Master of His Fate | Page 2

view and
acquaintance, however, that superficial impression was contradicted by
the set expression of his mouth and the calm observation and
understanding of his eye, which spoke of ripe experience rather than of
green hope. He bore a very good English name--Courtney; and he was
believed to be rich. There was no member of whom the Hyacinth Club
was prouder than of him: though he had done nothing, it was
commonly believed he could do anything he chose. No other was
listened to with such attention, and there was nothing on which he
could not throw a fresh and fascinating light. He was a constant spring
of surprise and interest. While others were striving after income and
reputation, he calmly and modestly, without obtrusion or upbraiding,
held on his own way, with unsurpassable curiosity, to the discovery of
all which life might have to reveal. It was this, perhaps, as much as the
charm of his manner and conversation, that made him so universal a
favourite; for how could envy or malice touch a man who competed at
no point with his fellows?
His immediate neighbours, as he thus stood by the window, were a pair
of journalists, several scientific men, and an artist.
"Have you seen any of the picture-shows, Julius?" asked the painter,
Kew.

Courtney slowly abstracted his gaze from without, and turned on his
shoulder with the lazy, languid grace of a cat.
"No," said he, in a half-absent tone; "I have just come up, and I've not
thought of looking into picture-galleries yet."
"Been in the country?" asked Kew.
"Yes, I've been in the country," said Courtney, still as if his attention
was elsewhere.
"It must be looking lovely," said Kew.
"It is--exquisite!" said Courtney, waking up at length to a full glow of
interest. "That's why I don't want to go and stare at pictures. In the
spring, to see the fresh, virginal, delicious green of a bush against an
old dry brick wall, gives a keener pleasure than the best picture that
ever was painted."
"I thought," said Kew, "you had a taste for Art; I thought you enjoyed
it."
"So I do, my dear fellow, but not now,--not at this particular present.
When I feel the warm sun on my back and breathe the soft air, I want
no more; they are more than Art can give--they are Nature, and, of
course, it goes without saying that Art can never compete with Nature
in creating human pleasure. I mean no disparagement of your work,
Kew, or any artist's work; but I can't endure Art except in winter, when
everything (almost) must be artificial to be endurable. A winter may
come in one's life--I wonder if it will?--when one would rather look at
the picture of a woman than at the woman herself. Meantime I no more
need pictures than I need fires; I warm both hands and heart at the fire
of life."
"Ah!" said Kew, with a wistful lack of comprehension.
"That's why I believe," said Courtney, with a sudden turn of reflection,
"there is in warm countries no Art of our small domestic kind."

"Just so," said Kew; while Dingley Dell, the Art critic, made a note of
Courtney's words.
"Look here!" exclaimed Dr. Embro, an old scientific man of Scottish
extraction, who, in impatience with such transcendental talk, had taken
up 'The St. James's Gazette.' "What do you make of this queer case at
the Hôtel-Dieu in Paris? I see it's taken from 'The Daily Telegraph;'"
and he began to read it.
"Oh," said Kew, "we all read that this morning."
"Dr. Embro," said Courtney, again looking idly out of window, "is like
a French journal: full of the news of the day before yesterday."
"Have you read it yourself, Julius?" asked Embro, amid the laughter of
his neighbours.
"No," said Julius carelessly; "and if it's a hospital case I don't want to
read it."
"What!" said Embro, with heavy irony. "You say that? You, a pupil of
the great Dubois and the greater Charbon! But here comes a greater
than Charbon--the celebrated Dr. Lefevre himself. Come now, Lefevre,
you tell us what you think of this Paris hospital case."
"Presently, Embro," said Lefevre, who had just perceived his friend
Courtney. "Ha, Julius!" said he, crossing to him and taking his hand;
"you're looking uncommonly well."
"Yes," said Julius, "I am well."
"And where have you been all this while?" asked the doctor.
"Oh," said Julius, turning his gaze again out of window, "I have been
rambling everywhere, between Dan and Beersheba."
"And all is vanity, eh?" said the doctor.
"Well," said Julius, looking at him, "that depends--that very much

depends. But can there be any question of vanity or vexation in this
sweet, glorious sunshine?" and he stretched out his hands as