"I like him not--his subtle smileConceals beneath some purpose vile,Tho' bland his gaze and fair his speechOh trust him not, I do beseech;For as a seeming simple flowerMay hide a scent of evil power,Which lures with its envenomedThe trusting wearer to his death;So tho' his tongue may kindly prate,He oathes thee with undying hate."
"I like him not--his subtle smileConceals beneath some purpose vile,Tho' bland his gaze and fair his speechOh trust him not, I do beseech;For as a seeming simple flowerMay hide a scent of evil power,Which lures with its envenomedThe trusting wearer to his death;So tho' his tongue may kindly prate,He oathes thee with undying hate."
Now that Basil Beaumont had succeeded in gaining Una's gratitude, if not her friendship, he determined to next win over Dr. Larcher to his side. He had already managed to gain a certain influence over Reginald Blake, but he saw plainly that the worthy vicar was not prepossessed in his favour, and, as he would prove an invaluable ally should Patience prove dangerous, Beaumont was anxious to impress him with a good estimate of his character.
The cynical man of the world seemed to have changed altogether since his interview with Patience Allerby, and no one seeing the interest he took in the simple pleasures of village life would dream that behind all this apparent simplicity he concealed a subtle design. His acting was in the highest degree artificial, yet so thoroughly true to nature that everyone was deceived and never saw the ravenous wolf hidden under the innocent skin of the lamb.
Of course, Patience Allerby had too minute a knowledge of his real nature to be deceived by the mask of innocence and gaiety he now chose to assume, and as Basil Beaumont knew this only too well, he was anxious to lose no time in raising up to himself an army of well-wishers against the honest indignation of the woman he had deserted should she interfere with his schemes. Mrs. Larcher, Miss Cassy, Una and Reginald had now all an excellent opinion of him, so he was anxious to secure the good wishes of Dr. Larcher, thus leaving Patience to fight her battle single-handed against the crowd of friends he had so dexterously secured.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the season it was a very pleasant day, with a certain warmth and brightness in the air despite the keen wind which was blowing, and on his arrival at the vicarage Beaumont found the young people playing lawn-tennis; Pumpkin and Ferdinand Priggs holding their own in a somewhat erratic fashion against Reginald and Dick Pemberton.
Beaumont sauntered on to the lawn with his everlasting cigarette between his lips, but threw it away as he was hailed joyously by Reginald and the four players, who paused for a moment in the game.
"How do you do, Miss Larcher?" said Beaumont, lazily raising his hat, "this is a comprehensive greeting, and includes everybody. I've called to see the vicar."
"Papa's out just now," observed Pumpkin, "but he will be back soon. Will you wait, Mr. Beaumont?"
"Thank you--I will," answered Beaumont, sitting down on a garden bench.
"Have a game?" cried Reginald, flinging his racquet into the air and catching it dexterously in his hand.
"Too much like hard work."
"Then have some tea," suggested Pumpkin persuasively.
"Ah, that is better, Miss Larcher," replied Beaumont gaily; "yes, I should like some tea."
"Bring it out here," said Dick, who had thrown himself down on the soft green grass, "it will be jolly having a spread outside."
"How you do misuse the Queen's English," murmured Mr. Priggs as Miss Larcher went inside to order the tea.
"Only in prose," retorted Dick coolly, "think how you mutilate it in poetry."
"I'm afraid you're rather severe on Priggs," said Beaumont, who was anxious to conciliate everyone, even the poet, for whom he had a profound contempt.
"You wouldn't say so if you saw his poetry," replied Pemberton laughing.
"Oh, come now, Dick," said Reginald lightly, "that's rather hard--some of Ferdinand's poetry is beautiful."
"And gruesome."
"Dick cares for nothing but music-hall songs," explained the poetic Ferdinand loftily.
"Oh yes, I do--for cake and tea, among other things, and here it comes. Make a rhyme on it, Ferdy."
"Don't call me Ferdy," said Priggs sharply.
"Then Birdie," observed Dick, in a teasing tone, "though you're more like an owl than any other bird."
"Now don't fight," said Pumpkin, who was now seated in front of a rustic table on which the tea-things were set out. "Milk and sugar, Mr. Beaumont?"
"Both, thank you," said Beaumont, bending forward. "By-the-way, I saw Miss Challoner to-day--we were talking about you, Blake."
"Were you indeed?" observed Reginald, rather irritated at the free and easy manner of the speaker.
"Yes--about your voice. I got a letter from a friend of mine in Town, of which I will tell you later on."
"I suppose Reggy will be leaving us all for London soon," said Dick enviously.
