I know well how, in discussing this question, philosophy and sentimentalism are at issue; how statistics have been twisted to show that actual seduction is rare, and rarest upon the man’s side; how the majority of the lost live happily, healthily, and long; how their existence is a necessity of civilisation, the security of virtue, the protection of the household, the safeguard of the morals of the State. Well, I say with Sutherland, God help our civilisation if this be so! So long as such a canker exists, so long as the moral holocaust continues, there is no hope for any living woman, and the Kingdom of Heaven upon earth, which poets have dreamed of, is whole eternities away.
CHAPTER XXVIII.—AT THE COUNTESS AURELIA’S.
Once or twice during the season it was the custom of the Countess Aurelia Van Homrigh to give a literary party. This party had at first been but a small social gathering, invitations being issued only to a few of the most select of the lady’s literary and scientific friends, but every year the invitations had grown more numerous, until the yearly reunions became quite the mode, and each one was an event to which the world of art, science, and letters looked forward with delight.
The Countess was a pretty little Englishwoman, married to a foreign adventurer, who had made an enormous fortune in certain obscure branches of trade. While yet a maiden Miss Aurelia Blackeston was well known in aesthetic circles as the writer of many charming volumes of verse, and as the favoured lady to whom a certain great and titled poet addressed the lines commencing
‘Aurelia, pretty one, brightest of blues!’
As a wife and a lady of title the same lady doubled her social charms. Her husband, standing quietly in her shadow, watched her with morose adoration, whilst she dispensed hospitality to all the lions of the land.
For Aurelia loved a lion, just as some people love a lord. On each occasion there were new ones to be sought out, secured and made much of, before the party could be complete. In difficulties of this sort she generally appealed to her old friend and admirer Serena, who, being full-manned and leonine himself, was a good judge of the noble animal in demand. Serena, we may remark en passant, had painted the Countess in every attitude and from every conceivable point of view; as a Pythoness, as a ‘Psyche by the Waters of Love’s Wanness,’ as ‘A Study in Rose Pink,’ as ‘Vivien the Enchantress,’ in which doleful composition the painter himself appeared as Merlin; and most of these portraits adorned the walls of the cerulean house at Barnes, on the banks of the Thames.
One morning, early in the season, Madeline, sitting at breakfast with her husband, received the Countess’s invitation; accompanying it was a little note from Serena. ‘I hope you will come; indeed, you must come,’ wrote the great man, ‘since on this occasion the fair Aurelia’s rooms will be graced by the presence of a gentleman whom I wish particularly to make known to you, a charming creature whose soul is redolent of music and divine song. He comes to my rooms, he contemplates your picture by the hour—he vows that so divine a creature cannot exist. I wish to show him that she does exist, and that, in trying to place it upon canvas, my poor hand has signally failed.’