Master of His Fate | Page 2

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 H?tel-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 if he burgeoned forth to welcome it.
"Perhaps not," said Lefevre. "Come and sit down and let us talk."
They were retiring from the window when Embro's voice again sounded at Lefevre's elbow--"Come now, Lefevre; what's the meaning of that Paris case?"
"What Paris case?"
Embro answered by handing him the paper. He took it, and read as