"Lucky Reginald," sighed Ferdinand, "I wish I were going to London."
"What, with a bundle of poems in your pocket?" said Reginald laughing. "I'm afraid you wouldn't set the Thames on fire--poetry doesn't pay."
"Nor literature of any sort," observed Dick, "at least, so I understand."
"Then you understand wrong," said Beaumont coolly, "you go by Scott's saying, I presume--that literature is a good staff but a bad crutch--all that is altered now."
"Not as regards poetry."
"No--not as regards poetry certainly, but success in literature greatly depends on the tact of a writer; if a young man goes to London with a translation of Horace or Lucian in his pocket he will find his goods are not wanted; if Milton went to Paternoster Row at the present time, with the MS. of 'Paradise Lost' in his hand, I don't believe he would find a publisher. We talk a great deal of noble poems and beautiful thoughts, but it's curious what unsaleable articles even the best of them are."
"Then what does sell?" asked Ferdinand.
"Anything that pleases the public--a sensational novel--a sparkling Society poem--a brilliant magazine article--a witty play--you'll get plenty of chances to make money with these things; you see people live so rapidly now that they have no time to study in their play hours, therefore they want the very froth and foam of the time served up to them for their reading, so as to take their thoughts off their work. We praise 'Tom Jones' and 'Clarissa' immensely, but who reads them when they can skim the last three volume novel or the latest pungent article on the state of Europe?--no one wants to be instructed now-a-days, but they do want to be amused."
"How do people live in London?" asked Pumpkin, who, being an unsophisticated country maiden, was absolutely ignorant of anything connected with the great metropolis.
"They live with a hansom cab at the door and their watch in their hand," retorted Beaumont cynically; "they give two minutes to one thing, five minutes to another, and think they are enjoying themselves--get a smattering of all things and a thorough knowledge of nothing--the last play, the last book, the last scandal, the latest political complication--they know all these things well enough to chatter about them, but alas for the deep thinker who puts his views before the restless world of London--he will have a very small circle of readers indeed, because no one has any time to ponder over his thoughtful prose."
"Still the power of the stage as a teacher," began Ferdinand, "is really----"
"Is really nothing," interrupted Beaumont sharply; "the stage of the present day is meant to amuse, not teach--no one cares to go to school after school hours; we are not even original in our dramas--we either translate from the French stage, or reproduce Shakespeare with fine scenery and tea-cup and saucer actors."
"Well, you cannot object to Shakespeare," observed Reginald, who was much interested in Beaumont's remarks.
"Certainly not. Shakespeare, like other things, is excellent--in moderation. I quite agree that we should have a national theatre, where the Elizabethan drama should be regularly acted, but our so-called National Theatre devotes itself to gingerbread melodramas, and tries to hide its poverty of thought under a brilliantmise-en-scene; but when you have Shakespeare's plays at three or four theatres and French adaptations at a dozen others, where does the local playwright come in?"
"But from what I hear there are so few good local playwrights," said Dick quickly.
"And whose fault is that?" asked Beaumont acidly, "but the fault of the English nation. France has a strong dramatic school because she produced her own drama to the exclusion of foreign writers; if the English people, who pride themselves on their patriotism, were to refuse to countenance French and German adaptations, the managers would be forced to produce English plays written by English playwrights, and though, very likely, for a time we would have bad workmanship and crude ideas, yet in a few years a dramatic school would be formed; but such an event will never happen while one of our leading playwrights adapts Gallic comedies wholesale and another dramatises old books of the Georgian period. England has not lost her creative power but she's doing her best to stamp it out."
"How terribly severe," said Ferdinand.
"But how terribly true," retorted Beaumont carelessly. "However, I will not preach any more as I'm sure you must all be tired of my chatter--and see, there is Doctor Larcher coming."
He arose to his feet as he spoke, for the vicar came striding across the little lawn like a colossus.
"Tea and scandal, I suppose," he roared in his hearty voice as he shook hands with the artist.
"'Hic innocentis pocula LesbiiDuces sub umbra.'"
"Certainly innocent enough sir," observed Reginald lightly, "but the fact is we have been listening to Mr. Beaumont."
"And the discourse?" asked the vicar, taking a cup of tea from Pumpkin.
"The decadence of Literature and the Drama in England," replied Beaumont with a smile.
"Ah, indeed. I'm afraid, Mr. Beaumont, I know nothing of the drama, except the Bard of Avon----"
"Whom Mr. Beaumont likes, in moderation," interrupted Pumpkin mischievously.
"Certainly," assented Beaumont gravely. "I like all things in moderation."
