It was Lady Windermere’s last
reception before Easter, and Bentinck House was even more crowded
than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had come on from the
Speaker’s Levée in their stars and ribands, all the
pretty women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of the
picture-gallery stood the Princess Sophia of Carlsrühe, a
heavy Tartar-looking lady, with tiny black eyes and wonderful
emeralds, talking bad French at the top of her voice, and
laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her.
It was certainly a wonderful medley of people. Gorgeous
peeresses chatted affably to violent Radicals, popular preachers
brushed coat-tails with eminent sceptics, a perfect bevy of
bishops kept following a stout prima-donna from room to room, on
the staircase stood several Royal Academicians, disguised as
artists, and it was said that at one time the supper-room was
absolutely crammed with geniuses. In fact, it was one of
Lady Windermere’s best nights, and the Princess stayed till
nearly half-past eleven.
As soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the
picture-gallery, where a celebrated political economist was
solemnly explaining the scientific theory of music to an
indignant virtuoso from Hungary, and began to talk to the Duchess
of Paisley. She looked wonderfully beautiful with her grand
ivory throat, her large blue forget-me-not eyes, and her heavy
coils of golden hair. Or pur they were—not
that pale straw colour that nowadays usurps the gracious name of
gold, but such gold as is woven into sunbeams or hidden in
strange amber; and they gave to her face something of the frame
of a saint, with not a little of the fascination of a
sinner. She was a curious psychological study. Early
in life she had discovered the important truth that nothing looks
so like innocence as an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless
escapades, half of them quite harmless, she had acquired all the
privileges of a personality. She had more than once changed
her husband; indeed, Debrett credits her with three marriages;
but as she had never changed her lover, the world had long ago
ceased to talk scandal about her. She was now forty years
of age, childless, and with that inordinate passion for pleasure
which is the secret of remaining young.
Suddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her
clear contralto voice, ‘Where is my
cheiromantist?’
‘Your what, Gladys?’ exclaimed the Duchess, giving
an involuntary start.
‘My cheiromantist, Duchess; I can’t live without
him at present.’
‘Dear Gladys! you are always so original,’
murmured the Duchess, trying to remember what a cheiromantist
really was, and hoping it was not the same as a cheiropodist.
‘He comes to see my hand twice a week regularly,’
continued Lady Windermere, ‘and is most interesting about
it.’
‘Good heavens!’ said the Duchess to herself,
‘he is a sort of cheiropodist after all. How very
dreadful. I hope he is a foreigner at any rate. It
wouldn’t be quite so bad then.’
‘I must certainly introduce him to you.’
‘Introduce him!’ cried the Duchess; ‘you
don’t mean to say he is here?’ and she began looking
about for a small tortoise-shell fan and a very tattered lace
shawl, so as to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
‘Of course he is here; I would not dream of giving a
party without him. He tells me I have a pure psychic hand,
and that if my thumb had been the least little bit shorter, I
should have been a confirmed pessimist, and gone into a
convent.’
‘Oh, I see!’ said the Duchess, feeling very much
relieved; ‘he tells fortunes, I suppose?’
‘And misfortunes, too,’ answered Lady Windermere,
‘any amount of them. Next year, for instance, I am in
great danger, both by land and sea, so I am going to live in a
balloon, and draw up my dinner in a basket every evening.
It is all written down on my little finger, or on the palm of my
hand, I forget which.’
‘But surely that is tempting Providence,
Gladys.’
‘My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist
temptation by this time. I think every one should have
their hands told once a month, so as to know what not to
do. Of course, one does it all the same, but it is so
pleasant to be warned. Now if some one doesn’t go and
fetch Mr. Podgers at once, I shall have to go myself.’
‘Let me go, Lady Windermere,’ said a tall handsome
young man, who was standing by, listening to the conversation
with an amused smile.
‘Thanks so much, Lord Arthur; but I am afraid you
wouldn’t recognise him.’
‘If he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I
couldn’t well miss him. Tell me what he is like, and
I’ll bring him to you at once.’
‘Well, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I
mean he is not mysterious, or esoteric, or
romantic-looking. He is a little, stout man, with a funny,
bald head, and great gold-rimmed spectacles; something between a
family doctor and a country attorney. I’m really very
sorry, but it is not my fault. People are so
annoying. All my pianists look exactly like poets, and all
my poets look exactly like pianists; and I remember last season
asking a most dreadful conspirator to dinner, a man who had blown
up ever so many people, and always wore a coat of mail, and
carried a dagger up his shirt-sleeve; and do you know that when
he came he looked just like a nice old clergyman, and cracked
jokes all the evening? Of course, he was very amusing, and
all that, but I was awfully disappointed; and when I asked him
about the coat of mail, he only laughed, and said it was far too
cold to wear in England. Ah, here is Mr. Podgers!
Now, Mr. Podgers, I want you to tell the Duchess of
Paisley’s hand. Duchess, you must take your glove
off. No, not the left hand, the other.’
‘Dear Gladys, I really don’t think it is quite
right,’ said the Duchess, feebly unbuttoning a rather
soiled kid glove.
‘Nothing interesting ever is,’ said Lady
Windermere: ‘on a fait le monde ainsi. But I
must introduce you. Duchess, this is Mr. Podgers, my pet
cheiromantist. Mr. Podgers, this is the Duchess of Paisley,
and if you say that she has a larger mountain of the moon than I
have, I will never believe in you again.’
‘I am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my
hand,’ said the Duchess gravely.
‘Your Grace is quite right,’ said Mr. Podgers,
glancing at the little fat hand with its short square fingers,
‘the mountain of the moon is not developed. The line
of life, however, is excellent. Kindly bend the
wrist. Thank you. Three distinct lines on the
rascette! You will live to a great age, Duchess, and
be extremely happy. Ambition—very moderate, line of
intellect not exaggerated, line of heart—’
‘Now, do be indiscreet, Mr. Podgers,’ cried Lady
Windermere.
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ said Mr.
Podgers, bowing, ‘if the Duchess ever had been, but I am
sorry to say that I see great permanence of affection, combined
with a strong sense of duty.’
‘Pray go on, Mr. Podgers,’ said the Duchess,
looking quite pleased.
‘Economy is not the least of your Grace’s
virtues,’ continued Mr. Podgers, and Lady Windermere went
off into fits of laughter.
‘Economy is a very good thing,’ remarked the
Duchess complacently; ‘when I married Paisley he had eleven
castles, and not a single house fit to live in.’
‘And now he has twelve houses, and not a single
castle,’ cried Lady Windermere.
‘Well, my dear,’ said the Duchess, ‘I
like—’
‘Comfort,’ said Mr. Podgers, ‘and modern
improvements, and hot water laid on in every bedroom. Your
Grace is quite right. Comfort is the only thing our
civilisation can give us.
‘You have told the Duchess’s character admirably,
Mr. Podgers, and now you must tell Lady Flora’s’; and
in answer to a nod from the smiling hostess, a tall girl, with
sandy Scotch hair, and high shoulder-blades, stepped awkwardly
from behind the sofa, and held out a long, bony hand with
spatulate fingers.
‘Ah, a pianist! I see,’ said Mr. Podgers,
‘an excellent pianist, but perhaps hardly a musician.
Very reserved, very honest, and with a great love of
animals.’
‘Quite true!’ exclaimed the Duchess, turning to
Lady Windermere, ‘absolutely true! Flora keeps two
dozen collie dogs at Macloskie, and would turn our town house
into a menagerie if her father would let her.’
‘Well, that is just what I do with my house every
Thursday evening,’ cried Lady Windermere, laughing,
‘only I like lions better than collie dogs.’
