YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
Bought with the Income
of the
EDWARD WELLS SOUTHWORTH
FUND
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
BY T. MULLETT ELLIS.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
THE DAILY CHRONICLE says:—"This is a powerful and fearless piece of work.
Mr. Ellis has drawn a man. . . . His crimes, his remorse, his atonement are all on a large
scale. He took a life and gave one at a moment when all for which he had sinned lay near
to his hand. He loved his uncle; but when that uncle declined to pay his debts, he hurled
him over a cliff, no one witnessing the deed but the girl he had seduced. . . . There were
two beauties of Boscastle, both of whom play a part in the history of Norman Forrabury.
Jenny Tredorn, the blacksmith's daughter, is a fine portrait, painted with great breadth, of
a strong character, reared amidst the simplest surroundings. ... To her Lady Violet
Boterel was as moonlight unto sunlight, as a delicate Sauterne to a full-bodied Burgundy.
She was the daughter of affluence and luxury ; a poet, painter, and sculptor. In her studio
among her chosen friends she tried to lead what she called the ' Beautiful Life.' . . . There
is a fine dramatic scene between her and Jenny, who swore to have Norman arrested as he
left the church if Violet refused to give him up. Mr. Ellis himself has called his story
melodramatic, and he is right. It is highly improbable too ; yet it holds the reader; for it is
written with so much verve and go, and the setting is so wild and so vividly painted, that one
forgets its improbability. The author has drawn all his characters with care and thought,
and he is so recklessly lavish of incident that he might well have written ten other books
of similar length with the materials he has compressed into this one."
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH says :—"The author is a person of lively imagination,
quick observation, and no inconsiderable erudition, gifted, moreover, with the knack of
felicitous description. . . . ' The Beauty of Boscastle ' is a strong story. ... It abounds in
clever characterisations, deftly fitted to the requirements of a singularly ingenious and
intricate plot, the interest of which is steadily maintained from the romantic opening of the
narrative to its tragical close. ... It is an eminently readable book."
THE MORNING POST says :—" The book has some rather strong scenes and good
word pictures of the Cornish Coast."
THE STAR says:—"There is 3. curious blending of the very real with the fanciful
in 'The Beauty of Boscastle.' . . . The book is distinctly above the average. . . . Each of
the sixty chapters bears the title of a well-known novel very aptly and ingeniously chosen."
THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN says:—"The book is not without power or
the faculty of imagination, and the final catastrophe of the shipwreck is well described."
THE SCOTSMAN says:—" There is not a dull page in the story."
THE LITERARY WORLD says'.—"It is distinctly interesting."
THE PUBLISHERS' CIRCULAR says:—"Mr. Ellis knows well how to tell a
story. . . . ' The Beauty of Boscastle' is a successful novel."
VARIOUS OTHER NEWSPAPERS say:—"It is decidedly amusing." "The
book is full of thrilling interest." "The author shows an intimate acquaintance with the
neighbourhood." " The interest throughout is ably sustained, and there are some really fine
pieces of descriptive writing." "There is abundance of incident and of voluptuous descrip¬
tion." "The author's power of depicting character and analysing motives is certainly beyond
the average." " It is graphically and thrillingly told," etc. etc. etc.
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO., Paternoster Square, E.C.
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MORRISON AND G1BB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH
Oh, Eye of Day! awake, and look upon me!
My prayer is heard. The skirts of Night disappear; the
mists of Dawn draw away.
The fields are white with multitudinous daisies sparkling
with the dews of morn. I kneel on the grass, and
bathe my face in the wetness of the dews.
Give me thy fragrance, oh ye flowers; cover me with the
kisses of the daisies!
Creek House, Shepperton, 1895.
z
AL
MA
By
T. MULLETT ELLIS
author of "the beauty of
boscastle " etc. etc. .
" The aspect of the years that approach us is as solemn
as it is full of mystery; and the weight of evil against
which we have to contend, is increasing like the letting
out of water."
" I could smile when I hear the hopeful exultation of
many, at the new reach of worldly science, and vigour of
worldly effort; as if we were again at the beginning of days.
There is thunder on the horizon as well as dawn. The sun
was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar."—
The Seven Lamps of Architecture (New Edition), John Ruskin.
" Les pensees des hommes sont comme des etincelles : la
plupart s'eteignent dans la nuit du temps, mais parfois il y
en a une, qui reussit a allumer un grand feu."—Etincelles,
LONDON: TOWER PUBLISHING
COMPANY LIMITED ....
95, M1NORIES, E. 1895 . . .
All Rights Reserved
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CHAPTER I.
OVE!" said a soft voice. "Ah! that is what
they talk of in green lanes."
"And in barracks," said Lieutenant Mountjoy,
twisting his blonde moustache caressingly.
"And on the Stock Exchange," echoed a
dapper little gentleman with very white hands. " At least that's
my experience, when business is dull."
" I don't think they know much about Love on the Stock
Exchange : do you, Dr. Adern ?" said a pretty girl with brown
hair and hazel eyes.
" What is love ?" replied the Doctor. He was a very young
man, who had already abandoned the regular pursuit of his
profession in order to practise as a bacteriologist. " Let us
regard it analytically. Love is the influence exerted by certain
molecules set in motion by the nerve centres. The red cor¬
puscles in the blood, and the attraction of—"
" Oh, Doctor !" interrupted Mrs. Graves, the wife of the
Member for the County, " spare us, please."
" It seems to be a subject," said the brown-eyed girl, " that
ought never to be talked of at the dinner-table. Love and
meats seem incongruous."
" If ycu were married," commented Mrs. Graves, " you'd
know better, my dear."
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"If we don't talk of love, what are we to discuss?" asked
the Stock Exchange man; " politics are barred."
" They ought never to bar politics at the dinner-table," said
Lord Beaumaris, with the deliberate drawl that he began to
affect fifty years ago, when he set the fashions for his college—
a drawl that has now not only ceased to be distinguished, but
which has become universal. " The topic for dessert is emi¬
nently politics. It is a subject which no one is ever sincere
upon, and yet in which everyone affects to have convictions;
and ladies always talk it charmingly, because they know
nothing whatever about it. Let me crack you some filberts,
Lady Bottenham."
" I always crack my own nuts, Lord Beaumaris," replied
the Countess of Ilottenham. " It is the one thing I can do:
and in this age, when every woman is expected to do something,
—voila!"
" Believe me, a woman who can crack nuts can do any¬
thing," said Bernard Daw, extracting a squashed walnut from
its shell with difficulty. " Problems in politics are compara¬
tively easy."
" If you find problems in politics so easy," remarked the
Countess of Bottenham, "why do you make such long speeches
in the House without ever solving them ?"
" When you have cracked your walnut, you have still to get
the skin off."
" That is so like Bernard," said Mr. Graves, the Conservative
Member for the County, a rather clever young man, with a Prim¬
rose-league moustache, who secretly cherished the belief that
he would one day become Prime Minister. " Your Fabian has
always his subtleties, expressed in language of the simplest,
but so full of hidden meaning. Firstly, there is a foolish
assertion; secondly, there is an absurd proposition; and thirdly,
there is an obscure explanation."
"Jack, are you addressing your constituents? "exclaimed Sir
James Draper, from the head of the table. "ISTo politics, you
know—no politics on the mahogany."
" We have a little camp of traitors here, Sir James," said
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3
the Countess, addressing their host, a rich manufacturer, whom
she surveyed in the dim distance, over forests of ferns and
palms.
" Traitors ?" exclaimed Mr. Graves. " How so, Lady
Eottenham ?"
" At our end of the table," she replied,—" it was Lord
Beaumaris who started it,—we were saying that Love, which in
the long-run always leads to the Divorce Court, and gallantry,
because it is extinct—like religion,—and all the rest one talks
of over our peaches—poetry and that,—are to be set aside for
the only subject women really like, which—don't laugh—is
politics, if you please !"
"It is very true," said Miss Draper; "although men think
that women care for nothing but the emotions."
" It is delightful to find myself in agreement with you,
Miss Draper," said Lord Beaumaris slowly, and looking
through his wine as he gracefully held up his glass to the
light. " Women are not emotional now, because—"
" Because they have no hearts," interrupted the Countess,
as she finished her Burgundy.
"And all the emotions have gone into politics, and are
abandoned to men," said Bernard Daw.
" Because they have no heads," growled Jack Graves.
At this the women tittered; and all the men, in proof of
the accusation, inanely lifted up their chins and tilted their
wine.
" But, thank God! they still have stomachs," continued
Jack Graves bluntly. He rather prided himself on his " plain
Saxon," and he took his port in a tumbler: it was an old-
fashioned Tory sort of thing to do, and reminded him of Pitt,
whom he flattered himself he resembled.
" Whilst we are destroying ours," said the Countess; " for
we are taking to inhaling cigarettes "—and she lit one.
" That is not my reason for objecting to this so-called easy
custom that our country houses are adopting."
" Then it is—-"
" Simply that when you ladies had gone, and we took our
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cigars and coffee, we crossed our legs and pushed back our
chairs—we were free. For a few minutes we could speak the
truth."
"Yes; and you could tell stories too, I know," said Lady
Rottenham, with an arch twinkle in her eye. " Since we
women have taken to invading the smoking-room, the good
story has become extinct."
" So the smoke-room story and the drawing-room scandal
both became defunct simultaneously. What's taken their
place ?"
" The Advanced Woman," said Miss Emmeline Draper. " A
scientific product of an aspiring age."
"There will always be advanced women," said an old-
fashioned little girl in spectacles. She had scarcely entered her
teens, but her brow was lined with anxious thought.
" There will; and there will always be old women. What I
begin to wonder about is whether there will always be young-
women," said Lord Beaumaris, as he lapsed into reverie.
Mrs. Graves looked across the table at a sweet-faced little
saint from Wales, Daisy Eees, and felt quite sure there always
would be young women, and innocent withal. So she said
nothing.
" The young woman has had a good innings anyway,"
laughed Jack Graves. "She has ruled the world up till to¬
day—for how long ? Shall we say since Cleopatra's time ?"
" Since the days of Eve," corrected the Countess, with the
titter of frivolity that made her so welcome in gay society;
" or since the fall of man."
" There is a new phrase now," remarked Miss Draper in her
severe way; "' the ascent of man.' I belong to the new school.
I believe in the 'ascent of man.'"
" It sounds rather dreadful," drawled Lord Beaumaris, " and
revolutionary."
" It means Anarchy, Socialism, Nihilism," said the sententious
little girl in spectacles, setting her teeth aggressively.
" What is Socialism ?" asked Sir James Draper. " That's
what I want to know."
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5
" Socialism is a society which excludes Society," said Lady
Eottenham.
" On the contrary, Socialism is society to which everyone has
the cntrde," said Bernard Daw.
" Socialism ? Bah !" growled Jack Graves. " Socialism is
a mere name comprehending all the unsociable people. They
rarely meet each other; but if they do, it is to wrangle—never to
agree. They are almost like the Anarchists—without cohesion,
without authority."
"Authority indeed!" said the little girl in spectacles;
" without authority obviously, for Anarchists do not believe in
a head, and—"
" And consequently they haven't even got a tail," laughed
Jack Graves.
" And like the Nihilists, who believe in nothing—"
"They are nothing, they will obtain nothing, and above
all—"
"They are good for nothing," interrupted Jack Graves, with
his hearty laugh. " Fill your glass, Lord Beaumaris,—God save
the Queen,—and let us go on to the terrace."
" Or billiards, eh ? " said Sir James Draper, rising from his
chair with some difficulty. He always dined too well. " Now,
some of you old fogeys—a pool; and ladies—you too. The
youngsters always give me such a licking. Will your Royal
Highness take a cue ?"
The illustrious guest whom the host now addressed was the
nephew of the exiled heir to the French Crown. His English
residence was near Sir James Draper's, and the dinner now
being digested was given in honour of this distinguished man.
The billiard-room was as luxurious as an Eastern harem.
The well-stuffed seats and soft pillows invited repose. Two
gorgeous footmen were ready to act as markers, and an over¬
fed boy brought round half-crown cigarettes. Sir James
smoked these himself invariably; though he rather grudged
them to his guests, except to the French Prince, to whom he
was obsequiously hospitable.
A few of the guests followed Sir James, and lolled upon the
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sofas. Some of them soon began to doze a little—some even to
snore gently. Two very young gentlemen—a bald young man
and a grey young man—essayed to play at one of the tables,
their conversation being carried on in the blcisd manner that is
characteristic of modern youth. The French Prince discussed
finance and City news with the gentleman from the Stock
Exchange. .V few ladies, who, having wined well, were beginning
to have complexions, gossiped with a clergyman 011 the im¬
morality of the poor, and a Justice of the Peace, sweltering in
fat, kept mopping his brow with a " sample " pocket-handker¬
chief,—a sample of the kind that his firm turned out by the
million on the sweating system. This person had a great
contempt for " the poor." Whenever they were mentioned he
would grunt: "The poor ? Umph ! The poor? Boil 'em!
Boil 'em!"
" Isn't it dreadful ?" said the wrinkled little girl in her
teens. " Isn't it dreadful ?"
" You think so when you are very young, Miss l)odd. But
when you grow older you will find it is only a way men have,"
said Mrs. Graves.
" I think with Miss JDodd," said Emmeline Draper. " Pa is
too rich. That fat, snoring man there is too rich also. The
wealth and the waste one sees, if one thinks of the poverty
that exists around us, is dreadful. Look at all those lolling
men in their sleek black coats like Berkshire pigs, wallowing
there 011 the cushions. We took two hours over dinner to¬
night. Two hours ! Come, Daisy, sing us a sweet Welsh song.
1 want food for my soul. Oh, Pa! Mr. Tillett wants you."
^ Come in, Tillett. The ladies will excuse you. What is
it ? and Sir James, too comfortable to leave his lounge, turned
to talk in an undertone to the manager of his works. °
Ihe men do not accept the terms, sir. They say they will
have the reduced hours and the overtime-money, or still keep
out." 1
" This is the third week of the strike, isn't it ?"
" Yes, sir."
" How is stock ?" he asked, still in an undertone.
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7
"We can keep pace with all orders, sir, for six months to
come."
" When will the new Belgian factory be finished ? Before
that, Tillett ?"
" In three months' time, sir ; in four certainly."
" What fools the men are !"
" It's not the men, sir—it's the leaders, the hagitators.
Bill Joice 'as been down again, sir."
" To the factory ? What did he say ? "
" Oh, he said as 'ow there'd be no masters soon, except the
men themselves. And that all unionists should have strike
pay; and he said, ' Stick to me, mates, and I'll stick to you.'"
Sir elames laughed and lit another cigarette. " I know," he
continued, "they cheered that; and yet the fools really know
they will have to go in, in the long-run. They know that—they
must know I can't afford to give 'em higher wages; and if they
work shorter hours, the foreign factories will undersell us.
Well. I won't give way, Tillett. I can't give way."
" Last strike you did, sir."
" I know," said Sir James angrily, as he rose from the
lounge ; " and I've never ceased to regret it. The new factory
will be ready in three months, eh ? Can we let Angel Street ?"
" Well, it's the 'eart of London, sir. Convert the factory
into anything sir, I suppose. No one can do short sixes so
cheap as us."
" I'm tired of these strikes, Tillett. I don't get worried like
this at my Bouen Works. I really almost made up my mind
a long time ago to have no English workmen. I'll have no
English factory. Put up a notice, Tillett. I'll let Angel Street.
Post a bill to-morrow on the works. Pay off what men there
are. Bill Joice, indeed ! Ha ! ha ! ' These eligible premises,
consisting of a large factory and three magnificent warehouses,
with a long frontage to Angel Street, situated '—that was a good
expression of yours, Tillett—' situated in the heart of London,
to be let or sold.' It will look very pretty, and I hope my men
will think so on Monday morning, when they see it up."
" What will the poor men do, sir ?" said Tillett solemnly.
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" The poor men ?" exclaimed the fat J.P. " Bah ! Boil the
poor men, sir. They won't work. Boil 'em."
" And what about me, sir—what am I to do ?"
" You !" exclaimed Sir James, with a laugh ; " ask Bill Joice.
Then, after a pause and a grin, he said: " You've been a good
servant, Tillett. I think you'd better learn French. Our shipping
trade is being torced over to Antwerp—the London basins have
been emptied by the dock strike. Perhaps I can find you a
job in Belgium. I've got a French Marquis or two in my
house here now who'd be delighted to give you French lessons
for a few shillings a week." Then, more seriously: " Put up
the poster in big letters—so high—the first thing on Monday
without fail. And now, Mrs. Graves, I know you'll think me a
brute for talking business befoie you. I didn't think it was
going to be so serious, or I'd have gone into the libiary."
" We overheard little of it, Sir James," said Mrs. Graves
politely. " You talked so quietly until you got angry. And
enough to make you angry too. Those men striking like that,
without any regard for their poor wives and the children—
dear little starving things."
" Yes, the women and the children must suffer if the men
are foolish," he replied. "But enough; to billiards! Will
you play me a hundred up ?"
" What do you think about the strike, Dr. Adern," asked
Miss Dodd seriously, " and of all the poverty it entails—the
misery it causes to women—the starvation of children ?"
"Nature is very la\ish," replied the young scientist; "if a
million of human young died in the metropolis, their place
would soon be restored."
Miss Dodd took off her spectacles and looked at Dr. Adern.
"You shock me," she said; "I expected a different answer
from you."
He smiled in his very superior way. " Nature is full of
waste," he continued. " How little of the spawn of fish matures,
for instance. I do not see the great advantage of treasuring
human beings vitiated in their origin, as so many are, nor of
rearing the offspring of any parents who, through their environ-
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ment and privations, or by their follies and excesses, deteriorate
their successors. We know how to breed our horses and dogs ;
surely we should be equally careful of the human progeny.
If we bred our labouring population carefully, we shouldn't
starve them. Be sure of that, Miss Dodd. The Draper strike
begins at an earlier stage than a rowdy meeting in Trafalgar
Square. It began before most of these people were born."
They were like boy and girl,—they were indeed boy and
girl, for neither of them had yet come of age,—but they were
both endowed with the nineteenth-century conceit, and they
argued as seriously as though the whole future of man depended
upon the result of their discussion. Miss Dodd put on her
spectacles again, and wrinkled her brow into creases that would
have been a credit to a woman of eighty. " These physiological
subjects always interest me vastly," she said.
" I know that you were at the head of your physiological
class, Miss Dodd," said young Dr. Adern, with boy-like polite¬
ness, but also with the air of a professor condescending to
address a favourite pupil out of lecture hours, "and con¬
sequently I knew I might speak freely to an enlightened
woman. Beally, the starvation of a few hundred, or even a few
thousand, children is nothing." He waved his hand majesti¬
cally. " Our interest is with the survivors."
" And yet does it not occur to you that Science should not
permit so many children to die absolutely uselessly, Dr. Adern?"
Thus appealed to, the diminutive Dr. Adern—for this learned
piece of precocity was of small stature—put his head 011 one
side, with all the gravity of the great Lord Eldon, and then
smiling curiously, he observed in his bass voice: " The best
thing Science could do with 'em would be to prolong their
lives by a process of vivisection—painless vivisection—under
anaesthetics. Better they should die so than by process of
starvation."
" You are not serious ?"
" I am always intensely serious, Miss Dodd. At present,
the law compels us to make all our experiments on dogs,
rabbits, frogs, and other animals. That experiments upon
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human beings would be more tuitive than those upon animals,
is patent. If the subjects referred to, instead of being allowed
to die, were handed over to the hospitals for the purposes of
Science, their lives would be indefinitely prolonged."
" What would the hospitals do with the children ?"
" A few might be tubercularised with great advantage to
the progress of knowledge. Cultures of cholera and other
diseases might be introduced and developed, and by the use of
germicides the children inoculated with the cholera bacillus
might probably recover. They might then be retained in the
hospitals for further experiment, or—"
" Do you positively mean to suggest," exclaimed Miss Dodd,
aghast," that you would deliberately sacrifice these poor children,
to be experimented upon with the deadliest diseases—that you
would torture them to death by inoculating them with cholera
and tuberculosis ?"
" I have only proposed to prolong lives already doomed:
to utilise, for the advancement of Science, lives which would
otherwise be ended by the existing processes of Nature in a few
hours."
" I call it murder," exclaimed Miss Dodd excitedly.
" Starvation itself is an interesting study," replied Dr. Adern.
" Some experiments on dogs have very recently been made, in
which their vagus nerves were divided, with the result that the
stomach could no longer secrete its proper digestive fluids, and
hence the dogs died of slow starvation. There are many ques¬
tions connected with starvation on which medical science is
very incomplete at present."
" It is wicked, it is accursed, it makes my blood boil to bear
yon speak of it," said Miss Dodd.
" You are opposed to Vivisection '("
" Dr. Adern, I am the secretary of our local Anti-Vivisection
Society, and I consider that all these tortures by you young-
doctors and students upon cats and dogs are unholy and most
dreadful. The tortures you inflict are useless. What do you
discover ? What has Vivisection found out ?"
" So much, that we may reasonably hope for infinitely vaster
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discoveries in the future. It would be easy to make a long
catalogue of them. Careful students, with the object—"
" I deny that any student," interrupted Miss Dodd, " has the
moral right to inflict the prolonged and agonising torture in¬
volved in the vivisection of animals, no matter what his object.
And as for experiments upon mankind,—that is to say, upon
poor hospital patients,—I have no words to express my horror
of such outrages upon humanity and religion."
" Then what would you do with the starving children in
Draper's strike ?"
" I recommend Cannibalism," said Miss Dodd,with an ironical
mimicry of Dr. Adern's manner. "You see that fat, snoring
man on the sofa—I'd boil him, Dr. Adern. I'd boil him, and
distribute him amongst the poor."
" Then we are quite agreed at last," said Dr. Adern, laughing.
" Let us join the others on the terrace."
" What a lovely sunset!" exclaimed Miss Dodd enthusias¬
tically, as her plain features, emerging into the light, caught
the beauty of the ruddy glow. " How tender the tints, Dr.
Adern! How poetic all the—"
" The laws of refraction, and the absorption, by a purely
scientific process—"
" Oh, Dr. Adern—please. Science must leave me my sun¬
sets. This way. Mind the step."
The scent of lilacs invited them, and they went through the
Trench windows on to the marble pavement overlooking the
river-front. Crowds of guests were taking coffee outside at
little tables, and wreaths of cigarette smoke hung over the
garden chairs. On one of these sat the guest of the evening,
the Due d'Amiens, who had escaped from the incessant atten¬
tions of his host, to steal a few moments with one of the most
handsome women he had ever met in England. She was talk¬
ing to him in a soft voice. " When you get your crown,
Monseigneur, as men say you will do in the distant future, won't
it be a dreadful burden to you ?"
" Pallas," he replied, gratifying her by using her nom deplume,
" Anarchy may bring me the crown of France, not in the distant
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future, but any day. Yet I shall never find my crown a
burden."
" Why, Monseigneur ?"
" Because it will always be in pawn for Love."
She laughed, and struck his fingers lightly with her fan.
He seized the haft of it playfully.
" Prenez-garcle, Monseigneur," she whispered, in accents of
mock-heroic caution. " Love is the danger of Princes. Here,
in this little island, our Prince loves women, and our women
love the Prince—but women will be the ruin of the Mon¬
archy !"
CHAPTEK II.
T had been, perhaps, rather dull—all large parties
are; and this was an unusually large party, for
the whole county was there, and scores of
people who did not know each other. But it
was pleasant on the terrace. Sir James Draper
was an ambitious man; and if he had his house full of people
he didn't like, he had doubtless his reasons.
He made a good host, however. He entertained liberally ;
and he picked his guests like a commercial traveller, who packs
his merchandise with special samples of good old-fashioned
articles, a selected stock of the best novelties, and an abundance
of common goods. He had several approved varieties of the
old French nobility, and, lest his neighbourhood should look
upon their titles as spurious, he had that distinguished noble¬
man, Lord Beaumaris, one of the bluest-blooded men in Britain,
though this most pauperised of peers had never possessed a
farthing of his own in his life, for his estates were mortgaged
out of the depth of all Christian arithmetic. But his son, the
Hon. Gwynne Griffiths, had already discovered their rever¬
sionary value, although the realisation required Hebraic cal¬
culations and the assistance of Moses and Aaron. Miss
Emmeline Draper, who had been a young lady some years ago,—
namely, when her father was plain Mr. Draper,—was even then
plain Miss Draper. She had been kept, however, for a brilliant
match (of the kind that is warranted to light only on the box),
but had somehow failed to go off, and now she was becoming
quite eminent for her ugliness. As she sat in the garden now,
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she was secretly meditating how she could ignite the heart of
the Honourable Gwynne Griffiths, whilst he was privately
pondering by what mode he could inflame the affections of
Emmeline Draper: he with a charming modesty, conscious that
generations of crested ancestors had exhausted all his hair as
well as his ha'pence; she with a delightful innocence, wonder¬
ing whether the successor to so many time-honoured debts
could feel anything but contempt for a man who, through life,
had regularly paid his way every Saturday. Others were there:
Sir Philip Saunders of the Foreign Office, and the Earl of
Kottenham. The Earl was originally an Army Service man, but
abandoned it for the matrimonial service, and, becoming an
adept, had been thrice married. The first time for money, but
his wife predeceased the fortune she would have inherited if she
had lived only three weeks longer. This misfortune left the
Earl free for another venture, however, and his second marriage
was a more direct worship of the golden calf. The widow
whom he then allied was rich, but her fortune died with her.
and he was not fortunate enough to keep her alive many
months. His third marriage was a desperate affair, for his
new Countess married him for love, though he, habitually
constant, married her for the usual reason; but as neither
possessed either of the attractions the other had anticipated,
they spent their lives in mutual reproaches. She, however, was
philosophic. Naturally gay, she solaced herself with such affec¬
tion as the lavish world provided, and especially with the love
of the Earl's brother, the Honble. and Eev. Canon Carker, a
very wicked old gentleman, with the reverent appearance and
mild air that one usually associates with St. John the Divine;
and it was even rumoured that she was not blind to the attrac¬
tions of another well-known clergyman, the secretary of the
local Temperance Society,—to which Sir James subscribed
handsomely,—who had many virtues, and only one fault—in
some eyes a trivial one ; it was merely a habit of secret drinking.
A little air and a stroll after dinner is pleasant on a June
evening. Miss Draper and others of the girls were at music in
the drawing-room, and the soft air outside was laden with the
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i5
strains of Strauss and Grieg. The sun set late. The lilacs and
laburnums were still in flower, for it was a late season, and the
pink and white may flourished fragrantly in the bushes under
the terrace. It was mild, and sitting out of doors in the
arbours of yew overlooking the river was most agreeable.
Groups of people sat together still, chatting frivolously; and
others sauntered up and down, two-and-two, finishing their
cigars.
" Sir James has a nice place here, Graves," said Lord Beau¬
maris, as they walked together arm-in-arm. " Fabulously rich,
they say; and all out of candles, eh ?"
" His place in Paris—do you know it ?—is better than his
house in Park Lane. You know he has a big French busi¬
ness ; and he aims, strange to say, at a position in French
Society."
" That accounts for the presence here of the Due d'Amiens,
and of all the Marquises and Comtes, whose names one has
forgotten. No wonder they are true to the Eoyal Exile ! But
Draper ! It is too funny !"
" Is it not worldly-wise ?"
"Yes; if he believes in the restoration of the French
Monarchy."
"A change of Government—a revolution—in France is
always on the cards—"
"And you think the reason that Sir James puts these
people up is—"
" Is not a subtle reason. Yonder at Talbot Towers the old
King, as they still call him, is certainly dying. Talbot Towers
is very near by. A parvenu Knight likes to entertain Marquises
and Counts, even if he cannot speak their language; and then,
look at her Serene Magnificence herself! What house is there
in England that would not be proud to entertain her ?"
" You mean "—
"'Pallas,' of course; the most wonderful of all women."
" Who is this ' Pallas' that everyone is raving about ? Is
she a Bourbon, as I heard ?"
"Ah! now you ask me a question. I warrant if you ask
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half a dozen different people, you will get half a dozen different
answers. Ask Lord Halliford his version."
" I have heard that story. She publicly horsewhipped
him, didn't she ? I never made out exactly."
" I will tell you. ' Pallas' had a companion-governess for
what is called a holiday engagement—Mary Hope; she was just
simply an innocent, warm-hearted English girl, but a few years
older than her pupil, who knows more of the world by instinct,
somehow, than most governesses do at forty. Lord Halliford—
you know his vile reputation—got Mary Hope, by some devilry
or other, into his chambers ; and so on, and so on. She was too
modest to prosecute, and the thing blew over. Halliford
came strolling down the Row a day or two afterwards, as bold
as brass, met ' Pallas,' and took off his hat. She had her St.
Bernard with her, and a dog-whip, which she used freely, and
gave the scoundrel as sound a hiding as anyone would wish to
avoid."
" Beastly for Halliford. What did he do ?"
" Egad ! Halliford behaved remarkably well. He endured
the blows without flinching, and, when his chastisement was
over, he took off his hat again, and, taking his cigar from his
lips, said, with that imperturbable, devilish grace of his, that it
was the only reply the laws of gallantry permitted him to
make to a handsome woman."
" That was like Lord Halliford," said Jack Graves. " But
' Pallas '! I sat opposite her at dinner. How handsome she
is ! ' Pallas'! An obvious nom de plume."
"Oh yes, of course she writes under that. Pallas Athena?,
you know," continued Lord Beaumaris, lowering his tone as
they passed a rustic seat, on which the Countess of Rottenham
was sitting with Mr. Bernard Daw; "it so happens I am, per¬
haps, the one man who can give you the real truth about her.
When I was in Rome this Easter I went to a reception at the
Vatican. There I met Cardinal Cantelupe. With him was Pallas
—the admired, as she always is—the admired of all amongst
a thousand. I ventured, as the Cardinal is such a very old
friend of our family, to inquire who ' Pallas' really was. He
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told me he was her godfather, and—and—her real name, and
indeed a great deal about her—all about her, indeed. Hers is a
very extraordinary history—very extraordinary."
" She is certainly a very striking woman. I was talking to
her on this terrace before dinner. She has been everywhere,
she has seen everything, she knows everybody; and she is not
twenty-one yet."
" Nineteen," said Lord Beaumaris. " I know the date of
her birth exactly."
" At her age a year doesn't matter. Lord, how she can talk;
and in God knows how many languages! Other things she
does, too, as well. She is as accomplished as Satan."
"And as beautiful as Venus."
" And, by Jove, when she has been at you five minutes, don't
you feel her here?" said Jack Graves, tapping the ribs over
his heart.
"Are you in love with her too, Jack? I am," said Lord
Beaumaris, leaning 011 the terrace and looking at the moon.
" And I," said Mr. Graves sadly; " everyone is."
CHAPTER III
YOUNG lady, a greedy reader of stories, once
informed me that she always chose her books at
the circulating library by taking them down from
the shelves, or surreptitiously glancing through
them 011 the counter, skipping the first few pages,
and finding out what sort of man the hero appeared to be,
when, if she liked him, she took the book, to make his better
acquaintance.
If this charming girl—for charming indeed the ingenuous
creature was—should still be reading novels, and selecting them
on the same principle, be it known to her that this is the
chapter and the page that introduces to her not one hero only,
but heroes in the plural number, or, as they say of Merry
Christinases, "many ov 'em." Because of this I am certain
even thus early: there must be heroes many in this, my novel,
to meet the absolute requirements of the heroine, or rather of
that brilliant compound of good and evil, which nature and
environment, circumstance and fate, wove into the texture of her
character; providing always that if the men now introduced be
not heroes, they must be taken in lieu thereof. They are human
ami full of fault, the best of them ; my heroine being also a
creature of glaring imperfections—and in fact no heroine at all.
Perhaps it is as well that I should at once make a clean
breast of it, and explain, with regard to heroes and heroines in
general, that these beings are not divine, but human: that
every human being launched into life has the heroic elements
within him, but, alas ! the elements of villainy are within him
18
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19
also; all the hundreds of millions who make up the population
of this globe are possible heroes and heroines, but invariably the
heroic and the villainous qualities mingle, and so comprise the
endless varieties of the human species with which most of us
are familiar.
My story is indeed one of real life, and not a fiction or a
fairy tale. In consequence whereof the perpetually perfect
hero and the unerring heroine,—those models of propriety and
virtue,—are perforce omitted, since such fabulous creatures do
not exist in the planet which is the mise en sc&ne of this
veracious history. My characters are taken from this earth,
and have been carefully studied from real life; and if my
reader moves in what Thackeray—was it Thackeray ?—called
" the 'ighest suckles," or if he only moves in the ordinary
crowd, he will be sure to rub shoulders against some of them
himself.
So here goes.
Such a dark man to start with ! He is beautifully dressed,
and has plenty of money. He is curled like a darling or a
poodle. His name is Adolphus Beauregard. His father, an
American gentleman, a planter, made a mint of money in
the South, and was killed in the Civil War. He has
travelled a good deal in Europe, and knows England well.
Here he would live, as so many wise Americans would do, but
for his hereditary love of money-making, which frequently
takes him across the herring-pond; for he has recently struck
oil in the States.
At the present time his heart is virgin ground; or if it
grows anything at all, nothing but a plentiful crop of self-
esteem. Yet he is in love a little — with his excellent
cigar.
If you do not like the dark man, try the blonde—his
friend, smoking the same brand, and lolling in idle talk with
Beauregard.
He is third lieutenant in the Life Guards, Gerard Mountjoy.
He has £12,000 a year. If you do not like his character, his
income may commend him to your favourable consideration.
20
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You prefer your heroes poor, fair reader ? Yes, I have
that you do so, in books; but in real life the_ reverse is the
case, and his income would have some weight with you
probably. f
He has a pair of blue eyes, this Gerard, and a pair o
amber-coloured moustachios, both set very neatly in a pink
complexion. He is in fact the very doll you nursed when you
were two years old,—the pink-cheeked doll, the blue-eyed doll,
the one with the yellow bossy hair; but the doll has grown
up to man's estate, and you may not kiss him now. He has a
broad chest and an athletic form; and if you could see him on
parade, in his shining steel breast-plate, and his uniform of
scarlet and gold, with the flowing plumes upon his helmet
waving in the air as his horse champs the bit and tosses his
head, I am pretty sure you would say that the darling doll of
your baby days has become a very handsome man, and a
gallant-looking fellow.
Gerard Mountjoy has gone the usual round. He lias been
to Eton and Oxford. He lias managed to scrape through most
of his " exams. " without being ploughed. He is not a parti¬
cularly good bat, and he is very lazy in the field; still, at a
pinch, he can bowl. He fences admirably; he is a fair shot;
lie rides well to hounds; and I am sure you would find he could
waltz you delightfully.
He has the usual vices. He has broken a heart or two,
but that was before the day of Sarah Grand's crusade. He is
too self-contained to be generous; but he is not mean. He has
110 need to be stingy, and it makes too much fuss to be lavish.
He is decidedly English, full of the reserve that is our
characteristic. He sings rather badly. He is proud in a
magnificent all-round sort of way, but not of anything in
particular. He plays cards a little, and billiards a good deal.
He is the sort of man who talks with a drawl, and says
"Bai Jove! donclia know ?"—the sort of man who in time of
stress and war would carry the colours of his regiment to the
gates of Victory through the very mouth of Hell.
Such at least was the unexpressed opinion of Daisy Eees,
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2 i
who had sung her song to the accompaniment of Effie Mount-
joy's mandoline, and who had now come out with her to pace
the terrace, allured by the after-glow of the sunset,
" How like you your brother is, Eiiie," said Daisy Eees.
" Oil yes; we are like, I suppose, Gerard and I."
"What a pretty name—Gerard," she said ingenuously.
" ' What's in a name ?' Don't you think it's cold on the
terrace ? Gerard!" she called. " You have missed Daisy's
song. Ask her to sing another."
He rose, and so did Beauregard. Gerard yielded his seat to
Miss Itees, and sat down by her side. They talked of the
Eisteddfodd and of the AYelsli Archdruid Clwyddfardd. Daisy
felt very happy; and Effie Mountjoy, who was now ensconced
very comfortably next to Beauregard, ceased to feel it chill.
They had been talking of the luck of St. Leger, who had
been hurriedly placed in the seat formerly occupied by the Due
d'Amiens, beside " I'allas "; but they were now quite satisfied.
Gerard wanted to know Daisy—she was just the quiet, docile,
lovable girl he liked; and Beauregard, though he did not care
much for women in general, made an exception in the case of
Effie Mountjoy. Major Charles St. Leger, formerly of a cavalry
regiment, was now in the Diplomatic Service; and his luck
appeared to Gerard and Beauregard to consist in the fact
that "Dallas" was 011 his arm, strolling upon the moonlit
terrace—for a crescent moon has now risen, and the terrace
is bright with her soft effulgence.
There in the radiance, resting upon the arm of Major St.
Leger, strolls a graceful figure in a dream of white satin and
tulle, looking like a fleecy cloud that the moon has looked
upon. How the cloud drifts into an alcove made beautiful
with virgin's bower; garden scents are about them; the
strains of love-lyrics come faintly through the long Drench
windows of the drawing-room; they sit upon a rustic seat
festooned with flowers. Half an hour ago they were strangers
to each other; now she is in love with him, though not in the
least conscious of it, for Love works in a mysterious way. He is
merely a guest at an overcrowded party, as she is also. She
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does not even know his name; he does not care to know hers.
He talks about nothing in particular in a strong, manly, musical
voice, which seems to her to make a harmony with the melodies
in the air; and she replies to him in a voice as silvern as the
softness of the scene.
They talked not of Love; but Love talked, if not to both of
them, surely to her. When the man spoke, Love whispered a
sweetness. When it was silent, still sang the unheard voice.
The scent that exhaled from the jessamine and the early roses
was volatile with Love's essences; and the light of the moon, that
laid a white carpet at their feet, was soft as Love's mystery.
But she listened only to the man. She looked neither to
the light nor at the flowers, but only in a face wherein two
bright eyes gleamed when they met the glance of hers. After
they had parted, she wished she had found out his name. She
knew the conversation had interested her very much, and yet
she could not remember what it was about. She remembered
some of the things he said; and though they were only upon
commonplace topics, she wrote them down in a book.
She commenced a new notebook, which she called
" Thoughts," by Xxx.; and as she did not know his name she
drew portraits of him; they were very vague, but there were
two gleaming eyes, a strong brow, and a fierce moustache.
The mystery of all this pleased her; she was sure some day she
should meet him again.
But, careless of love, or lovers, the carriages are driving up
to take away.
Ladies and gentlemen, for the present I must ask you to be
satisfied with these varieties of the human being. But I again
warn you, if it is essential to your happiness to be furnished
with either hero or heroine, you must supply the gap in your
own personality, for I know no other such perfect creature in
the world. The men and women will go through their perfor¬
mances in the following pages ; they will act as naturally as it
is in their power to do ; they will from time to time make their
exits and their entrances, and, unless I am very much mistaken
in my forecast of future events,—but do not ask me, for really I
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23
have little to do with it, my pen takes me where its whim
dictates,—they will fall, some of them, under the influence of
that magnetic woman, whose name it was her whim to con¬
ceal under the nom de pluvie " Pallas" — the bright and
particular star—to whom all men became but moths, fluttering
around the glory of her radiance and singeing their wings in
the flame.
CHAPTEE IV.
N the facts stated," said the Minister for Foreign
Affairs, as he sat down before the fire in his lofty
cold-looking office in Downing Street, "Ishould
he disposed to seek your advice, Sir Philip."
"Is it a matter for our department ?"
answered Sir Philip Saunders cautiously. " What has the
Foreign Office to do with it ?"
" On the facts I have laid before Lord Camberley, though
we are watchful in our own department, it appears to me that
we should now seek the active co-operation of the Foreign
Powers," replied the Home Secretary. " What are the facts ?
We have police evidence sufficient to show that a violent con¬
spiracy is on foot."
" In this country ? " said Sir Philip Saunders. " Mark me,
in this country what have we to do with that ? It is in your
department."
" I accept your view," said the Home Secretary ; " we have
responsibilities at our office. All I have to say is, that having
sent you the documents that you received from our department
the week before last, I thought it would be best to chat it over
with you. There is no doubt whatever, from the evidence in your
hands, that a great International conspiracy exists, and that its
energies are daily increasing. Should it not be dealt with by
united action on the part of all the European Governments ?"
" What do the Treasury solicitors say ?" asked Sir Philip.
"We must have their opinion before we can act. The papers
are indeed with them."
•24
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25
" They have sent the papers back to our office," said the
Home Secretary. " If Lord Camberley thinks—"
" My dear Harry, I don't think," said the Earl of Camberley,
opening an evening paper with his lean hands, and keeping one
eye on the betting list. " You know very well the F.O.
doesn't think; the action of the F.O. is automatic. I leave
everything to the Heads of the Departments, who will report
to me in accordance with the usual routine, and the business
must take its course in the ordinary way. The whole
matter is in Sir Philip's hands, and he will act in accordance
with the usages of the F.O.: the F.O. will seek the advice
of the Treasury solicitors, and, when we get the papers
back in due course, I sincerely hope we shall not have to
stir up any troublesome business in Europe. Shall you see
Spencer ?"
" Can't. I have to be in the House now," said the Home
Secretary, looking up at the clock and taking up his hat.
" Question-time. I must really hurry away."
"Well, won't it be best to let things take their usual
course ? The Home Office having sent the papers to the
F.O., we sent them to the Solicitor to the Treasury, and he
has returned them to you. You will again report to me
what the Treasury solicitor advises, and then we shall re¬
consider what the F.O. is to do, and, if necessary, obtain
further advice from the solicitor, according to the usual
routine."
" It's very important," said the Home Secretary, as he hurried
off.
" The worst of the Home Office is their lack of repose,"
muttered Sir Philip Saunders to his chief when the Minister
for Home Affairs had gone.
" Whatever Government is in power, they always have some
dreadful man for Home Secretary," replied the Foreign Minister,
turning to his evening paper with a yawn. " Though I'm a
Piadical in theory myself, really I think the Premier should
select the Cabinet Ministers from men of some breeding—some
position in Society."
26
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" Such a lack of repose," said Sir Philip in his gentlest
accents. " Such a lack of repose."
" What is the man really driving at, eh, Saunders ?"
" He wants us to appoint somebody as Special International
Commissioner, to negotiate with all the Powers about these
Anarchist fellows."
" Why, that's what the Mad Member has been bullying us
for, for years."
" Let him bully—insane old fool!"
" Suit Jack, you know, that appointment, eh ? Suit Jack.
What do you think, eh ? Say twelve hundred a year. It would
become a permanency, and he would be sure to get a K.C.B.
He's so anxious for that, doncher—eh, Phil ? I promised Lottie
I would do something for Jack. She is very fond of him ; and
I, like an old fool, am very fond of her."
Sir Philip lifted up his gold-edged pince-nez in his gentlest
manner, and, looking at the Earl, said with his blandest smile,
"We couldn't put Jack in for it, Lord Camberley."
" Why not, Phil ?"
" He's not in our department."
" Oh, of course not! No, no, no, no; forgot," said the Earl,
now quite engrossed in his newspaper. " What the devil next ?
Penny Whistle has beaten Turnip-tops, and I think Lord
Rosebery's mare has a certainty for the Oaks."
At that moment a loud report was heard in the large court¬
yard outside the Foreign Office. A man carrying a dynamite
bomb had entered the gateway in Downing Street, and was
traversing the courtyard towards the north-west corner, close to
the entrance of the Foreign Office, when the bomb, which had
apparently been designed with some evil intent, discharged
itself in the small bag in which it had been concealed, and the
wretch who had been carrying it, hoist with his own infernal
petard, was blown into an unrecognisable mass of blood and
horror.
CHAPTER V.
[FFICULT though it was for the Government to
move out of its beaten track, the bomb that burst
outside the gates of the Foreign Office caused
them at length to listen to the demands of " the
Mad Member." Facts became known which,
though never published, were of so startling a character that
the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary were closeted
together at No. 10 Downing Street for some hours. The
Attorney-General and the Foreign Minister had also to be
consulted; aucl the Home Secretary, who had long been con¬
vinced of the importance of the appointment of an official to
investigate the Anarchist and Nihilist movements abroad, and
to work with foreign Governments in coping secretly with the
vast Anarchist conspiracy that was on foot, was able to carry
his point, and to obtain the approval of the Cabinet.
Major Charles St. Leger, upon whom the appointment was at
length conferred, had been seven years in the Diplomatic Service,
and five years previously in a cavalry regiment. His chief quali¬
fications for the post were, that he possessed, for an Englishman,
an unusual knowledge of languages—Russian, Spanish, and
Italian, besides French and German—and a knowledge of the
routine in the Diplomatic Service. He was known to be
prompt in action, and possessed of military energy. He was
full of zeal, and had a subtle instinct for discovery. He was a
born detective. He could sum up and collect small details,
piece together facts, and see through brick walls better than
'27
28
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most. He could balance cause and effect. A trifle, to him, was
always an important thing. He knew that oaks grow from
acorns. He was a clever organiser, and always gave personal
attention to detail. In the transaction of his work he did as
much as he could, even in small things, himself. He was a
sincere admirer of Lord Wolseley, had served under him at
Tel-el-Kebir, and had based his own conduct on the example of
that great commander to whom England owes so much.
It was not widely known that Major St. Leger was appointed.
It was a secret office, and the secret was well kept. " The Mad
Member" still thumped the benches at St. Stephen's; the
Home Secretary still gave evasive replies; but really Major St.
Leger, who travelled without flourish, and bore his important
office with a modesty and a reserve that none but an English¬
man can practise, had quietly presented his credentials, through
the various Ambassadors, at every European capital, and had
walked incognito through all the dens and purlieus on the
Continent. He appeared and disappeared. He gained infor¬
mation of the utmost consequence. He became intimate
with the police, as well as with the Governments of
Europe, and frequently rendered them assistance, through
his special knowledge, though his name remained almost
unknown.
His reports were remarkable for reliability. His style of
expression, though direct and definite, was peculiarly circum¬
stantial, if occasionally apparently trivial in detail, as, for
instance, in this report to the Chief Commissioner of the
Police:—
" The fifteen conspirators who are at the head of the
Anarchists in England meet at No. — Cleveland Street, Soho,
at nine o'clock p.m., on Monday the 11th instant. Enclosed
are photographs of four of the men; two others are minutely
described in the appendix. If the police surround the house
at the hour named they should be able to arrest dangerous
leaders of the Anarchist movement in this country, together
with such documentary information as may lead to their
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29
arraignment, and evidence enough to justify the incarceration
of the whole gang for a considerable term. The latest to
arrive will be a tall, singularly erect old man, who will have
in his breast pocket papers of the vastest consequence, relating
to an intended Nihilist crime in Russia; the arrest is of
enormous consequence, bearing as it does on the life of the
Tsar.
" I desire the police to be instructed, upon entering the
house, and before they make the arrest, to carefully secure
the oil-cloth in the ground-floor passage of the house aforesaid,
and to remove the same carefully, without effacing the foot¬
marks. Much depends on this item. Let the number of
every cab entering Cleveland Street between seven and eight
o'clock p.m. on the 11th inst. be carefully and unostentatiously
taken by a plain-clothes officer.-—T have the honour to be, etc.,
" Ciiakles St. Legep."
He signed his name neatly, and, putting down his pen, rose
from his chair, striding thoughtfully up and down his small
office, a third-floor apartment in the great block of buildings
known as the Foreign Office.
He was a man of remarkable physique—broad and tall,
yet so well proportioned that neither his height nor breadth
were striking when alone, but in a crowd he stood, as the
phrase is, head and shoulders above his fellows. His strong
clear-cut face was full of power; his broad brow, his thin
determined lips and jaw were evidence that his was 110
ordinary character; and he had the grim, perhaps hard, look
in his eyes that marked an iron will. In some circumstances
he might develop cruelty, perhaps. He would always be stern
and strong; and he evinced symptoms of narrow-mindedness
and meanness, but, if the full truth be known, he was miser¬
ably poor. His office was not yet well paid. But the spur
of poverty had helped him already, if in no other way than
waking his ambition.
When he had finished his report he yawned and looked
at his watch. A Bible lay open at the Psalms. O11 a side-
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table were the day's newspapers, the month's magazines, and
a supply of novels from Mudies'. He looked at one, put it
aside and took another. On its title-page he read, Jugger¬
naut, by "Pallas." He sat down to read it, for it was the
latest craze in books.
CHAPTER VI.
N the shady side of Cleveland Street there stood,
at the time of our story, a certain house, with the
shutters of the ground-floor up, and the blinds
in all the other floors down. The windows were
fuzzy with grime and cobwebs, and the entire
front of the house was splashed with mud, and filthy through
neglect. Upon the closed shutters was a bill, almost obscured
by splashes, which announced—
THIS HOUSE TO LET.
INQUIRE WITHIN.
An Italian organ-grinder, after playing six tunes through
twice over 011 an organ that had lost one of its lungs, prompted
by a desire, presumably, to rent a part of the house,—for he
could hardly be so unreasonable as to expect any pecuniary
reward for the diabolical row he made with his instrument,—
lifted the knocker and rapped several times. No answer
being made, he pulled the bell, which, however, gave no
response. The organ-grinder gave another glance at the
window, slipped a note under the door, and then trundled off
with his instrument. Towards twilight it began to rain. Cabs,
hurrying by, splashed more mud on to those disreputable
shutters, and covered the glass of the basement-windows in
the dismal area behind the grim railings so evenly that it was
almost like a fresh coat of paint upon them. The door was
31
32
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opened. A dirty old woman, whose hair seemed to be com¬
posed of old cobwebs which had become too dusty to catch
flies, let in a very lean cat which had been sitting on the
doorstep for some time.
The door having been opened, revealed the note left by
the organ-grinder. The old woman opened it, read it, went
out, and returned in half-an-hour's time with a large bundle.
Soon a man, giving a low whistle, and tapping on the door
with his knuckles at the same time, was at once let into the
house.
" Do you want a word with me ?" said the doorkeeper.
" Pal," said the incomer.
'' —las," said the doorkeeper.
" Pallas," said the incomer.
" Pass in Pallas," said the doorkeeper.
A watchword having been given in this theatrical manner,
the door was opened wide and fastened back. At intervals
during the next half-hour, groups of two or three, and now and
again some solitary man, walked in quickly and quietly, and
with something of stealth, and always with whispering of the
watchword, traversed the passage to a small back room
behind the shop on the ground-floor.
When several had assembled, entering the usually empty
house so quietly as to be almost unperceived even by the
immediate neighbours, the door was again closed and barred.
These nocturnal visitors then repaired to a back room upstairs,
a gas jet was lit, and they all sat down in a room nearly bare
of furniture, excepting for a large table and some chairs.
These, instead of being rickety, as the condition of the
dilapidated and dirty house might have led one to expect,
were of good sound mahogany. A strong Chubb's safe and a
new-looking desk were also in the room.
The men, amounting to some dozen or more in number,
were of different nationalities, and for the most part rather
young. As they sat round the table they talked with each
other in hushed voices, but often with excitement of manner.
It was obvious that they were much in earnest. Equally
Zalma
33
obvious, by the stealth of their meeting, that they were there
for some purpose not favoured by the law.
They were, indeed, Anarchists.
There was no president's chair, and the table was a long
oval, so that there was no "head of the table," or place of
precedence or dignity. From time to time a knock was heard
below, and some new arrival was greeted with always effusive
gesticulations and oaths of hearty welcome in a jabber of
strange tongues. Finally, an erect and exceedingly handsome
old man came in; and though it was evident that any excess
of honour was unwelcome to him, and was a kind of treason
to the Cause, everyone rose to his feet with almost uncon¬
scious reverence as he entered. He sat down amidst them
with a reserve of manner conspicuously dignified. He was
clearly their master, even if he concealed his power. His
dress, too, differed from the others, if merely in that it was
neat and clean.
" It is the hour to begin, but we are not yet fifteen," said
one who sat with books before him, which he had taken from
the safe.
" Yet we are all here. The fifteenth is dead," said the last
comer in a voice singularly soft.
" Bax dead !" exclaimed several at once. " Comrades, you
hear Number Five. He tells us that Bax is dead."
" Dead ! Bax dead !" whispered several excitedly.
" How is he dead?" said a man with a sinister look.
" By order of the Central Group, Antonio," replied the man
who had been referred to as Number Five, blandly.
" I do not like zese zecret atzazzinations—zat is, not of
ourzelves," said Antonio, an intimate friend of the dead man.
" Nor any of us," cried several fiercely.
" Nor I," said Number Five in a tone of singular calm.
" Suffice it that Bax betrayed us. To-night we are watched.
Every man who came here to-night has been seen and probably
secretly photographed—identified by our thumb-marks possibly,
and by all sorts of secret modes. Where are your wits,
comrades ? You should be observant. I am the only one of
3
34
Zalma
you who seems to have noticed this. I recognised several
detectives in the streets adjacent as I came in." Several ot
the conspirators rose hurriedly and looked around them in fear.
" Hush ! A hundred metropolitan police at least will soon
surround the house. At the sound of a sergeant's whistle
they will be upon us. Fools! put up your weapons and sit
down!" They obeyed him, sitting down at the table
apprehensively.
" Let us be quite calm," continued the old gentleman, for
such he clearly was in every outward aspect; and by his force
of manner he evidently exercised great influence over the
others. " Although at this moment we are in danger, at least
O D 7
let us be discreet. Antonio Sanzio! But stay—to-morrow, if
we escape, we all meet at nine o'clock. Is it agreed ?"
" Agreed," answered everyone in muffled voices.
" I have hired a furnished house to-day in Bernard Square,
Camden Town. Number 11. Let all note the address—1*1
Bernard Square, Camden Town. Our watchword, till further
notice—Emile Henry."
"Emile Henry," repeated everyone in the lowest audible
whisper.
" If we perish, comrades, our brothers meet next in Paris.
Kroupenski, Feneon, Sanchez, will carry on our work. Pally to
them if necessary. And now for escape. Antonio Sanzio, give
to me all the papers from the safe."
The conspirators rose excitedly and talked to each other
furtively. They were mostly of hideous aspect—ugly, unshaven,
uncleaned. Whilst the Italian handed the papers from the
safe, Number Five lit a cigarette with calm deliberation, not in
bravado, but because, by this trivial assumption of assurance,
he imparted his own coolness to his fellows.
This book, Number Seven, I intrust to you. May I rely
on you ? j j j
" Parfaitement."
Number Three these papers bring with you to-morrow, if
we are spared. Michael O'Reilly, I intrust you with these.
I hey are letters of much consequence—keep them in the sealed
Z ALMA
35
packet. These drafts I will take care of myself. The rest,"
he continued, turning them over deliberately, "it is best to
destroy. Burn them, Hans. Put them now on the fire."
A flare of burning paper illuminated the apartment.
" Now, comrades, listen. In the next room is a large bundle
that, with the assistance of our friend the organ-grinder, I took
the precaution to secure and send here this afternoon. It
contains a number of uniforms of the metropolitan police.
Let every man quickly dress in one. I had no means of warn¬
ing yon of your danger : all I could do was to take precautions
for your escape."
Several of the Anarchists muttered their thanks.
" They will form the best possible disguise. Do not light
the gas in that room. It looks on the street, and might pro¬
voke a whistle."
The men dressed quickly enough. There was no time to
be lost. Some of the men were very flurried and excited.
Number Five stood quietly smoking his cigarette.
"We are ready, except Hans ; he is always slow," said one ;
" vorwarts, vorivcirts
"This is my plan," said Number Five in the calmest pos¬
sible voice; " and mind, let everyone act his part well. You,
Mike O'Reilly, have the inspector's uniform. You will find in
your breast pocket a police whistle. Go to the first-floor front
window. Light the gas. Pull up the blind. Throw up the
sash loudly, and then blow your whistle. The rest of you line
the passage in your uniforms. I will open the door. Detectives
in plain clothes will flock in. Let every one of you salute
them. Then march in single file down the street, military
fashion. Detach yourselves two by two, gradually. Hail the
first hansoms you find, and drive off where you will."
A murmur of applause greeted his speech.
" Vive I'Anarchic!" exclaimed one Pierre, in an excited
whisper.
" Hush !" said Number Five. " This is no time for bra^cart
• » 00
cries.
"Luck to us all, anyhow," said an Irishman, striking off the
3^
Zalma
neck of a whisky bottle. " Begorra ! This is too good for the
police. Comrades, I pass it to you." He drank, and passed
the bottle with a horrible oath.
They filed downstairs, and stood, police fashion, with their
backs to the wall in the front passage.
Suddenly there was a glare of light in the room above, the
sashes were violently thrown up, and a shrill police whistle
rang through the air.
It was answered by another, and another, and another, and,
as Number Five flung open the front door, detective after
detective came in. They looked surpised to see the house
already apparently occupied by the police.
"We've got 'em," said a real inspector, as he strode in in
uniform. " Where are they ? Why, the oil-cloth ain't took up !
This is all agin the orders."
" Where are they ?" repeated the Irishman readily. " On
the fourth-floor and inside the roof. Get all your men together
in fourth-floor back. Quiet now, and quick. Don't hurry
down. Give us time; we have work to do here. Now," he
continued in a nervous whisper, as he turned to his comrades in
their sham uniforms. " Hook it for your lives ! Quick march."
The spurious police, marching single file, footed it down
Cleveland Street, turned to the right, and at every corner cast
off two of their number.
"Euston Station," called Hans, who had got into a hansom
with Number Five. "We're the last two, so we've all got off
safe. But what a squeak ! War das cine Iletze ! "
" I saw 'em come in one and two at a time, and the man in
the brown coat," said a genuine sergeant in a puzzled manner.
" Saw 'em myself from the 'ouse opposyte. Now there's not a
westige of 'em. The winders 'aven't been opened ; they 'aven't
gone up the chimbleys, and I can't find 'em in the roof— blowed
if I can. I can't make out what the men of the M Division
were doing below, to let 'em get orff."
" They marched off down the street," said another. " Orders
from Chief Commissioner. Bah! Divided authority t Scot
land Yard wants reform. Bah ! Move on there ! Pass aloim ?"
<3 *
Zalma
37
Some time elapsed, indeed, before it dawned upon the
inspector how neatly he had been baffled.
A crowd by this time had gathered round the door, attracted
by the stentorian shouts of a constable to " stan' by, stan' by
there," addressed to an inquisitive but dirty little boy, who had
unintentionally formed a nucleus.
" Wot's up ?" said another inquisitive dirty boy to the
other.
" The coppers came to cop sum sham coppers, but they done
a guy;" and he grinned.
" Ow !" said the other boy; and he grinned too.
" Stan' by ! Stan' by, there !" shouted the constable angrily.
" I think we better do a guy too," said the urchin derisively,
as he made off.
"Hans, you had better get out here," said Number Five, as
they arrived at the corner of Euston Square. " Eemember my
instructions. Be careful of the picric acid. Store it unknown
to anyone. Keep a watch on Antonio. I do not suspect him.
I believe him to be one of us. But, somehow, our secrets leak
out. Good-night. Tell the cabman to drive as fast as he can
to 11 Bernard Square, Camden Town —or, 110. It is more
prudent to dismiss him, and take another cab. Perhaps we are
watched. The police may have been taking the number of our
cab. They would be on the qui vive." Number Five bade
good-bye again to Hans, and, after a little stroll, hailed a passing
hansom. In due course the cab stopped, Number Five alighted,
discharged the cab, and knocked. A lady, who had been stand¬
ing at the window saw the cab drive up, and, appearing at the
door, let him in, and flung her arms about his neck.
" You here, Zalma ?" said Number Five reprovingly, as he
closed the door. "How dare you disobey me?"
" Darling, I wanted to see you so much; you have been
looking harassed lately, and I know you are tried and troubled;
let your Zalma help you. What strange house is this that you
have taken ? Let me help you. Confide in me."
At every sentence she kissed him. Now on his brow, his
cheek, his hands, which she lovingly caressed.
38
Zalma
He patted her head, and took her tenderly by her jewelled
hand.
" But why are you dressed thus ?" he asked, holding her
from him, and surveying her from head to foot.
She was in the loveliest pink gown, covered with a mass of
old Brussels lace, softened yet more with the softness of fur
and feather, and brightened with the damask light of watered
silk, revealing, whilst it still concealed, her pulsing busts, which
hid behind the down of fur and lace, as though they were moons
about to appear from masses of feathery clouds. Her eyes, like two
stars sparkling in the densest darkness, twinkled brilliantly, and
in her jet-black hair a tiara of magnificent diamonds of unusual
splendour, lustrous beyond compare, flashed with more dazzling
brightness. In her ears were two large uncut Indian brilliants
in which the limpid light slept serenely, like the reflection that
gleams upon a lake when the evening star seems to lie beneath ;
a cordon of diamonds blazed upon her neck, and from it sus¬
pended a monster of gleaming fire, flashing every moment with
innumerable scintillations; her wrists, her fingers, even her
insteps, were gorgeous with diamonds of the purest water.
Even her noble presence and lustrous beauty were dimmed in
the glory of the gems that she wore.
" Surely you know," she replied in a voice tinged with the
sweetest suggestion of reproach. "The Drawing-room to-day.
Do you not remember ? I have been presented."
"Ah! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes," said Number Five con¬
fusedly. " I remember, of course. Nobody ought to have
known better than I that the Queen is in London." He looked
at her almost sadly. Then with a sigh he said, as though
he forced his words, " And so you have kissed Her Majesty's
hand ?"
"But you have not kissed me. Am I not beautiful
enough ?"
" My love ! " he answered with a world of tenderness, as he
kissed her almost reverently.
She sank resignedly upon his bosom, clasping his neck and
holding him in her arms.
CHAPTER VII.
HERE was a riot in Trafalgar Square. Surging
crowds came up Parliament Street, to petition the
House of Commons—an abortive project, which
the police averted. A procession of several
thousand men, with banners and bands, came
over Westminster Bridge, to the apprehension of the timid and
the fluster of the Clubs, but was adroitly turned down Victoria
Street, and so to Hyde Park Corner, until the mob-enthusiasm
evaporated under the Reformers' Tree. Draper's strike had led to
international disputes in the labour camp, and had agitated the
labour cause. The strike became of serious dimensions. Ques¬
tions of principle were involved, wild talk about Socialism was
in the air. A man named Doddles had been dismissed under
circumstances that provoked the society. The Trades Unions
took up the case, and a general strike of all labour in the
metropolis was apparently a possible contingency. The
Capitalists met and passed resolutions ; the Trades Unions met
and passed counter resolutions ; the Lord Mayor gave a dinner
at the Mansion House ; and the clergy of various denominations,
ever faithful to their traditions, saw that their opportunity
had come to make a collection.
In the House of Commons there was a good deal of excite¬
ment, for the Government had made some mistakes, and a
General Election was perhaps imminent.
Jack Graves was smoking a cigar upon the terrace. Mr.
Bernard Daw, who had long poked fun at the salaried Heads of
Departments, thought that at last his time to get a salary had
come.
39
4°
Zalma
" If Draper's strike does nothing else, it will, unfortunately,
drive a nail into the coffin of the Liberal Government, said
Colonel Willyams, who represented Tenbigli.
" And after that—what ?" asked another Member^
"Possibly six years of a Conservative Ministry," said one of
the whips.
" And at the first great mistake a really Eadical Govern¬
ment," said Bernard Daw.
" Nonsense," said a rough-bearded, rough-coated man, rudely.
He was not a Member, but he was well known in political
circles as a candidate for a large working-man's constituency.
"Nonsense," he repeated; "as sure as my name's Bill Joice,
the Badicals have lost their chance of ever forming a Govern¬
ment. They have become a mere school of theorists—they are
a collection of Faddists and Fabians—of logicians who do not
carry out their logic, and of crotchet-mongers who cannot get
their crotchets taken up. When this Government smashes up,
the Conservatives will come in with an enormous majority."
Jack Graves, who had been leaning over the balustrade
smoking his cigar, turned round at this and became more
interested in the conversation.
" Conservatism!" said Bernard Daw, with a shrug of his
shoulders. " Conservatism has ceased to exist."
"You are quite right, Bernard, as usual," said Bill Joice,
with a sneer, and using Bernard's Christian name familiarly,
with malice aforethought. "You are quite right—in theory.
There is no such thing as Conservatism, yet we shall have long
years of a Conservative Ministry. No one will admit more readily
than I that now Conservatism and Liberalism—so called—are
one : there are no Conservatives any more. There is nothing to
conserve. The landowners are Capitalists just as much as the big
manufacturers. Land is merely another form of capital, out of
which as much profit is to be made as possible, just as if its
owner manufactured screws or boots; all the sentiment connected
with it, the responsibilities attaching to it, its feudalism, its
medievalism, have vanished. Your lord is now a trader, a
director of public companies, an atheist, as much as I am. I beo-
Zalma
4i
his pardon, an agnostic—his lordship requires three syllables to
describe himself, instead of two. His religion is as dead as
feudalism itself. Conservatism indeed ! Why, everything that
was of value in the old creed has disappeared—everything that
has to be conserved now was, a generation ago, an abomination
to your true Conservative. The modern Conservative is only
an upholder of Capitalistic ideas—in other words, a Liberal.
The Conservative and the Liberal are of one and the same
party, without knowing it. They merely keep up their struggle
for place and office; and all their difference is, who shall have a
salary. They don't really fight, because they are both on the
same side."
"To some extent I agree with Mr. William Joice,"
remarked Bernard Daw. "The only two divisions now are
those of Capital and Labour."
" We represent the harmony of the two ideas," said Colonel
Willyams,—" Liberalism—"
"Liberalism!" interrupted Bill Joice, with a rudeness of
tone that gave a sort of rough force to his conversation.
" Liberalism is as dead as Australian mutton. Conservatism,
though defunct, has still a kind of ghost left to swear by, and
you will see that ghost hold a long tenure of office now.
Badicalism is a mere will-o'-the-wisp, which has perhaps lit
us through the mists and brought us to where we are—the eve
of the sway of a great Labour party. Oh! we shall come,
though not just yet. We have only just got our baby lips
on the teat of the feeding-bottle. But we shall grow."
" You have said nothing about Socialism," said Mr. Bernard
Daw. " Is not that a force to be reckoned with ? "
" Lord Salisbury says we are all Socialists nowadays,"
remarked Jack Graves, lighting another cigar. " Our side has
passed any amount of Socialist measures—and bad luck
to 'em!"
"Yes. There you spoke truth," cried Bill Joice. "You
keep on throwing sops to the wolves. Do you think it
satisfies their hunger ? Listen! you can hear 'em howling
now."
42
Zalma
And, indeed, from Westminster Bridge came the echoes
of the groans of the mob.
" I am for giving 'em nothing," said Jack Graves. " Nothing.
Let 'em howl. I'm an old Tory, I am. I take my stand
on what there is—there's precious little left. Let us keep
what little remains, and stand or fall by it."
" Yes, that's what yon say, and what each of your party
says and wishes; but when you are in power you are obliged
to give way—or go out."
" We are not obliged to give way, but unfortunately our
leaders think we are," said Jack Graves. "We ought to have
a prize fighter in the Cabinet. Jim Mace would be a great
strength to a Tory Ministry."
"The Conservative is always dying," said Mr. Bernard
Daw, assuming the impartiality of a critic ; " but, after all, he
is for ever alive. He is always being reinvigorated by the
stimulus of new weaknesses. He is continually assuming the
defence of some fresh symptom of decay: the strength of
rottenness is his, because young saplings are brought to bind
up the old limb, and whenever an old branch is lopped off
there is a natural new growth of younger and living twigs;
the timid twine for their own support round his old trunk,
and thereby toughen it—the shelter of his cankered boughs is
better than none. Even the Socialist seeks his protection,
through the dread of Nihilism and Anarchy."
" One of the lessons of this Draper strike is writ large
enough anyhow," said Colonel Willyams, twisting his moustache;
" if Labour bullies Capital too much, Capital flies off some¬
where else. Draper has built his new works in Belgium.
Labour can never injure Capital without wounding herself.
They are brothers—no, they are partners, and if they fall
out the business goes to smash. The elector will learn
that."
_ In the distance, again, was heard the sound of seditious
cries, the howls and groans of a yelling mob.
" That sort of thing," continued Mr. Bernard Daw, " always
frightens both sides. The Conservative gives way a little to
Zalma
43
the mob, but the Badical votes with the Conservative, lest too
much should be given."
" It is cheerful to think that we arc just going to begin
our innings," said Jack Graves.
" Not so cheerful as you think," replied Bill Joice. " When
your side's out again you won't know yourselves, you'll he so
crippled by our attacks, so covered with bruises from our balls,
you will have given away so much, and scored so little, that
when we come in "—
" It will be our turn to bowl at you," interrupted Jack
Graves, with a hearty laugh. "After all, it will be the same
old game—the Ins and the Outs. I daresay the poor old
country will manage to stand up at the wicket somehow, and
hold her own against all comers as well as ever. I have great
hope in my party after all."
" While there is hope there is life," remarked Colonel
Willyams with a smile, reversing the old proverb; " and,
again, everything's in a name. So I believe in Liberalism
yet—if only on that account, and I must admit the precious
old party has little else but her name to swear by ; anyway,
we are the party that makes promises, and the party that
promises is usually more popular than the party that performs."
So saying, he linked his arm in Graves' and led him off, with
an "Eh, Jack? What humbugs we all are! Come and have tea."
" Tea ?" said Mr. Graves ; " come with me. I have ladies
at the other end of the terrace. Ah, Pallas,—so you were
presented yesterday, eh ?—you have found your way through
the crowd. What do you think of all this? We have been
disputing, the Colonel and I, about Liberal and Tory, Capital
and Labour, Socialism and Anarchy—and all the rest of it.
How do you spell it out, eh ?"
She looked over the terrace at the crowded bridge, at the
waving banners, at the lines of police, who had themselves
nearly struck a few weeks before.
" I think it spells an ugly word," she replied solemnly;
" a word that women do not like to speak. I think it spells
B-L-O-O-D."
44
Zalma
She spoke so ominously that neither of the glib senators
replied. Each stood, struck by her seriousness, staring at her.
" Some day," she continued, as solemnly as a seer, " some
day soon it will he sprinkled on the people—that red baptism
of the devolution—and then—!"
CHAPTEE VIII.
COMPLIMENT you, Cardinal Cantelupe," said a
Pip priest, one Eather Hippolytus, as the two sat
3&W comfortably in a well-furnished library in the
Vatican at Eome. " I compliment you. You
have slain a Eevolution."
" I fear not; I have only quelled a riot, and ended this
series of strikes. They have been very serious: in one
shape or form they have disturbed the world for three long
years."
"You have again proved to the world the power of Holy
Church as a factor in human governments. Ccesciri omnia
agenda sunt."
" It is an interesting study, this strange government of the
world," replied the Cardinal, thoughtfully stirring the coal in
the great chilly-looking stove.
" The comedy is so tragic," replied Father Hippolytus.
" Here in Europe almost all the people have been cheated to
believe that they themselves govern the people—that is to say,
the aggregate of individuals. The individual is almost as
powerless now as in the Middle Ages. They—the People—do
not make the laws. Once now and again in a few years they
go to some ballot-box and put a cross against some man's name ;
and the fools think that by doing that they have a voice, for¬
sooth, in the making of their laws! But how cleverly they
have been hoodwinked. Law is a Eate—a Destiny."
" It is a good thing to let the people think they govern:
it keeps them to some extent content," said Cardinal Cantelupe,
45
46
zalma
warming his hands in the glow. " A king, whether his name
be King or Minister, now knows very well that he cannot really
rule, though his is a great power still,—a power that we must
use more than ever. It is social, but an enormous force. Our
mistake is in resisting too much. We should always yield, but
with one hand only ; our cloaked hand should keep a firm grasp
011 affairs. The Church does not realise its power sufficiently;
secretly it pulls the strings. All secret societies are a power.
The two or three individuals who are at the head of any society
are a power."
" Who rules the world now, Cardinal ? Let us ask ourselves
that."
"We are still the chief power—we in Borne. The Tsar is
not, because he is the mere straw now of Destiny; and so the
German Emperor, too, with all his force of character. The
three or four chief conspirators in Nihilism—they have power:
the beads of the Trades Unions—they truly are men in power;
the leaders of the Trades Union Societies—I tremble when I
think of the power they may have, for their influence is grow¬
ing rapidly. A brutal fellow like that man Joice should be in
some way brought more under our influence. He is probably
very approachable. Tact wanted, of course."
" Your tact, Cardinal, has been admirable; not only in end¬
ing this long and historical strike, but in obtaining the good
opinion of the country."
" But Catholic influence counts for so little there. We
cannot influence the Queen, nor the Prince her son."
" The Church has not made the effort, however, that the
case requires," remarked Father Hippolytus, knitting his eagle¬
like brow.
" Ah ! ' said the Cardinal, putting out his elegant hands by
way of protest—hands so transparent that the ruddy glow of
the fire shone through them, hands so delicate that they might
have been a gentlewoman's, hands so strong that they might
have been of steel. " You compliment me beyond my merit.
Let us talk of—of—of Dell-land."
"Of ?"
Z ALMA
47
" Of Dell-land. Walls here have ears. Let us talk in
parables."
They both laughed—the subtle, tender, cultured laugh, that
makes no echo.
" It is a country I have heard much about, but I have never
been there. Describe it to me."
The Cardinal smiled. A whimsical idea played in his mind,
and he said, with the light of laughter frolicking upon his lips:
" Animi causa. It is an island that has a remarkably good
opinion of itself, set in foreign seas—seas that were formerly
her own, but her power in them is waning. It is a country
which in former days—like Greece—had a history, but it is
now comparatively obscure. It was in the van of Progress, but
now lagging behind European nations : its diminutive army, its
fleet of toy-boats, which are always foundering or turning turtle,
its insane party and political follies, have made it the most
ridiculous spectacle amongst nations."
"Patriot!" exclaimed Father Hippolytus, laughing at this
caricature, "I recognise your description in a moment;" and
taking a pinch of snuff from a jewelled box, he passed it politely
to the Cardinal, who took a pinch out of courtesy, retaining it
a while before he blew it gracefully into the fire.
" How is it now governed ?" asked Father Hippolytus, who
loved talking to Cardinal Cantelupe. "Your description is
always so terse—besides, you are a native of the country."
" Socially, it is governed, nominally, by an old lady who is
hoarding her money; actually, by an old gentleman who is
squandering his, and who is extremely popular amongst those
who pick it up—but those who do not, regard his conduct as
rather immoral. His heir is a young man who has too little to
either hoard or squander."
" Brother, you were always truthful—especially for a
Cardinal," exclaimed Father Hippolytus, laughing till the
wrinkles made crow's-feet all round his eyes.
" It is not a generous country, though in former times its
people were so considered," continued the Cardinal gravely, as
he spread his hands before the fire. " No; on the whole, no.
48
Zalma
They must be a mean people who starve a generous Prince."
He coughed drily as he continued. " In reality, this illustrious
and Pioyal house have nothing whatever to do with the govern¬
ment. They merely rule socially."
" Keeping up the splendour of the Court," suggested Father
Hippolytus, " and leaving the drudgery work to the under¬
taker."
" The splendour of the Court ?—Yes, that is to say, the Old
Lady gives balls in the servants' hall, whilst the Old Gentle¬
man is bribed to rich men's race parties, for he is not allowed
an income enough to entertain."
"Then he has to punt for his living?" said Father Hip¬
polytus slyly.
" That is it exactly. The poor Prince ! Ileally, I am often
ashamed of the meanness of my country."
" But is he a good Prince ?"
" Excellent! excellent! The number of foundation-stones
that he lays, and the charming good humour with which he
performs his innumerable public penances, whilst crowding
Sunday schools sing, entitle him to ample private indulgence,
and to a large share in the hearts of the people. He is well
beloved."
" He is what you call a ' brick.'"
" Yes. He is made of clay. That is why we love
him."
"Yet he has nothing to do with the government. Tell me,
Cardinal, who does really govern ?"
" The Prime Minister's valet. Our Premiers are either
senile or ridiculously young. It is a wonderful country for
extremes—excepting as regards climate."
" That, I learn from my geography, is temperate."
" I should describe it as moist. Sometimes it is moist
enough to be called damp, sometimes so moist as to be called
wet, but occasionally there are gleams of sunshine through
mist, and then all the people shake hands, and, in their dull
way, say to each other, ' Nice day.' "
"Ah, Italy! Italy!" exclaimed Father Hippolytus. "They
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49
cannot all have your blue skies. But does it never really
ram l.
" Yes," said the Cardinal. " It has been known to rain."
" But you have still not told me who, in fact, governs ?"
" A difficult thing to describe. But, as I judge, the country
is really governed by the Press—in other words, by Panic and
Placard. Ah ! the truth now Hashes 011 me. The real governor
of the country is the grill - cook at the ' Olde Cheshire
Cheese.'"
"You mean that if the journalists' appetites are upset the
country may leap into revolution," said Father Hippolytus,
playing with the arm of his chair.
" One would think that likely, especially as all the revolu¬
tionary things are done by the Conservatives. When the
Badicals, who profess Republican principles, are in power,
they always put aristocrats in the chief posts of office."
" No ?"
"Yes; the last Premier was a peer, a racing-man, and a
Jingo—three things which the Radicals profess to hate. Then
he was very rich, and, to crown all, married the daughter of
the richest Jew in Christendom. His predecessor, who was
also a Radical, was a High Churchman. Oh ! they are nothing
if not incongruous,—this strange people I"
" Indeed, these islanders do not appear to be consistent,"
said Father Hippolytus, with a chuckle. " And its army-—"
" Although I am a native of the country, Father Hippolytus,
all I ever saw of the army was two very fine men, beautifully
dressed, sitting immovably on black horses at a pair of sentry-
boxes, surrounded by an admiring circle of nursery-maids with
perambulators. But I am told we really have an army, which
the curious are permitted to inspect through a microscope."
" But all the world knows it consists of brave men."
" Their wags tell a story," replied Cardinal Cantelupe,
smiling at the recollection, " of the magnificent tactics of their
greatest officer. But I will not repeat the oft-told tale: then
he belonged to the Royal Family. By the bye, that reminds
me of the always interesting subject—the Royal Marriages.
4
5°
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Negotiations for the Royal Marriages are of the simplest.
Every member of this illustrious house has twelve children ,
each child, as soon as mature, marries, and has twelve more,
again, in their turn, the grandchildren marry as soon as
possible; and an enormous regiment of cousins of both sexes
being always at hand, the Diplomats have 110 difficulty. A
marriage is always easily arranged with a distant relation.
"Shocking! shocking!" exclaimed Father Hippolytus.
" But you are joking, Cardinal Cantelupe."
"Not at all. We think a great deal of our families; we
boast a great deal of our family life. Indeed, we have shows,
and give prizes to the most excellent baby. The judges decide
their merits by the weight. I sometimes wonder whether they
will ever institute a show for Prize Fathers and Mothers!"
Father Hippolytus laughed till the tears ran down his
cheeks " Facere non possum qum ficxim" he gurgled, as he
wiped his eyes.
" You think I am joking," said Cardinal Cantelupe in his
driest manner; "but I assure you I am simply reciting facts.
Twins are continually appearing, and very often some prolific
woman produces triplets. Three golden sovereigns are then
invariably presented to the deserving mother. Yes, the Royal
Bounty, provoked by the fecundity of the worthy subject, is
stirred to its depths, and lavishes three pounds sterling upon
this supremely successful woman. You see my country rewards
real merit."
" A people so populous ! IIow do they live, all of them ?"
inquired Father Hippolytus.
" TYe used to be sneered at as a nation of little shopkeepers.
Ye have ceased to be that. We are now a nation of six big
s ores the rest lead a slave's life, serving over the counter."
« rp,ut You have your nobility."
comnanips ^1)1USe-i Pc®rs ? ^h, they are now the directors of
profits are'equallyClimited.»°Wn liability aud the shareholders'
What of your laws ?"
" Our laws? We used to have definite laws. But nobody
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knows what the law is now. The judges deal out law as they
think tit, like Eastern cadis."
" That is a good system, if the judges be just."
" ISTo other country boasts so much about the unstained
honour of the Bench. After all, it is a matter of opinion, in
mine the judges are just, perfectly just, when the Press has its
eye 011 'em; but when the case is not likely to be reported,
Heaven help the poor litigants! If the judge wants to go to
the races, he will quash the case somehow—and go."
" Ah, the Derby ! I have heard of your Derbies. It is a
place which ruins the leaders of both your Houses."
" Well, certainly weak horses and strong beer ruined one
leader at the last Derby."
" Beer. Beer. That is a liquor sold in tubs, isn't it ? "
The Cardinal smiled. " I see you are familiar with one of
our cleanly habits. We do have a morning tub every day
before breakfast."
" Yes, so I am told; the people bathe in beer. What a
very interesting island yours is, Cardinal! Tell me, 011 what
do they subsist—what, for instance, is the food of this odd
people ?"
" I am grieved to tell you we import our beef from America
and our mutton from Australia; our vegetables, my green¬
grocer tells me, come from Italy ; and our fish we are beginning
to import in tins from Canada: whilst our own farms are going
out of cultivation, and our own fish are heaped 011 the land
for manure. It is dreadful! The Almighty has been very
bountiful to us. Our island produces the best oxen and sheep
in the world, which giaze on the finest and greenest pastures
and the healthiest downs ; the climate is peculiarly adapted to
the production of abundant fruits, which might grow in every
hedgerow,—there are millions of miles of hedges,—yet the
people regard fruit upon their tables as the rarest of delicacies,
and when it comes they take care to bruise it. They waste
dreadfully; they have 110 thrift. Our soil is supremely fit for
vegetable produce, but we cannot get vegetables, though our
labourers are starving for lack of work. Eor fuel we have the
52
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best coal that the world produces. Game and water-fowl are
everywhere, except upon the table. Our coasts, full of estuaries
and flats, produce naturally the very finest fish 011 the earth
but you can never get anything fit to eat in the island. There
isn't a cook from one end of the land to the other."
The two Prelates sat back in their chairs and groaned.
"How very, very sad!" said Father Hippolytus, who was
quite an epicure.
"It is grievous indeed," replied Cardinal Cantelupe in a
melancholy tone.
" Well, their women ?"
" Ah," said the Cardinal, filling his glass. " Their women !
Their women, like their cows and oxen, are also the finest in
the world. I pledge them."
He drank his wine with gusto, and broke into eulogy.
" Father Hippolytus," lie exclaimed enthusiastically, " there
are 110 such charming women anywhere in the universe. Their
grace of movement, their sweetness of manner, their delightful
reserve, their modesty, their simplicity, their variety of dark
and blue eyes, of brown and golden hair, their cherry lips, and,
most of all, their morning-air complexion, soft and pink as the
peach, pure and sweet and fresh as the scent of May !"
" I must visit this country," said Father Hippolytus,
tapping the lid of his snuff-box in his quiet way. " What
do you call the island—Dell-land ? Why the name Dell-
land ?"
" Oh, it is a well-known ancient story," replied the Cardinal,
smiling. " After the conquest of the country by the Romans,
some little boys were brought as hostages, and shown as
curiosities in Rome. The Holy Father observing them, was
much interested in the children, and, patting their heads, asked
them from what country they came. As the children did not
speak Latin, they found it difficult to tell the Holy Father; but
hey made such diabolical faces at His Holiness, that the Pope,
turning round, asked in an irritable tone of voice: 'Where do
the little devils come from ?' < From the devil's own country,'
leplied a Roman soldier, who had been engaged in conquering
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53
it—and so the derivation Devil's Country, Devil's Land, and
then Dell-land."
" Not a pretty name for a sober country."
" I should not be inclined to describe it as a sober
country. I should rather describe it as a country of Teetotal
Societies."
The two Prelates leant back in their chairs and laughed
heartily, though with serene dignity.
" Enough of this," said the Cardinal, after a minute or two's
silence. " Let us be serious. It is in truth a great country.
As a poet has said, ' With all her faults, I love her still.' The
people are, however, prejudiced against Holy Church. What
are we to do to win her back to the true faith ? His Holiness
Pio Nono longed for her conversion; and you know how I
have been appointed, since my successful action in regard to
the strikes, to set aside my life to this noble cause."
" Time," said Father Hippolytus, with a gravity of manner
that gave to the tone of his voice the expression of another
man. " Time is a great healer of prejudice. We should use
more subtlety, more of the tact which you have so admirably
displayed, Cardinal Cantelupe, in dealing with these Dyna¬
miters, and in quelling these riots. It is because of your tact
and good sense that I, as the Secretary of the Holy Propa¬
ganda, obtained your appointment to bring about the conver¬
sion of this country. In order to bring her back to the fold
we must first win a Prince. And that, one would think
feasible. Her Princes are susceptible to feminine influences."
" When the Dynamiters have frightened people a little more,"
replied the Cardinal, " the European Governments will ask the
aid of Rome. When Holy Church destroys Anarchy, as she
will have to do by stretching out all the force of her strong
arm, a greater impetus will be given to Catholicism than she
has received for years. The struggle of Science, which has for
centuries been in progress, is over. Science has in effect said
her last word. What has she said ? Nothing against us.
We have opposed her unnecessarily. She is not an enemy—
we must yield, and so win her. Our strength everywhere is
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in giving way. Let us stand back—the flood flows over us,
recedes, passes away. We remain. The rock on which we
stand is immovable, and shall endure for ever."
He spoke earnestly, and, rising from his chair, turned his
back to the fire. Then, looking gravely at Father Hippolytus,
he continued—-
" This may seem irrelevant to you, but it is in reality
much to the point. I survey the political outlook with vast
interest. The Church, since the great schism, which in effect
began five hundred years ago, was never so powerful as now.
The schism had its roots, and flourished in one soil only—our
opposition to Science. Science has practically discovered all
that is to be known. The great facts are known now, pre¬
cisely, exactly, unalterably. Much remains for knowledge to
do yet doubtless, but, broadly speaking, Science has made her
vast discoveries. She has proclaimed her wonderful truths.
Well, Science was right, we were wrong. The earth is round,
and not, as we said, fiat. Does it matter to us ?"
" Whether a mass of geological matter be an oblate spheroid
or a rectangular plane is a matter of indifference to Borne,"
said Father Hippolytus, with a laugh.
" As for the schisms, they opposed Science too, and with
the result that the schisms are dead. Does Protestantism really
live ? But the Catholic Church endures. She is strong—
never stronger than to-day. A new era opens to us. We go
on in our might; we have endured the five hundred years of
conflict; we find our enemy is a brother, not a foe. The union
of Christendom must be attained. Lord Halifax represents a
growing force. Even the sects desire union. We shall arise
to reconquer the world."
He spoke now with singular gravity, nay, with the zeal of
an enthusiast.
" And what do we find is the state of nations at this
interesting epoch—when, the conflict over, we stretch ourselves
after our unnecessary struggle and survey the new field of
war ? Order, law, good government—those eternal essentials
of civilisation and happiness—opposed everywhere by this
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55
diabolical conspiracy known as Anarchy. Socialism is no foe
of Iioine. Socialism? Socialism is the keynote of Christianity:
Socialism guided by God. But Socialism without religion is
Anarchy, and Anarchy must be grappled with—throttled.
" I say we must slay this snake, and in so doing strengthen
the power of Holy Church.
" Anarchy is not a mystery. I know all about their
system; I know who they are—these Anarchists. Day by day
I hear reports of what they are doing, what their plans are,
what their prospects. From all European countries I am in
receipt of knowledge of their operations. I know the names
of their leaders, their loves—their lives are pigeon-holed in
my secretaire in the library of the Monastery of the Sacred
Heart at home.
" Yes," he continued, sitting down again. " More than any
man in the world, perhaps, I could enlighten European Govern¬
ments upon Anarchy—its aims, its progress, its developments.
I know the truth about the Anarchists."
