FATIMAH WAS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF HASCHISH.
Mr. Rodney's condition of mind during, and for some time after, his drive from Mrs. Verulam's door in the black-and-green cab would scarcely afford fit subject for minute description. When a thoroughly estimable man ceases to take an interest in his "little place in the country," forgets whether he has put on the same pair of lavender gloves on two successive evenings or not, is careless about the set of his white tie, and totally unaware that his hair is unevenly parted when he is setting forth to the "crush" of a Countess, analysis should hold its merciless hand, psychology should veil its piercing eye. Suffice it, then, to say that Mr. Rodney was indeed sore smitten and afflicted by the terrible revelation of Mrs. Verulam's maniacal determination. To a man of his nature, life is society and society is life; the mode is to him what the burning bush was to Moses; the fashion of the day is the god in the car under whose wheels he loves to lie. Men, women, sorrows, joys, all people, all things, are but food for the sustenance of the deity whose rouged and powdered face looks down, like Jezebel's, from the lattices of a meretricious heaven, intent only on gaining an empty compliment, or a sly œillade from the worshipping world below. The thought that a woman who was not only in the fashion, but literally the fashion, a woman with whom he was in love, should suddenly fall under an influence with a ridiculous name, hobnailed boots, and no club, rendered him almost imbecile with impotent agitation; and it is on record that he was seen in the late afternoon of the day of Mrs. Verulam's appalling deliverance furiously pacing the Thames Embankment, and that at night he—how was never known—in some manner made his way to Clapham Common, upon which preposterous portion of the earth he wandered alone for nearly an hour and a half, uttering exclamations of despair, and making crude and tragic gestures.
Such deeds as these sufficiently proclaim the extraordinary condition to which he was reduced. But there was more to come. Three days later he departed to Mitching Dean, in the very top of the season, and he might perhaps have been there at this moment, forgotten and clean gone out of recollection, had not a violent telegram from Mr. Lite, the Bun Emperor, summoned him back to town. The telegram ran as follows:
"Where the devil is Lady Sophia Tree's bun praise?—Perry Lite."
On receipt of this despairing cry, Mr. Rodney started from the hammock in which he was sulking upon the Mitching Dean lawn like one distraught. He remembered his obligations, and to him obligations were sacred things. In his despair he had thrust Lady Sophia's delicate tribute—his tribute, indeed!—to the Lite buns into the pocket of one of his frock-coats, and there it doubtless remained in darkness, instead of blazing forth, heavily "leaded," in the most popular paper of the day. Now, this frock-coat was up in town. Accordingly, Mr. Rodney ordered round the brougham, drove to the Mitching Dean station—often alluded to by him in conversation as "my bijou station at Mitching Dean"—and took the train to town to do his duty by Mr. Lite. Once there, he remained. Upon his hall table in Grosvenor Place he found a sacred assemblage of invitations to the very best houses. He looked into his vellum-bound and silver-clasped "engagement" book, and discovered that Mr. Pettingham summoned him to the Unattached Club to see views of the Holy Land and to hear a lecture that very night. And he heard all around him the murmur of the monster that he loved licking its lips over its repast of pleasure. His procedure, therefore, was as follows: He extracted the bun praise from the frock-coat and forwarded it at once to Ribton Marches, with many an explanation and apology. He then accepted "with pleasure" all the invitations which he had found upon his table, and, finally, he made a careful toilet, dined quietly, and, stepping into the green-and-black cab, ordered his coachman to drive him to the Unattached Club.
As he rolled thither on indiarubber tyres he wondered whether he should meet Mrs. Verulam. She used to go there. And, indeed, everybody invariably went to Mr. Pettingham's parties, which were intensely smart, as well as slightly educational in tone. But the deadly influence that emanated from the Farm, Bungay Marshes, Lisborough, might have deterred the pretty widow from adhering to her usual habit upon this occasion. Mr. Rodney's long limbs trembled in the cab until the horse began to gallop, under the impression that only the most rapid motion could save it from an earthquake imminent at its back. If Mrs. Verulam should have already yielded to the baleful and hypnotic powers of the man Bush, should have already died to the only life worth living!
The galloping horse was thrown violently upon its haunches. The brilliant light above the door of the Unattached Club shone upon the twisted face of Mr. Rodney. He was compelled to recollect himself, and to get out. Still trembling with unwonted agitation, he made his way downstairs to the magnificent suite of apartments in the area retained by the enthusiastic Mr. Pettingham for his popular gatherings. A door was thrown open, and he found himself in the pitch dark, and in an atmosphere of heat that was almost suffocating. By this atmosphere Mr. Rodney knew that the room was packed with women of title. He could not see them, but the very great difficulty he experienced in drawing breath proved to him that they were there in this black well on the threshold of which he was standing. He realised them, and he also realised that he had arrived rather late, more especially when he perceived at some distance off a pale circle of light, rather resembling a theatrical moon that had sat up late too many nights running, and heard a small and quacking voice say:
"I very much regret that, owing to a slight accident, resulting in serious injury to my Jerusalem, I am unable to show my views of the Holy Land this evening. I shall therefore substitute for them my slides of Morocco, and shall tell you a few of my recent experiences while travelling with my very good friends Prince Carl of Schmelzig-Heinstein and the Duke of Drigg through the far-famed land of the Moors."
The quacking voice paused to allow a murmur of "Charming! charming!" to rise like incense out of the darkness, and then added: