The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Storm of London, by F. Dickberry

“‘Clothes,’ said Carlyle, ‘gave us individuality, distinctions, social polity; Clothes have made men of us; they are threatening to make Clothes-screens of us.’ This truth has been developed in an audacious manner by the author, who is not lacking in sarcasm and humour, and in a lucky moment of inspiration he has produced a book which will find hosts of readers for its originality, will be a topic of the moment for its daring, and will demand more permanent recognition for the truths which it unveils.”—St James’s Gazette.

“A book which is as amusing as it is audacious in its pictures of Society compelled to adopt the primitive attire of an Edenic age.”—Truth.

“London is turned into a huge Eden peopled with Adams and Eves in all the pristine simplicity of the altogether nude.”—Aberdeen Journal.

“Any amount of wit and literary skill ... the audacity of such a literary enterprise.”—Scotsman.

“Everybody should read this uncommon and curiously persuasive fiction, that by the aid of realism, humour, and of wistful fancy, conveys an impression not likely to be quickly lost.”—Dundee Advertiser.

“The author is at once bold and restrained in his picture of a London entirely deprived of clothes.”—T. P.’s Weekly.

“The shocks and complications that ensue should appeal to all lovers of fiction.”—Pall Mall Gazette. (First Notice.)

“The author has written an extraordinary book, daring and remarkable.”—Daily Express.

“A daring theme treated with admirable discretion. The story is singularly well told.”—Birmingham Gazette.

“Everybody is in a state of nudity, and the developments are interesting as all England is in the same interesting predicament. The book is distinctly peculiar, and the writer may be congratulated on his development of Carlyle’s speculations upon the state of Society rendered clothesless.”—Bristol Times & Mirror.

“We have seldom perused a more fascinating book; a most daring idea, most capably worked out. It is a book that no one should miss.”—Varsity.

“The idea is certainly original, the book is selling wildly, critics praise it ... one of the books of the season.”—Hearth & Home.

The Earl of Somerville was coming out of the Agricultural Hall and just stepping into his brougham, when a few drops of rain began to fall and a distant clap of thunder was heard. But it would no doubt be over in a few minutes; only a passing shower which would dispel the clouds, clear the leaden atmosphere, and in no way interfere with the midnight picnic to which Lord Somerville was going.

The day had been oppressively hot, and although it was only the second of May, one might have easily believed it to be the month of July. It was fortunate, for several entertainments were organised in that early period of the London Season—theatricals and bazaars, private and public, were announced for every day of the first weeks in May, for the benefit of soldiers’ widows, East-End sufferers and West-End vanities. In fact, never had Londoners’ hearts beaten more passionately for the sorrows and 8miseries of their fellow-creatures than at the present moment; and it would have been a pity had the charitable efforts of Society leaders been chilled by cutting east winds or drenching downpours of rain. The picnic to which the Earl was going, was to be held in Richmond Park, by torchlight, between midnight and the early hours of the morning. All Society was to be there. The Duchess of Southdown was to take a prominent part in the entertainment. Object lessons in rat catching were to be the chief attraction, as fashionable women had been chosen to take the parts of the rats, and to be chased, hunted, and finally caught by smart men of Society. Great fun was expected from this novel game, and the Upper Ten looked forward to that picnic with excitement. Before this nocturnal episode, there was to be a Tournament at Islington’s Agricultural Hall. “London, by Day and by Night,” was to be represented, in all its graphic aspects, by amateur artists of the Upper Ten, who were always ready to give their services for such a good cause as the S.P.G. But then Society is invariably ready to enter the lists where combatants fight for a noble cause, and it is never seen to shirk ridicule or notoriety, but on the contrary to expose the inefficiencies of its members to the gaping eyes of an ignorant public.

9“By God!” exclaimed Lord Somerville as he leaned back on the cushions of his brougham, “I never realised the brutal ferocity of London life until I saw its nocturnal Bacchanals synthesised within so many square feet.”

He passed in review, in his mind’s eye, what he had seen:—Lady Carlton in the leading part of the wildest of street rovers, cigarette in her mouth, reeling from one side of the pavement to the other, nudging this one, thrusting her cigarette under the nose of another, pulling the beard of a stolid policeman, vociferating at the cab drivers. Lord Somerville had seen a good deal of what these women were trying to impersonate, but he never remembered having blushed so deeply, nor of having been so conscious of shame, as he felt that night. But this was only the beginning of the show. The last tableau was most striking. The front of the houses, represented by painted scenery, suddenly rolled off as by enchantment, and there, in view of a breathless public, were to be seen the interiors of gambling houses, massage establishments, night clubs—you can guess the rest! This final scene was all pantomimic, and although not one word was spoken, still, the despair of the man who sees his gold raked away on the green baize, the heartrending bargains of human flesh for a few hours of oblivion, were vivid pictures which left 10very few shreds of illusions in the minds of a dumbfounded audience. Then came the grand finale of hurry and skurry between the police and the gamblers and night revellers of all sorts; and this was a triumph of mise-en-scène and animation. To make it still more realistic, the Countess of Lundy had elected to appear in a night wrap, as two constables made a raid on the so-called massage establishment. But what a night wrap! The Earl smiled as he recalled the masterpiece in which Doucet of Paris had surpassed himself, revealing with subtle suggestiveness the lissome shape of arms and legs, and full curves of the breast through a foam of white lace and chiffon. As he sat in the darkness of his brougham, he closed his eyes and saw the Countess as she had stood in front of the footlights, unblushingly courting the approval of her public; and he still heard in his ears the furious applause of London Society gathered that night in Islington Hall. What had most struck this leader of fashion was the total ignorance in which one class of well-fed, well-protected human beings lived of all miseries that unshielded thousands have to bear. He thought of the many women on whom he daily called, dined with, joked with; how many possessed that ferocious glance of the pleasure-seeker, the audacious stare of the flesh hunter; but he had 11never noticed in any of these fearless women of his world the slightest slackening of tyranny, nor had he ever noticed, for one moment even, the pathetic humility of the hunted-down street angler, which is after all her one redeeming feature in that erotic tragedy.

Evidently the performance had been a decided success, and would doubtless be a pecuniary triumph. The Bishop of Sunbury, seated near the Earl at the show, had largely expatiated on the good of rummaging into the puddle of London sewers, as he called it in his clerical language. It was by diving deep into the mud that one could drag out one’s erring brothers and sisters, and by bringing London face to face with its social problems one was able to grapple with the enemy—sin. At least, so thought the Bishop, and he endeavoured to persuade the Earl, which was a more difficult task than he believed. The prelate, holding Lord Somerville by one of his waistcoat buttons, had tried to make him appreciate Society’s unselfishness. “My dear Lord Somerville, we hear all about the frivolity of our privileged classes; much is said against them—too much, I fear, is written against the callousness of fashionable women; but I assure you, it is unjust. Many of these sisters of ours, who have to-night moved the public to enthusiasm, have themselves their burden to bear, and many have wept bitter tears over some lost one in Africa. Well, to 12quote one of them: as you know, the Countess of Lundy—who personified the matron of one of these disgraceful establishments—has last week lost her cherished brother (poor fellow, he died of wounds); but there you see her at her post of duty.”

“More shame on her,” had murmured the Earl, but the Bishop did not hear, or would not, and had walked away.

“By God!”—and the Earl brought down his fist on his knee—“these women have made me see to what depth a woman can sink. And I am going to another of these exhibitions—I am heartily sick of it all.” As he was putting down a window to tell his coachman to turn back to Selby House, the brougham suddenly stopped, and a torrent of rain came through the open window.

“My lord, I cannot get along. We’ve reached Barnes, but the wind and rain is that strong, the ’orses won’t face it.”

“Turn back by all means. The picnic could not take place in such a storm.” And he closed the window, laughing heartily at Society’s disappointment.

“Well, they are defrauded of their new game, and I am spared another display of female degradation.”

Whether it was owing to the violence of the storm, or to the morbidness into which the last 13performance had thrown him, is difficult to tell, but Lord Somerville was in a despondent mood and on the brink of mental collapse, and as they are wont in such cases, visions of his past life kept passing to and fro before his half-closed eyes. He was going home! In any case it was better than this infernal comedy of fun and pleasure which invariably ended in gloom and disgust. His home was loneliness made noisy. He lived alone in that palatial mansion in Mayfair; but solitary his life had not been, since his father had left him heir to all sorts of properties, privileges and prejudices. His house had ever since been invaded by men and women of all descriptions. Some were morning callers, some afternoon ones; these were the dowagers and respectable members of the Upper Ten who accepted his invitations to a cup of tea, and made it a pretext to submit to his inspection some human goods for sale. The others were night visitors, and easily dealt with, for their business was direct and personal. Men found him unsatisfactory, for he objected to being made use of, was inaccessible to flattery, and steadily rebuked all attempts at familiarity. He never showed himself ungallant towards the fair sex, but on the contrary was liberal and even grateful for all he received; in fact he was thoroughly just and business-like in the market-place of life, and treated his visitors well, whether they were guests 14from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m., or carousers from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. One thing he strongly disliked, that was any man or woman peeping at a corner of his heart. He often thought he had none, for it had never yet been in request in all his business transactions with Society. Although he had paddled in all the filthy sewers of London and foreign capitals, he somehow had a knack of brushing himself clean of all outward grime; but what he never had been able to get rid of was a nasty flavour which clung to his lips, and which no woman’s kiss could ever take away, nor any Havana cigar dispel. That mephitic taste of life was always on his lips, and to-night it was more deadly bitter than ever. Perhaps the flavour became more noxious as before his mind’s eye passed the vision of Gwendolen Towerbridge, the famous Society beauty. Not only did he thoroughly dislike the girl, but his pride was sorely wounded at having been caught by her. Yes, he was engaged—what the world called engaged—to her. How did it happen? Ah! Few men could really tell how they had been captured. A supper, the top of a coach when returning late from the races; sometimes even less than that: a glass of champagne too many, or a bodice cut too low. These certainly were not important primal causes, but they often were found to be at the fountain-head of many family disasters. The 15women he had known were divided into two classes: the one that had run the social race, won the prize, and who certainly looked the worse for the course, mentally sweating, and in dire need of a vigorous sponge down; and the other that started for the post, all aglow with the desire to win at any cost and whatever the means, foul or fair, for a little cheating was encouraged, and often practised, on the Turf.

How many more seasons would he have to stand there and watch the ebb and flow of the feminine tide? He had for such a long time felt on his brow the breath of the mare as she galloped past him; and he had too often heard the feverish snort of the winner as she came back, led by her master’s groom. He knew no others. Perhaps a country lass, purely brought up by Christian parents, would modestly wait on a stile until she was won; but that girl would have no repartie, and would look mystified at a problem play. No doubt, in the suburbs there existed women whose sole ambition was to help a life companion in the search of true happiness, who padded the monotonous life of some City clerk who regularly came back by the 6.15 train, bringing home Tit-Bits for the evening recreation, and Home Chat for household requirements. Bah! that woman never could analyse the psychology of cookery, and besides, she was not a lady. He was an epicure in 16the culinary art, and thirsted for something he had not yet met with: a lady who would be a perfect woman. Then came the war; and he longed to escape the routine of London life and Gwendolen’s incessant requests for presents: he started for South Africa, hoping to lose there the nasty taste that was forever on his lips. Gwendolen soon followed, escorted by some of her friends and their numerous trunks. New frocks were shaken out, bonnets were twisted back into their original shapes, and an improvised season was inaugurated in one of the South African towns, to the utter disgust of her fiancé, who, having been wounded, had the misfortune of seeing her parade daily round his bed. The sights he witnessed sickened him unto death; the amalgam of frivolity and callousness seemed to him more irrelevant in that new country, and the physical excitement and interest of danger having worn itself off, he very soon realised that the old game of war must necessarily be played out in a civilisation that boasts of commercial supremacy, and whose scientific discoveries are daily endeavouring to bring nations nearer to one another. He returned to England on sick leave, more embittered than heretofore with Gwendolen, London, and himself. He frequently sat at twilight in his large library at Selby House, wondering whether this was all a fellow could do with his life, and whether the 17other side was not more entertaining than this rotten old stage? To-night, as he drove in his carriage, listening to the crashing of the thunder, every event of his life came back to him in strong relief and vivid colours, and the prospect of joining in holy matrimony with Gwendolen seemed more than he could bear. Perhaps the taste of death that he so nearly met with in Africa came to him at this hour of night, when all the elements were at war against man; and he came to the conclusion that he was not obliged to submit to life’s platitudes any longer. A gentleman should always quit a card table when he has been cheated. Life had cheated him, and he resolved to leave life. The other side of Acheron could not be a worse fraud than this; besides, he knew all about this world, there was nothing that could astonish him any more, nor keep his attention riveted for more than five minutes. Why not try the experiment? If it were complete oblivion, so much the better, he did not object to a long sleep out of which he would never wake. If it were, as so many declared, eternal punishment—well, the retribution could never, in all its black horror, be any worse than the gnawing heartache of the life in which we were chained.

The brougham rolled on, and very soon Lord Somerville knew he was in the heart of London. The streets were flooded, passengers were rushing 18along, in vain trying to get into omnibuses or hansoms; shouting, whistling, rent the damp atmosphere, competing with claps of thunder which at times alarmed the inhabitants, especially when the electric lights suddenly went out and Londoners were plunged for a few minutes into utter darkness. Lord Somerville could not remember having ever witnessed such a thunderstorm in town; still, he welcomed its magnitude with joy, for it was the proper accompaniment to his frenzy against an inadequate state of Society. The wheels turned the corner of Piccadilly and Park Lane, not without risk, for the obscurity was dangerous, and in a few seconds the carriage halted before his stately mansion; he opened the door, jumped out, and went into the house without turning round to give orders for next day to his coachman. This seemed peculiar to the servant, as he knew my lord to be very methodical in all that concerned his household.

The Earl entered his library, and after lighting a few electric lights, which were only now throwing a dim and lurid light into the large room, he sank down into a huge armchair. It was very quiet in that room; double doors and double windows shut out the noise of the splashing rain against the window-panes, the thunder even was less violent in this well-padded room, and the lightning could not pierce through the shutters and the 19thick brocaded draperies. After the fracas of the streets, it seemed to him as if he had already entered the Valley of Death as he sat in this silent place. The picture of his late father was hanging on the panel in front of him, and he looked at it for a considerable time. What could that face tell him at this critical hour, when for long years of his time he had never found one convincing argument with which to enlighten his son on all the grave problems of existence? It was always the same answers to the same inquiries: “My boy, others have gone through life besides yourself, and found it no worse than I have. Don’t think too hard, leave that to those who have to use their brains for a livelihood. You have a bed ready made to lie on, do not complain that it is too soft; but do not forget that you are a gentleman, and that when you have passed a few turnpikes of life—let us say, Eton, Oxford, the War or the Foreign Office—you can do whatever you like, for you are then innocuous; and no one, not even the most Argus-eyed dowager, will consider you dangerous, however wild your mode of life may be. My advice to you is, never fall into the clutches of any woman; to my mind the sex is divided into two dangerous species: the one that kill you before they bore you, the other that bore you before they kill you. But in either way you are a doomed man; though for myself I should 20prefer being killed to being bored—and as you know, I chose the former.”

Was this all that the aristocratic shape framed in front of him could tell him? It was not enough. He was too robust to be killed by the London Hetaires, and too fastidious to allow himself to be bored by the other species. He listened, but no sound came from the outside; the walls were too thick, the draperies too rich to allow any fracas to disturb the owner of that dwelling. He was hermetically shut out from every outward commotion, and might have lived in a vault. Was not that an image of his privileged life? All things had been so ordained and smoothed down in his easy existence that he could see nothing beyond his own direct surroundings, and could never penetrate into another heart, nor allow anyone to hear the throbs of his own heart. That was called the privilege of the well-bred, and it was all that generations before him had done for his welfare: a double-windowed house and a well-padded life, out of which he never could step. There were barriers at every corner of the road in which he had walked. Harrow, Oxford, the Guards, Downing Street, watched him, reminding him, by the way, that he could prance, kick, roll, do anything he had a mind to, within his boundary; and he heard that haunting whisper in his wearied ears that, however low he sank—he 21was a gentleman. But outside the boundary was a world called life, with a real, throbbing, howling humanity, a pushing and elbowing crowd with which he evidently had nothing to do; out there he had no business, for over there people answered for themselves, were responsible for their own actions, and he would no doubt fare badly were he to push and elbow for his own sake, independently of all the privileged institutions that propped him up through life. He suddenly remembered that next day there was a Levee, and that he was to be there. No, he would not go, he would escape for once, and for good and all, these recurring functions of social London which seemed to narrow the horizon of life. The best was to make a suitable exit and bring down the curtain on a Mayfair episode; it would puzzle, interest, amuse half of London for the inside of a week, and it would be over. He got up and went to a large bureau that stood in the middle of the room, and began to open drawer after drawer; he brought out some business papers, laid them carefully on the bureau, pulled out bundles of letters, read a few, burnt a great many. Amongst all the correspondence he came across there was not one note from Gwendolen; she did not write, she sent wires about anything, for an appointment at Ranelagh, a bracelet she had seen at Hancock’s, or 22some more trifling matter; and even then, she hardly sat down to pen these cursory remarks; she sent her wires when at breakfast, close to the dish of fried bacon, at lunch, at tea, on the corner of the silver tray. He opened another drawer and took out a revolver; it was loaded, and he examined it minutely. How long had it been in that drawer and when had he loaded it? He could not recall when last he had seen the arm. He slowly lifted it to his temple and pulled the trigger, as a violent clap of thunder shook the house to its very foundation, causing the electric lights to go out. Lord Somerville fell heavily on the Turkish carpet.

Lionel Somerville woke at 8 a.m. in the freshest of spirits. All the frenzy of the night before had vanished, and as he lay on his bed, smiling, he tried to think over what had happened.

“Did I not kill myself last night? Anyway, I did not succeed, or perhaps it was all a delusion! I must have been in a bad way. It is that infernal wound that troubles me; I have never been quite myself since I came home.—Well! what is the matter with this place?—Where are the curtains, the carpet?” Sitting up in his bed he stared all round. “And the blankets, sheets—oh! my shirt is gone!” And as he jumped up from the bed on to the bare floor, he stood as the Almighty had made him. He rushed to the window, saw the streets empty, the doors of all the houses closed, and no one going in or out of them. After staring out of the window he spotted but one boy coming along leisurely on his tricycle cart, the butcher’s boy no doubt; a fit of laughter seized him, followed by hilarious convulsions, as he saw the water-cart coming across the square, with 24its street Neptune indolently reclining on the seat.

“This is funny! What the devil does it mean? Have these people gone clean mad? Why does not the police stop them?”

Lionel left the window and rang the bell. A few seconds after there was a gentle knock at the door.

“Yes, my lord.” It was the suave voice of Temple, my lord’s faithful valet.

“I say, Temple”—Lionel spoke through the door—“what’s the meaning of all this?”

“I cannot tell, my lord. Your lordship’s bathroom is ready, and breakfast is on the table.”

“You must be mad, Temple! How am I to get out of this room without my clothes? Bring in something—anything—a wrap of some sort, a bath-rug.”

“I’ve nothing on, my lord, and Willows, Mr Jacques, are all in the same condition. But I can assure your lordship that the morning is very hot.”

“And you think that sufficient, do you? Well, I don’t! I am blowed if I can make this out, or if I know what I am going to do. Bring me a 25tub, a large can of hot water, and later on bring me a tray with a couple of eggs and tea. I am famished!”

Footsteps retreated; Lionel walked round and round his spacious bedroom. Everything was in its usual place as far as furniture went, but there was not a vestige of drapery or carpeting; the cushions had disappeared, and only the down lay on the floor; the chairs, easy fauteuils, the couch were despoiled of all covering and showed their bare construction of wood and cane-work. The bed was a simple pallet, the rugs had vanished. Lionel entered his dressing-room, the cupboards were open, and empty, when yesterday they had been crammed with all his clothes. The drawers were hanging out of their chest—empty; shirts, flannels, silk pyjamas, neckties, waistcoats, all the arsenal of a young man about town had dissolved into thin air. This was more than strange, and the Earl became more and more amazed as he went on opening boxes, baskets, and gaping at the empty receptacles. He again looked out of the window—his dressing-room had a full view of Grosvenor Square—and saw many more boys on tricycle carts; several satyr-milkmen were rattling their cans down the fashionable areas, and the water-cart went on slowly spouting its L.C.C. Niagara over dusty roads. The effect was decidedly comical. He came back to his bedroom, 26and once more looked out of the window. Looking up at the opposite house he saw a form passing to and fro. That was Lady Vera’s house. Could it be she? He smiled. It might be the maid. Who knows? There were few of his lady friends he would recognise again in this new garb. After his tub and breakfast he felt in buoyant spirits and physically fit, although he could not quite account for this new mood of his, for nothing had altered in his life. He gave a side glance at himself in the cheval-glass; he was always the Earl of Somerville, heir to vast riches, engaged to Gwendolen Towerbridge, and this joke would pass. It was perhaps the new trick of some gang of thieves, whom the police would be able to catch in a few days. The thing to find out was whether it was the same all over London. Temple told Lord Somerville, as he brought the breakfast tray to the door, that the areas down the streets and the square were a bevy of buzzing gossipers. Admiral B., who lived two doors off, was in the same plight, and was using strong language to his poor wife; and as to Field-Marshal W., whose house was in the square, he was beside himself, had howled at his man for his pyjamas and sent the fellow rolling down the passage for appearing in his presence in an Adamitic vestment. Temple thought this very unjust, as the Field-Marshal was in the same dilemma; but then Temple had 27no sense of the fitness of things, and certainly had no sense of humour, as he came to ask his master what were his orders for Marshall, the coachman. Lionel naturally sent Marshall to the devil.

“Does he think I am going to drive in an open Victoria as I am, with him on the box as he is?” And he raved at the poor valet, and asked him what they all felt in the housekeeper’s room. To which Temple replied, that the men did not so much mind, and that the women would get used to it. They had all their work cut out for them, and no time to think about difficult problems. Evidently it was different with them, and the Earl dropped the subject, inquiring whether the Times had come. But the postman had not yet arrived.

“What on earth can I do?” murmured Lionel. Then he thought of sending Temple to get him a pile of new French novels to while away the tedious hours. By the way, he thought suddenly, he would like to know something definite about last night’s adventure; he did not like to tell his man about his foolish attempt, but if he had seen the revolver on the carpet, he was prepared to give him some sort of explanation. Temple came back saying that every book had disappeared, and gave a graphic description of what was once the library of my lord. Lionel timidly inquired if he had not noticed anything peculiar on the floor, nor 28any stray object lying about? No, Temple had seen nothing except the total disappearance of all draperies, chair coverings, carpets, books, etc. There was nothing on the floor, only a little more dust than before in front of the writing-desk. This satisfied Lionel, who made up his mind that the whole thing was the effect of his own imagination, very probably occasioned by this miserable wound which at times was a great worry to him; and he settled down to forget the past and to solve the present in trying to explain this strange event. But in vain did he endeavour to do so, his eyes persistently went back to the window, and he constantly got up to watch the opposite house and the few strollers that ventured out; of course they were all servants who so immodestly exposed themselves to his investigation, still it amused him much more to watch the street than to ponder these grave questions.

“Well, I think I was a damned fool last night, provided I did such a foolish thing as to try and blow my brains out. This is worth living for, and I have not been amused for many years as I am now. It must have something to do with last night’s storm. If this is going to last, I suppose the old fellows at the Royal Institute will make it their business to ponder this stupendous phenomenon.”

Temple brought the luncheon tray about 1.30; 29only a couple of kidneys, a glass of Apollinaris water; it would be sufficient for that day, as he could not get out that afternoon and have a ride. Then more thinking, with as little attention as before. After that, tea with a bit of toast and no butter, and more thinking, interrupted at times by sudden glances through the window. Temple came once or twice to his master’s door with all the news that was afloat in the areas, butlers’ pantries, saddle-rooms, and although this gossip originated on the backstairs, it was welcomed by the heir of great estates, for, at this moment he could get no direct information, and what his valet brought him was as good as he could ever get. The valet had reminded my lord that to-day was the Levee, which the latter was to attend. This amused him very much, for was it likely that the Admiral, the Field-Marshal, the latest V.C. would ever venture beyond their bed-rug—oh! that even was gone—to go and meet their ruler in their skins? No, these things were impossible, and the structure of Society would soon crumble to ashes if one man unadorned was to meet another man unclad. Of course Lord Somerville was very anxious to know whether all London was in the same condition, to which the faithful valet replied, that he had it from the milkman that Belgravia was as silent as a tomb, Bayswater a wilderness, and Buckingham Palace a desert. As to the omnibuses, 30after one journey up and down they had given up running at all, as no one wanted a drive, and the few servants and working-men about preferred walking. Towards seven o’clock, Lionel felt inclined to have a little food, and he ordered a grilled sole and a custard. That would do for him, but evidently it did not do for Temple, who was quite shocked at his master’s abstemiousness, and recoiled before appearing in front of the cook with such a meagre menu. “He would be capable of throwing a dish at my head, my lord; he hardly believed me when I told him your lordship wanted two kidneys for lunch.”

But Lionel was determined, and would hear of nothing more for dinner and sent the cook to Jericho through the intermediary of Temple, adding that he could not eat more when he had no proper exercise, that he had had sufficient, having eaten when he felt hungry and left off when he had had enough—which he had not done for many years.

“Yes, my lord,” had respectfully answered the faithful valet, who perhaps at the same time thought his master’s remark a wise one.

The evening went by, bringing no change in the situation; and by nine o’clock it was universally known, and partly accepted, that from the Lord Chancellor to the Carlton waiter, frock-coat or no coat, woolsack or three-legged crock, a man was 31to be a man for a’ that. One great calamity had befallen them all, and in one minute levelled the whole of London’s inhabitants to the state of nature. The question arose in my lord’s mind whether they were sufficiently fitted for that state? Could they face the God Pan with as much composure as they had faced all the other gods? He heard the heavy footsteps of the lamplighter methodically going through his work. It was strange that he had never once thought of stopping his nocturnal routine. Evidently whatever happened, the streets had to be lighted, and Lionel mused long and deeply on these questions of duty and force of habit, as he looked out of the window into the street and observed the long shadow descending over London.

“Was it the sense of duty that prompted the actions of these menials?” He could not bring himself to think that, and he could not help believing that amongst his own superior class the sense of duty was always accompanied by a powerful sense of the fitness of things, so that if a virtue clashed with prejudices and the accepted standard of propriety, it was desirable that they should build up some new duty more in harmony with their worldly principles. There, no doubt, lay the difference between the upper classes and the lower, and which made the former shrink before breaking the laws of decorum, when 32the latter saw no objection to performing daily pursuits in their skins, unconcerned with higher motives of purity and exalted ideals.

Whether Lord Somerville had touched the keynote of social ethics remained unknown, but he retired early to his pallet and slept soundly through the still night.

Next day was the same, the day after identical, and the week passed thus without any change in the London phenomenon. Had the carpet in the Arabian tales carried the whole metropolis to some undiscovered planet, the wonderment could not have been greater. After a few days, Lionel observed that the L.C.C. Neptune had acquired more ease, more laisser-aller in his movements and postures, and decidedly sat less stiffly on his high perch; the butcher’s boy also carried his tray on his shoulder with distinct dash and comeliness. From his daily observations he came to the conclusion that London life, in its mechanical working, was going on pretty much as usual. He questioned his faithful valet, who by this time had become more than a servant, being newsagent and Court circular rolled into one. What he learned through the keyhole was astounding. No House of Commons, no Upper House were sitting! How could anything go on at that rate? Ah! that was the strangest part of it, for materially everything seemed to be as 33usual; the tradespeople came round for orders, and there was no danger of starving. The wheels of life kept on rolling, for, those who represented the axle were still in the centre of the wheel, and nothing could remove them. It was the upper part of the edifice that had given way, or at least had willingly retired into modest seclusion. The wheels might run for a long time without the coach, but the coach had no power to advance in any way without the wheels. This is what puzzled Lionel so much; he had always believed that if Society took it into its head to strike, the world would come to a standstill; and here was a colossal emergency in which one part of the edifice went on as if nothing had happened, while the other—in his eyes the important one—was forced to retire behind its walls, if it meant to keep sacred the principles of modesty and decorum; and still the whole structure had not foundered. Of course it could not last for ever. Nothing did last; and this axiom consoled Lord Somerville, as he cradled himself into the belief that the present condition would never answer in this eminently aristocratic empire. Why had not such a thing happened to Parisians? “I could safely declare that they would not have made such a fuss about it. They would have taken the adventure as it is, if transient, and would have accepted the joke with rollicking fun; 34if serious, they would have made the best of it, seen the plastic side of the situation, and at once endeavoured to live up to it as gracefully as possible. Yes, there lay the whole difference between the Latin race and the Anglo-Saxon; the former aimed at beauty, and the other, as the Bishop of Sunbury had said at Islington, aimed at a moral attitude.

“I suppose there is a certain amount of truth in this,” thought the Earl, as he sipped his cup of tea, “for here am I living up to a standard of punctilious modesty, which would even put the chaste Susannah to shame; and Heaven knows I never have been overburdened with principles, but, quite on the contrary, was oblivious of any moral attitude. It must be that the ambiante of this country is of a superior quality to that of any other.”

There was a gentle knock at the door: “The Bishop of Welby has sent round to know whether your lordship would allow your women-servants to help in the finding of a suitable text for a sermon he wishes to deliver when this state has ceased? His lordship is in a great stress, being unable to lay his hand on his Bible, and finds himself at a loss to recall all the contents of the Holy Scriptures.”

“By all means, Temple—I am always delighted to be of any use to the bishop, although, for my 35part, I regret I cannot help him in this. Can you remember any suitable text, Temple?”

“I say, Temple, how do the dowagers take this kind of thing? I am rather curious to know how they manage.”

The valet inquired from the upper housemaid, who very soon gathered information from her friends along the areas, and in an hour the faithful newsagent had collected a bushel of gossip. The attitude of the dowagers towards the social calamity was one of stubborn resistance and of fervent prayer. The old Lady Pendelton had said to her maid, through the keyhole, that it was only a question of time, and that with a little display of self-control, for which the race was so celebrated, they would soon pull through this ghastly experience. Some of the old ladies, whose bedrooms were contiguous to those of their daughters, knocked on the wall exhorting their virtuous progeny to persevere in the ways of the righteous and to keep up a good heart. Out-door gossips would be supplied to them: “Sarah does not mind going out,” had shouted through the wall one of the pillars of female Society, “you see, dear Evelyn, these sort of people do not possess the same quality of modesty that we do—they have to toil, not to feel.” So thought the dowager, and many more 36believed this to be true. What a load of injustice was settled by such an argument!

When the first shock was over, and Lord Somerville had ceased wondering at a class of people who did not mind being seen in their Edenic attire, he dropped into a humorous mood, and passed in review a good many of his friends, men and women.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed in a fit of laughter, “I wonder what old Bentham looks like in his skin? The Stock Exchange will be a rum circus when they all race for cash as modern gladiators! And what of Pender, and of Clavebury; and Gladys Ventnor, Arabella Chale and tutti quanti?”

Then he thought of his friend, Victor de Laumel, of the Jockey Club in Paris. He felt convinced Victor would tell him, “I say, my good fellow, why do you mind? Go out and give the example of simplicity and good-humour.”

After all, it was not that he minded much, and if the Upper Ten appointed between themselves a day and hour in which they would all go out together, it would not be so bad; but it was the idea of appearing before and mixing with an indiscriminate crowd. It would be really annoying to have your butler look you up and down, and to stand the flitting sneer on the lips of your groom. Of course there was nothing in the 37abstract against an Edenic garment; but one must not forget that Adam and Eve were alone in Paradise, and had no crowd to pass unpleasant remarks over their personal appearance. It was only when that interfering Tertium quid had sneaked round the corner that they had lost all the fun in life. Well, if one reptile had the power to make them feel ashamed of themselves, what would it be now that thousands of little twinkling eyes were glaring, and that myriads of sharp tongues hissed and stung? It was quite evident that clothes kept the world within bounds of decency, besides restraining the overbearance of the lower classes and enforcing their respect for their superiors. What could our civilisation be without the cap-and-apron ethics? It is difficult enough to keep up a certain standard in the world with the help of smart surroundings; but how could one command deference from, and give orders to one’s domesticity in this attire?

On the eleventh day of this prison life, Lord Somerville woke with a sharp pain in his side, and as he sat up on his pallet he was seized with giddiness. This was a premonition which filled him with awe. His liver was hopelessly out of order, and no doubt many of his friends’ livers were in the same condition owing to this sedentary life. Hard thinking and solitary confinement would be sure to have a fatal effect on a race accustomed 38to exercise and deep drinking. The area gossip was ominous, and what Temple recorded to his master boded no good to the Upper Ten, who were suffering from a general attack of dyspepsia. It was a very serious question, a race doomed to sequestration; and there was a fear that eventually London, the well-drained, well-watered, well-lighted and altogether well-County-Councilled, would be turned into a vast lunatic asylum. When ethics meant apoplexy, it was time to halt and loosen the strings of propriety; and it was the duty of the sporting duke, the rubicund brewer, and of all the fastidious do-nothings, to weave for themselves in the seclusion of their chambers a new tissue of principles to suit their abnormal condition. Lionel inquired whether the Bishop had come to any conclusion about his text. Temple did not know about that, but he knew that the prelate had complained of insomnia and sickness, and asked for sal volatile. Lady Pendelton had been heard by her maid to fall on the floor. Was her ladyship better now? had asked Lionel. Yes, but her maid could hear her tottering in her room and moaning piteously.

“It is very bad this, Temple. I think something ought to be done for the good of the public; but what?”

“I believe that if your lordship would only show yourself—I beg your pardon, my lord—but an 39example would be beneficial, and your lordship is so popular, I am sure you would carry the day.”

“Do you really believe that my showing myself would be a general signal? You see, Temple, I do not want to find myself all alone in the streets of London, with all the dowagers grinning at their windows. That would never do.”

“Oh! your lordship need not fear. There is a great feeling of discontent among the higher classes; and before you could say Jack Robinson they would all follow your example.”

“That is certainly very encouraging. Bring me some boiling water to drink. No breakfast, thanks.”

The wave of revolt was rising furiously and threatening to drown all principles of decency. Utter disgust filled the hearts of Londoners when they retired to rest on the eleventh night of their voluntary seclusion. It is then, when large shadows envelop the city, that common-sense creepingly visits the bedside of each inhabitant; and as the mysterious hour that is supposed to unnerve the bravest man approaches, great principles give way, and practical reasoning comes to the fore, to ease the questionist out of his moral jungle.

When the men and women of this powerful race make up their minds to anything, whether right or wrong, they neither hesitate nor do they allow any time to elapse between decision and consummation. So it was that on the morning of the twelfth day Lord Somerville sprang off his couch, took his tub and brushed his hair with unusual alacrity. He did not give a passing glance at his mirror, strange to say; perhaps, had he done so, his resolution would have slackened; but Lord Somerville was wise, and, not unlike the ostrich, he believed that no one would look at him because he had not looked at himself. He opened his bedroom door, walked along the passages without meeting one of his domestics, and reached the beautiful marble staircase for which this mansion was so renowned. As he crossed the vestibule he gave a furtive look at the footman ensconced in his basket chair; but the latter was asleep, or at least his innate delicacy prompted him to this subterfuge, to allow his master to pass by unnoticed.

Lionel unbolted the front door with a sudden jerk, and as he did this he heard a successive unbolting 41of doors, which sounded throughout the silent city like a gun fired in honour of some royal birthday. In one or two seconds the streets were invaded.

He stood amazed on the pavement and marvelled at this stupendous event! It was true that England, for centuries, had prided herself on her public opinion. But what was the England of twelve days ago to that of to-day? Few nations could boast of an Upper Ten capable of such abnegation, that of one common accord they all decided to put away personal feelings, vanities and principles, for the sake of their fellow-creatures. One huge wave of altruism had swept over Society, which cherished the fond idea that it initiated, ruled and guided the rest of the world. Indeed, this was a great event in the modern history of Great Britain, already so rich in philanthropic examples. Lionel took a deep breath as he walked away from his ancestral mansion; he watched men rushing past him; evidently they were going straight to their business. He saw women shuffling alongside of the walls, as if these would throw a shadow over their naked forms; but who they were was quite beyond him to tell, and perhaps it was as well, at first, to ignore who they were. It was a boisterous exodus, though one imposed by the sense of duty; and the violent exercise of hurrying brought vigour back 42to their weakened limbs. Naturally the first observation of Lord Somerville was that this colourless mass of humanity was slightly monotonous, although soothing to wearied eyeballs. He followed a good many people, just for the fun of it, and frequently thought he was on the point of recognising some friend or acquaintance; but no, it was hopeless to try and find out who was who; besides, they nearly all seemed to shun one another, and as they passed each other bowed their heads and looked on the ground. He reached Trafalgar Square; there the scene was full of animation: children were jumping in and out of the fountains, and shaking themselves as birds do their feathers after a good ducking; men ran round the Landseer lions for a constitutional, and women dodged them on the other side, in this way endeavouring to keep up a semblance of feminine coyness. There was no doubt that this part of London was different from the genteel Mayfair, and it threatened to be rowdy as you approached the City. Lionel walked past Charing Cross, which looked abandoned; but the Strand—the main artery of London’s anatomy—was surging with a buoyant population rushing to the City-heart. Lionel thought he would have great fun in watching office doors, and would perhaps recognise a few millionaire bounders who certainly were not like the Society 43men of his stamp, and therefore would be more easily recognised. He went up Fleet Street, leaving St Paul’s on his left, walked through Threadneedle Street, where he knew many of the City magnates. Pacing up and down the pavement he thought he would have a good opportunity of seeing the men who went in and out of offices and of conjecturing on their identity. Very soon he witnessed a wild scene of confusion: men darted out of offices suffused with deep blushes; managers of large warehouses ran in and out of houses in delirium! Another idea crossed Lionel’s mind: evidently these people were, like him, unable to recognise anyone; business men were at a loss to know their clerks from their financier friends, as they could not discern buyers from sellers. Of course in this terrible mystification, there was no attempt made at bowing or talking in the streets of London; it was a new departure from last week’s urbanity, when courteousness had been distributed according to the more or less respectability of external appearance.

“I am afraid that insurmountable difficulties will stare us in the face,” murmured Lionel as he retraced his steps towards Piccadilly, after fruitless attempts at knowing his friends in the crowd. “We have not yet grasped what this new position means; at first we have thought of decency, some, 44I suppose, have dwelt on morality’s destiny; but I do declare that it means more than all that. If we cannot know employers from employees the whole status of civilisation is done with. This is a thing of which I had never thought.” He noticed, on his way home, that women had tears rolling down their cheeks, and men, as he brushed past them, swore in their moustaches. Lord Somerville felt a choking sensation in his throat as he realised that the old life with all its ease and luxury was over. Everything was so bare, so ugly. Where were the bewitching fashions that rejoiced his fastidious eye? Where the daintily-gowned young girls and women in our beautiful parks? As women passed by, he wondered to what class of Society they belonged. How could the shop-girl now be differentiated from the Duke’s daughter? He never could have believed such a dilemma possible. In front of his club he glanced through the swinging glass doors, and saw a portly individual standing; but he could not for his life tell whether it was the hall porter or one of the members.