" It is a ruling power," said Father Hippolytus, rubbing his
blue, close-shaven chin.
"Yet I am baffled by one man. One there is who eludes
me: the strongest, the master mind, the real leader of this
criminal gang. There are seven men in the Central Group.
One is an Italian, one a Russian, one an Englishman. France,
Germany, Spain, America, are represented. They meet from
time to time, at various places, generally in the Rue Lafayette,
Paris. One of these conspirators is a genius. His devilish
arts outwit all my efforts to ascertain his identity. Yes,
though he guides them all, he preserves his incognito with
wonderful caution. These seven men have in their own
respective countries innumerable other groups, which they
sway and control. It is a large organisation. It is becoming
truly powerful. It is so unscrupulous that it stops at nothing.
It will grow."
" How do you know all this ?" asked Father Hippolytus.
" From innumerable reliable sources throughout Europe.
But to give one instance alone: a certain Antonio Sanzio, by
56
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no means a man of any considerable calibre, intellectually or
socially, is in the Central Group. He is one of the Central
Seven. He was a gentleman, and is of good birth. He is
very poor, but he is a zealot in the Anarchist cause. He is an
Italian, of the Sanzio family of Mantua. He is fond of his
wife. He makes her his confidante. Madame Sanzio is a good
Catholic, qnidam ex amicis mcis, and I personally hear all the
iniquities of Anarchy from her own lips. Then the reports of
the Eev Father St. Onyd are very full of information; also
some of the papers from a trusty brother in Barcelona. The
universal ear of the Church—"
" But this knowledge, Cardinal, is dead," interrupted
Father Hippolytus warmly. " Even the crimes of Anarchy
will not warrant you in using the secrets of the Confessional."
" I need not inform the Secretary of the Holy Propaganda,"
replied Cardinal Cantelupe, with a meaning smile, " that there
are delicate modes of utilising such information without any
betrayal of the secrets of the Confessional."
" It is a point upon which Holy Church has ever been
most strict," said Father Hippolytus stiffly.
" And must ever so continue, reverend Father. The pre¬
servation of the utmost silence is an essential of the Confessional.
For your own work as Secretary of the Holy Propaganda—"
"Nothing has interested me so much, Cardinal, as the
conversion of your country. It was the pet project of His
Holiness Pio Nono. How can we win her back to the
Catholic fold ?"
" Is not that enormous question, Father Hippolytus, partly
political? Are there not international disturbances which
are likely to affect the destinies of the country ? I have
speculated on the possibilities of a war. We could fan the
existing discontent in Eussia, and, by fostering the elements of
discord and riot, we could bring about a European war, the
effects of which would be felt even in Asia and America. But
a war would not now conduce to the advantage of Holy
Church—though I grieve to think that a war, with all its
horrors, is likely to break out all too soon. No, our policy
Z ALMA
57
must be a simple one. So far as my own country is con¬
cerned, I think the Church should make a greater effort to
move the Head of Society."
" The Sovereign !"
" Or the Sovereign's successor, or his successor."
" But how ?"
" By feminine influence. I think, with you, we should gain
a Prince. The Princes of my country are, and have for genera¬
tions been, very amenable to the charms of women."
" To their credit be it said."
" But where is the woman, Father Hippolytus—where is
there a woman ?"
"Unfortunately, one of the weaknesses of Pome is that
there are at the present time no Eoyal women. There are
110 French Princesses, no daughters to the Imperial House
of Austria, none in Italy, none in Spain. Cardinal, in this
element of weakness, Rome is weak indeed."
" Father," said the Cardinal in more serious tones than he
had yet spoken, " I have had in my brain a plot for the con¬
version of the country that has cost me many a sleepless hour.
It is to discuss this with you—with the Secretary of the Pro¬
paganda—that I am here now in Rome. I have a godchild.
She is quite young: was nurtured from her first day in the
convent of the Jesuits at Charleston, in America. She speaks
English and several European languages. She is clever, indeed
brilliant, and her beauty is unparalleled. Her father, alas! is
a heretic, and I fear already his influence has been detrimental
to the holiness of her character. But the hopes that I have
cherished through that child! I do not disguise from you that
this great project has been the secret aim of my recent years;
yet, yet, dear brother, I cannot trust her for so great an
emprise. I love the child dearly. She is the apple of my
eye. The brilliant match I design for her, the splendour of
the crown, the conversion of my country. Alas ! alas !" and
the old man, suddenly putting his head 011 his hands, leant
upon the table as though in pain.
" Cardinal, you are ill!" exclaimed Father Hippolytus,
58
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rising quickly and taking the Prelate's hand with sympathy
and empresscment.
"111? Yes and no; hut in pain of heart. I am dis¬
appointed. I had hoped so much. But here to-day, in Pome,
I had news of my little girl that pained me. Her destiny
that I believed to be so high ! Alas ! It makes me sad when
I reflect that she herself, once my strong hope, is the only
weak point in my project; and it grieves me to the heart to
think that I, in my folly, have been the cause of this weakness—
her holidays away from the convent, her holidays in the world.
Would to God I had never permitted them !"
" Tell me, who is your dear godchild, reverend Bather ? "
" She is already famous, known in the literary world as
' Pallas.' She is not actually my niece, but her real name—"
and the Cardinal, bending over, whispered in the ear of his
brother priest.
" You amaze me ! "
" So that the political consequences of her alliance with the
Duke of Umbria of Dell-land—"
"With his Eoyal Highness! Yours was indeed an
ambition!"
" His Eoyal Highness is a young prince of great promise,
and more likely to succeed to the throne than the world now
thinks. We know who the heirs really are ; we can count
them with ease on the fingers of one hand. It cannot be
said that the chance of the Duke of Umbria's succession is
remote. If he could be influenced to the Church! What a
dream ! What a dream opens to my vision !"
" But how practical is your project! How practical it is,
dear Cardinal!"
" He is amenable to no influence whatever, unless some
saintly and clever woman could be induced to win him to
Eome. He is not a sportsman, he is not a student. He is a
sailor merely because it takes him from a foremost place in
Society, the irksome duties of which he loathes. He is
devotedly attached to the young Princess, who, for reasons of
State, is reserved for another destiny; and as that engagement
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59
is now published and definitely fixed, the heart of the Duke of
Umbria is free. In a few weeks he will be in Malta with his
squadron. The Governor of the island is a faithful son of
Ilome. I have arranged that my goddaughter is to be his
guest. Mark that."
"You of course will also go to Malta."
" I am on my way."
" I should let—'Pallas' study him. But tell me, will she
attract him ?"
" If he attracts her."
CHAPTER IX.
was a lovely night. The stars twinkled in the
blue. Malta was all agog. The Admiral and
officers of the Fleet were giving a ball in honour
of H.R.H. Prince John, Duke of Umbria, who
had arrived in the island as the guest of the
Governor, previous to assuming the command of the Balaklava.
Not only the Maltese, but all fashionable society on the
Mediterranean had been looking forward to this event as the
affair of the season. Society on the sunny shores of the inland
sea is almost everywhere very gay. The starchy correctness
and formality of the North melts into the soft ease of the
Italian, mingled with the luxury of the Turk and the dignity
of the Arab. Even English people lose their hauteur, and,
putting off their pride with their phylacteries, unbend, catch
the prevailing joyousness of the South, and, combining the
merriment and abandon of Mediterranean life with their
English good sense and good feeling, they are never seen to
greater advantage—they are never more pleased or more
pleasing.
All the ships in the Grand Harbour were lit with elec¬
tricity, and there was much traffic between the shore and the
various warships. The galleys of the respective vessels,
manned with Jack-tars, were continually crossing from the
quay to their ships, rowed with the precision of well-drilled
oarsmen and with the pride that Jack has from time im¬
memorial taken in the fair; for they generally carried groups
of women in dainty ball costumes and white opera cloaks or
60
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dark furs, through which now and then gleamed a white arm,
upon which sparkling jewels scintillated more brightly than
the stars. The ladies, in silk and scent and lace, grouped close
together in the stern of the galleys, almost smothering the
midshipman who held the rudder beneath clouds of lace,
resembled a beautiful bouquet being carried sea-borne, an
offering to Neptune.
The Maltese boatmen also, in their dark caiques or gondolas,
were busily occupied paddling to and fro from ship to shore,
bearing beneath the curtained canopy guests for the ball.
Now and then a few officers from one of the regiments in
garrison in the splendour of full dress, or a little crowd of
dainty women, whose scented dresses emitted the most delicate
perfumes, or perhaps some Maltese magnates, with olive skin
and eyes blacker than night, passed to the festivity.
There was a State performance at the Grand Opera in the
Strada Stretta. Not until this was over did the ball on H.M.
flagship, the Balaldava, commence; and the crowds of people
in their gala dresses, going home from the opera or going to the
naval ball, filled the streets and harbours, the quays and creeks,
so that everywhere scenes of merriment and gaiety made up a
picture full of colour and variety.
Amongst this merry crowd was " Pallas." She had been
to the opera, and had attracted attention by her beauty as she
sat conspicuously in the Governor's box. Young and full of
interest in life, she had been wrapt in enjoyment of the piece
from the rise of the curtain to its fall. The opera was Gounod's
Romeo d Giuletta, and the company was a tolerably good one.
It consisted entirely of Italians, but not of the stars in the
universe of song. The Juliet was pretty fair, but certainly the
tenor eclipsed her altogether. " Pallas," ignorant that she was
herself the centre of so much admiration, followed the piece
from beginning to end with marked delight.
The old love-story, which she only knew through the pages
of Shakespeare, seemed indeed divinely beautiful in Gounod's
melodious setting, and the sad sweetness and pleasing sorrows
of the songs suffused her spirit and made her dream of love—
62
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took lier to the moonlit terrace in England, to the little flower-
hung arbour at Iffenden, where someone had surprised her
soul. Unconsciously she regarded the tenor who sang the part
of Romeo as the unknown man, the perfect gallant who had
awakened the sad music of love upon the strings of her heart.
His features and those of the unknown mingled into one face,
their voices vaguely combined also, and her whole spirit was
suffused with a tender happiness. Even between the acts
Love's music was in her ears. The Prince, who was in the box
with the Governor, would have paid her attention, but she
ignored him. The crowds of naval and military officers in the
stalls and dress circle, the innumerable ladies who made the
house look so gay, their alabaster busts and white skin spark¬
ling with jewels in the electric light of the brilliant house, all
looked at her through their opera glasses, and thought she
must be affected, to be distraite in a scene of so much gaiety—
for she was so young. Yet it was because she was so young
that she was absent. Her spirit was in the opera, and as soon
as she heard the ring of the curtain she turned from the
brilliant picture inside the house of waving fans, of gleaming
arms and bosoms and flashing tiaras, its groups of scarlet
uniforms, the dark blue and gold of the naval officers, the
scarlet coats, the rows of laughing faces, and the flashed com¬
plexions of the older officers' wives, to the stage itself, to renew
the melody that sang to the ear of her spirit, and to look at the
tender gestures of love that were the interpretation of her own
unconscious desire.
Amongst those who saw her—and, conspicuous in the
Governor's box, her beauty made her truly the cynosure of all
eyes—was Gerard Mount joy. He had come over to Malta,
on leave, to take charge of his sister and aunt, who had hired a
house at Sliema for the winter. Beauregard, his dearest chum,
who, like other Americans, was never long happy in one place,
was also of the party. They had stalls in the fifth row, and
had recognised " Pallas," from whom a bow or a smile would
have been an honour, considering, particularly, that she was in
the Governor's, and therefore in the Prince's, party; but she did
Z ALMA
63
not recognise them; nor would she, indeed, if she had known
them very much better, for the whole of the theatre—though
its floor seemed to others like a vast flower-bed, and its
sides reminded them of terraces of blossom and of hanging
garden lit with hanging lamps—was a vague wilderness of
irrelevant beauty, a temporary disturbance in the story of
the love of Borneo and Juliet, which absorbed her alto¬
gether.
Daisy Eees, who was with Eflie Mountjoy, 011 the contrary
took very little interest in the opera. True, they had come in
late; but she could not imagine why Shakespeare had not made
the ideal lover a blonde; for herself, she could not endure the
idea of a dark man. However, she came to the conclusion that
it was a mere matter of geography. The mise en scene was in
Mantua, and of course the Italians are a dark race. If the
name of the play had been William and Rose, and the scene
had been laid in England, the hero would be always represented
as blonde—as, say, Gerard.
"She is the handsomest girl in the theatre, bai Jove!
drawled Gerard Mountjoje "I wish I could catch her eye";
and again he levelled his glasses at " Pallas."
" She is devilish handsome, Gerard," said Beauregard.
" But you don't know her, do you ?"
" Met her, Beau, doncha ? Met her at Iffenden."
" That's thin, Gerard."
" It is thin, Beau; but if she's at the ball to-night, as of
course she will be, I bet you I'll dance with her."
" Gerard can't conceive the possibility of anyone refusing
him a waltz," said Gerard's sister, looking over the edge of her
fan at Beauregard. " He thinks all women must be in love
with him."
"Well, some of 'em are," sang Beauregard. He spoke
excellent English; but whenever he had just returned from
America he retained just a symptom of the nasal chant.
Eflie Mountjoy was a pretty girl. Tall like her brother,
blonde like her brother, and very well off. She did most
things very well, danced well, sang well, and was usually
64
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admired very much. She didn't care about the opera. She,
too, was longing for the hall. There would he more than a
usual balance of men—and of upright, well-built men too. So,
though they had only peeped in at the close of the second act,
they went away before the end of the piece.
At the ball Gerard was lucky, for happening to belong to
the same county as Lady Milne Aymour's people, she knew
the Mountjoys quite well, and all about them. Indeed, before
he brought out his sister to Sliema he was aware of the
coming festivities in the island, and knew, too, the advantage
of a friend at court. Hence he had urged his friend Beaure¬
gard to accompany him. He promised him a week or a
fortnight of good fun in Malta, and afterwards they would
loiter back through Italy.
Beauregard was pleased to come, for he liked Gerard's
sister. She was always jolly aud never worried him.
Knowing Lady Milne Aymour in this way, Gerard pre¬
sented his sister and his chum, and, turning to " Pallas," who
was sitting at Lady Milne Aymour's right hand, he claimed
her acquaintance with an effrontery that dazzled Beauregard,
who had not given him credit for so much pluck—for impudence
is a sort of pluck sometimes. It was all the more daring
because " Pallas " was at the innermost of the inner circle—the
Prince sat next to " Pallas," and next to him the Governor of
the island, with Admiral Sir John Cotterell, K.C.B., Cardinal
Cantelupe, and all the notables.
" It has escaped my memory," replied " Pallas " blankly.
" Do you not remember ? I had the honour of an intro¬
duction to you at Sir James Draper's—at Iffenden, on that
pleasant May evening—"
She did not remember him in the least, of course. But she
remembered the occasion; and at once her thoughts flew back
to the unknown man who had walked with her upon the
terrace, and whose voice had haunted her through the whole
opera, like a song that lingered in her memory.
" Iffenden ? Yes ! I remember quite well," said " Pallas " ;
and she shook his hand warmly.
zalma
65
" No !" said Gerard, surprised himself and delighted. " Do
you really remember me ? How good of you !"
" I remember Iffenden," she answered, as a far-away ex¬
pression softened her eyes. " Take me for the next waltz."
This absolutely took his breath away; he gave her his arm,
and, bowing to Lady Milne Aymour, led her off proudly.
" Gerard soon won his bet," said Beauregard to Effie
Mountjoy. " Let me fill up some dances."
" Don't take too many," she said, handing him her pro¬
gramme. " Lady Milne Aymour seemed to remember us so
much better than I had expected that my ambition rises.
Beau, how could I get a dance with the Prince ? I would
give worlds to have him just once for my partner."
By this time the waltz had begun. Gerard certainly
looked extremely handsome, and Pallas was talking to him
with the greatest animation. She told him that she liked to
meet people again whom she had met before, and that she
loved to talk about Iffenden.
When the waltz was finished, and not until then, he led
her to her seat; and Lady Milne Aymour gave him a little nod
and smile which meant approval. Gerard was in the seventh
heaven, and, having safely handed Pallas back into custody,
was about to retire satisfied, when she said to him in a soft
tone of reproach, and holding out her programme, " Don't
you want to dance with me any more ?"
Gerard almost blushed—did blush, indeed, with pleasure
and confusion.
" How many may T have ?" he asked.
She replied with a cordial smile, full of invitation.
" I shall take the whole programme."
" Do not be foolish, Lieutenant Mountjoy," she said, with
the least symptom of severity.
The next was a quadrille, and the Admiral had her; and a
Maltese dignitary had secured the next. Gerard had bis sister
in the quadrille. She rallied him 011 his success, and told him
he was a handsome fellow. Then she asked him if he could
not get Lady Aymour to manage her a dance with the Prince.
5
66 Zalma
He promised her he would do what he could; hut of course
it would be very difficult, because " if a man is a Prince, doncha
know, he gets such a lot of duty." Then he explained to her
that the Prince would he expected to dance with the daughters
of certain Maltese officials, and, of course, with the daughters
of the Admiral, and with other ladies of distinction, and, most of
all, with Lady Milne Ayrnour herself, and with her eldest
daughter, if she had got one—which she had not.
" Mr. Mountjoy, I have the Prince's commands to dance
this waltz with him, hut I just won't. You have my com¬
mands to waltz me."
" I hope he will not he angry," said Gerard. " Imagine your
refusing him for me! My sister would give her ears to dance
with the Prince."
" Oh, the Prince, the Prince, the Prince! I am tired of
hearing the name. In the box, between every act, it was the
Prince this, the Prince that, will you not take this from the
Prince ? Now, please proceed. You were talking to me about
Iffenden. Do you remember who were there ? Daisy Kees,
of course. Who else ?"
" There was Lady Iiottenham—and, ur, girl in spectacles,
doncha? Ur! Miss what—"
" And of the men whom do you remember ?"
" There was Griffiths—Griffiths, yes, and his father, Lord
Beaumaris, Jack Graves, our Mernbah. Eh ? and—ur, Eabian
man—dam liadical!—pardon a soldier—Bernard, that was the
cove's name, Bernard Daw. Then there was Colonel Willyams.
Dear old chap, Colonel Willyams."
" Tell me about Colonel Willyams. I am not quite sure.
Was he a very, very intellectual-looking man ? "
" Oh ! very, very, very."
. " Now, describe him to me, Mr. Mountjoy; describe him
quite accurately."
"Well, he was—ur—ur—an ordinary sort of cove ur
Doncha ?—like other men."
™ ",?ut you said inte;I1ectual looking. That is not ordinary
Mr. Mountjoy—js it?"
Zalma
67
" Well. You see we soldiers—we don't notice these things.
Tell you his height and his fighting weight."
" Do so then."
" Colonel Willyams, I should say, is about 5 feet, 10 inches."
" Not higher ?"
" Perhaps a trifle higher; and the beam would kick at
10 stone, 6 pounds ; and his age, perhaps sixty-five or so."
" Oh ! that's not the man 1 mean at all then," said Pallas.
" I mean a man of extremely gentlemanly appearance : younger
—ever so much younger—not half sixty. A man with a most
striking face, great width of brow, eyes bright with a beautiful
gaze that seems to begin far away back in the distance of his
soul and to go out into the limitless beyond. Do you recognise
that description at all ?"
"No, I don't seem to know that fellow. No, no ! It don't
seem to bring home anyone to me at all. Getting thick on
deck now, eh ? Pai Jove! Good floor for dancing a ship
makes, eh ?"
" I suppose it's hopeless," said Pallas sadly; " but I met a
man there that—well—interested me a little. I should like to
meet him again."
" I know who you mean. Can't think of his name though.
Man with big hands and rather—"
" No ; certainly not," interrupted Pallas, almost angrily.
" How would it do to ask Beauregard ? He's quicker than
I am. Beau might know."
" Is he here ?"
"Yes. Waltzing with tall girl there—giraffe in blue. Do
you know her ?"
" No; but he—this Mr. Beauregard. Take me to him as
soon as the waltz is over. Let us give it up; I am tired."
He led her to a seat improvised upon a gun-carriage covered
with the Union Jack.
" Let me bring you a glass of champagne ?"
" No, thank you."
" Some coffee ?"
She shook her head.
68
Zalma
" An ice ?"
She looked at him—a look which meant that she was
calling him all the names that men use when they are angry.
"No, you need not sit by me, Mr. Mountjoy," she said
stiffly. " Thank you. I think I have permitted quite enough.
Send me Mr. Beauregard."
When the dance finished Gerard introduced him. She
surveyed him attentively.
" Sit down," she said, tapping the gun-carriage with her fan.
Beauregard did so.
" Champagne ? "
" No, thanks."
" Coffee ?"
" No. No, nor an ice, nor a sandwich. Only you your¬
self."
Then she forced a sickly smile, and, bowing her head,
intimated to Gerard's not very quick understanding that he
was de trop.
" Mr. Beauregard, you are not a military man, I believe ?"
" I am not."
" Army men are like your handsome friend—pretty to look
at; but—well you know TEsop's fable of the fox and the mask."
He smiled.
" You were at the party at Iffenden which Sir James Draper
gave to meet the Due d'Amiens; it is not very long ago. I see
at a glance that you have a good memory. Now, tax it for me.
I want you to remember everybody who was there. I want
to ask a question about somebody."
" Name ?"
" That is just what I want to know."
" Difficult," said Beauregard, listening, as the band began
again. " I am in this—the lancers. Sorry ; join you directly."
When the set was over he rejoined her. She was then with
Lady Milne Aymour, who was very cross with her about her
conduct to the Prince, who, having just finished a duty-set with
the wife of our Ambassador in Constantinople,—a smart woman,
fond of gaiety, and consequently now in the island,—was just
Zalma
69
hurrying towards Pallas. She, however, linked her arm in
Beauregard's for a promenade.
££ Have you been thinking ?" she asked, as she walked with
him. " Have you recalled the people there ?"
" Every mother's son."
She smiled at him gratefully, and with a seraphic expression
that Prince John, under whose eye she was for the moment,
envied.
He went over them one by one.
" You have, indeed, an excellent memory," she said. ££ You
remember some that even I had not recalled. How can I
thank you sufficiently or be grateful enough to you ? And yet
we have not recalled the one whom I have in my thought."
" There are plenty of others yet; we have not exhausted
them," said Beauregard. Then the thought ocurred to him that
he would loiter somewhat over these reminiscences and secure a
dance for himself. "Stay," he continued ; "it will take a long¬
time. Where is your programme ? Have you any spaces ? "
"Pill them up if I have, Mr. Beauregard. I would rather
dance with you than anyone on the ship."
The band was now timing for the next 011 the list. Gerard
promenaded by leading Daisy Bees, who looked very sweet and
pretty in the simplest imaginable dress of some white fluffy
material that no man could ever describe. She had really
been a little jealous, but she was too good to show it; and in
her heart she was wondering what kind act she could do to
Pallas to punish herself for having entertained any evil thought
of her.
" My brother is so grateful to you," said Effie Mountjoy,
who came up 011 Dandy's arm.
" Why ?" asked Pallas.
"For showing him such honour—even before the Prince.
For myself—oh, I should so like to have his commands ! How
could you refuse him ? There is not a girl 011 the ship who
would not starve for a week if she could only have the honour
that you disdained. Do you think Lady Milne Ayinour could
arrange it, if you asked her ? Do."
7°
Zalma
" Lady Milne Aymour is so cross with me that we are not
on speaking terms," replied Pallas, with a smile.
Effie Mountjoy gave up her last ray of hope.
At this moment the Prince again sent his commands to
Pallas for her hand in the next dance.
" Ask his Eoyal Highness to grant me a greater favour,"
she answered in her most engaging manner.
The Prince, who was near enough to overhear her, stepped
forward and said gallantly, " I would grant you the world if it
were mine"; and added, with that agreeable smile which has
won so many hearts, " What favour do you ask ?"
" Take Miss Mountjoy instead of me."
Effie beamed a smile like pure sunlight.
The Prince, though much disappointed, under the circum¬
stances had no option. After all, it was only another duty-
dance; but he was rather piqued. Effie, however, was in
raptures, and, being a natural, jolly sort of girl, took no pains
to conceal her delight. She looked very pretty too; and every¬
body asked who she was. She was dressed in a delicate
electric-blue satin, fitting her tall, full figure. She had no
jewelry, her ornaments being of Maltese silver-work only;
there was a quiet chastity and reserve about the costume that
suited her soft complexion and amber-coloured hair. But
when the dance was over she could tell very well that Lady
Milne Aymour was very cross with her.
However, as Effie said when she was telling her aunt about
it all, that was nothing. She had danced with the Prince.
Pallas danced a good deal with Mr. Beauregard; but the
wily American did not exhaust the pleasures of memory. So,
when the Governor's party left, there were still others to
describe, but, promising to refresh his memory, he assured her
he would find an opportunity to see her again during the
festivities of the next few days.
Gerard and Beau, with Effie Mountjoy and many a hundred
others, still remained; and when the gay ball at last concluded,—
and it was kept up very late, even until the arrows of dawn
shot out to slay the stars,—the champagne corks popped merrily
Zalma
71
and the cup went round, ices and coffee kept them awake, and the
midshipmen and other young naval officers and subalterns of the
troops in garrison, exhilarated by the excitement and inebriated
by the dance,—made merry by the music, and made glad with
wine and youth,—saw the ladies back to shore in the broad sun¬
light, and were too full of sportive joy to notice that their ladies
did not look so well in the searching morning light, with
injured flounces and broken feathers, as when they started for
the opera before the ball.
" I was so angry with her, reverend Father, I could
have boxed her ears," said Lady Milne Aymour to Cardinal
Cantelupe.
The Cardinal, closing his palms, put the extended fingers of
his right hand upon those of his left,—a habit of his,—and
after a long pause he said, in his slow, subtle way, " I was sur¬
prised at her. Where did she learn to be so adroit ?"
" You were pleased ?" said Lady Milne Aymour in a tone of
surprise.
He laughed his long, low, lithe laugh—noiseless, but so full
of emphatic meaning.
Gradually a smile w7as born that played over Lady Milne
Aymour's lips.
" The puss !" she exclaimed. " How did I know she was
acting ?"
CHAP TEE X.
VER since the bail Pallas had been dreaming of
the unknown. The mere fact that Mountjoy and
Beauregard had been at the same party at Iffen-
den interested her in them, and she wondered
she had obtained so little information—indeed,
none at all. As for Lieutenant Mountjoy, she dismissed him
from her thoughts altogether, but for Beauregard she had been
looking anxiously. A becoming timidity made her anxious to
conceal her curiosity; hut the more she reflected, the more she
became convinced that this was her one and only chance of
discovering the man whose influence over her memory had
lasted so many months. She had looked for Beauregard at
General Sir Peter Maxwell's, the Commander of the garrison,
but he was not there; nor at the races, where she thought
she would be certain to see him; nor at the theatre on the
following night, where all her interest was in the audience and
never 011 the hoards; so at last she made a frank confession
to Lady Milne Aymour that she wanted to call on Effie
Mountjoy.
During this time the Prince was continually meeting
Pallas, and became much interested in her. Conscious that
she had treated him rather off-handedly, she made amends by
being very sweet to him ; and certainly, when she thought about
him sometimes, she considered herself very much honoured at
1 eceiving so much of his attention. He was a charming young
man, his travels had given liiin a wide insight into men and
t lings, he was good looking, and she much admired his honest,
72
Zalma
73
straightforward way of expressing himself, his frank and candid
demeanour, and his bright blue eyes.
To the Prince, encumbered as he was with the continual
attention of crowds, and by the necessity of attending, by a
thousand little amenities and civilities, to countless people,—in a
word, constrained by the continual good behaviour he had to
exhibit to all and sundry,—it was a delight to retire from a life
so hedged by etiquette, and in the quiet of the Palace gardens,
in the cool avenues of the orangery, and in the seclusion of the
private apartments at the Palace, to find himself here and there,
by the happiest of accidents, thrown into the society of this sweet,
accomplished, and rare woman, so ingenuous with all her
cleverness, so childlike in her simplicity. Her sympathetic
nature discovered qualities in him which no one else had ever
detected, and elicited attainments which had lain dormant.
Flattery, of which, in common with other persons of distinction,
he had so much that it disgusted him, in her case took the
pleasing form of an almost reproving interest, and her kind
heart caused her to restrain him in his follies. She often found
his society delightful company, as was natural in a mere
schoolgirl loosed for a holiday; but she did not tease him by
pursuit. Indeed, on the contrary, she often eluded him, to
be alone and to think, as she played the dreamy music of
Mendelssohn, of the dark face of her dreams. Very often the
Prince would excuse himself from some entertainment or
public function on purpose to enjoy her society, and when,
instead of being able to fulfil his wish, he had to moon about
longing for her, bored by the society of others who thrust them¬
selves upon him, he was sometimes rewarded, after hours of
waiting, when she sent for him to join her at the piano in the
Silver Kooni; for she accepted Cardinal Cantelupe's criticism—
that his bass voice with her soprano made a perfect harmony.
Lady Milne Aymour, that faithful daughter of Kome, was
for ever arranging that they should have opportunities, and
that the poor pestered Prince should be undisturbed. She had
her own sanctum, at the first end of a series of private apart¬
ments in the Palace, which opened on either side of a long
74
Zalma
corridor, and, knowing how delightful it is to a public personage
to have ample opportunity of escape from the excess of public
duty, she allowed only a favourite few to intrude beyond this
charmed barrier.
Now and then the supple figure of Father Hippolytus,
supporting Cardinal Cantelupe upon his arm, passed along the
silent corridors ; occasionally Admiral Sir Beauchamp Adelaide,
who was in a manner responsible for the Prince as his official
superior, would pass in and out; but the Great Bores and the
Toadies were remorselessly excluded ; and so it came about that
even Beauregard, who had been asked to come in after lunch,
and for whose admission to Lady Milne Aymour's room par¬
ticular permission had been issued, was, through the excess of
zeal of an orderly, refused entrance. This made Pallas very
angry ; and when the Prince came into the Silver Boom she was
so cross, to see him instead of Beauregard, whom she had
expected, that she closed the piano a few minutes after he
arrived, and, with a kiss on Lady Milne Aymour's brow that
was almost as vicious as a bite, she went off to her own boudoir,
on the plea of writing some letters.
There were some steeplechases next day, got up by the
Garrison. Pallas insisted that she would not go in a
carriage and sit all the time in the Governor's Stand; so the
Prince accompanied her on horseback. The Governor and his
Staff, the Chief Secretary,the Aides-de-Cainp, and quite a retinue,
all rode over with the Prince, as did many of their ladies also.
They made a gay picture on the course, and were naturally able
to get about easily—which was indeed the reason Pallas had
insisted upon riding over, for she wanted to find Beauregard.
Effie Mountjoy's heart affairs, meanwhile, were getting
complicated. Dandy had fallen off his horse and in love with
her at the same time. She nursed him a little ; and spoon-feeding
seemed to suit him, for he was soon strong enough to get up
and to make her a proposal of marriage. But by this time
Beauregard was more attentive again. Sometimes her heart
fluttered for one and sometimes for the other; so, not knowing
which of the two she liked best, and not being quite sure
Zalma
75
whether she loved either of them, she decided to wait for Beau
to declare himself—which he seemed almost on the point of
doing—before she accepted either. Dandy declared he should
die of a broken heart if Effie did not agree to become his wife;
so Effie, on the whole, was very happy.
When Pallas had turned Beauregard inside out, and all his
memory of Iffenden proved vain, she had no further use for him.
Her thoughts, centred so often on the man who became in her
imagination more and more romantic, through the difficulty she
experienced in discovering who he was, were not for him; and
now that all chance of discovering who the stranger was seemed
hopeless, she tried to forget even her thoughts of so vague a
remembrance. The Duke of Umbria, a real and a present
admirer, entertained her leisure and occupied her mind. He
played the violin with effect, and she liked to accompany him
on the piano. They were almost like boy and girl together.
She, by nature wilful and wayward; he, with a large heart
running over with affection, developed a sailor-like devotion,
that grew more and more intense as the day of his embarkation
drew near. The date, indeed, was fixed, and then, by the
Admiral's orders, postponed ; but at last the festivities drew to
a close, for the squadron was really to sail to-morrow.
There was a State ball at the Palace. It eclipsed in
splendour all the events of the previous fortnight. All the
island was there—all the fashionable society of the Mediter¬
ranean world. There were notabilities from Constantinople and
Alexandria, from Cyprus and Corfu, and even from Sicily and
Tunis, for the echoes of the music of Malta had reached the
surrounding shores; and thither they flocked, as though they had
been lured by the voice of the Syren. The festival had reached
its meridian. It was Carnival week. Delight was in the air.
Frolic sparkled and was supreme. Youth, jocund youth, born
for revelry and merriment, for laughter, dance, and song,
seemed personified in the carelessness of the happy Prince and
in the girlish gaiety of the frivolous child.
Her artlessness, her waywardness, her ingenuous candour,
her coy and shy manner, were never more piquantes in the eyes
7 6
Zalma
of the Prince than on the night before the flagship sailed. She
was dressed, doubtless, in some becoming loveliness; but, so far
as the Prince's senses were concerned, she was a world of lace
and tulle, of pearl and perfume. The fuchsia-room, which was
connected with the ballroom by a corridor lined with orange-
trees in full blossom, was set apart for the Prince ; and though
he often waltzed in the crowded saloon, where the sensuous
scents of syringa mingled with the odours of mimosa and
mignonnette, and where myriads of flashing eyes sparkled as
though they were hung like jewels—so it seemed in the giddy
mazes of the dance—from the swaying and revolving branches of
some vague and voluptuous mass of palpitating blush-rose, he
would often lead his partner into that quiet nook where a
million fuchsia flowers, hanging in sportive clusters from their
green leaves, seemed like a fairy ballet, giving expression by the
music of motion to the gaiety of his heart. He was full of
ardour. His eyes glistened with boylike life, and Pallas was
often his partner. Her feet seemed to be one with his own.
She was a feather, surely, and not a sentient thing. Yet was
not her presence in his embrace—the touch of his hand upon
her back, her gloved hand responding to his, but so delicately
as to be rather a thrill of her blood than a pressure of his hand ?
He might have been moving with some daughter of the mist,
some cloud-created creature. Her diaphanous drapery floated
as it were cloud-born, sometimes her eyelids drooped and he
could only see the light of her eyes as it came to him mistily
through her long lashes. She might have been the spiritual
embodiment of an Enchantment; he felt bewitched and be¬
wildered by her beauty, and, in his wonderment, all he knew
was the vague presence of the fragance of innumerable flowers.
His breath fanned her cheek, his large round eyes, so
lightly blue, feasted upon her beauty. Fond, as all his family
are, of feminine loveliness, and hereditarily amenable to their
charms, be was a prince who had resisted the soft influences of
love—his dalliance with the sex, in spite of much temptation,
had been restrained ; but now he was enthralled. He felt the
motion of Mediterranean waves, he was swayed upon the
Zalma
77
billows of delight; she opened her eyes. He looked into their
black depths, as in the voluptuous revolutions of the waltz
they glided with delirious gyrations over the polished parquet
floor, and he saw that their glittering radiance and splendour
was compounded of lights that came from himself—he saw his
own face mirrored in those dark ponds serene, in those virginal
eyes that, open, had never looked upon aught but innocence,
and that when closed had seen sweet visions only in her sacred
dreams.
The strains of the band ceased. A buzz of conversation
and a ripple of joyous voices began. He led her through the
orangery, and, plucking its flower, laid a spray of it upon her
raven hair. There was somewhere the splash of a fountain.
He led her past its falling music, and up the gorgeous marble
stairs to the Silver Chamber, where they had spent so many
happy hours in sweet converse. She sank down upon a couch ;
the quietude and retirement, after the gaiety and press of the
crowded saloon, were delightful. Fruits and sweetmeats were
on an inlaid table. She took an iced bon-bon flavoured with
violets. He sat at her side, his senses soothed by the scent of
a bed of musk that had been arranged in an alcove. A bowl of
champagne-cup, flavoured with insidious spices, was on the ice.
He helped her to some with a silver ladle, and quenched his
own thirst freely.
" Zalma," he said simply, addressing her by her real name,
that was known to few, for she quaintly persisted in her
literary incognito in general society. " Zalma, I love you."
The declaration pleased her, though she was too innocent to
understand. She looked into his face with a calm, unruffled
gaze.
" Tell me," continued the Prince—" tell me, Zalma, do you
reciprocate my love—my passion ?"
She cast down her eyes upon the inlaid floor.
" Ah ! you do not—you do not love me."
She blushed with a guilty sense that he spoke the truth.
"You are so young; still, you have told me, under the rule
of the Ursulines—still in the convent. You cannot doubt that
78
zalma
my sentiments towards you are honourable. Zalma, believe
me when I say that the life of Courts can give me no joy such
as you can hold out to me."
" Sir," she answered, " true it is that I am little more than
a schoolgirl even now. You have lightened my holiday; you
have been a delightful visitor here—august, royal. I am too
simple to tell the pleasure it has been to me to have your
flatteries and to hear your voice. The attention your Highness
has shown to me has gratified me more than I can say. But
—love you ! Prince, I love everyone; therefore how can I help
loving you also ? "
" But you do not understand me," said the Prince, putting
his arm around her waist and bending over the saddle-bag couch
on which she reclined. " I love you so that I would win all
your love to myself. I would adore you always; I would put
you in a cage where your song should be heard by myself only."
" Ah, sir," she replied, hiding her face with a pretty coyness
behind her fan, and trembling with modesty; " you do me too
much honour;" and she was about to rise.
" Stay, lady mine," said the Prince, putting his disengaged
hand upon hers. "Hear me out. All my love centres on
you, and to-morrow the squadron sails for Toulon. I have
listened to the music as it has left your lips, I have looked on
your loveliness: tell me it has not been a vain delight, give me
one little pledge of affection, one keepsake for my voyage, one
kiss of love."
He stooped over her quickly and pressed his moustached
lips upon her mouth.
She bounded to her feet with a scream. "Prince!" she
exclaimed indignantly.
At this juncture the door of the Silver Chamber opened, and
Lady Milne Aymour, resting upon the Cardinal's arm, entered,
followed by Lady Adelaide.
The Prince, almost guiltily, stood up abashed.
" Lady Milne Aymour !" exclaimed Zalma with agitation, as
she rushed towards her hostess. "How glad am I that you
have come in !"
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79
" My child," she replied, going to her with extended hands.
" What has happened ? Your Koyal Highness !"
" Go to your prayers, Zalma," said the Cardinal tenderly, as
he held open the door for her. " Lady Milne Aymour and I
will remain with his Highness."
Zalma for a moment threw herself upon the neck of her
hostess. Then, turning with flashing eyes to the Prince, she
was about to speak.
" Silence," said the Cardinal in a sepulchral tone.
For a few moments everyone stood as though transfixed.
The Cardinal's manner was ominous in its gravity.
"Go with Lady Adelaide to your own chamber," he con¬
tinued sternly, as he handed her to the Admiral's wife. " Her
ladyship will accompany you. No ! No ! child, no words," he
added in a firm whisper. " Go as I command you."
CHAPTER XT.
TTACHED to the Governor's Palace at Malta is
the Chapel of St. Paul, the patron saint of the
island. Huddled away at the back of the Palace,
it resembles a dungeon, or some place for the
doing of dark deeds, rather than a chapel conse¬
crated to the worship of the Most High. Strange scenes have
been enacted before its gloomy altar during the chequered
history of the island. In the days of the Crusades, weirdly
tragic oaths have been sworn there. Wild acts by the power¬
ful Knights of Malta have originated in solemn vows within
its walls; and in the days of the French occupation it is said
that terrible deeds have been fulfilled outside its doors, and
registered within in royal blood.
The low doorway, covered with the embossed leather flap
which forms the entrance of the chapel communicating with
the Palace, was pushed aside, and Prince John of Umbria, in
his uniform of a Haval Captain, entered upon Admiral Sir
Beauchamp Adelaide's arm. He looked flushed but determined:
a wild light roved from his large blue eyes as he glanced
about the unadorned walls and the plain accessories of the
building; but he did not pause. Led by his Admiral, he walked
up the aisle of the chapel and into the sacristy, their footsteps
sounding strangely resonant as they clanked over the inlaid
marble floor. A dirty Maltese priest received his Royal
Highness with a hypocritical reverence that concealed a grin.
For lack of conversation he produced a horn snuff-box, of
which the Prince, with the characteristic amiability of his
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81
family, partook. The snuff made the Prince sneeze, at which
the priest bowed. This and the sneeze made the Prince laugh.
The Admiral refused the proffered civility, almost severely.
The priest, whose back appeared to contain a spring which
made bowing an automatic operation, bowed to the Admiral,
and then again to the Prince. Then he took a pinch of snuff
himself, bowed, offered the box again to the Prince,—who this
time refused it,— and bowed as he put it in his pocket. He
then produced a match-box, bowed, lit a taper, and bowed
again. Then he left the sacristy, bowed to the image of the
saint as he entered the chapel, lit the candles upon the altar,
and retired bowing.
Re-entering the sacristy, the priest, who was dressed in his
ordinary cassock, put on a stole over it. The leather flap
which hung in lieu of door to the chapel opened noiselessly.
The Prince and the Admiral were about to leave the sacristy,
and to proceed arm-in-arm to the chapel, when the priest said,
with his invariable bow, " Stay. Her duties."
Leaving Prince John and Admiral Sir Beauchamp Adelaide
in the sacristy, the priest shuffled off down the aisle and met
a lady dressed apparently as a bride and heavily veiled; but
she was really wearing the ball costume of the previous night,
with a very rich old Maltese lace veil flung over the head and
shoulders. She leant upon the arm of Cardinal Cantelupe,
and, indeed, almost clung to him for support. With the bride
was Lady Milne Aymour, in a morning gown.
The priest met these three as they came up the aisle.
" Has the lady been through her duties ?" he asked, bowing
with perpetual bows to the Cardinal.
"You will not be long," replied Cardinal Cantelupe to the
priest significantly and in an undertone; then turning, he said,
in his dignified and gentle voice, "Daughter, your sins are
surely few."
Leaving her at the confessional, which the priest had
already entered, the Cardinal, who was in his everyday dress,
stood with Lady Milne Aymour for a few moments in the
aisle.
6
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Zalma
In a minute or two, the priest left the confessional and
re-entered the sacristy. The Prince went down the aisle to
meet the bride.
She turned from him to the Cardinal, and, putting her
hands upon his shoulders, exclaimed in accents of entreaty,
" Father ! Beverend Father ! I)o not let this be done."
The Cardinal's face assumed a stern expression, and, lower¬
ing his voice, he said to her in an emphatic whisper, "Daughter,
I command you."
For a moment his eye glanced at Lady Milne Aymour.
She took the bride's arm, and, with a firm pressure that was
almost a push, led her up the aisle. The Prince took her left
arm, and so she was conducted to the altar. Here now stood
the priest, who had hurried a cope over his cassock. In his
hand was a dog's-eared missal. The Cardinal, the Admiral, and
Lady Milne Aymour knelt near by upon priedieus. The
priest's voice began the service, his monotonous chant alone
being heard. There was no music; there were no flowers;
there were no people. The chapel was strangely silent, the
service singularly bald.
" Has your Boyal Highness the ring ?" whispered the
priest.
The Prince held out his hand to the Admiral, who replied
with a blank stare.
The Prince looked at the Admiral, and, with some confusion,
he whispered, "You promised me, you—"
Sir Beauchamp Adelaide approached his Boyal Highness
and whispered in his ear.
"Yes, yes, yes," he nervously admitted. " I undertook to
procure the ring for your Boyal Highness; in the extreme
haste—I—I overlooked the ring; but I dared not be a party to
this. I am here now very unwillingly—I am irresolute,"
he stammered. " I have forgotten."
The Cardinal, kneeling beside Lady Milne Aymour, turned
imperturbably to her, and, taking her left hand, he whispered
reverently, "Daughter, for the sake of Holy Church," and,
muttering the sacred names of the Trinity, he removed her
Zalma
83
ring from her finger. " In the name of the Father, in the name
of the Son, and in the name of the Holy Ghost." Having thus
solemnly removed Lady Milne Aymour's own wedding-ring,
he quietly handed it to the Admiral, who, taking it with
trembling fingers, handed it in his turn to the Prince.
The whole incident did not delay the ceremony more than
a few moments. Zalma, raising her head, merely observed a
pause. Then the rite continued.
The priest solemnly spoke the solemn words of the
Sacrament of Matrimony, asking the man and the woman
separately concerning their consent.
The Prince, holding her by the right hand in his own right
hand, plighted her his troth, saying, after the priest—
" I take thee, Zalma, to be my wedded wife, to have and to
hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer,
for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part, if
Holy Church will it permit; and thereto I plight my troth."
Then Zalma said, after the priest, the words of the service
of the sacrament; and their troth being thus pledged to each
other on both sides, and their right hands joined, the priest
said—
"Ego conjungo vos in mcitrimonium, in nomine Patris, >$<
et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."
Then did the priest sprinkle them both with holy water,
and received the ring and blessed it, and handed it again to
the Prince, who said, as he placed the ring on Zalma's finger—
" With this ring I thee wed; this gold and silver I thee
give; with my body I thee worship; and with all my worldly
goods I thee endow."
A mist came before Zalma's eyes as the priest rattled
through the rest of the short service in Latin.
The bald ceremony, which had suddenly begun, seemed to
cease as suddenly. The silence was almost terrifying. There
was a solemn sense that some ominous deed had been trans¬
acted. All had been so quick, so quiet, so simple; yet all was
over, the marriage accomplished. Zalma, led by her royal
husband, repaired to the sacristy.
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Zalma
She was received by the Cardinal, who took her hand with
grave tenderness, stroking it with fond admiration and evident
pride. Father Hippolytns, kneeling before the Prince, handed
him a parchment, to which the seal of His Holiness was
affixed, and which probably contained the Papal dispensa¬
tion.
" Eeasons of State compel this to remain a secret marriage,"
said the Cardinal with dignity. " I congratulate your Eoyal
Highness"—and he paused, whilst a smile, not without its
trace of humour, but with more than a trace of gravity, and
with gleams of pride and delight, played over his chiselled
features,—" and," he added, kissing the hand of the bride, " I
congratulate your Eoyal Highness also."
The departure of the squadron from Malta, which had
been postponed on various pretexts more than once, occurred
at four o'clock that afternoon, amidst salvoes of artillery and
the roar of guns from the ships and forts.
Whilst the royal salute was being fired from the batteries,
the Cardinal and Father Hippolytns walked up and down in
the orangery attached to the Monastery of St. Publio.
" What will his people think ? What will they say in his
own country ? What will the Establishment do ?" asked the
Italian, playing with his blue chin.
The Cardinal answered only with a graceful gesture—
waving his hand seawards towards Eome.
"You mean that you care for nothing but the opinion of
Eome ? Still, it is an interesting question. The Church of the
Establishment cannot be ignored."
" A quarter of a century ago," replied Cardinal Cantelupe,
with a merry twinkle gleaming diffidently in the corners of his
eyes," everybody said the Established Church was dying. The
Nonconformists indeed had dug its grave, and stood around
with their shovels and pocket-handkerchiefs to give it some
kind of Christian burial. Their star preachers were getting
ready the funeral oration, and their deacons were preparing to
snivel over the lost, when lo !"—
Zalma
85
" Pusey."
"No. A greater than Pusey: Peter Robinson. Peter
Robinson revived Church parade. He made it the fashion for
women to go to parade in tailor-made gowns. Piquante hats
and the most daring bonnets have competed in every pew, and
the Established Church has been crowded ever since. Then
the parsons have been clever enough to go in for better music
and worse sermons than ever, and they are as prosperous as
stockbrokers in an African boom. Rome has much to do ere
it wins—the Establishment has been so strengthened by the
milliner. However, let us hope. This marriage fills me with
aspirations. C'est un fait accompli. Whether ill or well T
cannot say. But the hurry was necessary."
" And adroit," said the Italian priest.
Each prelate looked in the other's face witli an imperturb¬
able smile.
" By the law of his country the Prince must obtain the
sanction of the two Houses of Parliament and of the Sovereign,
and another ceremony must in due course be effected before
this can be regarded as a strictly legal marriage. But by the
law of the Church my little Zalma is a Princess of the Royal
House, and may be, if she lives, the Queen."
" The Queen !" echoed Eather Hippolytus.
He drew a long breath; and they walked in silence many
paces.
"Although our Protestant country requires that a special
Act of Parliament must be passed in order to permit any
Prince in the succession to marry a Catholic, I do not doubt
the eventual result," said Cardinal Cantelupe. "The rest is
merely an affair for diplomats."
" What a fuss there will be when the secret oozes out!" said
Eather Hippolytus, gathering an orange.
" It will not be altogether a comfortable time for the
Prince. His amiability will be taxed a good deal. But
whatever troubles are in store for him, the Princess is
fortunate."
" She does not so regard herself. I do not altogether
86
Zalma
fathom the child. She is not so open at the confessional as I
would wish. Whether some other love has obtruded into her
life thus early, and preoccupied her heart — yet that can
hardly be. But my duty towards her future is for the present
obvious."
" She must be kept closely in the convent."
" Yes, after her presentation to His Holiness we shall move
her to Pisa. Indeed, the Reverend Mother, the Princess Maria
di Spagna, the Lady Superior of the Convent of the Holy
Ghost at Pisa, with two Ursuline sisters, are already travelling
hither to relieve Lady Milne Aymour of her present responsi¬
bility. She has acted throughout as a worthy daughter of
Holy Church. I have wired in cypher to His Holiness, but it is
expedient that I go at once to Rome. He will receive my
dear godchild in audience. I propose to return with you,
Rather Hippolytus. We must inform the Holy Rather of the
whole details of this strange romance, for which you procured
his dispensation. How many extraordinary romances has this
practical, matter-of-fact, nineteenth century witnessed—this
century which proclaims that the days of Romance are done!
Yes, our presence is necessary in Rome. This must lead to ex¬
planations, to embarrassing contentions—indeed, to an imbroglio.
There must be a scapegoat. Sir Milne Aymour, though so
innocent, must be induced to assume more than his share of
the blame. The Admiral may, perhaps, may—but you, Rather
Hippolytus, you must bear the censure of His Holiness and the
brunt of the whole mischief."
Rather Hippolytus bent down his head almost to his knees.
" Cerium est mihi," he said, smacking his lips as he finished his
orange.
" Yes, you must bear the whole volley of blame, and you
will be disgraced to—to the Archbishopric of Toledo, Primate
of Spain," said the Cardinal, laying his hands lovingly upon his
brother's shoulder.
Zalma was duly presented to the Pope in an audience at
the Vatican. The Cardinals in their scarlet robes, the Princes
Zalma
37
of the Church in their violet vestments, the Pope in his garb
of spotless white, the Swiss Guards in their rich uniforms, com¬
bined to form a spectacle which impressed her deeply. She
wore the high black dress and black lace mantilla which it is
customary for all ladies to wear when presented to His Holiness.
When the chamberlain announced her name, and she knelt to
kiss the hand of the Holy Father, a consciousness of the great¬
ness of the part that Destiny seemed now to allot to her for
fulfilment, and of the consequences through time, and even
through eternity, dependent upon her dutiful realisation of the
solemn role which she was now called upon to fill in the
history of her time, overwhelmed her with awe. The blood
rushed to her cheek, she felt dazed by the grandeur of the
vista that Fate held out to her, and when she raised her eyes
to the benign face of the successor of St. Peter, and marked
the grave solemnity with which he regarded her, and the
kindliness and dignity of his interest in her, her lips moved in
prayer that she might be made worthy of her destiny, and that
the great hope of the Church, the conversion of the Empire,
might be effected through the gentle influences she might one
day be able to exert upon the Court and people. But though
her lips moved, her heart was not enthusiastic. She had not
made up her mind. Should she devote herself to the cause of
Pome ? Was it in her to play so great a part, a part upon
which the religious life and the future of the whole Western
world seemed to depend ?
After the audience, Cardinal Cantelupe took leave of her,
and, placing her hand in that of the Reverend Mother, made
her a profound obeisance. She realised what a future awaited
her. The homage of the Cardinal impressed her greatly. An
ambitious dream confused her vision as she endeavoured to
follow his retreating figure: his scarlet robes disappeared through
an archway of Sienna marble, and in a few minutes she was on
her way to the Ursuline Convent at Pisa.
CHAPTER XII.
FTER the cessation of the festivities and the com¬
mencement of Lent, Malta became very dull.
There was nothing to do indeed but to bask in
the sunshine, like a lizard on the rock.
One day it was reported that the P. and 0.
steamer Oriental had left Suez, and would call at Malta in three
days. Aunt Elizabeth's health recovered by some strange coin¬
cidence, and she declared that a sea voyage home would do her
all the good in the world. So they decided to abandon their
intention of returning through Italy, and to go home by
steamer; and Dandy, who had got leave of absence on account
of his fall, joined the Mountjoys on their journey home.
By this time Beauregard and Gerard had become as good
friends as ever, and even the tiresomeness of the voyage to
"Gib" caused no coolness between them. On the contrary,
they became stouter friends than before, and Beau confided to
Gerard that " if it were not for that insufferable fellow Dandy,
the voyage would really be delightful."
Effie Mountjoy, who was a very good sailor, had now very
certainly two strings to her bow. Dandy proposed to her
every other morning, and was as often rejected, but, as Effie con¬
stantly assured him, he would ever be her very dear friend.
Beau never proposed to her; but one day, when they were
leaning over the bulwarks, looking at the porpoises, he said to
her, " You can flirt with him now, Effie, but when we are
married you'll have to cut him."
This very calm remark, uttered with Beauregard's imper-
88
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89
turbable coolness, and with the slight trace of a twang that he
always had, absolutely took Effie's breath away. The remark
was not led up to in any way. There was no question, and
there was no request. She couldn't deliberately say Yes, nor
pretend to say No. It did not lend itself to equivocal remark,
and it gave her no opportunity to hesitate a coquettish dispute.
It was beyond description delightful to Effie to hear Beau say
it, because she had been anticipating some sort of proposal
every day for weeks, and had worried herself a little that he
had not availed himself of his many opportunities. But now
she flushed all over, she knew her ears had grown red, and
she felt so dizzy that she had to cling to the bulwarks for
support, but she didn't appear to move a muscle. Then it
occurred to her that the sublime coolness of the man's assump¬
tion was a thing that ought to be challenged, and then, again,
a thrill of pleasure coursed through her veins. She had duly
rehearsed in her own mind what she would say to Beau when
he did propose. If he said this, she would say that; and if he
said the other, she would say so and so. But all her rehearsed
love-speeches, her pretty little coquetries and well-studied
repartees, were knocked on the head by Beau's calm assump¬
tion. Now she didn't know what to say, yet felt she must
say something, when Beau quietly remarked, " That's a Portu¬
guese fishing-smack. Guess we're near Lisbon." So she
feebly said, " Is it ? " and no more. Only, from that hour she
snubbed Dandy unmercifully, and it didn't seem a bit improper
to sit by Beau's side under the same rug, whilst he snored upon
her shoulder.
It was almost pathetic to witness the outward and visible
signs of Daisy's love for Gerard. The great handsome fellow
strolled about the ship, a veritable beau, or lounged in a deck-
chair, receiving attention from the ladies, with whom he was
an almost universal favourite. Occasionally he would bring
someone a cup of tea and toast, fetch a chair, or smooth out a
rug; but of the patient, tender-hearted girl who loved him so
he took little notice, unless it was to ask her to bring him
a novel from the saloon, or to tell the steward to bring up
9°
Zalma
his cigarette-case from the cabin, or to execute some similar
little commission. These orders, for such they were, rather
than requests, Daisy delighted to perform, and was never
happier than when she had the honour of dancing attendance
on this blonde giant, who seemed in her eyes a king of men,
born to be waited upon and to command.
However Gerard flirted and philandered, Daisy carefully
avoided being the witness of his inattentions. Unselfish to a
degree, she knew how to efface herself. She possessed that
delicate and rare faculty of ignoring slights upon herself. In
her own mind, if there was ever any fault it was on her side,
and not on Gerard's. She waited on him hand and foot,
played his favourite airs, read him the little tit-bits she loved
herself from authors whose works she knew by heart, but with
which, as a rule, he had so little sympathy, and put aside her
" poetry and rot" at his bidding, to read in her silvery voice the
latest sporting news; and there were 110 hours of her life so
sweet as those when Gerard and she rolled cigarettes together,
even if he sometimes scolded her for the clumsy finish. When
she could do nothing for Gerard,—when she had exhausted all
the many little ministrations to his comfort that she could
think of,—Effie came in for her devotion. If she could do
nothing more for Gerard, could she do anything for Effie ?
Could she help her with her music ? or assist her in her
Italian ? Even if Effie was sometimes a little cross with her,
she bore it patiently, for Effie was so much like Gerard.
When her devotion to Gerard and to Effie were alike
snubbed, she retired to some little unobserved corner, and,
slipping a letter from her bosom, inserted it stealthily between
the covers of her Tennyson, and, opening it, read such comfort¬
ing words as " Dearest Daisy," " My sweet darling," " Do not
doubt my love for you; some day I shall lead you to the
Towers, and, dear little housekeeper mine, I shall let you put
everything straight there for our mutual enjoyment" ; and then
Daisy would close her eyes in a rapturous day-dream, or gaze,
with far-away eyes, at the blank horizon.
It was quite an understood thing that Gerard was engaged
Zalma
9i
to Daisy; but as he was so inattentive to her, Effie, who was
really fond of her little Welsh friend, and favoured the match,
rallied him one day.
" You are engaged to Daisy, Gerard, aren't you. She wears
your ring."
" Oh, of course. Why ?"
"Well. You don't seem to fuss after her a bit. One might
think you were engaged to anyone but her—indeed, to every¬
one but her."
" What nonsense you talk, Effie! Because a fellow's en¬
gaged to a girl, is he always to be spooning her ?"
" No, Gerard; not always, but sometimes."
"Well, I don't agree with you. I and Daisy understand
each other very well. I like her, and she likes me; but we
don't want to bore each other. When we are married, it will be
time enough to begin that game."
If he seemed to like lolling in a deck-chair, surrounded by
two or three ladies whose delight was to keep him cool with
fans and to feed him with flatteries, Daisy would avert her
eyes, condemning her own heart for its unwarranted jealousy,
and, burying herself resolutely in the pages of her Tennyson,
would read and read and read; although the letters that her
eyes looked upon had become illegible, they peered through a
mist and were transformed into that sweet and beautiful duo-
syllabic word—Gerard.
Sometimes he would be very kind and gentle to Daisy.
He would walk up and down the deck with her for nearly a
quarter of an hour at a time, or get her a rug. At those
attentions Daisy would blush guiltily, as though the honour
was indeed too much.
CHAPTEB XIII.
WOULD lay down my life for the conversion of
my country to the faith," said Lady Milne
Aymour; " but the conservatism of the people
—their prejudice against Borne—"
" Daughter," interrupted Cardinal Cantelupe,
as he concluded a long conversation with this most zealous of
Catholic women in his palace at home, " our difficulty is not
with the Court nor with the people. Their prejudices against
the Catholic Church have passed. The Cardinal Bampolla del
Tindaro1 is satisfied with the progress of events, and I am con¬
fident that the negotiations for the reception of the Princess
Zalma may be effected while the present Government remain in
office. His Koyal Highness truly loves her; and his people,
great-hearted and generous, in truth, when they know that
this marriage is a love-match, will not nowadays allow a
mere religious difference to separate two young hearts which
beat in union. His Holiness desires that the secret should be
made known. But he has graciously permitted me to publish
it in my own way. The news will fall like a thunderbolt if
officially proclaimed, and will frighten Society. It is best to
let the rumour leak out. The secret will steal through the
country in twenty-four hours, and creep from the squire's table
to the labourer's fireside; but it will be denied, and while the
people are accustoming themselves to the truth, they will get
over the shock—"
" That their future Queen may be a Catholic," interrupted
Lady Milne Aymour, with a gleam of pride.
1 The Secretary of State to the Papal Government.
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Zalma
93
The Cardinal wrung his hands. " There is our difficulty,"
he cried with grief unfeigned. " The Princess Zalma is herself
refractory—false to the faith! My own honour is at stake.
No wrnnder that His Holiness is angry, that Father Hippolytus
is beside himself with disappointment and vexation! After
conquering every difficulty, to fail here—in this simplest item !
The mortification is unbearable."
" Who is to blame ? Who had charge, reverend Father, of her
education ? "
" I am to blame," exclaimed the Cardinal bitterly. " I had
personal charge of her. Carefully, as I thought, did I myself
arrange the plans for her instruction. And too well, alas ! have
I succeeded. Her brilliant intellect, leaping out on the modern
learning, has gone beyond my rein. Ill have I done indeed."
" She is young—not yet of age," said Lady Milne Aymour,
stimulating her thoughts by using her smelling-salts, " and
still in the convent at Pisa."
" Where she must remain."
" And where she shall be made to obey."
" She is self-willed."
" She must be taught obedience, reverend Father. Who is
her confessor ?"
" Father Fitzgerald."
" The same silly old priest who confessed me when I was
a schoolgirl in the same convent. The fond old gentleman
will make light of all her sins. Let her have some younger
confessor, full of ambition and of stern ideals. If we would
convert the country through her husband, we must truly con¬
vert her. It is a solemn pity she is not loyal to the faith."
" Ah, daughter. Go to her. Go, Lady Milne Aymour, tell
her of my grief. Point out to her the greatness of her future.
Show to her that the conversion of the country rests with her.
The Latin States are impoverished. The Papal coffers are very
lean. If we win this island for Eome, we win the whole
Western world and its wealth. The Prince, her husband, loves
her. It is but an affair of diplomacy now, and she shall be
publicly recognised, royally welcomed. Every difficulty is
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Zalma
overcome. The country will take her to their heart." A smile
visited the Cardinal's face again, and, with a laugli at the corner
of his lip, he added, " It is marvellous ! Even the parsons
have raised no objection ! "
" The parsons ?" repeated Lady Milne Aymour drily. " The
parsons never protest now—except against Protestantism."
The Cardinal chuckled silently at this bon-mot, the truth of
which he well recognised.
" In Dell-land, the best allies of Pome," he murmured,
" are the clergy."
" For what, then, do we wait, reverend Father ? "
" His Holiness would not have us wait one day, but the Sacred
College advises the Sovereign Pontiff that we are on the eve of
a great social outbreak, not in our own country only, but
throughout Europe. They argue that the Church should not
put forth the whole power of its arm until Anarchy has left the
nations broken : that we should come to raise the fallen in the
hour of need. After the era of revolution, the era of revival.
There is much wisdom in the plan."
The Cardinal paused, and laid his hand upon Lady Milne
Aymour's shoulder.
" But I have so much at heart—the conversion of my erring
country to the faith—that I am loth to wait one hour. Go,
daughter, to Pisa; remonstrate with the child, wean her from
these prevalent agnostic ideas, these vanities of her intellect,
and show to her the dazzling days the future may unfold to her."
" There is her salvation," said Lady Milne Aymour, toying
with her lace; "not in the convent, but in the world. When
she understands how great a role is in store for her, believe me,
dear Cardinal, for I know women better than you do, she will play
her part. Do you not think it would be well to bring her out ?"
" But the difficulty is here: I would have her received by
the Prince publicly—acknowledged everywhere. I desire his
father's consent, and, above all, the goodwill of the Highest
Authority. I believe it will not be long before we succeed in
achieving these results. Let the Princess Zalma wait in the
convent till we have succeeded in our negotiations. You are
Zalma
95
perhaps right in your view that it would he inexpedient to deal
with her severely. Let her have every opportunity of free
recreation and enjoyment. I will take your advice about her
confessor. I know a priest, one of our most promising young
men, the son of a noble family in Italy, who will adapt himself
always to our wishes. He is zealous for the Church, a born
diplomatist, handsome, subtle, astute ; and his music !—could
they but hear him sing, he would convert the world. There is
no reason for a long delay. All goes well. Meanwhile, bring
the child, in penitence, to her knees—prevail upon her, dear Lady
Milne Aymour, to be a good and faithful daughter of Borne. I
have even now," he added, looking at his watch, " an appoint¬
ment at St. James's. I would like to see you afterwards."
" I will remain and pray for you, for her, and for my country,"
said Lady Milne Aymour, going upon her knees before a silver
crucifix.
Lady Milne Aymour had not long been a visitor at the
Convent of St. Ursula at Pisa before the illness of H.B.H. the
Duke of Clarence alarmed every European Court. The Cardinal,
foreseeing the possibility of the young Prince's decease, hurried
to Kome. He returned in haste through Pisa; but before his
arrival at the Ursuline Court, the sad event had occurred which
plunged the English Court into mourning.
The lamented death of the Duke of Clarence put Prince
George in the direct succession to the throne, and soon after¬
wards he took his seat in the House of Lords as the Duke of
York. A year afterwards, his marriage with the Princess
Victoria of Teck aroused the enthusiasm of the Empire.
Prince John, Duke of Umbria of Dell-land, attended his
marriage, 011 the 6th of July in the following year, at the
Chapel Boyal, St. James's, and was himself married shortly
afterwards to a Princess of surpassing loveliness—the Princess
Augusta of Gothenburg, both events being received through¬
out the country with the abounding excitement which so often
exuberates the English people. The lovable character of the
Duke of York, his amiability, his large heartedness, his devo-
96
Zalma
tion to duty, and his high moral character, endeared him to
the people, but he was not more popular than Prince John of
Umbria, that young, frank, daring, and beloved Prince, whose
name is synonymous with all that is gracious and popular, and
who had now allied himself to an illustrious family, in the
person of the exalted Princess who had become his bride.
Possibly the negotiations which were pending, previous to
the death of the late Duke of Clarence, might have been con¬
ducted to a conclusion that would have been satistactory to the
Roman Catholic Hierarchy, but the sudden change in the
motives that actuated Prince John of Umbria were doubtless
caused by reasons of State of the most pressing nature, and his
sudden marriage to the Princess Augusta of Gothenburg was a
severe blow to Rome. It negatived Zalma's marriage to Prince
John. That was now a barren ceremony—or nothing.
Rome was baffled. The Sacred College of Cardinals met
over the news, as though to receive with sufficient solemnity the
disastrous intelligence. The Catholic countries are so poor that
the conversion of a country so rich as Dell-land is becoming a
necessity. Father Hippoly tus, who had lately received the red hat
was silent; but when the council had ended their sitting, he said
to Cardinal Cantelupe, with his cunning smile, " I am not sorry."
" Reveal your meaning," replied Cardinal Cantelupe, en¬
deavouring to read the features of his reverend brother.
" This," said the Italian with emphasis: " I know this god¬
daughter of yours better than you do. She has Southern blood
in her. Do you think she will brook an insult like this ? She
has too much spirit to accept it without vengeance. Let us
face the truth. Her marriage was illegal. All the power of
Rome cannot now make it a practical fact."
" The people of—shall we say of—of Dell-land," said the
Prelate, smiling, " the people pride themselves on their morality.
It might become a public question. The people might be
brought to insist upon the legality of the Malta marriage. It
might become the question at a General Election."
" Oh, you man of the North!" replied the Italian, with a
shrug almost of contempt. " It will not be a question for the
Zalma
97
people, nor for the Prince, nor for us ; no, not even for any one
of the whole sixty-four Cardinals of the Sacred College: it is a
question for the woman herself alone. Do you imagine she
will so lower her pride as to become a mere love-bird for the
Prince ? Her eyes are too full of fire. Vengeance from her
will fall—where ?"
" Perhaps 011 the Church," said Cardinal Cantelupe
thoughtfully.
" Certainly 011 the Church, and certainly on the Prince.
Well; what does that mean ?—the Revolution ! the Revolution !
Pray God it may come in my time. Anarchy, Socialism,
Nihilism! these seeming enemies of Rome are our truest
friends: friends in disguise, I grant. Wind and storm, blood
and conflict, rebellion and victory—these do I see in the
coming era ; may I live in the midst of it, for I do know that
in those days Rome shall regain her lost influence and again
sway the world."
Zalma, however, was kept in ignorance of these events.
She knew nothing whatever of affairs outside the cloisters.
The severe rule of the convent was more than ever enforced.
Her one relief was in her books. In arts, science, and literature
she continued, with the zeal of a modern student, to make her¬
self proficient, and to fit herself for the intellectual enjoyment
of this interesting world.
From the Cardinal's standpoint the whole situation was
especially affected. The sad death of the Duke of Clarence
was a date of consequence. Returning to England without
delay, he pressed into his service the assistance of the Due
d'Amiens, a faithful son of Rome, whom he confidently expected
would one day ascend the throne of France, and whose friend¬
ship with the Royal Family of England was none the less
sincere because he was an exile in their land, and had made his
asylum for a generation on the banks of the Thames. He was
also on the friendliest terms with Prince John of Umbria of
Dell-land, and the assistance of the Due might prove invaluable
to the cause of Rome.
7
CHAPTER XIY.
vvrrr/jTryv'ny
AV'Hr T is a strange present, father, for a girl's birthday
'{ityfl —a jewelled dagger!"
511*12^ W3 " A woman's birthday, Zalma! I have
travelled far to give it to you, with my own
hands, to-day. I have journeyed six thousand
miles to break bread with you on this particular day, your
twenty-first birthday, and to give you this, my darling
daughter. Our frugal breakfast is to mark something more
than a coming-of-age festival. It is a consecration. To me it
marks an era. With you it commences an epoch."
The speaker was a tall, remarkably handsome old man,
whose unimpaired intellectual faculties shone through his
dark eyes. He was very erect, and bore himself with a con¬
spicuous dignity. The ease and grace of his manner were
repeated in the feminine elegance of his beautiful daughter,
who stood by his side with her graceful arms about his neck,
looking into his face almost as a maiden might look at her
lover.
" To-day you are twenty-one, my child. Child now no
longer. You know how I have trained you, in those brief
opportunities of the holiday season when your convent has
released you. You know that I have not concealed from you
opinions that are not the current opinions of your world.
Yet I have refrained from telling you much about yourself.
You know, you have always known, that you need not remain
amidst these humble surroundings. You inherit to-day an
ample fortune from your mother. This little Halliford cottage
98 & 1
Zalma
99
this simplicity, need not be yours. I love its rural calm, but I
do not compel you to endure it. I could give you wealth at
once, if it would be well for you. For you I would break my
vows. I have given you a peep of many capitals. I have
given you a knowledge of ideas and affairs. You are personally
acquainted with some of the brightest intellects and a few of
the most notable men of your day. I have done all in my
power to fit you to fill any place that you choose to select.
My love, my sweetest daughter, my darling, my life, ask of me
now whatever you will. Choose what course you truly desire.
If the life of Society, of Courts, be your wish, you may take a
position to which your birth entitles you in a measure, or
which, at any rate, the Church, by a simple exercise of its
wonderful power, can confer upon you. Suffice it that I could
procure for you a position so high in the social scale, that, with
your natural endowments, you might fill a void in the world
that would make you the envy of most women. But this, yon
know, is not my desire for you. Neither would I have yon
follow literature, or art, or science, though I know, my dear
daughter, you are capable of success in any of the professions .
you are fit for the highest ambition."
"Tell me, father, my love! explain to me, tell me more.
Oh, I have so much to tell you ! 1 have been kept a prisoner;
they have kept your letters from me. My letters to you have
not, I believe, been allowed to reach you. Father, dear father,
kiss me. Oh, what a delight to see you again ! I love you so.
Oh, I want to tell you so much—such a lot of things. But,
first and most, papa, take me in your arms as you used to do in
the old days. I do not want to be twenty-one yet. Let me be
a child. Oh, would that I could! Father! father! how I
have wanted to confide in you."
He embraced her tenderly again and again, kissing her
hands, her brow, her hair, whilst tears ran from her eyes.
Then he said: " Little one—oh, but you are so big now, but still
my little Zalma. Before you speak to me I must talk to you—
oh, so seriously. Sit down, Zalma, there at my feet, like the
little child you once were, the little child you cease to be
lOO
Zalma
to-day. Ah, the fiction! You were of age ten years ago at
eleven, my precocious one, you had the brains of a graduate; yet
still for once, and to-day only, let me look at it as the last day
of your childhood. Kiss me, baby."
She covered him with kisses ; then raised his hand re¬
verently, caressingly.
"Woman," he continued almost sternly, "you rule the
world. Oh, have a cam how you wield the sceptre!"
She fondled his fingers uneasily, still looking at him from
the footstool where she sat.
" How can I tell you everything in a little while—you who
know so much? We live at a meeting-point in the cycles of
years. Old things are passing away. I, who have lived nearly
a hundred years, have seen them pass. A new and a better
order is coming. Kings, countries even, will cease to be.
Parliaments have had their day. Wars and prisons and all
that is of Hell must cease, and nothing must be but the one
great word—Humanity."
" Humanity," she whispered solemnly.
" I am getting very old now, Zalma. I never hoped to see
this day. My own life has been consecrated to the Great
Cause. * I, who have lived so long for others, wish you also not
to live for yourself."
" Father ! " exclaimed Zalma, rising to her knees and kissing
his cheek.
" These things, my little one, my lovely daughter, my pride,
you have heard me say before. But until quite recent days,
wben I have marked the brightness of your intelligence, and
the fruits that your unique education lias already borne, never
until quite recently did I dare to hope that in your consecra¬
tion to Humanity I might find—my successor."
Zalma started.
_ "Does it give you dreadI ?" asked the old man, putting both
his hands upon her brow with all the kindliness of a venerable
bishop ordaining a young priest.
to bZalZsUnaud'ble my greatneSS>" she «">w<*ed, so softly as
Zalma
IOT
" There spake my Zalma/' exclaimed the old man proudly ;
and for a long time he looked at her as though he read her
inmost soul, and surveyed like a seer the chapters of her
future.
" You know not, Zalma, who I am, nor the manner of my
life ; you know not how I have warred, and would still war,
against Society. Neither do you know your own sad, strange,
romantic history. It is of these things I would speak to you.
My own days, though I still feel hale and vigorous, are nearly
done. To you, my daughter, if you, voluntarily and con amove,
open-eyed, take up the enterprise, I will hand my sword—not
sheathed, but bare."
" Hand it to me, father. I know more of your life than you
believe. Do you think you can war against all Governments
and all Law before my eyes, and I remain ignorant of it ? Am
I a fool, or blind ?"
" Before we enter into a compact," continued the old man,
ignoring her question, " you must know yourself, your circum¬
stances, your status. Never shall you be able to say that you
made a compact with your father when your eyes were shut."
She kissed him with reverent lips upon his brow.
"Your mother was a Princess of the House of Bourbon, a
Spaniard. You are her image, a replica of the most handsome
woman I ever saw. But yet there are signs of power in your
face that she never had. She married, when very young, an
old debauched roud, a Prince of the House of Braganza. Your
mother entered into the alliance as ignorant as an infant is,
and ought to be, of the wretchedness of men. How can I
describe her husband ? Dissolute, diseased, damnable—these
a man may become who, in his youth, had gallantry, a good
heart, some of the nobility of manhood in him. But this
despicable villain was mean in his childhood, vicious and
malicious in his youth, and never a man with one masculine
quality to redeem his vices. He, in the ugliness and de¬
crepitude of age, harnessed in the bonds of matrimony your
mother's royal loveliness and her splendid soul to his corrupt
and palsied body. The Princess Eulalia, your mother, a devout
102
Zalma
Catholic, bore her cross, strengthened in the fortitude of her
faith, yet with an nnconcealable horror and a defiant spirit;
not, however, for long The Prince, her husband, became
suddenly infamous in a series of scandals. Unspeakable
he became the mock of all Spain. By the advice of her
Confessir, the Princess Eulalia sought the protection of the
Pope, His Holiness Pius the Ninth, as she was wont to call
him, against the debaucheries of her husband. On her way to
Borne she became dangerously ill. Though an exile, I was
then at the height of my professional reputation, and it was
my good fortune to be summoned to your mother's side. She
recovered."
" How shall I tell you ?" continued the old man with
tremulous tenderness, as he lowered his voice. " Zalma, I
loved your mother."
He put his Hps upon her head. They both wept.
" Yes, Zalma, we loved each other. So desperately, so
passionately, that surely never was there love like ours."
" The Catholic Church, whose sagacity is ever conspicuous,
established the lumour that the Princess died of her illness in
a convent at Milan. But she did not. Her fate overtook her,
Zalma, alas! within a year, and you were born on the day that
my Eulalia died."
" Father ! father ! " exclaimed Zalma tearfully, as she flung
her arms round the old man's neck, " do not weep so. Do not
weep." But they both shed tears as they embraced each other
" An hour before her death," resumed the old man with a
steady voice, "your royal mother received the papal bene¬
dictions, and Cardinal Cantelupe became your godfather.
Your mother's last request was, that you should be trained in
a convent and brought up in the Catholic faith. You know
how religiously I, a sceptic, an atheist, have observed her
dying commands. That is your story."
" It tells me nothing of the dagger," said Zalma, as she
drew the glittering toy from its sheath and put its point upon
her little palm. "There is more to tell. What are these
stains ?
Zalma
103
" That is my story."
" Tell that to me also."
" I am the son of the Count von tier Pahlen, who stabbed
the Tzar Paul with that dagger. History says, says truly, that
lie was strangled. But he was strangled so slowly that my
father gave him the coup dc grace with that very blade. Prom
my father's lips, when in exile, I received the tradition of
hatred to kings and princes. Had he never taught me to hate,
your mother's husband would have inculcated that virtue.
Him I slew with that. I hand it now to you."
She kissed its handle, jewelled now with her tears. The
scalding drops ran down the blade and trickled from its point.
Her long dark eyelashes were full of limpid grief. The tears
ran down her cheek, and left her great eyes blazing and raging,
as with fire. Silently she put the dagger into her bosom.
" Do you wonder," said the Count, rising and raising her.
" Do you wonder that I am Socialist, Nihilist, Anarchist ?
My father and I have been exiled from our country. I am
alien in my own land. My own people, who till my confiscated
domains, may not utter a prayer for my soul. My own wife
may not be my wife in the eyes of the law. My own daughter,
conceived in a royal womb, adopted by Holy Church, is denied
my name. Yes, Zalma, you, a Princess of the Blood, inheriting
your mother's royal beauty, bearing by the impress of Nature
the stamp of race, and royalty, you are looked upon by the
laws of all nations as something contemptible—a waif, an out¬
cast. The outcast, waif, and stray: these I know; amongst
these I have spent my life. They are the true kings; they
shall be the conquerors: the poor, the patient, the toiler, the
starving, the hungry, the desolate—these do I fold into my
heart. Denied my own folk, these are the people of my adop¬
tion. Denied my own land, all lands are mine. Denied my
own nation, one nation remains to me—the world, Humanity.
" Hush! Do you think, Zalma," he continued, lowering
his voice and looking out of the cottage lattice, " that when I
look amongst these rose-bushes for the eavesdropper and the
spy, that I have any regard for my life, except for love of the
io4
Zalma
Great Cause ? Everywhere I am hunted. Everywhere there is
a price upon my head, except in England, and, strange to say
(but that is a minor story), in Russia. I have declared war
against all Law and all Government. Society of to-day, based
upon feudality, is doomed; all attempts to cure it by the gradual
processes of political reform are vain: the whole of the Existing
is rotten, root and branch ; nothing hut the destruction of Order,
and of Law itself, nothing but blood and fire and riot and
revolution, nothing but dynamite and wholesale destruction,
can save the world. Peace must be declared to man by the
bomb."
In the eyes of his daughter he looked, as he stood erect, like
a holy prophet eloquently announcing the doom.
" But perhaps much exile has made me mad," he continued,
with real humility. " Perhaps kings and peers have right
divine. Perhaps there is a God, and it is His will that the
poor shall always be with us, and suffering the ceaseless lot of
man. And you, my daughter, pure as the driven snow, fit for
some chaster life than the world offers, may require the life of
Courts and the idle joys of a frivolous clay for happiness' sake.
We men are made of sterner stuff than your soft sex. It may
be that I am cruel to cherish the hopes I have shadowed. It
may be that the purity and chastity which is so sweet and
womanly a quality in you rebels at my hopes for you, and the
love of a brave man with ordinary ambition should be your
destiny."
" Oh, my father! my father!" exclaimed Zalma, sobbing,
" spare me."
" Choose! You may be a Braganza, if you will. If you
desire to claim the taint and loathsome slur of his name your
mother bore, the Church will announce to the world—a
Princess of Braganza, hidden till now in a convent. The real
secret of your birth is safe in the heart of the Church, and may
remain so for ever. But if you shrink from a position so
spurious, although, by the Church's grace, so amply secure, go
to the Tzar with your true history, amply attested by the
Cardinal and many reliable witnesses—go to him, as you, indeed,
Zalma
are nobly born, made legitimate through the zeal of the
Cardinal by papal dispensation, unlock the true story of your
birth with open proofs to all the world, and as the Countess
von der Pahlen, my dear daughter, if you but kiss the hand of
the Tzar, right gladly will he be pleased to receive the homage
of a name so long rebellious, right royally will he renew in
your own person the alienated title, and hand to you the
parchments of estates, great even in Eussia; or, if you will, you
shall be a simple lady here in England, amply rich—"
" Father!" exclaimed Zalma, " I have too much of your
proud blood in me to be slurred by the least vestige of what is
false. I will not even have a name. It was some true instinct
that made me proud of my nom de plume. The world shall
know me for what I am. What is royal in these veins and
what is noble in my blood, I despise. Proud am I only of the
bar sinister, proud of the intellect that I have from you—
a man. In the convent I was a rebel against the Church and
God. Instinct impelled me to revolt. In the hospital, where
I learnt to love the poor, I became a rebel against Law. Let
me work with you, conspire with you, against the Society we
loathe. Yet one thing know. 1 have heard your story. You
have told it to me. You have not told me all."
" I have told you all, Zalma."
" No, Sire," she said, hiding her face in her father's bosom ;
" I have my own story to confess to you."
" Tell it to me, my love, my child."
" Father, I am not pure."
" Zalma!"
" It is true, father; I am not chaste."
" Give me back the dagger. Give it me," cried the Count,
struggling with his daughter.
" Would you kill me ?"
" No, my child: I would kill him."
" Ah, let me keep it, then. I have a purpose of my own."
" Who was he ?"
" A Prince."
" His name ?"
io6
Zalma
" No ; I keep that,"
" Why ?"
" That I may take it from him."
" My girl," said the old man, putting his arm upon her with
infinite tenderness, " confide in me."
" That will I, father, truly. In whom else, indeed ? In
some way—I, a child—ignorant of the world—ignorant of the
wiles of the Church or the ways of Princes, was tricked into a
secret marriage, if such it was, with a Prince of the Blood.
I know well that I was sacrificed to the Prince for the benefit
of Holy Church. But for Holy Church what care I ? Have
you not taught me, father, of the iniquities done in the name of
the Cross ? Listen! Deserted as soon as married, I was
immured for two years, as you knew and now understand,
in a convent; kept under the closest surveillance of the
Keverend Mother, the Princess Maria di Spagna, at Pisa,
When I escaped, I learnt what all the world knew: my
husband, if such he he—for I am so bewildered I scarcely
know—Prince John of Umbria of Dell-land—had been married
—married again to a Eoyal Princess."
"The Duke of Umbria!" exclaimed Count Pahlen in
amazement.
"Prince John of Umbria! Married again to Princess
Augusta of Gothenburg, amidst the plaudits of millions, the
salutations of all Europe ; and I, prisoned there in a convent,
shut out from all knowledge of events, knew nothing of this
insult to myself. I was left, forgotten, my very existence
ignored, my interests, my honour sacrificed, I know not after
what negotiations between ambassadors and statesmen and the
Pope himself, but sacrificed without a word to me, to the
exigencies of State,"
" A romance indeed ! Suffering child; ah ! my love and
little one. Would that I had looked to your interests more,
to the Cause and to Humanity less !"
" That, father, is not all. My hand was filched by a Prince ; "
—she lowered her voice—" when I knew the worst: dare I tell
you, father—dare I tell you ?"
Zalma
He pressed her hand.
She faltered almost in audibly, " My body was stolen by a
priest."
The Count, covering his eyes with his hands, staggered into
a chair.
"Princecraft and priestcraft—I hate them both. Let me
avenge myself upon them. Mother of mine—father—1 call on
you. Father ! father! father ! My heart that is still left me,
my father, my only love—take this heart of mine. It is yours.
Do what you will with it."
The Count rose from his chair with clenched fists, and,
setting his teeth, looked straight into his daughter's eyes.
She answered with a long look, as direct and searching as
his own. " Tell me, father; tell me. Am I now fit to choose
my fate ? Am I fit for honour ?"
The old man bent his head. He was overcome. His tears
welled over.
"I have made my choice. I want one honour, only, one
honour for this little hand—let it hurl the bomb !"
He opened his arms, pressed her head to his bosom, and
covered her with kisses.
CHAPTER XV.
OXG they remained together in silence. She,
overcome with tears, happy at last that the load
of her troubled life had been unburdened by her
confession. He, grave and perplexed at the
marvels of Destiny. Outside, a lark sang. The
girl looked up quickly and caught its merry trill. The Count
noticed her interest, and regarded her with almost ominous
solemnity. Putting his arm around her waist, he bent over
her and kissed her forehead. The sun was shining, the day
lovely with June. He led her out of the room, through the
little garden, and along the peaceful village green, into the
waving cornfields. They were in England. The river Thames
was not far away. The foliage of elms and oaks stood up
against the blue sky. All was serene and beautiful.
" I take you, even you, my own, and accept you for the
sacrifice."
His voice was hushed, reverent.
" Eor it means death," he said, lowering his voice.
" Death ?" she answmred, almost gaily; " I do not believe in
death. Death is but the entrance to some other life."
"You are so well equipped for this, my beautiful!—for
this life. Youth, the revel, love—"
She interrupted him sternly. " Say nought of love," she
exclaimed ; " tell me only of hate."
" Hate and Love are twins," he replied, holding out his hand
over the waving corn; " over yonder, some twenty miles away,
lies my heart, amongst those toiling millions of London Are
108
Zalma
109
they so to toil for ever ?—ground every year more terribly under
the wheel of Juggernaut, as the competition for mere existence
becomes sterner and sterner, sweated and wrung by inevitable
Destiny; not by Capital, that mere instrument, but by Fate,
which will work out its inexorable will."
" Answer your own question, my dear father, for the terror
of it appals me. I, who may have no love for man, may love
the million! My heart leaps towards them as you speak.
Shall they be for ever accursed ?"
" Not for ever, Zalma. The twins Love and Hate shall
release them. Yet shall they toil and sweat and grind and
starve in bitter torture and yet more agonising chains. And
then the riot shall break through—the revolution shall over¬
flow all like a flood. They shall be overturned, eradicated,
abolished altogether. So it has ever been, so it ever shall be.
The world works out its own reform by evolution, by the in¬
exorable wheel of Fate, by the survival of the fittest, by rule
and law in accordance with scientific principles that cannot
be altered, and the impassive, imperturbable march of events.
It is not that love is in my heart, it is not that hate dictates
my duty. A greater power than my own will impels me—the
hand of Destiny, that great scientific force for ever visible on
the scrolls of history, which compels me, Zalma, my darling
daughter, to accept even you for sacrifice, to lead you, through
blood, to what may seem to others death and disaster, but which,
in the revolution of the years, means the abolition of nations,
and the establishment of a Social Order founded on altruistic
ideas and a nervously organised popular conscience, having the
love of Humanity as its base and its goal."
They continued to walk through the cornfields together.
A little bird springing up at their feet, burst into a breeze of
song.
" Eulalia," exclaimed the old man, baring his head, " I take
Zalma, your daughter, to be the world's bride."
" Enough," he said, turning to her. " Listen ! There is a
conspiracy on foot that will shake the world !"
