CHAPTER I

Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price, email

ccx074@pglaf.org

LORD ARTHUR SAVILE’S

CRIME

THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H.

AND OTHER STORIES

BY

OSCAR WILDE

* * * * *

METHUEN & CO. LTD.

36 ESSEX STREET W.C.

LONDON

_Tenth Edition_

* * * * *

_First Published_—

_Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime_, _The _1887_

Canterville Ghost_, _The Sphinx

without a Secret_, _and the Model

Millionaire_

_Issued in Collected Form_ _1891_

_The Portrait of Mr. W. H._ _1889_

_First Issued by Methuen and Co._ _March_ _1908_

(_Limited Edition on Handmade Paper and

Japanese Vellum_)

_Third Edition_ (_F’cap. 8vo 5s. net_) _September_ _1908_

_Fourth Edition_ (_5s. net_) _October_ _1909_

_Fifth Edition_ (_5s. net_) _March_ _1911_

_Sixth and Seventh Editions_ (_F’cap. 8vo _April_ _1912_

1s. net_)

_Eighth Edition_ (_1s. net_) _September_ _1912_

_Ninth Edition_ (_1s.net_) _May_ _1913_

_Tenth Edition_ (_5s. net_) _1913_

CONTENTS

PAGE

LORD ARTHUR SAVILE’S CRIME 3

THE CANTERVILLE GHOST 65

THE SPHINX WITHOUT A SECRET 121

THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE 133

THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H. 145

LORD ARTHUR SAVILE’S CRIME

A STUDY OF DUTY

CHAPTER I

IT was Lady Windermere’s last reception before Easter, and Bentinck House

was even more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had come on from

the Speaker’s Levée in their stars and ribands, all the pretty women wore

their smartest dresses, and at the end of the picture-gallery stood the

Princess Sophia of Carlsrühe, a heavy Tartar-looking lady, with tiny

black eyes and wonderful emeralds, talking bad French at the top of her

voice, and laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her. It

was certainly a wonderful medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted

affably to violent Radicals, popular preachers brushed coat-tails with

eminent sceptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout

prima-donna from room to room, on the staircase stood several Royal

Academicians, disguised as artists, and it was said that at one time the

supper-room was absolutely crammed with geniuses. In fact, it was one of

Lady Windermere’s best nights, and the Princess stayed till nearly

half-past eleven.

As soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the picture-gallery,

where a celebrated political economist was solemnly explaining the

scientific theory of music to an indignant virtuoso from Hungary, and

began to talk to the Duchess of Paisley. She looked wonderfully

beautiful with her grand ivory throat, her large blue forget-me-not eyes,

and her heavy coils of golden hair. _Or pur_ they were—not that pale

straw colour that nowadays usurps the gracious name of gold, but such

gold as is woven into sunbeams or hidden in strange amber; and they gave

to her face something of the frame of a saint, with not a little of the

fascination of a sinner. She was a curious psychological study. Early

in life she had discovered the important truth that nothing looks so like

innocence as an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless escapades, half

of them quite harmless, she had acquired all the privileges of a

personality. She had more than once changed her husband; indeed, Debrett

credits her with three marriages; but as she had never changed her lover,

the world had long ago ceased to talk scandal about her. She was now

forty years of age, childless, and with that inordinate passion for

pleasure which is the secret of remaining young.

Suddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her clear

contralto voice, ‘Where is my cheiromantist?’

‘Your what, Gladys?’ exclaimed the Duchess, giving an involuntary start.

‘My cheiromantist, Duchess; I can’t live without him at present.’

‘Dear Gladys! you are always so original,’ murmured the Duchess, trying

to remember what a cheiromantist really was, and hoping it was not the

same as a cheiropodist.

‘He comes to see my hand twice a week regularly,’ continued Lady

Windermere, ‘and is most interesting about it.’

‘Good heavens!’ said the Duchess to herself, ‘he is a sort of

cheiropodist after all. How very dreadful. I hope he is a foreigner at

any rate. It wouldn’t be quite so bad then.’

‘I must certainly introduce him to you.’

‘Introduce him!’ cried the Duchess; ‘you don’t mean to say he is here?’

and she began looking about for a small tortoise-shell fan and a very

tattered lace shawl, so as to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.

‘Of course he is here; I would not dream of giving a party without him.

He tells me I have a pure psychic hand, and that if my thumb had been the

least little bit shorter, I should have been a confirmed pessimist, and

gone into a convent.’

‘Oh, I see!’ said the Duchess, feeling very much relieved; ‘he tells

fortunes, I suppose?’

‘And misfortunes, too,’ answered Lady Windermere, ‘any amount of them.

Next year, for instance, I am in great danger, both by land and sea, so I

am going to live in a balloon, and draw up my dinner in a basket every

evening. It is all written down on my little finger, or on the palm of

my hand, I forget which.’

‘But surely that is tempting Providence, Gladys.’

‘My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by this time.

I think every one should have their hands told once a month, so as to

know what not to do. Of course, one does it all the same, but it is so

pleasant to be warned. Now if some one doesn’t go and fetch Mr. Podgers

at once, I shall have to go myself.’

‘Let me go, Lady Windermere,’ said a tall handsome young man, who was

standing by, listening to the conversation with an amused smile.

‘Thanks so much, Lord Arthur; but I am afraid you wouldn’t recognise

him.’

‘If he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I couldn’t well miss

him. Tell me what he is like, and I’ll bring him to you at once.’

‘Well, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I mean he is not

mysterious, or esoteric, or romantic-looking. He is a little, stout man,

with a funny, bald head, and great gold-rimmed spectacles; something

between a family doctor and a country attorney. I’m really very sorry,

but it is not my fault. People are so annoying. All my pianists look

exactly like poets, and all my poets look exactly like pianists; and I

remember last season asking a most dreadful conspirator to dinner, a man

who had blown up ever so many people, and always wore a coat of mail, and

carried a dagger up his shirt-sleeve; and do you know that when he came

he looked just like a nice old clergyman, and cracked jokes all the

evening? Of course, he was very amusing, and all that, but I was awfully

disappointed; and when I asked him about the coat of mail, he only

laughed, and said it was far too cold to wear in England. Ah, here is

Mr. Podgers! Now, Mr. Podgers, I want you to tell the Duchess of

Paisley’s hand. Duchess, you must take your glove off. No, not the left

hand, the other.’

‘Dear Gladys, I really don’t think it is quite right,’ said the Duchess,

feebly unbuttoning a rather soiled kid glove.

‘Nothing interesting ever is,’ said Lady Windermere: ‘_on a fait le monde

ainsi_. But I must introduce you. Duchess, this is Mr. Podgers, my pet

cheiromantist. Mr. Podgers, this is the Duchess of Paisley, and if you

say that she has a larger mountain of the moon than I have, I will never

believe in you again.’

‘I am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my hand,’ said the

Duchess gravely.

‘Your Grace is quite right,’ said Mr. Podgers, glancing at the little fat

hand with its short square fingers, ‘the mountain of the moon is not

developed. The line of life, however, is excellent. Kindly bend the

wrist. Thank you. Three distinct lines on the _rascette_! You will

live to a great age, Duchess, and be extremely happy. Ambition—very

moderate, line of intellect not exaggerated, line of heart—’

‘Now, do be indiscreet, Mr. Podgers,’ cried Lady Windermere.

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ said Mr. Podgers, bowing, ‘if

the Duchess ever had been, but I am sorry to say that I see great

permanence of affection, combined with a strong sense of duty.’

‘Pray go on, Mr. Podgers,’ said the Duchess, looking quite pleased.

‘Economy is not the least of your Grace’s virtues,’ continued Mr.

Podgers, and Lady Windermere went off into fits of laughter.

‘Economy is a very good thing,’ remarked the Duchess complacently; ‘when

I married Paisley he had eleven castles, and not a single house fit to

live in.’

‘And now he has twelve houses, and not a single castle,’ cried Lady

Windermere.

‘Well, my dear,’ said the Duchess, ‘I like—’

‘Comfort,’ said Mr. Podgers, ‘and modern improvements, and hot water laid

on in every bedroom. Your Grace is quite right. Comfort is the only

thing our civilisation can give us.

