“How isolated we are in this wide, wide world,” said Mrs Archibald to
Lord Mowbray, a few days after the meeting in St Paul’s. They had
rambled beyond Putney Bridge on a warm afternoon, and having reached
Barnes Commons had seated themselves upon the soft grass. These two
recalcitrants mourned pitifully over their present state and uncongenial
surroundings, and, as they sat, related to each other in short,
spasmodic sentences their grievous historiette of woe. Anecdote after
anecdote escaped their lips, which recalled a past glory, a social
Paradise for ever lost to them. Mrs Archibald described to her companion
the scene in Lord Somerville’s library, when Temple had spoken what she
had at the time considered such shameful words. However, she was
beginning to have some dim understanding of what Sinclair had meant when
he said that a blush at the right moment was a good thing; and she and
Lord Mowbray felt somewhat uncomfortable as they realised the anomaly of
recalling a clothed Society in their state of nature. For the first time
in their artificial lives did their two hearts throb and long for
something they had never known, and as they talked bitter tears trickled
down their pale cheeks. When they had nearly finished their task of
disentangling the skein of their complex past lives, they came to a full
stop; and behind the mass of frivolity and petty sorrowings evoked by
their anxious brain, they remarked in a corner, a dying Cupid, panting
for life, whom they decided to revive. But here we must stop, for it
does not do always to analyse the motives of human beings; suffice it to
say that in their frenzied revolt against the uncongeniality of their
surroundings, they fell into each other’s arms. Often a puerile cause
has been the means of working out a momentous effect. But a remarkable
thing occurred to these two recalcitrants, as they stood heart to heart,
lip to lip: one by one their prejudices disappeared, the shallowness of
their social past dawned upon them, and they now saw the meaning of
their present condition.
They returned to London, to the great world, as man and wife, and
completely cured of their feverish delusion.
* * * * *
But where was _he_? Where, the little _dilettante_ who had for years
carefully ministered to Society’s artistic needs? He had fed the _grand
monde_ with small buns of his own making, and his flatterers and
parasites had turned away from him in disgust, begging for some other
bun of a better kneading.
Towards the end of July, Lord Somerville and his faithful buffoon were
walking in Half Moon Street when Lionel suddenly suggested that they
should look up Montagu Vane.
“As you like, my lord,” replied Danford; “I have not caught sight of the
little figure for many days.”
They came to the _dilettante’s_ house, where, as in every house in
England, the front door stood open. (Vane had not been able to resist
public opinion, and for the sake of his own reputation as a fashionable
man, he had given way to this custom.) The two men entered the hall, and
as they began to ascend the staircase they had the impression of
penetrating into the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty. They went up the
narrow stairs, very soon found themselves in the large drawing-rooms,
and looked round at the frescoed walls representing mythological
subjects.
“This place of fashionable gatherings looks more abandoned than the
deserts of Arabia,” said Lionel, “this was the last haunt of the social
_élite_; and there is about these rooms a stale aroma of _vieille
Société_, which makes me feel faint.”
They seated themselves upon chairs carved in the shape of shells; other
seats and _fauteuils_ represented flowers and fruits, in imitation of
Dresden china. Poor Vane, he had done his level best to keep up his
standard of rococo art.
“I was told that very few came to his parties of late—was that so?”
inquired Danford.
“Ah! my dear Dan, I have seen him waste his energy and such gifts as he
had to entertain half-a-dozen men and women, so as to keep up his
ephemeral influence over what he still persisted in calling—his _salon_.
