"You have dropped these,"--he said suddenly, picking up a fast fading knot of violets from the floor of the brougham and holding them towards me. He smiled, as I uttered an exclamation of annoyance. They were Lady Sibyl's flowers which I had inadvertently let fall, and I saw he knew it. I took them from his hand in silence.

"My dear fellow, do not try to hide your intentions from your best friend,"--he said seriously and kindly--"You wish to marry the Earl of Elton's beautiful daughter, and you shall. Trust me!--I will do everything I can to promote your desire."

"You will?" I exclaimed with unconcealed delight, for I fully recognised the influence he had over Sibyl's father.

"I will, I promise--" he answered gravely--"I a.s.sure you that such a marriage would be one after my own heart. I'll do all I can for you,--and I have made many matches in my time!"

My heart beat high with triumph,--and when we parted that night I wrung his hand fervently and told him I was devoutly grateful to the fates for sending me such a good friend as he was.

"Grateful to--whom did you say?" he asked with a whimsical look.

"To the Fates!"

"Are you really? They are very ugly sisters I believe. Perhaps they were your ghostly visitors of last night!"

"G.o.d forbid!" I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Ah! G.o.d never forbids the fulfilment of His own laws!" he answered--"To do so He would have to destroy Himself."

"If He exists at all!" I said carelessly.

"True! If--!"

And with this, we separated to our different quarters in the 'Grand.'

XV

After that evening I became a regular and welcome visitor at Lord Elton's house, and was soon on terms of the most friendly intimacy with all the members of his family, including even the severely pious Miss Charlotte Fitzroy. It was not difficult for me to see that my matrimonial aspirations were suspected,--and though the encouragement I received from Lady Sibyl herself was so slight as to make me doubtful whether after all my hopes of winning her would ever be realized, the Earl made no secret of his delight at the idea of securing me as a son-in-law. Such wealth as mine was not to be met with every day,--and even had I been a blackleg of the turf or a retired jockey, instead of an 'author,' I should, with five millions at my back, have been considered quite as desirable a suitor for the Lady Sibyl's hand.

Rimanez scarcely ever went with me to the Eltons' now, pleading as excuse much pressing business and many social engagements. I was not altogether sorry for this. Greatly as I admired and honoured him, his extraordinary physical beauty and fascination of manner were in dangerous contrast to my merely 'ordinary good-looking' personality, and it seemed to me impossible that any woman, seeing much of him, could be expected to give me the preference. All the same I had no fear that he would ever voluntarily become my rival,--his antipathy to women was too deep-rooted and sincere for that. On this point indeed his feelings were so strong and pa.s.sionate that I often wondered why the society sirens who eagerly courted his attention remained so blind and unconscious to the chill cynicism that lurked beneath his seeming courtesy,--the cutting satire that was coupled with apparent compliment, and the intensity of hatred that flamed under the a.s.sumed expression of admiring homage in his flashing eyes. However it was not my business to point out to those who could not, or would not, see the endless peculiarities of my friend's variable disposition. I did not pay much heed to them even so far as I myself was concerned, for I had grown accustomed to the quick changes he was wont to ring on all the gamut of human feeling, and absorbed in my own life-schemes I did not trouble myself to intimately study the man who had in a couple of months become my _fidus Achates_. I was engrossed at the moment in doing all I could to increase the Earl of Elton's appreciative sense of my value as a man and a millionaire, and to this end I paid some of his pressing debts, lent him a large sum of money without demanding interest or promise of repayment, and stocked his cellar with presents of such rare old wines as he had not been able to afford to purchase for himself for many years. Thus was confidence easily engendered between us, even to that point of affection which displayed itself in his lordship's readiness to thrust his arm through mine when we sauntered together down Piccadilly, and his calling me 'my dear boy' in public. Never shall I forget the bewildered amazement of the scrubby little editor of a sixpenny magazine who met me face to face thus accompanied in the Park one morning! That he knew the Earl of Elton by sight was evident, and that he also knew me his apoplectic stare confessed. He had pompously refused to even read any of my offered contributions on the ground that I had 'no name,'--and now--! he would have given a month's salary if I had but condescended to recognize him!

