We had now reached our own grounds, and I walked, in miserable mood, beside her across the lawn towards the house.

“Sibyl,”—I said at last—“I had hoped you and Mavis Clare might be friends.”

She laughed.

“So we shall be friends I daresay,—for a little while”—she replied—“But the dove does not willingly consort with the raven, and Mavis Clare’s way of life and studious habits would be to me insufferably dull. Besides, as I said before, she, as a clever woman and a thinker, is too clear-sighted not to find me out in the course of time. But I will play humbug as long as I can. If I perform the part of ‘county lady’ or ‘patron,’ of course she won’t stand me for a moment. I shall have to assume a much more difficult rôle,—that of an honest woman!”

[p 328]
Again she laughed,—a cruel little laugh that chilled my blood, and paced slowly into the house through the open windows of the drawing-room. And I, left alone in the garden among the nodding roses and waving trees, felt that the beautiful domain of Willowsmere had suddenly grown hideous and bereft of all its former charm, and was nothing but a haunted house of desolation,—haunted by an all-dominant and ever victorious Spirit of Evil.

[p 329]
XXVIII

One of the strangest things in all the strange course of our human life is the suddenness of certain unlooked-for events, which, in a day or even an hour, may work utter devastation where there has been more or less peace, and hopeless ruin where there has been comparative safety. Like the shock of an earthquake, the clamorous incidents thunder in on the regular routine of ordinary life, crumbling down our hopes, breaking our hearts, and scattering our pleasures into the dust and ashes of despair. And this kind of destructive trouble generally happens in the midst of apparent prosperity, without the least warning, and with all the abrupt fierceness of a desert-storm. It is constantly made manifest to us in the unexpected and almost instantaneous downfall of certain members of society who have held their heads proudly above their compeers and have presumed to pose as examples of light and leading to the whole community; we see it in the capricious fortunes of kings and statesmen, who are in favour one day and disgraced the next, and vast changes are wrought with such inexplicable quickness that it is scarcely wonderful to hear of certain religious sects who, when everything is prospering more than usually well with them, make haste to put on garments of sackcloth, and cast ashes on their heads, praying aloud “Prepare us, O Lord, for the evil days which are at hand!” The moderation of the Stoics, who considered it impious either to rejoice or grieve, and strove to maintain an equable middle course [p 330] between the opposing elements of sorrow and joy, without allowing themselves to be led away by over-much delight or over-much melancholy, was surely a wise habit of temperament. I, who lived miserably as far as my inner and better consciousness was concerned, was yet outwardly satisfied with the material things of life and the luxuries surrounding me,—and I began to take comfort in these things, and with them endeavoured to quell and ignore my more subtle griefs, succeeding so far in that I became more and more of a thorough materialist every day, loving bodily ease, appetizing food, costly wine, and personal indulgence to a degree that robbed me gradually of even the desire for mental effort. I taught myself moreover, almost insensibly, to accept and tolerate what I knew of the wanton side of my wife’s character,—true, I respected her less than the Turk respects the creature of his harem,—but like the Turk, I took a certain savage satisfaction in being the possessor of her beauty, and with this feeling, and the brute passion it engendered, I was fain to be content. So that for a short time at least, the drowsy satisfaction of a well-fed, well-mated animal was mine,—I imagined that nothing short of a stupendous financial catastrophe to the country itself could exhaust my stock of cash,—and that therefore there was no necessity for me to exert myself in any particular branch of usefulness, but simply to ‘eat drink and be merry’ as Solomon advised. Intellectual activity was paralysed in me,—to take up my pen and write, and make another and higher bid for fame, was an idea that now never entered my mind; I spent my days in ordering about my servants, and practising the petty pleasures of tyranny on gardeners and grooms, and in generally giving myself airs of importance, mingled with an assumption of toleration and benevolence, for the benefit of all those in my employ. I knew the proper thing to do, well enough!—I had not studied the ways of the over-wealthy for nothing,—I was aware that the rich man never feels so thoroughly virtuous as when he has inquired after the health of his coachman’s wife, and has sent her a couple of pounds for the outfit of her new-born [p 331] baby. The much prated-of ‘kindness of heart’ and ‘generosity’ possessed by millionaires, generally amounts to this kind of thing,—and when, if idly strolling about my parklands, I happened to meet the small child of my lodge-keeper, and then and there bestowed sixpence upon it, I almost felt as if I deserved a throne in Heaven at the right hand of the Almighty, so great was my appreciation of my own good-nature. Sibyl, however, never affected this sort of county-magnate beneficence. She did nothing at all among our poor neighbours;—the clergyman of the district unfortunately happened to let slip one day a few words to the effect that “there was no great want of anything among his parishioners, owing to the continual kindness and attention of Miss Clare,”—and Sibyl never from that moment proffered any assistance. Now and then she took her graceful person into Lily Cottage and sat with its happy and studious occupant for an hour,—and occasionally the fair author herself came and dined with us, or had ‘afternoon tea’ under the branching elms on the lawn,—but even I, intense egotist as I was, could see that Mavis was scarcely herself on these occasions. She was always charming and bright of course,—indeed the only times in which I was able to partially forget myself and the absurdly increasing importance of my personality in my own esteem, were when she, with her sweet voice and animated manner, brought her wide knowledge of books, men, and things, to bear on the conversation, thus raising it to a higher level than was ever reached by my wife or me. Yet I now and then noticed a certain vague constraint about her,—and her frank eyes had frequently a pained and questioning look of trouble when they rested for any length of time on the enchanting beauty of Sibyl’s face and form. I, however, paid little heed to these trifling matters, my whole care being to lose myself more and more utterly in the enjoyment of purely physical ease and comfort, without troubling myself as to what such self-absorption might lead in the future. To be completely without a conscience, without a heart and without sentiment was, I perceived, the best way to keep one’s appetite, [p 332] and preserve one’s health;—to go about worrying over the troubles of other people, or put one’s self out to do any good in the world, would involve such an expenditure of time and trouble as must inevitably spoil one’s digestion,—and I saw that no millionaire or even moderately rich man cares to run the risk of injuring his digestion for the sake of performing a kindness to a poorer fellow-creature. Profiting by the examples presented to me everywhere in society, I took care of my digestion, and was particular about the way in which my meals were cooked and served,—particular too, as to the fashion in which my wife dressed for those meals,—for it suited my supreme humour to see her beauty bedecked as suitably and richly as possible, that I might have the satisfaction of considering her ‘points’ with the same epicurean fastidiousness as I considered a dish of truffles or specially prepared game. I never thought of the stern and absolute law—“Unto whom much is given, even from him should much be required;”—I was scarcely aware of it in fact,—the New Testament was of all books in the world the most unfamiliar to me. And while I wilfully deafened myself to the voice of conscience,—that voice which ever and anon urged me in vain to a nobler existence,—the clouds were gathering, ready to burst above me with that terrific suddenness such as always seems to us who refuse to study the causes of our calamities, as astonishing and startling as death itself. For we are always more or less startled at death notwithstanding that it is the commonest occurrence known.

