"Oh, it PROFESSES! ... yes, that's just the mischief of it. Its

professions are not worth a groat. It PROFESSES to be one thing while

anybody with eyes can see that it actually is another! The old style of

aristocrat and gentleman is dying out,--the new style is the horsey

lord, the betting Duke, the coal-dealing Earl, the stock-broking

Viscount! Trade is a very excellent thing,--a very necessary and

important thing,--but its influence is distinctly NOT refining. I have

the greatest respect for my cheesemonger, for instance (and he has an

equal respect for me, since he has found that I know the difference

between real butter and butterine), but all the same I don't want to

see him in Parliament. I am arrogant enough to believe that I, even I,

having studied somewhat, know more about the country's interest than he

does. I view it by the light of ancient and modern historical

evidence,--he views it according to the demand it makes on his cheese.

We may both be narrow and limited in judgment,--nevertheless, I think,

with all due modesty, that HIS judgment is likely to be more limited

than mine. But it's no good talking about it,--this dear old land is

given up to a sort of ignorant democracy, which only needs time to

become anarchy, . . and we haven't got a strong man among us who dares

speak out the truth of the inevitable disasters looming above us all.

And society is not only vulgar, but demoralized,--moreover, what is

worse is, that, aided by its preachers and teachers, it is sinking into

deeper depths of demoralization with every passing month and year of

time."

Alwyn leaned hack in his chair thoughtfully, a sorrowful expression

clouding his face.

"Surely things are not so bad as they seem, Villiers,"--he said

gently--"Are you not taking a pessimistic view of affairs?"

"Not at all!" and Villiers, warming with his subject, walked up and

down the room excitedly ... "Nor am I judging by the narrow observation

of any particular 'set' or circle. I look at the expressive visible

outcome of the whole,--the plainly manifest signs of the threatening

future. Of course there are ever so many good people,--earnest

people,--thinking people,--but they are a mere handful compared to the

overpowering millions opposed to them, and whose motto is 'Evil, be

thou my good.' Now you, for instance, are full of splendid ideas, and

lucid plans of check and reform,--you are seized with a passionate

desire to do something great for the world, and you are ready to speak

the truth fearlessly on all occasions. But just think of the enormous

task it would be to stir to even half an inch of aspiring nobleness,

the frightful mass of corruption in London to-day! In all trades and

professions it is the same story,--everything is a question of GAIN. To

begin with, look at the Church, the 'Pillar of the State!' There, all

sorts of worthless, incompetent men are hastily thrust into livings by

wealthy patrons who care not a jot as to whether they are morally or

intellectually fit for their sacred mission,--and a disgraceful

universal muddle is the result. From this muddle, which resembles a

sort of stagnant pool, emerge the strangest fungus-growths,--clergymen

who take to acting a 'miracle-play,' ostensibly for the purposes of

charity, but really to gratify their own tastes and leanings toward the

mummer's art,--all the time utterly regardless of the effect their

behavior is likely to have on the minds of the unthinking populace, who

are led by the newspapers, and who read therein bantering inquiries as

to whether the Church is coquetting with the Stage? whether the two are

likely to become one? and whether Religion will in the future occupy no

more serious consideration than the Drama? What is one to think, when

one sees clerical notabilities seated in the stalls of a theatre

complacently looking on at the representation of a 'society play'

degrading in plot, repulsive in detail, and in nearly every case having

to do with a married woman who indulges in a lover as a matter of

course,--a play full of ambiguous side hits and equivocal jests, which,

if the men of the Church were staunch to their vocation, they would be

the first to condemn. Why, I saw the other day, in a fairly reliable

journal, that some of these excellent 'divines' were going to start

'smoking sermons'--a sort of imitation of smoking concerts, I suppose,

which are vile enough, in all conscience,--but to mix up religious

matters with the selfish 'smoke mania' is viler still. I say that any

clergyman who will allow men to smoke in his presence, while he is

preaching sacred doctrine, is a coarse cad, and ought to be hounded out

of the Church!"

He paused, his face flushing with vigorous, righteous wrath. Alwyn's

eyes grew dark with an infinite pain. His thoughts always fled back to

his Dream of Al-Kyris, with a tendency to draw comparisons between the

Past and the Present. The religion of that long-buried city had been

mere mummery and splendid outward show,--what was the religion of

London? He moved restlessly.

"How all the warnings of history repeat themselves!" he said suddenly..

"An age of mockery, sham sentiment, and irreverence has always preceded

a downfall,--can it be possible that we are already receiving hints of

the downfall of England?"

"Aye, not only of England, but of a good many other nations besides,"

said Villiers--"or if not actual downfall, change and terrific

upheaval. France and England particularly are the prey of the Demon of

Realism,--and all the writers who SHOULD use their pens to inspire and

elevate the people, assist in degrading them. When their books are not

obscene, they are blasphemous. Russia, too, joins in the cry of

Realism!--Realism! ... Let us have the filth of the gutters, the

scourgings of dustholes, the corruption of graves, the odors of

malaria, the howlings of drunkards, the revellings of sensualists, . .

the worst side of the world in its vilest aspect, which is the only

REAL aspect of those who are voluntarily vile! Let us see to what a

reeking depth of unutterable shameless brutality man can fall if he

chooses--not as formerly, when it was shown to what glorious heights of

noble supremacy he could rise! For in this age, the heights are called

'transcendental folly'--and the reeking depths are called Realism!"

"And yet what IS Realism really?" queried Alwyn.--"Does anybody know?

... It is supposed to be the actuality of everyday existence, without

any touch of romance or pathos to soften its frequently hideous

Commonplace; but the fact is, the Commonplace is not the Real. The

highest flights of imagination in the human being fail to grasp the

Reality of the splendors everywhere surrounding him,--and, viewed

rightly, Realism would become Romance and Romance Realism. We see a

ragged woman in the streets picking up scraps for her daily food, . .

that is what we may call realistic,--but we are not looking at the

ACTUAL woman, after all! We cannot see her Inner Self, or form any

certain comprehension of the possible romance or tragedy which that

Inner Self HAS experienced, or IS experiencing. We see the outer

Appearance of the woman, but what of that? ... The REALISM of the

suffering creature's hidden history lies beyond us,--so far beyond us

that it is called ROMANCE, because it seems so impossible to fathom or

understand."

"True, most absolutely true!" said Villiers emphatically--"But it is a

truth you will get very few to admit! ... Everything to-day is in a

state of substantiality and sham;--we have even sham Realism, as well

as sham sentiment, sham religion, sham art, sham morality. We have a

Parliament that sits and jabbers lengthy platitudes that lead to

nothing, while Army and Navy are slowly slipping into a state of

helpless desuetude, and the mutterings of discontented millions are

almost unregarded; the spectre of Revolution, assuming somewhat of the

shape in which it appalled the French in 1789, is dimly approaching in

the distance, . . even our London County Council hears the far-off,

faint shadow of a very prosaic resemblance to the National Assembly of

that era, . . and our weak efforts to cure cureless grievances, and to

deafen our ears to crying evils, are very similar to the clumsy

attempts made by Louis XVI. and his partisans to botch up a terribly

bad business. Oh, the people, the people! ... They are unquestionably

the flesh, blood, bone, and sinew of the country,--and the English

people, say what sneerers will to the contrary, are a GOOD

people,--patient, plodding, forbearing, strong, and, on the whole, most

equable-tempered,--but their teachers teach them wrongly, and confuse

their brains instead of clearing them, and throw a weight of Compulsory

Education at their heads, without caring how they may use it, or how

such a blow from the clenched fist of Knowledge may stupefy and

bewilder them, . . and the consequence is that now, were a strong man

to arise, with a lucid brain, an eloquent power of expressing truth, a

great sympathy with his kind, and an immense indifference to his own

fate in the contest, he could lead this vast, waiting, wandering,

growling, hydra-headed London wheresoever he would!"

"What an orator you are, Villiers!".. said Alwyn, with a half-smile. "I

never heard you come out so strongly before!"

"My dear fellow," replied Villiers, in a calmer tone--"it's enough to

make any man with warm blood in his veins FEEL! Everywhere signs of

weakness, cowardice, compromise, hesitation, vacillation, incompetency,

and everywhere, in thoughtful minds, the keen sense of a Fate advancing

like the giant in the seven-leagued boots, at huge strides every day.

The ponderous Law and the solid Police hem us in on each side, as

though the nation were a helpless infant, toddling between two portly

nurses,--we dare not denounce a scoundrel and liar, but must needs put

up with him, lest we should be involved in an action for libel; and we

dare not knock down a vulgar bully, lest we should be given in charge

for assault. Hence, liars, and scoundrels, and vulgar bullies abound,

and men skulk and grin, and play the double-face, till they lose all

manfulness. Society sits smirking foolishly on the top of a smouldering

volcano,--and the chief Symbols of greatness among us, Religion, Poesy,

Art, are burning as feebly as tapers in the catacombs, . . the Church

resembles a drudge, who, tired of routine, is gradually sinking into

laziness and inertia, . . and the Press! ... ye gods! ... the Press!"

Here speech seemed to fail him,--he threw himself into a chair, and, to

relieve his mind, kicked away the advertisement sheet of the morning's

newspaper with so much angry vehemence that Alwyn laughed outright.

"What ails you now, Villiers?" he demanded mirthfully.. "You are a

regular fire-eater--a would-be Crusader against a modern Saracen host!

Why are you choked with such seemingly unutterable wrath! ... what of

the Press? ... it is at any rate free."

"Free!" cried Villiers, sitting bolt upright and shooting out the word

like a bullet from a gun,--"Free? ... the Press? It is the veriest

bound slave that was ever hampered by the chains of party

prejudice,--and the only attempt at freedom it ever makes in its lower

grades is an occasional outbreak into scurrility! And yet think what a

majestic power for good the true, REAL Liberty of the Press might wield

over the destinies of nations! Broadly viewed, the Press should be the

strong, practical, helping right hand of civilization, dealing out

equal justice, equal sympathy, equal instruction,--it should be the

fosterer of the arts and sciences,--the everyday guide of the morals

and culture of the people,--it should not specially advocate any cause

save Honor,--it should be as far as possible the unanimous voice of the

Nation. It SHOULD be,--but what IS it? Look round and judge for

yourself. Every daily paper panders more or less to the lowest tastes

of the mob,--while if the higher sentiments of man are not actually

sneered at, they are made a subject for feeble surprise, or vapid

'gush.' An act of heroic unselfishness meets with such a cackling

chorus of amazed, half-bantering approval from the leading-article

writers, that one is forced to accept the suggestion implied,--namely

that to BE heroic or unselfish is evidently an outbreak of noble

instinct that is entirely unexpected and remarkable,--nay, even

eccentric and inexplicable! The spirit of mockery pervades

everything,--and while the story of a murder is allowed to occupy three

and four columns of print, the account of some great scientific

discovery, or the report of some famous literary or artistic

achievement is squeezed into a few lukewarm and unsatisfactory lines. I

have seen a female paragraphist's idiotic description of an actress's

gown allowed to take more space in a journal than the review of a

first-class book! Moreover, if an honest man, desirous of giving vent

to an honest opinion on some crying abuse of the day, were to set forth

that opinion in letter form and try to get it published in a leading

and important newspaper, the chances are ten to one that it would never

he inserted, unless he happened to know the editor, or one of the

staff, and perhaps not even then, because, mark you! his opinion MUST

be in accordance with the literary editor's opinion, or it will be

considered of no value to the world! Consider THAT gigantic absurdity!

... consider, that when we read our newspapers we are not learning the

views of Europe on a certain point,--we are absorbing the ideas of the

EDITOR, to whom everything must be submitted before insertion in the

oracular columns we pin our faith on! Thus it is that

criticism,--literary criticism, at any rate,--is a lost art,--YOU know

that. A man must either be dead (or considered dead) or in a 'clique'

to receive any open encouragement at all from the so-called 'crack'

critics. And the cliquey men are generally such stupendous bigots for

their own particular and restricted form of 'style.' Anything new they

hate,--anything daring they treat with ridicule. Some of them have no

hesitation in saying they prefer Matthew Arnold (remember he's dead!)

to Tennyson and Swinburne (as yet living).. while, as a fact, if we are

to go by the high standards of poetical art left us by Shakespeare,

Keats, Shelley, and Byron, Matthew Arnold is about the very tamest,

most unimaginative, bald bard that ever kindled a lucifer match of

verse and fancied it the fire of Apollo! It's utterly impossible to get

either a just or broad view of literature out of cliques,--and the

Press, like many of our other 'magnificent' institutions, is working

entirely on a wrong system. But who is going to be wise, or strong, or

diplomatic enough to reform it? ... No one, at present,--and we shall

jog along, and read up the details of vice in our dailies and weeklies,

till we almost lose the savor of virtue, and till the last degraded end

comes of it all, and blatant young America thrones herself on the

shores of Britain and sends her eagle screech of conquest echoing over

Old World and New."