‘Your one mistake, Lady Windermere,’ said Mr.
Podgers, with a pompous bow.
‘If a woman can’t make her mistakes charming, she
is only a female,’ was the answer. ‘But you
must read some more hands for us. Come, Sir Thomas, show
Mr. Podgers yours’; and a genial-looking old gentleman, in
a white waistcoat, came forward, and held out a thick rugged
hand, with a very long third finger.
‘An adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past,
and one to come. Been ship-wrecked three times. No,
only twice, but in danger of a shipwreck your next journey.
A strong Conservative, very punctual, and with a passion for
collecting curiosities. Had a severe illness between the
ages sixteen and eighteen. Was left a fortune when about
thirty. Great aversion to cats and Radicals.’
‘Extraordinary!’ exclaimed Sir Thomas; ‘you
must really tell my wife’s hand, too.’
‘Your second wife’s,’ said Mr. Podgers
quietly, still keeping Sir Thomas’s hand in his.
‘Your second wife’s. I shall be charmed’;
but Lady Marvel, a melancholy-looking woman, with brown hair and
sentimental eyelashes, entirely declined to have her past or her
future exposed; and nothing that Lady Windermere could do would
induce Monsieur de Koloff, the Russian Ambassador, even to take
his gloves off. In fact, many people seemed afraid to face
the odd little man with his stereotyped smile, his gold
spectacles, and his bright, beady eyes; and when he told poor
Lady Fermor, right out before every one, that she did not care a
bit for music, but was extremely fond of musicians, it was
generally felt that cheiromancy was a most dangerous science, and
one that ought not to be encouraged, except in a
tête-à-tête.
Lord Arthur Savile, however, who did not know anything about
Lady Fermor’s unfortunate story, and who had been watching
Mr. Podgers with a great deal of interest, was filled with an
immense curiosity to have his own hand read, and feeling somewhat
shy about putting himself forward, crossed over the room to where
Lady Windermere was sitting, and, with a charming blush, asked
her if she thought Mr. Podgers would mind.
‘Of course, he won’t mind,’ said Lady
Windermere, ‘that is what he is here for. All my
lions, Lord Arthur, are performing lions, and jump through hoops
whenever I ask them. But I must warn you beforehand that I
shall tell Sybil everything. She is coming to lunch with me
to-morrow, to talk about bonnets, and if Mr. Podgers finds out
that you have a bad temper, or a tendency to gout, or a wife
living in Bayswater, I shall certainly let her know all about
it.’
Lord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. ‘I am not
afraid,’ he answered. ‘Sybil knows me as well
as I know her.’
‘Ah! I am a little sorry to hear you say
that. The proper basis for marriage is a mutual
misunderstanding. No, I am not at all cynical, I have
merely got experience, which, however, is very much the same
thing. Mr. Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to have his
hand read. Don’t tell him that he is engaged to one
of the most beautiful girls in London, because that appeared in
the Morning Post a month ago.
‘Dear Lady Windermere,’ cried the Marchioness of
Jedburgh, ‘do let Mr. Podgers stay here a little
longer. He has just told me I should go on the stage, and I
am so interested.’
‘If he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall
certainly take him away. Come over at once, Mr. Podgers,
and read Lord Arthur’s hand.’
‘Well,’ said Lady Jedburgh, making a little
moue as she rose from the sofa, ‘if I am not to be
allowed to go on the stage, I must be allowed to be part of the
audience at any rate.’
‘Of course; we are all going to be part of the
audience,’ said Lady Windermere; ‘and now, Mr.
Podgers, be sure and tell us something nice. Lord Arthur is
one of my special favourites.’
But when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur’s hand he grew
curiously pale, and said nothing. A shudder seemed to pass
through him, and his great bushy eyebrows twitched convulsively,
in an odd, irritating way they had when he was puzzled.
Then some huge beads of perspiration broke out on his yellow
forehead, like a poisonous dew, and his fat fingers grew cold and
clammy.
Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of
agitation, and, for the first time in his life, he himself felt
fear. His impulse was to rush from the room, but he
restrained himself. It was better to know the worst,
whatever it was, than to be left in this hideous uncertainty.
‘I am waiting, Mr. Podgers,’ he said.
‘We are all waiting,’ cried Lady Windermere, in
her quick, impatient manner, but the cheiromantist made no
reply.
‘I believe Arthur is going on the stage,’ said
Lady Jedburgh, ‘and that, after your scolding, Mr. Podgers
is afraid to tell him so.’
Suddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur’s right hand,
and seized hold of his left, bending down so low to examine it
that the gold rims of his spectacles seemed almost to touch the
palm. For a moment his face became a white mask of horror,
but he soon recovered his sang-froid, and looking up at
Lady Windermere, said with a forced smile, ‘It is the hand
of a charming young man.
‘Of course it is!’ answered Lady Windermere,
‘but will he be a charming husband? That is what I
want to know.’
‘All charming young men are,’ said Mr.
Podgers.
‘I don’t think a husband should be too
fascinating,’ murmured Lady Jedburgh pensively, ‘it
is so dangerous.’
‘My dear child, they never are too fascinating,’
cried Lady Windermere. ‘But what I want are
details. Details are the only things that interest.
What is going to happen to Lord Arthur?’
‘Well, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go a
voyage—’
‘Oh yes, his honeymoon, of course!’
‘And lose a relative.’
‘Not his sister, I hope?’ said Lady Jedburgh, in a
piteous tone of voice.
‘Certainly not his sister,’ answered Mr. Podgers,
with a deprecating wave of the hand, ‘a distant relative
merely.’
‘Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,’ said Lady
Windermere. ‘I have absolutely nothing to tell Sybil
to-morrow. No one cares about distant relatives
nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago.
However, I suppose she had better have a black silk by her; it
always does for church, you know. And now let us go to
supper. They are sure to have eaten everything up, but we
may find some hot soup. François used to make
excellent soup once, but he is so agitated about politics at
present, that I never feel quite certain about him. I do
wish General Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess, I am sure
you are tired?’
‘Not at all, dear Gladys,’ answered the Duchess,
waddling towards the door. ‘I have enjoyed myself
immensely, and the cheiropodist, I mean the cheiromantist, is
most interesting. Flora, where can my tortoise-shell fan
be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my lace
shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind,
I’m sure’; and the worthy creature finally managed to
get downstairs without dropping her scent-bottle more than
twice.
All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the
fireplace, with the same feeling of dread over him, the same
sickening sense of coming evil. He smiled sadly at his
sister, as she swept past him on Lord Plymdale’s arm,
looking lovely in her pink brocade and pearls, and he hardly
heard Lady Windermere when she called to him to follow her.
He thought of Sybil Merton, and the idea that anything could come
between them made his eyes dim with tears.
Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen
the shield of Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon’s
head. He seemed turned to stone, and his face was like
marble in its melancholy. He had lived the delicate and
luxurious life of a young man of birth and fortune, a life
exquisite in its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish
insouciance; and now for the first time he became conscious of
the terrible mystery of Destiny, of the awful meaning of
Doom.
How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that
written on his hand, in characters that he could not read
himself, but that another could decipher, was some fearful secret
of sin, some blood-red sign of crime? Was there no escape
possible? Were we no better than chessmen, moved by an
unseen power, vessels the potter fashions at his fancy, for
honour or for shame? His reason revolted against it, and
yet he felt that some tragedy was hanging over him, and that he
had been suddenly called upon to bear an intolerable
burden. Actors are so fortunate. They can choose
whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether they
will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real
life it is different. Most men and women are forced to
perform parts for which they have no qualifications. Our
Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and our Hamlets have to jest
like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the play is
badly cast.
Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord
Arthur he started, and his coarse, fat face became a sort of
greenish-yellow colour. The two men’s eyes met, and
for a moment there was silence.
‘The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord
Arthur, and has asked me to bring it to her,’ said Mr.
Podgers finally. ‘Ah, I see it on the sofa!
Good evening.’
‘Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a
straightforward answer to a question I am going to put to
you.’
‘Another time, Lord Arthur, but the Duchess is
anxious. I am afraid I must go.’
‘You shall not go. The Duchess is in no
hurry.’
‘Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur,’
said Mr. Podgers, with his sickly smile. ‘The fair
sex is apt to be impatient.’
Lord Arthur’s finely-chiselled lips curled in petulant
disdain. The poor Duchess seemed to him of very little
importance at that moment. He walked across the room to
where Mr. Podgers was standing, and held his hand out.
‘Tell me what you saw there,’ he said.
‘Tell me the truth. I must know it. I am not a
child.’
Mr. Podgers’s eyes blinked behind his gold-rimmed
spectacles, and he moved uneasily from one foot to the other,
while his fingers played nervously with a flash watch-chain.
‘What makes you think that I saw anything in your hand,
Lord Arthur, more than I told you?’
‘I know you did, and I insist on your telling me what it
was. I will pay you. I will give you a cheque for a
hundred pounds.’
The green eyes flashed for a moment, and then became dull
again.
‘Guineas?’ said Mr. Podgers at last, in a low
voice.
‘Certainly. I will send you a cheque
to-morrow. What is your club?’
‘I have no club. That is to say, not just at
present. My address is—, but allow me to give you my
card’; and producing a bit of gilt-edge pasteboard from his
waistcoat pocket, Mr. Podgers handed it, with a low bow, to Lord
Arthur, who read on it,
Mr. SEPTIMUS R.
PODGERS
Professional Cheiromantist
103a West Moon Street
‘My hours are from ten to four,’ murmured Mr.
Podgers mechanically, ‘and I make a reduction for
families.’
‘Be quick,’ cried Lord Arthur, looking very pale,
and holding his hand out.
Mr. Podgers glanced nervously round, and drew the heavy
portière across the door.
‘It will take a little time, Lord Arthur, you had better
sit down.’
‘Be quick, sir,’ cried Lord Arthur again, stamping
his foot angrily on the polished floor.
Mr. Podgers smiled, drew from his breast-pocket a small
magnifying glass, and wiped it carefully with his
handkerchief.
‘I am quite ready,’ he said.
Ten minutes later, with face
blanched by terror, and eyes wild with grief, Lord Arthur Savile
rushed from Bentinck House, crushing his way through the crowd of
fur-coated footmen that stood round the large striped awning, and
seeming not to see or hear anything. The night was bitter
cold, and the gas-lamps round the square flared and flickered in
the keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever, and his
forehead burned like fire. On and on he went, almost with
the gait of a drunken man. A policeman looked curiously at
him as he passed, and a beggar, who slouched from an archway to
ask for alms, grew frightened, seeing misery greater than his
own. Once he stopped under a lamp, and looked at his
hands. He thought he could detect the stain of blood
already upon them, and a faint cry broke from his trembling
lips.
Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there.
Murder! The very night seemed to know it, and the desolate
wind to howl it in his ear. The dark corners of the streets
were full of it. It grinned at him from the roofs of the
houses.
First he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to
fascinate him. He leaned wearily up against the railings,
cooling his brow against the wet metal, and listening to the
tremulous silence of the trees. ‘Murder!
murder!’ he kept repeating, as though iteration could dim
the horror of the word. The sound of his own voice made him
shudder, yet he almost hoped that Echo might hear him, and wake
the slumbering city from its dreams. He felt a mad desire
to stop the casual passer-by, and tell him everything.
Then he wandered across Oxford Street into narrow, shameful
alleys. Two women with painted faces mocked at him as he
went by. From a dark courtyard came a sound of oaths and
blows, followed by shrill screams, and, huddled upon a damp
door-step, he saw the crook-backed forms of poverty and
eld. A strange pity came over him. Were these
children of sin and misery predestined to their end, as he to
his? Were they, like him, merely the puppets of a monstrous
show?
And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering
that struck him; its absolute uselessness, its grotesque want of
meaning. How incoherent everything seemed! How
lacking in all harmony! He was amazed at the discord
between the shallow optimism of the day, and the real facts of
existence. He was still very young.
After a time he found himself in front of Marylebone
Church. The silent roadway looked like a long riband of
polished silver, flecked here and there by the dark arabesques of
waving shadows. Far into the distance curved the line of
flickering gas-lamps, and outside a little walled-in house stood
a solitary hansom, the driver asleep inside. He walked
hastily in the direction of Portland Place, now and then looking
round, as though he feared that he was being followed. At
the corner of Rich Street stood two men, reading a small bill
upon a hoarding. An odd feeling of curiosity stirred him,
and he crossed over. As he came near, the word
‘Murder,’ printed in black letters, met his
eye. He started, and a deep flush came into his
cheek. It was an advertisement offering a reward for any
information leading to the arrest of a man of medium height,
between thirty and forty years of age, wearing a billy-cock hat,
a black coat, and check trousers, and with a scar upon his right
cheek. He read it over and over again, and wondered if the
wretched man would be caught, and how he had been scarred.
Perhaps, some day, his own name might be placarded on the walls
of London. Some day, perhaps, a price would be set on his
head also.
The thought made him sick with horror. He turned on his
heel, and hurried on into the night.
Where he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of
wandering through a labyrinth of sordid houses, of being lost in
a giant web of sombre streets, and it was bright dawn when he
found himself at last in Piccadilly Circus. As he strolled
home towards Belgrave Square, he met the great waggons on their
way to Covent Garden. The white-smocked carters, with their
pleasant sunburnt faces and coarse curly hair, strode sturdily
on, cracking their whips, and calling out now and then to each
other; on the back of a huge grey horse, the leader of a jangling
team, sat a chubby boy, with a bunch of primroses in his battered
hat, keeping tight hold of the mane with his little hands, and
laughing; and the great piles of vegetables looked like masses of
jade against the morning sky, like masses of green jade against
the pink petals of some marvellous rose. Lord Arthur felt
curiously affected, he could not tell why. There was
something in the dawn’s delicate loveliness that seemed to
him inexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that
break in beauty, and that set in storm. These rustics, too,
with their rough, good-humoured voices, and their nonchalant
ways, what a strange London they saw! A London free from
the sin of night and the smoke of day, a pallid, ghost-like city,
a desolate town of tombs! He wondered what they thought of
it, and whether they knew anything of its splendour and its
shame, of its fierce, fiery-coloured joys, and its horrible
hunger, of all it makes and mars from morn to eve. Probably
it was to them merely a mart where they brought their fruits to
sell, and where they tarried for a few hours at most, leaving the
streets still silent, the houses still asleep. It gave him
pleasure to watch them as they went by. Rude as they were,
with their heavy, hob-nailed shoes, and their awkward gait, they
brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that they
had lived with Nature, and that she had taught them peace.
He envied them all that they did not know.
By the time he had reached Belgrave Square the sky was a faint
blue, and the birds were beginning to twitter in the gardens.
When Lord Arthur woke it was twelve
o’clock, and the midday sun was streaming through the
ivory-silk curtains of his room. He got up and looked out
of the window. A dim haze of heat was hanging over the
great city, and the roofs of the houses were like dull
silver. In the flickering green of the square below some
children were flitting about like white butterflies, and the
pavement was crowded with people on their way to the Park.