Solitary confinement for twelve days had nearly driven Londoners mad; but he now realised that isolation in the midst of a maddening crowd would soon turn them into drivelling idiots. What they had gone through for more than a week had been a conflict between virtue and self-interest; 45but the future was more fearful, for more than interest was at stake, as self-respect was threatened to sink in this universal levelling. When he thought of all the social solecisms likely to occur in this state of incognito, he shuddered. If it was impossible to know whom to bow to, whom to nod to and whom to snub, however could Society exist? Our exclusive circles owed their existence to those delicate nuances of politeness; and when the sliding scales of courtesy were abolished, Democracy was at hand, for no power on earth could stem the torrent of Anarchism from overpowering defenceless Society.

The first exodus was decidedly a failure, and Lionel felt the galling bitterness of disappointment when, between twelve and one, he entered his house, refusing all the entreaties of his valet to partake of a dainty luncheon. All London was in the same discomfited mood that morning, and the fashionable beauty, reclining on her hard couch, wept bitter tears over her defunct wardrobe and hat-boxes. The company promoter behind his window, looking at the irritating butcher’s boy and callous milkman, grunted audibly, “These are the sort of people we are now to rub against at every turn!”

There evidently was more behind feathers and furbelows than our friend Horatio could have known, and London would have to spell the first 46words of a philosophy which would be drier to them all than that of Plato, Kant or Carlyle.

After two more days of keen despair, the same longing for fresh air seized hold of the Upper Ten; though this time bolts were not drawn with that vigour which had given to the first exodus the sound of a salute of musketry. It was more like a distant roll of thunder, forerunner of a clouded atmosphere. The exit from houses was not any more triumphant and didactic, it was slow and cheerless; and had not the air been balmy, the sky blue, citizens would have felt a shiver run down their spine as they realised their abandoned condition. This time Lord Somerville restricted his wanderings to the smart thoroughfares, leaving the mercantile City to its own confusion. He entered restaurants where he had known many of the habitués; but he went out of them shocked at not being recognised by any of his friends. Formerly all was so easy; one had but to step out, and one knew exactly who was who by the brim of a hat, the cut of a coat, the handling of a walking-stick; but not even a rude stare could help one now to identify anyone, and nothing could save one from committing a social faux pas. He strolled up the Haymarket. How difficult it was to walk in that attire. “I wonder if Adam rambled all over Paradise, and if he did not feel awkward? I wish I knew what to do 47with my hands.” There was a crowd at Piccadilly Circus, and he had great difficulty in advancing. What attracted the attention of the population were the empty windows of Swan & Edgar’s. Hundreds of women were peering through the deserted shops which had hitherto been over-crowded with ladies’ apparel of every kind and sort. He edged his way through and contrived to get on the pavement; but many pushed him, and he elbowed freely in this crowd of Adams and Eves. He was very much astonished to find himself saying “Beg your pardon” when he unconsciously collided with anyone.

“After all, I do not know who I am knocking against, it might be my most intimate friend, and upon the whole it is better to be polite to someone you do not know than to be wanting in common civility towards a friend.” The Earl had unwittingly got hold of a vital problem, and one that would no doubt induce Society some day to transform the tone of politeness.

In Hyde Park he noticed several groups, and towards the Serpentine the crowd became denser; but to escape the noisy clamour of urchins splashing in the water he took a small path leading to Kensington Gardens. Most of the smart world would be there, thought Lionel, though the outing was not one of fashion. Hygiene and reflection were drawing both sexes to the shady parts of 48Kensington; they felt their isolation less oppressively in this glorious verdure. The soft grass was more refreshing than hot pavements; the trees, hedges and flower-beds were more fragrant surroundings than high houses; and in this harmonious frame one would feel less at variance with a discordant world.

The day was young yet, hardly 11.30, and the hot rays of the sun were piercing through the foliage of the broad avenue facing the Palace. Solitary individuals walked on the cool grass, sat on stone benches and iron chairs; but none talked to anyone, and there lacked in this mythological picture the animation that humanity generally brings into a landscape. Birds were busy chirping, making love, mock quarrelling, and the leaves rustled softly as a breath of hot wind caressed the branches of trees.

Lord Somerville lay down on a stone bench, linking his arms behind his head. He let his fanciful imagination have full play: allowing philosophy to suggest to him queer problems concerning the personal appearance of some of his lady friends. A chuckle rose to his lips; a sparkling twinkle lighted up his pale blue eye. He saw at a distance a small, dapper man coming this way; his head was well set on his shoulders; there was no hesitation in his step, no awkwardness in his bearing; one of his hands was placed on one 49hip, the other dropped gracefully at his side, as he stood within a few yards of the young heir to large properties.

“Who can that be? Can it be my tailor? I can only think of him recognising me at a glance, these fellows know us inside out. Deucedly awkward though to be accosted like this by tradespeople.” And as the newcomer stood close to him, the Earl sat up, and bowed as disdainfully as he could manage under the circumstances.

“I daresay you do not know me, my lord, but I have that advantage over your lordship, having seen you often about town, and frequently admired your equipages in the Park, and noticed your presence in one of the boxes at the Tivoli.”

This was a touch of kin, and something in the tone of his interlocutor cheered Lionel and put him in a happy train of thought. The link with the outer world, his world of ready-made pleasures and strong stimulants, was not quite broken. A rush of the past life came surging back to his mind, and he grasped the hand of his new friend as Robinson Crusoe must have done that of Friday when the latter made his appearance on the deserted island.

“I seem to know you, sir; although I cannot put a name to your face; but let me, all the same, greet you warmly; you are the first that has recognised me since the storm.”

50“And that is a fortnight ago, my lord, a very long lapse of time for your lordship, who is such a favourite in Society. But I haven’t come here only to disturb your musings; I have a motive, a very serious one, that will ultimately affect you and all London. First of all, I am Dick Danford of the Tivoli, the White Bread, and of the Saltseller.”

“Now I know where I have seen you, heard you and applauded you, Mr Danford. Your voice came home to me as would a favourite strain of music of which the title has slipped one’s memory. What can I do for you? I am at your service. Let us stroll under these shady trees, it will be cooler than here, and you will tell me all you have to say.”

“Well, my lord,” began the little dapper Tivoli artist, when they had reached the shade of the long avenue, “you know, as we all do, what has happened. It is needless to remark any more on the deadlock of business, in whatever branch it may be, owing to manufacturers and weavers being on the streets and cheque-books having vanished into thin air.”

“We will not discuss the feminine point of view of this event, my lord; their coyness and pudicity are of course a credit to their sex, and we can but 51honour them for carrying so high the ideal of womanhood; but that must wear off in time, as the fair sex finds out that the world cannot wait for them, and that the rotation of our planet cannot come to a standstill because the modesty of our wives and sisters is in jeopardy.”

The little mimic lifted his sharply-cut features and looked into the long, aristocratic face of his listener.

“I am all ears, Mr Danford; but about modesty I have nothing to say. Mayfair is not the nursery for such delicate plants; besides, I think that coyness is already on the wane, for I see several groups of women lounging about. Do not trouble your clever head about that, and tell me in what way I can be of any use to you?”

“The point is this, my lord, as you know, no one is able to recognise anyone. No high-collared cloak nor slouch hat and mask could be a better disguise than this general unmasking. You know the adage: ‘Tell the truth, and no one will believe you.’ We can add another truism: ‘Show yourself as you are, and no one will know you.’ No doubt, there is still a little mannerism that clings to the individual, by which one could recognise their identity; but it would require a strenuous effort of the mind, and a wonderful memory of personal tricks, to be able 52to arrive at knowing who’s who. So I have bethought myself of a plan. We artists of the Music Hall alone possess the art of observation. You see, we have made a special study of the physiognomy, and have stored our brains with all the particularities of Society leaders, the oddities of the clergy, of City magnates and gutter marionettes. Some remedy must be found at once for this present state of affairs, or else the whole edifice of Society will disappear, and we artists will perish in the downfall. The remedy cannot come from the Upper Ten, I am afraid, for they have no memory nor any observing powers. I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am speaking very openly on the subject, and you must excuse me if I feel the position very keenly.”

“Go on, my dear Danford; what you say is very true and very interesting. I am beginning to see what you mean. By the way, I think I see the Duke of Southdown on that chair—shall we walk up to him? You might tell him of your plan.”

“Do nothing of the kind!” hurriedly said the mimic, laying a firm hand on Lord Somerville’s arm. “The man you take for His Grace is a driver of the London General Omnibus Company. Now, my lord, you see what mistakes you are likely to make.”

53“By God, I could have sworn this was the Duke! But, Danford, do you never commit such solecisms?”

“No, very rarely.” Danford shook his head knowingly, and over his thin lips flitted that indefinable smile for which he was so renowned on the boards. “But there you are, you have not made a special study of human physiognomy, and have not through hard plodding acquired that sense of observation, that keenness of perception, that we have, for you have had no need to retain the facial grimaces and queer movements of individuals. To-day the Music Halls are closed and we are broke, but in this wreckage, we artists have saved our precious faculty of memorising. The profession has therefore decided to make a new move; this morning I saw the manager of the Tivoli, who asked me to be the intermediary between the profession and the aristocracy—of which, my lord, you are one of the strongest columns. This state of things looks as if it were going to last, and as we cannot prevent it we must boom it.”

“I follow you, Danford, and am curious to know what you will propose as a remedy.”

“Well, my lord, I advise that we artists, men and women, should open in every district of London Schools of Observation, in which the art of 54memorisation will be taught, and prizes will be given to pupils who recognise the most faces in one hour. I myself believe that Society will not easily learn that art; for it has so long relied on outward signs to guide it in the recognition of folks, that its faculties are warped, and it will take us all our time to pull Society through this difficulty. Then a special branch should be started at once, or else the aristocracy will sink into the deep waves of oblivion. We must all—I mean the Music Hall variety artists—accept engagements for dinner-parties, receptions, afternoon teas; in fact, for every entertainment where more than two are gathered, and act as social guides. To give you a sample of what I can do, my lord, I propose to take a stroll with you along the favourite thoroughfares of town; not at present, for London will turn in for luncheon very soon, but between six and seven o’clock we can meet again.”

“Ah! You do not know Londoners as well as I do. They have had enough of seclusion. They have twice tasted fresh air, and they will long to taste it again. Public opinion is as strong as ever in our country; it is a wave that rolls incessantly over the London beach; the débris of wrecks cast up by the sea are very soon washed away 55by the next wave, and so does the tide of public opinion eternally sweep away some old political hobby, and bring back some moral crank. The smallest scheme becomes a national enterprise in this island of ours, and if once Society takes up our idea, the world is saved. This evening there will be more Londoners out than there are at present. Everyone, more or less—of course invalids excepted—is unable to sacrifice practical life to a preconceived idea of virtue; we are even very much to be praised for having given up ten of our precious days to a moral principle.”

“This would not have occurred in any Latin country, for they depend so much on their intercourse with human beings; perhaps we have less merit, after all, in having remained confined so many days, as we are not so sociable as our Latin neighbours.”

“Oh! What an error, my lord; I have always thought the reverse, and firmly believe that we Britishers are the most superficial of human creatures.”

“Still, you cannot deny, Danford, that our lower classes take their pleasures gloomily?”

“I am astonished that you should make such a remark, Lord Somerville; you are too much up-to-date to bring that exploded accusation against our race. If our lower orders take Sunday 56rambles in our City graveyards, it is not for the dead that they go there, but partly for the flowers and the trees; mostly, however, in search of excitement. They spell the In Memoriams on tombstones as they would devour penny novelettes. It gives them a glamour of romance and tragedy, as a jeweller’s shop window opens a glittering vista of luxury to the hungry stare of a beggar. It is always what lies behind the scenes that will for ever enthral the minds of human beings. You, of the Upper Ten, have excitements of all sorts, subtle and coarse; amusements of every descriptions, frivolous or cruel; passions of all kinds, high and low; but the wearied toilers have only the routine of an eventless existence; no wonder shop windows and graveyards are their arena, but it does not follow that they take their pleasures sadly. A child will play with a dead man’s skull if he has no painted doll.”

“I have passed a very pleasant hour with you, Danford; perhaps one of the pleasantest for many years. Shall we say 6.30 at the foot of Achilles’s statue?”

With a wave of the hand Danford walked away in the direction of Sloane Street, and Lord 57Somerville slowly went up Piccadilly. He felt what he had not experienced since his Eton days—an interest in life; and he was determined to see this farce through.

Dick Danford was as good as his word. After an hour’s stroll through London, Lord Somerville came to the conclusion that, for the present, his eyes were no more to him than a tail would have been. The old world of before the storm seemed to have vanished in a bottomless pit, and what he viewed instead was as prodigious as what he had hoped to see on his travels across Acheron. He noticed that tricks and mannerisms were as yet clinging to both sexes: women still grasped their invisible dresses as if they had been bunches of keys, twisted about their fingers absent chains round their necks; men tried to put their hands in vanished pockets, and held imaginary umbrellas in front of them (the latter Danford declared were clergymen), and their necks, stiffened by the long use of high collars, gave them the appearance of turkeys. But as to knowing anyone in this Babel of faces, that was quite out of the question; and Lionel went from one ejaculation to another as Dick enumerated the different notabilities of Society, the theatrical world and financial booths. It was like a transformation 59scene at Drury Lane. The world was not what he had altogether taken it to be, and if he found himself to have been even more swindled than he had believed, still, there were surprises for which he had not been prepared and which were worth living for: the beautiful women were not all as beautiful as he had thought them, but the plain ones had a great many points that commended them to a connoisseur. As to the men whom he had feared as rivals in the arena of good fortunes, they made him smile as he gave an admiring glance at his spinal curve reflected in a shop mirror. The little artist’s conversation was a succession of fireworks; never on the boards had he been more entertaining than this afternoon, acting the part of a humorous Mephistopheles to this masher Faust. He informed Lord Somerville that after he had left him in the morning he had done some good work for the public welfare, and had come to a final arrangement with the Commissioner of Police.

“Well, I do not know whether it struck you as it did me at your first exit, my lord, but the very first observation that impressed itself on me was the difficulty women had in distinguishing a policeman from an ordinary civilian. I watched many in distress, who gave an appealing look all round for the kindly help of a bobby. It was 60hard to tell whether that man on the left with a dogged expression and thin legs was the policeman, or whether it was this other on the right, with limbs like marble columns and a puny face. Such dilemmas puzzled the public all through the day, and decided the Committee of Music Hall artists to take the matter in hand and confer with the heads of the Police.”

“The thing is settled. Scotland Yard is to be turned into a public gymnasium, and a staff of picked policemen are to instruct the citizens in the art of being their own policemen.”

“How very expeditious you are in your profession. Had this been in the hands of Parliament, we should never have heard anything about it, however pressing the need might have been.”

“Then, another feature of our School of Observation will be special prizes to be awarded to husbands who will recognise their wives, or vice versa, when out of their homes. I think that will take in Society, for I have noticed that the nearer the relationship the more difficult it was to know one another.”

“You see, my lord, every judgment I arrive at is the result of keen observation. I heard once, 61during our ten days of seclusion, the most awful row in the house next to mine; it belongs to the Longfords—you know, the Longfords who took the Regalia Theatre for a season. Well, their housemaid reported to my landlady what the row was about, and she told me the next morning through the keyhole what had been the matter. The fact was this: Mrs Longford had entered her husband’s room and had had the greatest difficulty in persuading him she was his lawful wife. If such a scene could occur between a couple of twenty years’ standing, in their own house, how much more difficult it would be to recognise your wife in the crowd.”

“And hence your idea of a prize. I think that had you decided to award it to the man who recognised another man’s wife you would have been more successful.”

“We should have been bankrupt by the end of a week, my lord; besides, this was a feature of the old Society, and we want to launch it on a totally novel basis. Originality must be our watchword.”

Lord Somerville, having been struck by the keen judgment and foresight of the little buffoon, had willingly promised him his support in every way. He would send round to all his friends and spread the idea amongst the Upper Ten, who would be sure to lead the movement and give a salutary example to the middle classes. Arrived at the 62corner of Park Lane, Lionel had wistfully inquired of Danford whether he knew Gwendolen Towerbridge? Dick was sorry, but he could not help Lord Somerville in that line. Engaged people were quite out of his department, Lord Somerville would have to solve that problem for himself; to which Lionel had shrugged his shoulders: just as well guess whose face was behind a thick mask.

That evening Lionel sat up late in his library planning in his mind the organisation of the new Society of social guides. He frequently interrupted his work to look up at his father’s portrait; his type was not unlike hundreds of men he had seen during the day, and he wondered how he could recognise his own father were he alive? Would not the latter have been slightly bewildered in this Babel? Would not his pedantic theories on good breeding receive a shock were he now to step out of his frame and take a stroll through the streets of London?

Towards two o’clock in the morning the Earl had memorised the whole synopsis of the new Society, to be launched under the gracious patronage of the Earl of A.B.C. and of Her Grace the Duchess of X.Y.Z., and he retired to his pallet of plaited rushes with a sigh of contentment at the prospect of a new spectacular show, and with a sense of relief at the thought that Gwendolen was lost to him, more irrevocably lost in this general unmasking than if 63a vessel had foundered on a rock, leaving her on a desert island.

In a few days London resumed its usual occupations; we cannot say that it looked quite the same, but Society apparently was in the swing once more. How could it be otherwise, when the flowers were in full bloom, the birds were warbling and the sun was shining? The brittle veneer of false modesty had crumbled under the power of necessity, and the inside of a fortnight had witnessed the downfall of prudery. No scandal ever reached two weeks’ duration; how could a virtuous craze have outlived it? Very different would it have been had half London appeared clad, while the other half remained unclothed; the contrast would have been offensive, and have called for wrathful indignation; but as everyone was in the same way, unquestioned submission became a virtue as well as a necessity. Thus argued Society, for the hard blow dealt by the infuriated elements was fast healing, and the ex-fashionable and would-be smart people hailed Lord Somerville’s new plan with enthusiasm. There was a great demand for social guides, a feverish excitement to take lessons at once in the art of observation, and a rush to attend lectures on physiognomy. At first curiosity was a powerful stimulant. “It would be ripping,” thought the Society girl, “to find out whether Lady Lilpot and 64Lady Brownrigg’s figures, which were so admired last season, were really bona-fide, or only the fabrics of padding and whalebone.” But very soon laziness damped their former ardour, and once more Society, ever incorrigible in its taste for ready-made pleasure, started the fashion of having social guides attached to their respective households. Had not ladies of fashion, men about town, formerly needed the services of French maids and experienced valets? It goes without saying that after the storm the constant attendance of these two custodians of the wardrobe were more irksome than pleasant, for they reminded persons of fashion of their vanished glory. These were therefore dismissed, for the housemaids could easily fulfil the scanty duties of the present dressing-rooms. Instead of the departed domestics, social guides were requisitioned. Lord Somerville was generally congratulated on his luck in obtaining the services of Dick Danford, who was considered to be at the very top of his position. He united an infallible memory to an astounding accuracy of inductive methods in human generalisation; but what most commended him to his patron and pupil were the philosophical and satirical sidelights he threw at every turn on Society and the various professions. As Lionel hourly conferred with his Mentor, he became more and more enthralled in his work of social reform; his daily 65walks through the parks at Dick’s elbow were a continual source of interest, and the object lessons in human nature, provided by the London streets, threw him at times into the wildest spirits.

The guides had a hard time of it in trying to bring their pupils out of that reserve so dear to the race, and they found great difficulty in making them act with more initiative. As long as the guide was at hand, it was all well, but when left to themselves, lady pupils and gentlemen students could not be brought to use their own judgment, and boldly venture to recognise people without the guide’s help, so fearful were they of committing social blunders. Still, Danford was sanguine; he kept saying that if the British lion had, in a fortnight, conquered the sense of shame, he would, in a few days more, throw pride to the four winds. He turned out to be quite right, for in ten days more London was launching out into a whirlpool of festivities.

The little buffoon was very entertaining, and kept his pupil in fits of laughter, relating his various experiences in the smart circles of London. Over and over again a pleading voice whispered to him in the Park or at a party, “Oh dear Mr Danford, I wish you would look in to-morrow at my small tea-fight. Do you think Lord Somerville could spare you for an hour or two? His father was such an old friend of mine. 66I have asked a very few people, but after the butler’s announcement I shall never know one from another—hi! hi! hi!” Another would in a deep, rough voice tell him to run in at luncheon Friday next: “Mrs Bilton is simply longing to meet you; she has a daft daughter who persists in taking the footman for her pa—very awkward, isn’t it? I am sure, Mr Danford, you would teach her in a few lessons how to recognise her dad, for the girl is rather quick otherwise.” “Ah, madam,” had replied the smart little guide, “it takes a very wise girl to know her own father in our present Society; I have seen strange instances of divination, and in many cases the girl, instead of a duffer, turned out to be too wise.” Or else a distracted and jealous wife who could not distinguish her lord and master in the crowd, appealed to the mimic, imploring him to tell her by what special sign she might know him again. To which Dick ironically answered that he was not teaching people how to see moles, freckles and scars on human bodies, but was instructing them in the art of physiognomy.

“You mean by that, that he is without any facial expression?” and Dick shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, dear Lady Woolhead, you have hit on 67the fundamental question of our age. Indeed, how can you recognise him, when you do not know, nor ever have known, him? And I have no doubt that he is in the same plight about yourself.” And Lord Somerville would remark,—

“How amusing life must be to you, my dear Danford; gifted with such satirical wit, you need never pass a dull moment.” That was all very true, but had you asked the Tivoli comedian what he really thought of his employ in Lord Somerville’s household, he would have told you, though with bated breath, that it was not an easy mission to keep a Mayfair cynic amused, for at the vaguest approach of dulness, his lordship threatened to give up the game of life, and go over the way to see there what sort of a farce was on the bills.

“I say, Dick, how would Adam have looked in a hansom, flourishing a branch of oak tree to stop the cabby?”

“And what does your lordship think of Eve’s attitude in a four-wheeler, ducking her fair head in and out of the window to indicate the way to the driver?”

“Danford, this won’t do. The naked form is not at its advantage seated upright in a brougham, nor is it decorative when doubled up on the back seat of a victoria.”

They were both struck by the unæsthetic 68appearance of the present vehicles, as they arrived one afternoon at Mrs Webster’s house in Carlton Terrace.

“We shall have to discover some suitable conveyance for the Apollos and Venuses of new London.”

Standing on the steps of the house they passed in review all fashionable London stepping out of landaus, victorias, broughams, hansoms; certainly the kaleidoscopic vision was not a success.

Mrs Webster was giving her first large At Home of the season. She was noted for her gorgeous parties, her gorgeous suppers and gorgeous fortune; but still more celebrated for her picture gallery and her kindness to artists. In her gallery was supposed to be lying two millions sterling worth of Old Masters, but her benevolence to artists did not cost her a farthing, it was a Platonic help she bestowed on them, and her charity had never been known to exceed an introduction to the Duchess of Southdown. She received all sorts and conditions of men and women; all London met at her “crushes,”—Duchesses elbowed cowboys, Royal Highnesses sat close to political Radicals, and Bishops handed an ice to some notorious Mimi-la-Galette of the Paris Music Halls. They all danced to the tune of clinking gold. In fact, Mrs Webster’s house, like so many others, was a stockpot out of which she ladled a social broth of 69high flavour. There were many stockpots in London, from the strong consommé of exclusive brewing to the thin, tasteless Bovril of homely concoction. That of Mrs Webster’s was a pottage of heterogeneous quality; it had a Continental aroma of garlic, a back-taste of the usual British spice, and it left on one’s lips a lingering savour of parvenu relish. The Upper Ten went to her dinners, though they screamed at her uncanny appearance, jeered at the authenticity of her Raphaels and Da Vincis, and quoted to each other anecdotes about her that had put even Mrs Malaprop in the shade. But these are the unsolvable problems of a Society divided into two sections; the one that wishes to know everything about the people they visit; the other who does not want to know anything about them.

After looking at the prologue of the show, Lionel and Danford entered the house and ascended the steps of the once richly-carpeted staircase. At the top stood, or at least wabbled, a little woman, leaning heavily on a stick; at her side was Sam Yorick, the social guide, who had no rival as a mimic of Parliamentary members, but who could not hold a candle to Dick Danford. Mrs Webster had applied too late, and had to take Yorick and consider herself lucky to get him, for he was the last male guide available, and she strongly objected to having a woman guide.

The house was superbly decorated with large china vases in which magnolias, azaleas, and rhododendrons had been placed. The reception-rooms were filling rapidly; it was soon going to be a crush. Every description of plastic was there—the small, tall, large, thin; and one uniform shade prevailed, that of the flesh colour. As the rays of the burning sun entered obliquely, tracing long lines of golden light on the parqueted floor, it illuminated equally the phalanxes of refined feet and ankles, flat insteps and knobby toes.

“What, the vaporous Mrs Archibald? But where is the grace of the woman we used to call the sylph of Belgravia?”

“Some fat old dowager malignantly said of her that she was draped in her breeding, so thin and undulating did she appear. But, has the breeding disappeared also in the torrential rain? for she looks as strong as a horse—see these thick ankles, short wrists, and red arms. I always objected to that sylph in cream gauze, for one never could get at her, she lived de profil and one only could peep at her through side doors.”

“He was colonel of a crack regiment. His ideas were limited to two dogmas: the sense of military exclusiveness, and a profound horror of intellectual women. Like his wife he was well-bred.”

“Yes, my lord, but the Englishman has definite limits to his gentility; the brute, though dormant, lies ready to leap and bite when he is annoyed.”

“Ah! satirists have neither sex nor nationality; but pray go on with your alembic of Colonel Archibald’s character.”

72“Well, he chose his wife because she was a well-bred girl—or at least had her certificate of good breeding—also because she was well connected and thoroughly trained in all social cunning.”

“Yes, and I daresay the thin, well-trained piece of machinery had been stirred by the dashing young officer. She secretly harboured love in that secret corner of the heart and senses which thorough-bred folks ignore outwardly but slyly analyse. We must not forget, my lord, that she has short wrists and thick ankles—ha! ha!—he was of her set, so nature could be let loose, while creeping passion was allowed to fill her whole being.”

“True, my dear Mephisto, but generations of women before her have done the same, and she did not disgrace the long lineage of mediocrity and avidity. She had been told what all women are told in our world—namely, that a lady never spoke loudly, never thought broadly; therefore she ruined her friends’ reputations under a whisper, and put the Spanish Inquisition to shame by her pietistical hypocrisy.”

As Lionel ended this homily of the vapoury Mrs Archibald, a group of bystanders dispersed, and Lady Carey was visible to our two pilgrims.

“That is Lady Carey, my lord, widow of Sir Reginald, who made himself so conspicuous in India.”

“Do you mean the positive little woman who 73followed fashion’s dictates, though she kicked, in words, at the absurdity of some exaggerated garments?”

“Ah! but finally submitted to all the caprices of the mode, my lord—resistance would have been a crime of lese-toilette—yes, it is she, or at least what is left of her—a bundle of mannerism and puckered flesh, sole survivals of an artificial state. At times she is deep, more often frivolous, of a hasty temper and a very cold temperament; in fact, her personality is made up of full stops. Her brain seems to have been built of blind alleys, which lead to nowhere. She is suggestive and narrow-minded, gushing and worldly-wise; she never allows passion to tear her heart to shreds, but talks freely about women’s frolics, and tells naughty stories with a twinkle in her eye and a pout on her lip. What a pity such a woman had missed the coach to originality, and had alighted at the first station—superficiality!”

“I say, Dan, can you put a label on that fine piece of statuary talking over there to Tom Hornsby?”

“That, my lord, surely you ought to know—ha! ha! ha! What an ingrate you are! it is Lady Ranelagh. She who reigned over London Society by right of her beauty.”

74“And finally, my lord, by right of insolence,” interrupted the little buffoon.

“She frequently argued with life like a fishwife,” went on Lionel, “and few know as well as I do what funny questions she put to destiny; yet she never saw her true image in her mental mirror, and Society never recoiled from her; but as you know, Dan, Society never recoils from any of her members: the contract between swindlers and swindled is never broken, and if by any chance some speck of dirt sticks to one of the columns that support the social edifice, Society is always ready to pay the costs of whitewash.”

“Yet, my lord, this Carmen of Mayfair is now caught in the wheels of the inevitable, and she has to face to-day the worst of all judges—nature.”

“Do you see that little Tanagra figure leaning against the door?—there, just in front of you, Danford.”

“You mean Lady Hurlingham, my lord, with her vermilion cheeks framed in meretriciously youthful curls. She is a thorough woman of the world.”

“With her, my dear Danford, a man is quite safe. She did everything from curiosity, which enabled her to reappear unwrinkled and unsullied after her varied experience; she derived all the fun she could extract from life without singeing the smallest feather of her wings.”

75“And still, my lord, one could hardly dare to whisper an indelicate word before that Greuzelike visage.”

“Quite so, dear Mephisto; those red lips would rather kiss than tell, those large melting eyes are pure—to an uninformed observer. Honi soit—ha! ha! ha!”

The sarcastic laughter of the two men was drowned by the tuning of a beautiful Stradivarius, and for a moment the rising uproar of a London At Home was hushed.

Johann Staub stood near the piano, his long brown hair framing a strong Teutonic face, his deep, dark eyes roving over the mass of heads turned towards him. He played magnificently, electric vibrations ran through his leonine mane, still, they hardly listened; the silence that had followed his first bars of the Kreuzer Sonata was soon broken, as voices one by one resumed their interrupted chatting, and the Dowager Lady Pendelton, lulled by the heat and the scent of exotic flowers, let her senile chin drop on her wrinkled breast. She was asleep. Staub ended his Sonata, and loud applause broke loose, a kind of thanksgiving applause, not in honour of the superb way in which the artist had played, but to celebrate their relief and satisfaction at his having finished. Old women went up to him, pressed his hands, asked him to luncheon, to dinner—would 76they were young—to what would they not invite him! The one had heard Paganini—“Psh! he was no match to you.” Another had known Beriot very well—he was the only one to whom he could be compared. Lady Pendelton woke suddenly, gave a few approving grunts, her eyes still shut, while she struck the parquet with her ebony stick. She wanted Mrs Webster to bring Staub to her at once, as she would like her granddaughter, Lady Augusta, to have some violin lessons.

“My lord, to-morrow, after breakfast, I shall submit to you some of my observations on the subject of entertainments. Look at these women seated on chairs, these men bending over them. Their movements are without grace and their hair badly dressed; we cannot have any more of the Patrick Campbell style in our modern mythology. Besides, there are too many people here, and in this Edenic attire the less people you group together, the better the effect.”

“I agree with you, Dan; but for God’s sake let us leave this room—I see someone approaching the piano. Let us be off, I am dying with thirst.” They edged their way down the staircase, not without trouble, for the crowd was coming back from partaking of refreshment, and climbing up 77the stairs with the renewed vigour that champagne and sandwiches give to drawing-room visitors. As they jammed sideways through the dining-room door, Lionel frowned at the discomfort, and Dan, finding himself breast to breast with his pupil, murmured to him,—

“I should abolish this barbarous fashion of going downstairs to feed at the altar of the tea-urn and bread-and-butter. Ah! at last we are through!”

“The buffet system has always revolted me”—a shiver ran down Lionel’s back. “That kind of social bar at which both sexes voraciously satisfy their internal craving has, to my mind, been a proof of the uncivilised state of Society.”

“But the whole thing is based on false pretences, my lord. Can I get you a glass of champagne?” and he ducked his head between two women who were talking loudly and munching incessantly. “Parties like these are Zoo entertainments at which the pranks of some animal are to be viewed; it is either a foreign prince, a cowboy, or a monkey.”

“Very often,” added Lionel, sipping his champagne, “it is not so original, and only consists of personal interests; this one is going to be introduced to a member of Parliament; a woman is going to meet her lover; a man to see his future 78bride. There is very little sociability in our social bazaars, I assure you.”

“Do you see that man leaning against the marble mantelpiece, my lord? That is old Watson telling a funny story to Lord Petersham.”

“The story must be highly flavoured, for Lord Petersham is shaking with laughter.”

“Do not be mistaken, my lord, his lordship never laughs at another man’s story—I know him well—he is bursting now with a joke he will tell old Watson when he has stopped laughing.”

“My dear Dan, we are the rudest nation on earth. We stick lightning conductors on the statues of our great men, and walk on people’s toes, only apologising when we happen to know them personally. The nobodies are insolent, because they wish you to think them somebodies; and the somebodies are arrogant, for they want you well to understand that you are nobodies.”

“The room is emptying, my lord, the sun has withdrawn its rays and the flowers are drooping their tired petals.”

“Let us be off then!” and Lionel laid his hand on Danford’s shoulder. “There is old Lady Pendelton being wheeled across the hall by her footman—unless it is her nephew, Lord Robert. She pompously looks round as she proceeds between the two rows of gazers. She is the epilogue of this comedy—a sort of ‘God Save the 79King’ unsung! This is all impossible, my dear fellow; this old woman, Mrs Webster, is played out in our new era, and the dowagers of the Pendelton kind have no place, any more in our reformed London.”

“Yes, my lord; they will accept from you what they would shirk from anyone else.”

“How ever could these people imagine that our present state of nature would admit of these social crushes? Why, the notion of rubbing against one’s neighbour ought to have deterred them from crowding into these rooms.”

“The cause of all this incongruity is laziness, my lord—apathy of the mind. That defect is the fundamental cause of the success of the Conservative policy. It suits the qualities and the failings of the race; and countries have but the politics they deserve, someone said. Very true, for politics are the expression of a country’s inner mind. The apathetic must naturally be Tories, for they are slow at reforms, and stand in terror of social upheavals; you saw, before the storm, how far acquiescence and lethargy could go, you will soon see that the country will stand at your elbows in all your reforms. It is nonsense talking 80of democracy in England as long as the peerage is the goal of all drapers and ironmongers, and, had not the Almighty poured water spouts over the whole sham and deprived us of our artificial husks, we should in time have seen London perish as Athens, Rome and Constantinople. You have to make the first move, my lord, for in this country the masses imitate the upper classes. Bear this well in mind: we are essentially caddish, so, my lord, make use of the defect to save the country.”

“You have taken the first step towards the plastic reform of London, my lord.”

“A tremendous one! They have now grasped the idea that they have only their skin to cover them, and must therefore improve their appearance, as their artificial tournure has vanished.”

“What do you think of my excluding the old dowagers of Society?” Lionel was enjoying this freak of his more than anything he had yet done.

“Capital, my lord! Very brave of you. As long as you all invited them, they came, because they knew no better; now that you have banished them from festivities, they will retire. It is simply a question of time, in which a new atavism will be developed. Our Society must be taught that there is a fitting time for everything—for learning, and for playing; for sorrow and for abdication.”

“Perhaps, Dan, we shall make them see that in politics also there is an age for retiring; for we are doomed to be guided by dotards who will not acknowledge the necessity of a graceful exit 82on their part, and who are deaf to the broad hints given them.”

“Wait a little, my lord; Rome was not built in one day, and the greatest reforms have been effected by trifling incidents. Rest satisfied with your first triumph—it was complete. You had the right number of guests, the marble lounges were placed at the right angles of your reception-rooms; the whole thing was in good taste.”

“How did you like my idea of men carrying on their shoulders amphoras filled with champagne?—Rather novel and graceful, wasn’t it, Dan?”

“Charming! and the fruit baskets on boys’ heads were fetching, my lord. It is the first time I really enjoyed a peach or a bunch of grapes; it reminded me of the Lake of Como on a hot afternoon, lying down on the steps of the Villa Carlotta.”

“Yes, I really thought the whole picture was pleasing in perspective; the women reclined on their black marble couches with more grace than heretofore, which very probably inspired the men to move about more harmoniously.—You see, Dan, Gwendolen never came.”

Danford looked wistfully at his pupil, and imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders.

“Her father, when he came yesterday, told me he had not seen her since the storm. It appears 83she persists in closeting herself, and refuses to go out. Poor Gwen! It is abnormal, and her brain must give way sooner or later.”

“This is one victim of this new state of nature; there must be some more of these abandoned creatures who lost all joy and sympathy in life when the storm rent them of their clothes;—but as your lordship is aware, this is beyond my power. I have undertaken to show you how to know your friends, in which art you have made wonderful progress;—I only wish my colleagues could say as much of all their pupils.”

“Still, my dear fellow, things are looking brighter; I watched a few groups conversing yesterday, without the assistance of any guides, and Sir Richard Towerbridge actually remembered me five minutes after he had shaken hands with me. But we need more than this, Dick. It is all very well recognising one’s friends, though at present the method of doing so is only empirical; but we long for something more.”

“My lord, how unjust you are. Nothing new! when the Lord Chamberlain has announced through the telephone that no Levees nor any Drawing-rooms will be held during the season!”

“My lord, the powers of the social guide are 84very limited; he throws out hints, as the sower throws the seed; after that is the great unknown. I will teach you how to use your eyes, how to move your limbs, how to remember, perhaps how to laugh, perchance how to cry, but I cannot teach you how to love. This is the hidden closet to which we have no key, for the very good reason that the door opens from within. In the silence of the night, in the peace of lovely gardens, when men are far and nature is near, listen to the melody singing from within that secret recess, and open the door. Then maybe you will see what I cannot show you, hear what I cannot make audible.”

“Do not trouble about me, dear fellow; I shall never love any mortal woman!”

“Is the Paphian already dead in you, my lord? Then indeed you are nearer to the goal than I ever believed. I hear the hoofs of your Arab pawing the ground of the courtyard.”

“Yes, it is your chariot. Watkins has carried out your idea to perfection, and I congratulate your lordship on having once more saved London from galling ridicule, in providing for its inhabitants this suitable mode of conveyance.”

“There, I think you are wise. The morning is 85cool, the drive to Richmond will be lovely; my lord, I must say good-bye to you.”

The dapper little artist left Lionel and was soon out of sight under the trees of Hyde Park, while Lionel jumped into his Roman chariot, took up the reins and dashed out of the courtyard. He drove down Park Lane, turned sharply the corner of Hyde Park, taking the straight road to Hammersmith.

Although charioteering was not a violent exercise like rowing, cricket or football, still it was exhilarating, and needed a firmness of posture, a suppleness in all movements which had given to Lord Somerville’s figure a grace formerly hampered by stiff collar, waistcoat, and top hat. This new fashion of driving was improving the physical appearance of the British male; for, the present charioteer was no more to be compared to the man who had jumped in and out of a hansom, than a mythological centaur could be contrasted with a rustic crossing a ferry on his cattle. The sluggish, indolent exponent of Masherdom fell down the very first time he took the reins into his hands; the rigid, unyielding representative of soldiery stiffened a little more, and managed to keep his balance, though the effect was ugly and the result, lumbago. But, little by little, the indolent straightened himself, the unbending 86relaxed his rigidity; and in a fortnight London could boast of a good average of chariot drivers, whom even Avilius Teres would not have disowned.

