Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories

Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories
by Oscar Wilde
Contents
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime
The Canterville Ghost
The Sphinx Without a Secret
The Model Millionaire
The Portrait of Mr. W. H.
LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME
CHAPTER I
IT was Lady Windermere's last reception before Easter, and Bentinck
House was even more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had
come on from the Speaker's Levee in their stars and ribands, all
the pretty women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of the
picture-gallery stood the Princess Sophia of Carlsruhe, a heavy
Tartar-looking lady, with tiny black eyes and wonderful emeralds,
talking bad French at the top of her voice, and laughing
immoderately at everything that was said to her. It was certainly
a wonderful medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted affably
to violent Radicals, popular preachers brushed coat-tails with
eminent sceptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout
prima-donna from room to room, on the staircase stood several Royal
Academicians, disguised as artists, and it was said that at one
time the supper-room was absolutely crammed with geniuses. In
fact, it was one of Lady Windermere's best nights, and the Princess
stayed till nearly half-past eleven.
As soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the picturegallery,
where a celebrated political economist was solemnly
explaining the scientific theory of music to an indignant virtuoso
from Hungary, and began to talk to the Duchess of Paisley. She
looked wonderfully beautiful with her grand ivory throat, her large
blue forget-me-not eyes, and her heavy coils of golden hair. OR
PUR they were - not that pale straw colour that nowadays usurps the
gracious name of gold, but such gold as is woven into sunbeams or
hidden in strange amber; and they gave to her face something of the
frame of a saint, with not a little of the fascination of a sinner.
She was a curious psychological study. Early in life she had
discovered the important truth that nothing looks so like innocence
as an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless escapades, half of
them quite harmless, she had acquired all the privileges of a
personality. She had more than once changed her husband; indeed,
Debrett credits her with three marriages; but as she had never
changed her lover, the world had long ago ceased to talk scandal
about her. She was now forty years of age, childless, and with
that inordinate passion for pleasure which is the secret of
remaining young.
Suddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her clear
contralto voice, 'Where is my cheiromantist?'
'Your what, Gladys?' exclaimed the Duchess, giving an involuntary
start.
'My cheiromantist, Duchess; I can't live without him at present.'
'Dear Gladys! you are always so original,' murmured the Duchess,
trying to remember what a cheiromantist really was, and hoping it
was not the same as a cheiropodist.
'He comes to see my hand twice a week regularly,' continued Lady
Windermere, 'and is most interesting about it.'
'Good heavens!' said the Duchess to herself, 'he is a sort of
cheiropodist after all. How very dreadful. I hope he is a
foreigner at any rate. It wouldn't be quite so bad then.'
'I must certainly introduce him to you.'
'Introduce him!' cried the Duchess; 'you don't mean to say he is
here?' and she began looking about for a small tortoise-shell fan
and a very tattered lace shawl, so as to be ready to go at a
moment's notice.
'Of course he is here; I would not dream of giving a party without
him. He tells me I have a pure psychic hand, and that if my thumb
had been the least little bit shorter, I should have been a
confirmed pessimist, and gone into a convent.'
'Oh, I see!' said the Duchess, feeling very much relieved; 'he
tells fortunes, I suppose?'
'And misfortunes, too,' answered Lady Windermere, 'any amount of
them. Next year, for instance, I am in great danger, both by land
and sea, so I am going to live in a balloon, and draw up my dinner
in a basket every evening. It is all written down on my little
finger, or on the palm of my hand, I forget which.'
'But surely that is tempting Providence, Gladys.'
'My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by this
time. I think every one should have their hands told once a month,
so as to know what not to do. Of course, one does it all the same,
but it is so pleasant to be warned. Now if some one doesn't go and
fetch Mr. Podgers at once, I shall have to go myself.'
'Let me go, Lady Windermere,' said a tall handsome young man, who
was standing by, listening to the conversation with an amused
smile.
'Thanks so much, Lord Arthur; but I am afraid you wouldn't
recognise him.'
'If he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I couldn't well
miss him. Tell me what he is like, and I'll bring him to you at
once.'
'Well, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I mean he is not
mysterious, or esoteric, or romantic-looking. He is a little,
stout man, with a funny, bald head, and great gold-rimmed
spectacles; something between a family doctor and a country
attorney. I'm really very sorry, but it is not my fault. People
are so annoying. All my pianists look exactly like poets, and all
my poets look exactly like pianists; and I remember last season
asking a most dreadful conspirator to dinner, a man who had blown
up ever so many people, and always wore a coat of mail, and carried
a dagger up his shirt-sleeve; and do you know that when he came he
looked just like a nice old clergyman, and cracked jokes all the
evening? Of course, he was very amusing, and all that, but I was
awfully disappointed; and when I asked him about the coat of mail,
he only laughed, and said it was far too cold to wear in England.
Ah, here is Mr. Podgers! Now, Mr. Podgers, I want you to tell the
Duchess of Paisley's hand. Duchess, you must take your glove off.
No, not the left hand, the other.'
'Dear Gladys, I really don't think it is quite right,' said the
Duchess, feebly unbuttoning a rather soiled kid glove.
'Nothing interesting ever is,' said Lady Windermere: 'ON A FAIT LE
MONDE AINSI. But I must introduce you. Duchess, this is Mr.
Podgers, my pet cheiromantist. Mr. Podgers, this is the Duchess of
Paisley, and if you say that she has a larger mountain of the moon
than I have, I will never believe in you again.'
'I am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my hand,' said
the Duchess gravely.
'Your Grace is quite right,' said Mr. Podgers, glancing at the
little fat hand with its short square fingers, 'the mountain of the
moon is not developed. The line of life, however, is excellent.
Kindly bend the wrist. Thank you. Three distinct lines on the
RASCETTE! You will live to a great age, Duchess, and be extremely
happy. Ambition - very moderate, line of intellect not
exaggerated, line of heart - '
'Now, do be indiscreet, Mr. Podgers,' cried Lady Windermere.
'Nothing would give me greater pleasure,' said Mr. Podgers, bowing,
'if the Duchess ever had been, but I am sorry to say that I see
great permanence of affection, combined with a strong sense of
duty.'
'Pray go on, Mr. Podgers,' said the Duchess, looking quite pleased.
'Economy is not the least of your Grace's virtues,' continued Mr.
Podgers, and Lady Windermere went off into fits of laughter.
'Economy is a very good thing,' remarked the Duchess complacently;
'when I married Paisley he had eleven castles, and not a single
house fit to live in.'
'And now he has twelve houses, and not a single castle,' cried Lady
Windermere.
'Well, my dear,' said the Duchess, 'I like - '
'Comfort,' said Mr. Podgers, 'and modern improvements, and hot
water laid on in every bedroom. Your Grace is quite right.
Comfort is the only thing our civilisation can give us.
'You have told the Duchess's character admirably, Mr. Podgers, and
now you must tell Lady Flora's'; and in answer to a nod from the
smiling hostess, a tall girl, with sandy Scotch hair, and high
shoulder-blades, stepped awkwardly from behind the sofa, and held
out a long, bony hand with spatulate fingers.
'Ah, a pianist! I see,' said Mr. Podgers, 'an excellent pianist,
but perhaps hardly a musician. Very reserved, very honest, and
with a great love of animals.'
'Quite true!' exclaimed the Duchess, turning to Lady Windermere,
'absolutely true! Flora keeps two dozen collie dogs at Macloskie,
and would turn our town house into a menagerie if her father would
let her.'
'Well, that is just what I do with my house every Thursday
evening,' cried Lady Windermere, laughing, 'only I like lions
better than collie dogs.'
'Your one mistake, Lady Windermere,' said Mr. Podgers, with a
pompous bow.
'If a woman can't make her mistakes charming, she is only a
female,' was the answer. 'But you must read some more hands for
us. Come, Sir Thomas, show Mr. Podgers yours'; and a geniallooking
old gentleman, in a white waistcoat, came forward, and held
out a thick rugged hand, with a very long third finger.
'An adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past, and one to
come. Been ship-wrecked three times. No, only twice, but in
danger of a shipwreck your next journey. A strong Conservative,
very punctual, and with a passion for collecting curiosities. Had
a severe illness between the ages sixteen and eighteen. Was left a
fortune when about thirty. Great aversion to cats and Radicals.'
'Extraordinary!' exclaimed Sir Thomas; 'you must really tell my
wife's hand, too.'
'Your second wife's,' said Mr. Podgers quietly, still keeping Sir
Thomas's hand in his. 'Your second wife's. I shall be charmed';
but Lady Marvel, a melancholy-looking woman, with brown hair and
sentimental eyelashes, entirely declined to have her past or her
future exposed; and nothing that Lady Windermere could do would
induce Monsieur de Koloff, the Russian Ambassador, even to take his
gloves off. In fact, many people seemed afraid to face the odd
little man with his stereotyped smile, his gold spectacles, and his
bright, beady eyes; and when he told poor Lady Fermor, right out
before every one, that she did not care a bit for music, but was
extremely fond of musicians, it was generally felt that cheiromancy
was a most dangerous science, and one that ought not to be
encouraged, except in a TETE-A-TETE.
Lord Arthur Savile, however, who did not know anything about Lady
Fermor's unfortunate story, and who had been watching Mr. Podgers
with a great deal of interest, was filled with an immense curiosity
to have his own hand read, and feeling somewhat shy about putting
himself forward, crossed over the room to where Lady Windermere was
sitting, and, with a charming blush, asked her if she thought Mr.
Podgers would mind.
'Of course, he won't mind,' said Lady Windermere, 'that is what he
is here for. All my lions, Lord Arthur, are performing lions, and
jump through hoops whenever I ask them. But I must warn you
beforehand that I shall tell Sybil everything. She is coming to
lunch with me to-morrow, to talk about bonnets, and if Mr. Podgers
finds out that you have a bad temper, or a tendency to gout, or a
wife living in Bayswater, I shall certainly let her know all about
it.'
Lord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. 'I am not afraid,' he
answered. 'Sybil knows me as well as I know her.'
'Ah! I am a little sorry to hear you say that. The proper basis
for marriage is a mutual misunderstanding. No, I am not at all
cynical, I have merely got experience, which, however, is very much
the same thing. Mr. Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to have
his hand read. Don't tell him that he is engaged to one of the
most beautiful girls in London, because that appeared in the
MORNING POST a month ago.
'Dear Lady Windermere,' cried the Marchioness of Jedburgh, 'do let
Mr. Podgers stay here a little longer. He has just told me I
should go on the stage, and I am so interested.'
'If he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall certainly take him
away. Come over at once, Mr. Podgers, and read Lord Arthur's
hand.'
'Well,' said Lady Jedburgh, making a little MOUE as she rose from
the sofa, 'if I am not to be allowed to go on the stage, I must be
allowed to be part of the audience at any rate.'
'Of course; we are all going to be part of the audience,' said Lady
Windermere; 'and now, Mr. Podgers, be sure and tell us something
nice. Lord Arthur is one of my special favourites.'
But when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur's hand he grew curiously pale,
and said nothing. A shudder seemed to pass through him, and his
great bushy eyebrows twitched convulsively, in an odd, irritating
way they had when he was puzzled. Then some huge beads of
perspiration broke out on his yellow forehead, like a poisonous
dew, and his fat fingers grew cold and clammy.
Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of
agitation, and, for the first time in his life, he himself felt
fear. His impulse was to rush from the room, but he restrained
himself. It was better to know the worst, whatever it was, than to
be left in this hideous uncertainty.
'I am waiting, Mr. Podgers,' he said.
'We are all waiting,' cried Lady Windermere, in her quick,
impatient manner, but the cheiromantist made no reply.
'I believe Arthur is going on the stage,' said Lady Jedburgh, 'and
that, after your scolding, Mr. Podgers is afraid to tell him so.'
Suddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur's right hand, and seized
hold of his left, bending down so low to examine it that the gold
rims of his spectacles seemed almost to touch the palm. For a
moment his face became a white mask of horror, but he soon
recovered his SANG-FROID, and looking up at Lady Windermere, said
with a forced smile, 'It is the hand of a charming young man.
'Of course it is!' answered Lady Windermere, 'but will he be a
charming husband? That is what I want to know.'
'All charming young men are,' said Mr. Podgers.
'I don't think a husband should be too fascinating,' murmured Lady
Jedburgh pensively, 'it is so dangerous.'
'My dear child, they never are too fascinating,' cried Lady
Windermere. 'But what I want are details. Details are the only
things that interest. What is going to happen to Lord Arthur?'
'Well, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go a voyage - '
'Oh yes, his honeymoon, of course!'
'And lose a relative.'
'Not his sister, I hope?' said Lady Jedburgh, in a piteous tone of
voice.
'Certainly not his sister,' answered Mr. Podgers, with a
deprecating wave of the hand, 'a distant relative merely.'
'Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,' said Lady Windermere. 'I
have absolutely nothing to tell Sybil to-morrow. No one cares
about distant relatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years
ago. However, I suppose she had better have a black silk by her;
it always does for church, you know. And now let us go to supper.
They are sure to have eaten everything up, but we may find some hot
soup. Francois used to make excellent soup once, but he is so
agitated about politics at present, that I never feel quite certain
about him. I do wish General Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess,
I am sure you are tired?'
'Not at all, dear Gladys,' answered the Duchess, waddling towards
the door. 'I have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist,
I mean the cheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can my
tortoise-shell fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my
lace shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, I'm
sure'; and the worthy creature finally managed to get downstairs
without dropping her scent-bottle more than twice.
All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the
fireplace, with the same feeling of dread over him, the same
sickening sense of coming evil. He smiled sadly at his sister, as
she swept past him on Lord Plymdale's arm, looking lovely in her
pink brocade and pearls, and he hardly heard Lady Windermere when
she called to him to follow her. He thought of Sybil Merton, and
the idea that anything could come between them made his eyes dim
with tears.
Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the
shield of Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon's head. He seemed
turned to stone, and his face was like marble in its melancholy.
He had lived the delicate and luxurious life of a young man of
birth and fortune, a life exquisite in its freedom from sordid
care, its beautiful boyish insouciance; and now for the first time
he became conscious of the terrible mystery of Destiny, of the
awful meaning of Doom.
How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on
his hand, in characters that he could not read himself, but that
another could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some bloodred
sign of crime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no
better than chessmen, moved by an unseen power, vessels the potter
fashions at his fancy, for honour or for shame? His reason
revolted against it, and yet he felt that some tragedy was hanging
over him, and that he had been suddenly called upon to bear an
intolerable burden. Actors are so fortunate. They can choose
whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether they will
suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is
different. Most men and women are forced to perform parts for
which they have no qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet
for us, and our Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is
a stage, but the play is badly cast.
Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur he
started, and his coarse, fat face became a sort of greenish-yellow
colour. The two men's eyes met, and for a moment there was
silence.
'The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and has
asked me to bring it to her,' said Mr. Podgers finally. 'Ah, I see
it on the sofa! Good evening.'
'Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a straightforward
answer to a question I am going to put to you.'
'Another time, Lord Arthur, but the Duchess is anxious. I am
afraid I must go.'
'You shall not go. The Duchess is in no hurry.'
'Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur,' said Mr. Podgers,
with his sickly smile. 'The fair sex is apt to be impatient.'
Lord Arthur's finely-chiselled lips curled in petulant disdain.
The poor Duchess seemed to him of very little importance at that
moment. He walked across the room to where Mr. Podgers was
standing, and held his hand out.
'Tell me what you saw there,' he said. 'Tell me the truth. I must
know it. I am not a child.'
Mr. Podgers's eyes blinked behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and
he moved uneasily from one foot to the other, while his fingers
played nervously with a flash watch-chain.
'What makes you think that I saw anything in your hand, Lord
Arthur, more than I told you?'
'I know you did, and I insist on your telling me what it was. I
will pay you. I will give you a cheque for a hundred pounds.'
The green eyes flashed for a moment, and then became dull again.
'Guineas?' said Mr. Podgers at last, in a low voice.
'Certainly. I will send you a cheque to-morrow. What is your
club?'
'I have no club. That is to say, not just at present. My address
is -, but allow me to give you my card'; and producing a bit of
gilt-edge pasteboard from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Podgers handed
it, with a low bow, to Lord Arthur, who read on it,
MR. SEPTIMUS R. PODGERS
PROFESSIONAL CHEIROMANTIST
103A WEST MOON STREET
'My hours are from ten to four,' murmured Mr. Podgers mechanically,
'and I make a reduction for families.'
'Be quick,' cried Lord Arthur, looking very pale, and holding his
hand out.
Mr. Podgers glanced nervously round, and drew the heavy PORTIERE
across the door.
'It will take a little time, Lord Arthur, you had better sit down.'
'Be quick, sir,' cried Lord Arthur again, stamping his foot angrily
on the polished floor.
Mr. Podgers smiled, drew from his breast-pocket a small magnifying
glass, and wiped it carefully with his handkerchief
'I am quite ready,' he said.
CHAPTER II
TEN minutes later, with face blanched by terror, and eyes wild with
grief, Lord Arthur Savile rushed from Bentinck House, crushing his
way through the crowd of fur-coated footmen that stood round the
large striped awning, and seeming not to see or hear anything. The
night was bitter cold, and the gas-lamps round the square flared
and flickered in the keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever,
and his forehead burned like fire. On and on he went, almost with
the gait of a drunken man. A policeman looked curiously at him as
he passed, and a beggar, who slouched from an archway to ask for
alms, grew frightened, seeing misery greater than his own. Once he
stopped under a lamp, and looked at his hands. He thought he could
detect the stain of blood already upon them, and a faint cry broke
from his trembling lips.
Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder!
The very night seemed to know it, and the desolate wind to howl it
in his ear. The dark corners of the streets were full of it. It
grinned at him from the roofs of the houses.
First he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to
fascinate him. He leaned wearily up against the railings, cooling
his brow against the wet metal, and listening to the tremulous
silence of the trees. 'Murder! murder!' he kept repeating, as
though iteration could dim the horror of the word. The sound of
his own voice made him shudder, yet he almost hoped that Echo might
hear him, and wake the slumbering city from its dreams. He felt a
mad desire to stop the casual passer-by, and tell him everything.
Then he wandered across Oxford Street into narrow, shameful alleys.
Two women with painted faces mocked at him as he went by. From a
dark courtyard came a sound of oaths and blows, followed by shrill
screams, and, huddled upon a damp door-step, he saw the crookbacked
forms of poverty and eld. A strange pity came over him.
Were these children of sin and misery predestined to their end, as
he to his? Were they, like him, merely the puppets of a monstrous
show?
And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering that
struck him; its absolute uselessness, its grotesque want of
meaning. How incoherent everything seemed! How lacking in all
harmony! He was amazed at the discord between the shallow optimism
of the day, and the real facts of existence. He was still very
young.
After a time he found himself in front of Marylebone Church. The
silent roadway looked like a long riband of polished silver,
flecked here and there by the dark arabesques of waving shadows.
Far into the distance curved the line of flickering gas-lamps, and
outside a little walled-in house stood a solitary hansom, the
driver asleep inside. He walked hastily in the direction of
Portland Place, now and then looking round, as though he feared
that he was being followed. At the corner of Rich Street stood two
men, reading a small bill upon a hoarding. An odd feeling of
curiosity stirred him, and he crossed over. As he came near, the
word 'Murder,' printed in black letters, met his eye. He started,
and a deep flush came into his cheek. It was an advertisement
offering a reward for any information leading to the arrest of a
man of medium height, between thirty and forty years of age,
wearing a billy-cock hat, a black coat, and check trousers, and
with a scar upon his right cheek. He read it over and over again,
and wondered if the wretched man would be caught, and how he had
been scarred. Perhaps, some day, his own name might be placarded
on the walls of London. Some day, perhaps, a price would be set on
his head also.
The thought made him sick with horror. He turned on his heel, and
hurried on into the night.
Where he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wandering
through a labyrinth of sordid houses, of being lost in a giant web
of sombre streets, and it was bright dawn when he found himself at
last in Piccadilly Circus. As he strolled home towards Belgrave
Square, he met the great waggons on their way to Covent Garden.
