:\OBBES
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNI 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 A^- 
 
 l^ 
 
 CL
 
 JOHN OLIVER HOBBES.
 
 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS^ 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN OLIVER HOBBES r 
 
 AUTHOR OF SOME EMOTIONS AND A MORAL, ETC. 
 
 N M W Y () \i K 
 
 L). APPLE TON AND COMPANY 
 
 1895 
 

 
 Copyright, 1804, 
 Bv D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 
 
 ■ t t t c *
 
 "PR 
 
 CI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 V. 
 
 An aristocratic household 
 
 Which contains a brief welcome, a little history, 
 
 AND A long farewell 
 
 Lord Wickenham ...... 
 
 In which Warre displays a forgotten talent 
 
 An excursion into the sordid and a fl 
 
 rhetoric 
 
 VI. A little love; a little science. 
 VII. A soliloquy during the small hours 
 VIII. Contrition in the robust 
 IX. Mortal happiness . 
 X. A wedding 
 XI. Two men and two wives 
 XII. Disillusion 
 
 XIII. Reality .... 
 
 XIV. More realities 
 XV. Plain facts 
 
 XVI. A prelude 
 XVII. The unlovely 
 XVIII. Wickenham 
 .\IX. 'liiE unspoken 
 XX. In which Warre reasons while Anne reads 
 XXI. In whk h the author speaks 
 XXII. Ali,K(;ka 
 
 XXIII. Accidents and ihe iNLvnAin.i 
 
 XXIV. An episode 
 
 XXV. Lord Wickenham's communication to thi 
 
 XXVI. The last 
 
 ill 
 
 ght into 
 
 AT I HoR 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 8 
 
 22 
 27 
 
 40 
 62 
 
 79 
 
 85 
 
 94 
 
 108 
 
 "3 
 122 
 149 
 I5(> 
 174 
 194 
 198 
 206 
 218 
 
 235 
 242 
 
 245 
 252 
 
 258 
 
 2f)0 
 269 
 
 r{< i I '.an
 
 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AN ARISTOCRATIC HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 A GUEST was expected at the Palazzo Vendra- 
 mini. A large red man in a pale livery many sizes 
 too small was lighting the one gas-lamp which hung 
 over the entrance, and which only served to call 
 vain shadows out of the barren gloom. 
 
 " Who goes there ? " he cried, suddenly. 
 
 "It is I, Antonio." The young girl who came 
 forward seemed to have been whipped up into a 
 fragile existence from the very cream of tenderness, 
 weakness, love, and folly. Ilcr oval face, small full 
 lips, and mysterious black hair had the romance of 
 other centuries than this — something of the poetic 
 inhumanity of a sonneteer's mistress. Although her 
 figure was not too sKght, it was lost in her loose- 
 fitting black dress, made after the schoolroom pat- 
 tern with a straight, full skirt and a bodice pleated
 
 2 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 in empty folds. A chatelaine hung from her belt, 
 and the chains chattered as she walked. 
 
 " The Signor is late, Contessina," said Antonio. 
 
 Allegra blushed and pretended to be groping in 
 her pocket. " I have lost my thimble," she said. " I 
 did not think that the Signor was late. I am look- 
 ing for my thimble." 
 
 The man picked up a broom which stood in the 
 corner of his lodge, and with magnificent indolence 
 began to sweep the floor. " If it is here this will 
 find it," he said. 
 
 Allegra leant against the balustrade and held her 
 hands over her face — partly to protect it from the 
 dust and partly to conceal her expression, which hov- 
 ered between laughter and some secret anxiety. 
 
 " When there is a pilgrimage the trains are always 
 late," said Antonio. " I wonder the Signor did not 
 come a day sooner." 
 
 The girl drew a long breath. " Ah," she ex- 
 claimed, " I had forgotten the Pilgrimage. He may 
 not be here for another hour. Why did I forget the 
 Pilgrimage ? " 
 
 " They happen so often," grumbled the man ; " it 
 is a cheap way of getting to Rome. No wonder 
 there is so much piety ! " He dropped the broom, 
 stretched out his arms, and yawned. " The thimble 
 is not here." But Allegra had already disappeared, 
 and was flying up the stairs like a bird through a
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 3 
 
 cloud of smoke. Antonio could just hear the oc- 
 casional flick of her skirts against the wall and the 
 jingle of her chatelaine. Presently a door closed and 
 all was silent. Antonio returned to his lodge and re- 
 sumed that long siesta, his existence, which the duties 
 of hall-portership so rudely and intemperately dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 It was not all cakes and ale in the service of Tito, 
 Count Vendramini, and AUegra, his daughter ; break- 
 fast was served late at the Palazzo, and dinner rarely. 
 The Count was a gentleman of military renown, who, 
 in his youth, had married a poor lady for love, but 
 who now bought and sold objects of art on com- 
 mission. The fortune he had amassed by this means, 
 however, added more lustre to his integrity than 
 clothes to his back : if not shabby, his raiment spoke 
 of adventure, and, although he always appeared as a 
 man of fashion, one felt that his tailor was not so in- 
 dulgent as his valet was ingenious. Vendramini was 
 to be met at the best houses ; he had a charming, 
 stupid manner, great fluency in light conversation, 
 and none of that wit which creates enmity and ren- 
 ders friendship an inglorious combat. His eyes only 
 directed their gaze on the finest feature of each face, 
 his ears only caught the happiest remarks, his heart 
 only thrilled at the noble motive in every action ; in 
 fact, he was by nature what most of us fail to become 
 even by laborious art — an extremely agreeable per-
 
 4 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 son. The superb desolation of his Palazzo was the 
 stately background of a career which one touch of 
 cunning would have made contemptible, and which, 
 if the action had been less sincere, could so easily 
 have seemed absurd. The great stone building had 
 within its walls an empty picture gallery, fountains 
 which never played, a garden without plants, and a 
 ball-room in which no beauty had danced for fifty 
 years. Yet, in this tomb of a once princely dignity, 
 the Count had but three desires : to prolong his own 
 life to the utmost limit of human existence, to make 
 one day a really good bargain, and to find his daugh- 
 ter a husband. He had been left a widower just at 
 the age when a man stands in most need of a patient, 
 admiring companion, and when the idea of a second 
 marriage is charming to him in the same degree that 
 his friends would think such an act on his part su- 
 premely foolish. Ridicule has a longer roll of 
 martyrs than either love or religion, and poor Ven- 
 dramini, being a man of ardent whims rather than 
 strong passions, contented himself by wedding in 
 imagination only all the eligible ladies of his acquaint- 
 ance as they happened to pass under his notice. He 
 admired them all, and saw himself in circumstances 
 of extreme felicity with any one of them ; each was 
 his dear, and he was the dearest of each ; they were 
 ever faithful and he was ever courtly — few husbands 
 own such fine regard, such esteem, such considera-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 5 
 
 tion, for the wives of their bosom as the Count enter- 
 tained for these partners of his daily dreaming. But 
 a visionary wife, with all her merits, graces, and 
 variety, cannot give advice, and Vendramini wanted 
 advice. Allegra was now seventeen ; he only knew 
 her as the one woman whom it had never occurred 
 to him to marry. His paternal instinct taught him 
 nothing further. He had been desperately fond of 
 her mother, for she was pretty, and passionate, and 
 provoking — a lady who had the gaiety of a light o' 
 love and the modesty of a virgin saint — it was not in 
 the nature of the man to tire of anything so artificial, 
 so preposterous. He had first met her at Baden- 
 Baden, where, as the natural daughter of Lord Den- 
 borough by the naughty Duchess of A., she won the 
 undisguised pity of every lady born in lawful wed- 
 lock, and the sly admiration of the men. She pos- 
 sessed great beauty, distinguished manners, and no 
 money. It was very reasonably assumed that she 
 would spend the best years of her life as a Peer's 
 mistress, and, in her repentant autumn, marry a 
 Colonel of Dragoons. When the Count Vendramini 
 demanded her hand in marriage, he took a candid 
 pride in his own unworldliness, which, at one stroke, 
 gave glory to God, annoyance to his friends, and an 
 honourable name to the only woman in the world he 
 felt unworthy of. But Allcgia was unlike her h^ng- 
 lish mother; her glance was cold and she did not un-
 
 6 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 derstand the subtleties of domestic virtue. The 
 Count liked to sit in his library with his friend Car- 
 dinal Villard, and think how happy his daughter 
 ought to be alone by herself in the next room. It 
 was insupportable when they sat opposite each 
 other, and, in the hope of conjuring up a home-like 
 atmosphere, talked about the repairs which they 
 were too poor to effect, the Pope's health, and salad- 
 dressing. Allegra was no companion for a man who 
 had such a repugnance for plain facts that he could 
 only eat fruit when it was crystallised. The care of 
 finding her a husband, however, was not one to make 
 nights sleepless, or mornings overlong. The girl 
 was pretty, and it was known that she had a rich 
 godmother in England. Suitors smiled from all 
 sides ; some of them were well born, many were 
 handsome, a few were not much poorer than the 
 Count himself ; he might easily have been be- 
 wildered by the difficulty of choosing an appropriate 
 son-in-law out of the decorative and decorated mob 
 which composed his Saturday receptions. Allegra, 
 unhappily, had no eyes for these gentlemen — she dis- 
 liked the Italian character, which was unsympathetic 
 to her prim, even prudish mind. She had been 
 taught the proprieties by an elderly woman who had 
 been her mother's nurse, and whose life had been 
 one undeviating observance of the genteel ; who was 
 Protestant in faith, and Scotch by birth, and who
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 7 
 
 exhibited at once the most austere traits of her creed 
 and her nation. This good, if formidable, creature 
 had assured Allegra that there was but one man 
 whom she could with any good manners marry, and 
 this was her father's friend — Dr. Simon Warre, of 
 Grosvenor Street, in London. Warre had spent a 
 week at the Palazzo on several occasions, and was 
 one of the Count's most constant customers. He 
 was forming a private museum — an expensive hobby 
 for a bachelor ; it was a pity he had no better use for 
 his guineas. Thus spake spinsterial wisdom. He 
 was the visitor for whom Antonio was watching 
 when he lit the lamp, and Allegra came in search of 
 her thimble.
 
 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHICH CONTAINS A BRIEF WELCOME, A LITTLE 
 HISTORY, AND A LONG FAREWELL. 
 
 An hour passed. Vendramini grew impatient 
 for Warre's arrival. There was a concert at the 
 Ouirinale that evening^, and the social instinct no 
 less than dut}' urged the Count's attendance at the 
 Palace. He delayed his departure till the walls 
 could no longer contain him,, when, leaving Allegra 
 to assure his guests that Court etiquette often made 
 one impolite even to one's most cherished friends, 
 he stepped into his ricketty chariot and drove away. 
 
 When Warre was at last announced, Allegra 
 was waiting alone in the Salon, a large, grim room, 
 bare in spite of its green silk hangings, and dingy, 
 with all its wealth of tarnished gilt. The girl sat 
 on the pompous sofa, her strange little figure 
 perched solitary and self-possessed in its environ- 
 ment of unrelieved and ghostly melancholy — a mel- 
 ancholy made more funereal by the scattered wax- 
 candles which burned as they, do in a chamber of 
 death, giving light without life, and flame without
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. g 
 
 cheer. The man and the young girl looked at each 
 other with frank curiosity. They had not met for 
 two years. Warre was tall, broad-shouldered, and, 
 although not strictly handsome, his face had the 
 heroic intention. His e3'es were grey, and but for 
 the richness of their colour would have been over- 
 brilliant — coldly-bright, as it was, they formed a per- 
 plexing contrast to the rather sombre, even sullen 
 expression of his other features. He heard Alle- 
 gra's words of greeting, and her explanation of 
 Vendramini's absence, but as things remote, un- 
 necessary, and meaningless. 
 
 " How you have changed ! " he said, abruptly. 
 The quick blush which tinted her whole face was 
 comparable only to the effect of a little red wine 
 poured into clear spring water. She made no 
 reply, but led the way down a long corridor into 
 the dining-room. Its ponderous oak door stood 
 open ; he could see the window beyond curtained 
 with faded silk rep, the long table, the carved side- 
 board of English design, and the mirror on which 
 two mahogany cupids sat, for ever drawing aside 
 a mahogany veil. Allcgra sat facing him, and 
 stitched at a [)iccc of embroidery while he ate his 
 su[)f)cr, which was served by two men, one of whom 
 was evidently new to the establishment, although 
 his livery had an air of long and faithful service. 
 There was very little attempt at conversation. Allc-
 
 JO THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 gra was shy, and Warre was either so absorbed in 
 his own thoughts, or so bewildered by the fatigue 
 of his journey, that the silence seemed natural and 
 pleasant. When he had finished his meal she rose 
 and wished him good-night. 
 
 '* What ! " said he ; " must you go? I am only 
 beginning to know you." 
 
 " I always go to bed at ten." 
 
 " Then you ought to have been there two hours 
 ago. How good of you to sit up so late on my ac- 
 count ! " 
 
 " Papa wished it. I was very pleased to obey 
 him. Good-night." She spoke English with deli- 
 cious precision, giving each syllable a musical value ; 
 otherwise her accent did not betray her Italian 
 birth. After she had gone Warre remained in a 
 long reverie, which was more lively than sleep, and 
 yet less clear than waking. Hitherto he had always 
 thought of Allegra as a pretty excuse for buying 
 sweetmeats. How she had changed ! Why had he 
 come to Rome ? Why had he brought — in spite of 
 his man's remonstrances to the contrary — his dullest 
 clothes and least youthful ties ? Why had he for- 
 gotten that the spring air was warm ? He had been 
 working hard, and talking a great deal about mat- 
 ters which did not amuse him — or any one else — in 
 the least; he felt stale, jaded, depressed, with only a 
 vague notion that he would like to doze for a week
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. II 
 
 or SO and say nothing. The Vendramini found 
 miracles of wit even in his yarns, and the Count was 
 a dear fellow, a sweet old bore, who, after all, knew 
 a great deal about the Etruscan remains. Small 
 wonder that Rome should figure in Simon's mind as 
 the city of repose and pleasant relaxation. How the 
 little girl had changed ! 
 
 A night's rest dimmed the unearthly romance of 
 his first encounter with Allegra ; he almost dreaded 
 meeting her again, lest she should find that his in- 
 terest had waned, and he discover that her enchant- 
 ment fled before the sunrise. Man is ever miserly 
 with his illusions ; if to gain two he must risk one, 
 he shrinks from the venture. Simon wanted to re- 
 member Allegra always as she had looked when 
 he arrived. He took breakfast with Vendramini 
 and lent an intelligent ear to an account of the con- 
 cert, a learned analysis of the sonatas which were 
 played, and a minute description of the gown worn 
 — the flirtation executed — by each lady present. 
 The morning passed in restful stupidity, but that 
 d.iy, and during the days that followed, he saw 
 Allegra seldom. Men should be careful how they 
 wish. Warrc could not think that she intended to 
 avoid him, for her manner was always winning, her 
 smile invariably sweet, her eyes, when they met his, 
 full of kindness and sympathy. These unobtrusive 
 graces, though baffling and, t(j a certain extent, un-
 
 12 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 satisfactory, were not without their fascination to a 
 man who, in the small leisure left him by his work, 
 was looking out for a wife who coupled an aristo- 
 cratic lineage with an humble spirit, and beauty 
 with demureness. He himself came of a distin- 
 guished family on his mother's side, but she had 
 married a man many degrees beneath her in the 
 social scale, and the son of this inauspicious match 
 had found it a bitter task to assert his right to that 
 society which, whether rightly or wrongly known 
 as the best, alone consorted with his taste and in- 
 stincts. Since his profession was the one of all 
 others which demands a wife as the sign-post of de- 
 corum, it was remarkable that Warre had so long 
 remained a bachelor and had yet won a reputation 
 for prudence and led a life of apparent content- 
 ment, which his married rivals could not better, and 
 which most of them had only too much cause to 
 envy. The unhappy home of his childhood and 
 youth, where the sordid tragedy of a disastrous 
 marriage had played itself out in genteel poverty, 
 small humiliations, and peevish discontent, must 
 have tired the poetic aspirations of a man even 
 more resolute to find the delight rather than the 
 misery of existence than Simon Warre. His mother 
 gave the text of her long years of little suffering 
 when she admitted over her husband's coffin that 
 it had always sounded disrespectful when he called
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 1 3 
 
 her by her Christian name. Warre heard the re- 
 mark, and was at first only sensitive to the grim 
 humour of the situation. The fine lady at least 
 lived to tell the tale ; the boor was dead. Then he 
 remembered his father's good nature, his deep but 
 never satisfied craving for the kitchen and back- 
 stairs, his sublime endurance of an eternal education 
 in matters of etiquette, refinement, and the gentle- 
 manly arts, his meekness under taunts, his patience 
 under neglect, his silence under the fretful humours 
 of a selfish woman who knew too well that once in 
 her life at any rate she had made an enormous 
 sacrifice. Simon loved his mother, pitied her, en- 
 couraged her arrogance. She possessed the one 
 gift which, in his eyes, atoned for every shortcom- 
 ing — great personal beauty ; yet, as he stood by his 
 father's grave and heard the muttered prayers of 
 an impatient curate, the discordant hymn wailed by 
 mourners who were not so despairing but they 
 could shout themselves into resignation ; when he 
 saw the extravagant fears lest the widow should 
 catch cold, and the frantic desire of the funeral 
 guests to escape from the vulgar dust, whose glori- 
 ous resurrection had been pronounced as sure and 
 certain in a considerate undertone, he felt a fierce 
 anrl choking shame for his mr)thcr's want of heart 
 which he had never known f(jr the dead man's lack 
 of breeding.
 
 1^ THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 For a week after the burial, Lady Henrietta 
 Warre found much to congratulate herself in the 
 fact that she received letters of condolence and even 
 calls from most of the relatives with whom she had 
 quarrelled at the time of her marriage. But when 
 these had displayed their Christian feeling and grati- 
 fied their curiosity at the fact of learning that she 
 lived in lodgings at West Kensington, and would 
 probably need assistance if she were once encour- 
 aged to dine out, they had the delicacy not to in- 
 trude further upon her sorrow, which, as they each 
 and all insisted, would of course be life-long, irre- 
 mediable, and only to be endured in an unbroken 
 solitude. Like most women. Lady Henrietta learnt 
 nothing from the mistakes, the disappointments, the 
 revelations which each year brings. She had no 
 philosophy, and her opinion of religion was so high 
 that she would have considered it profane to apply 
 its consolations to the ordinary troubles of a com- 
 mon day. She preferred instead to rail against the 
 injustice, the selfishness, and the spite of every crea- 
 ture she had ever met or heard of, and to weep in- 
 cessantly over her unmerited misfortunes. 
 
 Yet a worse affliction was in store for her. 
 Simon entered himself as a student at the Imperial 
 College Hospital. His paternal uncle — who had 
 married a draper's shop but whose love was science 
 • — supplied the fees with plebeian generosity, and, in
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 1 5 
 
 order to stimulate the youth's ambition, never failed 
 to address him in the intimacy of the domestic circle 
 as Sir Simon Jlarre, Bart., G.C.B., M.D., F.R.S. 
 Lady Henrietta may not have been altogether insen- 
 sible to this solace, but she never ceased to wail her 
 recollection of the time when a gentleman would no 
 more dream of sitting down to dinner with his doc- 
 tor than with his attorney or his boot-maker. She 
 refused to acknowledge that her son was under any 
 necessity to earn a penny : he would marry a rich 
 wife, and then all his titled relatives would take in- 
 terest in him. He could go into Parliament. In the 
 meantime, she promised to do all in her power to 
 thwart the medical idea. The boy would often jour- 
 ney to and fro the hospital and West Kensington 
 three or four times a day in obedience to her crazy 
 notes with reference to frozen water-pipes, insolent 
 servants, acute headaches, heart-seizures, alarming 
 fits of depression, sudden fears for his own health, 
 and the like. What a struggle it was! What an 
 effort to keep pace with the other students ! What 
 a sickening fight against time, fatigue, and failure ! 
 When he attempted to work in the evening his 
 mother would cither flounce out of the room, threat- 
 ening suicide as the one amusement left her, or sit 
 opposite to him alternately sulking, whimpering, and 
 scolding. 
 
 "Why don't you talk?" she would say; "you
 
 1 6 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 take no interest in me. I wish I were dead. You 
 think of nothing but those disgusting books. I 
 never knew anyone so selfish. You never offer to 
 read aloud to me, and you know how I delight in 
 Pusey's Sermons ! I have devoted my life to you, 
 
 made every sacrifice for you, and I am not 
 
 very strong ! " Here she would moan in self-pity, 
 protesting that no one loved her, that there was no 
 room in the world for an affectionate, loyal, and de- 
 voted woman, that Simon was his father's son — 
 coarse-minded, brutal, incapable of understanding a 
 lady's disposition. The lad endured this martyrdom 
 for three years, at the end of which time his health 
 broke down ; nor did he give any hope of recovery 
 till one fine day a rumour reached him that should he 
 live it was Lady Henrietta's intention to signify her 
 gratitude to the Almighty by marrying the vicar of 
 their parish. A month later he was able to support 
 her ladyship through the wedding ceremony, and if 
 there was any creature in London happier than the 
 bridegroom it was Simon when he kissed the bride 
 good-bye. She was his mother, and he loved her, 
 but he felt he could never again pass under the ter- 
 rible scourge of her authority. He must be his own 
 master. 
 
 He shared lodgings with a fellow-student near 
 the hospital, rose at five in the morning, worked till 
 eleven o'clock at night, talked to the patients for
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 17 
 
 recreation, and earned the money for his rent by 
 writing humorous articles on art, politics, and litera- 
 ture for a Society journal. Four times a week, too, 
 he attended classical lectures at the Imperial Col- 
 lege, where a distinguished scholar hurled instruction 
 at a scribbling crowd of youths and eager women, 
 who appeared to write with their noses and hear 
 with their heels, and who regarded the Pagan^'phi- 
 losophers, poets, and wits as terriers do rats. Nor 
 were lighter distractions wanting. Since Simon was 
 a fine-looking fellow, with courtly manners, the doc- 
 tors' wives received him gladly, inviting him to their 
 less formal tea-parties, treated him — to all outward 
 showing — as their social equal. One of them even 
 formed the project of marrying him to her plainest ' 
 daughter ; but whether he did not suspect her con- 
 descension, or whether, knowing it, he was too mod- 
 est to accept so portentous an honour, the plan mis- 
 carried. 
 
 Before he obtained his degree he won a Travelling 
 Scholarship, went abroad, and returned two years 
 later, mysterious, silent, curiously unwilling to offer 
 any opinion even on his own right to exist. They 
 feared he would come to nothing ; he was, therefore, 
 chosen as the fittest man for an assistant-lectureship 
 then vacant. The post was cheerfully offered : meek- 
 ly accepted. The Senior Pathologist suffcrcfl him- 
 self to flo;^c, sure that he would not be rnisstd, sure
 
 ig THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 that no inconvenient genius had arisen to make him 
 reconsider the highly excellent old lectures which he 
 had chanted for twelve years, and without the humil- 
 iating fatigue of a second thought. But he saun- 
 tered into the class-room one afternoon to find it 
 over-crowded, and Warre demonstrating heresy with 
 an eloquence as convincing as it was unprofessional. 
 The two exchanged glances, and at once compre- 
 hended each other to that pitch of cock-sureness 
 which is known as a misunderstanding. A few days 
 later Simon sent in his resignation : the Dean ex- 
 pressed his regret and looked his relief : murmured 
 well-known maxims about things in general, and, 
 with official tenderness, advised him to be careful. 
 
 In the following year Warre, then five-and-twenty, 
 got his degree, and, under the inspiration of an occa- 
 sional square meal, wrote an Essay which gained him 
 a Prize and an appointment at the Knightsbridge 
 Hospital. From that day his success was steady, his 
 ability acknowledged ; he had many critics but few 
 enemies, a large and amiable acquaintance, some two 
 or three staunch friends, and a baker's dozen of aris- 
 tocratic relatives who, having ignored him as a stu- 
 dent, now found it amusing to talk of " that clever 
 eccentric cousin of ours who went in for Science and 
 who is the coming man on Paralysis." At seven-and- 
 twenty, with good health, good intentions, a good 
 reputation, and an increasing income, one is not dis-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 19 
 
 posed to be misanthropic. Warre enjoyed his life ; 
 he thought it an altogether splendid thing to be 
 alive ; talked with confidence about the survival of 
 the fittest, and declared his own willingness to sur- 
 render when a mightier than he should enter the 
 field. Happiness, he assured his aged patients, was 
 far more common than was generally supposed. No 
 creature was undeservedly wretched if one tested his 
 grievance by the light of reason and the laws of na- 
 ture. It was inspiring to hear him. True, his rosy- 
 toed philosophy had not been forced to trip over the 
 red-hot ploughshares of pain and its attendant devils ; 
 but he knew what it meant to be hungry, to be cold, 
 to be sick at heart and wild in brain. All that, how- 
 ever, was of his own choosing ; he need not have 
 worked, he might have stayed quietly at home with 
 his mother at West Kensington, drinking tea, fon- 
 dling the cat, and escorting lady-callers to the omni- 
 bus. " Each man has two fates," he would say ; " one 
 is a free gift, the other is a prize, but the prize must 
 be striven for." An intelligent youth, this ; wisely 
 dispassionate, on the best of terms with the Almighty, 
 roaring lions, and the rest ; fearing no man. The 
 world, quick to appreciate audacity, spoke with 
 confidence oi his future. He would vXrrivc ; but 
 where ? 
 
 Warre remained in Rome ten days, and he woke 
 the last morning to remember that he must return to
 
 20 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 that well-furnished emptiness in Grosvenor Street he 
 called his home. He would miss AUegra. Adorable 
 child ! Fairy, angel, poem, picture, melody — every- 
 thing seductive, alluring and inspiring except — a 
 woman. He could, it is true, imagine her as a kind 
 of immaterial wife — a sweet, feminine spirit as subtle 
 as a sunbeam, but, alas ! as intangible. Yet when he 
 had not seen her for some hours, and the remem- 
 brance of her forbidding innocence was not too vivid, 
 he would be startled to find how ardently he desired 
 her companionship — her presence — how oppressive 
 the air seemed when she was not near ; how the mere 
 sound of her footstep made his heart cease beating ; 
 how he lost himself when he sought to read her eyes. 
 All this distressed him ; he .had rested, and was in 
 the mood for exalted sentiments, for love-making, for 
 marriage, but — Allegra was a little girl ... a little 
 girl. He had passed through a few romantic adven- 
 tures : had loved, resisted, and regretted ; had loved, 
 not resisted, and regretted also ; he had no over-mas- 
 tering belief in the permanency, the seriousness of 
 any passionate attachment between men and women. 
 He could not, therefore, bring himself to do more 
 than own that if Allegra had been older, and had be- 
 trayed any strong regard for him, he would have 
 asked her to become his wife, would have loved her 
 better than discretion might permit him to express. 
 But the glance, the word, the movement which would
 
 AND LORD WICKENIIAM. 21 
 
 have fired this affection was not given. On the day 
 of his departure Allegra was even more silent, more 
 anxious to escape from sight, than on the evening he 
 arrived. She had at least blushed over her welcome, 
 but when he said good-bye her face was pale and 
 inexpressive ; she murmured a hope that he would 
 have a pleasant journey, and brushed a stray thread 
 from her sleeve. 
 
 The Count, who drove with Warre to the station, 
 talked on the way of the solitariness of life, the sor- 
 row of partings. He grew sentimental on the sub- 
 ject of his own forlorn state, and the difficulty he 
 experienced in understanding Allegra. " She is so 
 reserved, so timid," he said ; " it is impossible to tell 
 what is passing in her mind. Yet what sum is too 
 large to settle on a wife who can adore without ask- 
 ing questions? Most women are so inquisitive. 
 They mistake curiosity for devotion to our interests. 
 Poor Allegra! Although she is silent I think she 
 suffers great tragedies ! " 
 
 Warre marvelled that any man could be so mis- 
 taken in his own flesh-and-blood. O, Science ! art 
 thou not also sometimes in error?
 
 22 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 The fancies VVarre had allowed himself to in- 
 dulge in under the spell of Rome — idleness and a 
 pair of dark eyes — vanished when he reached Lon- 
 don. One glance at the Grosvenor Street house 
 was enough to convince him that it and AUegra 
 belonged to different worlds. The gloom of the 
 Palazzo Vendramini was sublime ; but this neat grey 
 dwelling, which rested on the universe with the 
 stubborn serenity of a visiting-card on a hall-table, 
 had a dulness worse than human. Each window, 
 too, looked like a patient eye watching for the care- 
 ful housewife who should be there, and was not. As 
 Warre crossed the threshold his spirits sank : home- 
 returning is a dreary performance when there is no 
 devoted, if silly, woman to bask in one's dusty smiles. 
 Simon thanked God that he was dining out that 
 evening with his friend Wickenham. 
 
 Lord Wickenham was the only son of a saint, by 
 a fool. The saint died young, and the fool married
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 ^i 
 
 another husband, who was considered, perhaps with 
 justice, a greater dolt even than herself. Since it 
 will not be necessary to refer to either of them again, 
 it may be added that these beings lived to an ad- 
 vanced age, and finally departed this world, leaving 
 no history, but two extremely neat epitaphs — one to 
 the effect that we are not dead until we are forgot- 
 ten, and the other advertising the peaceful end of 
 one who was twice a widow. Lord Wickenham had 
 been educated at Harrow and at Christ Church, Ox- 
 ford, had made the Grand Tour, had planted trees, 
 had observed the traditions of his house with cor- 
 rectness and good taste. The Wickenhams had a 
 horror of precocity : no Wickenham had ever w^on 
 a prize either at school or university ; no Wicken- 
 ham had ever distinguished himself before the age 
 of forty-five ; no Wickenham but had been thought a 
 dunce for three-fourths of his career ; and no Wick- 
 enham but had somehow contrived to die, like Mira- 
 beau, leaving the world to wonder what on earth he 
 could not have accomplished if he had only lived a 
 day longer. Wickenham was now thirty, and, to 
 the alarm of his relatives, betrayed, in unguarded 
 moments, an interest in politics and an ability in dis- 
 cussing them not unworthy of Palmerston at his 
 worst. A rumour was also abroad that he was tak- 
 ing lessons in bricklaying, vine-culture, flute-playing, 
 and astronomy. Had he any idea of founding a new
 
 24 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 Empire? The family took counsel with Warre ; ex- 
 pressed a desire to read something concise on paral- 
 ysis of the brain ; bethought themselves of a Wick- 
 enham (described in Burke as " a learned man "), 
 who, in the thirteenth century, had killed himself 
 untimely, writing twelve thousand villainous verses, 
 all in Latin, on six hundred different subjects. Two 
 such in the race would point to hereditary disease — 
 a taint of pedagogy. O Heavens ! save our Wicken- 
 ham. 
 
 The process of salvation was now in full swing. 
 Wickenham and Warre had journeyed together 
 round lakes and through cathedrals; had climbed 
 up the Alps ; had suffered each other's sprained 
 ankles and faced each other's skinned noses ; knew 
 each other's taste in food ; had exchanged views on 
 female beauty ; were agreed that a fellow should 
 marry the woman of his affections — when possible ; 
 each knew that there were events in the other's 
 career which, though they would have no place in 
 his biography (to be published in three volumes and 
 dedicated to a truth-loving nation), had made im- 
 perishable marks on his character ; they were com- 
 rades. 
 
 " Thank God, I have got Wickenham," thought 
 Warre once more, as he drove up to his friend's 
 town-house in Gifford Street, Piccadilly. His next 
 ejaculation was less pious, for, to his chagrin, he
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 2$ 
 
 observed a brougham already at the door, and a 
 lady and gentleman alighting therefrom. He knew 
 them — Wickenham's country cousins— ^the Mereford 
 Maukin-Fawkeses, Mr. and Mrs., both dull, one rich, 
 one mournful. 
 
 " Is he going to give a party ? " groaned Warre. 
 Lo ! two hansoms now blocked the way. Warre's 
 coachman is in the wrong; must turn. The trium- 
 phant cabmen, with rattling of glass windows and 
 banorinef of doors, deliver, first a man and next two 
 ladies. One lady has a foot disproportionately small 
 to scientific eyes — pretty, nevertheless. Impossible 
 to see her face. But her petticoat, snow-white, has a 
 row of little tucks near the hem. What hours must 
 have been spent in stitching them ! The vanity of 
 women ! At this point Simon remembered, with a 
 sigh of regret, that few men were fit to be seen after 
 two nights spent in the sleepless luxury of a sleeping- 
 car. It was unfair on Wickenham's part not to have 
 reminded him that there would be high heels to en- 
 tertain at dinner. And who was the fellow in the 
 first hansom ? I le had long hair and a little nose : 
 was, no doubt, a wit. Warre was in that gay and 
 adventurous mood which the skij^pers of old must 
 have had when, the sea being too calm, they would 
 whistle for the wind. Ilis soul had, for the moment, 
 become a mere grin : he was an incarnate Titter. 
 Lord Wickenham's residence presented an unprc-
 
 2 6 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 tentious exterior. While its architecture admitted of 
 a portico and a balcony, the one was so small that it 
 looked like the entrance to a bird-cage, and the other 
 was too narrow to stand upon. Although Warre 
 knew the house as well as his own, he always felt a 
 thrill of surprise and delight when the squat door 
 was opened and he could step into the hall. Here 
 another world disclosed itself — grand, splendid, and 
 majestic, created when life, no less than art, was 
 long, and crafts had not rotted into trades. Simon 
 went up the wide marble staircase, the walls of 
 which were hung with old Flemish tapestry repre- 
 senting the Triumph of Love over Worldliness, the 
 Conflict between Youth and the Seven Deadly Sins, 
 and similar allegorical subjects. Having crossed an 
 ante-chamber, famous for its miniatures, and the 
 great library, he found his host in a small room fur- 
 nished in tulip-wood and rose-velvet, and which was 
 consecrated to Gainsborough's painting of the su- 
 premely beautiful " Eliza, Lady Wickenham."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 27 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN WHICH WARRE DISPLAYS A FORGOTTEN TALENT. 
 
 From Dr. Simon Warre to the Count Vendra- 
 mini. 
 
 "My Dear Vendramini: — I have just returned 
 from dining with Wickenham ; dear Wickenham ; 
 incorruptible Wickenham of the square jaw ; six-foot 
 three in his stockings; divine lunatic ; luminous im- 
 becile. What man in Europe can, with so little pre- 
 meditation, utter so much good sense? Have you 
 ever met him ? To-night he gave a dinner-party — 
 the Duchess of Wark, Mrs. Algernon Dane, the 
 Maukin-Fawkeses, Stanley Breakspeare, Lawrence 
 Tarraway, and a mysterious Miss Passer, whom 
 Emma Wark eyed with some severity. Miss Passer 
 was tali, with superb shoulders and a swelling 
 throat; wearing no jewels nor meekest ornament, 
 she had the sunny air of those primeval simpletons 
 who were naked but not ashamed. Her radiant eyes 
 showed the delicious void aiirj glorious colour of 
 that blue sky we see in Italy; the caliu of Ilcavcn,
 
 28 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 without its unnatural holiness, dwelt in her gaze. 
 Brown lashes, long and lustrous, shadowed this 
 splendour, and hair, honestly golden, sparkling with 
 sincerity, framed a face of such inexcusable loveli- 
 ness that to behold it filled one with a suspicion of 
 the Creator's benevolence. As I have said, Emma 
 Wark, most romantic of discreet matrons, homeliest 
 of worldlings, best of good souls, observed Miss 
 Passer and was troubled. VVickie, her friend, Warre, 
 her cousin, and this terribly gifted young person. 
 She saw it all ! There would be the devil to pay. I 
 already had that ecstatic absence of mind which 
 is the earliest symptom of a mortal enamoured. 
 Wickie, more inscrutable because so apparently 
 transparent, seemed much as usual. (In any case, 
 Wickenham in love is only Wickenham over-sober ; 
 the sobriety of his passions must puzzle even the 
 Recording Angel. Are they passions at all?) 
 
 " Conversation buzzed with drooping wings and 
 feeble drone through our little group, so lamentable 
 is the effect of one beautiful stranger among devoted 
 friends. Miss Passer and Mrs, Maukin-Favvkes dis- 
 cussed in dying tones the huge benefit they had de- 
 rived from sea-air. Stanley Bi-eakspeare and Mrs. 
 Algernon Dane could not decide how many months 
 had elapsed since their last meeting : each felt that 
 it did not matter in the smallest degree one way or 
 ^he other, and neither took the trouble to look con-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 29 
 
 cerned. Maukin-Favvkes confided to the Duchess 
 that his brute of a doctor had forbidden him all food 
 except charcoal biscuits ; he no longer enjoyed din- 
 ing out ; thought seriously of going to Norway — to 
 shoot elk. Or was he thinking of some other beastly 
 place ? His memory — under charcoal — had suffered. 
 If he wasn't better in a fortnight, he would change 
 his medical adviser. Dundy of Brook Street gave 
 everybody dry champagne and raw eggs. If eggs 
 did not suit you, you could use your own judgment. 
 But then one does not pay a fellow two guineas to 
 be told to use your own judgment ! What an insult 
 to one's intelligence ! After all, there was something 
 to be said for charcoal ; the best science nowadays 
 was always opposed to common sense. ' I have a 
 taste for science,' he added, modestly. Emma Wark 
 assumed the nice consternation which all well-bred 
 persons display when their friends own to any talent. 
 'Can it be possible?' she looked ; ' do I hear aright? 
 Have you a taste for science? Who would have 
 guessed it? ' 
 
 "The progress of the guests to the dining-room 
 was the quick work of a long minute. I was seated 
 at the table before I realised that Miss Passer's hand 
 had, for a second, rested butterfly-like on my own, 
 and had, as delicately, been withdrawn. Her first 
 act was a careful study of the menu ; she puckered 
 
 her divine brows, and, at intervals, seemed to be 
 3
 
 30 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 searching her memory for the precise flavour of 
 some particular dish. Once her expression said 
 clearly, ' Do I really like quails? When did I eat 
 them last, and where?' She made no attempt at 
 conversation till we reached the fourth course. I 
 thought her greediness quite charming : it was so 
 natural, so human, so unconscious, yet perfectly 
 graceful. She eat slowly, lingering over each mor- 
 sel ; there was no hint of voracity in her appetite. It 
 refreshed a student of Paralysis to see such health. 
 I did my utmost to amuse this exquisite example of a 
 sane body, female of sex, angelic in appearance. 
 Occasionally she smiled at my wit, showing thereby 
 a sufficiently good, nay, rather an amazing intelli- 
 gence ! Having reached roast saddle of mutton, she 
 owned to a tenderness for all that was beautiful in 
 life. She had a pet bird who was ungrateful, who 
 had once bitten her finger — see, the scar! — but she 
 had not the courage to scold it, to even show anger. 
 The bird was so pretty. Extraordinary sympathy 
 in tastes, in morals, in point of view ! If I, too, had 
 owned such a bird, and it had bitten me even to the 
 heart, I would have forgiven it all, and died, wor- 
 shipping its beauty. "Was that weak? 
 
 "'Manly,' murmured Miss Passer; 'heroic!' 
 
 " ' Oh, no,' said I, ' not heroic' 
 
 '• ' / think so.' Here followed a discussion on 
 what was, properly speaking, heroism, and what, a
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 3 1 
 
 mere matter of instinct. It was a man's instinct to 
 adore the admirable — to desire it eagerly — in what- 
 ever guise it might appear. She supposed this was 
 indeed the case, and sighed. Melancholy became 
 her. She wore it with celestial resignation. No 
 peevishness marred the serenity of that May-morn- 
 ing countenance. How young she was ! I asked 
 whether this was her first season. 
 
 " She replied that she was in the musical profes- 
 sion ; had sung several times in public; was to sing 
 at the Rothschilds' this coming week. Mrs. Dane 
 had been extremely kind to her, and had given her 
 many introductions. Singing was hard work, but a 
 voice was her only gift. 
 
 '"Sensible woman,' said I; 'you have no desire 
 to adapt souls for Paradise. You do not try to make 
 virgins out of mud and conquerors out of sawdust.' 
 (I have no notion what this means, but it sounded 
 rather well when I said it.) She owned that she was 
 not at all clever, and did not understand social ques- 
 tions. She only wished that spotted veils would go 
 out of fashion. They hurt her eyes. I was not slow 
 to accept this invitation to look into them, nor did I 
 pretend that my interest was purely scientific; in- 
 deed, I should have been annoyed if she had thought 
 so. We continued our fooling. Mrs. Maukin- 
 Fawkes to the left and LawrencS Tarraway to the 
 right suffered neglect, and by no means in the Chris-
 
 32 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 tian spirit. Tliey coughed manners, looked morality, 
 and drummed with their fingers the funeral march 
 of my future. 
 
 "* Simon seems very happy,' said Emma Wark to 
 VVickenham. (He repeated the conversation to me 
 later.) 
 
 " ' And why not ? ' asked Wickie. 
 
 " The question was not to be answered at random. 
 * If it were suitable,' she observed, after an unuttered 
 but violent argument conveyed to her opponent in a 
 series of smothered sighs, curls of the nostril, and 
 swift, needle-sharp glances in the direction of Miss 
 Passer — ' If it were suitable,' she repeated, ' I should 
 be the first to rejoice. But it looks disastrous.' 
 
 " ' Why ? ' said Wickenham. 
 
 " ' Busy men should not marry pretty wives,' said 
 Emma. ' And . . . who is she ? ' 
 
 " ' A friend of Mrs. Dane's.' 
 
 " ' Are they related to each other? * 
 
 " ' I believe not.' 
 
 " ' I hate mysteries,' said the lady, tossing her 
 head. 
 
 " ' If I could tell you anything more about her I 
 would. Aren't you my conscience ? ' 
 
 " * No, or you would show more discretion,' was 
 her tart reply. 
 
 " With all his amiability, Wickenham is not a 
 man to brook the dictation of any Emma Wark. He
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 33 
 
 is master of his own dinner-table, and for dinner-table 
 read opinions, prejudices, sentiments, likes, and dis- 
 likes. His independence of mind is extraordinary ; 
 his indifference to criticism shows a hardness of 
 heart, a spirit of flint, not to be so much as named in 
 his genial presence. It is not cold blood which flows 
 in his veins, but iced wine. 
 
 " ' My house is not a marriage-market,' he said, 
 with a dignity peculiar to the noble family of Wick- 
 enham. ' I do not invite my friends to smile at each 
 other here, because I want to groan at their wed- 
 ding a little latter ! ' 
 
 " Yet Emma, too, has spirit. ' My dear Wick,' 
 she said ; ' the genius of hospitality consists not so 
 much in making people meet, but in helping them to 
 part — on good terms. Remember that ! ' Wicken- 
 ham never despises a good idea — even when offered 
 by a woman. He told me he was greatly pleased 
 with that remark, and made a note of it. 
 
 " After the ladies had left the table discussion 
 dropped the brisk air it had worn under their balmy 
 influence, and we relapsed into silent meditation, lib- 
 erally punctuated by full stops. Wickie is not a 
 great talker, and is not the prince of listeners: he 
 enjoys nothing so much as a long pause. For this 
 reason geniuses arc always ready to dine with him. 
 They can leave their brilliancy at home, and bring 
 their wives. At most houses the order is reversed.
 
 34 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 But this evening I was the nearest thing to genius 
 present. 
 
 " Harold Maukin-Fawkes, M. P., is a man of 
 gloomy disposition, who, nevertheless, takes it as a 
 personal affront if any one about him ventures to dis- 
 play the least dulness. His melancholy needs gales 
 of laughter to keep it fresh, otherwise it fades into 
 mere jaundice. Stanley Breakspeare is a gossip, 
 but he has an irritating habit of withholding his 
 scandalous chronicle until every other man at the 
 table has told the right stories about the wrong peo- 
 ple. Sir Lawrence Tarraway, on the other hand, 
 was born a really charming fellow, but he was once 
 painted by Stanton Marlow, R. A., as ' Lucius Cor- 
 nelius Sulla,' and his one hope now is to be mistaken 
 for that immortal canvas. His life is rounded by a 
 gilt frame ; humanity does not touch him. Wicken- 
 ham lives in the firm conviction that the picture will 
 one day be destroyed by fire, and then Tarraway will 
 be himself again. 
 
 " Maukin-Fawkes, perhaps because he was the 
 only married man at the table, was the first to refer 
 to Miss Passer as a devilish pretty woman, and to 
 inquire whether she was an heiress. If not, why 
 had Sarah Dane taken her up ? 
 
 " ' To tell the truth,' said Wickenham, ' I have not 
 given the matter a moment's thought. Mrs. Dane 
 asked me if she might bring her here to-night, and I
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 35 
 
 said I should be delighted. I understand she has a 
 beautiful voice.' 
 
 " ' Amateur, I suppose ? ' said Maukin-Fawkes. 
 
 '"No. Mrs. Dane was careful to say that she 
 was in the profession ; that she wished to earn her 
 own living. Plucky ! ' 
 
 " Maukin-Fawkes showed the horror which only 
 a gentleman who had married for money could feel 
 for any base dependent on a merely natural talent. 
 
 " ' Mrs. Dane told me all about her,' said Stanley 
 Breakspeare, in a thrilling voice. ' She is the daugh- 
 ter of Sir Hugh Delaware. But he is in the Bank of 
 England, and is as poor as a rat. He has been 
 obliged to drop out of everything — even his club. 
 Oddly enough, I saw the old cock when I popped 
 into the Securities Office the other day about some 
 beastly dividends. I opened the wrong door, and, 
 instead of walking into the Manager's room, I found 
 myself amrmg the God-forgotten clerks. Ha! ha! 
 You should have seen me bolt. But I noticed this 
 old fellow at once. Ancient style, you know. Looks 
 like Sir Robert Peel, and the Duke of Wellington, 
 and those chaps — high collar, clean-shaven, hnir 
 sticking out above his ears. " Who's that swell ?" I 
 asked the Manager. " He would make his fortune 
 playing carls and footmen in high comedy." " Sir," 
 said he, " that gentleman is Sir Hugh Delaware, and 
 one of our most conscientious clerks." "Good
 
 36 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 God ! " said I. " Poor devil ! " I never heard any- 
 thing so pathetic in my life. Take my oath ! If you 
 could have seen that magnificent old aristocrat, and 
 heard that rotten little Cockney Manager calling him 
 a conscientious clerk, as though he had some idea of 
 giving him a tip at Christmas!* He swallowed some 
 claret, and the rim of the wine-glass made a sort of 
 a ripple on the humane expression which the recital 
 of this anecdote had called up on his countenance. 
 * Lady Delaware was a Pavenham,' he added, at 
 length. 
 
 " Maukin-Fawkes, who was now breathing more 
 freely, made an observation. ' But the Pavenhams, 
 too, are poor.' 
 
 " ' Poor ! I should think so,' said Breakspeare. 
 ' I have heard that they have got even a skin less 
 than most people.' 
 
 " ' Why is the girl called Passer ? ' asked Maukin- 
 Fawkes. 
 
 " * A nom de guerre! 
 
 " * I wonder whether she makes much money, 
 singing. She dresses well — far better than my 
 wife ! ' 
 
 " Though Wickenham is by no means blind to 
 the necessity of dowries, he abhors any open dis- 
 cussion of a woman's fortune : it seems to him like 
 hall-marking the stars : his chivalry is discreet, but 
 never commercial. He has a deep contempt for his
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 37 
 
 cousin Maukin-Fawkes, who, for ten thousand a 
 year, married a few pounds of chaste bone wrapped 
 in lean flesh. Good Lord ! While man's nature 
 bears the taint of original sin it is impossible to love 
 a woman so innocent of witchery as poor Ada Mau- 
 kin-Fawkes. And marriage without some sort of 
 sentiment is, say what you will, a revolting bargain. 
 Wickie and I have never faltered in our agreement 
 on this point. 
 
 *' It is significant of our sympathy that at the 
 same moment and in obedience to the same impulse 
 we each made a remark which at once diverted curi- 
 osity from the subject of Miss Passer's possible in- 
 come. Although the talk fell into the usual tittle- 
 tattle about absent friends and acquaintances, Miss 
 Passer's name did not occur asrain. 
 
 " In the next room things, as I heard from Mrs. 
 Maukin-Fawkes, were more formal. The Duchess 
 of Wark is not ill-natured, but she has three unmar- 
 ried sisters, and she probably could not see why 
 Sarah Dane (wiio is, after all, a Carrigrohane, and 
 who has some idea of noblesse oblige') she could not 
 sec why Sarah Dane should go out of her way to in- 
 troduce a fascinating, God-knows-whom into their 
 already over-womaned circle. Did it not smack of 
 treachery? Her Grace has her own method of 
 dealing with such satin foes. She turned her back 
 on Mrs. Algernon Dane, and asked Miss Passer qucs- 
 
 •if) I .'i \ '.1
 
 38 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 tions which, had that young creature been an impos- 
 tor, must have riddled her soul. But Miss Passer, 
 whose Christian name was Anne, only repeated the 
 same simple tale she had confided to me at dinner. 
 She was a singer : her voice was soprano. She had 
 no intention of appearing in opera. Her people ob- 
 jected to the stage. It was extremely unlikely that 
 the Duchess should have met either her father or her 
 mother. They lived in great retirement in a tiny 
 square near the Uxbridge Road. Passer was her 
 professional name. The rest was mere smiling : she 
 said no more. Poor Emma began to feel thoroughly 
 ill at ease. No one could see Miss Anne Passer and 
 not suspect that she was unnecessarily well born : 
 she did not sit in that select circle like one who had 
 rashly strayed into the wrong Paradise. If the 
 Duchess could only have caught a hint of Delaware 
 or Pavenham she w^ould have clasped the new-comer 
 to her bosom — figuratively, at all events. For she is 
 staunch to her order . . . loyal to blood — whether 
 its earthl}'^ tabernacle is situated near the Uxbridge 
 Road or in East Hackney. But a Passer, suspi- 
 ciously good-looking, who sang for her supper and 
 perhaps danced for her lodging ! Hence, upstart ! 
 
 " When we joined them, Mrs. Algernon Dane at 
 once wished Wickenham good-night, explaining that 
 she had promised to take Anne to Lady Winde- 
 grave's party.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 39 
 
 " ' I am going to sing there,' added INIiss Passer. 
 The little speech was effective, and showed that she 
 was not ashamed of her calling. After she had gone, 
 no one had the courage to refer to her again. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! What a long letter ! I have 
 not been so communicative since I wrote descriptive 
 articles at half-a-guinea a column. Ah ! those were 
 the years of occasional dinners and daily eloquence. 
 Now my dinners are daily and my eloquence only 
 occasional. Remember me to AUcgra, for I feel sure 
 that she has already forgotten me. Yours, 
 
 " S. W." 
 
 In reading over this frankly artificial burst of 
 confidence, which had been composed rather as a 
 relief to his own feelings than for the Count's enter- 
 tainment, Warre had sufficient self-knowledge to 
 wonder whether he would have addressed it to Ven- 
 dramini if there had not been an Allegra to be as- 
 tonished at its contents. He hoped she would see 
 how greatly he had admired the charming Anne 
 Passer, and fell asleep thinking of a little girl, aged 
 seventeen, in Rome,
 
 40 
 
 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN EXCURSION INTO THE SORDID AND A FLIGHT 
 INTO RHETORIC. 
 
 Warre awoke the next day with a firm determi- 
 nation to coax more enjoyment out of life, and, 
 while he dressed, he sang with some gaiety : — 
 
 " Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
 Take the good the ggds provide thee." 
 
 A week later he received a little note, bearing the 
 Delaware crest, and signed with an " Anne Passer," 
 which covered half the page. It ran thus : — 
 
 " iS SouTHwicK Terrace, Holland Park. 
 
 "Dear Dr. Warre: As you expressed so great 
 an interest in modern Italian music, it might amuse 
 you — if you could spare the time — to call on 
 Wednesday afternoon about five, when Signor Cas- 
 magni is coming to play us the first act of his new 
 opera. The Danes have promised to come also. 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 "Anne Passer."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 41 
 
 " No genius, this," he said to himself, and ac- 
 cepted the invitation in his wittiest manner. 
 
 Some time had passed since Warre had found oc- 
 casion to drive into the densely populated deserts of 
 Notting Hill and the Addison Road. In gazing at 
 them once more, he had the sentiments of one re- 
 visiting a land of former exile : no released captive 
 could have felt a more ardent melancholy at the 
 sight of his prison-house than Simon experienced as 
 he drove past the staring villas, hump-backed man- 
 sions, one-horned crescents, and crooked squares 
 which give so deformed an aspect to that region 
 which lies to the west of Hyde Park. He remem- 
 bered his squalid lodgings in Bloomsbury with loyal 
 affection, for the treasures in the British Museum 
 give dignity to the meanest room, the poorest hab- 
 itation within its shade. There the atmosphere 
 was heroic, scholarly, artistic : there, a man could 
 feel himself the heir of all the ages in spite of an 
 empty stomach and a pinched heart. Ah, he thought, 
 poverty never kills the soul. The arch-destroyer is 
 dull indolence, which, under the name of Christian 
 contentment, is but a slatternly acceptance of this 
 world's dust and ashes. These and similar reflec- 
 tions went through the young doctor's head as he 
 a[)proached South wick Terrace. No. 18 was a cor- 
 ner house, the front windows of which were draped 
 with brown damask and white cotton lace — the
 
 42 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 former faded by the sun, and the latter soiled and 
 limp. Although summer's dust and winter's fog had 
 formed a kind of moss over the brick-work, an air of 
 disreputable animation distinguished the building 
 from the forlorn and, to all outward showing, tenant- 
 less residences which made up the rest of the street. 
 The paint on the door had worn away in some 
 places and been scraped away in others by impatient 
 feet and errant latch-keys ; the bell hung wearily by 
 a bent wire from its rusty socket ; the steps showed 
 the traces of many and strange boots. Warre's sum- 
 mons was answered, after a prolonged discussion in 
 the area between male and female voices, by a Swiss 
 man-servant, whose stained coat and insolent stare 
 confirmed Simon's suspicion that the unfortunate 
 Dela wares were boarding with the cheerful family of 
 some bankrupt speculator. 
 
 When he reached the drawing-room, a cuckoo 
 clock struck the half-hour, and as he had arrived 
 rather earlier than he was expected, Anne was not 
 there. A gentleman, whom he at once knew to be 
 Sir Hugh Delaware, was sitting by the window with 
 a little box of old feathers and odd ribbons by his 
 side, making artificial flies. The Baronet was one of 
 those men of gigantic stature and strength who are 
 so fearful of exerting their superior force in some 
 unfair or tyrannous way that they do not use it at 
 all, and, from a false idea of generosity, suffer them-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 43 
 
 selves to be ruled by beings and circumstances 
 which the average pygmy would feel a coward in 
 submitting to. His fine, serene countenance had the 
 smoothness of marble, and although he rarely smiled 
 so vigorously as to disturb the lines of his mouth, 
 there was an amiable tranquillity in his expression 
 which presented all the effect of a perpetual simper. 
 Whatever his thoughts may have been, he was not 
 troubled by ideas, and the intelligence he displayed 
 in the discharge of his duties at the Bank of Eng- 
 land was that of a learned poodle, who, having been 
 taught certain tricks, performs them he knows not 
 why nor to what end. In the early part of his 
 career he had spent his small fortune in riotous ex- 
 cess, driven fast horses, and been driven by a fast 
 lady. This person, whom he could never be in- 
 duced to abuse, was known as his " Ruin " ; and 
 Lady Delaware, whom he had never been heard to 
 praise, was called his " Salvation." 
 
 As Warre entered, Sir Hugh raised his eyes, and 
 shewed at a glance that he guessed who the visitor 
 was. He rose, introduced himself, and sat down again. 
 
 " Pray do not let me interrupt your work," said 
 Warre. 
 
 " I am very glad of an excuse to rest," said Dela- 
 ware, with a languorous air of fatigue. " I have 
 only three weeks' leave in the year," he went on, 
 "and I spend the whole time angUng at Wenslcy.
 
 44 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 I sold the place long ago to Ventry Coxc, but he is 
 very civil — very civil, indeed, and lets me fish in the 
 lake. We take lodgings in the town and I enjoy the 
 walk to the Manor. It is not more than five miles." 
 
 In making this unexpected reference to the sale 
 of his family estate, which had occurred some 
 twenty years before under strangely disastrous con- 
 ditions, Delaware shewed neither regret nor senti- 
 ment, but had even something of the pride with 
 which a veteran refers to the loss of a limb in battle. 
 Whatever recollections it evoked, he fell into an un- 
 meditative silence, surveying the room in which they 
 sat with a tolerance verging on affection. The furni- 
 ture was dingy and uncomfortable, consisting mainly 
 of small bamboo tables over-burdened with vulgar 
 ornaments, and chintz-covered chairs. Vases of dis- 
 coloured and dyed Pampas grass, a gilt clock, and a 
 pair of lustres adorned the mantel-piece ; a few faded 
 photographs of gentlemen in officers' uniform, ladies 
 in dinner-dress, and babies in christening robes stood 
 on the cottage piano — a dolorous instrument with 
 walnut legs and a green silk back. Two china lamps 
 with yellow paper shades, resembling the tulle petti- 
 coats of a ballet-dancer, were placed on ebony stands 
 in front of a long mirror framed in gilt carving made 
 to represent pine-apples, fern-leaves, and birds of 
 paradise, and which had no doubt been bought for a 
 song, inasmuch as the glass was imperfect and re- 
 
 i
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 45 
 
 fleeted all things not only hideously distorted, but 
 through a mist. 
 
 The stillness was irresistible. Simon could find 
 nothing to say, and found himself, like Sir Hugh, 
 staring at the picture of pond-lilies, storks, and blue 
 clouds which was painted in instalments on the door 
 panels. 
 
 " I wonder," said Sir Hugh, at last, " whether the 
 man has told m}- wife that you are here." 
 
 At that moment Lady Delaware came into the 
 room. After Warre had been introduced she showed 
 her teeth in a perfectly kind manner, and explained 
 that her daughter had been detained at a singing 
 lesson ; she would be with them in a few moments. 
 The young man studied Anne Passer's mother with 
 no ordinary interest. She looked like one of those 
 trained canaries which are to be seen at country 
 fairs, and which, dressed up in petticoats, give a 
 pathetic imitation of human grace and dignity. Her 
 expression was pensive ; her figure, elegantly list- 
 less ; the bonnet she wore was slightly awry, and 
 her lace mantle seemed slipping from her shoulders. 
 When she used her small, sad eyes of tearful tint it 
 was only to fix them on her own hands, her own 
 shoes, or on some object of her own attire. Warre 
 felt that if — as her absent air implied — she had lost 
 interest in the world, nnd her fellow-creatures, it was 
 only because she had found llic needs of Lady Dcla-
 
 46 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 ware so much more profitable a study. She had 
 married Sir Hugh because he was handsome, and 
 because she would have died of jealousy if any other 
 woman had captured him ; but, with the morality 
 peculiar to her sex, she had given society to under- 
 stand, and never allowed him to forget, that in be- 
 coming his wife she was a martyr, and that in grati- 
 fying her own desires she had accepted a heavenly 
 mission. For twenty sinners who can bear repent- 
 ance, there is not one just person who can support 
 the knowledge of having stirred a fellow-creature to 
 remorse. Lady Delaware made it the amusement of 
 her life to lead her husband out of temptation, and 
 deliver him from evil, and, in helping the penitent to 
 resist his tastes, she found many opportunities for 
 the indulgence of her own. The cares of housekeep- 
 ing on a small scale had proved too much for her 
 temper. All the Pavenhams were more skilful at 
 eating a cheap dinner than in ordering one. She 
 had tried lodgings ; she had attempted to control a 
 furnished flat ; she had shared a villa with a friend ; 
 and, as a last resort, had now adopted what she called 
 the Continental plan of living en pension. Sir Hugh 
 had followed her progression from one boarding- 
 house to another, at first with reluctance, and at last 
 with a real appetite for adventure. The constant 
 change of scene gave a variety to his life which it 
 would otherwise have lacked, and, as he was by na-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 47 
 
 ture philanthropic, he enjoyed dining at a long table 
 with a number of persons, who, if they were not his 
 dependents, looked as though they might have been. 
 No. 1 8 South wick Terrace was not more barren 
 of luxury than most establishments of its class, and 
 was considered sufficiently respectable by those 
 whose only prejudices were directed against sinners 
 who lacked discretion. The proprietress, who was 
 an army surgeon's widow, called it a private hotel, 
 and dined in her own apartment, usually in company 
 with military — and other — cousins. From the social 
 point of view, the Delawares w^ere her most distin- 
 guished patrons ; the rest had mysteriously fine 
 names of the Greville-Stubbs and D'Eresby-Brown 
 order, or professional dignities of obscure signifi- 
 cance. The women minced and the men swaggered ; 
 a false decorum and a falser ease made the moral at- 
 mosphere a perpetual hurricane ; jealousies, bicker- 
 ings, and backbiting were like a plague of insects in 
 the air. The life of the house would have been con- 
 temptible if, in regarding it, it had been possible to 
 forget that each creature who took part in the strug- 
 gle had an immortal soul. Lady Delaware bore her 
 surroundings with an indifference which lookers-on 
 might have taken for arrogance, good-nature, or stoic 
 wisdom, but which in reality arose from a want of 
 understanding. The only things which offended her 
 taste at Soutlnvick Terrace were the shabbinoss of
 
 48 'l^HE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 the furniture, the cotton sheets, the Swiss man-serv- 
 ant, and the miserable soups. But gossip amused 
 her ; an exhibition of the pettiest emotion could al- 
 ways attract her curiosity, and so long as that enter- 
 taining faculty could be engrossed her patience 
 never wavered. Hers was an inquisitiveness, too, 
 which was as far removed from sympathy as old 
 straw is from new-mown hay. If a friend broke his 
 leg she would ask in Jiozu many places and whether he 
 groaned, and there her concern would end. She had 
 heard from Anne that Dr. Warre was considered the 
 coming man in his profession, that he was a bachelor, 
 that she had met him at Lord VVickenham's. Before 
 coming into the drawing-room her ladyship had ob- 
 served his brougham and its fine pair of roans stand- 
 ing at the front door, and these had greatly assisted 
 her belief in his genius. It was characteristic of the 
 woman that it did not enter her head to regard him 
 as a possible son-in-law. Her one and only thought 
 was a sense of thanksgiving to Providence that she 
 had at last found a doctor of first-rate ability whom 
 she could consult with regard to her own health as 
 often as necessary and without paying a fee. 
 
 The conversation of Lady Delaware was dry, 
 formal, and a little condescending, uttered, too, in 
 nasal tones of melancholy cadence. In the course 
 of ten minutes she referred to three Peers, her weak 
 chest, and her constant attendance at eight o'clock
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 49 
 
 Celebration. Simon thought her dull and absurd, 
 but not hypocritical. She was too indolent to as- 
 sume a virtue or affect religious airs merely to im- 
 press other people ; the only creature she lived to 
 please, to flatter, and to satisfy, was herself ; and if 
 she had once felt bored by a Feast-day, or dismayed 
 by a Fast, she would have found chapter and verse 
 for proving one Romish, and the other unnecessary. 
 She had the same mannerisms in the solitude of her 
 own room which she showed in company. " A self- 
 deceiver," thought Warre, who began to get impa- 
 tient. 
 
 At last Anne made her appearance in all the pride 
 of a fresh and carefully studied toilette. Her hair 
 was arranged with exquisite care, she wore a dainty 
 bonnet, and her grey gown fell in the softest lines 
 about her gracious figure. Her shoes, her gloves, 
 her veil, had an elegance, a correctness which de- 
 lighted the young man, who was himself fastidious 
 in his attire — even dandified — and at an age when 
 the decrees of fashion have a deeper meaning than 
 the Ten Commandments. Anne's manner with 
 Warre hovered between the bewitching shyness of 
 a young girl wh(j feels herself under the eyes of an 
 admirer, and the assurance of a woman of the world. 
 Her cheeks were flushed, but the hand she gave him 
 was firm and steady. 
 
 " I am so glad you were able to come," she said ;
 
 50 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 and. with a mvstcri(^us glance which seemed to say 
 that it the occasion for more intimate speech was not 
 theirs at that moment, it might haply come at some 
 future time, she began to chatter about things she 
 had only read of and people she had never met, in 
 that sentimental, over-earnest manner usual in young 
 people who have spent their time in castles of their 
 own buiklinsr. Until that season Anne had been 
 rarely in society, and all her notions of life were 
 taken from the stage. Before she made her appear- 
 ance as a singer she used to spend her few spare 
 shillings on theatre tickets, and, from the upper cir- 
 cle, used to study popular actresses in their various 
 rdles of love-sick Peeresses, deserted Queens, and 
 haughty beauties. Her shallow but emotional na- 
 ture was quick to accept all that was extravagant, 
 forced, and unreal ; and, when Mrs. Dane took her 
 out into the world, she liked to think herself dis- 
 illusioned because at the few dinner parties she at- 
 tended the lords did not hurl epigrams at each other 
 across the table, and the ladies did not look like old 
 pictures. As Warre listened to her artificial prattle, 
 he thought her cold, because she had never loved ; 
 cynical, because she had never been cherished ; and 
 firm, because she had not yet discovered her own 
 weakness. His judgment, floating on the waves of 
 her hair, lost its balance, and a fatal desire entered 
 into his mind to help this fair soul to a right under-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 5 I 
 
 Standing of herself. Simon's imagination, now fired, 
 was not exhausted until Anne shone out in all the 
 glamour, the romantic fascination, the piteousness of 
 an angelic spirit doomed to live among men and to 
 be tempted by the powers of evil. The prudish airs 
 she displayed when he owned to an admiration for 
 Swinburne assisted his eager faith in her passionate 
 purity. Like most young men of the world, he had 
 a reverence for modest women — more particularl}'' 
 when they happened to be young and beautiful — 
 which was not without a tinge of false sentiment. 
 He was growing bewildered between respect for 
 her innocence and an admiration for her figure, 
 when Mr. and Mrs. Algernon Dane were an- 
 nounced. 
 
 Mrs. Dane was a small, once pretty woman, with 
 the round, infantile features and soft light hair which 
 belong to those joyous creatures who are destined 
 to a life of serene and simple happiness. Yet, in con- 
 tradiction to these auspicious traits, her cheeks were 
 thin and her body wasted. She had the aspect of a 
 sick child, only the look of long endurance in her 
 eyes was womanly. She wore dismal clothes, and 
 was clearly not minded to display her husband's 
 wealth in the adornment of her person. For this 
 reason Dane rarely cared to appear in public with 
 his wife. Everyone could not know that she was a 
 Carrigrohane, and if one did not possess that knowl-
 
 52 
 
 THE i.ODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 edge, it was quite possible, as he said, to mistake her 
 for an uiider-hoiisemaid out of situation. 
 
 Algernon himself was short, lean, and bald — an 
 ugly man with a feverish complexion, and a leer 
 which was only one degree more threatening than 
 his snarl. He had a reputation for sarcastic wit, 
 and walked on tiptoe, as though its spiritual quality 
 gave him an airy tread. He was a barrister by pro- 
 fession, and a pawnbroker by instinct ; but as his 
 family had enjoyed the advantages of ill-gotten 
 wealth for at least four generations, his acquaint- 
 ances were agreed that, although he was not, he 
 ought to have been a gentleman. His manner on 
 entering was a strange mixture of the important 
 and the familiar ; he lounged back in an easy-chair, 
 talked in a loud voice, and addressed various ques- 
 tions to Anne without putting' himself to the trouble 
 of regarding her. Only once he gave her a swift 
 and searching glance. Warre noticed that her re- 
 plies were nervous and conciliatory. She showed 
 an anxiety to please — a fear of offending him. The 
 young doctor was vexed, but did not marvel that the 
 desire for laurels, without the gifts which earn them, 
 had burnt away the wings of her spirit. 
 
 Suddenly Sir Hugh expressed surprise that Cas- 
 magni was so late. 
 
 "He will never come," said Dane; "it is much 
 too far. He is not like Warre— he hasn't got a
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 53 
 
 brougham ! By-the-bje," he added, staring at Si- 
 mon's chin, " when do you find a spare minute for 
 your patients ? You are ahva3's going to parties 
 and dining with Duchesses ! " 
 
 Dane's vulgarity was not of that genial kind 
 which only wakes at the sound of merriment, nor 
 did it ever show itself in a common or expected 
 way. With him it was not a misfortune, but a vice 
 — a vice which formed the very spleen of his ill- 
 humour. As he uttered his pleasantries, the servant 
 entered with a telegram. 
 
 " Casmagni cannot come," said Anne, as she read 
 it. Her lips quivered ; she glanced from one to the 
 other with a grievous smile, and then fled from the 
 room in tears. Dane, who had plucked at her skirt 
 as she passed by him, tightened his mouth over an 
 oath which, being stemmed in its natural course, 
 welled up in his eyes. 
 
 " She has been over-working," he said, fiercely. 
 " She is not fit for work. She is ruining her looks ! " 
 
 Sir Hugh shook his head, and observed that 
 Anne could never bear a disappointment. Mrs. 
 Dane offered to follow the unhappy girl, but was 
 restrained by Lady Delaware, who explained that 
 sympathy only made her daughter worse, tliat they 
 never noticed her, and, sighing, she assailed their 
 patience with a long account of her own miseries. 
 " But I have learnt to suffer in silence," she said, at
 
 54 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 last, " and although the mother's heart in me longs 
 to offer consolation to dear Anne, I have to think of 
 the hour when she must bear her troubles alone. I 
 cannot be with her always, and when I am called 
 away, 1 would not have her find my loss too great 
 an affliction. Many of us forget that when, from a 
 purely selfish desire to make ourselves indispensable 
 to others, we teach them to rest on our poor shifting 
 aid in preference to that ever-present Comforter — 
 their own conscience. I feel these things deeply ! " 
 How plausible she was ! 
 
 Sarah Dane was too simple not to be impressed 
 by these elevated sentiments, and too warm-hearted 
 to accept them. While she was searching through 
 her little stock of polite phrases for some coldly- 
 sweet reply, Warre took his leave. He had de- 
 scended the stairs and reached the dim, close hall 
 when he heard his own name spoken between a sob 
 and a whisper. Looking up, he saw Anne. She 
 beckoned, and he reascended the staircase. Without 
 speaking, she opened a door which he had not ob- 
 served, and he followed her into a conservatory 
 filled with Japanese lamps and dead plants. 
 
 " What must you think of me ? " she said, and 
 began to weep bitterly. " But you do not know 
 how hard it is to be a poor woman with rich friends 
 — with rich, ugly, vulgar friends. They can afford 
 to pay for happiness ; they can buy it."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 55 
 
 " You ought to have everything," said VVarre, 
 " everything." 
 
 She pretended not to hear. "And it is all so 
 lonely," she went on. " Men do not know what lone- 
 liness means — to go up and down the dark stairs — 
 meeting no one, to open each door and find a room 
 full of people who do not want you — whom you do 
 not want, to return to your own room and find it 
 emptiest of all. O, my God ! how wretched I am ! 
 What have I not done for companionship ? For 
 companionship even for half-an-hour, with long, deso- 
 late days before and afterwards ! " Warre did not 
 pay much heed to these words at the time, but later 
 in his life they shone out in his memory in letters of 
 lead. 
 
 " I am in great trouble. I am in great doubt 
 about something," she said. " If I should ask you if 
 I might come and see you soon — perhaps, this even- 
 ing — would you be angry ? would you think it very 
 strange ? It is impossible to talk here. I could be 
 at your house about nine. I must ask your advice ; 
 there is no one else. Women advise each other so 
 badly." 
 
 " To-night at nine ? " he repeated. " Would not 
 to-morrow morning be better?" 
 
 " That may be too late," she said, mysteriously. 
 
 Their eyes met, and Anne was not the first to 
 glance away. " You are not like other men," she
 
 56 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 added; "other men would misunderstand!" And 
 then he hated himself. Why did women always 
 make one feel a hypocrite ? 
 
 " Then let it be to-night," he said, briefly, and en- 
 deavoured to look as though he saw nothing unusual 
 in her suggestion. She pressed his hand, he left her, 
 and in leaving was annoyed to the point of extreme 
 pleasure at the thought that they would meet again 
 in a few hours. She was so pretty, so miserable, so 
 foolish, and — perhaps — so innocent. He knew that 
 she was not a woman for whom he could feel any 
 intense afTection, yet he found it a soothing specula- 
 tion to wonder whether she could ever grow to care 
 for him. O Allegra ! Allcgra ! Allcgra ! Yoii were 
 made for love and to be loved, and yet you wotdd have 
 neither ! His aching pride took balm from the hope 
 that Anne might be more kind. Several women had 
 pretended tenderness, had written him passionate 
 vows, and protested infinite devotion; but his pro- 
 foundly sentimental nature had been distracted in 
 each case by some false note in a phrase, by some 
 awkward pose, by a flaw in the complexion. He 
 had liked those best whom he had seen but seldom, 
 and the faces he remembered with most pleasure 
 were those he had studied by moonlight. But Alle- 
 gra said and did all things, so it seemed to him, in 
 harmony ; there was a divine neatness in every ges- 
 ture she used, every word she uttered; she had
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 57 
 
 beauty, distinction, and all the fascination of her 
 Italian birth. Above all, he was in love with her, 
 and if for no other reason than that — if she had been 
 plain to others, dull to others, chilling to others — she 
 was the summer in his nature, the divinity in his life. 
 Yet he did not know this — he only knew that Anne's 
 advances made him remember Allegra's coldness 
 with the more passionate regret. 
 
 He did not return home immediately, but dis- 
 missed his carriage and walked to Lord Wickcn- 
 ham's. His lordship was dressing for dinner, and 
 Warre went up to his room — a large, imposing apart- 
 ment, remarkable for its bare simplicity and a four- 
 posted bed, once pressed by the royal limbs of Queen 
 Elizabeth. The furniture was mahogany, and the 
 prevailing tint of things maroon. 
 
 " Well," said Wickenham, who was attacking 
 his close-cropped hair with two large brushes as 
 Simon entered — " well, what have you been do- 
 
 ing? 
 
 Simon described his visit to the Delawares — omit- 
 ting, however, his last interview with Anne — and 
 ended with the observation: "I am sorry for that 
 girl. 
 
 " Then don't intcrru[)t l)cr life," said Wickenham, 
 shortly. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 Wickenham drew himself up and nssumrd the
 
 58 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 manner which, in after days, created so great an im- 
 pression when he addressed the House of Lords. 
 
 •' 1 have always held," said he, " that friendship 
 means the bearing- of confidence and not the disload- 
 ing of advice. But to-day you have spoken plainly 
 to me of a matter which to yourself is, I believe, only 
 the vague interest of a passing hour — an emotion 
 which will die in the utterance. I think, therefore, 
 that I may reply as I would if we were discussing 
 any question which touched neither of us so deeply 
 that each w^ould feel it might be more conveniently 
 arofued in the other's absence. The situation is this : 
 you have met a woman who is young and pretty — 
 even unusually pretty — who you have every rea- 
 son to suppose is in circumstances of rather com- 
 mon unhappiness. She would be rich, but she is 
 poor; she would be distinguished, but she is not a 
 genius ; she would be a leader of fashion, but she is 
 not in the great world. As a man of experience, you 
 observe that she is hysterical, vain, light-minded, 
 but as a son of Adam you concede that her natural 
 charms atone in a considerable degree for these in- 
 tellectual defects. You feel a grinning compassion 
 for her little woes, and a wish to amuse yourself by 
 making her happy. And how is this to be done? 
 By writing her empty notes for the sake of hint- 
 ing at a tenderness — which you do not feel — over 
 the signature? By paying her occasional visits, fol-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 59 
 
 lowing her with your eyes when )^ou meet, sighing 
 when you part, and forgetting her entirely when she 
 is not in sight. By disturbing her daily occupation 
 with dinners, excursions up the river, suppers here, 
 and opera-boxes there, by exposing her to the re- 
 marks of the too numerous who live by devouring 
 reputations, and to the attentions of men who see no 
 reason why others should fail where, as they will 
 suppose, you have succeeded — to men who are either 
 too wise to love her, or too mean to marry poverty. 
 Women must either be loved or left. Leave her 
 alone ! You cannot be merely kind to her ; she may 
 grow to care for you, and, in your attempt to make 
 her happier, you will give her pain, humiliation, 
 misery. 
 
 " And if she did grow to care for me," said 
 
 Warre, " do you think I should be such " he 
 
 stopped short and flushed — less at the thought that 
 his friend could suspect his intentions, than at the 
 knowledge that his own imagination — if not his will 
 — had brooded over unutterable possibilities. 
 
 " She attracts you, but you do not love her," said 
 Wickenham, stubbornly, " and, if she loved you, it 
 would make you wretched. You want a bourgeois 
 devotion expressed in the s[)irit of Dante. For 
 God's sake, leave her alone ! " 
 
 " How do you know," said Warre, " that 1 liavc 
 not some thought of asking her to marry me ? A
 
 f^ THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 man must settle, and so long as a woman is pretty, 
 good-humoured, and refined, what more should he 
 want? There is nothing more," he added, in a tone 
 of defiance. " Say what you will, there is nothing 
 more. The rest that one hears is the stuff that 
 dreams are made of — the language of ungratified de- 
 sire. Men and women who lead natural lives have 
 very little to offer about ideals of love. When I was 
 very young I read the poets, and I am afraid I shall 
 never weed their damnable poetry out of my mind. 
 But it is all wrong, all a mistake — profoundly un- 
 healthy. It makes one a weak fool — maudlin — a 
 seeker after strange stars and new moons. I have 
 imagined heroic passions which you and I would 
 laugh at in a sick girl. Yet I know that these or- 
 dinary love affairs fill one with self-contempt — they 
 are a weakness, a degradation of the spirit. I am 
 wretched, however, if there is not a woman in 
 sight. I always hope that she may be the creature 
 I can worship. I have even seen one or two I could 
 have loved for ever if they had only held their 
 tongues. But there is always so much treachery — 
 so much artifice, so much selfishness — there are 
 always such little meannesses, so many lies. Wh}' is 
 it, I wonder, that there is no abiding pleasure to be 
 found merely in the senses? Why do perishable 
 creatures, like men and women, have such a long- 
 ing for something eternal — something in which the
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 6l 
 
 senses have no share ? Passion is so rich in protes- 
 tations and so frail a bond." 
 
 " I don't think that many of us are troubled by 
 fancies of this kind," replied Wickenham. " The 
 great thing- in life is to be in earnest — say what you 
 mean, not what you think you ought to say, and 
 strive for the thing you want — not for the thing 
 which the philosophy of the moment has made fash- 
 ionable, or the emotion of a day has made a little 
 tempting. There is very little poetry in me, but if I 
 had an ideal like yours I should either stick to it or 
 drop it altogether. If you consider it impossible 
 you are a fool to give it a second thought, and if it 
 is possible you are a coward if you accept anything 
 less." 
 
 " Miss Delaware is a woman whom any man 
 would admire," said Warre. " She — she is most at- 
 tractive." 
 
 " I admire her extrcjnely," said Wickenham, " but 
 then 1 am a Pagan ; my goddesses are always very 
 human. I offer them sympathy rather than re- 
 spect ! "
 
 52 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A LITTLE LOVE; A LITTLE SCIENCE. 
 
 When Anne entered Warre's study that evening, 
 she found him standing directly under the light, read- 
 ing — or pretending to read — a book. She noticed that 
 he was unusually pale — that he looked very grave. 
 After the man-servant had closed the door and left 
 them alone, she hung her head like a guilty child and 
 said very humbly : " It is so good of you to see 
 me ! " Warre had resolved to capture, in the coming 
 interview, every impulse and every thought which 
 strayed from the domain of pure and dispassionate 
 friendship. Yet even as he heard the rustle of her 
 silk skirts and the light fall of her feet, his heart 
 began to beat with a force too strong for his will — 
 with an agitation beyond the control of philosophy. 
 Why should there always be this humiliating struggle 
 between the flesh and the spirit? Why should he 
 be attracted against his wish by a woman whom 
 he did not love? when his whole mind was fixed on 
 another? He looked at Anne and almost hated her
 
 AND LORD WICKEXHAM. 63 
 
 extravagant prettiness, her ostentatious femininity. 
 His conversation with Wickenham had roused a 
 passion of remembrance — the remembrance of sweet, 
 unearthly moments passed with AUegra — of all the 
 romantic and chivalrous ideals he had formed of a 
 wife — the dearest, truest, purest man ever wor- 
 shipped — of a love fresh as the blue fields of heaven, 
 and rich with the fairest blessings of life. What was 
 Anne to him ? Nothing. Had she been an angel 
 from Paradise he did not want her. He pitied her, 
 had a certain affection for her, but his mood of some 
 hours before had passed away, even as Wickenham 
 had warned him. All that remained was a tumult of 
 sensation, unspeakable, disquieting ; nature is not so 
 easy a companion as false sentiment. 
 
 Anne seated herself by the table, and, placing her 
 elbows there, rested her chin between her hands. 
 The tears which she had shed that afternoon had 
 only given her countenance the brilliant mistiness of 
 an April shower, and her bright eyes shone through 
 it like two suns. Behind her and on each side rose 
 the long lines of book-shelves filled with ponderous 
 and sombre volumes, whose gilt lettering, sometimes 
 caught by the light from the pendant lamp, glittered 
 with wise names. The velvet curtains were drawn 
 across the window, a screen of Japanese embroidery 
 concealed the door, the room seemed to hang some- 
 where out of the universe; not a sound from llic
 
 64 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 outer Street reached either of its two inmates ; all 
 was still. 
 
 *' I am not going to cry," said Anne. " I will be 
 very quiet and will not waste too much of your time. 
 This afternoon I was distressed and over-tired, and 
 was not myself. People always say that they were 
 not themselves when they have done anything par- 
 ticularly foolish ! You told me that the first time I 
 met you — when we were talking at dinner. I cannot 
 think what makes you so kind to me. No one has 
 ever been so kind before. I have no friends. I am 
 only a woman who sings to the mob." 
 
 He was touched. He had seen enough of her 
 home life to feel that there might be some truth in 
 her words. Her character, he thought, was like an 
 artificial arrangement of natural flowers — the roses 
 wired, the stems composed of sticks, the whole tied 
 up with ribbon. The emotions she displayed and 
 the stories she told were genuine in part, but ribbon, 
 stick, and wire were the ruling elements. 
 
 " And 3' et," she continued, in a low voice, " and 
 yet there is someone who wishes to — to help me — 
 if I could only make up my mind that it would not 
 be dishonourable to accept his kindness." 
 
 " Dishonourable ? " asked Warre, lifting his eye- 
 brows. 
 
