<h4><SPAN name="CHAPTER40" id="CHAPTER40">CHAPTER XIV.<br/>
THERE IS CONFUSION WORSE THAN DEATH.</SPAN></h4>
<p></p>
<p>The brother and sister exchanged very few words during the drive between
Stony Stringford and Marchmont Towers. It was arranged between them that Mrs.
Weston should drive by a back–way leading to a lane that skirted the edge
of the river, and that Paul should get out at a gate opening into the wood, and
by that means make his way, unobserved, to the house which had so lately been
to all intents and purposes his own.</p>
<p>He dared not attempt to enter the Towers by any other way; for the indignant
populace might still be lurking about the front of the house, eager to inflict
summary vengeance upon the persecutor of a helpless girl.</p>
<p>It was between nine and ten o'clock when Mr. Marchmont got out at the little
gate. All here was very still; and Paul heard the croaking of the frogs upon
the margin of a little pool in the wood, and the sound of horses' hoofs a mile
away upon the loose gravel by the water–side.</p>
<p>"Good night, Lavinia," he said. "Send for the things as soon as you go back;
and be sure you send a safe person for them."</p>
<p>"O yes, dear; but hadn't you better take any thing of value yourself?" Mrs.
Weston asked anxiously. "You say you have no money. Perhaps it would be best
for you to send me the jewellery, though, and I can send you what money you
want by my messenger."</p>
<p>"I shan't want any money––at least I have enough for what I
want. What have you done with your savings?"</p>
<p>"They are in a London bank. But I have plenty of ready money in the house.
You must want money, Paul?"</p>
<p>"I tell you, no; I have as much as I want."</p>
<p>"But tell me your plans, Paul; I must know your plans before I leave
Lincolnshire myself. Are <em>you</em> going away?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Immediately?"</p>
<p>"Immediately."</p>
<p>"Shall you go to London?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps. I don't know yet."</p>
<p>"But when shall we see you again, Paul? or how shall we hear of you?"</p>
<p>"I'll write to you."</p>
<p>"Where?"</p>
<p>"At the Post–office in Rathbone Place. Don't bother me with a lot of
questions to–night Lavinia; I'm not in the humour to answer them."</p>
<p>Paul Marchmont turned away from his sister impatiently, and opened the gate;
but before she had driven off, he went back to her.</p>
<p>"Shake hands, Lavinia," he said; "shake hands, my dear; it may be a long
time before you and I meet again."</p>
<p>He bent down and kissed his sister.</p>
<p>"Drive home as fast as you can, and send the messenger directly. He had
better come to the door of the lobby, near Olivia's room. Where is Olivia,
by–the–bye? Is she still with the stepdaughter she loves so
dearly?"</p>
<p>"No; she went to Swampington early in the afternoon. A fly was ordered from
the Black Bull, and she went away in it."</p>
<p>"So much the better," answered Mr. Marchmont. "Good night, Lavinia. Don't
let my mother think ill of me. I tried to do the best I could to make her
happy. Good–bye."</p>
<p>"Good–bye, dear Paul; God bless you!"</p>
<p>The blessing was invoked with as much sincerity as if Lavinia Weston had
been a good woman, and her brother a good man. Perhaps neither of those two was
able to realise the extent of the crime which they had assisted each other to
commit.</p>
<p>Mrs. Weston drove away; and Paul went up to the back of the Towers, and
under an archway leading into the quadrangle. All about the house was as quiet
as if the Sleeping Beauty and her court had been its only occupants.</p>
<p>The inhabitants of Kemberling and the neighbourhood were an orderly people,
who burnt few candles between May and September; and however much they might
have desired to avenge Mary Arundel's wrongs by tearing Paul Marchmont to
pieces, their patience had been exhausted by nightfall, and they had been glad
to return to their respective abodes, to discuss Paul's iniquities comfortably
over the nine–o'clock beer.</p>
<p>Paul stood still in the quadrangle for a few moments, and listened. He could
hear no human breath or whisper; he only heard the sound of the
corn–crake in the fields to the right of the Towers, and the distant
rumbling of wagon–wheels on the high–road. There was a glimmer of
light in one of the windows belonging to the servants'
offices,––only one dim glimmer, where there had usually been a row
of brilliantly–lighted casements. Lavinia was right, then; almost all the
servants had left the Towers. Paul tried to open the half–glass door
leading into the lobby; but it was locked. He rang a bell; and after about
three minutes' delay, a buxom country–girl appeared in the lobby carrying
a candle. She was some kitchenmaid or dairymaid or scullerymaid, whom Paul
