Some chance wordMay strike upon an inattentive earAnd rouse the soul from selfish slumberings,To wrestle with a thousand subtle foesThat would destroy its hope of Paradise.
Some chance wordMay strike upon an inattentive earAnd rouse the soul from selfish slumberings,To wrestle with a thousand subtle foesThat would destroy its hope of Paradise.
Outside the snow fell fast and thick from the dull impenetrable sky, but within the church all was warmth and light. Owing to the primitive civilization of the village the holy edifice was only illuminated by a few oil lamps, which just sufficed to fill it with shadows. The great arched roof above was completely in darkness, and hanging low down, almost on a level with the pews, the lamps burned with a dull yellow light in the heavy atmosphere. On the communion table four tapers shone like amber-coloured stars, touching the white limbs of the Christ hanging on the ebony cross with fitful lights. A lamp enclosed in a red globe swung from the centre of the chancel arch, naming fiercely crimson like a red eye glaring out of the semi-darkness, and on each side of the pulpit two candles threw a doubtful glimmer on the open bible. Amid all this fantasy of shadow and light knelt the simple villagers with bowed heads, following, with murmuring voices, the Lord's Prayer, recited by the vicar. The confused sound buzzed among the multitudinous arches, losing itself in faint echoes amid the great oaken beams, and then the thunder of the organ rolled out a melodious amen which died away in a whisper as, with a rustle, the congregation arose to their feet to make the responses.
During the singing of the psalms, the door at the lower end of the church opened and, heralded by a blast of cold air which made all the lamps flicker, a man stole stealthily to a dark seat and knelt down. This was Duncan Nestley, who, tortured by maddening thoughts and overpowering mental anguish had come to religion for consolation, now kneeling, with hot dry eyes and clasped hands, amid the shadows.
The evening psalm was that magnificent chant wherein David describes Jehovah as coming forth in all his glory, and the choir, really being an excellent one, the rolling verse of the Hebrew poet was well rendered. The thin treble of the boys rang out piercingly shrill through the mystic twilight.
"He rode upon the cherubims and did fly: he came flying upon the wings of the wind."
Then, without pause, the deeper voices of the men thundered out the sublime words:
"He made darkness his secret place his pavilion round about him with dark water and thick clouds to cover him."
No wonder, as the great volume of sound rang through the church, the heart of the unhappy man was filled with fear.
This terrible Deity who came forth in such appalling splendour was his enemy, this awful Jehovah of the Hebrews, in whose hand flashed the sword of vengeance, was his merciless judge, and kneeling there with tightly clenched hands he felt crushed to the earth by the fierce denunciations thundered forth by the choir. But then a change came over the terrible vehemence of the music, and sweet as a silver trumpet rang out the proclamation:
"The Lord liveth, and blessed be my strong helper and praised be the God of my salvation."
There was mercy then--this unknown Splendour whose terrors had been shadowed forth with such grandeur had pity as well as vengeance; a dull feeling of exhaustion stole over him as the psalm ended with the promise of mercy, and his dry lips moved mutely as though to join in the final "Glory be to the Father."
He did not rise from his knees, but still in a posture of abject supplication heard, as in a dream, the reading of the lessons and the sweet kindly music of the hymns. It was only when the vicar, tall and stately in his white surplice, mounted the pulpit and gave out the text, that he stirred. With a weary sigh he arose and sat down in the pew, utterly exhausted by the conflicting emotions roused within him by the music, but the words of the text given out by the resonant voice of Dr. Larcher seemed to convey some comfort to his despairing soul.
"Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble and he saveth them out of their distresses."
He listened to the sermon idly at first, but soon found, to his surprise, that he was following the words of the preacher with close attention. Dr. Larcher was no golden-mouthed Chrysostom by any manner of means, but he preached a plain, homely sermon, eminently adapted to the simple congregation of which he was pastor. Never for a moment did he lose himself amid abstruse theological arguments which they would not have understood, but told them practical truths in vigorous Saxon, the meaning of which no one could fail to grasp.
"For, my brethren, when a man is at the lowest depths of despair it is then that he first calls upon the name of the Lord. In time of peace and plenty, when our friends are around us and our coffers are full, we are alas too apt to forget that all these benefits come from the Almighty, and thus at times neglect to thank him for His many mercies. But when the clouds of adversity gather around us, when the loved ones sink into the grave, when our worldly wealth disappears like snow, when our name becomes a by word of scorn and reproach, it is then that we turn to God for that help which is denied to us by man. And does he ever refuse to aid us?--No!--In the words of the Psalmist, 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord and he shall sustain thee'--to the heart that is truly contrite He gives peace and help in time of need; none so low but what He will not hear and grant their prayers if made from the heart. It is not to the terrible Jehovah of the Jewish nation, with pomp and pride of sacrifices and blowing of silver trumpets, that we of later generation appeal. No, since the coming of our dear Lord, who forms the link between most high heaven and lowly earth we offer up humble prayers to Him in solitude and He, the mild and merciful Father of us all dries the tears from our eyes and takes the sorrows from our hearts. If a man is weak and would commit sin let him call upon the Lord and he will be strengthened--if the temptations to which he has been exposed have been too heavy for his bearing and he has succumbed, let him implore mercy of the Almighty and he shall surely find it. Alas! how often do we find unforgiveness in men Forgetting the words of Christ, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,' they turn their faces away and leave us abased in the dust, but Christ lifts us from that position of humiliation with comforting words, 'Arise poor sinner and thy sins be forgiven thee, for to this end did I come into the world.' If there is any one of you present who has sinned let him repent this night and he will find the peace of God which passeth all understanding. If he is weak, God will give him strength to conquer; if he is in despair, God will give him hope of pardon. Pray--pray unceasingly, for it is by prayer alone that our weak voices can reach the ear of the eternal Father."
Nestley waited to hear no more, but with a stifled cry of anguish fled from the church into the cold, white world outside. Stumbling over the tombstones, through the blinding snow--now falling in thick flakes--he soon found himself in the open street, and urged by some mad impulse, he knew not what, he sped wildly onward through the market-place, over the bridge and on to the trackless common. With clenched teeth and wild, staring eyes he made head against the storm that was sweeping along. His feet made no sound on the yielding snow and he glided along like an unquiet ghost, the burning words of the sermon ringing in his ears.
He was in the lowest depths of despair and all men had turned their faces from him; he would call upon the Lord to help him--but would God attend?--surely He would--What were the words of the text?
"Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble and he saveth them out of their distresses."
He also would cry and the Lord would save him from the terrible agony he was enduring. He would kneel down there and then in the snow and call upon this unseen God, pavilioned in the terrible splendour of encircling clouds, to aid him.
"God! Help me!"
No answer save the whistling of the wind and the soft sound of the snow sweeping past, caressing his cold face with delicate touch.
"God! show me how to be saved."
Nothing, nothing, only the black sky above, the white earth below, and himself, between the two, a reckless, despairing man holding up his helpless hands.
"Our Father which art in heaven----"
How sweet those words sounded; he had surely heard them at his mother's knee--then he was an innocent child, but now! Oh God, the evil life he had lived since then!
"God! God!--pity and save!"
It was getting quite warm now and he felt drowsy; if he slept for a while he would then awake and ask God once more to save him; but no, if he fell asleep in the snow he would never awake again, for this treacherous snow would slay him with cold embraces. He would die--die. Ah! he could not die, even though lulled to sleep by the siren voice, and soft caressing of the snow queen; life was sweet, so he would fight to retain it.
A long struggle and he was on his feet; the road! where was the road? he could not see it. Never mind, the snow and wind were at his back, he would walk on till he came to the bridge, then he would be in safety. Oh, the weary, weary miles--half dazed, half mad, he staggered on, reeling like a drunken man. Would the road never come to an end? Oh this incessant whirl of snow-flakes that he was in, it was the dance of death and he was the dancer.
Quicker and quicker fell the flakes on the white common and over to the dark surface of the Gar but no figure was struggling along now; no, it was lying upon the bridge, a disordered heap of black clothing, which the snow was rapidly hiding beneath its soft white mantle.
Over the bridge comes the horse and gig of a sturdy farmer who has to cross the wild white waste beyond to reach home, and the sturdy farmer himself with his buxom wife beside him drives the wise old horse. Suddenly the old horse shies at the figure lying in the snow--a start on the part of the farmer and his wife--then exclamations and calls for help, black figures come gliding over the snow like shadows, and kindly hands raise Duncan Nestley from his deadly resting-place.
Take him to the inn, place him before a roaring fire, force some hot brandy between his blue lips, and rub his frozen limbs to bring back the circulation of the chill blood.
Dead! no, not dead! he opens his eyes. In them there is no intelligence, only a vacant stare--he babbles a few words and then falls back in a faint.
Delirious, yes, and delirious for many a long day, poor soul.
London is the candle which, ever attracting country moths by its feverish glare destroys them remorselessly in its cruel flame.
Reginald Blake was not enjoying himself very much in Town owing to his disturbed state of mind. For years he had pictured to himself the marvellous city and his life therein; how he would one day find himself a denizen of the great metropolis, eager to win fame and fortune by the magic of his voice, how he would delight in leading the ambitious, half Bohemian, wholly delightful existence of a singer, and how he would be able to wander about the streets and see the brilliant life of the mighty city with its restless activity and ardent strivings after wealth, fame and novelty. Grey Westminster Abbey, noble St. Paul's, the enormous pile of the Parliament House, the golden-topped column of the Monument, he would see all these, with their wealth of historical, religious and artistic associations. He would tread the very streets over whose stones wandered proud poverty-stricken Chatterton, courtly Addison and ponderous Dr. Johnson; he would find the picturesque alleys, houses and roads described in the fascinating pages of Dickens, and he would stray about the sacred purlieus of Drury Lane, haunted by the stately shades of Wilkes, of Siddons, of Bracegirdle, and David Garrick. Good heavens, what innumerable fantastic castles did he not build in Cloud Cuckoo Land about the unseen glories of London, where every street and stone was redolent of the glorious history of England from Plantagenet to Guelph.
