easily amenable to sophistry. He threw up his hands with a gesture of
despair, and took the seat to which the conspirator invited him. The
meal was excellent; the host not only affable, but primed with curious
information. He seemed, indeed, like one who had too long endured the
torture of silence, to exult in the most wholesale disclosures. The
interest of what he had to tell was great; his character, besides,
developed step by step; and Somerset, as the time fled, not only outgrew
some of the discomfort of his false position, but began to regard the
conspirator with a familiarity that verged upon contempt. In any
circumstances, he had a singular inability to leave the society in which
he found himself; company, even if distasteful, held him captive like a
limed sparrow; and on this occasion, he suffered hour to follow hour,
was easily persuaded to sit down once more to table, and did not even
attempt to withdraw till, on the approach of evening, Zero, with many
apologies, dismissed his guest. His fellow-conspirators, the dynamiter
handsomely explained, as they were unacquainted with the sterling
qualities of the young man, would be alarmed at the sight of a strange
face.
As soon as he was alone, Somerset fell back upon the humour of the
morning. He raged at the thought of his facility; he paced the
dining-room, forming the sternest resolutions for the future; he wrung
the hand which had been dishonoured by the touch of an assassin; and
among all these whirling thoughts, there flashed in from time to time,
and ever with a chill of fear, the thought of the confounded ingredients
with which the house was stored. A powder magazine seemed a secure
smoking-room alongside of the Superfluous Mansion.
He sought refuge in flight, in locomotion, in the flowing bowl. As long
as the bars were open, he travelled from one to another, seeking light,
safety, and the companionship of human faces; when these resources
failed him, he fell back on the belated baked-potato man; and at length,
still pacing the streets, he was goaded to fraternise with the police.
Alas, with what a sense of guilt he conversed with these guardians of
the law; how gladly had he wept upon their ample bosoms; and how the
secret fluttered to his lips and was still denied an exit! Fatigue began
at last to triumph over remorse; and about the hour of the first
milkman, he returned to the door of the mansion; looked at it with a
horrid expectation, as though it should have burst that instant into
flames; drew out his key, and when his foot already rested on the steps,
once more lost heart and fled for repose to the grisly shelter of a
coffee-shop.
It was on the stroke of noon when he awoke. Dismally searching in his
pockets, he found himself reduced to half-a-crown; and, when he had paid
the price of his distasteful couch, saw himself obliged to return to the
Superfluous Mansion. He sneaked into the hall and stole on tiptoe to the
cupboard where he kept his money. Yet half a minute, he told himself,
and he would be free for days from his obseding lodger, and might decide
at leisure on the course he should pursue. But fate had otherwise
designed: there came a tap at the door and Zero entered.
"Have I caught you?" he cried, with innocent gaiety. "Dear fellow, I was
growing quite impatient." And on the speaker's somewhat stolid face
there came a glow of genuine affection. "I am so long unused to have a
friend," he continued, "that I begin to be afraid I may prove jealous."
And he wrung the hand of his landlord.
Somerset was, of all men, least fit to deal with such a greeting. To
reject these kind advances was beyond his strength. That he could not
return cordiality for cordiality was already almost more than he could
carry. That inequality between kind sentiments which, to generous
characters, will always seem to be a sort of guilt, oppressed him to the
ground; and he stammered vague and lying words.
"That is all right," cried Zero--"that is as it should be--say no more!
I had a vague alarm; I feared you had deserted me; but I now own that
fear to have been unworthy, and apologise. To doubt of your forgiveness
were to repeat my sin. Come, then; dinner waits; join me again and tell
me your adventures of the night."
Kindness still sealed the lips of Somerset; and he suffered himself once
more to be set down to table with his innocent and criminal
acquaintance. Once more the plotter plunged up to the neck in damaging
disclosures: now it would be the name and biography of an individual,
now the address of some important centre, that rose, as if by accident,
upon his lips; and each word was like another turn of the thumbscrew to
his unhappy guest. Finally, the course of Zero's bland monologue led him
to the young lady of two days ago; that young lady, who had flashed on
Somerset for so brief a while but with so conquering a charm; and whose
engaging grace, communicative eyes, and admirable conduct of the
sweeping skirt, remained imprinted on his memory.