‘You have told the Duchess’s character admirably, Mr. Podgers, and now

you must tell Lady Flora’s’; and in answer to a nod from the smiling

hostess, a tall girl, with sandy Scotch hair, and high shoulder-blades,

stepped awkwardly from behind the sofa, and held out a long, bony hand

with spatulate fingers.

‘Ah, a pianist! I see,’ said Mr. Podgers, ‘an excellent pianist, but

perhaps hardly a musician. Very reserved, very honest, and with a great

love of animals.’

‘Quite true!’ exclaimed the Duchess, turning to Lady Windermere,

‘absolutely true! Flora keeps two dozen collie dogs at Macloskie, and

would turn our town house into a menagerie if her father would let her.’

‘Well, that is just what I do with my house every Thursday evening,’

cried Lady Windermere, laughing, ‘only I like lions better than collie

dogs.’

‘Your one mistake, Lady Windermere,’ said Mr. Podgers, with a pompous

bow.

‘If a woman can’t make her mistakes charming, she is only a female,’ was

the answer. ‘But you must read some more hands for us. Come, Sir

Thomas, show Mr. Podgers yours’; and a genial-looking old gentleman, in a

white waistcoat, came forward, and held out a thick rugged hand, with a

very long third finger.

‘An adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past, and one to come.

Been ship-wrecked three times. No, only twice, but in danger of a

shipwreck your next journey. A strong Conservative, very punctual, and

with a passion for collecting curiosities. Had a severe illness between

the ages sixteen and eighteen. Was left a fortune when about thirty.

Great aversion to cats and Radicals.’

‘Extraordinary!’ exclaimed Sir Thomas; ‘you must really tell my wife’s

hand, too.’

‘Your second wife’s,’ said Mr. Podgers quietly, still keeping Sir

Thomas’s hand in his. ‘Your second wife’s. I shall be charmed’; but

Lady Marvel, a melancholy-looking woman, with brown hair and sentimental

eyelashes, entirely declined to have her past or her future exposed; and

nothing that Lady Windermere could do would induce Monsieur de Koloff,

the Russian Ambassador, even to take his gloves off. In fact, many

people seemed afraid to face the odd little man with his stereotyped

smile, his gold spectacles, and his bright, beady eyes; and when he told

poor Lady Fermor, right out before every one, that she did not care a bit

for music, but was extremely fond of musicians, it was generally felt

that cheiromancy was a most dangerous science, and one that ought not to

be encouraged, except in a _tête-à-tête_.

Lord Arthur Savile, however, who did not know anything about Lady

Fermor’s unfortunate story, and who had been watching Mr. Podgers with a

great deal of interest, was filled with an immense curiosity to have his

own hand read, and feeling somewhat shy about putting himself forward,

crossed over the room to where Lady Windermere was sitting, and, with a

charming blush, asked her if she thought Mr. Podgers would mind.

‘Of course, he won’t mind,’ said Lady Windermere, ‘that is what he is

here for. All my lions, Lord Arthur, are performing lions, and jump

through hoops whenever I ask them. But I must warn you beforehand that I

shall tell Sybil everything. She is coming to lunch with me to-morrow,

to talk about bonnets, and if Mr. Podgers finds out that you have a bad

temper, or a tendency to gout, or a wife living in Bayswater, I shall

certainly let her know all about it.’

Lord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. ‘I am not afraid,’ he answered.

‘Sybil knows me as well as I know her.’

‘Ah! I am a little sorry to hear you say that. The proper basis for

marriage is a mutual misunderstanding. No, I am not at all cynical, I

have merely got experience, which, however, is very much the same thing.

Mr. Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to have his hand read. Don’t

tell him that he is engaged to one of the most beautiful girls in London,

because that appeared in the _Morning Post_ a month ago.

‘Dear Lady Windermere,’ cried the Marchioness of Jedburgh, ‘do let Mr.

Podgers stay here a little longer. He has just told me I should go on

the stage, and I am so interested.’

‘If he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall certainly take him away.

Come over at once, Mr. Podgers, and read Lord Arthur’s hand.’

‘Well,’ said Lady Jedburgh, making a little _moue_ as she rose from the

sofa, ‘if I am not to be allowed to go on the stage, I must be allowed to

be part of the audience at any rate.’

‘Of course; we are all going to be part of the audience,’ said Lady

Windermere; ‘and now, Mr. Podgers, be sure and tell us something nice.

Lord Arthur is one of my special favourites.’

But when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur’s hand he grew curiously pale, and

said nothing. A shudder seemed to pass through him, and his great bushy

eyebrows twitched convulsively, in an odd, irritating way they had when

he was puzzled. Then some huge beads of perspiration broke out on his

yellow forehead, like a poisonous dew, and his fat fingers grew cold and

clammy.

Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of agitation, and,

for the first time in his life, he himself felt fear. His impulse was to

rush from the room, but he restrained himself. It was better to know the

worst, whatever it was, than to be left in this hideous uncertainty.

‘I am waiting, Mr. Podgers,’ he said.

‘We are all waiting,’ cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatient

manner, but the cheiromantist made no reply.

‘I believe Arthur is going on the stage,’ said Lady Jedburgh, ‘and that,

after your scolding, Mr. Podgers is afraid to tell him so.’

Suddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur’s right hand, and seized hold of

his left, bending down so low to examine it that the gold rims of his

spectacles seemed almost to touch the palm. For a moment his face became

a white mask of horror, but he soon recovered his _sang-froid_, and

looking up at Lady Windermere, said with a forced smile, ‘It is the hand

of a charming young man.

‘Of course it is!’ answered Lady Windermere, ‘but will he be a charming

husband? That is what I want to know.’

‘All charming young men are,’ said Mr. Podgers.

‘I don’t think a husband should be too fascinating,’ murmured Lady

Jedburgh pensively, ‘it is so dangerous.’

‘My dear child, they never are too fascinating,’ cried Lady Windermere.

‘But what I want are details. Details are the only things that interest.

What is going to happen to Lord Arthur?’

‘Well, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go a voyage—’

‘Oh yes, his honeymoon, of course!’

‘And lose a relative.’

‘Not his sister, I hope?’ said Lady Jedburgh, in a piteous tone of voice.

‘Certainly not his sister,’ answered Mr. Podgers, with a deprecating wave

of the hand, ‘a distant relative merely.’

‘Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,’ said Lady Windermere. ‘I have

absolutely nothing to tell Sybil to-morrow. No one cares about distant

relatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago. However, I

suppose she had better have a black silk by her; it always does for

church, you know. And now let us go to supper. They are sure to have

eaten everything up, but we may find some hot soup. François used to

make excellent soup once, but he is so agitated about politics at

present, that I never feel quite certain about him. I do wish General

Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess, I am sure you are tired?’

‘Not at all, dear Gladys,’ answered the Duchess, waddling towards the

door. ‘I have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, I mean the

cheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can my tortoise-shell

fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my lace shawl, Flora?

Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, I’m sure’; and the worthy creature

finally managed to get downstairs without dropping her scent-bottle more

than twice.

All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the fireplace,

with the same feeling of dread over him, the same sickening sense of

coming evil. He smiled sadly at his sister, as she swept past him on

Lord Plymdale’s arm, looking lovely in her pink brocade and pearls, and

he hardly heard Lady Windermere when she called to him to follow her. He

thought of Sybil Merton, and the idea that anything could come between

them made his eyes dim with tears.

Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the shield of

Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon’s head. He seemed turned to stone, and

his face was like marble in its melancholy. He had lived the delicate

and luxurious life of a young man of birth and fortune, a life exquisite

in its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish insouciance; and

now for the first time he became conscious of the terrible mystery of

Destiny, of the awful meaning of Doom.

How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on his

hand, in characters that he could not read himself, but that another

could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some blood-red sign of

crime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no better than chessmen,

moved by an unseen power, vessels the potter fashions at his fancy, for

honour or for shame? His reason revolted against it, and yet he felt

that some tragedy was hanging over him, and that he had been suddenly

called upon to bear an intolerable burden. Actors are so fortunate.

