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PLTON

HAZLEWOOD

LTON

HAZLEWOOD

A Memoir, by his Friend

Henry Vane

»5 fxtbtxkk (Bmst ^coti

Authot of ^^ The Sours Quest ami other Poems

Published by Messrs. Oliphant Anderson
AND Ferrier, No. 30 Saint Mary Street
Edinburgh, and No. 24 Old Bailey
London. 1893

Printed by Special Arrane^ement ivith the Publishers of the Atnerican EdiHon

PROLOGUE.

rriHE silent processes have been at work for
centuries, and now they culminate, temporarily,
in an cpisodo-Hazlewoocl. Down from sidereal
wastes, up from green depths of ocean, centripetally
from wide forests areas, forces have come, through
perpetual modifications, until the supreme result
for the time has been arrived at, and Hazlewood,
small, red, plaintive, lies in his nurse's arms.
" What interest have we in this mfant ? '' you ask.
Has he lived ? Is he a real person ? Is he the
writer? Is he my idea of you, Reader ? Yes, he
is all these, and being all, is of course none of
them. JNTevertheless, Hazlewood has been con-
ceived and born, and being bom must live and
thrive, he having the good fortune not to be one
of the schemes for the amelioration of man's lot,
which are often conceived, and even bom, and yet
do not live and thrive.

Hazlewood does not do much at first. He

PJROLOGUR

wakes and cnos, and takes his natural food, and
then goes to sleep again. He breathes, liis heart,
beats, and the forces within him pursue their
natural course in the process of development. We
are not particularly interested in them, but this is
simply Ixicause we cannot perceive their working.
Infinitely interested we should be could we do so.
What a marvellous sight, had we eyes to behold
it, would be the unfoldmg of the latent intellectual
powers in that little mind-world ! What a new
light it would throw on the after dealings of the
.^oul in life ! At what moment in the progress of
the individual does the separation occur between
the conscious intellectual life and the unconscious
physical life? When, again, arc the different
moments in ^vliich these two phases of being
branch off into the ever multiplying variations
which mark the progress of the individual ? All
this we cannot know, but it is not useless to sug-
gest these questions, inasmuch as they prove that
Hazlewood even in his nurse's arms is not uninter-
esting—nay, is supremely interesting, even if
beyond comprehension to enquiring spirits. But
Hazlewood is not to be always in his nurse's arms.

PROLOOUE.

The development goes on within liira. The
moments are passed one by one. The grey, fixed
world witliout him, and which he f(»els close upon
him, close as the warm, moist kisses of Maria are
upon his cheeks, he discover is subject to tem-
porary eclipse by a slight voluntary act of his
own ; — he l^nows nothing of eyes as yet. Again,
he discovers that this fixed, grey sensation, — the
world, by another volimtary act may be recalle<l
from its eclipse, A furtJier step is reached. Light
appears. It is only a candle flame, but his sensa-
tions are intensified. He will stop his cries at any
time and fed. Once more the day comes when
colour is appreciated, rich, warm, sensuous colour.
It is only an old red shawl hung over the end of
his mother's bed, but stirring in his blood are tlie
same forces which influenced the choice of flower
and fruit, and the mating of diverse ancestors
with variegated skins and coats ; and this is why
Hazlewood looks and looks ^vith wide, infant
eyes in which as yet the pupil can scarcely be dis-
tinguished from the iris. Lastly, the grand point
is gained, he can perceive motion. He recognizes
change in the universe which has been hitherto

PliOLOOTJR

fix-«l and c\^ „,,o„ hk bmln. Swift motion
'r'"'"'"-. "■'^^ '•'>"- it at fet, but stm

ho..gI,t, a new emotion. The foundations of
language are laid, ako the foundations of our
^tory, or romance, or psychical study, or biogn,phy
^ Tor most of the evils and goods in lifef ge' tk
Koader, the wise man may f^, sincerely thlnkftd
I pray at the beginning of my task that it may bo
so earned out as to prove no exception to the
general rule.

CHAPTER r.
^riERE was Hazlewood bom ? At Langdon

up leafless and drear a„d «hook their gri.zl«]
arms forcbodin^lv all 'l.of „.;„ i • . , *= "'''*^'
wl.- k ti , -^ ^'"''^ winter's night on

P«rcn, and l)y them ran a gravel nith

road. In he warm Spring days, crocuses will p.-p
up round the grass plote, and the Virginia cir
cl.ng,ng t« the quaint brick house w'l put forth
tender bu^. Not .1.r off is the old NoJn
<Jureh w.h its mass, . an, tower. Round it is
the graveya,^, and, beyond, is a line of wood
M r^ ,n a gentle slope until it forms the las^
Moments over which the setting sun take, his
final survey of the earth. Sweet, hallowed mem-

r T ""„«-'--l'« thoughts in after
hfe. TLey are c^led up from time to time by odd
scraps of n,uszc, and the scents of flowe.., and the

ELTON HAZLEWQOD.

tender changes in the sk3^^s colourings. The mem-
ories are those of Langdon, tlie elms, the house, the
diurch and its services, and two faces, sweetly calm,
and growing more ethereal in the lapse of time —
the faces of his father and mother. Lichens, yel-
lov/ and gray, some round like little moons with
lunar rays, some long and straggling, creep in and
out of the incised lettering on a grey tombstone
-which records the names and dates of two faithful
lives, and presses down upon the dust of two faith-
ful hearts. The wind, which comes down from
the hills in a long sweep, curls round as it reaches
the corner where they are laid, close under the
chancel wall, and deposits there in the late Autumn
little piles of yellow and brown leaves, which it
whirls round and round, and then lays to rest,
anon whirling them round again, and again drop-
ping them, as thougii they were its last words to
the dead, and it were loth to let them fall forever.

Other memories Hazlewood carried away with
him from his boyhood's home, but his parents'
comparatively early death, by which he was left an
orphan at the age of fourteen, filled his whole mind
with an undercurrent of sadness, which was with

ELTON HAZLEWOOD. 7

him even in moments of extreme joy, and gave a
pathetic tenderness to his mirth.

It was on his return to school after this double
bereavement, for his parents died within a few
weeks of one anotlier, that I firet saw Hazlewood.
He was a tall, dark bov, with large Avistful eyes,
and a solemn, earnest way of speaking at times that
got him the nickname of " parson." Yet he was
full of life too, and was leader in many a boyish
act of sport and mischief His natural bent, how-
ever, was meditative. His mind drifted perpetu-
ally through un unending series of emotions, and
outside natiu'c was only real to him, in so far as it
fitted in with the mental mood predominant at
the time. When in our walks we have come to
one turn of the road, where the hedges are very
high on both sides, and a little stream trickles
down from the roots of an overhanging elm, mak-
ing the place damp and cool, he has often stood for
several minutes without speaking, and declared
afterwards that the wet, earthy smell and tinkling
noise of the brooklet had called up in him emotions
beyond the power of speech, 3 :id exquisitely sad.
Why Hazlewood and I became friends I can-

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

not tell, unless it were that, our natui'es being com-
plete opposites, each supplied to the other what
that other lacked in himself. Hazlowood was to
me the living embodiment of the spirit of poesy
and ideality. Doubtless my prosaic and more
commonplace nature he found restful. An ardent
spirit, I have frequently observed, cannot brook
contradiction, or even enthusiasm in opposite lines
of thought, in others. Hence men of genius nearly
always choose for their closest friends those who by
nature are receptive rather than initiative. The
favour of conferring friendship was all on his side
— I was so carried away by the splendour of his
imagination, and the knightliness of his disposition,
and a subtle grace that v;on the hearts of all with
whom he came in contact, that I would as soon
have parted with my right hand as have forfeited
the friendship of one so attractive. Yet there was
un element of weakness in his nature. His mental
organization was too fine; it predominated over
his bodily in too great a degree. AVhen the mood
was upon him, he could do anything, but the mood
would quickly pass and his powers were gone. It
might have been said of his spirit, that it w^as like

ELTON ILiZLEWOOD.

the wind which bloweth where it listeth. There
was in him no settled purpose, no continuity oi
aim, only a continuity of variation ; a defect, how-
ever, which added to his attractiveness.

He himself was conscious of this weakness, and
a shade would pass ovei' his face if an/one re-
marked it to him. His eyes would assume a
scared, helpless look, as though he were caught
hopelessly in the toils of destiny, or trod the path of
a preordained fate. He has often spoken to me on
the subject. "Vane,'' he used to say, "other
people have something Avhich I have not. There
is something wrong in my composition. Some-
thing was forgotten when I was made."

Now when I look back on the long years of our
friendship, and see the path oi the illustrious spirit
through the world, and not;e its failures and suc-
cesses, point by ^wint, what a light is thrown upon
its mysterious and dark places*by this knowledge of
our boyhood's days. The end has come now ; the
restless, unquiet, sad spirit is still ; the world has
its idea of what he was and what he did, but it is
only I and oae other who knew the man through-
out as he really was, and the greatness of his

■.#

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

victory. His life was one which we cannot
fully unravel until death cuts it, and then we know
it in its parts and we behold the grandeur of its
course.

Clearly now, over the lapse of years, stands out
one scene from our school days. It waa the night
before he left for his scholarehip at Oxford, when
we were to part for some yeai-s. After the lights
were out, he came over and sat on my bed (being
older boys we had a room to ourselves), and talked
about his past and his future. The moonlight fell
upon his face, and his eyes were full of spiritual
light. I do not suppose that I thought of such
things tlien, but as I recall the scene, I see it now
^vith a fuller meaning. With his dark, curly hair,
in the weird light, he made a study for an old
master. Suddenly his voice struck a note of deep
sorrow.

** Harry,'* he said, " I don't think I shall ever
be a success. I don't know why it is, but I am
not happy, I cannot be. The present is grey and
mysterious, the future is all dark and ftill of ter-
rors." We were both silent for a few moments,
then he added, with his face still turned to the

ELTON JIAZLEWOOD.

moonlit window, and the dark tree tops, and a star
which shone even in the presence of the stronger
light, speaking softly as though he addressed some
spiritual presence beyond my vision, " Old Archer^s
sermon, to-day, how curious it was. It all seemed
like a prophecy or the dream of a prophecy. And
the text, surely that means life, life aa it is to most
men, to all men who think; ^ And it shall come to
vans in that day that the light shall not be clear
nor dark, but it shall be one day, which shaP be
known unto the Lord, not day nor night, but it
shall come to pass that at cventime it shall be
light.' God grant that at eventime it may be
light. ' ^

CHAPTER II.

A LTHOUGH Hazlewood fell off very much
towards the end of his college career, for the
first year or two his course at the University was a
brilliant one. He was looked upon as the coming
man. Always beyond his years in his power to
grasp intellectual subtleties and to classify and ana-
lyse the new facts he was daily acquiring, he had
made under tlie influence and inspiration of his
new surroundings, one of those mental bounds
which were so characteristic of the man. In con-
versing witli him, I have often noticed how his
mind would jump the intervening reasoning and
arrive spontaneously at a conclusion which only
aft«r long and careful consideration, I was able to
perceive to be the correct one. It seemed to me
that in him emotion formed the foundation of his
intellectual life, and his thoughts were lixiked to-
gether, not in the manner of logical seciuence, but
in an extraordinary way, by states of feeling. He

^LTON HAZLEWOOD.

could, as I have said, do all things while the mood
was upon him ; that is, while a sufficient external
stimulus played upon his emotional nature. Plis
was, I suppose, the pure artistic temperament. But
the moods ebbed and flowed, and his nature
appeared incapable of permanent progression in one
line. These changes of mood I speak of, were
apparent not simply to me but to all who knew
him. For so transparently honest was he^, that we
saw continually into his inner heart as througli
glass, and noble and good and loving and pure that
heart was, but weak as a child's, blown hitlier and
thither by pa/isions of overwhelming force. That
unknown quality, or power, which we felt he lacked,
though we could not define it, had he had it,
would have made him the noblest and greatest of
men. He ^vas like a grand arch without a key-
stone, a ship full sail without a rudder, the mag-
nificent temple of a deity, without that deity's
inner sh^rine. Oxford, therefore, with its ancient
memories, its unique life, the cultured tone of all
around him, above all, the admiration which his
high spirits, his originality and his moods of deep
earnestness won for him, acted as a tremendous

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

stimulus to his mental growth, and in a few
months, the thoughtful, ardent school boy became
a man and even leader. In the Union he had
spoken several times, and his speeches had created
a sensation. Already he had gathered round him
a set of his own in which he was almost wor-
shipped. He wrote occasionally, and brilliantly,
for a college paper, long since suppressed, in which
the wildest schemes were propoimded for the
reformation of society. To his tutors, no less than
to the undergraduates, he was fascinating in the
extreme. They failed to understand him, and yet
surely, if they did so, the fault was not his. For
there he w^as before them, simple and unaflPected,
and, as I have said, transparently honest. In
every mood his heart was open and generous, and
full of sympathy and love. Not less attractive to
those who watched him narrowly, than his noble
bearing and buoyancy of spirits, was that deep
tinge of melancholy which coloured all his thoughts.
It drew out the heart towards him and struck a
note of sincerity, the existence of which might
otherwise have been questioned in one so subject to
change. Sometimes this melancholy would strike

ELTON UAZLEWOOD.

him suddenly, in the midst of his mirth or excite-
ment and a shade would pass over his face, as I
have seen a field darkened during sunsliine by an
intercepting cloid.

It is not my place in this biography to 8]x?ak of
myself, but it falls naturally into the course of it to
say, that on leaving school, as my father, a poor
country vicar with a large family, could not afford
to send mo to the university, it was decided that I
should spend a year at home reading Avith him,
with a view ultimately to my entering a theological
college and taking orders. My home was a quiet
and happy one, and the love of God cemented the
union of its members, and filled it with the light
which it alone can give. Many and many a time,
did I tell my brothers and sistei-s of the wonderful
boy, Avho had called up in me an admiration so
intense as almost to exceed the boimds of reason.
I described his figure, his brave, open face, and
those eyes which had in them more than earthly
light. From time to time, I had letters from him
in bold, boyish handwriting, irregiUar, but fast
becoming more like the hand of a man. Some of
these were very interesting, all were frank and gen-

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

erous and full of tlio old affection which wc had
professed for one another at school, and which wc
had sworn that nothing through life should ever
destroy. One thing, I, who read every word he
wrote, over and over again, and read too between
the lines, could liot fail to note, and that was that
lately, little by little, the religious enthusiasm which
had marked his earlier letters seemed to be passing
away. Occasionally hints were dropped that it was
still doubtful as to whether he would enter the min-
istry or not. His intention upon leaving school
had Ix^cn to follow in his father's steps. But he said
noA\', that he was not as good as he used to be.
All this caused me pain in my boyish fashion, not
so much, I fear, for his sake, as for my own. For
he was my patron saint, my idol, and what should
I do if that idol were shattered by a fall and the
niche lefl empty ?

One day, about three yeai's after he had entered
college, I received a note from him inviting mo
up to Oxford for a day, in order that he might
show me over the place. With what alacrity I
went, I can still remember. He w^as at the station
to meet me and gave me a cordial welcome. He

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

was carelessly dressed in boating cap and jacket,
but this only sen-ed to set off the air of distinction
which marked him out from ordinary men. His
fa<ce though not so boyish as at sc.'hool, was fuller
and handsomer; he looked healthier, but in the
expression of it and in his manner there was just
the slightest possible e\ndence of a change. I
thought this was doubtless owing to my countrified
appearance. Perhaps my clothes were not of the
most fashionable cut. Perhaps, I thought again, it
is only the natural bashfulness which affects boys,
when they have not met for a long time. I m^ist
confess, for my part, to a full share of this feeling.
By degrees, the strangeness, if I may call it so,
wore away, and in an hour or two we were stroll-
ing along side by side and chatting freely together
as of old.

He took me to his rooms, then over some of the
colleges, to the High Street, Ne\\Tnan's, St. Mary's,
and for a row on the river. I was in the seventh
heaven of delight, and nothing could exceed the
pride I felt, as I walked by his side and saw the
looks of furtive admiration wliich he unconsciously
elicited from the people we passed in the street.

f .

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

After dinner, for the sun sot late on tliat lonj^ June
aflernoon, we strolled down to Magdalen Bridge,
jmd stood there leaning over the parapet talking,
while the rieh glories of the sunset lit up some
flaky clouds overhead, with crimson and gold, and
were reflected in the still stream below. What v^e
had been talking about, I do not know, I think it
Avas the subject of orders. I remember now, I had
asked him if he still intended to enter the church
upon leaving the Univereity. To this, he made
some evasive reply, then tiu'ned round suddenly
and leaning with his back against the bridge, and
looking across to the fields and towers in the dis-
tance, he said,

" By the by, old fellow, I have a conf(«sion to
make. I am not quite so good as I used to be.
I know it will shock you. You remember how we
used to talk about knighthood and Sir Percival
and the vision of the Holy Grail. We used to say
that we would strive to live like Christian knights,
but, Harry, old man," and here he turned his face
away ana I looked steadily down at the stream, " I
have been out in the world a good deal since then,
and, in short, I've fallen from my ideal. I am

ELTON UAZLEWOOD.

very mrry, but most men do. I would give
evcnlhing T possess if I had not. Something has
gone from me whieh can never return. They lio,
who say, tliat sucli a fall does not injure a man's
character. It does, it lowers him. He may repent,
he may settle down in the end to quiet domestic
life, but a change has passed over him. The sunny
open book of his cliildhood has Ixien sealed up and
laid away forever. It can't be helped now, only I
am diifevent. I used to want to be very good,
now I only want to be pretty good. I may be a
pai'son some day, not au over-earnest one, but a
^vell-meaning broad churchman, who does his best,
with the ne(!essaiy allowances, to restrain the ani-
mal in himself and others. Now, don't preach to
me, old man, I am older than you are, and have
seen more of the world ; I would to God I hadn't.
But I felt for old times' sake that I had to tell you.
Whatever you think of me, don't give me up.
This world's a bad place, Harry."