I did not so condescend,--but pa.s.sed him by, listening to, and laughing with my intended future father-in-law, who was retailing an extremely ancient joke for my benefit. The incident was slight, even trumpery,--yet it put me in a good humour, for one of the chiefest pleasures I had out of my wealth was the ability to repay with vengeful interest all the contempt and insult that had beaten me back from every chance of earning a livelihood while I was poor.

In all my visits to the Eltons, I never saw the paralysed Countess again. Since the last terrible visitation of her dread disease, she had not moved. She merely lived and breathed--no more. Lord Elton told me that the worst part of her illness at present, so far as it affected those who had to attend upon her, was the particularly hideous alteration of her face.

"The fact is," he said, not without a shudder--"she's dreadful to look at,--positively dreadful!--no longer human, you know. She used to be a lovely woman,--now she is literally frightful. Her eyes especially;--they are as scared and wild as if she had seen the devil.

Quite an awful expression I a.s.sure you!--and it never alters. The doctors can do nothing--and of course it's very trying for Sibyl, and everybody."

I a.s.sented sympathetically; and realising that a house holding such a figure of living death within it must of necessity be more or less gloomy and depressing to a young and vigorous nature, I lost no opportunity of giving Lady Sibyl whatever slight pleasures were in my power to procure, for her distraction and entertainment. Costly flowers, boxes for the opera and 'first nights' at the play,--every sort of attention that a man can pay to a woman without being considered officious or intrusive I offered, and was not repulsed. Everything progressed well and favourably towards the easy attainment of my wishes,--I had no difficulties, no troubles of any kind,--and I voluntarily led a life of selfishly absorbed personal gratification, being commended and encouraged therein by a whole host of flatterers and interested acquaintances. Willowsmere Court was mine, and every newspaper in the kingdom had commented on the purchase, in either servile or spiteful paragraphs. My lawyers had warmly congratulated me on the possession of so admirable a property which they, in strict accordance with what they conceived to be their duty, had personally inspected and approved. The place was now in the hands of a firm of decorators and furnishers, recommended by Rimanez, and it was expected to be in perfect order for my habitation in early summer, at which time I purposed entertaining a large house-party of more or less distinguished people.

Meantime, what I had once considered would be the great event of my life, took place,--namely the publication of my book. Trumpeted forth by the most heraldic advertis.e.m.e.nts, it was at last launched on the uncertain and fluctuating tide of public favour, and special 'advance'

copies were sent to the office of every magazine and journal in London.

The day after this was done, Lucio, as I now familiarly called him, came in to my room with a mysterious and mischievous air.

"Geoffrey," he said--"I'm going to lend you five hundred pounds!"

I looked up with a smile.

"What for?"

He held out a cheque towards me. Glancing at it I saw that the sum he mentioned was filled in and endorsed with his signature, but that the name of the person to whom the money was to be made payable, had not yet been written.

"Well? What does it mean?"

"It means"--replied he--"that I am going to see Mr McWhing this morning.

I have an appointment with him at twelve. You, as Geoffrey Tempest, the author of the book Mr McWhing is going to criticise and make a 'boom'

of, could not possibly put your name to such a cheque. It would not be 'good form'--it might crop up afterwards and so betray 'the secrets of the prison-house.' But for me it is another affair. I am going to 'pose'

as your businessman--your 'literary agent' who pockets ten per cent. of the profits and wants to make a 'big thing' out of you, and I'm going to talk the matter over with the perfectly practical McWhing who has, like every true Scot, a keen eye for the main chance. Of course it will be in confidence,--strict confidence!" and he laughed--"It's all a question of business you know,--in these commercial days, literature has become a trade like everything else, and even critics only work for what pays them. As indeed why should they not?"

"Do you mean to tell me McWhing will take that five hundred?" I asked dubiously.

"I mean to tell you nothing of the kind. I would not put the matter so coa.r.s.ely for the world! This money is not for McWhing,--it is for a literary charity."

"Indeed! I thought you had an idea perhaps of offering a bribe...."

