Chapter 3 - Page 2

girl, and the mere touch of her fingers, when they sat together,
made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite joy, he recognised
none the less clearly where his duty lay, and was fully conscious of
the fact that he had no right to marry until he had committed the
murder. This done, he could stand before the altar with Sybil
Merton, and give his life into her hands without terror of
wrongdoing. This done, he could take her to his arms, knowing that
she would never have to blush for him, never have to hang her head
in shame. But done it must be first; and the sooner the better for
both.

Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of
dalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was too
conscientious to set pleasure above principle. There was more than
mere passion in his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all that
is good and noble. For a moment he had a natural repugnance against
what he was asked to do, but it soon passed away. His heart told
him that it was not a sin, but a sacrifice; his reason reminded him
that there was no other course open. He had to choose between
living for himself and living for others, and terrible though the
task laid upon him undoubtedly was, yet he knew that he must not
suffer selfishness to triumph over love. Sooner or later we are all
called upon to decide on the same issue--of us all, the same
question is asked. To Lord Arthur it came early in life--before his
nature had been spoiled by the calculating cynicism of middle-age,
or his heart corroded by the shallow, fashionable egotism of our
day, and he felt no hesitation about doing his duty. Fortunately
also, for him, he was no mere dreamer, or idle dilettante. Had he
been so, he would have hesitated, like Hamlet, and let irresolution
mar his purpose. But he was essentially practical. Life to him
meant action, rather than thought. He had that rarest of all
things, common sense.

The wild, turbid feelings of the previous night had by this time
completely passed away, and it was almost with a sense of shame that
he looked back upon his mad wanderings from street to street, his
fierce emotional agony. The very sincerity of his sufferings made
them seem unreal to him now. He wondered how he could have been so
foolish as to rant and rave about the inevitable. The only question
that seemed to trouble him was, whom to make away with; for he was
not blind to the fact that murder, like the religions of the Pagan
world, requires a victim as well as a priest. Not being a genius,
he had no enemies, and indeed he felt that this was not the time for
the gratification of any personal pique or dislike, the mission in
which he was engaged being one of great and grave solemnity. He