The last sentenc^e ^\•as 8jx)ken almost to himself,
and his voice stmck the note of melancholy so
familiar to me. He turned to go as he said it, and
I followed him without speaking. There was no

^mmmmmmmm

ELTON HAZIEWOOD.

danger of my preaching to him. I could not have
uttered a word. Wliy it was, I do not know, but
I had a strange, sick feeling. I suppose it was,
because I loved him so. I was disappointed in
him, I was angiy with myself, I hated the world.
A cloud seemed to have shut him off from God,
and I hesitated whether to follow or to draw back!
Neither spoke again for a long time, until at last
he broke the ailence with some trivial remark and
we got on to other topics. Later on in the even-
ing, I went with him to a wine parly in the rooms
of a friend of his. As soon as his surroundings
were changed, and conversation drew him out, his
spirits rose with a bound, and the whole eveni^ I
sat in admiration of his wit. He was the centre
of attraction to all tliero. His handsome face,
slightly flushed with wine, and his rich mellow
voice drew all eyes tx)wards him. But something
spoilt the pleasure of the evening to me. One
thought gnawed like a canker at my heart, even
when I strove most to forget it. A death^s head
seemed to me to be at the feast. There was some-
thing hollow in all the mirth, a suggestion of the
presence of the evil one. Nor did tliis feeling

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

wear away till I knelt by my bal in the hotel
at which I stayed, and prayed the pure prayers
my mother had taught me, and asked my Heav-
enly Father's blessing on my friend's future course.

CHAPTER III.

fTlHE next siiinmcr I remember very well, on ac-
count of an outbrealv of cholera which came
from the Continent, and did great havoc in our
large cities, and caused some deaths and much anx-
iety in the country villages. Hazlewood ran down
to see us for a few davs in the middle of Jul v.
He had just taken his degree, and his mind was
much troubled at times as to his future coiuree.
He had sufficient private income to enable him to
live in tolerable comfort, so tliat he looked upon a
profession rather as an opportimity for work, than
as a means of earning his living. Our home was
in Essex, in a small nu-al parish not far from Lon-
don. It was not on the line of railway, a fact
which added to the primitive condition of the place
and to its isolation. I have often wondered how
my father, active man that he was, could have
spent thirty-six yeai-s in it without any longer
change than a fortnight's holiday in tlie summer,

ELTON HAZLEWOOD

and an occasional visit to London. Hazlewood
appeared to enjoy the quiet, he lounged about on
the grass or lay in the hammock and smoked, al-
most all day. In the house, his manners were
charming. His popularit) at Oxford had not
spoilt him. He came into om- family circle and
took his place as though he were one of us. He
played and romped with the children, and told
them stories. With the girls he was always on the
best of terms. His manner towai'ds them was
courteous and hearty, and though the long country
walks which he took with them, he must often
have found very dull, he never by word or look ap-
I)eared bored by their unsophisticated conver-sation.
My father took great delight in talking over college
life with him, for my father was himself an Oxford
man ; and into the deepest questions of politics and
theology, the good man's pet subjects, Hazlewood
entered with a judgment and originality quite am-
azing. Not infrequently after dinner, I have al-
lowed the two to go off by themselves into the
library, to look up imdisturl)ed the passages and
authorities, to which reference had been made dur-
ing the day. But his manner towards my raotlicr,

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

delighted me most To her he was specially cour-
teous and deferent. There was something entranc-
ing in the chivalrous affection with which he re-
garded her. Did she need a chair under the
garden trees, in an instant he had fetched one.
Did she in her sw^eet, gentle manner, suggest an
opinion on some point under discussion, in a mo-
ment his eyes were bent earnestly upon her with an
admiration that had in it nothing of arrogance or
patronage. It was no wonder then that every
member of the hoiisehold took this handsome,
clever >outh, straightway into liis or her heart and
felt the sun less bright when he was gone.

He came with us regularly to the daily services,
and chose out for himself a little seat on the left of
the deep chancel, which w^as partly concealed from
view by an old tomb, surmounted by the ef^gy of
a knight in armour, supposed to be one of the an-
cestors of the Sefton-Mallocks, the present lords of
the manor, from whom my father had the living.
Over this little seat was a deep-set Norman win-
dow, filled with the fragments of old glass, which
had been picked up in the church during its restor-
ation, and put together for the sake of presentation

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

in what was decidedly a pleasing medley. From
where I sat further down in the choir stalls, I
could see the light of the late afternoon sun strike
through the window at evensong, and clothe the
old yellow marble tomb and the noble quiet face of
Hazlewood, as with a glory not of earth.

On Sunday, he came with us to the early Eu-
chai'ist, and after service waited with me at the ves-
try door till my father should come out. Our way
to the Vicarage lay over the fields and by a little
piece of water denominated, no one knew why,
Solomon's Pond. The morning was clear and
lovely. The air was full of the scent of flowers
from the seed farms in the neighbourhood, and was
doubtless doubly sweet after the musty old church,
^vhich always did smell, my father used to say, of
the dark ages. The birds were singing joyously, and
there Avas scarcely a cloud in the sky. Altogether
it was one of those mornings on which God seems
very near, and on which it is no eftbrt to lift up
one's heart to Him. Nature, and even our bodily
life, raise us up, as though at such times there is
vouchsafed to the soul a foretaste of that transformed
earth, which is one day to take the placx^ of this.

ELTON UAZLEWOOD.

We had not waited many minutes before my
father joined us, and handing me the box contain-
ing the Communion Vessels, which for safety^s
sake we always kept at the Vicarage, walked on
slightly in front with my friend. I was too much
occupied with my thoughts to notice what conver-
sation was being held by those in front, till I heard
my father say,

" Yes, I Avould never do or say anything to force
a man to enter the priesthood. He must feel
drawn towards it by the hand and voice of God.
Circumstances must indicate the choice, and the in-
ner call certify it. I have never forgotten one
grand sermon which I heard Newman preach at
8t. Mary^s. It was on the divine guidance, and
was in illustration of so simple a subject as God's
leading the children of Israel by the pillar of cloud
and fire. The lesson has been with me ever since,
and in the smallest matters I endeavour to see
God's hand. Newman drew a striking thought
from the dual nature of the leading, cloud and fire,
according to the necessities of the hour. Some-
tunes we are guided by the light before us, some-
times by that light being made a darkneas. But

ELTON ITAZLEWOOD.

my dear Mow," (my father always spoke to a
young man as though he were young himself, he
never spoke down to him) " tlie responsibility of re-
jecting a call to higher things is equally as great as
the choifje of the higher life without the true call
from God. If you have ever seriously intended to
take orders, do not lightly, from fear of making a
false step, lay that intention aside."

" Yes, sir, I have oflen felt that," Hazlewood
said, "I have prayed to be guided aright, and
sometimes I feel that I must be a clergyman. I
feel that to choose the lower, would have a para-
lyzing effect on my whole religious life. And yet
again there are moments in which all my reli-
gion seems to go, and the world only appears\vortli
living for. At such times the quiet, uneventful
life of a clergyman fills me with dread. I fancy I
should die under the monotony. If I coiUd live
such days as I have lived here, all my life, I
should have no fear. But I am going back to the
world and to temptation, and from past experience
I know that I shall fall. Surely it is almost a
dishonour to God for one so weak and changeable
to think of setting himself up as a guide to others."

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD,

" Well," my father said, "I fancy that wavering
of spirit between God and the world, is a trial to
every beginner in the Christian fight ; but if the
heart be right and pure, it gets less and less a trouble,
and faith grows stronger and more fixed. I do not
condone the evil or sin, for of course it is an evil,
but I say it is natural, and therefore may be remedied
by God's grace. Pray, my dear fellow, pray for
light and strength, and then believe that both will
be granted."

" Thank you, sir," said Hazlewood, as they entered
the gate which led into the Vicarage garden, " I will
think over what you have said. I hope it will all
come right, rather I hope that I shall come all right."

That afternoon as Elton and I were lying out
on the grass near the summer house, smoking, he
said to me,

"Did you hear om- conversation as we came
home from church this morning? I love to talk
to your father about religion. I have never heard
anyone speak A\ith such sincerity of heart. There
is something in his manner which makes you feel
at once that the man is giving utterance to the real
feelings in his soul."

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD,

" Yes, I have often felt that," I said, << I wonder
at times what I should have been like, if I had not
had such a father/*

" In our talk this morning," he continued, " I
am afraid I nuist have secuned a thorough hypo-
crite. I know that I led him to think me better
than I am. But somehow or other, I could not tell
him what was in my mind. Do you know my
alternative course, if I do not enter the Chm-ch? It
is not journalism, as I once thought, but the stage."

" The stage ! " i

^ "Yes, I think I should make a better actor
than parson. And you know, Hany, there is a
grand opening there for a good work. I certainly
tliink that the power of the stage, were it used
rightly, would do more to revive religion in Eng-
land than almost anj-thing else."

" This is only one of your dreams, Elton."
" No, it isn't. Of course I have not decided ; I
may even yet be a parson. This pure life here
has done me a world of good, but I must see how
I feel after I get back to town. One thing I have
settled and that is, that if I am not a parson, I
shall be an actor."

ELTON UAZLEWOOD,

He appeared to lx» bent upon this course, and
the next day as I drove him to the station, he was
full of what was to me, this new idea of the stage.
He spoke hoi^efully of the future, and was entlnisi-
astic on the subject of the moral power for good of
which the stasic is capable.

It was with deep sorrow that the family bid him
farewell. They all loved him, the elders as a son,
the children as a brother, and that night at prayers,
my father, in his old-fashioned way, introduced a
collect which each one felt w^as intended as a prayer
for the departed guest

CHAPTER IV.

rpHERE are three ^vays in which we may get to
know a human soul — love, pci-sonal con-
verse, and correspondence. Love opens the door
of the heai-t, and puts the eyes on the watch to
catch what is good and noble, and even the symp-
toms of wrong, Avhich give us pain, in the beloved
one. Pei-sonal converse enables us to trace the
subtle changes to which the character is subject,
and to note the harmony of proportions, and gen-
eral tone which distinguish it. Correspondence
gives us an insight into the settled habits of
thought, Avhen the mind plays freely without check
or stimulus from contact with another mind. We
cannot truly be said to know anyone until in addi-
tion to our personal converse, we have had experi-
ence of him in a long course of letter writing. I
have often been struck by the startling difierence
between the image conceived in my mind of one
whom I had known only l)y meeting him, and the

ULTON IIAZLEWOOD.

image coRVcyod to mc aftonvardn in his <»,rre-
spondcnce. Though the two letters that follow
cannot of course reveal all Ilazlewood's niontal
characteristics, they nevertheless let as see his state
of mind at the time, and the tt)pies whieh were
then chiefly interesting to him. The fii-st letter
was written from London, a day or iwo ailer his
return to town from his visit to us.

London. Jtly, 18—

Mij dear old fellow.

Since I left you there has been a rapid
change of plans, and instead of goinp; to tlie Lakes for the
summer on a walking tour, as I had at first intended, Byrne
and I are to start to-morrow for St. Maddo on the Cornish
coast, where his uncle ha.s a place. Afterwards, we shall pro-
ceed to the continent. We intend to make Switzerland our
goal, and work up to it through France. Paris for a time will
be our headquarters, and from thence we shall make pilgrim-
ages into the country rov.nd about. It will be my first visit
to the continent, and T im almost wild with anticipation.
The flavour of your sw ct home life is still round me, and I
shall never forget those happy peaceful days I passed with
you. They did me a world of good. They shewed me what
life may be to those who love God. It is such a pity that
religion is set before men primarily as a means to righteous-
ness, instead of a means to happiness. It loses by this. Few
men want to be righteous, unless already under the influence
of religion, whereas all men, bad and good, want to be happy.
In this age when the light of reason and science is focussed

ELTOy IIAZLEWOOD.

nn the present world, human linppincss stands out as a far
more itnportant factor in the mundane organization than
human righteousness. Therefore, I am sure, religion would
gam in popularity if its votaries set it before men as the road
to happiness, and if they themselves made it a prime duty
to reveal practically to a sorrowful world, the happiness
which it bestows. Perhaps you do not think that the worhl
is sorrowful. Perhaps you do not feel the weariness and
blankness which at times steal over the soul, and make it
void. But that only proves what I say. You live in an at-
mosphere of religion. It is interwoven with your daily life.
But think of the millions of starved souls who crave satisfac-
tion and find it only in the gratification of the senses, those
lower channels of pleasure which dci)end upon the state of
the bodily system. In strength, in the exuberance of health,
the vicious may for a time find satisfaction through the iiidul-
gcneo of passion, but the day comes when the channels are
relentlessly shui, and in the darkness of the end, just when
the soul would have something to fall back upon, it lies there
h^lples.s, facing death and the black horror of despair. I
believe if we could only sec into the inner hearts of men,
especially of those who are living without God in the world,
and making a fair show of gaiety, we should find, that behind
all the lightsome foreground of pleasure, there loomed up per-
petually, this background of darkness, like a thunder cloud
which rolls over the city at evening and makes the world
colourless. Don't say that this is only my morbid tempera-
ment coming out. Ask any one you like to strike on a piano
or organ the chord that best represents the undertones of
emotion, which in a perpetual harmony make up the separate
moments of hia consciousness, and in nine cases out of ten,
you will find it will be a minor one. By the by, perhaps he
won't give you a minor cue, because he will say it makes him

ELTON UAZLEWOOD,

feel sad. But that again proves what I say. Had there not
lurked this sorrow in his soul, the minor chord would not
have called it forth. What this note of sadness is caused by,
I do not know. I think it is the consciousueso of never end-
ing change, and the Nemesis that must overtake all we love,
all we do, all we are. In the experience of every thoughtful
man there comes a moment when the soul realizes life and
death as they are in themselves, apart from the thoughts and
aspirations which fill our waking as well as our dreaming hours.
From that moment the man is a changed being ; life is in a
measure spoilt to him. The words '' What shall it profit ?"
" What shall it profit ?" ring in his ears like a death-knell,
ai.d form a solemn undertone amid the laughter of mirth,
and the plaudits of success. You remember how Mill in his
autobiography describea his experience of such a state of
mind. He believes that among Evangelical Protestants it is
such a spiritual condition which precedes the phenomenal
exaltation of so-called conversion. In my own life, I can
distinctly remember such a moment of awakening. It was at
the sea side, when I was about seventeen. I was reading
"My Novel" and had arrived at that part where Audley
Egerton feels himself grasped in the power of an incurable
disease. Suddenly, by some spiritual lexjcrdemain, his sen-
sations became mine, and dropping the book, I sat in blank
horror, facing death. All pleasure, all hope, all ambition
were blighted in an instant, and the exceeding narrowness of
my cofliu and the load of earth above, oppressed and stifled
me. It was days before the feeling wore away, and it has
never completely gone, but returns at unexpected moments,
oftentimes when I should have imagined it was farthest off.
Life has never been the same to me since. I fancy that most
men are haunted in this way by phantoms in the soul. Per-
haps it is just as well that they are. It was never intended

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

that earthly life should satisfy us. Here, then, the province
of religion comes in. Though all else change, it will abide.
" Siat cj^x dum volvitur orbis" that thought is full of com-
fort. In a world in which the whole of our mental life
is but states of consciousness produced by phtuics of being
in nature or ourselves, it is a grand privilege for the soul to
realize that there is an external absolute fact — God, unchang-
ing, unending, " the same yesterday, to-day and forever," to
■which it may turn in emergencies, to whom it may cling in
death. The life of one who can do this must be nobler,
purer, and above all happier, than that of other men. Your
own family life in its peace and purity has brought this truth
liome to me. Never shall I forget it and I hope the good it
did me will be lasting. But I am so miserably weak and
wavering, and am so naturally bad, everything seems to pull
me down so easily. However, some day I hope it will all
come right.

In the meantime, to return from airy abstractions, plea.se
give my kindest remembrances, may I say love ? to your dear
f- ther and mother, and every other member of your family.
It is strange you don't like Byrne. I know you don't, so you
need not say that you do. I also know why, you cannot
trust him. I had that feeling at first but it has worn away.
He is one of the most fascinating fellows I have ever met.
Don't get jealous, old man, he and you aflect me differently.
[ don't like him in the same way at all I but still I like him
and he sticks close to me. We have a great deal in com-
mon, too much perhaps. I think if I might classify you two,
I should put you down as my good, and Byrne as my evil
genius. And yet I know this is hard and unjust. What I
mean is, each of you in friendbhip, satisfi.es one part of my
character, you the higher and B. the lower. Yet I feel that
even this is unjust to him. I had better say no more. Good-

'-msmmesmmm

£:LTOy IIAZLEWOOD.

night, old man, and forgive this rambling epistle, which is
more of an essay on religion, or ethics, or anything else than
a letter to a friend. But I like to pour out my ideas to you
as you know. I enclose some verses which I wrote in a pious
mood on the train to town. Your mother may like to see
them. Again good-night. Your affectionate friend,

E. II.

The verses enclosed were the following. I am
not a judge of poetry, so I cannot pronounce on
their literary merit, but they seem to me to be very
beautiful, and because they come from they go to
the heart.

" Behold I stand at the door and knock."

Rev. III. 20.

" I heard a voice at midnight, and it cried,
O weary heart, O soul for which I died.
Why wilt thou spurn my wounded hands and side?

" Is there a heart more tender, more divine,
Than that sad heart which gave itself for thine ?
Could there be love more warm, more full than mine ?

" AVhat other touch can still thy trembling breath
What other hand can hold thee after death ?
Wiiat bread so sweet to him that hungereth ?

" Warm is thy chamber, soft and warm thy bed,
Bleak howling winds are round the path I tread,
The son of man can nowhere lay his head,

ELTON HAZLEWOOD. 37

" Wilt thou not open to me ? To and fro
I wander weary through the driving snow,
But colder still that thou wouldst spurn me so.

" 1 have a crown more bright than all that be,
I have a kingdom wider than the sea,
But both have I abandoned, seeking thee.

" Poor weary heart so worn and sad within,
Oh, open to thy friend, thy stay from sin,'
That I with all my love may c-itor in."

"I heard a voice at midnight and I cried,

Lord, I need thy wounded hands and side,

1 need thy love, Lord enter and abide."