Never had life seemed lovelier to him, never had the things of
evil seemed more remote.
Then his valet brought him a cup of chocolate on a tray.
After he had drunk it, he drew aside a heavy
portière of peach-coloured plush, and passed into
the bathroom. The light stole softly from above, through
thin slabs of transparent onyx, and the water in the marble tank
glimmered like a moonstone. He plunged hastily in, till the
cool ripples touched throat and hair, and then dipped his head
right under, as though he would have wiped away the stain of some
shameful memory. When he stepped out he felt almost at
peace. The exquisite physical conditions of the moment had
dominated him, as indeed often happens in the case of very
finely-wrought natures, for the senses, like fire, can purify as
well as destroy.
After breakfast, he flung himself down on a divan, and lit a
cigarette. On the mantel-shelf, framed in dainty old
brocade, stood a large photograph of Sybil Merton, as he had seen
her first at Lady Noel’s ball. The small,
exquisitely-shaped head drooped slightly to one side, as though
the thin, reed-like throat could hardly bear the burden of so
much beauty; the lips were slightly parted, and seemed made for
sweet music; and all the tender purity of girlhood looked out in
wonder from the dreaming eyes. With her soft, clinging
dress of crêpe-de-chine, and her large leaf-shaped
fan, she looked like one of those delicate little figures men
find in the olive-woods near Tanagra; and there was a touch of
Greek grace in her pose and attitude. Yet she was not
petite. She was simply perfectly
proportioned—a rare thing in an age when so many women are
either over life-size or insignificant.
Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the
terrible pity that is born of love. He felt that to marry
her, with the doom of murder hanging over his head, would be a
betrayal like that of Judas, a sin worse than any the Borgia had
ever dreamed of. What happiness could there be for them,
when at any moment he might be called upon to carry out the awful
prophecy written in his hand? What manner of life would be
theirs while Fate still held this fearful fortune in the
scales? The marriage must be postponed, at all costs.
Of this he was quite resolved. Ardently though he loved the
girl, and the mere touch of her fingers, when they sat together,
made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite joy, he
recognised none the less clearly where his duty lay, and was
fully conscious of the fact that he had no right to marry until
he had committed the murder. This done, he could stand
before the altar with Sybil Merton, and give his life into her
hands without terror of wrongdoing. This done, he could
take her to his arms, knowing that she would never have to blush
for him, never have to hang her head in shame. But done it
must be first; and the sooner the better for both.
Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose
path of dalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur
was too conscientious to set pleasure above principle.
There was more than mere passion in his love; and Sybil was to
him a symbol of all that is good and noble. For a moment he
had a natural repugnance against what he was asked to do, but it
soon passed away. His heart told him that it was not a sin,
but a sacrifice; his reason reminded him that there was no other
course open. He had to choose between living for himself
and living for others, and terrible though the task laid upon him
undoubtedly was, yet he knew that he must not suffer selfishness
to triumph over love. Sooner or later we are all called
upon to decide on the same issue—of us all, the same
question is asked. To Lord Arthur it came early in
life—before his nature had been spoiled by the calculating
cynicism of middle-age, or his heart corroded by the shallow,
fashionable egotism of our day, and he felt no hesitation about
doing his duty. Fortunately also, for him, he was no mere
dreamer, or idle dilettante. Had he been so, he would have
hesitated, like Hamlet, and let irresolution mar his
purpose. But he was essentially practical. Life to
him meant action, rather than thought. He had that rarest
of all things, common sense.
The wild, turbid feelings of the previous night had by this
time completely passed away, and it was almost with a sense of
shame that he looked back upon his mad wanderings from street to
street, his fierce emotional agony. The very sincerity of
his sufferings made them seem unreal to him now. He
wondered how he could have been so foolish as to rant and rave
about the inevitable. The only question that seemed to
trouble him was, whom to make away with; for he was not blind to
the fact that murder, like the religions of the Pagan world,
requires a victim as well as a priest. Not being a genius,
he had no enemies, and indeed he felt that this was not the time
for the gratification of any personal pique or dislike, the
mission in which he was engaged being one of great and grave
solemnity. He accordingly made out a list of his friends
and relatives on a sheet of notepaper, and after careful
consideration, decided in favour of Lady Clementina Beauchamp, a
dear old lady who lived in Curzon Street, and was his own second
cousin by his mother’s side. He had always been very
fond of Lady Clem, as every one called her, and as he was very
wealthy himself, having come into all Lord Rugby’s property
when he came of age, there was no possibility of his deriving any
vulgar monetary advantage by her death. In fact, the more
he thought over the matter, the more she seemed to him to be just
the right person, and, feeling that any delay would be unfair to
Sybil, he determined to make his arrangements at once.
The first thing to be done was, of course, to settle with the
cheiromantist; so he sat down at a small Sheraton writing-table
that stood near the window, drew a cheque for £105, payable
to the order of Mr. Septimus Podgers, and, enclosing it in an
envelope, told his valet to take it to West Moon Street. He
then telephoned to the stables for his hansom, and dressed to go
out. As he was leaving the room he looked back at Sybil
Merton’s photograph, and swore that, come what may, he
would never let her know what he was doing for her sake, but
would keep the secret of his self-sacrifice hidden always in his
heart.
On his way to the Buckingham, he stopped at a florist’s,
and sent Sybil a beautiful basket of narcissus, with lovely white
petals and staring pheasants’ eyes, and on arriving at the
club, went straight to the library, rang the bell, and ordered
the waiter to bring him a lemon-and-soda, and a book on
Toxicology. He had fully decided that poison was the best
means to adopt in this troublesome business. Anything like
personal violence was extremely distasteful to him, and besides,
he was very anxious not to murder Lady Clementina in any way that
might attract public attention, as he hated the idea of being
lionised at Lady Windermere’s, or seeing his name figuring
in the paragraphs of vulgar society—newspapers. He
had also to think of Sybil’s father and mother, who were
rather old-fashioned people, and might possibly object to the
marriage if there was anything like a scandal, though he felt
certain that if he told them the whole facts of the case they
would be the very first to appreciate the motives that had
actuated him. He had every reason, then, to decide in
favour of poison. It was safe, sure, and quiet, and did
away with any necessity for painful scenes, to which, like most
Englishmen, he had a rooted objection.
Of the science of poisons, however, he knew absolutely
nothing, and as the waiter seemed quite unable to find anything
in the library but Ruff’s Guide and
Bailey’s Magazine, he examined the book-shelves
himself, and finally came across a handsomely-bound edition of
the Pharmacopoeia, and a copy of Erskine’s
Toxicology, edited by Sir Mathew Reid, the President of
the Royal College of Physicians, and one of the oldest members of
the Buckingham, having been elected in mistake for somebody else;
a contretemps that so enraged the Committee, that when the
real man came up they black-balled him unanimously. Lord
Arthur was a good deal puzzled at the technical terms used in
both books, and had begun to regret that he had not paid more
attention to his classics at Oxford, when in the second volume of
Erskine, he found a very interesting and complete account of the
properties of aconitine, written in fairly clear English.
It seemed to him to be exactly the poison he wanted. It was
swift—indeed, almost immediate, in its
effect—perfectly painless, and when taken in the form of a
gelatine capsule, the mode recommended by Sir Mathew, not by any
means unpalatable. He accordingly made a note, upon his
shirt-cuff, of the amount necessary for a fatal dose, put the
books back in their places, and strolled up St. James’s
Street, to Pestle and Humbey’s, the great chemists.
