One of the strangest things in all the strange course of our human life
is the suddenness of certain unlooked-for events, which, in a day or
even an hour, may work utter devastation where there has been more or
less peace, and hopeless ruin where there has been comparative safety.
Like the shock of an earthquake, the clamorous incidents thunder in on
the regular routine of ordinary life, crumbling down our hopes, breaking
our hearts, and scattering our pleasures into the dust and ashes of
despair. And this kind of destructive trouble generally happens in the
midst of apparent prosperity, without the least warning, and with all
the abrupt fierceness of a desert-storm. It is constantly made manifest
to us in the unexpected and almost instantaneous downfall of certain
members of society who have held their heads proudly above their
compeers and have presumed to pose as examples of light and leading to
the whole community; we see it in the capricious fortunes of kings and
statesmen, who are in favour one day and disgraced the next, and vast
changes are wrought with such inexplicable quickness that it is scarcely
wonderful to hear of certain religious sects who, when everything is
prospering more than usually well with them, make haste to put on
garments of sackcloth, and cast ashes on their heads, praying aloud
"Prepare us, O Lord, for the evil days which are at hand!" The
moderation of the Stoics, who considered it impious either to rejoice or
grieve, and strove to maintain an equable middle course between the
opposing elements of sorrow and joy, without allowing themselves to be
led away by over-much delight or over-much melancholy, was surely a wise
habit of temperament. I, who lived miserably as far as my inner and
better consciousness was concerned, was yet outwardly satisfied with the
material things of life and the luxuries surrounding me,--and I began to
take comfort in these things, and with them endeavoured to quell and
ignore my more subtle griefs, succeeding so far in that I became more
and more of a thorough materialist every day, loving bodily ease,
appetizing food, costly wine, and personal indulgence to a degree that
robbed me gradually of even the desire for mental effort. I taught
myself moreover, almost insensibly, to accept and tolerate what I knew
of the wanton side of my wife's character,--true, I respected her less
than the Turk respects the creature of his harem,--but like the Turk, I
took a certain savage satisfaction in being the possessor of her beauty,
and with this feeling, and the brute passion it engendered, I was fain
to be content. So that for a short time at least, the drowsy
satisfaction of a well-fed, well-mated animal was mine,--I imagined that
nothing short of a stupendous financial catastrophe to the country
itself could exhaust my stock of cash,--and that therefore there was no
necessity for me to exert myself in any particular branch of usefulness,
but simply to 'eat drink and be merry' as Solomon advised. Intellectual
activity was paralysed in me,--to take up my pen and write, and make
another and higher bid for fame, was an idea that now never entered my
mind; I spent my days in ordering about my servants, and practising the
petty pleasures of tyranny on gardeners and grooms, and in generally
giving myself airs of importance, mingled with an assumption of
toleration and benevolence, for the benefit of all those in my employ. I
knew the proper thing to do, well enough!--I had not studied the ways of
the over-wealthy for nothing,--I was aware that the rich man never feels
so thoroughly virtuous as when he has inquired after the health of his
coachman's wife, and has sent her a couple of pounds for the outfit of
her new-born baby. The much prated-of 'kindness of heart' and
'generosity' possessed by millionaires, generally amounts to this kind
of thing,--and when, if idly strolling about my parklands, I happened to
meet the small child of my lodge-keeper, and then and there bestowed
sixpence upon it, I almost felt as if I deserved a throne in Heaven at
the right hand of the Almighty, so great was my appreciation of my own
good-nature. Sibyl, however, never affected this sort of county-magnate
beneficence. She did nothing at all among our poor neighbours;--the
clergyman of the district unfortunately happened to let slip one day a
few words to the effect that "there was no great want of anything among
his parishioners, owing to the continual kindness and attention of Miss
Clare,"--and Sibyl never from that moment proffered any assistance. Now
and then she took her graceful person into Lily Cottage and sat with its
happy and studious occupant for an hour,--and occasionally the fair
author herself came and dined with us, or had 'afternoon tea' under the
branching elms on the lawn,--but even I, intense egotist as I was, could
see that Mavis was scarcely herself on these occasions. She was always
charming and bright of course,--indeed the only times in which I was
able to partially forget myself and the absurdly increasing importance
