Lord Arthur Saviles Crime | Page 7

twitter in the gardens.
CHAPTER III

When Lord Arthur woke it was twelve o'clock, and the midday sun was
streaming through the ivory-silk curtains of his room. He got up and
looked out of the window. A dim haze of heat was hanging over the
great city, and the roofs of the houses were like dull silver. In the
flickering green of the square below some children were flitting about
like white butterflies, and the pavement was crowded with people on
their way to the Park. Never had life seemed lovelier to him, never had
the things of evil seemed more remote.
Then his valet brought him a cup of chocolate on a tray. After he had
drunk it, he drew aside a heavy portiere of peach-coloured plush, and
passed into the bathroom. The light stole softly from above, through
thin slabs of transparent onyx, and the water in the marble tank
glimmered like a moonstone. He plunged hastily in, till the cool ripples
touched throat and hair, and then dipped his head right under, as though
he would have wiped away the stain of some shameful memory. When
he stepped out he felt almost at peace. The exquisite physical
conditions of the moment had dominated him, as indeed often happens
in the case of very finely-wrought natures, for the senses, like fire, can
purify as well as destroy.
After breakfast, he flung himself down on a divan, and lit a cigarette.
On the mantel-shelf, framed in dainty old brocade, stood a large
photograph of Sybil Merton, as he had seen her first at Lady Noel's ball.
The small, exquisitely-shaped head drooped slightly to one side, as
though the thin, reed-like throat could hardly bear the burden of so

much beauty; the lips were slightly parted, and seemed made for sweet
music; and all the tender purity of girlhood looked out in wonder from
the dreaming eyes. With her soft, clinging dress of crepe-de-chine, and
her large leaf-shaped fan, she looked like one of those delicate little
figures men find in the olive-woods near Tanagra; and there was a
touch of Greek grace in her pose and attitude. Yet she was not petite.
She was simply perfectly proportioned--a rare thing in an age when so
many women are either over life-size or insignificant.
Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terrible pity
that is born of love. He felt that to marry her, with the doom of murder
hanging over his head, would be a betrayal like that of Judas, a sin
worse than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of. What happiness could
there be for them, when at any moment he might be called upon to
carry out the awful prophecy written in his hand? What manner of life
would be theirs while Fate still held this fearful fortune in the scales?
The marriage must be postponed, at all costs. Of this he was quite
resolved. Ardently though he loved the girl, and the mere touch of her
fingers, when they sat together, made each nerve of his body thrill with
exquisite joy, he recognised none the less clearly where his duty lay,
and was fully conscious of the fact that he had no right to marry until
he had committed the murder. This done, he could stand before the
altar with Sybil Merton, and give his life into her hands without terror
of wrongdoing. This done, he could take her to his arms, knowing that
she would never have to blush for him, never have to hang her head in
shame. But done it must be first; and the sooner the better for both.
Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of
dalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was too
conscientious to set pleasure above principle. There was more than
mere passion in his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all that is
good and noble. For a moment he had a natural repugnance against
what he was asked to do, but it soon passed away. His heart told him
that it was not a sin, but a sacrifice; his reason reminded him that there
was no other course open. He had to choose between living for himself
and living for others, and terrible though the task laid upon him
undoubtedly was, yet he knew that he must not suffer selfishness to

triumph over love. Sooner or later we are all called upon to decide on
the same issue--of us all, the same question is asked. To Lord Arthur it
came early in life--before his nature had been spoiled by the calculating
cynicism of middle-age, or his heart corroded by the shallow,
fashionable egotism of our day, and he felt no hesitation