could not remember to have ever seen until now. She opened the door, and
admitted him, dropping a curtsey as he passed her. There was some relief even
in this. Mr. Marchmont had scarcely expected to get into the house at all;
still less to be received with common civility by any of the servants, who had
so lately obeyed him and fawned upon him.</p>
<p>"Where are all the rest of the servants?" he asked.</p>
<p>"They're all gone, sir; except him as you brought down from
London,––Mr. Peterson,––and me and mother. Mother's in
the laundry, sir; and I'm scullerymaid."</p>
<p>"Why did the other servants leave the place?"</p>
<p>"Mostly because they was afraid of the mob upon the terrace, I think, sir;
for there's been people all the afternoon throwin' stones, and breakin' the
windows; and I don't think as there's a whole pane of glass in the front of the
house, sir; and Mr. Gormby, sir, he come about four o'clock, and he got the
people to go away, sir, by tellin' 'em as it wern't your property, sir, but the
young lady's, Miss Mary Marchmont,––leastways, Mrs.
Airendale,––as they was destroyin' of; but most of the servants had
gone before that, sir, except Mr. Peterson; and Mr. Gormby gave orders as me
and mother was to lock all the doors, and let no one in upon no account
whatever; and he's coming to–morrow mornin' to take possession, he says;
and please, sir, you can't come in; for his special orders to me and mother
was, no one, and you in particklar."</p>
<p>"Nonsense, girl!" exclaimed Mr. Marchmont, decisively; "who is Mr. Gormby,
that he should give orders as to who comes in or stops out? I'm only coming in
for half an hour, to pack my portmanteau. Where's Peterson?"</p>
<p>"In the dinin'–room, sir; but please, sir, you
mustn't––––"</p>
<p>The girl made a feeble effort to intercept Mr. Marchmont, in accordance with
the steward's special orders; which were, that Paul should, upon no pretence
whatever, be suffered to enter the house. But the artist snatched the
candlestick from her hand, and went towards the dining–room, leaving her
to stare after him in amazement.</p>
<p>Paul found his valet Peterson, taking what he called a snack, in the
dining–room. A cloth was spread upon the corner of the table; and there
was a fore–quarter of cold roast–lamb, a bottle of French brandy,
and a decanter half–full of Madeira before the valet.</p>
<p>He started as his master entered the room, and looked up, not very
respectfully, but with no unfriendly glance.</p>
<p>"Give me half a tumbler of that brandy, Peterson," said Mr. Marchmont.</p>
<p>The man obeyed; and Paul drained the fiery spirit as if it had been so much
water. It was four–and–twenty hours since meat or drink had crossed
his dry white lips.</p>
<p>"Why didn't you go away with the rest?" he asked, as he set down the empty
glass.</p>
<p>"It's only rats, sir, that run away from a falling house. I stopped,
thinkin' you'd be goin' away somewhere, and that you'd want me."</p>
<p>The solid and unvarnished truth of the matter was, that Peterson had taken
it for granted that his master had made an excellent purse against this evil
day, and would be ready to start for the Continent or America, there to lead a
pleasant life upon the proceeds of his iniquity. The valet never imagined his
master guilty of such besotted folly as to be <em>un</em>prepared for this
catastrophe.</p>
<p>"I thought you might still want me, sir," he said; "and wherever you're
going, I'm quite ready to go too. You've been a good master to me, sir; and I
don't want to leave a good master because things go against him."</p>
<p>Paul Marchmont shook his head, and held out the empty tumbler for his
servant to pour more brandy into it.</p>
<p>"I am going away," he said; "but I want no servant where I'm going; but I'm
grateful to you for your offer, Peterson. Will you come upstairs with me? I
want to pack a few things."</p>
<p>"They're all packed, sir. I knew you'd be leaving, and I've packed
everything."</p>
<p>"My dressing–case?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir. You've got the key of that."</p>
<p>"Yes; I know, I know."</p>
<p>Paul Marchmont was silent for a few minutes, thinking. Everything that he
had in the way of personal property of any value was in the dressing–case
of which he had spoken. There was five or six hundred pounds' worth of
jewellery in Mr. Marchmont's dressing–case; for the first instinct of the
<em>nouveau riche</em> exhibits itself in diamond shirt–studs, cameo
rings, malachite death's–heads with emerald eyes; grotesque and pleasing
charms in the form of coffins, coal–scuttles, and hobnailed boots;
fantastical lockets of ruby and enamel; wonderful bands of massive yellow gold,
studded with diamonds, wherein to insert the two ends of flimsy lace cravats.