Lionel met many friends on his way to Richmond; it was the fashion to drive in the morning to neighbouring parks before luncheon. Here was Lord Roneldson, who had lost a stone since the storm. Poor old Harry! the first days must have been trying to him! The self-indulgent fop, incapable of the slightest mental or physical effort, had had no alternative between standing or falling; and only after many days of bitter experience, had he discovered his centre of gravity. There came along old Joe Watson, puffing and blowing, redder than ever. At his side drove Lord Petersham, who held his reins well in hand and felt his steed’s mouth as tactfully as he did many other things in life. He guided Watson through the labyrinth of London life, but he had often found his plebeian friend’s mouth harder to handle than any horse’s. Watson had been taken up by Petersham, and pulled through his election by him, for he was member for East Langton. Lord Petersham did Watson the signal honour of accepting heavy cheques from him before the storm, for which, in exchange, he gave him a lift up the social ladder. Watson in return helped his Mentor to directorships of several companies, and brought to 87his clubs all the bigwigs on the Stock Exchange. At times the noble Amphitrion muttered under his grey moustache, that they were infernal cads, but very soon his steely eyes preached common-sense to his tempestuous lips, bringing back to his mind the practical philosophy, “Make use of all,” which is, after all, but reading backwards, “Forgive everyone.” These two most antagonistic companions went arm in arm along Pall Mall, into clubs, Music Halls and all sorts of haunts in which a liberal education is afforded to all sorts of men. Watson was very proud of his vulgarity, which he called straightforwardness; he was equally vain of his insular ignorance, which he benignly termed patriotism; but of all things he was most proud of the shop in Oxford Street, where he had for years past walked up and down, asking the ladies what was their pleasure. He had a few decided opinions, or prejudices if you like, which hung round his plebeian form like labels, and which no Peer of the realm could have torn off: he hated clever women, recherché dinners, and foreign countries. His temper was strange; he was generally of an opposing turn of mind on all intellectual subjects and of the most agreeing disposition when conventional topics were on the tapis. He never spoke in the House, and no one spoke about him. Such men are surely the pillars of a party, for they 88never think, never interrupt, and are never thought of. They possess a few signposts in their brains, and rarely go wherever danger is posted up. Such men keep England together, as cement fastens the stones safely to one another, but, like cement, are ugly and thick. Petersham often kicked at this bundle of grotesqueness. Watson was so totally devoid of the discerning powers which graced his lordship’s individuality; he did not know Chambertin from Sauterne, took a Piccadilly wench for a Society Aspasia, and was sorely lacking in the sense of the ridiculous.

Since this new fashion of vehicle had come in, Petersham and Watson got on better together. There was a give-and-take in their present life which had never existed formerly. To obtain something or other under false pretences had been a code of morals closely interwoven with the Church Catechism and the State constitution, so that no loophole had been left through which one could see any other standpoint than one’s own. But since the contents of the shop in Oxford Street had vanished into thin air, as the chrysalis withers when the insect is formed, old Watson had lost all incentive to his pride; and old Petersham had equally lost all motive for his stinging epigrams directed at the thick-skinned Plutocrat. Charioteering through London soon showed these two types of distinct worlds that their safety depended 89more on their own initiative and prudence than on the police. Policemen, we know, had been dismissed, and every citizen, from the smallest child to the feeblest octogenarian, had to go through a course of thoroughfare gymnastics, so as to enable them to escape runaway horses; whilst lectures were given in Scotland Yard to instil into drivers’ minds the true sense of altruism and proper regard for the public’s safety. This new departure in outdoor polity had upset a good many pet prejudices of Watson, and knocked out a great deal of Petersham’s conceit.

Ah! There darted through Brompton Road Tom Hornsby with his comic little face cleanshaven. He was one of the few men who had taken at once to the chariot; his supple, nervous frame and perfect equipoise made him master of the art in a few hours. He was a satirist, Tom Hornsby! He had never succeeded in diplomacy, nor in his migration to the City jungle, and unable to control his outbursts of scurrilous wit, he had sharpened his tongue into a steel pen and edited the Weekly Mirror.

There were many more dashing along the Hammersmith Road on that lovely summer morning; some had been trained to soldiery, others to Parliamentarism, but the majority were inadequately provided with the suitable faculties with which to play the game of life. The soldiers 90were too spiritless, the politicians too bellicose. One little trifle had been omitted in the curriculum of a man’s education, but such a small item that it was hardly worth mentioning—for everyone agreed that to make a gentleman of a man was the great desideratum of college training—well, this little item neglected in all educations was: the training of life. This life-drill, by which all humanity is made akin, had been left out of educational programmes, and the results of such an omission had been painful; for men like Petersham and Watson would walk, dine, drink together, but they no more understood each other than if they had been two different species. Men were surprising and disappointing in this civilisation in which—

Men were at intervals Titans or monkeys. Hence the patchiness of life’s texture. Titan greeted monkey, the latter jeered while the former roared; and that was called Society.

The first fashionable hostess who followed Lionel’s hint to Society was the Ambassadress of Tartary. One morning she sat wearily in front of her Venetian mirror, resting her pensive head on her right hand. What endless hours had she spent before this same mirror formerly, combining artistic shades, using ingenious cosmetics to hide the 91damages done by time! Now, all these were of no earthly use; nature had stepped in and strongly advised women to have silent tête-à-tête with their inner souls. She then and there made up her mind that the lines round her eyes, and the discoloration of the flesh of her neck and arms should never more be the object of rude stares on the part of her guests, and she resolved never more to stand at the top of her staircase to greet her visitors. Of all places in the house that spot was the most unbecoming for complexion, owing to the light being badly distributed. The Marquise de Veralba represented one of the great nations of Europe, at the Court of St. James, and she felt that to her had been given the mission of teaching a lesson to Englishwomen. Orders were promptly given and speedily executed; carpenters and floral decorators were summoned to the marble couch of the Marquise, and after a few days the house was ready for the projected reception, which she intended to be a new move in social gatherings.

As Lionel and Dick walked up the staircase decorated with garlands of exotic flowers, they found, instead of their hostess, her social guide waiting to escort them through the vast rooms of the Embassy to an improvised bower of plants, rose trees and azaleas. There, on a floral lounge, reclined the Marquise. At first the visitors stood amazed before the scene mysteriously lighted by 92electric bulbs ensconced in the petals of flowers. Gradually they became conscious of her presence, and their attention was riveted by the beauty of her dark eyes; whilst her voice, subdued by restful and homogeneous surroundings, took her friends by surprise, as formerly they had been provoked at the shrillness of her tone, and the flurry with which she was wont to greet them at the top of the staircase, unceasingly fanning herself, whether it was summer or winter. Well, the fan had gone, like so many more useless things!

It was an interesting evening that one at Madame la Marquise’s. In the first place it revealed to an ignorant Society that a new beauty could be given to evanescent youth and departed charms. Then they realised that they had not made great progress in the art of observation and still had need of their guides; and having consciously, during the last weeks, lost a good deal of the old false pride, they talked indiscriminately to those standing or sitting near them, although they ignored the name, social standing, or banking account of the person they were addressing. Was not courtesy after all the best policy in an emergency? Thus acted Society—prompted by personal interest, it is true—but we are not to look too closely at the strings that move the limbs of human marionettes.

“That is all very well, Dick,” said Lionel, “but 93how will you hint to a waning beauty that a shady bower is the best place for her to ponder the vanities of this world and the greater glory of the next? You see, the Marquise has a long lineage of witty women behind her, and in this emergency her wit and taste have no more failed her than they deserted the brilliant women of the Renaissance who united the wisdom of life with intellectual supremacy.”

“Your lordship is right, there are no laws to enforce woman to resign her social post; but, her mirror is her assize, and it sits night and day in judgment over her declining bloom; whilst self-interest and opportunism will suggest to her many ways of avoiding ridicule. Mind you, my lord, I firmly believe that this new mode of life will keep us all young much longer, for we shall have to improve our personal appearance through diet, instead of reverting to unbending corsets and padded limbs, to restore the injuries done to the human figure by continual intemperance.”

The Earl, leaning on a porphyry column, gazed at his surroundings. He was struck by the loveliness and simplicity around him; the red-brocaded panels had vanished from the walls, and left the plain white wainscot, which of course had been repainted; all superficial luxury was gone, only a few lovely Louis XVI. tables remained in the room, 94whilst a few gold-caned settees were scattered about, and at right angles stood a few pink and black marble lounges.

“Danford, look at that woman over there talking to Tom Hornsby; whoever she may be, she has already acquired a firmness of footing, a single-mindedness of posture that really delights me. Still, Dan—no Gwendolen!”

“You seem to be very anxious about her, my lord. I heard last night from several lady guides, that many of the girls engaged last season could not bring themselves to meet the men they had chosen. You can hardly believe that the same girl who, a few weeks ago, fearlessly exposed all her moral ugliness and mental deficiency, could blush to-day at the idea of allowing her ‘fiancé’ to see her as God made her.”

“Do not remind me of that Inferno, Dan; you, my Virgil, must show me beauty, not disfigurement; purity, not indelicacy. But is this all we are able to do for ourselves?” and Lionel looked all around him. “We have no doubt arrived at a certain physical discipline. I grant you that the faddiest nincompoop has managed to pull himself together and could, at a stretch, run a chariot race with any champion of the Roman Empire. I also think that our social intercourse is taking a turn for the better; but you cannot deny that we are at a standstill. What is to happen next? 95We are completely isolated from the rest of the world; no one comes to England from abroad, since the storm, and no one goes out of the island.”

“Ah! only a matter of false pride on the part of the Britishers, my lord, and as to the foreigners not coming to England at present, I should give no thought to that. They very probably believe us to be the prey of a Boer invasion, and by this time every nation is celebrating in all their churches the disappearance of the British Empire.”

“You are always turning everything into a joke, my dear fellow; still, the problem remains the same: what are we going to do with our new state of nature? Then we have no newspapers! We know nothing of what is going on.”

“I think, my lord, that newspapers told us more of what was not going on than anything else. We have written enough; let us think, now that we are condemned to a sort of isolation. Now is your chance, my lord, and for your party to solve the problem; for no one can really help you out of this but yourselves.”

“You must not forget, Dick, that there are thousands of men and women without any work, owing to this breakdown of the factories. Those have to be thought of, or else we shall perish in an East-End invasion.”

96“It is no worse than a general strike, my lord. I saw a few of the Music Hall artists of the Mile-End Road, Hackney and Poplar, and they all say the same thing: the people are not at all thinking of rioting; the injustice of their condition is robbed of its bitter sting, because they know all England and all classes to be in the same predicament. Besides, they do not believe for one minute that this condition will last, and are convinced there will be a recrudescence of luxury, and therefore work, to compensate their present loss a thousandfold.”

“Lucky state of bliss is that apathy, so wrongly called self-control! But I am asking for more, Dick, for I am not wholly satisfied with the remedies you have suggested to me, and I thirst for something fabulous.”

“Your lordship is fastidious, but I have told you before: we give hints, we do not develop theories. Look inwardly, my lord, and perhaps in that secret chamber of which I spoke to you will you see something to arrest your attention.”

Lionel was not listening to his companion any longer; his mind had wandered from the East-End to the present scene, and gradually losing sight of his surroundings, his eyes lingered rapturously on a feminine form of unsurpassed beauty. Her elbow resting on an Etruscan vase, she leaned her soft cheek on the palm of her hand and looked up inquiringly at a portrait by Lely, representing the ancestress of one of our fashionable women. Lionel had never seen such grace, such simplicity—the word innocence fluttered on his lips, but soon vanished; he had rarely connected that quality with any of the women of his world. But, innocent or not, the form before him was faultless; the setting of the head on the shoulders perfect, the Grecian features radiantly pure. Who could she be? No matter, she was beauty, womanhood, that was sufficient, and it filled his heart with beatitude to gaze on such perfection without having to read the label attached to it. Dick was right, no guide could 98enlighten him as to what were his feelings. He had never seen her before; no doubt, she was a foreigner landed here on the day of the storm. Greece alone could have given birth to such a symmetric form and such harmony of movements. He moved away from his porphyry column as in a trance, leaving Danford to converse with a celebrity who wanted to know who someone else was; on his approaching the unknown beauty, his eyes lingered more intently on her exquisite face, and he contemplated her lovely hazel eyes shaded by long dark eyelashes. It was the only thing a man could contemplate now—a woman’s face; for, however demoralised a man might be, he defied him from ever behaving indelicately to a woman in the state of nature. As he came close to her, she dropped her eyelids and levelled her gaze to his; they looked into each other’s eyes—and they loved.

“Thank you, I am not tired,” answered a musical voice; and her velvety eyes drank deep at the fountain of love that flowed from his eyes. “I was far away, transported into the world evoked by this picture. I tried to divine the thoughts of this notorious beauty at the Stuarts’ Court, and the vision became so vividly real, that I could see her take up her blue scarf and raise it 99in front of her face as she blushed in looking at my nakedness.”

“I should have thought the model who sat for this portrait could have easily beheld our mythological world without having to lift her scarf to hide her confusion. I do not think she was renowned for the purity of her life, nor for the nicety of her language.”

“The more reason for her inability to look nature in the face. Nature is too amazing to those trained to artifice. The glory of a sunset would be blinding to those who never had seen its reflection but on houses or pavements.”

How adorably sensitive was her mouth; he remembered having seen, in Florence, expressions like hers. The divine Urbinite had excelled in delineating these touching faces.

“It is getting late. If you are thinking of leaving, will you allow me to escort you?” She laid her hand on his, and without a word they left the room.

One by one the guests returned to the secret bower to say a courteous adieu to the Marquise—a thing which formerly had not been frequently witnessed—it had been so irritating to see that perpetual grin on her lips, that incessant fanning, and, above all, to watch her sliding scale of good-byes, which had become alarmingly tedious.

100The Adam and Eve of “London regained” slowly descended the marble staircase, passed through the hall, out of the front door, and found themselves on the pavement as unconcerned about their surroundings as if they had dropped straight from a planet. They gazed at each other, and in that luminous orb of the visual organ, they discovered the only world for which it was worth living or dying.

“I do not know who you are, and I do not desire to know, until you have answered my questions. This I know, that you love me; my love is too great not to be echoed by yours. What we feel for one another is above all worldly considerations, what we can give each other is beyond what the world can give or take away. Will you accept the life devotion of a man who has never loved until this day? I blush at what I used to call love—and shall never profane your ears with a recital of what men call their conquests.”

“I accept the gift of your heart and of your life, and I give you mine in exchange. I have never loved either.” She lifted her pure face to his; a cloud rushed across the sky, leaving the pale moon to illumine the young couple walking in silence in their dreamland. After a long pause Lionel spoke.

And both looked down, for the first time suffused with shame at discovering their identity. Confusion overwhelmed him, not at their present state, but at the sudden thought of their past lives of indelicacy. He was the first to break the silence, for man, being essentially practical, must at once know more about what he finds out; and an Englishman above all must necessarily investigate his newly-conquered dominion. Perhaps this is the reason for their being such good colonists; they do not gaze long at the stars and sunsets of a new Continent, but very promptly turn to business, and to what they can make out of their discovery.

She told him what her occupations had been; they were limited, it was true, but they had helped to open her eyes on a few of life’s problems.

“Nearly, with the exception of the day of the first exodus, when I felt I must either have some air, or die. I have been out once or twice since, at unearthly hours of the morning; but this is the 102first party I have been at—I could not risk meeting you. I had pictured our meeting very differently from what it has been; I dreaded it, and little imagined this would be the end of it.”

“No, sweetheart,” interrupted her lover, “you mean, the beginning of our life. Tell me all you did at home.”

“I have studied more, my dear Lionel, in these last weeks than in all my life before, including my school days. My books have been the sun rising and setting, the stars and the birds’ twitterings; I have thought of poetry, philosophy, and history—”

“Poor Gwen, how dull it must have been! Fancy you studying the works of nature, and imagining that you are a philosopher!”

“Forgive me, Gwen. I am more than cruel, I am unjust, for I am the last who ought to scoff or reprove. I stand here as a repentant sinner, only begging to kiss your hand and to be allowed to gaze on your beauty.”

“Telephone! What for, and to whom? When I think of the bundle of wires I used to despatch, and of the trayful of cards and notes the footman was wont to hand to me; each one in view of some Ranelagh meeting, a box for a first night, a 103Saturday to Monday invitation, and many more important nothings which formed the epopée of my London life! But who would have cared to know of my inner thoughts, of my heart’s desires? We shall have to learn a new language before we can write again, Lionel; for the phraseology that suited the shams of our past life would be inappropriate in our Paradise regained.”

“Ah! Lionel, he is the very last one I could have set eyes on! I have not seen him since the Islington Tournament. How long ago that seems. I heard a fortnight ago, through my guide, Nettie Collins, that he only came home on the day of the first exodus!”

“Perhaps you have seen him, Gwen, but not known him again. Guides are no good in these family relationships.”

“I must say candidly that philosophy was too much for me. I can, as yet, only grasp what touches my heart. We shall talk much, think deeply, you and I, my dearest Ly.”

“Not that name, dearest! It burns your sweet lips. It was the synthesis of the false life you and I lived.”

“Tell me; why have you never loved? A man is free, and has every opportunity to choose; it is 104not like us women, who are told from infancy what we are worth and what kind of market the world is.”

“Love did not enter into the programme of my school life, Gwen. Had love been part of education, I doubt whether our old world would have lasted as long as it did. It is because love has had no fair play for centuries that injustice, hypocrisy and tyranny have ruled unmolested. Love may be, in words, the principle by which all things are ordained, but hatred is the real password, and we are so accustomed to the clever trickery that we do not detect the fraud.”

“He took me to Italy several times during my long vacations. I remember being taken by him to the Uffizi Gallery and being told to look at the pictures;—I used to stand transfixed in front of Raphael’s Madonnas. Then dad would turn up—too soon—with some Italian lady whom he had no doubt picked up—by appointment—and my dream was over.”

“And your mother, Lion, was she pleased when you came home? You must have been such a dear boy!”

“Tell me about her; for of course I have only heard what the world had to say of her, of her 105reckless life and tragic death in the hunting-field; but I want you to tell me, for between us there can never be any secret, nor any subterfuge.”

“Tell you, Gwen; there is so little to tell. The lives of fashionable women are not so full of adventures as the lower classes seem to think. It is not for the things they do they should be blamed, but for all they do not do. There are a great many legends about Society women that are, in fact, but twaddly prose; there is a great deal of fuss all round a fashionable beauty, and very little worth fussing about. Spite and vanity are at the root of many rotten homes. I know my home was an arid desert, because my father never forgave my mother for having brought him to the altar; and she vented her spite on him by compromising herself with every man available or unavailable. The more my father showed his contempt to her, the more she threw herself into a vortex of frivolity. Her vanity could only equal her coldness. Her curse was to be incapable of any love. She never for one instant loved the man she inveigled into matrimony; she never cared a jot for her children, and she certainly had no passion, however ephemeral it might have been, for any of the men with whom she compromised herself. In this lies the ghastliness of such lives. Were there more bona-fide 106passion, there would be less cruelty and less levity.”

“I never once saw my mother lean over the cot of her child; she rarely entered the nursery, and we only came down at stated hours to be looked at by visitors. These ordeals were painful. To appear motherly, my mother occasionally laid her hand on my curly head. Ah! those fingers scintillating with diamonds and precious stones; those hard bracelets penetrating into my delicate skin! How I loathed that hand on my head—it was such a hard hand.”

“The least said about it the better. There are noble griefs, and there are ugly sorrows: mine was of the latter order. When Cicely died, my mother was at a State Ball. She knew the child was hopelessly ill before she went, but a dress had arrived that morning from Paris, and a State Ball is a duty; in fact, all social functions are duties which come before mere human feelings. After so many years, I can still see that gorgeous apparition as she came into the room to speak to the hospital nurse. I did not understand the meaning of it all, but felt awed by the soft murmurs of the nurse, the dim light, and the haughty manner of my mother. Next day the nursery 107was closed; I was kept in the room of the head nurse to play with my toys, and told severely not to make a noise. I asked for Cicely. The under-housemaid, a good sort of a country girl, took me by the hand and led me into the room where little Cicely was laid out. One bunch of narcissus was lying on her feet; they were the nurse’s last tribute to her little dead patient. And that was all. I realised nothing, I was seven years old. The days that followed were miserable; I missed my playmate and was daily brought down to my mother’s boudoir, to be interviewed by simpering old dowagers who gave me a cold kiss, and waggish young men who shook hands with me and called me “old fellow,” as if I had already entered some crack regiment, or won the Derby. My mother, in her diaphanous black chiffon, distributed cups of tea right and left, while she related in short sentences the end of little Cicely and the brilliancy of the State Ball.”

“When I think, Lionel, that you and I were on the eve of repeating that same lamentable story—”

“Enough of this horrid past, my beautiful Una; let us forget that it ever existed, and let us think of the present, of you, and of our future.”

They had reached Hyde Park Corner. Gwendolen gave a circuitous glance on the 108scene that surrounded them, and remarked that the Duke of Wellington’s statue had disappeared.

“Oh! Did you not know that it had been removed yesterday? You will never any more see Nelson on his column, Gordon holding his Bible, Napier with his gilded spurs, nor Canning, Disraeli, and so many others, on their pedestals—they have all been taken to South Kensington, for the present. The idea is to build a new hall outside London for all these relics of the past, where they may be viewed by the very few who are anxious to study the curios of an old worn-out civilisation. The Committee has come to the conclusion that our newly-revealed sense of modesty must inevitably be shocked by these indecorous memorials to our great men; and it has decided that the education of the masses must at once begin by the removal of objects more fit for a chamber of horrors than for the contemplation of pure-minded citizens.”

“I heard the curator of Walsingham House say last evening that he meant to suggest a new departure in monument erection. Instead of paying a tribute to the man who, as a soldier, a poet, or a statesman, had but done his duty during his short visit to this planet, he advised 109that monuments should be raised to abstract principles, and enjoined the Committee to start by replacing the equestrian Duke of Wellington with the detruncated statue of Victory in the Elgin Marbles collection. Gwen, we are at your door, and we must part. When shall I see you again, dearest?”

“To-morrow in the Kensington Gardens, under the shady trees, we shall be able to talk of all the problems we must solve together.”

“Good-night, my Una. How lovely you are, thus caressed by the soft rays of the moon. Have I never gazed into a woman’s face before, that I seem to see your eyes for the first time? I have now discovered the secret of inward beauty, and wherever you are, however surrounded you may be, I shall know you, for I have seen your soul. My whole life will be too short in which to express my rapturous admiration. Forgive me for the past years of blindness.”

“Lion, it is I who have to beg your forgiveness. I never knew you—I never knew my own self. Was it our fault after all? It had never been our lot to meet as two free citizens of the Universe; but, like two miserable slaves of Society, we were trained to trick each other, and to play a blasphemous parody of love, while malice all the time was master of our fettered beings.”

The door of No. 110 opened and closed on the 110vision of purity. Lionel walked up Park Lane and soon reached his home; he entered the library, and once more looked up at his father’s portrait. Was it fancy? But he thought he saw the face smile superciliously, and heard these cold words fall from the thin lips: “My poor fellow, beware of sentimentality. As I told you, I preferred being killed to being bored.”

A few days after, Dick Danford was at his master’s house; he walked nimbly through the hall and reached the Roman bath Lionel had now constructed for his use. He had started the fashion of receiving his friends at the late hour of the afternoon, five o’clock, in what the Romans called the Frigidarium. Those who wished to bathe could do so in the marble swimming-bath cut out in the centre of the hall, others who only came to converse sat in the recess carved into the surrounding wall, or stood against the pilasters which divided the recesses. There, for an hour or two, they discussed past doings, foreshadowed events; wit was acclaimed, philosophy commended. As Dan entered he viewed a gay scene: Lionel just stepping out of the bath, meeting his valet, Temple, ready to friction his body with the strigil—a sort of flesh brush—others, like George Murray the novelist, and Ronald Sinclair the art critic, sitting in recesses; whilst many of the Upper Ten and the artistic world splashed and dived in the piscina.

“Here comes Dan!” proclaimed Lionel. 112“What news since I last saw you? I have missed you much these two days; but I daresay your business was pressing.”

“Hail, Danford! the surest, safest, most comforting of all guides! While we sip our tea tell us the town news.” This was Tom Hornsby, reclining in one of the recesses. The splashing ceased, they one after another grouped themselves—some in the niches, the rest lying down, whilst Danford, standing against a pilaster, surveyed with intense satisfaction this picture of recherché cleanliness, and inhaled the fragrance of exquisite perfumes.

“Oh! my old prelate of the Islington Tournament? Excuse me, Dan, for interrupting you.”

“Yes, my lord, the very same—has decided to preach a sermon at St Paul’s on the new Society he is organising.”

“Still no news of the war, Danford?” broke in Lord Mowbray, the amateur mimic.

“How can there be when we receive no letters. Perhaps the War Office has important wires from 113the seat of war, although it has not communicated them to the public. But it is strange how little the war has affected Society; the heavy blows that have fallen on nearly everyone in your circles have arrived very much softened by distance; and it seems really as if the whole tragedy were being acted in some other planet. Besides which, has not college and home life taught well-bred people to bear with fortitude all mishaps and sorrow? Civilisation is a thick ice which covers the current rushing beneath it; you must wait for a crack on the surface, to be able to notice which way runs the stream.”

“I suppose you would consider the London storm a crack on the surface, would you?” ironically inquired Sinclair, lighting a cigarette.

“By all means, Mr Sinclair, and those who have watched carefully through the crevice must have seen that, for a long time, we have been going the contrary way of the tide.”

“I do not know how it is to end—no regiments have been ordered out since our catastrophe.” This was Lord Mowbray again, who was not fond of ethics and preferred coming back to facts.

“The passing of regiments through the town would turn out a failure in our present condition,” retorted Danford. “No windows would be thrown open, no hearty cheers would rejoice the hearts of departing warriors; that excitement is over for 114ever—it was even on the wane before we stood as we are now. I often wonder why Society did not raise a regiment of Duchesses and Peeresses? That would have fetched the masses, and perhaps might have provoked a general surrendering of the enemy to an Amazon battalion; for certainly the novelty of the enterprise, and the incontestable beauty of the Peeresses’ physique, would do a great deal towards enlivening the old rotten game of warfare. But they missed the opportunity of putting new wine into old bottles, and now it is too late. After all, patriotism is only a question of coloured bunting: tear down the flags, and nationality will die a natural death.”

“What a sans patrie you are, Mr Danford,” contemptuously said Lord Mowbray, whose conception of Fatherland reduced itself to a season in London, a summer in Switzerland, and a winter on the Riviera.

“Danford is an unconscious prophet,” remarked Lionel, “for it is clear to whoever observes minutely the evolution of nationalities that we are all unwittingly working at the creation of a vast humanity. The more man will know of man—and it is impossible he should do otherwise, when you consider the map of the world and view the huge cobweb of railways which unite countries to one another—the more, I repeat, man will know of man, the fainter will become frontiers which 115have for so long separated human beings and turned them into enemies. The first time that men of different nationalities met and shook hands in a universal Exhibition, that day a muffled knell was heard in the far distance announcing the slow agony of nationalities. But it is again a question of the thick ice over the current. Progress in every branch is the name for which we labour and suffer; but conquest is the real aim of all our strenuous efforts. We have too long minimised the power of the current, and one day, whether we like it or not, we shall have to go where it leads us.”

“You are quite didactic, my dear Lionel,” said Lord Mowbray, who since the storm looked on his host with suspicion, and on all social guides in general, and Danford in particular, with contempt. He had absolutely declined to avail himself of the services of Music Hall artists, relying on his own powers of observation to guide him through life. He had even gone so far as to seek an engagement as a guide himself; but Society, however it may pat on the back every amateur or exponent of mediocrity, has the wisdom, in emergencies, to draw the line and to appeal to the professionals who, they well know, do not fail in technique. Lord Mowbray was therefore unemployed and generally uninformed. Left to his own conceit and ignorance, he constantly 116made the most terrible mistakes in drawing-rooms, and ignored the public guides stationed at different corners of crowded thoroughfares, who had taken the place of old-fashioned constables; to these guides Mowbray would never apply, passing them with haughty disdain. Each day he committed every conceivable faux pas; bowing to his friends’ butlers, passing by ignominiously his smart friends; in fact; he was the laughing-stock of Society, although he was blatantly happy and thoroughly unconscious of his folly.

“What I really came for this afternoon, my lord,” suddenly broke in Danford, “was to tell you of a very serious reform in our new mode of life—or, at least, death. There are to be no more funerals!”

All these indignant questions fell like a volley on Danford the imperturbable, who looked at his pupil.

“We again need your support, my lord. This is the point: without plumes, palls, muffled drums, 117mutes, how are we to know a Peer’s obsequies from a pauper’s? The chairman of our Committee put it to me in these words yesterday: ‘My dear Dan, try and make Society leaders see that complete privacy in that last and not least important function is of most vital import, if they wish to keep up a certain prestige.’ I promised to mention this to you, and I must add that I am struck myself with the unfitness of a lord of the realm having no better funeral than a vagabond; it seems to me irrelevant.”

“There is the rub of this new state of ours; it has awakened in us the sense of the incongruous,” remarked George Murray. “We used not to be so discriminate, and what struck me most, formerly, was the total lack of humour in people who passed for witty.”

“I cannot tell you,” warmly proceeded Danford, “how shocked I have been at fashionable funerals. There was a time when women did not consider it delicate to attend such functions; it was left to the sterner sex to accompany a beloved parent, whose female relations remained at home to mourn over their loss. But women are not any more to be put aside so easily; they have invaded the smoke-room, banged open the doors of City offices; it is not likely they would remain long away from graveyard excitement. The last I was at, a few weeks before the storm, was a sight, and 118the pitch of levity to which it rose fairly sickened me. Had I not pinched myself, and rubbed my eyes, I could have believed myself at an At Home. The hostess, a widow, was going from one guest to another, shaking hands with the one, thanking the other for coming; the bereaved daughters skipped over tombs and newly-digged graves to have a word with this one and that one. I instinctively looked round, thinking I might see an improvised buffet in the shade of a mausoleum; I quite expected to see plates of sandwiches handed round, and to hear the jingling of spoons and cups and saucers. Upon my soul, I have no doubt that had not the storm put a stop to Society’s doings, we should have been treated this season to a churchyard tea and a funeral cake. The idea seized hold of me then, and a fit of laughter choked me, when I thought what a good termination to this gruesome farce it would be, were the lamented defunct, on whom they had dropped a shovelful of cut flowers, just to stand up and apostrophise them thus: ‘I say, do not quite forget it is all owing to me that you are having all this fun!’ For I assure you they were entirely oblivious of the poor departed in the excitement of small-talk. Of course all this is at an end practically, and funerals have been quite neglected latterly, for this very good reason that the mourners did not know each other; we are 119therefore saved from the sad spectacle of levity and callousness which were the distinct traits of our past Society.”

“Well, there is nothing to be done except to be cremated unostentatiously. ‘Let the dead bury their dead’; but Society decided otherwise, for it was the living that despatched the dead, which was a most unequal job.”

“I wonder what will be the ultimate result of all these reforms?” lazily said George Murray. “If you reform burials, you must also some day reform marriage; you will find a great deal of incongruity and of levity in that ceremony also; then will follow the reform of the relations between the sexes, between employers and employees, and goodness only knows what next. You will have your work cut out for you, my poor Danford; and dear Lionel’s mission will not be a sinecure if he has to patronise every scheme your Committee brings forward.”

“You have my entire assent to every reform you may suggest to me, Dan,” concluded Lionel, smiling at his guide, who remarked that he had never yet seen that smile on his pupil’s lips nor ever remarked that look in his eyes; he was sure something new had happened to illumine the face of the Mayfair cynic.

120“I am afraid you will come in for a good share in this evolution, Murray,” and Lionel turned his face towards the novelist. “Fiction as you conceive it is a thing of the past. Clothes and environment have clung like a Nessus robe round your feminine heroines and masculine personages, and given them a rag-shop philosophy. Tear the bandages that swathed your fictional humanity, and send into the open air your dramatis personæ, to compete, fight and win in the race of life. You have believed yourself long enough the apostle of subtle psychology and of morbid physiology; for once be the humble disciple of Dame Nature, for she is now turning her bull’s-eye lantern right into your face and making you squint.”

“My lord is right,” crowed the mischievous buffoon. “I feel sure your publisher will not bring out your next book; sorry for you, old fellow, but you see there is no money in it any more. I saw Christopher a few days ago, and he led me to understand that the kind of fiction you excelled in will not appeal any longer to the general public. One of the two; either the feminine reader is one who harbours a sickly regret for her past toggery, or she is a modern woman won over to the cause of true modesty. In the first case she will throw your book away, for it will make her feel discontented with her present state; and in the latter instance she will shut your pages while blushes 121will cover her lovely cheeks at the mere thought of anything so indecent as—clothes. But, of course, I forget that the books published now will necessarily be very limited, as parchment is the only available material on which written thought can be printed.”

“And an excellent thing it is. We have written too much—written ourselves dry; and now has come a breathing-time in which we shall be able to incubate.” This was Tom Hornsby, who indeed had written himself to desiccation in the Weekly Mirror. “We have game laws, and we know precious well how to enforce them. Why should we compel our sapless brains to generate when we know so well their incapacity even to conceive? Brains are no more inexhaustible than is the cow’s milk; still, we do not give to the children of our minds the proper breeding period, and we hail the events of our abortions as if it were the advent of some divine prophecy.”

“That is about what old Christopher led me to understand,” said Danford. “But, however well these abortions may have paid formerly, he knows now that they will not satisfy an Edenic public any longer. Publishers are first-rate at feeling the public’s pulse.”

“I wonder they were not chosen as social guides instead of Music Hall artists,” retorted Mowbray, who never failed to have a hit at his rivals.

122“We thought of them, Lord Mowbray, but, after careful consideration, we judged that publishers having been trained to convert human brains into ingots of gold, they would hardly be suitable for our social work, which consists more especially, at present, in developing the extrinsic knowledge of individuals.”

“It is a pity that nothing has been done towards organising a body of Parliamentary guides.” Lord Mowbray was again at his pet grievance; he had never forgiven the Speaker for refusing to accept his services in the House, and he was convinced that the country’s ruin and Parliamentary decadence would be the results of their refusal.

“Oh! that has been the worst nut to crack; but we had to give it up,” and Danford sat down in one of the marble niches ensconced in the wall. “The House of Commons has its susceptibilities, its vanities, and, above all, its traditions; and it would not hear any of our suggestions. Just imagine for one minute, Ministers of State, Party leaders, being escorted by guides! The idea appeared preposterous to the Honourable Members, who thought they knew their own business better than any one else.”

“Certainly, at first, it seems natural to know one’s own party,” murmured Lionel as in a dream; “but in the long run it becomes more difficult than one imagines.”

123“It must evidently be the case,” said Tom Hornsby in a bitter voice, “for you see what a hash they made with the Housing question. The House carried unanimously the Bill which, for a long time, had been obstructed at its second reading.”

“Very remarkable indeed,” sententiously said Danford. “I was there that day, and enjoyed the fun gloriously. I watched the House eagerly. The social and political labels were off, so they all listened unprejudiced to the orator’s convincing arguments. His reasons were not so much convincing from his own powers of persuasion, but because the listeners were off their guard and therefore accessible to rational impressions; and here we are the richer for one good law, and one that we never could have hoped for had Society continued to know one another by their exterior labels.”

“This will inevitably lead to the dissolution of the Upper House,” said Lionel.

“It remains with you to give the hint of abdication, my lord.” The little buffoon stood up and faced his pupil, while Temple, the empty cup in his hand, stood between the two, alternately looking at the one and the other. The group of men surrounding them were silent; and the sun, having slowly disappeared behind the trees of Hyde Park, had left the Frigidarium in a 124mysterious twilight most appropriate to the ominous words of Danford. “They will all follow your lordship. The reform must come from within. The dark days are over when you said to the rushing wave of the people: ‘Thou shalt go no further.’ They leapt over the rocks then, and, to prove their power, cut your heads off; which on the whole was a poor argument of persuasion, even if it was one of force. No lasting reform can be obtained but from within; and the Upper House has it in its power to avert the catastrophe of its downfall by taking voluntarily a leading part in all the reforms of our Society.”

“You mean by taking a backseat,” sniggered Lord Mowbray. The spell was broken, and the twilight scene of prophecy was transformed into one of malicious discord. “I cannot see what you want with the co-operation of publishers, Mr Danford; you are Diogenes and Lycurgus both rolled into one, and methinks you need no one to assist you in fixing our destinies.”

“I only give gentle hints concerning your future relations towards each other, Lord Mowbray; publishers will step in later, to inform you as to your intrinsic value.” Danford bowed to Lord Mowbray and, turning to Lionel, said, “Where do you intend going this evening, my lord?”

“After a light collation I am taking Hornsby 125to the Empire to see Holophernes; it was one of the great attractions before the storm.”

“Yes, and likely to be the last of that kind; but I shall leave your lordship to judge for yourself.”

“Ta-ta, Danford—shall see you to-morrow early about the Dining-Halls scheme.”

Nettie Collins, Gwendolen’s social guide, declared she had nothing more to teach her pupil now she had made such progress in the art of observation, recognised her lover, and just lately known her father again. This last event had been curious. One day, Gwen was walking through the rooms of the National Gallery, enjoying the beauty of art that had been hidden from her for so many years; as she stood in front of Pinturicchio’s “Story of Griselda,” wondering at the past generations who not only allowed, but insisted on women turning themselves into beasts of burden, she noticed a middle-aged man of commanding stature, close to her, gazing at the same picture. She looked up and her eyes met his; her present surroundings vanished, and she lived in an evoked dream, which brought back past scenes and long-buried joys. As she stared at him, she little by little reconstructed the scenes of her childhood, and as in a trance her lovely lips faintly murmured the word “Father.”