"Even Horace," whispered Dick to Reginald, who laughed loudly and then apologised for his untimely mirth.
"As to literature," said Dr. Larcher ponderously, "I'm afraid there is rather a falling off--we are frivolous--yes, decidedly frivolous."
"I wish we were anything half so pleasant," remarked Beaumont, "I'm afraid we're decidedly dull."
"The wave of genius which began with this present century," said the vicar pompously, "has now spent its force and to a great extent died away--soon it will gather again and sweep onward."
"If it would only sweep away a few hundred of our present writers, I don't think anyone would mind," said the artist laughing.
"Sed omnes una manet nox," observed Dr. Larcher with a grim smile.
"What, all our present day scribblers? What a delightful thing for the twentieth century."
Dr. Larcher smiled blandly as he set down his cup, for he liked his Horatian allusions to be promptly taken up, and began to think Beaumont rather good company. He nodded kindly to the whole party, and was about to turn away when a sudden thought struck him.
"Do you want to see me, Mr. Beaumont?" he asked looking at the artist.
"Yes, I do," replied that gentleman, rising leisurely to his feet. "I wish to speak to you about Blake, and also I wish Blake to be present."
"Oh, I'll come," cried Reginald, springing forward with alacrity, for he guessed what the conversation would be about.
"Come then to my study," said Dr. Larcher. "Pumpkin, my child, you had better come inside, as the night is coming on."
As the three gentlemen walked towards the house, Pumpkin commenced putting the tea-things together in order to take them inside. Dick, who had risen to his feet, was staring after Beaumont with something like a frown on his fresh, young face.
"What's the matter, Dick?" asked Pumpkin, pausing for a moment.
"Eh?" said Dick, starting a little, "oh, nothing, only I don't like him."
"Whom?"
"Mr. Beaumont," said Pemberton thoughtfully. "I think he's a humbug."
"I'm sure he's a most delightful man," observed Ferdinand loftily.
"Oh, you'd think anyone delightful who praised your poetry," retorted Dick rudely, "but I do not like Beaumont; he's very clever and talks well, no doubt, but he's an outsider all the same."
"What makes you think so?" said Pumpkin, looking at him with the tray in her hands.
"Oh, I can size a man up in two minutes," observed Dick in his usual slangy manner, "and if I was Reggy I wouldn't give that chap the slant to round on me; he says a lot he doesn't mean, and if he's going to run Reggie's show the apple-cart will soon be upset."
Owing to Dick's lavish use of slang, Pumpkin was quite in the dark regarding his meaning, so with a quiet smile walked indoors with the tray.
"Reggy can look after himself all right," observed the poet in a placid tone.
"And a jolly good thing too," cried Dick, eyeing the poetic youth in a savage manner, "but prevention's better than cure, and I wouldn't let Beaumont have a finger in my pie if I were Reggy."
"Ah, you see you're not Reggy."
"I'm uncommonly glad I'm not you," retorted Dick politely. "It must be an awful disagreeable thing for you to know what an arrant idiot you are."
"I'm not an idiot," said Priggs haughtily.
"Not an idiot!" echoed Dick derisively, "why you are such an idiot you don't even know you are one."
Astute is he who mere brute force despisesAnd gains by subtle craft all worldly prizes.
Astute is he who mere brute force despisesAnd gains by subtle craft all worldly prizes.
When the three gentlemen were comfortably seated in the vicar's study, Beaumont, without further preamble, explained his errand.
"You know, sir," he said to genial Dr. Larcher, "that Blake has a very fine voice--a phenomenal tenor voice, which, when properly trained, will make his fortune. Blake tells me he has not decided what line of life to take up, so I propose he should be a singer."
"Oh, I should like it above all things," cried Reginald with the usual thoughtless impulse of youth.
"Wait a moment," observed the vicar cautiously. "I am not much in favour of a theatrical career for you, Reginald, and, this is too important a matter to be decided lightly, so I would like to hear Mr. Beaumont's views on the subject."
"Oh, my views are easily explained," said Beaumont coolly. "I know very well your objections to a theatrical career, Doctor Larcher, and no doubt it is full of temptations to a young man, still, Blake need not sing on the stage, but make his appearance on the concert-platform--good tenors are rare, so he will soon have plenty of work and make an excellent income."
"And what do you propose to do?" asked the vicar thoughtfully.
"That is the point I am coming to," explained Beaumont quickly. "I am not a rich man myself, but I know many people in Town who are wealthy; if Blake will come up to Town with me, I will undertake to find sufficient money to give him a first class training as a singer; when he makes a success--and I have very little doubt he will do so--he can pay me back the money advanced and a certain percentage for the loan and risk: then of course he will have an excellent profession and be able to earn his own living."