"You saw her?" said Zero. "Beautiful, is she not? She, too, is one of
ours: a true enthusiast: nervous, perhaps, in presence of the chemicals;
but in matters of intrigue the very soul of skill and daring. Lake,
Fonblanque, de Marly, Valdevia, such are some of the names that she
employs; her true name--but there, perhaps, I go too far. Suffice it,
that it is to her I owe my present lodging, and, dear Somerset, the
pleasure of your acquaintance. It appears she knew the house. You see,
dear fellow, I make no concealment: all that you can care to hear, I
tell you openly."
"For God's sake," cried the wretched Somerset, "hold your tongue! You
cannot imagine how you torture me!"
A shade of serious discomposure crossed the open countenance of Zero.
"There are times," he said, "when I begin to fancy that you do not like
me. Why, why, dear Somerset, this lack of cordiality? I am depressed;
the touchstone of my life draws near; and if I fail"--he gloomily
nodded--"from all the height of my ambitious schemes, I fall, dear boy,
into contempt. These are grave thoughts, and you may judge my need of
your delightful company. Innocent prattler, you relieve the weight of my
concerns. And yet ... and yet...." The speaker pushed away his plate,
and rose from table. "Follow me," said he, "follow me. My mood is on; I
must have air, I must behold the plain of battle."
So saying, he led the way hurriedly to the top flat of the mansion, and
thence, by ladder and trap, to a certain leaded platform, sheltered at
one end by a great stalk of chimneys and occupying the actual summit of
the roof. On both sides, it bordered, without parapet or rail, on the
incline of slates; and, northward above all, commanded an extensive view
of housetops, and, rising through the smoke, the distant spires of
churches.
"Here," cried Zero, "you behold this field of city, rich, crowded,
laughing with the spoil of continents; but soon, how soon, to be laid
low! Some day, some night, from this coign of vantage, you shall perhaps
be startled by the detonation of the judgment gun--not sharp and empty
like the crack of cannon, but deep-mouthed and unctuously solemn.
Instantly thereafter, you shall behold the flames break forth. Ay," he
cried, stretching forth his hand, "ay, that will be a day of
retribution. Then shall the pallid constable flee side by side with the
detected thief. Blaze!" he cried, "blaze, derided city! Fall, flatulent
monarchy, fall like Dagon!"
With these words his foot slipped upon the lead; and but for Somerset's
quickness, he had been instantly precipitated into space. Pale as a
sheet, and limp as a pocket-handkerchief, he was dragged from the edge
of downfall by one arm; helped, or rather carried, down the ladder; and
deposited in safety on the attic landing. Here he began to come to
himself, wiped his brow, and at length, seizing Somerset's hand in both
of his, began to utter his acknowledgments.
"This seals it," said he. "Ours is a life and death connection. You have
plucked me from the jaws of death; and if I were before attracted by
your character, judge now of the ardour of my gratitude and love! But I
perceive I am still greatly shaken. Lend me, I beseech you, lend me your
arm as far as my apartment."
A dram of spirits restored the plotter to something of his customary
self-possession; and he was standing, glass in hand and genially
convalescent, when his eye was attracted by the dejection of the
unfortunate young man.
"Good Heavens, dear Somerset," he cried, "what ails you? Let me offer
you a touch of spirits."
But Somerset had fallen below the reach of this material comfort.
"Let me be," he said. "I am lost; you have caught me in the toils. Up to
this moment, I have lived all my life in the most reckless manner, and
done exactly what I pleased, with the most perfect innocence. And
now--what am I? Are you so blind and wooden that you do not see the
loathing you inspire me with? Is it possible you can suppose me willing
to continue to exist upon such terms? To think," he cried, "that a young
man, guilty of no fault on earth but amiability, should find himself
involved in such a damned imbroglio!" And, placing his knuckles in his
eyes, Somerset rolled upon the sofa.
"My God," said Zero, "is this possible? And I so filled with tenderness
and interest! Can it be, dear Somerset, that you are under the empire of
these outworn scruples? or that you judge a patriot by the morality of
the religious tract? I thought you were a good agnostic."
"Mr. Jones," said Somerset, "it is in vain to argue. I boast myself a
total disbeliever not only in revealed religion, but in the data,
method, and conclusions of the whole of ethics. Well! what matters it?
what signifies a form of words? I regard you as a reptile, whom I would
rejoice, whom I long, to stamp under my heel. You would blow up others?
Well then, understand: I want, with every circumstance of infamy and
agony, to blow up you!"
