R. MERTON was a good deal distressed at the second postponement
of the marriage, and Lady Julia, who had already ordered her
dress for the wedding, did all in her power to make Sybil break
off the match. Dearly, however, as Sybil loved her mother, she
had given her whole life into Lord Arthur's hands, and nothing
that Lady Julia could say could make her waver in her faith.
As for Lord Arthur himself, it took him days to get over his
terrible disappointment, and for a time his nerves were completely
unstrung. His excellent common sense, however, soon asserted
itself, and his sound, practical mind did not leave him long
in doubt about what to do. Poison having proved a complete failure,
dynamite, or some other form of explosive, was obviously the
proper thing to try.
He accordingly looked again over
the list of his friends and relatives, and, after careful consideration,
determined to blow up his uncle, the Dean of Chichester. The
Dean, who was a man of great culture and learning, was extremely
fond of clocks, and had a wonderful collection of timepieces,
ranging from the fifteenth century to the present day, and it
seemed to Lord Arthur that this hobby of the good Dean's offered
him an excellent opportunity for carrying out his scheme. Where
to procure an explosive machine was, of course, quite another
matter. The London Directory gave him no information on the point,
and he felt that there was very little use in going to Scotland
Yard about it, as they never seemed to know anything about the
movements of the dynamite faction till after an explosion had
taken place, and not much even then.
Suddenly he thought of his friend
Rouvaloff, a young Russian of very revolutionary tendencies,
whom he had met at Lady Windermere's in the winter. Count Rouvaloff
was supposed to be writing a life of Peter the Great, and to
have come over to England for the purpose of studying the documents
relating to that Tsar's residence in this country as a ship carpenter;
but it was generally suspected that he was a Nihilist agent,
and there was no doubt that the Russian Embassy did not look
with any favour upon his presence in London. Lord Arthur felt
that he was just the man for his purpose, and drove down one
morning to his lodgings in Bloomsbury, to ask his advice and
assistance.
'So you are taking up politics
seriously?' said Count Rouvaloff, when Lord Arthur had told him
the object of his mission; but Lord Arthur, who hated swagger
of any kind, felt bound to admit to him that he had not the slightest
interest in social questions, and simply wanted the explosive
machine for a purely family matter, in which no one was concerned
but himself.
Count Rouvaloff looked at him
for some moments in amazement, and then seeing that he was quite
serious, wrote an address on a piece of paper, initialled it,
and handed it to him across the table.
'Scotland Yard would give a good
deal to know this address, my dear fellow.'
'They shan't have it,' cried
Lord Arthur, laughing; and after shaking the young Russian warmly
by the hand he ran downstairs, examined the paper, and told the
coachman to drive to Soho Square.
There he dismissed him, and strolled
down Greek Street, till he came to a place called Bayle's Court.
He passed under the archway, and found himself in a curious cul-de-sac,
that was apparently occupied by a French Laundry, as a perfect
network of clothes-lines was stretched across from house to house,
and there was a flutter of white linen in the morning air. He
walked right to the end, and knocked at a little green house.
After some delay, during which every window in the court became
a blurred mass of peering faces, the door was opened by a rather
rough-looking foreigner, who asked him in very bad English what
his business was. Lord Arthur handed him the paper Count Rouvaloff
had given him. When the man saw it he bowed, and invited Lord
Arthur into a very shabby front parlour on the ground floor,
and in a few moments Herr Winckelkopf, as he was called in England,
bustled into the room, with a very wine- stained napkin round
his neck, and a fork in his left hand.
'Count Rouvaloff has given me
an introduction to you,' said Lord Arthur, bowing, 'and I am
anxious to have a short interview with you on a matter of business.
My name is Smith, Mr. Robert Smith, and I want you to supply
me with an explosive clock.'
'Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur,'
said the genial little German, laughing. 'Don't look so alarmed,
it is my duty to know everybody, and I remember seeing you one
evening at Lady Windermere's. I hope her ladyship is quite well.
Do you mind sitting with me while I finish my breakfast? There
is an excellent pate, and my friends are kind enough to
say that my Rhine wine is better than any they get at the German
Embassy,' and before Lord Arthur had got over his surprise at
being recognised, he found himself seated in the back- room,
sipping the most delicious Marcobrunner out of a pale yellow
hock-glass marked with the Imperial monogram, and chatting in
the friendliest manner possible to the famous conspirator.