Mr. Pestle, who always attended personally on the aristocracy,
was a good deal surprised at the order, and in a very deferential
manner murmured something about a medical certificate being
necessary. However, as soon as Lord Arthur explained to him
that it was for a large Norwegian mastiff that he was obliged to
get rid of, as it showed signs of incipient rabies, and had
already bitten the coachman twice in the calf of the leg, he
expressed himself as being perfectly satisfied, complimented Lord
Arthur on his wonderful knowledge of Toxicology, and had the
prescription made up immediately.
Lord Arthur put the capsule into a pretty little silver
bonbonnière that he saw in a shop window in Bond
Street, threw away Pestle and Hambey’s ugly pill-box, and
drove off at once to Lady Clementina’s.
‘Well, monsieur le mauvais sujet,’ cried
the old lady, as he entered the room, ‘why haven’t
you been to see me all this time?’
‘My dear Lady Clem, I never have a moment to
myself,’ said Lord Arthur, smiling.
‘I suppose you mean that you go about all day long with
Miss Sybil Merton, buying chiffons and talking
nonsense? I cannot understand why people make such a fuss
about being married. In my day we never dreamed of billing
and cooing in public, or in private for that matter.’
‘I assure you I have not seen Sybil for twenty-four
hours, Lady Clem. As far as I can make out, she belongs
entirely to her milliners.’
‘Of course; that is the only reason you come to see an
ugly old woman like myself. I wonder you men don’t
take warning. On a fait des folies pour moi, and
here I am, a poor rheumatic creature, with a false front and a
bad temper. Why, if it were not for dear Lady Jansen, who
sends me all the worst French novels she can find, I don’t
think I could get through the day. Doctors are no use at
all, except to get fees out of one. They can’t even
cure my heartburn.’
‘I have brought you a cure for that, Lady Clem,’
said Lord Arthur gravely. ‘It is a wonderful thing,
invented by an American.’
‘I don’t think I like American inventions,
Arthur. I am quite sure I don’t. I read some
American novels lately, and they were quite
nonsensical.’
‘Oh, but there is no nonsense at all about this, Lady
Clem! I assure you it is a perfect cure. You must
promise to try it’; and Lord Arthur brought the little box
out of his pocket, and handed it to her.
‘Well, the box is charming, Arthur. Is it really a
present? That is very sweet of you. And is this the
wonderful medicine? It looks like a bonbon.
I’ll take it at once.’
‘Good heavens! Lady Clem,’ cried Lord
Arthur, catching hold of her hand, ‘you mustn’t do
anything of the kind. It is a homoeopathic medicine, and if
you take it without having heartburn, it might do you no end of
harm. Wait till you have an attack, and take it then.
You will be astonished at the result.’
‘I should like to take it now,’ said Lady
Clementina, holding up to the light the little transparent
capsule, with its floating bubble of liquid aconitine. I am
sure it is delicious. The fact is that, though I hate
doctors, I love medicines. However, I’ll keep it till
my next attack.’
‘And when will that be?’ asked Lord Arthur
eagerly. ‘Will it be soon?’
‘I hope not for a week. I had a very bad time
yesterday morning with it. But one never knows.’
‘You are sure to have one before the end of the month
then, Lady Clem?’
‘I am afraid so. But how sympathetic you are
to-day, Arthur! Really, Sybil has done you a great deal of
good. And now you must run away, for I am dining with some
very dull people, who won’t talk scandal, and I know that
if I don’t get my sleep now I shall never be able to keep
awake during dinner. Good-bye, Arthur, give my love to
Sybil, and thank you so much for the American
medicine.’
‘You won’t forget to take it, Lady Clem, will
you?’ said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat.
‘Of course I won’t, you silly boy. I think
it is most kind of you to think of me, and I shall write and tell
you if I want any more.’
Lord Arthur left the house in high spirits, and with a feeling
of immense relief.
That night he had an interview with Sybil Merton. He
told her how he had been suddenly placed in a position of
terrible difficulty, from which neither honour nor duty would
allow him to recede. He told her that the marriage must be
put off for the present, as until he had got rid of his fearful
entanglements, he was not a free man. He implored her to
trust him, and not to have any doubts about the future.
Everything would come right, but patience was necessary.
The scene took place in the conservatory of Mr. Merton’s
house, in Park Lane, where Lord Arthur had dined as usual.
Sybil had never seemed more happy, and for a moment Lord Arthur
had been tempted to play the coward’s part, to write to
Lady Clementina for the pill, and to let the marriage go on as if
there was no such person as Mr. Podgers in the world. His
better nature, however, soon asserted itself, and even when Sybil
flung herself weeping into his arms, he did not falter. The
beauty that stirred his senses had touched his conscience
also. He felt that to wreck so fair a life for the sake of
a few months’ pleasure would be a wrong thing to do.
He stayed with Sybil till nearly midnight, comforting her and
being comforted in turn, and early the next morning he left for
Venice, after writing a manly, firm letter to Mr. Merton about
the necessary postponement of the marriage.
In Venice he met his brother, Lord
Surbiton, who happened to have come over from Corfu in his
yacht. The two young men spent a delightful fortnight
together. In the morning they rode on the Lido, or glided
up and down the green canals in their long black gondola; in the
afternoon they usually entertained visitors on the yacht; and in
the evening they dined at Florian’s, and smoked innumerable
cigarettes on the Piazza. Yet somehow Lord Arthur was not
happy. Every day he studied the obituary column in the
Times, expecting to see a notice of Lady
Clementina’s death, but every day he was
disappointed. He began to be afraid that some accident had
happened to her, and often regretted that he had prevented her
taking the aconitine when she had been so anxious to try its
effect. Sybil’s letters, too, though full of love,
and trust, and tenderness, were often very sad in their tone, and
sometimes he used to think that he was parted from her for
ever.
After a fortnight Lord Surbiton got bored with Venice, and
determined to run down the coast to Ravenna, as he heard that
there was some capital cock-shooting in the Pinetum. Lord
Arthur at first refused absolutely to come, but Surbiton, of whom
he was extremely fond, finally persuaded him that if he stayed at
Danieli’s by himself he would be moped to death, and on the
morning of the 15th they started, with a strong nor’-east
wind blowing, and a rather choppy sea. The sport was
excellent, and the free, open-air life brought the colour back to
Lord Arthur’s cheek, but about the 22nd he became anxious
about Lady Clementina, and, in spite of Surbiton’s
remonstrances, came back to Venice by train.
As he stepped out of his gondola on to the hotel steps, the
proprietor came forward to meet him with a sheaf of
telegrams. Lord Arthur snatched them out of his hand, and
tore them open. Everything had been successful. Lady
Clementina had died quite suddenly on the night of the 17th!
His first thought was for Sybil, and he sent her off a
telegram announcing his immediate return to London. He then
ordered his valet to pack his things for the night mail, sent his
gondoliers about five times their proper fare, and ran up to his
sitting-room with a light step and a buoyant heart. There
he found three letters waiting for him. One was from Sybil
herself, full of sympathy and condolence. The others were
from his mother, and from Lady Clementina’s
solicitor. It seemed that the old lady had dined with the
Duchess that very night, had delighted every one by her wit and
esprit, but had gone home somewhat early, complaining of
heartburn. In the morning she was found dead in her bed,
having apparently suffered no pain. Sir Mathew Reid had
been sent for at once, but, of course, there was nothing to be
done, and she was to be buried on the 22nd at Beauchamp
Chalcote. A few days before she died she had made her will,
and left Lord Arthur her little house in Curzon Street, and all
her furniture, personal effects, and pictures, with the exception
of her collection of miniatures, which was to go to her sister,
Lady Margaret Rufford, and her amethyst necklace, which Sybil
Merton was to have. The property was not of much value; but
Mr. Mansfield, the solicitor, was extremely anxious for Lord
Arthur to return at once, if possible, as there were a great many
bills to be paid, and Lady Clementina had never kept any regular
accounts.