 " You see," she said, artlessly, "you see, I do not 
 care for him." She looked at Simon as she spoke
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 65 
 
 and a wave of colour swept over her cheeks. " It 
 would be terrible," she added ; " yet this life kills 
 me. I cannot sing always, and I can only be young 
 a little while longer. It is a choice between 
 unhappiness in comfort and unhappiness in pov- 
 erty." 
 
 " I suppose you mean," said Warre, slowly, " that 
 you have had an offer of marriage from a man you 
 do not love." 
 
 Anne dropped her eyes in acquiescence. 
 
 " Would it be impossible for you to care for 
 him?" 
 
 The girl smiled bitterly, and made two attempts 
 to speak before she answered. Shame and despair 
 cast their shadows on her face ; she held out her 
 two hands with an appealing gesture, as though she 
 were endeavouring to repulse a force beyond her 
 strength. 
 
 " He is a man like Algernon Dane ! " she said at 
 last. 
 
 " Good God I " exclaimed Warre. 
 
 " How dare you look at me like that?" she cried, 
 passionately. ** You do not know what it is to be 
 poor." 
 
 " Would you sell yourself?" 
 
 The question was brutal, and her gentle, sorrow- 
 ful reply filled him witii remorse. " I tliii)k ho h^vcs 
 me," she murmured; "and where there is love it
 
 (36 THE CODS, SOME MORTALS. 
 
 seems to be a woman's part to yield, sooner or later, 
 and to regret." 
 
 ** To regret ? " 
 
 "Some of us are so weak," she explained, hur- 
 riedly, " and we cannot afford to despise affection. 
 Men always say, ' 1 love you — give me your world.' 
 And then the woman gives her world — and then — 
 he puts it out of her reach for ever. Cannot you 
 imagine a girl who has never cared for anyone be- 
 ing touched at last by devotion, and thinking that 
 if love is on one side, at least it is enough for happi- 
 ness? And then — to meet someone else who seems 
 
 so different from all the others I forget what 
 
 I was going to say. But if you tell me to break off 
 — with this other — friend — I will do so." 
 
 " You are very inexperienced," said Warre — 
 "too inexperienced to marryi You must wait a 
 little." 
 
 " But men are so impatient." 
 
 Something in her tone — in the expression which 
 flitted over her countenance as she spoke — produced 
 an effect in his mind which was not altogether curi- 
 osity, not altogether suspicion, yet a sentiment curi- 
 ously akin to both. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he asked. 
 
 " If a man wants to marry a girl like me — poor, 
 like me, and, like me, a professional singer — he is so 
 exceptional that he ought not to be kept waiting for
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. ^-j 
 
 an answer." Anne had changed her position, and 
 now sat with her hands clasped in her lap, her head 
 thrown back with an air of defiance, of contempt. 
 
 " What do you mean?" he asked again. 
 
 " I never expected any man to ask me to marry 
 him," she replied, turning pale ; " only rich girls are 
 loved. Love is too dear for me. That is why I am 
 so grateful — oh, so grateful — for your kindness." 
 Her voice trembled, and as she looked at Warre he 
 saw the unmistakable light of true affection shine 
 through her tears. She cared for him ; it was a 
 woman's way — sweet, absurd, unsought, unreason- 
 able. He did not deserve it. Should he accept the 
 gift, or, since he had so little to offer in return, 
 would it not be more honest to seem harsh, un- 
 knowing, and unkind ? Had she ever looked so 
 pretty ? It should not be a hard task to like — even 
 considerably — so bewitching a woman. She did not 
 ask the intense love he bore for Allegra, and which 
 Allegra valued so lightly. And a man needed more 
 in his life than a possession which he could never 
 call his own — a passion which could only spend 
 itself in sighing. Yet as he remembered Allegra, 
 in order to decide how best and most wisely he 
 could forget her, a vision of her face came before 
 him, and, heart-sick, he looked away from the 
 woman at his side. 
 
 "I have not been kind," he said, hunicdly; "1
 
 68 TIIK GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 have not done anything to deserve your gratitude, 
 and I am not sure that I can even give you advice 
 worth following, or advice, at any rate, which any 
 other man could not give equally well, and would 
 not give quite as willingly. You make me feel 
 wretched when you thank me for a service which 
 costs me nothing — which is, in fact, no service at all, 
 but a mere formal politeness." 
 
 At that moment his servant entered with the let- 
 ters which had arrived by the last post, and Warre 
 was thankful for the interruption. While the man 
 was present he glanced at Anne more easily, and 
 smiled at her with frank friendship ; but no sooner 
 had he left them than the old embarrassment re- 
 turned, a stifling oppression was in the atmosphere. 
 Anne said nothing ; he could only hear her delicate, 
 quick breathing, which reminded him of a child 
 asleep. The air seemed to have caught the vibra- 
 tion of her heart. 
 
 He turned over the letters ; one bore the Roman 
 postmark and AUegra's prim little handwriting. 
 
 "Will you excuse me?" he said, unsteadily. 
 " This is the only one which is important. I can 
 look at the others later," and walked away. Anne 
 could not see him ; he pressed the envelope to his 
 lips, covered it with kisses, broke the seal. And it 
 contained six lines of formal thanks for a rosary of 
 pearls he had sent her for a birthday gift. He was
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 6q 
 
 most kind. She remained sincerel}- his, Allegra Ven- 
 dramini. 
 
 He burst out laughing, crumpled the letter in his 
 hand, and flung it into the grate. " Dear little girl," 
 he said to Anne, " who would not be kind to you ? 
 You have a heart." He stooped, kissed her once, 
 kissed her again, saying to himself, " I do not love 
 you in the least," but owning that her cheeks were 
 pleasant. 
 
 " Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
 Take the good the gods provide thee ! " 
 
 Hateful couplet ! Sound philosophy ! " Anne, do 
 you like me a little ? " he cried. " I believe you do. 
 How sweet you are ! Give up that other brute and 
 marry me. I can give you everything ! I will take 
 care of you ! You shall never again have a wish, a 
 whim, one delightful, foolish, womanly desire un- 
 gratified. Isn't life splendid? Isn't it a gift? Isn't 
 it glorious? O, tell me again you care for me ! " 
 
 She seized his hand and kissed it passionately. 
 " I love you ! Oh ! I love you ! " she repeated. " I 
 cannot tell you why, but I do." All her nature was 
 in the cry. The love she felt was not that of a 
 woman who had thought much, who cither be- 
 stowed, or demanded, or understood a great passion, 
 but it was graceful, winning, and full of that caress- 
 ing, rather animal, tenderness which, until it i)alls, 
 is so seductive. The truth is always sobering, and
 
 -Q THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 the honesty of Anne's commonplace affection made 
 War re ashamed. 
 
 *' I will write to you to-morrow," he said ; " you 
 shall never regret having cared for me. Dear little 
 lady, ffood-nijrht ! " He fastened her mantle at the 
 throat, and with his arm round her waist led her to 
 the door. 
 
 " Good-night ! good-night ! Are you happy, dar- 
 ling, are you happy ? We must be married soon. 
 Will you be happy with me?" 
 
 " So happy," said Anne. 
 
 "And you like me ... a little ? " 
 
 She leaned her head against his breast and wept ; 
 clung to him, kissed him timidly. Who would not 
 be kind to her ? She had a heart . . . 
 
 He put her into a cab, and watched it roll away 
 into the night. She was going to Mrs. Dane's. 
 When he returned to the study his eyes fell on 
 AUegra's letter, which lay where he had tossed it, in 
 the grate. And he picked it up that he might have 
 the misery of hurling it from him once more. " That 
 is ended," he said. " Ended ! ended ! for ever end- 
 ed !" 
 
 As Anne drove away, she thought how comfort- 
 able Warre's house was, how agreeable it would be 
 to live there, and how much she loved him. She 
 did not consider him handsome ; his good looks 
 were of a type which she did not understand. She
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 71 
 
 liked something more conventional — more effective, in 
 fact. But he was very nice, and what lovely Persian 
 carpets ! What fine pictures on the staircase ! he 
 surely made a lot of money. And he was no doubt 
 generous. The servant looked contented. O, Simon 
 was charming ; she loved him dearly. She hoped 
 the drawing-room was large. All the interesting 
 people in London would come and see them. She 
 would have a great wedding, for, of course, he 
 meant to marry her. He had told her to break off 
 with the other brute. And the other was a brute. 
 She hated him. But he had given her some beauti- 
 ful presents. Would she be obliged to send them 
 back? 
 
 The Danes' mansion in Portland Place had been 
 furnished to resemble as closely as possible the dwell- 
 ings of the great, as they are shown on the stage of 
 fashionable theatres. This, however, was not Sarah's 
 ordering, but her husband's ; the poor lady suffered 
 in that upholstered Eden. She received Anne in her 
 boudoir — a room which had been arranged with un- 
 comfortable luxury in the falsely Oriental style, and 
 which formed the most inappropriate background 
 conceivable for the dowdy little woman who spent 
 her time there. Goldfish sported in an alabaster 
 fountain near the lattice window; a crystal lamp 
 hung over the low couch ; palm and bamboo trees, 
 tiger-skins and embroidered cushions, were scattered
 
 72 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 here and there with studied negligence; an ivory 
 statuette of the Diana of Bernini and a bad copy of 
 Botticelli's Virgin were placed, one on a gorgeous 
 pedestal of malachite and lapis lazuli, the other on 
 a richly-carved gilt easel. A painted screen con- 
 taining photographs of the Carrigrohane family 
 shielded Sarah from the draught; a fur footstool in 
 white fox kept her feet warm. An odour of musk 
 and cedar-wood filled the apartment. Mrs. Dane 
 was clothed in a tea-gown of slate-coloured cash- 
 mere, trimmed with quilted satin. She wore a white 
 lace frill sewn in the neck of this garment, and a 
 dreadful pearl brooch, in the shape of a true lovers' 
 knot, was fastened at her throat, pricking her chin 
 when she moved. It would never have entered her 
 head to pin the atrocious ornament a hair's-breadth 
 lower ; she had the martyr's instinct. She lifted her 
 tired eyes as Anne entered, gave her a cold, thin 
 hand, and motioned her to a seat near her own. She 
 was a little deaf. 
 
 Anne's senses were in that state of exaltation 
 which not only deprived her of the power of speech, 
 but of all desire to talk. Women of indolent and self- 
 ish nature are rarely communicative until they have 
 exhausted the joy of silent imagination, and even then 
 they tell very few of their intimate thoughts. Anne 
 sat down by her friend, threw back her head with a 
 sigh of infinite content, and waited to be entertained.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 73 
 
 What room, she wondered, in Warre's house could 
 serve as a boudoir? She would have it prettier than 
 Sarah's. She did not admire this so much as usual. 
 It did not seem so extraordinarily magnificent. 
 Other men besides Dane could afford to give their 
 wives beautiful things. 
 
 " You look much better than you did this after- 
 noon," said Sarah, suddenly. " I was quite anxious. 
 You need not have been so annoyed about that tire- 
 some Casmagni. I never care for Italians, and Al- 
 gernon hates music. We went to see you, dear, not 
 any one else. What did it matter to us whether 
 Casmagni came or not. You are too modest." 
 
 " Am I ? " said Anne, who was already thinking 
 how little she needed Casmagni now. She would 
 offer him a fee to sing at one of her later receptions : 
 their acquaintance in future should rest on a coldly 
 professional basis. She would remember every one 
 who had been kind to her when she was poor, but 
 most of all, those who had been unkind — who had 
 treated her as an inconsiderable person. 
 
 Sarah took up some knitting and made a few dull 
 remarks about her plans for the summer, the Duchess 
 of Wark's increasing grey hairs, the crush at Lady 
 Windegrave's. And what a pity it was that the 
 Maukin-Fawkcses had no family. Women with chil- 
 dren were the happiest. They had a larger store of 
 affection than men, and needed more creatures to
 
 74 THE GOX>S, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 love. A great many women died just from hoarding 
 devotion. 
 
 " I am the oldest creature I ever met," she said. 
 Anne made no reply, but stared back. Sarah sur- 
 veyed the radiant face before her, and sighed bit- 
 terly. " I have been cheated out of my youth," she 
 said. " Beauty is only given to few, but every one 
 that is born has at least the right to be young. I 
 never had a frolic in my life : I do not even know 
 the pleasure of giggling. When I hear girls giggle, 
 it makes me envious. Oh, it is too hard ! Why did 
 they make me marry ? I know that there were 
 eight of us at home, but I was not very much in the 
 way. I gave as little trouble as I could." The 
 work dropped from her fingers and rolled to the 
 ground. "I'm rather upset," she continued. "Al- 
 gernon told me at dinner — he dined at home this 
 evening as he has a headache, and feels too stupid to 
 go out — Algernon told me that Boteler is going to 
 divorce his wife. Poor woman ! " 
 
 '' \Y\\y poor woman?" said Anne, indignantly; 
 " Boteler gave her six hundred a year for her 
 dress, and although she hates the river, that was a 
 splendid steam-launch he had built for her birth- 
 day ! " 
 
 " He is a bad husband," replied Sarah, " and her 
 child died. I daresay her heart was broken before 
 she ran away with Drawne."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 75 
 
 " Women cannot always plead that they have 
 worthless husbands, or that their children are dead," 
 said Anne, who, with respectable prosperity before 
 her eyes, felt an intolerance of sin and sinners which 
 she had never known before. " Some women are 
 merely vain and some merely vicious, and some . . . 
 merely desperate." 
 
 " I daresay," said Sarah, " but I am sorry for 
 them nevertheless. Oh, so sorry for them. Men do 
 not care for a dull, plain little woman like me, so I 
 have never been tempted. But if I were, I have no 
 reason to think that I should be any stronger than 
 the rest." 
 
 " Were you never in love ? " asked Anne. 
 
 " Oh, yes, but that was long ago. He was poor, 
 and I knew that if he married at all he would have 
 to choose a woman with money. You see it was 
 hopeless from the beginning : so he told mc he loved 
 me, and I told him I loved him, and we kissed each 
 other good-bye. That was all that happened. It is 
 a very short story to tell, but it's my whole life, 
 Anne. All the rest is merely time — time — just 
 hours, weeks, and months. We won't talk of that : 
 I have something else to say — I want to ask you a 
 question." 
 
 "A question?" said Anne, with a look of ter- 
 ror. 
 
 " I want vou to tell mc your secret."
 
 ^6 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 The girl grew white ; when she spoke her voice 
 was trembling. "My secret? 1 have no secret, 
 Mrs. Dane." 
 
 " But it is written in your eyes. Ah, don't be 
 frio-htened. 1 am the only one who can read 
 them." 
 
 " What do you see there ? " 
 
 "A lover ! " said Sarah. "Ah ! you cannot deny 
 it. Why have you tried to deceive me ? I knew it 
 all from the first. He betrayed himself. You were 
 more demure." 
 
 Anne stood up ; she was shivering, ghastly. She 
 seemed enveloped in a white flame which burnt and 
 burnt without destroying, only leaving her power- 
 less to move or utter a cry. What did Sarah 
 know? What would she do ? Her heart ceased to 
 beat ; the ground seemed to rock under her feet ; 
 the room floated before her eyes like a stifling 
 vapour. 
 
 " If you must say it, say it quickly," she mur- 
 mured. " I am not a coward." 
 
 " You are desperately in love with him, and have 
 not the courage to own it." 
 
 " My God, no ! " cried Anne. " No ! No ! That 
 is the worst of it. I hate him ! I hate him ! That 
 is the worst of it. Be merciful ! " 
 
 " To-day you touched his glove when it was 
 lying on the table," said Sarah. " That did not look
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 77 
 
 like hatred. Here it is ; I stole it for you. What 
 would my husband say if he knew I had Dr. Warre's 
 glove next my heart ! " 
 
 " Warres glove ! " exclaimed Anne, the colour 
 rushing back into her cheeks. " Warres glove. You 
 meant Warred She laughed, and laughed, and 
 laughed ; threw herself on the sofa laughing. 
 " Warres glove ! Warre's glove ! " 
 
 " Own that I was right and you shall have 
 it." 
 
 " Give it to me ! " 
 
 Sarah was laughing now with real childish merri- 
 ment. What fun it was to tease Anne ! She was so 
 emotional. It was as good as a play. " Own that 
 you have fallen in love with him and you shall have 
 
 it ! " she said. " Own " Neither of them heard 
 
 Algernon Dane enter the room. lie came forward 
 with his curious mincing step, looking from one to 
 the other in astonishment. 
 
 " How merry wc are ! " he said, with his unpleas- 
 ant smile. 
 
 " We arc playing a game, that is all," said his 
 wife, still tittering. 
 
 " What game ? " he asked. 
 
 " Thought-reading," answered Anne, who had 
 grown very quiet. 
 
 "And I scared her," snid Sarah, gaily. "Don't 
 you think she must have some terrible secret ? Ah !
 
 78 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 1 shall soon get so wise that you will all turn pale 
 when you hear me coming." 
 
 Algernon forced a laugh and left them. It was 
 known that he had a contempt for the society of 
 virtuous women.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 79 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A SOLILOQUY DURING THE SMALL HOURS. 
 
 Warre slept little that night. He would close 
 his eyes for a few moments and lose himself in form- 
 less regions, listening to a far-off language which 
 seemed an echo of words he had forgotten ; but it 
 was only to wake again in a world of cutting dis- 
 tinctness, and to hear thoughts he understood too 
 well. A feverish longing to be at peace possessed 
 his spirit. Work seemed to absorb all that was 
 steady, immutable, and sane in his nature ; he could 
 only be sure of his judgment in matters connected 
 with his profession. He knew that his mind was not 
 well balanced : in one scale there was a force and 
 weight which sometimes astonished himself; in Ihc 
 other, a feather-light heap of impulses, whims, and 
 follies, of resisted temptations, of despised opinions 
 — the refuse of a character. What did it :ill rmaii ? 
 Brain fag? The damnable poetry he had read in his 
 youth? An undisciplined imagination? A romantic 
 temperament? The desire for something more than
 
 80 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 creature comforts and animal satisfaction? Why 
 could he not be happy? Why this torturing dis- 
 quietude, these moods of self-contempt, this remorse 
 for sins he had never committed, this despairing 
 grief for a loss he had never suffered, this ceaseless 
 watching for a joy which never came, this weary 
 search for a treasure which could not be found, this 
 longing for things he could not define ? And it had 
 always been so; neither gratified ambition, nor 
 money, nor amusements, could please him long; his 
 affection for Wickenham was the only abiding senti- 
 ment in his life. It was certainly a constant — if not 
 intoxicating — pleasure to think of Wickenham ; to 
 admire his sturdy, unassailable convictions ; his 
 honest Pagan heart. Yet even Wickenham was not 
 a happy man ; he never complained, never whined, 
 never showed discontent; but he lived under the 
 restraint of a strange, unaccountable sadness. What 
 did it mean ? Did Wickenham, too, have an ideal ? 
 
 Warre roused himself from these vain specula- 
 tions by laughing aloud at the foolishness of two 
 able-bodied young men, like himself and his friend, 
 growing sentimental, making themselves wretched 
 because the gifts of life were not the gifts of a Heav- 
 en which no mortal had ever inhabited. He took 
 courage, and faced the thought of Anne and the let- 
 ter he must write to her on the morrow. She was 
 very pretty— adorably pretty. She was fond of him.
 
 AND LORD WICKEXHAM. 3i 
 
 How difficult to grant this, and not feel himself a 
 coxcomb! How charming she was! How lucky 
 any man was to win even a little of her affection. 
 What a brute, what a poor stick he would be not to 
 thrill with gratitude for such a gift. God forbid 
 that he should underestimate Anne's sweetness. He 
 did not deserve it; but henceforth it would be his 
 task to prove himself a shade less unworthy. Love 
 was too rare a thing to be lightly valued. There 
 was no gainsaying that beautiful expression in her 
 eyes. He was at last dear to someone ; someone 
 loved him purel}^ simply, childishly. He was tired 
 of passionate amours. That was why he had 
 thought so seriously of marriage lately. That was 
 why he had so nearly lost his head about . . . that 
 little girl ... in Rome. The recollection of Allcgra 
 plucked like a hand at his heart. He might sneer 
 at his weakness, but the truly excellent can never 
 satiate — never lose its sway over the affections of 
 men and women. Warre could not persuade him- 
 self that the feeling which drew him towards AUegra 
 was but a sentimental sensuality — a mood born of that 
 craving for an amorous adventure which steals over 
 the strongest and wisest with an intensity exactly 
 commensurate with their strength and wisdom. 
 But she was the embodiment of all the romantic 
 dreams of his boyhood and youth : the being he had 
 sought in every heroine, the Beatrice, the Iranccsca,
 
 $2 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 the Lady Hamilton, the Juliet, the Mary of his imag- 
 ination. She had taught him that his fancy did not 
 lie. The woman he had conjured up from the deli- 
 cious mist and vague of chivalrous tales, religious 
 fancies, heroic lives, and immemorial legends really 
 lived. The poets and lovers of history had written 
 no falsehoods, cherished no vain illusions. Was it 
 not something — nay, everything — to have learnt 
 this? And if he might never look on Allegra again, 
 never again hear the music of her voice, never feel 
 the innocent witchery of her eyes, the inspiration of 
 her presence, he had at least once seen her, once 
 spoken w'ith her face to face, loved her then, and now 
 loved her for all time. 
 
 But Anne? 
 
 Should he mope for the unattainable, and spend 
 his days in melancholy solitude? This would be 
 neither manly nor Dantesque. He would marry — 
 not to find forgetfulness, but that remembrance 
 might be less bitter. . . . Anne was plainly a domes- 
 tic woman : one who would take an absorbing con- 
 cern in her home, her husband, her children, dinner- 
 giving, the management of servants, the paying and 
 receiving of afternoon calls. She had all the sound 
 feminine instincts. Heaven be praised ! she was not 
 artistic. The dust of Bohemianism she had gained 
 from her brief pilgrimage in the musical world could 
 be brushed off in. a day. And she looked like a prin-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 83 
 
 cess in a fairy tale. What a jewel he had found, to 
 be sure ! She was a good little creature, too. In 
 passing an ivory crucifix which he had bought in 
 Rome, she, not knowing that he could see her, had 
 kissed it devoutly. A wife should be, above all 
 things, religious. He would love her for her piety. 
 It was amazing that she had kept either her faith or 
 her innocence in that miserable boarding-house, in 
 the pitiable struggle for a small success, with that 
 whining, self-deceived mother. And who was the 
 man like Algernon Dane? Could it be a relative of 
 Dane's? Dane's manner with Anne was certainly 
 rather offensive . . . there was a nameless . . . 
 
 The night was long. If there had only been 
 Anne to think of, how soon he could have fallen 
 asleep. She touched his interest so lightly. It was 
 not easy to put her out of his mind, because it re- 
 quired such an effort of will to keep her there. 
 Choosing a wife was a business, a labour, a disheart- 
 ening task. He had made his choice. He would 
 marry Anne, and leave the rest to the gods. Once a 
 husband, he would try to convince himself that cease- 
 less yawning was the fit and peaceful occupation of a 
 satisfied soul ; he would make friends again with his 
 books, try to spin his life out of the old dull threads 
 . . . and work. 
 
 Work! 
 
 And alas! he was so tired of W(;rk. Oh, to es-
 
 84 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 cape for one enchanted moment into that undiscov- 
 ered country whose sapphire rivers flow through 
 gardens of oleander and idleness, and where the wil- 
 lows sigh in the scent-laden winds ; where the acacia 
 spreads her delicate lace against an azure sky ; where 
 lii2:ht is the betrothal of the moon's silver and the 
 sun's gold. There to lie on the flower-sweet grass 
 and watch the deathless nymphs dance a perpetual 
 youth to countless time in robes of ever-varying hue, 
 to music of ever-changing harmony, to the murmur 
 of insects and the song of the nightingale ; to drive 
 white oxen down the long avenues of ilex, or wander 
 through vineyards where the air would be sleepy 
 like wine and the fragrance heavy with oblivion. 
 O undiscovered country ! Why is it so easily im- 
 agined ? Why would it be so impossible to live 
 there — and be happy ? 
 
 Morning came, and with it an awakening to 
 things real, to the blessed necessity of striving with 
 other minds than one, of considering other problems 
 than those egoistic. 
 
 " Thank God," cried Warre, " there is my work ! 
 That is the one abiding solace ! But, Allegra, if you 
 had only cared for me ... a little ! "
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 85 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CONTRITION IN THE ROBUST. 
 
 When Anne arose that same day, it was some 
 hours later, and after a night of untroubled repose. 
 Her little room was on the attic-floor, and through 
 the one small window, which was cut high near the 
 sloping ceiling, she could see the black roofs of 
 the neighbouring houses, their chimneys spouting 
 smoke, and the sky. Here and there the spire of a 
 church thrust its point into the horizon, and, far 
 away to the left, there was a mews where every tiny 
 casement over each stable door had its ledge packed 
 with pots of geranium, creeping Jenny, and blossom- 
 less rose-trees. Sometimes a coachman's wife would 
 appear above them, calling to her man below, or to 
 her children playing in the yard ; one could hear 
 voices, laughter, swearing, cries, the clatter of feet 
 on the stone-paving, and the trample of horses, their 
 neighing, and the crack of whips. One woman sang ; 
 her clear, fresh notes had the tone of the country and 
 the woods and the birds. But her songs were all
 
 86 'IIIK GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 about " booce," and two lovely black eyes, and the pal 
 who had had a bit of money left him. . . . Anne's 
 iron bed was covered with a patchwork quilt made 
 from cotton stufTs cut out in clumsy diamonds; a 
 square of faded matting was spread in the centre of 
 the floor, the boards around were bare. A zinc bath, 
 a pier-glass, and a wash-hand-stand of painted deal 
 formed the sole furniture. The girl used to open 
 her eyes each morning, survey the meagre scene with 
 disgust, and say : " How long ? " To-day she awoke 
 smiling. Poor little room ! She would be almost 
 sorry to leave it. If Simon came to see her that 
 day, it would not be until the afternoon. If he 
 wrote, she could not receive the letter for some 
 hours. How could she kill the time? Ordinarily, 
 she would have sung her scales, read the newspaper, 
 and walked in the Row. But she would save the 
 Row for the morrow, when Warre could accompany 
 her. What fun it would be to see amazement on all 
 the faces she was so heartily sick of — and yet feared ! 
 In the meantime, however, why not go to church? 
 It would be a nice thing to tell Simon when he came 
 or when she answered his letter. ''Darling,'" she 
 would say, " wlum I was in church this mornittg, I could 
 not keep my thoughts front wanderitig to you. I hope 
 this was not wicked?" Besides, it would please God. 
 He had been very kind to her, after all, and . . . she 
 had not been . . . devout . . . lately.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. Sy 
 
 During the service — and being a week-day it was 
 short — she applied herself with diligence to every 
 prayer, with her eyes fixed in an ecstasy on the 
 altar, her hands clasped in fervour. She had never 
 felt so happy, nor so eager to do right, to excel in 
 all the virtues. She was deeply sorry for all her 
 transgressions; her life in the future would be dif- 
 ferent. She asked for strength to keep her pious 
 resolutions, prayed very amiably for such blessings 
 as might be £-ood for Simon and her parents, and got 
 up from her knees in that condition of bodily peace 
 and serenity which is more often the portion of a 
 healthy sinner than a penitent soul. 
 
 Algernon Dane was standing in the porch. 
 
 " What in the world is this new fancy ? " said he, 
 " all this mewing and praying ? I saw you leave the 
 house and I followed you here. , But what does it 
 mean? What does it amount to? For goodness 
 sake give it up. It is so depressing . . . your look is 
 enough to freeze one. Religion does not suit you. 
 I have been watching you for the last half-hour, and 
 I never saw such a performance in my life. A dying 
 duck ! " 
 
 Anne walked silently beside him until they 
 reached a corner of the street, when, evidently fol- 
 lowing a habit, they turned into a dismal road lined 
 with leafless trees, and houses with gardens of dead 
 evergreens.
 
 88 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 " You always sneer at me," said the girl, " when I 
 try to get above my mud-heap. But 1 have done 
 with you. You and I can have nothing more to say 
 to each other. Now let me go." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " asked Dane. " Who is 
 going to pay your bills? " 
 
 A woman who could have so gross an insult of- 
 fered her, even by such a man as Dane, would not 
 be the woman to feel it. Anne accepted it with 
 serenity. " I have changed," she said. 
 
 " You are in love with Warre ! " shouted Dane. 
 "Do you think 1 have been fooled for one instant? 
 I know you too well, my girl ! Warre's girl ! Any 
 man's girl?" 
 
 " You are very rude and very unkind." 
 
 "You deserve it," he said, "although I do not 
 wish to abuse you. But I am not a saint, and when 
 I see you with these righteous airs it is more than I 
 can stand. You are no better than I am — not a whit 
 better." 
 
 "That is the worst of it," she replied. "But I 
 see that I have been wrong. I feel it. You do not 
 see your dishonour?" 
 
 " Oh yes, I do," he said. " I know a lot of peo- 
 ple who would call me a blackguard." 
 
 " Why don't you try and lead a better life ? " 
 
 " I will, if I can find some pretty woman to say 
 prayers with me. I know the sort of hypocrisy —
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 89 
 
 talking over the six deadly sins and looking a 
 seventh. Bah ! Women like you always reform 
 when there is a rich husband in sight. They begin 
 to long for the peaceful joys of domesticity. I re- 
 spect these penitents who leave one man because he 
 is a sinner, to deceive another because he is a vSaint. 
 Oh, Anne, I know you so well ! " 
 
 He looked at her as he spoke, and studied, in an 
 agony of admiration, her delicate profile, the fresh 
 and child-like lips, the arched eyebrows and glisten- 
 ing hair. She was tall, with divine shoulders ; there 
 was an elegant defiance in her gait. He knew of no 
 marble goddess so imposing, so beautiful, so allur- 
 ing. And he had been a great traveller ; had seen a 
 lot of women . . . purchased many works of art. 
 
 "Come," he said, hoarsely, "make it up. I would 
 have bought you that tiara long ago, but I was afraid 
 all the old cats would talk. They will forgive a few 
 smart dresses, but they won't stand diamonds. They 
 would say it wasn't all done by singing. I was only 
 thinking of your reputation ; I never see any harm 
 in anything . . . what were we born for? It's so 
 natural to love a pretty woman. I'm prepared to go 
 to any length. . . . I'll settle something handsome on 
 Sarah ; give her the Portland Place house for life, 
 and take you abroad. I will make any sacrifice to 
 please you. I did not know that you were so keen 
 on the tiara. You cannot say that I have ever denied
 
 go THE t;ODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 you anything. Come back into the church and talk 
 things over. It is beginning to rain. Where's the 
 umbrella I gave you last week? I knew you would 
 like that handle . . . tortoiseshcU and emeralds. I 
 have been kind to you, haven't I ? Three or four 
 women have been making up to me lately — titled 
 women, too, but I have put them off." 
 
 They entered the church. One old man was pray- 
 ing in a remote corner ; otherwise it was empty. 
 The greyness, the cold, and the silence were horrible 
 to Dane. 
 
 " There's only one way to go to church," he said, 
 " and that's in a coffin. I wish it would stop raining. 
 It's warmer outside." 
 
 Anne, as though she had not heard him and was 
 even unaware of his presence^ knelt down. Where 
 had she learnt this composure.'* Her face was as 
 calm as a medallion of the Virgin which decorated a 
 memorial-tablet on the wall over her head. She 
 seemed in a stupor of happiness. 
 
 " Say something ! " exclaimed Dane. 
 
 " I have nothing to sa}'. And I cannot listen to 
 you here. You forget where we are." 
 
 " No, I don't. I have kissed you by that pillar 
 many times." 
 
 " I have changed," she repeated, and read her 
 Prayer-Book. An amethyst bracelet, which Dane 
 had given her in the first days of their acquaintance,
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 91 
 
 dropped from her wrist. He picked it up and put it 
 into his own pocket. 
 
 " That's mine ! " he said. 
 
 Anne showed no surprise, felt none. She was no 
 critic in matters of conduct, and was as incapable of 
 despising a meanness as she was of appreciating a 
 chivalrous sentiment. She coloured with annoy- 
 ance, however, that Dane had been, as it were, too 
 clever for her. But he laughed aloud himself, and, 
 as she was good-humoured, the corner of her mouth 
 trembled a little in sympathy. The strongest link 
 between them was a common desire for gain, for 
 making a shrewd bargain, for getting more, if pos- 
 sible, than one's money's worth out of life. Theirs 
 was the Gospel of Give and Take. Anne threw 
 Dane a glance which was a compound of congratu- 
 lation and envv. Now, he thought, they were be- 
 ginning to understand each other once more. She 
 would soon come round. There was nothing like 
 letting a woman know that one had a certain amount 
 of proper pride, of self-respect ; that one would not 
 be treated like a dog. And yet . . . that implacable 
 rose-leaf countenance. And tliat eternal praying, 
 lie touched her arm, and grew faint, sick, death- 
 like at the mere contact. 
 
 " If you want to flirt with Warre," he murmured, 
 getting hoarse, " I won't be unreasonable about it. 
 I won't ask any questions ... he isn't worth a quar-
 
 t)2 THE GODS. SOME MORTALS, 
 
 rel. But he won't be generous . . . he's too 
 young and good-looking ... he thinks that gen- 
 erosity isn't necessary. He doesn't understand 
 women." 
 
 " He has asked me to marry him," said Anne, 
 stung into defending her market value. 
 
 He looked incredulous, derisive. " I believe 
 that," he observed, drily. Why did she always in- 
 vent such silly lies? 
 
 " If I were going to tell a lot of beastly false- 
 hoods," he said, " I swear I wouldn't do it in church 
 and over a Prayer-Book. That is going a little too 
 far, even for me. And I'm not a Pharisee. Of 
 course, girls always want to make out that some- 
 body is dying to marry them. That's an old trick 
 ... it only deceives boys. . As if a fellow like 
 Warre would choose you for his wife, my dear. I 
 wouldn't do that myself, and I am very fond of you ! " 
 
 "What is there against me?" she asked. His 
 face was convulsed with a terrible smirk ; he 
 dropped his eyes discreetly. 
 
 " I have told him all about you," said Anne. 
 
 Dane sprang to his feet, livid with fear, with 
 rage, with disappointed passion. " What ! " he said, 
 " what? You have betrayed me?" 
 
 " I managed it very well," replied Anne. " I did 
 not mention names. I am much too fond of poor 
 Sarah to do anything of that kind."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 93 
 
 " You are a very wicked woman," said Dane, 
 whimpering with relief, " and you can go to the 
 devil. I don't want you. Go, for God's sake, go ! " 
 
 Anne stood up. Lifting her skirt from the dust, 
 she tripped delicately past him — without a glance 
 . . . without a gesture, and out of the church. 
 
 " Go ! " repeated Dane, but in a weaker voice. 
 With a vacant stare, he watched the swinging door 
 through which she had vanished, and which still 
 trembled on its hinges . . . wailing . . . creaking. 
 He summoned up his strength for a cry which she 
 could not hear, and shouted again : 
 
 " Go, for God's sake ! " 
 
 Then, on tip-toe, he stole into another aisle where 
 there was an old-fashioned pew with curtains. And 
 there he hid himself to weep . . . and curse.
 
 94 
 
 THE GODS. SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MORTAL HAPPINESS. 
 
 After those ashen hours before dawn, and until 
 the instant when Warre ascended the staircase which 
 led to the drawing-room in Southwick Terrace, he 
 had not suffered himself to think again of Anne or of 
 what he should say when they met. Was it because 
 he would have found no pleasure in the anticipation ? 
 The unknown prospect lay before his mind, like the 
 scene, which, on entering a theatre, one knows must 
 shortly be discovered by the curtain. And now that 
 the appointed time was come for the uplifting of that 
 veil, he felt an indifference so terrible, that, when the 
 servant opened the door, and he saw Anne standing 
 by the piano, her face pale with emotion and its 
 pallor intensified by the scarlet dress she wore, he 
 seemed to be looking at a stranger. 
 
 "Is it you?" she said, and came towards him 
 with both hands held out — a pretty, begging gesture 
 instinctive and unstudied — symbolic of much that 
 was to come in their two lives. Self-confidence had
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 95 
 
 given her prettiness a more severe character . . . 
 the arrogant calm which is sometimes mistaken for 
 moral grandeur. She possessed that profane beauty 
 which entrances every sense and afflicts the soul 
 with a dream-troubled sleep out of which it tries to 
 wake, and may not ; from the lethargy of which it 
 tries to rouse and remember . . . warnings once 
 heard . . . resolves once taken . . . and cannot. 
 Warre took her white hands and looked, without 
 speaking, into her unreadable blue eyes. 
 
 " Is it you ? " she repeated again. 
 
 " I suppose so," he said, with an ironical smile. 
 It was that brief moment of self-condemnation which 
 makes the first second and the last of every foolish 
 hour. And the period which passes between those 
 two throbs of time may not be the sixty minutes of 
 human counting, but a whole youth — a manhood. 
 Anne wore a bunch of heliotrope in her belt, and its 
 perfume drenched the commonplace room with a 
 languid, cloying sweetness. Sunlight and dust 
 streamed in through the open windows, and, now 
 near and now far away, the ponderous, incessant 
 rumble of wheels on the Uxbridge Road gave a 
 deeper tone to the hum which is never absent from 
 the noisy air of a great city. They were repairing 
 the pavement and the street below, and the sharp 
 kiss of hammer and stone, of pick-axe and ground, 
 made a sort of barbarous music — a clash, a clang, a
 
 ^6 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 cry — a cry, a clang, a crash, wailiiii^, monotonous — fit, 
 inharmonious tune of those who would mend 
 and patch an earth so impatient under men's la- 
 bour. 
 
 " What are you thinking of ? " asked Anne. " You 
 said you would write but I hoped you would come — 
 I hoped you would wish to see me. I wanted to see 
 you. . . . What are you thinking of?" 
 
 " Am I thinking," he replied. ** I feel as though 
 I had forgotten everything." 
 
 " Ah ! " she exclaimed, with womanly delight, 
 " do you love me so much as that? " 
 
 He made no answer, but took her in his arms and 
 kissed the question from her lips. " Never ask me," 
 he said, at last, " never ask me whether I care for 
 you. I am not a man who — s.a3'S a great deal." He 
 walked away to the sofa, and Anne seated herself at 
 his feet, with her head against his knees. 
 
 " We must be the happiest people in the world," 
 she murmured. " I can hardly believe that this is all 
 true . . . that it is really happening . . . that we 
 have met and loved each other, and are going to be 
 married . . . going to be together always . . . that 
 we are to be everything to each other . . . every- 
 thing. It is a miracle, it frightens me. O, I never 
 thought that life could be so wonderful. I have 
 never loved anyone before ... it is all so new to 
 me, but you . . . you are a man . . . you are older
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. q^j 
 
 than I am . . . you have had more time. . . . There 
 must have been several." 
 
 " There was one," said Warre, " there was one I 
 loved very much. But it was not like this . . . not 
 like my affection for you . . . something quite dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 " Did she die?" asked Anne, " or was she a mar- 
 ried woman ? These flirtations with married women 
 never make men happy. I have often heard that. I 
 wonder why people begin them ! " 
 
 " She is not dead and she is not married," said 
 Warre, " but I am not likely to see her again — at least 
 for some years ! " 
 
 " We need not talk about her any longer," said 
 Anne, with a pang of sudden, inexplicable jealousy ; 
 " she doesn't matter. The afternoon is going. Tell 
 me why you love me ? Tell me what first made you 
 care for me? Did you think I was pretty? " 
 
 " V^ery pretty, dear," he said, "very pretty." And 
 he turned away from the intense glance of her eyes, 
 for they wearied him. She drew nearer and spoke 
 in a softer voice. 
 
 " We are both young," she whispered, "and we 
 have a long, long life before us. Years and years. 
 And we shall be so happy. You will tell me all 
 your thoughts and I will tell you mine. We shall 
 live for each other. What are you thinking of now? 
 You seem to be always thinking. And you look
 
 qs the gods, some mortals, 
 
 over there. Look at me. Don't you like my dress? 
 I could not wear anything dark to-day, although I 
 know men admire black dresses. But I only wanted 
 to see bright things — I wanted to think of summer. 
 The house is sombre enough : even with you by my 
 side it is hard to be cheerful here. And I was so 
 anxious to look nice ... to please you. . . . Clouds 
 soon come. No one is happy long. There is always 
 something." 
 
 Warre had only heard her indistinctly : it seemed 
 a vague lament in the distance. The woman he had 
 wished to make glad was already complaining, al- 
 ready uttering bitter words, already drooping in dis- 
 content and disappointment. 
 
 " But you are lovely," he exclaimed, "your dress 
 is charming ! When Dante first saw Beatrice she 
 wore scarlet." And he remembered his meeting 
 with Allegra in the great desolate salon of the Pa- 
 lazzo Vendramini : that long, strange, wondering look 
 into each other's eyes : the blush on Allegra's face ; 
 then that speechless separation which now seemed 
 irrevocable because only one had known its grief.: 
 only one had felt despair — that tearless, white de- 
 spair which falls on the shoulders like a mantle of 
 stone — for ever cold, never more to be thrown aside. 
 It fell so lightly at first, almost like snow ... or did 
 it stun, and for that reason seem nothing till con- 
 sciousness returned ? And now . . . tliis. Perfume
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. go 
 
 of heliotrope, rustle of scarlet silk, the point of a 
 little slipper worked in beads : dust and sunlight 
 pouring in at the window (O, how suggestive of 
 life !), hideous chintz on the walls : that clash, that 
 clang, that cry of pick-axe, hammer, and stone, and 
 Anne, young, fragrant, living, heavenly beautiful, 
 speaking words of human love! If she would only 
 promise not to question, not to think or wonder. 
 What should it matter to her what was passing in 
 his soul ! He would give her his name, his home, his 
 worldly possessions : he would save her from labour 
 and sorrow, care for her always, but his thoughts 
 were his own, his memories his own, his regrets — 
 his dreams, his own ! 
 
