THE STORM OF LONDON (5)
By:
December 23, 2025
We are pleased to serialize an excerpt from Fernande Blaze de Bury’s novel The Storm of London: A Social Rhapsody (1904), for HILOBROW’s readers. The SFE describes the book like so: “Casually conflates sf and fantasy tropes in its depiction of a London where, after a giant storm, all fabrics have been permanently destroyed, including clothing and books.”
ALL INSTALLMENTS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5.
CHAPTER XX
“What’s been the matter with me?”
“Nothing very serious, Lord Somerville,” cheerily replied Sir Edward Bartley. “You are all right now; but you must not excite yourself. Now, now, don’t look round in that way.” And the eminent surgeon laid his soft hand on his patient’s wrist.
“This is strange, Sir Edward. Have the carpets and curtains come back?” and two tears trickled down Lionel’s emaciated cheeks.
“Sh, sh! that’s all right.” Sir Edward turned to the valet, who stood close by. “Temple, you must put some more ice on your master’s head. That same idea is haunting him; and we shall have him delirious again if we don’t look out.”
“No, Sir Edward,” murmured Gwendolen Towerbridge, seated at the foot of the bed. “Lord Somerville is all right, leave him to me, and you will find him perfectly well when you return this afternoon.” The eminent surgeon took Gwen’s hand in his own and looked intently into her face.
“My dear young lady, you have already saved his life; for no trained nurse could have shown more skill, more tact, than you have done throughout this alarming case. It is a perfect mystery to me how a fashionable and spirited young girl like you could, in one day, become such a clever nurse and a devoted woman.”
“Ah! that is my secret, Sir Edward.” Gwen looked down blushingly. “But some day I may tell it you, if he allows me.”
“Well, well,” and he gently patted her hand, “I leave the patient in your hands; if you can bring him round to a saner view of his surroundings, you will have done a great deal; for he is quite unhinged, and I am not sure that his brain is not affected.”
“Oh dear, no! my dear Sir Edward, Lord Somerville is quite sane; who knows, perhaps even saner than you or I.”
“Poor, dear lady, I am afraid the strain has been too much for you, and we shall have you laid up if you persist in not taking a rest.” And Sir Edward silently left the room, followed by Temple.
“My precious Lion, you have at last come back to me!” exclaimed Gwen, as she threw herself on her knees and kissed Lionel’s hand.
“Ah! I knew it was all true,” wearily said Lord Somerville, “for you call me as she did — Lion. But tell me, dearest, when did all these clothes and curtains come back?”
“My poor darling, these clothes, these carpets never disappeared. It has been a long dream — a long and beautiful dream.”
“All a dream — then Danford, the witty and faithful guide —?”
“Yes, a dream, my precious Lionel.”
“And all is as it was before that storm? But you, Gwen, you are not the same, you are the Una of my dream; I see it in your radiant expression. Tell me, dearest, how did it happen? Did I really shoot myself?”
“Yes, dear — but to go back to that night. As you remember, the storm was of such a nature as to prevent our reaching Richmond Park, and we turned back to town as fast as ever we could to Hertford Street. At about two o’clock in the morning father was roused by his valet, who told him that Temple had come to say he had found you in the library, shot through the head.”
“And you —?” Poor Gwen evaded the searching look of her lover by burying her face in the counterpane.
“My father never told me what had happened until next day.” She looked up at Lionel. “Do not ask me if I felt for you; I do not know, and I do not wish to remember. I only know that two days after, as I rode back through the Park, I looked in to inquire how you were. I came into this room, and found the surgeon, who told me your nurse had to leave, for she had been suddenly taken ill; and I sat down by your bed, just as I was in my riding-habit, to watch you until another nurse had been found.”
“Poor Gwen, it was a horrid ordeal, for you always hated sickness and loathed nursing.”
“Yes, and I was so mad at the surgeon suggesting that I should watch you, that I lashed your dog with my whip as he came running into the room. He set up a most awful howl which you never heard, fortunately. I sat down, and you began to wander. At first it seemed but the ravings of a madman and I did not pay much attention; but by the evening, I was amused at your suggestions, and told the upper housemaid to go and fetch my maid with my things. I had made up my mind to stay.”
“To nurse me, Gwen? Ah! how good of you,” interrupted Lionel.
“No, Lionel, I don’t want you to have a wrong impression of me, it was not at all to nurse you, it was in the hopes that you would renew that fascinating dream. You were most entertaining that night, and I laughed outright at the funny things you said.”
“I daresay it was as amusing as the play you would have gone to that night,” laughingly remarked Lionel.
“Oh! my dear Lionel, I was so very tired of my social entertainments; and the whole show had lost a good deal of its glamour, for it was my third season.”
“So you thought my dream was more diverting, and therefore decided to remain in the seat for which you had not paid.”
“Yes, that’s it; I must confess the truth, for we must never deceive each other again.”
“Poor little Gwen, how you must have hated me, for I am ashamed to say, some of my remarks were anything but flattering.”
“No, Lionel; but you taught me how to know you, and I learned how to know myself. I have sat night after night in this chair, listening to your dream, watching every phase of your regenerated London. I shared in all your reforms, and at times you even answered my questions. I could start your weird dream at any time, and at a suggestion of mine you would take up the thread of your narrative just where you had left it the night before.”
“It must have been like a sensational feuilleton which you expected each day to thrill you anew. But how worn out you must be, sweetheart. How long have I been in this condition?” inquired Lionel.
“Two months, dearest; but instead of wearing me out this hallucination kept me alive and put new blood into my veins. I can quite well see that Sir Edward believes I am on the verge of a mental collapse. Poor man, he does not see what we see and cannot feel as we do; he is still hopelessly ignorant.”
“What a narrow escape I have had,” remarked Lionel.
“It was miraculous, and the surgeons said they only knew of one other case in which a man who had been shot right through the head recovered consciousness after two months.”
“I daresay everyone will say my brain is affected whenever I say or do anything out of the common.”
“Never mind, Lionel, you and I have seen into each other’s heart, and that is sufficient to outweigh the loss of the world’s approbation. You see, we cannot look to a storm to wash away all our world’s shams; so we shall have to pass for eccentric or unorthodox, if we mean to live in a world of our own.”
“But then, dear Gwen, you remember that Danford said we should be followed in our social reforms by all the cads that surround us.”
“Yes, I daresay, but it will be a long time before that happens, and I have done my little work of reform personally, by dismissing my maid, and by sending all my wardrobe to poor gentlewomen. This old shabby dress is the only one I have worn for two months. Ah! Lionel, I am ashamed at appearing before you in such an indecent thing as a dress — but you know, we cannot reform the world too abruptly, and besides I was afraid Sir Edward might give me in charge!” and they both laughed heartily. It did him good to recall the old jokes, and his face brightened as he watched Gwen pirouetting round the room.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and Temple came in with Gwendolen’s luncheon, which he placed on the table. He handed to her on a silver tray a bundle of letters and cards.
“How funny to see letters again,” said Lionel. “Who are they from?”
“A card from the Duke of Saltburn — Lord Petersham —”
“Oh! I must ask the old fellow if he is accustomed to sitting next to his butcher on the Board of Public Kitchens! Who next, Gwen?”
“There is your pet aversion, Joe Watson, with solicitous inquiries.”
“Gwen, I misjudged the old draper. There is a deal of good behind his insular self-consciousness.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Little Montagu Vane came to ask how you were!”
“Beg pardon, Miss,” broke in the conscientious valet, “Mr Vane never came himself, he sent round a messenger boy.”
“Oh! how good, just like him,” said Lionel; “he is a dilettante even in sympathy, and prefers to get his information indirectly.”
“There are letters from Mrs Webster, from Mrs Archibald.”
“What can they want?” interrupted the patient. “These letters are of no earthly use; the first wants my subscription for some charity fraud, the second needs my name for some social parade. Throw them in the waste-paper basket.”
“Mrs Pottinger also sent her card,” went on Gwen, as she dropped the cards and letters one by one on the table.
“Excuse me, Miss,” again said Temple, “I forgot to say that Mrs Pottinger came to inquire everyday; and yesterday she left a small parcel which I put on the hall table.”
“Let us see what she says on her card,” and Gwen read the following words: “‘Mrs Pottinger hopes that Lord Somerville will accept and use the small pocket battery which accompanies this card. One of the most renowned New York surgeons has invented this wonderful brain restorer, and Mrs P. trusts Lord Somerville will give the discovery a fair trial, and that he will patronise the inventor and the invention.’”
“My first and only call will be on Mrs David Pottinger!” exclaimed Lionel, sitting up in his bed. “We shall see her yet presiding at the Palace of Happiness, and leading by the hand the American Seer.”
“Is my lord worse, Miss?” gravely inquired the valet, as he leaned towards Gwen.
“No, Temple, your master has never been in better spirits, nor has he ever been so clear in his mind. But it is — what can I call it? — a joke between us, and no one besides ourselves can understand it.”
“My good Temple,” echoed Lionel, with a joyous ring in his voice, “it is a conundrum which we are trying to guess. We have already made out the first part of the riddle, but the second will be more difficult, for it will consist in making you see the joke, Temple.”
“Oh! my lord, I always was a bad hand at guessing.”
“Ev’n News! Probable date of th’ Coronation!” The hurried footsteps passed in front of Selby House.