Of the man Byrne, whom lie mentions, I must
say this much in passing, that I did not like him.
I thought him untrustworthy from the moment I
saw him. How far my judgment was correct
and my feai-s for his influence over Hazlcwood
were justified, future chapters in this biography
will show. It was at his rooms in Oxford the
wine party was held which I have mentioned.
What there was about the man that made me dis-
trust him, I did not know. He was clever and
handsome, but I instinctively shrank from him. I

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

felt at once that he was bad. I conld not under-
stand how Ilazlewood had succumbed to his in-
fluence. I see it all clearer now, but at that time
it was a mystery to me. I should have said that,
were sucli a thing possible, Byrne was a man
created without a soul. He had the highest
human bodixj ' velopment, he had veiy high
mental powers, but he was only a beautiful animal,
he was not a man. There appeared to be in him
no trace of the image of God, however defaced.
He had passion, without love; intellect, without
reason; beauty, without grace; the faculty of
speech, without the sense of truth ; freedom of will,
without the sense of moral responsibility; the
power of hate, without the power to sympathize.
However I must not anticipate. I merely say this
here in order to explain Hazlewood's letter and
also the presentiment of coming evil which haunted
rae for days after hearing that Byrne was to ac-
company him to the continent. The letter whicli
follows I received about a fortnight or so after-
Avards. It may perhaps be thought a trifle too
long to have been inserted in full, but I print it
nevertheless as it reveals the other side of Hazle-

(

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

wood's character, the artistic side, which it would
be unjust in a biographer to pass over.

August, 18—
The Louvre, Paris.

Mtj dear old fellow.

Here f am, pen in hand, before that master
piece of human art — the Venus of Mile. I have taken out
my tablet to write to you, and at the same time while away
the hour and a half to dinner when I expect Byrne to turn
up. He was out some where or other all hist night. We do
not enquire into each other's movements. I think it is wiser
not to do so when two fellows are travelling together. How-
ever, exit Byrne, and now let me have you all to myself.
First, let me describe my surroundings in order to explain
this letter and what called it forth. I am sitting at one end
of a bench, tolerably comfortable (a matter of no interest to
you and of much to me). Before me, within a little railing,
is the Venus. She stands out white and lovely against a rich
crimson plush curtain. At the other end of the bench on
which I sit (it is a very long bench you may be sure) is an
old peasant woman, waiting for her octogenarian husband
who is hobbling about in juvenile inquisitivcness, among the
Greek crudities and nudities in the other rooms. Here then,
I am alone in the presence of two females. Both arc old,
both bear traces of time's blighting touch. Both are silent,
and seem wrapped in the contemplation of objects beyond
our ken. One is cold and hard but beautiful and white. The
flesh of the other is warm and soft but it is ugly and brown.
The breasts of the one have suckled no children as the long
years have died away, while theot'ier beai-s all the evidences
of maternity and her now poor withered bosom has many
times over been the cradle of future nations. The brow of

ELTON UAZLEWOOD.

the one is calm, cloudless and stamped with Immortal serenity ;
the face of the other is ruffled into a thousand little furrows, as
though the cares and troubles of eighty years had run hither
and thither over it, blighting the flesh and eating their way
through it like sparks in a piece of burnt paper. The medita-
tion of one is rapt, majestic, the uplifting of the soul towards
the ideal and unattainable; the meditation of the other is
rapt and calm, but it is the outcome of vacuity of thought, the
oppression of fatigue. One stands out in semi-nudity, but
withal 'haste and grand, the other is wrapped bountifully in
blue homespun, with even the head, all, save the brown
wrinkled face and its crown of silvery hair, bound tightly in
the white folds of a grandmother's cap. To comj^ lete the
difierence, one has arms and the other has not. Surely here
is a splendid contrast. What could be better ! Before me is
ideality, beside me on the bench, (flavoured with garlic, by €.lq
by,) is reality. To sit here is an inspiration. Here is life,
there is art. Tliis is a grand opportunity to sketch to you my
theory (it may be the theory of others for all I know, but I
call it my theory because I thought it out for myself) of the
origin and true function of art. Let us start then at the bot-
tom of the ladder, at that point in the evolution of man in
which sexual generation took the place of cellular germina-
tion from within. As soon as life was made to depend on
sexual instincts, the power of sympathy, the power to respond
to the feelings of others, to experience the same passions at
the same moment, was made a prime necessity of existence.
In time, this power of sympathy became intensified by natural
selection ; it became widened in its range, it became elevated
above the mere natural animal instincts in their grossest
forms. Other desires and emotions, than merely sexual ones
began to be imparted to the more sensitive of our ancestors.
Grace, ease, comfort, happiness were reflected back to them

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

from others. All this of course must have taken ages to bring
about. Then comes a further step when by generalization
men began to abstract mentally, the particular motions, atti-
tudes, gestures, colours and facial expressions the perception
of which in others caused certain sensations in themselves.
Then ages afterwards, sculptors began to represent these
symbols, or what I will call concrete equivalents of emotion,
on creations of their own in order to stir up the emotions they
desired to produce in the minds of others by the power of
sympathy. But these equivalents of emotion were not only
embodied in the creations of the sculptor, painter and poet.
Even in architecture, that form of art which seems furthest
removed from analogy to human conditions, success depends
upon their proper adjustment and use. The architecture of
each nation reveals to us those emotions which it is the habit of
its people to enjoy most. Gothic is the architecture of nations
who demand ease, vastness, variety and power, but power
only as the result of intelligent arrangement and proportion, for
a waste of power is an evidence of weakness. The emotions
wliich these qualities inspire in man are produced by the
flowing tracery, the perpetual suggestion by the arches of in-
finite curves, the wise adaptation of slender columns and
vaulted roof, as adequate means to an end. Oriental nations
enjoy rich and gorgeous colouring, huge pillars and oppres-
sive domes, for among them power is despotic and presses
down upon the foundations of society, without restraint from
reason or proportion, and the people love to have it so. Let
us come to the conclusion to which I was bringing you, or
wanted to bring you, for I feel that what I have said is very
crude. It is for that reason I wrote it to you. I wanted to
arrange the matter more clearly in my own mind. To con-
clude, in sculpture, painting, poetry, and even in architecture,
the work of the artist is the expressing of forms of emotion

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

by the presentment of their concrete equivalents, in order to
stir up, tlirough the innate power of sympathy, these emotions
in other men. Here then we see the difTerence between life
and art. Life is complete in itself, art can never be, should
never be. The scope of art is not the world of matter, it is
the world of mind. Matter is only needful to art as the
vehicle for conveying thoughts and emotions from mind to
mind. Realism is not true art, because it makes more of the
vehicle conveying, than of the message conveyed. It attempts
to create living things in the world of life, instead of living
things in the world of mind. Life and art are therefore
essentially opposite. In life we work with numbers, in art
with x's and y's. Life is arithmetic, art algebra ; one concrete
the other abstract. But I am getting further and further out
of my depth ; and the poor, old woman has gone without my
knowing it, and the rooms are being deserted, and A^enus
stands out silent and spectral. I must go before I am turned
out.

Byrne and I have made some nice acquaintances here, though
nearly everybody is away. I had the great privilege of an
introduction the other day to H. Errington. He was over
liere getting up some part in Louis XI. which is to be pro-
duced in London next winter. He has asked me to call on
him when I return, and has partly promised me an opening
in his company, if I can satisfy his requirements. This loolis
as if I were in earnest, doesn't it ?

By the by, Errington is an old friend of Lady Massy's in
my father's parish, so I may have interest there. With love
to you and yours, Your affectionate friend,

E. II.

CHAPTER V.

rilHERE was nothing surprising in Hazlewood's
■^ success as an actor. He had all the exterior
(jualifications for liis art, personal beauty, grace
and majesty of bearing. He had also all the
requisite mental poAvers, intellectual mobility, quick
sympathy, clearness of vision, imagination and self
confidence. The actor^s life bv its excitement and
applause supplied to him, as no other profession
could, that continual stimulus Avhich his nature
required. From his first entrance upon it there-
fore, he trod the stage with a firm step, the step of
a master. His rise was rapid. In a few years he
was at the head of liis profession. His pieces ran
on for hundreds of nights. The old Tragedy
Theatre in the Strand, which he had renovated and
made his own, was crowded nightly. Statesmen,
musicians, poets, sculptoi-s, sat in wonder at the
youthful hero who seemed the embodiment of their
dreams of greatness and beauty. Their souls were

ELTON JIAZLEWOOD.

caught up by his, as in a uiagic whirlwind, and
he bore them far a^vay Ix^yond the confines of
earth, to a paradise where all was young and
beautiful, where desire never failed, where glorious
visions never faded, and where he reigned king over
the sky and earth, the land and sea, the flowers
and loves of pei'petual spring. There was no con-
scious effort in his work. As soon as he had con-
ceived a character as a whole, he became it, he
lived and moved and breathed it. Every gesture,
every act, had a new significance. Hazlewood
had melted away, and a new being, a knight of the
middle ages, a crusader king, an Egyptian priest, an
old Roman, a Greek hero, a Norse demi-god, or
whatever was the role he was playing, stood before
you. You were a^^'ed in his presence. As he
moved across the stage, you felt the earth shake
with the tread of medieval armies, you smelt the
dry hot smells of Syrian plains, or you gazed
Avondcringly into far depths of sky from the peaks
of Olympus, or you heard the plash and roar of
ocean round the bleak Northern headlands. Be-
cause he felt and saw these things, you felt and
saw them through him. Out of the dull common

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

places of existence, men and women were caught up
into this world of ai-t. They lived ibr a time in a
different atmosphere. Their hearts throbbed with
bursts of divine passion and scorn, which they had
never dreamt of in their stiff black and white social
life. Their l)eings vibrated under his power as
the dull wood and metal of an organ quiver to the
glorious conceptions of harmony which a master
mind and touch i^our through them. The reader
must not suppose that this was accomplished with-
out continual study on Hazlewood's part. Doubt-
less he worked in the same fierce and all-consum-
ing manner which generally characterized the ac-
tions of his genius. The chief difficulty he ex-
perienced in acquiring his mastei-ship as an actor
was in overcoming that defect in his composition to
which I have alluded, his lack of the power of con-
tinuity. He found it difficult- to sustain the level
of his acting. On one night, when the mood bore
him away and lifted him to supreme success, he
was magnificent. But on the next night, when the
mood came not, it was hard not to fail. By study,
this difficulty was gradually overcome, and he
obtained a mastery over his moods, by which in a

ELTON HAZLEWOOD,

jneasiirc he could control and even induce them. To
the end, Iiowcver, friends have assured me, that by
the presence or absence of a magnetic power which
kept the audience spell-bound for hours, they could
always tell whether Ilazlewood was in the mood or
not. The piece which made the greatest impres-
sion upon me was Henry the Fifth. I do not know
whether there is much in the play as it stands, for
it is impossible for me to judge imj^artially of it
now, because I can see it only as Ilazlewood re-
vealed it. To me, his acting was the incc ^ion
of nobility. His youth and grace were charming
and his kingly bearing made you feel better and
nobler for having beheld it. He was no longer
Hazlcwood, he was Henry the Fifth, the crown of
chivalry, the conqueror of France. Had he called
me I would have rushed on the stage and kissed
his hand, or knelt before him and and received the
badge of knighthood. Every attitude and move-
ment was in perfect consonance with his part.
The effect produced upon the mind by his shining
armour and his dark earnest face, I shall never
forget, when in the charge before Harfleur, the king,
fired with courage, and the determination bred of

ELTON nAZLEWOOD.

the consciousness of a right cause, cries to his
ibllowers, his voice half drownccl in the roar of
cannon, his sword ht'ld alol^ flinging back through
the smoke of battle the liames of the beleaguered
city ;

" And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture : Let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which 1 doubt not,
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath n \ noble lustre in his eyes,
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips
Straining upon the start ; the game's afoot.
Follow your spirit and upon this charge
Cry — " God for Harry, England, and St. George."

I could have followed him on such a charge up to
the very flaming breach of a forlorn hope. And
never shall I forget the look of heroism and devo-
tion, so full of melancholy, and the loneliness of
greatness, when in the open field at Agineourt, on
the eve of the battle, the king, left alone, lifts up
his face to the dark sky and prays to the King of
kings, in whase hands are the issues of life and
death ;

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

" God of battles, steal my soldiers' hearts,
Possess them not with fear, take from them row,
The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers
Pluck their hearts from them ; not to-day O Lord,
O, not to-day, think not upon the fault
My father made in compassing the crown."

One curious coincidence, as the reader will see it
to be afterwards, was that Byrne took the part of
Lord Scroop, one of the consj^irators against Henry
in the pay of France. It is only a very minor
pait, but so real was the tender scorn with which
the king upbraidal his friend's perfidy, that at the
time, it was to me unaccountably touching. Now,
as I look back upon it, it seems a curious fore-
shadowing of the end, and my belief inclines me to
acknowledge such prophecies going before, to be
not unusual in the course of life. The more I
think of it, the stranger the scene becomes. Scroop,
the convicted villain, stood there before the king,
and Henry, who had dismissed the cases of the
other conspirators, could hardly repress the out-
burst of anger and disappointment which shook his
frame. He almost crial, tears certainly stood in his
eyes, as in a slow and bnjken voice he sai(^ while
the audience were hushed and silent as the grave :

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD,

" But oh,
What shall I say to theo, Lord .Scroop, thou cruel,
Ingrateful savage and inhuman creature,
Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels,
That knewst the very bottom of my soul.
That almost might have coined mo into gol<l,
Wouldst thou have practised on me for thy use?
^lay it be possible that foreign hire
Could out of thee extract one spark of evil
That might annoy my finger ? 'Tis so strange
That though the truth of it stands off as gross
As black from white, my eye will scarcely see it ;
Oh, how hast thou with jealousy infected
The sweetness of affiance.
Shew men dutiful,

Why so didst thou, seem they grave and learned,
Why so didst thou, come they of noble family.
Why so didst thou, seem they religious.
Why so didst thou ; Scroop, I will weep for thee,
For this revolt of thine methinks is like
Another fall of man."

I saw Henry Y. three times altogether. The last
time was in May 18 — I had some business in the
city and saw Hazlewood in ti.o a^ernoon. He
had a large suite of rooms in an old fashioned
house on one of the streets which run down from
the Strand to what is now the eml)ankment. From
the windows of the rooms on one side, there was a
grpnd view of the river, and at evening of the

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

magnificent cloud-effects in the sky behind the
towers of the Houses of Parliament. The rooms
were exquisitely fitted up in Moorish style and
luxury. Eich lamps, odd little windows dimmed
with the gorgeous emblazonry of jewelled glass,
art treasures and curios, life-size statues here and
there of the Greek Gods, oriental rugs and draperies,
and pastilles burning faintly with glow^-worm Hght
in the recesses of the silent rooms, were more like
a dream of the Arabian nights than a modern
abode in the metropolis. After the play on the
night in question, Hazlewood took me home with
him to supper. He had been a splendid success.
Never had I seen him, and I often ran up from
Beaconhurst to " The Tragedy,'^ to be fired and
stimulated by a brief admission to hero-land, never
had I seen him in better form. I had sat there
entranced. The audience were enthusiastic. They
hung upon his every word, they strained their eyes
to catch his every gesture. He was rapturously
applauded after the last act, much to my delight, as
I looked down in admiration on the knightly
figure, and thought of our boyhood and how in-
timately we had known each other, then and in the

wmm

ELTON HAZLEWOOIK

years since, and that he was still my dearest Iricnd.
We walked to his rooms down the noisy Strand.
The street was crowded with people pouring out of
the different theatres, but the air was refreshing
and the press and noise of human life lessened the
mental reaction after the play. i^:\zlewood was
still under the intoxication of triumph His mind
worked rapidl)'. His ideas were lit up with the
brilliance of genius. His words came with a
grandeur and eloquence which graved them in-
stantly upon the memory. He had not quite gone
back to himself. It was Henry V. in disguise
who crossed fearlessl} the strrnm of cabs and
carriages. We b \ supper in his rooms ; his man
servant waited upon U8. Hazlewood pa'U 4 but
lightly of the meal, but di^ank heaitily of some
rare French wuie. After supper we lounged on
sofas in his study and sippal ou) 'oftee wiiile we
smoked. Then he settled down to talk. " Vane,"
he said, "I know what you are Oi king of in
your pious parson's way, you are t. living what an
extraordinary life an actor's is. 1 fancy in some
ways you envy me, don't you?"

"AVell, I think in tiie line of life you have

{

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

clioscn for yourself, you are extremely favoured
and fortunate."

" Yes, that is what I mean. Now, at the risk
of being charged with egotism, will you let me
tell you my inner feelings and aspirations, and
how the stage appears to me. Don't mind inter-
rupting me if I begin to bore you, and give me
permission on my part to wake you up if you go
to sleep. Let me ring for another cup of coffee so
that you may have strength to hear me to the end.
"Acting is a form of art, but it is the low-
est form, then comes music, then painting and
sculpture and then poetry. This is not a capri-
cious order, it does not depend upon personal
preference. I myself appreciate acting more than
poetry. But I take it, that that form of art must
be the highest, the enjoyment of which depends
least upon the sensuous nature of the percipient,
l)ecause intellectual pleasures are tlie only ones
which grow intenser as life goes on, and the bodily
powers decay. Acting reaches the intellect, but it
does so only if the three channels of speech, sight,
and hearing are in good working ordei A blind
man who enjoys hearing a play read enjoys the

ELTON HAZLEWOOV.

poetry of it, not the acting. Music does not pre-
suppose the faculty of si^eech, but its effects entirely
clei)end upon the possession of what is called a
musical ear, a possession which many great and
morally sane men have not, and which many small
and morally insane men have. Painting I put
lower than sculpture, because it involves colour
as well as form, two separate channels of sensu-
ous emotion. A blind man again who enjoys
the description of a painting, is not moved by the
picture, but the poetical emotion Avliich it contains.
In poetry, however, emotions are repeated almost
instantaneously as by a mystical telegraphy along
the wire of rhythmical language. The sensations
of pleasure are purely the result of intellectual and
not sensuous perception, unless of course we are to
regard the rhythmical effect as sensuous. But it
seems to me that the pleasure which comes even
from form and metre in poetry, is an intellectual
pleasure, derived from the appreciation of the
divine fitness and arrangement of the words to the
thoughts. That rhythm has probably a deeper
origin, I allow, but what that origin is I do not
know. Sometimes I think that the whole order of

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

liii

:lii

recurring clianges in nature is a divine rhythm,
and is music and poetry in the ears of God. May
not the love of rhythm in man be a feeble echo of
this ?

" Hallo, Hany, are you going U) sleep ? "

" No, I^m not, go on."