"Somerset, Somerset!" said Zero, turning very pale, "this is wrong; this
is very wrong. You pain, you wound me, Somerset."
"Give me a match!" cried Somerset wildly. "Let me set fire to this
incomparable monster! Let me perish with him in his fall!"
"For God's sake," cried Zero, clutching hold of the young man, "for
God's sake command yourself! We stand upon the brink; death yawns around
us; a man--a stranger in this foreign land--one whom you have called
your friend----"
"Silence!" cried Somerset, "you are no friend, no friend of mine. I look
on you with loathing, like a toad: my flesh creeps with physical
repulsion; my soul revolts against the sight of you."
Zero burst into tears. "Alas!" he sobbed, "this snaps the last link that
bound me to humanity. My friend disowns--he insults me. I am indeed
accurst."
Somerset stood for an instant staggered by this sudden change of front.
The next moment, with a despairing gesture, he fled from the room and
from the house. The first dash of his escape carried him hard upon half
way to the next police-office; but presently began to droop; and before
he reached the house of lawful intervention, he fell once more among
doubtful counsels. Was he an agnostic? had he a right to act? Away with
such nonsense, and let Zero perish! ran his thoughts. And then again:
had he not promised, had he not shaken hands and broken bread? and that
with open eyes? and if so, how could he take action, and not forfeit
honour? But honour? what was honour? A figment, which, in the hot
pursuit of crime, he ought to dash aside. Ay, but crime? A figment, too,
which his enfranchised intellect discarded. All day, he wandered in the
parks, a prey to whirling thoughts; all night, patrolled the city; and
at the peep of day he sat down by the wayside in the neighbourhood of
Peckham and bitterly wept. His gods had fallen. He who had chosen the
broad, daylit, unencumbered paths of universal scepticism, found himself
still the bondslave of honour. He who had accepted life from a point of
view as lofty as the predatory eagle's, though with no design to prey;
he who had clearly recognised the common moral basis of war, of
commercial competition, and of crime; he who was prepared to help the
escaping murderer or to embrace the impenitent thief, found, to the
overthrow of all his logic, that he objected to the use of dynamite. The
dawn crept among the sleeping villas and over the smokeless fields of
city; and still the unfortunate sceptic sobbed over his fall from
consistency.
At length he rose and took the rising sun to witness. "There is no
question as to fact," he cried; "right and wrong are but figments and
the shadow of a word; but for all that, there are certain things that I
cannot do, and there are certain others that I will not stand."
Thereupon he decided to return, to make one last effort of persuasion,
and, if he could not prevail on Zero to desist from his infernal trade,
throw delicacy to the winds, give the plotter an hour's start, and
denounce him to the police. Fast as he went, being winged by this
resolution, it was already well on in the morning when he came in sight
of the Superfluous Mansion. Tripping down the steps, was the young lady
of the various aliases; and he was surprised to see upon her countenance
the marks of anger and concern.
"Madam," he began, yielding to impulse and with no clear knowledge of
what he was to add.
But at the sound of his voice she seemed to experience a shock of fear
or horror; started back; lowered her veil with a sudden movement; and
fled, without turning, from the square.
Here, then, we step aside a moment from following the fortunes of
Somerset, and proceed to relate the strange and romantic episode of THE
BROWN BOX.
DESBOROUGH'S ADVENTURE
THE BROWN BOX
Mr. Harry Desborough lodged in the fine and grave old quarter of
Bloomsbury, roared about on every side by the high tides of London, but
itself rejoicing in romantic silences and city peace. It was in Queen
Square that he had pitched his tent, next door to the Children's
Hospital, on your left hand as you go north: Queen Square, sacred to
humane and liberal arts, whence homes were made beautiful, where the
poor were taught, where the sparrows were plentiful and loud, and where
groups of patient little ones would hover all day long before the
hospital, if by chance they might kiss their hand or speak a word to
their sick brother at the window. Desborough's room was on the first
floor and fronted to the square; but he enjoyed besides, a right by
which he often profited, to sit and smoke upon a terrace at the back,
which looked down upon a fine forest of back gardens, and was in turn
commanded by the windows of an empty room.