"Don't think it, Villiers!" exclaimed Alwyn impetuously.. "There is a

mettle in the English that will never be conquered!"

Villiers shrugged his shoulders. "We will hope so, my dear boy!" he

said resignedly. "But the 'mettle' under bad government, with bad

weapons, and more or less untried ships, can scarcely be blamed if it

should not be able to resist a tremendous force majeure. Besides, all

the Parliaments in the world cannot upset the laws of the universe. If

things are false and corrupt, they MUST be swept away,--Nature will not

have them,--she will transmute and transform them somehow, no matter at

what cost. It is the cry of the old Prophets over again,--'Because ye

have not obeyed God's Law, therefore shall ye meet with destruction.'

Egoism is certainly NOT God's Law, and we shall have to return on our

imagined progressive steps, and be beaten with rods of affliction, till

we understand what His Law IS. It is, for one thing, the wheel that

keeps this Universe going--OUR laws are no use whatever in the

management of His sublime cosmos! Nations, like individuals, are

punished for their own wilful misdeeds--the punishment may be tardy,

but sure as death it comes. And I fancy America will be our 'scourge in

the Lord's hand'--as the Bible hath it. That pretty, dollar-crusted

young Republican wants an aristocracy, . . she will engraft it on the

old roots here,--in fact, she has already begun to engraft it. It is

even on the cards that she may need a Monarchy--if she does, she will

plant it.. HERE! Then it will be time for Englishmen to adopt another

country, and forget, if they can, their own disgraced nationality. And

yet, if, as Shakespeare says, England were to herself but true,--if she

had great statesmen as of yore,--intellectual, earnest,

self-abnegating, fearless, unhesitating workers, who would devote

themselves heart and soul to her welfare, she might gather, not only

her Colonies, but America also, to her knee, as a mother gathers

children, and the most magnificent Christian Empire the world has ever

seen might rise up, a supreme marvel of civilization and union that

would make all other nations wonder and revere. But the selfishness of

the day, and the ruling passion of gain, are the fatal obstructions in

the path of such a desirable millennium."

He ended abruptly--he had unburdened his mind to one who he knew

understood him and sympathized with him, and he turned to the perusal

of some letters just received.

The two friends were sitting that morning in the breakfast-room,--a

charming little octagonal apartment, looking out on a small, very small

garden, which, despite the London atmosphere, looked just now very

bright with tastefully arranged parterres of white and yellow crocuses,

mingled with the soft blue of the dainty hepatica,--that frank-faced

little blossom which seems to express such an honest confidence in the

goodness of God's sky. A few sparrows of dissipated appearance were

bathing their sooty plumes in a pool of equally sooty water left in the

garden as a token of last night's rain, and they splashed and twittered

and debated and fussed with each other concerning their ablutions, with

almost as much importance as could have been displayed by the

effeminate Romans of the Augustan era when disporting themselves in

their sumptuous Thermae. Alwyn's eyes rested on them unseeingly,--his

thoughts were very far away from all his surroundings. Before his

imagination rose a Gehenna-like picture of the world in which he had to

live,--the world of fashion and form and usage,--the world he was to

try and rouse to a sense of better things. A Promethean task indeed! to

fill human life with new symbols of hope,--to set up a white standard

of faith amid the swift rushing on and reckless tramping down of

desperate battle,--to pour out on all, rich or poor, worthy or

unworthy, the divine-born balm of Sympathy, which, when given freely

and sincerely from man to man, serves often as a check to vice--a

silent, yet all eloquent, rebuke to crime,--and can more easily instill

into refractory intelligences things of God and desires for good, than

any preacher's argument, no matter how finely worded. To touch the big,

wayward, BETTER heart of Humanity! ... could he in very truth do it?

... Or was the work too vast for his ability? Tormented by various

cross-currents of feeling, he gave vent to a troubled sigh and looked

dubiously at his friend.

"In such a state of things as you describe, Villiers," he aid, "what a

useless unit _I_ am! A Poet!--who wants me in this age of Sale and

Barter? ... Is not a producer of poems always considered more or less

of a fool nowadays, no matter how much his works may be in fashion for

the moment? I am sure, in spite of the success of 'Nourhalma,' that the

era of poetry has passed; and, moreover, it certainly seems to have

given place to the very baldest and most unbeauteous forms of prose!

As, for instance, if a book is written which contains what is called

'poetic prose' the critics are all ready to denounce it as 'turgid,'

'overladen,' 'strained for effect,' and 'hysterical sublime.' Heine's

Reisebilder, which is one of the most exquisite poems in prose ever

given to the world, is nearly incomprehensible to the majority of

English minds; so much so, indeed, that the English translators in

their rendering of it have not only lost the delicate glamour of its

fairy-like fancifulness, but have also blunted all the fine points of

its dazzling sarcasm and wealth of imagery. It is evident enough that

the larger mass of people prefer mediocrity to high excellence, else

such a number of merely mediocre works of art would not, and could not,

be tolerated. And as long as mediocrity is permitted to hold ground, it

is almost an impossibility to do much toward raising the standard of

literature. The few who love the best authors are as a mere drop in the

ocean of those who not only choose the worst, but who also fail to see

any difference between good and bad."

"True enough!" assented Villiers,--"Still the 'few' you speak of are

worth all the rest. For the 'few' Homer wrote,--Plato, Marcus Aurelius,

Epictetus,--and the 'few' are capable of teaching the majority, if they

will only set about it rightly. But at present they are setting about

it wrongly. All children are taught to read, but no child is guided in

WHAT to read. This is like giving a loaded gun to a boy and saying,

'Shoot away! ... No matter in which direction you point your aim, . .

shoot yourself if you like, and others too,--anyhow, you've GOT the

gun!' Of course there are a few fellows who have occasionally drawn up

a list of books as suitable for everybody's perusal,--but then these

lists cannot be taken as true criterions, as they all differ from one

another as much as church sects. One would-be instructor in the art of

reading says we ought all to study 'Tom Jones'--now I don't see the

necessity of THAT! And, oddly enough, these lists scarcely ever include

the name of a poet,--which is the absurdest mistake ever made. A

liberal education in the highest works of poesy is absolutely necessary

to the thinking abilities of man. But, Alwyn, YOU need not trouble

yourself about what is good for the million and what isn't, . .

whatever you write is sure to be read NOW--you've got the ear of the

public,--the 'fair, large ear' of the ass's head which disguises Bottom

the Weaver, who frankly says of himself, 'I am such a tender ass, if my

hair do but tickle me, I must scratch!'"

Alwyn smiled. He was thinking of what his Shadow-Self had said on this

very subject--"A book or poem, to be great, and keep its greatness

hereafter, must be judged by the natural instinct of PEOPLES. This

world-wide decision has never yet been, and never will be, hastened by

any amount of written criticism,--it is the responsive beat of the

enormous Pulse of Life that thrills through all mankind, high and low,

gentle and simple,--its great throbs are slow and solemnly measured,

yet if once it answers to a Poet's touch, that Poet's name is made

glorious forever!" He.. in the character of Sah-luma.. had seemed to

utter these sentiments many ages ago,--and now the words repeated

themselves in his thoughts with a new and deep intensity of meaning.

"Of course," added Villiers suddenly--"you must expect plenty of

adverse criticism now, as it is known beyond all doubt that you are

alive and able to read what is written concerning you,--but if you once

pay attention to critics, you may as well put aside pen altogether, as

it is the business of these worthies never to be entirely satisfied

with anything. Even Shelley and Byron, in the critical capacity, abused

Keats, till the poor, suffering youth, who promised to be greater then

either of them, died of a broken heart as much as disease. This sort of

injustice will go on to the end of time, or till men become more

Christianized than Paul's version of Christianity has ever yet made

them."

Here a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. The servant

entered, bringing a note gorgeously crested and coroneted in gold.

Villiers, to whom it was addressed, opened and read it.

"What shall we do about this?" he asked, when his man had retired. "It

is an invitation from the Duchess de la Santoisie. She asks us to go

and dine with her next week,--a party of twenty--reception afterward. I

think we'd better accept,--what do you say?"

Alwyn roused himself from his reverie. "Anything to please you, my dear

boy!" he answered cheerfully--"But I haven't the faintest idea who the

Duchess de la Santoisie is!"

"No? ... Well, she's an Englishwoman who has married a French Duke. He

is a delightful old fellow, the pink of courtesy, and the model of

perfect egotism. A true Parisian, and of course an atheist,--a very

polished atheist, too, with a most charming reliance on his own

infallibility. His wife writes novels which have a SLIGHT leaning

toward Zolaism,--she is an extremely witty woman sarcastic, and

cold-blooded enough to be a female Robespierre, yet, on the whole,

amusing as a study of what curious nondescript forms the feminine

nature can adopt unto itself, if it chooses. She has an immense respect

for GENIUS,--mind, I say genius advisedly, because she really is one of

those rare few who cannot endure mediocrity. Everything at her house is

the best of its kind, and the people she entertains are the best of

theirs. Her welcome of you will be at any rate a sincerely admiring

one,--and as I think, in spite of your desire for quiet, you will have

to show yourself somewhere, it may as well be there."

Alwyn looked dubious, and not at all resigned to the prospect of

"showing himself."

"Your description of her does not strike me as particularly

attractive,"--he said--"I cannot endure that nineteenth-century

hermaphroditic production, a mannish woman."

"Oh but she isn't altogether mannish,"--declared Villiers, . .

"Besides, I mustn't forget to add, that she is extremely beautiful."

Alwyn shrugged his shoulders indifferently. His friend noticed the

gesture and laughed.

"Still impervious to beauty, old boy?"--he said gayly--"You always

were, I remember!"

Alwyn flushed a little, and rose from his chair.

"Not always,"--he answered steadily,--"There have been times in my life

when the beauty of women,--mere physical beauty--has exercised great

influence over me. But I have lately learned how a fair face may

sometimes mask a foul mind,--and unless I can see the SUBSTANCE of Soul

looking through the SEMBLANCE of Body, then I know that the beauty I

SEEM to behold is mere Appearance, and not Reality. Hence, unless your

beautiful Duchess be like the 'King's daughter' of David's psalm, 'all

glorious WITHIN'--her APPARENT loveliness will have no charm for

me!--Now"--and he smiled, and spoke in a less serious tone.. "if you

have no objection, I am off to my room to scribble for an hour or so.

Come for me if you want me--you know I don't in the least mind being

disturbed."

But Villiers detained him a moment, and looked inquisitively at him

full in the eyes.

"You've got some singular new attraction about you, Alwyn,"--he said,

with a strange sense of keen inward excitement as he met his friend's

calm yet flashing glance,--"Something mysterious, . . something that

COMPELS! What is it? ... I believe that visit of yours to the Ruins of

Babylon had a more important motive than you will admit, . . moreover..

I believe you are in love!"

"IN love!"--Alwyn laughed a little as he repeated the words.. "What a

foolish term that is when you come to think of it! For to be IN love

suggests the possibility of getting OUT again,--which, if love be true,

can never happen. Say that I LOVE!--and you will be nearer the mark!

Now don't look so mystified, and don't ask me any more questions just

now--to-night, when we are sitting together in the library, I'll tell

you the whole story of my Babylonian adventure!"

And with a light parting wave of the hand he left the room, and

Villiers heard him humming a tune softly to himself as he ascended the

stairs to his own apartments, where, ever since he arrived, he had made

it his custom to do two or three hours' steady writing every morning.

For a moment or so after he had gone Villiers stood lost in thought,

with knitted brows and meditative eyes, then, rousing himself, he went

on to his study, and sitting down at his desk wrote an answer to the

Duchess de la Santoisie accepting her invitation.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

REWARDS OF FAME.

An habitual resident in London who is gifted with a keen faculty of

hearing and observation, will soon learn to know instinctively the

various characteristics of the people who call upon him, by the

particular manner in which each one handles his door-bell or knocker.

He will recognize the timid from the bold, the modest from the

arrogant, the meditative thinker from the bustling man of fashion, the

familiar friend from the formal acquaintance. Every individual's method

of announcing his or her arrival to the household is distinctly

different,--and Villiers, who studied a little of everything, had not

failed to take note of the curiously diversified degrees of single and

double rapping by means of which his visitors sought admittance to his

abode. In fact, he rather prided himself on being able to guess with

almost invariable correctness what special type of man or woman was at

his door, provided he could hear the whole diapason of their knock from

beginning to end. When he was shut in his "den," however, the sounds

were muffled by distance, and he could form no just

judgment,--sometimes, indeed, he did not hear them at all, especially

if he happened to be playing his 'cello at the time. So that this

morning he was considerably startled, when, having finished his letter

to the Duchess de la Santoisie, a long and persistent rat-tat-tatting

echoed noisily through the house, like the smart, quick blows of a

carpenter's hammer--a species of knock that was entirely unfamiliar to

him, and that, while so emphatic in character, suggested to his mind

neither friend nor foe. He laid down his pen, listened and waited. In a

minute or two his servant entered the room.