127“What a magician is love,” thought Gwendolen, when she retired that night to her bedroom, after long hours of conversation with her father. What could Nettie teach her now? Still she kept the sprightly little guide by her, to help her in working out the problems of social reforms. The two reformers put their clever heads together, and assisted by Eva Carey—Gwendolen’s bosom friend—they organised several guilds for the purpose of bringing together the East-End factory girls and the West-End fair damsels. They came to the conclusion that the West-Enders had been often enough in the dark continent of Stepney, Hackney, and Bow, to amuse, sing or recite, read and teach the poor isolated classes, who, after all, knew no more of their instructors and entertainers than if they had come down from the planet Mars. The three friends thought this time they would have the East-End on a visit to the West-End, and on their own ground would make them acquainted with that world which they had only read about in penny shockers. Since the disappearance of clothes, misery had lost a good deal of its sting, and envy and rancour were things of the past civilisation. Hitherto the craving for money had robbed our world of the one virtue which opens every heart to sympathy: Pity. How could a factory girl, who struggled on five shillings a week, ever imagine that the owner of a 128West-End mansion needed sympathy? Money was the great soother, and in the eyes of those who did not eat enough, it granted one the privileges of eating more than your fill, of lying in bed when having a headache, of taking a holiday when run down in health; it even went so far, in their ignorant minds, as to pad the aching throbs of a broken heart. The East-Ender knew no limit to what money could do, because he had none himself and was convinced that to possess in abundance the things which he sorely lacked must doubtless be the cause of all happiness. He was so grossly one-sided and ignorant that he was inclined to believe that even the laws of nature could be altered by the power of riches; but however foolish he may have been, he was not alone in judging in this dogmatic manner. The West-Ender was equally uninformed as to what lay beneath the sordid rags of the classes of which he knew nothing; he endowed the poorer classes with a callousness of feeling which at first sight seemed in keeping with their reeky clothes and shabby environments, and denied them any particle of that romance which he believed could only be the privilege of the well-dressed. And thus the two antipodes of London lived in a baneful ignorance of one another. But now that the vanishing of toggery had laid bare the two hearts of our social world, Gwen was determined to put the picture of 129humanity in proper perspective, and to soften the crudity of light and darkness that had been so offensive to both parties. Over and over again Gwen gathered her friends and her friends’ friends in the various parks of London. They played and laughed under the trees, they listened to Nettie’s amusing recitals of her adventurous life, which were varied—for she made her début at Hackney’s Music Hall, and ended her career at the Alhambra! She greatly diverted her audience, for her ideas of the world at large were always flavoured with a grain of good-humoured satire and gentle humour. She was fresh and impulsive, human and perceptive, and possessed the invaluable gift of developing in the East-Ender girls the precious sense of humour and discrimination which lightens every burden, and seems to filter through opaque dulness like a ray of sunlight.

How much more pleasant were those pastoral entertainments than the old-fashioned At Home, or even than the attractive garden parties! Tournaments were organised to promote the love of beauty, and to develop the imaginative power that lies more or less dormant in everyone, but more particularly so amongst the London poorer classes. The first one was a floral tournament. Every girl of the East-End 130and the West-End was to appear in the prettiest, and most original floral accoutrement; they were granted full permission to use their imagination to conceive wonderful designs and combination of colours; Gwen hoped in this way to instil in the Anglo-Saxon race an æsthetic knowledge of decoration which was sorely lacking. Another time she aimed at a more ambitious entertainment, and started a series of historical tournaments. A group of girls were selected amongst the West and East-End maidens, and to each of them an historical character was given to impersonate. Historians were invited to lecture on historical subjects so as to acquaint the girls with the character they wished to personify. This new mode of inoculating the taste for history was as instructive as it was dramatic; besides, it developed memory, for there was no doubt that the East-Ender’s ignorance, as related to past and present history, was not more appalling than that of the Mayfair belle. Nettie decided that the first three tournaments ought to be consecrated to personages of our own times, or at least the Victorian age; for uncultured minds could not be supposed to interest themselves in historical characters so far removed from the present period as Charles II., Henry VIII., or Alfred. It was gradually that the 131dramatic study of history was to take them backwards, instead of making them leap into a far-distant abyss, expecting the bewildered brain to grope its way back to our throbbing present.

Lionel frequently came to surprise Gwendolen in Kensington Gardens, where she rehearsed with the girls. He came in through the gates facing the Memorial Monument. By the way, the statue had been, with due respect, removed to a private niche in the In Memoriam Museum of discarded monuments, where only members of the Royal Family were admitted to see it, on applying first to the Lord Chamberlain. Already the younger members of the family showed a distinct repulsion to seeing their ancestor robed in such abnormal garments, and one of the royal infants had been seized with a fit in the arms of his nurse at the sight of it.

Lionel, one lovely day in June, walked down the Long Avenue of Kensington Palace Gardens; at a distance he could perceive the groups of lissome nymphs surrounding Gwen, some scattered under the trees, others lying on the grass; and his Greek appreciation of art made him hail this pastoral scene as a great success. Those who had visited the Wallace Collection would no doubt compare the picture to a Boucher; but Lionel, who had more discrimination, thought it 132put him in mind of a Corot. Perhaps he was right.

“Here you are, Lionel,” and Gwen walked up to him as he came near. “We are having a final rehearsal of our passion tournament. I have already told you of it. Bella will represent Love; Violet has chosen Anger; Flora begs to be Dignity, and so on. They are quite excited about it, the more so as no reading up can help them in this; they will have to work out their own ideas about the passions they wish to personify. You see, Lionel, we have had enough of external excitement, we must now look inwardly for all our pleasures. It is a step higher than historical impersonation, though we intend to make the two studies work together.—Nettie, I shall leave you in charge of them, for you are sure to give them useful hints about their parts and to develop a little more subtlety into their monodrama.—Come, Lion, my Lion, let us stroll under the trees; I have so much to say to you.” And she looked into his eyes, and caressingly held his hand close to her cheek, as they walked away. His heart was full, and he thought deeply and analysed minutely his emotions, trying to define the newly-acquired standard of morals that was slowly transforming their old rotten Society into a rational sociality. One feature of 133the old world had certainly disappeared since the storm—lascivious curiosity. How could morbid erotism find any place in our reformed republic? Eve-like nakedness robbed a woman of all impure suggestiveness. It was the half-clad, half-disrobed, that had made man run amok in the race for brutal enjoyment; for the goods laid out in the shop windows are not by far so alluring as what peeps behind the counter.

“Gwen, how lovely you are! Your face is a crystal reflecting every beautiful emotion in your heart. Even Raphael would have despaired of fixing your expression.”

“You will make me vain, Lionel. There are many things that I cannot yet grasp, although we have so many hours on hand since the loss of our furbelows. You do not realise what difference it makes in a woman’s life.—But I shall be happy when my small mission has succeeded and when I have imparted to women the love of study.”

“A man’s days were pretty much employed in the same senseless pursuits. Some feel it intensely—Lord Mowbray, for instance, who does not know what to do with his costly jewels, now he cannot stick them all over his Oriental costumes and appear as a twentieth-century Aroun-al-Raschid.”

134“Ah! he will develop with the rest, and easily find out the unmarketable value of his luxury; or if he does not evolve, he will be swept away by the great wave of reform which waits for no man. But I am more concerned about Ronald Sinclair;—of course, you guess the reason.”

“Eva is not a girl likely to change. She loved him formerly for his wit, his irony, and I am sorry to say, for his disdainful manner towards her. But her love has now acquired a new stimulus—pity, which she feels for all his deficiencies. She may in time bring him round to see life from a wider and more humane point of view, but for the present he laughs at our meetings, and vows the mixing of classes cannot succeed. He pretends that nothing but the pursuits of fastidious æstheticism can save this state of ours from vulgarity. Somehow, I feel that he is not right, though I cannot tell in what his teaching is lacking.”

“We shall do a great deal for them when we are married,” softly said Lionel.

“Ah! my dearest Lion, this is one of the serious questions that has troubled me. Nettie cannot, or will not help me in this matter; she says I have to find that out alone, and that later on she will work out the details for me. The first 135stumbling-block is—the wedding. What kind of a wedding could it be?”

“Well, I suppose—the church, the ceremony, and all the rest that precedes and follows such functions. It is not that I care for the whole show, dearest; I personally think it a terrible ordeal to have to exhibit oneself on such an occasion.”

“Think of it, Lionel; it means walking to the altar just as we are—no wedding dress, no bridesmaids; the congregation likewise, and the priest no better attired than the verger or bridegroom. Where would be the show? Where the customary apotheosis of smartness? Even the thunderous organ striking up Mendelssohn’s march would be an inadequate accompaniment to a procession of Adamites.”

“To tell you the truth, Gwen, I had never thought of it. The important thing was our love; the ceremony appeared to me as a thing not worth giving a thought; but now, it does seem to me an utter impossibility to go through such an incongruous function; and for the first time I see how indecent public functions are.—There have been no weddings since the storm, now I think of it.”

“No; Nettie told me that Society had put off all the forthcoming weddings until this freak of 136nature had passed—how silly of Society! I do not wish to wait, for the very good reason that I believe this state of affairs will continue.”

“And I hope it may last for ever, for I owe to it your love, Gwen. Let us dispense with the public function.”

“No.” Gwen absently gazed in front of her, murmuring softly, “My uncle, the Bishop of Warren, would officiate at our small chapel at Harewood, and father would give me away. It would be very strange. No stole, no Bishop’s sleeves, none of the canonical vestments that form part of the religious rites. All this had not struck me, so engrossed was I with our own appearance; but when once you knock down part of the ceremony, the other must inevitably disappear in the downfall; and in the total destruction of outward signs, it seems as if the principle of religion had also received a fatal blow.”

“No, Lionel. Do not the triumphant chords vibrate more sonorously in our two exultant hearts, than in any organ?” and she lifted her beautiful eyes high above the tops of the trees. Lionel 137bent his head, and touched her softly-luxuriant hair with his lips.

Nettie, who at a distance caught sight of his movement, could not help smiling and thinking that the British race was becoming less self-conscious.

“Gwen,” murmured her lover, “listen to the two linnets on that branch. Have they invited their friends and relations to come and witness their betrothal? Happiness is timorous, and shuns the world. Those who truly love, fly from the crowd, to murmur their loving vows uninterrupted by comments and gossip.”

“My Lion, you have put into words what my heart has felt for days. Surely marriage is an action which only concerns those who are interested. Besides, the social laws of morality which governed our old world cannot any longer apply to our own. Let us return to Nettie; she is sure to furnish us with useful suggestions for carrying out our plan.” They turned back, and very soon were met by Nettie and Eva; the former, with her sprightly physiognomy, brought their wandering minds back to practical life and to bare facts.

Gwen proceeded to relate to her friends what 138they had arrived at concerning weddings in general; and she asked Nettie to find some means of realising their project.

“I should suggest a drive in your chariot to some isolated spot in the country. Stay in some labourer’s cottage, and on the day which would have been the one appointed by you in our past Society for the wedding, I should advise you to spend it in the fields and to have a mutual confession;—what I would call a complete reckoning of your two inner lives; for that ought really to be the true meaning of marriage, which was so rarely understood in our past Society.”

“Stay away as long as you can; then return to your occupations here, for you know we cannot spare you for a very long time; there are so many things we want to launch before the season is over. Of course, no announcement of your marriage is required, you will tell your friends when you come back, and as to the rest of the world, it is immaterial whether they know it or not.”

“It certainly seems simple enough, and in that way we escape all foolish questions.”

139“My dear Lord Somerville, I think that you will find that no one will take the slightest notice of your escapade. In London, what is past is seldom interesting,” added the little buffoon, who had for some time put this axiom to the test when she was on the Music Halls.

“I believe you are right,” answered Lionel, “and the saddest tragedy of last week has no chance against the daily scandals.”

“Society lives greatly on its own imagination”—the sententious humourist was taking a flight into speculative land. “Society is the biggest romancer you ever came across; it hates truth and bona-fide dramas; despises the scandals that have not been spun at their own fireside; and follows to the letter the well-known maxim, that truth makes the worst fiction.”

“Do you not think, Nettie, now marriage has become a grave reality, that the least said about it at large, the better?”

“By all means; and the less seen of it the better still. Do not forget that this evening we go to the Circus to witness the first representation given by the Society of new stagers. You have no idea, my lord, what a bevy of young actors are coming to the fore to outshine the old ones.”

“We were in sore need of real dramatic artists, 140owing to the utter inability of impersonating characters without wardrobe paraphernalia. Perhaps we shall be able in time to form a school of dramatic psychologists. But here comes Danford; he will tell us what is going on.”

“We were talking about the new study of dramatic art, Danford. I hear your Society is making great progress.”

“Progress, my lord! It has already reached a very high standard of efficiency. We shall, in a few days, give a representation of King John, which, I believe, will interest you. The Regalia of Sovereignty will of course be absent; but how much more significant of true majesty will the personage be, when, by his gestures and facial expression, he will embody that ephemeral power—divine right.”

“And what are the conclusions you arrive at,” eagerly inquired the Earl, “on the subject of monarchical government?”

“My lord, this is another of those problems you have to solve for yourself.”

“We have already solved one this morning.” Lionel took Gwen’s hand and lifted it gently to his lips.

142“Very glad to hear it, my dear Lord Somerville; you will save us a deal of trouble by being so quick at guessing life’s riddles. Time is precious, and already a few weeks have gone by since the storm; if you do not solve the social problem as soon as ever you can, I am afraid it will go badly for all of us. We are only your stage managers on these large boards; I am sorry to say, though, that the social actors do not always seem to know their parts; they come in when not wanted and leave the stage when most needed. Of course it is our business to look after your entrances and exits; but the inner meaning of your characterisations remains with you to decipher.”

“I think, Danford, you have already, with your short cuts of humour and satire, led me through a dark labyrinth compared to which Dante’s Inferno was but child’s play. You have often been my faithful Virgil, and drawn my attention to the tragedy of our past world of artificiality.”

“Indeed, my lord, tragedy of the most painful kind; for Society drew out each day a new code of morals to suit a fresh want, and a catechism was issued to befit a gospel of histology. It was not actually read out in church, like the Athanasian Creed, but it was religiously obeyed in and out of God’s house.”

“What would Society have said had a woman 143been to the Army and Navy Stores at 10 a.m. in the same décolleté gown which she wore at last night’s ball?” This was Gwen, who mischievously looked at Lionel.

“My dear Gwen, think for one minute of the soldier enwrapping himself in the judge’s gown; the apronless and capless housemaid appearing in the hall with a tiara on her head (even were it paid out of her earnings); or the butler pompously opening the door in a Field-Marshal’s uniform?”

“Bedlam or Portland Bay would have been their next abode,” replied Danford; “you are evoking in your mind’s eye a social upheaval, and in one instant hurling to the ground a whole structure which took centuries to erect. The dignity of magistracy, the punctilio of military honour, the ancestral breeding of nobility, would all be hopelessly annihilated were you to transpose from one body on to another the outward signs of each. Not only had Dame Fashion preached a new gospel, but new passions were thereof discovered to make Society’s blood rush more violently, and different forms of sorrows henceforth filled the hearts of women.”

“Oh! how true you are, Mr Danford,” suddenly broke in Nettie; “how often have I seen women 144of fashion sad unto death at the contemplation of their wardrobes.”

“And the pity of it all was that women truly writhed under the sting of these petty grievances,” added Eva.

“You are slowly finding out for yourself, Miss Carey,” remarked Danford, “that an eleventh commandment had been written out by Society: ‘Thou shall not be—shabby.’”

“What a host of innocent women have been sent to perdition in trying to obey this law to the letter,” retorted Lionel.

“Ah! Fashion, what crimes were committed in thy name!” comically added Nettie.

“There is no doubt also,” said Lionel, “that the demoralisation of our past Society was greatly caused by that misinterpreted activity which in a great sense led to artificiality and deception. No proper time was allowed for development; we had clothed art, clothed charity, clothed education; and in every branch of industry and artistic pursuit the fruit had to be picked ere it was ripe. The weighty question of pauperism was settled over the tea-cups when a bazaar organised by fashionable women had realised fifty pounds; the last word of realistic art had been said when a well-known sculptor had put the final touch to his statue of a ballet 145dancer, by sticking on the skirt a flounce of real gold lace. As to education, it was to be imbibed, as air is pumped into a rubber tyre, strongly and promptly, so as to lose no time, for the next race was at hand and we had to start, even if we punctured on the road.”

“No one knows this better than I do,” said Gwen. “We were never taught the true value of anything or of anyone; we believed to have fathomed all things when we had seen the small sides of them, and human beings were only what they appeared to us relatively. I must say that the most difficult people to deal with at present are some of the mothers in Society. It is not that they mind, materially, this state of nature; I suppose they are making up their minds to it, and Lady Pendelton still repeats that a lady can always behave like one wherever she is placed and whatever happens.”

“Yes,” added Eva, “but my mother is convinced that it is the diffusion of classes that will bring our world to a tragic end.”

Eva suddenly stopped talking, and blushes covered her soft white cheek. She turned to Gwen.

“Yes, dearie, it is he; and George Murray is 146coming up to him with Lelia Dale. They have seen us.”

Sinclair, accompanied by his two friends, walked towards our group and was the first to speak.

“Have you heard, Lionel, that the manager of the Olympus is forced to close the doors of his theatre?”

“It was inevitable,” answered Lionel; “when music of that kind lies shivering without its usual toggeries, it must perish; for when crotchets and semi-quavers do not any longer help to pin a scarf or lift up suggestively the corner of a laced petticoat, comic opera has lost its meaning.”

“My dear Lord Somerville, you do not seem to grasp the real state of things. The Atrium will follow suit, and before you are a week older the great priest of upholsterers will have to retire,” vexatiously retorted Sinclair.

“Yes, and very probably he will be joined in exile by Turn Bull, who has no further need to study Abyssinian bassi-relievi. As you see, I quite grasp our present state of affairs,” smilingly answered Lionel.

“I think I agree with you, Lord Somerville,” 147languidly remarked Lelia Dale, who had for years been the jewel of dramatic art. “Turn Bull had developed to the highest degree the psychology of clothes.”

“I should call it the physiology of palliaments,” interrupted Murray, the apostle of subtle environment.

“Yes, George,” resumed the flower of the profession, “he has often made me blush with the pruriency with which he endowed his vestments; and my maidenly modesty was less offended by a kiss from his lips than by the erotic influence of his draperies in certain parts of his répertoire.”

“Do not forget, though,” suddenly broke in Sinclair, “that we had arrived at the highest manifestation of local colour; and that the true-to-life surroundings with which we framed our plays had reached the desideratum of the most fastidious art critic. Surely plays represented at the Théâtre Français nowadays, or as they used to be at our Atrium and Arcadia, were truer to life than when Phèdre wore a Louis XIV. Court dress, or Othello a frill?”

“I do not agree with you, Ronald,” replied Lionel, “and I maintain that the evolution of an unsuspicious Othello into a mad bull of jealousy works itself out regardless of frippery. When 148psychology was the only object of the playwright, and the everlasting study of the actor, dramatic art was at its highest water-mark; but when adaptable environment and the accuracy of costume were made the aim of arduous researches, art fell from its Olympian cloud down to the back-room of an old curiosity shop. Archæology had dethroned psychology; even physiology was reduced to a dissecting-room. Do you believe that the green-eyed passion of an Othello, or the morbid hysteria of a King Lear, would be more enforced by the one wearing the true Venetian uniform, and the other appearing in the barbarian clothing of an early Briton? We must first of all find out whether the passions of the one and the delirium of the other are eternally true to human nature. If they are, what need have you to cut a particular garment for them? Any will do; none will be quite sufficient. You need not clothe Œdipus to understand his evolution; the tragedy he embodies will forever be human, and as long as there exists a suffering humanity, there will be an inadequate struggle between the inner will-power and what is erroneously called—Destiny.”

They had come to the Rotunda, and Lionel, with a gracious wave of his hand, led his friends into the hall, in which marble tables were placed 149near a circular carved stone bench for visitors to recline.

“I am sure you will all take some iced champagne or Vouvray out of these tempting amphoras,” said he. They all reclined, and the cooling atmosphere fanned them agreeably.

“Is that Montague Vane I see at a distance, tripping daintily over the railings?”

Danford went to the door. “Yes, and he is followed by half-a-dozen of his adherents.”

“Ah! he is continually inviting me to join his Peripatetic Society; but I have no wish to do so,” and Lionel looked tenderly at Gwen, as he poured out a glass of champagne and offered it to her. “I cannot see at what they arrive in their wanderings through the thoroughfares of life.”

“Nor I, my lord,” broke in Danford, who left the door and came back towards the group. “Jack Daw—Mr Vane’s social guide—told me lately that he and his pupil did not always pull together. The Society dilettante is trying to stem the great wave of reform, and, like a child, brings his small toys to impede the violence of the tide; which makes Jack laugh uncontrollably. The latter does his best to give his pupil smart hints; but Mr Vane takes them badly, and when Jack thrusts his light on the great sights of nature, the little ex-smart man puts his tiny white hands over his eyes, 150and sighing heavily tells him: ‘My dear Jack, you are all in the wrong. Nature has long been exploded. She lost herself for a considerable time under the trees of Paradise, then she was suddenly conquered by a greater master than herself—Art, and ever since has never lifted her head again.’ He answers—art, to every longing, to every passion; it is his panacea against all anguish, the goal to every ambition.”

“By-the-bye, Dick,” interrupted Lionel, “I was at the meeting this morning with my architect.”

“To be sure, the meeting of the United Drapers of London,” remarked Sinclair; “it must have been a diverting assembly! Lord Petersham telephoned to ask me if I could attend—ha! ha! ha! to see Watson and Company en masse would be too much for me. One at a time of these prosperous shopkeepers—and that in the open air—is all I can stand!”

“I wish that you had turned up, Ronald,” mischievously said Lionel. “You would have lost that preconceived idea of yours that a profession must imprint an indelible sign on a man’s physique—pure delusion, my good man! Well, I obtained my points with the Board of Drapers: first, I attacked Watson, who I was afraid would be recalcitrant; but I was astonished to find him most willing to carry out our scheme.”

151“I believe you will discover hidden treasures of philanthropy in the hearts of all those who formerly rebelled at the mere name of charity,” satirically remarked Danford.

“You are always a prophet, my faithful guide; for Whiteley, Swan & Edgar, Marshall & Snelgrove—in fact, all the big shops of past elegance—are offering to open their doors in a week, and to transform their rooms into commodious dining-halls for the masses; and last, though not least of all, the Army and Navy Stores have actually condescended to turn all their devastated rooms into—Symposia. Yes, that is the name, for they wish to have a different appellation to other shops; of course we could not insult such a select board of shareholders by insisting on their using the same word as other tradespeople; so Symposia it will be; although by any other name the food would be as delectable.” And Lionel turned to Gwen, “I look to you as a partner to help me in this enterprise.”

“Thank you, Lionel, for the suggestion. I shall confer with Nettie on the details; but I think I see the thing rightly: a sort of visiting association, each day, one hour or two will be employed in the serving of meals in the halls; some will help at luncheon, others at tea, and another group at supper. I should suggest that the men undertook 152the potation department, and that a committee of helpers should be organised in every district of the Metropolis.” Gwen turned to Eva, sitting close to her, “And you, dear, will be my faithful colleague?”

Eva pressed her friend’s hand, but spoke no word, as Sinclair reclining near her sneeringly remarked, “I cannot see you portioning out plates of boiled beef and apple pudding to a crowd of unclean mendicants.”

“Are you sure they will be unclean? And if by mendicants you mean those having no clothes nor any money, they will be no worse than we are; for we have no cheque-book, nor any pockets to put our money in,” softly whispered Eva, whose heart was beating violently at the reproof of the man she loved but whom she pitied for his sad limitations.

“My dear man,” joined in Lionel, “this idea of the dining-halls is but the preface to a greater reform! It will for the moment meet the need of all the working classes whom the storm has put on the streets; but in the near future it will be our new mode of partaking of our meals in public.” Lionel smiled as he noticed the effect his strange words had on Murray and Sinclair.

“Will you allow a few of your privileged friends to have their meals privately in their own 153homes?” slowly uttered Sinclair, who looked as if the greatest danger was at hand.

“By all means, my dear fellow. We force no one; coercion is not the password of our future Society, but personal initiative; and after a little time has gone by, you will be the first to join these Symposia. It will only be another form of club life without which you could not have imagined your London; with this difference that your field of sympathy will be enlarged in our new form of assemblies, and instead of meeting daily a limited number of members, about whom you knew all that was to be known, you will join a body of men and women about whom you have hitherto known nothing. I grant you that many of them would not have been admitted in the bosom of your literary and artistic clubs, nor would they have been allowed to associate with the members of smart clubs; but now it will not much avail any man that he was a member of the Vagabond, or of Boodles!”

“Anyhow, I think we prefer meeting no one to associating with a mass of illiterate and ill-bred folks,” said Murray.

“You will not always say so, George,” replied Lionel. “The disappearance of cheque-books and of pockets has done more towards the fusion 154of classes than you believe; and it is mere common-sense that is prompting Society to take a rational view of the whole thing. Parliament is dissolved since yesterday, as you know; there was nothing else to be done, I suppose. The hour of self-government has struck when we least expected it, and it must find us mature for the work to be done.” Then turning to Gwen, “Do you think that your girl friends will help in this new scheme of dining-halls? I feared they would toss their dainty heads and pout their rosy lips at the suggestion.”

“My dear Lionel, what they objected to was not so much the hunger that wasted away half the world, for they could not see its ravages and had not any personal experience to bear on the subject; but they were shocked at the grimy shabbiness of the destitutes, for that they could notice, and their individual knowledge of luxury intensified their hatred of poverty.”

“You are a true observer, Miss Towerbridge, and a humourist which spoils nothing,” remarked Danford. Gwen blushed vividly at the little man’s praise; she was proud at having won the appreciation of such a master in psychology.

“I shall expect you all to turn away in disgust from your uncouth companions,” and Sinclair rose. “I am going to join Vane; for the present 155his views suit my state of mind, and we shall see who will win in the long run—you, with your rude Dame Nature; or we, with our discriminating power of æsthetics. Good-bye, poor Miss Carey”—and he bent towards her—“you are not cut out for a distributing kitchen employer; and nature is a hideous transgressor whom you ought to kick out of your doors. What will Lady Carey say to all this?” and the fastidious critic was off, followed by Murray.

The group broke up; Lionel putting his hand on Danford’s shoulder walked out of the Rotunda, leaving Gwen and Eva conversing in one part of the cool hall, while Lelia Dale and Nettie reclined in another part. Lelia Dale leaned her head on her hand. She did not know whom to serve. She had always been partial to Sinclair, whose criticisms on her talent were most flattering, and the eclecticism of Vane was an element which she appreciated highly; but, on the other hand, nature had its attractions, also Lord Somerville was a great power in the social organism, and the love of notoriety was so ingrafted in her professional soul that she was unwilling to see the rising of a Society of new stagers out of which she would be excluded. She meditated whether it would not be wise to put on one side her pride, and to beg humbly of Eleanora 156Duse to initiate her in the secrets of physiognomy; for, upon the whole, Lelia was artistic enough to know in her inner heart that she was deficient in facial expression, and totally ignorant of the laws of motion.

Lionel often sat in his library pondering over all kinds of abstruse questions. He did not know his old London again, and smiled at the revolution in social life. Nowadays, one house was as good as another. Mrs So-and-So’s luncheon parties, Lady X.’s dinners and bridge réunions were no longer sought for, since frocks and frills had vanished and packs of cards crumbled to dust. Dancing also was impossible under the present régime, for the laisser-aller of a ball-room seemed intolerable in the new Paradise regained. In fact, no respectable mother would consent to take her daughter to any of these brawls. Lionel recalled the first—and the last—ball of this season. It was at Lady Wimberley’s. When the ball opened, the hurry and scurry of London apes was such, that he had turned to his faithful guide and told him,—

“Nothing on earth would induce me to dance this evening—or ever. Not even with Gwen.”

“Especially not with Miss Towerbridge,” had replied the funny little buffoon. “Happiness has 158no need to bump, elbow or kick, to manifest its gladness.” They had both left the house, and given the hint to London Society.

And thus the fashion for balls, late dinners, evening receptions died out, as smart women lost the taste for such vulgar dissipations. Lionel laughed outright at Lady Carey’s remark that the end of the world was nigh, for Society was perishing from dulness. Still, all the fussiness of the little woman could not alter the bare fact that it was quite unnecessary to turn night into day, since the days were quite long enough to contain the occupations of the present Society. Complexion and figure greatly benefited from this normal mode of life; and the absence of corset and waistcoat urged the English man and woman to watch over their diet, if they did not intend to turn their bodies into living advertisements of their passions and depravities.

Had anyone told Lionel a year ago what London would be like at the present moment, he would no doubt have burst into Homeric laughter; but now that the thing was done, it all seemed so simple and so rational, that he hardly realised it. It amused him very much to see daily, at the Pall Mall Committee of Public Kitchens, Lord Petersham conversing with a well-known butcher of Belgravia. But Petersham, whatever 159he may have thought, dissembled artfully, and argued with himself that they were both, he and the butcher, sitting on the Board to judge of the quality of the meat—and who would be more likely to judge impartially of the catering than a butcher, especially when he consumed the victuals each day.

He recalled how hard it had been to persuade Sinclair the fastidious, to breakfast with him at the dining-hall of the ex-Swan & Edgar. Although the critic partook of the delicious meal, he would not be won over to the cause; but he admitted that the butter and the eggs were extra fresh; that the meat was irreproachable, the fish first-rate; he even went so far as to recognise that all things were transacted on a bona-fide method. But when Lionel told him that the whole secret lay in the fact that the interest of all was the interest of each, then Sinclair laughed and said—“tommy rot.” There was nothing more to say to a man who pooh-poohed the greatest and noblest of reforms.

“But why on earth, if your are so anxious to reform the depravity of our Society, why have you begun by administering to their appetites? It seems to me that you might have found some nobler mission for the regeneration of Britishers.”

“My dear fellow,” had calmly replied Lionel, 160“to stem a chaotic revolution, after the total collapse of all manufacturers, we had first of all to think of feeding our hungry populations. Before you lift up the soul of man, you must feed his body. But at the same time that we are satisfying the physical need of men and women, we are unconsciously weaving into a close tissue the contradictory codes of morals of buyers and sellers. Every producer is a member of our dining-halls, and benefits directly by the genuineness of the goods he delivers to the Committee. Is it not a colossal triumph?”

“These are the bloodless victories that will enrich our civilisations with greater happiness than ever the conquests of Cæsar, Napoleon and Wellington endowed their epochs with glory.”

“First of all, we aim at feeding all classes, on the principle that there should not be one food for the rich and another for the poor; but our ultimate plan is to give self-government to every branch of business, so as to ensure honest dealing, prompt measures, and efficiency.”

“Yes, my lord,” sententiously remarked Dan, “you have to bring strong proofs to bear on the apathetic minds of Britishers. You must show them endless examples of your reformatory work 161before they will follow you one step. John Bull has not a speculative brain, and will not listen to any of your dreams; but, on the other hand, there is no limit to what he can do when once he is convinced of your power of common-sense.” And Lionel had made up his mind to take his countrymen as they were. He had consulted his club friends about transforming clubs into places of general meetings, where anyone, from a Peer of the realm down to a coal-heaver, would each week meet to suggest any new plans or denounce any abuse. Our reformer made them see that in the present condition of Society, clubs had lost the principal charm of their organisation—exclusiveness. In fact, their raison d’être had disappeared. The collapse of centralised government, the vanishing of daily newspapers had deprived these smart haunts of all political and social interest; and the members saw no objection to lending their rooms for the use of public meetings. On the contrary, they rather enjoyed the change, for they longed for agitation, and thought that any kind of life was preferable than social decomposition.

At the first meeting, the telephone question was on the tapis, at the second meeting the whole thing was settled, and a service of telephones was organised in every house. What were dailies, 162posters, letters, telegrams compared to the very voice which you knew, and which told you the very latest news?

“Ah! my lord,” had again exclaimed Dan, “distance will some day have no signification whatever, between Continents, when telephone brings the Yankee twang close to the Cockney burr.” Lionel and Dan had looked at each other, and for one instant a mist had dimmed the brilliancy of their eyesight. These two had the public’s welfare truly at heart.

“One thing is certain, Dan, that our dream will be realised sooner than we believe. Man will be able to see his fellow-creature, hear his voice who knows? perhaps he will touch his hand from one hemisphere to another; but never will man be able to demonstrate scientifically or ethically the governing right of one class over another, or of one man over millions.”

“Your lordship is running too fast. You will bewilder the British public without persuading it to follow you. Show your fellow-citizens a materially reformed London before you can interest them in a regenerated universe. You have already developed their altruism in teaching them to be their own policemen; you have very nigh persuaded them that honesty is the best policy in replacing self-interest by fair dealing: 163you may, with your system of telephone, bring them to see that veracity is the only means of communication, now that sensational journalism has disappeared from our civilisation.”

One morning, as Lionel was sitting in his library, he looked up at his father’s portrait, and wondered whether the latter would have approved of all that was going on in London. Perhaps, had he lived to see this social metamorphosis father and son would have understood each other at last. It filled Lionel’s heart with pity to think of the tragic life of past London. Next day he sent his father’s portrait to the In Memoriam Museum with a few others, amongst which was his mother’s portrait in Court dress. He could hardly view this likeness of a past glory without shuddering, while an aching pain gnawed at his heart as he recalled the whole bearing of the model who had sat for the picture. In a few days nearly all the Upper Ten had despatched their family pictures. The In Memoriam Museum was over-crowded with ancestral effigies; so much so that Lionel determined to speak to his architect for the purpose of building, in the suburbs, another Museum. This raised an uproar amongst the fastidious critics of the Vane and Sinclair type.

164“What, that glorious Gainsborough picture of your celebrated grandmother! Is that to be relegated to a country gallery?” said Vane to the Duchess of Southdown.

“And that suggestive Lely of your great-great-grand-aunt! Is that to come down from your wall?” apostrophised Sinclair.

“Fie, for shame! Where is your family pride?” indignantly echoed Lord Mowbray, who had sold his last ancestral likeness the year before to a picture-dealer.

No doubt there was a small minority of malcontents that failed to see any good in the efforts of the majority who worked at public reforms. To men like Montagu Vane, Sinclair, Murray; to women like the Honourable Mrs Archibald, Lady Carey, this present condition of social pandemonium was the beginning of the end. A Society in which a lady could be mistaken for a night rover, and vice versa, and in which an omnibus driver was taken for a member of the peerage, was not tolerable, and it would inevitably lead to a general rising of the lower classes against their betters. They argued that point hotly, and there was no persuading them, or even discussing with them this point, that perhaps there would be no mistaking a lady for a trull in our reformed world, for this very reason, that there would be no longer any 165need for marketable flesh when all social injustice and inadequacies had been removed. They declared, it was quite impossible: human nature was human nature all over the world, and as long as man existed there was to be a hunt for illicit enjoyment. They even affirmed that the present state of nature would surely end in licentious chaos, as there was nothing to repress personal lust now, and that very soon London would surpass Sodom and Gomorrah in vice and crime. There was nothing to say to that, and Danford advised Lionel to let them talk all the nonsense they liked. Facts again were to be brought to bear on the social question, as nothing else could alter the opinions of the malcontents. Another point which Montagu Vane was very fond of arguing was the question of cleanliness. According to him, the great unwashed would more than ever exhibit their filth, to which the little humourist of past Music Halls replied in his practical philosophy, that dirt would disappear with the downfall of outward finery. He analysed thus: vanity was inherent with the human race, therefore, when the flesh was the only garment man could boast of, he would keep that spotlessly clean. Vane pooh-poohed all these views; besides, he did not like philosophy, and he only tolerated buffoons on the platform. It is true that 166Vane was an object lesson in daintiness, and had carried this external virtue to the highest point; in fact, as Danford said: “No one feels properly scrubbed and groomed when Mr Vane emerges from his Roman bath exhaling a perfume of roses and myrrh.”

Montagu Vane was of a small stature, but admirably proportioned; his hair, now grey, was very fine, and curled closely to his scalp; his walk had a spring which added suppleness to his limbs. He was a boudoir Apollo who had grown weary of Olympic games, and of gods and goddesses, and who had one day daintily tripped down from his pedestal to join the crowd of modern pigmies. When the storm broke over London, Vane was close on tearing his curly hair, as he realised that something had to be done to save his position. For was he not arbiter in all matters of art? Still, he was not the sort of man to be baffled by a few buckets of water, and he set to work redecorating his house. Suddenly he bethought himself of a struggling Italian, who, the previous year, had come to see whether London Society would take up the art of fresco, of which the secrets had been handed down to him by ancestors skilled in that primitive art. Montagu always made a point of helping young artists up the social ladder; he gave them a lift up the first 167step, advised them for the second rung, and invariably said by-by to them until they met at the top, which they rarely ever did. From that day Paolo Cinecchi worked at Vane’s walls, and the fantastic arabesques and subjects he designed on black-painted backgrounds turned out to be a suitable set-off for groups of Apollos and Venuses. The Upper Ten at once took to this mode of decoration, and Cinecchi’s name was in every mouth. Montagu was past master in worldly savoir-faire, and as an Amphytrion surpassed every London hostess by his ability in gathering round his table the idlers and toilers of smart Society and Bohemianism. He was no philosopher, and lived artificially, harbouring a profound horror of intensity; it made him blink. Greek in his tastes, he was thoroughly British in his selfish isolation. He saw many, mixed in the social and artistic world, but he merely skimmed people. He was busy with trifles, and utterly devoid of any sense of humour. His success in Society had principally lain in his many-sided mediocrity; for mediocrity is always pleasing, but when it is varied, it is delightful. His views on politics, his impressions on social problems reminded one of an article out of the Court Circular Journal; whilst his experiences of life had been taught him in the shaded corners of a Duchess’s drawing-room, or in 168the smoking-room of a smart Continental hotel.

After all, Society was responsible for the creation of this hybrid—the dilettante. The Upper Ten in its hours of ennui had conceived this strange cross-breed; but in its mischievousness it had taken good care to endow their offspring with the same impotency that characterises the product of horse and donkey! Society loved these unfruitful children, it fondled them, shielded their deficiency from the world’s sneers, and although it had doomed them to eternal barrenness, still it guarded the approach to these home-made fetishes, and surrounded them with barriers with this inscription affixed: “Hands off.” But in the present emergency, Society showed itself ingrate towards these little mannikins who had amused it, and it turned away from them, to seek the help of the Music Hall artists, into whose arms the smart men and women of London Society threw themselves.

Thus the majority unconsciously worked at the regeneration of London; although they would have sneered had anyone told them that they were all endeavouring to realise the Socialist’s dream—self-government.

The proroguing of Parliament—for an indefinite period—had removed one stumbling-block on the 169road to that goal. Honourable members, Peers of the Realm, had migrated to their country seats, or retired to private life in town, awaiting patiently for better times; for they firmly believed that the country could not prosper without them, and they absolutely denied that the British lion could ever rest quiet with the reins of Government loose on his mane.

Was the Earl of Somerville conscious of his evolution? He was certainly developing into a seer, although he was in no danger of being carried away by speculative theories, as long as Danford stood at his elbow, raising his sarcastic voice whenever my lord was tempted to fly off at a tangent. When the latter suggested that they should consult the venerable scientists of Albemarle Street, Danford stopped him very sharply. “My lord, do not look to the Royal Institute for any explanation of this phenomenon. They have not yet grasped the cause of the storm, and remain quite obdurate in their opinions. They cannot understand what has suddenly occasioned the collapse of every loom in England; and I know for a fact, that they are actually meditating to lead back the men and women of the twentieth century to the primitive usage of the spindle!”

“Ah! my dear buffoon, let us leave the sages of Albemarle Street to their Oriental 170beatitude; they may be useful later on when we have solved the problem.”

“Yes, my dear Lord Somerville, for the present look inwardly to find the solution of some of life’s mysteries. Do the work that lies close to you, as the parish curates say, and do it promptly. We are in the same plight as Robinson Crusoe on his island. Keen observation, patience and indomitable will-power saved the two exiles from sure death; and the dogmatising of sedentary dry-as-dusts would have been of no avail to them, as it is of no earthly use to us in this terrible crisis.”

“I am very thirsty, Eva.” Lady Carey had just come in from her drive, after having much enjoyed, as well as admired, the new system of be-your-own-policeman. She was not lacking in the power of observation, and could very well appreciate the rational side of London’s new mode of life; although she would sooner have perished than owned to anyone her thoughts on the subject.