'Explosive clocks,' said Herr
Winckelkopf, 'are not very good things for foreign exportation,
as, even if they succeed in passing the Custom House, the train
service is so irregular, that they usually go off before they
have reached their proper destination. If, however, you want
one for home use, I can supply you with an excellent article,
and guarantee that you will he satisfied with the result. May
I ask for whom it is intended? If it is for the police, or for
any one connected with Scotland Yard, I am afraid I cannot do
anything for you. The English detectives are really our best
friends, and I have always found that by relying on their stupidity,
we can do exactly what we like. I could not spare one of them.'
'I assure you,' said Lord Arthur,
'that it has nothing to do with the police at all. In fact, the
clock is intended for the Dean of Chichester.'
'Dear me! I had no idea that
you felt so strongly about religion, Lord Arthur. Few young men
do nowadays.'
'I am afraid you overrate me,
Herr Winckelkopf,' said Lord Arthur, blushing. 'The fact is,
I really know nothing about theology.'
'It is a purely private matter
then?'
'Purely private.'
Herr Winckelkopf shrugged his
shoulders, and left the room, returning in a few minutes with
a round cake of dynamite about the size of a penny, and a pretty
little French clock, surmounted by an ormolu figure of Liberty
trampling on the hydra of Despotism.
Lord Arthur's face brightened
up when he saw it. 'That is just what I want,' he cried, 'and
now tell me how it goes off.'
'Ah! there is my secret,' answered
Herr Winckelkopf, contemplating his invention with a justifiable
look of pride; 'let me know when you wish it to explode, and
I will set the machine to the moment.'
'Well, to-day is Tuesday, and
if you could send it off at once '
'That is impossible; I have a
great deal of important work on hand for some friends of mine
in Moscow. Still, I might send it off to- morrow.'
'Oh, it will be quite time enough!'
said Lord Arthur politely, 'if it is delivered to-morrow night
or Thursday morning. For the moment of the explosion, say Friday
at noon exactly. The Dean is always at home at that hour.'
'Friday, at noon,' repeated Herr
Winckelkopf, and he made a note to that effect in a large ledger
that was lying on a bureau near the fireplace.
'And now,' said Lord Arthur,
rising from his seat, 'pray let me know how much I am in your
debt.'
'It is such a small matter, Lord
Arthur, that I do not care to make any charge. The dynamite comes
to seven and sixpence, the clock will be three pounds ten, and
the carriage about five shillings. I am only too pleased to oblige
any friend of Count Rouvaloff's.'
'But your trouble, Herr Winckelkopf?'
'Oh, that is nothing! It is a
pleasure to me. I do not work for money; I live entirely for
my art.'
Lord Arthur laid down 4 pounds,
2s. 6d. on the table, thanked the little German for his kindness,
and, having succeeded in declining an invitation to meet some
Anarchists at a meat-tea on the following Saturday, left the
house and went off to the Park.
For the next two days he was
in a state of the greatest excitement, and on Friday at twelve
o'clock he drove down to the Buckingham to wait for news. All
the afternoon the stolid hall-porter kept posting up telegrams
from various parts of the country giving the results of horse-races,
the verdicts in divorce suits, the state of the weather, and
the like, while the tape ticked out wearisome details about an
all-night sitting in the House of Commons, and a small panic
on the Stock Exchange. At four o'clock the evening papers came
in, and Lord Arthur disappeared into the library with the Pall
Mall, the St. James's, the Globe, and the Echo,
to the immense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who wanted to
read the reports of a speech he had delivered that morning at
the Mansion House, on the subject of South African Missions,
and the advisability of having black Bishops in every province,
and for some reason or other had a strong prejudice against the
Evening News. None of the papers, however, contained even
the slightest allusion to Chichester, and Lord Arthur felt that
the attempt must have failed. It was a terrible blow to him,
and for a time he was quite unnerved. Herr Winckelkopf, whom
he went to see the next day was full of elaborate apologies,
and offered to supply him with another clock free of charge,
or with a case of nitro-glycerine bombs at cost price. But he
had lost all faith in explosives, and Herr Winckelkopf himself
acknowledged that everything is so adulterated nowadays, that
even dynamite can hardly be got in a pure condition. The little
German, however, while admitting that something must have gone
wrong with the machinery, was not without hope that the clock
might still go off, and instanced the case of a barometer that
he had once sent to the military Governor at Odessa, which, though
timed to explode in ten days, had not done so for something like
three months. It was quite true that when it did go off, it merely
succeeded in blowing a housemaid to atoms, the Governor having
gone out of town six weeks before, but at least it showed that
dynamite, as a destructive force, was, when under the control
of machinery, a powerful, though a somewhat unpunctual agent.