"If you please, sir, a lady to see Mr. Alwyn. Shall I show her up?"

Villiers rose slowly out of his chair, and stood eyeing his man in

blank bewilderment.

"A LADY! ... To see Mr. Alwyn!"--he repeated, his thoughts instantly

reverting to his friend's vaguely hinted love-affair,--"What name?"

"She gives no name, sir. She says it isn't needed,--Mr. Alwyn will know

who she is."

"Mr. Alwyn will know who she is, will he?" murmured Villiers

dubiously.--"What is she like? Young and pretty?"

Over the man-servant's staid countenance came the glimmer of a demure,

respectful smile.

"Oh no, sir,--not young, sir! A person about fifty, I should say."

This was mystifying. A person about fifty! Who could she be? Villiers

hastily considered,--there must be some mistake, he thought,--at any

rate, he would see the unknown intruder himself first, and find out

what her business was, before breaking in upon Alwyn's peaceful studies

upstairs.

"Show the lady in here"--he said--"I can't disturb Mr. Alwyn just now."

The servant retired, and soon re-appeared, ushering in a tall, gaunt,

black-robed female, who walked with the stride of a dragoon and the

demeanor of a police-inspector, and who, merely nodding briskly in

response to Villiers's amazed bow, selected with one comprehensive

glance the most comfortable chair in the room, and seated herself at

ease therein. She then put up her veil, displaying a long, narrow face,

cold, pale, arrogant eyes, a nose inclined to redness at the tip, and a

thin, close-set mouth lined with little sarcastic wrinkles, which came

into prominent and unbecoming play as soon as she began to speak, which

she did almost immediately.

"I suppose I had better introduce myself to you, Mr. Alwyn"--she said

with a condescending and confident air--"Though really we know each

other so well by reputation that there seems scarcely any necessity for

it! Of course you have heard of 'Tiger-Lily!'"

Villiers gazed at her helplessly,--he had never felt so uncomfortable

in all his life. Here was a strange woman, who had actually taken

bodily possession of his apartment as though it were her own,--who had

settled herself down in his particular pet Louis Quatorze chair,--who

stared at him with the scrutinizing complacency of a professional

physiognomist,--and who seemed to think no explanation of her

extraordinary conduct was necessary, inasmuch as "of course" he,

Villiers, had heard of "TIGER-LILY!" It was very singular! ... almost

like madness! ... Perhaps she WAS mad! How could he tell? She had a

remarkably high, knobby brow,--a brow with an unpleasantly bald

appearance, owing to the uncompromising way in which her hair was

brushed well off it--he had seen such brows before in certain

"spiritualists" who believed, or pretended to believe, in the suddenly

willed dematerialization of matter, and THEY were mad, he knew, or else

very foolishly feigning madness!

Endeavoring to compose his bewildered mind, he fixed glass in eye, and

regarded her through it with an inquiring solemnity,--he would have

spoken, but before he could utter a word, she went on rapidly:

"You are not in the least like the person I imagined you to be! ...

However, that doesn't matter. Literary celebrities are always so

different to what we expect!"

"Pardon me, madam,"--began Villiers politely.. "You are making a slight

error,--my servant probably did not explain. I am not Mr. Alwyn, . . my

name is Villiers. Mr. Alwyn is my guest,--but he is at present very

much occupied,--and unless your business is extremely urgent..."

"Certainly it is urgent"--said the lady decisively.. "otherwise I

should not have come. And so you are NOT Mr. Alwyn! Well, I thought you

couldn't be! Now then, will you have the kindness to tell Mr. Alwyn I

am here?"

By this time Villiers had recovered his customary self-possession, and

he met her commanding glance with a somewhat defiant coolness.

"I am not aware to whom I have the honor of speaking," he said

frigidly. "Perhaps you will oblige me with your name?"

"My name doesn't in the least matter," she replied calmly--"though I

will tell you afterward if you wish. But you don't seem to understand

I..._I_ am 'Tiger-Lily'!"

The situation was becoming ludicrous. Villiers felt strongly disposed

to laugh.

"I'm afraid I am very ignorant!"--he said, with a humorous sparkle in

his blue eyes,--"But really I am quite in the dark as to your meaning.

Will you explain?"

The lady's nose grew deeper of tint, and the look she shot at him had

quite a killing vindictiveness. With evident difficulty she forced a

smile.

"Oh, you MUST have heard of me!"--she declared, with a ponderous

attempt at playfulness--"You read the papers, don't you?"

"Some of them," returned Villiers cautiously--"Not all. Not the Sunday

ones, for instance."

"Still, you can't possibly have helped seeing my descriptions of famous

people 'At Home,' you know! I write for ever so many journals. I

think"--and she became complacently reflective--"I think I may say with

perfect truth that I have interviewed everybody who has ever done

anything worth noting, from our biggest provision dealer to our latest

sensational novelist! And all my articles are signed 'Tiger-Lily.' NOW

do you remember? Oh, you MUST remember? ... I am so VERY well known!"

There was a touch of genuine anxiety in her voice that was almost

pathetic, but Villiers made no attempt to soothe her wounded vanity.

"I have no recollection whatever of the name," he said bluntly--"But

that is easily accounted for, as I never read newspaper descriptions of

celebrities. So you are an 'interviewer' for the Press?"

"Exactly!" and the lady leaned back more comfortably in the Louis

Quatorze fauteuil--"And of course I want to interview Mr. Alwyn. I

want..." here drawing out a business looking note-book from her pocket

she opened it and glanced at the different headings therein

enumerated,--"I want to describe his personal appearance,--to know when

he was born, and where he was educated,--whether his father or mother

had literary tastes,--whether he had, or has, brothers or sisters, or

both,--whether he is married, or likely to be, and how much money he

has made by his book." She paused and gave an upward glance at

Villiers, who returned it with a blank and stony stare.

"Then,"--she resumed energetically--"I wish to know what are his

methods of work;--WHERE he gets his ideas and HOW he elaborates

them,--how many hours he writes at a time, and whether he is an early

riser,--also what he usually takes for dinner,--whether he drinks wine

or is a total abstainer, and at what hour he retires to rest. All this

is so INTENSELY interesting to the public! Perhaps he might be inclined

to give me a few notes of his recent tour in the East, and of course I

should be very glad if he will state his opinions on the climate,

customs, and governments of the countries through which he has passed.

It's a great pity this is not his own house,--it is a pretty place and

a description of it would read well. Let me see!"--and she

meditated,--" I think I could manage to insert a few lines about this

apartment, . . it would be easy to say 'the picturesque library in the

house of the Honble. Francis Villiers, where Mr. Alwyn received me,'

etc.,--Yes! that would do very well!--very well indeed! I should like

to know whether he has a residence of his own anywhere, and if not,

whether he intends to take one in London, because in the latter case it

would be as well to ascertain by whom he intends to have it furnished.

A little discussion on upholstery is so specially fascinating to my

readers! Then, naturally, I am desirous to learn how the erroneous

rumor of his death was first started, . . whether in the course of his

travels he met with some serious accident, or illness, which gave rise

to the report. Now,"--and she shut her note-book and folded her

hands,--"I don't mind waiting an hour or more if necessary,--but I am

sure if you will tell Mr. Alwyn who I am, and what I have come for, he

will be only too delighted to see me with as little delay as possible."

She ceased. Villiers drew a long breath,--his compressed lips parted in

a slightly sarcastic smile. Squaring his shoulders with that peculiar

pugnacious gesture of his which always indicated to those who knew him

well that his mind was made up, and that nothing would induce him to

alter it, he said in a tone of stiff civility:

"I am sorry, madam, . . very sorry! ... but I am compelled to inform

you that your visit here is entirely useless! Were I to tell my friend

of the purpose you have in view concerning him, he would not feel so

much flattered as you seem to imagine, but rather insulted! Excuse my

frankness,--you have spoken plainly,--I must speak plainly too.

Provision dealers and sensational story writers may find that it serves

their purpose to be interviewed, if only as a means of gaining extra

advertisement, but a truly great and conscientious author like Theos

Alwyn is quite above all that sort of thing."

The lady raised her pale eyebrows with an expression of interrogative

scorn.

"ABOVE all that sort of thing!" she echoed incredulously--"Dear me! How

very extraordinary! I have always found all our celebrities so

exceedingly pleased to be given a little additional notoriety! ... and

I should have thought a POET," this with much depreciative

emphasis--"would have been particularly glad of the chance! Because, of

course you know that unless a very astonishing success is made, as in

the case of Mr. Alwyn's 'Nourhalma,' people really take such slight

interest in writers of verse, that it is hardly ever worth while

interviewing them!"

"Precisely!" agreed Villiers ironically,--"The private history of a

prize-fighter would naturally be much more thrilling!" He paused,--his

temper was fast rising, but, quickly reflecting that, after all, the

indignation he felt was not so much against his visitor as against the

system she represented, he resumed quietly, "May I ask you, madam,

whether you have ever 'interviewed' Her Majesty the Queen?"

Her glance swept slightingly over him.

"Certainly not! Such a thing would be impossible!"

"Then you have never thought," went on Villiers, with a thrill of

earnestness in his manly, vibrating voice--"that it might be quite as

impossible to 'interview' a great Poet?--who, if great indeed, is in

every way as royal as any Sovereign that ever adorned a throne! I do

not speak of petty verse-writers,--I say a great Poet, by which term I

imply a great creative genius who is honestly faithful to his high

vocation. Such an one could no more tell you his methods of work than a

rainbow could prattle about the way it shines,--and as for his personal

history, I should like to know by what right society is entitled to pry

into the sacred matters of a man's private life, simply because he

happens to be famous? I consider the modern love of prying and probing

into other people's affairs a most degrading and abominable sign of the

times,--it is morbid, unwholesome, and utterly contemptible. Moreover,

I think that writers who consent to be 'interviewed' condemn themselves

as literary charlatans, unworthy of the profession they have wrongfully

adopted. You see I have the courage of my opinions on this matter,--in

fact, I believe, if every one were to speak their honest mind openly, a

better state of things might be the result, and 'interviewing' would

gradually come to be considered in its true light, namely, as a vulgar

and illegitimate method of advertisement. I mean no disrespect to you,

madam,"--this, as the lady suddenly put down her veil, thrust her

note-book in her pocket, and rose somewhat bouncingly from her

chair--"I am only sorry you should find such an occupation as that of

the 'interviewer' open to you. I can scarcely imagine such work to be

congenial to a lady's feelings, as, in the case of really distinguished

personages, she must assuredly meet with many a rebuff! I hope I have

not offended you by my bluntness, ... "--here he trailed off into

inaudible polite murmurs, while the "Tiger-Lily" marched steadily

toward the door.

"Oh dear, no, I am not in the least offended!" she retorted

contemptuously,--"On the contrary, this has been a most amusing

experience!--most amusing, I assure you! and quite unique! Why--" and

suddenly stopping short, she turned smartly round and gesticulated with

one hand ... "I have interviewed all the favorite actors and actresses

in London! The biggest brewers in Great Britain have received me at

their country mansions, and have given me all the particulars of their

lives from earliest childhood! The author of 'Hugger Mugger's Curse'

took the greatest pains to explain to me how he first collected the

materials for his design. The author of that most popular story,

'Darling's Twins,' gave me a description of all the houses he has ever

lived in,--he even told me where he purchased his writing-paper, pens,

and ink! And to think that a POET should be too grand to be

interrogated! Oh, the idea is really very funny! ... quite too funny

for anything! "She gave a short laugh,--then relapsing into severity,

she added ... "You will, I hope, tell Mr. Alwyn I called?"

Villiers bowed. "Assuredly!"

"Thank you! Because it is possible he may have different opinions to

yours,--in that case, if he writes me a line, fixing an appointment, I

shall be very pleased to call again. I will leave my card,--and if Mr.

Alwyn is a sensible man, he will certainly hold broader ideas on the

subject of 'interviewing' than YOU appear to entertain. You are QUITE

sure I cannot see him?"

"Quite!"--There was no mistake about the firm emphasis of this reply.

"Oh, very well!"--here she opened the door, rattling the handle with

rather an unnecessary violence,--"I'm sorry to have taken up any of

your time, Mr. Villiers. Good-morning!"

"Good-morning!" ... returned Villiers calmly, touching the bell that

his servant might be in readiness to show her out. But the baffled

"Tiger-Lily" was not altogether gone. She looked back, her face

wrinkling into one of those strangely unbecoming expressions of grim

playfulness.