Oh, beautiful castles of Cloudland, how rapidly did their gorgeousness disappear from his fancy before the disenchanting touch of chilling reality. He was indeed in London, but alas it was not the magic London of his dreams, this enormous assemblage of houses through which flowed a melancholy grey river and over which hung a dismal dark cloud of smoke and fog. The London of romance and the London of reality were two very different things, yet the disenchantment of this dreaming youth was not wholly due to the prosaic appearance of the city itself but rather to the gloom and depression of his spirits.
The recollection of how his wealth had come to him weighed heavily on his mind, causing him to view all things in a most dismal manner, and tortured his sensitive disposition with irritating thoughts and maddening delusions. In vain he tried hard to shake off this gloomy feeling and enjoy the many-coloured life of the great city; in vain he told himself that the accident of his birth was no fault of his own and in vain he strove to take pleasure in the society of the men and women to whom he had been introduced by Basil Beaumont. It was all useless, for a dark cloud of bitterness and distrust seemed to settle upon the joyousness of his life which led him to view everything with jaundiced eyes. He felt that he had lost the adolescent zest for life as Donatello must have done after he had stained his hands with blood, and although he had youth, talent, good looks, and wealth, yet all these delightful gifts of the fairies were neutralized by the fatal gift of dishonour bestowed upon him by the malignant beldame who had proved herself the evil genius of his life.
As soon as the business connected with the Garsworth estate was properly completed and he had been fully recognized as the heir of the old Squire, Bolby considering that he had done his duty, left the young man and his friend Dick pretty well to their own devices. Dick enjoyed everything with the inexhaustible appetite of youth, but Reginald took his pleasures, such as they were, in a listless manner, which showed how completely he had lost all capabilities of enjoyment.
Mr. Pemberton had been rather irritated by the prosaic life they led when in the leading strings of Mr. Bolby, whose ideas of amusement were of the most primitive nature, rarely extending beyond an afternoon at the Zoo or a night at Madame Tussaud's or the Egyptian Hall. The only thing Dick saw in Mr. Bolby's ideas of life, which he considered at all meritorious were the excellent dinners which the little lawyer gave them, but Dick in his flying visits to Town had tasted of the Tree of Knowledge beneath whose shade were the music halls and the burlesque theatres, so he was anxious to go to such like places for his amusement.
When they left Mr. Bolby, therefore, and were comfortably established in a quiet hotel in Jermyn Street, Dick, seeing that Reginald was absolutely indifferent as to where he went, or what he did, took the whole arrangement of their London life into his own hands and succeeded in going to a good many places which would have terribly shocked the vicar had he known. Not that such forbidden pleasures did them much harm, for both lads were extremely sensible for their age, still Dick finding himself able, through Reginald's generosity, to spend a good deal of money, took his friend and himself to sundry shady places of which they might just as well have been ignorant. But Nemesis soon came down upon the unhappy Richard, and just as he was developing into a fair specimen of a man about Town his bachelor uncle at Folkestone wrote him a letter asking him to come down on a visit and as Dick was supposed to be his bachelor uncle's heir, he had to leave Town, much to his own disgust and to the regret of Reginald, who missed his lively friend every hour of the day.
He still stayed in Town, however, but as he knew no one, his existence was to say the least extremely dull. Reginald was essentially of a social nature and wanted someone to whom he could talk, therefore he was not sorry when one day Basil Beaumont, who had been waiting for the departure of Dick, called upon him and henceforth constituted himself his bear leader. As they had seen nothing of the artist since their arrival in Town, Dick had never thought of telling Reginald his mistrust of the fascinating Beaumont, so the young man, remembering the artist's kindness about his probable career as a singer, felt very friendly towards him and was quite prepared to accept his offer of companionship as the outcome of a kindly disposition and not the result of a carefully calculated scheme.
A more dangerous companion for a young man in a depressed state of mind than Beaumont could hardly be imagined, for he led Reginald to plunge into riotous pleasures for the sake of distraction, from which he would have otherwise recoiled. Having an eminently refined mind, and a delight in cultured company, had he been thoroughly healthy he would never have been drawn by this modern Mephistopheles into the vortex of frenzied pleasure in which his days and nights were now engulfed. But, being in a morbid state of mind, he brooded eternally over the presumed stigma attached to his name until it became a perfect nightmare to him. He thought that everyone knew his miserable story and despised him for the anomalous position he now occupied, so, in a mad spirit of bravado, he became quite reckless, and determined to defy the world which his sensitive spirit imagined to be sneering at him as a bastard. Terrible to relate, in spite of the relationship existing between them, Beaumont, who should have prevented the young man from falling into such an unhealthy state of mind, rather encouraged his gloomy fits than otherwise, as he thought it would give him a greater hold than ever over his son, so deliberately led the unhappy young man on to ruin--ruin, not of his fortune or position, but of his physical and moral nature.