Lord Arthur was very much touched by Lady Clementina’s
kind remembrance of him, and felt that Mr. Podgers had a great
deal to answer for. His love of Sybil, however, dominated
every other emotion, and the consciousness that he had done his
duty gave him peace and comfort. When he arrived at Charing
Cross, he felt perfectly happy.
The Mertons received him very kindly. Sybil made him
promise that he would never again allow anything to come between
them, and the marriage was fixed for the 7th June. Life
seemed to him once more bright and beautiful, and all his old
gladness came back to him again.
One day, however, as he was going over the house in Curzon
Street, in company with Lady Clementina’s solicitor and
Sybil herself, burning packages of faded letters, and turning out
drawers of odd rubbish, the young girl suddenly gave a little cry
of delight.
‘What have you found, Sybil?’ said Lord Arthur,
looking up from his work, and smiling.
‘This lovely little silver bonbonnière,
Arthur. Isn’t it quaint and Dutch? Do give it
to me! I know amethysts won’t become me till I am
over eighty.’
It was the box that had held the aconitine.
Lord Arthur started, and a faint blush came into his
cheek. He had almost entirely forgotten what he had done,
and it seemed to him a curious coincidence that Sybil, for whose
sake he had gone through all that terrible anxiety, should have
been the first to remind him of it.
‘Of course you can have it, Sybil. I gave it to
poor Lady Clem myself.’
‘Oh! thank you, Arthur; and may I have the bonbon
too? I had no notion that Lady Clementina liked
sweets. I thought she was far too intellectual.’
Lord Arthur grew deadly pale, and a horrible idea crossed his
mind.
‘Bonbon, Sybil? What do you mean?’ he
said in a slow, hoarse voice.
‘There is one in it, that is all. It looks quite
old and dusty, and I have not the slightest intention of eating
it. What is the matter, Arthur? How white you
look!’
Lord Arthur rushed across the room, and seized the box.
Inside it was the amber-coloured capsule, with its
poison-bubble. Lady Clementina had died a natural death
after all!
The shock of the discovery was almost too much for him.
He flung the capsule into the fire, and sank on the sofa with a
cry of despair.
Mr. Merton was a good deal
distressed at the second postponement of the marriage, and Lady
Julia, who had already ordered her dress for the wedding, did all
in her power to make Sybil break off the match. Dearly,
however, as Sybil loved her mother, she had given her whole life
into Lord Arthur’s hands, and nothing that Lady Julia could
say could make her waver in her faith. As for Lord Arthur
himself, it took him days to get over his terrible
disappointment, and for a time his nerves were completely
unstrung. His excellent common sense, however, soon
asserted itself, and his sound, practical mind did not leave him
long in doubt about what to do. Poison having proved a
complete failure, dynamite, or some other form of explosive, was
obviously the proper thing to try.
He accordingly looked again over the list of his friends and
relatives, and, after careful consideration, determined to blow
up his uncle, the Dean of Chichester. The Dean, who was a
man of great culture and learning, was extremely fond of clocks,
and had a wonderful collection of timepieces, ranging from the
fifteenth century to the present day, and it seemed to Lord
Arthur that this hobby of the good Dean’s offered him an
excellent opportunity for carrying out his scheme. Where to
procure an explosive machine was, of course, quite another
matter. The London Directory gave him no information on the
point, and he felt that there was very little use in going to
Scotland Yard about it, as they never seemed to know anything
about the movements of the dynamite faction till after an
explosion had taken place, and not much even then.
Suddenly he thought of his friend Rouvaloff, a young Russian
of very revolutionary tendencies, whom he had met at Lady
Windermere’s in the winter. Count Rouvaloff was
supposed to be writing a life of Peter the Great, and to have
come over to England for the purpose of studying the documents
relating to that Tsar’s residence in this country as a ship
carpenter; but it was generally suspected that he was a Nihilist
agent, and there was no doubt that the Russian Embassy did not
look with any favour upon his presence in London. Lord
Arthur felt that he was just the man for his purpose, and drove
down one morning to his lodgings in Bloomsbury, to ask his advice
and assistance.
‘So you are taking up politics seriously?’ said
Count Rouvaloff, when Lord Arthur had told him the object of his
mission; but Lord Arthur, who hated swagger of any kind, felt
bound to admit to him that he had not the slightest interest in
social questions, and simply wanted the explosive machine for a
purely family matter, in which no one was concerned but
himself.
Count Rouvaloff looked at him for some moments in amazement,
and then seeing that he was quite serious, wrote an address on a
piece of paper, initialled it, and handed it to him across the
table.
‘Scotland Yard would give a good deal to know this
address, my dear fellow.’
‘They shan’t have it,’ cried Lord Arthur,
laughing; and after shaking the young Russian warmly by the hand
he ran downstairs, examined the paper, and told the coachman to
drive to Soho Square.
There he dismissed him, and strolled down Greek Street, till
he came to a place called Bayle’s Court. He passed
under the archway, and found himself in a curious
cul-de-sac, that was apparently occupied by a French
Laundry, as a perfect network of clothes-lines was stretched
across from house to house, and there was a flutter of white
linen in the morning air. He walked right to the end, and
knocked at a little green house. After some delay, during
which every window in the court became a blurred mass of peering
faces, the door was opened by a rather rough-looking foreigner,
who asked him in very bad English what his business was.
Lord Arthur handed him the paper Count Rouvaloff had given
him. When the man saw it he bowed, and invited Lord Arthur
into a very shabby front parlour on the ground floor, and in a
few moments Herr Winckelkopf, as he was called in England,
bustled into the room, with a very wine-stained napkin round his
neck, and a fork in his left hand.
‘Count Rouvaloff has given me an introduction to
you,’ said Lord Arthur, bowing, ‘and I am anxious to
have a short interview with you on a matter of business. My
name is Smith, Mr. Robert Smith, and I want you to supply me with
an explosive clock.’
‘Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur,’ said the
genial little German, laughing. ‘Don’t look so
alarmed, it is my duty to know everybody, and I remember seeing
you one evening at Lady Windermere’s. I hope her
ladyship is quite well. Do you mind sitting with me while I
finish my breakfast? There is an excellent
pâté, and my friends are kind enough to say
that my Rhine wine is better than any they get at the German
Embassy,’ and before Lord Arthur had got over his surprise
at being recognised, he found himself seated in the back-room,
sipping the most delicious Marcobrünner out of a pale yellow
hock-glass marked with the Imperial monogram, and chatting in the
friendliest manner possible to the famous conspirator.
‘Explosive clocks,’ said Herr Winckelkopf,
‘are not very good things for foreign exportation, as, even
if they succeed in passing the Custom House, the train service is
so irregular, that they usually go off before they have reached
their proper destination. If, however, you want one for
home use, I can supply you with an excellent article, and
guarantee that you will he satisfied with the result. May I
ask for whom it is intended? If it is for the police, or
for any one connected with Scotland Yard, I am afraid I cannot do
anything for you. The English detectives are really our
best friends, and I have always found that by relying on their
stupidity, we can do exactly what we like. I could not
spare one of them.’
‘I assure you,’ said Lord Arthur, ‘that it
has nothing to do with the police at all. In fact, the
clock is intended for the Dean of Chichester.’
‘Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly
about religion, Lord Arthur. Few young men do
nowadays.’