"London is full of temptation to a young man," observed Dr. Larcher doubtfully.
"A young man must take his chance about that," replied Beaumont satirically. "Of course Blake will be with me and for my own sake I will do my best to keep him out of harm's way; but you surely don't want him to stay in this village all his life, wrapped up in cotton wool?"
"I'm not in the habit of being wrapped up in cotton wool," cried Reginald, piqued at the artist's tone, "and I daresay if I was in London I could look after myself without anybody's help."
"I've no doubt you could," replied Beaumont cordially, "all I offer you is assistance. Now what do you say, Dr. Larcher?"
"At present, I can say nothing," answered the vicar slowly. "Reginald is as dear to me as if he was my own son, and the choice of a career is not lightly to be decided upon. I had hoped he would become a curate, and then there would have been no necessity for his leaving me."
"I don't think I would have made a good curate," said Blake shaking his head, "and though I love this dear old village very much, yet I want to see a little of the world--my voice is my only talent, so the sooner I make use of it the better."
"Quod adest memento componere aquus," quoted the vicar significantly.
"Dum loquimur, fugerit invida ætas," replied Reginald quickly.
"Fairly answered," said the vicar with a half sigh. "Yes, I suppose you must take advantage of flying time and it is no use for you to waste your life in idleness. Would you like to be a singer?"
"I think so," said Blake after a pause. "Of course I am anxious to make my own way in the world, and unless I make use of my one talent I do not see how I am to do so."
"I wish I had your one talent," observed Beaumont, rather enviously; "I would not rail against fate--well Doctor Larcher, and what is your decision?"
"I cannot give it to you now," said the old man rising, "it is too important a matter to be dismissed lightly. I will let you have an answer in a few days. Still, Mr. Beaumont, I must thank you for your kind intentions regarding Reginald."
"Only too glad to be of service," replied Beaumont, with a bow.
"Meantime," said the vicar genially, "you must stop and have some dinner with us."
"Delighted," responded Beaumont, and went away with Reginald, very well satisfied with the result of the interview.
After dinner, hearing that a visitor was in the house Mrs. Larcher, who had been lying down all day under the influence of "The Affliction," made her appearance and greeted Beaumont with great cordiality.
"So pleased to see you," she said graciously, when she was established on the sofa amid a multiplicity of wraps and pillows; "quite a treat to have some one to talk to."
"Come, come, my dear, this is rather hard upon us," said the vicar good-humouredly.
"I mean some one new," explained Mrs. Larcher graciously. "I am so fond of company, but owing to my affliction see very, very few people; it's a great deprivation to me I assure you."
"No doubt," assented Beaumont, rather bored by the constant flow of Mrs. Larcher's conversation, "but I hope you will soon quite recover from your illness and then you can mix with the world."
"Never, ah never," murmured Mrs. Larcher, looking up to the ceiling. "I'm a wreck--positively a wreck--I will never, never be what I was--I suffer from so many things, do I not, Eleanor Gwendoline?"
"You do, mama," replied that damsel who was seated at the piano. "But you would not object to a little music, would you, dear?"
"If it's soft, no," answered the invalid wearily, "but dear Reginald, do not sing loud songs, they are so bad for my nerves."
"All right," replied Reginald, and forthwith sang a sentimental ditty called "Loneliness," which had dreary words and equally dreary music.
"I do wish song writers and their poets would invent something new," observed Beaumont when this lachrymose ballad came to an end, "one gets so weary of broken hearts and all that rubbish."
"I quite agree with you, Mr. Beaumont," said Dr. Larcher emphatically. "I observe in the songs of the present day a tendency to effeminate bewailings which I infinitely deplore. We have, I am afraid, lost in a great measure, the manliness of Dibdin and the joyous ideas of the Jacobean lyricists."
"What about the sea songs?" asked Dick, "they are jolly enough."
"No doubt," replied Beaumont, "'Nancy Lee' and the 'Three Jolly Sailor Boys,' have a breezy ring about them, but this sugar and water sentimentality now so much in vogue is simply horrible--it's a great pity a reaction does not set in, then we would have a more healthy tone."
"Still there is a fascination about sorrow which neither poet nor musician can resist," observed Ferdinand Priggs, who was anxious to read one of his poems to the company.
"I dare say," said Beaumont quickly; "but there is a great tendency to morbidness, too much use of broken hearts and minor keys, in fact the whole tendency of the age is pessimistic--we are always regretting the past, deploring the present, and dreading the future."
"I think that has been the case in all ages of the world," observed the vicar; "man has invariably talked of the prosperity of the past, and the decadence of the present."