They can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether

they will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it

is different. Most men and women are forced to perform parts for which

they have no qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and

our Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the

play is badly cast.

Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur he

started, and his coarse, fat face became a sort of greenish-yellow

colour. The two men’s eyes met, and for a moment there was silence.

‘The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and has asked

me to bring it to her,’ said Mr. Podgers finally. ‘Ah, I see it on the

sofa! Good evening.’

‘Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a straightforward answer to

a question I am going to put to you.’

‘Another time, Lord Arthur, but the Duchess is anxious. I am afraid I

must go.’

‘You shall not go. The Duchess is in no hurry.’

‘Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur,’ said Mr. Podgers, with

his sickly smile. ‘The fair sex is apt to be impatient.’

Lord Arthur’s finely-chiselled lips curled in petulant disdain. The poor

Duchess seemed to him of very little importance at that moment. He

walked across the room to where Mr. Podgers was standing, and held his

hand out.

‘Tell me what you saw there,’ he said. ‘Tell me the truth. I must know

it. I am not a child.’

Mr. Podgers’s eyes blinked behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and he

moved uneasily from one foot to the other, while his fingers played

nervously with a flash watch-chain.

‘What makes you think that I saw anything in your hand, Lord Arthur, more

than I told you?’

‘I know you did, and I insist on your telling me what it was. I will pay

you. I will give you a cheque for a hundred pounds.’

The green eyes flashed for a moment, and then became dull again.

‘Guineas?’ said Mr. Podgers at last, in a low voice.

‘Certainly. I will send you a cheque to-morrow. What is your club?’

‘I have no club. That is to say, not just at present. My address is—,

but allow me to give you my card’; and producing a bit of gilt-edge

pasteboard from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Podgers handed it, with a low

bow, to Lord Arthur, who read on it,

_Mr. SEPTIMUS R. PODGERS_

_Professional Cheiromantist_

103_a_ _West Moon Street_

‘My hours are from ten to four,’ murmured Mr. Podgers mechanically, ‘and

I make a reduction for families.’

‘Be quick,’ cried Lord Arthur, looking very pale, and holding his hand

out.

Mr. Podgers glanced nervously round, and drew the heavy _portière_ across

the door.

‘It will take a little time, Lord Arthur, you had better sit down.’

‘Be quick, sir,’ cried Lord Arthur again, stamping his foot angrily on

the polished floor.

Mr. Podgers smiled, drew from his breast-pocket a small magnifying glass,

and wiped it carefully with his handkerchief.

‘I am quite ready,’ he said.

CHAPTER II

TEN minutes later, with face blanched by terror, and eyes wild with

grief, Lord Arthur Savile rushed from Bentinck House, crushing his way

through the crowd of fur-coated footmen that stood round the large

striped awning, and seeming not to see or hear anything. The night was

bitter cold, and the gas-lamps round the square flared and flickered in

the keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever, and his forehead burned

like fire. On and on he went, almost with the gait of a drunken man. A

policeman looked curiously at him as he passed, and a beggar, who

slouched from an archway to ask for alms, grew frightened, seeing misery

greater than his own. Once he stopped under a lamp, and looked at his

hands. He thought he could detect the stain of blood already upon them,

and a faint cry broke from his trembling lips.

Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder! The very

night seemed to know it, and the desolate wind to howl it in his ear.

The dark corners of the streets were full of it. It grinned at him from

the roofs of the houses.

First he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to fascinate him.

He leaned wearily up against the railings, cooling his brow against the

wet metal, and listening to the tremulous silence of the trees. ‘Murder!

murder!’ he kept repeating, as though iteration could dim the horror of

the word. The sound of his own voice made him shudder, yet he almost

hoped that Echo might hear him, and wake the slumbering city from its

dreams. He felt a mad desire to stop the casual passer-by, and tell him

everything.

Then he wandered across Oxford Street into narrow, shameful alleys. Two

women with painted faces mocked at him as he went by. From a dark

courtyard came a sound of oaths and blows, followed by shrill screams,

and, huddled upon a damp door-step, he saw the crook-backed forms of

poverty and eld. A strange pity came over him. Were these children of

sin and misery predestined to their end, as he to his? Were they, like

him, merely the puppets of a monstrous show?

And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering that struck

him; its absolute uselessness, its grotesque want of meaning. How

incoherent everything seemed! How lacking in all harmony! He was amazed

at the discord between the shallow optimism of the day, and the real

facts of existence. He was still very young.

After a time he found himself in front of Marylebone Church. The silent

roadway looked like a long riband of polished silver, flecked here and

there by the dark arabesques of waving shadows. Far into the distance

curved the line of flickering gas-lamps, and outside a little walled-in

house stood a solitary hansom, the driver asleep inside. He walked

hastily in the direction of Portland Place, now and then looking round,

as though he feared that he was being followed. At the corner of Rich

Street stood two men, reading a small bill upon a hoarding. An odd

feeling of curiosity stirred him, and he crossed over. As he came near,

the word ‘Murder,’ printed in black letters, met his eye. He started,

and a deep flush came into his cheek. It was an advertisement offering a

reward for any information leading to the arrest of a man of medium

height, between thirty and forty years of age, wearing a billy-cock hat,

a black coat, and check trousers, and with a scar upon his right cheek.

He read it over and over again, and wondered if the wretched man would be

caught, and how he had been scarred. Perhaps, some day, his own name

might be placarded on the walls of London. Some day, perhaps, a price

would be set on his head also.

The thought made him sick with horror. He turned on his heel, and

hurried on into the night.

Where he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wandering through a

labyrinth of sordid houses, of being lost in a giant web of sombre

streets, and it was bright dawn when he found himself at last in

Piccadilly Circus. As he strolled home towards Belgrave Square, he met

the great waggons on their way to Covent Garden. The white-smocked

carters, with their pleasant sunburnt faces and coarse curly hair, strode

sturdily on, cracking their whips, and calling out now and then to each

other; on the back of a huge grey horse, the leader of a jangling team,

sat a chubby boy, with a bunch of primroses in his battered hat, keeping

tight hold of the mane with his little hands, and laughing; and the great

piles of vegetables looked like masses of jade against the morning sky,

like masses of green jade against the pink petals of some marvellous

rose. Lord Arthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There

was something in the dawn’s delicate loveliness that seemed to him

inexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that break in

beauty, and that set in storm. These rustics, too, with their rough,

good-humoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what a strange London

they saw! A London free from the sin of night and the smoke of day, a

pallid, ghost-like city, a desolate town of tombs! He wondered what they

thought of it, and whether they knew anything of its splendour and its

shame, of its fierce, fiery-coloured joys, and its horrible hunger, of

all it makes and mars from morn to eve. Probably it was to them merely a

mart where they brought their fruits to sell, and where they tarried for

a few hours at most, leaving the streets still silent, the houses still

asleep. It gave him pleasure to watch them as they went by. Rude as

they were, with their heavy, hob-nailed shoes, and their awkward gait,

they brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that they had lived

with Nature, and that she had taught them peace. He envied them all that

they did not know.

By the time he had reached Belgrave Square the sky was a faint blue, and

the birds were beginning to twitter in the gardens.

CHAPTER III

WHEN Lord Arthur woke it was twelve o’clock, and the midday sun was

streaming through the ivory-silk curtains of his room. He got up and

looked out of the window. A dim haze of heat was hanging over the great

city, and the roofs of the houses were like dull silver. In the

flickering green of the square below some children were flitting about

like white butterflies, and the pavement was crowded with people on their

way to the Park. Never had life seemed lovelier to him, never had the

things of evil seemed more remote.

Then his valet brought him a cup of chocolate on a tray. After he had

drunk it, he drew aside a heavy _portière_ of peach-coloured plush, and

passed into the bathroom. The light stole softly from above, through

thin slabs of transparent onyx, and the water in the marble tank

glimmered like a moonstone. He plunged hastily in, till the cool ripples

touched throat and hair, and then dipped his head right under, as though

he would have wiped away the stain of some shameful memory. When he

stepped out he felt almost at peace. The exquisite physical conditions

of the moment had dominated him, as indeed often happens in the case of

very finely-wrought natures, for the senses, like fire, can purify as

well as destroy.