" Well, I must leave poetry, and confine myself
to my own art. Acting, inasmuch as it appeals so
strongly to the senses, is more immediately power-
ful in its effects than other and higher branches of
art. But by the law of equalization w^hat it gains
in concentration of power, it loses in extent and
duration. Its effects are rapid, but they are eva-
nescent. They reach only a comparatively few.
The actor at death leaves behind him no part of
himself or his art, save what lingers in the mem-
ory of former spectators, and a bubble reputation
as a successful player. He cannot hope, as a poet
can, to arouse noble and inspiring thoughts, and
create worlds of beauty in the minds of men and
women, hundreds of yeai's after his death in the
wilds of Australia or in the back woods of Canada.
No, he is blessed because Ik^ has his reward, but he
cannot expect more. Within these necessary limi-

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

tations, however, acting is a grand art. Now,
to-night, I lived and moved in a world which
never existed, in a realm of glory and imagination,
and I felt that I carried the people with me. /was
the King there. The Prince in his box forgot
for a time and looked down upon me as the true
monarch. He did me unconscious homage in his
heart. And from the Princes in the royal box
to the poorest crossing-sweeper in the gods, every
heart thrilled with noble aspirations. Sordid city
men forgot the rise and fall of stocks and the prices
of flour and pork. Withered old dowagers forgot
that their comeliness of figure was owing to tlie
skill of the dressmaker, and their blushes and
bloom the result of rouge. Young girls who ivere
lovely, forgot that the scene before them was only
wood and canvas and paint and gaslight, and one
and all felt the enthusiasm of a chivaliy which the
world has never, and can never, exj^rience, which
is only possible in the world of art. Yes, there
was not a man or w^onian, a boy or girl, in the
place, who did not for the time love me madly,
passionately, beyond the bounds of reason or con-
trol, in that mid way in which the soul of Schu-

mill

ELTON lUZLEWOOD.

bert loves, as it rushes on impetuously, without
restraint, through his Sonatas. I felt and knew ray
power ; I held the people entranced. It seemed so
])erfectly easy. I could raise my voice and the
house would tremble, I dropped it to a whisper,
and a thousand hearts stopped beating. I grew
desperate in my power. I toyed with it. The
audience and its applause were nothing to me. I
was supreme, for, far above it. Every heart there
was bound by invisible cords immediately to mine.
I could have gone to the front and, without speak-
ing, held up my little finger, and thousands of eyes
w\>uld have watched the motion, trifling and ridic-
ulous as it would have been, with the eagerness with
which men in Parliament, at a critical moment,
scan the expression of their leader's face.

" I have given you now a description of an actor's
feelings. Can anything be more delightful ? Can
power ever be more absorbing ? Can any work,
less, of course, than cleric's work, be more noble
than to lift up, as I know I did to-night, gross,
sordid hearts with emotions whicli must, as a grand
memory, cling to them in after life ? Don't you

ELTON lUZLEWOOD.

think me very conceited to be talking to you in
this wav ? ''

" No, I don't, Elton, I know you are just open-
ing up to me your inner feelings, and in some way,
as you were acting this evening, a dim conscious-
ness of what they were came over me. As you
say, this subtle power must be intoxicating."

" Yes, it is. But do you remember that 1 used
to toll you that my brain was haunted by a
thought, or the ghost of a thought, which spoilt all
life to me at the pinnacle of its successes ? "

" Yes, perfectly."

" Well, the thought or the feeling came over me
to-night, in the midst of the play. It came upon
me suddenly, with a click, as I used to say. It
was in that scene between Henry and Catherine.
Just when all eyes were upon me, I felt the ice of
the shadow fall across my soul."

He raised himself on his elbow and looked
across at me as he said this with an expression of
intense melancholy.

''Yes, it was icy," he continued, "it almost
staggered me. For a moment I could not speak,
but it passed away again, leaving my soul tired

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

and ompty. And what do you think It was ? It
was the thought of the end, the tedious death-lnxl,
the fading daylight, the rattle in my throat, the
final agony, the struggle and the dark grave."

He spoke very solemnly and with an absent air,
as though while talking to me he was looking at
something else.

"Yes, Harry, after all, you have chosen the
better part."

CHAPTER VI.

TTAZLEWOOD'S marriage was as much a sur-
prise to me, I had almost said shock, as
anything which liapi)ened in his checquered his-
tory. Why it should have suri)riscd me, I do not
know, but it seemed to bring him down to earth.
He had been to me before an ethereal being, one
set apart above our ordinary commonplace life and
affections. J was a world in which love mi<rht
enter as a ^jure, divine emotion, but marriage
never. It ^vas like the prose paraphrase of a
grand poem. It was one thing to know Hazlc-
wood loved and another to know he wanted to get
married. Perhaps, too, there lurked a little jeal-
ousy in my heart and a fear lest his marriage
should do what mine had not, put an end to our
friendship. Even while I had tliese thoughts, my
reason convinced me that thev were foolish and
wong. In spite of his ideality and my idealiza-
tion of him, Hazlewood was a man after all ; and

ELTON ITAZLEWOOD.

why should he not enjoy that greatest of all mun-
dane blessings, domestic love and life. As a
Christian priest, I should be the last one to s[X'ak
derogatively of Holy Marriage. But I write my
thoughts to show how Hazlewood appeared to me,
and that my sense of his su|)eriority and spu'itual-
ity was still dominant. There are few who are so
free from sujierstition as not to look for omens on
their wedding da}-. Strangely prophetic were
those on that twentieth day of Novemlx^r. The
dawn rose red and foreboding. For a few mo-
ments only, two long streaks of light broke hori-
zontally through tlie banks of dull slate-coloured
clouds which blocked the path of day. These rays
striking upon some white cloud masses in the West
were reflected upon the earth, reversing the shadows
of trees and other objects in the landscape, produc-
ing a weird sensation in the mind, as though one
were in a dream and saw tilings backwards. Na-
ture appeared as though it were evening, while the
mind knew that it was morning. These rays were
soon withdrawn, and the cloud openings closed up,
and the world became a dull grey. The air was
sultry, and the sea, which had been noisy all night,

■

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

broke nnocaslnprly In a dlrgc-Hko monotony. I
suppose; there had Ikh'u a storm out in mid ocean
some days before, and the rollers we saw liad been
caused by it, as there was b'ttle wind to speak of
on shore. In the garden, and round the ehurch,
save for this sea-roar, there was a deathlike still-
ness. Traces of summer were still visible in the
green of the grass and shrubs, but the whole earth
looked sepulchral and bare. Its sorrow and deso-
lation seemetl of a sudd(>n to have become oj)pres-
sively patent. It wa.s like the face of the dead
when the sheet is pulled back, and the very resem-
blance of death to life suggests to us overpower-
iiigly the diilerence between life and death.

I was in my study writing, ^^'hen a carriage
drove up to the door ; there was a ring at the bell
and Mr. Hazlewood, two ladies and a gentleman
(the gentleman was Byrne) were anuounced by the
maid. I was astonished beyond measure at the
arrival, but the ladies entered and were introduced
to my wife. They were a Miss Ingoldsby and a
Mrs. Carter-Savage. We sat chatting together as
pleasantly as we could, while the carriage was kept
waiting at the door, but we were none of us at our

INI

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

ease. I did not like tht3 women and I could see
that my wife did not. Bynie, as I have said, I
alwav s distrusted and devested. Even Haziewood
did not appear at his best. Both ladies had a
great deal of manner. They were very enthusias-
tic about the country and the " charming, old
church,'* and the " cosy, little Vicarage.'' But on
my life I could not discern the meaning of this
early morning call. Suddenly, Haziewood turned
to me and said,

" Harry, old man, do you know what we have
come for ? "

The ladies, especially Miss Ingoldsby, appeared
self conscious and looked on the ground, and then
Mrs. Carter-Savage, raising her eyes, smiled feebly
at Byrne.

" No, I don't, exactly," said I, somewhat rudely.

" Well, I, rather we, have come to get you to
marry us."

" What, all four ? "

" Oh, no, no thank you," said Byrne, dryly.

Whereat Mrs. Cai'ter-Savage tossed back her
daiaty little head and laughed musically.

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

" Byrne, don't ha rude/' said Hazlewood, « you
are fearfully jealous, you know you are."

Byrne smiled softly at this.

" No, Hariy, not four, two. Miss Ingoldsby and
myself. ^X(i wanted our marriage to Ix; quiet,
without any fuss, and so I thought Beaeonhui-st
was the place for us. Besides, I have always prom-
ised you that you should marry me. So here we
are. ]S"ow, old fellow, we haven't much time to
spare," (here he looked at his watch) " as it is al-
ready eleven and we have to drive back to Chill-
ington in time to catch the one o'clock train. I
must ask you to be quick."

I was terribly taken aback, and could not say
any pretty things, but my wife had more presence
of mind and offered her congratulations. I felt
disappointed, bitterly disappointed, and Mas sure
Hazlewood had been entrapped. Mi&s Ingoldsby
had a pretty face, but Mrs. Savage was decidedly
a woman of the world, and there was something
Satanic in Byrne's look and manner. Yet what
could I sav or do?

As I led the way across the garden to the
church, I felt like an executioner preceding his

■;l !

ELTON JIAZLEWOOD,

victim to the block. Tlio duirch was Icy cold,
and as I unlocked the door and entered, the warm,
moist air, which ruslied in after me, was instantly
condensed upon the Avails, and made the building
damp. The place A\'as grey and dreary, and a
sparrow, which ciime in at the open door, just as I
was beginning the Psalm, disturbed us very much,
the poor thing flying about desperately like an
unquiet spirit which seeks to escape from itself and
cannot. It darted in and out under the arches of
the nave, and then up into the (chancel, where it
wheeled round us several times, just escaping om'
heads, and then battered itself liopelessly against the
east window till it fell on the altar exhausted.
My wife had draggal the gardener into her service
as belloAVS-blower, and at the close of the ceremony,
in order to brighten things, struck up the wedding
march. But she was not familiar with the instru-
ment, and the gardener was less so. She pulled
out a screaming stop to begin with, and the organ
crealved and groaned, as poor old John emptied
his own bellows in endeavoring to fill those of the
instrument. To cap the climax, the damp had
affected the key-board and one of the notes

ELTON HAZLEWOOD,

cyphered with a dismal wail, which never altered
or abated, till poor old John, who had nearly blown
the s\\'ell-box open in his Herculean zeal, sud-
denly stopped from sheer exhaustion, and all the
music and wailing whistled grimly and went out.
Altogether it was the most dismal wedding I ever
remember. The bridal party, I think, felt de-
pressed too. Poor dear Elton looked nervous, but
Mrs. Elton was strangely self-possesscxl. My wife
offered to improvise a breakfiist, but as none of
the party would hear of this, after a glaas of wine
and some cake they left. Then the sun came out
and the feeling of gloom wore away, and we were
thankful that the return to Chillington would be
more cheery than the drive here had been.

This touch of brightness seemed to have been
more tridy pro])hetic than tlie gloom, for the letters
which I received from time to time were overflow-
ing with peace and happiness. His wife was a
treasure and he the most fortunate of men. She
was well received in society and Mr. and Mrs.
Elton Hazlewood went everywhere. His fame as
an actor increased daily. ^' Never," tlie Times
said, ^< have the best traditions of the English stage

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

^■B

been so marvellously exemplified as in the aetino^
of Mr. Hazlewood. In him the English drama
touches its high water mark." Hazlewood had built
himself a house on St. John's Wood Road, and
furnished it like a ])alace. I dined tliere on Sun-
day when I happened to be in town. Mrs. Hazle-
wood was very charming, but a trifle too theatrical
in her manner to please me. Byrne was also
there. I cannot, however, remember that any-
thing worth rejx^ating was said or done on tliat
evening. About a year afterwards Hazlewood
wrote in an ecstasy of joy to annouce the birth of
a son. Each following letter was full of the do-
ings of this wonderful child. Then about three
years afler tliat a change came over his correspond-
ence. His mind set^mal worried and clouded, but
I could not divine the cause. Then I did not
hear from him for a long time, till one Wednesday
afternoon in the lx?ginning of May, I received a
telegram asking me to go to him at once.

It was past nme o'clock when my cab drove up
before his house in toAvn. A page opened the door,
and on learninij' mv lume escorted me down the
long liall, wainscoatcnl in black oak and liungwith

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

shields and suits of old armour, to a deep set door
behind the grand staircase. My attendant knocked,
and a voice said, " come in/* The boy opened the
door slightly and bade me enter, then closed it at
once, as soon as I was inside. The large room
with its rows of book-shelves, dark hangings and
sombre pictures, was dimly lit by a shaded lamp
upon the table. A fire burnt low on the antiqae
hearth, and a little terrier, which was curled up on
a rug before it, rose and barked once at me as I
entered. Then all was silent. At the table, his
face burial in his hands, sat Elton Hazlewood.
He made no movement, he uttered no word of
welcome. I was so filled with alarm that I stood
there speechless, unable to move hand or foot. I
suppose the silence only lasted a few seconds, but
it seemed ages to me. Then Elton raised his head.
His face gave me a shock. He looked as if he
had died and come to life again, and the shadow
of death had not quite worn away. His features
were ashy pale, his eyes were hollow and sunken,
and burnt with an unnatural and consuming fire,
but he was calm, very calm. It was the calnniess
which horrified me more than anything. I ran

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

I J

toward him impulsively and put my arm round
him.

" Elton, my dear old fellow, Avhat has happened ?
Do tell me."

He smiled cynically, and rof?o and stood with his
back to the fire place, giving me the chair he had
left. The smile was horrible, so forcal, but it was
nothing to the suppressed passion of the hollow
voice.

^' Oh, nothing much, old man, only a domestic
episode, a society scandal. We shouldn't take
these things too seriously, you know. Of course
we shouldn't, but it's damned hard not to. Excuse
me, Harry, I forgot you were a parson."
, " Don't mind, for Heaven's sake go on."

*• Oh, it's only a domestic episode, nothing more.
Don't be so impatient, you will know it all in
time. The papers will be full of it. Little street
arabs will ha>vk it about town. Broken down
news-vendors will scribble it in coloured chalks
upon the pavements. You will know it all in
time. Do you find it warm in here ? I was self-
ish in asking you to come to-night. Your wife, I
am afraid; will never forgive me for bothering you.

f f

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

It was vory -^^cak of me, but I needed you. I
could not trust myself alone. What nonsense ! of
course I eould. It^s nothing, it's positively noth-
ing, but it's damned hard. Ha, ha, swearing
again. Pardonnez moi. Monsieur Ic Pasteur."

" Elton, what has hai)pencd ? Do tell me and
don't talk in this wild way."

" Tell you ?" he said, standing ereet, his eyes
flashing fire, '^ tell you ? Do you think, you fool,
that I am going to tell you more than I have ? Do
you think my throat is iron to utter the burning
words w4iich proclaim my shame ? Do you think
I could trumpet my dishonour, even to you?
Guess what has happened yourself, I cannot tell
you more than I have. AMiat is it which in an
instant would crush you do\vn in youth and
strength and blight your life and make you curse
God? Think, say, what is it? For that is what
has hajjpened to me."

His voice rose to its full force as he said this,
and his anger was so terrible that I felt a sensation
of cold creeping through my veins. " I know
now, Elton," I said, to calm him, " your wife,"

" Has gone," he added.

ELTON ITAZLEWOOD,

« By herself?"

" No.'*

'•With Byrne f'

" Yes."

I do not know what made me say Byrne's name,
but it came to my lips spontaneously, as by that
mesmeric suggestiveness Avhich we experience in
moments of over excitement. " When did it hap-
pen, Elton ?"

" God knows, last night, I think, while I was
courting and kissing poor Marguarit-e's painted
cheeks in Faust. She was not here when I got
home. They fled at once, I have since found out,
to the continent."

" But what are you going to do about it ?"

" Do ? Why, let them hug and kiss each other
as much as they please, and slide smoothly into
damnation for it."

"Oh, Elton, don't talk in that way."

" Now don't begin a homily, young man. I
am not myself to-night. You wouldn't be if you
had gone through what I have. No man would..
The whole universe has been blasted, the world
and God wiped out, and I only am left, shattered

(

ELTON HAZLEVrOOD.

by the lightning which unfortunately does not
always kill when it strikes.'^

" And the child f

" Yes, she left him ; poor degraded wi-etch, she
had not even brute instinct enough to mind having
him.''

" Surely for itho. child's sake, you will make
some movement in the matter."

" No, Harry, I wont, not even for the child's
sake. Wait a minuute and I will tell you why."

He went to a table and poured out a glass of
brandy and water, which he tossed off at a gulp,
and then returned to his former position before the
fire.

''Why not? this is why, and it is sufBcient
reason to me-^ecause she loves kirn. I found that
out by accident about a month ago. Up to that
time, I had loved her devotedly, I had believed in
her implicitly, but with the discovery, my love
vanished. I was chilled to the heart. A statue
could not have been more incapable of love than I
was. I was cold to her, fiendishly cold and cniel.
I could not help it. T did not like to see her
touch my child. She was nu'ne no longer, she was

(

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

his. The true roots of marriage are in the sonl. I
knew ^vhat was coming, so I took the old nurse
into my confidence, and bribwl lier to guard the boy.
My wife noticed ihe (-hange in me, and on her
pai-t, tok'ration turned to liate. Byrne continual
to visit the house, and I did not even take the
trouble to turn him out or keep them apart. Then
came a scene. Harry, do you remember my
making a sort of confession to you once at Oxford
as we stood on Magdalen >ridge ?"

^^ I do, distinctlv.'^

" Did you know, I did not, till I heard it from
my wife's lips, that I was a murderer ? I loved a
young girl there, a girl in humble circumstances ;
her father drove a brewer's cart, but she herself
was one of those delicately refined beings who are
sometimes found in the houses of the poor. My
love killed her. I did not know this till my wife
told me. Byrne knew it, for he left Oxford the
year after I did. He told my wife. He has car-
ried the dread secret about with him for years. It
was through him that I got to know the girl. He
had plotted a vile and diabolical plot from the be-
ginning and I in my weakness and folly fell a vie-

ELTON llAZLEWOOD.

tim to it, and hocamo an infitrumont in his hands.
You were ri,o«ht about that man. He has boon
a serix^nt in my path for ycai-s, and I liavo been
too l)lind lo see it. U ever a devil walks in human
form, it is Byrne. I know him now. The thought
of him fills me with a horror whieh 1 eannot ac-
count for. I feel as if some day, he Avill work
my doom. It was doubtless becau.se of his part
in the affiiir, that lie never dared to tell me the end.
He alone knew it, till he told my wife, and when
her lips hurled the story at me, and cut into my
soul with the taunts of feminine jealousy, impotence
and hate, I cowered before her, like a convicted
felon, and could not utter a word in my defence.
From that moment my doom was sealed. It was
only a question of time. My wife and I never
spoke again, and never shall. Oh, Harry, be-
tween the sense of guilt which, believe me, has
haunted me night and day wnth a ])ersistencc that
would have been impossible in the case of other
men, nine out of ten of whom would have tossed it
from them as a bygone folly, and the sense of
present anguish as a just retribution, I am utterly
crushed. AVhen you get home, not here, I am too

ELTON ITAZLEWOOD.