Mr. Marchmont reflected upon the amount of his possessions, and their security
in the jewel–drawer of his dressing–case. The dressing–case
was furnished with a Chubb's lock, the key of which he carried in his
waistcoat–pocket. Yes, it was all safe.</p>
<p>"Look here, Peterson," said Paul Marchmont; "I think I shall sleep at Mrs.
Weston's to–night. I should like you to take my dressing–case down
there at once."</p>
<p>"And how about the other luggage, sir,––the portmanteaus and
hat–boxes?"</p>
<p>"Never mind those. I want you to put the dressing–case safe in my
sister's hands. I can send here for the rest to–morrow morning. You
needn't wait for me now. I'll follow you in half an hour."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir. You want the dressing–case carried to Mrs. Weston's house,
and I'm to wait for you there?"</p>
<p>"Yes; you can wait for me."</p>
<p>"But is there nothing else I can do, sir?"</p>
<p>"Nothing whatever. I've only got to collect a few papers, and then I shall
follow you."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
<p>The discreet Peterson bowed, and retired to fetch the dressing–case.
He put his own construction upon Mr. Marchmont's evident desire to get rid of
him, and to be left alone at the Towers. Paul had, of course, made a purse, and
had doubtless put his money away in some very artful hiding–place, whence
he now wanted to take it at his leisure. He had stuffed one of his pillows with
bank–notes, perhaps; or had hidden a cash–box behind the tapestry
in his bedchamber; or had buried a bag of gold in the flower–garden below
the terrace. Mr. Peterson went upstairs to Paul's dressing–room, put his
hand through the strap of the dressing–case, which was very heavy, went
downstairs again, met his master in the hall, and went out at the
lobby–door.</p>
<p>Paul locked the door upon his valet, and then went back into the lonely
house, where the ticking of the clocks in the tenantless rooms sounded
unnaturally loud in the stillness. All the windows had been broken; and though
the shutters were shut, the cold night–air blew in at many a crack and
cranny, and well–nigh extinguished Mr. Marchmont's candle as he went from
room to room looking about him.</p>
<p>He went into the western drawing–room, and lighted some of the lamps
in the principal chandelier. The shutters were shut, for the windows here, as
well as elsewhere, had been broken; fragments of shivered glass, great jagged
stones, and handfuls of gravel, lay about upon the rich
carpet,––the velvet–pile which he had chosen with such
artistic taste, such careful deliberation. He lit the lamps and walked about
the room, looking for the last time at his treasures. Yes, <em>his</em>
treasures. It was he who had transformed this chamber from a prim,
old–fashioned sitting–room––with quaint japanned
cabinets, shabby chintz–cushioned cane–chairs, cracked Indian
vases, and a faded carpet––into a saloon that would have been no
discredit to Buckingham Palace or Alton Towers.</p>
<p>It was he who had made the place what it was. He had squandered the savings
of Mary's minority upon pictures that the richest collector in England might
have been proud to own; upon porcelain that would have been worthy of a place
in the Vienna Museum or the Bernal Collection. He had done this, and these
things were to pass into the possession of the man he hated,––the
fiery young soldier who had horsewhipped him before the face of wondering
Lincolnshire. He walked about the room, thinking of his life since he had come
into possession of this place, and of what it had been before that time, and
what it must be again, unless he summoned up a desperate
courage––and killed himself.</p>
<p>His heart beat fast and loud, and he felt an icy chill creeping slowly
through his every vein as he thought of this. How was he to kill himself? He
had no poison in his possession,––no deadly drug that would reduce
the agony of death to the space of a lightning–flash. There were pistols,
rare gems of choicest workmanship, in one of the buhl–cabinets in that
very room; there were both fowling–piece and ammunition in Mr.