"The past is past, and the dead are dead," murmured the poet thoughtfully.
"A quotation?" asked Beaumont, struck with the remark.
"From a poem of my own," said Ferdinand quickly, "which I would like to read."
"By all means, my boy," asserted the vicar heartily. "Read on."
All the company glanced at one another and Dick groaned audibly, while Mrs. Larcher settled herself in her pillows with a sigh of resignation. But the poet rejoiced that he had succeeded in gaining a hearing, and producing from his pocket a carefully written manuscript read the following poem in a carefully modulated voice:--
I.Oh, I am weary of idle songsOf lords and ladies and olden time,All their mirth to the past belongs,Sorrow sounds in our present rhyme.Joy-bells change to the death-bell's chime,Age is bitter and youth hath fled,Gone is the season of hope sublime,The past is past, and the dead are dead.II.Ladies I loved in those far-off days,Where are ye now with your golden hair?My locks are white neath a crown of bays,But youth's rose-crown was to me more fair.My heart was captured in many a snareEnmeshed in ringlets of gold outspread,Now in my heart lurks a bleak despair.The past is past, and the dead are dead.III.Many the goblets of wine I quaffedTo health of dames who were fair and frail,A kiss of the hand and a plumed hat doffed.Then away to the wars in a coat of mail.But, ah, that armour could not prevailAgainst your eyes and your lips so red,Nay, but such thoughts are a twice-told tale,The past is past, and the dead are dead.ENVOI.Time, wilt thou never let me forgetThose perished days till I'm cased in lead?Folly to dream with such vague regret,The past is past, and the dead are dead.
Oh, I am weary of idle songs
Of lords and ladies and olden time,
All their mirth to the past belongs,
Sorrow sounds in our present rhyme.
Joy-bells change to the death-bell's chime,
Age is bitter and youth hath fled,
Gone is the season of hope sublime,
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
Ladies I loved in those far-off days,
Where are ye now with your golden hair?
My locks are white neath a crown of bays,
But youth's rose-crown was to me more fair.
My heart was captured in many a snare
Enmeshed in ringlets of gold outspread,
Now in my heart lurks a bleak despair.
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
Many the goblets of wine I quaffed
To health of dames who were fair and frail,
A kiss of the hand and a plumed hat doffed.
Then away to the wars in a coat of mail.
But, ah, that armour could not prevail
Against your eyes and your lips so red,
Nay, but such thoughts are a twice-told tale,
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
Time, wilt thou never let me forget
Those perished days till I'm cased in lead?
Folly to dream with such vague regret,
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
"The style is Villon, I see," observed Beaumont, when the poet ended.
"It's more than the genius is," muttered Dick, who cherished a deadly hatred of Ferdinand's poetry.
"I like your refrain, my dear Ferdinand," observed the vicar graciously; "it has a certain pleasant lilt about it, but I'm afraid your verses are somewhat gruesome. Still, they have merit. Oh, yes, they have merit."
"I'm glad you think so," said the modest poet humbly, to whom praise was as rain on thirsty flowers. "I hope to do better soon."
"I've no doubt you will," said Beaumont, rather sorry for the poor youth, who was blushing painfully. "Your verses are, to a certain extent, an echo of Villon, still you have a musical ear, and that is a great thing. If I may be permitted to give an opinion I rather think your views are a trifle pessimistic."
"Just what we were talking about," cried Reginald gaily. "A regret for the past and a lament for the present."
"It is the spirit of the age," sighed Ferdinand, putting the poem in his pocket. "It is hard to escape its influence."
"If any one had a chance of escaping it you ought to be the individual," said Beaumont, with a smile. "In London, where the latest ideas are floating in the air, it is difficult to be original, but out here, where the work is standing still, you ought to have struck out a new line. I'm afraid your poetry comes from books, not from Nature."
"Why so?" demanded Ferdinand, rather nettled.
"By the very fact that you used in that ballade an exotic form of rhyme, and the ideas therein are the dreary, hopeless sorrows of a worn-out world. Sing, like Herrick of the things around you,
'Of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers,Of April, May, of June and July flowers,'
'Of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers,Of April, May, of June and July flowers,'
then you will probably strike a new note."
"I don't think much of Herrick," muttered Ferdinand proudly.
"Too cheerful, perhaps?" said Beaumont sarcastically. "That's a pity, as I see you are in danger of joining the dyspeptic school of poets, of whom we have been talking. Don't have too much gaslight about your muse, my dear boy, but let her be the buxom nymph of that charming old pagan, Robert Herrick."
