'But let this be your consolation,' said he. 'Her death is a blessing
to herself, and the knowledge that she is dead will be a blessing to
you.'
'A blessing to me?' I said.
'I mean that it will save you from the mischief of these alternations
between hope and despair. You will remember that it was I who saw her
in her first seizure and told you of it. Such a seizure having lasted
so long, nothing could have given her relief but death or magnetic
transmission of the seizure. It is a grievous case, but what concerns
me now is the condition into which you yourself have passed. Nothing
but a successful effort on your part to relieve your mind from the
dominant idea that has disturbed it can save you from--from--'
'From what?'
'That drug of yours is the most dangerous narcotic of all. Increase
your doses by a few more grains and you will lose all command over
your nervous system--all presence of mind. Give it up, give it up and
enter Parliament.'
I left Mivart in anger, and took a stroll through the streets, trying
to amuse myself by looking at the shop windows and recalling the few
salient incidents that were connected with my brief experiences as an
art student.
Hours passed in this way, until one by one the shops were closed and
only the theatres, public bars, and supper-rooms seemed to be open.
I turned into a restaurant in the Haymarket, for I had taken no
dinner. I went upstairs into a supper-room, and after I had finished
my meal, taking a seat near the window, I gazed abstractedly over
the bustling, flashing streets, which to me seemed far more lonely,
far more remote, than the most secluded paths of Snowdon. In a
trouble such as mine it is not Man but Nature that can give
companionship.
I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I did not observe whether
I was or was not now alone in the room, till the name of Wilderspin
fell on my ear and recalled me to myself. I started and looked round.
At a table near me sat two men whom I had not noticed before. The
face of the man who sat on the opposite side of the table confronted
me.
If I had one tithe of that objective power and that instinct for
description which used to amaze me in Winifred as a child, I could
give here a picture of a face which the reader could never forget.
If it was not beautiful in detail it was illuminated by an expression
that gave a unity of beauty to the whole. And what was the
expression? I can only describe it by saying that it was the
expression of genius; and it had that imperious magnetism which I had
never before seen in any face save that of Sinfi Lovell. But striking
as was the face of this man, I soon found that his voice was more
striking still. In whatever assembly that voice was heard, its
indescribable resonance would have marked it off from all other
voices, and have made the ear of the listener eager to catch the
sound. This voice, however, was not the one that had uttered the name
of Wilderspin. It was from his companion, who sat opposite to him,
with his great broad back, covered with a smart velvet coat, towards
me, that the talk was now coming. This man was smoking cigarettes in
that kind of furious sucking way which is characteristic of great
smokers. Much smoking, however, had not dried up his skin to the
consistence of blotting paper and to the colour of tobacco ash as it
does in some cases, but tobacco juice, which seemed to ooze from his
face like perspiration, or rather like oil, had made his complexion
of a yellow green colour, something like a vegetable marrow. Although
his face was as hairless as a woman's, there was not a feature in it
that was not masculine. Although his cheek-bones were high and his
jaw was of the mould which we so often associate with the
prizefighter, he looked as if he might somehow be a gentleman. And
when I got for a moment a full view of his face as he turned round, I
thought it showed power and intelligence, although his forehead
receded a good deal, a recession which was owing mainly to the bone
above the eyes. Power and intelligence too were seen in every glance
of his dark bright eyes. In a few minutes Wilderspin's name was again
uttered by this man, and I found he was telling anecdotes of the
eccentric painter--telling them with great gusto and humour, in a
loud voice, quite careless of being overheard by me. Then followed
other anecdotes of other people--artists for the most part--in which
the names of Millais, Ruskin, Watts, Leighton, and others came up in
quick succession.
That he was a professional anecdote-monger of extraordinary
brilliancy, a _raconteur_ of the very first order, was evident
enough. I found also that as a story-teller he was reckless and
without conscience. He was, I thought, inventing anecdotes to amuse
his companion, whose manifest enjoyment of them rather weakened the
impression that his own personality had been making upon me.
After a while the name of Cyril Aylwin came up, and I soon found the
man telling a story of Cyril and a recent escapade of his which I
knew must be false. He then went rattling on about other people,
mentioning names which, as I soon gathered, were those of female
models known in the art world. The anecdotes he told of these were
mostly to their disadvantage. I was about to move to another table,
in order to get out of earshot of this gossip, when the name 'Lady
Sinfi' fell upon my ears.