In his best days, the circle of Beaumont's acquaintances had not been a very large or reputable one, but now it was smaller and worse than ever; nevertheless, he introduced the young master of Garsworth Grange to his friends, whose manners, generally speaking, were as polished as their morals were bad. Broken down professional men, played-out lords, ruined gentlemen of fortune, shady hangers-on of society; these were the daily associates of Reginald Blake, until his mind, eminently calculated to receive impressions, began to grow corrupted. The society of hawks is rather a dangerous thing for doves, and this poor unsophisticated dove was of far too guileless a nature to mistrust the birds of prey by which he found himself surrounded, though, to be sure, his natural instincts of right and wrong saved him from many a pitfall.
Not that the hawks around him did any harm to his pecuniary position, for Beaumont was too selfish to allow anyone to have the plucking of this well-feathered pigeon save himself, and there being an unwritten code of honour even among hawks, the young man was left entirely to the tender mercies of his evil-minded Mentor. Nevertheless, the long nights of play, the wiles of women whose beauty did not redeem their frailty, and the constant life of excitement passed under the feverish glare of the gaslight, soon destroyed the fresh healthy feeling of youth Reginald Blake had possessed during the quiet years of his country life.
When at times his better feelings prevailed, and he would have fled this unhealthy life of bitter-tasting pleasures, Beaumont was always at his elbow with some new device wherewith to beguile him to destruction. Blake was not a weak-minded man by any means, still he was young and impressionable, and the sudden change from the poverty and quiet living of Garsworth, to the opulent, brilliant life of London, threw him off his moral balance.
No doubt he should have bravely resisted the allurements of sin, and the shallow frivolities to which he yielded with the apathy of despair, but, in the Armida-like gardens of London, the keenest eyes are blinded, the acutest senses are bewildered and dazed by the hubbub and brilliance around him, the victim falls only too easily into the snares hidden below the splendid pageant.
One thing, however, Reginald stoutly resisted, and that was the temptation to drink--he played nap and baccarat, losing comparatively large sums thereat, mixed in the society of women who lured him onward to destruction with siren voices, but in spite of Beaumont's insidious enticements he never took more wine than was good for him, and this temperance was in a certain measure a guard against the fatal influence of his otherwise foolish life. However, Beaumont was not impatient, as he knew from experience the effect of time in wearing away good resolutions, and waited calmly until some lucky chance should enable him to put a finishing stroke to the ruin of his unhappy son. It seems almost incredible that such a man as Basil Beaumont, from whom not even his own flesh and blood was safe, could exist; but, unhappily, he is only one of the many men in whom all natural love and affection is entirely destroyed by the vicious, feverish life which they lead.
Behold, therefore, this unhappy country moth lured to destruction by the garish glitter of the lights of London beneath which sat the fatal Circe of pleasure, with rose-crowned hair and wine-filled cup. Around her moved the splendid throng of pleasure seekers, dancing, singing, eating and drinking, taking no heed of the morrow in the evil joy of the present; but, below this glittering maelstrom of vice and rascality, were the rose-hidden pitfalls into which every moment sank some gay reveller, his dying cry of despair drowned in the riotous crowd dancing gaily over his unseen grave.
In her cup the red wine glows,Fragrant as the blushing rose;Cure of sorrows, cure of woes,From it thou wilt win.Ah! but Circe's cup deceives,Evil spell its magic weaves,To the fool who drinks--it leavesThe bitterness of sin.
In her cup the red wine glows,Fragrant as the blushing rose;Cure of sorrows, cure of woes,
From it thou wilt win.
Ah! but Circe's cup deceives,Evil spell its magic weaves,To the fool who drinks--it leaves
The bitterness of sin.
One night Reginald and Beaumont were comfortably seated over their cigarettes and coffee in the smoking-room of the hotel, talking in a desultory kind of way about the news of the day, when Blake suddenly made a remark quite foreign to the conversation.
"I often wonder why you have never married, Beaumont," he said idly.
The artist shrugged his shoulders.
"It's not difficult to answer," he replied lightly. "I have never met any woman I particularly cared about."
"Wouldn't you like to be married?" asked Reginald.
"Humph! that depends. I'm afraid I'm past the age of cultivating the domestic virtues. I am a cosmopolitan--a wanderer--no home would be pleasant to me for any length of time."
"But why don't you settle down?"
"Because the age of miracles is past. I'm one of those men who never know in what land they will lay their bones. No, no! I'm sadly afraid the domestic tea-urn and family circle are not for me."