‘I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf,’
said Lord Arthur, blushing. ‘The fact is, I really
know nothing about theology.’
‘It is a purely private matter then?’
‘Purely private.’
Herr Winckelkopf shrugged his shoulders, and left the room,
returning in a few minutes with a round cake of dynamite about
the size of a penny, and a pretty little French clock, surmounted
by an ormolu figure of Liberty trampling on the hydra of
Despotism.
Lord Arthur’s face brightened up when he saw it.
‘That is just what I want,’ he cried, ‘and now
tell me how it goes off.’
‘Ah! there is my secret,’ answered Herr
Winckelkopf, contemplating his invention with a justifiable look
of pride; ‘let me know when you wish it to explode, and I
will set the machine to the moment.’
‘Well, to-day is Tuesday, and if you could send it off
at once—’
‘That is impossible; I have a great deal of important
work on hand for some friends of mine in Moscow. Still, I
might send it off to-morrow.’
‘Oh, it will be quite time enough!’ said Lord
Arthur politely, ‘if it is delivered to-morrow night or
Thursday morning. For the moment of the explosion, say
Friday at noon exactly. The Dean is always at home at that
hour.’
‘Friday, at noon,’ repeated Herr Winckelkopf, and
he made a note to that effect in a large ledger that was lying on
a bureau near the fireplace.
‘And now,’ said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat,
‘pray let me know how much I am in your debt.’
‘It is such a small matter, Lord Arthur, that I do not
care to make any charge. The dynamite comes to seven and
sixpence, the clock will be three pounds ten, and the carriage
about five shillings. I am only too pleased to oblige any
friend of Count Rouvaloff’s.’
‘But your trouble, Herr Winckelkopf?’
‘Oh, that is nothing! It is a pleasure to
me. I do not work for money; I live entirely for my
art.’
Lord Arthur laid down £4, 2s. 6d. on the table, thanked
the little German for his kindness, and, having succeeded in
declining an invitation to meet some Anarchists at a meat-tea on
the following Saturday, left the house and went off to the
Park.
For the next two days he was in a state of the greatest
excitement, and on Friday at twelve o’clock he drove down
to the Buckingham to wait for news. All the afternoon the
stolid hall-porter kept posting up telegrams from various parts
of the country giving the results of horse-races, the verdicts in
divorce suits, the state of the weather, and the like, while the
tape ticked out wearisome details about an all-night sitting in
the House of Commons, and a small panic on the Stock
Exchange. At four o’clock the evening papers came in,
and Lord Arthur disappeared into the library with the Pall
Mall, the St. James’s, the Globe, and the
Echo, to the immense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who
wanted to read the reports of a speech he had delivered that
morning at the Mansion House, on the subject of South African
Missions, and the advisability of having black Bishops in every
province, and for some reason or other had a strong prejudice
against the Evening News. None of the papers,
however, contained even the slightest allusion to Chichester, and
Lord Arthur felt that the attempt must have failed. It was
a terrible blow to him, and for a time he was quite
unnerved. Herr Winckelkopf, whom he went to see the next
day was full of elaborate apologies, and offered to supply him
with another clock free of charge, or with a case of
nitro-glycerine bombs at cost price. But he had lost all
faith in explosives, and Herr Winckelkopf himself acknowledged
that everything is so adulterated nowadays, that even dynamite
can hardly be got in a pure condition. The little German,
however, while admitting that something must have gone wrong with
the machinery, was not without hope that the clock might still go
off, and instanced the case of a barometer that he had once sent
to the military Governor at Odessa, which, though timed to
explode in ten days, had not done so for something like three
months. It was quite true that when it did go off, it
merely succeeded in blowing a housemaid to atoms, the Governor
having gone out of town six weeks before, but at least it showed
that dynamite, as a destructive force, was, when under the
control of machinery, a powerful, though a somewhat unpunctual
agent. Lord Arthur was a little consoled by this
reflection, but even here he was destined to disappointment, for
two days afterwards, as he was going upstairs, the Duchess called
him into her boudoir, and showed him a letter she had just
received from the Deanery.
‘Jane writes charming letters,’ said the Duchess;
‘you must really read her last. It is quite as good
as the novels Mudie sends us.’
Lord Arthur seized the letter from her hand. It ran as
follows:—
The
Deanery, Chichester,
27th May.
My Dearest Aunt,
Thank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and
also for the gingham. I quite agree with you that it is
nonsense their wanting to wear pretty things, but everybody is so
Radical and irreligious nowadays, that it is difficult to make
them see that they should not try and dress like the upper
classes. I am sure I don’t know what we are coming
to. As papa has often said in his sermons, we live in an
age of unbelief.
We have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer
sent papa last Thursday. It arrived in a wooden box from
London, carriage paid, and papa feels it must have been sent by
some one who had read his remarkable sermon, ‘Is Licence
Liberty?’ for on the top of the clock was a figure of a
woman, with what papa said was the cap of Liberty on her
head. I didn’t think it very becoming myself, but
papa said it was historical, so I suppose it is all right.
Parker unpacked it, and papa put it on the mantelpiece in the
library, and we were all sitting there on Friday morning, when
just as the clock struck twelve, we heard a whirring noise, a
little puff of smoke came from the pedestal of the figure, and
the goddess of Liberty fell off, and broke her nose on the
fender! Maria was quite alarmed, but it looked so
ridiculous, that James and I went off into fits of laughter, and
even papa was amused. When we examined it, we found it was
a sort of alarum clock, and that, if you set it to a particular
hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under a little hammer, it
went off whenever you wanted. Papa said it must not remain
in the library, as it made a noise, so Reggie carried it away to
the schoolroom, and does nothing but have small explosions all
day long. Do you think Arthur would like one for a wedding
present? I suppose they are quite fashionable in
London. Papa says they should do a great deal of good, as
they show that Liberty can’t last, but must fall
down. Papa says Liberty was invented at the time of the
French Revolution. How awful it seems!
I have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your
most instructive letter. How true, dear aunt, your idea is,
that in their rank of life they should wear what is
unbecoming. I must say it is absurd, their anxiety about
dress, when there are so many more important things in this
world, and in the next. I am so glad your flowered poplin
turned out so well, and that your lace was not torn. I am
wearing my yellow satin, that you so kindly gave me, at the
Bishop’s on Wednesday, and think it will look all
right. Would you have bows or not? Jennings says that
every one wears bows now, and that the underskirt should be
frilled. Reggie has just had another explosion, and papa
has ordered the clock to be sent to the stables. I
don’t think papa likes it so much as he did at first,
though he is very flattered at being sent such a pretty and
ingenious toy. It shows that people read his sermons, and
profit by them.
Papa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria all
unite, and, hoping that Uncle Cecil’s gout is better,
believe me, dear aunt, ever your affectionate niece,
jane
percy.
PS.—Do tell me about the bows. Jennings
insists they are the fashion.
Lord Arthur looked so serious and unhappy over the letter,
that the Duchess went into fits of laughter.
‘My dear Arthur,’ she cried, ‘I shall never
show you a young lady’s letter again! But what shall
I say about the clock? I think it is a capital invention,
and I should like to have one myself.’
‘I don’t think much of them,’ said Lord
Arthur, with a sad smile, and, after kissing his mother, he left
the room.
When he got upstairs, he flung himself on a sofa, and his eyes
filled with tears. He had done his best to commit this
murder, but on both occasions he had failed, and through no fault
of his own. He had tried to do his duty, but it seemed as
if Destiny herself had turned traitor. He was oppressed
with the sense of the barrenness of good intentions, of the
futility of trying to be fine. Perhaps, it would be better
to break off the marriage altogether. Sybil would suffer,
it is true, but suffering could not really mar a nature so noble
as hers. As for himself, what did it matter? There is
always some war in which a man can die, some cause to which a man
can give his life, and as life had no pleasure for him, so death
had no terror. Let Destiny work out his doom. He
would not stir to help her.
