"You speak of work;" he went on--"Now the nature of work I cannot
exactly express, because it is a divine thing and is judged by a divine
standard. One must consider in all work two things; first, the object
for which it is undertaken, and secondly the way in which it is
performed. All work should have a high and unselfish intent,--without
this, it perishes and is not considered work at all,--not at least by
the eternal judges invisible. If it _is_ work, truly and nobly done in
every sense of the word, it carries with it its own reward, and the
laurels descend from heaven shaped ready for wearing,--no earthly power
can bestow them. I cannot give you _that_ fame,--but I have secured you
a very fair imitation of it."
I was obliged to acquiesce, though more or less morosely,--whereat I saw
that he was somewhat amused. Unwilling to incur his contempt I said no
more concerning the subject that was the nearest to my heart, and wore
out many sleepless hours at night in trying to write a new
book,--something novel and daring, such as should force the public to
credit me with a little loftier _status_ than that obtained by the
possession of a huge banking account. But the creative faculty seemed
dead in me,--I was crushed by a sense of impotence and failure; vague
ideas were in my brain that would not lend themselves to expression in
words,--and such a diseased love of hypercriticism controlled me, that
after a miserably nervous analysis of every page I wrote, I tore it up
as soon as it was written, thus reducing myself to a state of mind that
was almost unbearable.
Early in April I made my first visit to Willowsmere, having received
information from the head of the firm of decorators and furnishers
employed there, that their work was close on completion, and that they
would be glad of a visit of inspection from me. Lucio and I went down
together for the day, and as the train rushed through a green and
smiling landscape, bearing us away from the smoke, dirt and noise of the
restless modern Babylon, I was conscious of a gradually deepening peace
and pleasure. The first sight of the place I had recklessly purchased
without so much as looking at it, filled me with delight and admiration.
It was a beautiful old house, ideally English and suggestive of
home-happiness. Ivy and jessamine clung to its red walls and picturesque
gables,--through the long vista of the exquisitely wooded grounds, the
silver gleam of the Avon river could be discerned, twisting in and out
like a ribbon tied in true love-knots,--the trees and shrubs were
sprouting forth in all their fresh spring beauty,--the aspect of the
country was indescribably bright and soothing, and I began to feel as if
a burden had been suddenly lifted from my life leaving me free to
breathe and enjoy my liberty. I strolled from room to room of my future
abode, admiring the taste and skill with which the whole place had been
fitted and furnished, down to the smallest detail of elegance, comfort
and convenience. Here my Sibyl was born, I thought, with a lover-like
tenderness,--here she would dwell again as my wife, amid the lovely and
beloved surroundings of her childhood,--and we should be happy--yes, we
should be happy, despite all the dull and heartless social doctrines of
the modern world. In the spacious and beautiful drawing-room I stopped
to look out from the windows on the entrancing view of lawn and woodland
that stretched before me,--and as I looked, a warm sense of gratitude
and affection filled me for the friend to whose good offices I owed this
fair domain. Turning, I grasped him by the hand.
"It is all your doing, Lucio!" I said--"I feel I can never thank you
enough! Without you I should perhaps never have met Sibyl,--I might
never have heard of her, or of Willowsmere; and I never could have been
as happy as I am to-day!"
"Oh, you are happy then?" he queried with a little smile--"I fancied you
were not!"
"Well--I have not been as happy as I expected to be;" I
confessed,--"Something in my sudden accession to wealth seems to have
dragged me down rather than lifted me up,----it is strange----"
"It is not strange at all"--he interrupted,--"on the contrary it is very
natural. As a rule the most miserable people in the world are the rich."
"Are you miserable, for instance?" I asked, smiling.
His eyes rested on me with a dark and dreary pathos.
"Are you too blind to see that I am?" he answered, his accents
vibrating with intense melancholy--"Can you think I am happy? Does
the smile I wear,--the disguising smile men put on as a mask to hide
their secret agonies from the pitiless gaze of unsympathetic
fellow-creatures,--persuade you that I am free from care? As for my
wealth,--I have never told you the extent of it; if I did, it might
indeed amaze you, though I believe it would not now arouse your envy,
considering that your trifling five millions have not been without
effect in depressing your mind. But I,--I could buy up kingdoms and be
none the poorer,--I could throne and unthrone kings and be none the
wiser,--I could crush whole countries under the iron heel of financial
speculation,--I could possess the world,--and yet estimate it at no
higher value than I do now,--the value of a grain of dust circling
through infinity, or a soap-bubble blown on the wind!"
His brows knitted,--his face expressed pride, scorn and sorrow.
"There is some mystery about you Lucio;"--I said--"Some grief or loss
that your wealth cannot repair--and that makes you the strange being you
are. One day perhaps you will confide in me ..."
He laughed loudly,--almost fiercely;--and clapped me heavily on the
shoulder.
"I will!" he said--"I will tell you my history! And you, excellent
agnostic as you are, shall 'minister to a mind diseased,' and 'pluck out
the memory of a rooted sorrow!' What a power of expression there was in
Shakespeare, the uncrowned but actual King of England! Not the 'rooted
sorrow' alone was to be 'plucked out' but the very 'memory' of it. The
apparently simple line holds complex wisdom; no doubt the poet knew, or
instinctively guessed the most terrible fact in all the Universe ..."
"And what is that?"
"The eternal consciousness of Memory--" he replied--"God can not
forget,--and in consequence of this, His creatures _may_ not!"
I forbore to reply, but I suppose my face betrayed my thoughts, for the
cynical smile I knew so well played round his mouth as he looked at me.
"I go beyond your patience, do I not!" he said, laughing again--"When I
mention God,--who is declared by certain scientists to be non-existent
except as a blind, indifferent natural Force or Atom-producer;--you are
bored! I can see that at a glance. Pray forgive me! Let us resume our
tour of inspection through this charming abode. You will be very
difficult to satisfy if you are not a very emperor of contentment
here;--with a beautiful wife and plenty of cash, you can well afford to
give fame the go-by."
"I may win it yet!" I said hopefully--"In this place, I feel I could
write something worthy of being written."
"Good! The 'divine flutterings' of winged thoughts are in your brain!
Apollo grant them strength to fly! And now let us have
luncheon,--afterwards we shall have time to take a stroll."
In the dining-room I found an elegant repast prepared, which rather
surprised me, as I had given no orders, having indeed forgotten to do
so. Lucio however had, it appeared, not forgotten, and an advance
telegram from him had placed certain caterers at Leamington on their
mettle, with the result that we sat down to a feast as delicate and
luxurious as any two epicures could desire.
"Now I want you to do me a favour, Geoffrey,"--said Lucio, during our
luncheon--"You will scarcely need to reside here till after your
marriage; you have too many engagements in town. You spoke of
entertaining a big house-party down here,--I wouldn't do that if I were
you,--it isn't worth while. You would have to get in a staff of
servants, and leave them all afterwards to their own devices while you
are on your honeymoon. This is what I propose,--give a grand fête here
in honour of your betrothal to Lady Sibyl, in May--and let me be the
master of the revels!"
I was in the mood to agree to anything,--moreover the idea seemed an
excellent one. I said so and Rimânez went on quickly--
"You understand of course, that if I undertake to do a thing I always do
it thoroughly, and brook no interference with my plans. Now as your
marriage will be the signal for our parting,--at any rate for a time,--I
should like to show my appreciation of your friendship, by organizing a
brilliant affair of the kind I suggest,--and if you will leave it all to
me, I guarantee you shall hold such a fête as has never been seen or
known in England. And it will be a personal satisfaction to me if you
consent to my proposal."
"My dear fellow--" I answered--"Of course I consent--willingly! I give
you _carte blanche_,--do as you like; do all you like! It is most
friendly and kind of you! But when are we to make this sensation?"
"You are to be married in June?" he asked.
"Yes,--in the second week of the month."
"Very well. The fête shall be held on the twenty-second of May,--that
will give society time to recover from the effect of one burst of
splendour in order to be ready for another,--namely the wedding. Now we
need not talk of this any more--it is settled,--the rest devolves on me.
We've got three or four hours to spare before we take the train back to
town,--suppose we take a saunter through the grounds?"
I assented to this, and accompanied him readily, feeling in high spirits
and good humour. Willowsmere and its peaceful loveliness seemed to
cleanse my mind of all corroding influences;--the blessed silence of the
woods and hills, after the rush and roar of town life, soothed and
cheered me, and I walked beside my companion with a light heart and
smiling face,--happy, and filled with a dim religious faith in the blue
sky, if not in the God beyond it. We sauntered through the fair gardens
which were now mine, and then out through the park into a lovely little
lane,--a true Warwickshire lane, where the celandines were strewing the
grass with their bright gold coinage, and the star-wort thrust up fairy
bouquets of white bloom between buttercups and lover, and where the
hawthorn-buds were beginning to show themselves like minute snow-pellets
among the glossy young green. A thrush warbled melodiously,--a lark rose
from almost our very feet and flung itself joyously into the sky with a
wild outburst of song,--a robin hopped through a little hole in the
hedge to look at us in blithe inquisitiveness as we passed. All at once
Lucio stopped and laid his hand on my shoulder,--his eyes had the
beautiful melancholy of a far-off longing which I could neither
understand nor define.
"Listen, Geoffrey!" he said--"Listen to the silence of the earth while
the lark sings! Have you ever observed the receptive attitude in which
Nature seems to wait for sounds divine!"
I did not answer,--the silence around us was indeed impressive;--the
warbling of the thrush had ceased, and only the lark's clear voice
pealing over-head, echoed sweetly through the stillness of the lane.
"In the clerical Heaven," went on Lucio dreamily--"there are no birds.
There are only conceited human souls braying forth 'Alleluia'! No
flowers are included,--no trees; only 'golden streets.' What a poor and
barbarous conception! As if a World inhabited by Deity would not contain
the wonders, graces and beauties of all worlds! Even this little planet
is more naturally beautiful than the clerical Heaven,--that is, it is
beautiful wherever Man is not. I protest--I have always
protested,--against the creation of Man!"