"I've half a mind to make an 'At Home' out of YOU!" she said, nodding

at him energetically. "Only you're not important enough!"

Villiers burst out laughing. He was not proof against this touch of

humor, and on a sudden good-natured impulse, sprang to the door and

shook hands with her.

"No, indeed, I am not!" he said, with a charming smile--"Think of

it!--I haven't even invented a new biscuit! Come, let me see you into

the hall,--I'm really sorry if I've spoken roughly, but I assure you

Alwyn's not at all the sort of man you want for interviewing,--he's far

too modest and noble-hearted. Believe me!--I'm not romancing a

bit--I'm in earnest. There ARE some few fine, manly, gifted fellows

left in the world, who do their work for the love of the work alone,

and not for the sake of notoriety, and he is one of them. Now I'm not

certain, if you were quite candid with me, you'd admit that you

yourself don't think much of the people who actually LIKE to be

interviewed?"

His amiable glance, his kindly manner, took the gaunt female by

surprise, and threw her quite off her guard. She laughed,--a natural,

unforced laugh in which there was not a trace of bitterness. He was

really a delightful young man, she thought, in spite of his

old-fashioned, out-of-the-way notions!

"Well, perhaps I don't!" she replied frankly--"But you see it is not my

business to think about them at all. I simply 'interview' them,--and I

generally find they are very willing, and often eager, to tell me all

about themselves, even to quite trifling and unnecessary details. And,

of course, each one thinks himself or herself the ONLY or the chief

'celebrity' in London, or, for that matter, in the world. I have always

to tone down the egotistical part of it a little, especially with

authors, for if I were to write out exactly what THEY separately say of

their contemporaries, it would be simply frightful! They would be all

at daggers drawn in no time! I assure you 'interviewing' is often a

most delicate and difficult business!"

"Would it were altogether impossible!" said Villiers heartily--"But as

long as there is a plethora of little authors, and a scarcity of great

ones, so long, I suppose, must it continue--for little men love

notoriety, and great ones shrink from it, just in the same way that

good women like flattery, while bad ones court it. I hope you don't

bear me any grudge because I consider my friend Alwyn both good and

great, and resent the idea of his being placed, no matter with what

excellent intention soever, on the level of the small and mean?"

The lady surveyed him with a twinkle of latent approval in her

pale-colored eyes.

"Not in the least!" she replied in a tone of perfect good-humor. "On

the contrary, I rather admire your frankness! Still, I think, that as

matters stand nowadays, you are very odd,--and I suppose your friend is

odd too,--but, of course, there must be exceptions to every rule. At

the same time, you should recollect that, in many people's opinion, to

be 'interviewed' is one of the chiefest rewards of fame!--" Villiers

shrugged his shoulders expressively. "Oh, yes, it seems a poor reward

to you, no doubt,"--she continued smilingly,--"but there are no end of

authors who would do anything to secure the notoriety of it! Now,

suppose that, after all, Mr. Alwyn DOES care to submit to the

operation, you will let me know, won't you?"

"Certainly I will!"--and Villiers, accepting her card, on which was

inscribed her own private name and address, shook hands once more, and

bowed her courteously out. No sooner had the door closed upon her than

he sprang upstairs, three steps at a time, and broke impetuously in

upon Alwyn, who, seated at a table covered with papers, looked up with

a surprised smile at the abrupt fashion of his entrance. In a few

minutes he had disburdened himself of the whole story of the

"Tiger-Lily's" visit, telling it in a whimsical way of his own, much to

the amusement of his friend, who listened, pen in hand, with a

half-laughing, half-perplexed light in his fine, poetic eyes.

"Now did I express the proper opinion?" he demanded in conclusion. "Was

I not right in thinking you would never consent to be interviewed?"

"Right? Why of course you were!"--responded Alwyn quickly. "Can you

imagine me calmly stating the details of my personal life and history

to a strange woman, and allowing her to turn it into a half-guinea

article for some society journal! But, Villiers, what an extraordinary

state of things we are coming to, if the Press can actually condescend

to employ a sort of spy, or literary detective, to inquire into the

private experience of each man or woman who comes honorably to the

front!"

"Honorably or DIShonorably,--it doesn't matter which,"--said Villiers,

"That is just the worst of it. One day it is an author who is

'interviewed,' the next it is a murderer,--now a statesman,--then a

ballet dancer,--the same honor is paid to all who have won any distinct

notoriety. And what is so absurd is, that the reading million don't

seem able to distinguish between 'notoriety' and 'fame.' The two things

are so widely, utterly apart! Byron's reputation, for instance, was

much more notoriety during his life than fame--while Keats had actually

laid hold on fame while as yet deeming himself unfamous. It's curious,

but true, nevertheless, that very often the writers who thought least

of themselves during their lifetime have become the most universally

renowned after their deaths. Shakespeare, I dare say, had no very

exaggerated idea of the beauty of his own plays,--he seems to have

written just the best that was in him, without caring what anybody

thought of it. And I believe that is the only way to succeed in the

end."

"In the end!" repeated Alwyn dreamily--"In the end, no worldly success

is worth attaining,--a few thousand years and the greatest are

forgotten!"

"Not the GREATEST,"--said Villiers warmly--"The greatest must always be

remembered."

"No, my friend!--Not even the greatest! Do you not think there must

have been great and wise and gifted men in Tyre, in Sidon, in Carthage,

in Babylon?--There are five men mentioned in Scripture, as being 'ready

to write swiftly'--Sarea, Dabria, Selemia, Ecanus, and Ariel--where is

the no doubt admirable work done by these? Perhaps ... who knows? ...

one of them was as great as Homer in genius,--we cannot tell!"

"True,--we cannot tell!" responded Villiers meditatively--"But, Alwyn,

if you persist in viewing things through such tremendous vistas of

time, and in measuring the Future by the Past, then one may ask what is

the use of anything?"

"There IS no use in anything, except in the making of a strong,

persistent, steady effort after good," said Alwyn earnestly ... "We men

are cast, as it were, between two swift currents, Wrong and

Right,--Self and God,--and it seems more easy to shut our eyes and

drift into Self and Wrong, than to strike out brave arms, and swim,

despite all difficulty, toward God and Right, yet if we once take the

latter course, we shall find it the most natural and the least

fatiguing. And with every separate stroke of high endeavor we carry

others with us,--we raise our race,--we bear it onward,--upward! And

the true reward, or best result of fame, is, that having succeeded in

winning brief attention from the multitude, a man may be able to

pronounce one of God's lightning messages of inspired Truth plainly to

them, while they are yet willing to stand and listen. This momentary

hearing from the people is, as I take it, the sole reward any writer

can dare to hope for,--and when he obtains it, he should remember that

his audience remains with him but a very short while,--so that it is

his duty to see that he employ his chance WELL, not to win applause for

himself, but to cheer and lift others to noble thought, and still more

noble fulfilment."

Villiers regarded him wistfully.

"Alwyn, my dear fellow, do you want to be the Sisyphus of this

era?--You will find the stone of Evil heavy to roll upward,--moreover,

it will exhibit the usually painful tendency to slip back and crush

you!"

"How can it crush me?" asked his friend with a serene smile. "My heart

cannot be broken, or my spirit dismayed, and as for my body, it can but

die,--and death comes to every man! I would rather try to roll up the

stone, however fruitless the task, than sit idly looking at it, and

doing nothing!"

"Your heart cannot be broken? Ah! how do you know" ... and Villiers

shook his head dubiously--"What man can be certain of his own destiny?"

"Everyman can WILL his own destiny,"--returned Alwyn firmly. "That is

just it. But here we are getting into a serious discussion, and I had

determined to talk no more on such subjects till to-night."

"And to-night we are to go in for them thoroughly, I

suppose?"--inquired Villiers with a quick look. "To-night, my dear boy,

you will have to decide whether you consider me mad or sane," said

Alwyn cheerfully--"I shall tell you truths that seem like romances--and

facts that sound like fables,--moreover, I shall have to assure you

that miracles DO happen whenever God chooses, in spite of all human

denial of their possibility. Do you remember Whately's clever

skit--'Historical Doubts of Napoleon I'?--showing how easy it was to

logically prove that Napoleon never existed?--That ought to enlighten

people as to the very precise and convincing manner in which we can, if

we choose, argue away what is nevertheless an incontestible FACT. Thus

do skeptics deny miracles--yet we live surrounded by miracles! ... do

you think me crazed for saying so?"

Villiers laughed. "Crazed! No, indeed!--I wish every man in London were

as sane and sound as you are!"

"Ah, but wait till to-night!" and Alwyn's eyes sparkled

mirthfully--"Perhaps you will alter your opinion then!"--Here,

collecting his scattered manuscripts, he put them by--"I've done work

for the present,"--he said--"Shall we go for a walk somewhere?"

Villiers assented, and they left the room together.

CHAPTER XXXV.

ONE AGAINST MANY.

The beautiful and socially popular Duchess de la Santoisie sat her at

brilliantly appointed dinner-table, and flashed her bright eyes

comprehensively round the board,--her party was complete. She had

secured twenty of the best-known men and women of letters in all

London, and yet she was not quite satisfied with the result attained.

One dark, splendid face on her right hand had taken the lustre out of

all the rest,--one quiet, courteous smile on a mouth haughty, yet

sweet, had somehow or other made the entertainment of little worth in

her own estimation. She was very fair to look upon, very witty, very

worldly-wise,--but for once her beauty seemed to herself defective and

powerless to charm, while the graceful cloak of social hypocrisy she

was always accustomed to wear would not adapt itself to her manner

tonight so well as usual. The author of "Nourhalma" the successful poet

whose acquaintance she had very eagerly sought to make, was not at all

the kind of man she had expected,--and now, when he was beside her as

her guest, she did not quite know what to do with him.

She had met plenty of poets, so called, before,--and had, for the most

part, found them insignificant looking men with an enormous opinion of

themselves, and a suave, condescending contempt for all others of their

craft; but this being,--this stately, kingly creature with the noble

head, and far-gazing, luminous eyes,--this man, whose every gesture was

graceful, whose demeanor was more royal than that of many a crowned

monarch,--whose voice had such a singular soft thrill of music in its

tone,--he was a personage for whom she had not been prepared,--and in

whose presence she felt curiously embarrassed and almost ill at ease.

And she was not the only one present who experienced these odd

sensations. Alwyn's appearance, when, with his friend Villiers, he had

first entered the Duchess's drawing-room that evening, and had there

been introduced to his hostess, had been a sort of revelation to the

languid, fashionable guests assembled; sudden quick whispers were

exchanged--surprised glances,--how unlike he was to the general type of

the nervous, fagged, dyspeptic "literary" man!

And now that every one was seated at dinner, the same impression

remained on all,--an impression that was to some disagreeable and

humiliating, and that yet could not be got over,--namely, that this

"poet," whom, in a way, the Duchess and her friends had intended to

patronize, was distinctly superior to them all. Nature, as though proud

of her handiwork, proclaimed him as such,--while he, quite unconscious

of the effect he produced, wondered why this bevy of human beings, most

of whom were more or less distinguished in the world of art and

literature, had so little to say for themselves. Their conversation was

BANAL,--tame,--ordinary; they might have been well-behaved, elegantly

dressed peasants for aught they said of wise, cheerful, or witty. The

weather,--the parks,--the theatres,--the newest actress, and the newest

remedies for indigestion,--these sort of subjects were bandied about

from one to the other with a vaguely tame persistence that was really

irritating,--the question of remedies for indigestion seemed to hold

ground longest, owing to the variety of opinions expressed thereon.

The Duchess grew more and more inwardly vexed, and her little foot beat

an impatient tattoo under the table, as she replied with careless

brevity to a few of the commonplace observations addressed to her, and

cast an occasional annoyed glance at her lord, M le Duc, a thin,

military-looking individual, with a well waxed and pointed mustache,

whose countenance suggested an admirably executed mask. It was a face

that said absolutely nothing,--yet beneath its cold impassiveness

linked the satyr-like, complex, half civilized, half brutish mind of

the born and bred Parisian,--the goblin-creature with whom pure

virtues, whether in man or woman, are no more sacred than nuts to a

monkey. The suave charm of a polished civility sat on M le Due's smooth

brow, and beamed in his urbane smile,--his manners were exquisite, his

courtesy irreproachable, his whole demeanor that of a very precise and

elegant master of deportment. Yet, notwithstanding his calm and

perfectly self-possessed exterior, he was, oddly enough, the frequent

prey of certain extraordinary and ungovernable passions; there were

times when he became impossible to himself,--and when, to escape from

his own horrible thoughts, he would plunge headlong into an orgie of

wild riot and debauchery, such as might have made the hair of his

respectable English acquaintances stand on end, had they known to what

an extent he carried his excesses. But at these seasons of moral

attack, he "went abroad for his health," as he said, delicately

touching his chest in order to suggest some interesting latent weakness

there, and in these migratory excursions his wife never accompanied

him, nor did she complain of his absence. When he returned, after two

or three months, he looked more the "chevalier sans peur et sans

reproche" than ever; and neither he, nor the fair partner of his joys

and sorrows, even committed such a breach of politeness as to inquire

into each other's doings during the time of their separation. So they

jogged on together, presenting the most delightful outward show of

wedded harmony to the world,--and only a few were found to hazard the

remark, that the "racy" novels Madame la Duchesse wrote to wile away

her duller hours were singularly "bitter" in tone, for a woman whose

lot in life was so extremely enviable!