 " Dear," he said, " if I ever seem silent, or cold, 
 or melancholy, you must try to forgive it. A man 
 with a profession has many things to make him 
 troubled, to make him anxious — which sympathy 
 cannot lessen, and which, in any case, will not bear 
 defining. They are mists that fall on the mind — 
 mists." 
 
 "But why have you got this mood to-day?" 
 cried Anne. She stood up, hurt, and frowning. 
 "Why have you got this mood to-day?" she re- 
 peated ; " is it my fault ? " 
 
 " It is my own accursed disposition," he said. 
 " Come ! help me to forget it." 
 
 The girl sat down by his side and put her arms
 
 lOO THE cons, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 round him with that protective, ahnost maternal 
 tenderness which is seldom entirely absent from the 
 love even of the coldest women. Anne had much 
 passion of the calculating and deliberate kind, but 
 very little affection, very little generosity, very little 
 sweetness in her nature. What she possessed, how- 
 ever, she gave to Warre. He was rich, he was 
 good-looking, he was clever, he was kind ; she be- 
 lieved he admired her to frenzy ; that he was des- 
 perately in love with her. Sometimes she had found 
 herself wondering whether she would not have liked 
 him almost as well if he had been quite poor ... a 
 mere clerk in the City. He could have tempted her 
 to enter into a foolish marriage . . . she would have 
 regretted it bitterly, but for a time . . . possibly for 
 a whole year ... it might have seemed worth many 
 sacrifices. He was not an ordinary man ... he was 
 not so suspicious — he was much more easily de- 
 ceived. Yet not a fool ! She hated fools. They 
 were so cruel ... so spiteful. 
 
 "I love you!" she exclaimed. "I love you! 
 You are so good to me ! . . . I love you ! " 
 
 Where there was so much beauty, and so much 
 charm, and so much delicate abandon, who would 
 not feel a kindling of every lover-like emotion? 
 Anne's embrace gave Warre no happiness, no peace 
 of mind, but it was a certain pleasure . . . sensuous, 
 beguiling . . . something infinitely more agreeable,
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. loi 
 
 for instance, than sitting alone in his study, longing 
 vainly for the sight of a face, which, after all, had 
 never smiled more than a pale friendliness at him. 
 Anne caught his hand, covered it with passionate 
 kisses. "And now," she said, " let us talk about our- 
 selves. And about the wedding, and the people we 
 must invite to it. Will Lord Wickenham lend us his 
 place at Weyborough for the honeymoon?" 
 
 He laughed a little, and deluded himself by try- 
 ing to feel that they were contemplating a future 
 which would never dawn, discussing events which 
 by no possibility could ever come to pass. This 
 was a fantastic comedy— a thing of no significance, 
 and which could not last. With this false belief to 
 still his reason, he was able to display an enthusiasm 
 which delighted the young girl. What power she 
 had over him ! How she could charm away his 
 moods! They invented imaginary interviews be- 
 tween this friend and that on the subject of the mar- 
 riage : how one would sneer, and another croak, and 
 a third — merely out of contrariety — applaud. What 
 fun it would be ! What endless fun ! 
 
 " Great fun ! " said Warre. 
 
 Then she grew serious. An instinct warned her 
 that he was not a man to encourage in any flippant 
 view of their betrothal. 
 
 "You know," she said, suddenly, "your offer and 
 your love mean more to mc than an engagement ring.
 
 I02 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 To every woman the prospect of a home is most al- 
 hiring, but to one who has had to fight with poverty 
 . . . who has suffered. O, Simon, if anything should 
 come between us. Think what it would mean. To 
 have known happiness, to have had it within one's 
 grasp, and then to go back again to the old tempta- 
 tions . . . the old privations and humiliations ... I 
 could not! I could not! Oh, never disappoint me! 
 When I once lose faith in men, 1 shall lose faith in 
 God, for they are his witnesses ! " 
 
 To what degree was this strange being sincere? 
 From the depth of her transient emotions she would 
 sometimes utter the sentiments of no common mind, 
 no simply animal heart, no merely airy soul. Warre 
 that day believed in her utterly, and at no time could 
 he ever bring himself to regard, her as an incorrigible 
 impostor. She had a nature of strong impulses, a 
 defective education in weak principles, and that ex- 
 citable temperament which needs every bodily satis- 
 faction to keep it sane. In the absence of material 
 aids there is only one intellectual gift which can save 
 either men or women of this type from complete 
 degradation, and that is a desire for romance^ for re- 
 finement, for the poetic. And Anne was a stranger 
 to this purifying influence. She had that appalling 
 brutality of mental constitution which is more often 
 found in creatures of delicate appearance and great 
 nervous force than in those whose even health and
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 103 
 
 robust air are the effect — less than the cause — of their 
 tranquil spirit. Culture may do much, but nothing 
 can alter the quality of one's moral fibre ; if it be 
 coarse, it must remain coarse, and although it may 
 be spun into silk, it will be silk of harsh grain — un- 
 yielding, rough. Anne had no innate ideal of con- 
 duct to make her suffer when she fell beneath it ; she 
 lived by impulse — if a good one, it was well ; if a bad 
 one, it was well also. She only felt remorse when an 
 action turned to her disadvantage, or when some ad- 
 verse judgment from a looker-on wounded her self- 
 esteem. Vanity was all the conscience she possessed ; 
 and this, although Warre did not know it then, was 
 why it was so utterly impossible to love her, so hard 
 even to admit her beauty without a certain reluc- 
 tance, to even touch her without an inward shrinking 
 — a sort of shame. In vain he stifled this instinct, 
 and, although he thrust it aside, not so much as 
 guessing though never so dimly what it could mean, 
 it kept him irritable, dissatisfied, and wretched, even 
 when he told himself — as he did that afternoon — that 
 he was contented, far more contented, than he had 
 ever believed it possible to be. But he looked at her 
 fair, weak countenance, and what he lacked in love 
 he trebly gave in sympathy, in a nameless feeling 
 which he coulfl not analyse, but which he knew in 
 after years was mainly pity, partly an unwholesome 
 fascination. Anne was not born for civilization, for
 
 I04 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 the life of towns, for the restraints imposed by con- 
 siderations of religion, wealth, or custom ; but for 
 the free and heedless existence of those eternal mor- 
 tals who dwelt for a brief space in fabulous Eden. 
 There, among birds and flowers and fruit, with one 
 faithful and comely companion, without rivals to stir 
 her jealousy or friends to give her advice, she would 
 have passed transparent nights and radiant days ; 
 she would have loved the inconceivable Adam ; she 
 would have been blameless always. . . . 
 
 "How could I deceive you?" asked Warre. 
 "How could I willingly disappoint you?" He ad- 
 dressed the question to his own heart, but Anne an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Why do men ever deceive the women who 
 trust them?" she said, pressing her cheek against 
 his shoulder. " I want you to know the truth about 
 me. I have a temper and I am jealous. I have 
 flirted a little, too. Once I was almost engaged ; 
 but I have told you about that, and now you know 
 everything." 
 
 Warre laughed at this childish confession. What 
 simplicity ! What innocence ! 
 
 "Did I tell you," he said, "that I called at the 
 Bank this morning and saw your father? He was 
 somewhat surprised to see me." 
 
 " I hope he did not talk about settlements and 
 tedious things like that," said Anne.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 105 
 
 " It will be all right," replied Warre, " we agreed 
 splendidly." The interview had been a strange one. 
 The baronet had shown great astonishment at the 
 idea that any man should wish to marry his daugh- 
 ter. He pointed out with blunt kindness that he 
 himself could not give her a penny. She sometimes 
 earned a handsome fee for singing, and this she 
 spent in cab-fares and finery. 
 
 " Anne likes to gad," he said, "and although 1 do 
 not approve of so young a girl rushing about Lon- 
 don without her mother, what is one to do? I know 
 that my sisters were not brought up that way, but 
 they are dead — one was an old maid and the other 
 was obliged to divorce her husband. A sad case ! 
 Poor Minnie ! Besides, I must have some peace of 
 my life ; I cannot wear myself out giving advice 
 which is never followed, and which, after all, may 
 not be particularly good. Anne and her mother 
 have rows, but then women are only happy when 
 they are making each other miserable. If you 
 marry Anne, I daresay she will turn out as good 
 a wife as another. It's all a chance. Sometimes 
 the most unlikely matches turn out uncommonly 
 well. . . . Angels very often have a tongue with a 
 tang . . . you get one of these nagging wives. I 
 never heard Anne nag, but that is a habit which 
 comes. Perhaps if one took it in time. . . . But if 1 
 were a single man, I should not be in a hurry to settle."
 
 I06 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 These restless phrases seemed to drop from a 
 mind which was flying very far from the subject 
 under consideration. Warre saw that Sir Hugh 
 had long lost interest — if, indeed, he had ever felt 
 it — in his home affairs. From later remarks he 
 made, it was evident that what remained of human 
 enthusiasm in his vast frame was spent in petty 
 speculations on the Stock Exchange. ... It had 
 been a strange interview. 
 
 " I have not said a word to Mama," observed 
 Anne. " I am afraid she will be troublesome. She 
 has gone to spend the day at Ealing. But she 
 doesn't matter ! " 
 
 " Nothing matters," said Warre, " if you care for 
 me." 
 
 And so — when that visit ended and he walked 
 homewards — he laboured to convince himself. A 
 momentary calm had settled on his spirit. He could 
 think of Allegra with clear eyes and consider her 
 coldness with a less implacable resentment. Was it 
 worth his while to love so unresponsive a creature? 
 Was not distance investing her with that convenient 
 mist which alone makes it possible for any mortal to 
 imagine extraordinary virtues in another? They 
 were not friends in any accepted sense ; theirs had 
 been an intimacy of silence, not words ; they had 
 talked together very seldom. Was this because they 
 could always understand each other without speak-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 107 
 
 ing ? Because there was so subtle and close a bond 
 between them that speech was needless? And 
 whence came this sensation of their inseparability ? 
 Why, in spite of AUegra's manner, could he never 
 think of her as someone apart — someone wholly di- 
 vided from his life ? He was like a man who hesi- 
 tates between two religions — one, seeming good, 
 promising much, possessing to all appearance every 
 necessary, na}- — every covetable gift, and the other, 
 mute, veiled, mysterious, inscrutable, yet with' a 
 power to draw the soul which neither casuistry, nor 
 all the adverse evidence of the senses, nor accusa- 
 tions, nor mockery, nor scepticism can overcome. 
 
 '•If I could only be cynical once more," said 
 Warre, " only sneer with the rest, only laugh myself 
 out of this enervating sentimentality. It must be a 
 phase which wc all have to pass through sooner or 
 later. I low long does it last ? "
 
 I08 iliE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A WEDDING. 
 
 The foolish young man did not allow either his 
 relatives or friends an opportunity of opposing his 
 engagement, but was married to Anne privately and 
 by special licence just three weeks and a day from 
 the time of their first meeting. 
 
 The morning was dull, and the sky was like the 
 grey and lustreless marble of some underground 
 tomb dimmed by the moisture of centuries. Simon 
 drove to the church with Lord VVickenham, and 
 they did not exchange a remark till the bridegroom 
 discovered that he had forgotten his gloves. They 
 halted at a small shop on the way and bought a pair. 
 Warre found no difficulty in drawing them on : his 
 hands were cold, stark. 
 
 " They are a devilish bad cut," observed his lord- 
 ship. 
 
 " I must have told the fellow the wrong size," re- 
 plied Simon. 
 
 " I suppose you have the ring?"
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 109 
 
 " Yes," said Warre, " I have the ring." He 
 seemed to have been caught down into the world of 
 inanimate nature — into the state of vitality without 
 sense, without conscience, without pathos. He was 
 neither glad nor sorry, agitated nor calm. And yet 
 he glanced from time to time at his faithful friend, 
 and remembered with surprise — as if it were a privi- 
 lege long forgotten — that if he had been in trouble 
 Wickenham would have helped him to bear it. It 
 was just the look and the remembrance which a 
 spirit released from mortality would give to the one 
 he had loved during his days on earth, and who still 
 lived ; still thought this bodily frame a thing of con- 
 sequence, the joys of this world worth striving for, 
 its woe worth lamentation. Warre suspected, how- 
 ever, that Wickenham was distressed, and vaguely 
 wished he could speak, wished he could say some 
 word which — even though it could not bridge their 
 estrangement — would take away its pain, its wretched 
 mystery. O, to make him understand that he did 
 not care — that he did not feel ! 
 
 The carriage rolled on. Simon wondered 
 whether it was the sound of the wheels which over- 
 whelmed the murmuring in his brain. At intervals 
 a pang of consciousness, keen and agonising, shot 
 through the stupor. Formless, appalling, indescrib- 
 able presentiments of despair, regret, and anguish 
 beat their wings in the air, and uttered discordant
 
 IIO THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 cries, raind, unintelligible warnings. Could he de- 
 part from his promise? Could he play the coward? 
 Was it too late to turn back ? And Anne waiting, 
 perhaps — already waiting at the church — happy, ex- 
 pectant. What right had he to spoil even a day of 
 that fresh and innocent life because he had obeyed 
 a desperate impulse, and asked her to marry him ? 
 Was not all the gift, all the loss, all the venture on 
 her side? She loved him, too. It was a girl's love 
 — pure, spontaneous, hardly conscious of its rich- 
 ness, ignorant of its own passion. How little he 
 deserved it ! Did all bridegrooms suffer from panic 
 on their wedding morning ? He decided that he was 
 the base exception, and, much ashamed of a weak- 
 ness which he would not for kingdoms have be- 
 trayed to Wickenham, he maintained the stern, im- 
 perturbable countenance which men, under the stress 
 of emotion, assume in the presence of each other — 
 an assumption which rarely fails to convince the 
 male judgment, and which has never yet wholly de- 
 ceived a woman. 
 
 As they approached their destination, Warre 
 frowned. " I must get another coachman," he said. 
 " Walton is too hard on the horses. He drives them 
 at a frantic pace. Look at them now ! " 
 
 " I don't see much the matter with 'em ! " replied 
 Wickenham. 
 
 Sarah Dane was already in the church. She sat
 
 AND LORD WICKE.XHAM. m 
 
 near a young girl with black crape roses in her hat, 
 who had wandered into the building out of curiosity. 
 Two elderly men, who were fellow-clerks with Sir 
 Hugh at the Bank, were also present. When they 
 were not staring at the stained-glass windows within 
 their sight, which were designed in memory of two 
 Waterloo heroes and a Lord Mayor, they winked at 
 each other. Lady Delaware was alone in a corner, 
 wiping her eyes with a plain pocket-handkerchief, 
 whilst a finer one, edged with old point lace, reposed 
 on the ledge by her pra^-er-book, and under her red 
 glass scent-bottle. 
 
 Warre and his friend walked down the aisle, and 
 took their place at the choir rails, where, with their 
 gaze fixed on the door, they waited without impa- 
 tience or anxiety for the bride. 
 
 " Here she is ! " said Wickenham, quietly. 
 
 Warre could not look, but turned towards the 
 altar. The gold cross was bright ; the flowers in the 
 vases by its side seemed to be lilies. How could one 
 mount such shining steps, or walk on such a polished 
 floor? It was absurd. There was a church in Italy 
 where he harl always intended to be married, but it 
 was not at all like this. He remembered the day 
 when he saw it. Allcgra was with him — an orange 
 light fell on the ancient pillars till they glistened like 
 some frost-boimd forest of trees in a winter's sunset; 
 it was not at all like this. The organist played ten
 
 112 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 bars of the Wedding March, but Lady Delaware 
 bcsfircd him to cease, on account of her nerves. 
 
 When the ceremony was over, they all went 
 into the vestry. The elderly men made themselves 
 agreeable to the bride : Sarah Dane held her skirt 
 and wept. Lady Delaware showed by her expres- 
 sion that she considered Anne had thrown herself 
 away. Sir Hugh fell into a benedictory mood, and, 
 mistaking the Registrar for one of Warre's obscure 
 relatives, wished him a " God bless you ! " He was 
 greatly annoyed when he discovered his error. 
 Anne cried when she si<rned her maiden name for 
 the last time. 
 
 Simon did not see his wife until he found him- 
 self driving towards Portland Place with no Wick- 
 enham — but Anne — by his side. He wondered why 
 he had ever thought her pretty, and what they usu- 
 ally talked about when they were alone, but noth- 
 ing else passed through his mind. 
 
 Her hand stole into his. " I know ! " she said, 
 and smiled compassionately. " I know ! You are 
 nervous. Men hate these things."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 113 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 TWO MEN AND TWO WIVES. 
 
 Anne wore a gown of dove-coloured cloth, and 
 when she moved one caught glimpses of its white 
 satin lining. Her bonnet was made of lisse and 
 orange-blossoms, and it rested lightly on her golden 
 hair. No veil concealed her brilliantly pink cheeks. 
 
 " I really think," she said, "that Sarah might have 
 ordered a new dress for my wedding. But it is very 
 kind of her to give us a luncheon, because Algernon 
 Dane is dreadfully mean about anything small. He 
 will spend any amount of money on a big entertain- 
 ment, because they can write about it in the papers; 
 but when there are only one or two friends he gives 
 them the claret he bought for Sarah, and the sort of 
 cntrde which is made with lots of carrots and gravy. 
 I am looking forward to the dinners we shall give, 
 darling. We can get all the best men if we only 
 have good champagne, and pretty women, and all the 
 hot things — hot. What is more terrible than a hike- 
 warm joint? Algernon has no ncjtion (jI living.
 
 114 ''^^^ GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 Sarah said he did not come to the wedding because 
 he had a headache. He went for a ride in the Row 
 instead. Have you ever seen him on a horse ! He 
 looks like the last match left in a tray — the one 
 which won't burn." An ecstatic smile flitted over 
 her countenance. " Isn't it nice to think," she said, 
 " that we are at last married for better or worse, and 
 all that sort of thing? It is such a pretty idea, too, 
 and so sensible. I love the Prayer-book." 
 
 She was not prattling in her usual vein. She was 
 not a woman of the soubrette type, and she was too 
 grossly sentimental — too false in tone, as it were — to 
 play the agreeable Rattle. She rarely used slang : 
 she liked phrases long drawn out, the language of 
 the pulpit, and the romantic drama. 
 
 " I feel tired," she said to her husband, and 
 seemed to droop. " I am not so happy as I thought 
 I should be ! " 
 
 Tears sprang into her eyes. And yet Warre 
 could find nothing to say. 
 
 A few moments later the brougham stopped. 
 They had reached Dane's mansion in Portland Place. 
 There was a crowd at the door — a wondering, mut- 
 tering, ominously quiet crowd. What did it mean? 
 Anne seized Simon's arm. There were dark stains 
 on the pavement. 
 
 " Something is the matter," she cried. " I am 
 sure that something awful has happened."
 
 AND LORD WICKEXHAM. 
 
 115 
 
 There was a man standing near the carriage, and 
 he heard her words. " The gentleman was thrown 
 from his horse just as he was turning the corner," he 
 said. 
 
 Warre pushed him aside, and half carried Anne 
 into the house. She shook like one stricken with the 
 palsy: her face was ashen. "It is Algernon!" she 
 kept repeating. " It is Algernon ! I cannot believe 
 it. And on my wedding morning ! " 
 
 Algernon Dane lay on a rug in the hall. He was 
 quite still ; his eyes were closed : all his servants 
 stood around him in brute amazement, watching 
 with curious horror the blood which trickled from 
 his mouth and nostrils. The housekeeper, who had 
 been his mother's nurse, was wildly chafing his life- 
 less hands, sobbing out the pet names of his infancy, 
 kissing the wounds on his forehead. 
 
 " Take me away ! take me away ! " screamed 
 Anne. " Is he dead ? is he dead ? Take me away ! 
 Don't let me see him ! don't let me look at him ! 
 Take me away!" She rushed blindly from side to 
 side, and, in her impotent terror, beat the walls with 
 her outstretched arms. 
 
 " He will kill me," she screamed. " You don't un- 
 derstand. He will kill me. He will say that it was 
 all my fault. You do not know him as I do. Don't 
 let nic sc-c him ! " 
 
 IJut Warre did not hear her. The sigiit of the
 
 1 i6 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 injured man roused him from the trance which had 
 held his soul for so many days. The awakening was 
 so swift, so complete, so painful that it seemed like 
 the tearing away, by a strong hand, of some terrible 
 blight which had overgrown his brain. He remained 
 by Dane, who never recovered consciousness, and 
 who died at last in Sarah's arms. She supported 
 him tenderly and lost all recollection of his unkind- 
 ness, his brutality, his insulting neglect. She bowed 
 herself over his dead and mangled body, and wept 
 the bitterest tears of her sad life. She fancied it 
 might have been different ; that she had been to 
 blame ; that she had too often shown impatience. 
 She had judged him too harshly. She and the old 
 housekeeper clung to each other and murmured their 
 fond account of his many virtues. 
 
 Anne had been taken to one of the ante-rooms, 
 where, losing all courage, she threw herself on the 
 ground, rending her hair, tearing her cheeks, moan- 
 ing, wailing, crying. When Warre came she grew 
 more tranquil, her violence ceased. They left them 
 alone together. 
 
 " Look at me ! " she said, lifting her disfigured 
 face; "look at me! Take me once more! Kiss me 
 once more . . . and then ... I will tell you . . ." 
 
 She fell on his neck and sobbed. " Would you say 
 I was honest ; would you say I was good, pure, faith- 
 ful, all that even a bad man wishes a woman to be?"
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 117 
 
 " Dearest, how can you ask?" 
 
 Anne put her handkerchief to her mouth as 
 though she would wipe the words from her lips even 
 as she uttered them : " I was Dane's mistress. Dane 
 was my lover." 
 
 "Never!" said Warre. "I will never believe it. 
 You do not know what you are saying ! " 
 
 " For a whole year," said Anne, " for a whole 
 year . . . and for money. Money ! money ! money ! 
 that was all 1 wanted ! Money ! " 
 
 " Never ! " repeated Warre. " I say, this never 
 was. It is a lie ... a lie. It never was. You do 
 not know what you are saymg." 
 
 " I was Sarah's friend . . . she was very kind to 
 me ... I deceived her. And I have deceived you." 
 
 Warre grasped her wrist. " Anne," he said, 
 " this sounds too much like life. If it pleases you to 
 act these parts ... to make these hideous jokes 
 ... at such a time . . . keep them unsaid. This is 
 too much like life. I cannot bear it." 
 
 She looked at him stupidly, with eyes which did 
 not see. " It began," she said, " when I went to the 
 Riviera with them last March. He gave me a fifty- 
 pound note for my birthday, and told me not to tell 
 anyone . . . that only dishonourable women told 
 other women what men gave to them — what men 
 said to them. I did not want to be dishonourable 
 . . . and he was twenty years older than I ... he
 
 IlS inE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 knew the world so much better than I. ... I sup- 
 pose I was flattered ... he was so rich ... so 
 many women ran after him. He always laughed 
 when I said anything about trying to do right . . . 
 it is not nice to be laughed at. He told me I was 
 born for pleasure, not for edification. . . . And he 
 had so much common sense ! I did not think I 
 should ever get a husband. There did not seem to 
 be any man who was so rich that he could afford to 
 marry a poor girl ! I was so poor ... I saw 
 nothing ahead ... I did all he asked. He never 
 treated me badly. He was generous. He loved me 
 in his way ! I suppose I have been very wicked 
 . . . and yet ... I am the only one who must 
 suffer!" 
 
 Warre remained motionless. 
 
 " I have not injured anyone," she continued. 
 " Sarah did not love him. She would not grieve 
 very much if she knew — exxept on my account. She 
 would be disappointed in me . . . she is very fond 
 of me. ... As I said, Dane cared for me his way, 
 so I suppose I made him happy. As for me, I can 
 deal with myself. But you . . ." 
 
 " I, too," said Simon. " I, too, can deal with my- 
 self. You said you were the only one who must suf- 
 fer . . . the only one. You have not spoilt any life 
 but your own ! Think of that! " 
 
 She crept towards him on her knees, and, with
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. ng 
 
 tears streaming down her face, leant her head against 
 his arm. 
 
 "Forgive me!" she sobbed, "forgive me! If 
 you do not forgive me, I shall kill myself. I don't 
 deserve to live. Yet it was not my fault : he had a 
 bad influence over me. And I am not cold like you : 
 I am much more affectionate ... I am more easily 
 persuaded ! Do you want me to go away from you 
 for ever . . . never to see you again ? O, say any- 
 thing but that. You are my life — the very air I 
 breathe — I cannot live without you ! Since I have 
 known you I have changed. And I cannot live with- 
 out you ! I cannot live without you ! I love you ! 
 I love you ! Do not send me away. Let me be 
 your drudge, your servant, your slave, only let me 
 be near you I I will make you happy. Let me 
 try! give me one chance. O, Simon, it was his 
 fault. And I did not deceive you altogether: I 
 said there was a man — like Algernon Dane — who 
 wanted to marry me. Don't you remember? It 
 wasn't possible to tell the whole truth : I could not 
 betray him ! A great many girls would not have 
 been so candid. But I am naturally frank : I hate 
 falsehoods. I need not have told you a word. 
 But when I saw him dead ... I wanted you to 
 know . . . something made me speak. . . . ^'ou need 
 not be so hard on me. You yourself told nic that 
 you were once in love with some woman ... I
 
 IJO THE GODS. SOME MORTALS, 
 
 never reproached you. T don't suppose she was a 
 saint." 
 
 A terrible expression of anguish, of despair, came 
 into his face: she shrank away in fear. "I forbid 
 you," he said, " I forbid you to speak of her ! " 
 
 "Do you despise me?" asked Anne, crouching 
 lower at his feet. 
 
 He drew a long sigh. " Come ! " he said, at last. 
 " Come ! we must leave this house." 
 
 Anne watched him through her fingers. Was 
 she not suffering a great deal of agony and remorse 
 for nothing? He did not seem so angry. He did 
 not seem to mind. If she had made such a confes- 
 sion to Dane, he would have struck her, abused her 
 shamefully, called her vile names. Simon was rather 
 a fool. 
 
 " Say something kind to me," she whimpered. 
 " Say you forgive me! Kiss me." 
 
 " Come ! " said Warre, again. " Come ! we must 
 leave this house." 
 
 " I don't want to pass /itm . . . again ! " said 
 Anne. 
 
 She began to twist up her hair. Then she looked 
 in the glass. " I look awful ! " she exclaimed, and 
 began to sob in self-pity. 
 
 " Come ! " said Warre, again. 
 
 As they passed through the hall, they only saw 
 the scullery-maid on her knees by a pail of water —
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 121 
 
 only heard the swish of her scrubbing-brush on the 
 marble floor. Dane's body had been taken to his 
 bedroom. The little scullery-maid, with a white 
 face and strong red arms, never ceased from her 
 work, but continued the task of effacement. One of 
 the footmen, not observing Anne and Warre, called 
 to her from the staircase : 
 
 " Chemicals is the only thing for that job ! " 
 said he.
 
 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. . 
 
 DISILLUSION. 
 
 Warre and his wife were to have gone to Lord 
 Wickenham's villa at Wey borough to spend that 
 perfect week which Heaven is said to lend the 
 newly-married. But Simon, on leaving Portland 
 Place, ordered his coachman to drive back to Gros- 
 venor Street. Anne thought him inconsiderate of 
 her feelings. Surely she needed change of scene and 
 fresh air after the terrible hours she had spent that 
 day. 
 
 " I have always heard of the beautiful garden at 
 Weyborough," she said. " I should like to see the 
 famous apple orchard. I suppose you will go there 
 to-morrow ?" 
 
 " Why?" asked her husband. 
 
 " We must have a honeymoon," she replied. 
 "What would people say if we remained in London? 
 And Mamma would be indignant. She has all the 
 old-fashioned ideas of etiquette. To go straight to 
 Grosvenor Street ! You are not nice to me. I do
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 1 23 
 
 not want to be disagreeable, and I am sorry if you 
 are vexed ; but I must say that you are not nice to 
 me ! You have been very cold and very strange all 
 day. Everyone, I am sure, must have remarked it. 
 Your married manner is not kind ! " 
 
 It is only the cowardly and effeminate who are 
 harsh towards women, who speak lightly of them, 
 who affect a contempt for them, and treat them with 
 contumely. Warre was at least heroic in one re- 
 spect — he was, if anything, too lenient to the w^eak 
 and fair, nay, even to the weak no longer, and per- 
 haps, never fair. It was not in his nature to be 
 severe with women : theirs was the harder part in 
 the drama ; theirs, the greater suffering ; theirs, the 
 heaviest punishment ; theirs, the feebler frame. 
 Anne's reproach cut him to the soul. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said ; " God knows I do not 
 mean to be unkind." 
 
 She threw herself back in the brougham and gave 
 a sobbing sigh. She felt the satisfaction which comes 
 of having been surprised into generous conduct, and 
 she was even prepared to undergo a little sentimental 
 suffering for her act of Quixotry. After all, she had 
 confessed her fault; she had been foolishly honest ; 
 she had no secret now to conceal from Warre ; no 
 dread hung before her eyes. The future looked 
 comfortable; the dinner-parties and tiie interesting 
 people could still be thought of. She had never
 
 124 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 claimed to be sinless, but if — from a sense of honour 
 — she had concealed her intimacy with Sarah's hus- 
 band, on one point, at least, she had not deceived 
 Simon. She was — when the worst was said and the 
 worst was done — a beautiful woman. A glance at 
 the female occupants of every passing carriage was 
 more than enough to remind her of this saving grace. 
 No man in London had a prettier wife ! And then 
 she was a good companion ; she had superb health 
 and excellent spirits. Other girls could talk on more 
 intellectual subjects, but not one of those amusing 
 chatterboxes had her perfect mouth, her dazzling 
 teeth. Poor Algernon had been quick to appreciate 
 her charms. Poor Algernon ! He had enthusiasm, 
 he could admire beauty, he was intense. Simon 
 worked too hard to be anything but dull. He was a 
 dear, but dull ; good-looking in a way, but too much 
 like a stone Roman in a photograph of ruins ! Anne 
 chafed under Warre's indifference ; he was unnatural. 
 Why did he not ask a few sympathetic questions 
 about Dane ? He robbed confession of its legitimate 
 pleasure, its highest recompense — the delight of 
 stimulating curiosity and exciting interest — of ap- 
 pearing far more wonderful than any book. When an 
 unpleasant truth has once been admitted, it often be- 
 comes not only the easiest, but the most enticing topic 
 of conversation. Now that Warre knew the crude 
 facts of Anne's story, she longed to represent it in
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 125 
 
 picturesque language, with all the romantic machin- 
 ery of motives, remorse, and Divine intervention, 
 against a background of ashen poverty. The weak 
 mind is never weary of recounting its failures. An 
 indolent spirit, which has once been stirred to the 
 activity of transgressing in deed, is never too languid 
 to tell the history of its one lapse into the unhallowed 
 toil of human sin. 
 
 "How is poor Sarah?" asked Anne, timidly; 
 " was she terribly upset ? " 
 
 " She was very quiet," said Warre. 
 
 " Well," said Anne, " she is free at last ! She can 
 marry again, and, as she will have all Dane's money, 
 she ought to get a titled husband. I am sure she de- 
 serves one. God orders all things for the best. If 
 Algernon had lived he would only have grown more 
 desperate, have committed more sins, have heaped 
 upon himself a heavier load of iniquity, and a severer 
 punishment hereafter. It was a merciful death ! " 
 
 Warre listened in a dead wonder. 
 
 " He was an extraordinary man," she added, " but 
 he was deeply attached to mc Ins ivay. I tried to 
 have a good influence over him, and I certainly kept 
 him away from immoral women. Some of these 
 creatures in society are so unscrupulous! " 
 
 " Anne ! " Warre cried ; " Anne ! " 
 
 She studied him in surprise. VV^hy was he so dis- 
 tressed ? vShc could not understand him. And how 
 9
 
 126 i'HE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 ill he looked! How much better and more sensible 
 if he had made a tremendous scene on the spot ! 
 Was he going to sulk and brood and say " Aufie" in 
 that awful way — for ever? What a life ! How could 
 he expect her to care for him ? He was not the only 
 man in the world. 
 
 They crossed the threshold of their home in 
 silence. The bride complained that she was hungry, 
 adding that she thought she ought to force herself to 
 eat. Why be more ill than necessary ? O, she was 
 so depressed ! Simon ordered dinner to be served 
 at once, and showed Anne the room which he had 
 prepared as a surprise for her on their return from 
 the honeymoon. It was furnished in olive-wood and 
 old brocade : the style and decorations were in the 
 early Italian manner and of formal beauty. Anne 
 had the modern taste for the elaborate and meretri- 
 cious ; for that voluptuousness of environment, which 
 supplies in substance, what the enervated men and 
 women of this centurj' vainly strive to extract from 
 their fatigued senses. She felt chilled by the austere 
 luxury, but she saw at once that a large sum of 
 money had been spent. So she clapped her hands, 
 sat on all the chairs, looked long and happily in each 
 mirror, blushed smiles at the chaste Cupids on the 
 ceiling. 
 
 "And where does this lead?" she said, opening a 
 door. " Darling ! how dreary ! " Simon was at heart
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 127 
 
 ascetic. His bedroom was like a cell in a seminary ; 
 there was a small iron bedstead, a table, and a chair 
 of varnished deal. 
 
 " When I go to sleep and when I wake," he said, 
 " I like to see plain things." 
 
 " How funny you are ! " said Anne. She would 
 soon cure him of that affectation. 
 
 He went away alone to his study, entered it and 
 turned the key. For some moments he paced the 
 floor ; then he sat down at the table, with his face 
 buried between his arms, suffering that agony of 
 chagrin and disappointment which finds its earliest, 
 and perhaps least poignant, expression in something 
 which is more nearly physical than mental torment. 
 His eyes were parched, thirsty, burning for the tears 
 he could not shed ; the feverish hands he pressed to 
 his aching temples gave them no ease ; each breath 
 he drew was like a three-edged knife ; each sigh, a 
 stab. And with all this there was a sense of sufToca- 
 tion, of blindness, of a powerlessness to move, of an 
 infinite power to suffer. There was neither anger 
 nor the desire for vengeance in the passion which 
 convulsed him, but the feeling which is worse than 
 either, because it is more enduring and more 
 subtle, because when it has once entered into 
 a heart it leaves its poison there for ever — 
 the deep despair which is tiie counterfeit of resig- 
 nation.
 
 ,28 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 A voiceless cry beat on his silent lips like the lash 
 of a whip. 
 
 "Anne! Anne! why did you do this thing? Why 
 did you deceive me?" 
 
 The injustice of it all ! What wrong had he com- 
 mitted to merit so humiliating, so cruel a disillusion ? 
 He had worked hard and faithfully all his life ; the 
 home he was now able to afford had been gained by 
 many long and toilsome hours — toil, too, whilst others 
 around him, of his own rank, played and fooled and 
 trifled ; had as much — much more than he — and as a 
 matter of course, a birthright. Did he not work now 
 as hard? — yes. Harder than ever. Surely he de- 
 served a little happiness ; he did not ask for much, 
 nor did he hope for a long continuance of it, but he 
 was onl}' human. This new misery was beyond his 
 strength. He could not bear it; could not, could 
 not ! Every small and great grievance, which, from 
 his childhood to that latest day, had dismayed his 
 spirit, fell on him with all their accumulated rancour. 
 Pleasures are so much more difficult to remember 
 than woes, and, while hours of happiness are dearer 
 in their passage than in their recollection, hardship 
 and suffering are resented more fiercely when they 
 are overcome and outlived than at the time when the 
 very necessity for their endurance produces a certain 
 stupor. Simon felt again the pain of his frost-bitten 
 hands and feet during those weary tramps to and fro
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 129 
 
 West Kensington and the College ; he remembered 
 how he used to long for the warmth of the train, 
 because his mother would only have one fire, and 
 that in her own bedroom. He remembered the 
 black, bleak mornings when he rose at a quarter to 
 five, broke the ice in the tank for his bath, dressed in 
 the dark and sat, in a worn-out overcoat, writing 
 Greek prose by the light of one tallow candle and an 
 incomplete second-hand dictionary. He tasted again 
 his dinners of thin mutton and stewed rhubarb ; his 
 luncheons off railway milk and halfpenny buns. 
 Magnificent sustenance for an intellect doomed to 
 travail for some ten hours a day ! Would a brain so 
 nourished be turned by a little love — a few earthly 
 pleasures? It was hard I it was cruel ! it was unfair! 
 
 A boy in the street passed under the window, and 
 shouted, in strident tones, an obscene song. 
 
 "Here is the truth at last!" thought Simon. 
 " He has defined life and love in four filthy, un- 
 speakable lines ! " As a rule he prescribed drugs and 
 tonics for the cynical, merely to prove that a fore- 
 done soul is not to be exalted by quinine. But now 
 he was not in the vein to offer mocking compliments 
 to Materialism. There is a time when the possible 
 Immortal in us will be no longer denied, no longer 
 slighted, no longer called a stomach — to be calmed 
 with roots and extracts, nourished on meats and milk. 
 Warrc's heart was breaking.
 
 130 'I'HE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 It was not Anne's sin which he found so hard to 
 forgive : it was not for him to sit in judgment. But 
 why had she deceived him ? How could one who 
 had so sinned look so innocent, show such a childish 
 air, feign such an ignorance of evil ? O hypocrite ! 
 Had he not seen her at church, lost in angelic self- 
 forgetfulness, praying like some saint in a picture, 
 her hands joined with the prettiest precisiop, her 
 eyes mirroring the celestial light she lived by ? O 
 hypocrite! In his youth he had read deeply in the 
 Scriptures, in Sermons, in the Writings of the 
 Fathers: nowhere had he found such severity as 
 Anne's — such biting wrath against the ungodly and 
 unchaste. She could find no pardon for sins of the 
 Flesh. She had made him feel so miserably un- 
 worthy of her : he had so feared to contaminate that 
 virginal holiness. O hypocrite ! First among stone- 
 throwers ! She seemed to him hideous, repulsive ; 
 in his sight all her beauty had perished : she was 
 abominable. A woman w^ho could assume chastity 
 w'ith such convincing effect should have small diffi- 
 culty in its actual observance. Her conduct was in- 
 excusable; she sinned — not from frailty — but for 
 money. Had she not owned this? And yet — she 
 was very susceptible to kindness. Words she had 
 once used came back to him : " IV/iat Jiave I not done 
 for companionship ? " Perhaps the horrible compact 
 with Dane had been made from a false notion of
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 131 
 
 gratitude on her part : young, inexperienced women 
 — and sometimes those who were neither young nor 
 inexperienced — were often foolishly polite, and suf- 
 fered many scruples over the utterance of a negative. 
 They thought it uncivil to say " No " to a benefactor. 
 He knew of many such martyrs to delicacy. They 
 had amused him — as one is amused at the pranks, the 
 folly, the mischievous gambols of ridiculous pet ani- 
 mals : he could never treat their immorality seri- 
 ously ; they would frisk hereafter — small, black lambs 
 among the heavenly host. They had nothing in 
 common with the devil — they only suffered from an 
 incomplete soul. But now he had married one. 
 He did not find her so amusing, so artless, so innocu- 
 ous as he had always held other men's wives of the 
 same calibre to be. He saw Anne as he had met her 
 first at Lord Wickenham's dinner : restlessly beauti- 
 ful, eager for her dinner, eager for admiration: arti- 
 ficial in manner, singularl}'^ artless in so much that 
 she said. Then at the boarding-house — that dirty, 
 vulgar boarding-house — her peculiar manner with 
 Dane and the painful tears which drowned her exit: 
 the scene in the little conservatory — he still smelt the 
 damp mould round the dying plants, still saw the 
 faded paper of the Japanese lamps: still heard Anne's 
 passionate sobbing, her bitter lament. And then that 
 same evening, in this very room in which he now was, 
 all that had been said, all that he himself had thought.
 
 132 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 She had sat where he sat at present. With a gesture 
 of repugnance he stood up, pushed the chair far from 
 him, and walked to tlie window. 
 
 The day had changed since morning, and now at 
 sunset deep violet clouds, melting into grey and rose, 
 edged with amber and brightest gold, were blown, 
 like the petals of some strange fiower, across the 
 serene pale blue of the waning sky. It was a tran- 
 sient glory, and, even as Simon watched, the seeming 
 petals were lost in apparent flames which licked up 
 the horizon and consumed the sun, till by-and-by 
 that, too, smouldered under the gathering vague 
 and smoke of night. 
 
 " And this," thought Warre— " and this is like 
 our hope — our love. A flower — a fire, and, after 
 that, darkness ! " 
 
 The injustice of it all ! Was this anguish of 
 mind a blessing or a reprimand : a life sentence or 
 the stern discipline of a long but not unending day ? 
 It was his suspense, his uncertainty, it was his igno- 
 rance of the event which made the trial so weari- 
 some and of a bitterness so irremediable. If he 
 might only know why ? If he could only be sure 
 that it was not wanton cruelty, that he was not the 
 sport of winds, the plaything of the gods, the devil's 
 mouse. And yet how wildly he had scampered 
 through this great crisis of his life ; how wilfully he 
 had disregarded the warnings of his own reason, the
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 1 33 
 
 advice of his friend. How could he explain his own 
 conduct? He was a stranger to himself. He re- 
 membered the saying of St. Paul : 
 
 " For the good that I xvould I do not : hut the evil 
 which I ivould not, that I do. Now, if I do that I 
 would not, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwell- 
 eth in me. For I delight in the law of God.'" 
 
