The inner house. Walter Besant

who are beautiful might remain beautiful – "

      "Sir," cried again the old man eloquent, "give me back my manhood!"

      The Lecturer made no reply, but went on:

      "The rich might have a time – a sensible length of time – in which to enjoy their wealth; the young might remain young; the old might grow no older; the feeble might not become more feeble – all for a prolonged time. As for those whose lives could never become anything but a burden to themselves and to the rest of the world – the crippled, the criminal, the poor, the imbecile, the incompetent, the stupid, and the frivolous – they would live out their allotted lives and die. It would be for the salt of the earth, for the flower of mankind, for the men strong of intellect and endowed above the common herd, that Science would reserve this precious gift."

      "Give me back my manhood!" cried again the old man eloquent.

      But he was not alone, for they all sprang to their feet together and cried aloud, shrieking, weeping, stretching forth hands, "Give – give – give!" But the Director, who knew that what was asked for would be given, sat silent and self-possessed.

      The Speaker motioned them all to sit down again.

      "I would not," he said, "limit this great gift to those alone whose intellect leads the world. I would extend it to all who help to make life beautiful and happy; to lovely women" – here the men heaved a sigh so deep, so simultaneous, that it fell upon the ear like the voice of thanksgiving from a Cathedral choir – "to those who love only the empty show and pleasures and vainglories of life" – here many smiled, especially of the younger sort – "even to some of those who desire nothing of life but love and song and dalliance and laughter." Again the younger sort smiled, and tried to look as if they had no connection at all with that band. "I would extend this gift, I repeat, to all who can themselves be happy in the sunshine and the light, and to all who can make the happiness of others. Then, again, consider. When you have enjoyed those things for a while; when your life has been prolonged, so that you have enjoyed all that you desire in full measure and running over; when not two or three years have passed, but perhaps two or three centuries, you would then, of your own accord, put aside the aid of Science and suffer your body to fall into the decay which awaits all living matter. Contented and resigned, you would sink into the tomb, not satiated with the joys of life, but satisfied to have had your share. There would be no terror in death, since it would take none but those who could say, 'I have had enough.' That day would surely come to every one. There is nothing – not research and discovery, not the beauty of Nature, not love and pleasure, not art, not flowers and sunshine and perpetual youth – of which we should not in time grow weary. Science cannot alter the Laws of Nature. Of all things there must be an end. But she can prolong; she can avert; she can – Yes, my friends. This is my Discovery; this is my Gift to Humanity; this is the fruit, the outcome of my life; for me this great thing has been reserved. Science can arrest decay. She can make you live – live on – live for centuries – nay, I know not – why not? – she can, if you foolishly desire it, make you live forever."

      Now, when these words were spoken there fell a deep silence upon the crowd. No one spoke; no one looked up; they were awed; they could not realize what it meant that would be given them; they were suddenly relieved of a great terror, the constant dread that lies in man's heart, ever present, though we conceal it – the dread of Death; but they could not, in a moment, understand that it was given.

      But the Director sprang to his feet, and grasped his brother physicist by the hand.

      "Of all the sons of Science," he said, solemnly, "thou shalt be proclaimed the first and best."

      The assembly heard these words, but made no sign. There was no applause – not a murmur, not a voice. They were stricken dumb with wonder and with awe. They were going to live – to live on – to live for centuries, nay, why not? – to live forever!

      "You all know," the Professor continued, "how at a dinner a single glass of champagne revives the spirits, looses the tongue, and brings activity to the brain. The guests were weary; they were in decay; the Champagne arrests that decay. My discovery is of another kind of Champagne, which acts with a more lasting effect. It strengthens the nerves, hardens the muscles, quickens the blood, and brings activity to the digestion. With new strength of the body returns new strength to the mind; mind and body are one." He paused a moment. Then he gave the leather case into the hands of the Director. "This is my gift, I say. I give to my brother full particulars and the history of the invention. I seek no profit for myself. It is your own. This day a new epoch begins for humanity. We shall not die, but live. Accident, fire, lightning, may kill us. Against these things we cannot guard. But old age shall no more fall upon us; decay shall no more rob us of our life and strength; and death shall be voluntary. This is a great change. I know not if I have done aright. That is for you to determine. See that you use this gift aright."

      Then, before the people had understood the last words, the speaker stepped out of the Theatre and was gone.

      But the Director of the Royal Institution stood in his place, and in his hand was the leather case containing the Gift of Life.

      The Countess of Thordisá, who had been asleep throughout the lecture, woke up when it was finished.

      "How deeply interesting!" she sighed. "This it is, to catch Science on the wing." Then she looked round. "Mildred, dear," she said, "has Dr. Linister gone to find the carriage? Dear me! what a commotion! And at the Royal Institution, of all places in the world!"

      "I think, Mamma," said Lady Mildred, coldly, "that we had better get some one else to find the carriage. Dr. Linister is over there. He is better engaged."

      He was; he was among his brother physicists; they were eagerly asking questions and crowding round the Director. And the Theatre seemed filled with mad people, who surged and crowded and pushed.

      "Come, Mamma," said Lady Mildred, pale, but with a red spot on either cheek, "we will leave them to fight it out."

      Science had beaten love. She did not meet Harry Linister again that night. And when they met again, long years afterwards, he passed her by with eyes that showed he had clean forgotten her existence, unaltered though she was in face and form.

      CHAPTER I

      THE SUPPER-BELL

      When the big bell in the Tower of the House of Life struck the hour of seven, the other bells began to chime as they had done every day at this hour for I know not how many years. Very likely in the Library, where we still keep a great collection of perfectly useless books, there is preserved some History which may speak of these Bells, and of the builders of the House. When these chimes began, the swifts and jackdaws which live in the Tower began to fly about with a great show of hurry, as if there was barely time for supper, though, as it was yet only the month of July, the sun would not be setting for an hour or more.

      We have long since ceased to preach to the people, otherwise we might make them learn a great deal from the animal world. They live, for instance, from day to day; not only are their lives miserably short, but they are always hungry, always fighting, always quarrelling, always fierce in their loves and their jealousies. Watching the swifts, for instance, which we may do nearly all day long, we ought to congratulate ourselves on our own leisurely order, the adequate provision for food made by the Wisdom of the College, the assurance of preservation also established by that Wisdom, and our freedom from haste and anxiety, as from the emotions of love, hatred, jealousy, and rivalry. But the time has gone by for that kind of exhortation.

      Thus, our people, who at this hour crowded the great Square, showed in their faces, their attitudes, and their movements, the calm that reigned in their souls. Some were lying on the grass; some were sitting on the benches; some were strolling. They were for the most part alone; if not alone – because habit often survives when the original cause of the habit is gone – then in pairs.

      In the old unhappy days there would have been restless activity – a hurrying to and fro; there would have been laughter and talking – everybody would have been talking; there would have been young men eagerly courting the favors of young women, looking on them with longing eyes, ready to fight for them, each for the girl he loved; thinking each of the girl he loved as of a goddess or an