On this particular evening, the Duke affected to be utterly unconscious

of the meaning looks his beautiful spouse shot at him every now and

then,--looks which plainly said--"Why don't you start some interesting

subject of conversation, and stop these people from talking such

every-day twaddle?" He was a clever man in his way, and his present

mood was malign and mischievous; therefore he went on eating daintily,

and discussing mild platitudes in the most languidly amiable manner

imaginable, enjoying to the full the mental confusion and discomfort of

his guests,--confusion and discomfort which, as he very well knew, was

the psychological result of their having one in their midst whose life

and character were totally opposite to, and distinctly separate from,

their own. As Emerson truly says, "Let the world beware when a Thinker

comes into it!".. and here WAS this Thinker,--this type of the Godlike

in Man,--this uncomfortably sincere personage, whose eyes were clear of

falsehood, whose genius was incontestable, whose fame had taken society

by assault, and who, therefore, was entitled to receive every attention

and consideration.

Everybody had desired to see him, and here he was,--the great man, the

new "celebrity"--and now that he was actually present, no one knew what

to say to him; moreover, there was a very general tendency in the

company to avoid his direct gaze. People fidgeted on their chairs and

looked aside or downward, whenever his glance accidentally fell on

them,--and to the analytical Voltairean mind of M. le Duc there was

something grimly humorous in the whole situation. He was a great

admirer of physical strength and beauty, and Alwyn's noble face and

fine figure had won his respect, though of the genius of the poet he

knew nothing, and cared less. It was enough for all the purposes of

social usage that the author of "Nourhalma" was CONSIDERED

illustrious,--no matter whether he deserved the appellation or not. And

so the Duke, satirically amused at the obvious embarrassment of the

other "notabilities" assembled, did nothing whatsoever to relieve or to

lighten the conversation, which remained so utterly dull and inane that

Alwyn, who had been compelled, for politeness' sake, to appear

interested in the account of a bicycle race detailed to him by a very

masculine looking lady-doctor whose seat at table was next his own,

began to feel a little weary, and to wonder dismally how long this

"feast of reason and flow of soul" was going to last.

Villiers, too, whose easy, good-natured, and clever talk generally gave

some sparkle and animation to the dreariest social gathering, was

to-night unusually taciturn:--he was bored by his partner, a

middle-aged woman with a mania for philology, and, moreover, his

thoughts, like those of most of the persons present, were centered on

Alwyn, whom every now and then he regarded with a certain wistful

wonder and reverence. He had heard the whole story of the Field of

Ardath; and he knew not how much to accept of it as true, or how much

to set down to his friend's ardent imagination. He had come to a fairly

logical explanation of the whole matter,--namely, that as the City of

Al-Kyris had been proved a dream, so surely the visit of the

Angel-maiden Edris must have been a dream likewise,--that the trance at

the Monastery of Dariel, followed by the constant reading of the

passages from Esdras, and the treatise of Algazzali, had produced a

vivid impression on Alwyn's susceptible brain, which had resolved

itself into the visionary result narrated.

He found in this the most practical and probable view of what must

otherwise be deemed by mortal minds incredible; and, being a frank and

honest fellow, he had not scrupled to openly tell his friend what he

thought. Alwyn had received his remarks with the most perfect sweetness

and equanimity,--but, all the same, had remained unchanged in his

opinion as to the REALITY of his betrothal to his Angel-love in Heaven.

And one or two points had certainly baffled Villiers, and perplexed him

in his would-be precise analysis of the circumstances: first, there was

the remarkable change in Alwyn's own nature. From an embittered,

sarcastic, disappointed, violently ambitious man, he had become

softened, gracious, kindly,--showing the greatest tenderness and

forethought for others, even in small, every-day trifles; while for

himself he took no care. He wore his fame as lightly as a child might

wear a flower, just plucked and soon to fade,--his intelligence seemed

to expand itself into a broad, loving, sympathetic comprehension of the

wants and afflictions of human-kind; and he was writing a new poem, of

which Villiers had seen some lines that had fairly amazed him by their

grandeur of conception and clear passion of utterance. Thus it was

evident there was no morbidness in him,--no obscurity,--nothing

eccentric,--nothing that removed him in any way from his fellows,

except that royal personality of his,--that strong, beautiful,

well-balanced Spirit in him, which exercised such a bewildering spell

on all who came within its influence, He believed himself loved by an

Angel! Well,--if there WERE angels, why not? Villiers argued the

proposition thus:

"Whether we are Christians, Jews, Buddhists, or Mahometans, we are

supposed to accept angels as forming part of the system of our Faith.

If we are nothing,--then, of course, we believe in nothing. But granted

we are SOMETHING, then we are bound in honor, if consistent, to

acknowledge that angels help to guide our destinies. And if, as we are

assured by Holy Writ, such loftier beings DO exist, why should they not

communicate with, and even love, human creatures, provided those human

creatures are worthy of their tenderness? Certainly, viewed by all the

chief religions of the world, there is nothing new or outrageous in the

idea of an angel descending to the help of man."

Such thoughts as these were in his mind now, as he ever and anon

glanced across the glittering table, with its profusion of lights and

flowers, to where his poet-friend sat, slightly leaning back in his

chair, with a certain half-perplexed, half-disappointed expression on

his handsome features, though his eyes brightened into a smile as he

caught Villiers's look, and he gave the smallest, scarcely perceptible

shrug, as who should say, "Is this your brilliant Duchess?--your witty

and cultured society?"

Villiers flashed back an amused, responsive glance, and then

conscientiously strove to pay more attention to the irrepressible

feminine philologist beside him, determining to take her, as he said to

himself, by way of penance for his unremembered sins. After a while

there came one of those extraordinary, sudden rushes of gabble that

often occur at even the stiffest dinner-party,--a galloping race of

tongues, in which nothing really distinct is heard, but in which each

talks to the other as though moved by an impulse of sheer desperation.

This burst of noise was a relief after the strained murmurs of trite

commonplaces that had hitherto been the order of the hour, and the fair

Duchess, somewhat easier in her mind, turned anew to Alwyn, with

greater grace and gentleness of manner than she had yet shown.

"I am afraid," she said smilingly, "you must find us all very stupid

after your travels abroad? In England we ARE dull,--our tristesse

cannot be denied. But, really, the climate is responsible,--we want

more sunshine. I suppose in the East, where the sun is so warm and

bright, the people are always cheerful?"

"On the contrary, I have found them rather serious and contemplative

than otherwise," returned Alwyn,--"yet their gravity is certainly of a

pleasant, and not of a forbidding type. I don't myself think the sun

has much to do with the disposition of man, after all,--I fancy his

temperament is chiefly moulded by the life he leads. In the East, for

instance, men accept their existence as a sort of divine command, which

they obey cheerfully, yet with a consciousness of high

responsibility:--on the Continent they take it as a bagatelle, lightly

won, lightly lost, hence their indifferent, almost childish,

gayety;--but in Great Britain"--and he smiled,--"it looks nowadays as

if it were viewed very generally as a personal injury and bore,--a kind

of title bestowed without the necessary money to keep it up! And this

money people set themselves steadily to obtain, with many a weary grunt

and groan, while they are, for the most part, forgetful of anything

else life may have to offer."

"But what IS life without plenty of money?" inquired the Duchess

carelessly--"Surely, not worth the trouble of living!"

Alwyn looked at her steadily, and a swift flush colored her smooth

cheek. She toyed with the magnificent diamond spray at her breast, and

wondered what strange spell was in this man's brilliant gray-black

eyes!--did he guess that she--even she--had sold herself to the Duc de

la Santoisie for the sake of his money and title as easily and

unresistingly as though she were a mere purchasable animal?

"That is an argument I would rather not enter into," he said

gently--"It would lead us too far. But I am convinced, that whether

dire poverty or great riches be our portion, life, considered apart

from its worldly appendages, is always worth living, if lived WELL."

"Pray, how can you separate life from its worldly

appendages?"--inquired a satirical-looking gentleman opposite--"Life IS

the world, and the things of the world; when we lose sight of the

world, we lose ourselves,--in short, we die,--and the world is at an

end, and we with it. That's plain practical philosophy."

"Possibly it may be called philosophy"--returned Alwyn--"It is not

Christianity."

"Oh, Christianity!"--and the gentleman gave a portentous sniff of

contempt--"That is a system of faith that is rapidly dying out; fast

falling into contempt!--In fact, with the scientific and cultured

classes, it is already an exploded doctrine."

"Indeed!"--Alwyn's glance swept over him with a faint, cold scorn

--"And what religion do the scientific and cultured classes propose to

invent as a substitute?"

"There's no necessity for any substitute,"--said the gentleman rather

impatiently.. For those who want to believe in something supernatural,

there are plenty of different ideas afloat, Esoteric Buddhism for

example,--and what is called Scientific Religion and Natural

Religion,--any, or all, of these are sufficient to gratify the

imaginative cravings of the majority, till they have been educated out

of imagination altogether:--but, for advanced thinkers, religion is

really not required at all." [Footnote: The world is indebted to Mr.

Andrew Lang for the newest "logical" explanation of the Religious

Instinct in Man:--namely, that the very idea of God first arose from

the terror and amazement of an ape at the sound of the thunder! So

choice and soul-moving a definition of Deity needs no comment!]

"Nay, I think we must worship SOMETHING!" retorted Alwyn, a fine satire

in his rich voice, "if it be only SELF!--Self is an excellent

deity!--accommodating, and always ready to excuse sin,--why should we

not build temples, raise altars, and institute services to the glory

and honor of SELF?--Perhaps the time is ripe for a public proclamation

of this creed?--It will be easily propagated, for the beginnings of it

are in the heart of every man, and need very little fostering!"

His thrilling tone, together with the calm, half-ironical

persuasiveness of his manner, sent a sudden hush down the table. Every

one turned eagerly toward him,--some amused, some wondering, some

admiring, while Villiers felt his heart beating with uncomfortable

quickness,--he hated religious discussions, and always avoided them,

and now here was Alwyn beginning one, and he the centre of a company of

persons who were for the most part avowed agnostics, to whose opinions

his must necessarily be in direct and absolute opposition! At the same

time, he remembered that those who were sure of their faith never lost

their temper about it,--and as he glanced at his friend's perfectly

serene and coldly smiling countenance, he saw there was no danger of

his letting slip, even for a moment, his admirable power of

self-command. The Duc de la Santoisie, meanwhile, settling his

mustache, and gracefully waving one hand, on which sparkled a large

diamond ring, bent forward a little with a courteous, deprecatory

gesture.

"I think"--he said, in soft, purring accents,--"that my friend, Dr.

Mudley"--here he bowed toward the saturnine looking individual who had

entered into conversation with Alwyn--"takes a very proper, and indeed

a very lofty, view of the whole question. The moral sense"--and he laid

a severely weighty emphasis on these words,--"the moral sense of each

man, if properly trained, is quite sufficient to guide him through

existence, without any such weakness as reliance on a merely

supposititious Deity."

The Duke's French way of speaking English was charming; he gave an

expressive roll to his r's, especially when he said "the moral sense,"

that of itself almost carried conviction. His wife smiled as she heard

him, and her smile was not altogether pleasant. Perhaps she wondered by

what criterion of excellence he measured his own "moral sense," or

whether, despite his education and culture, he had any "moral sense" at

all, higher than that of the pig, who eats to be eaten! But Alwyn

spoke, and she listened intently, finding a singular fascination in the

soft and quiet modulation of his voice, which gave a vaguely delicious

suggestion of music underlying speech.