“Let me pour you a cup of tea, mother,” replied Eva, as she went to the tea table. “I forgot to tell you that Gwen had returned to town. I saw her this morning at the dining-halls and she struck me as being more beautiful than ever.”

“Gwen used to be a very smart girl,” sneeringly remarked Lady Carey, as she took the cup handed to her.

“I mean that her expression is more ethereal than ever, mother. She gives one the impression that a radiant vision has been revealed to her.”

“My dear girl—she looked—on Lionel! and he is no mean creature.” Lady Carey gave vent to her suppressed mirth. “When did they 172return from their—what d’ye call it—moral spring cleaning?”

“Mother, how can you be so irreverent? Do you not think it very sensible of them to run away from the crowd, and hide their bliss in the wilderness?”

“But when you married, did you not send all your social duties to Jericho? You must have longed for solitude with the man you loved.”

“Not at all, my dear; there was plenty of time for all that when we went to Italy after the wedding. Besides, we did not mention these things in my time; one did what everyone else did, it was neither painful nor exhilarating, it was the custom, and one thought no more of it. But there is something clownish in running away anyhow, and Heaven knows where, as these two have done.”

“Labourers! The girl must be demented. I could pass over their evading the religious ceremony; I am not bigoted, and pride myself on being large-minded; but when the flower of our aristocracy behave like shoe-blacks, I do think it is time to cry out. I cannot forgive them 173their want of good taste, and am inclined to believe they do it for effect.”

“Such strong opinions are unseemly; and it is hardly the thing to take such a serious step in life, without advising your friends and acquaintances.”

“I do not see what Society has to do with private life,” answered Eva, who was standing at the foot of her mother’s couch.

“My dear child, it is downright anarchism! Where is the moral restraint that keeps us all in order! We may frown at dull, old Mrs Grundy; but no well-organised Society can very well do without her, after all.”

“Oh! Mrs Grundy died from the shock of seeing herself in nature’s garb. She was only a soured old schoolmistress, who each morning glanced at the columns of her Court Journal with suspicious eyes. She ran down the names of births, marriages and deaths, chuckling inwardly at the comforting feeling that all her social infants were well under her thumb, and that none had escaped her lynx eye.”

174“Not anyone, dear child. But it is Thursday, and that used to be my day at home.” The dainty woman sighed heavily.

“I think I hear Lionel’s voice in the hall.” Eva turned towards the door as it was opened to let in Lady Somerville and her husband.

“I am glad to see you, Gwen”—Lady Carey rose to kiss the Countess. “Well, Lionel,” as she resumed her seat on the couch, “I am ashamed of you. What on earth possessed you to carry her off in that wild fashion? You know, my dear boy, a good many centuries have passed since Adam and Eve, and I have no doubt that the Almighty Himself would consider their conduct improper.”

“You surely did not expect me to change my views, did you, dear Lionel? You are too funny for words! But I suppose that is your privilege. You always do whatever you like and are accepted wholesale by the rest of the world. Luckily nothing can alter the fact that you are a gentleman.”

“Oh! for goodness’ sake strike out that word from your vocabulary!” hotly exclaimed Lionel. “It means absolutely nothing but impunity to do every disgraceful action under the sun.”

175“I beg your pardon, my dear Lionel, the word means everything. A bad action committed by a gentleman is very different from one committed by a plebeian; the first knows what he is about, and whatever he does, he never forgets that he is born a gentleman.”

“Oh! dear boy, you are too radical, indeed. Well, tell me, had you many sins to confess? Had Gwen a heap of peccadilloes on her conscience?”

“Oh! oh! are they so appalling that my matronly ear cannot hear them? Fie on you both!” and Lady Carey looked very arch.

“Where has your sense of humour gone to, my poor fellow? But, never mind, forgive my importunate questions; you don’t know how ghastly dull life has become. Everything is so uniform, the days so long, the amusements so scarce; and what dreadful plays your new stage Society is producing! Oh! my dear boy, it is too awful. Still, one must go to them, or else we should all be left out in the cold, and Society would crumble away.”

176“And you really believe that Society does exist?” sententiously questioned Danford, as he entered the room and bowed to the hostess. “There is nothing so pernicious as delusions, Lady Carey; Society is a huge spectrum reflecting all sorts of coloured shapes, which appear to each one perfect in contour. No one ever thinks of striking the lens, because they each of them have seen their own likeness reflected in it, and believe in its reality. But the reality is only the semblance of reality; strike the lens, and the likeness will suddenly appear out of proportion; and when broken to atoms, the whole phantasmagoria will vanish, leaving the real substance untouched. You have lived under the delusion that the social phantom was substantial; you must admit now that it was a deity created by man.”

“It would not exist any longer were we to give up playing our part in the tournament; but there is still life in the old British lion, Mr Danford. Do take a cup of tea.”

“A Society in which members do not know each other, even by sight, has not many chances of leading the game.”

“Don’t you find, Mr Danford, that we are making progress in what you call the science of observation?” inquired Lady Carey.

177“It is difficult to tell, Lady Carey. I do not find that we always deal with conscientious pupils. Observation can be developed in time; but it is the lack of memory that is so disastrous. Mrs Webster, for instance, cannot remember more than half-a-dozen faces.”

“Dear me, my dear guide, I do not wish to remember more than that number at present.”

“Ah! but Mrs Webster is not exclusive, and she had to give up having a reception the other day, because her guide had sprained his ankle. Mind you, Mrs Webster is sincere, she wishes to improve in the art; but other pupils are more puzzling, as, for instance, the vain people, who make hopeless blunders, and insist on telling you they know quite well who’s who, but they are having you on; this makes our work most trying.”

No sooner had Danford spoken these words, than the door was thrown open, and Montagu Vane and Sinclair entered. Lady Carey smiled on them and offered her right hand to be kissed.

“How delightful it is to know that there are a few—alas! a very few—salons where one can go and have a chat.”

“My dear Mr Vane, I am afraid I am the only one here who can sympathise with you.”

178“If we do not strongly oppose this vulgarising view of life, art will totally disappear from our social circles,” remarked Sinclair, as he sat down on a small settee beside Eva.

“Yes,” echoed Vane, “I am doing my level best to devise some means of checking this downfall of art. I suggested to Lord Mowbray this morning that we should invent a sort of artificial vestment. This is my plan. Each one would carry round his neck, wrist or waist, a small electric battery, which would throw a lovely colour all over one’s body, which would at least adorn, if it could not conceal it.”

“What a strange thing that we should, in a London drawing-room, openly discuss this question of nudity, when a few weeks ago no respectable person would have admitted the existence of shirt or trousers,” laughingly remarked Lady Carey.

“Ah! that was the British cant!” retorted Lionel. “Let us hail the storm which knocked that false modesty out of us all.”

“My dear Lady Carey,” resumed Vane, “it is not a question of decency at present, but a matter of artistic feeling. I should propose organising the thing in this way: Dukes would have a red colour thrown over their lordly forms; Earls and 179Barons a blue shade; Baronets, yellow; commoners would have no colour, but the members of the Royal Family would have red and yellow stripes. Ladies would naturally have their shades too, according to their rank: Duchesses, pink; Countesses, pale green; and so on. This is a rough sketch of course.”

“I quite see what you mean, Mr Vane,” remarked Danford; a sort of mirage peerage.

Montagu Vane glanced up at the remark, and curtly replied, “It would at all events acquaint the public with the social standing of the person whom he elbowed in the street, and differentiate a peer of the realm from a—social guide.”

“I should have thought that what was more important than finding out in what way one man was differentiated from another, was to discover the points in which they were alike,” said Lionel. “You are catching at a straw, my dear Montagu; your system is shallow, and you will never persuade the Upper Ten of its practicableness. For my part, I plainly refuse to envelop my carcass with a Loie Fuller’s sidelight.”

“We had better start a Society for the obtaining 180of accurately reported news. Newspapers have disappeared, and with them the necessity has died out for falsifying the truth,” said Lionel.

“I do protest,” interrupted Sinclair, “against plain facts being handed to me by unimaginative people who pass on an ungarnished piece of news without as much as adding one poor little adjective. It is too brutally literal.”

“It all comes, as I was saying,” apologetically remarked Vane, “from a complete lack of artistic feeling.”

“There you are right,” hurriedly said Lionel; “for Parliament is broken up from the lack of dramatic power in its members, and militarism will inevitably die out with the disappearance of military distinctions.”

“And dramatic art is buried since the study of local colour and environment has been abandoned,” sharply added Vane.

“Yes,” sadly echoed Lady Carey, “imagination has been insulted by some terrible creature called Nature.”

“Dear Lady Carey,” suavely murmured the little dilettante, “we can thank God that we have still a few salons—though, alas! a very few—where we can bask in the sunshine of gossip.” Then turning to Lionel, “But do not let me deter you 181from your plan; and pray telephone to me whenever you want my house for your new Society. I consider it a duty to keep en evidence; if we cannot prevent your reforms, we can at least patronise them, for when Society ceases to lead, it will disappear.”

“You are speaking words of the greatest wisdom, Mr Vane,” said Danford, “words which make me think deeply. You could indeed do a great deal for the sake of Society, by urging upon members of the Royal Family that it is in their power to prevent the annihilation of their house.”

“In what way can I do this?” Vane turned towards the little artist; in an instant he seemed to have forgotten his grievance against the tribe of buffoons.

“Well, Mr Vane, the illness of Mrs Webster’s guide made me ponder these grave questions, and I discussed the point with the Committee of Social Guides. We all know what a gift Royal Princes possess for remembering faces; therefore we have come to the conclusion that such a talent should not be wasted. Someone must discreetly approach our Royal Highnesses, and beg of them to allow their names to be added to the list of social guides. You will no doubt agree with me that this is the only way in which our Royal 182Family can be made useful, for since the storm, nothing has been heard of them, and no one seems to know what they are up to.”

“The suggestion is not a bad one, Mr Danford,” slowly answered Vane. “We all know how eager our Princes are to meet every wish of their subjects.”

“Yes, this is indeed true,” added Lady Carey, “and Society might then recover some of its prestige.”

“I do not know whether these illustrious guides will have any sidelights to throw on life’s problems, or any philosophical aperçu on human beings; but those who will employ them will be sure, at any rate, of an infallible guide to the finding of a person’s identity, and of an accurate knowledge of the Peerage which would put a Debrett to shame. Although I myself believe that since the disappearance of garments, the public has become eager to know that which lies concealed within the inner heart of men and women.”

“This idea of Royal Guides is sure to take like wild-fire amongst the American millionaires,” broke in Lionel.

“There you are right,” briskly retorted Vane, “but that reminds me that we have not seen anything of the fashionable Yankees.”

183“I can tell you about them, Mr Vane,” mysteriously answered the little buffoon. “They are meditating; and although you do not notice their presence, still they are at large; but the mot d’ordre has been given to all the guides never to disclose the identity of the United States’ citizens until they give us leave.”

“How lonely it must be for them to remain in that isolation,” remarked Lady Carey.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Lionel; “they are quite able to entertain each other. It is we who are the losers, not they, for the invasion of American heiresses upon our Piccadilly shores has vivified our rotten old Society. Lord Petersham used to remark that our girls looked like drowned mermaids at the end of the season, whilst an American maiden was as fresh at Goodwood as she had been at the Private View.”

“Yes,” broke in Lady Carey, “she came over here to have a good time and carried that creed up to the last.”

“They invariably aim straight and high,” continued Lionel, “and the Americans will be the first to attach Royal Guides to their households.”

184“I wonder which of our Royal Princes Mrs Pottinger will choose?” said Lady Carey, bursting out laughing. “I cannot help roaring when I think of the vulgar woman entertaining us all in her palace. There she was on deck, full sail and long-winded; for hours she would hold forth on English politics, Christian science, European hotels, with that rhythmical monotony so peculiar to her race.”

“That is just why they will carry the day, if you do not look out,” wistfully remarked Danford; “their memory is always ready to help their fluency.”

“The conversation of an American,” said Sinclair, “resembles a sermon without a text, an address minus the vote of thanks.”

“You know what she called London Society?” inquired Lord Somerville. “She named it her buck-jumper; but she was bent on mastering it, although it kicked and reared as she forced her gilded spurs into its flanks. At times the incongruity of the buck-jumper fairly puzzled her. One thing she could not swallow, that was Society’s meanness. You know what she said to the Duke of Salttown? ‘That England was the country for cheap kindness and expensive frauds.’”

185“Wonderful race!” exclaimed Sinclair, “whether it is the President of the United States, a cowboy, or a fashionable woman, they are all gifted with that intuition which divines ‘friend’ or ‘foe’ in each face they meet; just as the red Indian measures distance with his far-seeing eye, and discovers a white spot on the horizon which is likely to develop into a blizzard. In everything they undertake, they first see the aim, go for it, win it, and sit down afterwards without a flush or a puff.”

“Perhaps America is destined to shape our future civilisation,” said Lady Carey; “I am sure I do not care who is to be our saviour, as long as we are saved from this anarchy.”

“My dear Lady Carey,” replied Lord Somerville, as he walked to the chimney and leaned his elbow on the marble mantelpiece, “we shall have to coin another word for the future Society that is staring us in the face, for the old word civilisation has a nasty flavour about it. At times we have worn war-paint and feathers; at others, charms round our necks, crosses on our hearts, decorations on our breasts; but the cruelty of the savage was no more execrable than the dogmatic ferocity of Torquemada, nor in any way more inhuman than the ruthlessness of George I. Nor was Queen Eleanor’s kerchief 186more indicative of mediæval depravity than Queen Elizabeth’s frill an emblem of Renaissance levity. Each of these historical eras was but a different stage of barbarism. We had more ornaments than Hottentots, and less principles than monkeys. As long as we have two different creeds, half-a-dozen codes of honour, and hundreds of punctilios, we shall never be civilised. Instead of adding more labels to human beings, we must, first of all, find out what a human being is. We are taught virtue in the nursery, but we are compelled to commit crimes when out of it. The morning prayer says one thing, and life as we make it teaches another. Step by step we are trained to family deceit, political Pharisaism, commercial fraud, diplomatic mendacity, art quackery; and all that in the name of a Redeemer who lashed the vendors out of the temple, and died for the love of truth and peace.”

“Someone said that it needed three generations to make a gentleman,” murmured Vane in his silvery voice.

“No doubt the dogmatist who said that must have thought of Poole and La Ferriere as the modern Debretts; for our present aristocracy is nothing more than a nobility of vestments. Generation after generation has handed down 187to us the art of carrying the soldier’s sword, the judge’s robes, the Court train, or of bearing a proud head under the Prince of Wales’s nodding plumes. It is the atavism of garment which has made us what we are. But in the race of life; in the fight for the post of honour; in the hour of darkness and sorrow, when failure brings down the curtain on our lives, clothes will be of no help. The noble sweep of a satin train, the long-inherited art of bowing oneself out of a room, will be of little service in the final bowing out into eternity. Your grandmother’s corselet or your great-grandfather’s rapier and jerkin will lie idly on the ground, for we are not allowed any luggage on the other side. The real fact is that the whole social structure was a big farce.”

“A farce more likely to turn into a tragedy,” saucily retorted Vane. “See how matters are going on in South Africa; or at least see what is not going on; for by this time we must be the laughing-stock of a handful of farmers. War is bound to cease, and we shall have to retreat ignominiously, as we cannot send any more men out there, owing to the confusion at the War Office. It appears they cannot distinguish our valiant officers from the men.”

“Ah! This is the first blow struck at the 188principle of warfare,” replied Lionel. “When you think of it in cold blood, it is quite impossible to admit of war. Try and boycott your neighbour, persuade him into giving up his will to yours; order his meals, eat three parts of them yourself, invade his house, break his furniture; and if he in any way objects, then use the convincing arguments of artillery and bayonets. After that, you will see how it works.”

“Yes, the history of nations is nothing else but a series of thefts, murders and duplicity; and were any of our personal friends to commit a quarter of what sovereigns and governments commit in one day’s work, we should promptly strike their names off our visiting list,” said Gwendolen. Perhaps this remark struck home, for no one replied. Vane got up briskly on to his feet, and bowed daintily over Lady Carey’s hand.

“I shall walk a little way with you, Lionel,” said Sinclair, who had got up to say good-bye to his hostess.

“Come along with us,” replied Lionel. “Good-bye, dear Lady Carey. I am going to ring up old Victor de Laumel by telephone, and ask him what they think of us in ‘la ville lumière.’”

“My dear boy,” said Lady Carey, “you may be 189sure of this, that the smart Parisians would have found a way out of this difficulty before now. But at any rate, they never would have taken it au serieux, as you are doing; for they are too punctilious on the question of good taste, and more than anything fear ridicule!”

A few days after this animated discussion at Lady Carey’s, there were to be seen dashing along Pall Mall numerous chariots which halted at the ex-Walton Club, where also fair ladies were alighting from their wheeled couches (these had been designed by Sinclair at Lionel’s suggestion). There were also public conveyances of a practical and artistic shape, made to accommodate several passengers in a comfortable posture. The fastidious designer could not conceal his satisfaction at the disappearance of advertisements, which formerly had distracted his æsthetic mind, and roused his indignation at the public’s gullibility. The Walton was filling fast. Everyone interested in the future of art was there, as Lord Somerville had promised to give an address on the Royal Academy; and the telephones had been kept going by friends and acquaintances of his, inviting their friends to attend the meeting.

Who was that throwing the reins to his groom and jumping out of his chariot? A familiar face. Of course, it was H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum, so well 191known to every shoe-black. He had been the very first Royal Prince to apply to the Committee of Social Guides and was now the mentor of Mrs Webster. It was only natural that the eldest of the Princes should make the first move, for rulers still they were, if only in name and amongst themselves. The other members of the august family had rushed zealously into the arena, and they were all enjoying the work. Here was Montagu Vane walking up the steps and entering through the swing doors at the same time as H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum who occasionally, when Mrs Webster gave him time to breathe, instructed the dilettante in the art of knowing who was who. Vane had not yet adopted a chariot; when he was not going far from home he walked, on other occasions he would ask his friend Mowbray to give him a lift; for Lord Mowbray had greatly improved in the handling of the ribbons. He had lately attached to his service a young member of the Royal Family, for he could endure no one lower than a scion of royalty as his constant companion through life! Lord Petersham, his hand on old Watson’s shoulder, was slowly mounting the steps. Watson had lost his insular swagger, while his lordly companion was daily forgetting his love of party politics as he learnt more of humanity. Since they were no more beholden to each other for liberal 192cheques, and introductions into Society, the two men understood each other better. On their heels rushed Tom Hornsby; he was here, there and everywhere, witty Tom; raillery was still his weapon, but he appeared very old-fashioned to his contemporaries, whilst his satirical outbursts seemed now more antiquated than the Tatler or Spectator of Georgian civilisation. There, with his nonchalant demeanour, came along George Murray, who had, a few days previously, begged his publishers to destroy his last MS., as he wished to observe the turn of events before bringing out his next novel.

The hall was full, but not over-crowded. The Parliamentarians and many of the members in the Upper House still kept away in the country, where, unconsciously, they did some good work in the resuscitation of rural life. It was remarkable what the so-called leading classes could do now that the greatest incentive to snobbery had been torn from their backs. But Danford had always prophesied as much to his pupil.

Groups were forming in the spacious hall; in one corner were Mrs Archibald, Lady Carey and Montagu Vane; whilst in one of the large bow windows overlooking the garden was Hornsby, feverishly expounding some State paradox to 193Lord Mowbray and a few more ex-club men. Men came in, bowed to each other—even when they did not recognise each other—for politeness and courtesy had been found to be the best policy; women lay down on large couches carved in the walls, talking gaily to one another, without any superciliousness. Simplicity and graciousness was the order of the day. Many said that they could not do otherwise than be natural: “It is by force that we are simple, not by taste.” But never mind what caused this transformation, the point at least was gained: very often the scoffer who hurls a stone at a new edifice, in course of time sees his very weapon help to build that which he intended to destroy. That is the irony of Fate.

“You will never convince me that this kind of democracy can last,” said Mrs Archibald to Danford, as the latter accompanied Lionel. “I think it is most infra dig. of our Royal Family to forget who they are and to lose the little bit of prestige which they possessed. The lowest urchin in the street looked up to our Royalty. Do you believe anything good can come of their vulgarising themselves as they do?”

“It was quite natural that the lower classes should have looked up to their rulers,” replied Dan, “for they had, for centuries, told them to 194do so. As you know, madam, the power of gross credulity is great in the British nation, therefore they will only believe you to be their equals when you repeatedly tell it to them.”

“I always thought, Mr Danford”—Vane’s voice was pitched unusually high—“that you were cut out for a missionary, and possessed the necessary gifts to set right all social wrongs.”

“My dear Mr Vane,” replied the buffoon, “there often is a gospel wrapped up in a howling joke. My long experience at the Tivoli and other Music Halls taught me my Catechism more exhaustively than my early attendance at Sunday Schools.”

“Somerville is mounting the platform,” remarked George Murray to a group of Royal Academicians Silence soon reigned, enabling the clear, ringing voice of the lecturer to be heard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a new plan to submit to you.” (“Hear! hear!”) “A plan which suggested itself to me after my first visit, this season, to the Royal Academy. I was struck by the attitude of the public, and noticed group after group passing scornfully in front of portraits, historical subjects, and war pictures. In fact, very few were the pictures that attracted any attention at all. Then I observed that landscapes aroused a good deal of attention on the part of the dissatisfied 195crowds, and that pictures representing the human form in its Edenic attire were the object of their closest observation. I was filled with wonderment at the evolution of a public who the preceding year had rushed to gaze at pictures by Sargent, Orchardson, Collier, Alma Tadema, and the rest. As I strolled through the rooms I saw many a woman blushing as she came in front of a portrait of an over-dressed woman; men with downcast eyes hurried away from the pictures of our so-called great men in their military uniforms or in any other garments. My first determination on leaving the place was to have my portrait removed; and, strange to say, the committee did not in any way oppose my wish, as many had thought fit, like me, to have their likenesses taken away. This is a great sign of the present evolution towards true art. I do not for one moment expect our artists—who have already made their names—to approve at once of my reform; but in time they may come to see their past errors, as already one step towards the reform of art has been taken by closing the doors of the Royal Academy.” (Here there were murmurs amongst the minority of malcontents.) “Yes, I heard this very morning that this would be the last day of the exhibition; the President having resolved to take this ominous resolution to punish the public, and teach them a 196lesson. We must, all of us, bear this well in mind: that art cannot any longer, in our new mode of life, be the means of obtaining wealth or position, and that nature is the sole guide and model which is to lead the artist to artistic eminence. As to painting garments from memory, the mere notion of such a sartorial nightmare ought to make the true artist shudder with horror. I therefore propose that a committee should be organised, similar to the one appointed for the reform of public monuments, to judge of the pictures which, in future, shall be sent to the Academy. The name of the artist would only be submitted to the committee after the picture had been accepted or rejected. The name of the person who had sat for the portrait would equally remain unknown, until the majority of the members on the committee should have recognised whom it was. The subject of an historical picture would likewise remain unrevealed, until the majority of members had been able to guess the subject when they looked at the picture—I see a few R.A.’s at the end of the hall, laughing and whispering. I quite understand their mirth, for they are looking forward to mystifying the committee, whose members are often sadly lacking in historical knowledge. I can only advise those gentlemen at the end of the hall to develop a keener sense of discrimination 197in the choice of their subjects, before they attempt to represent on wood, or copper—for there is no canvas—an historical incident, without the aid of local colour or garments. Our stage was reformed the day that Nature held up her mirror and showed man as God had made him; fiction said her last word when the high pressure of our abnormal civilisation suddenly collapsed, and allowed man and woman to look into each other’s eyes, and for the first time realise the abnormal condition of their former lives. The same evolution awaits plastic art and the painter’s avocation, for if a committee cannot tell, by looking at a picture, what the subject is, they will have to retire so as to learn how to observe and how to remember. Likewise, if an artist is unable to paint his subject without the trapping of garment, the sooner such an exponent of art takes to some other means of expressing his thoughts, the better. The aim of art, in our present civilisation, is to be useful, either in the material or the abstract world; and to be useful one must be clear and true—I hear someone saying that I am limiting art most shamefully; I think it is Mr Vane. No, I beg his pardon, truth and lucidity do not limit art. Had Mr Vane said that my new plan would limit the number of artists he would no doubt have been nearer the truth. We need only a very few 198artists, just as we need very few writers, and you will soon see that vanishing of clothes and upholstery will reduce their number. Now, I want to propose that a branch should be added to this committee, whose work should be to judge the past works hanging in our numerous galleries, more especially those of our English artists who have won fame. Let us take as one example out of thousands, ‘The Huguenots’ by Millais. Have a perfect copy drawn of it, without the clothes which cover the figures, and let this picture be shown to a committee of historians unacquainted with the picture, and ask them to tell you what is ailing these three souls at war with each other. I defy the committee to tell you. The incidental feud which tortures these three souls is merely anecdotal, and not an eternally human conflict. How few of our standard works would be comprehended without the external label which makes the subject intelligible. But those few, who would escape the public’s condemnation, would be sufficient to stimulate our young artists who are penetrated with a true and disinterested love of art. As to the rest who cannot learn the lesson taught them by nature, let them put their cerebral energy to other uses, either industrial or scientific. We are going fast towards the time, when, as Prudhon said, ‘The artist must at last be 199convinced of this, that there is no difference between an artistic creation and an industrial invention.’

“Instead of limiting art by subjecting its productions to truth and lucidity, I believe that we shall give a more powerful impetus to artistic expression. Our new mode of life will inevitably create in us new sentiments, and more simple morals, even new sensations, which will inevitably develop in us new modes of expressions; so that a greater display of facial expressions will forcibly be followed by a richer scale of artistic execution. Besides which, we cannot take all the credit to ourselves in this reform of art; the public has given us a lesson by scorning the false manifestations of art, which inadequately represent his present condition. We cannot stop the reform, for the current is too strong and we must go with it.” (Cheers and applause.) “I believe Mr Sinclair has a few words to say to you, for which he has this morning begged me to ask your indulgence, though I feel sure he does not in any way need it.”

Lionel left the platform, shook hands with several men who had gathered round him, and joined the group which included Lady Carey and Mrs Archibald.

Sinclair took the position vacated by Lionel, 200and leaning indolently against the table spoke as in a reverie:—

“I have come to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, of the death of the art critic.” Every head turned towards him; one could have heard a pin drop. Sinclair seemed to wake suddenly from his meditation at the sound of his own voice, and began earnestly to address his audience. “I hope you will take it well from me, for you know how wedded I was to my profession. But if I have come here this day to tell you of the total decomposition of the critic, it is only after having maturely reflected over, and analysed my past career. The eclipse of journalism, the judicious weeding of publishers’ lists, have worked a transformation in our conception of art, be it plastic, dramatic or lyric, and we are now asking ourselves what caused the feverish infatuation for one particular author, painter or musician? But we find it next to impossible to answer. Real talent certainly was not sufficient to force the market, nor did the eulogies of critics help to boom a work which was distasteful to the public. On the other hand, no anathema showered at the head of a despised author ever stopped the sale of his inferior work.” (Laughter—many heads looked round the hall to see if the much-abused author was there.) “The critic did not guide the 201artist, nor did he teach the public what it had to admire or condemn. The public was a hydra with many heads and many judgments; from the Letters of Elizabeth to Herbert Spencer’s Ethics, it devoured all, for its appetite was varied though at times unhealthy. I am sorry to say that the only achievement of the critic was to make the public believe he was leading it. It was indeed very clever of him to convince the hydra of his own importance, and as long as it lasted it was well and good; but the reign of the critic was ephemeral, for at every corner the public is having its revenge now. The masses disdainfully pass in front of pictures we extolled, hiss the plays we boomed, and roar at the music we admired. We coaxed the public, and conciliated the fashionable centres of Society so as to solidify our position and fill our purses; we blinded the many-headed hydra, stuffed cottonwool in its ears, and anæsthetised its power of appreciation into believing that we were indispensable to the development of art. The irony of it is, that it is that very public which is giving us a colossal lesson. Changed surroundings have altered the standard of art; and the hydra is giving us tit for tat. We have nothing else to do but to retire cheerfully. My dear friends, I come to you to cry, Peccavi, and to beg 202for your forgiveness for past errors of judgment. We have no need to dog the artist’s footsteps when there exists no longer any stimulus to inferior work, and when the reign of saleable art is over. The era of the artist-his-own-critic is at hand. Let the artist fight his battle with the hydra; best of all, leave the artist to fight his own battle with his own conscience, for the latter will prompt him to do only that which is necessary for the happiness of himself and others.”

“What about Sargent?” broke in the clarion voice of Hornsby, who was standing at the end of the hall, close to the President of the Academy.

“Ah! mea culpa,” solemnly uttered Sinclair, “when you come to Sargent, you touch the depth of artificiality—if such a thing can be said. But our past Society was the age of tragic frivolity, and Sargent was the Homer of that modish Odyssey. He illustrated the law of natural selection by making garments the main feature in his portraits. Under his brush the inner souls of his models withered away, while artificial surroundings and vestments emphasised in his pictures a condition of spurious passions and morbid excitability. Run through, mentally, the gallery of Sargent’s portraits, and you will see their anatomy wither under the robe of Nessus. He endowed flounces, feathers and ribands with Medusa-like ferocity; and the 203Laocoon is not more fatally begirded, nor are his limbs more piteously crushed by snakes, than are these frail women’s hearts muffled and hidden by clouds of lace and chiffon. Do you remember that youth whom he immortalised a few years ago? That heir to great properties on whose fatuous brow was stamped the mark of the symbol of militarism? That diagonal mark of white skin on a sunburnt forehead is a painted satire. Kipling gave us a high-flavoured philippic on Tommy Atkins; to Sargent was entrusted the mission of immortalising the Tommy of the upper classes. Like a faithful chronicler, Sargent intended to hand down to posterity the biography of Society as he saw it—that is to say—the living product of artificial environment. Hogarth was a dramatic historian of the unbridled passions of a brutal Society. Disrobe the figures of the Mariage à la Mode, or of the Rake’s Progress, and I believe the committee, which my friend Lord Somerville wishes to appoint to judge our past works of art, will easily be able to guess at a glance what tragedy is breaking the hearts of these ungentle personages. Sargent is the satirist of a clothed Society. His models would exist no longer were you to divest them of their meretricious furbelows; for their garments are the parts which help to form the aggregate of their psychology, and without their 204frills and trimmings, they would merely be marionettes stuffed with sawdust and held together with screws.” (Murmurs from several groups. The President of the Academy leaves the hall.) “The end of Society was nigh, when it could only boast of a School of Athens in which a Socrates was a tailor, Aspasia a Court dressmaker, and Diogenes an upholsterer. Plato and Aristotle’s philosophy did not more potently influence the world of thought of their epoch, than did the unappealable decretals of a Paquin, and the arbitrary ukase of a Poole.” The small minority of malcontents were endeavouring to stop the lecturer, whose clear voice managed to drown the hisses and the groans. He silenced them all. “We must have the courage to face this, for since the late cataclysm, we have been suddenly placed on a platform from which we are able to clearly view our past civilisation; and we can see that formerly we had no sense of objectivity, and that what we erroneously termed the modern world was but the heaping together of complexities and incongruities. Do you remember that perfect short story by Balzac, The Unknown Masterpiece? It is the story of an artist who jealously hides the picture he is painting from any intruding eye. He alone enters his sanctum, and there for hours he works at this great work. One day, some profane creature enters the studio, irreverently lifts the 205curtain which covers the canvas, and sees—nothing. Blurrs, daubs, uncertain design, in fact, confusion is all he can detect. This is what we have been doing for centuries; we daubed and smudged our social work for want of a proper perspective; we created a huge monstrosity just as this artist produced an incomprehensible picture, because he, and we, could not judge our production from the standpoint of another. I have digressed from my subject, and wandered far away from what was the purpose of this address. Let me conclude by telling you that the miserable efforts of the critic are futile in the new era of—art for art’s sake.”

Sinclair, on his way across the hall, was dazed by the thunderous applause which greeted him on his passage. The group of A.R.A.’s had left the hall, no doubt to ponder these weighty questions in solitude, and with the exception of Vane, Mowbray, Mrs Archibald and their small group, the whole audience was acquiescent.

“I never would have believed it of you, old man,” sneered Vane. “What is to become of us, when men like you, who kept the public taste in check, give up the game?”

“My dear Montagu, that is just what we did not do. We played hide-and-seek with the many-headed hydra, and it has collared us now, and our 206game is up. On the day when you see the triviality of our past, as I do, you will act as I act, and you will say what I have said.”

“My dear fellow”—Vane shook his head wisely—“that is quite impossible unless I become a Goth. I am one of those who never alter; but, the day you recognise your folly, you will find me the same as ever, ready to welcome you as our critic in all matters of art.” And he passed on.

“Ever the same, incorrigible; I dare not think what his end will be.” And Sinclair turned his steps towards the window where Eva and Gwen were sitting.

“I always told you, darling Eva, that Sinclair would be brought unconsciously to understand the right purport of life on the day when he realised the true meaning of art.” Gwen pressed Eva’s hand. “Sinclair the fastidious, the cynic, is no more, and the man whom you honoured with your love and trust is coming to claim you.” Eva laid her head on her friend’s shoulder, as she watched Sinclair, who was coming towards them.

“Mr Danford,” said Lady Carey, who was reclining in another window, “you have just arrived in time. Do tell us who that is going on to the platform? I am so short-sighted.”

The little satirist briskly turned on his heels 207and looked at the thick-set, purple-faced man who was besieging the platform.

“What, the man who bungled so disastrously the early part of our African campaign?” inquired Lady Carey.

“I am off,” suddenly exclaimed Lionel. “The old fellow does not interest me in the least. Besides, there is nothing more to be said about the African campaign since our troops have had to return from South Africa, leaving the country and the people to themselves. Au revoir, Lady Carey. Are you staying, Mowbray?”

“I think it is our duty as loyal subjects to listen to what the head of our army has to say,” stiffly replied Lord Mowbray.

“Come along then, Dan.” The two men left the window, and passed through the crowd who were loudly discussing the subject of art reform. As they came to the next bow window, Lionel saw Gwen and Eva engrossed in a lively conversation with Sinclair. Lionel stopped, and laying his hand on Danford’s arm said, “I shall not disturb them. When a man has found one of the rings that form the chain of life, he must be left to rivet it without any interference.”

208“What is to be done with the War Office?” the rough voice of the ex-general suddenly hushed the buzzing causerie; and these portentous words reached the ears of Lionel and Danford as they swung the doors open, and passed out.

“Ha! ha! ha!” Danford held his sides, convulsed with laughter. “Even the ex-hero of civilised warfare is puzzled at what is to be done with his obsolete bag of tricks!”

“Poor Mowbray will lose another illusion,” remarked Lionel, and the two men walked up toward St James’s Park.

“I shall do your hair for you, mother dear,” said Eva one morning. They were both in Lady Carey’s dressing-room, as it was the time when the maid was rung for to attend to her mistress’s coiffure.

“A very good idea, Eva. I must say I never feel quite at my ease with Elise, and I ring for her as seldom as I can now. It does seem so funny to give orders to a person who stands just as naked as you are.”

“Oh! I am so glad! I have been longing to arrange your lovely hair in my own way,” and Eva clapped her hands with joy.

“You are very brusque, Eva—here are the hairpins, and the brush is in that drawer.”

Eva held the mass of auburn hair in her fingers, and softly brushed it off the delicate temples of her mother.

“I am afraid, dear child, you have lost a great deal of your ladylike grace since you have been a 210regular attendant at these public tournaments. You associate with such a queer lot there; I am sure it must be fatal to good manners.”

In a few seconds Eva had wound the rich coils of hair into a Grecian knot on the shapely head of her mother.

“You look a perfect dear, mother; so like the Medici Venus—you don’t know how perfectly lovely you are.” The girl kissed Lady Carey and sat at her feet.

“You need not be anxious, mother”—Eva leaned her graceful head on her mother’s lap. “It is useless to try to stem the tide; nothing that you can ever do will prevent what has to be.”

“What do you aim at, child?” asked Lady Carey, as she tidied her combs and brushes.

“Is there anything you want to say, Eva?” Lady Carey laid her hand on the girl’s hair. “I have heard and seen such strange things lately, that I might just as well know all.”

“Oh! darling mother, I could not bear to do anything which you would consider underhand; although my actions would only be the reflection of my own convictions.”

211Lady Carey took her daughter’s face in her two hands and stared hard at her. “Are you thinking of doing the same mad thing as Gwen? If so, say it at once; I had rather be prepared for the worst.”

No answer came. Eva dropped her eyelids and spoke no word. At last she softly murmured, “I love Sinclair.”

“Oh! for the matter of that, many have done the same,” derisively remarked her mother, as she gently pushed away the face she held.

“Hum! He has told that to many. All this is nonsense, you must put all this out of your silly head. Sinclair is not a marrying man; besides, he is not the husband I would wish you to have.”

Eva stood up and looked straight at her mother. “He is the husband I have chosen.”

“My poor girl, Sinclair is not the man to stick to one woman. He is hypercritical and cynical, I should even say—cruel, where a woman’s love is concerned.”

“But, mother, he has repudiated his past errors—you heard what he said a week ago?”

“Pooh! that was only hysteria, it will pass! It is better to speak to you plainly, Eva; he was 212Lady Vera’s lover for two years. I know all about it, as I was her confidante through it all. He nearly drove her out of her senses with his capricious moods; her husband, as you know, divorced her; and ever afterwards Sinclair invented new modes of torture for the woman who, I believe, sincerely loved him. She gave him up at last and threw herself at the head of that silly Bob Leyland, who is good to her in his own way.”

“As to Sinclair’s relations with Lady Vera, that is no news to me, my dear mother. How can a girl remain ignorant of these scandals after one London season? If the friends or enemies of the man or the woman do not tell her all about it, it is very easy for her to find it out for herself. Women like Lady Vera are living advertisements, and they would no more wish to hide their intrigues than Epps and Cadbury would wish to stop the advertising of their cocoas. It is all part of the social business; and the pit and gallery would be swindled out of their sport were Society’s sewers to be thoroughly cleansed.”

“But it will always be the case as long as there exists an Upper Ten; and, after all, when we think of it, it was much worse in Charles II.’s time and under the Georges,” replied Lady Carey.

“I have no doubt it was so,” said Eva. “They 213were coarse, but we are suggestive; they were brutal in the pursuit of indecorous pleasures, we are complex in our vulgar dissipations. We combine the corruption of a Louis XV. with the casuist of a Loyola. The Georges were everything that is bad, I grant you, but they were not effeminate; they lived up to their standard of military chivalry, which we do not, although we pretend to believe in a military code of honour.”

“How suburban, Eva. I expect my grocer or my housekeeper to possess that bourgeois quality; but a gentleman must have a higher ideal of chivalry.”

“There is nothing more exalted than perfect honesty, dear mother; and the proof is that your grocer and your housekeeper cannot afford to live up to its standard, for it does not pay.”

“You are quite terrible, Eva, with your subversive theories! I cannot imagine where you picked up these queer ideas. I have always been most particular to surround you with what we were used to call well-bred people.”

Lady Carey ignored the remark and continued, 214“I always feared Gwen would have a fatal influence over you. But what could I do? It is so difficult to weed out one’s friends when one belongs to a certain set.”

“My dear mother, Gwen was saved in time, for she would have turned into a Lady Vera had not Society’s foundations suddenly collapsed. She had been taught all the tricks of a perfect woman of the world, and would have even outdistanced Lady Vera, for she possessed more brains and more animal spirits. So, you see, there is still hope for a Sinclair to develop into a paragon of virtue, to suit even your fastidious ideal of a son-in-law.”

“My dear Eva, pray do not accuse me of such a Philistine notion as to require in my son-in-law any of the qualities absolutely needed in a bank accountant or in a land agent. Heaven forbid! I am larger minded than that, and I know that a man must live. You see, Sinclair is all right, and we all run after him and make love to him, and look forward to the clever sayings that drop from his cynical lips; but”—a pout was on her lips, as she looked for the proper word to express her sentiment—“well, he is not what we are accustomed to consider a—gentleman. It is extraordinary how these upstarts end by believing they can do anything. His father was tutor to Lord Farmiloe’s 215son; and, instead of going into the army as his father wished him to do, Sinclair, after leaving Oxford, began to dabble in questionable journalism, and soon developing that wonderful power of criticism, he became the terror of all artists, known or unknown. I know, perhaps better than most women, what it is to suffer from a man who does not consider his wife’s love all-sufficient to his happiness.” Lady Carey relaxed her hard expression, her eyes were for one instant dimmed by a passing mist, and her lips trembled, whilst a lump rose in her throat; but it was soon over. “Your father was a gentleman, and I could not wish a daughter of mine to have a more courteous man for a husband. He treated me, before the world, as he ought to have treated the woman who bore his name, and carried on his numerous intrigues with the discipline and gallantry of a true soldier, who held his sword at the service of his king, and his soul at the mercy of his God, but brooked no restraint nor reproach from anyone in this world.”

“When you have seen as much of the world as I have, my dear Eva, you will know that philosophy plays a large part in our social training, and helps to soften the coarseness of life. We 216leave the rioting of the mind to the plebeian classes, who have not, like us, to keep up appearances and traditions of bienséance.”

“Yes, but the world’s philosophy is no longer the enduring stoicism of a Spartan, nor is it the calm acceptance of human frailty of a Marcus Aurelius; it is a cynical acquiescence in the general depravity of the over-fed and over-clothed worshippers of Mammon, who smile at their neighbour’s weaknesses, hoping that he in turn will shut his eyes to their foibles. Philosophy is your capital which pays you back heavy dividends.”

“How bitter you are, my dear girl. You are too young to think or speak like that; and you cannot lay down any such rule of conduct. Of course I know that things are awkward at present, and that the future is not pleasant to contemplate; and it grieves me to the quick that my child should be in close contact with the vulgarity of life.”

“Do not worry yourself, mother; I am seeing life for the first time, and it is very beautiful. Society is as far removed from true life as the sun is from the moon. You fashionable mothers have a strange way of bringing up your children. As the Chinese tortured their women’s toes to prevent their running away, so you cramped our youthful 217minds, obliterated our organ of perception and twisted our judgment so as to make us incapable of distinguishing right from wrong. You showed us little pictures encircled in trivial frames, and told us that these were the sights we had to view for the rest of our lives. We put questions to you about the people with whom you surrounded us in our infancy, but you answered scornfully, that they were our inferiors whom we need not consider. Later on, the same game of mystification went on with our teachers whom we had to treat only as educational cramming machines. When we developed into women, the bandages were swathed more tightly round our expanding brains, and we were then informed, at the most perplexing cross-roads of our lives, that no decent girl inquired into any social problems: a tub, a game of golf, and the admission into the smart set were all-sufficient to assuage feminine yearning. If, as often happened, the hygienic and worldly remedies failed to cure the patient, the whole was dismissed in these words: ‘A lady does not mention such things!’ This was the prologue to matrimony! When you, the mothers of Society, had brought your victims safely to the stake, you turned your eyes up to heaven and begged for God’s blessing, which you deserved less than the devil’s benediction, for in your culpable and wilful ignorance 218you were playing a ghastly trick in sending out defenceless beings into an arena of wild beasts. Do you believe that your drawing-room philosophy will be of any use to the victims of your social wisdom? No, your philosophy thrives on champagne and truffles, not on the understanding of human passions. How often has a girl brought to the conjugal market a young heart and a healthy constitution, to close a bargain with a cynical flesh dealer; and very soon had to learn how to smuggle cunningly out of the unfair contract? But it was useless to recriminate with the only friend God gave us—our mothers; for we were at once advised to read the first part of the Marriage Service; and we learnt through cruel experience that there was no escape, no relief, for those born and bred in our unnatural Society.”

“What has come over you, Eva? Who has been poisoning your mind?” Lady Carey’s voice was trembling, and she did not dare look at her daughter. The latter impulsively fell on her knees, and encircling her mother’s waist with her arms, she said passionately,—

“You believed us to be safe when you had told us never to look inside a certain closet; and like Blue Beard you fed us on kick-shaws and soap-bubbles as long as we never opened that secret 219closet—life. Why were we not to know the realities of existence? Why did you travesty life into a Music Hall burlesque? What God created, you belittled; what nature gave to man, you turned into a deadly weapon against him. Love came into the world, pure and generous, but it was led astray in social haunts and became debauchery; ambition prompted man to create something true and beautiful, but he wandered in trimmed paths of artificiality, and his natural instinct was transformed into a passion for worldly power and riches. What you called character was merely callousness erected into a principle; what you thought was philosophy was only an abnormal power of frivolity, which would have made even a butterfly blush. Oh! mother, mother, cannot you see what a sham it all was?”

Lady Carey was not unintelligent; she knew that what her daughter said was perfectly correct. She quite realised that this was what they had lived through, but she did not approve of the spirit of revolt, and always had considered it vulgar to kick against the rules of Society. Still, her opposition was not altogether sincere, and her displeasure did not arise at what her daughter said, but at the fact of her daughter saying it. Had Lionel, or any other, put forward these ideas, 220she would have been the first to laugh, and to agree with what he said.

“Forgive me, dearest mother, for saying these cruel things to you, but if you only knew how much I love, you could not blame me. Set me free, my own mother! After all, it is my life I am pleading for, and I am willing to take the responsibility of all that will follow.”

“This influence which has such an effect upon you all must be very powerful.” Tears were slowly dropping from Lady Carey’s eyes and trickling down her cheeks. “Can it be that I have never known you really, Eva? How is it that for many years I have looked after you—for I have not, like so many, been neglectful of my maternal duties—and yet know no more to-day about your nature than I did on the day you were born? For the last few years, since you were presented, we have lived the same life, seen the same people, and yet we were as much divided from each other as if you had been at the North Pole.”

“But, darling mother, I was far away from my true nature, so do not blame yourself alone; you see, necessity made me think differently.”

“But then, necessity ought to have acted in the 221same way upon me,” replied Lady Carey. “Still, I cannot see as you do.”

“Because you are stiffening yourself against the inevitable; you are not so blind as not to be able to see. Oh! mother, if you knew how I love you, how I want you to be happy!”

“Child, you are all I have in the world, for, as I have said before, I have suffered. You have never known this, my child, for I hid it from everyone; but all that you have just said has brought back to my mind past scenes which I had determined to forget for ever. My girlhood! my marriage! your words brought all back to me so distinctly. But what is it that makes you so happy, so keenly interested in all your surroundings? I should like to know what it is, for I have not become an idiot, and I might yet learn.”

“Love, love has been the teacher! Oh! mother, I know you have always loved me, but you allowed worldly barriers to divide us. Let yourself go, do not be guided by your stubborn prejudices, and judge our present world from the standard of our past Society.”

“Ah! my poor child, I know of no other standard but that of a well-bred woman of the world; still, to show you that I have no silly prejudice, and that I can turn my mind to anything, I shall try to let myself go; but mind you, 222it will be only out of sheer ennui, not from any other motive. I shall enter into all your plans; it will at least be something to do.”

Eva stood up and, taking both her mother’s hands, lifted her from her chair; the two women laughed joyously, and putting their arms round one another’s necks, they left the room to go down to luncheon.

“Well, my dear Gwen!”—Mrs Archibald entered the library at Selby House, followed by the Earl of Somerville—“I never thought I should live to see your husband act as his own footman!”

“Dear Alicia”—Lady Somerville kissed the newcomer and led her to a marble lounge—“why not be one’s own footman? We are our own policemen, and I do not believe the streets’ safety has in any way suffered from it.”

“That’s quite different, dear Gwen. Ah! how do, Mrs Sinclair? I had not seen you. How shaded you keep your rooms; it is quite delightful, and so cool, too.”

“Do you know, Mrs Archibald, that we are thinking of introducing an innovation in our households?” This was Lord Somerville. “We are going to do away with locks, keys, and bolts.”

“My dear Lionel, what on earth are you saying?” exclaimed Mrs Archibald, raising herself 224suddenly on her couch. “What about these dreadful people who intrude, beg, or—steal?”

“Let them go out again,” replied Gwen merrily. “I do not think you could find any beggars or thieves at the present moment, for there is nothing to steal, but what we all should feel glad to give.”

“Wait for the final collapse,” interrupted Mrs Archibald. “I am afraid you are living in a fool’s paradise; and for your sakes I dread the awakening. In any case, I shall have warned you. What has pained me to the quick, has been Lady Carey’s desertion. Mowbray told me that she had actually mounted the platform last week to propose some awful reform.”

“My mother took my place that day, as I was unable to attend the meeting,” explained Eva Sinclair; “but, although she did it to please me, she is not yet won over to our cause, and she grieves sadly over memories of the past.”

“Thank God! I have neither kith nor kin to influence me. In a great crisis like this one feels thankful to be alone in the world.”

“Unloved—and unloving,” murmured Eva, as she looked up at Sinclair, who was leaning against the mantelpiece.

“Here is Temple coming in with tea. He 225is the only indoor servant we keep now,” and Lionel instinctively came forward to help him to arrange the tea-table. Temple, instead of retiring, dallied with the cups and saucers. There was something in the valet’s mind, but he did not know how to put it into words.

“Now, Temple, there’s something you want to say. What is it?” Gwen turned gracefully on to her side and poured out tea.

“Yes, my lady; and as you are so kind as to allow me, I shall speak. It’s about the groom, Wiggles, my lord.”

“What about him?” asked Lionel. “He cannot surely complain that he receives no wages? We none of us get any wages nowadays.”

“Ah! it isn’t that, my lord. But the children have been ailing for years, and now that the factories in which the eldest ones worked are closed, they would like to go back to the country. But Wiggles doesn’t want you to think he is complaining. He only wants a whiff of fresh air, and he asked me to beg your lordship’s advice.”

“Good gracious! there was a time when Wiggles would not have taken such trouble to give me notice.”

“It isn’t that he wishes to give notice, my lord;—I don’t know how to put it, nor does 226Wiggles. He wants, I think, to see his old people before they die.”

“My poor Temple, Wiggles is like many others who have suddenly seen life as it is, and not as it had been made for him. We also are now able to see things as they are. We see that if Wiggles’s rooms in his mews are too small and dingy for him and his family, our rooms here are too spacious for us. But very soon we shall make it all even.”

“I can’t imagine how Lionel can be such a fool as to speak to his valet like that,” whispered Mrs Archibald to Sinclair; “they want a good squashing, these people.”

“Tell Wiggles to pack up!—ha! ha! ha! I forgot—he has nothing to pack up. Let him go back to his own village. Rural life is dying out, and we want to relieve the congestion of our capital, and bring life and happiness into the apathetic provinces.—We must give back the land!”

“Will you give this cup to your master, Temple?” asked Gwen, handing the teacup to the valet with the grace with which she would have addressed a Peer of the Realm.

“One moment,” said Lionel, as Temple was preparing to leave the room. “I have often, since the storm, wanted to ask you how it was you were 227so much more respectful than you used to be? I used to wish you frequently at the bottom of the sea, with your impertinent and supercilious manners. Why have you altered?”

“I am afraid, Mrs Archibald, you have come in at a wrong time, and your delicate feelings will be hurt,” said Sinclair, bowing to the diaphanous vision of past smartness, to whom he handed a plate of sandwiches.

“A la guerre comme à la guerre, my dear fellow; I have made up my mind to the worst.”

“It would be easier to explain my past behaviour, my lord, than to account for my present manner. I have been for many years in your lordship’s service, and I only now realise how little we understood each other.”

“Had you no proper respect for your masters?” This was Mrs Archibald, who between two mouthfuls felt it her duty to bring the discussion down to a proper level. Temple hung his head, and twisted his fingers. One could hear the monotonous tick-tack of the empire clock.

“Well, if your lordship will allow me to say so, I think we all looked up to the aristocracy as an institution; just as we honoured the Royal 228Family and the House of Commons. But we did not think much of them as individuals, and felt irritable with our employers.”

“What a shocking word to use for your superiors,” and Mrs Archibald raised her eyelids as she laid a stress on the last word.

“Was I a worse master, than any other?” inquired Lionel. “Dear Mrs Archibald, you have nothing to eat,” and he handed a plate of cakes to her.

“I think you are making a fool of yourself Lionel,” she remarked in a low tone.

“Well, Temple, you do not answer my question. Forget that you are my valet, as I shall forget I am Lord Somerville. Let us stand man to man, after these long centuries of grievances and misunderstandings.”

“For the first time in my career of a valet, I feel that I can speak to you as a man; but I cannot explain why it is.”

“It must be that we have no clothes, Temple,” cheerfully said Sinclair, who had moved away from the window and stood leaning on the back of Eva’s couch.

“Yes, one man’s as good as another,” remarked Lionel. “But do you not think that you all envied us very much; for you certainly aped all our ways?”

229“I don’t know about our envying you, my lord. I daresay we longed for some of your comforts, and envied the facility with which you smoothed down your existence, by packing yourselves off abroad whenever you were weary of your amusements at home. But I do not believe we ever wanted to change our characters for yours. We could not make you out. That is the truth about it.—I am sure I ought not to talk so free before the ladies.”

“Go on, Temple,” softly said Gwen. “I want to know everything that has stood between you and us for so long.”

“It is not that we felt no sympathy for you in your grief. Oh, dear! no. When a Duke loses the wife he loves, or a lady the child she adores, it goes straight to a man’s heart, whoever that man is. But it was in your funny kinds of worries that we were at sea. It seemed so childish to worry about trifles. I remember your lordship’s mother; I never saw anyone put out for nothing as she was. The lady’s maid once told me that her ladyship had not slept for two nights because one course at dinner had been spoiled. We all laughed very much about that in the servants’ hall. If such a thing had happened to any of us in our homes, we should have taken it jokily, and told our friends that we couldn’t help the roast 230mutton being underdone, or the pudding being burnt. Very likely we should have ended by telling them, that if they only came for what they could get out of us, they had better stay at home.”

“Had we had the courage to live according to simpler rules, we should have been saved the innumerable pin-pricks which made our social existences so irksome, and for which we received no sympathy.” Gwendolen looked at Temple as if she had discovered the reason of all past dissensions.

“We always thought,” resumed the valet, “that the upper classes worried themselves about nothing; and we naturally concluded that, in their way of seeing life and of feeling imaginary sorrows, lay the difference between them and us.” A fly was beating its tiny body against a window-pane. “I remember my father telling me how he once lay, badly wounded, in the Crimean War. On the ground, close to him, lay Captain Willesmere, severely injured in the groin. My father said he never should forget the moment when the young captain turned towards him, writhing under his pain, and offered him the last drops of brandy in his flask. The exertion had no doubt been too much for the young man, for he fell back in a swoon. That drop of spirits saved my father’s 231life, my lord, and he often told me that at that time he felt there was no social distance between himself and the Earl’s son.”

“I do hope the gallant Captain soon recovered,” eagerly remarked Mrs Archibald. “Just what a gentleman would do; but I am afraid the lower class is not worth such sacrifice.”

“The next time they met,” went on Temple, “it was in the hall of Gloucester House; many years after. My father was footman, and Captain Willesmere had become the Earl of Dunraven. The crowd was great, and my father, who had only just recovered from a severe illness, was suddenly overcome by the heat, and as he helped the Earl with his coat, fell all of a heap on his shoulder. The latter, furious at being thus familiarly handled, pushed my father forward, who fell on his back and heard the nobleman say, ‘Damn you, rascal, are you drunk? can’t you see who I am?’ When as a result, my father had to seek another situation, he could not but reflect with bitterness upon the disparity which exists between classes; although he wondered what difference there was between a trooper who lay wounded on the ground for his country, and a footman who felt suddenly ill whilst fulfilling his duties in his master’s house.”

“I suppose great emergencies such as wars and 232earthquakes bring out the best in man, and make him forget the artificial barriers between his fellow-creatures and himself,” said Lionel.

“Of course, my lord, I know that domestics are looked down upon. I know also that they are often cunning, inquisitive, more or less lazy, curious as to their master’s correspondence, and fonder still of their master’s cigars.”

“I see, Temple, that you are not over partial to your own class,” broke in Sinclair.

“I cannot help thinking of these things now, sir, but after all, the defects that we have, are, in a sort of way, initiated by you. We loved gambling, betting, drinking, and lolling about; and as far as passions go, I daresay we have the same amount of animal spirits as a Duke or even a Royal Prince, with this difference that in your upper circles your lives are never blighted, whatever you may do; and your friends do not cut you for such misdemeanours as drinking too heavily or betting too recklessly. I fail to see why our private lives should be sifted through and through before we can have the privilege of handing your dishes round at table or of sitting in silence in your halls, whilst some members of the peerage are allowed to make laws for their country, although they, each day, are breaking God’s laws and Society’s rules.”

233“I quite agree with you, my good fellow,” suddenly remarked Lionel, “and this is the reason why we have given up pulling the wires of Government.”

“Now, Temple?” And Gwen leaned her graceful form over the carved arm of her couch; her whole attitude was one of apology for the harm she had unconsciously committed in her past state. “Let me know my grievous wrongs. Do not spare me.”

“My poor Gwen,” exclaimed Mrs Archibald, hiding her face in her hands. “What has become of your feminine modesty?”

“Let him speak, Alicia; true feminine delicacy is not hurt by the knowledge of injustice. Temple go on.”

“Well, my lady, I have heard strange things in my time. The first thing I learned in my career was that there was one law of hygiene for ladies and another for servants. I once heard a lady say that to keep well one ought to go out at least twice a day. But the same lady would have considered her butler or her housemaid impudent and unreasonable, had they asked to go out once a day. The same thing is true as regards stimulants. I have known many ladies, young and old, who said they had to have hock at lunch, port at 234dinner; their doctors prescribed it, and they believed it to be indispensable to their general health. But, had the footman or kitchen-maid said they must have claret at lunch, Moselle at supper; or had the housemaid hinted that a glass of sherry would be acceptable after turning out a room, I declare their mistress would have put them down as confirmed drunkards, and would have warned her friends against any servant who asked for beer money. I beg pardon, my lord, but are you sure you do not mind my plain speaking?”

“No, my good man, we want to hear the truth, for we never heard you tell us anything but fibs before.”

“You are very funny, my lord, but you have hit it right. Yes, we told fibs, big lies even. But telling the truth never paid. This was the first commandment of the servants’ catechism. In our very first situation we became familiar with a system of deceit. Still, you know yourselves how particular you were about servants always speaking the truth! I often wondered how the upper classes would have behaved had they been in our places? I don’t think they would have done very differently under the circumstances. We have all the same perception of injustice, we all feel its sting, and as kicking against it does not help us, 235compromise is the only course left us. Do you not compromise more or less with your conscience, when your god, Society, sets out rules that are too stringent? We are all men, my lord, although the Duchess of Southdown thought the contrary. I heard her say one day that she would have preferred a man for a lady’s maid, as they were more punctual and less talkative; and as to the sex, that did not matter—‘a servant was not a man!’ You can’t think what a funny impression it makes on one to hear such things.”

“Then you do not believe, Temple, that masters ever could have inspired loyalty in their servants?” inquired Sinclair.

“I must ask you, sir, whether there ever existed true loyalty on the part of the master to his servants? I have rarely seen it. The distance between the classes was too great, and the gulf grew daily wider and deeper when you convinced yourselves that you were in every way different from ‘those kind of people.’ The worst of it was, that by dint of widening the gulf between us, we naturally became strangers to each other. Our personal griefs and joys you ignored; you did not want to be bothered with our worries. We were salaried to be outwardly devoted and sympathetic, to minister to your 236wants, rejoice in your successes, condole in your misfortunes, whilst our own hearts ached from private sorrows.”

“What an accumulation of vindictiveness must have filled your hearts for those who used you so!” echoed Gwen.

“No, my lady, that is not quite true. I have seen more envy and hatred amongst the upper class than amongst ourselves. We accepted the injustice of our social condition, and we got out of you all we could on the sly. We made fun of you, and often put you down as not quite so wise as you gave yourselves out to be. The last kitchen-maid of the Duchess of Southdown was very comical on that point. Whenever she heard the servants relating some new freak of her grace, or some funny incident that had happened in the drawing-room, she would invariably say, whilst she washed the dishes, ‘Leave them alone, they can’t ’elp it, they know no better.’ We ended by believing the girl had hit on the real cause of the aristocracy’s behaviour, and that their caprices and vagaries could only be put down to ignorance.”

“And you were right,” suddenly remarked Eva, “we wilfully ignored the fact that you had to start 237life from a different point from our own, and we were horrified at you not meeting us on our level. We accused you of inferiority and ignorance, but we never thought of blaming the conditions into which we had put you.”

“Ah! ma’am!” continued Temple, “I have heard terrible things said in the refined homes of the gentry; and in my presence, ladies have uttered ’orrible sentences. For instance about the war. I don’t myself understand politics, and I can’t tell if our Government was right or wrong; but there are the women, the children, the ruined home, and to my mind it did not seem quite right. I heard many ladies who came to have tea with your lordship dismiss the whole question with a wave of the hand: ‘It could not be helped; war would always be necessary.’ One lady actually said that she loved war—surely that lady had never seen a battlefield. Another one remarked that ‘People who were not in favour of the war were not patriotic, and ought to be sent out of the country.’ You all drank your whisky and champagne in honour of England’s greater glory and prosperity; and we thought it a queer world in which glory had to be paid for so dearly, and prosperity acquired at the cost of precious lives.”

“Ah! but, you see, Temple, you were not a 238Colonial Secretary, nor were you a financier,” said Ronald Sinclair.

“Anyhow, I never heard a lady express herself as a true woman about any kind of misfortune. As a footman I used to serve cups of tea at entertainments organised for charitable purposes, and heard there some rum remarks. One lady said in reply to another who was relating to her some pitiful story of misery, ‘Well, you see, dear Lady So-and-So, these people are more or less accustomed to privations.’ And I heard another lady say that misery was relative: a millionaire reduced to a paltry income of £3000 a year suffered more actual privations than a poor man who could not afford meat once a week. I thought of old Bill Tooley’s widow who was found dead from starvation last winter. There was no question of relative misery in her case, for one can’t do more than die. Can one, my lord?”

“We have lived long enough under the delusion of our superiority over you. We must once for all face the truth and have the courage to say that it was only owing to the unfairness in the game of life that we won the trumpery race. We were given points at our birth, and later, as we entered Sandhurst or the Universities, points were granted us to enable us to advance quicker towards the 239winning-post. But these advantages which gave us our social distinctions, were as many rungs cut off from the ladder, rendering the ascent laborious to others, and the top unreachable. Life is the arena in which all men have to run the race—in their skins.”

“This is beyond me, my lord,” humbly said the valet. “Only educated people, such as you, can discuss these topics. I ’ave spoken what I felt; if I have made you understand a little more about what we were, so much the better; but I am an ignorant man, and you must excuse my speech.”

“My good man, ignorance is easily remedied; besides, we have a great deal to learn, perhaps more than you have, for we set ourselves up as your teachers, although we knew little either of you or of ourselves. But how is it that you should think that education causes a man’s superiority, when you used to believe that wealth constituted supremacy?”

“Well, my lord, it was the only difference we could see between the upper classes and the lower ones. But I seem now to judge things from another point of view; it must be owing to our having no livery, and to your lordship’s appearing to me as God made you. We do not envy beauty, for we know that it is not made in 240factories at the expense of children’s health and youth.”

“The vanishing of clothes has done more for human equality than all the philanthropists’ efforts, or the anarchists’ steel blade,” remarked Sinclair.

“Now, Temple,” said Lord Somerville, “you must go with Wiggles, and taste some of your native air. I no more need your services, and you can tell the other servants that they can return to their houses. Our daily life is very much simplified.”

“Yes, my lord—I know fresh air is necessary to our lungs, but I have an idea which I should like to communicate to the Committee of Reforms.”

“Bravo, Temple! Have as many ideas as ever you can lodge in your head. We are putting high premiums on ideas.”

“There,” anxiously murmured Mrs Archibald, “I told you that would come. We shall be ridden over by that multitude of unemployed. Oh! Lionel, what are you doing?” And the poor, diaphanous lady closed her eyes in agony at the social chaos she mentally contemplated.

“My dear madam,” replied Lionel, “Danford is right when he says that our race can achieve the wildest Utopia, if only they can first see the practical working of it.”

“Do you not, Eva dear, feel bitter remorse for all the harm we have unconsciously inflicted?” inquired Gwen, taking her friend’s hand within hers.

“For my part,” broke in Mrs Archibald, “I have never felt so ashamed, as when that horrid man described us as he sees us. I did not know what to do with myself, where to hide myself. I must confess that creature has made me feel conscious, and I felt hot waves burning me from head to toe.” Mrs Archibald pressed her hands over her forehead, whilst her breast heaved short, convulsive sobs.

“So did Adam and Eve blush when the Almighty made them feel conscious of their sin,” said Sinclair, as he leaned over the lounge of the poor, stricken-down woman. “Do not worry, Mrs Archibald; a blush at the right moment is a healthy feeling, and the shame which filled your being, at the description of your past, is the proof that the mirror faithfully gave you back your own image.”

“It’s all very well for you to speak—you have your lives fixed up, and I do not see much merit in your taking things jauntily, when you have chosen charming companions to help you. Look 242at me, all alone in this stupid, uninteresting world. What am I to do?” and the sobs became louder. “Even Lady Carey has deserted our side. The ship is sinking, and the waves are rushing over us.”

“I say, Danford, it is far more dignified to go about as we do; there is no shamming any more,” said Sinclair, as he linked his arm in that of Lionel. The three men were coming down Bond Street. “No one stops me to make irrelevant remarks on my matrimonial affairs.” His spirits were buoyant, he felt himself master of the world, not merely the master over men; neither did he enjoy that spurious sense of independence which made him formerly, as a man of fashion, order his pleasures at such an hour, his carriage at another; but he felt that noble freedom which emancipated him from trifling bonds and conventional statutes.

“When you taught John Bull that happiness can exist without church fees and Society’s sanction, and that sorrow is really ennobled by the absence of funeral plumes and crocodile tears, you taught him an everlasting lesson,” answered the little buffoon.

“Don’t you think,” suddenly exclaimed Lionel, “that the streets are looking more rational than they used to?” They were crossing Piccadilly. 244“See how these long arcades protect the pedestrians in bad weather; and notice the spacious galleries opened out under the houses where the shops used to be.”

“Yes, my lord, shop-land is no more. We owe that improvement to your valet.”

“His plan turned out a real success,” said Lionel, “and the fellow is as active in his present work of reform as he was lazy in his past career.”

“Idleness has disappeared with the injustice which separated classes; the meanest urchin knows that there is a premium applied to brains, and that premium is—universal happiness.”

“Now that we all work,” said Lionel, “you would not find a man or a woman who would not willingly help in the construction of machinery to liberate mankind from slavery. Look at these galleries running under the arcades; in each arch there is a large board with electric bells which communicate with edifices outside London, where all the necessaries of life are fabricated. Each house has one of these boards, and thus meals for invalids, the sweeping and washing up of rooms, in fact, all the necessaries of life can be obtained by merely pressing one of these electric bells.”

“Likewise—the dining-halls,” said Danford, 245“have been considerably improved and simplified; cooking by electricity has given back freedom to thousands of cooks and scullion-maids. Instead of personal attendance, there are trays placed on electric trollies running along in the middle of the dinner-tables, which stop at each guest, and which can be started again on their course by touching a small bell. What a transformation the City has undergone, to be sure. We all put our shoulders to the wheel; at stated hours we work for the welfare of all, and the labour seems light, for it is divided, and the aim is universal contentment. No task is beneath us; no employment is too trivial, were it even to fix a screw in the axle of a small wheel, providing that wheel leads us swiftly to the goal.”

“The wrong labour,” broke in Lionel, “was that which toiled for the luxuries of a few to the detriment of the many; but the labour undertaken by all, for the greatest happiness of all, is as exhilarating as the early morning’s breeze.”

“You would never know the people you elbow now from those with whom you used to associate,” said Danford. “Could you recall in the man just coming out of the ex-Atheneum Club the former frequenter of the past race-course?”

“Ah! that’s the Duke of Norbury,” answered 246Sinclair. “The fellow looks altogether normal. Certainly he is not so common in his plain—skin.”

“That is because his sporting grace has lost the label which directed him to Newmarket,” answered Dan.

They had reached Trafalgar Square, and very soon faced Parliament Street. Suddenly the little buffoon halted and, bursting out laughing, exclaimed,—

“By Jove! are you aware that this day is the 24th of June? the day on which the Coronation was to be held?” The three men paused; they looked round in wonderment. Birds were singing merrily as they hopped on the Landseer lions, the soft breeze wrinkled the surface of the water in which lads and lassies were ducking, and splashing each other in merry laughter.

“Do you not hear, in your mind’s ear,” sententiously spoke Danford, “the distant rumble of drums and metallic strains of military bands? Does not your mind’s eye perceive in the distance the glittering of swords in the sunshine, and the variegated uniforms of Colonial and Indian armies? Slowly comes the procession up Parliament Street, furrowing its way through an ebbing and flowing wave of humanity. The great of the land are all there, labelled with their uniforms. There, look, comes a gilded coach. In that coach I can see two figures, systematically bowing on either side 247of the carriage. What is the meaning of these two figures got up like dolls for the occasion?”

“My poor Dan, there is no meaning in them. They are the symbol of past inconsistency,” replied Sinclair.

“How was it,” asked Lionel, “that with all that science was doing for the progress of the modern world, and with all that art was creating to make life beautiful, how was it we never came any nearer to happiness?”

“My dear Lionel,” answered Sinclair, “because we wanted to reconcile our modern world with the old one. Steering our way back into the past against the current which carried us on to the future was hard work, very often a perilous expedition; we travestied barbarous passions with new garments, to make them more presentable to our modern world; and the thirst for conquest and wealth was disguised under the mask of political philanthropy. Vice had its fur-lined overcoat; ruthless money-diggers and empire-makers stalked through the town as modern Aladdins; sometimes even, they raised their own eyes to the exalted position of God’s A.D.C. Prostitution left street corners to mount the marble steps of palaces, where the hand of the clergy helped it to enter the precincts of social Paradise—”

248“Listen, my lord,” interrupted Danford. “Do you hear the tramping of horses’ hoofs? Conquering heroes, whose glory is written on the sands of life, are coming.”

“Posterity with her broom and shovel will clear away the dust of their rubbish,” said Lionel. “It will collect in its dust-pan some strange manifestations: Cæsar, Napoleon, Marlborough—”

“Leave out the more recent names,” broke in Sinclair; “they are too near to us.”

“You are right,” said Lionel. “Still, posterity, in her impartial summing up, will be more lenient towards those whose crimes were the results of unpolished ignorance, than towards those whose lust was cleverly screened by Pharisaism. It will not be hard on Edward III. and Philippe le Bel for haggling over France like two butcher’s dogs over a bone; but I am afraid it will judge unmercifully our modern civilisations which masqueraded and played parts unsuited to them. Has the Hundred Years’ War given the supremacy to either France or England? What has the Inquisition and the Spanish ascendency over the Dutch Republic done for Spain’s prosperity?”

“And what would the annexation of the South African Provinces have done for England’s glory, had not the storm put a sudden stop to 249his country’s hysterical fits?” inquired Danford.

“Our old world has gone through a good deal of alteration,” remarked Sinclair. “Maps have always impressed me as the saddest annals of history. As a boy, I used to turn the pages of atlas books with the keenest interest; they spoke to me of human struggles, of longings and morbid regrets.”

“Yes,” added Danford, “maps are the medical charts of the intermittent fevers from which countries suffer.”

“Thank God for the blessings His water-spout has conferred on us!” burst out Lionel. “I shudder when I think that we might, on this very day, have witnessed this fantastic pageantry. The opium-eater, in his weirdest delirium, could not have pictured a more uncanny parade, than the one we should have beheld at the dawn of the twentieth century: London—a huge pawnbroker’s shop—turning out into the streets all its pandemonium! the properties of our modern world thrown together, higgledy-piggledy, with the paraphernalia of a Cinderella pantomime! The incongruous was then the order of the day, and our brains, before the storm, were the receptacles of untidy ideas.”

“My lord, do you hear in the distance the bells of St Paul’s ringing their peals?”

250“Yes, they are ringing for the sacred union of clericalism with worldly wisdom.”

“How could we reconcile the symbolic ceremony of a crowned monarch with the limitations of our constitution?” asked Danford. “How was it possible to adapt obsolete palliaments to the democratic innovation of the coat and skirt? For I think we may truly call this revolution in feminine dress the 1789 of Histology.”

“You are right, my dear Dan, but I want to know what our epoch was aiming at?” asked Sinclair, sitting down on one of the steps. “Was it playing a practical joke on democracy, or was it acting a monarchical burlesque? What had our fashionable metropolis to do with the customs of a London which began at the Strand, and whose centre was the Tower? Doubtless, the auditory faculty of a Plantagenet would have suffered from the bustling London of Edward VII., and the clamouring noise of a railway station would have certainly upset the nerves of even that bloodthirsty Richard III.”

“The fact is, my dear fellow,” said Lionel, who sat down near Sinclair, “we had, before the storm, arrived at the cross-roads, and had to choose which turning we should take. Were we to go straight ahead, regardless of past traditions, on a motor car; or should we have chosen a shady road and 251ambled back to Canterbury on a Chaucerian cob, escorting that gentle dame yclept “Madam Eglantine”? The twentieth century was the sphinx confronting us. Were we going to meet it with an old adage, or were we at last to be Œdipus and solve the question?”

“As long as we dragged at our heels the worthless baggage of the past, we could not proceed on our road.” Danford stood in front of the two men. “We went to our political business in fairy coaches, and could not make out why we arrived too late for Parliamentary tit-bits. We were playing the fool on the brink of a precipice, and spent our time and energy in staging a sort of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ in a graveyard. It was as tragic as it was flippant, and if posterity will laugh at our inconsistency, how much more must Mediævalism grin at our lack of adaptability. I should like to know what King Alfred or Queen Bess have to say about us?”

“Poor Alfred,” sighed Lionel, “I feel for him, for he must be mortified at having given the first impulse to English language to produce—Marian Crivelli!”

“Ha! ha! ha! As to dear old Bess,” remarked Sinclair; “with all her cunning, and the improbity of her politics, she was essentially modern—of her times modernity, naturally, for of course, Conservatism 252and Radicalism are relative. Had she seen the development of science; had she crossed the Channel in one hour, and the Atlantic in a week; and had she been able to send a wireless message to a distant continent, she would have jumped with delight!—she would have twigged in an instant that the curtain had dropped upon the old world, and she would have advised her successor to throw unscrupulously overboard, crown, sceptre, regal goods and chattels—in fact, all royal overweight—to save the crew!”

“That reminds me,” suddenly said Lionel, “that I had a telephonic causerie this morning with Victor de Laumel, in Paris. He said that at the clubs everyone was discussing the latest. The Sovereigns of Europe are going to meet in congress at the Hague to confabulate on what they had better do in face of this strange event in England.”

“When the Sovereigns themselves are aware of the inconsistency of their condition, and the futility of their prerogatives, then their eyes will be open as to what their future conduct has to be.”

“That is just what Victor says. They are as excited about this congress, in Paris, as they were about Fashoda and Dreyfus, and, naturally, they blame us for it; all the smart clubs are dead 253nuts against England for playing into the hands of Jove.”

“Oh! that does not astonish me in the least,” said Danford. “But about this congress, Lord Somerville, I think we have already taught the world a lesson, and that sooner than I ever expected. At this rate the storm of London will rank as the greatest event in the history of nations. If you look at history impartially, you will find that every reform carried in its breast the seed of another excess. A wrong was abolished, by what, at the time, appeared a right principle, until another standpoint was reached, which showed us the wrong side of the right principle.”

“If this strange condition of ours,” broke in Sinclair, “does, after all, lead to the reform of the governing classes from within, then, indeed, it was worth losing one’s shirt!” And the three men laughed heartily.

“Look round, my lord,” and Danford pointed to the National Gallery. “You have given the first impetus to true art.”

“No, no, Danford,” interrupted Lionel. “It was the public who gave me the hint.”

“Never mind, my lord, the thing is done, and you have awakened the consciousness of our English artists. Look down Parliament Street, where your mind’s eye saw, a minute ago, the 254pantomime of Government; you can see our ancient seat of Parliament transformed into the sanctuary of technical education. The old lobbies are swarming with efficient teachers. Public education, as it was to be found in our old haunts of Eton, Rugby, etc., etc., was the proper training for privileged classes; but the present education, which is not compulsory, is the training of the child and adult without social barriers; and the only religious dogma which he must live up to is this: that the welfare of all is the welfare of each.”

“And yet,” sadly remarked Sinclair, “science is still but empiric, as it has not yet revealed to us the mystery of the human heart; that remains a sealed letter. Some writer has named that mysterious recess of individuality, ‘the hidden garden’; but how ignorant we still are of its vegetation. Do we know what causes, in that hidden garden of the soul, a lovely rose to grow where the soil was barren; or a toadstool to sprout where the seed of a robust plant had been sown?”

“No, we know no more of each other’s inner souls than the early Britons knew of steam and electricity,” said Lionel. “As long as we have not reached complete consciousness we shall never triumph over the inconsistencies which place men 255on different platforms, and spur them on to fight unfair battles.”

“Ah, my lord, you have a receptive mind, and I knew, from the beginning, that the day would come when you would open your eyes to the gulf which separates man from man. Yesterday morning the Committee of Music Hall Artists introduced at our meeting a queer sort of man, who struck me as visionary in his ideas, and matter-of-fact in the carrying out of his plans.”

“Surely, Dan, he was an American,” remarked Sinclair, “for the gift of bottling the ocean, or of cramming into a nutshell all the contradictory philosophical theories, belongs to that race which unites the creative power of a Jupiter to the jugglery of a mountebank.”