" Tell me, father," she exclaimed eagerly.
i io
zalma
' It involves every people in Europe."
" And England also ?"
" Ay! it will attack even the Throne. My plans are
everywhere approaching their culmination. Such a blow shall
fall that the sound of it shall echo over the whole earth."
" Father, I crave for action: order my hands, my arm, my
heart. They are ready. Disclose to me the secrets that you
have withheld from me. Trust me altogether."
Then he unfolded to her a design that took the blood out
of her lips and left them paler than tier cheek.
It was a disclosure more terrible than those which have
been whispered with bated breath by masked men in the dead
of night in dripping caverns or in secret meetings in dark
hiding-places. If storm and lightning and thunder had
accompanied its revelation in some dreary ruin, amongst the
owls and the bats, it could not have sounded so dreadful or
so ominous as the quiet statement of the reverend-looking old
man, told under the calm blue sky, as they walked together in
the cornfields, so serenely emerald, so sweet with innocent
flowers,—where he quietly related to his daughter, in deliberate
accents, the details of a dreadful conspiracy, which, for horror,
for blood, for guilt, made every previous project even in the
horrible lists of Anarchist crime seem little and vain.
CHAPTEE XVI.
ALMA became ill: her mind had been agitated at
the meeting with her father, with their mutual
disclosures and confidences, and by the excite¬
ments which they caused. Her nervous,emotional
nature, highly wrought upon by the mental crisis,
was much tried. She had an attack of hysteria, became
feverish, passed two or three sleepless nights, and by day had
frequent fits of convulsive sobbing.
Her father was extremely kind to her. He not only pre¬
scribed with all the care and skill of the able physician that
he was, but he nursed her with more than the tenderness of
a nurse—almost with the gentleness of a mother. Whatever
wish she had lie anticipated, nothing was too much trouble.
He sat for hours by her bedside, he read to her, talked to her,
made merry, stroked her forehead with his hand, and cutting
flowers from the garden, personally arranged them upon her
dressing-table, and upon a shelf at her bedside, where their
bloom made a happiness for her eyes to rest upon. Nothing
was left undone that kindliness or sensibility could suggest.
Indeed, the old man idolised in his daughter the mother whom
he had adored.
She was his only child. Yet so great was his enthusiasm
for the revolutionary cause to which he had devoted his life,
that he was zealot enough to give up even her, and to forfeit
even this supreme idol of his age, as a sacrifice to the tyrant
that dominated his soul. To what insane extremes does Zeal
carry the victims of its oppression !
111
I I 2
Zalma
Their affection had always been, on each side, intensely
devoted. The father saw in his daughter traits of power
which surprised and delighted him. Count Pahlen had not
forgotten the pledge he had given to the Princess Eulalia when
Zalma was born, nor did he ever retract his promise to bring
her up a Catholic. He felt in honour bound to keep faith with
her; not to the letter only, but to the fullest extent of the
spirit, regardless of his own strong, contrary opinions and
belief. He had promised her mother, on her dying bed, to
confide the care and education of their daughter to the Catholic
Church; and with a candour and frankness that was a beautiful
trait in his character, he had informed Cardinal Cantelupe that
since he was himself unfitted, by reason of his emancipated views
upon religious questions, to select the convent for her training,
he left to the Cardinal absolutely the entire charge of the child,
stipulating only that she should be permitted, during the usual
convent holidays, to spend some time with him. How sweet
and green these oases were in the old age of the Count's life!
He spent them variously,—sometimes in Italy, sometimes in
Germany or France or Spain, but often, during the autumn, in
England, where he had established a little cottage, which was
to both of them—home. An exile from his birth, cosmopolitan
by liabit, a citizen of the world through circumstance, he found
England the free-est of all countries for a man to whom freedom
was the very breath of life. He had a modest little holding
fronting the village green at Halliford, and looking out at the
back over cornfields. It was covered with climbing flowers—
honeysuckle and maiden's-bower, roses and eglantine. There
was an arch of jasmine at the wicket, and the doorway made a
welcome with a bush of traveller's joy. The garden was a mere
patch, but there was a pleasant arbour in it facing the setting
sun; and all round the hedge which enclosed it were fruit-trees,
—apple, plum, and pear,—lovely always, in spring with blossom,
in summer with leaf, in autumn with fruit, and in winter—
most beautiful of all—with white-frosted branches, that
silvered every bough and hung every twig with the lacework
of fairies, unless the snow came and covered them with a richer
Zalma
whiteness of velvety snow. Here, with one woman-servant
only,—Fanny, a negress who had been devoted to the Princess
Eulalia, and who had nursed Zalma in babyhood,—they made
their summer holiday, always happier in this peaceful cottage
home than in the excitement of continental travel, or in the
gaiety of capitals, of which, however, the Count took care to
give his daughter some experience.
Count Pahlen was quite a stranger in the neighbourhood,
except to the few whom he permitted, rather on his daughter's
account than on his own. One of the charms of his little
cottage was, that he had discovered a veritable rus in urbe.
The contiguity of the place to London enabled him to hide his
head under a bushel, and to be almost unknown. But he was
too distinguished a man to be able to remain unrecognised, and
Zalma, under her nom de plume of " Pallas," had made such a
hit in literary circles with Juggernaut that she, too, was
becoming a celebrity. The Count's clever stories,—for lie was
a wonderful raconteur,—the adventurous life which he had led,
both in Europe and America (in which latter country, as
Surgeon-General of the Confederate Forces, he had served on
the Staff of Jefferson Davis, and been wounded at Bull's Bun),
his notorious, romantic career, and the mysterious rumours
circulating about him, made him a man of interest. But he
was more than this: his distinguished merits as a physician
and scientist gave him a position amongst members of his own
profession, by whom he was regarded as a man to whom the
foremost honours were due; whilst Zalma, so clever, so
fascinating, and so lovely, caused them both to be much dis¬
cussed in the talkative little village.
Added to all this, the gossips were beginning to say extra¬
ordinary things. The Count and his handsome daughter were
said by some to be persons of wealth and importance,—the little
cottage did not represent their social status,—and, in a word,
rumour was busy with their names, and scattered winged
stories about them, which were generally utterly incorrect, but
which afforded food for gossip to silly people of both sexes.
As every new rumour arose, the ancient dames and the
8
ii4
Zalma
feminine men of the village cackled over their cups of tea,
and whispers were born absolutely without parentage. If any
little incident occurred, however trivial, it was the cause of
conversation. Even as the flock of geese which rove over
Halliford Common do fuss and agitate over an uncanny flint
or other intruding triviality, approaching it with waddling gait,
and examining the casual object with extended necks and
heads craned out to the utmost, advancing and retiring in
strict accordance with the exact laws of anserine etiquette,
and looking askance at the object of their suspicion with heads
bent on one side (for geese are very particular about the
Proprieties), assembling together in a sort of Parliament, amidst
hisses and shrill voices, listening especially to the leadership of
an authoritative but absurd old gander, before they retire with
injured, not to say insulted, but certainly ridiculously dignified
demeanour: so did the good people of Halliford, borrowing
their manners from the geese on the Common, examine and
discuss the old gentleman and his daughter, watching them
curiously, cautiously withdrawing from them in strange dread,
timorous and bold by turns, and, when any item of information
was clear to their apprehension, assembling to have a good
gossip over the news. So that when Zalma's illness became
known, rumour of it spread abroad. Colonel Willyams, Mr.
Graves, and Mr. Bernard Daw, the political magnates of the
vicinity, deemed it necessary to make kind inquiries. Miss
Dodd took the opportunity to make an effort to enlist Count
Pahlen in Anti-Vivisection, and Miss Emmeline Draper drove
over from Iffenden with jelly. The Hon. Gwynne Griffiths
rode from Hounslow with the compliments of his Colonel, and
the little cottage became a kind of Mecca, to which people for
miles around made a pilgrimage. Amongst others, Lieutenant
Gerard Mountjoy, whose regiment was at Windsor, presum¬
ing on his old acquaintance, rode over to inquire after the
patient.
But, with one or two exceptions, Dr. Pahlen, who did not
care to entertain a lot of talkative little busybodies, was not
very receptive : no one got far into the cottage, nor was anyone
Zalma
ii5
induced to stay very long. The only people permitted to see
Zalma in her bedroom were Daisy Eees and Effie Beauregard—
for so she had now become.
The Beauregards had taken a house by the river for the
boating season, and, at her husband's instigation, Effie had
called 011 the invalided Zalma. Beauregard, who, since he was
in Malta, had been to America on some business relating to his
oil wells, had tumbled into luck. His wealth had increased by
leaps and bounds, but it had required looking alter. How¬
ever, he came back, married Effie Mountjoy, and seemed an
enviable fellow. Daisy had always been great chums with
Effie, and she was now 011 her first visit to the Beauregards.
Zalma did not care much for Effie, but Daisy Bees was such a
lovable little thing that Zalma's heart warmed towards her.
One day she brought her mandoline to the cottage, and when
she had finished singing, Zalma was in tears.
After that, to Dr. Pahlen's great delight, symptoms of
decided improvement in his daughter's condition soon appeared ;
but it was evident that her mind was still harassed by the
same subjects which had originally distressed her. He, how¬
ever, let her talk as much as she liked, and, encouraging her to
ventilate her mental troubles, alleviated them by ministering
to her with his philosophic discussions and his serene views of
life. For nobody could be more sagacious and more dis¬
passionately calm than Dr. Balden when he once put aside his
insane Anarchist views.
Zalma was now sitting in a dressing-gown, conva¬
lescent; her coloured maid Fanny, who had been present at
her birth, and who idolised her, had dressed her with all the
care and thought that she would have bestowed upon her if she
bad been donning the robes for some great function. Zalma
looked lovelier than ever after her illness. She had a beauty
which always seemed more beautiful than anyone had ever
seen before.
" Let us consider it, father," she said, still fretting; " let us
consider it together. Whatever the future has in store for me,
love is not there. Hate is my heritage,"
Zalma
" You are a few days older than twenty-one," said her
father calmly.
" I have had the experience of two or three lifetimes.
You yourself said so but the other day. It is unusual for one
so young as I to have experienced so much. I feel old: I feel
not to need counsel, I seem to know intuitively so much."
Dr. Pahlen rubbed his hands together—a trick he had—and
answered gaily, " You enter 011 life well equipped. Experientia
docet." But he thought more than he said. Indeed, they
were both silent, and both occupied with the same reverie—her
past history.
How remarkable it had been! Her strange, illustrious,
romantic parentage; her early days of infancy, so strangely
spent; the convent life, where, with the daughters of nobles or
of the great Catholic families, she had been trained in the
severest tenets of the Catholic faith; her holiday life, spent
always with her father, who was so devoted to her; her hit
with Juggernaut, when the genius of eighteen let off a
literary firework; her sudden and almost Bohemian debut in
London society, a freak of holiday life; her experiences as a
hospital nurse, when, touched to the quick with human sym¬
pathies, she spent more than her holiday term in Mary Hope's
hospital at Chertsey, which she had practically created, nurs¬
ing the sick at the peril of her life and, what she deemed even
more valuable, her beauty, in defiance of her father's wishes,
and apparently instigated by a wilful whim; her suspicions of
her father's political life, which had troubled her more than
he ever knew; her religious doubts and waverings, the conflicts
of her soul with knowledge, the struggle that invariably over¬
takes the intellectual when authority is withdrawn and
independent thought emancipates the soul; her love for the
Unknown, which even now, after three years, haunted her ; the
ball at Malta; the sudden royal marriage; the detention,
amounting almost to an imprisonment, in the convent at Pisa.
Her mind dwelt on detail after detail in connection with these
events. She had been repeatedly visited by the Cardinal, by
Lady Milne Aymour, and by Prelates of the Church, and she
Zalma
ii 7
had received singular embassies, inconclusive and incon¬
sequential, which made her feel that she was the plaything
of diplomats and a shuttlecock between priests and statesmen.
She wondered whether her letters to her royal husband were
intercepted and burned, or whether they still existed : whether,
if he wrote to her, his letters were confiscated. She had only
recently read of the lamentable death of the Duke of Clarence,
of the marriage of Prince George, of the marriage of Prince John
which followed it, and of the almost immediate rumours that were
subsequently circulated. She marked, too, how sudden the
ceremony had been, when at length the coming event was
officially made known. She speculated at her own indirect
part in all this, and still more did she muse upon the conduct
and the motives of the Church and of the Cardinal in permit¬
ting her to be immured in ignorance of the events which,
during a period of eighteen months, must have profoundly
agitated the Court and the Vatican.
Most of all, she pondered upon the darkest event in her
whole life—no, not most of all. Fortunately for her, she was
obedient to the divinest instincts in her womanhood, and dwelt
with intentest meditation on the one red-letter day when, for a
few brief minutes, her heart went out in love—unreasoning,
uncalculated, in love divine, exceeding.
" The entanglements of your life, dear father, mingle with
the web of mine, and make my path more difficult; but yet,
how clear the way!
" In the Chertsey Hospital I found out how hollow life is,
what a mockery is love. I learned even then—a mere child—
to have a contempt for men. I learned from the lips of dying
women how they had been deceived, betrayed, and thrown
aside like the peel of eaten fruit—as I have been. I pitied
them, for I believed them ; but I did not understand. I did not
know what a woman is when her heart has been stolen from
her and she is left heartless; I did not know how deeply she is
wronged—until now. For, father, learned as you are, profound
as you are, and varied as is your knowledge, I know in this
more than you. I know more than words can say. The whole
118
Zalma
of human life is lit up to me from this point. It all centres
here, and all the universe of things takes a different aspect in
consequence. The influence of heartless women upon a world
of men, whose habit it is to ruin hearts. No one knows that hut
a woman who has no heart—that am I—yet that am I not.
Here, here I feel abounding love for the abstract Humanity,—
a deep religious love, like the love with which I have wept over
the Crucified Feet, a love which draws out my soul to weep
with my sisters and my brethren, to shed my blood and lose
my life for them. Ah, father, you who have spent your life in
the Great Cause, you who are giving your labour, your interests,
your heart to it, do you feel too, as I do, this intense, burning-
enthusiasm for Humanity, which makes me yearn in the love
and for the love of every human creature; which impels me to
weep for them, creating in me a fire and a sort of passion, a
glow inexplicable, a furnace, an intensity that seems to require
some vast sacrifice, such as the utter renouncing of the world,
with greater truth even than the renunciation of a nun on
taking the veil, when she plunges, for serene delight, in the lake
of the love of God ? So, now, this bounding heart of mine,
pulsing with the agitation of its sorrows, pours out its fulness;
and my hands, groping for affection, feel after the whole race
of man, craving and yearning towards altruistic beauty and the
serene religion of Humanity which you, dear father, have
taught me."
" My daughter!" responded Dr. Pahlen, kissing her while
the tears wetted his eyelids. " My darling Zalma ! My dear
daughter!"
" But it is not a constant thought," she continued in a hard
voice; "there is no blood in my heart now. It is still. It
ceases to pulsate."
The Professor, regarding her with his professional air, as
she sat there in her bedroom chair, took her wrist. " The
pulse is feeble," he said.
"Feeble, because I have 110 heart at all: because my heart
has gone. The one great love that might have been mine was
but a dream: it came like a pure silver ray, I melted in the
Zalma
119
purity of its beams, I was all chaste, all innocent, daisy-pure,
clean-souled as Eve before she fell. I listened and I heard
music: it was Love that sang. I looked and I saw beauty: it
was Love I looked upon. Ah ! father, my dear father. Pardon
my sobs. Do not think me weak ; do not think me unworthy
the future of greatness and ambition that you have reserved for
me. Yet was it not sad ? I—I who have loved greatly—I who
could have poured out a very torrent of the fulness of love—
had love taken so early from my life. Only for a few minutes,
only for the space of less than one hour, did all the ecstasy of
love fill my being. Never, never more for me that divine
rapture—that sweet serene bliss of love divine, complete. 0
Love, why did you vanish so ? Why did you disappear, 0
Love, to leave me desolate ?" She covered her face with her
hands, and wept.
Her father put his hand upon her. " Gone!" she cried
fiercely, " gone ! I shall never see him again. It was the very
shadow of a dream. He is gone, and now I am not fit to see
him. I am not pure enough. I am not white now. Love is
not for me. In despair, a loveless woman, I turn to Hate for
succour, I hold out my hands to Hate. I, great-hearted no
longer, denied love, recognise myself for what I am—a loveless
woman. What do I crave for now ? The hearts of men ! the
hearts of men ! the hearts of men !—that I may break them !"
Her great brows were knitted in a black frown, but no tears
now moistened her pillow.
CHAPTER XVII.
MONGST other things in this world of shams
nothing is more false than the accepted ideas
about Love," moralised Dr. Pahlen, as he sat over
his microscope in the little sanctum that he called
his study—a cheerful room in their small cottage,
on Halliford Green, from which, when one stood 011 tiptoe, one
could overlook the river. " A man, according to current opinion,
wherever he can, may score a success, he may win hearts and
throw them aside like old gloves. Society thinks him none
the worse; he is a sad dog, a gallant fellow. But a woman—
Heaven help her! Let her deviate one hair's breadth from
what they call the path of honour, and all her sex fall upon
her and peck her to death without mercy. Her father, her
brothers, even her lover, scorn her: she is outside the pale.
Fetch me the stain, Zalma; I have just a lovely section. This
is a discovery; quite a discovery." He busied himself with
his specimen for some minutes, and was absorbed in his scientific
study. Then he resumed his conversation.
" Nothing is more base than the man who breaks his
butterfly and leaves her with a crumpled wing, a heartless
laugh upon his lip. Yet, is he a man at all, I wonder, who has
loved but once ? Is his little heart so shrivelled, are the eyes
of his soul so dim, that in all the universe he can discern but
one woman ? There are not many such, or my experience of
the world goes for little."
" Oh, a man—a man may have a multitude of loves," ex¬
claimed Zalma bitterly;" that is my complaint against the world."
120
Z ALMA
121
" I find nothing in the laws of Nature to prevent a woman
having many lovers. If her heart be true and she is chaste, if
her nature is generous and sympathetic, she will love many
times. That is anarchy. A woman should recognise no king.
She will not play with the affections of her lovers, she will feel
deeply, and yield the passions that become our nature to those
who can win her. That is quite right, Zalma. Love is a holy
instinct, to be gratified to the full. Do not shut up all the
beautiful avenues of your heart; open all the gates where the
roses are blooming, open the sunny casements which are hung
with the flowers of Love and Youth, but keep a sober watchman
at every gate, so that you exclude the unworthy. Do not yield
the fair estate of your soul to every trifler who desires the
possession, but select discreetly, at the dictate of your soundest
judgment, prompted by your emotions, and stirred by those fine
natural passions and delirious instincts which are implanted in
man and woman alike, and which, if listened to, will guide them
aright. Purity, chastity, these are beautiful words, represent¬
ing the holiest qualities in woman; but nothing is so pure, so
chaste, or so holy as a life filled and overflowing with love. If
you believe and are convinced that a man truly loves you, and
you feel towards him those tender emotions which are the
tremulous promptings of your soul, open your arms to him, for
your heart is your truest guide. £ Fay ce que voudras.' That
Rabelaisian motto applies through life. Inscribe it over the
gates of your love. There is no better word for the emancipated
—for the free."
"You speak, father, as you would speak in a scientific
class."
" Love is a science."
" The Science of Love : that sounds new."
" I am rational, therefore emotional. Ask yourself, Zalma,
What is an emotion ? Nature dictating a course."
" To be followed ?"
" Not necessarily, because Reason —"
" I know what you would say. Reason must dissect the
emotions." She spoke bitterly.
122
Zalma
" True, Zsilma; true, I would dissect a heart as I dissect a
rabbit. Stay a moment; I have just stained this slide. It
proves the case to be anthrax. My patient will surely die.
Next time I am in London I will call on young Dr. Adern: he
will be interested in this."
" Is there no cure for anthrax ?" inquired Zalma mechani¬
cally.
" None. It is certain death—a hopeless case."
" As hopeless as an outraged woman ?"
" Ah, bah ! my clear daughter," laughed the Professor. " In
twelve months you will be up to your pretty ears in love
again."
" Father, you speak as a man—a man of experience, I grant.
You enlighten me vastly; but I am old enough to know what
you clo not seem to do."
" Namely—"
" That a woman and a man are different."
The Professor put on his spectacles.
" I was betrayed in my innocence. It was not love
with him: it was a theft—he stole from me in my sleep."
Her frown turned to a hysterical laugh. " Ah, well, I too am
philosophic: I turn for comfort with open eyes to another love.
I have indeed anticipated your advice. I let my emotions,
guided by my judgment, dominate my life. I turn to the one
aspiration of my heart. What does my lover ? He remains a
dream: he is a cloud, a memory. He will never come to me.
He was a mirage of my soul. My heart only is mine. I will
use it to break hearts. I will mulch and crush them. The
hearts of men shall he my toys. I will dash them, broken,
to the earth. Eevenge! Eevenge! that is all I long for
now."
The Professor pretended a calm that he did not feel. He
feared for his daughter's reason, and assumed a nonchalance in
order to lull her troubled spirit.
" Speaking as a father, I sorrow for you, Zalma. But speak¬
ing as a scientist, as a man, that is, who observes the small
things in life, I have hope. The ideal of youth has left you.
Zalma
i 23
S0011 you will learn the practical truth—that you live not in
Mars or Neptune or any Arcadian planet, but in a world that
astronomers have named the Earth."
She was sitting in a chair, propped up by cushions. She
threw one 011 the floor petulantly.
Her father continued: " The poet will tell you of the
beauty of constant love, but it does not exist: it is a lovely
ideal. In life, love is not constant. Love is an episode."
" Is every man false to his wife ?" ejaculated Zalma
crossly.
" Most," answered the Professor drily ; " there are, however,
exceptions."
" And the exceptions ! The rare and beautiful exceptions !
Ah, how blessed are they !" said Zalma rapturously.
" Not generally: a constant man is usually one who is
unkind and inconsiderate. The happy couple have bickerings
and petty squabbles. Ah ! human nature is very low. I
doubt if it is a high prompting that keeps a man constant. It
is a habit, instinct in certain natures."
"Eather, you shock me. Do you not believe in constancy?"
" Absolutely. It is very beautiful—but rare."
'It does exist ? "
I knew one man who was the very pattern of con¬
stancy ; yes, he was constant indeed: a large-hearted, affec¬
tionate man, and constant not to his wife only, but to so many
others."
" Then I say, shame be on men! Most wives are true to
their husbands, I am sure; the majority indeed, I truly be¬
lieve, nay, I know. If men are all cynics, it is not so with us.
It will be well for the world when it is swayed more by
women. Noble, pure, high-minded, chaste—I am proud to be
intimate with many such women : women who aim at the better¬
ing of the world, women who believe in beauty and goodness,
and who work with high aim for the benefit of the race,
longing for and believing in the advancement of great ideals.
At our club (you know I am a Pioneer) we believe in
constancy."
124
Zalma
Professor Pahlen laughed. He had that contempt for the
dreams of others which all dreamers have for dreams not their
own.
Anarchy, with all its wicked, its accursed efforts to ruin
Governments, is even yet more dangerous in its insidious on¬
slaughts upon the social state, and its attacks on that most
sacred institution of civilisation,—the Family.
CHAPTER XVIII.
ECOVERING from her illness, Zalma began to
enjoy the pleasures of river-life. Daisy took her
out in a light skiff, or, tucking her up comfortably
under a rug, made her lie down upon cushions in
the punt; and it was not long before she regained
her colour and an appetite. But she was restless, and, when
health returned, she often brooded over her father's disquisition
upon Love. Her own heart was full of the sun of the South.
She inherited through her mother the warmth and the light
gaiety of the land of the fandango; through her father, the
boisterous and rugged passions of the Russ. She was heredi¬
tarily full of fire, and she longed, with vehement desire and
wayward and wilful fancy, for the true love of her heart—for
the affection of that one nature which her imagination in¬
vested with every possible charm and every ideal quality, for
that one man whose life had crossed her path for a moment,
and gone like a winter sunbeam.
One day before breakfast, when riding on the towpath over
the Chertsey meads, she was overtaken by Beauregard. She
liked him. She was sorry that he was married. She had
perhaps her first twinge of jealousy. They had not met since
they were in Malta on the night of the Governor's ball—that
fatal night. The memory of all her wrongs flashed into her
mind as he greeted her. She smiled a recognition upon him,
almost with a scowl.
" So you are married, Mr. Beauregard ?"
" To the wrong woman," he answered.
125
Zalma
She looked upon him savagely. The infidelity of his remark
angered her.
" Whom would you have, then ?"
" Yourself."
In a moment her anger vanished. She looked at him
with sudden impulse, and, turning her beautiful face, to his
with an inviting smile, looked him in the eyes.
He put his hand upon her waist as she sat upon her
mare, and, leaning over his horse, kissed her upon her lips.
Then they cantered together in silence over the green sward.
She had taken and responded to his kiss. She held him in
bondage. Thenceforth he aspired, with passionate desire, to
fill her heart.
It was her first sin. It was a deliberate and intentional
attack upon Beauregard's soul. Her kiss was a hot coal
dropped into the touchwood of his bosom. So she meant it to
be: a torment to him—an irritation in his remembrance of
her. Had she not said she hated men ? Had she not vowed
to break hearts ? Her love had turned to hate: a warped and
morbid outcome of love.
She blushed, tortured with the pains that she had meant
for Beauregard. His kiss remained upon her lips and teased
her serenity. She was angry with him; angrier with herself.
As they cantered there by the river another horseman
approached, coming towards them from Chertsey under the
poplars. As he neared them, he reined in his horse to greet
Beauregard, who also slackened his pace. Zalma recognised
him. It was Lord Halliford; the man whom she had publicly
thrashed in Hyde Park for insulting Mary Hope. She blushed
to the roots of her hair. Was she not now upon his level ?
Had she not sunk as low as he ? She did not look at him,
but, bending her face in apparent and obvious shame, held out
her hand to him.
" I was a schoolgirl," she said. That was all, but there was
sincere apology in the tone.
A revengeful flash glinted through the man's eyes: a look
that Beauregard noted, but which was lost upon Zalma's averted
Zalma
127
gaze. But he took her hand, and said, with his accustomed
grace, though also with his usual douhle-facedness, " I forgive
the schoolgirl, and recognise—a woman."
She looked up at him. His shaggy eyebrows did not con¬
ceal the fire in his eyes. A smile lurked in the corners of his
lips. Was the devil in her that day, that she pressed his hand
ere she withdrew it from his ? They separated and cantered
011, going their separate ways. Lord Halliford, with the blaze
of hell in his heart, spurred his horse and, clenching his teeth,
rode like the wind; hut even as his whip fell 011 the flanks of
his horse, his head was turned round towards Zalma, who
cantered slowly beside Beauregard, with a loose rein.
After this, Zalma found it impossible to take her morning
ride without meeting Beauregard. She was vexed, and nothing-
would content her but to go to London. The season was at its
height; and her father, who, though an avowed Socialist, was
most welcome in Club-land, where his smoking-room stories
were warmly relished, was not averse to the excitements of
town. So he took her, as his custom was, to the Hotel
Metropole.
A few days after her arrival in London for the season, she
met Gerard Mountjoy. He was handsomer than ever, careless,
jovial, and free. Handy was with him ; his regiment was now
in London.
They talked a little together, about the weather and that
kind of thing. They asked about the Count, her father, whom
they had seen once or twice at Halliford. She told them that
he had been summoned hurriedly to the Continent, and that
she was staying, with her maid, at the hotel.
Now she went about everywhere. To theatres, dinner¬
parties, halls, receptions ; and wherever she went she made
conquests. There was some magnetism in her glance, some¬
thing besides her sympathetic manner and entrancing beauty,
which at once won the love of men. No one knew better than
herself that she entranced and enslaved her captives; and yet
perhaps none suspected that she loved her victims too—that
she herself, in winning their regard, craved also for theirs. She
Zalma
yearned for some true-hearted spirit to be ever with her, she
longed for the simple love of one lover; but whenever she
detected herself in harbouring this desire, she repudiated it
with scorn. She lived in an atmosphere of praise and adula¬
tion, yet she did not take the fruit of love. Content with the
knowledge of her successes, or, if not content, gratified by the
incense of the adoration of men, she experienced, when her
maid Fanny arrayed her every night for her slumbers, a
strange want, an unsatisfied longing—the faces of her admirers
haunted her dreams, and her bed was tumbled with the uneasi¬
ness of a restless sleeper.
When Zalma came to know Gerard well, she rather admired
him. He was certainly a fearless, manly fellow, and his good
looks and fine build almost justified his conceit of himself.
He very often visited Zalma now in her own suite ; and his fine
physique so commended itself to some responsive quality in
herself that she looked for his corning, and liked to have the
great fellow sitting at a footstool at her feet, pouring out his
protestations of undying love, if rather awkwardly, at any-
rate with superabundant sincerity.
" Zalma," he declared, " by Heaven, I love you beyond
myself!"
" So much as that," she laughed.
" Why do you continue to resist me ?"
" I do not resist."
" Then let me put a ring upon your finger and make you
my own."
" Do you not see," she replied, holding out her finger, " that
I wear a ring already ?"
"Yes, but it means nothing. You are not married."
" So it would seem," she answered. " Yet I will confide to
you that I was married with that ring, as I believed, to Prince
John of Umbria, and was greeted as the Princess Zalma, his
bride."
" But that you can never be," interrupted Gerard. " The
Prince is ur—otherwise married, and has an heir. Is this the
truth of those strange rumours that flitted in Society from
Zalma
tongue to tongue, and which the newspapers printed in plain
words ? Is it possible ?"
"The destiny of the Empire is in the hands of the Fates,"
answered Zalma, with clenched teeth. " The women of the
twentieth century, perchance, will not permit upon the dais of
the throne—"
" Thrones and States! A fig for thrones! I have no
Queen Zalma but your royal self; if I had a kingdom I would
give it, to kiss your hand." His blue eyes sparkled as though
he meant the words. He knelt at her feet, looking bigger than
ever, as his great hand was laid on the velvet stool, against
her pretty, shapely shoe.
She langhed derisively. " There is no more truth in all
that rhodomontade than in the promise of a politician."
" It is every word true, Zalma."
"Nonsense, my good Gerard. Get up and go to your
barracks, and your goose-step, or whatever it is. Go and play
billiards."
" Zalma, I declare to you, by all my soul, I love you! I
love you so that you can ask me nothing that I can refuse you.
You are Queen to me: God to me."
His earnestness made her earnest. She looked at him long,
with cold starlight in her eyes; then, looking at him closer
yet, she whispered, " If I asked you to do some great thing
for me—"
"Ask me," he cried, almost fiercely.
She lowered her voice yet more—" some dreadful thing: if
I asked you to ?"
A look of horror came over him as he caught the almost
inaudible words. He plunged to his feet, as a fallen horse rises
from the ground, and shuddered. His brow twitched, his bosom
heaved, his short breath came hotly from his nostrils.
" Yes, Zalma. Yes, I say. I would do it. I would do even
that. Anything for you: I would forfeit all, my name, my
life, my honour. For you, my superb love, I would commit a
crime."
She fiung her arms about his neck and kissed him.
9
13°
Zalma
" Gerard, Gerard," she murmured.
They were as the sounds of distant music, lulling the fierce¬
ness of his passion.
" Ah, Zalma, I love you ! love you so ! " was all he said ; but
he repeated it continually, as she remained wrapped in his
embrace.
A knock came at her door.
She rose, and admitted Dandy.
The two men eyed each other; but there was still a look of
stupor in Gerard's eyes.
She rang for tea and toast. The men remained, and, at her
request, lit cigarettes. Dandy was full of borrowed wit and
frivolous chatter, of sententious nothings and ready repartee.
Zalma was calm, and imperturbably hospitable. Gerard, only,
was almost silent
There was another knock: it was Beauregard. The three
men looked in turn at each other, and at the carpet.
Her father arrived from the Continent, carrying a small
valise.
She ran to him, embraced him, hung upon his shoulders,
kissed his forehead, his cheeks, unbuttoned his gloves, and
pressed his hands to her face. She called him by every term
of endearment, assisted him to put down his valise, flung her
arm about his neck and continued there, resting her head upon
his bosom, obliviously looking at the men, as she stood, radiant
with love, with filial love and pure happiness.
" Daughter mine," said Dr. Pahlen, with a gesture of inquiry.
" Your friends ?" Each of the three men stood up, hat in one
hand and walking-stick in the other.
"Yes, father, yes. I had forgotten you, gentlemen. Papa,
Mr. Beauregard. You know Mr. Beauregard of Charleston."
" A son of my old friend," said the Count, as he shook
Beauregard's hand heartily. " I had the honour, sir, of serving
with your father at Bull's Bun; and a rattling good hiding we
gave the Yankees, though I got a bit of a scratch myself. A
rebel, sir, they called your father then: I am a rebel now."
" And this," interrupted Zalma, leading Dandy forward by
Zalma
the coat sleeve. " This gentleman I do not know—except by
his extremely characteristic nickname. He often comes here
and has tea, and his friends call him-—"
" They call me Dandy, sir," continued the cavalry officer.
" I don't know why, because I'm the slovenliest Johnnie in the
regiment. Fact is, my name is Porge. Awful name, y'know;
but a Johnnie can't help his name. We can't all be Talbots
and Mountjoys and Beauregards."
" And this is Lieutenant Gerard Mountjoy, a very dear friend
of mine indeed, papa."
Gerard blushed as he shook the Count's hand. The men
did not stay long. They left the room together, and went along
the corridor in single file without speaking, traversed the great
landing, passed down the onyx stairs, and into the spacious and
sparkling hall, where half a dozen of the hotel servants, with
their goldJaced uniforms, stood to open the great mahogany
doors.
" Weed ?" said Beauregard, opening his cigar-case as he
stood on the mat.
" Thanks," replied Dandy, taking one.
" Light, sir ?" said a gold-brimmed page-boy, holding a
taper. " Thanks," replied Dandy.
Gerard took a cigar, but did not speak.
Then the three men went out together.
" Who was that giant, did you say, Zalma," asked Count
Balden.
" The blonde ?" she replied, with a light laugh.
" Yes."
" His name, papa, is Mountjoy—Gerard Mountjoy. I met
him in Malta; but first, I think, at Iffenden."
" Life Guardsman ? "
" Yes."
" A very handsome man. Do you like him ? "
" Y—e—s."
" He loves you."
" Do you think so, papa ?"
" I am sure. He would go through fire and water for you."
132
Zalma
She looked intently in her father's face, and, after a long-
pause, said, in a tone unusually grave: " Is that the man who
shall avenge me, or—?"
" Or—] " repeated her father, waiting for her to conclude her
question.
" Shall I insist upon the luxury of avenging myself ?"
CHAPTER XIX.
ALMA was with her father when he called on Dr.
Adern. Dr. Pahlen had not originally intended
that she should accompany him; but she had a full
share of the curiosity of Eve, and when she heard
her father say that he was going to visit Dr.
Adern's laboratory, nothing would satisfy her but to go with
him ; and it was his custom to humour her in every whim.
"You were right, Septimus," said Dr. Pahlen, shaking Dr.
Adern's hand warmly. "The mystery is solved. It was a case
of anthrax."
" I knew it would prove to be so," replied Dr. Adern fpiietly.
" I discovered it from a stained section."
" Have you it here ?"
" Yes; I should like to examine it through your microscope.
Yours is a better instrument than mine."
"Do so, Dr. Pahlen; certainly. Come to this other room:
there is a better light."
"Ah, yours is an instrument indeed!" said Dr. Pahlen
admiringly, as Adern produced a small, but extremely power¬
ful, heavy microscope. " Now, leave me with this, Septimus, and
amuse my daughter with some toy: she likes scientific apparatus.
Explain fo her your mercury pump. It will interest her.' So
saying, he absorbed himself with the microscope.
Dr. Septimus Adern, M.A., B.Sc,, bacteriologist, may be
heard of more particularly in years to come. He is now very
young, and the wonderful future—the twentieth century is
before him. He had all that courage which is characteristic
133
134
Zalma
of a graduate who, having just left his university, crammed
with the newest knowledge, has a contempt for his degree and
for the old learning, qualified with a measure of respect, but a
condescending respect at best, for its antiquity. Turning his
attention to Science, he bad, on leaving Cambridge, studied at
Berlin, where he had taken a first place in the examinations.
Small in stature, conceited in appearance, and supremely con¬
temptuous, as youth so often is, of men and things in general,
even these disqualifications did not entirely conceal the sterling
merit and ability which he possessed, nor the store of exact
knowledge which his ludicrously large head contained and his
ridiculously bass voice expressed.
His contempt for himself, in the first instance, was comic.
His father, as a matter of fact, was an extremely distinguished
man, the president of a society of landscape painters, who, if at
the present time rather played-out, had in their day headed a
school and taught a decade, if not a generation. Whilst show¬
ing a sort of courteous, outward, and condescending respect to
his venerable parent, as a sop to manners and a regard for
" good form," he -did not conceal his contempt for all modem
art, and, being a skilful draughtsman, was even experienced in
the miniature work necessary for the preparation of diagrams
of microscopic apparatus. When he talked of fine art or paint¬
ing, one would imagine that he was the lieaven-born embryo
of a future President of the Royal Academy. Yet he had an
engaging and modest way of belittling himself in conversation,
quite sincerely and in a manner free from affectation, regarding
himself as a diminutive specimen of humanity, the relic of an
antiquated past and of a degenerate race,—a feeble and exhausted
survival of a species that had made a vigorous effort to expand
in its last days through the action of the law of the struggle for
existence. The world, in which we have a temporary habitat,
he looked upon as a little podophyllin pill—one insignificant
item merely amidst a myriad other pills, which, in the course
of Nature, would be ultimately dissolved. Humanity in the
gross he affected to regard as so many enlarged microbes, which
would increase and multiply, have their little day, and cease to
Zalma
*35
be. The human item he overlooked in a superior manner.
Their protoplasmic origin had brought them to this lamentable
stage of diseased advancement, after millions of years of casual
development. A culture of cholera on cold potato seemed to
him of much more consequence. For the ordinary human
being, as, for instance, the justice of the peace propounding his
wisdom from the Bench, or the guide of souls inaudibly chant¬
ing extinct dogmas through his ordained nose, or the fin de siicle
young man with patent leather boots and patent leather head—
these excited his profoundest contempt. The lack of scientific
knowledge in people who considered themselves educated, caused
him to regard them with angry scorn. The extreme ignorance
even of the learned, of professors, and especially of the clergy,
and the utter gross darkness of the people at large, shocked him.
His sneering and contemptuous manner was trying and
offensive to Zalma when she made his acquaintance originally ;
but soon the greatness of his knowledge became apparent.
Crammed with the old learning, a scholar deeply versed in the
dead languages and the dead sciences, he resented the very
learning of which scholars are proud, and blushed at his degrees
—degrees of which he affected to be ashamed. Even his science
degree he looked upon as much "behind the times." He
occupied, however, a foremost place amongst modern scientists,
and was already a Professor of Biology and of Comparative
Pathology and Bacteriology of Queen's College, and an honorary
Professor of the Imperial Hospital, Berlin.
As Dr. Pahlen assured his daughter, in excuse of the young
genius, he did know more, as a matter of fact, than his masters.
He was to the fore in all knowledge : all that his predecessors had
acquired with vast labour, the fruit they had taken such pains
to cultivate, to watch and ripen, he simply culled. Youth,
indeed, has the learning of all the ages. Youth always starts
with advantage in the handicap. Everything that the past
generation has discovered through years of patient labour,
youth acquires in a few months of close study. Dr. Adern's
knowledge was distinctly modern. He was simply crammed
with Science. Zalma felt a sense of shame when she recognised
136
Zalma
how little she knew, in comparison with this precocious and pro-
vokingly diminutive man. Everyone's first impulse towards him
was of contempt, but to this succeeded respect and, in time, even
veneration. He had an odd manner of cocking his head on one
side, as birds often do when they try some unknown food. He
looked like an embodied query. Ever on his tongue he had the
scientist's perpetual Why ?
He doubted everything. Did he live at all ? Was he
sentient ? Was he merely an associated part of some vast
being, of some huge life as, Schopenhauer deemed man to be : a
mere leaf upon the tree—Earth ?
Yet he was not a bit of a prig—after the first five minutes.
Boyishly full of life, of animal spirits, he possessed also a dry
humour all his own: he was, in truth, a philosopher, a sage. He
had the appearance of a schoolboy physically, and of a Lord-
Eldon-up-to-date mentally. His head was like a case to con¬
tain algebraic problems; his hands were stained with acids and
cigarettes. Nothing pleased him more than to go to a music
hall, and to put on the airs of a frivolous young buck.
His laboratory was an interpretation of himself. Huge
retorts, queer phials, innumerable bluey-white bottles, light and
dark-green bottles, colourless bottles, guilty-looking bottles
labelled "poison" in dreadful red letters, strange glass jars,
.peculiar scientific-looking instruments of brass and mahogany,
of costly stamp, and everywhere glass test-tubes plugged with
cotton wool, within which were green and whitey-green and
yellowy-white substances, technically known as " cultures."
There were horrible slices of kidney, human and bovine, in
spirit, contained in large glass jars.
There were bacteriological growths of bacilli: cultures of the
microbes of cholera, of typhoid fever, of anthrax, of phthisis, and
of every imaginable disease.
Most of the diseases cultivated were fungoid-looking
vegetations upon potato; but there were also growths on cheese
and other substances.
Zalma, with her wide-open eyes, always receptive of know¬
ledge, gazed round the laboratory curiously. The hollow sound
Zalrja
137
of baying hounds, the snapping and whining of dogs, and the
screams of animals in pain, came to her ears. They were from
" cases " in a veritable chamber of horrors: a series of cells in
the vivisection laboratory, situated in an adjoining mews at the
back of the house. But this, at the time, did not occur to her.
She was full of curiosity, and continually questioned the young-
scientist with, What is this ? and how and why ? She, too, was
fin tie sttcle, and, as a doctor's daughter, more intelligently
interested in Science than most women. She knew that the
cultures in the test-tubes were bacilli, for her father himself
experimented similarly.
" Are we safe," she said, with pretended dread, " in the midst
of all these poisonous growths ?"
" All bacilli are not poisonous," he replied gravely. " The
peculiar blue mould in Stilton cheese is caused by a bacillus.
All Stilton cheeses grow bacilli of some kind, but generally not
of the kind that epicureans delight in. If I chose, I could grow
the true epicurean quality on all Stilton by cultivating the
right kind of bacillus."
"Truly," said Zalrna; "why, that would make a cheese¬
monger's fortune."
"Yes, you laugh," he answered; "but it is quite true: it
would make a cheesemonger very rich."
" Not harmlessly to us, though, who eat Stilton."
" Quite harmlessly."
" Why not enrich the cheesemonger, then ?"
" I will, if he likes to come to me. I am not known yet;
some day, perhaps, I will do those sort of things for people. At
present, I have higher aims."
" What is that ?"
" A cultivation from a consumptive patient: it increases with
enormous rapidity. All these, too," he continued, opening an iron
cupboard under which a gas jet was burning, " are various
cultures of innumerable diseases. This is my incubator : they
are always kept at one temperature."
" Are they infectious," asked Zalrna curiously,—" that is,
dangerously infectious ?"
138
zalma
" You mean, if you or I inhaled any of these germs, or they
entered into my blood or yours, would the effect be fatal ? Let
my arm show you the danger."
She looked as he spoke at his left arm, which hung down
uselessly at his side.
" I particularly wanted to discover a certain fact about
typhoid, for which an experiment on a human being was
essential; so I inoculated my own arm. It has gone down now ;
but the other day it had swollen to the size of a leg of mutton."
" But that was terribly dangerous."
" Had I not taken the' most severe measures it would have
permeated my entire system, and I should have died in twenty-
four hours."
" But you are spared."
" What is left of me," he answered, with a look at the
maimed limb.
" Oh, that was noble of you!" she said enthusiastically.
" It was noble of you. It was heroic."
" It was damned foolish," he replied drily.
" Perhaps it was," she said. " But it was very, very brave,
Dr. Adern. I admire you for it."
He showed no appreciation of her flattery. " It comes to
this," he continued, in his lecture-room manner: " with the
bacilli in those cultures it is easy to accidentally inhale or to
take contagion into the blood through a wound or small
scratch. Besult: the contraction of any of these diseases—
typhus, cholera, smallpox, anthrax, any other you like
almost."
" Then, how do you prevent yourselves and others—me
now, for instance—how do you prevent our accidentally catch¬
ing any of these fearful diseases ?"
" For myself I am extremely careful. All these cultures
are under glass—the air excluded. But there is, of course,
danger. I should advise you, in fact, to go away. You are
here, as far as I am concerned, under protest. We use dis¬
infectants in strong solution—permanganate of potash, you
know."
Zalma
139
" Now, listen to me, Dr. Adern," she said, most seriously
fascinated by the possibilities of life and of death that their
conversation suggested. " If you have to take these precau¬
tions against accidentally contracting a disease by contamina¬
tion, it would surely be easy to communicate a disease to any
living person, or persons,—as, for instance, cholera,"
" Certainly, most easy. In the room adjoining my labora¬
tory I have at the present time dogs, cats, mice, rats, rabbits,'—
all of them suffering various diseases, which I have imparted
to them by inoculation."
" Dreadful!" she exclaimed, with her great open eyes fixed
on the little man.
" And could "—she spoke very slowly, as though she was
almost afraid to put her thought into words—" could a very
wicked person, like Lucretia Borgia, who is said to have
poisoned her guests by the touch of a ring—could such a
wicked woman—ur—communicate intentionally any of these
diseases to some person she wanted to—to—to murder ?"
"A doctor, a scientific doctor, even a G.P.,"—he spoke with
some contempt,—" any analytical man, desirious of committing
a murder, could certainly do so elaborately. Such cases, indeed,
have been known, I believe."
" But no one without special knowledge ?" she said, with
strange persistance.
" More likely to commit felo dc se," he replied, with his dry
laugh,
" Yet, with some scientific training the knowledge would
not be difficult to acquire ?"
" You are not anxious to commit a crime, I hope," he
replied jestingly.
" N-n-n—n—no," she replied, with awkward slowness.
"And yet," she continued archly and laughingly, "there
are many people in the world I should like to get rid of. Not
that I would do anything so shocking, of course," she said
quickly. " What's that ?"
" That ? well, it's called a burette technically."
" What's it for ?"
140
Zalma
" Titration," he replied, with his dry smile.
" I'm no wiser, of course. What is titration ? "
" Titration is the estimation of a substance by running in
a liquid of exactly known strength, until a certain effect is
produced 011 a given volume of the liquid to be tested, and the
reading-off on the graduation of the burette the volume of the
standard liquid used."
" Ah," she replied. " How very uninteresting ' Let us go
and look at your incubator again. That has a dreadful
glamour for me—that collection of deadly diseases."
« Why ?"
" It seems so terrible that you should have such power:
to cultivate these deadly organisms, almost to create them;
to develop these fatal bacteria, and to have the use, perhaps
the abuse, of them."
The young doctor looked at her for the first time inquisi¬
tively.
"I grant you it is indeed a fearful power—-if abused, a
fearful power."
"rSTow, tell me, Dr. Adern,—all these green bottles fascinate
me, these stored-up diseases; they are so much more dreadful,
so much more terrible, than poison,—if I were intending a
murder—" she paused, with a fixed stare in her eyes and the
colour mounting to her cheek.
" You almost frighten me," said Dr. Adern.
" Poison," she continued, whispering and looking round the
room apprehensively; " poisons are clumsy."
Adern nodded. He was getting rather tired of this foolish
conversation. His mind was half occupied on some unfinished
experiment. He turned a brass screw in a complicated
instrument, and examined minutely a drop of fluid that
exuded from a glass tube.
" Of all the poisons," asked Zalma, " prussic acid is the
deadliest—is it not ? "
" Prussic acid is instantaneous: it stops the heart's action
in four seconds; but its traces are unconcealable. Strychnine,
again, always creates suspicion. There is a poison, however,"
Zalma
141
said Dr. Adern, " that I am surprised we do not hear more
about in criminal cases."
" Tell me," she said eagerly. " What does it do ? We
women, Doctor, are of course interested in these things."
She bit her nails and frowned; then forcing a laugh, the
hollowness of which would have been noticeable by any
listener whose mind was not preoccupied, she said, " Poisons
are of course entrancing to women-folk. There is a something
so terrible, at the same time so fascinating, about the idea that
one can take away a life—the heart's action to cease, the dead
to go under the sod ; the grave to close over the mouth that
spoke, the hand that held one, the arm that ruled one, the
life that injured one to lie there, lifeless. But how clumsy is
any poison compared to this new power that bacteriology is
conferring on mankind ! No inquest can find trace of poison—
if—if there is none. ' The deceased died of smallpox.' ' The
deceased was carried away with typhus fever.' 'The death
was due to natural causes.' The doctor fills in his certificate—
diphtheria ; cholera. What not ?"
" But the murder would be found out."
" How ?"
"Well, if you were to inoculate a chap with cholera, the
doctor attending the case would say, ' Strange ! how came this
man to have cholera ?'"
"Well," she said, after thinking, "but inoculate him, then,
with—say with consumption. That is a common enough
disease."
"Worse and worse," said Dr. Adern, with his superior
laugh. " Let this Johnnie so inoculated have consumption : if
I were called in I should say, ' This is very odd. Strong man—
no consumptive predisposition—no phthisis in family history :
father alive; mother died seventy years old, run over by a
waggon; three sisters alive, all mothers of families without
consumptive taint.' I should discover the murder. I should
put my hand upon the man or woman—so." He laid his hand
on her wrist. Zalma uttered a shriek.
" How cold your hands are ! You make me shudder." She
142
zalma
paused some time, intently watching the young bacteri¬
ologist. " Tell me," she continued, " what are you doing
now ?"
" I am making a gravimetric analysis."
" Explain : what are those little weights ?"
" The work I now am doing is extremely minute. I am
making an analysis in which the presence of any poison would
be certainly detected. This instrument is an extremely exact
chemical balance : it weighs with marvellous accuracy, even to
one-hundredth of a milligramme. You see the weights are so
minutely delicate that I have to lift them with forceps. The
forceps, you observe, have ivory points, lest the moisture on
my hands should affect the measurement."
" How accurate you scientific men are ! How careful!"
He put his head under a glass shade which covered the
balance upon which he was working, so that no particle of
dust could damage his calculation.
He continued his quiet preoccupation, screwing and
focussing his microscope. She sat pondering in an easy-
chair, staring at the columns of a daily paper, which she held
before her open, but unread. Then, assuming her soft, sweet
manner, she said in her mellifluous voice, which was like the
music of rippling water falling on mossy stones—
"Now, Dr. Adern, if you wanted to poison anybody, how
would you do it ? "
"Beally, Miss Pahlen, if I did not know that you were
your father's daughter and hereditarily of a scientific and,
therefore, inquiring turn of mind, I should think you were
meditating some dreadful crime. Ha! ha! I should. He!
he ! he!"
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha !" echoed Zalma, forcing a feigned laugh ;
" that is too funny, Doctor."
"Well. How should I do it, now ?" He looked up at the
ceiling. " Hum ! It depends on who it is—on all sorts of
circumstances."
" Suppose you wanted to get rid, say, of your wife."
" Ah! Hum!! That is a rather amusing problem to
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143
a bachelor. First, I should marry the woman, then I
should—"
" Septimus !" shouted the enthusiast in the other room.
" Yes, sir," replied Adern, hurrying to Dr. Pahlen's side.
" Why, you have a photo-micrographic chamber !"
" Yes, sir."
'•'You lucky dog! You have everything. I sometimes
wonder how we old fogies ever did discover anything. You
have a gas-oven for sterilising germs there, I see. Yes, and
very necessary too. Your laboratory is replete with every
imaginable appliance—with every imaginable appliance!" and
he spread out his hands in admiration.
Young Adern blushed.
"Well, I have been using your opal slab—and I have
stained some more sections. There, and there ! Now, I leave
those knives. They must be sterilised. Ah! young man, a
prosperous career to you ! Mind, there's nothing like leather.
Wish I were young again. I would give up my whole life
to such work as this. Humanity!" he continued solemnly,
" all my life I have laboured in your cause. Perhaps I have
erred in descending to politics. Perhaps more victories are to
be won for Humanity here in the laboratory than amongst
agitators and rebels in the sterile field of political reform.
And yet, if it were not for the reformers we should all be ruled
to-day by kings and priests. You would be clapped into
prison as a wizard, and the people would be still dying of
smallpox and the plague. Tt is not long ago since they
clapped Galileo in prison for daring to say that the world was
round; and ever since, as ever before, anyone who has made a
discovery worth knowing has been punished by his day. Ah !
well, well. Stick to Science, Septimus. There's nothing like
leather! There shouldn't be a disease left with a leg to stand
on. Diphtheria—bah ! you have scotched him, as they said of
the Englishman on whom they put plaid breeches, but not
kilt yet—a stale joke that, but a good one! And consumption:
something will come of the Koch cure yet, you see. Go it,
young man ! Humanity ! There is not a nobler career in all
T44
Zalma
London than yours may be. Aha I Look at Zalma—she is
wishing she could be a man."
" If I were, I should stop all that," she exclaimed furiously,
and pointing through the window.
" Ah ! The vivisection laboratories, she means," said Dr.
Adern, with his imperturbable calm.
" I hate cruelty to animals in any shape or form," she
replied angrily.
" You would rather men and women died," said Adern,
smiling.
" Some dogs are nobler than many men," she answered.
" Most," he agreed drily. " We hope, however, to improve
the human race: some of us."
" By vivisection ?"
" Confess, now. Do you know anything about vivisection ?
Confess that you do not."
" Well, I don't, much, Dr. Adern. But I know it means
cruelty to animals—I know that all those test-tubes there,
plugged with cotton wool, and incubating in your—your—"
" Thermostadt"—he supplied the word.
—"Are intended mainly for experimenting with upon
animals. All those tubes ! Why, they are everywhere, every¬
where. What is that ? "
" That is a colony of micrococci of erysipelas, and this is
a very pretty culture of scarlet fever. I hope to extirpate
scarlet fever some day, if discoveries I am maturing prove
sound."
Dr. Pahlen had become absorbed in an examination of his
young friend's mercury pump,—a very fine instrument, that
would exhaust to the millionth fraction.
" Excuse me, Dr. Adern," said Zalma, accompanying the
young scientist to the farther laboratory, whence the mews
could be seen. " May you succeed in all your high aims. If I
shudder as I look round this room, filled with these hideous
bottles, and that laboratory in the mews, where, I know, the
poor tortured dogs and dying rabbits are, I confess—"
" Let me confess," he interrupted, " I do not care a hang for
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145
tlie tortured dogs; and the rabbits,whose sufferings are fearful,
110 doubt, do not distress me in the least. I know this, that I
have myself made discoveries through those tortured creatures
which are alleviating now the pangs and pains of mankind,
and are curing the diseased, who otherwise would die. In a
word, I have no doubt whatever of the enormous gain to
humanity by the experiments we hard-hearted men make."
" But you do not care for humanity," said Zalma.
" I do not think I do. After all, what is humanity ? A
collection of inferior animals, mostly horribly diseased and
hereditarily weak—a race derived, through long processes of
time, from the anthropoid apes."
" Then it is pure love of science, of knowledge, of discovery,
that makes you take the knife and experiment upon tied-up
dogs and other poor things—eh ?"
"Yes; that is it, doubtless: a love of science, pure and
simple—the delight of knowing."
" Pardon all the rude things I have said, Dr. Adern. It is
a pleasure to meet a man one can speak plainly to, and rare
to meet a man one can respect. For men in the abstract I
have a contempt. Yes, I too. But you, with those micro¬
scopic slides, those stored facts, those carefully watched and
patiently followed deductions; your observation of experi¬
ments that, in all probability, will eventually stay the course
of diseases which have ravaged mankind, and slain in the
aggregate millions of us ! It is impossible not to venerate
such work as this. Now, as you stand there, you, letting the
drip, drip, drip of that bottle fall carefully into the jar; you
—you—" She did not finish her sentence. She thought
how great he was, how noble this man, however mean his
stature, for ever battling a disease which has slain millions of
our race, and constructively endowing with life millions of the
unborn !
At that moment the stirring strains of a military brass band
smote suddenly upon their ears. It was Coronation Day. A
regiment of soldiers went gaily by in all the pomp and panoply
of parade order. Their fixed bayonets sparkled in the sun.
10
146
Zalma
Tlieir reel coats and brazen helmets looked superb; their
golden epaidettes and brass buttons caught the light of the
bright sunshine. The regimental colours waved proudly over¬
head ; and merrily they swung by, marching in step, the
rhythm of their tramp in time with the music of the band.
A crowd on either side, chattering and laughing, swept along
the pavements towards the Park, where the Commander-in-
Chief was to review a muster of the troops. The Colonel of
the regiment, superbly mounted, his breast glittering with
medals, and his cocked-hat gay with nodding plumes, seeing
her smile, which he regarded as a salutation, made her a bow,
conscious of his own magnificence and splendour.
Zalma did not return his salute, but surveyed him with a
stolid stare, and, turning to little Adern, looked at him with
veneration.
" The day has gone by for those fellows!" she exclaimed
in that excited way of hers. " They may be heroes for the
nursery-maids. The greatest of their generals, the commander
of an army, has not the power that some little round-
shouldered spectacled man has, even now, and by the present
processes of warfare, who, with scientific accuracy and precision,
is mixing in some dirty garret a grain of sulphur with two of
potash, and so much picric acid or something, and is so
making a discovery that will revolutionise their weapons
before they ever use them, or who is ingeniously contriving a
new gun, that, fired by electricity, may blow the whole proud
regiment, with all their scarlet and gold, their epaulettes and
buttons, sky high."
Dr. Adern was coating a glass slip with glycerine.
" Yes, you—you are the great man, truly ; for you ring the
knell of war and of armies. Their deeds are done; their day
is going. The old order passeth away. With the cultivation
of those bacteria you could kill more surely than all their
guns, a greater death, a more sweeping; a completer, a universal
desolation!"
She took his hand, almost embracing him. "You, you,
you !" she exclaimed,
Zalma
147
He looked up at her through his spectacles.
"Women love men of power," she said in the softest
whisper.
Perhaps he was embarrassed—his spectacles fell on the
lioor. She knelt down and picked them up.
" I worship intellect," she said. " Power and might; this
is the true glory, and not that." She unfastened a locket, and
looked at the portrait inside it with contempt. It was a
soldier's, perhaps Gerard Mountjoy's, in a little golden heart.
With a toss of her hand she flung it into a fire that the Doctor
used for boiling his tubes.
" Mite that you are," she thought, " what brains you have ! "
She touched, with a sort of reverence, his useless arm, tem¬
porarily paralysed by his own lancet. "You are, as it were,
disembodied ! You are even Ideas only ! "
" Don't make me vain," he said. In Iris own mind he was
thinking how handsome she was, and whether, if he responded
to her, she would expect him to take stall tickets for her at
the theatre, which he feared would be a tax both on his purse
and his time.
" Do you know," she continued, " we two are on the eve
of a vast discovery ? We are co-workers. The whole race,
the whole human destiny, may be altered by us. We two."
He smiled in his superior way.
" If you can cultivate here, in this little space, such deadly
infinitesimal germs of disease, having this power of enormous
multiplication (so many tens of thousands to the cubic foot),
and their increase at the rate of thousands per hour or per
week. It is a simple calculation."
In her excitement she would almost have fondled him.
" Do you not see," she said, with her great eyes dreamily
looking beyond him, as though she were almost in a trance;
" do you not see the incalculable power you have over the lives
of men—how you could deal death broadcast to thousands, to
tens of thousands ?"
" Doubtless," he replied in his calm manner. " It is
merely a matter of arithmetic, the cultivation of germs of
148
Zalma
anthrax. A couple of dozen tubes in a series of rooms con¬
taining some sizeable jars would give a hundred million germs
of anthrax in less than a year; and if these were scattered
broadcast, at a sufficient elevation, over a city, for instance,
like this London, of say five million people, the anthrax
disease would break out to such a fearful extent that the
world has never even dreamt of such a plague; its victims,
by their death, would spread the epidemic to others in an
increasing ratio; and the whole population, becoming more
susceptible, as the disease spread, would be utterly devastated."
"Yes," she continued, with her great, dreamy eyes fixed on
some fixed idea ; " we could exterminate a town, a nation,
almost a race.
He started. She had gone beyond him in her reverie.
" What a power!" she said, shuddering till she almost
fainted.
" What a power to be in the hands of"—she paused, and
looked far, far away into the clouds—" a medical student, or
of the insane," she continued. " An insane woman, with this
fearful knowledge." Again she paused, deeply thinking. " The
death of hundreds of thousands, the power to kill indefinitely;
in my hands—in mine, mine, mine ;" and, with a hysterical
sob, she fell prone at the feet of the young bacteriologist.
CHAPTER XX.
HE troops which Zalma Pahlen had looked upon,
as they passed by on Coronation Day, were, singu¬
larly enough, made the subject of an Anarchist
outrage, though happily an abortive one, as they
returned from trooping the colours. There was
evidence that these dangerous conspirators against the peace
of the world were becoming more active than ever; and Major
St. Leger hurriedly returned from the Continent to cope with
new developments of the danger.
" You can supply, Cardinal Cantelupe, the power which we
lack to cope with this damnable conspiracy," said Major St.
Leger, throwing his papers down upon the table. He had been
at the Cardinal's Palace for a long hour, pleading for the
support and active assistance of the Catholic Church. " I
have proved to you that Anarchy is becoming so powerful that
all the forces of Order must unite against the common foe. If
we do not take every possible precaution, I do not say that
Society will be overwhelmed, but every Government in Europe
will be weakened, disaster will follow disaster, outrage will
succeed outrage."
" My dear sir," interrupted the Cardinal in his bland voice,
"Anarchy began with the revolt of man against the Church,
and God. Let the Republics,"—he spoke with bitter scorn,-—
" and, my dear Major," he added in a gentler tone, " let the
kingdoms of the Protestant heresy cope as they best can with
the enemy, which is the outcome of their so-called freedom.
God chose to govern the world through the Church. Man, in
149
Zalma
his petty wisdom, thought better: man shook off what he
termed the yoke of the priest! He established his free govern¬
ments, he has built up his emancipated empires. Man rules
now without the Church. He has blasphemously said, Vox
populi, vox Dei. Do you see now where the clatter of the mob
takes you ? Over the precipice! Anarchy is the end. The
Church will take up the government of the world again when
the folly of man proves the madness of impiety. The Inscrut¬
able Wisdom selects His own instruments. Let Anarchy say,
'He hatli made me as a chosen arrow: in His quiver He'hath
hidden me.' In these latter days the eud of the contest will be
fulfilled. The Church must eventually triumph over God's
enemies."
He paused, evidently following some thought of reverent
ambition. " Besides, the civil arm does not want us," he added;
" we cannot be of use to you."
" Your Eminence knows," said Major St. Leger, with a
cough, " that the ear of the Church—"
" My dear Major, what the ear of the Church hears, it
speaks not. All knowledge gained through the Confessional
is dead. If the Church can help you, it will not. Think you
that His Holiness and the Papal Hierarchy have not discussed
this madness, this Anarchy! They know to what it tends.
We grieve at the folly and sin of mankind, but we know
all will be overruled by the Inscrutable Wisdom for the
eternal good. Ho, the Church will not help you, Major St.
Leger."
" You have given me a hint once, sir, which proved invalu¬
able."
" I threw you a crumb," said the Cardinal, " and I had my
own good reason. What, in three words, do you wish ?"
" The active aid of the Church throughout Europe for the
cause of Order."
" You have it—we support all Governments. We instruct
all people to reverence the Law."
" Yet you can supply us with information which—"
" Information ? My breast is burning with information ! 1
Zalma
could give you news which would take away your breath.
I could divulge to you a scheme of anarchical outrage which
threatens crowned heads and the chiefs of State. The date is
fixed—definite. The names of the villains—all—-lie burning
like a coal in my brain. Major St. Leger," continued Cardinal
Cantelupe solemnly, " 1 desire, nay, I thirst, to impart to you
certain knowledge which has come to our ear, but my own
vows compel me to silence."
St. Leger stood gravely, eyes and ears open, hoping for
further information. The date of the intended villany was,
above all, important.
" Your news staggers me," he said, after a long pause.
" What news have I given you ?" replied the Cardinal
testily.
" That crowned heads and chiefs of State are in danger.
Can you not, witli such a weight upon your conscience, impart
to the authorities some definite warning ? "
" Sir, I have already exceeded my duty in speaking to you,"
replied the Cardinal. " Beserved though I have been, yet I am
indiscreet in divulging the little that I have imparted to you.
Know this: so fearful is the knowledge I have, that I burn to
tell it you. But, unless I have the express permission of the
Holy Father, the blow must fall. The destiny of nations is
in the hands of God. This scourge may be for some wise
purpose. Nay, it must be that it is God's will. It may be
that the flock may so be guided back to the fold. ' He hath
made me as a chosen arrow: in His quiver He hath hidden me.'
Enough ; leave me, I beg you."
" I go, your Eminence. But at least let me ask this : You
expect an answer from Borne ? "
" Will it be in time to avert this calamity—will it be in
time ? That is what troubles me."
" It depends upon the date," said Major St. Leger, hoping
to trip the Cardinal into an admission.
The Cardinal put out his hand without speaking.
" You wish me good-bye," said St. Leger. " But your
Eminence will send for me."
152
Zalma
The Cardinal remained silent, with his hand extended.
" And if yon do not send, when may I call again ?" asked
Major St. Leger craftily.
" Not before the 24th. No, not before then," said Cardinal
Cantelupe, with a distressed air. " Good-bye."
" My wits tell me," thought St. Leger quickly; " I believe
the 24th is the day fixed for this contemplated crime. He
knows of some fearful impending calamity, some widespread
disaster. Cardinal," he said aloud, and with Bismarckian
directness, " do you expect a crime on the 24th of June ?"
He looked intently at the blanched features of the Cardinal,
but they were inscrutable.
"Good-bye again," answered Cardinal Cantelupe, opening
the door.
St. Leger returned to his office and paced his room. A
crime was intended, a blow possibly against even the Sovereign.
He looked at his calendar: the 24th of June, the nativity of
St. John the Baptist.
" There is nothing in that," said St. Leger to himself;
" nothing that affords me a clue."
He looked in the Missal, turned to the 24th June, and read
the lesson for the day. He came to the words, "He hath
made me as a■ chosen arrow: in His quiver He hath hidden me'
The very words the Cardinal had quoted. They seemed to St.
Leger pregnant with new meaning. He had the instinct of
intuition—his thoughts leapt to conclusion from the smallest
clue. He did not require proof or evidence ; suggestion, aided
by a vivid imagination, acting with instinctive accuracy, was
the secret of his success. He repeated the words solemnly,
" lie hath made me as a chosen arrow: in His quiver He hath
hidden me." Immediately he went to his secretaire and wrote:
" On Sunday next, 24th June, Anarchists threaten Chief of
State. Warn all departments. Information meagre. Extra
caution everywhere. Advise change of plans." He rang his
bell. " Let this message be wired to the Chiefs of Police of
every country in Europe."
CHAPTEE XXI.
X the first floor of a Parisian flat in Levallois
Perret, near the Place de Jemappes, a few men
were seated, each at a secretaire, impatiently
awaiting the arrival of others.
A geographical globe was upon a central
table ; a writing-case, notepaper, and telegraph forms. Anarchist
literature was strewn about. Several copies of La Revolte, The
Almanack du Pere Peinard, The Dynamiter s Perfect Manual, The
Anarchist Indicator, and The Scientific Revolutionary Warfare
and Dynamite Guide, This latter work was in German, and
gave recipes for the method of preparing and using nitro¬
glycerine, dynamite, gun-cotton, fulminate of mercury, bombs,
etc. The Pere Peinard was open at an obscene illustration
bearing the superscription, "Bread or Lead?" whilst another
copy of the same pamphlet gave a rude illustration of a num¬
ber of well-to-do ladies being assaulted and robbed by a gang
of workmen, who had invaded their privacy.
" Krapotkine's article in the current number of La Revolte
is very mild," said one.
" It is necessarily so," said another. " Ply sec Rectus is also
dull. Jean Grave was clapped into prison for his latest pub¬
lished work. So long as our journalists remain in France the
propaganda by the Press is almost useless."
" I believe in action," said one. " The bomb is our weapon,
not the pen. It is time for acts, not words."
" Where is Number Five ? He, who is usually so punctual,"
asked a lank, military-looking man named Kroupenski. He
was by birth a Eussian, in blood a Pole and an aristocrat.
153
154
Zalma
" He has been arrested, Kroupenski," said Antonio Sanzio
sadly. " La conquira e stcita scoperta!" He had but recently
entered, and was the last comer.
"Number Five arrested!" exclaimed three or four, with
oaths, in as many languages.
"Yesterday: in Paris."
" Where ?"
" At the Gare du Nord, on his arrival from London."
" Verdomd ! With his arrest the whole of our plan fails."
" Not the whole of our plan," said a fat heavy German,
Hans Koch. " I can vouch for the German Socialists. Berlin
simply waits for a signal from me, and I wait only for the
clock to strike. But there are difficulties."
" The clock has already struck in France," exclaimed
Sanchez, rushing into the room excitedly. " President Carnot
is dead. Merecid la muerte ! "
" Hurrah ! Carnot ist todt!"
" Carnot!" cried everyone.
"Yes. Listen!"
Outside in the street was heard a hoarse cry, " Assassina¬
tion of President Carnot!"
" Is it a newspaper boy ? " asked Sanchez excitedly.
" Carnot is dead," cried another Anarchist, dashing into the
room—a Frenchman, Feneon by name.
There was intense excitement. Antonio Sanzio laughed
like a devil, exposing his yellow teeth. One threw up a book
in the air, capering wildly. There were gesticulations and
frantic shakings of the hand. They embraced each other
amidst furious shouts and wild oaths.
" My order was given but a week ago," continued Feneon,
running his fingers nervously through his long hair. " Our
comrade Casati rushed upon him in the Rue de la Republique
and stabbed him to the heart with a dagger."
" Vive VAnarchic ! Hoch clie Anarchic !"
" Mueran los Traidores! " cried Manuel Sanchez.
" Kill the villains!" exclaimed a Russian, in a voice like
the howl of a wolf.
Zalma
155
" Lcve dc Anarchic! " echoed another hoarsely.
The room resounded with shouts and horrible cries.
" His blood is not yet dry. Listen! All Europe—the
world—rings with the deed !"
" Listen ! Again ! Vive I'Anarchic ! There can he no doubt
the great news is true."
For a few seconds there was silence in the room. Without,
in the streets, shrill cries were heard; newspaper vendors,
hurrying along shouting at the top of their voices, "Assassina¬
tion of President Carnot!" were surrounded by gesticulating
crowds. Loud shouts alternated with ominous silences.
" Hush ! Let me tell you," continued Feneon. " He was
killed in Lyons. A riot has broken out in the streets. The
shops are being ransacked. The mob is singing the Marseillaise.
There have been six hundred arrests. Camarades! soyons
prudents!"
" Old ! oui! soyons prudents!" they echoed.
" Unluckily, Casati—our trusty comrade—falls with the
enemy. He was captured, and will certainly die."
" La morti e il yran JVihilista," muttered Sanzio.
" The papers are now full of it. See the crowd ! Hear ! They
cry it everywhere. There is a panic. Look ! Vive VAnarchic !"
They rushed to the window—in the streets consternation was
visible everywhere.
" Listen ! Listen ! Paris is in an uproar."
" Maledetto ! The deed should be followed up. How, whilst
the blood of his body smokes, we should arise."
" Mas Volk stcht ciuf, der Sturm bricht los!" said Hans.
" For Bios ! But we shall hear more news soon from Vienna,
Madrid, Piome. The blows were to have fallen simultaneously,"
murmured the Spaniard.
"We shall hear more soon," echoed Hans Koch in German,
as he smoked tranquilly.
"Number Five's arrest yesterday has stayed us in London,
or we should indeed have electrified the world," exclaimed
Kroupenski.
" Maldito sea ! Since Ituiz was killed—since Olves was
Zalma
executed—our comrades in Spain have lost heart," said the
Spaniard, Manuel Sanchez by name, a forbidding-looking man,
with closely-cropped hair and prominent cheek-bones, which
shone through his olive skin like the high lights in a bronze.
At this moment a door opened, and a tall, handsome man
entered the chamber.
" Comrades, I greet you."
" Number Five !" they exclaimed simultaneously ; " we
thought you were arrested."
" I was," he replied gravely ; " but I escaped, and am now
here. Let us at once to business."
He seated himself at the table upon which stood the globe,
and, gathering the Anarchist literature together, made room for
documents which he took from a drawer.
" The blow has fallen," he exclaimed.
" Vive I'Anarchic!" shouted several of the conspirators
excitedly, again and again.
" But at Lyons only," said Kroupenski, stretching his long
legs under the table. " Why was it not followed up in Berlin?"
" Good. It disappointed us that it fell only at Lyons,"
said Number Five. " Let us be calm. Hans, my friend, you
have given up wealth, power, position; you have elected to
dwell like an outcast with the paupers of London. These are
proofs of your devotion and of your unselfish regard for our
cause. But it is not enough to lead a logical life. We looked
to you for acts,—for overt acts,—or to your comrades in
Germany."
"We failed," said Hans simply.
" Explain at length why. The Central Group has met here
for a definite purpose."
"A mere accident prevented," said Hans; "a change of
plan. The Emperor was indeed too quick for us. One would
almost think we were suspected, Donnerwetter! Yet we were
ready, and, if necessary, we should have risked our lives. We
waited only for the clock to strike. It was to strike in London.
You know best why it failed."
" True, Hans, true. You did all you could. A bomb was
Zalma
157
to have exploded at Schonbrunn, Schaefer. Why is there
never any success in Vienna ?"
" I can only say, with Hans Koch, we were ready. Alles
war fertig. I have asked myself the question—Could our
plans have eked out amongst the Vienna police ? "
" And at Madrid : there, too, a failure, Manuel ? "
" Caramba! I knew it would be a failure at Madrid,"
replied Manuel Sanchez, with an evil look on his sallow face.
" The guard at the Escurial was doubled. I had information
which led me to believe that all attempts in the capital would
fail. But I had another design ; this, too, was frustrated. On
Monday last, Senor Larriolt, the Prefect of Barcelona, seized a
number of explosives, of bombs and nitro-glycerine, in a cave
near Vallvidrera, where I had caused them to be stored.
Cerezuelo, my comrade, was arrested by the police at Huesca,
and he is now lodged, alas! at the fortress of Montjuich.
Mai rayo los parta ! "
" At Moscow," continued Number Eive dejectedly; "where
I am myself responsible to you, dear comrades—the same
story of defeat. I know the reasons. Take it from me; they
are sufficient.
"I11 the French Republic only has the blow fallen. I11
London we have failed. In Berlin we have failed. In Moscow
we have failed. In Vienna, Madrid, Kome, there is failure."
" And there is always failure," echoed Sanchez, scratching
his close-cropped head.
"Yet, what is our position," asked the old man, turning the
globe gently upon its axis. " All over the world we exercise
our secret, silent power. From New York, at the gates of the
West, all round the world to rebel Cork. Here, in Paris, we
have thousands of adherents pledged up to the hilt to Anarchy,
absolutely obedient to the Central Group, and prepared to risk
life. London, though unconverted to our faith, is beginning
to murmur. Discontent is seething beneath the apparently
unruffled surface. In the purlieus of the East End, and
amongst thousands of the foreign element, our propaganda is
slowly but surely spreading. At Lyons and Marseilles
Zalma
thousands upon thousands are loyal to our cause. Here, in
Madrid, comrades," continued Number Five, with his finger
on the globe, " and in Barcelona, we have our adherents by
the hundred. In Vienna the whole working population flock
to the Socialist banner. So, too, in Borne. My own loved
Bussia, from its icy shore to its southern sea, and over all its
vast plains from west to east, is in veiled revolution. The
Emperors rarely die in their beds—unless of some suspicious
disease ; the children of men who have slain her Tzars sur¬
round his throne. I myself—but let that pass. Our nobility
is Nihilist, our army is Nihilist, our intellect is Nihilist; even
our art is Nihilist. Dread of us, fear of Anarchy, haunts the
Court. There is not a town in Bussia where we are not a
power."
" See," he continued ; " we have organisations here ; here ;
here. Every little red dot upon this globe marks a town
where our civil soldiers are to-night met together. To-night."
They gathered around him as, with a reverend hand, he
turned the sphere slowly on its axis. " Here, see you, in
England, dozens, a score, fifty, sixty towns perhaps; all
through France, Germany, Italy, hundreds of towns wherein,
even now, whilst we are speaking, our soldiers are whispering
of the Great Cause, listening as the news of Carnot's death is
being shouted in every street in Europe. Who are our men ?
Ignorant, poor, contemptible, perhaps; victims of centuries of
oppression and tyranny; but strong in this, that they are
members of one organisation; powerful in this, that they are
desperate. Why then have we failed everywhere excepting in
France, Bepublicati France, ever foremost in its advance
towards progress and good ? Does it not almost seem that our
acts are foreseen, that our secret orders, known only to our¬
selves, leak out in some strange way, and become known to
foreign Governments ? Our own tongues are not silent."
As he spoke he looked quickly at each of the six others. A
shudder of fear seemed to possess everyone present.
"Therefore was it that at Berlin the Emperor had un¬
doubted intelligence of our intentions, whereby he frustrated
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159
our plans ; therefore that at Schdnbrunn a suspicion arises,
amounting, indeed, to a certainty—that the Vienna police were
on their guard against us; therefore that at Madrid, on the
21st of June, the guard at the Escurial was doubled—note the
date. We met last on the 18th. Sunday, the 24th of June
1894, was the day we had fixed to be for ever memorable
in the world's history. In London, on the 21st of June and
thenceforward, every Government office and every public
building was watched by detectives in plain clothes. Our
threatened revenge for the execution of our dear comrade,
Emile Henry, who fell nobly in the war, has been bared of
the force that should have barbed it. I say our own tongues
were not silent. Even in Lyons, where success crowned our
efforts, a double corps of guards lined the streets. M. Dupuy
had notice that President Carnot was in danger. Casati, poor
holy martyr to our cause, might have escaped, but for one of
us. It is not possible that we are loyal to each other. Here,
in the heart of our organisation,—here, in the Central Group,
—one of us is a traitor."
His words made a sensation. Each of the seven con¬
spirators eyed the others suspiciously.
" It is too obvious. In all directions our plans are
thwarted. We are betrayed."
Everyone had risen, and glared with suspicious eyes at
each other. Hans Koch quietly put his hand upon a pistol in
his breast pocket; all of them fumbled nervously for some
weapon, which men whose lives are at stake have ready for
the last emergency.
" Our intention was that, on the 24th of June, we would
awake the whole world and shake Society to its foundations in
every capital. Somewhere, comrades, there is either a traitor,
or some quicker intelligence is at work, by the combined action
of European and other Governments, than we guess of. Let us
swear allegiance to ourselves, allegiance to the Committee."
" Allegiance to the Committee!" shouted everyone in
ringing tones.
" Listen. Who can the traitor be ? Where can he be ?
i6o
Zalma
It is clear that he is not some petty fellow whom we engage to
scatter broadcast our propaganda, or some poverty-harassed
creature whom we instigate, his life being of 110 value, to do
our most striking deeds.
"It is someone who knows, and knows accurately, what we
have ordered. We seven are the only members of the Central
Committee. I repeat—one of us here now is a spy !"
Oaths and violent imprecations broke from the twitching
lips of the conspirators. Outside constantly rang out the
dreadful cry, " Assassination of the President! "
" One of us is selling the other six. But let there be no
disorder; no pistol-shot. Let us proceed with due calm."
" Comrades," he continued, rising now himself for the first
time and drawing a pistol, with which he at once covered his
man, " the name of the spy is Antonio Sanzio. Seize him."
Everyone leapt upon the struggling man. Amidst the
most fearful curses, and a chorus of different tongues, they
dashed upon him with irrepressible shrieks of rage and ven¬
geance.
He struggled, pale and cadaverous, in the fierce contest
with his captors.
" Cowards! He is lying to you. Perhaps that man is
himself the traitor. I know not, but I swear to you I am
innocent," cried the Italian. " I swear I am innocent."
" Gag him ! Kill him ! Curse him ! Throttle him !" ex¬
claimed the excited men, with oaths in a volcano of foreign
expletives.
"We have no knives here. A pistol-shot would bring the
gensdarmes; yet the man's life must be forfeit. He is a
traitor. Comrades, how shall he die ?"
" Ildngt ihn ctuf!" exclaimed Hans Koch calmly.
" Wait," said Kroupenski. "First let us judge him. How
know we that he is guilty ? The man is gagged and bound.
We have the word only of Number Five, whom Sanzio in turn
brands as a traitor."
" It is well said," replied Number Five. " Listen then, all
of you, to me. Antonio Sanzio is guilty. It is through Maria
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161
Sanzio that our projects have been revealed, through the
Confessional. The Church knows all about each one of us—the
Church, that universal enemy of mankind. Our usefulness as
a Central Group is finished. Henceforth one future only is
open to us—to change our names from to-day; to change our
country, our whole sphere of labour in the war; and to save
our lives by flight."
As the Count spoke a look of surprise came into Sanzio's
eyes. His clothes were torn almost to shreds; an ebony
inkstand had been forced between his teeth, so as to gag
him effectually; the blood was streaming from his injured
mouth; yet even in this piteous plight his eyes spoke for
him.
" His guilt speaks in his face," exclaimed Manuel Sanchez.
" Bear witness, Kroupenski. Produce the proof without
delay. I omitted to speak of Moscow. Say why we failed
there—why you did not even enter Russia."
" I was otherwise engaged," said Kroupenski. " I suspected,
with Number Five, that our plans were frustrated by treason.
Suffice it that the priest who was so recently found dead in
Soho, with his throat cut, was killed by my hands. This letter,
taken from the pocket of his overcoat, contains the proof that
Maria Sanzio betrayed us to the priests. If posted, this letter
would have announced this meeting of to-night to the Prefect,
and we should all have been caught here in this trap, like rats.
But I did not let that letter go. Instead, I hurried the life of
the accursed priest to its doom."
A murmur of applause ran through the room as he threw
the bloodstained letter on the table. Simultaneously the gag
fell from Sanzio's yellow teeth.
"Comrades," gasped Sanzio, with difficulty and pain, through
the foam and blood upon his lips, " it is true."
They surrounded him again, flourishing their hands over
his head, smiting his cheeks and brow in their rage, and growl¬
ing at him like fierce dogs.
" Let us spin who shall give the coup de grace," said
Sanchez, taking up a teetotum in his lean fingers. A general
11
162
Zalma
murmur of approval ran through the room. Sanchez spun the
teetotum. It gyrated slowly, and grew faint.
" One," said Sanchez.
" Two," growled Kroupenski, who stood next him.
" Three," said Hans.
" Four," said Feneon in the dreamy voice that was his
characteristic.
" Number Five, it is your destiny to be five, Doctor Pahlen,"
said Sanchez ; " and Schaefer, you the sixth."
The teetotum exhausted itself and fell at Number Seven.
" Seven ! Himself! For la Virgen ! He shall die by his own
hand," said Manuel Sanchez, " even if I have to guide his
knife."
" I will die, yet I am not guilty," declared Sanzio in a
voice audible, by reason of its calmness amidst the storm
of fierce oaths and execrations through which it was
spoken.
" I trusted Maria, my wife; I loved her, I believed in her.
I did not think she would betray me."
" Hear him," said Kroupenski, stretching out his long arm
authoritatively.
" It is right that I should die. Fool that I was, to intrust
our secrets to a woman ! I curse her. Damnato ! Kill me as
you please; it is just."
" Comrades," said Count Pahlen, " I believe this man."
" And I," declared Kroupenski in his deep bass voice.
"And I," said Feneon, after a pause.
" And I also," said Sanchez, after a still longer pause. " If
it be an excuse, as it may be. And yet, again,—for his folly, for
the damage to our cause, for the jeopardy in which he has
placed our lives,—death is his only doom. Maldito ! "
" Death to him ! Death to the traitor !" said Feneon. " Or
if not traitor, still, death to him ! Pardieu!"
Hans only had not yet spoken. Now he said quietly, in his
impassive German voice, first puffing out a cloud of smoke
from the pipe that was always between his lips, "Nun, let him
go with me, and kill his wife."
Zalma
163
" I would rather take her life than the Tzar's," said Antonio
Sanzio, with a fearful curse.
" Unbind him," said Number Five.
They unloosed him.
" Antonio Sanzio, your wife has betrayed us to the priests.
For that betrayal, which has come to us through your folly,
your life is forfeit. Comrades, shall we spare him, to avenge
us on his wife ?"
" Old! Old! Old!" cried a chorus of voices. " Let him
kill her."
"You hear your comrades'judgment. They demand of you
her life. She has betrayed you and us. She loves the Church
more than she regards you. She is a standing danger to the
Cause, and must be suppressed. It has fallen to your lot to
slay her. Say ! Is your heart such that it will unman you in
the hour of trial ? Speak truth! Our lives—the destiny of
the Cause—"
" Oir Dio santo !" exclaimed Sanzio. " I would kill her if
she had a hundred lives." A loose tooth covered with blood
fell from his lips. " Old siciti milli volli maledctto," he
ejaculated, as the red stain gushed from his hideous mouth.
" I curse before I kill her. May every hour she lives be a
misery to her ! May she suffer an agony in her death ! Let
my dagger torment her like a fire."
" Enough. Hans Koch, we trust in you also," said Num¬
ber Five, who was none other than Dr. Pahlen. " Watch this
man. If she fall by his hand—you hear, Antonio?—if she fall
by your hand—perhaps, perhaps—we may yet admit you to
take part again in our councils. Anarchy is full of forgiveness,
and honours her soldiers, even the erring, if there be true
fidelity to the Cause. Hush ! Listen !"
Outside, a dull, tumultuous roar soughed and reverberated.
It was the sullen, swelling, ominous voice of Paris.
CHAPTER XXII.
ALMA devoted herself to hospital-work more de¬
votedly than ever. The interview she had with
Dr. Adern caused her to follow with intense
interest the discoveries in modern medicine,
obtained through the practice of vivisection,
which tended towards the extirpation of disease. An outbreak
of diphtheria in the slums of the West End of London gave her
opportunities of watching many cases of the anti-toxin treatment.
Amongst others, she nursed some patients of the poorest class
in a huge " model dwelling-house" in Solio, known as "Draper's
Dwellings," situated in a street at the hack of some candle
works, a hive of industry belonging to Sir James Draper. On
the fifth floor in this building lived Maria Sanzio, an Italian
lady, who was indeed Antonio Sanzio's wife. Eor years she
had lived amongst the very poor, and had herself endured the
extremities of poverty. The floor below was occupied by a man
—one Doddles, formerly one of Draper's workmen, but thrown
out of employment by the strike. Doddles and his family had
been sufferers from the prevailing epidemic. Death had been
busy in their midst: his wife had succumbed two or three
weeks previously; his eldest child, in spite of Zalma's care and
patient nursing, was now in her coffin; his youngest, a mite
four or five years of age, crouched by her father's knee—both
sobbed piteously.
Zalma came in, laying her drenched waterproof upon a
chair. She looked with moist eyes at the stricken group. The
father had recovered, but he was still weak; the youngest girl
164
Zalma
was now convalescent; but the mother had passed away from
her world of sorrow, and the little coffin waited in that one
room to be borne to its last resting-place.
" You must let me take you away," said Zalma, placing a
white wreath on the child's coffin. " You must have pure air
now, strengthening food, country life."
The poor grieving man did not answer. He wept piteously,
continually. The child kissed her father tenderly, and shed
tears with him.
