The young artist was celebrated in his own circle—that is to say, among a certain coterie of would-be artistic souls, whose talents ran more into words than into action. They admired each other aloud, and themselves with a silent adoration wonderful to behold. Most of them possessed sufficient means to live an idle, self-indulgent life in a small way. Such pleasures as they could not afford were conveniently voted unprofitable and earthly. They hung upon the outskirts of the best society, and were past-masters in the art of confusing the terms “having met” and “knowing” as applied to living celebrities. Among them were artists who had never exhibited a picture, authors who had never sold a book, and singers who had never faced an audience. The vulgar crowd failed to appreciate them, and those who painted and sold, wrote and published, sang and made money, tolerantly laughed at them. Hicks was clever enough to know that his mind was in reality of a slightly superior order, and weak enough to value its superiority much more highly than it deserved. He was undoubtedly a clever fellow in his way, but a moderate income and a doting mother had combined to kill in him that modicum of ambition which is required to make men push forward continuously in the race of life. Had he been compelled to work for his daily bread, he might have been saved from the clutches of London society; but as a rising young artist, with pleasant manners and some social accomplishments, he was received with open arms, and succumbed to the enervating round of so-called pleasure. He continued to be “rising,” but never rose.
Hicks did not confess deliberately to himself that he was in love with Brenda Gilholme, but he made no pretence of ignoring the fact that she occupied in his thoughts a place quite apart. He respected her, and in that lay the great difference. The unkempt and strangely-attired damsels who were pleased to throw themselves mentally at his feet were not such as command respect. In his heart he despised them a little; for contempt is invariably incurred by affectation of any description.
And so each went on his way—the idle soldier, the vain artist, and the absorbed journalist, each framing his life for good or evil—pressing upward, or shuffling down, according to his bent; each, no doubt, peering ahead, as sailors peer through rime and mist, striving to penetrate the blessed veil drawn across the future. Ah! Let us, my brothers, thank God that, despite necromancer, astrologer, thought-reader, or chiromancer, we know absolutely nothing of what is waiting for us in the years to come. Could we raise that veil, life would be hell. Could we see the end of all our aims, our ambitions, our hopes, and our “long, long thoughts,” there would be few of us courageous enough to go on with this strange experiment called human existence. Could we see the end, no faith, no dogma, no fanaticism even, would have power to prevent us questioning the existence of the Almighty, because we could never reconcile the beginning to that end. The question would rise before us continuously: “If such was to be the end, why was the beginning made?” And turn this question as you will, explain it as you may, it is ever a question. The only safeguard is suppression. The question is not asked because life is so slow that the beginning is almost forgotten in the climax; and while we live through the earlier chapters, the last volume is inexorably closed.
XIV
A Social Conspiracy
About ten o’clock on the evening of the third day after the meeting with Captain Huston, William Hicks entered a large and crowded ballroom with his usual pleasant condescension.
The dance was of a semi-parliamentary character, and although the society papers were pleased to announce that all the “best” people were out of town, there was a crowd of well-dressed men and women round the door when Hicks made his appearance. There were many greetings to be exchanged, a few diplomatic dances to be asked for, and then the artist leisurely stroked his golden moustache as he looked critically round the room.
His smiling face contracted into gravity for a moment, and it was only after a pause that he continued his investigations.
“Trist!” he murmured to himself. “Trist here? What is the meaning of that? Is it war, I wonder? Or is Brenda coming? I will find out.”
Presently he moved away, and after some time joined a group of grave-faced elderly men, among whom Theo Trist was standing. There were politicians among these gentlemen, and several faces were of a distinctly foreign type, while more than one language could be heard. Hicks looked a trifle out of his element amidst such surroundings, and the foreign languages troubled him. No one looked towards him invitingly—not even Trist, who was talking with a broad-shouldered little man with a large head, and a peculiar listless manner which stamped him as an Oriental. Hicks did not even know