Lord Arthur was a little consoled by this reflection, but even
here he was destined to disappointment, for two days afterwards,
as he was going upstairs, the Duchess called him into her boudoir,
and showed him a letter she had just received from the Deanery.
'Jane writes charming letters,'
said the Duchess; 'you must really read her last. It is quite
as good as the novels Mudie sends us.'
Lord Arthur seized the letter
from her hand. It ran as follows:-
THE DEANERY, CHICHESTER, 27TH
MAY.My Dearest Aunt,
Thank you so much for the flannel
for the Dorcas Society, and also for the gingham. I quite agree
with you that it is nonsense their wanting to wear pretty things,
but everybody is so Radical and irreligious nowadays, that it
is difficult to make them see that they should not try and dress
like the upper classes. I am sure I don't know what we are coming
to. As papa has often said in his sermons, we live in an age
of unbelief.
We have had great fun over a
clock that an unknown admirer sent papa last Thursday. It arrived
in a wooden box from London, carriage paid, and papa feels it
must have been sent by some one who had read his remarkable sermon,
'Is Licence Liberty?' for on the top of the clock was a figure
of a woman, with what papa said was the cap of Liberty on her
head. I didn't think it very becoming myself, but papa said it
was historical, so I suppose it is all right. Parker unpacked
it, and papa put it on the mantelpiece in the library, and we
were all sitting there on Friday morning, when just as the clock
struck twelve, we heard a whirring noise, a little puff of smoke
came from the pedestal of the figure, and the goddess of Liberty
fell off, and broke her nose on the fender! Maria was quite alarmed,
but it looked so ridiculous, that James and I went off into fits
of laughter, and even papa was amused. When we examined it, we
found it was a sort of alarum clock, and that, if you set it
to a particular hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under
a little hammer, it went off whenever you wanted. Papa said it
must not remain in the library, as it made a noise, so Reggie
carried it away to the schoolroom, and does nothing but have
small explosions all day long. Do you think Arthur would like
one for a wedding present? I suppose they are quite fashionable
in London. Papa says they should do a great deal of good, as
they show that Liberty can't last, but must fall down. Papa says
Liberty was invented at the time of the French Revolution. How
awful it seems!
I have now to go to the Dorcas,
where I will read them your most instructive letter. How true,
dear aunt, your idea is, that in their rank of life they should
wear what is unbecoming. I must say it is absurd, their anxiety
about dress, when there are so many more important things in
this world, and in the next. I am so glad your flowered poplin
turned out so well, and that your lace was not torn. I am wearing
my yellow satin, that you so kindly gave me, at the Bishop's
on Wednesday, and think it will look all right. Would you have
bows or not? Jennings says that every one wears bows now, and
that the underskirt should be frilled. Reggie has just had another
explosion, and papa has ordered the clock to be sent to the stables.
I don't think papa likes it so much as he did at first, though
he is very flattered at being sent such a pretty and ingenious
toy. It shows that people read his sermons, and profit by them.
Papa sends his love, in which
James, and Reggie, and Maria all unite, and, hoping that Uncle
Cecil's gout is better, believe me, dear aunt, ever your affectionate
niece,
JANE PERCY.
PS. Do tell me
about the bows. Jennings insists they are the fashion.
Lord Arthur looked so serious
and unhappy over the letter, that the Duchess went into fits
of laughter.'My dear Arthur,' she cried,
'I shall never show you a young lady's letter again! But what
shall I say about the clock? I think it is a capital invention,
and I should like to have one myself.'
'I don't think much of them,'
said Lord Arthur, with a sad smile, and, after kissing his mother,
he left the room.
When he got upstairs, he flung
himself on a sofa, and his eyes filled with tears. He had done
his best to commit this murder, but on both occasions he had
failed, and through no fault of his own. He had tried to do his
duty, but it seemed as if Destiny herself had turned traitor.
He was oppressed with the sense of the barrenness of good intentions,
of the futility of trying to be fine. Perhaps, it would be better
to break off the marriage altogether. Sybil would suffer, it
is true, but suffering could not really mar a nature so noble
as hers. As for himself, what did it matter? There is always
some war in which a man can die, some cause to which a man can
give his life, and as life had no pleasure for him, so death
had no terror. Let Destiny work out his doom. He would not stir
to help her.