The peltering rain still came down; now and then a
shudder of wind shook the grimy windows. Zalma looked
around sadly. She felt very useless and disappointed. She
had nursed the family assiduously. The room was full of the
comforts she had brought into it—soft bedding, clean linen,
warm blankets, wholesome food; yet twice in a brief while
Death had entered and defeated her.
She put 011 her wet cloak with a sigh, and, leaving the room
noiselessly, went out down the stone stairs.
To Doddles and his child this sorrowing of the heavens
seemed like the mourning of companions. They, sat huddled
together, weeping.
Still it rained unceasingly. A foggy dampness filled the
room, though the windows were shut. A ghostly terror came to
father and daughter; each hugged the other closely, and they
listened.
Pit-pat, patter, patter, patter, pit-pat, pit-pat.
The downpour was incessant; the gusts of the gurgling
rain beat against the window panes, and the rain-drops, coming
through the casement ledge, fell continually on to the floor,
with a mournful cadence, pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat.
There is a sadness in the weeping of the clouds. The rain¬
drops chased each other down the window panes in zigzag
lines, like tears streaming over the face of Grief. A melan¬
choly mist came vaguely in the corners of the poverty-
stricken chamber. A small pool of rain gathered upon the
window board, and fell, drop by drop, to the floor, with a pit-pat,
pit-pat, pit-pat.
Zalma
Perhaps the coffin of the child imparted that sense of horror.
The thought came that the form of the little one would soon be
laid in the cold earth, and that the rain would fall on the
uncovered ground. The trestle on which the coffin had been
placed, swelling in the moist atmosphere, cricked suddenly, and
the sound, slight as it was, made Doddles start. He looked
around apprehensively. Pit-pat! pit-pat!
Something was falling from the ceiling above. Pit-pat!
It fell upon the floor at their feet, and began to run, in a thin
dark stream, over the floor, like a serpent.
It was not the rain.
The child was the first to notice it. Her fair blue eyes
were raised to the ceiling above,—a grimy, white-washed ceiling ;
smoke-stained, with the crack so usual in new ceilings, but a
crack reddened strangely. A dark blur surrounded it, spread¬
ing—obviously spreading—as she watched it; and still there
fell drops—red drops—into a dark spattering pool upon the floor.
Open-mouthed, open-eyed, the pale starveling gazed at this
horror. Her hair rose in its roots; sweat gathered on her
brow. A sense of awe possessed her.
" Father," she whispered, anxiously; " father."
He looked at her and caught her expression of terror. He
lifted his head in sudden fear, and stared again at his startled
child. "What?" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. He
followed her eyes, looked at the ceiling, put his distorted fingers
over his eyelids, and looked at the spot of stain with a long
stare. Still the rain poured without, and the windows rattled
in the storm. The moisture on the ceiling gathered as he gazed,
and slowly formed into a drop, which fell to the floor. His eye
followed to the ground. He staggered to his feet; gazed, horror-
stricken, at the floor; knelt down beside the red, increasing
stream, and put his finger in the stain.
" Blood ! It's blood!" he cried, leaping to his feet in
horror.
Pushing to the door of his room, he flung it open, shouting,
and hurried to the apartment overhead, the door of which was
locked. He looked through the keyhole, and, hurrying away
Zalma
167
with cries of " Murder! Murder!" sank, faint and sick, upon
the floor of his own room.
The child uttered a piercing shriek as she cowered by her
father. Crowds of the inmates of the dwelling added their
cries, as they flocked through the corridors. They assembled
round the man, who, with long attenuated finger, pointed to the
ceiling, whilst he stared with horrible fixity at the hideous blot
upon the floor.
" 'T's over'ed," he ejaculated in a hoarse whisper.
" 'T comes from Sanzio's room," said a woman's grating
voice, husky with coster cries.
They flocked up the stairs.
" The door's locked," cried a crippled tailor, who lived in the
Dwellings, lowering his eye to the keyhole. There he saw a
sight that made him reel back, white and speechless.
The crowd upon the stairs pressed on, sprawling over him.
A woman, stooping to look through the keyhole, was pulled
away by her companions. "There's red upon her apron,"
exclaimed a voice in accents of terror.
For a few moments there was silence, and a sense of dread
possessed the crowd. Then a shrill voice from the landing
below shouted—
" Burst the lock ! Police ! Police ! "
" Burst in the door ! Police !" echoed the excited crowd.
" Smash it open ! Kick it—"
A moment's crash, the sound of torn wood, and the swoon¬
ing women and dazed men beheld the corpse of Maria Sanzio,
weltering in an indescribable pool of horror, her throat cut from
ear to ear. A razor was flung upon the greasy coverlet of the
bed, and on the dingy wall-paper was rudely traced by the
finger of a bloody hand—
VIVE L'ANAPiCHIE!
ur»*
CHAPTER XXIII
[HE news of the assassination of the President of
the French Republic was published in the news-
tA-'sja papers on Monday. The whole world was
shocked. Before the week was out the murder
of Maria Sanzio in Draper's Dwellings, coupled
with that of her Father Confessor, whose terrible death had
occurred about ten days previously, was connected, through
Major St. Leger's investigations, with the Anarchists. It was
proved that Hans Koch, a German gentleman who had lived
for many years in aifluent circumstances in Berlin, but who
had more recently been living in London in the disguise of a
workman in the same Dwellings as the murdered woman, and
that Antonio Sanzio, the husband of the deceased, were both
dangerous Anarchists; they were believed to be implicated in
the crime, and there were warrants out for their arrest; as also
for one Kroupenski, who was supposed, 011 evidence in the
hands of the police, to be guilty of the murder of the priest,
concerning whom dark rumours were abroad. It was said that
he belonged to a noble family in Italy, that he was one of the
most gifted young priests in the Church, but that his ambition
was marred by his unscrupulous moral character. Casati, the
Italian, had been seized on the spot in the streets of Lyons,
caught red-handed, and thrown into prison, amidst the howls of
a turbulent mob. Every day some new fact was discovered
which showed the dreadful power and the insane, unscrupulous
fury of the Anarchists.
Count Pahlen was at this time a most popular man in
Zalma
169
English Society. There was hardly a club of any status in
the metropolis where he was not a welcome guest; and though
he did not allow himself to accept the frequent invitations he
received to country houses, there were a few to which he did
go, probably more on his daughter's account than his own. But
these exceptions were to the houses of people of distinction.
Lord Camberley, himself a Badical, loved to hear this anomalous
man, this rebel Aristocrat, this wealthy Socialist, this Badical
of Badicals, talk; Lord Beaumaris, though a poor man, prided
himself, when he did entertain, which was seldom, on enter¬
taining wits, and Count Bahlen could tell bon-mots better than
any man in London or New York. Sir James Draper's was
not a house that Dr. Bahlen cared to stay at long, for Sir James
belonged to the nouveaux riches, and had no personal distinction
or interest; but the French Boyalties were sometimes there, and
his house-party was often a very gay one.
Although Count Bahlen always avowed himself, wherever
he went, to be more than a Badical,—a Nihilist,—and although
it was quite generally known that his father had assassinated the
Czar Baul, his political opinions were never taken quite seriously.
His light, humorous way of referring to current events was,
refined by a gentlemanliness of tone that told his breeding.
If he was Nihilist in theory, nobody could deny that he was,
in appearance, in manner, and in fact, a nobleman of undoubted
lineage; and his honesty was proved by the fact that the vast
estates in Bussia, to which he scorned to lay claim, might un¬
doubtedly be his if he would but return to Moscow and vow
allegiance to the Tzar; indeed, it was said by some who knew
Bussian Society, that the Tzar himself always spoke kindly of
Count Bahlen, and had a high opinion of his loyalty. It was
even said that the Tzar considered him as in some peculiar,
secret way the saviour of his life, and that far from his being
an Anarchist, he was devotedly loyal. Whatever his political
opinions, there was that in Bahlen that proclaimed him an
aristocrat by instinct. Amongst women he was always a
charming man, and, even in his old age, exceedingly handsome,
erect, and attractive. Amongst men of the world he was
zalma
essentially one of themselves—experienced, travelled, and witty;
whilst amongst members of his own profession he was an
accomplished savant. Amongst soldiers he was wont to refer
to his experiences in America, where, as the Surgeon-General
of the Confederate Army, he had taken an honourable part in
the war. There was hardly a subject upon which he could not
discourse with a welcome and genial wisdom; and there was
never a man who could tell a story better, or awake that interest
amongst languid listeners which is the secret of the born
raconteur. In New York, as in London and Paris, he was the
man of the world par excellence, the wit without compare.
But he was gradually becoming of interest in English
Society on new grounds. Firstly, there was now and then a
whisper, yet hardly a whisper, it was rather a whispered
question—was his Nihilism a theory only ? His occasional
defence of Anarchy—was it merely scientific and theoretical ?
Bah ! But who, then, ever heard of Anarchism defended really
seriously ? Secondly, he was the father of a lovely daughter,
who was so gifted and intellectual that her published Jugger¬
naut, the production of a genius of immature years, merely
whetted the appetite for more, and it only now became generally
and gradually known that " Pallas " was Zalma Pahlen. But
Zalma Pahlen was herself winning a great Society reputation,
which even her avowed Bohemianism did not thwart. Had she
been English, the gates would have been closed against her; but
as the daughter of " that dear, dreadful Nihilist the Count," she
was so very interesting. If she lived at the Hotel Metropole, with
no one but a negro maid to protect her,—well, her father often
stayed there too, when he was not abroad on his travels. Then
she had been presented to Her Most Gracious Majesty, and, in
her own magnificent and lustrous self, she bore a gracious and
majestic queenliness of spirit which compelled the homage of
all who met her. The splendour of her beauty, her sweet¬
ness, her smiles, the rumour of her wealth, the glamour of
her tongue, and the knowledge of her genius, magnetised all
who were permitted the honour of her acquaintance. Wherever
she went, she charmed. Some subtle power of fascination was
Zalma
conferred upon her. Lavish Nature had exceeded herself and
produced a chef d'ceuvre. The French Princes in England were
proud of her genius. She had the Bourbon graces of her
mother; and if she was Bohemian, she was at least countenanced
by His Eminence Cardinal Cantelupe, under whose protection
she was frequently seen at various functions of the Catholic
nobility ; and there were even statements,—statements, I may
say, that were absolutely without foundation,-r-that she had been
seen with the Primate of Spain and other personages at the
Palace of St. James's.
And yet; and yet rumour said—
But then rumour!
And the Prince, too. How very absurd !
Still it was whispered that there positively had been a secret
ma. rr.. ge, and gossip spread from tongue to tongue; and
Miss Zalma Pahlen herself was talked of amongst those who
really knew, and discussed with great interest. If she appeared
at a theatre,—which she often did, resplendent in diamonds,—
all the opera-glasses in the stalls were turned towards her, and
everybody's lips were at everybody's ears; if she went to a
ball,—which she did, fettered with ropes of pearls,—there was a
buzz when she appeared; if she drove in the Park,—which she
did, in one of the most spanking turnouts of the season,—every¬
body's eyes turned to her, and the crowds on the rails and in
the chairs all began to chatter; if she went to Court,—if she
went to Court,—but she did not, and had not been since she
was presented.
But she went everywhere else: to the palaces of Catholic
dignitaries, to the houses of the nobility—into all the best, the
most fashionable, the wittiest Society, both at home and in
continental capitals. She created a furore in New York, her
father accompanying her on a round of fashionable functions in
Transatlantic society. Life began to have a vast charm for her.
When her father had bared his life to her but a few months
before, and had revealed her illustrious yet sinister origin; when
she, in her turn, had disclosed to him how tangled was the
mystery of her fate, and illness supervening, had left her weak,
Zalma
nothing but hate and scorn for Society and for man had seemed
possible; but Youth asserted itself, and the love of woman for
adoration and gaiety and fashion and all that Society can
give, made her hesitate in her ill-considered determination to
mingle with the miserable, and to cast in her lot with the
poor of the earth.
She was staying now at Camberley Castle. The power and
influence of England seemed to Zalma present there. Two or
three members of the Cabinet came and went, held informal
meetings under the yews in the great park, or took their
morning ride under the beeches. The house-party, if not a
jolly one, was made up of guests eacli one of whom was full
of personal interest. The noble host himself, though not
original, was continually quoting from reminiscences of the
late Eobert Lowe, and of the clever things he had said to the
Earl when they used to ride together in Eotten Eow. The
talk was full of quips and quirks. Bernard Daw was of the
party, improved by success; and Count Palilen, whose talk
excelled everyone's, came as the Earl's guest with Cardinal
Cantelupe as well, to have business with her. Gerard Mount-
joy was also there, he being a cousin of Lady Camberley.
Her life at this time was full of joy and happy distractions,
and was occupied also, perhaps, with secret aspirations, negotia¬
tions, and diplomacies. At least it is certain that she and
the Cardinal and Lord Camberley were often closeted together
for hours at a time, but 110 one ever knew what they discussed.
Yet, with all her love for the joys of festivity and fashion, of
frolic and revel, dance and song, she did not, when she thought,
forgive. She was an enemy of Society, though sometimes she
forgot it. When she remembered, she knew that she must
have her day of reckoning yet—her day of revenge upon Prince
and Priest, and, more deeply than all, upon Man.
For all this, when her father had revealed to her his design
upon Law and Order, on that June day as they walked in the
Ilalliford fields in the poppied corn, amidst the song of birds
and the sough of elms and willows, she received his deliberate
declaration with a shudder. When, by the death of President
Z ALMA
173
Carnot and the outrages in Soho, she realised the horrible
character of the Anarchist cause, its iniquity, its diabolical
wickedness, its reckless bloodthirstiness, shocked her sensibili¬
ties almost to the core; its inebriated sins, its insensate crimes,
thrilled her with horror unutterable and preyed acutely upon
her impressionable nature; yet her reverence for her father,
her knowledge of his benevolence and of his real yet strangely
mysterious love for Humanity, her regard for his wisdom and
integrity, her filial affection for him, made her a ready listener
to his defence of the cold-blooded crimes that had so lately
shocked the world, and which she would have bewailed more
deeply had not her honour for her father, and her reverent
admiration of him, amounted almost to a worship.
"War," he said to her, " is one of the most terrible of the
laws of Nature: a law which, before history began, dominated
mankind, a law which to-day keeps the nations armed to the
teeth, a law which governs not man only, but the whole of
animate Nature—beast, bird, and fish ; a law which the Laureate
has crystalised, in one happy phrase, as ' Nature red in tooth
and claw.' The explosion of a bomb, the assassination of a
ruler, the execution of a traitor—these are dreadful acts, that
may well fill one with horror, but these violent expressions of
the power of Anarchy are the necessity of war. We have
rebelled against all that is. We have taken up arms against
the existing order of things. We have given battle to Society.
Let Society look to it that we have not worse yet to do than
we have threatened. We openly proclaim that we are working
towards the light by open rebellion, by violent outrage, and by
secret plot. For, year after year, the accumulated clouds have
gathered, and if they burst in thunder and flood the world, let
the world look to it. Who knows when the bolt shall fall
from the heavens ? The people tremble as they utter our
name. The Anarchists ! The Nihilists ! At these words of
horror, cheeks blench and men quake. What have we done
in our war that can hold the faintest comparison with the
last continental campaign ?—when the slaughtered covered
areas of miles, and were counted in tens of thousands amidst
174
Zalma
the applause of patriots and the thanksgivings of Emperors.
What have we done, with our miserable bombs, in comparison
with those inventors, whose ingenious scientific devices have
been placed in the hands of armies for the decimation of their
enemies ? I say that an Anarchist bomb thrown into a
Parliament is an act of war, no more disgraceful than the dis¬
charge of a Maxim gun amongst the crowded ranks of naked
Kaffirs, who have fallen like flies before destructive engines, in
whose presence they were helpless. These beeches do not
hear such treason often. Their fallen leaves are not thicker
than the men whom battle has slain. Your Foreign Minister,
our worthy Earl, the bishops and the curates,—all England,—
think nothing of a prayer to God for the defeat of the enemy
when an army of a hundred thousand is standing in front of
its cannon. Smokeless powder is consecrated. The battle¬
ship is baptized, but the solitary bomb, the single arm of the
hero of Lyons !—"
" Father! What was that ?" exclaimed Zalma, shuddering.
" A squirrel in the tree, dear heart—no more."
" Is it true that he—the Priest of Pisa is dead ?" she asked
in a hushed voice.
" It is true," answered the Count solemnly. " So perish all
our enemies."
Her heart uttered a sob, and she almost fainted. She
covered her face with her hands. For a few minutes she
rested on a grassy knoll at the foot of an elm. " Father,"
she exclaimed. " Father, I am afraid. I hear voices. The
trees seem to speak."
" They are spirit voices, Zalma; for the dead do speak.
Perhaps your mother is here; when you hear such whispers to
your conscience, do not be afraid, but listen. Ay, Zalma,
listen; and when you think of your wrongs and of mine, when
you think of that damnable wrong to yourself, of the wrong to
your mother, the Princess Eulalia, remember—"
" Eemember ? father!"
"Ay, remember when I am taken, as I shall be, that
revenge is sometimes holier than forgiveness: that if Heaven
Zalma
*75
calls upon you to punish the enemies of mankind, a crime
may come to be no sin, hut the supreme good, and the world
has never known aught higher, nobler, holier than sacrifice."
She was weeping, shuddering, weary.
" He is dead, you say," she whispered. " The priest!
Killed! murdered !" She shook as with an ague.
" Go, child," said the old man, laying a blessing on her brow
after a long silence and putting his graceful hands upon her
raven hair, as the tears ran from his eyes; " go, child, and play.
The world does not want you yet. Humanity is at truce with
the tyrants. The trumpet has not yet called you to arms.
You are not ready. Go, go play. Go to your handsome Life
Guardsman; go where Music is, where Youth and Joy are
dancing, and where the frolic laugh allures to love."
The Castle clock struck five. A blush reddened her from
tip to toe. It was the hour she had fixed to meet Gerard.
The Count raised his hat as he separated from his daughter.
The sinuous figure of Cardinal Cantelupe was approaching him
through the yews.
Originally, Zalma had only intended to play with Gerard—
to break his heart and toss it to the crows in fulfilment of her
extravagant vow. She had originally a contempt for his
character, which seemed empty; but if he had no conspicuous
mental force, neither was he altogether weak—he wooed her with
manly insistance, he pressed her with ardour, he paid her all
the possible devotions of gallantry, and he gave to her innumer¬
able proofs of sincere love,—in very truth, he idolised the steps
in which she trod; and some measure of love—small though it
was—which she began to cherish for him,blinded her to his faults.
He found her, though unwilling, willing; hot and cold,
agitated and calm, in turns. Though there was nothing in
him whatever that appealed to her higher nature, to those
noble aspirations which made her long for the highest doom of
humanity, and for the elevation of the race to heights of well-
being and of social and material advancement which would
raise man to a higher plane in the range of being, these
vaguely-romantic and half-poetic ideas had not plunged their
Zalma
roots very profoundly into her soul. They were rather the
faint repetition of her father's vivid dreams than the rapture
of her own thought. The physical manliness of her lover, the
fresh vigour of his youth and strength, the muscularity of his
short requests to her heart, the hot passion of his breath as he
stammered his faltering prayers, and the fire in his lambent eyes
—these, perhaps, were the best possible antidote to the wild
imaginings of her distracted soul.
Did she love Gerard Mountjoy ? she sometimes asked her¬
self, as though the mere mention of the idea was ridiculous;
and she followed the question with a laugh of scorn.
But ere the laugh died away something womanly in her
drew down a curtain on the laugh, and she solemnly saw a
great pleading man gazing with genuine devotion into her
pitying, yielding eyes, putting fortli to her those arms which
longed to embrace her, stretching out those hands with which
he would fold her in his caress, and promising to plunge into
the lowest abyss, even of crime, if the word of command but
left her lip.
But of crime and horror she was more than weary. Her
face was grave. Her eyes were wet. The excitement caused
by her conversation with her father disturbed the serenity of
her thoughts. She knew, too, that the Cardinal had seen
Prince John; and she wondered why her father was now in
secret converse with the Prelate. Was her heart to be for ever
a plaything for others—to be everyone's affair but her own ?
Gerard came along in tandem.
Was it nothing to control such a man as this ? Her
unexpressed thought, her lightest wish obeyed. Was it
nothing to sway the heart and the life of a big fellow like
that ? She opened her parasol to hide her face, for she was
blushing at her thoughts. He had implored her to let him
drive her out before dinner. She met him as they had agreed,
so that she might have her father's countenance.
She got up and took the reins. She wanted to go. Her
father's talk had set her mind whirling. She touched up the
leader, and away they went at a stunning speed over the hard
Z ALMA
177
gravel avenue ; the click of the horses' hoofs was like music.
She cracked her whip, tightened the reins, and increased the
pace: the wheels spun over the perfect road, and away they
went merrily, down the long avenue. The elms and beeches
seemed to come towards them and fly by. She did not speak
a word. It showed how well her father had trained her—her
own self-possession, her promptitude, and that decision of char¬
acter that no woman who does not command horses ever can
have, was part of her education. She spoke to the horses
gently, touched them with the whip, and put them at a hill.
They flew up it.
Even Gerard, who was not very quick, noticed there was
something up with her.
It was his chance, perhaps. It might be his only oppor¬
tunity. He took it.
" Zalma, I want you to marry me! You can drive me
as you will—as you are driving now. It's ripping. - We
will go the pace; we will go slow,—we will go as you
please."
«Very well, Gerard," she replied, spanking through the
lodge gates with an extra lash to the wheeler. "You, and half
a dozen others, have been worrying me to marry you often
enough. To tell the truth, I have a mind to marry all the
half-dozen. I like you pretty well. I suppose I must marry
somebody—else. I thought I was married, but it seems I'm
not. The Cardinal has told me to-day that I am free—free
in law. So I will marry you for one—or shall I say for
another ? Life is a great farce, and a disappointment. Had
ever a woman such a life as mine ? How, don't speak a word,
for I can't bear it."
Gerard sat as still as a mouse.
They went on for a mile at a slacker speed.
" Do speak, Gerard; say something. You sit there like a
post."
" You speak instead."
" I ought to ruin the country."
"Never mind the country, Zalma; ruin me."
12
'73
Zalma
" I shall henpeck yon fearfully," she said, with a laugh.
" I like it," he answered.
" Then change places; I can't drive," she said petulantly,
handing him the reins.
He whisked the tandem back.
When Zalma came down to dinner that evening everybody
noticed that she was even more handsome than usual. Her
eyes sparkled. Her face was flushed: a deeper tint of rose
appeared beneath her soft, peach-like complexion. There was
a tinge of irritability in her manner, especially towards Mr.
Mountjoy; and now and then, in the blue-white of her liquid
eyes, was there not almost a tear, sleeping, unborn as yet
beneath the rim of her lower eyelids, which made the colour
more translucent, even as forget-me-nots are bluer when the
dews are moist upon the flower ? She was dressed in pink
silk richly watered, and trimmed with satin, edged with
cream-coloured Brussels lace, through which the fulness of her
bosom heaved like rising and falling waves. Eopes of pearls
hung round her neck. A pearl pendant rose and fell upon her
bosom, like a fairy ship at anchor. A Gloire-de-Dijon rosebud
Was fastened with a pearl ornament in her hair, pearl bracelets
encircled her wrists, and her bodice was richly encrusted with
large scroll designs and flowers and leaves in pearl-work. The
Inodest gleams of that precious jewel, and the quiet iridescence,
more reserved than the glint of the opal, that slumbers within
the tiny, silver-lighted spheres, the steel-like amber of their
shade, the moon-like glow of their cold fire, permitted her to be
covered with innumerable gems, each one of which so precisely
resembled the other in weight, in colour, and in shape, that a
connoisseur would recognise their great value by these qualities
alone. The unostentatious beauty of the pearl, its sleeping
light and soft, dove-coloured rays, its purity and the reticence
of its chaste loveliness, allows an opulence in its use forbidden
to any other jewel. They were Zalma's favourite gems, and
her dress was rich with their modest lustre.
"The dear Canon has said grace," said Lady Kottenham,
who was fortifying herself for the assaults of the serpent, so
Zalma
179
Eve-like was her costume. " Now, let us enjoy all the fashion¬
able indelicacies of the season. What is on the menu ?"
" There's a stew in Armenia," drawled Lord Beaumaris,
contemplating his Chablis.
" And there will soon be a hash in Constantinople," growled
Jack Graves.
"That means Curried Turkey," tittered Lady Rottenham,
agitating the scents in her lace. " What is a curry without a
pickle ?"
" It will be worse than a pickle," said Jack Graves, turning
up his nose like Pitt; " the fires are lit, the knives are sharp¬
ened, half a dozen foreign cooks too many are preparing the
roast, and will spoil the broth,—but not through lack of pepper."
" If poor dear Sherbrooke were alive," muttered Lord
Camberley, glancing at a portrait of the late Robert Lowe
that hung above the wainscot. Then he turned to Zalma,
and asked her if she had been chronicled yet by a certain
Royal Academician.
She replied that some friends of hers had been libelled in
that way, but that, at present, she had succeeded in preserving
her reputation.
Mr. Bernard Daw, who sat opposite her, unloosed his pea-
green smile. " Nowadays," he said in his own sententious
way, " so few women have unpainted faces, and so many have
painted reputations."
" A man's reputation," rejoined Zalma very slowly, as she
looked straight into Bernard's heavily-lidded eyes, "a man's
reputation does not depend upon his face at all, although, if I
may also talk paradoxes in a whisper, it often depends upon
his cheek."
The hit told. Everybody knew how Bernard Daw's literary
and political reputation had originated; and though his deserved
success was superabundantly recognised, he was, and always
had been, fair game, having in fact commenced his public
career as a laughing-stock. So a humorous wave passed round
the table.
Mr. Abel Mann, a certain novelist there present, scenting
i8o
Zalma
from the other end of the table an attack npon a woman, found
the temptation irresistible, and, throwing himself into his best
Shakespearian attitude, he began to defend his only Bernard;
for Bernard always had some sort of a Boswell near his elbow.
" Whether impudence be the secret of success amongst
men or not, the success of women used to be in their modesty;
but that was in the past."
" If Mr. Abel Mann assumes the defence of Mr. Bernard
Daw," said Zalma spitefully, " I pray his assistance may do
him no injury; but should my literary work ever have the
fortune to fall into the hands of so discriminating a critic, I
trust, in the event of his making a private attack upon me,
there may be afterwards no public claim for a recognition of
his valuable patronage."
The subtlety of this sting was appreciated by everyone
who knew the story about the Critic and Miss Corelli—that
is to say, by everybody. A grim smile hovered on everyone's
lip, and the venom of the satire caused most people to sip
a little wine. Bernard, who had chivalry of an unosten¬
tatious kind, declared " that it was not in him to encumber
any woman with compliments, but that, whilst it was not
every critic who met his Juggernaut, he should like to have his
own work edited by—"
" By a woman whose reputation equals her repute," inter¬
rupted Mr. Abel Mann savagely.
Even the imperturbable Bernard's heavy lids blinked at
this, and he was for once about to fire off a fierce jeu d'esprit;
but Zalma said, in her calm, effortless voice, though with a
smile of gratitude at Mr. Bernard Daw: " An outrage upon a
woman may be sometimes overlooked, when such outrages,
given to a man, would be met by a blow : it is because a
woman cannot so retaliate that she is honoured by these attacks
of clumsy gallantry, in the newest vein of literary chivalry—
savage attentions, to notice which at all is a sufficient humilia¬
tion."
Every bitter word cut like a knife. Gerard Mountjoy, who
didn't understand it, knew only that Zalma was scoring
Z ALMA
181
heavily—that she had been hitting right and left, and that Mr.
Abel Mann was clean bowled. He wanted to cry bravo!
but he remembered he wasn't in barracks; so he did something
better, and, in the very awkward lull that Zalma's last shot
had produced, he said to his neighbour that it was " rather hot
weather for partridges."
A smile went round at this clumsy speech, which produced
a silence as solid as their host's mahogany. Several wits were
present, including the Great Dreamer of practical dreams, who,
in company with some eminent grocers and other common
folk, had recently condescended to accept a knighthood, but
the littleness of the honour had naturally wrung from him a
public complaint that he had not been made a duke. Zalma,
recognising him by his recently acquired aristocratic manner,
and by the extra half-inch of stare li which is always notice¬
able in the linen of new knights, evoked a stilted smile, more
measured than in the days of his Misterhood. Even before his
titled days his genial look could turn vinegar to wine, and the
dishonour under which he now suffered had but slightly
mitigated the gentleness of his demeanour. Hesitating, with
the becoming consideration of one who was now something
more than a mere literary man, he made a gesture more than
baronial in its quality, though not absolutely ducal,—a sort of
midway gesture savouring of the magnificence of a possible
marquis. Zalma becomingly acknowledged his Olympian nod,
recognised his benignant reproof, and turned gracefully from
satire to compliment. With a light tongue she passed from
topic to topic, praising this man's foible and flattering the
genius of that. Her good nature, always genial and gracious,
came to her aid and took the acidity out of her conversation.
Her eyes sparkled; she was provoking, she was grave, she was
amusing by turns ; happy wit and clever jests slipped from
her lips; her speech sparkled like wine. She winged her
brilliant sallies with playful irony, softened them with tender
feminine asides, suffused them sometimes with poetic graces,
but always remembered that, if a wit, she was a woman too.
When she did not speak she excelled still more: she listened.
182
Zalma
Her great eyes, fixed on some talker, compelled him to clever
speech. She seemed to extract the wit of men as she sat
open-eyed, open-mouthed, hanging, as it were, upon their
words; and if the conversation flagged she would break
out with some daring repartee, full of grace and worldly
wisdom, or coined some ready radiant phrase, which flashed
like a jewel, and remained, when the rich feast was done,
recorded in the memory, like a rare line in a poem. The Earl
loved bright talk at table, and when dinner was over, and the
ladies had withdrawn, Zalma was missed. He talked of her
for many a long day. Her beauty, her grace, her amiability
were less to him than the splendour of her speech; and after¬
wards, instead of boring his guests with reminiscences of the
conversation of Eobert Lowe, he would tell some bon-mot of
Zalma's making.
Gerard took an early opportunity to break the tidings of
his approaching marriage to his sister.
"Zalma Pahlen ! Always that woman !" exclaimed Effie,
almost biting her finger-tips in her anger and jealousy.
" Why always ?" asked Gerard.
A guilty and not very creditable feeling possessed Effie, and
she was angry.
" Then there was no truth in that story of the Prince and
the Alalta marriage ?"
" You will see that there could be no truth in it; for Zalma
will become my lawful, wedded wife."
" Daisy will be delighted," said Effie spitefully.
" I had almost forgotten Daisy," replied Gerard. " Tell me
what I must do."
" You had promised to marry her," rejoined Effie, with a
sneer; " so I should think, now, the least you can do is to ask
her to the ceremony as your most honoured guest. Let her
have some part in your wedding at anyrate."
" Thanks, Effie," said Gerard, whose vast conceit blinded
him to his sister's irony; "now, I think that's a very good
thought of yours. Daisy's awfully good, and awfully sweet,
zalma
and all that sort of thing, doncha know; and I—I—well, X
approve the idea entirely. It's ripping. I suppose I haven't
behaved well to her exactly; but a man, ur—well—a man's
heart is not under the influence of his reason, but of his love.
So that will be a good way, Efije, of breaking the news to
Daisy delicately."
" I have something to say to you, Daisy," Gerard said that
same afternoon, having taken his opportunity to secure a
tete-a-tete with her, by visiting the garden bower she used to
haunt after luncheon. " Come out of that earwiggy hole, and
come for a stroll in the sunshine."
Daisy put down her book. Poor child! she had been
looking rather pale lately. " I think a walk will do me good,
Gerard," she answered briskly, and, looking up at him with a
smile full of goodness and simplicity, she confidingly linked
her little arm in his.
Gerard walked on in silence, at a loss for words. A
falling oak leaf, withered and yellow, settled on Daisy's shawl.
" The death of the leaf," said Daisy, almost sadly, as she
took it in her hand; " has it loved ere it died, I wonder ?
There is something pathetic in fallen leaves: as though they
were lives ended. Have they sorrows, I wonder ? Gladness I
know they have. Oh, who can doubt it, when they unfold in
the spring and put forth their tender fronds, opening in the
sun; when they rustle in green health in summer-time, and kiss
each other. Oh, Gerard, Gerard, do you not think everything
that is, loves ?—loves more than we think. Even the leaves: I
believe they love each other when they nestle each by each,
and tremble side by side, as I do now, Gerard dear, by yours."
He looked down upon her with a sort of pity.
" Ah, Daisy, you ought to have a poet for your lover,
or some chap of that kind, doncha know, instead of a
soldier."
" I am content to have a hero for my lover, Gerard: I will
be my own bard, and harp his praise."
" That is all sentiment, Daisy; and nonsense. Let us not
184
Zalma
talk of the loves of leaves, nor of bards or heroes, but only of
the love of men. Daisy, I am in love."
She looked up at him with a sweet and radiant look that
would have melted an icicle.
" Yes, Daisy. It is difficult for me to say it—to know how
to break it to you. We men, we soldiers, have hearts of iron,
but they turn to molten fire. You, simple child, do not know
what passion is—how it seizes the heart, and rages in it. It is
not sentiment. It is a red-hot live fact. It burns in my
breast—this ardour, this agony of passion. How can I tell you,
Daisy ? I thought I loved you ; I find it was simply friend¬
ship. I want you to be my friend now, to help me over a
difficulty. Will you ?"
" Gerard, I will do anything in the world for you. Any¬
thing, anything," faltered the simple girl.
" I want you to be there, Daisy. We soldiers cannot
talk. I want you to approve it—to be present at our
wedding."
" Gerard!"
"Yes, Daisy: I am to marry Zalma Pahlen."
" You ?"
" Yes."
" To be married—Miss Pahlen ? "
"Yes—next month."
" Next month ?" she repeated in amazement.
" You might fairly be very angry with me. You might
upbraid me, and say I have behaved falsely to you. But I
cannot help myself. I am mad for the love of this dazzling
queen, my wife that is to be. Nothing can prevent it. If
you are willing to forgive me, forgive me. Will you ? "
"Yes." The word broke from her agonised heart, but she
did not know she had spoken.
"And you will be at the wedding, Daisy? How good of
you ! How sweet of you to make things so easy for me ! Say
yes to me, child."
" Yes, Gerard," she gasped, though her heart stood still.
" Ah, Daisy, that is indeed wonderful of you, yet so like
Zalma
185
you ! True friend ! That you will always be through my life—
won't you ?"
A hot tear fell on to his hand. Her lips moved, but they
could not speak. She felt faint, but scorned to show her weak¬
ness. Gerard Mountjoy, feeling very awkward, now walked
beside her, entertaining a suspicion that his conduct had been
very bad, but that he was really quite unable to help himself.
He bent down and looked askance at Daisy. Tears were flow¬
ing in streams down both cheeks.
" Don't be stupid, Daisy," he said crossly. " People will
see you. So near the house too."
" Don't be cross with me, Gerard," she said, but not audibly.
Pier words took the form only of incoherent sobs. " Take me
indoors," she faltered.
As she drew near the house she withdrew her arm from
his, and, running across the lawn, rushed to her room, fell on
her knees, and, burying her face in her hands, wept as though
her heart would break.
Gerard lit a cigar, and, going into the billiard-room, practised
the spot-stroke.
Zalma had chosen the same afternoon to break the news to
her father ; hut a hasty line was on her table, announcing that
pressing business took him to Paris, and that he had left,
literally at a moment's notice, on affairs of urgent importance.
In the Cardinal she had ceased to confide; and though he
endeavoured to show her kindness and affection, she invariably
and severely avoided him. Never, perhaps, did Zalma feel
how sorely she needed one real chum in life—one true, constant
companion, nearer and dearer than a friend.
"You said yesterday you would marry me, Zalma," said
Gerard Mounjoy, as ho found her in the park contemplating
the Earl's peacocks. " I am a soldier, and I am blunt. When
is it to be ?"
His definiteness pleased her. She looked at him with
delight: her face as fresh as a morning flower.
" When you like, Gerard. When anything has to be done,
let it be done."
Zalma
" There are arrangements, you know," he said, cautioning
her, and expecting a different answer.
" What arrangements ?"
" Oh, things ! The trousseau, presents, conventionalities,
your father's consent."
" My father has his own opinions about marriage, and has
expressed his desire that I should not obtain his consent. In
his opinion it is my heart alone that I need consult in relation
to my marriage. Besides, he said to me only yesterday,' Go
to your Life Guardsman.' That is consent enough, Gerard—
isn't it ? He has taught me to consider that my own affairs
are my exclusive concern. Besides, he has had to hurry to the
Continent on urgent business. But presents, trousseau, con¬
ventionalities—I will have none of any. I will have no priest:
it shall be a Civil ceremony. You know well, for I have told
you clearly, all the story of my previous marriage. The
lawyers call it illegal. It was something very unreal. Let
ours be at least matter of fact. I take you, Gerard, in a busi¬
ness-like sort of way, to be my companion in the world—a sort
of chum. My woman's nature feels towards some brave arm;
someone chivalrous, good, sensible. To be honest, Gerard dear,
you have not quite the gigantic intellect of my ideal, but"—
and she kissed him—" I will be quite frank with you, take you
for all in all I like no one better. I have never met anyone I
like so much, except—"
" Except," said Gerard, clasping her wrist.
" Except one man, whom I could have loved," exclaimed
the silent mentor within her soul passionately, and then,
in a moment of revulsion, she thought: " Loved! Ah, a
million times more than Gerard Mountjoy! That was
love ! But this !" Impulsively she exclaimed: "No, Gerard, I
do not really care for you. I do not, indeed—not really.
I release you from your engagement. My life has been
too much harassed. I am not worthy of you. Seek some
purer, holier woman. Take your hand off my wrist: I do not
like it."
" Zalma, tell me; your manner said more clearly than
Zalma
T^7
words that you love some other man," said Gerard jealously.
" Is it Beauregard ?"
" Beauregard ? No !" she replied, with scorn. " My love, my
love, my love, who are you ? where ? He, Gerard—oh, he was
my love indeed !—his name I never knew. Ah, why speak of
it ? It was a dream—a schoolgirl's dream. Forgive me,
Gerard. You know how every one of us has an ideal. You
know how the ideal is a dream of the soul,—a non-existing,
unpractical, disembodied entity. I have always a vice of long¬
ing for something indefinitely glorious—the impossible opens to
me, a vista of beauty allures, the eyes of my soul penetrate
into the mystery. My imagination puts on wings of splendour,
and I fly towards the idyllic—the impossible. But I will not
read poetry, Gerard. Life has been very terrible to me. Death
has hovered over me. Things awful and accursed have flitted
with bat-like wings about me; I have taken vows that a
woman's tongue should not utter; I have dreamt of vengeance
that should be left, if God there be, to God. I have desired to
do deeds with this hand that would palsy it for ever and
paralyse my heart. Gerard, I have been too much up in the
clouds—the clouds of thunder and of smoke, the Titan clouds
where the lightnings dwell. I want to come down. I am
but a woman—too much a woman to become an ogre, too much
a woman to be touched by the Divine. I do not want great¬
ness, nor honour, nor revenge; and if I care at all for altruism
and the progress of Humanity, I cannot, dear Gerard, cudgel
myself into the enthusiasm for it that I ought to do. This
frivolous life, the everyday trifling of Society—well, I do not
know that I am enthusiastically fond of it, but, after all, I seem
at home in it. A ball, a dinner, my gowns—these satisfy me
most. They are more to me than the philosophy of Cornte,
or the ethics of Bax or Stuart Mill. You, Gerard, do not
profess to be intellectual; and at heart I do not think that I
am. I would rather ride with you over the moors than read
all tire poems in the Earl's library. Gerard, I think I can go
through life with you, loving you in a wifely way. Sometimes
I feel, perhaps, a little dissatisfied when I think of—of—but
188
Zalma
that is when I dream of the ideal. Take you for all in all, I
think I love you, Gerard; if not with all the ardour one reads
of in novels, at least with a love of commonplace temperature.
Mine is a 60-degrees Fahrenheit kind of love. You would
never do a mean thing, my splendid soldier-lover; you are
honourable, you are strong, you are manly, you are brave.
Nobody ever looks better than you do, either on a horse or in
a ballroom. These are my very thoughts, Gerard. These are
the true confessions of my heart, my great handsome blonde
baby; and I know you love me."
"Love you, sweet?" he answered. "Ah, you little know
how much !"
Then he took her into the billiard room, and kissed her
behind the Japanese screen. Everything was settled, and the
day fixed. It was to be kept a secret altogether. Zalma
wanted to have 110 gossip. She was tired of heroics; she
wanted a little plain common life. Scandal and rumour, as
she said, had been busy enough with her name. Gerard would
have liked a big ceremony at Mountjoy Church; but Zalma
would not hear of a Protestant ceremonial, and she declared
she would never again enter a Catholic church.
The conversion of the Empire,—that pet project of the
Cardinal's, of Father Hippolytus (who had now become the
Cardinal-Archbishop of Toledo), and of the late Pio Nono,—
was not a subject of any care to her; she had not been plastic
in the intrigue that had been on foot, she would not hold up
a finger for any priest, she cared neither for the Prince nor
Humanity ; for the time, at any rate, Gerard was her king.
CHAPTER XXIY.
LTNT PAHLEN, who was continually going and
coming, again returned from the Continent, and
was accompanied across the Channel, and 011 his
way from Dover, by no less a man than Major
St. Leger. Whether he was suspected of
Anarchist intrigue cannot yet be fathomed, hut nobody knew
more clearly than the Count did himself that he was under
observation. He thought so before he stepped upon the deck
of the steamer at Calais. He had an idea that three men,
French detectives, whom he knew well, were discussing him.
He observed from the tail of his eye that he was being-
watched, and, having led a whole lifetime of rebellion against
Governments, his spirits rose at the thought of danger, as a
war-horse at the rumble of battle. With that intuitive per¬
ception which only long experience of the world can confer,
he guessed that the strong-faced observant man who leant
over the taffrail now by his side, as the Albert Edward
steamed off from Calais pier, was a detective or a spy, and
from his conversation, a man of force and character. The
Count, lighting a fresh cigar, handed him his case, and, pacing
up and down the deck, told some of his best stories in his
lightest vein. St. Leger drew him adroitly upon the subject
of Nihilism. The Count did not for one moment veil his
opinions; but though he professed them with ardour, and spoke
in a declamatory way against the existing order of things,
though he spoke with sympathy of "the people," though he
talked with juvenile enthusiasm and hope of the days of the
189 .
190
Zalma
future of Humanity, he intentionally gave St. Leger the idea
that he was talking clap-trap, and that he was merely mouth¬
ing a kind of dreamy theoretical Fabianism: in a word, that
he was nothing more dangerous than a fashionable Eadical,
who carried his opinions to a logical but purely academic
extreme. His manner and " the ineradicable taint of the
aristocrat," as he himself called it, which certainly characterised
his deportment (as Mr. Tracy Tupman would say) entirely
disarmed St. Leger, who fell under the spell of his voice, as
others had done, and who were alike deceived by his very
frankness. Arrived at Dover, Count Pahlen laid his arm
on St. Leger, and insisted on his travelling in the same
carriage with him to London. His fearlessness, his bonhomie,
his wit, put St. Leger off his guard.
They talked all the way up to town, and on nearing
Victoria, as they were putting away their travelling-caps and
strapping up their railway-rugs, Pahlen (who had cleverly
discovered who St. Leger was) said in his light way, as he
produced a card from his case, " Exchange is no robbery."
" Count von der Pahlen ! Indeed !" said St. Leger, who
also knew well to whom he had been talking—for they had
both been acting. "Your name is a famous one. I have
heard of you often, and am glad to have met you."
"Major Charles St. Leger!" exclaimed Pahlen, in his
turn feigning surprise. " Indeed, really!" and he laughed
heartily.
St. Leger, who did not understand, looked inquiringly.
" This is the oddest thing," said the Count, breaking into
another laugh. " Quite the oddest."
" What ? " asked St. Leger.
" My dear comrade," as the enemy phrases it, " we are both
011 the same lay !"
" What do you mean ?"
" Confess, now ! You have in your pocket a warrant for my
arrest."
St. Leger made no reply, but looked with surprise at his
antagonist.
Zalma
191
"You do not reply to me with the frankness, Major St.
Leger, that I have a right to demand. Now, let me show you
who I am."
He put his hand in his breast pocket and produced a
revolver, which he laid aside, however, upon the seat of the
carriage, whilst his right hand continued to fumble in his
pocket.
St. Leger with a deft movement of his hand seized the
revolver and held it at the Count's head.
" Fire it, dear Major," said the Count laughingly. " This is
quite a little comedy. It is not loaded. I knew I should not
want it on this side of Paris. I carry it, you know, for defence
—not attack, for I often go into strange company, as you do.
In our business, as detectives, it is best to go armed. My
credentials!"
He presented a document to St. Leger, sealed with the
Arms of the Tzar Alexander.
St. Leger looked at it carefully, lowered the revolver,—of
which, however, he still retained a hold,—read and re-read it,
examined the signatures, and handed it back to St. Leger.
" Count, accept my apologies."
" None are necessary."
" Indeed, I have been most rude to you."
" On the contrary, you have merely shown admirable zeal.
I shall have infinite pleasure in commending your conduct to
the Tzar."
" But why do you profess such dreadful opinions ?"
" I11 order that I may have everywhere the reputation that
I have. Amongst Anarchists and Nihilists I am known to be
a genuine comrade. I can be amongst them, I can even preside
in their midst—but even so it is in my power to betray them.
Wherever I go I profess opinions which elicit the confidences
of men who otherwise would remain unsuspected. The Tzar
has personally told me with his own tongue, Major St. Leger,
who you are. He has given me the credentials which I have
shown you with his own hand. He looks upon me as the Chief
Guardian of his life. Why ? Because I am notoriously loyal ?
192
Zalma
No. Because I am notorious through my very name. The
memory of the Tzar Paul keeps the name of Pahlen revered
amongsts all Nihilists. My opinions are notoriously disloyal.
I have frequently saved the life of the Tzar. He knows that,
and has the proofs. I have the pleasure of addressing one who
has a higher international duty to perform than I, hut, as you
see I recognise your position. Ho not, Major St. Leger, feel
horrified if I tell you that the charge on which you are about
to arrest me is one that your Government could sustain; but
let me advise you: do not arrest me on the arrival of the
train at Victoria, as you intended to do."
"I promise you that, indeed," replied St. Leger; "and I
apologise to you, Count, with deep regret."
" My dear Major, I beg, let there be no apologies. But, I
say, let the police follow me. I can put them on the track of
as desperate a gang of dastards as exists in the whole metro¬
polis ; but, oblige me, after you have made these arrests—arrest
me."
" Why ?"
" In order that I may afterwards escape,—which your men
must have orders to enable me to do,—so that I may sustain my
reputation, as Carron the Irishman, the Fenian spy, did so
acutely."
Count Pahlen had been informed that there was a general
suspicion prevalent, now confirmed by absolute proof, that
certain alleged Anarchists were false to the Cause. The names
and addresses of these he now supplied, for the police to arrest.
It would not be in their power to do much damage to the cause of
Anarchy : they could betray but little, and they would probably
be imprisoned. His bold professions of disloyalty bewildered
the authorities, and impressed them with the idea that it was
the trick of a spy. There was an audacity about Pahlen that
concealed his crimes. Even if good evidence were ever produced
against him, it would not be believed. The Tzar himself would
speak for him; and now he had manufactured new evidence in
his own favour, on the very eve, as it were, and in lieu, of his
arrest, which had disarmed the cleverest official in the English
Zalma
i93
Government, whilst he had made of so powerful a man as St.
Leger almost a friend.
Pahlen hurried to the rendezvous, and having warned the
real Anarchists amidst the gang to escape, saw that they did so,
and was delivering a harangue to the remainder,—men of whose
falseness to Anarchy he was assured,—when a policeman with
drawn truncheon entered the room. Everyone rushed to the
door. The police were there in force, and barred the way.
" Number Five, I arrest you in the Queen's name," said the
inspector, laying his hand upon the Count's shoulder. He
pretended to make a futile struggle. Meanwhile the so-called
conspirators were handcuffed, taken in charge by two constables,
hustled into cabs, and taken to the police station.
The news of the arrest and escape of Number Five circu¬
lated far and wide in Anarchist circles, and fed that eclat which
the criminal requires if he would lead his followers.
" Go, Black," said Count Pahlen, as, after lie had traversed
several streets, he quietly stepped out of the cab into which he
had been ostentatiously hustled. "Keport yourself at head¬
quarters. Inform your chief that you have arrested several of
the most dangerous dynamitards in London; and see"— he
handed some papers to the inspector.
"What is this, sir ?" said the sergeant of police.
" Unmistakable proof, Inspector Black, that an attack upon
the Mansion House has been completely foiled. I trust you
will be promoted for your zeal, Black. Good-bye. There is
only one thing for you to regret."
" What is that, sir ?"
" The escape of the most unscrupulous—the most dangerous
Anarchist of the whole gang," replied Dr. Pahlen, repressing
his smile.
A few days after Major St. Leger's return from the Con¬
tinent, he called upon Cardinal Cantelupe, and had a long
interview with the distinguished Prelate, from wThom he
received news of thrilling interest, and of undoubted reliability.
He then drove from the Cardinal's palace to Count Pahlen's
hotel. But the Count had returned to the Continent, where-
T3
194
Zalma
upon St. Leger went to Parliament Yard. He walked through
Westminster Hall, and along the corridors of the House of
Commons, to the Premier's room. He and the Foreign Minister
were together. They received St. Leger gravely. The Home
Secretary, who took enormous interest in the scotching of this
dire and dastardly conspiracy, was sent for.
" My Lords," said St. Leger, " we are on the eve of great
events. With your assistance and other valuable information
I have access to, the Governments of Europe will yet be able
to frustrate the most daring, the most damnable, and the most
unjustifiable outbreak that ever sought to win its way by
revolution. I have papers from one Count Pahlen; but I do
not rely on those. I have absolute proofs—proofs of im¬
mediate danger from this widespread and most dangerous
sedition. You will see, my Lords, whether I am misinformed
this time. Though I admit I cannot always rely on the news
I obtain, I have with me now that which must be taken notice of."
" Let us be exact. What proofs have you for us ?" said the
Prime Minister.
" Grave news, ay, and solid proofs, that a conspiracy is on
foot to bring to wreck every European Government. We have
foiled it before, but almost by a fluke. The assassination of
President Carnot did not come home to us. My Lord, the
assassinations in Phoenix Park are to be outdone. Foiled in
their last effort, the Anarchists have grown desperate. A
bomb is to explode simultaneously in the Parliament of every
nation in Europe."
The Prime Minister lifted his hands, with an exclamation of
horror.
" I am on the track of these villains," said St. Leger, with
grave enthusiasm. "Nay, I have them here now — in the
hollow of my hand—I know the names of the chief organisers
of Anarchy throughout Europe. That England should frustrate
their devilish plot, that my country is to have the pride of
saving the senators of every continental State from being basely
and damnably murdered—I require but little."
" Say what."
Zalma
r95
St. Leger handed a paper to the Premier. " Sign that," he
said quietly.
The Premier took it, read it carefully, and handed it to Lord
Camber]ey, who also perused it. Then the Premier re-read it.
" Is it necessary, Major St. Leger ?" asked the Prime
Minister.
"It will avert the most sweeping crime—the most infernal
disaster of our century," replied St. Leger.
The Premier took a pen and signed his name.
CHAPTER XXY.
DO not read newspapers," said Lord Halliford,
as, with hat and stick in hand, he sat in the
drawing-room at the Hotel Metropole ; " I get
my information in a better way."
" How is that ?" asked Zalma.
" By listening to rumour."
" But rumour does not always tell the truth."
"Nor do the newspapers say that you are about to marry
Lieutenant Mountjoy."
Zalma was evidently startled ; she did not know that the
secret was out. Lord Halliford's impish laugh annoyed her.
She was at heart in a toweling rage with him, and consequently
she smiled at him most sweetly. She was one of those rare
women who possess the power, in moments of extreme irrita¬
tion, to be most guarded: she had the art of concealing her
temper. She had been trained by the wise, and her wisdom
often appeared in these little traits. But the smile with which
she masked herself did not impose upon Lord Halliford, who
was watching her narrowly, and who had seen the premonitory
flash of anger sparkle in her eye.
" Accept my condolences," he continued, rising from his chair.
" I have neither confirmed nor denied your precious
rumour," replied Zalma.
"Not to deny is to confirm."
" Then I do deny it," said Zalma mendaciously, more than
ever determined to choose her own way and her own time to
circulate the news of the marriage.
196
Zalma
197
"A tardy denial is a confirmation also. Again let me
condole."
" Why condole ?"
" Because scandal has already been so busy with your
Royal Highness "—Zalma did not wince—" that, as Mrs. Mount-
joy, you will be absolutely notorious."
" You are talking Greek. I don't understand."
" If you go to the Empire Theatre to-night you will."
"Will?"
"You will learn to understand Greek," he replied, with his
mocking laugh.
OO
" But why are you so anxious to teach me that lan¬
guage ?"
" Because we have been enemies so long, and it is time I
had my revenge." He spoke seriously now; and the white
mark upon his face which Zalma's whip had left there long ago
showed vividly upon his face.
" You still harbour revenge then, Lord Halliford ? "
" It is the only pleasure life has left us."
" And you wish to take me to the Empire; but that is one
of the theatres—"
" To which a lady may go if accompanied—"
" By your Lordship !" interrupted Zalma. " You, who have
ruined so many reputations, propose to protect mine. I accept,
conditionally."
" The condition ?"
"That you protect your own reputation by having some
other ladies in the box. I should not like to compromise you,
Lord Halliford."
He bit his lips and looked at the floor.
" Are you lost in thought ? "
"Yes; I am thinking where I can find enough ladies of
character to fill a box."
" Is your circle so small ? You know Lady Bottenham ?"
" Ah, the Countess! When she puts on her opera cloak
she certainly covers a multitude of sins. But though, of
course, she can go to Court in those very low dresses, really I
198
Zalma
don't think they would admit her anywhere else—certainly not
at the Empire, the respectability of the place has become so
very pronounced of late."
" Miss Dodd, Daisy Rees—but both of them would be
shocked by the ballet."
" There is Mrs. Graves."
" But she's too dreadfully serious to spend an hour with at
any theatre."
"I have it—Lady Milne Aymour."
" I do not know Lady Milne Aymour," said Zalma
emphatically.
Lord Halliford raised his shaggy eyebrows.
" The only other people now in town that you and I know
are the Mortons and the Drapers; except the Beauregards,and
it's almost wicked to take them."
« Why ?"
Until you have learnt Greek you can't understand. But
shall I ask the Beauregards ?"
" Well, Effie hates me so—"
" And Beau loves you so."
" How do you know everything ?"
" Through never reading the newspapers."
" It might be entertaining to be pent up in a box with
Effie. But I will have 110 other lady. Her repartee lacks
polish, and if she says anything disagreeable, which of course
every woman always does, it will be rude too. I like people
to say their disagreeable things, Lord Halliford, with that
perfect courtesy which is always so characteristic of truly
refined blackguards."
Lord Halliford felt the whip, and bowed in his most
graceful manner.
" Then I shall call for you at nine, or half-past, this
evening—"
" When you say that, you mean that you will call in the
plural?"
Ah, it will not be very long before I shall win your
permission to call upon you in the singular." A look of
Zalma
199
triumph was in his eyes; his face, wrinkled with innumerable
lines, was as full of diablerie as the face of a Voltaire.
"Give yourself a little time," she answered in a railing
manner.
" 1 will; I will fix the date. I will call on you—to-morrow."
" I shall not be at home."
"You will be to me," he said; and in his evil eye lurked a
look that burnt in his body.
" It is a safe threat: to-morrow never comes."
" To you everything comes, even to-morrow."
She shuddered as he closed the door. Something of the
diabolical was in that man. Tor the first time in her life she
felt the real necessity of a stimulant, and rang for brandy.
Lord Halliford knew where to find Beauregard—at the
billiard-room of his club, that paradise of the unhappy
husband. He lolled on a settee and watched Beauregard, who
was in a pool.
" Nothing to do Beau, except to smoke a cigar."
" And I, pool."
" And at night ? "
" Pool again."
" Been to the Empire lately ? " Lord Halliford asked.
" Ah," said somebody else, who was playing yellow, " you
ought to go to the Empire. Ninette Joubert is over from
Paris—best thing been seen for years; she is a Greek, they say,
but has spent her life in Paris. Haven't you seen her, Beau ? "
" Ninette Joubert ? No ; who is she ?"
"Who is she ? Fancy a man about town like you asking
that. Who is she, indeed ? Why, just now she is every¬
body."
"Legs, I suppose?" said Beau laconically.
" No, not legs," said Yellow. " That's the funny part of it:
she hasn't got any legs at all—only matches."
" Voice ? " asked Beauregard.
" Not a bit in the world."
" Cheek, then ? "
"Well, perhaps. Yes, cheek certainly: Ninette has
200
Zalma
undoubtedly cheek; but there's something peculiarly attrac¬
tive, something indescribably—"
" Yellow on red, player brown," shouted the marker.
Yellow potted the red, and took a life besides. The conversa¬
tion, which had been going exactly as Lord Halliford
wished, now turned to horses; but he easily brought it back,
and again the room was busy with the new dancer's name.
Beau, however, was indifferent; and when Yellow pressed him
to look in "Just at eleven, no earlier," Beauregard said, in his
tired way : " My dear fellow, I am fatigued with women " ; and
then he muttered, almost inaudibly, " there is only one in the
whole world I would walk across the street to see."
Lord Halliford, however, caught the remark, and, with a
whisper that was almost a hiss, said, " That woman will be in
my box to-night."
Beauregard turned quickly round. Lord Halliford's grin¬
ning face was nearly upon his shoulder.
" You are like Satan, Halliford, in one's ear," said Beaure¬
gard. " What do you mean ? Who will be there ?"
" Her Boyal Highness."
" With you!" exclaimed Beauregard in accents almost of
horror. He felt he could strike Lord Halliford.
" Come too; there will be room in my box."
" I think I will," said Beauregard reflectively.
" Bring Mrs. Beauregard also."
" I; no thank you. Besides, there is no time ; I dine at the
club to-night."
" Well, Box 3, first tier. Au revoir."
" Blue on yellow, player is," cried the marker, as Lord
Halliford made his exit, leaving Beauregard at the table.
The Beauregards' house was in Grosvenor Crescent; Lord
Halliford, calling a hansom, drove there post haste. He met
Mrs. Beauregard, luckily, on her doorstep.
"Do you accompany Beau to-night?" he asked with
nonchalance, raising his hat.
She answered him only with a look of surprise.
" I advise you," he said ominously. " You will get a wire
Zalma
201
that he is dining at his club. Do you know where he is going
afterwards ?"
The jealous wife's ears tingled.
"To meet your friend the Bourbon. Let me be honest
with you, Mrs. Beauregard. Miss Pahlen is to be my guest."
" To-night!" exclaimed Mrs. Beauregard.
" Yes; why not to-night ? "
" Do you not know it is her wedding eve ?"
Lord Halliford whistled; for once he was off his guard.
The surprise was too great for him.
" If you accompany me, Mrs. Beauregard, you will take
care of your husband, who will be there, depend upon it. I
will call for you after dinner. May I ?"
" Thank you, Lord Halliford, yes," said Effie sadly. " It is
very kind of you."
By this finesse Lord Halliford got his guests to the theatre.
He, with Mrs. Beauregard and Miss Pahlen, got in rather
early: before ten, that is to say. The entertainment, which
was neither very pretty nor very clever, and which, so far as
the vocal parts went, was anything but musical, fell rather flat.
There was, however, a fairly good orchestra, as things musical
count in London, and a full one; this was at least pleasant to
listen to; Mrs. Beauregard and Miss Pahlen were both silent.
Neither cared to converse with the other. They were pre¬
sumed to be old friends. They were about to become sisters-
in-law ; so it wanted but a few hours before they would be
legitimate enemies. Eihe secretly hated her rival, as, with a
woman's instinct, she regarded her almost from the first day
she met her. Miss Pahlen was simply indifferent to Mrs.
Beauregard, but she was to be at the wedding with her
brother. Her thoughts kept unhappily reverting to that.
Lord Halliford was too discreet to vex either with a word, as
yet. He enjoyed the silence with sardonic relish.
Soon Beauregard was shown in. He looked at his wife
with surprise, and at Halliford angrily. He greeted both,
however, and sat in a chair next to Mrs. Beauregard. Miss
Pahlen would have liked a little chat with Beau, but knew
202
Zalma
that it would annoy Effie; so she refrained. She knew that
something was to happen, and wondered. She was rather sad.
Life seemed so hollow, and it was her wedding eve.
Other girls spent that with their mother, their sisters, their
family. She had none. She realised how her father's habits
had separated her from the world. Yet she did not think ill
of him; on the contrary, she longed for him, yearned for his
advice, for his love—the only true love she knew. She looked
idly at the entertainment, and yawned behind her fan.
She began to dwell with dread upon the idea of her
wedding. The face of that unknown man, whom she seemed
doomed never to meet again, came to her mind. She shut her
eyes and imagined him. She listened and heard him speaking
to her. She thought how sad her life was; well, so it was to
everyone. She noticed how distrait Effie looked, and felt
sorry for her; Beau, poor Beau, whom she would have com¬
forted, whom she could have loved, and who she certainly
preferred to Gerard—a thought that, having flashed uninten¬
tionally into her brain, she expelled instantaneously, with
hysterical laughter. Lord Halliford turned to her inquiringly.
" What a stupid farce it all is !" she exclaimed, meaning, in her
secret mind, Life and all that is. "' Vanity of vanities, all is
vanity.'"
" Ah !" said Lord Halliford in his quiet voice, that travelled
ten inches and no more, " this is stupid to you; but the boxes
are full of vulgar-minded people, and this just satisfies their
class of intellect. You, who ought to be writing idyls, whose
desire is towards the beautiful and the pure, whose soul takes
wings and would enter the very heavens—you, gifted with
music and song, full of aesthetic aspirations, with a mind
steeped in poetic fancies, yearning for the companionship of the
gods, or, at least, of the great, with the nobles in Art and
Literature, with all that is divine on earth—you are bored
here of course."
She could not compel her thoughts: they were not of her
own creation, they were visitors entering her mind unbidden ;
but as she listened to the poisonous flatteries that, winged with
Zalma
203
truth, buzzed in her ears, she thought how even Lord Halliford,
with his wrinkled face and debauched soul, but with his
superior mind, contrasted favourably with the empty-headed
man whom, out of a kind of perplexity, she had agreed to
make her partner for life; but she only replied, with a toss of
disdain, " Is this the Greek that I was to learn to-night ?"
" No," replied Lord Halliford; " you will learn the Greek
when Ninette Joubert comes on. Ah, she is next; she comes
011 now. The bell has rung ; you will see."
The orchestra struck up neither a tune nor a melody : it was
a catch, a succession of grotesque sounds that, by frequent
repetition, shaped into a sort of ludicrous harmony; then a
woman, foolishly attired, sprang up suddenly through a trap¬
door, with absurd peculiarity, in front of the footlights. The
orchestra suddenly stopped to the sound of the big drum: a
voice, thin perhaps, but commanding attention, burst into a
wild, weirdly unwomanly song; immediately the whole house
was dumb. It was strange, but this woman-creature was a
presence ; she magnetised the people.
She was a Greek, filtered through Paris. She was a Classic,
modernised and caricatured in the guise of a French sensation.
Something human was lacking in her, something animal was
excessive in her; some brute-like instinct, exaggerated beyond
the commonplace and transformed into a' substitute for
spiritual power, gave her the marked command over the
audience which comes only to those who can command the
mysterious and ill-understood forces of animal magnetism.
She held them, every one. The dance which interpreted her
song was full of animalism and individuality, and was fit to
change men into Satyrs. She was made to be a Pacchante in
a revel of the Fauns. Silenus, reeling and leering, should
have borne her in upon his shoulders; young Bacchus,
inebriated from the flowing vat, stained with the red juices of
the vine and smelling of the grape skins, should have footed a
merry measure, while Pan, horned and wreathed, piped a mad
tune ; the drunken nymphs of classic story and cocottcs from
Paris studios, with goats black-bearded and white-hoofed,
204
Zalma
should have frolicked about her in intoxicated revel; and
sportive rams with hungry tongues, ludicrous with grotesque
bestiality, should have accompanied her dance with capricious
steps in the lurid glooms and sulphurous caverns of Etna.
Suddenly she disappeared, with an artifice that was masterly:
the presence had departed: the stage was empty: she had
mysteriously vanished. There was a distinct flash of silence,
succeeded by a furore of whistlings, cat-calls, and other signs of
applause.
Zalma, who was not under the spell, turned to Lord
Halliford. " Still I do not understand Greek," she said.
" Look at the stage-box opposite," he replied, with a gesture
of his hand.
There, conspicuous amidst several of the Variety actresses
who had already appeared, standing up, applauding vociferously
and clapping his hands, she saw Gerard Mountjoy.
" Behold your mate to be, and his mates !" whispered Lord
Halliford behind his programme.
As he spoke Ninette re-entered, suffused with colour and
excited with champagne, under the influence of which only was
she able to do justice to herself. She came through the flies,
and her friendly familiar nod to Gerard, as also his vociferous
salutation to her, as he greeted her with a tumbler of foaming
wine, was unmistakable.
" You brought me here to be a spy, Lord Halliford," said
Zalma in a stately voice; "I am too proud to thank you.
Effie, let us leave this hateful place."
She swept out of the box, and, traversing a corridor full of
painted and powdered women, went home in Beauregard's
carriage.
Mary Hope, Zalma's good angel, was waiting to see her
when she returned. Zalma had written to her, disclosing her
marriage on the morrow, and asking her to be present at the
wedding. She had come over-night, bringing a present for her
old pupil. Zalma embraced her warmly, and was truly de¬
lighted to see her. They drew up chairs to the fire and began
to chatter, as women will. Zalma was rather reserved in talking
Zalma
205
about Gerard, and what she did say was cynical and unhappy.
Mary noticed it, for indeed it was too unmistakable to pass by;
but when she endeavoured to dwell upon the subject of her
husband to be, Zalma changed the topic, and Mary saw that
further allusion to it would be distasteful. She felt very sorry;
and soon both the women lapsed into a sadness which neither
could shake off. Zalma talked about Mary's hospital. When
Miss Hope's holiday engagement with Zalma lapsed, three years
or more ago, Zalma had bought her an old-fashioned country
house at Chertsey, of which she made her the manager, and had
endowed it with settled funds, setting aside a large part of her
income as an endowment, and turning the establishment into
an hospital.
Although Zalma was not then of age, any whim of this
kind was warmly supported by her father; and he took much
interest in the charity.
Zalma often went over to see the poor people who were
there. It was not managed 011 any very rigid lines, but
according to her own sweet will, Mary's good sense correcting
any of the more outrageous benevolences into which Zalma
was occasionally prone to lapse. Some of the inmates were
old people, some mere children, some rich, some hale and well,
having no affliction other than poverty, and some were the
most thorough impostors and arrant humbugs in the country.
But even these, under Mary Hope's excellent guidance, were
benefited, and in due course weeded-out of the establishment,
assisted to some extent towards an honest subsistence, and
advantaged by the wise rule and sensible control which Miss
Hope brought to bear upon all who entered those hospitable
portals. Zalma had a heart so large and so ill-governed that
she was continually sending to "The Retreat" not only waifs
and strays, to whom the shelter was a real boon, and all sorts
and conditions of men, who were immensely benefited by the
charity, but innumerable cases of idle and unprincipled folk,
lazy spongers, and sly rogues, who found out Zalma's weakness
of heart, and who traded on the goodness of her disposition.
She was not entirely taken in always by these cunning beggars ;
206
Zalma
but, amused occasionally by their adroit deceits, and laughing
in her sleeve in anticipation of the expostulation that she knew
she would receive from Miss Hope at her unwisdom, she sent
very often indeed the most unsuitable cases to the Eetreat,
giving them a little note to the Matron, and very often half a
crown besides, which they took cave to spend before getting
there, so that they sometimes arrived half-intoxicated. Indeed,
devilry, more than charity, very often possessed Zalma in
sending her cases to the lletreat; and when she had packed
off to Miss Hope some peculiarly ill-chosen and unsuitable
person, she would positively sniggle with silent laughter. On
the other hand, Zalma had a deep insight into human nature;
and even when she sent such unsuitable folk to receive succour,
she did it, not out of pure " cussedness " only, but because she
knew that even the cheat, the lazy, the impostor, and the rogue
were flesh and blood with herself: compact of good and
evil, having occasional aspirations to honesty and virtue, sinned
against by the world; if drunken and careless and slovenly,
good perchance to their wives, kindly dispositioned to their
children, and though outside the pale of the consideration of
the humane not entirely forfeit to the rights of humanity.
She liked to tease Mary a little by her ill-regulated ideas.
She knew that all doors of the regulated charities were closed
against such persons; and she believed, and believed truly, that
Mary Hope would do them good. So the two women talked
of their charity. It was certain, at anyrate, that Zalma had
denied herself many a pleasure to provide for the poor, that
she had given of her substance to benefit mankind, that her
great, loving heart welled over with sympathy for the sad, the
sick, and the impoverished ; and it was equally sure that Mary
Hope devoted her life with delight to good deeds, and that she
was in very deed a minister from heaven to the children of men.
" I am determined," said Zalma, " to devote myself more to
charitable enterprise, Mary; the more I see of the world and of
Society, the less I care for its conventionalities: its pleasures
are hollow; its extravagances please me sometimes, but I repent
of them; its follies, its littleness, disgust me. If I had not dis-
Zalma
207
covered the utter hypocrisy of the religious—pardon me, Mary
dear—I mean, especially, the villainous hypocrisies and frauds
of my own Church—though I expect yours is just the same,
dear, if one knew, I would take the veil. Still, that would be
hateful too; and if everybody who lived in a convent really
was a saint, I should be dreadfully unhappy. In fact, I don't
know what I mean, nor what I want. I hate the world because
it is wicked, but if it were good I should hate it more than ever.
Oh, I am a silly creature, Mary; and 1 love nobody on earth
but those wretched, miserable poor, and they're so dirty that
I can't bear to go near them. Everything in the world is a
failure, and I—oh I—I am the failure, par excellence."
Her eyes filled with tears as she looked in the fire. Mary
put her arms round her old pupil's neck ; and they both sobbed.
" And you, Mary: of course I love you ; and papa."
" And Gerard," said Mary in her gentle voice.
"No; I hate Gerard!" exclaimed Zalma emphatically,
"and every man that has ever made love to me. Even
Halliford is every bit as good a man as Gerard Mountjoy, and
I care for one quite as much as the other; and that is so
much." She snapped her fingers.
" Zalma, Zalma, don't be so wicked."
" I am not wicked, I am simply truthful," said Zalma, like
a spoilt child. "Halliford! Yes, he is better than Gerard.
He openly professes his wickedness."
" Don't talk of Lord Halliford," said Mary in an awful
whisper. " That bad man."
" I am miserable, Mary; and it is my wedding eve."
" Don't cry, love, oh darling. If you had not been brought
up a Roman Catholic I would ask you to kneel down by my
side, and let me pray with you to the good Jesus to whom we
have been taught in our Church to pray, without the interven¬
tion of any priest. I would ask God, Zalma dear, to pardon
your sins, to give you a new heart, and to confer on you the
peace that passeth understanding."
Zalma kissed her friend's brow and dried her eyes. Then
she sighed very heavily, poked the fire, and lit a cigarette.
208
Zalma
" There," she said. " You are very good to me, Mary. Now,
let me look at your present again. It is very sweet, darling,
and good of you to give it me. I shall always wear it. I
shall treasure it all my life; and now let us go to bed. Sleep
with me, will you, dear ?"
The two friends rested that night in the same bed. Mary,
though seemingly asleep by Zalma's side, lifted up her heart to
God in silent, fervent prayer for her friend ; Zalma tossed
uneasily for hours, worrying her perplexed mind with countless
anxieties, until a beautiful sleep came with gentle solace and
soothed her harrowed soul.
The morning found Zalma refreshed and cheerful.
There were letters from several. Gerard wrote appro¬
priately, Effie more affectionately than she expected, and
Beauregard sent a few telling, hearty words; above all, a
long letter came from her father from Moscow. He knew she
had intended marrying Gerard, to which he raised no objection ;
but he upbraided her for fixing the day so suddenly, and in
his absence, as he would have been present, however simple the
ceremony. She thought this rather illogical of her father, when
she remembered the light way he had spoken to her about
marriage; but she was a most filial daughter, and her respect
and intense love for him were so thorough that she never
allowed her thoughts to question his consistency. He wrote
her at great length, and the letter was full of parental good
wishes, affectionate hopes, and beautiful thoughts for her
happiness. It was full of kind things about Gerard too.
She sobbed over his letter, when there came a long telegram
from him, in which he commended Gerard, and prophesied a
long happiness to both of them. Easily impulsed, she felt
very much relieved, refrained from any but the pleasantest
thoughts, kissed Mary, whose smiling face greeted her like a
sunrise, and got excited as other wires came — from the
Beauregards and Gerard.
It pleased her to think how the secret of her marriage had
been kept. She wondered with amusement what the Cardinal
would say; and if bitter thoughts occurred to her as other
Zalma
209
names connected with her life presented themselves, the devil-
may-care element that so often prompted her pushed all such
ideas out of her mind, and soon she was pleased with the
prettiest possible little telegram from Daisy Bees. Then
Fanny dressed her; and as she always took a long time over
her bath and dressing, she was not finished when her carriage
was announced. However, this caused her no excitement, for
she was never precise or punctual; and if Gerard had to be
kept waiting—well—and she smiled. " I hate that wicked
man Halliford, Mary; I hate him."
" But why speak of him, dear ? "
" Well, then, I won't."
" There is one thing I mean to do," she said; " and it is
almost the last thing: now, Mary darling, I am going to put
this in your hands for the Be treat."
Mary took from her an envelope, and kissed her.
" No, don't open it. Don't bother now, Mary. It doesn't
matter about keeping Gerard waiting, but Effie, you know—
and she has written so kindly too. How do I look ?"
" As you always do—most beautiful."
She was in a travelling dress. Zalma thought, whilst
dressing, how she had twice been arrayed for her wedding,
without a bridal costume on either occasion—she, who was so
fond of dress.
" And now, Fanny the faithful, you." She put a parcel
in her hands. The old negress, whose eyes had been full of
tears, burst out anew into repeated sobs.
" Don't yo' go for to give me nuffin', Missa Zalma, my lil
lub. You ain' goin' from yo' Fan; Fanny ain' goin' from yo\
Kin yo' sho have Marse Gerard. Ef so, don't gib him up;
don't yo' nebba give up yo' husband, Miss Zalma, lil lub. If
yo' marry this time, yo' hav' him—that's whar Nurse Fanny
says. An' yo' keep him. E's lucky, Marse Gerard. Alls
womans none so lubbly as my lil lub—my pretty missy. But
why the hurry—why ain' ole Marsa heah ?"
" He can't be everywhere, Fanny," she said, holding out her
hand; "there—it will be somebody else's soon."
14
2 IO
Zalma
" Eh, tha's white for Marsa Gerard," said Fanny, kissing
the extended hand reverently. " Kin yo' find lil white hands,
Miss Hope, over hyah ? JSTo—no urr women got such luhbly
white hands as my missy. Dem nigger hands urr women!
Yo' le' me put on yo' gloves, lil lub. Ah, ef Her Highness
were liyah; but up dyah, where de angels are, yo' mother sits
along o' our Blessed Lady, de Queen of Heaven. She see her
lil daughter married safe dis time; oh, sho, sho she see dat.
An' yo' faithful Fanny, now she give you her weddin' present.
Dese handkerchiefs belonged to yo' gracious royle mother, my
dear ole Madam the Princess. I keep 'em for now; all lubbly
lace, Spanish lace. Eh, sho. But what for cry, lil lub ? Let
me kiss yo' hand once mo';" and Fanny, lowering her face to
hide the tears, kissed the white fingers of her mistress again
and again.
Mary Hope and Zalma drove away together. The carriage
pulled up suddenly in a dirty mean street, where children were
playing in the gutter. Gerard Mountjoy's carriage was there,
and so also the Beauregards'. Beauregard opened the door of
Zalma's brougham, and Effie gave her a cold kiss as she entered
the dirty little office; Gerard shook hands with her, and she
tried to smile, but felt very nervous. The Registrar took a
pinch of snuff with business-like alacrity, and asked her what
her name was; then he looked up at Gerard and asked his
name; there were one or two other questions, and then two or
three of them signed their names. The Registrar took another
pinch of snuff, and so, in about two minutes, they were man
and wife. The marriage having thus been performed in the
baldest manner, and so quickly that everyone was surprised it
was over, Gerard opened the door into the street, and Mrs.
Mountjoy turned to greet Daisy, who, fulfilling her promise to
Gerard, came to the wedding, and had been sitting unnoticed
on a bare chair. She was pale—white, indeed, like the lily of
the Madonna. As she took Zalma's hand her eyes closed, and,
though she made an effort to stand, she became faint, reeled,
and fell on the floor heavily.
Zalma
2 I I
Gerard, who had opened the door, turned round with a
start and a muttered curse. Zalma looked at Gerard, whose
expression was not of pity, but of anger. "What is the
meaning of this ?" exclaimed Zalma, kneeling on the bare
boards beside the fallen girl, and, with the almost professional
manner that she had caught from her father, she opened the
closed eyelid, listening to her breathing, and feeling her pulse.
Zalma noticed a written paper in the girl's tight grasp. She
opened her hand, and drew out a crumpled letter: it was in
Gerard's writing. He stepped forward and snatched it from
Zalma's hand, whose awakening suspicions were now aroused.
" Hand that back to me," said Zalma, frowning. " What is
this mystery ? What are you concealing from me ?"
" Zalma darling, it is nothing," said Gerard calmly, tearing
the letter in half and doubling it again, yet with a semi-guilty
look that did not escape her quickness.
" Why has Daisy fainted ? What is this secret ? Why
do you attempt to destroy this letter ? Give it to me." She
took the pieces from his hand, almost with a struggle. The
letter was only torn in four: there was no difficulty in
reading it.
It was a plain chronicle of the man's perfidy and of the
woman's love. It was a letter in which he had the folly to
pretend to Daisy Eees that his present marriage with Zalma
was not legitimate. It was a stupid excuse, written with
the intention of mollifying Daisy Ilees, even whilst he
abandoned her. It was the letter of a fool, even more
obviously than the letter of a knave. Zalma read it with the
calm that invariably meant so much in her, and looked at
Gerard with an expression that, with all its lofty contempt, was
merely the concealment of her disdain. She handed him the
pieces of the letter between her finger and thumb in a quiet
manner that conveyed more meaning than a thousand con¬
temptuous words, and, again kneeling 011 the fioor, she felt
Daisy's pallid brow, kissed her cold cheeks, and raised her to
a sitting posture, Mary Hope assisting her. The Eegistrar,
with a quill between his teeth, looked 011 apprehensively.
212
Zalma
" Poor child, she does not know how cheap is the love of
men," was all that Zalma said in reproach. But her two eyes
flashed at Gerard, as she said it, like two scythes, that might
have mown him down. For a moment she stood at the door¬
way, and nodded a gesture to the footman. " Help this girl
into the brougham," she said to him. The man could not
understand. Daisy was thickly covered with dust from the
floor. His mistress's knees and skirts were dust-covered, her
attire disturbed ; however, the order was distinct. He put
his arms about her and lifted her into the carriage, Miss
Hope also assisting. The Kegistrar, who had now got his quill
behind his ear, produced a snuff-box and handed it to Gerard.
Afterwards, Zalma, musing over the event, recollected this
incident, and also the snuff-taking at her Malta marriage: it
touched her sense of humour, and she often laughed sadly,
musingly, at thoughts born of this trifling episode. The foot¬
man having placed Miss Pees in the brougham with Miss
Hope, Zalma followed; the man then shut the door, as a
matter of course. Gerard opened it again instantly. The
man touched his hat, and stood holding the handle. " There
is not room for you, Mr. Mountjoy," said Zalma icily.
" Zalma !" exclaimed Gerard angrily.
" Close the door," said Zalma to the servant.
" Where to, Miss ?" asked the well-trained man, touching
his hat.
" To Miss Kees' house, Cardigan Terrace."
In a moment the brougham whisked off, leaving Gerard
standing on the pavement.
He flung himself into his own carriage and followed
savagely. His sister and Beauregard endeavoured to soothe
him.
Miss Pahlen's brougham—Mrs. Mountjoy's, we should now
say—stopped at Cardigan Terrace, and Daisy recovered con¬
sciousness as she was being assisted out. Mary got out with
her, at Zalma's request. With shrinking timidity Daisy
walked past the servant up the stairs and disappeared with
Mary.
Zalma
213
Gerard, who had seen all this from his own carriage,
alighted quickly, and now put his foot inside Zalma's brougham.
" There is room now, I suppose," he said coarsely.
" There is not," said Zalma, pulling the door.
'' Are you mad ?" exclaimed Gerard, aghast.
She gave no reply but the click of the latch as she closed
the carriage-door.
" Zalma, you are now my wife," protested Gerard.
" Perhaps. If so, if I am your legitimate wife, we must
have a separation."
The imperturbable footman, who had of course heard every
word, touched his hat.
" Where to, madam ?"
" My hotel."
CHAPTEE XXYI.
ALMA dismissed her carriage at the hotel door
and ordered lunch in her own room alone. She
ate little, but sat upright in a high-backed chair,
disconsolate and cross. She had no one to sym¬
pathise with her—not even Fanny, who was
indeed at that moment waiting for her mistress's arrival at
Paddington Station. Eanny was to have accompanied her
mistress on the honeymoon. They had dispensed with the
wedding breakfast and with all other formalities, and had
intended to lunch in the Pullman, en route. Her father was in
Moscow. The Cardinal, in whom she had, however, ceased to
confide, was at hand in Kensington; and for a moment her
thoughts turned to him, but she repelled the idea. Xumerous
portraits of Gerard were about her rooms: she took them out
of their frames, and, tossing them into the grate, lit the fire,
which was already laid, with her own hands; laughing hysteri¬
cally, she watched these photographs of her husband as they
blazed up the chimney. A fan-shaped rack-frame hung on
her wall full of photographs of men, their various heads
forming a sort of pattern, like the eyes in a peacock's tail.
Gerard's was there. She took it out and tossed that into the
flames too; then she studied the heads of all the others. There
was Lord Halliforcl, with his cruel, fascinating eyes, his ugly
ears, his big forehead that gave such a look of power to his
striking face. There was Prince John, with the amiable
lineaments so like his father's; there was her cousin—twenty-
seven times removed—the Due d'Amiens, whose morals were
214
Zalma
215
Bourbon morals at best; Beauregard's strong, well-chiselled
features, but—no matter the passing thought; Beaumaris;
Dandy, Dandy the irresolute, that weakly, good-tempered man ;
and a dozen others so like. How little she really knew of
men ! How her instincts really yearned almost unconsciously
towards the love of one! Fashioned as she was, compact of
fire and flesh, was her head never to rest in the languor of ease
on the strong bosom of a man ; was she destined for ever to
loneliness; were her lips to pout unkissed, her breasts to
heave unsoothed, uncomforted ; was her heart, barren of
delight and of love, to beat without a fit response and to throb
in pain only all her days ? She thought of her father's words:
" Youth is the time for love. Love often; let all your soul
go out in love and overflow." She thought of her own vows of
hate, and yet of her instinctive desires,—her passionate yearn¬
ings, her aspirations to love and to be loved. She wondered
why it was that all the incidents of her life appeared to con¬
spire towards creating and confirming in her bosom a hatred
for mankind. She thought of poor little Daisy Bees, swooning
for the love of a man who loved her not. She remembered a
score of trifling incidents which combined to show her how
that devoted creature had been victimised by this perjured
lover, and, when she reflected on the outrageous letter she had
read in the office of the Begistrar, she took up a fan in an im¬
pulse of anger, and, drawing it across the rack of photographs,
swept them all to the floor; all but one. Lord Halliford's,
somehow, remained fixed in the rack. Singular always, there
seemed something fateful about him; that solitary photograph,
with his mocking smile, looked down at her. She felt she
could hear the hollow laugh with which the Cynic barbed his
bitter comments. His spirit was there in the room, and
haunted her.
How he would laugh at her now if he knew the truth!
With what sardonic polish could he smooth a jest at her
expense! How nimbly the slander would speed from ear to ear!
How the Society which she in turn loved and hated would revel
in his sarcasm!
Zalma
She knew that Gerard would come soon. She had given
distinct orders that he was not to be admitted.
What fatality was hers !
She who, more than most women, was made for the com¬
radeship of a true man—so full of love and of sympathy, so
endowed with wealth of heart and opulence of loving-kindness,
so abounding in passionate impulses and intense yearnings
towards the love that was her supreme desire, and which, with
every month of her life, increased into a vague longing that
directed and controlled her, that swayed her being and com¬
manded her with a dominance of whose powerful and imperious
dictates she was little conscious—she, of all women, to be thus
bound to solitariness! Such of the truth as she recognised she
repelled from her mind with scorn. But the thoughts would
come. She, knowing not herself, knew only that she suffered
from a strong desire, that her heart longed for satisfaction, that
there craved within her an unslaked appetite which would and
must be filled. Was she to be tortured for ever with unful¬
filled hopes and unquenched thirst ? Were the men of her
destiny always to be perjured and mean, liars and routs? Was
her mother's fate hereditary ? Was love, that necessity of her
life, to be made impossible ? Or was it her own fault ? Was
she not herself insincere, unfaithful, untrue ? Did she criticise
men too hardly ? Was it in the nature of their lives and as
part of their masculine being, that they were false and
traitorous, double-faced always, and base ? Had her marriage
helped her one iota ? No; it doomed her only to worse than
perpetual widowhood.
There was a faint knock at her door; was it Gerard ?
Should she open the door and forgive him ? No, the thought
of him was loathsome to her. He was utterly unworthy. How
could she escape him ? Whither could she hurry, to be rid of
his insufferable presence ? Again the knock. Was it her
husband ?—for she knew without doubt that he was her husband
in law. She went towards the door to close it with a double
lock; it opened, and Lord Halliford stood before her.
He looked serious. Beneath his shaggy brows two eyes,
Zalma
217
filled with sympathy, looked at her through her tears and read
her soul.
He put his hand in hers. His was a firm grip, like the
grasp of a friend.
" You hate me for making you a spy ? "
"I do; I hate you, I hate him—worse, I despise, I detest
him. Why did i not send him about his business last
night, when the hour was ripe ?"
" You would escape from him ?" he said in a deep voice.
" Say you would give almost your life to save yourself from
such a life. I know it."
" Yes," she said impulsively, " I would."
" You are dressed, gloved, bonneted. My carriage is
waiting. Come with me."
" Where ?"
" Out of his way; he will soon be here."
" Where—where shall I go to escape him ?" she exclaimed,
shuddering.
"To the world's end—where you will. To the Lakes,
the Highlands, or to new and other worlds; some sunlit isle—
to Ceylon—Japan; say only where, but come quickly ; or let
me order it—let me decide. You want the arm of a man to
protect you; the tongue of a tyrant to order you. You require
one whom you can respect,—a man who loves you truly,—
not one whose butterfly lips taste every flower that blows;
let me show you what love truly means. I will lead you
as a master, or obey you, 0 beautiful queen! as a slave. You
do not know me. I boast no virtues, but, by God! I adore
you. Come, Zalma, let us go together and quaff the wine
of life from the flower-cups of Eden; let us stroll in the love-
lit glades, where brighter light than sunshine sheds its
ineffable beauty, and tints every episode of life with opalescent
hues. Come with me. Ennoble me. Let us read odes
together. Let us live in poetry: let our lives become an
idyl. You can raise me, 0 sweet intelligence! to your own
level—to that aesthetic height which is your natural stage
in life's drama, and from which you have descended too long.