"Your remarks are very sensible," observed the vicar heartily, as Beaumont rose to go. "If poetry must be written, let it be natural poetry. There is too much of the dissecting-table and charnel-house about our modern rhymists."
"It's the dead world of the past which presses on the dying world of the present," said Ferdinand, gloomily.
"Oh, bosh!" cried Dick, in disgust. "Your liver's out of order, my dear chap, that's what's the matter with you."
The outraged poet withdrew in haughty dignity, while Beaumont took his leave of this kindly family circle, who pressed him to come again, so much had they enjoyed his company.
"Come again," muttered Beaumont to himself, as he strolled back to the inn, with a cigarette between his lips. "I should rather think so. I've won the vicar's heart by my disinterested affection for hisprotégé. It's wonderful, the effect of a little diplomacy--so much better than outward defiance. I think, my dear Patience, that should you take it into your foolish head to malign me, you will find it a more difficult task than you think. Diplomacy is the only weapon I can use against a woman like you, and it's an uncommonly useful weapon when properly used."
"He is a manFull of strange thoughts, and fancies whimsical,Who dreams of dreams that make his life a dream.And had he powers supernal at command,Would tumble heaven itself about our earsIn his mad searchings for--I wot not what."
"He is a manFull of strange thoughts, and fancies whimsical,Who dreams of dreams that make his life a dream.And had he powers supernal at command,Would tumble heaven itself about our earsIn his mad searchings for--I wot not what."
The room which Beaumont had turned into a studio while painting Squire Garsworth's portrait, overlooked the terrace on to which the French windows opened. It was the drawing-room of the Grange, and was magnificently furnished in the ponderous style of the Georgian period, though now, being but rarely used, an air of desertion and decay seemed to linger about it. The windows, however, being large and curtainless, there was an excellent light to paint by, so Basil established his easel near the centre window, and placed the squire at one further along, in order that the full light should fall on his withered face, showing the multitudinous wrinkles and stern expression that made it a study worthy of Rembrandt. Beaumont often glanced at the attenuated form lying listlessly back in the great arm-chair, and wondered what curious event had changed this man from an idle reveller into an industrious scholar.
Above was the painted ceiling of the apartment, whereon gods and goddesses, in faded tints, disported themselves among dingy blue clouds, surrounded by cupids, sea-horses, rising suns and waning moons, while, below, a threadbare carpet covered the polished floor but imperfectly. A huge marble fireplace, cold and black-looking, heavy, cumbersome chairs, solid-looking tables, a quaint old spinet with thin legs and several comfortable-looking sofas, filled up the room. There were also grim-looking faces frowning from the walls, cabinets filled with grotesque china, now worth its weight in gold, bizarre ornaments from India and China, and many other quaint things, which made the apartment look like a curiosity-shop to the refined taste of the artist. But in spite of the old-time magnificence of the place, spiders spun their webs in the corners, grey dust lay thickly around, and a chill, tomb-like feeling pervaded the room. Even the cheerful sunlight could not lift the heavy shadow which seemed to brood over it, and it seemed, in its loneliness, to be a chamber of some enchanted palace, such as we read of in eastern tales.
Nor was the proprietor out of place in this decayed realm of former grandeur, for he looked old and weird enough to have been coeval with the pristine splendours of the Grange. The worn face, the sudden gleams of insane fire from the deeply-set eyes, the snowy, sparse hair that fell from under the black skull-cap, and the sombre robe, all seemed to be the semblance of some hoary necromancer rich in malignant spells of magic.
Had Randal Garsworth mixed with the world he would have been a different creature. Had he gone abroad among his fellow men and taken an interest in their ideas concerning politics, literature, and music, he would have retained a healthy mind by such generalization of his intellect. But, shutting himself up, as he had done, in a lonely house, and concentrating his mind upon himself, he lapsed into a morbid state which prepared him for the reception of any fantastical idea. While thus lingering in this unhealthy life, he chanced upon the curious doctrine of metempsychosis, and it speedily took possession of his diseased mind, already strongly inclined towards strange searchings. The weirdness of the Pythagorean theory appealed to his love of the whimsical, and he became a monomaniac on the subject. Under the influence of a lonely life, ardent studies of the philosophers who supported the theory of transmigration, and his selfish application of these wild doctrines to his own soul, the monomania under which he laboured deepened into madness.
