," she would say, "then it would be ever so +much better. Poor silly thing that he is, with his face like the +underside of a Dover sole! And two hundred a year for doing nothing +more than what Miss Rita tells him! He calls her 'Miss'--as I'm sure he +should, her being a Commander's daughter and him just a dirty +Birmingham clerk! Miss Rita ought to have his two hundred a year, and +him her thirty-five shillings a week. Thirty-five shillings! what is it +for an officer's daughter, that was born at Malta too! I'd like to give +that old Podley a piece of my mind, I would!" + +"In the first place he never comes here. In the second place he's not a +gentleman himself, so that don't mean nothing to him," Snell would say +on such occasion of talk. + +He had been at the Bombardment of Alexandria and could not quite +forget it. . . . "Now if it was Lord Charles what had started +this--'--Magneta--' library, then _'e_ could 'a' been spoke +to--Podley!" + + +It was four o'clock on the afternoon of the day after the Amberleys' +dinner-party. Hands was away, staying beside his sick wife, and Rita +Wallace proposed to close the library. + +She had just got rid of the curate from a neighbouring church, who had +discovered the deserted place--and her. Snubbed with skill the boy had +departed, and as no one else would come--or if they did what would it +matter?--Rita was about to press the button of the electric bell upon +her table and summon Snell. + +The afternoon sunlight poured in upon the books from the window in the +dome. + +The place was cool and absolutely silent, save for the note a straying +drone-bee made as his diapason swept this way and that. + +Even here, as the sunlight fell upon the dusty gold and crimson of the +books, summer was calling. The bee came close to Rita and settled for a +moment upon the sulphur-coloured rose that stood in a specimen-glass +upon her writing-table. + +He was a big fellow, and like an Alderman in a robe of black fur, +bearing a gold chain. + +"Oh, you darling!" Rita said, thinking of summer and the outside world. +She would go to Kensington Palace Gardens where there were trees, green +grass and flowers. "Oh, you darling! You're a little jewel with a +voice, a bit of the real country! I believe you've actually been +droning over the hop-fields of Kent!" + +She looked up suddenly, her eyes startled, the perfect mouth parted in +vexation. Some one was coming, she might be kept any length of +time--for the rare visitors to the Podley Library were generally bores. + +. . . That silly curate might have returned! + +The outer swing doors thudded in the hall, there was the click of a +latch as the inner door was pushed open and Gilbert Lothian entered. + +The girl recognised him at once, as he made his way under the dome +towards her, and her eyes grew wide with wonder. Lothian was wearing a +suit of grey flannel, his hair as he took off his straw hat was a +little tumbled, his face fresh and clear. + +"How do you do," he said, with the half-shy deference that came into +his voice when he spoke to women. "It was such a lovely afternoon that +I thought I might venture to bring back your copy of 'Surgit Amari' +myself." + +Rita Wallace flashed her quick, humorous smile at him--the connection +between the weather and his wish was not too obvious. But her smile had +pleasure of another kind in it also--he had wanted to see her again. + +Lothian laughed boyishly. "I wanted to see you again," he said, in the +very words of her thought. + +The girl was flattered and delighted. There was not the slightest hint +of self-consciousness in her manner, and the flush that came into her +cheeks was one of pure friendliness. + +"It is very kind of you to take so much trouble," she said in a voice +as sweet as singing. "I was so disappointed when you had to go away so +early from the Amberleys' last night." + +She did not say the conventional thing about how much his poems had +meant to her. Girls that he met--and they were not many--nearly always +did, and he always disliked it. Such things meant nothing when they +came as part of ordinary greetings. They jarred upon the poet's +sensitive taste and he was pleased and interested to find that this +girl said nothing of the sort. + +"Well, here's the book," he said, putting it down upon Rita's table. +"And I've written in it as you asked. Do you collect autographs then?" + +She shook her head. "Oh, dear me no," she answered. "I think it's silly +to collect anything that isn't beautiful. But, in a book one values, +and with which one has been happy, the author's autograph seems to add +to the book's personality. But I hate crazes. There are lots of girls +that wait outside stage doors to make popular actors write in their +books. Did you know that, Mr. Lothian?" + +"No, I didn't! Little donkeys! Hard lines on the actors. Even I get a +few albums now and then, and it's a fearful nuisance. I put off writing +in them and they lie about my study until they get quite a battered and +dissipated look." + +"And then?" + +"Oh, I write in them. It would be impolite not to, you know. I have an +invaluable formula. I write, 'Dear Madam, I am very sorry to say that I +cannot accede to your kind request for an autograph. The practice is +one with which I am not in sympathy. Yours very truly, Gilbert +Lothian!'" + +"That's splendid, Mr. Lothian, better than sending a telegram, as some +one did the other day to an importunate girl. They were talking about +it last night at the Amberleys' after you left. I suppose that's really +what gave me courage to send 'Surgit Amari' by Mr. Dickson Ingworth. +Mr. and Mrs. Toftrees said that they always write passages from their +novels when they are asked." + +"Perhaps that's a good plan," Lothian answered, listening to the "viols +in her voice" and not much interested in the minor advertising arts of +the Toftrees. What rare maiden was this with whom he was chatting? What +had made him come to see her after all?--a mere whim doubtless--but was +he not about to reap a very delightful harvest? + +For he was conscious of immense pleasure as he stood there talking to +her, and there was excitement mingled with the pleasure. It was as +though he was advancing upon a landscape, and at every step something +fresh and interesting came into view. + +"I _did_ so dislike Mr. Toftrees and his wife," Rita said with a +mischievous little gleam in her eyes. + +"Did you?" he asked in surprise. "They seemed very pleasant people I +thought." + +"I expect that was because you thought nothing whatever about them, Mr. +Lothian," she replied. + +He realised the absolute truth of the remark in a flash. The novelists +had in no way interested him. He had not thought about these people at +all--this maiden was a psychologist then! There was something subtly +flattering in what she had said. His point of view had interested the +girl, she had discovered it, small and unimportant though it was. + +"But why did you dislike poor Mr. Toftrees?" he said, with an eminently +friendly smile--already an unconscious note of intimacy had been +sounded, he was interested to hear why she disliked the man, not the +woman. + +"He is pompous and insincere," she replied. "He tries to draw attention +to his great success, or rather his notoriety, by pretending to despise +it. Surely, it would be far more manly to accept the fact frankly, and +not to hint that he could be a great artist if he could bring himself +to do without a lot of money!" + +Lothian wondered what had provoked this little outburst. It was +quiveringly sincere, that he saw. His eyes questioned hers. + +"It's such dreadful appalling treacle they write! I saw a little +flapper in the Tube two days ago, with the Toftrees' latest +book--'Milly Mine.' Her expression was ecstatic!" + +"For my part I think that's something to have done, do you know, to +have taken that flapper out of the daily tube of her life into Romance. +Heaven with electric lights and plush fittings is better than none at +all. I couldn't grudge the flapper her ecstasy, nor Mr. Toftrees his +big cheques. I should very much like to see the people in Tubes reading +my books--it would be good for them--and to pouch enormous cheques +myself--would be good for me! But there must be Toftrees sort of +persons now that every one knows how to read!" + +"Well, I'll let his work alone," she answered, "but I certainly do +dislike him. He was trying to run your work down last night--though we +wouldn't let him." + +So the secret was out now! Lothian smiled and the quick, enthusiastic +girl understood. A little ripple of laughter came from her. + +"Yes, that's it," she cried. "He did all he could." + +"Did he? Confound him! I wonder why?" + +Lothian asked the question with entire simplicity. Subtle-minded and +complex as he was, he was incapable of mean thoughts and muddy envy +when he was not under the influence of drink. + +Poisoned, alas, he was entirely different. All the evil in him rose to +the surface. As yet it by no means obscured or overpowered the good, +but it became manifest and active. + +In the case of this fine intellect and splendid artist, no less than in +the worker in the slum or the labourer in the field, drink seemed an +actual key to unlock the dark and secret doors of wickedness which are +in every heart. Some coiled and sleeping serpent within him, no less +than in them, raised its head into baleful life and sudden enmity of +good. + +A few nights ago, half intoxicated in a club--intoxicated in mind that +is, for he was holding forth with a caustic bitterness and sharp +brilliancy that had drawn a crowd around him--he had abused the work of +Herbert Toftrees and his wife with contemptuous and venomous words. + +He was quite unconscious that he had ever done so. He knew nothing +about the couple and had never read a line of their works. The subject +had just cropped up somehow, like a bird from a stubble, and he had let +fly. It was pure coincidence that he had met the novelists at the +Amberleys' and Lothian had entirely forgotten that he had ever +mentioned their work at the club. + +But the husband and wife had heard of it the next day, as people +concerned always do hear these things, and neither of them were likely +to forget that their books had been called "as flat as champagne in +decanters," their heroines "stuffy" and that compared to even "--" and +"--" they had been stigmatised as being as pawn-brokers are to bankers. + +Lothian had made two bitter enemies and he had not the slightest +suspicion of it. + +"I wonder why?" he said again. "I don't know the man. I've never done +him any harm that I know of. But of course he has a right to his own +opinions, and no doubt he really thinks----" + +"He knows nothing whatever about it," Rita answered. "If a man like +that reads poetry at all he has to do it in a prose translation! But I +can tell you why--Addison puts it far better than I can. I found the +passage the other day. I'll show you." + +She was all innocent eagerness and fire, astonishingly sweet and +enthusiastic as she hurried to a bookshelf and came back with a volume. + +Following her slim finger, he read:-- + + "There are many passions and tempers of mankind, which naturally + dispose us to depress and vilify the merit of one rising in the + esteem of mankind. + + All those who made their entrance into the world with the same + advantages, and were once looked on as his equals, are apt to think + the fame of his merits a reflection on their own deserts. Those, + who were once his equals, envy and defame him, because they now see + him their superior; and those who were once his superiors, because + they look upon him as their equal." + +The girl was gazing at him in breathless attention, wondering whether +she had done the right thing, hoping, indeed, that Lothian would be +pleased. + +He was both pleased and touched by this lovely eager little champion, +so unexpectedly raised up to defend him. + +"Thank you very much," he said. "How kind of you! My bruised vanity is +now at rest. I am healed of my grievous wound! But this seems quite a +good library. Are you here all alone, does nobody ever come here? I +always heard that the Podley Library was where the bad books went when +they died. Tell me all about it." + +His hand had mechanically slipped into his waistcoat and half withdrawn +his cigarette case. He could never be long without smoking and he +wanted a cigarette now more than ever. During a whole hour he had not +had a drink. A slight suspicion of headache floated at the back of his +head, he was conscious of something heavy at his right side. + +"Do smoke," she said. "No one minds--there never is any one to mind, +and I smoke here myself. Mr. Hands, the head librarian, didn't like it +at first but he does what I tell him now. I'm the assistant librarian." + +She announced her status with genuine pride and pleasure, being +obviously certain that she occupied a far from unimportant position in +public affairs. + +Lothian was touched at her simplicity. What a child she was really, +with all her cleverness and quickness. + +He smoked and made her smoke also--"Delicious!" she exclaimed with +pretty greediness. "How perfectly sweet to be a man and able to afford +Ben Ezra's Number 5." + +"How perfectly sweet!"--it was a favourite expression of Rita's. He +soon got to know it very well. + +He soon got to know all about the library and about her also, as she +showed him round. + +She was twenty-one, only twenty-one. Her father, a captain in the Navy, +had left her just sufficient money for her education, which had been at +a first-class school. Then she had had to be dependent entirely upon +her own exertions. She seemed to have no relations and not many friends +of importance, and she lived in a tiny three-roomed flat with another +girl who was a typist in the city. + +She chattered away to him just as if he were a girl friend as they +moved among the books, and it was nearly an hour before they left the +Library together. + +"And now what are you going to do?" + +"I must go home, Mr. Lothian," she said with a little sigh. "It has +been so kind of you to come and see me. I was going to sit in +Kensington Palace Gardens for a little while, but I think I shall go +back to the flat now. How hot it is! Oh, for the sea, now, just think +of it!" + +There was a flat sound in her voice. It lost its animation and timbre. +He knew she was sorry to say good-bye to him, rather forlorn now that +the stimulus and excitement of their talk was over. + +She was lonely, of course. Her pleasures could be but few and far +between, and at twenty-one, when the currents of the blood run fast and +free, even books cannot provide everything. Thirty-five shillings a +week! He had been poor himself in his early journalistic days. It was +harder for a girl. He thought of her sitting in Kensington Gardens--the +pathetic and solitary pleasure the child had mapped out for herself! He +could see the little three-roomed flat in imagination, with its girlish +decorations and lack of any real comfort, and some appalling meal +presently to be eaten, bread and jam, a lettuce! + +The idea came into his mind in a flash, but he hesitated before +speaking. Wouldn't she be angry if he asked her? He'd only met her +twice, she was a lady. Then he decided to risk it. + +"I wonder," he said slowly. + +"What are you wondering, Mr. Lothian?" + +--"If you realise how easy it is to be by the sea. I know it's cheek to +ask you--or at least I suppose it is, but let's go!" + +"How do you mean, Mr. Lothian?" + +"Let's motor down to Brighton now, at once. Let's dine at the +Metropole, and go and sit on the pier afterwards, and then rush home +under the stars whenever we feel inclined. Will you!" + +"How splendid!" she cried, "now! at once? get out of everything?" + +"Yes, now. I am to be the fairy godmother. You have only to say the +magic word, and I will wave my wand. The blue heat mists of evening +will be over the ripe Sussex cornfields, and we shall see the poppies +drinking in the blood of the sinking sun with their burnt red mouths. +And then, when we have dined, the moon will wash the sea with silver, +the stars will come out like golden rain and the Queen Moon will be +upon her throne! We shall see the long, lit front of Brighton like a +horned crescent of topaz against the black velvet of the downs. And +while we watch it under the moon, the breeze shall bring us faint +echoes of the fairy flutes from Prospero's enchanted Island--'But doth +suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange--' And then the sea +will take up the burthen 'Ding-dong, ding-dong bell.' Now say the magic +word!" + +"There is magic in the Magician's voice already, and I needs must +answer. Yes! and oh, yes, YES a thousand times!" + +"The commandments of convention mean nothing to you?" + +"They are the Upper Ten Commandments, not mine." + +"Then I will go and command my dragon. I know where you live. Be ready +in an hour!" + +"How perfectly, _perfectly_ sweet! And may we, oh, may we have a +lobster mayonnaise for dinner?" + + + + +CHAPTER V + +"FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE WAS GOING TO HAVE A GIRL FRIEND" + + "Across the hills, and far away + Beyond their utmost purple rim, + And deep into the dying day + The happy princess followed him." + + --_Tennyson._ + + +Lothian went back to his club in a taxi-cab, telling the man to drive +at top speed. On the way he ordered a motor-car to go to Brighton and +to call for him within twenty minutes. + +He was in a state of great exhilaration. He had not had such an +adventure as this for years--if ever before. A girl so lovely, so +clever, so young--and particularly of his own social rank--he had never +met, save for a short space of time and under the usual social +conditions which forbade any real intimacy. + +Even in the days before his marriage, flirtations, or indeed any +companionship, with girls who were not of his class had not attracted +him. He had never, unlike other men no less brilliant and gifted than +himself, much cared for even the innocent side of Bohemian camaraderie +with girls. + +And to have a girl friend--and such a girl as Rita Wallace--was a +delightful prospect. He saw himself responding to all sorts of simple +feminine confidences, exploring reverently the unknown country of the +Maiden mind, helping, protecting; unfolding new beauties for the young +girl's delight. Yes! he would have a girl friend! + +The thing should be ideal, pure and without a thought of harm. She +understood him, she trusted herself to him at once and she should be +repaid richly from the stores of his mind. None knew better than he +what jewels he had to give to one who could recognise jewels when she +saw them. + +He changed his hat for a cap and had a coat brought down from his +bedroom. Should he write a note to Mary at home? He had not sent her +more than two telegrams of the "All going splendidly, too busy to +write," kind, during the five days he had been in London. He decided +that he would write a long letter to-morrow morning. Not to-night. +To-night was to be one of pure, fresh pleasure. Every prospect pleased. +Nothing whatever would jar. He was not in the mood to write home +now--to compose details of his time in Town, to edit and alter the true +record for the inspection of loving eyes. + +"My darling!" he said to himself as he drank the second whiskey and +soda which had been brought to him since he had come in, but there was +an uncomfortable feeling in the back of his mind that the words did not +ring true. + +More than ever exhilarated, as excited as a boy, he jumped into the +motor-car when it arrived, and glided swiftly westwards, congratulating +himself a dozen times on the idle impulse which had sent him to +Kensington. He began to wonder how it had come. + +The impulse to bring the book himself had been with him all day. It had +taken him till lunch time at least to put himself in any way right--to +_appear_ right even. With a sick and bitter mind he had gone through +the complex physical ritual necessary after the night before--the +champagne at eight, the Turkish bath, the hair-dresser's in Regent +Street where fast men slunk with hot and shaking hands to have the +marks of their vices ironed out of their faces with vibrating hammers +worked by electricity. + +All through the morning, the bitter, naked, grinning truth about +himself had been horribly present--no new visitor, but the same leering +ghost he knew so well. + +Escape was impossible until the bestial sequence of his morning cure +had run its course. Coming down the bedroom stairs into the club there +was the disgusting and anxious consciousness that his movements were +automatic and jerky, the real fear of meeting any one--the longing to +bolt upstairs again and hide. Then a tremendous effort of will had +forced him to go on. Facial control was--as ever--the most difficult +thing. When he passed the waiters in the smoking room he must screw his +face into the appearance of absorbed thought, freeze the twitching +mouth and the flickering eyes into immobility. He had hummed a little +tune as he had sat down at a table and ordered a brandy and soda, +starting as if from a reverie when it was brought him, and making a +remark about the weather in a voice of effusive geniality which +embarrassed the well-trained servant. + +By lunch time the convulsive glances in the mirror, the nervous +straying of the hand to the hair, the see-saw of the voice had all +gone. Black depression, fear, self-pity, had vanished. The events of +the night before became like a landscape seen through the wrong end of +a telescope, far away, and as if they concerned some one quite other +than himself. + +He had not exactly forgotten the shame of his behaviour at the +Amberleys' house. But, as he always did after events of this sort, and +they were becoming far more general than he realised, he had pushed the +thought away in some attic of the brain and closed the door. He would +have these memories out some day--soon. It would not be pleasant, but +it must of course be done. Then he would put everything right with +himself, destroy all these corpses, and emerge into the free sunlight +for ever more. + +But not to-day. He must put himself _quite_ right to-day. When he _was_ +right then he wouldn't have another drink all day. Yes! then by +to-morrow, after a quiet, pensive night, he would throw off all his +habits as if he were throwing an old pair of gloves over a wall. He +knew well what he could do! He knew himself better than any one else +knew him. + +But not to-day. "Inshallah Bukra!"--"Please God, to-morrow!" + +It had all seemed perfectly natural, though it happened over and over +again, and to-morrow never came. + +He did not know that this was but one more definite symptom of his +poisoned state, as definite as the shaking hand, the maudlin midnight +invocations of God, the frequent physical nausea of the morning, even. + +And if the man is to be understood and his history to become real in +all its phases, then these things must be set down truly and without a +veil. + + +It was a joy to watch her pleasure as they swung out of London in the +twenty-horse power Ford he had hired. + +She did not say much but leant back on the luxurious cushions by his +side. There was a dream of happiness upon her face, and Lothian also +felt that he was living in a dream, that it was all part of the painted +scenes of sleep. + +The early evening was still and quiet. The Western sky, a faint +copper-green with friths and locks of purple, was as yet unfired. In +the long lights the landscape still retained its colour unaltered by +the dying splendours of sunset. The engines of the car were running +sweetly in a monotonous and drowsy hum, the driver sat motionless in +front as they droned through the quiet villages and up and down the +long white ribands of the road. It was an hour of unutterable content. + +Once they stopped in a village and drew up before the inn. It was a +lovely place. A bell was tolling for evensong in the grey church and +they saw the vicar pass under the lych-gate with slow footsteps. One of +the long, painted windows was caught by the sun and gleamed like a red +diamond. The road fell to a pond where green water-flags were growing +and waxen-white water-lilies floated. Beyond it was a willow wood. + +The driver sat on a bench before the inn and drank his beer, but +Gilbert and Rita passed through it into a garden that there was. The +flowers were just beginning to cense the still air and the faint sound +of a water-wheel down the river came to them--_tic, tac, lorelei!_ + +She would have milk, "Milk that one cannot get in London," and even he +asked for no poison in this tranquil garden. + +Clematis hung the gables like tapestry of Tyrian purple. There were +beds of red crocketed hollyhock and a hedge of honeysuckle with a +hundred yellow trumpet mouths. At their feet were the flowers of +belamour. + +"Men have died, trying to find this place which we have found," he +said. + +A red-admiral floated by upon its fans of vermilion and black as +Gilbert quoted, and a faint echo from the water-mill answered him. +_Tic--tac--lorelei!_ + +"Magician! half an hour ago we were in London!" + +"You are happy?" + +"I can't find anything to say--yet. It is perfect." + +She leant back with a deep sigh and closed her eyes, and he was well +content to say nothing, for in all the garden she seemed to him the +most perfect thing, rosa-amorosa, the queen of all the roses! + +It was as a flower he looked at her, no more. It was all a dream, of +course. It had come in dream-fashion, it would go in the fashion of a +dream. At that moment she was not a warm human girl with a lovely face. +She was not the clever, lonely, subtle-simple maiden in the house of +books. She was a flower he had met. + +His mind began to weave words, the shuttle to glide in the loom of the +poet, but words came to him that were not his own. + + "Come hither, Child! and rest; + This is the end of day, + Behold the weary West! + + "Now are the flowers confest + Of slumber; sleep as they! + Come hither, Child! and rest." + +And then he sighed, for he thought of the other poet who had written +those lines and of what had brought him to his dreadful death. + +Why did thoughts like these come into the flower garden? + +How true--even here--were the words he had put upon the title-page of +the book which had made him famous-- + +"_Say, brother, have you not full oft Found, even as the Roman did, +That in Life's most delicious cup Surgit Amari Aliquid!_" + +The girl heard him sigh and turned quickly. She saw that her friend's +face was overcast. + +It was so much to her, this moment, she was so happy since she had +stepped from the hot streets of the city into fairyland with the +Magician, that there must be no single shadow. + +"Come!" she said gaily, "this is perfect but there are other perfect +things waiting. Wave your wand again, Prospero, and change the magic +scene." + +Lothian jumped up from his seat. + +"Yes! on into the sunset. You are right. We must go before we are +satisfied. That's the whole art of living--Miranda!" + +Her eyes twinkled with mischief. + +"How old you have grown all of a sudden," she said, but as they passed +through the inn once more he thought with wonder that if six years were +added to his age he might have been her father in very fact. Many a man +of forty-one or two had girls as old as she. + +He sent her to the motor, on pretence of stopping to pay for the milk, +but in the little bar-parlour he hurriedly ordered whiskey--"a large +one, yes, only half the soda." + +The landlord poured it out with great speed, understanding immediately. +He must have been used to this furtive taking in of the fuel, here was +another accustomed acolyte of alcohol. + +"Next stop Brighton, sir," he said with a genial wink. + +Lothian's melancholy passed away like a stone falling through water as +the car started once more. He said something wildly foolish and +discovered, with a throb of amazement and recognition, that she could +play! He had never met a girl before who could play, as he liked to +play. + +There was a strain of impish, freakish humour in Lothian which few +people understood, which few _sensible_ people ever can understand. It +is hardly to be defined, it seems incredibly childish and mad to the +majority of folk, but it sweetens life to those who have it. And such +people are very rare, so that when one meets another there is a +surprised and delighted welcome, a freemason's greeting, a shout of joy +in Laughter Land! + +"Good heavens!" he said, "and you can play then!" + +There was no need to mention the name of the game--it has none +indeed--but Rita understood. Her sweet face wrinkled into impish +mischief and she nodded. + +"Didn't you know?" + +"How could I possibly?" + +"No, you couldn't of course, but I never thought it of _you_." + +"Nor I of you," he answered. "I'll test you. 'The cow is in the +garden.'" + +"'The cat is in the lake,'" she answered instantly. + +"'The pig is in the hammock?'" + +"'What difference _does_ it make?'" she shouted triumphantly. + +For the rest of the drive to Brighton their laughter never stopped. +Nothing draws a man and a woman together as laughter does--when it is +intimate to themselves, a mutual language not to be understood of +others. They became extraordinary friends, as if they had known each +other from childhood, and the sunset fires in all their glory passed +unheeded. + +Although he could hear nothing of what they said, there was a +sympathetic grin upon the chauffeur's face at the ringing mirth behind +him. + +"It's your turn to suppose now, Mr. Lothian." + +"Well--wait a minute--oh, let's suppose that Mr. Podley once wrote a +moral poem--you to play!" + +Rita thought for a minute or two, her lips rippling with merriment, her +young eyes shining. + +A little chuckle escaped her, her shoulders began to shake and then she +shrieked with joy. + +"I've got it, splendid! Listen! It's to inculcate kindness to animals. + + "I am only a whelk, Sir, + Though if you but knew, + Although I'm a whelk, Sir, + The Lord made me too!" + +"Magnificent!--your turn." + +"Well, what will the title of the Toftrees' next novel be?" + +"'Cats' meat!'--I say, do you know that I have invented the one _quite_ +perfect opening for a short story. You'll realise when you hear it that +it stands alone. It's perfect, like Giotto's Campanile or 'The Hound of +Heaven.'" + +"Tell me quickly!" + +"Mr. Florimond awoke from a deep sleep. There was nobody there but the +Dog Trust." + +"You are wonderful. I see it, of course. It's style itself! And how +would you end the story? Have you studied the end yet?" + +"Yes. I worked at it all the time I was in Italy last year. You shall +hear that too. Mr. Florimond sank into a deep sleep. There was nobody +there but the Dog Trust." + +. . . He told her of his younger days in London when he shared a flat +with a brother journalist named Passhe. + +"We lived the most delightful freakish lives you can imagine," he said. +"When we came into breakfast from our respective bedrooms we had a +ritual which never varied. We neither looked at each other nor spoke, +but sat down opposite at the table. We each had our newspaper put in +our place by the man who looked after us. We opened the papers and +pretended to read for a moment. Then Basil looked over the top of his +at me, very gravely. 'We live in stirring times, Mr. Lothian!' he would +say, and I used to answer, 'Indeed, Mr. Passhe, we do!' Then we became +as usual." + +"How perfectly sweet! I must do that with Ethel--that's the girl I live +with, you know--only we don't have the papers. It runs up so!" she +concluded, with a wise little air that sent a momentary throb of pain +through a man who had never understood (even in his poorest days) what +money meant; and probably never would understand. + +Poor, dear little girl! Why couldn't he give her-- + +"We're here, Mr. Lothian! Look at the lights! Brighton at last!" + + +Rita had been whisked away by a chambermaid and he was waiting for her +in the great hall of the Metropole. He had washed, reserved a table, +and swallowed a gin and bitters. He felt rather tired physically, and a +little depressed also. His limbs had suddenly felt cramped as he left +the motor car, the wild exhilaration of their fun had made him tired +and nervous now. His bad state of health asserted itself unpleasantly, +his forehead was clammy and the palms of his hands wet. + +No champagne for him! Rita should have champagne if she liked, but +whiskey, whiskey! that was the only thing. "I can soon pull myself +together," he thought. "She won't know. I'll tell the fellow to bring +it in a decanter." + +Presently she came to him among the people who moved or sat about under +the lights of the big, luxurious vestibule. She was a little shy and +nervous, slightly flushed and anxious, for she had never been in such a +splendid public place before. + +He gathered that from her whispered remarks, as with a curious and +pleasant air of proprietorship he took her to the dining rooms. + +There was a bunch of amber-coloured roses upon her plate as she sat +down at their table, which he had sent there a few minutes before. She +pressed them to her face with a shy look of pleasure as he conferred +with the head waiter, who himself came hurrying up to them. + +Lothian was not known at the hotel, but it was always the same wherever +he went. His wife often chaffed him about it. She said that he had a +"tipping face." Whether that was so or not, the result was the same, he +received immediate and marked attention. Rita noticed it with pride. + +He had been, from the first moment he entered the Library in his simple +flannel suit, just a charming and deferential companion. There had been +no preliminaries. The thing had just happened, that was all. In all her +life she had never met any one so delightful, and in her excitement and +pleasure she had quite forgotten that he was Gilbert Lothian. + +But it came back to her very vividly now. + +How calmly he ordered the dinner and conferred with the wine-man, who +had a great silver chain hanging on his shirt front! What an accustomed +man-of-the-world air there was about him, how they all ran to serve +him. She blushed mentally as she thought of her simple confidences and +girlish chatter--and yet he hadn't seemed to mind. + +She looked round her. "It is difficult to realise," she said, as much +to herself as to her host, "that there are people who dine in places +like this every day." + +Lothian looked round him. "Yes," he said a trifle bitterly, as his eye +fell upon a party of Jews who had motored down from London,--"people +who rule over three-quarters of the world--and an entire eclipse of the +intellect! You can see it here, unimportant as it is, compared to the +great places in London and Paris--'the feasting and the folly and the +fun, the lying and the lusting and the drink'!" + +Rita looked at him wonderingly, following the direction of his eyes. + +"Those people seem happy," she said, not understanding his sudden mood, +"they are all laughing and they all seem amused." + +"Yes, but people don't always laugh because they are amused. +Slow-witted, obese brained people--like those Israelites there--laugh +very often on the chance that there is something funny which eludes +them. They don't want to betray themselves. When I see people like that +I feel as if my mind ought to be sprinkled with some disinfecting +fluid." + +As a matter of fact, the party at the other table with their handsome +Oriental faces and alert, vivacious manner did not seem in the least +slow-witted, nor were they. One of them was a peer and great newspaper +proprietor, another a musician of world celebrity. Lothian's cynicism +jarred on the pleasure of the moment. For the first time the girl did +not feel quite _en rapport_, and was a little uneasy. He struck too +harsh a note. + +But at that moment waiters bustled up with soup, champagne in an ice +pail, and a decanter of some bright amber liquid for Lothian. He poured +and drank quickly, with an involuntary sigh of satisfaction. + +"How I wanted that!" he said with a frank smile. "I was talking +nonsense, Miranda, but I was tired. And I'm afraid that when I get +tired I'm cross. I've been working very hard lately and am a little run +down," he added, anxious that she should not think that their talk had +tired him, and feeling the necessity of some explanation. + +It satisfied her immediately. His change of voice and face reassured +her, the little shadow passed. + +"Oh, I _am_ enjoying myself!" she said with a sigh of pleasure, "but +what's this? How strange! The soup is _cold_!" + +"Yes, didn't you know? It's iced consommé, awfully good in hot +weather." + +She shook her head. "No, I didn't," she said. "I've never been anywhere +or seen anything, you know. When Ethel and I feel frightfully rich, we +have dinner at Lyons, but I've never been to a swagger restaurant +before." + +"And you like it?" + +"It's heavenly! How good this soup is. But what a waste it seems to put +all that ice round the champagne. Ice is so dreadfully expensive. You +get hardly any for fourpence at our fishmongers." + +But it was the mayonnaise with its elaborate decoration that intrigued +her most. + +Words failed at the luscious sight and it was a sheer joy to watch her. + +"Oh, what a pig I am!" she said, after her second helping, with her +flashing, radiant smile, "but it was too perfectly sweet for anything." + +The champagne and excitement had tinted her cheeks exquisitely, it was +as though a few drops of red wine had been poured into a glass of clear +crystal water. With little appetite himself, Lothian watched her eat +with intense pleasure in her youth and health. His depression had gone, +he seemed to draw vitality from her, to be informed with something of +her own pulsing youth. He became quite at his best, and how good that +was, not very many people knew. + +It was his hour, his moment, every sense was flattered and satisfied. +He was dining with the prettiest girl in the room, people turned to +look at her. She hung on his words and was instantly appreciative. A +full flask of poison was by his side, he could help himself without let +or hindrance. Her innocence of what he was doing--of what it was +necessary for him to do to remain at concert-pitch--was supreme. No one +else knew or would have cared twopence if they did. + +He was witty, in a high courtly way. The hour of freakish fun was over, +and his shrewd insight into life, his poetic and illuminating method of +statement, the grace and kindliness of it all held the girl spellbound. + +And well it might. His nerves, cleared and tempered, telegraphed each +message to his brilliant, lambent brain with absolute precision. + +There was an entire co-ordination of all the reflexes. + +And Rita knew well that she was hearing what many people would have +given much to hear, knew that Lothian was exerting himself to a +manifestation of the highest power of his brain--for her. + +For her! It was an incredible triumph, wonderfully sweet. The dominant +sex-instinct awoke. Unconsciously she was now responding to him as +woman to man. Her eyes, her lips showed it, everything was quite +different from what it had been before. + +In all that happened afterwards, neither of them ever forgot that +night. For the girl it was Illumination. + +. . . She had mentioned a writer of beautiful prose whom she had +recently discovered in the library and who had come as a revelation to +her. + +"Nothing else I have ever read produces the same impression," she said. + +"There are very few writers in prose that can." + +"It is magic." + +"But to be understood. You see, some of his chapters--the passages on +Leonardo da Vinci for instance, are intended to be musical compositions +as it were, in which words have to take the place and perform the +functions of notes. It has been pointed out that they are impassioned, +not so much in the sense of expressing any very definite sentiment, but +because, from the combination and structure of the sentences, they +harmonise with certain phases of emotion." + +She understood. The whole mechanism and intention of the writer were +revealed to her in those lucent words. + +And then a statement of his philosophy. + +"In telling me of your reading just now, you spoke of that progress of +the soul that each new horizon in literature seems to stimulate and +ensure for you. And you quoted some hackneyed and beautiful lines of +Longfellow. Cling always to that idea of progress, but remember that we +don't really rise to higher things upon the stepping stones of our dead +selves so much as on the stepping stones of our dead opinions. That is +Progress. _Progress means the capability of seeing new forms of +beauty._" + +"But there are places where one wants to linger." + +"I know, but it's dangerous. You were splendidly right when you bade me +move from that garden just now. The road was waiting. It is so with +states of the soul. The limpet is the lowest of organisms. Movement is +everything. One life may seem to be like sunlight moving over sombre +ground and another like the shadow of a cloud traversing a sunlit +space. But both have meaning and value. Never strike an average and +imagine you have found content. The average life is nothing but a +pudding in a fog!" + +Lothian had been talking very earnestly, his eyes full of light, fixed +on her eyes. And now, in a moment, he saw what had been there for many +minutes, he saw what he had roused. + +He was startled. + +During this delightful evening that side of their intercourse had not +been very present in his mind. She was a delightful flower, a flower +with a mind. It is summed up very simply. _He had never once wanted +to touch her._ + +His face changed and grew troubled. A new presence was there, a problem +rose where there had been none before. The realisation of her physical +loveliness and desirability came to him in a flood of new sensation. +The strong male impulse was alive and burning for the first time that +night. + +A waiter had brought a silver dish of big peaches, and as she ate the +fruit there was that in her eyes which he recognised, though he knew +her mind was unconscious of it. + +In the sudden stir and tumult of his thoughts, one became dominant. + +It was an evil thought, perhaps the most subtle and the most evil that +can come to a man. The pride of intellect in its most gross and +devilish manifestation awoke. + +He was not a vain man. He did not usually think much about his personal +appearance and charm. But he knew how changed in outward aspect he was +becoming. His glass told him that every morning at shaving time. His +vice was marking him. He was not what he was, not what he should and +might be, in a physical regard. And girls, he knew, were generally +attracted by physical good-looks in a man. Young Dickson Ingworth, for +instance, seemed able to pick and choose. Lothian had often laughed at +the boyish and conceited narratives of his prowess. And now, to the +older man came the realisation that his age, his growing corpulence, +need mean nothing at all--if he willed it so. A girl like this, a pearl +among maidens, could be dominated by his intellect. He knew that he was +not mistaken. Over a fool, however lovely and attractive by reason of +her sex, he would have no power. But here . . . + +An allurement more dazzling than he had thought life held was suddenly +shown him. + +There was an honest horror, a shudder and recoil of all the good in him +from this monstrous revelation, so sudden, so unexpected. + +He shuddered and then found an instant compromise. + +It could not concern _himself_, it never should. But it might be +regarded--just for a few brief moments!--from a detached point of view, +as if it had to do with some one else, some creation of a fiction or a +poem. + +And even that was unutterably sweet. + +It should be so, only for this night. There would be no harm done. And +it was for the sake of his Art, the psychological experience to be +gathered. . . . + +There is no time in thought. The second hand of his watch had hardly +moved when he leant towards her a little and spoke. + +"Cupid!" he said. "I think I know why they used to call you Cupid at +your school!" + +Just as she had been a dear, clever and deferential school-girl in the +Library, a girl-poet in the garden, a freakish companion-wit after +that, so now she became a woman. + +He had fallen. She knew and tasted consciousness of power. + +Another side of the girl's complex personality appeared. She led him on +and tried to draw back. She became provocative at moments when he did +not respond at once. She flirted with a finished art. + +As he lit a cigarette for her, she tested the "power of the hour" to +its limit, showing without possibility of mistake how aware she was. + +"What would Mrs. Lothian think of your bringing me here to dinner?" she +said very suddenly. + +For a moment he did not know what to answer, the attack was so direct, +the little feline thrust revealing so surely where he stood. + +"She would be delighted that I was having such a jolly evening," he +answered, but neither his smile nor his voice was quite true. + +She smiled at him in girlish mockery, rejoicing! + +"You little devil!" he thought with an embarrassed mental grin. "How +dare you." She should pay for that. + +"Would you mind if my wife did care," he asked, looking her straight in +the eyes. + +"I ought to, but--I shouldn't!" she answered recklessly, and all his +blood became fired. + +Yet at that, he leant back in his chair and laughed a frank laugh of +amusement. The tension was over, the dangerous moment passed, and soon +afterwards they wandered out into the night, to go upon the pier "just +for half an hour" before starting for London. + +And neither of them saw that upon one of the lounges in the great hall, +sipping coffee and talking to the newspaper-peer Herbert Toftrees was +sitting. + +He saw them at once and started, while an ugly look came into his eyes. +"Look," he said. "There's Gilbert Lothian, the Christian Poet!" + +"So that's the man!" said Lord Morston, "deuced pretty wife he's got. +And very fine work he does too, by the way." + +"Oh, that's not his wife," Toftrees answered with contempt. "I know who +that is quite well. Lothian keeps his wife somewhere down in the +country and no one ever sees her." And he proceeded to pour the history +of the Amberleys' dinner-party into a quietly amused and cynical ear. + + +The swift rush back to London under the stars was quiet and dreamy. +Repose fell over Gilbert and Rita as they sat side by side, repose +"from the cool cisterns of the midnight air." + +They felt much drawn to each other. Laughter and all feverish thoughts +were swept away by the breezes of their passage through the night. They +were old friends now! An affection had sprung up between them which was +to be a real and enduring thing. They were to be dear friends always, +and that would be "perfectly sweet." + +Rita had been so lonely. She had wanted a friend so. + +He was going home on the morrow. He had been too long away. + +But he would be up in town again quite soon, and meanwhile they would +correspond. + +"Dear little Rita," he said, as he held her hand outside the door of +the block of flats in Kensington. "Dear child, I'm so glad." + +It was a clear night and the clocks were striking twelve. + +"And I'm glad, too," she answered,--"Gilbert!" + +He was soon at his club, had paid the chauffeur and dismissed him. +There was no one he wanted to talk to in either of the smoking rooms, +and so, after a final peg he went upstairs to bed. He was quite +peaceful and calm in mind, very placidly happy and pleased. + +To-morrow he would go home to Mary. + +He said his prayers, begging God to make this strange and sweet +friendship that had come into his life of value to him and to his +little friend, might it always be fine and pure! + +So he got into bed and a pleasant drowsiness stole over him; he had a +sense of great virtue and peace. All was well with his soul. + +"Dear little Rita," were the words he murmured as he fell asleep and +lay tranquil in yet another phase of his poisoned life. + +No dreams disturbed his sleep. No premonition came to tell him whither +he had set his steps or whither they would lead him. + +A mile or two away there was a nameless grave of shame, within a +citadel where "pale Anguish keeps the gate and the Warder is Despair." + +But no spectre rose from that grave to warn him. + + +END OF THE FIRST BOOK + + + + +BOOK TWO + +LOTHIAN IN NORFOLK + + "Not with fine gold for a payment, + But with coin of sighs, + But with rending of raiment + And with weeping of eyes, + But with shame of stricken faces + And with strewing of dust, + For the sin of stately places + And lordship of lust." + + + + +CHAPTER I + +VIGNETTE OF EARLY MORNING. "GILBERT IS COMING HOME!" + + "Elle se repand dans ma vie + Comme un air imprégné de sel, + Et dans mon âme inassouvie + Verse le goût de l'éternel." + + --_Baudelaire._ + + +The white magic of morning was at work over the village of Mortland +Royal. From a distant steading came the thin brazen cry of a cock, thin +as a bugle, and round the Lothians' sleeping house the bubble of +bird-song began. + +In the orchard before the house, which ran down to the trout stream, +Trust, the brown spaniel dog, came out of a barrel in his little fenced +enclosure, sniffed the morning air, yawned, and went back again into +his barrel. White mist was rising from the water-meadows, billowed into +delicate eddies and spirals by the first breeze of day, and already +touched by the rosy fingers of dawn. + +In the wood beyond the meadows an old cock-pheasant made a sound like +high hysteric laughter. + +The house, with its gravel-sweep giving directly on to the unfenced +orchard, was long and low. The stones were mellowed by time, and +orange, olive, and ash-coloured lichens clung to them. The roof was of +tiles, warm red and green with age, the windows mullioned, the +chimney-stack, which cut deep into the roof, high and with the grace of +Tudor times. + +The place was called the "Old House" in the village and was a veritable +sixteenth century cottage, rather spoilt by repairs and minor +extensions, but still, in the silent summer morning, with something of +the grace and fragrance of an Elizabethan song. It was quite small, +really, a large cottage and nothing more, but it had a personality of +its own and it was always very tranquil. + +On such a summer dawn as this with the rabbits frisking in the +pearl-hung grass, on autumn days of brown and purple, or keen spring +mornings when the wind fifed a tune among the bare branches of the +apple-trees; on dead winter days when sea-birds from the marshes +flitted against the grey sky like sudden drifts of snow, a deep peace +ever brooded over the house. + +The air began to grow fresher and the mists to disperse as the breeze +came over the great marshes a mile beyond the village. Out on the +mud-flats with their sullen tidal creeks the sun was rising like a red +Host from the far sea which tolled like a Mass bell. The curlews with +their melancholy voices were beginning to fly inland from the marshes, +high up in the still sky. The plovers were calling, the red-shanks +piping in the marrum grass, and a sedge of herons shouted their hoarse +"frank, frank" as they clanged away over the saltings. + +Only the birds were awake in this remote Norfolk village, the cows in +the meadows had but just turned in their sleep, and not even the bees +were yet a-wing. Peace, profound and brooding, lay over the Poet's +house. + +Dawn blossomed into perfect morning, all gold and blue. It began, early +as it was, to grow hot. Trust came out of his barrel and began to pad +round his little yard with bright brown eyes. + +There was a sound of some one stirring in the silent house, and +presently the back door, in the recess near the entrance gates, was +flung wide open and a housemaid with untidy hair and eyes still heavy +with sleep, stood yawning upon the step. There was a rattle of cinders +and the cracking of sticks as the fire was lit in the kitchen beyond. +Trust, in the orchard, heard the sound. He could smell the wood-smoke +from the chimney. Presently one of the Great Ones, the Beloved Ones, +would let him out for a scamper in the dew. Then there would be +biscuits for the dog Trust. + +And now brisk footsteps were heard upon the road outside the entrance +gates. In a moment more these were pushed open with a rattle, and +Tumpany swung in humming a little tune. + +Tumpany was a shortish thick-set man of fifty, with a red clean-shaven +face. He walked with his body bent forward, his arms hanging at his +sides, and always seemed about to break into a short run. It was five +years since he had retired even from the coast-guard, but Royal Navy +was written large all over him, and would be until he tossed off his +last pint of beer and sailed away to Fidler's Green--"Nine miles to +windward of Hell," as he loved to explain to the housemaid and the +cook. + +Tumpany's wife kept a small shop in the village, and he himself did the +boots and knives, cleaned Gilbert's guns and went wild-fowling with him +in the winter, was the more immediate Providence of the Dog Trust, and +generally a most important and trusted person in the little household +of the Poet. + +There was an almost exaggerated briskness in Tumpany's walk and manner +as he turned into the kitchen. Blanche, the housemaid, was now "doing" +the dining-room, in the interior of the house, but Phoebe, the cook--a +stalwart lass of three and twenty--had just got the fire to her liking +and was giving a finishing touch of polish to the range. + +"Morning, my girl!" said Tumpany in a bluff, cheery voice. + +Phoebe did not answer, but went on polishing the handle of the oven +door. + +He repeated the salutation, a shade less confidently. + +The girl gave a final leisurely twist of the leather, surveyed her work +critically for a moment, and then rose to her feet. + +"There are them knives," she said shortly, pointing to a basket upon +the table, "and the boots is in the back kitchen." + +"You needn't be so short with a man, Phoebe." + +"You needn't have been so beastly drunk last night. Then them knives +wouldn't want doing this morning. If it hadn't been for me the dog +wouldn't have had no food. If the mistress knew she would have given +you what for, as I expect your missis have already if the truth were +known." + +"Damn the mistress!" said Tumpany. He adored Mary Lothian, as Phoebe +very well knew, but his head burned and he was in the uncertain temper +of the "morning after." The need of self-assertion was paramount. + +"Now, no beastly language in my kitchen," said the girl. "You go and do +your damning--and them knives--in the outhouse. I wonder you've the +face to come here at all, Master being away too. Get out, do!" + +With a very red and sulky face, Tumpany gathered up the knives and +shambled away to his own particular sanctum. + +The ex-sailor was confused in his mind. There was a buzzing in his head +like that of bees in a hive. He had a faint recollection of being +turned out of the Mortland Arms just before ten o'clock the night +before. His muddy memories showed him the stern judicial face of the +rather grim old lady who kept the Inn. He seemed to feel her firm hands +upon his shoulders yet. + +But had he come back to the Old House? He was burning to ask the cook. +One thing was satisfactory. His mistress had not seen him or else +Phoebe's threat would have meant nothing. Yet what had happened in his +own house? He had woke up in the little parlour behind the shop. Some +one had covered him with an overcoat. He had not dared to go upstairs +to his wife. He hoped--here he began to rub a knife up and down the +board with great vigour--he did hope that he hadn't set about her. +There was a sick fear in the man's heart as he polished his knives. + +In many ways a better fellow never breathed. He was extremely popular +in the village, Gilbert Lothian swore by him, Mary Lothian liked him +very well. He was a person of some consequence in the village community +where labourers worked early and late for a wage of thirteen shillings +a week. His pension was a good one, the little shop kept by his wife +was not unprosperous, Lothian was generous. He only got drunk now and +then--generally at the time when he drew his pension--but when he did +his wife suffered. He would strike her, not knowing what he did. The +dreadful marks would be on her face in the morning and he would suffer +an agony of dull and inarticulate remorse. + +So, even in the pretty cottage of this prosperous and popular man--so +envied by his poorer neighbours--_surgit amari aliquid_! + +. . . If only things had been all right last night! + +Tumpany put down his knife with a bang. He slipped from his little +outhouse, and slunk across the orchard. Then he opened the iron gate of +the dog's kennel. + +The dog Trust exploded over Tumpany like a shell of brown fur. He leapt +at him in an ecstasy of love and greeting and then, unable to express +his feelings in any other way, rolled over on his back with his long +pink tongue hanging out, and his eyes blinking in the sun. + +"Goodorg," said Tumpany, a little comforted, and then both he and Trust +slunk back to the outhouse. There was a sympathetic furtiveness in the +animal also. It was as though the Dog Trust quite understood. + +Tumpany resumed his work. Two rabbits which he had shot the day before +were hanging from the roof, and Trust looked up at them with eager +eyes. A rabbit represented the unattainable to Trust. He was a +hard-working and highly-trained sporting dog, a wild-fowling dog +especially, and he was never allowed to retrieve a rabbit for fear of +spoiling the tenderness of his mouth. When one of the delicious little +creatures bolted under his very nose, he must take no notice of it at +all. Trust held the (wholly erroneous) belief that if only he had the +chance he could run down a rabbit in the open field. He did not realise +that a dog who will swim over a creek with a snipe or tiny ring-plover +in his mouth and drop it without a bone being broken must never touch +fur. His own greatness forbade these baser joys, but like the Prince in +the story who wanted to make mud pies with the beggar children, he was +unconscious of his position, and for him too--on this sweet +morning--surgit amari aliquid. + +But life has many compensations. The open door of the brick shed was +darkened suddenly. Phoebe, who in reality had a deep admiration for Mr. +Tumpany, had relented, and in her hand was a mug of beer. + +"There!" she said with a grin, "and take care it don't hiss as it goes +down. Pipes red hot I expect! Lord what fools men are!" + +Tumpany said nothing, but the deep "gluck gluck" of satisfaction as he +drank was far more eloquent than words. + +Phoebe watched him with a pitying and almost maternal wonder in her +simple mind. + +"A good thing you've come early, and Mistress ain't up yet," she said. +"I went into the cellar as quiet as a cat, and I held a dish-cloth over +the spigot when I knocked it in again so as to deaden the sound. You +can hear the knock all over the house else!" + +"Thank ye, Phoebe, my dear. That there beer's in lovely condition; and +I don't mind saying I wanted it bad." + +"Well, take care, as you don't want it another day so early. I see your +wife last night!" + +She paused, maliciously enjoying the anxiety which immediately clouded +the man's round, red face. + +"It's all right," she said at length. "She was out when you come home +from the public, and she found you snoring in the parlour. There was no +words passed. I must get to work." + +She hurried back to her kitchen. Tumpany began to whistle. + +The growing warmth of the morning had melted the congealed blood which +hung from the noses of the rabbits. One or two drops fell upon the +flags of the floor and the Dog Trust licked them up with immense +relish. + +Thus day began for the humbler members of the Poet's household. + + +At a few minutes before eight o'clock, the mistress of the house came +down stairs, crossed the hall and went into the dining room. + +Mary Lothian was a woman of thirty-eight. She was tall, of good figure, +and carried herself well. She was erect, without producing any +impression of stiffness. She walked firmly, but with grace. + +Her abundant hair was pale gold in colour and worn in a simple Greek +knot. The nose, slightly aquiline, was in exact proportion to the face. +This was of an oval contour, though not markedly so, and was just a +little thin. The eyes under finely drawn brows, were a clear and +steadfast blue. + +In almost every face the mouth is the most expressive feature. If the +eyes are the windows of the soul, the mouth is its revelation. It is +the true indication of what is within. The history of a man or woman's +life lies there. For those who can read, its subtle changing curves at +some time or another, betray all secrets of evil or of good. It is the +first feature that sensual vices coarsen or self-control refines. The +sin of pride moulds it into shapes that cannot be hidden. Envy, hatred +and malice must needs write their superscription there, and the blood +stirs about our hearts when we read of an angelic smile. + +The Greeks knew this, and when their actors trod the marble stage of +Dionysius at Athens, or the theatre of Olympian Zeus by the hill +Kronian, their faces were masked. The lips of Hecuba were always frozen +into horror. The mouths of the heralds of the Lysistrata were set in +one curve of comedy throughout the play. Voices of gladness or sorrow +came from lips of wax or clay, which never changed as the living lips +beneath them needs must do. A certain sharpness and reality, as of life +suddenly arrested at one moment of passion, was aimed at. Men's real +mouths were too mobile and might betray things alien to the words they +chanted. + +The mouth of Mary Lothian was beautiful. It was rather large, +well-shaped without possessing any purely æsthetic appeal, and only a +very great painter could have realised it upon canvas. In a photograph +it was nothing, unless a pure accident of the camera had once in a way +caught its expression. The mouth of this woman was absolutely frank and +kind. Its womanly dignity was overlaid with serene tenderness, a firm +sweetness which never left it. In repose or in laughter--it was a mouth +that could really laugh--this kindness and simplicity was always there. +Always it seemed to say "here is a good woman and one without guile." + +The whole face was capable without being clever. No freakish wit lurked +in the calm, open eyes, there was nothing of the fantastic, little of +the original in the quiet comely face. All kind and simple people loved +Mary Lothian and her-- + + "Sweet lips, whereon perpetually did reign + The Summer calm of golden charity." + +Men with feverish minds and hectic natures could see but little in +her--a quiet woman moving about a tranquil house. There was nothing +showy in her grave distinction. She never thought about attracting +people, only of being kind to them. Not as a companion for their +lighter hours nor as a sharer in their merriment, did people come to +her. It was when trouble of mind, body or estate assailed them that +they came and found a "most silver flow of subtle-paced counsel in +distress." + +Since the passing of Victoria and the high-noon of her reign, the +purely English ideal of womanhood has disappeared curiously from +contemporary art and has not the firm hold upon the general mind that +it had thirty years ago. + +The heroines of poems and fictions are complex people to-day, +world-weary, tempestuous and without peace of heart or mind. The two +great voices of the immediate past have lost much of their meaning for +modern ears. + + "So just + A type of womankind, that God sees fit to trust + Her with the holy task of giving life in turn." + +--Not many pens nor brushes are busy with such ladies now. + + "Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, + The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife." + +--Who sings such Isabels to-day? It is Calypso of the magic island of +whom the modern world loves to hear, and few poets sing Penelope +faithful by the hearth any more. + +But when deep peace broods over a dwelling, it is from the Mary +Lothians of England that it comes. + +Mary was very simply dressed, but there was an indescribable air of +distinction about her. The skirt of white piqué hung perfectly, the +cream-coloured blouse with drawn-thread work at the neck and wrists was +fresh and dainty. On her head was a panama hat with a scarf of mauve +silk tied loosely round it and hanging down her back in two long ends. + +In one hand she held a silver-headed walking cane, in the other a small +prayer-book, for she was going to matins before breakfast. + +She spoke a word to the cook and went out of the back door, calling a +good-morning to Tumpany as she passed his shed, and then went through +the entrance-gate into the village street. + +By this hour the labourers were all at work in the fields and +farmyards--the hay harvest was over and the corn cutting about to +begin--but the cottage doors were open and the children were gathering +in little groups, ready to proceed to school. + +There was a fresh smell of wood-smoke in the air and the gardens of the +cottages were brilliant with flowers. + +Mary Lothian, however, was thinking very little about the village--to +which she was Lady Bountiful. She hardly noticed the sweet day +springing over the country side. + +She was thinking of Gilbert. + +He had been away for a week now and she had heard no news of him except +for a couple of brief telegrams. + +For several days before he went to London, she had seen the signs of +restlessness and ennui approaching. She knew them well. He had been +irritable and moody by fits and starts. After lunch he had slept away +the afternoons, and at dinner he had been feverishly gay. Once or twice +he had driven into Wordingham--the local town--during the afternoon, +and had returned late at night, very angry on one of these occasions to +find her sitting up for him. + +"I wish to goodness you would go to bed, Mary," he had said with a +sullen look in his eyes. "I do hate being fussed over as if I were a +child. I hate my comings and goings spied upon in this ridiculous way. +I must have freedom! Kindly try and remember that you have married a +poet--an artist!--and not some beef-brained ordinary fool!" + +The servants had gone to bed, but she had lit candles in old silver +holders, and spread a dainty supper for him in case he should be +hungry, taking especial care over the egg sandwiches and the salad +which he said she made so perfectly. + +She had gone to bed without a word, for she knew well what made him +speak to her like that. She lay awake listening, her room was over the +dining room, and heard the clink of a glass and the gurgle of a syphon. +He was having more drink then. When he came upstairs he went into the +dressing room where he sometimes slept, and before long she heard him +breathing heavily in sleep. He always came to her room when he was +himself. + +Then she had gone downstairs noiselessly to find her little supper +untouched, a smear of cigarette ash upon the tablecloth, and that he +had forgotten to extinguish the candles. + +There came a day when he was especially kind and sweet. His recent +irritation and restlessness seemed to have quite gone. He smoked pipes +instead of cigarettes, always a good sign in him, and in the afternoon +they had gone for a long tramp together over the marshes. She was very +happy. For the last year, particularly since his name had become +well-known and he was seriously counted among the celebrities of the +hour, he had not cared to be with her so much as in the past. He only +wanted to be with her when he was depressed and despondent about the +future. Then he came for comfort and clung to her like a boy with his +mother. "It's for the sake of my Art," he would say often enough, +though she never reproached him with neglect. "I _must_ be a great +deal alone now. Things come to me when I am alone. I love being with +you, sweetheart, but we must both make a sacrifice for my work. It +means the future. It means everything for both of us!" + +He used not to be like this, she sometimes reflected. In the earlier +days, when he was actually doing the work which had brought him fame, +he had never wanted to be away from her. He used to read her +everything, ask her opinion about all his work. Life had been more +simple. She had known every detail of his. He had not drunk much in +those days. In those days there had been no question of that at all. +After the success it was different. + +She had gone to his study in the morning, after nights when he had been +working late, and had been struck with fear when she had looked at the +tantalus. But, then, he had been spruce and cheerful at breakfast and +had made a hearty meal. Her remonstrances had been easily swept away. +He had laughed. + +"Darling, don't be an old goose! You don't understand a bit. What?--Oh, +yes, I suppose I did have rather a lot of whiskey last night. But I did +splendid work. And it is only once in a way. I'm as fit this morning as +I ever was in my life. But I'm working double tides now. You know what +an immense strain it is. Just let me consolidate my reputation, become +absolutely secure, and--well, then you'll see!" + +But for months now things had not improved, and on this particular day, +a week ago now, the sudden change in Gilbert, when the placidity of the +old time seemed to have returned, was like cool water to a wound. + +They had been such friends again! In the evening they had got out all +her music and while he played, she had sung the dear old songs of their +courtship and early married life. They had the "Keys Of Heaven," "The +Rain Is on the River," "My Dear Soul" and the "Be My Dear and Dearest!" +of Cotsford Dick. + +On the next morning the post had brought letters calling Gilbert to +London. He had to arrange with Messrs. Ince and Amberley about his new +book. Mr. Amberley had asked him to dine--"You don't perhaps quite +understand, dear, but when Amberley asks one, one _must_ go"--there +were other important things to see after. + +Gilbert had not asked her to come with him. She would have liked to +have gone to London very much. It was a long time since she had been to +a theatre, ages since she had heard a good concert. And shopping too! +It seemed such a good opportunity, while the sales were on. + +She had hinted as much, but he had shaken his head with decision: "No, +dear, not now. I am going strictly on business. I couldn't give you the +time I should want to, and I should hate that. It wouldn't be fair to +you. We'll go up in the Autumn, just you and I together and have a +really good time. That will be far jollier. For heaven's sake, don't +let's try to mix up business with pleasure. It's fatal to both." + +Had he known that he was to be called to London? Had he arranged it +beforehand, itching to be free of her gentle yoke, her wise, +restraining hand? Was that the reason that he had been so affectionate +the day before he went away? His conscience was uneasy perhaps . . . ? + +And why had he not written--was there a sordid, horrible reason for his +silence; when was he coming back . . . ? + +These were the sad, disturbing thoughts stirring in Mary's mind as the +near tolling of the bell smote upon her ears and she entered the +Churchyard. + + +The church at Mortland Royal was large and noble. It would have held +the total population of the village three times over. Relic of Tudor +times when Norfolk was the rich and prosperous centre of the wool +industry of England, it was only one of the many pious monuments of a +vanished past which still keep watch and ward over the remote, +forgotten villages of the North East Coast. + +Stately still the fane, in its noble masses, its fairness, majesty and +strength, the slender intricacy and rich meshes of its tracery in which +no single cusp or finial is in vain, no stroke of the chisel useless. +Stately the grey towers also, foursquare for centuries to the winds of +the Wash. Dust the man who made it, but uncrumbled stone the body of +his dream. He had thought in light and shadow. He had seen these +immemorial stones when the sun of July mornings was hot upon them, or +the early dusks of December left them to the dark. Out of the spaces of +light and darkness in the vision of his mind this strong tower had been +built. + +Inviolate, it was standing now. + +But as Mary passed through the great porch with its worn and weathered +saints into the Church itself, the breath of the morning was damp and +there was a chill within. + +The gallant chirrup of the swallows flying round the tower, sank to a +faint "cheep, cheep," the voice of the tolling bell became muffled and +funereal, and mildew lay upon the air. "Non sum qualis eram," the lorn +interior seemed to echo to her steps, "bonae sub regno Ecclesiæ." + +There was a little American organ in the Chancel. No more would the +rich plainsong of Gregory echo under these ancient roofs like a flowing +tide in some cavern of the sea. + +The stone Altar was covered with a decaying web of crimson upon which +was embroidered a symbol of sickly, faded yellow. Perhaps never again +would a Priest raise the Monstrance there, while the ceremonial +candle-flames were pallid in the morning light and hushed voices hymned +the Lamb of God. + +These, all these, were in the olden time and long ago. + +But the Presence of God, the Peace of God, were in the Church still, +soul-saving, and as real as when the gracious ceremonies of the past +symbolised them for those who were there to worship. + +Mr. Medley, the old Priest who was curate to a Rector who was generally +away, walked in from the vestry with the patient footsteps of age and +began the office. + +. . . _Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred and strayed +from thy ways like lost sheep._ + +The old and worthy man with his tremulous voice, the sweet matron with +her grave beauty just matured to that St. Martin's Summer of Youth +which is the youth of perfect wifehood, said the sacred words together. +His cultured and appealing voice, her warm contralto echoed under the +high roof in ebb and flow and antiphon of sound. + +It was the twenty-sixth day of the month. . . . + + "Trouble and heaviness have laid hold upon me: + Yet is my delight in thy commandments." + + "The righteousness of thy testimonies is everlasting: O + grant me understanding and I shall live." + +The morning was lighter than ever when Mary came out of Church, and its +smile was reflected on her face. + +In the village street an old labourer leading a team of horses, touched +his cap and grinned a welcome while his wistful eyes plainly said, "God +bless you, Ma'am," as Mary went by. + +A merry "ting-tang clank" came from the blacksmith's shop, ringing out +brightly in the bright air, and as she drew near the gate of the Old +House, whom should she see but the postman! + +"No. There ain't no letter for you," said the Postman--a sly old +crab-apple of a man who always knew far too much--"but what should you +say," he dangled it before her as a sweetmeat before a child, "what +should you say if as how I had a telegram for 'ee?" + +--"That you were talking nonsense, William. There can't be a telegram. +It's far too early!" + +"Well, then, there _is_!" said William triumphantly, "'anded in at +the St. James' Street office, London, at eight-two! Either Mr. +Lothian's up early or he ain't been to bed. It come over the telephone +from Wordingham while I was a sorting the letters. Mrs. Casley took'n +down. So there! Mr. Lothian's a coming home by the nine-ten to-night." + +Mary tore open the orange envelope:-- + + "_Arrive nine-ten to-night all my love Gilbert_" + +was what she read. + +Then, with quick footsteps, she hurried through the gates. Her eyes +sparkled, her lips had grown red, and as she smiled her beautiful, +white teeth flashed in the sunlight. + +She looked like a girl. + +Tumpany was propped against the lintel of the back door. Phoebe was +talking to him, the Dog Trust basked at his feet, and he had a short +briar pipe in his mouth. + +"Master is coming home this evening, Tumpany!" Mary said. + +Tumpany snatched the pipe from his mouth and stood to attention. The +cook vanished into the kitchen. + +"Can I see you then, Mum?" Tumpany asked, anxiously. + +"After breakfast. I've not had breakfast yet. Then we'll go into +everything." + +She vanished. + +"Them peas," said Tumpany to himself, "he'll want to know about them +peas--Goodorg!"--accompanied by Trust, Tumpany disappeared in the +direction of the kitchen garden. + +But Mary sat long over breakfast that morning. The sunlight painted +oblongs of gold upon the jade-green carpet. A bee visited the copper +bowl of honeysuckle upon the sideboard, a wasp became hopelessly +captured by the marmalade, and from the bedrooms the voice of Blanche, +the housemaid, floated down--tunefully convinced that every nice girl +loves a sailor. + +And of all these homely sounds Mary Lothian's ear had little heed. + +Sound, light, colour, the scent of the flowers in the garden--a thing +almost musical in itself--were as nothing. + +One happy fact had closed each avenue of sense. Gilbert was coming +home! + +Gilbert was coming home! + + + + +CHAPTER II + +AN EXHIBITION OF DOCTOR MORTON SIMS AND MR. MEDLEY, WITH AN ACCOUNT OF +HOW LOTHIAN RETURNED TO MORTLAND ROYAL + + "Seest thou a man diligent in his business: He shall stand before + Kings. He shall not stand before mean men." + + --_The Bible._ + + +About eleven-thirty in the morning, Mr. Medley, the curate, came out of +the rectory where he lived, and went into the village. + +Mortland Royal was a rich living, worth, with the great and lesser +tythe, some eight or nine hundred a year. The rector, the Hon. Leonard +O'Donnell, was the son of an Irish peer who owned considerable property +in Norfolk and in whose gift the living was. Mr. O'Donnell was a man of +many activities, a bachelor, much in request in London, and very little +inclined to waste his energies in a small country village. He was a +courtly, polished little man who found his true _milieu_ among people +of his own class, and neither understood, nor particularly cared to +understand, a peasant community. + +His work, as he said, lay elsewhere, and he did a great deal of good in +his own way with considerable satisfaction to himself. + +Possessed of some private means, Mortland Royal supplemented his income +and provided him with a convenient _pied à terre_ where he could +retire in odd moments to a fashionable county in which a number of +great people came to shoot in the season. The rectory itself was a +large old-fashioned house with some pretensions to be called a country +mansion, and for convenience sake, Mr. Medley was housed there, and +became de facto, if not de jure, the rector of the village. Mr. +O'Donnell gave his colleague two hundred a year, house room, and an +absolutely free hand. The two men liked one another, if they had not +much in common, and the arrangement was mutually convenient. + +Medley was a pious priest of the old-fashioned type. His flock claimed +all the interest of his life. He had certain fixed and comely habits +belonging to his type and generation. He read his Horace still and took +a glass of port at dinner. Something of a scholar, he occasionally +reviewed some new edition of a Latin classic for the _Spectator_, +though he was without literary ambitions. He had a little money of his +own, and three times a year he dined at the high table in Merton +College Hall, where every one was very pleased to see him. + +A vanishing type to-day, but admirably suited to his environment. The +right man in the right place. + +The real rector was regarded with awe and some pride in the village. +His name was often in the newspapers. He was an eloquent speaker upon +Temperance questions at important congresses. He went to garden parties +at Windsor and theatricals at Sandringham. When he was in residence and +preached in his own church, it was fuller than at other times. He was a +draw. His distinguished face and high, well-bred voice were a pleasant +variation of monotony. And the theology which had made him so welcome +in Mayfair was not without a pleasing titillation for even the rustic +mind. Mr. O'Donnel was convinced, and preached melodiously, the theory +that the Divine Mercy extends to all human beings. He asserted that, in +the event, all people would enter Paradise--unless, indeed, there was +no Paradise, which in his heart of hearts he thought exceedingly +likely. + +But he did good work in the world, though probably less than he +imagined. It was as an advocate of Temperance that Leonard O'Donnell +was particularly known, and it was as that he was welcomed by Society. + +He was a sort of spiritual Karlsbad and was nicknamed the Dean of +Vichy. + +The fact was one that had a direct bearing on Gilbert Lothian's life. + +The Rector of Mortland Royal was a "managing" man. His forte was to be +a sort of earthly Providence to all sorts of people within his sphere, +and his motive was one of genuine good nature and a wish to help. As a +woman he would have been an inveterate matchmaker. + +Did old Marchioness, who liked to keep an eye upon her household +affairs, bewail the quality of London milk--then she must have it from +Mr. Samuel, the tenant of the Glebe Farm at Mortland Royal! + +Did a brother clergyman ask to be recommended a school for his son, the +Rector knew the very place and was quite prepared to take the boy down +himself and commend him specially to the Headmaster. With equal +eagerness, Mr. O'Donnell would urge a confessor or a pill, and the odd +thing about it was, that he was nearly always right, and all sorts of +people made use of the restless, kindly little man. + +One day, Dr. Morton Sims, the bacteriologist and famous expert upon +Inebriety, had walked from a meeting of the Royal Commissioners upon +Alcoholism to the Junior Carlton with Mr. O'Donnell. + +Both were members and they had dined there together. + +"I am run down," said Morton Sims, during the meal. "I have been too +much in London lately. I've got a lot of important research work to do. +I'm going to take a house in the country for a few months, only I don't +know where." + +The mind of the man occupied with big things was impatient of detail; +the mind of the man occupied with small ones responded instantly. + +"I know of the very place, Sims. In my own village. How fortunate! The +'Haven.' Old Admiral Custance used to have it, but he's dead recently. +There are six months of the lease still to run. Mrs. Custance has gone +to live at Lugano. She wants to let the place furnished until the lease +is up." + +"It sounds as if it might do." + +"But, my dear fellow, it's the very place you want! Exactly the thing! +I can manage it for you in no time. Pashwhip and Moger--the house +agents in our nearest town--have the letting. Do let me be of use!" + +"It's very kind of you, O'Donnell." + +"Delighted. It will be so jolly to have you in the village. I'm not +there as much as I could wish, of course. My other work keeps me so +much in London. But Medley, my colleague, is an excellent fellow. He'll +look after you in every way." + +"Who lives round about?" + +"Well, as far as Society is concerned, we are a little distance from +anywhere. Lord Fakenham's is the nearest house----" + +"Not in that way, O'Donnell. I mean interesting people. Lord Fakenham +is a bore--a twelve-bore one might say. I hate the big shooting houses +in East England." + +The Rector was rather at a loss. "Well," he said, reluctantly, "I don't +know about what you'd probably call _interesting_ people. Sir Ambrose +McKee, the big Scotch distiller--Ambrosia whiskey, you know--has the +shooting and comes down to the Manor House in September. Oh, and +Gilbert Lothian, the poet, has a cottage in the place. I've met him +twice, but I can't say that I know much about him. Medley swears by his +wife, though. She does everything in the village I'm told. She was a +Fielding, the younger branch." + +The doctor's face became strangely interested. It was alert and +watchful in a moment. + +"Gilbert Lothian! He lives there does he! Now you tempt me. I've heard +a good deal about Gilbert Lothian." + +The Rector was genuinely surprised. "Well, most people have," he +answered. "But I should hardly have thought that a modern poet was much +in your line." + +Morton Sims smiled, rather oddly. "Perhaps not," he said, "but I'm +interested all the same. I have my own reasons. Put me into +communication with the house agents, will you, O'Donnell?" + +The affair had been quickly arranged. The house proved satisfactory, +and Dr. Morton Sims had taken it. + +On the morning when Mary Lothian had heard from Gilbert that he was +returning that evening, Mr. Medley, reminded of his duty by a postcard +from the Rector at Cowes, set out to pay a call and offer his services +to the distinguished newcomer. + +The "Haven" was a pleasant gabled house standing in grounds of about +three acres, not far from the Church and Rectory. The late Admiral +Custance had kept it in beautiful order. The green, pneumatic lawns +suggested those of a college quadrangle, the privet hedges were clipped +with care, the whole place was taut and trim. + +Mr. Medley found Dr. Morton Sims smoking a morning pipe in the library, +dressed in a suit of grey flannel and with a holiday air about him. + +The two men liked each other at once. There was no doubt about that in +the minds of either of them. + +There was a certain dryness and mellow humour in Mr. Medley--a ripe +flavour about him, as of an old English fruit crushed upon the palate. +"Here is a rare bird," the doctor thought. + +And Morton Sims interested the clerygman no less. The doctor's great +achievements and the fact that he was a definite feature in English +life were quite familiar. When, on fugitive occasions any one of this +sort strayed into the placid domains of his interest Medley was capable +of welcoming him with eagerness. He did so now, and warmed himself in +the steady glow from the celebrated man with whom he was sitting. + +That they were both Oxford men, more or less of the same period, was an +additional link between them. + +. . . "Two or three times a year I go up," Medley said, "and dine in +Hall at Merton. I'm a little out of it, of course. The old, remembered +faces become fewer and fewer each year. But there are friends left +still, and though I can't quite get at their point of view, the younger +fellows are very kind to me. Directly I turn into Oriel Street; I +breathe the old atmosphere, and I confess that my heart beats a little +quicker, as Merton tower comes into view." + +"I know," the doctor said. "I was at Balliol you know--a little +different, even in our day. But when I go up I'm always dreadfully +busy, at the Museum or in the Medical School. It's the younger folk, +the scientific dons and undergraduates who are reading science that I +have to do with. I have not much time for the sentiments and caresses +of the past. Life is so short and I have so much yet that I hope to do +in it, that I simply refuse my mind the pleasures of retrospection. +You'll call me a Philistine, but when I go to lecture at Cambridge--as +I sometimes do--it stimulates me far more than Oxford." + +"Detestable place!" said Mr. Medley, with a smile. "A nephew of mine is +a tutor there, Peterhouse. He has quite a name in his way, they tell +me. He writes little leprous books in which he conducts the Christian +Faith to the frontier of modern thought with a consolatory cheque for +its professional services in the past. And, besides, the river at +Cambridge is a ditch." + +The doctor's eyes leapt up at this. + +"Yes, isn't it marvellous that they can row as they do!" he said with +the eagerness of a boy. + +"You rowed then?" + +"Oh, yes. I was in the crew of--74--our year it was." + +"Really! really!--I had no idea, Dr. Morton Sims! I was in the Trials +of--71, when Merton was head of the river, but we were the losing boat +and I never got into the Eight. How different it all was then!" + +Both men were silent for a minute. The priest's words had struck an +unaccustomed chord of memory in the doctor's mind. + +"Those times will never come again," Morton Sims said, and puffed +rather more quickly than usual at his pipe. He had spoken truly enough +when he had said that he had not time in his strenuous life for +memories of his youth, that he shut his eyes to the immemorial appeal +of Oxford when he went there. But he responded now, instinctively, for +there is a Freemasonry, greater than all the ritual of King Solomon, +among those who have rowed upon the Isis, in the happy, thrice-happy +days of Youth! + +To weary clergymen absorbed in the _va_ and _vient_ of sordid parishes, +to grave Justices upon the Bench, the strenuous cynics of the Bar, +plodding masters of schools, the suave solicitor, the banker, the +painter, or the poet, these vivid memories of the Loving Mother, must +always come now and again in life. + +The Bells of Youth ring once more. The faint echo of the shouts from +river or from playing field, make themselves heard with ghostly voices. +In the Chapels of Wayneflete, or of Laud, some soprano choir is singing +yet. In the tower of the Cardinal, Big Tom tolls out of the past, +bidding the College porters close their doors. + +White and fretted spires shoot upwards into skies that will never be so +blue again. Again the snap-dragon blooms over the grey walls of +Trinity, the crimson creeper stains the porch of Cranmer, and Autumn +leaves of bronze, purple and yellow carpet all the Magdalen Walks. + +These things can never be quite forgotten by those who have loved them +and been of them. + +The duration of a reverie is purely accidental. There is no time in +thought. The pictures of a lifetime may glow in the brain, while a +second passes by the clock, a single episode may inform the +retrospection of an hour. + +These two grey-headed men, upon this delightful summer morning, were +not long lost in thought. + +"And now," said the clergyman, "have you seen anything of the village +yet?" + +"Not yet. For the three days that I have been here I have been +arranging my books and instruments, and turning that big room over the +barn into a laboratory." + +"Oh, yes. Where the Admiral used to keep his Trafalgar models. An +excellent room! Now what do you say, Dr. Morton Sims, to a little +progress through the village with me? I'm quite certain that every one +is agog to see you, and to sum you up. Natural village curiosity! You +might as well make your appearance under my wing." + +"Teucro auspice, auspice Teucro?" + +"Precisely," said Medley, with a smile of pleasure at the quotation +from his beloved poet, and the two men left the house together in high +glee, laughing like boys. + +They visited the Church, in which Morton Sims took a polite interest, +and then the clergyman took his guest over the Rectory. + +It was a fine house, standing in the midst of fair lawns upon which +great beech trees grew here and there, giving the extensive grounds +something of the aspect of a park. The rooms were large and lofty, with +fine ceilings of the Adams' school, florid braveries of stucco that +were quite at home in a house like this. There were portraits +everywhere, chiefly members of the O'Donnell family, and the faces in +their fresh Irish comeliness were gay and ingenuous, as of privileged +young people who could never grow old. + +"Really, this is a delightful house," the Doctor said as he stood in +the library. "I wonder O'Donnell doesn't spend more time in Mortland +Royal. Few parsons are housed like this." + +"It's not his _metier_, Doctor. He hasn't the faculty of really +understanding peasants, and I think he is quite right in what he is +doing. And, of course, from a selfish point of view, I am glad. I have +refused two college livings to stay on here. In all probability I shall +stay here till I die. O'Donnell does a great work for Temperance all +over England--though doubtless you know more about that than I do." + +"Er, yes," Morton Sims replied, though without any marked enthusiasm. +"O'Donnell is very eloquent, and no doubt does good. My dear old +friend, Bishop Moultrie, in Norfolk here is most enthusiastic about his +work. I like O'Donnell, he's sincere. But I belong to the scientific +party, and while I welcome anything that really tends to stem +inebriety, I believe that O'Donnell and Moultrie and all of them are on +the wrong tack entirely." + +"I know very little about the modern temperance movement in any +direction," said Mr. Medley with a certain dryness. "Blue Ribbons and +Bands of Hope are all very well, I suppose, but there is such a +tendency nowadays among Non-conformists and the extreme evangelical +party to exalt abstinence from alcohol into the one thing necessary to +salvation, that I keep out of it all as much as I can. I like my glass +of port, and I don't mean to give it up!" + +Morton Sims laughed. "It doesn't do you the least good really," he +said, laughing. "I could prove to you in five minutes, and with entire +certainty, that your single glass of port is bad, even for you! But I +quite agree with your attitude towards all the religious emotionalism +that is worked up. The drunkard who turns to religion simply manifests +the class of ideas, which is one of the features of the epileptic +temperament. It is a confession of ineptitude, and a recourse to a +means of salvation from a condition which is too hard for him to bear. +That is to say, Fear is at the bottom of his new convictions!" + +Certainly Medley was not particularly sympathetic to the modern +Temperance movement among religious people. Perhaps Mr. O'Donnell's +somewhat vociferous enthusiasm had something to do with it. But on the +other hand, he was very far from accepting such a cold scientific +doctrine as this. He knew that the Holy Spirit does not always work +through fear. But like the wise and quiet-minded man that he was, he +forbore argument and listened with intellectual pleasure to the views +of his new friend. + +"I know," he said, with a courtly hint of deference in his voice, that +became him very well, "of your position in the ranks of those who are +fighting Intemperance. But, and you must pardon the ignorance of a +country priest who is quite out of all 'movements,' I don't know +anything of your standpoint. What is your remedy, Dr. Morton Sims?" + +The great man smiled inwardly. + +It did really seem extraordinary to him that a cultured professional +man of this day should actually know nothing of his hopes, aims and +propaganda. And then, ever on the watch for traces of egoism and +vain-glory in himself, he accepted the fact with humility. + +Who was he, who was any one in life, to imagine that his views were +known to all the world? + +"Well," he said, "what we believe is just this: It is quite impossible +to abolish or to prohibit alcohol. It is necessary in a thousand +industries. Prohibition is futile. It has been tried, and has failed, +in the United States. While alcohol exists, the man predisposed to +abuse it will get it. You, as a clergyman, know as well as I do, as a +doctor, that it is impossible to make people moral by Act of +Parliament." + +This was entirely in accordance with Medley's own view. "Of course," he +said, "the only thing that can make people moral is an act of God, +cooperating with an act of their own." + +"Possibly. I am not concerned to affirm or deny the power of an Act of +the Supreme Being. Nor am I able to say anything about its operation. +Science tells me nothing upon this point. About the act of the +individual I have a good deal to say." + +--"I am most interested" . . . + +"Well then, what we want to do is to root out drunkenness by +eliminating inebriates from society by a process of Artificial +Selection. It is within the power of science to evolve a sober race. We +must forbid inebriates to have children and make it penal for them to +do so." + +Medley started. "Forbid them to marry?" he asked. + +"It would be futile. Drunkenness often develops after marriage. There +is only one way--by preventing Drunkards from reproducing their +like--by forbidding the procreation of children by them. If drunkards +were taken before magistrates sitting in secret session, and, on +conviction, were warned that the procreation of children would subject +them to this or that penalty, then the birthrate of drunkards would +certainly fall immensely." + +"But innumerable drunkards would inevitably escape the meshes of the +law." + +"Yes. But that is an argument against all laws. And this law would be +more perfect in its operation than any other, for if the drunken father +evaded it in one generation, the drunken son would be taken in the +next." + +The Priest said nothing for a moment. The latent distrust and dislike +of science which is an inherent part of the life and training of so +many Priests, was blazing up in him with a fury of antagonism. What +impious interference with the laws of God was this? It seemed a +profanation, horrible! + +Like all good Christians of his temper of mind, he was quite unable to +realise that God might be choosing to work in this way, and by the +human hands of men. He had not the slightest conception of the great +truth that every new discovery of Science and each fresh extension of +its operations is not in the least antagonistic to Christianity when +surveyed by the clear, unbiassed mind. + +Mr. Medley was a dog-lover. He was a member of the Kennel-Club, and +sent dogs to shows. He knew that, in order to breed a long-tailed +variety of dogs, it would be ridiculous to preserve carefully all the +short-tailed individuals and pull vigorously at their tails. He +exercised the privilege of Artificial Selection carefully enough in his +own kennels, but the mere proposal that such a thing should be done in +the case of human beings seemed impious to him. + +Dr. Morton Sims was also incapable of realising that his scheme for the +betterment of the race was perfectly in accordance with the Christian +Philosophy. + +But Morton Sims was not a professing Christian and was not concerned +with the Christian aspect. Mr. Medley was, and although one of his +favourite hymns began, "God Moves in a Mysterious Way," he was really +chilled to the bone for a minute at the words of the Scientist. He +remained silent for a moment or so. + +"But that seems to me quite horrible," he said, at length. "It is +opposed to the best instincts of human nature--as horrible as +Malthusianism, as horrible and as impracticable." + +His expression as he looked at his guest was wistful. "I don't want to +be discourteous," it seemed to say, "but this is really my thought." + +"Perhaps," the other answered with a half-sigh. He was well used to +encounter just such a voice, just such a shocked countenance as that +of his host--"But by '_best instincts_' people often mean strong +prejudices. Our scheme is undoubtedly Malthusian. I am no believer in +Malthusianism as a check to what is called 'over-population.' That +_does_ seem to me immoral. Nature requires no help in that regard. But +Inebriety is an evil the extent of which no one but an expert can +possibly measure. _The ordinary man simply doesn't know!_ But supposing +I admit what you say. Let us agree that my scheme is horrible, that in +a sense it is immoral--or a-moral--that it is possibly impracticable. + +"The alternative is more horrible and more immoral still. There is +absolutely no choice between Temperance Reform, by the abolition of +drink, and Temperance Reform by the abolition of the drunkard. An ill +thing is not rendered worse by being bravely confronted. An unavoidable +evil is not made more evil by being turned to good account. It rests +with us to extract what good we can from the evil. Horrible? Immoral? +Perhaps; but we are confronted by two horrors and two immoralities, and +we are compelled to make a choice. Which is best; to live safe because +strong, or to tremble behind fortifications; to be temperate by Nature +or sober by Law?" + +. . . They stood in the quiet sunlit library, with its placid books and +pictures irradiated by the light of approaching noon. + +The slim, bearded man in his grey suit, faced the dry, elderly +clergyman. His voice rang with challenge, his whole personality was +redolent of ardour, conviction, an aroma of the War he spent his life +in waging far away from this quiet room of books. + +For years, this had been Medley's home. Each night, with his Horace and +his pipe, he spent the happy, sober hours between dinner and bedtime +here. His sermons were written on the old oak table. Over the high +carved marble of the mantel the engraving of Our Lord knocking at the +weed-grown door of a human heart, had looked down upon all his +familiar, quiet evenings. In summer the long windows were open and the +moonlight washed the lawns with silver, and the shadows of the trees +seemed like pieces of black velvet nailed to the grass. + +In winter the piled logs glowed upon the hearth and the bitter winds +from the Marshes, sang like a flight of arrows round the house. + +What was this that had come into the library, what new disturbing, +insistent element? The Rector brought no such atmosphere into the house +when he arrived. He would sip his coffee and smoke his pipe and linger +for a gracious moment with the Singer of Mantua, or dispute about the +true birthplace of him who sent Odysseus sailing over wine-coloured and +enchanted seas. + +An insistent voice seemed to be calling to the clergyman--"Awake from +your slumber--your long slumber! Hear the words of Truth!" + +He said nothing. His whole face showed reluctance, bewilderment, +misease. + +The far keener intelligence of the other noted it at once. The mind of +the Medico-Psychologist appreciated the episode at its exact value. He +had troubled a still pool, and to no good purpose. Words of his--even +if they carried an uneasy conviction--would never rouse this man to +action. Let it be so! Why waste time? The clergyman was a delightful +survival, a "rare Bird" still! + +"Well, that is my theory, at any rate, since you asked for it," Morton +Sims said, the urgency and excitement quite gone from his voice. "And +now, some more of the village, please!" + +Mr. Medley smiled cheerfully. He became suddenly conscious of the light +and comfortable morning again. He felt his feet upon the carpet, he was +in a place that he knew. + +"We'll go through the wicket-gate in the south wall," he said, with +alacrity. "It's our nearest way, and there is a good view of the Manor +House to be got from there. It's a fine old place, empty for most of +the year, but always full for the shooting. Sir Ambrose McKee has it." + +"The whiskey man?" + +"Yes. The great distiller," Medley answered nervously--most anxious to +sheer off from any further controversial subjects. + +They went out into the village. + +The old red-brick manor house was surveyed from a distance, and Morton +Sims remarked absently upon its picturesqueness. His mind was occupied +with other and far alien thoughts. + +Then they went down the white dusty road--the bordering hedges were all +pilm-powdered for there had been no rain for many days--to the centre +of the village. + +Four roads met there, East, South, West and North, and it was known to +the village as "The Cross." On one side of the little central green was +the Post office and general shop. On the other was the Mortland Royal +Arms, and on the South, to the right of the old stone bridge, which ran +over the narrow river, were the roof and chimneys of Gilbert Lothian's +house nestling among the trees and with a vista of the orchard which +stretched down to the stream. + +"That's a nice little place," the doctor said. "Whose is that?" + +"It's the house of our village celebrity," Mr. Medley replied--with a +rather hostile crackle in his voice, or at least the other thought so. + +"Our local celebrity," Medley continued, "Mr. Gilbert Lothian, the +poet." + +Neither the face nor the voice of the doctor changed at all. But his +mind came to attention. This was a moment he had been waiting for. + +"Oh, I know," he said, with an assumed indifference which he was well +aware would have its effect of provocation upon the simple mind of the +Priest. "The name is quite familiar to me. Bishop Moultrie sent me a +book of Lothian's poems last winter. And now that I come to think of +it, O'Donnell told me that Mr. Lothian lived here. What sort of a man +is he?" + +Medley hesitated. "Well," he said at length, "the truth is that I don't +like him much personally, and I don't understand him in any way. I +speak with prejudice I'm afraid, and I do not wish that any words of +mine should make you share it." + +"Oh, we all have our likes and dislikes. Every one has his private Dr. +Fell and it can't be helped. But tell me about Lothian. I will remember +your very honest warning! Don't you like his work?" + +"I confess I see very little in it, Doctor. But then, my taste is +old-fashioned and not in accord with modern literary movements. My +'Christian Year' supplies all the religious verse I need." + +"Keble wrote some fine verse," said the doctor tentatively. + +"Exactly. Sound prosody and restrained style! There is fervour and +feeling in Lothian's work. It is impossible to deny it. But it's too +passionate and feverish. There is a savage, almost despairing, +clutching at spiritual emotion which strikes me as thoroughly +unhealthy. The Love of Jesus, the mysterious operations of the Holy +Ghost--these seem to me no proper vehicles for words which are tortured +into a wild and sensuous music. As I read the poems of Gilbert Lothian +I am reminded of the wicked and yet beautiful verses of Swinburne, and +of others who have turned their lyre to the praise of lust. The +sentiment is different, but the method is the same. And I confess that +it revolts me to see the verbal tricks and polished brilliance of +modern Pagan writers adapted to a fugitive and delirious ecstasy of +Christian Faith." + +Morton Sims understood thoroughly. This was the obstinate and +prejudiced voice of an older literary generation, suddenly become +vindictively vocal. + +"I know all that you mean," he said. "I don't agree with you in the +least, but I appreciate your point of view. But let me keep myself out +of the discussion for a moment. I am not what you would probably be +prepared to call a professing Christian. But how about Moultrie? He +sent me Lothian's poems first of all. I remember the actual evening +last winter when they arrived. A contemporaneous circumstance has +etched it into my memory with certainty. Moultrie is a deeply convinced +Christian. He is a man of the widest culture also. Yet he savours his +palate with every _nuance_, every elusive and delicate melody that +the genius of Lothian gives us. How about Moultrie's attitude?--it is a +very general one." + +Mr. Medley laughed, half with apology, half with the grim humour which +was personal to him. + +"I quite admit all you say," he replied, "but, as I told you, I belong +to another generation and I don't in the least mean to change or listen +to the voice of the charmer! I am a prejudiced old fogey, in short! I +am still so antiquated and foolish as to have a temperamental dislike +for a French-man, for instance. I like a picture to tell a story, and I +flatly refused to get into Moultrie's abominable automobile when he +brought it to the Rectory the other day!" + +Morton Sims was not in the least deceived by this half real, half +mocking apologia. It was not merely a question of style that had roused +this heat in the dry elderly man when he spoke of the things which he +so greatly disliked in the poet's work. There was something behind +this, and the doctor meant to find out what it was. He was in Mortland +Royal, in the first instance, in order to follow up the problem of +Gilbert Lothian. His choice of a country residence had been determined +by the Poet's locality. Every instinct of the scientist and hunter was +awake in him. He had dreadful reasons, reasons which he could never +quite think of without a mental shudder, for finding out everything +about the unknown and elusive genius who had given "Surgit Amari," to +the world. + +He looked his companion full in the face, and spoke in a compelling, +searching voice that the other had not heard before. + +"What's the real antagonism, Mr. Medley?" he said. + +Then the clergyman spoke out. + +"You press me," he said, "very well, I will tell you. I don't believe +Lothian is a good man. It is a stern and terrible thing to say,--God +grant I am mistaken!--but he appears to me to write of supreme things +with insincerity. Not vulgarly, you'll understand. Not with his tongue +in his cheek, but without the conviction that imposes conduct, and +perhaps even with his heart in his mouth!" + +"Conduct?" + +". . . I fear I am saying too much." + +"Hardly to me! Then Mr. Lothian--?" + +"He drinks," the Priest said bluntly, "you're sure to hear of it in +some indirect way since you are going to stay in the village for six +months. But that's the truth of it!" + +The face of Dr. Morton Sims suddenly became quite pale. His brown eyes +glittered as if with an almost uncontrollable excitement. + +"Ah!" he exclaimed, and there was something so curious in his voice +that the clergyman was alarmed at what he had said. He knew, and could +know, nothing of what was passing in the other's mind. A scrupulously +fair and honest man within his lights, he feared that he had made too +harsh a statement--particularly to a man who thought that even an +after-dinner glass of port was an error in hygiene! + +"I don't mean to say that he gets drunk," Medley continued hastily, +"but he really does excite himself and whip himself up to work by means +of spirits." + +The clergyman hesitated. The doctor spurred him on. + +"Most interesting to the scientific man--please go on." + +"Well, I don't know that there is much to say--I do hope I am not doing +the man an injustice, because I am getting on for twice his age and +envy the modern brilliance of his brain! But about a fortnight ago I +went to see Crutwell--a poor fellow who is dying of phthisis--and found +Lothian there. He was holding Crutwell's hand and talking to him about +Paradise in a monotonous musical voice. He had been drinking. I saw it +at once. His eyes were quite wild." + +"But the patient was made happier?" + +"Yes. He was. Happier, I freely confess it, than my long ministrations +have ever been able to make him. But that is certainly not the point. +It is very distressing to a parish Priest to meet with these things in +his visitations. Do you know," here Mr. Medley gave a rueful chuckle, +"I followed this alcoholic missioner the other day into the house of an +old bed-ridden woman whom he helps to support. Lothian is extremely +generous by the way. He would literally take off his coat and give it +away--which really means, of course, that he has no conception of what +money means. + +"At any rate, I went into old Sarah's cottage about half an hour after +Lothian had been there. The old lady in question lived a jolly, wicked +life until senile paralysis intervened. She is now quite a connoisseur +in religion. I found her, on the occasion of which I speak, lying back +upon her pillows with a perfectly rapturous expression on her wicked +and wrinkled old face. 'Oh, Mr. Lothian's been, sir!' she said, 'Oh, +'twas beautiful! He gave me five shillings and then he knelt down and +prayed. I never heard such praying--meaning no disrespect, sir, of +course. But it was beautiful. The tears were rolling down Mr. Lothian's +cheeks!' 'Mr. Lothian is very kind,' I said. 'He's wonnerful,' she +replied, 'for he was really as drunk as a Lord the whole time, though +he didn't see as I saw it. Fancy praying so beautiful and him like +that. What a brain!'" + +Morton Sims burst out laughing, he could not help it. "All the same," +he said at length, "it's certainly rather scandalous." + +Medley made a hurried deprecating movement of his hands. "No, no!" he +said, "don't think that. I am over-emphasising things. Those two +instances are quite isolated. In a general way Lothian is just like any +one else. To speak quite frankly, Doctor, I'm not a safe guide when +Gilbert Lothian is discussed." + +"Yes?" + +"For this reason. I admire and reverence Mrs. Lothian as I have never +reverenced any other woman. Now and then I have met saint-like people, +and the more saint-like they were--I hope I am not cynical--the less of +comely humanity they seemed to have. Only once have I met a saint +quietly walking this world with sane and happy footsteps. And that is +Mary Lothian." + +There was a catch and tremble in the voice of the elderly clergyman. +Morton Sims, who had liked him from the first, now felt more drawn to +him than at any other time during their morning talk and walk. + +"Now you see why I am a little bitter about Gilbert Lothian! I don't +think that he is worthy of such a perfect wife as he has got! I'll take +you to tea with her this afternoon and you will see!" + +"I should like to meet her very much. Lothian is not here then?" + +"He has been away for a week or so, but he is returning to-night. Our +old postman, who knows everything, told me so at least." + +The two men continued their walk through the village until lunch time, +when they separated. + +At three o'clock a maid brought a note from the Rectory to the "Haven." +In the letter Medley said that he had been summoned to Wordingham by +telegram and could not take the doctor to call on Mrs. Lothian. + +The doctor spent the afternoon reading in the garden. He took tea among +the flowers there, and after dinner, as it was extremely hot, he once +more sought his deck chair under the mulberry tree in front of the +house. Not a breath of air stirred. Now and then a cockchafer boomed +through the heavy dark, and at his feet some glowworms had lit their +elfin lamps. + +There was thunder in the air too, it was murmuring ten miles away over +the Wash, and now and again the sky above the marshes was lit with +flickering green and violet fires. + +A definite depression settled down upon the doctor's spirits and +something seemed to be like a load upon lungs and brain. + +He always kept himself physically fit. In London, during his busy life, +walking, which was the exercise he loved best, was not possible. So he +fenced, and swam a good deal at the Bath Club, of which he was a +member. + +For three days now, he had taken no exercise whatever. He had been +arranging his new household. + +"Liver!" he thought to himself. "That is why I am melancholy and +depressed to-night. And then the storm that is hanging about has its +effect too. But hardly any one realises that the liver is the seat of +the emotions! It should be said--more truly--that such a one died of a +broken liver, not a broken heart!" . . . + +He sighed. His imaginings did not amuse him to-night. His vitality was +lowered. That sick ennui which lies behind the thunder was upon him. As +the storm grew nearer through the vast spaces of the night, so his +psychic organism responded to its approach. Some uneasy imp had got +into the barracks of his brain and was beating furiously upon the +cerebral drum. + +The vast and level landscape, the wide night, were alike to be +dramatised by the storm. + +And so, also, in the sphere of his thought, upon that secret stage +where, after all, everything really happens, there was drama and +disturbance. The level-minded scientist in Dr. Morton Sims drooped its +head and bowed to the imperious onslaught. The man of letters in him +awoke. Strange and fantastic influences were abroad this night and +would have their way even with this cool sane person. + +He knew what was happening to him as the night grew hotter, the +lightning more frequent. He, the Ego of him, was slipping away from the +material plane and entering that psychic country which he knew of and +dreaded for its strange allurements. + +Imaginative by nature and temperament, with a something of the artist +in him, it was his habit to starve and repress that side of him as much +as he was able. + +He knew the unfathomable gulf that separated the psychical from the +physiological. It was in the sphere of physiology that his work lay, +here he was great, there must be no divided allegiance. + +There was a menacing stammer of thunder. A certain line of verse came +into his mind, a line of Lothian's. + + "_Oh dreadful trumpets sounding, + Pealing and resounding, + From the hid battlements of eternity!_" + +"I will take a ten mile walk to-morrow," he said to himself, and +resolutely wrenched his thoughts towards material things. There was, he +remembered with a slight shudder, that appalling passage in a recent +letter from Mrs. Daly-- + + . . . "Six weeks ago a tippler was put into an alms-house in this + State. Within a few days he had devised various expedients to + procure rum, but had failed. At length he hit on one that was + successful. He went into the wood yard of the establishment, placed + one hand upon the block, and with an axe in the other struck it off + at a single blow. With the stump raised and streaming he ran into + the house and cried, 'Get some rum. Get some rum. My hand is off.' + In the confusion and bustle of the occasion a bowl of rum was + brought, into which he plunged the bleeding member of his body, + then raising the bowl to his mouth, drank freely and exultantly + exclaimed, 'Now I am satisfied!'" + +Horrible! Why was it possible that men might poison themselves so? +Would all the efforts of himself and his friends ever make such +monstrous happenings cease? Oh, that it might be so! + +They were breaking up stubborn land. The churches were against them, +but the Home Secretary of the day was their friend--in the future the +disease might be eradicated from society. + +Oh, that it might be so! for the good of the human race! + +How absolutely horrible it was that transparent, coloured liquids in +bottles of glass--liquids that could be bought everywhere for a few +pence--should have the devilish power to transform men, not to beasts, +but to monsters. + +The man of whom Mrs. Daly had written--hideously alcoholised and +insane! Hancock, the Hackney murderer, poisoned, insane! + +The doctor had been present at the post-mortem, after the execution. It +had all been so pitiably clear to the trained eye! The liver, the +heart, told him their tale very plainly. Any General Practitioner would +have known. Ordinary cirrhosis, the scar tissue perfectly plain; the +lime-salts deposited in the wasting muscles of the heart. But Morton +Sims had found far more than this in that poisoned shell which had +held, also, a poisoned soul. He had marked the little swellings upon +the long nerve processes that run from the normal cell of the healthy +brain. Something that looked like a little string of beads under the +microscope had told him all he wanted to know. + +And that little string of beads, the lesions which interfered with the +proper passage of nerve impulses, the scraps of tissue which the +section-cutter had thinned and given to the lens, had meant torture and +death to a good woman. + +How dreadfully women suffered! Their husbands and lovers and brothers +became brutes to them. The women who were merely struck or beaten now +and then were fortunate. The women whose lives were made one long +ingenious torture were legion. + +Dr. Morton Sims was a bachelor. He was more. He was a man with a virgin +mind. Devoted always to the line of work he had undertaken he had +allowed nothing else to disturb his life. For him passion was explained +by pathological and physiological occurrences. That is to say, passion +in others. For himself, he had allowed nothing that was sensual to +interfere with his progress, or to influence the wise order of his +days. + +Therefore, he reverenced women. + +Hidden in his mind was that latent adoration that the Catholic feels +about the Real Presence upon an altar. + +A good Knight of Science, he was as pure and pellucid in thought upon +these matters as any Knight who bore the descending Dove upon his +shield and flung into the _mêlée_ calling upon the name of the +Paraclete. + +In his own fashion, and with his own vision of what it was, Morton +Sims, also, was one of those seeking the Holy Grail. + +He adored his sister, a sweet woman made for love and motherhood but +who had chosen the virgin life of renunciation that she might help the +world. + +Women! Yes, it was women who suffered. There were tears in his mind as +he thought of Women. Before a good woman he always wished to kneel. + +How heavy the night was! + +He identified it with the sorrowful weight and pressure of the Fiend +Alcohol upon the world. And there was a woman, here near him, a woman +with a sweet and fragrant nature--so the old clergyman had said. + +On her, too, the weight must be lying. For Mary Lothian there must be +horror in the days. . . . + +"One thing I _will_ do," he said to the dark--and that he spoke aloud +was sufficient indication of his state of mind--"I'll get hold of +Gilbert Lothian while I am here. I'll save him at any rate, if I can. +And it is quite obvious that he cannot be too far gone for salvation. +I'll save him from an end no less frightful than that of his brother of +whom he has probably never heard. The good woman he seems to have +married shall be happy! The man's fine brain shan't be lost. This shall +be my special experiment while I am down here. Coincidence, no less +than good-will, makes that duty perfectly plain for me." + +As he stood there, glad to have found some definite material thing with +which to occupy his mind, a housemaid came through the French windows +of the library. She hurried towards him, ghost-like in her white cap +and apron. + +"Are you there, sir?" she said, peering this way and that in the thick +dark. + +"Yes, here I am, Condon, what is it?" + +"Please, sir, there's been an accident. A gentleman has been thrown out +of a dog-cart. It's a Mr. Lothian. His man's here, and the gentleman's +wife has heard you're in the village and there's no other doctor nearer +than Wordingham." + +"I'll come at once," Morton Sims said. + +He hurried through the quiet library with its green-shaded reading lamp +and went into the hall. + +Tumpany was standing there, his cap held before him in two hands, +naval-fashion. His round red face was streaming with perspiration, his +eyes were frightened and he exhaled a strong smell of beer. + +His hand went up mechanically and his left foot scraped upon the +oilcloth of the hall as Morton Sims entered. + +"Beg your pardon, sir," Tumpany began at once, "but I'm Mr. Gilbert +Lothian's man. Master have had an accident. I was driving him home from +the station when the horse stumbled just outside the village. Master +was pitched out on his head. My mistress would be very grateful if you +could come at once." + +"Certainly, I will," Sims answered, looking at the man with a keen, +experienced eye which made him shift uneasily upon his feet. "Wait here +for a moment." + +He hurried back into the library and put lint, cotton-wool and a pair +of blunt-nosed scissors into a hand-bag. Then, calling for a candle and +lighting it, he went out into the stable yard and up to the room above +the big barn, emerging in a minute or two with a bottle of antiseptic +lotion. + +These were all the preparations he could make until he knew more. The +thing might be serious or it might be little or nothing. Fortunately +Lothian's house was not five minutes' walk from the "Haven." If +instruments were required he could fetch them in a very short time. + +As he left the house with Tumpany, he noticed that the man lurched upon +the step. Quite obviously he was half intoxicated. + +With a cunning born of long experience of inebriate men, the doctor +affected a complete unconsciousness of what he had discovered. If he +put the man upon his guard he would get nothing out of him, that was +quite certain. + +"He's made a direct statement so far," the doctor thought. "He's only +on the border-land of intoxication. For as long as he thinks I have +noticed nothing he will be coherent. Directly he realises that I have +spotted his state he'll become confused and ashamed and he won't be +able to tell me anything." + +"This is very unfortunate," he said in a smooth and confidential voice. +"I do hope it is nothing very serious. Of course I know your master +very well by name." + +"Yessir," Tumpany answered thickly, but with a perceptible note of +pleasure in his voice. "Yessir, I should say Master is one of the best +shots in Norfolk. You'd have heard of him, of course." + +"But how did it happen?" + +"This 'ere accident, sir?" said Tumpany rather vaguely, his mind +obviously running upon his master's achievements among the wild geese +of the marshes. + +"Yes, the accident," the doctor answered in his smooth, kindly +voice--though it would have given him great relief to have boxed the +ears of his beery guide. + +"I was driving master home, sir. It's not our trap. We don't keep one. +We hires in the village, but the man as the trap belongs to couldn't +go. So I drove, sir." + +Movement had stirred up the fumes of alcohol in this barrel! Oh, the +interminable repetitions, the horrid incapacity for getting to the +point of men who were drunk! Lives of the utmost value had been lost by +fools like this--great events in the history of the world had turned +upon an extra pot of beer! But patience, patience! + +"Yes, you drove, and the horse stumbled. Did the horse come right +down?" + +"I'm not much of a whip, sir, as you may say, though I know about +ordinary driving. They say that a sailor-man is no good with a horse. +But that isn't true." + +Yet despite the irritation of his mind, the necessity for absolute +self-control, the expert found time to make a note of this further +instance of the intolerable egotism that alcohol induces in its slaves. + +"But I expect you drove very well, indeed! Then the horse did _not_ +come right down!" + +Just at the right moment, carefully calculated to have its effect, the +doctor's voice became sharper and had a ring of command in it. + +There was an instant response. + +"No, sir. The cob only stumbled. But master was sitting loose like. He +fell out like a log, sir. He made a noise like a piece of luggage +falling." + +"Oh! Did he fall on his head?" + +"Yessir. But he had a stiff felt hat on. I got help and as we carried +him into the house he was bleeding awful." + +"Curious that he should fall like that. Was he, well, was he quite +himself should you think?" + +It was a bow drawn at a venture, and it provoked a reply that instantly +told Morton Sims what he wanted to know. + +"Oh, yessir! By all means, sir! Most cert'nly! Master was as sober as a +judge, sir!" + +"Of _course_," Sims replied in a surprised tone of voice. "I thought +that he might have been tired by the journey from London." + +. . . So it was true then! Lothian was drunk. The thing was obvious. +But this was a good and loyal fellow, not to give his master away. + +Morton Sims liked that. He made a note that poor beery Tumpany should +have half a sovereign on the morrow, when he was sober. Then the two +men turned in through the gates of the Old House. + +The front door was wide open to the night. The light which flowed out +from the tall lamp upon an oak table in the hall cut into the black +velvet of the drive with a sharply defined wedge of orange-yellow. + +There was something ominous in this wide-set door of a frightened +house. + +The doctor walked straight into the hall, a small old-fashioned place +panelled in white. + +To the right another door stood open. In the doorway stood a +maid-servant with a frightened face. Beyond her, through the archway of +the door, showed the section of a singularly beautiful room. + +The maid started. "Oh, you've come, sir!" she said--"in here please, +sir." + +The doctor followed the girl into the lit room. + +This is what he saw:-- + +A room with the walls covered with canvas of a delicate oat-meal colour +up to the height of seven feet. Above this a moulded beading of wood +which had been painted vermilion--the veritable post-box red. Above +this again a frieze of pure white paper. At set intervals upon the +canvas were brilliant colour-prints in thin gold frames. The room was +lit with many candles in tall holders of silver. + +At one side of it was a table spread for supper, gleaming with delicate +napery and cut glass, peaches in a bowl of red earthenware, +ruby-coloured wine in a jug of German glass with a lid of pewter shaped +like a snake's head. + +At the other side of the room was a huge Chesterfield couch, +upholstered in broad stripes of black and olive linen. + +The still figure of a man in a tweed suit lay upon the couch. There was +blood upon his face and clotted rust-like stains upon his loosened +collar. A washing-bowl of stained water stood upon the green carpet. + +Upon a chair, by the head of the couch a tall woman with shining yellow +hair was sitting. She wore a low-cut evening dress of black, pearls +were about the white column of her throat, a dragon fly of emeralds set +in aluminium sparkled in her hair, and upon her wrists were heavy +Moorish bracelets of oxydised silver studded with the bird's egg blue +of the turquoise stone. + +For an instant, not of the time but of thought, the doctor was +startled. + +Then, as the stately and beautiful woman rose to meet him, he +understood. + +She had decked herself, adorned her fair body with all the braveries +she had so that she might be lovely and acceptable to her husband's +eyes as he came home to her. Came home to her . . . like this! + +Morton Sims had shaken the slim hand, murmured some words of +condolence, and hastened to the motionless figure upon the couch. + +His deft fingers were feeling, pressing, touching with a wonderful +instinct, the skull beneath the tumbled masses of blood-clotted hair. + +Nothing there, scalp wounds merely. Arms, legs--yes, these were +uninjured too. The collar-bone was intact under the flesh that +cushioned it. The skin of the left wrist was lacerated and +bruised--Lothian, of course, had been sitting on the left side of the +driver when he fell like a log from the gig--but the bones of the hand +and arm were normal. There was not a single symptom of brain +concussion. The deep gurgling breathing, the alarming snore-like sound +that came from between the curiously pure and clear-cut lips, meant one +thing only. + +Morton Sims stood up. + +Mary Lothian was waiting. There was an agony of expectation in her +eyes. + +"Not the least reason to be alarmed," said the doctor. "Some nasty cuts +in the scalp, that is all." + +She gave a deep sigh, a momentary shudder, and then her face became +calm. + +"It is so kind of you to come, Doctor," she said.--"Then that deep +spasmodic breathing--he has not really hurt his head?" + +"Not in the least as far as I can say, and I am fairly certain. We must +get him up to bed. Then I can cut away the hair and bandage the wounds. +I must take his temperature also. It's possible--just possible that the +shock may have unpleasant results, though I really don't think it will. +I will give him some bromide though, as soon as he wakes up." + +"Ah!" she said. That was all, but it meant everything. + +He knew that to this woman, at least, plain-speaking was best. + +"Yes," he continued, "I am sorry to say that he is under the influence +of alcohol. He has obviously been drinking heavily of late. I am a +specialist in such matters and I can hardly be mistaken. There is just +a possibility that this may bring on delirium tremens--only a +possibility. He has never suffered from that?" + +"Oh, never. Thank God never!" A sob came into her voice. Her face +glowed with the love and tenderness within, the blue eyes seemed set in +a soul rather than in a face, so beautiful had they become. "He's so +good," she said with a wistful smile. "You can't think what a sweet boy +he is when he doesn't drink any horrible things." + +"Madam, I have read his poems. I know what an intellect and force lies +drugged upon that sofa there. But we will soon have the flame burning +clearly once more. It has been the work of my life to study these +cases." + +"Yes, I know, Doctor. I have heard so much of your work." + +"Believe then that I am going to save this foolish young man, to give +him back to you and to the world. A free man once more!" + +"Free!" she whispered. "Oh, free from his vice!" + +"_Vice_, Madam! I thought that all intelligent people understood by +this time. For the last ten years I and my colleagues have been trying +to make them understand! It is not a _vice_ from which your husband +suffers. It is a _disease_!" + +He saw that she was pleased that he had spoken to her thus--though he +was in some doubt if she appreciated what he had actually said. + +But already the shuttle of an incipient friendship was beginning to +dart between them. + +Two high clear souls had met and recognised each other. + +"Well, suppose we get him to bed, Doctor," she said. "We can carry him +up between us. There are two maids, and Tumpany is quite sober enough +to help." + +"Quite!" the doctor answered. "I rather like that man upon a first +meeting." + +Mary laughed--a low contralto laugh. "She has a sense of humour too!" +the doctor thought. + +"Yes," she said, "Tumpany is a good fellow at heart. And, like most +people who drink, when he is himself he is a quite delightful person." + +She went out into the hall, tall and beautiful, the jewels in her hair +and on her hands sparkling in the candlelight. + +Morton Sims took one of the candles from the table and went up to the +couch. + +A shadow flickered over the face of the man who was lying there. + +It was but momentary, but in that instant the watcher became cold. The +silver of the candle-stick stung the palm of a hand which was suddenly +wet. + +This tranquil, lovely room with its soft yellow light, dissolved and +shifted like a scene in a dream. . . . + +. . . It was a raw winter's morning. The walls were the whitewashed +walls of a prison mortuary. There was a smell of chloride of +lime. . . . + +And lying upon a long zinc slab, with little grooves and depressions +running down to the eye-hole of a drain, was a still figure whose +face was a ghastly caricature of this face, hideously, revoltingly +alike . . . + +Mary Lothian, Tumpany, and two maid-servants came into the room, and +with some difficulty the poet was carried upstairs. + +He was hardly laid upon his bed when the rain came, falling in great +sheets with a loud noise, cooling and purging the hot air. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +PSYCHOLOGY OF THE INEBRIATE, AND THE LETTER OF JEWELLED WORDS + + "Verbosa ac grandis epistola venit a Capreis." + + --_Juvenal._ + + +It was three days after the accident. + +Gilbert lay in bed. His head was crossed with bandages, his wrist was +wrapped with lint and a wet compress was upon the ankle of his strained +left foot. + +The windows of his bedroom were wide to the sun and air of the morning. +There were two pleasant droning sounds. A bee was flying round the +room, and down below in the garden Tumpany was mowing the strip of lawn +before the house. Gilbert was very tranquil. He was wrapped round with +a delicious peace of mind and body. He seemed to be floating in some +warm ether of peace. + +There was a table by the side of his bed. In a slender vase upon it was +a single marguerite daisy with its full green stem, its rays of +white--Chinese white in a box of colours--round the central gold. Close +to his hand, upon the white turned down sheet was a copy of "John +Inglesant." It was a book he loved and could always return to, and he +had had his copy bound in most sumptuous purple. + +Mary came into the bedroom. + +She was carrying a little tray upon which there was a jug of milk and a +bottle of soda water. There was a serene happiness upon her face. She +had him now--the man she loved! He was hers, her own without +possibility of interference. She was his Providence, he depended +utterly upon her. + +There are not many women like this in life, but there are some. Perhaps +they were more frequent in the days of the past. Women who have no +single thought of Self: women whose thoughts are always prayers: women +in whose veins love takes the place of blood, whose hearts are cisterns +of sweet charity, whose touch means healing, whose voices are like +harps that sound forgiveness and devotion alone. + +She put the tray upon the bedside table and sat down upon the bed, +taking his unwounded hand in hers, stroking it with the soft cushions +of her fingers, holding up its well-shaped plumpness as if it were a +toy. + +"There is something so comic about your hands, darling!" she said. "They +are so nice and fat and jolly. They make me want to laugh!" + +To Gilbert his wife's happy voice seemed but part of the dream-like +peace which lay upon him. He was drowsy with incense. How fresh and +fragrant she was! he thought idly. He pulled her down to him and kissed +her and the gilded threads of her hair brushed his forehead. Her lips +were cool as violets with the dew upon their petals. She belonged to +him. She was part of the pleasant furniture of the room, the hour! + +"How are you feeling, darling? You're looking so much better!" + +"My head hurts a little, but not much. But my nerves are ever so much +better. Look how steady my hand is." He held it out with childish +pride. + +"And you'll see, Molly dear, that when I'm shaved, my complexion will +be quite nice again! It's a horrid nuisance not to be able to shave. Do +I look very bad?" + +"No, you wicked image! You're a vain little wretch, Gillie, really!" + +"I'm quite sure that I'm not. But, Molly, it's so nice to be feeling +better. Master of one's self. Not frightened about things." + +"Of course it is, you old stupid! If you were always good how much +happier you'd be! Take my advice. Do what I tell you, and everything +will come right. You've got a great big brain, but you're a silly boy, +too! Think how much more placid you are now. Never take any more +spirits again!" + +"No, I won't, darling. I promise you I won't." + +"That's right, dear. And this nice new doctor will help you. You like +him, don't you?" + +"Molly! What a dear simple fool you are! _Like_ him? You don't in +the least realise who he is. It's Morton Sims, Morton Sims himself! +He's a fearfully important person. Twice, they say, he's refused to +take a baronetcy. He's come down here to do research work. It's an +enormous condescension on his part to come and plaster up my head. It's +really rather like Lord Rosebery coming to shave one! And he'll send in +a bill for about fifty pounds!" + +"He won't, Gillie dear. I'm sure. But if he does, what's the use of +worrying? I'll pay it out of my own money, and I've got nearly as much +as you--nasty miser!" + +They laughed together at this. Mary had three or four hundreds a year +of her own, Gilbert a little more, independently of what he earned by +writing. Mary was mean with her money. That is to say, she saved it up +to give to poorer people and debated with herself about a new frock +like a chancellor of the Exchequer about the advisability of a fresh +tax. And Lothian didn't care and never thought about money. He had no +real sense of personal property. He liked spending money. He was +extravagant for other people. If he bought a rare book, a special +Japanese colour-print, any desirable thing--he generally gave it away +to some one at once. He really liked people with whom he came into +contact to have delightful things quite as much as he liked to have +them himself. + +Nor was this an outcome of the poisoned state of his body, his brain, +and--more terrible than all!--of his mind. It was genuine human +kindness, an eager longing that others should enjoy things that he +himself enjoyed so poignantly. + +But what he gave must be the things that _he_ liked, though to all +_necessity_ he was liberal. A sick poor person without proper +nourishment, a child without a toy, some wretched tramp without tobacco +for his pipe--to him these were all tragedies, equal in their appeal to +his charity. And this was because of his trained power of psychology, +his profound insight into the minds of others, though even that was +marred by a Rousseau-like belief that every one was good and decent at +heart! Still, the need of the dying village consumptive for milk and +calf's-foot jelly, was no more vivid in his mind than the need of the +tramp for a smoke. As far as he was able, it was his Duty, his happy +duty, to satisfy the wants of both. + +Mary was different. + +The consumptive, yes! Stout flannel shirts for old shepherds who must +tend the birth of lambs on bitter Spring midnights. Food for the tramp, +too--no dusty wayfarer should go unsatisfied from the Lothians' house! +But not the subsequent shilling for beer and shag and the humble luxury +of the Inn kitchen that Gilbert would have bestowed. + +Such was her wise penuriousness in its calm economy of the angels! + +Yet, her husband had his economy also. Odd as it was, it was part of +his temperament. If he had bought a rare and perfect object of art, and +then met some one who he saw longed for it, but couldn't afford to have +it in the ordinary way, he took a real delight in giving it. But it +would have been easier for him to lop off a hand than to present one of +the Toftrees' novels to any one who was thirsting for something to +read. He would have thought it immoral to do so. + +He had a great row with his wife when she presented a gaudy pair of +pink-gilt vases to an ex-housemaid who was about to be married. + +"But dear, she's _delighted_," Mary had said. + +"You've committed a crime! It's disgraceful. Oblige me by never doing +anything of the sort again. Why didn't you give her a ham?" + + +"Molly, may I have a cigarette?" + +"Hadn't you better have a pipe? The doctor said that you smoked far too +many cigarettes and that they were bad for you." + +For three days Lothian had had nothing to drink but a glass of Burgundy +at lunch and dinner. Lying in bed, perfectly tranquil, calling upon no +physical resources, the sense of nerve-rest within him was grateful and +profound. + +But the inebriate lives almost entirely upon momentary sensation. The +slightest recrudescence of health makes him forget the horrors of the +past. + +In the false calm of his quiet room, his tended state, the love and +care surrounding him, Gilbert had already come to imagine that he was +what he hoped to be in his saner moments. He had, at the moment, not +the least desire for a drink. In three days he was already complacent +and felt himself strong! + +Yet his nerves were still unstable and every impulse was on a hair +trigger, so to speak. + +The fact became evident at once. + +He knew well enough that when he began to smoke pipes the most pressing +desire of the other narcotic, alcohol, became numbed. Cigarettes +stimulated that desire, or at least accompanied it. He could not live +happily without cigarettes. + +He knew that Mary knew this also--experience of him had given her the +sad knowledge--and he was quite certain that Dr. Morton Sims must know +too. + +The extraordinary transitions of the drunkard from one mental state to +another are more symptomatic than any other thing about him. Gilbert's +face altered and became sullen. A sharp and acid note tuned his voice. + +"I see," he said, "you've been talking me over with Morton Sims. Thank +you so _very_ much!" + +He began to brag about himself, a thing he would have been horrified to +do to any one but Mary. Even with her it was a weak weapon, and +sometimes in his hands a mean and cruel one too. + +". . . You were kind enough to marry me, but you don't in the least +seem to understand whom you have married! Is my art nothing to you? Do +you realise who I am at all--in any way? Of course you don't! You're +too big a fool to do so. But other women know! At any rate, I beg you +will not talk over your husband with stray medical men who come along. +You might spare me that at least. I should have thought you would have +had more sense of personal dignity than that!" + +She winced at the cruelty of his words, at the wounding bitterness +which he knew so well how to throw into his voice. But she showed no +sign of it. He was a poisoned man, and she knew it. Morton Sims had +made it plainer than ever to her at their talks downstairs during the +last three days. It wasn't Gillie who said these hard things, it was +the Fiend Alcohol that lurked within him and who should be driven out. +. . . + +It wasn't her Gilbert, really! + +In her mind she said one word. "Jesus!" It was a prayer, hope, comfort +and control. The response was instant. + +That secret help had been discovered long since by her. Of her own +searching it had come, and then, one day she had picked up one of her +husband's favourite books and had read of this very habit she had +acquired. + + "Inglesant found that repeating the name of Jesus simply in the + lonely nights kept his brain quiet when it was on the point of + distraction, being of the same mind as Sir Charles Lucas when 'Many + times calling upon the sacred name of Jesus,' he was shot dead at + Colchester." + + +The spiritual telegraphy that goes on between Earth and Heaven, from +God to His Saints is by no means understood by the World. + +"You old duffer," Mary said. "Really, you are a perfect blighter--as +you so often call me! Haven't you just been boasting about feeling so +much better? And, fat wretch! am I not doing everything possible for +you. _Of course_ I've talked you over with the doctor. We're going +to make you right! We're going to make you slim and beautiful once +more. My dear thing! it's all arranged and settled. Don't bubble like a +frog! Don't look at your poor Missis as if she were a nasty smell! It's +no use, Gillie dear, we've got you now!" + +No momentary ill-humour could stand against this. He was, after all, +quite dependent upon the lady with the golden hair who was sitting upon +his bed. + +And it was with no more Oriental complacence, but with a very +humble-minded reverence, that the poet drew his wife to him and kissed +her once more. + +". . . But I may have a cigarette, Molly?" + +"Of course you may, if you want one. It was only a general sort of +remark that the doctor made. A few cigarettes can't harm any one. Don't +I have two every day myself--since you got me into the habit? But +you've been smoking fifty a day, for _weeks_ before you went to town." + +"Oh, Molly! What utter rot! I _never_ have!" + +"But you _have_, Gilbert. You smoke the Virginian ones in the tins +of fifty. You always have lots of tins, but you never think how they +come into the house. I order them from the grocer in Wordingham. +They're put down in the monthly book--so you see I _know_!" + +"Fifty a day! Of course, it's appalling." + +"Well, you're going to be a good boy now, a perfect angel. Here you +are, here are three cigarettes for you. And you're going to have a +sweet-bread for lunch and I'm going to cook it for you myself!" + +"Dear old dear!" + +"Yes, I am. And Tumpany wants to see you. Will you see him? Dr. Morton +Sims won't be here for another half hour." + +"Yes, I'll have Tumpany up. Best chap I know, Tumpany is. But why's the +doctor coming? My head's healed up all right now." + +There was a whimsical note in his voice as he asked the question. + +"You know, darling! He wants to have a long talk with you." + +"Apropos of the reformation stakes I suppose." + +"To give you back your wonderful brain in peace, darling!" she +answered, bending down, catching him to her breast in her sweet arms. + +". . . Gillie! Gillie! I love you so!" + +"And now suppose you send up Tumpany, dear." + +"Yes, at once." + +She went away, smiling and kissing her hand, hoping with an intensity +of hope which burned within her like a flame, that when the doctor came +and talked to Gilbert as had been arranged, the past might be wiped out +and a new life begun in this quiet village of East England. + +In a minute there was a knock at the bedroom door. + +"Come in," Gilbert called out. + +Tumpany entered. + +Upon the red face of that worthy person there was a grin of sheer +delight as he made his bow and scrape. + +Then he held up his right arm. He was grasping a leash of mallard, and +the metallic blue-green and white upon the wings of the ducks shone in +the sun. + +Gilbert leapt in his bed, and then put his hand to his bandaged head +with a half groan.--"Good God!" he cried, "how the deuce did you get +those?" + +"First of August, sir. Wildfowling begins!" + +"Heavens! so it is. I ought to have been out! I never thought about the +date. Damn you for pitching me out of the dog-cart, William!" + +"Yessir! You've told me so before," Tumpany answered, his face +reflecting the smile upon his master's. + +"What are they, flappers?" + +"No, sir, mature birds. I was out on the marshes before daylight. The +birds were coming off the meils--and North Creake flat. First day since +February, sir! You know what I was feeling like!" + +"Don't I, oh, don't I, by Jove! Now tell me. What were you using?" + +"Well, sir, I thought I would fire at nothing but duck on the first +day. Just to christen the day, sir. So I used five and a half and +smokeless diamond. Your cartridges." + +"What gun?" + +"Well, I used my old pigeon gun, sir. It's full choke, both barrels and +on the meils it's always a case of long shots." + +"Why didn't you have one of my guns? The long-chambered twelve, or the +big Greener ten-bore--they're there in the cupboard in the gun room, +you've got the key! Did a whole sord of mallard come over, or were +those three stragglers?" + +"A sord, sir. The two drakes were right and left shots and this duck +came down too. As I said to the mistress just now, 'last year,' I said, +'Mr. Gilbert and I were out for two mornings after the first of August +and we never brought back nothing but a brace of curlew--and now here's +a leash of duck, M'm.'" + +"If you'd had a bigger gun, and a sord came over, you'd have got a bag, +William! Why the devil didn't you take the ten-bore?" + +"Well, sir, I won't say as I didn't go and have a look at 'im in the +gun room--knowing how they're flighting just now and that a big gun +would be useful. But with you lying in bed I couldn't do it. So I went +out and shot just for the honour of the house, as it were." + +"Well, I shall be up in a day or two, William, and I'll see if I can't +wipe your eye!" + +"I hope you will, sir, I'm sure. There's quite a lot of mallard about, +early as it is." + +"I'll get among them soon, Tumpany!" + +"Yessir--the Mistress I think, sir, and the doctor." + +Tumpany's ears were keen, like those of most wildfowlers,--he heard +voices coming along the passage towards the bedroom. + +The door opened and Morton Sims came in with Mary. + +He shook hands with Gilbert, admired Tumpany's leash of duck, and then, +left alone with the poet, sat down upon the bed. + +The two men regarded each other with interest. They were both +"personalities" and both of them made their mark in their several ways. + +"Good heavens!" the doctor was thinking. "What a brilliant brain's +hidden behind those lint bandages! This is the man who can make the +throat swell with sorrow and the heart leap high with hope! With all my +learning and success, I can only bring comfort to people's bowels or +cure insomnia. This fellow here can heal souls--like a priest! Even for +me--now and then--he has unlocked the gates of fairyland." + +"Good Lord!" Gilbert said to himself. "What wouldn't I give to be a +fellow like this fellow. He is great. He can put a drug into one's body +and one's soul awakes! He's got a magic wand. He waves it, and sanity +returns. He pours out of a bottle and blind eyes once more see God, +dull ears hear music! I go and get drunk at Amberleys' house and cringe +before a Toftrees, Mon Dieu! This man can never go away from a house +without leaving a sense of loss behind him." + +--"Well, how are you, Mr. Lothian?" + +"Much better, thanks, Doctor. I'm feeling quite fit, in fact." + +"Yes, but you're not, you know. I made a complete examination of you +yesterday, you remember, and now I've tabulated the results." + +"Tell me then." + +"If you weren't who you are, I wouldn't tell you at all, being who you +are, I will." + +Lothian nodded. "Fire away!" he said with his sweet smile, his great +charm of manner--all the greater for the enforced abstinence of the +last three days--"I shan't funk anything you tell me." + +"Very well, then. Your liver is beginning--only beginning--to be +enlarged. You've got a more or less permanent catarrh of the stomach, +and a permanent catarrh of the throat and nasal passages from membranes +inflamed by alcohol and constant cigarette smoking. And there is a hint +of coming heart trouble, too." + +Lothian laughed, frankly enough. "I know all that," he said. "Really, +Doctor, there's nothing very dreadful in that. I'm as strong as a +horse, really!" + +"Yes, you are, in one way. Your constitution is a fine one. I was +talking to your man-servant yesterday and I know what you are able to +go through when you are shooting in the winter. I would not venture +upon such risks myself even." + +"Then everything is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds?" +Gilbert answered lightly, feeling sure that the other would take him. + +"Unfortunately, in your case, it's _not_," Morton Sims replied. "You +seem to forget two things about 'Candide'--that Dr. Pangloss was a +failure and a fool, and that one must cultivate one's garden! Voltaire +was a wise man!" + +Gilbert dropped his jesting note. + +"You've something to say to me," he answered, "probably a good deal +more. Say it. Say anything you like, and be quite certain that I shan't +be offended." + +"I will. It's this, Mr. Lothian. Your stomach will go on digesting and +your heart performing its functions long after your brain has gone." + +Then there was silence in the sunlit bedroom. + +"You think that?" Lothian said at length, in a quiet voice. + +"I know it. You are on the verge of terrible nervous and mental +collapse. I'm going to be brutal, but I'm going to speak the truth. +Three months more of drinking as you have been of late and, for all +effective purposes you go out!" + +Gilbert's face flushed purple with rage. + +"How dare you say such a thing to me, sir?" he cried. "How dare you +tell me, tell _me_, that I have been drinking heavily. You are +certainly wise to say it when there is no witness here!" + +Morton Sims smiled sadly. He was quite unmoved by Lothian's rage. It +left him cool. But when he spoke, there was a hypnotic ring in his +voice which caught at the weak and tremulous will of the man upon the +bed and held it down. + +"Now really, Mr. Lothian!" he said, "what on earth is the use of +talking like that to me? It means nothing. It does not express your +real thought. Can you suppose that your condition is not an open book +to _me_? You know that you wouldn't speak as you're doing if your +nerves weren't in a terrible state. You have one of the finest minds in +England; don't bring it to irremediable ruin for want of a helping +hand." + +Lothian lay back on his pillow breathing quickly. He felt that his +hands were trembling and he pushed them under the clothes. His legs +were twitching and a spasm of cramp-pain shot into the calf of one of +them. + +"Look here, Doctor," he said after a moment, "I spoke like a fool, +which I'm not. I have been rather overdoing it lately. My work has been +worrying me and I've been trying to whip myself up with alcohol." + +Morton Sims nodded. "Well, we'll soon put you right," he said. + +Mary Lothian had told him the true history of the case. For three +years, at least, her husband had been drinking steadily, silent, +persistent, lonely drinking. For a long time, a period of months to her +own fear and horror-quickened knowledge, Lothian had been taking a +quantity of spirits which she estimated at two-thirds of a bottle a +day. Without enlightening her, and adding what an inebriate of this +type could easily procure in addition, the doctor put the true quantity +at about a bottle and a half--say for the last two months certainly. + +He knew also, that whatever else Lothian might do, either now or when +he became more confidential, he would lie about the _quantity_ of +spirits he was in the habit of consuming. Inebriates always do. + +"Of course," he said, talking in a quiet man-of-the-world voice, "_I_ +know what a strain such work as yours must be, and there is certainly +temptation to stimulate flagging energies with some drug. Hundreds of +men do it, doctors too!--literary men, actors, legal men!" + +He noted immediately the slight indication of relief in the patient, +who thought he had successfully deceived him, and he saw also that sad +and doubting anxiety in the eyes, which says so poignantly, "what must +I do to be saved?" + +Could he save this man? + +Everything was against it, his history, his temperament, the length to +which he had already gone. The whole stern and horrible statistics of +experience were dead against it. + +But he could, and would, try. There was a chance. + +A great doctor must think more rapidly than a general upon the field of +battle; as quickly indeed as one who faces a deadly antagonist with the +naked foil. There was one way in which to treat this man. He must tell +him more about the psychology--and even if necessary the pathology--of +his own case than he could tell any ordinary patient. + +"I'll tell you something," he said, "and I expect your personal +experience will back me up. You've no 'craving' for alcohol I expect? +On the sensual side there's no sense of indulging in a pleasurable +self-gratification?" + +Lothian's face lighted up with interest and surprise. "Not a _bit_," he +said excitedly, "that's exactly where people make a mistake! I don't +mind telling you that when I've taken more than I ought, people, my +wife and so on, have remonstrated with me. But none of them ever seem +to understand. They talk about a 'craving' and so on. Religious people, +even the cleverest, don't seem to understand. I've heard Bishop +Moultrie preach a temperance sermon and talk about the 'vice' of +indulgence, the hideous 'craving' and all that. But it never seemed to +explain anything to me, nor did it to all the men who drink too much, I +ever met." + +"There _is_ no craving," the Doctor answered quietly--"in the sense +these people use the word. And there is no vice. It is a disease. They +mean well, they even effect some cures, but they are misinformed." + +"Well, it's very hard to answer them at any rate. One somehow knows +within oneself that they're all wrong, but one can't explain." + +"I can explain to you--I couldn't explain to, well to your man Tumpany +for instance, _he_ couldn't understand." + +"Tumpany only drinks beer," Lothian answered in a tone of voice that a +traveller in Thibet would use in speaking of some one who had ventured +no further from home than Boulogne. + +It was another indication, an unconscious betrayal. His defences were +fast breaking down. + +Morton Sims felt the keen, almost æsthetic pleasure the artist knows +when he is doing good work. Already this mind was responsive to the +skilled touch and the expected, melancholy music sounding from that +injured instrument. + +"He seems a very good sort, that fellow of yours," the doctor continued +indifferently, and then, with a more eager and confidential manner, +"But let me explain where the ordinary temperance people are wrong. +First, tell me, haven't you at times quarrelled with friends, because +you've become suspicious of them, and have imagined some treacherous +and concealed motive in the background?" + +"I don't know that I've quarrelled much." + +"Well, perhaps not. But you've felt suspicious of people a good deal. +You've wondered whether people were thinking about you. In all sorts of +little ways you've had these thoughts constantly. Perhaps if a +correspondent who generally signs himself 'yours sincerely' has +inadvertently signed 'yours truly' you have worried a good deal and +invented all sorts of reasons. If some person of position you know +drives past you, and his look or wave of the hand does not appear to be +as cordial as usual, don't you invent all kinds of distressing reasons +to account for what you imagine?" + +Lothian nodded. + +His face was flushed again, his eyes--rather yellow and bloodshot +still--were markedly startled, a little apprehensive. + +"If this man knew so much, a wizard who saw into the secret places of +the mind, what more might he not know?" + +But it was impossible for him to realise the vast knowledge and supreme +skill of the pleasant man with the cultured voice who sat on the side +of the bed. + +The fear was perfectly plain to Morton Sims. + +"May I have a cigarette?" he said, taking his case from his pocket. + +Lothian became more at ease at once. + +"Well,"--puff-puff--"these little suspicions are characteristic of the +disease. The man who is suffering from it says that these feelings of +resistance cannot arise in himself. Therefore, they must be caused by +somebody. Who more likely then than by those who are in social contact +with him?" + +"I see that and it's very true. Perhaps truer than you can know!" +Lothian said with a rather bitter smile. "But how does all this explain +what we were talking about at first. The 'Craving' and all that?" + +"I am coming to it now. I had to make the other postulate first. In +this way. We have seen in this suspicion--one of many instances--that +an entirely fictitious world is created in the mind of a man by +alcohol. It is one in which he _must_ live. It is peopled with +unrealities and phantasies. As he goes on drinking, this world becomes +more and more complex. Then, when a man becomes in a state which we +call 'chronic alcoholism' a new Ego, a new self is created. _This new +personality fails to recognise that it was ever anything else_--mark +this well--_and proceeds to harmonise everything with the new state_. +And now, as the new consciousness, the new Ego, is the compelling mind +of the moment, the Inebriate is terrified at any weakening in it. _The +preservation of this new Ego seems to be his only guard against the_ +imagined _pitfalls and treacheries_. Therefore he does all in his power +to strengthen his defences. He continues alcohol, because it is to him +the only possible agent by which he can _keep grasp of his identity_. +For him it is no poison, no excess. It sustains his very being. His +_stomach_ doesn't crave for it, as the ignorant will tell you. It has +no _sensual_ appeal. Lots of inebriates hate the taste of alcohol. In +advanced stages it is quite a matter of indifference to a man what form +of alcohol he drinks. If he can't get whiskey, he will drink methylated +spirit. He takes the drug simply because of the necessity for the +maintenance of a condition the falsity of which he is unable to +appreciate." + +Lothian lay thinking. + +The lucid statement was perfectly clear to him and absorbingly +interesting in its psychology. He was a profound psychologist himself, +though he did not apply his theories personally, a spectator of others, +turning away from the contemplation of himself during the past years in +secret terror of what he might find there. + +How new this was, yet how true. It shed a flood of light upon so much +that he had failed to understand! + +"Thank you," he said simply. "I feel certain that what you say is +true." + +Morton Sims nodded with pleasure. "Perhaps nothing is quite true," he +said, "but I think we are getting as near truth in these matters as we +can. What we have to do, is to let the whole of the public know too. +When once it is thoroughly understood what Inebriety is, then the +remedy will be applied, the only remedy." + +"And that is?" + +"I'll tell you our theories at my next visit. You must be quiet now." + +"But there are a dozen questions I want to ask you--and my own case?" + +"I am sending you some medicine, and we will talk more next time. And, +if you like, I will send you a paper upon the Psychology of the +Alcoholic, which I read the other day before the Society for the Study +of Alcoholism. It may interest you. But don't necessarily take it all +for gospel! I'm only feeling my way." + +"I'll compare it with such experiences as I have had--though of course +I'm not what you'd call an _inebriate_." There was a lurking +undercurrent of suspicion creeping into his voice once more. + +"Of course not! Did I ever say so, Mr. Lothian! But what you propose +will be of real value to me, if I may have your conclusions." + +Lothian was flattered. He would show this great scientist how entirely +capable he could be of understanding and appreciating his researches. +He would collaborate with him. It would be new and exhilarating! + +"I'll make notes," he replied, "and please use them as you will!" + +The doctor rose. "Thanks," he answered. "It will be a help. But what we +really require is an alcoholic De Quincey to detail in his graphic +manner the memories of his past experiences--a man who has the power +and the courage to lay open the cravings and the writhings of his +former slavery, and to compare them with his emancipated self." + +Lothian started. When the kindly, keen-faced man had gone, he lay long +in thought. + +In the afternoon Mary came to him. "Do you mind if I leave you for an +hour or two, dear?" she asked. "I have some things to get and I thought +I would drive into Wordingham." + +"Of course not, I shall be quite all right." + +"Well, be sure and ring for anything you want." + +"Very well. I shall probably sleep. By the way, I thought of asking +Dickson Ingworth down for a few days. There are some duck about, you +know, and he can bring his gun." + +"Do, darling, if you would like him." + +"Very well, then. I wonder if you'd write a note for me, explaining +that I'm in bed, but shall be up to-morrow. Supposing you ask him to +come in a couple of days." + +"Yes, I will," she replied, kissing him with her almost maternal, +protective air, "and I'll post it in Wordingham." + +When she had left the room he began to smoke slowly. + +He felt a certain irritation at all this love and regard, a discontent. +Mary was always the same. With his knowledge of her, he could predict +with absolute accuracy what she would do in almost every given moment. + +She would do the right thing, the kind and wise thing, but the certain, +the predicted thing. She lived from a great depth of being and peace +personified was hers, the peace of God indeed!--but-- + +"She has no changes, no surprises," he thought, "all even surface, even +depth." + +He admired all her care and watchfulness of him with deep æsthetic +pleasure. It was beautiful and he loved beauty. But now and then, it +bored him as applied to himself. After six months of the unchanging +gold and blue of Italy and Greece, he remembered how he had longed for +a grey, weeping sky, with ashen cirrus clouds, heaped tumuli of +smoke-grey and cold pearl. And sometimes after a lifeless, rotting +autumn and an iron-winter, how every fibre cried out for the sun and +the South! + +He remembered that a man of letters, who had got into dreadful trouble +and had served a period of imprisonment, had remarked to him that the +food of penal servitude was plentiful and good, but that it was its +dreadful monotony that made it a contributory torture. + +And who could live for ever upon honey-comb? Not he at any rate. + +Mary was "always her sweet self"--just like a phrase in a girl's novel. +There were men who liked that, and preferred it, of course. Even when +she was angry with him, he knew exactly how the quarrel would go--a +tune he had heard many times before. The passion of their early love +had faded; as it must always do. She was beautiful and desirable still, +but too calm, too peaceful, sometimes! + +This was one of those times. One must be trained to appreciate Heaven +properly, Paradise must be experienced first--otherwise, would not +almost every one want a little holiday sometimes? He thought of a +meeting of really good people, men and women--one stumbled in upon such +a thing now and then. How appallingly dull they generally were! Did +they never crave for madder music and stronger wine? + +. . . He could not read. Restless and rebellious thoughts occupied +his mind. + +The Fiend Alcohol was at work once more, though Lothian had no +suspicion of it. The new and evil Ego, created by alcohol, which the +doctor had told him of, was awake within him, asserting itself, +stirring uneasily, finding its identity diminishing, its vitality +lowered and thus clamant for its rights. + +And if this, in all its horror, is not true demoniacal possession, what +else is? What more does the precise scientific language of those who +study the psychology of the inebriate mean than "He was possessed of a +Devil"? + +The fiend, the new Ego, went on with its work as the poet lay there and +the long lights of the summer afternoon filled the room with gold-dust. + +The house was absolutely still. Mary had given orders that there was to +be no noise at all, "in order that the Master might sleep, if he +could." + +It was a summer's afternoon, the scent of some flowers below in the +garden came up to Gilbert with a curious familiarity. What _was_ +the scent? What memory, which would not come, was it trying to evoke? + +A motor-car droned through the village beyond the grounds. + +Memory leaped up in a moment. + +Of course! The ride to Brighton, the happy afternoon with Rita Wallace. + +That was it! He had thought of her a good deal on the journey down from +London--until he had sat in the dining car with those shooting men from +Thetford and had had too many whiskeys and sodas. During the last three +days in bed, she had not "occurred" to him vividly. Yet all the time +there had been something at the back of his mind of which he had been +conscious, but was unable to explain to himself. The nasty knock on his +head, when he had taken a toss from the dogcart, was the reason, no +doubt. + +Yet, there had been a distinct sense of hidden thought-treasure, +something to draw upon as it were. And now he knew! and abandoned +himself to the luxury of the discovery. + +He must write to her, of course. He had promised to do so at once. +Already she would be wondering. He would write her a wonderful letter. +Such a letter as few men could write, and certainly such as she had +never received. He would put all he knew into it. His sweet girl-friend +should marvel at the jewelled words. + +The idea excited him. His pulses began to beat quicker, his eyes grew +brighter. But he would not do it now. Night was the time for such a +present as he would make for her, when all the house was sleeping and +Mary was in her own room. Then, in the night-silence, his brain should +be awake, weaving a coloured tapestry of prose with words for threads, +this new, delicious impulse of friendship the shuttle to carry them. + +Like some coarser epicure, arranging and gloating over the details of a +feast to come, he made his plans. + +He pressed the electric button at the side of the bed and Blanche, the +housemaid, answered the summons. + +"Where is Tumpany, Blanche?" he asked. + +"In the garden, sir." + +"Well, tell him to come up, please. I want to speak to him." + +In a minute or two heavy steps resounded down the corridor, accompanied +by a curious scuffling noise. There was a knock, the door opened, a +yelp of joy, and the Dog Trust had leapt upon the bed and was rolling +over and over upon the counterpane, licking his master's hands, making +loving dashes for his face, his faithful little heart bursting with +emotions he was quite unable to express. + +"Thought you'd like to see him, sir," said Tumpany. "He know'd you'd +come back right enough, and he's been terrible restless." + +Lothian captured the dog at last, and held him pressed to his side. + +"I am very glad to see the old chap again. Look here, William, just you +go quietly over to the Mortland Arms, don't look as if you were going +on any special errand,--but you know--and get a bottle of whiskey. Draw +the cork and put it back in the bottle so that I can take it out with +my fingers when I want to. Then bring it quietly up here." + +"Yessir," said Tumpany. "That'll be all right, sir," and departed with +a somewhat ludicrous air of secrecy and importance that tickled his +master's sense of humour and made him smile. + +It was by no means the first time that Tumpany had carried out these +little confidential missions. + +In ten minutes the man was back again, with the bottle. + +"Shall I leave the dog, sir?" + +"Yes, you may as well. He's quite happy." + +Tumpany went away. + +Gilbert rose from bed, the bottle in his hand, and looked round for a +hiding-place. The wardrobe! That would do. He put it in one of the big +inside pockets of a shooting-coat which was hanging there and carefully +closed the door. + +As he did so, he caught sight of his face in the panel-mirror. It was +sly and unpleasant. Something horrible seemed to be peeping out. + +He shook his head and a slight blush came to his cheeks. + +The eyes under the bandaged brow, the smirk upon the clear-cut +mouth. . . . "Beastly!" he said aloud, as if speaking of some one +else--as indeed he really was, had he but realised it. + +Now he would sleep, to be fresh for the night. Bromide--always a good +friend, though not so certain in its action as in the past--Ammonium +Bromide should paralyse his racing brain to sleep. + +He dissolved five tablets in a little water and drank the mixture. + +When Mary came noiselessly into the room, three hours later, he was +sleeping calmly. One arm was round the Dog Trust, who was sleeping too. + +Her husband looked strangely youthful and innocent. A faint smile hung +about his lips and her whole heart went out to him as he slept. + + * * * * * + +It was after midnight. + +Deep peace brooded over the poet's household. Only he was awake. The +dog slumbered in his kennel, the servants in their rooms, the Sweet +Chatelaine of the Old House lay in tranquil sleep in her own chamber. + +. . . On a small oak table by Gilbert's bedside, three tall candles +were burning in holders of silver. Upon it also was an open bottle of +whiskey, the carafe of water from the washstand and a bedroom tumbler. + +The door was locked. + +Gilbert was sitting up in bed. Upon his raised knees a pad of white +paper was resting. In his hand was a stylographic pen of red vulcanite, +and a third of the page was covered with small delicate writing. + +His face was flushed but quite motionless. His whole body in its white +pyjama suit was perfectly still. The only movement was that of the hand +travelling over the page, the only sound that of the dull grinding of +the stylus, as it went this way and that. + +There was something sinister about this automaton in the bed with its +moving hand. And in our day there is always something a little +fantastic and unreal about candlelight. . . . + +How absolutely still the night was! Not a breath of air stirred. + +The movements, the stir and tumult of the mind of the person so rigid +in the bed were not heard. + +_What_ was it, _who_ was it, that was writing in the bed? + +Who can say? + +Was it Gilbert Lothian, the young and kindly-natured man who reverenced +all things that were pure, beautiful and of good report? + +Or was it that dreadful other self, the Being created out of poison, +that was laying sure and stealthy fingers upon the Soul, that "glorious +Devil large of heart and brain"? + +Who can tell? + +The subtle knowledge of the great doctor could not have said, the holy +love of the young matron could not have divined. + +These things are hidden yet, and still will be. + +The hump of the bed-clothes sank. The pad fell flat. The figure +stretched out towards the table, there was the stealthy trickle of +liquid, the gurgle of a body, drinking. + +Then the bed-clothes rose once more, the pad went to its place, the +figure stiffened; and the red pen moved obedient to that which +controlled it, setting down the jewelled words upon the page. + +--The first of the long series of letters that the Girl of the Library +was destined to receive! Not the most beautiful perhaps, not the most +wonderful. Passion was not born yet, and if love was, there was no +concrete word of it here. No one but Gilbert Lothian ever knew what was +born on that fated midnight, when he wrote this first subtle letter, +deadly for this girl to receive, perhaps, from such a man, at such a +time in her life. + +A love letter without a word of love. + +These are passages from the letter:-- + + . . . "So, Rita, I am going to write a great poem for you. Will you + take it from your friend? I think you will, for it will be made for + you in the first place and wrought with all my skill. + + "I am going to call it 'A Lady in a Library.' No one will know the + innermost inwardness of it but just you and me. Will not that be + delightful, Rita mia amica? When you answer this letter, say that + it will be delightful, please! + + "'A Lady in a Library!' Are not the words wonderful--say it quietly + to yourself--'A Lady in a Library!'" + +This was the poem which appeared two months afterwards in the _English +Review_ and definitely established Gilbert Lothian's claim to stand in +the very forefront of the poets of his decade. It is certain to live +long. More than one critic of the highest standing has printed his +belief that it will be immortal, and many lovers of the poet's work +think so too. + + . . . "The Lady and the Poet meet in a Library upon a golden + afternoon. She is the very Spirit and Genius of the place. She has + drawn beauty from many brave books. They have told her their + secrets as she moves among them, and lavished all their store upon + her. Some of the beauty which they hold has passed into her face, + and the rosy tints of youth become more glorious. + + "Oh, they have been very generous! + + "The thin volume of Keats gave her eyes their colour, but an old + and sober-backed edition of Coleridge opened its dun boards and + robbed the magic stanzas of 'Kubla Khan' to give them their mystery + and wonder. + + "Milton bestowed the music of her voice, but it came from the + second volume in which Comus lies hid. Her smile was half Herrick + and half Heine, and her hair was spun in a 'Wood near Athens' by + the fairies--Tom III, _Opera Glmi Shakespeare, Editio e Libris + Podley!_--upon a night in Midsummer." + + + "Random thoughts, Cupid! random thoughts! They come to me like + moths through the still night, and I put them down for you. A + grey-fawn _Papillon de nuit_ is fluttering round my candles now and + sometimes he falls flapping and whirring on my paper like a tiny + clock-work toy. But I will not kill him. I am happy in writing + to my friend, distilling my friendship for you in the lonely + laboratory of self, so he shall go unharmed. His ancestors may have + feasted upon royal tapestries and laid their eggs in the purple + robes of kings! + + "What are the moths like in Kensington this night, Cupid?--But of + course you are asleep now. I make a picture for myself of you + sleeping. + + "The whole village is asleep now, save only me, and I am trying to + reconstruct our afternoon and evening together, five days ago or + was it six? It is more than ever possible to do that at midnight + and alone, though every detail is etched upon my memory and I am + only adding colour. + + "How happy we were! It is so strange to me to think how instantly + we became friends--as we are agreed we are always to be, you and I. + And think of all we still have to find out about each other! There + are golden days coming in our friendship, all sorts of revelations + and surprises. There are so many enchanted places in the Kingdom of + Thought to which I have the key, so many doors I shall open for + you. + + "Ours shall be a perfect friendship--of your bounty I crave again + what you have already given!--and I will build it up as an + artificer in rare woods or stained marbles, a carver of + moon-stones, a builder of temples in honey-coloured Travertine, + makes beautiful states in which the soul can dwell, out of + beautiful perishable things. + + + "How often do two people meet as you and I have met? Most rarely. + Men and women fall in love, sometimes too early, sometimes too + late. There is a brief summer, and then a long winter of calm grey + days which numb the soul into acquiescence, or stab the dull + tranquillity with the lightnings of tragedy and woe. + + "We have the better part! We are to be friends, Rita, you and + I--that is the rivulet of repeated melody which runs through my + first letter to you. Some sad dawn will rise for me, when you tell + of something nearer and more poignant than anything I can offer + you. It will be a dawn in which, for you the trumpets, the sackbuts + and the psalteries of Heaven will sound. And your friend will bless + you; and retire to the back of the scene with a most graceful bow! + + "In the last act of the play, when all the players appear as Nymphs + and Graces, and Seasons, your friend will be found wearing the rich + yet sober liveries of Autumn, saluting Spring and her Partner with + a courtly song, and a dance which expresses his sentiments + according to the best choreographic traditions. + + "But, as he retires among the last red leaves of the year, and + walks jauntily down the forest rides as the setting sun shows the + trees already bare, he will know one thing, even if Spring does not + know it then--when she turns to her Partner. + + "He will know that in her future life, his voice, his face, can + never be quite forgotten. Sometimes, at the feast, 'surgit amari + aliquid' that he is not present there with the wistful glance, the + hands that were ever reverent, the old familiar keys! + + "For a brief instant of recollection, he will have for you + '_L'effet d'un clair-de-lune par une nuit d'été'_. And you will say + to yourself, '_Ami du temps passés, vos paroles me reviennent comme + un écho lointain, comme le son d'un cloche apporté par le vent; et + il me semble que vous êtes là quand je lis des passages d'amour + dans vos livres_'." + +A click of glass against glass, the low sound of drinking, a black +shadow parodied and repeated upon the ceiling in the candle-glow. + +The letter is nearly finished now--the bottle is nearly empty. + + "'Tiens!' I hear you say--by the way, Rita, where did you learn to + speak such perfect French? They tell me in Paris and, Mon Dieu! in + Tours even! that I speak well. Mais, toi! . . . + + "Well 'How stupid!' I hear you say. 'Why does Gilbert strike this + note of the 'cello and the big sobbing flutes at the very beginning + of things?' + + "Why, indeed? I hardly know myself. But it is very late now. The + curtains of the dark are already shaken by the birth-pangs of the + morning. Soon the jocund noises of dawn will begin. + + "Let it be so for you and me. There are long and happy days coming + in our friendship. The end is not yet! Soon, quite soon, I will + return to London with a pocket-full of plans for pleasure, and the + magician's wand polished like the poker in the best parlour of an + evangelical household, and charged with the most superior magic! + + "Meanwhile I shall write you my thoughts as you must send me yours. + + "I kiss your hand, + + "GILBERT LOTHIAN." + +The figure rose from the bed, gathering the papers together, putting +them into a drawer of the dressing-table. + +It staggered a little. + +"I'm drunk," came in a tired voice, from lips that were parched and +dry. + +With trembling hands the empty bottle was hidden, the glass washed out +and replaced, the door noiselessly unlocked. + +Then Lothian lurched to the open window. + +It was as he had said, dawn was at hand. But a thick grey mist hid +everything. Phantoms seemed to sway in it, speaking to each other with +tiny doll-like squeaks. + +There were no jocund noises as he crept back into bed and fell into a +stupor, snoring loudly. + +No jocund noises of Dawn. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +DICKSON INGWORTH UNDER THE MICROSCOPE + + "On n'est jamais trahi que par ses siens." + + --_Proverb of Provence._ + + +Lothian and Dickson Ingworth were driving into Wordingham. + +It was just after lunch and there was a pleasant cold-snap in the air, +a hint of Autumn which would soon be here. + +The younger man was driving, sending the cob along at a good pace, +quite obviously a skilful and accustomed whip. + +His host sat by his side and looked up at him with some curiosity, a +curiosity which had been growing upon him during the last few days. + +Ingworth was certainly good-looking, in a boyish, rather rakish +fashion. There were no indications of dissipation in his face. He was +not a dissipated youth. But there was, nevertheless, in the cast of the +features, something that suggested rather more than staidness. The hair +was dark red and very crisp and curly, the mouth was well-shaped and +rather thick in the lips. Upon it, more often than not, was the hint of +a smile at some inward thought, "rather like some youthful apprentice +pirate, not adventured far upon the high seas yet, but with sufficient +experience to lick the chops of memory now and then" . . . thus +Gilbert's half amused, half wondering thought. + +And the eyes?--yes, there was something a little queer about the eyes. +They were dark, not very steady in expression, and the whites--by Jove! +that was it--had a curious opalescence at times. Could it possibly be +that his friend had a touch of the tar-brush somewhere? It was faint, +elusive, born more of a chance thought than of reality perhaps, and yet +as the dog-cart bowled along the straight white road Gilbert wondered +more and more. + +He had known the lad, who was some two and twenty years of age, for +twelve months or more. Where had he met him?--Oh, yes, at an exhibition +of caricatures in the Carfax Gallery. Cromartie had introduced them. +Ingworth had made friends at once. In a graceful impulsive way he had +taken Lothian into a corner, and, blushing a good deal, had told him +how much he had wanted to know him. He had just come down from Oxford; +he told the poet how eagerly he was being read by the younger men +there. + +That was how it had begun. + +Friendship was an immediate result. Lothian, quite impervious to +flattery and spurning coteries and the "tea-shops," had found this +young man's devotion a pleasant thing. He was a gentleman and he didn't +bore Gilbert by literary talk. He was, in short, like an extremely +intelligent fag to a boy in the sixth form of a public school. He spoke +the same language of Oxford and school that Gilbert did--the bond +between them was just that, and the elder and well-known man had done +all he could for his protégé. + +From Gilbert's point of view, the friendship had occurred by chance, it +had presented no jarring elements, and he had drifted into it with +good-natured acquiescence. + +It was a fortnight after Mary had sent the invitation to Ingworth, who +could not come at the moment, being kept in London by "important work." +He had now arrived, and this was the eighth day of his visit. + +"I can't understand Tumpany letting this beast down," Ingworth said. +"He's as sure footed as possible. Was Tumpany fluffed?" + +"I suppose he was, a little." + +"Then why didn't you drive, Gilbert?" + +"I? Oh, well, I did myself rather well in the train coming down, and so +I thought I'd leave it to William!" + +Gilbert smiled as he said this, his absolutely frank and charming +smile--it would have disarmed a coroner! + +Ingworth smiled also, but here was something self-conscious and +deprecating. He was apologising for his friend's rueful but open +statement of fact. The big man had said, in effect, "I was drunk," the +small man tried to excuse the plain statement with quite unnecessary +sycophancy. + +"But you couldn't have been very bad?" + +"Oh, no, I wasn't, Dicker. But I was half asleep as we got into the +village, and as you see this cart is rather high and with a low +splashboard. My feet weren't braced against the foot-bar and I simply +shot out!" + +Ingworth looked quickly at Lothian, and chuckled. Then he clicked his +tongue and the trap rolled on silently. + +Lothian sat quietly in his place, smoking his cigar. He was conscious +of a subtle change in this lad since he had come down. It interested +him. He began to analyse as Ingworth drove onwards, quite oblivious of +the keen, far-seeing brain beside him. + +--That last little laugh of Ingworth's. There was a new note in it, a +note that had sounded several times during the last few days. It almost +seemed informed with a slight hint of patronage, and also of +reservation. It wasn't the admiring response of the past. The young man +had been absolutely loyal in the past, though no great strain had been +put upon his friendship. It was not difficult to be friends with a +benefactor--while the benefactions last. Certainly on one occasion--at +the Amberleys' dinner-party--he had behaved with marked loyalty. +Gilbert had heard all about it from Rita Wallace. But that, after all, +was an isolated instance. Lothian decided to test it. . . . + +"Of course I wasn't tight," he said suddenly and with some sharpness. + +"My dear old chap," the lad replied hastily--too hastily--"don't I +know?" + +It wasn't sincere! How badly he did it! Lothian watched him out of the +corner of his eye. There was certainly _something_. Dickson was +changed. + +Then the big mind brushed these thoughts away impatiently. It had +enough to brood over! This small creature which was just now intruding +in the great and gathering sweep of his daily thoughts might well be +dissected some other time. + +Lothian's head sank forward upon his chest. His eyes lost light and +speculation, the mouth set firm. Instinctively he crossed his arms upon +his breast, and the clean-shaved face with the growing heaviness of +contour mingled with its youth, made an almost Napoleonic profile +against the bright grey arc of sky over the marshes. + +Ingworth saw it and wondered. "One can see he's a big man," he thought +with a slight feeling of discomfort. "I wonder if Toftrees is right and +his reputation is going down and people are beginning to find out about +him?" + +He surveyed the circumstances of the last fortnight--two very important +weeks for him. + +Until his arrival in Norfolk about a week ago he had not seen Lothian +since the night of the party at the Amberleys', the poet having left +town immediately afterwards. But he had met, and seen a good deal of +Herbert Toftrees and his wife. + +These worthy people liked an audience. Their somewhat dubious solar +system was incomplete without a whole series of lesser lights. The +rewards of their industry and popularity were worth little unless they +were constantly able to display them. + +Knowing their own disabilities, however, quite aware that they were in +literature by false pretences so to speak, they preferred to be +reigning luminaries in a minor constellation rather than become part of +the star dust in the Milky Way. Courtier stars must be recruited, +little eager parasitic stars who should twinkle pleasantly at their +hospitable board. + +Dickson Ingworth, much to his own surprise and delight, had been swept +in. He thought himself in great good luck, and perhaps indeed he was. + +Nephew of a retired civilian from the Malay Archipelago, he had been +sent to Eton and Oxford by this gentleman, who had purchased a small +estate in Wiltshire and settled down as a minor country squire. The lad +was destined to succeed to this moderate establishment, but, at the +University, he had fallen into one of those small and silly "literary" +sets, which are the despair of tutors and simply serve as an excuse for +general slackness. The boy had announced his intention of embracing a +literary career when he had managed to scrape through his pass schools. +He had a hundred a year of his own--always spent before he received +it--and the Wiltshire squire, quite confident in the ultimate result, +had cut off his allowance. "Try it," he had said. "No one will be more +pleased than I if you make it a success. You won't, though! When you're +tired, come back here and take up your place. It will be waiting for +you. But meanwhile, my dear boy, not a penny do you get from me!" + +So Dickson Ingworth had "embraced a literary career." The caresses had +not as yet been returned with any ardour. Conceit and a desire to taste +"ginger in the mouth while it was hot" had sent him to London. He had +hardly ever read a notable book. He had not the slightest glimmerings +of what literature meant. But he got a few short stories accepted now +and then, did some odd journalism, and lived on his hundred a year, a +fair amount of credit, and such friends as he was able to make. + +In his heart of hearts the boy knew himself for what he was. But his +good looks, his youth--most valuable asset of all!--and the fact that +he would some day have some sort of settled position, enabled him to +rub along pretty well for the time. + +Without much real harm in him--he was too lacking in temperament to be +really wicked--he was as cunning as an ape and justified his good +opinions of his cleverness by the fact that his laborious little tricks +constantly succeeded. He was always achieving infinitesimal successes. + +He had marked out Gilbert Lothian, for instance, and had succeeded in +making a friend of him easily enough. + +Lothian rarely thought ill of any one and any one could take him in. To +do Ingworth justice he liked Lothian very much, and really admired him. +He did not understand him in the least. His poems were rather worse +Greek to him than the Euripidean choruses he had learnt by heart at +school. At the same time it was a great thing to be Fidus Achates to +the poet of the moment, and it was extremely convenient--also--to have +a delightful country house to retire to when one was hard up, and a +patron who not only introduced one to editors, but would lend five +pounds as a matter of course. + +Perhaps there was really some Eastern taint in the young fellow's +blood. At any rate he was sly by nature, had a good deal of undeveloped +capability for treachery latent within him, and, encouraged by success, +was becoming a marked parasite. + +Lazy by nature, he soon discovered how easy it was--to take one +example--to look up the magazines of three years back, steal a +situation or a plot, adapt it to the day, and sell it for a guinea or +two. His small literary career had hitherto been just that. If he had +been put upon the rack he could not have confessed to an original +thought. And it was the same in many other aspects of his life. He made +himself useful. He was always sympathetic and charming to some wife in +Bohemia who bewailed the inconstancy of her husband, and earned the +title of a "nice, good-hearted boy." On the next evening he would +gladly sup with the husband and the chorus girl who was the cause of +the trouble, and flatter them both. + +Master Dickson Ingworth, it will be seen, was by no means a person of +fine nature. He was simply very young, without any sort of ideals save +the gratification of the moment, and would, no doubt, become a decent +member of society in time. + +In a lower rank of life, and without the comfortable inheritance which +awaited him, he would probably have become a sneak-thief or a +blackmailer in a small way. + +In the event, he was destined to live a happy and fairly popular life +in the Wiltshire Grange, and to die a much better man than he was at +two and twenty. He was not to repent of, but to forget, all the +calculated meannesses of his youth, and at fifty he would have shown +any one to the door with horror who suggested a single one of the +tricks that he had himself been guilty of in his youth. + +And, parasite always, he is displayed here because of the part he is +destined to take in the drama of Gilbert Lothian's life. + + +"I've been seeing a good deal of Toftrees lately, Gilbert," Ingworth +said with a side glance. + +Lothian looked up from his reverie. + +"What? Oh, yes!--the Toftrees. Nice chap, Toftrees, I thought, when I +met him the other night. Awfully clever, don't you think, to get hold +of such an enormous public? Mind you, Dicker, I wouldn't give one of +his books to any one if I could help it. But that's because I want +every one to care for real literature. That's my own personal +standpoint. Apart from that, I do think that Mr. and Mrs. Toftrees +deserve all they get in the way of money and popularity and so on. +There must be such people under the modern conditions, and apart from +their work they both seem most interesting." + +This took the wind from the young man's sails. He was sensitive enough +to perceive--though not to appreciate--the largeness of such an +attitude as this. He felt baffled and rather small. + +Then, something that had been instilled into him by his new and +influential friends not only provided an antidote to his momentary +discomfiture but became personal to himself. + +A sense of envy, almost of hate, towards this man who had been so +consistently kind to him, bloomed like some poisonous and swift-growing +fungus in his unstable mind. + +"I say," he said maliciously, though there was fear in his voice, too, +"Herbert Toftrees has got his knife into you, Gilbert." + +Lothian looked at the young man in surprise. "Got his _knife into me_?" +he said, genuinely perplexed. + +"Well, yes. He's going about town saying all sorts of unpleasant things +about you." + +Lothian laughed. "Yes!" he said, "I remember! Miss Wallace told me so +not long ago. How intensely amusing!" + +Ingworth hated him at the moment. There was a disgusting sense of +impotence and smallness, in that he could not sting Lothian. + +"Toftrees is a very influential man in London," he said sententiously. + +At that moment all the humour in Lothian awoke. + +He leant back and laughed aloud. + +"Oh, Dicker!" he said, "what a babe you are!" + +Ingworth grew red. He was furious, but dared say nothing more. He felt +as if he had been trying to bore a tunnel through the Alps with a +boiled carrot and had wasted a franc in paying some one to hold his +shadow while he made the attempt! + +Lothian's laughter was perfectly genuine. He cared absolutely nothing +what Toftrees said or thought about him. But he did care about the +young man at his side. + +. . . The other Self, the new Ego, suddenly became awake and dominant. +Suspicion reared its head. + +For days and days now he had drunk hardly anything. The anti-alcoholic +medicines that Morton Sims had administered were gradually +strengthening the enfeebled will and bringing back the real tenant of +his soul. But now . . . + +Here was one whom he had thought his friend. It was not so then! An +enemy sat by his side?--he would soon discover. + +And then, with a skill which made the lad a plaything in his hands, +with a cunning a hundred times deeper than Ingworth's immature +shiftiness, Lothian began his work. + +But it was not the real Lothian. It was the adroit devil waked to life +that set itself to the task as the dog-cart rattled into the little +country town and drew up before the George Hotel in the Market Square. + +"Thanks awfully, old chap," Lothian said cheerfully as they turned +under the archway into the stable yard. "You're a topping whip, you +know, Dicker. I can't drive a bit myself. But I like to see you." + +For a moment Ingworth forgot his rancour at the praise. Unconscious of +the dominant personality and the mental grin behind the words, he +swallowed the compliment as a trout gulps a fly. + +They descended from the trap and the stable-men began to unharness the +cob. Lothian thrust his arm through the other's. "Come along, Jehu!" he +said. "I want a drink badly, and I'm sure you do, after the drive. I +don't care what you say, that cob is _not_ so easy to handle." . . . + +His voice was lost in the long passage that led from the stable yard to +the "saloon-lounge." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +A QUARREL IN THE "MOST SELECT LOUNGE IN THE COUNTY" + + "I strike quickly, being moved. . . . A dog of the house of + Montague moves me." + + --_Romeo and Juliet._ + + +The George Hotel in Wordingham was a most important place in the life +and economy of the little Norfolk town. + +The town drank there. + +In the handsome billiard room, any evening after dinner, one might find +the solicitor, the lieutenant of the Coast-guards, in command of the +district, a squire or two, Mr. Pashwhip and Mr. Moger the estate agents +and auctioneers, Mr. Reeves the maltster and local J.P.--town, not +county--and in fact all the local notabilities up to a certain point, +including Mr. Helzephron, the landlord and Worshipful Master of the +Wordingham Lodge of Freemasons for that year. + +The Doctor, the Bank Manager and, naturally, the Rector, were the only +people of consequence who did not "use the house" and make it their +club. They were definitely upon the plane of gentlefolk and could not +well do so. Accordingly they formed a little bridge playing coterie of +their own, occasionally assisted by the Lieutenant, who preferred the +Hotel, but made fugitive excursions into the somewhat politer society +which was his _milieu_ by birth. + +Who does not know them, these comfortable, respectable hotels in the +High Streets or Market Places of small country towns? Yet who has +pointed the discovering finger at them or drawn attention to the smug +and _convenable_ curses that they are? + +"There was a flaunting gin palace at the corner of the street,"--that +is the sort of phrase you may read in half a hundred books. The holes +and dens where working people get drunk, and issuing therefrom make +night hideous at closing time, stink in the nostrils of every one. They +form the texts and illustrations of many earnest lectures, much fervent +sermonizing. But nothing is said of the suave and well-conducted +establishments where the prosperous inebriates of stagnant county towns +meet to take their poison. When the doors of the George closed in +Wordingham and its little coterie of patrons issued forth, gravely, +pompously, a little unsteadily perhaps, to seek their homes, the Police +Inspector touched his cap--"The gentlemen from the George, going home!" + +But the wives knew all about such places as the George. + +It is upon the women that the burden falls, gentle or simple, nearly +always the women. + +Mrs. Gaunt, the naval officer's wife, knew very well why her husband +had never got his ship, and why he "went into the Coast-guard." She was +accustomed to hear unsteady steps upon the gravel sweep a little after +eleven, to see the flushed face of the man she loved, to know that he +had spent the evening tippling with his social inferiors, to lie sad +and uncomplaining by his side while his snores filled the air and the +bedroom was pervaded by the odour of spirits--an Admiral's daughter +she, gently nurtured, gently born, well accustomed to these sordid +horrors by now. + +Mrs. Reeves, the Maltster's wife, was soured in temper and angular of +face. She had been a pretty and trusting girl not so long ago as years +measure. She "gave as good as she got," and the servants of the big +bourgeois house with its rankly splendid furniture only turned in their +sleep when, towards midnight and once or twice a month, loud +recriminations reached them from the downstairs rooms. + +The solicitor, a big genial brute with a sense of humour, only +frightened to tears the elderly maiden sister who kept his house. He +was never unkind, never used bad language, and was merely noisy, but at +eight o'clock on the mornings following an audit dinner, a "Lodge +Night," or the evening of Petty Sessions, a little shrivelled, +trembling spinster would creep out of the house before breakfast and +kneel in piteous supplication at the Altar rails for the big, blond and +jovial brother who was "dissolving his soul" in wine--the +well-remembered phrase from the poem of Longfellow which she had +learned at school was always with her and gave a bitter urgency to her +prayers. + +All the company who met almost nightly at the George were prosperous, +well-to-do citizens. The government of the little town was in their +hands. They administered the laws for drunkards, fined them or sent +them to prison at Norwich. Their prosperity did not suffer. Custom +flowed to Mr. Pashwhip and Mr. Moger, who were always ready to take or +stand a drink. The malt of Mr. Reeves was bought by the great breweries +of England and deteriorated nothing in quality, while more money than +the pompous and heavy man could spend rolled into his coffers. The +solicitor did his routine conveyancing and so on well enough. + +No one did anything out of the ordinary. There were no scandals, +"alarums and excursions." It was all decent and ordered. + +The doctor could have given some astonishing evidence before a Medical +Commission. But he was a wise and quiet general practitioner who did +his work, held his tongue and sent his three boys to Cambridge. + +The Rector might have had an illuminating word to say. He was a good +but timid man, and saw how impossible it was to make any movement. They +were all his own church-wardens, sidesmen, supporters! How could he +throw the sleepy, stagnant, comfortable town into a turmoil and +disorder in which souls might be definitely lost for ever? + +He could only pray earnestly as he said the Mass each morning during +the seasons of the year. + +It is so all over England. Deny it who may. + +In Whitechapel the Fiend Alcohol is a dishevelled fury shrieking +obscenities. In the saloons and theatres of the West End he is a suave +Mephistopheles in evening dress. In Wordingham and the other provincial +towns and cities of England, he appears as a plump and prosperous +person in broadcloth, the little difficulty about his feet being got +over by well-made country shoes, and with a hat pressed down over ears +that may be a trifle pointed or may not. + +But the mothers, the wives, the sisters recognise him anywhere. + +The number of martyrs is uncounted. Their names are unknown, their +hidden miseries unsung. + +Who hears the sobs or sees the tears shed by the secret army of Slaves +to the Slaves of Alcohol? + +It is they who must drink the cup to the last dregs of horror and of +shame. The unbearable weight is upon them, that is to say, upon +tenderness and beauty, on feebleness and Love. Women endure the blows, +or cruel words more agonising. They are the meek victims of the Fiend's +malice when he enters into those they love. It is womanhood that lies +helpless upon the rack for ruthless hands to torture. + +Cujus animam geminentem! + +--She whose soul groaning, condoling and grieving the sword pierced +through! + +Saviours sometimes, sufferers always. + + * * * * * + +Into the "lounge" of the George Hotel came Gilbert Lothian and Dickson +Ingworth. + +They were well-dressed men of the upper classes. Their clothes +proclaimed them--for there will be (unwritten) sumptuary laws for many +years in England yet. Their voices and intonation stamped them as +members of the upper classes. A railway porter, a duke, or the +Wordingham solicitor would alike have placed them with absolute +certainty. + +They were laughing and talking together with bright, animated faces, +and in this masked life that we all lead to-day no single person could +have guessed at the forces and tragedies at work beneath. + +They sat down in a long room with a good carpet upon the floor, dull +green walls hung with elaborate pictures advertising whiskeys, in gold +frames, and comfortable leather chairs grouped in threes round tables +with tops of hammered copper. + +Mr. Helzephron did everything in a most up-to-date fashion--as he could +well afford. "The most select lounge in the county" was a minor heading +upon the hotel note-paper. + +At one end of the room was a semicircular counter, upon which were +innumerable regiments of tumblers and wine-glasses and three or four +huge crystal vessels of spirits, tulip-shaped, with gilded inscriptions +and shining plated taps. + +Behind the counter was Miss Molly Palmer, the barmaid of the hotel, +and, behind her, the alcove was lined with mirrors and glass shelves on +which were rows of liqueur flasks, bottles of brandy and dummy boxes of +chocolates tied up with scarlet ribands. + +"Now tell me, Dicker," Lothian said, lighting a cigarette, "how do you +mean about Toftrees?" + +The glamour of the past was on the unstable youth now, the same +influence which had made him--at some possible risk to himself--defend +Lothian so warmly in the drawing room at Bryanstone Square. + +The splendour of Toftrees was far away, dim in Lancaster Gate. + +"Oh, he's jealous of you because you really can write, Gilbert! That +must be it. But he really has got his knife into you!" + +Internally, Lothian winced. "Oh, but I assure you he has not," was all +that he said. + +Ingworth finished his whiskey and soda. "Well, you know what I mean, +old chap," he replied. "He's going about saying that you aren't +sincere, that you're really fluffed when you write your poems, don't +you know. The other night, at a supper at the Savoy, where I was, he +said you were making a trade of Christianity, that you didn't really +believe in what you wrote, and couldn't possibly." + +Lothian laughed. "Have another whiskey," he said. "And what did you +say, Dicker?" + +There was a sneer in Lothian's voice which the other was quite quick to +hear and to resent. On that occasion he had not defended his friend, as +it happened. + +"Oh, I said you meant well," Ingworth answered with quick impertinence, +and then, afraid of what he had done hurriedly drained the second glass +which the barmaid had just brought him. + +"Well, I do, really," Lothian replied, so calmly that the younger man +was deceived, and once more angry that his shaft had glanced upon what +seemed to be impenetrable armour. + +Yet, below the unruffled surface, the poet's mind was sick with +loathing and disgust. He was not angry with Ingworth, against Toftrees +he felt no rancour. He was sick, deadly sick with himself, inasmuch as +he had descended so low as to be touched by such paws as these. + +"I'll get through his damned high-and-mighty attitude yet," Ingworth +thought to himself. + +"I say," he remarked, "did you enjoy your trip to Brighton with Rita +Wallace? Toftrees saw you there, you know. He was dining at the +Metropole the same night." + +He had pierced--right through--though he did not know it. + +"Rather dangerous, wasn't it?" he continued. "Suppose your wife got to +know, Gilbert?" + +Something, those letters, near his heart, began to throb like a pulse +in Lothian's pocket. One of the letters had arrived that very morning. + +"Look here, Ingworth," he said, and his face became menacing, "you +rather forget yourself, I think, in speaking to me in this way. You're +a good sort of boy--at least I've thought so--and I've taken you up +rather. But I don't allow impudence from people like you. Remember!" + +The ice-cold voice frightened the other, but he had to the full that +ape-like semi-courage which gibbers on till the last moment of a +greater animal's patience. + +The whiskey had affected him also. His brain was becoming heated. + +"Well, I don't know about impudence," he answered pertly and with a red +face. "Anyhow, Rita dined with _me_ last week!" + +He brought it out with a little note of triumph. + +Lothian nodded. + +"Yes, and you took her to that disgusting little café Maréchale in +Soho. You ought not to take a lady to such a place as that. You've been +long enough in London to know. Don't be such a babe. If you ever get a +nice girl to go out with you again try and think things out a little +more." + +Tears of mortified vanity were in the young man's eyes. + +"She's been writing to you!" he said with a catch in his voice, and +suddenly his whole face seemed to change and dissolve into something +else. + +Did the lips really grow thicker? Did the angry blood which suffused +the cheeks give them a dusky tinge which was not of Europe? Would the +tongue loll out soon? + +"I _beg_ your pardon?" Lothian said coolly. + +"Yes, she has!" the young fellow hissed. "You're trying on a game with +the girl. She's a lady, and a good girl, and you're a married man. +She's been telling you about me, though I've a right to meet her and +you've not!--Look here, if she realised and knew what I know, and +Toftrees and Mr. Amberley know, what every one in London knows, by +Jove, she'd never speak to you again!" + +Gilbert lifted his glass and sipped slowly. His face was composed. It +bore the Napoleonic mask it had worn during the last part of their +drive to the town. + +Suddenly Gilbert rose up in his chair. + +"You dirty little hanger-on," he said in a low voice, "how dare you +mention any woman's name in this way!" + +Without heat, without anger, but merely as a necessary measure of +precaution or punishment, he smashed his left fist into Ingworth's jaw +and laid him flat upon the carpet. + +The girl behind the bar, who knew who Gilbert Lothian was very well, +had been watching what was going on with experienced eyes. + +She had seen, or known with the quick intuition of her training, that a +row was imminent between the famous Mr. Lothian--whose occasional +presences in the "lounge" were thought to confer a certain lustre upon +that too hospitable rendezvous--and the excited young man with the dark +red and strangely curly hair. + +Molly Palmer had pressed the button of her private bell, which called +Mr. Helzephron himself from his account books in the office. + +Mr. Helzephron was a slim, bearded man, black of hair and saffron of +visage. He was from Cornwall, in the beginning, and combined the +inherent melancholy and pessimism of the Celt with the Celt's shrewd +business instincts when he transplants himself. + +He entered at that moment and caught hold of the wretched Ingworth just +as the young man had risen, saw red, and was about to leap over the +table at Lothian, whom, in all probability he would very soon have +demolished. + +Helzephron's arms and hands were like vices of steel. His voice droned +like a wasp in a jam jar. + +"Now, then," he said, "what's all this? What's all this, sir? I can't +have this sort of thing going on. Has this gentleman been insulting +you, Mr. Lothian?" + +Ingworth was powerless in the Cornishman's grip. For a moment he would +have given anything in the world to leap at the throat of the man at +the other side of the table, who was still calmly smoking in his chair. + +But quick prudence asserted itself. Lothian was known here, a +celebrity. He was a celebrity anywhere, a public brawl with him would +be dreadfully scandalous and distressing, while in the end it would +assuredly not be the poet who would suffer most. + +And Ingworth was a coward; not a physical coward, for he would have +stood up to any one with nothing but glee in his heart, but a moral +one. Lothian, he knew, wouldn't have minded the scandal a bit, here or +anywhere else. But to Ingworth, cooled instantly by the lean grip of +the landlord, the prospect was horrible. + +And to be held by another man below one in social rank, landlord of an +inn, policeman, or what not, while it rouses the blood of some men to +frenzy, in others brings back an instant sanity. + +Ingworth remained perfectly still. + +For a second or two Lothian watched him with a calm, almost judicial +air. Then he flushed suddenly, with a generous shame at the position. + +"It's all right, Helzephron," he said. "It's a mistake, a damned silly +mistake. As a matter of fact I lost my temper. Please let Mr. Ingworth +go." + +Mr. Helzephron possessed those baser sides of tact which pass for +sincerity with many people. + +"Very sorry, I'm sure," he droned, and stood waiting with melancholy +interest to see what would happen next. + +"I'm very sorry, Dicker," Lothian said impulsively; "you rather riled +me, you know. But I behaved badly. It won't do either of us any good to +have a rough and tumble here, but of course" . . . he looked +significantly at the door. + +Ingworth took him, and admired him for his simplicity. The old public +school feeling was uppermost now. He knew that Gilbert knew he was no +coward. He knew also that he could have knocked the other into a cocked +hat in about three minutes. + +"I was abominably rude, Gilbert," he said frankly. "Don't let's talk +rot. I'm sorry." + +"It's good of you to take it in that way, Dicker. I'm awfully sorry, +too." + +Mr. Helzephron interposed. "All's well that ends well," he remarked +sententiously. "That's the best of gentlemen, they do settle these +matters as gentlemen should. Now if you'll come with me, sir, I'll take +you to the lavatory and you can sponge that blood off your face. You're +not marked, really." + +With a grin and a wink to Lothian, both of which were returned, +Ingworth marched away in the wake of the landlord. + +The air was cleared. + +Gilbert was deeply sorry for what he had done. He had quite forgotten +the provocation that he had received. "Good old sportsman, Dicker!" he +thought; "he's a fine chap. I was a bounder to hit him. It would have +served me jolly well right if he'd given me a hiding." + +And the younger man, as he went to remove the stain of combat, had +kindly and generous thoughts of his distinguished friend. + +But, _che sara sara_, these kindly thoughts were but to bloom for +an hour and fade. Neither knew that one of them was so soon to be +brought to the yawning gates of Hell itself, and, at the very last +moment, the unconscious action of the other was to snatch him from +them. + +Already the threads were being woven in those webs of Time, whereof God +alone knows the pattern and directs the loom. Neither of them knew. + +The barmaid, a tall, fresh-faced young girl, came down the room and +took the empty glasses from the table. + +"I say, Mr. Lothian," she remarked, "it's no business of mine, and no +offence meant, but you didn't ought to have hit him." + +"I know," Gilbert answered, "but why do you say so?" + +"He's got such nice curly hair!" she replied with a provocative look +from her bright eyes, and whisked away to the shelter of her counter. + +Lothian sighed. During the years he had lived in Norfolk he had seen +many fresh-faced girls come and go. Only a few days before, he had read +a statement made by Mrs. Bramwell Booth of the Salvation Army that the +number of immoral women in the West End of London who have been +barmaids is one quarter of the whole. . . . + +At that moment, this Miss Molly Palmer was the _belle des coulisses_ of +Wordingham. The local bloods quarrelled about her, the elder men gave +her gloves on the sly, her pert repartees kept the lounge in a roar +from ten to eleven. + +Once, with a sneer and as one man of the world to another, Helzephron +had shown Lothian a trade paper in which these girls are advertised +for-- + +"Barmaid wanted, must be attractive." + +"Young lady wanted for select wine-room in the West End, gentlemen +only, must be well educated and of good appearance, age not over +twenty-five." + +"Required at once, attractive young lady as barmaid--young. +Photograph." + +. . . A great depression fell upon the poet. Everywhere he turned just +now ennui and darkness seemed to confront him. His youth was going. His +fame brought no pleasure nor contentment. The easy financial +circumstances of his life seemed to roll over him like a weed-clogged +wave. His wife's love and care--was not that losing its savour also? +The delightful labour of writing, the breathless and strenuous +clutching at the waiting harps of poetry, was not he fainting and +failing in this high effort, too? + +His life was a grey, numbed thing. He was reminded of it whichever way +he turned. + +There was a time when the Holy Mysteries brought him a joy which was +priceless and unutterable. + +Yes! when he knelt at the Mass with Mary by his side, he had felt the +breath of Paradise upon his brow. Emptied of all earthly things his +soul had entered into the mystical Communion of Saints. + +To husband and wife, in humble supplication side by side, the still +small voice had spoken. The rushing wind of the Holy Ghost had risen +around them and the Passion of Jesus been more near. + +And now?--the man rose from his chair with a laugh so sad and hollow, a +face so contorted with pain, that it startled the silly girl behind the +bar. + +She made a rapid calculation. "He was sober when 'e come," she thought +in the vernacular, "and 'e can stand a lot, can Mr. Lothian. It's +nothing. Them poets!" + +"Something amusing you?" she said with her best smile. + +Lothian nodded. "Oh, just my thoughts," he replied. "Give me another +whiskey and soda--a fat one, yes, a little more, yes, that'll do." + +For a moment, a moment of hesitation, he held it out at arm's length. + +The sunlight of the afternoon blazed into the glass and turned the +liquid to molten gold. + +The light came from a window in the roof, just over the bar itself. The +remainder of the room was in quiet shadow. + +He looked down into the room and shuddered. It was typical of his life +now. + +He looked up at the half open window from which the glory came. + +"Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!" he said, with a sad smile. + +Molly Palmer watched him. "Juggins!" she thought, "them poets!" + +But Lothian's words seemed to call for some rejoinder and the girl was +at a loss. + +"Wish you meant it!" she said at length, wondering if that would meet +the occasion--as it often met others. + +Lothian laughed, and drank down the whiskey. + +The light from above faded almost instantly--perhaps a cloud was +passing over the sun. + +But, _au contraire_, the shadow of the room beyond had invitation +now. It no longer seemed sombre. + +He went into the shadows and sat down in the same chair where he had +been before. + +He smiled as he lit another cigarette. How strange moods were! how +powerful for a moment, but how quickly over! The letters in his breast +pocket seemed to glow out with material warmth, a warmth that went +straight to his heart through the cloth and linen of his clothing. The +new Ego was fed. Rita! + +Yes! at least life had given him this and was it not the treasure of +treasures? There was nothing coarse nor earthly in this at least! + +The music of the Venusberg throbbed in all his pulses, calling, calling +from the hollow hill. He did not realise from where it came--this magic +music--and that there is more than one angelic choir. + +Rita and Gilbert. Gilbert and Rita! + +The words and music of one song! + +So we observe that now the masked musicians in the unseen orchestra are +in their places. + +Any little trouble with the Management is over. Opposition players have +sorrowfully departed. The Audience has willed it so, and the band only +awaits its leader. + +Monsieur L'Ame du Vin, that celebrated conductor, has just slid into +his seat. He smirks at his players, gives an intelligent glance at the +first violin, and taps upon the desk. + +Three beats of the baton, a raised left hand, and once more the oft +repeated overture to the Dance of Death commences, with the Fiend +Alcohol beating time. + + +Ingworth came back soon. There was a slight bruise upon his upper lip, +but that was all. + +The two men--it was to be the last time in lives which had so strangely +crossed--were friends in a sense that they had never been before. Both +of them looked back upon that afternoon during the immediate days to +come with regret and sorrow. Each remembered it differently, according +to the depth of individual temperament. But it was remembered, as an +hour when strife and turmoil had ceased; when, trembling on the brink +of unforeseen events to come, there was pause and friendship, when the +good in both of them rose to the surface for a little space and was +observed of both. + +"Now, Dicker, you just watch. They'll all be here soon for their +afternoon drink--the local bloods, I mean. It's their substitute for +afternoon tea, don't you know. They sit here talking about nothing to +friends who have devoted their lives to the subject. Watch it for your +work. You'll learn a lot. That must have been the way in which Flaubert +got his stuff for 'Madame Bovary.'" + +Something of the artist's fire animated the lad. He was no artist. He +hadn't read "Madame Bovary," and it wouldn't have interested him if he +had. But the plan appealed to him. It fitted in with his method of +life. It was getting something for nothing. Yet he realised, to give +him his due, a little more than this. He was sitting at the feet of his +Master. + +But as it happened, on that afternoon the local bloods were otherwise +employed, for at any rate they made no appearance. + +Lothian felt at ease. He had one or two more pegs. He had been so +comparatively abstemious since his accident and under the regime of Dr. +Morton Sims, that what he took now had only a tranquillising and +pleasantly narcotic influence. + +The nervous irritation of an hour before which had made him strike his +friend, the depression and hollow misery which succeeded it, the few +minutes of lyrical exaltation as he thought of Rita Wallace, all these +were merged in a sense of _bien être_ and drowsiness. + +He enjoyed an unaccustomed and languid repletion in his mind, as if it +had been overfed and wanted to lie down for a time. + +Mr. Helzephron sat down at their table after a time and prosed away in +his monotonous voice. He was a man of some education, had read, and was +a Dickens lover. He did not often have the opportunity of conversation +with any one like Lothian and he made the most of it. Like many common +men who are anxious to ingratiate themselves with their superiors, he +thought that the surest way to do so was to abuse his neighbours, thus, +as he imagined, proclaiming himself above them and flattering his +hearer. Lothian always said of the landlord of the George that he was +worth his weight in gall, and for a time he was amused. + +At five o'clock the two visitors had some tea and toast and at the half +hour both were ready to go. + +"I'll run round to the post office," Ingworth said, "and see if there +are any late letters." + +"Very well," Gilbert answered, "and I'll have the horse put in." + +The afternoon post for Mortland Royal left the town at three, and +letters which came in by the five o'clock mail were not delivered at +the village until the next morning unless--as now--they were specially +called for. + +Ingworth ran off. + +"Well, Mr. Lothian," said the landlord. "I don't often have the +pleasure of a talk with you. Just one more with me before you go?" + +They were standing together at the bar counter when a page boy entered +the lounge and went up to his master. "Please, sir," he said, "the new +young lady's come." + +"Oh, very well," Helzephron answered. "I'll be out in a minute. Where +is she?" + +"In the hall, sir. And shall Boots go down for her trunk?" + +"Yes; tell him to go to the station at once with the hand-cart. A new +barmaid," he said, turning to Gilbert, "for the four ale bar, a woman +of about thirty, not much class, you understand, wouldn't do for the +lounge, but will keep the working men in order. It's astonishing how +glad they are to get a job when they're about thirty! They're no draw +then, and they know it. The worst of it is that these older women +generally help themselves from the till or the bottle! I've had fifty +applications for this job." + +He led the way out into the hall of the hotel, followed by Lothian, who +was on his way to the stable yard. + +A woman was sitting upon a plush-covered bench by the wall. She was a +dark gipsy looking creature, coarsely handsome and of an opulent +figure. She stood up as Helzephron came out into the hall, and there +seemed to be a suggestion of great boldness and flaunting assertion +about her, oddly restrained and overlaid by a timidity quite at +variance with her appearance. + +The landlord was in front, and for a moment Lothian was concealed. +Then, as he was about to wish Helzephron good afternoon and turned for +the purpose, he came into view of the new barmaid. + +She saw him full face and an instant and horrible change came over her +own. It faded to dead paper-white. The dark eyes became fixed like +lenses. The jaw dropped like the jaw of a ventriloquist's puppet, a +strangled gurgle came from the open mouth and then a hoarse scream of +terror. The woman's arms jerked up in the air as if they had been +pulled by strings, and her hands in shabby black gloves curved into +claws and were rigid. Then she spun round, caught her boot in the leg +of the chair and fell in a swoon upon the floor. + +The landlord swore in his surprise and alarm. + +Then, keen as a knife, he whipped round and looked at Lothian. + +Lothian's face expressed nothing but the most unbounded astonishment. +Help was summoned and the woman was carried into the landlord's private +office, where restoratives were applied. + +In three or four minutes she opened her eyes and moaned. Lothian, +Helzephron and a chambermaid who was attending on her, were the only +other people in the office. + +"There, there," said the landlord irritably, when he saw that +consciousness was returning. "What in heaven's name did you go off like +that for? You don't belong to do that sort of thing often I hope. If so +I may as well tell you at once that you'll be no good here." + +"I'm very sorry, sir," said the poor creature, trembling and obviously +struggling with rising hysteria. "It took me sudden. I'm very strong, +really, sir. It shan't happen again." + +"I hope not," Helzephron answered in a rather more kindly tone. "Elsie, +go into the lounge and ask Miss Palmer for a little brandy and +water--but what took you like this?" + +The woman hesitated. Her glance fell upon Lothian who was standing +there, a pitying and perplexed spectator of this strange scene. She +could not repress a shudder as she saw him, though both men noticed +that the staring horror was going from her eyes and that her face was +relieved. + +"I'm very sorry," she said again, "but the sight of that gentleman +coming upon me sudden and unexpected was the cause of it." + +"This gentleman!" Helzephron replied. "This is Mr. Gilbert Lothian, a +famous gentleman and one of our country gentleman in Norfolk. What can +you have to do with him?" + +"Oh, nothing sir, nothing. But there's a very strong resemblance in +this gentleman to some one"--she hesitated and shuddered--"to some one +I once knew. I thought it was him come back at first. I see now that +there's lots of difference. I've had an unhappy life, sir." + +She began to sob quietly. + +"Now, drink this," said the landlord, handing her the brandy which the +chambermaid had just brought. "Stop crying and Elsie will take you up +to your room. Your references are all right and I don't want to know +nothing of your history. Do your duty by me like a good girl and you'll +find me a good master. Your past's nothing to me." + +Lothian and the landlord went out into the stable yard where the +rainbow-throated pigeons were murmuring on the tiled roofs, and the +ostler--like Mousqueton--was spitting meditatively. They discussed this +strange occurrence. + +"I never saw a woman so frightened!" said Mr. Helzephron. "You might +have been old Bogy himself, Mr. Lothian. I didn't know what to think +for a moment! I hope she doesn't drink." + +"Well, I suppose we've all got a double somewhere or other," Lothian +answered. "I suppose she saw some likeness in me to some one who has +ill used her, poor thing." + +"Oh, yes, sir," Helzephron replied. "That's it--she said as much. Half +the plays and novels turn on such likenesses. I used to be a great +play-goer when I was in London and I've seen all the best actresses. +But I'm damned if I ever see such downright horror as there was in that +girl's face. He must have been a bad un whoever he was. Real natural +tragedy in that face--William, put in Mr. Lothian's horse." + +He said good-bye and re-entered the hotel. + +Lothian remained in the centre of the yard. He lit a cigarette and +watched the horse being harnessed. His face was clouded with thought. + +It was very strange! How frightful the poor woman had looked. It was a +nightmare face, a face of Gustave Doré from the Inferno engravings! + +He never saw the woman again, as it happened, and never knew who she +was. If he had read of the Hackney murder in the papers of the year +before he had given it no attention. He knew nothing of the coarse +siren for whose sake the poisoned man of Hackney had killed the wife +who loved him, and who, under an assumed name, was living out her +obscure and haunted life in menial toil. + +Dr. Morton Sims might have thrown some light upon the incident at the +George perhaps. But then Dr. Morton Sims never heard of it and it soon +passed from the poet's mind. + +No doubt the Fiend Alcohol who provided the incidental music at the +head of his orchestra was smiling. + +For the Overture to the Dance of Death is curiously coloured music and +there are red threads of melody interwoven with the sable chords. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +AN OMNES EXEUNT FROM MORTLAND ROYAL + + "Wenn Menschen auseinandergehn + So sagen sie--auf Wiedersehn! + Ja Wiederseh'n." + + --_Goethe._ + + +Dickson Ingworth returned from the post office with several letters. + +He handed three of them to Lothian. One was a business letter from the +firm of Ince and Amberley, the other an invitation to a literary dinner +at the Trocadero, the third, with foreign stamp and postmark, was for +Mary Lothian. + +As they drove out of the town, Ingworth was in high spirits. His eyes +sparkled, he seemed excited. + +"Good news by this post, Dicker?" Gilbert asked. + +Ingworth had been waiting for the question. He tried to keep the +tremulous pleasure out of his voice as he answered. + +"Well, rather. I've just heard from Herbert Toftrees. When I saw him +last, just before I came down here, he hinted that he might be able to +influence things for me in a certain quarter." . . . + +He paused. + +Gilbert saw how it was. The lad was bursting with news but wanted to +appear calm, wanted to be coaxed. Well, Gilbert owed him that! + +"Really! Has something come off, Dicker, then? Do tell me, I should be +so glad." + +"Yes, Gilbert. It's the damnedst lucky thing! Toftrees is a topping +chap. The other day he hinted at something he might be able to do for +me in his deep-voiced, mysterious way. I didn't pay much attention +because they say he's rather like that, and one mustn't put too much +trust in it. But, by Jove! it's come off. The editor of the +_Wire_--Ommany you know--wants somebody to go to Italy with the +delegation of English Public School Masters, as special correspondent +for a month. They've offered it to me. It's a big step, Gilbert, for +me! They will pay awfully well for the job and it means that I shall +get in permanently with the _Wire_." + +"I'm awfully glad, Dicker. Splendid for you! But what is it exactly?" + +"The new movement in Italy, anti-Papal and National. It's the schools, +you know. The King and the Mayor of Rome are frightfully keen that all +the better class schools, like our public schools, you know--shall be +taken out of the hands of the Jesuits and the seminary priests. Games +and a healthy sort of school life are to be organised for the boys. +They're going to try and introduce our system if they can. A Harrow +tutor, a Winchester man, undermasters from Haileybury, Repton and +Denstone are going out to organise things." + +"And you're going with them to tell England all about it! I +congratulate you, Dicker. It's a big chance. You can make some fine +articles out of it, if you take care. It should introduce your name." + +"Thanks awfully, I hope so. It's because I got my running blue I +expect. But it's jolly decent of the old Toffer all the same." + +"Oh, it is. When do you go?" + +"At once. They start in four days. I shall have to go up to town by the +first train to-morrow." + +"I'm sorry, but of course, if you must" . . . + +"Oh, I must," Ingworth said importantly. "I have to see Ommany +to-morrow night." + +Unconsciously, as he urged the cob onwards, his head sank forward a +little, and he imitated the grave pre-occupation of Lothian upon the +drive out. + +Mary Lothian was sitting in a deck chair in front of the house when the +two men came through the gate. A little table stood by the side of her +chair, and on it was a basket of the thin silk socks her husband wore. +She was darning one of the expensive gossamer things with a tiny needle +and almost invisible thread. + +Mary looked up quickly as the two men came up to her. There was a swift +interrogation in her eyes, instantly suppressed but piteous in its +significance. + +But now, she smiled. + +Gilbert was all right! She knew it at once. He had come back from +Wordingham quite sober, and in her tender anxious heart she blessed God +and Dr. Morton Sims. + +She was told of Dickson's opportunity. Gilbert was as anxious to tell, +and as excited as his friend. "Oh, I _am_ so glad, Dicker!" she said +over and over again. "My dear boy, I _am_ so glad! Now you've got your +chance at last. Your real chance. Never come down here again if you +don't make the most of it!" + +Ingworth sat down upon the lawn at her feet. Dusk was at hand. The sun +was sinking to rest and the flowers of the garden were almost shouting +with perfume. + +Rooks winged homeward through the fading light, and the Dog Trust +gambolled in the middle-distance of the lawn as the cock-chafers went +booming by. + +. . . "Think I shall be able to do it, Mrs. Gilbert?" + +"Of course you will, Dicker! Put your very heart into it, won't you! +It's your chance at last, isn't it?" + +Ingworth jumped to his feet. "I shall do it," he said gravely, as who +should say that the destinies of kingdoms depended upon his endeavours. + +"And now I must go in and write some letters. I shall have to be off +quite early to-morrow, Mrs. Gilbert." + +"I'll arrange all that. Go in and do your letters. We're not going to +dine till eight to-night." + +Ingworth crossed the lawn and went into the house. + +Gilbert drew his chair up to his wife. + +She held out her hand. He took it, raised it to his lips and kissed it. +He was at home. + +"I'm glad, dear," Mary said, "that Dicker has got something definite to +do. It will steady him. If he is successful it will give him a new +sense of responsibility. I wouldn't say anything to you, Gillie, but I +have not liked him so much this time as I used to." + +"Why?" + +"He doesn't seem to have been treating you quite in the way he used to. +He's been talking a good deal to me of some people who seem to have +taken him up in London. And I can't help knowing that you've done +everything for him in the past. Really, Gillie, I have had to snub him +quite severely, for me, once or twice." + +"Yes." + +"_Yes._ He assumed a confidential, semi-superior sort of air and +manner. In a clumsy, boyish sort of way he's tried to suggest that I'm +not happy with you." + +Lothian laughed bitterly. "I know," he said, "so many people are like +that. Ingworth has good streaks like all of us. But speaking generally +he's unstable. I've found it out lately, too. Never mind. He's off +to-morrow. Oh, by the way, here's a letter for you, dear, I forgot." + +Mary took the letter and rose from her chair. Arm in arm they entered +the house together and went upstairs to dress for dinner. + +Gilbert had had his bath, had changed, and was tying his tie in front +of the dressing table mirror, when the door of his room opened and Mary +hurried in. + +Her hair was coiled in its masses of pale gold, and a star of emeralds +which he had given her was fixed in it. She wore a long dressing robe +of green silk fringed with dull red arabesques--he had bought it for +her in Tunis. + +A rope of camels' hair gathered it in round her slender waist and the +lovely column of her neck, the superb white arms were bare. + +"What is it, dear?" he said, for his wife's fair face was troubled. + +"Oh, darling," she answered, with a sob in her voice, "I've had bad +news from Nice." + +"About Dorothy?" + +"Yes, Miss Dalton, the lady nurse who is with her has written. It's all +been no use, Gillie, no use at all! She's dying, dear. The doctor from +Cannes who has been attending her has said so. And Sir William Larus +who is at Mentone was called in too. They give her three weeks or a +month. They've cabled to India but it's a forlorn hope. Harold won't be +able to get to her in time--though there's just a chance." + +She sank down upon the bed and covered her face with her hands. + +She was speaking of her sister, Lady Davidson, who was stricken with +consumption. Sir Harold Davidson was a major in the Indian Army, a +baronet without much money, and a keen soldier. Mary's sister had +developed the disease in England, where she had been ordered from Simla +by the doctors there. She was supposed to be "run down" and no more +then. Phthisis had been diagnosed in London--incipient only--and she +had been sent to the Riviera at once. The reports from Nice had become +much worse during the last few weeks, and now--this letter. + +Gilbert went to his wife and sat down beside her upon the bed, drawing +her to him. He was fond of Dorothy Davidson and also of her husband, +but he knew that Mary adored her sister. + +"Darling," he said, "don't give way. It may not be so bad after all. +And so much depends upon the patient in all illnesses--doesn't it? +Morton Sims was telling us so the other night, you remember? Dolly is +an awfully sporting sort of girl. She won't give in." + +Mary leant her head upon his shoulder. The strong arms that held her +brought consolation. The lips of the husband and wife met. + +"It's dear of you to say so," Mary said at length, "but I know, dear. +The doctor and the nurse have been quite explicit. Dorothy is dying, +Gillie, I can't let her die alone, can I?" + +"No, dear, of course not," he replied rather vaguely, not quite +understanding what she meant for a moment. + +"She must have some one of her own people with her. Harold will most +likely not arrive in time. I must go--mustn't I?" + +Then Gilbert realised. + +His swift imagination pictured a lonely hotel death-bed among the palms +and mimosa of the Côte d'Azur, a pretty and charming girl fading away +from the blue white and gold with no loving hands to tend her, and only +the paid services of strangers to speed or assuage the young soul's +passage from sunshine and laughter to the unknown. + +"You must go to her at once, sweetheart," he said gravely. + +"Oh, I _must_! You don't mind my leaving you?" + +"How can you ask it? But I will come with you. We will both go. You +will want a man." + +Mary hesitated for a second, and then she shook her head. + +"I shall manage quite well by myself," she said. "It will be better so. +I'm quite used to travelling alone as you know. And the journey to Nice +is nothing. I shall be in one carriage all the way from Calais. You +could come out after, if necessary." + +"I would come gladly, dear." + +"I know, Gillie, and it's sweet of you. But you couldn't be of use and +it would be miserable for you. It is better that I should be alone with +Dolly. I can always wire if I want you." + +"As you think best, dear. Then I will stay quietly down here." + +"Yes, do. You have that poem to work on, 'A Lady in a Library.' It is a +beautiful fancy and will make you greater than ever! It's quite the +best thing you've done so far. And then there's the shooting." + +"Oh, I shall do very well, Molly. Don't bother about me, dear." + +She held him closer. Her cool white arms were around his neck. + +"But I always do bother about you, husband," she whispered, "because I +love you better than anything else in the world. It is sweet of you to +let me go like this. And I feel so much happier about you now, since +the doctor has come to the village." + +He winced with pain and shame at her loving words. A pang went right +through him. + +It passed as swiftly as it had come. Sweet and loving women too often +provide men with excuses for their own ill conduct. Lothian knew +that--under the special circumstances of which his wife knew +nothing--it was his duty to go with Mary. But he didn't want to go. He +would have hated going. + +Already a wide vista was opening before him--a freedom, an absolute +freedom! Wild music! The Wine of Life! Now, if ever, Fate, Destiny, +call it what he would, was preparing the choicest banquet. + +He had met Rita. Rita was waiting, he could be with Rita! + +And yet, so subtle and tortuous is the play of egoism upon conscience, +he felt pleased with himself for his ready concurrence in his wife's +plans. He assumed the rôle she gave him with avidity, and when he +answered her she thought him the best and noblest of men. + +"It will be dreadful without you, darling, but you are quite right to +go. Send for me if you want me. I'll catch the next boat. But I have my +work to do, and I can see a good deal of Morton Sims"--he knew well, +and felt with shame, the cunning of this last statement--"and if I'm +dull I can always run up to town for a day or two and stay at the +club." + +"Of course you can, dear. You won't feel so lonely then. Now about +details. I must pack to-night." + +"Yes, dear, and then you can go off with Dicker in the morning, and +catch the night boat. If you like, that is." + +"Well, I shouldn't gain anything by that, dear. I should only have to +wait about in Calais until one o'clock the next day when the train de +luxe starts. But I should like to go first thing to-morrow. I couldn't +wait about here the whole day. Dicker will be company of sorts. I shall +get to town about two, and go to the Charing Cross Hotel. Then I shall +do some shopping, go to bed early, and catch the boat train from the +station in the morning. I would rather do it like that." + +Both of them were experienced travellers and knew the continental +routes well. It was arranged so. + +Mary did not come down to dinner. A tray was sent up to her room. +Lothian dined alone with Ingworth. The voices of the two men were +hushed to a lower tone in deference to the grief of the lady above. But +there was a subdued undercurrent of high spirits nevertheless. Ingworth +was wildly excited by the prospect before him; Gilbert fell into his +mood with no trouble at all. + +He also had his own thoughts, his own private thoughts. + +--"I say, Dicker, let's have some champagne, shall we?--just to wish +your mission success." + +"Yes, do let's. I'm just in the mood for buzz-water to-night." + +The housemaid went to the cellar and fetched the wine. + +"Here's to you, Dicker! May you become a G. W. Stevens or a Julian +Ralph!" + +"Thanks, old chap. I'll do my best, now that my chance has come. I say +I am awfully sorry about Lady Davidson. It's such rough luck on Mrs. +Gilbert. You'll be rather at a loose end without your wife, won't +you?--or will you write?" + +He tossed off his second glass of Pol Roger. + +"Oh, I shall be quite happy," Lothian answered, and as he said it a +quiet smile came placidly upon his lips. It glowed out from within, as +from some comfortable inward knowledge. + +Ingworth saw it, and his mind, quickened by wine and excitement, found +the truth unerringly. + +Anger and envy flushed the young man's veins. He hated his host once +more. + +"So that is his game, damned hypocrite!" Ingworth thought. "I shall be +away, his wife will be out of the way and he will make the running with +Rita Wallace just as he likes." + +He looked at Lothian, and then had a mental vision of himself. + +"He's fat and bloated," he thought. "Surely a young and lovely girl +like Rita _can't_ care for him?" + +But even as he endeavoured to comfort his greedy conceit by these +imaginings, he felt the shadow of the big mind falling upon them. He +knew, as he had known so often of late, the power of that which was +cased in its envelope of flesh, and which could not be denied. + +Perhaps there is no hate so bitter, no fear so impotent and +distressing, as that which is experienced by the surface for the depth. + +It is the fury of the brilliant scabbard against the sword within, +decoration versus that which cleaves. + +Ingworth wished that he were not going away--leaving the field +clear. . . . + +"Have a cigar, Dicker. No?--well, here's the very best of luck." + +"Thanks, the same to you!" + + +END OF BOOK TWO + + + + +BOOK THREE + +FRUIT OF THE DEAD SEA + + "Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy + youth." + + "Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe: let her breasts + satisfy thee at all times: and be thou ravished always with her + love." + + "And why wilt thou, my son, be ravished with a strange woman, and + embrace the bosom of a stranger?" + + "_His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall + be holden with the cords of his sins._" + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE GIRLS IN THE FOURTH STORY FLAT + + "We were two daughters of one race; + She was the fairest in the face;" + + --_Tennyson._ + + +In the sitting room of a small forty-five pound flat, upon the fourth +floor of a tall red-brick building in West Kensington known as Queens +Mansions, Ethel Harrison, the girl who lived with Rita Wallace, sat +sewing by the window. + +It was seven o'clock in the evening and though dusk was at hand there +was still enough light to sew by. The flat, moreover, was on the west +side of the building and caught the last rays of the sun as he sank to +rest behind the quivering vapours of London. + +Last week in August as it was, the heat which hung over the metropolis +for so long was in no way abated. All the oxygen was gone from the air, +and for those who must stay in London--the workers, who could only read +in the papers of translucent sunlit seas in Cornwall where one bathed +from the beaches all day long; of bright northern moors where dew fell +upon the heather at dawn--life was become stifling and hard. + +In the window hung a bird-cage and the canary within it--the pet of +these two lonely maidens--drooped upon its perch. It was known as "The +Lulu Bird" and was a recurring incident in their lives. + +Ethel was six and twenty, short, undistinguished of feature and with +sandy hair. She was the daughter of a very poor clergyman in +Lancashire, and she was the principal typist in the busy office of a +firm of solicitors in the city. She had ever so many certificates for +shorthand, was a quick and accurate machine-writer, understood the +routine of an office in all its details, and was invaluable to her +employers. They boasted of her, indeed, trusted her in every way, +worked her from nine to six on normal days, to any hours of the night +at times of pressure, and paid her the highest salary in the market. + +That is to say, that this girl was at the very top of her profession +and received two pounds ten shillings a week. Dozens of girls envied +her, she was more highly paid than most of the men clerks in the city. +She knew herself to be a very fortunate girl. She gave high technical +ability, a good intelligence, unceasing, unwearying and most loyal +service for fifty shillings a week. + +Each year she had a holiday of fourteen days, when she clubbed with +some other girls and they all went to some farmhouse in the country, or +even for a cheap excursion abroad, with everything calculated to the +last shilling. This girl did all this, dressed like a lady, had a +little home of her own with Rita, preserved her dignity and +independence, and sent many a small postal order to help the poor +curate's wife, her mother, with the hungry brood of younger ones. Mr. +and Mrs. Harrison in Lancashire spoke of their eldest daughter with +pride. She had "her flat in town." She was "doing extraordinarily +well"; "Sister Ethel" was a fairy godmother to her little brothers and +sisters. + +She was a good girl, good and happy. The graces were denied her; she +had made all sweet virtues her own. No man wooed her, no man looked +twice at her. She had no religious ecstasies, and--instead of a theatre +where one had to pay--asked no thrills from sensuous ceremonial. She +simply went to the nearest church and said her prayers. + +It is the shame of most of us that when we meet such women as these, we +pass them by with a kindly laugh or a patronising word. Men and women +of the world prefer more decorative folk. They like to watch holiness +in a picturesque setting, Elizabeth of Hungary washing the beggar's +feet upon the palace steps. . . . + +A little worker-bee saint, making a milk pudding for a sick washerwoman +on a gas-stove in a flat--that comes rather too close home, does it +not? + +The light was really fading now, and Ethel put down her sewing, rose +from her basket-work chair, and lit the gas. + +It was an incandescent burner, hanging from the centre of the ceiling, +and the girls' living room was revealed. + +It was a very simple, comely, makeshift little home. + +On one side of the fireplace--now filled with a brown and gasping +harts-tongue fern in an earthen pot--was Ethel's bookshelf. + +Up-to-date she had a hundred and thirty-two books, of the "Everyman" +and "World's Classics" series. She generally managed a book and a half +each fortnight, and her horizon was bounded by the two-hundredth +volume. Dickens she had very much neglected of late, the new Ruskin had +kept the set at "David Copperfield" for weeks, but she was getting on +steadily with her Thackeries. + +Rita had no books. She was free of that Kingdom at the Podley +Institute, but the little black piano was hers. The great luxury of the +Chesterfield was a joint extravagance. Both ends would let down to make +a couch when necessary, and though it had cost the girls three pounds +ten, it "made all the difference to the room." + +All the photographs upon the mantel-shelf were Ethel's. There was her +father in his cassock--staring straight out of the frame like a good +and patient mule. . . . Her sisters and brothers also, of all ages and +sizes, and all clothed with an odd suggestion of masquerading, of +attempting the right thing. Not but what they were all perfect to poor +Ethel, whose life was far too busy and limited to understand the +tragedy of clothes. + +Rita's photographs were on the piano. + +There were several of her school-friends--lucky Rita had been to a +smart school!--and the enigmatic face of Muriel Amberley with its +youthful Mona Lisa smile looked out from an oval frame of red leather +stamped with an occasional fleur-de-lys in gold. + +There was a portrait of Mr. Podley, cut from the _Graphic_ and framed +cheaply, and there were two new photographs. + +One of them was that of a curly-headed, good-looking young man with +rather thick lips and a painful consciousness that he was being +photographed investing the whole picture with suspense. + +Ethel had heard Rita refer to the original of this portrait once or +twice as "Dicker" or "Curly." + +But, then, there was another photograph. A large one this time, done in +cloudy browns, nearly a foot square and with the name of a very famous +artist of the camera stamped into the card. + +This was a new arrival, also, of the past few weeks, and it was held in +a massive frame of thick plain silver. + +The frame, with the portrait in it, had arrived at the flat some +fortnight ago in an elaborate wooden box. + +Ethel had recognised the portrait at once. It was of Mr. Gilbert +Lothian, the great poet. Rita had met him at a dinner-party, and, if +she didn't exaggerate, the great man had almost shown a disposition to +be friendly. It was nice of him to send Rita his photograph, but the +frame was rather too much. All that massive silver!--"it must have cost +thirty shillings at least," she had thought in her innocence. + +When the gas was turned up, for some reason or other her eye had fallen +at once upon the photograph upon the top of the piano. + +She had read some of Lothian's poems, but she had found nothing +whatever in them that had pleased her. Even when her father had written +to her and recommended them for her to read the poems meant less than +nothing, and the face--no! she didn't like the face. "I hardly think +that it's quite a _good_ face," she said to herself, not recognising +that--the question of morality quite apart--her hostility rose from the +fact that it was a face utterly outside her limited experience, a face +that was eloquent of a life, of things, of thoughts that she could +never even begin to understand. + +In the middle of the room the small round table was spread with a fair +white cloth and set for a meal. There was a green bowl of bananas, a +loaf of brown bread, some sardines in a glass dish. But a place was +laid for one person only. + +Rita was in their mutual bedroom dressing. Rita was going to dine out. + +The two girls had lived together for a year now. At the beginning of +their association one thing had been agreed between them. Their outside +lives were to be lived independently of their home life. No confidences +were to be expected or demanded as a matter of course. If confidences +were made they were to be free and spontaneous, at the wish or whim of +each. + +The contract had been loyally observed. Ethel never had any secrets. +Rita had had several during the year of their association, but they had +proved only minor little secrets after all. Sooner or later she had +told them, and they had been food for virginal laughter for them both. + +But now, during the last few weeks?--Ethel's glance flitted uneasily +from the big photograph upon the piano to a little round table of +bamboo work in one corner of the sitting room. + +Upon this table lay a huge bunch of dark red roses. The stalks were +fitted into a holder of finely-woven white grass--as delicate in +texture as a panama hat--and the bouquet was tied with graceful bows +and streamers of purple satin--broad, expensive ribbon. + +A boy messenger, most unusual visitor, had brought them an hour ago. +"For Miss Rita Wallace." + +The quiet mind, the crystal soul of this girl, dimly discerned +something alien and disturbing. + +The door of the sitting-room opened and Rita came in. + +She was radiant. Her one evening dress was not an expensive affair, a +simple, girl's frock of olive-green _crêpe de chene_ in the Empire +fashion, but the girl and her clothes were one. + +The high "waist," coming just under the curve of the breast, was edged +with an embroidery of dull silver thread, and the gleam of this upon +its olive setting threw up the fair column of the throat the rounded +arms, the whiteness of the girlish bosom, with a most striking and +arresting lustre. + +Round her neck the girl wore a riband of dark green velvet, and as a +pendant from it hung a little star of amethysts and olivines set in a +filigree of platinum, no rare nor costly jewel, but a beautiful one. +She was pulling her long white gloves up to the elbow as she entered +the room. + +Ethel loved Rita dearly. Rita was her romance, the art and colour of +her life. She was always saying or doing astonishing things, she was +always beautiful. To-night, though the frock was an old friend, the +pendant quite familiar, Ethel thought that she had never seen her +friend so lovely. The nut-brown hair was shining, the young, brown eyes +lit up with excitement and joy, the tints of rose and pearl upon Rita's +cheeks came and went as her heart beat. + +"A Duke might be glad to marry her," the plain girl thought without a +throb of envy. + +She was perfectly right. If Rita had been in society or on the stage +she probably would have married a peer--not a Duke though, that was +Ethel's inexperience. There are so few dukes that they have not the +same liberty of action as other noblemen. The Beauty Market is badly +organised--curious fact in an age when to purvey cats' meat is a +specialised industry. But the fact remains. The prettiest girls in +England don't have their pictures in the papers and advertise no +dentrifice or musical comedy on the one hand, nor St. Peter and St. +George, their fashionable West End temples, on the other. Buyers of +Beauty have but a limited choice, and on the whole it is a salutary +thing, though doubtless hard upon loveliness that perforce throws +itself away upon men without rank or fortune for want of proper +opportunity! + +"How do I look, Wog dear?" Rita asked. + +"Splendid, darling," Ethel answered eagerly--a pretty junior typist in +Ethel's office, who had been snubbed, had once sent her homely senior a +golliwog doll, and since then the good-humoured Ethel was "Wog" to her +friends. + +"I'm so glad. I want to look my best to-night." + +"Well, then, you do," Ethel replied, and with an heroic effort forbore +further questioning. + +She always kept loyally to the compact of silence and non-interference +with what went on outside the flat. + +Rita chuckled and darted one of her naughty, provocative glances. + +"Wog! You're dying to know where I'm going!" + +Some girls would have affected indifference immediately. Not so the +simple Wog. + +"Of course I am, Cupid," she said. + +"I'm going to dine with Gilbert." + +"Gilbert?" + +"Gilbert Lothian I mean, of course. We are absolute friends, Wog +dear--he and I. I haven't told you before, but I will now. You remember +that night I was home so late, nearly a month ago? Yes?--well I had +been motoring to Brighton with Gilbert. I met him for the first time at +the Amberleys'--but that you know. Since then we have become +friends--such a strange and wonderful friendship it is, Ethel! It's +made things so different for me." + +"But how friends? Have you seen him often, then? But you can't have?" + +Rita shook her head, impatiently for a moment, and then she smiled +gently. How could poor old Wog know or understand! + +"No!" she cried, with a little tap of her shoe upon the carpet. "But +there are such things as letters aren't there?" + +"Has he been writing to you, then?" + +"Writing! I have had four of the most beautiful letters that a poet +ever wrote. It took him days to write each one. He chose every word, +over and over again. Every sentence is music, every word a note in a +chord!" + +Ethel went up to her friend and kissed her. "Dear old Cupid," she said, +"I'm so glad, so very glad. I don't understand his poems myself, but +Father simply loves them. I am sure you will be very happy. Only I do +hope he is a good man--really worthy of my dear! And so"--she +continued, with a struggle to get down to commonplace brightness of +manner--"And so he's coming for you to-night! Now I know why you look +so beautiful and are so happy." + +Two tears gathered in the kind green eyes, tears of joy at her dear +girl's happiness, but with a tincture of sadness too. With a somewhat +unaccustomed flash of imagination, she looked into the future and saw +herself lonely in the flat, or with another girl who could never be to +her what Rita was. + +She looked up at Rita again, trying to smile through her tears. + +What she saw astounded her. + +Rita's face was flushed. A knot of wrinkles had sprung between her +eyebrows. Her mouth was mutinous, her brown eyes lit with an angry and +puzzled light. + +"I don't understand you, Ethel," she said in a voice which was so cold +and unusual that the other girl was dumb.--"What on earth do you mean?" + +"Mean, dear," Ethel faltered. "I don't quite understand. I thought you +meant--I thought . . ." + +"What did you think?" + +"I thought you meant that you were engaged to him, Cupid darling!" + +"Engaged!--_Why Gilbert is married._" + +Ethel glanced quickly at the flowers, at the photograph upon the piano. +Things seemed going round and round her--the heat, that was it--"But +the letters!" she managed to say at length, "and, and--oh, Cupid, what +_are_ you doing? He can't be a good man. I'm certain of it, dear! I'm +older than you are. I know more about things. You don't realise,--but +how should you poor darling! He can't be a good man! Rita, _does his +wife know_?" + +The girl frowned impatiently. "How limited and narrow you are, Ethel," +she said. "Have you such low ideals that you think friendship between a +man and a woman impossible? Are you entirely fettered by convention and +silly old puritanical nonsense? Wouldn't you be glad and proud to have +a man with a wonderful mind for your friend--a man who is all chivalry +and kindness, who pours out the treasures of his intellect for one?" + +Ethel did not answer. She did not, in truth, know what to say. There +_was_ no reason she could adduce why Rita should not have a man friend. +She knew that many singular and fine natures despised conventionality +or ordinary rules and seemed to have the right to do so. And +then--_honi soit_! Yet, inarticulate as she was, she felt by some +instinct that there was something wrong. Mr. Gilbert Lothian was +married. That meant everything. A married man, and a poet too! oughtn't +to have any secret and very intimate friendships with beautiful, wilful +and unprotected girls. + +. . . "You have nothing to say! Of course! There _is_ nothing that +any wide-minded person could say. Ethel, you're a dear old stupe!"--she +crossed the room and kissed her friend. + +And Ethel was so glad to hear the customary affection return to Rita's +voice, the soft lips upon her cheek set her gentle and loving heart in +so warm a glow, that her fears and objections dissolved and she said no +more. + +The electric bell at the front door whirred. + +Rita tore herself from Ethel's embrace. There was a mirror over the +mantel-shelf. She gazed into it for a few seconds and then hurried away +into the little hall. + +There was the click of the latch as it was drawn back, a moment of +silence, and then Ethel heard a voice with a peculiar vibration and +timbre--an altogether unforgettable voice--say two words. + +"At last!" + +Then there was a murmur of conversation, the words of which she could +not catch, interrupted once by Rita's happy laughter. + +Finally she heard Rita hurry into the bedroom, no doubt for her cloak, +and return with an excited word. Then the door closed and there was an +instant of footsteps upon the stone stairs outside. + +Ethel was left alone. + +She went to her bookshelf--she did not seem to want to think just +now--and after a moment's hesitation took down "Sesame and Lilies." +Then she sat at the table with a sigh and looked without much interest +at the bananas, the sardines and the brown bread. + +Ethel was left alone. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +OVER THE RUBICON + + "Inside the Horsel here the air is hot; + Right little peace one hath for it, God wot; + The scented dusty daylight burns the air, + And my heart chokes me till I hear it not." + + --_Swinburne._ + + +Gilbert and Rita said hardly anything to each other as the motor-cab +drove them to the restaurant where they were to dine. + +There was a sort of constraint between them. It was not awkwardness, it +was not shyness. Nevertheless, they had little to say to each +other--yet. + +They had become extraordinarily intimate during the last weeks by means +of the letters that had passed between them. In all his life Lothian +had never written anything like these letters. Those already written, +and those that were to be written before the end, would catch the +imagination of Europe and America could they ever be published. In +prose of a subtle beauty, which was at the same time virile and with +the organ-note of a big, revealing mind, he had poured his thoughts +upon the girl. + +She was the inspiration, the _raison d'être_, of these letters. That +"friendship" which his heated brain had created and imposed upon hers, +he had set up before him like a picture and had woven fervent and +critical rhapsodies about it. The joy that he had experienced in the +making of these letters was more real and utterly satisfying than any +he had ever known. He was filled and exalted by a sense of high power +as he wrote the lovely words. He knew how she would read, understand +and be thrilled by them. Paragraph after paragraph, sentence after +sentence, were designed to play upon some part of the girl's mind and +temperament--to flatter her own opinion at a definite point, and to +flatter it with a flattery so subtle and delicate, so instinct with +knowledge, that it came to her as a discovery of herself. He would +please her--since she was steeped in books and their appeal, utterly +ignorant of Life itself--with a pleasure that he alone could give. He +would wrap her round with the force and power of his mind, make her his +utterly in the bonds of a high intellectual friendship, dominate her, +achieve her--through the mind. + +He had set himself to do this thing and he had done it. + +Her letters to him, in their innocent, unskilful, but real and vivid +response had shown him everything. From each one he gathered new +material for his reply. + +He had lived of late in a new world, where, neglecting everything else, +he sat Jove-like upon the Olympus of his own erection and drew a young +and supremely beautiful girl nearer and nearer to him by his pen. + +He had fallen into many mortal sins during his life. Until now he had +not known the one by which the angels fell, the last sin of Pride which +burns with a fierce, white consuming flame. + +All these wonderful letters had been wrought under the influence of +alcohol. He would go to his study tired in body and so wearied in brain +that he felt as if his skull were literally packed with grey wool. + +"I must write to Rita," he would think, and sit down with the blank +sheet before him. There would not be an idea. The books upon the walls +called to him to lose himself in noble company. The Dog Trust +gambolling with Tumpany in the garden invited him to play. The sight of +Mary with her basket on her arm setting out upon some errand of mercy +in the village, spoke of the pleasant, gracious hours he might spend +with her, watching how sweet and wise she was with the poor people and +how she was beloved. + +But no, he must write to Rita. He felt chained by the necessity. And +then the fat cut-glass bottle from the tantalus would make an +appearance, the syphon of soda-water in its holder of silver filigree. +The first drink would have little or no effect--a faint stirring of the +pulses, a sort of dull opening of tired mental eyes, perhaps. Yet even +that was enough to create the desire for the moment when the brain +should leap up to full power. Another drink--the letter begun. Another, +and images, sentences which rang and chimed, gossamer points of view, +mosaics and vignettes glowing with color, merry sunlight laughter, +compliments and _devoirs_ of exquisite grace and refinement, all +flowed from him with steady, uninterrupted progress. + +. . . But now, as he sat beside Rita, touching her, with the fragrance +of her hair athwart his face, all ideas and thoughts had to be +readjusted. + +The dream was over. The dream personality, created and worshipped by +his Art in those long, drugged reveries, was a thing of the past. + +He had never realised Rita to himself as being quite a human girl. No +grossness had ever entered into his thoughts about her. He was not +gross. The temper of his mind was refined and high. The steady progress +of the Fiend Alcohol had not progressed thus far as yet. Sex was a live +fact in this strangely-coloured "friendship" which he had created, but, +as yet, in his wildest imaginings it had always been chivalrous, +abstract and pure. Passion had never soiled it even in thought. It had +all been mystical, not Swinburnian. + +And the fact had been as a salve to his Conscience. His Conscience told +him from the first--when, after the excursion to Brighton he had taken +up his pen to continue the association--that he was doing wrong. He +knew it with all the more poignancy because he had never done sweet +Mary a treachery in allegiance before. She had always been the perfect +and utterly satisfying woman to him. His "fountain was blessed; and he +rejoiced with the wife of his youth." + +But the inhabiting Devil had found a speedy answer. It had told him +that such a man as he was might well have a pure and intellectual +friendship with such a girl as Rita was. It harmed none, it was of +mutual and uplifting benefit. + +Who of the world could point an accusing finger, utter a word of +censure upon this delightful meeting of minds and temperaments through +the medium of paper and pen? + +"No one at all," came the satisfactory answer. + +Lothian at the prompting of Alcohol was content to entertain and +welcome a low material standard of conduct, a debased ideal, which he +would have scorned in any other department of life. + +And as for Rita, she hadn't thought about such things at all. She had +been content with the music which irradiated everything. + +It was only now, with a flesh and blood man by her side in the little +box of the taxi-cab, that she glanced curiously at the Musician and +felt--also--that revision and re-statement were at hand. + +So they said very little until they were seated at the table which had +been reserved for them at a celebrated restaurant in the Strand. + +Rita looked round her and gave a deep sigh of pleasure. They sat in a +long high hall with a painted ceiling. At the side opposite to them and +at the end were galleries with gilded latticework. At the other end, in +the gilded cage which hid the performers from view, was an orchestra +which discoursed sweet music--a little orchestra of artists. The walls +of the white and gold hall were covered with brilliantly painted +frescoes of scenes in that Italy from where the first proprietor had +come. The blue seas, the little white towns clustering round the base +of some volcanic mountain, the sunlight and gaiety of Italy were there, +in these paintings so cunningly drawn and coloured by a great scenic +artist. A soft, white and bright light pervaded everything. There was +not a sound of service as the waiters moved over the thick carpets. + +The innumerable tables, for two or four, set with finest crystal and +silver and fair linen had little electric lamps of silver with red +shades upon them. Beautiful, radiant women with white arms and shining +jewels sat with perfectly dressed men at the tables covered with +flowers. It was a succession of little dinner parties; it seemed as if +no one could come here without election or choice. The ordinary world +did not exist in this kingdom of luxury, ease and wealth. + +She leant over the little table against the wall. "It's marvellous," +she said. "The whole atmosphere is new. I did not think such a place as +this existed." + +"And the Metropole at Brighton?" + +"It was like a bathing machine is to Buckingham Palace, compared to +this. How exquisite the band is! Oh, I am so happy!" + +"That makes me happy, Cupid. This is the night of your initiation. Our +wonderful weeks have begun. I have thought out a whole series of +delights and contrasts. Every night shall be a surprise. You will never +know what we are going to do. London is a magic city and you have known +nothing of it." + +"How could the 'Girl from Podley's' know?--That's what I am, the Girl +from Podley's. I feel like Cinderella must have felt when she went to +the ball. Oh, I am so happy!" + +He smiled at her. Something had taken ten years from his age to-night. +Youth shone out upon his face, the beauty of his twenties had come +back. "Lalage!" he murmured, more to himself than to her--"dulce +ridentem, dulce loquentem!" + +"What--Gilbert?" + +"I was quoting some Latin to myself, Cupid dear." + +"And it was all Greek to me!" she said in a flash. "Oh! who _ever_ +saw so many hors d'oeuvres all at one time! I love hors d'oeuvres, +advise me, don't let me have too many different sorts, Gilbert, or I +shan't be able to eat anything afterwards." + +How extraordinarily fresh and innocent she was! She possessed in +perfection that light, reckless and freakish humour which was so strong +a side of his own temperament. + +She had stepped from her dingy little flat, from a common cab, straight +into the Dance of the Hours, taking her place with instant grace in the +gay and stately minuet. + +For it was stately. All this quintessence of ordered luxury and +splendour had a most powerful influence upon the mind. It might have +made Caliban outwardly courteous and debonnair. + +Yes, she was marvellously fresh! He had never met any one like her. And +it _was_ innocence, it _must_ be. Yet she was very conscious of the +power of her beauty and her sex--over him at any rate. She obviously +knew nothing of the furtive attention she was exciting in a place where +so many jaded experts came to look at the flowers. It was the naïve and +innocent Aspasia in every young girl bubbling up with entire frankness. +She was amazed and half frightened at herself--he could see that. + +Well! he was very content to be Pericles for a space, to join hands and +tread a measure with her and the rosy-bosomed hours in their dance. + +It was as though they had known each other for ever and a day, ere half +the elaborate dinner was over. + +She had called him "Gilbert" at once, as if he were her brother, her +lover even. He could have found or forged no words to describe the +extraordinary intimacy that had sprung up between them. It almost +seemed unreal, he had to wonder if this were not a dream. + +She became girlishly imperious. When they brought the golden +plovers--king and skipper, as good epicures know, of all birds that +fly--she leant over the table till her perfect face was close to his. + +"Oh, Gilbert dear! what is it now!" + +He told her how these little birds, with their "trail" upon the toast +and their accompaniment of tiny mushrooms stewed in Sillery, were said +to be the rarest flower in the gourmet's garden, one of the supreme +pleasures that the cycle of the seasons bring to those who love and +live to eat. + +"How _perfectly_ sweet! Like the little roast pigling was to Elia! +Gilbert, I'm so happy." + +She chattered away to him, as he sat and watched her, with an entire +freedom. She told him all about her life in the flat with Ethel +Harrison. Her brown eyes shone with happiness, he heard the silver +ripple of her voice in a mist of pleasure. + +Once he caught a man whom he knew watching them furtively. It was a +very well-known actor, who at the moment was rehearsing his autumn +play. + +This celebrated person was, as Gilbert well knew, a monster. He lived +his life with a dreadful callousness which made him capable of every +bestial habit and crime, without fear, without pleasure, without +horror, and without pity. + +The poet shuddered as he caught that evil glance, and then, listening +anew to Rita's joyous confidences, he became painfully aware of the +brute that is in every man, in himself too, though as yet he had never +allowed it to be clamant. + +The happy girl went on talking. Suddenly Gilbert realised that she was +telling him something, innocent enough in her mouth, but something that +a woman should tell to a woman and not to a man. + +The decent gentleman in him became wide awake, the sense of comeliness +and propriety. He wasn't in the least shocked--indeed there was nothing +whatever to be shocked about--but he wanted to save her, in time, from +an after-realisation of a frankness that might give her moments of +confusion. + +He did it, as he did everything when he was really sober, really +himself, with a supreme grace and delicacy. "Cupid dear," he said with +his open and boyish smile, "you really oughtn't to tell me that, you +know. I mean--well, think!" + +She looked at him with puzzled eyes for a moment and then she took his +meaning. A slight flush came into her cheeks. + +"Oh, I see," she replied thoughtfully, and then, with a radiant smile +and the provocative, challenging look--"Gilbert dear, you seem just +like a girl to me. I quite forgot you were a man. So it doesn't matter, +does it?" + +Who was to attempt to preserve _les convenances_ with such a delightful +child as this? + +"Here is the dessert," he said gaily, as waiters brought ices, +nectarines, and pear-shaped Paris bon-bons filled with Benedictine and +Chartreuse. + +A single bottle of champagne had served them for the meal. Gilbert lit +a cigarette and said two words to a waiter. In a minute he was brought +a carafe of whiskey and a big bottle of Perrier in a silver stand. It +was a dreadful thing to do, from a gastronomic or from a health point +of view. Whiskey, now! He saw the look of wonder on the waiter's face, +a pained wonder, as who should say, "Well, I shouldn't have thought +_this_ gentleman would have done such a thing." + +But Lothian didn't care. It was only upon the morning after a debauch, +when with moles' eyes he watched every one with suspicion and with +fear, that he cared twopence what people thought about anything he did. + +He was roused to a high pitch of excitement by his beautiful companion. +Recklessness, an entire abandon to the Dance of the Hours was mounting +up within him. But where there's a conscience, there's a Rubicon. The +little brook stretched before him still, but now he meant to leap over +it into the forbidden, enchanted country beyond. He ordered "jumping +powder." + +He drank deeply, dropped his cigarette into the copper bowl of rose +water at his side and lit another. + +"Cupid!" he said suddenly, in a voice that was quite changed, "Rita +dear, I'm going to show you something!" + +She heard the change in his voice, recognised it instantly, must have +known by instinct, if not by knowledge, what it meant. But there was no +confusion, nor consciousness in her face. She only leant over the +narrow table and blew a spiral of cigarette smoke from her parted lips. + +"What, Gilbert?" she said, and he seemed to hear a caress in her voice +that fired him. + +"You shall hear," he said in a low and unsteady voice. He drew a +calling card from the little curved case of thin gold he carried in his +waistcoat pocket, and wrote a sentence or two upon the back in French. + +A waiter took the card and hurried away. + +"Oh, Gilbert dear, what is the surprise?" + +"Music, sweetheart. I've sent up to the band to play something. +Something special, Cupid, just for you and me alone on the first of our +Arabian Nights!" + +She waited for a minute, following his eyes to the gilded gallery of +the musicians which bulged out into the end of the room. + +There was a white card with a great black "7" upon it, hanging to the +rail. And then a sallow man with a moustache of ink came to the balcony +and removed the card, substituting another for it on which was printed +in staring sable letters--"BY DESIRE." + +It was all quite new to Rita. She was awed at Gilbert's almost magical +control of everything! She understood what was imminent, though. + +"What's it going to be, Gilbert?" she whispered. + +Her hand was stretched over the table. He took its cool virginal ivory +into his for a moment. "The 'Salut d'Amour' of Elgar," he answered her +in a low voice, "just for you and me." + +The haunting music began. + +To the end of her life Rita Wallace never heard the melody without a +stab of pain and a dreadful catch of horror at her heart. + +Perhaps the thing had not been played lately, perhaps the hour was ripe +for it in the great restaurant. But as the violins and 'cello sobbed +out the first movement, a hush fell over the place. + +It was the after-dinner hour. The smoke from a hundred cigarettes +curled upwards in delicate spirals like a drawing of Flaxman's. Bright +eyes were languorous and spoke, voices sank to silence. The very +waiters were congregated in little groups round the walls and service +tables. + +Salut d'Amour! + +The melody wailed out into the great room with all the exquisite appeal +of its rose-leaf sadness, its strange autumnal charm. It was perfectly +rendered. And many brazen-beautiful faces softened for a moment, many +pleasure-sodden hearts had a diastole of unaccustomed tenderness as the +music pulsed to its close. + +Gilbert's acquaintance, the well-known actor, who was personified +animal passion clothed in flesh if ever a man was, felt the jews-harp +which he called his heart vibrate within him. + +He was a luxurious pariah-dog in his emotions as in everything else. + +The last sob of the violins trembled into silence. There was a loud +spontaneous burst of applause, and a slim foreign man, grasping his +fiddle by the neck, came from behind the gilded screen and looked down +into the hall below with patient eyes. + +Lothian rose from his chair and bowed to the distant gallery. The +musician's face lighted up and he bowed twice to Lothian. Monsieur +Toché had recognised the name upon the card. And the request, written +in perfect, idiomatic French, had commenced, "_Cher Maitre et +Confrère_." The lasting hunger of the obscure artist for recognition by +another and greater one was satisfied. Poor Toché went to his bed that +night in Soho feeling as if he had been decorated with the Order of +Merit. And though, during the supper hours from eleven to half past +twelve he had to play "selections" from the Musical Comedy of the +moment, he never lost the sense of _bien être_ conferred upon him +by Gilbert Lothian at dinner. + +Gilbert was trembling a little as the music ended. Rita sat back in her +chair with downcast eyes and lips slightly parted. Neither of them +spoke. + +Gilbert suddenly experienced a sense of immense sorrow, of infinite +regret too deep for speech or tears. "This is the moment of +realisation," he thought, "the first real moment in my life, perhaps. +_I know what I have missed._ Of all women this was the one for me, +as I for her. We were made for each other. Too late! too late!" + +He struggled for mastery over his emotion. "How well they play," he +said. + +She made a slight motion with her hand. "Don't let's talk for a +minute," she answered. + +He was thrilled through and through. Did she also, then, feel and know +. . . ? Surely that could not be. His youth was so nearly over, the +keen æsthetic vision of the poet showed him so remorselessly how +changed he was physically from what he had been in years gone by, for +ever. + +Mechanically, without thinking, obeying the order given by the new +half-self, that spawn of poison which was his master and which he +mistook for himself, he filled his glass once more and drank. + +In forty seconds after, triumph and pride flared up within him like a +sheet of thin paper lit suddenly with a match. Yes! She was his, part +of him--it was true! He, the great poet, had woven his winged words +around her. He had bent the power of his Mind upon her--utterly +desirable, unsoiled and perfect--and she was his. + +The blaze passed through him and upwards, a thing from below. Then it +ended and only a curl of grey ash floated in the air. + +The most poignant and almost physical sorrow returned to him. His heart +seemed to ache like a tooth. Yet it wasn't dull, hopeless depression. +It was, he thought, a high tragic sorrow ennobling in its strength; a +sorrow such as only the supreme soul-wounded artists of the world could +know--had known. + +"She was for me!" his heart cried out. "Ah, if only I had met her +first!" Yes! he was fain of all the tragic sorrows of the Great Ones to +whom he was brother, of whose blood he was. + +In a single flash of time--as the drowning man is said to experience +all the events of his life at the penultimate moment of dissolution--he +felt that he knew the secrets of all sorrow, the pangs of all tragedy. + +The inevitable thought of his wife passed like a blur across the +fire-lit heights of his false agony. + +"I cannot love her," he said in his mind. "I have never loved her. I +have been blind until this moment." A tear of sentiment welled into his +eye at the thought of poor Mary, bereft of his love. "How sad life +was!" + +Nearly every man, at some time or other, has found a faint reflection +of this black thought assail him and has put it from him with a prayer +and the "vade retro Sathanas." + +Few men would have chosen their present wives if they had met--let us +assume--fifty other women before they married. And when the ordinary, +normal, decent man meets a woman better, clever, more desirable than +the one he has, it is perfectly natural that he should admire her. He +would be insensible if he did not. But with the normal man it stops +there. He is obliged to be satisfied with his own wife. The chaos that +riotous and unbalanced minds desire has not come yet. And if a man says +that he _cannot_ love a wife who is virtuous and good, then Satan is in +him. + +"I cannot love her," Lothian thought of his wife, and in the surveyal +of this fine brain and noble mind poisoned by alcohol it is proper to +remember that two hours before he could not have thought this thing. It +would have been utterly impossible. + +Was it then the few recent administrations of poison that had changed +him so terribly, brought him to this? + +The Fiend Alcohol has a myriad dominations. A lad from the University +gets drunk in honour on boat-race night--for the first time in his +life--and tries to fight with a policeman. But he is only temporarily +insane, becomes ashamed and wiser in the morning, and never does such a +thing again. + +Lothian had been poisoning himself, slowly, gradually, certainly for +years. The disease which was latent in his blood, and for which he was +in no way personally responsible, had been steadily undermining the +forces of his nature. + +He had injured his health and was coming near to gravely endangering +his reputation. His work, rendered more brilliant and appealing at +first by the unfair and unnatural stimulus of Alcohol, was trembling +upon the brink of a débâcle. He had inflicted hundreds of hours of +misery and despair upon the woman he had married. + +This, all this, was grave and disastrous enough. + +But the awful thing that he was feeding and breeding within him--the +"false Ego," to use the cold, scientific, and appallingly accurate +definition of the doctors--had not achieved supreme power. Even during +the last year of the three or four years of the poisoning process it +had not become all-powerful. It had kept him from Church; it had kept +him from the Eucharist; it had drawn one thick grey blanket after +another between the eye of his soul and the vision of God. But kindly +human instinct had remained unimpaired, and he had done many things +_sub specie Crucis_--under the influence of, and for the sake of +that Cross which was so surely and steadily receding from his days and +passing away to a dim and far horizon. + +But there arrives a time when the pitcher that is filled drop by drop +becomes full. The liquid trembles for a moment upon the brim and +trickles over. + +And there comes a sure moment in the life of the alcoholic when the +fiend within waxes strong enough finally to strangle the old self, +fills all the house and reigns supreme. + +It is always something of relatively small importance that hastens the +end--ensures the final plunge. + +It was the last few whiskeys that sent honour and conscience flying +away with scared faces from this man's soul. But they acted upon the +poison of years, now risen to the very brim of the cup. + +One more drop . . . + + +People were getting up from the tables and leaving the restaurant. The +band was resting, there was no more music at the moment, and the +remaining diners were leaning over the tables and talking to each other +in low, confidential tones. + +Rita looked up suddenly. "What are we going to do now?" she said with +her quick bright smile. + +"When we went to Brighton together," Gilbert answered, "you told me +that you had never been to a Music Hall. A box at the Empire is waiting +for us. Let us go and see how you like it. If you don't, we can come +away and go for a drive round London in a taxi. The air will be cooler +now, and in the suburbs we may see the moon. But come and try. The +night is yours, and I am yours, also. You are the Queen of the Dance of +the Hours and I your Court Chamberlain." + +"Oh, how perfectly sweet! Take me to the Empire." + +As they stood upon the steps of the restaurant and the commissionaire +whistled up a cab, Gilbert spoke to Rita in a low, husky voice. + +"We ought to get there in time for the ballet," he said, "because it is +the most perfect thing to be seen in Europe, outside Milan or St. +Petersburg. But we've ten minutes yet, at least. Shall I tell him to +drive round?" + +"Yes, Gilbert." + +The taxi-meter glided away through the garish lights of the Strand, and +then, unexpectedly, swerved into Craven Street towards the Embankment. + +Almost immediately the interior of the cab grew dark. + +Gilbert put his arm round Rita's waist and caught her hand with his. He +drew her closer to him. + +"Oh, my love!" he said with a sob in his voice. "My dear little Love; +at last, at last!" + +She did not resist. He caught her closer and closer and kissed her upon +the cheeks, the eyes, the low-falling masses of nut-brown, fragrant +hair. + +"Turn your face to me, darling." + +His lips met hers for one long moment. + +. . . He hardly heard her faint-voiced, "Gilbert, you mustn't." He sank +back upon the cushions with a strange blankness and emptiness in his +mind. + +He had kissed her, her lovely lips had been pressed to his. + +And, behold, it was nothing after all. It was just a little girl +kissing him. + +"Kiss met Kiss me again!" he said savagely. "You must, you must! Rita, +my darling, _my darling_!" + +She pressed her cool lips to his once more--how cool they were!--almost +dutifully, with no revolt from his embrace, but as she might have +kissed some girl friend at parting after a day together. + +All evil, dominant passions of his nature, hidden and sleeping within +him for so long, were awake at last. + +He had held Rita in his arms. Yet, whatever she might say or do in her +reckless school-girl fashion, she was really absolutely innocent and +virgin, untouched by passion, incredibly ignorant of the red flame +which burned within him now and which he would fain communicate to her. + +"Are you unhappy, dearest?" he asked suddenly. + +"Unhappy, Gilbert? With you? How could I be?" + +And so daring innocence and wicked desire drove on through the streets +of London--innocence a little tarnished, ignorance no longer, but +pulsing with youth and the sense of adventure; absolutely unaware that +it was playing with a man's soul. + +The girl had read widely, but ever with the hunger for beauty, colour, +music, the sterile, delicate emotions of others. One of the huge facts +of life, the central, underlying fact of all the Romance, all the +Poetry on which she was fed, had come to her at last and she did not +recognise it. + +Gilbert had held her in his arms and had kissed her. It was pleasant to +be kissed and adored. It wasn't right--that she knew very well. Ethel +would be horrified, if she knew. All sorts of proper, steady, ordinary +people would be horrified, if _they_ knew. But they didn't and never +would! And Gilbert wanted to kiss her so badly. She had known it all +the time. Why shouldn't he, poor boy, if it made him happy? He was so +kind and so charming. He was a magician with the key of fairyland. + +He made love beautifully! This was the Dance of the Hours! + +The cab stopped in front of the Empire. Led by a little page-boy who +sprung up from somewhere, they passed through the slowly-moving tide of +men and women in the promenade to their box. + +For a little space Rita said nothing. + +She settled herself in her chair and leaned upon the cushioned ledge of +the box, gazing at the huge crowded theatre and at the shifting maze of +colour upon the stage. She had removed the long glove from her right +hand and her chin was supported by one white rounded arm. A very fair +young Sybil she seemed, lost in the vague, empty spaces of maiden +thought. + +Gilbert began to tell her about the dancers and to explain the ballet. +She had never seen anything like it before, and he pointed out its +beauty, what a marvellous poem it really was; music, movement, and +colour built up by almost incredible labour into one stupendous whole. +A dozen minor geniuses, each one a poet in his or her way, had been at +work upon this triumphant shifting beauty, evanescent and lovely as a +dream painted upon the sable curtains of sleep. + +She listened and seemed to understand but made little comment. + +Once she flashed a curious speculative look at him. + +And, on his part, though he saw her lovelier than ever, he was chilled +nevertheless. Grey veils seemed to be falling between him and the glow +of his desire, falling one by one. + +"Surgit amari aliquid?"--was it that?--but he could not let the moment +escape him. It must and should be captured. + +He made an excuse about cigarettes, and chocolates for her, and left +the box, hurrying to the little bar in the promenade, drinking there +almost furiously, tasting nothing, waiting, a strange silent figure +with a white face, until he felt the old glow re-commencing. + +It came. The drugged mind answered to the call, and he went back to the +box with light footsteps, full of riotous, evil thoughts. + +Rita had withdrawn her chair into the box a little. + +She looked up with a smile of welcome as he entered and sat down by her +side. She began to eat the chocolates he had brought, and he watched +her with greedy eyes. + +Suddenly--maid of moods as she was--she pushed the satin-covered box +away. + +He felt a little white arm pushed through his. + +"Gilbert, let's pretend we're married, just for this evening," she +said, looking at him with dancing eyes. + +"What do you mean, Rita?" he said in a hoarse whisper. + +The girl half-smiled, flushed a little, and then patted the black +sleeve of his coat. + +"It's so nice to be together," she whispered. "I am so happy with you. +London is so wonderful with you to show it to me. I only wish it could +go on always." + +He caught her wrist with his hot hand. "It can, always, if you wish," +he said. + +She started at the fierce note in his voice. "Hush," she said. "You +mustn't talk like that." Her face became severe and reproving. She +turned it towards the stage. + +The remainder of the evening alternated between wild fits of gaiety and +rather moody silences. There was absolutely nothing of the crisp, +delightful friendship of the drive to Brighton. A new relation was +established between them, and yet it was not, as yet, capable of any +definition at all. + +She was baffling, utterly perplexing. At one moment he thought her his, +really in love with him, prepared for all that might mean, at another +she was a shy and rather dissatisfied school girl. The nervous strain +within him, as the fires of his passion burned and crackled, was +intense. He fed the flame with alcohol whenever he had an opportunity. + +All the old reverence and chivalry of that ideal friendship of which he +had sung so sweetly vanished utterly. + +A faint, but growing brutality of thought came to him as he considered +her. Her innocence did not seem so insistent as before. He could not +place her yet. All he knew was that she was certainly not the Rita of +his dreams. + +Yet with all this, his longing, his subjection to her every whim and +mood, grew and grew each moment. He was absolutely pervaded by her. +Honour, prudence, his keen insight were all thrust away in the +gathering storm of desire. + +They had supper at a glittering palace in the Haymarket. In her simple +girlish frock, without much adornment of any sort, she was the +prettiest girl in the room. She enjoyed everything with wild avidity, +and not the least of the exhilarations of the night was the +knowledge--ripe and unmistakable now--of her complete power over him. + +Gilbert ate nothing at the Carlton, but drank again. Distinguished +still, an arresting personality in any room, his face had become deeply +flushed and rather satyr-like as he watched Rita with longing, wonder, +and an uneasy suspicion that only added fuel to the flame. + +It was after midnight when he drove her home and they parted upon the +steps of Queens Mansions. + +He staggered a little in the fresh air as he stood there, though Rita +in her excitement did not notice it. He had drunk enough during that +day and night to have literally _killed_ two ordinary men. + +"To-morrow!" he said, trying to put something that he knew was not +there into his dull voice. "To-morrow night." + +"To-morrow!" she replied. "At the same time," and evading his clumsy +attempt at an embrace, she swirled into the hall of the flat with a +last kiss of her hand. + +And even Prince, at the club, had never seen "Mr. Gilbert" so brutishly +intoxicated as he was that night. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THIRST + + "_A little, passionately, not at all?_" + She casts the snowy petals on the air. . . . + + --_Villanelle of Marguerites._ + + +Lothian had taken chambers for a short time in St. James' and near his +club. Prince, the valet, had found the rooms for him and the house, +indeed, was kept by the man's brother. + +Gilbert would not stay at the club. Rita could not come to him there. +He wanted a place where he could be really alone with her. + +During the first few days, though they met each night and Gilbert +ransacked London to give her varied pleasure, Rita would not come and +dine in his chambers. "I couldn't possibly, Gilbert dear," she would +say, and the refusal threw him into a suppressed fever of anger and +irritation. + +He dare show little or nothing of it, however. Always he had a haunting +fear that he might lose her. If she was silent or seemed cold he +trembled inwardly and redoubled his efforts to please, to gratify her +slightest whim, to bring her back to gaiety and a caressing, half +lover-like manner. + +She knew it thoroughly and would play upon him like a piano, striking +what chords she wished. + +He spent money like water, and in hardly any time at all, the girl +whose salary was thirty-five shillings a week found a delirious joy in +expensive wines and foods, in rare flowers, in what was to her an +astounding _vie de luxe_. If they went to a theatre--"Gilbert, we +simply must have the stage box. I'm not in the mood to sit _anywhere_ +else to-night,"--and the stage box it was. + +There is a shop in Bond Street where foolish people buy cigarettes +which cost three pence or four pence each and a box of a hundred is +bought for two guineas or so. Rita wouldn't smoke any others. Rita knew +no more about wine than she did about astronomy, but she would pucker +her pretty brows over the _carte des vins_ in this or that luxurious +restaurant, and invariably her choice would fall upon the most +expensive. Once, it was at the Ritz, she noticed the word Tokay--a +costly Johannesburger wine--and asked Gilbert what it was. He +explained, and then, to interest her, went on to tell of the Imperial +Tokay, the priceless wine which is almost unobtainable. + +"But surely one could get it _here_?" she had said eagerly. + +"It's not on the card, dear." + +"_Do_ ask, Gilbert!" + +He asked. A very special functionary was called, who hesitated, hummed +and hawed. "There _was_ some of the wine in the cellars, a half bin, +just as there _was_ some of the famous White Hermitage--but, but"--he +whispered in Gilbert's ear, "The King of Spain, um um um--The Grand +Duke Alexis--you'll understand, sir, 'm 'm." + +They were favoured with a bottle at last. Rita was triumphant. Gilbert +didn't touch it. Rita drank two glasses and it cost five pounds. + +Lothian did not care twopence. He had been poor after he left Oxford. +His father, the solicitor, who never seemed to understand him or to +care much about him, had made him an infinitesimal allowance during the +young man's journalistic days. Then, when the old man died he had left +his son a comfortable income. Mary had money also. The house at +Mortland Royal was their own, they lived in considerable comfort but +neither had really expensive tastes and they did not spend their mutual +income by a long way. Gilbert's poems had sold largely also. He was +that rare bird, a poet who actually made money--probably because he +could have done very well without it. + +It did not, therefore, incommode him in the least to satisfy every whim +of Rita's. If it amused her to have wine at five pounds a bottle, what +on earth did it matter? Frugal in his tastes and likings himself--save +only in a quantity of cheap poison he procured--he was lavish for +others. Although, thinking it would amuse him, his wife had begged him +to buy a motor-car he had always been too lazy or indifferent to do so. + +So he had plenty of money. If Rita Wallace had been one of the +devouring harpies of Paris, who--if pearls really would melt in +champagne--would drink nothing else, Gilbert could have paid the piper +for a few weeks at any rate. + +But Rita was curious. He would have given her anything. Over and over +again he had pressed her to have things--bracelets, a ring, a necklace. +She had refused with absolute decision. + +She had let him give her a box of gloves, flowers she could not have +enough of, the more costly the amusement of the night the better she +seemed to like it. But that was all. + +In his madness, his poisoned madness, he would have sold his house to +give her diamonds had she asked for them--she would not even let him +make her a present of a trumpery silver case for cigarettes. + +She was baffling, elusive, he could not understand her. For several +days she had refused to dine alone with him in his rooms. + +One night, when he was driving her home after the dinner at the Ritz +and a box at the Comedy theatre, he had pressed her urgently. She had +once more refused. + +And then, something unveiled and brutal had risen within him. The wave +of alcohol submerged all decency and propriety of speech. He was +furiously, coarsely angry. + +"Damn you!" he said. "What are you afraid of?--of compromising +yourself? If there were half a dozen people in London who knew or cared +what you did, you've done that long ago. And for heaven's sake don't +play Tartuffe with me. Haven't I been kissing you as much as ever I +wanted to for the last three days? Haven't you kissed me? You'll dine +with me to-morrow night in St. James' Street or I'll get out of town at +once and chuck it all. I've been an ass to come at all. I'm beginning +to see that now. I've been leaving the substance for the shadow." + +She answered nothing to this brutal tirade for a minute or two. + +The facile anger died away from him. He cursed himself for his insane +folly in jeopardising everything and felt compunction for his violence. + +He was just about to explain and apologise when he heard a chuckle from +the girl at his side. + +He turned swiftly to her. Her face was alight with pleasure, mingled +with an almost tender mischief. She laughed aloud. + +"Of course I'll come, Gilbert dear," she said softly--"since you +_command_ me!" + +He realised at once that, like all women, she found joy in abdication +when it was forced upon her. The dominant male mind had won in this +little contest. He had bullied her roughly. It was a new sensation and +she liked it. + +But when she dined in the rooms and he tried to accomplish artificially +what he had achieved spontaneously, she was on her guard and it was +quite ineffectual. + +They sat at a little round table. The dinner was simple, but perfectly +served. During the meal, for once,--once again--he had talked like his +old self, brilliantly touching upon literary things and illuminating +much that had been dark to her before with that splendour of intellect +which came back to him to-night for a space; and brought a trace of +spirituality to his coarsening face. + +And after dinner he had made her play to him on the little Bord piano +against the wall. She was not a good pianist but she was efficient, and +certain things that she knew well, and _felt_, she played well. + +With some technical accomplishment she certainly rendered the "Bees' +Wedding" of Mendelssohn with astonishing vivacity that night. The elfin +humour of the thing harmonised so much with certain aspects of her own +temperament! + +The swarming bees of Fairyland were in the room! + +And then, with merry malice, and at Gilbert's suggestion, she +improvised a Podley Polonaise. + +Then she gave a little melody of Dvôrak that she knew--"A mad scarlet +thing by Dvôrak," he quoted to her, and finally, at Gilbert's urgent +request, she attempted the Troisième Ballade of Chopin. + +It reminded him of the first night on which he had met her, at the +Amberleys' house. She did not play it well but his imagination filled +the lacunae; his heated mind rose to a wild ecstasy of longing. + +He put his arm round her and embraced her with tears in his eyes. + +"Sweetheart," he said, "you are wonderful! See! We are alone here +together, perfectly alone, perfectly happy. Let us always be for each +other. Dear, I will sacrifice everything for you. You complete me. You +were made for me. Come away with me, come with me for ever and ever. My +wife will divorce me and we can be married; always to be together." + +He had declared himself, and his wicked wish at last. He made an open +proffer of his shameful love. + +There was not a single thought in his mind of Mary, her deep devotion, +her love and trust. He brushed aside the supreme gift that God had +allowed him as a man brushes away an insect from his face. + +All that the girl had said in answer was that he must not talk in such +a way. Of course it could never be. They must be content as they were, +hard as it was. "I am very sorry, Gilbert dear, you can never know how +sorry I am. But you know I care for you. That must be all." + +He had sent her home by herself that night, paying the cabman and +giving him the address in Kensington. + +Then for an hour before going to bed he had walked up and down his +sitting room in a welter of hope, fear, regret, desire, wonder and deep +perplexity. + +He had now lost all sense of honour, all measure of proportion. His +desire filled him and racked his very bones. Sometimes he almost hated +Rita; always he longed for her to be his, his very own. + +Freed from all possible restraint, lord of himself--"that heritage of +woe!"--he was now drinking more deeply, more madly than ever before in +his life. + +He was abnormal in an abnormal world which his insanity created. The +savage torture he inflicted on himself shall be only indicated here. +There are deeper hells yet, blacknesses more profound in which we shall +see this unhappy soul! + +Suffice it to say that for three red weeks he drove the chariot of his +ruin more recklessly and furiously than ever towards hell. + +And the result, as far as his blistering hunger was concerned, was +always the same. + +The girl led him on and repulsed him alternately. He never advanced a +step towards his desire. Yet the longing grew in intensity and never +left him for a moment. + +He tried hard to fathom Rita's character, to get at the springs of her +thoughts. He failed utterly, and for two reasons. + +Firstly, he was in no state to see anything steadily. The powers of +insight and analysis were alike deserting him. His _mind_ had been +affected before. Now his _brain_ was becoming affected. + +One morning, with shaking hand, bloodshot eyes and a bottle of whiskey +before him on the table, he sat down to write out what he thought of +Rita. The accustomed pen and paper, the material implements of his +power, might bring him back what he seemed to be losing. + +This is what he wrote, in large unsteady characters, entirely changed +from the neat beautiful caligraphy of the past. + + "Passionate and yet calculating at the same time; eager to rule and + capable of ruling, though occasionally responsive to the right + control; generous in confidence and trust, though with suspicion + never very far away. + + "Merrily false and frankly furtive in many of the actions of life. + A dear egoist! yet capable of self-abandoning enthusiasm, a + brilliant embryo really wanting the guiding hand and master brain + but reluctant to accept them until the last moment." + +There was more of it, all compact of his hopes and fears, an entirely +false conception of her, an emanation of poison which, nevertheless, +affords some indication of his mental state. + +The sheet concluded:-- + + "A white and graceful yacht seriously setting out into dangerous + waters with no more certainty than hangs upon the result of a toss + up or the tinkle of a tambourine. Deeply desiring a pilot, but + unwilling that he should come aboard too soon and spoil the fun of + beating up into the wind to see what happens. Weak, but not with + the charm of dependence and that trusting weakness which stiffens a + man's arm." + +A futile, miserable dissection with only a half-grain of truth in it. + +Gilbert knew it for what it was directly it had been written. He +crumpled it up with a curse and flung it into the fireplace. + +Yet the truth about the girl was simple enough. She was only an +exceptionally clever and attractive example of a perfectly well-defined +and numerous type. + +Lothian was ignorant of the type, had never suspected its existence in +his limited experience of young women, that was all. + +Rita Wallace was just this. Heredity had given her a quick, good brain +and an infinite capacity for enjoyment. It was an accident also that +she was a very lovely girl. All beautiful people are spoiled. Rita was +spoiled at school. Girls and mistresses alike adored her. With hardly +any interregnum she had been plumped into Podley's Pure Literature +Library and begun to earn her own living. + +She lived with a good, commonplace girl who worshipped her. + +Except that she could attract them and that on the whole they were +silly moths she knew nothing of men. Her heart, unawakened as yet save +by school-girl affections, was a kind and tender little organ. But, +with all her beauty and charm she was essentially shallow, from want of +experience rather than from lack of temperament. + +Gilbert Lothian had come to her as the most wonderful personality she +had ever known. His letters were things that any girl in the world +might be proud of receiving. He was giving her, now, a time which, upon +each separate evening, was to her like a page out of the "Arabian +Nights." Every day he gave her a tablet upon which "Sesame" was +written. + +Had he been free to ask her honourably, she would have married Gilbert +within twenty-four hours, had it been possible. He was delightful to be +with. She liked him to kiss her and say adoring things to her. Even his +aberrations--of which of course she had become aware--only excited her +interest. The bad boy drank far too many whiskies and sodas. Of course! +She would cure him of that. If any one had told her that her nightly +and delightful companion was an inebriate approaching the last stages +of lingering sanity, Rita would have laughed in her informant's face. + +She knew what a drunkard was! It was a horrid wretch who couldn't walk +straight and who said, "My dearsh"--like the amusing pictures in +"Punch." + +Poor dear Gilbert's wife would be in a fury if she knew. But +fortunately she didn't know, and she wasn't in England. Meanwhile, for +a short time, life was entrancing, and why worry about the day after +to-morrow? + +It was ridiculous of Gilbert to want her to run away with him. That +would be really wicked. He might kiss her as much as he liked, and when +Mrs. Lothian came back they could still go on much as before. Certainly +they would continue being friends and he would write her beautiful +letters again. + +"I'm a wicked little devil," she said to herself once or twice with a +naughty inward chuckle, "but dear old Gilbert is so perfectly sweet, +and I can do just what I like with him!" + + +Nearly three weeks had gone by. Gilbert and Rita had been together +every evening, on the Saturday afternoons when she was free of Podley's +Library, and for the whole of Sunday. + +Gilbert had almost exhausted his invention in thinking out surprises +for her night after night. + +There had been many dull moments and hours when pleasure trembled in +the balance. But no night had been quite a failure. The position was +this. + +Lothian, almost convinced that Rita was unassailable, assailed her +still. She was sweet to him, gave her caresses but not herself. They +had arrived at a curious sort of understanding. He bewailed with bitter +and burning regret that he could not marry her. Lightly, only half +sincerely, but to please him, she joined in his sorrow. + +She had been seen about with him, constantly, in all sorts of places, +and that London that knew him was beginning to talk. Of this Rita was +perfectly unconscious. + +He had written to his wife at Nice, letters so falsely sympathetic that +he felt she must suspect something. He followed up every letter with a +long, costly telegram. A telegram is not autograph and the very lesions +of the prose conceal the lesions of the sender's dull intention. His +physical state was beginning to be so alarming that he was putting +himself constantly under the influence of bromide and such-like drugs. +He went regularly to the Turkish Bath in Jermyn Street, had his face +greased and hammered in the Haymarket each morning, and fought with a +constantly growing terror against an advancing horror which he trembled +to think might not be far off now. + +Delirium Tremens. + +But when Rita met him at night, drugs, massage and alcohol had had +their influence and kept him still upon the brink. + +In his well-cut evening clothes, with his face a little fatter, a +little redder perhaps, he was still her clever, debonnair Gilbert. + +A necessity to her now. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS + + "Let us have a quiet hour, + Let us hob-and-nob with Death." + + --_Tennyson._ + + +Three weeks passed. There was no change in the relations of Rita +Wallace and Gilbert Lothian. + +She was gay, tender, silent by turns, and her thirst for pleasure +seemed unquenchable. She yielded nothing. Things were as they were. He +was married: there was no more to be said, they must "dree their +wierd"--endure their lot. + +Often the man smiled bitterly to hear her girlish wisdom, uttered with +almost complacent finality. It was not very difficult for _her_ to +endure. She had no conception of the dreadful state into which he had +come, the torture he suffered. + +When he was alone--during the long evil day when he could not see +her--the perspiration his heated blood sent out upon his face and body +seemed like the very night dews of the grave. He was the sensualist of +whom Ruskin speaks, the sensualist with the shroud about his feet. All +day long he fought for sufficient mastery over himself to go through +the evening, fought against the feverish disease of parched throat and +wandering eyes; senseless, dissolute, merciless. + +And one dreadful flame burned steadily in the surrounding gloom-- + + "_Love, which is lust, is the lamp in the tomb. + Love, which is lust, is the call from the gloom._" + +"Je me nourris de flammes" was the proud motto of an ancient ducal +house in Burgundy. With grimmer meaning Lothian might have taken it for +his own during these days. + +He had heard from his wife that she was coming home almost at once. +Lady Davidson had rallied. There was every prospect of her living for a +month or two more. Sir Harold Davidson was on his way home from India. +He would go to her at once and it was now as certain as such things can +be that he would be in time. + +Mary wrote with deep sadness. To bid her beloved sister farewell on +this earth was heart-rending. "And yet, darling,"--so the letter had +run--"how marvellous it is to know, not to just hope, but to _know_ +that I shall meet Dorothy again and that we shall see Jesus. When I +think of that, tears of happiness mingle with the tears of sorrow. +Sweet little Dorothy will be waiting for us when we too go, my dearest, +dearest husband. God keep you, beloved. Day and night I pray for my +dear one." + +This letter had stabbed the man's soul through and through. It had been +forwarded from Mortland Royal and was brought to him as he lay in bed +at breakfast time. His heavy tears had bedewed the pillow upon which he +lay. "Like bitter wine upon a sponge was the savour of remorse." + +Shuddering and sobbing he had crawled out of bed and seized the whiskey +bottle which stood upon the dressing table--his sole comforter, +hold-fast and standby now; very blood of his veins. + +And then, warmth, comfort--remorse and shame fading rapidly +away--oblivion and a heavy sleep or stupor till long after midday. + +He must go home at once. He must be at home to receive Mary. And, in +the quiet country among familiar sights and sounds, he would have time +to think. He could write to Rita again. He could say things upon paper +with a force and power that escaped him _à vive voix_. He could pull +himself together, too, recruit his physical faculties. He realised, +with an ever growing dread, in what a shocking state he was. + +Yes, he would go home. There would be peace there, some sort of kindly +peace for a day or two. What would happen when Mary returned, how he +would feel about her, what he would do, he did not ask. Sufficient for +the day! + +He longed for a few days' peace. No more late midnights--sleep. No +nights of bitter hollow pleasure and longing. He would be among his +quiet books again in his pleasant little library. He would talk +wildfowling with Tumpany and they would go through the guns together. +The Dog Trust who loved him should sleep on his bed. + + +It was Saturday. He was going down to Norfolk by the five o'clock train +from St. Pancras. He would be able to dine on board--and have what +drinks he wanted en route. The dining-car stewards on that line knew +him well. He would arrive at Wordingham by a little after nine. By ten +he might be in bed in his peaceful old house. + +The Podley Library closed at 12:30 on Saturday. He was to call for +Rita, when they were to lunch together, and at five she would come to +the station to see him off. It was a dull, heavy day. London was +chilly, there was a gloom over the metropolis; leaden opaque light fell +from a sky that was ashen. It was as though cold thunder lurked +somewhere up above, as Lothian drove to Kensington. + +He had paid for his rooms and arranged for his luggage to be taken to +the station where a man was to meet him with it a little before five. + +Then he had crossed St. James' Street and spent a waiting hour at his +club. For some reason or other, this morning he had more control over +his nerves. There was a lull in his rapid physical progress downwards. +Perhaps it was that he had at any rate made some decision in his mind. +He was going to do something definite. He was going home. That was +something to grasp at--a real fact--and it steadied him a little. + +He had smoked a cigar in the big smoking room of the club. It was +rather early yet and there was hardly any one there. Two whiskies and +sodas had been sufficient for the hour. + +The big room, however, was so dark that all the electric lamps were +turned on and he read the newspapers in an artificial daylight that +harmonised curiously with the dull, numbed peace of the nerves which +had come to him for a short time. + +He opened _Punch_ and there was a joke about him--a merry little +paragraph at the bottom of the column. It was the fourth or fifth time +his name had appeared in the paper. He remembered how delighted he and +Mary had been when it first happened. It meant so definitely that one +had "got there." + +He read it now without the slightest interest. + +He glanced at the _Times_. Many important things were happening at +home and abroad, but he gazed at all the news with a lack-lustre eye. +Usually a keen and sympathetic observer of what went on in the world, +for three weeks now he hadn't opened a paper. + +As he closed the broad, crackling sheet on its mahogany holding rod, +his glance fell upon the Births, Deaths and Marriages column. + +A name among the deaths captured his wandering attention. A Mr. James +Bethune Dickson Ingworth, C.B., was dead at Hampton Hall in Wiltshire. +It was Dicker's uncle, of course! The boy would come into his estate +now. + +"It's a good thing for him," Lothian thought. "I don't suppose he's +back from Italy yet. The old man must have died quite suddenly. I hope +he'll settle down and won't be quite so uppish in the future." + +He was thinking drowsily, and quite kindly of Dickson, when he suddenly +remembered something Mary had said on the night before she went to +Nice. + +He had tried to make mischief between them--so he had! And then there +was that scene in the George at Wordingham, which Lothian had forgotten +until now. + +"What a cock-sparrow Beelzebub the lad really is," he said in his mind. +"And yet I liked him well enough. Even now he's not important enough to +dislike. Rita likes him. She often talks of him. He took her out to +dinner--yes, so he did--to some appalling little place in Wardour +Street. She was speaking of it yesterday. He's written to her from +Milan and Rome, too. She wanted to show me the letters and she was +cross because I wasn't interested. She tried to pique me and I wouldn't +be! What was it she said, oh, 'he's such nice curly hair.'" + +He gazed into the empty fireplace before which he was sitting in a huge +chair of green leather. The remembered words had struck some chords of +memory. He frowned and puzzled over it in his drowsy numbed state, and +then it came to him suddenly. Of course! The barmaid at Wordingham, +Molly what's-her-name whom all the local bloods were after, had said +just the same thing about Ingworth. + +Little fools! They were all alike, fluffy little duffers. . . . + +He looked up at the clock. It was twenty minutes to one. He had to meet +Rita at the library as the hour struck. + +He started. The door leading into the outside world shut with a clang. +His chains fell into their place once more upon the limbs of his body +and soul. + +He called a waiter, gulped down another peg, and got into a cab for the +Podley Institute. + +The pleasant numbness had gone from him now. Once more he was upon the +rack. What he saw with his mental vision was as the wild phantasmagoria +of a dream . . . a dark room in which a magic lantern is being worked, +and fantastic, unexpected pictures flit across the screen. Pictures as +disconnected as a pack of cards. + +Rita was waiting upon the steps of the Institute. + +She wore a simple coat and skirt of dark brown tweed with a green line +in it. Her face was pale. Her eyes were without sparkle--she also was +exhausted by pleasure, come to the end of the Arabian Nights. + +She got into the taxi-cab which was trembling with the power of the +unemployed engines below it. + +Tzim, tzim, tzim! + +"Where shall we go, Gilbert?" she said, in a languid, uninterested +voice. + +He answered her in tones more cold and bloodless than her own. "I don't +know, Rita, and I don't care. Ce que vous voulez, Mademoiselle des +livres sans reproche!" + +She turned her white face on him for a moment, almost savage with +impotent petulance. Then she thrust her head out of the window and +coiled round to the waiting driver. + +"Go to Madame Tussaud's," she cried. + +Tzim, tzim, bang-bang-bang, and then a long melancholy drone as the +rows of houses slid backwards. + +Gilbert turned on her. "Why did you say that?" he asked bitterly. + +"What difference _does_ it make?" she replied. "You didn't seem to +care where we went for this last hour or two. I said the first thing +that came into my mind. I suppose we can get lunch at Madame Tussaud's. +I've never been there before. At any rate, I expect they can manage a +sponge cake for us. I don't want anything more." + +--"Yes, it's better for us both. It's a relief to me to think that the +end has come. No, Rita dear, I don't want your hand. Let us make an end +now--a diminuendo. It must be. Let it be. You've said it often +yourself." + +She bit her lips for a second. Then her eyes flashed. She put her arms +round his neck and drew him to her. "You shan't!" she said. "You shan't +glide away from me like this." + +Every nerve in his body began to tremble. His skin pricked and grew +hot. + +"What will you give?" he asked in a muffled voice. + +"I? What I choose to give!" she replied. "Gillie, I'll do what I like +with you." + +She shrank back in the corner of the cab with a little cry. Lothian's +face was red and blazing with anger. + +"No names like that, Rita!" he said roughly. "You shan't call me that." + +It was a despairing cry of drowning conscience, honour bleeding to +death, dissolving dignity and manhood. + +However much he might long for her: however strongly he was enchained, +it was a blot, an indignity, an outrage, that this girl should call him +by the familiar home name. That was Mary's name for him. Mrs. Gilbert +Lothian alone had the right to say that. + +Just then the taxi-metre stopped outside the big red erection in the +Marylebone Road, an unusual and fantastic silhouette against the heavy +sky. + +They went in together, and there was a chill over them both. They felt, +on this grey day, as people who have lived for pleasure, sensation, and +have fed too long on honeycomb, must ever feel; the bitterness of the +fruit with the fair red and yellow rind. Ashes were in their mouths, an +acrid flavour within their souls. + +It is always and for ever thus, if men could only realise it. Since the +Cross rose in the sky, the hectic joys of sin have been mingled with +bitterness, torture, cold. + +The frightful "Colloque Sentimental" of Verlaine expresses these two +people, at this moment, well enough. Written by a temperamental saint +turned satyr and nearly always influenced by drink; translated by a +young English poet whose wings were always beating in vain against the +prison wall he himself had built; you have these sad companions. . . . + + _Into the lonely park all frozen fast, + Awhile ago there were two forms who passed. + + Lo, are their lips fallen and their eyes dead, + Hardly shall a man hear the words they said. + + Into the lonely park all frozen fast + There came two shadows who recall the past. + + "Dost thou remember our old ecstasy?" + "Wherefore should I possess that memory?" + + "Doth thy heart beat at my sole name alway? + Still dost thou see my soul in visions?" "Nay!"--_ + +And on such a day as this, with such a weight as this upon their tired +hearts, they entered the halls of Waxwork and stood forlorn among that +dumb cloistered company. + +They passed through "Room No. 1. Commencing Right-hand side" and their +steps echoed upon the floor. On this day and at this hour hardly any +visitors were there; only a few groups moved from figure to figure and +talked in hissing whispers as if they were in some church. + +All around them they saw lifeless and yet half convincing dolls in rich +tarnished habiliments. They walked, as it were, in a mausoleum of dead +kings, and the livid light which fell upon them from the glass roof +above made the sordid unreality more real. + +"There's Charles the First," Rita said drearily. + +Gilbert glanced at the catalogue. "He was fervently pious, a faithful +husband, a fond parent, a kind master, and an enthusiastic lover and +patron of the fine arts." + +"How familiar that sort of stuff sounds," she answered. "It's written +for the schools which come here to see history in the flesh--or wax +rather. Every English school girl of the upper middle classes has been +brought here once in her life. Oh, here's Milton! What does it say +about him?" + +--"Sold his immortal poem 'Paradise Lost' for the sum of five pounds," +Lothian answered grimly. + +"_Much_ better to be a modern poet, Gilbert dear! But I'm disappointed. +These figures don't thrill one at all. I always thought one was +thrilled and astonished here." + +"So you will be, Cupid, soon. Don't you see that all these people are +only names to us. Here they are names dressed up in clothes and with +pink faces and glass eyes. They're too remote. Neither of us is going +to connect that thing"--he flung a contemptuous movement of his thumb +at Milton--"with 'Lycidas.' We shall be interested soon, I'm sure. But +won't you have something to eat?" + +"No. I don't want food. After all, this is strange and fantastic. We've +lots more to see yet, and these kings and queens are only for the +schools. Let's explore and explore. And let's talk about it all as we +go, Gilbert! Talk to me as you do in your letters. Talk to me as you +did at the beginning, illuminating everything with your mind. That's +what I want to hear once again!" + +She thrust her arm in his, and desire fled away from him. The Dead Sea +Fruit, the "Colloque Sentimental" existed no more, but, humour, the +power of keen, incisive phrase awoke in him. + +Yes, this was better!--their two minds with play and interplay. It +would have been a thousand times better if it had never been anything +else save this. + +They wandered into the Grand Saloon, made their bow to Sir Thomas +Lipton--"Wog and I find his tea really the best and cheapest," Rita +said--decided that the Archbishop of Canterbury had a suave, but +uninteresting face, admired the late Mr. Dan Leno, who was posed next +to Sir Walter Scott, and gazed without much interest at the royal +figures in the same room. + +King George the Fifth and his spouse; the Duke of Connaught and +Strathearn--Prince Arthur William Patrick Albert, K.G., K.T., K.P., +G.C.M.C.; Princess Royal of England--Her Royal Highness Princess +Louise Victoria Alexandra Dagmar; and, next to these august people, +little Mr. Dan Leno! + +"Poor little man," Rita said, looking at the sad face of the comedian. +"Why should they put him here with the King and the Queen? Do they just +plant their figures anywhere in this show?" + +Gilbert shook his head. In this abnormal place--one of the strangest +and most psychologically interesting places in the world--his freakish +humour was to the fore. + +"What a little stupid you are, Rita!" he said. "The man who arranges +these groups is one of the greatest philosophers and students of +humanity who ever lived. In this particular case the ghost of Heine +must have animated him. The court jester! The clown of the monarch--I +believe he did once perform at Sandringham--set cheek by jowl with the +great people he amused. It completes the picture, does it not?" + +"No, Gilbert, since you pretend to see a design in the arrangement, I +don't think it _does_ complete the picture. Why should a mere little +comic man be set to intrude--?" + +He caught her up with whimsical grace. "Oh, but you don't see it at +all!" he cried, and his vibrating voice, to which the timbre and life +had returned, rang through "Room No. 2." + +--"This place is designed for the great mass of the population. They +all visit it. It is a National Institution. People like you and me only +come to it out of curiosity or by chance. It's out of our beat. +Therefore, observe the genius of the plan! The Populace has room in its +great stupid heart for only a few heroes. The King is always one, and +the popular comedian of the music halls is always another. These, with +Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Toftrees, satisfy all the hunger for symbols to be +adored. Thus Dan Leno in this splendid company. Room No. 2 is really a +subtle and ironic comment upon the psychology of the crowd!" + +Rita laughed happily. "But where are the Toftrees?" she said. + +"In the Chamber of Horrors, probably, for murdering the public taste. +We are sure to find them here, seated before two Remingtons and with +the actual books with which the crime was committed on show." + +"Oh, I've heard about the 'Chamber of Horrors.' Can we go, Gilbert? Do +let's go. I want to be thrilled. It's such a funereal day." + +"Yes it is, grey as an old nun. I'm sorry I was unkind in the cab, +dear. Forgive me." + +"I'll forgive you anything. I'm so unhappy, Gilbert. It's dreadful to +think of you being gone. All my days and my nights will be grey now. +However shall I do without you?" + +There was genuine desolation in her voice. He believed that she really +regretted _his_ departure and not the loss of the pleasures he had +been giving her. His blood grew hot once more--for a single moment--and +he was about to embrace her, for they were alone in the room. + +And then listlessness fell upon him before he had time to put his wish +into action. His poisoned mind was vibrating too quickly. An impulse +was born, only to be strangled in the brain before the nerves could +telegraph it to the muscles. His whole machinery was loose and out of +control, the engines running erratically and not in tune. They could +not do their work upon the fuel with which he fed them. + +He shuddered. His heart was a coffer of ashes and within it, most evil +paramours, dwelt the quenchless flame and the worm that dieth not. + +. . . They went through other ghostly halls, thronged by a silent +company which never moved nor spake. They came to the entrance of that +astounding mausoleum of wickedness, The Chamber of Horrors. + +There they saw, as in a faint light under the sea, the legion of the +lost, the horrible men and women who had gone to swell the red +quadrilles of hell. + +In long rows, sitting or standing, with blood-stained knives and +hangmen's ropes in front of them, in their shameful resurrection they +inhabited this place of gloom and death. + +Here, was a man in shirt-sleeves, busy at work in a homely kitchen lit +by a single candle. Alone at midnight and with sweat upon his face he +was breaking up the floor; making a deep hole in which to put something +covered with a spotted shroud which lay in a bedroom above. + +There, was the "most extraordinary relic in the world," the knife of +the guillotine that decapitated Marie Antoinette, Robespierre, and +twenty thousand human beings besides. + +The strange precision of portraiture, the somewhat ghastly art which +had moulded these evil faces was startlingly evident in its effect upon +the soul. + +When a _great_ novelist or poet creates an evil personality it shocks +and terrifies us, but it is never wholly evil. We know of the monster's +antecedents and environment. However stern we may be in our attitude +towards the crime, sweet charity and deep understanding of the motives +of human action often give us glimmerings which enable us to pity a +lamentable human being who is a brother of ours whatever he may have +done. + +But here? No. All was sordid and horrible. + +Gilbert and Rita saw rows upon rows of faces which differed in every +way one from the other and were yet dreadfully alike. + +For these great sinister dolls, so unreal and so real, had all a +likeness. The smirk of cruelty and cunning seemed to lie upon the waxen +masks. Colder than life, far colder than death, they gave forth +emanations which struck the very heart with woe and desolation. + +To many visitors the Chamber of Horrors is all its name signifies. But +it is a place of pleasure nevertheless. The skin creeps but the +sensation is pleasant. It provides a thrill like a switchback railway. +But it is not a place that artists and imaginative people can enter and +easily forget. It epitomises the wages of sin. It ought to be a great +educational force. Young criminals should be taken there between stern +guardians, to learn by concrete evidence which would appeal to them as +no books or sermons could ever do, the Nemesis that waits upon +unrepentant ways. + +The man and the girl who had just entered were both in a state of +nervous tension. They were physically exhausted, one by fierce +indulgence in poison, the other by three weeks of light and feverish +pleasure. + +And more than this. + +Each, in several degree, knew that they were doing wrong, that they had +progressed far down the primrose path led by the false flute-players. + +"I couldn't have conceived it was so, so unnerving, Gilbert," Rita +said, shrinking close to him. + +"It is pretty beastly," Lothian answered. "It's simply a dictionary of +crime though, that's all--rather too well illustrated." + +"I don't want to know of these horrors. One sees them in the papers, +but it means little or nothing. How dreadful life is though, under the +surface!" + +Gilbert felt a sudden pang of pity for her, so young and fair, so +frightened now.--Ah! _he_ knew well how dreadful life was--under +the surface! + +For a moment, in that tomb-like place a vision came to him, sunlit and +splendid, calm and beautiful. + +He saw his life as it might be--as doubtless God meant it to be, a +favoured, fortunate and happy life, for God does not, in His +inscrutable wisdom chastise all men. Well-to-do, brilliant of mind, +with trained capacity to exact every drop of noble joy from life; +blessed with a sweet and beautiful woman to watch over him and +complement him; did ever a man have a fairer prospect, a luckier +chance? + +His Hell was so real. Heaven was so near. He had but to say, "I will +not," and the sun would rise again upon his life. To the end he would +walk dignified, famous, happy, loving and deeply-loved--if only he +could say those words. + +A turn of the hand would banish the Fiend Alcohol for ever and ever! + +But even as the exaltation of the thought animated him, the dominant +false Ego, crushed momentarily by heavenly inspiration, growled and +fought for life. + +Immediately the longing for alcohol burned within him. They had been +nearly an hour among the figures. Lothian longed for drink, to satisfy +no mere physical craving, but to keep the Fiend within quiescent. + +He had come to that alternating state--the author of "Dr. Jekyll and +Mr. Hyde" has etched it upon the plate for all time--when he must drug +the devil in order to have a little license in which to speak the words +and think the thoughts of a clean man leading a Christian life. + +So the vision of what might be faded and went. The present asserted +itself, and asserted itself merely as a brutish desire for poison. + +All these mental changes and re-adjustments took place in a mere second +of time. + +Rita had hardly made an end of speaking before he was ready with an +answer. + +"Poor little Rita," he said. "It was your choice you know. It _is_ +horrible. But I expect that the weather, and the inexorable fact that +we have to part this afternoon for a time, has something to do with it. +Oh, and then we haven't lunched. There's a great influence in lunch. I +want a drink badly, too. Let's go." + +Rita was always whimsical. She loved to assert herself. She wanted to +go at least as ardently as her companion, but she did not immediately +agree. + +"Soon," she said. "Look here, Gilbert, we'll meet at the door. I'm +going to flit down this aisle of murderers on the other side. You go +down this side. And if you meet the Libricides--Toftrees et femme I +mean, call out!" + +She vanished with noiseless tread among the stiff ranks of figures. + +Gilbert walked slowly down his own path, looking into each face in +turn. + +. . . This fat matronly woman, a sort of respectable Mrs. Gamp who +probably went regularly to Church, was a celebrated baby farmer. She +"made angels" by pressing a gimlet into the soft skulls of her +charges--there was the actual gimlet--and save for a certain slyness, +she had the face of a quite motherly old thing. Yet she, too, had +dropped through the hole in the floor--like all her companions +here. . . . + +He turned away from all the faces with an impatient shudder. + +He ought never to have come here. He was a donkey ever to have let Rita +come here. Where was she?--he was to meet her at the end of this horrid +avenue. . . . + +But the place was large. Rita had disappeared among the waxen ghosts. +The door must be this way. . . . + +He pressed onwards, walking silently--as one does in a place of the +dead--but disregarding with averted eyes, the leers, the smiles, the +complacent appeal, of the murderers who had paid their debt to the +justice of the courts. + +He was beginning to be most unpleasantly affected. + +Walking onwards, he suddenly heard Rita's voice. It was higher in key +than usual--whom was she speaking to? His steps quickened. + +. . . "Gilbert, how silly to try and frighten me! It's not cricket in +this horrid place, get down at once--oh!" + +The girl shrieked. Her voice rang through the vault-like place. + +Gilbert ran, turned a corner, and saw Rita. + +She was swaying from side to side. Her face was quite white, even the +lips were bloodless. She was staring with terrified eyes to where upon +the low dais and behind the confining rail a figure was standing--a +wax-work figure. + +Gilbert caught the girl by the hands. They were as cold as ice. + +"Dear!" he said in wild agitation. "What is it? I'm here, don't be +frightened. What is it, Rita?" + +She gave a great sob of relief and clung to his hands. A trace of +colour began to flow into her cheeks. + +"Thank goodness," she said, gasping. "Oh, Gilbert, I'm a fool. I've +been so frightened." + +"But, dear, what by?" + +"By that----" + +She pointed at the big, still puppet immediately opposite her. + +Gilbert turned quickly. For a moment he did not understand the cause of +her alarm. + +"I talked to _it_," she said with an hysterical laugh. "I thought _it_ +was you! I thought you'd got inside the railing and were standing there +to frighten me." + +Gilbert looked closely at the effigy. He was about to say something and +then the words died away upon his lips. + +It was as though he saw himself in a distorting glass--one of those +nasty and reprehensible toys that fools give to children sometimes. + +There was an undeniable look of him in the staring face of coloured +wax. The clear-cut lips were there. The shape of the head was +particularly reminiscent, the growing corpulence of body was indicated, +the hair of the stiff wig waved as Lothian's living hair waved. + +"Good God!" he said. "It _is_ like me! Poor little girl--but you know +I wouldn't frighten you for anything. But it _is_ like! What an +extraordinary thing. We looked for the infamous Toftrees! the egregious +Herbert who has split so many infinitives in his time, and we +find--Me!" + +Rita was recovering. She laughed, but she held tightly to Gilbert's arm +at the same time. + +"Let's see who the person is--or was--" Gilbert went on, drawing the +catalogue from his pocket. + +"Key of the principal gate of the Bastille--no, that's not it. Number +365, oh, here we are! Hancock, the Hackney Murderer. A chemist in +comfortable circumstances, he----" + +Rita snatched the book from his hand. "I don't want to hear any more," +she said. "Let's go away, quick!" + +In half an hour they were lunching at a little Italian restaurant which +they found in the vicinity. The day was still dark and lowering, but a +risotto Milanese and something which looked like prawns in _polenta_, +but wasn't, restored them to themselves. + +There was a wine list in this quite snug little place, but the +proprietor advanced and explained that he had no license and that money +must be paid in advance before the camerière could fetch what was +required from an adjacent public house. + +It was a bottle of whiskey that Gilbert ordered, politely placed upon +the table by a pathetic little Genoese whose face was sallow as +spaghetti and who was quite unconscious that for the moment the Fiend +Alcohol had borrowed his poor personality. + +. . . "You must have a whiskey and soda, Rita. I dare not let you +attempt any of the wines from the public house at the corner." + +"I've never tried it in my life. But I will now, out of curiosity. I'll +taste what you are so far too fond of." + +Rita did so. "Horrible stuff," she said. "It's just like medicine." + +Gilbert had induced the pleasant numbness again. "You've said exactly +what it is," he replied in a dreamy voice.--"'Medicine for a mind +diseased.'" + +They hardly conversed at all after that. + +The little restaurant with its red plush seats against the wall, its +mirrors and hanging electric lights, was cosy. They lingered long over +their coffee and cigarettes. No one else was there and the proprietor +sidled up to them and began to talk. He spoke in English at first, and +then Gilbert answered him in French. + +Gilbert spoke French as it is spoken in Tours, quite perfectly. The +Italian spoke it with the soft, ungrammatical fluency of his race. + +The interlude pleased the tired, jaded minds of the sad companions, and +it was with some fictitious reconstruction of past gaiety and animation +that they drove to St. Pancras. + +The train was in. + +Gilbert's dressing-case was already placed in a first-class +compartment, his portmanteau snug in the van. + +When he walked up the long platform with Rita, a porter, the Guard of +the train and the steward of the dining-car, were grouped round the +open door. + +He was well known. All the servants of the line looked out for him and +gave him almost ministerial honours. They knew he was a "somebody," but +were all rather vague as to the nature of his distinction. + +He was "Mr. Gilbert Lothian" at least, and his bountiful largesse was +generally spoken of. + +The train was not due to start for six minutes. The acute guard, +raising his cap, locked the door of the carriage. + +Gilbert and Rita were alone in it for a farewell. + +He took her in his arms and looked long and earnestly into the young +lovely face. + +He saw the tears gathering in her eyes. + +"Have you been happy, sweetheart, with me?" + +"Perfectly happy." There was a sob in the reply. + +"You really do care for me?" + +"Yes." + +His breath came more quickly, he held her closer to him--only a little +rose-faced girl now. + +"Do you care for me more than for any other man you have ever met?" + +She did not answer. + +"Tell me, tell me! Do you?" + +"Yes." + +"Rita, my darling, say, if things had been different, if I were free to +ask you to be my wife now, would you marry me?" + +"Yes." + +"Would you be my dear, dear love, as I yours, for ever and ever and +ever?" + +She clung to him in floods of tears. He had his answer. Each tear was +an answer. + +The guard of the train, looking the other way, opened the door with his +key and coughed. + +"Less than a minute more, sir," said the guard. + +. . . "Once more, say it once more! You _would_ be my wife if I +were free?" + +"I'd be your wife, Gilbert, and I'd love you--oh, what shall I do +without you? How dull and dreadful everything is going to be now!" + +"But I shall be back soon. And I shall write to you every day!" + +"You will, won't you, dear? Write, write--" The train was almost +moving. + +It began to move. Gilbert leaned out of the window and waved his hand +for a long time, to a forlorn little girl in a brown coat and skirt who +stood upon the platform crying bitterly. + +The waiter of the dining-car, knowing his man well, brought Lothian a +large whiskey and soda before the long train was free of the sordid +Northwest suburbs. + +Lothian drank it, arranged about dinner, and sank back against the +cushions. He lit a cigarette and drew the hot smoke deep into his +lungs. + +The train was out of the town area now. There was no more jolting and +rattling over points. Its progress into the gathering night was a +continuous roar. + +Onwards through the gathering night. . . . + +"_I'd be your wife, Gilbert, and I'd love you--if you were free._" + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE NIGHT JOURNEY FROM NICE WHEN MRS. DALY SPEAKS WORDS OF FIRE + + "Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, + It is but for a time; I press God's lamp + Close to my breast: its splendour, soon or late + Shall pierce the gloom. I shall emerge one day." + + --_Browning._ + + +A carriage was waiting outside a white and gilded hotel on the +Promenade des Anglais at Nice. + +The sun was just dipping behind the Esterelle mountains and the +Mediterranean was the colour of wine. Already the Palais du Jetée was +being illuminated and outlined itself in palest gold against the +painted sky above the Cimiez heights, where the olive-coloured headland +hides Villefranche and the sea-girt pleasure city of Monte Carlo. + +The tall palms in the gardens which front the gleaming palaces of the +Promenade were bronze gold in the fading light, and their fans clicked +and rustled in a cool breeze which was eddying down upon the Queen of +the Mediterranean from the Maritime Alps. + +Mary Lothian came out of the hotel. Her face was pale and very sad. She +had been crying. With her was a tall, stately woman of middle-age; +grey-haired, with a massive calmness and peace of feature recalling the +Athena of the Louvre or one of those noble figures of the Erectheum +crowning the hill of the Acropolis at Athens. + +She was Mrs. Julia Daly, who had been upon the Riviera for two months. +Dr. Morton Sims had written to her. She had called upon Mary and the +two had become fast friends. + +Such time as Mary could spare from the sickbed of her sister, she spent +in the company of this great-souled woman from America, and now Mrs. +Daly, whose stay at Nice was over, was returning to London with her +friend. + +The open carriage drove off, by the gardens and jewellers' shops in +front of the Casino and Opera House and down the Avenue de la Gare. The +glittering cafés were full of people taking an apéritif before dinner. +There was a sense of relaxation and repose over the pleasure city of +the South, poured down upon it in a golden haze from the last level +rays of the sun. + +Outside one of the cafés, as the carriage turned to the station, some +Italians were singing "_O Soli Mio_" to the accompaniment of guitars +and a harp, with mellow, passionate voices. + +The long green train rolled into the glass-roofed station, the +brass-work of the carriage doors covered thick with oily dust from the +Italian tunnels through which it had passed. The conductor of the +sleeping-car portion found the two women their reserved compartment. +Their luggage was already registered through to Charing Cross and they +had only dressing bags with them. + +As the train started again Mrs. Daly pulled the sliding door into its +place, the curtains over it and the windows which looked out into the +corridor. Then she switched on the electric light in the roof and also +the lamp which stood on a little table at the other end. + +"There, my dear," she said, "now we shall be quite comfortable." + +She sat down by Mary, took her hand in hers and kissed her. + +"I know what you are experiencing now," she said in her low rich voice, +"and it is very bitter. But the separation is only for a short, short +time. God wants her, and we shall all be in heaven together soon, Mrs. +Lothian. And you're leaving her with her husband. It is a great mercy +that he has come at last. They are best alone together. And see how +brave and cheery he is!--There's a real man, a Christian soldier and +gentleman if ever one lived. His wife's death won't kill him. It will +make him live more strenuously for others. He will pass the short time +between now and meeting her again in a high fever of righteous works +and duty. There is no death." + +Mary held the firm white hand. + +"You comfort me," she said. "I thank God that you came to me in my +affliction. Otherwise I should have been quite alone till Harold came." + +"I'm real glad that dear good Morton Sims asked me to call. Edith Sims +and I are like" . . . She broke off abruptly. "Like sisters," she was +about to say, but would not. + +Mary smiled. Her friend's delicacy was easy to understand. "I know," +she answered, "like sisters! You needn't have hesitated. I am better +now. All you tell me is just what I am _sure_ of and it is everything. +But one's heart grows faint at the moment of parting and the reassuring +voice of a friend helps very much. I hope it doesn't mean that one's +faith is weak, to long for a sympathetic and confirming voice?" + +"No, it does not. God has made us like that. I know the value of a +friend's word well. Nothing heartens one so. I have been in deep waters +in my time, Mary. You must let me call you Mary, my dear." + +"Oh, do, do! Yes, it is wonderful how words help, human living words." + +"Nothing is more extraordinary in life than the power of the spoken +word. How careful and watchful every one ought to be over words. +Spoken, they always seem to me to have more lasting influence than +words in a book. They pass through mind after mind. Just think, for +instance, how when we meet a man or woman with a sincere intellectual +belief which is quite opposed to our own, we are chilled into a +momentary doubt of our own opinions--however strongly we may hold them. +And when it is the other way about, what strength and comfort we get!" + +"Thank you," Mary said simply, "you are very helpful. Dr. Morton +Sims"--she hesitated for a moment--"Dr. Morton Sims told me something +of your life. And of course I know all about your work, as the whole +world knows. I know, dear Mrs. Daly, how much you have suffered. And it +is because of that that you help me so, who am suffering too." + +There was silence for a space. The train had stopped at Cannes and +started again. Now it was winding and climbing the mountain valleys +towards Toulon. But neither of the two women knew anything of it. They +were alone in the quiet travelling room that money made possible for +them. Heart was meeting heart in the small luxurious place in which +they sat, remote from the outside world as if upon some desert island. + +"Dear Morton Sims," the American lady said at length. "The utter sane +goodness of that man! My dear, he is an angel of light, as near a +perfect character as any one alive in the world to-day. And yet he +doesn't believe in Jesus and thinks the Church and the Sacraments--I've +been a member of the Episcopalian Church from girlhood--only +make-believe and error." + +"He is the finest natured man I have ever met," Mary answered. "I've +only known him for a short time, but he has been so good and friendly. +What a sad thing it is that he is an infidel. I don't use the word in +the popular reprehensible sense, but as just what it means--without +faith." + +"It's a sad thing to us," Mrs. Daly said briskly, "but I have no fears +for him. God hasn't given him the gift of Faith. Now that's all we can +say about it. In the next world he will have to go through a probation +and learn his catechism, so to speak, before he steps right into his +proper place. But he won't be a catechumen long. His pure heart and +noble life will tell where hearts and wills are weighed. There is a +place by the Throne waiting for him." + +"Oh, I am sure. He is wonderfully good. Indeed one seems to feel his +goodness more than one does that of our clergyman at home, though Mr. +Medley is a good man too!" + +"Brains, my dear! Brains! Morton Sims, you see, is of the aristocracy. +Your clergyman probably is not." + +"Aristocracy?" + +"The only aristocracy, the aristocracy of brain-power. Don't forget I'm +an American woman, Mary! Goodness has the same value in Heaven however +it is manifested upon earth. The question of bimetallism doesn't +trouble God and His Angels. But a brilliant-minded Saint has certainly +more influence down here than a fool-saint." + +Mary nodded. + +Such a doctrine as this was quite in accord with what she wished to +think. She rejoiced to hear it spoken with such sharp lucidity. She +also worshipped at a shrine, that of no saint, certainly, but where a +flaming intellect illuminated the happenings of life. In his way, quite +a different way, of course, she knew that Gilbert had a finer mind +than even Morton Sims. And yet, Gilbert wasn't good, as he ought to +be. . . . How these speculations and judgments coiled and recoiled upon +themselves; puzzled weary minds and, when all was done, were very +little good after all! + +At any rate, she loved Gilbert more than anything or anybody in the +world. So that was that! + +But tears came into her eyes as she thought of her husband with deep +and yearning love. If he would only give up alcohol! _Why_ wouldn't he? +To her, such an act seemed so simple and easy. Only a refusal, that was +all! The young man who came to Jesus in the old days was asked to give +up so much. Even for Jesus and immortality he found himself unable to +do it. But Gilbert had only to give up one thing in order to be good +and happy, to make her happy. + +It was true that Dr. Morton Sims had told her many scientific facts, +had explained and explained. He had definitely said that Gilbert was in +the clutches of a disease; that Gilbert couldn't really help himself, +that he must be cured as a man is cured of gout. And then, when she had +asked the doctor how this was to be done, he had so little comfort to +give. He had explained that all the advertised "cures"--even the ones +backed up by people of name, bishops, magistrates, and so on, were +really worthless. They administered other drugs in order to sober up +the patient from alcohol. That was easy and possible--though only with +the thorough co-operation of the patient. After a few weeks, when +health appeared to be restored, and the will power was certainly +strengthened, the "cure" did nothing more. The _pre-disposition_ +was not eradicated. That was an affair to be accomplished only by two +or three years of abstinence and not always then. + +--"I'll talk to Mrs. Daly about it," the sad wife said to herself. "She +is a noble, Christian woman. She understands more than even the doctor. +She _must_ do so. She loves our Lord. Moreover she has given her life +to the cause of temperance." . . . + +But she must be careful and diplomatic. The natural reticence and +delicacy of a well-bred woman shrank from the unveiling, not only of +her own sorrow, but of a beloved's shame. The coarse, ill-balanced and +bourgeois temperament bawls its sorrow and calls for sympathy from the +sweepings of any Pentonville omnibus. It writes things upon a street +wall and enjoys voluptuous public hysterics. The refined and gracious +mind hesitates long before the least avowal. + +"You said," she began, after a period of sympathetic silence, "that you +had been in deep waters." + +Julia Daly nodded. "I guess it's pretty well known," she said with a +sigh. "That's the worst of a campaign like mine. It's partly because +every one knows all about what you've gone through that they give you a +hearing. In the States the papers are full of my unhappy story whenever +I lecture in a new place. But I'm used to it now and it doesn't hurt +me. Most of the stories are untrue, though. Mr. Daly was a pretty +considerable ruffian when he was in drink. But he wasn't the monster +he's been made out to be, and he couldn't help himself, poor, poisoned +man. But which story have you read, Mary?" + +"None at all. Only Dr. Morton Sims, when he wrote, told me that you had +suffered, that your husband, that----" + +"That Patrick was an alcoholic. Yes, that's the main fact. He did a +dreadful thing when he became insane through drink. There's no need to +speak of it. But I loved him dearly all the same. He might have been +such a noble man!" + +"Ah, that's just what I feel about my dear boy. He's not as bad as--as +some people. But he does drink quite dreadfully. I hate telling you. It +seems a sort of treachery to him. But you may be able to help me." + +"I knew," Mrs. Daly said with a sigh. "The doctor has told me in +confidence. I'd do anything to help you, dear girl. Your husband's +poems have been such a help and comfort to me in hours of sadness and +depression. Oh, what a dreadful scourge it is! this frightful thing +that seizes on noble and ignoble minds alike! It is the black horror of +the age, the curse of nations, the ruin of thousands upon thousands. If +only the world would realise it!" + +"No one seems to realise the horror except those who have suffered +dreadfully from it." + +"More people do than you think, Mary, but, still, they are an +insignificant part of the whole. People are such fools! I was reading +'Pickwick' the other day, a great English classic and a work of genius, +too, in its way, I suppose. The principal characters get drunk on every +other page. Things are better now, as far as books are concerned, +though the comic newspapers keep up their ghastly fun about drunken +folk. But the cause of Temperance isn't a popular one, here or in my +own country." + +"A teetotaller is so often called a fanatic in England," Mary said. + +"I know it well. But I say this, with entire conviction, absolute +bed-rock certainty, my dear, the people who have joined together to go +without alcohol themselves and to do all they can to fight it, are in +the right whatever people may say of them. And it doesn't matter what +people say either. As in all movements, there is a lot of error and +mistaken energy. The Bands of Hope, the Blue Ribbon Army, the +Rechabites are not always wise. Some of them make total abstinence into +a religion and think that alcohol is the only Fiend to fight against. +Most of them--as our own new scientific party think--are fighting on +wrong lines. That's to say they are not doing a tenth as much good as +they might do, because the scientific remedy has not become real to +them. That will come though, if we can bring it about. But I tire you?" + +"Please go on." + +"Well, you know our theory. It is a certain remedy. You can't stop +alcohol. But by making it a penal offence for drunkards to have +children, drunkenness must be almost eliminated in time." + +"Yes," Mary said. "Of course, I have read all about it. But I know so +little of science. But what is the _individual_ cure? Is there +none, then? Oh, surely if it is a disease it can be cured? Dr. Morton +Sims tried to be encouraging, but I could see that he didn't think +there really _was_ much chance for a man who is a slave to drink. +It is splendid, of course, to think that some day it may all be +eliminated by science. But meanwhile, when women's hearts are bleeding +for men they love . . ." + +Her voice broke and faltered. Her heart was too full for further +speech. + +The good woman at her side kissed her tenderly. "Do not grieve," she +said. "Listen. I told you just now that so many of the great Temperance +organisations err in their rejection of scientific advice and +scientific means to a great end. They place their trust in God, +forgetting that science only exists by God's will and that every +discovery made by men is only God choosing to reveal Himself to those +who search for Him. But the Scientists are wrong, too, in their +rejection--in so many cases--of God. They do not see that Religion and +Science are not only non-antagonistic, but really complement each +other. It is beginning to be seen, though. In time it will be generally +recognised. I read the admission of a famous scientist the other day, +to this effect. He said, 'It is generally recognised that any form of +treatment in which the "occult," the "supernatural," or anything secret +or mysterious is allowed to play a dominant part in so neurotic an +affection as inebriety, often succeeds.' And he closed a most helpful +and able essay on the arrest of alcohol with something like these words: + + "'The reference to agencies for the uplifting of the drink-victim + would be sadly incomplete without a very definite acknowledgment of + the incalculable assistance which the wise worker and unprejudiced + physician may obtain by bringing to bear upon the whole life of the + patient that Power, the majesty and mystery, the consolation and + inspiration of which it is the mission of religion to reveal.'" + +"Then even the doctors are coming round?" Mary said. "And it means +exactly, you would say--?" + +"I would tell you what has been proved without possibility of dispute a +thousand times. I would tell you that when all therapeutic agencies +have failed, the Holy Spirit has succeeded. The Power which is above +every other power can do this. No loving heart need despair. However +black the night _that_ influence can enlighten it. Ask those who +work among the desolate and oppressed; the outcast and forlorn, the +drink-victims and criminals. Ask, here in England, old General Booth or +Prebendary Carlile. Ask the clergy of the Church in the London Docks, +ask the Nonconformist ministers, ask the Priests of the Italian Mission +who work in the slums. + +"They will tell you of daily miracles of conversion and transformations +as marvellous and mystical as ever Jesus wrought when He was visible on +earth. Mary! It goes on to-day, it _does_ go on. There is the only +cure, the only salvation. Jesus." + +There was a passionate fervour in her voice, a divine light upon her +face. She also prophesied, and the Spirit of God was upon her as upon +the holy women of old. + +And Mary caught that holy fire also. Her lips were parted, her eyes +shone. She re-echoed the sacred Name. + +"I would give my life to save Gilbert," she said. + +"I have no dear one to save, now," the other answered. "But I would +give a thousand lives if I had them to save America from Alcohol. I +love my land! There is much about my country that the ordinary English +man or woman has no glimmering of. Your papers are full of the +extravagances and divorces of wealthy vulgarians--champagne corks +floating on cess-pools. You read of trusts and political corruption. +These are the things that are given prominence by the English +newspapers. But of the deep true heart of America little is known here. +We are not really a race of money-grubbers and cheap humourists. We are +great, we shall be greater. The lamps of freedom burn clearly in the +hearts of millions of people of whom Europe never hears. God is with us +still! The Holy Spirit broods yet over the forests and the prairies, +the mountains and the rivers of my land. Read the 'Choir Invisible' by +James Lane Allen and learn of us who are America." + +"I will, dear Mrs. Daly. How you have comforted me to-night! God sent +you to me. I feel quite happy now about my darling sister. I feel much +happier about my husband. Whatever this life has in store, there is +always the hereafter. It seems very close to-night, the veil wears +thin." + +"We will rest, Mary, while these good thoughts and hopes remain within +us. But before we go to bed, listen to this." + +Julia Daly felt in her dressing bag and withdrew a small volume bound +in vermilion morocco. + +"It's your best English novel," she said, "far and away the +greatest--Charles Reade's 'The Cloister and the Hearth,' I mean. I'm +reading it for the fifth time. For five years now I have done so each +year." + +"For ever?" she began in her beautiful voice, that voice which had +brought hope to so many weary hearts in the great Republic of the West. + + "'For ever? Christians live "for ever," and love "for ever" but + they never part "for ever." They part, as part the earth and sun, + only to meet more brightly in a little while. You and I part here + for life. And what is our life? One line in the great story of the + Church, whose son and daughter we are; one handful in the sand of + time, one drop in the ocean of "For ever." Adieu--for the little + moment called "a life!" We part in trouble, we shall meet in peace; + we part in a world of sin and sorrow, we shall meet where all is + purity and love divine; where no ill passions are, but Christ is, + and His Saints around Him clad in white. There, in the turning of + an hour-glass, in the breaking of a bubble, in the passing of a + cloud, she, and thou, and I shall meet again; and sit at the feet + of angels and archangels, apostles and saints, and beam like them + with joy unspeakable, in the light of the shadow of God upon His + throne, for ever--and ever--and ever.'" + +The two women undressed and said their prayers, making humble +supplication at the Throne of Grace for themselves, those they loved +and for all those from whom God was hidden. + +And as the train bore them through Nimes and Arles, Avignon and the old +Roman cities of southern France, they slept as simple children sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +GILBERT LOTHIAN'S DIARY + + "It comes very glibly off the tongue to say, 'Put yourself in his + position,'--'What would you have done under the circumstances?' but + if self-analysis is difficult, how much more so is it to appreciate + the 'Ego' of another, to penetrate within the veil of the maimed + and debased inner temple of the debauched inebriate?"--"_The + Psychology of the Alcoholic_," by T. Claye Shawe, M.D., F.R.C.P., + Lecturer on psychological medicine. St. Bartholomew's Hospital, + London. + + "Like one, that on a lonesome road, + Doth walk in fear and dread, + And having once turned round walks on, + And turns no more his head; + Because he knows, a frightful fiend + Doth close behind him tread." + + --_Coleridge._ + + +When Mary Lothian returned home to Mortland Royal she was very unwell. +The strain of watching over Lady Davidson, and the wrench of a parting +which in this world was to be a final one, proved more than she was +able to endure. + +She had been out of doors, imprudently, during that dangerous hour on +the Riviera between sunset and nine o'clock. Symptoms of that curious +light fever, with its sharp nervous pains, which is easily contracted +at such times along the Côte d'Azur, began to show themselves. + +Dr. Morton Sims was away in Paris for a few weeks upon a scientific +engagement he was unable to refuse, and Mary was attended by Dr. +Heywood, the general practitioner from Wordingham. + +There was nothing very serious the matter, but the Riviera fever brings +collapse and great depression of spirits with it. Mary remained in bed, +lying there in a dreamy, depressed state of both physical and mental +faculties. She read but little, preferred to be alone as much as +possible, and found it hard to take a lively interest in anything at +all. + +Gilbert was attentive enough. He saw that every possible thing was done +for her comfort. But his manner was nervous and staccato, though he +made great efforts at calm. He was assiduous, eager to help and +suggest, but there was no repose about him. In her great longing for +rest and solitude--a necessary physical craving resulting upon her +illness--Mary hardly wanted to see very much even of Gilbert. She was +too weak and dispirited to remonstrate with him, but it was quite +obvious to her experienced eyes that he was drinking heavily again. + +His quite unasked-for references to the fact that he was taking nothing +but a bottle of beer in the middle of the morning, a little claret at +meals and a single whiskey and soda before going to bed, betrayed him +at once. His tremulous anxiety, his furtive manner, the really horrible +arrogation of gaiety and ease made upon a most anxious hope that he was +deceiving her, told their own tale. + +So did the heavy puffed face, yellowish red and with spots appearing +upon it. His eyes seemed smaller as the surrounding tissues were +dilated, they were yellowish, streaked with little veins of blood at +the corners, and dull in expression. + +His head jerked, his hands trembled and when he touched her they were +hot and damp. + +Her depression of mind, her sense of hopelessness, were greatly +increased. Darkness seemed to be closing round her, and prayer--for it +happens thus at times with even the most saintly souls--gave little +relief. + +"I shall be better soon," she kept repeating to herself. "The doctor +says so. Then, when I am well, I shall be able to take poor Gillie +really in hand. It won't be long now. Then I will save him with God's +help." + +In her present feebleness she knew that it was useless to attempt to do +anything in this direction. So she pretended to believe her husband, +said nothing at all, and prayed earnestly to recover her health that +she might set about the task of succour. + +She did not know, had not the very slightest idea, of Lothian's real +state. Nobody knew, nobody could know. + +On his part, freed of all restraint, his mind a cave of horror, a +chamber of torture, he drank with lonely and systematic persistence. + +It was about this time that he began to make these notes in the form of +a diary which long afterwards passed into the hands of Dr. Morton Sims. +The record of heated horror, the extraordinary glimpse into an inferno +incredible to the sane man, has proved of immense value to those who +are engaged in studying the psychology of the inebriate. + +From much that they contain, it is obvious that the author had no +intention of letting them be seen by any other eyes than his own, at +the time of writing them. Dr. Morton Sims had certainly suggested the +idea in the first place, but there can be no doubt whatever that +Lothian soon abandoned his original plan and wrote for the mere relief +of doing so, and doubtless with a sinister fascination at the spectacle +of his own mind thus revealed by subtle analysis and the record of a +skilled pen. Alcoholised and impaired as his mind was, it was +nevertheless quite capable of doing this accurately and forcibly, and +there are many corroborative instances of such an occurrence. More than +one medical man during the progress of a protracted death agony has +left minute statements of his sensations for the good of Society. + +Such papers as these, for use in a book which has an appeal to all +sorts of people, cannot, of course, be printed entire. There are things +which it would serve no good purpose for the layman to know, valuable +as they are to the patient students of morbid states. And what can be +given is horrible enough. + +The selected passages follow herewith, and with only such comment as is +necessary to elucidate the text. + + . . . Last night a letter came from a stranger, one of the many + that I get, thanking me for some of the poems in "Surgit Amari" + which he said had greatly solaced and helped him throughout a + period of mental distress. When I opened the letter it was after + dinner, and I had dined well--my appetite keeps good at any rate, + and while that is so there is no fear of it--according to the + doctors and the medical books. I opened the letter and read it + without much interest. I am not so touched and pleased by these + letters as I used to be. Then, after I had said good-night to my + wife, I went into the library. After two or three whiskies and a + lot of cigarettes the usual delusion of greatness and power came + over me. I know, of course, that I have great power and am in a way + celebrated, but at ordinary times I have no overmastering + consciousness and bland, suave pride in this. When I am recovering + from the effects of too much alcohol I doubt everything. My own + work seems to me trivial and worthless, void of life and imitations + of greater work. + + Well, I had the usual quickening, but vague and incoherent sense of + greatness, and I picked up the letter again. I walked up and down + the room smoking furiously, and then I had some more whiskey. The + constant walking up and down the room, by the way, is a well-marked + symptom of my state. The nerves refuse me calm. I can't sit down + for long, even with the most alluring book. Some thought comes into + my mind like a stone thrown suddenly into a pool, and before I am + aware of it I am marching up and down the room like a forest beast + in a cage. When I had read the letter twice more I sat down and + wrote a most effusive reply to my correspondent. I almost wept as I + read it. I went into high things, I revealed myself and my + innermost thoughts with the grave kindness and wish to be of help + that a great and good man; intimate with a lesser and struggling + man; might use. + + In the morning I read the letter which I had thought so wonderful. + As usual, I tore it up. It was written in a handwriting which might + have betrayed drunkenness to a child. Long words lacked a syllable, + words ending in "ing" were concluded by a single stroke, the letter + "l" was the same size as the letter "e" and could not be + distinguished from it. But what was worse, was the sickly + sentiment, expressed in the most feeble sloppy prose. + + It was sort of educated Chadband or Stiggins and there was an + appalling lack of reticence. + + It is a marked symptom of my state, that when I am drunk I always + want to write effusive letters to strangers or mere acquaintances. + Sometimes, if I have been reading a book that I liked, I sit down + and turn out pages of gush to the unknown author, hailing him as a + brother and a master. Thank goodness I always tear the wretched + things up next day. It is a good thing I live in the country. In + London these wretched letters, which I am impelled to write, would + be in some adjacent pillar box before I realised what I had done. + + Oh, to be a sane man, a member of the usual sane army of the world + who never do these things! + +The above passage must have been re-read some time after it was written +and been the _raison d'être_ of what follows. The various passages +are only occasionally dated, but their chronological order can be +determined with some certainty by these few dates, changes of +handwriting, and above all by the progress and interplay of thought. + + It had not occurred to me before, with any strength that is, how + very far my inner life diverges now from ordinary paths! It is, I + see in a moment such as the present when I am able to contemplate + it, utterly abnormal. I am glad to realise this for a time. It is + so intensely interesting from the psychologist's point of view. I + can so very, very rarely realise it. Immediately that I slip back + into the abnormal life, long custom and habit reassert themselves + and I become quite unaware that it is abnormal. I live mechanically + according to the _bizarre_ and fantastic rules imposed upon me + by drink. Now, for a time, I have a breathing space. I have left + the dim green places under the sea and my head is above water. I + see the blue sky and feel the winds of the upper world upon my + face. I used to belong up there, now I am an inhabitant of the + under world, where the krakens and the polyps batten in their sleep + and no light comes. + + I will therefore use my little visit to "glimpse the moon" like the + Prince of Denmark's sepulchral father. I will catalogue the ritual + of the under world which has me fast. + + I will, that is, write as much as I can. Before very long my eyes + will be tired and little black specks will dance in front of them. + The dull pain in my side--cirrhosis of course--which is quiet and + feeding now--will begin again. Something in my head, at the back of + the skull on the left hand side--so it seems--will begin to throb + and ache. Little shooting pains will come in my knees and round + about my ankles and drops of perspiration which taste bitter as + brine will roll down my face. And, worse than all, the fear of It + will commence. Slight "alcoholic tremors" will hint of what might + be. After a few minutes I shall feel that it is going to be. + + I will define all that I mean by "It" another time. + + Well, then I shall send "It" and all the smaller "Its" to the right + about. I shall have two or three strong pegs. Then physical pains, + all mental horrors, will disappear at once. But I shall be back + again under the sea nevertheless. I shan't realise, as I am + realising now, the abnormality of my life. But I should say that I + have an hour at least before I need have any more whiskey, before + that becomes imperative. So here goes for a revelation more real + and minute than de Quincey, though, lamentable fact! in most + inferior prose! + +Here this passage ends. It is obvious from what follows that the period +of expected freedom came to an end long before the author expected. +Excited by what he proposed to do, he had spent too much of his brief +energy in explaining it. Mechanically he had taken more drink to +preserve himself upon the surface--the poisoned mind entirely +forgetting what it had just set down--and with mathematic certainty the +alcohol had plunged the poet once more beneath the ruining waters. + +The next entry, undated, is written in a more precise and firmer +handwriting. It recalls the small and beautiful caligraphy of the old +days. There is no preamble to the bald and hideous confession of mental +torture. + + I wish that my imagination was not so horribly acute and vivid when + it is directed towards horrors--as indeed it always seems to be + now. I wish, too, that I had never talked curiously to loquacious + medical friends and read so many medical books. + + I am always making amateur, and probably perfectly ridiculous, + tests for Locomotor Ataxy and General Paralysis--always shrinking + in nameless fear from what so often seems the inevitable onslaught + of "It." + + Meanwhile, with these fears never leaving me for a moment, to what + an infinity of mad superstitions I am slave! How I strive, by a + bitter, and (really) hideously comic, ritual to stave off the + inevitable. + + Oh, I used to love God and trust in Him. I used to pray to Jesus. + Now, like any aborigine I only seek to ward off evil, to propitiate + the Devil and the Powers of the Air, to drag the Holy Trinity into + a forced compliance with my conjuring tricks. _I can hardly + distinguish the devil from God._ Both seem my antagonists. + Hardly able to distinguish Light from dark, I employ myself with + dirty little conjuring tricks. I well know that all these are the + phantasms of a disordered brain! I am not really fool enough to + believe that God can be propitiated or Satan kept at bay by + movements: touchings and charms. + + But I obey my demon. + + These things are a foolish network round my every action and + thought. I can't get out of the net. + + Touching, I do not so much mind. In me it is a symptom of + alcoholism, but greater people have known it as a mere nervous + affection quite apart from drink. Dr. Johnson used to stop and + return to touch lamp-posts. In "Lavengro," Borrow has words to say + about this impulse--I think it is in Lavengro or it may be in the + Spanish book. Borrow used to "touch wood." I began it a long time + ago, in jest at something young Ingworth said. I did it as one + throws spilt salt over one's shoulder or avoids seeing the new moon + through glass. Together with the other things I _have_ to do + now, it has become an obsession. I carry little stumps of pencil in + all my pockets. Whenever a thought of coming evil, a radiation from + the awful cloud of Apprehension comes to me, then I can thrust a + finger into the nearest pocket and touch wood. Only a fortnight ago + I was frightened out of my senses by the thought that I had never + been really touching wood at all. The pencil stumps were all + varnished. I had been touching varnish! It took me an hour to + scrape all the varnish off with a pocket knife. I must have about + twenty stumps in constant use. At night I always put one in the + pocket of my pyjama coat--one wakes up with some fear--but, half + asleep and lying as I do upon my left side, the pocket is often + under me and I can't get to the wood quickly. So I keep my arm + stretched out all night and my hand can touch the wooden top of a + chair by the bed in a second. I made Tumpany sand-paper all the + varnish off the top of the chair too. He thought I was mad. I + suppose I am, as a matter of fact. But though I am perfectly aware + of the damnable foolishness of it, these things are more real to me + than the money-market to a business man. + + * * * * * + + If it were only this compulsion to touch wood I should not mind. + But there are other tyrannies coincident which are more urgent and + compelling. My whole mind--at times--seems taken up by the + necessity for ritual actions. I have no time for quiet thought. + Everything is broken in upon. There is the Sign of the Cross. I + have linked even _that_ in the chain of my terrors. I touch + wood and then I make this sign. I do it so often that I have + invented all sorts of methods of doing it secretly in public, and + quickly when I am alone. I do it in a sort of imaginary way. For + instance, I bend my head and in so doing draw an imaginary line + with my right eye upon the nearest wall, or upon the page of the + book that I am reading. Then I move my head from side to side and + make another fictitious line to complete the cross. A propos of + making the sign, the imaginary lines nearly always go crooked in my + brain. This especially so when I am doing it on a book. I follow + two lines of type on both pages and use the seam of the binding + between them to make the down strokes. But it hardly ever comes + right the first time. I begin to notice people looking at me + curiously as I try to get it right and my head moves about. If they + only knew! + + Then another and more satisfactory way--for the imaginary method + always makes my head ache for a second or two--I accomplish with + the thumb of my right hand moving vertically down the first joint + of the index finger, and then laterally. I can do this as often as + I like and no one can possibly see me. I have a little copper Cross + too, with "In hoc vinces" graved upon it. But I don't like using + this much. It is too concrete. It reminds me of the use I am making + of the symbol of salvation. "In hoc vinces"! Not I. There are times + when I think that I am surely doomed. + + But I think that the worst of all the foul, senseless, and yet + imperative petty lordships I endure, is the dominion of the two + numbers. The Dominion of The Two Numbers!--capital letters shall + indicate this! For some reason or other I have for years imagined + mystical virtue in the number 7 and some maleficent influence in + the number 13. These, of course, are old superstitions, but they, + and all the others, ride me to a weariness of spirit which is near + death. + + Although I got my first in "Lit. Hum." at Oxford, have read almost + everything, and can certainly say that I am a man of wide culture + and knowledge, Figures always gave me aversion and distaste. I got + an open scholarship at my college and was as near as nothing + ploughed in the almost formal preliminary exam of Responsions by + Arithmetic. I can't add up my bank-book correctly even now, and I + have no sense whatever of financial amounts and affairs. + + But I am a slave to the good but stern fairy 7 and the hell-hag 13. + + I attempt lightness and the picturesque. There is really nothing of + the sort about my unreasoning and mad servitude. It's bitter, + naked, grinning truth. + + In my bath I sponge myself seven times--first. Then I begin again, + but I stop at six in the second series and cross myself upon the + breast with the bath sponge. Seven and six make thirteen. If I did + not cancel out that thirteen by the sign of the Cross I should walk + in fear of some dreadful thing all day. + + Every time I drink I sip seven times first and then again seven + times. When six times comes in the second seven, I make the Cross + with my head. My right hand is holding the glass so that the thumb + and finger joint method won't work. It would be disastrous to make + the sign with the left hand. + + That is another thing. . . . I use my left hand as little as I can. + It frightens me. I _always_ raise a glass to my lips with the right + hand. If I use the left hand owing to momentary thoughtlessness, + I have to go through a lengthy purification of wood-touching, + crossing, and counting numbers. + + All my habits re-act one upon the other and the rules are added to + daily until they have become appallingly intricate. A failure in + one piece of ritual entails all sorts of protracted mental and + physical gestures in order to put it right. + + I wonder if other men who drink know this heavy, unceasing slavery + which makes the commonest actions of life a burden? + + I suppose so. It must be so. All drugs have specific actions. Men + don't tell, of course. Neither do I! Sometimes, though, when I have + gone to some place like the Café Royal, or perhaps one of the clubs + which are used by fast men, I have had a disgusting glee when I met + men whom I knew drank heavily to think that they had their + secrets--must have them--as well as I. + + On reading through these notes that I have been making now and + then, I am, of course, horrified at what they really seem to mean. + Put down in black and white they convey--or at least they would + convey to anyone who saw them--nothing but an assurance of the fact + that I am mad. Yet I am not really mad. I have two lives. . . . I + see that I have referred constantly to "It." I have promised myself + to define exactly what I mean by "IT." + + I am writing this immediately after lunch. I didn't get up till + eleven o'clock. I am under the influence of twenty-five grains of + ammonium bromide. I had a few oysters for lunch and nothing else. I + am just about as normal as any man in my state can hope to be. + + Nevertheless when I come to try and define "It" for myself I am + conscious of a deep horror and distrust. My head is above water, I + am sane, but so powerful is the influence of the continual FEAR + under which I live my days and nights, that even now I am afraid. + + "It" is a protean thing. More often than not it is a horrible dread + of that Delirium Tremens which I have never had, but ought to have + had long ago. I have read up the symptoms until I know each one of + them. When I am in a very nervous and excited condition--when, for + example, I could not face anybody at all and must be alone in my + room with my bottle of whiskey--I stare at the wall to see if rats + or serpents are running up it. I peer into the corners of the + library to detect sheeted corpses standing there. I do not see + anything of the sort. Even the imaginings of my fear cannot create + them. I am, possibly, personally immune from Delirium Tremens, some + people are. All the same, the fear of it racks me and tears me a + hundred times a day. If it really seized me it surely would be + almost enjoyable! Nothing, at any rate, can be more utterly + dreadful than the continual apprehension. + + Then I have another and always constant fear--these fears, I want + to insist, are fantastically intermingled with all the crossings, + wood-touchings and frantic calculations I have to do each minute of + my life. The other fear is that of Prison. + + Now I know perfectly well that I have done nothing in my life that + could ever bring me near prison. All the same I cannot now hear a + strange voice without a start of dread. A knock at the front door + of my house unnerves me horribly. I open the door of whatever room + I am in and listen with strained, furtive attention, slinking back + and closing the door with a sob of relief when I realise that it is + nothing more than the postman or the butcher's boy. I can hardly + bear to read a novel now, because I so constantly meet with the + word "arrest." + + "He was arrested in the middle of his conversation,"--"She placed + an arresting hand upon his arm." . . . These phrases which + constantly occur in every book I read fill me with horror. A wild + phantasmagoria of pictures passes through my mind. I see myself + being led out of my house with gyves upon my wrists like the + beastly poem Hood made upon "Eugene Aram." Then there is the drive + into Wordingham in a cab. All the officials at the station who know + me so well cluster round. I am put into a third class carriage and + the blinds are pulled down. At St. Pancras, where I am also known, + it is worse. The next day there is the Magistrate's Court and all + the papers full of my affair. I know it is all fantastic + nonsense--moonshine, wild dream. But it is so appallingly real to + me that I sometimes long to have got the trial over and to be + sitting with shaven head, wearing coarse prison clothes, in a + lonely cell. + + Then, I think to myself, I should really have peace. The worst + would have happened and there would be an end of it all. There + would be an end of deadly Fear. + + I remember "----" telling me at Bruges, where so many _mauvais + sujets_ go to kill themselves with alcohol, that wherever he + went, night and day, he was always afraid of a tiger that would + suddenly appear. He had never experienced Delirium Tremens either. + He knew how mad and fantastic this apprehension was but he was + quite unable to get rid of it. + + * * * * * + + At other times I have the Folie de Grandeur. + + My reading has told me that this is the sure sign of approaching + General Paralysis. General paralysis means that one's brain goes, + that one loses control of one's limbs and all acts of volition go. + One is simply alive, that is all. One is alive and yet one is fed + and pushed about, and put into this place or that as the + entomologist would use a snail. So, in all my wild imaginings the + grisly fear is never far away. + + The imaginings are, in themselves, not without interest to a + student of the dreadful thing I have become. + + I always start from one point. That is that I have become suddenly + enormously rich. I have invented all sorts of ways in which this + might happen, but lately, in order to save trouble, and to have a + base to start from I have arranged that Rockefeller, the American + oil person, has been so intrigued by something that I have written + that he presents me with two million pounds. + + I start in the possession of two million pounds. I buy myself a + baronetcy at once and I also purchase some historic estate. I live + the life of the most sporting and beneficent country gentleman that + ever was! I see myself correcting the bucolic errors of my + colleagues on the Bench at Quarter Sessions. I am a Providence to + all the labourers and small farmers. My name is acclaimed + throughout the county of which I am almost immediately made Lord + Lieutenant. + + After about five minutes of this prospect I get heartily sick of + it. + + I buy a yacht then. It is as big as an Atlantic liner. I fit it up + and make it the most perfect travelling palace the world has ever + seen. I go off in it to sail round the globe--to see all the most + beautiful things in the world, to suck the last drop of honey that + the beauty of unknown seas, fairy continents, fortunate islands can + yield. During this progress I am accompanied by charming and + beautiful women. Some are intellectual, some are artistic--all are + beautiful and charming. I, I myself, am the central star around + which all this assiduous charm and loveliness revolve. + + Another, and very favourite set of pictures, is the one in which I + receive the two millions from Mr. Rockefeller--or whoever he + is--and immediately make a public renunciation of it. With wise + fore-thought I found great pensions for underpaid clergy. I + inaugurate societies by means of which authors who could do really + artistic work, but are forced to pot-boil in order to live, may + take a cheque and work out their great thoughts without any worldly + embarrassments. I myself reserve one hundred and fifty or two + hundred pounds a year and go and work among the poor in an East-end + slum. At the same time I am most anxious that this great + renunciation should be widely spoken of. I must be interviewed in + all the papers. The disdainful nobility of my sacrifice for + Christ's sake must be well advertised. + + Indeed all my Folies de Grandeur are nothing else but exaggerated + megalomania. I must be in the centre of the picture always. Spartan + or Sybarite I must be glorified. + + * * * * * + + Another symptom which is very marked is that of spasmodic and + superstitious prayer. When my heated brain falls away from its + kaleidoscopic pictures of grandeur owing to sheer weariness; when + my wire-tight nerves are strained to breaking point by the + despotism of "touchings," the tyranny of "Thirteen" and "Seven," + the nervous misery of the Sign of the Cross, I try to sum up all + the ritual and to escape the whole welter of false obligation by + spasmodic prayer. I suppose that I say "God-the-Father-help-me" + about two or three hundred times a day. I shut my eyes and throw + the failing consciousness of myself into the back of my head, and + then I say it--in a sort of hot feverish horror, + "God-the-Father-help-me." I vary this, too. When my thoughts or my + actions have been more despicable than usual, I jerk up an appeal + to God the Father. When fluid _sentiment_ is round me it is + generally Jesus on whom I call. + + . . . I cannot write any more of this, it is too horrible even to + write. But God knows how true it is! + + * * * * * + + This morning I went out for a walk. I was feeling wretchedly ill. I + had to go to the Post Office and there I met little O'Donnell, the + Rector, and dear old Medley his curate. It was torture to talk to + them, to preserve an ordinary appearance. I felt that old Medley's + eyes were on me the whole time. I like him very much. I know every + corner of his good simple mind as if I had lived in it. He is a + good man, and I can't help liking him. He dislikes and distrusts me + intensely, however. He doesn't know enough--like Morton Sims for + instance--to understand that I want to be good, that I am of his + company really. The Rector himself was rather too charming. He + fussed away about my poems, asked after Dorothy Davidson at Nice, + purred out something that the Duke of Perth had said to him about + the verses I had in the "Spectator" a month ago. Yet O'Donnell must + know that I drink badly. Neither he nor Medley know, of course, how + absolutely submerged I really am. No one ever realises that about a + "man who drinks" until they read of his death in the paper. Only + doctors, wives, experienced eyes know. + + I funked Medley's keen old eyes in the Post Office and I couldn't + help disgust at O'Donnell's humbug, as I thought it, though it may + have been meant kindly. Curious! to fear one good man because he + detects and reprobates one's wickedness, to feel contempt for + another because he is civil. + + I hurried away from them and went into the Mortland Royal Arms. Two + strong whiskies gave myself back to me. I felt a stupid desire to + meet the two clergymen again, with my nerves under proper + control--to show them that I was myself. + + Going back home, however, another nerve wave came over me. I knew + how automatic and jerky my movements were really. I knew that each + movement of my legs was dictated by a _conscious_ exercise of + command from the brain. I imagined that everyone I met--a few + labourers--must know it and observe it also. I realise, now that I + am safe in my study again, that this was nonsense. They couldn't + have seen--or _could_ they? + + --I am sure of nothing now! + + . . . It is half an hour ago since I wrote the last words. I began + to feel quite drunk and giddy for a moment. I concentrated my + intelligence upon the "Telegraph" until the lines became clear and + I was appreciating what I read. Now I am fairly "possible" I think. + Reading a passage in the leading article aloud seems to tell me + that my voice is under control. My face twitched a little when I + looked in the mirror over the mantel-shelf, but if I have a + biscuit, and go to my room and sponge my face, I think that I shall + be able to preserve sufficient grip on myself to see Mary for ten + minutes now. Directly my eyes go wrong--I can feel when they are + beginning to betray me--I will make an excuse and slip away. Then + I'll lunch, and sleep till tea-time. After two cups of strong tea + and the sleep, I shall be outwardly right for an hour at least. I + might have tea taken up to her room and sit by the bed--if she + doesn't want candles brought in. I can be quite all right in the + dusk. + +The next entry of these notes dates, from obvious evidence, three or +four days afterwards. They are all written on the loose sheets of thick +and highly glazed white paper, which Lothian, always sumptuous in the +tools of his work, invariably used. It will be seen that the last +paragraphs have, for a moment, strayed into a reminiscence of the hour. +That is to say they have recorded not only continuous sensations, but +those which were proper to an actual experience. The Notes do so no +more. The closing paragraphs that are exhibited here once more fall +back into the key of almost terrified interest with which this keen, +incisive mind surveys its own ruin. + +There are no more records of actual happenings. + +Yet, nevertheless, while Gilbert Lothian was making this accurate +diagnosis of his state, it is as well to remember that _there is no +prognosis_. + +He _refuses to look into the future_. He really refuses to give any +indication of what is going on in the present. He puts down upon the +page the symptoms of his disease. He catalogues the tortures he +endures. But in regard to where his state is leading him in his life, +what it is all going to result in, he says nothing whatever. + +Psychologically this is absolutely corroborative and true. + +He studies himself as a diseased subject and obviously takes a horrible +pleasure in writing down all that he endures. But there are things and +thoughts so terrible that even the most callous and most poisoned mind +dare not chronicle them. + +While the very last of what was Gilbert Lothian is finding an abnormal +pleasure, and perhaps a terrible relief, in the surveyal of his +extinguishing personality, the other self, the False Ego--the Fiend +Alcohol--was busy with a far more dreadful business. + +We may regard the excerpts already given, and the concluding ones to +come, as really the last of Lothian--until his resurrection. + +Sometimes a lamp upon the point of expiration flares up for a final +second. + +Then, with a splutter, it goes out. And in the circle of confining +glass a dull red glow fades, disappears, and only an ugly, lifeless +black circle of exhausted wick is left. + + I didn't mean in making these notes--confound Morton Sims that he + should have suggested such a thing to me!--Well, I didn't mean to + bring in any daily happenings. My only idea was, for a sort of + pitiful satisfaction to myself, to make a record of what I am going + through. It has been a relief to me--that is quite certain. While I + have been writing these notes I have had some of the placidity and + quiet that I used to know when I was engaged upon purely literary + pursuits. I can't write now--that is to say, I can't create. My + poetic faculty seems quite to have left me. I write certain + letters, to a certain person, but they are no longer the artistic + and literary productions that they were in the first stages of my + acquaintance with this person. + + All the music that God gave me is gone out of me now. + + Well, even this relief is passing, I have more in my mind and heart + than will allow me to continue this fugitive journal. + +Here, obviously, Lothian makes a slight reference to the ghastly +obsession which, at this time, must have had him well within its grip. + + Well, I will round it up with a few final words. + + * * * * * + + One thing that strikes me with horror and astonishment is that I + have become quite unable to understand how what I am doing, the + fact of what I have become, hurts, wounds and makes other people + unhappy. I try to put myself--sympathetically--in the place of + those who are around me and who must necessarily suffer by my + behaviour. _I can't do it._ When I try to do it my mind seems + full of grey wool. The other people seem a hundred miles away. + Their sentiments, emotions, wishes--their love for me . . . + +It is significant that here Lothian uses the plural pronoun as if he +was afraid of the singular. + + --dwindle to vanishing point. I used to be able to be sympathetic + to the sorrows and troubles of almost everyone I met. I remember + once after helping a man in this village to die comfortably, after + sitting with him for hours and hours and hours during the progress + of a most loathsome disease after closing his eyes, paying for his + poor burial and doing all I could to console his widow and his + daughters, that the widow and the daughters spoke bitterly about me + and my wife--who had been so good to them--because one of our + servants had returned the cream they sent to the kitchen because it + was of inferior quality. These poor women actually made themselves + unpleasant. For a day at least I was quite angry. It seemed so + absolutely ungrateful when my wife and I had done everything for + them for so long. But, I remember quite well, how I thought out the + whole petty little incident one night when I was out with Tumpany + after the wild geese. We were waiting in a cold midnight when + scurrying clouds passed beneath the moon. It was bitter cold and my + gun barrels burnt like fire. I thought it out with great care, and + on the icy marshes a sort of understanding of narrow brains and + unimaginative natures came to me. The next day I told my servants + to still continue taking cream from the widow, and I have been + friendly and kind to her ever since. + + But now, I can't possibly get into the mind of anyone else with + sympathy. + + I think only of myself, of my own desires, of my own state. . . . + + * * * * * + + Although I doubt it in my heart of hearts, I must put it upon + record that I still have a curious and ineradicable belief that I + can, by a mere effort of volition, get rid of all the horrors that + surround me and become good and normal once more. When I descend + into the deepest depths of all I am yet conscious of a little + jerky, comfortable, confidential nudge from something inside me. + "You'll be all right," it says. "When you want to stop you will be + able to all right!" This false confidence, though I know it to be + utterly false, never deserts me in moments of exhilarated + drunkenness. + + And finally, I add, that when my brain is becoming exhausted the + last moment before stupor creeps over it, I constantly make the + most supreme and picturesque pronunciations of my wickedness. + + I could not pray the words aloud--or at least if I did they would + be somewhat tumbled and incoherent--but I mentally pray them. I + wring my hands, I abase my soul and mind, I say the Pater Noster + and the Credo, I stretch out my hot hands, and I give it all up for + ever and ever and ever. + + I tumble into bed with a sigh of unutterable relief. + + The Fiend that stands beside my bed on all ordinary nights assumes + the fantastic aspect of an angel. I fall into my drunken sleep, + murmuring that "there is joy in Heaven when one sinner repenteth." + + I wake up in the morning full of evil thoughts, blear-eyed, and + trembling. I am a mockery of humanity, longing, crying for poison. + + There is only a dull and almost contemptuous memory of the + religious ecstasies of the night before. My dreams, my confession, + have not the slightest influence upon me. I don't fall again into + ruining habits--I continue them, without restraint, without sorrow. + + * * * * * + + I will write no more. I am adding another Fear to all the other + Fears. I have been making a true picture of what I am, and it is so + awful that even my blinded eyes cannot bear to look upon it. + +Thus these notes, in varying handwriting, indicating the ebb and flow +of poison within the brain, cease and say no more. + +At the bottom of the last page--which was but half filled by the +concluding words of the Confession--there is something most terribly +significant, most horrible to look at in the light of after events. + +There is a greenish splash upon the glossy paper, obviously whiskey was +spilt there. + +Beginning in the area of the splashed circle, the ink running, a word +of four letters is written. + +Two letters are cloudy, the others sharp and clear. + +The word is "Rita." + +A little lower down, and now right at the bottom of the page, the word +is repeated again in large tremulous handwriting, three times. "Rita, +Rita, Rita!" + +The last "Rita" sprawls and tumbles towards the bottom right-hand +corner of the page. Two exclamation marks follow it, and it is heavily +underscored three times. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +INGWORTH REDUX: TOFTREES COMPLACENS + + "Les absents ont toujours tort." + + --_Proverb._ + + +Mr. Herbert Toftrees was at work in the splendidly furnished library of +his luxuriously appointed flat at Lancaster Gate--or at least that is +how he would have put it in one of his stories, while, before _her_ +Remington in the breakfast room Mrs. Herbert Toftrees would have rapped +out a detailed description of the furniture. + +The morning was dark and foggy. The London pavements had that +disgustingly cold-greasy feeling beneath the feet that pedestrians in +town know well at this time of year. + +Within the library, with its double windows that shut out all noise, a +bright fire of logs burned in the wide tiled hearth. One electric +pendant lit the room and another burned in a silver lamp upon the huge +writing table covered with crimson leather at which the author sat. + +The library was a luxurious place. The walls were covered with +books--mostly in series. The Complete Scott, the Complete Dickens, the +Complete Thackeray reposed in gilded fatness upon the shelves. Between +the door and one of the windows one saw every known encyclopedia, upon +another wall-space were the shelves containing those classical French +novels with which "culture" is supposed to have a nodding +acquaintance--in translations. + +Toftrees threw away his cigarette and sank into his padded chair. The +outside world was raw and cold. Here, the fire of logs was red, the +lamps threw a soft radiance throughout the room, and the keyboard of +the writing-machine had a dapper invitation. + +"Confound it, I _must_ work," Toftrees said aloud, and at once +proceeded to do so. + +To his left, upon the table, in something like an exaggerated menu +holder was a large piece of white cardboard. At the moment Toftrees and +his wife were engaged in tossing off "Claire" which went into its fifth +hundred thousand, at six-pence, within the year. + +The sheet of cardboard bore the names of the principal characters in +the story, and what they looked like, in case the prolific author +should forget. There was also marked upon the card, in red ink, exactly +how far Toftrees had got with the plot--which was copied out in large +round hand, for instant reference, by his secretary upon another card. + +Clipped on to the typewriter was a note which ran as follows: + + Chapter VII. Book V. Love scene between Claire and Lord Quinton. To + run, say, 2,000 words. Find Biblical chapter caption. Mrs. T. at + work on Chapter 145 in epilogue--discovery by Addie that Lord Q is + really John Boone. + +With experienced eyes, Toftrees surveyed the morning's work-menu as +arranged by Miss Jones from painstaking scrutiny and dovetailing of the +husband and wife's work on the preceding day. + +"Biblical chapter caption"--that should be done at once. + +Toftrees stretched out his hand and took down a "Cruden's Concordance." +It was nearly two years ago now that he had discovered the Bible as an +almost unworked mine for chapter headings. + +"Love! hm, hm, hm,--why not 'Love one another'--? Yes, that would do. +It was simple, direct, and expressed the sentiment of chapter VII. If +there were any reason against it Miss Jones would spot it at once. She +would find another quotation and so make it right." + +Now then, to work! + + "Claire, I am leaving here the day after to-morrow." + + "Yes?" + + "Have you no idea, cannot you guess what it is that I have come to + say to you?" He moved nearer to her and for a moment rested his + hand on her arm. + + "I have no idea," she told him with great gravity of manner. + + "I have come to ask you to be my wife. Ah, wait before you bid me + be silent. I love you--you surely cannot have failed to see + that?--I love you, Claire!" + + "Do not," she interrupted, putting up a warning hand. "I cannot + hear you." + + "But you must. Forgive me, you shall. I love you as I never loved + any woman in my life, and I am asking you to be my wife." + + "You do me much honour, Lord Quinton," she returned--and was it his + fancy that made it seem to him that her lips curled a little?--"but + the offer you make me I must refuse." + + "Refuse!" There was almost amusing wonder and a good deal of anger + in his tone and look. + + "You force me to repeat the word--refuse." + + "And why?" + + "I do not want to marry you." + + "You do not love me?"--incredulously. + + "I do not love you,"--colouring slightly. + + "But I would teach you, Claire"--catching her arm firmly in his + hold now and drawing her to him,--"I would teach you. I can give + you all and more of wealth and luxury than----" + + "Hush! And please let go my arm. If you could give me the world it + would make no difference." + + "Claire, reconsider it! During the whole of my life I have never + really wanted to marry any other woman. I will own that I have + flirted and played at love." + + "No passport to my favour, I assure you, Lord Quinton." + + "Pshaw! I tell you women were all alike to me, all to be amusing + and amused with, all so many butterflies till I met you. I won't + mind admitting"--making his most fatal step--"that even when I + first saw you--and it was not easy to do considering Warwick Howard + kept you well in the background--I only thought of your sweet eyes + and lovely face. But after--after--Oh, Claire, I learned to love + you!" + + "Enough!" cried the girl-- + +And enough also said the Remington, for the page was at an end. +Toftrees withdrew it with a satisfied smile and glanced down it. + +"Yes!" he thought to himself, "the short paragraph, the quick +conversation, that's what they really want. A paragraph of ten +consecutive lines would frighten them out of their lives. Their minds +wouldn't carry from the beginning to the end. We know!" + +At that moment there was a knock at the door and the butler entered. +Smithers was a good servant and he enjoyed an excellent place, but it +was the effort of his life to conceal from his master and mistress that +he read Shakespeare in secret, and, in that household, his sense of +guilt induced an almost furtive manner which Toftrees could never quite +understand. + +"Mr. Dickson Ingworth has called, sir," said Smithers. + +"Ask him to come in," Toftrees said in his deep voice, and with a glint +of interest in his eye. + +Young Dickson Ingworth had been back from his journalistic mission to +Italy for two or three weeks. His articles in the "Daily Wire" had +attracted a good deal of attention. They were exceedingly well done, +and Herbert Toftrees was proud of his protégé. He did not know--no one +knew--that the Denstone master on the committee was a young man with a +vivid and picturesque style who had early realised Ingworth's +incompetence as mouthpiece of the expedition and representative of the +Press. The young gentleman in question, anxious only for the success of +the mission, had written nearly all Ingworth's stuff for him, and that +complacent parasite was now reaping the reward. + +But there was another, and greater, reason for Toftrees' welcome. Old +Mr. Ingworth had died while his nephew was in Rome. The young man was +now a squire in Wiltshire, owner of a pleasant country house, a +personage. + +"Ask Mr. Dickson Ingworth in here," Toftrees said again. + +Ingworth came into the library. + +He wore a morning coat and carried a silk hat--the tweeds and bowler of +bohemia discarded now. An unobtrusive watch chain of gold had taken the +place of the old silver-buckled lip-strap, and a largish black pearl +nestled in the folds of his dark tie. + +He seemed, in some subtle way, to have expanded and become less boyish. +A certain gravity and dignity sat well upon his fresh good looks and +the slight hint of alien blood in his features was less noticeable than +ever. + +Toftrees shook his young friend warmly by the hand. The worthy author +was genuinely pleased to see the youth. He had done him a good service +recently, pleased to exercise patronage of course, but out of pure +kindness. Ingworth would not require any more help now, and Toftrees +was glad to welcome him in a new relation. + +Toftrees murmured a word or two of sorrow at Ingworth's recent +bereavement and the bereaved one replied with suitable gravity. His +uncle's sudden death had been a great grief to him. He would have given +much to have been in England at the time. + +"And the end?" asked Toftrees in a low voice of sympathy. + +"Quite peaceful, I am glad to say, quite peaceful." + +"That must be a great consolation!" + +This polite humbug disposed of, both men fell immediately into bright, +cheerful talk. + +The new young squire was bubbling over with exhilaration, plans for the +future, the sense of power, the unaccustomed and delightful feeling of +solidity and _security_. + +He told his host, over their cigars, that the estate would bring him in +about fifteen or sixteen hundred a year; that the house was a fine old +Caroline building--who his neighbours were, and so on. + +"Then I suppose you'll give up literature?" Toftrees asked. + +Dickson Ingworth was about to assent in the most positive fashion to +this question, when he remembered in whose presence he was, and his +native cunning--"diplomacy" is the better word for a man with a +Caroline mansion and sixteen hundred a year--came to his aid. + +"Oh, no," he said, "not entirely. I couldn't, you know. But I shall be +in a position now only to do my best work!" + +Toftrees assented with pleasure. The trait interested him. + +"I'm glad of that," he said. "To the artist, life without expression is +impossible." Toftrees spoke quite sincerely. Although his own +production was not of a high order he was quite capable of genuine +appreciation of greater and more serious writers. It does not +follow--as shallow thinkers tell us--that because a man does not follow +his ideal that he is without one at all. + +They smoked cigars and talked. As a matter of form the host offered +Ingworth a drink, which was refused; they were neither of them men who +took alcohol between meals from choice. + +They chatted upon general matters for a time. + +"And what of our friend the Poet?" Toftrees asked at length, with a +slight sneer in his voice. + +Ingworth flushed up suddenly and a look of hate came into his curious +eyes. The acute man of the world noticed it in a second. Before +Ingworth had left for his mission in Italy, he had been obviously +changing his views about Gilbert Lothian. He had talked him over with +Toftrees in a depreciating way. Even while he had been staying at +Mortland Royal he had made confidences about Lothian's habits and the +life of his house in letters to the popular author--while he was eating +the Poet's salt. + +But Toftrees saw now that there was something deeper at work. Was it, +he wondered, the old story of benefits forgot, the natural instinct of +the baser type of humanity to bite the hand that feeds? + +Toftrees knew how lavish with help and kindness Lothian had been to +Dickson Ingworth. For himself, he detested Lothian. The bitter epigrams +Lothian had made upon him in a moment of drunken unconsciousness were +by no means forgotten. The fact that Lothian had probably never meant +them was nothing. They had some truth in them. They were uttered by a +superior mind, they stung still. + +"Oh, he's no friend of mine," Ingworth said in a bitter voice. + +"Really? I know, of course, that you have disapproved of much that Mr. +Lothian seems to be doing just now, but I thought you were still +friends. It is a pity. Whatever he may do, there are elements of +greatness in the man." + +"He is a blackguard, Toftrees, a thorough blackguard." + +"I _am_ sorry to hear that. Well, you needn't have any more to do with +him, need you? He isn't necessary to your literary career any more. And +even if you had not come into your inheritance, your Italian work has +put you in quite a different position." + +Ingworth nodded. He puffed quickly at his cigar. He was bursting with +something, as the elder and shrewder man saw, and if he was not +questioned he would come out with it in no time. + +There was silence for a space, and, as Toftrees expected, it was broken +by Ingworth. + +"Look here, Toftrees," he said, "you are discreet and I can trust you." + +The other made a grave inclination of his head--it was coming now! + +"Very well. I don't want to say anything about a man whom I have liked, +and who _has_ been kind to me. But there are times when one really must +speak, whatever the past may have been--aren't there?" + +Toftrees saw the last hesitation and removed it. + +"Oh, he'll get over that drinking habit," he said, though he knew well +that Ingworth was not bursting with that alone. "It's bad, of course, +that such a man should drink. I was horribly upset--and so was my +wife--at that dinner at the Amberleys'. But he'll get over it. And +after all you know--poets!" + +"It isn't that, Toftrees. It's a good deal worse than that. In fact I +really do want your advice." + +"My dear fellow you shall have it. We are friends, I hope, though not +of long standing. Fire away." + +"Well, then, it's just this. Lothian's wife is one of the most perfect +women I have ever met. She adores him. She does everything for him, +she's clever and good looking, sympathetic and kind." + +Toftrees made a slight, very slight, movement of repugnance. He was a +man who was temperamentally well-bred, born into a certain class of +life. He might make a huge income by writing for housemaids at +sixpence, but old training and habit became alive. One did not listen +to intimate talk about other men's wives. + +But the impulse was only momentary, a result of heredity. His interest +was too keen for it to last. + +"Yes?" + +"Lothian doesn't care a bit for his wife--he can't. I know all about +it, and I've seen it. He's doing a most blackguardly thing. He's +running after a girl. Not any sort of girl, but a _lady_."-- + +Toftrees grinned mentally, he saw how it was at once with the lad. + +"No?" he said. + +"Indeed, yes. She's a sweet and innocent girl whom he's getting round +somehow or other by his infernal poetry and that. He's compromising her +horribly and she can't see it. I've, I've seen something of her lately +and I've tried to tell her as well as I could. But she doesn't take me +seriously enough. She's not really in love with Lothian--I don't see +how any young and pretty girl could really be in love with a man who +looks like he's beginning to look. But they write--they've been about +together in the most dreadfully compromising way. One never knows how +far it may go. For the sake of the nicest girl I have ever known it +ought to be put a stop to." + +Toftrees smiled grimly. He knew who the girl was now, and he saw how +the land lay. Young Ingworth was in love and frightened to death of his +erstwhile friend's influence over the girl. That was natural enough. + +"Suppose any harm were to come to her," Ingworth continued with +something very like a break in his voice. "She's quite alone and +unprotected. She is the daughter of a man who was in the Navy, and now +she has to earn her own living as an assistant librarian in Kensington. +A man like Lothian who can talk, and write beautiful letters--damned +scoundrel and blackguard!" + +Toftrees was not much interested in his young friend's stormy +love-affairs. But he _was_ interested in the putting of a spoke +into Gilbert Lothian's wheel. And he had a genuine dislike and disgust +of intrigue. A faithful husband to a faithful wife whose interests were +identical with his, the fact of a married man of his acquaintance +running after some little typewriting girl whose people were not alive +to look after her, seemed abominable. Nice girls should not be used so. +He thought of dodges and furtive meetings, sly telephone calls, and +anxious country expeditions with a shudder. And if he thanked God that +he was above these things, it was perhaps not a pharisaical gratitude +that animated him. + +"Look here," he said suddenly. "You needn't go on, Ingworth. I know who +it is. It's Miss Wallace, of the Podley Library. She was at the +Amberleys' that night when Lothian made such a beast of himself. She +writes a little, too. Very pretty and charming girl!" + +Ingworth assented eagerly. "Yes!" he cried, "that's just it! She's +clever. She's intrigued by Lothian. She doesn't _love_ him, she +told me so yesterday----" + +He stopped, suddenly, realising what he had said. + +Toftrees covered his confusion in a moment. Toftrees wanted to see this +to the end. + +"No, no," he said with assumed impatience. "Of course, she knows that +Lothian is married, and, being a decent girl, she would never let her +feelings--whatever they may be--run away with her. She's dazzled. +That's what it is, and very natural, too! But it ought to be stopped. +As a matter of fact, Ingworth, I saw them together at the Metropole at +Brighton one night. They had motored down together. And I've heard that +they've been seen about a lot in London at night. Most people know +Lothian by sight, and such a lovely girl as Miss Wallace everyone looks +at. From what I saw, and from what I've heard, they are very much in +love with each other." + +"It's a lie," Ingworth answered. "She's not in love with him. I know +it! She's been led away to compromise herself, poor dear girl, that's +all." + +Now, Toftrees arose in his glory, so to speak. + +"I'll put a stop to it," he said. The emperor of the sixpenny market +was once more upon his virtuous throne. + +His deep voice was rich with promise and power. + +"I know Mr. Podley," he said. "I have met him a good many times lately. +We are on the committee of the 'Pure Penny Literature Movement.' He is +a thoroughly good and fatherly man. He's quite without culture, but his +instincts are all fine. I will take him aside to-night and tell him of +the danger--you are right, Ingworth, it is a real and subtle danger for +that charming girl--that his young friend is in. Podley is her patron. +She has no friends, no people, I understand. She is dependent for her +livelihood upon her place at the Kensington Library. He will tell her, +and I am sure in the kindest way, that she must not have anything more +to do with our Christian poet, or she will lose her situation." + +Ingworth thought for a moment. "Thanks awfully," he said, almost +throwing off all disguise now. Then he hesitated--"But that might +simply throw her into Lothian's arms," he said. + +Toftrees shook his head. "I shall put it to Mr. Podley," he said, "and +he, being receptive of other people's ideas and having few of his own, +will repeat me, to point out the horrors of a divorce case, the utter +ruin if Mrs. Lothian were to take action." + +Ingworth rose from his seat. + +"To-night?" he said. "You're to see this Podley to-night?" + +"Yes." + +"Then when do you think he will talk to Rit--to Miss Wallace?" + +"I think I can ensure that he will do so before lunch to-morrow +morning." + +"You will be doing a kind and charitable thing, Toftrees," Ingworth +answered, making a calculation which brought him to the doors of the +Podley Institute at about four o'clock on the afternoon of the morrow. + +Then he took his leave, congratulating himself that he had moved +Toftrees to his purpose. It was an achievement! Rita would be +frightened now, frightened from Gilbert for ever. The thing was already +half done. + +"Mine!" said Mr. Dickson Ingworth to himself as he got into a taxi-cab +outside Lancaster Gate. + +"I think I shall cook master Lothian's goose very well to-night," +Herbert Toftrees thought to himself. + +Mixed motives on both sides. + +Half bad, perhaps, half good. Who shall weigh out the measures but God? + +Ingworth was madly in love with Rita Wallace, who had become very fond +of him. He was young, handsome, was about to offer her advantageous and +honourable marriage. + +Ingworth's passion was quite good and pure. Here he rose above himself. +"All's fair"--treacheries grow small when they assist one's own desire +and can be justified upon the score of morality as well. + +Toftrees was outside the fierce burning of flames beyond his +comprehension. + +He was a cog-wheel in the machinery of this so swiftly-weaving loom. + +But he also paid himself both ways--as he felt instinctively. + +He and his wife owed this upstart and privately disreputable poet a rap +upon the knuckles. He would administer it to-night. + +And it was a _duty_, no less than a fortunate opportunity, to save +a good and charming girl from a scamp. + +When Toftrees told his wife all about it at lunch that morning she +quite agreed, and, moreover, gave him valuable feminine advice as to +the conduct of the private conversation with Podley. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE AMNESIC DREAM-PHASE + + "In the drunkenness of the chronic alcoholic the higher brain + centres are affected more readily and more profoundly than the rest + of the nervous system, with the result that the drinker, despite + the derangement of his consciousness, is capable of apparently + deliberate and purposeful acts. It is in this dream-state, which + may last a considerable time, that the morbid impulses of the + alcoholic are most often carried into effect." + + _The Criminology of Alcoholism_ by William C. Sullivan, M.D., + Medical Officer H.M. Prison Service. + + "The confirmed toper, who is as much the victim of drug-habit as + the opium eater, may have amnesic dream phases, during which he may + commit automatically offensive acts while he is mentally + irresponsible." + + _Medico-Legal Relations of Alcoholism_ by Stanley B. Atkinson, + M.A., M.B., B.Sc. Barrister at Law. + + +At nine o'clock one evening Lothian went into his wife's room. It was a +bitterly cold night and a knife-like wind was coming through the +village from the far saltings. There was a high-riding moon but its +light was fitful and constantly obscured by hurrying clouds. + +Mary was lying in bed, patiently and still. She was not yet better. Dr. +Heywood was a little puzzled at her continued listlessness and +depression. + +A bright fire glowed upon the hearth and sent red reflections upon the +bedroom ceiling. A shaded candle stood upon the bedside table, and +there were also a glass of milk, some grapes in a silver dish, and the +"Imitatio Christi" there. + +Lothian was very calm and quiet in demeanour. His wife had noticed that +whenever he came to see her during the last two or three days, there +had been an unusual and almost drowsy tranquillity in his manner. His +hands shook no more. His movements were no longer jerky. They were +deliberate, like those of an ordinary and rather ponderous man. + +And now, too, Gilbert's voice had become smooth and level. The quick +and pleasant vibration of it at its best, the uneasy rise and fall of +it at its worst, had alike given place to a suave, creamy monotone +which didn't seem natural. + +The face, also, enlarged and puffed by recent excesses, had further +changed. The redness had gone from the skin. Even the eyes were +bloodshot no longer. They looked fish-like, though. They had a steady +introspective glare about them. The lips were red and moist, in this +new and rather horrible face. The clear contour and moulding were +preserved, but a quiet dreamy smile lurked about and never left them. + +. . ."Gilbert, have you come to say goodnight?" + +"Yes, dear,"--it _was_ an odd purring sort of voice--"How do you feel?" + +"Not very well, dear. I am going to try very hard to sleep to-night. +You're rather early in coming, are you not?" + +"Yes, dear, I am. But the moon and the tides are right to-night and the +wild duck are flighting. I am going out after widgeon to-night. I ought +to do well." + +"Oh, I see. I hope you'll have good luck, dear." + +"I hope so. Oh, and I forgot, Mary, I thought of going off for three +days to-morrow, down towards the Essex coast. I should take Tumpany. +I've had a letter from the Wild Fowlers' Association man there to say +that the geese are already beginning to come over. Would you mind?" + +Mary saw that he had already made up his mind to go--for some reason or +other. + +"Yes, go by all means, dear," she said, "the change and the sport will +do you good." + +"You will be all right?"--how soapy and mechanical that voice was. . . . + +"Oh, of course I shall. Don't think a _bit_ about me. Perhaps--" she +hesitated for a moment and then continued with the most winning +sweetness--"perhaps, Gillie darling, it will buck you up so that you +won't want to . . ." + +The strange voice that was coming from him dried the longing, loving +words in her throat. + +"Well, then, dear, I shall say good-bye, now. You see I shall be out +most of this night, and if Tumpany and I are to catch the early train +from Wordingham and have all the guns ready, we must leave here before +you will be awake. I mean, you sleep into the morning a little now, +don't you?" + +He seemed anxious as he asked. + +"Generally, Gillie. Then if it is to be good-bye for two days, good-bye +my dear, dear husband. Come----" + +She held out her arms, lying there, and he had to bend into her +embrace. + +"I shall pray for you all the time you are away," she whispered. "I +shall think of my boy every minute. God bless you and preserve you, my +dear husband." + +She was doubtless about to say more, to murmur other words of sacred +wifely love, when her arms slid slowly away from him and lay motionless +upon the counterpane. + +Immediately they did so, the man's figure straightened itself and stood +upright by the side of the bed. + +"Well, I'll go now," he said. "Good-night, dear." + +He turned his full, palish face upon her, the yellow point of flame, +coming through the top of the candle shade, showed it in every detail. + +Fixed, introspective eyes, dreamy painted smile, a suave, uninterested +farewell. + +The door closed gently behind him. It was closed as a bland doctor +closes a door. + +Mary lay still as death. + +The room was perfectly silent, save for the fall of a red coal in the +fire or the tiny hiss and spurt of escaping gas in thin pencils of old +gold and amethyst. + +Then there came a loud sound into the room. + +It was a steady rhythmic sound, muffled but alarming. It seemed to fill +the room. + +In a second or two more Mary knew that it was only her heart beating. + +"But I am frightened," she said to herself. "I am really frightened. +This is FEAR!" + +And Fear it was, such as this clear soul had not known. This daughter +of good descent, with serene, temperate mind and body, had ever been +high poised above gross and elemental fear. + +To her, as to the royal nature of her friend Julia Daly, God had early +given a soul-guard of angels. + +Now, for the first time in her life, Mary knew Fear. And she knew an +unnameable disgust also. Her heart drummed. The back of her throat grew +hot--hotter than her fever made it. And, worse, a thousand times more +chilling and dreadful, she felt as if she had just been holding +something cold and evil in her arms. + +. . . The voice was unreal and almost incredible. The waxen mask with +its set eyes and the small, fine mouth caught into a fixed smile--oh! +this was not her husband! + +She had been speaking with some _Thing_. Some _Thing_, dressed in +Gilbert's flesh had come smirking into her quiet room. She had held it +in her arms and prayed for it. + +Drum, drum!--She put her left hand, the hand with the wedding ring upon +it, over the madly throbbing heart. + +And then, in her mind, she asked for relief, comfort, help. + +The response was instant. + +Her life had always been so fragrant and pure, her aims so +single-hearted, her delight in goodness and her love of Jesus so +transparently immanent, that she was far nearer the Veil than most of +us can ever get. + +She asked, and the amorphous elemental things of darkness dissolved and +fled before heavenly radiance. The Couriers of the Wind of the +Holy-Ghost came to her with the ozone of Paradise beating from their +wings. + +Doubtless it was now that some Priest-Angel gave Mary Lothian that last +Viaticum which was to be denied to her from the hands of any earthly +Priest. + +It was a week ago that Mr. Medley had brought the Blessed Sacrament to +Mary. It was seven days since she had thus met her Lord. + +But He was with her now. Already of the Saints, although she knew it +not, a Cloud of Witnesses surrounded her. + +Angels and Archangels and all the Company of Heaven were loving her, +waiting for her. + + * * * * * + +Lothian went along the corridor to the library, which was on the first +floor of the house. His footsteps made no noise upon the thick carpet. +He walked softly, resolutely, as a man that had much to do. + +The library was not a large room but it was a very charming one. A +bright fire burned upon the hearth. Two comfortable saddle-back chairs +of olive-coloured leather stood on either side of it, and there was a +real old "gate-table" of dark oak set by one of the chairs with a +silver spirit-stand upon it. + +Along all one side, books rose to the ceiling, his beloved friends of +the past, in court-dress of gold and damson colour, in bravery of +delicate greens; in leather which had been stained bright orange, some +of them; while others showed like crimson aldermen and red Lord Mayors. + +Let into the wall at the end of the room--opposite to the big Tudor +window--was the glass-fronted cupboard in which the guns were kept. The +black-blue barrels gleamed in rows, the polished stocks caught the +light from the candles upon the mantel-shelf. The huge double +eight-bore like a shoulder-cannon ranked next to the pair of ten-bores +by Greener. Then came the two powerful twelve-gauge guns by Tolley, +chambered for three inch shells and to which many geese had fallen upon +the marshes. . . . + +Lothian opened the glass door and took down one of the heavy ten-bores +from the rack. + +He placed it upon a table, opened a cupboard, took out a leather +cartridge bag and put about twenty "perfect" cases of brass, loaded +with "smokeless diamond" and "number four" shot, into the bag. + +Then he rang the bell. + +"Tell Tumpany to come up," he said to Blanche who answered the summons. + +Presently there was a somewhat heavy lurching noise as the ex-sailor +came up the stairs and entered the library with his usual scrape and +half-salute. + +Tumpany was not drunk, but he was not quite sober. He was excited by +the prospect of the three days' sport in Essex and he had been +celebrating the coming treat in the Mortland Royal Arms. He had enjoyed +beer in the kitchen of the old house--by Lothian's orders. + +"Now be here by seven sharp to-morrow, Tumpany," Lothian said, still in +his quiet level voice. "We must catch the nine o'clock from Wordingham +without fail. I'm going out for an hour or two on the marshes. The +widgeon are working over the West Meils with this moon and I may get a +shot or two." + +"Cert'nly, sir. Am I to come, sir?" + +"No, I think you had better go home and get to bed. You've a long day +before you to-morrow. I shan't be out late." + +"Very good, sir. You'll take Trust? Shall I go and let him out?" + +Lothian seemed to hesitate, while he cast a shrewd glance under his +eyelids at the man. + +"Well, what do you think?" he asked. "I ought to be able to pick up any +birds I get myself in this light, and on the West Meils. I shan't stay +out long either. You see, Trust has to go with us to-morrow and he's +always miserable in the guard's van. He'll have to work within a few +hours of our arrival and I thought it best to give him as much rest as +possible beforehand. He isn't really necessary to me to-night. But what +do you think?" + +Tumpany was flattered--as it was intended that he should be +flattered--at his advice being asked in this way. He agreed entirely +with his master. + +"Very well then. You'd better go down again to the kitchen. I'll be +with you in ten minutes. Then you can walk with me to the marsh head +and carry the bag." + +Tumpany scrambled away to kitchen regions for more beer. + +Lothian walked slowly up and down the library. His head was falling +forward upon his chest. He was thinking, planning. + +Every detail must be gone into. It was always owing to neglect of +detail that things fell through, that _things_ were found out. +Nemesis waited on the failure of fools! + +A week ago the word "Nemesis" would have terrified him and sent him +into the labyrinth of self-torture--crossings, touchings, and the like. + +Now it meant nothing. + +Yes: that was all right. Tumpany would accompany him to the end of the +village--the farthest end of the village from the "Haven"--there could +be no possible idea. . . . + +Lothian nodded his head and then opened a drawer in the wall below the +gun cupboard. He searched in it for a moment and withdrew a small +square object wrapped in tissue paper. + +It was a spare oil-bottle for a gun-case. + +The usual oil-receptacle in a gun-case is exactly like a small, square +ink-bottle, though with this difference; when the metal top is +unscrewed, it brings with it an inch long metal rod, about the +thickness of a knitting needle but flattened at the end. + +This is used to take up beads of oil and apply them to the locks, +lever, and ejector mechanisms of a gun. + +Lothian slipped the thing into a side pocket of his coat. + +In a few minutes, dressed in warm wildfowling clothes of grey wool and +carrying his gun, he was tramping out of the long village street with +Tumpany. + +The wind sang like flying arrows, the dark road was hard beneath their +feet. + +They came to Tumpany's cottage and little shop, which were on the +outskirts of the village. + +Then Lothian stopped. + +"Look here," he said, "you can give me the bag now. There really isn't +any need for you to come to the marsh head with me, Tumpany.--Much +better get to bed and be fresh for to-morrow." + +The man was nothing loth. The lit window of his house invited him. + +"Thank you, sir," he said, sobered now by the keen night wind, "then +I'll say good-night." + +--"Night Tumpany." + +"G'night, sir." + +Lothian tramped away into the dark. + +The sailor stood for a moment with his hand upon the latch of his house +door, listening to the receding footsteps. + +"What's wrong with him?" he asked himself. "He speaks different like. +Yesterday morning old Trust seemed positive afraid of him! Never saw +such a thing before! And to-night he seems like a stranger somehow. I +felt queer, in a manner of speaking, as I walked alongside of him. But +what a bloody fool I am!" Tumpany concluded, using the richest +adjective he knew, as his master's footsteps died away and were lost. + +In less than ten minutes Lothian stood upon the edge of the vast +marshes. + +It was a ghostly place and hour. The wind wailed over the desolate +miles like a soul sick for the love it had failed to win in life. The +wide creeks with their cliff-like sides of black mud were brimming with +sullen tidal water, touched here and there by faint moonbeams--lemon +colour on lead. + +Night birds passed high over head with a whistle of wings, heard, but +not seen in the gloom. From distant Wordingham to far Blackney beyond +which were the cliffs of Sherringham and Cromer, for twelve miles or +more, perhaps not a dozen human beings were out upon the marshes. + +A few bold wildfowlers in their frail punts with the long tapering guns +in the bows, might be "setting to birds"; enduring the bitter cold, +risking grave danger, and pursuing the wildest and most wary of living +things with supreme endurance throughout the night. + +Once the wind brought two deep booms to Lothian. His trained ear knew +and located the sound at once. One of the Wordingham fowlers was out +upon the flats three miles away, and had fired his double eight-bore, +the largest shoulder gun that even a strong man can use. + +But the saltings were given over to the night and the things of the +night. + +The plovers called, "'Tis dark and late." "'Tis late and dark." + +The wind sobbed coldly; wan clouds sped to hood the moon with darkness. +Brown hares crouched among the coarse marrum grasses, the dun owls were +afloat upon the air, sounding their oboe notes, and always the high +unseen flight of whistling ducks went on all over the desolate majesty +of the marshes. + +And beyond it all, through it all, could be heard the hollow organs of +the sea. + +Lothian was walking rapidly. His breathing was heavy and muffled. He +skirted the marsh and did not go upon it, passing along the grass slope +of foreshore which even a full marsh tide never conquered; going back +upon his own trail, parallel to the village. + +There were sharp pricking pains in his knees and ankles. Hot sweat +clotted his clothes to his body and rained down his face. But he was +unaware of this. His alarming physical condition was as nothing. + +He went on through the dark, hurriedly, like a man in ambush. + +Now and then he stumbled at inequalities of the ground or caught his +foot in furze roots. Obscene words escaped him when this happened. They +burst from between the hot cracked lips, mechanical and thin. The weak +complaints of some poor filthy-minded ghost! + +He knew nothing of what he said. + +But with knife-winds upon his face, thin needles in his joints; sodden +flesh quivering with nervous tremors and wet with warm brine, he went +onwards with purpose. + +He was in the Amnesic Dream-phase. + +Every foul and bestial impulse which is hidden in the nature of man was +riotous and awake. + +The troglodytes showed themselves at last. + +All the unnameable, unthinkable things that lie deep below the soul, +far below the conscience, in the lowest and sealed cellars of +personality, had burst from their hidden prisons. + +The Temple of the Holy Ghost was full of the squeaking, gibbering +Powers of utmost, nethermost Hell. + +--These are similes which endeavour to hint at the frightful Truth. + +Science sums it up in a simple statement. Lothian was now in "The +Amnesic dream-phase." + +He came to where a grass road bounded by high hedges led down to the +foreshore. + +Crouching under the sentinel hedge of the road's end, he lit a match +and looked at his watch. + +It was fifteen minutes past ten o'clock. + +Old Phoebe Hannett and her daughter, the servants of Morton Sims at +the "Haven," would now be fast in slumber. Christopher, the doctor's +personal servant, was in Paris with his master. + +The Person who walked in a Dream turned up the unused grass-grown road. + +He was now at the East end of the village. + +The path brought him out upon the highroad a hundred yards above the +rectory, Church, and the schools. From there it was a gentle descent to +the very centre of the village, where the "Haven" was. + +There were no lights nor lamp-posts in the village. By now every one +would be gone to bed. . . . + +There came a sudden sharp chuckle into the night. Something was +congratulating itself with glee that it had put water-boots with +india-rubber soles upon its feet; noiseless soles that would make no +sound upon the gravelled ways about the familiar house that had +belonged to Admiral Custance. + +. . . Lothian lifted the latch of the gate which led to the short +gravel-drive of the "Haven" with delicate fingers. An expert handles a +blown bird's-egg so. + +It rose. It fell. Not a crack came from the slowly-pushed gate which +fell back into its place with no noise, leaving the night-comer inside. + +The gables of the house rose black and stark against the sky. The +attic-windows where old dame Hannett and her daughter slept were black. +They were fast in sleep now. + +The night-intruder set his gun carefully against the stone pillar of +the gate. Then he tripped over the pneumatic lawns before the house +with almost a dance in his step. + +He frisked over the lawns, avoiding the chocolate patches that meant +flower-beds, with complacent skill. + +Just then no clouds obscured the moon, which rode high before the +advancing figure. + +A fantastic shadow followed Lothian, coquetting with the flower beds, +popping this way and that, but ever at his heels. + +It threw itself about in swimming areas of grey vagueness and then +concentrated itself into a black patch with moving outlines. + +There was an ecstasy about this dancing shadow. + +And now, the big building which had been a barn and which Admiral +Custance had re-built and put to various uses, cut wedge-like into the +lit sky. + +The Shadow crept close to the Dream Figure and crouched at its heels. + +It seemed to be spurring that figure on, to be whispering in its +ear. . . . + +We know all about the Dream Figure. Through the long pages of this +chronicle we have learned how, and of what, It has been born. + +And were it not that experts of the Middle Age--when Demonology was a +properly recognised science--have stated that a devil has never a +shadow, we should doubtless have been sure that it was our old friend, +the Fiend Alcohol, that contracted and expanded with such fantastic +measures over the moon-lit grass. + + +Lothian knew his way well about this domain. + +Admiral Custance had been his good friend. Often in the old sailor's +house, or in Lothian's, the two had tippled together and drank toasts +to the supremacy which Queen Britannia has over the salt seas. + +The lower floor of the barn had been used as a box-room for trunks and +a general store-house, though the central floor-space was made into a +court for Badminton; when nephews and nieces, small spars of Main and +Mizzen and the co-lateral Yardarms, came to play upon a retired +quarter-deck. + +The upper floor had ever been sacred to the Admiral and his hobbies. + +From below, the upper region was reached by a private stairway of wood +outside the building. Of this entrance the sailor had always kept the +key. A little wooden balcony ran round the angle of the building to +where, at one end, a large window had been built in the wall. + +Lothian went up the outside stairs noiselessly as a cat, and round the +little gallery to the long window. Here he was in deep shadow. + +The two leaves of the window did not quite meet. The wood had shrunk, +the whole affair was rickety and old. + +As he had anticipated, the night-comer had no difficulty in pushing the +blade of his shooting knife through the crevice and raising the simple +catch. + +He stepped into the room, long empty and ghostly. + +First, he closed the window again, and then let down the blue blind +over it. A skylight in the sloped roof provided all the other light. +Through this, now, faint and fleeting moonlights fell. + +By the gallery door there was a mat. Lothian stepped gingerly to it and +wiped the india-rubber boots he wore. + +Then he took half a wax candle from a side-pocket and lit it. It was +quite impossible that the light could be seen from outside, even if +spectators there were, in the remote slumbering village. + +In the corners of the long room, black-velvet shadows lurked as the +yellow candle flame moved. + +A huge spider with a body as big as sixpence ran up one canvas-covered +wall. Despite the cold, the air was lifeless and there was a very faint +aroma of chemical things in it. + +On all sides were long deal tables covered with a multiplicity of +unusual objects. + +Under a big bell of glass, popped over it to keep the dust away, was a +large microscope of intricate mechanism. Close by was a section-cutter +that could almost make a paring of a soul for scrutiny. Leather cases +stood here and there full of minute hypodermic syringes, and there was +a box of thin glass tubes containing agents for staining the low +protoplasmic forms of life which must be observed by those who wish to +arm the world against the Fiend Alcohol. + +At the far end of the room, on each side of the fireplace were two +glass-fronted cupboards, lined with red baize. In one of them Admiral +Custance had kept his guns. + +These cupboards had been constructed by the village carpenter--who had +also made the gun cupboard in Lothian's library. They were excellent +cupboards and with ordinary locks and keys--the Mortland Royal +carpenter, indeed, buying these accessories of his business of one +pattern, and by the gross, from Messrs. Pashwhip and Moger's +iron-mongery establishment in Wordingham. + +Lothian took the key of his own gun cupboard from his waistcoat pocket. +It fitted the hole of the cupboard here--on the right side of the +fireplace, exactly as he had expected. + +The glass doors swung open with a loud crack, and the contents on the +shelves were clearly exposed to view. + +Lothian set his candle down upon the edge of an adjacent table and +thought for a moment. + +During their intimate conversations--before Lothian's three weeks in +London with Rita Wallace, while his wife was at Nice, Dr. Morton Sims +had explained many things to him. The great man had been pleased to +find in a patient, in an artist also, the capability of appreciating +scientific truth and being interested in the methods by which it was +sought. + +Lothian knew therefore, that Morton Sims was patiently following and +extending the experiments of Professor Fraenkel at his laboratory in +Halle, varying the investigation of Deléarde and carrying it much +farther. + +Morton Sims was introducing alcohol into rabbits and guinea pigs, +sub-cutaneously or into the stomach direct, exhibiting the alcohol in +well-diluted forms and over long periods. He was then inoculating these +alcoholised subjects, and subjects which had not been alcoholised, with +the bacilli of consumption--tubercle bacilli--and diphtheria toxin--the +poison produced by the diphtheria bacillus. + +He was endeavouring to obtain indisputable evidence of increased +susceptibility to infection in the animal body under alcoholic +influences. + +Of all this, Lothian was thoroughly aware. He stood now--if indeed it +_was_ Gilbert Lothian the poet who stood there--in front of an open +cupboard; the cupboard he had opened by secrecy and fraud. + +Upon those shelves, as he well knew, organic poisons of immeasurable +potency were resting. + +In those half-dozen squat phials of glass, surrounded with felt and +with curious stoppers, an immense Death was lurking. + +All the quick-firing guns of the navies of the world were not so +powerful as one of these little glass receptacles. + +The breath came thick and fast from the intruder. It went up in clouds +from his heated body; vapourised into steam which looked yellow in the +candlelight. + +After a minute he drew near to the cupboard. + +A trembling, exploring finger pushed among the phials. It isolated one. + +Upon a label pasted on the glass, were two words in Greek characters, +"[Greek: diphth. toxin.]" + +Here, in this vessel of gelatinous liquid, lurked the destroying army +of diphtheria bacilli, millions strong. + +The man held up the candle and its light fell full upon the neat +cursive Greek, so plain for him to read. + +He stared at it with focussed eyes. His head was pushed forward a +little and oscillated slowly from side to side. The sweat ran down it +and fell with little splashes upon the floor. + +Then his hand began to tremble and the light flickered and danced in +the recesses of the cupboard. + +He turned away, shaking, and set the candle end upon the table. It +swayed, toppled over, flared for a moment and went out. + +But he could not wait to light it again. His attendant devil was +straying, he must be called back . . . to help. + +Lothian plunged his hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a flat +flask of silver. It was full of undiluted whiskey. + +He took a long steady pull, and the fire went through him instantly. + +With firm fingers now, he screwed on the top of the flask and re-lit +the candle stump. Then he took the marked phial from the cupboard shelf +and set it on the table. + +From a side pocket he took the little oil-bottle belonging to a +travelling gun-case and unscrewed the top of that. + +And now, with cunning knowledge, he takes the thick, grey woollen scarf +from his neck and drenches a certain portion of its folds with raw +whiskey from his flask. He binds the muffler round the throat and nose +in such fashion that the saturated portion confines all the outlets of +his breathing. + +One must risk nothing one's self when one plays and conjures with the +spawn and corruptions of death! + +. . . It is done, done with infinite nicety and care--no trembling +fingers now. + +The vial is unstopped, the tube within has poured a drop or two of its +contents into the oil-bottle, the projecting needle of which is damp +with death. + +The cupboard is closed and locked again. Ah! there is candle grease +upon the table! It is scraped up, to the minutest portion, with the +blade of the shooting knife. + +Then he is out upon the balcony again. One last task remains. It is to +close the long windows so that the catch will fall into its rusty +holder and no trace be left of its ever having been opened. + +This is not easy. It requires preparation, dexterity and thought. +Cunning fingers must use the thin end of the knife to bend the little +brass bracket which is to receive the falling catch. It must be bent +outwards, and in the bending a warning creak suggests that the screws +are parting from the rotten wood. + +But it is done at last, surely dexterously. No gentlemanly burglar of +the magazines could have done it better. + +. . . There is no moon now. It is necessary to feel one's way in +silence over the lawn and reach the outer gate. + +This is done successfully, the Fiend is a good quick valet-fiend +to-night and aids at every point. + +The gate is closed with a gentle "click," there is only the "pad, pad" +of the night-comer's footsteps passing along the dark village street +towards the Old House with poison in his pocket and murder in his +heart. + +Outside his own gate, Lothian's feet assume a brisk and confidential +measure. He rattles the latch of the drive gate and tries to whistle in +a blithe undertone. + +Bedroom windows may be open, it will be as well that his low, contented +whistle--as of one returning from healthy night-sport--may be heard. + +His lips are too cracked and salt to whistle, however. He tries to hum +the burden of a song, but only a faint "croak, croak," sounds in the +cold, quiet night--for the wind has fallen now. + +Not far away, behind the palings of his little yard, The Dog Trust +whines mournfully. + +Once he whines, and then with a full-throat and opened muzzle Dog Trust +bays the moon behind its cloud-pall. + +When he hears the footfall of one he knows and loves, Dog Trust greets +it with low, anxious whines. + +He is no watch-dog. His simple duties are unvaried from the marsh and +field. Growl of hostility to night-comers he knows not. His faithful +mind has been attuned to no reveillé note. + +But he howls mournfully now. + +The step he hears is like no step he knows. Perhaps, who can say? the +dim, untutored mind discerns dimly something wicked, inimical and +hostile approaching the house. + +So The Dog Trust howls, stands for a moment upon his cold concrete +sniffing the night air, and then with a sort of shudder plunges into +the warm straw of his kennel. + +Deep sleep broods over the Poet's house. + +The morning was one of those cold bright autumn days without a breath +of wind, which have an extraordinary exhilaration for every one. + +The soul, which to the majority of folk is like an invisible cloud +anchored to the body by a thin thread, is pulled down by such mornings. +It reenters flesh and blood, reanimates the body, and sounds like a +bugle in the mind. + +Tumpany, his head had been under the pump for a few minutes, arrived +fresh and happy at the Old House. + +He was going away with The Master upon a Wild-fowling expedition. In +Essex the geese were moving this way and that. There was an edge upon +anticipation and the morning. + +In the kitchen Phoebe and Blanche partook of the snappy message of +the hour. + +The guns were all in their cases. A pile of pigskin luggage was ready +for the four-wheel dogcart. + +"Perhaps when the men are out of the way for a day or two, Mistress +will have a chance to get right. . . . Master said good-bye to Mistress +last night, didn't he?" the cook said to Blanche. + +"Yes, but he may want to go in again and disturb her." + +"I don't believe he will. She's asleep now. Those things Dr. Heywood +give her keep her quiet. But still you'd better go quietly into her +room with her morning milk, Blanche. If she's asleep, just leave it +there, so she'll find it when she wakes up." + +"Very well, cook, I will," the housemaid said--"Oh, there's that +Tumpany!" + +Tumpany came into the kitchen. He wore his best suit. He was quite +dictatorial and sober. He spoke in brisk tones. + +"What are you going to do, my girl?" he said to Blanche in an +authoritative voice. + +"Hush, you silly. Keep quiet, can't you?" Phoebe said angrily. +"Blanche is taking up Mistress' milk in case she wakes." + +"Where's master, then?" + +"Master is in the library. He'll be down in a minute." + +"Can I go up to him, cook? . . . There's something about the guns----" + +"No. You can _not_, Tumpany. But Blanche will take any message.--Blanche, +knock at the library door and say Tumpany wants to see Master. But do +it quietly. Remember Missis is sleeping at the other end of the +passage." + +As Blanche went up the stairs with her tray, the library door was open, +and she saw her master strapping a suit case. She stopped at the open +door. + +--"Please, sir, Tumpany wants to speak to you." + +Lothian looked up. It was almost as if he had expected the housemaid. + +"All right," he said. "He can come up in a moment. What have you got +there--oh? The milk for your Mistress. Well, put it down on the table, +and tell Tumpany to come up. Bring him up yourself, Blanche, and make +him be quiet. We mustn't risk waking Mistress." + +The housemaid put the tray down upon the writing table and left the +room, closing the door after her. + +It had hardly swung into place when Lothian had whipped open a drawer +in the table. + +Standing upon a pile of note-paper with its vermilion heading of "The +Old House, Mortland Royal" was a square oil bottle with its silver +plated top. + +In a few twists of firm and resolute fingers, the top was loosened. The +man took the bottle from the drawer and set it upon the tray, close to +the glass of milk. + +Then, with infinite care, he slowly withdrew the top. + +The flattened needle which depended from it was damp with the dews of +death. A tiny bead of crystalline liquid, no bigger than a pin's head, +hung from the slanting point. + +Lothian plunged the needle into the glass of milk, moving it this way +and that. + +He heard footsteps on the stairs, and with the same stealthy dexterity +he replaced the cap of the bottle and closed the drawer. + +He was lighting a cigarette when Blanche knocked and entered, followed +by Tumpany. + +"What is it, Tumpany?" he said, as the maid once more took up her tray +and left the room with it. + +"I was thinking, sir, that we haven't got a cleaning rod packed for the +ten-bores. I quite forgot it. The twelve-bore rods won't reach through +thirty-two-and-a-half barrels. And all the cases are strapped and +locked now, sir. You've got the keys." + +"By Jove, no, we never thought of it. But those two special rods I had +made at Tolley's--where are they?" + +"Here, sir," the man answered going to the gun-cupboard. + +"Oh, very well. Unscrew one and stick it in your pocket. We can put it +in the case when we're in the train. It's a corridor train, and when +we've started you can come along to my carriage and I'll give you the +key of the ten-bore case." + +"Very good, sir. The trap's come. I'll just take this suit case down +and then I'll get Trust. He can sit behind with me." + +"Yes. I'll be down in a minute." + +Tumpany plunged downstairs with the suit case. Lothian screwed up the +bottle in the drawer and, holding it in his hand, went to his bedroom. + +He met Blanche in the corridor. + +"Mistress is fast asleep, sir," the pleasant-faced girl said, "so I +just put her milk on the table and came out quietly." + +"Thank you, Blanche. I shall be down in a minute." + +In his bedroom, Lothian poured water into the bowl upon the washstand +and shook a few dark red crystals of permanganate of potash into the +water, which immediately became a purplish pink. + +He plunged his hands into this water, with the little bottle, now +tightly stoppered again, in one of them. + +For two minutes he remained thus. Then he withdrew his hands and the +bottle, drying them on a towel. + +. . . There was no possible danger of infection now. As for the bottle, +he would throw it out of the window of the train when he was a hundred +miles from Mortland Royal. + +He came out into the corridor once more. His face was florid and too +red. Close inspection would have disclosed the curiously bruised look +of the habitual inebriate. But, in his smart travelling suit of Harris +tweed, with well-brushed hair, white collar and the "bird's eye" tie +that many country gentlemen affect, he was passable enough. + +A dreamy smile played over his lips. His eyes--not quite so bloodshot +this morning--were drowsed with quiet thought. + +As he was about to descend the stairs he turned and glanced towards a +closed door at the end of the passage. + +It was the door of Mary's room and this was his farewell to the wife +whose only thought was of him, with whom, in "The blessed bond of board +and bed" he had spent the happy years of his first manhood and success. + +A glance at the closed door; an almost complacent smile; after all +those years of holy intimacy this was his farewell. + +As he descended the stairs, the Murderer was humming a little tune. + +The two maid servants were in the hall to see him go. They were fond of +him. He was a kind and generous master. + +"You're looking much better this morning, sir," said Phoebe. She was +pretty and privileged. . . . + +"I'm feeling very well, Phoebe. This little trip will do me a lot of +good, and I shall bring home lots of birds for you to cook. Now mind +both you girls look after your Mistress well. I shall expect to see her +greatly improved when I return. Give her my love when she wakes up. +Don't forward any letters because I am not certain where I shall be. It +will be in the Blackwater neighbourhood, Brightlingsea, or I may make +my headquarters at Colchester for the three days. But I can't be quite +sure. I shall be back in three days." + +"Good morning, sir. I hope you'll have good sport." + +"Thank you, Phoebe--that's right, Tumpany, put Trust on the seat +first and then get up yourself--what's the matter with the dog?--never +saw him so shy. No, James, you drive--all right?--Let her go then." + +The impatient mare in the shafts of the cart pawed the gravel and was +off. The trap rolled out of the drive as Lothian lit a cigar. + +It really was a most perfect early morning, and there was a bloom upon +the stubble and Mortland Royal wood like the bloom upon a plum. + +The air was keen, the sun bright. The pheasants chuckled in the wood, +the mare's feet pounded the hard road merrily. + +"What a thoroughly delightful morning!" Lothian said to the groom at +his side and his eyes were still dreamy with subtle content. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +A STARTLING EXPERIENCE FOR "WOG" + + "The die rang sideways as it fell, + Rang cracked and thin, + Like a man's laughter heard in hell. . . ." + + --_Swinburne._ + + +It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening; a dry, acrid, coughing cold +lay over London. + +In the little Kensington flat of Rita Wallace and Ethel Harrison, the +fire was low and almost out. The "Lulu bird" drooped on its perch and +Wog was crying quietly by the fire. + +How desolate the flat seemed to the faithful Wog as she looked round +with brimming eyes. + +The state and arrangement of a familiar room often seem organically +related to the human mind. Certainly we ourselves give personality to +rooms which we have long inhabited; and that personality re-acts upon +us at times when event disturbs it. + +It was so now with the good and tender-hearted clergyman's daughter. + +The floor of the sitting-room was littered with little pieces of paper +and odds and ends of string. Upon the piano--it was Wog's piano now, a +present from Rita--was a massive photograph frame of silver. There was +no photograph in it, but some charred remains of a photograph which had +been burned still lay in the grate. + +Wog had burnt the photograph herself, that morning, early. + +"You do it, darling," Rita had said to her. "I can't do it myself. And +take this box. It's locked and sealed. It has the letters in it. I +cannot burn them, but I don't want to read them again. I must not, now. +But keep it carefully, always. If ever I _should_ ask for it, deliver +it to me wherever I am." + +"You must _never_ ask for it, my darling girl," Wog had said quickly. +"Let me burn the box and its contents." + +"No, no! You must not, dearest Wog, my dear old friend! It would be +wrong. Rossetti had to open the coffin of his wife to get back the +poems which he had buried with her. Keep it as I say." + +Wog knew nothing about Rossetti, and the inherent value of works of art +in manuscript didn't appeal to her. But she had been able to refuse her +friend nothing on this morning of mornings. + +Wog was wearing her best frock, a new one, a present also. She had +never had so smart a frock before. She held her little handkerchief +very carefully that none of the drops that streamed from her eyes +should fall upon the dress and stain it. + +"My bridesmaid dress," she said aloud with a choke of melancholy +laughter. "We mustn't spoil it, must we, Lulu bird?" + +But the canary remained motionless upon its perch like a tiny stuffed +thing. + +In one corner of the room was a large corded packing-case. It contained +a big and costly epergne of silver, in execrable taste and savouring +strongly of the mid-Victorian, a period when a choir of great voices +sang upon Parnassus but the greatest were content to live in +surroundings that would drive a minor poet of our era to insanity. This +was to be forwarded to Wiltshire in a fortnight or so. + +It was Mr. Podley's present. + +Wog's eyes fell upon it now. "What a kind good man Mr. Podley is," she +thought. "How anxious he has been to forward everything. And to give +dear Rita away also!" + +Then this good girl remembered what a happy change in her own life and +prospects was imminent. + +She was to be the head librarian of the Podley Pure Literature +Institute, vice Mr. Hands, retired. She was to have two hundred a year +and choose her own assistant. + +Mr. and Mrs. Podley--at whose house Ethel had spent some hours--were +not exactly what one would call "cultured" people. They were homely; +but they were sincere and good. + +"Now you, my dear," Mrs. Podley had said to her, "are just the lady we +want. You are a clergyman's daughter. You have had a business training. +The Library will be safe in your hands. And we like you! We feel +friends to you, Miss Harrison. 'Give it to Miss Harrison,' I said to my +husband, directly I had had a talk with you." + +"But I know so little about literature," Wog had answered. "Of course I +read, and I have my own little collection of books. But to take charge +of a public library--oh, Mrs. Podley, _do_ you think I shall be able to +do it to Mr. Podley's satisfaction?" + +Mrs. Podley had patted the girl upon her arm. "You're a good girl, my +dear," she said, "and that is enough for us. We mayn't be literary, my +husband and me, but we know a good woman when we meet her. Now you just +take charge of that library and do exactly as you like. Come and have +dinner with us every week, dearie. When all's said we're a lonely old +couple and a good girl like you, what is clever too, and born a lady, +is just what I want. Podley shall do something for your dear Father. +I'll see to that. And your brothers too, just coming from school as +they are. Leave it to me, my dear!" + +About Rita the good dame had been less enthusiastic. + +"The evening after Podley had to talk to her" (thus Mrs. Podley) "I +asked you both up here. I fell in love with you at once, my dear. Her, +I didn't like. Pretty as a picture; yes! But different somehow! Yet +sensible enough--really--as P. has told me. When he gave her a talking +to, as being an elderly and successful man who employed her he had well +a right to do, she saw at once the scandal and wrong of going about +with a married man--be he poet or whatnot. It was only her girlish +foolishness, of course. Poor silly lamb, she didn't know. But what a +blessing that all the time she was being courted by that young country +squire. I tell you, Miss H., that I felt like a mother to them in the +Church this morning." + +These kindly memories of this great day passed in reverie through the +tear-charged heart of Wog. + +But she was alone now, very much alone. She had adored Rita. Rita had +flown away into another sphere. The Lulu Bird was a poor consoler! +Still, Wog's sister Beatrice was sixteen now. She would have her to +live with her and pay her fees for learning secretarial duties at +Kensington College and Mr. Munford would find Bee a post. . . . + +Wog pulled herself together. She had lost her darling, brilliant, +flashing Rita. _That was that!_ She must reconstruct her life and +press forward without regrets. Life had opened out for her, after all. + +But now, at this immediate moment, there was a necessity for calling +all her forces together. + +She did not know, she had refused to know, how Rita had dealt with Mr. +Lothian during the past three weeks. The poet had not written for a +fortnight; that she believed she knew, and she had hoped it meant that +his passion for her friend was over. Rita, in her new-found love, her +_legitimate_ love, had never mentioned the poet to Wog. Ethel knew +nothing of love, as far as it could have affected her. Yet the girl had +discerned--or thought she had--an almost frightened relinquishment and +regret on the part of Rita. Rita had expanded with joyous maiden +surrender to the advances and love-making of Dickson Ingworth. That was +her youth, her body. But there had been moments of revolt, moments when +the "wizards peeped and muttered," when the intellect of the girl +seemed held and captured, as the man who wooed her, and was this day +her husband, had never captured it--perhaps never would or could. + +Rita Wallace had once said to Gilbert Lothian that she and Ethel did +not take a daily paper because of the expense. + +Neither of these girls, therefore, was in the habit of glancing down +the births, marriages and deaths column. Mr. and Mrs. Toftrees had run +over to Nice for a month, Ingworth was far too anxious and busy with +his appeal to Rita--none of the people chiefly concerned had read that +the Hon. Mary Lothian, third daughter of the Viscount Boultone and wife +of Gilbert Lothian, Esquire, of the Old House, Mortland Royal, was +dead. + +For a fortnight--this was all Ethel Harrison knew--Rita had received no +communication from the Poet. + +Ethel imagined that Rita had finally sent him about his business, had +told him of her quick engagement and imminent marriage. She knew that +something had happened with Mr. Podley--nearly three weeks ago. Details +she had none. + +Yet, on the mantel-shelf, was a letter in Rita's handwriting. It was +addressed to Gilbert Lothian. Wog was to forward this to him. + +The letter was unnerving. It was a letter of farewell, of course, but +Ethel did not like to handle any message from her dear young bride to a +man who was of the past and ought never, _never_! to have been in it. + +And there was more than this. + +When Ethel had returned from Charing Cross Station, after the early +wedding in St. Martin's Church and the departure of the happy couple +for Mentone, she had found a telegram pushed through the letter-box of +the flat, addressed "Miss Wallace." + +She had opened it and read these words: + + "_Arriving to you at 7:30 to-night, carissima, to explain all my + recent silence if you do not know already. We are coming into our + own._ + + GILBERT." + +Wog didn't know what this might mean. She regarded it as one more +attempt, on the part of the married man who ought never to have had any +connection with Rita. She realised that Lothian must be absolutely +ignorant of Rita's marriage. And, knowing nothing of Mary Lothian's +death, she regarded the telegram with disgust and fear. + +"How dreadful," she thought, in her virgin mind, untroubled always by +the lusts of the flesh and the desire of the eyes, "that this great man +should run after Cupid. He's got his own wife. How angry Father would +be if he knew. And yet, Mr. Lothian couldn't help loving Cupid, I +suppose. Every one loves her." + +"I must be as kind as I can to him when he comes," she said to herself. +"He ought to be here almost at once. Of course, Cupid knows nothing +about the telegram saying that he's coming. I can give her letter into +his own hands." + +. . . The bell whirred--ring, ring, ring--was there not something +exultant in the shrill purring of the bell? + +Wog looked round the littered room, saw the letter on the mantel, the +spread telegram upon the table, breathed heavily and went out into the +little hall-passage of the flat. + +"Click," and she opened the door. + +Standing there, wearing a fur coat and a felt hat, was some one she had +never met, but whom she knew in an instant. + +It was Gilbert Lothian. Yet it was not the Gilbert Lothian she had +imagined from his photograph. Still less the poet of Rita's confidences +and the verses of "Surgit Amari." + +He looked like a well-dressed doll, just come there, like a quite +_convenable_ but rather unreal figure from Madame Tussaud's! + +He looked at her for a quick moment and then held out his hand. + +"I know," he said; "you're Wog! I've heard such a lot about you. +Where's Rita? May I come in?--she got my wire?" + +. . . He was in the little hall before she had time to answer him. + +Mechanically she led the way into the sitting-room. + +In the full electric light she saw him clearly for the first time. +Ethel Harrison shuddered. + +She saw a large, white face, with pinkish blotches on it here and +there--more particularly at the corners of the mouth and about the +nostrils. The face had an impression of immense _power_--of +_concentration_. Beneath the wavy hair and the straight eyebrows, +the eyes gleamed and shot out fire--shifting this way and that. + +With an extraordinary quickness and comprehension these eyes glanced +round the flat and took in its disorder. + +. . . "She got my wire?" the man said--finding the spread-out pink +paper upon the table in an instant. + +"No, Mr. Lothian," Ethel Harrison said gravely. "Rita never got your +wire. It came too late." + +The glaring light faded out of the man's eyes. His voice, which had +been suave and oily, changed utterly. Ethel had wondered at his voice +immediately she heard it. It was like that of some shopman selling +silks--a fat voice. It had been difficult for her to believe that +_this_ was Gilbert Lothian. Rita's great friend, the famous man, her +father's favourite modern poet. + +But she heard a _voice_ now, a real, vibrant voice. + +"Too late?" he questioned. "Too late for _what_?" + +Ethel nodded sadly. "I see, Mr. Lothian," she said, "that you are +already beginning to understand that you have to hear things that will +distress you." + +Lothian bowed. As he did so, _something_ flashed out upon the great +bloated mask his face had become. It was for a second only, but it was +sweet and chivalrous. + +"And will you tell me then, Miss Harrison?" he said in a voice that was +beginning to tremble violently. His whole body was beginning to shake, +she saw. + +With one hand he was opening the button of his fur coat. He looked up +at her with a perfectly white, perfectly composed, but dreadfully +questioning face. + +Certainly his body _was_ shaking all over--it was as though little +ripples were running up and down the flesh of it--but his face was a +white mask of attention. + +"Oh, Mr. Lothian!" the girl cried, "I am so sorry. I am so very sorry +for you. You couldn't help loving her perhaps, I am only a girl, I +don't pretend to know. But you must be brave. Rita is married!" + +Puffed and crinkled lids fell over the staring eyes for a moment--as if +automatic pressure had suddenly pushed them down. + +"_Married?_ Rita?" + +"Oh, she ought to have told you! It was cruel of her! She ought to have +told you. But you have not written to her for two or three weeks--as +far as I know. . . ." + +"_Married?_ Rita?" + +"Yes, this morning, and Mr. Podley gave her away. But I have a letter +for you, Mr. Lothian. Rita asked me to post it. She gave it me in bed +this morning, before I dressed her for her marriage. Of course she +didn't know that you were going to be in town. I will give it to you +now." + +She gave him the letter. + +His hands took it with a mechanical gesture, though he made a little +bow of thanks. + +Underneath the heavy fur coat, the man's body was absolutely rippling +up and down--it was horrible. + +The eyelids fell again. The voice became sleepy, childish almost. + +. . . "But _I_ have come to marry Rita!" + +Wog became indignant. "Mr. Lothian," she said, "you ought not to speak +like that before me. How could you have married Rita. You _are_ +married. Please don't even hint at such things." + +"How stupid you are, Wog," he said, as if he had known her for years; +in much the same sort of voice that Rita would have said it. "My wife's +dead, dead and buried. . . . I thought you would both have known. . . ." + +His trembling hands were opening the letter which Rita Wallace had left +for him. + +He drew the page out of the envelope and then he looked up at Ethel +Harrison again. There was a dreadful yearning in his voice now. + +"Yes, yes, but _whom_ has my little Rita married?" + +Real fear fell upon Ethel now. She became aware that this man had not +realised what had happened in any way. But the whole thing was too +painful. It must be got over at once. + +"Mr. Ingworth Dickson, of course," she answered, with some sharpness in +her tones. + +For a minute Lothian looked at her as if she were the horizon. Then he +nodded. "Oh, Dicker," he said in a perfectly uninterested voice--"Yes, +Dicker--just her man, of course. . . ." + +He was reading the letter now. + +This was Rita's farewell letter. + + "_Gilbert dear_: + + "I shall always read your books and poems, and I shall always think + of you. We have been tremendous friends, and though we shall never + meet again, we shall always think of each other, shan't we? I am + going to marry Dicker to-morrow morning, and by the time you see + this--Wog will send it--I shall be married. Of course we mustn't + meet or write to each other any more. You are married and I'm going + to be to-morrow. But do think of your little friend sometimes, + Gilbert. She will often think of you and read _all_ you write." + +Lothian folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope with great +precision. Then he thrust it in the inner breast pocket of his coat. + +Wog watched him, in deadly fear. + +She knew now that elemental forces had been at work, that her lovely +Rita had evoked soul-shaking, sundering strengths. . . . + +But Gilbert Lothian came towards her with both hands outstretched. + +"Oh, I thank you, I thank you a thousand times," he said, "for all your +goodness to Rita--How happy you must have been together--you two +girls----" + +He had taken both her hands in his. Now he dropped them suddenly. +Something, something quite beautiful, which had been upon his face, +snapped away. + +The kindness and welcome in his eyes changed to a horror-struck stare. + +He began to murmur and burble at the back of his throat. + +His arms shot stiffly this way and that, like the arms of railway +signals. + +He ran to one wall and slapped a flat palm upon it. + +"Tumpany!" he said with a giggle. "My wild-fowling man! Mary used to +like him, so I suppose he's all right. But, damn him, looking out of +the wall like that with his ugly red face!--" + +He began to sing. His lips were dark-red and cracked, his eyes fixed +and staring. + + "Tiddle-iddle, iddle-tiddle, so the green frog said in the garden!" + +Saliva dropped from the corners of his mouth. + +His body was jerking like a puppet of a marionette display, actuated by +unseen strings. + +He began to dance. + +Blazing eyes, dropping sweat and saliva, twitching, awful body. . . . + +She left him dancing clumsily like a performing bear. She fled +hurriedly down to the office of the commissionaire. + +When the man, his assistant and Miss Harrison returned to the flat, +Lothian was writhing on the floor in the last stages of delirium +tremens. + +As they carried him, tied and bound, to the nearest hospital, they had +to listen to a cryptic, and to them, meaningless mutter that never +ceased. + + ". . . Dingworth Ickson, Rary, Mita. Sorten Mims. Ha, ha! ha! Tubes + of poison--damn them all, blast them all--Jesus of the Cross! my + wife's face as she lay there dead, forgiving me! + + "--Rita you pup of a girl, going off with a boy like Dicker. Rita! + Rita! You're mine--don't make such a howling noise, my girl, you'll + create a scandal--Rita! Rita!--damn you, _can't_ you keep quiet? + + "All right, Mary darling. But why have you got on a sheet instead + of a nightdress? Mary! Why have they tied your face up under the + chin with that handkerchief? And what's that you're holding out to + me on your pale hand? Is that the _membrane_? Is that really the + diphtheria _membrane_ which choked you?--Come closer, let me see, + old chalk-faced girl. . . ." + +At the hospital the house-surgeon on duty who admitted him said that +death _must_ supervene within twelve or fourteen hours. + +He had not seen a worse case. + +But when he realised who the fighting, tied, gibbering and obscene +object really was, bells rang in the private rooms of celebrated +doctors. + +The pulsing form was isolated. + +Young doctors came to look with curiosity upon the cursing mass of +flesh that quivered beneath the broad bands of webbing which held it +down. + +Older doctors stood by the bed with eyes full of anxiety and pain as +they regarded what was once Gilbert Lothian; bared the twitching arms +and pressed the hypodermic needles into the loose bunches of skin that +skilled, pitiful fingers were pinching and gathering. + +When they had calmed the twitching figure somewhat, the famous +physicians who had been hastily called, stood in a little group some +distance from the bed, consulting together. + +Two younger men who sat on each side of the cot looked over the body +and grinned. + +"The Christian Poet, oh, my eye!" said one. + +"Surgit amari aliquid," the other replied with a disgusted sneer. + + +END OF BOOK THREE + + + + +EPILOGUE + +A Year Later + + "A broken and a contrite heart, O Lord, Thou wilt not despise." + + + + +WHAT OCCURRED AT THE EDWARD HALL IN KINGSWAY + + "Ah! happy they whose hearts can break + And peace of pardon win! + How else may man make straight his plan + And cleanse his soul from sin? + How else but through a broken heart + May Lord Christ enter in?" + + --_The Ballad of Reading Gaol._ + + +A great deal of interest in high quarters, both in London and New York +was being taken in the meeting of Leading Workers in the cause of +Temperance that was to be held in Kingsway this afternoon. + +The new Edward Hall, that severe building of white stone which was +beginning to be the theatre of so many activities and which was so +frequently quoted as a monument of good taste and inspiration on the +part of Frank Flemming, the new architect, had been engaged for the +occasion. + +The meeting was to be at three. + +It was unique in this way--The heads of every party were to be +represented and were about to make common cause together. The +scientific and the non-scientific workers for the suppression and cure +of Inebriety had been coming very much together during the last years. + +Never hostile to each other, they had suffered from a mutual lack of +understanding in the past. + +Now there was to be an _entente cordiale_ that promised great things. + +One important fact had contributed to this _rapprochement_. The earnest +Christian workers and ardent sociologists were now all coming to +realise that Inebriety is a disease and not, specifically, a vice. The +doctors had known this, had been preaching this for years. But the time +had arrived when religious workers in the same cause were beginning to +find that they could with safety join hands with those who (as they had +come to see) _knew_ and could define the springs of action which made +people intemperate. + +The will of the intemperate individual was weakened by a _disease_. The +doctors had shown and proved this beyond possibility of doubt. + +It was a _disease_. Its various causes were discovered and put upon +record. Its pathology was as clearly stated as a proposition in Euclid. +Its psychology was, at last, beginning to be understood. + +And it was on the basis of psychology that the two parties were +meeting. + +Science could take a drunkard--though really only with the drunkard's +personal connivance and earnest wish to reform--and in a surprisingly +short time, varying with individual cases, restore him to the world +sane, and in health. + +But as far as individual cases went, science professed itself able to +do little more than this. It could give a man back his health of mind +and body, it could--thus--enable him to recall his soul from the red +hells where it had strayed. But it could not enable the man to _retain_ +the gifts. + +Religion stepped in here. Christianity and those who professed it said +that faith in Christ, and that only, could preserve the will; that, to +put it shortly, a personal love of Jesus, a heart that opened itself to +the mysterious operations of the Holy Spirit would be immune from the +disease for ever more. + +Christian workers proved their contention by statistics as clear and +unmistakable as any other. + +There was still one great question to be agreed upon. Religion and +Science, working together, _could_, and _did_, cure the _individual_ +drunkard. Sometimes Science had done this without the aid of Religion, +more often Religion had done it without the aid of Science--that is to +say that while Science had really been at work all the time Religion +had not been aware of it and had not professedly called Science in to +help. + +To eradicate the disease from individuals was being done every day by +the allied forces. + +To eradicate the disease from nations, to stamp it out as cholera, +yellow fever, and the bubonic plague was being stamped out--that was +the question at issue. + +That was, after all, the supreme question. + +Now, every one was beginning--only beginning--to understand that recent +scientific discovery had made this wonderful thing possible. + +Yellow fever had been destroyed upon the Isthmus of Panama. Small-pox +which ravaged countries in the past, was no more than a very occasional +and restricted epidemic now. Soon--in all human probability--tuberculosis +and cancer would be conquered. + +The remedy for the disease of Inebriety was at hand. + +Sanitary Inspectors and Medical Officers had enormous power in regard +to other diseases. People who disregarded their orders and so spread +disease were fined and imprisoned. + +It was penal to do so. + +In order that this beneficent state of things should come about, the +scientists had fought valiantly against many fetishes. They had fought +for years, and with the spread of knowledge they had conquered. + +Now the biggest Fetish of all was tottering on its foolish throne. The +last idol in the temples of Dagon, the houses of Rimmon and the sacred +groves was attacked. + +The great "Procreation Fetish" remained. + +Were drunkards to be allowed to have children without State +restriction, or were they not? + +That was the question which some of the acutest and most altruistic +minds of the English speaking races were about to meet and discuss this +afternoon. + + * * * * * + +Dr. Morton Sims drove down to the Edward Hall a little after two +o'clock. + +The important conference was to begin at three, but the doctor had +various matters to arrange first and he was in a slightly nervous and +depressed state. + +It was a grey day and a sharp East wind was blowing. People in the +streets wore furs and heavy coats; London seemed excessively cheerless. + +It was but rarely that Morton Sims felt as he did as this moment. But +the day, or probably (as he thought) a recent spell of over-work, took +the pith out of him. + +"It is difficult to avoid doing too much--for a man in my position," he +thought. "Life is so short and there is such an infinity of work. Oh, +that I could see England in a fair way to become sober before I die! +Still I must go on hard. 'Il faut cultiver notre jardin.'" + +He went at once to a large and comfortable room adjoining the platform +of the big hall and communicating with it by a few steps and two doors, +one of red baize. It was used as the artists' room when concerts were +given, as a committee room now. + +A bright fire burned upon the hearth, round which were several padded +armchairs, and over the mantel-shelf was an excellent portrait in oils +of King Edward the Seventh. + +The Doctor took up a printed agenda of the meeting from a table. Bishop +Moultrie was to be in the chair and the list of names beneath his was +in the highest degree influential and representative. There were two or +three peers--not figure heads but men who had done and were doing great +work in the world. Mr. Justice Harley--Sir Edward Harley on the +programme--would be there. Lady Harold Buckingham, than whose name none +was more honoured throughout the Empire for her work in the cause of +Temperance, several leading medical men, and--Mrs. Julia Daly, who had +once more crossed the Atlantic and had arrived the night before at the +Savoy. Edith Morton Sims, who was lecturing in the North of England, +could not be present to-day, but she was returning to town at the end +of the week, when Mrs. Daly was to leave the hotel and once more take +up her residence with Morton Sims and his sister. + +In a few minutes there was a knock at the door. The doctor answered, it +was opened by a commissionaire, and Julia Daly came in. + +Morton Sims took her two hands and held them, his face alight with +pleasure and greeting. + +"This is good," he said fervently. "I have waited for this hour. I +cannot say how glad I am to see you, Julia. You have heard from Edith?" + +"The dear girl! Yes. There was a letter waiting for me at the Savoy +when I arrived last night. I am to come to you both on Saturday." + +"Yes. It will be so jolly, just like old times. Now let me congratulate +you a thousand times on your great work in America. Every one over here +has been reading of your interview with the President. It was a great +stroke. And he really is interested?" + +"Immensely. It is genuine. He was most kind and there is no doubt but +that he will be heart and soul with us in the future. The campaign is +spreading everywhere. And, most significant of all, _we are capturing +the prohibitionists_." + +"Ah! that will mean everything." + +"Everything, because they are the most earnest workers of all. But they +have seen that Prohibition has proved itself an impossibility. They +have failed despite their whole-hearted and worthy endeavours. +Naturally they have become disheartened. But they are beginning to see +the truth of our proposal. The scientific method is gaining ground as +they realise it more and more. In a year or two those states which +legislated Prohibition, will legislate in another way and penalise the +begetting of children by known drunkards. That seems to me certain. +After that the whole land may, I pray God, follow suit." + +She had taken off her heavy sable coat and was sitting in a chair by +the fireside. Informed with deep feeling and that continuous spring of +hope and confidence which gave her so much of her power, the deep +contralto rang like a bell in the room. + +Morton Sims leant against the mantel-shelf and looked down on his +friend. The face was beautiful and inspired. It represented the very +flower of intellect and patriotism, breadth, purity, strength. "Ah!" he +thought, "the figure of Britannia upon our coins and in our symbolic +pictures, or the Latin Dame of Liberty with the Phrygian cap, is not so +much England or France as this woman is America, the soul of the West +in all its power and beauty. . . ." + +His reverie was broken in upon by her voice, not ringing with +enthusiasm now, but sad and purely womanly. + +"Tell me," she was saying, "have you heard or found out anything of +Gilbert Lothian, the poet?" + +Morton Sims shook his head. + +"It remains an impenetrable mystery," he said. "No one knows anything." + +Tears came into Mrs. Daly's eyes. "I loved that woman," she said. "I +loved Mary Lothian. A clearer, more transparent soul never joined the +saints in Paradise. Among the many, many things for which I have to +thank you, there is nothing I have valued more than the letter from you +which sent me to her at Nice. Mary Lothian was the sweetest woman I +have ever met, or ever shall meet. Sometimes God puts such women into +the world for examples. Her death grieved me more than I can say." + +"It was very sudden." + +"Terribly. We travelled home together. She was leaving her dying sister +in the deepest sadness. But she was going home full of holy +determination to save her husband. I never met any woman who loved a +man more than Mary Lothian loved Gilbert Lothian. What a wonderful man +he must have been, might have been, if the Disease had not ruined him. +I think his wife would have saved him had she lived. He is alive, I +suppose?" + +"It is impossible to say. I should say not. All that is known is as +follows. A fortnight or so after his wife's funeral, Lothian, then in a +very dangerous state, travelled to London. He was paying a call at some +house in the West End when Delirium Tremens overtook him at last. He +was taken to the Kensington Hospital. Most cases of delirium tremens +recover but it was thought that this was beyond hope. However, as soon +as it was known who he was, some of the best men in town were called. I +understand it was touch and go. The case presented unusual symptoms. +There was something behind it which baffled treatment for a time." + +"But he _was_ cured?" + +"Yes, they pulled him through somehow. Then he disappeared. The house +in Norfolk and its contents were sold through a solicitor. A man that +Lothian had, a decent enough servant and very much attached to his +master, has been pensioned for life--an annuity, I think. He may know +something. The general opinion in the village is that he does know +something--I have kept on my house in Mortland Royal, you must know. +But this Tumpany is as tight as wax. And that's all." + +"He has published nothing?" + +"Not a line of any sort whatever. I was dining with Amberley, the +celebrated publisher, the other day. He published the two or three +books of poems that made Lothian famous. But he has heard nothing. He +even told me that there is a considerable sum due to Lothian which +remains unclaimed. Of course Lothian is well off in other ways. But +stay, though, I did hear a rumour!" + +"And what was that?" + +"Well, I dined at Amberley's house--they have a famous dining-room you +must know, where every one has been, and it's an experience. There was +a party after dinner, and I was introduced to a man called +Toftrees--he's a popular novelist and a great person in his own way I +believe." + +Julia Daly nodded. She was intensely interested. + +"I know the name," she said. "Go on." + +"Well, this fellow Toftrees, who seems a decent sort of man, told me +that he believed that Gilbert Lothian was killing himself with absinthe +and brandy in Paris. Some one had seen him in Maxim's or some such +place, a dreadful sight. This was three or four months ago, so, if it's +true, the poor fellow must be dead by now." + +"Requiescat," Julia Daly said reverently. "But I should have liked to +have known that his dear wife's prayers in Heaven had saved him here." + +Morton Sims did not answer and there was a silence between them for a +minute or two. + +The doctor was remembering a dreadful scene in the North London Prison. + +. . . "If Gilbert Lothian still lived he must look like that awful +figure in the condemned cell had looked--like his insane half-brother, +the cunning murderer--" Morton Sims shuddered and his eyes became fixed +in thought. + +He had told no living soul of what he had learned that night. He never +would tell any one. But it all came back to him with extreme vividness +as he gazed into the fire. + +Some memory-cell in his brain, long dormant and inactive, was now +secreting thought with great rapidity, and, with these dark +memories--it was as though some curtain had suddenly been withdrawn +from a window unveiling the sombre picture of a storm--something new +and more horrible still started into his mind. It passed through and +vanished in a flash. His will-power beat it down and strangled it +almost ere it was born. + +But it left his face pale and his throat rather dry. + +It was now twenty minutes to three, as the square marble clock upon the +mantel showed, and immediately, before Julia Daly and Morton Sims spoke +again, two people came into the room. + +Both were clergymen. + +First came Bishop Moultrie. He was a large corpulent man with a big red +face. Heavy eyebrows of black shaded eyes of a much lighter tint, a +kind of blue green. The eyes generally twinkled with good-humour and +happiness, the wide, genial mouth was vivid with life and pleasant +tolerance, as a rule. + +A fine strong, forthright man with a kindly personality. + +Morton Sims stepped up to him. "My dear William," he said, shaking him +warmly by the hand. "So here you are. Let me introduce you to Mrs. +Daly. Julia, let me introduce the Bishop to you. You both know of each +other very well. You have both wanted to meet for a long time." + +The Bishop bowed to Mrs. Daly and both she and the doctor saw at once +that something was disturbing him. The face only held the promise and +possibility of geniality. It was anxious, and stern with some inward +thought; very distressed and anxious. + +And when a large, fleshy, kindly face wears this expression, it is most +marked. + +"Please excuse me," the Bishop said to Julia Daly. "I have indeed +looked forward to the moment of meeting you. But something has +occurred, Mrs. Daly, which occupies my thoughts, something very +unusual. . . ." + +Both Morton Sims--who knew his old friend so well--and Julia Daly--who +knew so much of the Bishop by repute--looked at him with surprise upon +their faces and waited to hear more. + +The Bishop turned round to where the second Priest was standing by the +door. + +"This is Father Joseph Edward," he said, "Abbot of the Monastery upon +the Lizard Promontory in Cornwall. He has come with me this afternoon +upon a special mission." + +The newcomer was a slight, dark-visaged man who wore a black cape over +his cassock, and a soft clerical hat. He seemed absolutely +undistinguished, but the announcement of his name thrilled the man and +woman by the fire. + +The Priest bowed slightly. There was little or no expression to be +discerned upon his face. + +But the others in the room knew who he was at once. + +Father Joseph Edward was a hidden force in the Church or England. He +was a peer's son who had flashed out at Oxford, fifteen years before, +as one of the cleverest, wildest, most brilliant and devil-may-care +undergraduates who had ever been at "The House." Both by reason of +wealth and position, but also by considered action, he had escaped +authoritative condemnation and had been allowed to take his first in +Lit. Hum. + +But, as every one knew at his time Adrian Rathlone had been one of the +wildest, wealthiest and wickedest young men of his generation. + +And then, as all the world heard, Adrian Rathlone had taken Holy +Orders. He had worked in the East End of London for a time, and had +then founded his Cornish Monastery by permission of the Chapter and +Bishop of Truro. + +From the far west of England, where She stretches out her granite foot +to spurn the onslaught of the Atlantic, it had become known that broken +and contrite hearts might leave London and life, to seek, and find +Peace upon the purple moors of the West. + +"But now, John," the Bishop said to Morton Sims, "I want to tell you +something. I want to explain a very important alteration in the agenda. +. . ." + +There was no doubt about it whatever, the Bishop's usually calm and +suave voice was definitely disturbed. + +He and Morton Sims bent over the table together looking at the printed +paper. + +The Bishop had a fat gold pencil case in his hand and was pointing to +names upon the programme. + +Mrs. Daly, from her seat by the fire, watched her friend, Morton Sims, +with _his_ friend, William Denisthorpe Moultrie, Father in God, with +immense interest. She was interested extremely in the Bishop's obvious +perturbation, but even more so to see these two celebrated men standing +together and calling each other by their Christian names like boys. She +knew that they had been at Harrow and Oxford together, she knew that +despite their disagreements upon many points they had always been fast +friends. + +"What boys nice men are after all," she thought with a slight +sympathetic contraction of her throat. "'William'! 'John'!--Our men in +America are not very often like that--but what, what is the Bishop +saying?" + +Her face became almost rigid with attention as she caught a certain +name. Even as she did so the Bishop spoke in an undertone to Morton +Sims, and then glanced slightly in her direction with a hint of a +question in his eyes. + +"Mrs. Daly, William," Morton Sims said, "is on the Committee. She is +one of my greatest friends and, perhaps, the greatest friend Edith has +in the world. She was also a great friend of Mrs. Lothian and knew her +well. You need not have the slightest hesitation in saying anything you +wish before her." + +Julia Daly rose from her seat, her heart was beating strangely. + +"What is this?" she said in her gentle, but almost regal way. "Why, my +lord, the doctor and I were only talking of Gilbert Lothian and his +saintly wife a moment or two ago. Have you news of the poet?" + +The Bishop, still with his troubled, anxious face, turned to her with a +faint smile. "I did not know, Mrs. Daly," he said, "that you took any +interest in Lothian, but yes, I have news." + +"Then you can solve the mystery?" Julia Daly said. + +The Bishop sighed. "If you mean," he said, "why Mr. Lothian has +disappeared from the world for a year, I can at least tell you what he +has been doing. John here tells me that you have known all about him, +so that I am violating no confidences. After his wife's death, poor +Lothian became very seriously ill in consequence of his excesses. He +was cured eventually, but one night--it was late at night in +Norfolk--some one, quite unlike the Gilbert Lothian I had known, came +to my house. It was like a ghost coming. He told me many strange and +terrible things, and hinted that he could have told me more, though I +forbade him. With every appearance of contrition, with his face +streaming with tears--ah, if ever during my career as a Priest I have +seen a broken and a contrite heart I saw it then--he wished, he told +me, to work out his soul's release, to go away from the world utterly +and to fight the Fiend Alcohol. He would go into no home, would submit +to no legal restraint. He wished to fight the devil that possessed him +with no other aids than spiritual ones. I sent him to Father Joseph +Edward." + +"And he has cured himself?" the American lady said in a tone which so +rang and vibrated through the Committee room, with eyes in which such +gladness was dawning, that the three men there looked at her as if they +had seen a vision. + +The monkish-looking clergyman replied. + +"Quite cured," he said gravely. "He is saved in body and saved in soul. +You say his wife, Madam, was a Saint: I think, Madam, that our friend +is not very far from it now." + +He stopped suddenly, almost jerkily, and his dark, somewhat saturnine +face became watchful and with a certain fear in it. + +What all this might mean John Morton Sims was at a loss to understand. +That it meant something, something very out of the ordinary, he was +very well aware. William Moultrie was not himself--that was very evident. +And he had brought this odd, mediæval parson with him for some special +reason. Morton Sims was not very sympathetic toward the Middle Age. +Spoken to-day the word "Abbot" or "Father"--used ecclesiastically--always +affected him with slight disgust. + +Nevertheless, he nodded to the Bishop and turned to Mrs. Daly. + +"Gilbert Lothian is coming here during this afternoon," he said. "The +Bishop has specially asked me to arrange that he shall speak during the +Conference. It seems he has come specially from Mullion in Cornwall to +be present this afternoon. Father Joseph Edward has brought him. It +seems that he has something important to say." + +For some reason or other, what it was the doctor could not have said, +Julia Daly seemed strangely excited at the news. + +"Such testimony as his," she said, "coming from such a man as that, +will be a wonderful experience. In fact I do not know that there will +ever have been anything like it." + +Morton Sims had not quite realised this aspect of the question. He had +wondered, when Moultrie had insisted upon putting Lothian's name down +as the third speaker during the afternoon. Moultrie was perfectly +within his rights, of course, as Chairman, but it seemed rather a +drastic thing to do. It was a disturbance of settled order, and the +scientific mind unconsciously resented it. Now, however, the scientific +mind realised the truth of what Julia Daly had said. Of course, if +Gilbert Lothian was really going to make a confession, and obviously +that was what he was coming here for under the charge of this +dark-visaged "Abbot"--then indeed it would be extremely valuable. +Thousands of people who had been "converted" and cured from drunkenness +had "given their experiences" upon temperance platforms, but they had +invariably been people of the lower classes. While their evidence as to +the reality of their conversion--their change--was valuable and real, +they were incapable one and all of giving any details of value to the +student and psychologist. + +"Yes!" Morton Sims said suddenly, "if Mr. Lothian is going to speak, +then we shall gain very much from what he says." + +But he noticed that the Bishop's face did not become less troubled and +anxious than before. He saw also that the silent clergyman sitting by +the opposite wall showed no sympathetic interest in his point of view. + +He himself began to experience again that sense of uneasiness and +depression which he had experienced all day, and especially during his +drive to the Edward Hall, but which had been temporarily dispelled by +the arrival of Mrs. Daly. + +In a minute or two, however, great people began to arrive in large +numbers. The Bishop, Morton Sims and Mrs. Daly were shaking hands and +talking continuously. As for Morton Sims, he had no time to think any +more about the somewhat untoward incidents in the Committee room. + +The Meeting began. + +The Edward Hall is a very large building with galleries and boxes. The +galleries now, by a clever device, were all hung round with dark +curtains. This made the hall appear much smaller and prevented the +sparseness of the audience having a depressing effect upon those who +addressed it. + +Only some three hundred and fifty people attended this Conference. The +general public were not asked. Admission was by invitation. The three +hundred and fifty people who had come were, however, the very pick and +élite of those interested in the Temperance cause and instrumental in +forwarding it from their various standpoints. + +Bishop Moultrie made a few introductory remarks. Then he introduced Sir +Edward Harley, the Judge. The Judge was a small keen-faced man. Without +his frame of horse hair and robe of scarlet he at first appeared +insignificant and without personality. But that impression was +dispelled directly he began to speak. + +The quiet, keen, incisive voice, so precise and scholarly of phrase, so +absolutely germane to the thought, and so illuminating of it, held some +of the keenest minds in England as with a spell for twenty minutes. + +Mr. Justice Harley advocated penal restriction upon the multiplication +of drunkards in the most whole-hearted way. He did not go into the +arguments for and against the proposed measure, but he gave +illustrations from his own experience as to its absolute necessity and +value. + +He mentioned one case in which he had been personally concerned which +intensely interested his audience. + +It was that of a murderer. The man had murdered his wife under +circumstances of callous cunning. In all other respects the murderer +had lived a hard-working and blameless life. He had become infatuated +with another woman, but the crime, which had taken nearly a month in +execution, had been committed entirely under the influence of alcohol. + +"Under the influence of that terrible amnesic dream-phase which our +medical friends tell us of," the Judge said. "As was my duty as an +officer of the law I sent that man to his death. Under existing +conditions of society I think that what I was compelled to do was the +best thing that could have been done. But I may say to you, my lord, my +lords, ladies and gentlemen that it was not without a bitter personal +shrinking that I sent that poor man to pay the penalty of his crime. +The mournful bell which Dr. Archdall Reed has tolled is his 'Study in +Heredity' was sounding in my ears as I did so. That is one of the +reasons why I am here this afternoon to support the only movement which +seems to have within it the germ of public freedom from the devastating +disease of alcoholism." + +The Judge concluded and sat down in his seat. + +Bishop Moultrie rose and introduced the next speaker with a few +prefatory remarks. Morton Sims who was sitting next Sir Edward +whispered in his ear. + +"May I ask, Sir Edward," he said, "if you were referring just now to +Hancock, the Hackney murderer?" + +The little Judge nodded. + +"Yes," he whispered, "but how did you know, Sims?" + +"Oh, I knew all about him before his condemnation," the doctor replied. +"In fact I took a special interest in him. I was with him the night +before his execution and I assisted at the autopsy the next day." + +The Judge gave a keen glance at his friend and nodded. + +The Bishop in the Chair now read a few brief statements as to the +progress of the work that was being done. Lady Harold Buckingham was +down to speak next. She sat on the Bishop's left hand, and it was +obvious to the audience that she understood his next remark. + +"You all have the printed programme in your hands," said the Bishop, +"and from it you will see that Lady Harold is set down to address you +next. But I have--" his voice changed a little and became uncertain and +had a curious note of apprehension in it--"I have to ask you to give +your attention to another speaker, whose wish to address the Meeting +has only recently been conveyed to me, but whose right to do so is, in +my judgment, indubitable. He has, I understand from Father Joseph who +has brought him here, something to say to us of great importance." + +There was a low murmur and rustle among the audience, as well as among +the semicircle of people on the dais. + +The name of Father Joseph Edward attracted instant attention. Every one +knew all about him; the slight uneasiness on the Bishop's face had not +been unremarked. They all felt that something unusual and stimulating +was imminent. + +"It is Mr. Gilbert Lothian," the Bishop went on, "who wishes to address +you. His name will be familiar to every one here. I do not know, and +have not the least idea, as to what Mr. Lothian is about to say. All I +know is that he is most anxious to speak this afternoon, and, even at +this late hour pressure has been put upon me to alter the programme in +this regard, which it is impossible for me to resist." + +Now every one in the hall knew that some sensation was impending. + +People nodded and whispered; people whispered and nodded. There was +almost an apprehension in the air. + +Why had this poet risen from the tomb as it were--this poet whose utter +disappearance from social and literary life had been a three weeks' +wonder--this poet whom everybody thought was dead, who, in his own +personality, had become but a faint name to those who still read and +were comforted by his poems. + +Very many of that distinguished company had met Gilbert Lothian. + +Nobody had known him well. His appearances in London society had been +fugitive and he had shown no desire to enter into the great world. But +still the best people had nearly all met him once or twice, and in the +minds of most of them, especially the women, there was a not ungrateful +memory of a man who talked well, had quite obviously no axe to grind, +no personal effort to further, who was only himself and pleased to be +where he was. + +They were all talking to each other in low voices, wondering what the +scandal was, wondering why Gilbert Lothian had disappeared, waked up to +the fact of him, when Lothian himself came upon the platform. + +Mr. Justice Harley vacated his seat and took the next chair, while +Lothian sat down on the right of the Chairman. + +Some people noticed--but those were only a very few--that the dark +figure of a clergyman in a monastic cape and cassock came upon the +platform at the same time and sat down in the far background. + +Afterwards, everybody said that they had noticed the entrance of Father +Joseph Edward and wondered at it. As a matter of fact hardly anybody +did. + +The Bishop rose and placed his hands upon the little table before him. + +He coughed. His voice was not quite as adequate as usual. + +This is what he said. "Mr. Gilbert Lothian, whose name all of you must +know and whose works I am sure most of you, like myself, have in the +most grateful remembrance, desires to address you." + +That was all the Bishop said--he made a motion with his hand and +Gilbert Lothian rose from his chair and took two steps to the front of +the platform. + +Those present saw a young man of medium height, neither fat nor slim, +and with a very beautiful face. It was pale but the contour was +perfect. Certainly it was very pale, but the eyes were bright and the +æsthetic look and personality of the poet fitted in very well with what +people had known of him in the past. + +Only Morton Sims, who was sitting within arm's reach of Lothian--and +perhaps half a dozen other people who knew rather more than the +rest--were startled at what seemed to be a transformation. + +As Lothian began to speak Father Joseph Edward glided from his seat, +and leant over the back of Dr. Morton Sims' chair. This was a rather +extraordinary proceeding and at any other time it would have been +immediately remarked upon. + +As it was, the first words which Gilbert Lothian spoke held the +audience so immediately that they forgot, or did not see the watchful +waiting "Abbot of Mullion." + +In the first place Gilbert Lothian was perfectly self-possessed. He was +so self-possessed that his initial sentence created a sensation. + +His way and manner were absolutely different from the ordinary +speaker--however self-possessed he may be. The poet's self-possession +had a quality of rigidity and automatism which thrilled every one. Yet, +it was not an automaton which spoke in the clear, vibrating voice that +Gilbert Lothian used. + +The voice was terrible in its appeal--even in the first sentence of the +memorable speech. It was the sense of a personality standing in bonds, +impelled and controlled by something outside it and above it--it was +this that hushed all movement and murmur, that focussed all eyes as the +poet began. + +The opening words of the poet were absolutely strange and +unconventional, but spoken quite simply and in very short sentences. + +In the first instance it had been decided that reporters were not to be +admitted to this Conference. Eventually that decision had been altered +and a gentleman representing the principal Press Agency, together with +a couple of assistants, sat at a small table just below the platform. + +It is from the shorthand transcript of the Press Agent and his +colleagues that the few words Gilbert Lothian spoke have been arranged +and set down here. + +Those who were present have read the words over and over again. + +They have remembered the gusts of emotion, of fear, of gladness--all +wafted from the wings of tragedy, and perhaps illuminated by the light +of Heaven, that passed through the Edward Hall on this afternoon. + +. . . He was speaking. + +"I have only a very few words to say. I want what I say to remain in +your minds. I am speaking to you, as I am speaking, for that reason. I +beg and pray that this will be of help. You see--" he made an +infinitely pathetic gesture of his hands and a wan smile came upon his +face--"You see you will be able to use my confession for the sake of +others. That is the reason----" + +Here Lothian stopped. His face became whiter than ever. His hand went +up to his throat as if there was some obstruction there. + +Bishop Moultrie handed him a glass of water. He took it, with a hand +that trembled exceedingly. He drank a little but spilt more than he +drank. + +The black clothed figure of the Priest half rose and took the glass +from the poet. All the people there sat very still. Some of them saw +the Priest hold up something before the speaker's face--a little bronze +something. A Crucifix. + +The Bishop covered his face with his hands and never looked up again. + +Gilbert went on. "You have come here," he said, "to make a combined +effort to kill alcoholism. I have come to show you in one single +instance what alcoholism means." + +Some one right at the back of the hall gave a loud hysterical sob. + +The speaker trembled, recovered himself by a great effort and went on. + +"I had everything;" he said with difficulty, "God gave me everything, +almost. I had money to live in comfort; I achieved a certain sort of +fame; my life, my private life, was surrounded by the most angelic and +loving care." + +His figure swayed, his voice fainted into a whisper. + +Dr. Morton Sims had now covered his face with his hands. + +Mrs. Julia Daly was staring at the speaker. Her eyes were just +interrogation. There was no horror upon her face. Her lips were parted. + +The man continued. + +"Drink," he said, "began in me, caught me up, twisted me, destroyed me. +The terrible False Ego, which many of you must know of, entered into my +mind, dominated, and destroyed it. + +"I was possessed of a devil. All decent thoughts, all the natural +happinesses of my station, all the gifts and pleasant outlooks upon +life which God had given went, not gradually, but swiftly away. +Something that was not myself came into me and made me move, and walk, +and talk as a minion of hell. + +"I do not know what measure of responsibility remained to me when I did +what I did. But this I know, that I have been and am the blackest, most +hideous criminal that lives to-day." + +The man's voice was trembling dreadfully now, quite unconsciously his +left hand was gripping the shoulder of the Abbot of Mullion. His eyes +blazed, his voice was so forlorn, so hopeless and poignant that there +was not a sound among the several hundreds there. + +"My lord,--" he turned to the Bishop with the very slightest +inclination of his head--"ladies and gentlemen, I killed my wife. + +"My wife--" The Bishop had risen from his chair and Father Joseph +Edward was supporting the swaying figure with the pale, earnest +face.--"My wife loved me, and kept me and held me and watched over me +as few men's wives have ever done. I stole poison with which to kill +her. I stole poison from, from you, doctor!" + +He turned to Dr. Morton Sims and the doctor sat in his seat as if +frozen to it by fear. + +"Yes! I stole it from you! You were away in Paris. You had been making +experiments. In the cupboard in the laboratory which you had taken from +old Admiral Custance, I knew that there were phials of organic poisons. +My wife died of diphtheria. She died of it because I had robbed +your bottles--I did so and took the poison home and arranged that +Mary. . . ." + +There was a loud murmur in the body of the hall. A loud murmur stabbed +with two or three faint shrieks from women. + +The Bishop again leant over the table with his hands over his face. + +Morton Sims was upon his feet. His hands were on Lothian's arm, his +voice was pleading. + +"No! no!" he stammered. "You mustn't say these things. You, you----" + +Gilbert Lothian looked into the face of his old friend for a second. + +Then he brushed his arm away and came right to the edge of the +platform. + +As he spoke once more he did not seem like any quite human person. + +His face was dead white, his hands fell at his sides--only his eyes +were awake and his voice was vibrant. + +"I am a murderer. I killed and murdered with cunning, long-continued +thought, the most sweet and saintly woman that I have ever known. She +was my wife. Why I did this I need not say. You can all make in your +minds and formulate the picture of a poisoned man lusting after a +strange woman. + +"But I did this. I did this thing--you shall hear it and it shall +reverberate in your minds. I am a murderer. I say it quite calmly, +waiting for the inevitable result, and I tell you that Alcohol, and +that Alcohol alone has made me what I am. + +"This, too, I must say. Disease, or demoniacal possession, as it may +be, I have emerged from both. I have held God's lamp to my breast. + +"There is only one cure for Alcoholism. There is only one influence +that can come and catch up and surround and help and comfort the sodden +man. + +"That is the influence of the Holy Spirit." + +As he concluded there was a loud uproar in the Edward Hall. + +Upon the platform the well-known people there were gazing at him, +surrounding him, saying, muttering this and that. + +The people in the body of the hall had risen in horrified groups and +were stretching out their hands towards the platform. + +The Meeting which had promised so much in the Cause of Temperance was +now totally dissolved--as far as its agenda went. + +The people dispersed very gradually, talking among themselves in low +and horror-struck voices. + +It was now a few minutes before five o'clock. + +In the Committee room--where the bright fire was still burning--Gilbert +Lothian remained. + +The Judge, the several peers, had hurried through without a glance at +the man sitting by the fireside. + +Lady Harold Buckingham, as she went through, had stopped, bowed, and +held out her hand. + +She had been astonished that Gilbert Lothian had risen, taken her hand +and spoken to her in quite the ordinary fashion of society. + +She too had gone. + +The Bishop had shaken Gilbert Lothian by the hand and nodded at him as +who should say, "Now we understand each other--Good-bye." + +Only Morton Sims, Julia Daly and the Priest had waited. + +They had not to wait long. + +There came a loud and authoritative knock at the door, within an hour +of the breaking up of the Conference. + +Gilbert Lothian rose, as a pleasant-looking man in dark clothes with a +heavy moustache entered the room. + +"Mr. Gilbert Lothian, I think," the pleasant-looking man said, staring +immediately at the poet. + +Gilbert made a slight inclination of his head. + +The pleasant-looking man pulled a paper out of his pocket and read +something. + +Gilbert bowed again. + +"It is only a short distance, Mr. Lothian," said the pleasant-looking +man cheerfully, "and I am sure you will go with me perfectly quietly." + +As he said it he gave a half jerk of his head towards the corridor +where, quite obviously, satellites were waiting. + +Gilbert Lothian put out his hands. One wrist was crossed over the +other. "I am not at all sure," he said, "that I shall come with you +quietly, so please put the manacles upon my wrists." + +The pleasant gentleman did so. Father Joseph Edward followed the +pleasant gentleman and Gilbert Lothian. + +As the little cortège turned out of the Committee room, Julia Daly +turned to Dr. Morton Sims. + +Her face was radiant. "Oh," she said, "at last I know!" + +"You know?" he said, horror still struggling within him, much as he +would have wished to control it, "you know nothing, Julia! You do not +know that the dreadful power of heredity has repeated itself within a +circumscribed pattern. You do not know that this man, Lothian, has +done--in his own degree and in his own way--just what a bastard brother +of his did two years ago. The man who was begotten by Gilbert Lothian's +father killed his wife. Gilbert Lothian has done so too." + +The woman put her hands upon the other's shoulders and looked squarely +into his face. + +"Oh, John," she said--it was the first time she had ever called him by +his Christian name--"Oh, John, be blind no more. This afternoon our +Cause has been given an Impetus such as it has never had before. + +"Just think how splendidly Gilbert Lothian is going to his shameful +death." + +"Oh, it won't be death. We shall make interest and it will be penal +servitude for life." + +Julia Daly made a slight motion of her hands. + +"As you will," she said, "and as you wish. I think he would prefer +death. But if he is to endure a longer punishment, that also will bring +him nearer, and nearer, and nearer to his Mary." + + + + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber's note: + +Inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been +retained as printed. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41139 *** |