And then I heard the other man--the man of the musical voice--talk
about Lady Sinfi with the greatest admiration and regard. He wound up
by saying, 'By the bye, where is she now? I should like to use her in
painting my new picture.'
'She's in Wales; so Kiomi told me.'
'Ah yes! I remember she has an extraordinary passion for Snowdon.'
'Her passion is now for something else, though.'
'What's that?'
'A man.'
'I never saw a girl so indifferent to men as Lady Sinfi.'
'She is living at this moment as the mistress of a cousin of Cyril
Aylwin.'
My blood boiled with rage. I lost all control of myself. I longed to
feel his face against my knuckles.
'That's not true,' I said in a rather loud voice.
He started up, and turned round, saying in a hectoring voice, 'What
was that you said to me? Will you repeat your words?'
'To repeat one's words,' I said quietly, 'shows a limited
vocabulary, so I will put it thus,--what you said just now about
Sinfi Lovell being the mistress of Cyril Aylwin's cousin is a lie.'
'You dare to give me the lie, sir? And what the devil do you mean by
listening to our conversation?'
The threatening look that he managed to put into his face was so
entirely histrionic that it made me laugh outright. This seemed to
damp his courage more than if I had sprung up and shown fight. The
man had a somewhat formidable appearance, however, as regards build,
which showed that he possessed more than average strength. It was the
manifest genuineness of my laugh that gave him pause. And when I sat
with my elbows on the table and my face between my palms, taking
stock of him quietly, he looked extremely puzzled. The man of the
musical voice sat and looked at me as though under a spell.
'I am a young man from the country,' I said to him. 'To what theatre
is your histrionic friend attached? I should like to see him in a
better farce than this.'
'Do you hear that, De Castro?' said the other. 'What is your
theatre?'
'If he is really excited,' I said, 'tell him that people at a public
supper-room should speak in a moderate tone or their conversation is
likely to be overheard.'
'Do you hear this young man from the country, De Castro?' said he.
'You seem to be the Oraculum of the hay-fields, sir,' he continued,
turning to me with a delightfully humorous expression on his face.
'Have you any other Delphic utterance?'
'Only this,' I said, 'that people who do not like being given the lie
should tell the truth.'
'May I be permitted to guess your Christian name, sir? Is it Martin,
perchance?'
'Yes,' I replied, 'and my surname is Tupper.' He then got up and laid
his hand on the _raconteur's_ shoulder, and said, 'Don't be a fool,
De Castro. When a man looks at another as the author of the
_Proverbial Philosophy_ is looking at you, he knows that he can use
his fists as well as his pen.'
'He gave me the lie. Didn't you hear?'
'I did, and I thought the gift as entirely gratuitous, _mon cher_,
as giving a scuttleful of coals to Newcastle.'
The anecdote-monger stood silent, quelled by this man's voice.
Then turning to me, the man of the musical voice said, 'I suppose you
know something about my friend Lady Sinfi?'
'I do,' I said, 'and I am Cyril Aylwin's kinsman, whom you call his
cousin, so perhaps, as every word your friend has said about Sinfi
Lovell and me is false, you will allow me to call him a liar.'
A look of the greatest glee at the discomfiture of his companion
overspread his face.
'Certainly,' he said with a loud laugh. 'You may call him that, you
may even qualify the noun you have used with an adjective if the
author of the _Proverbial Philosophy_ can think of one that is
properly descriptive and yet not too unparliamentary. So you are
Cyril Aylwin's kinsman. I have heard him,' he said, with a smile that
he tried in vain to suppress, 'I have heard Cyril expatiate on the
various branches of the Aylwin family.'
'I belong to the proud Aylwins,' I said.
The twinkle in his eye made me adore him as he said--'The proud
Aylwins. A man who, in a world like this, is proud and knows it, and
is proud of confessing his pride, always interests me, but I will not
ask you what makes the proud Aylwins proud, sir.'
'I will tell you what makes me proud,' I said: 'my great-grandmother
was a full-blooded Gypsy, and I am proud of the descent.'
He came forward and held out his hand and said, 'It is long since I
met a man who interested me'--he gave a sigh--'very long; and I hope
that you and I may become friends.'