Towards the middle of September my ‘royal and distinguished’ house-party arrived and stayed at Willowsmere Court for a week. Of course it is understood that whenever the Prince of Wales honours any private residence with a visit, he selects, if not all, at any rate the greater part of those persons who are to be invited to meet him. He did so in the present instance, and I was placed in the odd position of having to entertain certain people whom I had never met before, and who, with the questionable taste frequently exhibited among the ‘upper ten,’ looked upon [p 333] me merely as “the man with the millions,” the caterer for their provisions, and no more,—directing their chief attention to Sibyl, who was by virtue of her birth and associations one of their ‘set,’ and pushing me, their host, more or less into the background. However the glory of entertaining Royalty more than sufficed for my poor pride at that time, and with less self-respect than an honest cur, I was content to be snubbed and harassed and worried a hundred times a day by one or the other of the ‘great’ personages who wandered at will all over my house and grounds, and accepted my lavish hospitality. Many people imagine that it must be an ‘honour’ to entertain a select party of aristocrats, but I, on the contrary, consider that it is not only a degradation to one’s manlier and more independent instincts, but also a bore. These highly-bred, highly-connected individuals, are for the most part unintelligent, and devoid of resources in their own minds,—they are not gifted as conversationalists or wits,—one gains no intellectual advantage from their society,—they are simply dull folk, with an exaggerated sense of their own importance, who expect wherever they go, to be amused without trouble to themselves. Out of all the visitors at Willowsmere the only one whom it was really a pleasure to serve was the Prince of Wales himself,—and amid the many personal irritations I had to suffer from others, I found it a positive relief to render him any attention, however slight, because his manner was always marked by that tact and courtesy which are the best attributes of a true gentleman whether he be prince or peasant. In his own affable way, he went one afternoon to see Mavis Clare, and came back in high good-humour, talking for some time of nothing but the author of ‘Differences,’ and of the success she had achieved in literature. I had asked Mavis to join our party before the Prince came, as I felt pretty sure he would not have erased her name from the list of guests submitted to him,—but she would not accept, and begged me very earnestly not to press the point.

“I like the Prince,”—she had said—“Most people like him [p 334] who know him,—but I do not always like those who surround him,—pardon me for my frankness! The Prince of Wales is a social magnet,—he draws a number of persons after him who by dint of wealth, if not intelligence, can contrive to ‘push’ into his set. Now I am not an advocate of ‘push’—moreover I do not care to be seen with ‘everybody’;—this is my sinful pride you will say, or as our American cousins would put it, my ‘cussedness.’ But I assure you, Mr Tempest, the best possession I have, and one which I value a great deal more even than my literary success, is my absolute independence, and I would not have it thought, even erroneously, that I am anxious to mix with the crowd of sycophants and time-servers who are only too ready to take advantage of the Prince’s good-nature.”