CHAPTER VII.

THE SEARCH RENEWED.

Everybody was late next day at the Court; everybody except Clide de

Winton, whose waking dreams being brighter than any that his pillow

could suggest, had deserted it at a comparatively early hour, and had

been for a stroll in the park before breakfast. He re-entered the house

whistling an air from _Don Giovanni_, and went into the library, where he

expected to find Sir Simon. The baronet generally came in there to read

his letters when there were people staying in the house. The library was

a noble room with its six high pointed windows set in deep mullions, and

its walls wainscoted with books on the east and west--rich-clad volumes

of crimson and brown, with the gold letters of their names relieving the

sombre hues like thin streaks of light, while at intervals great old

florentines in folios “garmented in white” made a break in the general

solemnity. The end opposite the windows was left clear for a group of

family portraits; and beneath these, as Clide burst into the room,

there stood a living group, conversing together in low tones, and with

anxious, harassed faces. Mrs. de Winton, contrary to her custom, had on

a gray cashmere dressing-gown, whose soft, clinging drapery gave her

tall figure some resemblance to a classical statue; she was leaning her

arm on the high mantel-piece, with an open letter in her hand, which

she was apparently discussing with deep annoyance, and with a cloud of

incredulity on her handsome, cold features; the admiral was striking the

marble with his clenched hand, and looking steadily at the bronze clock,

as if vehemently remonstrating with it for marking ten minutes to eleven;

Sir Simon was standing with his hands in his pockets, his back against

the base of Cicero’s bust, very nearly as white as the Roman orator

himself.

The three figures started when Clide opened the door. He felt

instantaneously that something was amiss, but there was a momentary pause

before he said:

“Has anything happened?”

Mrs. de Winton, seeing that no one else spoke, came forward: “Nothing

that we are certain of; but your uncle has received a letter that has

shocked and startled us a good deal, although it seems on the face of

it quite impossible that the thing can be true. But you will be brave,

Clide, and meet it as becomes a Christian.” She spoke calmly, but her

voice trembled a little.

“For heaven’s sake what is it?” said Clide, a horrible thought darting

through him like a sting. Why did his uncle keep looking away from him?

“Uncle, what is it?”

“It is a letter from Ralph Cromer--you remember your uncle’s old

valet?--he is in London now; he was at Glanworth on that dreadful night.…

My dear boy,” laying her hand kindly on his arm, “it may be a mere fancy

of his; in fact, it seems impossible for a moment to admit of its being

anything else; but Cromer says he has seen her.…”

“Seen whom? My dead wife … Isabel! The man is mad!”

“It must be a delusion; we are certain it is; but still it has given us a

shock,” said his stepmother.

“What does the man say? Show me his letter!”

She handed it to him.

“HONORED MASTER: I am hard set to believe it; but if it an’t

her, it’s her ghost as I seen this mornin’ comin’ out of a

house in Wimpole Street, and though I ran after her as hard as

my bad leg ’ud let me, she jumped into a cab and was off before

I could get another look of her. It was the young missis,

Master Clide’s wife, as you buried eight year ago, Sir, as I’m

a live man; unless I went blind of a sudden and saw wrong,

which an’t likely, as you know to the last my eyes was strong

and far-seein’. I went back to the house, but the man could

tell me nothin’ except as all sorts of people keep comin’ and

goin’ with the toothache, in and out, his employer bein’ a

dentist, and too busy to be disturbed with questions as didn’t

pay. I lose no time in acquaintin’ you of, honored master, and

remain yours dutifully to command,

RALPH CROMER.”

There was a dead silence in the room while Clide read the letter. Every

one of the six eyes was fixed on him eagerly. He crushed the paper in his

hand, and sat down without uttering a word.

“Don’t let yourself be scared too quickly, De Winton,” said Sir Simon;

“it is perfectly clear to my mind that the thing is a mere imagination of

Cromer’s; he’s nearly in his dotage; he sees somebody who bears a strong

likeness to a person he knew nearly eight years ago, and he jumps at the

conclusion that it is that person.”

Clide made no answer to this, but turned round and faced his uncle, who

still stood with his hand clenched stolidly on the mantel-piece.

“Uncle, what do you think of it?” he said hoarsely.

The admiral walked deliberately towards the sofa and sat down beside his

nephew. Before he spoke he held out his horny palm, and grasped Clide’s

hand tightly. The action was too significant not to convey to Clide all

it was meant--perhaps unconsciously--to express.

The admiral did not believe the story to be the phantom of dotage; he

believed Cromer had seen Isabel.

“My boy,” he said, speaking in a harsh, abrupt tone, as if the words were

being dragged out of him, “I can say nothing until we have investigated

the matter. An hour ago I would have sworn it was absurd, impossible. I

would have said, with an oath, it cannot be true. I saw her laid in her

coffin and buried at St. Valéry. But I might have sworn falsely. Several

days had elapsed between the death and the burial; the features were

swollen, scarcely recognizable. I took it perhaps too readily for granted

that they were hers; I ought to have looked closer and longer; but I

shrank from looking at all; I only glanced; they showed me the hair; it

was the same length and apparently the same color, deep jet black; the

height too corresponded. This, as well as all the collateral evidence,

satisfied me at once as to the identity. It may be that I was too rash,

too anxious to be convinced.”

Clide was silent for a few moments. Then he said:

“Where did the dentist live that gave us the clew before?”

“In Wimpole Street.”

Clide drew away his hand quickly from his uncle’s with a visible shudder.

The coincidence had done its work with the others before he came in. An

inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some sort, broke

from him.

“Come, come,” said Sir Simon, striding towards the window, “it’s sheer

nonsense to take for granted that the house is burnt down because there’s

a smell of fire. The coincidences are strange, very singular certainly;

but such things happen every day. I stick to my first impression that

it’s nothing but a delusion of Cromer’s in the first instance, to which

the chance similarity of the dentist’s address gives a color of reality

too faint to be worth more than it actually is. You must go up to town at

once, and clear away the mistake; it’s too monstrous to be anything else.”

He spoke in a very determined manner, as if he were too thoroughly

convinced himself to doubt of convincing others. Clide made a resolute

effort to be convinced.

“Yes, you say truly; it’s unreasonable to accept the story without

further evidence. I will go in search of it without an hour’s delay.

Uncle, you will come with me?”

“Yes, my boy, yes; we will go together; we must start in about an hour

from this”--pulling out his watch--“meantime, come in and have your

breakfast; it wont help matters to travel on an empty stomach.”

Mrs. de Vinton left the room hurriedly; the others were following; but

Clide had weightier things on his mind than breakfast; he closed the

door after his uncle and turned round, facing Sir Simon.

The latter was the first to speak.

“Has anything definite passed between you and Franceline?”

It was precisely to speak about this that he had detained Sir

Simon, yet when the baronet broached the subject in this frank,

straight-to-the-point way, he answered him almost savagely: “What’s

the use of reminding me of her now! As if the thought were not already

driving me mad!”

“I must speak of it. Whatever misery may be in store for the rest of

us, I am responsible for her share in it. I insist upon knowing how far

things have gone between you. Have you distinctly committed yourself?”

“If following a woman like her shadow, and hanging on every word she

says, and telling her by every look and tone that he worships the ground

she walks on--if you call that distinctly committing myself, I shouldn’t

think you needed to ask.”

“Have you asked her to be your wife?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Does she care for you? De Winton, be honest with me. This is no time for

squeamishness. Speak out to me as man to man. I feel towards this young

girl as if she were my own child. I have known all along how it was with

you. But how about her? Have I guessed right--does she love you?”

“God help me! God help us both!” And with this passionate cry Clide

turned away and, hiding his face in his hands, let himself fall into a

chair.

“God help you, my poor lad! And God forgive me!” muttered Sir Simon.

The accent of self-reproach in which the prayer was uttered smote Clide

to the heart; it stirred all that was noble and unselfish within him,

and in the midst of his overwhelming anguish bade him forget himself to

comfort his friend.

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with; you acted like a true

friend, like a father to me. You meant to make me the happiest of men,

to give me a treasure that I never could be worthy of. God bless you for

it!” He held out his hand, and grasped Sir Simon’s. “No, nobody is to

blame; it is my own destiny that pursues me. I thought I had lived it

down; but I was mistaken. I am never to live it down. I could bear it if

it fell upon myself alone. I had grown used to it. But that it should

fall upon her! What has she done to deserve it?… What do I not deserve

for bringing this curse upon her?” He rose up with flashing eye, his

whole frame quivering with passion--he struck out against the air with

both arms, as if striving to burst some invisible, unendurable bond.

Sir Simon started back affrighted. Kind-hearted, easy-going Sir Simon had

never experienced the overmastering force of passion, whether of anger

or grief, love or joy; his was one of those natures that when the storm

comes lie down and let it sweep over them. He was brought now for the

first time in his life in contact with the spectacle of one who did not

bend under the tempest, but rose up in frantic defiance, breasting and

resisting it. He quailed before the sight; he could not make a sign or

find a word to say. But the transient paroxysm of madness spent itself,

and after a few minutes Clide said, hopelessly yet fiercely:

“Speak to me, why don’t you, Harness?” Emotion swept away his habitual

tone of respect towards the man who might have been his father. “Help me

to help her! What can I do to stand between her and this misery? I must

see her before I go, and what in Heaven’s name shall I say to her?”

“You shall not see her,” said Sir Simon; “you would not think of such a

thing if you were in your right mind; but you are mad, De Winton. Say to

her, indeed! That you find you are a married man--I don’t believe it,

mind--but what else could you say if you were to see her? While there

is the shadow of a doubt on this head you must not see her, must not

directly or indirectly hold any communication with her.”

“And I am to sneak off without a word of explanation, and leave her to

think of me as a heartless, dishonorable scoundrel!”

“A bitter alternative; but it is better to seem a scoundrel than to be

one,” answered Sir Simon. “What could you say to her if you saw her?”

“I would tell her the truth and ask her to forgive me,” said the young

man, his face kindling with tenderness and passion of a softer kind than

that which had just convulsed its fine lineaments. “I would bless her for

what the memory of her love must be to me while I live. Harness, if it is

only to say ‘God bless you and forgive me!’ I must see her.”

“I’ll shoot you first!” said the baronet, clutching his arm and arresting

his steps toward the door. “You call that love? I call it the basest

selfishness. You would see the woman who loves you for the sole purpose

of planting yourself so firmly in the ruins of her broken heart that

nothing could ever uproot it; but then she would worship you as a

victim--a victim of her own making, and this would be compensation to you

for a great deal. I thought better of you, De Winton, than to suppose you

capable of such heartless foppery.”

It was Clide’s turn to quail. But he answered quickly:

“You are right. It would be selfish and cruel. I was mad to think of it.”

“Of course you were. I knew you would see it in a moment.”

“But there is no reason why I should not see her father,” said Clide; “it

is only fit that I should speak to him. Shall I go there, or will you

bring him up here?”

“You shall not see him, here or anywhere else,” was the peremptory reply.

“Have you spoken to him already?”

“No. I went down this morning for the purpose, but he was not up.”

“That was providential. And about Franceline, am I to understand there is

a distinct engagement between you?”

“As distinct as need be for a man of honor.”

“Since when?”

“Last night.”

Sir Simon winced. This at any rate was his doing. He had taken every

pains to precipitate what now he would have given almost anything he

possessed to undo.

“I’ll tell you what it is, you must leave the matter in my hands. I will

see the count as soon as you are gone. I will tell him that your uncle

has been called off suddenly on important business that required your

presence, and that you have gone with him. For the present it is not

necessary to say more; it would be cruel to do so.”

“I will abide by your advice,” said Clide submissively; “but

afterwards--what if this terrible news turns out to be true?”

“It has yet to be proved.”

“If it is proved it will kill her!” exclaimed Clide, speaking rather to

himself than to his companion.

“Pooh! nonsense! All fancy that. Lovers’ dead are easily buried,” said

Sir Simon, affecting a cheerfulness he was very far from feeling. He knew

better than Clide how ill-fitted Franceline was, both by the sensitive

delicacy of her own nature and the inherited delicacy of a consumptive

mother, to bear up against such a blow as that which threatened her;

but he would not lacerate the poor fellow’s heart by letting him share

these gloomy forebodings that were based on surer ground than the

sentimental fears of a lover. Perhaps the expression of his undisciplined

features--the brow that could frown but knew not how to dissemble;

the lip that could smile so kindly, or curl in contempt, but knew not

how to lie; the eye that was the faithful, even when the unconscious,

interpreter of the mind--may have said more to Clide than was intended.

“I trust you to watch over her,” he said; and then added in a tone that

went to Sir Simon’s very heart, “don’t spare me if it can help you to

spare her. Tell her I am a blackguard--it’s true by comparison; compared

to her snow-white purity and angelic innocence of heart, I am no better

than a false and selfish brute. Blacken me as much as you like--make her

hate me--anything rather than that she should suffer, or guess what I am

suffering. God knows I would bear it and ten times worse to shield her

from one pang!”

“That is spoken like yourself,” said the baronet. “I recognize your

father’s son now.”

They grasped each other’s hands in silence. Clide was opening the door

when suddenly he turned round and said with a smile of touching pathos:

“You will not begin the blackening process at once? You will wait till we

know if it is necessary?”

“All right--you may trust me,” was the rejoinder, and they went together

into the breakfast-room.

* * * * *

They had the carriage to themselves. Clide was glad of it. It was a

strange fatality that drew these two men, alike only in name, so closely

together in the most trying crises of the younger man’s life. He spoke of

it gratefully, but bitterly.

“Yes, your support is the one drop of comfort granted me in this trouble,

as it was in the other,” he said, as the train carried them through the

green fields and past many a spot made dear and beautiful by memory; “it

is abominably selfish of me to use it as I do, but where should I be

without it! I should have been in a mad-house before this if it were not

for you, uncle, hunted as I am like a mad-dog. What have I done so much

worse than other men to be cursed like this!”

The admiral had hitherto been as gentle towards his nephew as a fond but

awkward nurse handling a sick child; but he turned on him now with a

severe countenance.

“What right have you to turn round on your Maker and upbraid him for the

consequences of your own folly? You talk of being cursed; we make our

own curses. We commit follies and sins, and we have to pay for it, and

then we call it destiny! It is your own misdoing that is hunting you.

You thought to make life into a holiday; to shirk every duty, everything

that was the least irksome or distasteful; you flew in the face of

common-sense, and family dignity, and all the responsibilities of life

in your marriage; you rushed into the most solemn act of a man’s life

with about as much decency and reverence as a masquerader at a fancy

ball. Instead of acting openly in the matter and taking counsel with

your relatives, you fall in love with a pretty face and marry it without

even as much prudence as a man exercises in hiring a groom. You pay the

penalty of this, and then, forsooth, you turn round on Providence and

complain of being cursed! I don’t want to be hard on you, and I’m not

fond of playing Job’s comforter; but I can’t sit here and listen to you

blaspheming without protesting against it.”

When the admiral had finished this harangue, the longest he ever made in

his life, he took out his snuff-box and gave it a sharp tap preparatory

to taking a pinch.

“You are quite right, sir; you are perfectly right,” said Clide; “I have

no one to blame but myself for that misfortune.”

“Well, if you see it and own it like a man that’s a great point,” said

the admiral, mollified at once. “The first step towards getting on the

right tack is to see that we have been going on the wrong one.”

“I was very young too,” pleaded Clide; “barely of age. That ought to

count for something in my favor.”

“So it does; of course it does, my boy,” assented his uncle warmly.

“I came to see the folly and the sinfulness of it all--of shirking my

duties, as you say--and I was resolved to turn over a new leaf and make

up for what I had left undone too long. M. de la Bourbonais said to me,

‘We most of us are asleep until the sting of sorrow wakes us up.’ It

had taken a long time to do it, but it did wake me up at last; and just

as I was thoroughly stung into activity, into a desire to be of use to

somebody, to make my life what it ought to be, there comes down this

thunderclap upon me, and dashes it all to pieces again. That is what I

complain of. That is what is hard. This has been no doing of mine.”

“Whose doing is it? It is the old mistake sticking to you still. It is

the day of reckoning that comes sooner or later after every man’s guilt

or folly. We bury it out of sight, but it rises up like a day of judgment

on us when we least expect it.”

“I was not kept long waiting for the day of reckoning to my first

folly--call it sin, if you like--” said Clide bitterly. “I should have

thought it was expiated by this. Eight of the best years of my life

wasted in wretchedness.”

“You wasted them because you liked it; because it was pleasanter to you

to go mooning about the world than to come back to your post at home,

and do your duty to God and yourself and your fellow-men,” retorted the

admiral gruffly. “If we swallow poison, are its gripings to be reckoned

merit to us? You spent eight years eating the fruit of your own act, and

you expect the bitterness to count as an atonement. My boy, I have no

right to preach to you, or to any one; I have too many holes in my own

coat; but I have this advantage over you--that I see where the holes

are and what made them. We need never expect things to go right with us

unless we do the right thing; and if we do right and things seem to go

wrong, they are sure to be right all the same, though we can’t see it.

It is not all over here; the real reckoning is on the other side. But

we have not come to that yet,” he added, in an encouraging tone; “this

threat may turn out to be a vain one, and if so you will be none the

worse for it--probably all the better. We want to be reminded every now

and then that we don’t command either waves or wind; that when we are

brought through smooth seas safe into port, a Hand mightier than ours has

been guiding the helm for us. We are not quite such independent, fine

fellows as we like to think. But come what may, fine weather or foul, you

will meet it like a Christian, you will bow your head and submit.”

The admiral tapped his snuff-box again at this climax, took another

pinch, and then fell back on the cushions and opened his paper.

Clide was glad to be left to himself, although his thoughts were not

cheerful.

Sir Simon had said truly, he was or ought to have been a Catholic. At

almost the very outset of his acquaintance with Franceline, he had

intimated this fact to her, and though she did not inform her father of

it, the knowledge undoubtedly went far in attracting her towards the

young man and inspiring the confidence that she yielded to him so quickly

and unquestioningly.

Mrs. de Winton, Clide’s mother, had been a sincere Catholic, although

her heart had beguiled her into the treacherous error of marrying a man

who was not of her faith. She had stipulated unconditionally that her

children should be brought up Catholics; and on her death-bed demanded

a renewal of the promise--then, as formerly, freely given--that Clide,

their only child, should be carefully educated in his mother’s religion.

But these things can never safely be entrusted to the good-will of any

human being. The mother compromised--if she did not betray--her solemn

trust, and her child paid the penalty. Mr. de Winton kept his promise as

far as he could. He had no prejudices against the old religion--he was

too indifferent to religion in the main for that--the antiquity and noble

traditions of the Catholic Church claimed his intellectual sympathies,

while its spirit and teaching, as exemplified in the life of her whom

he revered as the model of all the virtues, inclined him to look on the

doctrines of Catholicity with an indulgence leaning to reverence, even

where he felt them most antagonistic.