At half-past seven he dressed,
and went down to the club. Surbiton was there with a party of
young men, and he was obliged to dine with them. Their trivial
conversation and idle jests did not interest him, and as soon
as coffee was brought he left them, inventing some engagement
in order to get away. As he was going out of the club, the hall-porter
handed him a letter. It was from Herr Winckelkopf, asking him
to call down the next evening, and look at an explosive umbrella,
that went off as soon as it was opened. It was the very latest
invention, and had just arrived from Geneva. He tore the letter
up into fragments. He had made up his mind not to try any more
experiments. Then he wandered down to the Thames Embankment,
and sat for hours by the river. The moon peered through a mane
of tawny clouds, as if it were a lion's eye, and innumerable
stars spangled the hollow vault, like gold dust powdered on a
purple dome. Now and then a barge swung out into the turbid stream,
and floated away with the tide, and the railway signals changed
from green to scarlet as the trains ran shrieking across the
bridge. After some time, twelve o'clock boomed from the tall
tower at Westminster, and at each stroke of the sonorous bell
the night seemed to tremble. Then the railway lights went out,
one solitary lamp left gleaming like a large ruby on a giant
mast, and the roar of the city became fainter.
At two o'clock he got up, and
strolled towards Blackfriars. How unreal everything looked! How
like a strange dream! The houses on the other side of the river
seemed built out of darkness. One would have said that silver
and shadow had fashioned the world anew. The huge dome of St.
Paul's loomed like a bubble through the dusky air.
As he approached Cleopatra's
Needle he saw a man leaning over the parapet, and as he came
nearer the man looked up, the gas-light falling full upon his
face.
It was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist!
No one could mistake the fat, flabby face, the gold-rimmed spectacles,
the sickly feeble smile, the sensual mouth.
Lord Arthur stopped. A brilliant
idea flashed across him, and he stole softly up behind. In a
moment he had seized Mr. Podgers by the legs, and flung him into
the Thames. There was a coarse oath, a heavy splash, and all
was still. Lord Arthur looked anxiously over, but could see nothing
of the cheiromantist but a tall hat, pirouetting in an eddy of
moonlit water. After a time it also sank, and no trace of Mr.
Podgers was visible. Once he thought that he caught sight of
the bulky misshapen figure striking out for the staircase by
the bridge, and a horrible feeling of failure came over him,
but it turned out to be merely a reflection, and when the moon
shone out from behind a cloud it passed away. At last he seemed
to have realised the decree of destiny. He heaved a deep sigh
of relief, and Sybil's name came to his lips.
'Have you dropped anything, sir?'
said a voice behind him suddenly.
He turned round, and saw a policeman
with a bull's-eye lantern.
'Nothing of importance, sergeant,'
he answered, smiling, and hailing a passing hansom, he jumped
in, and told the man to drive to Belgrave Square.
For the next few days he alternated
between hope and fear. There were moments when he almost expected
Mr. Podgers to walk into the room, and yet at other times he
felt that Fate could not be so unjust to him. Twice he went to
the cheiromantist's address in West Moon Street, but he could
not bring himself to ring the bell. He longed for certainty,
and was afraid of it.
Finally it came. He was sitting
in the smoking-room of the club having tea, and listening rather
wearily to Surbiton's account of the last comic song at the Gaiety,
when the waiter came in with the evening papers. He took up the
St. James's, and was listlessly turning over its pages,
when this strange heading caught his eye:
SUICIDE OF A CHEIROMANTIST.He turned pale with excitement,
and began to read. The paragraph ran as follows:
Yesterday morning, at seven o'clock,
the body of Mr. Septimus R. Podgers, the eminent cheiromantist,
was washed on shore at Greenwich, just in front of the Ship Hotel.
The unfortunate gentleman had been missing for some days, and
considerable anxiety for his safety had been felt in cheiromantic
circles. It is supposed that he committed suicide under the influence
of a temporary mental derangement, caused by overwork, and a
verdict to that effect was returned this afternoon by the coroner's
jury. Mr. Podgers had just completed an elaborate treatise on
the subject of the Human Hand, that will shortly be published,
when it will no doubt attract much attention. The deceased was
sixty-five years of age, and does not seem to have left any relations.
Lord Arthur rushed out of the
club with the paper still in his hand, to the immense amazement
of the hall-porter, who tried in vain to stop him, and drove
at once to Park Lane. Sybil saw him from the window, and something
told her that he was the bearer of good news. She ran down to
meet him, and, when she saw his face, she knew that all was well.
'My dear Sybil,' cried Lord Arthur,
'let us be married to-morrow!'
'You foolish boy! Why, the cake
is not even ordered!' said Sybil, laughing through her tears.
[Chapter Six]
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Oscar Wilde Collection