On the afternoon of a warm day, Desborough sauntered forth upon this
terrace, somewhat out of hope and heart, for he had been now some weeks
on the vain quest of situations, and prepared for melancholy and
tobacco. Here, at least, he told himself that he would be alone; for,
like most youths who are neither rich, nor witty, nor successful, he
rather shunned than courted the society of other men. Even as he
expressed the thought, his eye alighted on the window of the room that
looked upon the terrace; and, to his surprise and annoyance, he beheld
it curtained with a silken hanging. It was like his luck, he thought;
his privacy was gone, he could no longer brood and sigh unwatched, he
could no longer suffer his discouragement to find a vent in words or
soothe himself with sentimental whistling; and in the irritation of the
moment, he struck his pipe upon the rail with unnecessary force. It was
an old, sweet, seasoned briar-root, glossy and dark with long
employment, and justly dear to his fancy. What, then, was his chagrin,
when the head snapped from the stem, leaped airily in space, and fell
and disappeared among the lilacs of the garden?
He threw himself savagely into the garden chair, pulled out the
story-paper which he had brought with him to read, tore off a fragment
of the last sheet, which contains only the answers to correspondents,
and set himself to roll a cigarette. He was no master of the art; again
and again, the paper broke between his fingers and the tobacco showered
upon the ground; and he was already on the point of angry resignation,
when the window swung slowly inward, the silken curtain was thrust
aside, and a lady somewhat strangely attired stepped forth upon the
terrace.
"Senorito," said she, and there was a rich thrill in her voice, like an
organ note, "Senorito, you are in difficulties. Suffer me to come to
your assistance."
With the words, she took the paper and tobacco from his unresisting
hands; and with a facility that, in Desborough's eyes, seemed magical,
rolled and presented him a cigarette. He took it, still seated, still
without a word; staring with all his eyes upon that apparition. Her face
was warm and rich in colour; in shape, it was that piquant triangle, so
innocently sly, so saucily attractive, so rare in our more northern
climates; her eyes were large, starry, and visited by changing lights;
her hair was partly covered by a lace mantilla, through which her arms,
bare to the shoulder, gleamed white; her figure, full and soft in all
the womanly contours, was yet alive and active, light with excess of
life, and slender by grace of some divine proportion.
"You do not like my cigarrito, Senor?" she asked. "Yet it is better made
than yours." At that she laughed, and her laughter trilled in his ear
like music; but the next moment her face fell. "I see," she cried. "It
is my manner that repels you. I am too constrained, too cold. I am not,"
she added, with a more engaging air, "I am not the simple English maiden
I appear."
"Oh!" murmured Harry, filled with inexpressible thoughts.
"In my own dear land," she pursued, "things are differently ordered.
There, I must own, a girl is bound by many and rigorous restrictions;
little is permitted her; she learns to be distant, she learns to appear
forbidding. But here, in free England--oh, glorious liberty!" she cried,
and threw up her arms with a gesture of inimitable grace--"here there
are no fetters; here the woman may dare to be herself entirely, and the
men, the chivalrous men--is it not written on the very shield of your
nation, _honi soit_? Ah, it is hard for me to learn, hard for me to dare
to be myself. You must not judge me yet awhile; I shall end by
conquering this stiffness, I shall end by growing English. Do I speak
the language well?"
"Perfectly--oh, perfectly!" said Harry, with a fervency of conviction
worthy of a graver subject.
"Ah, then," she said, "I shall soon learn; English blood ran in my
father's veins; and I have had the advantage of some training in your
expressive tongue. If I speak already without accent, with my thorough
English appearance, there is nothing left to change except my manners."
"Oh no," said Desborough. "Oh, pray not! I--madam----"
"I am," interrupted the lady, "the Senorita Teresa Valdevia. The evening
air grows chill. Adios, Senorito." And before Harry could stammer out a
word, she had disappeared into her room.
He stood transfixed, the cigarette still unlighted in his hand. His
thoughts had soared above tobacco, and still recalled and beautified the
image of his new acquaintance. Her voice re-echoed in his memory; her
eyes, of which he could not tell the colour, haunted his soul. The
clouds had risen at her coming, and he beheld a new-created world. What
she was, he could not fancy, but he adored her. Her age, he durst not
estimate; fearing to find her older than himself, and thinking sacrilege
to couple that fair favour with the thought of mortal changes. As for
her character, beauty, to the young, is always good. So the poor lad
lingered late upon the terrace, stealing timid glances at the curtained
window, sighing to the gold laburnums, rapt into the country of romance;
and when at length he entered and sat down to dine, on cold boiled
mutton and a pint of ale, he feasted on the food of gods.