Clide had a Catholic nurse to wash and scold him in his infantine

days, and when, too soon after his father’s second marriage, the boy

became an orphan and was left to the care of a stepmother, that cold

but conscientious lady carried out her husband’s dying injunctions by

engaging a Catholic governess to teach him his letters. Conscience,

however, gave other promptings which Mrs. de Winton found it hard to

reconcile with the faithful discharge of her late husband’s wishes. She

maintained the Catholic influence at home, but she would not prolong the

evil day an hour more than was absolutely necessary. She felt justified,

therefore, in precipitating Clide’s entrance at Eton at an age when many

children were still in the nursery. The Catholic catechism was not on the

list of Etonian school-books, and he would be otherwise safe from the

corroding influence which as yet could scarcely have penetrated below the

surface of his mind. It was reasonably to be hoped that in course of time

the false tenets he had imbibed would fade out of his mind altogether,

and that when he was of an age to choose for himself the boy would elect

the more respectable and rational creed of the De Wintons. His stepmother

carried her conscientious scruples so far in this respect, however, as

to inform the dame who was charged with the care of Clide’s linen, and

the tutor who was to train his mind, that the boy was a Catholic and

that his religion was to be respected. This injunction was, after a

certain fashion, strictly obeyed. The subject of religion was carefully

avoided, never mentioned to Clide directly or indirectly; and he was left

to grow up with about as much spiritual culture as the laborer bestows

on the flowers of the field. The seeds sown by his mother’s hand were

quickly carried away by the winds that blow from the four points of the

compass in those early, youthful days. If some sunk deeper and remained,

they had not sun or dew enough to blossom forth and fructify. Perhaps,

nevertheless, they did their work, and acted as an antidote in the

virgin, untilled soil, and preserved the young infidel from the vicious

vapors that tainted the air around him. It is certain that Clide left

the immoral atmosphere of the great public school quite uncorrupted,

guileless and upright, and still calling himself a Catholic, although

he had practically broken off from all communion with the church of

his childhood. He was more to be pitied than blamed. He was thinking

so now as he lay back in the railway carriage, while the admiral sat

beside him grunting complacently over the leading article, and mentally

prognosticating that the country was going to the dogs, thanks to those

blundering, unpatriotic Whigs. Yes, Clide pitied himself as he surveyed

the past, and saw how his young life had been wasted and shipwrecked. If

he felt that he had been too severely punished for follies that he had

never been warned against, you must make allowance for him. His face wore

a very sad, subdued look as he gazed out vacantly at the quiet fields and

villages and steeples flying past. Why does he suddenly make that almost

imperceptible movement, starting as if a voice had sounded close to his

side? Was it fancy, or did he really hear a voice, low and soft, like

faint, distant music that stirred his soul, making it vibrate to some

dimly remembered melody? Could it be his mother’s voice echoing through

the far-off years when he was a little child and knelt with his small

hands clasped upon her knee, and lisped out some forgotten words that she

dictated? Was it a trick of his imagination, or did some one stand at

his side, gently touching his right hand and constraining him to lift it

to his forehead, while his tongue mechanically accompanied the movement

with some once familiar, long disused formula? There was in truth a

presence near him, and a voice sounding from afar, murmuring those notes

of memory which are the mother-tongue of the soul, subtle, persuasive,

irresistible; accents that live when we have forgotten languages

acquired with mature choice and arduous study; a presence that clings to

us through life, and reveals itself when we have the will and the gift

to see and to recognize it. That power is mostly the purchase of a great

pain; the answer to our soul’s cry in the hour of its deepest need.

It flashed suddenly upon Clide, as that sweet and solemn influence

pervaded and uplifted him, that here lay the unexpected solution of

the problem--the missing key of life. He had fancied for a moment that

he had found it in M. de la Bourbonais’ serene theories and practical

philosophy. These had done much for him, it is true; but they had fallen

away; they failed like a broken sword in the hour of trial; they did

well enough for peaceful times, but they could not help and rescue him

when all the forces of the enemy were let loose. Yet they seemed to have

sufficed for Raymond.

Clide did not know that the calm philosophy was grafted on a root of

faith in the French gentleman’s mind; his faith was not dead; far from

it, and its vital heat had fed the strength which philosophy alone could

never have supplied. Poor Clide! If any one had been at hand to interpret

to him the message of that voice from his childhood, the whole aspect of

life might there and then have changed for him. But no spiritual guide,

no gentle monitor was there to tell him what it meant. The music died

away; the presence was clouded over and ceased to be felt. When the train

entered the station the passing emotion had disappeared, drowned without

by the roar of the great city; within, by the agitation of the present

which other thoughts had for a moment lulled to sleep.

The travellers drove straight from the railway station to Wimpole Street.

Mr. Peckett, the dentist, was at home. They were admitted at once, and a

few minutes’ conversation sufficed to confirm their worst forebodings.

There could be no doubt but that the person whom Cromer had recognized in

that transitory glimpse the day before was the beautiful and mysterious

creature, Clide’s wife.

The dentist had very little definite information to give concerning her.

He could only certify that she was the same who had come to him nearly

ten years ago to have a silver tooth made. It was a fantastic idea of

her own, and in spite of all his remonstrances she insisted on having

it carried out; it had seriously injured the neighboring tooth--nearly

eaten it away. This was what Mr. Peckett had foretold. He was launching

out into a rather excited denunciation of the thing, an absurdity against

all the laws of dentistry, when the admiral called him back to the point.

Did this tooth still exist? Yes; and if it was of no other use, it would

serve to identify the wearer. She had been to have it arranged about four

years ago, and again within the last few days. Mr. Peckett said she was

very little changed in appearance; as beautiful as ever, and considerably

developed in figure; but in manner she was greatly altered. Her former

childlike gayety was quite gone; she sat demure and silent, and when she

spoke it was with a sort of frightened restraint; if a door opened, or

if he asked a question abruptly, she started as if in terror. It was not

the ordinary starting of a nervous person; there was something in the

expression of the face, in the quivering of the mouth and the wavering

glance of the eyes, that had on one occasion especially suggested

to him the idea of a person whose mental faculties had suffered some

derangement. She gave him the impression, in fact, of one who either

had been or might on slight provocation become mad. She never gave any

name or address, but had always been accompanied by either the man whom

she called “uncle,” or an elderly woman with the manner of a well-to-do

shopkeeper; and she seemed in great awe of both of them. Yesterday was

the first time she had ever come by herself, and Mr. Peckett thought that

very likely either of these persons was waiting for her in the cab into

which she had jumped so quickly when Cromer was trying to come up with

her. She had left no clew as to her residence or projected movements;

only once, in reply to some question about a recipe which her uncle

wanted the dentist to see, she said that it had been forgotten in St.

Petersburg. His answer seemed to imply that they meant to return there.

Mr. Peckett was quite sure she sang in public, but whether on the stage

or only in concerts he could not say.

This was all he had to tell about his mysterious patient. He was very

frank, and appeared anxious to give any assistance in his power, and

promised to let Admiral de Winton know if she came to him again. But he

thought this was not likely for some time, at any rate. He had finished

with her on the last visit, and there was no reason that he foresaw for

her coming back at present.

There was not a shadow of doubt on Clide’s mind but that the person in

question was his lost Isabel. The admiral, however, stoutly continued

to pooh-pooh the idea as absurd and impossible. He was determined, at

any rate, not to give in to it until he had been to St. Valéry, and

investigated the question of the dead Isabel whom he had seen buried

there. So he left Clide to open communications once more with Scotland

Yard, and set the police in motion amongst the managers of theatres and

other agents of the musical world, while he went on board the steamer to

Dieppe. He was not long searching for the link he dreaded to find. The

young woman whom he had so hastily concluded to be his nephew’s missing

wife had been proved to be the daughter of a Spanish merchant, whose

ship had foundered on the Normandy coast in the gales that had done so

much damage during that eventful week. He himself had been saved almost

miraculously, and after many weeks of agonized suspense as to the fate of

his child, he heard of a body having been washed ashore at St. Valéry,

and buried after waiting several days for recognition. He hastened to the

spot, and, in spite of the swift ravages of death, recognized it beyond a

doubt as that of his child. The English milord who had paid for all the

expenses of the little grave, and manifested such emotion on beholding

the body, turning away without another glance when he saw the long hair

sweeping over it like a veil, had left no address, so the authorities had

no means of communicating with him.

This was the intelligence which Clide received two days after his

interview with the dentist. It only confirmed his previous conviction. He

was as satisfied that his wife was alive as if he had seen and spoken to

her. About an hour after his uncle’s return there came a note from Mr.

Peckett saying that “the person in question” was on her way to Berlin, if

she had not already arrived there. The landlady of the house where she

had been lodging, under the name of Mme. Villar, had called at Wimpole

Street for a pocket-book which her late tenant believed she must have

dropped there. While she was inquiring about it of the servant, Mr.

Peckett came out; he inquired after his patient; the landlady was glad

to say she was well, and sorry to say she was gone; she had left the day

before for Berlin, going _via_ Paris.

“Now, uncle, we must part,” said Clide; “I can’t drag you about on this

miserable business any more. I must do what remains to be done myself. I

will start at once for Berlin, and once there, à la grace de Dieu! you

will hear from me when I have anything to say.”

“I shall hear from you as soon as you arrive; you must write to me

without waiting for news,” said the admiral. “You will take Stanton with

you?”

“I suppose I had better; he knows everything, so there is no need to

shirk him, and he’s a discreet fellow, as well as intelligent and

good-natured. He may be of use to me.”

“Then God be with you both, my boy. Bear up, and keep a stout heart

whatever comes,” said the admiral, wringing his hand.

“You will write to Harness for me,” said Clide; “tell him I can’t write

myself; and say I trust to his doing whatever is best for me.…”

He turned away abruptly; and so they parted.

