“What nonsense you talk, Lucio!” I said impatiently—“How can you know anything about it!”
A sudden shadow passed over his face, giving it a strange pallor and impenetrability.
“Have you forgotten”—he said in deliberately measured accents—“that your friend John Carrington, when he wrote that letter of introduction I brought from him to you, told you in it, that in all matters scientific I was an ‘absolute master?’ In these ‘matters scientific’ you have not tested my skill,—yet you ask—‘how can I know?’ I answer that I do know—many things of which you are ignorant. Do not presume too much on your own intellectual capability my friend,—lest I prove it naught!—lest I demonstrate to [p 211] you, beyond all possibility of consoling doubt, that the shreds and strippings of that change you call death, are only so many embryos of new life which you must live, whether you will or no!”
Somewhat abashed by his words and still more by his manner, I said—
“Pardon me!—I spoke in haste of course,—but you know my theories—”
“Most thoroughly!” and he laughed, with an immediate resumption of his old manner—“‘Every man his own theory’ is the fashionable motto of the hour. Each little biped tells you that he has his ‘own idea’ of God, and equally ‘his own’ idea of the Devil. It is very droll! But let us return to the theme of love. I feel I have not congratulated you half enough,—for surely Fortune favours you singularly. Out of the teeming mass of vain and frivolous femininity, you have secured a unique example of beauty, truth and purity,—a woman, who apart from all self-interest and worldly advantage, weds you, with five millions, for yourself alone! The prettiest poem in the world could be made out of such an exquisitely innocent maiden type! You are one of the luckiest men alive; in fact, you have nothing more to wish for!”
I did not contradict him, though in my own mind I felt that the circumstances of my engagement left much to be desired. I, who scoffed at religion, wished it had formed part of the character of my future wife,—I, who sneered at sentiment, craved for some expression of it in the woman whose beauty attracted my desires. However I determinedly smothered all the premonitions of my own conscience, and accepted what each day of my idle and useless life brought me without considering future consequences.
The papers soon had the news that “a marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Sibyl, only daughter of the Earl of Elton, and Geoffrey Tempest, the famous millionaire.” Not ‘famous author’ mark you!—though I was still being loudly ‘boomed.’ Morgeson, my [p 212] publisher, could offer me no consolation as to my chances of winning and keeping a steady future fame. The Tenth Edition of my book was announced, but we had not actually disposed of more than two thousand copies, including a One-Volume issue which had been hastily thrust on the market. And the work I had so mercilessly and maliciously slated,—‘Differences’ by Mavis Clare was in its thirtieth thousand! I commented on this with some anger to Morgeson, who was virtuously aggrieved at my complaint.
“Dear me, Mr Tempest, you are not the only writer who has been ‘boomed’ by the press and who nevertheless does not sell,”—he exclaimed—“No one can account for the caprices of the public; they are entirely beyond the most cautious publisher’s control or calculation. Miss Clare is a sore subject to many authors besides yourself,—she always ‘takes’ and no one can help it. I sympathize with you in the matter heartily, but I am not to blame. At any rate the reviewers are all with you,—their praise has been almost unanimous. Now Mavis Clare’s ‘Differences,’ though to my thinking a very brilliant and powerful book, has been literally cut to pieces whenever it has been noticed at all,—and yet the public go for her and don’t go for you. It isn’t my fault. You see people have got Compulsory Education now, and I’m afraid they begin to mistrust criticism, preferring to form their own independent opinions; if this is so, of course it will be a terrible thing, because the most carefully organized clique in the world will be powerless. Everything has been done for you that can be done, Mr Tempest,—I am sure I regret as much as yourself that the result has not been all you expected or desired. Many authors would not care so much for the public approval; the applause of cultured journalism such as you have obtained, would be more than sufficient for them.”
I laughed bitterly. ‘The applause of cultured journalism!’ I thought I knew something of the way in which such applause was won. Almost I began to hate my millions,—golden [p 213] trash that could only secure me the insincere flattery of fair-weather friends,—and that could not give me fame,—such fame as has sometimes been grasped in a moment by a starving and neglected genius, who in the very arms of death, succeeds in mastering the world. One day in a fit of disappointment and petulance I said to Lucio—