The white-smocked carters, with their pleasant sunburnt faces and
coarse curly hair, strode sturdily on, cracking their whips, and
calling out now and then to each other; on the back of a huge grey
horse, the leader of a jangling team, sat a chubby boy, with a
bunch of primroses in his battered hat, keeping tight hold of the
mane with his little hands, and laughing; and the great piles of
vegetables looked like masses of jade against the morning sky, like
masses of green jade against the pink petals of some marvellous
rose. Lord Arthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why.
There was something in the dawn's delicate loveliness that seemed
to him inexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that
break in beauty, and that set in storm. These rustics, too, with
their rough, good-humoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what
a strange London they saw! A London free from the sin of night and
the smoke of day, a pallid, ghost-like city, a desolate town of
tombs! He wondered what they thought of it, and whether they knew
anything of its splendour and its shame, of its fierce, fierycoloured
joys, and its horrible hunger, of all it makes and mars
from morn to eve. Probably it was to them merely a mart where they
brought their fruits to sell, and where they tarried for a few
hours at most, leaving the streets still silent, the houses still
asleep. It gave him pleasure to watch them as they went by. Rude
as they were, with their heavy, hob-nailed shoes, and their awkward
gait, they brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that
they had lived with Nature, and that she had taught them peace. He
envied them all that they did not know.
By the time he had reached Belgrave Square the sky was a faint
blue, and the birds were beginning to twitter in the gardens.
CHAPTER III
WHEN Lord Arthur woke it was twelve o'clock, and the midday sun was
streaming through the ivory-silk curtains of his room. He got up
and looked out of the window. A dim haze of heat was hanging over
the great city, and the roofs of the houses were like dull silver.
In the flickering green of the square below some children were
flitting about like white butterflies, and the pavement was crowded
with people on their way to the Park. Never had life seemed
lovelier to him, never had the things of evil seemed more remote.
Then his valet brought him a cup of chocolate on a tray. After he
had drunk it, he drew aside a heavy PORTIERE of peach-coloured
plush, and passed into the bathroom. The light stole softly from
above, through thin slabs of transparent onyx, and the water in the
marble tank glimmered like a moonstone. He plunged hastily in,
till the cool ripples touched throat and hair, and then dipped his
head right under, as though he would have wiped away the stain of
some shameful memory. When he stepped out he felt almost at peace.
The exquisite physical conditions of the moment had dominated him,
as indeed often happens in the case of very finely-wrought natures,
for the senses, like fire, can purify as well as destroy.
After breakfast, he flung himself down on a divan, and lit a
cigarette. On the mantel-shelf, framed in dainty old brocade,
stood a large photograph of Sybil Merton, as he had seen her first
at Lady Noel's ball. The small, exquisitely-shaped head drooped
slightly to one side, as though the thin, reed-like throat could
hardly bear the burden of so much beauty; the lips were slightly
parted, and seemed made for sweet music; and all the tender purity
of girlhood looked out in wonder from the dreaming eyes. With her
soft, clinging dress of CREPE-DE-CHINE, and her large leaf-shaped
fan, she looked like one of those delicate little figures men find
in the olive-woods near Tanagra; and there was a touch of Greek
grace in her pose and attitude. Yet she was not PETITE. She was
simply perfectly proportioned - a rare thing in an age when so many
women are either over life-size or insignificant.
Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terrible
pity that is born of love. He felt that to marry her, with the
doom of murder hanging over his head, would be a betrayal like that
of Judas, a sin worse than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of.
What happiness could there be for them, when at any moment he might
be called upon to carry out the awful prophecy written in his hand?
What manner of life would be theirs while Fate still held this
fearful fortune in the scales? The marriage must be postponed, at
all costs. Of this he was quite resolved. Ardently though he
loved the girl, and the mere touch of her fingers, when they sat
together, made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite joy, he
recognised none the less clearly where his duty lay, and was fully
conscious of the fact that he had no right to marry until he had
committed the murder. This done, he could stand before the altar
with Sybil Merton, and give his life into her hands without terror
of wrongdoing. This done, he could take her to his arms, knowing
that she would never have to blush for him, never have to hang her
head in shame. But done it must be first; and the sooner the
better for both.
Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of
dalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was too
conscientious to set pleasure above principle. There was more than
mere passion in his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all that
is good and noble. For a moment he had a natural repugnance
against what he was asked to do, but it soon passed away. His
heart told him that it was not a sin, but a sacrifice; his reason
reminded him that there was no other course open. He had to choose
between living for himself and living for others, and terrible
though the task laid upon him undoubtedly was, yet he knew that he
must not suffer selfishness to triumph over love. Sooner or later
we are all called upon to decide on the same issue - of us all, the
same question is asked. To Lord Arthur it came early in life -
before his nature had been spoiled by the calculating cynicism of
middle-age, or his heart corroded by the shallow, fashionable
egotism of our day, and he felt no hesitation about doing his duty.
Fortunately also, for him, he was no mere dreamer, or idle
dilettante. Had he been so, he would have hesitated, like Hamlet,
and let irresolution mar his purpose. But he was essentially
practical. Life to him meant action, rather than thought. He had
that rarest of all things, common sense.
The wild, turbid feelings of the previous night had by this time
completely passed away, and it was almost with a sense of shame
that he looked back upon his mad wanderings from street to street,
his fierce emotional agony. The very sincerity of his sufferings
made them seem unreal to him now. He wondered how he could have
been so foolish as to rant and rave about the inevitable. The only
question that seemed to trouble him was, whom to make away with;
for he was not blind to the fact that murder, like the religions of
the Pagan world, requires a victim as well as a priest. Not being
a genius, he had no enemies, and indeed he felt that this was not
the time for the gratification of any personal pique or dislike,
the mission in which he was engaged being one of great and grave
solemnity. He accordingly made out a list of his friends and
relatives on a sheet of notepaper, and after careful consideration,
decided in favour of Lady Clementina Beauchamp, a dear old lady who
lived in Curzon Street, and was his own second cousin by his
mother's side. He had always been very fond of Lady Clem, as every
one called her, and as he was very wealthy himself, having come
into all Lord Rugby's property when he came of age, there was no
possibility of his deriving any vulgar monetary advantage by her
death. In fact, the more he thought over the matter, the more she
seemed to him to be just the right person, and, feeling that any
delay would be unfair to Sybil, he determined to make his
arrangements at once.
The first thing to be done was, of course, to settle with the
cheiromantist; so he sat down at a small Sheraton writing-table
that stood near the window, drew a cheque for 105 pounds, payable
to the order of Mr. Septimus Podgers, and, enclosing it in an
envelope, told his valet to take it to West Moon Street. He then
telephoned to the stables for his hansom, and dressed to go out.
As he was leaving the room he looked back at Sybil Merton's
photograph, and swore that, come what may, he would never let her
know what he was doing for her sake, but would keep the secret of
his self-sacrifice hidden always in his heart.
On his way to the Buckingham, he stopped at a florist's, and sent
Sybil a beautiful basket of narcissus, with lovely white petals and
staring pheasants' eyes, and on arriving at the club, went straight
to the library, rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to bring him
a lemon-and-soda, and a book on Toxicology. He had fully decided
that poison was the best means to adopt in this troublesome
business. Anything like personal violence was extremely
distasteful to him, and besides, he was very anxious not to murder
Lady Clementina in any way that might attract public attention, as
he hated the idea of being lionised at Lady Windermere's, or seeing
his name figuring in the paragraphs of vulgar society - newspapers.
He had also to think of Sybil's father and mother, who were rather
old-fashioned people, and might possibly object to the marriage if
there was anything like a scandal, though he felt certain that if
he told them the whole facts of the case they would be the very
first to appreciate the motives that had actuated him. He had
every reason, then, to decide in favour of poison. It was safe,
sure, and quiet, and did away with any necessity for painful
scenes, to which, like most Englishmen, he had a rooted objection.
Of the science of poisons, however, he knew absolutely nothing, and
as the waiter seemed quite unable to find anything in the library
but RUFF'S GUIDE and BAILEY'S MAGAZINE, he examined the bookshelves
himself, and finally came across a handsomely-bound edition
of the PHARMACOPOEIA, and a copy of Erskine's TOXICOLOGY, edited by
Sir Mathew Reid, the President of the Royal College of Physicians,
and one of the oldest members of the Buckingham, having been
elected in mistake for somebody else; a CONTRETEMPS that so enraged
the Committee, that when the real man came up they black-balled him
unanimously. Lord Arthur was a good deal puzzled at the technical
terms used in both books, and had begun to regret that he had not
paid more attention to his classics at Oxford, when in the second
volume of Erskine, he found a very interesting and complete account
of the properties of aconitine, written in fairly clear English.
It seemed to him to be exactly the poison he wanted. It was swift
- indeed, almost immediate, in its effect - perfectly painless, and
when taken in the form of a gelatine capsule, the mode recommended
by Sir Mathew, not by any means unpalatable. He accordingly made a
note, upon his shirt-cuff, of the amount necessary for a fatal
dose, put the books back in their places, and strolled up St.
James's Street, to Pestle and Humbey's, the great chemists. Mr.
Pestle, who always attended personally on the aristocracy, was a
good deal surprised at the order, and in a very deferential manner
murmured something about a medical certificate being necessary.
However, as soon as Lord Arthur explained to him that it was for a
large Norwegian mastiff that he was obliged to get rid of, as it
showed signs of incipient rabies, and had already bitten the
coachman twice in the calf of the leg, he expressed himself as
being perfectly satisfied, complimented Lord Arthur on his
wonderful knowledge of Toxicology, and had the prescription made up
immediately.
Lord Arthur put the capsule into a pretty little silver BONBONNIERE
that he saw in a shop window in Bond Street, threw away Pestle and
Hambey's ugly pill-box, and drove off at once to Lady Clementina's.
'Well, MONSIEUR LE MAUVAIS SUJET,' cried the old lady, as he
entered the room, 'why haven't you been to see me all this time?'
'My dear Lady Clem, I never have a moment to myself,' said Lord
Arthur, smiling.
'I suppose you mean that you go about all day long with Miss Sybil
Merton, buying CHIFFONS and talking nonsense? I cannot understand
why people make such a fuss about being married. In my day we
never dreamed of billing and cooing in public, or in private for
that matter.'
'I assure you I have not seen Sybil for twenty-four hours, Lady
Clem. As far as I can make out, she belongs entirely to her
milliners.'
'Of course; that is the only reason you come to see an ugly old
woman like myself. I wonder you men don't take warning. ON A FAIT
DES FOLIES POUR MOI, and here I am, a poor rheumatic creature, with
a false front and a bad temper. Why, if it were not for dear Lady
Jansen, who sends me all the worst French novels she can find, I
don't think I could get through the day. Doctors are no use at
all, except to get fees out of one. They can't even cure my
heartburn.'
'I have brought you a cure for that, Lady Clem,' said Lord Arthur
gravely. 'It is a wonderful thing, invented by an American.'
'I don't think I like American inventions, Arthur. I am quite sure
I don't. I read some American novels lately, and they were quite
nonsensical.'
'Oh, but there is no nonsense at all about this, Lady Clem! I
assure you it is a perfect cure. You must promise to try it'; and
Lord Arthur brought the little box out of his pocket, and handed it
to her.
'Well, the box is charming, Arthur. Is it really a present? That
is very sweet of you. And is this the wonderful medicine? It
looks like a BONBON. I'll take it at once.'
'Good heavens! Lady Clem,' cried Lord Arthur, catching hold of her
hand, 'you mustn't do anything of the kind. It is a homoeopathic
medicine, and if you take it without having heartburn, it might do
you no end of harm. Wait till you have an attack, and take it
then. You will be astonished at the result.'
'I should like to take it now,' said Lady Clementina, holding up to
the light the little transparent capsule, with its floating bubble
of liquid aconitine. I am sure it is delicious. The fact is that,
though I hate doctors, I love medicines. However, I'll keep it
till my next attack.'
'And when will that be?' asked Lord Arthur eagerly. 'Will it be
soon?'
'I hope not for a week. I had a very bad time yesterday morning
with it. But one never knows.'
'You are sure to have one before the end of the month then, Lady
Clem?'
'I am afraid so. But how sympathetic you are to-day, Arthur!
Really, Sybil has done you a great deal of good. And now you must
run away, for I am dining with some very dull people, who won't
talk scandal, and I know that if I don't get my sleep now I shall
never be able to keep awake during dinner. Good-bye, Arthur, give
my love to Sybil, and thank you so much for the American medicine.'
'You won't forget to take it, Lady Clem, will you?' said Lord
Arthur, rising from his seat.
'Of course I won't, you silly boy. I think it is most kind of you
to think of me, and I shall write and tell you if I want any more.'
Lord Arthur left the house in high spirits, and with a feeling of
immense relief.
That night he had an interview with Sybil Merton. He told her how
he had been suddenly placed in a position of terrible difficulty,
from which neither honour nor duty would allow him to recede. He
told her that the marriage must be put off for the present, as
until he had got rid of his fearful entanglements, he was not a
free man. He implored her to trust him, and not to have any doubts
about the future. Everything would come right, but patience was
necessary.
The scene took place in the conservatory of Mr. Merton's house, in
Park Lane, where Lord Arthur had dined as usual. Sybil had never
seemed more happy, and for a moment Lord Arthur had been tempted to
play the coward's part, to write to Lady Clementina for the pill,
and to let the marriage go on as if there was no such person as Mr.
Podgers in the world. His better nature, however, soon asserted
itself, and even when Sybil flung herself weeping into his arms, he
did not falter. The beauty that stirred his senses had touched his
conscience also. He felt that to wreck so fair a life for the sake
of a few months' pleasure would be a wrong thing to do.
He stayed with Sybil till nearly midnight, comforting her and being
comforted in turn, and early the next morning he left for Venice,
after writing a manly, firm letter to Mr. Merton about the
necessary postponement of the marriage.
CHAPTER IV
IN Venice he met his brother, Lord Surbiton, who happened to have
come over from Corfu in his yacht. The two young men spent a
delightful fortnight together. In the morning they rode on the
Lido, or glided up and down the green canals in their long black
gondola; in the afternoon they usually entertained visitors on the
yacht; and in the evening they dined at Florian's, and smoked
innumerable cigarettes on the Piazza. Yet somehow Lord Arthur was
not happy. Every day he studied the obituary column in the TIMES,
expecting to see a notice of Lady Clementina's death, but every day
he was disappointed. He began to be afraid that some accident had
happened to her, and often regretted that he had prevented her
taking the aconitine when she had been so anxious to try its
effect. Sybil's letters, too, though full of love, and trust, and
tenderness, were often very sad in their tone, and sometimes he
used to think that he was parted from her for ever.
After a fortnight Lord Surbiton got bored with Venice, and
determined to run down the coast to Ravenna, as he heard that there
was some capital cock-shooting in the Pinetum. Lord Arthur at
first refused absolutely to come, but Surbiton, of whom he was
extremely fond, finally persuaded him that if he stayed at
Danieli's by himself he would be moped to death, and on the morning
of the 15th they started, with a strong nor'-east wind blowing, and
a rather choppy sea. The sport was excellent, and the free, openair
life brought the colour back to Lord Arthur's cheek, but about
the 22nd he became anxious about Lady Clementina, and, in spite of
Surbiton's remonstrances, came back to Venice by train.
As he stepped out of his gondola on to the hotel steps, the
proprietor came forward to meet him with a sheaf of telegrams.
Lord Arthur snatched them out of his hand, and tore them open.
Everything had been successful. Lady Clementina had died quite
suddenly on the night of the 17th!
His first thought was for Sybil, and he sent her off a telegram
announcing his immediate return to London. He then ordered his
valet to pack his things for the night mail, sent his gondoliers
about five times their proper fare, and ran up to his sitting-room
with a light step and a buoyant heart. There he found three
letters waiting for him. One was from Sybil herself, full of
sympathy and condolence. The others were from his mother, and from
Lady Clementina's solicitor. It seemed that the old lady had dined
with the Duchess that very night, had delighted every one by her
wit and ESPRIT, but had gone home somewhat early, complaining of
heartburn. In the morning she was found dead in her bed, having
apparently suffered no pain. Sir Mathew Reid had been sent for at
once, but, of course, there was nothing to be done, and she was to
be buried on the 22nd at Beauchamp Chalcote. A few days before she
died she had made her will, and left Lord Arthur her little house
in Curzon Street, and all her furniture, personal effects, and
pictures, with the exception of her collection of miniatures, which
was to go to her sister, Lady Margaret Rufford, and her amethyst
necklace, which Sybil Merton was to have. The property was not of
much value; but Mr. Mansfield, the solicitor, was extremely anxious
for Lord Arthur to return at once, if possible, as there were a
great many bills to be paid, and Lady Clementina had never kept any
regular accounts.
Lord Arthur was very much touched by Lady Clementina's kind
remembrance of him, and felt that Mr. Podgers had a great deal to
answer for. His love of Sybil, however, dominated every other
emotion, and the consciousness that he had done his duty gave him
peace and comfort. When he arrived at Charing Cross, he felt
perfectly happy.
The Mertons received him very kindly. Sybil made him promise that
he would never again allow anything to come between them, and the
marriage was fixed for the 7th June. Life seemed to him once more
bright and beautiful, and all his old gladness came back to him
again.
One day, however, as he was going over the house in Curzon Street,
in company with Lady Clementina's solicitor and Sybil herself,
burning packages of faded letters, and turning out drawers of odd
rubbish, the young girl suddenly gave a little cry of delight.
'What have you found, Sybil?' said Lord Arthur, looking up from his
work, and smiling.
'This lovely little silver BONBONNIERE, Arthur. Isn't it quaint
and Dutch? Do give it to me! I know amethysts won't become me
till I am over eighty.'
It was the box that had held the aconitine.
Lord Arthur started, and a faint blush came into his cheek. He had
almost entirely forgotten what he had done, and it seemed to him a
curious coincidence that Sybil, for whose sake he had gone through
all that terrible anxiety, should have been the first to remind him
of it.
'Of course you can have it, Sybil. I gave it to poor Lady Clem
myself.'
'Oh! thank you, Arthur; and may I have the BONBON too? I had no
notion that Lady Clementina liked sweets. I thought she was far
too intellectual.'
Lord Arthur grew deadly pale, and a horrible idea crossed his mind.
'BONBON, Sybil? What do you mean?' he said in a slow, hoarse
voice.
'There is one in it, that is all. It looks quite old and dusty,
and I have not the slightest intention of eating it. What is the
matter, Arthur? How white you look!'
Lord Arthur rushed across the room, and seized the box. Inside it
was the amber-coloured capsule, with its poison-bubble. Lady
Clementina had died a natural death after all!
The shock of the discovery was almost too much for him. He flung
the capsule into the fire, and sank on the sofa with a cry of
despair.
CHAPTER V
MR. MERTON was a good deal distressed at the second postponement of
the marriage, and Lady Julia, who had already ordered her dress for
the wedding, did all in her power to make Sybil break off the
match. Dearly, however, as Sybil loved her mother, she had given
her whole life into Lord Arthur's hands, and nothing that Lady
Julia could say could make her waver in her faith. As for Lord
Arthur himself, it took him days to get over his terrible
disappointment, and for a time his nerves were completely unstrung.
His excellent common sense, however, soon asserted itself, and his
sound, practical mind did not leave him long in doubt about what to
do. Poison having proved a complete failure, dynamite, or some
other form of explosive, was obviously the proper thing to try.
He accordingly looked again over the list of his friends and
relatives, and, after careful consideration, determined to blow up
his uncle, the Dean of Chichester. The Dean, who was a man of
great culture and learning, was extremely fond of clocks, and had a
wonderful collection of timepieces, ranging from the fifteenth
century to the present day, and it seemed to Lord Arthur that this
hobby of the good Dean's offered him an excellent opportunity for
carrying out his scheme. Where to procure an explosive machine
was, of course, quite another matter. The London Directory gave
him no information on the point, and he felt that there was very
little use in going to Scotland Yard about it, as they never seemed
to know anything about the movements of the dynamite faction till
after an explosion had taken place, and not much even then.
Suddenly he thought of his friend Rouvaloff, a young Russian of
very revolutionary tendencies, whom he had met at Lady Windermere's
in the winter. Count Rouvaloff was supposed to be writing a life
of Peter the Great, and to have come over to England for the
purpose of studying the documents relating to that Tsar's residence
in this country as a ship carpenter; but it was generally suspected
that he was a Nihilist agent, and there was no doubt that the
Russian Embassy did not look with any favour upon his presence in
London. Lord Arthur felt that he was just the man for his purpose,
and drove down one morning to his lodgings in Bloomsbury, to ask
his advice and assistance.