"Bribe! Good Heavens! Bribe a critic! Impossible, my good Geoffrey!--such a thing was never heard of--never, never, never!" and he shook his head and rolled up his eyes with infinite solemnity--"No no!

Press people never take money for anything--not even for 'booming' a new gold-mining company,--not even for putting a notice of a fashionable concert into the Morning Post. Everything in the English press is the just expression of pure and lofty sentiment, believe me! This little cheque is for a charity of which Mr McWhing is chief patron,--you see the Civil List pensions all go by favour to the wrong persons nowadays; to the keeping of lunatic versifiers and retired actresses who never could act--the actual bona-fide 'genius' never gets anything out of Government, and moreover would scorn to take a farthing from that penurious body, which grudges him anything higher than a money-recognition. It is as great an insult to offer a beggarly pension of fifty or a hundred pounds a year to a really great writer as to give him a knighthood,--and we cannot fall much lower than to be a knight, as knights go. The present five hundred pounds will help to relieve certain 'poor and proud' but pressing literary cases known to McWhing alone!"

His expression at this moment was so extraordinary, that I entirely failed to fathom it. "I have no doubt I shall be able to represent the benevolent and respectable literary agent to perfection--of course I shall insist on my ten per cent.!"--and he began laughing again. "But I can't stop to discuss the matter now with you--I'm off. I promised McWhing to be with him at twelve o'clock precisely, and it's now half-past-eleven. I shall probably lunch with him, so don't wait for me.

And concerning the five hundred, you needn't be in my debt an hour longer than you like--I'll take a cheque for the money back from you this evening."

"All right"--I said--"But perhaps the great oracle of the cliques will reject your proposals with scorn."

"If he does, then is Utopia realized!"--replied Lucio, carefully drawing on his gloves as he spoke--"Where's a copy of your book? Ah--here's one--smelling newly of the press," and he slipped the volume into his overcoat pocket; "Allow me, before departure, to express the opinion that you are a singularly ungrateful fellow, Geoffrey! Here am I, perfectly devoted to your interests,--and despite my princedom actually prepared to 'pose' to McWhing as your 'acting manager' _pro tem_, and you haven't so much as a thank-you to throw at me!"

He stood before me smiling, the personification of kindness and good humour. I laughed a little.

"McWhing will never take _you_ for an acting manager or literary agent,"--I said--"You don't look it. If I seem churlish I'm sorry--but the fact is I am disgusted ..."

"At what?" he inquired, still smiling.

"Oh, at the humbug of everything,"--I answered impatiently; "The stupid farce of it all. Why shouldn't a book get noticed on its own merits without any appeal to cliquism and influential wire-pulling on the press?"

"Exactly!" and he delicately flicked a grain of dust off his coat while speaking--"And why shouldn't a man get received in society on his own merits, without any money to recommend him or any influential friend to back him up?"

I was silent.

"The world is as it is made,"--he went on, regarding me fixedly--"It is moved by the lowest and pettiest motives,--it works for the most trivial, ridiculous and perishable aims. It is not a paradise. It is not a happy family of united and affectionate brethren. It is an over-populated colony of jabbering and quarrelsome monkeys, who fancy they are men. Philosophers in old days tried to teach it that the monkey-type should be exterminated for the growth and encouragement of a n.o.bler race,--but they preached in vain--there never were enough real men alive to overcome the swarming majority of the beasts. G.o.d Himself, they say, came down from Heaven to try and set wrong things right, and to restore if possible His own defaced image to the general aspect of humanity,--and even He failed."

"There is very little of G.o.d in this world"--I said bitterly; "There is much more Devil!"

He smiled,--a musing, dreamy smile that transfigured his countenance and made him look like a fine Apollo absorbed in the thought of some new and glorious song.

"No doubt!" he said, after a little pause--"Mankind certainly prefer the devil to any other deity,--therefore if they elect him as their representative, it is scarcely to be wondered at that he governs where he is asked to govern. And yet--do you know Geoffrey--this devil,--if there is one,--can hardly, I think, be quite so bad as his detractors say. I myself don't believe he is a whit worse than a nineteenth-century financier!"

I laughed aloud at the comparison.