After breakfast, he flung himself down on a divan, and lit a cigarette.

On the mantel-shelf, framed in dainty old brocade, stood a large

photograph of Sybil Merton, as he had seen her first at Lady Noel’s ball.

The small, exquisitely-shaped head drooped slightly to one side, as

though the thin, reed-like throat could hardly bear the burden of so much

beauty; the lips were slightly parted, and seemed made for sweet music;

and all the tender purity of girlhood looked out in wonder from the

dreaming eyes. With her soft, clinging dress of _crêpe-de-chine_, and

her large leaf-shaped fan, she looked like one of those delicate little

figures men find in the olive-woods near Tanagra; and there was a touch

of Greek grace in her pose and attitude. Yet she was not _petite_. She

was simply perfectly proportioned—a rare thing in an age when so many

women are either over life-size or insignificant.

Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terrible pity

that is born of love. He felt that to marry her, with the doom of murder

hanging over his head, would be a betrayal like that of Judas, a sin

worse than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of. What happiness could

there be for them, when at any moment he might be called upon to carry

out the awful prophecy written in his hand? What manner of life would be

theirs while Fate still held this fearful fortune in the scales? The

marriage must be postponed, at all costs. Of this he was quite resolved.

Ardently though he loved the girl, and the mere touch of her fingers,

when they sat together, made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite

joy, he recognised none the less clearly where his duty lay, and was

fully conscious of the fact that he had no right to marry until he had

committed the murder. This done, he could stand before the altar with

Sybil Merton, and give his life into her hands without terror of

wrongdoing. This done, he could take her to his arms, knowing that she

would never have to blush for him, never have to hang her head in shame.

But done it must be first; and the sooner the better for both.

Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of

dalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was too

conscientious to set pleasure above principle. There was more than mere

passion in his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all that is good

and noble. For a moment he had a natural repugnance against what he was

asked to do, but it soon passed away. His heart told him that it was not

a sin, but a sacrifice; his reason reminded him that there was no other

course open. He had to choose between living for himself and living for

others, and terrible though the task laid upon him undoubtedly was, yet

he knew that he must not suffer selfishness to triumph over love. Sooner

or later we are all called upon to decide on the same issue—of us all,

the same question is asked. To Lord Arthur it came early in life—before

his nature had been spoiled by the calculating cynicism of middle-age, or

his heart corroded by the shallow, fashionable egotism of our day, and he

felt no hesitation about doing his duty. Fortunately also, for him, he

was no mere dreamer, or idle dilettante. Had he been so, he would have

hesitated, like Hamlet, and let irresolution mar his purpose. But he was

essentially practical. Life to him meant action, rather than thought.

He had that rarest of all things, common sense.

The wild, turbid feelings of the previous night had by this time

completely passed away, and it was almost with a sense of shame that he

looked back upon his mad wanderings from street to street, his fierce

emotional agony. The very sincerity of his sufferings made them seem

unreal to him now. He wondered how he could have been so foolish as to

rant and rave about the inevitable. The only question that seemed to

trouble him was, whom to make away with; for he was not blind to the fact

that murder, like the religions of the Pagan world, requires a victim as

well as a priest. Not being a genius, he had no enemies, and indeed he

felt that this was not the time for the gratification of any personal

pique or dislike, the mission in which he was engaged being one of great

and grave solemnity. He accordingly made out a list of his friends and

relatives on a sheet of notepaper, and after careful consideration,

decided in favour of Lady Clementina Beauchamp, a dear old lady who lived

in Curzon Street, and was his own second cousin by his mother’s side. He

had always been very fond of Lady Clem, as every one called her, and as

he was very wealthy himself, having come into all Lord Rugby’s property

when he came of age, there was no possibility of his deriving any vulgar

monetary advantage by her death. In fact, the more he thought over the

matter, the more she seemed to him to be just the right person, and,

feeling that any delay would be unfair to Sybil, he determined to make

his arrangements at once.

The first thing to be done was, of course, to settle with the

cheiromantist; so he sat down at a small Sheraton writing-table that

stood near the window, drew a cheque for £105, payable to the order of

Mr. Septimus Podgers, and, enclosing it in an envelope, told his valet to

take it to West Moon Street. He then telephoned to the stables for his

hansom, and dressed to go out. As he was leaving the room he looked back

at Sybil Merton’s photograph, and swore that, come what may, he would

never let her know what he was doing for her sake, but would keep the

secret of his self-sacrifice hidden always in his heart.

On his way to the Buckingham, he stopped at a florist’s, and sent Sybil a

beautiful basket of narcissus, with lovely white petals and staring

pheasants’ eyes, and on arriving at the club, went straight to the

library, rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to bring him a

lemon-and-soda, and a book on Toxicology. He had fully decided that

poison was the best means to adopt in this troublesome business.

Anything like personal violence was extremely distasteful to him, and

besides, he was very anxious not to murder Lady Clementina in any way

that might attract public attention, as he hated the idea of being

lionised at Lady Windermere’s, or seeing his name figuring in the

paragraphs of vulgar society—newspapers. He had also to think of Sybil’s

father and mother, who were rather old-fashioned people, and might

possibly object to the marriage if there was anything like a scandal,

though he felt certain that if he told them the whole facts of the case

they would be the very first to appreciate the motives that had actuated

him. He had every reason, then, to decide in favour of poison. It was

safe, sure, and quiet, and did away with any necessity for painful

scenes, to which, like most Englishmen, he had a rooted objection.

Of the science of poisons, however, he knew absolutely nothing, and as

the waiter seemed quite unable to find anything in the library but

_Ruff’s Guide_ and _Bailey’s Magazine_, he examined the book-shelves

himself, and finally came across a handsomely-bound edition of the

_Pharmacopoeia_, and a copy of Erskine’s _Toxicology_, edited by Sir

Mathew Reid, the President of the Royal College of Physicians, and one of

the oldest members of the Buckingham, having been elected in mistake for

somebody else; a _contretemps_ that so enraged the Committee, that when

the real man came up they black-balled him unanimously. Lord Arthur was

a good deal puzzled at the technical terms used in both books, and had

begun to regret that he had not paid more attention to his classics at

Oxford, when in the second volume of Erskine, he found a very interesting

and complete account of the properties of aconitine, written in fairly

clear English. It seemed to him to be exactly the poison he wanted. It

was swift—indeed, almost immediate, in its effect—perfectly painless, and

when taken in the form of a gelatine capsule, the mode recommended by Sir

Mathew, not by any means unpalatable. He accordingly made a note, upon

his shirt-cuff, of the amount necessary for a fatal dose, put the books

back in their places, and strolled up St. James’s Street, to Pestle and

Humbey’s, the great chemists. Mr. Pestle, who always attended personally

on the aristocracy, was a good deal surprised at the order, and in a very

deferential manner murmured something about a medical certificate being

necessary. However, as soon as Lord Arthur explained to him that it was

for a large Norwegian mastiff that he was obliged to get rid of, as it

showed signs of incipient rabies, and had already bitten the coachman

twice in the calf of the leg, he expressed himself as being perfectly

satisfied, complimented Lord Arthur on his wonderful knowledge of

Toxicology, and had the prescription made up immediately.

Lord Arthur put the capsule into a pretty little silver _bonbonnière_

that he saw in a shop window in Bond Street, threw away Pestle and

Hambey’s ugly pill-box, and drove off at once to Lady Clementina’s.

‘Well, _monsieur le mauvais sujet_,’ cried the old lady, as he entered

the room, ‘why haven’t you been to see me all this time?’

‘My dear Lady Clem, I never have a moment to myself,’ said Lord Arthur,

smiling.

‘I suppose you mean that you go about all day long with Miss Sybil

Merton, buying _chiffons_ and talking nonsense? I cannot understand why

people make such a fuss about being married. In my day we never dreamed

of billing and cooing in public, or in private for that matter.’

‘I assure you I have not seen Sybil for twenty-four hours, Lady Clem. As

far as I can make out, she belongs entirely to her milliners.’