'So you are taking up politics seriously?' said Count Rouvaloff,
when Lord Arthur had told him the object of his mission; but Lord
Arthur, who hated swagger of any kind, felt bound to admit to him
that he had not the slightest interest in social questions, and
simply wanted the explosive machine for a purely family matter, in
which no one was concerned but himself.
Count Rouvaloff looked at him for some moments in amazement, and
then seeing that he was quite serious, wrote an address on a piece
of paper, initialled it, and handed it to him across the table.
'Scotland Yard would give a good deal to know this address, my dear
fellow.'
'They shan't have it,' cried Lord Arthur, laughing; and after
shaking the young Russian warmly by the hand he ran downstairs,
examined the paper, and told the coachman to drive to Soho Square.
There he dismissed him, and strolled down Greek Street, till he
came to a place called Bayle's Court. He passed under the archway,
and found himself in a curious CUL-DE-SAC, that was apparently
occupied by a French Laundry, as a perfect network of clothes-lines
was stretched across from house to house, and there was a flutter
of white linen in the morning air. He walked right to the end, and
knocked at a little green house. After some delay, during which
every window in the court became a blurred mass of peering faces,
the door was opened by a rather rough-looking foreigner, who asked
him in very bad English what his business was. Lord Arthur handed
him the paper Count Rouvaloff had given him. When the man saw it
he bowed, and invited Lord Arthur into a very shabby front parlour
on the ground floor, and in a few moments Herr Winckelkopf, as he
was called in England, bustled into the room, with a very winestained
napkin round his neck, and a fork in his left hand.
'Count Rouvaloff has given me an introduction to you,' said Lord
Arthur, bowing, 'and I am anxious to have a short interview with
you on a matter of business. My name is Smith, Mr. Robert Smith,
and I want you to supply me with an explosive clock.'
'Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur,' said the genial little German,
laughing. 'Don't look so alarmed, it is my duty to know everybody,
and I remember seeing you one evening at Lady Windermere's. I hope
her ladyship is quite well. Do you mind sitting with me while I
finish my breakfast? There is an excellent PATE, and my friends
are kind enough to say that my Rhine wine is better than any they
get at the German Embassy,' and before Lord Arthur had got over his
surprise at being recognised, he found himself seated in the backroom,
sipping the most delicious Marcobrunner out of a pale yellow
hock-glass marked with the Imperial monogram, and chatting in the
friendliest manner possible to the famous conspirator.
'Explosive clocks,' said Herr Winckelkopf, 'are not very good
things for foreign exportation, as, even if they succeed in passing
the Custom House, the train service is so irregular, that they
usually go off before they have reached their proper destination.
If, however, you want one for home use, I can supply you with an
excellent article, and guarantee that you will he satisfied with
the result. May I ask for whom it is intended? If it is for the
police, or for any one connected with Scotland Yard, I am afraid I
cannot do anything for you. The English detectives are really our
best friends, and I have always found that by relying on their
stupidity, we can do exactly what we like. I could not spare one
of them.'
'I assure you,' said Lord Arthur, 'that it has nothing to do with
the police at all. In fact, the clock is intended for the Dean of
Chichester.'
'Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly about religion,
Lord Arthur. Few young men do nowadays.'
'I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf,' said Lord Arthur,
blushing. 'The fact is, I really know nothing about theology.'
'It is a purely private matter then?'
'Purely private.'
Herr Winckelkopf shrugged his shoulders, and left the room,
returning in a few minutes with a round cake of dynamite about the
size of a penny, and a pretty little French clock, surmounted by an
ormolu figure of Liberty trampling on the hydra of Despotism.
Lord Arthur's face brightened up when he saw it. 'That is just
what I want,' he cried, 'and now tell me how it goes off.'
'Ah! there is my secret,' answered Herr Winckelkopf, contemplating
his invention with a justifiable look of pride; 'let me know when
you wish it to explode, and I will set the machine to the moment.'
'Well, to-day is Tuesday, and if you could send it off at once - '
'That is impossible; I have a great deal of important work on hand
for some friends of mine in Moscow. Still, I might send it off tomorrow.'
'Oh, it will be quite time enough!' said Lord Arthur politely, 'if
it is delivered to-morrow night or Thursday morning. For the
moment of the explosion, say Friday at noon exactly. The Dean is
always at home at that hour.'
'Friday, at noon,' repeated Herr Winckelkopf, and he made a note to
that effect in a large ledger that was lying on a bureau near the
fireplace.
'And now,' said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat, 'pray let me
know how much I am in your debt.'
'It is such a small matter, Lord Arthur, that I do not care to make
any charge. The dynamite comes to seven and sixpence, the clock
will be three pounds ten, and the carriage about five shillings. I
am only too pleased to oblige any friend of Count Rouvaloff's.'
'But your trouble, Herr Winckelkopf?'
'Oh, that is nothing! It is a pleasure to me. I do not work for
money; I live entirely for my art.'
Lord Arthur laid down 4 pounds, 2s. 6d. on the table, thanked the
little German for his kindness, and, having succeeded in declining
an invitation to meet some Anarchists at a meat-tea on the
following Saturday, left the house and went off to the Park.
For the next two days he was in a state of the greatest excitement,
and on Friday at twelve o'clock he drove down to the Buckingham to
wait for news. All the afternoon the stolid hall-porter kept
posting up telegrams from various parts of the country giving the
results of horse-races, the verdicts in divorce suits, the state of
the weather, and the like, while the tape ticked out wearisome
details about an all-night sitting in the House of Commons, and a
small panic on the Stock Exchange. At four o'clock the evening
papers came in, and Lord Arthur disappeared into the library with
the PALL MALL, the ST. JAMES'S, the GLOBE, and the ECHO, to the
immense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who wanted to read the
reports of a speech he had delivered that morning at the Mansion
House, on the subject of South African Missions, and the
advisability of having black Bishops in every province, and for
some reason or other had a strong prejudice against the EVENING
NEWS. None of the papers, however, contained even the slightest
allusion to Chichester, and Lord Arthur felt that the attempt must
have failed. It was a terrible blow to him, and for a time he was
quite unnerved. Herr Winckelkopf, whom he went to see the next day
was full of elaborate apologies, and offered to supply him with
another clock free of charge, or with a case of nitro-glycerine
bombs at cost price. But he had lost all faith in explosives, and
Herr Winckelkopf himself acknowledged that everything is so
adulterated nowadays, that even dynamite can hardly be got in a
pure condition. The little German, however, while admitting that
something must have gone wrong with the machinery, was not without
hope that the clock might still go off, and instanced the case of a
barometer that he had once sent to the military Governor at Odessa,
which, though timed to explode in ten days, had not done so for
something like three months. It was quite true that when it did go
off, it merely succeeded in blowing a housemaid to atoms, the
Governor having gone out of town six weeks before, but at least it
showed that dynamite, as a destructive force, was, when under the
control of machinery, a powerful, though a somewhat unpunctual
agent. Lord Arthur was a little consoled by this reflection, but
even here he was destined to disappointment, for two days
afterwards, as he was going upstairs, the Duchess called him into
her boudoir, and showed him a letter she had just received from the
Deanery.
'Jane writes charming letters,' said the Duchess; 'you must really
read her last. It is quite as good as the novels Mudie sends us.'
Lord Arthur seized the letter from her hand. It ran as follows:-
THE DEANERY, CHICHESTER,
27TH MAY.
My Dearest Aunt,
Thank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and also
for the gingham. I quite agree with you that it is nonsense their
wanting to wear pretty things, but everybody is so Radical and
irreligious nowadays, that it is difficult to make them see that
they should not try and dress like the upper classes. I am sure I
don't know what we are coming to. As papa has often said in his
sermons, we live in an age of unbelief.
We have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer sent
papa last Thursday. It arrived in a wooden box from London,
carriage paid, and papa feels it must have been sent by some one
who had read his remarkable sermon, 'Is Licence Liberty?' for on
the top of the clock was a figure of a woman, with what papa said
was the cap of Liberty on her head. I didn't think it very
becoming myself, but papa said it was historical, so I suppose it
is all right. Parker unpacked it, and papa put it on the
mantelpiece in the library, and we were all sitting there on Friday
morning, when just as the clock struck twelve, we heard a whirring
noise, a little puff of smoke came from the pedestal of the figure,
and the goddess of Liberty fell off, and broke her nose on the
fender! Maria was quite alarmed, but it looked so ridiculous, that
James and I went off into fits of laughter, and even papa was
amused. When we examined it, we found it was a sort of alarum
clock, and that, if you set it to a particular hour, and put some
gunpowder and a cap under a little hammer, it went off whenever you
wanted. Papa said it must not remain in the library, as it made a
noise, so Reggie carried it away to the schoolroom, and does
nothing but have small explosions all day long. Do you think
Arthur would like one for a wedding present? I suppose they are
quite fashionable in London. Papa says they should do a great deal
of good, as they show that Liberty can't last, but must fall down.
Papa says Liberty was invented at the time of the French
Revolution. How awful it seems!
I have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your most
instructive letter. How true, dear aunt, your idea is, that in
their rank of life they should wear what is unbecoming. I must say
it is absurd, their anxiety about dress, when there are so many
more important things in this world, and in the next. I am so glad
your flowered poplin turned out so well, and that your lace was not
torn. I am wearing my yellow satin, that you so kindly gave me, at
the Bishop's on Wednesday, and think it will look all right. Would
you have bows or not? Jennings says that every one wears bows now,
and that the underskirt should be frilled. Reggie has just had
another explosion, and papa has ordered the clock to be sent to the
stables. I don't think papa likes it so much as he did at first,
though he is very flattered at being sent such a pretty and
ingenious toy. It shows that people read his sermons, and profit
by them.
Papa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria all
unite, and, hoping that Uncle Cecil's gout is better, believe me,
dear aunt, ever your affectionate niece,
JANE PERCY.
PS. - Do tell me about the bows. Jennings insists they are the
fashion.
Lord Arthur looked so serious and unhappy over the letter, that the
Duchess went into fits of laughter.
'My dear Arthur,' she cried, 'I shall never show you a young lady's
letter again! But what shall I say about the clock? I think it is
a capital invention, and I should like to have one myself.'
'I don't think much of them,' said Lord Arthur, with a sad smile,
and, after kissing his mother, he left the room.
When he got upstairs, he flung himself on a sofa, and his eyes
filled with tears. He had done his best to commit this murder, but
on both occasions he had failed, and through no fault of his own.
He had tried to do his duty, but it seemed as if Destiny herself
had turned traitor. He was oppressed with the sense of the
barrenness of good intentions, of the futility of trying to be
fine. Perhaps, it would be better to break off the marriage
altogether. Sybil would suffer, it is true, but suffering could
not really mar a nature so noble as hers. As for himself, what did
it matter? There is always some war in which a man can die, some
cause to which a man can give his life, and as life had no pleasure
for him, so death had no terror. Let Destiny work out his doom.
He would not stir to help her.
At half-past seven he dressed, and went down to the club. Surbiton
was there with a party of young men, and he was obliged to dine
with them. Their trivial conversation and idle jests did not
interest him, and as soon as coffee was brought he left them,
inventing some engagement in order to get away. As he was going
out of the club, the hall-porter handed him a letter. It was from
Herr Winckelkopf, asking him to call down the next evening, and
look at an explosive umbrella, that went off as soon as it was
opened. It was the very latest invention, and had just arrived
from Geneva. He tore the letter up into fragments. He had made up
his mind not to try any more experiments. Then he wandered down to
the Thames Embankment, and sat for hours by the river. The moon
peered through a mane of tawny clouds, as if it were a lion's eye,
and innumerable stars spangled the hollow vault, like gold dust
powdered on a purple dome. Now and then a barge swung out into the
turbid stream, and floated away with the tide, and the railway
signals changed from green to scarlet as the trains ran shrieking
across the bridge. After some time, twelve o'clock boomed from the
tall tower at Westminster, and at each stroke of the sonorous bell
the night seemed to tremble. Then the railway lights went out, one
solitary lamp left gleaming like a large ruby on a giant mast, and
the roar of the city became fainter.
At two o'clock he got up, and strolled towards Blackfriars. How
unreal everything looked! How like a strange dream! The houses on
the other side of the river seemed built out of darkness. One
would have said that silver and shadow had fashioned the world
anew. The huge dome of St. Paul's loomed like a bubble through the
dusky air.
As he approached Cleopatra's Needle he saw a man leaning over the
parapet, and as he came nearer the man looked up, the gas-light
falling full upon his face.
It was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist! No one could mistake the
fat, flabby face, the gold-rimmed spectacles, the sickly feeble
smile, the sensual mouth.
Lord Arthur stopped. A brilliant idea flashed across him, and he
stole softly up behind. In a moment he had seized Mr. Podgers by
the legs, and flung him into the Thames. There was a coarse oath,
a heavy splash, and all was still. Lord Arthur looked anxiously
over, but could see nothing of the cheiromantist but a tall hat,
pirouetting in an eddy of moonlit water. After a time it also
sank, and no trace of Mr. Podgers was visible. Once he thought
that he caught sight of the bulky misshapen figure striking out for
the staircase by the bridge, and a horrible feeling of failure came
over him, but it turned out to be merely a reflection, and when the
moon shone out from behind a cloud it passed away. At last he
seemed to have realised the decree of destiny. He heaved a deep
sigh of relief, and Sybil's name came to his lips.
'Have you dropped anything, sir?' said a voice behind him suddenly.
He turned round, and saw a policeman with a bull's-eye lantern.
'Nothing of importance, sergeant,' he answered, smiling, and
hailing a passing hansom, he jumped in, and told the man to drive
to Belgrave Square.
For the next few days he alternated between hope and fear. There
were moments when he almost expected Mr. Podgers to walk into the
room, and yet at other times he felt that Fate could not be so
unjust to him. Twice he went to the cheiromantist's address in
West Moon Street, but he could not bring himself to ring the bell.
He longed for certainty, and was afraid of it.
Finally it came. He was sitting in the smoking-room of the club
having tea, and listening rather wearily to Surbiton's account of
the last comic song at the Gaiety, when the waiter came in with the
evening papers. He took up the ST. JAMES'S, and was listlessly
turning over its pages, when this strange heading caught his eye:
SUICIDE OF A CHEIROMANTIST.
He turned pale with excitement, and began to read. The paragraph
ran as follows:
Yesterday morning, at seven o'clock, the body of Mr. Septimus R.
Podgers, the eminent cheiromantist, was washed on shore at
Greenwich, just in front of the Ship Hotel. The unfortunate
gentleman had been missing for some days, and considerable anxiety
for his safety had been felt in cheiromantic circles. It is
supposed that he committed suicide under the influence of a
temporary mental derangement, caused by overwork, and a verdict to
that effect was returned this afternoon by the coroner's jury. Mr.
Podgers had just completed an elaborate treatise on the subject of
the Human Hand, that will shortly be published, when it will no
doubt attract much attention. The deceased was sixty-five years of
age, and does not seem to have left any relations.
Lord Arthur rushed out of the club with the paper still in his
hand, to the immense amazement of the hall-porter, who tried in
vain to stop him, and drove at once to Park Lane. Sybil saw him
from the window, and something told her that he was the bearer of
good news. She ran down to meet him, and, when she saw his face,
she knew that all was well.
'My dear Sybil,' cried Lord Arthur, 'let us be married to-morrow!'
'You foolish boy! Why, the cake is not even ordered!' said Sybil,
laughing through her tears.
CHAPTER VI
WHEN the wedding took place, some three weeks later, St. Peter's
was crowded with a perfect mob of smart people. The service was
read in the most impressive manner by the Dean of Chichester, and
everybody agreed that they had never seen a handsomer couple than
the bride and bridegroom. They were more than handsome, however -
they were happy. Never for a single moment did Lord Arthur regret
all that he had suffered for Sybil's sake, while she, on her side,
gave him the best things a woman can give to any man - worship,
tenderness, and love. For them romance was not killed by reality.
They always felt young.
Some years afterwards, when two beautiful children had been born to
them, Lady Windermere came down on a visit to Alton Priory, a
lovely old place, that had been the Duke's wedding present to his
son; and one afternoon as she was sitting with Lady Arthur under a
lime-tree in the garden, watching the little boy and girl as they
played up and down the rose-walk, like fitful sunbeams, she
suddenly took her hostess's hand in hers, and said, 'Are you happy,
Sybil?'
'Dear Lady Windermere, of course I am happy. Aren't you?'
'I have no time to be happy, Sybil. I always like the last person
who is introduced to me; but, as a rule, as soon as I know people I
get tired of them.'
'Don't your lions satisfy you, Lady Windermere?'
'Oh dear, no! lions are only good for one season. As soon as their
manes are cut, they are the dullest creatures going. Besides, they
behave very badly, if you are really nice to them. Do you remember
that horrid Mr. Podgers? He was a dreadful impostor. Of course, I
didn't mind that at all, and even when he wanted to borrow money I
forgave him, but I could not stand his making love to me. He has
really made me hate cheiromancy. I go in for telepathy now. It is
much more amusing.'
'You mustn't say anything against cheiromancy here, Lady
Windermere; it is the only subject that Arthur does not like people
to chaff about. I assure you he is quite serious over it.'
'You don't mean to say that he believes in it, Sybil?'
'Ask him, Lady Windermere, here he is'; and Lord Arthur came up the
garden with a large bunch of yellow roses in his hand, and his two
children dancing round him.
'Lord Arthur?'
'Yes, Lady Windermere.'
'You don't mean to say that you believe in cheiromancy?'
'Of course I do,' said the young man, smiling.
'But why?'
'Because I owe to it all the happiness of my life,' he murmured,
throwing himself into a wicker chair.
'My dear Lord Arthur, what do you owe to it?'
'Sybil,' he answered, handing his wife the roses, and looking into
her violet eyes.
'What nonsense!' cried Lady Windermere. 'I never heard such
nonsense in all my life.'
THE CANTERVILLE GHOST
CHAPTER I
WHEN Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville
Chase, every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as
there was no doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord
Canterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour,
had felt it his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came
to discuss terms.
'We have not cared to live in the place ourselves,' said Lord
Canterville, 'since my grandaunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton,
was frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered,
by two skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was
dressing for dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that
the ghost has been seen by several living members of my family, as
well as by the rector of the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who
is a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate
accident to the Duchess, none of our younger servants would stay
with us, and Lady Canterville often got very little sleep at night,
in consequence of the mysterious noises that came from the corridor
and the library.'
'My Lord,' answered the Minister, 'I will take the furniture and
the ghost at a valuation. I come from a modern country, where we
have everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young
fellows painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best
actresses and prima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a
thing as a ghost in Europe, we'd have it at home in a very short
time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a show.'
'I fear that the ghost exists,' said Lord Canterville, smiling,
'though it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising
impresarios. It has been well known for three centuries, since
1584 in fact, and always makes its appearance before the death of
any member of our family.'
'Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville.
But there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws
of Nature are not going to be suspended for the British
aristocracy.'
'You are certainly very natural in America,' answered Lord
Canterville, who did not quite understand Mr. Otis's last
observation, 'and if you don't mind a ghost in the house, it is all
right. Only you must remember I warned you.'
A few weeks after this, the purchase was completed, and at the
close of the season the Minister and his family went down to
Canterville Chase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of
West 53rd Street, had been a celebrated New York belle, was now a
very handsome, middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb
profile. Many American ladies on leaving their native land adopt
an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the impression that it
is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen
into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a really
wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she
was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we
have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of
course, language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his
parents in a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret,
was a fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified
himself for American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport
Casino for three successive seasons, and even in London was well
known as an excellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his
only weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss
Virginia E. Otis was a little girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as
a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large blue eyes. She was a
wonderful amazon, and had once raced old Lord Bilton on her pony
twice round the park, winning by a length and a half, just in front
of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young Duke of
Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent back to
Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After
Virginia came the twins, who were usually called 'The Stars and
Stripes,' as they were always getting swished. They were
delightful boys, and with the exception of the worthy Minister the
only true republicans of the family.
As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway
station, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them,
and they started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely
July evening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods.