At half-past seven he dressed, and went down to the
club. Surbiton was there with a party of young men, and he
was obliged to dine with them. Their trivial conversation
and idle jests did not interest him, and as soon as coffee was
brought he left them, inventing some engagement in order to get
away. As he was going out of the club, the hall-porter
handed him a letter. It was from Herr Winckelkopf, asking
him to call down the next evening, and look at an explosive
umbrella, that went off as soon as it was opened. It was
the very latest invention, and had just arrived from
Geneva. He tore the letter up into fragments. He had
made up his mind not to try any more experiments. Then he
wandered down to the Thames Embankment, and sat for hours by the
river. The moon peered through a mane of tawny clouds, as
if it were a lion’s eye, and innumerable stars spangled the
hollow vault, like gold dust powdered on a purple dome. Now
and then a barge swung out into the turbid stream, and floated
away with the tide, and the railway signals changed from green to
scarlet as the trains ran shrieking across the bridge.
After some time, twelve o’clock boomed from the tall tower
at Westminster, and at each stroke of the sonorous bell the night
seemed to tremble. Then the railway lights went out, one
solitary lamp left gleaming like a large ruby on a giant mast,
and the roar of the city became fainter.
At two o’clock he got up, and strolled towards
Blackfriars. How unreal everything looked! How like a
strange dream! The houses on the other side of the river
seemed built out of darkness. One would have said that
silver and shadow had fashioned the world anew. The huge
dome of St. Paul’s loomed like a bubble through the dusky
air.
As he approached Cleopatra’s Needle he saw a man leaning
over the parapet, and as he came nearer the man looked up, the
gas-light falling full upon his face.
It was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist! No one could
mistake the fat, flabby face, the gold-rimmed spectacles, the
sickly feeble smile, the sensual mouth.
Lord Arthur stopped. A brilliant idea flashed across
him, and he stole softly up behind. In a moment he had
seized Mr. Podgers by the legs, and flung him into the
Thames. There was a coarse oath, a heavy splash, and all
was still. Lord Arthur looked anxiously over, but could see
nothing of the cheiromantist but a tall hat, pirouetting in an
eddy of moonlit water. After a time it also sank, and no
trace of Mr. Podgers was visible. Once he thought that he
caught sight of the bulky misshapen figure striking out for the
staircase by the bridge, and a horrible feeling of failure came
over him, but it turned out to be merely a reflection, and when
the moon shone out from behind a cloud it passed away. At
last he seemed to have realised the decree of destiny. He
heaved a deep sigh of relief, and Sybil’s name came to his
lips.
‘Have you dropped anything, sir?’ said a voice
behind him suddenly.
He turned round, and saw a policeman with a bull’s-eye
lantern.
‘Nothing of importance, sergeant,’ he answered,
smiling, and hailing a passing hansom, he jumped in, and told the
man to drive to Belgrave Square.
For the next few days he alternated between hope and
fear. There were moments when he almost expected Mr.
Podgers to walk into the room, and yet at other times he felt
that Fate could not be so unjust to him. Twice he went to
the cheiromantist’s address in West Moon Street, but he
could not bring himself to ring the bell. He longed for
certainty, and was afraid of it.
Finally it came. He was sitting in the smoking-room of
the club having tea, and listening rather wearily to
Surbiton’s account of the last comic song at the Gaiety,
when the waiter came in with the evening papers. He took up
the St. James’s, and was listlessly turning over its
pages, when this strange heading caught his eye:
Suicide of a Cheiromantist.
He turned pale with excitement, and began to read. The
paragraph ran as follows:
Yesterday morning, at seven o’clock, the
body of Mr. Septimus R. Podgers, the eminent cheiromantist, was
washed on shore at Greenwich, just in front of the Ship
Hotel. The unfortunate gentleman had been missing for some
days, and considerable anxiety for his safety had been felt in
cheiromantic circles. It is supposed that he committed
suicide under the influence of a temporary mental derangement,
caused by overwork, and a verdict to that effect was returned
this afternoon by the coroner’s jury. Mr. Podgers had
just completed an elaborate treatise on the subject of the Human
Hand, that will shortly be published, when it will no doubt
attract much attention. The deceased was sixty-five years
of age, and does not seem to have left any relations.
Lord Arthur rushed out of the club with the paper still in his
hand, to the immense amazement of the hall-porter, who tried in
vain to stop him, and drove at once to Park Lane. Sybil saw
him from the window, and something told her that he was the
bearer of good news. She ran down to meet him, and, when
she saw his face, she knew that all was well.
‘My dear Sybil,’ cried Lord Arthur, ‘let us
be married to-morrow!’
‘You foolish boy! Why, the cake is not even
ordered!’ said Sybil, laughing through her tears.
When the wedding took place, some
three weeks later, St. Peter’s was crowded with a perfect
mob of smart people. The service was read in the most
impressive manner by the Dean of Chichester, and everybody agreed
that they had never seen a handsomer couple than the bride and
bridegroom. They were more than handsome,
however—they were happy. Never for a single moment
did Lord Arthur regret all that he had suffered for Sybil’s
sake, while she, on her side, gave him the best things a woman
can give to any man—worship, tenderness, and love.
For them romance was not killed by reality. They always
felt young.
Some years afterwards, when two beautiful children had been
born to them, Lady Windermere came down on a visit to Alton
Priory, a lovely old place, that had been the Duke’s
wedding present to his son; and one afternoon as she was sitting
with Lady Arthur under a lime-tree in the garden, watching the
little boy and girl as they played up and down the rose-walk,
like fitful sunbeams, she suddenly took her hostess’s hand
in hers, and said, ‘Are you happy, Sybil?’
‘Dear Lady Windermere, of course I am happy.
Aren’t you?’
‘I have no time to be happy, Sybil. I always like
the last person who is introduced to me; but, as a rule, as soon
as I know people I get tired of them.’
‘Don’t your lions satisfy you, Lady
Windermere?’
‘Oh dear, no! lions are only good for one season.
As soon as their manes are cut, they are the dullest creatures
going. Besides, they behave very badly, if you are really
nice to them. Do you remember that horrid Mr.
Podgers? He was a dreadful impostor. Of course, I
didn’t mind that at all, and even when he wanted to borrow
money I forgave him, but I could not stand his making love to
me. He has really made me hate cheiromancy. I go in
for telepathy now. It is much more amusing.’
‘You mustn’t say anything against cheiromancy
here, Lady Windermere; it is the only subject that Arthur does
not like people to chaff about. I assure you he is quite
serious over it.’
‘You don’t mean to say that he believes in it,
Sybil?’
‘Ask him, Lady Windermere, here he is’; and Lord
Arthur came up the garden with a large bunch of yellow roses in
his hand, and his two children dancing round him.
‘Lord Arthur?’
‘Yes, Lady Windermere.’
‘You don’t mean to say that you believe in
cheiromancy?’
‘Of course I do,’ said the young man, smiling.
‘But why?’
‘Because I owe to it all the happiness of my
life,’ he murmured, throwing himself into a wicker
chair.
‘My dear Lord Arthur, what do you owe to it?’
‘Sybil,’ he answered, handing his wife the roses,
and looking into her violet eyes.
‘What nonsense!’ cried Lady Windermere.
‘I never heard such nonsense in all my life.’