"Mr. Rivers regrets that he is unable to receive you to-night, sir."
Laurence looked round with something approaching a start at Renshaw, the
butler, whose respectful, colourless voice broke in thus upon his
meditations. The dining-room struck him as hotter and more oppressive
than ever--by contrast probably with the buffeting wind and driving mist
in which he had paced the lime-tree walk for a good hour before the
dressing-bell rang. To-night the glass bowl, supported by the wanton,
dancing, Etruscan figures, was filled with tuberoses and carmine-stained
Japanese lilies; and the odour given off by these acted on the young
man's brain as opium or hashish might have acted--at least so it
appeared to him. The longer he meditated, the less could he distinguish
between real and unreal, fact and phantasy. The best accredited articles
of his moral and scientific creed had passed into the region of the open
question. Speculation ran riot, all the accustomed landmarks of his
thought being for the time submerged; while the wildest and most
extravagant ideas presented themselves as within the range of practical
action. That last read letter of Agnes Rivers, and his own resemblance
to her lover, had inflamed his imagination and his heart. Even in their
one night's intercourse, he had seen intelligence, purpose, gaiety,
return to her. Now the daring conception that such a process might be
continued, until his sweet and mysterious companion recovered all the
senses and attributes of living womanhood, formed itself in his mind.
Was it not conceivable that this appearance might be materialised, so
that the fair and gracious spirit should once again inhabit a human
body, and know all those dear joys of love and motherhood which had
been--by some evil fortune, some catastrophe, as he supposed--denied to
her? An immense ambition to be the instrument of this restoration, this
recovery, grew within him. He would work a miracle, he would be as God,
clothing the soul with flesh, raising the dead. And this by no exercise
of charlatanism, by no dabbling in old-world superstitions, or dealings
in folly of White Magic or of Black; but simply by force of will, by the
action of mind on mind, by the incalculable power of a great love. It
was impious, perhaps. Morally it was doubtful--circumstanced as he,
Laurence, was. But it was the most magnificent experiment ever offered
either to man of science, or to poet. Here was the opportunity he had
desired, had waited for. Here was his chance in life!
Then the butler's voice cut in, bringing him down to the everyday level.
No wonder he looked round a little dazed.
"Mr. Rivers regrets that he will be unable to receive you to-night,
sir," it said.