> i

Avickcd, you mi«;lit siiy a prayer for mo, and alter
the Lord's prayer if you can " Forgive us our tres-
j)asses, even if as yet we cannot foricive them that
tres])ass a«j;ainst us ?''

" 1 will, Elton, but it can only he lor a short
time, the prayer nuist soon return t(j the exact
words of Christ."

He did not notice this remark, but added " I leave
the stage at once. AVlien a man has once played
in a r(»al drama, he docs not care for mock ones.
Some men of course would not mind. That is
what I have been saying to myself all day, over
and over again till the noon turned to twilight and
the twilight faded into dark. But I am not like
other men. It would kill me. I must go, I have
made my plans, and shall sell off the house and
settle in the country. If there is a place near you,
I will take it, and the diild and I can live there in
retirement. I will write for the magazines and de-
vote myself to my boy and his education. Let us
go out now, this heat and silence are insufl'crable.
It is i)ast twelve already, but I cannot sloop, and
do not want to be left alone ; so if you are not too
tired, take a glass of sherry and come with me."

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

The disburdening of Jiis soul had done Iiini
good. He was k^eoming more like himself again.
The night was elear and very cliilly, and the
stars were shining brilliantly. As wc went down
the street, we turned \\\) our eoat-eollars and
Malked for a time in silenee. Hazlewood wore a
soil, felt hat, whieh he drew down over his eves.
and whenever we met any one he lifted his
shoulders till his face was half hidden in the
collar of his coat, making recognition impossible.
His step was quick and nervous, and mc
walked on down interminable streets, till I,
who was not borne up b}' the same mental
agony as he, felt thoroughly exhausted. At last
we reached Oxford Street, and turnal down Bond
Street to Piccadilly, and then on to the HaN -
market, ^Yliitehall and Westminster Bridge.
There we stopped and rested, looking over the
j)arapet at the dark river that rushed b}^ under-
neath us. All this time Hazlewood had spoken
little, and that only at intervals. Now, the
grandeur of this midnight scene aroused him.
The clock tower of the parliament buildings sto(jd
up dark and distinct against the starlit sky, and

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

'il ':

\\ ■ ^

when the half-lionr cliimod — it was half past
one — the vibrations floated oif as if on angePi
wings over the sleeping city. The river was
black, so black as to look absolutely solid, but the
rov/s of lights opposite and the reflections of sev-
eral stars danced upon its surface. We stood in
the centre of the human world, and the majesty of
the place, which to me is incomparably greater
than that which any other city can present, over-
whelmed us. " Thank God for this place,"
Hazlewood said, " and thank God for that river.
It is my refuge in time of trouble. Over and over
again I have come here in houi^s of anxiety or
depression, and the solemn, soundless language of
that dark stream, which once, ages ago, rolkd by
imder these winds and stars through wood(Kl soli-
tudes, has been to me the voice of God. It told
me of the passing away of time, of the nothingness
of man, of the vanity of human wishes, and now
it tells me of the vanity of human anguish. It is
death and yet it is life, and life because it is per-
j)etual deatli. We speak of tlie river as being
changeless. We think of it as of a living thing.
It is not What is a river ? It is the perpetual

ELTON UAZLEWOOD.

sweeping away toward.-j the unknown sea of parti-
cles of water never to return. What an extraordi-
nary lesson this teaches us ! We see decay and
change around us here, in that abbey, w here tlie
dust of dead monarchs lie** softly under the tawdry
jewels that were ' /Uried with it ; in tliose long, low
buildings by the water\s edge, where the lines of
liuman power over the globe converge and paii:
again. But in tlie river under us, the soul fancies
it has found an eternity, when behold, it looks and
the river too is seen to be but an eternity of death.
It is all \vondcrfid, inscrutable, it passes knowledge,
we cannot grasp it, the thought is overwhelming.
It is so fidl of sorrow that it liglitens sorrow. If
God coidd be to me again as He once was, the aeons
to come would j>erha|)s not Ikj so mysterious and
dark. I do not fear hell, I fear the unknown,
the drifting on and on down the rivers oi oceans
of iK?q)etiial change. Tl e thought of annihilation
would be heaven to me. Y(^t these emotions, what
are thev after all ? The vibrations of nerve fibres
in the bmin. How many a grand sunset has been
spoilt Ut me by my realizing in moments of the

most rapt, spiritual exaltatiuu, that the glories

ELTON HAZLEWOOD,

which were to me the domes and ramparts of
heaven, '\vcre l)ut the mechanical action upon the
retina of rays of hght refracted by the acpieous
vapours in the air. Yet I cannot believe that tliat
is all. I love to think of the soul as having size,
of our dim and underlying consciousness as of a
realm \'ast and eternal over which the years roll,
bringing with them germs of further powere and
glories of the coming hglit, till somewhere in the
future the dav-dawn shall break, and the shadows
flee away, and the souFs wide empire of land and
sea, of thought and emotion, be unveiled forever.
And so the river rolls by, and wc roll by, and it
and wc are nothing, and everything is nothing,
save the relentless whirlwind which bears us on«
ward into notliingness. Harry, I leel better for
the walk or the river. I did not think I could
have talked as I have to-night. We had better
return, it will soon be getting light." Day had
actually dawned as we turned up St. John^s Wootl
Koad. Before Hazlewood showed me to my room,
he took off his shoes in the u])per passage and told
me to do the same. Then he led me softly into
the nui'sery, to the cot in which his boy lay. The

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

little head was thrown back, and the long, dark
ringlets lay in confiLsion over the pillow. He was
a lovely child. Hazlewood bent over and kissed
him, and the little fellow opened his eyes for a
moment in his sleep. He was the image of his
father, but with chubby baby features.

"Hush, darling," Hazlewood said, as he rose
and we crept away. " Poor little shamed mother-
less boy. God help us both. Good-night, my
dear old friend. I have been cruel and unkind
to you to drag you out and burden you with my
sorrow, but, Harry, you have saved my life, you
and that innocent little angel in there."

He shook my hand warmly as we parted, and
my heart was full of thankfulness that I had been
of any use to him, or what was just the same, that
he should think I had. His voice had softened as
he said " good-night," and his face had lost its hard,
unnatural lines, and I thought his eyes were full
of tears.

m-'^ \i

CHAPTER VII

A T Beaconhtrrjsf, abonf a quarter of a mile from
■"^^ the Yicara^*, fr<mi whkii k is Boparatecl by
two fields, crossed dkS^m&lly by wiiat soon l)ecamc
a well-trodden jya^h.^ them m an old stone honsc
At one time it was evidi^^fy jfurf of an ancient
castle, the ruins of \ ' Ik around and are
worked into the gardea w»IIh aiKl vineries. It
stands on a l)lufr headland which 1<x>ks f... out over
the sea, and is a consj/icw/us object to sailors and
fishermen in tjjc vimmidi. The noise vi' the sea
penetrates its mgmive wtMn *od nndlionc*! win-
dows, and at niglj< ;/ • F ]mv*t naf in the old librar}"
and listened in the MUidm^ some curious cave-for-
mation in the rocks below, so split and hurled
bade the breakers that ihere came round me
through the w^alls :ind floors a solenm undertone,
like the deep notes of .a oi'gan. This house
Hazlewood took for himj^h and his little bov.
He brouijht with hiui lh<' < lithful old mu'se who

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

became also his housekeeper and ruled his estab-
lishment for him. Ilazlewood's love for his child
Ix^came the one paasion of his life. So completely
had it mastered him, tliat I believe, and so he al-
ways declared, that he left the world with its gains
and applause without a pang. Of that other love,
the love for his wife, which at one time had been
so strong, he never spoke. I think it never re-
turned. That there mn^i have been a void in
his heart, I do not dou})t, but the discovery that
she loved another see; I to have blighted the
love instantly, and seareti into numbness the spot
wlirre it had lx'( n. ^e<»ple often sjX'ak won-
derinirlv uf a mother's love for her child, thev look
upon it as the height of devotion, Imt I think tin's
is a mistake. T think that wlien w mini lovcw iiis
child, he loves it with a strength and intensity of
which a woman can have no idea. I 2:rant vou
that such cases are raiw Thcv are not natuiaL
That is just tlu» reason why the love is so absorb-
ing. AfTcctlons which do not arise from natural
instincts, Init nre the result of jiei^sonal aftinity l)e-
tween individuals, are of all the most intense. In
the bond between a mothc>r and child this higher

ir i r

f '

ELTON JIAZLEWOOD.

Ill i

love is frequently superadded to the natiu'al ma-
ternal and filial instinct, and the relationship is
thereby strengthened. Most of us have known
instances in which a grown man's love for his
mother lias IxMin so full, as to leave no room for
ordinary conjugal aifection.

There was something inexpressibly painful in
observing Hazlewood's devotion to his child. It
was too absorbing, it gave him no ease, he was per-
petually anxious about him. It was the one bright
spot in the whole world to him. I could not fail
to note however that it had a marvellous effect
upon his character. Had it been less intense, and
more reasonable, more healthy, in other words, and
exerted the same influence over him, it would have
been only an unmixed good. It gave him that
which his nature most needed — a continuous im-
pulse in one settled direction. It supplied that
motive power ^vhich he had lacked. He worked
at his writing regularly now. not by fits and staits
as hitlu^rto. He was less carried away by impulse,
and his moods were subordinated to and controlled
by love for his child, the thought of his boy's
future, and anxiety i^)r his welfare. But, as I

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

have said, this love \\ as too strong, too uncontrol-
able. Hazlewood was conscious of this, as he
always was of his weak points.

^' I love that child too much," he said to me
once. " It is very wicked of me, but I cannot
help it. He seems to me to take the ])lacc of God.
I never feel so near Heaven, as when I kneel down
with him at night by his bedside, and he prays in
his sweet innocent way for us both. In fact, I
don't seem to feel any need for God or Heaven, so
so long as I have the love of him to guide and
console and purify me."

" That isn't right, Elton, we ought to love our
dear ones in God, and onlv in subordination to our
love for Him."

"I wish I could do that; but it is different
with you, Harry. You have your wife and your
home and your little children, so many outlets for
your affection. I have one, only one. You
think I am foolish to be so nervous and to worry
about little Elton so much, don't you ? "

" I do, rather."

** Harry," he said, " I don't want to shock you,
but do you know what my child is to me ? He is

■

ELTON HAZLEWOCD.

I :,

i:!

tlie one anchor which holds my reason firm amid
the shocks and storms of seas that won Id have
borne down many a saner man to horrible ship-
wreck. I am not a sane man, my impulses and
passions are too violent. With a strong love for
another I am ail right, but without that, after

wliat has passed, without that " he hesitated

as he uttered these words and his eyes had an ab-
sent look ; then he added " Harry, let us change
the subject.''

Little Elton certainly returned his father's de-
votion, and as he grew into a handsome boy the
likeness to his father increased almost every day.
This resemblance was not merely an external one ;
it stamped equally his inner mental nature. He
had the same quick outbursts of intellectual power,
the same passionate tenderness, and also the same
weakness of moral fibre as characterized his father.
To know the chikl was to love him, and to love
him was to sorrow for him, to be filled with a
painful wonder.

When Hazlewood has run up to town for a day,
I have often taken the b^y with my little ones
along the sands that skirt the base of the clifts.

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

At such times, I remember, his conversation has
surprised me beyond measure ; it revealed such in-
tense thought and imagination. He was always
glad to have a talk with me as a clergyman, when
his father was not by to make him feel bashful, or
reprove him for his inquisitivene , He ^ )oked
upon me as the people (^f Isra< i looked upon the
twelve spies after their return, as one who could
give minute and particular information of the
promised land. He asked me one day if there
WTre any roofs in Heaven, and if so why ? because
there would not be anv rain or cold there. Then
he wanted to know how, if it were day there all
the time, we should be able to see the stars, " for I
like to look at the stars," he said. He wondered
if there were any horses there, and if God ever
drove out with grand armies and processions, as
the kings do in his story books. One day, he
asked me if he had any mother. He had asked
Hannah this once, he said, but she had told him
not to ask questions. Of coiu'se I had to say yes,
and tried to change the subject ; but he -was not to
\yd turned off in this way. If he had a mother
ought not he to pray for her, as my little boys did

■■■

ELTON TTAZLEWOOD.

for their mother? The chil(h'on liad evidently
h(M a e-ouncil on the siibjeot. Then lie ^vanted to
know if his mother would go to Heaven, and if ho
would see her there. We had a sur})lieed ehoir at
Beaconhui'st and in order to delight Hazlewood, J
had a cassock and surplice made for little Elton, as
soon as he was old enough, and he regularly, at
the morning and afternoon services on Sunday, led
the choir into the chancel from the vestry under
the tower. The old people in the congregation
would turn and look at the little fellow as he led
the way up the aisle with all the dignity of a mas-
ter of ceremonies, his grave spirituelle face fixed
earnestly upon the altar, and his dark ringlets fail-
ing over his shoulders. He never looked to the
right hand or to the left, but walked on slowly to
his seat which was next to mine. Hazlewood I
know used to be in ecstasies over his little white-
robed angel, and he did all he could to foster the
idea, which the boy had himself suggestal, that he
should be a clergymen Avlien he grew up. But the
inherited defect in the little fellow's nature did not
escape the anxious father's eyes, and many a
deep musing and sleepless night did the symptoms

ELTOX UAZLEWOOl).

of it caiiso liim. But, as I oflon told him, it is
easy to correct when young the tendencies of a
child's disposition. A wise and firm governor can
bend and mould them to what is good and noble,
and start his charge fair in the race with his face
to the goal. " No, Harry," Elton would say,
" not easily, not when the defect is a deficiency ;
only God in his future guidance through life can
make up for that. You may train and cultivate a
child's mind but you cannot supply to it w^hat is
not tliere." I do not suppose that I could fully
sympathize v>ith Hazle wood's fears as a father.
My chubby little ones, dearly as I loved them,
hardly cost me one anxious moment. But his na-
ture w^as deeper than mine and he could therefore
read more deei:>ly into that of his boy. However,
in spite of care and occasional gloomy forebodings,
that period, all too short, in w^hich Hazlewood and
his boy were our close neighbours, was an exceed-
ingly happy one. To be sure, thcrf^ always
loomed up in the background that terrible skel-
eton w^liich we felt w^as never far off although we
did not allude to it. Haz'ewood w^as an exquisite
rider and as he kept tw^o hoi-scs, I often accom-

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■I

ELTON JIAZLEWOOD.

panled him in deliglitful excursions to places in
the neighbourhood. The motion and excitement
of riding, no matter in what mood he had started
out, would soon throw his spirits into the maddest
joy. I have often pulled in my horee after a
gallop and watched him ride madly on, and then
turn and come back to me, his cheeks flushed, his
eyes dancing with sheer animal glee, and his face
radiant as it had been at school. He rose early
and generally did his "svTiting for the day Ixiforc
breakfast. Pie spent the rest of the morning in
reading, and the afternoons he gave to his boy,
while the evenings were usually passed with me
either at his house or mine, where my dear wife
ever made him a welcome guest. It was very
rarely that ^\c did not see him every day. Once
two days passed without his coming to the Vicar-
age. I was very busy at the time and so did not
notice his absence, but my wife, with feminine in-
stinct, divined that something was wrong, and so at
her instigation, on tlie second day I walked over
the tields to Hazlewood Castle, as we used to play-
fully call my friend's house.

It was about five o'clock of an afternoon in the

? -

■■

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

early part of September. The air was clear and
cool. I heard the children's voices, the clink of the
blacksmith's hammer, the lowing of cattle, and other
sounds from the little \ illage which lay in a hol-
low beyond the chm'ch and was now obscured from
view save for a few roofs and chimneys with their
wreaths of blue curling smoke. Hazlewood, I
found, was not at home, but Mrs. Haimali told
me she thought that he was out on " the point."
The point was at the edge of the bluff on which
the castle stood. It was a slight plateau of grass
and ferns, which overhung the cliff, and Avas
reached by a zigzag path about twenty feet in
descent. In olden times it had evidently been
used as a place of signalling, and had given the
name of Beaconhurst to the village. Hazlewood
was lying on the grass, his head resting on his
hand, and his eyes fixed on the glorious purple
and gold mists that hid the distant shores of
France. He did not hear me come, and started
when he saw me. His eyes were sad and his
features looked haggard.

" Ah," he said, as I came, " who told you ? "
*' Told me what ? I don't know anything. I

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

only came to see why you had not been over to
our house for two whole days ; my wife feared you
might be ill."

" It was very goc>d of her to tliink of mc. No,
it was not that — something else/'

He paused, and I sat on the grass beside him
and waited, without speaking, looking at the sea
which lay at our feet. Presently he said, " Harry,
look out over there." He pointed with his hand
to the purple mists before us, which were dulling
into gray, while the streaks of water beneath them
were a translucent and fairy green. " Over there,
beyond those mists, miles away, there is a grave ;
some one I was once very proud of and loved bet-
ter than anything else in the whole world, lies in
it. She died last week in childbirth. I only
heard yesterday. Don't ask me any more. She
is dead to me now, forever, forever."

He turned over and hid his face down under
the long tufts of grass. I felt that even my pres-
ence was an intrusion, so I crept noiselessly away,
and my wife and I kept the secret to ourselves.
When we next saw Hazlewood, the traces of a
shadow were still over him, but he appeared to be

ELTON HAZLEWOOD,

just the same as l^efore; and soon the incident
passed from our ordinary thoughts.