No incident broke the monotony of the road until Clide reached Cologne.

There, as he was crossing the platform, a lady passed him; she looked

at him, and started, or he fancied she did, and instead of getting into

the carriage that they were both evidently making for, she hurried on

to the one higher up. He drew his hand across his forehead, and stood

for a moment trying to remember where he had seen the face, but his

memory failed him. His curiosity was roused, however, and he was in

that frame of mind when every insignificant trifle comes to us pregnant

with unlooked-for possibilities. He went on to the carriage the lady

had entered. There was only another occupant beside herself, an elderly

German, with a beery countenance and brick-red whiskers. Clide got in

and seated himself opposite the lady, who was at the other end of the

compartment, and steadily looking out of the window. He felt sure she had

seen him come up to the door, but she did not turn round when he opened

it and closed it again with a bang. They had five minutes to wait before

the train started. Clide employed them in getting out a book and making

himself comfortable for the long ride in prospect. The lady was still

absorbed in the landscape. The German made his preparations by taking

a clay pipe from his pocket, filling it as full as it would hold with

tobacco, and then striking a light. Clide had started bolt upright, and

was watching in amazement. The lady was in front of him. Did the brute

mean to puff his disgusting weed into her face? He was making a chimney

of his hand to let the match light thoroughly. Perhaps Clide’s vehement

look of indignation touched him mesmerically, for before applying it to

the pipe he looked round at him and said in very intelligible English:

“I hope you don’t object to smoking?”

“I can’t say I much relish tobacco, but I sha’n’t interfere with you if

this lady does not object.”

Mein herr asked her if she did. She was compelled to turn round at the

question.

“I am sorry to say I do, sir; the smell of tobacco makes me quite sick.”

Hem! She is not a lady, at any rate, thought Clide.

“Oh! I am sorry for that,” said the German; “for you’ll have the trouble

of getting out.”

Before Clide could recover sufficient presence of mind to collar the man

and pitch him headforemost out of the window, the lady had grasped her

bag, rug, and umbrella, and was standing on the platform. The impending

ejectment was clearly a most welcome release; nothing but the utmost

goodwill could have enabled her to effect such a rapid exit. Clide was

so struck by it that he forgot to collar the German, who had begun with

equal alacrity to puff away at his pipe, and the train moved on.

The first thing Clide saw on alighting at the next station was his

recent _vis-à-vis_ marshalling an array of luggage that struck even his

inexperienced eye as somewhat out of keeping with a person who said “sir”

and travelled without a servant. What could one lone woman want with such

a lot of boxes, and such big ones? She waylaid a porter, who proceeded to

pile them on a truck while she stood mounting guard over them.

“Follow that man and see where he is taking that luggage to,” Clide

whispered to Stanton, and the latter, leaving his master to look after

their respective portmanteaux, hurried on in the direction indicated.

“They are going to the Hotel of the Great Frederick, sir,” he said,

returning in a few minutes.

“Then call a cab and let us drive there.”

The Hotel of the Great Frederick was not one of the fashionable

caravansaries of the place; it was a large, old-fashioned kind of

hostelry, chiefly frequented by business people, travelling clerks,

dress-makers, etc.; and its customers were numerous enough to make it

often difficult to secure accommodation there on short notice. This was

a busy season; everybody was flitting to and from the watering-places,

where the invalids and gamblers of Europe were ruining or repairing their

fortunes and their constitutions, so that Mr. de Winton was obliged to

content himself with two small rooms in the third story for the night;

to-morrow many travellers would be moving on, and he could have more

convenient quarters.

“Stanton, keep a lookout after that person. I am in a mood for suspecting

everything and everybody; but I don’t think it’s all fancy in this case.

I believe the woman is trying to avoid me; and if so, she must have a

motive for it. Ask for the visitors’ book, and bring it to me at once.”

Stanton brought the book, and while his master was running his eye

searchingly over the roll of names, hoping and dreading to see Mme.

Villar among the number, he set off to look after the woman with the

multitude of boxes. She was lodging on the first floor, and had been

expected by a lady and gentleman who had taken rooms in the house the day

before. This much Stanton learned from a _Kellner_,[148] whom he met

coming out of the said rooms with a tray in his hands.

“I think I know her,” said Stanton. “What is her name?”

But before the _Kellner_ could answer the door opened, and the lady

herself stood face to face with Mr. de Winton’s valet. Their eyes

met with a sudden flash of recognition; Stanton turned away with an

almost inaudible whistle, and was vaulting up to the third story in the

twinkling of an eye.

“I’ve seen her, sir, and I can tell you who she is. She is the dressmaker

that made Mrs. de Winton’s gowns before you brought her to Glanworth. I

remembered her the moment I saw her without a bonnet. I had been twice

to her place in Brook Street, with messages and a band-box from Mrs. de

Winton.”

Clide had started up with an exclamation of anger and triumph. Here,

then, was a clew. Evidently the woman held communication or was in some

way connected with Isabel, else why should she have shrunk from meeting

him? It was clear as daylight now that she did shrink.

“Tell the landlord I wish to speak to him,” said Clide.

He was walking up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and his

head tossed back like an impatient horse, when the owner of the Great

Frederick came in.

“I want to have a word of conversation with you; sit down, pray,” said

Clide; but he continued walking, as we are apt to do when agitation is

too vehement to bear immobility, and must have an outlet in motion. The

landlord had taken a chair as desired, but rose again on seeing that his

guest did not sit down; the hotel-keeper was a well-mannered man. There

was a lapse of two or three moments while Clide considered what he should

say. It was impossible to acknowledge the real motive of his curiosity

about the occupants of the first-floor rooms, and how otherwise could he

justify any inquiries about them and their movements? He recoiled from

the odious necessity that drove him to pry into people’s affairs, to ask

questions and set watches like a police agent; but this was the mere husk

of the bitter kernel he had to eat. It may have been the extraordinary

agitation visible in the young man’s face and gait and manner that

aroused the hotel-keeper’s suspicions and put him on the defensive, or

it may have been that some one had been beforehand with Clide, and cut

the ground from under his feet by warning the landlord not to give any

information; but at any rate the latter acted with a circumspection that

was remarkable in a person so unskilled in the science of diplomacy.

These first-floor people were good customers; this was the third time

they had stopped at the Great Frederick, and it was not likely to be the

last, unless, indeed, the house should be made objectionable to them in

some way; and no landlord who knew his duty to his customers could be a

party to such a proceeding.

“Mme. Brack is a most excellent customer, but no dressmaker--that I

can assure milord of; she has many boxes because she goes to spend

many months at Vienna; that is her custom, as also that of the friends

she travels with--M. Roncemar and his daughter, people of quality like

milord, and large fortune. Unfortunately they do not tarry long at the

Great Frederick, only remaining three days to rest themselves; their

rooms are already bespoke from Friday morning, when they start by the

midday train. But why should not milord go himself and ask of M. Roncemar

any information he desires? M. Roncemar is a most polite gentleman, and

would no doubt be happy to see a compatriot.”

This was all that Clide could extract from the wily master of the Great

Frederick. If he had been more outspoken, he might have been more

successful; but he could not bring himself to this; he spoke so vaguely

that his motives might have borne the most opposite constructions. The

landlord’s private opinion was that there was a money-claim in the way,

and that he was on the track of some fugitive, perhaps fraudulent,

debtor; it was no part of a landlord’s business to pry into matters of

this sort, or bring a customer into trouble.

“Well, sir?” said Stanton, coming in when he saw the landlord come out.

“I did not make much out of him; the fellow either knows more than he

cares to tell, or we are on the wrong scent. You must lose no time in

finding out from the waiters whether these names are the real ones;

whether, at least, they are the same the people have borne here before,

and also if it is true that the rooms are taken till Friday next; if so,

it gives me time to go to the consul and take proper legal steps for

their arrest. But it may be a dodge of his; if the woman recognized us

both, as I am strongly inclined to believe, they have put the landlord up

to telling me this, just to prevent my entrapping them, and so as to give

them time to escape. The people whom he calls Roncemar have been here at

any rate before the alarm came, and it will be known most likely whether

they are on their way to Vienna or not. Be cautious, Stanton; don’t rouse

suspicion by asking too pointed questions, because you see it may be that

as yet there is no suspicion, it may be my fancy about the man’s throwing

me off the scent. He urged me to go and see M. Roncemar myself, which

was either a proof that he suspects nothing, or that he is the cleverest

knave who ever outwitted another. Be off and see what you can learn. I

will dine at the _table d’hôte_.”

The few details that Stanton gleaned from the _kellner_ attached to the

first floor corroborated all that the landlord had said: the party were

to remain until Friday--in fact they were not quite decided about going

so soon; the younger lady was in delicate health, and greatly fatigued

by the journey; it was possible they might remain until the Monday. “So

if you are counting on the rooms you may be disappointed,” he added,

winking at Stanton as he whipped up a tray and darted up the stairs like

a monkey, three steps at a time.

So far, then, Clide was sure of his course. He walked about after

dinner--supper, as it was called there--and called at the consulate; but

the consul had been out of town for the last week, and was not expected

home until the next day.

“And he is sure to be here to-morrow?” inquired the visitor.

“Yes, sir; he has an appointment of great importance at one o’clock. We

expect him home at twelve.”

“Then I will call at two. You will not neglect to give him this card?”

He wrote a line in pencil on it announcing his visit at two next day,

and returned to the hotel. As he was crossing the hall he heard the

heavy tramp of hobnailed shoes on the stairs, and a noise as of men

toiling under a weight. It was a piano. Clide walked slowly up after the

carriers, saw them halt at the rooms on the first floor, saw the doors

thrown open and the instrument carried in; there was no mistake about it;

the occupants meant to remain there for some few days at least.