 Simon had heard many homilies on that fre- 
 quented theme, and, for the first time in his life, he 
 owned the benefit of listening patiently to a drowsy 
 sermon. The sober sense and profound philosophy 
 of the Church stuck fast. Warre had no dogmatic 
 religion, but he had an instinctive and natural piety, 
 which, though it did not show in his outward con- 
 duct or his ordinary conversation, nevertheless col- 
 oured his thoughts and gave even his most rebel- 
 lious moments that redeeming sweetness which 
 makes all the difference between a vicious man and a 
 man with many faults. He could not take refuge in 
 the comfortable doctrine which teaches that one 
 may be possessed of a demon for a night — or even 
 for a few years— and still be held irresponsible for 
 the fiend's vagaries. He sought for the ruling de- 
 sire among the crowd (A insurgent impulses which 
 had swayed his moral being for the past six weeks. 
 The admiration he had felt for Anne's beauty had 
 died into a mere frigid acknowledgment before they 
 had been engaged two days. He had never loved
 
 134 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 her; nor liad he ever pretended to a deeper feeling 
 than fondness. He had married her because he had 
 believed so implicitly in her essential goodness — her 
 piety — both of which she had kept in the midst of 
 temptation — without guardians, without love, with- 
 out encouragement. And he was not easily de- 
 ceived. He did not as a rule ask more of existence 
 than it could give, or demand more from the nature 
 of any other being than he found it was possible to 
 bestow out of his own. He was not easily deceived. 
 Once more and yet again he lived through every 
 episode, every moment of his acquaintance with 
 Anne. The wretched woman did not appear so false 
 as — seen through the first blinding hurricane of dis- 
 appointment — she had seemed. Cowardice and love 
 of ease had been her undoing ; hers was not the low 
 cunning of a born adventuress, nor had she the self- 
 control, the coldness, of an intentional traitor. She 
 acted and spoke from her heart ; unhappily, the 
 heart was corrupt. But surely her remorse at least 
 had been real, and the love she felt for himself was, 
 whether hysterical, inconsequent, selfish, evanescent, 
 or worthless, real. For that moment at any rate, he 
 was spared the pang of doubting the one poor gift 
 of her affection. He would not — dared not doubt it. 
 She cared for him, and he had married her. That 
 was not a base — not a wholly reprehensible motive. 
 Perhaps there should have been more genuine devo-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 135 
 
 tion on his own side. Ah, what was that other 
 thought which he had swept from the argument — 
 altogether out of the reckoning ? He had not been 
 true to himself — not true to AUegra. Away ! away ! 
 all sophistry, all talk of settling down, of finding a 
 convenient mother for one's unborn, but possible, 
 family. He had abandoned hope of Allegra very 
 soon: faint heart! His pride had been too easily 
 wounded, his vanity too great ; he had found it too 
 hard to wait and be patient. He had expected to 
 win a treasure for less than the asking — by a few 
 kind remarks and a present. O fool ! She was a 
 shy little girl, not versed in the arts of courtship. 
 He could remember — now it was too late — the many 
 pretty signs she had given of a friendliness more 
 than common. There is a tone of the voice, an un- 
 uttered and unutterable tenderness in the accent of 
 true love, which no art can simulate and no dis- 
 cretion disguise. There is a glance which, even un- 
 der the ice of an assumed indifference, or through 
 the fiery tempest of quick anger, still wears the star 
 of spring-time. There is a touch which is never so 
 swift, so rough, so timid, or so unconsidered, but it 
 manifests devotion. False affection may capture our 
 vanity, but it never deceives our instinct; we may 
 wish to be cared for, and, in the weakness of that 
 strong desire, accept the protestation wliicii our hap- 
 piness or our self-esteem would believe in ; but who
 
 136 IIIK GODS, SOxME MORTALS, 
 
 ever took, with perfect honesty, venal, assumed, or 
 base love for other than it was? Wickenham's 
 words came back to him ; the words of Wickenham, 
 the frank, unequivocal man of the world and the 
 flesh, the Pagan of our days. " If I had an ideal 
 like yours, I should either stick to it or drop it alto- 
 gether. If you consider it impossible, you are a fool 
 to give it a second thought, and if it is possible, you 
 are a coward if you accept anything less ! " He had 
 been a coward, had accepted the lesser thing. And 
 found it the lesser, indeed ! 
 
 His punishment was just! 
 
 " My God ! " cried the unhappy young man. " I 
 have accepted the laws of Nature and I have taught 
 the laws of science, but yours is the only law I love. 
 I have disobeyed it more than once. I have tried to 
 forget it often. I have been unfaithful, and I am al- 
 together a poor creature. But I worship what is 
 good, and I hate what is vile : I have found no pleas- 
 ure in disloyalty : I am wretched : my heart is like a 
 grave-stone : disappointment is the name of every 
 fulfilled desire. Oh, where is peace to be found ? 
 We sin because we wish to be happy ; the most dan- 
 gerous temptations are those which promise heavenly 
 happiness. I have ti'ied all things except obedience. 
 I am sorry ! I am sorry ! " 
 
 But if he could not escape the penalty of his 
 wrong-doing, the life-long infelicity, the undermin-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 137 
 
 ing regret, the trembling endurance of a long-con- 
 tinuing present, the fearful expectation of a tardy 
 future infinitely worse — promising nothing, threaten- 
 ing all things, save those to be prepared for and fore- 
 stalled — if he could not escape this, he was free at 
 least from the last shame, the one ineffaceable igno- 
 miny, the one irreparable disgrace. The woman who 
 had the right to bear his name should never be his 
 wife. He did not love her: one may love a sinner, 
 an unfortunate, even the reckless sensualist, but not 
 a hypocrite — not a being who could go to the altar 
 with a lie on her face, on her lips, in her heart : act- 
 ing the pure, young bride. Hypocrisy rises from a 
 frozen hell ; it blasts, it cuts our shivering charity : 
 it beats and pinches like quick-fingered sleet, it enters 
 with arrowy dart into our ice-boimd kindness. And 
 what was Anne's passion for him ? Was it to be so 
 much as named ? What union, then, was possible be- 
 tween them ? Where was the God who could bless 
 it? Where was the God who could call it a sacra- 
 ment? an indissoluble bond? 
 
 He knelt d(nvn by the window, and, although his 
 face was old from grief, there was that youth in his 
 expression which neither years nor sorrow can rust 
 or spoil. He wept, but without tears. 
 
 " AUcgra," he whispered, " 1 iiavc lost you beyond 
 the shadow of a hope of a possil)iHty. But you arc 
 mine and I am yours : you arc my beloved and my
 
 138 1 HK GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 wife ! The life divides us now, and some day death 
 must take one of us away : but I will always love 
 you, although I may never tell you so — although you 
 can never know how dearly. And I will be faithful. 
 I will not be faithless. Oh, my beloved, I will not 
 be faithless ! " 
 
 Was that a knock at the door? He listened. It 
 was like an audible shivering of the wood ; the tap 
 of a woman's light fingers — fingers skilled in playing 
 a musical instrument. 
 
 " I am here," said Simon. 
 
 " But you have locked the door," replied Anne. 
 
 He turned back the key. 
 
 She entered, bearing his small reading-lamp in 
 one hand and holding up her train of heavy white 
 satin with the other. The efTect was theatrical, and 
 she had intended it to be so ; the green shade gave 
 an unearthly tint to her face, lent it the tender melan- 
 choly she was not only too tired then — but unable at 
 any time — to feel. But she had rare bodily beauty ; 
 rare perfection of form and colouring ; she was the 
 King's daughter among fair women; her feet should 
 have been clothed with the stars ; her raiment woven 
 from the rainbow ; a diadem of suns would not have 
 been too splendid for her golden hair. Simon owned 
 this. 
 
 She placed the lamp on the table. " I would not 
 let the man bring it," she said, " I want to wait on
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 139 
 
 you myself. I almost wish you had no servants." 
 Three of his unnecessary domestics, however, had 
 assisted at her toilette. She had thought it wise to 
 let them know at once that she was accustomed to 
 every attention ; that they would have to look well 
 to their business. Her gown was cut low, her neck 
 and bodice glittered with wedding-presents, one of 
 them, a diamond cross given by Lord Wickenham ; 
 the other, an emerald moon, given by Dane. Warre's 
 eye fell on the trinket at once. 
 
 " Take that off! " he said, sternly. 
 
 Anne coloured, and held her hand over the orna- 
 ment with a protective gesture. 
 
 " It was from Sarah as well," she faltered : " it 
 was from both of them. I can shew you the card if 
 you don't believe me ! " 
 
 " Take it off! " repeated Simon. 
 
 " But it is sewn on," she said, " it is stitched to 
 my dress. I never trust pins." 
 
 Warre took out his penknife. " What are you 
 going to do ? " cried Anne. " You will cut the lace ! 
 You will hurt me ! " 
 
 " You kn(^w I will not hurt you," he said, 
 quietly. 
 
 lie drew her towards the lamp, as though she 
 had been a child, and, with a lii^lit touch, severed 
 each minute thread which houiul the brooch to 
 her garment. She stirred impatiently, in the hope
 
 l^O 1IIE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 that he would either prick her or cut the satin ; 
 but his composure was marvellous, his dexterity 
 supreme. In less than two seconds — although it 
 seemed to Anne much longer — he had disattached 
 the bauble moon and thrown it, with cold contempt, 
 out of the window, 
 
 " Don't cry ! " he said. " I will give you some- 
 thing else." 
 
 " Every time I see Sarah she will wonder why I 
 do not wear it. How awkward it will be ! But 
 when you buy the new one let me choose it myself. 
 I am sick of emeralds : I should like a black pearl." 
 Her good humour was restored : she would rather 
 have had the emeralds as well as the pearls, but it 
 was not a bad bargain. !She put one hand on each 
 of his shoulders and studied his haggard face with 
 unfeigned concern. It would not take much worry, 
 she thought, to make him a really plain man: he was 
 always striking, distinguished, classic, but she did 
 not want to see him lined and seamed by despairful 
 meditation : that sort of thing did not attract her. 
 And she honestly did not wish to fall in love with 
 anyone else : as Dane had so often and so wisely 
 said, why chop and change ? 
 
 " Darling," she said, with all the solicitude of a 
 devoted wife, " my poor darling ! You look tired to 
 death. You need your dinner. And I am afraid 
 you do not drink Burgundy ! I must take care of
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 141 
 
 you, precious I " She rubbed her soft cheeks against 
 his ; pressed languid kisses near his lips : she thought 
 his coldness arose from fatigue, from exhaustion, and 
 forgave it readily. Had she not partaken of wine 
 and sweet cake and grapes, she, too, might have felt 
 despondent . . . she, too, would have been irrespon- 
 sive. The only affection she understood was that 
 which rested on a tangible foundation : she liked 
 the emphatic sanity of an after-dinner passion : there 
 was one code of morals for Anne hungry, and an- 
 other code for Anne well-fed : the scruples of Anne 
 tired were not the scruples of Anne after a good 
 night's rest. She had sympathy for Simon. Ilcr 
 fond murmuring continued. 
 
 "Poor, little, disagreeable pet!" She pinched 
 his ears, she stroked his nose, she kissed his chin. 
 Warre's sense of humour was the only sense she 
 stirred, but the laugh he stifled was not merry — it 
 was like the grin which sometimes lives on the face 
 of the dead who died in torment, bravely. He 
 feared to meet her eyes lest she should see 
 his extreme loathing of her caress and of her pres- 
 ence. 
 
 The ordeal of his relationship with Anne and its 
 temptation was not the conflict between her allure- 
 ment and his will, but that much more difficult en- 
 counter between a sensibility without strings, and, a 
 
 sensibility too highly strung: between a being of 
 10
 
 1^2 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 smiles and cries, and, a being of iron and blood and 
 tears. 
 
 " Anne," he said, " I was not prepared to hear 
 what you told me this afternoon ! " 
 
 " Oh ! that^' she murmured, and was at a loss for 
 words. 
 
 " I will never refer to it," he said, hurriedly : " it 
 shall be a sealed subject between us, but I cannot 
 forget it in a moment. Nothing can ever be the 
 same to me again." 
 
 Anne flowered into a rosy pout, and, catching his 
 coat-sleeve, pulled it softly to and fro : 
 
 " I said I was sorry ! I said I was sorry ! I said 
 I was sorry ! " she repeated with each gentle move- 
 ment. " I said I was sorry ! But you love me, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 Warre hesitated — not because he lacked an 
 answer — but because he was so reluctant to wound 
 even her vanity. 
 
 " You love me, don't you ? " she asked again, 
 never doubting. 
 
 The sternness of his reply did not betray the pain 
 he suffered in its utterance. 
 
 " No," he said, at last, " No I I do not love you." 
 
 Anne showed the incredulous air of some merci- 
 ful goddess with a petulant but devoted worshipper, 
 and made a mock effort to conceal an indulgent 
 smile.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 143 
 
 She dropped her eyelids; drew his arm more 
 closely to her side. 
 
 " You vmst be very tired," she said. 
 
 It seemed to Warre that Anne's face had caught 
 the infection of Dane's look ; her girlish countenance 
 bore the impress of his vice, like an obscene image 
 printed on delicate wax. The air about her was an 
 impure incense, heavy with the same noisomely 
 sweet scent of civet which he had noticed about the 
 head and clothing of Algernon Dane. 
 
 " What is the matter .'* " cried Anne. 
 
 Simon drew back, and his gaze was fixed on the 
 little sharp knife which glittered. He made two 
 attempts to speak, but could find no voice ; then 
 he picked up the knife, and slowly — as though 
 it were the task prescribed him for eternity — 
 closed it. 
 
 " Can't you see," he said, under his breath, " that 
 if you do not leave me alone — if you do not go away 
 — I shall kill you I And it will seem so right, so 
 just. You are so evil a woman ! " 
 
 He did not speak in any ecstasy of hatred. He 
 was a man who had been driven too hard against 
 the rude elements of reason ; his heart lay ship- 
 wrecked on the barren soil by a dead and bottomless 
 sea. He saw no liglit ; llicre was no dav, and the 
 atmosphere was foul wilh the odour of grave-things. 
 
 Anne slunk away like a courtezan who is at home
 
 1^_|^ THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 with Stealth, her footsteps noiseless, and insolent, 
 low-laughing courage in her regard. 
 
 It was not within the compass of her imagination 
 to even suspect the peril she had escaped, nor was it 
 in the measure of her nature to gauge the inevi- 
 dent strength of the man she thought so destitute of 
 virility. 
 
 When Warre went up to his room that night, 
 Anne, who had been crouching for two hours by her 
 door to listen for his footstep, cried out : 
 
 " Simon ! Simon ! I want to speak to you." 
 
 He entered. 
 
 She had thrown off her ivory satin gown, and it 
 seemed in the dim light like a huge white serpent 
 coiled up upon the floor. Anne wore a muslin 
 jacket fastened closely to the throat, and with trans- 
 parent sleeves. Her hair rolled in a dazzling torrent 
 over her shoulders and below her waist. Her petti- 
 coat of shimmering satin, festooned with lace, just 
 reached her naked ankles. She had thrust her bare 
 feet into a pair of Warre 's old slippers. Her own 
 small white ones, with their high heels and pearl- 
 embroidered toes, were kicked, one, towards the 
 window, and the other, by the wardrobe. 
 
 " I could not find my own bedroom slippers," she 
 said, angrily. " I was much too tired to unpack and 
 I will not trouble your servants. I found these in 
 there," she pointed to his room. " They are too
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 145 
 
 large and they fall off, and they are absurd. I am 
 cold ; I am miserable ; I am worn-out. As for my 
 dinner, I could not touch it. They brought it here, 
 but I sent it away untasted. I forced myself to swal- 
 low some champagne, and I choked myself with a 
 little chicken. I hate the housekeeper, and these 
 maids who stare at me ! You can send them away 
 to-morrow, I will be treated with proper respect. 
 What can they think ? Do they know I am your 
 wife? You will destroy my love for you. I know 
 myself well, and it is not in me to care for a man 
 with a sulky, selfish, brutal disposition. I am sorry, 
 darling, to speak so plainly, but now we are married 
 it is not worth while to disguise our true characters 
 and our real feelings. Between husband and Avife 
 there should be perfect sincerity — absolute confi- 
 dence. I have just been reading Jeremy Taylor's 
 sermon on TJie Marriage Ring, which poor Mamma 
 put in my dressing-bag. She always said that hap- 
 piness could not be found with a husband who had 
 no deep-rooted religious belief. Her words were 
 rue. 
 
 "Anne," said Warre, " we have both made a ter- 
 rible mistake. I regard our marriage as a legal 
 contract, which does small honour to cither of us — 
 nothing more. It is for me now to speak plainly. 
 I am sorry if I appear harsh. Unt if I niiuccd 
 words n(jw it wcjiild oiiU- lead to worse and more
 
 1^6 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 hideous trouble. You are not my wife — you never 
 will be my wife. You have the right to bear my 
 name " 
 
 She tittered. 
 
 " It is not particularly distinguished," she said. 
 "What did you tell me your poor father was? A 
 coachman? a carpenter? a tinker? a tailor? a can- 
 dle-stick maker? " 
 
 " He was an honest man," said Simon. " He 
 spoke truth all his days, and he lived cleanly." 
 
 " I have never met anyone who had the pleas- 
 ure of his acquaintance," replied Anne, with heaving 
 breast. " I daresay, however, he was a highly re- 
 spectable person. What does it matter to me what 
 he was ? I did not marry you for your honest 
 father, but for your money ! " • 
 
 At this last cruel taunt, sudden, scalding, uncon- 
 trollable tears broke through Warre's sunken eyes. 
 
 " You shall have my money," he said, quietly. 
 " I will earn all I can. In case anything should hap- 
 pen to me, I insured my life yesterday. And if I 
 merely fell ill, I have settled a sufficient sum on you 
 to keep you at least in comfort." 
 
 But Anne had now huddled herself in a chair 
 and was crying bitterly. She loved Simon after her 
 feline fashion. The betrayal of her avarice was a 
 self-revelation which, before it penetrated Warre, 
 first glinted sharply — not without damage — against
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 147 
 
 the artificial ideal she had formed of her own char- 
 acter. It had pleased her to regard her marriage as 
 one of pure and disinterested affection. The aston- 
 ishing power of self-deception which she had inher- 
 ited from Lady Delaware had become, from the cir- 
 cumstances of her life, a malady of the mind. And 
 when she caught glimpses of her true self she suf- 
 fered, just as those who are afflicted with madness 
 suffer, when the sound of some long-forgotten tune 
 calls up a painful and evasive half-remembrance of 
 serener days. 
 
 " Oh, I never meant to say that," sobbed Anne, 
 " I never meant to say that. Why did you make me 
 lose my temper? I told you 1 had a bad one. This 
 day will kill me ! " 
 
 She looked up to implore his pity, his forgive- 
 ness, but he had gone. 
 
 " Simon ! " she called, " Simon ! " 
 
 She flung herself against his door ; listened, and 
 there was no sound ; cried out his name once more, 
 and there was no answer. He was not there. He 
 had returned to his study. She knew that it would 
 be useless to follow him. And she was so tired. 
 
 For s(mie moments she stumbled blindly to and 
 fro the two rooms; then she picked up her gown to 
 fold it away. T>ut before she reached the wardrobe, 
 she let it fall again on the floor. She went to hcr 
 box and took out a glove-case and a feather fan.
 
 148 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 She shook out the fan ; caressed the ostrich tips ; 
 counted the gloves ; put them back. She spent ten 
 minutes looking for her dressing-slippers of swans- 
 down and white silk, and found them, at last, where 
 she had thrown them without knowing it — on the 
 bed. Then she walked once more to Simon's room, 
 tapped, and went in. It was still empty. She laid 
 his old shoes where she had found them — under the 
 deal table — and dropped her tearful handkerchief 
 by their side, shedding innumerable fresh tears the 
 while. 
 
 Alas! Why is there no Eden for such Eves? 
 Why is it that only God is good enough and the 
 devil bad enough to be safe in their company ? 
 
 She sobbed herself to sleep on the floor. Simon 
 spent the night in his study.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 149 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 REALITY. 
 
 At sunrise, Anne awoke. Her limbs ached and 
 she felt cold. Hoping that she had caught a severe 
 chill, she returned to her own room, and, with a 
 sufficiently genuine wish that she might die before 
 the evening, undressed, nestled in the bed, and sank 
 into a deep but troubled slumber. 
 
 When she opened her eyes again, it was ten 
 o'clock, and Simon was standing by her side. The 
 fatigue and violent emotions of the day before had 
 impaired, for the time, her excessive prettiness. She 
 was now an ordinary, tired woman with listless 
 tresses, uncertain features, dull cheeks, and a pale 
 mouth. She had twisted one lock of her hair into a 
 curling-pin which gave that note of the grotesque to 
 her ai)pearance so common, and often so fatal, in 
 domestic tragedy. But in all the pride of her 
 beauty, her costly gowns, her theatrical posings and 
 vapourings, she had never touched Simon's heart so 
 nearly as she did at that worst, critical moment
 
 150 'I'HE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 when all her personal charms were under eclipse. 
 There is a silent eloquence about the human and 
 commonplace which is more dangerous to a kind and 
 honest nature than any passionate appeal, any 
 elaborate assault on the senses, any armament of 
 finery, civet-sweet smiles, or languishments in 
 lace, 
 
 Anne made as though she would timidly offer 
 him her hand, but drew it suddenly back. 
 
 " I know," she sighed, "that you would not take 
 it!" 
 
 He took them both, held them in both his own, 
 then let them go again, as though they were little 
 wild birds he had tried to love into docility. 
 
 " I have been thinking over what you said about 
 going away," he began, "and, although I cannot go 
 to Wey borough, I will take you anywhere else. 
 Paris might amuse you." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Nothing can ever amuse me again," she said. 
 " Nothing can ever be the same to me again ! " 
 
 True to her mimetic instinct, she had borrowed, 
 without knowing it, Simon's own words of the 
 night before — Simon's own manner in saying them. 
 Warre's anguish had been so real and so profound 
 that even Anne's imitation of it was moving, and, as 
 he himself did not perceive that it was but an apish 
 copy of his own pain, it was harder for him to see
 
 AND LORD WICKEXHAM. 151 
 
 this mere reflection of adversity in his miserable 
 companion than to suffer the original grief. 
 
 The offending coquetry in Anne had been so 
 drenched by her tears that every womanly wile, 
 every instinct of cajolery she possessed, was droop- 
 ing and half-dead. She made no effort to attract 
 Warre, or to excite his compassion, but lay there — a 
 sexless creature, with quivering lips and weary 
 face. 
 
 Unconsciously he stooped and kissed the sharp 
 frown from her forehead ; it was the first time he had 
 kissed her since their marriage. 
 
 " Poor little girl ! " he said. 
 
 Anne gave a drowsy sigh, and, with childish un- 
 concern, turned herself towards the wall and fell 
 asleep again. He folded the blankets more closely 
 round her shoulders and drew the window-curtains 
 nearer, lest the light should tease her eyes. 
 
 Then he went away. 
 
 It seemed to him that it might yet be possible for 
 them to find some happiness together. . . if not as 
 husband and wife, at least as friends. He had always 
 mocked with the rest of the world at the notion of any 
 mere comradeship between a man and a woman. In 
 all sucli relations there was always one, at any rate, 
 whose gaiety walked in sackcloth, and whose ad- 
 mitted devotion was a heart-breaking privilege. 
 Wickcnham, he remembered, was the fierce opponent
 
 152 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 of every falsely-sentimental theory on the subject of 
 so-called Platonics. 
 
 " Why don't the fools begin by reading their 
 Plato ? " he would say. " Let 'em study the Phcsdrus. 
 It's a complete give-away of the whole fraud. And 
 devilish well-written, too. The old scoundrel ! " 
 
 But Wickenham did not know all things, nor 
 Plato all things ! 
 
 That same afternoon Simon and Anne started on 
 their strange honeymoon. She did not look pretty, 
 and her eyes were like forget-me-nots after an un- 
 seasonable fall of snow. She was still so exhausted 
 that she slept on the way to Dover. 
 
 When they reached the Channel, Warre opened 
 the window. 
 
 The clouds looked as though a mountainous sea 
 had been caught up into the sky and were tossing its 
 froth over the steely plains of night. The wind sang 
 a strange song. Anne woke up and trilled a little 
 scale in response. Simon had not heard her sing 
 before : her voice was like a fairy flute. He had 
 never guessed its sweetness. 
 
 The two sat on the deck of the steamer, and, 
 when Anne was not dozing, she laughed at the huge 
 green waves, the absurd little boat, and her own dis- 
 comfort. 
 
 Who would not have been charmed by such 
 innocent and unusual amiability ?
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 1 53 
 
 Poor little girl ! 
 
 She talked a little and told him three small, wholly 
 superfluous lies. One about the price of her hat ; 
 another, about her former visits to Paris (she had 
 been there but once and for one day only) ; and the 
 last, about the number of governesses who had as- 
 sisted at her education. The first taxed his credu- 
 lity ; the second, he knew was an untruth ; and the 
 third, he had every reason to doubt. 
 
 Why could she not be honest? 
 
 The pity of it I And the hopelessness! The 
 shame of it ! And the mystery ! 
 
 How could a woman be so eminently lovable in 
 many ways and yet be so treacherous? Look so 
 gracious and be so abject? Lies, he thought to him- 
 self, were mainly told for two causes: vanity and 
 cowardice. Poor Anne often lied merely to make 
 conversation. The truth so rarely occurred to 
 her. 
 
 At Calais, she went ashore and climbed into the 
 train, holding her skirts, apparently by accident, well 
 above her ankles. The male passengers surveyed 
 them with admiration ; she had brushed against one 
 who had a heavy moustache and was handsome. 
 They had apologised to each other. She liad 
 thought his smile charming. 
 
 " Never do that again," said Warrc, when they 
 were seated.
 
 154 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 " What?" she asked, with a splendid blush. 
 
 " It is so vulgar," he replied. 
 
 '• How could I help it? " she said. " Besides, I did 
 nothing. I cannot drag these good clothes through 
 the mud, and if I tread on some unfortunate per- 
 son's toe — was it a man or a woman ? I really 
 could not see, for I was so afraid lest I should 
 lose you — if I tread on some poor creature's toe 
 I must at least beg his pardon. You are unreason- 
 able, darling ! " 
 
 Anne thought, however, that his remark arose 
 from marital jealousy, and she was, therefore, too 
 flattered to feel any resentment. And was it not 
 rather clever of him to have seen through her trick? 
 He was not such a simpleton after all ! Women re- 
 spect a man whom they cannot deceive, but only 
 when he has the generosity to warn them of his dis- 
 cernment. It is fatal to feign a belief in their fool- 
 ing, to beguile the beguiler, and then, after a period 
 of mutual deception, to analyse, with cynical accu- 
 racy, each enchanting falsehood, every distracting 
 gesture. 
 
 Anne was impressed by the discovery that Warre 
 would not stand any nonsense. 
 
 She took a little worn book out of her ulster- 
 pocket and began to read her night prayers. She 
 also asked herself the various and searching ques- 
 tions given for the examination of one's conscience.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 1 55 
 
 This duty finished, she prayed for Simon's conver- 
 sion to the Anglican Church, and at last fell asleep 
 wondering whether he had forgotten the black pearl 
 and whether her gowns would look fashionable in 
 Paris.
 
 156 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MORE REALITIES. 
 
 The hotel to which VVarre had telegraphed for 
 rooms was a quiet one, and Anne's heart sank at its 
 appearance until she learned that it was not only 
 famous for its cuisine but more expensive than the 
 Continental. 
 
 Their salon was regal with red damask, a large 
 glass chandelier, marble tables with gilt legs, and 
 several mirrors. 
 
 " It reminds me of one of the ante-rooms in Buck- 
 ingham Palace," observed Anne, in a loud tone, " or 
 am I thinking of Balmoral?" 
 
 The manager, who had conducted them to the 
 apartment, bowed, and for the wear and tear to his 
 back-bone mentally added five francs a day to their 
 bill. 
 
 When the man had gone, she remembered that 
 Simon knew she had never been to Scotland. 
 
 " You see so many photographs of Balmoral and 
 all these places," she explained, " they become so
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 157 
 
 familiar to you — that — you — seem to have spent years 
 in them." 
 
 She saw his mouth twitch, and she threw her arms 
 round his neck. 
 
 " I am a dreadful little snob, and I know it," she 
 said. " But snobs get the best attendance and the 
 nicest rooms, and the most comfortable chairs, and 
 all that kind of thing, wherever they go. And every- 
 body wants to know them and everybody asks who 
 they are. You are so quiet that I wonder how on 
 earth you get on in your profession. Geniuses are 
 always disappointing in their air! If I had your 
 gifts, I should let people know it by my manner." 
 
 Warre heard the voice of Algernon Dane in each 
 word she uttered. Would he ever grow accustomed 
 to it ? He changed the subject by asking her what 
 she would like for her breakfast and when she wished 
 to have it. It was then about two o'clock in the 
 morning. She expressed an appetite for omelette, 
 coffee and rolls, which were to be served at nine. 
 He did not ring for the waiter, but left Anne to give 
 the order herself at the office. 
 
 When he returned he found the door, not by its 
 number, but by a pair of little boots on the mat. 
 They were pretty, and gleamed with patent leather 
 cut in patterns. He had seen them at Calais: so liad 
 the porters: so had ail the male passengers: so had 
 the good-looking man with a heavy moustache. 
 
 1 1
 
 158 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 Warre passed them, and entered his own desolate 
 room hand-in-hand with despair. 
 
 At breakfast that morning, Anne was in the high- 
 est spirits. She talked French to the waiter, and en- 
 couraged him to correct her accent. To please him, 
 too, she abused English cooking, and wondered why 
 one could not get a decent omelette, or coffee one 
 could drink, out of France. 
 
 The day was superb, and the air was so blue that 
 one seemed to be looking at the whole world through 
 a transparent turquoise. The sound of the wheels 
 and horses in the street was lighter, quicker, merrier, 
 pitched in a higher key than the solid, thunderous 
 rumble of London traffic. Anne liked the bells 
 which jingled and tinkled, and flung back the win- 
 dows to hear them more distinctly. The sun fell on 
 Simon's head. Anne knew that many men were 
 extraordinarily sensitive on the subject of bald- 
 ness. 
 
 " Darling," she said, kindly, " you work too hard. 
 Your hair is getting thin." She had not yet arranged 
 her own, and, as it was only caught up by one pin, 
 she make a sly movement and shook it free. 
 
 O, how tired he was of that golden mane ! 
 
 " I wish," he said, drily, " you could manage to 
 keep it tidy. It looks all right for about ten min- 
 utes, and then it tumbles down." 
 
 They each laughed a little and pretended to be
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 159 
 
 joking. But they did not deceive themselves or 
 each other. 
 
 " I suppose you know a number of nice people 
 here ? " said Anne, presently. " You must call on 
 the Cavernakes at once." Lord Cavernake was a 
 distant connection of VVarre's, and lived, with his 
 wife, in Paris. " And then," she continued, " I want 
 to meet some of the French nobility, and some of 
 the best artistic set. I do not care about sight-see- 
 ing. One can run through the Louvre in a morning. 
 But, before we do anything, you must hire a proper 
 carriage. Two horses, of course." 
 
 " We can only stop here a week," said Warre, 
 " because they want me at the hospital. It is not 
 worth while beginning the tedious business of paying 
 calls and dining out. We ought to be able to amuse 
 ourselves by driving, and going to the theatres, and 
 seeing what is to be seen." 
 
 "Just like one of poor papa's clerks on his honey- 
 moon ! " said Anne. " I remember a dreadful little 
 man called Salisbury, who married a governess, and 
 they stopped two days at the Grand Hotel — not 
 knowing it was considered rather disreputable. And 
 they used to hire -^ fiacre for three hours every day. 
 They saw everything in the guide-book, and always 
 dined at a Duval. They said they had never tasted 
 such excellent chicken for the money, but the salad 
 gave them indigestion. I le called one Sunday after-
 
 l6o i'lll^ GODS, SOME MORIALS, 
 
 noon and told us all about it. Mamma was civil to 
 them because she is naturally kind, and also because 
 Salisbury's father is in a wine-merchant's, some- 
 where in the City, and he can get us the best Bur- 
 gundy at half-a-crown less than the Store price. Al- 
 gernon Dane tasted it, and he said it was every bit as 
 good — if not better — than some he bought at Lord 
 Winterbourne's sale at one hundred and forty-five 
 shillings the dozen. . . . But why not call on the 
 Cavernakes ? Are you ashamed of me ? Who was 
 Lady Cavernake ? Her father was a curate at Eal- 
 ing. Mamma has seen him giving blankets to old 
 women. And he was the sort of man who preached 
 in a black gown ! " 
 
 She suddenly felt ashamed. 
 
 " I suppose," she said, at last, " that an empress 
 would get common and say vulgar things if she 
 lived long in a boarding-house. I wasn't born to 
 be a snob, dear, but everything has been against me. 
 I have not had any chance. I wonder that I am as 
 refined as I am ! " 
 
 She went into her bed-room, and he feared she 
 was going to cry. But she had discovered that it 
 was only necessary to hint at the boarding-house to 
 rouse his compassion. So she spared herself the 
 fatigue of weeping, and, instead, dressed in her 
 prettiest clothes. 
 
 Anne's confidence in her beauty was so great,
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. i6l 
 
 and her belief in Simon's infatuation so complete, 
 that, in spite of his indifference (which she easily at- 
 tributed to fatigue and jealousy), she felt quite sure 
 that his absolute subjection would mean, at most, a 
 few days' struggle. And, sure of her ultimate vic- 
 tory, she enjoyed the prospect of battle. 
 
 " He adores me ! " she said, as she shed penitence 
 on her cheek with a powder-puff. " He worships 
 me ! " she said again, as she brushed her eyelashes 
 with rose-water. She always found rose-water a 
 convenient and painless substitute for tears. She 
 was sorry that she made that severe remark about 
 his hair, but it was only fair to warn him that 
 she was fastidious . . . indeed, particular. Besides, 
 it was a great mistake to be grateful to any man. 
 The gratitude ought to be on his side. And with 
 her looks ! Simon had the best of it, decidedly. 
 
 For the rest of the day thev were studiously 
 polite. In the afternoon they drove in the Bois and 
 in the evening they went to the Frangais. Warre 
 promised her, as they returned, that he would buy 
 her the black pearl on the morrow. She had to lean 
 out of the carriage window to hide her smile of 
 triumph. Men were such simple creatures! Just 
 like children. 
 
 As his tone grew kinder, her manner became 
 more demure. She drew up in the corner of the 
 carriage and begged his pardon, when, the wheels
 
 l62 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 sinking suddenly in a tram line, she was thrown 
 against his arm. 
 
 The comedy had been Francilloii. Anne could 
 find no excuse for the heroine's conduct, but she 
 thought the husband made a sinful mistake in neg- 
 lecting her. Like most people who trifie with life 
 and its responsibilities, she took all purely artificial 
 things in terrible earnest. Anne would spend hours 
 discussing the wickedness or virtue of imaginary 
 characters in a play or a romance, and dismiss the 
 events of her own existence in one sleepy " Forgive 
 us our trespasses." 
 
 A well-cooked dinner, champagne, the Theatre, 
 and a knowledge that her appearance had created a 
 sensation — every opera-glass in the building had 
 been directed at their box — all' these circumstances 
 gave her an efflorescent good-humour. She called 
 Warre's attention to the moon, and was greatly 
 touched by an old woman whom she saw in the 
 street and whom she feared was hungry. 
 
 " What a pity," she exclaimed, " that the man is 
 driving so fast, or you might give her half-a-franc. 
 I left my own purse at home. But how thankful we 
 ought to be, darling, that we are not called upon to 
 bear such cruel trials to our faith. Poor creature ! 
 Yet I dare say, if we knew her life, we should find 
 that she had many compensations even for this ap- 
 parently insupportable suffering ! "
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 163 
 
 While Simon read his letters in their salon at the 
 hotel, she stood by the window, gazing up at the 
 stars. Then, not offering to kiss him good-night, 
 went quietly away to her room — to take off her hat, 
 as she said. But she did not return. 
 
 Warre smoked for half-an-hour, expecting her re- 
 appearance (probably in one more new gown, and 
 with her hair down her back), and not asking him- 
 self whether he should be glad or sorry if she came. 
 
 Other men that evening had eyed him with 
 
 envy. 
 
 Why was it so impossible to love her? The life 
 they were leading could not continue. One day of 
 sham marriage had convinced him of its folly. It 
 was not only morbid, unwholesome, and insane, but 
 profoundly ridiculous. He never thought of Alle- 
 gra now. It would have been unfair to both women. 
 Like all men in a false position, he was full of sophis- 
 tries. He called himself a married celibate, and 
 laughed at the droll paradox. Anne was certainly 
 beautiful, and she was not more mercenary than 
 others. He believed she was fond of liiiii, in spite of 
 her taunt about his monev, and in much the same 
 mock-generous strain in which he had wished her 
 benefits on the first evening of their acquaintance, he 
 began to wonder how he could make her happy. 
 Was it not his duty to try and exert a good iiillu- 
 ence over her character?
 
 164 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 This thought brought his spirit such consolation 
 and his mind such ease that, by-and-by, when he 
 went to bed, he slept for ten hours without stirring. 
 
 The next morning Anne was very silent. She 
 gave long sighs and little forced smiles. They vis- 
 ited the Louvre and Notre Dame. She was shocked 
 by some of the works of art, and, in Notre Dame, 
 prayed for some time. They were obliged to return 
 to the hotel to have the dust brushed from her 
 gown, for, rejecting a pric-dicu, she had knelt on the 
 pavement. At luncheon she ordered champagne. 
 She was really not strong enough to be devout. 
 And yet, for example's sake, she always made it a 
 rule to pray when she entered a church. After the 
 champagne she had some yellow Chartreuse. Then 
 she felt sufificiently restored to make a fresh toilette, 
 and suggest a visit to the Madeleine. She arrayed 
 herself in the cloth gown she had been married in, 
 and a large hat adorned with superb plumes. It 
 was an exact copy of one worn by a popular actress 
 in the part of a virtuous courtesan. Warre re- 
 marked that the bonnet was more becoming. 
 
 But Anne was looking handsome, dashing, bril- 
 liant, and she knew it. The hat was not changed, 
 and, as they walked through the street, every passer- 
 by turned to look after them. No one supposed for 
 an instant that she was the wife of her sad English- 
 man ; the men thought him fortunate but indis-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 165 
 
 erectly proud of his discover}^ ; the women ex- 
 changed glances, and the children stopped playing. 
 
 On their way to the church they halted at a book- 
 shop, where she chose half-a-score of French novels. 
 She knew the language well enough to understand 
 the untranslatable. Warre did not approve of her 
 selection, but he did not like to seem a martinet; she 
 said, too, that she read certain authors solely for 
 their descriptions of scenery. When they reached 
 the Madeleine, she was too tired to enter, but as they 
 had sent their carriage there to wait for them, they 
 stepped into this and drove off to the Bois. But 
 that drive made her uncomfortable, because their 
 victoria and pair was only a hired one. Whenever a 
 block occurred, she would say, in a loud voice to 
 be overheard by those who were sitting in carriages 
 or standing on the foot-path, near them : 
 
 " What a pity we did not bring Walton and 
 the brougham and the dear horses with us ! They 
 would have enjoyed this so much ! " 
 
 Warre was indiscreet enough to point out the 
 Cavernake's landau, which, containing the governess 
 and the eldest girl, happened to roll past. 
 
 " What a very plain child !" said Anne. But she 
 was horribly depressed. The fine carriage and the 
 coronet on its panels had excited her envy. Why 
 was she not a peeress? What was a genius, after 
 all, no matter how eminent in his profession ? And
 
 l66 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 a curate's daughter had caught Lord Cavernake. 
 How had the little snob managed it; and without a 
 penny, too, or grand connections? Her name was 
 Eliza Lesser, and her grandfather had been in trade. 
 
 "Why did he marry her?" she asked Simon 
 when they got home. She had been brooding in 
 silence over the subject all the way there. 
 
 " He loves her," he replied, " he is devoted to 
 her. She is the sweetest creature in the world. All 
 men do not marry for money." 
 
 "I know that!" said Anne, with a sudden im- 
 pulse of affection. "I know that, darling! Didn't 
 you take poor little poverty-stricken me ? But you 
 do not love me as you used. You will not give me 
 any opportunity to show my gratitude. You are so 
 cold and stern. Never mind ! never mind ! I shall 
 always love you just the same, no matter what hap- 
 pens. But O ! if I had only been brought up like 
 Lady Cavernake in some quiet, little home in the 
 country . . . hearing only good things and meeting 
 only good people ! " 
 
 She rushed into her room and wept hysterically. 
 Simon felt himself a mean brute, and went out for a 
 walk. How was all this going to end ? 
 
 When he had gone, Anne read the Morning Post 
 which her mother had sent her from London. The 
 fashionable news made her wretched. How she 
 would have enjoyed that house-party at the Duke of
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 167 
 
 Gaunt's ! That hideous, badly-dressed, imperfectly 
 washed Elizabeth Hastings went everywhere. And 
 why? Merely because she had three thousand a 
 year. Then the dinner at Moreton House. Did 
 Simon know the Moretons ? They knew everyone. 
 But fancy their inviting the Winnipegs to meet 
 a Royal Personage! Who were the Winnipegs? 
 They were not at all well off, and never entertained. 
 Some people had such luck. Oh, dear ! She was 
 sick with discontent. 
 