But the deepest lines which the chisel of God
graved upon his heai-t and soul, and which fixed
the i^ermanept expression of that souFs life, were
not made tnca but after. It was the February
after, and a, wild, dark Febiiiary it was. Never
have I experienced such winds and storms or heard
the sea so boisterous. Many sad hearts there were
along the ccast, for almost every mail brought its
tidings of shipwTcck and disaster. There was
much sickness too in the parish, for the Winter
had been a wai-m and unhealthy one, and all
contagious diseases showed a tendency to become
epidemic. A kind of low fever had broken out in
the place, and my children had been down with it,
but thanks to my dear wife's motherly watchftil-
ness, the little ones had all recovered.

The fifteenth of February was little Elton's
seventh birthday. He had been an exception to
the general run of the children in the parish, and
had escaped all illness during \he Winter. His
father took every possible care of him, and he had
not l)een allowed to come neav our house for over

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

a month, nor did our children go to see liim.
But his birthday, his father told me, would be
nothing to him unless I went up and had dinner
at the castle, in place of the party which was
usually given to celebrate the event.

The clouds were dark and lowering, and the
evening strangely still, as I started off to the six
o^clock dinner. Hazlewood had not yet returned
from riding, but on my entering the hall, little
Elton looked down at me from the curving stair-
case, and putting his face through a hole in the
bannisters, called out :

" la that you. Uncle Harry? I*m so glad you
have come. Daddy has given me a pony, a real,
live pony, that I am to learn to ride. Come out
to the stable and see him."

I thought I had never seen so sweet a boyish
face, save perhaps one, and that long ago at school.
His cheeks were flushed with the deepest rose, and
his eyes were unusually large and brilliant. He
was dressed in a new tight-fitting velvet suit, with
wide lace collar, and with his dark wavy hair
looked like a sweet little boy courtier from the
canvass of Vandvke. I went to the stable with

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

him and saw the new Shetland. It was a i^rfoet
beauty, and I promised to let him often accompany
us when his father and I Avent out together. The
dinner was little Elton's, so the evening was given
up to his amusement, and we two old boys romped
with him aftenvards, and even condescended to
take off our coats and wrestle together for his
gratification. I was also, as a great treat for him,
taken up-stairs to the little room adjoining his
father's, and acted as a .sort of superintending
chamberlain as he undressed and said his prayers
and got into bed. Hazlewood and I then went
down to the library, and while we smoked, talked
over old times and the days when we were boys,
which now appeared to us so like a dream. The
next morning Hazlewood was not at church, and
in the afterooon one of the servants from the Castle
told me that Master Elton was very ill. She said
he had been " taken bad " in the night. I did not
think it was very serious and jokingly sent Iiim
word that he had eaten too much birthday cake,
and that I should have to go up to him with my
medicine chest. About half-past one o'clock, at
night, however, I was roused by a loud knocking

/n^

ii:

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD,

fill

at the door, the bell had been broken by a deaf,
old parishioner in the afternoon. I went down and
to my surprise found the visitor was old Dr. Jack-
son, the village doctor.

" I am sorry to disturb you," he said " but I
have very serious news for you ; poor Hazlewood^s
little boy has diphtheria."

" Diphtheria ?"

" Yes, a very bad case, in fact all but a hopeless
case. I don't think he can possibly get over it.
The disease has developed so rapidly and taken
such hold of his constitution. I wish you would go
up to his father. He seems stunned and cannot
realize the seriousness of the case."

Not many minutes passed ere I was standing in
the wind and rain before Hazlewood's door. The
house was brilliantly lit up and when I entered I
found that the servants were evidently in terrible
consternation. Upstairs, in the little room, Hazle-
wood was sitting by the bed holding his child's
burning hand. The boy was asleep, and lay with
his head far back on the pillow, his hair all tossed,
and one deep fiery spot, about the size of a crown,
on each cheek. His throat was terribly swollen,

I t I!

I Hi
(I!

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

and I had licai-d the sound of his brcatlilng as I
ascended the stairs. His face wore a troubled,
pained look, and the lids of his large dark eyes
were slightly open, and showed the whites under-
neath. Elton turned towards me as I came in,
but his face was a riddle to me. He did not look
like himself. He looked hard and defiant, but not
worn or anxious.

" Well, Harry, did the doctor tell you to come ?
He is a perfect old woman ; the child is better, he
sleeps. You should have seen how bad he was
this afternoon ; but now the crisis is past, I know
it is. Do you suppose that I Lave watchal Elton,
so carefully all these years and not known how ill-
ness affects him ? He goes down very rapidly, and
then turns a comer and comes up again, just as
rapidly. I am never anxious about him, when he
has these attacks, because I have watched him too
narrowly, and I know what to expect. A stranger
might be, who did not know him."

All this was whispered out to me in broken sen-
tences, liis head turning between each towards the
pained little face on the pillow. " If it were some

I n

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

iiii

!»l

regular disease, the course of which 1 did nut under-
stand, 1 should be more disturbed."

"Did not the doctor tell you what it was?'' I

asked.

"No, he said he could not say to-night, he
would be able to tell better in the morning.''

There was a pause ; the little fellow moaned in

his sleep.

Then Elton turned to me and fixing his eyes

upon my face, said :

" Did he tell you what it was ?"

Generally speaking, I tell the truth, but then the
devil of fear got the better of me and I could not
ntter the truth, or even half the truth. I cleared
my throat a little, and told a deliberate falsehood.

" No," I said.

"That's a lie, Harry," said Hazlewood, still
watching me narrowly ; " Thank you for it, but it's
a lie. He did tell you. He told you that it was
diphtheria, and that he would not get over it ; I read
it in your face. Don't deny it. I have known
the dreadful truth all day but could not face it."

" O, Elton, my dear old fellow, put your trust
in God."

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

" I do, Harry, I have no one else but you and
God now."

" Put God's name first, Elton."

He pressed his lips tightly and turned his pale
face towards the bed. I tried to say something to
comfort him, but I could not, my voice chokeil me,
my head throbbed and I — I, God's minister, struck
with sheer madness of sorrow at his awful calm-
ness, stole into the next room and sobbed like a
child.

All that night, at brief inten-als, the little fellow
would wake and cry out for his father, whom in
his delirium he fancied was far away. His mv-
ings were all about the angels and the church and
Heaven. And once, about four o'clock, he awoke
from a longer sleep than usual and called three
times for his mother, " Mamma, Mamma, Mamma,
oh, where have they put my Mamma ?"

Hazlewood bent over him.

"Here is Daddie, darling, you are all right.
Do you want anything ? "

" I want to see my Mamma."

Then he fell to rambling about other things,
more or less incoherently, but the incident revealed

■t

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

£i

'I'i

the son'ow and questionings which had lain hid-
den all this time in the child's heart. I was glad
that, as I had gone to a table to wet a cloth
with cologne and water, my back was turned
to Hazlewood when it happened. The only sign
Elton gave that he felt this new wound was a
deep sigh like a sob, " O, God help me," so low
that I could not bo said to have heard it, I over-
heard it. On the next day the boy rallied slightly,
but in the afternoon grew worse again. A Lon-
don physician had been sent for and had confirmed
our worst fears. Hazlewood now knew that the
case was hopeless, but he bore up without a tear,
never leaving the child's side and suffering no one
to touch him but himself. All that night and the
next the fever raged and the disease pursued its
dreadful course, till on the fourth day, early in the
morning, I was sent for to go to the castle and
specially requested to bring the Communion ves-
sels with me. On entering the child's room, I
found him choking, but he was perfectly sensible,
and I could distinctly understand his whispere,
which came slowly and in gasps.

" Uncle Harry, I want the Bread, the Bread of

. '! i

til J

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

Heaven. I am going there, I am very weak, I
cannot take any food. Give me the Comm.union."

" You could not swallow it, dear, I am afraid.
It would not be right when you can't swallow.
Jesus is the Bread of Heaven and He will feed
you Himself when you go to Him."

" Uncle,'' then came a gasp, " don't they always
have it, they, dying people, I mean, don't tJiey al-
Avays have it ? "

" No, dear, not when they can't swallow."

Then a bright thought flashed upon me.

'' But I will tell you what I ^vill do. Your
father and I will take it for you. I will put on
my surplice and we shall have the service just as
we do in church."

" Daddie," he gasped, looking for his father, and
his eyes closed from sL r exhaustion, then they
opened and he said, " Daadie, lay my surplice over
me too."

His father went to a closet and fetched it, and
spread it out over him, hiding all but the swollen,
suffering face, on which death had already cast his
shadow. Then in the grey of the morning we had
Conmiunion, the sweetest and solemnest I ever re-

100

ELTON HAZLEWOOD,

I 4 ^i

ili

member. Hazlewood knelt bv the bedside hold-
ing the child's hand still. The little fellow had
shut his eyes and his breathing was painful to
listen to, but he seemed to be full of a strange and
heavenly peace, and to be wholly conscious of what
was going on. We had each communicated and
I had just begun the "Gloria in Excelsis,"
" Glory to God in *he highest and on earth peace,
good will towards men," ^^hen the little fellow's
face suddenly changed, a convulsive tremour shook
his frame, he choked slightly, then curled himself
back, and his breathing stopped. In an instant
Elton had jumped up, and before I could divine
his intention, he had put his mouth to the child's
mouth and tried to force air into the lungs and
break the membrane which filled the throat. But
it was of no avail; the Spirit had gone. Ti j
Heavenly Host who had but now filled the room
in adoration of the Divine Presence, had born it
back with them to the bosom of the God who gave
it.

The servants, all but old Mrs. Hannah, who
was prostrate with grief, had left the house, so
Elton and I, robing the sweet child's form in the

ELTON HAZLEWOOD,

101

sno\\y surj)lice, fittest emblem of its innocence,
with cur own hands, hiid it in the rough deal
coffin, which was all that the village could supply
at 80 short a notice. The undertaker would not
come near the house, so, as it would have been im-
possible to have kept the body longer, the doctor
and I bore out the little coffin to the churchyard
at sunset on that very afternoon. Hazlewood,
pallid and broken doAvn, and evidently sickening
for the disease, wrapped in a long cloak, his face
muffled in a wide black scarf, followed slowly, as
chief and only mourner.

mBBsmm^amBmmmma

CHAPTER YIII.

rpHROUGH long nights and days my wife and
"*- I and good old Mrs. Hannah watched in cum
at the bedside of my friend. The delirium which
at first had been very severe, gradually abated and
was succeeded by terrible and tedious prostration.
Gradually, ho>'vever, strength returned to the
wasted form. But little by little, as Hazlewood
regained a measu'^e of his former health, it became
apparent that a change had passed over him.
During the weeks of convalescence, while he lay
back in his bed with his face turned to the grand
view of sea and sky which his window afforded,
his spirit seemed to be passing through a transfor-
mation as extraordinary as it was radical. He
spoke little, scarcely ever, unless addressed by
others. He was wonderfully patient and gentle.
He did not appear to be lonely, when left by him-
self, and though he seldom joined in it, he never
seemed to be disturlxxl or annoyed by the conver-

102

ELTON HAZLEWOOD,

103

sation of his attendants. He never referred to the
past, and sometimes my wife and I have wondered
if it were at all clear to him. That it was, we dis-
covered later. When he wa3 well enough to go
out, I used to take him for short walks up and
down in front of the castle. He tottered like an
old man and felt so slight as he leant upon my
arm. One dreaded excursion passed off quite
otherwise than I had expected, I mean the first
visit to his boy^s grave. We went there one after-
noon in the end of May. The churchyard was
looking its best, the birds were full of music, and
the scent of the fresh leaves and flowei-s was de-
lightful. Little Elton's grave had been lovingly
tended by my wife, and was prettily aiTanged with
forget-me-nots and heartsease do^vn its centre in
the form of three Maltese crosses. Elton was evi-
dently pleased to find it in this condition. He
knelt beside it and I turned away, so as not to
hear the sobs that shook liis being. After a short
time he rose slowly and came and took my arm,
and we strolled n^ and down the wide gravel path
in front of the Church.
He was quite calm then.

104

ELTON JIAZLEWOOD.

ill

" 'Wliat an inscrutable mystery it all is ! " he
said. "What is life? What is death? Why
cannot that poor child under there answer, as he
once did, to my call ? Why cannot his little eyes
open and look up into mine and his arms be
thrown round my neck? There the little body
lies out in the cold and damp earth, the body that
I guarded so carefully and loved so distractedly.
I wonder if the ancients loved their families as we
love ours. I think not. I think Christianity has
intensified, as it has purified our domestic affec-
tions. The cultivation of the emotional side of
man's nature in religion has developed its sensibil-
ity and its need of love. Some people nay think
this is not to be commended. They deplore the
deterioration of the physical constitution of man,
which, to a large extent the development of his
nervous organization implies. Over-sensitiveness
certainly is to be deplored, as being incompatible
with a condition of health, but we must remember
that science is more and more making life and
health possible to mental organizations so fine and
sensitive, that it would have been impossible for
them to have endured existence under the rough

ELTON JTAZLEWOOD.

105

conditions of old. Evolution in man, having
brought his body to a certain degree of perfection,
now acts along the line of mental and emotional
progress. Man is daily becoming more man, more
spiritual. It is the work of God, and the revel-
ation of God's Son has helped it on. Some think
that evolution contradicts the doctrine of design in
nature ; I cannot see it. I would illustrate tlm
gradual accomplishment of God's purposes in nature
by the course of a stream down the face of a hill
The water does not flo^v directly to its goal in the
valley below, as it would were it poured down
through the air. No, it nnis here and there into
little crevices in the earth, skirting each obstruction,
filling tiny lakes, which are no sooner filled than
abandoned, until in time the end of its course is
attained, and the stream is finally absorbed into
the grand river at the base. Through it all, how-
ever, even when the stream went this way and
that, the impelling force was that of gravitation
which acted downwards in a straight line. So,
from the beginning of time, there has been a con-
stant flowing on of created life through nature to-
wards some goal which is the fulfillment of God's

106

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

purpose. There have been obstacles in its course
which hindered its direct advance ; there have been
wide, deep lakes, in which no advance has been
apparent for long periods ; there have been smooth
and steep declines where progress was made with a
bound, but in whatever way the evolution pro-
ceeded, the impelling force was the will of God
acting in a straight line through nature. What
hope this gives us for ourselves, for the whole race !
How it keeps us in time with the forward march
of thought ! And when we have this hope, we can
work quietly and contentedly and suffer patiently
under the dispensations of God. Yes, we are
not a worn-out race, battering vainly with stunted
strength against the bars which inexorable law has
set round man^s domain, but a race still in child-
hood, still pressing on to the unknown and the
ideal, to the fulfillment of our hopes, the attain-
ment of our highest aspirations.

" Yes, on we press, forever on

Through death to other deaths and life,
To brighter lights when these are gone
To broader thought, more glorious strife.

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

107

To vistas opening out of these,
To wonders shining from afax,

Above the surging of the seas,
Above the course of sun and star.

To higher powers of will and deed,
All bounds, all limits left behind.

To truths undreamt in any creed,
To deeper love more Godlike mind.

Great God, we move into the vast,
All questions vain — the shadows come,

We hear no answer from the past,
The years before us all are dumb.

We trust thy purpose and thy will,
We see afar the shining goal,

Forgive us, if there linger still
Some human fear within the soul.

Forgive us, if with thouj^^hts too wild
And eyes too dim to pierce the gloom.

We shudder like a frightened child
That enters at a darkened room.

Forgive us, if when dies away.
All human sound upon our ears,

We hear not in the swift decay
Thy loving voice to calm our fears.

But lo, the dawn of fuller days.

Horizon glories fringe the sky,
Our feet would climb the shining ways

To meet man's widest destinv."

108

ELTON BAZLEWOOD.

" Yes, that is life, and that is death— progress,
progress. It is hard to sec it now, the gloom is
very deep, but we shall see more clearly some day.
In that white morning when, side by side you and
I, and hand in hand that sweet child and I, stand
among the risen dead, in the world that is to be,
no clouds will obscure our perfect vision. Harry,"
he said, suddenly breaking off, " I have a gi-eat
favour to ask of you."

" Well, what is it ? you know it will be granted
as oon as you make it, if it is in my power to do

))

so.

" I know that, but I hesitate to make it."
"Why should you? will it be very hard to

grant?"

" I don't know, there may be a struggle in your
mind bet^veen your sense of right and your desire
to do me a favour. Promise me one thing first."

<< What is that ?"

" That if you don't think it is wise or right, or
even convenient to do what I ask, you will not try

to do it."

*' All right, I can easily promise that."

« Then I— no, I cannot ask it, I will write you

ELTON UAZLEWOOD.

109

a letter in explanation. If you don't like my
proposition, just put my letter in the fire and say
no more about it."

I left Hazlewood '^t his house, and returned to
do some parish work in the village. The next
morning at church, I found a letter for me in my
friend's handwriting on the vestry table. After
service, shutting the doors in the quaint old room,
that I might be undisturbed, I broke the seal and
read it. It ran as follows :

" My dear oldjelhw.

I could not tell you what was in my mind tliis
afternoon for two reasons. First, because I experience great
difficulty in opening up to another the inner workings of the
soul, and I have an objection on principle to doing so ; and
secondly, because my broaching the matter in conversation
would have made your conscientious refusal of my request
more trying to you. I am going to put my whole case before
you now quite fully, and I shall accept your decision as fmal.
Perhaps you may have noticed and yet very likely you may
not, that a change has passed over me. Something has made
me a different man. It is very hard for me to write this, it
sounds so methodistical and presumptuous, but you will under-
stand my motive. That which has made me different, is the
realizing, as I have never realized before, the Incarnation of
God the Son—' The Word was made Flesh: During those
terrible hours of pain and mental anguish, into which God in
his mercy plunged me, the truth flashed upon me with start-

fi (

110

ELTON UAZLEWOOD.