He sat down and wrote a long letter to the admiral, lit a cigar, and

killed time as best he could with the newspapers until, physically worn

out, he lay down in hopes of catching a few hours’ sleep. Stanton,

satisfied with the information he already possessed, felt it might be

unwise to ask further questions, and contented himself with hanging about

the corridors in the neighborhood of Mrs. Brack’s rooms, in hopes of

seeing her coming in or out, and catching a glimpse, perhaps, of another

inmate who interested him more closely. It may seem irrational in him,

and especially in his master, to have jumped at a positive conclusion

as to the identity of that inmate on such a flimsy tissue of evidence;

but when our minds are entirely possessed by an idea, we magnify trifles

into important facts, and see all things colored by the medium of our

prepossessions, and go on hooking link after link in the chain of

witnesses till we have completed it, and made our internal evidence do

the work of substantial testimony.

It was a glorious day, and when Clide had breakfasted he was glad to

go out and reconnoitre the town instead of sitting in his dingy room,

or lounging about the reading-room. He was a trained walker, thanks

to his years of travel, and once set going he would go on for hours,

oblivious of time, and quite unconscious of fatigue as long as the

landscape offered him beauty or novelty enough to interest him. It was

about half-past ten when he left the house, and he tramped on far beyond

the town, and walked for nearly two hours, when the chimes of a village

Angelus bell reminded him that time was marching too, and that he had

better be retracing his steps. It was close upon two o’clock when he

appeared at the consul’s door. On entering the hall, the first person he

saw was Stanton.

“Sir, I’ve been waiting here these two hours for you. You’d better please

let me have a word with you before you go in”; and Clide turned into

the dining-room, which the servant of the house civilly opened for him.

“We’ve been sold. They were off this morning at six. The three started

together. They are gone to Berlin--at least so one of the _kellners_ let

out to me; the one I spoke to yesterday was coached-up by the landlord

and the people themselves, I suppose, for he told me it was Vienna they

were gone to; he had a trumped-up story about the _fraulein’s_ mother

being taken suddenly ill and telegraphing for them. They are a cunning

lot. That piano was a dodge to put us to sleep, sir.”

“What proof have you that they are gone to Berlin? That other man may

be mistaken, or lying to order like the rest? I must see the consul and

take advice with him. This scoundrel of a landlord shall pay for his

lies,” said Clide, beating his foot with a quick, nervous movement on the

ground; “he must be forced to speak, and to speak the truth.”

“No need, sir; I’ve found it out without him. I’ve been to the railway. I

made believe I was the servant following with luggage that was forgotten,

and they told me the train they started by and the hour it arrives, and

described them all three as true as life,” said Stanton.

“And it is _she_?”

“Not a doubt of it, sir. As certain as I’m Stanton.” Clide felt

nevertheless that it would be well to see the consul; the case was

so delicate, so fraught with difficulties on all sides, that it was

desirable at any cost of personal feeling to furnish himself with all the

information he could get as to how he should now proceed, so as not to

entangle things still further.

On hearing his visitor’s strange tale, the consul’s advice was that he

should see with his own eyes the person whom he took for granted was his

wife, before venturing on any active steps. “The fact is quite clear to

you,” he remarked, “and from what you say it is equally clear to me; but

the evidence on which we build this assumption would not hold water for

one minute before a magistrate. Suppose, after all, it turns out to be a

case of mistaken identity; what a position you would be in!”

“That is impossible,” affirmed Clide.

“No, not impossible; highly improbable, I grant you; but such improbable

things occur every day. You must have more substantial ground than

second-hand evidence and corroborating circumstances to go upon before

you stir in the matter, and then you must do nothing without proper legal

advice.”

Clide recognized the common-sense and justice of this, and determined to

be advised. He started for Berlin, and on arriving there went straight

from the railway to the British Embassy, where he obtained a letter from

the ambassador to the Minister of Police, requesting that functionary to

give the young Englishman every assistance and facility. The minister

was going to bed; it was near twelve o’clock; the ambassador’s letter,

however, secured the untimely visitor immediate admission, and a civil

and attentive hearing. He took some notes down from Clide’s dictation,

and promised that all the resources of the body which he controlled

should be enlisted in the matter, and as soon as they had discovered

where the party they were in pursuit of had alighted, he would

communicate with Mr. de Winton.

The latter then went to the hotel, where Stanton had preceded him, and

was waiting impatiently for his arrival. The moment he entered the room,

Stanton was struck by his pale, haggard look; he had not noticed it on

the journey; when the train stopped, they saw each other in the shade

or in the dark, and after exchanging a hasty word passed each to his

separate buffets and carriages. It was indeed no wonder his master should

be worn out after the terrible emotions of the last few days, added to

the continued travelling and scarcely any sleep or food, but it did not

look like ordinary fatigue.

“You had better go to bed, sir; you’ll be used up if you take on like

this; and that won’t mend much,” he said, when Clide, after lighting a

cigar, flung himself into a chair and bade Stanton bring him the papers.

“I’ll go to bed presently; bring me the papers,” repeated Clide, and the

man left the room.

When he returned he found his master standing up and holding on by the

back of his chair as if to steady himself.

“I feel queerish, Stanton; get me some brandy and water; make haste,” he

said, speaking faintly.

Instead of obeying him, Stanton forced him gently into the chair, and

proceeded to undress him Clide resigning himself passively to it, as if

he were in a stupor; he let himself be put to bed in the same way, like a

child too sleepy to know what was being done to it.

“I don’t like the looks of him at all,” thought Stanton, as he stole

softly out of the room; “if he’s not all right to-morrow, I send for the

admiral.”

Clide was not all right in the morning; he was feverish and exhausted,

and complained in a querulous way, quite unlike his usual self, of a

burning, hammering pain in his head. Stanton sent for a medical man

without consulting him. When he said he had done so, Clide gave no sign

of displeasure; he did not seem quite to take it in.

“I’ve got fifty thousand toothaches in my skull, Stanton; what the deuce

is it, eh?” he cried, tossing from side to side on his pillow. Then

suddenly he raised himself:

“Stanton!”

“Yes, sir!”

“You think I’m going to be ill. Don’t deny it; I see it in your face.

Perhaps I am; I feel uncommonly odd here”--passing his hand over his

forehead--“but I want to say one thing while I think of it: you don’t

write a word to any one in England until the doctor says I’m a dead man.

Do you hear me speaking to you?”

“Yes, sir; but don’t you think if the admiral…”

“If you attempt to write to him, I’ll dismiss you that very instant!” And

his eyes flashed angrily. “You mind what I say, Stanton!”

“All right, sir; you know best what you like about it.”

The excitement seemed to have exhausted his remaining strength; he grew

rapidly worse; and when the doctor came, he declared his patient was in

for a brain fever that might turn to worse unless the circumstances were

specially propitious.

Why should we linger by his bedside? It would be only a repetition of the

old story; delirium following on days of pain and restlessness; a long

period of anxiety while youth battled with the enemy, now seemingly about

to be worsted in the fight, then rising above the disease with unexpected

starts, showing how rich and strong the resources of the young frame

were. The medical man was not communicative with the valet; he kept his

alternations of hope and fear to himself; it was only by scrutinizing

the expression of his face as he felt the patient’s pulse that Stanton

could make a guess at his opinion. To his eager inquiries on accompanying

the oracle to the door, he received the uniform reply that this was a

case in which the disease must run its course, when no one could say

what a day might bring forth, when much depended on the quality of the

patient’s constitution; the one drop of comfort Stanton extracted from

him was the emphatic assurance that in this instance the patient had a

constitution of gold. The crisis came, and then Stanton, convinced in his

inexperienced mind that no mortal constitution could pass this strait,

boldly asked the doctor if it was not time to write to the family.

“These things must run their course; in twenty-four hours it will be

decided,” was the sententious reply.

Stanton was fain to be content with it, and wait. The day passed, and the

night dragged on slowly as a passing bell, until at last the decisive

hour came and was passed; then the medical man spoke again.

“He is saved. The worst is now over; he is entering on the period of

convalescence.”

The period was long--longer than he had anticipated; for the golden

constitution had been fiercely tried and shaken; it was more than two

months from the day of Clide’s arrival in Berlin until he was able to

leave the hotel. In the meantime, what had become of Isabel, or Mme.

Villar, as we shall call her for the present? All that Stanton could

ascertain was that she had left Berlin about a week after his master had

been struck down, and had gone--so it was said at the hotel where she and

her party put up--for a tour in the neighboring spas, after which she was

to proceed to St. Petersburg to fulfil an engagement for the season. This

was the last link the police had got hold of; but as nobody had taken it

up at the time, it was impossible to say how many others had intervened

in the two months that had gone by.

It was now late in September. Clide was very weak still, and unfit for

a long railway journey, and besides, it was unlikely Mme. Villar would

be yet in St. Petersburg, assuming that the story of her going there at

all was true. He yielded therefore to the doctor’s advice, and went to

recruit himself at the nearest watering-place, after having again seen

the authorities at Berlin, and urged them not to let the affair sleep,

but to keep a sharp lookout in every direction.