 That night she would not dine in the restaurant 
 of the hotel as usual, but, complaining of a headache, 
 ordered the dinner to be served in their sitting-room. 
 It was stupid, yet she imagined that it was the sort 
 of dull thing Lady Cavernake would like, and men 
 would think her szvcct for liking. 
 
 " The last time I was in Paris," said Warre, quite 
 innocently, " the Cavernakes were only here on a 
 visit — they lived in Rome at that time — and we all 
 stopped together at this hotel. We had that little 
 table near the window." 
 
 " Which little table?" asked Anne. 
 
 " The one in the restaurant downstairs," said 
 Warre, "where the fat man with the three thin 
 daughters sat last night. It was very jolly ! " 
 
 Anne pushed away her plate. Simon began to 
 get on Iter nerves. She hatcfl everything and every- 
 bodv. (), to be dead! But, in the meantime, more
 
 l68 IJH^ GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 champagne. Dane had trained her to believe in the 
 splendid efficacy of this tonic, and to regard any 
 sober mood as low spirits, perilous to her beauty, her 
 health, and her happiness. Warre, to restrain her, 
 drank the greater part of the bottle himself. She 
 ordered another. By the time they had reached the 
 dessert she looked like a young Bacchante. Youth 
 was still in her favour. It was only in rare moments 
 and side-lights that the hard lines and coarse flush of 
 the future threw their ugly forecast on her face. 
 
 Simon was by nature extremely temperate, but 
 idleness, the desire to escape from his own despair, 
 and Anne's companionship were already beginning 
 to have a demoralising effect on his mind. Why not 
 accept the inevitable ? Why not make the best of the 
 inevitable? Why not make the best of an inevitable 
 which was really not unpleasant from several points 
 of view — the robust, Pagan point of view, more espe- 
 cially ? The thought was fast becoming more elab- 
 orate. Words develop strangely : the root may be a 
 meagre thing, barren, dry, yet it will yield a whole 
 system of ethics. 
 
 Anne's conversation took a poetic strain, and she 
 used all the pretty phrases she could remember from 
 the songs she had learnt — many of them the composi- 
 tions of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Adelaide 
 Proctor and Shelley. Dane had besmirched every 
 one with his impure innuendoes, for he discovered vice
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 169 
 
 even among the flowers, but what little womanly 
 sentiment the girl possessed still hovered over cer- 
 tain tender lines which no foul explanation could 
 make entirely hideous. She knew now that Simon 
 was not to be won bv the coarse blandishments 
 which flattered the profound vulgarity and depraved 
 instincts of Algernon Dane. It had been the one 
 mental pleasure in his career to pour vile knowl- 
 edge into her young, impressionable mind. He had 
 tried the same system with Sarah : she had withered 
 under it at first, hiding herself away from the sight of 
 all creatures, but she had lived her childhood among 
 pure women and chivalrous men ; she was older, and 
 stronger, and wiser than Anne: she had strong prin- 
 ciples, and a sound, commonplace temperament. 
 She had only been troubled for a year or two. 
 
 Anne's character, however, had received its per- 
 manent tinge. Her innocence was lost in the black- 
 ness of darkness for ever. Yet she was relieved to 
 find that Simon was different, and to suspect that 
 even all worldly men — those who knciv how to enjoy 
 life — had not the tastes of her destroyer. The unfor- 
 tunate woman watched Warrc timidly, and, at last, 
 with tears in her wisfful eyes, said : 
 
 " Why didn't I meet you first ? " 
 
 it was too pitiful. She continued: 
 
 " I will never ask you to forgive nic, dearest. 
 Hut some day, when 1 am old, and tired, and sad,
 
 \yo THE GODS. SOME MORTALS, 
 
 and you think I have suffered enough, perhaps you 
 will tell me that I am forgiven. You are the only 
 one in the world who has ever been kind to me, dear. 
 Dane never loved me at all : days when I didn't look 
 my best he was always rude and neglectful. And 
 now when I think that 1 have lost your affection for 
 ever . . . that it will never be mine again . . . never, 
 never, never again — I wake up in the night and I 
 fancy that the room is my grave, and I draw the 
 sheet over my face and say : ' Hide me now I am 
 dead. No one cared for me while I lived, and in 
 death I am all alone. But I am misery's love ; mis- 
 ery and I are buried together. Let the worms eat 
 misery first ! ' " 
 
 At this horrid thought she grew pale and cowered 
 before the terrors of her own imagination, a trem- 
 bling, haunted, hunted soul. 
 
 She seized her liqueur-glass and drowned a scream 
 with its contents. 
 
 Then she laughed. 
 
 " My God ! We must live while we live. If you 
 turn back from going to the Devil, it is as bad as 
 turning back from the way to Heaven. For then 
 you don't arrive anywhere. The good ones won't 
 have you and you bore the bad ones. As you begin, 
 you must end. That is only common-sense." 
 
 She stood up and went towards the door. 
 
 " I am going out into the street where I belong,"
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 171 
 
 she said ; " there I shall find a few friends ; they will 
 be kind to me. But I must not put it off too late — 
 till I have lost my looks. Thank God, I am pretty. 
 . . . They will be very kind to me ; they won't make 
 me feel so beastly miserable ! " 
 
 Nevertheless, she turned back, and, with a wild 
 cry, flung herself on Warre's breast. " Save me 
 from myself ! Save me from these other men ! O 
 Simon, save me from these other men ! I know 
 them. Dane wasn't the only one. But the others 
 were for love ; one had to marry a rich girl and 
 the other was already married to a dreadful widow 
 with money. I have been so unlucky. I no sooner 
 quarrelled with one bad lot than I met another ! O 
 Simon, you must save me from myself ! " 
 
 This confession did not surprise him. After the 
 first disillusion, science and sentiment had wrestled 
 in his soul for her character, and, although he had 
 never owned the result in clear thoughts, Anne her- 
 self had now said it for him. He bowed to the ap- 
 palling declaration. She was a wanton. 
 
 "Why make these terrible scenes?" he said, 
 quietly ; " why refer to these things which I want 
 you to forget. Finish your coffee and then 1 will 
 take you out. This room is too close ! " 
 
 But women like Anne onlv live in scoics, and she 
 grew sullen, as she usually did when Warre showed 
 no disposition to play his part in her riotous drama.
 
 172 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 " I shall say what I please ! " she answered. " I 
 hate your supercilious airs and your quiet way. 
 Why can't you speak out ? " 
 
 She took up her cup, and, pretending to aim at 
 Warre, dashed it on the ground. She always had a 
 certain cunning control over her very abandon- 
 ment. 
 
 " I told you I had a temper ! Now you can see 
 it for yourself ! " 
 
 The saucer and the fruit-plate were hurled next. 
 One missed his face by an inch. 
 
 " And now," she shouted, " I hope you are satis- 
 fied. You have spoilt my whole evening! My God, 
 you would try the patience of a saint ! Dont make 
 these scenes ! " 
 
 She mimicked his voice, and made diabolic gri- 
 maces till she caught sight of herself in the mirror. 
 Then she shrieked with fright. 
 
 But her tongue soon recovered its abuse, and, 
 for the next half-hour, Warre listened to threats, 
 complaints, oaths, and obscenities. Yet there was 
 something so wild and irresponsible about the af- 
 flicted soul that he could not feel anger. She only 
 roused the immense and speechless pity he always 
 suffered for those blighting and blighted creatures 
 called hysterical. His soul wept as he watched her. 
 
 Anne went at last to her room, but not until she 
 had sobbed her remorse on Warre's breast, implor-
 
 AND LORD WICKEXHAM. 1 73 
 
 ing his forgiveness and suggesting that he still 
 loved her. 
 
 " Kiss me ! Say you love me a little, darling ! I 
 don't know what I have been saying, but I never 
 meant a word of it. Precious ! don't look so de- 
 pressed ; it depresses vie. Smile, dearest. All 
 women are unladylike when they get in a temper ; 
 they remember all the things men have said to 
 them ! Darling, I want you to smile." 
 
 When she had gone, he went out into the air. 
 He chose a dark street, and no man saw the tears 
 he shed, alone in the night of that gay city. 
 
 The next morning Warre received a telegram 
 from London summoning him to a consultation. 
 When Anne heard that the patient was Mr. Samuel 
 Wenslow, the great auctioneer, she was not only 
 willing but anxious to return at once. 
 
 " Vou can make him pay well for the inconven- 
 ience and disappointment," she said. " He is as rich 
 as Croesus. And how well he used to dress Mrs. 
 Bolingbroke ! I have seen them at the Savoy, but 
 he always took his wife and Bolingbroke as well. I 
 never saw a man so careful I If he went into the 
 country for a Sunday, Bolingbroke and the little 
 boy had to go, too. And now the poor old thing has 
 got paralysis. You must cure him, dear, for Mrs. Bol- 
 ingbroke's sake. She is a good little woman with a 
 rather attractive squint. And so kind to the poor ! " 
 
 12
 
 1/4 
 
 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 PLAIN FACTS. 
 
 Anne seemed very happy to find herself once 
 more in her Italian boudoir, and, every morning, be- 
 fore she fatigued her voice by giving orders to the 
 housekeeper, would sing for two hours or so at the 
 Steinway piano. Warre, in his study underneath, 
 seeing patients, or writing his new book on Nervous 
 Disease, used to wince at the sound of the slow 
 scales and quick arpeggios, but he did not like to 
 complain of her innocent pleasures. One afternoon 
 she was seized with the whim to be economical and 
 engaged a woman to come with a sewing machine, 
 which, while he laboured to compose a lecture for 
 the Royal Institution, rumbled over his head from 
 three till seven. At dinner Anne showed him four 
 yards of massacred velvet, representing two guineas. 
 The wretched sempstress had a sick husband and 
 three children with the croup ! It was a charity to 
 go out of ones way to find work for the poor soul ! 
 
 But Anne, in her manner, had now become very
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 1 75 
 
 quiet and most demure. She no longer protested 
 her love, but, like a child, used to kiss Warre good- 
 night and good-morning on the cheek. In the after- 
 noons she drove out with Sarah Dane, who, glad of 
 distraction, accompanied her into shops, and ad- 
 mired her wonderful taste in selecting furniture for 
 the drawing-room. Anne postponed all visits and 
 visitors, returned no calls, and discouraged those 
 who would pay them, because, as she said, her home 
 was not in order. Sometimes, after dinner, she 
 would read aloud to Simon or embroider crooked 
 initials on some handkerchiefs which she had pur- 
 chased at a sale, for his birthday. She was always 
 very thrifty when she bought presents. 
 
 Her dresses now were in delicate shades of helio- 
 trope, peach, and twilight blue — simple eighteen- 
 guinea gowns which dear, clever Simon could earn 
 in a morning, without trouble. He had only to sit 
 in his study and write prescriptions. What a 
 talent ! 
 
 She never asked to be taken to the theatre, and, 
 when Sarah invited them to dine with her, very 
 quietly, to meet her trustees (handsome Colonel 
 Dane of the Guards, and that great man of the Turf, 
 Sir George Durham), Anne grew rather flurried and 
 said for some reason she did not care to sec 
 strangers. Sarah, who was never at a loss for the 
 conventional cxj)lanation of any mystery, thought
 
 lyS THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 she understood the young bride's diffidence, but was 
 too shy and reserved a woman to do more, in conse- 
 quence, than treat her friend with a grotesque ten- 
 derness. Mrs. Warre was not to be thwarted or 
 contradicted, and, when their shopping reached the 
 second floor of any establishment, Sarah would as- 
 cend the stair-case first to see whether it would be 
 worth Anne's while to mount it also. She ordered 
 flowers and fruit to be sent to Grosvenor Street 
 daily from her country house in Essex, and, as she 
 was extremely dexterous at lace-making and fine 
 needlework, she started a wonderful basket which 
 she would hide, with a blush, when she heard Anne's 
 footstep. Once when she found her friend rather 
 downcast, she said, with guileless cunning. 
 
 " Your figure looks extremely well, dear, in that 
 blue cloth ! " 
 
 "Why shouldn't it look well?" said Anne, pee- 
 vishly. " Don't be silly, Sarah. When you are silly, 
 you are so very silly ! " 
 
 Poor Sarah giggled, and thought how amusing it 
 was to tease Anne. The little creature would revel 
 in these minute jests which she alone knew and 
 which she only could understand. They were her 
 secrets, and, when other women in society looked 
 wise over their ambitious schemes and amorous 
 intrigues, Sarah felt no less blessed and equally 
 mysterious with her tiny rises and scores, which, she
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. I77 
 
 thought, would startle the world very much could 
 they have been made known. O ! they were such 
 fun ! What a burden her conscience carried in those 
 some four invisible jokes ! 
 
 Warre was touched, yet not altogether bewildered, 
 at the change in Anne. His experience forbade him 
 to hope that it was more than a mood, and he dreaded 
 the reaction. Yet how charming she was in those 
 days ! One morning she said to him : 
 
 " I want to win back your respect, dear." 
 He tried to love her. The monotony of the 
 simple, regular life they were leading gave Anne a 
 still excitement, just as one note repeated several 
 times in music, insisted on, accentuated, long drawn 
 out, soothes the ear for the inevitable lower fall or 
 shriller pitch in the tone. When will it come? 
 What sound will it be ? The girl's spirit grew out- 
 wardly calmer : her face regained its almost angelic 
 beauty, borrowing innocence from the peaceful at- 
 mosphere which breathed around her. And as her 
 affection for Simon became more honest, she had no 
 wish to indulge in the studied coquetries which 
 women play off against such men, who, vain them- 
 selves, only appeal to a woman's vanity. The native 
 asceticism in Warre's character exercised the same 
 fascination for licr which the ascetic invariably exerts 
 over the worldly and self-indulgent. It is one of tlic 
 profound laws in the economy of human nature — this
 
 1^8 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 tribute of the flesh to the spirit. Warre's patience, 
 kindness of disposition, generosity, and devotion to 
 his work often filled Anne with envious exasperation : 
 she watched him, lynx-like, for a moment of self- 
 betrayal. But although he sometimes spoke hastily, 
 and showed, on occasions, a quick temper, the more 
 she observed the tenor of his daily life, the more she 
 believed in his integrity. With tears in her eyes she 
 would tell Sarah that poor old Simon was a born 
 saint : it was no credit to him that he was so good, 
 however, because there was nothing bad in his heart. 
 Darling, unnatural pet! Cold intellectuality ! She 
 never supposed that the poor fellow ever had an 
 instinct to curb, a passion to control, or a word to 
 check: she knew nothing of the struggles in his soul, 
 or of the atrocious mental suffering which racked his 
 strong nature — as strong in its possibilities for evil 
 as in its aspiration towards the right. She knew 
 nothing of the all but irresistible temptations which 
 pursued him — sometimes with relentless cruelty, 
 sometimes with a sly persistence, sometimes with- 
 drawing altogether for an easeful period, only to 
 return again with renewed strength and greater cun- 
 ning. But she began to understand his handsome 
 face, and, when a former lover once passed her car- 
 riage in the Row, she thought him brutally coarse 
 and wondered why she had ever admired a type so 
 unrefined. vShe determined, too, to gain her victory
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. Ij^ 
 
 over Simon. When she read Shakespeare to him in 
 the evening, she would find out, by artless questions, 
 what qualities he admired in the heroine, and, when 
 works of art were reproduced in the illustrated 
 journals, she observed the types of beauty which 
 pleased him most. He was touched, but not de- 
 ceived, when she talked in the tender strain of 
 Imogen, attempted the wit of Beatrice, and dressed 
 her hair like Romney's Lady Hamilton. Who could 
 deny the childish grace with which she told her un- 
 intentional, purely spontaneous lies ; or who could 
 think, when she blushed and glanced aside, that she 
 was really responsible for all that she said and did 
 under the stress of passion? Sometimes she sang 
 sad songs till his heart nearly broke with their pathos, 
 and she trilled ballads from Shakespeare and Shelley 
 till the voice seemed the words, and the words, the 
 women, and all their exquisite beautv, her own. He 
 also began to believe in her affection for himself, and 
 he was one who craved and longed for sympathy as 
 only men who are called self-reliant can crave it. But 
 it was not in Anne's conscience to be faithful : she be- 
 longed to the eternal race of Molly Seagrims: surh 
 women arc at the mercy of every comely libertine, 
 and every comely libertine is at their mercy : they 
 are lightly caught, and as lightly they escape. 
 Warre knew that if he wished to possess any per- 
 manent influence over Anne it was only to be held
 
 I So THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 by maintaining an almost inhuman reserve — a pas- 
 sionless indifference. Like all those with whom love 
 has degenerated into a capricious instinct, she had a 
 secret contempt for those who were appealed to by 
 her fascination. She never felt a sincere trust in 
 Warre until she learnt that he was not to be won by 
 tricks and flatteries. 
 
 One day she met a lady in the hall who rustled 
 past her, reeking of patchouli, and swaying her elab- 
 orate petticoats. She recognised her as Mrs. Boling- 
 broke. Anne ran into Warre's study with white 
 cheeks. 
 
 " She is not a patient," she panted ; " she pretends 
 to consult you about old Wenslow, but she will try 
 and make love to you. I know the creature ! I 
 have every confidence in you : I will never say a 
 word about your ideas — perhaps it is as well you 
 have them, for I am very jealous, and I would have 
 no one come between us. You are mine ! No other 
 woman shall take you from me ! You are mine ! " 
 
 Wickenham had gone abroad, and Warre now 
 saw no one except his colleagues at the hospital and 
 his patients. So busy a man was not expected to 
 play an active part in society, and Anne delighted 
 those who were old-fashioned by her apparent devo- 
 tion to her husband and her home. Simon's relatives 
 conceded that his hasty marriage was, in every sense 
 of the word, a success, and, having more amusing
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. i8l 
 
 topics and people to claim their attention, than a 
 well-matched couple who showed every desire to be 
 let alone, they dismissed him from their minds. 
 
 " The Warres," they said, " are charming, but so 
 self-centered." 
 
 Sir Hugh and Lady Delaware, however, dined 
 with the young people every Sunday. The Baronet 
 would carry away his supply of cigars for the week, 
 and her ladyship would give advice which usually 
 created a tornado in the kitchen for three mornings 
 out of the seven. Simon would laugh, for, on the 
 whole, things went smoothly. 
 
 But when only two weeks remained of the Lon- 
 don season, Anne declared that her drawing-room 
 was habitable, and surprised Warre by sending out 
 three hundred invitations to an evening party. 
 Many of them were his own acquaintances : some 
 were Sarah Dane's : the rest were artistic celebrities 
 whom Anne herself had known before her marriage, 
 and to whom she now showed an ostentatious friend- 
 liness. The lesser lights among them eat her supper 
 with an ill-humoured appetite, and those who were 
 more distinguished, fmding three Cabinet Ministers 
 and a neat selection from the Peerage in the throng, 
 remained longer than they had intended. But the 
 entertainment was not a success. It injured Warre 
 in his profession, where he was already somewhat 
 impo[)ular, on account of his aristocratic connections
 
 1 82 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 and his youth : they said Jie was coming on too fast. 
 The aristocratic connections, on the other hand, were 
 not disposed to welcome a rival hostess in the person 
 of any Mrs. Simon Warre. Her husband made a 
 decent income, but he had neither the position nor 
 the wealth to play any prominent part in the world 
 of fashion. Several leaders of society allowed it to 
 be understood that they would not in future find it 
 convenient to grace the Grosvenor Street receptions. 
 It was not right to encourage a foolish young couple 
 in living beyond their means. The doctor's wife 
 dressed far too richly for her station ; she might have 
 been the Queen of SJieba : and she showed bad taste in 
 keeping all the best men round her own chair. They 
 could not get away from her. Then let her have the 
 men, by all means. When women are driven to 
 grant this liberal concession, they mean mischief. 
 
 Morning after morning, noon after noon, night 
 after night, Anne watched the post for the notes of 
 invitation which did not come. The wives of Simon's 
 colleagues had found her too patronizing : she had 
 offended for ever three dowagers by her tiara, and 
 her smile had been too intellig-ent at four other la- 
 dies whose husbands were called indulgent. Anne 
 ground her pretty teeth, and, dressing more elabo- 
 rately than ever, sat with Sarah Dane or Lady Dela- 
 ware in the Row, to force salutations from a large 
 acquaintance who, although they hated, could not
 
 AND LORD WICKE.XHAM, 183 
 
 cut her. Mrs. Dane as a rich, not old, virtuous, and 
 amiable widow, had an euphonious visiting list as 
 long as two arms, but, while she was highly es- 
 teemed, she was neither ambitious nor clever, her 
 own sex found her dull, and men, the sort of woman 
 you can only marry. Her chair in the park was 
 treated with distant reverence, and when Anne sat 
 by her side in all her defiant beauty, hats were lifted 
 and gentle bonnets bowed with perhaps too marked 
 a direction towards the widow. It was hard to bear. 
 If only Lord Wickenham were in town ! He came 
 of too ancient a family to be a snob : he was Simon's 
 dearest friend, and would not, Anne felt sure, see his 
 friend's wife treated so unkindl3\ He would have 
 invited them to his dinner parties, his house parties, 
 and on his yacht: he ruled supreme in his own set, 
 for he was so independent of them all : he was rich, 
 he was a bachelor. O why did he not return to be 
 her champion ? 
 
 The Senior Physician at the I lospital fell seriously 
 ill, and Simon was obliged to remain in town for the 
 whole summer. Sarah Dane went to St. JNIoritz witli 
 the Duchess of Wark; even Sir Hugh and Lady 
 Delaware took their annual three weeks' leave; 
 Warre's mother. Lady I lenrietta, and her husband, 
 the Kcv. Mountstuart Thompson, had long been 
 absent from England at one of the large towns in the 
 south of I-"rancc, where he was IJrifish Cha|)I;iin, and
 
 1 84 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 where her ladyship, as his invalid but talkative wife, 
 made him a much commiserated man. 
 
 August, September, and half of October passed. 
 Anne no longer offered to read aloud in the evenings 
 and she no longer sang. Nothing amused her. She 
 thought no more either of love or lovers ; ambition, 
 for the time, was her ruling passion, and, unable to 
 gratify it, she pined. Warre was yet handsome in 
 her sight, and, when she felt in the humour, she could 
 still distract herself by trying to please him. But 
 she was so rarely in the mood. She would lie for an 
 hour at a time on the floor of her room, face down- 
 wards, with clenched hands, biting the dust, praying 
 for triumph over her enemies. She had a supersti- 
 tious belief in the power of prayer. Warre found her 
 senseless in her boudoir one day with a bottle of 
 chlorodyne in one hand and a paper bearing the 
 words '' I am tired of life'' in the other. She soon 
 revived ; women like Anne only commit suicide by 
 accident. They never mean to swallow more than 
 an indiscreet dose of any poison ; their object is not 
 to kill themselves, but to alarm others. Warre was 
 not terrified ; his distress was something deeper than 
 terror. 
 
 " Why do you make yourself so wretched ? " he 
 said. 
 
 " I hate the world ! " she sobbed ; " women are all 
 such cats and the men are all such cowards. If I
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 185 
 
 had been born an heiress, London would have been 
 at my feet. But because I am only your wife, and 
 because I am beautiful, they want to trample me 
 down. They are like wild beasts. And I am no 
 parvenue,'" she added, drying her eyes. " The Dela- 
 wares and Pavenhams were mostly blackguards, and 
 they never brought much virtue to any house" — (she 
 had the decency to blush as she owned this) — " but 
 they were certainly distinguished ; they were men 
 who fought for their country, and women of high 
 caste, who, if they sometimes loved too well, had the 
 courage to admit it." 
 
 Anne drew herself up with the traditional dignity 
 of a traditional queen in exile. 
 
 "And I am no adventuress," she continued. "I 
 demand my right place in society, and I will have 
 that place. Becky Sharpes and INIadame Bovarys fail 
 because they try to get where they do not belong. 
 But I am only asking for my due. I will not come 
 down to the nobodies ; they have no mind, no taste, 
 no spirit; they are afraid of each (jthcr; they are 
 dull, pompous fools! They were forced upon me 
 when I lived in that detestable boarding-house, and 
 they loathed me because they saw I did not bear 
 their stamp. I was born to meet people who know 
 how to use this world ! I will not be cheated of my 
 birthright. But, ()! how hard it is to be obliged to 
 fight for what is lawfully your own ! "
 
 l86 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 All the nii^ht she paced her floor, weaving impos- 
 sible schemes of revenge, and yet more impossible 
 modes of battle. But she concealed these plans from 
 Warre, who had a great contempt for such vulgar 
 and ignominious nonsense. She made it a rule, too, 
 never to ask the advice of a failure. She regarded 
 him as a social failure. Why had he not gone into 
 Parliament — as his mother had so wisely counselled ? 
 He had the makings of a fine speaker ; his presence, 
 too, was in his favour. What was a doctor ? Bah ! 
 Simon had thrown away his life. 
 
 The following Sunday Warre was called to the 
 North of England for a consultation. He left her 
 with great unwillingness, but he was to return early 
 on Monday morning ; he would take the night train ; 
 he would only be absent about twenty-four hours. 
 
 " I must go," he said, " because it is my duty." 
 
 " And we really need the money," added Anne. 
 " I have a few bills, darling." 
 
 She kissed him twenty times good-bye, shed a 
 few tears, and said God bless you. She really felt sad 
 over the parting, and it was a certain happiness to 
 the poor man to find that she had need of him ; that 
 he had become, as it were, a necessary, not altogether 
 disagreeable, factor in her daily existence; he was 
 her keeper, her tower of refuge. She would miss 
 him. And how pleasant it is to be missed ! 
 
 " Remember," he said, " that I shall be thinking
 
 AND LORD WICKEXHAM. 1 8/ 
 
 the most charming things about you all the time I 
 am away." 
 
 " Will that be hard work?" she asked, putting up 
 her hands to be kissed. 
 
 He looked at her tenderly, and she smiled like a 
 naughty child surprised by a little praise. 
 
 She gave him his gloves, and, standing on tip-toe, 
 crowned him with his hat. All her gestures had a 
 regal intention, 
 
 "Dearest," she said, "aren't we funny?" 
 
 As he drove away, she stood at the window wav- 
 ing her handkerchief, and crying in earnest. He was 
 the only creature in the \vorld she honestly cared 
 for ; the only man she believed was not wholly self- 
 ish, brutal, and mercenary. It cost her an effort to 
 control her emotion at the thought that there might 
 be some accident on the railway. Oh, if he should 
 be killed ! She gave a little scream, and covered her 
 eyes. Presently she seized his photograph from the 
 mantel-piece, kissed it with frenzy, muttering the 
 sweetest vows of affection and faith. And at last 
 said : 
 
 " There is no one like you ! I love vou ! I adore 
 you ! So handsome ! So kind ! So good ! I worship 
 you, darling! My husband ! I\fv prince! I wish you 
 were richer! I wisii you held a better pcjsition I 
 Pet! Angel!" 
 
 Then, feeling tired, siie rang the bell, and ortiercd
 
 l88 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 word to be sent to the stable, that, when the brough- 
 am returned from the station, she wished to go for 
 a drive. She went to Richmond. 
 
 The day was lost in fog. Through the leafless 
 aisles of black, desolate trees in Hyde Park she could 
 only see stray couples pass and disappear like the 
 figures in a shadow-dance. Those who were on the 
 foot-path near the carriage seemed to have gutta- 
 percha faces — a few twisted into a crazy grin, and 
 more convulsed with that hollow woe of a tragic 
 mask. Sometimes a scarlet coat shone out like a 
 stain of bright blood in the gloom. The water of 
 the Serpentine could not be seen at all ; its curves 
 were lost under a wide and treacherous stretch of 
 mist, profound, interminable. Dead brown foliage 
 lay scattered on the grass near the road, but here 
 and there, on a withered blade or leaf, the frost 
 shone, opalescent. A soft line of purple vapour 
 seemed to sever these unexpected radiant corners 
 from the oppressive atmosphere around. 
 
 A lady with rouged cheeks, pencilled eyebrows, 
 and dyed hair, driving a pair of piebalds in a Stan- 
 hope, dashed down the Row. She looked exultant ; 
 she wore a hard hat like a man's, and the collar of her 
 overcoat was drawn high over her cars. How she 
 cracked her whip ! How swiftly the wheels turned ! 
 How cold her little groom looked in his smart new 
 livery ! A great rattle, a clatter, and she passed out
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 189 
 
 of sight. Two stout old men in a dog-cart halted 
 at the Albert Memorial ; one blew his nose ; one 
 yawned ; they could see nothing, and their fat pony 
 was restive. They rolled on. 
 
 In the Kensington High Street the fog was less 
 dense. Bells were ringing for morning service at 
 St. Mary Abbott's ; many dim, respectable forms 
 were entering the porch. Opposite, a woman who 
 coughed, and who carried a child at her breast, was 
 selling violets. When Anne passed Holland House 
 she looked enviously at its gate. Ah, why was she 
 not a Lady Holland ? Why could she not have a 
 salon ? For a time she saw nothing on the road, 
 but sat engrossed in her own bitter meditations, 
 which were always the same, and which made her 
 feel as though her heart were a nest of serpents. At 
 last she looked up in time to see a young woman step 
 into a hansom and smile as she told the cabman 
 where to go. 
 
 " Ah," thought Anne, " she is going to enjoy her- 
 self ! And here am I, all alone! Why can't I have 
 a little happiness ? " 
 
 O, those dingy little villas facing those cheap 
 
 shops! Who lived in them? A girl with her 
 
 sweetheart stood on the front steps of one. She 
 
 looked contented enough, miserable creature ! What 
 
 wretched minds these common people had, or tiiey 
 
 woulfl never endure such ptnury, such a nar- 
 13
 
 IQO THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 row outlook ! She began to cry, but brightened 
 again when a woman on Hammersmith Bridge 
 looked at her beauty and her equipage with dolorous 
 envy. How well she knew this drive to Richmond ! 
 Dane and she had often dined at the Star and Garter ; 
 he dared not take her to more fashionable haunts, 
 and there she used to parade the extravagant gowns 
 he considered it injudicious to display in London. 
 There, too, if they met an acquaintance, it would 
 usually be in circumstances when no one of the party 
 would be likely to mention the encounter. Ah ! 
 after all, she had enjoyed those days with Algernon. 
 She had made him spend his money. She was not a 
 woman like Sarah, to see how little expense she could 
 be to a man. That was a fatal policy. They never 
 valued society which cost nothing. A group of 
 young men were resting, with their bicycles, on the 
 road. They all stared hard at Anne, mistaking her 
 for some distinguished actress. She held her head 
 high and struck a picturesque pose. 
 
 When the river appeared at Lonsdale Road, she 
 wondered why people ever committed suicide by 
 jumping into the water. How cold ! how dirty ! She 
 drew her fur rug higher over her knees, and pulled 
 her velvet mantle more close at the throat. A few 
 yards ahead she saw a couple walking : the woman 
 was leaning with pathetic confidence on the man's 
 arm. Anne looked well at them : she always studied
 
 AND LORD WICKEXHAM. 
 
 191 
 
 lovers. The girl was sweet : she ought to have been 
 in the ballet at the Empire — not wasting her time and 
 her beauty on that frightful little clerk, with weak 
 eyes and no chin ! What a hard world this was for 
 pretty women! But who is that? A gaily-attired 
 youth, with a fiower in his button-hole, drove past in 
 a tandem. He was laughing to himself. He was in 
 love with someone. What was she like? He, no 
 doubt, was going to see her. Some of these vulgar 
 creatures — when they happened to have money — got 
 a great deal of amusement out of life. And he was 
 not at all bad-looking. Ah ! it was nice to be expect- 
 ing some fine young fellow to call and take you for a 
 drive. 
 
 '• 1 am getting very sick of this kind of thing ! " 
 she said to herself. 
 
 Richmond Park at last! It seemed more drear 
 than Lond(jn, A few Cockney equestrians were 
 cantering over the turf, but they were so plain and 
 ungainly that Anne glanced away, regardless of their 
 admiration. She told her coachman to drive towards 
 the Robin Hood (iatc. The air was chill and jicnc- 
 trating: a few deer were nibbling the green: the 
 gaunt trees, uncouth and many-armed, looked in the 
 fog like the black skeletons of deformed giants. At- 
 mosphere and sky were one ini])cnctral)le cloud : 
 the grass was patched by clumps (;f withered 
 ferns.
 
 ig2 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 She said to herself : 
 
 " Is this life ? Where is the fun ? " 
 
 She met a number of young men with dogs. The 
 women were probably at church. Church was all 
 very well . . . sometimes. Presently she got out 
 and walked. The way towards Kingston had more 
 charm : the mist had a bluer tone ; the trees were 
 more slender, more symmetrical, and the green moss 
 round their trunks, sparkling with dew, made her 
 think of emeralds set in diamonds. 
 
 The undulation in the road was pleasant: she 
 enjoyed the tramp up the hill, and began to grow 
 sentimental on the subject of dead Algernon and the 
 absent Warre. She tried to remember a certain 
 line of Browning's about ^^ Never tJie time, the place, 
 and the loved one being together,'' and was deeply 
 touched. Then she re-entered the carriage and 
 drove in a sullen apathy — looking neither toward 
 the right nor to the left — toward the Star and 
 Garter. 
 
 As she approached the building, her colour rose : 
 she scanned each window eagerly. There was no 
 one in sight. One could see nothing of the famous 
 view : two tall, bare poplar trees, like the sentinels 
 of Destiny, were all that was conspicuous. She felt 
 an unreasonable disappointment. Why had she been 
 feeling strange presentiments ? 
 
 She saw nothing on the way home, but thought
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. I93 
 
 vaguely of vague things. Once or twice she thought 
 she must be asleep and dreaming. 
 
 Was this life ? Where was the fun ? 
 
 These two questions were the clearest that she 
 asked herself that day. She asked them very often 
 and could find no acceptable answer.
 
 194 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A PRELUDE. 
 
 Anne had ordered for her luncheon several costly 
 delicacies and a bottle of champagne, because her 
 dear love was away and she felt so lonely. The 
 food and the fruit seemed delicious ; the wine g-ave 
 her a languorous content. In the afternoon she 
 drove out again, dressed up in a gorgeous new 
 pelisse, which was lined with the richest brocade 
 and trimmed with ermine. Her little bonnet was 
 made of ermine, too, and had a green parrot's wing, 
 studded with red glass rubies, on either side. She 
 was proud of her brilliant complexion and wore no 
 veil. She had added three false coils to her already 
 abundant hair. Everyone stared as her carriage 
 rolled by. 
 
 In Bond Street she saw a man whom she knew. 
 She had made his acquaintance at a City dinner 
 where she had sung, the year before. He had asked 
 to be presented to her on that occasion, and had 
 shown a disposition to encourage art. He was a
 
 AND LORD WICKEMIAM. 
 
 195 
 
 rich Australian. Should she bow now ? Their 
 glance met. He at once motioned to her coachman 
 to stop. Anne smiled at his audacity. 
 
 He was a man of that dashing type, which, 
 secretly, she most admired. He was tall; he had 
 bold eyes ; his clothes were like those of a fashion- 
 able comedian in the character of a Captain in the 
 Guards. Lifting his glistening hat, he displayed a 
 fine picturesque head and Hyperion curls. He took 
 her hand. 
 
 " Ah I " he murmured, with a meaning smile, 
 " why did you not write that time — as you prom- 
 ised ? " 
 
 " You see," she answered, " I married ! " 
 
 He was amazed. His look had said, as he sur- 
 veyed her carriage, " I was fully prepared to provide 
 for you quite as handsomely." 
 
 "Didn't you see it in the papers?" she asked. 
 " But perhaps you only know my professional ikiuic. 
 My father is Sir Hugh Delaware. My husband is 
 Dr. Warrc." 
 
 "Well, 1 never I" ejaculated her friend. "I am 
 sure I congratulate you. Sii- lluLrh Dcla\v;ii-e ! And 
 Warre — that's the swell on parahsis. lie has cured 
 one or two of my directors ! Sir Hugh Delaware! 
 What a world it is! Fancy meeting you here after 
 all these months! Talk about Fate! When can I 
 call anfl sec you ? "
 
 iq6 the gods, some mortals, 
 
 She had not intended this. He was not an ac- 
 quaintance she wished to encourage ; he was not 
 in a good set ; he had a common accent. But 
 then he was enormously rich : was married and 
 had four children. What could be more re- 
 spectable ? 
 
 "How is Mrs. Lumley Savage?" she asked, 
 kindly. 
 
 He pulled a mournful face. 
 
 " Ah, my poor wife ! " he said. " She has always 
 been delicate since our first boy was born, and the 
 last has destroyed her nerves altogether. We are 
 extremely anxious about her health." 
 
 " I must call on her," said Anne, with regal 
 graciousness. 
 
 " Do. She is always at home. She misses the 
 Australian climate. . . . But where do you hang 
 out ? Will you be in this afternoon ? " 
 
 " My husband is away," murmured Anne. 
 
 " So much the better," cried the gallant, with a 
 grin. " I am not coming to talk science ! Shall we 
 say five o'clock ? " 
 
 She nodded her head and stifled a laugh in her 
 muff. Savage coloured red from the force of his ad- 
 miration for her blue eyes. They rebuked . . . chal- 
 lenged . . . surrendered . . . and defied in one deep 
 twinkle. 
 
 " By Jove ! " said he.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. I97 
 
 She put down her muff and looked as demure as 
 his own little girl, aged four. 
 
 " At five," repeated Anne. 
 
 She bowed. He stepped back. The coachman 
 drove on.
 
 IC)8 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE UNLOVELY. 
 
 Warre returned on the morrow by a later train 
 than the one he had named on leaving, and Anne 
 walked, muttering, from room to room, awaiting his 
 arrival. When he came she ran to meet him in the 
 hall, and, as he crossed the threshold, screamed re- 
 proaches. What did this mean ? Why had he not 
 kept his word ? Who believed telegrams? Did he 
 think she was a fool ? She followed him into his 
 study. 
 
 She was not dressed so carefully as usual, but 
 looked a slattern in an old red velvet gown she 
 sometimes wore when she was not at home to call- 
 ers, or when she practised. Her face, distorted by 
 anger, resembled nothing human ; she had tangled 
 her hair into a mad disorder ; and her eyes, strug- 
 gling in their sockets, darted wildly from side to 
 side like strange living things of some existence 
 separate from her own. She was horrible to 
 look at.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 199 
 
 Warre picked up his letters ; she snatched them 
 from his hand. 
 
 " Put them down I " she said. " Listen to me ! 1 
 will be treated with respect ! " 
 
 She shouted ; she swore ; her words were fra- 
 grant with brandy. Warre wondered whether Al- 
 gernon Dane could have taught her the language she 
 used ; he had talked the slang of third-rate debauchees 
 — a jargon which is often nasty, but never robust. 
 
 " How did you spend the time yesterday ? " asked 
 Simon. 
 
 She had been for a drive. In the evening she 
 had attended service at Westminster Abbey. After 
 church she had gone to supper at the Savoy — with 
 some old friends. 
 
 " Who were they ? " 
 
 He had never heard her speak of them. They 
 were rich Colonials — Mr. and Mrs. Lumley Savage. 
 The wife was consumptive, poor thing, and had four 
 lovely children. The husband — OI he was a bore! 
 But why all these cjuestions ? She was not in the 
 witness-box I Perhaps he had better have her 
 watched by a detective. No doubt, he had already 
 taken that precaution. Saintly men and invalid 
 wives were usually sneaks and spies. With an 
 atrocious laugh, she drummed a tattoo on the tabic. 
 What did she care? What did il matter? She con- 
 tinued her abuse.
 
 200 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 The servants, with white looks, stood on the 
 kitchen stair-case to listen. In the end, Anne feigned 
 a swoon and sank on the floor. Warre waited for 
 her restoration to consciousness and endured her re- 
 lapse into maudlin remorse and hysterical affection. 
 A suspicion so horrible possessed him that he dared 
 not trust himself to ask her more about the yester- 
 day. 
 
 She sang ballads all that evening and called him 
 unsympathetic, because he did not seem to enjoy 
 her rendering of a song set to some lines by Swin- 
 burne : 
 
 " Let come what will, there is one thing worth. 
 To have had fair love in the life upon earth ; 
 To have held love safe till the day grew night, 
 While skies had colour and lips were red." 
 