\\ I

; ^1

ling force. I believe that but for it I should have lost my
reason. Night after night, when sleep would not come, and I
have turned and turned and found no bodily ease, those
wonderful words have given me comfort. When all was dark
and my weak mind borne hither and thither on currents of
thought which set on all sides towards the encompassing sea
of despair, the only safety my reason found, was to cling to
the cradle of Jesus, and to kneel in imagination between St.
!Mary and St. Joseph as they looked down upon the face of
tlie Holy Child. In that cradle tliere [was man, there was
human love, human emotion, and there was God. It was all
a fact, it was a rock on which to anchor the soul amid the
storm. I could face death fearlessly from such a vantage
ground. Then as I grew stronger the personal love of Jesus
filled me with a restful joy, a joy and peace it had never been
mine to know. I see now how God has led me in the past,
from the world and self up to the higher love of my child,
which concentrated all my thoughts and inconstant impulses
into one strong, settled passion ; and now I can see how, by
bereavement, he has lifted my heart to a love higher and
holier still — the love of Himself, who cannot pass away, but is
the same yesterday, to-day and forever. Divine love does
not preclude earthly love, when pure and good, it intensifies
it, it takes awav the sting which must be in it to those who
look for no life beyond death. How wonderfully true St.
Augustine's words are, * The soul of man can find no true rest
till it rests in God.' I have found that rest now, and by
God's grace and transforming power I mean to try and keep
it. Please forgive me again for writing so egotistically. Now
let me make my request. It is that you should write for me
to the Bishop and influence him to ordain me, and then let
me live here and work with you as your curate. At one
time, I had thought seriously of taking orders, but I was not

f;! ;!

I ..■% li

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

Ill

fit then. God has prepared mo for it since. Now, I think, I
could give my lieart unreservedly to Him, and spend the
closing years of ray life cheerfully in his service. Jf only I
had been able to overcome that fatal weakness and irresolu-
tion in my character, which first led me into sin, and then led
to the rejection of the divine call, and if I had been able, like
you, to serve God from the first, how different my life would
have been. But there is no use in vain regrets. I have suf-
fered, and shall still sutler, for the past. If 1 work with you,
you will find me obedient and loyal, for as you nmst know, I
owe you more than I can express in words. I leave the
matter entirely in your hands, and if you approve, do you set
it all before the Bishop. You must weigh carefully the
reasons for and against my proposition, but if you can take it
up, it will be the begiuning of a new life to me.

Ever your affectionate friend,

Elton Hazlewood.

I read this letter twice and thanked God ^'^^ tlic
marvellous workings of His providence. Then with
heart overjoyed, I almost ran through the spring
fields up to the castle, bearing my unwritten answer
in the very gladness of my face.

) ■ (

11! i

- «

f -

* t

• ? :

•■^ .*•

2 '^

■

CHAPTER IX.

rilllE five yeai-s of his diaoonatc which Ilazle-
"*" wood spent with me as curate, were without
exception the liappiest of my life. A fellowsliip of
sentiment and aim, such as nothing but union of
religious thought and work can give, drew our
hearts together in yet stronger bonds of love. The
people )f the j)arish almost worshipped him. No
trouble Mas too great tor him. In sickness and in
health he was their friend and guide, but it was in
sorrow that he was most helpful. His tender
gentleness made him at once the accepted coun-
sellor of all in distress. Hih quick sympathy con-
soled and soothed in cases when no alleviation
could be offered. The very grasp of his hand
ai)^ "ed you of his willingness to share your burden
with you. After all he had gone through in life,
one might have expected that he would have been
broken down, that his ministiy would have been a
sorrowful crucifixion of self, but it was not so.

112

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD,

113

The most marvellous fbaturc of the chanrro he had
imdergone was that it had conferred npon him
mental health. There was nothing morbid or
melodramatic about it. He was manly, fmnk and
cheerful, even boyish. He spoke and thought much
less of his inner feelings than he had Ixx^^n wont to
do. He even referred calmly to his sorrow,
although every day he made a pilgrimage to his
boy^s grave. The world seemed to have a new in-
terest for him. All his former intellectual powers
were there, but they were brought into a healthy
proportion and subordination to the sense of duty
to God and the personal love of Jesus, which had
become the main spring of his life. Perhaps, if in
anything he was liable to be misunuei-stood it was
in the magazine articles which he wrote from time
to time, and in his sermons. Old-fashioned peoj^le,
whose minds moved in a rut, and who loved the
rut, were sometimes startlal by the new and strange
way he had of putting things. The fact was,
Hazlewood was a genius, and when he had ac-
cepted a truth he gave it back, coloured with his
wonderfiU personality. Tnith in his mind was
analyzed and reasoneil out into all its ways and by-

^i;;!

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114

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

■I ;

[ 1 1

ways. He had absolutely no fear of possible con-
sequences in his statement of what he conceived to
be truth. He w£iS frankness itself, and to this was
owing his singular power in dealing wdth those
who knew and trusted him. In noting these
characteristics, it must be remembered that Hazle-
wood came to his work with a mature mind, and
with a deep knowledge of the world and men.
But it is not my purpose to give a detailed account
of his life, only to indicate its main features, and
descrilxi more minutely the various turning points
in his histoiy and mental development. As part
of his spiritual experience, and not without its
future bearing upon this story, I may here record a
remarkable dream which Hazlewood had towards
the close of his residence at Beaconhurst. On the
Sunday evening before he left for his ordination to
the priesthood at Winchester, it being a brilliant
moonlight night, we strolled together down to the
shore. The great waves rolled slowly in without
ruffling the surface of the ocean and the black cliffs
stood up behind us like giants who bid defiance to
the encroaching deep. There was no other sound to
be heard but the plash of the rollers, as tliey broke

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

115

along the shore. We stood silent? listening to that
wonderful sea-language. I was reminded of those
lines of Tennvson,

" And rolling far along the rocky shore
The voice of days of old and days to be,"

and quoted them.

"How glorious those verses are/^ said Hazlc-
wood, " and what a scene tJiey call up in the mind.
All the splendour and subtle mystery of a night
like this are stored up in them. What the soul
feels to-night i^ vastne&s, the vastness of the world,
the vastness of eternity. The sea always apjx^ars
to me to be the emotional part of physical nature,
or the world's soul. It is always the same ; but
the same because always changing. The winds
like jmssioiis sweep over it and lash it into fury ;
the sun looks down upon it and it is still. Its
sympathetic bosom reflects the coloui-s of the sky
and the changes in the clouds and atmosphere.
As in man, memor}^ beai-s on to the limits of age
softened echoes of the soul's past pains and struggles,
so the billows which re-echo the shock and anguish
of tempests in mid ocean, roll off in subdued

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ELTON ITAZLEWOOD.

grandeur towards the distant coast. And in nights
like these, surely the sea sleeps and dreams. Down
in its mysterious mile depths of water the great
impulses and tides are like ihe underlying currents
of thought in the soul which rest not day nor
night."

We had turned as he was talking and walked on
to the cave in the cliff under the point on which
his house stood. "We sat down for a while on the
rocks. Then Hazlewood said :

" The other night I had such a curious dream.
I don't often remember my dreams, but this one
made a great impression upon me. I dreamt
thai I was out riding by myself at night on that
road to Insworth which you and I have so often
travelled together. I was very lonely and very
sad as I rode. Then I felt that some one was rid-
ing after me and trying to overtake me, and after
a time I became conscious that it was she, my
poor lost wife. She seemed to be crying out to
me and begging me to turn and wait for her, but
I would not. Then I heard her say distinctly,
* We shall meet there,' but I did not look round or
ask her where. Suddenly, as I rode, never slack-

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117

ing my speed, I came to a large jwnd by the way-
side, and I reined in my horse and dismounted,
and looked into the water among the rushes, and
there I found it — the body of my dead child.
As I lifted him out all cold and wet, she came up,
and I was angry with her no longer, and she and
I kissed each other, and we kissed the child, and
the child revived and stood betw^een us. Then
long streamers of a wonderful Aurora rolled out
over the heavens, like the unfurling of the flag of
victory, and it grew as light as day. We looked
up over the water, and behold, it was a sea of
glass, and I turned to my wife, from whose face
all sorrow, all earthliness were passed awa}-, and
bending down to her I said, ^ For ever ! ' "

It was partly the scene, and partly the music of
Hazlewood's voice, and the soft, absent wiy in
which he related the dream, which thrilled me so
strangely. I sat there on the rocks looking at his
profile, as he gazed out to sea, entranced by that
curious spiritual charm which he at all times exer-
cised over me. He carried me with him into the
mysterious dreamland of his vision. I saw it all,
the long, dim road, the jwnd, the dead child, and

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ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

the reunion by the shining water. I felt it was
prophetic, even while I dared not hope so, dared
not pray so. When I bid him farewell at the
Vicar£^e gate, light, ruffled clouds had spread
over the moon, and its rays were dim, and I could
not see his features clearly. The outline was
vague, he seemed to be already merging into the
shadows. Had I known then that this was to
be our last meeting on this side of eternity, and
that never again should I see that wonderful face,
as it had been through boyhood, youth, and in the
prime of manhood, till I shall see it glorified in
the Kingdom of God, how I should have gazed
lovingly through the darkness, till I had traced
the outline of each remembered feature.

CHAPTER X.

TT had been arranged that I should go down to
^ Winchester for Elton's ordination. I was to
ptay at the Abbey of St. Cross, about a mile or so
out of the city, with old Dr. Buxton, a college
friend of my father's. Owing to a case of serious
illness in the parish, I was unable to leave home
till Saturday afternoon, and when I arrived at
Winchester, it w^as raining in torrents. Dr. Bux-
ton had sent his carriage for me, so I drove com-
fortably to the Abbey. I had expected that Elton
would have come to see me in the evening, as I
had asked him to do, but there were so many pos-
sible reasons why he should not, that, beyond a
feeling of disappointment at not being able to wish
him Godspeed before his ordination, his absence
cost me no thought. The night was dark and wet,
he would probably have some business to transact,
he would be tired after the examinations and would
want to rest before the solemn ordeal of the next

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ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

day, one or more of these reasons occurred to my
mind as sufficient excuse for his non-appearance.

Sunday was a glorious day. I Avas awakened
shortly after sunrise by the noise of birds in
a tree near my window. A soft sweet wind
came in through the open casement, and from
where I lay in bed, I could catch a glimpse of the
distant river through the meadows, and a hill be-
yond. The part of the Master^s Lodge in which
my room was situated was covered with ivy, and
some straggling leaves, as the sun shone through
them, made a bright green bordure to one side of
my window. The walls and ceiling of the room
were panelled in black oak, and evidently hun-
dreds of years had passed since human hands
carved those quaint figures over the fireplace. I
lay still for a time, thinking about the manifokl
changes in man and life which these walls had
seen. In the house there was absolute silence, but
the notes of birds filled my room with melody.
The stillness of the chamber, however, the scent of
the breeze, the singing of the birds, and the old
liistorical associations of the place, aJQPected me only
as a sweet dream, till of a sudden, my eye caught

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

121

the reflexion of the sun from a small flaw in one
of the lozenged window panes. The thing shone
like a dewdi'op or diamond. It was very small,
but sent to me a tiny brilliant ray. Straightway,
as though I had heard a note of music, the com-
bined effect of sight and sound, which had soothed
me but a moment before in a pleasing reverie, was
intensified, and in a thrilling trance my mind was
carried back to my dear old boyhood's home.
Sometimes the veriest trifle will strike in this way
a nerve of emotional association and electrify at
once our whole being. It may have been that the
brilliant speck in the glass reminded me of the shin-
ing of the sun on the pond at home, on the Sunday
morning on which Hazlewood and my father had
the conversation I have narrated. Perhaps it
brought back memories of the medley of colours in
the little old Norman window by the Knight's
tomb. The point of light carried me back in a
world of dreams to Hazlewood and his visit to us.
How^ it was, I do not know, but so real was this
spiritual resurrection of the past, that as I gazed
upon the scene with closed eyes, I could have
averred that it was before me. I heard the voices

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ELTON IIAZLEWOOD,

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of those long dead, and had I been a painter, I
could have depicted their faces and, what is more
difficult to do from memory, the clothes they wore
of bygone fashion. The centre of the dream was
of course Hazlewood. I saw him as he had been,
the brilliant, handsome youth with the world
spread dazzlingly before him. I went fishing
with him in the brook which ran through the
Mallocks' Park. I drove him in our little pony
cai-t through the summer lanes. I could hear him
speak, I could hear the ring of his laugh. Then,
as I lay awake in this entrancing exaltation of
feelmg, a church bell in the distance began to
toll, and reminded me of the day and the sol-
emn consecration of my friend. His time life was
only about to begin in all its fullness. The past
with its failures, its sorrows, its worldly triumphs,
had been put away, and the soldier strong, well-
knit and fully equipped was to enter the battle as
the champion of God. I did not sleep again, but
was out in the garden long before the other mem-
bers of the family were stirring.

Dr. Buxton accompanied me to the Cathedral
and procured me a seat in the Choir. The place

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

123

was full of people, and the organ played softly as
we waited for the clergy to enter. Presently we
heard an " Amen'' sung by the choir in one of the
ti-ansepts, and we rose as the choristers entered
from the nave. They took their places two by
two in the old stalls, and my eyes anxiously
scanned the long line of faces to see where Hazle-
wood was. But I looked in vain, he was not
there. The service proceeded ; I thought that I
must have been mistaken ; but no, the candidates
sat in a place by themselves, and 1 could make
out their features distinctly. Elton ^vas not
among them. What could have happened to
him? During the sermon, I could hardly sit
still. Somehow or other, I had a sense that the
end had come, I did not attempt to say what end,
but I felt that the crisis of his life had been passed.
He w^as to liave no part here. The paths which
to-day were opened up to the feet of those young
men, paths of duty and love and self-sacrifice,
were closed to him. The future I had imagined
for him was never to be realized. But what was
that future now to be ? Why had he not come ?
Was he ill ? Had his heart failed him at the last ?

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ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

If this ordination had been liold ten years ago,
such an occurrence would have been possible and
even probable. But no, Elton now, the strong
earnest man, purified and tempered by God's fiery
trials, was not one to turn back at the last. Once
the thought crossed my mind, that perhaps in
some way his old sin had found him out, and a
threat of exposure Ix^en made through revenge.
At any rate, why had he not called on me, or
written, or sent word that he was not coming?
The suspense was temble, and yet through it all,
as I have said, I had a sort of consciousness that
the end had come. O, Elton, noble and good and
true, lonely and so battered, but not broken, by
life's stomis, I felt that the fight had been won,
that thou hadst received thy crown !

As the white-robed candidates knelt before the
Bishop, and a boy's voice, clear as an angel's, be-
gan the ^' Veni Creator " to Attwood's lovely set^
ting, I made it rather a prayer for myself than for
my absent friend. After the service I went to the
hotel at which Hazlewood had stayed, and my
anxiety w^as still further increased on learning that
he had not been seen since Thui-sday. He had

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

125

received a letter early on the morning of tliat
day by the post and had gone out shortly after-
wards. He told no one where he was going,
but he had never returned. As he had left his
desk and portmanteau in his room, the hotel
people had expected him daily. Later on in the
aftemoon, I saw the Bishop's chaplain and secre-
tary, but they were as much at a loss to under-
stand the sudden disappearance as I was. Acting
on their advice, I put the matter into the hands of
the police, and telegraphed to his lawyer in town.
Every conceivable device was then resorted to by
which we might obtain information. We adver-
tised, ^ye offered rewards, we employed detectives,
but in vain. Day after day passed away and no
tidings came.

At the end of a week I returned home, and
there the silence and suspense were harder to
bear, where every scene recalled so vividly the
missing one. At first the sympathy of the
people was aroused, they feared foul play. Soon
however, a reaction of feeling set in, under the in-
fluence of the parish gossips, and reports damag-
ing to Elton's character were circulated freely.

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ELTON IIAZLEWOOD,

The story was that a tlireatcned revelation of
some old crime in the past had caused his flight.
Most of the people, I was told, came to tliink by
and by that the parish was well rid of the hand-
some and clever curate, who had already got the
Vicar too much under his finger and thumb.
So malevolent and ungrateful is the world that I
do not think there were ten individuals in the
l)lace who really mourned, or sympathized with, or
prayed for their late friend, whose self-sacrifice
and de\'otion had but yesterday been proverbial.
Very little was said to me on the subject, but I
could pretty clearly discern the public sentiment.
The knowledge of it stung me to the quick, and
made me hate the place and my fellowmen, and
only the thought of our Saviour wearing so pa-
tiently the tl V rn-crown of the world^s ingratitude,
reconciled u\o to continue my work in the parish.

Weeks and months and years went by and still
we heard no Avord of my friend, and to the mys-
tery which shrouded his disappearance w^as added
the stain of the world's reproach. Bitterly did the
thought of this add to my bereavement, yet I
never doubted him, never mistrusted him, and

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD, 127

often, when some incident in my work, some old
recollection, some anniversary^ has forced on me a
double portion of my sorrow, I have gone and
stood out in the churchyard beside his boy^s grave
and prayed to the God of justice and love to right
the wrong, and clear up the mystery before the
eyes of the cruel world. But the answer came
not, and year after year the stain restcKl upon the
memory of one of the noblest and most generous
of those hearts, who from time to time come into
being under a fellowship with the unreeognition
and rejection of their Master, of whom it is said
that <^ He cime into the world, and the world was
made by Him, and the world knew Him not/'

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CHAPTER XI.

1~\0WN on a wild stretch of the Cornish coast,
^-^^ about a mile from the little village of St.
Maddo, there is a long low promontory which Juts
out from the cliffs into the ocean, as though the
shore in its slumber had lain one unconquerable
arm upon the deep. On the end of this promon-
tory stands up boldly a curious rock, so flat and
square and clear-cut that it looks like a giant altar
on wliich past races were wont to sacrifice to the
Gods of land and sea. The storms of ages have
beaten against its sides and thundered at its iron
base in vain. It is scarred, it is water-stained.
It has heard lightnings split the rocks around, it
has felt the earthquakes of centuries, but it stands
imshaken still, as though caiTed for some special
pm'pose by the hand of God. The tides as they
ebb and flow, sweep round it with tremendous
force, and the long Atlantic breakers dash madly
against it and pile high their foam in air. And

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ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

129

on this natural altar when years had passed, and
dear old Elton\s name had become a bygone tale
when a cloud had darkenal his memory before
the world, in a marvellous way, my prayer was
answered and the mystery cleared.