Zalma
Come where the love-birds sing, where the afternoons are
languid with the joys of love, where the amorous hours melt
into the tenderness of slumber, where the dawn brings an
embrace. Come, but come quickly."
" No," she replied. " How dare you speak so ? I will go
from here to my river cottage—alone."
He had not let go her hand; now he relinquished it, only
when he threaded her arm through his own.
"At least let me see you to Waterloo. Your servant is
not here. You are absolutely alone. I will take your ticket
and put you in the train."
They walked quickly down the corridor: reaching the
stairs, she almost ran. His brougham was at the door;
they got in.
"Quick. Home," he said to his coachman in an emphatic
undertone.
In a few minutes they were at his town house in Belgrave
Square. A well-drilled servant opened the door at once as
the brougham stopped. She had fainted; whether naturally
or through some fiendish scheme of his, who shall say ?
She was carried straight upstairs to a large room that he
called his den. He laid her inanimate form upon a sofa, and
locked the door with a silent turn of the key.
CHAPTER XXVII.
ORI) HALLIFORD had his revenge. Four years
ago her whip had chastised him publicly. A
greater publicity attended the shame with which
he loaded her now.
Gerard Mountjoy, so openly repelled and
rebuffed by his wife, was like a wild bull in his disappointed
rage. He declared he would not go near her till she pined for
him; and in the next breath he swore he would dog her foot¬
steps wherever she went, if he had to follow her to the ends
of the earth. As a matter of fact, after she drove off from
Daisy's house alone he was at his wit's end' what to do.
He had an altercation with his sister and Beauregard on the
pavement. He could not believe that she had really seriously
repulsed him: surely it was but a fit of Zalma's temper. He
believed too much in himself to think it possible that he could
thus be spurned in dire earnest. At the worst, he gave her
credit for a sudden ebullition of anger, which would bubble
over and be done. The question was, where had she gone ?
He looked at his watch. There was still time to catch the
2.15 at Paddington, the train by which they had originally
intended to start upon their honeymoon. With an oath he
told his coachman to drive to the station, and got into his
carriage alone, where he cursed and simmered, red with rage,
Beauregard and his wife following in their own brougham.
At Paddington, Gerard walked up and down the platform
fuming, until the train steamed out of the station. Any hope
he had that his wife had driven there was ended. Fanny was
219
220
Zalma
on the platform with band-boxes and trunks, in tears, wonder¬
ing whatever had become of her " lil lub," and Gerard did
not enlighten her when he told her to go to the devil.
There was nothing for it but to do as Beauregard had origin¬
ally suggested, namely, to go to her hotel. Gerard cursed
her. They all got into one carriage and drove to the
Metropole, Beau doing all he could to calm his friend. Effie
tried to console him by saying ill-natured things of Zalma.
She declared she sincerely hoped she had run away for ever,
and that he would never see her again; that she wasn't
worthy of him; and that everybody agreed that she was
a nasty cat. At this Beau smiled his dry smile; and then
Effie, who had lost her temper, upbraided her husband with
having been at the bottom of the whole affair. Beau passed
this over, like a wise man, and, arriving at the hotel, begged
Effie to go in and see Zalma, and try to persuade her to be a
sensible woman and a good wife. Effie was excited, but, becom¬
ing convinced it was the right thing to do, she calmed herself
and went up straight to the Pahlen's suite, which she of
course knew well. She knocked repeatedly but got no
answer, until a servant told her that Miss Pahlen had gone
out ten minutes ago with a gentleman. With this informa¬
tion Effie went back. Gerard turned white—livid with anger;
and while he was fuming, Beauregard ascertained that it was
Lord Halliford who had taken her away; this made him very
grave, but he kept the information to himself, and said they
had better go home to luncheon. Effie thought the best thing
they could do was to spread the news at once all over
the town. Beau, on the contrary, that the least said the
soonest mended. Gerard said, very truly, it didn't matter
what they did—the servants had been witnesses of the whole
affair. She had made a fool of him before their eyes. Job,
Gerard's valet, was in fact still at Paddington, waiting for
orders, with his master's luggage, and the whole town would
soon know more than they did,
However the Mountjoys and the Beauregards might hush-
up the scandal, there was one who took good care that all the
Zalma
22 1
town knew it—Lord Halliford. He drove Mrs. Mountjoy in a
stylish cart down Piccadilly, through Hyde Park Corner, and
along the Drive. He drove her with a smart pair down Pall
Mall, and took care to call at his club for letters. He took her
to the theatre, sat alone with her in a box, and afterwards to
the Savoy to supper. He took her to Brighton, where he had
an establishment of his own, and rode with her along the
King's Parade. Before the eyes of the world he deliberately and
maliciously exposed his new friendship with the woman whose
lash he still felt at times upon his cheek, and the sting of
which the club wits had never let sleep. His was the triumph
now. His mocking smile was dignified wherever he went with
the symptoms of his pride. He had not only conquered the
loveliest woman of the season, but he had dragged her from
the heights, and now exhibited her to the scoff of mankind, to
the scorn of her sex, and to the scandal of Society. All this
without a word. Neither in private or public did he utter her
name, except to herself. No one could upbraid him with
scandalising her. No one could charge him with speaking a
word to her injury, no one could prove anything against him
but an intimate friendship ; yet he made her a public mockery,
and her reputation a reproach.
"You have been twice married," he said to her one day.
" To the Prince, who merely wanted to cage his bird, and who
well knew that the pscuclo marriage was but a pretence, a ruse
by which he hoped to have a lien upon you ; again to Gerard
Mountjoy, who would not have regarded this second marriage
as legitimate. In me you have a sincere lover, no more.
Faithful and constant love—that is what I give you."
She would have wept, but scorned to do so before Lord
Halliford. She withdrew quietly to her room and burst into
tears.
It did not take Zalma long to discover that she had now
sinned against the world for ever. One moment's thought
would have told her; and she knew it in a flash by the first
trifling slight she received. The sin, that our Saviour forgave,
the world never forgives, and Zalma knew well that she and
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Zalma
Society were irrevocably severed. Effie Mountjoy, meeting her
in the Bow, looked straight into her face without even the
recognition of disdain, ignoring her with that supreme con¬
tempt which is more cutting than the bitterest sneer. Though
London was empty, Brighton was full; and many ladies at
whose houses she had visited either averted their faces as she
passed them, or elevated their eyebrows as they surveyed her
with the insolent stare of perfect virtue. Of course the in¬
vitations which used to come to her so frequently entirely
ceased. As the women grew chillier the men grew warmer.
Men who had • been polite became familiar; even the mob,
which had been admiring, became impudent. She knew that
she had been sold. She saw through Lord Halliford's move,
but she did not let him perceive that she had discovered him.
She was wide-awake now. She resolved to wait.
"Who is that?" she asked one day, looking at a portrait
in the picture gallery, as a long corridor in Lord Halliford's
Brighton house was called.
"Lady Halliford," he answered, toying with his watch-
chain.
" Your wife ?"
" Was."
" Is she dead—or divorced ?"
" She divorced me."
" An intellectual woman !"
" She is in a lunatic asylum now."
" Shall you marry again ?"
" Never. It is unnecessary: so many other people have
wives."
She bit her tongue, but, excepting that, did not move a
muscle.
Gerard was by 110 means one of the earliest to hear the
latest scandal. The news of his marriage did not spread with
the rapidity that might have been expected. It was not
announced in any of the newspapers; all the witnesses of it,
and they—as the reader knows—could be counted 011 one hand,
were silent about it; the servants, bribed and cautioned,
Zalma
223
chattered less than usual; and, to be brief, the marriage re¬
mained a secret. But the open liaison between Zalma and Lord
Halliford was on the tip of every tongue. Beauregard in fact
heard confirmation of it very soon, and, fearing lest Gerard
should do something desperate, he took him off to Norway on a
shooting expedition.
She got several letters from Gerard, full of declarations of
his love and of apology for his misconduct, suing for mercy
and forgiveness, wondering where she was and what had be¬
come of her. When he knew, he wrote her a letter full of
curses and blasphemies. Letters from the Cardinal reached
her—letters of affectionate remonstrance, and, finally, of angry
condemnation.
Scorned by the world, she had one opportunity left—to
insult it.
Zalma had never been photographed. Her father, 110 doubt,
had reasons against it—probably not the reasons he alleged to
her. Lord Halliford suggested she should go into Mayall's,
for she would never look better in her life.
"You would like to see me," she replied, "in every shop-
window, my features discussed by every butcher and baker
—'my Lord's lady.'" It was the first time she let him know
that she felt her true position.
He laughed uneasily.
She went to a picture gallery one day, however, to see a
picture that the Lector of St. Peter's was about to present
to the church of his native village. The picture was on view
to the public in a small well-lit gallery in the Western Load.
She went in with Lord Halliford; the subject was the
Annunciation.
"What is the painter's name?" inquired Zalma, pausing
long before it. It was very beautiful: the Virgin was throned
before a kneeling angel; lilies surrounded her with whiteness
and filled the picture with ideas of purity. The subject was
reverently treated, and a serene peace reposing in the quietude
of its colouring spiritualised the devout conception.
" It is placid and holy," said Zalma; " calm, like the
224
Zalma
soul of an angel who has never known earth. Who painted
it?"
" A young artist, Gordon Arthur—a Catholic, of course."
An idea flashed into her mind. She was vain of her
beauty: she knew herself to be superbly lovely. What an
outrage to the World, with whom she was at war—to the
Church and to the World alike—if she were painted as the
Madonna!
" Would he take a commission from me ?" she said.
" To paint ? Doubtless. He is young, not famous yet.
Artists have none too many patrons."
She made an appointment with him: she wrote that she
would like to give him a commission, to see him, to sit for him,
to be painted as the Madonna.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HETHER a dash of "original sin" is put into
every human being's soul at birth, and whether
some infants are more heavily handicapped in
this respect than others, are questions which I
will leave to theologians; but this I am free to
declare, that a large element of sin—whether original or derived,
I know not—had now become enwoven in Zalma's nature, and,
interpreting her conduct in accordance with the teachings of
orthodox dogma, I apprehend that wicked, vengeful, and
diabolical enterprises assailed her soul: that she listened to
the Tempter with willing ear, that she made Satan welcome
in her heart, and that he, finding such comfortable quarters
there, made himself quite at home—nested indeed and bred
within her, and used her beauty, her influence, her daring, and
her fascinations to diabolically allure and tempt mankind
to eternal ruin.
No vexation was more galling to Zalma than her conscious¬
ness that Lord Halliford had bested her. Revenge upon him
possessed her temporarily with supreme force, though it did
not take such deep root in her heart as to equal the intensity
of her general hatred of mankind. To plunge the dagger, that
was the hereditary symbol and the historical weapon of her
family hate, into his heart, seemed to her to be giving him too
much honour. As he reposed in his aesthetic ease and gloated
over her, toying with her hair and touching her glowing form
with his cold and ugly hands, he little knew how false was the
smile that beamed from those velvet eyes, nor would he have
i5
226
Zalma
lain in such languorous delight had he known that the white
teeth parting in laughter were longing to fasten upon his neck
that they might tear his jugular, as a tigress has instinct to
destroy her prey. Longer-headed and further-sighted than
many men, he was yet complacent and deceived through his
overweening self-esteem. He never made so gross an error
as to think that Zalma had fallen in love with him. He
merely believed that, having won her by fraud, he was assert¬
ing an ownership of her by his own boasted power and influ¬
ence over women,—a power acquired through the long and
wicked experience of a lifetime devoted to the study of their
foibles and follies. His judgment was not entirely at fault.
He knew, indeed, that she loved not him, but the companion¬
ship he brought her. And there he was right. Too experi¬
enced, too sagacious a man to let his conceit blind him
altogether, he was satisfied to know that lie was the solace
of her voluptuous hours, the physical master of her weakness
and her strength. But his judgment of their joint position was
not quite a correct one. He deemed that Zalma was allured
by his tongue, whereas she had merely fallen into his arms
because he was by her side when she fainted, and, when she
awoke, was but half herself—under the influence, probably, of
some drug that had been surreptitiously administered to her.
He interpreted her smiles at his cynicisms as an appreciation
of his wit; and he believed, as so many ugly men do, that his
very ugliness was attractive to women, and that his wickedness
had a Byronic fascination over the whole sex.
But, truly enough, though he laughed up his sleeve at his con¬
quest, he was not playing so much with Zalma, as she with him.
Every time that her supple hands rested on his brow he ought
to have felt the tiger's claw. Every hour he spent under the
glamour of her gaze, he ought to have seen that the wild beast
within her was gloating over him with suppressed vengeance.
Her plan of revenge was as simple as it was subtle. She
had decided to make him love her, to truly use his regard, to
wake his love and agitate his heart, and to torment him with
love's denial and the agonies of jealousy and despair.
Zalma
227
She made herself necessary to him. She flattered every
phrase he made. Never had he such a listener. She appeared
to appreciate everything that he did, everything that he was.
She beheld genius in his small accomplishments. Love, which
had never before, probably, put forth a bud from his heart,
began to unfold in him. The selfish man vanished, the lover
became apparent, life, which had for so many years been with
him an affair of the senses only, became a field for the spirit.
Yes, new ideas broke in upon him. This temptress, who now
engaged a Beelzebub in the finesse of her play, held the
virtues for her trumps. She led him by the high paths and
into the mountains. Poetry, which he read well, and for which
she bepraised him highly, took him into the Olympian groves.
Philosophy tipped his tongue with fluent wings, and led him
into heights and mazes that surprised no one more than
himself. Self-satisfied and self-admiring, he wondered what
he might have been had some brilliant spirit such as this
struck fire from the flint of his heart ere he had grown into
the dull grooves and ruts of middle age. He had scorned a
public career. He had never taken part in the debates in
Parliament; and if ever he went to the House of Lords, it was
merely to record his vote, on some occasion when the whips
were urgent. Zalma discovered (what he had himself only
suspected) that he was a born orator. She interested him in
politics and woke his ambition. A brighter light came into
his eye, a kinder spirit crept into his heart. He looked down
upon his bygone life with disgust—in what marshes and sloughs
had he been content, with what boors, with what sluts, had he
spent the rare days of youth and prime! Now, as Zalma
thrilled the harp that Daisy Pees had taught her, the voice of
a goddess and the music of love declared to him a real
interpretation of himself, and revealed how instinct he was
with the higher and the nobler gifts. He turned to the
beautiful; and in that mental elevation he did indeed become,
if not a true penitent, a purer, higher-minded, finer spirit, from
whom, by the relentless logic of the eternal laws, the baser,
the carnal, and the mean fell, as parasites unable to feed upon
228
Zalma
growths and developments from which there was no sustenance.
Her gracious but adroit flatteries, her smooth manners, her
soft attentions, her own elegancies and graces, the devotion
of her body and soul to his newly-awaking desires, became
necessities of a nature, now arrogant of good as erst of evil,
even as some invalid who has abandoned the love of life acquires,
in the balm of a Southern clime, where all nature is bland and
suave, a new delight in the world, and yearns and craves for a
new lease of a happier life.
" Zalma," he said to her one morning, with a strange beam
of tenderness that had not often shone from his hard eyes;
" in my love for you I am beginning to recognise new prospects
in the world. I am in a frame of mind that might lead me to
God."
She looked at him impassively. He was quite serious.
" Let us go to Mass," she answered, laying her fingers upon
the silver cross that had been her mother's.
They were both of the same communion. The brougham
was ordered, and they went to St. Lawrence Justinian's. Zalma
dressed in her simplest frock, and looked as demure as the most
innocent child.
" I never loved you more, Zalma, than to-day," said Lord
Halliford on their return. " Purely, soberly, and with a love
so true and real that a change seems to have overtaken my
whole nature. I feel devout. In you, Zalma, there is a vein
of holiness which has awakened in me aspirations long, ah ! too
long, stilled. Even in the worst men the goodness lies some¬
where. It is hidden, buried, almost choked with ill-weeds, but,
so long as we are human, we are not altogether vile. You
have made me a penitent. I have wronged you, Zalma; and
you, you lead me to God. You are to me now as a wind-torn
lily that I would bind and heal—to which I would restore its
true beauty, until its white shapeliness and perfection became
again the incarnation of purity and its fragrance the essence of
all goodness. My heart opens toward you with no carnal
longings, but with the hallowed yearnings of one whom Our
Lady has looked on with pity and forgiveness. You, Zalma,
Zalma
229
have taught me the infinite of the Blessed Virgin. I kneel to
you as I would to the Madonna, for you have not sinned. I
stole your love too basely." He covered his eyes with his
hands, as though, indeed, he was again in St. Lawrence
Justinian's, praying before the altarpiece in the Lady Chapel.
A smile of contempt played over Zalma's face, and for a
few moments she speculated whether Lord Halliford was
sincere. But she did not long doubt. His face was wet with
tears. Something which she did not understand had touched
the flinty heart of the old worldling. Elevating her eyebrows
in surprise, for she had anticipated a wearier struggle to com¬
pass her revenge, she contemplated this strange spectacle of a
rout reformed ; but when Lord Halliford raised his eyes towards
her he saw only a tender and forgiving face—he saw a new
beauty in Zalma in the devout and saint-like expression she
now assumed, and under which she concealed her truer self.
"Even our sins may be absolved," she murmured, feigning
the tear that welled over and stole slowly down her cheek.
"Yours, Zalma," he answered, crossing himself reverently
and murmuring a prayer; " but mine ! "
She rose, and, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, sought
her own room, leaving him bowed before a crucifix.
Erom that hour Lord Halliford's relations with Zalma
became changed. He looked upon her as a penitent with
himself, a tearful Magdalen, and in the newness of her inno¬
cence he regarded her face with such reverence as he felt before
the veritable Madonna. She frequently caught his chastened,
yet almost idolatrous, glances, and frequently assumed that
sweet and holy expression of benignity which Raphael has
given in so many of his Virgins. It amused her now to play
upon the heart of this man, and to test the truth of his affection.
Sometimes she would coax him with all the innocent sweetnesses
of a sister, and then, regarding even such familiarity as vain
and worldly, she would lead him with hymns into a religious
calm. She read 'Thomas a Kcmpis to him in her melodious
voice, softer than the most dulcet strains of St. Lawrence
Justinian's organ, and would then leave him to excite his own
230
Zalma
soul by meditation and reflection. All the afternoon she would
dawdle in her own room over her cigarettes and a novel, whilst
he longed for her, in order that he might confess again all the
errors of his life. There was a tenderness and a sympathy
in this woman-saint and fellow-sinner, with whom he now spent
his hours in such singular comradeship. Of all her poses, none
were so effective as her pose of sorrow and tears. Yet she was
careful not to weary him with piety. She knew the human
heart too well to believe that his penitence, however genuine,
would last long, and she varied his seduction with lapses and
backslidings. She would appear at dinner in some stylish
gown, like an utter worldling who lived only for fashion and
dress, her beautiful arms bare beyond the shoulder, the
rotundities of her bosom like two cold worlds of snow, yet
with visible motion palpitating beneath, and with the current
of life running through the blue veins that were like rivulets on
the white mountains. Her dress, open at the back almost to the
waist, according to the style of most modern vogue, showed the
lovely ivory curves of her sinuous spine. Her pearls, like
innumerable moonlit spheres, rose and fell upon her living
breast, or hung upon her fingers, her arms, her throat, her hair,
until lie was half-hypnotised by the continual shimmer of
their delicate lustre. A scent, remote, almost imperceptible,
and yet stealing upon his senses as a cat slithers upon a bird,
exhaled from her laces. Withal her physical temptations, and
now and again an amorous glance, thrown with an affectation of
modesty, or at least followed by a look of penitence, she
assumed a calm stateliness of manner, a dignity in which,
indeed, there was no affectation. Her conversation was flitter¬
ing, clever, yet seemingly unconscious. There was not a word
of levity nor a word even of love. Her superiority, her well-
bred, worldly womanliness, were soothing to this worldling of
worldlings. He partook freely of his wine. His newly-born
semi-religious craze took wing; his own clever tongue capped
her paradoxes, and created new ones. Each was excellent
company to the other; there was a lightsomeness in their wit
free though it was from frivolity; and when the coffee came,'
Zalma
231
with the almost wicked liqueur—peach-flavoured—and the
scented cigarettes which Zalma smoked with such grace as she
sank 011 the couch of softest down, Lord Halliford was no
longer a penitent and a pietist, but an ardent lover again. His
lambent eyes awoke with the old lusts beneath his shaggy
brows, and his great hairy hands trembled with the pulses of
passion as he touched the delicate and jewelled fingers of his
mistress. But she repelled him with an austerity that ill
became her dress. The devout manner that she so often now
assumed at pleasure seemed strangely incongruous when the
severe glance fell upon him from over her feathered fan, but
the smile that followed was irresistible. Maddened though he
was with her arts and coquetries, she would not respond to
his importunities, but left him craving and full of longings
unsatisfied.
Sometimes she would return to him, cover him with kisses,
and cling to him in a passionate embrace. Then she would
feign to tear herself from him, as with regret. Taking up a
Missal, she would cross herself before a crucifix, and, leaving
one long rapturous kiss upon his lips, would run from him
laughing, mischievous, diabolical. He could not understand
her. The love she showed him was at once an allurement and
a flattery. She seemed to care for him, to love him in very
deed, and to concern herself even for the welfare of his soul.
When next he saw her, her eyes, fixed on some sacred symbol,
would be thrown upwards like a saint's adoring, an almost
divine sweetness would lie upon her lips, and smooth all her
features with the benign radiance of piety.
A struggle was now tearing his very heart. It was foreign
to him to feel at all; callous had he been towards all the world
for many a long year. Zalma had discovered how to string
and strike those chords which exist in every man. If Lord
Halliford had dragged her into the dust and brought her to
shame, he it was through whom she discovered the secret that
gave her a strange power. It was not by physical charm
alone that the revenge upon man, which she was bent upon
achieving, was to be attained, but by a devilish awakening of
232
zalma
the highest impulses in his nature, and a warping of these to
evil. The mere body of man—his " blood, bone, marrow, passion,
feeling "—any ordinary woman could arouse to sensual flame, but
to awake the intellect, to lead that to its furthest tether and
altitude, and then to touch the inner soul, the true and very
man within that actual identity! What an art! What an
interest in this psychological study !
He said to her one day, after some weeks of this by-play,
" You look more like the Blessed Virgin than does the actual
altarpiece in the Lady Chapel at St. Justinian's. If Gordon
Arthur, who painted Our Lady at the Oratory, had you for a
model—"
" I have set my heart upon it," she interposed; " the
appointment is made. I am to see him, and sit soon."
To be adored as a Madonna! The idea occurred to her as
diabolically humorous. She had made up her mind to be
an abnormally wicked woman. Yet mothers should pray to
her, maidens should murmur their Ave Marias, and men,
kneeling before her, and thinking, as they gazed, of mother
and maid, should offer to her deaf ears their prayers- and
praise.
She resolved to leave Lord Halliford at once, and that
Gordon Arthur should paint her without delay.
While the fit lasts there is a delight in wickedness itself,
and in the completeness of it. Every schoolgirl in a temper
exhibits this peculiar trait in human nature; but with Zalma
it was carried to an extraordinary extreme. She craved, in
particular, to ruin Lord Halliford, body and soul—to make him
walk the plank into the bottomless pit. Hot that he required
assistance. His doom, she reflected with wicked satisfaction,
was sure. But to ruin him at once—now to be done with
him. It was her turn for revenge. Her hate of men was
becoming a hatred of humanity. She began to revel in the
magnitudes of spite and malice.
How could she make him feel ?
There is but one way with such a worldling, she mused,
as Fanny, her faithful servant, dressed her for dinner in the
Zalma
233
blazing Parisian dress that she chose for the night. " I must
touch him in his pocket. He must be bankrupt through me
in the eyes of the world. I must break him utterly."
She laughed at the devilry of her idea,
" Why you laugh, lil lub ? " said the negress, showing her
own great row of ivories.
" Bouge me," she answered; " powder my face and rouge
me. Darken my eyebrows, Fanny."
" And spoil Missa's complexion with paint, like a play-
actress," said Fanny sorrowfully. " No 'ooman in this worl'
got a complex—"
"Yes," interrupted Zalma feverishly; "I want to act a
part to-night, Fanny. I want to be dressed as women are
who extort money from men. Friz up my hair. No flowers
to-night: put in feathers. Take the lace out of my bodice.
Touch my eyes with belladonna. More scent; no, not the
ambergris, it is too delicate; give me something stronger—
musk, saturate me with musk. Give me the powder-puff. I
will do it myself."
She stood before her glass and painted her face, ogling
herself, and laughing the hard, sad laugh of wickedness.
Alas! the progress of Sin is prompt. How Satan sways
when he establishes his reign !
Fanny was concerned for her mistress, and expostulated in
negro patois.
" Go to your own room," flashed Zalma angrily.
" No, no, lil lub," cried Fanny, sinking on her knees, and
kissing her mistress's hands. " Nebber no sen' away yo'
faithful nigger. From de fust Fanny wuz dere; Fanny nursed
her lil lub wen she only weigh two or dree pouns; Fanny paid
her bespecks to de ole Marsa, and de ole Marsa say, When my
lil Zalma grows up, I specks yo' to keep yo' eye on de lil
'ooman. So, now, I's not a gwine to go to my room. No;
I feed de lil bab, I teach her walkie. I do whar ole Marsa say.
But Fanny say too much; she's a naughty nigger, Fanny is."
She went on dressing her mistress, who sat, silent and
scowling, with desperate thought, whilst under her servant's
234
Zalma
hands. At length Fanny said, with an odd little courtesy of
conceit, and in a manner that she had caught from some French
maid, " Madame est finie."
It was Fanny's invariable conclusion, uttered with all the
gravity of a priest's " Amen," and it always brought a smile to
Zalma's face.
Thus " over-dressed " (as it is the custom to call half-clothed
women), Zalma swept into the drawing-room, where Lord
Halliford was already waiting. He exclaimed as she entered.
" Well," said Zalma defiantly; " do you not like me ? Are
you tiring of me already ?"
" Dearest," he replied.
" How I dislike that superlative, Lord Halliford. It
suggests—others."
He passed over the remark discreetly. " I have a new
piece of Sevres for your boudoir." He put the vase into her
hands.
She laughed a mocking, assumed laugh. " This! this!
For me, you say—this piece of china !"
He bowed.
She looked at it with a supercilious curiosity, turning it
round and round in her hands, and examining the dainty
workmanship. Then she tossed it on to the parquet floor,
where it was shattered to fragments.
" Zalma !" he exclaimed. " Why did you do that ?"
" Because I want to break things."
" Poor vase," said Lord Halliford, in a mock-heroic tone,
as he looked at the shreds. " And nobody to shed a tear over
you."
" Nobody to shed a tear over you," echoed Zalma dreamily.
She went to the piano and played a sad melody, Schubert's
Addio ; changed it to a valse, stopped abruptly, and said nastily,
" Halliford, did you desire to insult me when you gave me that
paltry vase ?"
" Paltry vase ? My love ! You know I would give you the
world if it were mine. Do learn to be sincere."
She laughed derisively.
Zalma
235
He rose and came towards her, wondering.
" Surely you know, after all I have said in admiration of
it, that there is no ware I care for but Martin ware. This
century has not produced many men to be proud of; but the
Martins are men."
" And potters," said Lord Halliford, with his sneer.
"Yes, my Lord, and potters !" exclaimed Zalma, genuinely
vexed at last. " To a peer it may seem strange that a potter
can be a man; but I tell you that the skill and craft and
power of true men like the Martins is so rare, that such
labour and art as theirs, dignified by genius and exalted by
pluck and perseverance, is so distinguished that it is they
who are truly noble. When the majority of their day are
forgotten it is such work as theirs that will live, and their
names will endure. Potters ! yes ; but very noble men."
She spoke excitedly; she had been acting; now with genuine
feeling. She turned again to the piano, and calmed down over
a piece by Chopin.
All through dinner she was charming. She was simple,
pouting, clever, fascinating, gay, vexing and coaxing by turns,
merry and demure. But all the time she was playing a part.
Over their coffee Lord Halliford said, " What is it, Zalma ?
Tell me frankly. Something is the matter. What do you
want ?"
" Money," she answered.
He whistled softly; a curious sardonic smile played in the
corners of his cruel mouth.
" When ?" he asked.
" At once, to-morrow night."
" How much ?"
" Quantities, bushels, armsful."
" Be exact."
" More than you have."
" You shall have it," he said, simply.
She rose and kissed him; the easily summoned tears fell
from her eyes upon his face.
CHAPTER XXIX.
E brought her the money. He fulfilled his promise
—he brought her more than he had, more than he
was worth. The borrowing powers of a peer,
especially of an unscrupulous peer, are enormous.
She sent the money en bloc to Mary Hope
with the simple words, " Eor the poor; in restitution."
It was a large amount; far too much for Mary Hope's
charity. She wondered what to do with it; it was a burden to
the good lady. She prayed over it, took counsel of her spiritual
adviser, and finally distributed the greater portion of it, in
sums of £1000, to various public charities.
"There is no need to prove I love you now. I have given
you everything in the world that is mine. I have mortgaged
myself beyond my own valuer's limit of my possessions. I
give myself, my lands, my very all to you."
She heard him icily. The greatness of his generosity
astounded himself; he was exalted in his own munificence ; he
approached her, and, bending over the chair in her dressing-
room, said to her earnestly, " Without you, Zalma, I do not
think I could live long. Your presence is a necessity to me.
If you are away from me for an hour I pine for your return."
She knew it well. A glint of triumph flashed through her
eyes, but she appeared to take little notice. She gathered her
dressing-gown more tightly to her figure, and opened the
French windows, that looked on to the verandah facing the
sea.
" The freshness of morning and the murmurs of the shore!
230
Zalma
237
It is new to me, Zalma, to take interest in such innocent
delights; I, whose habit has been to begin my day in the
afternoon. Can it be possible that I, of all men, should find
myself reading Cowper, and enjoying the verse; nay, feeling
the influence of this, for instance—
'Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having lived a trifler, die a man.
Thus Conscience pleads her cause within the breast:
Though long rebelled against, yet not suppressed' ;
" or this—
'Away from selfish ends and aims,
From what debilitates and what inflames,
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe,
Traces of Eden are still seen below.
'Tis well, if looked for at so late a day,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,
True wisdom will attend his feeble call,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.'"
A mocking laugh interrupted him, and Zalma, closing the
windows again, seated herself at the piano, and dashed off a
French galop. Lord Halliford flung his Cowper on to the
table. It was the first time Zalma had so openly ridiculed
him. The first time she had disagreed with any of his quasi-
religious musings.
" Why, Sainty ! Sainty!" she exclaimed in her frolicking
way. " This is a very deathbed repentance."
" So, so," he replied, still seriously, and with a conviction
that gave some sort of beauty to even his usually forbidding-
features. "But of this I am convinced, that there must be
repentance. Ah, dear one! Think you, though I have said
nothing of it, that you have not taught me how base I have
been ? Ah ! You. You have illumined all the wickedness of
my life. I look back upon that path of sin and folly with
regret, with remorse. Tell me, Zalma, for truly I am in earnest
now if ever, tell me what reparation can I make."
238
Zalma
"For the innocent souls you have cast into hell?" Zalma
replied coldly. " None. You can make no reparation, Lord
Halliford. There is only one role in life for you. Come and
sin again."
She jumped lightly from the music-stool, and lit a cigarette.
Her satin dressing-gown fell in careless folds from her figure,
and revealed her beauty. His eyes unwillingly followed the
allurements of the opening frill. She flung aside her gown,
and, sinking into an easy attitude, threw one leg over the arm
of an easy-chair, whilst one of her dainty blue satin slippers
fell from her shapely foot. She was like a wicked picture by
Jan van Beers.
" Don't! don't!" exclaimed Lord Halliford, almost in the
accents of pain.
" Pho ! You've seen many a cocotte or burlesque queen in
attitudes more tempting. Say ! Is my left hand well posed ? "
She laid her dainty hand upon the cloud of diaphanous silk
lace which only half concealed her, and looked at Lord
Halliford wickedly, defiantly, whilst she puffed a little ring
of blue smoke from her bewitching lips.
"You! Zalma! Is it you ? You, who have taken me so
high—into the clouds. I have seen in Paris, in Algiers—"
" A thousand cocottcs. Well ? Were they better than this ?"
" By God ! no; witch that you are ! But I wish you had
not come down to their level. I would that you kept your
high estate, with the Muses and the divinities, in the places
amongst the gods, where you had led my soul."
" Do you see no beauty ? "
" By Heaven ! " interrupted Lord Halliford, sinking on his
knees before her; " whence your beauty comes, 01- from Hell."
" Bah ! Have done with these phrases of Puritanism. I
am thirsty. Give me wine."
" Let me first kiss those lips: more irresistible than when
they shape a psalm, though then they would provoke St.
Anthony."
" La, la ! 110. You are grown so staid you do not like me.
Kissing tires you now. ' Let us pray!' you murmur con-
Zalma
239
stantly. But first pour out the wine. What a music in the
pop of champagne ! Never mind tire froth—I like to see the
waste of it. Let the foam and bubble go. Here, I love the
old fashions. A toast! ' To your Master—the Devil!'"
" Zalma!"
"Pooh, pooh; drink it! And another! You are getting
the blues; you, who have spelt blue-ruin for so many.
Another bottle and another toast. What say you ? Here's a
health to all the hearts you have broken ! Ha ! pledge me the
dust from a butterfly's wing. What! you do not drink ?"
" No, I will not drink your devil's toasts."
" Ah ! will nothing satisfy you, then, but to drink them in
the blood of broken hearts ? Come, Lord Halliford. ' To the
Pleasures of Memory !' Oh, you pause ! "
" Spare me, Zalma."
" Halliford! Do you think it can be in the plans of
Heaven that you should have everything in this world and the
next ? Luxury, delight, the joy-bells of folly, the sweets of
vice and sin—these you have had without stint. And now
you would have Paradise. Bah! you cannot be clever with
Heaven. I do not believe in much myself; but this I know,
you cannot outwit God. Your repentance is too feeble-kneed.
How long will it last ? Come, drink to your next amour."
" No, I'll not drink it. I'll have no other love but you.
To the devil with my penitence, if it does not please you. Let
me kiss you, witch that you are, and die accursed."
He caught her hand and caressed it; laid his hot hands
upon her arms and fed upon her lips ; his eyes, his body, his
spirit took their fill of her;—and she exchanged for these
the sinews of his soul.
The fatigue of it all was over for Zalma now. She left
him that night very drunk, with a crucifix laid, in blasphemous
mockery, upon his breast, and the lighted candles about his
head and feet that Catholics light beside the dead.
CHAPTEE XXX.
OEDON AETHUE, the painter, had ensured his
success in life; but he was not yet successful.
He could paint pot-hoilers enough to live easily;
but he didn't want to paint pot-boilers: he
wanted to do good work. It was not his object
to make a mere name. His aim was higher: to do the best
possible work ; to paint the greatest picture, full of pure beauty
and splendour, realised with the utmost skill of hand and
depth of knowledge in the subtlest art. And that he will do.
He is great, and one day his greatness will be known. But it
will not be his own greatness that will please him, but the
greatness of his work.
Nature and luck had been both bountiful and grudging to
him. Bountiful, in giving him a capable painter for a father;
in surrounding his youth with an atmosphere of art, so that
even his hours of idleness were tuitive; in endowing him
with an unflagging industry, a wiry frame, a tireless purpose.
Grudging, because he had nothing but his brush to live upon ;
an enormous appetite, the hunger of health, but, fortunately,
he could appease it by eating anything. A few large flints,
well boiled, or a meal of iron nails, was almost good enough for
him. Though a generous man, he was of very mean appear¬
ance. His figure was diminutive. His face marked a strong,
quick, and sensitive mind, but it did not express his power.
Exceeding ugliness was the most striking thing about his
appearance, which in every way belied him.
This was the man who was to paint Zalma.
240
Zalma
241
Perhaps all women like to be admired ; but with Zalma
this natural law was exaggerated so highly that it grew
to be her supremest pleasure, to which she sacrificed every¬
thing. This was the more strange because she had an
unusual power of exciting admiration, not because of her
beauty only, but her wit, her grace, the winsomeness of
her manner, the art of pleasing were weapons of her
armoury.
The painter was smoking a pipe almost as big as himself.
His appearance did not commend him to her. She looked
round his barely-furnished studio, and noticed the broken
plaster-casts, the dusty canvases, and the prevalent ugliness
and disorder. She wondered whether she had not made some
blunder.
" You painted the Annunciation, now at Brighton, which is
going to St. Peter and St. Paul's at Lingfield ?" she said
inquiringly.
He nodded, and she felt at once reassured.
" Do you paint here, in this glass house ?" she asked.
"Always; I get whatever quality of light I want."
" I liked your Annunciation."
" With a better model I could have realised more."
" You paint always from a model ?"
" Always, of course. One cannot evolve women in every
imaginable posture, and drapery in countless folds, from one's
inner consciousness. My method is to paint from the nude
always, and to drape afterwards. So does every painter, indeed
—every one worthy of the name.
" Your models are very beautiful, of course ?"
"Never, never," he replied, laughing. "They are dread¬
ful very often. Generally they have some sort of grace,
especially the young girls; but Nature falls very short of the
ideal."
"Yrou speak very dogmatically."
"Well, I have spent all my life in the pursuit and the
creation of beauty." He was out of his boyhood, it is true, but
quite a youngster; he spoke seriously enough, however. " I see
16
242
Zalma
in everything—even now, as I clean this palette—harmonies
that escape the untrained eye, blemishes where others see
none."
" You are, in fact, a Professor of the Science of Beauty."
" I accept the definition," said the painter. " It applies
to all qualified artists. Our knowledge of beauty is
acquired only by patient study and indefatigable work.
After years of experience only can we judge what beauty
truly is."
"Judge me," she faltered. She was in a tailor-made,
modern dress. She strolled carelessly across the studio.
His answer was emphatic, but precise.
"You are the loveliest woman I have ever seen!" She
loved flattery, but she felt he spoke truth. Delighted, she
turned to him with a smile, and said, lowering her eyes
to the floor, " And my figure: but you cannot tell in
this!"
"Yet I know you have a good figure."
" How can you tell ?"
"We always can tell. We can always guess, pretty well,
what a woman's figure is through her dress. Yours, I am sure,
is unusually good. Of course 110 one has a perfect figure—no
one. There is no such thing. I mean, a figure ideally perfect
is non-existent. The arms, back, torso: something is always
wrong."
" But perhaps you have been unlucky in your sub¬
jects."
" I have seen all the well-known girls in London, Paris,
and Venice—that is, all in the schools. I have seen scores of
models. They are all imperfect. I have never seen a beauti¬
ful woman—I mean, a perfect figure ; nor, do I believe, has any
artist. Kitty Graves is well known as the swell model now
about. She sits for the President, for Scointre, for Lake Smith,
and for all the figure-men. Well, her knees are fine, but her
ankles are atrocious; her wrists—nobody could ever paint those.
We all correct the models from the cast. For myself, I don't
believe in working much from casts, though, when I have Kitty
zalma
243
for a model, I always have Sue Jones afterwards,—because
she has good hands, and her ankles, though a little weak, are
miles better than most models."
" What are they like ?" she asked, with the inquisitiveness
that so many women evince about the artist's model. " Do
they talk to you when you paint ?"
" Dreadful. Kitty Graves is positively shocking. A
coal-heaver has a better vocabulary. However, it doesn't
matter much; when one is using the model it is only for
technical purposes — the imaginative work has been done
before."
" But in Paris ?"
" Do not talk to me of Paris. The models in the Paris
ateliers are so utterly dreadful. There are, perhaps, forty of us
students in a room not big enough for half the number. Let
us talk of something pleasanter than Paris."
" Tell me what is my defect."
" How can I say ? Your wrists are elegantly modelled.
Your hands truly beautiful. They are beautiful! beautiful!
They augur extremely well for the rest of you. I should like
to paint you—nude."
She was angry with him, and told him so, frowning. He
went 011 painting, whilst she sat in a studio-chair, tapping her
foot impatiently on the floor.
" I ought not to have asked you," he said. "No woman
likes to reveal her defects." This made her angrier than ever.
She wondered what her defects were. Then, vain of the beauty
that she knew she possessed, she blushed, as she prided herself
upon her own idea.
" And if, after the ordeal, you were satisfied ?"
" Men should kneel before you for ever."
She stepped from the dais and resumed her morning dress,
a tailor-made enormity.
" Well, what is my defect ?"
244
Zalma
" You are perfect!"
" Perfect ?"
"Absolutely perfect! You are divine ! You are a goddess !
I shall paint you as the incarnation of Beauty—as Yenus
Aphrodite."
" But no one is perfect."
" No one but you. Wonder that you are! Miracle!
If I paint you as you are, it will not be believed. People—
that is, artists, for they only know—will not believe me. You
are wonderful! You are one in a million—nay, in a thousand
million ! I doubt if there are four or five women in the world
as beautiful as yourself. Nay ! I go further! I say I believe
there are none."
She smiled. Her face was wreathed with the happiness of
vanity and enjoyment of adulation.
" Go 011, Mr. Arthur," she said prettily; " I like to hear
you."
" Your face—you have been complimented on that a thou¬
sand times—I pass. Your neck is wonderful. It is so thin at the
base,— so delicate, so shapely,—yet, at the throat, marvellously
full. Your bust is won—cler—fully modelled. Wonderful!
Your arms, shapely, exact—proportion itself—perfect. No one
will believe the wrists—the little—little hand. If I paint that,
they will say I have fudged it. The torso is complete. Such
quality! Everywhere marvellous ! In your knees, what
pretty drawing! You have the delicacy of a girl of sixteen,
the fulness of an absolutely perfect woman. You abound
in quality."
" My maid takes great pains with me," said Zalma.
"The pearly rose-tint of your skin is de—licious," he
murmured. "You are Yenus. You are not a human woman."
He squeezed some paints upon his palette, and, mixing
them with his knife, looked at the llesh-colour of her face
critically.
" You would paint me ?" she said greedily.
"Yes."
" If I pose to you, what is to be my price ?"
zalma
245
He looked around his poverty-stricken studio and shrugged
his shoulders. " I will stake my all upon you," he replied.
" My future, my career, my reputation."
" It is a bargain," she said, dazzling him with her voluptuous
eyes. " Immortalise me, and I will create you."
CHAPTEB XXXI.
E painted her as Venus Aphrodite.
She stood, new-born, rising in peerless beauty
from the foam.
Her face was raised upwards. Her wide eyes,
like two worlds, looked on the new world into
which she was born. Her pink lips parted with a pleased
surprise.
Her arms were uplifted and her palms outspread, as though
in wonder that she saw so fair a world. The sea out of which
she had risen still sparkled upon her brilliant skin, and fell
from her form in translucent streams.
She stood in a huge shell of opalescent pearl; the foam and
the green of waves hid her feet, as though they were yet but
half created. The sky of lapis-lazuli hung over her, full of the
promises of heaven.
She looked like the human made divine.
It was a vision of Beauty Incarnate.
246
CHAPTER XXXII.
GAIN and again had Zalma been bitterly wronged.
She remembered and bit her lips when she
thought of her mother's ruined life. All her
blood turned to flame as she vowed revenge—
1 eternal vengeance on Society, upon Law and
Order—upon the Existing: a vengeance on mankind.
To conquer the heart of man and spurn his love became
the object that she set herself to perform. When the conquest
was made she soon tired: it became her sport. Her game
once bagged, the joy was over, and a new prey became her
instinctive desire. Yet, as the habit grew, a sort of greed
actuated her to possess the love of her victims for all their
lives. If they but thought of another woman, she grudged it.
Her jealousy was to acquire their hearts. She wanted them,
mind and soul, for life. She impressed herself upon those
whom she made to love her, and burnt herself into their re¬
membrances. It became a pleasure to her to control the lives
of men, to pull the strings of their fate. She made one solitary
wretch in Paris happy for life by compelling him to marry a
docile and amiable little governess who was miserably poor
and not at all pretty, but who, as it turned out, made him an
excellent wife; and she caused a Service man to give up a
valuable appointment in order to take a crippled and mentally
afflicted woman to her home in the West Indies—an act which
he performed in so self-sacrificing a manner that she did not
forget it.
Possessing, as she did in an unusual degree, the quality of
247
248
Zalma
sympathy, she, in a singular way, did truly love the men whose
hearts she broke. They were a sort of food on which she fed :
they became a requisite.
When a victim came into her web she was as active as a
spider when a fly feels the threads that are to fasten him.
Once interested in her, if the struggle came his fate was sure.
She had indeed exactly the same delight as a cat playing
with a mouse. Sim gradually, acquired in an exaggerated
degree, an excess of the feline characteristic—a quality distinctly
feminine, and almost invariably so recognised.
When first she resolved to break hearts, it was a deter¬
mination made in hate and conceived in vengeance and malice.
But the hatred passed away; the revengeful fit vanished. The
love of men became a sort of necessity to her; the conquest of
their hearts became a habit as unsatiable as the conquest of
nations that filled the life of Alexander the Great. She
marked her victims in a stealthy, feline quietude, but pursued
them with indomitable perseverance, choosing them almost
invariably for some mental quality or some superiority of posi¬
tion. She was as soft as moss, as gentle as falling feathers,
but as strong as iron. All habits grow. It became a habit
with Zalma to win to herself, and to keep in continual chains,
her bondsmen. She herself was for the time, that is, for the
hour, the true lover of her lover. She interested herself in the
pastime. Her eyes sparkled with passionate fire, or were
languid with idle love, according to the character of the man
temporarily studied. Her long lashes drooped upon her cheeks
with regret, or opened in wide and interested inquiry. Her
lips pouted like a babe, or were sad with sympathy, or parted
in the merriment of a laughter that opened a casket of jewels,
through which came the sweetness of music, and from which
fell, perchance, fragrances and flowers and beauty. Sometimes
she was learned, sometimes gay. To clever men she was clever;
and to fools she shook the cap and bells, and was the very
queen of frivolity and folly.
Those who live 011 the level of everyday common life are
incredulous of the unusual, yet it is the incredible that
Zalma
249
happens. No one could say anything to me that I could not
believe, and scarcely anything that I would not doubt. Terrible
events do occur—griefs to great women, fearful disasters to men
in high places; the placards of the Press occasionally have cause
for their big type surely, and startling events do come to pass in
a world where, every week, the newspaper records facts more
incredible far than any novelist has dared to imagine or is able
to record.
Your pretty, placid story is very well. There are quiet
pastures where sheep graze idly in the meads, hedged around
with hawthorn and wild rose ; flowers bud and bloom and fade,
and in the placid valley sweet is the interest of the love that
Corydon bears for the pretty shepherdess, and like the per¬
fume of violets is the fragrance of their story. The little
church and the village choir, blue-eyed Phyllis in the garden
of lilies, the old mill by the sleepy river, the scent of clover,
and " the murmur of innumerable bees "—these are the factors
of a sweet idyllic tale, that an artificer in words may well
conjure with.
The faded business man, whirling through life at sixty
miles an hour, hunting a fortune that constantly escapes him,
knowing that bankruptcy is striding behind him ; your modern
divine, exhausted with the acrobatic feats of recent theo¬
logians ; or even your schoolgirl, who is over-excited by excess
of mental pabulum, should turn to such reposeful pages.
But it is for those who would read the maze of the life of
to-day, those who would be in the stir and the breeze of it,
those whose alert ears hear already the joy-bells of the future,
those who see with horror the sure approach of mob excess and
revolution, that this truer chronicle of conspiracy and blood¬
shed and crime, of strange, extraordinary love and wickedness,
of royal intrigue and Anarchist deeds, is writ; and when they
think of the rotten society of to-day, and of the grave wrong
in the world—if they be men, let them meditate; if women, let
them weep.
" I have met you somewhere," said Zalma to a handsome
young Frenchman, at a royalist ball in Paris, given in expecta-
250
Zalma
tion of the restoration of the Monarchy in the person of the
Due d'Amiens.
His face was full of nervous power, his eyes were soft with
dreamy light, his hair clustered over his forehead and fell in
womanish ringlets over his ears.
" I do not remember where," said the young Frenchman.
" I am generally remembered," she replied, smiling archly.
" I am sure you are never forgotten," he replied, with a
gallant bow.
" But where have I met you ? Everybody here is somebody
—who are you ?"
" I am nobody: in this society that description makes me
quite distinguished;" and he looked around at the crowd of
celebrities present.
"You have one other distinction," she whispered, as he
whirled her round in the mazes of the waltz into impossible
nooks and out of unnavigable corners with a true waltzer's
dexterity; " you are the only man here who can waltz. Fancy
saying that in Paris."
" You like waltzing ?"
" I love it."
" Let us again," he said.
She smiled that characteristic smile of hers that had such
go in it, and for one moment her eyes wandered round the
crowded salon.
He caught her glance, and as the measure quickened he
danced with greater spirit; her responsive figure answered to
his lightest touch; now, with the gentlest undulation, they
sidled gracefully before the wallflowers; now, with lightning
gyration, they waltzed down the centre, and, reversing, came
back again with gradual movement—her feet, quick as
lightning, tuneful to the melody, their steps exact, their
motion free, as they revolved in the exhilaration of that poetry
of motion, a true pair. " You interest me," she said as the
waltz concluded. " In a room so cram-full of somebodies,
what a pleasure to meet anybody who claims to be a nobody L"
" I am nobody," he said, setting his teeth and putting his
Zalma
251
fingers nervously through his clustering hair; "hut we shall
meet again some day, and then I shall be—Feneon."
"Feneon?" she repeated, lowering her voice. "You are
the new poet; I have heard my father speak of you. He is
your Number Five. Oh, I know you, Mr. Nobody! M'sieu
Nihilist! How are you here ? I; well, I am a Bourbon. But
you—amidst these conspiring Boyalists !"
" Anarchists love all conspiracies," he answered, with a
meaning smile.
The Due d'Amiens came up to her.
" Pallas, have you ever been in Madrid ?"
She nodded assent.
" There is a portrait in the Beal Museo of my cousin, the
Princess Eulalia of Bourbon, your mother; it is as like you
as can be, save in one thing only. Her eyes are soft and
languorous; yours are full of fire and ambition."
"I have ambition, Monseigneur," she answered.
" Tell me what it is: to bring back to our family—the
Crown ?"
" No, something greater."
"I wish you were a man, cousin. France lacks men."
" Men have ceased to be," replied Zalma. " Civilisation has
slain the whole race. In the Arctic regions, perhaps, or the
Equatorial forests, I might find a man : not in France."
"Your misfortunes," said the Due sorrowfully, "are a
bitter disappointment to us. If the alliance into which you
entered, and which in any Catholic country would have been
regarded as valid, sacred, and indissoluble, had been con¬
summated, your connection would have been a strength to us.
If Prince John of Umbria of Dell-land had been a man of
force and will; if, instead of a passing passion, he—"
" The strong love of a strong man," interrupted Zalma,
" has never been my lot. The men I have met have been all
satyrs."
" You have been the Circe to turn them all to swine," said
the Due reproachfully.
" Do you not know why ?" she answered, with angry en-
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thusiasm. " Do you not see what swine men have made of
us all for all the centuries ?"
The Due put up his hands in protest.
" Oh, they have gilded our sties ! Our troughs have been
wrought of beaten gold inlaid with jewels, and the straw for
our littering has been made smooth with pillows of down ; but
what have we been but soft, sleek animals, fed and fattened on
flatteries ? Men will not have us as human—we are £ women'
to you only."
" What would you else ?"
" To be even with you."
" That cannot be."
"No. You will not let us be human like yourselves: free
to think, to love, to act, to lead, to do. Therefore have I
ambition."
" To do what ?"
" I do not know," she answered slowly. " Thoughts come
to me, Monseigneur. Ideas are forming, are gradually taking
shape. My project at present is indefinite, unthought, un¬
born. But perhaps, before you become King of France"—
she paused;—" perhaps."
" Perhaps," echoed the Due d'Amiens, looking at her in¬
tently, as though he would read her thoughts. " What! Do
you still aspire, then, to share the throne with Prince John
when he succeeds to the Crown of Dell-land ?"
" I ?" she answered majestically; " I will share nothing
with Prince John. I have a greater ambition: not to share,
but to shake—to shatter the throne !"
CHAPTER XXXIII.
ORD HALLIFORD nearly went mad when Zalma
disappeared. He had no idea where she had
gone. The early hours of her first day's absence
enraged him; but he endured with hope and
reason, stifling his anger. She had not left him
a word or a line. She had simply vanished, leaving him in¬
flamed with wine and inebriated with desire. He was upset,
physically disturbed, and had upon him a hereditary disease
that caused him to madden himself, as day after day elapsed,
in excess of champagne and, as the symptoms of his intoxication
approached, with countless brandies and sodas and iced drinks,
until he fell deadly ill with a severe attack of delirium tremens.
It was a dreadful spectacle to see his suffering. Several
doctors attended him, and for a time his life was despaired of.
He had severe paroxsyms, distressing in the extreme.
In these fits of debauchery he was haunted by his vices, or
rather by the ghosts of victims of his vices. Zalma's terrible and
scathing satire, her reproaches, and her scorn chased him in his
delirium. She seemed to his conscience like the scourge of God.
She had indeed now revealed to him his own vileness. She had
left him, as he deserved, in disgust. He was overwhelmed in
his moments of sanity by the oppression of his own evil-
doing. Whilst he lay in an apparent stupor he would be
attacked with a sudden seizure, which caused him to jump
from his bed. The four strong attendants who watched over
his madness were weak as water in his feverish strength. He
dashed them against the wall or to the floor in his delirious
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outbreaks, whilst his screams and curses gathered a gaping
crowd without. He struggled to the window, and was only-
saved from hurling himself over the balcony as by a miracle.
" Who are those devils ?" he shouted. " Blue devils ! red devils !
Ah, doctor! Give me brandy, brandy! I will have it. I
have a thirst. I crave for a drink. Doctor ! doctor! doctor! "
His attendants were at times obliged to lash him down, and
his struggles on these occasions were indescribably dreadful.
He was mad, hut endowed with the incredible strength that men
who have this disease so often exhibit. He had one of his
attendants by the throat, and would infallibly have strangled
him if a mallet had not been taken to his hands. His oaths,
his blasphemies, his threats, thrilled even the doctors with fears
and dismay. After a bad outbreak he would rest, panting and
weak, beads of perspiration rolling from his forehead and
saturating him from head to foot. Then they were obliged to
administer weak doses of brandy and water, or his nervous
system would have entirely broken down.
There were times when he would seem quite rational. He
would talk to his keepers sensibly, and usually with a sort of
superstitious piety. "Was this a judgment upon him?" he
asked. " Yes, it was true. The devils in hell were not worse
than he." Then he would stray into unconscious prayer and
mumble Paternosters. " Miserere mei, Deus, secundum marjnctm
miserieordiam tuam." He continued sometimes, until his
strength was exhausted, to mutter Latin prayers from the
Ordinary. He would chant, too, beginning: "Aspcrges me,
Domine,hyssopo,et mundahor; lavabis me,et super nivem dealbabor."
Gradually he would rise from his bed, as though at Mass, and
listen for the priest to lead the responses. Then, in his
delirium, he saw Zalma, and watched her reverently as she
knelt at a prie-dieu. But it was only in the quieter moods of
his madness that he was devotional. As his craving for brandy
began, his lips began to work in the horror of this fierce
disease; his imagination was attacked by the diabolical
powers, by all the evil spirits. He fancied he beheld Zalma,
loosing from her accusative finger, as from vague clouds,
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255
shadows that rushed towards him, which vanished as he put
forth his hand. He shrieked as the devils came, one after
one. Girls whom he had betrayed; the maiden child whose
blushes he had gloated over; the innocent women whose
spiritual beauty he had besmirched, until he had succeeded in
his diabolical enterprise. He addressed women of his re¬
membrance by name, and by endearing diminutives. He
besought their forgiveness; he accused and accursed them in
turn. He called 011 all the saints in the Calendar. He poured
out a strange medley of prayer and blasphemy, of defiance and
of fear. " Zalma," he cried, perpetually addressing her with
innumerable endearments, and wandering into delirious adjura¬
tions, interrupted continually with spasmodic jumps and with
the most heartrending shrieks, varied by strange digressions
and murmurs of Latin prayers, and concluding always in calls
for brandy, and utter physical prostration.
" Zalma, my love, my life ! Saint of mine aspirations. Let me
pray to thee, Zalma. Ah Beatce Marias semper virginis. Let
me touch the hem of thy garment. Ah, Zalma. Not so. Not
the satin. No, not that. I will hold your fan. How warm
your hands are ! Let me kiss them—the finger-tips. Do not
go away. No, no; do not go. I have caught you now. You
shall not. I have you. Ah, ha! You may smile, but you
cannot escape these arms. No woman yet—nor you. Come,
come, come you shall. I entreat, I implore you. Ha ! Devil
though I be, I will have you. How white your throat is ! Softer
than snow. 'Tis like swan's down. No, do not turn your head
from me. Love of mine, kiss me. Perdition ! but you shall
kiss me, or I will bite—kiss me! kiss me! I say.
" Ha ! ha ! ha! ha ! You devil. You shall come with me.
Where I go, you go. Do you hear ? Down ! down ! down to
hell! To hell, I say. I will not let you go. No ! no ! I will
drag you down. A-h-h-h-h! Others! Who said others ? What
others ? Aha ! A mere Gaiety girl. Bah ! She ! A governess !
A mere bagatelle. She could do as she chose. She tempted
me, I say. Liar ! liar ! liar ! She tempted me. Ha ! ha ! ha !
Her lips were red—blood red. Blood. Blood. Whose blood ?
256
Zalma
On me. Let her be. She has gone. Dead. She is dead. What!
Another! You lie! You are liars all. All of you. Liars! liars!
Curse you! You! You, now! Well, and if I did? Whose wife?
Whose ? He was no friend of mine. It was a fair revenge.
Honour ? There's no such thing. Ah, the hag ! Take her away.
Let the toothless ghoul go. Take her away. Away, I say,
away. She is foul, vile, hideous. She and all her gang. Ah !
Be off. Get away. Out of my sight, you harridan, and all
your drunken crew. Ugh! She makes me shudder. I am
cold. Wrap me up. Keep her away from me, doctor, doctor !
Why do you let that vile woman haunt me ? Get away, you
foul ogre. Ah-h-h ! Don't touch me with your skinny hands.
Take them off, I command you. How dare you lay your
posionous touch on me ? Wash it away. The plague take you.
What horror is this ? Out, beast! Doctor, doctor ! Ah ! She
has left her hand upon me. Ugh ! Horrible. Doctor. Don't let
Zalma see. Don't let her know. Cut out that horrible spot.
Cauterise it. Ugh ! I loathe her. Kill the woman, I say. Kill
them all. If I am tainted, poison me. Here, Fritz. Why do you
not come when I call. Bring me my revolver. Fritz, Fritz,
load every chamber. It is in the library. Mind, I am in to no
one. I will take my life. Doctor. Why does it not go off?
Ah, cowards! You have extracted the cartridge. You want
to see me moulder away, to linger here in this vile horror—to
lie here and rot. Plioo! it is awful. God!—the corruption.
That I should die like this. I, who have been so careful all my
life. Do not bury me. It is in my will. I shall be cremated.
Put my ashes only in the vault—in the old vault—not the one
my father built. Shoot. Fritz, you are a coward. Give me
the pistol. No one shall know. I will give you money. Bring
me a blank cheque. I will sign it for what you like. I will
not rot like a dog. Phoo! How foul an end! Loathsome.
Death I could have met, but not this vile suppuration. Esto mihi
in Deum protectorcm, et in locum, refngii, ut scdvum nil facias;
quoniam fermamentum meum, ct rcfugum nieun es tu. Ah!
I thirst. I thirst. Give me to drink. No, not that. Fool.
How can water slake such a hell-thirst as mine ? Give me
Zalma
257
brandy ! Where is Fritz ? Fritz ! I want Fritz. Fritz will
give it me. Why is that man never here when I want him ?
Fritz! Brandy! brandy! brandy! Doctor! a little. Just a
little. One thimbleful. One drop. Yes! yes! I must have
it! Brandy! By God ! I will shoot every one of you ! Brandy!
Give it me ! Brandy ! brandy ! brandy ! "
He stopped in his terrible delirium. Bising from the bed,
he gazed with an awful stare at some vision which appalled him.
His eyes, fearfully bloodshot, protruded from their sockets. The
red, inflamed edges were parched and sore. Suddenly, he put
forth his arms, ugly with swollen veins, and pointed, in horror
and with shaking finger, at some frightful creature of his diseased
imagination. Then, uttering a piercing shriek that reverberated
through the long corridors of his mansion, as though the agonies
he endured combined the anguish of all the souls he had accursed,
he fell back on his bed exhausted, still as death.
With careful attention from doctors and nurses, and by a
judicious use of stimulants, Lord Halliford eventually recovered.
Early in January, he took his first drive as a convalescent.
The King's Parade was not crowded. The world to which he
belonged was conspicuous by its absence. But he was not
sorry. During his illness a change had taken place, of
which he was painfully conscious. He was half ashamed to
recognise that he had become an old man. His grizzled hair
had become white. His face was shrunken and wrinkled. He
was very thin and weak. The bracing Brighton breeze was too
strong for him. On his return to Sussex Gardens he sent to his
London house orders to prepare for his reception. When the
weather became milder he intended to repair to the Biviera.
Zalma and her sex he abjured for ever. All that remained for
him was to take infinite good care of himself, to measure his
diet, to be visited by his doctor, to slightly increase his chari¬
ties, and to keep on good terms with his priest.
But even as he was recovering he discovered that he was
being dunned by his creditors. He had never had inconveniences
of this sort before. Money troubles were new to him. He had
been unable to visit St. Lawrence Justinian's since his illness,
17
258
Zalma
Father O'Sullivan had attended his bedside assiduously, and,
indeed, believed that he had administered to him the last sacra¬
ment. But Lord Halliford's recovery had not been slow. He
was a man of strong will, in some respects a man of great good
sense,and, as he gradually recovered, he took even a more limited
supply of wines and brandy than his doctor prescribed. He
had been so near to death that he resolved now to live as
became one whose foot had been almost in the grave. He
resolved, with Father O'Sullivan's consent and benediction, to
convert the grey room of his Brighton house into a private
chapel, and to have Mass said daily, for he was unable to attend
St. Lawrence Justinian's. The work was at once put in hand,
and a large five-light Gothic window constructed in lieu of the
French casements. But he presented a richly jewelled chalice
to the church, and erected a new sedilia of richly-wrought
alabaster in the chancel. His credit was still good, and he
had no difficulty in getting his orders duly executed. These
works of piety gave him much comfort; but lie felt justified
now in swearing at the beggars, who had begun to pester him,
and to whom, at the dawn of his recovery, he had been at first
lavishly generous.
The work at his house made it untenantable for an invalid,
although the workmen were able to isolate that portion of it
which was undergoing speedy alteration. He went up to
London in a reserved carriage, travelling with his doctor and
male nurse—and, of course, with Fritz, who had not an easy
time of it just now. He did himself the honour to visit
Cardinal Cantelupe, and promised a munificent donation
through his Eminence to the Secretary of the Holy Propaganda.
He began to make efforts to negotiate a further loan, and, failing,
felt with brooding apprehensions the pinch of approaching
poverty.
An incident occurred. Life is made up of these trifles.
Nearly twenty years ago, he had purchased a house in St.
John's Wood, the life-tenancy of which he had settled upon a
lady in whom he had been interested. At her decease, which
had recently occurred, the property reverted to himself. He
Zalma
259
visited it with Fritz, found the premises very dilapidated, and
that the necessary extensive repairs would be another tax 011
his dwindling purse. It was a mere bandbox of a place, and re¬
sembled a disused and neglected bird-cage, lie left it in an ill
temper. It was another reminder of an ill-spent, and, alas !
more mournful still, a bygone youth.
As he stood in the little stuccoed bow-window looking out
into Maida Yale, a lady passed by in a neatly-turned-out
victoria. Her head happened to be turned the other way, but
he was prepared to bet his life that it was Zalma. He called
to Fritz, and, entering his brougham, gave orders to follow the
victoria. It was not long before his carriage began to draw up.
He noticed that the lady had alighted from the victoria, for it
was empty and waiting at the gate of a house in the Yale.
He noticed the number, 293, and, with some irritation, ordered
the coachman to drive on. He told Fritz to alight at an inn
and discover from the directory, or otherwise, who resided at
that number. Fritz soon returned, touching his hat. " Mr.
Gordon Arthur, my Lord."
He knew the name. Where had he heard it ? His look of
inquiry brought the answer from Fritz. " Artist, my Lord."
" I remember. Drive somewhere, anywhere, but not past
No. 293."
Doubtless it was Zalma. She had expressed a wish, he now
remembered, to sit to Arthur.
He took a long drive into Hampstead, and, 011 returning,
observed that the victoria, with its impatient horses champing
the bit, was still waiting at the same gate.
She is being painted, he decided.
Through all his illness she had sent no inquiry, not a word
of sympathy. Every newspaper had published paragraphs
indicating that he had lain dangerously ill. She must have
known. Besides, why had she left him so heartlessly ? Mutter¬
ing a curse upon her, he ordered his coachman to drive him to
his club, and dismissed her from his thoughts.
Yes. He dismissed her from his thoughts, but she would
not go. She ran in his mind. She possessed every chamber
2 6o
Zalma
of his memory. Every incident of her life that he knew
presented itself to him. Unconsciously he put his hand to his
face, and felt the red scar of the lash that had fallen 011 him in
the Eow.
And as lie recollected with a grim sardonic smile, while a
feeble glitter, like a spark in a smouldering fire, glanced in his
sunken eyes, he had had his revenge. He had laid his hands
on her white throat, he had possessed the beauty of her body,
he had triumphed before the world by exhibiting her as the
mistress and minion of his passions.
But why had she left him ? For the hundredth—the
thousandth time, he repeated the question.
And a whirlwind of desire for her seized him again. He
would not enter his club. " Home ! Home !" he shouted to his
coachman excitedly.
"Master's goin' to 'ave the jim-jams agin," muttered the
coachman; " blowed if 'e ain't."
" That was Madame Pallisse's carriage wot upset his Lord¬
ship," responded Fritz, who sat by the coachman.
" Bah ! I'd like to see the woman as'd giv' me the jumps.
Gee-up !" and he lashed his horses viciously.
" I shall want the carriage at half-past ten to-morrow
morning," Lord Halliforcl said as he alighted.
"No you won't," mused the coachman, as he drove back to
the mews. " You'll 'ave nigh two bottles of brandy in you by
then, master, or I'm a Dutchman."
The coachman was not altogether right in his prognostica¬
tion. Lord Halliford drank that night, and heavily, but early
next day he looked at his watch and asked for his brougham.
An electric shock from the shrill bell in the stables made the
coachman jump from his chair. " Goodness gracious!" he
exclaimed, leaving his matutinal kipper untastecl. " S'lorshup's
in a 'urry. 'Ostler, 'aven't you got the brum ready yet ? Lor'
bless ver! Get in the 'osses quick. Wot! The bays ain't
groom'd ? Then put in the greys, an' look alive. Missus!
'ave you got that there button on that there glove ? Hay ?
Zalma
261
You hain't! Then why ain't yer, hay ? Blarst my heyes, wot's
wimmen for ? 'Ere ! take an' bone that there kipper. As the
'osses ain't in, I'll bolt it yet. 'Ere! gee-up! Git out o' the
way. What a clay! Gi'mme a drop 0' rum, 'ot. 'Ow's the
wind ? Sou'-west! Alius sou'-west. This 'ere weather'd gi'
anyone the jim-jams, same as S'lorshup. Gi'mme another
drop 0' rum, 'ot. Wot a day !"
Indeed it did rain; and when the coachman got into his
white overalls, with his red face buried in the steaming " rum,
'ot," he looked as though he had a right to his glass. It was
a miserable day.
Lord Halliford drove straight to 293 Maida Yale. To the
ilourish of his servant's knock and ring a dowcly servant-girl,
in curl-papers, opened the door two inches and disappeared.
Soon the artist himself appeared, in slippers, and, coming down
the steps, met the distinguished visitor, whoever it was, half-way
down the garden path. Said Lord Halliford to the painter,
after he had looked round the studio—
" I thought you might perhaps have a few sketches that I
could put on my walls somewhere."
" Oh, certainly," said the young painter with alacrity.
" Here are some studies—last summer's work—open-air stuff.
Locks, Cornish coast. Your Lordship does not care for land¬
scape—well, I'm not a landscape man. But one must have
backgrounds. Portraits, now. Here is a cowherd's head—good
study that—the feeling in it. Crisp too. I like portraits of
the peasantry, though nobody buys 'em. See how the madders
merge into the yellows. But your Lordship doesn't like that—
or these—or these," and he turned several over hurriedly.
" That," said Lord Halliford, pointing to a study with his
stick.
"Oh, she's a mere studio hack. Head just dashed in, but
more to study the drapery. A good model, but coarse about
the wattles. Now, that"—and he produced a small study of a
girl's head, the tears blurring her eyes, a wistful gaze looking
out of a mystery into a mystery.
262
Zalma
" That's the best thing I ever did—in twenty minutes,"
said the artist enthusiastically. " I saw that. It's not a bit
like the model—and yet it is exactly what I saw. She looked
like that then. Her i'ace changes like a kaleidoscope, indeed.
But no one would ever recognise the orignal."
Yet Lord Ilalliford recognised it in a moment, and admired
the sad beauty of the face. " Who did you say sat for it ?" he
asked mechanically.
"A lady who has been sitting to me for a larger subject—
in fact, for my Academy picture. I have several little studies
—here, for instance—and this. Your Lordship would not think
it the same woman—eh ?"
" Ho," he replied drily. Lord ILalliford thought how little
justice the painter had done her.
" These are eight or nine small studies of her mouth. Her
lips are wonderful—so mobile, so lithe, so full and yet so
refined, so ripe, so changeful and expressive ! All the curves
of beauty are in them. She has a veritable Cupid's bow.
Even the colour varies continually. But your Lordship can
take 110 interest in these studies. They are almost anatomical,
and purely academical. That: yes, that's her right shoulder."
The old peer sat there, hat in hand, enraged that this painter
fellow should presume to inventory and catalogue those charms
that he held so sacred. He said nothing, but his eyes wan¬
dered from sketch to sketch.
" Where is the finished portrait of her ?" he asked
arrogantly.
" She took away, herself, yesterday the portrait I had been
painting to her commission—a Madonna. She bought these
sketches too. They are to be framed and go to her friends.
She would not have them exhibited. But I have done one
large figure-subject, of which I am very proud. The others
were commission. This I did on spec."
" How ?"
"On spec; and a bad spec, I daresay. There is 110 market
for great art in England, and there can be 110 great art whilst
the nude is tabooed. 0 Michael Angelo ! 0 Titian! Oh for
Zalma
263
your patrons, your public ! Heigho ! Well, my big picture of
her was a nude."
Lord Halliford was enraged. He scowled at the painter,
who, however, continued absently to mutter, " The purest
dream of perfect beauty I shall ever create."
" Show it to me," said Lord Halliford in a tone of annoyance.
The artist touched a cord, the curtains drew aside, and
revealed the picture of A;enus Aphrodite.
Lord Halliford uttered an exclamation, and stood transfixed,
like a devotee.
He bought the picture of Venus Aphrodite with bills at six
months; but the painter made a condition that it was to be
duly sent to the Royal Academy. Meanwhile, it went to
Brighton. Lord Halliford had to go there to meet his architect,
for the private chapel was approaching completion; but before
it was consecrated, Father O'Sullivan desired to see him about
the altar. The picture of the Aphrodite, being very large, was
accordingly unpacked, for convenience' sake, in the room that
was being converted into the new chapel. The workmen quite
innocently placed it in the altar space, which it fitted, as
regards size, almost exactly; and there was also a very good
light from the new windows. When Lord Halliford entered
the chapel and saw it as hung, a frown of anger gloomed over
his heavy brow, and he sighed to think that any common
workman had looked upon that incarnate loveliness. But the
picture showed there so well, so far as it only was concerned,
that he would not have it moved until he had decided where
else to place it. He dismissed all the workmen for a time, and
suspended the work in the chapel. He gave instructions
that, whilst he remained in Brighton in his convalescent
condition, no workmen were to be about the house; and the
duplicate of the keys of the new chapel were handed to the
housekeeper, with orders that she only was to dust and keep
clean the almost holy chamber.
CHAPTER XXXIY.
AJOE, ST. LEGEP had become a power, although
truly a silent power, in the councils of Europe.
Known in every Court, in every capital, in every
Cabinet, he was yet absolutely unknown, except
in the highest secret conclaves. Had his name
been mentioned, people in Society would merely have asked,
" Who is he ?" Some few, who knew him as an obscure officer,
would have remembered that he was in one of the cavalry
regiments some years ago; and others, that he had been in the
Diplomatic. Yet he was probably, on the 1st of January
1895, the man more than any other on whom the law and
order of all Europe mainly depended. His secret influence
was dominant in every European country. He was depended
upon mainly by every Government to thwart and ruin the
fearful conspiracies of Anarchists and Nihilists throughout
the world, and to save Society from what did indeed appear to
be an overwhelming and terrible danger. Few are aware how,
in these days of popular government, a few strong men secretly
influence the destinies of nations.
His office was now moved to the first floor in the Foreign
Office, and overlooked the gravelled space in front of St.
James's Park. He had his papers before him. The Foreign
Minister, i.e. the Earl of Camberley, and he were in close
conversation. The trifling of the Minister and the earnest¬
ness of the simple-minded man of business formed a singular
contrast. The former threw down his sporting paper with a
yawn; the latter arranged and docketed his papers with care
and precision—his whole soul was centred not only in a
204
Zalma
265
patriotic defence of his own country against a subtle foe, but
in an endeavour to defeat the machinations of an international
conspiracy, the like of which has never been equalled, for
subtle wickedness and evil intent, in the history of the world.
" I have now your Lordship's attention," remarked Major
St. Leger, observing that the Earl had at last relinquished his
newspaper. " I should like to bring to your notice clearly our
position. If the international political situation is easier at the
present date than it has been for years before your Lordship held
the Seals of the Foreign Office, I will tell you the main reason.
It is because the European Governments are all afraid—"
"Not of our fleet," said the Earl of Camberley, with a
flippant smile.
"No—not of us—not of Great Britain at all. They are
afraid, as we also are, of the Power that I have given my life
to fight—the power of the Revolutionary Party. And, how¬
ever terrible the admission, they are rightly afraid. I wish
your Lordship were more imbued with the same salutary fear.
There is cause for it."
"You are an alarmist, St. Leger. I'm always getting these
sort of reports. Some of the Consuls abroad—really in their
little world they magnify things so that—but no matter. I
let 'em do as they like. I give 'em carte blanche, They know
very well I am most pleased with them when they do
nothing at all. I have not much dread of the Revolutionists."
" Let us have a minute or two of retrospect. It is only
about a year ago that Vaillant committed his infamous out¬
rage—exploded his bomb in the very midst of the French
Chamber of Deputies. Yet even that dastardly event was
not repudiated by the Anarchists, as the excited demonstra¬
tions in the Ivry Cemetery over his tomb manifested. A few
weeks after Vaillant's execution there was the Emile Henry
crime—the explosion of the bomb at the crowded St. Lazare
Station, which resulted in such serious injuries to so many
innocent people. Flis crime was on our shoulders. I say that
we in London, by knowingly giving shelter to these Anarchist
refugees, were abusing the very freedom of which we English
266
Zalma
are so proud. Then we have, shortly afterwards, Bourdin's
death in Greenwich Park. Next, the Paris explosion in the
Eue St. Jacques. The perpetrator of that crime has never
yet been discovered; hut was not that also the work of men to
whom we gave shelter here ? Then, in March, the explosion in
the vestibule of the Madeleine. In May, the attempt to destroy
the house of the Procureur in the Avenue Kleber. In June,
the assassination of the President of the Bepnblic at Lyons.
That is a formidable chronicle of only six months, my Lord!"
" Yes ; but it is French history, St. Leger."
" Turn, then, to Italy. I will not weary you with the
innumerable minor events. The attack upon the Italian
Chamber of Deputies in March, when the explosion injured
the Parliament House and seriously damaged five persons. In
June, the attempt upon the Italian Premier. Had Signor
Crispi been shot by Pietro Lega, I have reason to believe
an insurrection would have broken out: for, know this,
dreadful as the recent chronicle of French Anarchy is, the
ramifications and elaborate system of the Italian Anarchists
is more thorough, more widespread, and more dangerous.
The insurrections, but a few months ago, in Sicily and Massa
Carrera were of truly formidable dimensions. Eemember
Signor Baudi's death at Leghorn."
O O
" Let me see. The incident has escaped my memory,"
said Lord Camberley, putting his hand over his eyes, as he
endeavoured to recall the event.
"He was stabbed, simply because he was a patriot. He
was merely a journalist who defended the law. In Spain, we
have the assassination of the Civil Governor of Barcelona—or
rather that terrible attempt, which was so nearly successful.
We have the execution of the men who threw the bombs at
the Liceo theatre; and the execution, also, of the Spanish
Anarchist, Salvador Branch. Need I go on ? In Belgium,
in Germany, in Austria, in Eussia, what have we but a
similar, if not so sensational, record of Anarchist associations
and of Eevolutionary and Nihilistic achievements ?"
" But these are all the affairs, my dear Major, of their
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267
respective Governments. Spain can execute its own criminals.
Italy can bring to justice its own assassins. France and Bussia
can take care of themselves. It is not the business of Her
Majesty's Foreign Office."
" Well, then, let us look at home. There was, in February,last
the raid upon the Autonomic Club in London, when I arrested
seventy men—more than seventy of the most dangerous scoun¬
drels in Europe, loose here, and plotting havoc amongst ourselves
and other nations. There was the bomb outrage in Mayfair—"
" Enough ! enough ! my dear St. Leger," said the Earl, with
a deprecating gesture ; " but what has this to do with my
department ?"
"Damn your departments!" exclaimed Major St. Leger,
banging a packet of papers upon the table. " Every one
of the assassinations and murders, and each of the explosions
I have named, is planned by one head, and is the result of one
organisation. I have succeeded in getting other Governments
to fight this foe of mankind. At home only are we mad enough
to neglect our obvious duty to other nations—and to ourselves."
" Well, well, well! St. Leger, you are naturally enthusiastic
over your project," said Lord Camberley, looking at his watch.
" It is not well, my Lord; and you must and you shall hear
me," said Major St. Leger firmly. " The Emperor of Germany,
facing the situation like a strong man, has had a Bill drafted
under his own immediate supervision, which has received
already the approval of the Federal Council. The Swiss
National Council and the Berne State Council have passed
strong measures against the Anarchist sedition. Drastic Bills
have been passed by the Italian Parliaments, and even yet
stronger measures have been adopted by the Government of
King Humbert. In France, several hundreds of suspected
persons have been arrested, and Bills of remarkable severity,
though stoutly resisted by the Kaclicals and Socialists, have
passed through both the French Chambers by overwhelming
majorities. Every continental Government has taken the
severest action and sanctioned the sternest measures to pro¬
tect the people—to protect the very existence of Social Order—
268
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against the Dynamitards. Even the United States Senate has
passed a drastic Bill of an anti-anarchist character. In England
only we have a dormant Ministry—unless I go further, and
say that we have a Ministry, our Liberal Ministry, openly and
publicly sympathising with the Nihilist cause."
" Sir!" exclaimed Lord Camberley, aghast at this daring
statement.
" Look, then, at this paper."
The Earl knit his brow.
" The Russian Secret Police in London have the names of
every member of the English society of the ' Eriends of Russian
Freedom,' and their doings and writings are forwarded to the
Police Department in St. Petersburg; amongst them are eminent
members of the Liberal Party."
" Doubtless, it may give us trouble with Russia," said the
Earl gravely; " it may cause difficulty and friction in our
diplomacy. I will communicate, Major St. Leger, on the subject
with our Ambassador."
" The important thing is, to resolve upon a plan for the
uniform treatment of Anarchist crimes by all the Foreign
Powers, and to legislate at Westminster at once, to cope with
this new evil to Society; and also to negotiate an international
agreement upon the subject of the right of asylum."
"These subjects have already had the consideration of Her
Majesty's Government, but have not been found practicable."
" They are of vast importance, Lord Camberley, and I know
them to be a crying necessity. I have the names here of a
number of Anarchists who openly meet in London, in defiance
of the police. I could arrest hundreds of them; but what
would be the use ? Our law is not strong enough to secure
their conviction. Again, there is a Count Pahlen, who has been
your Lordship's guest at Camberley."
" What of him ?"
" I believe him to be at the very head and front of the
revolutionary conspiracy."
" My dear St. Leger. He has not only the most satisfactory
credentials from the Russian Government—"
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269
" I know it," interrupted St. Leger, clenching his teeth.
" But, in addition, I have had a personal commendation of
him from the lips of the Tzar himself. It was entirety through
Count Pahlen that the new official, created by the Tzar on the
8th of June last, with the title of 'The General 011 Duty near
our Person,' was appointed."
" Indeed!"
"Yes. The late Tzar spoke of the Count to me, in his
Palace at Moscow, as having rendered him many true services,
not only in warning His Majesty of plots upon his life—"
" That is a stale trick of his," ejaculated St. Leger.
" —But of rendering him, personalty, medical assistance on
his stay in the Crimea in October."
"Ah! Ah! Ah!" exclaimed Major St. Leger excitedly.
" Tell me that again. He physicked His Majesty !"
" Certainty."
St. Leger almost jumped from his chair. " Great God !" he
cried. " In 1894 alone ! Carnot, the President of the French
Kepublic, shot dead; Crispi, the Premier of Italy, shot at—only
missed by a hair's-breadth ; and the Tzar of All the Piussias
dead—of a mysterious disease."
" You do not mean to insinuate—"
" I do, Lord Camberley—"
" St. Leger! Beware, I beg, of professional excess. You
have been of enormous value in Europe. I have innumerable
despatches from the continental Governments proving your
zeal, thanking us for your incalculable services, showing us
how many plots and conspiracies you have defeated. The
Italian Premier, whose life you saved, has begged me to
personalty thank you. The sources of your information startle
us, the accuracy of your knowledge, the wonderful cleverness
by which you have thwarted Nihilistic schemes—"
" Stay, Lord Camberley. I thank you. But this is no
time for compliments. I cannot yet prove it, but I believe that
we are on the verge of a plot so infamous that it passes concep¬
tion. If Pahlen is not at the bottom of it— But I know he is.
Of that not a word. Yet I implore you, Lord Camberley, to
2JO
Zalma
step out of your way, and out of your routine. I press you, I
emphatically beg you, to move the hands of the Government, to
strengthen me—to move heaven and earth to follow the lines
I have sketched, in detail, in my notes."
" These on the International anti-anarchist agreement ?
They are bulky, St. Leger, bulky."
" Yet I have carefully thought them out, Lord Camberley."
" I will do what I can, St. Leger. But you know what
Party Government is. I shall not be here long. It will be
the turn of the other side soon."
" I have half a mind to run down to Hatfield," muttered
St. Leger to himself.
As he crossed Parliament Street a well-horsed barouche
dashed past him, and a man and child—to wit, Doddles and his
little, half-fed daughter—were nearly run over. Sir James
Draper, accompanied by a very fat friend, an old acquaintance
of ours in the dry-goods line, were lounging in the carriage as
the startled man and girl escaped almost from under the very
wheels of the carriage. Sir James, turning round, indignantly
muttered, " Careless people ! Getting in our way !"
" Bah !" said his red-faced choleric friend. " Boil 'em ! Boil
em!"
St. Leger heard the brutal speech, and looked at the two
overfed millionaires, lolling in their carriage, sucking cigars,
and then at the poor half-paralysed man, who, with his large-
eyed, thin-faced girl, were shaking the dust of the misadventure
from their clothes.
" What is the use of my endeavouring to suppress Anarchy,"
thought St. Leger, " whilst its cause increases continually.
This great wealth ! these depths of poverty ! "
He went his way meditating. It was not often that he
troubled himself with speculative or benevolent theories. He
was a practical man of action and of routine, with supreme
satisfaction in existing institutions and established customs.
But for once his thoughts were unconsciously diverted to¬
wards more liberal ideas.
CHAPTER XXXV.
HE amiable and absolutely harmless Dandy now
became, by chance, Zalma's new toy. Nearly,
though not quite, brainless, he superfluously pre¬
tended to have even less intellect that he actually
possessed. He had no pretension to wit, but he
was not quite a fool. He never said a clever thing, and he
never did a wise one. He was colourless. Rut he adored
Zalma. He was young; though not handsome, he was spruce.
He loved gaiety, frivolity, and all that was worthless. He
drove a four-in-hand ; took Zalma to the theatre, amused her,
bored her, and carried her fan. His neutral qualities gave her
a good deal of time for commune with herself. In music and
literature she found the delights that none but the recluse
know. She took again to her study, and spent many hours in
solitude with her pen. Even if Dandy was present he was of
110 more consequence than a tame cat 011 the hearth-rug. He
smoked cigarettes, dozed, and played Patience. She had no
trouble with him at all, unless it was that she had occasionally
to check his propensity for whistling the airs of comic songs.
Her father had now, at her request, taken a large house in
Grosvenor Crescent. Somebody had conveniently died, and a
house that suited her rather exacting taste served well enough.
Professor Pahlen was often upon the Continent, only occa¬
sionally at home, tie did not wink at his daughter's love-
affairs. He simply approved everything that she did. Idolised
as she was by innumerable men, no one idolised her more than
her father; and she had 110 genuine love whatever for anyone
272
Zalma
in the world but him. "When he was in England she would
have no one else near her.
She liked Dandy—she liked him very much. He was a
pet, a doll, a sort of pretty male plaything. He never ruffled
her, he rarely disturbed her—he was simply a tame animal, a
witless darling. But she herself knew it to be a misfortune
that so superior a nature as her own should lavish something
akin to love upon one so much her inferior. Now and again
her heart reverted to that one man, unknown to herself, whom
she had met at Iffenden, whom she would have loved sincerely
and utterly—upon whom she would have outpoured the wells
of her heart and all the vigour of her intense affection. There
was a blank within her heart that no Dandy could fill; and
the passionate yearnings she felt, she shaped into odes and
idylls that she deemed too sacred to publish to the world,
because they were a soul's secret adorations of the supreme:
her yearnings towards the ideal lover, her aspirations towards
one whom she knew not, the creature of her desire — one
entirely human, and yet half divine.
These longings were unfortunate for Dandy. When she laid
down her pen, the instrument by which she gave shape to the
vague dreams of her heart, or put aside her harp, whose strings
so often thrilled with the yet more intense and passionate
aspirations of her soul, her contempt for her tame plaything
would appear. But he was such a good-natured creature, and
his smile was so inanely forgiving, that she would pardon his
lack of force and character, and, regarding him as an extreme
of his kind, a flawless type of the zany, her contemptuous
contemplation of this man-fool of the first water passed away,
and she would pat him with little caresses, as others would
fondle a kitten or a lap-dog. But Dandy's lack of ideas became
tiring at times. Beauregard's name happened to be mentioned.
" Do you see him often ?" she asked.
" Almost every day."
" At the club, of course ?"
" Yes."
" Bring him round, Dandy."
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273
" Here ?"
" Yes."
He came next day to luncheon.
Neither was Zalma without the society of her own sex.
There are women more or less ostracised, for various reasons:
some because they are too clever, too witty for the Society
that spells itself with a big S; some because they are too
respectable; some because they are, and desire to be, uncon¬
ventional ; some because the exclusive finger has pointed at
them, without reason or with little reason; some because the
Divorce Court has said very nasty, and often very unjust,
things of them; some, pure-minded and noble-hearted, because
they are superior to Society, which has scandalised itself of late
so often, and which has so demonstrated its rottenness, that
they refrain from entering its polluted portals, and hold them¬
selves aloof from its petty cabals, its meanness, and its vices;
some because they are spiritually and intellectually emanci¬
pated and free, and choose their friends where they like,
regardless of flaws and faults in them : some exceptionally
Christian women, some new women, some "pioneers"—these
form, in that huge London, a set of their own, where beauty,
and wit, and goodness, and any quality or virtue—except, per¬
haps, wealth—has weight. Into this select clique came Zalma.
It was not the abandoned set of the clcmi-monde. It was not
the art set of the fashionable actress, and it was not the set
of the club of the Grey Geese. But it was a set which
thought a great deal of Zalma Pahlen.
She could be very charming to women. That is a rare art
for a beautiful woman to succeed in. But she did succeed.
At the Pioneer Club all the ugly old maids rallied to her. No
one was so biting as she in making a mock of men, and, indeed,
nothing in life pleased her so much as to realise her old wild
boast—to win and vex and break the hearts of men. She did
not realise fully the wickedness of it, probably; yet she did in
truth take a diabolical delight in harrowing and making havoc
of men's hearts, inspiring them with love and torturing them
18
274
Zalma
by their passion. She accused and defended herself before
Beauregard.
" It is a fair revenge," she said ; and she smiled in her
captivating, thrilling way. " I take your heart, so you declare.
I have it here upon my girdle. You love me; your passion
for me is desperate; you hear my voice, and it is soft to you,
like the breath of summer breezes; I come near to you, and
fragrant odours steal over your senses. You are infatuated
with me. Your heart is sore for me. If I am cruel to you,
it is as though you were lashed with whips. Is it so ?"
" It is only part of the truth," answered Beauregard, with
white lips. " I love you more than all you say. I love you too
passionately for words. We, who are married, are false to our
wives, because you take our hearts ; we do not give them—you
rob us. If you are not here, I yearn for you. My heart smarts
after you."
" It is just. You have taken the love of women. You told
me yourself how you trifled with the love of that little con¬
fiding creature who sang so sweetly in the Bride of Lammer-
moor. How you played your devil's tune upon the strings of
her soft little heart; until you broke them, and then flung away
the stringless lyre. She wept for love of you, made a fool of
herself for you, felt after you with her little shapely hands,
threw up her part, broken-hearted, pining for a letter, for one
word of consolation, of love. The nightingale's song was done
when you neglected her. You left her to die. This is your
own story, not mine. Is it true ?"
He bent his head. " It is a long while ago," he murmured.
" It is when I think that this is true, when I reflect that
your story may be repeated of a million other men, that I
laugh aloud as I do now to you, with triumph, feeling with
delight that I am a whip to lash you for your sins; it is
therefore that I spurn you from me with a hate, in which there
is a tinge of love, Beauregard, perhaps for you—though I steel
myself as I laugh to know that you pine and crave and fret
for me, that your heart is sore with longing. It is now that
I think—oh, my mother!—that revenge becomes me, and
Zalma
275
that I am just to take such a heart as this and to dash it to
sherds."
"You are insane," Lord Beaumaris said to her, "and you
want to turn all men mad for love of you."
" I am quite sane, Lord Beaumaris," she answered, peeping
over her fan at him, " and not even uncommon. I am not the
only woman that has broken men's hearts. Fortunately, the
lust to fret you, the joy of knowing that you are craving for
our smile, is common amongst women. Many a little village
coquette delights to stir your jealousies, and has a greater
pleasure in the knowledge that she is distracting you than in
any other delight. But you are proof against all my wiles,"
she added, with a glance of witchery ; " stubborn-hearted that
you are." Yet she could have twisted him round her little
finger, and he knew it as well as she.
Proud of her triumphs, she had a girdle made on which she
strung, in actual fact, the hearts of her victims. Each golden,
heart-shaped locket contained a miniature of some lover. Men
were proud to dangle at her waist.
CHAPTER XXXYI
HE was at a Sandown meeting one day, the
fairest on all the lawn.
Men crowded around her, pestered her. She
was the rage; a smile from her was a distinc¬
tion. The excitement was so great, because
the danger was so real. So many had burnt themselves in the
flame.
Gerard stood before her, his hat raised.
She looked him full in the face without quailing.
He looked penitent. An impulse seized her. She rose and
took his arm.
" Do you still love me ?" she asked in accents softer than
moss.
He replied with a great oath.
" Yes," she continued ; " yes, and how many others ? "
" Hone. Not one, so help me, God !"
" Gerard, if it were true I could love you yet,"
But in a moment her mood was changed. Her softness,
the sweetness in her, the original good in the woman, faded
away, and she said, with a hard laugh, " But I am like the rest
of you now—I cannot be constant to one only. I need forty
lovers. Plurality has become a requisite. I have masculine
tastes: the fashions I follow are those set by men. But I
would like to know this:—why are you so hard upon women
for following the example that you set yourselves ? If we act
precisely as you do, you lash us with scorn and cover us with
ignominy—whilst you, reeking with the guilt that you condemn
27G
Zalma
277
in women, go to church, take the communion, and are on the
best possible footing at the Court of Her Majesty the Queen."
" Wife. Do not start; you are that in law," he replied,
ignoring her unanswerable question. " Whatever has happened,
let us both forget."
" How easy to say that! How utterly impossible to do !"
" Then let us ignore it. Be my wife in reality and in fact.
For me, at least, let that be the answer. Let me prove to you
that, whatever my faults have been, I can be a good and
faithful husband. From you, Zalma, my eternal love, I ask
nothing but forgiveness. All the blame of the past is mine."
" Gerard, the past has happened, and consequently the
present is different from the days that were. The whole
situation is changed: I ought to be the supplicant now. It is
for you to forgive. But I am not so magnanimous as you.
I am too proud to own my sins. When a woman goes to the
devil, look you, there is 110 turning back. She has to go on to
the mouth of the pit. With men, a little wickedness is
universal, and a little penitence fills up the time on a wet day.
Ah, the philosophers do not understand how sexual every
question is!"
" What do you mean by all this, Zalma—that you will
forget philosophy and reason, falsely so called—that you will
become my wife indeed, and live with me happily, holily, a
wifely life ? We will have a ripping time."
" No, Gerard ; but we will be friends, if you like. A wife's
life is not in my fate."
" I will have you all, or none."
" I like you for that. It is a strong and soldierly thing to
say," replied Zalma, nestling under his arm.
" Why not?" he pleaded. " I have loved you desperately in
very deed from the first hour I knew you. By night I have
dreamed of you. By day I have moaned and grieved and
longed for you. Others have embraced you, and I have not
killed them. I have been as one mad, with a pistol in my
hand, greedy for their lives. I have been ready to shoot
myself. It was easier to do that than to combat the impulse
278
Zalma
and live. Now, if you ask me, I am willing to go anywhere,
to do anything at your word. I will be your slave. By God!
110 woman has ever been loved as I will love you. Zalma!
darling! heart of my life! Come with me. Wife. Listen to
me. Leave this. Come away with me now."
She shook her head.
" Why not ? "
She looked up at the big, handsome, blonde man
admiringly. There was a Jovian beauty in him.
"No, Gerard. It sounds so inviting, but it is impossible.
I have business—a long way off. My life is a consecrated life.
I have aims—great ambitions—purposes on which I am
intent." She had been tender with all her gravity; now she
laughed lightly. " Co, there is your world. This is the big
race. The Manton Stakes ! The numbers are already up. Go
and back a winner."
"Wife," he pleaded, with genuine pathos. "If I can do
nothing to win you, what can I do to please you?"
Tears stood in her eyes. "Do something great," she
answered. " Or, better still, do something good."
" What can I do ? I have backed a winner. I have two
thou, to draw. Shall I throw it to the crowd ?"
" They would have a royal time," she laughed in her
flippant manner; "but think of their two thousand headaches
in the morning."
He looked at her for answer: patiently, pathetically, in
love with her. Eeproach was in his gaze.
She, too, was grave.
" Gerard," she said. " You have an enormous fortune:
give it to the poor. You have strength : consecrate it to God.
You have life, health, time—hours that you may make holy,
strength to do noble deeds, power to make your ruined days
sublime : be meek, be pure, be glad. Good-bye."
She turned and left him to conceal her tears. Her eyes
were wet. She put up her field-glasses—not to look at the
numbers, but to hide her emotion. She felt what a noble
woman she might have been, what a noble life she might have
Z ALMA
279
led. Gerard felt a hand upon his arm. He turned, and saw
an old Oxford chum.
" Mountjoy."
" Smith, is'nt it ? You come to races now, then ?"
"This is my first. I have a curacy at Weybridge, Mount-
joy. I thought I would walk over and see racing at its best.
Sandown is a good meeting, is'nt it ?"
" Hipping."
" You always thought me a milksop at Oxford, you fellows.
Well, I am. These horses—the lovely creatures—are not very
interesting to me here in this crowd ; but the ring !"
"It amused you ?"
"Dreadfully. To what depths of brutality—but enough.
Tell me, Mountjoy: Who was that lady ? I could not help but
overhear her."
" That, Smith ! That lady is the cruellest, the hardest, the
most wicked woman on this lawn. I curse the day I met her.
I know not whether I hate or love her most. God help
me."
" Cruel! hard ! wicked ! Mountjoy ! I never heard until
this minute the very live words of the Sermon on the Mount."
" Smith. She is my wife. She parted from me on the very
day we were wed." He told the Curate the whole story.
" For God's sake, tell me what to do to win her back."
" What to do, Mountjoy ? She has just told you what to
do. Do something great, or, better still, do something good."
" Do something good !" With all his conceit, he knew well
that it was not in him to do anything great. "Do something
good !" The phrase haunted him.
He crossed the course and walked over the park—out of
the gates into a by-road, away from the crowd. " Do some¬
thing good !" The words rang in his ears.
His life had been very empty. He had done nothing.
He had lived for pleasure's sake—and had not been happy.
Hiding, driving, hunting, shooting, billiards, cards, drill, a very
little study, and a good deal of racing, comprised the history
of his manhood. Sardanapalus had been his sage. He had
Zalma
lived to eat, to drink, and to love—if love that could be called,
that history of wasted and temporary affections. Yet, was
not this the fair sum of his friends' lives too—of the hundreds
that he knew, and of the thousands that he knew of ? What
a record of shame ! What an animal existence ! How gross !
How dull!
Well, he could not turn missionary now, thought he, as he
lit a cigar. " Damn it, we can't all be General Gordon," he
said aloud.
" Do something good," replied his conscience.
He passed a man on the road breaking stones. " I might
give the man a sovereign," he thought; " but what would be the
use ? He would only have a headache in the morning, as
Zalma said. And yet, somehow—perhaps the old chap would
find good use for it." " Go back," said his conscience. " Go
on," he answered, with a laugh.
He went on, down the dusty hill, but every step he took
echoed with "Go back; Go back." He paused irresolutely,
smiled to himself, and went on again.
" Go back," said the voice irresistibly. He stopped, turned
almost involuntarily, threw away his cigar, and began to retrace
his steps.
" Fool," said a voice again. " You are becoming a fool,
Gerard Mountjoy."
He clenched his teeth together and walked up the long hill,
but not without some scorn of himself as he heard the voices
in his ears.
Now he was again in sight of the old man on the roadside,
and it occurred to him that it was rather bad form to scatter
largesse in that sort of way. He paused again, irresolute. The
voices attacked him very bitterly, and almost successfully, but
at last he reached the man by the heap of stones.
"Ah!—ur!—hot day," stammered Gerard to the stone-
breaker.
' The man assented surlily and, though curtly, with the use
of the universal adjective.
" This any good to you ?" said Gerard, producing a sovereign.
Zalma
281
" You're gettin' at me, sure," said the old man, eyeing the
coin dubiously.
"Ho. I mean it. Here you are," and Gerard tossed the
coin to him.
" Is it a good un' ?" asked the unbeliever suspiciously. He
bit it to try. " Faith, it is a good un'; blowed if it aint."
Straightway did that stonebreaker cross the road and enter
the little public-house at the top of the hill. Gerard, taking
no notice of the man, went on his way.
Well, what was it after all ? Still, he was glad that he had
gone back. He felt happier.
He went home to what he called his " quarters," took his
bath, and dressed. He wanted to go, as usual, to his club to
dine; but the voice protested, What else could he do, then ?
He was in the mood for giving. The sovereign given to the
stonebreaker had caused him more satisfaction than anything
he had done for a long time. He sat down with his cheque¬
book, thought of all the needy people he knew, and began to
write cheques for considerable sums.
What a lot of beastly letters of thanks he would get! He
must write letters too, and say, " Dear So-and-so, enclosed is a
small loan, which "—oh ! this would never do. The best thing
was to write his bankers, and send a list of names and addresses,
with the amounts, requesting them to pay the same to the
parties, without explanation—in fact, without any letter at all.
Bah ! whatever he did, it seemed rather absurd.
Still, he did that. He wrote his bankers orders to send out
the amounts to the persons on the list enclosed, without any
accompanying letter whatever. Then he feared he should
change his mind; for voices in both ears were calling him a
fool more emphatically than ever, and a vulgar, money-scatter¬
ing, purse-pious fool too. He rang his bell at once, and sent
out his servant with the letter. The sums sent were to be
anonymous.
When the man had gone he sat back in his easy-chair and
roared with laughter. Pictures came to his mind of the blank
astonishment of the people who would get the money. How
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Zalma
embarrassed they would be ! Some of the recipients really
needed it. To others it might, perhaps, come in handy. The
majority would be happier, probably, if they had honestly earned
the amount.
Still, he enjoyed this temporary fit of benevolence. It was
new to him. For days he varied the same pleasure: he made
donations to hospitals and to the public charities. He scattered
largesse lavishly wherever he could in decency do it, without
being known.
Soon his bankers informed him that his account was over¬
drawn. He laughed. He had just sent off several other
cheques: they must be met. He had to visit his lawyers, and
had no difficulty in effecting a large loan. He had only to call,
in two days' time, and sign his name to a parchment. He con¬
tinued to give right and left. " I'm plunging," he said to him¬
self. " Egad ! I'm a second J."
But by this time he was racing, drinking, and gambling as
fast as ever. At a go-ey restaurant, where he frequently dined,
was a nice little party of roysterers of both sexes, enjoying a
merry time. A twinkle sparkled in his eye, for he knew that
the host—who was giving himself great airs over the vintage
of the wines—was scattering the money that he had anony¬
mously sent him. But Gerard looked on and enjoyed the fun,
without a word. Later on, at a low dancing-house in Soho,—
a night-house of unquestionable reputation,—he met two of the
nice little party—ur—" ladies," very intoxicated. One of them
was in tears of deep dejection, having spoiled an unnecessarily
handsome gown, for which she had not yet paid, and the other
had been injudiciously protecting another "lady," to the extent
of two black eyes for herself; another of the party, a young
gentleman who was usually sedate and well-behaved, had been
led off to a police station for creating a disturbance, which, as
he afterwards learned, ended in his losing a good situation in
the City, and brought him to disgrace generally. Gerard re¬
flected that, if this was a fair specimen of the result of his
charities, it was useless to flatter himself that he was doing any
good.
Zalma
283
And, indeed, he taxed himself severely. Was it not a vulgar
thing—-a cheap purchase of an easy conscience—a foolish device
to win self-approval ? Besides, there was no sacrifice in it. He
was rich: he could afford this vulgar lartjcsse without feeling
the loss. To plunge into these lavish, ill-considered, haphazard
charities, with the idea that he was fulfilling benevolent plans,
was vain and foolish.
Yet the endeavour "to do something good" had benefited
the man himself. He had failed, but the effort had not been
fruitless. He reflected bitterly on his wasted life, he discerned
what opportunities he had lost. He was impressed with the
beauty that a life of goodness offered. He was penitent, and, in
the humiliation of his self-condemnation, he aspired to a better
life.
His country house was desolate. He got his sister and
Beauregard there, and his Aunt Elizabeth, who was always
delighted to be near her favourite nephew. The change in
Gerard's manner was quickly noticed and encouraged. He
began to take interest in his estate, made improvements in the
dwellings of his tenants, repaired the farms, built a reading-
room for the mechanics and labourers, and planned a new
reservoir and water supply. There had recently been typhoid
fever in the village, caused by the tainted well-water, and he
charged himself with some responsibility for the deaths that
had occurred. In many ways he felt that he had neglected the
duties of his position, and he set himself to remedy his faults.
He had always attended church fairly well; but now, urged by
the Weybridge curate, who came down on a brief visit, he
interested himself actively in parochial affairs.
These deeds gave him a personal satisfaction. He grew
more serious, but also more cheerful. He began to win golden
opinions as a model squire.
He actively associated himself with the local sports,
became the captain of the cricket club, and played the best
all - round game in the village eleven. He became very
popular.
But his popularity troubled him. It was so easy for him,
284
Zalma
with all his wealth, to do this sort of thing—after all, at the
most, he was but doing his obvious duty, and in that he was
remiss in many ways. He thirsted for an opportunity to
perform some striking, noble, and heroic act. He longed
for a war, that he might win laurels for bravery and devo¬
tion,—as though in days of peace the opportunity for great
deeds is lacking.
He had not yet learned the splendid truth, that any man
is great who is good. He fell continually in the little acts of
life. Although he now aspired to do right, he was lacking in
courage and in principle; he was undiscriminating still in his
pleasure—a voluptuary by nature, he lacked the power to curb
his indulgences, and, surrounded by friends who wondered at
his improvement and flattered him 011 his reformation, he
became pharisaical and self-complacent.
Frequently, when he wandered through the desolate
chambers of his mansion, he cursed his wife bitterly. Was
the punishment that she was inflicting upon him to last for
ever ? Dastardly as his conduct had been, did he merit
this ? He did not clearly perceive that he was suffering from
the consequences of his own acts—that the inexorable laws of
Nature condemned him to irremediable pain, that, having
sinned against the holy laws of Love, it was imperative he
should suffer. The elementary truths would never come home
to him. The spilling of water causes wetness. The toying
with hearts makes torture. Such torment, when felt by
others, brought 110 pang to him; but now that the pang of a
bruised love was in his own breast, he writhed under the
agony in distress. He felt aggrieved that the meanness and
cowardice of his own acts, that were irreparable, and which, in
the nature of things, could not be forgotten, rose up con¬
tinually to bar the happiness for which he craved. He could
never quite understand that his own qcts had made the love
he longed for impossible.
But he did dimly see that in some deed of daring lay his
only hope of ransom: he was wrapped in the hope that some mag¬
nificent opportunity would come to him; and when Beauregard
Zalma
285
and his sister went away, and the house-party he had been
entertaining broke up, leaving him bored by the insufferable
dulness of his home, he suddenly, in a spirit that he flattered
himself was chivalrous, resigned his commission, and left post¬
haste for the East, to offer his sword to the Christians in
Armenia, anticipating that there would soon be a rebellion
against the Sultan, and resolved to seize an occasion to perform
some stirring feat which would wake the world.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
jOED HALLIFORD, having discovered where
Zalma was, made every effort to renew his
intimacy. He wrote her letters. He called,
but she was not at home. He drove in the
Park, but could not meet her. His only resource
left was the back-stairs, in which way he made the discovery
that Zalma had gone abroad; but where, nobody could tell.
Lord Halliford then returned to Brighton. The comfort,
after all, of a well-warmed house on the chalk, with roaring
English fires blazing in every room, presented more attractions
to this experienced and travelled man of the world than either
the Riviera, Egypt, or Algiers. He knew too well the horrors
of that dreadful journey South, in what the ironical French
call a train de luxe. He knew what it was to he in a Rivieran
hotel on a cold night; he had encountered the treacherous
winter climate of Morocco and Algiers; he was too much of a
voluptuary to be able to feign enjoyment in "the bracing sea
passage "; and though, it is true, he often sighed for the soft,
exhilarating air of Cannes, and for the blue skies of the sunny
south, he knew what it was to be up in " Californie " without
an overcoat. When all was said, perhaps, home comforts were
better than the dangers and delights of the giddy climb, and he
prepared to make himself as comfortable as a confirmed man
of the world can do when he is quite at home.
Perhaps he knew better than anyone else how truly
invalided he was. He took the greatest possible care of him-
2861
Zalma
self, enveloped himself in furs when he went for drives,
selected the Madeira Eoad if the wind was trying, watched his
temperature and his pulse, and carefully looked at his tongue
every morning. Indeed, he was becoming an old man; and
every time he was convinced of it he would have given way
to a burst of fury, had he not known that it would be bad for
his health. He tried to keep good-tempered, because he knew
it made him ill to be either cross or sulky. He ministered to
every whim that would bring about his happiness, regardless
of expense, although he was beginning to be bothered by polite
requests from his tradesmen to settle his outstanding debts.
His cigars, selected with extreme care from the best gardens
in Havannah, were specially sent over to England for him in
air-tight boxes, and be kept them as long as he could in
London, lest they should deteriorate in the Brighton air. How
often it saddened him, as a connoisseur, that his physician only
permitted him to have Graves, Barsac, and other thin, light
French wines, when his palate was accustomed to the finest
vintages of generous Burgundy and to comet years of cham¬
pagne, and when his preference was most of all, in spite of
doctors and wine merchants, for fine, dry old port, which ever
will be the king of wines.
But his want of money became troublesome. His lawyer
paid him a long visit, and left him fuming and anxious. He
was now truly troubled. Judgments had been obtained against
him, and were unsatisfied. A bankruptcy petition was served
upon him, and ruin stared him in the face.
The chapel was never finished. " In the summer, when I
get stronger, Father O'Sullivan," he said to his Confessor, " I
shall proceed to complete it. At present I cannot have work¬
men in the house. I am not strong enough."
" I have seen that your Lordship has nearly finished the
work there, as I promised your architect I would do. Let us
go together over the work. He is very proud of the details,
and tells me what a pleasure it is to have a client of your
Lordship's good taste."
288
Zalma
" No, dear sir, no," replied Lord Halliford, thinking of
Zalma's portrait, which he allowed no one to see. " Not yet,
Father O'Snllivan. Wait till the chapel is finished."
Every night, after dinner, he went there with his cigar,
and gazed for hours and hours at the picture, which had become
almost a presence,—a reality.
He thought of her morning, noon, and night. He lay
awake, tossing in the bed, sick at heart, longing for her. He
thought not of other affairs. Even his impending bankruptcy
troubled him but little.
He mused to himself: " Other women. No, I have not
cared for them. Even if I have half-loved, I have half-loathed
too. Contempt has been my general feeling for the whole sex.
If I have treated them heartlessly, as men say—well, for the
most part they are worthless—I have 110 heart for them. But
for this peerless beauty, this proud Arab, this haughty sphinx,
I have fifty hearts. Though she treats me now with contempt,
and upbraids me with the lashes of her tongue, I love her.
She knows me. She can touch my heart-strings. She can
make my feet move to her music. She can lead me on the
wings of poesy to heaven. She can drag me, devil that she is!
to hell. Or is she angel—denouncing the wickedness of my
life, that by repentance I may find salvation ?
"No one else ever appreciated me, elicited me, discovered
me. No one else knew that beneath the icicles of my heart
there is a glowing fire, that in my breast there is a melting
human spirit, that within this rugged frame there is a live
soul. She found, and that quickly, aspirations in me—desires,
high hopes, which rank me with herself, qualities which take
us both out of the common ruck, to heights where we look
down superior upon the vulgar herd. I have risen with her—-
high, high, into the clouds, into the cold starlight, whence we
have surveyed together the low world we both despise. Yes,
birds of a feather, she and I, we have risen on our broad
pinions to the proud altitudes where the poets move. Zalma !
Incarnate beauty ! Why do you now despise me ? "
He knelt before her picture, like a devotee.
zalma
289
It became irresistible to him. Hour after hour he would
spend in the solitary chamber, gazing at her pictured loveliness,
thinking of the delights of her love.
Her parted lips seemed to speak to him. The memory of
the kisses of her month filled his dreams.
He denied himself to everyone.. He shut himself up and
lived alone—a misanthrope. Missed at his clubs both in
London and Brighton, but not regretted, men said of him that
he was going crazed.
He abandoned all his pride. He wrote to her over and
over again, and watched the posts in vain day after day. Ho
answer came. To his passionate appeals, to his most powerful
entreaties, his commands, his promises, his prayers, she vouch¬
safed 110 reply but silence. He ascertained that she surely
received his letters. In the exuberance of his rage he wrote
her in bitterness and wrath, threatening her with dire revenge.
She made no reply. To his adulations and to his threats alike
she was dumb.
Yet he loved her—ah, distressfully! At nights he would
rise from his bed, and, repairing to the chapel, which had
become, instead, even the Temple of Love, he would pass the
long solitary hours, raving to himself of her beauty.
19
CHAPTER XXXYIII.
NE clay, the thought possessed his mind more
strongly than usual that she despised him. On
the day that she left him he was intoxicated
before she went. What might he not have said
to her in his drunkenness ? What insult did he
unconsciously inflict upon her ?
In his restless self-torment he went to London : the House
of Lords was in session. Rumours of his bankruptcy were
beginning to circulate. He went in and took his seat on the
Opposition benches. The British occupation of Egypt had
given risen to an important debate. Lord Camberley, Lord
Camoys, and other peers had addressed the House. The Prime
Minister had spoken cautiously upon a rather dangerous sub¬
ject, the Marquis of Salisbury had delivered an incisive speech,
and the Chamber, which had been comparatively full, was
about to empty when Lord Halliford rose. The peers of lead¬
ing on both sides sat down again, rather apprehensively. Lord
Halliford had rarely spoken. On the last occasion, his brief
utterances had been upon some home topic, but were so contempt¬
uous of the people, and so careless of consequences, that he had
raised the fury of the Press against the Upper Chamber.
Gradually, now, his voice commanded the House. He spoke
without notes. His caustic wit and brilliant impromptu
surprised everybody. The Prime Minister wondered at his
sagacious and weighty words. He developed new points; he
unfolded, in an eloquent speech, the duties and the destiny
of Britain with the fluency of an orator and the wisdom of a
290
Zalma
291
scholar and a thinker, but also with the reticence of a states¬
man. When he sat down, after a splendid peroration that fell
from his lips like a cataract of words, so readily they came, so
jewelled and sparkling were the rapid sentences, the Bishop of
Bath and Wells, himself a polished speaker and an old college
chum, congratulated him effusively. I11 a few brief minutes,
from the courtesies and compliments of the peers who sur¬
rounded him, he learned that he had scored a brilliant success.
He smiled to think that Zalma must hear of it. The next
morning the Times leading article was full of his speech.
On the following day, news came that Lord Halliford was
dead. He was found in his dressing-gown in the unconsecrated
chapel. A paralytic seizure had attacked him, and he was
found dead upon the floor, before the Venus Aphrodite.
He was buried with his ancestors. His nephew the heir, to
whom he had behaved with outrageous cruelty, refused to
attend his funeral. Ho mourner stood by his grave. Almost
unknown to his tenantry, and unregretted, a few idlers only
gaped curiously as the ashes of his cremated remains were con¬
signed to the mausoleum which stood amidst the dark yews
over the family vault.
At the opening of the Academy, Gordon Arthur became
famous. This one picture took him with a bound to the front.
Its intrinsic merits were unanimously appreciated by the
critics, but it was also the portrait of a singularly beautiful
woman. It assumed to be, and was, a vision of incarnate
Beauty. But it was not only as a representation of Arenus
Aphrodite that it created a sensation.
It became known that this picture had been the death of
the wicked Lord Halliford. Broken in purse and body, he had
broken his heart also in front of this splendid shadow. His
infamous life was known. The gossip of clubs and the
scandal of drawing-rooms were busy with the memory of the
deceased peer, and the portrait of Pallas, of Zalma von der
Pahlen, of the Duchess of Umbria, the Venus Aphrodite, was
the picture of the year. A buzzing crowd was ever around it.
Zalina had been much talked of in Society for a few brief
292
Zalma
seasons. The strange, romantic story of the alleged royal
marriage, asserted and denied over and over again, continually
recurred. The newspapers reported it as a fact, hut it was
denied 011 the highest Eoyal authority. Still, the people of
Dell-land talked of it in serious whispers. Gossips said that
there were two children, issue of the marriage, and that the
succession might be affected. They said that Zalma was bent
on becoming one day the Queen. Her more recent history, or
what was known of it, reports of her amours and irregularities,
expanded and exaggerated, filtered amongst the people, and
made her the talk, not of Dell-land only, hut of London, where
she now continually resided. Her book, Juggernaut, had
been reissued at a popular price; now another and another
edition were published. The prying public had for long been
craving for a photograph of this comet amongst women, hut,
singularly enough, no photograph was to be had. Miss Pahlen,
or the Duchess, or Mrs. Mountjoy, or " Pallas," or whoever this
enigmatical beauty was, would not be photographed. These
facts, added to the great scandal that arose at Lord Halliford's
death, and the well-established rumour that Zalma had been
the model for the famous picture, caused greater crowds in
Gallery No. VII. than Burlington House had ever known.
St. Leger, proceeding through the Academy, catalogue in
hand, came in due course to No. 928, the Venus Aphrodite.
He looked at it, and was, of course, struck with the superlative
splendour of the picture. Its pearly tones, its majesty, the
hold, massive modelling, the simplicity of line, the lustre of its
colour, the stately grace of the conception, the affluence of this
superb work of art, he realised, as others did, literally in the
twinkling of an eye. The power of this masterpiece was so
striking that it needed no gossip nor vulgar chatter to further
interest him. Yet was he struck more than any.
What was it ? What glamour did the picture possess ?
It hypnotised him; thrilled, enthralled, he stood gazing. A
bewilderment of the senses overtook him. He was over¬
whelmed.
And yet not oppressed. Gentle, tender, soft emanations
Zalma
293
came from the picture to him. He was suffused with delirious
emotions. A voice murmured in his ear, the scent of jasmine
was in his nostrils. Ideas, reminiscences, memories, floated
sweetly through his mind. His soul was filled with exquisite
recollections. Music came weirdly into his ears—a fantastic
remembrance of Grieg's, full of melodious excitement, awoke
from some bygone rest; the tints of a sunset came between his
eyes and the stately vision on the wall; river mists rose between
him and it. He saw a terrace—a crowd of diners-out: he was
at Iffenden. He sat in a garden bower. He was listening to
the unknown woman, whom he had long ago forgotten.
He looked musingly at the face of the Venus Aphrodite.
Yes—the unmistakable face of that unknown woman to
whom he had once spoken for a few sweet minutes in far¬
away, almost forgotten days.
He dropped his catalogue. His senses were confused.
Something rose in his throat and choked him. He turned
away, not knowing what he did, elbowed his way through the
press, strode through the crowd, and walked out of the Academy.
Somewhere easily to be found, somewhere in London—
ascertainable—this half-forgotten woman lived.
He had not thought of her for years—or, at best, with but a
passing thought.
There was a lightness in his heart. The air was sweet.
The sky of May looked on him with smiles; he was exalted.
He began to speculate. A power brooded over his spirit.
Perhaps she was 110 longer free; perhaps she was already
wedded. He admired her; he had not known it before. She
had been merely a flitting idea to him: the passing of a sun¬
beam over his spirit; a beautiful woman whom he had met in
a casual hour, to whom his thought had, perhaps, recurred in
pleasing remembrance, and whom he had once hoped so to
meet again. A woman—never actually forgotten, but marked
in his mind as one who had passed by and gone from his life.
But now the artist's vision provoked him. Who was she ?
Immediately there flashed through his mind the remembrance
that this was the talked-of picture. Scandal circulated about
294
Zalma
it; light gossip laughed concerning it. He was aware that
there were stories about, though he had not listened to them
at the time. The club-rooms would tell him all lie wished to
know. Without permitting his mind to recognise the truth,
the stories that were circulating about her oppressed him. In
a moment he turned his foot into the Naval and Military.
Then he paused.
What right had lie to trace her so ? It was not gentle¬
manly—it was not even manly. He turned away from the
club without entering it.
He walked to his office in Downing Street; he recognised
now that all this time he had unconsciously an interest in her.
It would be easy to ascertain who she was and where she lived ;
but in what most fitting way ?
It was the very flower of the season, the first week in May;
if she were in London he should surely meet her.
He sat musing, dreaming. He, who was no dreamer, but a
practical, busy man, to whom women and the love of women
were as nothing; cold as an iceberg in Society, polite and
courteous, but heart-whole, as he verily believed, till now.
Even his occasional remembrances of the soft hour at Iff'enden,
and the recurrence of her delightful idea, had been but pleasant
dozes compared with this violent seizure of his soul which the
art of man had been the means of effecting.
Politically, St. Leger was a Tory of the extinct school. No
compromise with him, no giving way to expediency. He was
not represented—at least, in the House of Commons. His
stern Toryism was of the unyielding sort. Men said his
political ideas were impracticable and impossible in the
England of to-day.
He had a soldier's view of religion. To him it meant
being at Church Parade every Sunday two minutes before
eleven. It meant the orderly performance of a service not
too bald nor too ornate, not too musical, and not too long. In
private life, it meant going down upon his knees in the privacy
of his chamber every morning, and the occasional reverent
reading of the Scriptures when his mind was perplexed or
Zalma
295
needed guidance. It meant a high moral sense of duty,
a correct and appropriate deportment in the world, the fulfil¬
ment of his obligations as a man, and an honourable regard
for his undertakings. It even went down to little details,
and meant the strict necessity of a well-starched collar, and
the neat behaviour of the prim necktie; and any religion
that did not compel the observance of such trifles was, in his
opinion, not worth a soldier's damn.
Everyone thought him so calm, self-contained, even-
balanced ; and so he deemed himself. He had hut one ambition,
his duty being what it was—to do his duty. Time there
had been when the reward was sweeter in his eyes than the
doing of his task. He had been ambitious once for success,
for advancement, and promotion; this had made him restless,
had caused him to turn from the Army to the Diplomatic, and
again to the International work for which he proved so well
qualified.
But this was in days bygone. Now, he was an enthusiast,
a patriot, a zealot in the cause for which he had risked his
life, and for which he would sacrifice everything, if occasion
required. Promotion was not the prize to him now. Devotion
was its own guerdon. Imperturbable, inexorable, indefatigable,
he had a worthy ambition—to finish the work he had begun,
to exterminate the gang of villains who, in blind zeal, perhaps,
and insensate anger, were at war with Society. To annihilate
the Nihilists, and to save his country and Society at large.
He did his duty with a single eye. He had but one idea—
success for his labour, not personal success. Every day he
became a sterner man, more intent upon his duties, more
thorough in his application, more punctual and precise. To
those who worked with him he seemed a martinet. He read his
Bible oftener. His religion became less formal and more real.
But now the picture filled him entirely. His papers lay
upon his desk unnoticed. When his secretary came in, en¬
dorsed and docketed letters, he was oblivious of his presence.
He sat idle, his thoughts at Iffenden.
He had often thought of her. He remembered words and
296
2 ALMA
phrases that she had used years ago. They had recurred to
him before; but never like this. The artist's living vision
had enthralled him. He was in a trance of exaltation.
A long official envelope was put in his hand. He laid it
on the table mechanically, unopened, and continued his day¬
dream. His secretary returned, fussed about near his chiefs
chair, nervously afraid to speak. He had never seen him so
wrapt in meditation.
At length he interrupted him : " Sir, is there no answer ?"
" To what ?" he replied, with a start. His secretary put
the envelope again in his hand.
He opened it idly.
Soon his brows knit, as Ins habit was when reading papers
of great interest. He turned them over quickly. The papers
were in Russian. The seal of the Russian Government was
affixed to one of the documents, and also the signature of the
new Tsar.
"At last," he cried excitedly, rising from his chair so
hastily that it was upset. " At last "—then he leant his head
on one side, pulled his moustache nervously, and seemed lost in
thought. Soon he said, in the extremely slow and measured
words that invariably characterised his more important orders,
and by which his secretary recognised the weight of his in¬
structions, " Let careful arrangements be forthwith made for
the arrest of the man whom we know as Count Pahlen, on an
extradition warrant."
CHAP TEE XXXIX.
T was about this time that Miss Dodd, the local
Secretary of the Anti-Vivisection Society, called
011 Dr. Pahlen, intent on making a convert of
him. Zalma's St. Bernard did not, however,
recognise her as a special friend of the canine
race ; and though Dr. Pahlen admitted her to his cottage, he con¬
tinued his work, which was, for the time being, microscopic.
His exceedingly active mind caused him to grudge every wasted
hour. He was a true scientist. Curiosity developed in him
to a degree that caused in him always a keen desire for
knowledge. Any problem that perplexed him made him
wish to solve it. His inquisitiveness compelled him to seek,
to find out, to acquire exact information. He spent hours
in tabulating little facts, apparently of no consequence—
trifles, however, that 110 one had observed before, and which,
once noted, became so much fact, which he duly chronicled
and added to the store of exact knowledge.
He carried this scientific interest in details into his
political studies. Every profession of Liberty or Equality he
carried out in theory to its extreme. A relentless logic guided
his thoughts. His own fortune he had long ago dispersed.
Zalma's abundant income came to her from her mother. Plis
love of Humanity, based 011 the altruistic ideas of Comte,
created opinions in his mind which were both modified and
developed by the ultra-scientific character of his nature. He
would say: "The close of the nineteenth century is the most
wonderful period the world has ever known. Humanity
•297
298
Zalma
is stumbling on the edge of immense discoveries. Great
political ideas, now in the embryo, are about to be born;
the scientific truths of evolution, the survival of the fittest,
the struggle for existence, the lavish waste in nature, are
new facts which have not yet been applied in the political
field. Anarchy is about to prove its power — altruism,
its truth. When I stain these sections, or make diagrams
with the aid of my microscope of the bacilli of anthrax, it is
not merely that I take an interest, as a medical man, in the
discovery that I am sometimes fortunate enough to make, and
which I invariably register duly, so that to the infinity of
knowledge another exact fact may be added; but I add to
my own mind something vaguer, perhaps, politically, for what¬
ever trifle of knowledge is known affects the whole race, and
all that governs it. Politically, we are centuries behind the
Sciences. Politicians are too content with the old worn-out
catchwords. Sometimes, when I listen to ' some dreadful
Radical,' I ask myself the question: 'Are there any Radicals?'
Is not the most Radical politician almost as antique as a Tory?
When I look through my microscope I propound to myself
innumerable political problems."
Zalma was intent on her father's words, but Miss Dodd was
looking over her Anti-Vivisection tracts, to see which would be
most likely to convert the Professor.
"In what way does Nature remove the diseased ?" he con¬
tinued. " I answer, by death. The human race is corrupt—in
a political sense. By wholesale death I would bring about the
sanity of the political system."
The Professor turned a screw of his microscope and
minutely examined a stained slide: but Zalma's great eyes
looked far beyond her father, and her mind was occupied with
some thought that possessed her whole being.
" The French," continued the Professor, focussing his
microscope, "are yet in the van of progress. It is a
century since the Great Revolution; but now, in 1895, there
are no people who are so politically advanced as the French."
"Do you mean, that their laws are more enlightened?"
Z ALMA
299
asked Miss Dodd, wiping her blue spectacles. " As regards
vivisection, for instance."
"Their laws?" interrupted Count Pahlen. "No, their
dreams. The dreams of France become the laws of the world.
A great majority in France is Socialist, passionately bent 011
the extermination of the Capitalist and the establishment of
Social Equality."
He withdrew his slide, and began to work upon the opal slab.
" England! The English working man : the gentle crea¬
ture!" he laughed. "You think he is a gentle creature. He
has taken a long time to rouse: that is all."
He rose and looked out of the cottage, across the green and
its peaceful pond, towards the great metropolis.
"The bloodshed in France of a hundred years ago will
seem a mere stream compared with the rivers of blood that will
one day flow through the streets of London yonder."
He turned and looked at Miss Dodd, like a prophet.
"Woe to the rich man then ! His pampered wife and her
lap-dogs will wallow in the shambles of his mansion. His
children will be brutally trodden upon ; hulking labourers will
lay violence upon his daughters. Women of the rabble will
surfeit themselves in Belgravian houses, will sprawl on the
luxurious gewgaws of the modern upholsterer, and deck their
hair in the boudoirs of Mayfair. It will break out some day—
it may be any day. It will be a horrible revel of blood. The
English get so drunk when they make holiday."
" I dread the time," said Miss Dodd; " for the English
workman is so undiscriminating. I am the secretary, Zalma
dear, of our local teetotal society, and I have innumerable
statistics which prove what brutes the lower classes can be
when they are not sober. But how are things to be altered ?"
" One thing is, to teach men to be hard. A soft senti-
mentalisin, a weak, maudlin, tender-heartedness, has taken the
iron out of the English. You cry over somebody's cut finger
or an experimental rabbit, but for the aggregate horror of the
sweating system—what do you care ? For the starving millions
in the East End—what do you do ? "
zalma
" Well, that is what dear General Booth said a year or two
ago. We subscribed a hundred thousand pounds. We made
a great effort, hut we failed disastrously. The masses are as
drunken and as poverty-stricken as ever. What can we do ?"
" Nothing : except by an entire change of the social organisa¬
tion. Reform is impossible. The basis of Society is utterly
rotten. Until the purifying winds of Anarchy have devastated
the Existing, and swept clean away all the—"
" My dear Count Pahlen, you are now trying to convert me
to Anarchy," interrupted Miss Dodd, who had at last found the
tract she wanted; " I, on the other hand, wish to convert yon."
He looked at the title of the Anti-Vivisectionist tract that
she handed him.
" The disgusting cruelties practised by many Vivisectionists,
quite uselessly, have already made me a convert to the opinion
that the practice of vivisection should be placed under severe
—under most rigorous regulations," replied Dr. Pahlen, looking
at Miss Dodd with his kindliest expression. " There is one
convert I should be happy to see you make—that iniquitous
scoundrel Steele; he is a pupil of young Dr. Adern's. Take
my card; it will be an introduction to him."
With that Miss Dodd, who left her tract hopefully upon
the table, was so far content as to take her departure, Leo
barking very rudely as she put her things away in her reticule.
The two boys, for they were little more,—to be exact, Dr.
Adern was twenty-three, and Steele his junior by four months,—
were at work in their laboratory when Miss Dodd and some
other ladies of the Anti-Vivisection League called, with Dr.
Pahlen's card.
" I had the pleasure of meeting you some years ago at Sir
James Draper's, Dr. Adern," said Miss Dodd. " Your conversa¬
tion interested me much, and you promised you would show me
your laboratory. I have never claimed that promise till now."
" I shall be happy," replied Dr. Adern, " but unfortunately
I cannot to-day. Several operations are in course of treatment,
and it would not do for you to see the subjects."
" Why ? Are they in pain ?" inquired Miss Dodd.
Zalma
301
" In fearful pain, some of them, I fear," he replied.
" Still, we are students of Physiology," said Miss Dodd,
arranging her spectacles, " and a scientist is surely bound to
encourage a thirst for accurate knowledge."
The Vivisectionist put his head on one side, in his bird-like
way.
" Why do you desire to view my laboratory ? " he said.
" To learn the truth about Vivisection," replied Miss Dodd.
"Yes, merely to really ascertain the truth," said Daisy Pees,
who was one of the party. " For myself, I cannot believe all
the dreadful stories they tell of you doctors. You must be
good men to labour amongst the poor as you do for inadequate
payment—often for none at all. Ours is a search after Truth
—that you surely cannot discourage."
To Dr. Adern the argument seemed irresistible, especially
as Daisy Pees was a pretty girl—though her expression was
rather sad.
" If you do go into my laboratory you will see sights that will
make you shudder. No lady should witness the horror of a vivi¬
section-room. No woman has been into mine except Miss Pahlen,
the doctor's daughter, and a true woman of science, who takes
an extraordinary scholarly interest in the results of our studies."
" I know her," said Miss Dodd, tightening her lips. " A
woman who has been turned into devil by men like you—by
work like yours."
" She is very good to the poor," said Daisy Pees. " I was
with her in an hospital, learning nursing, for three months.
Never was there so kind, so courtly, so unselfish a creature."
" The love of truth that you profess to actuate you, Dr.
Adern," said Miss Dodd, "actuates us in our desire to see and
know what Vivisection is. You promised me," she continued,
" when you were at Iffenden, that you would show me your
laboratory. But it seems that one result of physiological
experiment is, that it dulls a man's sense of honour."
Dr. Adern became very grave.
"I will show you my laboratory now," he said, "if you insist
upon my promise."
302
Zalma
He led them into a long, well-lit back chamber, that had
once been a carpenter's shop, in which was a long table
covered with several complicated instruments, and reddened
with blood-stains. A large machine, attached to a gas supply,
and furnished with bellows, was 011 another table. There was
also a large iron case, covered with a barred iron cover,
through which could be plainly observed a mass of quivering-
horror,—a bleeding dog, gagged, and strapped to some instru¬
ment, its blood dripping, drop by drop, through the grated lid
on which it had been laid.
" What dreadful thing is that ?" inquired Miss Eees,
sickened and sad at the horrible spectacle.
" This is a chamber of horrors," said the Doctor. " I make
no concealment of it. If you come to learn the truth, you
shall know it. Here animals are deliberately tortured in
order that we may study pain—and the effects of pain upon
the subjects. For various scientific results, the haying of dogs
or rabbits, boiling them, treating them with curare, pumping
air into them, for instance, with that instrument for hours at
a stretch; operations upon the abdominal cavity; dissections
and partial dissections of nerves, whilst the subject has its
flesh and nerves tied and lifted by galvanic shocks;—un¬
doubtedly cause intense agony to the animals we experiment
upon."
" Let us move from this poor, bleeding creature," said Daisy
Eees, as she walked farther into the room, averting her eyes
from various apparatus and cages. " I, for one, have already
seen too much."
" What is that poor cat kept in there for ? " asked Miss
Dodd.
" Oh—that! She's all right. She is only in the condemned
cell at present."
" But she is being tortured now."
" Ho, no; not at all. I am wanting to keep her alive as
long as possible, when I experiment upon her."
" Then why does she mew so sadly ?"
" I want to restrain, as far as possible, the activity of the
Zalma
303
animal's digestive functions, whilst under the influence of the
operation."
" In other words, the poor, mewing creature is starving ?"
" Precisely. I have kept her without food. I am making
a research, with other students and assistants, on the Pathology
of Obstructive Jaundice."
" And what precisely are you going to do ?" said Miss
Dodd, between her clenched teeth.
" I am going to open the abdomen and tie up the bile-
ducts and the thoracic or lymph-duct. The subject will pro¬
bably die, from rupture of the ligatured duct causing peri¬
tonitis, but not before we have witnessed a very instructive
series of experiments."
" But what is the use of it ?" asked Mrs. Gwynne Griffiths;
for so Miss Emmeline Draper had become.
" The use of it ?" said Dr. Adern ; " the use of it ? " and he
surveyed the women with his ineffable look of contempt. " I
will answer you in the words of the eminent Samson Gamgee :
'Without experiments on living animals, scientific surgery
could not have been founded, and its present humane and safe
practice would have been impossible.'"
" What have you discovered ? That is what I want to know,"
asked Miss Dodd in a furious tone.
" The most important discoveries in medicine have been
made by means of vivisection."
" Everything is already known that is worth knowing,"
said Mrs. Gwynne Griffiths, " both in surgery and medicine."
" There you are in error: we have much to learn,
Madame. Koch, though he has not yet discovered a cure
for consumption, arrived so nearly at the truth that innumer¬
able scientists hailed as complete what would have been the
greatest discovery of the age; they were premature. The
great German is still in his laboratory. But we are constantly
making discoveries; and our present practice of medicine has
been revolutionised during the last quarter of a century by his
discoveries, and by the discoveries of men like him. He has
accomplished wonderful results. What may lie not ascertain ?
3°4
Zalma
Smallpox—that horrible scourge on mankind—has been stamped
out through knowledge gained by vivisection. Pasteur
undoubtedly learnt his cure of hydophobia by means of vivi¬
section. Besides, the experiments are generally performed on
animals under anaesthetics."
" Anaesthetics ?" exclaimed Mrs. Gwynne Griffiths, with
contempt. "That has been exposed too completely and too
often already."
" It would weary you—and, indeed, you are not capable of
understanding—if I attempted to explain to you the Germ
theory. But, only in recent years, a great scientific contro¬
versy has commenced, and is progressing, of enormous conse¬
quence to the human race. It involves the great subject of
generation. The connection between micro - organisms and
disease is the scientific subject of the day. Bacteriology and
Vivisection are twins. The discoveries of Swaine and Bucld,
of Davaine, Cagniard, Latour, and Schwann, of Pasteur and
Ivoch particularly, are of incalculable consequence, and my
own study of disease in animals, as illustrating the course of
human disease, renders my practice of vivisection absolutely
necessary."
"Nothing can excuse the suffering of these poor dumb
creatures," answered Mrs. Gwynne Griffiths, with tears in her
eyes.
" This rabbit has been inoculated with cholera," continued
Dr. Adern. " I have taken cultivations of the cholera microbe,
and inoculated several animals with it; the discoveries which
will follow will have an important bearing on the micro-
parasitic origin of communicable diseases."
"Tell me in plain English," said Miss Dodd, "what real
good has Vivisection done ?"
" For many years past, Drs. Klein, Cautley, Andrewes, and
Martin have been engaged in researches dealing with the
prevention of typhus and diphtheria. Their success has been
truly extraordinary."
" What is in that phial, I)r. Adern ?" inquired Mrs.
Gwynne Griffiths.
Zalma
305
" Antitoxin."
"That sounds very learned. Interpret it, please, to a
common mind."
"Dr. Eoux's antitoxin, or the serum drawn from a horse
which has been treated, is acknowledged by the Local Govern¬
ment Board to have an actual curative effect upon children
suffering from croup or diphtheria, yet it is mainly as a
preventive that medical men look upon antitoxin as a success.
Diphtheria has made such dreadful ravages upon the children
in the poorer districts of large towns in England, that the
success of antitoxin is alone a sufficient justification of vivi¬
section and the inoculation of animals."
"You say that you have found a specific for diphtheria—is
that it ?" asked Miss Dodd.
" I say that the study of bacteriology has received an
immense impetus from the fact that a horse has already been
rendered 'immune' from diphtheria, and serum has been
secured, and is being used with almost invariable success.
Another horse is now under treatment, and it is expected that
in a few weeks there will be available in the metropolis a
supply of serum sufficient to meet any probable demand.
This is quite new in the medical world. It is a vast discovery,
like the use of vaccine lymph, to which it is indeed akin.
Everyone knows that smallpox, which used to be one of the
commonest of diseases, has been almost extinguished through
vaccination. If a child is vaccinated properly, it almost
ensures the patient against smallpox."
" And you look for further important results from all this
cruelty ?" asked Mrs. Gwynne Griffiths.
" Yes. I have the utmost confidence, reasoning by analogy,
that every disease to which mankind is subject may in the
distant future be prevented, by an expansion of our knowledge,
through bacteriology and vivisection and the inoculation of
animals with disease. And, to conclude, I may say," said Dr.
Adern, " that it is by the knowledge gained from vivisection
that you live."
" But," said Daisy Bees, removing the handkerchief from
20
3°6
Zalma
her eyes, by which she had endeavoured to exclude from her
vision the horrors of the laboratory, " I would rather die."
And she stamped her foot in righteous anger.
" Bravo, Daisy," said Miss Dodcl; " there spoke the heart
of a good woman."
" My heart cannot speak," said Mrs. Gwynne Griffiths, as
the tears flowed down her cheek. " It bleeds too much to
speak. Let us go from this fearful den."
" Ladies," replied Dr. Adern, " hearts do not speak,
nor do they bleed; you are quite unscientific and in¬
accurate."
Soon after the ladies had gone, Dr. Steele joined his learned
young tutor.
Neither of the young operators was in the least degree
affected by the horror of the work. They seemed to care no
more for the pain of the creature being operated on than if it
was so much inorganic matter; yet the experiments then under
the most immediate study consisted in the removal of the
brain of sixteen dogs.
With Dr. Adern it was obvious that his feelings were
entirely blunted, and that he was totally indifferent to the
infliction of suffering. With cold and calm eye he noted the
precise effect upon the animal operated upon, took careful and
exact note of time, temperature, and other conditions, as though,
indeed, lie was oblivious of the fact that he had a suffering
animal bound under him.
Not so with the young fiend Steele. His cruel eye sparkled
with delight in the pain of the subject, and took a greater
interest in the agonies of the dog than in the scientific result of
the experiment.
It was an amusement to this young savage to stick pins
in the chorda oblongata of pigeons. The birds thus ornamented
would walk and fly backward for a month. No scientific fact
in this interested him : it was a ludicrous spectacle, that caused
him to laugh. The intense agonies of the suffering rabbits
made him exclaim. He uttered lewd oaths and derisive jests
Zalma
307
to the dumb creatures he was torturing. His giggling and
frivolous manner would have taken the sanctity even from
an act of grace.
The experiments on the effect of removing a portion or the
whole of the brain of the various living dogs was carefully
noted by Dr. Adern in a rough notebook. His table was neat.
His book carefully indexed. Such notes as the following were
entered with exactitude :—
" 8th November.—Two holes were bored in the head of a
bulldog, and part of the brain washed away. The animal became
blind with the right eye. On December lltli, I took the left
eyeball out. Fresh disturbance of the brain 011 the 10th
January.
"A third on the 5th February, this time 011 the right side.
Dog died 011 February 15th.
" On November 29th.—Fart of the left side of the brain and
the left eye of a young hound taken out. On the 12th January,
a second, and on the 29th, a third mutilation of the brain.
O11 the 31st January, total blindness set in. On the 10th
February, the brain further destroyed. On the 4th March
again, for the fifth time, causing death 011 March 8th.
" A very clever, lively, young female dog, which had learnt
to shake hands with both forepaws, had the left side of the
brain washed out through two holes on the 1st December.
This caused lameness in the right paw. On being asked for
the left, the dog immediately laid it in my hand. I now
demanded the right; but the creature only looks at me sorrow¬
fully, for it cannot move it. On my continuing to press for it,
the dog crosses the left paw over and offers it to me on the
right side, as if to make amends for not being able to give the
right paw.
" In the case of several mutilated dogs I decided to put
out the sound eye, in order to estimate correctly the functions
of the eye maimed by the loss of the brain."
Steele was a dissolute young man, and, being too fatigued
by bis nightly excesses to overwork himself, he considered his
memory was sufficient for him. He made 110 notes. He had
3°8
Zalma
cut up and dissected innumerable animals. His delight in the
work may have been extreme, but he was not the kind of man
who would ever make any discovery at all.
Zalma, like all the members of the Pioneer Club, was much
pressed to join the Anti-Vivisection League. But she excused
herself. She had other pressing occupations. Furthermore,
she was secretly making experiments herself. Some scheme
was in her mind, over which she brooded continually; and she
would sit for hours lost in some dark thought that gloomed
over her spirit and left its impress on her face. Her vast
charities, her original force, and her strong character caused
her to be still abundantly recognised by many of the leading
women at the Pioneer; but her reputation had ceased to be
doubtful, and a private meeting of the Committee considered
her. The Academy picture was a striking portrait of her; and
one of the leading ladies on the Committee declared that any
woman who would pose in the nude was unfit to be a member
of the club.
The Secretary answered by pointing to the picture of Lady
Godiva, which, in bare and beautiful chastity, adorns the
principal room in the Pioneer Club. The chairman (as she
calls herself, with delightful and truly feminine absence of
logic) talked in her kindly way of Zalma's Chertsey Charity,
and the meeting passed on to the consideration of the next
item on the agenda. It was a paper by Mrs. Gwynne Griffiths,
" On the Political Influence of Vivisection ; and its connection,
direct though remote, in the spread of Anarchy."
CHAPTER XL.
ER father fully excused her. He did not wink at
and overlook her wickedness. He distinctly
approved her. " My dear daughter, you are
living a natural life. I praise your courage,
Zalma. You are quite right. Your conduct
has my entire approbation. As a politician, as a scientist,
as a philosopher, it meets with my absolute approval."
She was with him at their little Halliford cottage. He
stroked her hair fondly. " Marriage, as observed to-day, is
the most absurd of the existing institutions; its inception, its
development, its fulfilment, and its termination might afford
laughter for the gods—only there are no gods to laugh. It
is the most comic of all human institutions. I have done my
best all my life to shock its laws."
" Yet women desire it, father."
" All young women are anxious to be widows: that is why
so many girls want to get married."
" Then why do men marry ?"
" They are reasoned into it by their future mothers-in-law:
new gowns are very expensive. In these days of tall girls
and large families, mothers are always glad if they can find
someone else to pay their daughters' bills."
" Then you seriously suggest that marriage is merely an
affair of millinery ?"
" On the part of most women—everything is a question of
millinery."
" And 011 men's part ?"
Zalma
" Oh, men ! A man generally marries nowadays when his
mistress runs away."
" You do not recognise love, then, father ?"
" Yes, hut it is usually a temporary affair."
She leant back in her chair, and after a while said dreamily,
" Love for a whole lifetime is so beautiful."
"Yost beautiful," he answered; "but how rare! And
marriage is never love for a lifetime. The curse of love is—
its brevity; the curse of marriage is—its longevity. It is so
difficult to terminate it, even when both parties to the contract
desire to dissolve the partnership."
" Still, one does hear of divorce sometimes," said Zalma,
with an ironical smile.
" So often, indeed, that one may well say,—without a divorce
no marriage is complete," Then, with a tone of more sincerity,
he said, " Love is a natural law, regulated by the conscience
alone. In all human affairs altruism is the only safety.
Enough ! Where is my portfolio ? It is time for me to go."
" May I not come with you, father ?" said Zalma, as the
Professor was packing his dressing-case and arranging his
paraphernalia. " Eemember, I am getting cpiite an experi¬
enced comrade now. I am getting very tired of the giddy
world. I have had my fling. Pearls and diamonds are begin¬
ning to satiate me. Frivolity, folly, and fashion fatigue me.
I should like to turn to something serious. I have been bad
long enough. Let me be good. When will you want me ?
1 begin to turn to the Cause. I want to do soldiers' work."
" You shall come with me anywhere but to Kussia. If
you die, well, you die—does it matter when ? But Eussia
has a worse punishment than death—Siberia. That, though
I brave it myself, I cannot permit to you. I am old, yet the
thought of it makes me shudder. You, Zalma, would endure
its horrors for a generation—its tortures, its agonies, would
last your lifetime. No ! I prohibit it. I go, Zalma, first to
St. Petersburg. I shall return to Berlin: meet me there.
I will let you know when, from Moscow."
" I will meet you, father, at Berlin ; but I will go with you
Zalma
to the Russian frontier. I obey you exactly. You promised.
Nay, father dear, do not shake your head."
" Is it worth the inconvenience, Zalma—the worry ? "
" You know, father, how short life is, and how little I have
had of your life. I love no one in the world but you, dear
father. At 110 time in my life am I happy except when I am
with you." She nestled her head upon his bosom. " Only
when I am with you—yes, only then am I truly happy."
" But the fly is waiting, Zalma. My train leaves for
London in twenty-two minutes, and you have not time to
prepare for your journey."
" Yes," replied the girl joyously. " My trunks are packed.
I am ready now."
They went off together to the village station at Shepperton.
The military-looking stationmaster took off his cap politely
and bowed them into the train.
" Father," said Zalma, " to you I should mention not only
my suspicions, but even baseless fears. That man who took his
ticket immediately after you, and who stood by your shoulder
at the time."
" What of him ?"
" I do not know, but he looked cunningly at you. He
scanned your appearance narrowly. He waited to take his
ticket until you had taken yours. He got into the next
carriage. Just as the train was starting he sent a telegram,
through the stationmaster. These are trifles, but—"
" I know very well that I am always under observation. I
am shadowed. England is becoming too dangerous for me."
They arrived at Waterloo. In the hurry, a figure passed
and stared into the carriage.
" That was the man I meant, father."
"Yes, I know him: a detective. I will expedite my
journey. I had intended to spend a week in London: I will
hasten my departure. We will go to the Metropole. Don't
be there much with me, as I am watched. Have you any¬
thing to do in London?"
" I promised Mary Hope I would spend to-morrow with
312
Zalma
her. She has some shopping to do, and she wants things
for the Retreat."
" Are you bent on coming with me to the Continent ?"
" Yes, father dear: do let me come."
" Well then—the day after to-morrow we start."
" Darling father, why did you shudder ?"
" Hush, Zalma! It is getting serious. There are detec¬
tives wherever I go. I recognise them at every turn."
" Fly, then. Let me go with you, dear, dear father."
" Escape ! It is easy to say that."
" Oh father ! this is dreadful."
" Promise me now, Zalma. Your time has perhaps come.
Take up the sword as I relinquish it. At my death it is your
holiest inheritance."
The tears ran from her eyes. " Father, I have only one
wish more rooted than this."
" And that ?"
" To die with you, fighting—to be taken dead at your
side."
" Ho, girl, no. You have a greater future. Take these
papers, and these ; this key too—you know it. Take my
place. Even Anarchy needs a leader. Carry on the war.
Be zealous for Humanity. Life is now beginning to have
duties for you, Zalma Pahlen, and when I am dead—"
" Dead, father! father !"
" Yes, they must take me. I am surrounded. These
hornets are everywhere. Their eyes gleam at me from every
corner."
" Can you not disguise yourself ?"
"Ho country affords an asylum to me now. Ho, Zalma;
I have lived my day. There is no rest for me now—but the
grave."
Zalma, pale with grief, put her arms about his neck in a
frantic embrace.
" The grave ?" he echoed, with a bright look in his eye.
" Ha! an idea! I will try and evade them yet. Zalma, if
you see my death announced in The Times—"
Zalma
3J3
She looked at him wonderingly.
"You will then know that I am alive."
He removed her arms gently. " I go now to meet Feneon.
It is my last duty, perhaps : an appointment that I will not
omit. I shall see him, and then plan my escape. Feneon is
enthusiastic in our Cause. A young man of great promise;
a poet; the singer of the new Religion."
" Fdneon ? I know him."
" If anything happens to me, Zalma, remember my regard
for him. He has come, I know not why, to see me here—' to
converse with me seriously, and to confer.' Those are his
words."
" Where do you see him, father dear ?"
" I shall learn that directly—by the underground post,"
said the Professor, with a significant smile.
He looked about him. " The traffic is very thick here. I
shall step out into the crowd." He kissed his daughter's
hand and left her. Zalma proceeded in the brougham alone.
An hour afterwards he was in conference with the young
poet Feneon, in some dingy lodgings in a little street branch¬
ing from the Tottenham Court Road.
The strength and the weakness of visionaries is the same:
they dream. Though their feet may be of clay and their
limbs conceived in the loins of Hell, their enthusiasm is not of
Earth, but of Heaven. Their inspiration inflates them and
takes them beyond the confines of the world. When a cause,
whatever it be, is led by such men, some unaccountable
power goes with the cause, and it is taken, by ways that seem
improbable and vain, to success, that astonishes the practical
and astounds the man of common sense. All the great
religious movements, and many of the political, have begun in
visions condemned by the world as foolishness, and carried, in
spite of the wisdom of the wise, to mysterious and triumphant
fulfilment.
" Anarchy must be constructive as well as destructive," said
Feneon, looking with his dreamy eyes at Dr. Pahlen. " Our
movement is not a craze; the cry of the hungry, the wail of the
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Zalma
oppressed, of the slaves of Labour and Capital—these mingle
their murmurs; the reverberation of their sorrows is often
audible. The rich hear its rumble and are afraid."
"Connect your remarks," said Dr. Palden, with a kindly
yet authoritative manner, as he laid his hand on the young-
man's shoulder.
" We have destroyed ; we have shaken nations; Governments
dread our name ; yes, we are feared. Why ? Because we have
shown the people how they have been fooled for a generation
with the vote. But they are tiring of that useless toy. The
vote ? We have taught them to look for a new heaven and a
new earth."
" The whole duty of Anarchy is to destroy the existing
order of things," said the old enthusiast. " An end must be put
to authority of every kind, and to every form of property and
privilege."
" I go further," said the young Anarchist, half mad in his
fanatic zeal. " In the ideal state of Society men shall live
together without laws. Men shall one day learn to do without
rulers and oppressors—without masters and Governments, or
God; they shall freely produce according to their strength, and
amply enjoy according to their wants. This is Anarchy. But
how is this holy state to come into effect ? Not by magic.
The Universal Bepublic requires not a leader nor a chief, but
an Embodiment."
" Be exact," said the old man.
" I am—and practical. I am logical; I am French. Let
us establish our idea. I am not content to slay—to execute
Presidents, to assassinate good men. I am not a babe, afraid
of blood. Kill by all means, but construct also. Pull down,
but build up."
" You have a meaning behind all these words," said Count
Palilen, bending over the young man affectionately " Get, my
dear young comrade, to particulars. You have not come all
the way from Paris to tell me this."
"All my ideas are based upon principle. What is to be the
governing force of the New Era? The altruism of Comte.
Zalma
3J5
The gods are found out, the gods are dead; hut Comte
advocated worship. Yes, my great countryman knew that men
must ever worship. The worship of Humanity, the adoration
of women: these are Positivist ideas."
" Well ?"
" So Anarchy must have its embodiment in woman," said
the handsome young Frenchman, seizing Dr. Pahlen by his
wrists. "The sculptors, the painters, the poets, all the
new priests, must acclaim her. Anarchy must be made
popular. The incarnation of Beauty must be, and is, the
embodiment of Anarchy."
" You are a Symbolist, Fencon: you require that Anarchy
should have a visible symbol."
"Absolutely that. I have been to your Academy of Fine
Arts. I have seen the great work of the year—the Venus
Aphrodite. Now, I make my prilgrimage to the shrine of the
Queen of the New Republic."
" Do you mean that you would dignify my daughter to
this—that you would make her the outward and visible form
of the great truths of Anarchy ?"
" I do. Anarchy must be embodied in her. I admit that
Anarchy recognises no chief, and can have no Queen; but
the Eternal Beauty of the principle of unselfish Humanity
must be represented in Woman: the Source, the Mother, the
Sister."
" The Daughter," echoed the old man reverently.
" And the Bride," said the young man, his eyes brilliant as
a seer's.
" My Zalma. I have myself called her that—the World's
Bride."
" Listen to me, dear and venerable comrade. Your
daughter must be put forward witli every enthusiasm and
with all our simple pomp as the incarnation of our Idea.
Mankind is not yet noble enough to be satisfied with the
abstract. The abstract is understood only by the few—the
learned, the philosophic; but the crowd require the concrete.
The crowd will worship her, they will be led by her, thousands
3l6
Zalma
will rally to us through her. She will be, as it were, the new
President of a great International Republic, which issues no
laws, levies no taxes, commands not, rules not. The human
instinct for worship must be recognised. The Goddess of
Reason, that Paris set up during the great Revolution, was
simply the expression of a natural necessity."
The old visionary embraced the young.
" I see the day," said the young poet, tossing his clustering-
hair from his forehead; " even before many years pass it may
come: a pure and noble woman, even as in Comte's ordered
vision—the Incarnation of the Revolution, the Spirit of
Anarchy—receiving the worship of Mankind in the name of
Humanity. Prom all parts of the earth come the comrades;
glorious with the scars of success, they come. Monarchy every¬
where overturned; Altruism everywhere set up; Humanity
established on a basis of self-sacrifice and self-abnegation, and
amid the cheers,—not of the nations, for nations will be no
more, but of the emancipated people,—the chief woman will be
also the lowliest*woman, prouder to serve than to rule, and
the last shall be first."
"It works," said the old man excitedly ; "it works."
"Yes; do you see how practical—do you see how full of
sense my design is ? Points of difference are always arising.
Though we recognise no ruler, still, during the reconstruction
of Society upon new ideas, there is need of a controlling voice.
It will be for her to decide—to reject. Men will listen to her
when they will refuse the guidance of a man. Even in
Anarchy, jealous though we must be to preserve the idea of
210 laws, no rules, no government, there must be—a Mother."
" It works," murmured Count Pahlen. " When I am gone,
—I, who have led them so long,—who else shall lead them ?"
Peneon smote the table and shook his fingers in the air.
" The idea will grow. It will seize the people; it will spread
like wildfire. Remember the Boulanger craze. All Paris was
mad about him ; but this inspiration is infinitely vaster. I
will announce her to the world in an ode that shall make my
name immortal. I shall fling flowers at her feet that she shall
Zalma
3i7
weave into her hair. Her beauty, her splendour, her present
stir and fame, will launch her with eclat. All the young men
will be crazy for her; and it will not be in one country only,
but everywhere. The mob will be mad about her. She shall
travel. She shall unfold our doctrines to the world. To the
English she shall speak of Beauty; to the French she shall
teach Purity; to the German, Unselfishness; to the Russian,
Charity. There shall be no treason against any Government in
what she says or does. Her teaching must halt and end at the
holiness of Altruism."
The young man's face glowed like a seraph's.
" And then, when the people are at her feet, when they flock
about her knees, when her name is echoed everywhere, when
all she has to do is to hold up her finger and say, ' The world
is mine,' she shall proclaim the universal truth, the great new
dynasty of the People, of unselfish Humanity, in the estab¬
lished Anarchy."
" Hark !" exclaimed Count Pahlen; " I know that whistle.
I am tracked even to this house. The police are everywhere.
Let us try to escape even yet. Your plan is too valuable to
be lost. Come with me; quick. If we are bold we may yet
escape."
"El1 Men, evitons le pifye," replied Feneon, thrusting his arm
through Count Pahlen's, and hurrying from the room.
CHAPTER XLI.
T. LEG EE smiled as he issued his instructions for
the arrest of Dr. Pahlen. Eor days, for weeks,
this had been his most cherished desire. He had
expected it long. The dreaded first of May had
passed uneventfully. The measures taken by
various Governments had proved successful, and with this
arrest Nihilism would receive its coup dc grace. Anarchy,
damped already, would smoulder away. The leader of all the
villainous gang once in prison, a score of important minor
arrests would follow, and the whole conspiracy would be
effectually stayed. After that, a few years of patience, and
the very Cause itself would be but a memory—a caution for all
time to the nations. Already he had reached the goal. There
was nothing left, he mused, but the reward.
A smile of triumph and delight lit his usually stern
features. His reward. Yes, Heaven-sent—the woman of his
dreams had come to him. "With her, in reality, he would now
find the fruit of his labour, and drink of the pleasures that
succeed duty. She was an apparition from on high. His
thoughts, which had for years past centred 011 his task, now
dwelt 011 happiness.
He took up his Bible, a habit that survived in him from
his mother's time, and which had increased as his daily task
compelled him to seek divine support. His simple piety was
like that of the sombre old Scotch colonel of his first regiment,
a Presbyterian, full of the old ways of the old days, and he
read: " Thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands; happy slialt
thou be, and it shall be well with thee.
318
Zalma
3J9
" Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by the sides of thine
house; thy children like olive plants round about thy table.
" Heboid that thus the man shall be blessed that feareth the
Lord."
Dreams of a home, of fireside, of wife, of children, came to
this bachelor of forty years. He smiled again gaily, laughed,
rolled up a map of Europe and put it away in a cupboard; it
seemed that he was ending his work—that the holiday years
were coming.
He went out; walked aimlessly along,—he who never did
anything aimlessly before,-—strolled down the Mall without
the least idea where he was going, turned up St. James' Street,
crossed Piccadilly, and, as he was going through the turnstiles,
discovered, to his own surprise, that he was in the Academy
again. It was almost the closing hour. He went straight to
the Venus Aphrodite. Large as the crowd about it had been
before, there was room enough to see it now. The gallery was
almost empty. Lie was alone with that ineffable presence.
When lie went out he did not know where to go. He looked
at his watch, and gazed at it blankly. It was too early for
dinner, and the promise of too lovely an evening to begin it so
soon at his club. He strolled down Piccadilly to the Park.
The Queen was in London. The Drive was crowded. He
kept on meeting men he knew; now and then ladies of his
acquaintance saluted him from passing carriages. The pretty
fashionable costumes interested him. He wondered why he
came to the Park so seldom. He met an old chum and
chatted with him brightly, noticing lines and wrinkles in his
face, and wondering whether he himself had also been un¬
knowingly growing old. He saw the Bunderbys go by in a
lumbering barouche—those two dear old maids, who had been
young old-maids when he was a boy. Lord Beaumaris he
recognised; Lord and Lady Camberley; the Russian Am¬
bassador and his two daughters; and a host of others, includ¬
ing one of the under secretaries at the P.O.—practically one of
the junior clerks in his own department, usually occupied in
indexing his letter-books and the like, but who seemed better
320
Zalma
occupied in handling a very neat pair of bays in a high dog¬
cart, beside his stylish wife. He met Canon Carker, walking
with the Countess of Rottenham, for they were now insepar¬
able ; and some other people who recognised him, but whom
he had entirely forgotten.
" St. Leger—Sir Charles, never met you since you were
baronetted. Congratulate you, Charlie. How dy'e do now,
old chap ? Let me see—how long is it since we were together
at Smyrna—eh ? My wife."
" Gwynne, is it ? " said St. Leger, glancing at the lady, and
again removing his hat.
"You know me, old fellow—donclia ? You haven't for¬
gotten when we served together on the Smyrna Mission.
Gwynne, of course. Griffiths, you know—the safe man—as
you always would say—you chaffing fellows in the Diplomatic."
" Of course, I remember very well," said St. Leger, shaking
his hand warmly, fearing that he had been too icy towards
an old chum. " And married, eh ? Let me congratulate you " ;
for the third time he took off his hat.
" Didn't you know I was married, Charlie ?" asked Gwynne
Griffiths, lowering his voice, "yes, three months ago. You
know my wife too. Was Miss Draper, you know."
" Ah—yes!" said St. Ledger, looking at her hard and
taking her extended hand, but altogether failing to recognise
her; they went by before he remembered. He sat down in a
Park chair ; the Smyrna Mission and Gwynne Griffiths ; he
had not fogotten. Gwynne, too, was older. "Let me see,"
mused St. Leger, travelling along a train of thought; "Gwynne
was the eldest son of Lord Beaumaris, graceful old man; met
him last at Iffenden : yes, at Sir James Draper's. Miss Draper,
Gwynne had said. Yes, he remembered now. She was old
Sir James'daughter; so she was now Gwynne Griffiths' wife
—would be Lady Beaumaris in time. Yes, Iffenden, Iffenden,
Iffenden—the terrace and the bower, the grove of nightingales,
the waking of love's sweet song, that voice of music, the
pressure of a hand, the thrill of love."
There was a murmur and a movement, a lifting of in-
Zalma
321
numerable hats: the Queen had gone by. Soon the Drive
began to thin, the people at the rails were fewer, the chairs
less crowded, the promenade was easy. A young gentleman
passed with two ladies, nodding and bowing laughingly to
someone behind his chair. They rose and joined the others
in the walk. They were the Griffiths again. Mrs. Griffiths
seemed very warm-hearted in her greetings. " Daisy, thank
you so much for the green silk: I could match it nowhere.
How d'ye do, Miss Dodd ? Dr. Adern ; so pleased. Good-
evening. See you to-morrow, Daisy." Two ladies and a big
St. Bernard were passing ; they were recognised by the
Griffiths' friends. St. Leger could not help overhearing them,
for they were close to him.
" Mary, how d'ye do ? and Zalma! how are you and the
dear doggie ? You know Miss Dodd; Dr. Adern, Miss Mary
Hope."
And then the other: " So pleased to see you, Miss Bees.
How do you do, Miss Dodd ? Did you see the Queen ?
Wasn't she looking bonnie ? "
Then Miss Bees again: "We have just met the G wynne
Griffiths. Emmeline is looking so well. There they are ; see,
crossing the drive. Good-evening. Good-evening, Zalma;
see you at the Pioneer to-night with Miss Hope. Bye, bye,
doggie."
Then they passed on.
" Zalma!" St. Leger had seen her. The skirts of her
dress had touched him. The scent of her ambergis was now
about him. He recollected the same scent in the bower at
Iffenden.
He looked after her. She was very fashionably dressed:
her friend not so. He watched her walk; there was a stateli-
ness, a majesty, in it. Her dog continually fondled her
hand.
" Zalma! Was that her name ? Had he caught it aright ?
What music in the name !" Then he remembered he had not
heard her voice. She had not spoken, but had smiled her
greeting and her adieux.
21
322
Zalma
He stared after her; it was easy to follow her with his
eyes : her dog made her yet more recognisable. There was no
harm if he followed her; perhaps she would sit down again;
perhaps he would be able to speak to her. He took up his
gloves and walked after her. Soon he felt he followed too
nearly, and slackened his pace. At the posts she crossed the
Drive and went through the gates Well, he could not help it
—follow her he would. She and her friend paused a moment
outside Hyde Park Corner. A four-in-hand came dashing
along up Piccadilly. She saluted the driver, who took off his
hat with a flourish, evidently proud to be recognised by her.
She walked 011 a little, and again paused, opposite Lord
Eothschild's house, perhaps for a hansom; St. Leger felt he had
110 right to follow her in this sort of way. Why should he not
go straight up and speak to her ?
A man dreads the woman he loves. Perhaps it would not
be proper to speak to her. He feared to offend her. They
had met so casually. It was so long ago. It was her right to
recognise him. He pressed his hat firmly 011 his head and
walked boldly towards where she stood. If she did not bow to
him he must pass by.
" Who was that rude man ?" said Miss Hope as he passed.
" He stared at you so."
Zalma did not reply. She stood still, dazed.
She had lost her breath. Her big wide eyes were gazing
after him. She continued to watch him until he was lost in
the crowd of Piccadilly.
Then she said serenely, " Did he ?"
" Did he what ? Oh, stare—that man ? Yes, he did indeed."
" Then he recognised me," exclaimed Zalma joyfully, clasp¬
ing her hands.
He lived ! He lived ! He was in London. She had seen
him.
Oh the May day! To a lover, what is there in all the
world but love ? Oh the sounds of joy! Every cart-wheel
sang music; the spokes revolving in the sunshine flashed with
joyous light. Hansoms whizzed by, and omnibuses passed, in
Zalma
323
a whirl of merry madness. The railings of St. James' Park
ran before her eyes like a wide ribbon of fantasy.
What happiness! He lived; that was enough. Here, in
the usual haunts, where she would surely meet him soon. Oh
love ! Oh joy !
The nightingales sang again in her ears; the scent of
jessamine and rose came to her; a dream of little trailing
flowers, and the spirals and tendrils of climbing plants, the
moonlight and the river, the strains of Grieg, the murmur and
the music of the one and only voice that could melt her heart
with love, filled her with an ecstatic delirium.
CHAPTER XLII.
T. LEGER did not go to his club to dine. When
men of forty are in love they are not hungry.
He was too full of radiant happiness, or rather of
a joy yet more sublime: he was exalted.
He went to his chambers, running upstairs
like a schoolboy. How empty, how dreary those rooms seemed !
He smiled at them with a sort of grim defiance, as though he
henceforth challenged their dulness, and forbade it.
They seemed impossible to him now; he wondered he had
endured the solitude of bachelordom so long. The dusk gloom
made them additionally sombre. A sweet evening breeze came
through an open window. He put on a slouch hat and went
out.
He wanted exercise. His feet were light. He could have
run and danced, still running. He went for a long walk
through the London streets and squares; into regions unknown
to him; past rows of red brick houses, past long lines of new
villas. He walked quickly—thoughtless, lightfooted, light-
hearted. He was on a hill—a common. He wondered; per¬
haps it was Hampstead Heath.
It was night now. The stars were pale in the sky. The
lurid light of London was below him and around. There
seemed a peace and rest even in the throbbing heart of the
world: the vast metropolis seemed still.
The solemn repose of it was so majestic in its calm.
He had walked off his excitement. He crossed the Heath
and returned by other roads; he lost his way, but still strode
324
Zalma
325
on, the quickness of his step and the unaccustomed exercise
filling his veins with healthy circulation. He was not a
smoker. His brain was very clear.
Thoughts came to him, innumerable. They crowded upon
him. They were like bodied shapes that came up to his face
and passed.
He found himself suddenly in a neighbourhood that he
knew; a great station on either hand. He came into a long
main thoroughfare. It was the Euston Road. He traversed
it, began to feel fatigue, hesitated about a cab, but finished his
walk home.
He partook of supper as one does who is careless of what
he eats, put on his slippers, looked through his books, tossed
over the magazines, and took up his Bible. Then he flung
himself into an easy-chair, opened at the Psalms, and went to
sleep. Though he had been a student of languages, he was not
a man who ever read much for pleasure's sake. But the
contact of his Bible, the mere touch of its cover, had often
been a comfort to him. It was a sort of unconscious link
between himself and his mother. She had taught him to
read from the holy page. Her portrait was now on his wall:
a benign face that, like an angel's, watched over his
sleep.
When he awoke it was her face that met his eye. He
looked at her, but thought of Zalma. Troublesome thoughts
began to oppress him. The nudity of the Venus Aphrodite
afflicted him. He felt an anger towards the painter. A con¬
fusion of ideas rioted in his mind. It was a relief to him that
he had seen her with such a devout-looking woman as Miss
Hope, in such good company, in the Park. He reflected, and
remembered that Miss Ennneline Draper's fame was for good
works and charity. Of his love, of Zalma, how little he knew !
He was ignorant even of the name. Perhaps she was married.
The idea came into his thoughts like a stab.
He opened his Bible again—
"When thou passest through the water, I will be with
thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee;
32<5
Zalma
when thon walkest through the fire, thou shalt not he burned;
neither shall the flame kindle upon thee."
Long he mused, with stern, grave face.
He looked at his watch. It was three a.m. Time for bed,
indeed. As his custom was before seeking his couch, he went
down upon his knees.
He rose at seven, and took his invariable cold bath.
There were no letters for him. His Times was on the break¬
fast table. Precise in everything, he was mannered even in
the reading of his newspaper. First he looked at the births,
marriages, and deaths. There he read, " On the 6th inst., at
his house in Mayfair, Ivan Alexander Ivanovitch Pahlen, B.Sc.,
F.E.S., M.D., Hon. Professor of Comparative Anatomy, London
University; Prof, of Surgery, Halm University, Charleston,
S. America; and formerly Surgeon-General of the Confederate
Forces, 011 the Staff of the late Jefferson Davis, President, Conf.
States, America; and son of the ninth Count von der Pahlen,
of Kozmodemiansk, in the Bussian Empire."
" So Death has cheated me of him after all!" exclaimed
St. Leger; and he called for a cab. " I must have the others
now—every one of them."
The hall porter at the Foreign Office kept Sir Charles St.
Leger waiting that morning before he admitted him. Early
as he often was, an arrival before eight o'clock was almost a
grievance. "No clerks here yet, sir, and won't be for another
two hours," said the porter rather surlily, as he dragged open
the heavy doors.
" Send up a messenger, then—at once."
St. Leger went to his room. The letters were not yet upon
his table. He went to his telephone. " Are you there ?" he
asked, on five or six different connections; but there never was
a reply. He was too early. All he could do was to pace his
room—and think.
But he could communicate with Scotland Yard; that would
expedite the affair perhaps. The messenger came. He
scribbled a pencil note to the chief officer in charge.
Zalma
327
He then sat quietly at liis desk, and, with the neatness and
order that was his characteristic, proceeded to classify, docket,
and tie up papers, putting them away in drawers, and doing
much work usually left to clerks.
" 'E's only a pigeon-'oling," said the hall porter, with a
contemptuous toss of his head to a fellow-porter who was
sweeping the corridors.
" Some makes work and some does work," said the other.
" Some sleeps and some can't, some goes a 'ossback and some
does-n't."
Soon after, a police official from Scotland Yard was
closeted with St. Leger.
" I gave instructions on the"—St. Leger referred to a
diary—" on the 27th of last month that a strict watch was to
he kept upon the man whom we know as Count Pahlen ?"
" Yes, Sir Charles."
"But that he was not to be made aware that he was
shadowed ?"
" Quite so, Sir Charles."
" And that the daily reports should be sent to me ?"
" You had the reports, Sir Charles."
" I have them here." He slipped an elastic band from a
packet of papers. " The report of the 1st of May was one
that I deemed to be of likely interest. But I was mistaken.
Nor are the others of consequence. Yesterday's report is not
to hand yet. Nor that of the day before. Nor any since the
5th instant. I should like them forthwith."
" Inspector Black has the business in hand, sir."
" When do you expect him at Scotland Yard ?"
u It depends upon business, sir. Last night there was an
order for the Count's arrest."
" Yes ; I know. I requested that it might be issued. But
it is too late."
" How so, sir ?"
" Dr. Pahlen is dead."
" Dead."
" So the Times column says."
Zalma
"Well now; to think he should have slipped through our
fingers like that!"
" It's as good as any other way, perhaps—after all. But he
was so well on the 4th, and on the 5th too. That is the last
report I have—the 5th. To-day is the 8th. He died on the
6th. Why was not the report of the 6th May sent me ?"
" It is remiss of someone in our department."
" And of someone in mine not to have noticed the lapse.
How little one can leave to clerks! Tut! tut! tut. Sorry.
Well, I was holidaying yesterday myself."
"You are making up for it this morning, Sir Charles. First
about—seemingly."
" Get me the report of the 6th, will you, inspector ? It
must be at your office somewhere."
" Not in my department, sir. Black's case."
"Yes, yes. Not strictly in your department. But oblige
me. Go and see what you can do, will you ? The business is
imperative."
The inspector retired, bowing obsequiously.
" H'm. This investigation should precede the other. It is
of more importance than I thought. I am glad no one was on
the telephones—after all."
He had no sooner shaped the thought than the shrill tinkle
of his telephone-hell sounded.
" Yes. What number ?"
" Thirty-two."
" I don't want you now," replied St. Leger. Soon another
bell sounded.
"Yes," replied St. Leger, going to the instrument. "What
number ?"
" One hundred and six."
" I don't want you now; and oblige me by telephoning to
number sixty, eighty-four, and one hundred and five that I
don't want them either. I called them some time ago, and their
numbers are down."
Then he quietly resumed his work. The porter brought in
letters. He looked at his watch : it was nearly nine o'clock.
Zalma
329
" Late with the letters this morning, porter ?"
" Sorting clerk late, sir."
" In whose department is he ? "
" International, sir."
" My own department, then ! "
" Yes, sir."
" Ask him to step up to me."
The clerk came in trippingly. It was Lord Cecil Essex.
" Are you sorting clerk, Lord Cecil, in my department ?"
" That's about what it comes to, Sir Charles. I am the fourth
under secretary."
" Well, Lord Cecil, I knew your father, and I am sorry. You
must send in your resignation."
" Sir!"
" There is much unpunctuality in the F.O."
" I am earlier, Sir Charles, than usual."
" I'm sorry to hear it, for you are twenty-two minutes late."
" If you request it, sir, I send in my resignation; but this is
not a usual event in other departments."
" Absolute punctuality is an essential in mine, Lord Cecil,"
replied St. Leger sternly. " I regret that we must separate.
Good-morning."
" If that is all the work I do to-day I have done my country
a service," thought St. Leger, as he went on with his letters.
He was that rare thing in our days, a martinet.
The bell rang again.
" Number ?"
"Eight, Sir Charles," came a voice through the-telephone.
" Ah, Scotland Yard. You are the inspector whom I saw
just now, eh ? Any news of Black ?"
"No, Sir Charles. The report, May 6th."
" Yes."
" I'm having it copied, Sir Charles."
" Don't wait for that. Send me the original immediately."