Marchmont's dressing–room: but the artist was not expert with the use of
firearms, and he might fail in the attempt to blow out his brains, and only
maim or disfigure himself hideously. There was the river,––the
black, sluggish river: but then, drowning is a slow death, and Heaven only
knows how long the agony may seem to the wretch who endures it! Alas! the
ghastly truth of the matter is that Mr. Marchmont was afraid of death. Look at
the King of Terrors how he would, he could not discover any pleasing aspect
under which he could meet the grim monarch without flinching.</p>
<p>He looked at life; but if life was less terrible than death, it was not less
dreary. He looked forward with a shudder to see––what? Humiliation,
disgrace, perhaps punishment,––life–long transportation, it
may be; for this base conspiracy might be a criminal offence, amenable to
criminal law. Or, escaping all this, what was there for him? What was there for
this man even then? For forty years he had been steeped to the lips in poverty,
and had endured his life. He looked back now, and wondered how it was that he
had been patient; he wondered why he had not made an end of himself and his
obscure troubles twenty years before this night. But after looking back a
little longer, he saw the star which had illumined the darkness of that
miserable and sordid existence, and he understood the reason of his endurance.
He had hoped. Day after day he had got up to go through the same troubles, to
endure the same humiliations: but every day, when his life had been hardest to
him, he had said, "To–morrow I may be master of Marchmont Towers." But he
could never hope this any more; he could not go back to watch and wait again,
beguiled by the faint hope that Mary Arundel's son might die, and to hear
by–and–by that other children were born to her to widen the great
gulf betwixt him and fortune.</p>
<p>He looked back, and he saw that he had lived from day to day, from year to
year, lured on by this one hope. He looked forward, and he saw that he could
not live without it.</p>
<p>There had never been but this one road to good fortune open to him. He was a
clever man, but his was not the cleverness which can transmute itself into
solid cash. He could only paint indifferent pictures; and he had existed long
enough by picture–painting to realise the utter hopelessness of success
in that career.</p>
<p>He had borne his life while he was in it, but he could not bear to go back
to it. He had been out of it, and had tasted another phase of existence; and he
could see it all now plainly, as if he had been a spectator sitting in the
boxes and watching a dreary play performed upon a stage before him. The
performers in the remotest provincial theatre believe in the play they are
acting. The omnipotence of passion creates dewy groves and moonlit atmospheres,
ducal robes and beautiful women. But the metropolitan spectator, in whose mind
the memory of better things is still fresh, sees that the moonlit trees are
poor distemper daubs, pushed on by dirty carpenters, and the moon a green
bottle borrowed from a druggist's shop, the ducal robes threadbare cotton
velvet and tarnished tinsel, and the heroine of the drama old and ugly.</p>
<p>So Paul looked at the life he had endured, and wondered as he saw how
horrible it was.</p>
<p>He could see the shabby lodging, the faded furniture, the miserable handful
of fire struggling with the smoke in a shallow grate, that had been
half–blocked up with bricks by some former tenant as badly off as
himself. He could look back at that dismal room, with the ugly paper on the
walls, the scanty curtains flapping in the wind which they pretended to shut
out; the figure of his mother sitting near the fireplace, with that pale,
anxious face, which was a perpetual complaint against hardship and discomfort.