In the first week of October he arrived in St. Petersburg. The city

of the Czars looked dreary and desolate enough in these keen autumn

days; there was not much movement in its immense market-places--its

bald, spacious squares, and high, broad houses standing unsocial and

mistrustful, far apart in the wide, noiseless streets; but people were

dropping in quickly from day to day from their country-houses, getting

out their furs, and settling down for the winter campaign that was at

hand; for the foe was marching steadily on them, girt with sullen skies

of lead, and tawny mists, and trumpeted by the shrill blast of the north

wind, a few strong puffs from whose ice-breathing nostrils would soon

paralyze the rivers and lay them to sleep under twenty feet of ice. Clide

was weary after his long ride, and was in a mood to be exasperated when,

on stepping out of the train, and seeking for their two portmanteaus

amongst the heaps of luggage, the porters said they were missing. It was

no small inconvenience, for the said portmanteaus contained all their

clothes, and nearly all their money.

The officials were very civil, however, and assured the travellers that

their luggage would be forthcoming next day. There was nothing for it

but to console themselves with this promise, and go on to the hotel.

Clide then gave his purse to Stanton and bade him go out and purchase

such things as were indispensable for the night. The valet accordingly

set off, accompanied by an English waiter who volunteered to interpret

for him, and Clide sallied forth for a stroll along the Neva, that still

flowed high and free between its broad quays. He walked on and on,

forgetting time, as was his habit, until lassitude recalled him to his

senses, and he looked around him and began to wonder where he had strayed

to. He had drifted far beyond his intention, and now found himself on

an island where handsome villas amidst groves and long avenues were to

be seen on every side. Happily a drosky passed empty at the moment; he

hailed it, gave the name of his hotel, and drove home. Stanton had not

yet returned. This was odd, for his interpreter had come back an hour

since, and said that the valet, after doing all his commissions, had

lingered behind merely to see the quays, saying he would follow in ten

minutes. It was impossible he could have lost his way, for the hotel

was in sight. The fact was, Stanton had had an adventure. He happened

to be crossing the bridge when he noticed a man bestriding the parapet

at the other end, swinging from side to side, and apostrophizing the

lamp-post with great earnestness. Stanton watched him as he walked on,

mentally wondering how long this social position would prove tenable,

when the man gave a sudden lunge, and was precipitated with a shriek

into the water. There were several foot-passengers close to the spot;

they rushed towards the parapet, and began screaming to each other in

Russian and gesticulating with great animation, hailing everybody and

everything within sight, but no one gave any sign of doing the only thing

that could be of avail, namely, jumping in after the drowning man. The

unfortunate wretch was struggling frantically, and gasping out cries

for help whenever he got his head above the water. There was a stair

running down from the quay, where boats were moored to rings in the

wall. Stanton saw this; he was a capital swimmer; so, without stopping

to reflect, he pulled off his coat, flew down the steps, and plunged

in. A loud cheer rang all along the parapet, then a breathless silence

followed; the two men in the water were wrestling in a desperate embrace;

Stanton had the Russian by the collar, and the latter with the suicidal

impulse of a drowning man, was clutching him wildly, and dragging him

down with all his might. Happily, he was no match for the Englishman’s

sinewy arms; Stanton shook himself free with a vigorous effort, swam out

a few yards, then he turned and swam back, caught the drowning man by the

hair, and drew him on with him to the steps. A thundering salvo greeted

his achievement; the group had now swelled to a crowd, and a score of

spectators came tumbling down the steps gabbling their congratulations,

and, what was more to the purpose, helping the hero to lift the rescued

man on to the steps, and then haul him up to the landing-place. Stanton

broke through the press to snatch up his coat, and was elbowing his way

out, when two individuals, whom he rightly took for policemen, came

up to him, and began to hold forth volubly in the same unintelligible

jargon. Stanton only understood, by their pointing to some place and

clutching him by the shoulder, that they wanted him to accompany them.

With native instinct, Stanton suspected they were proposing a tribute

of admiration to him in the shape of a bumper at the tavern; but he was

more intent on his wet clothes, and, thanking them by signs, indicated

that he must go in the opposite direction, shouting meanwhile, at the

very top of his lungs, “Hôtel Peterhof! I’m going to Peterhof!” But the

policemen shook their heads, and still pointed and tugged, until, finding

further expostulation useless, one of them took a stout grip of Stanton’s

collar and proceeded to drag him on, _nolens volens_. The British lion

rose up in Stanton “and roared a roar.” He levelled his clenched fist

at the aggressor’s chest, struck him a vigorous blow, and in language

more forcible than genteel bade him stand off. But the Russian held

on like grim death, gabbling away harder than ever, and pointing with

his left thumb to the _spit_ on his own breast, and then touching the

corresponding spot on Stanton’s wet shirt; but Stanton would not see

it. He doubled up his fist for another blow, when the other policeman

suddenly caught him by both arms, and pinned his elbows as in a vise

behind his back. The crowd had gone on swelling, and now numbered several

hundred persons; they crushed round the infuriated Englishman, who stood

there the picture of impotent rage, dripping and foaming and appealing to

everybody to help him. At this juncture a carriage drove up; the coachman

stopped to know what was going on; and great was Stanton’s joy when he

heard a voice cry out to him in English: “You must go with them; they

won’t hurt; they are going to give you a decoration for saving a man’s

life.”

“Confound their decoration! What the devil do I want with their

decoration? Tell them I’m not a Russian!”

“They know that, but it don’t matter; the law is the same for natives and

foreigners,” explained the coachman.

“Hang it, I’m not a foreigner; what do you take me for? I’m an

Englishman!” protested Stanton.

“Don’t matter; you must be decorated; you may as well do it, and be done

with it.”

“But look at my clothes, man! I’m as wet as a drowned rat!”

“Served you right! What business had you jumping into the water after a

fool that wanted to drown himself?”

“I wish I’d let him,” said Stanton devoutly; “but just you tell these

chaps to let me go or else they’ll ’ear of it; tell them my master will

go to the ambassador and get them flogged all round; tell them that, and

see what comes of it.”

“No good. The law is the law. Good morning to you; take a friend’s

advice, and keep your skin dry next time”; and, nodding to Stanton, he

touched his horses and was off at a pace.

There was nothing for it but to resign himself to his fate. Stanton

ceased all resistance, and let himself be led to the altar where glory

awaited him in the form of a yellow _spit_. He was marched on to a

large, barrack-like building; two sentries were mounting guard over its

ponderous iron gate. He passed through them and was marched from bureau

to bureau, addressed by several officials in every tongue under the sun,

it seemed to him, till they came to the right one, requested to record

his name, age, and state of life in several ominous-looking books, and on

each occasion was embraced and shaken hands with by the presiding genius

of the bureau; at last he was brought into the presence of a gold-laced

and highly decorated individual, who handed him a written document, very

stiff and very long, and with this a knot of ribbon. Stanton without more

ado was stuffing both into the pocket of his soaked pantaloons, when the

gold-laced gentleman exclaimed with friendly warmth, “Oh! you must permit

me to place the _spit_ upon your breast!” Upon which the Englishman

recoiled three steps with a scowl of disgust, and bade him do it if he

dared. The official, apparently surprised to see his polite offer met so

ungraciously, forbore to press it, and demanded the fee. “The fee!--what

fee?” He explained that a fee was always paid on receipt of a decoration.

Stanton declined paying it, for the substantial reason that he had no

money; his luggage had been lost on the railway; so had his master’s. The

polite gentleman was very sorry to hear of their misadventure, but the

law was inexorable--every man who performed that noble feat of saving a

Russian’s life should be decorated, and the decoration involved a fee.

“Then what in the name of the furies do you want me to do?” cried the

exasperated Stanton; “I can’t coin any, can I?”

No; this was not a practical alternative, but very likely his master

could devise one; he would have no difficulty in getting credit for the

amount; any one in St. Petersburg would be happy to accommodate a milord

with so small a sum, or indeed any sum.

Stanton had nothing for it but to write a line to the Peterhof explaining

his pitiable position, and entreating his master to come to the rescue

without delay.

It was late in the evening when this missive was handed to Clide. The

landlord, with the utmost alacrity, placed the coffers of the Peterhof at

his disposal, and sent for a carriage to convey him to the scene of his

valet’s distress.

“If ever any one catches me saving a Russian fellow’s life again may I

be drowned myself!” was Stanton’s ejaculation as he shut his master into

the cab, and drove home with the _spit_ in his pocket.

This little incident gave Clide some food for reflection, and aroused

in him a prudent desire to make some acquaintance with the ways and

customs of Muscovy before he went further. A little knowledge of the

code which included such a very peculiar law as the aforementioned might

prove not only desirable but essential, before he entangled himself in

its treacherous meshes. A paternal government might have its advantages,

but clearly it had its drawbacks. Russia was almost the only spot in

the so-called civilized world that he had not explored in the course

of his wanderings, so the people and their laws were as unknown to him

practically as the people and the laws of the Feejee Islands. He had

gone once as far as Warsaw with the intention of pushing on to Russia,

but what he saw in the Polish city of her spirit and national character

sickened and horrified him; he turned his back on the scene of her

cruelty and demoralizing rule, and went down to Turkey. There at least

barbarism reigned with a comparatively gentle sceptre, and wore no

hypocrite’s mask. He had not furnished himself with a single letter of

introduction to St. Petersburg. It never entered into his imagination

when leaving London that he should want any; he did not dream that the

will-o’-the-wisp he was chasing would have led him so far. But he was

here now, and he must find some one to steer him safe through quicksands

and sunken rocks.

There was no doubt an English lawyer in the city to whom he could safely

apply. The landlord of the Peterhof gave him the address of one. It was a

Russian name, but he assured Clide that it was that of the English lawyer

of St. Petersburg, who managed all the law affairs of English residents.

Clide went to this gentleman’s office, and found a small, urbane little

man, who spoke English with a very pure accent and fluently, but with

Muscovite written on every line of his face. It was of no consequence,

however, as he showed his client in the first few questions he put that

he was in the habit of dealing with English people and transacting

confidential and intricate cases for them. The present one he frankly

admitted was without precedent in his legal experience, and his advice to

Clide was pretty much the same as the consul’s, reinforced, however, by a

rather startling argument.