“What does that mean, Gwen? Is not the Coronation over by this time?”
“My poor boy, of course you do not know the news! Many things have happened since that night when you shot yourself. The war is over — thank goodness that is a thing of the past! But the royal tragedy-comedy was never acted. You shall read for yourself.” And Gwen went to fetch a bundle of newspapers and illustrated journals that lay on a console.
“’Ooligan murderer sentenced!” Again the hurried steps passed in the street.
Lionel read on and on, thrilled at the perusal of dailies and weeklies.
“The strangest of events brought the curtain down on our social pantomime. Quite as strange as the storm of London. If only it brought England to its senses I would not lament over the disappointment of the public.”
“I doubt whether England will take the hint,” said Gwen.
“This is all very strange, dearest Gwen, but still no stranger than my visions; and if it is true that ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made of,’ we can yet hope that our Society will save itself in time.”
The handle of the door was turned and Sir Edward walked in.
“Hullo! already reading, my dear Lord Somerville! You are a wonderful patient, and we shall see you in the Row before long.” Taking Lionel’s hand he felt his pulse. “That’s right, you are better, and you will soon resume your duties at Court. The King was inquiring after you the other day.”
“Very kind of him, I am sure, Sir Edward. I am sorry to disappoint you, but as soon as I can I shall start on a long journey, and England will not see me for many years.”
“My dear Lord Somerville,” and Sir Edward held his patient’s pulse firmly within his slender fingers, “we cannot spare you from London; besides which, this devoted young nurse cannot allow you to abandon her in this way.”
“I shall accompany Lord Somerville wherever he goes,” proudly said Gwen.
Sir Edward laid his patient’s hand gently on the bed and put back his watch into his waistcoat pocket.
“I never doubted for one instant that you would, Miss Towerbridge, but Lord Somerville has his duties to his King and to Society; and it would be quite unnecessary to take a long voyage when I can vouch for his speedy recovery, and can promise that he shall take part in the procession.”
“My dear Sir Edward, I am so sorry to disappoint you again, but the royal procession will not include my unworthy person, nor shall I witness the royal pageant. It may be bad taste on my part, but I resign all my duties at Court from to-day. As to social duties — they only existed in our imaginations, and the sooner we emancipate ourselves from such bondage the better. Besides, my dear Sir Edward, who knows whether there will be a Coronation?”
“You are tired, dear friend” — the physician laid his hand on Lionel’s brow. “You have done far too much in one day, and need rest. But I will tell you just to put your mind at ease, that the date of the Coronation is fixed. I met the Lord Chamberlain an hour ago, and he informed me that we may look forward at an early date to our Sovereign’s public apotheosis.”
“Always the same incorrigible snobbery.” Lionel heaved a long sigh and lay back on his pillow. “My poor Sir Edward, England has missed the opportunity it ever had of learning a lesson; and we are ambling back to Canterbury on a Chaucerian cob.”
“Dear Miss Towerbridge” — Sir Edward came close to Gwen and spoke in a whisper — “I am afraid Lord Somerville is not yet out of the wood. I notice symptoms of the recurring fever. If by ten o’clock this evening the patient has not completely recovered his senses, call for me; for I fear the case will then be very grave, and one that will need the greatest care.”
“Do not worry about him, dear Sir Edward,” said Gwen, smiling her most bewitching smile. “Lord Somerville will never recover what you call his senses, and as soon as he can be taken away with safety we shall start for the Continent.”
“Good gracious! you do not realise what condition he is in! And what about your father? What about Society? You are very self-sacrificing, but you are reckless. Pray let me advise you, my dear young lady.”
“We shall start as soon as Lionel can be moved,” firmly answered Gwen.
“Yes, dear Sir Edward,” added Lionel, looking wistfully at the surgeon; “but we shall keep you posted up as to our whereabouts.”
“And we shall always sympathise with you in your tragic state of overclothing,” playfully said Gwen.
“My last words to you, Miss Towerbridge,” sententiously spoke Sir Edward, as he stiffly bowed farewell, “are these: You will very soon regret your rash enterprise.”
The surgeon went slowly out of the door, which he closed behind him with a sharp click; and as he crossed the hall he muttered between his teeth, “It is the first time I have seen an absolute case of contagious insanity.”
RADIUM AGE PROTO-SF: “Radium Age” is Josh Glenn’s name for the nascent sf genre’s c. 1900–1935 era, a period which saw the discovery of radioactivity, i.e., the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. More info here.
SERIALIZED BY HILOBOOKS: James Parker’s Cocky the Fox | Annalee Newitz’s “The Great Oxygen Race” | Matthew Battles’s “Imago” | & many more original and reissued novels and stories.