"To guide people by their moral sense alone"--he said--"you must first

prove plainly to them that the moral sense exists, together with moral

responsibility. You will find this difficult,--as the virtue implied is

intangible, unseeable;--one cannot say of it, lo here!--or lo

there!--it is as complicated and subtle as any other of the

manifestations of pure Spirit. Then you must decide on one universal

standard, or reasonable conception of what 'morality' is. Again, you

are met by a crowd of perplexities,--as every nation, and every tribe,

has a totally different idea of the same thing. In some countries it is

'moral' to have many wives; in others, to drown female children; in

others, to solemnly roast one's grandparents for dinner! Supposing,

however, that you succeed, with the aid of all the philosophers,

teachers, and scientists, in drawing up a practical Code of

Morality--do you not think an enormous majority will be found to ask

you by whose authority you set forth this Code?--and by what right you

deem it necessary to enforce it? You may say, 'By the authority of

Knowledge and by the right of Morality'--but since you admit to there

being no spiritual or divine inspiration for your law, you will be

confronted by a legion of opponents who will assure you, and probably

with perfect justice, that their idea of morality is as good as yours,

and their knowledge as excellent,--that your Code appears to them

faulty in many respects, and that, therefore, they purpose making

another one, more suited to their liking. Thus, out of your one famous

Moral System would spring thousands of others, formed to gratify the

various tastes of different individuals, precisely in the same manner

as sects have sprung out of the wholly unnecessary and foolish human

arguments on Christianity;--only that there would lack the one

indestructible, pure Selfless Example that even the most quarrelsome

bigot must inwardly respect,--namely, Christ Himself. And 'morality'

would remain exactly where it is:--neither better nor worse for all the

trouble taken concerning it. It needs something more than the 'moral'

sense to rightly ennoble man,--it needs the SPIRITUAL sense;--the

fostering of the INSTINCTIVE IMMORTAL ASPIRATION OF THE CREATURE, to

make him comprehend the responsibility of his present life, as a

preparation for his higher and better destiny. The cultured, the

scholarly, the ultra-refined, may live well and uprightly by their

'moral sense,'--if they so choose, provided they have some great ideal

to measure themselves by,--but even these, without faith in God, may

sometimes slip, and fall into deeper depths of ruin than they dreamed

of, when self-centred on those heights of virtue where they fancied

themselves exempt from danger."

He paused,--there was a curious stillness in the room,--many eyes were

lowered, and M. le Duc's composure was evidently not quite so absolute

as usual.

"Taken at its best"--he continued--"the world alone is certainly not

worth fighting for;--we see the fact exemplified every day in the cases

of those who, surrounded by all that a fair fortune can bestow upon

them, deliberately hurl themselves out of existence by their own free

will and act,--indeed, suicide is a very general accompaniment of

Agnosticism. And self-slaughter, though it may be called madness, is

far more often the result of intellectual misery."

"Of course, too much learning breeds brain disease"--remarked Dr.

Mudley sententiously--"but only in weak subjects,--and in my opinion

the weak are better out of the world. We've no room for them nowadays."

"You say truly, sir,"--replied Alwyn--"we have no room for them, and no

patience! They show themselves feeble, and forthwith the strong oppress

them;--they can hope for little comfort here, and less help. It is

well, therefore, that some of these 'weak' should still believe in God,

since they can certainly pin no faith on the justice of their

fellow-man! But I cannot agree with you that much learning breeds brain

disease. Provided the learning be accompanied by a belief in the

Supreme Wisdom,--provided every step of study be taken upward toward

that Source of all Knowledge,--one cannot learn too much, since hope

increases with discernment, and on such food the brain grows stronger,

healthier, and more capable of high effort. But dispense with the

Spirit of the Whole, and every movement, though it SEEM forward, is in

truth BACKWARD;--study involves bewilderment,--science becomes a

reeling infinitude of atoms, madly whirling together for no purpose

save death, or, at the best, incessant Change, in which mortal life is

counted as nothing:--and Nature frowns at us, a vast Question, to which

there is no Answer,--an incomprehensible Force, against which wretched

Man, gifted with all manner of splendid and Godlike capacities, battles

forever and forever in vain! This is the terrible material lesson you

would have us learn to-day, the lesson that maddens pupil and teacher

alike, and has not a glimmer of consolation to offer to any living

soul! What a howling wilderness this world would be if given over

entirely to Materialism!--Scarce a line of division could be drawn

between men and the brute beasts of the field! I consider,--though

possibly I am only one among many of widely differing opinion,--that if

you take the hope of an after-joy and blessedness away from the weary,

perpetually toiling Million, you destroy at one wanton blow their best,

purest, and noblest aspirations. As for the Christian Religion, I

cannot believe that so grand and holy a Symbol is perishing among

us,--we have a monarch whose title is 'Defender of the Faith,'--we live

in an age of civilization which is primarily the result of that

faith,--and if, as this gentleman assures me,"--and he made a slight,

courteous inclination toward his opposite neighbor--"Christianity is

exploded,--then certainly the greatness of this hitherto great nation

is exploding with it! But I do not think that because a few skeptics

uplift their wailing 'All is vanity' from their self-created desert of

Agnosticism, THEREFORE the majority of men and women are turning

renegades from the simplest, most humane, most unselfish Creed that

ever the world has known. It may be so,--but, at present, I prefer to

trust in the higher spiritual instincts of man at his best, rather than

accept the testimony of the lesser Unbelieving against the greater

Many, whose strength, comfort, patience, and endurance, if these

virtues come not from God, come not at all."

His forcible, incisive manner of speaking, together with his perfect

equanimity and concise clearness of argument, had an evident effect on

those who listened. Here was no rampant fanatic for particular forms of

doctrine or pietism,--here was a man who stated his opinions calmly,

frankly, and with an absolute setting-forth of facts which could

scarcely be denied,--a man, who firmly grounded himself, made no

attempt to force any one's belief, but who simply took a large view of

the whole, and saw, as it were in a glance, what the world might become

without faith in a Divine Cause and Principle of Creation. And once

GRANT this Divine Cause and Principle to be actually existent, then all

other divine and spiritual things become possible, no matter how

IMPOSSIBLE they seem to dull mortal comprehension.

A brief pause followed his words,--a pause of vague embarrassment. The

Duchess was the first to break it.

"You have very noble ideas, Mr. Alwyn,"--she said with a faint,

wavering smile--"But I am afraid your conception of things, both human

and divine, is too exalted, and poetically imaginative, to be applied

to our every-day life. We cannot close our ears to the thunders of

science,--we cannot fail to perceive that we mortals are of as small

account in the plan of the Universe as grains of sand on the seashore.

It is very sad that so it should be, and yet so it is! And concerning

Christianity, the poor system has been so belabored of late with hard

blows, that it is almost a wonder it still breathes. There is no end to

the books that have been written disproving and denouncing

it,--moreover, we have had the subject recently treated in a novel

which excites our sympathies in behalf of a clergyman, who, overwhelmed

by scholarship, finds he can no longer believe in the religion he is

required to teach, and who renounces his living in consequence. The

story is in parts pathetic,--it has had a large circulation,--and

numbers of people who never doubted their Creed before, certainly doubt

it now."

Alwyn shrugged his shoulders. "Faith uprooted by a novel!" he

said--"Alas, poor faith! It could never have been well established at

any time, to be so easy of destruction! No book in the world, whether

of fact or fiction, could persuade me either TO or FROM the

consciousness of what my own individual Spirit instinctively KNOWS.

Faith cannot be taught or forced,--neither, if TRUE, can it be really

destroyed,--it is a God-born, God-fostered INTUITION, immortal as God

Himself. The ephemeral theories set forth in books should not be able

to influence it by so much as a hair's breadth."

"Truth is, however, often conveyed through the medium of

fiction,"--observed Dr. Mudley--"and the novel alluded to was

calculated to disturb the mind, and arouse trouble in the heart of many

an ardent believer. It was written by a woman."

"Nay, then"--said Alwyn quickly, with a darkening flash in his

eyes,--"if women give up faith, let the world prepare for strange

disaster! Good, God-loving women,--women who pray,--women who

hope,--women who inspire men to do the best that is in them,--these are

the safety and glory of nations! When women forget to kneel,--when

women cease to teach their children the 'Our Father,' by whose grandly

simple plea Humanity claims Divinity as its origin,--then shall we

learn what is meant by 'men's hearts failing them for fear and for

looking after those things which are coming on the earth.' A woman who

denies Christ repudiates Him, who, above all others, made her sex as

free and honored as everywhere in Christendom it IS. He never refused

woman's prayer,--He had patience for her weakness,--pardon for her

sins,--and any book written by woman's hand that does Him the smallest

shadow of wrong is to me as gross an act, as that of one who, loaded

with benefits, scruples not to murder his benefactor!"

The Duchess de la Santoisie moved uneasily,--there was a vibration in

Alwyn's voice that went to her very heart. Strange thoughts swept

cloud-like across her mind,--again she saw in fancy a little fair, dead

child that she had loved,--her only one, on whom she had spent all the

tenderness of which her nature was capable. It had died at the

prettiest age of children,--the age of lisping speech and softly

tottering feet, when a journey from the protecting background of a wall

to outstretched maternal arms seems fraught with dire peril to the tiny

adventurer, and is only undertaken with the help of much coaxing, sweet

laughter, and still sweeter kisses. She remembered how, in spite of her

"free" opinions, she had found it impossible not to teach her little

one a prayer;--and a sudden mist of tears blurred her sight, as she

recollected the child's last words,--words uttered plaintively in the

death grasp of a cruel fever, "Suffer me.. to come to Thee!"--A quick

sigh escaped her lips,--the diamonds on her breast heaved

restlessly,--lifting her eyes, grown soft with gentle memory, she

encountered those of Alwyn, and again she asked herself, could he read

her thoughts? His steadfast gaze seemed to encompass her, and absorb in

a grave, compassionate earnestness the entire comprehension of her

life. Her husband's polite, mellifluous accents roused her from this

half-reverie.

"I confess I am surprised, Mr. Alwyn,"--he was saying--"that you, a man

of such genius and ability, should be still in the leading strings of

the Church!"

"There is NO Church"--returned Alwyn quietly,--"The world is waiting

for one! The Alpha Beta of Christianity has been learned and recited

more or less badly by the children of men for nearly two thousand

years,--the actual grammar and meaning of the whole Language has yet to

be deciphered. There have been, and are, what are CALLED Churches,--one

especially, which, if it would bravely discard mere vulgar

superstition, and accept, absorb, and use the discoveries of Science

instead, might, and possibly WILL, blossom into the true, universal,

and pure Christian Fabric. Meanwhile, in the shaking to and fro of

things,--the troublous sifting of the wheat from the chaff,--we must be

content to follow by the Way of the Cross as best we can. Christianity

has fallen into disrepute, probably because of the Self-Renunciation it

demands,--for, in this age, the primal object of each individual is

manifestly to serve Self only. It is a wrong road,--a side-lane that

leads nowhere,--and we shall inevitably have to turn back upon it and

recover the right path--if not now, why then hereafter!"

His voice had a tremor of pain within it;--he was thinking of the

millions of men and women who were voluntarily wandering astray into a

darkness they did not dream of,--and his heart, the great, true heart

of the Poet, became filled with an indescribable passion of yearning.

"No wonder," he mused--"no wonder that Christ came hither for the sake

of Love! To rescue, to redeem, to save, to bless! ... O Divine sympathy

for sorrow! If I--a man--can feel such aching pity for the woes of

others, how vast, how limitless, how tender, must be the pity of God!"

And his eyes softened,--he almost forgot his surroundings. He was

entirely unaware of the various deep and wistful emotions he had

wakened in the hearts of his hearers. There was a great attractiveness

in him that he was not conscious of,--and while all present certainly

felt that he, though among them, was not of them, they were at the same

time curiously moved by an impression that notwithstanding his being,

as it were, set apart from their ways of existence, his sympathetic

influence surrounded them as resistlessly as a pure atmosphere in which

they drew long refreshing breaths of healthier life.

"I should like,"--suddenly said a bearded individual who was seated

half-way down the table, and who had listened attentively to

everything--"I should like to tell you a few things about Esoteric

Buddhism!--I am sure it is a faith that would suit you admirably!"

Alwyn smiled, courteously enough. "I shall be happy to hear your views

on the subject, sir," he answered gently--"But I must tell you that

before I left England for the East, I had studied that theory, together

with many others that were offered as substitutes for Christianity, and

I found it totally inadequate to meet the highest demands of the

spiritual intelligence. I may also add, that I have read carefully all

the principal works against Religion,--from the treatises of the

earliest skeptics down to Voltaire and others of our own day. Moreover,

I had, not so very long ago, rejected the Christian Faith; that I now

accept and adhere to it, is not the result of my merit or

attainment,--but simply the outcome of an undeserved blessing and

singularly happy fortune."

"Pardon me, Mr. Alwyn"--said Madame de la Santoisie with a sweet

smile--"By all the laws of nature I must contradict you there! Your

fame and fortune must needs be the reward of merit,--since true

happiness never comes to the undeserving."