“What that man, be he god or charlatan, suggests is too grave to be spoken of lightly or to be taken up in a minute,” continued Danford, “and I implore your lordship not to jump too quickly at a conclusion. But, to come to facts, this man avers that he has discovered the means of reading human thoughts and secret motives just as clearly as one sees the hidden structure of a body by means of the X-rays. He says that we have, owing to our normal hygiene and purity of life, arrived at the time when this invention will be necessary to bring perfect happiness to human 256beings; and that our past weeks of paradisaical existence have changed John Bull and made him thirst for a complete knowledge of his fellow-creatures. This is a serious matter, gentlemen, and, for God’s sake, do not let us wreck the future bliss of the world through our incautiousness. You have done much for John Bull, my lord, but you have done it chiefly by being tactful with him, and by not ruffling his susceptibilities. After all, man is a strange being: he clings to the prejudices which makes his life a living purgatory; and you must first see John Bull develop a craving to investigate the ‘hidden garden’ before the final reform of man by man can be effected from within.”

“Let us curb our enthusiasm for the sake of John Bull,” buoyantly exclaimed Lionel, “and let us turn back, Danford. It is getting late, and I have to be at the old War Office to meet ex-Field-Marshal Burlow, to discuss with him what is to be done with the old offices.”

“My lord!” and Danford put his hand on Lionel’s shoulder, “an idea has just struck me! You can do a good turn to the American Seer, by giving over to him the War Office for his scientific experiments. What could be more fitted to the science which is devoted to the extension of sympathy, than the dwelling in which was planned the extermination of races?”

257“My dear man, the Seer shall have the old rookery, if I have a voice in the matter, although I fear the shadows of past victims and the remembrance of foregone civilised warfare will lurk at every corner, and interfere with his humanising studies.”

“Quite the contrary,” said Sinclair. “The Seer, if he is what we think, is sure to be stimulated by the ghosts of barbaric civilisations, and his sense of humour will make him chuckle at the irony of fate, which selected him to metamorphose Janus’s eyrie into a temple of love and peace.”

The day came at last when the Bishop of Sunbury was to deliver his address on the future of religion.

St Paul’s had been considered too small to contain the large assemblage of worshippers who were anxious to hear the prelate, and it had therefore been arranged for him to speak to the crowd from the steps of the Cathedral. Churchmen were not the only ones interested in the long-promised message, but the world at large was eager to learn what the ex-dignitary would tell them concerning the great riddle: What makes a Bishop a Bishop?

It was one of these particularly English summer days, towards the middle of July, in which the sun declined to appear in person. But the atmosphere was none the less festive because the sun played truant; and to most Londoners the weather was a symbol of true modesty. Mayfair, Belgravia, Kensington—in fact, every district of the metropolis was represented in the crowd that thronged 259the Cathedral square. Those who preferred to remain at home or were too unwell to attend the meeting, would be kept au courant through the telephones; for it is only fair to say that the School of Accuracy in the Delivery of News had completely metamorphosed the temperaments of citizens, who, since the collapse of newspapers, were genuinely struck by the dramatic power of a plain fact.

The crowd was large, but it did not at any time become rowdy. The charioteers drove up Fleet Street in two lines and placed themselves all round St Paul’s; while the pedestrian strolled leisurely under the wide arcades. The recalcitrants, who were now a very small minority, had prophesied a dismal dénouement to this meeting, and in order to be safely out of danger, had secured their places at an early date, in the dining-halls of the former shops. They reached their seats at an unearthly hour, although the homily was announced for the afternoon; but the recalcitrants remembered what they had suffered at the Diamond Jubilee in getting to their places, and nothing on earth could convince them that it would not be just the same for the Bishop’s address. So, there they were, from five o’clock in the morning, making themselves as comfortable as possible; first ringing for their breakfast, then later on telephoning for luncheon. 260Shortly before the time announced for the address, a party of friends might be seen in one of the large shop windows enjoying their afternoon tea. Seated in front was Mrs Archibald, with Lord Mowbray behind her; these two held closely to one another, and kept up the old traditions of bon ton, for they firmly believed that Society was rushing to its ruin. Eva Sinclair, good-naturedly had given up joining her husband in the crowd, so as to accompany poor Alicia Archibald, who declared that she could never think of seeing the show without one of her set. Next to these two sat Lady Carey, who, although she had assented to all the modern reforms, had drawn the line at such a public réunion as this one. She had begged Gwen to escort her, as she could not bring herself to stay away and follow the development of the meeting through her telephone. Montagu Vane was leaning on the back of her chair, while Gwen and Nettie Collins made themselves useful at the buffet.

On the other side of the churchyard was Mrs Pottinger, with a good many of the American colony. They had absolutely declined Mrs Archibald’s invitation to join her at the windows of the dining-halls, preferring to mix with the crowd under the arcades. Beside her stood her Royal Guide, although she might by this time have 261very well dispensed with his services, but she kept him for Auld Lang Syne, and for all the fun she had formerly derived from the Royal Family; and perhaps also because she thought it would do him good, for she was not an ungrateful woman.

“I see that the American colony has at last emerged from its voluntary seclusion,” said Lionel to Danford, as they drove up and took their position close to the steps.

“Yes, my lord, they retired to learn the art of observation, and have achieved the task they set themselves to. Not only do they now recognise the people they knew, but they have actually acquired the faculty of putting names on to the faces they did not know.”

“I am struck by the attitude of the American women. They move with the same grace and ease as when Doucet and Paquin turned them out into the social market.”

“You are right, my lord, they have made nature herself quite elegant, and are teaching dowdy mother Eve a lesson in deportment.”

“There is a downrightness in their demeanour which always upsets my equanimity,” said Lionel, laughing.

“The American is a mathematical animal, my lord; and could a geometrical figure walk, it would impersonate the tournure of a Yankee.”

“Yes, my lord, and Jack Roller is beside him,” replied Danford. “They are followed by representatives of all churches, who will group themselves round the prelate.”

“The coup d’œil is harmonious,” remarked Lionel; “it puts me in mind of Raphael’s School of Athens. Do you see on the right hand of the Bishop a group of thin, pale men, their arms linked in one another’s? I have no doubt those are Vicars and Curates. And notice on the left that cluster of older men leaning in an attitude of keen attention, shielding their ears with their hands, so as not to lose a syllable of the address.”

“My lord, these are the Canons, Deans and Bishops. But watch that surging crowd on the steps in front of the Bishop. Some, lying down dejectedly, are supporting their hirsute faces with their right hands; others, seated with their knees up to their chins, look stubbornly in front of them. They are the Nonconformists, eager to know what this Church dignitary has to say to them.”

“And what about those urbane men leaning modestly against the doors of the Cathedral?” inquired Lionel.

“Ah! those must be the Romanists, my lord. 263Their attitude is humble though firm; they stand aloof in mute reverence, but will nevertheless be able to hear what the Bishop says, from the place they have chosen. No one knows, not even Jack Roller, what the Church has to say in this matter, and the prelate will have to solve his own problem by himself.”

A sonorous “Hush” stopped all conversations, but at first it was impossible to hear one word, the prelate’s voice being too feeble for the open air.

“Louder, my lord,” spoke the guide in a stage whisper; and the Bishop, coughing several times, began the Lord’s Prayer, which was repeated, sentence after sentence, by all those present. Never had the prayer been more reverently recited than on this day, when thousands of voices rose in a great wave of sound, and thousands of heads bowed humbly to the simplest of divine messages. When the Bishop spoke the last words, the crowd broke into a loud Amen, which was followed by a long silence broken only by the sound of horses’ hoofs pawing the ground.

On a sign from his guide the Bishop, after more preliminary coughing, commenced his address. He displayed a slight nervousness of manner and a decided inarticulateness in delivery; but his audience, bent on hearing what he had to 264say, soon accustomed themselves to his wearisome intonation. The first part of his speech dealt with the duty of the British nation of setting an example of modesty and purity to all other nations. So far, so good, he did not depart from the customary dictates of British pride. He next proceeded to state facts known to everyone; he pointed out, for instance, that public baths were organised in all the parks of London; that the streets’ safety had been assured by what he called “altruistic discipline”; that the people’s food was now as delectable as that partaken of by the higher classes; that the vanishing of newspapers had been the means of raising the public level of morality; in fact, the prelate confessed that true Christianity ruled more forcibly in London, at present, than it had ever done at the epoch in which flourished the Times, and the Church Times.

“Although the old Bishop does not put it in any original way; still, I am glad he recognises the good points of our new Society,” said Lady Carey, turning to Mrs Archibald, who looked listless and disdainful.

“My dear Alicia, you must own that since our general denudation we have all been spared the squalid sights of misery?”

“But misery must exist all the same, whether 265we see it or not,” remarked Vane, who could not lose a prejudice nor learn a lesson.

“Ah! but we do not see it, my dear Montagu, and that is a blessing,” retorted Mowbray.

“Misery unseen is half forgotten. Is not that the adage of true selfishness?” This was Nettie, Gwen’s guide, who had brought a cup of tea to Mrs Archibald.

“Listen,” said Lady Carey, at this moment laying her hand on Mrs Archibald’s shoulder.

“When the storm divested us of all our covering,” the Bishop was saying, “my first instinct was to recall the Gospels, hoping to find there something suitable to the occasion. I discovered nothing that could help me in this crisis; and as it was impossible to prevent our present state, I meditated over what ought to be done for the greater extension of purity and modesty.” The prelate’s voice was clearer and his delivery more distinct. “I, and a few dignitaries of the Church of England, organised a Society for the Propagation of Denudation, otherwise called the S.P.D.; and after seeing the thing well launched in London, we determined to send missionaries to all the countries most in need of our Gospel. I am grieved to say that this first attempt at purifying the world has not been successful, for last week our missionary, as he landed on Calais pier, was 266arrested by the agents des mœurs, and thrust into prison, and had to undergo there the shamefullest of all penalties: the wearing of clothes. Let us for one second imagine his tortured feelings; let us realise for an instant the agony of his wounded sense of modesty, when he gazed at a shirt,” (murmurs) “and at a pair of trousers.” (hisses and groans). “Our missionary, sick at heart, implored of the officials to let him return to England, and, having obtained permission, he took his little yacht back to Dover. I saw him last week and had a very long discussion with him upon the subject of how best to put our plans into execution. But we recognised a difficulty when we contemplated the situation of our missionary, had he landed unmolested at Calais, and reached in safety the capital of merriment and incredulity. How could he have proved the authenticity of his mission, when he had lost his external credentials? In the name of what doctrine was a paradisaical priest to address his clothed confrères? It occurred both to him and to me, that, since our complete divestment, the principles which kept our commonwealth together were more deeply rooted in our altruistic souls; and further, that the number of our dogmas had been reduced to a few tenets, which could be easily lived up to without theological wrangling or ecclesiastic rivalry. The 267missionary gravely declared to me, that we should never be able to attempt any proselytism abroad, before we had thoroughly grasped the first notion of the duties of a peace-maker. We threshed out the subject until late that evening, and spent many more nights trying to disentangle the skeins of conflicting doctrines; but after we had both developed our ideas on the problem of propagandism, the practical solution to the dilemma suggested itself to me last night, by which true religion should be saved from the waters of Lethe.”

A gentle breeze fanned the crowd of anxious listeners. The windows of the dining-halls were filled with human forms eagerly leaning forward.

“Be brave, my Royal Guide, we shall never desert you, although your Church gives you up,” and Mrs Pottinger laid her firm white hand on the arm of His Royal Highness.

The old man raised himself on his toes, and, lifting his eyes, to heaven, uttered these words: “The union of all churches.”

A profound silence followed; and as the true purport of these words became evident to the 268crowd, a loud murmur of approval arose, which convinced the preacher he had struck the keynote of the public feeling. The ice was broken, and feeling himself at one with his congregation, the ex-dignitary proceeded unhesitatingly with his discourse, in language which was always sincere, and at times even waxed eloquent. He revealed to his public his inner thoughts and struggles. Strange to say, at every phrase he destroyed what he had at one time worshipped, and extolled that which he had formerly condemned.

“Three months ago,” went on the prelate, “humanity had very erroneous ideas of politics, economics, morals, and, I fear, also of religion; but now that man has not a rag upon his back, now that monk’s hood, Bishop’s apron, Hebrew canonicals are no more, conflicting dogmas cannot avail to separate man from man. The principle of love forms the basis of all divine teachings, and moral relationships between all creatures are the aim of all those who reverence an ideal of some sort. There is no doubt, my friends, that with the vanishing of clothes has disappeared also religious casuistry. Religion, and by that I mean love and charity, is as easy to practise in our large cities as it was in the small community of Galilee. The first thing which we must well understand is that religion must never be gloomy, 269nor ascetic, but, on the contrary, must shed a radiance over mankind; for practical religion consists in the perfect development of all our faculties, and in the enjoyment of that which is beautiful. Happiness is the true aim of religion, and it cannot be obtained by means of that religious depression which annihilates human efforts towards social reforms. Only by working hand in hand with science, and by strictly following her researches and approving of her discoveries, can that summum bonum be achieved.”

“The old fellow is unconsciously paving the way towards the goal; and I think the Seer’s invention will not raise the clergy’s wrath,” said Lionel to his little buffoon.

“My lord, there is no saying what a Bishop will do when he has lost his gaiters,” replied Danford.

“My dear friends”—the Bishop’s tone rose higher—“I am speaking as a man, not as the head of a Bishopric (I do not quite see how I could do the latter, since it is impossible nowadays to know a Canon from a Bishop, a Cardinal from a Rabbi), well my friends, I come as a man to tell you that we must accept the position, and give up attempting to unite the substance with the shadow. Let us start once more fairly on the road to enlightened 270happiness, and let us lead the theological reform, next to which the great Reformation was but child’s play. For centuries we have wrangled over the simplest doctrine: ‘Love thy neighbour.’ We all taught its lesson according to our lights, but, strange to say, bitter animosity continued to rule the world. It is only since our complete divestment that we realised that we looked first to the label, and rarely ever to the fundamental teaching. But, my friends, before we can in any way reform the morals of foreign countries, we must tighten the bonds which link men together, and carry into effect the great plan of religious unity. It is the only logical basis on which to establish true religion, and unless we strike the iron while it is hot we shall see morality disappearing under a heap of argumentation. Do not take me for a visionary constructing theoretical reforms which cannot be put into practice. I want you to know that I have looked at this problem from a practical point of view. You know as well as I do that, although every country had its turn in reforming the world, somehow the old injustice and the spirit of vindictiveness had a trick of creeping up again. But now that the hour has struck for England to do something in the world’s tournament, let us no longer procrastinate but do the right thing at the right 271moment. Much will be expected of the British race, for it is inclined to find fault with every other nation. The danger is at hand, and no one can accomplish this reform like us, nor can any other Church but ours effect this reconciliation. I therefore trust you will all help me in the work of joining hands.”

“Yes, the Bishop’s firm will get the job of repapering and whitewashing the old barn.” And Dan chuckled as he turned towards Lord Somerville.

“My lord, you do not know your own countrymen. It is only when a great reform evokes a trivial image in John Bull’s sleepy mind that an Utopian ideal has any power to move him. You see, John Bull is of a homely disposition, and he is very fond of telling you that the surface of our planet and the relations between nations have greatly altered since a man one day watched a kettle simmering. The Bishop knows his own flock well enough, and he leads them with a gentle hand.”

“England has behaved well throughout this crisis, my friends, it has shown self-control and good-humour in making the best of a very uncomfortable 272position; and I have no hesitation in declaring before you all, that it is owing to our being essentially a moral nation that God chose us to evangelise other races less felicitous. Let us never forget that we are a practical nation, incapable of being led away from the path of wisdom by moonstruck Utopians; and let us always bear in mind that the Anglo-Saxon is always ready to take his share in a case of rescue, when the means of effecting it lie in conforming to the country’s code of honour.”

“There he is again at his old game of British pride,” and Lionel shrugged his shoulders as he tightened his horse’s reins and moved on.

“Ah! my lord, be more lenient with him; the man means well, and that is all we want for the present. Naturally he sticks to a few obsolete prejudices, but never mind that, for he has risen to the greatest heights in being for once sincere.”

“Well, Mr Vane?” inquired Mrs Archibald, as she turned her face towards the dismayed countenance of the dilettante, “what do you think of the Bishop’s address?”

“Our ranks are thinning, dear Mrs Archibald; the more reason for us to draw close to one another and to struggle against the rising waves 273of vulgarity.” The little fetish of Society put his hand to his eyes—what was it? A pang at his heart or a sudden faintness? No one knew, for he soon recovered his self-control and was as flippant as ever.

“How isolated we are in this wide, wide world,” said Mrs Archibald to Lord Mowbray, a few days after the meeting in St Paul’s. They had rambled beyond Putney Bridge on a warm afternoon, and having reached Barnes Commons had seated themselves upon the soft grass. These two recalcitrants mourned pitifully over their present state and uncongenial surroundings, and, as they sat, related to each other in short, spasmodic sentences their grievous historiette of woe. Anecdote after anecdote escaped their lips, which recalled a past glory, a social Paradise for ever lost to them. Mrs Archibald described to her companion the scene in Lord Somerville’s library, when Temple had spoken what she had at the time considered such shameful words. However, she was beginning to have some dim understanding of what Sinclair had meant when he said that a blush at the right moment was a good thing; and she and Lord Mowbray felt somewhat uncomfortable 275as they realised the anomaly of recalling a clothed Society in their state of nature. For the first time in their artificial lives did their two hearts throb and long for something they had never known, and as they talked bitter tears trickled down their pale cheeks. When they had nearly finished their task of disentangling the skein of their complex past lives, they came to a full stop; and behind the mass of frivolity and petty sorrowings evoked by their anxious brain, they remarked in a corner, a dying Cupid, panting for life, whom they decided to revive. But here we must stop, for it does not do always to analyse the motives of human beings; suffice it to say that in their frenzied revolt against the uncongeniality of their surroundings, they fell into each other’s arms. Often a puerile cause has been the means of working out a momentous effect. But a remarkable thing occurred to these two recalcitrants, as they stood heart to heart, lip to lip: one by one their prejudices disappeared, the shallowness of their social past dawned upon them, and they now saw the meaning of their present condition.

They returned to London, to the great world, as man and wife, and completely cured of their feverish delusion.

276But where was he? Where, the little dilettante who had for years carefully ministered to Society’s artistic needs? He had fed the grand monde with small buns of his own making, and his flatterers and parasites had turned away from him in disgust, begging for some other bun of a better kneading.

Towards the end of July, Lord Somerville and his faithful buffoon were walking in Half Moon Street when Lionel suddenly suggested that they should look up Montagu Vane.

“As you like, my lord,” replied Danford; “I have not caught sight of the little figure for many days.”

They came to the dilettante’s house, where, as in every house in England, the front door stood open. (Vane had not been able to resist public opinion, and for the sake of his own reputation as a fashionable man, he had given way to this custom.) The two men entered the hall, and as they began to ascend the staircase they had the impression of penetrating into the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty. They went up the narrow stairs, very soon found themselves in the large drawing-rooms, and looked round at the frescoed walls representing mythological subjects.

“This place of fashionable gatherings looks more abandoned than the deserts of Arabia,” 277said Lionel, “this was the last haunt of the social élite; and there is about these rooms a stale aroma of vieille Société, which makes me feel faint.”

They seated themselves upon chairs carved in the shape of shells; other seats and fauteuils represented flowers and fruits, in imitation of Dresden china. Poor Vane, he had done his level best to keep up his standard of rococo art.

“I was told that very few came to his parties of late—was that so?” inquired Danford.

“Ah! my dear Dan, I have seen him waste his energy and such gifts as he had to entertain half-a-dozen men and women, so as to keep up his ephemeral influence over what he still persisted in calling—his salon. Some, like Mrs Archibald—ah! I always forget she is Lady Mowbray now—came with her present husband; Lady Carey accompanied them, simply for the sake of past associations, or out of pity. One evening—ah! I can never forget that evening, why! it was only last week—Sinclair and I arrived at ten o’clock, and found Vane all alone, in that very shell-seat you are in. He was waiting for his guests. I can see him in my mind’s eye, lying back, his eyes shut. The rooms were discreetly lighted up; the tables, or monopodiums, as he insisted on calling them, were laden with luscious fruit, whilst 278muffled melody of an invisible orchestra, playing antiquated gavottes and minuettos, was heard in the distance. Latterly these were the only strains he approved of. When he caught sight of us in the doorway, he got up and came forward, seizing hold of our hands. ‘Oh! my dear friends,’ said he, ‘you are welcome! You will help me to-night.’ I noticed a thrill of sadness in his voice, and I detected a tear in the corner of his eye. ‘What’s up?’ asked Sinclair. ‘My dear friends,’ he replied, ‘you will never guess. The Prince of Goldstein-Neubaum, my social guide, has dropped me!’ Poor Vane went on telling us that the Prince had telephoned to him an hour ago, announcing that he could no longer continue to be his guide. ‘And what do you think?’ went on the little dilettante, ‘he said he was going to join the School of Observation! Too dreadful, my poor friends. When the leaders of Society give up the game, what is there left? Of course you, who represent our Peerage, are utterly lost, so are the men who, like you, Sinclair, directed the public’s taste; but there still remained Royalty, and I always hoped they would ultimately bring you all back to a saner way of regarding life.’ ‘And you are all alone?’ said Sinclair to him. ‘Well, we shall help you. Do you expect many to-night?’ as he looked round at the great display 279of flowers and refreshments. ‘To tell you the truth,’ and Vane spoke in subdued tones, ‘I thought it was time to bring matters to a crisis, and I telephoned all over London to remind my friends that this evening would be my last At Home, as the season would soon break up.’ My dear Dan, it was pitiful to watch the poor little man’s sadness, and I have never been so sorry for him as I was on that memorable evening.”

“My dear fellow, not one single soul came that night. When twelve o’clock struck, Vane’s face became the colour of a corpse. The ticking of the pendulum, as it swung remorselessly backwards and forwards, seemed to furrow deep wrinkles in the wan face of our desolate friend. We were witnessing the final agony of a marionette which Society had held up by strings; until one day it grew weary of its plaything, and dropped the toy upon the ground. He sat there, his little curly head drooping on his breast, like a withered flower on its stem; whilst the invisible orchestra played Boccherini’s minuetto. The atmosphere of that past haunt of Society was redolent of exotic perfumes which made us giddy. Towards three o’clock in the morning we left him without disturbing 280his reflections, and we have never seen him since; it is only a week ago.”

“Shall we go, my lord? Time is short, and this is no place for men like you.”

“Let us run upstairs, Dan. I reproach myself for not having come to inquire after him before.”

Lionel led the way upstairs, followed by the somewhat reluctant Danford. They pushed open the door leading into the dilettante’s bedroom, but at first, could not see anything, for the shutters were closed. The overpowering stillness caused the two men to pause on the threshold, and to hold their breath. After a few seconds they heard the regular tick-tack of an old empire timepiece, and gradually their eyes perceived in the dark the glittering brass ornaments of the furniture. Danford the practical saw no fun in remaining thus in total obscurity, and he groped his way towards the large bay window. He turned the latch, pushed the shutters aside, and let in a flow of sunshine which revealed the mahogany bedstead on which lay the small body of Montagu Vane.

“There he is,” murmured the two men. They walked on tip-toe close to the bed and gazed upon 281the little dilettante, stretched out on his pallet sleeping his last sleep.

“He is quite cold,” whispered Lionel, laying his hand on the motionless heart.

“But not yet stiff, my lord,” added Dan, whose keen eye detected the suppleness of the limbs, which could not have been cold for more than a few hours. The wrinkles had been smoothed down, and the petty, frivolous expression of the small face had been replaced by the placid aspect of a wax doll.

“Do you think there was any struggle, my dear Dick?” Lionel looked at his guide with anguish.

“No, my lord; there seems to have been no wrench, no painful parting from life. What you witnessed, that evening when the world abandoned him, must have been the only agony he ever knew.”

“My dear Lord Somerville, what is much worse still, no one loved him. The inadequacy of this little man to his environment made his existence pitiful.”

They looked round the room. The doors, window frames and shutters were all of mahogany. The bed, in the shape of a gondola, also of mahogany, was supported by two gilded swans’ 282heads, and garlands in gilt ornamented the sides of the bed. In one corner of the room was a mahogany pedestal on which stood a silver candelabra; in another corner, a small chiffonier was placed; and on the dressing-table stood a silver bowl containing a bouquet of faded roses.

“What a strange idea of his,” Lionel whispered; “this is quite a woman’s bedroom, and a copy of Madame Récamier’s room in Paris.” Tears gathered in his eyes. “And this is all he could invent to surround himself with; but I daresay it all went together with his taste for the old minuetto.”

“Let us be off, my lord. His silly little tale is told, and this atmosphere is unhealthy.”

“We shall have to give notice at the Crematorium,” said Lionel, when they were once more in the balmy air and sunshine.

It was pleasant to breathe again the fragrance of trees and flowers. Piccadilly seemed full of life and happiness after that scene in the death chamber. It was altogether so artificial that Lionel could feel no sorrow for the loss of his little 283friend, and by the time they had reached Park Lane he had almost banished from his memory the mahogany room and the little corpse lying there.

“I should not, my lord. Why should you mention the death of what you are not quite sure ever existed? The little dilettante was an optical delusion of Society’s over-heated brain. When the brain fever was cured, the delusion went; and no one now could remember the existence of the little mannikin.”

“You need not, my lord. Step by step you have led that worthy John Bull through the labyrinths of Utopia, and all the way he has marvelled at the easy roads. Dear old, ingenuous John Bull patted your back, expressing his joy at being in the company of a sane mind who knew that two and two made four.”

“Ah! but I quake, Dan, when I think he will soon find out that very often two and two make five. What will John Bull do to me when he sees that I have played a trick upon him?”

“The last lesson will be easier to teach than 284were the first ones, my lord. There is something in the character of John Bull which facilitates the work of reform; whilst you are instructing him, he labours under the delusion that it is he who is teaching you a lesson. Look at all that we have already achieved: hygiene has reformed the race, physical pain has well-nigh disappeared; and next week we are to be in possession of the greatest invention of all, by means of which we shall be able to read the inner souls of our fellow-creatures. On that day we shall say Eureka. Think of it, my lord, realise the grandeur of that invention! The object and subject will be one, appearance and reality will be seen in their whole; in one word, mind and matter will be united.”

“My dear Dan, I know that no happiness can ever be lasting until one soul can penetrate another. But how ever will the Britisher take this invention? You know his susceptibilities, his deep love for self-isolation, how he hates to wear his heart on his sleeve, and his horror of letting any of his fellow-creatures guess his inner emotion. I cannot help being anxious.”

“Do not be faint-hearted, my lord. John Bull will receive your last message with the greatest composure. He will work out his own salvation, with the firm belief that he is only carrying out his own plans on a logical basis.”

285“Here we are at Hertford Street, Dick; I am going to see Sir Richard. You might go to the Crematorium.”

“By Jove, my lord! I had quite forgotten the poor little body!” ejaculated Danford, and the two men parted.

“Are you there?” inquired Victor de Laumel of Lionel through the telephone, a few days before the opening of the palace.

“Yes; we are all very much amused over here, and wonder if you are really in earnest about your Palace of Happiness?”

“Nothing more serious, my dear boy. It will be the crowning of all our social reforms.”

“Bah, mon cher! you have lost all your sense of humour! When I think of our diners fins, and our pleasant chats together, I cannot understand your making such fools of yourselves—especially over a mere trifle.”

“Trifle, my dear Victor! This is the most important event in our history, and the results to which this trifle will lead are colossal. But you will one day perhaps be induced to imitate us.”

“Nonsense, my dear man; we are too eclectic to return to paradisaical fashions. Rabelais, with his boisterous jovialty, and sound doctrine of good health united to good spirits, is more to the taste 287of a race which to this day, in some provinces, speaks his sixteenth-century vernacular, and inherits his practical views of life.”

“Ah! but we have read Carlyle, my dear Victor, and seen through the hollowness of our former social fabric.”

“Mon cher ami, had you carefully read Montaigne, you would know that the great essayist had hurled a stone at the tawdriness of our clothes-screens long before the Recluse of Cheyne Walk. But I forget that you take this kind of thing to heart! You are a moral race—oh! a very moral one—whatever you may do.”

“I think, dear Victor, you will be impressed with our national reforms when you are thoroughly acquainted with them.”

“Well, well, what is the upshot of all this? I can quite realise the scientific import of the Seer’s discovery; though, for my own part, I should very much object to seeing the inner soul of a Loubet or the secret motives of a Combes. But I can imagine that in business dealings, or in matrimonial transactions, it might be of great advantage to be able to investigate the motives of financiers or of mothers-in-law. Still, I want to know what part you, the English aristocracy, are playing in this burlesque?”

“We are the leaders in this great bloodless 288revolution; and we have, owing to our self-abnegation, saved the masses, and rebuilt our social edifice on a stronger basis than before.”

“My poor Lionel, that’s been done long ago! Our revolution of 1789 was nothing but a noble renunciation of all prerogatives and privileges on the part of our noblesse; still, the outrages of 1793 very soon showed how futile were the attempts at reform—from within.”

“Different countries have different customs, dear Victor, and you must never judge our self-controlled commonwealth from the standpoint of your bloodthirsty democracy. It is not so much that our aristocracy is unlike yours, but that your lower classes are utterly different from our own.”

“Anyhow, dear Lionel, I have made up my mind to go over and see things for myself.”

“Ah, that’s a good fellow! Come along, and we will do all that lies in our power to make you happy. You won’t be bored, I declare; and your visit over here will at all events furnish you with some topics of conversation on your return to Paris.”

And Victor de Laumel arrived next day in the afternoon, after a lovely crossing in his yacht (for the Calais-Dover had ceased running, and he was the first foreigner who had landed in England since the storm). He stood on the Charing Cross 289platform as God made him; it having occurred to him that the Londoners might be offended at his Parisian outfit and at his disregarding the new fashion of denudation. On the day following his arrival, his first visit was to Montagu Vane; but on his arrival at his house, he found to his great surprise that it had been pulled down. He inquired after the little dilettante from several of his friends, on his way to Selby House, but quite in vain, for no one could tell him anything; and he thought that London Society had certainly not improved, if it could forget the existence of its arbiter in all matters of art. He did not, however, ponder long over such questions; he had come over to judge impartially the London reforms, and he was not going to allow his prejudices to influence him; so he made the most of his short stay in the capital, seeing everything, escorted either by Lionel or by Sinclair, who, by the way, seemed to him to have become dreadfully dull. His rambles with Danford rather amused him, although he saw no novelty in the admission to fashionable households of these little truth-tellers, for this had been done before in mediæval times; but what baffled him was the good-fellowship with which the Upper Ten appeared to treat these little buffoons. He dined at the dining-halls, attended meetings at the ex-clubs in Pall Mall, 290went to tournaments, plays, even drove in a chariot with Tom Hornsby, and above all admired Gwendolen beyond expression. But, after he had done these things and thrown himself body and soul in the spirit of the new civilisation, he came to the conclusion that it was all very well for a race which took things au serieux, but that it would never do for Parisians; and he could not for one instant believe that on the borders of the Seine political rancour could ever be uprooted and replaced by love and charity, because one man had seen another in nature’s garb.

“Ah! quelle plaisanterie, mon cher!” Victor would ejaculate, when his friend highly extolled the beauties of their Paradise Regained.

“But how on earth,” exclaimed Lionel, one day, as he and Victor walked along Bond Street together, “are you able to recognise everyone as you do? It took Society a very long time before it could distinguish a Duke from a hall porter!”

“Que vous êtes drôle, mon pauvre ami! I never found any difficulty! You see, we French people are not lacking in perspicacity, and although we excel in all matters of elegance, and attach perhaps more importance to our appearance than your nation ever did, yet we never lose sight of the person’s individuality hidden beneath the woven tissues.”

291“As you will not take me to see your wonderful palace,” said Victor to Lionel the day before the opening, “you might at least tell me where it is.”

“We chose Regent’s Park as a suitable place, and built in the centre of it a monumental edifice, not unlike our old Crystal Palace, though twice as large, and covered with a glass dome. Round the top of the hall runs a gallery out of which doors open into rooms of about twenty feet square. In these private laboratories scientific experiments can be developed by anyone who brings an invention to the Committee of Public Reforms.”

“What anarchy, my dear Lionel; I cannot imagine how such a plan would work at our Sorbonne!”

“Ah! but you are an academical country!” replied Lord Somerville. “You would be astonished at the number of young scientists who are coming to the fore. Ever since education ceased to be compulsory, personal initiative has become more frequent amongst men of the younger generation who are eager to play a useful part on our world stage. After the scientific discovery has been thoroughly tested in a private laboratory, and its results declared to be satisfactory by the inventor, it is publicly tried in the central hall before all who 292can comfortably assemble there, and repeated each day, until all Londoners, together with representatives of every town in England, have judged whether or no the discovery is like to add happiness to humanity.”

“I suppose it was you who chose the name by which the palace is called?” inquired Victor.

“I suggested it, but there was a long discussion about that. The clergy, desirous to immortalise their union with other churches, were anxious to call it the Palace of Scientific Religion; the bigwigs of the old War Office, who have become more pacific than the Little Englanders of our past civilisation, insisted that the place should be named the Palace of Bloodless Victories.”

“My dear man, I did not bring them round at all; they gradually came round of their own accord, when they realised that happiness was our aim, and that all our efforts were but means to that end.”

“Never has man been so thoroughly disciplined, my dear Victor, or so free to develop his faculties to the utmost, as since he voluntarily gave up the attempt to dominate his fellows.”

293“All the positivists, past and present, have preached that felonious doctrine,” said Victor, shrugging his shoulders. “Even your great Herbert Spencer—who was what one may call a pessimistic reformer—owned that before man could realise a perfect state of freedom, he would have to master the passions which give a bias to all his actions, and render him powerless to create a social Utopia. May this blissful state of things continue, and may the Seer find your hearts as pure as newborn babes when he turns his searchlight on to you.”

“There is no fear of that, dear Victor; London has been going through mental gymnastics for a few weeks, and you could not find one creature that did not harbour the purest intentions. Even that uninteresting couple, the Mowbrays, have not in their whole composition a grain of malice, although they started late in their career of reform.”

The Palace of Happiness opened next day, on what Londoners were formerly wont to call Goodwood Day. Thousands and thousands marching in perfect order entered the hall, and seated themselves on the benches which had been erected one above the other and reached right up to the gallery. At one end of the hall, on a marble platform raised three feet from the ground, Lionel 294and Gwen, Sinclair and Eva, with many others who formed part of the committee, were reclining on couches. Victor de Laumel sat discreetly behind the Somervilles, for they had hinted to their Parisian friend that his presence might attract the attention of the public and put it out of humour against the whole performance. Lionel kept saying that until this ceremony was over they were not out of the wood, and could not say positively that John Bull had been won over.

Notwithstanding the size and height of the hall, the scent of flowers was intoxicating, as masses of cut roses, jasmine and carnations were strewed over the platform and the seats, whilst huge garlands of tropical flowers hung in festoons along the upper gallery.

At the other end of the edifice, opposite the platform, an enormous arch had been constructed as an entrance to the hall, through which the crowd could watch the slow progress of the procession in the distance, as it came up the broad avenue bordered with exotic plants. From where they were seated in the hall, it was difficult to distinguish the exact details of that triumphal procession, but they could discern in the sunshine a dazzling object carried in state by several male figures. This was the casket, or, as it was more appropriately called, the Reliquary, which contained 295the instrument designed by the Seer to bring universal happiness. The bearers of this heavy burden were numerous, for the Reliquary was large and weighty, and strong muscles were needed to lift up and down this solid mass of gold. Not only had the great of the land volunteered to fulfil the humble duties of bearers in this unparalleled pageant, but men who held exalted positions at Court had of one accord given up their coronets and decorations, their military orders and medals, in order that these might be melted down and recast into this magnificent casket. Likewise had Royal Princesses, and the flower of feminine aristocracy, unhesitatingly handed over to the Seer all their tiaras, necklaces and costly jewels, to ornament the outside of this precious receptacle. It was an impressive sight, and one which no living man could compare with any past pageant in history, to see these men, who three months ago had firmly believed in the power of wealth and position, standing now shoulder to shoulder divested of their worldly masks and leading the way to the happy goal. Perhaps also their hearts throbbed with pride as they thought of the private ceremony which was to follow this public function: a special train was to carry the Reliquary and the bearers to Dover, where, from the pier, they 296would hurl the symbol of all past vanities into the Channel. They thirsted for this last act of self-abnegation, and moreover they felt that it would be a salutary hint to the nation over the way.

The clock struck twelve, and as the last stroke vibrated through the clear atmosphere, the head of the procession passed through the porch.

Mrs David Pottinger, holding the hand of the American Seer, entered first; behind her came the twenty bearers carrying the Reliquary. The public stared in amazement at its size—twelve feet long and eight feet wide—and they were dazzled by the beauty of the mass of solid gold all inlaid with precious stones. As the bearers slowly advanced into the middle of the hall, the whole assembly rose, and many were moved to tears as they read on the top of the casket the magic word, Happiness, spelt in diamonds, rubies and sapphires. Not one word, not one clap of hands were heard to disturb the sanctity of the ceremony. Immediately behind the Reliquary came the American colony, walking three abreast. They were all there, proud of their kinsman, to whom the world in future would owe an eternal debt of gratitude, and they were honoured at being allowed to be of use to dear old England, whose hospitality they so thoroughly appreciated. Behind these marched the Music Hall Artists, men 297and women; and at their approach a thrill ran through the audience. They fluttered with wild excitement at the sight of these dapper men and spruce little women, who seemed to bring with them an element of good-natured fun, and to whom England owed, in a sense, its salvation. What the audience felt was similar to that which they formerly experienced in the days when the Horse Guards used to appear on the scene, to announce the approach of a Royal carriage. Still, no words rose to their lips; their gratitude for these wise jesters was too deeply rooted in their hearts to find expression in vulgar applause. Their eyes lingered in rapture on the ranks of the satirists whose action had, at a critical moment, pulled Society together, and taught its members how to observe and how to remember.

From these the audience looked up at the twenty bearers, and marvelled at their transformation, recognising in one a Royal Highness, in others a Prime Minister, a Field-Marshal, an Archbishop, a South African millionaire and various Members of Parliament.

Mrs Pottinger and the Seer were within a few steps of the platform, when the procession suddenly came to a standstill; the members of the committee, rising from their seats, came forward and bowed to the couple, whilst Gwendolen 298and her friends remained behind with their guest from the other side of the Channel, to whom they were anxious to show the utmost courtesy. The twenty bearers carefully lifted the heavy burden from their shoulders, and deposited on the ground, the Reliquary which rested on ten sphinxes’ heads carved in solid gold. The twenty representatives of a vanished civilisation showed no signs of lassitude after their long pilgrimage, but stood upright, facing the committee with the tranquil expression which heroes bear on their faces when they have accomplished their duty.

The bells began to peal in honour of the new era just dawning on the world, and the men and women gathered in thousands in the hall, gazed in silent admiration at the beauty of the Reliquary enveloped in the burning rays of sunshine. They remembered what that word spelt in precious stones had meant to each of them. They called up in their mind’s eye the pageants of the last few years, with all the morbid excitement and savage rowdiness which accompanied such shows; and they blushed at what they were brought up to regard as happiness, which was in reality merely a fierce love of enjoyment and a wrong notion of national honour. The topsy-turvyism of past London was so revolting and so incongruous with their present mode of life, that to many who were 299present, Hogarth’s print of Gin Lane came before their eyes, as a symbol of an intoxicated world in which even the houses reeled on the top of each other in a universal culbute.