‘Of course; that is the only reason you come to see an ugly old woman

like myself. I wonder you men don’t take warning. _On a fait des folies

pour moi_, and here I am, a poor rheumatic creature, with a false front

and a bad temper. Why, if it were not for dear Lady Jansen, who sends me

all the worst French novels she can find, I don’t think I could get

through the day. Doctors are no use at all, except to get fees out of

one. They can’t even cure my heartburn.’

‘I have brought you a cure for that, Lady Clem,’ said Lord Arthur

gravely. ‘It is a wonderful thing, invented by an American.’

‘I don’t think I like American inventions, Arthur. I am quite sure I

don’t. I read some American novels lately, and they were quite

nonsensical.’

‘Oh, but there is no nonsense at all about this, Lady Clem! I assure you

it is a perfect cure. You must promise to try it’; and Lord Arthur

brought the little box out of his pocket, and handed it to her.

‘Well, the box is charming, Arthur. Is it really a present? That is

very sweet of you. And is this the wonderful medicine? It looks like a

_bonbon_. I’ll take it at once.’

‘Good heavens! Lady Clem,’ cried Lord Arthur, catching hold of her hand,

‘you mustn’t do anything of the kind. It is a homoeopathic medicine, and

if you take it without having heartburn, it might do you no end of harm.

Wait till you have an attack, and take it then. You will be astonished

at the result.’

‘I should like to take it now,’ said Lady Clementina, holding up to the

light the little transparent capsule, with its floating bubble of liquid

aconitine. I am sure it is delicious. The fact is that, though I hate

doctors, I love medicines. However, I’ll keep it till my next attack.’

‘And when will that be?’ asked Lord Arthur eagerly. ‘Will it be soon?’

‘I hope not for a week. I had a very bad time yesterday morning with it.

But one never knows.’

‘You are sure to have one before the end of the month then, Lady Clem?’

‘I am afraid so. But how sympathetic you are to-day, Arthur! Really,

Sybil has done you a great deal of good. And now you must run away, for

I am dining with some very dull people, who won’t talk scandal, and I

know that if I don’t get my sleep now I shall never be able to keep awake

during dinner. Good-bye, Arthur, give my love to Sybil, and thank you so

much for the American medicine.’

‘You won’t forget to take it, Lady Clem, will you?’ said Lord Arthur,

rising from his seat.

‘Of course I won’t, you silly boy. I think it is most kind of you to

think of me, and I shall write and tell you if I want any more.’

Lord Arthur left the house in high spirits, and with a feeling of immense

relief.

That night he had an interview with Sybil Merton. He told her how he had

been suddenly placed in a position of terrible difficulty, from which

neither honour nor duty would allow him to recede. He told her that the

marriage must be put off for the present, as until he had got rid of his

fearful entanglements, he was not a free man. He implored her to trust

him, and not to have any doubts about the future. Everything would come

right, but patience was necessary.

The scene took place in the conservatory of Mr. Merton’s house, in Park

Lane, where Lord Arthur had dined as usual. Sybil had never seemed more

happy, and for a moment Lord Arthur had been tempted to play the coward’s

part, to write to Lady Clementina for the pill, and to let the marriage

go on as if there was no such person as Mr. Podgers in the world. His

better nature, however, soon asserted itself, and even when Sybil flung

herself weeping into his arms, he did not falter. The beauty that

stirred his senses had touched his conscience also. He felt that to

wreck so fair a life for the sake of a few months’ pleasure would be a

wrong thing to do.

He stayed with Sybil till nearly midnight, comforting her and being

comforted in turn, and early the next morning he left for Venice, after

writing a manly, firm letter to Mr. Merton about the necessary

postponement of the marriage.

CHAPTER IV

IN Venice he met his brother, Lord Surbiton, who happened to have come

over from Corfu in his yacht. The two young men spent a delightful

fortnight together. In the morning they rode on the Lido, or glided up

and down the green canals in their long black gondola; in the afternoon

they usually entertained visitors on the yacht; and in the evening they

dined at Florian’s, and smoked innumerable cigarettes on the Piazza. Yet

somehow Lord Arthur was not happy. Every day he studied the obituary

column in the _Times_, expecting to see a notice of Lady Clementina’s

death, but every day he was disappointed. He began to be afraid that

some accident had happened to her, and often regretted that he had

prevented her taking the aconitine when she had been so anxious to try

its effect. Sybil’s letters, too, though full of love, and trust, and

tenderness, were often very sad in their tone, and sometimes he used to

think that he was parted from her for ever.

After a fortnight Lord Surbiton got bored with Venice, and determined to

run down the coast to Ravenna, as he heard that there was some capital

cock-shooting in the Pinetum. Lord Arthur at first refused absolutely to

come, but Surbiton, of whom he was extremely fond, finally persuaded him

that if he stayed at Danieli’s by himself he would be moped to death, and

on the morning of the 15th they started, with a strong nor’-east wind

blowing, and a rather choppy sea. The sport was excellent, and the free,

open-air life brought the colour back to Lord Arthur’s cheek, but about

the 22nd he became anxious about Lady Clementina, and, in spite of

Surbiton’s remonstrances, came back to Venice by train.

As he stepped out of his gondola on to the hotel steps, the proprietor

came forward to meet him with a sheaf of telegrams. Lord Arthur snatched

them out of his hand, and tore them open. Everything had been

successful. Lady Clementina had died quite suddenly on the night of the

17th!

His first thought was for Sybil, and he sent her off a telegram

announcing his immediate return to London. He then ordered his valet to

pack his things for the night mail, sent his gondoliers about five times

their proper fare, and ran up to his sitting-room with a light step and a

buoyant heart. There he found three letters waiting for him. One was

from Sybil herself, full of sympathy and condolence. The others were

from his mother, and from Lady Clementina’s solicitor. It seemed that

the old lady had dined with the Duchess that very night, had delighted

every one by her wit and _esprit_, but had gone home somewhat early,

complaining of heartburn. In the morning she was found dead in her bed,

having apparently suffered no pain. Sir Mathew Reid had been sent for at

once, but, of course, there was nothing to be done, and she was to be

buried on the 22nd at Beauchamp Chalcote. A few days before she died she

had made her will, and left Lord Arthur her little house in Curzon

Street, and all her furniture, personal effects, and pictures, with the

exception of her collection of miniatures, which was to go to her sister,

Lady Margaret Rufford, and her amethyst necklace, which Sybil Merton was

to have. The property was not of much value; but Mr. Mansfield, the

solicitor, was extremely anxious for Lord Arthur to return at once, if

possible, as there were a great many bills to be paid, and Lady

Clementina had never kept any regular accounts.

Lord Arthur was very much touched by Lady Clementina’s kind remembrance

of him, and felt that Mr. Podgers had a great deal to answer for. His

love of Sybil, however, dominated every other emotion, and the

consciousness that he had done his duty gave him peace and comfort. When

he arrived at Charing Cross, he felt perfectly happy.

The Mertons received him very kindly. Sybil made him promise that he

would never again allow anything to come between them, and the marriage

was fixed for the 7th June. Life seemed to him once more bright and

beautiful, and all his old gladness came back to him again.

One day, however, as he was going over the house in Curzon Street, in

company with Lady Clementina’s solicitor and Sybil herself, burning

packages of faded letters, and turning out drawers of odd rubbish, the

young girl suddenly gave a little cry of delight.

‘What have you found, Sybil?’ said Lord Arthur, looking up from his work,

and smiling.

‘This lovely little silver _bonbonnière_, Arthur. Isn’t it quaint and

Dutch? Do give it to me! I know amethysts won’t become me till I am

over eighty.’

It was the box that had held the aconitine.

Lord Arthur started, and a faint blush came into his cheek. He had

almost entirely forgotten what he had done, and it seemed to him a

curious coincidence that Sybil, for whose sake he had gone through all

that terrible anxiety, should have been the first to remind him of it.

‘Of course you can have it, Sybil. I gave it to poor Lady Clem myself.’

‘Oh! thank you, Arthur; and may I have the _bonbon_ too? I had no notion

that Lady Clementina liked sweets. I thought she was far too

intellectual.’

Lord Arthur grew deadly pale, and a horrible idea crossed his mind.