It was curious to hear this man talk in such a cynical strain to his own son, but then Beaumont had been so long apart from his offspring that he almost regarded him as a stranger, and therefore spoke to him as such.
"I think you would be much happier married," observed Reginald.
"No doubt. You judge me by yourself. When you get married to Miss Challoner and settle down, your life will be a paradise, because long training has rendered you admirably suited to a domestic life. But I--ouf!--I would weary of the best woman in the world."
"What a curious man you are, Beaumont," said Blake, looking at him in a puzzled manner. "This life of yours in Town appears to me so unsatisfying. Everyone is on the move. Never a moment for rest or reflection, a constant striving after pleasure, and when that pleasure is gained, what is it but Dead Sea fruit? Now, on the other hand, I cannot imagine a more delightful life than one in the country. When I marry Una I will live at Garsworth Grange, bring up my children, if I am happy enough to become a father, take an interest in the dear old village, and enjoy my whole existence in a leisurely, pleasant manner, which will give me far more enduring enjoyment than this rapid frivolous Town life."
"Your instincts are quite those of a patriarchal age," said Beaumont, with a scarcely concealed sneer, "but of course I can hardly wonder at that. Many years of a highly artificial civilization have given me a distaste for your beau ideal of life, while the simplicity of your training has unfitted you for the gas and glitter of London. A man brought up on roast beef does not care for truffles, though, to be sure, roast beef is the more healthy of the two."
Reginald laughed at this extraordinary manner of arguing, but did not pursue the subject, and shortly afterwards the pair were whirling along in a hansom to the Totahoop Music Hall.
This establishment, which took its extraordinary name from an eminent comedian who first opened it as a place of entertainment, was one of the largest, handsomest, and most patronised music halls in town. It stood at one side of a large square and had a palatial appearance with its flight of marble steps, its enormous folding-doors and the view they afforded when open of tropical trees, nude white statues and gorgeous hangings of blue plush, all of which looked brilliant under the powerful radiance of the electric lights.
When the two gentlemen arrived the promenade was quite full of men and women, some talking loudly, others attending to the performance, and many crowding around the marble-topped counters of the various bars from which smiling barmaids dispensed cooling beverages. The house was quite full and comparatively quiet, for the ballet ofThe Loreleiwas now being danced, and the stage was filled with multitudes of pretty girls in costumes of pale green glittering with silver scales, who were swaying to and fro to a swinging waltz melody played by the orchestra.
"This is a very good ballet," observed Beaumont, as they took their seats in a private box, "both the scenery and the dances being excellent. Have a drink?"
"No, thank you," replied Blake listlessly, taking off his cloak, "I prefer watching the ballet."
He leaned out of the box and was soon deeply interested in the pantomimic action on the stage, while Beaumont swept the glittering horseshoe with his opera-glass to see if he could espy a friend. Very shortly he saw a man with whom he was well acquainted, and left the box with a muttered apology, while Reginald, absorbed in the ballet, took no notice of his departure.
Veils of pale green gauze were falling like a curtain in front of the stage, which was flooded with an emerald light, and away at the back could be seen the Sea Palace of the Lorelei, above which undulated the blue waves of the ocean. The daring young knight in silver armour was standing like a statue in the centre of the stage and round him the nymphs, linked hand in hand, were wreathing in mysterious evolutions, growing slower and slower till they all paused, grouped in graceful attitudes like living statues. A strange low chord from the orchestra and then there stole forth a weird subtle melody that seemed to possess a snake-like fascination as it arose and fell with shrill sounds of clarinet and violin. A sudden ripple as of silver bells and the fatal Rhine nymph glided on to the stage from a huge shell placed far back in the restless green water. Then there was a dance of fascination in which the knight resisted the allurements of the Lorelei, but the sleeping nymphs also awoke and re-commenced their dreamy dance, while through the swing and beat of the band there stole the strange wild piping of theLorelei motif. At last the knight yielded, there was a storm of somewhat discordant music and all the evil things of ocean came trooping on to the stage, dashing at length into a mad galop as they surged and rolled round the knight, now captive in the arms of the siren. A thick darkness spread over the scene and when the light broke again, the ocean halls had vanished and a merry crowd of peasants were dancing on a fair lawn to the piping of a shepherd.
Reginald did not like this latter scene so much, as it lacked the mysterious enticement of the former, and felt rather disappointed, but he was quite repaid by the last scene of the ballet, which represented the fatal Lorelei rock amid turbid waters under the pale light of the moon.
On the shore wandered the spell-enchained knight, and Blake thought of Heine's ballad with its foreboding beginning,
"Ich weiss nicht was soil is bedeuten,"
as the mysterious melody of the Lorelei began to once more steal from amid the sombre music of the orchestra. Lonely is the knight, for he loves naught on earth while the water witch has power over him. Shriller and shriller arose the melody and suddenly a white blaze of electric light envelopes the rock, upon which stands the siren, combing her marvellous locks of gold.
With mystic gestures she beckons the knight, he launches a boat and the waves rise white and threatening amid a storm of music from the orchestra, while overhead the thunder rolls and the lightning flashes. The boat reaches the rock, strikes, and in a moment the knight is struggling in the water with hands stretched out imploringly to the Water Witch. Darkness once more, then again the emerald light shines, showing the Halls of the Lorelei, who stands over the dead body of the knight, while around swing the river nymphs with floating hair and waving hands, then the shrill piping of the Loreleimotifsounds once more and the curtain falls.
"Well, what do you think of the ballet?" asked Beaumont, who had returned to the box and was watching with keen interest the dreamy look upon the young man's face.
"I think it is charming," replied Reginald, in whose head the mysterious melody of the Lorelei was still ringing, "but what a fool that knight was."
"Ah, do you think so?" rejoined the artist, lightly. "There I do not agree with you. Many a man has had his life wrecked by listening to the music of the Sea Witch. The legend of the Lorelei is simply an allegory of life."
"So is the legend of the Sirens, I suppose," said Blake listlessly.
"Of course the man who is drawn away from Nature by the alluring voice of the world always loses his happiness and genius."
"I don't think much of your world's singing," retorted Blake, a trifle cynically. "It would never allure me."
"It's alluring you now," thought Beaumont, although he did not say so, but merely remarked, "Too much of modern sentimentality about it, perhaps, or you think the world's voice pipes too vulgar a ditty. There I agree with you, but, unfortunately, in this age we vulgarise everything; we drag forth the lovely mysterious dreams of mediævalism from their enchanted twilights into the broad blaze of day and then reject them in disgust because we are disillusionized. Ah, bah' the world of to-day, which reduces everything to plain figures, always puts me in mind of a child spoiling a drum to find out what's inside."
"Unpleasant, but true."
"The truth is always unpleasant my friend, that is why people so seldom tell it," said Beaumont, "but listen to this recitation, it's the best thing of the evening."
The reciter was a celebrated actress who had been induced to appear upon the music-hall platform by way of an experiment, to see if the ordinary audience of such a place would take to the higher form of art as exemplified by the recitation.
Simply dressed, with no scenic effect, but only her wonderful voice and strong dramatic instinct to rely on, the lady recited a touching little piece about a dying woman, and it was truly wonderful the effect it had upon the pleasure-loving audience. In spite of the attractions of comic songs, of pretty girls, of grotesque tumblers, and of daring gymnasts, the whole body of men and women yielded to the spell of the recitation. The poem was full of human nature, and the intensity of the reciter's voice carried the pathos of the pitiful little story home to everyone. The intense humanity of the tale, declaimed in a most dramatic way by an artist, came like a breath of cool mountain air into the perfumed close atmosphere of a ball-room, and the storm of applause which broke forth at the conclusion of the recitation showed how powerful genius is to move even the mostblaséof humanity.
"That is a step in the right direction," said Beaumont as he left the music-hall with Reginald, "everyone prophesied failure for such an experiment, but you see the voice of the heart can always reach the heart. There is more culture even among music-hall audiences than we give them credit for."
"I don't think it's a question of culture at all," replied Blake bluntly; "that simple story declaimed in such a way would appeal to the lowest audience in Whitechapel.
"I daresay you are right," answered Beaumont idly, "a touch of nature makes the whole world akin. I think it was Shakespeare who made that remark--wonderfully wise man--I should like to have seen him write a drama on the complex civilization of to-day."
"Our dramatists of to-day do their best."
"No doubt, but they write on such frivolous subjects. If they took up a broad question of the time and placed it before us in the form of a play they might evolve a new style of drama fitted to be handed down to posterity but when they concern themselves only with the drama of little things their ideas are as ephemeral as their plays. No, this is only the age of scientific discovery, not the time of poetic imaginings."
Thus talking, they strolled along the crowded streets, and turned into a supper-room, where they had a comfortable meal. Beaumont tried to induce Reginald to come with him to his club, and have a game of cards, but the young man, haunted by the subtle melody of the Lorelei did not feel inclined for the green table, so bidding the artist good-night, stepped into a hansom, and was driven back to his hotel.
All through his sleep that night, the shrill music rang in his brain, and he dreamed constantly of the woman with the fatal beauty, who, sitting on her rock, lured men to destruction.
Did no warning voice whisper the meaning of his dreams, how London, with siren music, was enticing him onward to her cruel pitfalls hidden by roses? No! Apparently his good genius had forsaken him, and he was now in the jaws of danger, without a single hand being stretched out to save him from the cruel rocks concealed under the whirling foam, above which the Lorelei sang her evil song.
I weary of dances, of songs of the southOf sounds of the viol and lute,Ah, bitter to find that all things in my mouthTaste only of bitter sea fruit.
I weary of dances, of songs of the south
Of sounds of the viol and lute,
Ah, bitter to find that all things in my mouth
Taste only of bitter sea fruit.
It was now two months since Reginald had come to London, and he was beginning to get very wearied of the exhausting life he was leading. He half determined to leave Town and return home again, but was still undecided, when he received a letter from Una which confirmed his resolution.
Outside the fog was thick and yellow, enveloping the shivering houses in a solid dingy mist, which made everything look ineffably dreary. Along the streets and in the houses gas was burning with an unwilling look, as if it knew it had no right to be lighted during the day. Day!--good heavens, was this semi-twilight the day, with the heavy fog lowering down on the streets, through which the cabs and busses crept along in a cautious and stealthy manner? Was that dull red ball, which appeared to give neither light nor heat, the glorious sun? And the atmosphere; a chilling clammy air, which insinuated itself everywhere, making the flesh creep as though at the touch of a repulsive serpent. Assuredly this siren London, who was so enticing at night, under the glare of countless lamps, was not a pleasant spectacle in the morning, and the smiling rose-wreathed Circe of the evening was changed to a haggard unkempt hag with worn face and dreary eyes.
Reginald was seated at the breakfast table, but the food before him was untouched, as he now felt no appetite, but sat listlessly back in his chair, reading Una's letter, which had just arrived. She was anxious for him to return to Garsworth, and it was this portion of the letter which touched Blake with a certain amount of remorse.
"You can have no idea how I miss you, Reginald, and every day you are absent seems to part us further from one another. The business which took you up to London must surely be completed by this time, so if you love me, as I know you do, come back at once to Garsworth, and we will be married as soon as is compatible with decorum after the death of your father. Then we can travel on the Continent for a time, and I being by your side will no longer feel this terrible anxiety for your welfare which now constantly haunts me. Although I know your own instincts will always lead you to do what is right and just, both towards yourself and your friends, yet I dread the influence of that dangerous London, against whose temptations even the strongest nature cannot prevail. This is the first request I have ever made to you, dear Reginald, and I feel sure you will grant it. So come back at once to me, and remember I shall count every moment of time until I see you once more by my side."
When he came to this part of the letter, Reginald laid it aside and began to think over the words Una had written.
Yes!--she was quite right--it was better for him in every way to go back to Garsworth, and leave this feverish, unreal existence which he was now leading. He would return once more to the old familiar life, with its gentle simplicity and pleasant delights--the rising in the early grey of the morning, the matutinal run with the dogs across the breezy common--then, later on in the day, he would meet Una, and stroll with her through the quiet village streets, where everyone knew and loved them both, from the ancient grandmother basking in the sunshine to the prattling child tottering after them for notice with unsteady gait. No fog--no dreary rattle of cabs--no hoarse cries of news-boy and fish-vendor--but the bright beautiful, blue sky, with the golden sun shining, and a moist keen wind blowing from the distant fen-lands, filled with strange cold odours stolen from hidden herbs. And in the evening he would sing to her--sing those charming old ballads of Phyllis and Daphne, and Lady Bell--which he had not sung for so many days--or perhaps they would listen to the ponderous conversation of Dr. Larcher, with its classical flavouring of Horace.
The time would pass by in such innocent pleasures upon rapid wings, until their wedding-day came, with the budding leaves in tree and hedge, and the timid out-peeping of delicate spring flowers. Then the genial old vicar would make them man and wife, in the sacred gloom of the familiar church, while the wedding march pealed forth from the organ, and the joy-bells clashed in the ancient Norman tower. Afterwards they would go abroad for some months, and wander through old-world cities, among the treasures of dead ages--returning when they were weary, to lead quiet and useful lives under their own roof-tree, and among the friends of their early days. Yes!--he would go back to Garsworth, and try to realize these delightful dreams, but--Beaumont----
At this moment--as if in answer to his thoughts--a knock came to the door, and Beaumont entered--scattering at once the cloud-built castles in which Reginald's dreamy fancy had been indulging. His quick eye at once saw that the young man had eaten no breakfast--and he laughed gaily as he removed his hat and sat down near the fire.
"Don't feel well this morning?" he said lightly. "What a humbug you are, Blake--a little dissipation should be nothing for a healthy young country fellow like you."
"That's just it," replied Reginald, with some animation, slipping Una's letter into his pocket. "I am a country fellow, accustomed to lead a quiet simple life--and not an artificial existence."
"Oh, you'll soon get used to it."
"No doubt, but I'm not going to make the attempt."
"Oh, indeed!" observed Beaumont, concealing his annoyance. "So you intend to return to that dead-and-alive hole of a Garsworth?"
"Hole, as you think it," replied the young man, with some warmth, "it has been my home for many a long year, and I have grown to love it; besides, you forget--I go back to be married."
"But surely not yet?" objected Beaumont, earnestly. "Your father has not been dead very long? Besides, you must have a fling as a bachelor before you become Benedict, the married man."
"I've had enough 'fling,' as you call it," said Reginald, coldly, "and I don't like it--this incessant high-pressure style of life is not to my taste, so I am going away from it."
"I'm afraid I cannot leave Town, just now," said the artist, with a frown, feeling his prey was slipping through his fingers.
Blake looked at him in surprise.
"I do not want you to leave Town," he observed, in a dignified manner. "There is no necessity for you to accompany me by any manner of means--you have your own life and your own friends, I have mine, so there is nothing in common between us in any way. You have certainly been very kind, in offering to assist me as a singer, but, as I do not require your assistance now, of course I will not trouble you. No doubt I have taken up a considerable portion of your time since I have been in London, but I am willing to repay any loss you may have sustained, in whatever way you suggest."
He looked straight at Beaumont as he spoke; and that gentleman, feeling rather nonplussed by the calm dignity of the young man, had the grace to blush a little, while he rapidly calculated on his next move. His financial affairs were not by any means in a flourishing condition at present, and he would have liked to ask Blake to give him some money; but, not judging the time ripe enough to prefer such a request, he temporised in a crafty manner.
"You misunderstand me," he said smoothly. "What I have done, is out of pure kindness, and I want no return for it. If you feel inclined to return to Garsworth, of course you are your own master, and can do so. Some day, I may run down to see you, and if I can be of any assistance to you, in connection with the management of your estates, of course I will only be too happy to do what I can."
"Thank you, I will not forget your offer," replied Reginald, still rather coldly, for he did not like the masterful tone adopted by the artist. "And now, if you will excuse me, I'll go and pack up my portmanteau."
"Oh, I'll come and see you off, at Paddington," said Beaumont, cheerily; "what train are you going by?"
"The mid-day train," answered Blake, glancing at his watch.
"Then I'll see you on the platform," observed Beaumont, rising to his feet and taking up his hat. "By-the-way, what about your engagements for this week?"
"I'll have to break them--none are very important, and most rather expensive."
Beaumont, biting his lips at this home-thrust, made no reply beyond a careless laugh; and, putting on his hat, left the room with a jaunty air. Once outside, however, his face changed to an expression of deep anger; for his success with Blake, hitherto, had not led him to expect such a calm resistance to his wishes.
"You'll defy me, will you?" he muttered between his teeth, as he walked rapidly along the street. "I'll see about that, my boy--as I put you in possession of the property, I can also take it off you again; and I'll do it, unless you're guided by me. I'll wait till you go back to Garsworth, and follow shortly afterwards. Once you know the truth, and I don't think you'll be so anxious to get rid of your best friend. I can leave you rich--or make you a pauper; so the whole of your future life is in my hands, and I'll mould it as I please."
Though he was annoyed at the unexpected display of firmness made by Blake, he was not alarmed, knowing he held the strongest hand in the game, and that Reginald would be forced to yield everything up to him, if he wanted to remain rich. Still, it was most irritating, for no one likes the worm to turn, as it is plainly the duty of the worm to be trodden upon; and for such a miserable thing as the worm to resent its fate, is going in direct opposition to the laws of Nature. However, there is an exception to every rule; and in this case Mr. Beaumont's worm was a more daring animal than he had any idea of; and, in spite of being the strongest party, he might well doubt with whom the victory would ultimately rest.
However, Beaumont's habitual self-command came to his aid, and prevented him showing any irritation, when he stood on the Paddington platform at the window of a smoking carriage, wishing Reginald good-bye.
"I hope you have enjoyed your stay in London," he said heartily.
"So-so," answered Reginald wearily. "I cannot enjoy anything very much, knowing the circumstances of my birth."
"Nonsense! You'll soon forget all about that."
"I don't think so, unfortunately for myself I have not your happy facility for forgetting."
"Pshaw! You are rich, and gold hides everything."
"From the eyes of the world, yes; but not from a man's own sight--nobody knows but the wearer where the shoe pinches."
"If that is the case, let the wearer smile blandly and the world will never guess his shoe doesn't fit him--it's your fools, who wear their hearts on their sleeves, that get the worst word of everyone."
"And the wise man who conceals a vicious life gets the praise," said Blake bitterly. "What a delightful world."
"It's the best of all possible worlds," retorted Beaumont cynically. "I agree with M. Voltaire--besides, the world always takes you at your own valuation; smile, and it smiles; frown, and it looks grim; each man is a mirror to another, and gives back the reflection he receives."
"What cold-blooded philosophy."
"No doubt, but a very necessary philosophy," retorted Beaumont in a good-humoured tone; "it's ridiculous to bring the simplicity of Arcady to Rome. France tried it under the Fourteenth Louis, and the experiment ended in the guillotine and the Carmagnole."
The train was now moving off, so he shook hands with the young man through the open window of the carriage.
"Good-bye," said Reginald heartily, "when you come to Garsworth, I'll be glad to see you, my friend."
"Friend," echoed Beaumont with an evil smile, as the long train steamed away, "next time you see me it will be as your master."