He could see his sister standing at the window in the dusky twilight, patching
up some worn–out garment, and straining her eyes for the sake of
economising in the matter of half an inch of candle. And the street below the
window,––the shabby–genteel street, with a dingy shop
breaking out here and there, and children playing on the doorsteps, and a
muffin–bell jingling through the evening fog, and a melancholy Italian
grinding "Home, sweet Home!" in the patch of lighted road opposite the
pawnbroker's. He saw it all; and it was all alike––sordid,
miserable, hopeless.</p>
<p>Paul Marchmont had never sunk so low as his cousin John. He had never
descended so far in the social scale as to carry a banner at Drury Lane, or to
live in one room in Oakley Street, Lambeth. But there had been times when to
pay the rent of three rooms had been next kin to an impossibility to the
artist, and when the honorarium of a shilling a night would have been very
acceptable to him. He had drained the cup of poverty to the dregs; and now the
cup was filled again, and the bitter draught was pushed once more into his
unwilling hand.</p>
<p>He must drink that, or another potion,––a
sleeping–draught, which is commonly called Death. He must die! But how?
His coward heart sank as the awful alternative pressed closer upon him. He must
die!––to–night,––at once,––in that
house; so that when they came in the morning to eject him, they would have
little trouble; they would only have to carry out a corpse.</p>
<p>He walked up and down the room, biting his finger–nails to the quick,
but coming to no resolution, until he was interrupted by the ringing of the
bell at the lobby–door. It was the messenger from his sister, no doubt.
Paul drew his watch from his waistcoat–pocket, unfastened his chain, took
a set of gold–studs from the breast of his shirt, and a signet–ring
from his finger; then he sat down at a writing–table, and packed the
watch and chain, the studs and signet–ring, and a bunch of keys, in a
large envelope. He sealed this packet, and addressed it to his sister; then he
took a candle, and went to the lobby. Mrs. Weston had sent a young man who was
an assistant and pupil of her husband's––a good–tempered
young fellow, who willingly served her in her hour of trouble. Paul gave this
messenger the key of his dressing–case and packet.</p>
<p>"You will be sure and put that in my sister's hands," he said.</p>
<p>"O yes, sir. Mrs. Weston gave me this letter for you, sir. Am I to wait for
an answer?"</p>
<p>"No; there will be no answer. Good night."</p>
<p>"Good night, sir."</p>
<p>The young man went away; and Paul Marchmont heard him whistle a popular
melody as he walked along the cloistered way and out of the quadrangle by a low
archway commonly used by the tradespeople who came to the Towers.</p>
<p>The artist stood and listened to the young man's departing footsteps. Then,
with a horrible thrill of anguish, he remembered that he had seen his last of
humankind––he had heard his last of human voices: for he was to
kill himself that night. He stood in the dark lobby, looking out into the
quadrangle. He was quite alone in the house; for the girl who had let him in
was in the laundry with her mother. He could see the figures of the two women
moving about in a great gaslit chamber upon the other side of the
quadrangle––a building which had no communication with the rest of
the house. He was to die that night; and he had not yet even determined how he
was to die.</p>
<p>He mechanically opened Mrs. Weston's letter: it was only a few lines,
telling him that Peterson had arrived with the portmanteau and
dressing–case, and that there would be a comfortable room prepared for
him. "I am so glad you have changed your mind, and are coming to me, Paul,"
Mrs. Weston concluded. "Your manner, when we parted to–night, almost
alarmed me."</p>
<p>Paul groaned aloud as he crushed the letter in his hand. Then he went back
to the western drawing–room. He heard strange noises in the empty rooms
as he passed by their open doors, weird creaking sounds and melancholy moanings
in the wide chimneys. It seemed as if all the ghosts of Marchmont Towers were
astir to–night, moved by an awful prescience of some coming horror.</p>
<p>Paul Marchmont was an atheist; but atheism, although a very pleasant theme
for a critical and argumentative discussion after a lobster–supper and
unlimited champagne, is but a poor staff to lean upon when the worn–out
traveller approaches the mysterious portals of the unknown land.</p>
<p>The artist had boasted of his belief in annihilation; and had declared
himself perfectly satisfied with a materialistic or pantheistic arrangement of
the universe, and very indifferent as to whether he cropped up in future years
as a summer–cabbage, or a new Raphael; so long as the ten stone or so of
matter of which he was composed was made use of somehow or other, and did its
duty in the great scheme of a scientific universe. But, oh! how that empty,
soulless creed slipped away from him now, when he stood alone in this
tenantless house, shuddering at strange spirit–noises, and horrified by a
host of mystic fears––gigantic, shapeless terrors––that
crowded in his empty, godless mind, and filled it with their hideous
presence!</p>
<p>He had refused to believe in a personal God. He had laughed at the idea that
there was any Deity to whom the individual can appeal, in his hour of grief or
trouble, with the hope of any separate mercy, any special grace. He had
rejected the Christian's simple creed, and now––now that he had
floated away from the shores of life, and felt himself borne upon an
irresistible current to that mysterious other side, what did he <em>not</em>
believe in?</p>
<p>Every superstition that has ever disturbed the soul of ignorant man lent
some one awful feature to the crowd of hideous images uprising in this man's
mind:––awful Chaldean gods and Carthaginian goddesses, thirsting
for the hot blood of human sacrifices, greedy for hecatombs of children flung
shrieking into fiery furnaces, or torn limb from limb by savage beasts;
Babylonian abominations; Egyptian Isis and Osiris; classical divinities, with
flaming swords and pale impassible faces, rigid as the Destiny whose type they
were; ghastly Germanic demons and witches.––All the dread avengers
that man, in the knowledge of his own wickedness, has ever shadowed for himself
out of the darkness of his ignorant mind, swelled that ghastly crowd, until the
artist's brain reeled, and he was fain to sit with his head in his hands,
trying, by a great effort of the will, to exorcise these loathsome phantoms.</p>
<p>"I must be going mad," he muttered to himself. "I am going mad."</p>
<p>But still the great question was unanswered––How was he to kill
himself?</p>
<p>"I must settle that," he thought. "I dare not think of anything that may
come afterwards. Besides, what <em>should</em> come? I <em>know</em> that there
is nothing. Haven't I heard it demonstrated by cleverer men than I am? Haven't
I looked at it in every light, and weighed it in every
scale––always with the same result? Yes; I know that there is
nothing <em>after</em> the one short pang, any more than there is pain in the
nerve of a tooth when the tooth is gone. The nerve was the soul of the tooth, I
suppose; but wrench away the body, and the soul is dead. Why should I be
afraid? One short pain––it will seem long, I dare
say––and then I shall lie still for ever and ever, and melt slowly
back into the elements out of which I was created. Yes; I shall lie
still––and be <em>nothing</em>."</p>
<p>Paul Marchmont sat thinking of this for a long time. Was it such a great
advantage, after all, this annihilation, the sovereign good of the atheist's
barren creed? It seemed to–night to this man as if it would be better to
be anything––to suffer any anguish, any penalty for his sins, than
to be blotted out for ever and ever from any conscious part in the grand
harmony of the universe. If he could have believed in that Roman Catholic
doctrine of purgatory, and that after cycles of years of suffering he might
rise at last, purified from his sins, worthy to dwell among the angels, how
differently would death have appeared to him! He might have gone away to hide
himself in some foreign city, to perform patient daily sacrifices, humble acts
of self–abnegation, every one of which should be a new figure, however
small a one, to be set against the great sum of his sin.</p>
<p>But he could not believe. There is a vulgar proverb which says, "You cannot
have your loaf and eat it;" or if proverbs would only be grammatical, it might
be better worded, "You cannot eat your loaf, and have it to eat on some future
occasion." Neither can you indulge in rationalistic discussions or epigrammatic
pleasantry about the Great Creator who made you, and then turn and cry aloud to
Him in the dreadful hour of your despair: "O my God, whom I have insulted and
offended, help the miserable wretch who for twenty years has obstinately shut
his heart against Thee!" It may be that God would forgive and hear even at that
last supreme moment, as He heard the penitent thief upon the cross; but the
penitent thief had been a sinner, not an unbeliever, and he <em>could</em>
pray. The hard heart of the atheist freezes in his breast when he would repent
and put away his iniquities. When he would fain turn to his offended Maker, the
words that he tries to speak die away upon his lips; for the habit of blasphemy
is too strong upon him; he can <em>blague</em> upon all the mighty mysteries of
heaven and hell, but he <em>cannot</em> pray.</p>
<p>Paul Marchmont could not fashion a prayer. Horrible witticisms arose up
between him and the words he would have spoken––ghastly <em>bon
mots</em>, that had seemed so brilliant at a lamp–lit dinner–table,
spoken to a joyous accompaniment of champagne–corks and laughter. Ah, me!
the world was behind this man now, with all its pleasures; and he looked back
upon it, and thought that, even when it seemed gayest and brightest, it was
only like a great roaring fair, with flaring lights, and noisy showmen
clamoring for ever to a struggling crowd.</p>
<p>How should he die? Should he go upstairs and cut his throat?</p>
<p>He stood before one of his pictures––a pet picture; a girl's
face by Millais, looking through the moonlight, fantastically beautiful. He
stood before this picture, and he felt one small separate pang amid all his
misery as he remembered that Edward and Mary Arundel were now possessors of
this particular gem.</p>
<p>"They sha'n't have it," he muttered to himself; "they sha'n't have
<em>this</em>, at any rate."</p>
<p>He took a penknife from his pocket, and hacked and ripped the canvas
savagely, till it hung in ribbons from the deep gilded frame.</p>
<p>Then he smiled to himself, for the first time since he had entered that
house, and his eyes flashed with a sudden light.</p>
<p>"I have lived like Sardanapalus for the last year," he cried aloud; "and I
will die like Sardanapalus!"</p>
<p>There was a fragile piece of furniture near him,––an
<em>�tag�re</em> of marqueterie work, loaded with costly <em>bric � brac</em>,
Oriental porcelain, S�vres and Dresden, old Chelsea and crown Derby cups and
saucers, and quaint teapots, crawling vermin in Pallissy ware, Indian
monstrosities, and all manner of expensive absurdities, heaped together in
artistic confusion. Paul Marchmont struck the slim leg of the <em>�tag�re</em>
with his foot, and laughed aloud as the fragile toys fell into a ruined heap
upon the carpet. He stamped upon the broken china; and the frail cups and
saucers crackled like eggshells under his savage feet.</p>
<p>"I will die like Sardanapalus!" he cried; "the King Arbaces shall never rest
in the palace I have beautified.</p>
<p>'Now order here<br/>
Fagots, pine–nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such<br/>
Things as catch fire with one sole spark;<br/>
Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices,<br/>
And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile;<br/>
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too; for it is<br/>
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre.'</p>
<p>I don't think much of your blank verse, George Gordon Noel Byron. Your lines
end on lame syllables; your ten–syllable blank verse lacks the fiery ring
of your rhymes. I wonder whether Marchmont Towers is insured? Yes, I remember
paying a premium last Christmas. They may have a sharp tussle with the
insurance companies though. Yes, I will die like Sardanapalus––no,
not like him, for I have no Myrrha to mount the pile and cling about me to the
last. Pshaw! a modern Myrrha would leave Sardanapalus to perish alone, and be
off to make herself safe with the new king."</p>
<p>Paul snatched up the candle, and went out into the hall. He laughed
discordantly, and spoke in loud ringing tones. His manner had that feverish
excitement which the French call exaltation. He ran up the broad stairs leading
to the long corridor, out of which his own rooms, and his mother's and sister's
rooms, opened.</p>
<p>Ah, how pretty they were! How elegant he had made them in his reckless
disregard of expense, his artistic delight in the task of beautification! There
were no shutters here, and the summer breeze blew in through the broken
windows, and stirred the gauzy muslin curtains, the gay chintz draperies, the
cloudlike festoons of silk and lace. Paul Marchmont went from room to room with
the flaring candle in his hand; and wherever there were curtains or draperies
about the windows, the beds, the dressing–tables, the low
lounging–chairs, and cosy little sofas, he set alight to them. He did