‘_Bonbon_, Sybil? What do you mean?’ he said in a slow, hoarse voice.

‘There is one in it, that is all. It looks quite old and dusty, and I

have not the slightest intention of eating it. What is the matter,

Arthur? How white you look!’

Lord Arthur rushed across the room, and seized the box. Inside it was

the amber-coloured capsule, with its poison-bubble. Lady Clementina had

died a natural death after all!

The shock of the discovery was almost too much for him. He flung the

capsule into the fire, and sank on the sofa with a cry of despair.

CHAPTER V

MR. Merton was a good deal distressed at the second postponement of the

marriage, and Lady Julia, who had already ordered her dress for the

wedding, did all in her power to make Sybil break off the match. Dearly,

however, as Sybil loved her mother, she had given her whole life into

Lord Arthur’s hands, and nothing that Lady Julia could say could make her

waver in her faith. As for Lord Arthur himself, it took him days to get

over his terrible disappointment, and for a time his nerves were

completely unstrung. His excellent common sense, however, soon asserted

itself, and his sound, practical mind did not leave him long in doubt

about what to do. Poison having proved a complete failure, dynamite, or

some other form of explosive, was obviously the proper thing to try.

He accordingly looked again over the list of his friends and relatives,

and, after careful consideration, determined to blow up his uncle, the

Dean of Chichester. The Dean, who was a man of great culture and

learning, was extremely fond of clocks, and had a wonderful collection of

timepieces, ranging from the fifteenth century to the present day, and it

seemed to Lord Arthur that this hobby of the good Dean’s offered him an

excellent opportunity for carrying out his scheme. Where to procure an

explosive machine was, of course, quite another matter. The London

Directory gave him no information on the point, and he felt that there

was very little use in going to Scotland Yard about it, as they never

seemed to know anything about the movements of the dynamite faction till

after an explosion had taken place, and not much even then.

Suddenly he thought of his friend Rouvaloff, a young Russian of very

revolutionary tendencies, whom he had met at Lady Windermere’s in the

winter. Count Rouvaloff was supposed to be writing a life of Peter the

Great, and to have come over to England for the purpose of studying the

documents relating to that Tsar’s residence in this country as a ship

carpenter; but it was generally suspected that he was a Nihilist agent,

and there was no doubt that the Russian Embassy did not look with any

favour upon his presence in London. Lord Arthur felt that he was just

the man for his purpose, and drove down one morning to his lodgings in

Bloomsbury, to ask his advice and assistance.

‘So you are taking up politics seriously?’ said Count Rouvaloff, when

Lord Arthur had told him the object of his mission; but Lord Arthur, who

hated swagger of any kind, felt bound to admit to him that he had not the

slightest interest in social questions, and simply wanted the explosive

machine for a purely family matter, in which no one was concerned but

himself.

Count Rouvaloff looked at him for some moments in amazement, and then

seeing that he was quite serious, wrote an address on a piece of paper,

initialled it, and handed it to him across the table.

‘Scotland Yard would give a good deal to know this address, my dear

fellow.’

‘They shan’t have it,’ cried Lord Arthur, laughing; and after shaking the

young Russian warmly by the hand he ran downstairs, examined the paper,

and told the coachman to drive to Soho Square.

There he dismissed him, and strolled down Greek Street, till he came to a

place called Bayle’s Court. He passed under the archway, and found

himself in a curious _cul-de-sac_, that was apparently occupied by a

French Laundry, as a perfect network of clothes-lines was stretched

across from house to house, and there was a flutter of white linen in the

morning air. He walked right to the end, and knocked at a little green

house. After some delay, during which every window in the court became a

blurred mass of peering faces, the door was opened by a rather

rough-looking foreigner, who asked him in very bad English what his

business was. Lord Arthur handed him the paper Count Rouvaloff had given

him. When the man saw it he bowed, and invited Lord Arthur into a very

shabby front parlour on the ground floor, and in a few moments Herr

Winckelkopf, as he was called in England, bustled into the room, with a

very wine-stained napkin round his neck, and a fork in his left hand.

‘Count Rouvaloff has given me an introduction to you,’ said Lord Arthur,

bowing, ‘and I am anxious to have a short interview with you on a matter

of business. My name is Smith, Mr. Robert Smith, and I want you to

supply me with an explosive clock.’

‘Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur,’ said the genial little German,

laughing. ‘Don’t look so alarmed, it is my duty to know everybody, and I

remember seeing you one evening at Lady Windermere’s. I hope her

ladyship is quite well. Do you mind sitting with me while I finish my

breakfast? There is an excellent _pâté_, and my friends are kind enough

to say that my Rhine wine is better than any they get at the German

Embassy,’ and before Lord Arthur had got over his surprise at being

recognised, he found himself seated in the back-room, sipping the most

delicious Marcobrünner out of a pale yellow hock-glass marked with the

Imperial monogram, and chatting in the friendliest manner possible to the

famous conspirator.

‘Explosive clocks,’ said Herr Winckelkopf, ‘are not very good things for

foreign exportation, as, even if they succeed in passing the Custom

House, the train service is so irregular, that they usually go off before

they have reached their proper destination. If, however, you want one

for home use, I can supply you with an excellent article, and guarantee

that you will he satisfied with the result. May I ask for whom it is

intended? If it is for the police, or for any one connected with

Scotland Yard, I am afraid I cannot do anything for you. The English

detectives are really our best friends, and I have always found that by

relying on their stupidity, we can do exactly what we like. I could not

spare one of them.’

‘I assure you,’ said Lord Arthur, ‘that it has nothing to do with the

police at all. In fact, the clock is intended for the Dean of

Chichester.’

‘Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly about religion, Lord

Arthur. Few young men do nowadays.’

‘I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf,’ said Lord Arthur,

blushing. ‘The fact is, I really know nothing about theology.’

‘It is a purely private matter then?’

‘Purely private.’

Herr Winckelkopf shrugged his shoulders, and left the room, returning in

a few minutes with a round cake of dynamite about the size of a penny,

and a pretty little French clock, surmounted by an ormolu figure of

Liberty trampling on the hydra of Despotism.

Lord Arthur’s face brightened up when he saw it. ‘That is just what I

want,’ he cried, ‘and now tell me how it goes off.’

‘Ah! there is my secret,’ answered Herr Winckelkopf, contemplating his

invention with a justifiable look of pride; ‘let me know when you wish it

to explode, and I will set the machine to the moment.’

‘Well, to-day is Tuesday, and if you could send it off at once—’

‘That is impossible; I have a great deal of important work on hand for

some friends of mine in Moscow. Still, I might send it off to-morrow.’

‘Oh, it will be quite time enough!’ said Lord Arthur politely, ‘if it is

delivered to-morrow night or Thursday morning. For the moment of the

explosion, say Friday at noon exactly. The Dean is always at home at

that hour.’

‘Friday, at noon,’ repeated Herr Winckelkopf, and he made a note to that

effect in a large ledger that was lying on a bureau near the fireplace.

‘And now,’ said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat, ‘pray let me know how

much I am in your debt.’

‘It is such a small matter, Lord Arthur, that I do not care to make any

charge. The dynamite comes to seven and sixpence, the clock will be

three pounds ten, and the carriage about five shillings. I am only too

pleased to oblige any friend of Count Rouvaloff’s.’

‘But your trouble, Herr Winckelkopf?’

‘Oh, that is nothing! It is a pleasure to me. I do not work for money;

I live entirely for my art.’

Lord Arthur laid down £4, 2s. 6d. on the table, thanked the little German

for his kindness, and, having succeeded in declining an invitation to

meet some Anarchists at a meat-tea on the following Saturday, left the

house and went off to the Park.