Suddenly the bells stopped, and Mrs Pottinger and the Seer, having bowed to the committee, turned round and walked back to the Reliquary. There was a slight nervousness about the inventor’s movements, and his hand shook visibly as he held it above the casket. Gradually he lowered it until the precious stones came in contact with the palm of his hand; and when his sinewy fingers grasped the golden latch, which he lifted with a sharp snap, the noise sounded, in the intense silence, like a gun fired in the distance. To Lionel’s memory it brought back the first exodus of Londoners three months ago.

At that moment, as if compelled by some higher power, the assembly broke into a shout of joy, which was echoed by the thousands who were gathered outside the hall; and a few seconds afterwards they gave expression to their pent-up emotion by shouting the word which was inscribed on the Reliquary.

“Happiness! Happiness!” they unceasingly vociferated, whilst the Seer slowly opened the lid encrusted all over with diamonds.

300The bells began to peal once more, and the sun flooded the hall through every aperture. The Seer brought out of the Reliquary a small instrument in the shape of a revolving wheel, which he held at arm’s length above his head. At that instant the shouting was so deafening that the Seer had to exercise all his self-control not to break down under the emotion which mastered him.

The rays of the sun streaming into the hall were so dazzling, that every detail was blurred; the glass dome seemed to lift itself away in the azure, and the walls to crumble down, as the last barrier which had separated man from man was annihilated.

An unfettered world wrapped in a golden vapour stood under the blue sky, shouting for ever and ever, “Happiness! Happiness! Happiness!”

“Nothing very serious, Lord Somerville,” cheerily replied Sir Edward Bartley. “You are all right now; but you must not excite yourself. Now, now, don’t look round in that way.” And the eminent surgeon laid his soft hand on his patient’s wrist.

“This is strange, Sir Edward. Have the carpets and curtains come back?” and two tears trickled down Lionel’s emaciated cheeks.

“Sh, sh! that’s all right.” Sir Edward turned to the valet, who stood close by. “Temple, you must put some more ice on your master’s head. That same idea is haunting him; and we shall have him delirious again if we don’t look out.”

“No, Sir Edward,” murmured Gwendolen Towerbridge, seated at the foot of the bed. “Lord Somerville is all right, leave him to me, and you will find him perfectly well when you return this afternoon.” The eminent surgeon took Gwen’s hand in his own and looked intently into her face.

302“My dear young lady, you have already saved his life; for no trained nurse could have shown more skill, more tact, than you have done throughout this alarming case. It is a perfect mystery to me how a fashionable and spirited young girl like you could, in one day, become such a clever nurse and a devoted woman.”

“Ah! that is my secret, Sir Edward.” Gwen looked down blushingly. “But some day I may tell it you, if he allows me.”

“Well, well,” and he gently patted her hand, “I leave the patient in your hands; if you can bring him round to a saner view of his surroundings, you will have done a great deal; for he is quite unhinged, and I am not sure that his brain is not affected.”

“Oh dear, no! my dear Sir Edward, Lord Somerville is quite sane; who knows, perhaps even saner than you or I.”

“Poor, dear lady, I am afraid the strain has been too much for you, and we shall have you laid up if you persist in not taking a rest.” And Sir Edward silently left the room, followed by Temple.

“My precious Lion, you have at last come back to me!” exclaimed Gwen, as she threw herself on her knees and kissed Lionel’s hand.

“Ah! I knew it was all true,” wearily said Lord 303Somerville, “for you call me as she did—Lion. But tell me, dearest, when did all these clothes and curtains come back?”

“My poor darling, these clothes, these carpets never disappeared. It has been a long dream—a long and beautiful dream.”

“And all is as it was before that storm? But you, Gwen, you are not the same, you are the Una of my dream; I see it in your radiant expression. Tell me, dearest, how did it happen? Did I really shoot myself?”

“Yes, dear—but to go back to that night. As you remember, the storm was of such a nature as to prevent our reaching Richmond Park, and we turned back to town as fast as ever we could to Hertford Street. At about two o’clock in the morning father was roused by his valet, who told him that Temple had come to say he had found you in the library, shot through the head.”

“And you—?” Poor Gwen evaded the searching look of her lover by burying her face in the counterpane.

“My father never told me what had happened until next day.” She looked up at Lionel. “Do 304not ask me if I felt for you; I do not know, and I do not wish to remember. I only know that two days after, as I rode back through the Park, I looked in to inquire how you were. I came into this room, and found the surgeon, who told me your nurse had to leave, for she had been suddenly taken ill; and I sat down by your bed, just as I was in my riding-habit, to watch you until another nurse had been found.”

“Poor Gwen, it was a horrid ordeal, for you always hated sickness and loathed nursing.”

“Yes, and I was so mad at the surgeon suggesting that I should watch you, that I lashed your dog with my whip as he came running into the room. He set up a most awful howl which you never heard, fortunately. I sat down, and you began to wander. At first it seemed but the ravings of a madman and I did not pay much attention; but by the evening, I was amused at your suggestions, and told the upper housemaid to go and fetch my maid with my things. I had made up my mind to stay.”

“No, Lionel, I don’t want you to have a wrong impression of me, it was not at all to nurse you, it was in the hopes that you would renew that fascinating dream. You were most entertaining 305that night, and I laughed outright at the funny things you said.”

“I daresay it was as amusing as the play you would have gone to that night,” laughingly remarked Lionel.

“Oh! my dear Lionel, I was so very tired of my social entertainments; and the whole show had lost a good deal of its glamour, for it was my third season.”

“So you thought my dream was more diverting, and therefore decided to remain in the seat for which you had not paid.”

“Yes, that’s it; I must confess the truth, for we must never deceive each other again.”

“Poor little Gwen, how you must have hated me, for I am ashamed to say, some of my remarks were anything but flattering.”

“No, Lionel; but you taught me how to know you, and I learned how to know myself. I have sat night after night in this chair, listening to your dream, watching every phase of your regenerated London. I shared in all your reforms, and at times you even answered my questions. I could start your weird dream at any time, and at a suggestion of mine you would take up the thread of your narrative just where you had left it the night before.”

“It must have been like a sensational feuilleton 306which you expected each day to thrill you anew. But how worn out you must be, sweetheart. How long have I been in this condition?” inquired Lionel.

“Two months, dearest; but instead of wearing me out this hallucination kept me alive and put new blood into my veins. I can quite well see that Sir Edward believes I am on the verge of a mental collapse. Poor man, he does not see what we see and cannot feel as we do; he is still hopelessly ignorant.”

“It was miraculous, and the surgeons said they only knew of one other case in which a man who had been shot right through the head recovered consciousness after two months.”

“I daresay everyone will say my brain is affected whenever I say or do anything out of the common.”

“Never mind, Lionel, you and I have seen into each other’s heart, and that is sufficient to outweigh the loss of the world’s approbation. You see, we cannot look to a storm to wash away all our world’s shams; so we shall have to pass for eccentric or unorthodox, if we mean to live in a world of our own.”

“But then, dear Gwen, you remember that 307Danford said we should be followed in our social reforms by all the cads that surround us.”

“Yes, I daresay, but it will be a long time before that happens, and I have done my little work of reform personally, by dismissing my maid, and by sending all my wardrobe to poor gentlewomen. This old shabby dress is the only one I have worn for two months. Ah! Lionel, I am ashamed at appearing before you in such an indecent thing as a dress—but you know, we cannot reform the world too abruptly, and besides I was afraid Sir Edward might give me in charge!” and they both laughed heartily. It did him good to recall the old jokes, and his face brightened as he watched Gwen pirouetting round the room.

There was a gentle knock at the door, and Temple came in with Gwendolen’s luncheon, which he placed on the table. He handed to her on a silver tray a bundle of letters and cards.

“Oh! I must ask the old fellow if he is accustomed to sitting next to his butcher on the Board of Public Kitchens! Who next, Gwen?”

308“Gwen, I misjudged the old draper. There is a deal of good behind his insular self-consciousness.”

“Beg pardon, Miss,” broke in the conscientious valet, “Mr Vane never came himself, he sent round a messenger boy.”

“Oh! how good, just like him,” said Lionel; “he is a dilettante even in sympathy, and prefers to get his information indirectly.”

“What can they want?” interrupted the patient. “These letters are of no earthly use; the first wants my subscription for some charity fraud, the second needs my name for some social parade. Throw them in the waste-paper basket.”

“Mrs Pottinger also sent her card,” went on Gwen, as she dropped the cards and letters one by one on the table.

“Excuse me, Miss,” again said Temple, “I forgot to say that Mrs Pottinger came to inquire everyday; and yesterday she left a small parcel which I put on the hall table.”

“Let us see what she says on her card,” and Gwen read the following words: “‘Mrs Pottinger 309hopes that Lord Somerville will accept and use the small pocket battery which accompanies this card. One of the most renowned New York surgeons has invented this wonderful brain restorer, and Mrs P. trusts Lord Somerville will give the discovery a fair trial, and that he will patronise the inventor and the invention.’”

“My first and only call will be on Mrs David Pottinger!” exclaimed Lionel, sitting up in his bed. “We shall see her yet presiding at the Palace of Happiness, and leading by the hand the American Seer.”

“Is my lord worse, Miss?” gravely inquired the valet, as he leaned towards Gwen.

“No, Temple, your master has never been in better spirits, nor has he ever been so clear in his mind. But it is—what can I call it?—a joke between us, and no one besides ourselves can understand it.”

“My good Temple,” echoed Lionel, with a joyous ring in his voice, “it is a conundrum which we are trying to guess. We have already made out the first part of the riddle, but the second will be more difficult, for it will consist in making you see the joke, Temple.”

“Ev’n News! Probable date of th’ Coronation!” 310The hurried footsteps passed in front of Selby House.

“My poor boy, of course you do not know the news! Many things have happened since that night when you shot yourself. The war is over—thank goodness that is a thing of the past! But the royal tragedy-comedy was never acted. You shall read for yourself.” And Gwen went to fetch a bundle of newspapers and illustrated journals that lay on a console.

“’Ooligan murderer sentenced!” Again the hurried steps passed in the street.

“The strangest of events brought the curtain down on our social pantomime. Quite as strange as the storm of London. If only it brought England to its senses I would not lament over the disappointment of the public.”

“This is all very strange, dearest Gwen, but still no stranger than my visions; and if it is true that ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made of,’ we can yet hope that our Society will save itself in time.”

“Hullo! already reading, my dear Lord Somerville! You are a wonderful patient, and we shall see you in the Row before long.” Taking Lionel’s hand he felt his pulse. “That’s right, you are better, and you will soon resume your duties at Court. The King was inquiring after you the other day.”

“Very kind of him, I am sure, Sir Edward. I am sorry to disappoint you, but as soon as I can I shall start on a long journey, and England will not see me for many years.”

“My dear Lord Somerville,” and Sir Edward held his patient’s pulse firmly within his slender fingers, “we cannot spare you from London; besides which, this devoted young nurse cannot allow you to abandon her in this way.”

Sir Edward laid his patient’s hand gently on the bed and put back his watch into his waistcoat pocket.

“I never doubted for one instant that you would, Miss Towerbridge, but Lord Somerville has his duties to his King and to Society; and it would be quite unnecessary to take a long voyage when I can vouch for his speedy recovery, and can 312promise that he shall take part in the procession.”

“My dear Sir Edward, I am so sorry to disappoint you again, but the royal procession will not include my unworthy person, nor shall I witness the royal pageant. It may be bad taste on my part, but I resign all my duties at Court from to-day. As to social duties—they only existed in our imaginations, and the sooner we emancipate ourselves from such bondage the better. Besides, my dear Sir Edward, who knows whether there will be a Coronation?”

“You are tired, dear friend”—the physician laid his hand on Lionel’s brow. “You have done far too much in one day, and need rest. But I will tell you just to put your mind at ease, that the date of the Coronation is fixed. I met the Lord Chamberlain an hour ago, and he informed me that we may look forward at an early date to our Sovereign’s public apotheosis.”

“Always the same incorrigible snobbery.” Lionel heaved a long sigh and lay back on his pillow. “My poor Sir Edward, England has missed the opportunity it ever had of learning a lesson; and we are ambling back to Canterbury on a Chaucerian cob.”

“Dear Miss Towerbridge”—Sir Edward came close to Gwen and spoke in a whisper—“I am 313afraid Lord Somerville is not yet out of the wood. I notice symptoms of the recurring fever. If by ten o’clock this evening the patient has not completely recovered his senses, call for me; for I fear the case will then be very grave, and one that will need the greatest care.”

“Do not worry about him, dear Sir Edward,” said Gwen, smiling her most bewitching smile. “Lord Somerville will never recover what you call his senses, and as soon as he can be taken away with safety we shall start for the Continent.”

“Good gracious! you do not realise what condition he is in! And what about your father? What about Society? You are very self-sacrificing, but you are reckless. Pray let me advise you, my dear young lady.”

“Yes, dear Sir Edward,” added Lionel, looking wistfully at the surgeon; “but we shall keep you posted up as to our whereabouts.”

“And we shall always sympathise with you in your tragic state of overclothing,” playfully said Gwen.

“My last words to you, Miss Towerbridge,” sententiously spoke Sir Edward, as he stiffly bowed farewell, “are these: You will very soon regret your rash enterprise.”

314The surgeon went slowly out of the door, which he closed behind him with a sharp click; and as he crossed the hall he muttered between his teeth, “It is the first time I have seen an absolute case of contagious insanity.”

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A DAUGHTER OF ENGLAND

World.—“Miss May Crommelin has a keen eye for the picturesque, and her books glow with local colour. She is known as an agreeable novelist, and has a breezy style which carries the reader pleasantly along.”

Spectator.—“Miss May Crommelin brings to her task the pen of a trained writer. She has a wonderful eye for colour, and excels in seizing the dominant notes of street scenes or mountain landscapes.”

Graphic.—“Miss May Crommelin is not one to do otherwise than well.”

Bookman.—“Miss May Crommelin at her best is very good indeed. At her worst she is at least up to the average.”

Daily News.—“Miss May Crommelin gives us a great deal for our money. She has a great gift of language, as well as an unfailing capacity for invention.”

Speaker.—“Miss May Crommelin tells a story well. Her work has especially a dramatic distinctness which makes us feel that her characters are not merely manipulated on paper, but are realised in the imagination.”

Literary World.—“Miss May Crommelin can at all events never be accused of heaviness or dulness.... A writer who does not spare pains either in regard to characterisation or composition.”

Queen.—“Miss May Crommelin has the double qualification of being a good travel-writer and a clever novelist.”

JUST PUBLISHED.

GUY BOOTHBY’S NEW ROMANCE

A Bride from the Sea

By GUY BOOTHBY

Author of “Dr Nikola,” “A Cabinet Secret,” “The Lady of the Island,” etc.

Crown 8vo, bevelled boards, price 5s.

With Eight full-page half-tone Illustrations on Art Paper

by A. Talbot Smith

This romance is, in the opinion of those who have been privileged to read it in M.S., Mr Guy Boothby’s best and most sensational tale, and is probably the longest story the author has written. The hero is Gilbert Penniston, a Devon worthy; time, a year after the Armada, and the motif his ardent love for a very beautiful Spanish girl, saved from shipwreck. Jealousy, plottings, duels and many totally unexpected sensations, carry the reader on enthralled and breathless to the last page. The local colouring is excellent, and the value of the romance is enhanced by Mr A. Talbot Smith’s splendid and realistic illustrations.

Mrs LOVETT CAMERON’S

POPULAR NOVELS

Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. each

BITTER FRUIT
REMEMBRANCE
AN ILL WIND
A FAIR FRAUD
A PASSING FANCY
ROSAMOND GRANT [Shortly
MIDSUMMER MADNESS
THE CRAZE OF CHRISTINA
A DIFFICULT MATTER
A WOMAN’S “NO”

Morning Post.—“Mrs Lovett Cameron is one of the best story-tellers of the day, and her pages are so full of life and movement that not one of them is willingly skipped.”

Daily News.—“Mrs Lovett Cameron’s stories are always bright, vivacious and entertaining. They are very pleasantly human, and have, withal, a charming freshness and vigour.”

Daily Telegraph.—“Mrs Lovett Cameron is a fertile and fluent storyteller, and an uncommonly clever woman.”

Guardian.—“Mrs Lovett Cameron’s novels are among the most readable of the day. She has a wonderful eye for a situation, so her stories move with a swing that is all their own.”

Pall Mall Gazette.—“Mrs Lovett Cameron, in her novels, is always readable and always fresh.”

Speaker.—“Mrs Lovett Cameron possesses the invaluable gift of never allowing her readers to become bored.”

Academy.—“Mrs Lovett Cameron exhibits power, writes with vivacity, and elaborates her plots skilfully.”

Bookman.—“Mrs Lovett Cameron has gained for herself a circle of admirers, who take up any new book of hers with a certain eagerness and confidence.”

Vanity Fair.—“Mrs Lovett Cameron needs no introduction to the novel reader, and, indeed, has her public ready to her hand as soon as her books come out.”

Black and White.—“We have a few writers whose books arouse in us certain expectations which are always fulfilled. Such a writer is Mrs Lovett Cameron.”

London: JOHN LONG, 13 & 14 Norris St., Haymarket

And at all the Libraries and Booksellers

MR. JOHN LONG’S

Autumn and New Year Announcements

1904–1905

JOHN LONG’S POPULAR NOVELS

Mr. John Long has much pleasure in announcing the publication of the following important New Novels, several of which are now ready.

Six Shillings each

THE MASK ^[1]	William Le Queux
THE STORM OF LONDON	F. Dickberry
BLIND POLICY	George Manville Fenn
THE AMBASSADOR’S LOVE	Robert Machray
LADY SYLVIA	Lucas Cleeve
THE WATERS OF OBLIVION	Adeline Sergeant
AN INDEPENDENT MAIDEN	Adeline Sergeant
THE BOOK OF ANGELUS DRAYTON	Mrs. Fred Reynolds
RONALD LINDSAY	May Wynne
LINKS OF LOVE	Dacre Hindle
MERELY A NEGRESS	Stuart Young
THE TEMPTATION OF ANTHONY	Alice M. Diehl
LITTLE WIFE HESTER	L. T. Meade
THE NIGHT OF RECKONING	Frank Barrett
ROSAMOND GRANT	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
THE SECRET PASSAGE	Fergus Hume
CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG LADY	Richard Marsh
THE FATE OF FELIX	Mrs. Coulson Kernahan
LOVE AND TWENTY	John Strange Winter
HIS REVERENCE THE RECTOR	Sarah Tytler
LORD EVERSLEIGH’S SINS	Violet Tweedale
THE INFORMER	Fred Whishaw
THE FACE IN THE FLASHLIGHT	Florence Warden
THE WAR OF THE SEXES	F. E. Young
COUNT REMINY	Jean Middlemass
THE PROVINCIALS	Lady Helen Forbes
A BOND OF SYMPATHY	Colonel Andrew Haggard
STRAINED ALLEGIANCE	R. H. Forster
OLIVE KINSELLA	Curtis Yorke
BENBONUNA	Robert Bruce
FROM THE CLUTCH OF THE SEA	J. E. Muddock
THE CAVERN OF LAMENTS (8 Illusts.)	Catherine E. Mallandaine
LORD OF HIMSELF	Mrs. Aylmer Gowin
MADEMOISELLE NELLIE	Lucas Cleeve
IN SPITE OF THE CZAR (8 Illusts., 5s )	Guy Boothby

☞ Descriptive paragraphs of these Novels will be found inside

1. Originally announced as ‘Both of this Parish,’ a title claimed by another author.

Mr. John Long’s New & forthcoming Books

THE MASK. By William Le Queux

This extraordinary tale plunges the reader at the first word into a mystery so deep, a story so vital, that one reads page after page in the spirit that holds the reader of, for example, ‘Treasure Island,’ though the story is not a story of some distant and undiscovered shore. True, there are a treasure and a treasure-hunter. True, there are wreckers, traitors, villains. True, there are youth, innocence, beauty. But all these belong, not to the high seas, but to the restless tide of human life and love which seethes and boils on this dry land of England now. There is something in the author’s work which allies him with Dumas, with Victor Hugo, with the weaver of the legends of the ‘Arabian Nights.’ He holds you; he fascinates you. He brings the breath of old-time romance down to the HERE and the NOW.

THE STORM OF LONDON. By F. Dickberry

‘Have you read “The Storm of London”?’ is the question which will be on the lips of everyone. No novel published within recent times is comparable with it for audacity. It is described as a social rhapsody, and the author certainly portrays with no flattering pen the worse side of high-class society. But it is something more. It is a work of imagination, daringly original, and set boldly in a frame of modern realism. Yet there is no sadness in the book—only laughter. The author possesses rare courage and discretion, and his story can give no offence to any reader with the saving gift of humour. Again we ask, ‘Have you read “The Storm of London”?’

BLIND POLICY. By George Manville Fenn

Daring in conception, masterly in execution, and strong in real human interest is Mr. George Manville Fenn’s new story, which deals with the amazing doings of fashionable London life. That such things can be seems almost past belief, and yet, given the actual circumstances, and the consequences are perfectly natural. The feminine interest is particularly strong in this particularly strong story.

THE AMBASSADOR’S GLOVE. By Robert Machray

Mr. Robert Machray’s plots are conceived with an ingenuity that baffles the most practised reader. ‘The Ambassador’s Glove’ is a story of a formidable domestic conspiracy in which the Foreign Office, the Secret Service, and a peculiar society called The Brotherhood, are involved in a battle royal. The weapons employed are abduction, assassination, and blackmail. It is a story that cannot fail to go into many editions.

LADY SYLVIA. By Lucas Cleeve

The chief characteristics of ‘Lady Sylvia’ are passion and intelligence. It is a story of the eternal conflict between love and duty, and is rendered the more powerful because it is written with the consummate mastery which is now associated with the name of Lucas Cleeve.

THE WATERS OF OBLIVION. By Adeline Sergeant

Miss Adeline Sergeant is a writer who has endeared herself to countless thousands of novel-readers. Her books are always human, and she believes in happy endings, but the way is set with temptations and storms and difficulties before the haven is finally reached. In her new story, ‘The Waters of Oblivion,’ Miss Sergeant displays all her old qualities, and it must create for her a host of new friends.

AN INDEPENDENT MAIDEN. By Adeline Sergeant

In Miss Sergeant’s new story will be found all those essentials which have made her name a household word in the realms of fiction, and readers of the present work will be delighted to make the acquaintance of so charming and sympathetic a heroine as Dulcie.

THE BOOK OF ANGELUS DRAYTON. By Mrs. Fred Reynolds

‘The Book of Angelus Drayton’ is not a novel set to the ordinary tune. There is a plot, indeed, and one that no one can read without sympathetic interest; there is comedy and tragedy in it. But the chief note of the book is its charm—its charm of subject, its charm of treatment, and its charm of style. It is a story of the country, and to all who love the sights and sounds of the country it will appeal with irresistible strength. It leads the reader through the changing seasons of the year, and of them all it has something significant to say in the manner of a poet. It is not only a book to be read: it is a book to be bought and read and re-read.

RONALD LINDSAY. By May Wynne, Author of ‘For Faith and Navarre’

This is an historical romance of the period of the Scotch Covenanters, and the background is filled with the fascinating though sinister figure of Graham of Olaverhouse. The book will delight all who have a feeling for the picturesqueness of bygone days.

LINKS OF LOVE. By Dacre Hindle

Two adventurous young men on pleasure bent succeed in convoying two charming girls, with their unsuspecting chaperon, to the hotel where the heroes of this fascinating romance of the Riviera are to stay. Realism is happily blended with a delightful romance which promises to be one of the most amusing of the season.

MERELY A NEGRESS. By Stuart Young

Mr. Stuart Young’s ‘Merely a Negress’ is new and original insomuch that it deals with the problem of the marriage of an Englishman and a Negress. The author treats his subject tactfully, and dwells upon the incompatibility, as well as upon the emotional sympathy of the senses. There is candour in the book, and yet restraint. As a new experiment in fiction, Mr. Stuart Young’s book deserves to be received with careful attention.

THE TEMPTATION OF ANTHONY. By Alice M. Diehl

The name of Alice M. Diehl is a guarantee for vividly-coloured and present-day society presentments, veined with romance and exciting incident. ‘The Temptation of Anthony’ will certainly take high rank among the lively and delightful novels by this well-known writer. Her portrait of Eve (Lady Waring) is a masterpiece in true and delicate female delineation. The story of Eve’s trial and sufferings should appeal to every reader.

LITTLE WIFE HESTER. By L. T. Meade

L. T. Meade’s new story, ‘Little Wife Hester,’ is concerned with the practices of Dr. Greenhill, a fashionable London physician, who effects marvellous cures by means of hypnotism. Her method is too well known to require description or eulogy. The story is written with great fluency, and ‘Little Wife Hester’ will add another to Mrs. Meade’s many laurels.

THE NIGHT OF RECKONING. By Frank Barrett

‘The Night of Reckoning’ is a story of Doris, a young girl who, being left alone in the world, becomes the sport of relatives, who to rob her of her heritage do not shrink from the committal of the blackest crimes. But Doris has good as well as bad fairies to watch over her. All who like a rousing novel full of sensation and presented with an air of authenticity will greatly enjoy Mr. Frank Barrett’s new book. It places him at the head of the few writers of good dramatic fiction.

ROSAMOND GRANT. By Mrs. Lovett Cameron

‘Rosamond Grant’ Is the story of a woman’s life—of her illusions, emotions, hopes, regrets and mistakes. It is a theme admirably suited to Mrs. Lovett Cameron’s method. Her characters are human to a degree, and the charm lies in their refreshing originality and their bright and entertaining vivacity. The story will make many new friends for this delightful and sympathetic writer.

THE SECRET PASSAGE. By Fergus Hume

Since Mr. Fergus Hume became famous as the writer of the ‘Mystery of a Hansom Cab,’ he has steadily progressed in public favour, and is now regarded as a veritable master of strategy in fiction. The reader who takes up one of his books may depend upon finding an enthralling story and a plot of baffling ingenuity. In his new work Mr. Fergus Hume’s unusual gifts are displayed in their maturity. ‘The Secret Passage’ is, perhaps, the author’s best book.

CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG LADY. By Richard Marsh, Author of ‘The Beetle,’ etc.

Mr. Richard Marsh belongs to the younger generation of writers of fiction, and he can hold his own with the most brilliant of them. His qualities are originality of invention, a command over the weird and mysterious, a clear, straightforward narrative, and a bizarre humour, all the more telling because it flashes at unexpected moments across the page. In his new book, ‘The Confessions of a Young Lady,’ Mr. Richard Marsh’s remarkable powers are strikingly en evidence. It shows him at his best in the plenitude of his varied moods. The book will add much to the author’s popularity.

THE FATE OF FELIX. By Mrs. Coulson Kernahan

The general reader loves a mystery. Mrs. Coulson Kernahan is evidently well aware of the fact, and caters for her public accordingly. In ‘Devastation’ she took the reader into her confidence in the beginning; in ‘The Fate of Felix’ she keeps her secret to the end. This book has a most amazing plot, and has a love-story running through it of a very unusual description.

LOVE AND TWENTY. By John Strange Winter

The qualities that created for John Strange Winter her immense popularity are pre-eminently conspicuous in ‘Love and Twenty.’ The book shows that the author can wield the pen with all her old mastery. There is the same richness of invention, the same simplicity of manner, the same warmth of colouring, and the same tender pathos. No woman writer indeed can contest John Strange Winter’s supremacy in her own dominion.

HIS REVERENCE THE RECTOR. By Sarah Tytler

Miss Sarah Tytler’s new book deals with the personalities of an old-world type of county family, and incidentally discusses some semi-political questions and the problems of village life. Yet there is no lack of story, which is carefully constructed, written with the author’s accustomed polish, and may be recommended as among the best of the works of fiction penned by this thoughtful writer.

LORD EVERSLEIGH’S SINS. By Violet Tweedale

The love affairs of a modern peer best describes Violet Tweedale’s new book. It is a wonderfully strong story, is written with great cogence, and displays a grasp of character and a power of expression immensely in advance of anything the author has previously effected. In this novel the author has ‘found’ herself.

THE INFORMER. By Fred Whishaw

Mr. Fred Whishaw here presents a convincing picture of an honest Russian official who, opposed to the apostles of violence and bloodshed in his unhappy country, finds himself in a position which grows hateful to him. So realistic are many of the incidents in this Romance of the Discontented, that the reader will probably come to the conclusion, perhaps a correct one, that Mr. Fred Whishaw has drawn upon actual facts rather than upon his unassisted imagination.

THE FACE IN THE FLASHLIGHT. By Florence Warden

Miss Florence Warden’s new novel comprises a powerful study of the evils of gambling. The villain of the piece—a portrait drawn with great subtlety and skill—murders a dissipated youth to whom he acts as tutor, and attempts the life of his wife In order to gratify his passion for gambling. The story would be noteworthy if only for the presentation of ‘Mattie,’ who witnesses the crime, and yet is powerless to prevent the marriage of her friend with the murderer. The book is original and forceful, and the lover of fiction who omits its perusal will ‘only have himself to blame.’

THE WAR OF THE SEXES. By F. E. Young, Author of ‘The Triumph of Jill,’ ‘A Dangerous Quest,’ etc.

It is safe to predict for Miss Young’s new story a phenomenal success, for it contains those qualities of the unexpected which straightway stamp a book. The story portrays the condition or affairs some thousands of years hence, when the male species, with a solitary exception, has become extinct. The authoress keeps her imagination within bounds, and the chief note of the book is its great good-humour. A delightful vein of satire winds its way through its pages, and the general effect can only be the unrestrained amusement which is wrought by high-class comedy.

COUNT REMINY. By Jean Middlemass

The name of Miss Jean Middlemass is a household word in the region of novel-readers. Her stories are conceived with great fertility of resource, and executed with the dexterity of the practised pen. Her new novel, ‘Count Reminy,’ is, perhaps, the brightest of her many works of fiction. It relates the story of a girl engaged to a man who cares only for her fortune; how she meets and falls in love with another man, and how her fiancé is mysteriously murdered. In the result, after sundry complications, all is well, and the book is bound to please the many readers of this popular favourite.

THE PROVINCIALS. By Lady Helen Forbes, Author of ‘His Eminence,’ ‘The Outcast Emperor,’ etc.

Lady Helen Forbes gives us in her new book a story of society, though not of ‘smart’ society. ‘The Provincials’ are a wealthy county family whose wealth entitles them to be leaders of society, but they prefer the life of the country. The authoress is well at home among her characters, and her vivacity and sense of humour invest the plot with real interest. Some vivid pictures of hunting help the reader along. ‘The Provincials’ may be deemed a landmark in Lady Helen Forbes’ career as a novelist, and shows that her work will have to be reckoned with.

A BOND OF SYMPATHY. By Colonel Andrew Haggard

Lieut.-Col. Andrew Haggard may be said to possess one, at least, of the gifts of his distinguished brother, the author of ‘She’—the art of telling a story. In his new book he proves, also, that he has a happy knack of invention and a good eye for dramatic situations. There is an abundance of stirring adventure, and there is an atmosphere that will inevitably appeal to the sporting reader; indeed, the book is written by a true sportsman. It is full of high spirits, and will be greatly appreciated by those who like breezy, good-natured and healthy fiction.

STRAINED ALLEGIANCE. By R. H. Forster, Author of ‘The Last Foray,’ ‘In Steel and Leather,’ etc.

This is a story of the rebellion of 1715—of the struggle between the Jacobites and the Hanoverians, which culminated in the Battle of Preston. The hero is entrapped into an apparent support of the Jacobite cause, notwithstanding that his sympathies are with the Hanoverians, and his attempts to escape from his captors serve as the background for many exciting scenes and romantic incidents, and for a charming love idyll.

OLIVE KINSELLA. By Curtis Yorke, Author of ‘Delphine,’ ‘The Girl in Grey’

The name of Curtis Yorke is one to conjure with among all lovers of good fiction, for she possesses the higher gifts of the novelist—imagination, distinction, humour. She can play upon the emotions, from grave to gay, from lively to severe, with the consummate touch of a master. Her new book must fulfil the anticipations of her best admirers, for ‘Olive Kinsella’ is a fine story, finely conceived, and finely told.

BENBONUNA. By Robert Bruce

In ‘Benbonuna’ we have a tale written in the easy, forceful, simple style that must appeal to lovers of adventure. The wild, strenuous, daring life of the Australian Bush is described with the fidelity of portraiture. Those who know nothing of this strange, silent land, where many of the laws of nature seem to be reversed, will find much to enlighten, as well as much to entertain them. The book is essentially for readers with strong minds and broad sympathies.

FROM THE CLUTCH OF THE SEA. By J. E. Muddock

A book by this well-known and favourite author is always sure of a public, and it may safely be predicted that ‘From the Clutch of the Sea’ will be eagerly sought after. The opening, which describes a wreck on the Devonshire coast, is written with such a graphic pen that the terrible and thrilling scene is brought vividly before the mind’s eye. The characters are pulsing human beings, and the story is indeed worthy the reputation of the veteran author.

THE CAVERN OF LAMENTS. By Catherine E. Mallandaine. Illustrated

‘The Cavern of Laments,’ derives its title from a weird cavern in Sark, and the main incidents of the story revolve round that picturesque island and its old-world people. The scenery it traverses, and the people whose lives and loves it depicts, have this merit—that they are fresh and unhackneyed. Indeed, the note or the book is its strength and originality. The crux of the story is the marriage of Cecile and Breakspeare, brought about by a dishonourable act, and its sequel. The writing is powerful throughout, and the publisher believes that every reader will be grateful for the opportunity of perusing a novel possessing unusual qualities.

LORD OF HIMSELF. By Mrs. Aylmer Gowing

The moneyless heir to a peerage wins the Newdigate Prize at Oxford, and also, as he believes, a beautiful and dangerous woman who has saved his life. Betrayed by her, he fights his way, like a man, against all odds, a delightful young princess of ideal type being his good angel. A strong vein of humour carries the reader through an intricate plot, while vivid pictures of Oxford life lend colour to a stirring story.

MADEMOISELLE NELLIE. By Lucas Cleeve

There are few novelists whose works deserve more respectful consideration than those of Lucas Cleeve. She has written stories of a high order, but she has never surpassed in interest or in power her new book ‘Mademoiselle Nellie.’ It is a story of English and French life, and offers a careful study of the differing characteristics of the two peoples. The book abounds in felicitous phrases, in dramatic moments, and in deft touches of pathos.

IN SPITE OF THE CZAR. By Guy Boothby, Author of ‘Dr. Nikola,’ etc. With 8 Illustrations. 5s.

In this fine tissue of romance and realism we have a wide range both in scenery and in incident. The invention of ‘Velvet Coat’ as a distinctive sobriquet is an original idea, and whether in an English country mansion, on the St. Petersburg pavements, or at Irkutsk, or in any other of the scenes so well painted, we are carried on from page to page with breathless expectation. All sorts and conditions of men, and of women, too, cross the stage of this fresh drama, and it is full of exactly what delights the jaded reader—after turning from third-rate romance—namely, the unexpected.

DEAD CERTAINTIES	Nathaniel Gubbins
ALL THE WINNERS	Nathaniel Gubbins

SIR WALTER RALEGH (A Drama)	Robert South, Author of ‘The Divine Aretino,’ Crown 8vo., Cloth Gilt, 3s. 6d. net.
HER OWN ENEMY (A Play)	Harriet L. Childe-Pemberton Crown 8vo., Cloth Gilt, 2s. 6d. net.

THE THREE CLERKS	(480 pp.) Anthony Trollope
THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH	(672 pp.) Charles Reads
THE WOMAN IN WHITE	(576 pp.) Wilkie Collins
ADAM BEDE	(480 pp.) George Eliot
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND	(432 pp.) W. M. Thackeray
WESTWARD HO!	(600 pp.) Charles Kingsley

The following are now Ready:—

THE TURNPIKE HOUSE	Fergus Hume
THE GOLDEN WANG-HO	Fergus Hume
THE SILENT HOUSE IN PIMLICO	Fergus Hume
THE BISHOP’S SECRET	Fergus Hume
THE CRIMSON CRYPTOGRAM	Fergus Hume
A TRAITOR IN LONDON	Fergus Hume
WOMAN—THE SPHINX	Fergus Hume
A WOMAN’S ‘NO’	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
A DIFFICULT MATTER	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
THE CRAZE OF CHRISTINA	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
A PASSING FANCY	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
BITTER FRUIT	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
AN ILL WIND	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
AN OUTSIDER’S YEAR	Florence Warden
SOMETHING IN THE CITY	Florence Warden
THE LOVELY MRS. PEMBERTON	Florence Warden
THE MYSTERY OF DUDLEY HORNE	Florence Warden
THE BOHEMIAN GIRLS	Florence Warden
KITTY’S ENGAGEMENT	Florence Warden
OUR WIDOW	Florence Warden
CURIOS: SOME STRANGE ADVENTURES OF TWO BACHELORS	Richard Marsh
MRS. MUSGRAVE AND HER HUSBAND	Richard Marsh
ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS	Richard Marsh
THE EYE OF ISTAR	William Le Queux
THE VEILED MAN	William Le Queux
A MAN OF TO-DAY	Helen Mathers
THE SIN OF HAGAR	Helen Mathers
THE JUGGLER AND THE SOUL	Helen Mathers
FATHER ANTHONY	Robert Buchanan
THE WOOING OF MONICA	L. T. Meade
THE SIN OF JASPER STANDISH	Rita
A CABINET SECRET	Guy Boothby
THE FUTURE OF PHYLLIS	Adeline Sergeant
A BEAUTIFUL REBEL	Ernest Glanville
THE PROGRESS OF PAULINE KESSLER	Frederic Carrel
IN SUMMER SHADE	Mary E. Mann
GEORGE AND SON	Edward H. Cooper
THE SCARLET SEAL	Dick Donovan
THE THREE DAYS’ TERROR	J. S. Fletcher

The following will be ready shortly:—

THE WORLD MASTERS	George Griffith
BENEATH THE VEIL	Adeline Sergeant
THE BURDEN OF HER YOUTH	L. T. Meade

☞ Other Novels by the most popular Authors of the day will be added to the Series from time to time

The
Storm of London
a Social Rhapsody

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

FATHER ANTHONY (Illustrated)	Robert Buchanan
A CABINET SECRET (Illustrated)	Guy Boothby
AN OUTSIDER’S YEAR	Florence Warden
FUGITIVE ANNE	Mrs. Campbell Praed
THE FUTURE OF PHYLLIS	Adeline Sergeant
THE SCARLET SEAL	Dick Donovan
A FAIR FRAUD	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
A DIFFICULT MATTER	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
THE CRAZE OF CHRISTINE	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
A PASSING FANCY	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
BITTER FRUIT	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
AN ILL WIND	Mrs. Lovett Cameron
A WOMAN’S ‘NO’	Mrs. Lovett Cameron

The Storm of London a Social Rhapsody