Now and then they heard a wood pigeon brooding over its own
sweet voice, or saw, deep in the rustling fern, the burnished
breast of the pheasant. Little squirrels peered at them from the
beech-trees as they went by, and the rabbits scudded away through
the brushwood and over the mossy knolls, with their white tails in
the air. As they entered the avenue of Canterville Chase, however,
the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds, a curious stillness
seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great flight of rooks passed
silently over their heads, and, before they reached the house, some
big drops of rain had fallen.
Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly
dressed in black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs.
Umney, the housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville's
earnest request, had consented to keep on in her former position.
She made them each a low curtsey as they alighted, and said in a
quaint, old-fashioned manner, 'I bid you welcome to Canterville
Chase.' Following her, they passed through the fine Tudor hall
into the library, a long, low room, panelled in black oak, at the
end of which was a large stained-glass window. Here they found tea
laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they sat down
and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.
Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor
just by the fireplace and, quite unconscious of what it really
signified, said to Mrs. Umney, 'I am afraid something has been
spilt there.'
'Yes, madam,' replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, 'blood
has been spilt on that spot.'
'How horrid,' cried Mrs. Otis; 'I don't at all care for bloodstains
in a sitting-room. It must be removed at once.'
The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious
voice, 'It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was
murdered on that very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de
Canterville, in 1575. Sir Simon survived her nine years, and
disappeared suddenly under very mysterious circumstances. His body
has never been discovered, but his guilty spirit still haunts the
Chase. The blood-stain has been much admired by tourists and
others, and cannot be removed.'
'That is all nonsense,' cried Washington Otis; 'Pinkerton's
Champion Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no
time,' and before the terrified housekeeper could interfere he had
fallen upon his knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a
small stick of what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments
no trace of the blood-stain could be seen.
'I knew Pinkerton would do it,' he exclaimed triumphantly, as he
looked round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said
these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre
room, a fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet,
and Mrs. Umney fainted.
'What a monstrous climate!' said the American Minister calmly, as
he lit a long cheroot. 'I guess the old country is so
overpopulated that they have not enough decent weather for
everybody. I have always been of opinion that emigration is the
only thing for England.'
'My dear Hiram,' cried Mrs. Otis, 'what can we do with a woman who
faints?'
'Charge it to her like breakages,' answered the Minister; 'she
won't faint after that'; and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly
came to. There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely
upset, and she sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble
coming to the house.
'I have seen things with my own eyes, sir,' she said, 'that would
make any Christian's hair stand on end, and many and many a night I
have not closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done
here.' Mr. Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest
soul that they were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the
blessings of Providence on her new master and mistress, and making
arrangements for an increase of salary, the old housekeeper
tottered off to her own room.
CHAPTER II
THE storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular
note occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to
breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the
floor. 'I don't think it can be the fault of the Paragon
Detergent,' said Washington, 'for I have tried it with everything.
It must be the ghost.' He accordingly rubbed out the stain a
second time, but the second morning it appeared again. The third
morning also it was there, though the library had been locked up at
night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key carried upstairs. The whole
family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis began to suspect that he
had been too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of ghosts,
Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the Psychical Society,
and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs. Myers and Podmore
on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when
connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective
existence of phantasmata were removed for ever.
The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening,
the whole family went out for a drive. They did not return home
till nine o'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation
in no way turned upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary
conditions of receptive expectation which so often precede the
presentation of psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I
have since learned from Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the
ordinary conversation of cultured Americans of the better class,
such as the immense superiority of Miss Fanny Davenport over Sarah
Bernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of obtaining green corn,
buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best English houses; the
importance of Boston in the development of the world-soul; the
advantages of the baggage check system in railway travelling; and
the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the London
drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was Sir
Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock the
family retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some
time after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the
corridor, outside his room. It sounded like the clank of metal,
and seemed to be coming nearer every moment. He got up at once,
struck a match, and looked at the time. It was exactly one
o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his pulse, which was not at
all feverish. The strange noise still continued, and with it he
heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his slippers,
took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened the
door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old
man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long
grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments,
which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his
wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.
'My dear sir,' said Mr. Otis, 'I really must insist on your oiling
those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle
of the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely
efficacious upon one application, and there are several
testimonials to that effect on the wrapper from some of our most
eminent native divines. I shall leave it here for you by the
bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more should
you require it.' With these words the United States Minister laid
the bottle down on a marble table, and, closing his door, retired
to rest.
For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in
natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the
polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans,
and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached
the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two
little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed
past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily
adopting the Fourth Dimension of Space as a means of escape, he
vanished through the wainscoting, and the house became quite quiet.
On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up
against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and
realise his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted
career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He
thought of the Dowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit
as she stood before the glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four
housemaids, who had gone off into hysterics when he merely grinned
at them through the curtains of one of the spare bedrooms; of the
rector of the parish, whose candle he had blown out as he was
coming late one night from the library, and who had been under the
care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr to nervous
disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having wakened up
one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an arm-chair by the
fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six weeks
with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become
reconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that
notorious sceptic Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible
night when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his
dressing-room, with the knave of diamonds half-way down his throat,
and confessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles
James Fox out of 50,000 pounds at Crockford's by means of that very
card, and swore that the ghost had made him swallow it. All his
great achievements came back to him again, from the butler who had
shot himself in the pantry because he had seen a green hand tapping
at the window pane, to the beautiful Lady Stutfield, who was always
obliged to wear a black velvet band round her throat to hide the
mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned
herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the King's Walk.
With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist he went over his
most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he
recalled to mind his last appearance as 'Red Ruben, or the
Strangled Babe,' his DEBUT as 'Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of
Bexley Moor,' and the FURORE he had excited one lovely June evening
by merely playing ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis
ground. And after all this, some wretched modern Americans were to
come and offer him the Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at
his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides, no ghosts in history
had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined
to have vengeance, and remained till daylight in an attitude of
deep thought.
CHAPTER III
THE next morning when the Otis family met at breakfast, they
discussed the ghost at some length. The United States Minister was
naturally a little annoyed to find that his present had not been
accepted. 'I have no wish,' he said, 'to do the ghost any personal
injury, and I must say that, considering the length of time he has
been in the house, I don't think it is at all polite to throw
pillows at him' - a very just remark, at which, I am sorry to say,
the twins burst into shouts of laughter. 'Upon the other hand,' he
continued, 'if he really declines to use the Rising Sun Lubricator,
we shall have to take his chains from him. It would be quite
impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside the
bedrooms.'
For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only
thing that excited any attention being the continual renewal of the
blood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange,
as the door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows
kept closely barred. The chameleon-like colour, also, of the stain
excited a good deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull
(almost Indian) red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich
purple, and once when they came down for family prayers, according
to the simple rites of the Free American Reformed Episcopalian
Church, they found it a bright emerald-green. These kaleidoscopic
changes naturally amused the party very much, and bets on the
subject were freely made every evening. The only person who did
not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who, for some
unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the sight
of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was
emerald-green.
The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly
after they had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful
crash in the hall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large
suit of old armour had become detached from its stand, and had
fallen on the stone floor, while, seated in a high-backed chair,
was the Canterville ghost, rubbing his knees with an expression of
acute agony on his face. The twins, having brought their peashooters
with them, at once discharged two pellets on him, with
that accuracy of aim which can only be attained by long and careful
practice on a writing-master, while the United States Minister
covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in accordance
with Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost
started up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like
a mist, extinguishing Washington Otis's candle as he passed, and so
leaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the
staircase he recovered himself, and determined to give his
celebrated peal of demoniac laughter. This he had on more than one
occasion found extremely useful. It was said to have turned Lord
Raker's wig grey in a single night, and had certainly made three of
Lady Canterville's French governesses give warning before their
month was up. He accordingly laughed his most horrible laugh, till
the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the
fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out
in a light blue dressing-gown. 'I am afraid you are far from
well,' she said, 'and have brought you a bottle of Dr. Dobell's
tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent
remedy.' The ghost glared at her in fury, and began at once to
make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an
accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the
family doctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord
Canterville's uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of
approaching footsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell
purpose, so he contented himself with becoming faintly
phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep churchyard groan, just as
the twins had come up to him.
On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to
the most violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the
gross materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying,
but what really distressed him most was, that he had been unable to
wear the suit of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans
would be thrilled by the sight of a Spectre In Armour, if for no
more sensible reason, at least out of respect for their national
poet Longfellow, over whose graceful and attractive poetry he
himself had whiled away many a weary hour when the Cantervilles
were up in town. Besides, it was his own suit. He had worn it
with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had been
highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen
herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely
overpowered by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque,
and had fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his
knees severely, and bruising the knuckles of his right hand.
For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred
out of his room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper
repair. However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered,
and resolved to make a third attempt to frighten the United States
Minister and his family. He selected Friday, the 17th of August,
for his appearance, and spent most of that day in looking over his
wardrobe, ultimately deciding in favour of a large slouched hat
with a red feather, a winding-sheet frilled at the wrists and neck,
and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a violent storm of rain came
on, and the wind was so high that all the windows and doors in the
old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was just such weather as
he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to make his way
quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from the foot of
the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound of
slow music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware
that it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous
Canterville blood-stain, by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent.
Having reduced the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of
abject terror, he was then to proceed to the room occupied by the
United States Minister and his wife, and there to place a clammy
hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead, while he hissed into her trembling
husband's ear the awful secrets of the charnel-house. With regard
to little Virginia, he had not quite made up his mind. She had
never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and gentle. A few
hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more than
sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the
counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was
quite determined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be
done was, of course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the
stifling sensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite
close to each other, to stand between them in the form of a green,
icy-cold corpse, till they became paralysed with fear, and finally,
to throw off the winding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with
white bleached bones and one rolling eye-ball, in the character of
'Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide's Skeleton,' a ROLE in which he had on
more than one occasion produced a great effect, and which he
considered quite equal to his famous part of 'Martin the Maniac, or
the Masked Mystery.'
At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time
he was disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who,
with the light-hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing
themselves before they retired to rest, but at a quarter past
eleven all was still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth.
The owl beat against the window panes, the raven croaked from the
old yew-tree, and the wind wandered moaning round the house like a
lost soul; but the Otis family slept unconscious of their doom, and
high above the rain and storm he could hear the steady snoring of
the Minister for the United States. He stepped stealthily out of
the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his cruel, wrinkled mouth,
and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole past the great
oriel window, where his own arms and those of his murdered wife
were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evil
shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once
he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only
the baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering
strange sixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the
rusty dagger in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of
the passage that led to luckless Washington's room. For a moment
he paused there, the wind blowing his long grey locks about his
head, and twisting into grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless
horror of the dead man's shroud. Then the clock struck the
quarter, and he felt the time was come. He chuckled to himself,
and turned the corner; but no sooner had he done so, than, with a
piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in
his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was standing a
horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous as a
madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round,
and fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its
features into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of
scarlet light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous
garment, like to his own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan
form. On its breast was a placard with strange writing in antique
characters, some scroll of shame it seemed, some record of wild
sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it
bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.
Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly
frightened, and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom,
he fled back to his room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as
he sped down the corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger
into the Minister's jack-boots, where it was found in the morning
by the butler. Once in the privacy of his own apartment, he flung
himself down on a small pallet-bed, and hid his face under the
clothes. After a time, however, the brave old Canterville spirit
asserted itself, and he determined to go and speak to the other
ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just as the dawn
was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot
where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that,
after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of
his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On
reaching the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze.
Something had evidently happened to the spectre, for the light had
entirely faded from its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had
fallen from its hand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a
strained and uncomfortable attitude. He rushed forward and seized
it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped off and
rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he
found himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweepingbrush,
a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet!
Unable to understand this curious transformation, he clutched the
placard with feverish haste, and there, in the grey morning light,
he read these fearful words:-
YE OLDE GHOSTE
Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook.
Beware of Ye Imitationes.
All others are Counterfeite.
The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled,
and outwitted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he
ground his toothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands
high above his head, swore, according to the picturesque
phraseology of the antique school, that when Chanticleer had
sounded twice his merry horn, deeds of blood would be wrought, and
Murder walk abroad with silent feet.
Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled
roof of a distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low,
bitter laugh, and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock,
for some strange reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past
seven, the arrival of the housemaids made him give up his fearful
vigil, and he stalked back to his room, thinking of his vain hope
and baffled purpose. There he consulted several books of ancient
chivalry, of which he was exceedingly fond, and found that, on
every occasion on which his oath had been used, Chanticleer had
always crowed a second time. 'Perdition seize the naughty fowl,'
he muttered, 'I have seen the day when, with my stout spear, I
would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me an
'twere in death!' He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin,
and stayed there till evening.
CHAPTER IV
THE next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible
excitement of the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect.
His nerves were completely shattered, and he started at the
slightest noise. For five days he kept his room, and at last made
up his mind to give up the point of the blood-stain on the library
floor. If the Otis family did not want it, they clearly did not
deserve it. They were evidently people on a low, material plane of
existence, and quite incapable of appreciating the symbolic value
of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic apparitions, and
the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a different
matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn duty
to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large
oriel window on the first and third Wednesday in every month, and
he did not see how he could honourably escape from his obligations.
It is quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the
other hand, he was most conscientious in all things connected with
the supernatural. For the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he
traversed the corridor as usual between midnight and three o'clock,
taking every possible precaution against being either heard or
seen. He removed his boots, trod as lightly as possible on the old
worm-eaten boards, wore a large black velvet cloak, and was careful
to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for oiling his chains. I am bound
to acknowledge that it was with a good deal of difficulty that he
brought himself to adopt this last mode of protection. However,
one night, while the family were at dinner, he slipped into Mr.
Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a little
humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see that
there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a
certain degree, it served his purpose. Still, in spite of
everything, he was not left unmolested. Strings were continually
being stretched across the corridor, over which he tripped in the
dark, and on one occasion, while dressed for the part of 'Black
Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley Woods,' he met with a severe fall,
through treading on a butter-slide, which the twins had constructed
from the entrance of the Tapestry Chamber to the top of the oak
staircase. This last insult so enraged him, that he resolved to
make one final effort to assert his dignity and social position,
and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the next night
in his celebrated character of 'Reckless Rupert, or the Headless
Earl.'
He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years;
in fact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish
by means of it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the
present Lord Canterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna
Green with handsome Jack Castleton, declaring that nothing in the
world would induce her to marry into a family that allowed such a
horrible phantom to walk up and down the terrace at twilight. Poor
Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by Lord Canterville on
Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken heart at
Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it had
been a great success. It was, however, an extremely difficult
'make-up,' if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection
with one of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to
employ a more scientific term, the higher-natural world, and it
took him fully three hours to make his preparations. At last
everything was ready, and he was very pleased with his appearance.
The big leather riding-boots that went with the dress were just a
little too large for him, and he could only find one of the two
horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite satisfied, and at a
quarter past one he glided out of the wainscoting and crept down
the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins, which I
should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber, on account of the
colour of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to
make an effective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug
of water fell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just
missing his left shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same
moment he heard stifled shrieks of laughter proceeding from the
four-post bed. The shock to his nervous system was so great that
he fled back to his room as hard as he could go, and the next day
he was laid up with a severe cold. The only thing that at all
consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he had not
brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences
might have been very serious.
He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American
family, and contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the
passages in list slippers, with a thick red muffler round his
throat for fear of draughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he
should be attacked by the twins. The final blow he received
occurred on the 19th of September. He had gone downstairs to the
great entrance-hall, feeling sure that there, at any rate, he would
be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself by making satirical
remarks on the large Saroni photographs of the United States
Minister and his wife, which had now taken the place of the
Canterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a
long shroud, spotted with churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw
with a strip of yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a
sexton's spade. In fact, he was dressed for the character of
'Jonas the Graveless, or the Corpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn,' one
of his most remarkable impersonations, and one which the
Cantervilles had every reason to remember, as it was the real
origin of their quarrel with their neighbour, Lord Rufford. It was
about a quarter past two o'clock in the morning, and, as far as he
could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he was strolling towards
the library, however, to see if there were any traces left of the
blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a dark corner
two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads, and
shrieked out 'BOO!' in his ear.
Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only
natural, he rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis
waiting for him there with the big garden-syringe; and being thus
hemmed in by his enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay,
he vanished into the great iron stove, which, fortunately for him,
was not lit, and had to make his way home through the flues and
chimneys, arriving at his own room in a terrible state of dirt,
disorder, and despair.
After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The
twins lay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the
passages with nutshells every night to the great annoyance of their
parents and the servants, but it was of no avail. It was quite
evident that his feelings were so wounded that he would not appear.
Mr. Otis consequently resumed his great work on the history of the
Democratic Party, on which he had been engaged for some years; Mrs.
Otis organised a wonderful clam-bake, which amazed the whole
county; the boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker, and other
American national games; and Virginia rode about the lanes on her
pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to
spend the last week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was
generally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr.
Otis wrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in
reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best
congratulations to the Minister's worthy wife.
The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the
house, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to
let matters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests
was the young Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis
Stilton, had once bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that
he would play dice with the Canterville ghost, and was found the
next morning lying on the floor of the card-room in such a helpless
paralytic state, that though he lived on to a great age, he was
never able to say anything again but 'Double Sixes.' The story was
well known at the time, though, of course, out of respect to the
feelings of the two noble families, every attempt was made to hush
it up; and a full account of all the circumstances connected with
it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle's RECOLLECTIONS
OF THE PRINCE REGENT AND HIS FRIENDS. The ghost, then, was
naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence
over the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected,
his own first cousin having been married EN SECONDES NOCES to the
Sieur de Bulkeley, from whom, as every one knows, the Dukes of
Cheshire are lineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements
for appearing to Virginia's little lover in his celebrated
impersonation of 'The Vampire Monk, or, the Bloodless Benedictine,'
a performance so horrible that when old Lady Startup saw it, which
she did on one fatal New Year's Eve, in the year 1764, she went off
into the most piercing shrieks, which culminated in violent
apoplexy, and died in three days, after disinheriting the
Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and leaving all her
money to her London apothecary. At the last moment, however, his
terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and the little
Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal
Bedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia.
CHAPTER V
A FEW days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went
out riding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly
in getting through a hedge, that, on her return home, she made up
her mind to go up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As
she was running past the Tapestry Chamber, the door of which
happened to be open, she fancied she saw some one inside, and
thinking it was her mother's maid, who sometimes used to bring her
work there, looked in to ask her to mend her habit. To her immense
surprise, however, it was the Canterville Ghost himself! He was
sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of the yellowing
trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madly down
the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his whole
attitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so
much out of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first
idea had been to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled
with pity, and determined to try and comfort him. So light was her
footfall, and so deep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her
presence till she spoke to him.
'I am so sorry for you,' she said, 'but my brothers are going back
to Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will
annoy you.'
'It is absurd asking me to behave myself,' he answered, looking
round in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to
address him, 'quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan
through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you
mean. It is my only reason for existing.'
'It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been
very wicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here,
that you had killed your wife.'
'Well, I quite admit it,' said the Ghost petulantly, 'but it was a
purely family matter, and concerned no one else.'
'It is very wrong to kill any one,' said Virginia, who at times had
a sweet Puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.
'Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was
very plain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing
about cookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a
magnificent pricket, and do you know how she had it sent up to
table? However, it is no matter now, for it is all over, and I
don't think it was very nice of her brothers to starve me to death,
though I did kill her.'
'Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost, I mean Sir Simon, are you
hungry? I have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?'
'No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of
you, all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your
horrid, rude, vulgar, dishonest family.'
'Stop!' cried Virginia, stamping her foot, 'it is you who are rude,
and horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole
the paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous
blood-stain in the library. First you took all my reds, including
the vermilion, and I couldn't do any more sunsets, then you took
the emerald-green and the chrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing
left but indigo and Chinese white, and could only do moonlight
scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy
to paint. I never told on you, though I was very much annoyed, and
it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who ever heard of
emerald-green blood?'
'Well, really,' said the Ghost, rather meekly, 'what was I to do?
It is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as
your brother began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly
saw no reason why I should not have your paints. As for colour,
that is always a matter of taste: the Cantervilles have blue
blood, for instance, the very bluest in England; but I know you
Americans don't care for things of this kind.'
'You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to
emigrate and improve your mind. My father will be only too happy
to give you a free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on
spirits of every kind, there will be no difficulty about the Custom
House, as the officers are all Democrats. Once in New York, you
are sure to be a great success. I know lots of people there who
would give a hundred thousand dollars to have a grandfather, and
much more than that to have a family Ghost.'
'I don't think I should like America.'
'I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,' said
Virginia satirically.
'No ruins! no curiosities!' answered the Ghost; 'you have your navy
and your manners.'
'Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra
week's holiday.'
'Please don't go, Miss Virginia,' he cried; 'I am so lonely and so
unhappy, and I really don't know what to do. I want to go to sleep
and I cannot.'
'That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out
the candle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake,
especially at church, but there is no difficulty at all about
sleeping. Why, even babies know how to do that, and they are not
very clever.'
'I have not slept for three hundred years,' he said sadly, and
Virginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; 'for three hundred
years I have not slept, and I am so tired.'
Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like roseleaves.
She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side,
looked up into his old withered face.
'Poor, poor Ghost,' she murmured; 'have you no place where you can
sleep?'
'Far away beyond the pine-woods,' he answered, in a low dreamy
voice, 'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and
deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there
the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and
the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its
giant arms over the sleepers.'
Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her
hands.
'You mean the Garden of Death,' she whispered.
'Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown
earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to
silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time,
to forgive life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open
for me the portals of Death's house, for Love is always with you,
and Love is stronger than Death is.'
Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few
moments there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible
dream.
Then the Ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing
of the wind.
'Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?'
'Oh, often,' cried the little girl, looking up; 'I know it quite
well. It is painted in curious black letters, and it is difficult
to read. There are only six lines:
When a golden girl can win
Prayer from out the lips of sin,
When the barren almond bears,
And a little child gives away its tears,
Then shall all the house be still
And peace come to Canterville.
But I don't know what they mean.'
'They mean,' he said sadly, 'that you must weep for me for my sins,
because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I
have no faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good,
and gentle, the Angel of Death will have mercy on me. You will see
fearful shapes in darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your
ear, but they will not harm you, for against the purity of a little
child the powers of Hell cannot prevail.'
Virginia made no answer, and the Ghost wrung his hands in wild
despair as he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she
stood up, very pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. 'I am
not afraid,' she said firmly, 'and I will ask the Angel to have
mercy on you.'
He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand
bent over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers
were as cold as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia
did not falter, as he led her across the dusky room. On the faded
green tapestry were broidered little huntsmen. They blew their
tasselled horns and with their tiny hands waved to her to go back.
'Go back! little Virginia,' they cried, 'go back!' but the Ghost
clutched her hand more tightly, and she shut her eyes against them.
Horrible animals with lizard tails, and goggle eyes, blinked at her
from the carven chimney-piece, and murmured 'Beware! little
Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,' but the Ghost glided
on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they reached
the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she could
not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly
fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her.
A bitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling
at her dress. 'Quick, quick,' cried the Ghost, 'or it will be too
late,' and, in a moment, the wainscoting had closed behind them,
and the Tapestry Chamber was empty.
CHAPTER VI
ABOUT ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia
did not come down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell
her. After a little time he returned and said that he could not
find Miss Virginia anywhere. As she was in the habit of going out
to the garden every evening to get flowers for the dinner-table,
Mrs. Otis was not at all alarmed at first, but when six o'clock
struck, and Virginia did not appear, she became really agitated,
and sent the boys out to look for her, while she herself and Mr.
Otis searched every room in the house. At half-past six the boys
came back and said that they could find no trace of their sister
anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of excitement,
and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly remembered
that, some few days before, he had given a band of gypsies
permission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for
Blackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his
eldest son and two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of
Cheshire, who was perfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be
allowed to go too, but Mr. Otis would not allow him, as he was
afraid there might be a scuffle. On arriving at the spot, however,
he found that the gypsies had gone, and it was evident that their
departure had been rather sudden, as the fire was still burning,
and some plates were lying on the grass. Having sent off
Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran home, and
despatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the county,
telling them to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped
by tramps or gypsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought
round, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting
down to dinner, rode off down the Ascot Road with a groom. He had
hardly, however, gone a couple of miles when he heard somebody
galloping after him, and, looking round, saw the little Duke coming
up on his pony, with his face very flushed and no hat. 'I'm
awfully sorry, Mr. Otis,' gasped out the boy, 'but I can't eat any
dinner as long as Virginia is lost. Please, don't be angry with
me; if you had let us be engaged last year, there would never have
been all this trouble. You won't send me back, will you? I can't
go! I won't go!'
The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young
scapegrace, and was a good deal touched at his devotion to
Virginia, so leaning down from his horse, he patted him kindly on
the shoulders, and said, 'Well, Cecil, if you won't go back I
suppose you must come with me, but I must get you a hat at Ascot.'
'Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!' cried the little Duke,
laughing, and they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr.
Otis inquired of the station-master if any one answering the
description of Virginia had been seen on the platform, but could
get no news of her. The station-master, however, wired up and down
the line, and assured him that a strict watch would be kept for
her, and, after having bought a hat for the little Duke from a
linen-draper, who was just putting up his shutters, Mr. Otis rode
off to Bexley, a village about four miles away, which he was told
was a well-known haunt of the gypsies, as there was a large common
next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but could get
no information from him, and, after riding all over the common,
they turned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the Chase
about eleven o'clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They
found Washington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house
with lanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest
trace of Virginia had been discovered. The gypsies had been caught
on Brockley meadows, but she was not with them, and they had
explained their sudden departure by saying that they had mistaken
the date of Chorton Fair, and had gone off in a hurry for fear they
might be late. Indeed, they had been quite distressed at hearing
of Virginia's disappearance, as they were very grateful to Mr. Otis
for having allowed them to camp in his park, and four of their
number had stayed behind to help in the search. The carp-pond had
been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone over, but without
any result. It was evident that, for that night at any rate,
Virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest
depression that Mr Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the
groom following behind with the two horses and the pony. In the
hall they found a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa
in the library was poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with
terror and anxiety, and having her forehead bathed with eau-decologne
by the old housekeeper. Mr. Otis at once insisted on her
having something to eat, and ordered up supper for the whole party.
It was a melancholy meal, as hardly any one spoke, and even the
twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very fond of their
sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the
entreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that
nothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph
in the morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down
immediately. Just as they were passing out of the dining-room,
midnight began to boom from the clock tower, and when the last
stroke sounded they heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a
dreadful peal of thunder shook the house, a strain of unearthly
music floated through the air, a panel at the top of the staircase
flew back with a loud noise, and out on the landing, looking very
pale and white, with a little casket in her hand, stepped Virginia.
In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs. Otis clasped her
passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with violent
kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group.
'Good heavens! child, where have you been?' said Mr. Otis, rather
angrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on
them. 'Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking
for you, and your mother has been frightened to death. You must
never play these practical jokes any more.'
'Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!' shrieked the twins, as
they capered about.
'My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my
side again,' murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child,
and smoothed the tangled gold of her hair.
'Papa,' said Virginia quietly, 'I have been with the Ghost. He is
dead, and you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but
he was really sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this
box of beautiful jewels before he died.'
The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite
grave and serious; and, turning round, she led them through the
opening in the wainscoting down a narrow secret corridor,
Washington following with a lighted candle, which he had caught up
from the table. Finally, they came to a great oak door, studded
with rusty nails. When Virginia touched it, it swung back on its
heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a little low room, with
a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated window. Imbedded in the
wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton,
that was stretched out at full length on the stone floor, and
seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers an
old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its
reach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it
was covered inside with green mould. There was nothing on the
trencher but a pile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the
skeleton, and, folding her little hands together, began to pray
silently, while the rest of the party looked on in wonder at the
terrible tragedy whose secret was now disclosed to them.
'Hallo!' suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking
out of the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the
room was situated. 'Hallo! the old withered almond-tree has
blossomed. I can see the flowers quite plainly in the moonlight.'
'God has forgiven him,' said Virginia gravely, as she rose to her
feet, and a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face.
'What an angel you are!' cried the young Duke, and he put his arm
round her neck and kissed her.
CHAPTER VII
FOUR days after these curious incidents a funeral started from
Canterville Chase at about eleven o'clock at night. The hearse was
drawn by eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a
great tuft of nodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was
covered by a rich purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the
Canterville coat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the
coaches walked the servants with lighted torches, and the whole
procession was wonderfully impressive. Lord Canterville was the
chief mourner, having come up specially from Wales to attend the
funeral, and sat in the first carriage along with little Virginia.
Then came the United States Minister and his wife, then Washington
and the three boys, and in the last carriage was Mrs. Umney. It
was generally felt that, as she had been frightened by the ghost
for more than fifty years of her life, she had a right to see the
last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the corner of the
churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service was read
in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier. When
the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom
observed in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches,
and, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, Virginia
stepped forward and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink
almond-blossoms. As she did so, the moon came out from behind a
cloud, and flooded with its silent silver the little churchyard,
and from a distant copse a nightingale began to sing. She thought
of the ghost's description of the Garden of Death, her eyes became
dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a word during the drive home.
The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis
had an interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost
had given to Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially
a certain ruby necklace with old Venetian setting, which was really
a superb specimen of sixteenth-century work, and their value was so
great that Mr. Otis felt considerable scruples about allowing his
daughter to accept them.
'My lord,' he said, 'I know that in this country mortmain is held
to apply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to
me that these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family.
I must beg you, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and
to regard them simply as a portion of your property which has been
restored to you under certain strange conditions. As for my
daughter, she is merely a child, and has as yet, I am glad to say,
but little interest in such appurtenances of idle luxury. I am
also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, I may say, is no mean authority
upon Art - having had the privilege of spending several winters in
Boston when she was a girl - that these gems are of great monetary
worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall price. Under
these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you will
recognise how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain
in the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such
vain gauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity
of the British aristocracy, would be completely out of place among
those who have been brought up on the severe, and I believe
immortal, principles of republican simplicity. Perhaps I should
mention that Virginia is very anxious that you should allow her to
retain the box as a memento of your unfortunate but misguided
ancestor. As it is extremely old, and consequently a good deal out
of repair, you may perhaps think fit to comply with her request.
For my own part, I confess I am a good deal surprised to find a
child of mine expressing sympathy with mediaevalism in any form,
and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was born in
one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned
from a trip to Athens.'
Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister's
speech, pulling his grey moustache now and then to hide an
involuntary smile, and when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him
cordially by the hand, and said, 'My dear sir, your charming little
daughter rendered my unlucky ancestor, Sir Simon, a very important
service, and I and my family are much indebted to her for her
marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels are clearly hers, and,
egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough to take them from
her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave in a
fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being
heirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a
will or legal document, and the existence of these jewels has been
quite unknown. I assure you I have no more claim on them than your
butler, and when Miss Virginia grows up I daresay she will be
pleased to have pretty things to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr.
Otis, that you took the furniture and the ghost at a valuation, and
anything that belonged to the ghost passed at once into your
possession, as, whatever activity Sir Simon may have shown in the
corridor at night, in point of law he was really dead, and you
acquired his property by purchase.'
Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville's refusal,
and begged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured
peer was quite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his
daughter to retain the present the ghost had given her, and when,
in the spring of 1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented
at the Queen's first drawing-room on the occasion of her marriage,
her jewels were the universal theme of admiration. For Virginia
received the coronet, which is the reward of all good little
American girls, and was married to her boy-lover as soon as he came
of age. They were both so charming, and they loved each other so
much, that every one was delighted at the match, except the old
Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Duke for one
of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than three
expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr.
Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke
personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use
his own words, 'was not without apprehension lest, amid the
enervating influences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true
principles of republican simplicity should be forgotten.' His
objections, however, were completely overruled, and I believe that
when he walked up the aisle of St. George's, Hanover Square, with
his daughter leaning on his arm, there was not a prouder man in the
whole length and breadth of England.
The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to
Canterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked
over in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods.
There had been a great deal of difficulty at first about the
inscription on Sir Simon's tombstone, but finally it had been
decided to engrave on it simply the initials of the old gentleman's
name, and the verse from the library window. The Duchess had
brought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon the
grave, and after they had stood by it for some time they strolled
into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There the Duchess sat
down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking
a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly he
threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her,
'Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband.'
'Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you.'
'Yes, you have,' he answered, smiling, 'you have never told me what
happened to you when you were locked up with the ghost.'
'I have never told any one, Cecil,' said Virginia gravely.
'I know that, but you might tell me.'
'Please don't ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I
owe him a great deal. Yes, don't laugh, Cecil, I really do. He
made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is
stronger than both.'
The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.
'You can have your secret as long as I have your heart,' he
murmured.
'You have always had that, Cecil.'
'And you will tell our children some day, won't you?'
Virginia blushed.
THE SPHINX WITHOUT A SECRET
ONE afternoon I was sitting outside the Cafe de la Paix, watching
the splendour and shabbiness of Parisian life, and wondering over
my vermouth at the strange panorama of pride and poverty that was
passing before me, when I heard some one call my name. I turned
round, and saw Lord Murchison. We had not met since we had been at
college together, nearly ten years before, so I was delighted to
come across him again, and we shook hands warmly. At Oxford we had
been great friends. I had liked him immensely, he was so handsome,
so high-spirited, and so honourable. We used to say of him that he
would be the best of fellows, if he did not always speak the truth,
but I think we really admired him all the more for his frankness.
I found him a good deal changed. He looked anxious and puzzled,
and seemed to be in doubt about something. I felt it could not be
modern scepticism, for Murchison was the stoutest of Tories, and
believed in the Pentateuch as firmly as he believed in the House of
Peers; so I concluded that it was a woman, and asked him if he was
married yet.
'I don't understand women well enough,' he answered.
'My dear Gerald,' I said, 'women are meant to be loved, not to be
understood.'
'I cannot love where I cannot trust,' he replied.
'I believe you have a mystery in your life, Gerald,' I exclaimed;
'tell me about it.'
'Let us go for a drive,' he answered, 'it is too crowded here. No,
not a yellow carriage, any other colour - there, that dark green
one will do'; and in a few moments we were trotting down the
boulevard in the direction of the Madeleine.
'Where shall we go to?' I said.
'Oh, anywhere you like!' he answered - 'to the restaurant in the
Bois; we will dine there, and you shall tell me all about
yourself.'
'I want to hear about you first,' I said. 'Tell me your mystery.'
He took from his pocket a little silver-clasped morocco case, and
handed it to me. I opened it. Inside there was the photograph of
a woman. She was tall and slight, and strangely picturesque with
her large vague eyes and loosened hair. She looked like a
CLAIRVOYANTE, and was wrapped in rich furs.
'What do you think of that face?' he said; 'is it truthful?'
I examined it carefully. It seemed to me the face of some one who
had a secret, but whether that secret was good or evil I could not
say. Its beauty was a beauty moulded out of many mysteries - the
beauty, in fact, which is psychological, not plastic - and the
faint smile that just played across the lips was far too subtle to
be really sweet.
'Well,' he cried impatiently, 'what do you say?'
'She is the Gioconda in sables,' I answered. 'Let me know all
about her.'
'Not now,' he said; 'after dinner,' and began to talk of other
things.
When the waiter brought us our coffee and cigarettes I reminded
Gerald of his promise. He rose from his seat, walked two or three
times up and down the room, and, sinking into an armchair, told me
the following story:-
'One evening,' he said, 'I was walking down Bond Street about five
o'clock. There was a terrific crush of carriages, and the traffic
was almost stopped. Close to the pavement was standing a little
yellow brougham, which, for some reason or other, attracted my
attention. As I passed by there looked out from it the face I
showed you this afternoon. It fascinated me immediately. All that
night I kept thinking of it, and all the next day. I wandered up
and down that wretched Row, peering into every carriage, and
waiting for the yellow brougham; but I could not find MA BELLE
INCONNUE, and at last I began to think she was merely a dream.
About a week afterwards I was dining with Madame de Rastail.
Dinner was for eight o'clock; but at half-past eight we were still
waiting in the drawing-room. Finally the servant threw open the
door, and announced Lady Alroy. It was the woman I had been
looking for. She came in very slowly, looking like a moonbeam in
grey lace, and, to my intense delight, I was asked to take her in
to dinner. After we had sat down, I remarked quite innocently, "I
think I caught sight of you in Bond Street some time ago, Lady
Alroy." She grew very pale, and said to me in a low voice, "Pray
do not talk so loud; you may be overheard." I felt miserable at
having made such a bad beginning, and plunged recklessly into the
subject of the French plays. She spoke very little, always in the
same low musical voice, and seemed as if she was afraid of some one
listening. I fell passionately, stupidly in love, and the
indefinable atmosphere of mystery that surrounded her excited my
most ardent curiosity. When she was going away, which she did very
soon after dinner, I asked her if I might call and see her. She
hesitated for a moment, glanced round to see if any one was near
us, and then said, "Yes; to-morrow at a quarter to five." I begged
Madame de Rastail to tell me about her; but all that I could learn
was that she was a widow with a beautiful house in Park Lane, and
as some scientific bore began a dissertation on widows, as
exemplifying the survival of the matrimonially fittest, I left and
went home.
'The next day I arrived at Park Lane punctual to the moment, but
was told by the butler that Lady Alroy had just gone out. I went
down to the club quite unhappy and very much puzzled, and after
long consideration wrote her a letter, asking if I might be allowed
to try my chance some other afternoon. I had no answer for several
days, but at last I got a little note saying she would be at home
on Sunday at four and with this extraordinary postscript: "Please
do not write to me here again; I will explain when I see you." On
Sunday she received me, and was perfectly charming; but when I was
going away she begged of me, if I ever had occasion to write to her
again, to address my letter to "Mrs. Knox, care of Whittaker's
Library, Green Street." "There are reasons," she said, "why I
cannot receive letters in my own house."
'All through the season I saw a great deal of her, and the
atmosphere of mystery never left her. Sometimes I thought that she
was in the power of some man, but she looked so unapproachable,
that I could not believe it. It was really very difficult for me
to come to any conclusion, for she was like one of those strange
crystals that one sees in museums, which are at one moment clear,
and at another clouded. At last I determined to ask her to be my
wife: I was sick and tired of the incessant secrecy that she
imposed on all my visits, and on the few letters I sent her. I
wrote to her at the library to ask her if she could see me the
following Monday at six. She answered yes, and I was in the
seventh heaven of delight. I was infatuated with her: in spite of
the mystery, I thought then - in consequence of it, I see now. No;
it was the woman herself I loved. The mystery troubled me,
maddened me. Why did chance put me in its track?'
'You discovered it, then?' I cried.
'I fear so,' he answered. 'You can judge for yourself.'
'When Monday came round I went to lunch with my uncle, and about
four o'clock found myself in the Marylebone Road. My uncle, you
know, lives in Regent's Park. I wanted to get to Piccadilly, and
took a short cut through a lot of shabby little streets. Suddenly
I saw in front of me Lady Alroy, deeply veiled and walking very
fast. On coming to the last house in the street, she went up the
steps, took out a latch-key, and let herself in. "Here is the
mystery," I said to myself; and I hurried on and examined the
house. It seemed a sort of place for letting lodgings. On the
doorstep lay her handkerchief, which she had dropped. I picked it
up and put it in my pocket. Then I began to consider what I should
do. I came to the conclusion that I had no right to spy on her,
and I drove down to the club. At six I called to see her. She was
lying on a sofa, in a tea-gown of silver tissue looped up by some
strange moonstones that she always wore. She was looking quite
lovely. "I am so glad to see you," she said; "I have not been out
all day." I stared at her in amazement, and pulling the
handkerchief out of my pocket, handed it to her. "You dropped this
in Cumnor Street this afternoon, Lady Alroy," I said very calmly.
She looked at me in terror but made no attempt to take the
handkerchief. "What were you doing there?" I asked. "What right
have you to question me?" she answered. "The right of a man who
loves you," I replied; "I came here to ask you to be my wife." She
hid her face in her hands, and burst into floods of tears. "You
must tell me," I continued. She stood up, and, looking me straight
in the face, said, "Lord Murchison, there is nothing to tell you."
- "You went to meet some one," I cried; "this is your mystery."
She grew dreadfully white, and said, "I went to meet no one." -
"Can't you tell the truth?" I exclaimed. "I have told it," she
replied. I was mad, frantic; I don't know what I said, but I said
terrible things to her. Finally I rushed out of the house. She
wrote me a letter the next day; I sent it back unopened, and
started for Norway with Alan Colville. After a month I came back,
and the first thing I saw in the MORNING POST was the death of Lady
Alroy. She had caught a chill at the Opera, and had died in five
days of congestion of the lungs. I shut myself up and saw no one.
I had loved her so much, I had loved her so madly. Good God! how I
had loved that woman!'
'You went to the street, to the house in it?' I said.
'Yes,' he answered.
'One day I went to Cumnor Street. I could not help it; I was
tortured with doubt. I knocked at the door, and a respectablelooking
woman opened it to me. I asked her if she had any rooms to
let. "Well, sir," she replied, "the drawing-rooms are supposed to
be let; but I have not seen the lady for three months, and as rent
is owing on them, you can have them." - "Is this the lady?" I said,
showing the photograph. "That's her, sure enough," she exclaimed;
"and when is she coming back, sir?" - "The lady is dead," I
replied. "Oh sir, I hope not!" said the woman; "she was my best
lodger. She paid me three guineas a week merely to sit in my
drawing-rooms now and then." "She met some one here?" I said; but
the woman assured me that it was not so, that she always came
alone, and saw no one. "What on earth did she do here?" I cried.
"She simply sat in the drawing-room, sir, reading books, and
sometimes had tea," the woman answered. I did not know what to
say, so I gave her a sovereign and went away. Now, what do you
think it all meant? You don't believe the woman was telling the
truth?'
'I do.'
'Then why did Lady Alroy go there?'
'My dear Gerald,' I answered, 'Lady Alroy was simply a woman with a
mania for mystery. She took these rooms for the pleasure of going
there with her veil down, and imagining she was a heroine. She had
a passion for secrecy, but she herself was merely a Sphinx without
a secret.'
'Do you really think so?'
'I am sure of it,' I replied.
He took out the morocco case, opened it, and looked at the
photograph. 'I wonder?' he said at last.
THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE
UNLESS one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow.
Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the
unemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is
better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating. These
are the great truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never
realised. Poor Hughie! Intellectually, we must admit, he was not
of much importance. He never said a brilliant or even an illnatured
thing in his life. But then he was wonderfully goodlooking,
with his crisp brown hair, his clear-cut profile, and his
grey eyes. He was as popular with men as he was with women and he
had every accomplishment except that of making money. His father
had bequeathed him his cavalry sword and a HISTORY OF THE
PENINSULAR WAR in fifteen volumes. Hughie hung the first over his
looking-glass, put the second on a shelf between RUFF'S GUIDE and
BAILEY'S MAGAZINE, and lived on two hundred a year that an old aunt
allowed him. He had tried everything. He had gone on the Stock
Exchange for six months; but what was a butterfly to do among bulls
and bears? He had been a tea-merchant for a little longer, but had
soon tired of pekoe and souchong. Then he had tried selling dry
sherry. That did not answer; the sherry was a little too dry.
Ultimately he became nothing, a delightful, ineffectual young man
with a perfect profile and no profession.
To make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved was Laura
Merton, the daughter of a retired Colonel who had lost his temper
and his digestion in India, and had never found either of them
again. Laura adored him, and he was ready to kiss her shoestrings.
They were the handsomest couple in London, and had not a
penny-piece between them. The Colonel was very fond of Hughie, but
would not hear of any engagement.
'Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of your
own, and we will see about it,' he used to say; and Hughie looked
very glum in those days, and had to go to Laura for consolation.
One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the
Mertons lived, he dropped in to see a great friend of his, Alan
Trevor. Trevor was a painter. Indeed, few people escape that
nowadays. But he was also an artist, and artists are rather rare.
Personally he was a strange rough fellow, with a freckled face and
a red ragged beard. However, when he took up the brush he was a
real master, and his pictures were eagerly sought after. He had
been very much attracted by Hughie at first, it must be
acknowledged, entirely on account of his personal charm. 'The only
people a painter should know,' he used to say, 'are people who are
BETE and beautiful, people who are an artistic pleasure to look at
and an intellectual repose to talk to. Men who are dandies and
women who are darlings rule the world, at least they should do so.'
However, after he got to know Hughie better, he liked him quite as
much for his bright, buoyant spirits and his generous, reckless
nature, and had given him the permanent ENTREE to his studio.
When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches
to a wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beggar
himself was standing on a raised platform in a corner of the
studio. He was a wizened old man, with a face like wrinkled
parchment, and a most piteous expression. Over his shoulders was
flung a coarse brown cloak, all tears and tatters; his thick boots
were patched and cobbled, and with one hand he leant on a rough
stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for alms.
'What an amazing model!' whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with
his friend.
'An amazing model?' shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; 'I
should think so! Such beggars as he are not to be met with every
day. A TROUVAILLE, MON CHER; a living Velasquez! My stars! what
an etching Rembrandt would have made of him!'
'Poor old chap!' said Hughie, 'how miserable he looks! But I
suppose, to you painters, his face is his fortune?'
'Certainly,' replied Trevor, 'you don't want a beggar to look
happy, do you?'
'How much does a model get for sitting?' asked Hughie, as he found
himself a comfortable seat on a divan.
'A shilling an hour.'
'And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?'
'Oh, for this I get two thousand!'
'Pounds?'
'Guineas. Painters, poets, and physicians always get guineas.'
'Well, I think the model should have a percentage,' cried Hughie,
laughing; 'they work quite as hard as you do.'
'Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the trouble of laying on the
paint alone, and standing all day long at one's easel! It's all
very well, Hughie, for you to talk, but I assure you that there are
moments when Art almost attains to the dignity of manual labour.
But you mustn't chatter; I'm very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and
keep quiet.'
After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that the
framemaker wanted to speak to him.
'Don't run away, Hughie,' he said, as he went out, 'I will be back
in a moment.'
The old beggar-man took advantage of Trevor's absence to rest for a
moment on a wooden bench that was behind him. He looked so forlorn
and wretched that Hughie could not help pitying him, and felt in
his pockets to see what money he had. All he could find was a
sovereign and some coppers. 'Poor old fellow,' he thought to
himself, 'he wants it more than I do, but it means no hansoms for a
fortnight'; and he walked across the studio and slipped the
sovereign into the beggar's hand.
The old man started, and a faint smile flitted across his withered
lips. 'Thank you, sir,' he said, 'thank you.'
Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie took his leave, blushing a little
at what he had done. He spent the day with Laura, got a charming
scolding for his extravagance, and had to walk home.
That night he strolled into the Palette Club about eleven o'clock,
and found Trevor sitting by himself in the smoking-room drinking
hock and seltzer.
'Well, Alan, did you get the picture finished all right?' he said,
as he lit his cigarette.
'Finished and framed, my boy!' answered Trevor; 'and, by the bye,
you have made a conquest. That old model you saw is quite devoted
to you. I had to tell him all about you - who you are, where you
live, what your income is, what prospects you have - '
'My dear Alan,' cried Hughie, 'I shall probably find him waiting
for me when I go home. But of course you are only joking. Poor
old wretch! I wish I could do something for him. I think it is
dreadful that any one should be so miserable. I have got heaps of
old clothes at home - do you think he would care for any of them?
Why, his rags were falling to bits.'
'But he looks splendid in them,' said Trevor. 'I wouldn't paint
him in a frock coat for anything. What you call rags I call
romance. What seems poverty to you is picturesqueness to me.
However, I'll tell him of your offer.'
'Alan,' said Hughie seriously, 'you painters are a heartless lot.'
'An artist's heart is his head,' replied Trevor; 'and besides, our
business is to realise the world as we see it, not to reform it as
we know it. A CHACUN SON METIER. And now tell me how Laura is.
The old model was quite interested in her.'
'You don't mean to say you talked to him about her?' said Hughie.
'Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless colonel, the
lovely Laura, and the 10,000 pounds.'
'You told that old beggar all my private affairs?' cried Hughie,
looking very red and angry.
'My dear boy,' said Trevor, smiling, 'that old beggar, as you call
him, is one of the richest men in Europe. He could buy all London
to-morrow without overdrawing his account. He has a house in every
capital, dines off gold plate, and can prevent Russia going to war
when he chooses.'
'What on earth do you mean?' exclaimed Hughie.
'What I say,' said Trevor. 'The old man you saw to-day in the
studio was Baron Hausberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys all
my pictures and that sort of thing, and gave me a commission a
month ago to paint him as a beggar. QUE VOULEZ-VOUS? LA FANTAISIE
D'UN MILLIONNAIRE! And I must say he made a magnificent figure in
his rags, or perhaps I should say in my rags; they are an old suit
I got in Spain.'
'Baron Hausberg!' cried Hughie. 'Good heavens! I gave him a
sovereign!' and he sank into an armchair the picture of dismay.
'Gave him a sovereign!' shouted Trevor, and he burst into a roar of
laughter. 'My dear boy, you'll never see it again. SON AFFAIRE
C'EST L'ARGENT DES AUTRES.'
'I think you might have told me, Alan,' said Hughie sulkily, 'and
not have let me make such a fool of myself.'
'Well, to begin with, Hughie,' said Trevor, 'it never entered my
mind that you went about distributing alms in that reckless way. I
can understand your kissing a pretty model, but your giving a
sovereign to an ugly one - by Jove, no! Besides, the fact is that
I really was not at home to-day to any one; and when you came in I
didn't know whether Hausberg would like his name mentioned. You
know he wasn't in full dress.'
'What a duffer he must think me!' said Hughie.
'Not at all. He was in the highest spirits after you left; kept
chuckling to himself and rubbing his old wrinkled hands together.
I couldn't make out why he was so interested to know all about you;
but I see it all now. He'll invest your sovereign for you, Hughie,
pay you the interest every six months, and have a capital story to
tell after dinner.'
'I am an unlucky devil,' growled Hughie. 'The best thing I can do
is to go to bed; and, my dear Alan, you mustn't tell any one. I
shouldn't dare show my face in the Row.'
'Nonsense! It reflects the highest credit on your philanthropic
spirit, Hughie. And don't run away. Have another cigarette, and
you can talk about Laura as much as you like.'
However, Hughie wouldn't stop, but walked home, feeling very
unhappy, and leaving Alan Trevor in fits of laughter.
The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant brought him
up a card on which was written, 'Monsieur Gustave Naudin, DE LA
PART DE M. le Baron Hausberg.' 'I suppose he has come for an
apology,' said Hughie to himself; and he told the servant to show
the visitor up.
An old gentleman with gold spectacles and grey hair came into the
room, and said, in a slight French accent, 'Have I the honour of
addressing Monsieur Erskine?'
Hughie bowed.
'I have come from Baron Hausberg,' he continued. 'The Baron - '
'I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincerest apologies,'
stammered Hughie.
'The Baron,' said the old gentleman with a smile, 'has commissioned
me to bring you this letter'; and he extended a sealed envelope.
On the outside was written, 'A wedding present to Hugh Erskine and
Laura Merton, from an old beggar,' and inside was a cheque for
10,000 pounds.
When they were married Alan Trevor was the best man, and the Baron
made a speech at the wedding breakfast.
'Millionaire models,' remarked Alan, 'are rare enough; but, by
Jove, model millionaires are rarer still!'
THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H.
CHAPTER I
I HAD been dining with Erskine in his pretty little house in
Birdcage Walk, and we were sitting in the library over our coffee
and cigarettes, when the question of literary forgeries happened to
turn up in conversation. I cannot at present remember how it was
that we struck upon this somewhat curious topic, as it was at that
time, but I know that we had a long discussion about Macpherson,
Ireland, and Chatterton, and that with regard to the last I
insisted that his so-called forgeries were merely the result of an
artistic desire for perfect representation; that we had no right to
quarrel with an artist for the conditions under which he chooses to
present his work; and that all Art being to a certain degree a mode
of acting, an attempt to realise one's own personality on some
imaginative plane out of reach of the trammelling accidents and
limitations of real life, to censure an artist for a forgery was to
confuse an ethical with an aesthetical problem.
Erskine, who was a good deal older than I was, and had been
listening to me with the amused deference of a man of forty,
suddenly put his hand upon my shoulder and said to me, 'What would
you say about a young man who had a strange theory about a certain
work of art, believed in his theory, and committed a forgery in
order to prove it?'
'Ah! that is quite a different matter,' I answered.
Erskine remained silent for a few moments, looking at the thin grey
threads of smoke that were rising from his cigarette. 'Yes,' he
said, after a pause, 'quite different.'
There was something in the tone of his voice, a slight touch of
bitterness perhaps, that excited my curiosity. 'Did you ever know
anybody who did that?' I cried.
'Yes,' he answered, throwing his cigarette into the fire, - 'a
great friend of mine, Cyril Graham. He was very fascinating, and
very foolish, and very heartless. However, he left me the only
legacy I ever received in my life.'
'What was that?' I exclaimed. Erskine rose from his seat, and
going over to a tall inlaid cabinet that stood between the two
windows, unlocked it, and came back to where I was sitting, holding
in his hand a small panel picture set in an old and somewhat
tarnished Elizabethan frame.
It was a full-length portrait of a young man in late sixteenthcentury
costume, standing by a table, with his right hand resting
on an open book. He seemed about seventeen years of age, and was
of quite extraordinary personal beauty, though evidently somewhat
effeminate. Indeed, had it not been for the dress and the closely
cropped hair, one would have said that the face with its dreamy
wistful eyes, and its delicate scarlet lips, was the face of a
girl. In manner, and especially in the treatment of the hands, the
picture reminded one of Francois Clouet's later work. The black
velvet doublet with its fantastically gilded points, and the
peacock-blue background against which it showed up so pleasantly,
and from which it gained such luminous value of colour, were quite
in Clouet's style; and the two masks of Tragedy and Comedy that
hung somewhat formally from the marble pedestal had that hard
severity of touch - so different from the facile grace of the
Italians - which even at the Court of France the great Flemish
master never completely lost, and which in itself has always been a
characteristic of the northern temper.
'It is a charming thing,' I cried, 'but who is this wonderful young
man, whose beauty Art has so happily preserved for us?'
'This is the portrait of Mr. W. H.,' said Erskine, with a sad
smile. It might have been a chance effect of light, but it seemed
to me that his eyes were quite bright with tears.
'Mr. W. H.!' I exclaimed; 'who was Mr. W. H.?'
'Don't you remember?' he answered; 'look at the book on which his
hand is resting.'
'I see there is some writing there, but I cannot make it out,' I
replied.
'Take this magnifying-glass and try,' said Erskine, with the same
sad smile still playing about his mouth.
I took the glass, and moving the lamp a little nearer, I began to
spell out the crabbed sixteenth-century handwriting. 'To the onlie
begetter of these insuing sonnets.' . . . 'Good heavens!' I cried,
'is this Shakespeare's Mr. W. H.?'
'Cyril Graham used to say so,' muttered Erskine.
'But it is not a bit like Lord Pembroke,' I answered. 'I know the
Penshurst portraits very well. I was staying near there a few
weeks ago.'
'Do you really believe then that the sonnets are addressed to Lord
Pembroke?' he asked.
'I am sure of it,' I answered. 'Pembroke, Shakespeare, and Mrs.
Mary Fitton are the three personages of the Sonnets; there is no
doubt at all about it.'
'Well, I agree with you,' said Erskine, 'but I did not always think
so. I used to believe - well, I suppose I used to believe in Cyril
Graham and his theory.'
'And what was that?' I asked, looking at the wonderful portrait,
which had already begun to have a strange fascination for me.
'It is a long story,' said Erskine, taking the picture away from me
- rather abruptly I thought at the time - 'a very long story; but
if you care to hear it, I will tell it to you.'
'I love theories about the Sonnets,' I cried; 'but I don't think I
am likely to be converted to any new idea. The matter has ceased
to be a mystery to any one. Indeed, I wonder that it ever was a
mystery.'
'As I don't believe in the theory, I am not likely to convert you
to it,' said Erskine, laughing; 'but it may interest you.'
'Tell it to me, of course,' I answered. 'If it is half as
delightful as the picture, I shall be more than satisfied.'
'Well,' said Erskine, lighting a cigarette, 'I must begin by
telling you about Cyril Graham himself. He and I were at the same
house at Eton. I was a year or two older than he was, but we were
immense friends, and did all our work and all our play together.
There was, of course, a good deal more play than work, but I cannot
say that I am sorry for that. It is always an advantage not to
have received a sound commercial education, and what I learned in
the playing fields at Eton has been quite as useful to me as
anything I was taught at Cambridge. I should tell you that Cyril's
father and mother were both dead. They had been drowned in a
horrible yachting accident off the Isle of Wight. His father had
been in the diplomatic service, and had married a daughter, the
only daughter, in fact, of old Lord Crediton, who became Cyril's
guardian after the death of his parents. I don't think that Lord
Crediton cared very much for Cyril. He had never really forgiven
his daughter for marrying a man who had not a title. He was an
extraordinary old aristocrat, who swore like a costermonger, and
had the manners of a farmer. I remember seeing him once on Speechday.
He growled at me, gave me a sovereign, and told me not to
grow up "a damned Radical" like my father. Cyril had very little
affection for him, and was only too glad to spend most of his
holidays with us in Scotland. They never really got on together at
all. Cyril thought him a bear, and he thought Cyril effeminate.
He was effeminate, I suppose, in some things, though he was a very
good rider and a capital fencer. In fact he got the foils before
he left Eton. But he was very languid in his manner, and not a
little vain of his good looks, and had a strong objection to
football. The two things that really gave him pleasure were poetry
and acting. At Eton he was always dressing up and reciting
Shakespeare, and when we went up to Trinity he became a member of
the A.D.C. his first term. I remember I was always very jealous of
his acting. I was absurdly devoted to him; I suppose because we
were so different in some things. I was a rather awkward, weakly
lad, with huge feet, and horribly freckled. Freckles run in Scotch
families just as gout does in English families. Cyril used to say
that of the two he preferred the gout; but he always set an
absurdly high value on personal appearance, and once read a paper
before our debating society to prove that it was better to be goodlooking
than to be good. He certainly was wonderfully handsome.
People who did not like him, Philistines and college tutors, and
young men reading for the Church, used to say that he was merely
pretty; but there was a great deal more in his face than mere
prettiness. I think he was the most splendid creature I ever saw,
and nothing could exceed the grace of his movements, the charm of
his manner. He fascinated everybody who was worth fascinating, and
a great many people who were not. He was often wilful and
petulant, and I used to think him dreadfully insincere. It was
due, I think, chiefly to his inordinate desire to please. Poor
Cyril! I told him once that he was contented with very cheap
triumphs, but he only laughed. He was horribly spoiled. All
charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of their
attraction.
'However, I must tell you about Cyril's acting. You know that no
actresses are allowed to play at the A.D.C. At least they were not
in my time. I don't know how it is now. Well, of course, Cyril
was always cast for the girls' parts, and when AS YOU LIKE IT was
produced he played Rosalind. It was a marvellous performance. In
fact, Cyril Graham was the only perfect Rosalind I have ever seen.
It would be impossible to describe to you the beauty, the delicacy,
the refinement of the whole thing. It made an immense sensation,
and the horrid little theatre, as it was then, was crowded every
night. Even when I read the play now I can't help thinking of
Cyril. It might have been written for him. The next term he took
his degree, and came to London to read for the diplomatic. But he
never did any work. He spent his days in reading Shakespeare's
Sonnets, and his evenings at the theatre. He was, of course, wild
to go on the stage. It was all that I and Lord Crediton could do
to prevent him. Perhaps if he had gone on the stage he would be
alive now. It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give
good advice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into
that error. If you do, you will be sorry for it.
'Well, to come to the real point of the story, one day I got a
letter from Cyril asking me to come round to his rooms that
evening. He had charming chambers in Piccadilly overlooking the
Green Park, and as I used to go to see him every day, I was rather
surprised at his taking the trouble to write. Of course I went,
and when I arrived I found him in a state of great excitement. He
told me that he had at last discovered the true secret of
Shakespeare's Sonnets; that all the scholars and critics had been
entirely on the wrong tack; and that he was the first who, working
purely by internal evidence, had found out who Mr. W. H. really
was. He was perfectly wild with delight, and for a long time would
not tell me his theory. Finally, he produced a bundle of notes,
took his copy of the Sonnets off the mantelpiece, and sat down and
gave me a long lecture on the whole subject.
'He began by pointing out that the young man to whom Shakespeare
addressed these strangely passionate poems must have been somebody
who was a really vital factor in the development of his dramatic
art, and that this could not be said either of Lord Pembroke or
Lord Southampton. Indeed, whoever he was, he could not have been
anybody of high birth, as was shown very clearly by the 25th
Sonnet, in which Shakespeare contrasting himself with those who are
"great princes' favourites," says quite frankly -
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
And ends the sonnet by congratulating himself on the mean state of
him he so adored.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
This sonnet Cyril declared would be quite unintelligible if we
fancied that it was addressed to either the Earl of Pembroke or the
Earl of Southampton, both of whom were men of the highest position
in England and fully entitled to be called "great princes"; and he
in corroboration of his view read me Sonnets CXXIV. and CXXV., in
which Shakespeare tells us that his love is not "the child of
state," that it "suffers not in smiling pomp," but is "builded far
from accident." I listened with a good deal of interest, for I
don't think the point had ever been made before; but what followed
was still more curious, and seemed to me at the time to dispose
entirely of Pembroke's claim. We know from Meres that the Sonnets
had been written before 1598, and Sonnet CIV. informs us that
Shakespeare's friendship for Mr. W. H. had been already in
existence for three years. Now Lord Pembroke, who was born in
1580, did not come to London till he was eighteen years of age,
that is to say till 1598, and Shakespeare's acquaintance with Mr.
W. H. must have begun in 1594, or at the latest in 1595.
Shakespeare, accordingly, could not have known Lord Pembroke till
after the Sonnets had been written.
'Cyril pointed out also that Pembroke's father did not die till
1601; whereas it was evident from the line,
You had a father; let your son say so,
that the father of Mr. W. H. was dead in 1598. Besides, it was
absurd to imagine that any publisher of the time, and the preface
is from the publisher's hand, would have ventured to address
William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, as Mr. W. H.; the case of Lord
Buckhurst being spoken of as Mr. Sackville being not really a
parallel instance, as Lord Buckhurst was not a peer, but merely the
younger son of a peer, with a courtesy title, and the passage in
ENGLAND'S PARNASSUS, where he is so spoken of, is not a formal and
stately dedication, but simply a casual allusion. So far for Lord
Pembroke, whose supposed claims Cyril easily demolished while I sat
by in wonder. With Lord Southampton Cyril had even less
difficulty. Southampton became at a very early age the lover of
Elizabeth Vernon, so he needed no entreaties to marry; he was not
beautiful; he did not resemble his mother, as Mr. W. H. did -
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
and, above all, his Christian name was Henry, whereas the punning
sonnets (CXXXV. and CXLIII.) show that the Christian name of
Shakespeare's friend was the same as his own - WILL.
'As for the other suggestions of unfortunate commentators, that Mr.
W. H. is a misprint for Mr. W. S., meaning Mr. William Shakespeare;
that "Mr. W. H. all" should be read "Mr. W. Hall"; that Mr. W. H.
is Mr. William Hathaway; and that a full stop should be placed
after "wisheth," making Mr. W. H. the writer and not the subject of
the dedication, - Cyril got rid of them in a very short time; and
it is not worth while to mention his reasons, though I remember he
sent me off into a fit of laughter by reading to me, I am glad to
say not in the original, some extracts from a German commentator
called Barnstorff, who insisted that Mr. W. H. was no less a person
than "Mr. William Himself." Nor would he allow for a moment that
the Sonnets are mere satires on the work of Drayton and John Davies
of Hereford. To him, as indeed to me, they were poems of serious
and tragic import, wrung out of the bitterness of Shakespeare's
heart, and made sweet by the honey of his lips. Still less would
he admit that they were merely a philosophical allegory, and that
in them Shakespeare is addressing his Ideal Self, or Ideal Manhood,
or the Spirit of Beauty, or the Reason, or the Divine Logos, or the
Catholic Church. He felt, as indeed I think we all must feel, that
the Sonnets are addressed to an individual, - to a particular young
man whose personality for some reason seems to have filled the soul
of Shakespeare with terrible joy and no less terrible despair.
'Having in this manner cleared the way as it were, Cyril asked me
to dismiss from my mind any preconceived ideas I might have formed
on the subject, and to give a fair and unbiassed hearing to his own
theory. The problem he pointed out was this: Who was that young
man of Shakespeare's day who, without being of noble birth or even
of noble nature, was addressed by him in terms of such passionate
adoration that we can but wonder at the strange worship, and are
almost afraid to turn the key that unlocks the mystery of the
poet's heart? Who was he whose physical beauty was such that it
became the very corner-stone of Shakespeare's art; the very source
of Shakespeare's inspiration; the very incarnation of Shakespeare's
dreams? To look upon him as simply the object of certain lovepoems
is to miss the whole meaning of the poems: for the art of
which Shakespeare talks in the Sonnets is not the art of the
Sonnets themselves, which indeed were to him but slight and secret
things - it is the art of the dramatist to which he is always
alluding; and he to whom Shakespeare said -
Thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance,
he to whom he promised immortality,
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men, -
was surely none other than the boy-actor for whom he created Viola
and Imogen, Juliet and Rosalind, Portia and Desdemona, and
Cleopatra herself. This was Cyril Graham's theory, evolved as you
see purely from the Sonnets themselves, and depending for its
acceptance not so much on demonstrable proof or formal evidence,
but on a kind of spiritual and artistic sense, by which alone he
claimed could the true meaning of the poems be discerned. I
remember his reading to me that fine sonnet -
How can my Muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date -
and pointing out how completely it corroborated his theory; and
indeed he went through all the Sonnets carefully, and showed, or
fancied that he showed, that, according to his new explanation of
their meaning, things that had seemed obscure, or evil, or
exaggerated, became clear and rational, and of high artistic
import, illustrating Shakespeare's conception of the true relations
between the art of the actor and the art of the dramatist.
'It is of course evident that there must have been in Shakespeare's
company some wonderful boy-actor of great beauty, to whom he
intrusted the presentation of his noble heroines; for Shakespeare
was a practical theatrical manager as well as an imaginative poet,
and Cyril Graham had actually discovered the boy-actor's name. He
was Will, or, as he preferred to call him, Willie Hughes. The
Christian name he found of course in the punning sonnets, CXXXV.
and CXLIII.; the surname was, according to him, hidden in the
seventh line of the 20th Sonnet, where Mr. W. H. is described as -
A man in hew, all HEWS in his controwling.
'In the original edition of the Sonnets "Hews" is printed with a
capital letter and in italics, and this, he claimed, showed clearly
that a play on words was intended, his view receiving a good deal
of corroboration from those sonnets in which curious puns are made
on the words "use" and "usury." Of course I was converted at once,
and Willie Hughes became to me as real a person as Shakespeare.
The only objection I made to the theory was that the name of Willie
Hughes does not occur in the list of the actors of Shakespeare's
company as it is printed in the first folio. Cyril, however,
pointed out that the absence of Willie Hughes's name from this list
really corroborated the theory, as it was evident from Sonnet
LXXXVI. that Willie Hughes had abandoned Shakespeare's company to
play at a rival theatre, probably in some of Chapman's plays. It
is in reference to this that in the great sonnet on Chapman,
Shakespeare said to Willie Hughes -
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine -
the expression "when your countenance filled up his line" referring
obviously to the beauty of the young actor giving life and reality
and added charm to Chapman's verse, the same idea being also put
forward in the 79th Sonnet -
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my sick Muse doth give another place;
and in the immediately preceding sonnet, where Shakespeare says -
Every alien pen has got my USE
And under thee their poesy disperse,
the play upon words (use=Hughes) being of course obvious, and the
phrase "under thee their poesy disperse," meaning "by your
assistance as an actor bring their plays before the people."
'It was a wonderful evening, and we sat up almost till dawn reading
and re-reading the Sonnets. After some time, however, I began to
see that before the theory could be placed before the world in a
really perfected form, it was necessary to get some independent
evidence about the existence of this young actor, Willie Hughes.
If this could be once established, there could be no possible doubt
about his identity with Mr. W. H.; but otherwise the theory would
fall to the ground. I put this forward very strongly to Cyril, who
was a good deal annoyed at what he called my Philistine tone of
mind, and indeed was rather bitter upon the subject. However, I
made him promise that in his own interest he would not publish his
discovery till he had put the whole matter beyond the reach of
doubt; and for weeks and weeks we searched the registers of City
churches, the Alleyn MSS. at Dulwich, the Record Office, the papers
of the Lord Chamberlain - everything, in fact, that we thought
might contain some allusion to Willie Hughes. We discovered
nothing, of course, and every day the existence of Willie Hughes
seemed to me to become more problematical. Cyril was in a dreadful
state, and used to go over the whole question day after day,
entreating me to believe; but I saw the one flaw in the theory, and
I refused to be convinced till the actual existence of Willie
Hughes, a boy-actor of Elizabethan days, had been placed beyond the
reach of doubt or cavil.
'One day Cyril left town to stay with his grandfather, I thought at
the time, but I afterwards heard from Lord Crediton that this was
not the case; and about a fortnight afterwards I received a
telegram from him, handed in at Warwick, asking me to be sure to
come and dine with him that evening at eight o'clock. When I
arrived, he said to me, "The only apostle who did not deserve proof
was St. Thomas, and St. Thomas was the only apostle who got it." I
asked him what he meant. He answered that he had not merely been
able to establish the existence in the sixteenth century of a boyactor
of the name of Willie Hughes, but to prove by the most
conclusive evidence that he was the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets. He
would not tell me anything more at the time; but after dinner he
solemnly produced the picture I showed you, and told me that he had
discovered it by the merest chance nailed to the side of an old
chest that he had bought at a farmhouse in Warwickshire. The chest
itself, which was a very fine example of Elizabethan work, he had,
of course, brought with him, and in the centre of the front panel
the initials W. H. were undoubtedly carved. It was this monogram
that had attracted his attention, and he told me that it was not
till he had had the chest in his possession for several days that
he had thought of making any careful examination of the inside.
One morning, however, he saw that one of the sides of the chest was
much thicker than the other, and looking more closely, he
discovered that a framed panel picture was clamped against it. On
taking it out, he found it was the picture that is now lying on the
sofa. It was very dirty, and covered with mould; but he managed to
clean it, and, to his great joy, saw that he had fallen by mere
chance on the one thing for which he had been looking. Here was an
authentic portrait of Mr. W. H., with his hand resting on the
dedicatory page of the Sonnets, and on the frame itself could be
faintly seen the name of the young man written in black uncial
letters on a faded gold ground, "Master Will. Hews."
'Well, what was I to say? It never occurred to me for a moment
that Cyril Graham was playing a trick on me, or that he was trying
to prove his theory by means of a forgery.'
'But is it a forgery?' I asked.
'Of course it is,' said Erskine. 'It is a very good forgery; but
it is a forgery none the less. I thought at the time that Cyril
was rather calm about the whole matter; but I remember he more than
once told me that he himself required no proof of the kind, and
that he thought the theory complete without it. I laughed at him,
and told him that without it the theory would fall to the ground,
and I warmly congratulated him on the marvellous discovery. We
then arranged that the picture should be etched or facsimiled, and
placed as the frontispiece to Cyril's edition of the Sonnets; and
for three months we did nothing but go over each poem line by line,
till we had settled every difficulty of text or meaning. One
unlucky day I was in a print-shop in Holborn, when I saw upon the
counter some extremely beautiful drawings in silver-point. I was
so attracted by them that I bought them; and the proprietor of the
place, a man called Rawlings, told me that they were done by a
young painter of the name of Edward Merton, who was very clever,
but as poor as a church mouse. I went to see Merton some days
afterwards, having got his address from the printseller, and found
a pale, interesting young man, with a rather common-looking wife -
his model, as I subsequently learned. I told him how much I
admired his drawings, at which he seemed very pleased, and I asked
him if he would show me some of his other work. As we were looking
over a portfolio, full of really very lovely things, - for Merton
had a most delicate and delightful touch, - I suddenly caught sight
of a drawing of the picture of Mr. W. H. There was no doubt
whatever about it. It was almost a FACSIMILE - the only difference
being that the two masks of Tragedy and Comedy were not suspended
from the marble table as they are in the picture, but were lying on
the floor at the young man's feet. "Where on earth did you get
that?" I said. He grew rather confused, and said - "Oh, that is
nothing. I did not know it was in this portfolio. It is not a
thing of any value." "It is what you did for Mr. Cyril Graham,"
exclaimed his wife; "and if this gentleman wishes to buy it, let
him have it." "For Mr. Cyril Graham?" I repeated. "Did you paint
the picture of Mr. W. H.?" "I don't understand what you mean," he
answered, growing very red. Well, the whole thing was quite
dreadful. The wife let it all out. I gave her five pounds when I
was going away. I can't bear to think of it now; but of course I
was furious. I went off at once to Cyril's chambers, waited there
for three hours before he came in, with that horrid lie staring me
in the face, and told him I had discovered his forgery. He grew
very pale and said - "I did it purely for your sake. You would not
be convinced in any other way. It does not affect the truth of the
theory." "The truth of the theory!" I exclaimed; "the less we talk
about that the better. You never even believed in it yourself. If
you had, you would not have committed a forgery to prove it." High
words passed between us; we had a fearful quarrel. I dare say I
was unjust. The next morning he was dead.'
'Dead!' I cried,
'Yes; he shot himself with a revolver. Some of the blood splashed
upon the frame of the picture, just where the name had been
painted. By the time I arrived - his servant had sent for me at
once - the police were already there. He had left a letter for me,
evidently written in the greatest agitation and distress of mind.'
'What was in it?' I asked.
'Oh, that he believed absolutely in Willie Hughes; that the forgery
of the picture had been done simply as a concession to me, and did
not in the slightest degree invalidate the truth of the theory;
and, that in order to show me how firm and flawless his faith in
the whole thing was, he was going to offer his life as a sacrifice
to the secret of the Sonnets. It was a foolish, mad letter. I
remember he ended by saying that he intrusted to me the Willie
Hughes theory, and that it was for me to present it to the world,
and to unlock the secret of Shakespeare's heart.'
'It is a most tragic story,' I cried; 'but why have you not carried
out his wishes?'
Erskine shrugged his shoulders. 'Because it is a perfectly unsound
theory from beginning to end,' he answered.
'My dear Erskine,' I said, getting up from my seat, 'you are
entirely wrong about the whole matter. It is the only perfect key
to Shakespeare's Sonnets that has ever been made. It is complete
in every detail. I believe in Willie Hughes.'
'Don't say that,' said Erskine gravely; 'I believe there is
something fatal about the idea, and intellectually there is nothing
to be said for it. I have gone into the whole matter, and I assure
you the theory is entirely fallacious. It is plausible up to a
certain point. Then it stops. For heaven's sake, my dear boy,
don't take up the subject of Willie Hughes. You will break your
heart over it.'
'Erskine,' I answered, 'it is your duty to give this theory to the
world. If you will not do it, I will. By keeping it back you
wrong the memory of Cyril Graham, the youngest and the most
splendid of all the martyrs of literature. I entreat you to do him
justice. He died for this thing, - don't let his death be in
vain.'
Erskine looked at me in amazement. 'You are carried away by the
sentiment of the whole story,' he said. 'You forget that a thing
is not necessarily true because a man dies for it. I was devoted
to Cyril Graham. His death was a horrible blow to me. I did not
recover it for years. I don't think I have ever recovered it. But
Willie Hughes? There is nothing in the idea of Willie Hughes. No
such person ever existed. As for bringing the whole thing before
the world - the world thinks that Cyril Graham shot himself by
accident. The only proof of his suicide was contained in the
letter to me, and of this letter the public never heard anything.
To the present day Lord Crediton thinks that the whole thing was
accidental.'
'Cyril Graham sacrificed his life to a great Idea,' I answered;
'and if you will not tell of his martyrdom, tell at least of his
faith.'
'His faith,' said Erskine, 'was fixed in a thing that was false, in
a thing that was unsound, in a thing that no Shakespearean scholar
would accept for a moment. The theory would be laughed at. Don't
make a fool of yourself, and don't follow a trail that leads
nowhere. You start by assuming the existence of the very person
whose existence is the thing to be proved. Besides, everybody
knows that the Sonnets were addressed to Lord Pembroke. The matter
is settled once for all.'
'The matter is not settled!' I exclaimed. 'I will take up the
theory where Cyril Graham left it, and I will prove to the world
that he was right.'
'Silly boy!' said Erskine. 'Go home: it is after two, and don't
think about Willie Hughes any more. I am sorry I told you anything
about it, and very sorry indeed that I should have converted you to
a thing in which I don't believe.'
'You have given me the key to the greatest mystery of modern
literature,' I answered; 'and I shall not rest till I have made you
recognise, till I have made everybody recognise, that Cyril Graham
was the most subtle Shakespearean critic of our day.'
As I walked home through St. James's Park the dawn was just
breaking over London. The white swans were lying asleep on the
polished lake, and the gaunt Palace looked purple against the palegreen
sky. I thought of Cyril Graham, and my eyes filled with
tears.
CHAPTER II
IT was past twelve o'clock when I awoke, and the sun was streaming
in through the curtains of my room in long slanting beams of dusty
gold. I told my servant that I would be at home to no one; and
after I had had a cup of chocolate and a PETIT-PAIN, I took down
from the book-shelf my copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, and began to
go carefully through them. Every poem seemed to me to corroborate
Cyril Graham's theory. I felt as if I had my hand upon
Shakespeare's heart, and was counting each separate throb and pulse
of passion. I thought of the wonderful boy-actor, and saw his face
in every line.
Two sonnets, I remember, struck me particularly: they were the
53rd and the 67th. In the first of these, Shakespeare,
complimenting Willie Hughes on the versatility of his acting, on
his wide range of parts, a range extending from Rosalind to Juliet,
and from Beatrice to Ophelia, says to him -
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend -
lines that would be unintelligible if they were not addressed to an
actor, for the word 'shadow' had in Shakespeare's day a technical
meaning connected with the stage. 'The best in this kind are but
shadows,' says Theseus of the actors in the MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S
DREAM, and there are many similar allusions in the literature of
the day. These sonnets evidently belonged to the series in which
Shakespeare discusses the nature of the actor's art, and of the
strange and rare temperament that is essential to the perfect
stage-player. 'How is it,' says Shakespeare to Willie Hughes,
'that you have so many personalities?' and then he goes on to point
out that his beauty is such that it seems to realise every form and
phase of fancy, to embody each dream of the creative imagination -
an idea that is still further expanded in the sonnet that
immediately follows, where, beginning with the fine thought,
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which TRUTH doth give!
Shakespeare invites us to notice how the truth of acting, the truth
of visible presentation on the stage, adds to the wonder of poetry,
giving life to its loveliness, and actual reality to its ideal
form. And yet, in the 67th Sonnet, Shakespeare calls upon Willie
Hughes to abandon the stage with its artificiality, its false mimic
life of painted face and unreal costume, its immoral influences and
suggestions, its remoteness from the true world of noble action and
sincere utterance.
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeming of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
It may seem strange that so great a dramatist as Shakespeare, who
realised his own perfection as an artist and his humanity as a man
on the ideal plane of stage-writing and stage-playing, should have
written in these terms about the theatre; but we must remember that
in Sonnets CX. and CXI. Shakespeare shows us that he too was
wearied of the world of puppets, and full of shame at having made
himself 'a motley to the view.' The 111th Sonnet is especially
bitter:-
O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me then and wish I were renew'd -
and there are many signs elsewhere of the same feeling, signs
familiar to all real students of Shakespeare.
One point puzzled me immensely as I read the Sonnets, and it was
days before I struck on the true interpretation, which indeed Cyril
Graham himself seems to have missed. I could not understand how it
was that Shakespeare set so high a value on his young friend
marrying. He himself had married young, and the result had been
unhappiness, and it was not likely that he would have asked Willie
Hughes to commit the same error. The boy-player of Rosalind had
nothing to gain from marriage, or from the passions of real life.
The early sonnets, with their strange entreaties to have children,
seemed to me a jarring note. The explanation of the mystery came
on me quite suddenly, and I found it in the curious dedication. It
will be remembered that the dedication runs as follows:-
TO THE ONLIE BEGETTER OF
THESE INSUING SONNETS
MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESSE
AND THAT ETERNITIE
PROMISED
BY
OUR EVER-LIVING POET
WISHETH
THE WELL-WISHING
ADVENTURER IN
SETTING
FORTH.
T. T.
Some scholars have supposed that the word 'begetter' in this
dedication means simply the procurer of the Sonnets for Thomas
Thorpe the publisher; but this view is now generally abandoned, and
the highest authorities are quite agreed that it is to be taken in
the sense of inspirer, the metaphor being drawn from the analogy of
physical life. Now I saw that the same metaphor was used by
Shakespeare himself all through the poems, and this set me on the
right track. Finally I made my great discovery. The marriage that
Shakespeare proposes for Willie Hughes is the marriage with his
Muse, an expression which is definitely put forward in the 82nd
Sonnet, where, in the bitterness of his heart at the defection of
the boy-actor for whom he had written his greatest parts, and whose
beauty had indeed suggested them, he opens his complaint by saying
-
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse.
The children he begs him to beget are no children of flesh and
blood, but more immortal children of undying fame. The whole cycle
of the early sonnets is simply Shakespeare's invitation to Willie
Hughes to go upon the stage and become a player. How barren and
profitless a thing, he says, is this beauty of yours if it be not
used:-
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
You must create something in art: my verse 'is thine, and BORN of
thee'; only listen to me, and I will 'BRING FORTH eternal numbers
to outlive long date,' and you shall people with forms of your own
image the imaginary world of the stage. These children that you
beget, he continues, will not wither away, as mortal children do,
but you shall live in them and in my plays: do but -
Make thee another self, for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
I collected all the passages that seemed to me to corroborate this
view, and they produced a strong impression on me, and showed me
how complete Cyril Graham's theory really was. I also saw that it
was quite easy to separate those lines in which he speaks of the
Sonnets themselves from those in which he speaks of his great
dramatic work. This was a point that had been entirely overlooked
by all critics up to Cyril Graham's day. And yet it was one of the
most important points in the whole series of poems. To the Sonnets
Shakespeare was more or less indifferent. He did not wish to rest
his fame on them. They were to him his 'slight Muse,' as he calls
them, and intended, as Meres tells us, for private circulation only
among a few, a very few, friends. Upon the other hand he was
extremely conscious of the high artistic value of his plays, and
shows a noble self-reliance upon his dramatic genius. When he says
to Willie Hughes:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in ETERNAL LINES to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee; -
the expression 'eternal lines' clearly alludes to one of his plays
that he was sending him at the time, just as the concluding couplet
points to his confidence in the probability of his plays being
always acted. In his address to the Dramatic Muse (Sonnets C. and
CI.), we find the same feeling.
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
he cries, and he then proceeds to reproach the Mistress of Tragedy
and Comedy for her 'neglect of Truth in Beauty dyed,' and says -
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for 't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.
It is, however, perhaps in the 55th Sonnet that Shakespeare gives
to this idea its fullest expression. To imagine that the 'powerful
rhyme' of the second line refers to the sonnet itself, is to
mistake Shakespeare's meaning entirely. It seemed to me that it
was extremely likely, from the general character of the sonnet,
that a particular play was meant, and that the play was none other
but ROMEO AND JULIET.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful wars shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgement that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
It was also extremely suggestive to note how here as elsewhere
Shakespeare promised Willie Hughes immortality in a form that
appealed to men's eyes - that is to say, in a spectacular form, in
a play that is to be looked at.
For two weeks I worked hard at the Sonnets, hardly ever going out,
and refusing all invitations. Every day I seemed to be discovering
something new, and Willie Hughes became to me a kind of spiritual
presence, an ever-dominant personality. I could almost fancy that
I saw him standing in the shadow of my room, so well had
Shakespeare drawn him, with his golden hair, his tender flower-like
grace, his dreamy deep-sunken eyes, his delicate mobile limbs, and
his white lily hands. His very name fascinated me. Willie Hughes!
Willie Hughes! How musically it sounded! Yes; who else but he
could have been the master-mistress of Shakespeare's passion, (1)
the lord of his love to whom he was bound in vassalage, (2) the
delicate minion of pleasure, (3) the rose of the whole world, (4)
the herald of the spring (5) decked in the proud livery of youth,
(6) the lovely boy whom it was sweet music to hear, (7) and whose
beauty was the very raiment of Shakespeare's heart, (8) as it was
the keystone of his dramatic power? How bitter now seemed the
whole tragedy of his desertion and his shame! - shame that he made
sweet and lovely (9) by the mere magic of his personality, but that
was none the less shame. Yet as Shakespeare forgave him, should
not we forgive him also? I did not care to pry into the mystery of
his sin.
His abandonment of Shakespeare's theatre was a different matter,
and I investigated it at great length. Finally I came to the
conclusion that Cyril Graham had been wrong in regarding the rival
dramatist of the 80th Sonnet as Chapman. It was obviously Marlowe
who was alluded to. At the time the Sonnets were written, such an
expression as 'the proud full sail of his great verse' could not
have been used of Chapman's work, however applicable it might have
been to the style of his later Jacobean plays. No: Marlowe was
clearly the rival dramatist of whom Shakespeare spoke in such
laudatory terms; and that
Affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
was the Mephistopheles of his DOCTOR FAUSTUS. No doubt, Marlowe
was fascinated by the beauty and grace of the boy-actor, and lured
him away from the Blackfriars Theatre, that he might play the
Gaveston of his EDWARD II. That Shakespeare had the legal right to
retain Willie Hughes in his own company is evident from Sonnet
LXXXVII., where he says:-
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The CHARTER OF THY WORTH gives thee releasing;
My BONDS in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
AND SO MY PATENT BACK AGAIN IS SWERVING.
Thyself thou gayest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
But him whom he could not hold by love, he would not hold by force.
Willie Hughes became a member of Lord Pembroke's company, and,
perhaps in the open yard of the Red Bull Tavern, played the part of
King Edward's delicate minion. On Marlowe's death, he seems to
have returned to Shakespeare, who, whatever his fellow-partners may
have thought of the matter, was not slow to forgive the wilfulness
and treachery of the young actor.
How well, too, had Shakespeare drawn the temperament of the stageplayer!
Willie Hughes was one of those
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone.
He could act love, but could not feel it, could mimic passion
without realising it.
In many's looks the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
but with Willie Hughes it was not so. 'Heaven,' says Shakespeare,
in a sonnet of mad idolatry -
Heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
In his 'inconstant mind' and his 'false heart,' it was easy to
recognise the insincerity and treachery that somehow seem
inseparable from the artistic nature, as in his love of praise that
desire for immediate recognition that characterises all actors.
And yet, more fortunate in this than other actors, Willie Hughes
was to know something of immortality. Inseparably connected with
Shakespeare's plays, he was to live in them.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead.
There were endless allusions, also, to Willie Hughes's power over
his audience - the 'gazers,' as Shakespeare calls them; but perhaps
the most perfect description of his wonderful mastery over dramatic
art was in A LOVER'S COMPLAINT, where Shakespeare says of him:-
In him a plenitude of subtle matter,
Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,
Of burning blushes, or of weeping water,
Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,
In either's aptness, as it best deceives,
To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,
Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.
* * * * * * * *
So on the tip of his subduing tongue,
All kind of arguments and questions deep,
All replication prompt and reason strong,
For his advantage still did wake and sleep,
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep.
He had the dialect and the different skill,
Catching all passions in his craft of will.
Once I thought that I had really found Willie Hughes in Elizabethan
literature. In a wonderfully graphic account of the last days of
the great Earl of Essex, his chaplain, Thomas Knell, tells us that
the night before the Earl died, 'he called William Hewes, which was
his musician, to play upon the virginals and to sing. "Play," said
he, "my song, Will Hewes, and I will sing it to myself." So he did
it most joyfully, not as the howling swan, which, still looking
down, waileth her end, but as a sweet lark, lifting up his hands
and casting up his eyes to his God, with this mounted the crystal
skies, and reached with his unwearied tongue the top of highest
heavens.' Surely the boy who played on the virginals to the dying
father of Sidney's Stella was none other but the Will Hews to whom
Shakespeare dedicated the Sonnets, and who he tells us was himself
sweet 'music to hear.' Yet Lord Essex died in 1576, when
Shakespeare himself was but twelve years of age. It was impossible
that his musician could have been the Mr. W. H. of the Sonnets.
Perhaps Shakespeare's young friend was the son of the player upon
the virginals? It was at least something to have discovered that
Will Hews was an Elizabethan name. Indeed the name Hews seemed to
have been closely connected with music and the stage. The first
English actress was the lovely Margaret Hews, whom Prince Rupert so
madly loved. What more probable than that between her and Lord
Essex's musician had come the boy-actor of Shakespeare's plays?
But the proofs, the links - where were they? Alas! I could not
find them. It seemed to me that I was always on the brink of
absolute verification, but that I could never really attain to it.
From Willie Hughes's life I soon passed to thoughts of his death.
I used to wonder what had been his end.
Perhaps he had been one of those English actors who in 1604 went
across sea to Germany and played before the great Duke Henry Julius
of Brunswick, himself a dramatist of no mean order, and at the
Court of that strange Elector of Brandenburg, who was so enamoured
of beauty that he was said to have bought for his weight in amber
the young son of a travelling Greek merchant, and to have given
pageants in honour of his slave all through that dreadful famine
year of 1606-7, when the people died of hunger in the very streets
of the town, and for the space of seven months there was no rain.
We know at any rate that ROMEO AND JULIET was brought out at
Dresden in 1613, along with HAMLET and KING LEAR, and it was surely
to none other than Willie Hughes that in 1615 the death-mask of
Shakespeare was brought by the hand of one of the suite of the
English ambassador, pale token of the passing away of the great
poet who had so dearly loved him. Indeed there would have been
something peculiarly fitting in the idea that the boy-actor, whose
beauty had been so vital an element in the realism and romance of
Shakespeare's art, should have been the first to have brought to
Germany the seed of the new culture, and was in his way the
precursor of that AUFKLARUNG or Illumination of the eighteenth
century, that splendid movement which, though begun by Lessing and
Herder, and brought to its full and perfect issue by Goethe, was in
no small part helped on by another actor - Friedrich Schroeder -
who awoke the popular consciousness, and by means of the feigned
passions and mimetic methods of the stage showed the intimate, the
vital, connection between life and literature. If this was so -
and there was certainly no evidence against it - it was not
improbable that Willie Hughes was one of those English comedians
(MIMAE QUIDAM EX BRITANNIA, as the old chronicle calls them), who
were slain at Nuremberg in a sudden uprising of the people, and
were secretly buried in a little vineyard outside the city by some
young men 'who had found pleasure in their performances, and of
whom some had sought to be instructed in the mysteries of the new
art.' Certainly no more fitting place could there be for him to
whom Shakespeare said, 'thou art all my art,' than this little
vineyard outside the city walls. For was it not from the sorrows
of Dionysos that Tragedy sprang? Was not the light laughter of
Comedy, with its careless merriment and quick replies, first heard
on the lips of the Sicilian vine-dressers? Nay, did not the purple
and red stain of the wine-froth on face and limbs give the first
suggestion of the charm and fascination of disguise - the desire
for self-concealment, the sense of the value of objectivity thus
showing itself in the rude beginnings of the art? At any rate,
wherever he lay - whether in the little vineyard at the gate of the
Gothic town, or in some dim London churchyard amidst the roar and
bustle of our great city - no gorgeous monument marked his restingplace.
His true tomb, as Shakespeare saw, was the poet's verse,
his true monument the permanence of the drama. So had it been with
others whose beauty had given a new creative impulse to their age.
The ivory body of the Bithynian slave rots in the green ooze of the
Nile, and on the yellow hills of the Cerameicus is strewn the dust
of the young Athenian; but Antinous lives in sculpture, and
Charmides in philosophy.
CHAPTER III
AFTER three weeks had elapsed, I determined to make a strong appeal
to Erskine to do justice to the memory of Cyril Graham, and to give
to the world his marvellous interpretation of the Sonnets - the
only interpretation that thoroughly explained the problem. I have
not any copy of my letter, I regret to say, nor have I been able to
lay my hand upon the original; but I remember that I went over the
whole ground, and covered sheets of paper with passionate
reiteration of the arguments and proofs that my study had suggested
to me. It seemed to me that I was not merely restoring Cyril
Graham to his proper place in literary history, but rescuing the
honour of Shakespeare himself from the tedious memory of a
commonplace intrigue. I put into the letter all my enthusiasm. I
put into the letter all my faith.
No sooner, in fact, had I sent it off than a curious reaction came
over me. It seemed to me that I had given away my capacity for
belief in the Willie Hughes theory of the Sonnets, that something
had gone out of me, as it were, and that I was perfectly
indifferent to the whole subject. What was it that had happened?
It is difficult to say. Perhaps, by finding perfect expression for
a passion, I had exhausted the passion itself. Emotional forces,
like the forces of physical life, have their positive limitations.
Perhaps the mere effort to convert any one to a theory involves
some form of renunciation of the power of credence. Perhaps I was
simply tired of the whole thing, and, my enthusiasm having burnt
out, my reason was left to its own unimpassioned judgment. However
it came about, and I cannot pretend to explain it, there was no
doubt that Willie Hughes suddenly became to me a mere myth, an idle
dream, the boyish fancy of a young man who, like most ardent
spirits, was more anxious to convince others than to be himself
convinced.
As I had said some very unjust and bitter things to Erskine in my
letter, I determined to go and see him at once, and to make my
apologies to him for my behaviour. Accordingly, the next morning I
drove down to Birdcage Walk, and found Erskine sitting in his
library, with the forged picture of Willie Hughes in front of him.
'My dear Erskine!' I cried, 'I have come to apologise to you.'
'To apologise to me?' he said. 'What for?'
'For my letter,' I answered.
'You have nothing to regret in your letter,' he said. 'On the
contrary, you have done me the greatest service in your power. You
have shown me that Cyril Graham's theory is perfectly sound.'
'You don't mean to say that you believe in Willie Hughes?' I
exclaimed.
'Why not?' he rejoined. 'You have proved the thing to me. Do you
think I cannot estimate the value of evidence?'
'But there is no evidence at all,' I groaned, sinking into a chair.
'When I wrote to you I was under the influence of a perfectly silly
enthusiasm. I had been touched by the story of Cyril Graham's
death, fascinated by his romantic theory, enthralled by the wonder
and novelty of the whole idea. I see now that the theory is based
on a delusion. The only evidence for the existence of Willie
Hughes is that picture in front of you, and the picture is a
forgery. Don't be carried away by mere sentiment in this matter.
Whatever romance may have to say about the Willie Hughes theory,
reason is dead against it.'
'I don't understand you,' said Erskine, looking at me in amazement.
'Why, you yourself have convinced me by your letter that Willie
Hughes is an absolute reality. Why have you changed your mind? Or
is all that you have been saying to me merely a joke?'
'I cannot explain it to you,' I rejoined, 'but I see now that there
is really nothing to be said in favour of Cyril Graham's
interpretation. The Sonnets are addressed to Lord Pembroke. For
heaven's sake don't waste your time in a foolish attempt to
discover a young Elizabethan actor who never existed, and to make a
phantom puppet the centre of the great cycle of Shakespeare's
Sonnets.'
'I see that you don't understand the theory,' he replied.
'My dear Erskine,' I cried, 'not understand it! Why, I feel as if
I had invented it. Surely my letter shows you that I not merely
went into the whole matter, but that I contributed proofs of every
kind. The one flaw in the theory is that it presupposes the
existence of the person whose existence is the subject of dispute.
If we grant that there was in Shakespeare's company a young actor
of the name of Willie Hughes, it is not difficult to make him the
object of the Sonnets. But as we know that there was no actor of
this name in the company of the Globe Theatre, it is idle to pursue
the investigation further.'
'But that is exactly what we don't know,' said Erskine. 'It is
quite true that his name does not occur in the list given in the
first folio; but, as Cyril pointed out, that is rather a proof in
favour of the existence of Willie Hughes than against it, if we
remember his treacherous desertion of Shakespeare for a rival
dramatist.'
We argued the matter over for hours, but nothing that I could say
could make Erskine surrender his faith in Cyril Graham's
interpretation. He told me that he intended to devote his life to
proving the theory, and that he was determined to do justice to
Cyril Graham's memory. I entreated him, laughed at him, begged of
him, but it was of no use. Finally we parted, not exactly in
anger, but certainly with a shadow between us. He thought me
shallow, I thought him foolish. When I called on him again his
servant told me that he had gone to Germany.
Two years afterwards, as I was going into my club, the hall-porter
handed me a letter with a foreign postmark. It was from Erskine,
and written at the Hotel d'Angleterre, Cannes. When I had read it
I was filled with horror, though I did not quite believe that he
would be so mad as to carry his resolve into execution. The gist
of the letter was that he had tried in every way to verify the
Willie Hughes theory, and had failed, and that as Cyril Graham had
given his life for this theory, he himself had determined to give
his own life also to the same cause. The concluding words of the
letter were these: 'I still believe in Willie Hughes; and by the
time you receive this, I shall have died by my own hand for Willie
Hughes's sake: for his sake, and for the sake of Cyril Graham,
whom I drove to his death by my shallow scepticism and ignorant
lack of faith. The truth was once revealed to you, and you
rejected it. It comes to you now stained with the blood of two
lives, - do not turn away from it.'
It was a horrible moment. I felt sick with misery, and yet I could
not believe it. To die for one's theological beliefs is the worst
use a man can make of his life, but to die for a literary theory!
It seemed impossible.
I looked at the date. The letter was a week old. Some unfortunate
chance had prevented my going to the club for several days, or I
might have got it in time to save him. Perhaps it was not too
late. I drove off to my rooms, packed up my things, and started by
the night-mail from Charing Cross. The journey was intolerable. I
thought I would never arrive. As soon as I did I drove to the
Hotel l'Angleterre. They told me that Erskine had been buried two
days before in the English cemetery. There was something horribly
grotesque about the whole tragedy. I said all kinds of wild
things, and the people in the hall looked curiously at me.
Suddenly Lady Erskine, in deep mourning, passed across the
vestibule. When she saw me she came up to me, murmured something
about her poor son, and burst into tears. I led her into her
sitting-room. An elderly gentleman was there waiting for her. It
was the English doctor.
We talked a great deal about Erskine, but I said nothing about his
motive for committing suicide. It was evident that he had not told
his mother anything about the reason that had driven him to so
fatal, so mad an act. Finally Lady Erskine rose and said, George
left you something as a memento. It was a thing he prized very
much. I will get it for you.
As soon as she had left the room I turned to the doctor and said,
'What a dreadful shock it must have been to Lady Erskine! I wonder
that she bears it as well as she does.'
'Oh, she knew for months past that it was coming,' he answered.
'Knew it for months past!' I cried. 'But why didn't she stop him?
Why didn't she have him watched? He must have been mad.'
The doctor stared at me. 'I don't know what you mean,' he said.
'Well,' I cried, 'if a mother knows that her son is going to commit
suicide - '
'Suicide!' he answered. 'Poor Erskine did not commit suicide. He
died of consumption. He came here to die. The moment I saw him I
knew that there was no hope. One lung was almost gone, and the
other was very much affected. Three days before he died he asked
me was there any hope. I told him frankly that there was none, and
that he had only a few days to live. He wrote some letters, and
was quite resigned, retaining his senses to the last.'
At that moment Lady Erskine entered the room with the fatal picture
of Willie Hughes in her hand. 'When George was dying he begged me
to give you this,' she said. As I took it from her, her tears fell
on my hand.
The picture hangs now in my library, where it is very much admired
by my artistic friends. They have decided that it is not a Clouet,
but an Oudry. I have never cared to tell them its true history.
But sometimes, when I look at it, I think that there is really a
great deal to be said for the Willie Hughes theory of Shakespeare's
Sonnets.
Footnotes:
(1) Sonnet xx. 2.
(2) Sonnet xxvi. 1.
(3) Sonnet cxxvi. 9.
(4) Sonnet cix. 14.
(5) Sonnet i. 10.
(6) Sonnet ii. 3.
(7) Sonnet viii. 1.
(8) Sonnet xxii. 6.
(9) Sonnet xcv. 1.