For the next two days he was in a state of the greatest excitement, and

on Friday at twelve o’clock he drove down to the Buckingham to wait for

news. All the afternoon the stolid hall-porter kept posting up telegrams

from various parts of the country giving the results of horse-races, the

verdicts in divorce suits, the state of the weather, and the like, while

the tape ticked out wearisome details about an all-night sitting in the

House of Commons, and a small panic on the Stock Exchange. At four

o’clock the evening papers came in, and Lord Arthur disappeared into the

library with the _Pall Mall_, the _St. James’s_, the _Globe_, and the

_Echo_, to the immense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who wanted to

read the reports of a speech he had delivered that morning at the Mansion

House, on the subject of South African Missions, and the advisability of

having black Bishops in every province, and for some reason or other had

a strong prejudice against the _Evening News_. None of the papers,

however, contained even the slightest allusion to Chichester, and Lord

Arthur felt that the attempt must have failed. It was a terrible blow to

him, and for a time he was quite unnerved. Herr Winckelkopf, whom he

went to see the next day was full of elaborate apologies, and offered to

supply him with another clock free of charge, or with a case of

nitro-glycerine bombs at cost price. But he had lost all faith in

explosives, and Herr Winckelkopf himself acknowledged that everything is

so adulterated nowadays, that even dynamite can hardly be got in a pure

condition. The little German, however, while admitting that something

must have gone wrong with the machinery, was not without hope that the

clock might still go off, and instanced the case of a barometer that he

had once sent to the military Governor at Odessa, which, though timed to

explode in ten days, had not done so for something like three months. It

was quite true that when it did go off, it merely succeeded in blowing a

housemaid to atoms, the Governor having gone out of town six weeks

before, but at least it showed that dynamite, as a destructive force,

was, when under the control of machinery, a powerful, though a somewhat

unpunctual agent. Lord Arthur was a little consoled by this reflection,

but even here he was destined to disappointment, for two days afterwards,

as he was going upstairs, the Duchess called him into her boudoir, and

showed him a letter she had just received from the Deanery.

‘Jane writes charming letters,’ said the Duchess; ‘you must really read

her last. It is quite as good as the novels Mudie sends us.’

Lord Arthur seized the letter from her hand. It ran as follows:—

THE DEANERY, CHICHESTER,

27_th_ _May_.

My Dearest Aunt,

Thank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and also

for the gingham. I quite agree with you that it is nonsense their

wanting to wear pretty things, but everybody is so Radical and

irreligious nowadays, that it is difficult to make them see that they

should not try and dress like the upper classes. I am sure I don’t

know what we are coming to. As papa has often said in his sermons,

we live in an age of unbelief.

We have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer sent papa

last Thursday. It arrived in a wooden box from London, carriage

paid, and papa feels it must have been sent by some one who had read

his remarkable sermon, ‘Is Licence Liberty?’ for on the top of the

clock was a figure of a woman, with what papa said was the cap of

Liberty on her head. I didn’t think it very becoming myself, but

papa said it was historical, so I suppose it is all right. Parker

unpacked it, and papa put it on the mantelpiece in the library, and

we were all sitting there on Friday morning, when just as the clock

struck twelve, we heard a whirring noise, a little puff of smoke came

from the pedestal of the figure, and the goddess of Liberty fell off,

and broke her nose on the fender! Maria was quite alarmed, but it

looked so ridiculous, that James and I went off into fits of

laughter, and even papa was amused. When we examined it, we found it

was a sort of alarum clock, and that, if you set it to a particular

hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under a little hammer, it went

off whenever you wanted. Papa said it must not remain in the

library, as it made a noise, so Reggie carried it away to the

schoolroom, and does nothing but have small explosions all day long.

Do you think Arthur would like one for a wedding present? I suppose

they are quite fashionable in London. Papa says they should do a

great deal of good, as they show that Liberty can’t last, but must

fall down. Papa says Liberty was invented at the time of the French

Revolution. How awful it seems!

I have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your most

instructive letter. How true, dear aunt, your idea is, that in their

rank of life they should wear what is unbecoming. I must say it is

absurd, their anxiety about dress, when there are so many more

important things in this world, and in the next. I am so glad your

flowered poplin turned out so well, and that your lace was not torn.

I am wearing my yellow satin, that you so kindly gave me, at the

Bishop’s on Wednesday, and think it will look all right. Would you

have bows or not? Jennings says that every one wears bows now, and

that the underskirt should be frilled. Reggie has just had another

explosion, and papa has ordered the clock to be sent to the stables.

I don’t think papa likes it so much as he did at first, though he is

very flattered at being sent such a pretty and ingenious toy. It

shows that people read his sermons, and profit by them.

Papa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria all unite,

and, hoping that Uncle Cecil’s gout is better, believe me, dear aunt,

ever your affectionate niece,

JANE PERCY.

_PS._—Do tell me about the bows. Jennings insists they are the

fashion.

Lord Arthur looked so serious and unhappy over the letter, that the

Duchess went into fits of laughter.

‘My dear Arthur,’ she cried, ‘I shall never show you a young lady’s

letter again! But what shall I say about the clock? I think it is a

capital invention, and I should like to have one myself.’

‘I don’t think much of them,’ said Lord Arthur, with a sad smile, and,

after kissing his mother, he left the room.

When he got upstairs, he flung himself on a sofa, and his eyes filled

with tears. He had done his best to commit this murder, but on both

occasions he had failed, and through no fault of his own. He had tried

to do his duty, but it seemed as if Destiny herself had turned traitor.

He was oppressed with the sense of the barrenness of good intentions, of

the futility of trying to be fine. Perhaps, it would be better to break

off the marriage altogether. Sybil would suffer, it is true, but

suffering could not really mar a nature so noble as hers. As for

himself, what did it matter? There is always some war in which a man can

die, some cause to which a man can give his life, and as life had no

pleasure for him, so death had no terror. Let Destiny work out his doom.

He would not stir to help her.

At half-past seven he dressed, and went down to the club. Surbiton was

there with a party of young men, and he was obliged to dine with them.

Their trivial conversation and idle jests did not interest him, and as

soon as coffee was brought he left them, inventing some engagement in

order to get away. As he was going out of the club, the hall-porter

handed him a letter. It was from Herr Winckelkopf, asking him to call

down the next evening, and look at an explosive umbrella, that went off

as soon as it was opened. It was the very latest invention, and had just

arrived from Geneva. He tore the letter up into fragments. He had made

up his mind not to try any more experiments. Then he wandered down to

the Thames Embankment, and sat for hours by the river. The moon peered

through a mane of tawny clouds, as if it were a lion’s eye, and

innumerable stars spangled the hollow vault, like gold dust powdered on a

purple dome. Now and then a barge swung out into the turbid stream, and

floated away with the tide, and the railway signals changed from green to

scarlet as the trains ran shrieking across the bridge. After some time,

twelve o’clock boomed from the tall tower at Westminster, and at each

stroke of the sonorous bell the night seemed to tremble. Then the

railway lights went out, one solitary lamp left gleaming like a large

ruby on a giant mast, and the roar of the city became fainter.

At two o’clock he got up, and strolled towards Blackfriars. How unreal

everything looked! How like a strange dream! The houses on the other

side of the river seemed built out of darkness. One would have said that

silver and shadow had fashioned the world anew. The huge dome of St.

Paul’s loomed like a bubble through the dusky air.

As he approached Cleopatra’s Needle he saw a man leaning over the

parapet, and as he came nearer the man looked up, the gas-light falling

full upon his face.

It was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist! No one could mistake the fat,

flabby face, the gold-rimmed spectacles, the sickly feeble smile, the

sensual mouth.

Lord Arthur stopped. A brilliant idea flashed across him, and he stole

softly up behind. In a moment he had seized Mr. Podgers by the legs, and

flung him into the Thames. There was a coarse oath, a heavy splash, and

all was still. Lord Arthur looked anxiously over, but could see nothing

of the cheiromantist but a tall hat, pirouetting in an eddy of moonlit

water. After a time it also sank, and no trace of Mr. Podgers was

visible. Once he thought that he caught sight of the bulky misshapen

figure striking out for the staircase by the bridge, and a horrible

feeling of failure came over him, but it turned out to be merely a

reflection, and when the moon shone out from behind a cloud it passed

away. At last he seemed to have realised the decree of destiny. He

heaved a deep sigh of relief, and Sybil’s name came to his lips.

‘Have you dropped anything, sir?’ said a voice behind him suddenly.

He turned round, and saw a policeman with a bull’s-eye lantern.