To all appearances he conducted himself in a rational manner, though slightly eccentric, but with his firm belief in metempsychosis, and his preparations for his future incarnation he could hardly be called sane. Yet he conducted all business matters with admirable skill, and in spite of the dilapidated state of the Grange, his farms were well managed, and his tenants found no cause to complain of neglect on the part of their landlord. Like all madmen, he was a profound egotist, and absorbed in his belief of a re-incarnation on this earth, he paid no heed to the claims of relatives or friends, neglecting all social duties in order to devote himself entirely to his favourite delusions. Such was the man who sat before Basil Beaumont, by whose skilful brush and genuine talent the strange face of the recluse was rapidly being transferred to the canvas in the most life-like manner.
"I hope this portrait will please you," said Beaumont, breaking the silence which had lasted some minutes, "it's the best thing I have ever done."
"Is it?" replied Garsworth, vaguely, his mind being far away, occupied with some abstruse thought. "Yes, of course. What did you say?"
"I hope you'll like the picture," repeated Beaumont, slowly.
"Of course I will," said the squire, quickly. "I want to see myself in the future as I am now. Some people look back on their portraits taken in youth, and see a faint semblance of their old age in the unwrinkled faces, but I will see this picture when in a new body which will have no resemblance in its form to the withered shape I now bear."
"A strange doctrine."
"As you say--a strange doctrine," said Garsworth, warming with his subject, "but a very true one. My body is old and worn out. Physically, I am an irreparable wreck, but my soul is as lusty, fresh and eager as it was in the days of my youth. Why, then, should not my true entity shed this worn-out, fleshly envelope as a snake does its skin, and enter into a new one replete with the vigour of youth?"
"A difficult question to answer," replied Beaumont, calmly, "very, very difficult. We have no proof that such a thing can happen."
"You are a materialist?"
"Pardon me, no. A materialist, as I understand the word, denies the independent existence of spirit; I do not. I believe our spirits or souls to be immortal: but, as to this re-incarnation theory--it is a dream of Pythagoras."
"It was a dream of many before Pythagoras, and has been the dream of many since," rejoined Garsworth, coldly. "The Egyptians, the Hindoos and the Buddhists all accepted the doctrine, although each treated it according to their different religions. In our modern days Lessing believed in it; and if you have read the writings of Kardec you will find that re-incarnation is the very soul of the spiritist belief."
Beaumont sneered.
"I can't say I have much faith in the maunderings of spiritualists. Table-turning and spirit-rapping may be very pleasant as an amusement; but as a religion--bah!"
"You talk like that because you don't understand the subject. The things you mention are only the outward manifestation of spiritualism. If you read Kardec's books you would find that the true theory of spiritualism is transmigration. Spirits are incarnated in human bodies in order to work out their own advancement. If they resist temptation while in the flesh, they enter into a higher sphere, in order to advance another step. If they fail to lead a pure life, they again become re-incarnated in the flesh to make another effort; but they never retrograde."
"And you believe in this doctrine?" asked Beaumont, incredulously.
"With certain reservations--yes."
"And those reservations?"
"I need not mention all, but I will tell you one as an example. The spiritists deny that we remember former existences--I believe we do."
"Oh! and you think in your next body you will remember your incarnation as Squire Garsworth?"
"I do."
"Do you remember your former existences?"
"Some of them."
"Why not all?"
"Because some of the lives I then lived were base in the extreme, and not worthy of remembrance, so I forgot them--in the same way as you forget disagreeable things and only have thoughts of agreeable events."
"Will you tell me some of your former existences?"
"It would be hardly worth while," replied the squire, irritably, "as you would only look upon my narration as a fairy-tale. But I can tell you what I was--an Egyptian prince, a Roman soldier, a Spanish Moor, and an English pauper in the reign of Elizabeth."
Beaumont looked in astonishment at the old man, glibly running off this fantastic list.
"And since the pauper stage?" he asked, smothering a smile.
"I have been re-incarnated in this present form," responded the squire, gravely; "it is because I experienced poverty in my last existence that I am saving money now."
"I don't understand."
"To keep myself during my next incarnation."
The artist was becoming quite bewildered at hearing this farrago of nonsense uttered in such a serious tone. However the conversation was so extraordinary that he could not forbear humouring the madman.
"A very laudable intention," he said, quietly, "but as you will be someone else in your next incarnation, how are you going to claim Squire Garsworth's money?"
"Ah!" responded the squire, with a cunning smile, "that is my secret; I have arranged all that in a most admirable way. I can claim my own money without any trouble."
"But suppose you are born a savage?"
"I will not be born a savage--that would be retrogression, and spirits never retrograde."
"Well," said Beaumont, rising to his feet, and putting his brushes away, "your conversation is getting too deep for me, Mr. Garsworth. I understand your metempsychosis theory all right, though I don't agree with it; but I fail to see how you are going to arrange about getting your own money."