of my personality in my own esteem, were when she, with her sweet voice
and animated manner, brought her wide knowledge of books, men, and
things, to bear on the conversation, thus raising it to a higher level
than was ever reached by my wife or me. Yet I now and then noticed a
certain vague constraint about her,--and her frank eyes had frequently a
pained and questioning look of trouble when they rested for any length
of time on the enchanting beauty of Sibyl's face and form. I, however,
paid little heed to these trifling matters, my whole care being to lose
myself more and more utterly in the enjoyment of purely physical ease
and comfort, without troubling myself as to what such self-absorption
might lead in the future. To be completely without a conscience, without
a heart and without sentiment was, I perceived, the best way to keep
one's appetite, and preserve one's health;--to go about worrying over
the troubles of other people, or put one's self out to do any good in
the world, would involve such an expenditure of time and trouble as must
inevitably spoil one's digestion,--and I saw that no millionaire or even
moderately rich man cares to run the risk of injuring his digestion for
the sake of performing a kindness to a poorer fellow-creature. Profiting
by the examples presented to me everywhere in society, I took care of
_my_ digestion, and was particular about the way in which my meals were
cooked and served,--particular too, as to the fashion in which my wife
dressed for those meals,--for it suited my supreme humour to see her
beauty bedecked as suitably and richly as possible, that I might have
the satisfaction of considering her 'points' with the same epicurean
fastidiousness as I considered a dish of truffles or specially prepared
game. I never thought of the stern and absolute law--"Unto whom much is
given, even from him should much be required;"--I was scarcely aware of
it in fact,--the New Testament was of all books in the world the most
unfamiliar to me. And while I wilfully deafened myself to the voice of
conscience,--that voice which ever and anon urged me in vain to a nobler
existence,--the clouds were gathering, ready to burst above me with that
terrific suddenness such as always seems to us who refuse to study the
causes of our calamities, as astonishing and startling as death itself.
For we are always more or less startled at death notwithstanding that it
is the commonest occurrence known.
Towards the middle of September my 'royal and distinguished' house-party
arrived and stayed at Willowsmere Court for a week. Of course it is
understood that whenever the Prince of Wales honours any private
residence with a visit, he selects, if not all, at any rate the greater
part of those persons who are to be invited to meet him. He did so in
the present instance, and I was placed in the odd position of having to
entertain certain people whom I had never met before, and who, with the
questionable taste frequently exhibited among the 'upper ten,' looked
upon me merely as "the man with the millions," the caterer for their
provisions, and no more,--directing their chief attention to Sibyl, who
was by virtue of her birth and associations one of their 'set,' and
pushing me, their host, more or less into the background. However the
glory of entertaining Royalty more than sufficed for my poor pride at
that time, and with less self-respect than an honest cur, I was content
to be snubbed and harassed and worried a hundred times a day by one or
the other of the 'great' personages who wandered at will all over my
house and grounds, and accepted my lavish hospitality. Many people
imagine that it must be an 'honour' to entertain a select party of
aristocrats, but I, on the contrary, consider that it is not only a
degradation to one's manlier and more independent instincts, but also a
bore. These highly-bred, highly-connected individuals, are for the most
part unintelligent, and devoid of resources in their own minds,--they
are not gifted as conversationalists or wits,--one gains no intellectual
advantage from their society,--they are simply dull folk, with an
exaggerated sense of their own importance, who expect wherever they go,
to be amused without trouble to themselves. Out of all the visitors at
Willowsmere the only one whom it was really a pleasure to serve was the
Prince of Wales himself,--and amid the many personal irritations I had
to suffer from others, I found it a positive relief to render him any
attention, however slight, because his manner was always marked by that
tact and courtesy which are the best attributes of a true gentleman
whether he be prince or peasant. In his own affable way, he went one
afternoon to see Mavis Clare, and came back in high good-humour, talking
for some time of nothing but the author of 'Differences,' and of the
success she had achieved in literature. I had asked Mavis to join our
party before the Prince came, as I felt pretty sure he would not have
erased her name from the list of guests submitted to him,--but she would
not accept, and begged me very earnestly not to press the point.
"I like the Prince,"--she had said--"Most people like him who know
him,--but I do not always like those who surround him,--pardon me for my
frankness! The Prince of Wales is a social magnet,--he draws a number of
persons after him who by dint of wealth, if not intelligence, can
contrive to 'push' into his set. Now I am not an advocate of
'push'--moreover I do not care to be seen with 'everybody';--this is my
sinful pride you will say, or as our American cousins would put it, my
'cussedness.' But I assure you, Mr Tempest, the best possession I have,
and one which I value a great deal more even than my literary success,
is my absolute independence, and I would not have it thought, even
erroneously, that I am anxious to mix with the crowd of sycophants and
time-servers who are only too ready to take advantage of the Prince's
good-nature."
And, acting upon her determination, she had remained more than ever
secluded in her cottage-nest of foliage and flowers during the progress
of the week's festivities,--the result being, as I have stated, that the
Prince 'dropped in' upon her quite casually one day, accompanied by his
equerry, and probably for all I knew, had the pleasure of seeing the
dove 'reviewers' fed, and squabbling over their meal.
Much as we had desired and expected the presence of Rimânez at our
gathering, he did not appear. He telegraphed his regrets from Paris, and
followed the telegram by a characteristic letter, which ran thus:--
My dear Tempest.
You are very kind to wish to include me, your old friend, in the
party you have invited to meet His Royal Highness, and I only hope
you will not think me churlish for refusing to come. I am sick to
death of Royalties,--I have known so many of them in the course of
my existence that I begin to find their society monotonous. Their
positions are all so exactly alike too,--and moreover have always
been alike from the days of Solomon in all his glory, down to the
present blessed era of Victoria, Queen and Empress. One thirsts for
a change; at least I do. The only monarch that ever fascinated my
imagination particularly was Richard Coeur de Lion; there was
something original and striking about that man, and I presume he
would have been well worth talking to. And Charlemagne was
doubtless, as the slangy young man of the day would observe, 'not
half bad.' But for the rest,--_un fico!_ Much talk is there made
about Her Majesty Elizabeth, who was a shrew and a vixen and
blood-thirsty withal,--the chief glory of her reign was Shakespeare,
and he made kings and queens the dancing puppets of his thought. In
this, though in nothing else, I resemble him. You will have enough
to do in the entertainment of your distinguished guests, for I
suppose there is no amusement they have not tried, and found more or
less unsatisfactory, and I am sorry I can suggest nothing
particularly new for you to do. Her Grace the Duchess of Rapidryder
is very fond of being tossed in a strong table-cloth between four
able-bodied gentlemen of good birth and discretion, before going to
bed o' nights,--she cannot very well appear on a music-hall stage
you know, owing to her exalted rank,--and this is a child-like,
pretty and harmless method of managing to show her legs, which she
rightly considers, are too shapely to be hidden. Lady Bouncer, whose
name I see in your list, always likes to cheat at cards,--I would
aid and abet her in her aim if I were you, as if she can only clear
her dressmaker's bill by her winnings at Willowsmere, she will bear
it in mind, and be a useful social friend to you. The Honourable
Miss Fitz-Gander who has a great reputation for virtue, is anxious,
for pressing and particular reasons, to marry Lord Noodles,--if you
can move on matters between them into a definite engagement of
marriage before her lady-mother returns from her duty-visits in
Scotland, you will be doing her a good turn, and saving society a
scandal. To amuse the men I suggest plenty of shooting, gambling,
and unlimited smoking. To entertain the Prince, do little,--for he
is clever enough to entertain himself privately with the folly and
humbug of those he sees around him, without actually sharing in the
petty comedy. He is a keen observer,--and must derive infinite
gratification from his constant study of men and manners, which is
sufficiently deep and searching to fit him for the occupation of
even the throne of England. I say 'even,' for at present, till
Time's great hour-glass turns, it is the grandest throne in the
world. The Prince reads, understands, and secretly laughs to scorn
the table-cloth vagaries of the Duchess of Rapidryder, the humours
of my Lady Bouncer and the nervous pruderies of the Honourable Miss
Fitz-Gander. And there is nothing he will appreciate so much in his
reception as a lack of toadyism, a sincere demeanour, an
unostentatious hospitality, a simplicity of speech, and a total
absence of affectation. Remember this, and take my advice for what
it is worth. Of all the Royalties at present flourishing on this
paltry planet, I have the greatest respect for the Prince of Wales,
and it is by reason of this very respect that I do not intend, on
this occasion at any rate, to thrust myself upon his notice. I shall
arrive at Willowsmere when your 'royal' festivities are over. My
homage to your fair spouse, the Lady Sibyl, and believe me,
Yours as long as you desire it
Lucio Rimânez.
I laughed over this letter and showed it to my wife, who did not laugh.
She read it through with a closeness of attention that somewhat
surprised me, and when she laid it down there was a strange look of pain
in her eyes.
"How he despises us all!" she said slowly--"What scorn underlies his
words! Do you not recognise it?"
"He was always a cynic,--" I replied indifferently--"I never expect him
to be anything else."
"He seems to know some of the ways of the women who are coming here--"
she went on in the same musing accents; "It is as if he read their
thoughts, and perceived their intentions at a distance."
Her brows knitted frowningly, and she seemed for some time absorbed in
gloomy meditation. But I did not pursue the subject,--I was too intent
on my own fussy preparations for the Prince's arrival to care about
anything else.
And, as I have said, Royalty, in the person of one of the most genial of
men, came and went through the whole programme devised for his
entertainment, and then departed again with his usual courteous
acknowledgments for the hospitality offered and accepted,--leaving us,
as he generally leaves everybody, charmed with his good-humour and
condescension, provided his temper has not been ruffled. When, with his
exit from the scene, the whole party broke up, leaving my wife and me to
our own two selves once more, there came a strange silence and
desolation over the house that was like the stealthy sense of some
approaching calamity. Sibyl seemed to feel it as much as I did,--and
though we said nothing to each other concerning our mutual sensations, I
could see that she was under the same cloud of depression as myself. She
went oftener to Lily Cottage, and always from these visits to the
fair-haired student among the roses, came back, I hopefully fancied in
softer mood,--her very voice was gentler,--her eyes more thoughtful and
tender. One evening she said--
"I have been thinking, Geoffrey, that perhaps there is some good in life
after all, if I could only find it out and _live_ it. But you are the
last person to help me in such a matter."
I was sitting in an arm-chair near the open window, smoking, and I
turned my eyes upon her with some astonishment and a touch of
indignation.
"What do you mean, Sibyl?" I asked--"Surely you know that I have the
greatest desire to see you always in your best aspect,--many of your
ideas have been most repugnant to me...."
"Stop there!" she said quickly, her eyes flashing as she spoke--"My
ideas have been repugnant to you, you say? What have _you_ done, you as
my husband, to change those ideas? Have you not the same base passions
as I?--and do you not give way to them as basely? What have I seen in
you from day to day that I should take you as an example? You are
master here, and you rule with all the arrogance wealth can give,--you
eat, drink and sleep,--you entertain your acquaintances simply that you
may astonish them by the excess of luxury in which you indulge,--you
read and smoke, shoot and ride, and there an end,--you are an ordinary,
not an exceptional man. Do you trouble to ask what is wrong with
_me_?--do you try, with the patience of a great love, to set before me
nobler aims than those I have consciously or unconsciously imbibed?--do
you try to lead me, an erring, passionate, misguided woman, into what I
dream of as the light,--the light of faith and hope which alone gives
peace?"
And suddenly, burying her head in the pillows of the couch on which she
leaned, she broke into a fit of smothered weeping.
I drew my cigar from my mouth and stared at her helplessly. It was about
an hour after dinner, and a warm soft autumnal evening,--I had eaten and
drunk well, and I was drowsy and heavy-brained.
"Dear me!" I murmured--"you seem very unreasonable, Sibyl! I suppose you
are hysterical...."
She sprang up from the couch,--her tears dried on her cheeks as though
by sheer heat of the crimson glow that flushed them, and she laughed
wildly.
"Yes, that is it!" she exclaimed--"Hysteria!--nothing else! It is
accountable for everything that moves a woman's nature. A woman has no
right to have any emotions that cannot be cured by smelling-salts!
Heart-ache?--pooh!--cut her stay-lace! Despair and a sense of sin and
misery?--nonsense!--bathe her temples with vinegar! An uneasy
conscience?--ah!--for an uneasy conscience there is nothing better than
sal volatile! Woman is a toy,--a breakable fool's toy;--and when she
_is_ broken, throw her aside and have done with her,--don't try to piece
together the fragile rubbish!"
She ceased abruptly, panting for breath,--and before I could collect my
thoughts or find any words wherewith to reply, a tall shadow suddenly
darkened the embrasure of the window, and a familiar voice enquired--
"May I, with the privilege of friendship, enter unannounced?"