Some, like Mrs Archibald—ah! I always forget she is Lady Mowbray
now—came with her present husband; Lady Carey accompanied them, simply
for the sake of past associations, or out of pity. One evening—ah! I can
never forget that evening, why! it was only last week—Sinclair and I
arrived at ten o’clock, and found Vane all alone, in that very
shell-seat you are in. He was waiting for his guests. I can see him in
my mind’s eye, lying back, his eyes shut. The rooms were discreetly
lighted up; the tables, or monopodiums, as he insisted on calling them,
were laden with luscious fruit, whilst muffled melody of an invisible
orchestra, playing antiquated gavottes and minuettos, was heard in the
distance. Latterly these were the only strains he approved of. When he
caught sight of us in the doorway, he got up and came forward, seizing
hold of our hands. ‘Oh! my dear friends,’ said he, ‘you are welcome! You
will help me to-night.’ I noticed a thrill of sadness in his voice, and
I detected a tear in the corner of his eye. ‘What’s up?’ asked Sinclair.
‘My dear friends,’ he replied, ‘you will never guess. The Prince of
Goldstein-Neubaum, my social guide, has dropped me!’ Poor Vane went on
telling us that the Prince had telephoned to him an hour ago, announcing
that he could no longer continue to be his guide. ‘And what do you
think?’ went on the little _dilettante_, ‘he said he was going to join
the School of Observation! Too dreadful, my poor friends. When the
leaders of Society give up the game, what is there left? Of course you,
who represent our Peerage, are utterly lost, so are the men who, like
you, Sinclair, directed the public’s taste; but there still remained
Royalty, and I always hoped they would ultimately bring you all back to
a saner way of regarding life.’ ‘And you are all alone?’ said Sinclair
to him. ‘Well, we shall help you. Do you expect many to-night?’ as he
looked round at the great display of flowers and refreshments. ‘To tell
you the truth,’ and Vane spoke in subdued tones, ‘I thought it was time
to bring matters to a crisis, and I telephoned all over London to remind
my friends that this evening would be my last At Home, as the season
would soon break up.’ My dear Dan, it was pitiful to watch the poor
little man’s sadness, and I have never been so sorry for him as I was on
that memorable evening.”
“I daresay, my lord, very few turned up,” remarked Dan.
“My dear fellow, not one single soul came that night. When twelve
o’clock struck, Vane’s face became the colour of a corpse. The ticking
of the pendulum, as it swung remorselessly backwards and forwards,
seemed to furrow deep wrinkles in the wan face of our desolate friend.
We were witnessing the final agony of a marionette which Society had
held up by strings; until one day it grew weary of its plaything, and
dropped the toy upon the ground. He sat there, his little curly head
drooping on his breast, like a withered flower on its stem; whilst the
invisible orchestra played Boccherini’s minuetto. The atmosphere of that
past haunt of Society was redolent of exotic perfumes which made us
giddy. Towards three o’clock in the morning we left him without
disturbing his reflections, and we have never seen him since; it is only
a week ago.”
“Shall we go, my lord? Time is short, and this is no place for men like
you.”
“Let us run upstairs, Dan. I reproach myself for not having come to
inquire after him before.”
Lionel led the way upstairs, followed by the somewhat reluctant Danford.
They pushed open the door leading into the _dilettante’s_ bedroom, but
at first, could not see anything, for the shutters were closed. The
overpowering stillness caused the two men to pause on the threshold, and
to hold their breath. After a few seconds they heard the regular
tick-tack of an old empire timepiece, and gradually their eyes perceived
in the dark the glittering brass ornaments of the furniture. Danford the
practical saw no fun in remaining thus in total obscurity, and he groped
his way towards the large bay window. He turned the latch, pushed the
shutters aside, and let in a flow of sunshine which revealed the
mahogany bedstead on which lay the small body of Montagu Vane.
Lionel, who had crossed the room and joined Dan, touched his arm.
“There he is,” murmured the two men. They walked on tip-toe close to the
bed and gazed upon the little _dilettante_, stretched out on his pallet
sleeping his last sleep.
“He is quite cold,” whispered Lionel, laying his hand on the motionless
heart.
“But not yet stiff, my lord,” added Dan, whose keen eye detected the
suppleness of the limbs, which could not have been cold for more than a
few hours. The wrinkles had been smoothed down, and the petty, frivolous
expression of the small face had been replaced by the placid aspect of a
wax doll.