this with wonderful rapidity, leaving flames behind him as he traversed the
long corridor, and coming back thus to the stairs. He went downstairs again,
and returned to the western drawing–room. Then he blew out his candle,
turned out the gas, and waited.</p>
<p>"How soon will it come?" he thought.</p>
<p>The shutters were shut, and the room was quite dark.</p>
<p>"Shall I ever have courage to stop till it comes?"</p>
<p>Paul Marchmont groped his way to the door, double–locked it, and then
took the key from the lock.</p>
<p>He went to one of the windows, clambered upon a chair, opened the top
shutter, and flung the key out through the broken window. He heard it strike
jingling upon the stone terrace and then bound away, Heaven knows where.</p>
<p>"I shan't be able to go out by the door, at any rate," he thought.</p>
<p>It was quite dark in the room, but the reflection of the spreading flames
was growing crimson in the sky outside. Mr. Marchmont went away from the
window, feeling his way amongst the chairs and tables. He could see the red
light through the crevices of the shutters, and a lurid patch of sky through
that one window, the upper half of which he had left open. He sat down,
somewhere near the centre of the room, and waited.</p>
<p>"The smoke will kill me," he thought. "I shall know nothing of the fire."</p>
<p>He sat quite still. He had trembled violently while he had gone from room to
room doing his horrible work; but his nerves seemed steadier now. Steadier!
why, he was transformed to stone! His heart seemed to have stopped beating; and
he only knew by a sick anguish, a dull aching pain, that it was still in his
breast.</p>
<p>He sat waiting and thinking. In that time all the long story of the past was
acted before him, and he saw what a wretch he had been. I do not know whether
this was penitence; but looking at that enacted story, Paul Marchmont thought
that his own part in the play was a mistake, and that it was a foolish thing to
be a villain.</p>
<p></p>
<p>* * * * *</p>
<p></p>
<p>When a great flock of frightened people, with a fire–engine out of
order, and drawn by whooping men and boys, came hurrying up to the Towers, they
found a blazing edifice, which looked like an enchanted
castle––great stone–framed windows vomiting flame; tall
chimneys toppling down upon a fiery roof; molten lead, like water turned to
fire, streaming in flaming cataracts upon the terrace; and all the sky lit up
by that vast pile of blazing ruin. Only salamanders, or poor Mr. Braidwood's
own chosen band, could have approached Marchmont Towers that night. The
Kemberling firemen and the Swampington firemen, who came by–and–by,
were neither salamanders nor Braidwoods. They stood aloof and squirted water at
the flames, and recoiled aghast by–and–by when the roof came down
like an avalanche of blazing timber, leaving only a gaunt gigantic skeleton of
red–hot stone where Marchmont Towers once had been.</p>
<p>When it was safe to venture in amongst the ruins––and this was
not for many hours after the fire had burnt itself out––people
looked for Paul Marchmont; but amidst all that vast chaos of smouldering ashes,
there was nothing found that could be identified as the remains of a human
being. No one knew where the artist had been at the time of the fire, or indeed
whether he had been in the house at all; and the popular opinion was, that Paul
had set fire to the mansion, and had fled away before the flames began to
spread.</p>
<p>But Lavinia Weston knew better than this. She knew now why her brother had
sent her every scrap of valuable property belonging to him. She understood now
why he had come back to her to bid her good–night for the second time,
and press his cold lips to hers.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
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