“You must first prove beyond a doubt that it is not a case of mistaken

identity, and, even when this is done, you have to consider whether it

is expedient to run the risks that must attend any active proceedings

against the persons in question. Let us consider the facts as they

stand, setting aside possible antecedents. The lady is engaged here

for the season. I can guarantee that much. I heard her repeatedly last

year, and the announcement, on the night of her last appearance, that

she was to return next season, was received with an enthusiasm that I

cannot describe. She is, therefore, an established favorite with the

public. This in itself is a fact fraught with danger to any one seeking

to molest her--I use the word from the point of view of the public--any

person interfering with so important a branch of their pleasure as the

opera would expose himself to disagreeable consequences. The government

is paternally anxious that the people should be amused. It is not

wise to thwart a paternal government.… The Czar, moreover, has shown

decided appreciation of this prima donna. He condescended to receive

her into the imperial box and himself clasp a costly diamond bracelet

on her arm. He and the rest of the royal family are to be present at

her first reappearance. No one, be they ever so guilty, can be attacked

with impunity while under the favor of the imperial smile. A paternal

government is not trammelled by the conventionalisms and routine that

check the action of other forms of government; it acts promptly,

decisively. If you meddle in this matter rashly, you may find yourself in

very unpleasant circumstances.”

“I should agree with all you say if I were a subject of the Russian

government,” said Clide, “but I am an Englishman; surely that makes a

difference?”

The lawyer smiled grimly.

“I would not advise you to count upon it for security. I have known

some Englishmen whose nationality did not prove such a talisman as they

expected.”

“You mean that they have been imprisoned without offence or trial,

treated like Russian subjects?” Clide’s lip curled under his moustache as

he emitted the monstrous proposition.

“I mean to give you the best advice in my power,” returned the urbane

lawyer with unruffled coolness. “You have come to me for counsel. You are

free to follow it or not as you see good.”

“So far, you have given me only negative advice. You tell me what I must

not do; can you tell me nothing that I can and ought to do?” said Clide.

“For the present, I can only urge you to be prudent. One rash act may

precipitate you into a still worse dilemma than the present. See this

lady for yourself, and see the man who accompanies her. I do not advise

you to speak to them, nor even to let them know of your presence here,

still less of your intentions. The man, from what you already know of

him, is likely to be an unscrupulous fellow, a dangerous enemy to cope

with. He--on account of his pupil or niece--has patrons in high place. If

he got wind of your designs, he might frustrate them in a manner … that

… that you don’t foresee.…” The lawyer paused, and bent his sharp green

eyes on Clide with a meaning that was not to be misunderstood.

“You mean that the government would connive at or assist him in some

personal violence to me?”

“I mean to advise you honestly. I might put you off with a sham, or lay

a trap for you; I should be well paid for it. But I traffic as little

as possible in that sort of thing, and _never_ with an English client.”

It was impossible to doubt the genuine frankness in this assurance,

coupled as it was with the implied admission that the lawyer was less

incorruptible to native clients. Clide was convinced the man was dealing

fairly by him.

“And when I have seen them both, and thus put a seal on certainty--what

next?”

“Wait until the season is over; then follow them to their next

destination, out of Russia, and take counsel with a shrewd legal man

of the place. My own opinion is that your wisest course would be to do

nothing until you can attack the affair in England: the mere fact of

being a foreigner puts barriers in the way of the law for helping you

anywhere; but, as you value your liberty, don’t interfere with a prima

donna who is in favor with the Court of St. Petersburg--it were safer for

you to play with fire.”

Clide laid a large fee on the lawyer’s green table, and wished him good

morning.

He hesitated as he was stepping into his fly. Should he go to the British

Embassy, and lay the whole story before Lord X----, and so place one

strong barrier between him and the monstrous possibilities with which the

lawyer had threatened him? He stood for a moment with his hand on the

door, which Stanton was holding open for him; his forehead had that hard

line straight down between the horizontal bars over his eyes that had

once so scared Franceline. “To the hotel!” he said, slamming the door,

and Stanton jumped up beside the coachman.

They had gone about a hundred yards when the window was pulled down in

front, and Clide called out: “To the British Embassy!”

The horse’s head was turned that way. While they were rattling over the

stones, Clide was arguing his change of resolution, and trying to justify

it. “I will burn my ship and take the consequences. What balderdash he

talked about the danger of letting the man know of my intentions! How

the deuce could they harm me? If I were a Russian, no doubt; but the

government would hardly run their neck into such a noose as assault or

imprisonment of a British subject for the sake of a popular prima donna!

Pshaw! I was an idiot to mind him.”

The coachman pulled up before the British Embassy. Two private carriages

stopped at the same moment, gentlemen alighted from them and ran up the

steps. Stanton held the door open for his master, but Clide did not move;

he sat with his head bent forward, examining his boots, to all appearance

unconscious of his valet’s presence.

“Here we are, sir; this is the Embassy,” said Stanton. But Clide sat

dumb, as if he were glued to the seat. At last, starting from his revery,

he said “Home!” and flung himself back in the carriage.

“That fever has left him a bit queer,” thought Stanton, as he closed the

door on his capricious master.

“What a fool’s errand it would be!” muttered Clide to himself; “and what

have I to say to Lord X----? If it _should_ turn out to be a case of

mistaken identity.… The lawyer’s advice is after all the safest and the

most rational.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

SPACE.

II.

It is of the utmost importance in the philosophical investigation

in which we have engaged to bear in mind that the power by which we

attain to the knowledge of the intrinsic nature of things is not our

imagination, but our intellect. The office of imagination is to form

sensible representations of what lies at the surface of the things

apprehended; the intellect alone is competent to reach what lies under

that surface, that is, the essential principles of the thing, and their

ontological relations. This remark is so obvious that it may seem

superfluous; but our imagination has such a power in fashioning our

thoughts, and such an obtrusive manner of interfering with our mental

processes, that we need to be reminded, in season and out of season, of

our liability to mistake its suggestions for intellectual conceptions.

What we have said about absolute space in our past article shows that

even renowned philosophers are liable to such mistakes; for nothing

but imagination could have led Balmes, Descartes, and many others, to

confound absolute space with the material extension of bodies. As to

relative space, the danger of confounding its intellectual notion with

our sensible representation of it, is, perhaps, less serious, when we

have understood the nature of absolute space; yet, here too we are

obliged to guard against the incursions of the imaginative faculty, which

will not cease to obtrude itself, in the shape of an auxiliary, upon our

intellectual ground.

Absolute space cannot become relative unless it be extrinsically

terminated, or occupied, by distinct terms. Hence, in passing from the

consideration of absolute space to that of relative space, the first

question by which we are met is the following:

Is absolute space intrinsically modified or affected by being occupied?

or, _Does the creation of a material point in space entail an intrinsic

modification of absolute space?_

The answer to this question cannot be doubtful. Absolute space is not

and cannot be intrinsically affected or modified by the presence of a

material point, or of any number of material points. We have shown that

absolute space is nothing else than the virtuality of God’s immensity;

and since no intrinsic change can be conceived as possible in God’s

attributes or in the range of their comprehension, it is evident that

absolute space cannot be intrinsically modified by any work of creation.

On the other hand, nothing can be intrinsically modified unless it

receives in itself, as in a subject, the modifying act; for all intrinsic

modifications result from corresponding impressions made on the subject

which is modified. Thus the modifications of the eye, of the ear, and of

other senses, result from impressions made on them, and received in them

as in so many subjects. But the creation of a material point in space

is not the position of a thing in it as in a subject; for, if absolute

space received the material point in itself as in a subject, this point

would be a mere accident; as nothing but accidents exist in a subject,

and since it is manifest that material elements are not accidents, it is

plain that they are not received in space as in a subject.

Hence the creation of any number of material points in space implies

nothing but the _extrinsic_ termination of absolute space, which

accordingly remains altogether unaffected and unmodified. Just as a body

created at the surface of the earth immediately acquires weight, without

causing the least intrinsic change in the attractive power which is the

source of all weights on earth, so does a material element, created in

absolute space, acquire its ubication without causing the least intrinsic

change in absolute space which is the source of all possible ubications.

A material element has its formal ubication inasmuch as it occupies a

point in space. This point, as contained in absolute space, is virtual;

but, as occupied by the element, or marked out by a point of matter, it

is formal. Thus the formality of the ubication consists in the actual

termination and real occupation of a virtual point by an extrinsic term

corresponding to it.

The formal ubication of an element is a mere relativity, or a

_respectus_. The formal reason, or foundation, of this relativity is the

reality through which the term ubicated communicates with absolute space,

viz., the real point which is common to both, though not in the same

manner, as it is _virtual_ in space, and _formal_ in the extrinsic term.

A material element in space is therefore nothing but a term related by

its ubication to divine immensity as existing in a more perfect manner in

the same ubication. But since the formality of the contingent ubication

exclusively belongs to the contingent being itself, absolute space

receives nothing from it except a relative extrinsic denomination.

Some will say: To have a capacity of containing something, and to contain

it actually, are things intrinsically different. But absolute space, when

void, has a mere capacity of containing bodies, whilst, when occupied,

it actually contains them. Therefore absolute space is intrinsically

modified by occupation.

To this we answer, that the word “capacity,” on which the objection is

built up, is a mischievous one, no less indeed than the word “potency,”

which, when used indeterminately, is liable to opposite interpretations,

and leads to contradictory conclusions.