Alwyn made no reply,--inasmuch as to repudiate the idea of personal

merit too warmly is, as such matters are judged nowadays, suggestive of

more conceit than modesty. He skilfully changed the conversation, and

it glided off by degrees into various other channels,--music, art,

science, and the political situation of the hour. The men and women

assembled, as though stimulated and inspired by some new interest, now

strove to appear at their very best--and the friction of intellect with

intellect resulted in more or less brilliancy of talk, which, for once,

was totally free from the flippant and mocking spirit which usually

pervaded the Santoisie social circle. On all the subjects that came up

for discussion Alwyn proved himself thoroughly at home--and M. le Duc,

sitting in a silence that was most unwonted with him, became filled

with amazement to think that this man, so full of fine qualities and

intellectual abilities, should be actually a CHRISTIAN!--The thing was

quite incongruous, or seemed so to the ironical wit of the born and

bred Parisian,--he tried to consider it absurd,--even laughable,--but

his efforts merely resulted in a sense of uneasy personal shame. This

poet was, at any rate, a MAN,--he might have posed for a Coriolanus or

Marc Antony;--and there was something supreme about him that could not

be SNEERED DOWN.

The dinner, meanwhile, reached its dessert climax, and the Duchess

rose, giving the customary departing signal to her lady-guests. Alwyn

hastened to open the door for her, and she passed out, followed by a

train of women in rich and rustling costumes, all of whom, as they

swept past the kingly figure that with slightly bent head and courteous

mien thus paid silent homage to their sex, were conscious of very

unusual emotions of respect and reverence. How would it be, some of

them thought, if they were more frequently brought into contact with

such royal and gracious manhood? Would not love then become indeed a

hallowed glory, and marriage a true sacrament! Was it not possible for

men to be the gods of this world, rather than the devils they so often

are? Such were a few of the questions that flitted dimly through the

minds of the society-fagged fair ones that clustered round the Duchess

de la Santoisie, and eagerly discussed Alwyn's personal beauty and

extraordinary charm of manner.

The gentlemen did not absent themselves long, and with their appearance

from the dining-room the reception of the evening began. Crowds of

people arrived and crammed up the stairs, filling every corridor and

corner, and Alwyn, growing tired of the various introductions and

shaking of hands to which he was submitted, managed presently to slip

away into a conservatory adjoining the great drawing-room,--a cool,

softly lighted place full of flowering azaleas and rare palms. Here he

sat for a while among the red and white blossoms, listening to the

incessant hum of voices, and wondering what enjoyment human beings

could find in thus herding together en masse, and chattering all at

once as though life depended on chatter, when the rustling of a woman's

dress disturbed his brief solitude. He rose directly, as he saw his

fair hostess approaching him.

"Ah, you have fled away from us, Mr. Alwyn!" she said with a slight

smile--"I do not wonder at it. These receptions are the bane of one's

social existence."

"Then why do you give them?"--asked Alwyn, half laughingly.

"Why? Oh, because it is the fashion, I suppose!" she answered

languidly, leaning against a marble column that supported the towering

frondage of a tropical fern, and toying with her fan,--"And I, like

others, am a slave to fashion. I have escaped for one moment, but I

must go back directly. Mr. Alwyn ..." She hesitated,--then came

straight up to him, and laid her hand upon his arm--"I want to thank

you!"

"To thank me?" he repeated in surprised accents.

"Yes!"--she said steadily--"To thank you for what you have said

to-night. We live in a dreary age, when no one has much faith or hope,

and still less charity,--death is set before us as the final end of

all,--and life as lived by most, people is not only not worth living,

but utterly contemptible! Your clearly expressed opinions have made me

think it is possible to do better,"--her lips quivered a little, and

her breath came and went quickly,--"and I shall begin to try and find

out how this 'better' can be consummated! Pray do not think me

foolish--"

"_I_ think you foolish!" and with gravest courtesy Alwyn raised her

hand, and touched it gently with his lips, then as gently released it.

His action was full of grace,--it implied reverence, trust, honor,--and

the Duchess looked at him with soft, wet eyes in which a smile still

lingered.

"If there were more men like you,"--she said suddenly--"what a

difference it would make to us women! We should be proud to share the

burdens of life with those on whose absolute integrity and strength we

could rely,--but, in these days, we do not rely, so much as we

despise,--we cannot love, so much as we condemn! You are a Poet,--and

for you the world takes ideal colors,--for you perchance the very

heavens have opened;--but remember that the millions, who, in the

present era, are ground down under the heels of the grimmest necessity,

have no such glimpses of God as are vouchsafed to YOU! They are truly

in the darkness and shadow of death,--they hear no angel music,--they

sit in dungeons, howled at by preachers and teachers who make no actual

attempt to lead them into light and liberty,--while we, the so-called

'upper' classes, are imprisoned as closely as they, and crushed by

intolerable weights of learning, such as many of us are not fitted to

bear. Those who aspire heavenwards are hurled to earth,--those who of

their own choice cling to death, become so fastened to it, that even if

they wished, they could not rise. Believe me, you will be sorely

disheartened in your efforts toward the highest good,--you will find

most people callous, careless, ignorant, and forever scoffing at what

they do not, and will not, understand,--you had better leave us to our

dust and ashes,"--and a little mirthless laugh escaped her lips,--"for

to pluck us from thence now will almost need a second visitation of

Christ, in whom, if He came, we should probably not believe! Moreover,

you must not forget that we have read Darwin,--and we are so charmed

with our monkey ancestors, that we are doing our best to imitate them

in every possible way,--in the hope that, with time and patience, we

may resolve ourselves back into the original species!"

With which bitter sarcasm, uttered half mockingly, half in good

earnest, she left him and returned to her guests. Not very long

afterward, he having sought and found Villiers, and suggested to him

that it was time to make a move homeward, approached her in company

with his friend, and bade her farewell.

"I don't think we shall see you often in society, Mr. Alwyn"--she said,

rather wistfully, as she gave him her hand,--"You are too much of a

Titan among pigmies!"

He flushed and waved aside the remark with a few playful words; unlike

his Former Self, if there was anything in the world he shrank from, it

was flattery, or what seemed like flattery. Once outside the house he

drew a long breath of relief, and glanced gratefully up at the sky,

bright with the glistening multitude of stars. Thank God, there were

worlds in that glorious expanse of ether peopled with loftier types of

being than what is called Humanity! Villiers looked at him

questioningly:

"Tired of your own celebrity, Alwyn?" he asked, taking him by the

arm,--"Are the pleasures of Fame already exhausted?"

Alwyn smiled,--he thought of the fame of Sah-luma, Laureate bard of

Al-kyris!

"Nay, if the dream that I told you of had any meaning at all"--he

replied--"then I enjoyed and exhausted those pleasures long ago!

Perhaps that is the reason why my 'celebrity' seems such a poor and

tame circumstance now. But I was not thinking of myself,--I was

wondering whether, after all, the slight power I have attained can be

of much use to others. I am only one against many."

"Nevertheless, there is an old maxim which says that one hero makes a

thousand"--said Villiers quietly--"And it is an undeniable fact that

the vastest number ever counted, begins at the very beginning with ONE!"

Alwyn met his smiling, earnest eyes with a quick, responsive light in

his own, and the two friends walked the rest of the way home in silence.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

HELIOBAS.

Some few days after the Duchess's dinner-party, Alwyn was strolling one

morning through the Park, enjoying to the full the keen, fresh odors of

the Spring,--odors that even in London cannot altogether lose their

sweetness, so long as hyacinths and violets consent to bloom, and

almond-trees to flower, beneath the too often unpropitious murkiness of

city skies. It had been raining, but now the clouds had rolled off, and

the sun shone as brightly as it ever CAN shine on the English capital,

sending sparkles of gold among the still wet foliage, and reviving the

little crocuses, that had lately tumbled down in heaps on the grass,

like a frightened fairy army put to rout by the onslaught of the recent

shower. A blackbird, whose cheery note suggested melodious memories

drawn from the heart of the quiet country, was whistling a lively

improvisation on the bough of a chestnut-tree, whereof the brown

shining buds were just bursting into leaf,--and Alwyn, whose every

sense was pleasantly attuned to the small, as well as great, harmonies

of nature, paused for a moment to listen to the luscious piping of the

feathered minstrel, that in its own wild woodland way had as excellent

an idea of musical variation as any Mozart or Chopin. Leaning against

one of the park benches, with his back turned to the main thoroughfare,

he did not observe the approach of a man's tall, stately figure, that,

with something of his own light, easy, swinging step, had followed him

rapidly along for some little distance, and that now halted abruptly

within a pace or two of where he stood,--a man whose fine face and

singular distinction of bearing had caused many a passer-by to stare at

him in vague admiration, and to wonder who such a regal-looking

personage might possibly be. Alwyn, however, absorbed in thought, saw

no one, and was about to resume his onward walk, when suddenly, as

though moved by some instinctive impulse, he turned sharply around, and

in so doing confronted the stranger, who straightway advanced, lifting

his hat and smiling. One amazed glance,--and then with an ejaculation

of wonder, recognition, and delight, Alwyn sprang forward and grasped

his extended hand.

"HELIOBAS!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible YOU are in London!--YOU, of

all men in the world!"

"Even so!"--replied Heliobas gayly--"And why not? Am I incongruous, and

out of keeping with the march of modern civilization?"

Alwyn looked at him half-bewildered, half-incredulous,--he could hardly

believe his own eyes. It seemed such an altogether amazing thing to

meet this devout and grave Chaldean philosopher, this mystic monk of

the Caucasus, here in the very centre, as it were, of the world's

business, traffic, and pleasure; one might as well have expected to

find a haloed saint in the whirl of a carnival masquerade! Incongruous?

Out of keeping?--Yes, certainly he was,--for though clad in the plain,

conventional garb to which the men of the present day are doomed by the

fiat of commerce and custom, the splendid dignity and picturesqueness

of his fine personal appearance was by no means abated, and it was just

this that marked him out, and made of him as wonderful a figure in

London as though some god or evangelist should suddenly pass through a

wilderness of chattering apes and screaming vultures.

"But how and when did you come?"--asked Alwyn presently, recovering

from his first glad shock of surprise--"You see how genuine is my

astonishment,--why, I thought you were a perpetually vowed

recluse,--that you never went into the world at all, ..."

"Neither I do"--rejoined Heliobas--"save when strong necessity demands.

But our Order is not so 'inclosed' that, if Duty calls, we cannot

advance to its beckoning, and there are certain times when both I and

those of my fraternity mingle with men in common, undistinguished from

the ordinary inhabitants of cities either by dress, customs, or

manners,--as you see!"--and he laughingly touched his overcoat, the

dark rough cloth of which was relieved by a broad collar and revers of

rich sealskin,--"Would you not take me for a highly respectable brewer,

par example, conscious that his prowess in the making of beer has

entitled him, not only to an immediate seat in Parliament, but also to

a Dukedom in prospective?"

Alwyn, smiled at the droll inapplicability of this comparison,--and

Heliobas cheerfully continued--"I am on the wing just now,--bound for

Mexico. I had business in London, and arrived here two days since,--two

days more will see me again en voyage. I am glad to have met you thus

by chance, for I did not know your address, and though I might have

obtained that through your publishers, I hesitated about it, not being

quite certain as to whether a letter or visit from me might be welcome."

"Surely,"--began Alwyn, and then he paused, a flush rising to his brow

as he remembered how obstinately he had doubted and suspected this

man's good faith and intention toward him, and how he had even received

his farewell benediction at Dariel with more resentment than gratitude.

"Everywhere I hear great things of you, Mr. Alwyn,"--went on Heliobas

gently, taking no notice of his embarrassment--"Your fame is now indeed

unquestionable! With all my heart I congratulate you, and wish you long

life and health to enjoy the triumph of your genius!"

Alwyn smiled, and turning, fixed his clear, soft eyes full on the

speaker.

"I thank you!" he said simply,--"But, ... you, who have such a quick

instinctive comprehension of the minds and characters of men,--judge

for yourself whether I attach any value to the poor renown I have

won,--renown that I once would have given my very life to possess!"

As he spoke, he stopped,--they were walking down a quiet side-path

under the wavering shadow of newly bourgeoning beeches, and a bright

shaft of sunshine struck through the delicate foliage straight on his

serene and handsome countenance. Heliobas gave him a swift, keen,

observant glance,--in a moment he noticed what a marvellous change had

been wrought in the man who, but a few months before, had come to him,

a wreck of wasted life,--a wreck that was not only ready, but willing,

to drift into downward currents and whirlpools of desperate, godless,

blank, and hopeless misery. And now, how completely he was

transformed!--Health colored his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes;

health, both of body and mind, gave that quick brilliancy to his smile,

and that easy, yet powerful poise to his whole figure,--while the

supreme consciousness of the Immortal Spirit within him surrounded him

with the same indescribable fascination and magnetic attractiveness

that distinguished Heliobas himself, even as it distinguishes all who

have in good earnest discovered and accepted the only true explanation

of their individual mystery of being. One steady, flashing look,--and

then Heliobas silently held out his hand. As silently Alwyn clasped

it,--and the two men understood each other. All constraint was at an

end,--and when they resumed their slow sauntering under the glistening

green branches, they were mutually aware that they now held an almost

equal rank in the hierarchy of spiritual knowledge, strength, and

sympathy.

