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diff --git a/old/56013-h/56013-h.htm b/old/56013-h/56013-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index dfa7863..0000000 --- a/old/56013-h/56013-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11260 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <title> - The White Dove, by William J. Locke - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} - .x-small {font-size: 75%;} - .small {font-size: 85%;} - .large {font-size: 115%;} - .x-large {font-size: 130%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Dove, by William J. Locke - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The White Dove - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: November 20, 2017 [EBook #56013] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE DOVE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE WHITE DOVE - </h1> - <h2> - By William J. Locke - </h2> - <h4> - New York: John Lane Company - </h4> - <h3> - 1899 - </h3> - <h5> - “<i>O White Dove of the Pity Divine</i>” —J. H. Skunk - </h5> - <p> - <br /> <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:65%;"> - <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE WHITE DOVE</b> </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I—FATHER AND SON </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II—THE SHADOW IN A LIFE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III—SYLVESTER CONSULTS THE STARS - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV—LEROUX SPEAKS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V—DE MORTUIS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI—THE WALDEN ART COLONY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII—THE DANGEROUS HOUR </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII—TRIUMPH </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX—DAMON AND PYTHIAS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X—SYLVESTER DOES BATTLE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI—UNREST </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII—THE CAUSE WANES </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII—THE USES OF ADVERSITY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV—AT AYRESFORD </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV—A STRIP OF PINK PAPER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI—AT BAY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII—A WEDDING EVE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII—FELLOW-TRAVELLERS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX—THE SWORD FALLS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX—“OH, WHITE DOVE OF THE PITY - DIVINE” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI—HERITAGE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII—A GLORIOUS WORLD </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE WHITE DOVE - </h1> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I—FATHER AND SON - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“L</span> IFE is a - glorious thing,” said the girl. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester Lanyon looked at her half in amusement, half in wistfulness. - There was no doubt whatever of her sincerity. Therein lay the pathetic. To - reply that the shadow of death and suffering clouded life's glory was too - obvious a rejoinder. So he smiled and said,— - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “We ought to conquer it, make it our own, and live it to the full.” - </p> - <p> - “If it is to be conquered by us weak wretches, it can't be such a glorious - thing,” he remarked. - </p> - <p> - “But who said we were weak wretches?” she retorted. “You're not one, and - I'm not one!” She laughed, flushing a little. “No, I'm not,” she repeated. - </p> - <p> - If Sylvester Lanyon had been endowed with the power of graceful words, - here was a chance for a pretty compliment. It was challenged by the girl's - self-conscious glance and by the splendid vitality of her youth; for Ella - Defries usually carried the air of a conqueror with a certain sweet - insolence. Some such idea passed vaguely through his mind, but, unable to - express it, he said, shifting his ground lamely,— - </p> - <p> - “You see I'm getting elderly.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense!” she said. “You're only five and thirty. My own age to a day.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite follow,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “A woman is always ten years older than a man. You ought to know that.” - </p> - <p> - “And that proves?” - </p> - <p> - “That you ought to go into the world and win fame and mix with the - brilliant men and women in London who can appreciate you.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't want to mix with more brilliant men and women than those who are - under this <i>roof of Woodlands</i>,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - Ella flushed again, but this time she drooped her eyes and bent her head - over her sewing for some time abandoned. A smile played round her lips. - </p> - <p> - “Your Aunt Agatha, for instance.” - </p> - <p> - “No, dear soul. The other two.” - </p> - <p> - He rose and filled his pipe from a tobacco jar on the mantel-piece. The - room, furnished with the solid mahogany and leather of a bygone - generation, was his father's particular den, where, however, of all rooms - in the house, he was least likely to find the privacy for which it was set - apart. Ella, during her periodical visits to Ayresford, calmly monopolised - it; Sylvester strolled in naturally from his widowed house over the way; - Miss Agatha Lanyon, although she pretended to cough at the smoke, would - leave her knitting promiscuously about on chairs and tables, while the - little grandchild Dorothy spilled the ink with impunity over the Turkey - carpet. - </p> - <p> - There was a silence while Sylvester lit his pipe and settled down again in - the leathern armchair by the fire. - </p> - <p> - “I want no better company than the dear old man's, and yours,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “My conversation is not fit for an intellectual man,” said Ella, with a - humility that contrasted with her conquering attitude of a few moments - before. - </p> - <p> - “You are a very clever girl,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - She shook her head with a little air of scorn and threw her sewing on the - table. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no. It pleases my vanity to think so. But what do I know in - comparison with you? What can I do? You go to a bedside and hold the keys - of life and death in your hand. To you, all the hidden forces and - mysteries of nature are every-day commonplaces. Professor Steinthal of - Vienna, whom I met the other day at Lady Milmo's, told me that, if you - chose, you could become the greatest bacteriologist in Europe.” - </p> - <p> - “Did he say that?” asked Sylvester, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, and that is why you ought to go away and live in London and fulfil - your life gloriously.” - </p> - <p> - A look of amusement came into his grave eyes, and lit for a moment the - sombreness of a face prematurely careworn. - </p> - <p> - “I <i>am</i> going to London,” he said. “I sold the practice this - morning.” - </p> - <p> - Ella rose from her chair impetuously. “Why didn't you tell me at once, - instead of letting me say all these silly things? It is just like a man.” - </p> - <p> - “You took my apathy so much for granted,” he said, laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I am a weak wretch, after all,” said Ella. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester put down his pipe and stood by her side. - </p> - <p> - “It is really all your doing, Ella. This is not the first time you have - pointed out my way to me. And it won't be the last, will it?” - </p> - <p> - There was a note of pathetic appeal in his tone that made her heart beat a - little faster. Of all the phases of his manhood that her instinctive - feminine alertness had caused him to present to her, this one moved her - the most strongly. An unwonted shy tenderness came into her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “It is for you to settle that,” she said. - </p> - <p> - He looked at her for a moment as if about to speak, but some inward - conflict seemed to check the words. A man's memories and dead loves rise - up sometimes and stare at him in sad reproach. - </p> - <p> - “I wish I had the gift of speech,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “What do you want to say?” she asked gently. - </p> - <p> - He smiled whimsically. “If I could tell you that, I should have the gift.” - </p> - <p> - “You'll let me see something of you in London, won't you?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course! Whom else should I want to see? Frodsham's practice is a - large one—I am buying a share, you know. A specialist generally has - his hands full. I shall have neither the time nor the desire to go about - butterflying. Besides, it is only a few people that like me. I'm generally - looked upon as a 'stick.'” - </p> - <p> - His head had been turned aside; and while there had been no danger of his - glance, Ella had scanned his face as a girl does that of a man who is - already something more to her than friend or brother. It was thin and - intellectual, somewhat careworn, with deep vertical lines between the - brows. The hair was black and wavy, thinning a little over the temples; - the features well cut and sensitive; the eyes, deeply sunken, possessing - keenness, but little brilliance; a moustache, standing well away at each - end from the cheeks, accentuated their sharp contours. Yet in spite of the - intellectual delicacy of the face, the tanned, rough skin, corresponding - with the well-knit wiriness of his frame, gave assurance of strong - physical health. - </p> - <p> - The last epithet in his remarks, so at variance with the character she was - idealising from her scrutiny, moved her ready indignation. - </p> - <p> - “I should like to have, a quarter of an hour with the fool that said so!” - she exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “You are loyal to your friends,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - They discussed the point. Ella let loose the fine scorn of five and twenty - for the shallow society that could not appreciate a man of his calibre. - Her championship was sweet for him to hear. For some time past he had been - gradually growing conscious of the force that this sympathetic - intelligence and this warm nature were bringing into his life. Unwittingly - he had revealed the fact to Ella. As woman, and especially the fresh girl, - is responsive, and gives bit by bit of herself, as it is craved, Ella, - when she looked into her heart, found much that had been yielded. The - situation therefore was sweet and delicate. - </p> - <p> - “My going will be a blow to my father,” he said after a while. “I hardly - like to tell him.” - </p> - <p> - “He wouldn't stand in your way,” said Ella. “He's not like that. We have - talked it over scores of times. He is as anxious as I am for you to take - your proper place in the world.” - </p> - <p> - “Dear old fellow,” said Sylvester, his face brightening. “He would cut off - both his feet for me, gladly. But he would feel the pain all the same.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, who wouldn't love him?” said Ella. - </p> - <p> - “I wish I had a father.” - </p> - <p> - “We'll go shares in him,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “His heart is big enough.” - </p> - <p> - And again the girl coloured and felt very happy, as if the puzzle of her - life were being explained to her. - </p> - <p> - “And Dorothy?” - </p> - <p> - “That's where the difficulty comes in. Would London be good for her?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not leave her here?” - </p> - <p> - Ella looked at him sharply and saw, as she had expected, the alarm on his - face. - </p> - <p> - “You don't know what she is to me,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “It would cheer Uncle Matthew when you 're gone. He is devoted to her.” - </p> - <p> - He was silent awhile. The thought of parting from the child, the living - memory of his dead wife; was a pang whose intensity he could not express - even to Ella. She was seven. For four years he had brought her up alone in - his own house, under the care of an old family servant who had taught her - to read, and say her prayers, and use her knife and fork in a way - befitting her station. The rest of her tiny education Sylvester himself - had seen to. She was his constant companion, abroad and at home. - </p> - <p> - He could talk to her as it was in his power to—talk to no one else, - almost persuading himself that her innocent clear eyes saw into the depths - of his heart. To leave her behind was a prospect filled with unspeakable - dismay. - </p> - <p> - “It's a weary world,” he said, by way of generalisation. - </p> - <p> - “It isn't!” cried Ella. “It's a glorious world, full of love and heroism - and beauty. I won't have my dear world abused! It is sweet to be alive in - it, to use all one's faculties, to go about among men and women, to hear - the rain, to smell the hay—” - </p> - <p> - “And get hay fever and then come to me—the misanthrope—to cure - you. Paganism generally ends that way.” - </p> - <p> - “I should call your being able to cure me a very beautiful thing too,” she - exclaimed conclusively. “Isn't your knowledge of healing a glorious - thing?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't tell me about the child gathering pebbles by the sea-shore.” It - was modesty on Newton's part, but mock modesty on that of the people who - quote him now. “Children can pick up a tremendous lot of pebbles in two - hundred years!” - </p> - <p> - The door opened and Matthew Lanyon stood on the threshold, with an amused - smile on his grave face. For the girl had been speaking with animation, - and the fresh colour in her cheeks and the happiness in her eyes made her - goodly to look upon. - </p> - <p> - “Syl annihilated as usual?” he asked, coming forward. - </p> - <p> - “I hope so. He won't be converted, Uncle Matthew. What do you think of the - world? Isn't it a beautiful world?” - </p> - <p> - “Since it holds you, my dear, how could it be otherwise?” - </p> - <p> - She laughed and looked at Sylvester with some coquetry. Here was a lesson - in compliment by which he might profit. Sylvester thrust forward an - armchair for his father. - </p> - <p> - “Tired?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not. What has a healthy man got to do with being tired? No, my - dear Ella, please don't. You know I disapprove of cushions. They are for - the young and delicate.” - </p> - <p> - “Where shall we haye tea?” asked Ella. “Here, or in the drawing-room? Aunt - Agatha is in her district.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, here, then, by all means. We can have it comfortably.” - </p> - <p> - Ella rang the bell and cleared an occasional table of a litter of pipes, - cigar-boxes, and papers. Matthew Lanyon lay back in his chair with the air - of a man who had earned his home comforts, and stretched out his feet to - the fire. Then he put his invariable question,— - </p> - <p> - “How's Dorothy?” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester replied, gave the usual bulletin as to her health, recounted the - small incidents in the child's day. She had driven with him on his rounds - that morning; during one of the waits had urgently requested Peck, the - coachman, to die forthwith—straight and stiff—so that she - might have the pleasure of seeing how her father brought him to life - again. Her mind had been much exercised by a picture in the Family Bible - of the raising of Jairus' daughter, and had identified her parent with the - chief actor in the scene. - </p> - <p> - Tea arrived during the narration. Matthew listened with amused interest, - for his son and his son's child were the dearest things earth held for - him. His wife had died many years ago, when Sylvester was just emerging - from boyhood and the great glory had gone out of his heaven. But his love - for Sylvester had deepened, and of late years the sad parallelism of their - widowed lives had drawn the two men very near together. In many ways they - were singularly alike, the mere facial resemblance stamping them at the - first glance as father and son; both were grave, intellectual-looking men, - of the same clean, wiry make, with an air of reserve and good breeding - that commanded respect. But the older man possessed that peculiar grace of - manner, called nowadays of the old school, which the brusquer habits of - more modern times have forbidden to flourish. Both faces bore the marks of - suffering; but the passage of the years had chastened that of the father, - who looked more frankly at the world than the son and out of kindlier grey - eyes. He was a little over sixty, his hair whitening fast; still he held - himself erect, and scoffed satirically at old age. - </p> - <p> - “The prime of life, my dear sir,” he would say, “the heyday of existence! - Up to sixty a man gathers his experience and tears his fingers dreadfully. - After sixty he can sit down quietly and enjoy it and let his fingers - heal.” - </p> - <p> - There was a pause in the talk, and the three sat, as they often did, - content to be together, looking into the fire and thinking their own - thoughts. Perhaps the girl's were the happiest. The room had darkened, and - the firelight played on their faces gathered round the hearth. Suddenly - Sylvester spoke. - </p> - <p> - “I was talking to Ella about my plans, father, before you came in.” - </p> - <p> - “A very sensible person to talk to,” said Matthew. - </p> - <p> - “I've burned my ships. I have sold the practice and am going to join - Frodsham in London.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm very glad indeed to hear it,” said the old man; “you should have done - it years ago.” - </p> - <p> - His voice was suave and even, but the keen eye of the physician detected a - trembling of the fingers resting on the broad leathern arm of the chair. - </p> - <p> - “I don't at all like to leave you,” said Sylvester, feeling guilty. - Matthew waved away the reluctance. - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense, my boy. I'm not a cripple that requires to be taken care of. - Grown up men can't be for ever hanging on to—I was going to say, to - each other's apron strings. London is your place. Perhaps after a time, - when I am dead and gone,—a man must die some day, you know,—you'll - like to come back to the old house and devote yourself entirely to - research and be independent of two guinea fees and that kind of thing. - That would be nice, wouldn't it, Ella?” - </p> - <p> - The girl's heart throbbed at the share implied, but a tenderer feeling - quieted it at once. - </p> - <p> - “It would be impossible without you, Uncle Matthew,” she said. - </p> - <p> - He rose with a laugh. “None of us are indispensable, not even the most - futile. I'm going to dress. You'll dine here, of course, Syl? And, Ella, - tell them to get up some of the '84' Pommery to drink good luck to Syl.” - </p> - <p> - He walked out of the room with the brisk air of a man thoroughly pleased - with life; but outside, in the passage, his face grew sad, and he mounted - the stairs to his dressing-room very slowly, holding on to the balusters. - </p> - <p> - The younger folks remained for a while longer in the library. Sylvester - bent forward and broke a great lump of coal with the poker. - </p> - <p> - “I'm not fit to black his boots, you know, My companionship means much - more to him than Dorothy's does to me, and he gives it up without a - murmur.” - </p> - <p> - “And that settles the Dorothy question?” asked Ella, in the direct manner - that sometimes embarrassed him. - </p> - <p> - “Of course it settles it,” he cried warmly. “What a selfish beast you must - have thought me!” - </p> - <p> - “If you didn't love others so warmly, I shouldn't—” - </p> - <p> - She came to a dead stop because his eyes were full upon her. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “I shouldn't care for you so much.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you care very much for me?” he asked rather wistfully, and came to - where she was standing with one foot on the fender. - </p> - <p> - “You know I would do anything in the world you asked,” she answered in a - low voice. - </p> - <p> - “Some day I may claim your promise.” - </p> - <p> - “You know I always keep my promises,” she said. - </p> - <p> - The dressing bell clanged loudly through the house. Sylvester hurriedly - departed so as to dress in time for dinner. But Ella lingered by the fire, - the girl in her wondering whether she had said too much, and the woman in - her filled with a delicious pity for the strong-brained, deep-natured man - who seemed dumbly to be holding out his hands for her love. She gave it - generously and gratefully. Compared with him, all other men seemed of - small account, and in her aunt Lady Milmo's house, where most of her life - was spent, she had seen all the sorts and conditions of males that a - well-to-do collector of minor celebrities can gather around her in London. - But to her direct mind the truest men of her acquaintance were Matthew - Lanyon, her former guardian, whose title of uncle was purely one of - courtesy, and Sylvester, with whom the old quasi-cousinly relations were - being transmuted into sweeter ties. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II—THE SHADOW IN A LIFE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ather and son sat - together in the dining-room, smoking their after-dinner cigars, and - speaking very little, as their custom was when together. With its - snow-white table-cloth set off by the glass and cut flowers and the rich - purple of the old port in the decanter; with its picture-hung walls, its - massive mahogany sideboard gleaming with silver, amid which displayed - itself opulently a huge salver presented to Matthew Lanyon, Esquire, by - his fellow-townsmen on the completion of his third year of mayoralty; with - its great red-shaded lamp suspended over the table, and its dark marble - fireplace,—the room had an air of warmth and generous comfort that - spoke of a long continuance of worldly ease. In his younger days Matthew - Lanyon had roved about the world, picking up much knowledge of men in new - lands where life was rude, and a little money wherewith to start a career - when he returned to civilisation. His return was speedier than either - himself or his friends had anticipated. The latter beheld him married to a - sweet flower-like girl whom he had met not long before in Australia; but - more than this they did not learn. He was not given to offering - information as to his doings, and there was that suggestion of haughtiness - behind his frank young smile which forbade questioning. He was there; his - wife was there. The friends must accept both on their merits. He had - served his articles as a solicitor before leaving England. He turned to - his profession for maintenance and bought a share in a cousin's practice - in Ayresford. He was to have made his fortune, gone away again with his - young wife into the wide world, and seen all the wonders that it held. But - as in the case of many other young dreams, it seemed otherwise to the - gods. Wealth had come quickly, and he had added gradually to his little - home until it had become a great house, and his cousin had died, and his - wife had died, and in Ayresford he had lived all the time, married and - widowed, and now the longing for change had gone, and in Ayresford he - hoped that he himself would die, in the home endeared to him by so many - memories, in the bed consecrated by the pale sweet shadow of her who even - now seemed to lie by his side. - </p> - <p> - Wealth had come, yet much of it had gone; how, no man knew but himself and - one other; he had toiled hard to win it, was toiling hard at sixty to win - it back. And how strenuously he toiled, again no man knew; least of all - his son. - </p> - <p> - The desultory talk had drooped. Suddenly Matthew Lanyon plunged his hand - in the breast pocket of his dress-coat and drew out an old-fashioned - miniature, which, after regarding it for a few moments, he handed to - Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “I've been rummaging about to-day and found this. Perhaps you'd like to - have it.” - </p> - <p> - “My mother!” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - It was a portrait, on ivory, of a singularly sweet face, possessing the - tender, unearthly purity of one of Lorenzo di Credi's Madonnas, executed - when the original was very young, a few months, in fact, before Sylvester - was born. - </p> - <p> - “A very good likeness,” said Matthew. - </p> - <p> - “I shall be glad to keep it,” replied the son, putting it into his pocket. - </p> - <p> - “I thought you would,” assented the elder. - </p> - <p> - “It will be a companion to my miniature of Constance,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - And then silence came again; for memories crowded into the minds of each - that they knew not how to speak of. Yet each knew that the other was - thinking of his dead wife and wished that he could burst the strange bonds - of reserve that held him and speak out that which was in his heart. - </p> - <p> - “It's a devil of a muddle, isn't it?” said Matthew at last. - </p> - <p> - “What?” - </p> - <p> - “The cosmos. And the more one tries to establish order, the worse - confounded becomes the confusion. The high gods seem to have given it up - as a bad job.” - </p> - <p> - “That reminds me,” said Sylvester, with a laugh. “I found Billings to-day - having a glorious drunk on champagne. For a man earning twenty-five - shillings a week, with a large family to support and a wife half dying of - pneumonia, I thought it rather strong.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew rose from his chair, his brows bent and his eyes kindling with - sudden anger. - </p> - <p> - “The damned hound! What did you do with him?” - </p> - <p> - “I took him outside so as not to disturb his wife and then I kicked him - until he was sober,” replied Sylvester, grimly. “I wonder who could have - sent the champagne.” - </p> - <p> - “Some silly fool,” said Matthew, nursing his wrath. - </p> - <p> - “Yet nearer to heaven than most of us,” said Sylvester, knocking the ash - off his cigar. - </p> - <p> - “Rubbish!” said Matthew. “Besides, silly fools don't go to heaven. There's - no place for 'em.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think Billings will rob his wife again,” remarked Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you can send him up to me in the morning.” - </p> - <p> - “I think he'd sooner have another kicking,” laughed Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - A picture rose before him of the reprobate cringing before his father, - wriggling at each sentence as at a whip lash, and going away with two more - bottles of wine that would burn his dirty hands like hot bricks. He - laughed, but Matthew thrust both hands in his pockets and stood with feet - apart on the hearth-rug. - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever hear of such a mean skunk?” - </p> - <p> - “You will never fathom the depth of human meanness, father, if you live to - be a hundred.” - </p> - <p> - “I thank you for the compliment, Syl,” replied the old man, drily, “but I - happen to think otherwise. May you never live to know it as I do.” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Usher, sir,” said the servant, suddenly throwing open the door. - </p> - <p> - Matthew started, and glanced instinctively at his son. Sylvester, who had - been struck by an unusual note of emotion in his father's voice, was - looking at him curiously. So their eyes met in a mutual sensitive glance, - and Matthew flushed slightly beneath his tanned and care-lined skin. - </p> - <p> - “Confound Usher!” muttered Sylvester, irritably. - </p> - <p> - An elderly man of about Matthew's age appeared, white-bearded, - gold-spectacled, wearing a tightly buttoned frock-coat. He was of heavy - build and had loose lips and dull watery eyes, the lids faintly rimmed - with blood-red. He came forward into the room with extended hand. - </p> - <p> - “My dear friend, how are you this evening?” he said with a curious - deliberation, as if he had duly sucked each word before he spat it out. - “And, Sylvester, my dear lad, how are you? I have been very unwell to-day, - and the weather has increased my sufferings. You notice that there is a - wheezing in my bronchial tubes. Yet I thought I must come to see you this - evening in spite of the weather. I said to Olivia, 'It is a duty, and I - must fulfil it.'” - </p> - <p> - “Pray sit down, Usher,” said Matthew, politely. “Let me pass you the - port.” - </p> - <p> - “A little port wine would be very good for me. I cannot afford port wine, - Matthew, like you, or I should drink it habitually. I should think this - was very expensive.” - </p> - <p> - He smacked his loose lips and held the glass up to the light. - </p> - <p> - “It is a sound wine,” said Matthew. - </p> - <p> - “If you would not put too high a price on it,” said the other, in his - monotonous voice, “perhaps I might buy some from you. What would you - charge?” - </p> - <p> - “In the market it would fetch about a hundred and eighty shillings a - dozen,” said Sylvester, savagely. - </p> - <p> - But his father raised a hand in courteous deprecation. - </p> - <p> - “I am not a wine-merchant, Usher, and am not in the habit of retailing my - cellar. But if you'd accept a dozen, I should be very pleased to send it - round to you.” - </p> - <p> - “I will accept it with great pleasure,” said Usher, blandly. “It would - hurt your feelings if I refused your generosity. Have you ever remarked - how generous your father is, Sylvester?” - </p> - <p> - The young man moved impatiently in his chair. He could never understand - the almost lifelong intimacy that existed between his father and this old - man, Usher, whom he held in cordial detestation. So he said nothing, while - the guest took a fresh sip of wine, and rolled it appreciatively over his - tongue. - </p> - <p> - “Your father and I were young men together in Australia, Sylvester,” he - remarked. “Youth is a glorious time, and its friendships last. I never - forget my old friends.” - </p> - <p> - “The sentiment does you credit, Usher,” said Matthew. - </p> - <p> - The servant entered with the London evening paper just sent from the - railway bookstall. Usher held out a large soft hand for it, and the - servant retired. - </p> - <p> - “I want to see what has happened in the Trevelyan divorce case,” he said, - unfolding the paper. “I have followed it closely.” - </p> - <p> - A <i>cause celebre</i> was setting England whispering and sniggering, and - there were many like Usher who scanned the columns of the newspapers - that evening in pleased anticipation. But Sylvester expressed his - distaste. - </p> - <p> - “How can you read it? The air is reeking sufficiently with the nastiness - already.” - </p> - <p> - “I am interested,” replied Usher. “I think nothing human alien to me. <i>Nil - humani</i>, as we used to say at school. I remember my classics. I have a - very good memory. Here it is. The jury found Mrs. Trevelyan guilty of - adultery with the co-respondent. Damages £5000 and costs. The judge - pronounced a decree <i>nisi</i>; the husband to have custody of the - children. I pity the poor woman.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't,” said Sylvester, shortly. “Such women are better dead.” - </p> - <p> - “No doubt you are right,” returned Usher. “The sacred principles of - morality ought to be upheld at any cost. I have always upheld morality. - What do you think, Matthew?” The old man looked steadily at his finger - nails and replied in a dispassionate voice,— - </p> - <p> - “One never knows what lies behind.” Sylvester rose and shrugged his - shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “Wantonness and baseness lie behind. I have no patience with misplaced - sympathy in such cases. Here is this woman you are reading about,—she - betrayed her husband, deserted her children. She deserves no pity.” - </p> - <p> - Usher waggled his head indulgently. - </p> - <p> - “I am a Christian man,” he said, “and I have a tender heart. I have always - had a tender heart, Matthew.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester laughed and threw the end of his cigar into the fire. He was - half ashamed of having been betrayed into a display of deep feeling before - one whom he considered a shallow egotist. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I haven't,” he said. “I'm going up to the drawing-room. Perhaps - you'll join me.” - </p> - <p> - He nodded to his father and left the room. Matthew edged his chair further - from the fire, and wiped his lips and brow with his handkerchief. - </p> - <p> - “You are getting too warm,” said Usher. - </p> - <p> - “The room is hot. When you have finished your wine, we may as well follow - Sylvester.” - </p> - <p> - Usher poured out another glass. - </p> - <p> - “I am very comfortable,” he said. “I always am here. You must be proud to - have a son with such sentiments as Sylvester.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew rose abruptly from his seat, clenched his hands by his side, and - bit a quivering lip. Evidently he was mastering something. - </p> - <p> - “Drink your wine and come upstairs,” he said. - </p> - <p> - The other looked at him askance and hesitated. Then yielding, as it were, - to compulsion, he gulped down the contents of his glass and rose with - watery eyes. - </p> - <p> - “It was a sin to do that,” he said with a sigh. “You always were an - unreasonable fellow, Matthew. I only said I was glad that Sylvester held - such opinions. Most young men nowadays are shockingly lax in their - principles.” Matthew did not reply, but with cold, imperturbable face - opened the door for him to pass out. Usher hung back. - </p> - <p> - “I must speak to you about my son Roderick. Business before pleasure. It - has been my constant rule in life.” - </p> - <p> - “What has Roderick been doing now?” asked Matthew, closing the door again. - </p> - <p> - “He is bringing my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave again,” replied - Usher. “My son and your son—what a difference, Matthew! 'Tis - sharper than—” - </p> - <p> - “Rubbish! What's the matter, man?” - </p> - <p> - “A serpents tooth, to have a thankless child. I dislike being interrupted. - Matthew, Roderick has gone to the Jews. The bills have fallen due. They - won't renew, and if they are not paid, they'll put him in prison. I cannot - have my son in prison.” - </p> - <p> - “Get him out, then,” replied Matthew. “I can't do more for him than I do. - I promised, years ago, that what Sylvester had, Roderick should have, and, - by Heaven! I've kept my promise. I can't do more. You can't draw blood - from a stone.” - </p> - <p> - “As if any one ever wanted to. Proverbs are foolish. I never make use of - proverbs. I think you must take up those bills.” - </p> - <p> - “And if I don't?” - </p> - <p> - Usher shrugged his shoulders and, sitting down again, refilled his glass - and held it up to the light. Matthew stood on the hearth-rug, his hands - behind him, and regarded him impassively. - </p> - <p> - “I gave you Roderick's quarterly allowance only a short while ago. What - has he done with it?” - </p> - <p> - “I do not know,” said Usher, impressively, turning his dull venerable face - towards him. “He has nearly ruined me already.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you brought his letters with you?” - </p> - <p> - “I burned his letters. It is imprudent to keep compromising letters. But I - have made out a statement of affairs.” - </p> - <p> - Usher took from his pocket a double sheet of foolscap, smoothed it out and - examined it deliberately, then handed it to Matthew. The latter glanced - through the statement. His lips quivered for a moment. - </p> - <p> - “This is practically fraud,” he said. “A magistrate might commit on it, a - jury find a verdict of guilty, and then—” - </p> - <p> - “His dear mother's memory,” said Usher, wagging his head solemnly. - </p> - <p> - Matthew involuntarily clenched the paper tight in his hand. - </p> - <p> - “Damn you!” he said. Then he repeated it. “Damn you!” - </p> - <p> - But Usher stretched out a deprecating hand and spoke in tones of gentle - reproach. - </p> - <p> - “You must be calm, my dear friend. I am always calm. I have never said a - word in all my life that I have had cause to regret. Not even this - morning, when Olivia with great carelessness destroyed a new book-plate. - And it was a very valuable book-plate. It belonged to Hugh, the first Earl - of Lawford, of Edward III.'s creation.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you aware that your own son is in danger of penal servitude?” asked - Matthew, sharply. - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course. Is not that my reason for coming to you? I put the matter - into your hands, as lawyer and friend and second father to my erring boy, - and I am content. Yes, I am content, for I have trust in you. Shall we go - up now and join the ladies?” Matthew bit the end off another cigar and - lighted it. Then, as if his guest had made the most natural and relevant - proposal in the world, he said with a courtesy not devoid of grimness,—“My - sister is not feeling very well this evening, and the young folks might be - happier alone together, so perhaps we'll not go upstairs. And as this - affair of Roderick's will give me some thinking, you'll excuse me if I - leave you shortly.” - </p> - <p> - “You are right,” replied Usher, rising ponderously. “The night air is not - good for me. I suffer much from my bronchial tubes. I must have some one - fitter than Olivia to nurse me. Servants are never grateful for the - bounties one heaps on them. If only Miss Defries would look upon Roderick - as favourably as she does upon Sylvester, how happily things could be - arranged.” - </p> - <p> - There was not a spark of cunning or rearward thought in his dim, - unspeculative eyes. Yet Matthew felt a sudden pang of suspicion at his - last words, and scanned his face intently. Was it the first hint of some - scheme long maturing in his dull yet tenacious brain, or the mere surface - fancy of the egotist? He could not tell, although he flattered himself - that he knew the man's soul as a priest his breviary,—every line and - phrase, every thumb-mark and dog's ear. - </p> - <p> - “I think the less said about Roderick for some time, the better,” he - remarked, ringing the bell. Then before the servant came, he said - suddenly,— - </p> - <p> - “But, by Heaven! this is the last time. Understand that. Once more, and I - break down the whole structure though it kill me—carry the war into - your quarters and tell Roderick all.” - </p> - <p> - Usher's face was shadowed by a faint smile. - </p> - <p> - “My dear friend, Roderick has known all his life. I could never leave my - son in ignorance. I gave him the best training.” - </p> - <p> - The servant appeared. Usher extended his hand, which the other touched - mechanically, and in another moment was gone, leaving Matthew staring - incredulously, conscious of utter dismay. - </p> - <p> - “Is he lying?” he asked himself, a short while later, as he paced the - library, whither he had betaken himself with the moneylending document. - “Can the boy be such a blackguard? He must be lying.” But how base the lie - was in reality, even he could not surmise. - </p> - <p> - The boy was a man of forty now, yet Matthew had watched and paid for every - step upward and downward in his career. He remembered him a handsome and - wayward child, a wild lad, a young man brilliant in promise, yet unstable - as water, excelling in naught. He had seen him by turns poet, painter, - journalist, social reformer, musical critic, dramatist, always obtaining - successes of estimation, always floating iridescent and futile as froth on - the waves of literary and artistic London. What Roderick was doing now, he - did not know. For some time past he had heard little of him. Now he had - come to light again somewhat luridly. A foolish friend had backed bills - under false representations. The Jews were pressing, the friend - recalcitrant. It was a criminal matter. If he were guilty of this, why not - of that knowledge of which his father boasted so cynically? Matthew's face - grew worn and hard. He unlocked a safe, drew therefrom a small padlocked - ledger, and sitting down at his desk began to pore over its contents. - Roderick must be saved this time at any cost, for his mother's sake, as - Usher had remarked. At the reminiscence Matthew reiterated his execration. - </p> - <p> - After long, anxious thought, he made a rough calculation on a scrap of - paper, and leaning back in his chair regarded it until something dim, like - tears, came across his vision. - </p> - <p> - “My poor Syl,” he said, “I have to rob you—for your own happiness.” - </p> - <p> - And at that moment, just outside the door stood Sylvester and Ella bidding - each other good-night. The full glow of the hall lamp shone down upon her - radiant young face, as he held both her hands in his, and made a glinting - aureole of her hair. Suddenly he laughed awkwardly and kissed her; with a - half-mirthful, half-reproachful “Oh, you shouldn't!” she snatched away her - hands and ran up the stairs. He stood and watched the last gleam of her - skirts disappear and then entered his father's room. - </p> - <p> - Matthew closed his ledger and looked up with one of his rare smiles. - </p> - <p> - “Going, Syl?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. I 've been sent for, as usual. It's all very well for me to work at - this ungodly hour. I'm a medical man, and I'm young. But I don't like to - see you at it. You 're overdoing it, father.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense!” replied Matthew, cheerily; “I'm as strong as a horse and - younger than you are. Besides, I was only amusing myself, like the king in - his counting-house, counting out my money.” - </p> - <p> - He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and stretched himself contentedly in his - chair. - </p> - <p> - “Usher kept me a long time,” he continued, “telling me one of his - interminable yarns—<i>a dormir debout</i>, as the French say.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't think how you stand him,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you can stand a devil of a lot if you try,” said the old man, - laughing. “Have some whisky before you go?” - </p> - <p> - But Syl pleaded urgency, went out for hat and coat, and returned ready for - departure. His father accompanied him to the front door. - </p> - <p> - “By the way, Syl,” he said, “do you really think so hardly of the woman - who sins, or was it only that Usher made you contradictious?” - </p> - <p> - “I think a woman must be pure and chaste. If she falls, she falls for - ever. Why do you ask?” - </p> - <p> - “I only wanted to know if you were genuine.” - </p> - <p> - “It is the most sacred of my convictions,” said Sylvester, gravely. - </p> - <p> - The two men shook hands, and the door closed behind Sylvester. The father - listened to his quick footsteps crunching the gravel until the sound died - away. Then he turned and sighed. - </p> - <p> - “My poor lad, God help you,” he said. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III—SYLVESTER CONSULTS THE STARS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ylvester walked - home from his case, along the undulating high-road patched with moonlight - and shadow, swinging his stick. The night was crisp with a touch of frost, - and the air smelt sweet. Now and then a workingman regaining his home - after town convivialities, passed him by with a salute to which he replied - with a cheerier good-night than usual. One he stopped, and discoursed with - him at length on family ailments, much to the man's surprise; for - Sylvester was renowned far and wide for his shy silence as well as for his - skill. Once he began to whistle an air, wofully out of tune, and then - broke into a short laugh. - </p> - <p> - Yes, Ella was right. It was good to be alive, to feel heart and brain and - body on the alert, responsive to outer things. But whence had come the - change? It was years since he had felt so young and conscious of power. - Was it the touch of a girl's fresh cheek against his lips? He did not - know. The feelings that had prompted the act were too new, too undefined, - for immediate analysis. The spell of the benumbing heartache that had held - him nerveless for four long years seemed to be broken, and he was a man - again. - </p> - <p> - He looked upward at the stars in the simple fancy that the dear dead wife, - the Constance he had worshipped so passionately, was gazing down upon him - with happy consent in her pure eyes. The love he had given her was - immortal, and she knew it. It was no disloyalty to love another sweet - woman on earth and to put his own broken life and his motherless child - into her keeping.... Yet after a few moments he lowered his gaze for a - while and walked on, his heart filled with the old love. - </p> - <p> - He was one of those reserved natures, capable of intense feeling, yet - incapable of outward expression, who make for themselves few friends and - are often condemned to loneliness of soul. Born with greater cravings for - sympathy than most men, they have less power to demand it. This is too - busy a world for us to stop to wonder whether a man wants what he does not - ask for; too many are clamouring loudly for what we cannot give. So the - unfortunates are passed by unheeded, each working out in his heart his - little tragedy of unfulfilled longings. But when a finer spirit comes and - divines their needs, then their hearts leap towards it and cling to it - with a great unexpressed passion of gratitude. Such had been the beginning - of Sylvesters love for his wife; such that of his dawning love for Ella. - Each in her way had comprehended his solitude; unasked in words, but - spiritually besought, each had filled it with her influence. He needed the - peculiar sympathy that a woman alone can give, her companionship, her - practical intellect, to complement his theoretic mind. His nature cried - dumbly for a whole-hearted, expansive creature to give objectivity to - life. Left to himself, he sank into routine; he lacked the power of - bringing colour and harmony into his world. This the woman he loved could - do. Once, for a few short years, a woman had changed his universe. Then - she had died, and the blackness of night had encompassed him. He had - suffered silently, as a strong man suffers, rarely mentioning her name, - but eating out his heart in desolation; and then Ella had come. He had - known her from early childhood, but had last seen her as the schoolgirl of - no account. - </p> - <p> - Now she had sprung into his horizon, a young and splendid woman of amazing - opposites, who compelled attention; and she was the only woman other than - Constance who, during all his life, had sought to know him and to act - towards him tenderwise. Nevertheless, he could not say as yet that he - loved her, in the sweet and common way of love. The old and new hung - equipoised on a delicate balance. The vague sense of this, perhaps, was - one element in the rare exaltation of his mood. - </p> - <p> - Another element, no doubt, was the final resolve he had taken that - morning, to go to London, whither his ambitions summoned him. He was a - specialist of some note in zymotic diseases. His researches had met with a - recognition not confined to England. He had felt keenly that he was giving - up to the small circle of a country practice what was meant for the - general needs of mankind. London was the only place for study and work; - for the quick amassing, too, of the small fortune that would free him from - the necessity of earning daily bread and would allow him to realise his - dreams of a great bacteriological laboratory, where he could devote - himself exclusively to independent research. - </p> - <p> - It was at the urgent entreaty of Constance that he had bought, just before - his marriage, the practice at Ayresford. A year's life there had made him - regret London. A little later he had spoken of returning. She had thrown - her arms about him and implored him by all his love for her to stay. She - had a horror of London; why, she could not tell. It was unreasonable, but - the fact remained. London would kill her,—its gloom, its hardness, - its cruelty. It had been the same story whenever he had broached the - subject. And then, Dorothy. The child was delicate, would pine away in the - reek and fogs of the town. All her woman's armoury of passionate weapons - had been employed. And he had yielded, out of his great love. Her death - had set him free. But it had taken him four years to realise his freedom. - The mere thought had been anguish. Now he could gaze upon the past with - calmness and the future with hope. As he walked along, he began to picture - the vigorous life before him. He passed from wide conception to trivial - details,—the fittings of his library, domestic economies. A room for - Dorothy—he pulled himself up short. He had arranged to part with - her. The prospect brought a pang. His father's comfort in the child, - however, was a consolation. He thought of him tenderly,—the dear old - man, the most generous and unselfish being who had ever blessed the earth. - He was a man of deep reverences; his father, his dead mother, and his dead - wife were enshrined in his Holy of Holies. Dorothy, then, should remain at - Ayresford. Perhaps the separation would not be for long. There was a means - of shortening it whose readiness was a great temptation. The vision rose - before him of the child's dark curls nestling against a girl's soft - shoulder. Often had he seen the reality of late, and it had disturbed his - depths. Was it not his duty to give the little one so sweet and strong a - mother? Again he consulted the stars. - </p> - <p> - He had reached a set of workmen's cottages in process of erection, on - either side of the road, which marked the beginning of the town. The - moonlight beat hard upon them, showing up vividly their windowless and - doorless skeletons and the piles of bricks, mortar, and lime-covered - boards at their thresholds. He had passed the first block and was about to - traverse a cross-road that led to the railway station, when a dog-cart - containing two men and some luggage turned out of it sharply on to the - highway. Before he could realise the fact, the vehicle suddenly lurched, - the horse plunged, and in a moment the occupants were thrown heavily on to - the road. Sylvester could see at once the cause of the mishap. A pail of - mortar left by the roadside, either through carelessness or urchin - mischief, had caught the wheel. He ran forward. One of the men, the - driver, rose, and shaking himself went to the horse's head, which was - turned round in calm inquiry. The other man lay still. - </p> - <p> - “Hurt?” cried Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “No, doctor,” replied the driver, who belonged to the George Hotel of - Ayresford. “The gentleman may be.” - </p> - <p> - He left the pacific animal, and bent with Sylvester over the prostrate - form. - </p> - <p> - It was that of a handsome, full-blooded man in the prime of life. He had - fair hair and a great moustache. His face gleamed very white beneath the - moon, and his eyes were glassy. The driver supported his head, while - Sylvester straightened the inert body, which had remained huddled together - after the fall, wrapped in a disordered Inverness cape. Apparently no - bones were broken. Sylvester felt his pulse, which was just perceptible. - Then suddenly he viewed the man's face full, and started back in amazed - distress. - </p> - <p> - “Good heavens! it's Frank Leroux!” - </p> - <p> - “That's the gentleman's name, sir,” said the driver. - </p> - <p> - “How do you know?” - </p> - <p> - “He telegraphed from London for a bed to-night, saying that he was to be - met by the last train, which I just did, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “But he's my oldest friend,” exclaimed Sylvester. “Leave him to me and see - if the trap is all right. Bring the cushions for his head.” - </p> - <p> - He pursued his investigations. Leroux was alive. A trickle of blood damped - his hair. After a while Sylvester drew an anxious breath. - </p> - <p> - It was a severe concussion; how grave he could not for the moment - estimate. To drive him in the narrow two-wheeled cart was out of the - question. He hailed the driver, who had righted the vehicle. - </p> - <p> - “Get a ambulance as quick as you can from the Infirm. That's nearest.” - </p> - <p> - The man touched his hat, and mounting drove off at a forced speed. - Sylvester remained by Leroux, and having done all that was momentarily - possible, was at last able to reflect upon the entire unexpectedness of - his presence. They were old friends, had been at school and at Guy's - together. Leroux, who was somewhat of a waif in the world, had spent many - holidays here in Ayresford, at Woodlands. And even after he had thrown - over medicine for painting, they had maintained the old relations. - Sylvester had reckoned upon him being best man at his wedding; and when - for some whimsical reason, which Sylvester could never discover but - attributed to the artistic temperament, he declined and went off to - Norway, the bridegroom elect knew no one intimately enough to appoint in - his stead save Roderick Usher, against whom he had a constitutional - antipathy. Although he had seen little of him during his married life, - owing to his confinement in the country, and had heard little of him of - late years, save that he was abroad, Sylvester still entertained for him - the warmest affection. How, therefore, was he to explain this sudden - unannounced appearance in Ayresford? It was preposterous that Frank Leroux - should put up at the George Hotel; as preposterous as if he himself, in - earlier days, had driven there instead of to Woodlands. The act was a sort - of treason against friendship, and Sylvester felt absurdly hurt. He wished - that Leroux would straightway recover consciousness and health so that he - could rate him soundly for his unfriendliness. But there the man, with all - the mystery of motive locked in the dull brain, lay helpless and inert, - amid the builder's refuse from the fantastic shells of houses hard by. It - was an ironical way for friends to meet after an absence and a silence of - years. - </p> - <p> - Some stragglers from the station came up, passengers by the train, one or - two porters, and the postman with the bag of local mails, and offered - assistance. Sylvester declined, explaining briefly. Not daring to proffer - suggestions as to the patient's treatment, they cursed in honest terms the - offending pail and the worthless hands that had moved it, and loitered - around. Dramatic incidents of a public kind are rare in Ayresford, and - each man determined to make the most of this one, conscious, perhaps, of a - lurking regret that he had not seen the accident. - </p> - <p> - Soon the dog-cart returned, bringing the ambulance and a couple of bearers - from the Infirmary. Leroux was lifted on to the stretcher and covered with - a blanket. The bearers started, the muffled form between them giving a - ghastly suggestion of death in life; Sylvester walked by the side, the - stragglers followed, and the trap brought up the rear. - </p> - <p> - “To my house,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - The melancholy procession went on its way through the outskirts of the - little town. The cottages gave place to villas, then came houses standing - on their own grounds. Opposite the front gates of Woodlands was the - doctor's house. Sylvester dismissed his followers at the gate and, taking - Leroux's portmanteau from the trap, opened the door for the bearers and - their burden, and directed their way upstairs. The old housekeeper, roused - by the tramping, met them on the landing. - </p> - <p> - “It's a man hurt,” explained Sylvester. “Frank Leroux. We'll put him in my - room.” - </p> - <p> - A short while afterwards, the unconscious man was settled in Sylvester's - bed, a fire lighted, and Sylvester was left alone. Able to make a more - minute diagnosis, he grew very grave and prepared for an all-night - sitting. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - In the morning Leroux was still unconscious. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester sent for a trained nurse, and as soon as she arrived and had - received her instructions, he went over to Woodlands. The family were at - breakfast. Miss Lanyon, a faded elderly woman, her lean shoulders - enveloped in a black shawl, paused in the act of pouring out tea, tea-pot - in hand. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Sylvester, what a dreadful thing! We have just heard. How is he?” - </p> - <p> - He briefly described the accident and hinted at the result, which might be - fatal. Everything depended upon treatment and nursing. He had been up all - night. - </p> - <p> - “How tired you must be!” said Ella. - </p> - <p> - A world of tenderness underlay the commonplace words. Sylvester looked at - her gratefully. She was deliciously fresh and sweet in her simple morning - dress, and again Sylvester felt how gracious a thing was life,—especially - after his night's battle with death. They talked of Leroux. All were - deeply shocked by the news, for he had been a universal favourite. In the - days past Ella had been accused of a schoolgirl flirtation with him. Miss - Lanyon used to save up especial household goodies for his consumption - during the holidays. Matthew, always fond of youth, had loved the boy's - frank nature, and in his generous way had seldom let him leave the house - without a five-pound note, or a watch, or a silver-mounted walking-stick - in his possession. And now the prodigal had returned in this dismaying and - tragic fashion. - </p> - <p> - “What I can't understand,” said Sylvester, “is why he did not announce his - coming,—why he should suddenly turn up at that ungodly hour. There - are plenty of day trains.” - </p> - <p> - He appealed unconsciously to his father, who made no reply. But a little - later, when Miss Lanyon and Ella had left the room, Matthew said, suddenly - breaking a short silence,— - </p> - <p> - “I was expecting him.” - </p> - <p> - “Why didn't you tell me?” asked Sylvester, involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - “He was in some trouble apparently, and asked to see me alone this morning - on business.” - </p> - <p> - “I wonder what it could have been?” - </p> - <p> - “I wonder,” said the old man, drily. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester flushed, as if at a rebuke. Knowing his father, he was aware of - indiscretion. Matthew had always maintained the most impenetrable reserve - as regards his business affairs; the son had been trained from childhood - to look upon them as sacrosanct, and to question was an indecency. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon, father,” he said deferentially. - </p> - <p> - “I mentioned the fact, for obvious reasons,” said Matthew. - </p> - <p> - “Quite so,” said Sylvester, and then hesitating and finally blurting it - out, as if he were ashamed of it, he added,— - </p> - <p> - “I know you are a father confessor to every poor devil in trouble.” - </p> - <p> - The old man looked at his son and his kind eyes grew a little moist. Any - tribute of faith and love from Sylvester touched him deeply. But he - laughed and said characteristically,— - </p> - <p> - “There are some people who'll tell you anything, if you 're only - soft-headed enough to listen to them.” Then he nodded towards the window, - and waved his hand,— - </p> - <p> - “There is one, anyhow, who doesn't want a confessor.” - </p> - <p> - It was Ella, standing in the clear March sunshine of the garden, looking - in through the French window, and holding up a bunch of fresh-gathered - violets. With a word of adieu to his father, Sylvester went out and joined - her. She pinned the flowers in his buttonhole and for ten pleasant minutes - they walked along the trim-kept paths. - </p> - <p> - “You were not angry with me last night?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - She murmured very meekly,—“If I were, I should not be here with you - now.” - </p> - <p> - “I never thought I should—ever do such a thing again,” he said - awkwardly. “I couldn't help it. It has made a different man of me.” - </p> - <p> - She drew herself up quite proudly and looked him straight in the eyes. - They were brave, clear eyes, and so were the man's that met them. - </p> - <p> - “Are you in earnest?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Am I the man not to be in earnest?” he answered. - </p> - <p> - The doctor's page, running across the strip of lawn to them, broke the - spell with the time-honoured morning announcement,— - </p> - <p> - “There is some one in the surgery, sir.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester dismissed the urchin and looked at his watch. It was some - minutes past his consultation hour. - </p> - <p> - “We will have a long talk this evening,” he said, bidding her farewell. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV—LEROUX SPEAKS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>atthew and Miss - Lanyon were standing under the front porch talking over poor Frank Leroux - when Ella came up with a very happy face. - </p> - <p> - “What a colour you 've got, child!” cried Agatha Lanyon. - </p> - <p> - “It is the fresh country air. I was being choked in town.” - </p> - <p> - “And the country people,” suggested the elder lady, archly. - </p> - <p> - “And the fresh country people,” assented Ella. - </p> - <p> - “My dear,” said Matthew to his sister, “this is the first time we've been - complimented on our adorable rusticity.” - </p> - <p> - “We don't count,” said Miss Lanyon. - </p> - <p> - “I never knew you could be so wicked,” cried Ella, taking her by her - shoulders and kissing her. Whereupon she disappeared into the house. - </p> - <p> - “I do hope it is settled,” said Miss Lanyon, with a little sentimental - sigh. - </p> - <p> - “What?” - </p> - <p> - “Sylvester and Ella. Do you mean to say you haven't noticed? I have been - following it all for months.” - </p> - <p> - Miss Lanyon had reached the age when one lives in the romances of others. - </p> - <p> - “I believe you amuse yourself, Agatha, by mixing up your young friends and - sorting them out in pairs, like gloves,” remarked Matthew. - </p> - <p> - Miss Lanyon denied the charge indignantly. This was quite a different - matter. Anybody with eyes could see how things were tending. It was a - match. She was sure it was a marriage made in heaven. - </p> - <p> - “I like heaven-made marriages as little as machine-made boots,” said - Matthew. “Both are apt to come undone in unexpected places. But if these - two are thinking of a wholesome earth-made union—well, I shall be - delighted.” - </p> - <p> - “But hasn't Syl told you anything?” - </p> - <p> - “Not a word.” - </p> - <p> - “Couldn't you ask him, Matthew?” - </p> - <p> - “My dear Agatha,” said he, drawing himself up, “how can you suggest my - committing such an impertinence?” - </p> - <p> - Miss Lanyon worshipped her brother, but she felt there were many odd - corners of his mind which needed the housewifely besom; just as there were - cobwebs in his office which, on the rare occasions when she entered it, - made her fingers twitch. But being organically acquiescent she sighed - again sentimentally, and brought Matthew his hat and stick. - </p> - <p> - For Ella, the hours of that day were winged with sunshine. She loved - Sylvester as deeply as one of our untried, pure-minded Northern girls can - love; and with larger wisdom, too, than most. For she had lived a free - life in her aunt's eccentric house in London, and had sifted the vanities - of many men. Passion would only be evoked by the clasp of encircling arms - and would rise to meet claiming lips. As yet in Ella it lay a pure fire - hidden in the depths of a fervent nature. But all the sweet thrills of a - woman's early love were hers,—the pride in a strong man's wooing, - the fluttering fears as to her sufficiency for his happiness, the - resolves, scarce formulated, to raise herself to his level, the dim dreams - of a noble life together, striving for the great things of the world that - are worth the winning. Added thereto was the delicate charm, essentially - feminine, of triumph over the shadows that had fought with her for - possession of his heart. - </p> - <p> - When she entered her room to dress for dinner that evening, she took down - her frocks and laid them on the bed, and stood a while in deep thought. - She must look her best tonight. She chose a simple cream dress with - chiffon round the bodice and sleeves. Halfway through her toilette she - clasped her white arms over her neck, and looking in the glass held long - converse with her image. It seemed so strange that she, with all her - imperfections of soul and body, should be chosen to guide a man's destiny. - Then lighter fancies prevailed, and she spent anxious moments in arranging - her thick auburn hair. When she came down at last, with a diamond-hilted - dagger thrust through the coils, and a bunch of violets peeping shyly from - the chiffon in her corsage, Matthew paid her an old man's compliment. - </p> - <p> - “Do I look nice?” she asked, gratified. “I'm glad; for you once told me - that you liked me in this frock.” - </p> - <p> - There are times when the sincerest of women can be most blandly deceitful. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - A general practitioner may propose to himself many pleasant occupations - for his spare hours, but his patients dispose of them effectually. On this - particular day, when Sylvester craved leisure to watch over Leroux and to - open his heart finally to Ella, impossible people fell sick at - interminable distances, tiny human beings came with preposterous haste - into this world of trouble, and larger ones gave sudden and alarming - symptoms of leaving it. It was one of those well-known days of sudden - stress when a country doctor eats his meals standing and wearing his - overcoat. Finally, an evening visit from which he reckoned on being free - by nine kept him by an anxious bedside till nearly eleven. But he had - found time to despatch to Ella a few lines scribbled on a leaf of his - pocket-book:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - <i>Dearest,—I can't come, much as I long to. Will see you in - the morning. S. L.</i> -</pre> - <p> - This was almost the first letter he had ever written to her; certainly the - first love-letter. The new sweetness of it soothed Ella's disappointment. - </p> - <p> - At half-past eleven he reached his house, a very weary man. He put on his - slippers, stretched himself, yawned, and thought wistfully of bed. But - first he must go to Leroux, whom he had only seen at odd intervals during - the day. He was pouring himself out some whisky when the housekeeper - entered the dining-room, smoothing her apron. - </p> - <p> - “I'm glad you 've come, Mr. Sylvester. He's took worse, nurse says. His - temperature has gone up to 104.” - </p> - <p> - He nodded, swallowed the drink, and went upstairs. The nurse was bending - over the bed in the dimly lit room, adjusting the ice-bag. The sick man's - portmanteau had been unpacked, and the contents were piled upon a chest of - drawers. The clothes he had been wearing were hanging from a row of pegs - against the door. The flap of the jacket turned outward, revealed in the - breast-pocket a letter-case stuffed with papers. With the air of a man - accustomed to prompt action, Sylvester withdrew the letter-case and locked - it up. The nurse confirmed the housekeeper's statements. - </p> - <p> - “He has been delirious at times,” she added. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester bent down and placed the thermometer in position, then waited, - looking gravely down upon his friend. Leroux's face was congested. His - hands moved feebly. - </p> - <p> - Now and then he moaned. Sylvester examined him closely, inspected the - temperature chart of the last few hours, questioned the nurse as to their - history. A surmise that had been troubling him most of the day now - converted itself into a certainty. Leroux must have been drinking heavily - of late. Thus it was that meningitis had set in from the concussion. But - why should Leroux, once the sanest and cleanest of men, have taken to - drink? The pity of it smote Sylvester. The gay spirit brutalised, the - noble mind o'erthrown. His heart yearned over the unconscious man. His - father had spoken of Leroux being in trouble. He conjectured pitiful - histories of downfall. With a sigh he turned away, gave final directions, - and went to bed. - </p> - <p> - Three hours later he was waked. The nurse outside the door was calling - him. Accustomed to sudden rising, he leaped up, and thrusting on - dressing-gown and slippers, went back to the sick room. Leroux was in full - tide of violent delirium, his words, wonderfully articulate, striking - almost spectrally upon the utter silence of the house,—“It is better - to die than to live in hell on earth. If you give me up, God Almighty will - give me up.... What is his love to mine?” - </p> - <p> - The nurse, who had been on duty since ten, was young and nervous. - </p> - <p> - “He has been like this for an hour. I couldn't stand it any longer.” - </p> - <p> - “We will go away to the south,” continued Leroux. “No one minds what a - painter does—For God's sake don't give me up—” - </p> - <p> - “You can go to bed, nurse,” said Sylvester. “I'll sit with him.” - </p> - <p> - The tired girl, glad to gain some extra and unexpected hours of slumber, - retired gratefully. Sylvester sat by the bedside. It was as well, he - thought, that the man's poor secrets should be blabbed into a friend's - ears instead of a stranger's. He tried not to listen, but to think of - other things,—Ella and his meeting with her on the morrow. But the - clear voice, now rising in ghastly emphasis, now sinking to a murmur - losing itself in guttural incoherence, continued its tale of love and - despair, so that Sylvester could not choose but piece it together in his - mind. It was a common tale of unlawful love: a passionate man, a yielding - woman, a deceived and adoring husband. Sylvester, whose reserved, chaste - nature had caused him to train himself in a narrow groove of orthodox - morality, felt strangely repelled by the confession. He had always - regarded Leroux as the soul of honour. The thief of a man's wife was - lowered in his esteem. - </p> - <p> - There was a silence. He rested his head on his hand and wearily dozed. - Suddenly came a cry from the bed, a cry of great pain and longing,— - </p> - <p> - “Constance—Constance!” - </p> - <p> - The name, fitting in with a waking dream, brought Sylvester with a leap to - his feet, and he looked in foolish bewilderment at Leroux. The latter - murmured incoherently. Had he dreamed the voice crying out the name so - distinctly? He held his breath, trying to seize the half-formed syllables. - “Constance—my love—” had come again. He had not been dreaming. - The voice rose once more, and each word came sharply cut from the sick - man's lips. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Sylvester will never know</i>.” - </p> - <p> - Then the tremendous horror of the revelation crashed down upon the man, - stunning his brain, paralysing his limbs. The great drops of sweat stood - on his forehead, and his eyes were staring. And Leroux, who had struck - upon a quieter vein of reminiscence, babbled on of the happy days of his - love. - </p> - <p> - The first thunder-clap had passed. Thought began to return. Sylvester sank - into a chair and stared at the ground. The once clear vision of the past - was distorted into a phantasmagoria of leering shapes. He shivered as with - an ague, rubbed his eyes, and looked sharply at the man on the bed. Which - of the two was delirious? Leroux raved of death and despair. The - involuntary confession was too complete; mistake was impossible. Yet the - other was impossible. Constance guilty of this hideousness? Her life a - lie? The firm anchorage of his soul but shifting sand? He had worshipped - her as more than woman,—as the purest, chastest thing that God had - ever given to man for his guidance. It was a ghastly figment of Leroux's - drink-besotted brain. - </p> - <p> - He rose, went to the drawer in which he had locked Leroux's letter-case, - and taking it out with shaking hands, deliberately turned the contents on - to the corner of the chest. In spite of the revulsion of faith he had a - sickening certainty of finding there what he hoped he would not find. - </p> - <p> - There it was, staring him in the face amid a heap of stamps, visiting - cards, pencilled memoranda slips, letters, and law papers: a soiled, - crumpled letter in his dead wife's hand. He took it up, and from it - dropped a lock of fair hair,—her hair. He read it through steadily. - It was a letter of passionate love, leaving no doubt as to guilt; of - despair, almost madness; such a letter of abandonment as a woman writes - but to one man in a lifetime. It bore no date save the day of the week,—Wednesday. - Even in his agony he contrasted the difference between this woman and the - serene, methodical wife who would as soon have left a letter undated as - the household dinner unordered. He threw the letter and the lock of hair - into the fire, and watched the two little flames in the glowing coals. The - paper curled, the hair writhed; then a little light ash remained. - </p> - <p> - Methodically he replaced the cards and papers in the letter-case and - locked it up again in the drawer. Then he stood at the foot of the bed and - watched the man who had done him this great wrong, his brain on fire with - bewildering fury. The name of his wife came again from the man's lips. A - red cloud passed before Sylvester's eyes. For a moment he seemed to lose - consciousness of manhood, to become a wild beast. When he recovered, he - found himself glaring into Leroux's eyes with his fingers at his throat. - How near he had been to murder he did not know. - </p> - <p> - He drew himself up and wiped the sweat from his forehead, shaken to the - depths by the beast impulse. The reaction brought self-control. He resumed - his vigil by the bedside, listening grimly to the words of Leroux, now - less frequent and distinct. Yet though he could master his actions, he did - not combat with the increasing hatred that took the place of the old - affection. At times he considered calmly whether such a man should be - allowed to live. In his weak state one quick blow over the heart would - stop its beating for ever. The man had done more than wrong him. He had - killed his soul, made it an awful thing to live. Yet, as if in contempt of - such imaginings, he rose once or twice and changed the bandages with a - surgeon's delicate handling, and moistened the swollen lips with ice. - </p> - <p> - Gradually all the phases of realisation developed themselves in his mind. - Far off memories recurred, touched the flesh. It was their marriage bed - whereon Leroux was lying. - </p> - <p> - He shuddered from the manifold horror of it, and for the first time broke - into a hoarse cry. - </p> - <p> - Toward morning the fever lowered and Leroux lay still. Streaks of a - ghostly daylight crept in through the Venetian blinds and barred the - floor. The nurse came to take over her watch. Sylvester gave brief - instructions, and, going to his room, threw himself on his bed and slept - heavily. At the moment of waking he had a sense of nightmare, was all but - congratulating himself on his release; but another instant brought the - full flood of memory. He rose, shaved, dressed himself as usual, and went - down to breakfast. At the bottom of the stairs was a quick patter of feet - and two little arms were thrown around his limbs. It was Dorothy. He - started back, looked at her stupidly. Then roughly disengaging her, he - thrust her aside and hurried into the breakfast room. A new and sickening - doubt convulsed him. Was she his child? - </p> - <p> - She came in a while later, shyly holding by the maid-servant's skirts, - regarding him with scared reproach. Never had her father been cross or - rough. Ungentleness from him was incomprehensible to her child's mind. - </p> - <p> - “Run away upstairs,” he said, controlling his voice, then added to the - servant, “Take Miss Dorothy into the nursery.” - </p> - <p> - The child burst into tears, as the maid led her out. Tender-hearted a man - as he was, for all the world he could not have called her back. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V—DE MORTUIS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e received his - patients in the consulting-room, visited Leroux, and went on his morning - rounds. On his return, he perceived Ella at the gates of Woodlands. He - raised his hat and was proceeding to turn into his own little carriage - drive, when she made a gesture of arrest. He pulled up, descended from the - trap, and went to meet her. - </p> - <p> - “How is poor Mr. Leroux? we have all been so anxious. Of course the nurse - has reported, but we wanted to know from you.” - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid it's a serious matter,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean that he may die?” - </p> - <p> - “Possibly.” - </p> - <p> - “I am so sorry,” she said, laying a sympathetic touch on his arm. “I know - what a dear friend he was.” - </p> - <p> - “A dear friend,” he assented grimly. - </p> - <p> - “You are looking so fagged. You have been sitting up all night, I hear. - Two nights.” He confessed his vigils, explained Leroux's symptoms, and - gave her an authoritative report for his father. If he found any material - change since the morning, he would send a message across. The topic - exhausted, there was a short silence. She tried to speak, after an - embarrassed glance, but his sombreness daunted her. He was taking this - danger of his friend greatly to heart. - </p> - <p> - “You are coming in to see Uncle Matthew some time to-day?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “It depends upon my work,” he said. “I have a great deal to occupy me.” - </p> - <p> - With a word of adieu he left her and went into his own house. Ella passed - through the gate of Woodlands and strolled slowly down the shrubbery walk, - carrying a little burden of depression. For all his anxiety on Mr. - Leroux's behalf, he might have made some reference to his letter, some - allusion to the sweet and delicate suspense of their present relations. - She felt vaguely disappointed at the lack of appeal to her sympathy. But - her spirits revived when Matthew Lanyon, coming briskly home to lunch, - overtook her and asked her in his cheery voice for news of the invalid. - She took his arm in girlish fashion and gave him Sylvester's message. - </p> - <p> - “He seems dreadfully distressed,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Poor old Syl! But he'll pull him through. He doesn't realise his own - powers. I don't think we respect Syl half enough. He's a great physician, - you know.” - </p> - <p> - He rattled on, proud of his son, quite glad to have a pretty girl hanging, - in that daughterly way, on his arm. He stopped now and then, pointing to - the tiny green shoots on the trees. The fine weather of the last few days - was the cause. Did Ella remember how black everything was only a week ago? - He spoke as if it were a miracle performed for the first time and not the - recurring phenomenon of a million springs. A thrush flew out of a laurel - bush. He named it, followed it with his eyes to the elm where it alighted, - stooped down and picked a snail from the middle of the gravel, where it - might get crushed, and threw it lightly on the grass. The tender - simplicities of the old man touched the girl deeply that afternoon, and - his steady optimism made her feel ashamed of her misgivings. So the - sunshine came into her heart again. - </p> - <p> - But two days passed before they saw Sylvester. News came frequently. - Leroux was sinking. At last Sylvester entered the library at the hour of - tea and announced gravely,—“He is dead.” - </p> - <p> - Miss Lanyon uttered a little cry, and tears flooded her eyes. Matthew held - out his hand. - </p> - <p> - “I'm sorry, Syl.” - </p> - <p> - “He died about half an hour ago,” said Sylvester. “He never recovered - consciousness, so what were his last wishes God alone knows. I have put - all his papers into a sealed envelope, which I had better hand over to - you, father.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew took the packet in silence and locked it in a drawer of his - writing-table. - </p> - <p> - “You had better let me look after the funeral too, Syl,” said he, kindly. - “It's the first chance I 've had of doing anything for the poor fellow.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, father,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - Miss Lanyon tearfully enumerated Leroux's virtues. What a frank, - open-hearted, generous lad! And to be taken away, like this, in his prime! - Who could fathom the will of God? Ella remained silent, grieved at - Sylvester's loss. But he refused to meet the ready sympathy in her eyes, - and looked stonily through the window on the grey March sky. Presently he - turned away. To remain there longer was unendurable. - </p> - <p> - “I have a patient to see, some way out. One mustn't neglect the living for - the dead.” - </p> - <p> - Then for the first time he met Ella's glance, and a special application of - his saying occurred to him. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye, all,” he said, and strode hurriedly from the room. He drew a - deep breath on reaching the open air. It was good to be alone, away from - the torturing irony of sympathy. And it was good to be away from the - foreshadowing of reproach in a woman's eyes. - </p> - <p> - That night, before he slept, he shut his teeth upon a horrible repulsion, - and went into the death chamber to see that all things had been decently - done. The man lay cold and pale, his jaws swathed and his eyes closed, an - awful sphinx. Sylvester stood and gazed upon him till his heart grew as - cold as the dead man's. It was well that he was dead, so that he could - blab the disastrous secret no more. Sylvester had questioned the nurses - discreetly. To his relief he had found that the delirious ravings had made - no impression on their memories. He alone had been the confidant. He had - tended the man with devoted skill. The strain of that terrible task was - over. Now the dead past would bury its dead,—his own heart and youth - therewith. He was glad the man would no longer cumber the earth—and - he was glad that his wife was dead. - </p> - <p> - Three days afterwards, Leroux was buried. A fussy elderly man, Leroux's - cousin and sole surviving relative, shared with Sylvester the post of - chief mourner, and departed into the unknown whence he came. Sylvester - stood by the grave with a set, impassive face, and his father stood by his - side, looking strangely like him. On the drive home it was Sylvester who - exchanged a few courteous remarks with the cousin; but the old man - remained singularly silent. - </p> - <p> - They sat together alone that evening in the library. - </p> - <p> - “Leroux died intestate,” said Matthew, breaking a long silence. “He was in - a troubled state of mind and was coming to me to help him with his will.” - </p> - <p> - “He had been drinking heavily,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “I presumed so. He had roughed the will out. He only had a few thousands. - But Dorothy was to have the greater part. I showed the draft to John - Leroux to-day, who is a man of great wealth. He is desirous that his - cousin's wishes should be carried out.” - </p> - <p> - “I can accept no gifts from Mr. John Leroux,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - The old man argued the point. Morally the money was Dorothy's. Sylvester - listened stubbornly. He revolted at the thought of touching Leroux's - money. It was a ghastly impossibility. He repeated,— - </p> - <p> - “I cannot accept it.” - </p> - <p> - “Money is money, Syl, after all; and I may not be able, perhaps, to do - what I had hoped for Dorothy.” - </p> - <p> - “While my daughter bears my name I can support her decently. If Mr. Leroux - will not benefit by what is legally his, he can devote it to charity. It - is a matter of principle.” - </p> - <p> - They were both inflexible men, and they understood each other's nature. - Matthew did not press the point. - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” he said in a business tone. “I will tell Mr. Leroux of your - decision.” - </p> - <p> - But the impassiveness of his tone was belied by the almost yearning - earnestness with which he regarded his son, who sat staring into the fire. - He would have given years of his own happiness to know whether a gnawing - suspicion were baseless; but the question could not be put. Sylvester was - silent. What troubles were at work behind his sombre brow the old man - could not fathom; and Sylvester, though his heart was bursting, could not - speak. - </p> - <p> - How could he disclose, even to the being who now was dearest to him in the - world, his wife's shame, his own dishonour? Better to keep the hideous - fact locked up in his breast. But yet, if he could have found a rush of - tumultuous words, what heart-ease were in it! So many, with that great - gift of expansiveness, had come to his father and gone away comforted, and - he, the son deeply loving and deeply loved, was powerless to utter a - complaint. He bit his lip to repress a groan. - </p> - <p> - And so it was all through the remainder of his residence in Ayresford. His - relations with his father continued their old undemonstrative course. To - please him, he assumed his wonted cheerfulness and spoke of matters - political and parochial. And by degrees the old man forgot the cloud he - had seen hanging over him and only thought of his approaching departure. - Dorothy came to live at Woodlands, so as to grow accustomed to the change, - said Sylvester, and he only saw her on his rare visits. He forced himself - to be kind and take notice of her as formerly. But the sight of her was a - great pain. - </p> - <p> - Ella he avoided as much as possible, never seeing her alone. One day she - was standing by the porch as he came up. - </p> - <p> - “Is my father in?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “He hasn't yet come back from the office.” - </p> - <p> - “I will go and meet him there,” he replied, and went away forthwith. - </p> - <p> - “Have you and Syl quarrelled?” asked Miss Lanyon, who had observed the - scene from indoors. - </p> - <p> - Ella laughed; not a happy laugh. - </p> - <p> - “You are behind the times, Aunt Agatha. Nowadays unceremoniousness is a - proof of friendship.” - </p> - <p> - “I should call it rudeness, my dear,” said Miss Lanyon. - </p> - <p> - “That's a proof of affection,” said Ella. - </p> - <p> - But she went quickly up to her room, lest the elder lady should see the - angry tears that rose in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - At first she strove to explain away his change of attitude. Then she - examined her own conduct, with a view to discover therein some possible - cause. She could find none. A dull sense of pain and dread crept over her. - What did it mean? He had kissed her, all but asked her to be his wife, and - now, suddenly, he ignored her existence. The realisation of the fulness of - her love for him smote her cruelly as she lay awake at night. She shrank, - fearful-eyed, from the prospect of life without him. It stretched before - her a dreary waste of futile years. Then the quick hope of youth came - back. It was some foolish misunderstanding. Sylvester was worried, - preoccupied, saddened. There were so many things to be reckoned with in - the strenuous life of a man. He would speak, explain. All would be well. - </p> - <p> - But the days passed and that of Sylvester's departure drew nigh. He had - hurried it on. His successor had arrived, been introduced to the practice; - no advantage could be gained by remaining at Ayresford, where all save his - father was strangely hateful. Ella waited, but Sylvester never spoke nor - looked her way. At last she could bear the mortifying suspense no longer. - It was the evening before his departure. She was sitting with Miss Lanyon - in the drawing-room after dinner, having left the two men below to their - coffee and cigars. Her companion was silently knitting, her eyes somewhat - dim, poor soul, at the prospect of Sylvester's absence. Ella went to the - piano and tried to play, but her heart was not in the music. The men - lingered downstairs. An hour passed. The silence and the aching of her own - suspense acted on her nerves. Suddenly she left the room and went - downstairs and opened the dining-room door. Both men rose as she stood on - the threshold, a graceful figure, with heightened colour and eyes - unusually bright. - </p> - <p> - “I want to say something to Syl before he goes,” she announced boldly. - </p> - <p> - “Here he is,” said Matthew, coming forward. “I was just going into the - library for a little as you came in. No; really, Syl, I was. I'll join you - upstairs when you have had your chat.” - </p> - <p> - “You spoil me, Uncle Matthew,” said the girl, touched, as she always was, - by his old-fashioned courtesy. “Why can't Syl and I go into the library?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I'm master in my own house, my dear,” smiled the old man. - </p> - <p> - He closed the door behind him. Sylvester motioned Ella to a chair. - </p> - <p> - “No,” she said. “I have not come to stay.” - </p> - <p> - She was silent for a moment, looking at the tip of her slipper that rested - on the fender. - </p> - <p> - “Have I done anything to offend you lately, Sylvester?” she asked at - length. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing that I am aware of,” he answered gravely. - </p> - <p> - “We don't seem to be such good friends,” she hazarded. - </p> - <p> - “I am sure you must be mistaken.” - </p> - <p> - The cold formality of the phrase was a knell to her hopes. She looked up - somewhat piteously and met hard, unsympathetic eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I thought—you made me think—” she began. He raised his hand - slightly to check her. - </p> - <p> - “If I did,” he said coldly, “I was wrong. I owe you all my apologies.” - There was a moment's silence. “If I could say more, I would,” he added. - </p> - <p> - But a quickly gathering anger in the girl's heart suddenly broke out. She - drew herself up, flaming-cheeked, with eyes flashing through the tears - that would come. - </p> - <p> - “You have behaved horribly, cruelly, and I want never to see your face - again.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester bowed his head. A swift rustle of skirts, a sound of the door, - and she was gone. He raised his head and drew rather a choking breath. He - knew that Ella had just cause for reproach. But what could be done? The - new budding love had been killed outright. He regarded her with aversion, - with something akin even to horror. And his heart was as cold as a stone. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI—THE WALDEN ART COLONY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a Sunday in - June, a year after Sylvester had come to London, and the great stretch of - the Park, past Stanhope Gate, north of Achilles' statue, was thronged. The - warm breath of the afternoon air scarcely stirred the leaves that - chequered with shade and sunshine the mass of cool colour below. Above - shone the vivid green of the foliage and the sea-blue of the sky; but - beneath the branches the air was tempered by the reflection of the whites, - the pale greys, the delicate blues and lavenders, and the soft pinks of - dresses and parasols. It was the ordinary crowd that sat there, very - fashionable, somewhat vulgar below the surface, but delicately - picturesque, like human flower-beds in a sweet but formal garden. And on - the walks beside and around and between passed the endless procession of - loungers. The hum of talk, the subdued patter of footsteps, and the - frou-frou of soft drapery hung upon the air. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester sat in the sun at the edge of one of the parterres, flanked, on - the one side, by an elderly matron chaperoning a line of laughing girls, - and on the other by a white-moustached, red-faced Anglo-Indian laying down - the law to a neighbour on the preparation of curry. Sylvester stared - moodily at the parterre in front, separated from him by the pathway, and - felt very lonely. Despite his loss of faith in man and woman, he hungered - dumbly for the human companionship from which he shrank. The first sense - of novelty over, his practice in London had failed to stimulate him. The - interest was absorbing, but unthrilling. He began to realise that he was - degenerating into a consulting and recording machine,—very - sensitive, it is true, but a machine all the same. He lived alone in a - formal house in Weymouth Street. In the morning he rose early, worked in - his laboratory, saw patients, ate, saw more patients, worked again in his - laboratory, ate, and till bedtime read or worked again among the endless - test-tubes and retorts. And so, without change, day after day. His - common-sense told him that it was not a healthy life for a human being. - But how to alter it effectively save by mixing with his kind? And his kind - was hateful to him. He had grown to be a recluse, misanthropically - brooding over its worthlessness. Yet now and then, as today, instinct - drove him into the crowd. - </p> - <p> - He caught himself half envying the crowd's irresponsible gaiety. It was - quite within his power, as far as external conditions were concerned, to - become as one of those he saw and to surround himself with laughter-loving - friends. He wondered vaguely what it would be like. - </p> - <p> - “It's the proportion of turmeric that does it,” exclaimed his neighbour, - in a more emphatic tone than he had hitherto used. “The only man I knew - that had the secret was poor old Jack Hilton—you remember Jack - Hilton—of the Guides? He ran off with Mrs. Algy Broadbent.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester shivered slightly. A cloud came before his eyes. Were all men - dishonourable and all women faithless? Was all this refined and nicely - civilised crowd rotten to its soul? He looked furtively around. Who could - tell what Messalina lurked beneath yonder girl's pink and white skin and - innocent fresh eyes, what villainy and meanness lay concealed beneath - yonder young soldier's specious bearing of manliness? Disgust banished the - haunting envy. - </p> - <p> - A man who had been chattering to the girls on his left took leave of them - with a great sweep of his hat. In the act of passing Sylvester, he stopped - short and regarded him as though in astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Trône de l'air!</i> and by all the oaths of the vehement South, what - are you doing here?” - </p> - <p> - “How do you do, Roderick?” said Sylvester, rising and formally shaking - hands. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I'm bursting with fatness, which is more than I can say for you. But - what are you doing in this galley?” - </p> - <p> - “Why shouldn't I be here?” - </p> - <p> - “The eternal fitness of things. One doesn't as a general rule, for - instance, meet the Archbishop of Canterbury at a Covent Garden ball.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke in a hearty voice, with somewhat exotic gestures. Roderick Usher - had spent part of his schooldays in France, and was fond of insisting on - his cosmopolitan training. He was dressed in the most perfectly fitting of - frock-coats and patent leather boots, and wore faultless grey suede - gloves. His only departure from the commonplace severity of fashionable - attire was a yellow Indian silk bow whose ends spread over the front of - his coat. He had light fuzzy hair that protruded bushily behind his glossy - silk hat, and his yellow beard was pointed in the Vandyke pattern. He was - of medium height, rather stout; his face was broad and ruddy, at first - sight giving the impression of frank good humour; but his eyes, small and - somewhat shifty, although hidden behind gold pince-nez, detracted from the - general air of handsomeness that he was pleased to cultivate. Besides, the - deep lines of nearing middle age were growing troublesomely obvious. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester replied in a matter-of-fact way to his last remark,—— - </p> - <p> - “I was working in my laboratory all the morning, and I felt the need of - air. Weymouth Street is not far. I don't come here as a rule.” - </p> - <p> - “Bless you, my friend, there's no need to apologise. The place belongs to - you just as much as it does to me. How's the old man?” - </p> - <p> - “Which old man?” asked Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Your old man, my old man, both our old men. Our antique but venerated old - men.” - </p> - <p> - “My father is very well,” replied Sylvester, stiffly, “and so, I believe, - is yours.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>A la bonne heure!</i> So you've come to London to make your fortune? - You steady scientific files always do. We poor artistic devils generally - manage to make other people's.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite understand,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - The other laughed and drawing a cigarette from a silver case lit it - daintily. - </p> - <p> - “I don't suppose you do. You approach a paradox as solemnly as if it were - a disease. We play bat and ball with it. That makes the difference between - us. Have a turn?” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester assented somewhat reluctantly. He disliked the son as much as he - disliked the father. But the spirit of lonesomeness had been weighing on - him to-day, and human instinct craved relief. They moved away and took - their places in the sauntering procession on the broad walk. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you do more of this sort of thing?” asked Roderick. “You treat - life by rule of thumb, as if it were a science. It isn't; it's an art,—the - finest of the Fine Arts. Colour, form, relief, action, sound, - articulation, all combined, capable of a myriad permutations, any one of - which can be fixed by the inspiration of the moment.” - </p> - <p> - “My way of life suits me best,” replied Sylvester. “I teach people how to - kill bacilli; you teach them how to kill time.” - </p> - <p> - “Time's a deadlier enemy than all your bacilli, my friend, and takes a - devilish sight more killing. But we won't argue. Argument is a discord in - the symphony of existence. Besides, it's too confoundedly hot.” - </p> - <p> - Here he bowed in his grand style to a passing lady acquaintance. - </p> - <p> - “Ideals can exist outside of little glass bottles, my dear Sylvester,” he - resumed. “Perhaps you may be surprised at hearing I am approaching the - attainment of one of the ideals of my maturing years. It's a great scheme - for the purification of art and the ennoblement of life. It is my own - conception. Have you been to the Royal Academy yet?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Sylvester. “I haven't had the time.” - </p> - <p> - “Happy man! You have been spared a soul-rending spectacle of England's - utter degradation. In all our art—drama, music, painting, poetry, - architecture—it is the same. The vulgarity of commercialism, the - banality of meretricious prettiness, the hand and brain working - mechanically while the soul is far away wallowing in pounds, shillings and - pence, or following a golf ball, or philandering in my Lady's boudoir. The - true artist is suffocated. But we 're going to change all that.” - </p> - <p> - “How are you going to manage it?” asked Sylvester, with polite - indifference. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, that's my secret. A great and glorious scheme just on the point of - ripening. We are going to catch our artists young, painters, musicians, - poets, the whole celestial brood, and keep them out of contamination,—give - them free elemental surroundings for their art to develop. They will - become the teachers and the guides of the race. To carry this dream - through to a reality is something to live for,—to make one feel - twenty again, with all one's glittering illusions.” - </p> - <p> - “You are going to carry it through?” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “My boy, I should just think I am,” replied Roderick, taking his arm - confidentially. “Funds have been slow in coming in, but people are - promising support, now that they see the magnificence of the concern. I'll - send you our prospectus and other publications. You can judge for - yourself. Perhaps your father would like to further the work.” - </p> - <p> - “You'd better ask him,”, said Sylvester, drily. “But where does the money - go to?” - </p> - <p> - “To the Colony. Didn't I tell you it was to be a colony? The Walden Art - Colony. After a time it will be self-supporting; the produce will sell in - the European and American markets, and the Colony will wax rich. It will - become the world's great Palace of Art.” - </p> - <p> - “How will this fit in with Thoreau and uncontaminated nature?” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester put the question idly. He took faint interest in Roderick's - iridescent scheme, which seemed to have no bearing upon the realities of - life, as he understood them. But he could not help wondering as to the - mental attitude of the fools who were providing the money to launch it. - </p> - <p> - “It's too complicated to explain now,” replied Roderick. “You read the - literature I shall send you.” He pulled out his watch. “Dear me! it is ten - minutes to six, and I promised to meet Lady Milmo and Miss Defries at the - quarter by the statue. They are my two most enthusiastic disciples. Shall - we turn and seek them?” - </p> - <p> - “I think not,” said Sylvester. “I'm too dull a dog for fashionable dames. - I should be a discord in the polka, or whatever you call it, of - existence.” - </p> - <p> - Roderick laughed with good-humoured indulgence, showing a set of white, - even teeth. - </p> - <p> - “The same old <i>intransigeant</i>,” said he. “Well, go your ways. I'll - convert you to the Colony yet, and make you a director! <i>Auf - wiedersehen!</i>” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester shook hands with him in his glum style and strolled on towards - the Marble Arch, glad to be winning homewards again away from the froth of - fashion and the jargon of art. He smiled once on his way. It was at the - idea of his father, shrewd-headed abhorrer of cranks, putting his hands in - his pockets for the Walden Art Colony. Not while there was a lazy - miscreant with wife and children in Ayresford, he thought. How could a man - of the world like Roderick imagine him to be such a fool? - </p> - <p> - But Roderick, with his cheery air of confidence, followed the southward - stream of people. - </p> - <p> - “How do, Usher?” said a young man, passing by. - </p> - <p> - Roderick stopped him. “My dearest boy, I haven't been able to see you to - shake you by the hand. The play's immense, colossal. You've marked a new - era,—the Marlowe of our time.” - </p> - <p> - “Very good of you to say so,” murmured the dramatic author. - </p> - <p> - “It is my most esteemed privilege,” said Roderick, and waving an adieu - with his well-gloved hand, he went on his way to Lady Milmo. - </p> - <p> - At the corner he looked about for a moment, and not seeing her sat down - and waited. He gazed on the soft blue sky and stroked his pointed beard, - letting his thoughts wander whither they would. - </p> - <p> - “I am so sorry, Mr. Usher,” said a voice. He started to, his feet; Lady - Milmo and Ella were before him. - </p> - <p> - “A thousand pardons. I was gathering the wool of sweet and bitter fancy! - Oh, no, you are not late, indeed not. Won't you sit? It is somewhat - deserted here, but it is more rural than further up; we can talk more - freely.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sure you can talk interestingly anywhere,” said Lady Milmo. - </p> - <p> - She was a small elderly lady dressed somewhat youthfully. She wore a - little rouge, a trifle of black along the eyelashes, and a coquettish - straw hat with pink roses and an osprey feather. She seemed thoroughly - contented with herself and her surroundings. - </p> - <p> - “One gets into the habit of talking in the key of one's environment,” said - Roderick, reflectively. “Don't you think so, Miss Defries?” - </p> - <p> - “It is the fault of this social life of ours,” replied Ella. “There are so - many affectations and insincerities around us that we are afraid to be - genuine.” - </p> - <p> - “It is a great charm of Lady Milmo and yourself that with you one is bound - to be genuine.” - </p> - <p> - “I do like people to appear just as they are,” smiled Lady Milmo. - </p> - <p> - “That is what we are working for,” said Roderick; “the return to sincerity - and simple truth.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what have you to tell us?” - </p> - <p> - “Good news. Raynham has come round, and will take a seat on the Council. - He may get a couple more Academicians. One further item in my debt of - gratitude to you, Miss Defries.” - </p> - <p> - “It is very little I have been able to do,” said Ella. “I only asked Mr. - Raynham to receive you. Your own earnestness and conviction won him over.” - </p> - <p> - An old gentleman came up and spoke to Lady Milmo. Roderick politely - yielded him his chair and took possession of a vacant one on the other - side of Ella. - </p> - <p> - “It is your womanly sympathy and courage all through that I have to thank; - your cheering in depression, your encouragement in the face of defeat. If - the star of success has arisen, it is you who have dispersed the obscuring - clouds. A man may set his heart on a thing, but a woman keeps it there.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke in a low voice, and Ella leaned towards him to listen. Her cheeks - flushed. The flattery was sweet, and there was a subtle vibration in his - voice that stirred her. - </p> - <p> - “One would die if there were not something noble to live for,” said she, - suddenly throwing off the stealing languor. “To rise every morning and - look forward to sixteen inevitable waking hours that will not bring one - throb to the pulses, one inspiring hope; to go to sleep each night feeling - dull and useless, and so on for endless months and years,—it is an - unlivable life. It is you I have to thank for putting an interest in my - way.” - </p> - <p> - “I love to hear you speak like that,” he said admiringly. “Pray God you - keep your enthusiasms; There are thousands who never know the thrill. It - should be part of our mission to awaken their souls. There is one friend - of ours, for instance, who needs it to make him a great man. Oddly enough, - I have just left him—dear old Sylvester Lanyon, you know. I found - him sitting a little higher up, looking like a sick raven among birds of - paradise.” - </p> - <p> - Her clear girl's eyes effected feminine concealment of the old pain that - every reference to Sylvester had caused her for the past year. Her heart - rebelled against it, resenting the inefficacy of time to cure. Wantonly - she ignored it. - </p> - <p> - “I have not set eyes on him since he settled in town. He never comes to - see us. He is still mourning and moping, I suppose. The world is for the - living, not the dead; don't you think so?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. He should marry again. A woman of exuberant vitality, who would - carry him along with her.” - </p> - <p> - “We'll have to find him a wife, Mr. Usher,” she replied gaily. - </p> - <p> - Thus she proved to herself defiantly that all her foolish feeling for - Sylvester was dead; that she had also attained a standpoint of generous - forgetfulness of wrong. - </p> - <p> - “And send him out with her to doctor the Colony,” laughed Roderick. “It - would be the making of him. As it is, he is a man of fine honour and - strong character. Even if one's own spiritual horizon is wider than that - bounded by his narrow orthodoxy, yet one can but admire the steadfastness - with which he keeps within its limits. I have always had, as you know, a - great affection for him.” - </p> - <p> - The girl's responsive nature was touched by the generous tribute. Roderick - took a sudden leap in her esteem. She had her own haunting and miserable - ideas as to Sylvester's honour, but the praise pleased her,—the fact - of a man's loyalty to the ideal of a friend. At least, so she half - consciously analysed her feelings. - </p> - <p> - The talk went on, and time passed. Lady Milmo's friend departed and - mingled in the stream that began to make for Hyde Park Corner and home. - She turned to Ella and Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “The dear, tiresome general has been entertaining me with his corns while - I have been dying to hear all about the Colony. And now it's too late. You - must come soon and see us, Mr. Usher. It is useless to try to talk here. - Why didn't we say Battersea? I'm afraid we 're sad creatures of - convention.” - </p> - <p> - “Miss Defries will make an adequate report, I am sure,” said Roderick. - “But Raynham's accession to the cause was my main item of news.” - </p> - <p> - They all rose and walked to Hyde Park Corner. There he saw the ladies into - a cab and swept one of his elaborate bows as they drove off. But he - remained for some moments on the curb in front of the Park gates absently - watching the hansom until it was lost amid the traffic. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder,” he said half aloud, “I wonder.” And he walked slowly up - Piccadilly, his eyes bent on the pavement, his hands behind him, with the - air of a man in deep and somewhat harassed thought. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII—THE DANGEROUS HOUR - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> few days - afterwards Ella was lying on a sofa in her aunt's drawing-room in Pont - Street. It was a hot afternoon, the windows were open, and the sun blinds - tempered the light. Between their edges and the tops of the flowers in the - window-boxes she could see a great band of golden sunshine. Having been to - a late dance the evening before and to a stuffy but advanced picture - exhibition in the morning, she was feeling physically languid, and glad to - be excused from attendance on Lady Milmo, who was indefatigably attending - a charitable committee. In her hand she held a letter that had come by the - early afternoon post. It was from Matthew Lanyon, bright and gossipy on - the surface, but her quick perception divined an undercurrent of sadness. - He was looking forward to her promised visit in August. If only he could - persuade Syl to come down too, it would be quite like old times. But - perhaps it would be better for Syl to get right away among the Swiss - mountains, as he proposed. There was nothing like a complete change for a - jaded Londoner. He had come down for a week-end lately and was looking - fagged and overworked. The garden had never been lovelier. The - rhododendrons were out and all a mass of bumble-bees; he had never seen so - many in his life. He was writing late at night, on his knees in the - library. Dorothy had made a complicated web of Berlin wool all over his - writing-chair, by way of fitting it up as a carriage for her doll, which - was throned in the midst, and of course he had not dared to disturb it. - </p> - <p> - “I think I make an average grandfather,” he wrote, “but I do wish some one - had given me a few lessons as to how to become a mother.” - </p> - <p> - The fragrance of the country garden stole elusively upon the hot London - room, and awakened a longing to get away from the glare and chatter into - the cool quietude of Woodlands; to exchange the heavy dinnerparty where - she was due in a few hours' time, with its heavy hot-house flowers and its - artificial talk, for the peaceful summer evening in the summer-house under - the trees, in the company of the dear old man, so sane, so sincere, and of - Miss Lanyon, whose gentle mind seemed to have lain in lavender. She was - tired; her heart was tired. The beautiful world lay hidden behind a - mountain, up which she was climbing wearily, vainly. Her feet were tangled - in an inextricable maze and her steps were devious. Where could she find a - guide? She conjured up the picture of the old man's kind, grave smile, and - longed, as only a girl can who is enmeshing her life, to throw herself - down by his knees and open all her heart. Had he appeared at that moment - at the door, she would have arisen and with a cry, half sob, half welcome, - have thrown her arms about his neck and burst into tears. - </p> - <p> - “If only he could come!” she said, and she sank vaguely into the imagined - solace. But what could she say to him? The formulated query crystallised - her thoughts into chill dismay. How could she make known, even to him, the - humiliation of that last interview with Sylvester, expose to him the - nakedness of her outraged pride? She shrank from the thought. And the - history of the year's follies? No. Never. She crumpled the letter fiercely - in her hand. Then, suddenly repenting of her violence, she smoothed the - sheet tenderly and kissed it and slipped it into the bosom of her dress. - </p> - <p> - The year's follies. In this hour of lassitude and depression—rare to - Ella, but common to all her sex, coming to woman with rhythmic iteration - as inevitable as the tides—they rose up one by one before her, and - her cheeks burned with shame. First it was Lionel Kavanagh, the poet and - aesthetic critic. She had been reckless, craving excitement, forgetfulness - of her burning humiliation. All through the season a year ago, she had - flirted with him, openly, outrageously. He was one of Lady Milmo's - menagerie, and used to sprawl on the hearth-rug and alternate rhapsody - with mordant wit. And alone in her company he would sail perilously near - the wind with sensuous allusiveness, until one day he grew bold and - brought her a sonnet frankly sensual. She tore the manuscript into tiny - pieces during an ominous silence, and ordered him out of the house. The - next was Bertie Hetherington, who made violent love to her at - Aix-les-Bains, whither she had been led by Lady Milmo's wandering fancy - and rheumatic tendencies. He was a fresh, wholesome young Briton in a - Hussar regiment. The vehemence of his devotion was sweet to Ella, and she - kept him hoping longer than she knew was right. Perhaps if he had - possessed more brains she might have married him. But when he wrote her an - impassioned letter in which he affirmed that his heart <i>beet</i> only - for her, the spelling caught the humorous side of Ella's fancy and she - laughed herself out of her entanglement. Yet she had wronged him, just as - Sylvester had wronged her, and she had wronged herself. The fresh bloom of - her maidenhood had gone. Her sensitive pride magnified the taint. - </p> - <p> - In London once more, the need of an occupation, an aim, a purpose, - tormented her. She had tried the ignoble and found it bitter. She craved - the higher plane of devotion to a cause, something elevated, impersonal. - The ordinary pursuits that call forth a woman's self-sacrifice did not - appeal to the unrest of her imagination. Besides, her young blood rebelled - against self-suppression. In the stress and storm she caught at the first - thing to her hand: Roderick Usher's Utopian scheme for the regeneration of - art and the consequent purification of society. She was carried away like - a straw on the crest of his vehement pro-pagandism. From an occasional - attendant at her aunt's receptions, he became a regular visitor. Together - they elaborated the scheme, discussed the details. She worked with him in - obtaining supporters and canvassing for subscriptions. At first the - correspondence, the interviewing, the plotting and intriguing, kept her - enthusiastically occupied. She made converts among the young artists and - poets who came to the house, inveighing against the tame formalism on the - one hand and the morbid exaggeration on the other that were the curses of - modern art. She attended meetings in fashionable drawing-rooms and - expounded her theories. Notoriety followed her doings. A weekly paper - published an illustrated interview with the priestess of the new gospel. - </p> - <p> - She believed in the scheme. It was audacious, but practical. It was - impossible for convincing art to flourish in the midst of the social - insincerity and commercialism of the day. The teachers of men must lead a - higher life than the taught; to have authority, must dwell aloof from the - world; to have inspiration, must draw it from the pure wells of nature and - their own hearts. These postulates being allowed, the logical consequence - was the conception of a colony of earnest and devoted artists in some - sequestered spot where the world's Babel came but as an echo. Such a spot - was readily obtainable in California. A large ranch, in one of the - loveliest valleys of the Sierra Nevada, was for sale. Extensions could be - built indefinitely at a comparatively trifling cost. Thither the band of - youths and maidens, uncorrupted as yet by the deadening influences around - them, would proceed, and settling down would allow to flow unchecked the - genuine founts of their genius. They would be in Arcadian ignorance of the - arch destroyer of art, the public taste, and thus be beyond the reach of - the temptation to pander to it. They would reveal the truth as it came - crystallised in song or poem or picture from their own souls. The lack of - pence would not disturb their serenity. Those who could afford it would - pay a modest monthly contribution to the general fund. The penniless - children of genius would obtain free food, shelter, and all the privileges - of the Colony. The subscriptions of the supporters of the movement in - England would defray their expenses. A commission would be levied on the - profits of any work produced in the Colony. This, in the course of years, - when public taste was revolutionised and the Waldenites' productions - obtained great prices, would place the Colony beyond the need of - subscriptions or of contributions by members. It would become, in - Roderick's words, “The world's great Palace of Art.” Roderick himself was - ready to sacrifice his future in London so as to take up the post of - director of the Colony at a handsome salary. - </p> - <p> - She believed in the scheme still; success, in fact, justified her faith. - But in this hour of self-abasement she distrusted the sincerity of her - enthusiasm. How much had she done genuinely for the cause? How much, - unconsciously, for the man? The question racked her. He had woven his - influence around her life. Her name was publicly associated with his. She - dreaded meeting him, yet felt the heart taken out of the day on which she - was not working under his direction. Whither was she tending? She could - not answer. Not where happiness would lie. To have brought herself into - this morass was the last and greatest of the year's follies. In her - helpless anger she hated the scheme and all that she had done to further - it. A sickening surmise as to its futility overspread her retrospect. - </p> - <p> - She clasped her hands over her hot eyes and again longed for Woodlands. - Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and smoothed her dress and hair - hurriedly, as if ashamed of her nervelessness. She would write to Matthew - Lanyon then and there, yield herself wholly to her need of expansion, and - let what would flow from her pen. She sat down resolutely at the - ornamental escritoire and drew out writing materials. She had never given - him any definite account of the scheme. She had alluded to it vaguely, - somewhat flippantly, partly anxious to amuse and partly fearful of - criticism. The mention of Roderick Usher's name had been rare. She had - followed the secretive instinct of her sex. The old man's references - hitherto had been jocular; deceived by her manner, he had merely regarded - her interest as an idle young woman's harmless hobby. Even in this letter - that she carried crumpled in her bosom, he had asked her how her artistic - Robinson Crusoes were getting on. He should know the history of the whole - movement, her own hopes and fears,—perhaps more of her difficulties. - She would write whatever words came into her mind. - </p> - <p> - She dipped her pen in the ink, dashed off the date and “My darling Uncle - Matthew,” and was starting the text of the letter, when the door opened. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Usher, miss,” announced the parlour maid. - </p> - <p> - Ella closed her blotter with a petulant snap, but rose and greeted her - visitor with a smile. Roderick looked cool and point-device in a grey - frock-coat suit. A slight baldness in front gave his high forehead an air - of intellectuality. He had called, he informed her, just to report - progress. And as he talked she sat, her chin resting on her knuckles, - watching him with that wistful gaze that comes from a woman's weary - uncertainties. - </p> - <p> - “There, that is all,” he said in conclusion; “and I am glad there's no - more.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” asked Ella. - </p> - <p> - “Because you want a holiday,—a respite from the worry of affairs. - Enthusiasms entail an expenditure of vital force; so there are times when - the temperament is at a low ebb, and ought to be treated with gentle - indulgence.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think I am at low ebb, Mr. Usher?” - </p> - <p> - “You are tired,—a little <i>mal de vivre</i>. Isn't it so?” - </p> - <p> - He said it so kindly that her first impulse of resentment died away. - </p> - <p> - “How do you know I'm not simply physically out of sorts? I was dancing - till four this morning and till three the morning before.” - </p> - <p> - He smiled with a touch of indulgent superiority. - </p> - <p> - “As a sailor who knows the sea reads all its moods on its surface, so I - read yours in your eyes. Confess. You have been feeling the burthen of - life and have not known whence came its heaviness; and you have been - longing for relief in the fresh, cool arms of Mother Nature.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps,” she said, looking away from him. - </p> - <p> - “You are not offended?” he said, after a pause. He had a very musical - voice, trained to modulation of feelings. “My heart is always near my lips - and at times speaks indiscreetly.” - </p> - <p> - Ella turned round with a short laugh. - </p> - <p> - “No, I am not offended. Of course not. But it was scarcely fair to turn me - inside out like that without warning.” - </p> - <p> - Immediately she regretted her confession. His acute perception had half - flattered, half frightened her. She felt now that she had yielded some of - her ground. She strove to regain it. - </p> - <p> - “But it's all nonsense,” she added. “And very contemptible, just because - it's a close day, with a stuffy dinner-party looming ahead.” - </p> - <p> - “Phases of morale are never nonsense,” he replied. “No one knows what - unrest is better than I. We must find the remedy.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you suggest?” - </p> - <p> - “Happiness.” - </p> - <p> - “What is happiness?” - </p> - <p> - “The pursuit of the ideal on the wings of—” - </p> - <p> - “Of what?” - </p> - <p> - “Dare I say it—in all delicacy? Of love.” Ella again turned her face - aside, uncertain whether to resent the implication or to make a light - answer. Her hesitation was his opportunity. - </p> - <p> - “I, too, have been feeling depressed of late,” he said. “All pleasure has - in time to be paid for with pain. In a few months our scheme will be - launched,—the scheme that you and I have built up with pieces of our - hearts,—and I shall go away to end my life in carrying out its - working. I shall be alone. My helper and sweet comrade will no longer be - by my side. Thus I, too, sigh for happiness.” - </p> - <p> - He smiled sadly, but she saw that his eyes were regarding her keenly from - behind his gold pince-nez. - </p> - <p> - “We won't think of that,” she said hastily. “So many things may happen - between then and now.” - </p> - <p> - Roderick rose, rested his hand on the back of her chair, and bent over - her. - </p> - <p> - “One thing might happen that would fill the months with glory, and - inaugurate our project in the radiance of the rising sun. Yet not for the - scheme's sake, but for our lives' sake—for the sake of the expansion - and development of all that is yearning within us to find utterance—Ella—Will - you come with me?” - </p> - <p> - She sat, looking straight before her, her lips apart, her body slightly - swaying. Words would not come. She vaguely wished that something could - happen to rid her of his presence, that he could disappear, there and - then, once for all, out of her life. Yet she felt it impossible to dismiss - him. Some mysterious feminine chord had been struck whose echoes - proclaimed his right to stand over her and speak to her thus. - </p> - <p> - “What are you saying?” she murmured, with an almost piteous emphasis on - the last word. - </p> - <p> - “I am telling you that I love you, Ella, that my life is bound up in you, - that I need you for the accomplishment of my manhood. And I am asking you - to come with me to this sweet new land, to be my helper and my star. Say - that you will come with me.” - </p> - <p> - “Give me time,” she breathed. “I can't say—I have been living in a - whirl so long. I don't know what I am or think or feel. I will give you an - answer some day—soon—not now.” - </p> - <p> - “I will wait devotedly for your answer,” said Roderick, in his courtliest - manner, and moved a pace or two from her chair. - </p> - <p> - Ella looked up at him, almost grateful for his assurance. - </p> - <p> - “We will fix no period,” she said. “To have to give such a reply by a - definite date—” - </p> - <p> - “I do not ask it,” said Roderick, quietly, though his heart was beating - fast at the certainty of victory. - </p> - <p> - “You have given me the food of hope, whereon I can live meanwhile.” - </p> - <p> - “Could you not bear suspense?” she asked. “I might not answer as you would - like.” - </p> - <p> - “I could bear anything for your sake,” said he. Then, after a pause, “And - now goodbye. I must have solitude to dream over my happiness.” - </p> - <p> - She gave him her hand; he bent over it and kissed it, and she felt his - lips hot against her skin. It gave her a little shudder of repugnance, and - the feeling remained after he had gone. And yet his fascination was strong - upon her. He dominated her will as no man had done before. She was - conscious that he had the rare power to penetrate to the core of her - woman's weaknesses, to understand her as a botanist understands a plant, - and the rarer power to touch the fibres delicately, so that it became a - pleasure to be weak. Again, her somewhat exaggerated conception of his - wide spiritual and intellectual horizon moved her emotional temperament to - wondering respect, and she thought gratefully of the expansion of her own - under his influence. With the incomplete vision wherewith the wisest of - women must of necessity regard a man, she saw him strong and masterful, - clearing his way resolutely to a definite end. She felt that he brought - this air of mastery into his love; and he had created a need of him within - her. - </p> - <p> - He held her bound by many chains. And as she stood in the drawing-room, - half-consciously rubbing the spot on her hand where his lips had rested, - she felt the chains grow tighter, one by one. - </p> - <p> - Her maid came into the room. “When will you dress, miss?” - </p> - <p> - She remembered the dinner-party and gave her directions. She wished that - she had not to attend it. And then unbidden came the longing for “the - sweet new land” with its freedom and freshness, and her cheeks flamed at - the sudden realisation of what it all implied. - </p> - <p> - Her glance fell upon the blotter in which lay the just commenced letter to - Matthew Lanyon. She sat down again at the escritoire and took up her pen. - But the mood had passed. She found herself writing artificially, in the - jargon of her set. Angrily she tore up the paper and threw the fragments - into the waste-paper basket. No; better nothing than the insincerity he - despised; she loved him too dearly for that. So the letter, that was to - reveal her inmost struggling self, remained unwritten. - </p> - <p> - She was very silent as Lady Milmo and herself drove to the dinner-party. - Her head ached and her limbs were tired. - </p> - <p> - “The man who takes me down will over-eat himself dreadfully,” she - remarked, as the carriage pulled up. - </p> - <p> - “I don't think there is any danger,” replied her aunt, who was a woman of - experience. - </p> - <p> - And she was justified; for the girl's youth asserted itself, and as the - meal progressed the headache was forgotten and Ella enjoyed herself - thoroughly. - </p> - <p> - “I rather think your partner will want some supper, poor man,” said Lady - Milmo, on the homeward journey. - </p> - <p> - “It's his own fault; he would talk,” said Ella, laughing. - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo patted her niece's knee affectionately. - </p> - <p> - “I love to see you getting all that enjoyment out of life, my dear. You - seem to take it out in great chunks, like my neighbour this evening - helping himself to iced pudding.” - </p> - <p> - Ella thought of her enjoyment with a whimsical feeling of shame, a touch - of disappointment at not being as jaded as she had expected. But with the - quiet darkness of the night her conflict of doubts returned. After all, - what trivial topics she had discussed, what inanities she had laughed at, - what spiteful little shafts of malice she had flung. If she had enjoyed - it, so much the worse spiritually and morally for herself. Oh, the past - year! It had corrupted her. She looked back wistfully upon the girl whom - Sylvester had kissed at Woodlands. That fresh, shy, sweet something she - had given him then was hers no longer to give to any man. What she could - give to Roderick Usher, if she yielded to him, she did not know; - certainly, not that. - </p> - <p> - She was very young, very much unversed in the dark and crooked ways of - life, in spite of her experience of men and things; intensely eager to - keep herself pure and proud, to love the highest when she saw it. It is - not to be set down to weakness, therefore, if she grew very sorry for the - girl whom Sylvester had kissed, and cried herself miserably to sleep. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII—TRIUMPH - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he facilities that - London offers as a hiding-place are proverbial. A man in good position may - disappear entirely from his friends and yet be living for many years as a - grocer's assistant half a mile away. But when two acquaintances who belong - to the same social class have no particular reasons for lying hidden, they - are bound sooner or later to meet. Now Sylvester and Ella had not set eyes - on each other since the eve of the former's departure from Ayres-ford, - when he had said things which Ella firmly believed at the time had broken - her heart. This was not unnatural, seeing that he held rigidly aloof from - the society in which Ella moved. Neither did he frequent theatres nor - operas nor picture galleries, nor places of public resort. But he went - this year to the Ladies' Soirée of the Royal Society, first, because he - had been unable to attend the sterner masculine assembly of the former - evening, and, secondly, because he desired to meet two or three scientists - of European reputation who he knew would be there. - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo, who went everywhere and was proud of taking everywhere her - beautiful niece, was at the soirée also with Ella. Their progress through - the rooms was slow, as they knew many people, and the crowd was great. - Suddenly Lady Milmo pulled Ella's arm. - </p> - <p> - “Dear me, if that isn't Sylvester Lanyon!” - </p> - <p> - Ella looked instinctively in the indicated direction, and as her eyes fell - upon him, her heart gave a great throb. He was in earnest conversation - with an elderly man who wore an order of some kind, enforcing his - argument, according to a familiar trick of his, with the forefinger of one - hand and the palm of the other. His brown, intellectual face and well-knit - figure marked him as a man of some distinction. To Ella's dismay he - appeared to her the one distinguished personality in the room. His face - had grown more worn than she remembered it, and his hair greyer at the - temples. She found herself pitying him. - </p> - <p> - “Come,” said Lady Milmo, “I'm going to give him a good talking to.” Before - Ella could resist she had adroitly edged through the press and arrived - within his reach, Ella following mechanically. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Dr. Lanyon, fancy meeting you here. Ella and I have jars and jars of - pickled rods for you. Why do you never come near us? Is it because we 're - so aggravatingly healthy?” Sylvester murmured an apology. Indeed, he had - no reasons to offer. Lady Milmo was an old friend. He confessed his - rudeness. - </p> - <p> - “Madame,” said Sylvester's companion, with a low bow. - </p> - <p> - “Professor Steinthal! I didn't know you were in London. Forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - She turned to speak to him as Ella and Sylvester confronted each other. - Ella put out her hand. - </p> - <p> - “I hope you are well,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Quite well; and you?” - </p> - <p> - “You ought to be able to judge.” - </p> - <p> - “You seem to be in good health,” he said. “What maladies may lurk beneath - the surface, I cannot tell.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't suppose you can,” she was tempted to say. She saw that he - understood, but he made no reply, and there was an awkward pause. - </p> - <p> - “I'm going to see Uncle Matthew in August,” she said at last. - </p> - <p> - “So I have heard. I'm going to Switzerland, so I shall not have the - pleasure of meeting you. Do you know many people here?” - </p> - <p> - The pointed banality of the question angered her. - </p> - <p> - “Will you never have a kind word to say to me?” she flashed out in a quick - undertone, then she turned and greeted the professor effusively. - </p> - <p> - Thus, whatever wild, uncontrollable hopes were newly born at the first - sight of him, they were frozen at once to death. She went home in a - furious rage of humiliation. He was a man of ice and steel, an automaton - equipped with an intellect, scarcely a man at all. She put an imperious - end to her doubts. - </p> - <p> - Roderick Usher called next day, and spoke as one inspired with lofty - ideals. Before her fascinated vision he seemed to place realities where - hitherto the void had yawned or shadows at the most had shimmered. Life - stretched infinitely in front of her, a lush garden, fertile with a myriad - beauties. Her expanding soul shone out of dewy eyes. All the blindness, - all the weakness, all the deluded nobility of her nature, lay revealed, - pathetically defenceless. It was Roderick's golden hour, when he knew that - he had her at his mercy. - </p> - <p> - He rose, flung out his arms in a passionate gesture. - </p> - <p> - “Come to me, Ella. Our destinies demand it.” - </p> - <p> - She too rose and faced him, her eyes shining like stars, and held out her - hands. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I will come,” she said. - </p> - <p> - Roderick went into the warm June sunshine, thrilled with triumph, holding - his head high. He walked along heedless of direction, turned into Hans - Place and completed an entire circuit of the gardens before he realised - what he had done. He paused, to think of some destination. Then he laughed - aloud. - </p> - <p> - “Roderick, you must be in love,” he said to himself. A long struggle with - fortune had rendered it a rare occurrence for Roderick not to be perfectly - aware of what he was doing and of what he was about to do. But the victory - had come sooner than he had anticipated, and his immediate scheme of life, - was thrown into confusion. He turned to the right, and once in Sloane - Street, wandered north and found himself again undetermined at the corner - of the Brompton Road. The driver of a crawling hansom touched his hat - inquiringly. It was a brand-new, summer season cab, with horse and driver - well turned out, and it caught his fancy. He stood upon the step, looked - east, looked west, up and down the surging thoroughfare. Then obeying a - sudden impulse, he shouted laughingly an address over the hood of the cab,—“24 - Weymouth Street.” - </p> - <p> - He would go and present himself to an astonished Sylvester, acquaint him - with his good fortune, and perhaps learn certain things concerning which - delicacy had forbidden him to make too close inquiries. At any rate, there - was a certain attractive impudence in the adventure. He lit a cigar and - lay back on the soft cushions of the cab and regarded himself complacently - in the strip of mirror. He was wearing well, he thought, as he caressed - his Vandyke beard, and appeared by no means an unromantic lover. The - deepening crows' feet about his eyes gave him a momentary uneasiness, but - he parted his lips, and by way of compensation looked admiringly at his - white, even teeth. The conviction that there was nothing about him that - would be otherwise than physically attractive to the most fastidious - feminine sense brought him an assured content. - </p> - <p> - He gazed through the blue cigar-smoke up the long vista of clashing - traffic broadening out by Hyde Park Corner, where London at its gayest - displayed itself in the mellow afternoon sunlight. He waved his hand - towards it as if summoning its blithe spirit to hear him. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think I'm going to give you up?” he said, breaking into a laugh. - </p> - <p> - For London, to the man of the pavement, the theatres, the studios, the - newspaper offices, the clubs, the restaurants, means the elemental medium - of his being. The deep bosom of Mother Nature would suffocate him. It is a - picturesque thing to talk about, and it may be exploited by an ingenious - contriver to his considerable advantage, but it did not satisfy the - spiritual cravings of Roderick Usher. He had not the remotest intention of - committing himself to lifelong exile with the Walden Art Colony, if his - supple wit could devise other means of profiting by the enterprise. - </p> - <p> - “But I nearly lost you!” he apostrophised London again, after a few - moments. - </p> - <p> - In a certain sense, he had been meditating flight, the summary abandonment - of his broken fortunes too far gone for satisfactory repairing. For - Roderick was a man who demanded more from society than his talents enabled - him to give in return. Not that he was, in the general sense of the term, - an adventurer. He had worked hard all his life; but he had always just not - succeeded in his undertakings. He had written a play which an enthusiastic - young manager had run at a loss for fifty nights. A second play evoked a - chorus of delight among the newer school of critics, but had fizzled out - after a week's unsatisfactory existence. His succeeding plays went the - round of rueful and head-shaking managers. Professionally he was an - artist. He painted pictures, but prices were low. One immense and - ambitious canvas hung at the Royal Academy was to have brought him - everlasting fame and fortune. It was taken over by a firm of art - publishers whose royalties on prints after two years' waiting amounted to - a few paltry pounds. Then for some reason or the other the Academy refused - to hang him. Hence his bitter hatred of the Academy and all its works. He - had written a couple of novels which were universally belauded and nowhere - bought. He was art critic, dramatic critic, reviewer, short-story writer. - This work and the sale of such pictures as the dealers could be prevailed - upon to purchase, together with private orders for portraits, brought him - a maintenance. It would have been wealth to him who was content with beer, - comfort to him who drank modest claret, but it was penury to the man who - claimed at least 1889 champagne as a divine right. Roderick's career had - therefore been an interminable battle with society. He rode through it a - free lance, plundering it blandly whenever a chance offered. He had - scarcely ever during his life as a man been free from debt. But his - unflagging energy, his suppleness of humour, his buoyancy, his - versatility, by winning popular esteem had saved him many times from - social disaster. He played billiards too well; he played whist and poker - too well. He was too disinterested an adviser of young men in search of - ready money. Thus, somewhat paradoxically, he was welcomed at private - houses, but looked shyly upon in clubs. Yet no one had hinted a - dishonourable action. Twice or three times his father had groaningly sent - him a cheque to cover some of his more pressing debts; but in justice to - him, it must be said that in speaking of them to Matthew Lanyon, the old - man had exaggerated the extent of his culpability. Nor had Roderick the - slightest suspicion that any of Matthew Lanyon's money had ever found its - way into his own pocket. - </p> - <p> - Once again, however, he found himself more seriously involved than ever, - and his father pleaded empty coffers. There was a billbroking transaction - which might lead to unpleasantness. He had persuaded a foolish young man - to back bills to the amount of two or three thousand pounds. In two or - three months they could be renewed for a further period. But after that - would come the deluge. Exile might save him. But where should he go? To - the Colonies? He was too old. To Boulogne, to lead a shifty life with - compatriot wastrels? “Sooner Death,” said he. - </p> - <p> - But for some time past, as it happened, the scheme of the Walden Art - Colony had been idly occupying his disinterested attention. Suddenly his - astute mind perceived in the scheme his own social salvation. His energy - quickly brought it into practicable shape. His plausibility staved off his - creditors. His future position as salaried director of the Colony would - secure him an honourable retreat from an untenable position. - </p> - <p> - But now with the heiress of an ample fortune as his affianced bride, he - could laugh at fears and exultantly send the Colony to the devil. His luck - had turned at last. Now he would get to the heart of life. And Ella was - sweet, great-hearted, and beautiful. It was not only for her money that he - wanted her. Perish the miserable thought! He could conceive a noble - existence, all ideals. His thoughts touched the Empyrean. His facile - nature easily persuaded itself of lofty purpose, and for the moment he was - sincere. For Roderick was a man with wings to fly, but chained to the - earth with fetters of brass; and often his wings fanning the air gave him - the delusion of mounting heavenward. - </p> - <p> - The cab drew up at the dull and decorous door in Weymouth Street, at - half-past six. A decorous man-servant opened it and showed him into the - consulting-room, formally furnished with dark leather chairs and couch, - and a desk on which lay the stethoscope, tongue-depressor, and a few other - ordinary instruments of the physician. Some old prints hung round the - walls. The windows, glazed halfway, to insure privacy from the street, - gave an air of gloom to the not over cheerful apartment. Roderick compared - it with his own light and artistically furnished chambers, and wondered at - the dark soul of the man who could live amid such depression. - </p> - <p> - He laughed his gayest laugh, however, when Sylvester came in. - </p> - <p> - “I'm about as incongruous and unexpected here as you were the other day in - the Park,” said he. “But you'll understand why I've come when I tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm very glad to see you,” said Sylvester, politely. “Won't you sit - down?” - </p> - <p> - He seated himself in the writing-chair and motioned his guest to another. - </p> - <p> - “No, thanks, I'll walk about,” said Roderick. “If I sat there I'd feel too - much like a patient, and you'd be wanting to look at my tongue or pommel - my stomach. I've come, my boyhood's friend, to tell you some good news, to - demand your felicitations. I give you a thousand guesses.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you succeeded in floating your chartered Thelema Company?” asked - Sylvester, with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, damn the Colony! That is to say, comparatively damn the Colony. You - behold in me the happiest man on earth, engaged to the sweetest and - loveliest girl in the world. And the Colony's in it for something. So I - ought to have said 'thrice bless the Colony.'” Sylvester started in his - chair. - </p> - <p> - “You are not referring to Miss Defries?” - </p> - <p> - “I am so.” - </p> - <p> - “I must offer you my congratulations,” said Sylvester, recovering - composure. Then despising himself for a momentary pang, which he could not - explain to himself, he added: “I am sure she will make you an excellent - wife.” - </p> - <p> - “An excellent wife! Hear him, ye gods! As who should say, 'You will find - this a most serviceable umbrella!' She's the dewy dawn of all things sweet - to live for!” - </p> - <p> - “My habit of mind is more prosaic than yours,” laughed Sylvester. “But I - think I am none the less accurate. Is Miss Defries going also to Thelema?” - </p> - <p> - “That is the present intention. But plans are but frail barks upon the - capricious sea of time.” - </p> - <p> - “I see,” said Sylvester. “Now I understand your condemnation of the - Colony.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no; I am sure you don't,” put in Roderick, hastily. - </p> - <p> - “Well, never mind,” said Sylvester. “Have you obtained my fathers - consent?” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Lanyon's consent? What for?” - </p> - <p> - “The marriage.” - </p> - <p> - “But Ella is overage,—her own mistress.” - </p> - <p> - “Still, she must not marry without my father's consent, or she loses her - money.” - </p> - <p> - Roderick swept his hand in a magnificent gesture. “The money's neither - here nor there. But of course your father will consent.” - </p> - <p> - “He's the dearest old man God ever made,” said Sylvester, in his grave - way; “but he has queer crotchets now and then.” - </p> - <p> - “But this is the end of the nineteenth century,” laughed Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “I don't deny it. The other is a fact, all the same. The late Mr. - Defries's will is valid. Appointing my father trustee for his daughter - Ella, it provides for his administration of the estate until either her - marriage with his consent or his own death, whichever is first. On either - of these events, the whole money comes into her own keeping. If during his - lifetime she marries without his written consent, the money all goes to - some specified charity, I forget what it is.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I never heard of such a damned silly will in all my life,” said - Roderick, falling, into the vernacular. - </p> - <p> - “It only shows one man's implicit trust in the honour of another.” - </p> - <p> - “And how much does it all run to?” asked Roderick, casually. - </p> - <p> - “I haven't the remotest idea,” replied Sylvester. “It never entered my - head to inquire.” - </p> - <p> - Roderick took a few quick turns about the room, then he laughed in his - buoyant way. - </p> - <p> - “Well, if Damon Lanyon is recalcitrant, Pythias Usher will soothe him - down. So it will all come right. And you, camarado, shall dance at the - wedding. I swear it. I must go and dress for dinner with some Philistines - at Cricklewood. I shall be interested to see how God makes the creatures - who live at Cricklewood. By the way, shall I give Ella your good wishes?” - </p> - <p> - “Most certainly,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - He accompanied his guest to the front door; then returning to the - consulting-room, he opened the window, with an exclamation of distaste. - Roderick carried heavy scent about him, and Sylvester, like a wholesome - Briton, detested scent. He also in his heart detested Roderick. - </p> - <p> - Before preparing for his solitary dinner he went into his laboratory to - examine some tubes of gelatine in which the anthrax bacillus was thriving. - But he gazed at them somewhat absently. Scorn and contempt were in his - heart,—contempt for the woman whom once he thought fit to be his own - wife, and who had now thrown herself away upon this plausible but vulgar - charlatan. - </p> - <p> - “Like to like,” he muttered cynically. - </p> - <p> - And putting down his gelatine he went upstairs, apparently satisfied with - the examination he had entirely forgotten to make. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX—DAMON AND PYTHIAS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r. Usher the elder - had settled down in Ayresford a few months after the death of Sylvester's - mother. At first he had taken a small cottage, then a semi-detached villa. - Finally, he had transferred his household gods to a comfortable little - house standing in its own grounds not far from Woodlands. He was not - beloved in Ayresford on account of his habit of telling dull stories of - uninteresting incidents in his past career; but as he went to church - regularly and did no particular harm to anybody, he was accepted as a - member of the humdrum society of the somnolent little town. No one knew - much of his antecedents. He had been something in Australia and now lived - on his means. That he had chummed with Mr. Lanyon,—a fact which he - proclaimed so unceasingly that people grew nervous with teasing - anticipation whenever Australia was mentioned in his presence,—was a - sufficient guarantee of his respectability. Then Roderick came on flying - visits and with his brilliant ways acquired popularity. Later, when he - produced plays, painted pictures for the Academy, and wrote novels, - Ayresford was quite proud of him. The father gained a vicarious - reputation. They wanted to make him people's church-warden. But here - Matthew Lanyon intervened. - </p> - <p> - “I'm not a church-goer myself,” said he, “but I'm hanged if I'll let you - make a mockery of the whole thing.” - </p> - <p> - Whereupon Usher replied that it was a pity for lifelong friends to quarrel - over such a trifle, and wrote a letter to decline the church-wardenship. - But he put a little black mark and some hieroglyphics, with the date, in a - little black book, half filled with similar inscriptions, which he kept - locked up in his safe. This was some years before Sylvester had left for - London, and the black marks had gone on increasing. Ebenezer Usher was a - methodical man. - </p> - <p> - He was very proud of his house, which was tastefully furnished and - contained a choice collection of old china, of which he was a connoisseur. - Ayresford naturally put him down as a man of substance, and though he - entertained as little as decency allowed, he avoided the reputation of a - miser. His elegant leisure was passed in collecting the china above - mentioned, postage-stamps, and book plates, and in speculating through - outside brokers. - </p> - <p> - One morning in June he sat at his table, by the open window, through which - came all the scents of the lawn, immersed in his morning's work of sorting - book plates. He had them before him in cardboard boxes neatly labelled on - the back. They were divided into their several countries, subdivided into - noble families and commoners, further divided into “Armorial,” - “Artistic-Armorial,” and “Fanciful,” and they were all arranged according - to date. A manuscript catalogue by his side gave the reference to case and - position. A pile of loose plates, unmounted, lay immediately in front of - him, through which he was going one by one. If the plate happened to be - new, he put it aside for mounting. If it was a duplicate, he fished out - his original from its case and subjected the two to anxious scrutiny - through a magnifying-glass, to decide which was the better impression. Of - the subject he had profound knowledge, and he had a sincere appreciation - of beauty of workmanship. At such times as this he was the most harmless - of old gentlemen, dignifying the evening of his days with a learned - pastime. - </p> - <p> - He was leaning back in his chair, lovingly scrutinising the almost fragile - tenderness of an exquisite Bewick, when a servant brought in two letters - that had come by the second post. He bade her put them on the table, and - there they lay for some time while he continued the inspection of his - Bewick. At last he laid it down with a sigh and opened the first letter. - It ran:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - <i>Dear Sir,—We regret to inform you that the Great Elephant - stock has fallen to 3 1/8. Kindly wire advice as to cover. - We have every confidence in the stock and its ultimate - recovery. - - Yours faithfully, - - Peter Vavasour & Co.</i> -</pre> - <p> - Mr. Usher groaned and threw the letter away from him. He felt a most - ill-used man. The ingratitude of the world after a laborious lifetime - spent in its service pained him exceedingly. The sight of Roderick's - handwriting on the other envelope by no means brought him comfort. - Roderick's letters were rare, but unpleasantly to the point. He unfolded - it with distrustful resignation. But when his glance had taken in its - contents, his expression changed. He took off his gold spectacles, - breathed on them, and wiped them with his handkerchief, and putting them - on again, beamed at his son's letter:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - <i>Revered Parent,—I'm going to marry Ella Defries. Can't get - shekels without Lanyon's consent to union. A silly will - gives him the hold. Am writing now for his blessing. Better - let me overhaul the draft of your letter of paternal welcome - to her, as I know your effusive little habits. - - Yours, - - Roderick.</i> -</pre> - <p> - “Ah, the flippant ways of youth,” said he, with an indulgent smile. - </p> - <p> - The bucket-shop shark's application for cover came to him now through the - rosy cloud of his content. What did a few hundreds matter when his only - son was putting himself into a position to relieve from want his aged - father's declining years? He almost caressed Mr. Vavasour's letter as he - folded it up carefully and placed it with Roderick's in the breast-pocket - of his old frock-coat. He felt kindly disposed towards all mankind, and - prepared with a benevolent air to go forth and visit his friend, Matthew - Lanyon. He cleared his table of the book plates, scrupulously putting each - in its proper case, and then rang the bell. - </p> - <p> - “My hat, Olivia. And my stick. No. The sun is warm. It is very hot. I - shall take the green umbrella.” - </p> - <p> - The elderly servant brought him these articles. He put on the Panama straw - hat with his accustomed deliberation, while Olivia held the umbrella. Then - he took the latter in his hand, and went out with his slow old man's - tread. - </p> - <p> - On his way through the wide straggling main street of Ayresford, he - paused, according to long custom, to look into the window of a little - poverty-stricken bric-à-brac shop, garnished with a few rusty old pistols, - bits of china, and worm-eaten books. To-day was displayed a couple of - leaves torn from an old postage-stamp album. The eye of the collector at - once fixed itself on a Canada, green and unused. He hurried into the shop. - </p> - <p> - “Good-morning, Mrs. Driscoll; it is a very hot day.” - </p> - <p> - A dejected old woman rose from a stool by the counter. - </p> - <p> - “The Lord sends it, Mr. Usher. We must abide by His mercies.” - </p> - <p> - “We must indeed,” replied Usher, wagging his head. - </p> - <p> - “I thought I would come in and help you, Mrs. Driscoll, by making a little - purchase.” - </p> - <p> - “You 're very kind, sir,” said the old woman, mournfully. - </p> - <p> - “What might you be asking for these two sheets of postage stamps?” - </p> - <p> - “Ten shillings, I was told, sir.” - </p> - <p> - Usher lifted up his hands pityingly and smiled. - </p> - <p> - “My dear Mrs. Driscoll, they are not worth half a crown. But I will be - generous. It is one's duty to be generous to the poor and needy. I will - give you five shillings.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well, sir,” said the old woman. The bargain was concluded, and Mr. - Usher went out a very happy man. For a green, unused 7 1/2d. Canada - postage stamp, as all philatelists know, will fetch some eight or nine - pounds, if judiciously put on the market, and Mr. Usher had a beautiful - specimen already in his collection. Fortune was really smiling on him this - morning. - </p> - <p> - He reached Matthew Lanyon's office in a seraphic temper, which a quarter - of an hour's wait did not ruffle. When Mr. Lanyon's client had departed, - he was shown into the office, where Matthew was seated at his desk. - </p> - <p> - “I thought you would come,” said Matthew, without further greeting. “Sit - down.” - </p> - <p> - “You are not looking at all well, my dear friend,” said Usher. “You should - really take care of yourself. I always say it is wrong for a man to let - his business affairs get the upper hand with him.” - </p> - <p> - It was true. Matthew had been ailing considerably of late, and his doctor - had urged him to do a number of impossible things,—to go for a sea - voyage, to reduce his practice, to take a partner. He was killing himself. - He must stop, or human science wouldn't answer for the consequences. - </p> - <p> - “Human science can wait till she's asked,” the old man had replied with a - certain humour. The past year had aged him considerably. His hair was - greyer, his figure slightly bent, his face and hands thinner, his brow - more care worn. Characteristically he had told Sylvester of none of his - ailments, and during the weekends Sylvester had spent at Woodlands, he had - made special efforts to appear bright and strong. When Sylvester, - anxiously informed by his aunt, questioned him, he had laughed in his - cheery way, but with a touch of petulance, and asked how he, a man of - science, could attribute any importance to Agatha's silly whimsies. - </p> - <p> - He was not the man to be fond of pity, even from those dearest to him; <i>a - fortiori</i>, he found Usher's sympathy particularly obnoxious. - </p> - <p> - “I'm exceedingly well,” he said somewhat irritably. “Better than I have - been for months.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps the pleasant news has cheered you,” said Usher. “There is nothing - like the happiness of others to make the heart young again. I am always - rejoiced at the happiness of others. It is my nature.” - </p> - <p> - He said it with such an air of dull simplicity, uttering each vocable with - weighty deliberation, that a smile flickered around Matthew's lips. “I - really think you believe it.” - </p> - <p> - “I never disguise my sentiments. Falsehood is abhorrent to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Rubbish!” said Matthew, curtly. “I'm busy. I can only give you ten - minutes. What have you come for?” - </p> - <p> - “To share your happiness in the engagement of our dear children,—my - son, your ward.” - </p> - <p> - “I am not pleased at all. Even you ought to know that.” - </p> - <p> - “Not pleased?” - </p> - <p> - “No. A marriage like that is an impossibility.” - </p> - <p> - Usher opened his eyes in reproachful astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “How can I let my ward marry a man like Roderick?” - </p> - <p> - “My son is a fine fellow,” said Usher. - </p> - <p> - “He 's an infernal scamp,” said Matthew, “and you know.” - </p> - <p> - “He has been a little wild, I allow,” said Usher, indulgently. “But all - young men sow their wild oats. Even you, Matthew, have committed - indiscretions—” - </p> - <p> - “And I've paid for them a million times over,” said Matthew. “My God! I - have paid the uttermost farthing.” - </p> - <p> - He passed his hand with a quick movement across his face, as if to wipe - out a sudden contortion of features. - </p> - <p> - “We needn't discuss the matter,” he said in business tones. “I shall not - give my consent.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand why it is necessary,” said Usher. - </p> - <p> - Matthew put him briefly into possession of the facts that Sylvester had - disclosed to Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “They will marry without your consent,” said Usher. Matthew laughed. - </p> - <p> - “It takes two to make a marriage, Usher.” Usher looked at him dully and - sighed. “I did not expect this ungenerosity from you, Matthew. Remember I - am a father. I have always been a most affectionate father. My affection - has always stood in my way. I plead for my poor son.” - </p> - <p> - “Your poor son! Why, I've supported him in comfort all his life. He earns - a decent living himself, and twice I have saved him from gaol. By George, - sir, he would have got there—and richly deserved it. If you think - I'm going to give my consent to Ella marrying that confounded - attitudinising swindler, you take me for a greater rascal than yourself.” - Matthew got up and walked about the room. - </p> - <p> - He was not a man who easily lost his temper, but the idea of this marriage - infuriated him. Usher lifted a deprecating hand. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it can be arranged,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “No, it can't. So you can go.” - </p> - <p> - “We will withdraw our claim for five thousand pounds.” - </p> - <p> - “Where do you suppose I'm to find five thousand pounds?” - </p> - <p> - “You can do what you like with Miss Defries's money, Matthew.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew stopped in his walk, and his face grew livid. He pointed to the - door. - </p> - <p> - “Go out,” he said in a trembling voice, “or I'll have you turned out.” - </p> - <p> - Usher rose to his feet and shuffled towards the door. - </p> - <p> - “Then poor Sylvester shall know what were the parents in whom he trusted.” - </p> - <p> - “Let him know and be damned to you!” said Matthew. - </p> - <p> - He flung open the door into the outer office, and stood rigid and white - with anger, as Usher passed out. Then, when he was alone, he put his hand - to his heart, and staggering to an old couch threw himself down half - fainting among the papers with which it was piled. - </p> - <p> - A clerk, coming in a few moments later to announce a client, found him - white and gasping. But he insisted to the frightened youth on his being - well again, drank a glass of water, and with a sheer effort of will, - dragged himself to his feet and concentrated his faculties. - </p> - <p> - “Show Sir Trevor in,” said he. - </p> - <p> - But the sudden attack rendered him weak and anxious for the rest of the - day. He had never fainted like that before. It must have been the heat and - the fury he had flown into with Usher. When he went home to lunch Miss - Lanyon was alarmed at his appearance. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I'm a little bilious. It is the heat. It's nothing,” he said - obstinately. - </p> - <p> - Miss Lanyon looked at him sadly out of her faded blue eyes. If Dorothy, - herself, or any of the household showed signs of poorliness, he would - worry himself to death about it, get the doctors in, ransack the town for - delicacies, and send special messengers from the office during the day to - make inquiries. But where he himself was concerned, he was impatient of - interference. Miss Lanyon shook her head. Men were insoluble enigmas. - </p> - <p> - In the afternoon he went round the garden with his little granddaughter, - submitting to be decorated with whatever flowers her childish fancy - selected. He wore carnations round the ribbon of his hat, a Maréchal Niel - rose in the lapel of his coat, and pansies stuck down his waistcoat, and - he stalked on, gravely holding the child's hand and chatting with her on - terms of comradeship. As they passed by the strawberry beds in the kitchen - garden, Dorothy pointed to some ragamuffin children pressing their faces - against the iron gate. - </p> - <p> - “Dirty little boys,” she announced fastidiously. - </p> - <p> - “What would you sooner give them,—soap or strawberries?” asked the - old man. - </p> - <p> - Dorothy reflected a moment. - </p> - <p> - “Soap is nasty,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Well, we'll give them some strawberries. Open the gate and call them.” - </p> - <p> - She ran to the gate and gave the invitation. The children came in shyly, - their mouths watering. - </p> - <p> - “Show them how to pick,” said Matthew. - </p> - <p> - She bent down and picked and gave a berry to each of the children. The old - man walked away. Presently Dorothy came running after him. Why had he gone - off? - </p> - <p> - “They'll eat more if I'm not there,” said he. “But why don't you stay?” - </p> - <p> - “One of them ate a slug,” replied Dorothy, in disgusted dignity. - </p> - <p> - The old man threw himself down on a garden seat and laughed. Dorothy - clambered on to his knees. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me about the kangaroos,” she commanded. So for the next hour he - entertained her with stories of kangaroos and monkeys and crocodiles and - the strange beasts of far lands. Then Miss Lanyon came upon them, in - search of Dorothy. - </p> - <p> - “There are some horrid little boys stealing the strawberries,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “What! are they there still? They began an hour ago. I gave them leave.” - </p> - <p> - “And they have been picking some of the green peaches that were coming on - so nicely.” - </p> - <p> - “They'll enjoy them green better than we shall enjoy them ripe,” said - Matthew. “So let them be.” - </p> - <p> - “I sha'n't. They'll be ill,” said Miss Lanyon, with spirit. - </p> - <p> - The old man went off to distribute halfpence among the children as a sort - of compensation for loss of stomach aches, and his sister carried off - Dorothy. - </p> - <p> - “Dorothy,” she said on the way, “your grandfather is a saint.” - </p> - <p> - “You said he was the worry of your life to-day,” said Dorothy. - </p> - <p> - “Because he's too good, dear. We're none of us good enough for him,” said - Miss Lanyon. - </p> - <p> - Matthew returned to the seat and slowly divested himself of his flowers, - giving himself up for the moment to the peaceful charm of the afternoon - hour. The place was dear to him. It was more or less the creation of his - life. It was a small house in a little garden when he had brought his wife - to Ayresford. And he had added on to both, bit by bit, building a wing, - buying a few adjacent acres, until it had come to be a large property - perfectly laid out. - </p> - <p> - The house stood mellow and homelike in the soft sunshine, with ivy and - clematis clustering on walls and around windows. The lawn, smooth and well - trimmed, stretched into the dimness of a little wilderness marked by - shrubs. The sycamores on the other side of the house waved their tops - above the roof. He remembered when they were planted. She planted them. - What a number of years ago! And there in the old part of the house was - her window. The clematis had always been there. He remembered how it used - to brush her cheek as she leaned out to call to him. It was just such an - afternoon as this that her delicate face, like a pink shell, flushed with - excitement, had appeared and she had summoned him nearer. - </p> - <p> - “Mat, Baby has cut a tooth.” - </p> - <p> - My God! He could hear her voice now; almost wondered whether she had not - withdrawn within, and whether the five and thirty years had not been a - vague dream, and he himself was not young and vigorous and defiant of - fate. But the quick memories of the day rushed back upon him and obscured - the dearer vision. - </p> - <p> - The marriage was impossible. His heart yearned towards the girl whom he - loved with an old man's tender affection. How could he allow her to marry - a man whom he knew, from heredity, from actual facts that had come - miserably within his own knowledge, to be an unprincipled adventurer? The - misery of it was that his lips were sealed. He could not tell her of - Roderick's real character. To do that would be to break virtually the - promise he had kept for over thirty years. - </p> - <p> - “Whatever I do for my own son, I shall do for yours.” - </p> - <p> - He could no more blacken Roderick's reputation than he could Sylvester's. - Perhaps the marriage would redeem him. Yet to stake the life's happiness - of a human soul that was dear to him upon the chance of another's - redemption was too great a responsibility. Why had she engaged herself to - this man? It was not through love. He drew from his pocket the letter he - had received from her that morning and read it through. It was - constrained, artificial. The tone jarred upon their intimacy. Perhaps Ella - had changed, grown worldly and cynical, lost her love for him. Or was it - only the letter of a girl at war with her own heart? He had seen many such - battles in his time. - </p> - <p> - “At any rate, I withhold my consent,” he said decisively. - </p> - <p> - Yet Usher's threat agitated him more than he dared confess. He had never - defied him before on that point. For a moment he was racked with a spasm - of fear lest Sylvester should know the secret of his relations with Usher. - The fear had grown with the years into the roots of his life, had become - an unreasoning terror. To save his son the knowledge, he had been killing - himself by inches with work and worry. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he rose, shook himself as if impatient of the clinging doubts, - and walked briskly across the lawn. Usher daren't do it, for his own sake. - </p> - <p> - Usher turned the corner of the house and met him by the door. Matthew - frowned and regarded him angrily. - </p> - <p> - “I told you to go and be damned to you,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “You made use of improper language, Matthew. You lost your temper. I never - lose my temper. I am a most peaceful man. And I forgive. It is a Christian - virtue. I thought you might change your mind on reflection.” - </p> - <p> - “I haven't changed my mind,” said Matthew. - </p> - <p> - Usher took an envelope from his pocket, withdrew a letter, and handed it - to Matthew. - </p> - <p> - “Would you like me to send that to Sylvester?” - </p> - <p> - Matthew glanced through it; his fingers trembled in spite of his will. But - he tore the paper across and across and put the fragments into his - jacket-pocket. - </p> - <p> - “You would not be such a fool as to kill the goose with the golden eggs,” - he said. - </p> - <p> - “I thought you would do that,” said Usher, drawing another paper from his - pocket; “but I have prepared a duplicate. I have always been a man of - foresight. It is my firm intention to post this to Sylvester unless you - give me your written consent to the marriage. I do not want money, - Matthew. I have earned enough to keep me in comfort for the rest of my old - age, and your promise to help my poor boy was based on no conditions. All - the country says you are an upright man, Matthew. When I mentioned the - five thousand pounds to-day, I was forgetting your scrupulous honour. I - apologise. I always apologise when I am wrong. I am a just man.” - </p> - <p> - All through this harangue Matthew's stern gaze had never left the puffy, - white-bearded, common face. And he saw, not for the first time, beneath - the old man's dull and red-rimmed eyes, a hard gleam of hate. But for the - first time he realised that even to such a man there might be something - dearer even than money, and the chill fear fastened round his heart. He - made an impatient movement across the threshold of the open door. - </p> - <p> - “Come into the library,” he said. “It is an insult to God's sweet air to - discuss such things here.” - </p> - <p> - Usher followed him indoors. Some time later Miss Lanyon came down, having - changed her dress for dinner, and leaned against the jamb of the - creeper-covered porch and drank in the softness of the summer evening with - the country-bred gentlewoman's vague mingling of happiness and regret. She - had heard of the engagement. It had made her sad. Why had it not been - Sylvester instead of Roderick? She sighed over the grave of her old maid's - vicarious romance. A footstep behind her caused her to turn. It was Mr. - Usher, buttoning his old frock-coat. His face showed grave benevolence. - </p> - <p> - “A father lives in his children,” he said, after receiving her reluctant - congratulations. “I live in my son.” - </p> - <p> - The dinner-bell rang. - </p> - <p> - “I must go,” he continued. “I came to see my old friend on business. He is - so good. His time is always at the disposal of his friends.” - </p> - <p> - “I told Dorothy this evening that he was a saint,” she said. - </p> - <p> - Usher squeezed her hand impressively. - </p> - <p> - “He is indeed, Miss Lanyon. He is indeed.” - </p> - <p> - But Matthew sat in his library chair staring in front of him in agony of - spirit. He had yielded. The trace of the writing was there on the fresh - blotting-paper before him. The strong man writhed under the humiliation of - defeat. The proud, sensitive gentleman was tortured in his Nessus shirt of - dishonour. And it comforted him not that it was for his son's sake. He - felt as if he had ransomed him at the price of Ella's deliverance to the - Minotaur. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X—SYLVESTER DOES BATTLE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>oss of faith in - all through the faithlessness of one is a common and a tragic phenomenon. - It is vain for the robust-minded to prove the illogic of the conclusion, - which is one arrived at more from the emotional than the logical faculties - of the brain. The phenomenon occurs only in men of a certain temperament. - They are endowed with powers of intense individual passion, but lack that - universality of sympathy which makes for breadth of judgment. To narrow - the proposition to a particular case, they take one woman, not after long - and patient deliberation,—that is the supreme pity of it,—but - haphazard, on the impulse of a great emotion, and glorify her as the queen - of all women. She becomes inevitably the test of a sex. The poor human - touchstone fails, and a whole sex is condemned. To the commoner sort this - loss of faith matters little, for the nobility of a great faith was never - in them; they cultivate an easy-going cynicism, and that is all. But the - men whose lives are broken, who feel within them the horrible weight of a - dead ideal, are of nobler mould, and therein lies the piteousness of the - tragedy. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester walked slowly homewards from his partner's house in St. John's - Wood, where he had been dining. For Dr. Frodsham, who had ample means and - a large family, had taken the opportunity of moving from the house in - Weymouth Street into the purer air of the N. W. district, on Sylvester's - entrance into partnership, and only retained a consulting-room, where he - attended at certain hours. The sense of his loss hung heavy upon - Sylvester. He had left a home that glowed with a happiness for ever beyond - his reach. He had seen love, trust, sympathy, reflected from face to face - of husband and wife. The house was glad with the laughter of youth. The - somewhat intellectual atmosphere was softened by an indescribable - tenderness of human relation. Faith in themselves as men and women, in - humanity in general, gave a largeness to their social intercourse. And he - had sat there recognising, wondering; envying, until the door had closed - behind him and he was left to his loneliness on the silent pavement. - </p> - <p> - A boy and girl of the lower class passed slowly by, she with her head on - his shoulder, he with his arm round her waist. They were saying nothing, - probably were maintaining a half-hour's silence, but they were undeniably - happy, and, for the moment, Sylvester envied them. Vulgar as may have been - their affection, they, like the Frodshams, possessed that which he had - lost for ever,—faith. And faith meant love and love meant life. He - had seldom felt so keenly the abomination of his desolation, and the - craving for a woman's touch grew to a pang like hunger. And yet his whole - nature rejected the idea of fulfilment. He shuddered as he walked, and - strove to turn his thoughts into another channel. But the elemental - dominates a man's will. Unconsciously he returned to the subject. Ella had - been much in his mind since Roderick's announcement. Her yielding to such - a lover had strengthened his conviction of the contemptibility of a - woman's nature. Cynically he congratulated himself on his escape. He set - down nothing in extenuation. He only saw, on the one side, a woman of - apparent refinement whom he had once thought worthy of being his wife, on - the other side a blatant, sensual, mercenary cad. The refined woman had - thrown herself into the cad's arms. What was the need of looking further? - Any woman would have done the same. The so-called virtuous were merely the - untempted. The kindly matron at whose table he had been dining had only - maintained her position by a series of lucky accidents. And what living - soul could tell whether she had been true to Frodsham? But he envied - Frodsham his unclouded faith and the happiness that love brought to his - hearth. - </p> - <p> - Thus Sylvester walked homewards, his thoughts revolving in a vicious - circle. At Baker Street Station he passed through a crowd that was - gathering around two fringed and feathered coster-girls shrieking and - biting and cursing in a policeman's grip. They were too much for one man, - for your coster-girl in drink is a she-devil, and possessed of - extraordinary activities. One escaped, and as her companion was struggling - with the constable, she rushed at his face with a gigantic hat-pin held - dagger-wise. - </p> - <p> - In an instant Sylvester had dropped his light coat and had seized the fury - by the arms from behind. And there he held her pinioned. She kicked, she - butted, she poured out torrents of filth, she struggled, she tried to lie - down, to the great excitement of the crowd, who, out of respect for the - hat-pin, kept at a reasonable distance off, and expected to see a battle - royal in which the slight man in evening dress would get the worst of it. - But they were not prepared for such an exhibition of sheer strength on the - part of the slight man. He stood like a figure of bronze, holding the foul - and frenzied Amazon almost at arm's length, lifting her like a child when - she tried to fall, forcing her down when she tried to leap into the air. - The tussle, as far as Sylvester was concerned, did not last long; for two - policemen, forcing their way through the throng, speedily relieved him of - his charge and the lady of the hat-pin. Whereupon Sylvester, cheered by - the crowd, coolly took his overcoat from a man who was holding it, and - walked away down Baker Street. - </p> - <p> - The incident, although not tending to raise the Eternal Feminine in his - esteem, broke the train of his morbid imaginings. He glowed with the sense - of victory and chuckled quietly to himself. The successful application of - one's own brute force brings exultation to the primitive savage in a man. - </p> - <p> - “I'm not in such bad training, after all,” he said to himself pleasantly. - </p> - <p> - So he sprang up the steps of the house in Weymouth Street in a much - healthier frame of mind than that in which he had descended them some - hours before. The sudden stirring of the blood had done him good. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Lanyon is here, sir,” said a servant, meeting him in the hall. “He - said he would wait until you came home.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester disregarded the letters lying on the hall table, and ran - upstairs to the drawing-room, where somewhat breathlessly he expressed his - delight and wonder at seeing his father. But he was struck almost - immediately with dismay at the look of illness on the old man's face. - </p> - <p> - “You have no business to be here,” he exclaimed. “You ought to be in bed. - For God's sake, father, what is wrong with you?” He looked at him keenly. - “It is the heart, isn't it?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, that and other things,” Matthew admitted; “I have been a bit seedy - lately. But I'll look after myself; don't fret. And I didn't come here to - talk about my inside. I had to come up to town on business, so I thought - I'd look in instead of writing. I haven't been waiting long. You see, your - man has made me quite comfortable.” - </p> - <p> - He pointed to a tray by his side with whisky, soda, and glasses, and a box - of cigars. Sylvester poured himself out a drink and bit off the end of a - cigar. - </p> - <p> - “What's gone wrong?” he asked, striking a match. - </p> - <p> - “This confounded marriage of Ella's.” - </p> - <p> - “I wouldn't worry about it, father, if I were you. They are just worth one - another. She has proved she's on his level by accepting him.” - </p> - <p> - “Not at all, not at all,” said the old man. “That shows you know nothing - of women. It is one of the most astounding facts about an astounding sex, - that women of absolute refinement will throw themselves away upon the most - obvious cad, be utterly blind to his coarseness, if once he gets a hold - upon them. It's a kind of helpless infatuation. It doesn't at all argue - the degeneration of the woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you can withhold your consent, and in the mean time try to open her - eyes.” - </p> - <p> - “I have already given my consent, and there are reasons why I can't open - her eyes,” said Matthew, rather slowly, looking at his finger tips. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester swung a straight-backed chair from its place and sat down near - his father. - </p> - <p> - “Then you are not going to interfere at all? Don't you think that -the best thing you can do? Let them work out their own salvation or damnation, - as the case may be.” - </p> - <p> - “I love Ella as my own daughter, Syl, and I would save her if I could.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I don't understand,” said Sylvester. “Forgive my being impertinent, - Syl, but this is a serious matter. Weren't you fond of Ella yourself, some - time ago?” - </p> - <p> - The eyes of father and son met, and the eyes of each were very keen. - </p> - <p> - “I would rather not answer the question,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “You needn't,” replied Matthew, taking a sip of his whisky and soda. - </p> - <p> - There was a short silence. Sylvester smoked on, his glance fixed on his - father's face, his mind more concerned with the traces of illness and - suffering that he read there than with the subject under discussion. - </p> - <p> - “Syl,” said the old man, at last, looking at his son, “we are neither of - us sentimental people.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose we're not,” assented Sylvester, with a short laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Good. So what I want to say to you is serious. You have been a good son - to me. I've tried to do my duty by you. But I've never asked you to do a - thing for my sake during the whole course of your life. Do you think I - should be justified in starting now?” - </p> - <p> - “It stands to reason,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - Matthew rose from his chair and put his hand on his son's shoulder. With - all the tenderness of his heart, he was a man singularly little given to - outward demonstrations of affection. - </p> - <p> - “Then do everything in your power,” said he, “to stop this marriage. For - my sake.” He turned and walked away. “I can do nothing,” he added. - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” replied Sylvester, quietly; “I'll stop it.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't undertake too much. I only asked you to try.” - </p> - <p> - “I've said I'll stop it, and I will. Even if it comes to—” - </p> - <p> - “What?” - </p> - <p> - “To marrying her myself,” said Sylvester, grimly. - </p> - <p> - Matthew sat down again, and then passed one of the long silences, so - common between these two, who seemed to understand each other better when - no words were spoken. Each man kept his own life's secrets hidden in his - heart, would have gone through torture rather than reveal them to the - other, or indeed to any human being, and yet each was dearer to the other - than any being on earth. Speech, then, on intimate matters was dragged - reluctantly and painfully from their souls, which preferred to hold a - silent and mysterious communion. Even what he had said to Sylvester this - evening seemed to Matthew an indecency, an exposure of an integral part of - himself that the proud man kept hidden under a usually inscrutable veil of - reserve. It was characteristic of both that the subject received no - further allusion. - </p> - <p> - “I must think about turning in,” said Matthew at last. - </p> - <p> - “I'll go and see if they've made things comfortable for you,” said - Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “But, bless you, man, I'm not billeting myself on you and turning your - house upside down. I'm putting up at the Charing Cross Hotel.” - </p> - <p> - “You'd better stay here for two or three days and let me doctor you a - bit,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - But the old man pooh-pooh'd the idea. He did not want doctoring. He had - had some worrying intricate business lately. These confounded landed - proprietors,—they got their affairs into the most disastrous - muddles, and when once they had put them into a lawyer's hands thought - themselves relieved of all responsibilities and gaily went off to borrow - more money. God may have made man in his own image, but he certainly - forgot to supply the majority of the images with brains. However, he had - set things straight by now and could take it easy for a bit. When he - wanted Sylvester to doctor him, he would say so. - </p> - <p> - Against his will and better judgment, Sylvester had to let him go. He - announced his intention of walking to Charing Cross, but Sylvester - anticipated him by whistling up a hansom at the street door. Matthew - protested. He had always walked home. - </p> - <p> - “Do something for my sake,—for a change,” said Sylvester, with a - touch of humour. - </p> - <p> - The old man laughed, entered the cab, and drove off. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester went upstairs to finish his cigar. The world seemed a more - ironical place than it had appeared some hours before. He felt certain - aches in his fingers and sundry tinglings in his shins. He stooped and - rubbed the latter with a meditative smile. There was another young woman - between whom and her desires he was about to come. He speculated on the - prospect of rubbing his shins after that encounter. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder how it is to be done,” he said, lying back in his chair. - </p> - <p> - His promise was given. He would have unquestioningly married his fair - antagonist of Baker Street had his father so commanded. But all the same - it was not without uneasiness that he contemplated his mission. And as for - the girl he had undertaken to save, he assured himself that he took no - interest whatever in her destiny. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - To celebrate the engagement, Lady Milmo held a great reception to which - came crowds of distinguished and undistinguished persons, but it was - characteristic of her gatherings that the former far outnumbered the - latter. The air hummed with congratulations and with laudations of Art. - Sylvester, moving sardonically through the press, felt like a visitor - dazed by the whirl of a great unfamiliar factory. He confessed the feeling - to an acquaintance who fluttered between the two worlds of art and - science. - </p> - <p> - “The manufactory of artificial ideals,” laughed the latter, having also to - maintain a reputation for epigram. - </p> - <p> - The wit stayed to speak with a friend, and Sylvester tried to edge his way - towards the further end of the room where Ella stood talking with a couple - of men. From where he was he could see that she looked more than usually - beautiful. Her face was flushed, her eyes held the light of enthusiasm, - her young figure in a simple white silk dress stood out proud and defiant - against the darkness of an open window. It recalled vividly to his mind - her attitude when long, long ago she had passionately expressed her faith - in the glory of the world. His lips twitched in a half-smile. All around - him he heard snatches of conversation in which the engagement was alluded - to. A man cast doubts on Roderick's solvency. A girl declared she would - just as soon marry a steam-organ. A lean, anxious woman with a mechanical - grin ecstaticised over the union. The Art Colony was discussed on all - sides. - </p> - <p> - Presently Roderick, resplendent in a great white bow that fell half over - his shirt-front and almost hid a topaz solitaire, caught sight of him and - hailed him with a southern wave of his hand. - </p> - <p> - “My dear comrade,” he cried as soon as he was within hand-shaking range of - Sylvester, “it does my heart good to see you here to share our joy. Have - you spoken to her yet? There she is— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - 'Oh, she is fairer than the evening air - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!' - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Isn't she? A throbbing moment, <i>amigo</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm glad to see you so much in love,” said Sylvester. “It's refreshing.” - </p> - <p> - “Cynic!” said Roderick. “That's why your hair is turning grey. Look at - mine,—fresh as a rose in June. And I'm older than you.” - </p> - <p> - “How's the Utopia?” - </p> - <p> - “Colossal. Come, I'll introduce you to Sir Decimus Bland. Lady Derring has - fixed me with her glassy eye, and I must obey her call. Sir Decimus, let - me present my oldest and most valued friend, Dr. Sylvester Lanyon, the - terror of bacilli.” - </p> - <p> - Sir Decimus was a portly red-faced man who, from a habit of holding his - hands in front of him, looked as if he were supporting a model of one of - his Art galleries after the self-conscious manner of a “donor,” supporting - his church in the company of various saints in an old Italian painting. He - puffed as he spoke and glared amiably through a single eye-glass. - </p> - <p> - “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dr. Lanyon,” said he. “Your name is - a household word in the domain of science. In our domain we also have - bacilli to fight against,—commercialism, insincerity, all the - cankers that destroy the soul of art.” - </p> - <p> - “So you are going to choose an environment unsuitable for their - development, I hear,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, the Walden Art Colony. I am, as you may know, guaranteeing the - Director's salary. Our fortunate friend is just the man for the post.” - </p> - <p> - “When do you think it will take practical shape?” asked Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “We hope to start next spring—and under very happy auspices. I look - upon this as a fitting culmination to the poor services I have been able - to render to Art in this country. Are you interested in the movement, Dr. - Lanyon?” - </p> - <p> - “Not financially. I hardly know enough about it. One thing I don't quite - understand. I thought an artist gave out the experience he had gathered in - his contact with real life. How is he going to get that contact if he - buries himself in what amounts to a desert island?” - </p> - <p> - “He goes direct to nature,” replied Sir Decimus, platitudinously. - </p> - <p> - “Does he?” argued Sylvester. “Rocks and trees are all very well for pretty - pictures. But what about love and sorrow and other human emotions. He - seems to get away entirely from the important side of nature.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, so I grant. But it's hardly that,” puffed Sir Decimus, mopping - his forehead. “Ah, here is Urquhart; he will tell you all about it. Don't - you know Urquhart?” - </p> - <p> - He performed the introduction, stated the case at great length with a - confusion that irritated the scientist's trained mind, and then, with - visible relief, moved away. Bevis Urquhart, a slight young man, with a - tiny silky black moustache and a languid manner, began a patient - explanation. Sylvester had heard of him as a lad of great wealth who had - convulsed a whole county by refusing to ride to hounds and uttering - blasphemy against partridge shooting. It was whispered that he had - invented a new religion and had an oratory in his bedroom fitted with - expensive idols made of chrysoprasus. - </p> - <p> - “It is the mistake of the crowd,” said he, “to regard Art as an - interpretation of experience. Art has nothing to do with Life. Life claims - all for itself and so kills Art, drains it of its blood. In other words, - Life claims Art, Art does not claim Life. If not, Art would be - unexpressed. The poem would remain a pure crystal in the soul of the poet, - the picture a fair-hued mist in the fantasy of the painter. Art is the - revelation of the Undetermined, and this can only reach its fulness in the - quietude of the soul.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” said Sylvester; “you have given me a lucid solution of my - difficulty.” - </p> - <p> - The young man smiled deprecatingly. - </p> - <p> - “Pardon me. I try to be an artist in words, and lucidity is so brutal and - commonplace. Do you read Mallarmé?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Sylvester. “When I want wholesome unintelligibility I read - Rabelais.” - </p> - <p> - Urquhart looked pained. There was a slight pause. - </p> - <p> - “Fond of bicycling?” asked Sylvester, cheerily. - </p> - <p> - Again came the pitying smile over the face of the young semi-millionaire. - </p> - <p> - “I know so little of the things one does with one's body,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Better learn,” said Sylvester. “Capital exercise. Shakes up your liver, - you know.” - </p> - <p> - Here he was carried off by Lady Milmo, who was dying to introduce him to - somebody. - </p> - <p> - “Do you understand all the things they talk about here?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo regarded him with a twinkling eye. - </p> - <p> - “God bless your soul, no,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose they're all exceedingly clever?” - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo stood upon the points of her toes and looked around, as if to - take in all her guests in one comprehensive glance. Then she half - whispered into his ear,—“They've all got to talk like that to one - another for the sake of their reputations. But I go round and talk to each - in turn of their cooks or their stomachs, according to sex,—and they - love it!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I'd sooner talk to you, Lady Milmo,—though not of my stomach,—than - to any of these people,” said Sylvester, with a laugh. “Can't you steal - five minutes?” - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo spied a couple of vacant chairs in a near corner, and sitting - down on one motioned Sylvester to the other. Then she smiled. She was a - kind-hearted woman, and in spite of her false air of youth possessed much - charm of manner. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you want to talk about the engagement!” she said. - </p> - <p> - “No, not particularly. What do you think of this Colony, where Ella - proposes to exile herself?” - </p> - <p> - “Utter rubbish,” said Lady Milmo. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester expressed surprise. “I was under the impression that you were - one of its fervent propagandists.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, one must do something,” she replied inconsequently. “One bubble is - just as good as another to blow during the season. Whether it's providing - eau de cologne for released criminals, or founding a Garden of Eden for - unsuccessful poets, it all comes to the same thing in the end. You look - puzzled. Well, what is one person's amusement is another's bewilderment.” - </p> - <p> - “But all these promoters—Ella and Roderick—they believe in - it?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, they believe in it. People will believe in anything,—Mr. - Urquhart's new religion, for instance. But the Art Colony is rubbish. - Don't put a penny in it. I haven't. It may be a romantic toy for Ella to - play with for the first two years of her married life, but then she will - come back and settle down to a reasonable existence. You won't give me - away, will you?” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester promised, and a few moments later found himself standing alone, - wrapped in gloomy wonder at the inanity of life. A voice roused him from - his meditation. - </p> - <p> - “Good-evening, Sylvester.” - </p> - <p> - He started and found Ella by his side. She looked at him boldly, with a - little triumphant gleam of defiance. He shook hands, explained that his - object in accepting the invitation was to offer her his congratulations. - Social convention required the formula. Ella's ear, however, detected an - ironical note, and the blood came swiftly to her cheeks. - </p> - <p> - “For a man who scorns hypocrisy—” she began; then checked herself. - His regard of grave inquiry made her swiftly conscious of a false - position, and her cheeks flamed hotter. - </p> - <p> - “You know what I mean,” she said. “You don't really congratulate me.” - </p> - <p> - “Why do you say so?” - </p> - <p> - “I feel that you are inimical to me, and you have never liked Roderick.” - </p> - <p> - “One can wish one's enemies well,” he remarked with a half-smile. - </p> - <p> - “Why should we be your enemies? You should hear how differently Roderick - speaks of you.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear Ella,” replied Sylvester, “I have not uttered a single word - against Roderick. It would be in very bad taste for me to do so. I have - known him for many years, and we still meet. But he is not an intimate - friend of mine.” - </p> - <p> - “You dislike him,” said Ella. “I feel that you do.” - </p> - <p> - The feline that is in the nature of all women—just as its stronger, - tigerish development is in the nature of all men—tingled to her - finger ends. She felt the velvet sheaths stiffen back. The sight of him - angered her. She itched to provoke him to battle, to fall on him tooth and - claw if he took up her challenge. An unreasoning instinct clamoured also - for violent defence of Roderick. It was a psychological moment full of - many feminine complexities which she half understood; and that made her - the more angry. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester, looking only on the surface, smiled somewhat contemptuously at - her desire to scratch. Certainly he had undertaken a campaign against her; - but he felt that so undignified a skirmish was not the wisest preliminary - to hostilities. He had come here, besides, to reconnoitre. - </p> - <p> - “Why should I dislike Roderick?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Because you never try to understand anybody. Because Roderick has not - locked himself up in your iron cage of convention; because he hasn't set - himself up on a pillar of impeccability as you have done. You sit within - your own prim parlour of moderation and think the man who goes to generous - extremes is a lost soul. You need not have congratulated me. I should not - have resented it. I should have understood and have given you credit for - honesty.” - </p> - <p> - But Sylvester was not to be drawn into strife. He replied equably that he - would withdraw his congratulations, if they offended her. Meanwhile they - might talk of something pleasanter. She suggested Shakespeare and the - musical glasses, with a fine air of disdain. - </p> - <p> - “Or the Walden Art Colony?” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “What have you to say against the Colony?” she flashed. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing at all. Do you believe in it?” - </p> - <p> - “With all my heart. It is a great movement. It is an idea to live for. It - is the first thing I have had to believe in since—since I threw off - the girl and became a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “And I sincerely hope it won't be the last,” he replied with grave irony. - And as a young man drew nigh to take his leave of Ella, he bowed and - turned away with a saturnine sense of a victory after which there would be - no rubbing of shins. But Ella, although she smiled sweetly on the young - man, felt that she had been foolish in wantonly exposing herself to - Sylvester's cold mockery, and the brightness of her evening suffered a - miserable eclipse. It was only when Sir Decimus Bland came up and talked - Colony with ponderous patronage, and elevated her to the dignity of - high-priestess of the undefined cult of the Higher Art, that she regained - her self-respect and looked more serenely on the universe. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI—UNREST - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was late - October. People were beginning to return to London, and among the early - arrivals was Lady Milmo, who had been longing to escape from the - discomforts of foreign hotels and English country-houses to her own - familiar surroundings in Pont Street. With her came Ella, who was anxious - to resume the work of the Colony. She had spent the latter part of July - and August in Ayresford. - </p> - <p> - It had been a time of rest and quiet happiness, for she loved the old man - in a wistful, daughterly way; yet, in spite of his tender courtesy, she - had divined in him the same antagonism to Roderick as she had discovered - in Sylvester, and this had put a constraint in their relations which had - never before existed. The engagement was seldom referred to, and though - the girl's cheek flushed with pleasure at Roderick's morning letter, yet - during the rest of the day she was happier when he was not vivid in her - thoughts. - </p> - <p> - At first it had been arranged that Roderick should pay a long-promised - visit to his father at the same time. But when it came to the point of - making definite arrangements, he had found his presence, in the interests - of the Colony, essential elsewhere. As a matter of fact, the elder Usher - jarred upon his son's more refined susceptibilities. His personal - acquaintance with Ella was sufficiently annoying to Roderick; but to sit - by in silent apology, while she was being overspread with unctuous and - paternal platitudes, was an ordeal too exasperating to face. So following - as usual the line of least resistance, he had accepted one or two pleasant - and profitable invitations. His non-appearance, though she credited - herself with a feeling of disappointment, was a relief to Ella. She had - passed lately through many conflicting emotions, and she needed solitude, - a period of moral repose, wherein to realise both herself and - circumstances. For a proud girl does not surrender to a man almost against - her will, without striving in her heart to account it to herself as a - victory. The fact of the strained relations between Matthew and Usher, of - which Miss Agatha Lanyon informed her, also mitigated her regret. They - were at daggers drawn, did not even salute each other in the street. - Roderick's absence avoided a grotesque Montague and Capulet situation. It - further saved her from much personal intercourse with Usher, for whom she - entertained no very high opinion. Once, however, she dined with him - ceremoniously. He talked in his reiterative way of the comfort a daughter - would be to his old age, and represented himself as the most generous and - indulgent of parents. He alluded to Matthew more in sorrow than in anger. - A man with whom he had been in intimate bonds of friendship for forty - years to throw him over at the last! It was grievous; it was ageing him - rapidly. He was always a faithful friend. It was his disposition. The - saint leered at her out of his red-rimmed eyes, and Ella felt a shiver of - repulsion which lasted till the next morning, when a fervid epistle from - Roderick restored her serenity. - </p> - <p> - “I can't make out why Matthew and Mr. Usher have quarrelled,” said Miss - Lanyon during the day. - </p> - <p> - “And I wonder why they haven't quarrelled for forty years,” returned Ella. - “Oh, don't look shocked, auntie. It is no reason for me to adore a man - because I am engaged to his son!” - </p> - <p> - Thenceforward she became a violent though silent partisan of Matthew in - his dispute. There must have been serious grounds for such a quarrel; - Matthew could do no wrong; therefore Usher must have treated him - shamefully. The syllogism was perfectly conclusive. This feeling and a - growing anxiety as to the old man's health did much to lessen the - constraint between them. For he was constantly ailing, and was not the man - she had seen fifteen months before. She left him with great reluctance, in - spite of the glowing impatience of Roderick, with whom she was to spend - some weeks as the guest of Sir Decimus Bland. - </p> - <p> - Now it was October, and London life began again. Lady Milmo busied herself - in spinning her gossamer web of affairs and appeared smiling and - contented. Ella devoted herself to such studies as she considered would be - of benefit in her peculiar position as Lady Director of the Colony. - Roderick was ever by with suggestion and advice. Things were going - splendidly. Some three thousand pounds had already been subscribed and lay - at Roderick's bankers. Three thousand more had been promised, irrespective - of Sir Decimus's undertaking to provide the Director's salary. With - another four thousand they could start. Ella offered to provide it. - Roderick shook his head. It had better come from the great heart of the - public. She persisted and wrote to Matthew. He urged her almost - passionately not to put money into the scheme until she was married. Thus - Roderick and Matthew were in accord on the point, and Ella was puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “When is it to be, dearest?” asked Roderick one day. - </p> - <p> - The question came suddenly after a short pause in their talk. It was - during the few minutes before dinner. Roderick was dining in Pont Street, - and Lady Milmo not having come down yet, they were alone. - </p> - <p> - “You know,” replied Ella, with a half-smile. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, do I?” said he. “I don't love contingencies. I long for the glorious - life with you, my wonderful Ella. And I am a man, and waiting is hard.” - </p> - <p> - She flushed slightly. The consciousness of being desired ever quickens a - woman's pulses. But she also loves the sense of mastery in maintaining - herself within impregnable walls. In this perhaps lies the delicious - paradox of her sex. - </p> - <p> - “I keep to my terms,” she said. “Within a week of our starting for the - Colony. Not before. It will give a new sacredness to our work and to our - married life if we begin them both at the same time.” - </p> - <p> - “But who knows when the inauguration of the colony will be?” asked - Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “It could be now, practically, if you would let me furnish the deficit.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, no,” he said. “You would be acting against a principle very dear to - me. It must be others who give their money. We give our lives. If you - subscribe, the prestige of the Colony as a great public movement is gone. - It is bound to come to ripeness. But like an exquisite fruit it takes - time.” - </p> - <p> - “I am happy to wait for the ripening,” said Ella. - </p> - <p> - “But I?” He threw out his arms passionately. “Ella, do you know what the - madness of love is? Don't you fear that in the first rapturous days of - life with you I might forget the work for your enchantment? Would it not - be better to begin the work in the sweet fulness of our wedded life,—when - we have learned each other in the way that only wedded life can teach?” - </p> - <p> - “It will be better to begin things together,” she replied with feminine - reiteration. - </p> - <p> - He pleaded flamboyantly. Why not fix the date of his great happiness for - Christmas,—the time of universal rejoicing? The marriage would - stimulate imaginations. The deficit would be made up fourfold. - Subscriptions would come in by way of wedding gifts. Ella remained calmly - obdurate. - </p> - <p> - “Before I loved you, the cause was everything to me. Since then, you are - everything. The cause is second. It is the irrefragable law of life and - love.” - </p> - <p> - “To me,” replied Ella, “the cause and you are one.” - </p> - <p> - She glanced up swiftly and caught, as it seemed, a look of irritation on - his face,—a contraction of the brows, a snarl of the lips between - the auburn moustache and beard, showing the teeth. But it passed like a - lightning flash and left his face aglow with such exuberant adoration that - she attributed it to some-trick of shadow, and dismissed it from her mind. - </p> - <p> - But as the days went on, a vague uneasiness took root and began to grow. - Roderick spoke less of the Colony, more of herself. Negotiations appeared - to be at a standstill. No more names swelled the subscription list; - Roderick took no further steps to make fresh converts among the young and - ardent. He pleaded the necessity of work to supply ordinary personal - needs. He tried to awaken her enthusiasm over a flaring picture of <i>Love - the Destroyer</i>, which he had begun to paint. She went one day to his - studio to see it. Love stood, triumphant and cruel, a two-handed sword in - his hand. Around him was the carnage for which he was responsible. An - emaciated creature at last gasp was kissing his feet. There was a - suggestion of the flesh in it that jarred upon the girl. The commonplace - of the conception chilled her. She remained staring at the picture. It was - long before she could trust herself to look at Roderick. At last she did - so, unable to hide her disappointment. - </p> - <p> - “You do not like it?” said Roderick, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me—” she began rather piteously. - </p> - <p> - “Say no more,” he cried, and with a magnificent gesture he seized a cloth, - and in great, swift sweeps of his arm smeared the picture into a horrid - chaos of greens and yellows. Ella sprang forward with a little cry. - </p> - <p> - “So perish all in me that you deem unworthy!” he exclaimed fervently. - </p> - <p> - The act brought the woman in her to his feet. Who was she to judge the - creation of an artist's genius? Had he let it stand, she would have loved - the picture. The annihilation, at her bidding, of the result of days of - artistic travail smote her with a sense of guilt. She was ready to lament - a lost masterpiece. She would never rest until he repainted it. He - magnanimously refused. The first impression of a picture on a pure and - beautiful soul was the true one. She would be the touchstone of all his - life's work. He sent her away at once raised and humbled. But to make - amends, she threw herself earnestly into a new conception of the subject - that he put before her, and watched it taking shape upon the canvas with - intense eagerness. And in the meanwhile the Colony was not quite so much - on the surface of her thoughts. Now and then, however, she questioned him - anxiously. Once he turned upon her in solemn reproach,— - </p> - <p> - “Do I understand that you are afraid of my faltering in the sacred cause - to which we have devoted ourselves?” - </p> - <p> - Ella was impressed with his dignity and again rebuked herself for her want - of faith. Women are indignant when they are told how often they are taken - in by fustian. - </p> - <p> - November came. She met Sylvester at dinner one evening at Lady Milmo's for - the first time since the At Home in July, given to celebrate her - engagement. He sat silent during the meal. Roderick, who made the fourth, - was in his gayest mood. Rebellious defiance again came uppermost in the - girl's heart, and she strove to put forward all her brilliance. She - compared the two men: one, cold, sombre, severe,—a mere intellect - clothed in the outer semblance of humanity; the other warm-hearted, - enthusiastic, sensitive to every impression of life, and gifted with a - perception of a world that had never entered into the purview of his - fellow's dreams. She fortified her unmitigated resentment against - Sylvester with disdain. How could she ever have loved such a bloodless - piece of mechanism? She lashed with scorn her girlish folly. A heightened - colour and an added lustre to her eyes rendered dazzling her ordinary - girlish beauty. - </p> - <p> - “You are not one, but all wondrous womankind's epitome to-night,” - whispered Roderick, in the drawing-room afterwards. - </p> - <p> - “That is foolishness,” she replied, “but I—I was just going to say I - have never felt so proud of you as I have done this evening.” - </p> - <p> - Roderick laughed. “I'm afraid it is because dear old Syl sits by so glum - while I'm such a chatterbox,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Ella shot a swift glance upwards. Really this man had marvellous - intuition. Could he ever have suspected—? Her cheek burned. But to - her comforting no trace of malicious insinuation lurked in the frankness - of his eyes. His deprecation of her tribute was sincere. - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo went to the piano. She had a dainty taste in music, and having - lately added an obscure but colossal Herzigovinan rhapsodist to her - menagerie, found intense delight in his compositions. He was only two and - twenty and had already reached op. 236. This Lady Milmo began to play, - while Roderick self-sacrificingly turned over the leaves. Sylvester - exchanged commonplace remarks with Ella. The consciousness of the task he - had undertaken somewhat weighed upon him. He was to break off the - marriage. How? Only by fair means. A man of scrupulous honour, he - characterised as foul any secret investigations into Roderick's financial - position or past career. Nor could he asperse Roderick's character while - maintaining with him a semblance of friendly relations. To declare open - war would be foolish. He could do nothing but bide his opportunity. - Meanwhile he was less than ever at his ease with Ella. She, however, - interpreted his constraint as contemptuous indifference, and once more she - longed for battle. The memory of her humiliation on the night of Lady - Milmo's reception only made her irritation more unbearable. A chance - remark about his father gave her the longed for opportunity to stab. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you know Uncle Matthew's health is failing,'' she said - suddenly. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid so,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Then why aren't you by his side to take care of him? Since you left he - has been gradually breaking down. Neglect is killing him.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester curled the ends of his moustache and regarded her impassively. - </p> - <p> - “You are trying to hurt me,” he said. “I do not neglect my father.” - </p> - <p> - “No. You are a paragon of all the excellences. If you had some - infirmities, you might be a better and a happier man.” - </p> - <p> - “I do not believe in the new doctrine of the saving quality of evil,” he - replied. “I am of the old-fashioned opinion that evil taints the - character, blunts the moral sense, and comes out sooner or later in evil - actions.” - </p> - <p> - “You talk like a Sunday-school tract,” said Ella, with a short laugh. “But - I was speaking of Uncle Matthew—” - </p> - <p> - “I should like to speak of him too,” said Sylvester, curtly. “Your - engagement is a great unhappiness to him. He loves you like his own - daughter. You know that. If you had consulted him beforehand, perhaps it - would have been kinder. What his reasons are for wishing it broken off I - do not know, but you may be quite certain they are good ones.” - </p> - <p> - Ella looked across the room to the piano where the Herzigovinan rhapsody - was in full tumult of crashing chords, and then edged nearer Sylvester on - the couch where they were sitting. - </p> - <p> - “Are you aware that you are committing an impertinence in speaking to me - like that?” she said in an undertone. “How dare you? I acknowledge Uncle - Matthew as my guardian. But you—what right have you to touch upon my - affairs? What concern can you have in them?” - </p> - <p> - “Absolutely none,—personally. But my father is dear to me. If I - could break off your engagement to please him, I should do so.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you going to try?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I shall try,” he replied coldly. Their eyes met in undisguised - enmity. - </p> - <p> - “It would take a better man than you, Sylvester Lanyon,” she said. - </p> - <p> - She rose and walked to the fireplace, with an air of great stateliness. - Sylvester did not attempt to follow her, but lay back on the couch as if - rapt in the music. But his evil mood was upon him. He had at once divined - her desire to wound him in his tenderest spot. It was like a woman. He - felt a great scorn for her. The music suddenly ceased. He uttered a - conventional murmur. Roderick broke into ecstatic comment. - </p> - <p> - “A divine genius! Interpreting the message of the wild winds of his - mountain fastnesses,—the elemental throbbing in the hearts of his - rugged forefathers. Ella, Moskovic must come to Walden. This supreme - spirit must not be clogged by the banality of London concert rooms. He - must breathe the freedom of the woods and streams.” - </p> - <p> - “He has half consented already,” said Ella. - </p> - <p> - “The silly fool!” muttered Sylvester, beneath his breath. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, my comrade,” cried Roderick, turning suddenly round, “what message - has science to deliver comparable to this?” - </p> - <p> - “None that I'm aware of, thank Heaven!” replied Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - Roderick broke into his gay laughter and crossed the room. - </p> - <p> - “We must think of him kindly, as good Catholics do of those that sit in - darkness and ignorance, eh, Ella?” - </p> - <p> - With a lover's gesture he passed his arm lightly around Ella's waist, and - drew her with ever so delicate a pressure a little nearer to him, and - looked tenderly into her eyes. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester started to his feet. A feeling unexpected, undreamed of, - hateful, passed through him,—a wave of disgust, of sudden, fierce - hatred of Roderick standing there as the undisputed possessor of Ella - Defries. Had the man kissed her, he would have struck him. A phrase - formulated in Heaven knows what cell of his brain leaped with ghastly - suddenness into his mind. How dare that loathsome brute touch her? The - revulsion was physical, almost unendurable. It lasted but a moment or two. - Then Ella moved away and Lady Milmo came up with a light remark, and the - world was as it was before,—a great grim vanity which he regarded - with apathetic indifference. - </p> - <p> - He took his leave early, pleading professional duties. Ella gave him a - defiant hand and her lips had a contemptuous curl as she bade him - good-night. Roderick, taking upon himself the part of man of the house, - accompanied him downstairs and pressed whisky and soda upon him amid - fervid expressions of regard. The discreet man-servant helped him on with - his overcoat, and the welcome cold air of the street was upon him. There - was a touch, of early frost and the stars shone clear. The memory of his - unaccountable seizure half an hour ago brought back the memory of a night - in Ayresford when he had read, as his heart prompted, the message of the - stars. He hailed a passing cab, entered it with the air of a man who has - the business of life to consider and not the dreams of a dead past. But in - spite of himself the dreams came back, ugly and chilling, and he spent the - drive home in brooding thought. What did Roderick's caresses matter to - him? Did he not despise Ella utterly? For aught he cared they might marry - into eternal misery to-morrow. It was only for his father's sake that he - wished to part them. Roderick was a plausible knave, Ella a woman, feline, - treacherous, delicate of face and gross of soul. They were well paired. He - laughed cynically as he settled down to his evening's work in his - laboratory. Here at least were things which he could understand. The - growth of a bacillus in a bed of jelly was comprehensible. He could see - it, test it. But who could see the growth of a lie in the heart of a human - being? And the man himself was unconscious that a dead love had awakened - that evening from its sleep and had passionately, for one brief instant, - raised the stone that covered the mouth of its tomb. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII—THE CAUSE WANES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>oderick drove away - from Lady Milmo's in a far more comfortable frame of mind than Sylvester. - The evening had been a success. Hitherto, in spite of his conviction that - his hold upon Ella was secure, he had been puzzled as to the nature of her - feelings towards him. Over the life-work they were to carry out in common - she had always glowed; in their purely personal relations she had - exhibited a sad lack of emotionality. His vanity had often been piqued by - her regarding him less as a man than as the incarnation of an idea. At the - same time his own feelings had been simulated to love. He honestly desired - her beauty, youth, and wit. As a proof thereof, he had abandoned with - entire distaste the latest of the many minor affairs of the heart in which - his emotional life had been spent. A breath of something sweeter, purer, - nobler, had stirred his soul. The train of courtesans shrank back - affrighted, and he walked serene with the higher woman. But desiring her - thus uniquely, the man in him craved response. Until to-night she had - given none. To-night, however, the statue had grown warm woman. She had - avowed her pride in him, had yielded adorably to his caress; before they - parted she had given him her lips. - </p> - <p> - At last he felt the triumph of possession. At last she was his to mould - and cherish. A little pleading and their wedded life would dawn with the - New Year. He was confident of victory. - </p> - <p> - Yet his heart sank like lead two days afterwards, when he had dropped a - couple of letters into the pillar-box outside his chambers. He stopped and - gazed abstractedly at the oblong imperturbable mouth of the red, almost - personal thing, to which he had irrevocably intrusted his destiny. For the - letters contained cheques to the amount of over three thousand pounds, and - the balance at his bankers, on whom they were drawn, consisted mainly of - the funds of the Walden Art Colony. - </p> - <p> - Yet what could he have done? To-morrow the bills, once renewed, with a - foolish youngster's name at the back of them, would fall due. His father, - to whom he had trusted, had refused help. The forcing of the youngster to - pay would at the least create scandal, and scandal would mean loss of - reputation, loss of Ella, and general downfall. Misappropriation of the - funds saved his credit for a season. It would give him time to urge on his - marriage, whilst he cunningly arrested the progress of the Colony. Once - married, he was practically master of Ella's fortune. A pretext for - obtaining a few thousands, so as to replace the misappropriated sum with - his bankers, would easily be found by a man of his resource. Before - posting the letters he had felt the half-contemptuous exhilaration of the - gambler who bets on a certainty. But now that the bet was entered and made - final, doubts and fears began to assail him. He looked two years older as - he walked down St. James's Street to his club. - </p> - <p> - A whisky and apollinaris restored his nerves, so that when young Lathrop, - who had backed the bills, came up to him with a long face, he was able to - assume his southern manner. - </p> - <p> - “Dearest of friends—” he began. - </p> - <p> - “It strikes me, Usher, <i>you</i>'ll be the dearest of friends to-morrow,” - broke in the young man,—“those confounded bills, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Bills!” cried Roderick. “What are you talking to me of bills for? Do you - think I am going to let the bloodsuckers feast upon your young and - beauteous form? My child, put aside that pessimism which is sapping your - youth. Behold, Israel is satisfied.” - </p> - <p> - He drew his cheque-book from his pocket and showed the counterfoils to the - two cheques. Lathrop looked intensely relieved. Then he blushed and - stammered. He was devilish sorry; but the time was getting so close. Would - Usher have a drink? Roderick assented and drank another whisky and - apollinaris. - </p> - <p> - “You needn't noise abroad the fact of my astounding solvency,” he said, - before they parted. “I hope you haven't told any one about the bills.” - </p> - <p> - “Only Urquhart. I saw him last night,” said the young man. - </p> - <p> - “You'll be a Metternich yet, Willie,” replied Roderick. As young Lathrop - belonged to the diplomatic service, he was dimly conscious that his - friend's remark was in some fashion ironical. But Roderick waved him a - flourishing adieu and swaggered out of the club. - </p> - <p> - A man met him on the steps. - </p> - <p> - “Seen Willie Lathrop lately?” - </p> - <p> - Roderick looked him squarely between the eyes. - </p> - <p> - “He 's a braying jackass,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Having thus conveyed an answer to the implied question and given vent to - his anger at the same time, he hailed a cab and drove to Pont Street. It - was a foggy, murky day. Already the lights had appeared in shop windows, - and, where they streamed, the pavement and roadway glistened in brown - slime. Impressionable to external surroundings, Roderick shivered and drew - his fur coat closer round him. The world wore an air of hopeless - depression. On such a day no human undertaking could prosper. It was only - his intellectual contempt for superstition that restrained him from - turning round and driving back to his club. The dreary stretch of Sloane - Street seemed interminable. At last he arrived and was shown up to the - drawing-room. Lady Milmo, Ella, and a lady visitor were having afternoon - tea. He exerted himself to amuse in his usual way, but his efforts - resulted in failure. When should he be able to see Ella alone? The lady - visitor seemed resolved to outstay him. She plied him with questions - concerning the Colony. He replied vaguely. Realisation of the project was - a long way off. To start such a concern otherwise than on a sound - financial basis was magnificent, but it was not business. He was thinking - of a last appeal to the public. Ella listened, somewhat out of spirits. - Roderick's pessimistic utterances argued loss of faith in the Colony. He - caught her glance fixed upon him with perturbed questioning, and his - depression deepened. - </p> - <p> - At last they were alone. He cleared his throat and plunged into the midst - of things. Speech restored his confidence. He made an eloquent appeal. He - loved her, worshipped her; the deferring of their marriage to an - indefinite date was making his heart sick, robbing him of energy and the - joy of life. Christmas it must be. He hinted at personages waiting for - their marriage to subscribe largely to the fund. What had the marriage to - do with it? Well, he was an artist, a Bohemian; his very class did not - inspire confidence. But his marriage would set upon him the seal of - irreproachable responsibility. He pleaded desperately, the restoration of - the three thousand pounds being his paramount and imperative aim. His - heart sank at the coldness with which she received his fervour. His ear - detected the note of insincerity, to which he felt conscious she, too, was - sensitive. - </p> - <p> - “I can't marry you yet, Roderick,” she said, at length, wearily. “I can't. - It means too much.