" It's in the day-book, sir."
" Bip it out then," shouted St. Leger angrily through the
telephone.
33°
Zalma
" What, tear the day-book, Sir Charles ? Well, really now;
and it is not in my department either," came the reply.
" Inspector—tell you what to do. Bring the book to the
telephone and read it."
" It's half a page, Sir Charles."
"Never mind; read it through the telephone to me."
"' May 6tli.—Kept Pahlen still under observation. First seen
eight a m. Feeding chickens, watering roses. 9 a.m. Pahlen
went into cottage with letters. Post-marks mostly foreign, in¬
cluding Vienna, Moscow, Paris, Madrid. Went walking with
lady. 1 p.m. Lunching. Not seen out afternoon. Italian organ,
five o'clock. Long talk with organ grinder. Organ grinder
played nowhere else. Star. (Eed Star, Sir Charles.) Attend¬
ing bees 6 p.m. Letters. Black servant to post. Black servant
still suspicions. Did not speak to her. Foreign letters as
followsKroupenski, Sanchez, Feneon, Khotchurikin. Have
taken copy of the addresses. The above letters were all sealed
with wax; impression, a boar's head. 7 p.m. Pahlen and lady went
walk. Keturn dinner. Both sober 10 p.m. Lights out midnight.
(Signed) E. Jones.
John Black, Chief Inspector.'
That's all, Sir Charles."
" And quite enough. Have it copied and bring round,"
replied St. Leger. " Are you sure it's the 6th May ?"
" Yes, sir."
" This year—eighteen ninety-five ?"
" Yes, Sir Charles."
" Then that is conclusive. He couldn't have died at his
house in Mayfair on the 6th if he went to bed in his country
cottage sober at midnight. Sober ! That's a funny touch. Just
like the police! Mr. Exton," called St. Leger.
" Yes, sir," said the clerk.
" I gave orders that all Pahlen's foreign letters were to be
intercepted, opened with a hot knife and steam, and resealed
and posted. The copies were to be forwarded here."
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331
" It lias been done, sir."
" Bring those of the 6th inst."
They contained notice of a meeting of Anarchists in Paris
011 the 20th inst.
"Pahlen is not dead. This Times notice was a subterfuge,
a mere blind. Let Colonel Dawson have instructions to pro¬
ceed at once to Paris. Let him interview the Procureur-General
de la Republique as soon as possible. He had better see me
first. And, now, I must be undisturbed for an hour. I can see
110 one."
Left alone, St. Leger proceeded, with tireless pen, to write
sundry letters. His first was to Inspector Black:—
" I observe frequent references in the police reports to a
lady who is frequently with Dr. Pahlen, reputed to be his
daughter. Henceforth let her be shadowed, and her move¬
ments duly reported to me."
How little he knew what order he was giving!
Other letters followed, both English and foreign, all written
in his neat, clear orthography. These done, he ceaselessly
busied himself till past midday, obtaining information and
giving instructions through the telephone. He did not stay
even for lunch, contenting himself with sandwiches and sherry.
Towards four o'clock a report came in, signed, as before, by E.
Jones and Inspector Black, of Dr. Pahlen's doings on the 7th
inst. His journey to London, and his arrival at the Hotel
Metropole. It was thus definitely demonstrated that he was
alive, and seeking to evade justice.
St. Leger rang his shrill bell.
"It was on the 7th—yesterday—about this time, that I
ordered Dr. Pahlen's arrest. Exton, ask through the telephone
if there is any news from Inspector Black."
There was none.
St. Leger acted with exemplary patience, proceeding with a
long letter in Russian, to the chief of the Moscow secret police.
He looked at his watch and sighed. It was half-past five.
332
Zalma
He lmd intended to have strolled into the Park, with the hope
of seeing again the one, and the only, woman who had ever
touched his isolated heart. All day he had secretly buoyed
himself up with this unexpressed intention; he began to fear
it was a privilege he would have to forego. And yet, how he
had built upon this ! Duty with him, however, was an inexor¬
able taskmaster. He must remain at his post. He had the
conscience of a general carrying on a war, and this was a crucial
hour in the strife.
His clerk came in with a home telegram in the Govern¬
ment secret code. It was from Inspector Black, Harwich :—
" Believe Pahlen came here last night, the 7th inst., by eight
p.m., from Liverpool Street. Could not detect him amongst
passengers by the s.s. Alexandra for Antwerp (Blushing route).
Fear he has escaped. Cannot trace him at Harwich. No news
from Constable Jones, who was in train, same carriage as
Pahlen."
St. Leger wired warning at once to the Belgian police.
Then he busied himself by sending photographs of Dr. Pahlen
to the chief of the police of every European metropolis,
together with a minute description of his person—his height,
age, and similar information. Impressions of his thumb-marks
were also sent to the foreign police. St. Leger ordered that
similar particulars relating to Kroupenski, Feneon, Sanchez,Hans
Koch, and Antonio Sanzio should also be immediately prepared,
and revised to date. In the cases of most of these latter names
the foreign police had already been supplied with this information.
St. Leger, however, deemed it a suitable foresight to write an
emphatic letter to the chief police of the various powers, and
his knowledge of languages served him, particularly, to do this
with effect.
The staff and clerks, tired of their chief's activity, had
mostly left the office exactly at six o'clock. He noticed their
departure. They were within their technical rights, but such
strict fulfilment of the letter of their duty did not accord with
his idea of the spirit that should actuate men who were in the
Public Service. He called Lieut.-Colonel Daniells,upon whom, in
Zalma
his own absence, the charge of the department devolved. "What
think you, Colonel Daniells," he said; "if these gentlemen
were before the enemy in the trenches, or if they stood in a
battery at their guns, I do not doubt they would stand at
their posts till they died. We are conducting a war—the
battle is—"
But lie was again interrupted by the tinkle of the telephone.
" Oblige me, Colonel Daniells. Take the message, if you
please. I am very tired."
" Are jmu there, Sir Charles ?"
" Sir Charles St. Leger is here," replied Colonel Daniells
through the instrument. "Who are you ?"
" Number eight, Scotland Yard."
" Well."
"We have a message from an officer named Jones."
" What does he say, Colonel Daniells ? " asked St. Leger.
" Message from Jones, Charlie."
" Oh, let me "— said St. Leger; and he went hurriedly to
the instrument. "Message from Jones, do you say? Where
from ? Harwich ?"
" No, sir ; from Manningtree."
" Where on earth is Manningtree, Colonel Daniells ?"
" A benighted hole in Essex."
" Pahlen was arrested there this afternoon, and is now in
custody."
St. Leger calmly took the trumpet from his ear and looked
at his watch. " Thank you, inspector," he replied. " I am
going to dine at St. Stephen's Club. Send an officer to me
there at ten o'clock to-night, with full particulars of the
arrest."
Then he turned to Colonel Daniells. " Count Pahlen's
arrest should be followed up promptly. Communicate im¬
mediately with the respective foreign Governments, and advise,
in my name, the immediate arrest of Kroupenski, Eeneon,
Sanchez, and all their gang. There is no need for us to hold
back any longer. Arrest every suspect everywhere."
He paused a moment, thinking deeply.
334
Zalma
" Of course instructions for the arrest of Hans Kocli and
Sanzio have long been in circulation. We ought to get them
too, and then—"
" Then—?"
" Then, Colonel Daniells, off goes my harness. I'll give you
my old shoes. You can manage here. I shall send in my
resignation."
CHAPTER XLIII.
T. LEGER had but a few minutes' interview with
the Inspector of Police at St. Stephen's Club.
Count Pahlen's arrest had been surely made.
He was in safe custody, and would duly appear
before Sir John Bridge, the Bow Street magis¬
trate, on the following day. The Anarchist conspiracy was
throttled. The chief International Centre was in the hands of
the police. It remained only to seize the Spaniard Sanchez,
who was the main organiser of the troubles in Madrid and
Barcelona, with the Russian Kroupenski, and Eeneon.
These men had all been shadowed to a recent date. The
order for their arrest had been issued, and the Parisian police
had for weeks past known where to lay their hands upon these
villains and desperadoes, or thought they did. The whole of
the wicked and daring gang would be soon dragged to justice,
their infamies bared before the world, and the great European
conspiracy—nay, more widespread even than that, since its
ramifications extended to America and Australia—would be
exterminated. Hans Koch and Sanzio, the German and
Italian Centres, had evaded police observation, and were at
large ; but they were now less dangerous. Their early arrest,
unfortunately, could not be relied upon, but they were doubt¬
less in bodily fear of justice; the sting of their danger was
extracted, their teeth were drawn, and, when they heard of
the arrest of their wretched fellow-conspirators, they would
probably skulk away for the rest of their lives.
St. Leger smiled as he left the doors of his club, satisfied
335
336
zalma
with the triumph of the day and with the impending triumphs
of the morrow, for he had little reason to doubt that the
greater number of the International Centres would be surely
arrested before another twenty-four hours had passed. Since
the early morning his mind had been incessantly occupied
with the serious and formidable business of the day. He did
not care for cigars ; but for once he had yielded to the seduction
of a cigarette, and he puffed a stream of blue smoke from his
lips as he left the steps of the club and strode across the road
to the riverside.
There was a crescent moon and a clear, cold, starlight sky.
He shut from his thoughts the machinations of conspirators,
and the counter-movements of the International police. He
strode along the well-paved Embankment, the gentle influences
of night suffusing his spirit with a sense of peace.
His was an active mind: the idle ideas that came to him,
suggested by the reflection of lights upon the water, or from
the shadows of barges and bridges, scarce shaped within him.
The towers of Westminster, the curve of noble buildings
thence to the great Cathedral, the white fa§ade of Somerset
House, the stateliness of its noble simplicity, and the massive
dignity of Waterloo Bridge, the arches of the edifice erected
for the management of the education of the people, the Temple
buildings,—all these magnificent palaces and piles were incarna¬
tions in stone of the eternal destiny of Order. Behind that
great bow of buildings the millions were even now nestling into
slumber, but the light upon the clock-tower showed the Senate
yet awake. And beyond and above all stood St. Paul's great
dome, holding high above the City the great golden cross.
From that holy symbol St. Leger raised his eyes to God.
Faith in the Eternal Father, trust in His goodness and mercy,
and absolute reliance upon His omnipotent sway, were the
invariable comfort of this stern man. He repeated his favourite
text: " Thou shalt keep them, 0 Lord; Thou shall preserve them
from this generation for ever."
But his thoughts turned from the God of Power to the
God of Love, and from the God of Love to Love itself—to the
Zalma
337
wonderful abstract quality that softens the heart of man, to
the beautiful woman whom he had met upon the terrace at
Iffenden, whom he had seen the day before yesterday in the
Park, whose portrait had broken upon him like a sudden
glory in a splendid vision, and of whom Art had made an
incarnation of Beauty.
All the world was talking of her, yet he, who loved her
most, who loved her more than all the world, knew her not.
He regretted his timidity—his modesty. Why had he not
spoken to her ? Foolish that he was, why did he let go his
opportunity when she passed him in the Park ? It would have
seemed an impertinence; but it would not have been inexcus¬
able. So he mused as he walked on.
London by night has its dreamlands. Here by the " silent
highway," upon which the sickly moon cast the silver of its
sheen, upon which the arches shed their shadow and the
fantastic lights threw the flickering brilliance of their reflec¬
tions, when all the buildings on the farther side were wrapped
in grey glooms, and on this in white mystery, varied with dark
shadows of deep intensity, it seemed almost a dream. A few
belated wayfarers were on foot; a few cabs sped past, with
flitting momentary lights ; upon the seats some of the flotsam
and jetsam of humanity were huddled together in sleep and
silence, in poverty and affliction. But for these the official felt
no pity even in this soft hour, when love whispered to him, for
the stern type of his mind ever leant to the side of justice
and not of mercy. In this quietude in the heart of a city of
sleeping millions, yet of wakeful millions too ; in this atmo¬
sphere of mist and mystery, of shimmering lights and shudder¬
ing shadows—London is a dreamland, where visions come
and go.
Then was this a vision, a dream, that came now—that
face uplifted to the crescent moon, those eyes of night, that
came in the night, those eyes like stars ?
Ah, reality!
He would not let this golden moment slip. Instantly he
raised his hat. " I)o you remember me ?"
22
33§
Zalma
How idle are the words of love! How impossible are all
words, or any, to express the multitudinous thoughts, when
years are compressed into the hour !
How many hundred days, how many thousand hours had
Zalma idly communed with him! How she had longed to
speak to him, to hear yet again his voice, to be guided by his
strong words and led by his strong arm ! " Do you remember
me ?" Remember ? In Malta, in Pisa, in Rome, wherever
she had been, had she ever forgotten ? Had not his voice, his
words, his face haunted her ever and always ? Had not her
spirit gone out in quest of him ? Had not her years been one
long inquiry for him ?
"You," she answered simply.
For words are nothing. They cannot express the spirit,
nor can the very spirit feel the intensity of its emotion.
All that she felt was the impossibility of speech, and had
he spoken she would not have heard. It is not the eye only
that is liable to be dazzled by an excess of splendour—the
whole being may endure a bewilderment. She was not per¬
plexed, but overcome. She did not even wonder, because she
was not in a world where wonder is, but transported in the
excess and radiance of her joy, and exalted in the sublime
transfiguration of her senses.
He also experienced transports incommunicable, inexpress¬
ible. Speech truly on these rare epochs loses its tongue. It
abandons words, but it learns another and more eloquent
language—it is endowed with the golden dower of silence.
" Silence is golden." Golden the moments when the heart,
losing all use of the senses, sees, hears, tastes, feels by other
avenues. Golden the hour when the ear is deaf and the lip is
parted not. Golden the scene when all life that was, and is,
and is to come, is bathed in the dream of love and beauty.
Without speaking to know, and without hearing to under¬
stand. Ah, the miracle of it! Oh love, thou eternal mystery !
Oh love supreme, supernal!
No need to speak of Iffenden, of the terrace and the bower,
the sprays of jessamine, the scent of musk and rose. No need
Zalma
339
of these. The nightingale's song was in the air—the sudden
passion of it, the melodious sweetness of its liquid trill, its
mysterious cessation, all there. Yes. A mirage, a remem¬
brance, and a dream, yet what a reality—and her glove now
upon his arm.
Eeality and not vision. Her pulse throbbed, throbbed,
throbbed. Or was it his own heart that beat ? He felt the
coursing of his blood. He felt the presence at his side.
Strange sensations came over Zalma. There was a measured
cadence, the water and the tide were there. Was she on the
sea ? Above was the majesty of the stars. The sound of their
tread was a cadence. She was arm in arm with love.
Their spirits mingled. Many had been the long hours of
their pain, when the spirit of each had gone out in quest of
commune, to return unsolaced. But now their spirits had met
and mingled in the silence.
And still there were no words, and even yet the silence
lasted, that silence which is more eloquent than song.
And when at last they spoke they listened not, for the
words meant less than the beating of their hearts. The words
were empty—meaningless; all their interest was in the music
of the sounds, the tones of their voices.
So they murmured to each other and listened to the
whispers of love—her soft cooing voice thrilling in his ear, his
strong deep bass stirring her deepest emotion, overwhelming
her with music like a rushing tide.
Each knew so well the other's passion—he had declared it,
she had confessed it; he conquered so soon, she yielded so
quickly; yet it was not by declaration nor confession that they
knew. A magnetic and subtle thrill trembled within their
hearts.
And when hearts beat so the lips speak if they move not,
and there is a language in the eyes when lovers gaze upon
their love.
Let the murmurs pass. Let them go and become still.
Let the silence come again and love be inarticulate. Music
there is in the voices of lovers, and melody in the echoes
34°
Zalma
of voices faint with the sweetness of love or thick with
the passion that chokes it. But let the music go, and come,
oh glamour of the silence !
Oh, deep in the dark pools of her liquid eyes sleeps his own
face. The fires flash and scintillate in the depths of those
dark profundities. Love wakes within them. Love sleeps
upon them. Love lingers—dwells. Ah love! Ah lady !
Mine, mine for ever. The eyelashes are long and dark; they
are a frame of ebony to those eyes of flame. Even as the
moonlight sparkles, so shines their soft lustre: or is it that
stars shine in the fire of those lifted eyes ?
Oh love eternal, exceeding !
Men pass and die, like the flood of the flowing river; the
generations come and pass away; races rise, develop, and decay
—but thou remainest!
Still the lovers linger, leaning against the granite at the
base of Cleopatra's Needle. The grey monolith stood over
them like a sentinel. Symbol of life and of love, relic of the
old Phallic worship, relic of Cleopatra's beauty, hallowed
relic of a bygone age—how fit a tryst for lovers still! How
many lovers' voices hast thou heard since royal Egypt saw
thee upraised and spoke to thee! Still look, oh silent stone,
upon the silence of the lovers over whom thou standest!
Stern and manly the face that looked down into hers;
soft and gentle the eyes that took their fill of him. How
the nostrils quivered, and the sweet breath gave answer in
soft murmurs of love ! How strong the grip of those firm
hands ! How smooth the ivory of her skin! How short the
happiness! Alas! how soon passed the sweet delirium of
bliss!
CHAPTER XLIV.
ETER her father's flight from the hotel, Zalma had
felt anxious for news of him, and expected a
message through some channel or another—prob¬
ably by some casual loiterer, who would seek her
outside. The hotel in Northumberland Avenue
was but a few yards from the Embankment, and she was thus
close at home when she met St. Leger.
A summer cloud came over the starlit sky, and a few large
drops of rain fell. It interrupted the lovers, and they came
from dreamland into the everyday world.
" A cab ?" he suggested, as the rain fell more heavily. To
this mundane remark they had now descended. " I will hail
the next hansom."
" I am at home," she said, with a smile. " Quite close,"
and she began to cross the road towards Northumberland
Avenue. " I am staying at the Hotel Metropole."
By this time St. Leger had resumed the deportment of
mind common to ordinary men of the world. He now began
to wonder for the first time how it was that she came to be
out at all—alone—by night—and upon the Embankment; also,
who she was and what her name. He felt in a perplexity.
He was dumb : not now with the exaltations and eloquences of
love, but in bewilderment. They were opposite the great
mahogany doors of the hotel, which a pair of gold-rimmed
porters drew open as they ascended the steps. They stood at
the foot of the great staircase, surrounded by superfluous
grandeur. She put her hand in his, the tenderness of love
liquefying her soft eyes still.
341
342
Zalma
" Good-night," he said ; " good-night, Zalma."
"You know my name," she replied. It was the first time
he had spoken it.
" Only that," he answered; " only Zalma."
He waited, expecting her to add the surname. A troubled
look passed over her face ; the light of love died away. She
looked over his head. A hundred troubles came to her. She
knew suddenly that he was pausing for her name. She perceived
with horror that she was unknown to him: that all the sin of her
life and the scandal that hung over her name was an unopened
chapter to him. How could she tell him the truth: that she was
the wife of Gerard Mountjoy ; the mistress of a man whom she
had ever loathed ? Her dream of love had come too late. Her
name : what was her name, and who was she ? Of that he was
thinking, and that she knew he now waited for her to tell.
For a brief hour she had been in Paradise. She had
breathed again the virginal joys of her maiden days. She
had forgotten all the recent years. She had been in the
moonlight upon the terrace at Iffenden, and not in the world
of to-day. Now she was back. She was in the mockery of
the real world. The lights from fifty electric lamps lit the
hall. A chorus of noisy laughter came from the smoking-
room. The worldliness in which she lived was here. The
ideal beauty of the past was a vision, and suddenly she was
alive.
All this and a tumult of oppressive thoughts flashed across
her mind in a moment as he still retained her hand. But,
with the quickness of her ready wit, she passed it over.
" Call 011 me to-morrow," she said in mechanical tones.
"Ask for—for Miss Pahlen." She had always ignored her
marriage with Major Mountjoy, nor would she recognise it
now. She turned, gathered up the folds of her handsome
cloak, and ascended the stairs.
" Miss Pahlen!" St. Leger stood as one paralysed, open-
mouthed, dumbfounded: he seemed rooted where he stood.
Bewildered, utterly dismayed, he remained there, with un¬
covered head. The great doors opened, a party returning from
Zalma
343
the theatre flocked in merrily. He passed out with bent
head.
He walked on mechanically, crossed the road, and stood by
the Embankment. The terrible idea was too gross. He was
appalled. His head seemed splitting. How clared he shape
so vile a thought! Yet the name, nay the likeness—that did
not flash upon him till this moment. The same hotel. " Pah-
len, Hotel Metropole." The daughter of the man whose arrest
he had that day compassed. Ah, perish the thought! Was
he mad ?
His senses were confused with overwork. He walked
quickly to his chambers. When he arrived he was wet
through. He had not noticed how heavily it was raining. He
sat down in his wet clothes, oblivious, brooding, silent; a
stricken, miserable man.
She did not sleep. Oh the sadness of life ! Oh the misery
of sin !
How could she meet him again ? How could she tell him
her life-story—of Malta, of Mountjoy, of Halliford; that she
was the companion of men like Dandy; the queen of the
clever, tag-rag, wayward, Bohemian set, whose doors had been
opened to her by Gordon Arthur, and who, making her their
heroine while the present Academy craze lasted, were her
present friends ?
Should she tell the truth ? This man, stern-faced, noble-
natured, with the brow of power, the chin that told of deter¬
mination, the thin, severe lips—whoever he was, could he
realise the truth if she told it ? Could he understand a life so
complicated as her own ?
If, sin by sin and item by item, she wrote it down, what
would he say and do ?
Or should she deceive him ? Should she conceal the past ?
No, no, 110, no; a thousand times no. It was impossible.
This love was pure. This love was true. True it must re¬
main; holy, without a lie.
344
Zalma
She would tell her father when next she saw him; her
father, always her confidant. Her father—where was he ?
She thought of Cardinal Cantelupe. Should she go to him
and confess ? With agile thought she banished the idea, even
as it came. He would tell her that love was no longer for her
—he would command her to take the veil.
Love no longer for her ? She who had never loved till now ?
Oh, the bitterness, the woe of it!
But she loved him. Oh love, thou well of hope! oh the
bliss of love ! oh the ecstasy of thy supernal comforts ! Even
in the turmoil of her grief, the tumult of her heart, she dwelt
on the sweetness and the ardour and the passion of his voice,
his gaze, his touch. It was true love that beamed from his
eyes, true love that trembled on his tongue—the truth, the
power, the unquenchable strength of love unutterable
dominated him. She read it: she knew he loved her.
Well, then, what matter ? The rest would be blotted out
as one takes a sponge to a slate. It would vanish. It would
be all done. The nightmare of her past was already a blur.
Away with it! He would take her as she was—with all her
imperfections, her faults, even all her sins. Love would
make her pure. In her own eyes she was already a new
creature.
Shapeless thoughts merged incoherently, vague dreams
mingled with her agitated ideas. Sleep came to her, and
Fanny, bending over her mistress, saw a new and wondrous
beauty in the calm smile that spread over her slumber.
She slept till late. She awoke boisterous with joy. What¬
ever troubles she had were but shade to throw into yet higher
light the happiness of love. She spent all the morning in her
dressing-room with her manicure toilet, idling gaily in thought
of him. Often she laughed aloud in very joy.
Sometimes she was pensive, but with thoughts that were
soothing and gracious. Ideas came that tinged her cheeks
with pink beauty, for hers was no longer the innocence of
maidenhood. Her longings had the ripeness and intensity of
maturity, and she thought of her love as a wife, suffused
Zalma
345
with pure affection, chastely dwells upon the idea of hus¬
band.
Fanny noticed that she had to dress her mistress with
unusual care. She pouted before the glass, looked piquante,
coquetted—rehearsed, in fact.
"And how bedicular my lil lady is de-day," said Fanny;
" how bedicular she is."
Zalma laughed prettily, but said nothing.
Three—four o'clock. She began to dread his coming. She
hoped he would not come. What could she say to him ? How
could she bare to him her life, her soul ? How confess her
misdeeds ?
Well, at first she would not. She would talk to him of
love. No. She would not talk at all: she would listen. She
would hear him pour out the ardours of his being. She would
incline her ear to the passionate outbreak of his love.
And then, yes—she would not deceive him. She would
disclose all. The Malta marriage, her life at Pisa, her marriage
with Gerard, her disgraceful loves, down to the very sloughs
and slimes of her life. She would tell him all. She would
force the confession into his ears. She would make it complete
and frankly, baldly, boldly tell him the worst.
Ah then, yes then—it was for him. But she would compel
him to love her. What option could he have ? " Maclamc est
finie," came Fanny's amen, with its invariable flourish. She
looked in the glass, proud of her beauty. For a moment she
looked defiant. He must, he should, he could not help but
love her.
Why did he not come ? Well, the later the better. At the
best it was a terrible ordeal. There were things she would
have to say, there were confessions that she must make.
Fanny noticed the extreme joy and emotion of her mistress.
" Missa Zalma has seen him" she said, with emphasis.
She answered with an outburst of sobs.
" Ah now, missa, ah now, lil lub, wha' did Fanny say ?
Fanny always said he would come in de May. Ah now,
346
Zalma
missa, ah now, lil lub, what's he like, now, to make my lil
missa weep ?"
" Like, Farmy ? I will show you. He is like this, Fanny."
She drew a face full of flame and passion, looking out of the
night. " He is like this," and she scribbled a profile. " But
that is not like: the mouth goes so. There, that is like—but
only a little. Why, why does he not come ? Then you will
see him for yourself. I will not go down after all. I will
see him in my own drawing-room."
" Sho dar's de best. Sho now, dat is de best," chuntered
the old negress.
" Six o'clock. How late ! Oh, but he will surely come."
" Sho he will come now. Sho now. Yis."
But he came not.
Why ? All night he had not slept. The distractions of
his thoughts cut him like knives. He struggled to shut them
from him in vain. He tossed wearily upon his uneasy bed:
got up, and, putting on his dressing-gown, read his Bible. But
he could not read. He tried to work.
Again he went early to the Foreign Office. His tireless
zeal became a terror to the clerks. He was a man who seemed
able to work night and day.
Terrible confirmation of his fears came in the course of his
work. A portrait of Count Fahlen was on his desk. It was
almost the same face as the face he had loved.
He might know all about Zalma in one brief day if he
made inquiry by the channels that were open to him. But he
was a gentleman as well as an official, and, of course, he turned
with more than aversion, as a punctilious man of honour, from
spying upon his love. It was with loathing and horror that he
thrust aside the offensive thought, as an idea to be scouted
utterly. So distressed was he that he manfully resisted any
occupation of his mind except the office duty of the hour; and
yet that—even that brought sad and even unbearable distresses.
For Count Pahlen's name occurred continually. He had been
Zalma
347
brought to London, was even now before the magistrate; and
Zalma's own conduct having aroused the suspicion of the police,
terrible confirmation of his fears, and, worse than this,—new
dreads,—came to him continually, overwhelmingly.
But at every blow he set his teeth more tightly, and bowed
to the routine business of the hour.
This at least was certain: Zalma Pahlen was the daughter
of the very Count Pahlen who, by his instructions, was being
charged that morning at Bow Street on an extradition warrant.
CHAPTER XLY.
ALMA kept to her rooms, in silence and pain.
Her lover came not. The dismal day passed in
sorrow and solitude; and so the next. But it
was not long after her father's arrest before she
heard that he was already out of the country,
and in course of being hurried to St. Petersburg in charge of
the Russian police, who treated him with scant consideration.
These blows did not overwhelm her: they awoke her
energies. She had almost expected her father's capture. But
she shuddered. She knew well that hope was almost unavailing
—that death or Siberia would be his certain fate, and of
these the latter was the more horrible to contemplate.
Still, she had some trust in her father's adroitness and
spirit, and, being young, some faith in herself. Even yet he
might escape his dreadful fate.
She sat anxiously meditating what could be done. Hot a
moment was to be lost. She was useless in England.
The Central Committee of the Anarchists would meet
shortly in Paris. She knew there was a summons for the 20th
May, and this was the 12th. Yet the members of the Central
Committee—the leaders of the Anarchists throughout Europe,
that is to say—would be, she now reminded herself, in graver
danger than ever. She rang for a continental Bradshaw.
It would be foolhardy to summon a meeting at Levallois
Perret. Their old haunt would probably be watched now.
Even to communicate with them would be dangerous and
difficult. Yet she knew of one way, which her father, with a
twinkle in his eye, used to call " the underground post.'
348
Zalma
349
She looked at her watch and drove to Hatton Garden,
making her cab wait at the end of a dirty smelling street,
which she traversed. Turning then into a street yet more
odorous, she defiled into a passage littered with children, each
of whom appeared to be nursing a child yet smaller than her¬
self. The passage led into a yard, in which was a shed full of
barrel-organs. There were at least eight or nine wedged
closely together under a dilapidated roof. The Patronc,
smoking a briar pipe, was sitting on a doorstep with a dark-
eyed child lolling against his knee, whilst with his right hand
he fondled the ear of a dowdy little picturesque girl who
nestled against his shoulder. Other children, with happy
shrieks of laughter, were at play in the yard; and a dark-
faced young man, with masses of curling hair, was playing
knuckle-bones, as he lay carelessly on his stomach, with two
rather pretty girls got up in Italian dress, with tambourines,
who were ready, apparently, to accompany the next barrel-
organ when it went upon its rounds.
" Is Eaphael to be found ?" asked Zalma of the young man
in Italian.
" I will show you," he said, leaving his game; and he
knocked at a door, from which the most sickening smell
issued as it opened. An ugly, yellow-faced Italian looked
out, and recognised Zalma at once with a smile. He put a
warning finger to his lips with a " Hush !"
Then he said, "You come to buy my canaries; come in,
come in."
The room, which was on the ground floor, was filled with
birds, dogs, parrots, and canaries in scores of cages. They
were in a horrible state of filth. The floor of the room was
covered with straw; and amidst all the dirt was extended a
discoloured rug, whereon a middle-aged woman slept. A
barrel-organ was the only other furniture in the room.
The stink was unutterable. Zalma apprehended all the
consequences, but, clenching her lips, walked in, and the door
was shut.
That same night the dirty old Italian left for Paris.
35°
Zalma
Zalma crossed next day, taking the morning train, went to
her hotel in the Place de l'Opera, and hurriedly dined. Then
ordering a cab, she drove to a low cafi near the Gare du Nord.
Here she again met the Italian organ-grinder, who whispered
a few words to her at the cab window—giving her, indeed, an
address. To this she drove. It proved to be another cafe,
where Antonio Sanzio joined her. Again she did not leave
the cab, but drove to a dirty house in the Latin quarter.
Antonio alighted, gave a treble knock, and scratched at the
panel of the door. It was opened by Hans, the silent German.
He knew the daughter of his loved chief. No watchword was
needed. She bounded up the well-worn steps of the dilapidated
building, and into a close, disagreeable room. "Comrades,"
exclaimed Antonio, "Number Live is arrested, as you know.
This is his daughter. She bears other news." Many of them
rose, recognising her. Beetle-browed, hideous, revengeful, ill-
washed as the crowd was, she felt terrified.
" What is to be done ?" asked Zalma, helpless in the midst
of such strange companions. " I was about to cross with my
father to the Continent, when he discovered that he was
watched—excused himself from me for a few days, with the
hope of evading those who would capture him. The next I
heard of him was, alas! his arrest. I have heard again: he
is at St. Petersburg, awaiting his trial."
"We know what that means," exclaimed Kroupenski bitterly.
" It is the work of one Daniells, if my surmise be true—an
official at the English Foreign Office. Let a bomb hurl him
out of his roof."
" Dictble! I will place it at his door myself," said a man of
repulsive aspect and unclean person.
His remark was met with applause and a chorus of oaths.
" A truce to sucli small revenges," exclaimed Zalma; " how
can my father be rescued ?"
" Is it not too early to talk of rescue ?" asked Manuel,
rolling a cigarette. " Carambo ! we know so little of—"
" Is it not too late ?" interrupted Zalma, looking fiercely
at the speaker.
Zalma
They talked much, argued, spoke excitedly, but to little
purpose. There were many oaths, threats of vengeance,
and defiant cries, with revolutionary babblings and idle
rhetoric.
Occasionally one or other of them made a speech full of
vain rhodomontade, which, however, was usually well received,
concluding invariably with the cry " Vive I'Anarchic!"
Near to Zalma was a young man with large light-blue
eyes and flaxen hair. He was not handsome, but there was a
frank expression upon his face, a determined strength about his
chin, an aspect of spiritual elevation, imparted most by his
high but narrow forehead. He essayed to speak at first in
French, which he did not understand well, afterwards in
Kussian, in which he was able to express himself more
clearly.
He told them a story, with many apologies for his pre¬
sumption in speaking at all, of his father, who had died of
frost-bite in Siberia, and of the sufferings of his family. He
told them how Dr. Pahlen had befriended him when he was a
child; how he had found him out, brought him to Paris, pro¬
vided for his education, and ministered to his wants. Tears
were in his eyes when he spoke of his " good patron," who
had placed him in a newspaper office and enabled him to be¬
come a journalist. Zalma looked at him with sympathetic
interest, and he seemed to have eyes for her only. He con¬
tinued to speak of their dear and venerable chief, detailing
his acts of kindliness and benevolence, occasionally inter¬
spersing his remarks with pious ejaculations, which were ill
received by his comrades; for Khotchurikin was a Stundist,
full of the zeal of his sect. He spoke in a rambling, discon¬
nected way; yet now and then he shaped some heroic thought,
though with stumbling and even incoherent words. Con¬
cluding, he made a feeble effort at a rhetorical peroration, in
which he broke down altogether. Zalma turned her face from
him with a disappointed expression and signalled irritably to
Hans Koch.
" Is there no man amongst all these," she asked, with con-
352
Zalma
tempt in the wave of her hand, " who will go with his life in
his hand to rescue my father ?"
" I will go," answered the young Russian modestly, and
in an undertone pitched for Zalma's ear alone.
" You ?" said Zalma, gazing at him intently.
" I am not worthy," he continued apologetically ; " yet if
devotion, determination, gratitude, love, can serve my good
patron, these I can bring. I care not for my life."
" Come," said Zalma simply, rising from the table. Hans
Koch also followed her.
"You must not go to St. Petersburg, comrade," he said,
divining her thought, "Us ware Schade urn Dick"
" Who will stay me ?"
"Your own word: your father's command."
"Nothing shall stay me, Hans," exclaimed Zalma, with
quiet determination. " I will stake all I possess, and dare—
even Siberia—to rescue him."
The young Russian, accompanied by Zalma, left for St.
Petersburg as soon as the necessary arrangements for their
journey had been effected; but Zalma Pahlen never saw her
father again.
She was arrested upon her arrival at St. Petersburg, and
immured in a castle where, though nominally free, she was
really a prisoner.
Khotchurikin, who travelled as her servant, was detained
and searched. He openly avowed his connection with the
Stundists, and was for a few days bitterly persecuted by the
minions of the Government for his dissenting religious views;
but nothing more suspicious being ascertained about him, he
was released after a short detention, the persecution of the
Stundists being for a time stayed by the kindly disposition of
the new Tzar.
Ivan Khotchurikin soon learnt that Dr. Pahlen had been
transported to Siberia. Khotchurikin was well supplied with
money, Zalma having supplied him lavishly in anticipation of
her own possible arrest.
Without any elaborate effort at disguise, he assumed the
Z ALMA
353
dress of a well-to-do trader, made a double belt, in which he
concealed the greater part of his money, and started on the
long, the terrible, the interminable journey to Siberia.
The first stage of it, the railway run to Omsk, a distance of
2,200 miles, he accomplished in five days. He was continually
impressed on his journey by the power of the Russian Govern¬
ment, and by the greatness of their enterprises. As the train
wound over the monotonous steppes, the vast landscape
oppressed him with a sense of his own littleness and the
futility of his endeavour. Now he came to the scenery of the
Ural. A huge obelisk stood up beside the railway; on it
he read the inscription " Europe," on the other side " Asia."
He had yet many thousand miles to traverse. After
interminable road-journeyings by drosky through forests, the
haunt of bears and wolves, lumbering for long days by rough
and broken roads, he came frequently to evidences of the
largest engineering scheme ever undertaken,—the construction
by the Russian Government of the Siberian railways,—and
again and again was able to travel upon some section of
it. The work everywhere was in active progress. He observed
in many places gangs of workmen toiling like slaves in bridge-
building, road-making, and forest-clearing. Streams were
being diverted, bogs drained, embankments were in course
of construction, gangs of men in masks were at work, almost-
bare but for a covering of gauze to protect them against
mosquitoes, amidst the swamps in the summer heat. After a
time he came to wildernesses, and had to proceed slowly by
caravan. His task seemed insuperable; but he was a Eatalist.
The simple unadorned faith of the Stundist made him reliant,
if not upon himself, on the power of God, and he continued, by
road, rail, and river, to traverse the inhospitable Siberian
wastes, prepared to sell his life for the rescue of his venerable
benefactor.
23
CHAPTER XLVI.
T was niglit. The stars shone like silver points in
a sky of steel. A cold wind blew over a bleak
and desolate wilderness. The chill ground was
hare; snow lay upon the rugged land.
Howls and shrieks of horror came from the
blackness of the forest; the voices of the winds and of the
wolves mingled. Despair dwelt in the sombre gloom, and the
cries of her weeping, gathered on the wings of the blast, wailed
through the spiked stems of the gaunt fir-trees, and died in
sobs of sorrow and moans of pain.
It was morning. The Siberian sun, cold and clear, rose
over the bleak mountains, and looked upon the sad and silent
land. Icicles hung from the branches of the black trees. The
stones of the bare land had stars of ice upon them, as though
the tears of God had frozen there.
The tower of Stretynsk stood up in the cold light and
looked at seven prisons, where seven thousand griefs sob every
moment unheard. Akatui never slumbers. Akatui lias walls
to her prison fifteen feet high. Without, the village is; the
village of Akatui. It is made up of those who have left the
prison; there dwell the released still. The stern barriers of
Nature, the snows of the Siberian wastes, forbid the departure
even of those who are set at liberty. They stay without the
prison gates in a village of huts, broken-spirited; their world
is dead. Many thousands of miles away the ghost of their
world may yet be; but it is too far away. Winter, hunger,
hardship, distance, stand up between them and the world that
35 i
Zalma
355
was. The pardoned of the Nertchinsk mines are glad to live
011 the fringe of the prisons. All around, the vast world hems
them in. The vast, impossible distances compel them to
remain, in broken-spirited content, at the village of freed-men
who have settled in despair at the prison gates.
In the shivering dawn doomed convicts from the prison
groped their way through the grey. A sentinel stood at the
guard-house ; through the snow came a gang of men in convict
dress, some of them in chains. At a hole in the icy ground
some Russian soldiers stood on guard.
Amongst them an officer on horseback, whose power was
practically unlimited, cracked the dreadful thong of the knout.
His face was hard, cruel, and wicked; it had become so, by a
law of Nature, in consequence of his occupation, which slew
every kindly and humane idea, and created within him a satisfac¬
tion in the pangs and sorrows of the prisoners over whom he
had power of punishment, and over whose pains he gloated
with a fierce joy. The gang of convicts, having marched
through the chill desolation, stood for a few minutes in a knot.
Then their chains were removed. The clamp at the ankles
was unfastened, and the thong at the waist removed. At a
word of command the men began to descend into the hole by
a rickety ladder, the rungs of which were defective and
insecure. Soon they had all disappeared. The guard of
soldiers marched back to the prison. The convicts had
vanished from the earth, to work in the mines.
A young man, dressed as a ragged peasant, came out of one
of the huts, and witnessed the sad procession of these doomed
men. Tears were in his eyes. It was Ivan Khotchurikin.
He had at length accomplished the almost interminable journey
to the Siberian mines.
At noon, when the light was clearer, he again saw from a
window of the hut the hopeless procession of the convict-gang,
as they passed and repassed the prison to and from their mid¬
day meal.
At night the labourers' task was done, and the exhausted
men returned to their cells.
356
Zalma
Amongst them, with stooping head and tired limbs, limped
a very old man ; he could scarcely lift his chains. Their weight
was seven pounds. As he neared the prison gates in the gloam¬
ing, Ivan Khotchurikin passed him and whispered in a gentle
undertone, " Comrade." The old man pricked up his ears, but
went on without looking back. The prison gates closed with a
loud clank, followed by the rasping of the iron bolt in the
barrel and the sharp click of a steel lock. Darkness came on.
The wind sighed and soughed through the forest. The rain
fell in big drops, like tears from Heaven.
A storm arose, wind and rain and sleet. It passed, and the
gloomy land was lost in fog. In the wetness of the morning
the gang of convicts went to their work. A voice came like
the breath of an angel out of the mist. " Father," said
Khotchurikin tenderly, " comrade and father." The old man
answered, "Ivan," very gently, and again went on in his fetters
in the rain, until he vanished in the bowels of the earth.
But that night they spoke. When the rain fell fast, and
the convicts hurried home, and the soldiers marched quickly,
they did not notice the old man's feeble walk, nor that he
stooped behind a rock, and talked with Ivan Khotchurikin of
his daughter and of the Cause.
" Escape is hopeless," said the convict; " I am dying."
" Alas," said Khotchurikin, weeping, " but it is the will of
God."
" Tell Zalma," continued the old man in a hollow voice,
" that you have seen me. Tell her that you saw me ere I died ";
and the old man kissed the brow of the fair-haired boy.
His face was white unto death. His limbs trembled with
fatigue and with chains. " My son, say this to my dear, my
much-beloved daughter; they are my last words."
Khotchurikin looked at the old man with the reverence of
a disciple, and marked the glow of zeal that illumined his whole
face. " Tell her to carry on the war."
He kissed Khotchurikin, embraced him impressively, and
with feeble gait hurried away towards the prison gates.
The warders, hurrying back towards the mine, abused him
Zalma
357
for a laggard. He fell by the roadside—faint, weary; the
pallor of death upon him. Four men brought a stretcher, and,
lifting him from the wet snow, took him into the prison. It
was the last time he passed those gates of doom alive.
Khotchurikin, concealing himself behind a rock, shivered.
Long he stayed, hidden in the darkness, before he dared return
to the hut where he lodged.
He watched the prison gates for several days. But he never
saw his patron again. One night he woke with a start. God
came to the Stundist, and lo! he beheld a vision. His chief,
the Father of the Cause, was dying. He got up from his
mattress and went down upon his knees. He prayed to the God
who alone knows the heart of men. An hour passed, and he
heard the tolling of a bell.
The wind roared over the Siberian waste, and the voices of
the storm seemed to the Stundist like psalms sung in heaven
by angelic hosts. Suddenly the wind ceased : the storm was
stayed; there was a solemn lull. The soul of the Arch-
anarchist had passed into the Eternal Silence.
CH APT Eli XL VI I.
OR a time Zalma was to all intents and purposes
a prisoner in Russia. If not so in fact, she
was practically detained as a suspect, and,
though treated with every consideration and
courtesy, she had lost her freedom.
When released she hastened to Paris. Hearing no news of
her father, she went to London. Haggard and worn, weary and
heart-sick, she cared little now whether the police watched her
or not. She held her life so cheap that she was utterly callous.
Her apprehensions told her that her father was doomed to worse
than death. But the absence of definite news about him
agitated her continually.
It was not long, however, before she discovered her father's
fate. The Russian Government deemed it expedient in this
case to publish the whole truth to the world, and every
European newspaper of repute had an article commenting
upon his life, and gave details of his end.
She heard the news of his death with dry eyes. She did
not weep, she did not think, she did not move. She was stay¬
ing alone in her own house in Grosvenor Crescent, Fanny only,
her faithful negress, being with her. For days she lay upon her
bed as though dead, and were it not for a moan of unutterable
grief, that was like the sigh of a storm ere it awakes, she
appeared unconscious. The pain of her extreme sorrow was
so intense that she neither ate nor drank. With praise¬
worthy punctuality Fanny laid the cloth and served the dishes,
only to take them away again. She brought beef-tea, jellies,
358
Zalma
359
and grapes; but they were all rejected. Fanny was so dis¬
tressed that she called a doctor, but Zalma refused to see him.
He insisted, and was endeavouring to feel her pulse, when she
resisted him, almost with violence, and locked the door of her
chamber. At length a great thirst came to her aid. She got
up, and, calling her maid, demanded water. She sat huddled in
a rug, like a mad thing. She would speak to 110 one. She did
not notice even her dog Leo, who, with the beautiful instinct
that so endears the canine race to us all, mourned, also in silence
and sympathy, with a grief that was real. He knew that some
disaster had overtaken his mistress ; and as he lay with his great
head upon his paws, sometimes sadly raising his benign eyes to
gaze at Zalma, it would seem that he knew that the old master
was dead.
Zalma never even regarded the faithful creature. Her
thoughts were all shaped round one word—Itevenge; and so
dwelt they upon the thought that Leo, looking upon her, read
the word that was in her heart, and, opening his huge mouth,
uttered a deep angry duo-syllabic bay that seemed to echo
the fateful word.
For the first time for many long days she patted the head
of the noble hound.
Itevenge ? How empty the word seemed! But what else
was left in all the hollow of life ? Her heart was a void.
Life was altogether blank. Sleep was a weariness, a tossing to
and fro. The day ! Oh, pull down the curtains on the light
and make it night. By night she fretted for the day. Oh
light of morning, would it never come, to end the agony of her
sleeplessness ? Would the long, long hours of night endure for
ever ?
Ah, this could not last so ! Yet what could end the dull
pain of sorrow, the restless sleepiness of the day, the wakeful
endurance of the night ?
Why live ? But for her promise to buckle on the sword
—why live ? To take revenge ! How small! How impossible !
Still, it was the last wish of the slain, that she should take
his place.
36°
Zalma
Ah, well! Sighing, she would go. She would summon the
comrades together. Passive, callous, spiritless, with dulled
enthusiasm, she sat at the oval table of the International
Committee.
Hans Koch was there,—the silent, patient Hans, faithful
to the memory of his father,—Kroupenski, Manuel Sanchez,
Antonio Sanzio, and a number of lesser-known conspirators.
Feneon sat alone, brooding silently, his thin fingers buried in
his clustering curls.
A great sadness oppressed these wicked, lawless men.
Anarchy, in spite of all its crimes, was a failure. They spoke,
but their words were few. Every time they met they lost
heart. A poem, full of real power, announced the advent of
" The Daughter of the Devolution," the Bride of Anarchy, and
heralded a new Paradise in the halcyon future in lines fragrant
with beauty. Feneon had divulged his hope concerning her.
But she sat listlessly at the table, pale and ghastly. Her
black eyes, dulled and dazed, seemed dead in her pallid face.
She knew she was disappointing them, that she was false
to her father and her vow. There was no fire in her heart;
no care for the Cause.
Tears came into her eyes. How indomitable her father
would have been ! How craven she was ! How little, in truth,
had she of that vast love for Humanity that had made of him
a martyr!
Well, could she speak then ? She would try and fulfil her
father's wish. The cold words came : " Comrades, we are of no
use. Let us make an effort. We are met in the cause of
Anarchy."
Her frigid tones depressed them and herself also. It was
with the greatest difficulty that she spoke at all.
She said the things she had heard her father say, but the
cold phrases left her lips like inanimate words.
Struggling with herself and against her natural sorrow,
she fought the lack of zeal that she felt to be a sin, yet she
could not summon a spark of enthusiasm. She met Hans'
pitying eyes, and said, in apology—knowing what was expected
Zalma
361
of her, and making an endeavour, which gradually carried her
away—
" I speak without rising, because we are so few. I speak
with no passion, because I feel so deeply." There was the
ring of truth in her last sentence, and she continued with
enthusiasm—
" What are the motives that animate us ? A desire for
the good of Humanity. The poverty and the pains of to-day,
the grief and sorrows of the People, the curse of Capital
and Government, of Law and Master, of King and God—these
we would eradicate; and in their stead establish the Good,
based upon voluntaryism and conscience—not by rule or any
government, which indeed would cease to exist, but by
establishing in the hearts of the people a true goodness of
heart, a noble self-forgetfulness and an unselfish altruism,
preferring always the good of others rather than our own,
seeking, not personal benefits, but the pleasure and the happi¬
ness of others, choosing, indeed, for ourselves the worser part,
and for our friends the better."
lAn^on looked up, and, springing to his feet, struck a
dramatic attitude, and cried repeatedly, " Vive VAnctrchie !"
others also gave vent to revolutionary exclamations. She
continued impassively: " It is impossible to do this as the
world now exists. Government makes a high-minded altruism
impossible. Selfishness is at the base of every human code of
laws. No process of reform can alter this. Society, with its
police, its judges, its parliaments, its republics, is utterly
rotten. Law, indeed, is based on the ideas of pagan Kome.
Eoman law everywhere is still the foundation of the laws of
all nations. There is but one way to an amelioration of the
condition of the world—that way is not by a reformation of
the Existing, nor by even the most radical changes. There is
one hope only of sunshine for the world—the annihilation of
Society."
She spoke the words passionately. She felt that she
inherited from her father the duty of his mission. A stir of
excitement pervaded the little assembly.
362
Zalma
"Yet are there no other motives actuating us but the
altruistic forces—of unselfish desire for the benefits of humanity ?
I speak for myself. I desire justice, and to me justice implies
atonement. Society must suffer. Society must atone. 1
have a word trembling upon my tongue,—a word that has been
red in my blood for years, and now every day it becomes
more and more inflamed,—Revenge !"
" Revenge!" cried the excited men, amidst smouldering
echoes of curses, in a jargon of strange tongues.
"You have a right, perhaps more that I, to avenge your¬
selves upon Society," she continued, as she surveyed the men
before her, in their poverty, with mingled pity and contempt.
" Some of you are not yet truly born—have never been
nourished—are ill-grown ; physically and intellectually you
have been stunted from your birth. Society has starved you,
accursed you before even you saw the light of this bitter
world. You have to avenge yourselves; and if you lose your
lives in taking your vengeance, what do you forfeit but a few
valueless years? We are not children nor fools; we do not
believe the trash of priests. If we die, we die, and there end.
Of what value, then, is life to any of us ?"
Applause greeted her as she spoke. She had risen to her
feet unconsciously, and spoke with a power that was not in the
words, but in her voice.
" When I speak for myself, when I speak of Revenge, I am
hard, inexorable as the Rate that has pursued me; I want the
life of Russia, of England, of Spain. I avenge the hand of a
Braganza. You know not how, but I know; and I have a
right to vengeance. A daughter of Count von der Pahlen,
exiled from Russia, Society has trained me for generations to
hate the Tzar. The reverence I have for my mother, and the
hatred I have for the Braganza, stir within me. Yet perhaps,
even now, I should be enduring the conventionalities of
Society, and deaf to our cause, if another Prince had not
conspired with the Church of my youth to irrevocable
wrong."
Eciicon gazed at her, wrapt in ecstasy, as though she were
Zalma
363
as he had announced and almost believed—a prophetess in¬
spired.
"I want revenge!" she said in a whisper so earnest that it
thrilled the assembly.
" Worst of all, my father, given up by England, taken to
the toil and shame of Siberia—dead ! 1 want revenge !" Tears
rolled down her cheeks.
"Traitor they call me. Well, I have the traitor blood in
me. I want revenge !" She ceased, stifled by her passionate
sobs.
" Comrades!" exclaimed Feneon in a tone singularly im¬
pressive, " let us kneel before this spectacle of outraged
woman. Let us hail the Daughter of the Devolution, the
Spirit of the Future, the Incarnation of our Idea !"
He set the example, and everyone grovelled 011 the floor
before her, as she stood in tears and trial before them. A
smell of the restaurant and a strong odour of garlic pervaded
the upper room where they assembled.
" What would you ?" she exclaimed, surveying them with
scorn through her wet eyelids. " Why do you kneel ?"
"To acclaim ourselves," answered Feneon sententiously;
" to hail you as our symbol; to put you in the front of our
Cause, and, by this visible adoration, to worship in you all
Humanity—our idols : Libcrte, Egalitt, FraterniU."
"Ilise !" she replied majestically. " If you be comrades, to
your feet, as men."
They obeyed her, shuffling to their chairs, most of them
awkwardly, as though they were beginning to be conscious of
their self-humiliation, and recognised dimly that tlie.y were
abandoning a principle.
Then Kroupenski, evidently acting in concert with Feneon,
delivered a well-rehearsed speech; and Manuel Sanchez also.
They besought her to take a leading part in spreading their
doctrine in the chief centres of Europe, to awake the en¬
thusiasm of the People, and to arouse far and wide the
altruistic sentiment, by allowing herself to be everywhere
publicly put forward as the Idea—representing in herself their
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Cause, like a new Saviour of Society; and promising to pro¬
claim her, not as Queen by any law, but as embodying, amidst
the applause of crowds and nations, the principles they sought
to establish.
She was quick-witted, swift to recognise the force and
feasibility of their plan. " But where is my Bevenge ?" she
said sternly and with a sullen frown.
The smell of cooking and the greasy steam from the over¬
heated restaurant below again came overpoweringly up the
narrow staircase into the dingy saloon where they met. Some¬
one, with a rather ridiculous pomp, placed Feneon's poem in
Zalma's hand, amidst feeble applause. She turned over its
pages quickly, gathering its import readily. Then, with a
stateliness all her own, she laid it down and said—
"For me—I have a plan of my own."
The words were nothing, but they were so said that every¬
one was impressed. " I have a plan of my own "; what deep
meaning did the simple phrase conceal ?
CHAPTEE XLVIII.
T is possible that Anarchy may possess the world.
Its strength is increasing day by day. History
will not stop at the end of the nineteenth cen¬
tury, though the blind bats of to-day deem that
what now is will be for ever. In January 1895,
the Government of France became almost impossible, from no
other cause than the revolutionary character of the Chamber
of Deputies. The resignation of M. Casimir Perrier was the
stately recognition by a gentleman that the Government of
France was even then practically in the hands of the roughs;
and the difficulties in the formation of the new Ministry made
one thing apparent to all European Powers, namely, that
Anarchy, even when it abandons the bomb and speaks by
constitutional modes, is a growing force. Its ascendency in
France was only a reminder of the success that Nihilism had
in Eussia a few years previously, and its indications in
Germany and in England were quite apparent to all thought¬
ful politicians.
The weakness of Anarchy lies in the secret of its strength.
There is a lack of generalship in the management of the
forces that it assembles, but which it does not control. There
is no allegiance to any. There are no methods in its disorder.
Its desperate army has no officers; there is no coherence in
its lax organisations, and 110 discipline in the independent
bands, which, however, comprise its aggregate. The arrest
and death of Dr. Pahlen removed the power which had
dominated it to some extent. His influence was paramount,
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though he never appeared to make it felt. He was the
unrecognised king. He who always seemed to follow—led.
He who was for ever teaching the non-necessity of govern¬
ment, of law, of order—ordered, ruled, and governed. When he
fell, the incoherent party lapsed into the chaos which they
professed, and of which it was constituted.
Few men could sincerely preside over such men as the
Anarchists. His educated, logical, scientific bias, combined
with other qualities, gave him the power amongst these
dreaming zealots which he secretly exercised. But though his
influence was considerable, and though his directions were
frequently carried into action, the vast widespread conspiracy
was, after all, an unwieldy headless carcass,—a giant with no
adequate connection between body and brain. The history of
its crimes, published by flash-lights, appalled the world, until
eventually the world, which is always shrugging its shoulders,
grew accustomed to read of explosions, of assassinations, of death
by dagger and dynamite and bomb, and deemed these things
natural events, to be occasionally expected, especially amongst
the illustrious. But though the world endured these shocks,
and read now and then, in a callous spirit, that an Emperor
was slain, or a Parliament outraged, it failed to recognise the
astounding march of the progress of Anarchy ; it did not even
guess that the whole fabric of Society was being surely under¬
mined. The rich did not really recognise that the robber slept
in his cellar and had his hand upon his purse. He did not
dream that one day soon the knife would slash across his
throat and take his whole possessions. Hay, the rich regarded
these silent, secret powers with contempt, and even with a
sneer.
The influence which Dr. Pahlen had used was that of one
who submits. Enthusiastic in the Cause, an untiring labourer,
his rule was by the power of suggestion, the power, that is to
say, which has been used by Mesmer, by Braid, and now by
the innumerable physicians who practise hypnotism,—a power
of unquestionably intense quality, both over the minds and
bodies of men.
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367
The magnetic influences he wielded ended with his death.
Their king was dead, though they mourned only a comrade.
Who should take his place ? No one. In the field of
politics the place of the dead man is never filled. A new
prophet arises, who stands in a place that is verily his own.
There are those who wrangle and struggle i'or the fallen
mantle. And it is never for any of them. While the watchers
await the end of the fray, the new prophet has put on a new
mantle of his own, and lo! a great crowd is listening, to take
up and echo his cry. And so it was when Count Pahlen died.
There were rival Anarchist leaders who strove to take his place.
They fumed and intrigued, they quarrelled and snarled, they
coaxed and fretted to fill the chair that was so void, whilst
Feneon, full of his own idea, gave being to his dream. Zalma
Pahlen meanwhile made revenge her one thought.
But she visited Anarchist meetings everywhere. Night and
day she devoted herself to the Cause. Now that her father
was dead, and the unreasoning efforts she had made to effect
his rescue over, she worked with calmer purpose, with deliberate
and pitiless energy.
Hope was dead. Her father's life ended her own. What
cared she to live ? What had life to offer her ? Her despair
filled her with courage. Of what advantage was secrecy or
safety to her, who desired death and sought infamy ? To die a
Dynamitard was not disgrace to her, but the fulfilment of
ambition. Ignominy and shame presented themselves to her
as to the eyes of a martyr. They were a joy and a praise and
an envy.
Therefore she went about undisguised—her greatest pride
was to be known as Zalma Pahlen. If she was not so recog¬
nised, so she made herself known. She wrote an ode red with
vengeful curses, fiery with passionate hate, but it was signed
with her real name. She 110 longer used the nom de plume of
" Pallas." Wherever the Anarchists gathered—be it as the
" Sons of Freedom," as the " Dynamite League," as the " Society
for the Extirpation of Capital," or as such and such a branch of
the Society of Anarchists—she attended, and, in a society where
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no leaders are recognised, proclaimed herself their leader, not
in words, but by the energy and passion that impelled her.
Men, who would recognise no president, yielded to her en¬
thusiasm, to her beauty, to her intellect, a homage which none
but an extraordinary woman could have elicited. In defiance
of all the principles of their creed, and governed, as men always
are and always will be, by their hearts and instincts, they
honoured unconsciously in her the eternal, the ineradicable
principle of hereditaryism. They bowed the knee to the
daughter of their old chief. The woman, who was becoming
something more than their Queen, excited their loyalty, because
she was the daughter of the great rebel. How often, in
Bepublican communities and amongst Badical politicians, has
such a ludicrously illogical phenomenon occurred!
East and west, north and south, backwards and forwards,
did Zalma Pahlen travel, in the enthusiasm of her father's
faith and of her own revenge. From London to Paris, Bome,
Vienna, Berlin, and then to London again, was but the work
of a few weeks. In the provincial centres she also bestirred
herself, visiting personally Havre, Lyons, and Marseilles, and
arranging meetings in the central towns of Great Britain and
America, and in Bussia, Germany, and Spain. Filled with
more than missionary zeal, she assumed the command of these
undrilled hordes, and organised these disorderly communities,
Femion heralding her efforts everywhere, and setting ablaze
that idea which he hoped would fire the whole world.
Her new poem—The Vampire — preceded her every¬
where. Its extraordinary literary power was appreciated by
the educated of all nations. Its passionate verse, the surging
flame and flow of its burning words set on fire the hearts of the
people. Her name was on every tongue.
Her audiences grew larger every day. Her fame became
European. People struggled at the doors to cheer her coming.
Her moral force, her strength of will, her impetuous energy,
her brilliant genius—these were all abundant armoury; but, in
addition, she possessed and used a quality which acted like a
flame amidst these hot-blooded Bevolutionary men, her dazzling
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369
beauty. Wherever she went she magnetised men by her
splendours. Her audiences were enthusiastic at her first accent.
She transferred into them her own blood when she broke the
silence that her appearance before an audience created, and in
her rare voice spoke that eloquent word, " Comrades."
So little does logic or theory count in the political arena that,
had she chosen, she might have founded a new European
dynasty, built up on the hearts of men. But besides a trace
of the unscrupulous and almost incredible ambition of a
Boulanger, she possessed some measure of the goodness of a
Comte, which she had probably imbibed from his doctrines.
The cold, dry self-sufficiency of the great French philosopher
was not hers, yet she preached in all their beauty his tenets of
self-abnegation, of altruism, of humanity, which he had himself
appropriated from the teachings of the Christ, whom he expelled
from his catalogue of the Good with such extraordinary calm.
She combined some of the characteristics of Cleopatra and
Catherine, the Goddess of Beason and Joan of Arc, and now
she was fired with the same fury that became historical in
Charlotte Corday. Her great intellectual endowments did
not keep her wholly sane. The trials and excitements of
her life overcame her reason; carried away by the enormity of
her passion, her mind was 110 longer under control. When she
addressed the communities which she visited and revisited, and
organised them for action, it was to wreak upon the world all
her vengeance. The wrongs of her mother, the blood of her
father, her own never-to-be-forgotten injuries, moved her to
passionate hate; Church and King and Society, all should
suffer: it should be no small riot that she would head; no
inconclusive outbreaks should terminate her plan. The petty
detonation of a bomb and the trifling ruin it caused, with the
deaths that had characterised so many dynamite outrages,
should not end her enterprise. She would devise some blow that
would make the world stagger. Society should fall, parliament
and people should be effaced, and a new era for humanity
should date anew from the greatness of the epoch that she
would inaugurate by the devastations caused by her revenge.
24
37°
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An idea had been in her mind for years: she brooded over
it secretly day and night.
Careless though she was of personal danger, she still valued
secrecy on behalf of the Cause. When she stirred the audiences
which she addressed almost publicly, the Socialism which she
taught was generally, after all, indefinite—there was little that
the police could use to tell against her in a court. But when
she met the deputies of the deputies, the international repre¬
sentatives of anarchy, in secret meeting in the very crater of
the conspiracy, where there were eyes to see that the walls had
no ears, where 110 man sat without a revolver by his side,
where men knew that their next comrade might be death,
where she was a privileged usurper, she spoke with no uncer¬
tain voice. She exclaimed, raising her voice as she concluded
a speech that had moved those arch-conspirators until their
faces glowed with fierce excitement: " Comrades, the day
for child's play is over. The nations have ceased to be
terrified by the sound of our infant fireworks. The childish
bomb, the smoke of an explosive—these scares are nothing; the
assassination now and then of a Tsar or a President is but a
newspaper item at which the world lifts its eyebrows, and then
scans the next column. It is time for us now to be in earnest.
We have been growing for a hundred years. Anarchy is of
age ; let us put forth our strength."
A chorus of approval in a dozen tongues saluted her.
" How often have we said there must be 110 more kings, no
more laws ? How often have we said the nations shall be.
levelled to the dust; the rich extirpated, the poor made equal ?
Yet what have we done to abolish the Existing, and to set up
the reign of Love, that new world of self-sacrifice which shall
raise humanity to the perfection of its beautiful development,
and create in the breast of every man that supreme self-lessness
by which alone the holy dream of human equality can be
established ? Nothing, comrades, but a few deaths and a few
ridiculous explosions.
"Ah, when I look into that vista of beauty for which the
world hopes, and see that the spring-time and the blossom is
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371
unfolding, is here, how proud am I that I live in these days of
duty: how proud that my father's blood was laid, like the red
rose of revolution, on the Siberian snow, a supernal flower!
Brothers, the fragrance of that holy blossom is in my nostril. I
look up to heaven to the unknown God. Lo! The last storm
is gathering, the clouds lower, and, after the rain,—the beauty !
" But for us first, the rain—the rain of blood, the storm of
Death."
Her rich full voice was lowered, as a skilful singer makes
the music that appeals irresistibly to the soul.
" If there is a man here who is not ready to die, let him
begone ! Begone, did I say ? Let him stay then. It matters
not to me nor him whether he goes or stays. If there be a
traitor here it matters nothing. The mystery works. The
power is no longer with you. You wish to make of me a new
Queen, the Mother of a great Bepublic. The poet has sung his
lay, and crowned me already as the Bride of the Nations. The
gift is great: what answer do I give ? Take back your crown.
The power is with me. I will my own will.
"Your barren conclaves, your secret meetings, your con¬
spiracies, are of no avail. Here, in this will of mine, lies all the
power. To me is given the arrow of Death. I am the Angel
of the Devolution."
They applauded her very scorn of them; her eloquent voice,
the music of her utterance, carried them away.
" I have but to meet you once more, to warn you of the
terror of that hour, to warn you to go to sea in ships, to betake
you to the pure realms where the snow* lies white—to regions of
eternal ice, where the blast is bitter, but where there is no
taint on the wings of the winds, nor death in the breath of the
breeze; ay, I shall warn you to flee even to the Poles, to save,
if perchance you may, your own lives, that when all is finished
you and your loves and children may work out the destiny of
the world's salvation. The time is coming! Ay, it rests with
me to tell you the day, the hour, when such a blow shall fall
upon the world that everywhere the fetters of the people shall
be unloosed, the chains struck from their feet, and humanity
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shall rise as from the grave—but free! Kings, nations, laws,
governments, shall topple like falling towers, and, purged by
the disaster, the few who survive the great death shall know
that Anarchy strides over fallen empires colossal, and that the
One Revolution has been."
CHAPTER XLIX.
EE boudoir opened from her bedroom; its roof was
domed, cerulean, silvered with flowers that were
stars. The floor was covered entirely with white
fur, forming one huge carpeting made of innumer¬
able skins sewn together. The walls were mir¬
rored everywhere on all sides of the room from the floor to the
cornice ; and where the mirrors met, a light silver line concealed
the joints, so that there was 110 apparent break in the expanse
of mirrors. As she moved she could see herself everywhere.
The room had been constructed so that she might never be alone,
but have always her own visible companionship. If she sank
upon a couch, there she could behold her own reflected beauty;
as she walked, she was accompanied by her own stateliness; when
she stood, she viewed herself; when she prayed, the goddess of
her adoration knelt to listen to the supplicant. Her boudoir
was a throne and a temple. Here she worshipped the beauty
which she embodied. The scent of ambergis made a perpetual
incense wherever she moved. Even her faithful negress was
forbidden entrance to this innermost chamber. Her dressing-
room, containing Gordon Arthur's Academy picture of herself,
opened into this, the door being also of glass; so that everywhere
there was an unbroken surface of mirrors. Concealed tubes of
heated air kept an even temperature throughout the house.
Blooms of the rarest and loveliest flowers were everywhere.
A few chairs, sofas, and lounges, with an occasional table
and the great writing-desk, comprised the furniture. An
electric lamp, forming a cluster of falling stars, hung in the
dome. Two harps stood near, and a guitar which she had been
373
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Zalma
playing rested 011 the floor. A pair of yellow Egyptian cats
frolicked on the rug. Without, through an open door, the
splash of a scented fountain could be heard in her marble bath,
and the sound of Fanny's voice singing a negro song.
She was not yet dressed, but over her shoulders hung a light
transparent silken robe. Some ropes of her favourite pearls
glistened on her fair, white skin, and supported her breasts in
the Greek manner. She contemplated herself fondly in the
mirrors which surrounded her, dwelling with vain delight on
every line of her superb figure and on the delicate contours of
her rounded limbs.
Zalma had many admirers, but amongst them there was not
one who admired her so much as—herself.
The pains she took with her toilette, the hours that she
spent in the bath, the pleasure she took in arraying herself,
even for her own unattended slumbers, were indications of her
vanity. Her self-love was so real and so natural that she
took no pains to conceal it, either from others or herself, and
her rare beauty almost justified her conceit.
She was quite conscious, also, of her intellectual superiority.
Her friends and her mates were on her bookshelves, amongst
the Immortals. With Shakespeare and Shelley, with Milton
and Swinburne, with Tasso and Petrarch, her soul communed;
and if her own poems rarely shaped into words, the dreams
of her soul were borne in the melodies of song, or in the songs
without words that trembled into the speech of music upon
the chords of the harp that she struck so well. Her writing-
table, with its litter of paper and dishevelled quills, was
slovenly with foreign correspondence. Scores of torn en¬
velopes bearing vari-coloured postage stamps—Dutch, Eussian,
French—littered the floor. Files of letters in business con¬
fusion were heaped over the gilt-edged paper which she used for
her literary work; she was utterly fatigued with her international
labours. She threw herself into her chair with a sigh, and,
with a wave of her hand, swept all her business papers into a
heap at the end of the desk. Witli a sigh of relief and a look
of languor, her mind roved in woods and dells ; flowers and
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375
fragrancies came to her. She took her pen and, communing
with herself, composed a short poem, writing it 011 the rich
velvety paper that she loved :—
"TO MY SOUL.
" Ah ! in the cloudlands and in the mountains,
Where silver fountains feed golden flowers,
Where poets linger, go, soul! and languish :
There, in thine anguish, sleep through the hours.
Earth-tired, world-weary, faint soul aspiring,
Thy high thoughts firing, yearn for the star:
Go up, my spirit, entranced and fervent,
And be the servant of gods that are.
When Passion wastes you, let poets kiss you,
And be the issue some noble thought,
Whose sweet oppression, in dulcet measure
Of heavenly pleasure, their lips have taught.
Ah ! in the cloudlands and in the mountains,
Lulled by the fountains which poets fill,
Stray with the graces, let fays caress you,
They'll not distress you; but can they still ?
Earth's pains, earth's sorrows, the earthly worries,
The sobs, the hurries, that so distress,
Are too much with us, their malice blights us,
Their torture bites us, their claws oppress.
Up then to cloudland ! up into beanty !
Where Joy is duty and Pleasure pure,
Where Virtue's golden, where Love's high minded,
Where Time is blinded, where Peace is sure.
Yet, soul! still soaring beyond completeness
To greater sweetness, superlative;
To exaltation beyond Perfection
Know no dejection. The soul must live—
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Zalma
Must live in striving, in aspiration,
In confirmation of aim supreme;
In efforts forward towards high ideal,
In making real the hopeless dream.
For, soul! whenever thou art contented,
Thou hast prevented thy wings to soar.
The great ambition must reach to greater,
And be creator of greatness more.
Up, soul! Up higher ! the heights below thee
Shall serve to show thee how there is height
Beyond, above thee, still high and higher,
In thy desire, the Infinite."
She put aside her pen, mused on Inspiration, and felt in
herself the phrensied delight of a poet's power. Her thoughts
were full and high, but she checked them, and, sinking upon a
couch, fell into reverie. She thought of all the great women,
of the celebrities on the page of history,—of Queen Semiramis,
of Dido of Carthage, of the magnificence of Cleopatra, of the
Empress Catherine of Bussia, of Eleanor of Aquitaine,—and
compared them with herself; she thought of the women whose
names, in their own day, had been big upon everybody's tongue,
and she thought how history should be compelled to talk of her.
She went into her dressing-room and gazed long upon the
Venus Aphrodite, the idealised loveliness of her own portrait,
the incarnation of Beauty, the Zalma Pahlen that the world
should thus know for ever. What possessed her ? Now in
her hand was the jewelled dagger that had been thrust into
the heart of Paul in., which her father had buried in the breast
of the Due de Braganza to avenge her mother, the Princess
Eulalia of Bourbon. She kissed the hilt of the weapon.
History had already given it a dignity. Was it next to take
the life of one yet more illustrious ? was the Heir of Empire to
fall by her hand ? Was it reserved for her so to end a dynasty ?
How should she avenge the insult of her abandonment, of the
mockery of a marriage, that had made her whole life a mockery?
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377
She threw the dagger with contempt upon the rug. " Let
the dynasty fall, outraged by its own vices," she exclaimed
disdainfully.
A greater dream than the assassination of Prince John of
Dell-land, that mere princeling, moved her: the absolute
destruction of Society—the annihilation of the Existing.
She wrapped a leopard skin around her, and paced up and
down the room, full of ambitious meditations.
It would be a great epoch in history. A new era would
be named after her name. Humanity would date the chapters
of Love and Beauty from the day of the Great Emancipation.
" Ah !" she exclaimed, flinging herself upon her knees, and
burying her face in the velvets of her couch, overwhelmed by
the greatness of her imaginations; " the tyrannies shall all
terminate at the Great Death; and I, even though I die, shall
live through all time, greater than Cleopatra—illustrious for
ever in the supreme beauty of the new age."
Her reveries continually occupied her. Often she spoke
aloud in the solitude of her own splendid chamber.
"Why should I distress myself with conspiracies? For
the present, at least, revenge is my first thought; my right.
For this, one is enough ; one determined woman."
Nervous with the excitements of her thoughts, she sat now
in one chair, now in another. She leant her head upon her
hand, covering her eyes as she reflected. Agitated by her ideas,
she strode up and down her room, or sat for a few moments,
irritated by her thoughts. Her nature required these ebulli¬
tions. Her busy brain was overwrought in excitability and
restlessness. Some masterful thought had seized possession
of her for months past, and a very storm raged within her.
The globe that her father used so often stood in a corner
by her writing-desk. In her meditation she took it up and
placed it sedately upon a table, regarding it with fixed atten¬
tion for many silent minutes.
She touched it gently and gave it an impetus that made it
turn upon its axis. She looked at the countries and continents
37§
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that were delineated upon its surface, and, with a touch as
tender as a cat's paw, caused it to revolve with the slowest
motion. Her gaze was almost terribly intent as this mimic
planet—this wonderful toy of science, which has taught so
much to all the children of the world—slowly revolved under
her vision. It seemed as though some wonderful new truth
was being revealed to her.
She stayed its revolution, gazing now at the mapped surface
of the broad Atlantic.
" Safety on the sea !" she exclaimed. " Safety there, even
as in the days of Noah—by the ark only shall they be saved."
She covered her face with both her hands and sobbed
hysterically, the tears rolled down her cheeks, her shoulders
shook as she wept.
" I must be mad," she exclaimed, " to think of such horror !
Mad ! Mad ! They would have me a queen. I could be the
very empress of the earth. Their idea, enlarged by my
ambition, and by the enthusiasm and fervour that I could
arouse and create, would make my name ring through this
world. I could sway the peoples, I could stir the continents,
I could take hold of this current socialism and mould it as I
would, and though not in name, I could be in fact the Imperial
woman, the Arch-Priestess of a new religion. Mahomet raised
his on a foundation less stable, and the myriad sects of this
century have spread to vast proportions from a lesser origin
than mine. But I will have none of this. My own plan is
more dreadful, but it is even greater.
"Father! Now I call upon you. Oh mother, whom I
never knew ! Zalma Balden, the dishonoured ! What revenge
is this ! The very years shall know it for ever. It shall shock
all Time. Ay, the echo of it shall vibrate through Eternity!
" It can be done," she continued in a gentler voice, after an
outbreak of passionate exclamations; and again her supple
fingers turned the globe to gentle revolutions. "There is no
need for any confederate, or rather no necessity to disclose
my scheme—in its fulness. Some few must help, but they
need not know—all. And yet, some must aid ; I scarce know
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379
wlio best. Fcncon, Kroupenski, Manuel, Antonio—wliicli, or
any ? Khotchnrikin has not yet returned, or he—after Siberia
—would serve me well.
" Why should I trust the greatness of this project to a
single soul ?"
She turned suddenly. "Who is there?" she called excitedly.
" No one. It was no footstep; unless the very Satan
who whispers in my ear—has gone."
She laughed hysterically.
Then she mused to herself in slow speech.
She turned the globe again. " In London, Antwerp,
Brussels, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Warsaw—no, I spare Poland,
unfortunate land! You have suffered ills enough! Peters¬
burg and Moscow ! You shall have your share, Borne. How
far shall the devastation fall ? How shall I fortify myself for
this greatness ? What drink maddens most ? What draught
can I drain to fit me for this wickedness—this magnificent
crime ? Ha ! I have—not—appreciated it yet. Not even yet."
Her eyes stared as though they would fall from their sockets.
Her fingers clutched the rim of the globe—she turned it rapidly.
Then throwing up her arms like an evil prophetess, she cried
aloud: " They will die, by hundreds, by tens of thousands;
they will die—millions, millions. Who can see the end? Ah!
Devils of men. Father! It is your brain that works in me.
Bevenge! Is not this a vengeance ? Anarch-revenge. I faint.
I sicken." She sank upon a couch covered with leopard skin.
Then clasping her hands she moaned a prayer: "Oh, give me
strength, let not this idea tremble. Woman—put off your
weakness. I weak ?—no, no ! Nor mad. But I must grow mad.
To do this I must inebriate my soul. I must drink madness.
" What ? Poppies ? Mandragora ? No, they give sleep, not
hate.
"What maddens? What? Give me blood, drench me with
iron. Stiffen this woman's heart.
" Woman ? I am not woman, nor human.
" Satan is here in this hell of my bosom. Stay there, arch¬
enemy of men ! Whisper to me every moment. Say always
380
Zalma
my mother's name. Let the smell of my father's blood he in
my nostrils. Let every moment of his pain invigorate me.
Prompt me with my own ills. Shriek in my ears—Revenge !
Revenge ! Revenge ! Revenge!
" Ah, what a splendour in the infamy !
" Infamy ?" she repeated in another voice, and in a sweet,
caressing tone, as though some devil answered her. " This is
not infamy. It is all for the good of the poor, for humanity,
for the extermination "—she spun the globe with her hand, as
with a vicious thought—" the extirpation—the utter destruc¬
tion of Society." At each phrase her hand touched the globe,
until it span with rapid revolution, and her voice grew louder
and more passionate.
" The annihilation of the Existing—
" The ruin of order and the reconstruction of the world.
Vive VAnarchic ! "
In her burst of passion she smote the revolving globe from
the table ; it fell to the floor with a crash. Throwing herself
upon the leopard skin, she laughed and wept in a paroxysm of
hysteria, muttering incoherencies, tearing her gown, and beating
her breast, like an inebriated woman.
" Mademoiselle, I am here at your bidding." The speaker,
a clean-shaven man, in gold-rimmed spectacles, with dark
intelligent eyes, white hair, and classic features, dressed now in
faultless costume, was none other than Antonio Sanzio.
"I knew I could rely upon you, signor," replied Zalma Pahlen.
Sanzio bowed.
"You wonder, perhaps, why I have sought you ?"
The Italian shrugged his shoulders. " I knew it was for
the Cause, and though my life is in danger here—"
"The police would never recognise you, signor. Your
disguise is perfect. You are the exact opposite of everything
that you were."
" If I do not smile," replied Antonio, with a grin which
showed his yellow teeth, and proved him to he Sanzio.
Indeed, the black moustache and whiskers being removed,
Zalma
38I
liis black hair cropped close and blanched white artificially,
the spectacles, the dress and bearing of a gentleman resumed,
in place of those of a workman, which lie had previously
assumed—these did certainly make it difficult to recognise the
Antonio Sanzio of Draper's Dwellings.
"And also zese tell-tales," he continued, holding up his
finger-tips.
1" How ? "
" They hef ze blood-marks from ze vail," he said, lowering
his voice; " ze impression of my finger-tips. Ah, zience is
hart upon ze griminal now ! and for us, zough our grimes be
for ze goot of humanity, escape is difficult. To be traced by
zumb-marks! Well for me, you see, I alvays vear kloves."
And again came his yellow grin.
"You will not be known," said Zalma again.
" But if zey did recognise me I should undoubtedly be
hung. Ah ! Since I murdered my vife I have not had peace.
Of all ze sacrifices I hef made for ze Cause, her life is my
only regret." There was genuine remorse in his voice.
" Men have to make these sacrifices, signor."
" Ah, yes! Besides, she vas false. It is not ze Corsicari
only zat vill hef revenge. Ant you—"
"Yes, I also must have my vengeance. I, too, have the
Southern blood."
" And for that, my help ? "
"Yes, comrade." She clutched his hand. "Ah-ha! I
thought, on whom can I rely ? I thought of Hans Koch—
Hans the silent, my father's most faithful friend. But he is a
professor, a savant. I do not want one like that. I want a
man who has been tried, and proved true. I thought of
Antonio Sanzio. I want a man who will go through death, if
need be, nor quail. I want an anarchist, but also a gentle¬
man. I thought of you." The Italian rose, made a profound
bow, and sat down. " But listen. It is nothing very dreadful.
Join me "—she handed him a cigarette, lighting one herself also.
" It is nozing treadful, signorina ? Aha !" and he smiled
ominously.
382
Zalma
" Xo. Simply a little affair of balloons."
" Balloons ? Aha ! "
" Yes. I am tired of playing at anarchy. Listen now to
me. These meetings, cabals, conspiracies—to what do they all
lead ? Talk ; smoke ; the pop of some bomb toy. There is no
need of International Committees for such child's play. True,
if I confined myself to a sort of International Radicalism I
might realise Feneon's dream ; and it is a great dream truly—the
people flock to me, they cheer me everywhere. I could be a
mock queen—nay, a real, absolute Empress. But I have a
project of my own. In England I have imbibed some insular
ideas. I am going to play off my own bat."
" Cricket! A leetle game of cricket! Aha ! Balloons and
cricket: very good, I understand you vare well indeed." And
the yellow smile gleamed, and the ironic flash glittered in
Sanzio's bright eyes.
" Finance does not trouble me. I can finance my own
scheme. If I am not rich, I know where money is to be
found."
" Comrade," replied Sanzio, serious now for the first time.
" It is finance, or ze want of finance, zat made me anarchist.
All my life I lief been a beggar. I am a chentleman, but vere
starved. By instinct an epicure, yes; but in bragtice only
a connoisseur of maccaroni, a critic of ze convenient but
cloying sardine. Why should ze rich revel in zare vellt
whilst I poor and miserable because of my boverty ?"
" Stay, signor. How often have we both heard this ? Is it
necessary now ? Suffice it that if my assistance—"
" Ah, charity, signora ! It is very hart to a chentleman to
accept charity."
" But it is easy for a comrade to receive the aid of a comrade.
Yet let that for the moment pass. Return we to our balloons.
I want you, Signor Sanzio, to organise a balloon corps."
" To go up into ze air, mademoiselle ! Grcizia ! Xot even
for ze peautiful daughter of Count von der Pahlen vill I go
up into ze air. I dank you for ze honour. Graciously permit
me to decline."
Zalma
383
" You can remain 011 terra firma," said Zalma seriously,
and ignoring his mocking tone. "All I ask of you is to
organise the expedition."
" Tell me, zen," said the Italian ill-temperedly, " vat do
you want ?"
" Item—I want a balloon to be purchased. I want men
to be drilled to understand its navigation, and I want arrange¬
ments made that they shall ascend in it when instructed."
" All zis is easy, vare easy. And what do you call zat—
anarchy ? or a gala ? "
"A gala?" replied Zalma quickly, and rising from her chair
with enthusiasm and yet with so stern an air that Sanzio's
yellow smile was still-born. " A gala ? I thank you for the
thought."
Sanzio shrugged his shoulders. " It is simple."
" Yes, it is simple; but now multiply that: multiply it by
ten, twenty, a hundred. Let there be five balloons in London;
let there be others in Liverpool, Manchester, Preston, Birming¬
ham, Bristol."
" Aha !" exclaimed Sanzio, flinging away his cigarette and
interested at last. " Zis is business."
" Let there be others in Paris, Orleans, Havre, Eouen. Let
there be Belgian corps, Bussian corps, German corps-—each
navigating one or more balloons in every considerable city."
"Zis is not so easy," said Antonio Sanzio. "It vill cost a
creat deal of money too."
" How much ? "
" For one balloon, gabable of ascending vitli two or zrec
men ?"
"Two men to each balloon are sufficient."
"Yell, each balloon vill cost, say £100—I do not know;
two men for von mont's pay, perhaps £25 ; gas and cost of
ascent, £25; zen, for the descent and contingent exbenses, add
£25. Altogezare, shall we roughly estimate ze cost of every
balloon at £200, or, estimating zem wholesale, £20,000 per
hundred."
4
Zalma
" £20,000 ? Is that all ?"
"Yes, vizout counting ze cost of ze dynamite."
" Dynamite ?" she exclaimed. " What dynamite ?"
" To drop from ze balloons."
" To drop from the balloons!" she repeated in surprise.
" Well, do not take that into account for the present. You may
leave to me the arming of the balloons."
" Ze veight vill hef to be considered."
" True."
" And many details vhich, I doubt not, vill be cpiite enough
to prove ze folly of zis madcap project—fit only to come from
a schoolgirl's silly brain."
" I am satisfied of its feasibility," said Zalma, resuming her
seat and taking a cheque-book from her secretaire; " at least
I will see that you are furnished with funds; and, whether
feasible or not, do you care to be the captain of the enterprise,
Antonio ?"
She asked the question in her most dulcet voice; but at
the same time she opened her cheque-book, disclosing the
extreme beauty which a blank cheque presents to an im¬
pecunious man, if he has well-grounded anticipations of a
share in it.
" I do not know, comrade," he replied, fastening his greedy
eyes on the little oval red stamp upon the cheque. " I do not
understand what ze enterprise is, but zere seems to be money
in it."
" Ay," answered Zalma, studying her man with calm gaze,
" and influence, prestige, position also. Whatever may be the
destiny of our cause, and however loyally we may trust that
all our brothers may be equal in the social state of the future,
we are neither such dreaming fools as to believe that the man
of common wit and skill will be the actual equal of the men
of light and leading. Some there must be in the front.
Nature will always be more lavish with her gifts to some
than to others; elder brethren there must be to guide and
direct. Will you be of the foremost, General Sanzio?" She
drew a cheque for £1,000. " This is on account."
Zalma
385
"A vare convincing argument," he replied, putting the
cheque in his pocket, "even to a Zojialist."
She smiled as he carefully buttoned up his coat.
"The object of Zojialism," he said, "is to disdribude ze
vealtz which is now in the hands of ze few. I will disburse
zis sum."
"There is abundance more for you, Sanzio; bring to me
vouchers from time to time, report your needs to me, tell me
of your progress. Do not stint for money; rely on it that you
will be furnished with all the financial support that may be
requisite; provide freely for your own requirements and your
personal needs. I have means enough to carry 011 a prolonged
war. But victory is assured to us in one campaign only, and
that a brief one. My dynamite is very deadly."
"Aha!" he exclaimed, scanning her features searchingly.
"Aha! You spogue signifigantly. You are ze daughter of a
man of science; you hef his secrets, his unpublished dis¬
coveries; you hef knowledge of some new dynamite, some
deadly explosive, some far-reaching bomb zat will burst with
infernal destruction. Aha! I am 110 longer sceptic! I
believe in you; I hef in my pocket one zousand pounds.
Comrade, for zirteen years I hef honestly, conscientiously,
zealously worked for ze Cause of Anarchy. But I hef done;
I am no longer Anarchist—no longer Nihilist."
He shrugged his shoulders, made a grimace, and extended
his hands.
" What am I zen ? A convert! To what ? Ze Monarchy !
I am Monarchist. Yes, I belieff in absolude Monarchy; let
me salute my Queen."
He left her with a profound bow: the bow of an aristocrat
and courtier. As soon as he got into the next street he
stopped, unbuttoned his coat, and looked at the cheque with
glittering eyes. It was drawn on the Bank of England.
" One zousand pounds ! And more—more—more to come !
Antonio Sanzio, it is a very long time since you hef had a
really good dinner, but you shall hef a perfect banquet now.
Hi! Hansom !"
25
CHAPTER L.
ALMA was almost mad. Her father was dead.
Her lover had vanished. Perhaps, nay certainly,
he knew who she was. Her father's name and
her own had alike become notorious. The news¬
papers were full of both their names, and her
lover, aghast at the published record of her life-story, had
given her up in horror and dismay. Perhaps he even knew
that she was a criminal: a sworn Anarchist, the associate of
assassins and common murderers. For ever, love and she were
strangers : she of all women, in whom love would have reigned
supreme. "Well! she would be the first criminal of all, if
criminal she wTas to be. She would outdo the worst of them.