“Do you think there was any struggle, my dear Dick?” Lionel looked at
his guide with anguish.
“No, my lord; there seems to have been no wrench, no painful parting
from life. What you witnessed, that evening when the world abandoned
him, must have been the only agony he ever knew.”
“Yes, his was a sad life. He loved no one.”
“My dear Lord Somerville, what is much worse still, no one loved him.
The inadequacy of this little man to his environment made his existence
pitiful.”
They looked round the room. The doors, window frames and shutters were
all of mahogany. The bed, in the shape of a gondola, also of mahogany,
was supported by two gilded swans’ heads, and garlands in gilt
ornamented the sides of the bed. In one corner of the room was a
mahogany pedestal on which stood a silver candelabra; in another corner,
a small chiffonier was placed; and on the dressing-table stood a silver
bowl containing a bouquet of faded roses.
“What a strange idea of his,” Lionel whispered; “this is quite a woman’s
bedroom, and a copy of Madame Récamier’s room in Paris.” Tears gathered
in his eyes. “And this is all he could invent to surround himself with;
but I daresay it all went together with his taste for the old minuetto.”
“Let us be off, my lord. His silly little tale is told, and this
atmosphere is unhealthy.”
They left the bedside, closed the mahogany shutters and went out of the
room.
“We shall have to give notice at the Crematorium,” said Lionel, when
they were once more in the balmy air and sunshine.
“If you like I will go, my lord. Do not trouble yourself.”
It was pleasant to breathe again the fragrance of trees and flowers.
Piccadilly seemed full of life and happiness after that scene in the
death chamber. It was altogether so artificial that Lionel could feel no
sorrow for the loss of his little friend, and by the time they had
reached Park Lane he had almost banished from his memory the mahogany
room and the little corpse lying there.
“I do not think I shall mention this to Gwendolen,” said Lord
Somerville.
“I should not, my lord. Why should you mention the death of what you are
not quite sure ever existed? The little _dilettante_ was an optical
delusion of Society’s over-heated brain. When the brain fever was cured,
the delusion went; and no one now could remember the existence of the
little mannikin.”
“Next week we open the Palace of Happiness. Dick, I dread it.”
“You need not, my lord. Step by step you have led that worthy John Bull
through the labyrinths of Utopia, and all the way he has marvelled at
the easy roads. Dear old, ingenuous John Bull patted your back,
expressing his joy at being in the company of a sane mind who knew that
two and two made four.”
“Ah! but I quake, Dan, when I think he will soon find out that very
often two and two make five. What will John Bull do to me when he sees
that I have played a trick upon him?”
“The last lesson will be easier to teach than were the first ones, my
lord. There is something in the character of John Bull which facilitates
the work of reform; whilst you are instructing him, he labours under the
delusion that it is _he_ who is teaching _you_ a lesson. Look at all
that we have already achieved: hygiene has reformed the race, physical
pain has well-nigh disappeared; and next week we are to be in possession
of the greatest invention of all, by means of which we shall be able to
read the inner souls of our fellow-creatures. On that day we shall say
_Eureka_. Think of it, my lord, realise the grandeur of that invention!
The object and subject will be one, appearance and reality will be seen
in their whole; in one word, mind and matter will be united.”
“My dear Dan, I know that no happiness can ever be lasting until one
soul can penetrate another. But how ever will the Britisher take this
invention? You know his susceptibilities, his deep love for
self-isolation, how he hates to wear his heart on his sleeve, and his
horror of letting any of his fellow-creatures guess his inner emotion. I
cannot help being anxious.”
“Do not be faint-hearted, my lord. John Bull will receive your last
message with the greatest composure. He will work out his own salvation,
with the firm belief that he is only carrying out his own plans on a
logical basis.”
“Here we are at Hertford Street, Dick; I am going to see Sir Richard.
You might go to the Crematorium.”
“By Jove, my lord! I had quite forgotten the poor little body!”
ejaculated Danford, and the two men parted.