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you don't love me,” he exclaimed, starting to his feet. The old - dramatic device did not succeed. - </p> - <p> - “Sometimes I do,” she said. “At others—I don't know—I shall - love you wholly when we realise our dreams.” - </p> - <p> - “That will be the Great Never Never,” he replied tragically, “for when did - man ever realise his dreams?” - </p> - <p> - The dressing gong sounded through the house. She rose and put out her - hand. - </p> - <p> - “You must be patient with me, Roderick. Usually you understand so finely; - can't you understand now?” - </p> - <p> - “I understand that you are a woman of an imperious will, to which it will - always be my pride to bow,” he responded. - </p> - <p> - There was no help for it. No more pleading could move her that afternoon. - He had to take his leave. When the drawing-room door shut behind him, his - expression changed, and he descended the stairs cursing the Colony and all - who were concerned therein. He went back to his club, dined, lost fifty - pounds at cards, and went to bed morose and miserable. - </p> - <p> - The next morning he was greatly surprised by a visit from Sylvester. He - was sitting in the well-lit corner room of his chambers, which he had - converted into a studio, in front of the new picture he was painting from - Ella's conception. His heart was not in it. No good could ever come from - such tame propriety. And there he sat in an armchair, his legs extended - compass-wise, glowering at the picture, when Sylvester came in. - </p> - <p> - “What fog has driven you here, camarado?” he cried. “You have arrived in - season. This beastly world is standing on its head, and I don't know what - to make of it. Sit down and have some absinthe, the only true comfort the - devil has vouchsafed us.” - </p> - <p> - He pointed to a glass of the opalescent liquid by his side. Sylvester - declined the consolation. - </p> - <p> - “I want to have a little talk with you about your marriage,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, damn my marriage!” exclaimed Roderick, irritably. “I tell you the - idiot world is gyrating indecently on its occiput; my engagement with the - rest of things.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it broken off?” inquired Sylvester, hopefully. - </p> - <p> - “The same thing. Postponed to the Millennium.” - </p> - <p> - “The Colonial Millennium—?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. You are quite right, <i>fratello mio</i>, to keep clear of women and - their works. No man can ever fathom their infinite incomprehensibility. - Look here—” He rose and marched about the studio, burning with a - sense of his wrongs and led by the instinct of his temperament to give - vent to his grievances. “I love that girl with an imbecile passion. Art is - great, but love is greater. I would make a holocaust of all that is dear - to me in the world in the sacred name of Art. Am I not ready to expatriate - myself? Have I not been working like Sisyphus for months? But I can't - throw my elemental sex into the blaze. Six months' waiting is enough for - all but anchorites. Do I look like an anchorite? I urge her to fix the - marriage at Christmas. She's as hard as your Philistine's head. We must - wait until the Colony is a <i>fait accompli</i>. How is it going to be - accomplished without money?” - </p> - <p> - “I thought the scheme was getting along famously,” interposed Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “So did I, but it isn't. It hasn't appealed to the imagination of this - haggis-brained public, and so funds remain stationary. As if this worry - and disappointment isn't enough for a man! <i>Point d'argent, point de - Suisse</i>. No money, no colony. No colony, no marriage. The two things - could never be connected save in the ineffable convolutions of the - feminine brain.” - </p> - <p> - “I see,” said Sylvester. “It is hard lines on you.” - </p> - <p> - He was intensely relieved by Roderick's confidences; could afford even to - be magnanimous. Since his avowal to Ella of hostile intentions, he had - felt it his duty to inform Roderick of his attitude. He had come this - morning prepared to make a declaration of war. There were several little - things he had learned incidentally of Roderick's past career, with which - he had intended to confront him. The memory of Mr. Snodgrass informing the - small boy that he was going to begin came into his mind as he mounted the - stairs, and he smiled grimly. But, after all, no one had ever questioned - the chivalry of Mr. Snodgrass's motives. His first words on entering were - an announcement of the object of his visit. Roderick had implicitly - declared that object to be futile. To proceed further would be to attack a - fallen man. To express satisfaction would be to triumph over a foe's - discomfiture. He therefore expressed conventional sympathy. It was hard - lines. - </p> - <p> - Roderick caught up the phrase and wove it into a fugue of indignant - lamentation. Luck never came his way. The stars in their courses had - fought against him since his cradle. - </p> - <p> - “Some men's touch turns everything to gold; mine to brass and deuced - gimcrack brass at that. I've never loved a dear gazelle; but if I had, the - disastrous animal would have got mange or delirium tremens and turned - round and bitten me and given me hydrophobia. I suppose it's because of my - general nefariousness. I wish I had been an austere embodiment of the - seven deadly virtues like you, <i>amigo</i>. Then I should have waxed fat - and prosperous. But there,” he added, lighting a cigar, “that's enough. I - don't know why I'm washing you in this torrent of my discontent.” - </p> - <p> - “If it has done you any good, I am not sorry to have heard it,” said - Sylvester. “As for the Colony, I never did think much of the idea, you - know. It is outside the sphere of practical affairs altogether. Besides, - you could never stay more than a month away from Piccadilly.” - </p> - <p> - “It meant a means of livelihood for this profitless child of nature, - anyway,” said Roderick, watching the wreaths of his cigar-smoke. - </p> - <p> - “Pardon me if I take a liberty,” said Sylvester, “but I was under the - impression that your father made you a good allowance.” - </p> - <p> - Roderick stared at him for a moment and then laughed loud. - </p> - <p> - “You don't know Usher senior. How much the old man has, or where the devil - it all came from, I have no idea; but I don't get any of it. And when he - descends to realms below, he'll bequeath it all to a home for decayed - postage-stamp collectors. No; I get what I earn. The Colony was a fixed - income.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you'll have to settle down to something else,” said Sylvester, - consolingly. - </p> - <p> - “And meanwhile you can go and persuade our fair enthusiast that the Colony - is all a fizzle and that she must shed happiness upon the head of your - devoted friend at Christmas!” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think I can do that,” said Sylvester, drily. He pulled out his - watch, announced his departure. Roderick shook his hand effusively. - </p> - <p> - “But, by the way,” said he, “you haven't told me what you came for—my - marriage—?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, after what you've said about the matter that can wait,” replied - Sylvester, hurriedly, and he left his friend to his artistic solitude. - </p> - <p> - Roderick felt somewhat ashamed and somewhat relieved after his burst of - confidence. To cry defeat after the first reverse seemed the part of a - craven. Thus were women not won. He determined to return to the attack, to - choose his time more wisely. A week later he caught Ella in a brighter - mood. He had exerted himself to please, to kindle her enthusiasms, which - shone from cheeks and eyes. He struck the personal chord, watched eagerly, - seemed to perceive it vibrate through her. Then he urged once more. She - changed suddenly, held out a warning hand. - </p> - <p> - “Not that again, Roderick,” she said. “You must not make me dread your - coming. Some women yield to insistence; it only hardens me. I thought you - knew me better.” - </p> - <p> - “Then the Colony shall start at Christmas; I swear it,” he cried - magniloquently, and the remainder of the interview flowed more smoothly. - </p> - <p> - It is all very well to command events. But whether they will obey is a - different matter. During the last few weeks Roderick had succeeded in his - design to quash the Colony in so far as to alienate several hesitating - supporters. To win these back was no easy matter. Moreover, his old power - of persuasion seemed to have failed him. There was a period when he had - deluded himself into the belief that the Colony was a practicable scheme. - But the moment it had appeared contrary to his own interest and he had - regarded it dispassionately, he despised it from the depths of his soul as - an inane chimera. To have to simulate a burnt out enthusiasm was irksome; - he failed to carry conviction. And meanwhile he was a prey to gnawing - anxiety. How was he to replace the three thousand pounds? He anathematised - the feminine temperament. - </p> - <p> - The feminine temperament, however, was not in that state of dispassionate, - yet unreasoning decision in which he imagined it to be. These were unhappy - days for Ella. She seemed to have become to herself a vague entity - wandering in a land of shadows, forced by some unknown power therein to - wander, and finding her only hope of salvation in one elusive light that - gleamed fitfully in the distance. Her aunt, being a practical woman, was - quick to notice the habitual contraction of her brow and the wearied - preoccupation in her eyes. Nowadays she openly mocked at the Colony. On - such occasions Ella fired up, defended it with the fierceness of a forlorn - hope. Lady Milmo was puzzled. She even went the length of consulting - Sylvester, surprising him considerably by a morning call in Weymouth - Street. - </p> - <p> - “The Colony's a fraud, and she knows it's a fraud,” she said, in the - vernacular of her class. “And yet she pins her immortal soul to it. Why - doesn't she marry the man and be done with it? But no—she won't do - that. She's making herself ill because the Colony isn't likely to come - off, which is distinctly good business, and what on earth she can find to - interest her in the rubbishy scheme, goodness only knows. If she only - painted, or wrote poetry, or out-Wagnered Wagner in immortal tunelessness, - one could perhaps understand. But she's no more artistic than you are.” - </p> - <p> - “I know I'm a Philistine,” smiled Sylvester, at the tribute of the artless - lady. “Is that why you 've come to me?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you know what I mean,” returned Lady Milmo. “Now can't you put some - sense into her, or get that dear Mr. Lanyon to do so? It's my impression - she isn't in love with him one little bit.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, for Heaven's sake, my dear Lady Milmo,” said Sylvester, earnestly, - “do all you can to impress that fact upon him!” - </p> - <p> - “I should be glad if the engagement were broken off,” said Lady Milmo, - reflectively. - </p> - <p> - “So would all the true friends of Ella Defries,” replied Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo arched her eyebrows. She looked at him for a moment - quizzically. - </p> - <p> - “Is that purely a disinterested remark, Dr. Lanyon?” - </p> - <p> - “I would not marry one single woman that is now living on this earth,” - said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Why, whatever have we poor creatures done to you? There are some men, I - know, who look upon women as a disease, but I'm sure you 're not one.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester scanned his finger nails,—a trick he had caught from his - father. - </p> - <p> - “One marriage is enough for a man, Lady Milmo,” he said in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo was conscious of an indiscretion. She escaped adroitly and led - the talk back to Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “I think we'd better get this silly affair of Ella's broken off, don't - you?” she said at parting. - </p> - <p> - “If you could manage it, my father and myself would be exceedingly - grateful to you,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo was driving away, her kind head filled with schemes for Ella's - extrication, when, at the block at Oxford Circus, she caught sight of a - news-vendor wearing as an apron the coloured bill of an early edition of - an evening paper. Across it in enormous capitals ran the startling legend, - “Sudden Death of Sir Decimus Bland.” - </p> - <p> - “The best thing the pompous old idiot has ever done in his life!” said - Lady Milmo. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII—THE USES OF ADVERSITY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the - music-room in Mr. Bevis Urquhart's mansion in Park Street. The floor was - polished, the walls panelled in white and gold, the ceiling painted in the - Watteau style. About forty fashionably dressed people sat on gilded chairs - in the body of the room. High in front of them towered the organ; beneath - it stretched a low platform containing a white and gold grand piano pushed - into a corner, and a Louis XV. table, at which sat half a dozen men. Among - these was Roderick, looking worn and jaded, and from the front row of the - chairs Ella Defries viewed him in some concern. The committee of the - Walden Art Colony had called a general meeting of those interested in the - project, and Mr. Bevis Urquhart had lent his music-room for the purpose. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Redmayne, R. A., had been voted into the chair. He was a business-like - looking little man, clean-shaven and precise in attire, and he spoke in a - dry, sharp way like a barrister. He announced to the meeting what Roderick - had heard some days before,—that Sir Decimus Bland had died suddenly - and had made no testamentary provision for the Colony. They all had looked - to him for the payment of the Director's salary and for the guaranteeing - of any pecuniary deficit that might occur in working the concern. Their - chief support gone, it was for the meeting to decide whether the scheme - should be continued or abandoned. From a memorandum supplied by Roderick - he read a statement of accounts. Three thousand and twenty pounds at Mr. - Usher's bankers; two thousand promised. Was there any person or - combination of persons willing to fill Sir Decimus Bland's place? He sat - down. No one responded. Lord Eglington, a withered gentleman with a - cracked voice, rose from the committee table, and after expounding the aim - of the Colony regretfully proposed the entire abandonment of the scheme. - Mr. Bevis Urquhart seconded the resolution. - </p> - <p> - Roderick caught an appealing glance from Ella and sprang to his feet. He - pleaded eloquently. He had worked with heart and soul to organise the - Colony; was ready to devote his existence to it. The future of Art was at - stake. Here was the one glorious chance the century had offered to free - Art from the shackles that had degraded it and through its inexorable - influence had degraded modern life. Never had he felt such pain as when he - had heard Lord Eglington and Mr. Urquhart propose to dismiss the scheme to - that unutterable horror of desolation, the limbo of forsaken ideals. He - adjured them to weigh the vast responsibility they had taken upon - themselves. He urged those present to respond generously to his appeal for - funds to carry on the work. - </p> - <p> - “I speak as a man,” said he, “fighting for dear life, for all that is - sacred and holy to me in existence. I have pledged myself to bring this - boon upon the world, and I will do it ere I die.” - </p> - <p> - He sat down, flushed and excited. The company, moved by his enthusiasm, - applauded encouragingly. Ella rose. - </p> - <p> - “It will be a disgrace to us all if the motion is carried,” she said, - turning round to the general body. “Let us fill up a subscription list - now. I will head it with five thousand pounds.” She sat down. There was a - cold silence. Her heart sank with a feeling of shame at her outburst. <i>Qui - m'aime me suive</i> is sometimes an excellent battle-cry. When no one - follows, it falls deadly flat. She realised that most of the people there - knew her personal interest in the affair, and her cheek grew hotter. - Roderick stepped boldly down to her, and whispered in her ear. - </p> - <p> - “You have the worshipping gratitude of all my life,” said he. - </p> - <p> - A man rose at the back of the room and began to speak. There was a rustle - of garments as every one turned to look at him. He was a well-known - journalist, the editor of a weekly paper that made a specialty of - diagnosing unsound institutions. Roderick tugged at his Vandyke beard and - watched him narrowly. He began in a light bantering tone, described with - delicate satiric touch the objects of the Colony. Then he playfully - analysed the idyllic conditions under which the colonists would work. The - meeting laughed. He sketched the boredom, the universal hatred of the - minor poet who insisted on reading his poems aloud to the assembled - Colony, the flirtations, imbroglios, jealousies, the lady who paid nothing - and went about declaring that the food was not fit to eat. One by one he - touched off the types. The meeting was delighted. Then the speaker - launched out into a trenchant indictment of the whole scheme, disclosed - its absurdity, its financial rottenness, its infinite futility. He ended - amid rounds of laughter and applause. Ridicule had killed the scheme - outright. There were cries that the motion should be put. It was carried - almost by acclamation. Thus ended the great Walden Art Colony. - </p> - <p> - “I did think you would stand by it, Urquhart,” said Roderick to the young - semimillionaire. - </p> - <p> - The people were beginning to disperse, among much laughter and gossip. - Ella had lingered on an imploring sign from Roderick. Urquhart stifled a - yawn and buttoned his frock-coat. - </p> - <p> - “My dear fellow,” said he, from the heights of his superior culture, “if - you would only study Pradovitch,—— the one genius this century - has produced,—study him as I have done, you would not fail to be - convinced that Art is the leprosy of life.” - </p> - <p> - For once Roderick lost his temper. An evil look came into his face. - </p> - <p> - “What a God-forsaken fool you are!” he snarled out. And turning on his - heel he joined Ella. - </p> - <p> - The young man turned to Lord Eglington. - </p> - <p> - “That's the worst of having to do with such <i>canaille</i>,” he said - languidly. But in spite of his assumption of supercilious indifference, - his face wore a malignant expression as he watched Roderick and his - companion disappear through the doorway. At the door however, Roderick's - indignation evaporated. It is no doubt an immense satisfaction to tell a - posturing imbecile exactly what you, think of him, but when you have - misappropriated a couple of thousands of that imbecile's money without any - reasonable prospect of restoring it, the satisfaction is apt to be short - hved. - </p> - <p> - Roderick and Ella gained the street without saying a word. A cab sauntered - up. - </p> - <p> - “Will you—?” began Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “I would sooner walk part of the way. Do you mind?” - </p> - <p> - “Delighted,” said Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “The room was so hot,” she explained, “and it is a beautiful afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - They walked down Park Lane in silence, hanging dejected heads, a new Adam - and Eve driven from Eden. Now and then she glanced sideways at him, to see - his brow set and deep lines descending parallel with his moustache and - losing themselves in his beard. His defeat seemed to have crushed him. - Ella felt a pang of pity. She touched his arm lightly. - </p> - <p> - “You must not take it too much to heart,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “I must,” he replied, with a gesture of despair. “To think it should have - all gone down like a house of cards!” - </p> - <p> - They crossed the road and entered the Park. The grey mists of the early - December afternoon were beginning to gather among the trees. Far off a - great crimson blur announced the setting sun. To their right the statue of - Achilles loomed grimly on its deserted hillock. Roderick pointed to it - with his stick. - </p> - <p> - “Do you remember that Sunday afternoon six months ago, when all was hope - and sunshine?” - </p> - <p> - “Redmayne had just joined,” she remarked. - </p> - <p> - “And to-day he took the chair, so as to crush us. They had it all arranged - beforehand. A damnable conspiracy! And we were powerless. It maddens me!” - </p> - <p> - His tones were those of intense feeling Ella was compelled to comfort. - </p> - <p> - “You fought splendidly,” she said. “A man can't do more.” - </p> - <p> - He stopped abruptly in the path and laid both hands on her wrists by her - muff. A belated nursery maid wheeling a perambulator eyed them dully. - </p> - <p> - “Bless you for the words! You cannot tell what your sympathy means to me - now.” - </p> - <p> - By a happy chance he had struck the right note. Tears came into the girl's - eyes. For the first time she was able to disassociate the man from his - work. She lost her own sense of disappointment in womanly pity for the man - who had been defeated while battling against great odds. - </p> - <p> - “And bless you for the tears standing in those eyes!” said Roderick. - </p> - <p> - They walked on. Somehow her hand found its way beneath his arm. They spoke - but little. Roderick's pulses fluttered with a new hope; but his - perceptions into the nature of women were too keen to allow him to force - an advantage. He wore his stricken air, yet subtly conveyed to her the - deep comfort of her sympathy. He pressed her hand against his side and - left her to work out the situation for herself under these excellent - conditions. - </p> - <p> - Ella had never felt so near him. The unity in their golden dreams had not - bound them so closely as this unity in catastrophe. For even when the - dreams were most golden, she had haunting misgivings that they were but - visions. Outraged by Sylvester's trampling on her heart, sickened at - herself by her years reckless follies, eager, with all a proud girl's - passion, to vindicate herself, to follow some noble standard, she had - caught at the first that flaunted by and compelled herself imperiously to - believe in it. This forced faith had been the strenuous labour of her - inner life. She had armed herself in triple brass against Lady Milmo's - shafts of flippant satire, against Matthew Lanyon's kindly wisdom, against - her own common sense. The Colony would be merely a paradise of cranks. No - serious artist would throw away his or her career in such a - Cloud-cuckoo-land. - </p> - <p> - She herself, at the best but a well-taught amateur painter in - water-colours, what was she doing in that galley? She set aside reason. To - believe in Roderick, she must believe in the Colony. To believe in the - Colony, she must believe in Roderick. The two were inextricably - interfused. Realisation of the dreams was her only justification for - marrying the man. The man's personality and enthusiasm for an ideal had - overpowered her. She would not think. She was young, inexperienced, - warm-natured, seeing things out of proportion. Flight from the self she - had deemed dishonoured was her only chance of salvation; and she mistook - the imaginary cries behind her, hounding her onward, for the voice of - inexorable necessity. If Roderick could accomplish it, the Colony was a - glorious thing. The Colony accomplished, Roderick was the conqueror to - whom she must yield. When the dreams were most golden she saw him such, - and they were near together. - </p> - <p> - But then had come the days of Roderick's loss of interest in the scheme. - He put her above the Colony, desired her above all things. She shivered - back. For himself alone she could not marry him. Why, she could not tell. - A girl with a mind pure and sweet does not speculate on that which, traced - logically to its source, is simply elemental sexual repulsion. She clung - fiercely to her point. Then Roderick returned to the scheme with his old - ardour. In her heart she believed him passionately sincere. Misfortune had - come with terrible unexpectedness. He had fought and failed. He was a - beaten man. The dream had been brutally proved to have been the emptiest - of hallucinations. She was miserably cast down. Roderick seemed - broken-hearted. They were at one in an absolute cynical reality. Both had - been pierced by the same shaft. The doors of the cranks' Eden had clanged - behind them, and they were walking together in the grey, dreary expanse of - Hyde Park, with an unknown world of the most definite prose before them. - They seemed alone, to have nothing in common with the rest of society; to - have in common with each other this all-filling humiliation of defeat. So - when he spoke, the unreasoning woman leaped to comfort the man. She had - never felt so near him. A great and natural revulsion of feeling had - lifted her heart to consolation. - </p> - <p> - They quitted the Park at Hyde Park Corner, and paused by common impulse. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you will take a cab now,” he said reluctantly. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I must,” she said in the same tone. “I would ask you to come - with me, but it's auntie's day at home, and the place will be full of - chattering people.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't bear leaving you,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “Nor I you.” - </p> - <p> - “You look tired, poor child. Let me give you some tea. Will you? I belong - to a club in Piccadilly,—the Hyde Park, where ladies are admitted to - tea. It is the home of all the depressed outcasts of London, and even they - shun it. We are sure to be alone in the tea-room. Come.” - </p> - <p> - He hailed a hansom. Ella, in that strange mood of passivity which is - woman's fatalest, entered without remark. He followed, and they drove to - the Hyde Park Club. - </p> - <p> - As he had prophesied, the tea-room was empty, save for one dejected member - with his neck-tie riding over the back of his collar, who stared at them - for a moment and then passed out like a ghost. A blazing fire, however, - was burning in the grate, and the maroon leather chairs and divans added a - sense of warmth and comfort to the room. The despondent ones took their - seats in a little recess by the fireplace, and Roderick ordered tea. - </p> - <p> - “It's a new club, and no two members are acquainted. It is the most - desolate place in London. A man comes here when he wants to work out his - suicide. There's no one to distract his thoughts. Then he goes out and - commits it.” - </p> - <p> - “Why did you join?” asked Ella, mechanically. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I foresaw this day. If your worshipped dearness had not waited - for me at Urquhart's, I should have come here—and God knows what - desperate remedies I should have brooded over. But I never foresaw having - you here to strengthen me. Thank Heaven I did join, so as to have a haven - of rest and quietude to bring you to.” - </p> - <p> - He passed his hand across his forehead wearily, and rested his elbow on - the little table in front of him. - </p> - <p> - “My God!” he said. “It has been a bitter day for me.” - </p> - <p> - The waiter brought a tray with tea and delicately baked scones. Ella - filled the cups and tried to cheer her companion, praising the tea and the - arrangements of the club. The warmth, the little sense of novelty, working - an unconscious influence, had brought back animation to her face. She - looked very fresh and winsome in the man's eyes. They fixed themselves - upon her despairingly. Ella suddenly broke off her trivial chatter. - </p> - <p> - “Ah you must not,” she said, with a little choke to keep down the tears. - “There are so many great things left in the world to fight for—. Oh, - I wish I could help you!” - </p> - <p> - “Bless you!” he replied solemnly—and how much was acting, and how - much was genuine, the man's Maker alone could tell, for the man himself - could not; “there is only one way in which you could help me, and that - must not be. You are rich, I am poor. We are no longer working in the - great common cause in which all such differences could have been sunk. As - a man of honour I must release you from your engagement with me, for the - conditions on which our engagement was based have lapsed. You are quite - free, Ella, and I must go my way alone.” - </p> - <p> - He hid his face in his hands. Ella trifled with her tea-spoon. - </p> - <p> - “You are generous,” she said in a low voice. “But if your honour is at - stake, so is mine. I could not turn away from you in your hour of need.” - </p> - <p> - “I am a defeated man,” he replied brokenly. “You would despise me.” - </p> - <p> - The word pierced her like a knife. At that moment she was noble, with the - blind and piteous folly that is so often at the heart of woman's nobility. - She drew herself up proudly, then stretched her arm impulsively across the - table and closed her fresh young fingers on his hand. - </p> - <p> - “I will marry you whenever you please, and we will face the world together - and begin a new life,” she said. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - “My poor dear child,” said Lady Milmo, kissing Ella affectionately, when - she came home, “I am so sorry for you. Lady Elstree came here straight - after the meeting and told us all about it. But it was bound to come to - smash, darling.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it was, auntie,” replied Ella, taking off her fur necklet. - </p> - <p> - She sat down on the fender stool and looked into the fire. Lady Milmo came - up and took one of her hands and petted it in her kindly fashion. - </p> - <p> - “I'm very glad it's all over,” she said. “As soon as it became serious, I - never liked it, you know, dear. And now we can start everything quite - fresh, can't we?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, quite fresh,” assented Ella. - </p> - <p> - “You see now,” continued Lady Milmo, “how wise it was to make that - condition about your engagement. I don't want to say anything against - Roderick, but he's an impossible visionary, dear. I always hated the idea - of your marrying him. It is all broken off now, isn't it?” - </p> - <p> - To Lady Milmo's great astonishment, the girl suddenly burst into a fit of - miserable crying. She knelt by her and petted her comfortingly. - </p> - <p> - “It will be quite easy, my child. I will write him a kind little note - about it, and you can go down to Ayresford and take care of that dear - Uncle Matthew of yours.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, auntie,” cried Ella at last, “you don't understand. I promised - Roderick this afternoon to marry him in a fortnight's time.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV—AT AYRESFORD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hilst the meeting - was taking place that brought the Walden Art Colony to ludicrous collapse, - Sylvester was on his way to Ayresford to pay one of his periodical - Saturday to Monday visits. Matthew, with Dorothy clinging to his finger, - met him at the station. Sylvester took the child up in his arms and kissed - her, striving hard to respond to her demonstrations of affection. But his - heart had turned from her. She was the embodiment of a perpetual pain. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester's bag being taken in charge by the gardener's boy, the trio - walked up to the house, Dorothy skipping between them. The old man looked - proudly and lovingly down at her. Sylvester caught the glance from time to - time, and a pang queerly like jealousy passed through him. If only he - could love the small thing as he had loved her two years ago! But it was - impossible. It was a question of blood instinct; she came of an alien - race. He passed the house where he had lived with Constance, where Frank - Leroux had died after the confession of his miserable secret. To the man's - gloomy fancy it appeared a lie in brick. Only when he found himself alone - with his father in the familiar library did he put away these imaginings - and wear a clearer brow. - </p> - <p> - “I hope the marriage is as far off as ever,” said Matthew, warming his - hands before the fire. Sylvester laughed. - </p> - <p> - “It seems to be postponed to the Greek Kalends. She won't marry until he - takes her to this Colony in the air—and that will be never. The - whole thing will die a natural death.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope so indeed,” replied Matthew, reflectively. “She ought to marry a - better man.” - </p> - <p> - He glanced involuntarily at his son, and their eyes met, and each saw that - the other understood the reference. - </p> - <p> - “I know you wanted me to marry her,” said Sylvester, awkwardly. “I - couldn't. I'm sorry.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew raised his hand, as if about to speak; but the habit of reserve - held him back. A word might have unlocked the son's heart, but the word - remained unspoken. Sylvester dismissed the subject by saying in a lighter - manner,— - </p> - <p> - “It's none of my business, but I often wonder what Roderick lives on.” - </p> - <p> - “He is an artist and a literary man. I suppose he sells his wares,” said - Matthew. - </p> - <p> - “Possibly he does. In fact, I suppose he must. I always was under the - impression that his father made him a handsome allowance.” - </p> - <p> - “Usher allows him a few hundreds a year,” said the old man, in a - matter-of-fact tone. - </p> - <p> - “Apparently we are both wrong, then. Usher hasn't allowed him a penny for - years. Roderick told me so himself.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew started in his chair, and his face wore an expression of great - anxiety. - </p> - <p> - “Impossible!” he said almost angrily. - </p> - <p> - “I only quote Roderick's explicit statement. And I fancy for once in a way - he wasn't lying.” - </p> - <p> - Then he saw his father white and aged, his kind lips quivering, his breath - coming fast. In concern he rose, bent over him. - </p> - <p> - “Why, you 're ill—” he began. - </p> - <p> - But Matthew pushed him away gently. - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense, my boy. It's only one of those confounded pains about my heart. - There, it's all gone now. Don't worry. It's this hot room. I think I'll go - out for a stroll.” - </p> - <p> - “You had better lie down,” said the physician. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, and stick out my tongue and chew that thermometer of yours! No, - thank you. There!” He rose to his feet, and held himself erect. “I'm as - strong as a horse.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't like your going out,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - The other looked at his watch. “I must, for a bit,” he said. “Go up and - talk to your aunt for an hour before dinner. She's dying to hear all the - gossip.” - </p> - <p> - It was useless to try to restrain him. He had an imperious will to which - Sylvester had yielded all his life. So the son went upstairs, and the - father put on his overcoat and walked at a brisk pace through the dark - December evening to the house of his enemy. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Usher put down the “Financial News” and rose from his chair as Matthew - entered the room. - </p> - <p> - “My dear friend, how great a surprise! You have come for a reconciliation. - It is a Christian thing. I too am a Christian, Matthew.” - </p> - <p> - “I have come to ask you a question,” said Matthew, ignoring the other's - proffered hand. “Roderick denies that he receives any allowance from you. - Is that true?” - </p> - <p> - “I am too poor to make my son an allowance,” replied Usher. - </p> - <p> - “You know what I mean,” replied Matthew, sternly. “I pay £100 a quarter - into your banking account for you to remit, as from yourself, to Roderick. - Does he get it?” - </p> - <p> - Ushers eyes shifted from Matthew's glance. He shuffled a step towards the - fireplace before replying. - </p> - <p> - “You outrage a father's feelings, Matthew. I live for my son. You yourself - have a son.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew strode up to him and laid a hand on his collar. - </p> - <p> - “Confound it, sir, answer my question! Roderick states that he hasn't - received a penny from you for years. Have you kept all these sums back - from him? By God! you shall speak.” - </p> - <p> - Involuntarily he shook him in his angry grasp. Usher was scared. - </p> - <p> - “No violence, Matthew.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew released him with a contemptuous exclamation. - </p> - <p> - “I see by your face you have kept the money. I was a fool to trust you. - You're an infernal mean-spirited hound. I've known that for years. But I - never thought you would rob your son.” - </p> - <p> - “He's not your son—At least,” he added with an ugly smile, “I - presume not. I have trained him as I have thought judicious. I am a - judicious man.” - </p> - <p> - “You 're a damned thief,” said Matthew. Usher waved his hand towards the - door. - </p> - <p> - “I think you had better go. I do not like to see an old man so carried - away by passion. It will shorten your life. I am always calm.” Matthew - regarded him for a moment, astounded. Then he spoke in blazing anger: “<i>You</i> - show <i>me</i> the door? <i>You?</i> Sit down in that chair at once.” - Usher obeyed. “There! I stay in this house as long as I choose. It is - mine,—everything in it paid for with my heart's blood. By God, if we - were younger men, I should thrash you within an ace of your life! Now then—let - me see your passbooks for the last six years. Give them to me at once, I - say.” - </p> - <p> - Instinctively Usher shrank before Matthew's tone of authority. He rose, - whimpering allusions to his own poverty and Matthew's domineering ways, - and extracted a set of vellum-covered books from a safe in a corner of the - room. Matthew threw his hat and stick upon a chair, and sat down, by the - round table on which Usher had laid the books. The latter resumed his - armchair on the opposite side and watched him furtively as he scanned the - pages with practised eye and bent brows. When Matthew was dangerous, he - had no power to resist. The craven within him yielded to the stronger - personality. But he hated Matthew with a deadlier hatred. Even now, in the - moment of his humiliation, there was a gleam in his eyes of a revengeful - joy at the imperious man's discovery of the manner in which he had been - fooled for years past. He rubbed his palms softly together beneath the - level of the table. - </p> - <p> - There was a dead silence, broken only by the faint rustling of the leaves - as Matthew turned them over. At last, when he had looked through the - books, he rose and returned his glasses to their little leather case. His - face was gray and peaked. There on the table lay incontrovertible proof - that his life's atonement had been frustrated, that instead of smoothing - Roderick's path, he had merely been pandering to Usher's senile vices. A - whole fortune had gone in insane speculations, rotten companies for the - exploitation of imaginary mines, futile inventions, wild-cat schemes. Here - and there were amounts for £100, £200, paid to names which he recognised - as those of great postage-stamp dealers. Not once had a cheque been drawn - payable to Roderick. On the credit side were two large sums which he - himself had paid to extricate Roderick from special difficulties. On the - debit side was nothing to correspond. He felt stricken with sudden age. - But he drew himself up haughtily lest Usher should see his despair. - </p> - <p> - “And you have been lying, I perceive,” said he, “when you have come to me - for money to pay Roderick's debts,—or else you haven't paid them.” - </p> - <p> - “I have paid them all—all his debts—with securities, Matthew. - That is why nothing is in my pass-book.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. - </p> - <p> - “Your word is about as good as your bond,” he said, taking up his hat and - stick. - </p> - <p> - Usher rose and leaned his hands on the table and regarded him - reproachfully, wagging his head. - </p> - <p> - “I could not blacken the character of my only son, Matthew. He has been - wild, but I have a parent's love. Why should I give him £400 a year when - he did not need it? But when he has come to me in distress, I have - relieved his necessities.” - </p> - <p> - “I have learned all I wanted to know,” said Matthew. “Good-night to you.” - And he strode out of the room. - </p> - <p> - An hour or two later he was sitting alone with Sylvester over their wine, - in the comfortable dining-room, as he had done so many, many times before,—and - the same silence reigned between them. He lay back in his chair and - watched his son, whose face was turned from him in half profile. He - wondered what were the thoughts that held him so serious, as he gazed into - the fire. It was a man's face, marked with the cares of life, the - responsibilities of an anxious profession; proud, reserved, and - intellectual. Matthew was immensely proud of him. In this hour of relaxed - moral fibre, he was humbly grateful, wondered what pleasure a brilliant - man like Sylvester could find in the company of a dull old country lawyer. - It was only the love between them. His heart warmed towards his son, and a - foolish moisture gathered in his eyes. And then, almost suddenly, came a - great longing to tell Sylvester all. He was a physician, accustomed to - view the dark places in the human soul. If only he could tell him, share - with him the burden he had borne for so many years! It would no longer be - a burden. He would face the world at last, a free man. For otherwise what - would be the end? He himself was on the verge of ruin. He might spit upon - Usher's gaberdine, but Usher's demands must be met. How to meet them and - preserve an inheritance for Sylvester? And Roderick? He felt crushed by - this evening's revelations. He had struggled as few men have struggled to - make atonement. It had been in vain. He had no longer the strength to make - fresh effort. A word to Sylvester, and peace would possess his soul. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester glanced round and saw his father's eyes fixed upon him with a - strange yearning. He rose, went up to his chair, and laid a hand upon his - shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “What can I do for you?” he asked, with more tenderness than usual in his - tone. - </p> - <p> - “Think well of me when I am gone, Syl,” said the old man. Sylvester - grasped his shoulder a little tighter. - </p> - <p> - “That's a strange thing to ask me,” he said. “You know what I think of - you. And for God's sake don't talk of the other matter.” - </p> - <p> - He moved away and struck a match to relight his cigar, which had gone out - during his reverie. Matthew was silent for a few seconds. - </p> - <p> - “Suppose,” he said at last, “that any one you loved and thought the world - of had done you a great wrong and had kept it hidden from you?” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester started, and his face grew suddenly pale. Did his father know? - The old pain returned. He stood staring at the back of his father's chair. - The match burned itself out between his fingers. His voice trembled as he - spoke. - </p> - <p> - “There are some sins that are unforgivable. We needn't discuss them.” - </p> - <p> - It was Matthew's turn to start and look round at his son in anxious - surmise. - </p> - <p> - “You are of course speaking of the matter in the abstract?” he said. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester struck another match, and spoke between the first few whiffs of - his cigar. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. In the abstract. There is the woman, for instance, who betrays her - husband, whose life is a horrible lie. To say to a man 'forgive,' is vain - breath. I know men who say they have forgiven. They are almost as - contemptible as their wives.” - </p> - <p> - “You would not forgive, Syl?” said Matthew, gravely. - </p> - <p> - “By God, no!” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “You are right, my boy,” said Matthew. “We had better not pursue the - subject. Abstract ethics are unprofitable matter for discussion.” - </p> - <p> - He smiled in his kindly way and settled himself comfortably in his chair. - But his heart was twenty-fold heavier than before. He closed his eyes. The - memory came vividly of a woman throwing herself on her knees before him, - in that very room, several years ago, and pouring out to him the agony of - her soul. He had listened, questioned, bidden her go and sin no more. For - Sylvester's sake he had counselled silence, secret atonement. It had been - unutterable comfort to him that Sylvester's happiness had been untouched. - And now, in spite of all, Sylvester knew. Else why should Sylvester have - spoken thus of the faithless wife? The vague conjecture that had haunted - him for nearly two years shaped itself into certainty. Many things that - had been dark in Sylvester's recent life now became clear. But how he must - have suffered! None knew better than he. For a while he forgot his own - burden. Then suddenly the memory returned. But no longer had he the desire - to share it with Sylvester. It was more imperative than ever to keep the - secret undivulged. It was no new thing for him to struggle and endure. And - the man of iron purpose and pathetic tenderness felt ashamed of his former - impulse. - </p> - <p> - “I'm afraid we've been talking a pack of nonsense, Syl,” he said lightly. - </p> - <p> - “And we're both old enough to know better,” replied Sylvester, with a - laugh. “How did we get on to the subject?” - </p> - <p> - “I began to croak in an absurd way.” - </p> - <p> - “And I'm afraid I helped you. I must come down here oftener. That dingy - old house of mine is getting on my nerves.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, bosh!” said the old man, “you and I don't believe in nerves. We leave - that to the feeble folk.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I haven't got many, I must confess,” said Sylvester, drawing up his - well-knit figure. “And as a matter of fact, except your seediness, I - haven't a care in the whole wide world.” - </p> - <p> - “Neither have I,” returned Matthew, briskly. “And as for my health, I'm as - fit as ever I was. Oh, I know I can't live for ever, but I'm good for - another ten years at least.” - </p> - <p> - “You've got to be careful and do what you 're told,” said the physician. - </p> - <p> - “Let's have another glass of port before we go up to Agatha,” said - Matthew, reaching out for the decanter. - </p> - <p> - Thus father and son tried to throw dust into each other's eyes, so that - each should regard the other as the happiest of men. - </p> - <p> - The servant entered, bearing a tray with the letters that had arrived by - the evening post. Matthew glanced at the addresses. - </p> - <p> - “Will you excuse me?” he said courteously. And Sylvester, trained in a - brusquer school of manners, felt a great respect for his father's - old-world politeness to a guest. Matthew opened two envelopes and glanced - cursorily at their contents. Over the third letter he paused, and his lips - twitched as he read. Then without comment he handed it to Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - It was a long letter from Ella, written that morning. Amid many feminine - explanations and ambiguities she announced the fact of the downfall of the - Walden Art Colony and her marriage with Roderick in a fortnight's time. - </p> - <p> - “This upsets all my calculations,” said Sylvester, gravely. “I thought the - affair was as good as broken off.” - </p> - <p> - “It is only natural,” said Matthew. - </p> - <p> - “Natural! How?” - </p> - <p> - “The chivalry of woman, Syl.” - </p> - <p> - Respect kept Sylvester from contradiction, but his lips curled somewhat - ironically. - </p> - <p> - “If a woman won't have a man when he is up, will she rush into his arms - when he is down?” - </p> - <p> - “It often happens, my boy,” replied the old man. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester took one or two turns about the room. Then he paused by the - table and lifted his wine-glass. - </p> - <p> - “Here's to our friend Roderick's confusion,” said he. “I'm afraid I have - been slack in carrying out your wishes, but now I'll use every means in my - power to stop the marriage.” Matthew deliberately set down the glass which - he happened to be holding in his hand, and remained for a moment in deep - thought. Then he spoke. - </p> - <p> - “I can't drink a toast like that, nor must you. I release you entirely - from your promise. I have reason to believe I may have misjudged Roderick, - and I have no right to interfere. It is my wish that the marriage should - take place.” - </p> - <p> - This was final. Sylvester made an Englishman's awkward little bow of - acquiescence. - </p> - <p> - “I have no personal feelings in the matter, as you are aware,” said he. - “On the other hand, if Roderick should be proved to be—well, as - undesirable as you thought, it would be wise to let Ella know, I suppose?” - </p> - <p> - “I would not have her marry a scamp,” replied Matthew, in a low voice. “It - would break my heart. But, O God! Syl, what is a scamp? Which of us dare - judge his fellow?” He was feeling utterly weary, and from his prostration - came the personal utterance which his ordinary strength rigidly - restrained. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester, unaware of the stirring of great depths, replied coldly, “A man - with a clean record behind him, like either of us, is certainly in a - position to judge.” - </p> - <p> - “And pity?” - </p> - <p> - “Pity generally seems to be an elegant method of condoning those offences - which one has in common with the person pitied,” replied Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “So that when you are stainless you are pitiless?” - </p> - <p> - “In the sense of sympathising with evil in any form—yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said the old man, throwing himself back in his chair and covering - his eyes with his hand, “thank God there's still some sin left in the - world to keep it sweet!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV—A STRIP OF PINK PAPER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> few days - afterwards Sylvester received an invitation to the wedding, accompanied by - a despairing note from Lady Milmo. Ella <i>would</i> do it, and who could - prevent her? When a woman was <i>bent</i> on a thing, especially <i>matrimony</i>, - no mule in the world was so <i>obstinate</i>. Lady Milmo italicised - freely, “obstinate” being doubly underlined. She hoped, however, that the - lovers would be happy, explained that the wedding would be as quiet as her - enormous circle of acquaintance would allow, and besought Sylvester to - come and support her as the only soul that sympathised with her in this - disastrous occurrence. Sylvester read the letter through somewhat grimly. - Then he glanced at the silver-printed card. The conjuncture of the names - caused him a sudden feeling of repugnance, and with an impulse he did not - seek to explain, he threw the card into the fire. As for the invitation, - he declined it on the score of professional engagements; also because he - disapproved of marriage in the abstract. If all the race for one - generation, he wrote, passed a self-denying ordinance of celibacy, there - would be an end of this miserable thing that was called humanity. - </p> - <p> - On receipt of this letter, Lady Milmo smiled astutely and took advantage - of a confidential hour before bedtime to tread upon delicate ground. - </p> - <p> - “I shall always wonder why you refused Sylvester Lanyon, Ella,” she said - meditatively. - </p> - <p> - The blood flew angrily into Ella's cheeks, and she turned away her head. - </p> - <p> - “I never refused him because he never did me the honour to ask me to marry - him.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps he needed a little encouragement, dear,” said Lady Milmo, - somewhat taken aback. - </p> - <p> - “He needs a lot to make a man of him that only his Maker could give him,” - replied Ella, turning round vindictively. “His blood is a kind of Condy's - Fluid, and his heart is a glass retort. He's just a piece of sentient - mechanism. How do you think a man like that could ask a girl to marry - him?