"Evidently your adventure to the Ruins of Babylon was not altogether

without results!" said Heliobas softly--"Your appearance indicates

happiness,--is your life at last complete?"

"Complete?--No!"--and Alwyn sighed somewhat impatiently--"It cannot be

complete, so long as its best and purest half is elsewhere! My fame is,

as you can guess, a mere ephemera,--a small vanishing point, in

comparison with the higher ambition I have now in view. Listen,--you

know nothing of what happened to me on the Field of Ardath,--I should

have written to you perhaps, but it is better to speak--I will tell you

all as briefly as I can."

And talking in an undertone, with his arm linked through that of his

companion, he related the whole strange story of the visitation of

Edris, the Dream of Al-Kyris, his awakening on the Prophet's Field at

sunrise, and his final renunciation of Self at the Cross of Christ.

Heliobas listened to him in perfect silence, his eyes alone expressing

with what eager interest and attention he followed every incident of

the narrative.

"And now," said Alwyn in conclusion,--"I always try to remember for my

own comfort that I LEFT my dead Self in the burning ruin of that dream

built city of the past,--or SEEMED to leave it, . . and yet I feel

sometimes as if its shadow presence clung to me still! I look in the

mirror and see strange, faint reflections of the actual personal

attributes of the slain Sah-luma,--occasionally these are so strong and

distinctly marked that I turn away in anger from my own image! Why, I

loved that Phantasm of a Poet in my dream as I must for ages have loved

myself to my own utter undoing!--I admired his work with such

extravagant fondness, that, thinking of it, I blush for shame at my own

thus manifest conceit!--In truth there is only one thing in that

pictured character of his, I can for the present judge myself free

from,--namely, the careless rejection of true love for false,--the

wanton misprisal of a faithful heart, such as Niphrata's, whose fair

child-face even now often flits before my remorseful memory,--and the

evil, sensual passion for a woman whose wickedness was as evident as

her beauty was paramount! I could never understand or explain this

wilful, headstrong weakness in my Shadow-Self--it was the one

circumstance in my vision that seemed to have little to do with the

positive Me in its application,--but now I thoroughly grasp the meaning

of the lesson conveyed, which is that NO MAN EVER REALLY KNOWS HIMSELF,

OR FATHOMS THE DEPTHS OF HIS OWN POSSIBLE INCONSISTENCIES. And as

matters stand with me at the present time, I am hemmed in on all sides

by difficulties,--for since the modern success of that very anciently

composed poem, 'Nourhalma'"--and he smiled--"my friends and

acquaintances are doing their best to make me think as much of myself

as if I were,--well! all that I am NOT. Do what I will, I believe am

still an egoist,--nay, I am sure of it,--for even as regards my

heavenly saint, Edris, I am selfish!"

"How so?" asked Heliobas, with a grave side-glance of admiration at the

thoughtful face and meditative earnest eyes of this poet, this once

bitter and blasphemous skeptic, grown up now to a majesty of faith that

not all the scorn of men or devils could ever shake again.

"I want her!"--he replied, and there was a thrill of pathetic yearning

in his voice--"I long for her every moment of the day and night! It

seems, too, as if everything combined to encourage this craving in

me,--this fond, mad desire to draw her down from her own bright sphere

of joy,--down to my arms, my heart, my life! See!"--and he stopped by a

bed of white hyacinths, nodding softly in the faint breeze--"Even those

flowers remind me of her! When I look up at the blue sky I think of the

radiance of her eyes,--they were the heaven's own color,--when I see

light clouds floating together half gray, half tinted by the sun, they

seem to me to resemble the soft and noiseless garb she wore,--the birds

sing, only to recall to me the lute-like sweetness of her voice,--and

at night, when I behold the millions upon millions of stars that are

worlds, peopled as they must be with thousands of wonderful living

creatures, perhaps as spiritually composed as she, I sometimes find it

hard, that out of all the exhaustless types of being that love, serve,

and praise God in Heaven, this one fair Spirit,--only this one

angel-maiden should not be spared to help and comfort me! Yes!--I am

selfish to the heart's core, my friend!"--and his eyes darkened with a

vague wistfulness and trouble,--"Moreover, I have weakly striven to

excuse my selfishness to my own conscience thus:--I have thought that

if SHE were vouchsafed to me for the remainder of my days, I might then

indeed do lasting good, and leave lasting consolation to the

world,--such work might be performed as would stir the most callous

souls to life and energy and aspiration,--with HER sweet Presence near

me, visibly close and constant, there is no task so difficult that I

would not essay and conquer in, for her sake, her service, her greater

glory! But ALONE!"--and he gave a slight, hopeless

gesture--"Nay,--Christ knows I will do the utmost best I can, but the

solitary ways of life are hard!"

Heliobas regarded him fixedly.

"You SEEM to be alone"--he said presently, after a pause,--"but truly

you are not so. You think you are set apart to do your work in

solitude,--nevertheless, she whom you love may be near you even while

you speak! Still I understand what you mean,--you long to SEE her

again,--to realize her tangible form and presence,--well!--this cannot

be until you pass from this earth and adopt HER nature, . .

unless,--unless SHE descends hither, and adopts YOURS!"

The last words were uttered slowly and impressively, and Alwyn's

countenance brightened with a sudden irresistible rapture.

"That would be impossible!" he said, but his voice trembled, and there

was more interrogativeness than assertion in his tone.

"Impossible in most cases,--yes"--agreed Heliobas--"but in your

specially chosen and privileged estate, I cannot positively say that

such a thing might not be."

For one moment a strange, eager brilliancy shone in Alwyn's eyes,--the

next, he set his lips hard, and made a firm gesture of denial.

"Do not tempt me, good Heliobas," he said, with a faint smile--"Or,

rather, do not let me tempt myself! I bear in constant mind what she,

my Edris, told me when she left me,--that we should not meet again till

after death, unless the longing of my love COMPELLED. Now, if it be

true, as I have often thought, that I COULD compel,--by what right dare

I use such power, if power I have upon her? She loves me,--I love

her,--and by the force of love, such love as ours, . . who knows!--I

might perchance persuade her to adopt a while this mean, uneasy vesture

of mere mortal life,--and the very innate perception that I MIGHT do

so, is the sharpest trial I have to endure. Because if I would

thoroughly conquer myself, I must resist this feeling;--nay, I WILL

resist it,--for let it cost me what it may, I have sworn that the

selfishness of my own personal desire shall never cross or cloud the

radiance of her perfect happiness!"

"But suppose"--suggested Heliobas quietly, "suppose she were to find an

even more complete happiness in making YOU happy?"

Alwyn shook his head. "My friend do not let us talk of it!"--he

answered--"No joy can be more complete than the joy of Heaven,--and

that in its full blessedness is hers."

"That in its full blessedness is NOT hers,"--declared Heliobas with

emphasis--"And, moreover, it can never be hers, while YOU are still an

exile and a wanderer! Friend Poet, do you think that even Heaven is

wholly happy to one who loves, and whose Beloved is absent?"

A tremor shook Alwyn's nerves,--his eyes glowed as though the inward

fire of his soul had lightened them, but his face grew very pale.

"No more of this, for God's sake!" he said passionately. "I must not

dream of it,--I dare not! I become the slave of my own imagined

rapture,--the coward who falls conquered and trembling before his own

desire of delight! Rather let me strive to be glad that she, my

angel-love, is so far removed from my unworthiness,--let her, if she be

near me now, read my thoughts, and see in them how dear, how sacred is

her fair and glorious memory,--how I would rather endure an eternity of

anguish, than make her sad for one brief hour of mortal-counted time!"

He was greatly moved,--his voice trembled with the fervor of its own

music, and Heliobas looked at him with a grave and very tender smile.

"Enough!"--he said gently--"I will speak no further on this subject,

which I see affects you deeply. Nevertheless, I would have you remember

how, when the Master whom we serve passed through His Agony at

Gethsemane, and with all the knowledge of His own power and glory

strong upon Him, still in His vast self-abnegation said, 'Not My will,

but Thine be done!' that then 'there appeared an Angel unto Him from

heaven strengthening Him!' Think of this,--for every incident in that

Divine-Human Life is a hint for ours,--and often it chances that when

we reject happiness for the sake of goodness, happiness is suddenly

bestowed upon us. God's miracles are endless,--God's blessings

exhaustless, . . and the marvels of this wondrous Universe are as

nothing, compared to the working of His Sovereign Will for good on the

lives of those who serve Him faithfully."

Alwyn flashed upon him a quick, half-questioning glance, but was

silent,--and they walked on together for some minutes without

exchanging a word. A few people passed and repassed them,--some little

children were playing hide-and-seek behind the trunks of the largest

trees,--the air was fresh and invigorating, and the incessant roar of

busy traffic outside the Park palings offered a perpetual noisy

reminder of the great world that surged around them,--the world of

petty aims and transitory pleasures, with which they, filled full of

the knowledge of higher and eternal things, had so little in common

save sympathy,--sympathy for the wilful wrong-doing of man, and pity

for his self-imposed blindness. Presently Heliobas spoke again in his

customary light and cheerful tone:

"Are you writing anything new just now?" he asked. "Or are you resting

from literary labor?"

"Well, rest and work are with me very nearly one and the same"--replied

Alwyn,--"I think the most absolutely tiring and exhausting thing in the

world would be to have nothing to do. Then I can imagine life becoming

indeed a weighty burden! Yes, I am engaged on a new poem, . . it gives

me intense pleasure to write it--but whether it will give any one equal

pleasure to read it is quite another question."

"Does 'Zabastes' still loom on your horizon?" inquired his companion

mirthfully--"Or are you still inclined--as in the Past--to treat him,

whether he comes singly or in numbers, as the Poet's court-jester, and

paid fool?"

Alwyn laughed lightly. "Perhaps!" he answered, with a sparkle of

amusement in his eyes,--"But, really, so far as the wind of criticism

goes, I don't think any author nowadays particularly cares whether it

blows fair weather or foul. You see, we all know how it is done,--we

can name the clubs and cliques from whence it emanates, and we are

fully aware that if one leading man of a 'set' gives the starting

signal of praise or blame, the rest follow like sheep, without either

thought or personal discrimination. Moreover, some of us have met and

talked with certain of these magazine and newspaper oracles, and have

tested for ourselves the limited extent of their knowledge and the

shallowness of their wit. I assure you it often happens that a great

author is tried, judged, and condemned by a little casual press-man

who, in his very criticism, proves himself ignorant of grammar. Of

course, if the public choose to accept such a verdict, why, then, all

the worse for the public,--but luckily the majority of men are

beginning to learn the ins and outs of the modern critic's

business,--they see his or HER methods (it is a notable fact that women

do a great deal of criticism now, they being willing to scribble

oracular commonplaces at a cheaper rate of pay than men), so that if a

book is condemned, people are dubious, and straight way read it for

themselves to see what is in it that excites aversion,--if it is

praised, they are still dubious, and generally decide that the critical

eulogist must have some personal interest in its sale. It is difficult

for an author to WIN his public,--but WHEN won, the critics may applaud

or deride as suits their humor, it makes no appreciable difference to

his popularity. Now I consider my own present fame was won by chance,

--a misconception that, as _I_ know, had its ancient foundation in

truth, but that, as far as everybody else is concerned, remains a

misconception,--so that I estimate my success at its right value, or

rather, let me say, at its proper worthlessness."

And in a few words he related how the leaders of English journalism had

judged him dead, and had praised his work chiefly because it was

posthumous. "I believe"--he added good-humoredly--"that if this mistake

had not arisen, I should scarcely have been heard of, since I advocate

no particular 'cult' and belong to no Mutual Admiration Alliance,

offensive or defensive. But my supposed untimely decease served me

better than the Browning Society serves Browning!"

Again he laughed,--Heliobas had listened with a keen and sarcastic

enjoyment of the whole story.

"Undoubtedly your 'Zabastes' was no phantom!"--he observed

emphatically--"His was evidently a very real existence, and he must

have divided himself from one into several, to sit in judgment again

upon you in this present day! History repeats itself,--and unhappily

all the injustice, hypocrisy, and inconsistency of man is repeated

too,--and out of the multitudes that inhabit the earth, how few will

succeed in fulfilling their highest destinies! This is the one bitter

drop in the cup of our knowledge,--we can, if we choose, save

ourselves,--but we can seldom, if ever, save others!"

Alwyn stopped short, his eyes darkening with a swift intensity of

feeling.

"Why not?"--he asked earnestly--"Must we look on, and see men rushing

toward certain misery, without making an effort to turn them hack?--to

warn them of the darkness whither they are bound?--to rescue them

before it is too late?"