Next day when he returned to the terrace, the window was a little ajar
and he enjoyed a view of the lady's shoulder, as she sat patiently
sewing and all unconscious of his presence. On the next, he had scarce
appeared when the window opened, and the Senorita tripped forth into the
sunlight, in a morning disorder, delicately neat, and yet somehow
foreign, tropical, and strange. In one hand she held a packet.
"Will you try," she said, "some of my father's tobacco--from dear Cuba?
There, as I suppose you know, all smoke, ladies as well as gentlemen. So
you need not fear to annoy me. The fragrance will remind me of home. My
home, Senor, was by the sea." And as she uttered these few words,
Desborough, for the first time in his life, realised the poetry of the
great deep. "Awake or asleep, I dream of it; dear home, dear Cuba!"
"But some day," said Desborough, with an inward pang, "some day you will
return!"
"Never!" she cried; "ah, never, in Heaven's name!"
"Are you then resident for life in England?" he inquired, with a strange
lightening of spirit.
"You ask too much, for you ask more than I know," she answered sadly;
and then, resuming her gaiety of manner: "But you have not tried my
Cuban tobacco," she said.
"Senorita," said he, shyly abashed by some shadow of coquetry in her
manner, "whatever comes to me--you--I mean," he concluded, deeply
flushing, "that I have no doubt the tobacco is delightful."
"Ah, Senor," she said, with almost mournful gravity, "you seemed so
simple and good, and already you are trying to pay compliments--and
besides," she added, brightening, with a quick upward glance, into a
smile, "you do it so badly! English gentlemen, I used to hear, could be
fast friends, respectful, honest friends; could be companions,
comforters, if the need arose, or champions, and yet never encroach. Do
not seek to please me by copying the graces of my countrymen. Be
yourself: the frank, kindly, honest English gentleman that I have heard
of since my childhood and still longed to meet."
Harry, much bewildered, and far from clear as to the manners of the
Cuban gentlemen, strenuously disclaimed the thought of plagiarism.
"Your national seriousness of bearing best becomes you, Senor," said the
lady. "See!" marking a line with her dainty, slippered foot, "thus far
it shall be common ground; there, at my window-sill, begins the
scientific frontier. If you choose, you may drive me to my forts; but
if, on the other hand, we are to be real English friends, I may join you
here when I am not too sad; or, when I am yet more graciously inclined,
you may draw your chair beside the window and teach me English customs,
while I work. You will find me an apt scholar, for my heart is in the
task." She laid her hand lightly upon Harry's arm, and looked into his
eyes. "Do you know," said she, "I am emboldened to believe that I have
already caught something of your English aplomb? Do you not perceive a
change, Senor? Slight, perhaps, but still a change? Is my deportment not
more open, more free, more like that of the dear 'British Miss,' than
when you saw me first?" She gave a radiant smile; withdrew her hand from
Harry's arm; and before the young man could formulate in words the
eloquent emotions that ran riot through his brain--with an "Adios,
Senor: good-night, my English friend," she vanished from his sight
behind the curtain.
The next day, Harry consumed an ounce of tobacco in vain upon the
neutral terrace; neither sight nor sound rewarded him, and the
dinner-hour summoned him at length from the scene of disappointment. On
the next, it rained; but nothing, neither business nor weather, neither
prospective poverty nor present hardship, could now divert the young man
from the service of his lady; and wrapt in a long ulster, with the
collar raised, he took his stand against the balustrade, awaiting
fortune, the picture of damp and discomfort to the eye, but glowing
inwardly with tender and delightful ardours. Presently the window
opened; and the fair Cuban, with a smile imperfectly dissembled,
appeared upon the sill.
"Come here," she said, "here, beside my window. The small verandah gives
a belt of shelter." And she graciously handed him a folding-chair.
As he sat down, visibly aglow with shyness and delight, a certain
bulkiness in his pocket reminded him that he was not come empty-handed.
"I have taken the liberty," said he, "of bringing you a little book. I
thought of you, when I observed it on the stall, because I saw it was in
Spanish. The man assured me it was by one of the best authors, and quite
proper." As he spoke, he placed the little volume in her hand. Her eyes
fell as she turned the pages, and a flush rose and died again upon her
cheeks, as deep as it was fleeting. "You are angry," he cried in agony.
"I have presumed."