 From that time forth, Anne apparently made no at- 
 tempt at self-control. She grew slovenly, yet more 
 extravagant ; bolder in her lies, and more regular in 
 her attendance at church ; more plausible in the 
 world, and more shameless at home ; every day she 
 indulged in some wild burst of temper ; she was too 
 passionate to be a mere shrew — her wrath was like a 
 stage storm — violent and abrupt, heralded by moon- 
 light and immediately followed by the noon-day sun. 
 The servants dreaded her step ; Warre suffocated in 
 her presence ; the house was a hell. Sarah now 
 called rarely, as she was much engrossed with the
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 20I 
 
 affairs of a hospital which she was having built at 
 Ventnor in memory of Algernon Dane. Anne, no 
 longer ambitious, collected together a group of 
 friends who only lived to be seen at the Savoy and 
 have it rumoured that someone paid their bills. 
 How gorgeously they dressed ! How loudly they 
 laughed ! And the women wore Court coiffures in 
 the style which is inseparably associated with the 
 Royal House in England. It was a world of Chris- 
 tian names and Pagan nakedness. Mrs. Lumley 
 Savage played the part of blind poodle, and followed 
 Anne with servile assiduity. She was a silly, vain, 
 vulgar, but harmless little creature, who felt aristo- 
 cratic sensations thrill through her moral being 
 whenever she remembered that Mrs. Warre was the 
 daughter of a baronet. She experienced an agree- 
 able awe in Anne's society ; copied her insolent man- 
 ners, her gaudy clothes, her large handwriting, her 
 bouncing gait, and, when they were in places of 
 amusement together, they talked, in languid but far- 
 reaching tones, of Tom, not the Duke of Drawne but 
 the Duke of Daleham, and poor Mary, who would marry 
 Lord de Trappe. They often went shopping together, 
 and then they found it a great pleasure to be stared 
 at by admiring footmen on the steps of Marshall »Sl 
 Snclgrove's. Warre could rarely spare his brougham 
 in the afternoon, so Anne always used "Nellie's" 
 carriage, which was yellow, and lined with satin and
 
 202 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 swung on C-springs. There were numerous brass 
 ornaments, like coronets, on the harness, and the 
 horses — who stepped so high that it took them an 
 hour to get round the park — wore bearing-reins and 
 ribbon rosettes. They looked like circus steeds, and 
 were rich in foam and froth ; they had been trained 
 to rear, to plunge, to toss their heads and paw the 
 ground. When Anne was in a great hurry she al- 
 most preferred a hansom. Lumley Savage himself 
 never came to Grosvenor Street ; Anne explained 
 that he was not a person who cared for society. He 
 was a man's man — a company promoter or something — 
 and entertained great City princes at a house in 
 Portman Square which he had hired, furnished, for 
 that purpose. His wife was always considered too 
 great an invalid to appear on these occasions : she 
 preferred to be seen at Mrs. Warre's, reclining on a 
 sofa and smiling at an endless train of politicians not 
 in Parliament ; musicians who could not play, writers 
 who never wrote, and handsome bachelors who never 
 married. Yet Anne's conduct was, in many respects, 
 irreproachable. She never flirted. It was owned 
 that of all young married women, she was the most 
 discreet with her admirers. She was considered 
 vain, but virtuous. 
 
 Ten months passed. As sailors drink sea-water 
 to cure their nausea, Warre read the ugliest litera- 
 ture, took his exercise in the dirtiest slums, and
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 203 
 
 brooded on the most repulsive aspects of disease. 
 Refinements of language jarred on his disappointed 
 ears : the obscene song which a boy had sung under 
 his window, on the day of his fatal marriage, seemed 
 the one great psalm in existence. C), had the time 
 gone for ever when he could step out and say, in 
 homely, uninspired commonplace : 
 
 " The day is clear, the sky is blue, the flowers smell sweet ! " 
 
 When it was dark, he would sometimes steal into 
 the Catholic Church in Farm Street, and rest there 
 undisturbed. He used to sit near the altar of Our 
 Lady of Lourdes, where he could see, at the end of 
 the aisle, another altar and the pendant lamps before 
 it. The odour of flowers, incense, melting wax, and 
 that something else like the scent of goodly fruit 
 stored away for the hungry winter, gave him a wel- 
 come. He felt that he was in some way expected, 
 that his place was set ready ; that there were loving 
 friends on every side who had been waiting, watch- 
 ing, longing for his approach. And while he could 
 stay there, in his small, unmolested corner, it seemed 
 that neither sorrow nor pain, hopes overthrown nor 
 miseries multij)lied, could ever harm him more. 
 The little silver hearts which lumg in a case by the 
 altar had each some story to !( 11 of ;i f.iithful vow. 
 And should he be faithless ! He forgot his own nar- 
 row grief as he mused on the great sufferings of
 
 204 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 men, who, if human joys were given to truth and 
 honour, deserved every perfect gift. It seemed to 
 him that his own aims had been common and selfish ; 
 he felt an ineffable humiliation before the symbols of 
 martyrdom which gave the walls of that sacred place 
 a vivid pathos. His ways were pure because his na- 
 ture was chivalrous, but his life was worldly : his 
 youthful ambition had been to make money and 
 fame, to marry a beautiful wife ; he had loved pass- 
 ing well the pleasures of earth, fair women, wealth, 
 and the luxuries wealth alone can promise. How 
 much had he done or endured just for righteousness' 
 sake? 
 
 The peace Warre found in these exalted moments 
 at church only made his own hearth seem a more 
 sordid reality — a wilder disillusion. We do not 
 think of our deserts, but of our unfulfilled desires, 
 when existence looks desolate. 
 
 He decided that it was not suicide to perish from 
 overwork. He undertook the duties of two men 
 and performed them with the energy of three. His 
 colleagues often named his probable successor. He 
 was not yet thirty, and he looked old. He began 
 to stoop : his tread was swift — not with eagerness 
 — but with the desperation of a hunted creature. 
 What was the matter with Warre ? Did he ever 
 laugh now? ever sleep? ever rest? how long could 
 he last? Women said that he was wretched at
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 20$ 
 
 home : some of them tried to make his existence 
 happier by blushing into it. More than one pretty 
 romantic soul gave him glances which would have 
 melted an anchorite. But had he cared for the con- 
 solations of patchouli, was not Anne herself the fair- 
 est of false lights o' love ? And he still possessed 
 some influence over her heart: corrupt as she was, 
 she would have been baser without him. She had 
 woven fear, love and hatred into one dense passion, 
 which, had he loved her in return, would soon have 
 become hate only. 
 
 T4
 
 2o6 'l'"E GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WICKENHAM. 
 
 One day in December, Simon received a letter 
 from Wickenham. It was dated from the English 
 Embassy at Rome, where he was a guest. Anne 
 looked over Warre's shoulder as he read it and 
 clapped her hands. 
 
 " So he is coming to town at last," she said. 
 " Now we shall see a change! But what a year I 
 have spent ! I am sure I deserve a little amuse- 
 ment ! If you observe the workings of Providence, 
 you will generally find them fair." 
 
 Her ambition revived ; she began to hate Mrs. 
 Lumley Savage. 
 
 The day his lordship called, Anne received him 
 in the drawing-room, where she sat with a crystal 
 vase of orchids on the table by her side, and, behind 
 her head, a cushion embroidered with peacock's 
 feathers. Her gown was of silk the colour of honey, 
 and worked with beads which looked like precious 
 stones : the belt glittered with arrows and serpents,
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 20/ 
 
 Stars and crescents, turquoise, opal, and amethyst 
 pins and clasps. Rings shone on her fingers and a 
 comb of paste diamonds in her hair. Warre had not 
 yet returned from the hospital. She told Wicken- 
 ham about her social disappointments with a naive 
 and childish petulance which amused him. He 
 thought her silly yet beautiful, and felt that she was, 
 on the whole, a victim to feminine malice. 
 
 "Saxon women," he said, " are very good to their 
 men, but they are brutal to each other." 
 
 She fell into that familiar tone which members of 
 the same caste, calling, or family instinctively adopt 
 when they are alone together. 
 
 " Make them nice to me," she said, with tears in 
 her voice. " I do so want to be liked ! My disposi- 
 tion is friendly. I love the life of show and hospi- 
 tality : I was born for it. The wife of a professional 
 man cannot be foolishly exclusive : I have to enter- 
 tain many people whom I could scarcely ask even 
 my own relatives to meet ! I think it most unjust, 
 however, for my set to abandon me merely because I 
 have to be civil — in my husband's interest — to out- 
 siders. Simon says nothing, but, I assure you, he 
 feels it deeply. His pride is hurt : the unkindncss I 
 have received has made him ill. You will sec the 
 change in him at once. I am so anxious . . . about 
 his health." 
 
 Her lips quivered: one little fcjot, in its lace
 
 2o8 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 Stocking and golden slipper nervously tapped the 
 ground. 
 
 "Could I speak like this?" she said, "could I 
 mention these slights ... if I were not driven to it 
 by worry? After all, what do I care for society? 
 Of course, it is pleasant to meet refined and cultured 
 minds — to associate with one's equals. I am young, 
 too. Is it a crime to enjoy a dance or a dinner with 
 men and women who take my point of view for 
 granted : who think, feel, and believe as I do ? I get 
 so tired of explaining life to middle-class intellects ! 
 I always feel as though I talked Greek, and they 
 only knew Dutch, and we were trying to sing a 
 French duet ! Yet I could bear isolation, ennui, any- 
 thing, if only Simon would look happy. But he does 
 not. It is his nature to feel more for others than 
 they feel for themselves. For every scratch I have 
 been given he has two scars ! He seems to think 
 that I resigned a — a brilliant future to marry him. 
 But what did it matter to me what his position was? 
 or his family? or his mother's unfortunate m6salli- 
 ance ? My parents, certainly, disapproved of my 
 marriage : Mama is old-fashioned — she is a true 
 Pavenham. She cannot forget the uncle who has a 
 draper's shop. Have you ever seen him? Is he 
 hopeless? I am so glad that he lives at Scarbor- 
 ough ! " 
 
 " I have met him," said Wickenham, gruffly.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 209 
 
 " He is a quiet, unpretentious sort of fellow . . . 
 certainly presentable. But in any case I should stick 
 up for him because he has behaved so awfully well 
 to Warre ! " 
 
 Anne leant forward, with a flattering and eager 
 admiration in her regard. 
 
 " Ah I " she cried, " if all men and women were as 
 generous as you and my dear Simon ! But they are 
 not : they make the most ill-natured remarks." 
 
 " What can it matter what a cad thinks ? " said his 
 lordship. " I never trouble about 'em. Let 'em say 
 what the)' like about Warre or Warre's uncle. The 
 only people who listen to 'em are other cads. No 
 friend of mine has ever even mentioned the — the 
 Scarborough relative. And, as a matter of fact, he 
 can't be called a regular shopkeeper. The shop is 
 so large ! It's almost wholesale. I should be very 
 glad if one of my Irish cousins could — could get 
 hold of something half as good. I shouldn't mind a 
 bit. Lord Blarney, my mother's nephew, sells mut- 
 ton — thin, stringy stuff — and he can't make it pay. 
 My housekeeper makes an awful row when I ask her 
 to get her meat from Blarney. But you must be 
 loyal to your (jwn I " lie gave her an odd glance 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " I wish," she said, prettily, " I had always known 
 someone who could . . . scold me . . . like this . . . 
 and make mc feel a mean, sickly little snob."
 
 2IO IHE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 With a bewitching gesture she covered her rosy 
 cheeks with her two white hands. Wickenham 
 wished to dislike her, but could not. He had heard 
 about her vulgarity, her extravagant frocks, her loud 
 style, her fast companions, from the Duchess of Wark 
 and other lady friends. He saw why few women 
 would care for her. He felt that no man could find 
 it possible to judge her severely. She had irresisti- 
 ble charms. True, her gown was startling, but the 
 whole effect was picturesque and oriental. Possibly 
 one would not like one's wife to look so — brilliant, 
 but that was a personal fad. It went for nothing. 
 
 " I have not scolded you ! " he replied. 
 
 " You spoke from your heart." 
 
 " I really forget what I said. Wasn't it some- 
 thing about Blarney's mutton?" 
 
 " You have helped me so much — made so much 
 that was difficult, easy ! " 
 
 " Good Lord ! " he ejaculated. 
 
 He looked about him, and then said, gravely : 
 
 " How does Wiggin answer as a footman ? " 
 
 Wiggin was the son of one of his pensioners at 
 Weyborough. He asked fatherly questions about 
 this youth till Warre came in. 
 
 Anne left the two friends together. 
 
 They seemed to have little to add after the first 
 common questions had been warmly asked and re- 
 plied to, but, with furtive, curious glances, each
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 21I 
 
 scanned the other's face. Both men had changed 
 since their last meeting. Warre was still handsome : 
 his eyes still shone with their peculiar piercing bril- 
 liancy. He had aged, however, and was sallow ; his 
 mouth wore the hard bit of a continual self-restraint. 
 Wickenham looked well : the breezy air of patrician 
 indifference which had once kept his humanity too 
 cool had now more of the sun and less of the world 
 and its dust : his innate kindness had mellowed into 
 courteousness : his innate seriousness, into a glad 
 serenity. 
 
 " I wonder you left the South," said Warre, at 
 last : " it is such a bad time to come back. How 
 long were you in Rome? " 
 
 " Three weeks. Shanklin makes an excellent 
 Ambassador, and Lady Shanklin is delightful. But 
 then her great-grandmother was not English : that is 
 why she understands that a grande dame should be 
 distinguished for small talk ! I am not very keen 
 about our Northern women. They arc so bleak. 
 They can bow down to a superior and be gracious 
 with the poor, but there is not one in a hundred who 
 knows how to behave towards her equals. It is a 
 touch of the gypsy — a drop of alien blood, or a hint 
 of the Celt— that tells ! " 
 
 Warre sighed. Wickenham continued : 
 
 " Your friciul, Count Vendramini, dined with us 
 several times. He spoke rather coldly of you, and
 
 212 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 said you had not written once since your marriage. 
 How's that? I suppose you have had so much to 
 do. He saw your signature attached to all the Duke 
 of Hothenstein's bulletins, so he knew you were 
 alive ! Vendramini's daughter," he added, in an- 
 other tone, " is considered one of the Roman beau- 
 ties. She refused Prince Alberoni last month, I 
 admire her spirit. It would have been a brilliant 
 marriage — considered socially — for any woman. But 
 she is unlike others ... I should not have left Rome 
 if she had not been leaving it too, this week." 
 
 He paused. His lordship was not a man to be- 
 tray his thoughts when he wished to conceal them. 
 He spoke now with a marked deliberation. 
 
 " She is coming to spend the winter in London 
 with her god-mother, Lady Ralston of Braddyck. 
 She lives at Morne House, near Kew." 
 
 He stood up, walked away, and came back again. 
 
 " I am not sentimental, as you know," said he, 
 " but I feel as though all my happiness depended on 
 ... on someone else. I am awfully hard hit ! " 
 
 It was growing dark : Wickenham could not see 
 the pallor of Warre's face. And he was pale him- 
 self from striving to speak without passion of this 
 new so passionate interest in life. 
 
 " I am awfully hard hit ! " he said again, " I won- 
 der why you never mentioned her. She is so beauti- 
 ful."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 213 
 
 " As I remember her," said Warre, like one in a 
 dream, "she had dark hair and eyes." 
 
 " Black hair and large brown eyes." 
 
 " Her features were delicate." 
 
 "Sweet!" 
 
 " Is her face a shade too pale ? " 
 
 " It is like a magnolia." 
 
 " I thought her a little too slight." 
 
 " Would you have a girl of nineteen look like one 
 of Rubens's wives ? " 
 
 " She was very shy ! " 
 
 " I love her modesty. Oh, Warre, she is the only 
 woman I can marry ! If she says No to me — and 
 why should she say Yes? — I shall never think of 
 anyone else. 1 should not even feel tempted to think 
 of anyone else. That is always the way when you 
 meet the one true queen. Even if she passes you by, 
 you can never again be happy with mere usurpers. 
 I'm a loyal subject, Simon. I serve but one mis- 
 tress, and she must be the king's daughter! Do 
 you remember our old talks ? " 
 
 "IIo! ho!" laughed Warre. "Ha! ha! We 
 were philosophers in those days. I was the Stoic 
 and you, ' the wiser Epicurean.' We read Plato, and 
 Homer, and Newman, and Rabelais, and Montaigne, 
 and a fine nourishing soup we made of them all ! 
 What have we 7wt read, you and I ? And what has 
 it done for us, Wick? I am jiatching dead lives and
 
 214 "^^^^ GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 you want to marry a wife ! Ho ! ho ! ha ! ha ! the 
 man in the street has a better time than either 
 of us." 
 
 The servant entered with the tea-things and 
 spread out upon a table fantastic porcelain cups of 
 richest gilt. The tray was of beaten copper ; the 
 little kettle, of silver picked out with brass; the 
 small tea-pot, the jug for the cream, and the bowl 
 which held the sugar were each of gold, enamelled 
 with strange designs in crimson and green. 
 
 When these were arranged, the man drew the 
 violet silk curtains across the window, and set a low 
 chair of quaintly-carved ivory and bright purple 
 cushions for Anne. How unreal, unsubstantial, 
 brittle it all seemed! Was it a scene that could 
 last ? Must it not perish soon, and fade away 
 utterly like a vision in the night? Would the silk 
 bear the dust of one year ? Would those toys — 
 those trifles in silver and gold — endure even water 
 too hot, or a hand less light than Anne's ? 
 
 The wind howled through the house with a thrill- 
 ing grief ; and, in response, the woodwork seemed 
 to murmur its remembrance of forest-sounds. The 
 room was surely filled with creeping things which 
 hissed, flying things which stung, faces which leered 
 and mocked, bats' wings, and the hoot of owls. 
 
 The door opened. Anne came in. 
 
 "How dark it is!" she exclaimed, and as she
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM, 215 
 
 spoke turned light into the many opal lamps which 
 hung on the wall. 
 
 She made the tea ; she talked. Lord Wickenham 
 thought her good company. They did not miss 
 Warre's voice ; he sat back in his corner, thinking, 
 and was silent. 
 
 He had always told himself that Allegra must 
 marry ; but now that the possibility looked so cer- 
 tain, all that was human in his affection for her arose. 
 Jealousy gnawed at his heart with cruel fangs, and 
 life seemed to beat upon his soul, like those harsh 
 waves, which, on a rocky coast, bear a burden of 
 blinding sand and small sharp stones. He was cold 
 —ice-cold from head to foot, and when he held out 
 his hands to the blazing coal, he only caught what 
 seemed the North wind breathing down the chim- 
 ney. The fire was as chill as the glitter of Anne's 
 jewels. 
 
 To meet Allegra face to face again ; he not free, 
 and she perhaps loving another. What anguish on 
 earth could be so cruel as that ? The day had long 
 passed when he could smile in bitter self-contempt 
 at this one romantic passion in his history. Absence, 
 distance, and the hopelessness of it all had only lifted 
 it higher than common things, till, like a spirit set 
 free from the cage of the world, it flew on unwearied 
 pinions through endless sky, and, because unwearied, 
 seeking no rest— no final halting-place. On, on for
 
 2i6 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 ever : more than content with its gift of perpetual 
 energy — its perpetual release from the sorrow which 
 makes happiness look too tempting, and from the 
 happiness, which, once tasted, gives every sorrow 
 the flavour of a death potion. 
 
 But Warre was a man, and young ; he had too 
 strong and too intense a nature to meet AUegra day 
 by day and maintain self-mastery. Would the hope- 
 lessness always seem so hopeless ? Would the bar- 
 rier between them look so dense when hand touched 
 hand ? Would her eyes, as he drew near, be less 
 like clouds of night and more like those of a woman 
 he dearly loved ? He feared the ordeal before hand. 
 There must be no love in his life — no wife. But 
 work, and only work, until the end. How hard to 
 remember that at nine-and-twenty ! 
 
 Anne went to the piano. She played well when 
 music was the only possible outlet for her emotions. 
 She began to strike out chords which Warre had 
 never heard before. Then they broke, like waves 
 within waves, into melodies and counter-melodies. 
 And as he listened, he thought of meadows where 
 lovely flowers grew and of sunshiny orchards ; gar- 
 dens where young girls were laughing, chatting, 
 dancing, pelting each other with primrose balls in 
 the moonlight ; knights in armour rushed past him 
 on white horses, and he met Death, who was grave, 
 with folded wings ; and he met Youth, who was
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 217 
 
 cross-gftrtered, tall, and comely, who sucked an 
 orange while he read his lesson-book ; and he met 
 Love, whose feet were white and spotless, though the 
 road was black with mire, and whose face was like 
 the dawn, although the evening was come. The 
 wind ! how it moaned ! And the rain never ceased ! 
 Mist, darkness, and yet a choir chanting in the dis- 
 tance ; the odour of incense and the sweet breath of 
 pure air and Spring; the little laugh of water when 
 it strikes a pebbly shore ; the thrill of a brook run- 
 ning through fields to the sea ; the sound of many 
 wings in the air, and then — Anne singing : — 
 
 " Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done. 
 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages ; 
 Golden lads and girls all must, 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 
 " Fear no more the frown 0' the great, 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
 Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
 
 To thee the reed is as the oak : 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 _" Fear no more the lij^ditning-flash. 
 
 Nor the ail-drcaded tiiuiidcr-stone : 
 Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
 
 Thou hast finish'd joy and moan : 
 All lovers young, all lovers must 
 Consign to thcc, and come to dust."
 
 2i8 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE UNSPOKEN. 
 
 Three days later AUegra arrived in London. 
 Anne was disappointed in the fit of a new cloak, 
 and, affecting a nervous headache, made that an ex- 
 cuse for not accompanying Warre when he called at 
 Lady Ralston's. He was sorry. The dreaded meet- 
 ing would have been less dangerous — if more humil- 
 iating in Anne's presence. Had it been possible he 
 would have avoided the renewal — which politeness 
 now made obligatory — of his friendship with Count 
 Vendramini's daughter. She rested in his memory 
 like one whom he had passionately loved, but who 
 no longer lived, and for whose loss he had spent the 
 uttermost that was human and could suffer in his 
 nature. If, after many years, the dead we have 
 broken our hearts for could return to us — what 
 should we say to them? What should we offer? 
 Words which are only sounds, the arid stain of tears 
 once shed, a teeming love drilled into a barren mis- 
 ery, arms which have clasped thin air too long to
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 219 
 
 know how to embrace a friend. " Go back," one 
 would say, "go back! I have forgotten how to be 
 glad. I cannot welcome ye ; I have nothing to say 
 to ye." And perhaps they would leave us, and, as 
 they disappeared again from our blind sight, we 
 should feel again in our inanimate lives the old ache 
 and agony, the torturing pulse of human grief. 
 This, then, was the state of mind in which Warre 
 found himself now that etiquette — that card-board 
 goddess of peace — tripped into his sorrow, as she 
 always must, when we would have our tragedy au- 
 sterely tragic. Simon had trained himself to think 
 of Allegra — when he thought of her at all — not as a 
 creature of flesh and blood — but as an influence to 
 which he was wedded. Some men took the Church ; 
 some — Poverty for their bride ; he had chosen ideal 
 Love in the person of a living woman — just as Dante 
 long ago had chosen Beatrice. Such a form of men- 
 tal devotion is far more common than the married 
 mortal passion which seems more general ; but one 
 belongs to the world invisible, the language of si- 
 lence, the hidden being of a man : the other is evi- 
 dent, talkative, and, like the saint who prays in the 
 market-place, it has its reward in the fact that it is a 
 public profession — a privilege and a bliss known and 
 observed by all who pass by. 
 
 As Simon drove towards Kew, he tried to read 
 the Lancet and the Ti))us ; but although his eyes fol-
 
 220 I^IIE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 lowed the print, its sense merely droned in his mind 
 like the murmur of flies by a whirling river. Now 
 his heart seemed to faint from the pinch of death ; 
 now it woke and throbbed with the pain of life. 
 When he asked himself, Why? — hot tears burnt up 
 his laughter. When he said, " You are a sentimental 
 fool ! " — the sharp knife of despair cut his breath. 
 One sudden pang — more cruel than the rest — made 
 him cry out. A moment later he was wondering — 
 "Did that really hurt so much?" Sorrow broke 
 him on her wheel. " This," he said, " is overwork ! 
 I must go into the country ! " 
 
 And so he suffered and so he endeavoured to use 
 his reason. 
 
 When love and wisdom fight there is always an 
 open grave between them, and the vanquished is 
 buried, under light leaves, alive. Both are immor- 
 tal ; both are invulnerable ; there never is — there 
 never can be — a victory, but one will sometimes grow 
 tired and feign a surrender. 
 
 Some street musicians were playing the bride- 
 groom's song from a new light opera. It was a joy- 
 ous tune, giddy in strain but slow of measure. 
 Warre knew the words ; students and patients 
 hummed them at the hospital. Night rhymed with 
 bright ; one parted never and loved for ever ; the re- 
 frain was all about flowers and bowers, and I am com- 
 ing, my sweet, to thee ! The toiling, solitary youth-
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 221 
 
 fulness in Warre rose up in wild rebellion ; that vul- 
 gar song told of the common joys which are given to 
 make work possible. He had not slept well for many 
 nights ; he was rarely in bed before twelve, and he 
 rose at seven ; he was worrying about the domestic 
 troubles of one of his colleagues ; he suspected Anne 
 of deceit and many things worse ; debts were accu- 
 mulating ; he had endorsed a friend's bill for a large 
 amount, and the friend had made bad investments. 
 These money affairs alone were a constant fret. Oh, 
 the weariness of it all ! If he could only sleep — for 
 a little while. 
 
 " Courage," he said to himself, " courage ! " He 
 set his face into the iron restraint which people not 
 knowing his secret troubles mistook for pride — for 
 hardness. What a pity it was, they would say, that 
 Dr. Warre was so hard. 
 
 The portico of Morne House was supported by 
 four Doric pillars, and on either side, an inappropri- 
 ate addition of bricks and mortar, cut into three long 
 windows, jutted far enough from the original struc- 
 ture to form a balcony. The carriage-drive was 
 moss-grown ; the small but thickly planted shrubs 
 which concealed each wing of the low mansion gave it 
 a pinched — a shrunken aspect. The old servant who 
 drew back the bolted doors was thin, cold, wheez- 
 ing, and shabby. His nose, the tip of his chin, and 
 
 the strained skin of his forehead were red, and lie 
 15
 
 222 'I'lIE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 moved his shoulders as though his coat were chilling 
 rather than a protection. Warre followed him 
 though the hall, whose walls had that old-fashioned 
 papering, which, varnished, is believed to resemble 
 yellow marble. Here and there a magenta dampness 
 shone out like a rich vein of rare mineral, and two 
 plaster bas-reliefs, one, of Bacchus with nymphs, and 
 the other, of Ariadne forsaken, were the sole decora- 
 tions. But the bronze figure of an unbeautiful god- 
 dess stood at the foot of the staircase, supporting 
 three unlit gas-jets on her crown, beckoning nowhere 
 with one stern hand, and holding metal flowers in 
 the other. 
 
 Simon found himself alone in the saloon. He 
 saw many hard green velvet chairs, and smelt wild 
 violets. A bunch of them stood in a little silver 
 bowl on the " Davenport." AUegra must have gath- 
 ered them, he thought. Their fragrance told the 
 sweetness of her touch. At first he stood near the 
 fire, and stared at the mantelpiece, which was held 
 up by two marble divinities, whose limbs grew into a 
 column, whose hands were apples, and whose breasts 
 were true-lovers' knots. They looked straight out 
 into futurity with iris-less eyes, monuments of un- 
 pitying and unpitiful patience. The polished floor 
 had grown dim, and the small rugs which warmed 
 it looked frayed and faded. Dull satin striped with 
 silk of a dingier tone hung on the walls. The ceiling
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 223 
 
 was embossed with semi-circles, scrolls, and fleurs- 
 de-lys in gilt. A large glass chandelier with glitter- 
 ing lustres hung in the middle, and was reflected in 
 two of the four long narrow mirrors which divided 
 each window. Outside there was a stone verandah, 
 where leafless vines were shivering in the wind. 
 Then came a gravel path, and then a stretch of lawn 
 studded with empty urns, a few green bushes, and 
 spreading fir trees. Beyond these was a paddock, 
 where a few sheep were grazing ; and beyond that, a 
 row of tall, bare elms, where the rooks had built 
 their nests, and were cawing, cawing, flying hither 
 and yon — black omens of good luck. The clouds in 
 the distance seemed one with earth — a far-off country 
 of high white hills — unpeopled and desolate. As 
 Warre watched he heard a light footstep in the hall. 
 He turned his back to the light, and when Allegra 
 entered she could not see his face. But the glance 
 of her eyes swept through him as though she were a 
 skilled musician, and his heart a lute. She lived ! 
 She moved ! She was no longer the bride of his 
 sentiment, but bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh, 
 and soul of his soul. He trembled under the stress 
 of that silent, unheard speech, that passionate, word- 
 less language, which only finds utterance in the cry of 
 the winds, and the tumult of the sea, and the falling 
 of rain and sicct, or in the singing, buzzing, piping 
 melodies oi amorous Nature. Men and women alone
 
 224 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 have no eloquence when they love. Oh, why was it 
 not possible to take her in his arms and say : 
 
 " What has the zvorld to give vie ivhile I have you ? 
 Wlien you are absent, my beloved, I am blind, my day is 
 darkness and my life is death ; my hopes are all fare- 
 wells, and my ambition is a mad bird with neither ivings 
 nor 7iotesy 
 
 But instead he took her hand, which was so frail, 
 so gentle, that he seemed to be holding a ray of the 
 sun — nothing more, and said : 
 
 " I hope you are not feeling tired after your long 
 journey ? How is the Count ? " 
 
 " He is quite well," she answered. 
 
 Then, half in tears, she added, against her will : 
 
 " My dear Simon ! My dear, dear Simon, how 
 glad it makes me to see you again ! Come and sit 
 by the fire. My godmother is asleep just now. 
 When she wakes they will call us. We have so many 
 things to tell each other. Your marriage ! It is so 
 hard to think of you — in love ! " 
 
 "Why?" he said flippantly. "I have been in 
 love a dozen times ! " 
 
 The tenderest of women can be cruel to a back- 
 ward lover. 
 
 " A dozen times means never at all," said Allegra. 
 " I see you know nothing about it ! " 
 
 " You have never understood me." 
 
 " Nor have you ever understood me."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 225 
 
 " Yet we are friends." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 She was no longer the almost foolishly shy little 
 girl of his days in Rome. 
 
 Warre was astonished at her self-possession, and 
 chose to feel bitter — attributing the change to the 
 fact that she had refused Prince Alberoni. Women 
 were all alike, he thought. Even their virtues came 
 to them through vanity. If Allegra seemed less 
 proud, less distant, it was merely because she felt 
 more sure of her power. Had he forgotten her 
 beauty, or had she a new fascination? Her eyes 
 were of softer depth : her mouth had lost its rather 
 too prim precision, and her delicate figure had a 
 charm it lacked before. The schoolroom dress was 
 now a Parisian gown, blue lisse over dark green cloth ; 
 its effect made him think of a flower he had never 
 seen. Her fine, black hair was coquettishly dressed ; 
 she had her own girlish grace, and with it that cap- 
 tivating worldliness of air which is so delicious a de- 
 fect on an innocent countenance, and which is the 
 most dangerous charm of a modish sinner. . . . 
 
 " Of course, we are friends," repeated Allegra ; 
 " but I have sometimes thought that I may have 
 seemed rather unkind when you were with us in 
 Rome, And when you sent me the rosary 1 wrote 
 you a thankless letter," 
 
 Her face burned, but she continued :
 
 226 I^HE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 " It was because we were so poor . . . and papa 
 so often asked you why you did not marry ! He 
 says the same thing to Lord Wickenham, And I am 
 proud. . . . When a man has money or a good posi- 
 tion, he rarely believes that any woman's . . . 
 friendship ... is disinterested. I almost wish that 
 every man I knew was married ! I dare not be pleas- 
 ant to a bachelor ! " 
 
 She laughed as she spoke, but her fingers clasped 
 each other painfully. 
 
 " Papa has arranged to let the Palace to the Cav- 
 ernakes till the spring, and he has gone into partner- 
 ship with an American who has a patent blacking — 
 Belton's Bezonian Blacking ! It is written all over 
 Rome, and on Sunday afternoons they have bicycle 
 races at the Borghese Villa between Belton's Bezo- 
 nian and Barton's Elixir ! Papa was never so happy 
 in his life. He says he is making a fortune, and he 
 hopes to be appointed Ambassador. He always 
 wanted to represent Italy at the English Court. 
 Poor papa ! His American partner is a gentleman ; 
 he used to be the First Secretary of the United States 
 Embassy in London ! When he and papa are not 
 writing advertisements, they talk about Art and re- 
 ligion, and play Poker! At first, I did not care for 
 the blacking, but boots must be blacked, and there 
 are a lot of boots ! It seems a very honest way of 
 earning money . . . and it is nice not to be a pauper.
 
 AND LORD WICK EN HAM. 22/ 
 
 At one time I thought it would mean perfect con- 
 tentment. But it doesn't. I have prettier clothes to 
 wear, and my friends are more glad to see me . . . 
 that is all." 
 
 Ah, why could she not speak out and tell of those 
 days of grief, and loneliness, and cutting tears which 
 had followed his departure from Rome? Why could 
 she not say ? — 
 
 " Voii are the only one I love ; I can never love any 
 other. Oil, I believe you love me, in spite of your coldness 
 and your silence I I believed it even whe?i you left me, 
 atid we looked at each other without words. But I have 
 thought of yo7i . . . always . . . always. I have stood 
 at my window when all Rome was asleep, and held out 
 my arms and said, ' Shall I never see you again ? Why 
 do you not come to me f Why will you not understand ? 
 Must I always be nothing to you . . . nothing? Oh, this 
 foolish pride ! Is it stronger than love ? And this money 
 piled Jip between us ? Is it a mountain of brass ? Why 
 are you not poor, or why am I not rich ? ' / am no longer 
 a little girl, my dearest. I have thought and suffered and 
 wept since we last met, I have learnt to be alone — alone 
 with my own troubles, my otvn doubts, misgivings, a?id 
 cares ; alone with my own laughter, my own sorrow, my 
 own follies. Ihtt I will live true to my love, and so die in 
 it that even Death will say, ' This woman has been faith- 
 ful to her heart's one king ! ' " 
 
 But it was not possible to say this, and Al-
 
 228 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 legra sat thinking sad things and laughing mer- 
 rily. 
 
 " I suppose," said Warre, " you intend to pass a 
 friv^olous winter ?" 
 
 No, she wished to be quiet. Her godmother was 
 an old lady, who had spent half a century remember- 
 ing four months of idyllic happiness. She was at 
 once the torment and the angel of three parishes : to 
 know her goodness one had to be suffering from 
 poverty or an incurable disease. She had not a civil 
 word for the prosperous. Allegra intended to de- 
 vote herself to Lady Ralston's charities and missions. 
 She had already ordered a pair of thick boots ! 
 
 As Allegra talked, she drew her chair nearer the 
 fire. Her slim, small foot, shod in silk and bronze 
 kid, rested on the fender. There were little ruffles 
 that looked like autumn leaves on the inch of under- 
 petticoat which showed when she moved. Simon 
 remembered Wickenham's once remarking that 
 when virtue ceased to be dowdy, vice would lose all 
 its allurement. He could imagine no Circe half so 
 dangerous as this innocent witch of nineteen, whose 
 deadliest art was an instinct for dainty attire. 
 
 Their conversation fell into that homely strain 
 which is so sweet to men and women who live the 
 greater part of their day in public, meeting friends 
 who are the friends of some one else, murmuring 
 artificial opinions on artificial subjects.
 
 AND LORD VVICKENHAM. 
 
 229 
 
 " I think you have been working too hard," said 
 Allegra suddenly. 
 
 " Oh no. If I were not constantly occupied I 
 could not live at all." 
 
 Allegra grew pale, put out her hand as though 
 she would touch him, and then drew it back. 
 
 " Don't say that ! " she said. " Think of the 
 women who have no work to keep them constantly 
 occupied, and still — must live ! " 
 
 It seemed to him that he could never again look 
 away from her face. How beautiful the modelling 
 of her cheeks, the transparent, fragile skin, the 
 chiselled nose, the modest, silent mouth. She was 
 neither witty nor brilliant. She had very little to 
 say, because she spoke truth only. She was too 
 gentle, too timid to make memorable remarks. 
 Sometimes she showed a fairy's sense of humour, 
 and sometimes a woman's untaught wisdom ; but she 
 did not know when she was amusing, and she would 
 have been frightened had she guessed she could be 
 profound. Allegra's charm was the charm of 
 Spring-time anrl love; all the kind promises, the 
 sunshine, the light, the tenderness, tiie warmth, the 
 graciousncss of Nature — none of her inexorable jus- 
 tice, her logical cruelty. 
 
 " I do not think you could argue well if you 
 tried ! " said Warrc. " I don't believe you know 
 anything aljout anything ! "
 
 230 'I'lIK GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 And he laughed as he had not laughed for 
 months. How he loved her ! 
 
 " I believe," he went on, " that you could be 
 sweetly unreasonable — that you could be perfectly 
 absurd ! " 
 
 He enjoyed making these commonplace, brother- 
 ly observations. Did they not signify a kind of inti- 
 macy ? Did they not give him an excuse to watch 
 her expressive countenance. She was not at all 
 pleased: she said he was not to tease her: she be- 
 came adorably cross. Her dark eyes flashed : colour 
 swept into her face. Not reasonable ! Absurd ? 
 Not know anything about anything ? She was read- 
 ing Dante and Shakespeare and Lord Rosebery's 
 Life of Pitt. 
 
 " Pitt," said Warre. '' Why Pitt ? " 
 
 She blushed. Lord Wickenham had given her 
 this extremely interesting work. He was teaching 
 her English politics. Warre became more reserved, 
 and, with a deep sigh, remarked that Wick was a 
 fine fellow. Allegra replied that Lord Shanklin 
 had called him a very comijtg vian. Some one else 
 at the English Embassy had said that he was Mar- 
 cus Aurelius — without the naughty wife. What did 
 that mean ? 
 
 " Everybody wants him to marry," said Simon. 
 
 He glanced at her as he spoke. She was looking 
 into the fire.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 231 
 
 " I don't want him to marry," she said at length ; 
 *' he is one of my friends. It makes me jealous when 
 my friends marry. I suffer." 
 
 " Have you not forgiven me . . . then ? " he 
 asked, pretending to jest. 
 
 She, too, pretended to jest, and said lightly : 
 
 "No. I still suffer: I am still jealous : I still re- 
 member the day your letter came . . . telling . . ." 
 
 His tone grew more careless, but his voice trem- 
 bled. 
 
 " It must have been a very stupid letter." 
 
 Their eyes met. 
 
 " Tell me," she said, looking down, " tell me why 
 you did it ? Did you love her ... so much ? Was 
 she so very pretty ? " 
 
 " Yes . . . she is very pretty." 
 
 " Ah ! . . . Well, I am not pretty. I may not be 
 plain, but ... do you think I am plain ? I fancy 
 I am better looking than I was . . . when you last 
 saw mc. That makes me feel rather happy ! I did 
 not get so jealous as I could, because ... I was 
 afraid it would make me ugly ! I did not wish you 
 to feel quite sure when we met that you had been 
 wise to forget me. I wanted to look my best to-day. 
 Do I?" 
 
 However unwise it may be to play the coquette 
 after twenty, a maiden in her teens may follow this 
 indiscreet instinct in the certain assurance of a full
 
 232 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 absolution. Women have but one manner when 
 they wish to be admired, and they all have a longing 
 for admiration — in some cases, of one man only, in 
 other cases, of all men. Allegra was an innocent 
 Anne ; Anne was a vicious Allegra. Warre, who had 
 been growing clear-sighted in these subtle distinc- 
 tions since his marriage, now knew why he had first 
 been drawn towards Anne, and why he must always 
 love the young girl who now seemed so far away 
 from his every-day existence. It was the Eve in 
 both — the loving, inconsequent, tearful, smiling, err- 
 ing, unphilosophic, deliciously human Eve ! 
 
 " You will be enchanting always," he said, " if 
 you steer clear of Pitt ! Jealousy will not work half 
 so much mischief with your complexion as one po- 
 litical argument. Read poetry and the New Testa- 
 ment, and have a flower garden. Don't go to the 
 theatre ! Don't go to picture galleries ! Don't look 
 at the newspapers ! Don't be well informed, dear ! " 
 
 " That is what Lord Wickenham says," she ex- 
 claimed. " But, of course, he doesn't call me dear'' 
 
 He flushed, for he had used the word unwit- 
 tingly, and he was startled himself to find how much 
 it meant — how little it might have meant. Had he 
 not known Allegra since she was twelve years old ? 
 Had she not been in student days his pretty excuse 
 for buying sweetmeats? Had he not always thought 
 of her by names of endearment ? His affection was
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 233 
 
 SO deep — so closely knit in his mind and being, that 
 it had never known the half-ashamed self-conscious- 
 ness of passion — it was, like all true love, uncon- 
 scious, self-forgetful. 
 
 " You must forgive me," he said. " I forget that 
 you are no longer a child." 
 
 Why should this delightful, ridiculous trifling be 
 wrong ? Where was the harm in these frivolous 
 sayings ? They could mean nothing. Yet, under- 
 neath them, was there not a desperate impulse to 
 speak out — to utter things by no means frivolous, 
 by no means trifling? Was there not a desire — as 
 strong as all Nature — to hold Allegra a lifetime in 
 his arms? 
 
 Warre got up from his chair and looked at his 
 watch. 
 
 "This holiday," said he, "must satisfy me — for 
 weeks. I am afraid it will be a lonjr while before I 
 see you again." 
 
 She seemed to understand and acquiesce. They 
 had laughed aloud the comedy, and inly wept the 
 tragedy of their fate. 
 
 " Good-bye," said he. 
 
 " Good-bye," she answered. "Will it be a cold 
 drive home ? " 
 
 " A very cold drive." 
 
 "And it must be a long while before I sec you 
 again ? "
 
 234 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 " Good-bye. . . . Will there be a large fire in 
 your study ? Have you a chair you like ? " 
 
 "Oh yes!" 
 
 " I suppose she sits near you when you work ?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Mrs. Warre." 
 
 "You mean Anne? . . . She has a number of 
 friends ; she goes to a lot of parties. She is very 
 . . . bright." 
 
 " Good-bye ! " 
 
 This time he did not answer. 
 