My wife and I had gone for a short holiday
into Cornwall, and while there, finding ourselves
in the neighborhood of St. Maddo, and recalling
its connexion with Hazlewood, who, as the reader
will remember, had gone there with Byrne in the
same summer in which he had visited us in Essex,
we determined to make it for a time our abode.
Something seemed to draw me thither, it may have
been a presentiment, it may have been merely that
my love for Hazlewood gave everj-thing connected
with him a peculiar interest to me. The place,
though easy of access, is unfrequented by tourists,
and is therefore specially charming to those who
love nature and the simple rural life of our vil-
lages. My favourite walk every afternoon was to
the rock I have described. It had a weird charm
for me. Hour after hour I liave stood with my
face to the west at sunset, and gazed at the long

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ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

golden pathway, which stretched far out over the
infinite sea as though it were the road to Heaven.
Again and again, as I have looked at the Avide ex-
panse and heard the waves breaking under me, I
have thought of Hazlewood and prayed for light.
Little did 1 dream then that the place whereon I
stood was holy ground, consecrated as the last spot
on earth on \A'hich his feet had rested. It may be
that in some occult way, it was his spiritual pres-
ence which pervaded the place and made it so
wonderful to me. No doubt I was in the hands
of God, and he had directed me to the answering
of my prayer. There is nothing strange in the
coincidences of life, but at every moment we are
upheld and guided by the Divine Hand. The
events of life are linked together in a golden chain
and each instant is made to be the true preparation
for the next. We cannot be rid of mysteries, but
to those who believe, all mysteries are harmonized
and solved by the ultimate mysteiy of God.

Late on the last afternoon of our stay at St.
Maddo, I went out by myself along the shore to
bid farewell to the rock and the view from it with
which I had grown so familiar. The sun A\'as

ELTON HAZLEWOOI).

131

almost on the horizon, not a breath ^vas stiiTin<r,
and the waves broke along the coast in tremulous
lines of white, softly as a child smiles in sleep. The
great strength of the deep and the formless passions
of its under-currents were hushed and stilled by the
calm loveliness of the evening. Mature was full
of the repose which flows from the heart of God,
in whom alone infinite power coexists with infinite
will. Never is power grander than when it is
manifested in restraint. The subdued stillness of
the air and ocean was inexpressibly wonderful,
and as the sun sank lower and touched the far'
fixint wall of the western waves, irradiated by the
golden glories of the sky, the whole scene was an
imspoken parable. It was the vision of a strong
and noble soul calmed, softened, and sublimed by
the light of Heaven. Without speaking, without
even formulating one^s ideas, to behold such a
scene was a sacrament, to breathe in it was to praj-.
Lying out at full length on the rocks, I lingered
on till the pure gold of the western horizon had
deepened into crimson, and the crimson had faded
into pale yellow. Then I rose and turned to go,
sorrowing to leave the place as though I was de-'

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ELTON JIAZLEWOOD.

scending from the mount of the transfiguration.
It was with a start, that I discovered I had not
been alone upon the rock. At a short distance,
gazing at me intently and curiously, stood a man.
He was deeply bent, and he leaned feebly upon
his sticl His hat was pushed back from his fore-
head and V his features bare. The face was
blanched and haggard, and looked as though pre-
maturely aged by acute suffering or former dissi-
pation. His gaze ^vas fixed earnestly upon me,
and as I stood regarding him, a dim sense of
recognition came over me. I had seen that face
before. It was mixed up with old associations in
my soul. The thought of it was bound up mys-
teriously with the love of someone in the })ast,
and the knowledge of a great wrong. Then the
consciousness of recognition deepened, my heart
suddenly stopped beating, my breath came short
and quick, the whole scene, all save the bowed fig-
ure l)efore me, melted instantly away, and recoil-
ing, I said,

" Byrne ! "

" Yes," he said slowly, in a dcop hollow voice,
" We have met at last, and for the last time. I

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

133

heard at the village you were here and I said I
will go and meet him there, and now he shall
know the truth. It has been kept too long but it
shall be kept no longer. There is no need to do so,
for the lips that now speak to you will soon bo
silent forever, and I shall be beyond the power of
human blame and human vengeance. Let my
last act be one of justice to the dead.''

He spoke slowly and with a solemn precision,
as though ihQ utterance of every word gave him a
stab of pain. The voice was as much the shadow
of a human voice as the man was the shadow of a
man. Voice and man on that lone rock, with the
dark cliffs in Hiq background, filled me with an
midefinable dread, and I stood speechles.s, as
though a\ved by some ghostly apparition. Ne\'er,
for a moment, did he change his position nor with-
draw his gaze from mine, but continued in the
same hollow tones.

" The burden of a gi'cat guilt, intensified by the
guilt of silence from year to year, has crushed me
down and destroyed my manhood." He paused,
and then continued. '' Do vou know what jealousy
is ? Yes, you do ; it is classed imder the head of

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ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

envy among the seven deadly sins, but you do not
know it as I know it, as sometliing which is never
absent from you for a moment, as something
which turns even the sweets of life into gall and
wormwood, which drags you into hate and crime,
as a demoniacal impulse which grows more master-
ing and morbid as life goes on. It is well you do
not. I was born under the curse ; it is an inherit-
ance in my blood, and the stings of it even now
as I stand on the brink of the grave, fasten with
serpent fangs upon my soul. And yet it is sweet
too, yes, very, verj^ sweet. There was one girl I
loved long, long ago. She was an angel. She
might have made something godlike of me, had I
had her love in return. There was one man whom
I loved long, long ago. He ivas godlike. I loved
him passionately as one man seldom loves another.
I brought the two together. The moment their
eyes met, I saw that my doom was sealed. She
gave him what she had refused to me. But do
vou think I let them know that I saw it ? No, I
w^as not such a fool. I bided my time. Since the
sweetness of love could not be mine, the sweetness
of hate could. At one time, I had l)een willing to

ELTON JIAZLEWOOD,

135

sacrifice ever}i:hlng for the sake of the girl, and
offered to waive social questions and marry her
honourably, if she would take me ; but when I
saw that she loved him, I thought and [)lotted and
lied, till my plans were successful, and her life was
ruined. Then I plotted and lied till 1 had got
him to loathe her, and refuse to marry her. I
had hard work to do this, lor my friend was not
like me, he had a conscience. The next year I
had the supreme satisfaction of her deatli. But
did this quiet the devil in my heart ? Not a whit.
The man who had blighted my life was at large
and prosperous. I did not tell him that the
woman was dead. Outwardly, I continued his
friend, for even while I hated him, by a curious
paradox, not unknown to those who make a study
of mental phenomena, I still loved him, and could
not bear to leave him. Once more, after many
yeare, again I loved, not with the old, pure love
which comes only once in a life time, but with a
strong, if lower, attachment. A second time my
friend crossed my path and took my coveted prize
from me. You know what my revenge was then.
Oh, it was sweet, that lovely stolen hone\Tnoon

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among the Swiss Mountains. It was glorious to
think of him, this time conquered and humbled,
while I was in triumph. But it was all a delu-
sion, she never loved me, she had left him in
jealousy and spite. His cursed influence followed
me even there, and the woman loved him, after she
had left him, as she had never loved him before.
I knew it, so I watched her. I gave her no
money. One dark October night, in a wild moun-
tain region, she fled from me penniless and thinly
clad, alone over the Simplon Pass. She >\'as soon
to become a mother, and ^vas not in a condition to
stand fatigue. Two days after, she died raving
mad in a little Ursuline convent at Vi^ge. She
had confessed to a Roman Catholic priest and re-
ceived the sacraments the day before. Again I
was humbled and my friend had triumphed, he
who had not only stolen from me the two women
I had loved, but who had been admired and
applauded and given the first place, Avhile I was
passed over at college and upon the stage. The
thing was intolerable to me. I returned to
England after some yeai's, and heard of his ap-
proaching ordination. It was my last chance. I

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

137

was living near here then with an old uncle. 1
-ivrote to the man at Winchester to come to me at
once, or if he prefeiTcd it I would go to him, for I
had a message for him from the dead. He came
and waited for me here. Away from all human
sights and sounds on a wild, windy day, I met
him on this rock. He was changed, he was calm
and self controlled. I felt from the first that my
power over him was gone, but I did my best, for
I knew the over sensitiveness of his nature. I
told him that my message was one of midying
hate. I said his wife had gone down, down, down,
till even I had been forced at last to turn her out
on the street. It stung him to the quick, he grew
pale, but he answered not my taunts. Then I
told him why I had sent for him. I threatened
exposure, I paintal his past sin in its most hideous
and revolting colours. I laughed at the very idea
of his setting himself up to preach to others, but it
was in vain. He heard me out and then said,
shaking from head to foot, but not with fear.

" Byrne, I know what you are and your mo-
tives, and they are so despicable that they do not
even move me to anger. You may do your worst,

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ELTON ITAZLEWOOD,

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the threat of exposure docs not alarm me. The
facts of the case are already known to those who
have a right to know them, and years of bitter re-
pentance have in a measure wiped out my guilt
in the eyes of the world. I do not fear you, you
are too contemptible ; nay, if it is any satisfaction
for you to know it, I have forgiven and forgotten
you. There is not a word of truth in w^hat you
say about my wife ; something tells me it is false.
If that is all you have to say to me, I must go ;
my train leaves in an hour."

He brushed me aside and walked away erect
and proud. I shrank from him as though he had
spurned and crashed me under his heel. Then
my fuiy overmastered me, and blind with passion
I stiTick him from behind. He faced me, and we
closed. He was strong, stronger than I, and
shook me off. Humbled, baifled, and foaming
with rage, I sprang up, as he turned to go, and
catching liis arm, dragged him back violently. I
do not suppose that I had any definite intention.
It was all done in a few seconds, but the sudden-
ness of the action or the force of the gale which
was blowing oil shore, made him lose his balance.

ELTON ITAZLEWOOD.

139

We were close to the edge of the rock. He stag-
gered backwards and catching involuntarily at
me to save himself, fell over into the water, drag-
ging me with him. I felt the awful plunge, the
shock of the cold waves, and the despair. Wo
rose to the surface side by side and struggled for
life. We were not far from the rock, but in the
huge seas that dashed against it, our efforts were
wellnigh hopeless. Hazlewood was a better swim-
mer than I. He made for a little ledge which
far down projects from the face of this rock. It
was the only foothold that presented itself, but it
was so small that it could barely afford shelter
for one. He reached it and by a supreme effort
drew himself up and mounted upon it. I saw
that he was safe ; I was drowning. I could keep
up no longer. My breath was gone. I tried to
cry to him for help, but the water sucked me
under and as I sank I put up my hands in des-
pair. When I rose again, Hazlewood was at my
side. He had dived into the waves to save me.
I caught him frantically by the arm.

" Let go," he said, " let go of my arm or we
shall both drown." . ^ ,_^„_„. „._ _ ._ . _

I" '"
V 1

140

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

I did so, and held him round the body. Then
with superhuman strength, against the wind and
tide, he made once more for the ledge. I thought
we should never reach it, for the sea heaved up and
down, at one time dashing us against the rock, at
another tcai'ing us from it. But he saved me.
All torn and bleeding, and choked with the salt
water, he succeeded in catching hold of a piece of
Beaweed in a crevice, and a\ hile a wave for a mo-
ment raised us to a level with the ledg crawled
upon it. Then I knew^ what he had aone, that he
had given his life for mine. But there Avas no
time to think.

" Quick, quick, hold on there," Hazlew^ood
gasped, " you arc safe. Climb down at low water.
There is no room fur t^vo. I must try for the
shore."

"Don't," I cried, "don't, you will be lost.
The cove is too far off. The rocks here are like
walls and run down sheer to the water."

" I must," he said, " I lose time. Stay where
you are, you will be safe. I do not fear death."

He said something else, but his voice was
drowned in the roar of the winds and waves. He

.1 Mi

ELTON IIAZLEWOOn.

141

lot go of tho rook and })liingccl back into thc8oa, and
a great wave curled round him with strong white
arms. He breasted it and I watched him as he
struggled on. I knew that it was hopeless. He
was exhausted by his efforts to save me. Little hy
little the tide bore him out beyond the lea of tho
rock. Suddenly the full force of the gale struck
him and a cloud of spray hid him from view. I
looked and thought he had gone, when again on
the crest of a wave, I saw his pale face. He was
still trying to swim, but his eyes were closed.
I thought he was praying, for there was a look of
resignation on his features which they had never
worn before. I only saw him for a moment, for
the wind howled and the spray beat upon me and
blinded me, and when I looked again he was gone.
All that night long, weak, and chattering with the
cold, I clung to the rock. I shrank from the sea
in horror, not because it meant death to mo, but
because it held Hazlewood's body. The roar of
the breakei-s was full of the reverberations of his
voice. In the white eddies of the waves, as they
curled below me, I saw his dead face. His eyes
opened and looked up at me. The phosphores-

10 ^

( ,.

» X

142

ELTON HAZLEWOOD.

1 1

cence of the spray was the shining of a spectral
glory. The cold flakes of foam lapping the black
rock beneath me were his white hands put forth
to touch me. The horror drove me to madness,
and when I was rescued by some fishermen at
dawn, I was dazed and almost insensible, and I
cried like a child. I only sobbed when they
asked me how I had got there. The thing was a
mystery then and a mystery it has since remained.
I tell it to you now, for the truth has been hid too
long. Publish it abroad, and let the world know
the man as he was." He paused, as if struggling
to suppress his emotion, then added ; "the shadows
darken round me and my feet draw nigh to the
iron gate which has so often shut relentlessly from
human sight so much that was grand and noble,
as well as so much that was mean and defiled,
in the millions that havu gone. If there could be
hope for me, if I could yet find light, it would be
owing to the light which the noblest and grandest
soul I have ever met has cast upon my miserable
heai-t. Farewell for ever."

He said no more and the darkness -'vhich had
fallen blurred from view his retreating form. A

ELTON IIAZLEWOOD.

143

load had been lifted from me. The place seemed
full of angels with shining wings, and I was
caught up nearer to the starlit heavens. Shed-
ding childlike, happy tears, I turned my face to
the sea, over which the spirit of Hazlewood still
brooded, and kneeling I poured forth my thank-
fulness to God.

m t

eri

» .1

i i

( !

.( t

U if

11.

If! 'I

i US

I
1(11'

CHAPTER XII.

"VTEARS and years have passed since I penned
""- this memoir, and the hand I write now
looks feeble and shaky beside that of the closing
sentences of the last chapter. Here I sit in the
old room in which Elton and I have so often sat
together. The window is open, the moon is full,
and over the perfect stillness of the summer fields
comes the murmur of the sea. To-day T have
spent in correcting this manuscript. It seems to
me that the time has now come for giving it to the
world. I have waited and waited conscious of its
shortcomings, and how inadequately I liave fid-
filled my task. But now age is dulling my facul-
ties, and I must accept this imperfection as inevi-
table. Let the book go forth as it is. It was to
me when I wrote it, a labour of love for one whoso
love was passing the love of women, and it is to
me now, as I re-read it, a source of tender solici-
tude and tears. To-night amid the scenes once so

ELTON JTAZLEWOOD.

145

familiar to Lim, in which he once lived and
moved, he is to me real and living as he was of
old. His face is lovely and fresh, his eyes full of
spiritual light, and his hand gives the firm gener-
ous grasp it once gave.

Out there, under the still shadow of the church,
is little Elton's grave with its message of hope to
mankind " The Word was made Flesh," graven on
the stone, round which the flowers are regularly
tended, for the sake of the beloved dead, by a
white-haired old clergyman and his wife. There,
at the foot of the gard( i, is the gate where I last
saw him over-shac^ ved by clouds that were pro-
phetic of yet deeper gloom. The whole place still
breathes of him, and the > ciirs as th. ha\ e die<l
away, have brouglit no real abatement of the love
I bore him. Often when I lie a^^ ake at night, a
vision of the stone cross, which nuvv broods over
the dark tides far away on the Cuii ;sh coast,
comes before me, and in the glr i the altar
rock is to me almost a second Calvary. For on
the base of the cross is this inscription in letters

of gold

((

Near this spot, Elton Hazlewood, for the love

146

ELTON JIAZLEWOOD.

•

and memory of God's Son, laid down his life to
save that of his enemy."

O, true and noble heart, I consecrate this work
to tliy memory, and lay it before the world ; tmst-
ing by it to show thee to men as thou wast in thy
simple grandeur, and also to uplift by it the shadow^
of a great wrong which darkens the sanctity of
thine unknown and unconsecratod grave. x\jid
now with it, I lay aside, as a sealed book, the
sweet thoughts and the sad of our past earthly con-
verse. For ought not I now to look for^vard, I,
with my strength declining, with the future grow-
ino- nearer, with my feet almost washed by the en-

gulfing sea ?

Even so, with no pain and no fear, I look on-
ward to that reunion where now thou and thy
loved ones are together, a,s it was told thee by God

m a

ones
earn

for ever.

: .

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'♦PLEASANT HOUR LIBRARY "--continued.

An Old Clironicle of Leighton. By Sarah Selina Hamer.

Richard Tregellas. By D. Lawson Johnstone.

Aleph the Chaldean. By E. F. Burr, LL.D.

Comrades True, By Ellinor Davenport Adams.

Preston Tower. By Jessie M. E. Saxby.

Sundered Hearts and Shadowed Lives. By Annie S. Swan.

Twice Tried and Across her Path. By Annie S. Swan.

Wrongs Righted and Secret Panel. By Annie S. Swan.

Dorothea Kirke, Thomas
Dryburgh's Dream, and
Miss Baxter's Bequest.
By Annie S. Swan.

Ursula Vivian and Life to
Those that are Bound:
By Annie S. Swan.

A Vexed Inheritance and
Hazell and Sons. By
Annie S. Swan.

Robert Martin's Lesson, Mis-
taken, and Marion
Forsyth. By Annie S.
Swan.

A Divided House, a Bachelor
in Search of a Wife, and
Roger Marcham's Ward.

By Annie S. Swan.

Doris Chejme and Carlowrie.
By Annie S» Swan.
Aldersyde and Bonnie Jean. Ly Annie S. Swan.
The Daughter of Leoutius. By J. D. Craig Houston, B.D.
The Quest of a Heart. By Caldwell Stewart.
For Stark Love and Kindness. By N. Allan Macdonald.
Reuben Dean. By W. Leslie Low, D.D.
The Master of Craigens. By A. D. Ritchie.
Rab Bethune's Double. By Edward Garrett.
Mr Gladstone : A Popular Biography. By Andrew Melrose.
A Most Provoking Girl. By Margaret Moyes Black.
Sprays of Northern Pine. By Fergus Mackenzie.
John Armiger 8 Revenge. By P. Hay Hunter.