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diff --git a/41139-8.txt b/41139-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b5da345..0000000 --- a/41139-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15642 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Drunkard, by Cyril Arthur Edward Ranger -Gull - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - - - - -Title: The Drunkard - - -Author: Cyril Arthur Edward Ranger Gull - - - -Release Date: October 22, 2012 [eBook #41139] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DRUNKARD*** - - -E-text prepared by Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by -the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) - - - -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 THE DRUNKARD*** - - -******* This file should be named 41139-8.txt or 41139-8.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/1/1/3/41139 - - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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