Her crimes should smell to heaven.
Her hate of men ! "What was it but a mad reaction against
the love of men ? She who was so full of infinite capacity for
love, whose heart was big with sympathy, generous, full of
gentleness to man and of tenderness towards him—all were
warped by the injustice in her life and by the ill-fortune of
her love.
Her hate of Society was not originally real. She loved it:
its follies and frivolities, its life and gaiety, were in tune with
her youth; but she had sinned against its laws, she had been
ostracised and penalised, and her hate of Society became real
then. Her animosity towards the existing order and to the
priest were hereditary, not instinctive. Rut, whatever its
origin, she hated now God and Priest, Law and King, with the
thoroughness that ever marked her in all things.
Her madness was the result of a morbid love of herself,
380
Zalma
3S7
acting upon the unhappiness and sorrows of her life, and
concentrated by the grief of a heart torn by her father's death
and by the cgony of a great love lost utterly.
When her poem, The Vampire, was published, men had
recognised its brilliance; but they had said, " This is genius
overwrought. The author is insane."
Sanzio was hard put to it to supply the balloons. But he
had almost unlimited capital at his back, and what can money
not do ? He came continually to Zalma's house ; and developed
a surprising thirst for cheques and a personal love of money
which, in a man who had been Anarchist by conviction for so
long, and an Anarchist, too, of the type that not only professes
but practises social equality and the sharing of poverty and
the common lot, was inconsistent and startling. Zalma grew
curious over this man. She knew that he had committed a
common vulgar murder; that his sleek thin hands had dabbled
in the blood of a woman's throat; that in the ecstasy of the
murder he had put his finger in the red pool of horror and
had scrawled upon the wall the rebel catch phrase, Vive
VAnarchic! while his hands were smoking with the blood of
the wife of his bosom. He called on Zalma now constantly,
and was quite at home and at ease in the splendour of her
mansion and the luxury of her arm-chairs. She bent over him,
studying this monster, wondering that, having regained the air
and manner of the aristocrat, he bore them with such ease and
nonchalance. He was a dilettante. He looked at her cameos
critically, and examined her engraved agates with the interest
of a connoisseur. He was content to spend hours looking at
her rare collection of antique gems and her exquisite intaglios.
Though he practised the art of never smiling,—for his
smile at once betrayed his identity,—his yellow grin showed
horribly as he handled the dagger that had stabbed the Tzar
Paul. Hence he endeavoured always to preserve impassive
features. She shuddered sometimes when he touched her.
Though they became in a sense chums, they were not friends.
She shrank from him; she had a latent horror of this Italian
with the forbidding smile.
388
Zalma
He became extremely curious to know particulars of the
armament of the balloons, but she would never confide this to
him. It became a business requiring great organisation. She
had a captive balloon in a suburban meadow, and men from
the army reserve were drilled to navigate it. She obtained the
services of a skilled aeronaut to instruct the rudiments of her
balloon corps. She did all these things by deputy, never
identifying herself with the business she had in hand.
In her own mind the plan, which was approaching culmina¬
tion, was very definite. An early date was already fixed for
the due delivery of the balloons. Her balloon corps was to
consist of two men for each balloon; and of these several were
already proficient and in receipt of weekly wages. Her
dynamite—but it was not to be dynamite at all.
On a given date—and though it was not necessary to her
hell-born scheme that the balloons should all ascend on the
same day, yet she was nothing if not downright—on a given
date, which she feverishly hoped to definitely fix very soon, the
fifty balloons were to ascend from fifty different centres. But
that was her secret—hers and Sanzio's : few else need know;
even the men themselves who ascended would not be aware
that others were ascending in other towns on the same day
and hour. And, finally, with that cunning and secrecy which
is often a characteristic of madness, she decided to keep to
herself alone the date of the ascent. She would fix a gala day
far ahead; but before that the balloons should be distributed
and should ascend, as it were for rehearsal and experiment, but
really for the perpetration of that fell deed which would
annihilate thousands, nay, tens of thousands and hundreds of
thousands—which would depopulate cities and lay them utterly
and horribly waste. No one could suspect her, because never
anywhere could there be the least trace or suggestion of evil
purpose. If the raison d'etre of the balloons had to be given,
it was simply scientific experiment, and her enterprise an
examination of the aerial temperature at given altitudes.
Ay, even if suspected, the course the police would follow would
be to watch and then investigate the balloons. Well, nothing
Zalma
389
could be discovered—no element of harm or dangerous material,
no dynamite or weapon would be discoverable in the cars.
The men who ascended with and navigated the balloons would
be innocent of crime—would, indeed, know nothing whatever of
the purpose of their ascent; and being, for the most part, army
reserve men of good conduct and repute, they would even
serve to disarm suspicion. People might think that she was
perhaps mad, or had a bee in her bonnet. So much the better,
then. It would dispel suspicious ideas. It would assist the
success of her endeavour.
She had not quite decided what the gala should celebrate;
that was a mere affair of date, which she could better decide
when the already advancing work was actually ripe. She
consulted the Calendar of Comte. Every day in the 365
might be fitly celebrated as a gala day for Humanity. But in
order to still further disarm suspicion, she let it be known and
published that she was giving her attention to the scientific
and systematic study of aerial navigation, especially with regard
to the currents in the lower aerial strata.
The diabolical dissemination of the destructive element
was to be by means of a pump in the car attached to a long
indiarubber tube, which the men would use during rehearsal
with powdered ashes, and which they would be deceived into
supposing was for the purpose of harmless scientific experi¬
ment. It would have all the appearance of harmlessness, and
could give no cause of suspicion, even to those whose habit of
mind it is to suspect by natural bias.
She had no doubt or hesitation about her purpose. It was
to scatter micro-organisms, the germs of the disease anthrax,
over the metropolitan and great provincial centres of Europe
and America by means of the balloons.
These germs, issuing from the balloon at a great altitude,
being nearly as light as air itself, would be disseminated over
a vast area. Inhalation of these deadly germs by man would
result in widespread and universal death. The plague that
would follow would render the remnant who lived increasingly
susceptible to the disease. The dead would corrupt the living.
39°
Zalma
The anthrax would spread with incredible rapidity. The
bacilli, increasing by millions and tens of millions, would
literally devastate the sphere.
The winds, the lightest breath of air, would carry these micro¬
scopical and invisible germs of anthrax far and wide. Millions
would lie upon roof and housetops, each germ carrying a potential
death, and each minute germ would be the parent of thousands
of others. The disease, once launched in this horribly whole¬
sale way, would be absolutely uncontrollable. The soil would
become impregnated with the spores of the bacilli. Science
itself would utterly fail.
She had herself dressed in these days with more than usual
care. She took hours in trimming, pointing, and polishing her
finger-nails. Her silver and ivory case for the manicure, fitted
with brushes, stiletto, scoops, and polishing-powder, seemed to
be a kind of familiar, with which she had commune as she
developed her frightful project and pondered her insane yet
fearfully feasible plan.
The hellish audacity of her contemplated crime only made
her smile. She took an insensate pride in her sudden, in¬
famous notoriety as the infernal author of the Great Death.
Her beauty, her accomplishments, her splendour, would be
eternally chorussed by the magnificence of her wickedness.
She would be hateful to all mankind for ever, and magnificent
in the very grandeur of her infamy. She contemplated with
insane pleasure her portrait, the Venus Aphrodite, which she
had bought from Lord Halliford's executors, and which would
descend to future time, and be contemplated by generations yet
unborn. Leaving her portrait with a smile of satisfaction, she
leaned over one of the tubs in the new glass-house, in which she
was cultivating the bacilli of anthrax in a potato medium.
She removed the cover; a horrible stench, like the smell of sour
milk escaped. The inoculation had not been made more than
thirty-six hours, but already a creamy faint yellow layer had
formed over the inoculated surface, with an odd, semi-trans¬
parent edge. The spores would sprout into incalculably
numerous and continually increasing life. She knew that the
Z ALMA
391
bacillus was aerobic; she had studied the subject in all its
bearings, and was master of all the facts pertaining to her
plan.
Elsewhere she had cultures more advanced, and she pro¬
ceeded, with considerable scientific care, to the preservation of
the spores. She sliced off thin films of the inoculated surface,
and mashed them up with distilled water. Large quantities
of these she placed in pots, full of silk thread cut into short
lengths. These she covered with a bell-glass. Quantities of
these glasses, containing the deadly substance, were on shelves
in the glass-house, ready for use when needed.
Proceeding farther in her laboratory, she took a pair of
forceps and picked out similar threads, which had been soaking
in the paste since the morning, and laid them on plates under
bell-glasses to dry; others, that were already dry, she trans¬
ferred to test-tubes, and sealed them in the Bunsen-burner.
She worked with all the precision which Dr. Adern, now one
of the most accomplished bacteriological experts of the day,
was wont to exercise in his own celebrated clinical laboratory
in Cavendish Square.
She had already amassed an enormous quantity (consider¬
ing the virulence of the disease) of these terrible germs,
whilst she continued to inoculate yet other tubs of the potato
vehicle.
Observe well, that though strictly scientific in her mode so
far as it went, she did not work as a scientist would do—for
experiment with small amounts, plate-cultivation, and a small
damp chamber, with delicate instruments and intricate ap¬
paratus. She required one of the very simplest cultures
possible in large quantities, and to obtain it her work was of
the easiest.
The exceedingly minute character of these micro-organisms,
the enormous rapidity of their growth, their almost incredible
multiplication, and the ease with which incalculable quantities
of new colonies spread, made her project horribly dangerous
and fearfully possible.
She took, in fact, an interest in the life-history of the
392
Zalma
splenic fever bacillus worthy of an advanced scientist, using a
powerful microscope to observe the diminutive rod-like fila¬
mentous bodies, that she had taken from a mouse which she
had inoculated for experiment; and yet her work, so far as it
was necessary to her scheme, was of so simple a character that
any medical student, or even a layman of average intelligence,
could have mastered the subject in a few hours.
She practised also vivisection, dulling her beautiful instincts
of gentleness, and choking all those humane feelings which
had flourished in her heart. The cruelty and callousness to
pain, which her practice of vivisection taught her, developed
into a fiendish delight in torture, until she took an evil
pleasure in pain. Vivisection had influenced this loving soul
to madness.
Yet she studied the whole science of bacteriology. She
read with greedy interest the immensely fascinating history of
that subject, so modern and so full of the new and exact
learning. The theory of a connection between micro-organisms
and disease, which some investigators in recent years have
followed up and brought to a culmination, had to her all the
interest of a fairy tale. She mastered all essentials of the
germ theory, studying the researches of Koch and his estab¬
lishment of the doctrine of contagium vivum.
She was absolutely fascinated by her study of the germ
theory. Davaine's discovery of rod-like or filamentous bodies
in the blood of a sheep that had died of anthrax was in fact a
date in modern history. She noted that it was only in 1863
that he returned to reinvestigate his own discovery, to which he
had previously paid little attention until Pasteur's researches
on yeast fermentation reawakend his interest. The rival
theories of the scientists—their discoveries and counter-dis¬
coveries, the manner in which the investigation of one man in
cholera and of another in the diseases of vines, in the silkworm
ravages, in anthrax and tubercle,—established in the course of
a few years a universally recognised doctrine, demonstrated by
an unassailable chain of evidence. This reconstitution of
the whole science of medicine on a scientific and definite
Z ALMA
393
basis was intensely interesting to this extraordinary, but, at
the moment my pen writes these words, this still living woman,1
with whom I, the writer of this necessary work, have conversed
and read, to whose marvellous voice I have listened, upon
whose lips I have hung entranced and enthralled, charmed by
her delights, and whose beauty, physical and intellectual, has
been a marvel not to myself and my friends only, but to all
society, yet whose strange obliquity (originating in the wrongs
she has endured, developed by her horrible practice of vivi¬
section into insanity, and amounting, alas ! now to madness) it
is my obvious duty, in the interests of mankind, to publish to
the world: an eternal warning of the power that Science has
placed in the hands either of the ignorant, the debased, or
even of the insane, and which, if not checked, must result in
some grave disaster to mankind.
Her work was completed. She was quite mad; but her
purpose was none the less dangerous. In her now terribly
deranged mind the day for the fatal ascent was fixed. She
bad personally investigated the whole life-history of the
micro-organisms, had observed how rapidly the rods increased
in the blood and tissues, by lengthening and by cross-division.
How they grew into leptothrix filaments, and formed a number
of shining spores; and how the spores sprouted into fresh rods,
increasing with terrific certainty and in alarming quantity.
The week was an eventful one. An arrest in New York
had led to a new Anarchist discovery in Paris. There were
reports that Sir Charles St. Leger, with all his iron constitu¬
tion, was breaking down under stress of work. His head had
become prematurely white as snow, though his moustache
remained as black as ever, and more strikingly so by contrast
with the whiteness of his hair. But those who knew best
said that, early and late, he was indefatigable—ever at his post,
grave but patient, haggard and worn and weary, but stern
still, a slave to duty. Imperious, unbending, he continued in
harness simply by force of his iron will. He gave himself no
1 This was true only at this date.
394
Zalma
leisure. He kept his brain always active. When not on the
work of his department he was studying some abstruse science
or some new language. Of late he had commenced to learn
Chinese.
But the arrests in Paris were his work. The reports that
he continually received from his increased and intelligent
and, at last, well-remunerated staff, kept him well advised of
the doings of the Anarchists. He caused a gang of them to
be seized in Paris on the Monday. On Wednesday, Sanchez
and Pen eon were captured at Marseilles. Hans Koch was
taken at Berlin. Kroupenski remained at large.
Antonio Sanzio, the murderer of his wife, a man un¬
doubtedly implicated in the plot that had led to the
assassination of the President of the French Kepublic, was
yet uncaptured.
Something akin to a smile occasionally glimpsed over St.
Leger's face as some success was announced by the telephone
in his office. One by one he was exterminating the villains
who had led this Anarchist conspiracy; and now these few
men, the terror of all Europe, were almost everywhere
taken.
In fact, Anarchy was scotched. No new crime of conse¬
quence had occurred since an attempt on the life of a certain
great judge in May fair, who had mercifully escaped unharmed ;
for though an attempted attack on one of the Rothschilds was
suspected to be Anarchist in origin, the dastardly outrage was
comparatively unimportant in its results.
The leaders of the great conspiracy were captured. The
ragged rank and file had been arrested, and wisely and con¬
temptuously liberated, although, if St. Leger could have
had his way, they should have been led, every one, to instant
execution, without trial. More modern and perhaps wiser
counsels, however, prevailed. The chiefs being arrested, the
rank and file were allowed to rave and rant of Socialism and
Nihilism, and their obscure press was permitted to issue, week
by week, appeals to mob-violence and murder.
" "VYe have killed this Anarchy," said the Home Secretary,
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395
gleefully rubbing his hands. "Honour to you, St. Leger.
Honour to you, indeed."
" The extreme form of it is, I trust, temporarily slain," he
replied wearily; " but Socialism is increasing by leaps and
bounds. The poll of 1,786,000 votes by the Socialists in
Germany is a fact of pregnant import. It proves them to be
the most powerful political force in the German Empire. Is
that nothing, think you, to us here in England ? The mobs
that listen to Socialist orators are dangerous, and the audiences
are becoming larger and more enthusiastic everywhere. The
information that comes to me respecting the conspiracy in New
York and Chicago is even more ominous. I regard the future
with the utmost gravity."
He went on with his work unflaggingly.
CHAPTEE LI.
NDEESTAND me, Lord Camberley," said St.
Leger, smoothing his desk, which was always as
neat as a new pin. " Understand, rather, what
this conspiracy was. Mad it must have been—
utterly insane, insensate, lunatic. Words fail
me to emphasise sufficiently the madness of this diabolical gang.
But how sane it all was in organisation ! How well planned its
enterprises! How ably managed—how terribly powerful its
secrecy! What a method in this madness! And observe
this: the intellect of the great conspiracy was never dis¬
covered until we—"
"Until you caught Count Pahlen," interrupted Lord
Camberley. " Poor Pahlen—so able ! Fancy him, of all men,
an Anarchist! I thought—"
"You thought," said St. Leger, "as so many do, that
Anarchy is a mere craze of the hungry labourer, or rather of
the idle loafer; that such men as Vaillant and Ernile Henry,
and Eavachol and Casati, are the representatives of this
dangerous and damnable cause. You remember only Farnara
and Polti and Fritz Brail, the Dutchman Cohen or Serdan,
the Bussian Stakellengam, and such low dastards as were
caught the other day in Buenos Ayres. But you forget.
When Mercies and De Martigny were arrested in Montreal,
there was another ' Pallan,' who escaped."
" I remember well, Sir Charles St. Leger."
" Who was that man £ Pallan,' think you ?"
" I haven't the least idea."
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" It was Pahlen."
"No," said Lord Camberley quietly. " Really ! That was
Count Pahlen too! How he did travel! Why, that was in
Canada."
"Anarchy extends all over the world, Lord Camberley.
The ramifications of this man's activity were inexhaustible.
The affair in Costa Rica—the unsuccessful attempt to assassi¬
nate the President, Senor Yglesias, was his planning; and had
Araya adhered to the plan that Pahlen intended, the assassina¬
tion would have been accomplished. Put I hope—I believe—
that with the death of Pahlen, and with the capture of these
three men to-day, we are nearing the end. Hans Koch is an
able man. He might have become dangerous. The German
Government will see to him."
"And Feneon. Why, I see in the papers that he was
actually in the French War Office."
" That is quite so, Lord Camberley. But he is yet more
dangerous because of his literary power. Read this frotn my
paper,—it happens to be the Daily Graphic,—but it is in all
the papers, and I may say it is quite true."
Lord Camberley took up the day's paper and read—
" Fdneon, the War Office official who has just been arrested,
is thirty-three years of age, and is well known among the
young generation of writers and poets of the symbolist school.
Since 1883 he has constantly attended the weekly meetings
of students in the Latin Quarter. He is tall and wiry, and
looks more like an American than a Frenchman. He was
noted as being extremely reserved, and never spoke of him¬
self or his opinions. Feneon was one of the first to bring
the writings of the younger school before the public, and
in 1883 he started the first literary review—La Hemic
Ind&pcndante—published in the Quartier Latin. The venture,
however, did not succeed, and the review ceased to appear
some years ago. Feneon was on terms of friendship with
many theoretical Anarchists—amongst them, Zo' d'Axa, with
whom he was associated in the journal IJEn Dehors, for
which he wrote many signed articles on Art."
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" Now, Lord Camberley, do you see where we are ?"
"Not clearly, St. Leger. No."
" One moment. There were three Spanish Anarchists,
Olvez, Ruiz, and Suarez, concerned in the throwing of a
petard—which we clearly traced to Pahlen. Ruiz killed
himself, and the other two were executed. What I want to
show you is the enormous influence that Count Pahlen
exercised. Feneon, the poet, was entirely under Pahlen's
influence. Well, Feneon will certainly be incarcerated
by the French Government for many years to come. In
any other country he would be executed. Kroupenski is
arrested."
"And Manuel Sanchez, the Spaniard who was caught
with Feneon to-day—he was one of the same gang, surely,
was he not ?"
" Yes, Lord Camberley. So—"
" Suarez ! The name seems familiar. Turn up the papers
Sir Charles. Suarez ! Was he not concerned in the attempt
on Marshal Campos' life ?"
St. Leger put his hand 011 the papers. His face turned
a deathly white.
" Are you not well, St. Leger."
" Quite, my Lord," said he sternly, handing over the papers,
from the pigeon-hole.
Lord Camberley read: " Madrid, Saturday. The Prefect
of Perpignan has forwarded the Governor of Barcelona two
photographs of the Anarchist Sanchez, who is ' wanted' by
the Spanish police; copies of these have also been circulated
amongst the French and English detectives. He is believed to
be a dangerous Anarchist, and to have been concerned with
Pallas in the attempt on the life of Marshal Campos."
" What is this—with Pallas ? Who is Pallas ?" asked
Lord Camberley.
St. Leger gave no answer. He sat down at his desk and
began to write stolidly.
"Pallas! Pallas! Not Count Pahlen's daughter?" ejacu¬
lated Lord Camberley.
Zalma
399
" Whom your Lordship knows," cried St. Leger, leaping
from his chair. " And whom I know—alas !"
" St. Leger," exclaimed Lord Camherley, putting his hand
to his eyes, "this is awful!"
"And if it is awful for you, what, in God's name, is it for
me ?" muttered St. Leger.
" But, Sir Charles, I know her, I tell yon. She has visited
me. She has been Lady Camberley's guest. We were her
friends. Good God ! I have been proud to have her on my
arm ! What is to be done ?"
"Tell me, Lord Camberley," said St. Leger solemnly.
" But for her, Anarchy is dead. She and the theorists only
are left. Tell me what is to be done. We have arrested
every one of them—barring one Sanzio, who I have some sort
of suspicion or belief to be perhaps dead. All the leaders of
the devilish iniquity are now under arrest, except those who
are sentenced or dead. Tell me, Lord Camberley, for yon are
her friend, what am I to do ? I suspect her."
He turned whiter than ever, and sank, pale and exhausted,
in his chair.
CHAPTER LII.
T. LEGER had been, as a matter of course, one of
the earliest to hear officially of Count Pahlen's
death, the information reaching him through the
Russian Embassy. The news shocked him, but
it enabled him to breathe more freely. It was
a relief. It was a point gained.
For the arrest of Zalma on the Russian frontier had been
a grievous blow to him. She had been merely "detained."
She had not been treated as a criminal, nor even very seriously
as a suspect. Her being in Russia at all was simply a subject
for inquiry. She was regarded with much consideration, and
with every courtesy—except for that excess of admiration
which sometimes becomes discourtesy itself.
But her arrest had been a grief to St. Leger. The one
woman to whom in his whole life he had unbent, the one woman
this strong man had loved, had been practically a prisoner,
and made captive upon information which it was the duty of
his office to collect and make known to Russia.
He had endeavoured to put her out of his heart. As soon
as her identity was indubitably established he made an effort
to shut her out from his thoughts, but, alas! even in the hard,
dry words of the official reports, that it was his daily duty to
study, her name perpetually recurred.
Sadly he began to recognise that Fate had dealt to him a
more fearful blow than he originally realised. He loved the
daughter of a criminal. He, whose instinctive horror of crime
had become more and more deep-rooted from the official post
400
Zalma
401
he held. Week by week, as further information came to him,
he began to dread that his love was not only a criminal's
daughter, but herself a criminal.
Every day lie became more inexorably rigorous as a disci¬
plinarian. He set an example of rigid attention to duty. His
punctuality became a byword. His avidity for work, liis zeal
for order and law became contagious, and, spreading to other
departments, was extremely beneficial to the public service.
There had been much laxity and lack of discipline. The
Foreign Office, particularly, had required a tonic, and nothing
could have been better than the example he set to restore its
tone.
But he aged every day. His eyes lacked their old lustre.
He began to stoop. The Prime Minister remarked how old he
was getting. His splendid secret services to the State ought
to have reward. Colonel Daniells anticipated standing soon in
his shoes, for it was openly whispered that he was to be made
a Peer.
But his ambition had gone. " I want no honour," he said,
simply, to one of the Secretaries to the Treasury, who had
called upon him officially. " Whatever I have been enabled
to do has been amply recognised long ago. I hope I have done
my duty. I have humbly tried to serve God."
Straight from his knees every morning he went to his work
with firm resolve.
One day his eyes glinted with delight. Feneon and Manuel
Sanchez were captured at Marseilles ! Hans Koch was arrested
at Norden, 011 the German-Dutch frontier. He had at last
broken up the whole gang. Only Sanzio remained at large.
He paced up and down his carpeted room with noiseless
step. The Earl of Camberley, then the Foreign Minister, came
in to congratulate him. " Sir Charles, this is great news," said
the Earl. " You have not only served Her Majesty, but Spain,
France—all Europe."
" Lord Camberley, you may say the world," replied St.
Leger proudly. " The whole world! For years I have been
contesting a hateful, a vitriolic, hellish conspiracy. A con-
26
4-02
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spiracy so insensate, so base, so madly wicked, that the people
of every country have marvelled at the senselessness of its
despicable crimes, and marvelled more at its terrible, yet utterly
useless, successes. The assassinations have been so base—the
outrages upon innocent and harmless folk—casual passengers
at railway stations, women and children. How insane these
plots! It will read in history that a secret gang of lunatics
has for years defied the world with dynamite.
" So it will read, Lord Camberley," he continued. " So it
would seem. But what are the facts ? We have scotched one
of the most powerful conspiracies against Society that history
ever knew. About one hundred and twenty Anarchist arrests
have been made in London; and though most of these have
been released, we have shadowed them ever since. Upon the
Continent thousands of arrests have been made in the chief
German, Italian, and Trench towns—in brief, in all the great
European centres."
" And we owe it mainly, Sir Charles St. Leger, to your bold
grappling with the whole criminal gang. Now tell me, do you
think it is oyer ? Has the danger gone ? Is the conspiracy
slain ?"
Day by day St. Leger's discoveries about Zalma Pahlen had
been culminating. The mystery of her birth, her convent life,
the romantic episode in Malta, even her life at Pisa, her marriage
to Gerard Mountjoy, her liaison with Lord Halliford, her descent
(as he deemed it) to be an artist's model, her visits to Paris, to
St. Petersburg, Barcelona—all had come to his knowledge.
He regarded her as a wicked woman, eclipsing her father
in splendour and genius and equalling him in audacity, touched,
as he was, with morbid and insane ideas of ill-ordered philan¬
thropy. If he felt a desire to go near her, he deemed it a
temptation from the Evil One.
He read his Bible more frequently than ever.
He loved her. The music of her voice haunted his ears—
that soft caressing coo, so gently soft, so soothing, and yet so
unaffected. There was a fascination in its music, yet its flow
Zalma
403
was full of strength. Again and again the sweetness of her
velvety utterances tinkled in his memory, and all the beauty
of her face, the glory of her picture, the touch of her, the scent
of her, came over him, like a ghostly presence, overwhelmingly.
But he thrust aside these visitations, even with a gesture of
his hand. He shut her out of his heart. She was unhallowed.
Surely she was some demoniacal temptress, gifted with evil
power. She had touched his heart, but by some subtle influence
above or beneath the knowledge of good men. Perhaps she
had studied the dark devices and devilish crafts which had
debased medkeval wisdom into chicanery, and, by the dark
paths that men like Mesmer and Cagliostro trod, or that
Lucrezia Borgia knew, she had obtained knowledge of devious
and wicked subtleties by which she could ensnare the souls of
men.
St. Leger was a simple, plain soldier. Witchcraft and
demonology were studies he had never cared to dabble in.
Psychology and spiritualism, hypnotism and animal magnetism
were subjects of too subtle and devious a kind for this simple-
minded man. Yet he knew of them. He knew that strange
and marvellous feats were wrought before men by practitioners
of these dark arts even to-day; that worse things were done
even now than in the days when the Pharaohs flourished, or in
those Saracenic times when the wisdom of the Moor oppressed
Europe. He knew well—as who does not ?—that the deeds and
modes of the astrologers and magicians were still practised—not,
as in bygone days, in semi-ignorance and superstition, but with
the increasing power that Science and exact knowledge has
conferred upon these narrow bypaths of mysterious learning;
and so he attributed to Professor Pahlen and his daughter the
possession of evil powers and malicious influences, acquired in
the side roads of Science, and deemed that they both possessed
a knowledge of those black arts which Mesmer and Allauyer
had used for the damage and destruction of men.
Every morning and every night, with military regularity, he
prayed for Zalma's soul, and with a fervour greater than his
other prayers. But he rose from his knees strengthened for
4°4
Zalma
duty. The idea that it did not become him as a gentleman to
spy upon the acts of this woman, he put away resolutely. Per¬
haps it was not gentlemanly, but it was his duty. It was his
duty to relax in no degree. It was his duty to ascertain every
fact about every man, woman, or child, if there was anywhere
suspicion of Anarchy or international lawlessness. Stern, in¬
exorable, he was of that stuff that men are made who become
great. Had it been his duty, he would have been executioner
to his own son.
Therefore, suspicion having fallen upon her, she was under
the watchful eye of the law. That eye was not content to
watch her now : it investigated her past. Day by day the
reports of her life-story came piecemeal to the office of the
International Secret Intelligence Department; and in this
dreadful manner, item by item, the life of the woman that he
had loved—that he still loved in spite of himself—was laid
bare before him.
Ho wonder that he visibly grew older.
It had become his business to dog her to her doom.
CHAPTER LIII.
EWS of the balloons never reached Sir Charles St.
Leger. If the Detective Department [to which,
we should perhaps point out to the reader, St.
Leger was not attached,] was at all aware of the
balloon ascents which were being essayed, at
Dulwich for instance, amongst other suburbs, and upon the
vacant site on the Thames Embankment near Blackfriars, they
did not connect Zalma Pahlen with them, nor were these
experiments in aerial navigation in the least degree suspected
as a project of the Anarchist cause; consequently, no reports
whatever of any balloon ascent came to St. Leger.
All that he heard of Zalma now was favourable to her. She
was resting. He dreaded an outbreak. But she was now
becoming a recluse. After her return from Russia, and her
continual flaming socialistic 'speeches to audiences in various
parts of the Continent, she had appeared to sober down. He
had feared her much. He heard how she had now taken to
floriculture, especially the culture of stephanotis. The reports
from Scotland Yard were full of information relating to the
interest she was now evincing in her conservatories, and in the
hospital at Chertsey, which she had often visited of late, though an
outbreak of diphtheria there frightened all other visitors away.
He thanked Cod on his bended knees. His prayers were
answered. Even yet this woman whom he loved might be
spared from crime.
Oh if it should be that his work was done—that Anarchy
was effectually slain; that with the execution of the murderers
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406
Zalma
of President Carnot and the attempt upon Signor Crispi, with
the arrests that had been made, and which, culminating in the
seizure of Count Pahlen, followed eventually by the arrest of
the central gang, including Feneon himself, Anarchy was ended.
A great silence prevailed amongst the rebel crew. What if
the victory had already come ? What if the snake was dead—
and his love, like a new Eve, though turned from Paradise, had
found salvation in the labour of her hands, and, by the beauty
of the flowers she tended, was learning that earth itself had yet
a straight way to Paradise regained ?
At least there was a lull. No crimes were reported either
in Europe or America. The Anarchist meetings had been
discontinued. The Anarchist press was comparatively moderate;
the more violent papers had been suppressed, and of late several
of these dissolute and revolutionary organs had died of inani¬
tion. The Balance, the organ of the English Socialists, was being
carried on at a loss. If a paper does not pay when it is the
sole representative of a cause, that cause is weak indeed. Was
the iniquity dying—was this arch-rebellion fading out, was this
supremely hellish madness exhausted, and its life's-blood
ebbing as its leaders died ?
If St. Leger had relied upon the information he obtained
from New Scotland Yard alone, he would rarely have obtained
sufficient information to do the State much service ; but he had
a continual secret record of facts from the police and the
Governments of every European power, as well as from many
other parts of the world. These he was able to piece together
until they formed a net, the meshes of which caught many an
offender, and gave him a knowledge of the progress of treason¬
able offences that appalled no one more than himself.
Yet, with all his knowledge, he did not ascertain all that was
to be known. The Anarchist cause worked so secretly, and the
conspirators so seldom informed against each other, or confessed
even when arrested, and they were so deaf to bribes, that he
was often baffled, even when his suspicions were well grounded ;
and, again, he made mistakes common in officials.
He believed many things that were not: he and his
Zalma
informants were so often misled by inaccurate statements, by
the dust which these rebels against order threw in the face of
Government, and by the self-deception to which men are prone
when they build up theories of supposed crime upon insufficient
bases.
It would be difficult to describe what he made of -the con¬
spiracy that Feneon had set on foot—to create a universal
Eepublic, with Zalma as its Eebel President, established
internationally, like a new and greater Goddess of Eeason, over
the civilised world. The secret of their ultimate plan was
well kept; but he had glimpses of it in the public applause and
crowded gatherings of Socialists, and of workmen of no political
creed who had flocked to hear her everywhere.
One day news came that staggered him. He ordered his
carriage at once, and sought an interview with Cardinal
Cantelupe.
He was closeted with him for more than an hour ; and when
he left the palace of the Cardinal, instead of returning to the
Foreign Office he drove to Liverpool Street Station, in order
to catch the train, which he had detained by telephone.
It became his imperative duty to visit Sandringham.
CHAPTER LIV.
HAVE my duty to the Princess Eulalia," said
Cardinal Cantelupe to Sir Charles St. Leger, as
one day the two were in the Cardinal's brougham
together. " It is therefore that I intercede with
you. I was present at Zalma's birth. I pro¬
mised the Princess upon her deathbed, in the name of Holy
Church, that I would be more than godfather to her—that I
would never lose sight of her temporal or spiritual interests.
Sir Charles, I have watched over her. My old heart yearns
after her even as towards my own daughter. Her life has
been my chief care. My disappointments are greater than I
can tell, and, in spite of these damnable Dynamitards, I love her
still."
St. Leger's heart rose in his mouth. Should he tell the
Cardinal his secret ? Should he confess his love ? He gulped
down his emotion and said stiffly—
" I have but one duty, your Eminence: to receive the
reports that come to me from day to day, and to act upon
them. I know all the story of her life."
" Ha !" said the Prelate. " Then you know of her marriage
to His Royal Highness ?"
St. Leger nodded.
" And that she avows her purpose of a public vengeance ?"
said the Cardinal.
" I do. Further, that her arrest is sanctioned in the highest
quarter."
The Cardinal threw up his hands, and his lips quivered
with anguish.
40S
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409
" But if her arrest becomes necessary, there can he hut one
result. Scandals of the gravest consequence, indignity and
humiliation to Prince John; and for the child herself—for
Zalma, my goddaughter, incarceration for a long term of
years."
St. Leger muttered with white lips.
"I cannot expostulate with her," said the good Cardinal
sadly. " She will not hear,—she refuses to see me. She
returns my letters unread, ungraciously, ungratefully. There
is hut one way to save her: to get you to come with me; she
will not see me alone. I intercede for her. I ask you to
expostulate with her, and to warn her of the fatal danger she
incurs."
"I?" exclaimed St. Leger.
"Yes; even you. You are a stranger to her. Yet, in your
position of power and knowledge, you may perhaps save her.
Prove to her the inevitable consequences of her continuing
to rebel against God. She is deaf to Holy Church. To a
stranger—"
"She is not a stranger to me, Cardinal."
"Do you know her then, Sir Charles, personally? You
have met her in Society ?"
" Yes, your Eminence ; I have met her."
" Casually and briefly ?"
" Casually and briefly."
" And she knows you ?"
" I have sometimes wondered whether she even knows my
name."
"Well, Sir Charles, that is well. It is better so. You
know the peculiar delicacy of your duty. How her case
bristles with difficulties. Her affairs are even yet a care at the
Vatican. They affect even that vast project—the Union of
Christendom. The ransom of Pome, of which all the world is
talking, is not so great an enterprise as the conversion of the
Western nations to the faith. To that great aim was she
sacrificed, and her marriage to Prince John was an injustice
to her; but his second marriage was a blunder. The Prince
Zalma
should not have been allowed to so jeopardise the dynasty.
See Zalma—speak to her. Tell her who you are—what your
office is. Warn her—prove to her not the risks, but the
certain consequences of her conduct. She will not listen to
the Church. Perhaps she will listen when she knows that you
represent the energies of the State. We are already in
Grosvenor Crescent. I have brought you here purposely."
" Your Eminence ! But this is sudden."
" Believe me, Sir Charles St. Leger, it is right."
He replied not. But something suggested to him that the
course the Cardinal suggested was truly wise, and, most of all,
the hope shaped that it might be efficacious.
He sent in his card with the Cardinal's. "Major Sir
Charles St. Leger, Bart., C.B.," Zalma read, looking at the card
which her footman brought her. " I do not know him. Say
that I am not receiving to-day."
The servant returned with the message. The Cardinal
looked glum. " Tell your mistress," said he, " that we insist
upon seeing her."
" Stay," said St. Leger. " That may be your message,
Cardinal, but what is mine to be ?"
"Your voice! I thought it was your voice!" exclaimed
Zalma, dashing into the room and seizing St. Leger's hands.
" Why did you not come to me ? I expected you. Oh, I
have waited for you so ! My father is dead. Oh, I have so
much to tell you! I have waited for you so long. I have
wanted you more than words can say."
She took no notice whatever of the Cardinal, who stood
bewildered. She was not, in fact, aware of his presence. She
had eyes only for her love.
" Yes, it is years. I suppose it is years. Yet how ? They
do not count so. It is only months in time. But your hair is
white. You are changed. Speak to me again. Why did you
not come ?"
St. Leger moved his lips, but his words were faint.
" What is it you say ? You remember the night—the
moonlight night upon the Embankment: all you said to me.
zalma
4i 1
I have never forgotten. I have thought every day of you.
But my father is dead. I am alone. I have been suffering.
Why did you not come to me when I wanted you so ?"
" Would I had !" exclaimed St. Leger, almost choking. The
words broke from him with a sob. He put his hands upon her
shoulder. He, too, had become oblivious of the Cardinal's
presence.
" I have been sad—so sad, so sad. Ah, the bitterness of
life ! If you only knew what I have suffered. But no ; you
grieve also ?"
She leant her head upon his bosom with a sigh—a sigh of
weariness ended. He put his arms around her, and, bending
over her, softly kissed her forehead.
The Cardinal quietly withdrew, marvelling greatly.
"And now you have come, you will return, will you not?
Do not leave me to grieve. Ah, if you knew ! I have wondered
about you. I have said to myself, Who is he ? It is strange
I have loved him all these years, but I do not know his name.
How I have—this—"
She had his card twisted in her hand. She read it,
laid it down mechanically, and said, with frank naivete,
" How changed you are ! What has happened ? Your hair is
quite white. Ah ! you, then, have been suffering also. Tell me.
Let me share your grief."
" You do," said St. Leger.
" Tell me."
"You are my grief," said St. Leger sternly, moving her
hands from his shoulder and retaining them in his strong-
grasp. " Listen : I loved you. I love you, Zalma; I love you
still. God help me, I shall love you always !"
She gave a great gasp of joy.
" You have said you do not know who I am. Let me tell
you. I am an official of the Government, whose duty it is to
suppress the Anarchists."
She uttered a moan of pain.
" Take your hands from mine," he continued in stern words,
that cut him to use. "Duty is greater than love."
412
Zalma
Her arms fell by her side.
" And I am here to warn you. The chief Anarchists have,
with few exceptions, been captured. Take care; punishment
is the inevitable consequence of crime. The law is stronger
than rebellion. It always will be. Ah, Zalma! I expostulate
with you, I entreat you. ' The wages of sin is Death.' "
Her limbs trembled. She tottered to a couch. He sank
on his knees before her.
" That is what Duty compels me to say to you: these stern
and bitter words. I, who would be whispering the ardours of
love; I, who had thoughts of you sweet with tenderness and
pure affection; I, who had dreams of home and hearth, hopes
of wifely comfort, must needs talk to you of the gaol—of
death."
She shuddered.
He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. " I thought I
should go through life with this—that you would be mine. I
looked upon you as the fairest among lilies. I prayed to God
to give you to me, to make me worthy of this little white hand.
I did not know then, Zalma Pahlen, Zalma of Braganza,
Zalma of Umbria, Zalma Mountjoy, Zalma of the many names,
how base you were." His lip curled with the contempt he
truly felt.
She sobbed, covering her face with shame. He rose and
stood before her.
" Woman! that I loved you truly is known to God. See
that I loved you by my grey hair. You have noticed it. This
grief for you could not have been had I not loved you. And
now I love you still—through all my scorn.
" And if you ask me the measure of my love, listen yet to
me. In my daily avocations it became my task to read day by
day, in police reports and in fragments, the story of your past.
I, who deemed you so pure, so chaste, so good, so holy; I, who
had invested you with every ideal quality and virtue—found
you a scheming woman, crafty, wicked, damnable; your
beauty a mask, your soul a pit of horror. I knew it not until
your father at last fell into the hands of justice. A suspect
Zalma
4i3
for years, I brought home his crimes. I—yes! You stare.
I—myself—I gave the order for his arrest on the very—"
" You ?"
She looked him full in the face.
" You ?" she ejaculated.
He bowed his head in stern assent.
" You ? " she exclaimed once more, in a tone like the voice
of one who is about to die.
For a long time—though it was only seconds it seemed an
hour—she was in a sense paralysed.
A shriek broke from her — a piercing cry. Shrill with
horror its echoes trembled. She stood erect—white. Her
eyes looked afar. Her nostrils dilated. Her breast heaved
convulsively.
The servants rushed into the room. She turned upon them
violently, bid them begone, and locked the door.
She swooned. Yet in the very first moments of her swoon
she rose again, full of life and passion.
" I could stab you ! Man, I would kill you !" she exclaimed,
in a gust of anger that made her gasp for breath.
She struck him violently, fell to the floor moaning, and
rose again, gibbering, with blanched lips.
" I hate you! Oh! My father, my father, my father!
What shall I do ? I will take your life. My dagger! Had
I it on me I would stab you. Death ! Oh, why do I not die ?
0 God! 0 God ! Love ! And it has come to this. He, my
lover ! Ah, cruel! Cruel! Love ! This is the end. Kill me.
Oh that I were dead!"
She wrung her hands and moaned. She writhed in the
torments and agonies of her grief. Then she turned to him
suddenly.
" Curse you ! Go from me ! Leave me ! I hate you ! I
spurn you ! Oh cruel, cruel world ! My father ! "
The intensity and suffering in her passion was terrible.
St. Leger put out his hands to her feebly. He was unmanned;
his heart-strings were wrung for her. He felt swayed towards
her. He would have mourned over her. He wanted to press
4H
Zalma
her to his bosom—to take upon himself her sorrows. A mist
came over his eyes. He, strong man that he was, felt sick and
faint.
" Ah! ah! The pity of it. Oh man, how I loved you!
How I had hoped ! Love ! Never for me. No, never, never¬
more—even in a dream. No love, but hate! For you more
than for all—hate. Out of my sight! Begone ! "
She turned, unlocked the door, and threw it wide open.
" Go ! My curse he on you till you die !" She hissed the words.
He was aghast. He took her hand and kissed it. " God
bless you, Zalma," he faltered.
" Love," she answered, falling 011 his neck. " I loved you
so. I loved you. Oh, my God,—if God there be,—pity us !"
He put his arms about her, weeping. They sobbed in each
other's embrace. For long they stayed in this utter despair.
After a while she began to murmur, saying endearing things.
She kissed his hair. She felt the heaving sorrows within
him. She longed to comfort him. She fondled his arms.
Her voice resumed its softness; the dove-like sounds of her
love murmured in his ears. She interrupted herself to weep,
to call her father's name. She shook him with anger, pushed
him from her, drew him again to her heart. "Ah," she mur¬
mured. " Ah, the world is at fault! It is not you, lover mine.
It is not I. It is the world in which we are. Fate ! Destiny !
Oh that the end would come ! Ah soon! Soon it will be.
Die with me, heart of my life ! Listen! We will die together
soon; so soon, in the Great Death."
She laughed a horrible maniacal laugh.
The hollow grief in it smote him. He took her arms from
his neck, and, holding her cold hands, looked in her face.
Something in her face startled him. There was a diabolical
savour in the echoes of that shrill Satanic laughter, and a
gleam of triumph and of wickedness in her dark eyes.
He was afraid of her. All his dread of her subtle snares
returned to him. He held her aloof.
" The Great Death," he said slowly, as the words came back
to his thought.
Zalma
4i5
She nodded, and again he noticed a maniacal gleam in her
triumphant eyes. The glamour of her had gone. He was
now calm and collected. He stood before her erect.
" To-morrow I give a ball," she said in a soft whisper.
" You see all this litter: the workmen are in my house pre¬
paring for the festivities." Again she laughed, and the strange
cadence made him chill. " Come. Let us die together. Had
I known you were coming too, I would not have had it so.
Everything should have been different."
" You are incoherent. I do not understand."
" You will. To-morrow I give a ball. Come ; be with me;
it is my last night. Let us dance and die. Love, 0I1 my
love, kiss me ! What matters, since we die ?"
She darted upon him like a loving bird. She struggled to
embrace him. She clung to him, caressing; as he resisted her,
she fell upon him. She kissed his cheeks, his eyes, his lips.
She bit him with passionate love.
Silently and gently, but with a return of his accustomed
sternness, he freed himself from her, and left the house. He
knew not how; for he covered his eyes with his hands and
walked in gross darkness, more utterly overwhelmed than a
shipwrecked mariner.
CHAP TEE LY.
T. LEGEE repaired at once to his office. He
was a man. Strong, he was not unmanned long.
" Some mischief is brewing worse than I
have ever known," he said to Colonel Daniells.
" What are the last reports ?"
" So far as our business is concerned, strictly speaking,
nothing. In Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Madrid, Eome,
nothing. Never were the reports so satisfactory. But here it
is not so— "
" Here—in London ?" echoed St. Leger.
" The wages strike. Nothing else. The mob is getting
fractious. But it does not concern our department. Scotland
Yard reports that Anarchy at home is utterly suppressed.
Great compliments are due to the police. Anarchy has been
practically ended. The seizure of those seventy men at the
Autonomic Club, their release, and the subsequent relentless
shadowing of these foreign criminals, was the best bit of work
Scotland Yard has done for a long time : thanks to you. They
expected to find in London a huge warren, where they could
plot and scheme at will against the peace of Europe. They
were wrong. The London police have suppressed Anarchy.
By the bye, that man Sanzio has been arrested."
" Ha !" exclaimed St. Leger.
" Yesterday. He was sailing for New York.
" Go on."
" He had several hundred pounds in gold,—not a note
upon him,—and diamonds to the value Of about four thousand
pounds. He was wonderfully disguised."
416
Zalma
417
"How was he discovered ?"
" Quite by a fluke, I hear. The police are a fine set of
fellows. They recognised the man when he smiled—simply
by his teeth. What disturbs you, Sir Charles ? What are
your apprehensions ?"
St. Leger was silent. " I know not how to shape them,"
he said. " They are vague, and yet not baseless. Grave sus¬
picions. Apprehensions of disaster. Kindly leave me, Colonel
Daniells. I must be alone. I must look at the reports. 1
would study them carefully. Leave word that I do not wish
to be disturbed."
" She hinted at disaster," thought St. Leger, as he paced
his room alone. " She spoke openly of the Great Death ! ' To
die to-morrow night.' These were her words. What is their
meaning ? Can the mob that I met on the Embankment—
can their labour strike be connected with her at all ? To
compass her own death is her obvious intention. This is no
time for fooling about honour. I must even myself be a spy.
Her death and the death of others is contemplated. To become
a personal spy upon the woman I have loved ! Yet I have no
option. It becomes me in honour to compass her ends by all
means, by every means, by any means. Yes, honour itself
binds me to do this dishonourable thing. She almost led one's
thought to shape the idea that she intended blowing up her
own house—a house full of guests. Hideous thought. Insen¬
sate ! They are mad, these Anarchists. Poor creature; my
poor, poor Zalma. She is not sane. God help her."
He paced his room. The priceless hours slipped by. His
thoughts would not help him. He was overcome by his fears.
" This is no time for bewildered musings," he exclaimed,
looking at the clock anxiously. " The precious moments pass.
Yet what am I to do ? I am at my wit's end.
" I have studied all the reports. There is not a word, not
a hint in them to disturb anyone. This labour strike is not
of her fomenting. Those parcels sent abroad—but that can
be nothing. I ordered an analysis of the contents, and, if
dangerous, report was to be made to me. Besides, they were
27
418
zalma
not sent to Anarchists. Her own words to me only—there
lies suspicion. On that only can I act.
" How ? How act ? What is the most discreet way ? Hay,
the dread is too appalling for discretion. Discretion, con¬
sideration for her, for myself—for—for the Eminent; all these
1 banish. What is the most certain way of staying this
threatened disaster ?"
He rang his telephone to Scotland Yard, and asked for
Inspector Black to be sent to him.
The officer called. " I dread a dynamite bomb or bombs
at Ho. 198 Grosvenor Crescent," said St. Leger to the
inspector.
" We 'ave been watching the 'ouse, Sir Charles."
" Well, and I have your report. There is nothing sus¬
picious ?"
" Hothing, Sir Charles."
" A ball is to be given there to-morrow night ?"
" So it 'as been reported to you, Sir Charles."
"Yes, you have so reported."
" We 'ave, Sir Charles."
The business was hateful to St. Leger. He put his hand
to his aching head. The horror of having to act like a spy
upon this one woman was unutterably painful to him. He
sighed, but turned to his duty.
He sat at his desk and wrote a pressing note to the Chief
Commissioner, requesting that, for urgent reasons, a special
watch should be placed at No. 198 Grosvenor Crescent, and
that he dreaded an explosion of dynamite.
" I have done, inspector," he said, giving him the note
wearily. " I can do no more."
He went out; he was tired, grieved, perplexed. He sat at
dinner at St. Stephen's Club with Colonel Daniells, but ate
nothing, and went home immediately afterwards to a sleepless
bed. All night he lay there, tossing restlessly. In the morning
he was ill; indeed, he was quite sick, and his servant had to
send for a doctor. Quiet and a dark room were prescribed.
He slept a little in the daytime, got up, and had gruel. The
Zalma
419
doctor, calling again, found him sitting up reading his Bible.
He ordered him to bed again; but his couch was a weariness.
Yet, in the feverish sleeplessness that so often vexed him,—the
wearying, worrying pain that was now the main symptom in
a chronic wasting disease,—he had dozing intervals of unrest.
Suddenly he was startled by the shrill ringing of an electric
bell. He sprang up, hastened into a dressing-gown, and opened
his door himself. A policeman entered.
"The Chief Commissioner's compliments, sir, and could
you come at once to Scotland Yard ?"
He was haggard and ill; almost too faint to stand, he sank
into a chair. "It is the mob then, after all. These labour
strikes will break into a revolution some day, constable; you
mark my words."
" I believe you, Sir Charles ; they're a-breaking the windows
in Regent Street already."
"Really?"
"We've been on duty twenty-four hours, some of us p'leece,
and are downright fagged out. The mob's very vicious, Sir
Charles, and taken to rioting."
" Get me a hansom, constable."
" I have brought one, sir."
" What is the time ?"
" Nearly midnight, sir."
" So late; then it is something of consequence," he mused.
He had barely strength to step into the cab, but he hurried to
Scotland Yard. The Chief Commissioner, Colonel Daniells,
and Inspector Black were there.
" The haste augurs grave news," said St. Leger. " What is
it ? The Labour strike ?"
" Something more serious than that, though the police have
had difficulty to quell the rioting. We have an audacious
offer from the murderer Sanzio. He has written a letter
offering to turn Queen's evidence, and to betray his com¬
panions. He states that he can divulge a plot of gigantic
dimensions. He refers to the chartering of a fleet of steamers,
and a lot of nonsense. He is endeavouring to bargain with
420
Zalma
us for his life and liberty ; but he threatens us actually with
death if we do not grant him terms. He is mad. I turn from
that. You noticed some time ago in the reports that Count
Pahlen's daughter was busying herself with horticulture ?"
" Ah, that! I did," he replied feebly.
" Later, you requested more information about this. It
was then reported that she was cultivating certain fungoid
growths."
" I remember. I thought it peculiar. I desired that these
growths should be analysed, and, if they were poisonous, that I
should be informed."
" What did you suspect ?"
" I had no suspicion. It occurred to me that if she had
taken to the culture of poisonous herbs," said St. Leger gravely,
" it would be well to know. Is the report in ?"
" To-night. The report is—is ominous," said the Chief
Commissioner of Police in a grave manner. " I have sent for
the physician whose analysis is here. I hope he will come
to-night. Eead the analysis and report. But I may say,
briefly, it comes to this. She was not engaged in horticulture.
Her pursuit seems to have been purely scientific: she was
cultivating bacteria. It seems to be a disease—' bacilli
anthracis'; that is the name the faculty give it. What
could her object be ? The whole thing is a little uncanny.
What is this alarm of yours about dynamite ? The detectives
tell us that you called yourself yesterday, with Cardinal
Cantelupe. They have observed nothing suspicious."
" Dr. Septimus Aclern," a constable announced.
" Ah, I sent for him. Show him in," said the Chief Com¬
missioner. " Sir Charles St. Leger. Oh! I see you know
each other. Well, Dr. Adern, your report has frightened us
all terribly."
"On the anthrax culture ?" said the bacteriologist. " There
was nothing to alarm you in my report."
"You said there were 40,000 germs of potential death in a
cubic inch of the sample sent you for analysis ?"
" Yes. But there is nothing in that: half the clinical
Zalma
421
laboratories in London have tubes full of it. All these
cultures of diseases are deadly; but we take precautions: the
plugs are sealed. We sterilise everything."
" We must take you into our confidence," said Sir Charles
St. Leger, who was awake on a train of thought, and
strengthened providentially for a supreme effort. "We
suspect a terrible crime in the house whence that sample
came. We had suspected that it would be blown up by
dynamite. We have reason to know "—he spoke very gravely
—"we know that a great crime is—is in contemplation.
Could the—the person suspected, who certainly cultivated
this disease, do so with criminal intent ? Could it be anyhow
perverted to criminal aims ?"
" I should add, there were several tubs of this stuff," said
the Chief Commissioner.
"What!" exclaimed Dr. Adern, jumping from his chair.
" Tubs of it ? I never heard of such a thing. Why, it is
enough to kill every living creature on the planet, except
rabbits and other vermin. These are immune from
anthrax."
" The suspicious thing was that parcels of it were sent off
to various international centres throughout Europe, America
—everywhere," said the Chief Commissioner.
"Tubs of it?" ejaculated Dr. Adern, with his head on one
side. " Tubs of it ?" he muttered under his breath. " Tubs ! "
he repeated, biting his fingers. " Tubs !"
"All the foreign letters and communications of Zalma
Pahlen," continued the Commissioner, "are suspected, examined,
and detained."
" Zalma Pahlen ? Then I— Good God ! She got the idea
from me. We discussed it in my laboratory."
" Discussed what ?" asked the Chief Commissioner.
" The possibility of exterminating the whole human race
by the widespread dissemination of anthrax. I pointed out,
as I well remember now, its feasibility. It is feasible. Tubs,
you say ? Tubs of this culture ? Good God! She's mad!
But she means it. It will be done. The whole race may be
422
Zalma
almost wiped out. It seems incredible, but it is dreadfully,
horribly possible. Sent! Parcels of it sent away, do you
say ? Stop them, every one. Set your wires to work im¬
mediately."
" Be assured on that score," said the Chief Commissioner.
" All the parcels are detained. They are safe enough. They
are in the General Post Office."
" What!" shrieked the bacteriologist, almost dancing in
horror. " Are they isolated ? If not, no surer mode of the
dissemination of these deadly germs—"
" They are in a separate room on the third floor. How can
they be rendered harmless ? Shall we bury them ?"
" Bury them ? Indeed no ! " cried Dr. Adern, banging the
table with his hand. " A cow dying of anthrax, and buried, has
been known to infect a whole district. Worms have brought
up the germs in their casts, and sheep, feeding over the
pasture, have been infected, and died of anthrax by the score."
" You amaze me ! Is this thing so deadly ?" exclaimed St.
Leger. " The race! You talk of the absolute decimation of the
human race as feasible. That must be impossible. You are
speaking in parables, surely ?"
" I am talking plain fact," said the young scientist, who
had grown white with fear. He alone knew how terrible the
danger was.
" And you maintain that you talk soundly when you speak
of the decimation of mankind?"
"By Jove ! sir" (the young bacteriologist always swore by
the extinct gods), "By Jove! sir, if it had not been for two
or three of you gentlemen the thing would have been done,
or in course of doing; in a few weeks there would have
been no human race left. What about the balloons ? They
were to be media for scattering the germs in the project we
discussed."
" I know nothing of balloons," said the Chief Commis¬
sioner.
" Nor I," echoed St. Leger.
"I do," said Colonel Daniells. "And it explains things
Zalma
423
that mystified me. From all parts of Europe I had accounts
of inexplicable balloons. As they were not associated with
dynamite or other explosives, about which I made particular
inquiry,—and as they were not connected with Anarchists or
other suspicious people,—I could make nothing of them; and
did not trouble you, Sir Charles."
" I wish you had. It would have made me think; perhaps
I should have hit upon the very thing."
" Ah!" said the Chief Commissioner, " this explains that
villain Sanzio's anxiety to turn Queen's evidence. He had a
story to divulge about balloons."
" And the ships ?"
" What ships ?" asked the Commissioner. " Sanzio hinted
that fleets of steamers have been ordered, though no payment
has been made: steamers to be at various ports—"
" For the moment let us leave the ships undiscussed," said
St. Leger gravely. "We are talking—ought we to be doing?
It is long after midnight. The ball to-night! It is now at its
height. Is danger there ? The very magnitude of this wicked¬
ness proves the insanity of the poor creature who devised it.
I shall seize her without warrant. I shall take it upon myself
to convey her, regardless of law, and through the imperious
insistence of circumstance, to some place of safety. But the
rest—her guests ? Is some plan laid to devastate them ? Has
it already fallen ? What is the antidote of this poisonous
disease ?"
" There is none," replied Dr. Adern. " Once in the blood,
the victim is dead. It is incurable ; at least Science has not
yet found a remedy. Anthrax is fearfully deadly; one germ
in the blood and it is all U P."
" God above us!" cried the Chief Commissioner, " what a
fearful thing!"
"And what a calamity impended ! God save us all from
sin! I shudder when I think of it," said St. Leger.
"It might have been a disaster: a terrific, overwhelming
omnivorous plague," said Dr. Adern gravely. " It might have
altered history—overcome half Europe. Even now—"
424
Zalma
" Yes, even now are we safe ?" exclaimed the chief, ringing
his bell. " Let every officer available attend here. Let us
take every possible precaution."
" I go to No. 198 G-rosvenor Crescent," cried St. Leger,
leaving the room; " there, at anyrate, is danger."
" And what is to be done, Dr. Adern, with—"
" With the parcels at the Post Office ?" interrupted Dr.
Adern. " Let them be handed over to me ; I will destroy them.
Give me a written order, sir—"
" And take two constables with you, Dr. Adern ; save a
small sample for evidence. This damnable, this incredible
crime, must meet with punishment, though it is not in the
power of man to punish it adequately. Adequately ? The
very powers of Heaven must be appalled."
" And the law must tether you men of science," cried
Colonel Daniells severely. " Vivisection, its horrors, its cruel¬
ties, and all the hateful iniquities perpetrated in agonies on the
brute creation—"
" Ah, there we disagree!" put in Dr. Adern, wiping his
spectacles. " Vivisection is—"
" This is no time for discussion," remarked the Chief Com¬
missioner, holding up his hand. " If this incredibly horrible
crime had been committed in its entirety—"
" That is an intensely interesting speculation," said the
young scientist, with his head on one side like a thoughtful bird.
" Some animals,—for instance, cats,—some breeds of sheep,
dogs, and white rats are immune from anthrax. Man, on the
other hand, is very susceptible. I do not say the whole race
would have been utterly destroyed even in Europe, or, indeed,
in England. But the mortality would have been enormous—
enormous. We should have died like flies. Every new death
would become a new source of danger; and the susceptibility
to the disease, too, would have continually increased. Then
the rabbits, cats, and other immune animals, flourishing
upon lands decimated of human population, would increase
rapidly. Mice would disappear almost entirely, but rats
would increase vastly. It would be an interesting problem to
Zalma
425
work out the consequences upon the animal life of the globe
generally."
" My dear sir!" exclaimed Colonel Daniells," we have been
so near an overwhelming catastrophe, so prodigious— Damn
it! I don't know if the danger's over yet."
" God in His mercy grant it is !" ejaculated the Chief Com¬
missioner. " Go, Dr. Adern, to the G.P.O., I beg, at once, lest
mischief result. Colonel, stay and help me. We must have
officers to see that every parcel of this villainous stuff is traced
and carefully destroyed. We must have medical officers to
assist our precautions. Colonel, you take that duty. Spare no
expense. Have no regard whatever for form or red tape.
Good-night—and God give you strength. Go with a whole
posse of officers to this insane woman's glass-houses, and see that
every atom of the damned stuff be carefully collected."
"And God help us all!" said an inspector to his men.
" And call every hansom you can get," said another.
Indeed, all spoke together, all adjured Heaven, and uttered
ejaculations of horror and dismay. The danger was so un¬
utterably vast—so awful to Humanity.
In a few minutes Scotland Yard was like a hive. The
police, utterly fatigued with their duties of the day, had to be
hurriedly ordered from their beds. The air was shrill with
whistles; constables hurried in in plain clothes; hansoms
drove up continually. All was bustle and excitement.
" Shall we ring an alarm-bell at all the churches, sir ?" said
a constable, struck with a happy thought.
" Ring the blessed bells, sir ? Ho !" bellowed his superior
officer. " Go to the devil, sir! Do you think we're a lot of
damned foreigners ? I suppose we can keep our heads, like
Englishmen ?"
CHAPTER LYI.
RINCE JOHN OF UMBRIA was asked to the
ball. He sat in an easy-chair, idly turning over
the black-edged invitation in a reverie. It was
long since he had heard from Zalrna—it was,
indeed, the only communication she had deigned
to send him since she had knowledge of his marriage with the
Princess Augusta of Gothenburg. He crossed his legs as he
mused, shifted his attitude, tried another chair, strolled up and
down his library, slowly at first, then more quickly. He was
uneasy. His memories of Zalma disturbed him.
" Others would have worried me," he soliloquised. " She
is too proud, too great a woman ! "
Again he lapsed into reverie. The smoke of his cigar hung
about the room. He fumbled the ends of his fair moustache,
and stared vacuously with his light-blue eyes into nothingness.
His cigar went out. He pulled at the unfinished stump, uncon¬
scious that it was not alight. His thoughts were far away.
" I will go," he thought, repairing to a writing-table and
dashing off his formal acceptance of the invitation. He paused,
with his finger on the ivory of the electric-bell.
"No," he mused. "No one shall know. I will post it
myself." He did not ring. Taking his hat he went out, and
dropped the letter into a pillar-box. A smile played over his
pleasing face. And he thought—" She has forgiven me."
"Morning, Prince!" said the Earl of Camberley. "You
have heard the news ?"
" What news, Camberley ?"
420
Zalma
427
" That the French Chamber, in dread of Anarchy, has
authorised the Monarchists in France to recognise, in the person
of the Due d'Amiens, not only a—"
" Oh, that!" interrupted Prince John. " I know all about it.
And what chance has Green-linnet for the Leger ?"
" Hyperion is my tip," said the Earl.
" Do you run both ?"
" They are both entered, but I shall declare to win with
Hyperion. I shall back Hyperion myself"; and if he doesn't
win I'll—I'll—'pon my word—I'll sell all my horses."
" Then you think Hyperion's a cert. ?"
The Earl smiled serenely.
They held up their sticks in a parting salutation, and went
their separate ways. Lord Salisbury, walking arm in arm with
the German Ambassador, was in earnest conversation with him
on the shady side of the street. Doddles, who was now more
crippled with paralysis than ever, was selling the evening papers.
The Prince re-entered his house.
" What! more letters, James ?"
" Yes, your Koyal Highness."
" Is the Princess down ?"
" No, your Eoyal Highness."
" Why don't you give the letters always to Colonel Griffiths ?
They're a great bore."
" This one is from Paris, your Eoyal Highness, and I thought
perhaps—"
The Prince, taking it from the silver salver, tore it open.
" Always the way!" exclaimed Prince John in a tone of
vexation. The 16th. Confound it! The same night as
Zalma's ball! I'd give anything to go. I must go. I have
accepted. She has forgiven me. I must and will go. But how
am I to get out of this ? I hate Paris ! Yet if I don't attend
the confounded ceremony, France will never forgive me. I hate
all functions ! What a bore to be of Eoyal blood ! If people
only knew ! Heigh-ho, James ! Bring me a brandy-and-soda."
Zalma's invitations to her bal masqut were issued very freely.
She was now an avowed Eccentric; so the fact that her cards of
428
Zalma
invitation were printed in mourning—in black and silver—was
not particularly noticed. No ladies known in Society had been
invited, though several were very anxious to go. Lady
Kottenham declared that so distinguished a woman as Zalma
ought to be privileged in any Society, no matter how outrageous
her behaviour; and she instanced several titled singers and
discredited ladies of rank, who were received with eclat in Court
circles, to prove her theory that genius and beauty could do
anything, go anywhere, and be known by anybody. Jack
Graves remarked, " It was not so much who she was, but who
she wasn't." Lady Camberley said that the wife of a Radical
Peer could not consistently pretend to care who was in Society
and who was not, but that for her part she would give her ears
to go to the ball, " as all the men were mad about it, and then
everybody was to be masked, too; and besides, if the wife of
our late Ambassador in Constantinople—"
" These circus stories, Lady Camberley, and the old scandal
about the lion and the lamb, the photographed letter and the
indulgent lady, and all the other shameful exposes of the
season—"
But here Lady Bottenham was interrupted by Mrs. Gwynne
Griffiths, who, always serious, had become, since the solemnisa¬
tion of her marriage, absolutely grave. "These stories are
nothing to the current whisper of the hour," she said.
" What whisper, dear ? One hears so many," said Lady
Camberley.
" But the whispers invariably prove true," gurgled Lady
Rottenham, with her gayest titter ; " and in the end the softest
whispers are always shouted at the street-corner."
" I hope these will never be shouted anywhere," said Mrs.
Gwynne Griffiths solemnly. " Our Society is so rotten already,
that if the latest story be proved true—"
" Come dear, come—the climax ! Is it to be Probate and
Divorce, or the Old Bailey ?"
" Lady Rottenham," she replied slowly, " an Englishman
used to be proud that he was an Englishman. What honest
ring there was in that great boast! Now, when we send a
Zalma
429
mission to Armenia, may not the Sultan protest that the
Christian may pollute the Turk ? Soon it will be enough to
be an Englishman to be also the mock of Europe—that is to
say, to be an Englishman in really the best Society."
She spoke with such scorn that even Lady Rottenham lost
her flippant air; so that when the still elegant figure of Lord
Beaumaris, who liked to drop in to five-o'clock tea at Lady
Camberley's, was seen stooping under the palms, followed by
the portly shape of Sir James Draper, their visit was considered
timely.
"Are you going to your old friend Zalma's ball, Emmeline?"
asked Sir James sarcastically, looking over his tea-cup.
She looked at him grimly. " It is not to be a ball,
father."
" What is it to be, then ?"
" A nineteenth-century satire."
" I am going," purred Lord Beaumaris. "Are you, Jimmy?"
" I got a black-edged card. But I am going to the great
function in Paris," and Sir James swelled himself portentously.
" Take care she doesn't hypnotise you, Lord Beaumaris,"
laughed Lady Rottenham, displaying her under-skirts with
well-bred impropriety.
" By Jove ! Is her power Hypnotism, I wonder ?" he said
musingly.
Always lavish of money, Zalma ordered from the contractor
who undertook her decorations for the bal masqu6, and was
open-mouthed at her extravangance, thousands of vines in
fruit. Her madness was sufficiently established to be obviorts
to the contractor, and, as he feared the validity of her order, he
insisted on payment in advance.
She turned her whole house into a Roman grove. Every
wall was hung with vines, from which bunches of grapes
suspended in ripe clusters. Her hall was green with the vines ;
the tendrils and spirals clung prettily to the furniture. Scores
of purple clusters hung from the roof and festooned the
balusters; numbers of young plants were brought to the house
43°
Zalma
in tubs, which were gilded and draped with hunches of grapes
and bows of diaphanous silk. Great branches also had been cut,
and were adroitly fastened everywhere. Countless large plants
in pots were ranged all along the sides of every room. There
were grapes everywhere. The walls, not of the ballroom
only, but the dining and drawing rooms, the boudoirs, the
music-gallery, and even the bedrooms, the fireplaces, the beds—
were wreathed with the leaves of the grape. Fountains of wine
played in nooks and alcoves, and the pipes by which the wine
was conveyed were wreathed with the vine. Nooks and corners,
fitted with couches and soft with voluptuous divans, were trailed
over with vine branches. Vine trellises covered even the
doors. The flowers had been removed from the conservatory
and grape plants substituted.
Soon the hall, the corridors, the saloons, began to fill with
men, each of whom came in the guise of a satyr. Some men
had actually put on the masks of goats—others had goat's
heads by nature and needed none; all wore the hairy limbs,
the cloven hoof, the short tail of the fabled satyr. Some had
ivory or golden horns.
The abnormal character of the ball imbued all the visitors
with an amused air, while the quicker-witted ones soon awoke
to unwonted gaiety. The humour spread; the men began to
frisk and gambol. A capricious, contagious spirit of frivolity
ran, like fire in heather, from guest to guest. Frolic began to
gather and go mad. The jest was bandied to and fro. The
pop of champagne corks, that merriest of sounds, awoke echoes
of laughter and revelry. Festive groups, in the freedom of so
much wine, and in the absence of the constraint of women,
began to toast each other loudly. Some of the coarser spirits
broke into noisy demonstrations and vulgar horse-play. A
merry spirit, who was nothing if not French, let off a solo-
dance which he had been rehearsing all the week.
But still, where were the ladies ? It was rumoured that
they were afraid to come because of the mob that was
assembling that night in Hyde Park, as a demonstration
against the Capitalists. But how could there be a ball at all
Zalma
43i
when only men were present ? Many suspected that they
were being made parties to a sublime sell.
It was rather close. Through the open windows could be
heard the roar of the mob and the rumble of thunder. Sheet-
lightning now and again lit up the sky.
The band took little heed of the storm. They also were dressed
as satyrs. The performers, amused by the absurdity of the
thing, and plied with abundant wine, started off with one of
Offenbach's merriest numbers. The men, itching to dance,
had no partners. They therefore indulged themselves with
more wine. A double quartette party was formed, who amused
themselves with a Bacchanale and an impromptu pas de quatre.
In the midst of this hilarity, Dandy, who had gilded horns
and feet, and legs of white goat's hair, being as merry as a grig,
—for he had already partaken of his second bottle,—got upon a
hogshead trailed with vine, and in a mock voice announced—
" Ladies and gentlemen— "
A chorus of coughs protested that there were no ladies.
" And there will not be," said Gwynne Griffiths, with a
meaning grin.
" But, you bet, there'll be women," replied a young Bohemian
artist, with laughing emphasis.
" Ladies and gentlemen," repeated Dandy.
" Gentlemen only," interrupted Lord Beaumaris. He liked
to be accurate. He had come reluctantly ; but he would come
anywhere or go anywhere at a word from Zalma.
"Ladies and gentlemen and my Lord" continued Dandy,
with absurd emphasis; " clear the room for the ballet."
" Ah, good! Ballet-women !" exclaimed Jack Graves.
" What gentleman nowadays would prefer a lady ?"
"The Duchess of Heuchatel!" shouted the man at the
door.
Then there was some language.
" Whose charming voice was that ?" drawled Lord Beau¬
maris, with sarcasm in every syllable; " was it her Grace or a
coal-heaver ?"
" A pet in modern music," replied Bernard Daw; " more
432
Zalma
distinguished by what she says off the stage, than by what she
sings upon it."
" The Duchess of Sant-villenton !" announced the footman.
" Ah ! What did I say ?" exclaimed Dandy. " There will
be dancing now. No one can dance like Kate ! All the town
knows that."
The two Duchesses greeted each other in their best familiar
green-room manner. Their entire absorption in the peerage
was of recent date, but, like all actresses of any agility, they
had descended from the stage to elevate the aristocracy, in
accordance with the fashion that is so ennobling to modern
society.
The time may come when the whole House of Lords will
have to dance. Who will not then reverence a peerage
descended from the favourites of the Music Hall stage—peers
who can trace their ancestry, on the male side, many of them,
right away back nearly as far as the beginning of the century,
and, on the female, to women who have boldly fought their way
to the front row by excellence in the intricate art of high
kicking, or who, daring much, have made themselves as obvious
as Lady Godiva herself, even before a whole crowd of Peeping
Toms, and whose unaffected amiability and breadth of moral
view enables them to confer upon their sons all the advantages
of a mixed ancestry ?
" Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay !"—that masterpiece of nineteenth
century genius—having been duly chanted, the band began one
of Lecoq's airs, and innumerable girls in masks streamed in
from two doors, one on either side of the orchestra.
" The Alhambra ?" remarked Beauregard inquiringly.
" Not the Empire," said Gerard Mountjoy, who, after his
efforts of piety, had kicked over the traces, " for I know 'em too
well. I could recognise 'em through any mask, and I don't see
any of the Gaiety ballet."
" You are here then, Gerard ? I thought I knew your
shoulders."
" Yes. Does it shock you ?"
" Nothing shocks me now."
Zalma
433
" As the husband of the lady, you may imagine how
honoured I felt at being invited to her ball," said Gerard
bitterly. " I had not the strength to refuse, even although
there was a pencil-note 011 my invitation that Ninette Joubert
would be here."
Beau whistled softly.
" I shall dance with Ninette all night," said Gerard
desperately. " That will be my revenge."
"They're French," said Bernard Daw. "Ah, the ballet of
the Opera ! This is like Zalma's large-hearted devilment. She
has brought them from Paris. By the bye, you have heard
the news ?"
" From Paris ? Yes."
" That the Due d'Amiens has been expressly—"
"My dear Bernard, everybody knows it," said Gerard.
" Let us forget politics. Vive la G-aiett."
The French ballet were dressed as Bacchanals, wood
nymphs, shepherdesses, and naiads, and, during the first few
minutes, executed the figures of a short ballet cram full of go.
In spite of their costumes they were all masked. The ballerina
pirouetted in a solo to the plaudits of the men, who, like
crowding satyrs indeed, surrounded fihe ballet-girls as they
opened the ball; the men, in an animated circle, watching this
cluster of women, as though they formed the supreme and
superb prime bunch of the vine—a forbidden fruit soon to be
tossed to them, to bruise and mangle at pleasure.
No one can dance like a Frenchwoman, and no one knew
this better than Zalma. The ball began with a racy galop,
the band being accompanied by a French horn. This started
the revel with an abandon and verve that made the blood course
through the veins. Piipples of laughter bubbled up from the
merry groups of men and women, and Mirth and Frivolity made
holiday. Every now and again, louder than the thunderstorm,
came the echoes of the mob, the sound of their thousand pass¬
ing feet, the angry murmur of their voices, and the gathering
increase of their cry. But the revellers took no notice, now
that the ballet had begun.
28
434
Zalma
The entrance of the women was a signal for more wine;
lavish prodigality was the order of the day. Magnums of cham¬
pagne were opened constantly, and the foaming glasses were
filled and emptied with rapid zest. The sound of popping
corks and the chink of good fellowship, the gay ripple of
simulated laughter and the warble of frivolity, the echoes of
frolic and revel, mingled and made up a continuous hum of
delirious and festive joy.
As dance followed dance the revellers settled down to the
regular measure of frolic. The dreamy influence of the waltz
exercised its invariable glamour, and a mockery of love awoke
in the hearts of men. The naiads and nymphs ceased to be
actresses. This dream of mirth was surely more than a dream.
They were women with beating pulse, and not naiads of a
distant stage; they were nymphs, in fact, or seemed real in
these vine-clad bowers. Their lips were full and luscious as
ripe fruit, their eyes sparkled with the sparkling wine. Their
bosoms eclipsed each other in fulness, their soft rotundities
seemed to invite rest and languor. Heavy scents rose from their
fragrant bodies, like the perfume that comes from flowers at noon.
The majority abandoned themselves unblushingly to the spirit
of the hour. Delirious words of endearment and the cooing
note of caress, murmurs of desire and delirium, soft as the
smorzando in music, prevailed. Languors lulled the heavy
eyelids of lovers, and laid new allurements on their lips.
Little French diminutives could be heard in dreamy murmurs.
The great black eyes of Italian women flashed by, as one
waltzed, like stars of the midsummer night.
Giddy with the continuity of the dance, and excited
by the provocations of his partner, who added to the charm
of invitation the pretence of denial, Gerard danced untir¬
ingly.
His head swam, alcoholic fumes mingled with the odours
of stephanotis, his nostrils questioned the scents as women
gyrated about him. How it was rose, violet, musk, opoponax:
the fragrancies mingled and made a voluptuous incense to his
senses. Everything was confused in the giddiness. The loveli-
Zalma
435
ness of shoulder and of limb, round arm and rounder bosom,
revolved close to him and glided by. There was a flash of two
dark eyes, that turned and looked for one dreamy moment into
his. Now there came a sweetness like new-mown hay, now a
fair-haired girl opened upon him a momentary glimpse of her
blue eyes, now a murmur in an Italian voice—a murmur soft and
low; but he knew not whether the love-speech was to him. He
was for the moment dazzled by a neck covered with diamonds,
that flashed close to his eyes, revolved, and vanished. Now the
crowd was so dense that the gentle motion of the waltz was
temporarily impeded, and he was packed in a mass of pulsing,
palpitating flesh and lace, so light that it fluttered as he
breathed. He looked into his partner's face and noticed the
languor in the tired eyes. He sat down with her on a sofa,
cool with its hangings of green leaves, and sweet with the
subtlest perfumes; or was it the clusters of the yellow grape
that hung above them, exhaling their fragrance ?
Soon the little alcoves and bowers, the conservatories and
retiring-rooms were full of lovers, who fed each other with
sweetmeats, or helped themselves to the bunches of white and
purple fruit that hung everywhere level with their lips, whilst
the eddies and buzz of soft whispers made a hum amidst the
greenery like the sound of summer flies.
The dark eyes of the French and Italian dancers and the
echo of their tongues reminded one of some continental carnival.
The satyrs began to lose the look of men and to become real
satyrs. Libidinous gleams of wolfish lust and ardours of the
eye spoke their desire more glibly than their tongues ; and
still the wine flowed, and still the music and the dance kept
up the joy.
The windows were open, and the hooting and howling of
the mob outside again broke upon their ears. When the music
lulled, one could hear the tramp of the procession as the crowd
marched by. There were rumbles of thunder also.
Zalma, dressed as a nymph in the simplest and chastest of
Greek costumes, danced with everybody. In her bosom she
wore the historical dagger which had been plunged into the
436
Zalma
breast of Paul ill. of Eussia. She looked fondly at its jewelled
hilt, and surveyed the room and all her guests. Prince John
of Umbria had not yet arrived.
She looked about her anxiously, but never was she more
gracious, never more piquante. To all her old friends she was
full of promise: to Beau, flattering; to Dandy, sweet; arch to
Lord Beaumaris; and to Gwynne Griffiths, coy. She cap¬
tivated them all: more than ever alluring; more coquettish,
seductive, provoking than ever.
" Gerard, waltz with me." It was Zalma's voice. In all
his intoxication glimpses of her had been in his eyes. He
turned to her. His face was red with wine, his eyes were
fiery with alcoholic gleams, his voice husky, for he had been
drinking deep. The giddiness of the last dance had gone;
the innumerable pictures that had passed before his vision
like momentary dreams, mingling and vanishing as with
kaleidoscopic variety, disappeared, and she stood before him,
glamourous.
" I am with Ninette Joubert," he answered. Ninette,
dressed as a shepherdess, touched him with her crook. She
put her thin hand upon his shoulder; her eyes, like two little
slits, opened for a moment. She whispered to him, and, as the
band began the measure, he skipped off with his partner,
leaving Zalma for the moment alone.
Dandy put out his arm to her. She took it, and waltzed
madly, almost furiously. Before it was finished she led him
out of the room. The night was very close. Zalma bathed
her temples from a fountain of Eccu dc Cologne.
"Dandy, I have danced my last dance. I meant it for
Gerard—it has fallen to you.
" What do you mean, love of mine ?" asked Dandy dreamily,
as he retired with her under the vines.
A window was open. The sky was dark, but lurid lights
twinkled along the horizontal masses of angry cloud. Suddenly
a flash of lightning leapt in the vivid heavens. The storm
broke. A peal of thunder burst like the roar of a thousand
cannon; its echoes and reverberations rumbled still, and
Zalma
437
gathered murmurously to yet greater volume and increasing
roar, until it ceased with a crash like loud artillery. The
rain streamed down in torrents, and afar the murmurs of the
mob seemed to echo the Voices of the Wrath of God.
Zalma shuddered: her face gleamed pale in the lightning.
She opened the one room into which she admitted no one
but herself. It was lit with hundreds of wax candles in sconces
innumerable. They shed a soft effulgent light, mirrored and
mirrored and mirrored again, till the repeated reflections were
mere points aglow. Upon a table by the door was a Venetian
phial and a twisted glass; in a jewelled and golden casket at
hand, some curious blue powder. She mixed these, and placed
the glass in Dandy's hand.
She loosened the folds of her robe.
In the centre of the room, upon a great white rug of fur,
lay thousands upon thousands of roses, and the petals of roses;
she threw herself down upon them, burying herself in the
blooms, bathing her face, as it were, in a million-multitude of
pink and white feathers, sinking into their softness and their
scent, and, throwing the light leaves about her, she watched
them fall like flakes of snow.
" What whim is this, you woman of whims ?" exclaimed
Dandy, as he rose from the chair of leopard skin on which he
had seated himself.
" Give me to drink," she said, raising herself from the
couch of roses on one elbow, and holding out her disengaged
arm.
" What is it ?" asked Dandy curiously, as he handed her
the glass.
" A potion," she replied dreamily, as she drained it to the
dregs. " To love, and love's soft hours !"
Immediately her eyes dilated; her breast heaved. Dandy
put his arms round her neck and kissed her lips, as they sank
together, nymph and satyr, upon the bank of rose leaves.
When St. Leger came, he found Zalma alone—asleep. He
knelt beside her and took her hand. She woke dreamily,
43§
Zalma
roused herself, and, gazing upon him with a long stare of
intense rapture, sank back amongst the roses.
Her eyes did not close, but her hand grew cold in St. Leger's
as he bent over her. He stooped yet nearer to her lips. She
had ceased to breathe.
He put his hand apprehensively upon her heart. Her eyes
were staring at him still, but she was dead.
The glamour of her gaze in the fixity of death was terrible.
With a wrench, St. Leger drew himself away and stood erect,
stern and resolute, muttering, with pallid lips, " Death is the
great Nihilist."
" They say that; but Eternity shall prove," his own voice
echoed.
He paused. Outside, the clamour of the mob recalled him
to duty.
" Is this the End of Anarchy ?" he asked wearily; "—or
is it the Beginning ?"
MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
REVERIES OF WORLD-HISTORY,
From Earth's Nebulous Origin to its Final Ruin;
OR,
THE ROMANCE OF A STAR.
By T. MULLETT ELLIS.
At all Booksellers. Crown 8uo, Ornamental Boards, Is.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
" A retrospect and forecast of the physical history of this planet."—Times.
" The reveries of Mr. Mullett Ellis are exceedingly pretty, and are clothed in
decidedly poetic language. He treats of the various prehistoric ages of the
world, of the age of chaos, the great forest periods, the great reptilian age, the
age of ice, and so on to the present age, and finally of the future. The little
hook might be called a volume of philosopher's dreams. It is well written."—
Publishers' Circular.
"The sub-title of this little volume is 'The Romance of a Star,' and the
author's views concerning the nebulous origin of the earth and its final ruin are
conveyed in half mystic, half poetic language."—Bookseller.
" One might read the book safely."—Literary World.
"The painstaking and learned author does not advance anything without
conscientiously striving to give satisfactory fact or clear reasoning, deduction
or induction. We praise him in particular because he does not resort to learned
and mystifying language, and what he has given to the public they most of them
will read with full interest, and, we think, with much respect. It is a consecu¬
tive narrative, ample in detail, and were it not such an awful theme, we might
even call it amusing. This is indeed the romance of a star. It will at once, we
have 110 doubt, call forth many a denial, many a challenge ; but, on the other
hand, we see so much in it which is true, that we expect the author will not
have the history of the past refuted, or his theories, built upon such a sound
basis, dismissed as utterly chimerical. It is a book for thinkers, and will not
lessen one iota true devotion, or depress the hearts of those who believe that the
heavens and earth shall pass away, but the soul of man shall live for ever."—
Court Journal.
" It is a sort of prose rhapsody, setting forth the physical history of the uni¬
verse in terms of poetry and striking description. The reveries are in their own
way impressive as an imaginative statement of the evolution of the world from
chaos."—The Scotsman.
"A series of pictures drawn with some degree of poetic fervour and dramatic
power. The book forms pleasant enough reading."—Glasgow Herald.
"It is difficult to estimate the place of this book in scientific literature."—
Nature.
" The work is one which strongly appeals to the disciples of Christian Socialism.
. . . There is much to interest in it. . . . The descriptions are carefully drawn
word-pictures."— Western Daily Press.
[Continued on next page.
REYERIES OF WORLD-HISTORY—Opinions of the Press—continued,
"These speculations embrace a glacial period to be succeeded by convulsions
from the inner fires of the globe, so that ultimately our earth shall become a
barren and abandoned planet."—Western Daily News.
"The heights attained by the writer in imagination and in language are great,
His description is in places profound."—Liverpool Courier.
"A well-written and carefully arranged little volume."—Hull Daily News.
"Mr. Ellis writes the 'Romance of a Star,' and fairly enchants his readers."—
Maidstone Journal.
"This is an ambitious production. The deductions drawn are borne out by
geological and other observations."—Lincolnshire Chronicle.
" Mr. Ellis traces back the history of the earth down to the Doom."—Spectator.
"These reveries extend from earth's nebulous origin to its final ruin."—
Journal of Microscopy.
"This is a remarkable little book, which should be in the hands of everyone
whose aspirations go beyond the mere earning of daily bread. What all thinkers
principally wish to know is, What are the origin, purpose, and destiny of man
and of the earth on which he lives? And the first condition to the effectiveness
of their thinking is a sound and comprehensive basis. This book, cheap enough
to be within the reach of all, provides the necessary starting-point; for in so
far as it is a review of the past, it is simply an intelligent and understandable
outline of historical and scientific fact. The description of the present is a
picture in which a reasonable medium is struck, and the prognostications as
to the future should be read even by those who doubt whether they are well
grounded.''—Bradford Observer.
"A book of considerable merit. It is nothing less than a history of the world
from a scientific point of view. The charm of the book is that the author allows
the reader to live through those marvellous periods."—Southern Advertiser.
"This book might not unfitly be entitled a 'Panorama of the World's History
from the Creation to the Crack of Doom, by a Prose Poet.' It contains passages
not unworthy of John Ruskin or Mark Twain, when, disdaining the craft of the
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this merit: that its price places it within the reach of all who are interested
either in ' the fairy tales of science' or the slow results of time.
"If the writer of the book refrains from speaking in the language of the
orthodox, he also refrains from dogmatism on any subject. An evolutionist of
the most pronounced type, he rises in harmonious sequence from the formless
nebulae, floating long aeons ago in empty space, to man standing at the altar of
creation as its lord and priest.
"Blending the poet's insight with the lore of the scientist, the writer tells of
that early time when, . . . under the guidance of our prose poet, we rise through
successive periods of history until we reach the Golden Age, when Greece was in
its prime. . . . We might continue our quotations from this remarkable little
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pictures not only the past, but presents to the reader also a sketch of that far-
distant future:—
" ' When the old hulk we tread shall be a wreck,
A slag, a cinder, drifting through the sky,
Without its crew of men.'" —Great Thoughts.
"A remarkable little volume."—Neivcastle Chronicle.
" A fascinating theme of study."—Sheffield Weekly Telegraph.
"A semi-scientific romance."— Pall Mall Gazette.
"A guide to the story of the earth's origin, history, and future."—Daily
Chronicle.
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO., Paternoster Square, E.G.
Dale Issued
YALE