The Mark of Cain

The Mark Of Cain, by Andrew
Lang

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mark Of Cain, by Andrew Lang
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Mark Of Cain
Author: Andrew Lang
Release Date: June 12, 2007 [EBook #21821]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
MARK OF CAIN ***

Produced by David Widger

THE MARK OF CAIN
By Andrew Lang
1886

THE MARK OF CAIN.
CHAPTER I.
--A Tale of Two Clubs.
"Such arts the gods who dwell on high Have given to the Greek."--Lays
of Ancient Rome.
In the Strangers' Room of the Olympic Club the air was thick with
tobacco-smoke, and, despite the bitter cold outside, the temperature
was uncomfortably high. Dinner was over, and the guests, broken up
into little groups, were chattering noisily. No one had yet given any
sign of departing: no one had offered a welcome apology for the need
of catching an evening train.
Perhaps the civilized custom which permits women to dine in the
presence of the greedier sex is the proudest conquest of Culture. Were
it not for the excuse of "joining the ladies," dinner-parties (Like the
congregations in Heaven, as described in the hymn) would "ne'er break
up," and suppers (like Sabbaths, on the same authority) would never
end.
"Hang it all, will the fellows never go?"
So thought Maitland, of St. Gatien's, the founder of the feast. The
inhospitable reflections which we have recorded had all been passing
through his brain as he rather moodily watched the twenty guests he
had been feeding--one can hardly say entertaining. It was a "duty
dinner" he had been giving--almost everything Maitland did was done
from a sense of duty--yet he scarcely appeared to be reaping the reward
of an approving conscience. His acquaintances, laughing and
gossipping round the half-empty wine-glasses, the olives, the scattered
fruit, and "the ashes of the weeds of their delight," gave themselves no
concern about the weary host. Even at his own party, as in life
generally, Maitland felt like an outsider. He wakened from his reverie

as a strong hand was laid lightly on his shoulder.
"Well, Maitland," said a man sitting down beside him, "what have you
been doing this long time?"
"What have I been doing, Barton?" Maitland answered. "Oh, I have
been reflecting on the choice of a life, and trying to humanize myself!
Bielby says I have not enough human nature."
"Bielby is quite right; he is the most judicious of college dons and
father-confessors, old man. And how long do you mean to remain his
pupil and penitent? And how is the pothouse getting on?"
Frank Barton, the speaker, had been at school with Maitland, and ever
since, at college and in life, had bullied, teased, and befriended him.
Barton was a big young man, with great thews and sinews, and a broad,
breast beneath his broadcloth and wide shirt-front. He was blonde,
prematurely bald, with an aquiline commanding nose, keen, merry blue
eyes, and a short, fair beard. He had taken a medical as well as other
degrees at the University; he had studied at Vienna and Paris; he was
even what Captain Costigan styles "a scoientific cyarkter." He had
written learnedly in various Proceedings of erudite societies; he had
made a cruise in a man-of-war, a scientific expedition; and his Les
Tatouages, Étude Médico-Lêgale, published in Paris, had been
commended by the highest authorities. Yet, from some whim of
philanthropy, he had not a home and practice in Cavendish Square, but
dwelt and labored in Chelsea.
"How is your pothouse getting on?" he asked again.
"The pothouse? Oh, the Hit or Miss you mean? Well, I'm afraid it's not
very successful I took the lease of it, you know, partly by way of doing
some good in a practical kind of way. The working men at the
waterside won't go to clubs, where there is nothing but coffee to drink,
and little but tracts to read. I thought if I gave them sound beer, and
looked in among them now and then of an evening, I might help to
civilize them a bit, like that fellow who kept the Thieves' Club in the
East End. And then I fancied they might help to make me a little more

human. But it does not seem quite to succeed. I fear I am a born wet
blanket But the idea is good. Mrs. St. John Delo-raine quite agrees with
me about that. And she is a high authority."
"Mrs. St. John Deloraine? I've heard of