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Storm Of London

<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> “How isolated we are in this wide, wide world,” said Mrs Archibald to Lord Mowbray, a few days after the meeting in St Paul’s. They had rambled beyond Putney Bridge on a warm afternoon, and having reached Barnes Commons had seated themselves upon the soft grass. These two recalcitrants mourned pitifully over their present state and uncongenial surroundings, and, as they sat, related to each other in short, spasmodic sentences their grievous historiette of woe. Anecdote after anecdote escaped their lips, which recalled a past glory, a social Paradise for ever lost to them. Mrs Archibald described to her companion the scene in Lord Somerville’s library, when Temple had spoken what she had at the time considered such shameful words. However, she was beginning to have some dim understanding of what Sinclair had meant when he said that a blush at the right moment was a good thing; and she and Lord Mowbray felt somewhat uncomfortable as they realised the anomaly of recalling a clothed Society in their state of nature. For the first time in their artificial lives did their two hearts throb and long for something they had never known, and as they talked bitter tears trickled down their pale cheeks. When they had nearly finished their task of disentangling the skein of their complex past lives, they came to a full stop; and behind the mass of frivolity and petty sorrowings evoked by their anxious brain, they remarked in a corner, a dying Cupid, panting for life, whom they decided to revive. But here we must stop, for it does not do always to analyse the motives of human beings; suffice it to say that in their frenzied revolt against the uncongeniality of their surroundings, they fell into each other’s arms. Often a puerile cause has been the means of working out a momentous effect. But a remarkable thing occurred to these two recalcitrants, as they stood heart to heart, lip to lip: one by one their prejudices disappeared, the shallowness of their social past dawned upon them, and they now saw the meaning of their present condition. They returned to London, to the great world, as man and wife, and completely cured of their feverish delusion. <hr class='c008' /> But where was he? Where, the little dilettante who had for years carefully ministered to Society’s artistic needs? He had fed the grand monde with small buns of his own making, and his flatterers and parasites had turned away from him in disgust, begging for some other bun of a better kneading. Towards the end of July, Lord Somerville and his faithful buffoon were walking in Half Moon Street when Lionel suddenly suggested that they should look up Montagu Vane. “As you like, my lord,” replied Danford; “I have not caught sight of the little figure for many days.” They came to the dilettante’s house, where, as in every house in England, the front door stood open. (Vane had not been able to resist public opinion, and for the sake of his own reputation as a fashionable man, he had given way to this custom.) The two men entered the hall, and as they began to ascend the staircase they had the impression of penetrating into the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty. They went up the narrow stairs, very soon found themselves in the large drawing-rooms, and looked round at the frescoed walls representing mythological subjects. “This place of fashionable gatherings looks more abandoned than the deserts of Arabia,” said Lionel, “this was the last haunt of the social élite; and there is about these rooms a stale aroma of vieille Société, which makes me feel faint.” They seated themselves upon chairs carved in the shape of shells; other seats and fauteuils represented flowers and fruits, in imitation of Dresden china. Poor Vane, he had done his level best to keep up his standard of rococo art. “I was told that very few came to his parties of late—was that so?” inquired Danford. “Ah! my dear Dan, I have seen him waste his energy and such gifts as he had to entertain half-a-dozen men and women, so as to keep up his ephemeral influence over what he still persisted in calling—his salon. Some, like Mrs Archibald—ah! I always forget she is Lady Mowbray now—came with her present husband; Lady Carey accompanied them, simply for the sake of past associations, or out of pity. One evening—ah! I can never forget that evening, why! it was only last week—Sinclair and I arrived at ten o’clock, and found Vane all alone, in that very shell-seat you are in. He was waiting for his guests. I can see him in my mind’s eye, lying back, his eyes shut. The rooms were discreetly lighted up; the tables, or monopodiums, as he insisted on calling them, were laden with luscious fruit, whilst muffled melody of an invisible orchestra, playing antiquated gavottes and minuettos, was heard in the distance. Latterly these were the only strains he approved of. When he caught sight of us in the doorway, he got up and came forward, seizing hold of our hands. ‘Oh! my dear friends,’ said he, ‘you are welcome! You will help me to-night.’ I noticed a thrill of sadness in his voice, and I detected a tear in the corner of his eye. ‘What’s up?’ asked Sinclair. ‘My dear friends,’ he replied, ‘you will never guess. The Prince of Goldstein-Neubaum, my social guide, has dropped me!’ Poor Vane went on telling us that the Prince had telephoned to him an hour ago, announcing that he could no longer continue to be his guide. ‘And what do you think?’ went on the little dilettante, ‘he said he was going to join the School of Observation! Too dreadful, my poor friends. When the leaders of Society give up the game, what is there left? Of course you, who represent our Peerage, are utterly lost, so are the men who, like you, Sinclair, directed the public’s taste; but there still remained Royalty, and I always hoped they would ultimately bring you all back to a saner way of regarding life.’ ‘And you are all alone?’ said Sinclair to him. ‘Well, we shall help you. Do you expect many to-night?’ as he looked round at the great display of flowers and refreshments. ‘To tell you the truth,’ and Vane spoke in subdued tones, ‘I thought it was time to bring matters to a crisis, and I telephoned all over London to remind my friends that this evening would be my last At Home, as the season would soon break up.’ My dear Dan, it was pitiful to watch the poor little man’s sadness, and I have never been so sorry for him as I was on that memorable evening.” “I daresay, my lord, very few turned up,” remarked Dan. “My dear fellow, not one single soul came that night. When twelve o’clock struck, Vane’s face became the colour of a corpse. The ticking of the pendulum, as it swung remorselessly backwards and forwards, seemed to furrow deep wrinkles in the wan face of our desolate friend. We were witnessing the final agony of a marionette which Society had held up by strings; until one day it grew weary of its plaything, and dropped the toy upon the ground. He sat there, his little curly head drooping on his breast, like a withered flower on its stem; whilst the invisible orchestra played Boccherini’s minuetto. The atmosphere of that past haunt of Society was redolent of exotic perfumes which made us giddy. Towards three o’clock in the morning we left him without disturbing his reflections, and we have never seen him since; it is only a week ago.” “Shall we go, my lord? Time is short, and this is no place for men like you.” “Let us run upstairs, Dan. I reproach myself for not having come to inquire after him before.” Lionel led the way upstairs, followed by the somewhat reluctant Danford. They pushed open the door leading into the dilettante’s bedroom, but at first, could not see anything, for the shutters were closed. The overpowering stillness caused the two men to pause on the threshold, and to hold their breath. After a few seconds they heard the regular tick-tack of an old empire timepiece, and gradually their eyes perceived in the dark the glittering brass ornaments of the furniture. Danford the practical saw no fun in remaining thus in total obscurity, and he groped his way towards the large bay window. He turned the latch, pushed the shutters aside, and let in a flow of sunshine which revealed the mahogany bedstead on which lay the small body of Montagu Vane. Lionel, who had crossed the room and joined Dan, touched his arm. “There he is,” murmured the two men. They walked on tip-toe close to the bed and gazed upon the little dilettante, stretched out on his pallet sleeping his last sleep. “He is quite cold,” whispered Lionel, laying his hand on the motionless heart. “But not yet stiff, my lord,” added Dan, whose keen eye detected the suppleness of the limbs, which could not have been cold for more than a few hours. The wrinkles had been smoothed down, and the petty, frivolous expression of the small face had been replaced by the placid aspect of a wax doll. “Do you think there was any struggle, my dear Dick?” Lionel looked at his guide with anguish. “No, my lord; there seems to have been no wrench, no painful parting from life. What you witnessed, that evening when the world abandoned him, must have been the only agony he ever knew.” “Yes, his was a sad life. He loved no one.” “My dear Lord Somerville, what is much worse still, no one loved him. The inadequacy of this little man to his environment made his existence pitiful.” They looked round the room. The doors, window frames and shutters were all of mahogany. The bed, in the shape of a gondola, also of mahogany, was supported by two gilded swans’ heads, and garlands in gilt ornamented the sides of the bed. In one corner of the room was a mahogany pedestal on which stood a silver candelabra; in another corner, a small chiffonier was placed; and on the dressing-table stood a silver bowl containing a bouquet of faded roses. “What a strange idea of his,” Lionel whispered; “this is quite a woman’s bedroom, and a copy of Madame Récamier’s room in Paris.” Tears gathered in his eyes. “And this is all he could invent to surround himself with; but I daresay it all went together with his taste for the old minuetto.” “Let us be off, my lord. His silly little tale is told, and this atmosphere is unhealthy.” They left the bedside, closed the mahogany shutters and went out of the room. “We shall have to give notice at the Crematorium,” said Lionel, when they were once more in the balmy air and sunshine. “If you like I will go, my lord. Do not trouble yourself.” It was pleasant to breathe again the fragrance of trees and flowers. Piccadilly seemed full of life and happiness after that scene in the death chamber. It was altogether so artificial that Lionel could feel no sorrow for the loss of his little friend, and by the time they had reached Park Lane he had almost banished from his memory the mahogany room and the little corpse lying there. “I do not think I shall mention this to Gwendolen,” said Lord Somerville. “I should not, my lord. Why should you mention the death of what you are not quite sure ever existed? The little dilettante was an optical delusion of Society’s over-heated brain. When the brain fever was cured, the delusion went; and no one now could remember the existence of the little mannikin.” “Next week we open the Palace of Happiness. Dick, I dread it.” “You need not, my lord. Step by step you have led that worthy John Bull through the labyrinths of Utopia, and all the way he has marvelled at the easy roads. Dear old, ingenuous John Bull patted your back, expressing his joy at being in the company of a sane mind who knew that two and two made four.” “Ah! but I quake, Dan, when I think he will soon find out that very often two and two make five. What will John Bull do to me when he sees that I have played a trick upon him?” “The last lesson will be easier to teach than were the first ones, my lord. There is something in the character of John Bull which facilitates the work of reform; whilst you are instructing him, he labours under the delusion that it is he who is teaching you a lesson. Look at all that we have already achieved: hygiene has reformed the race, physical pain has well-nigh disappeared; and next week we are to be in possession of the greatest invention of all, by means of which we shall be able to read the inner souls of our fellow-creatures. On that day we shall say Eureka. Think of it, my lord, realise the grandeur of that invention! The object and subject will be one, appearance and reality will be seen in their whole; in one word, mind and matter will be united.” “My dear Dan, I know that no happiness can ever be lasting until one soul can penetrate another. But how ever will the Britisher take this invention? You know his susceptibilities, his deep love for self-isolation, how he hates to wear his heart on his sleeve, and his horror of letting any of his fellow-creatures guess his inner emotion. I cannot help being anxious.” “Do not be faint-hearted, my lord. John Bull will receive your last message with the greatest composure. He will work out his own salvation, with the firm belief that he is only carrying out his own plans on a logical basis.” “Here we are at Hertford Street, Dick; I am going to see Sir Richard. You might go to the Crematorium.” “By Jove, my lord! I had quite forgotten the poor little body!” ejaculated Danford, and the two men parted. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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