"No, no!" replied Garsworth, raising his form, tall and gaunt, against the bright light outside, "of course not; that is my secret. No one will know--not one! Is your sitting finished?"
"Yes, for to-day."
"Come to-morrow--come to-morrow!" said the old man, coming round to look at the picture, "no time to be lost, I may die before it's done, and then I won't be able to see myself as I was: but Nestley will keep me alive--good doctor--very good doctor--paid him handsomely--yes, handsomely! Good-bye for to-day, Mr. Beaumont. Don't forget to-morrow; I may die--no time to lose--good-bye!"
The old man shuffled tremulously out of the room, and Beaumont stood looking after him with a puzzled smile on his lips. He began to put his paraphernalia away slowly and talked softly to himself meanwhile.
"I wonder if there's any sense in the old fool's ravings--I don't believe in this incarnation rubbish--but he's got some scheme in his head about that money--I'd like to find it out--there might be something in it by which I could benefit--he's a madman sure enough but still there is method in his madness--however, I'll try to discover his secret somehow."
He lighted a cigarette and sauntered out on to the terrace, thinking over the chances of finding out the Squire's secret with a view to turning it to his own account. Apparently his cogitations led to some result, for after standing for a few minutes at the end of the terrace in a brown study, he removed his cigarette from his mouth and uttered one word:
"Hypnotism."
The viols sound in festal hallWhere come the merry mummers all,The minstrels sing their roundelayOf doughty knights and ladies gay,And as the carol music swellsThe jester shakes his cap and bells,While lords and dames of high degreeApprove the Christ-tide revelryAnd happy in the pleasant dinAmazed the foolish rustics grin.
The viols sound in festal hallWhere come the merry mummers all,The minstrels sing their roundelayOf doughty knights and ladies gay,And as the carol music swellsThe jester shakes his cap and bells,While lords and dames of high degreeApprove the Christ-tide revelryAnd happy in the pleasant dinAmazed the foolish rustics grin.
The school-room was a long, old-fashioned apartment, with plain oak walls and a high roof. The wide windows were set low down, and when seated at their desks the scholars could look out and see the old stone cross of the market-place and the heavily foliaged elms that waved their green leaves in front of the queer red-tiled houses. The walls were hung round with maps of the five divisions of the world, and above the teacher's desk, which was set on a raised daïs, appeared a map of the world itself. On this occasion the ink-splashed desk of the teacher was removed and in its place stood a small cottage piano. Dark red curtains hung down from brass rods on either side so that the dais was transformed into a very fair stage, while at the back decorative effect was obtained by a Union Jack being gracefully festooned over the Royal arms, painted by the village artist.
The desks of the scholars being immovable were left in their places, and the audience--which comprised nearly the whole population of the village--sat like rows of elderly pupils ready to be instructed. Forms and desks were ranged in the centre of the room and there was a narrow walk on either side leading down to the wide door at the end of the building which was continually opening and shutting to admit late arrivals and exclude a view of the festive preparations from the penniless crowd outside who could not afford the necessary coppers for entrance fee. Illumination was provided by six oil lamps, three on each side, set in metal brackets, and from the centre of the roof over the stage hung a larger lamp, while the piano was further adorned with two weakly-looking tallow candles for the convenience of the musician.
The school-mistress, Miss Busky, a dried-up prim-looking little woman, who resembled a cork fairy more than anything else, had further ornamented the bare room by wreathing round the maps and lamps strings of coloured paper flowers manufactured by artistically inclined pupils, and even the legs of the piano were swathed in these tissue paper decorations. Over the stage there was also a large placard bearing the word "Welcome" wreathed with artificial flowers, so that Miss Busky on surveying her handiwork felt quite content with the general effect of luxury produced by herself and her satellites. The programme was neatly written out by the best writers in the school, and handed only to favoured visitors as these efforts of penmanship were few in number. The visitors themselves, red, lusty country folk, had come from far and near to the concert, and the little school-room was uncomfortably full, but owing to the fierce efforts of Miss Busky, who bounced about like an india-rubber ball, everyone was at last comfortably settled.
Mrs. Larcher and Pumpkin taking no part in the performance were accommodated with front seats, together with many of the country gentry, who always patronised these entertainments at the urgent request of the vicar, who greatly believed in good feeling and friendliness existing between the lords of the soil and their tenants.
And now amid a great clapping of hands and stamping of heavily shod feet the popular vicar himself appeared on the stage as chairman, and took his seat beside a small table adorned with a jug of water, a glass and a programme.
Dr. Larcher made a short speech, ending with a quotation from his favourite poet: