In those days a certain obscure writer of Jewish blood, who had tried, and failed, to write poems, plays, and novels, had taken vengeance on his more successful brethren by publishing a malignant libel in which he pried with some pruriency into their private lives, and proved for his own consolation that genius is a form of vice, if not a positive crime. Some scraps of scientific language picked out of the works of Professor Lombroso had served to disguise the critic’s rancour, and the mixture had proved more palatable to the public than the author’s literary efforts. The sentiment coarsely vented in this work was that which inspired Sir Bernard Vanbrugh when he thought of Lord Alistair as a husband for his only child.
From the envy and more or less feigned Pharisaism of the libeller Vanbrugh’s mind, of course, was free. He had liked Lord Alistair, and been interested by him. In the life that he had led hitherto he had been harmless in the scientist’s view, or, at all events, not harmful enough to call for harsh measures. But now everything was changed. If by the lifting of a finger Sir Bernard could have terminated the young man’s existence, and with it the spell which he had flung over Hero, he would have lifted the finger without an instant’s hesitation or an instant’s remorse.
And yet he judged better of Lord Alistair than of some of those splendid types of healthy manhood whom the modern world goes forth to worship, as they practise foul play against each other for a few pounds upon the football field. For he decided to appeal from Hero to her betrothed. He was going to ask the young man to give up voluntarily the prize within his grasp; and somehow he did not think that he should ask in vain.
He left the house about the time Lord Alistair usually came round, and met him strolling up the road.
“My daughter is at home,” he said, in answer to Stuart’s inquiry. “But before you see her I should like to speak to you. Is there anywhere where we can go and have a quiet talk?”
The request was ominous enough in itself, and the physician’s manner made it more so. Alistair’s heart sank as he answered:
“I expect the club would be the best place. We should not find anyone in the card-room at this hour.”
He turned and walked silently side by side with the arbiter of his happiness, past the crowd that bustled in front of the Plage, and up the short street that conducted them to the club door.
As he went a great despondency settled on him. Without knowing what Sir Bernard meant to say to him, he felt that there was little that he could say for himself. What account of himself could he give that would be considered satisfactory by the father of an only daughter? It was only his mother who had encouraged him to lift his eyes to Hero. He ought to have asked his mother to plead his cause with Hero’s father.
Even in his most buoyant moments during the past few weeks he had never felt quite sure of his happiness. A sense of unreality came upon him ever and anon; he had felt like a man dreaming a delicious dream, and dreading the awakening he knows must come.