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, he did once,” murmured Lady Milmo. - </p> - <p> - “He was different then,” said Ella, with a queer little shock of pain. “I - used to like him. But now—now there is no one in the whole wide - world I dislike so much. Sometimes when he comes here and talks to me in - that cold, emotionless voice of his, I absolutely hate him. And if it - wasn't for my dear old Uncle Matthew—” she broke off and rang the - bell for her maid. “It's about time to go to bed, auntie.” - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo made no response. A flash of the truth occurred to her; but the - whole matter of Ella's state of mind was very complicated. She yawned - behind gracefully lifted Angers. - </p> - <p> - “I think so too, my dear,” she said. - </p> - <p> - They bade each other good-night, and Ella fell asleep while cataloguing - the infirmities of the man whom she was not about to marry. - </p> - <p> - The man whom she was to marry in ten days' time was meanwhile passing - through a period of sweet delight alternating with the most poignant - anxiety. Ready money for the ordinary expenses of the wedding he had in - plenty. Some overdue royalties on prints from a couple of pictures came in - most opportunely, and these, added to an advance made by a friendly editor - for whose weekly he wrote the art article, put him beyond the fear of - embarrassment. But the thought of the £3,000 which he could not restore, - haunted him night and day. Urquhart had twice asked casually for a cheque - for the amount of his deposit, and he had promised in his off-hand way. A - third demand had been made somewhat threateningly; he had laughed airily, - apologised for his forgetfulness, and undertaken to send him a cheque for - £2000 by return of post. After that Roderick avoided his club and the - haunts where he was likely to meet Urquhart. - </p> - <p> - That was three days ago. Roderick hoped that Urquhart would not renew his - request till after his marriage. Then he could obtain a large sum from - Ella, who would be no longer under Matthew Lanyon's trusteeship, but would - be free to dispose of her money as she chose. Besides, no man would pester - another for money during his honeymoon. He would have ample time to - arrange things. He had been rather sore at Matthew's absolute refusal to - allow Ella to make any marriage settlements. Not that he had taken the - initiative in the matter. Matthew himself had done so, in a friendly - letter in which he referred to the greater dignity and feeling of - independence of the man upon whom none of his wife's fortune had been - settled. Roderick had acquiesced with good grace, and in his heart wished - that he really possessed the delicacy of sentiment that would have made - his deprecation of such things as marriage settlements genuine. For he had - grown to love Ella genuinely, and he hated himself for counting on her - money. - </p> - <p> - “Just one week more, dear, and then we shall begin our new life together.” - So ran a sentence of a letter from Ella, which Roderick was reading at - breakfast. He sighed, rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his - hands, his yellow beard protruding over his fingers, and gazed sadly over - the elegantly set meal. Their new life! He was past forty, past the age of - fresh ideals. Hitherto his had been the gratification of the lust of the - eyes and the lust of the flesh. At times he deceived himself, an exuberant - mood carrying its own persuasiveness. But there were hours, and they had - been very frequent of late, when he saw himself as he was and hated the - picture. A <i>poseur</i>, a sham, a creature of imperfect moral sense; - gifted, it is true, with certain artistic faculties, wherewith he imposed - upon a superficial world and so made his living; but insincere, devoid of - real enthusiasms, cynically despising the gospel that he preached. For the - first time he had touched a fervent and earnest soul, and the sense of his - responsibility overwhelmed him. He rose and looked into the Empire mirror - over the fireplace. He was middle-aged, puffed, wrinkled, worn out. There - could be no new ideals,—only a reattiring of the old shams that had - peopled his life. He threw himself down in an armchair and read Ella's - letter through again. - </p> - <p> - “My God,” said he, from his heart, as a million futile men have said, “if - only I had ordered my life differently!” - </p> - <p> - A trim maid-servant, one of the staff of the mansions in which his - chambers were situated, entered with the announcement of a visitor. A - moment afterwards Bevis Urquhart came in, languid, supercilious, with an - ugly expression on his flabby face. Roderick rose, assumed at once his - jaunty manner. - </p> - <p> - “Sit down, my dear friend. You come like a ray of morning sunshine - piercing through the fog.” - </p> - <p> - Urquhart put his hat on the table and unbuttoned his gloves. “No, I won't - sit down, thank you,” he drawled. “My brougham is at the door, and I'm in - a hurry. I rather want that subscription back.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, my dear fellow, you 're worse than a bankrupt bootmaker,” cried - Roderick, pleasantly. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I am, but I want the money,” replied the young man. - </p> - <p> - “I'll send you a cheque this afternoon, 'pon my soul,” said - Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “You've told me that before, Usher. I want you to write the cheque now.” - </p> - <p> - Roderick looked him between the eyes, and threw off his mask of - cordiality. - </p> - <p> - “Suppose I say I don't like your tone, and will see you damned before I do - otherwise than suit my own convenience?” - </p> - <p> - “Then I shall conclude you have bagged the money and can't repay.” - </p> - <p> - “You are insulting,” said Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “I believe I am stating facts. It was rather odd your meeting those bills - that Willie Lathrop backed, just at that time, wasn't it?” Roderick again - cursed Willie Lathrop under his breath. He turned aside and lit a - cigarette, so as to gain time. Then he forced a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Come, come, Urquhart. This is all nonsense. It was too large a sum to - leave idle at my bankers,—besides, there's always a risk, you know,—so - I invested it,—in Trust Funds, of course. One can't buy and sell - stock over a counter. There are delays of correspondence. And I've been so - devilish busy with wedding preparations, you know, that I haven't attended - to it. I'll write at once to my broker. There.” - </p> - <p> - Urquhart listened with an incredulous smile. He gathered up his hat and - gloves. - </p> - <p> - “Sometimes it pleases me to act the Godforsaken fool you did yourself the - pleasure to call me. Sometimes it doesn't. I'll give you till to-morrow - night to send me your cheque for £2,000 with the per cent interest. If you - don't—” - </p> - <p> - “Well, my dear friend, what if I don't?” - </p> - <p> - “I'll publish it all over London that you have bagged the money—and - make sure that Miss Defries hears it.” - </p> - <p> - “And what if I kick you down the ten flights of stairs of these mansions?” - snarled Roderick, his hands clenched and the sweat standing on his - forehead through the effort to maintain self-control. - </p> - <p> - “I'll publish it at once,” said the young man, languidly. “Good day, - Usher. Till tomorrow evening, then?” He nodded superciliously and - disappeared, leaving his enemy impotent with wrath and fear. - </p> - <p> - “Revengeful devil!” he exclaimed stupidly. - </p> - <p> - The servant came in to clear away the breakfast things. Roderick pushed - aside the <i>portiere</i> and went into his studio. The great window was - open. He stood by it, heedless of the raw, damp air. From beneath the veil - of fog came the uncanny rumbling of the traffic in the street. Everything - was hidden. He seemed to be an immeasurable height from the earth. All - below was abysmal, inscrutable. - </p> - <p> - A thought shuddered through his being. One plunge into the unknown, and - the sordid fears of living would be at an end. But the fog made him cough, - and the tiny check threw him back again, like a wheel, into his normal - groove. He shut the window and walked moodily to the studio fire. - </p> - <p> - Two thousand pounds had to be obtained by to-morrow night. Otherwise, - social disaster and loss of Ella. He had not the faith to trust her with - his wretched story. “I promised to marry a gentleman, and not a thief,” he - heard her saying. The tone of her voice stabbed him with a greater pain - than he had thought himself capable of feeling. There was only one way out - of it,—another appeal to his father. He would go down to Ayresford - at once. It was characteristic of him that he shivered at the thought of - the comfortless journey. - </p> - <p> - A few hours later he stood, white and haggard, in the porch of Mr. Usher's - house, bidding his father good-bye. It was fresh and clear at Ayresford, - and the gathering twilight deepened the country hush of things. - </p> - <p> - “I've always looked upon myself as a bad lot, but compared with you I'm an - innocent babe,” said Roderick, in a queer, low voice. - </p> - <p> - The old man put out a deprecatory hand and looked at his son out of - expressionless blue eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I only point the way, my son. These reverses on the Stock Exchange have - brought me near to penury. I look forward to your marriage, so that you - can provide for your poor old father.” - </p> - <p> - “You could easily have lent me the money,” muttered Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “I have shown you how to obtain it. Do not fear Matthew Lanyon, my son. We - are not friends, and I will meet him no longer. But he is a snake with the - fangs drawn; and I have drawn them. I have power over men. It is my way.” - </p> - <p> - There was a touch of savage exultation in the old man's tone which was new - to Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “You are quite sure about it?” he asked quickly. - </p> - <p> - “He would not dare to hurt a hair of my dear boy's head.” - </p> - <p> - “What the devil is this hold you have got over him?” - </p> - <p> - “I'll leave that to you as your inheritance, my son.” - </p> - <p> - Roderick watched the old, ignoble figure with a feeling of horrible - repulsion. He turned, bidding him an abrupt farewell, and walked fast - through the garden and out at the gate on to the road that led to the - station. At the refreshment bar he drank a shilling's worth of brandy. - </p> - <p> - Late that night he went into his club,—not the desolate Hyde Park - where he had drunk tea with Ella,—but the little Belvidere in St. - James's Street where they talk Art in Gothic capitals and play “bridge” - for high stakes. As he had hoped, he found Urquhart in the smoking-room - surrounded by half a dozen men who formed the esoteric ring of the club. - The young semi-millionaire was holding forth on his newly discovered - genius, Pradovitch. - </p> - <p> - “Thought rapt, deep, unexpressive,—that is the only medium for the - soul. The only ideal of life is to express all consciousness in terms of - abstract and absolute thought—I don't know if I make myself clear. - But that in vulgar language is his doctrine. As for Art, what is it but - the scum that rises to the surface of the pure well of thought?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, rot!” exclaimed young Willie Lathrop, rising with a yawn. “The Venus - of Milo and Beethoven are good enough for me. Let's have a flutter. Hallo, - Usher—” - </p> - <p> - Roderick came forward, elegant in his evening dress and great white bow, - and suave in manner. - </p> - <p> - “Gentlemen,” he said formally, in a voice that commanded attention, “I am - glad to find you all here. Urquhart came to my rooms this morning and - expressed himself in a manner that I am sure he will see calls for a - public apology. I take you all to witness that I hand him my cheque for - £2,050, being the amount he deposited with me as his subscription to the - funds of the Walden Art Colony, together with the interest on the same.” - </p> - <p> - And with his grandest gesture he held out the cheque to Urquhart. There - was a great silence as every one looked at the young man to see what he - would do. He took the cheque, eyed it for a moment, and then met - Roderick's mocking glance. - </p> - <p> - “It is quite correct?” - </p> - <p> - “Quite,” said Urquhart; and then somewhat desperately, “I have much - pleasure in withdrawing anything I said this morning that you may have - objected to.” - </p> - <p> - “Hooray!” cried Lathrop. “Now shake hands, you two, and be friends again. - And Urquhart shall stand the crowd supper on the interest.” - </p> - <p> - And so peace was concluded. But Roderick did not sleep that night, and the - next day it was torture to meet a girl's honest eyes. - </p> - <p> - She noticed his preoccupation, was tenderly solicitous. What were his - anxieties? - </p> - <p> - “If I have any, they are lest any unforeseen disaster should occur between - now and Wednesday,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Why, what should come?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “It is only a man's inability to realise that such happiness can ever be - his.” - </p> - <p> - He burst into rapturous speech, carrying the girl with him on its flood. - For the moment she forgot his troubled look, and when he had gone her - attention was absorbed by practical details. In fact, during these days of - hurried preparation, the material affairs of life were sufficient for her - content. Countless letters had to be written, innumerable purchases to be - made, plans for future living to be discussed. At no time does modern - civilisation allow sentiment to come less within a woman's spiritual - horizon than during the week before her marriage. - </p> - <p> - As usually happens, the wedding preparations extended far beyond the - original design. The guest list swelled day by day. Instead of a mere - vicar, Lady Milmo's favourite colonial bishop was engaged for the - ceremony. The bridesmaids increased in number from two to six. The meeting - of a few intimates at Lady Milmo's to drink the bride and bridegroom's - health was gradually magnified into a vast reception for which the house - was being turned upside down. On one point Ella remained firm. She would - be married in a travelling dress. Then there were after arrangements to be - considered. Lady Milmo's old friends, Lord and Lady Greatorex, who were - wintering in Cairo, had put their little place in Shropshire at the - disposal of the young couple for their honeymoon. When they came back to - London, they would take a furnished flat until a house could be found to - suit them; but the furnished flat had first to be obtained. The days - passed in a whirl of occupation, and when Ella laid her head upon the - pillow at night, sheer physical fatigue sent her forthwith to sleep. - </p> - <p> - Once she was touched to tears. Matthew Lanyon had given her a magnificent - present which already stood on the special table in the morning room. But - he had also sent her an intimate gift, a little ruby ring, with a letter - of tender affection. “It belonged to my dear wife,” he wrote; “and I could - give you nothing dearer to me,—perhaps it symbolises a drop of my - heart's blood.... I would come to your wedding, my dear, but this old - machine is getting cracked and wheezy, and is at present laid up for - repairs. I must get Sylvester to come and mend me. But all my love will be - with you.” And that night she sat up late in her room writing him a long, - long letter, pouring out her heart to him, as she had never done before. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The letter reached him on Monday morning. He had been suffering - considerably, and Sylvester was there, having made hasty arrangements for - the care of his patients in town. Matthew submitted to confinement to the - house, but insisted on getting up for breakfast. Bed was not the proper - place for a man to eat in, he declared, and nothing but main force would - have kept him there. So he sat down to table and made a valiant pretence - at eating, while Miss Lanyon cast appealing glances at Sylvester and - suggested arrow-root, and beef-tea, and eggs, and brandy, at intervals. - </p> - <p> - “If you hint at any more horrors, Agatha,” said the old man, looking up - from his letter, “I'll go to the office.” - </p> - <p> - The white reflected glare from a slight fall of snow that covered the lawn - filled the comfortable dining-room. Miss Lanyon glanced through the French - window and shivered. Matthew was quite capable of carrying out his threat. - She refrained from further suggestions, and meanwhile Matthew finished his - letter in peace. - </p> - <p> - He folded it up when he had read it and put it in his pocket. He felt - happier. Ella had revealed to him a Roderick that he had never realised. - The girl's early struggles showed that she had mistrusted him. Now she had - arrived at the man's heart and found it loyal and worthy. A fluttering at - the glass caused him to rise and gather up a handful of breadcrumbs for - the birds. Having thrown it out on to the lawn, he closed the window and - stood watching the feast, Dorothy by his side. It was a bright morning, - the sun shining from a pale blue sky and glinting on the myriad facets of - the snow. The red clusters on a holly bush and the breasts of a couple of - robins among the fluttering birds made tiny specks of colour against the - white. The earth was sweet. Matthew felt a sense of exhilaration. After - all, perhaps this was the great reparation that through his indirect - agency had been accomplished. Materially, Roderick was relieved for life - from the sordid cares of poverty; and spiritually, if ever woman could - raise a man's soul to gentler things, that woman was Ella Defries. His - life had not been wholly lived in vain. - </p> - <p> - Soon his managing clerk brought the office letters. They retired to the - library, and Matthew threw himself with more spirit into affairs than he - had been able to show for some time past. At twelve o'clock Sylvester - entered with some medicine. He found his father alone, writing hard amid a - sea of papers. A professional rebuke induced him to desist. - </p> - <p> - “If you write another line, I'll go straight back to London,” said - Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “You are much more needed there than you are here, I assure you,” said the - old man. “I'm as fit as ever I was.” - </p> - <p> - But he blotted his letter and put his papers by, and pushing his - writing-chair away from the table settled himself comfortably for a chat. - He was full of small interests this morning. There had been fine doings, - he had learned, the evening before, at the Town Council. The idiots had - actually voted against the Free Library that he had schemed out in every - particular. Hodgkins, the progressive butcher, whose face was like a - hollyhock, had said that he blushed to bear the name of Englishman in - common with them. Matthew wondered how he did it. All the same, he must - get about again and put some sense into the Council. - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite know why they listen to me, but they do,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Then there were other matters. Jenkins's wife was laid up. That made the - tenth child. Would Sylvester make arrangements for the three youngest - children to board with the Jellicoes as usual? - </p> - <p> - “Can Jenkins afford it?” asked Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Of course not. Otherwise what would be the sense of our arranging - things?” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester assented. The old man launched out into an invective against all - the ne'er-do-weels of Ayresford who procreated large families which they - could not support and spent their small earnings in drink. The brutes! - Boiling oil was too dreamy a death for them. As Sylvester knew that any - man of them would, if bidden, have licked his father's boots, he smoked - his pipe imperturbably, unaffected by this outburst of ferocity. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose all this is pretty parochial,” said Matthew, at length, “but - it's a bit of the cosmos, anyhow.” - </p> - <p> - There was a knock at the door, and one of his clerks appeared with a small - leather-covered book. Matthew took it from him and laid it on the table. - </p> - <p> - “Take all this stuff to Mr. Findlay,” he said, indicating a pile of - papers. The clerk gathered them up and withdrew. - </p> - <p> - Matthew continued his parable, but his fingers played with the banker's - pass-book. - </p> - <p> - “Excuse me for a moment, while I see how the balance stands,” he said at - last. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester nodded and stretched himself comfortably behind the morning - paper. A few moments passed. Then suddenly he heard a choking sound and - the violent creak of a chair. He started to his feet. There was his father - fallen limp over the arm of the chair, while from his nerveless fingers a - strip of pink paper fluttered to the ground. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI—AT BAY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was not until - the evening that Sylvester entered the library again. His father was still - unconscious, likely to remain so for many hours. Matthew's ordinary - medical adviser had consulted with Sylvester. A trained nurse telegraphed - for from London had just arrived. At present nothing more could be done. - Possibly the stricken man might recover. But the case was grave. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester had been puzzled all day. What could have induced the stroke? A - moment or two before, his father had been in the best of spirits, talking - with an enjoyment that had been very rare of late. Generally, when the - heart is weak, it is some sudden shock that paralyses. But here the theory - of sudden shock was untenable. Perhaps it was simply the reaction of the - high spirits following depression. - </p> - <p> - Miss Lanyon and himself had dined together,—a cheerless meal. The - gentle lady wept and conjectured feebly as to causation, implored - Sylvester, as indeed she had done all day, to pronounce favourably on the - patient's condition. They did not eat much. The cook had sent up tearful - apologies for the spoiling of a dish, on the ground that she was too - upset. But they would not have noticed. The parlour maid's eyes were red. - She had been some years in the house, and the personal charm that endeared - Matthew to all who came in contact with him had gained the girl's - affection. Miss Lanyon used to say that Matthew spoiled the servants. - Matthew replied that he hated perfection, and liked them spoiled; they - were more human. At any rate, his sudden illness spread consternation and - dismay through the household. The news had gone abroad, and anxious - inquiries had been made at the door by all kinds and conditions of folk. - Amongst them was Mr. Usher, who had shuffled up to hear news of his dear - friend in affliction. Sylvester had sent him a curt reply by the servant. - He disliked Mr. Usher cordially, and had rejoiced over the strained - relations that had kept him away from the house. Dinner was over, and - Sylvester went into the library to smoke. The room was more or less as he - had left it that morning. Matthew's pass-book lay on the table, and three - or four passed cheques lay upon the book. He filled and lit his pipe, and - sat down in the writing-chair to think over the case. Suddenly, the room - recalling associations, he remembered the cheque he had seen flutter from - his father's fingers. Almost idly he looked down to see if it was still on - the floor. His eye fell upon it underneath the armchair, whither it had - probably been kicked during the bodily removal of his father from the - room. He picked it up. But a glance was enough to make him start back with - an oath. It was a passed cheque for £3,000 made payable to and indorsed by - Roderick Usher, and signed “Matthew Lanyon.” At first he could not - comprehend it. Why should his father have paid to Roderick so amazing a - sum? And having paid it, why should he have received such a shock on - seeing the cheque? He brought it nearer the lamp that stood on the table; - and then, suddenly, a suspicion smote him, like a great blow. There were - variations from his father's writing. His signature, so simple as to be - roughly imitated with the greatest facility, had yet certain strong - characteristics which were missing here. Sylvester looked at the numbers - of the cheques on the table; they were consecutive. The three thousand - pound cheque bore a number from a totally different series. The pink - colour, too, was slightly faded. Where was the book from which the cheque - had been torn? His glance fell upon his father's bunch of keys, depending - from one in the lock of the writing-table drawer. An idea struck him. He - remembered that his father, most methodical of men, kept the stubs of his - cheque-books ranged along a shelf of an old press between the fireplace - and the window. For a moment he hesitated. He had never looked at one of - his father's papers in his life. His intention seemed almost criminal. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon, my dear, but I must,” he said, half aloud, and then - finding the key he opened the cupboard. A rapid examination showed him the - stub he wanted. The dates on the counterfoils were of three years back. - With trembling fingers he ran through the numbers. The counterfoil of - Roderick's cheque was missing. - </p> - <p> - Mechanically he replaced the stub and locked the cupboard. And then he - stood for a while, fierce-eyed, shivering with a horrible certainty. - Roderick had forged the cheque, and the shock of discovery had nearly - killed his father. - </p> - <p> - The whole man was white-hot with fury. In such accesses of anger, stern, - reserved men have killed their enemies mercilessly. Instead of confusing - their judgment, their anger burns it to crystal clearness. Every action is - that of sublimated reason. Sylvester remained for a few moments - motionless; then he picked up a railway time-card from the table, glanced - at it, and consulted his watch. He turned down the lamp and left the room. - In the hall he was met by Simmons, the doctor. The latter was by far the - more outwardly perturbed of the two. - </p> - <p> - “Well, how are things?” - </p> - <p> - “As satisfactory as can be expected,” replied Sylvester. “Come and see.” - They went together slowly up the stairs, discussing the symptoms, and - entered the sick chamber. There was very little change. Unconsciousness - would still last for many hours. That at least was certain. Meanwhile they - could do nothing but await events. Before leaving the room, Sylvester bent - down and kissed his father's face, that looked shrunken in the dim light, - and never had he felt such yearning love for him. Downstairs, he drew - Simmons into the library. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to London to-night,” said he. - </p> - <p> - Simmons stared at him. “To London?” he queried. - </p> - <p> - “And leave my father in this condition? Yes, I am summoned on a matter of - life and death.” - </p> - <p> - The other was puzzled by the non-professional phrase. “An urgent case” - would have been intelligible. But he made no comment. Neither of the - Lanyons was a man to discuss his private concerns with his acquaintance. - Sylvester continued,— - </p> - <p> - “I am more than satisfied to leave him in your hands, Simmons. You know - that. But you would be doing me a good turn if you sent me two or three - telegrams to-morrow. I hope to get back at night.” - </p> - <p> - “Willingly,” replied Simmons; and after a few more words, the two men - shook hands and parted. Miss Lanyon, whose simple gospel it was that - whatever Matthew or Sylvester did was right, demanded no explanations when - Sylvester announced his intention of going to London; but when he was - gone, she cried a bit to herself in a sympathetic feminine way. Men were - unaccountable beings in her eyes. They represented mysterious forces which - she had been brought up, in her young days, to regard with respectful awe. - There was a trace of orientalism in the attitude of our grandmothers - towards the male sex. It lingers still in old-fashioned, sequestered - places. - </p> - <p> - It was late when Sylvester's cab stopped at his house in Weymouth Street. - He attempted to open the door with his latch-key, but the chain was up, - and he had to ring and wait in the drizzling rain until a shivering and - tousled servant came down. At another time he would have felt a chill of - desolation at entering the dark and fireless house, so cold in its - unwelcome. But to-night he was strung to a high pitch; and the loneliness - of his surroundings failed to touch the usually responsive chord. He went - upstairs to his room, dominated by a fixed idea. He would stop the - marriage, thus tardily doing his father's bidding, and have Roderick - arrested on a charge of forgery. If his father died, his murder would - thus, at least, be avenged. - </p> - <p> - Early the next morning he went to Roderick's chambers. The servant, who - was setting the breakfast table, informed him that Mr. Usher had not yet - been called. - </p> - <p> - “Wake him and say that Dr. Lanyon particularly wishes to see him,” said - Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - The servant retired and returned a few moments afterwards with a request - that he would wait for Mr. Usher in the studio. She conducted him thither - and having put a match to the fire, departed. The room was bare, the - hangings taken down, the knick-knacks packed in cases lying untidily about - the floor, the pictures stacked against the walls,—all in - preparation for the coming change in Roderick's way of living. - </p> - <p> - Presently a door opened, and Roderick appeared in dressing-gown and - slippers. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes bloodshot. He looked like a man - hag-ridden. He drew a quick, short breath at the first sight of - Sylvester's threatening face. All his jauntiness had gone. He went a step - or two towards his visitor and said curtly,— - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “You have forged my father's name to a cheque for £3,000,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Can I see it?” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester drew the cheque from his pocketbook and held it up for the - other's inspection. - </p> - <p> - “I perceive the bankers have honoured it,” said Roderick. “Mr. Lanyon will - not repudiate it.” - </p> - <p> - “He will not have the chance. <i>I</i> repudiate it. He is lying - unconscious,—perhaps at the point of death. By God! if he dies you - will have killed him.” - </p> - <p> - “You are talking rank folly,” said Roderick, leaning against the jamb of - the window, his hands in his dressing-gown pockets. “Mr. Lanyon as my - solicitor sold out certain of my investments and sent me a cheque for the - total amount.” - </p> - <p> - “A cheque to which there is no counterfoil, taken from a cheque-book in - use three years ago?” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester laughed harshly and buttoned his overcoat, which he had opened - so as to get at the cheque. Roderick grew white and passed his hand across - his forehead. There was a moment's silence. - </p> - <p> - “As a matter of elementary justice,” said Sylvester, “I came here first - for your explanation. As you can give none, I will now put the matter in - the hands of the police, and in an hour or two there will be a warrant out - for your arrest.” - </p> - <p> - He moved towards the door. Roderick staggered away from the window and - drew his hand hard across his face in a gesture of utter weariness. The - strain of the past week had been too much. Always thriftless and reckless - in money matters, he had hitherto stopped short of unredeemed rascality. - The burden of a crime had crushed his self-assurance. - </p> - <p> - “Stop a moment,” he said hoarsely. “There are other considerations.” - </p> - <p> - “I have them in view,” replied Sylvester, icily. He turned again. Roderick - hurriedly interposed himself between him and the door. - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake, man, think of what you are doing! I don't deny it. There! - I can't. It is more than I can bear. I have been in hell for the past - week, devoured alive, with the flames licking my soul. I was driven to it, - to save myself from disgrace. I was desperate. I would have replaced the - money. By Heaven! I would. It was my only chance to avert sudden crash and - to marry the woman I love.” - </p> - <p> - “You love!” sneered Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, the woman I love and crave and worship, for whose sake I'd commit a - thousand crimes. I was pushed hard, I tell you, with my back against the - wall. I had to. Go back to Ayresford and tell your father I'll repay it,—every - penny. I swear to God I will.” - </p> - <p> - “With Miss Defries's money. Rob Peter to pay Paul. Let me pass.” - </p> - <p> - “You are going to have me arrested?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly.” - </p> - <p> - “But—Sylvester—good God!” cried Roderick, in incoherent - agony. “Think of what it means—our old friendship—we were - young together—we have grown old together—years ago, when you - too were marrying a sweet woman, I stood by your side—” - </p> - <p> - “Your damned hand has been in every tragedy of my life,” exclaimed - Sylvester, kindled into a sudden flame of anger. “And a damned woman's! If - it had not been for a woman, you would not have killed my father.” - </p> - <p> - In the midst of his frantic anxiety, it was suddenly revealed to Roderick - that in alluding to Sylvester's marriage he had touched the man's hidden - wound. He hastened to repair his blunder. - </p> - <p> - “I am not pleading for myself alone,” he said, drawing himself up and - speaking in a more dignified voice. “You can disgrace me, but my disgrace - will fall on another—whom your father loves. If you arrest me, the - marriage will be broken off by a miserable, horrible scandal,—one - that will poison a woman's whole existence. It would be more than pain to - your father if such hurt happened to Ella Defries.” - </p> - <p> - “You certainly don't propose that I should let this marriage take place - to-morrow?” said Sylvester, recovering his cold scorn of manner. But he - was somewhat checked in his purpose by Roderick's argument, and Roderick - saw that he had gained a point. - </p> - <p> - “I happen to know,” said he, “that you would be carrying out your father's - wish in preventing my marriage. I undertake to break it off. The day I - marry her you can arrest me.” - </p> - <p> - Again Sylvester laughed harshly. “You know very well you would be safe - then, as Ella Defries's husband.” - </p> - <p> - He turned and walked to the window and looked out in deep thought. He - hated the man, clung fiercely to the revengeful joy of seeing him stamped - out of decent existence. Compromise was wormwood, and yet compromise there - must be. Roderick remained by the door straining haggard eyes at his - judge, a strange figure, with his gorgeous dressing-gown and dishevelled - hair, in the midst of the dismantled and rubbish-strewn room. Sylvester's - last words had sent the thrill of a forlorn hope through his veins and he - waited with throbbing heart for the other to speak. - </p> - <p> - At last Sylvester faced him again. - </p> - <p> - “I will give you a day's grace,” he said stonily. “You will leave - Liverpool Street tonight at 8.30 for the Hook of Holland; one way of - getting to the Continent is as good as another, and I happen to choose - this one. You can take what steps you like to inform Miss Defries that you - cannot marry her tomorrow or any other time. Those are my terms. I shall - have a warrant ready. If you shuffle out of them, I shall put it in force - and proceed against you without mercy.” - </p> - <p> - “Mercilessness is a dangerous game when a creature is driven to bay,” said - Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “What could you do?” asked Sylvester, contemptuously. - </p> - <p> - Roderick drew his shoulders together and turned away. “Nothing,” he said - in a low voice. “No, damn it! nothing.” - </p> - <p> - Somehow he could not utter the threat that rose to his lips. His soul - revolted. It is one of the strangest facts in human psychology that there - is no man so vile but that there is one thing he cannot and will not do: - sometimes the thing is a hideous crime, sometimes only a comparatively - trivial act of dishonour; but whatever may be its relative importance, - there is always one virtuous principle to which the human soul must cling. - Roderick had blackmailed the father,—for that is what his forgery - came to,—but he could not blackmail the son. Nor could he drag his - own father, hoary scoundrel though he knew him to be, down with him in his - disgrace. So he kept silent as to the mysterious relations between the two - old men, and—unutterable pathos of poor humanity—his silence - was a salve to his conscience. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester turned the handle of the studio door. - </p> - <p> - “Do you accept my terms?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Roderick, suddenly. - </p> - <p> - “Good,” said Sylvester, and he closed the door behind him and went - downstairs into the street. There he took a cab and drove to Scotland - Yard. - </p> - <p> - He was not the man to utter idle threats. Before dictating conditions to - Roderick, he had coldly calculated upon the power that he could wield. - Like that of every London specialist, his practice was socially varied to - a curious extent. Among his patients was a high official at Scotland Yard, - who, he knew, without dereliction of duty, would courteously carry out the - arrangements he intended to suggest. The official received him as he had - anticipated. In order to avoid a painful scandal in society, it would be - better to let the culprit fly the country. Of course there would be no - talk of extradition. In the mean time, a warrant could be issued and put - in force whenever Dr. Lanyon gave the word. Sylvester went home grimly - satisfied with his morning's work. He found awaiting him a telegram from - Simmons to the effect that his father's condition was unchanged. - </p> - <p> - Roderick went into his dining-room, as dismantled and cheerless as the - studio, and drank a cup of coffee. He tried to eat, but the food choked - him. He was crushed, beaten, ruined. Utter dejection was in his attitude - as he sat in the straight-backed chair, staring helplessly in front of - him. Even in his crimes he had failed. He had deferred paying in the - forged cheque to the very last moment possible for the cheque he had - written for Urquhart to be honoured by his own bankers. He had reckoned on - clearing-house delay, on the half-day of Saturday, on the intervening <i>dies - non</i> of Sunday, in fact, on the cheque not coming under Matthew's - notice until after the wedding. But the cheque had passed from bank to - bank with diabolical expedition, and, like the curses in the Spanish - proverb, it had come home to roost with a vengeance. - </p> - <p> - What was to become of him? He could scarcely realise his sentence. Exile - from England meant a bitter struggle with poverty; and yet exile was his - irremediable lot. In eight or nine hours he must start. There was no - escape. He knew Sylvester of old, as hard as iron and as cold as ice, a - man to carry out his purpose relentlessly. To-night—to leave this - dear world of London behind him; tomorrow—to be in the aimless - solitude of some foreign hotel, when, if fortune had been kind, he would - have been standing at the altar with the woman whom he desired above all - women that had ever entered his life. It was like the blank future of the - man condemned to death. - </p> - <p> - Thoughts of his own misdoing, of his banishment, faded into a vague - heaviness at the back of his brain, while the pang of a great hunger - gripped him. He flung his arms on the table and buried his head and - clutched his hair in both hands. - </p> - <p> - “My God, my God! I can't give her up!” he cried. Now that she was torn - from him, he craved her with the awful passion of the man no longer young. - A picture of her ripe lips and her fresh, eager face, so quick to flush, - floated maddeningly before his closed eyes. Last night on parting he had - held her close and kissed her. He felt the yielding softness of her bosom - against his breast, could almost feel now the throb of her heart. He bit - through his sleeve into his arm. - </p> - <p> - The paroxysm passed. He must think. The wedding must be postponed. - Sylvester had intrusted him with that duty, out of regard for Ella. See - her he could not; his soul shrank from it. A cowardly letter to reach her - too late for questions to be asked, giving no reasons, simply stating that - he was summoned away that night for an indefinite period? It must be - written. He grovelled in his self-abasement. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he raised his head and stared up, with panting breath and - trembling body. A wild, mad idea had sprung from a recrudescence of the - forlorn hope with which Sylvester's words had inspired him. He sprang to - his feet with a quavering, hysterical laugh. - </p> - <p> - “By Christ! I'll carry it through,” he cried, and he walked about the - room, swinging his arms in great gestures. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVII—A WEDDING EVE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he room was in a - state of bewitching confusion. Trunks, half filled, yawned open on the - floor. On the bed were piles of white garments in the midst of which here - and there a pink or blue ribbon peeped daintily. Cardboard boxes and - tissue paper pervaded space. Hats small and hats immense lay about in - unconsidered attitudes upon chintz-covered chairs and other - resting-places. A pearl-coloured ball-dress, all gauze and chiffon and - foamy nothingness, hung over the bed-rail. A thousand odds and ends—veils, - hatpins, mysterious smooth wooden boxes, and cut-glass phials—were - strewn on the tables. And the pale morning sunshine streamed in a friendly - way into the room. - </p> - <p> - Ella was superintending her packing. Her maid having gone out for a - moment, she sat on the edge of the bed (leaving, with feminine sureness of - pose, the dainty piles of garments aforesaid unscathed), and gazed - critically at a hat which she held on outstretched fingers thrust into the - crown. In a dark silk blouse and a plain skirt, and with her auburn hair - somewhat ruffled, she looked very simple and girlish. Lady Milmo, - occupying the only vacant chair opposite, also regarded the hat with the - eye of experience. The examination had, however, come to an end, for Ella, - after flicking the great bows with the finger-tips of her disengaged hand, - threw the confection lightly on the top of the pile, and putting her hands - in her lap resignedly, turned to her aunt. - </p> - <p> - “I am sure Josephine will disappoint me with the blue dress.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, my dear,” said Lady Milmo, “kingdoms may fall and empires may - decay, but Josephine never fails. A woman of her word, my dear. Don't you - know what she did for La Guira, the singer? La Guira ordered four dresses - to take away with her to Patagonia or somewhere. It was impossible to - finish them before the morning of departure. Josephine herself raced with - them to Waterloo in a hansom just in time to see the train with La Guira - in it steam out of the station; and that woman took a special there and - then, and chased the train and got the dresses on board all right. - Josephine is a marvellous woman.” - </p> - <p> - Ella laughed. She did not care very much. Her life at that moment was too - full. - </p> - <p> - “It's quite sweet of the sun to come in and see me, isn't it?” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Provided he keeps up his good behaviour to-morrow,” said Lady Milmo. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I sha'n't mind what he does tomorrow; I shall have too many things to - think of.” - </p> - <p> - “But what about us poor unfortunates who are not going to be married?” - </p> - <p> - “You could be married now, fifty times over, auntie, if you chose,” said - Ella, out of her lightness of heart. - </p> - <p> - “The Lord preserve me!” replied Lady Milmo, vivaciously. “When poor - Howgate died I vowed that when we met in heaven, if there is one, no other - man should stand between us.” - </p> - <p> - As the late Sir Howgate Milmo, Bart., had been a notoriously evil liver, - Ella did not think there was much chance of her aunt escaping forsworn, - even on her hypothesis. - </p> - <p> - “One can love heaps of times, you know,” she said, stretching out her - limbs girlishly and looking at the tips of her shoes. - </p> - <p> - “Love your husband once and for all, my dear,” said her aunt, - sententiously. - </p> - <p> - Ella rose to her feet and crossed over to her aunt's chair and sat on the - arm, and kissed Lady Milmo. A spontaneous caress like that was rare with - her, and the recipient looked up in pleased surprise. But Ella had grasped - her fate in both hands and felt mistress thereof, and all seemed right - with the world. She had compelled herself into entire happiness. - </p> - <p> - “Of course I do—or I shall,” she replied. “Do you think I could - marry a man to whom I did not feel I could give all that is in me?” - </p> - <p> - “It is the fate of women to give,” said Lady Milmo, who was in a - moralising mood. - </p> - <p> - “We must do something to justify our existence,” laughed Ella. “Women - can't do much. I used to think differently when I was young. Men do all - the real work in the world, but somehow they seem to want something from - women. And it's a great thing to help on the big world by giving oneself - body and soul to a man.” - </p> - <p> - “Cook his food and wash his clothes and see that there is a proper supply - of Salutaris water when he comes home after a city dinner That was the - whole duty of woman in your grandmother's time, child.” - </p> - <p> - “I think women are very much the same all through the ages,” said Ella. - “At least,” she added reflectively, “that's the only way the riddle seems - to be solved. A man does, wants, compels. A woman yields—otherwise—why, - well—” - </p> - <p> - She rose, confused at' her half-confession, and re-examined the hat. - </p> - <p> - “Otherwise why should I be wanting to meet poor dear Howgate in heaven,” - finished Lady Milmo, coming to her assistance with a humorous curl of the - lip. “Anyhow,” she continued with some irrelevance, “I'm glad you're going - to stay in a decent Christian country, where you can wear your pretty - frocks.” - </p> - <p> - “So am I, auntie—now,” replied Ella. “But I didn't think I should - be.” - </p> - <p> - Ella's maid came in, and the work of packing was resumed. Her mistress - tried on the much-considered hat before the pier-glass, while Lady Milmo - arranged the rumpled hair beneath, so that the hat should produce its due - effect. Then one of the bridesmaids came, ostensibly to see if she could - help; really to feast her innocent eyes upon the articles of attire - everywhere displayed. The time slipped by pleasantly. At twelve o'clock - the parlour-maid tapped at the door and entered with the announcement that - Mr. Usher was downstairs and desired to see Miss Ella on most urgent - business. - </p> - <p> - Lady Milmo threw up her hands. What could he want? Men were a positive - nuisance at weddings! They ought to be chained up for days before and only - let loose at the church door. - </p> - <p> - “I'm in such a mess,” cried Ella. But she sent down a message to Roderick - that she would see him directly. - </p> - <p> - The servant smiled and departed. Ella gave herself those anxious feminine - tidying touches before her glass, whose effect the eternal irony decrees - shall never be noticed by man, and ran happily down the stairs to meet her - lover. She turned the handle of the morning-room door and stood before - him, in the heyday of her youth and her charm. All the anxieties of the - past year had fallen from her. Her cheeks flushed a shy welcome. Her eyes, - honest and clear, smiled upon him. She moved quickly forward, her lips - already parted in happy speech, when suddenly she felt him come upon her - and encircle her with strong, resistless arms and rain passionate kisses - upon her mouth and cheeks. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my God, I love you, I love you!” he murmured hoarsely. “I can't let - you go. You are soul of my soul and blood of my blood. No, Ella, no,” he - continued, as, confused and blushing, she strove to release herself; “I - must keep you here. Heaven knows when I may hold you in my arms again. - Listen, something terrible has happened,—a thing that may part our - lives. Are you strong enough to bear it? Brave and strong and heroic, like - the woman I think you?” - </p> - <p> - He relaxed his clasp and stood with hands on her shoulders, forcing her to - look at him. She met his passion-filled eyes fearlessly, but her colour - had gone. - </p> - <p> - “Part our lives! I don't understand what you mean, Roderick.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you brave enough to face a terrible calamity?” - </p> - <p> - “I shall not faint, if you mean that,” she replied. “What is it?” - </p> - <p> - “I must leave England to-night,” he said in a quick voice. “How long I - shall have to stay away, I do not know. It may be weeks, it may be months, - it may be years.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him with perplexed brows and a dawning fear in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “But to-morrow—” she began. - </p> - <p> - “There will be no to-morrow—for me. Unless——” - </p> - <p> - “Unless what?” - </p> - <p> - He turned away and paced across the room and back again. He had thrown off - the gold pince-nez, and now they swung by the cord over his waistcoat, and - his small blue eyes, usually obscured by them, glowed strangely and the - pupils were dilated. Where the actor, the inveterate <i>poseur</i>, ended - and the man began, it were impossible to tell. He was playing a part, but - playing it in desperate earnestness. The words, the gestures, were false; - but the yearning folly of love that vibrated in his voice was as real a - thing as had ever entered into the man's life. - </p> - <p> - “I must be plain with you, Ella. It's as much as my life, my honour, your - fair happiness, is worth for me to stay in England over to-night. There - can be no wedding to-morrow. I have done all that a man could do to avert - things. The suspense has been a torturing agony above words. But the - inevitable, the inexorable, has come. Oh, God, Ella, if you knew what - living hell it is to me to tell you this!” - </p> - <p> - She put her hands before her face, feeling dazed and sick, and when she - drew them away, her face was very white. Like every pure woman, her - thoughts of late had been absorbed by the sweet vanities of the morrow's - ceremony, with just a warm, tremulous sub-consciousness of the beyond. The - sudden fall about her ears of this structure of vanities bewildered her. - Her brain seemed to be an avalanche of telegrams and letters. Faces of - bidden guests swam lurid before her. Roderick, a long way off, faded into - infinite mist. A pang of disappointment, humiliation, she knew not what, - ached in her breast. She scarcely heard or heeded what the man was saying. - He stopped, seeing her so white, and looked at her, breathless. Then - suddenly a cloud seemed to roll away before her, and she was conscious of - him standing there with haggard eyes and features drawn in pain. Scorn of - her first imaginings drove them into the limbo of all vain things; the - thrill of a proud courage nerved her; she drew herself up and faced - realities. And the first reality was a rush through her being of yearning - pity for the man so stricken. With an impulse of consolation she went up - to him, and again his arms closed swiftly round her. He murmured burning - incoherences. He could not live without her love, the crown and joy of - earthly things. Life would be a purgatorial flame. He loved her. He - worshipped her, so brave, so loyal, so adorable. His voice was vibrant - with elemental passion. - </p> - <p> - A woman, young and ardent, with rich blood running through her veins, is, - above all things, a primitive human being. It were an ill day for the - pride and vigour of the race if she were not. There are moments when the - world's music surges like the roar of the sea in her ears, and the heart - within her is lifted to her lips; when her limbs are as water, and her - body is carried in the unfaltering arms of a god through illimitable - space. She has yielded, is swept away by the man's passion, deliriously - lost. - </p> - <p> - As in a dream, standing there in his embrace, she heard him whisper:— - </p> - <p> - “There is one way—to scoff at destiny—to rise triumphant above - it—to be married tomorrow in spite of all things. Not here. In - Holland where I am summoned—I have the license—we can explain - the urgency of our flight—the English Consul or Chaplain at - Amsterdam will marry us. Come with me tonight—Ella—for God's - sake, Ella, say that you will.” - </p> - <p> - She smiled up at him without replying. The mad proposal seemed at the - dreamy moment the sweetest of sanities. He continued in hurried intensity,— - </p> - <p> - “All will be so easy. You can say you are going to Ayresford—what - more natural?—to stay here would be pain—there is a train for - Ayresford about the time—half-past eight at Liverpool Street. I will - meet you there with a ticket,—and then we shall be carried off to - happiness—you and I—alone together—to conquer the - world.... There—it must be.” - </p> - <p> - He took her hands, kissed them both, and released her. She stood for a - while with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, recovering her mental balance. - </p> - <p> - “You have not yet told me,” she said presently, in a calmer voice, “why - there should be this upheaval. I have said perhaps I might help you. Why - do your life and honour and my happiness depend upon your leaving England - to-night, Roderick?” - </p> - <p> - The supreme moment had come. He braced every nerve to meet the inevitable - question. Summoning up an extraordinary dignity subtly tinged with - sadness, he said with grave deliberation,— - </p> - <p> - “I cannot tell you.” - </p> - <p> - Ella recoiled involuntarily, staggered by the unexpectedness of the reply. - She could only regard him in mute but anxious questioning. - </p> - <p> - “You must trust me, child,” he said. “It is another's secret.” - </p> - <p> - “So grave as to be withheld even from me?” - </p> - <p> - “Even so,” he replied. “I know,” he continued gravely, “I am asking you - the ultimate thing a man can ask a woman,—blind trust. It is a thing - that only the great soul, like you, can give. Put your hand in mine and - trust in me!” - </p> - <p> - “Let me think,” she said in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - She sat down on a couch, baffled. If she looked up, she met the man's - burning eyes fixed upon her, and the depths of her being were stirred. If - she looked away, her life seemed fragmentary chaos, unrealisable, - incomprehensible. She breathed fast from a heaving bosom. Roderick's - mystery hovered between the grotesque and the tragic. To run away - clandestinely with the man to whom she was to have been married with all - the pomp of publicity on the morrow was an idea of comic opera. On the - other hand, the blind trust required raised the proceeding to the heroic - plane. Again, Nature within her shrank from mystery; she was a child - appalled by the dark, and fear was upon her. But the sensitive gentlewoman - felt the appeal to honour in every fibre of her pride. Generosity swelled - against doubt. A strange physical coldness enwrapped her. To start - to-night, with Roderick, surrendering herself utterly; the maiden in her - piteously sought refuge from the thought. She glanced tremulously up at - him, and her face flamed pink, and warmth entered her heart. She covered - her cheeks with her hands and shrank into the corner of the couch. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, could I not join you afterwards?” she moaned. He fell at her feet and - clasped her knees, broke into impassioned pleading. It was a matter of - life or death. His unbalanced artistic temperament burst all restraints of - conventional forms of speech. He raved of his consuming need. He was less - a man than a shaking passion. - </p> - <p> - The eternal mystery to woman is man's desire of her. It transcends her - thought, it looms immense, inscrutable, and irresistible before her. She - is the everlasting Semele beneath the fiery glory of Zeus. It is decreed - that when brought face to face with it (a chord within her being - responsive, be it understood), she shall lose all sense of the proportion - between it and the infinite passions of the universe. Life resolves itself - into an amazement that she, with a whisper, a touch of her hand, can raise - a man from hell to heaven. In the piteous, glorious, tragi-comedy of life, - which has been played on millions of stages for millions of years, this - elemental fact is so commonplace that it escapes our notice. We are apt to - judge from externals, from the results of adherence to ethical systems, - from social conventions; and when the actions of men and women are not - provided for in artificial canons, we are baffled or are shocked by a - sense of the immoral, the abnormal, or the preposterous. But men will - desire and women will yield till the end of the human race. - </p> - <p> - And Ella yielded. She bound herself to meet him that evening and go with - him into the darkness, whithersoever he should lead; and Roderick left the - house, holding his head high, exultant in the sense of having conquered - destiny. - </p> - <p> - But when he had gone, Ella threw herself face downwards on the couch in - all the abandonment of exhaustion. For a while she could not think; she - could only be conscious of the flow and ebb, and again the flow and ebb, - and once more the flow of emotion, during the past hour. She had entered - the room in light-hearted happiness; there had come the shock of an awful - dismay. Then she had been lifted in the tide of the man's passion; there - had followed the cold numbness of doubt; again passion had swept away - reason. Now was reaction. She felt physically prostrated, and her body - ached as if it had been beaten. Her eyelids burned. She would have liked - to cry miserably, but she could not. She suffered the woman's torment of - unshed tears. Suddenly she rose and drew herself together, despising her - weakness. She had pledged herself to do a certain thing. It was to be - done, and practical commonplaces had to be faced. First was the breaking - of the news to Lady Milmo. The girl's heart was smitten with pity for the - kindly lady who had entered so wholeheartedly into these wedding - preparations. It would be a keen disappointment to countermand the feast, - put off the guests, make lame excuses. And that would not be the end. - There would be the scandal of her flight, of which Lady Milmo would have - to bear the brunt. It was cruel to treat her so. She went to the window - and looked out at the sunny houses on the other side of Pont Street; - wondered whether they all were cages for women bound as she was in - invisible chains. Her course had been marked out with scrupulous - exactness; to deviate from it a hair's breadth would be not only breaking - a solemn pledge, but perhaps endangering the life or honour, she knew not - how, of the man she was to marry. Yet her frank soul rebelled against the - deception. The hour of Roderick's departure was to be kept secret; her - elopement with him not to be whispered of. She was to give out a journey - to Ayresford, to escape from the painful associations of the house in Pont - Street, filled with all the vain preparations for the morrow. She had - never lied barefacedly in her life, and for a moment she hated Roderick - for compelling her to falseness. But then the lingering echoes of his - voice hummed in her ears, and the blood rushed back into her cheeks, and - she felt strong for the sacrifice of her honour. - </p> - <p> - Did she love him? She answered the self-put question with a passionate - affirmative. Else why was she doing this preposterous thing? Was not the - blindness of her trust the very banner of her love? A phrase of Roderick's - crossed her mind. “Life is merely the summation of moments of keen - living.” She caught at it as a plank with the drowning man's thrill. She - was living keenly; that alone was sufficient to justify everything. She - was defying the set uses of the tame world. “Each man must batter down for - himself the doors that hide life's inner glory” was another of his - sayings. Was she not even now battering at the door? Her soul clutched at - every supporting straw. Yet, in spite of these aphoristic comforts, it was - with a strange, dull sense of fatality that she saw herself sitting by - Roderick's side in the train that night, being carried away further and - further into the inscrutable darkness. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The first part of her task was over. She had told Lady Milmo. It had been - an interview of pain and self-reproach. Lady Milmo had gasped, wept, waxed - indignant. All her kindly woman's motherliness had poured itself out upon - the girl, whom she considered infamously treated. It was in vain for Ella - to plead the matter of life and death that called Roderick away. Lady - Milmo had her prejudices. She had cordially approved of Ella's immediate - retirement to Ayresford. How could the poor child stay in the house where - every surrounding would be a pain to her? She had sent Ella off to lie - down in peace upon her own bed, away from the half-packed litter of finery - in the girl's room; and while Ella lay there with a splitting headache, - helplessly counting the slow hours, Lady Milmo sat heroically before her - writing-table immersed in lists and telegraph forms. - </p> - <p> - The slow hours passed. A little difficulty arose. Lady Milmo had taken it - for granted that Ella's maid would accompany her to Ayresford. Ella, - alarmed, announced her intention of leaving her behind. She did not even - wish her to come to the station to see after the luggage. She had to - insist that solitude was essential. Lady Milmo yielded the point - reluctantly. At last the time came. Ella's luggage had been placed on the - fourwheeled cab. The door was open; the white-capped maid stood on the - pavement. Ella turned with a sudden rush of emotion and kissed Lady Milmo, - who had come with her to the hall. - </p> - <p> - “If I ever hurt you, dear, God knows it's because I cannot help it,” she - said. But before the other could reply, a telegraph boy entered with a - telegram. Name of Defries. Ella tore it open, with a spasm of - anticipation, half fear, half hope, that it came from Roderick. But it - ran:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “<i>Your coming a joy. Your uncle dangerously ill. Is crying - for you. Agatha.</i>” - </pre> - <p> - Speechless she handed the paper to her aunt. Lady Milmo glanced at it. - </p> - <p> - “Doesn't it all work out for the best, dear?” she said gently. “Agatha - Lanyon would not have wired if to-morrow's affair had not been broken - off.” - </p> - <p> - “How did she know?” asked Ella, with white lips. - </p> - <p> - “Why, I sent them a message,” said Lady Milmo. - </p> - <p> - Ella bade her good-bye again. The parlour maid shut the cab-door and gave - the word “Waterloo” to the driver. The cab drove off, and then Ella, - spreading out the crumpled telegram, broke for the first time into a flood - of passionate tears. - </p> - <p> - But some moments later she called to the driver,— - </p> - <p> - “I fancy the servant made a mistake. It is Liverpool Street I want to go - to.” - </p> - <p> - And to Liverpool Street was she driven. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVIII—FELLOW-TRAVELLERS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> misty evening had - followed the sunshine of the day. The lights in Liverpool Street, in - shop-windows, street-lamps, and the lamps of a thousand crossing and - recrossing vehicles, flared red and large through the slight fog. - Luggage-laden cabs clattered down the flagged incline of the station, - sounding a hard treble to the thundering bass of the street and city - above. Down the sides of the incline streamed the throng of work people - and belated clerks hurrying to their trains. The station portico beyond - seemed a dark vortex into which this seething life was sucked with - irresistible swiftness. There, in the uncertain light, was the bustle of - porters unloading cabs, the quick rattle of trucks and barrows, the - ceaseless patter of feet, the din of voices. It was an eddying whirl of - vague shapes appearing for a moment from the fog and vanishing after a - flash of passage. - </p> - <p> - Roderick stood by the wall, gazing anxiously at each cab as it stopped and - deposited its fare. He had taken the two tickets, registered his luggage - through to Amsterdam, and now was waiting in feverish suspense for Ella. - Would she come? He looked at his watch. It was only five minutes past - eight, and he had been watching for her since the quarter to the hour. He - threw away a cigarette barely commenced, and a moment afterwards lit - another. By the light of the match his fingers could have been seen to - shake nervously. At last a cab stopped, a porter opened the door, and - Roderick's heart gave a leap of relief and joy as he saw the familiar - girlish figure emerge. He sprang to her side. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, thank God you have come, dear, thank God!” he whispered. - </p> - <p> - “I keep my word,” said Ella, remotely. Roderick gave some directions to - the porters, and turned to her. - </p> - <p> - “I will show you straight into our carriage. I have reserved one for - ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - He led the way through the booking offices to the great glass-covered - station, with its blue glare of electric light and babel of sounds. - </p> - <p> - “My heroic Ella,” he murmured. She raised her eyes somewhat appealingly. - Then he saw she had been crying; her lashes were still wet. - </p> - <p> - “Those tears are the last you shall ever shed,” he whispered, bending down - to her ear. In reply she held out the crumpled ball of paper which she had - kept in her hand. He stood by the platform gate and read, and looking at - the telegram, reflected. The instinct of the self-indulgent man prompted a - reply. A dry-eyed woman, be she never so beloved, was a pleasanter - travelling companion than a tearful one. He handed her back the telegram - with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “It's the dear elderly lady's exaggeration. Mr. Lanyon is kept to his room - by a slight cold. That is all. I saw Sylvester this afternoon, and he had - only left Ayresford this morning. Make yourself quite easy, dearest.” - </p> - <p> - She followed him through the gate, along the platform where the Harwich - train stood waiting. - </p> - <p> - “You take a great weight off my mind,” she said earnestly. “I have felt it - was wicked and selfish of me to leave him.” - </p> - <p> - “My poor child,” said Roderick, tenderly. - </p> - <p> - The guard hurried up and unlocked the door of the reserved carriage. The - porter, who had followed them, stowed Ella's hand-baggage and wraps in the - rack. Ella entered and took her seat, while Roderick hastened away to see - to the registration of her heavy luggage. Tears of a great relief filled - her eyes. However much she hated Sylvester, she knew that he would not - have spoken lightly to any one of his father's illness; nor would he have - left his father's bedside if anything serious were the matter with the old - man. Roderick's confident report reassured her. She felt almost happy. If - only her head were not aching, and a strange heaviness were lifted off - her heart! - </p> - <p> - Presently Roderick returned, took the seat opposite, and closed the door. - His face had lost the haggardness that had troubled her during the past - week and wore an aspect of conquering pride. He had looked thus in the few - golden moments when she had cared for him most. His bright air of - confidence gave her strength. Her pulses quickened a little. He was worthy - of her blind trust. The instinct of the woman to satisfy herself that the - plank on which she walks is the solid earth brought swift apotheosis of - the man. She was humble, little, of no account; he was strong and great, - with the artist's noble grip upon life. And he loved her passionately. She - leaned forward, touched his arm, and with the first smile for many hours - she asked him whether he was content. He vowed his utter happiness. - </p> - <p> - “You will never have cause to regret this step to the day of your death,” - he said fervently. - </p> - <p> - At that moment the face of a man appeared at the window, and Roderick - threw himself back with a stifled exclamation. - </p> - <p> - “Sylvester!” cried Ella, involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester looked from one to the other in silence. - </p> - <p> - “I did not expect to see you here, Miss Defries,” he said at last. - </p> - <p> - Ella drew herself up haughtily. “I am the sole mistress of my actions,” - she said. “What I choose to do is not your concern, Dr. Lanyon.” For the - moment indignation checked natural wonder at his presence. Sylvester - regarded her sternly. His dark face seemed chiselled out of wood. - </p> - <p> - “Unfortunately, it is of vital concern to me,” he replied. “But I - apologise a thousand times for interrupting you.” He turned to Roderick, - over whose face a pallor was spreading. “A friend of mine would like to - speak to you for a few moments.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry I am not at his disposal,” returned Roderick, with a forced - laugh. - </p> - <p> - “You would hardly care to discuss the matter with him here,” said - Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - Roderick consulted his watch. The spark of hope died out. There were still - ten minutes before the train would start. - </p> - <p> - “Remember our compact,” said he. “You guaranteed I should be annoyed no - further. This is a breach of faith.” - </p> - <p> - Ella leaned before the window, obscuring Roderick from the other's view. - </p> - <p> - “How dare you intrude in this unwarrantable manner?” - </p> - <p> - “Miss Defries,” said Sylvester, coldly, “please do not interfere in the - very grave affairs of men.” - </p> - <p> - She sank back in her corner, cut to the quick by the rebuke, and quivering - with baffled indignation. Sylvester again addressed Roderick. - </p> - <p> - “Your presence here with Miss Defries is a breach of faith, and renders - our compact void. Once more, for Miss Defries's sake, I beg that you will - come on to the platform and discuss the matter with my friend.” - </p> - <p> - He opened the door. Roderick got out of the carriage and went a few paces - along the platform with Sylvester. A decently dressed man took off his hat - as they approached him. - </p> - <p> - “This is a police officer,” said Sylvester, quietly. “He has a warrant for - your arrest. You were wrong in thinking me such a fool as to trust you. My - object in coming here was to make certain that you had left by this train. - If you had not, the police would have been on your track immediately. If - you had been leaving alone, I should have told the officer you were not - here, and you would have gone scot free, and the matter would have been - hushed up. As it is, you have played me false, prevailed by some devilish - lie upon Miss Defries to elope with you; and, by God! I'll have no pity on - you. Mr. Wigram, this is the gentleman I was speaking of.” - </p> - <p> - The police officer, on being summoned, drew near, and again touching his - hat stated his errand with due formality and explained that he had no wish - to create any unpleasantness in a public place, and that if Mr. Usher - would walk quietly by his side to the cab rank, they could drive away - unnoticed. A little knot of people saying farewell to friends by an open - carriage door, and one or two hurrying passengers, eyed Roderick's ghastly - face with some curiosity. The guard of the train bustled up. - </p> - <p> - “Now, sir, perhaps you had better take your seat.” - </p> - <p> - “I am prevented, at the last moment, from travelling with you,” said - Roderick, with bitter cynicism. - </p> - <p> - The guard saluted and passed on. Roderick's eyes followed him and rested - on Ella looking anxiously from the carriage window. He turned away with a - sob. - </p> - <p> - “Come on, if I must go,” he said hoarsely; “you will pay for this - outrageous blunder, Dr. Lanyon.” - </p> - <p> - He walked away defiantly with the police officer, and Sylvester went up to - Ella. The guard was just fitting the key in the door to lock it. Sylvester - laid a detaining touch upon his arm. - </p> - <p> - “The lady is getting out.” - </p> - <p> - The door was thrown open. Sylvester took Ella's travelling-bag from the - rack. - </p> - <p> - “Your companion is not going abroad this evening,” said he, pausing with - the bag on the seat. “And it will be scarcely worth your while to go to - Amsterdam alone.” - </p> - <p> - The girl's white, questioning face made him relent for a moment. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me,” he said more kindly. “But what has happened was inevitable. - I have only saved you from the hands of a scoundrel.” - </p> - <p> - “How dare you call him that?” she whispered with trembling lips. - </p> - <p> - He did not reply, but handed the bag and wraps to a porter whom he - summoned, and descending from the carriage stood in readiness to assist - Ella to the platform. She obeyed his sign involuntarily, but as soon as - she stood opposite him, she turned upon him with flashing anger. - </p> - <p> - “Now tell me at once what all this means,” she said in a low, concentrated - tone. “I am not a child to have things hidden from me. I have lived too - many hours to-day in darkness. What does it mean? Why are you here, coming - between me and the man I am to marry? Where has Roderick gone? Tell me. I - must know.” - </p> - <p> - “I should like to spare you the knowledge,—at all events, for the - present.” - </p> - <p> - He made a motion of his hand to indicate the public place. His glance fell - upon the porter standing expectant with the bag. Giving the man a - shilling, he bade him take the things to a cab and await him there. Then - he turned to Ella. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps we might find a more suitable place.” he added. But Ella stamped - her foot impatiently. - </p> - <p> - “No. Here, at once! What is this mystery? Where has Roderick gone?” - </p> - <p> - The guard's whistle blew, the engine shrieked, there was a flutter back of - loungers from the carriage doors, and the train steamed out of the - station, carrying neither Roderick nor his fortunes, carrying only, with - the grotesque irony that accompanies most of the tragic issues of life, - the registered luggage of Ella and himself. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester waited until the commotion had subsided. Then he spoke in his - cold, unemotional way,— - </p> - <p> - “He has been arrested by the police for forgery, at my instance.” - </p> - <p> - The girl's eye closed for a few tremulous seconds, and reeling she put her - hand to her heart; but she waved Sylvester away when he came forward to - prevent her from falling. - </p> - <p> - “I am not going to faint—I said so before today—it is a - hideous lie—he is shielding some one else—he told me it was - another's secret. It is some horrible revenge of yours—you always - hated him. An honorable gentleman to do such a thing—it is - ridiculous, inconceivable! It is you that have trapped him.” - </p> - <p> - The lowered tones in which the girl spoke contrasted strangely with the - shrieking hubbub of the glaring station. Through her veil he could see her - features distorted with anger. He waited until she had ended her - invective. - </p> - <p> - “He forged my father's name to a cheque for three thousand pounds,” he - said with cutting distinctness. “The shock of discovery yesterday has - brought my father to the point of death.” - </p> - <p> - Ella swung her head contemptuously. - </p> - <p> - “You told Roderick yourself to-day that Uncle Matthew had only a slight - cold.” - </p> - <p> - “The lying devil!” cried Sylvester, with one of his rare blazes of anger. - “Read that.” - </p> - <p> - He drew a telegram from his pocket, and handed it to her. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “<i>Mr. Lanyons condition critical. May not live through - night. For God's sake come back at once and bring Miss - Defries with you. Simmons</i> -</pre> - <p> - She returned it without a word, and stood with both hands pressed closely - to her temples, in an awful convulsion of soul. Roderick's lie blazed - before her eyes in letters of fire. It was blazoned upon the walls of the - station. It reddened the pale glare of the electric light. It was a - magnesium flame illuminating the innermost darkness of the man's heart. - Roderick's mystery was a mystery no longer. - </p> - <p> - “Let us go,” she said at last faintly. - </p> - <p> - They walked silently, side by side, to the end of the platform. There was - the same eternal scurrying of eager feet. A train had just arrived at - another platform, and the crowd of passengers were streaming through the - gate on to the open space. Nothing in the outer world had changed during - the past hour. But Ella was filled with a vague wonder that universal - chaos did not prevail around her. She followed Sylvester in a state of - dream, to be aroused to practical effort by his voice. - </p> - <p> - “This is your cab. Where would you care to be driven to?” - </p> - <p> - She collected her faculties. Pride rose in arms against betrayal of - weakness. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose there is no train to Ayresford to-night?” she asked steadily. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. The ten o'clock. A fast train. I am going down by it.” - </p> - <p> - “You would have no objection to my accompanying you?” - </p> - <p> - “That my father needs you is enough for me to entreat you to come.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well. I shall drive to Waterloo and wait there until the train - starts.” - </p> - <p> - “And I in the mean time must do some necessary business.” - </p> - <p> - He gave the direction to the driver and the cab drove off. He hailed - another and was carried rapidly westward. - </p> - <p> - When the time came for taking her seat at Waterloo in the Ayresford train, - she mechanically followed a porter to an empty first-class carriage and - sat down in a further corner, broken with trouble. She was only awakened - to a sense of surroundings by the door being thrown violently open as soon - as the train began to move, and a man whom she recognised as Sylvester - leaping into the compartment. He sat for a moment breathless, then moved - up the seat. - </p> - <p> - “I did not mean to intrude on you,” he said, when he had recovered; “but I - nearly missed the train, and this was the first carriage to hand.” - </p> - <p> - She looked out of the window into the whirling darkness. - </p> - <p> - “It does not matter,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing much matters now.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester lay back in his corner with an air of utter fatigue, and closed - his eyes. They travelled thus in silence for a long time. To Ella the - world seemed to have come to a disgraceful end. The dying state of the old - man to whom she was hurrying was in keeping with the general finality of - things. She suffered a horrible humiliation too deep for coherent thought. - Gradually, however, the sight of Sylvester opposite, cold and stern, acted - upon her like an irritant. At one moment she was seized with an hysterical - impulse to scream. She mastered it, fighting with scornful violence. - Resentment began to burn within her, first dull, then increasing in - intensity to fierceness. The flame fed a smouldering horror scarcely as - yet realised. Roderick was in a police cell that night. He would be tried - on a disgraceful charge. The result would be imprisonment. Clearer and - clearer grew the significance of the term. As a woman in touch with the - thinking world, she had interested herself in contemporary social - problems. Our prison system had been among those in which she had played - the pretty part of amateur reformer. As the Honorary Secretary of a - society which had rapidly burned itself out with excessive zeal, she had - learned many of the hateful facts. For a fortnight the fate of the - tenderly nurtured gentleman condemned to the unutterable torture of - imprisonment had been a nightmare. Her aunt had rediscovered a teacher of - music, once a well-known singer, now voiceless through illness, Yvonne - Latour, who had married a man called Joyce, a cultivated gentleman who - deservedly had passed through the wintry sorrows of the gaol, and Yvonne - had told her what they meant. Her own troubles, the Walden Art Colony, her - relations with Roderick, had put the subject out of her mind; but now the - recollection of these things grew more vivid every moment. Her own - benumbing sense of humiliation was lost in the new shudder. Liar she knew - Roderick to be; that he was a forger, reason forbade her to doubt. Yet by - her yielding to his kisses that day, she had given him, as it were, some - share of her flesh, and her own flesh quivered at the contaminating touch - of the gaol. - </p> - <p> - The train thundered on. The windows of the carriage were opaque with - steam. Opposite sat Sylvester like a sphinx, his cap drawn over his eyes, - so that she could not see whether they were open or shut. Suddenly the - brake grated and the wheels dragged beneath the carriage, and the train - stopped with a jerk at a little, vaguely lighted station. Sylvester looked - up mechanically and found the girl's eyes, deep and dark behind her veil, - fixed upon him. She felt impelled to speak, yet altered her appeal at the - instant the prearranged words were about to leave her lips. Instinctively - she sought to wound him. - </p> - <p> - “If Uncle Matthew is dying, how could you leave his side? I thought you at - least loved him.” - </p> - <p> - He stared at her for a moment without replying. It seemed incredible that - any one should not perceive his torture of anxiety. He forgot the iron - will whereby he had kept it hidden. To sit idly hour after hour, as he had - done that day, poignantly conscious of every train that might have taken - him to that one spot on the earth whither every fibre of his being was - drawn, to disregard the piteous appeals made to him from time to time, to - come and comfort the dying man whom he loved so passionately, had been an - effort of almost superhuman strength. The inability of his questioner to - realise his suffering bewildered him. At that instant of time it was his - whole existence. - </p> - <p> - “A man's duty is above love or death,” he said coldly, after a pause. “I - can't discuss it with you, for you would not understand. At least, I have - served him in delivering you.” - </p> - <p> - She gripped the arms of the seat and for a while said nothing. Then as the - train moved on, she spoke somewhat huskily, forcing herself to her point. - </p> - <p> - “Are you going to carry out your intentions—as regards—<i>him?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly.” - </p> - <p> - “Has he not been punished enough already?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand you,” said Sylvester. “He has broken the law. He has - murdered my father. What punishment has he had yet? He shall have his - deserts,—whatever term of penal servitude the judge thinks fit to - give him.” - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake have mercy, Sylvester!” cried the girl, leaning forward in - her seat, so that her voice should reach him above the rhythmic clatter - and the creaking of the train. “If that happened to him, it would kill me. - The awful horror of it,—have you thought?” - </p> - <p> - “I have been trained for years to think deeply before acting, even in - trivial matters,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Heaven knows what awful temptation he may have had,” said Ella. - </p> - <p> - “A man who cannot resist temptation is better out of the world.” - </p> - <p> - Ella's eyes flashed. The encounter braced her nerves. “Have you always - resisted temptation?” she cried in sharp scorn. - </p> - <p> - “I have lived my life a stainless and an upright man,” he replied sternly. - </p> - <p> - “So did Christ; but he had pity.” - </p> - <p> - “I am not Christ. I am mortal, and have my limitations. Listen. This man - admitted his forgery. Out of regard for you, I was weak enough to allow - him a chance of escape, on certain definite conditions. These he violated, - like the scoundrel he is. To let him loose now on society would be a crime - on my part.” - </p> - <p> - “To pardon the man who has wronged you would be the higher action,” said - Ella. - </p> - <p> - “It would be mere weakness,” replied Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - Ella threw out her hands in a gesture of despair, and flung herself back - against the cushions. Then suddenly she bent forward again, and laid a - hand upon his knee. - </p> - <p> - “For my sake, Sylvester! To save me from the shame and disgrace of it. To - save me from the endless horror of what he will be suffering. My God! Do - you think that he was nothing to me? That a man can be snatched from a - woman's life to degradation without her feeling it? Do you think I am - bloodless marble like you? Oh, I could not live with the thought of it.... - It is not that I love him still. I hope never to see his face again. God - knows whether I ever really loved him. But if this happens I could not - live. I could not live, I tell you! You cannot do it. You shall not do it. - You owe me a reparation—yes, you,” she continued passionately. “You - said just now you had lived a stainless and upright life. It is a lie. It - is not an upright thing to win a girl's love and then cast it aside.” - </p> - <p> - “Stop, Ella,” interrupted Sylvester; “you are talking of things you do not - understand.” - </p> - <p> - “I not understand? Does the man who is lashed not understand the pain? You - made me love you two years ago. I gave you my heart, a young girl's heart, - fresh and whole. You kissed me. You said in looks and all but spoken words - that you were going to ask me to be your wife. For a whole day I lived - like a tremulous fool waiting for you. You never came. You never spoke - again. I put away my woman's pride and offered myself—that evening. - You rejected me with cold cynicism. You wronged me cruelly. You owe me - reparation. Give it to me now,—this man's freedom. I claim it as a - right from you.” - </p> - <p> - She was reckless in her self-revelation. Words came now too readily. She - continued. What she said, she did not remember afterwards. Only that she - had sunk on her knees before him, pleading passionately for Roderick, and - that he had remained unmoved. - </p> - <p> - But as she knelt there, clutching his clothes, she looked exceedingly - beautiful. With an impatient gesture she had thrust up her veil, and the - sight of her young, noble face lit with terrible earnestness was a shock - of strange temptation to the man. She pleaded for Roderick. A spasm of - disgust, similar to that which had shaken him a month or two back when he - had seen her yield to Roderick's caress, passed through him and held him - speechless. - </p> - <p> - Another stoppage of the train broke the situation. Ella shrank back into - the corner of her seat. Sylvester rose and crossing to the further window - opened it, and looked out upon the platform. As soon as they moved on, he - drew up the glass again and turned to her, his heart hardened tenfold. - </p> - <p> - “I did all that was possible,” he said. “I thought I cared for you. I - found to my regret you were utterly indifferent to me. To have asked you - to marry me would have been impossible.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, for Heaven's sake say no more!” cried the girl, shrinking. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it is best,” replied Sylvester. “My determination is absolute.” - </p> - <p> - And so they sat silent, facing each other, as the train carried them - onwards through the darkness. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIX—THE SWORD FALLS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“"O</span> H, Syl, I can't - tell you how glad I am that you are back. And Ella too—with that - hateful marriage broken off. I don't quite understand how it is. He backed - out at the last moment, didn't he? But my poor head has been in such a - whirl all day that I don't seem to understand anything. Dr. Simmons is - very kind and clever, but he's not like you, Syl. Your coming gives me - hope. Oh, you mustn't let him die, Syl, dear.” - </p> - <p> - Miss Lanyon put her hands on Sylvester's shoulders and began to cry - softly. He put his arm kindly round her, and tried to comfort her. - </p> - <p> - “I've been crying all day, I think,” she continued. The poor lady's eyes - were red; her grizzling hair, usually so neat, was disarranged; she wore - an old red dressing-gown with great white buttons, within which her - fragile figure seemed to be lost. The dining-room fire was nearly out, and - only one gas-jet was alight. The two were sitting up, neither able to go - to bed and sleep. Ella had retired to her room almost immediately after - her arrival, having learned that the old man was unconscious. - </p> - <p> - “He rallied so to-day,” said Miss Lanyon, drying her tears, “I thought the - poor dear had suddenly recovered. He spoke quite sensibly, though he was - so weak, and, oh, he wanted you so badly, Syl. And then Lady Milmo's - telegram came about the wedding, and I gave it him to read. No, you - mustn't scold me any more about it. I thought he would be so pleased. Then - he asked where you had gone, and when you were coming back, quite in his - old quiet way, and called for writing materials, and he wrote something - with great, great difficulty, and made nurse and me witness his signature. - It must have been to do with his will, I think. He had just time to put it - in an envelope when he fainted away. He revived afterwards, and then he - began to moan for you and Ella to come to him. He didn't like the nurse; - the strange face troubled him, poor darling. He only wanted Ella and you. - And now you have come and seen him, what do you really think, Syl, dear? - If it is the worst, tell me, for I am not afraid to hear it.” - </p> - <p> - She drew herself up with a flash of family resemblance to her brother, - which the physician's quick eye noticed. He replied frankly. The old man - was in a natural sleep,—a hopeful sign. His recovery would probably - depend upon his power of resistance. Lytton, the great specialist, was - coming down to-morrow, and they might expect his verdict to be final. - </p> - <p> - They talked long together in the cold, dimly lit room. Miss Lanyon - repeated her story, with fresh details added here and there, told of the - kindness of Simmons, the numberless inquiries from the townspeople, broke - off to recall little instances of her brother's goodness. Only to-day, - during his short spell of consciousness, he had asked whether Sylvester - had made the arrangement for the Jenkins' three children to board with the - Jellicoes. At this announcement Sylvester brought his hand down hard upon - the table. \ - </p> - <p> - “What a brute I am!” he exclaimed! “I forgot all about it! And he - remembered! What did you tell him?” - </p> - <p> - “I said that you no doubt were seeing to the matter,” replied Miss Lanyon. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester sat on the corner of the table and stared in front of him, his - mind full of the father the latchet of whose shoes he felt himself - unworthy to loosen, and tears came into his eyes. The incident touched him - deeply. This tender thoughtfulness for little things in the midst of - events great enough to absorb the attention of a strong man seemed a - keynote of his father's nature. - </p> - <p> - “He is the one perfect man of his generation,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - A while later he induced Miss Lanyon to go to bed, and went upstairs to - relieve the nurse by his father's side. And for some hours he watched the - beloved face, placid and wan in the dim light. Skilled physician though he - was, he alternated between hope and fear. A world without his father was - unimaginable. His life was barren enough already. His father was the only - being left that could satisfy the dumb craving for human sympathy that - gnawed continually at his vitals. The prospect of his grim loneliness - appalled him. Again he looked intently into the sleeping face. The muscles - all relaxed, it appeared unutterably careworn,—the face of a man - many years older. To the son seemed as if the last two days had brought - the havoc; he cursed Roderick in his heart. - </p> - <p> - Only once before had he felt the same murderous hatred of a man. Then he - was watching, even as he was doing now, by a man's bedside. The memory - recurred, intensely vivid. He set his teeth as he lived over again those - hours of agony and strife. Unconsciously he drew up his indictment of - humanity for the wrongs it had inflicted on him. Friendship was naught. - Had not his dearest friend stabbed him in the dark? Woman was inherently - false and corrupt. His own wife, who had lain in his arms, had betrayed - him, and she had smiled, smiled to the hour of her death. To have children - was a curse. How did he know that alien blood did not run in Dorothy's - veins? Woman's love, what was it? To-night Ella had confessed her love for - him. It had not stopped her from throwing herself into the embraces of a - satyr. The brute nature of humanity! He himself had not been safeguarded - from spasms of jealousy. Fiercely he attributed them to the lower - instincts. He forgot how at times in his sombre house he had let his pen - slip from his fingers and had ached for the touch of a woman's hand and - the sound of a child's laughter; how a girl's fresh face, perilously like - Ella's, had quivered before his vision, and how the grip of cold iron had - suddenly fastened round his heart, and he had resumed his work, hard and - scornful. These things that had come to him were remote from the flesh; - but he forgot them. In his hour of dark misanthropy he ranked her sex and - his own temptation at their lowest. For her humiliation he had no pity. - Like other women, she had rolled in the mire; smirching was the natural - consequence. For Roderick he had hatred, unmitigated by any pleasant - memory of old acquaintance. But he remembered his father's many kindnesses - to Roderick, and the man's crime was further blackened by ingratitude. - </p> - <p> - Nor did he pity the father of the son thus disgraced. The ignoble, mean - old man who had always been the object of his scorn had brought his - punishment upon himself; for had he not neglected the elementary - responsibilities of parentage? There could be no pity for a father of whom - the son spoke openly with cynical contempt. Sylvester's eyes fell upon his - own father's face, and the contrast brought a tumultuous rush of feeling. - And from the wall opposite, his mother smiled down upon him through the - gloom. She was gone,—the one pure, divine woman the earth had held. - The one perfect man lay there, still living. He must not die. Sylvester - shook with a great terror. His father was as needful as the sun in a foul - and dismal world. These two were remote as stars from the rest of - humanity. Through them passed his faith in God. - </p> - <p> - But his faith in man was gone. On this night of vigil, after his day of - self-repression and stern meting out of justice, was the culmination of - all the disillusion and the bitterness of his life. Towards the three - human beings upon whom he was bringing crushing disgrace his heart was - cold granite. And the old man with the kindly, careworn face slept on and - on by his side. - </p> - <p> - At the first streaks of the winter dawn the door opened, and Ella, simply - dressed for the day, entered the room. Sylvester rose with a frown and - advanced to meet her. - </p> - <p> - “I must take my turn,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - “There is no necessity,” he returned. - </p> - <p> - “I have passed through great trouble,” she said, looking at him with eyes - pathetically bright through want of sleep, “and it would be mere human - kindness to let me sit here for a little alone. And you must take some - rest.” - </p> - <p> - “I thank you for your consideration,” he replied ironically, ignoring her - appeal, “but I am not in need of rest.” He held the door open for her to - pass out, but she stood her ground. - </p> - <p> - “You are hard, but you claim to be just. Uncle Matthew sent for me. Aunt - Agatha has told you. I have some right to be here. Besides, it would hurt - him to know that you refused to let me be with him.” - </p> - <p> - “If you put it that way, I must admit your claim,” he said coldly. “If you - will come into the passage, I will give you some directions in view of - contingencies.” - </p> - <p> - She assented, and they went out together. At the end of the passage a - housemaid passed wraithlike on her way to the kitchen. The crack of the - stairs beneath her tread sounded sharp in the unbroken silence of the - house. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, I will not forget,” said Ella, when he had ended his - instructions. She disappeared into the sick chamber; and Sylvester, going - to his own room, threw himself in his clothes upon the bed, and wrapped in - a rug fell, through force of habit and through fatigue, into a heavy - sleep. - </p> - <p> - A couple of hours afterwards he was awakened. Mr. Usher urgently requested - to speak with him. Sylvester rose, shook the sleep from his eyes, and - faced the grim contingencies of another day. He was prepared for this - interview with the father, had steeled himself against whining entreaties - and appeals to old comradeship. But to see him was an act of common - decency, however unpleasant and however fruitless. He sponged his face - with ice-cold water and went downstairs to the dining-room. Mr. Usher was - sitting on the edge of an armchair, warming his plump hands before the - fire. He rose as Sylvester entered, and, putting his hands behind his - back, regarded him with eyes more than ever expressionless and red-rimmed. - </p> - <p> - “I had a telegram from my poor boy last night,” he announced in his slow, - pedantic way. “I could not come round last night. I have been suffering - again lately from my bronchial tubes. My doctor tells me the night air in - winter is dangerous for me. I was a prisoner.” - </p> - <p> - “Your health is valuable to you, no doubt,” said Sylvester, sarcastically. - </p> - <p> - “I live for my son,” replied Usher, sitting down again in the armchair. - “If I ran risks now and contracted illness, who would stand by my son in - his hour of need? Prudence has been the guiding principle of my life. I - have profited by it.” - </p> - <p> - He wagged his head and looked into the fire. Sylvester turned one of the - straight-backed chairs and sat down, his elbow on the table. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you will state your business, Mr. Usher,” he said. “My time, like - your health, is valuable.” - </p> - <p> - “All in good time,” replied Usher; “nothing good comes of hurrying. I - never hurry.” He rubbed his palms together meditatively, like some - colossal and flabby fly. Then he continued deliberately: “I learn from - Roderick that he has been arrested for forging your father's name to a - cheque.” - </p> - <p> - “For £3,000,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. It is a great sum of money. But your father gave it to him as a - wedding present. Your father is a generous man.” - </p> - <p> - “Your son confessed to me that he forged it.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps he did,” assented Usher. “Perhaps he did.” - </p> - <p> - In spite of his contempt for the old man and his pitilessness towards - Roderick, he gazed upon his interlocutor with some wonder. Not a shaft of - dismay at the disgrace hanging over his son's head seemed to have - penetrated the brass-armoured egotism of this placid, unvenerable man. - Sylvester waited contemptuously for him to speak. - </p> - <p> - “You are preferring the charge against him this morning?” asked Usher. - </p> - <p> - “I have instructed my solicitor to do so.” - </p> - <p> - “There is still time to telegraph to your solicitor to withdraw it.” - </p> - <p> - “I have no such intentions.” - </p> - <p> - “I cannot let you proceed. I have the feelings of a father.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester rose, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, stood on the - hearth-rug facing Mr. Usher. - </p> - <p> - “It is no doubt a painful matter to you,” said he, with cold politeness, - “but my intentions are unalterable. I will prosecute him right through. - Nothing you can possibly say will have the slightest effect on my - determination.” - </p> - <p> - Then the old man seemed to hug his stout body with his arms, and for the - first time a gleam came into his pale eyes and he chuckled softly to - himself. At the unexpected sound Sylvester started. Such symptoms pointed - to senility. But suddenly the old man turned to him with a quick snarl, in - startling contrast with his deliberate manner,— - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you are not aware, you young fool, that you will be sending - your own brother to gaol.” - </p> - <p> - He bent forward, gripping the arms of the chair, fixing Sylvester with an - inscrutable gaze, his lips beneath the scrubby white moustache parted and - showing his yellow stumps of teeth. - </p> - <p> - “Your brother. Don't you understand?” - </p> - <p> - “What idiocy are you talking?” exclaimed Sylvester, in angry impatience. - </p> - <p> - “I am talking the truth, my young friend. I am a truthful man,” replied - Usher, with mocking resumption of his usual habit of speech. “Roderick is - your own dear brother.” - </p> - <p> - “You accuse my father of having an illegitimate son?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no. Roderick is quite legitimate. He is my son. At least, I quite - believed your poor mother.” - </p> - <p> - “My mother—what the devil are you talking about?” cried Sylvester, - fiercely. “What has my mother got to do with it?” - </p> - <p> - “Roderick is her son, my dear Sylvester. Hers and mine. She was my wife.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester glared at him for a moment, and then, the preposterous absurdity - of the story dawning upon him, he broke into a contemptuous laugh and - turned away. The man was mad. - </p> - <p> - “I think it time we parted,” said Sylvester. Ushers face expressed pained - surprise. - </p> - <p> - “You do not believe me?” - </p> - <p> - Then as Sylvester did not reply otherwise than by a shrug, he drew a mass - of papers from his breast-pocket and selected therefrom a photograph, old - and discoloured, of a man and woman posed in the angular attitudes of the - photographer's art in the late fifties, and clad in the uncouth attire of - those days. The woman had a baby upon her lap. - </p> - <p> - “Your mother and brother and I,” said Mr. Usher. “I was a handsome young - man. I had fine black whiskers.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester received the picture, looked at it, and a spasm of horrible - disgust shook his frame. The young woman was his mother—unmistakably. - </p> - <p> - “She was my dear wife,” said Usher. - </p> - <p> - “And you played the brute beast, I suppose, until she divorced you. And - then she married my father. I see,” said Sylvester, grimly. - </p> - <p> - But Usher raised his hand in deprecation. “On the contrary,” said he, “we - were never divorced. When I said your father had no illegitimate children, - I was wrong. You are an illegitimate child.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester flung the photograph with a furious gesture into the fire. The - old man darted forward to rescue it, but Sylvester roughly pushed him back - into his chair, and stood over him trembling with anger. Behind him the - photograph curled and flamed. - </p> - <p> - “What devilish story are you telling me? Let me have it at once, all of - it,” cried Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - There was a slight pause. Usher passed the tip of his tongue over his - lips, and again he hugged himself in his armchair. - </p> - <p> - “I have been waiting to tell you this for thirty years. For your dear - father's sake I have held my peace. I am a peaceful man. But I could not - let you send your own brother to prison, your dear mother's son. Fraternal - love is a wondrous thing.” - </p> - <p> - “Come to the point and tell me, or I may not be responsible for what I - do,” said Sylvester, in husky menace. - </p> - <p> - The swelling triumph of his long-deferred vengeance had not quite - overmastered a craven spirit. A glance out of the corner of his eye - assured Usher of Sylvester's desperation. The sight was an unholy mingling - of delight and fear. He rubbed his soft palms together and wagged his - head. - </p> - <p> - “It is a sad story. I blame my wife. She acted wrongly. We lived in - Australia on a little farm. I am fond of rural pursuits. Ayresford is - rural. That is why I came here. We were married and happy with our little - child. We called him Roderick. It is a family name, but perhaps that would - not interest you. He was three years old when your father came to these - parts. Ah! he was a dashing young fellow then. He is not dashing now. Poor - Matthew!” - </p> - <p> - “Damn you!” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! that is what your father has often said. You are like your father. - Well, to shorten a long story, he fell in love with my wife, and she with - him, and she ran away with him to England, leaving me alone with our poor - little boy Roderick. Here are proofs.” He patted the sheaf of papers on - his lap and signed to Sylvester to read them; but Sylvester motioned a - negative. He was convinced. His anger had subsided into he knew not what - state of reeling horror. Yet through it all Usher himself was revealed to - him, and he regarded him as something obscene. - </p> - <p> - “And you have received money from my father all this time as the price of - silence.” - </p> - <p> - “I was poor, and I forgave mine enemy. I am a forgiving man. It is my way. - When your dear mother died I came here and lived near him, to show that I - forgave him.” - </p> - <p> - “Like father, like son,” said Sylvester,—“a blackmailer and a - forger. Oh, my God!” He turned away and stood with bowed head, staring at - the carpet, his hands clenched. Without moving he said hoarsely,— - </p> - <p> - “Go. We have nothing more to say to each other.” - </p> - <p> - “You see you can't let your dear brother go to a felon's doom—and - your legitimate brother, too, my dear Sylvester,” said Usher, smacking his - lips at each word. Then he rose and buttoned his frock-coat and went out - of the room, chuckling quietly. - </p> - <p> - Presently Sylvester roused himself with a great shuddering sigh. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, God!” he said, and moved a step or two towards the fire. - </p> - <p> - There was a knock at the door and a servant entered, bearing a letter on a - tray. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Lanyon said I was to give you this at once, sir.” - </p> - <p> - He took it, found the envelope was addressed to himself in his father's - handwriting. He did not notice that the ink on the envelope was wet, nor - that the enclosure had been written some time previously. - </p> - <p> - “I, Matthew Lanyon,” it ran, “of Woodlands, Ayresford, hereby declare that - I drew a cheque for £3,000, dated the 10th December, 189-, in favour of - Roderick Charles Usher, Esq., of 13 Queen's Park Mansions, London, S. W.” - The document was signed by him, and the signature was witnessed by Agatha - Lanyon and Mary Evans, the nurse. - </p> - <p> - Like a man in a dream, Sylvester crossed to a little desk by the window, - that once had been his mother's, and wrote out a telegram; then a letter - with which he enclosed his father's statement. Both he addressed to his - solicitor. The gardener was summoned and despatched to the post-office. - When he had gone, Sylvester was scarcely conscious of his action. - Roderick's fate was of small account compared with the doom that had - fallen upon himself. - </p> - <p> - But an hour afterwards Roderick was driving through the London streets, a - free man. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XX—“OH, WHITE DOVE OF THE PITY DIVINE” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>ut a few minutes - had passed since Usher's departure; yet to Sylvester they represented a - great chasm of time,—a living self on the one side, a dead self on - the other. He walked aimlessly about the room in a curious apathy. That - which had been vital to him, his love and reverence for those two,—father - and mother,—had been plucked away from him, and it seemed merely - some reflex action that maintained organic existence. - </p> - <p> - On the wall facing the fireplace were two companion water-colour portraits - in old-fashioned oval frames. He paused before them and looked dully from - one to the other. These had been his sacred images in the house, the ikons - of his gods. His mother smiled down upon him. Her hair, banded obliquely - on either side over her forehead, gave an idea of Madonna-like purity to - the delicate contours of her face. That of Botticelli's fair girl-mother - betrayed less a soul at war with itself. And it was not the artist's - contemporaneous delight in investing feminine portraiture with angelic - sentimentality that was at fault. The son remembered her thus in the - flesh, though older,—a rare, flower-like woman, with hands that, - when they touched him as a boy, seemed holy. She was dead. That other, the - young man bright and strong, looking unflinchingly at the world over his - absurd black neckcloth, was now an old man, dying. And all that they left - was a heritage of shame. - </p> - <p> - Their lives had been a hollow, hideous lie,—the lives of his gods. - <i>A fortiori</i>, the lives of common mortality were false. He seemed to - stand apart from the world, dispassionately regarding a race corrupt to - its core, and shrinking from the step that would bring him again into its - midst. Without Phariseeism he appeared to be the one clean man in a miry - universe; the sense whereof brought with it something of the appalling. - Whither should he turn without rubbing against contamination? - </p> - <p> - He moved away from the pictures and looked about the room. The familiar, - old-fashioned furniture, which the old man loved to keep in memory of her - who was once queen of the little space, seemed tainted with the - unutterable. He became aware of a physical feeling of nausea. The room - reeked. He flung open one of the French windows with an instinctive - craving for a breath of the cold December air that was blown across the - dripping lawn. - </p> - <p> - He brushed aside his hair, and tried to think. He stood as a judge; that - he realised. Those two were brought before the bar, accused of the sin - that his organic temperament pronounced unforgivable. The pleas in - extenuation would be weakness and folly; and weakness and folly he - despised. He was called upon to pass sentence for the shame of which he - himself was the child; and in passing it on the sinful pair he was - condemning himself to a living death. The man did not see that he had been - working all his life towards this doom. - </p> - <p> - The slamming of the door behind him caused him to turn round with a start. - His Aunt Agatha came towards him, wrapping a woollen shawl tightly around - her lean shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how can you have the windows open on a day like this?” she asked - shivering. - </p> - <p> - He closed the window in silence and looked at her inquiringly. - </p> - <p> - “Your father has been awake a long time, dear, and is asking so for you.” - </p> - <p> - “A long time?” he echoed. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; before Mr. Usher came. Didn't you know? He addressed the envelope of - the letter he sent down to you. Didn't you get it?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. I got it,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “What's the matter with you, Syl? Aren't you going to him?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course,” he replied. “Of course—yes.” - </p> - <p> - He went out slowly and mounted the stairs with limbs as heavy as lead. He - turned the handle of his father's door and entered. The kind grey eyes of - the old man, propped on his pillows, met him as he crossed the threshold, - and a smile flickered over the wan lips. - </p> - <p> - “I was afraid you had forgotten me,” whispered the old man, feebly holding - out his hand, which his son pressed in silence. - </p> - <p> - Ella was standing in the light of the window, medicine bottle and glass in - hand. Until the liquid was poured out, she paid no attention to Sylvester. - Then she came to the bedside and looked across at him somewhat defiantly - before handing the glass to his father. - </p> - <p> - “What is the use of this solemn little comedy?” said the latter, - whimsically, his voice, a whispered echo of the cheeriness of days past. - “It won't make me any better. Simmons knows it and you know it and I know - it. All the king's horses and all the king's men! And Humpty Dumpty - doesn't want to be set up again. He's been on his wall long enough.” - </p> - <p> - He drank the draught, however, making a wry face. Ella bent over to wipe - his lips, but he motioned her away with characteristic independence. - </p> - <p> - “I can do that for myself. I can't do much, but I can do that. You don't - know how she bullies me, Syl.” - </p> - <p> - “Uncle Matthew wouldn't have the nurse when she came to relieve me,” - explained Ella. - </p> - <p> - “I want those I love best by me, as now, eh, Syl?” said the old man. - </p> - <p> - Sylvester did not answer, but stood by the bedside dumb, vainly seeking - some formula of speech whereby to simulate emotion. Ella set the - wine-glass on the table and smoothed the pillows and counterpane, then - lingered by the sick man, looking down upon him with a puckering of the - brow, as a woman will, counting over the little tale of duties specified - by the forth-driven nurse, so as to make certain of no omission. But her - presence there filled Sylvester with dull resentment. - </p> - <p> - “My father has something particular to say to me,” he said stiffly. “Do - you mind?” - </p> - <p> - “I was on the point of going,” she replied, somewhat surprised at feeling - hurt by his tone, for she had thought that the successive emotional shocks - of the past four and twenty hours had killed all feeling within her for - ever. Recovering herself, she bent over the old man, kissed him, and - crossed to the door. Sylvester met her there and accompanied her into the - passage and closed the door behind him. - </p> - <p> - “How much does my father know of Roderick Usher's affairs?” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him bravely enough. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing. I believe he guesses. I have told him he was summoned abroad - suddenly.” She moved away. - </p> - <p> - “Stop,” said he. “There is something else.” She drew a step nearer. “I - can't bear much more,” she said quietly. - </p> - <p> - “It may relieve your mind to know that I have withdrawn the charge - entirely. He is perfectly free.” - </p> - <p> - She stared at him for a moment, then grew deadly white and fainted. The - girl's overtaxed strength had given way at last. Sylvester caught her in - his arms and prepared to carry her to her room not far off along the - passage; but at that moment Miss Agatha Lanyon with Simmons turned the - corner, and he gave Ella into their charge. - </p> - <p> - “I'm staying with my father,” he said to Simmons. “Come in later.” - </p> - <p> - On the other side of his father's door he forgot the recent scene. Of what - importance was a girl's fainting compared with the death hovering in this - chamber and the death enthroned in his heart? He approached the bed. - Matthew looked up at him wistfully. - </p> - <p> - “You can't expect me to live for ever, you know. I really have had enough - of it, so don't fret.” - </p> - <p> - A thrush fluttered against the window for a moment. Matthew started. - </p> - <p> - “What was that?” - </p> - <p> - “Only a bird beating against the pane, attracted by the fire, perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - “We do that all our lives long. The invisible barrier. Oh, it's time to - go, Syl, when a man begins to moralise. The moral always comes at the end - of the story. Sit down on the bed, my son. I want to talk to you.” - Sylvester obeyed. An expression of pain crossed his face. The old man's - undismayed serenity moved his admiration. He would have given worlds to - have uttered the cry of grief and love that would have been possible an - hour ago. - </p> - <p> - “You are a brave man, father,” he forced himself to say. - </p> - <p> - “No; a coward. A pitiable old coward. You received my letter this - morning?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. It is all right.” - </p> - <p> - “You found a cheque yesterday—thought it forged—stopped Ella's - marriage?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, and brought her back with me.” - </p> - <p> - “But you will believe that I wrote the cheque?” - </p> - <p> - “If you wish me to,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - There was a silence broken only by the crackling of the fire and the - sobbing of the wind outside among the bare trees. Matthew gazed at the - patch of sky framed by the window—it was one of his little - obstinacies to have the fullest daylight in his room—and watched the - scudding clouds. Presently, without turning,— - </p> - <p> - “Syl,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, father.” - </p> - <p> - “Something is breaking my heart. It has been the dream of my life to leave - you a little fortune to make you independent, but I have lost it all, - nearly all.” - </p> - <p> - “You must not be distressed at that,” replied Sylvester. “I am earning a - good income and am putting by money. In twenty years I shall be a wealthy - man.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew turned a face of intense anxiety, and it was some seconds before - he could speak in his feeble voice. - </p> - <p> - “But Woodlands will have to go. It is heavily mortgaged,—a debt I - owe to Usher. Forgive me, Syl; I tried so hard to keep it. You'll find - Usher and Roderick in my will, you the residuary legatee; but there will - be nothing. I will explain a little.” - </p> - <p> - He paused, thinking of some explanation, a debt incurred to Usher long - ago. But Sylvester, imagining the story to be the one of sickening shame - he had just heard, sought to save the old man unnecessary pain. - </p> - <p> - “Don't say anything. Usher has told me.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew looked at him wide-eyed. - </p> - <p> - “Usher told you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Everything?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “From the beginning?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. This morning.” - </p> - <p> - “You were threatening Roderick with a prosecution?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. When I learned that he was—my brother, I instructed my - solicitor to withdraw the charge.” - </p> - <p> - “Merciful God, have pity on me!” murmured the old man, with closed eyes. - </p> - <p> - The tremendous irony of existence crushed him. To save his son this - knowledge, he had endured over thirty years of abject humiliation. The son - by his own act had brought the knowledge upon himself. It is an awful - thing when a strong man comes face to face with the futile result of all - his strength. - </p> - <p> - Presently he opened his eyes and looked wearily at Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, Syl. Don't judge after the penalty has been paid. Even common - law cannot sentence a man twice for the same offence. And I 've served my - time, and so did she. My God! we served it twice over. And no one knew or - pitied us. I would have killed myself cheerfully to spare you the - knowledge.” - </p> - <p> - His voice weakened, and he murmured an inaudible sentence, then lay back - exhausted on his pillows. Sylvester looked at the kind, strong face, now - so ashen and aged, and a gleam was revealed to him of the spirit's tragedy - beneath; confused and blurred, it is true, but still a gleam that filled - him with vague disquietude. It dimly suggested possibilities of life - beyond the jealously guarded gates of his soul. - </p> - <p> - “You must have pity, my son,” whispered Matthew. - </p> - <p> - The tone wrung the young man's heart like a material grip. It was the - first sign of returning power of sensation. He cleared his throat and said - constrainedly,— - </p> - <p> - “Don't talk like that, father. I am your son and must always honour you.” - </p> - <p> - Matthew again turned his head and watched the grey sky. He knew his son to - be a stern man, and the austere sound of his words chilled him more than - the death he felt approaching. - </p> - <p> - “What can I do?” he murmured, dispirited. “It was a long, long penance. - Don't turn from me, my son.” - </p> - <p> - “But—father,” said Sylvester, brokenly, “everything seems to have - left me.” - </p> - <p> - The numbness had gone, and the whole sensitive man writhed in sudden pain, - with loss of faith. His mother, whom he had deemed holy as a saint, his - wife whom he had worshipped as a star,—both to have been false - wives, women of shame! The old torture revived, intensified tenfold. The - sight of the once revered being who lay dying in utter sadness before his - eyes, and for whom the old love was now fighting within him for mastery, - raised the torture's poignancy to such a pitch that at last it broke - through the reserve of a lifetime and found vent in a great cry,— - </p> - <p> - “My own wife was unfaithful to me. How, can I judge my mother?” - </p> - <p> - A flush of life entered the dying man's cheeks. He turned quickly; his - eyes were luminous. - </p> - <p> - “Constance? I did not think you knew—till the other night. And then - I hoped against hope.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you know? How long? I only learned it after her death—Leroux's - last illness. My God! does all the country-side know?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Syl. I alone.” - </p> - <p> - He sought his son's hand on the coverlet, and then continued in the calm, - assured tone that Sylvester knew had given strength and comfort to so - many. The voice had grown suddenly strong. - </p> - <p> - “She came to me herself, and told me, a soul-stricken woman,—just - after. She loved the man, Syl, and had always loved him. Circumstances - estranged them, they thought for ever. And then—she was a brave - woman, Syl—she fancied she could make a good man's life happy,—yours. - But the mistake was cleared up, and he returned. She loved him,—my - boy, we can't kill love,—but she was proud of her honour and scorned - running from temptation; relied on her strength too far, until one day, - only one day, Syl, it failed her, in a whirl of madness. She came to me to - ask what she should do. I have never seen such frantic grief in a human - soul. And a good many have brought their troubles to me,” he added with - one of his rare smiles. - </p> - <p> - “That is true,” said Sylvester. And a sudden impulse made him add, “God - bless you!” - </p> - <p> - For the thought, of a soul in pain flying instinctively to the sympathy of - those kind eyes brought a gush of tenderness. He saw him again as the wise - counsellor, the generous friend, the child-hearted lover of all things, - great and small. - </p> - <p> - “And you told her—?” he queried in a low voice, deeply moved. - </p> - <p> - “A greater judge than I set the precedent. She was the truest wife to you - thereafter.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me, father,” said Sylvester, huskily, “when was it? Dorothy?” - </p> - <p> - “Your own flesh and blood,” said the old man, gripping his hand. “My poor - boy, how you must have suffered!” - </p> - <p> - He lay back again, prostrated by his sustained effort of speech, and - closed his eyes. Sylvester leaned forward, half reclining on the bed, - still holding his father's hand. And as he sat there silent, a veil seemed - to be drawn from before his vision. - </p> - <p> - “She—Constance must have suffered,” he said at last. - </p> - <p> - Matthew opened his eyes and met his son's gaze wistfully. - </p> - <p> - “Don't we all? If the stainless like you suffer, what of us poor sinners - who struggle towards the light! Think of the agony of that pure and - delicate soul who bore you, my son. Pray for all poor souls, Syl.” - </p> - <p> - His voice had grown singularly faint. The tears leaped to Sylvester's - eyes. He tried to speak, but his throat was clogged with unaccustomed - sobs. With instinctive ashamedness he buried his face in the pillow next - to his father, still holding his hand. He lay there a long time, his heart - aching with the returning love as a limb to which the tourniquet has been - applied aches with the returning blood. Once the old man whispered a - prayer for the son's forgiveness, and when Sylvester pressed his hand, - relapsed into his half-sleep as if reassured. Time went by. Presently - Sylvester heard him murmuring in a scarcely audible voice. Gradually the - sense of the words came to him. The old man was repeating scraps of verse:— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Freres humains, qui apres nous vivez, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - N'avez les cueurs contre nous endurciz, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Car, si pitié de nous pouvres avez, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Dieu en aura plustost de vous merciz. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Ne soyez done de nostre confrairie, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - There was a great pathos in the broad English accent with which he - murmured the old French words, and for the first time in all his life - Sylvester understood them. He raised his head and saw his father's lips - moving dumbly. After a little the voice came again, broken and faint, and - only by a word here and there could he gather the meaning. It was from - Swinburne's “Garden of Proserpine:” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “... Even the weariest river - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Winds somewhere safe to sea,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He repeated the couplet two or three times. He had never been a great - reader of poetry, but of some half-dozen poems he was particularly fond, - and had made them his own, and had woven them into the texture of his - life. Among them were such dissimilar things as Villon's “Ballade,” - Macaulay's “Battle of Ivry,” Tennyson's “Brook,” “The Ancient Mariner,” - and Sylvester had often smiled indulgently at this little anthology, his - father's simple spiritual equipment. Especially had he wondered at his - assimilation of this poem of Swinburne's, so remote in feeling from his - steadfast outlook upon life, and his intolerance of cowardly shrinking - from its responsibilities. - </p> - <p> - But now he comprehended that his father was a weary, weary man, and that - one of the most beautiful of all utterances to the weary man's heart had - brought him comfort. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Then star nor sun shall waken, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Nor any change of light; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Nor sound of waters shaken, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Nor any sound or sight; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Nor wintry leaves nor vernal; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Nor days nor things diurnal; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Only the sleep eternal - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - In an eternal night.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The murmuring voice ended the poem. Sylvester drew the old man's withered - brown hand to his lips. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me for not understanding, father,” he said brokenly. “I am glad I - know. I love you and my mother more than I have ever done. Would to God I - had been a tenderer son to you!” - </p> - <p> - Matthew's clasp tightened, and a smile hovered over his face. He knew that - the awkward words came from his son's heart. - </p> - <p> - “We understand each other, Syl. '<i>Tout comprendre</i>, et cetera.... I - am happy. I have never been so happy in all my life—'the burden has - fallen from me—fallen into the sea.' I'm sleepy, Syl—stay by - me—it comforts me.” - </p> - <p> - So Sylvester, still holding the dear hand in a warm clasp, and fearing to - move lest he should disturb the quiet slumber into which the old man had - fallen, remained by his father's side, his face hidden in the pillow. And - as he lay, there was accomplished one of those integral spiritual changes - that can only be wrought once in the lifetime of a man here and there. The - White Dove of the Divine Pity overshadowed him with its wings, and he saw - deeply into the mysteries of life. He beheld the unutterable pathos of - man, his clogged aspirations, his heroic weakness, his piteous fortitude, - his everlasting struggles. It was revealed to him that there may be more - of the warm spiritual essence of humanity, in a single passionate sin than - in a hundred austere virtues. - </p> - <p> - His father, mother, Constance, Leroux, Ella, all of whom he, the upright, - stainless man, had condemned, stood before him clothed in a new light; and - by reason of their warm humanity, their struggles, their sufferings, they - stood higher in the scale of being than he. - </p> - <p> - He saw the loves of those two whom he had so cherished unfold in tragedy - before his vision. They were two rare natures, he understood, fitted only - one for the other, too fine for commoner clay. He knew the agony of the - first early struggle, the eternal conflict between love and that which the - world accepts as duty; the mother's heart torn asunder between the child - of her body and the man of her heart's core; the ignoble husband a thing - of horror in her thoughts. Then came their life together; the perfect - union; the sweet community of noble end; but every step to happiness - dogged by the footfall of pain. What must they have suffered, the two - sensitives, with minds (in the son's fancy) of gods and hearts of little - children! He remembered that there were times when his mother would stand - by the window, lost to external things, and strain her vision through - infinite space; and he knew now it was the yearning for the child that she - had forsaken. - </p> - <p> - And then she died, the pure gold of her spirit worn thin by suffering. He - remembered his father's ashen face; how he clung unspeaking to him, even - as he himself in after years had clung to Dorothy. Then came the proud - man's lonely penance; Usher's arrival with Roderick. He had wronged the - man and wronged the boy; but what unwearying efforts to redeem in full! - The weight of the burden fell upon Sylvester, and he knew its heaviness. - He knew the scrupulous gentleman's revolt against the forced intimacy with - the underbred egotist, lost to self-respect, the rapacious blackmailer, - the vampire that sucked his heart's blood. He knew the sordid cares of - money that had fallen on the old man, his struggles to leave his own son - an independent fortune and the family home, and at the same time to carry - out his chivalrous vow to give an exact equivalent to the wife's deserted - child; the agony of effort to spare his son the knowledge. And all that - had left untouched his tender, generous heart, which all men loved. A new - reverence arose within Sylvester's soul. - </p> - <p> - And that other,—Constance? Had she not struggled, silently, - indomitably, filling his existence with wifely devotion, battling night - and day with the hydra-headed love that seemed unconquerable? Had she not - fought and suffered and triumphed? And Leroux? Had he not shared in the - battle and the suffering and the victory? Had she not, Ella, too, bravely - striven, seeking light through the darkness that he had cast about her? - And Roderick? Who was he that he should judge his fellow? The fierce hate - died for ever in Sylvester's heart. The bewildering knowledge of man's - infinite weakness, man's infinite strength and endurance, stirred his - inmost soul with unutterable pity. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - A touch on the shoulder aroused him. Instinctively he sought to free his - hand; but the clasp that held it was singularly stiff and cold. He lifted - his head with a start and looked round. Ella was standing behind him. Then - he freed himself and leaped to his feet. Their eyes met, then turned to - the figure on the bed. He bent over, looked intently into his father's - face, felt his heart. The erring, beautiful life had ended in his sleep. - </p> - <p> - Without a word spoken, they straightened the limbs and smoothed the bed, - the girl crying silently. As soon as this was done, she whispered,— - </p> - <p> - “I will leave you.” - </p> - <p> - But to her great wonder, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he said; “stay.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXI—HERITAGE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hey buried Matthew - Lanyon in the quiet churchyard at Ayresford next to the woman who in - everything but law had been his wife. Half the small town thronged about - the grave in sorrow. All felt that one of the chosen had dwelt in their - midst, and that they were poorer by the loss of the kindness of his simple - heart and the wisdom of his grey head. The four chief mourners stood a - little way apart, close together. Sylvester held the child Dorothy tight - by the hand, finding unspeakable comfort in the tiny clasp, and let the - tears fall fast and unheeded down his face. The grave seemed a chasm that - separated them from the rest of the world. The child, Agatha Lanyon, Ella, - and himself stood alone, curiously remote, and united by a new and strange - bond. For the first time for many years he felt the preciousness of human - relationship. Of aught save this and his irreparable loss, he was - unconscious. The crowd was a vague mass dimly seen through a mist of - tears. He scarcely heard the old rector's voice reciting the familiar - words. But when the first clod of earth clattered sharply upon the - coffin-lid, he turned away with a sob; then meeting Ella's swimming eyes, - he sought her right hand with his left and holding it turned again. And - never so much as at that moment did he need the strength of human - tenderness; for looking up he saw standing at the foot of the grave, his - ignoble figure defined against the old grey church, Usher wagging his bare - head in simulated sorrow and gazing at the last that was visible of his - enemy. Then the old man stooped down and threw a lump of earth into the - pit; and as he rose Sylvester saw an expression of indescribable malice - pass over his face. Quivering at the supreme insult, the young man turned - to Ella. - </p> - <p> - “Thank God,” he said; “nothing can hurt him now.” - </p> - <p> - The reference was too pointed for her not to comprehend. She questioned - him dumbly, feeling suddenly brought to the brink of a revelation. - </p> - <p> - “It is selfish to wish him back,” said Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - They remained a few moments longer. The crowd was slowly disappearing - through the grey of the early winter twilight. The rector came up with a - few words of sympathy and crossed the churchyard towards the rectory. The - grave was nearly full. - </p> - <p> - “Come,” said Ella, gently, and they went to the path where the mourning - coach awaited them. They spoke but little. Miss Lanyon cried softly to - herself. Ella leaned back on the cushion with closed eyes. She was very - weary, spent with emotion; yet the evil spirit of unrest was laid within - her. The past upheaval had been phantasmagoric, in which her integral self - had been lost amid a whirling army of unreal shapes. Now, brought into - contact with an elemental reality, death, and with a deep and simple - grief, it had emerged clear and definite. For the first time for many - months the vibrations of her soul rang true, soothing her like sweet, sad - music after devil's discord. Sylvester's words by the graveside had moved - her. She remembered now a pain that had often come into the old man's - eyes, and she wondered reverently. Sylvester sat opposite, his arm around - Dorothy, who looked up shyly yet gladly into his face, unable to explain - to her childish mind this revulsion of passionate love. To him it was a - happiness that flooded his soul. The parched places drank it in like the - river of life. He was a new man, able to feel in all its sacredness the - sorrow that had come. - </p> - <p> - His temperament had undergone a curious transmutation. Instead of flying, - as used to be his wont, to solitude, to brood over his grief, a newly - awakened instinct drove him imperiously to companionship. - </p> - <p> - “Come down soon,” he said to the two ladies when, on their arrival at the - house, they went upstairs to take off their things. And they all sat - together for the rest of the long evening, and while he talked, Ella - wondered at his gentleness. - </p> - <p> - At ten o'clock the ladies retired. He accompanied them to the hall and lit - their candles. Miss Lanyon bade him good-night and disappeared up the - staircase. Ella held out her hand. He kept it in his for a moment. - </p> - <p> - “Won't you stay up with me a little longer?” he asked humbly. The light of - the candle played amid the dark gold of her hair and lit up her face, that - gleamed very pale in contrast with her high black dress. His eyes, resting - upon her, found her stately and sweet. He forgot that only a few days ago - he had despised her, classing her with the wanton of an inferior sex. She - stood before him something noble, helpful, mysterious. In her calm gaze he - read the certainty of a high companionship. He was dismayed by the sudden - revelation of his loss. - </p> - <p> - “Willingly,” she said. “But I am so tired.” - </p> - <p> - “Just ten minutes,” he pleaded. “I hate to be alone.” - </p> - <p> - “You?” Surprise was in her tone. - </p> - <p> - “I have been alone so much,” he replied simply. - </p> - <p> - She blew out her candle and went back with him into the library. Then she - sat down in Matthew's great leathern chair and watched him as he stirred - the fire. Much of her bitter resentment against him had died by the old - man's death-bed. The common sorrow had brought them once more on to the - plane of old relations. The sudden change in his attitude had helped the - promptings of her nobler nature, and generously she had given him the - dumbly craved sympathy. Besides, the old man's tenderness was too fresh a - memory for her to be harsh now to Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - The fire burst into a blaze. Sylvester drew himself up and stood on the - hearth-rug looking at her, and all the hardness had gone from his face. - Suddenly he spoke. - </p> - <p> - “I am a poor creature, Ella. I know it now. You have every right to think - ill of me; but try to think as well as you can—for the old man's - sake.” - </p> - <p> - “The last few days have changed so much,” she answered. - </p> - <p> - “Could they bring you to forgive me for all the pain and suffering I have - caused you?” - </p> - <p> - She drew a little sharp breath. “We need never speak of that again. It is - behind us.” - </p> - <p> - “But it is beginning to be very present with me,” he answered gravely. - “Lately my eyes have been opened to many things. Some day I may find it in - my power to tell you how. I have wronged you cruelly and unjustly. I would - give much to make atonement—but one can never atone. One can only - crave forgiveness—and pity for a blind man. I feel I can ask it of - you now. Since you have been here you too have shown me things I never - knew of. For nearly two years I have given you every reason to hate me. - You have put all aside, treated me with a sister's gentleness, given me - all your sympathy and tenderness. I am not accustomed to perceive large - and generous natures.... I will make a confession. In my morbid arrogance - and folly, I put myself upon a pedestal and regarded you, God forgive me, - as something beneath me. You are as far above me as he whom we buried - today. I had to tell you.” - </p> - <p> - For a few moments she could not find words to reply. She had never known - him to humble himself like this. It was hard to reconcile him with the - grim, pitiless man who had sat opposite her on that nightmare journey from - London. - </p> - <p> - “I did hate you—bitterly,” she said at last. “I don't think I do so - now. It is easy to say 'I forgive you,' but I don't quite know what it - implies. As for one of us being higher than the other, you are a great - physician, and I am just an ignorant girl with a miserable set of - unregulated emotions—” - </p> - <p> - “You should thank God for them,” he interrupted. - </p> - <p> - “They haven't brought me much happiness,” she said, with a little shrug of - her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “See, I am frank! No, I won't say I forgive, but I'll think kindly of you, - Syl, I promise.” - </p> - <p> - “It is all I dare hope for,” he said. And so the enmity came to an end. - </p> - <p> - For the next two or three days, Sylvester was busy with his father's - affairs. The will provided for a large sum to be paid to Usher, another to - Roderick, while Sylvester was the residuary legatee, charged with a yearly - allowance to Miss Lanyon and certain minor bequests. But after deducting - the legacies to the Ushers, there was nothing left in the estate but - Woodlands itself, and that was heavily mortgaged, and the mortgage had - been bought up by Usher. Sylvester reviewed his own financial position. - </p> - <p> - His professional income was fairly large, and showed every prospect of - increasing year by year, but of capital he had little. Dorothy's future - had to be provided for. Miss Lanyon must receive the amount specified in - the will. Could he afford to pay the interest on the mortgage and keep up - a large country house and grounds as well? He could not. Woodlands would - have to go. The three thousand pounds which Roderick had fraudulently - drawn from the estate would have made a considerable difference in - Sylvester's calculations. - </p> - <p> - From his father's books he discovered that this sum roughly represented - the sale of certain stock a day or two before the cheque was forged, and - lay at the bankers awaiting reinvestment. How did the knowledge of this - reach Roderick? Sylvester was puzzled, for a man does not usually keep a - balance of three or four thousand pounds to his credit account, and - Roderick was too shrewd to run the risk of so large a cheque unless he - knew there would be an adequate sum to meet it. Rightly he concluded that - Mr. Usher had given his son the information. But whether Roderick was - acquainted with the blackmailing secret he could not tell. An instinct of - generosity, newly awakened, prompted the conjecture of Roderick's - ignorance. On this assumption he arrived at what happened to be the - correct solution: Roderick in desperate need of money had applied to - Usher; the latter had refused; had suggested the forgery, knowing of the - sale of stock, and had given him the cheque which he himself had once - abstracted from Mr. Lanyon's cheque-book so as to meet any sudden - emergency, at the same time assuring his son against any unpleasant risks - on the discovery of the forgery. Roderick's silence on the point Sylvester - could only put down to his credit. - </p> - <p> - Both Ella and Miss Lanyon were acquainted with the terms of the will, - though neither as yet was informed of the financial condition of the - estate. The large sums bequeathed to Usher and Roderick had astonished - them. Sylvester explained vaguely that they were in payment of a great - debt of gratitude which his father had incurred when Mr. Usher and himself - were young men together in Australia. Miss Lanyon, who never questioned - such statements, took refuge in her grief from further thoughts on the - matter, like the gentle, simple lady she was. But Ella, with Sylvester's - words in the churchyard fresh in her mind, scented a mystery. After the - reading of the will, the subject was not openly mentioned by her or by - Sylvester. Roderick's name stood between them. The silence was a restraint - which each felt to be irksome. At last Ella, with a woman's greater moral - courage, or perhaps with a woman's love of self-castigation, resolutely - plunged into matters. - </p> - <p> - “Would you think it impertinent of me if I asked you to let me discuss - Uncle Matthew's will with you?” - </p> - <p> - She had stopped him by the library door, as he was entering after - breakfast. - </p> - <p> - “By no means,” he replied courteously, holding the door open for her. - “Come in.” - </p> - <p> - “What has happened to me during the last six months,” she said, when they - were seated, “will remain with me as a memory all my life. I should like - to know what to think about—Roderick.” She got the name out bravely, - after a second's hesitation. “He really did what you accused him of?” - </p> - <p> - “He acknowledged it to me,” replied Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - “Has he always been—what men call a scamp, or was this a sudden - temptation?” - </p> - <p> - “He was in a desperate plight. That I know. I can't say what he was - before. I have had a bitter lesson in judging men. All my standards have - fallen away, and Heaven knows whom I dare judge. One doesn't know what's - resisted. Burns said that a hundred years ago. And one doesn't know what - remorse follows. The human soul is an awful thing. Men are better than - their deeds. There is good in Roderick. I believe it.” - </p> - <p> - “And his father?” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” he asked, startled. “Your father's will,—all - that money to those two.” - </p> - <p> - “I explained to Aunt Agatha.” - </p> - <p> - “That was no explanation. From a hundred things I can remember now, I - can't help feeling that there was force in the matter—oh, a horrible - feeling—if it is as I suspect, you can understand—” - </p> - <p> - “I firmly believe Roderick to be innocent of any wrong of the sort.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” she said. “And his father?” Sylvester rose and filled his - pipe without speaking. It seemed odd to him that he felt no resentment at - her questioning him. The chord in his temperament that once would have - vibrated sharply and jarringly seemed to have snapped. He could only - admire in a helpless way the strength of character that had carried her - through so terrible an ordeal, her magnanimity, and the acuteness of her - perception. But he filled his pipe with great deliberation, for to answer - was difficult. - </p> - <p> - “I told you, Ella, I was powerless to judge any man,” he said. “Take my - assurance as regards Roderick and forget it all. The answer to your - question I have no right to give to any but one being in the world. Then - it would be my duty.” - </p> - <p> - “Dorothy?” - </p> - <p> - “No. Another.” - </p> - <p> - Their eyes met for a moment. Hers lowered, and a faint spot of colour came - into her cheek. - </p> - <p> - “I understand. Forgive me,” she said. There was a slight pause. She rose - to go. Suddenly Sylvester detained her. - </p> - <p> - “I may as well tell you what all the world will know soon. After paying - these legacies there will be nothing left for the residuary legatee save - Woodlands, and that is heavily mortgaged. I shall have to sell it.” - </p> - <p> - “Sell Woodlands!” She looked at him aghast. “Why, I thought Uncle Matthew - was leaving you a small fortune. It was the dream of his life!” - </p> - <p> - “He has left me, thank God, an infinitely greater inheritance,” said - Sylvester. - </p> - <p> - She did not question him, only looked at him blankly, dimly comprehending. - Then she reverted to the more easily intelligible. - </p> - <p> - “But to sell Woodlands!” she reiterated. “Impossible! When we were tiny - children, he used to talk of your living here after him. You must.” - </p> - <p> - “I haven't the money,” he said sadly. - </p> - <p> - “But I have. I'll buy it. I shall. You needn't laugh. Who in the wide - world can prevent me?” - </p> - <p> - “My dear Ella,” he said with a smile, “how would that help matters? I - could not live in your house.” - </p> - <p> - “Dorothy and Aunt Agatha could. You could rent it. There are many ways. - Anyhow, Uncle Matthew would sooner have it in my hands than in a - stranger's. I have made up my mind. It will be my first investment.” - </p> - <p> - And so as to have the last word, she swept across the room and retired. - The swish of her skirts had hardly ceased to sound in Sylvester's ears - when a servant came in with a letter. It bore no stamp, and was in - Roderick's handwriting. - </p> - <p> - “Trotter from the White Hart brought it, sir,” explained the servant. - </p> - <p> - The letter ran:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - <i>Having received your solicitor's letter concerning the - legacy under Mr. Lanyon's will, I came down last evening to - see my father. In the course of conversation he revealed to - me facts which have literally stunned me. I must see you or - write to you. But as these things are best unwritten, - perhaps in the utterly unprecedented circumstances you would - be willing to bear the pain that such an interview might - cause you, and make an appointment to meet me today. I would - suggest this hotel. Perhaps I have little right to do so, - but, I earnestly beseech you to believe in my good faith. - - Roderick Usher.</i> -</pre> - <p> - Sylvester read this letter, so uncharacteristic of the man as he had known - him, with a recrudescence of implacable feeling. To meet him was hateful. - The agony of the journey to Ayresford a week ago came upon him. He - crumpled the letter tight in his hand. - </p> - <p> - “He was to wait for an answer, sir,” hazarded the servant, after a time. - </p> - <p> - The commonplace, as it often does, brought reaction. He scribbled a line, - fixing the appointment at twelve. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - He found Roderick pacing up and down the stiffly furnished and somewhat - dingy private sitting-room of the White Hart Hotel. The two men brought - suddenly face to face remained for a while in an embarrassed silence, each - looking in the eyes of the other. For the first time Sylvester realised in - all its significance the blood tie that bound them. This man was his - brother. Grotesque and incongruous though it seemed, the fact was driven - home to him as by some mighty blow. This man's mother was his mother,—the - mother who had sung him to sleep as a little child, who had listened to - his boyish confidence, who had been inwoven in all his early life, whose - voice whose caress, whose fragrance, lingered vividly in all his senses, - whose body and soul were unalienably <i>his</i>. A horrible jealousy - seized him. - </p> - <p> - Roderick, though point-device in blue serge suit and saffron-silk tie, - looked aged and careworn. The lines under his eyes had deepened. He had - lost flesh, and his cheeks were flabby. He was the first to break the - silence. - </p> - <p> - “It may be absurd for a man of forty to talk about his mother, but if I - had had your advantages in that respect, I might have been a better man.” - </p> - <p> - Then Sylvester's jealousy vanished, and he remembered the wrong that had - been done. - </p> - <p> - “My father did all that a human soul could do to make atonement,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “And mine did everything in his power to prevent it. Will you sit down?” - </p> - <p> - Roderick motioned Sylvester to a chair, and sat down near him. - </p> - <p> - “I don't pretend to love my father. I never had reason to. I am a bad lot, - I know, but compared to him, I am the incarnation of virtue. When I forged - the cheque, I was given to understand for the first time that my father - had some mysterious hold over Mr. Lanyon. But, as God hears me, I never - dreamed until last night of the true nature of the case. Do you believe - me?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Sylvester; “I believe you.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” returned Roderick; “now I know where I am.” - </p> - <p> - He lit a cigarette, having offered his case to Sylvester, who declined. - </p> - <p> - “It is now in my power,” said he, after enjoying the first two fragrant - whiffs, “to restore the money I stole from you. You observe I have the - grace to use the naked expression. Will you accept it?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly,” said Sylvester. “It is but just.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you think I would repay you?” - </p> - <p> - “Frankly speaking, no.” - </p> - <p> - “And having heard my father's story last night, do you think I'll touch a - penny of your father's money?” he cried, bringing his hand with a thump on - the round centre-table. “My God! I would sooner die.” - </p> - <p> - “The balance above the three thousand is yours,” said Sylvester. “I cannot - accept a gift from you.” - </p> - <p> - Roderick puffed violently at his cigarette, threw it away, and rose to his - feet excitedly. - </p> - <p> - “I can't touch it. I have been a damned villain, I know. I was hard put to - it, and I worked upon a girl's emotions so that I could marry her for her - money. Then, by Heaven, I began to love her, finished by loving her madly, - with an insensate passion. To get her, I committed a cowardly crime. I - broke my parole, as it were, with you. I deserve every epithet of - dishonour as regards that which you like to heap upon me, but to carry on - this horrible, hideous blackmail—by God, I can't do it. Last night - has turned me into a moral man. I'll forswear sack and live cleanly for - the rest of my life. I could vomit with disgust. It is <i>écourant</i>,—makes - one's heart retch! Do you know what I've found out? You asked me once - whether my father didn't make me an allowance. That put me on the track - last night. I cross-questioned, found out that for years and years Mr. - Lanyon, besides submitting to my fathers extortion, had given him £400 a - year to be handed to me as an allowance; and I've never in my life - received a penny of it, so help me God, never! Your father has made - atonement, every atonement. I learn that he has been sucked dry, and that - there is nothing left for you. It is I who now must make atonement for my - father. Could blackmail be more abject than his? Consider for one ghastly - moment the nature of it. In the name of charity, for the sake of what is - left of my manhood, take back all this money.” - </p> - <p> - He had delivered this harangue with his old fervour and declamatory - gestures, and when he had ended he flung himself into an armchair and - wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Suddenly he started again to his - feet and seized a folded folio document lying on the table. - </p> - <p> - “See,” said he. “I've been down to Higginson the solicitor this morning, - and executed a deed of gift, making the whole thing over to you, less the - legacy duty. For Heaven's sake, take it and let me feel an honest man - again.” - </p> - <p> - Sylvester read through the document. Then he folded it up and put it in - his pocket. - </p> - <p> - “The three thousand I'll take,” he said. “The remainder, with your - permission, I'll give to the Prisoners' Aid Society; my father took a keen - interest in it.” - </p> - <p> - “Anything, so long as I don't touch it,” said Roderick, lighting another - cigarette. “Ha! Now I feel free, and can take up the threads of life - again. By the way, when you go, think as charitably of my father as you - can. I've done with him for ever and ever, but I've explained him to - myself. He is a perfect type of the non-moral being, the instinctive - criminal. There's a family history which you as a physician would find - interesting. To me as a poor devil of an artist, it is a bogey which only - walks abroad in the night of my mind. I suppose I have a share in the - family taint, but as I hope never to propagate my species, it will die - with me.” - </p> - <p> - He rattled on in his vehement way, and once more Sylvester fell under the - spell of his exuberant personality, preferring to listen than to speak. - Roderick launched out into a forecast of his future. He would forswear - sack, he repeated, and live cleanly, with Art for his chaste mistress. “I - got an idea for a picture, this morning, that is going to revolutionise my - existence,” said he. Sylvester's acceptance of the deed of gift was like - the removal of a heavy stone that had held prisoner his elvish spirit. And - the more he approached the Roderick of six months ago, the more did - Sylvester wonder at the nature of the man. Yet his pocket held irrefutable - proof of the man's sincerity. At last he rose and held out his hand. - Roderick looked at him, and looked at the hand in astonishment; then he - strode a pace forward and grasped it eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “You are a good fellow to shake hands with me,” said he. - </p> - <p> - The ring of genuine feeling touched Sylvester deeply. - </p> - <p> - “Let us bury the past,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “On my side, God knows how willingly.” - </p> - <p> - “And whether we are friends or not, we'll remember that the same mother - bore us.” Roderick bowed, his quick perception divining the cost at which - the words were uttered. - </p> - <p> - “I shall always remember it,” he said soberly. - </p> - <p> - He accompanied his visitor down the stairs to the front porch of the - old-fashioned hotel. The men shook hands again. Roderick disappeared in - the gloom of the corridor, and Sylvester turned to see, on the other side - of the street, Ella, out on some small shopping errand, watching him in - amazement. - </p> - <p> - He crossed the road and walked by her side. - </p> - <p> - “Your question of this morning is answered,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Syl,” she replied. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I shall be able to keep Woodlands, after all.” - </p> - <p> - “I was praying for it,” she said significantly. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Two days afterwards Ella left for the south of France with Lady Milmo, and - Sylvester returned to town to prepare his gloomy house for Dorothy's - reception. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXII—A GLORIOUS WORLD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo years passed - and brought with them their changes, sudden and gradual. A few months - after Matthew Lanyon's death, old Ebenezer Usher died of an apoplectic - fit. Ruin was staring him in the face. Of all the moneys he had extorted - only a few hundreds remained. Peter Vavasour & Co. and others of their - bucket-shop confraternity had sucked him dry as he had sucked Matthew. - Indignation at the wickedness of mankind killed him and he went to his own - place. His effects were sold, and the considerable sum that was realised—for - his collections of china, postage stamps, and book plates were remarkably - fine—was handed over by Roderick, still zealous to atone, to - Sylvester, who paid it into the funds of the Prisoners' Aid Society. And - this was the end of Ebenezer Usher. The grass grows over the grave wherein - he lies, some twenty yards away from his enemy. - </p> - <p> - No tombstone marks, or ever will mark, the spot. “He is not the kind of - man whose memory one cares to perpetuate,” said his son. - </p> - <p> - Miss Lanyon lived at Woodlands, where sometimes Ella and sometimes Dorothy - stayed with her; and now and then for change of scene went Sylvester. He - could not realise the old man's dream, and live there, devoting himself to - research, but it comforted him to know that the house had not passed into - alien hands. His own home in Weymouth Street was gladdened by a child's - presence, and the spirit of its desolation departed. Instinctively he felt - that it was too gloomy for a child, and with the pathetic helplessness of - an inartistic man who had never concerned himself about such things, he - took her with him to choose new wall papers, curtains, and rugs. Perhaps - the result was incongruous, but at any rate it was bright, and pleased the - choosers mightily. - </p> - <p> - The effect of the great revolution in Sylvester's attitude to life - gradually grew more apparent. The intense humanity of his profession won - to his heart now that the barriers of ice were melted. The intellectual - problem which it had been his duty to solve became the hurt to a suffering - creature which it was his privilege to heal. A new tenderness softened his - nature. The gift of speech came to him as by the miracle of the gift of - tongues. To his great wonder, the society of ordinary kindly men and - women, from which in a general way he had shrunk all his life through - shyness and reserve, and which in positive misanthropy he had afterwards - shunned, gradually appeared to him a sweet and pleasant thing, until he - recognised it as a necessity in his existence. And old feelings, sweeter, - sadder, infinitely deeper than of old, were reawakened. - </p> - <p> - How it came about he knew not. When he had parted from Ella after his - father's funeral, he did not love her. He had realised the irrevocable - loss of a happiness that might have been, and that was all. Then on her - return from the south of France late in the spring he had seen her and - spoken with her, and she had been kind. A month afterwards he had seen her - again, and once more six months after that,—for they rarely met. And - then he knew that she was the one woman in the world for him, and that the - love for which he had kissed her years ago was as moonlight unto the - sunlight of his present love. - </p> - <p> - Once more they had met, and he told her. - </p> - <p> - “How can I love you when you have done so much to hurt me?” she said. - </p> - <p> - “I don't ask for your love,” he urged. - </p> - <p> - “You do,” she replied with a smile of wisdom. “Don't deceive yourself, - Syl.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, I will make you love me.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't speak like that,” she said with a shiver. “It is horrible to make a - woman love. There is no woman made to love that does not repent it in - shame and misery.” - </p> - <p> - “But you once did love me.” - </p> - <p> - “You have hurt me. Life has hurt me,” she said gently. “I don't mean to - say that it was not partly my own fault, nor do I want to pose as an - injured woman. But the fact remains, Syl, dear; and you must let time do - what it can in the way of healing. If you care for me, see me a little - oftener than you have done,—it will be good for both of us,—but - don't speak of this again.” - </p> - <p> - “Am I to go through a term of probation?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Heaven forbid!” said Ella. - </p> - <p> - There the matter remained. They met more frequently, became fast friends, - and Sylvester waited. And so the two years slipped by. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - It was a hot August day, and Lady Milmo sat in the verandah of the little - hotel at Vitznau at the foot of the Righi, with a novel open on her lap. - Her eyes were fixed idly upon a little speck of a boat on the lake by - whose sides rose rhythmically tiny silver flashes. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you come <i>unexpectedly</i> upon us here?” she had written to - Sylvester, of whose arrival in Zermatt a chance-met wandering acquaintance - had told her. “You will find the Righi <i>much</i> more satisfactory than - that silly Jungfrau. And you will find two people quite disposed to be - very kind to you.” - </p> - <p> - So Sylvester had left his ice-axes and ropes and mountaineering boots at - Zermatt, and had flown on the wings of hope to Vitznau, and there he was - with Ella in the little boat on the lake. - </p> - <p> - Soon an approaching steamboat from Lucerne hid the tiny speck from Lady - Milmo's view,-and gradually drew near. The inmates of the hotel came on to - the verandah to watch the landing of the passengers, the morning's - excitement. The gangway was thrust forward from the little jetty, and the - crowd streamed ashore,—fresh English girls in straw hats, - substantial fathers, anxious, lonely ladies with profusion of - hand-baggage, Germans girt with satchel and vasculum, pacing sultanesquely - in front of their womenkind, English parsons, happy and perspiring,—all - amidst a sort of tangled undergrowth of umbrellas, and straps, and sticks, - and alpenstocks purchased in Lucerne with the burnt-in names of - inaccessible peaks circling round them. Some proceeded at once to the tiny - railway station where the grotesquely slanting train awaited them. Others - poured on to the verandah and took possession of the hotel. The gong for - <i>dejeuner</i> sounded. Lady Milmo looked anxiously at her speck, which - had become visible again, and then at her watch. The occupants of the boat - gave no sign of returning shorewards. They would be late for <i>table - d'hôte</i>. Lady Milmo waved her pocket-handkerchief until she was the - last person on the verandah, and then she went into the <i>salle-a-manger</i> - alone, feeling somewhat injured. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile, the two in the boat had been rowing idly over the lake. Ella - lay back on the cushions of the stern with half-closed eyes, while - Sylvester sculled lazily. She had been very glad to see him when he - arrived the evening before, and her heart had given him a little unbidden - throb of welcome. His altered attitude towards her, as well as dim gleams - of revelation of some fundamental change within him, had caused her to - forget, or at least look back unresentfully upon old wrongs. At times an - inflection of the voice, a sudden gentleness of manner, brought his father - vividly back to her. It seemed as if, by some strange metempsychosis, the - old man's spirit had entered into the son, and was gradually unfolding. He - was still the worthiest man she knew. She lived her old life amid the - jargon of culture in her aunt's house, and it wearied her, and she longed - for something nobler. In Sylvester she found at least reality. She beheld - him a sane, sincere, strong man, around whose life was gathered an - indeterminate pathos. - </p> - <p> - The sun shone bright from a deep blue sky flecked here and there with an - infinitely distant wisp of cirrus. The tiny promontories jutted out their - green into the lake. Far away rose the glittering white snow-peaks, and - close at hand the mass of the Righi with white specks of habitations - nestling in its sides. The water plashed pleasantly against the side of - the boat. Ella murmured of the loveliness around. - </p> - <p> - “The day seems to have got into my heart,” she said. “If you looked into - it, you would see everything as in a camera. I wish it would last.” - </p> - <p> - “Why shouldn't it?” asked Sylvester, leaning on his sculls. - </p> - <p> - “We are going away to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “There is a way in which I at least could keep this in my heart for ever,” - said he. - </p> - <p> - “I would that could be a way for me too,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - “Why not, dear? I have waited for you.” - </p> - <p> - She looked round upon the tremulous beauty of sky and lake and mountain - with a wistful sense of its transience. Her heart was very womanly. - </p> - <p> - “It would be a way for me, if there were not something between us, Syl,” - she answered,—“something that keeps us apart. I don't know what it - is.” - </p> - <p> - “If I could remove it—?” he began. - </p> - <p> - Their eyes met. He suddenly took to his oars and began to pull with - vigorous strokes. - </p> - <p> - “We are going to land,” he said. - </p> - <p> - They were silent untilThey were silent until they had reached the foot of one of the little - promontories. Then, finding a convenient landing-place, he clambered out - and helped her ashore. - </p> - <p> - “Let us sit down, dear,” he said, when he had made fast the boat. “I have - a great deal to tell you.” - </p> - <p> - And there in the cool shade of the pine-trees, with the quivering - noon-tide haze between them and the great stretch of lake, he told her all - his story: of Constance and Leroux, of the awful frost that had frozen his - heart, of his father and the elder Usher, of his own lack of right to the - name he bore, of his father's death-bed. He spoke continuously in an - earnest undertone, although their solitude was broken only by the twitter - of birds and the soft whirring of summer insects. Ella, sitting a little - way apart, kept silent and never stirred save to look up at him from time - to time with piteous wonder in her eyes. And as the old man's tragedy was - unfolded before her, the tears brimmed over and fell down her cheeks. Thus - all the dark places were made light to her. The man's soul was revealed. - She felt humbled, of small account, as though admitted unworthy into some - holy place of sacred things, where sin and suffering were washed away by a - divine pity. He ended abruptly. - </p> - <p> - “That's all the story,” said he; “you must judge us both as you think - best.” - </p> - <p> - For a moment she sat silent, as her heart was too full for speech; but her - hand, that had some while since found its way into his, gave him a soft - sign of sympathy. At last words came. - </p> - <p> - “I understand all, Syl,—both you and him.” - </p> - <p> - “That means forgiving all.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, all.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank God!” he whispered. - </p> - <p> - There was a silence. Their souls held communion, the barrier between them - being broken down. We have passed through pain and sorrow, ran the mutual - message, and our hearts have been made exceeding pitiful, and love at last - dwells therein. And for a season time stood still. - </p> - <p> - Ella looked through the mist of her tears at the splendour of the day. - Suddenly the mist cleared, and the splendour was eclipsed by the dawning - of a newer glory. Sylvester saw it in her eyes. With a cry of passionate - joy he flung his arms around her, and she gave her life to him utterly. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - They rowed back across the lake, and the beauty of earth enfolded them. - Once he paused, and their eyes drank deep of each other. At length she - smiled. - </p> - <p> - “The world is a glorious place,” she said. - </p> - <h3> - THE END - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Dove, by William J. 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