BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

answered the Professor, with a smile. “Good-night, Lord Dulchester; you don’t come my way?”

      “No, I ride home,” answered Dulchester, who had no fancy for a talk with this foreigner.

      “I will order the carriage, Professor,” said Sir Gilbert, going to the bell.

      “Thanks—no,” returned the German, politely stopping him. “I prefer to walk. Good-night once more, and good-night to you, Miss Philippa. I see you do not care for music.”

      And with this parting shaft, the Professor bowed himself out with his cold and sardonic sneer, leaving Philippa angry with herself at having betrayed her thoughts so far, and Lord Dulchester with an unholy desire in his heart to “punch the foreign beggar’s head.”

      Chapter V.

       The Effect of the Elixir

       Table of Contents

      “Dreams are the nightly progeny of sleep,

       The ghostly visitants which mock our rest;

       And yet methinks they give a sovereignty

       Within their airy realms to many a wight,

       Who wakes to find himself a ragged knave,

       And all the rainbow pageants of the night

       Only the idle bubbles of the brain.”

      “Launceston, November 14th.—At last I have found the second volume of ‘Giraldus.’ By a strange train of circumstances I have been led step by step towards this successful end. Nothing now remains for me to do but to go over Sir Gilbert’s library, take up the ‘Giraldus,’ and turn to the page indicated by the cryptogram.

      “Then shall I be able to supply the missing drug and add the final ingredient to this marvellous elixir. I have no fear of Sir Gilbert learning why I am so anxious about the ‘Giraldus.’ And, truth to tell, he cannot even notice that I am anxious, for I carefully repress all manifestations of interest concerning it, beyond that of an admirer of rare books.

      “I heard him mention to-day where it was in his library, with as cool and composed a manner as though I had never heard of the book, while every nerve in my body was tingling with excitement. However, I must now curb my impatience until I can see the volume in the ordinary course. Sir Gilbert is a man wholly devoted to his books, and his desires are bounded by the overflowing shelves of his library. He asked me to stay to dinner, and I was introduced to his daughter and her lover. The lover is one of the aristocracy—a brainless young athlete, with the body of a Milo, and the intellect, as Landor says, ‘of a lizard.’ But Miss Philippa Harkness, the daughter, is a very strange young woman. It is a long time since I have studied Lavater, and possibly my skill in physiogomy may have declined, but I have rarely seen a more contradictory face. She has intellect, but does not use it. So far as I can see she has not even the average education of an English lady; all her talk is about field sport and horses, while her conversation is full of words which I am certain are not in the English dictionary—at least, not as far as my acquaintance with it goes. She could be clever if she would, but she will not, for one of the most powerful passions of nature is wanting in her. She is not ambitious, and is quite content to pass the days of her life as her senses dictate, without attempting to rise to eminence.

      “Strange that Nature, the bounteous, should be so capricious. To one she gives no talents, and ambition; while to this girl she gives talents without ambition.

      “During the evening I made the discovery that Miss Harkness does not like me. She talked gaily and courteously enough, but she avoided my eye, and seemed ill at ease when I addressed her. I suppose it is my manner. A scholastic occupation is certainly not the best for acquiring graces, and I am always rather awkward in the presence of women. I also made the discovery during the evening that she has no soul—at least, not for music. While I was playing my ‘Dream Phantasy,’ she suddenly broke in with some remark about her day’s sport. Bah! why should I be angry? and yet it wounded my self-esteem. I thought that my playing would hold anyone spell-bound, and now I find that it has no effect on this woman. If I took the trouble to hate anybody, I should hate this girl. But I never trouble. Her nature is the opposite to mine, and we seem to have a mutual distrust and dislike of one another. Strange I never felt like this before. I had better master this absurd feeling, as I am to see her almost daily for the next six months. In the meantime all my thoughts are concentrated on the ‘Giraldus.’ By this time to-morrow I shall know the secret drug, and then—— I must go over to-morrow and look up the ‘Giraldus’ without delay.”

      Professor Brankel closed his diary, and prepared for bed. Before he put out the light he went to his desk and took out a small phial filled with a colourless liquid. He swallowed three drops; then, putting the phial away, he went to bed, and was soon wrapped in visions created by the strange power of the elixir.

      * * *

      Behold I stand under the shadows of a moonless and starless night, divested of that gross garment of clay which is the emblem of mortality. The immortal part of myself is severed from the mortal, and I am an airy spirit, nameless and soulless, for I myself am the soul. Nothing of earth has any part in me; I am formed of the ethereal essence which God breathes into the body of man. I have no feelings, physical or mental, but stand a naked human soul, a citizen of the universe, a partaker of eternity. Time draws back the veil of the past, and I enter into the vast halls of his palace, to wander through the populous courts; to see the splendid kaleidoscope of humanity, and the marvellous colours with which the iridescent dome of life “stains the white surface of eternity.”

      * * *

      …I stand within the mighty arena of the Colosseum, and above me, tier above tier, I see the blood-loving Roman populace gazing down with wolfish eyes on the blood-stained sands. The bright blue sky gleams through the striped awning which shadows the heads of the people. There is Horace, fresh from his little Sabine farm, laughing with Mæcenas; Virgil, with a placid smile on his face, listening to the witty and epigrammatical conversation of Catullus—the Rochester of his day—who is amusing his fickle Lesbia with remarks on the spectators. And he, the master of the world, rose-crowned, looks down with a serene face at the long train of gladiators. Ave Cæsar… The fight begins… a battle of Titans. See how their eyes flash… how the sparks fly from their shields at every blow. And Fortune, fickle as a woman, gives her favours now to one again to another… See, one has fallen… and his triumphant adversary stands over him, looking round for the verdict of the people… Habet! And the blood of the conquered sinks into the thirsty sands of the arena—insatiable of blood as the masters of the world…

      Is it thou, O Athens, the omphalos of Greece set like a jewel in the midst of thy green groves, and filled with the superb intellects of antiquity?… Behold the great white streets … the vivid, sparkling crowd brimming over with veritable Aristophanic humour… the wrangling of the philosophers and their pupils from the porticoes, and the god-like figures of the youths as they haste to the gymnasium. Yes, this is indeed the intellectual capital of the world… The great theatre, with the semicircle of eager faces gazing spell-bound at the splendid pageantry of the “Agamemnon”… The deep-mouthed roll of the Eschylean line fills the wide-ringed theatre with a sublime thunder, and echoes down the vaulted corridors of Time with ever-increasing volume… How magnificent… the fiery ring of the speech of Clytemnestra… the stately eloquence of the king of men… the wild cry of Cassandra, shrinking with prophetic horror from the blood-stained threshold of the palace… See… Chorus.

      (Here the entries in the diary were illegible.)

      Hail, Queen, with the snow-white breasts and eyes of fire … I pray you, wherefore do you look so eagerly from the mighty walls of wide-streeted Troy?… Helen… fairest and most imperial of women, thy fatal beauty hath doomed the proud towers of Ilium. Think not that yonder light at which thou gazest as it gleams like a crimson-hearted star think not that it comes from the tent of thy forsaken husband…

      …It