 When he had gone she stole about the room, 
 moved the ornaments on the Chinese cabinet, shook 
 the window-curtains, and redraped them. She felt 
 the housewife's instinct stir within her. Then she 
 sat down on the floor, and, drawing an old letter 
 from her bosom, murmured it backwards without 
 once looking at the page. And she laid her head 
 where Simon's foot had rested, and wept as little 
 girls in the April of sorrow can weep.
 
 AND LORD \VICKENHAM. 
 
 235 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IN WHICH WARRE REASONS WHILE ANNE READS. 
 
 Warre, on leaving Morne House, drove to the 
 Knightsbridge Hospital. Allegra, for the moment, 
 was so present in his memory, that although he had 
 wished her good-bye for what he knew must be a 
 long, long time, he did not miss her — did not feel 
 that the better part had fallen away irrevocably from 
 his life. The soul is borne upon a profound emotion 
 like a ship on a vast sea; now it seems engulphed, 
 and now it sails serenely ; it is tossed high, pitched 
 low ; sometimes it races with the wind, sometimes it 
 seems at anchor; but underneath it there are always 
 the rise and fall, the depths of an unfathomable ocean. 
 
 Simon was sorrowful — yes ! He was used to sor- 
 row. Self-restraint, long practised will, in time, 
 leave little to restrain. The art of dying daily is 
 slowly mastered ; but once learnt it becomes an in- 
 stinct — an unconscious will deciding all our difficul- 
 ties, solving our griefs. Now that Warre had seen 
 Allegra, and. in their meeting, learnt all the great
 
 236 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 devotion he felt for her exacted not only from his 
 thoughts but from his nature, he knew the useless- 
 ness of attempting to regard her as any one more 
 sacred than a spirit, or less human than a woman. 
 He loved her with all honour and reverence as a 
 man should love his wife, but he could not call that 
 surpassing affection friendship, nor could he pretend 
 to himself that it had for its essence the false purity 
 which makes a virtue of sexlessness. The most he 
 could do was to kill his mortality, bury it ; to look 
 beyond his own heart and its desires ; to think but 
 of AUegra — of what, in the future before them, would 
 be best and happiest for her. First and above all 
 other things it was his duty to remain for ever dis- 
 tant from her world. He knew now that she cared 
 for him, at least, more than a little. It was not the 
 hour to deny, in mock modesty, this sweet and bitter 
 truth. If they met each other often, might not this 
 innocent preference ripen into an equally innocent 
 but most unfortunate love ? She was so young — 
 every fair promise of earth lay written before her ; 
 she had but to accept the fulfilment of each. And 
 Wickenham : what of him ? Was he not the prince 
 amonsr men who deserved to win her love? Their 
 possible marriage was the one dim brightness in 
 Warre's sad, clouded sky. Those two, whom he 
 held dearer than his own heart's desire, would never 
 meet despair and desolation, or that thing so much
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 237 
 
 worse than death — the knowledge that pain does 
 not kill. 
 
 And thus it happened that, as Simon drove away 
 from Kew, he could call AUegra beautiful and think 
 of a committee meeting at which he was to speak in 
 an hour's time. When he reached Kniofhtsbridofe he 
 looked fresher, younger, and in better spirits than 
 his colleagues had seen him for many months. His 
 speech was on a barren subject in connection with 
 the management of a certain ward. To interest 
 middle-aged and dyspeptic Science in the question 
 of yellow as opposed to soft soap for the scrubbing 
 of board floors requires rhetorical gifts of a high 
 order. Simon laughed at himself and to himself 
 when it was over and he went home. His suppressed 
 boyishness would sometimes peep over his melan- 
 chol}', just as an healthy urchin will climb an orchard 
 wall be it never so thickly set with spears and spikes, 
 
 Anne had recovered, she said, from her headache, 
 and, arrayed in a white silk tea-gown trimmed with 
 chinchilla, lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, read- 
 ing Crucllc Enii^tnc, and coughing like Marguerite 
 Gautier in the last act of La Dame aiix Cavu'lias. 
 Mrs. Warrc's desire to produce on all occasions a 
 theatrical effect was not merely the result of her 
 early passion for the stage and her frequent visits to 
 the play-house. The love for the sham picturesque, 
 
 for arranging tricks of light and shade and colour, 
 16
 
 238 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 for Striking- unusual attitudes, inventing discords, 
 combining antagonistic colours, twisting a false 
 knowledge of Nature into a falser presentment of 
 life — all this is not an affectation confined to any 
 small group of silly women, but it is the Manner in 
 art, literature, and society of modern London, mod- 
 ern Paris, and modern New York. Warre himself 
 had never been able to wholly defy its fascination. 
 Wickenham resisted its claim, but was sometimes be- 
 wildered by its glamour. 
 
 " The century is dying," he would say, " and one 
 must humour the moribund. The thing cannot last 
 much longer. Let us gird up our loins for a good 
 tussle with Anno Domini 1900!" ... 
 
 Simon now always found himself regarding Anne 
 as though she were a mechanical puppet on show. 
 Her clothes, her gestures, her speech, and her per- 
 formance sickened his good sense, yet fixed his 
 curiosity. Although she had utterly failed in her 
 ambition to shine out as the great lady of this gen- 
 eration, she was, at least, the smartest woman in 
 town for her little day. Her superb beauty and the 
 splendour of her toilettes made her the gorgeous or- 
 nament of Private Views, First Nights, Race Courses, 
 and the Opera ; her gowns and engagements were 
 described in The Court Revietv and all the boudoir 
 journals ; she may not have been distinguished, but 
 she was prominent. Her dazzling prudence silenced
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 239 
 
 gossip, and envy, therefore, had a richer food for 
 spleen. Since no cardinal sin could be brought 
 against her, suspicion, thrusting its tongue in its 
 cheek, showed an ominous reluctance to speak words. 
 She gave the kind no opportunity to be charitable, 
 and the self-righteous no occasion to throw stones. 
 The good w^ere uneasy in her presence, and the evil, 
 full of resentment at what they felt instinctively was 
 not superior virtue, but a supreme gift for dissimu- 
 lation. She baffled belief and hood-winked doubt. 
 Anne had, in fact, that inhuman something which is 
 the soul of a charlatan and the thorn in the flesh of 
 a genius. The distinction between inhumanity and 
 the supernatural lies in the breath — the inspiration 
 of mortal deeds, not in the doers. There is the idea 
 fallen from heaven, the idea risen from hell, and the 
 idea rooted in Limbo — that sphere of unproved tres- 
 passers and unestablished saints. Any one of these 
 three ideas will make the man or woman possessing 
 it remarkable; it will be the divine element in the 
 noblest success, the terrible word in the least pitiable 
 tragedy, or the germ of romance in the most igno- 
 minious failure. Anne Warre had made up her 
 mind that her fate led to a high y)lacc in the world 
 f>f fashion. She had studied the life of Madame de 
 Pompadour, and copied her model with the little 
 fidelity which might be expected from an unimagi- 
 native, ill-educated woman of to-day, who would try
 
 240 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 to act the brilliant coquette and diplomatist of the 
 eighteenth-century Versailles. She could not form 
 an even dim conception of the creature she wished 
 to emulate, and, dwelling on the facts rather than 
 the circumstances of Mademoiselle Poisson's ca- 
 reer saw herself in power as the king's mistress, 
 courted, feared, unquestioned, and unrestrained 
 when there was no king, and at a period in social 
 history when the Pompadour herself could only 
 have gained distinction by not being the thing 
 she was. 
 
 Warre did not know Anne's secret aspirations, 
 but he saw her feverish discontent, her restless mind. 
 Her face, which still kept its almost statuesque 
 perfection of line and modelling, had now the unsat- 
 isfied, hunted look of one who is enslaved to self- 
 advancement. Avarice had sharpened her features, 
 steeled her eyes ; long brooding on the fancied in- 
 justice of her lot had drawn her mouth into a sneer. 
 She looked like some splendid goddess of mean 
 evil. 
 
 As Simon entered the drawing-room she 
 gave him a sombre smile, and held out her 
 hand. 
 
 " I have been wondering," she said, " why you 
 married me, darling. If I were to die, would you 
 grieve ? If anything . . . should ever happen to 
 me, would you feel that perhaps you had not always
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 24I 
 
 judged me fairly— treated me with kindness? Bour- 
 get " — she held up Cruelle Enigme and let two tears 
 fall on the lovers which were pictured on the 
 cover — " Bourget would have understood me per- 
 fectly ! "
 
 2J.2 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 IN WHICH THE AUTHOR SPEAKS. 
 
 Warre had letters to write, and soon went down 
 the stairs into his own dark study. There in that 
 theatre of so many bitter soliloquies and so many 
 scenes with Anne, the pregnant misery of his situa- 
 tion greeted him, as it were, on the threshold. 
 
 He had long suspected that Anne was involved 
 in some miserable intrigue. Her appeal to the tri- 
 bunal of Paul Bourget lifted this fear into a firm con- 
 viction. The thought of having her actions spied 
 upon was so repugnant to his sense of honour that it 
 did not gain a sufficient entrance to his mind to find 
 dismissal. It would have helped him had he been 
 able to tell his wretched story to Lord Wickenham, 
 yet he could not repeat Anne's confessions to an- 
 other. His pride, too, suffered in the humiliating 
 knowledge that a wanton had deceived him. No 
 man, however charitable in his judgment of a wom- 
 an's weakness, but feels resentful, degraded, and 
 ashamed when vanity lays waste the poor few sacred
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 243 
 
 feet of earth he would keep consecrated and call 
 home. No, he told himself, he could not bear pity : 
 he could not tell his grief. And so, with the high- 
 est kind of false sentiment, he decided, like all the 
 haughty and self-reliant in trouble, that he would 
 bear his sorrow in silence. He overlooked, in per- 
 fect honesty and good faith, the natural intense de- 
 sire to shield his own idea of his own dignity, and 
 saw only the educated — (never instinctive) — wish to 
 spare his friends a shock, w^hich, had he allowed his 
 experience to argue, he must have known they would 
 have felt but slightly. Friends hear our domestic 
 revelations with great ease, and, when they have 
 heard all, they blame the reserve which kept them 
 out of the secret as cowardice — not Quixotic hero- 
 ism. Wrongs which are never told can never be 
 righted. 
 
 But if Simon had been able to pierce this self- 
 deception with clear eyes, there would still have 
 remained, as a deterrent from any refuge in the 
 Law, such an unfeigned compassion for the woman 
 at stake — such an im willingness to discover her igno- 
 miny, that, although the price of its concealment was 
 his own lifelong captivity, he could not have found 
 the voice to jjroclaim Anne's baseness. 
 
 Warrc's nature was foolishly kind — sweetly, rallici' 
 than robustly chivalrous. lb- was not a lighter, not 
 a soldier in the Kingdom ol (iod, but one of those
 
 2AA THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 who tend the sick and wounded. He could not 
 preach deliverance, or strike boldly at things and 
 men corrupt. It was for him to spend his splendid 
 energy in struggles with his own soul, and his more 
 than womanly tenderness on beings who, for the most 
 part, thought him clement because he lacked the 
 courage to be severe. Warre's mental equipment 
 was stronger than his mind. Wickenham's mind was, 
 in those days, stronger than its equipment. Simon 
 was not a man of one idea— of one ruling hope— one 
 straight ambition. He had a feminine impulsiveness, 
 and those quick-roving sympathies which can light 
 one candle to St. Michael and the other to the 
 Draeon. He was a dreamer of dreams, with the 
 artist's aspirations, the ascetic's self-abnegation, the 
 scholar's fatal hesitancy — a man who, with an almost 
 wilfully perverse sense of what was expected of him, 
 would, if two cups were offered for his choice, take 
 the pewter rather than the gold, the stale beer rather 
 than the rare wine. Such men should never have 
 others dependent on them : they make weak fathers, 
 foolish husbands. They are born to be loved by, 
 and to be a killing care to, those more resolute.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 245 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ALLEGRA. 
 
 Allegra kept her word, and remained very close 
 to Lady Ralston all the winter. She did not see 
 Warre again. Anne called once at Morne House, 
 talked religion and Woman's Suffrage for fifteen 
 minutes, and left both ladies with the feeling that, 
 although she was beautiful and good-humoured, they 
 would rather not discuss her charms. When they 
 returned her visit they were relieved to hear that she 
 was not at home. Vet they said nothing to each 
 other on the subject. 
 
 Lord Wickenham's friends were constant at first 
 in their attentions and invitations to Count Vendra- 
 mini's daughter, but the girl seemed to have no taste 
 for balls or dinners, country-house parties, or the 
 gaieties of town. It soon became the fashion to call 
 her arrogant, wrapt up in herself, and cold. Oh, these 
 foreigners! They were very deep. She was living 
 quietly at Kcw now, because, no doubt, she thought 
 it would be more efTcctive to come out in the blazing
 
 246 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 noon of the London season. Clever little thing ! 
 These motherless girls were shrewd. And that old 
 Lady Ralston. She was Scotch and canny : she 
 never made mistakes. As for Lord Wickenham ? 
 Well, it was disappointing to see him take tip with an 
 Italian. A wholesome English woman was the wife 
 for him ! Of course, Allegra w^as half-English, but 
 the least said about her English blood the better ! 
 Every one knew the story. Her maternal grand- 
 parents were Lord Denborough and the Duchess of 
 A. A nice lookout for poor Wick! Why, the 
 Duchess had ten lovers at least — oh, naughty lady ! 
 —and Denborough — Denborough was at once a saint, 
 a genius, a villain, a Lovelace, a Lancelot, a Tom 
 Jones, and a Jupiter. It was impossible to pass any 
 judgment on the conduct of that remarkable sinner. 
 So rumour raved and gossip clacked. Allegra heard 
 neither. 
 
 Her time was not wasted in that apparent tomb 
 of all work, all wit, and all ambition— Morne House, 
 near Kew. She spent her days in parish work, and, 
 in the evening after dinner, played Mozart and Bach 
 till ten, when her god-mother went to bed and the 
 gas was turned off at the meter. The parish work 
 was arduous and exciting. Mr. Gibbs, of St. Mary's, 
 was Calvinistic ; the Rev. Sir John Smallpage, of 
 Morne Chapel, followed Wyclif — till he went too 
 far ; Mr. Wentley-Bramham was a moderate, pains-
 
 AND LORD ^VICKENHAM. 247 
 
 taking creature with nine children ; Mr. Becket Mar- 
 lowe agreed with the Bishop of Lincohi. Then 
 there were all the curates, their wives and families, to 
 assist, and the opposition Congregationalists, Meth- 
 odists, Baptists, Unitarians, and Salvationists to 
 modify and contend against. Lady Ralston's gov- 
 ernment of these all-eloquent worthies and their 
 womenfolk would have taught Prime Ministers 
 many a useful lesson. The young girl threw her 
 heart into these new interests, and tried to forget 
 that she was working to find forgetfulness. Yet 
 when a night was starry, or when snow fell and made 
 the earth look white, or when at sunset colour wove 
 the banners of love in the sky, or when, in the early 
 morning, she looked out from her window and read 
 the promise of Summer in the rose of a wintry dawn, 
 the tears would spring to her eyes, and she would 
 feel lonely — a craving for human companionship. 
 
 But she was sincerely religious in the old Puri- 
 tanical spirit. Her Scotch nurse had taught her a 
 stern and simple creed which became softened in 
 AUegra's nature — as it did in young Milton's — by 
 the Pagan grace of Italy. Her God was the Creator 
 of a beautiful world which He loved, lie did not 
 hate it, spurn it, despise it; lie had found it good 
 when it was made, and when it became, in His sight, 
 evil, He gave His only Son for its redemj)tion. In 
 pain and sorrow, disease and death, she found but
 
 248 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 the just discipline of a True, All-wise Affection, If 
 she sometimes seemed indifferent to praise or cen- 
 sure it was because she lived, not to win favours 
 from men and women, but to serve God. She was 
 too young not to be too independent in her ministry. 
 Her devotion rested on that attachment to and belief 
 in the Person of God without which faith is a mere 
 dry mental acquiescence in useful fallacies. She did 
 not think that to trust in the Almighty was the best 
 mistake she could — for her own peace of life — make. 
 It was the instinct of her soul — a fealty as intimate, 
 inexplicable, and everlasting as the tie which some- 
 times binds one human being to another, and which 
 is so far exalted above all senses and selfish senti- 
 ments that love is but its moon and friendship but 
 the shadow of its shadow. This sense of nearness to 
 God and of His actual existence as the Supreme 
 King of earth, and heaven, and hell, was the crown 
 of the early martyrs and the sword of early Puritan- 
 ism. As that knowledge grew less vivid, and scepti- 
 cism — making a profession of reverence — called this 
 chivalric trust profane — hedging the King's Divinity 
 about with mysteries, with insurmountable barriers 
 of dogma and Church etiquette, so the crown was 
 stolen and the sword became a white feather. The 
 fear of approaching a Throne too closely and the 
 desire to keep it inaccessible was and is ever the 
 characteristic of those who would usurp its power —
 
 AND LORD WICKEXHAM. 
 
 249 
 
 never of the faithful who would serve and protect it. 
 AUegra, therefore, read her Bible, and, sure that her 
 God was indeed, and in reality, God, worshipped Him 
 as devoutly in a Protestant Chapel as at High Mass, 
 and felt as close to Him in the common scenes of life 
 as in the pew of an Anglican cathedral. Yet when 
 she asked herself where she saw most piety and 
 where she found men and women with a belief as 
 determined as her own, it was among the poor and 
 obscure Roman Catholics, or among English Non- 
 conformists of the educated class. These last had 
 often to endure ridicule and insult as the penalty of 
 their unfashionable convictions ; to be a Dissenter 
 was to represent — in so-called polite society — all the 
 pettiest and meanest in the human mind. Allegra 
 had a deep respect for the clergy outside the Estab- 
 lished Church, although Lady Ralston could only 
 refer to them in her most generous moments as 
 orderly rujjians. 
 
 The girl did not care for the meddlesome art of 
 district visiting. She was not English, and it seemed 
 to her democratic spirit gross insolence to pry unin- 
 vited into the homes of people who, because they 
 were poorer or of lower social rank than herself, 
 were presumed to have no privacy, no ])ride. Lord 
 Wickcnham encouraged her feeling on this point. 
 
 " Suppose," he once said to Lady Ralston, " I 
 were, f(;r a change, to intrude (jm the rich in this
 
 250 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 neighbourhood. I should visit Lady Talbot de Lisle 
 and say : ' Is it true, my good woman, that your hus- 
 band is usually drunk, and that you have not paid 
 your dressmaker's bill ? I was greatly shocked not 
 to see you at church last Sunday. What does this 
 mean ? Why do you allow your son to waste his 
 time and his money on the racecourse? This is all 
 wrong. If you want to know how to make a nour- 
 ishing soup during this cold weather, put potatoe 
 skins in the stock-pot. K you should have no 
 stock-pot boil vegetables in water and season them 
 well. The French are so clever at that sort of 
 thing ! ! ' And then I should look at her as though 
 she ought to curtsey and think me an angel. I 
 say such things are neither kind nor virtuous ; they 
 are vulgar and disgusting. Sisters of Charity do good 
 work because they are poor themselves ; they are not 
 fine ladies who mistake inquisitiveness for Christian 
 sympathy, the love of domineering for neighbourly 
 affection, and their husband's need of votes for a wish 
 to tend the humble. I know many poor people; I love 
 them. I go to see them when they invite me to their 
 homes; they are my friends. They tell me how they 
 suffer under this odious espionage and interference. 
 The weak endure it because they dare not complain; 
 hypocrites submit to it because they hope to gain some 
 prize for their pusillanimity ; but the strong grow sul- 
 len and desperate. There will be a revolt one day."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 251 
 
 Lord Wickenham often came to Morne House, 
 and Allegra enjoyed his visits till she guessed that 
 his interest had a deeper intention than friendship. 
 Then she became unhappy, for, while she was too 
 modest to own in words to herself that he possibly 
 loved her, she feared . . . she knew not what. But 
 she opened his letters in trembling, and dreaded the 
 pauses in their conversation. Lady Ralston, how- 
 ever, was nearly always present when he came, and 
 he talked to her far more than he did to the young 
 girl. He would bring Allegra music and pic- 
 ture-books and chocolate, from town ; she would 
 play the music, look at the pictures over his shoulder, 
 and share the chocolates with her ladyship's gasping 
 pug-dog. Lady Ralston herself had understood 
 Wickenham's attentions from the first, but she had 
 also divined that her god-daughter was suffering from 
 some secret disappointment. She could not have 
 been so indifferent to a handsome and noble lover 
 unless she had looked once too often on some one 
 who seemed to her even nobler — even more hand- 
 some. There was no hope at present of Allegra's 
 accepting any husband, and her ladyship took every 
 precaution that Wickenham should not be tempted 
 into a premature declaration of his hope. She trem- 
 bled with ap[)rehcnsion when he told them that he 
 intended to give a ball at Gifford House.
 
 252 'IHE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ACCIDENTS AND THE INEVITABLE. 
 
 Lord Wickenham's ball took place on a night 
 in April. It was a large and brilliant function : 
 royalty and aristocracy and officialdom and Mrs. 
 Warre were present. Anne had never been so loudly 
 admired nor more heartily detested. Wickenham — 
 meaning to please Simon — had allowed her to figure 
 as the inspiration of the entertainment. She had in- 
 vited several enemies to witness her triumph, and a 
 few rich friends who would know, to quote her own 
 phrase, " how to be grateful for a lilt." Mr. and Mrs. 
 Lumley-Savage were amongst the latter. 
 
 The entrance of Lady Ralston with Allegra Ven- 
 dramini distracted all attention, however, from the 
 dancing, or the supper, or the other guests. Most 
 of the women declared that they could see nothing 
 in the girl to rave about ; she was so un-English. 
 True, she knew how to dress, but she had no pres- 
 ence. Imagine her without that exquisite gown ! 
 How insignificant ! Poor Wickenham ! Captured
 
 AND LORD WICKEXHAM. 253 
 
 at last by a few yards of lace and silk draped by 
 French hands on an Italian figure ! Really, it was 
 too comic ! Had he no eyes for Lady Mary's shoul- 
 ders, or Lady Betty's bust, or the newest baronet's 
 heiress's beautiful back? Mr. Stanley Breakspeare's 
 criticism to the effect that the future Countess of 
 Wickenham looked like a virtuous Jan Van Beers, 
 flew through the assembly unrivalled, till it reached 
 the old Duke of Penhaven, who called her une 
 feinme appdtissante. 
 
 The young girl herself was happily unconscious 
 of the gossip she occasioned, and enjoyed — as her 
 youth and her innocence gave her every warrant to 
 enjoy — the music, and the flowers, and the excite- 
 ment, and the waltzes. 
 
 " I wish," she said to Lord Wickenham, " that I 
 did not feel as though it must soon strike twelve, 
 and that everything then for me will change into 
 rats and rags, just as it did for poor Cinderella ! " 
 
 They were strolling down the picture-gallery 
 towards one of the ante-rooms which contained a 
 fine statue of Niobc by Bernini. His lordship 
 frowned when Maukin-Fawkcs suddenly came for- 
 ward and placed himself in their way. 
 
 "I say," said he, with a ])ompous voice and a 
 flurried manner, " I am sorry to interrupt you, but 
 the most awful thing has happened. Poor old 
 
 Warrc had been to see a patient, and was driving 
 
 17
 
 254 » '^'"^ GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 here, when a cab ran into his brougham, and there's 
 been a smash-up. They say he can't possibly live, 
 it he isn't dead already. They have taken him to 
 Grosvenor Street. Some one must tell Mrs. Warre. 
 She is in there." He pointed to the ante-room, and 
 looked narrowly into Wickenham's eyes. " She is 
 in there with that beast, Lumley-Savage. It's very 
 awkward ! " 
 
 " Let us go to her," said AUegra ; " let us go to 
 her at once. Simon will be thinking of her — if he is 
 not yet dead — and wondering why she does, not come 
 — wondering why he is alone. Let us go to her! " 
 
 She spoke with a composure and a tone of au- 
 thority which made both men afraid. Maukin- 
 Fawkes slunk back, but Wickenham followed her. 
 
 Anne was not in the ante-room. 
 
 Allegra covered her face with her hands. When 
 she took them away again, she looked as though a 
 veil of stone had been cast over her countenance. 
 
 " I want to be alone," she said to Wickenham. 
 " I want you to leave me. I cannot speak of Simon ; 
 but I cannot speak of anything else." 
 
 Wickenham walked a little distance off to the 
 small balcony, and the girl sat down on the pedestal 
 at the feet of the statue of Niobe. She rested her 
 head against that monument of imperishable grief, 
 and her spirit seemed to grow one with it. At last, 
 unobserved by his lordship, she stole away.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 255 
 
 The guests were dancing. AUegra called one of 
 the maids from the' cloak-room, and, explaining that 
 she felt unwell but did not wish to call attention to 
 her departure, she escaped from the house by the 
 servants' staircase. 
 
 She ordered a cab, and drove to Simon's residence 
 in Grosvenor Street. 
 
 When she reached it, her heart regained the 
 agony of living. She was like one who wakes in 
 torment from the peace of a sleeping-draught. Her 
 voice broke into tears on asking the servant for Dr. 
 Warre. The man, she thought, seemed extraordi- 
 narily calm. She forgot that those in a doctor's 
 service are used to seeing sorrowful and despairing 
 visitprs at every hour of the day. 
 
 She was shown into the study. Warre was sit- 
 ting at his table, writing. His back was turned 
 towards her. When he heard her name announced, 
 he stood up, and they looked at each other as though 
 they had each dreamed a dream which had come 
 true. 
 
 " You ! " he said. 
 
 She put out her hands and touched him. 
 
 " I thought," she whispered, " I thought you were 
 dying. They said so . . . at the ball. That is why 
 I came here. ... I could not stay away." 
 
 " I am all riLcht," he said, trying to speak lightly ; 
 "one of the horses was killed. I don't believe 1
 
 256 THE GODS. SOME MORTALS, 
 
 have even a bruise. I am sorry you were alarmed. 
 . . . No one . . . likes to hear of a sudden accident 
 to a friend. . . . It is good of you to have come. I 
 cannot thank you. ... If it had been a true report 
 . . . this . . . this proof of your friendship would 
 have seemed worth many deaths ! " 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " if I had found you dead ! " 
 
 Life and love cut the earth from their feet till 
 they stood in that little circle where there is only 
 space for a man and woman and truth. 
 
 Warre took Allegra in his arms and knew her 
 heart. 
 
 " If I had found you dead ! " she repeated. 
 
 They laughed and wept, but she said no more. 
 Then there was one vain moment when Warre 
 kissed her face and said : 
 
 " You are mine ! You are mine ! Come ! Let 
 us go — let us leave all the past behind us and live 
 our own life ! I have suffered enough ! Oh, come ! 
 You must never leave me again. You are mine ! 
 you are mine ! let us go ! " 
 
 She understood him too well to say : " What is 
 this you are asking ?" 
 
 And he understood her too well to besf her for- 
 giveness. 
 
 It was as though those wild and foolish words 
 had never been spoken — never been heard. 
 
 She kissed his hand and drew away.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 257 
 
 " Is your carriage there ? " he said. 
 
 " I have a cab," said Allegra. " I shall go back 
 to Gifford Street and tell Lady Ralston where I 
 have been." 
 
 She fastened her mantle at the throat, and 
 wrapped her lace scarf round her head, over her 
 face. Warre walked with her to the door, helped 
 her into the hansom, and watched it drive towards 
 Piccadilly.
 
 258 1'IIE CODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AN EPISODE. 
 
 Simon himself went on immediately to Gifford 
 House to reassure Lord Wickenham and Anne. But 
 Anne was not there, and Lord Wickenham's manner 
 was odd. Maukin-Fawkes's false news had been cor- 
 rected ten minutes after he had shivered the gaiety 
 of every one in the ball-room. The guests were all 
 talking in little groups. Mrs. Lumley-Savage was 
 asking all passers-by whether they had seen her hus- 
 band. She was very tired, and wanted to go home. 
 And where was her friend, Mrs. Warre? People 
 were very polite to her — more polite than she had 
 ever found them — and three or four great ladies 
 called her " My dear." The Duchess of Wark offered 
 to drive her . . . anywhere. 
 
 " But I want my husband," said the poor little 
 woman, becoming hysterical. " Where is my hus- 
 band ? He knows I am not strong ! " 
 
 " It is scandalous ! " said Mrs. Maukin-Fawkes, in 
 cold, prim tones. " Surely it is mistaken kindness 
 not to tell her."
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 259 
 
 " I really think," said the Duchess to Mrs. Savage, 
 " that it would be wiser not to wait for him." 
 
 They hustled her into her brougham — the yellow 
 brougham lined with satin. And her lace felt heavy, 
 and her four hundred guinea gown heavier, and her 
 diamonds heavier yet — and her heart — so bare — so 
 empty. 
 
 She tried to think of the children — the three little 
 boys who made her head ache, and the little girl 
 who cried all day from nerves.
 
 26o 'IHE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 LORD WICKENHAM'S COMMUNICATION TO THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Mrs. Warre's elopement with Mr. Lumley- 
 Savage on the night of my ball was an event of that 
 description which, while it excites much remark, can 
 hardly be called a surprise. I do not think that my 
 friend's wife was ever considered an immoral woman, 
 or a woman who would hazard even the risk of a 
 scandal in the cause of love, but she was, for some 
 reason, never believed in. Savage had suddenly 
 made an enormous and secure fortune. I feel that I 
 do the lady no injustice when I say that his great 
 wealth alone led her to the act, which, though in our 
 judgment so singularly base, must have seemed to 
 her mercenary mind most prudent. Warre's failing 
 health had long been the secret care of those who 
 knew and loved him. He earned a large income, 
 but his brain was its capital, and he knew — his wife 
 knew — we all knew, that, at the rate he worked, it 
 could not bear the exhausting demands of another 
 season. One or two of us felt also that there was
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 261 
 
 something more than the anxiety inseparable from 
 his profession in the boundless, ravaging ardour 
 which consumed him. Had I not — from my knowl- 
 edge of his character — believed it impossible that he 
 could be profoundly in love, I should have said that 
 he had either formed some disastrous attachment, or 
 had lost — either by death or for some crueller cause 
 — the true wife of his existence. But as he had al- 
 ways confided to me the secrets of his heart in mat- 
 ters of this nature, I certainly assumed that he was 
 satisfied with the companionship of Mrs. Warre, and 
 had even a genuine affection for her. She was beau- 
 tiful to look at, and, in my presence, at all events, 
 invariably showed him much devotion. I admit she 
 may have been an accomplished actress. Before his 
 marriage, Warre's fault was a certain insincere sen- 
 timentality, which, though it made him intimate with 
 the poets, kept him cold — even cynical, in his rela- 
 tions with women. Enamoured of an imaginary 
 excellence, he disdained the real and solid joys of 
 life. Everything except Art seemed to him gro- 
 tesque. Unable to find ideal beauty, he sought ideal 
 ugliness. lie could read a ballad about love-sick 
 lepers with pleasure, yet it shocked him to sec a 
 woman's nose grow red with weeping. I speak now 
 of his bachelor days. lie altered. I discouraged 
 his engagement to Miss I )(l;i\v;irc, hut when I ob- 
 served them together after their marriage, 1 often
 
 262 THE GOnS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 found myself wondering whether it had not proved, 
 on the whole, a successful experiment — seeing that 
 neither of them were persons of deep feeling. 1 am 
 telling you all this to show you how men may be 
 deceived in appearances, and how much we may be 
 mistaken in our estimate even of those we know most 
 intimately. 
 
 Warre bore his wife's infidelity with an absence 
 of resentment which, I must confess, struck me at 
 first as pusillanimous. He refused to divorce her, 
 and refused to discuss her conduct. He continued 
 his life, unmoved, with a dogged and stubborn per- 
 sistence, which placed him beyond the range of 
 criticism, because it seemed outside the pale of 
 what was human, of what was common, or even un- 
 common, in men's experience. The soul and the 
 manhood within him were dead. I say it now with 
 bitter self-reproach, but at that period, I lost all in- 
 terest in him. He repelled me. I could not under- 
 stand him. He made it clear, I thought, that he did 
 not wish to be understood ; he asked nothing, so it 
 seemed, but to be let alone, Mrs. Warre and Savage 
 went on a yachting cruise with a party of congenial 
 friends around the world. Simon was still a young 
 man, and we all laboured to convince- him that, 
 if he would but divorce his wife, he could marry 
 again. He made his life so much harder, so much 
 more difficult than it need have been. The law
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 263 
 
 was made to protect us from ourselves and from 
 each other ; to redress grievances, to preserve peace 
 and equity and happiness. It is surely our own 
 fault if we suffer an injustice for which both the 
 Church and the state offer us a remedy. But he 
 would listen with hopeless eyes and unheeding ears 
 to all I said. Once he reminded me that there was 
 no child in the question. If there had been a child, 
 he would have felt it his duty to protect it from such 
 a mother ; he would have taken steps ... he would 
 have fought a duel to the death, but . . . He never 
 finished the sentence. 
 
 At last, after a blank and dreary interval of time, 
 he told me that he had undertaken the management 
 of a colonial hospital at a place which I knew well 
 he hated, and in a climate which he knew, to a cer- 
 tainty, would painfully kill him. Then he spoke out. 
 
 " Wick," said he, " I know your kindness, and 
 if I had a living heart I would tiiank you for it. 
 Now I am going away I feel I can tell you some- 
 thing which, had I stayed in England, must have 
 ever remained a secret. I loved Allegra. I never 
 loved Anne at all." 
 
 This revelation took away my breath. I could 
 make no answer. I had known ever since the night 
 when the false report came of his accident tiiat Alle- 
 gra cared — in no merely childish measure — for him. 
 The knowledge was a grief to mc, for it was the
 
 264 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 death-warrant of my own foolish hope. She was not 
 one to have two loves in her life. And — even 
 though I might have been the gainer had she been 
 less faithful — I could not have wished her to be oth- 
 erwise. 
 
 " I loved Allegra," he repeated. " I love her 
 always. But if I were to get my freedom — if she 
 were an older woman — if she had lived and suffered 
 and known disappointment, and worked folly, and 
 suffered remorse, I should not even then be justified 
 in asking her to share my life. I have nothing now 
 but memories I may not speak of, self-doubts I dare 
 not own, a habit of silence which I shall never shake 
 off. I have seen the vision of sin and corruption ; 
 my eyes are seared with it. I am a man broken in 
 health and heart ; the hand of death is upon me. I 
 can never more feel either love or sorrow. I am 
 speaking truth, Wick. Nothing can ever hurt me 
 again." 
 
 I felt that he was right. My poor friend had so 
 completely and so cruelly severed himself from 
 every emotion in life, that there was already the 
 something forbidding, unapproachable, awful about 
 him, which we recognise in the laid-out body, even 
 of one who was most dear and familiar to us when 
 living. 
 
 He left England that night. When he said good- 
 bye to me, I knew that I saw him for the last time
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 265 
 
 on earth. His face was already transparent, and the 
 glor}' of the incorruptible shone through. He was 
 not yet so dead but that he looked wistful as the 
 train steamed from the platform. We waved hand- 
 kerchiefs ; his soon became a speck in the distance — 
 and finally, nothing. 
 
 And now I must speak briefly. Allegra rarely 
 mentioned Warre's name to me; laughing and chat- 
 ting of gaieties, she pined away. I watched the 
 change in her countenance week by week ; they 
 took her to the south of France. I went there, too ; 
 she said I amused her. I never once saw her look 
 sad, nor did I ever hear her complain at her illness. 
 Indeed, she appeared unconscious of it, and seemed 
 to think that she was at Cannes because her father 
 suffered from gout. When, at length, our distress 
 at her condition betrayed itself, she used to write 
 me little notes in pencil to assure me that although 
 her voice was weak, she had a great deal to say. 
 These letters were hard to read ; I have six of them. 
 I fancy that the word Simon occurs in the last. One 
 evening, when I thought that the end was near, I 
 received word of his ship's safe arrival in Africa, and 
 of his death on board the vessel. He died in his 
 sleep, and they buried iiim at sea. The man who 
 sent the news wrote like a lawyer, and 1 was grate- 
 ful for his curtncss. I could not have borne, at that 
 moment, very kind or very graphic words.
 
 266 THE CODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 I, who knew AUcgra's secret, feared that this 
 sorrow would do the worst. I took counsel with 
 the Count and Lady Ralston, and we resolved to 
 withhold the sad tidings. But, as I was sitting by 
 her side the following day, pretending to read while 
 she pretended to sleep, she startled me by saying in 
 a whisper: 
 
 " Do you know, I have long had a feeling that 
 Simon is dead. I am not so lonely as I used to be. 
 I can almost believe that he is with me." And she 
 wept. 
 
 " And if he should be dead ? " I asked. 
 
 For a moment she seemed to regain all her sweet 
 health and vigour. 
 
 " I should get well," she answered, " for then I 
 should know that he was at rest — that he was happy." 
 
 With God and women all things are possible. I 
 cannot explain Allegra's strangeness, but whatever 
 she said or did always seemed right and natural. 
 Such was her peculiar force of character. I forgot 
 to marvel at the mystery before me, and told her 
 quietly that her foreboding was true. Simon was 
 dead. They had buried him at sea. Tears streamed 
 down her cheeks while she listened ; she held out 
 her hands and clasped — what looked to me — the air. 
 
 "At last," she said, "at last, he is free. He can 
 never be sorrowful again. Oh, my very dearest! I 
 do not call you back !"
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 267 
 
 Her religious faith was the purest and most 
 beautiful I have ever known or conceived of. Her 
 belief in God and the angels and the other world 
 gave confidence and courage even to those whose 
 lives were spent in questions, and who could hope to 
 find no answer to them all in death. If I should say 
 how dear I held even the privilege of seeing her it 
 might sound extravagant. Many weeks passed be- 
 fore she became so much as convalescent, but she 
 lived, and still lives. I always fear that there is some- 
 thing not unlike profanity in daring to love her with 
 a man's love. I try to feel it even when I am most 
 desolate — even when I look about me and see other 
 men who have wives and children to love and to be 
 loved bv. I am no celibate by instinct : I do not 
 care much for unmarried people, or for people who 
 have not, at all events, a love of family life — an idea 
 of home well knit in their bones and tissue. 
 
 But so many of us, like Warre, have noble ideals, 
 and then, because we cannot see them realised im- 
 mediately, we accept, in a moment of petulance, the 
 lesser thing. There is a king's daughter for each 
 one of us : let us wed her or none other. And so 
 with every aim and hope in life. We should do 
 nothing — we should say nothing — we should content 
 ourselves with nothing which seems to fall below 
 the hijrhcst we can think ol. Then if we should find 
 disappointment, or should we be deceived, we can at
 
 268 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 least say — We took thee, best and dearest, for the 
 best thou shouldst have been. But to be fooled, 
 knowing well that we had chosen to be fooled — 
 chosen the false in mere impatience with our quest 
 of the true — that is what really degrades us — really 
 causes despair. 
 
 Warre took the lesser thing. That is the sum of 
 his folly. I loved him well : his disposition had a 
 divine sweetness. But he was not a man to make 
 men strong or to lead a woman's will. I trust I say 
 this without jealousy. But I cannot be sure. For it 
 is true that I envy him, although his body is one 
 with the sands of the sea, and his grief was more 
 than he could tell, and his life, in men's judgment, a 
 failure.
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 269 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE LAST. 
 
 The reader who has followed Warre's story to 
 its close will find no cause for wonder in the discov- 
 ery that even Lord Wickenham never completely 
 grasped his character or his motives. Simon never 
 spoke out, and he was therefore never understood. 
 And his lordship, although a gentleman to whose 
 honour, generosity, and unselfishness I have never 
 found a parallel, was jealous of his dead rival. He 
 knew it, deplored it, struggled right valiantlv against 
 it, but the passion remained. Yet, if he had ever 
 conquered this natural weakness, I think I should 
 not have liked him half so well. Allcgra herself 
 once confessed to me that she never felt such affec- 
 tion for him as when he tried to speak with fairness 
 — and could not — of poor Warre. She was a true 
 woman. 
 
 Lumlcy-Savage lived hut Icii months with Anne, 
 for he caught tvphoifl fever and died, leaving his 
 
 vast fortune to his wife and children. Mrs. Warre 
 
 18
 
 270 THE GODS, SOME MORTALS, 
 
 has gone on the stage, and, when I last heard of 
 her, she was playing the part of Lady Jane 
 Grey, and living under the protection of a Wor- 
 shipful Cheesemonger. She wears a mourning ring 
 for Simon, and cries bitterly when his name is men- 
 tioned. 
 
 " My God ! " she invariably says, " he was a good 
 man. And I shall never love any one else — never, 
 never, never love any one else ! " 
 
 And this depresses the Worshipful Cheesemon- 
 ger. 
 
 As I write these last words, a letter reaches me 
 from AUegra. 
 
 " My dear friend," she says, " Wick and I are of 
 course deeply interested to hear of this romance you 
 are weaving about gods and mortals. We want you, 
 however, to write a biography of Simon Warre. 
 Let it be a truthful history. Do not tell his story 
 the way it did not happen. You knew him as none 
 of us knew him. But I loved him the best. I did— 
 indeed, I did ! 
 
 " Yours ever affectionately, 
 
 " Allegra Wickenham." 
 
 1 believe that she loved him the best— that she 
 loves him the best still. And the words Lord
 
 AND LORD WICKENHAM. 
 
 271 
 
 Wickenham wrote me two years ago would be his 
 words to-day : 
 
 " I envy him, although his body is one with the 
 sands of the sea, and his grief was more than he 
 could tell, and his life, in men's judgment, a failure." 
 
 THE END.
 
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