‘Nothing of importance, sergeant,’ he answered, smiling, and hailing a

passing hansom, he jumped in, and told the man to drive to Belgrave

Square.

For the next few days he alternated between hope and fear. There were

moments when he almost expected Mr. Podgers to walk into the room, and

yet at other times he felt that Fate could not be so unjust to him.

Twice he went to the cheiromantist’s address in West Moon Street, but he

could not bring himself to ring the bell. He longed for certainty, and

was afraid of it.

Finally it came. He was sitting in the smoking-room of the club having

tea, and listening rather wearily to Surbiton’s account of the last comic

song at the Gaiety, when the waiter came in with the evening papers. He

took up the _St. James’s_, and was listlessly turning over its pages,

when this strange heading caught his eye:

SUICIDE OF A CHEIROMANTIST.

He turned pale with excitement, and began to read. The paragraph ran as

follows:

Yesterday morning, at seven o’clock, the body of Mr. Septimus R.

Podgers, the eminent cheiromantist, was washed on shore at Greenwich,

just in front of the Ship Hotel. The unfortunate gentleman had been

missing for some days, and considerable anxiety for his safety had

been felt in cheiromantic circles. It is supposed that he committed

suicide under the influence of a temporary mental derangement, caused

by overwork, and a verdict to that effect was returned this afternoon

by the coroner’s jury. Mr. Podgers had just completed an elaborate

treatise on the subject of the Human Hand, that will shortly be

published, when it will no doubt attract much attention. The

deceased was sixty-five years of age, and does not seem to have left

any relations.

Lord Arthur rushed out of the club with the paper still in his hand, to

the immense amazement of the hall-porter, who tried in vain to stop him,

and drove at once to Park Lane. Sybil saw him from the window, and

something told her that he was the bearer of good news. She ran down to

meet him, and, when she saw his face, she knew that all was well.

‘My dear Sybil,’ cried Lord Arthur, ‘let us be married to-morrow!’

‘You foolish boy! Why, the cake is not even ordered!’ said Sybil,

laughing through her tears.

CHAPTER VI

WHEN the wedding took place, some three weeks later, St. Peter’s was

crowded with a perfect mob of smart people. The service was read in the

most impressive manner by the Dean of Chichester, and everybody agreed

that they had never seen a handsomer couple than the bride and

bridegroom. They were more than handsome, however—they were happy.

Never for a single moment did Lord Arthur regret all that he had suffered

for Sybil’s sake, while she, on her side, gave him the best things a

woman can give to any man—worship, tenderness, and love. For them

romance was not killed by reality. They always felt young.

Some years afterwards, when two beautiful children had been born to them,

Lady Windermere came down on a visit to Alton Priory, a lovely old place,

that had been the Duke’s wedding present to his son; and one afternoon as

she was sitting with Lady Arthur under a lime-tree in the garden,

watching the little boy and girl as they played up and down the

rose-walk, like fitful sunbeams, she suddenly took her hostess’s hand in

hers, and said, ‘Are you happy, Sybil?’

‘Dear Lady Windermere, of course I am happy. Aren’t you?’

‘I have no time to be happy, Sybil. I always like the last person who is

introduced to me; but, as a rule, as soon as I know people I get tired of

them.’

‘Don’t your lions satisfy you, Lady Windermere?’

‘Oh dear, no! lions are only good for one season. As soon as their manes

are cut, they are the dullest creatures going. Besides, they behave very

badly, if you are really nice to them. Do you remember that horrid Mr.

Podgers? He was a dreadful impostor. Of course, I didn’t mind that at

all, and even when he wanted to borrow money I forgave him, but I could

not stand his making love to me. He has really made me hate cheiromancy.

I go in for telepathy now. It is much more amusing.’

‘You mustn’t say anything against cheiromancy here, Lady Windermere; it

is the only subject that Arthur does not like people to chaff about. I

assure you he is quite serious over it.’

‘You don’t mean to say that he believes in it, Sybil?’

‘Ask him, Lady Windermere, here he is’; and Lord Arthur came up the

garden with a large bunch of yellow roses in his hand, and his two

children dancing round him.

‘Lord Arthur?’

‘Yes, Lady Windermere.’

‘You don’t mean to say that you believe in cheiromancy?’

‘Of course I do,’ said the young man, smiling.

‘But why?’

‘Because I owe to it all the happiness of my life,’ he murmured, throwing

himself into a wicker chair.

‘My dear Lord Arthur, what do you owe to it?’

‘Sybil,’ he answered, handing his wife the roses, and looking into her

violet eyes.

‘What nonsense!’ cried Lady Windermere. ‘I never heard such nonsense in

all my life.’

THE CANTERVILLE GHOST

A HYLO-IDEALISTIC ROMANCE

CHAPTER I

WHEN Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase,

every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no

doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville

himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his

duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.

‘We have not cared to live in the place ourselves,’ said Lord

Canterville, ‘since my grandaunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was

frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two

skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for

dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been

seen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of

the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King’s College,

Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none of our

younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often got very

little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came

from the corridor and the library.’

‘My Lord,’ answered the Minister, ‘I will take the furniture and the

ghost at a valuation. I come from a modern country, where we have

everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows

painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actresses and

prima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in

Europe, we’d have it at home in a very short time in one of our public

museums, or on the road as a show.’

‘I fear that the ghost exists,’ said Lord Canterville, smiling, ‘though

it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It

has been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always

makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family.’

‘Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But

there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature

are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy.’

‘You are certainly very natural in America,’ answered Lord Canterville,

who did not quite understand Mr. Otis’s last observation, ‘and if you

don’t mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember

I warned you.’

A few weeks after this, the purchase was completed, and at the close of

the season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase.

Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53rd Street, had been

a celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman,

with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving

their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the

impression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had

never fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a

really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she

was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have

really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course,

language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a

moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a fair-haired,

rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself for American

diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for three

successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an excellent

dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses. Otherwise

he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little girl of

fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large

blue eyes. She was a wonderful amazon, and had once raced old Lord

Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a half,

just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young

Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent back to

Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After

Virginia came the twins, who were usually called ‘The Stars and Stripes,’

as they were always getting swished. They were delightful boys, and with

the exception of the worthy Minister the only true republicans of the

family.

As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway

station, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and they

started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July evening,

and the air was delicate with the scent of the pine-woods. Now and then

they heard a wood pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deep

in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Little

squirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by, and the

rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy knolls,

with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of

Canterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds,

a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great flight of

rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they reached the

house, some big drops of rain had fallen.

Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed in

black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the

housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville’s earnest request, had

consented to keep on in her former position. She made them each a low

curtsey as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner, ‘I

bid you welcome to Canterville Chase.’ Following her, they passed

through the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled

in black oak, at the end of which was a large stained-glass window. Here

they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they

sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.

Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by

the fireplace and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said to

Mrs. Umney, ‘I am afraid something has been spilt there.’

‘Yes, madam,’ replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, ‘blood has been

spilt on that spot.’

‘How horrid,’ cried Mrs. Otis; ‘I don’t at all care for blood-stains in a

sitting-room. It must be removed at once.’

The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, ‘It

is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on that

very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575. Sir

Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very

mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his

guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much

admired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed.’

‘That is all nonsense,’ cried Washington Otis; ‘Pinkerton’s Champion

Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time,’ and

before the terrified housekeeper could interfere he had fallen upon his

knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what

looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the

blood-stain could be seen.

‘I knew Pinkerton would do it,’ he exclaimed triumphantly, as he looked

round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than

a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, a fearful peal of

thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney fainted.

‘What a monstrous climate!’ said the American Minister calmly, as he lit

a long cheroot. ‘I guess the old country is so overpopulated that they

have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been of

opinion that emigration is the only thing for England.’

‘My dear Hiram,’ cried Mrs. Otis, ‘what can we do with a woman who

faints?’

‘Charge it to her like breakages,’ answered the Minister; ‘she won’t

faint after that’; and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to.

There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she

sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house.

‘I have seen things with my own eyes, sir,’ she said, ‘that would make

any Christian’s hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not

closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here.’ Mr.

Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they were

not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of Providence on

her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for an increase of

salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room.