The capacity of containing bodies which is commonly predicated of

absolute space, is not a passive potency destined to be actuated by

contingent occupation; it is, on the contrary, the formal reason of all

contingent ubications, since it contains already in an infinitely better

manner all the ubications of the bodies by which it may be occupied. To

be occupied, and not to be occupied, are not, of course, the same thing;

but it does not follow from this that space unoccupied is intrinsically

different from space occupied; it follows only, that, when space is

occupied, a contingent being corresponds to it as an extrinsic term,

and gives it an extrinsic denomination. In other terms, everything

which occupies space, occupies it by ubication. Now every ubication is

the participation in the contingent being of a reality which absolute

space already contains in a better manner. Consequently, the capacity

of containing bodies, which is predicated of space, already _contains

actually_ the same ubications, which, when bodies are created, are

formally attributed to the bodies themselves.

This answer is, we think, philosophically evident. But, as our

imagination, too, must be helped to rise to the level of intellectual

conceptions, we will illustrate our answer by an example. Man has

features which can be reflected in any number of mirrors, so as to form

in them an image of him. This “capacity” of having images of self is

called “exemplarity,” and consists in the possession of that of which an

image can be produced. Hence, man’s exemplarity actually, though only

virtually, contains in itself all the images that it can form in any

mirror; and when the image is formed, man’s exemplarity gives existence

to it, but receives nothing from it, except a relative denomination drawn

from the extrinsic term in which it is portrayed. In a like manner, God’s

omnipotence, and his other attributes, are mirrored in every created

thing, and their “capacity” of being imitated in a finite degree arises

from the fact that God’s attributes contain already in an eminent manner

the whole reality which can be made to exist formally in the contingent

things. Hence, when these contingent things are created, God gives

existence to them, but receives nothing from them, except a relative

denomination drawn from the extrinsic terms in which his perfections

are mirrored. In the same manner, too, when a material element is

created, it receives its being, and its mode of being in space, that is,

its ubication, which is a finite image or imitation of God’s infinite

ubication; but it gives nothing to the divine ubication, except the

extrinsic denomination; just as the image in the mirror gives nothing to

the body of which it is the image, but simply borrows its existence from

it.

From this it follows that material elements are in space _not by

inhesion, but by correlation_, each point which is formally marked out by

an element corresponding to a virtual point of space, to which it gives

an extrinsic denomination. The said correlation consists in this, that

the contingent term, by its formal mode of existing in the point it marks

out, really imitates the eminent mode of being of divine immensity in the

same point; and from this it follows again, that whatever new reality

results from the existence of a material element in space, belongs

entirely to the element itself, and constitutes its mode of being.

The relation between the contingent being as existing formally in its

ubication, and divine immensity as existing eminently in the same

ubication, is called “presence.”

We must notice, before we go further, that the virtuality of God’s

immensity, when considered in relation to the distinct terms by which it

is extrinsically terminated, assumes distinct relative denominations,

and therefore, though it is one entitatively, it becomes manifold

terminatively. In this latter sense it is true to say that the virtuality

of divine immensity which is terminated by a certain term _A_, is

distinct from the virtuality which is terminated by a certain other

term _B_; and when a material point moves in space, we may say that its

ubication ceases to correspond to one virtuality of immensity, and begins

to correspond to another. Such virtualities, as we have just remarked,

are not entitatively distinct, for immensity has but _one_ infinite

virtuality. Yet this _one_ virtuality, owing to the possibility of

infinite distinct terminations, is capable of being related to any number

of distinct extrinsic terms, and of receiving from their distinct mode

of existing in it any number of distinct relative denominations. When,

therefore, we speak of distinct virtualities of divine immensity, we

simply refer to the distinct extrinsic terminations of one and the same

infinite virtuality, in the same manner as, when we speak of distinct

creations, we do not mean that God’s creative act is manifold in itself,

but only that its extrinsic termination to one being, v. gr. the sun, is

not its termination to other beings, v. gr. the stars. And in a similar

manner, when a word is heard by many persons, its sound in their ears

is distinct on account of distinct terminations, though the word is not

distinct from itself.

We have explained the origin and nature of formal ubication; we have

yet to point out its division. Ubication may be considered either

_objectively_ or _subjectively_. Objectively considered, it is nothing

else than a _point in space marked out by a simple point of matter_.

We say, _by a simple point_ of matter, because distinct material

points in space have distinct ubications. Hence, we cannot approve

those philosophers who confound the _ubi_ with the _locus_, that is,

the ubication with the place occupied by a body. It is true that those

philosophers held the continuity of matter; but they should have seen

all the same that all dimensions involved distinct ubications, and that

every term designable in such dimensions has an ubication of its own

independent of the ubications of every other designable term; which

proves that the _locus_ of a body implies a great number of ubications,

and therefore cannot be considered as the synonym of _ubi_.

If the ubication is considered subjectively, that is, as an appurtenance

of the subject of which it is predicated, it may be defined as _the mode

of being of a simple element in space_. This mode consists of a mere

relativity; for it results from the extrinsic termination of absolute

space, as already explained. Hence, the ubication is not _received_ in

the subject of which it is predicated, and does not _inhere_ in it, but,

like all other relativities and connotations, simply connects it with its

correlative, and lies, so to say, between the two.[149]

But, although it consists of a mere relativity, the ubication still

admits of being divided into _absolute_ and _relative_, according as

it is conceived absolutely as it is in itself, or compared with other

ubications. Nor is this strange; for relative entities can be considered

both as to what they are in themselves, and as to what they are to one

another. Likeness, for instance, is a relation; and yet when we know the

likeness of Peter to Paul, and the likeness of Peter to John, we can

still compare the one likeness with the other, and pronounce that the one

is greater than the other.

When the ubication is considered simply as a termination of absolute

space without regard for anything else, then we call it _absolute_, and

we define it as _the mode of being of an element in absolute space_, by

which the element is constituted in the divine presence. This absolute

ubication is an _essential mode_ of the material element no less than

its dependence from the first cause, and is altogether immutable so long

as the element exists; for, on the one hand, the element cannot exist

but within the domain of divine immensity, and, on the other, it cannot

have different modes of being with regard to it, as absolute space is

the same all throughout, and the element, however much we may try to

imagine different positions for it, must always be in the centre, so to

say, of that infinite expanse. Hence, absolute ubication is altogether

unchangeable.

When the ubication of one element is compared with that of another

element in order to ascertain their mutual relation in space, then the

ubication is called _relative_, and, as such, it may be defined as _the

mode of terminating a relation in space_. This ubication is changeable,

not in its intrinsic entity, but in its relative formality; and it is

only under this formality that the ubication can be ranked among the

predicamental accidents; for this changeable formality is the only thing

in it which bears the stamp of an accidental entity.

The consideration of relative ubications leads us directly to the

consideration of the relation existing between two points distinctly

ubicated in space. Such a relation is called _distance_. Distance is

commonly considered as a quantity; yet it is not primarily a quantity,

but simply the relation existing between two ubications with room for

movement from the one to the other. Nevertheless, this very possibility

of movement from one point to another gives us a sufficient foundation

for considering the relation of distance as a virtual dimensive quantity.

For the movement which is possible between two distant points may be

greater or less, according to the different manners in which these points

are related. Now, more and less imply quantity.

The quantity of distance is essentially continuous. For it is by

continuous movement that the length of the distance is measured. The

point which by its movement measures the distance, describes a straight

line by the shifting of its ubication from one term of the distance to

the other. The distance, as a relation, is the object of the intellect,

but, as a virtual quantity, it is the object of imagination also.

We cannot conceive distances as relations without at the same time

apprehending them as quantities. For, as we cannot estimate distances

except by the extent of the movement required in order to pass from one

of its terms to the other, we always conceive distances as relative

quantities of length; and yet distances, objectively, are only relations,

by which such quantities of length are determined. The true quantity of

length is _the line_ which is drawn, or can be drawn, by the movement

of a point from term to term. In fact, a line which reaches from term

to term exhibits in itself the extent of the movement by which it is

generated, and it may rightly be looked upon as a track of it, inasmuch

as the point, which describes it, formally marks by its gliding ubication

all the intermediate space. The marking is, of course, a transient

act; but transient though it is, it gives to the intermediate space a

permanent connotation; for a fact once passed, remains a fact for ever.

Thus the gliding ubication leaves a permanent, intelligible, though

invisible, mark of its passage; and this we call a geometric line. The

line is therefore, formally, a quantity of length, whereas the distance

is only virtually a quantity, inasmuch as it determines the length of

the movement by which the line can be described. Nevertheless, since we

cannot, as already remarked, conceive distances without referring the one

of its terms to the other through space, and, therefore, without drawing,

at least mentally, a line from the one to the other, all distances, as

known to us, are already measured in some manner, and consequently they

exhibit themselves as formal quantities. Distance is the base of all

dimensions in space, and its extension is measured by movement. It is

therefore manifest that no extension in space is conceivable without

movement, and all quantity of extension is measured by movement.

We have said that distance is a relation between two terms as existing in

distinct ubications; and we have now to inquire what is the foundation of

such a relation. This question is of high philosophical importance, as on

its solution depends whether some of our arguments against Pantheism are

or are not conclusive. Common people, and a great number of philosophers

too, confound relations with their foundation, and do not reflect that

when they talk of distances as _relative spaces_, they do not speak with

sufficient distinctness.

We are going to show that relative space must be distinguished from

distances, as well as from geometric surfaces and volumes, although these

quantities are also called “relative spaces” by an improper application

of words. Relative space is not an intrinsic constituent, but only

an extrinsic foundation, of these relative quantities; hence these

quantities cannot be styled “relative spaces” without attributing to the

formal results what strictly belongs to their formal reason.