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A APPLIED IIU^GE

1653 East Main Street

Rochester, New York 14609 LISA

(716) 482 -OMO-Ptione

f716) 288 - 5989 -Fax

,<nc^^

6 . r, VUU^yvJL

X c

-T<foi

T h c I n fk\ e 1

SI Bomance

By M. E. Braddon

Toronto
George N. Moraug &• Company

Limited
1900

I 5

153

sr '^ '♦^

Ati riphts reserved.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Grub-street Scribblers 3

II. Miss Lester, of the Patent Theatres . . 13

III. At Mrs. Mandalay's Rooms 25

IV. A Morning Call 36

V. A Serious Family 52

VI. A Woman Who Could Say No 69

VII. Pride Conquers Love 86

VIII. The Love that Follows the Dead ... 96

IX. The Period of Mourning .126

X. A Duty Visit 153

XI. Antonia's Initiation 173

XII. "So Run that Ye May Obtain" .... 180

XIII. In St. James' Square igi

XIV. St. es' and St. James' 221

XV. Antonia Finds her Own 312

XVI. Antonia and P.\tty Take a Dish of Tf.a . 368

XVII. The Beauty of Lady Kilrush 382

XVIII. A Follower of the Great Exemplar . . 417

XIX. A Meeting and a Parting 430

XX. Faithful Unto Death 448

The Infidel

Chapter I.

GRUB-STREET SCRIBBLERS.

Father and daughter worked together at the
trade of letters, in the days when George II. was
king and Grub Street was a reaHty. For them
Hterature was indeed a trade, since WilHam Thorn-
ton wrote only what the booksellers wanted, and
adjusted the supply to the demand. No sudden
inspirations, no freaks of a vagabond fancy ever
distracted him from the question of bread and
cheese ; so many sides of letter-paper to produce so
many pounds. He wrote everything. He con-
tributed verse as well as prose to the Gentleman's
Magazine, and had been the winner of one of those
prizes which the liberal Mr. Cave oflfered for the
best poem sent to him. Nothing came amiss to his
facile pen. In politics he was strong— on either
side. He could write for or against any measure,
and had condemned and applauded the same poli-
ticians in fiery letters above different aliases, antici-
pating by the vehemence of his praises the coming
guineas. He wrote history or natural history for

4 The Infidel

the instruction of youth, not so well as Goldsmith,
but with a glib directness that served. He wrote
philosophy for the sick-bed of old age, and romance
to feed the dreams of the lovers. He stole from
the French, the Spaniards, the Italians, and turned
Latin epigrams into English jests. He burned
incense before any altar, and had written much
that was base and unworthy when the fancy of the
town set that way, and a ribald pen was at a pre-
mium. He had written for the theatres with fair
success, and his manuscript sermons at a crown
apiece found a ready market.

Yes, Mr. Thornton wrote sermons — he, the un-
frocked priest, the audacious infidel, who believed in
nothing better than this earth upon which he and
his kindred worms were crawling ; nothing to come
after the tolling bell, no recompense for sorrows
here, no reunion with the beloved dead — only the
sexton and the spade and the forgotten grave.

It was eighteen years since his young wife had
died and left him with an infant daughter — this
very Antonia, his stay and comfort now, his in-
defatigable helper, his Mercury, tripping with light
foot between his lodgings and the booksellers' or the
newspaper offices, to carry his copy or to sue for a
guinea or two in advance for work to be done.

When his wife died he was curate-in-charge of a
remote Lincolnshire parish, not twenty miles from
that watery region at the mouth of the Humber,
that Epworth which John Wesley's renown had
glorified. Here in this lonely place, after two years
of widowcrhood, a great trouble had fallen upon
him. He always recurred to it with the air of a
martyr, and pitied himself profoundly, as one more
sinned against than sinning.

Grub-Street Scribblers 5

A farmer's daughter, a strapping wench of
eighteen, had induced him to elope with her. This
Adam ever described Eve as the initiator of his fall.

They went to London together, meaning to sail
for Jersey in a trading smack, which left tlie docks
for that fertile island tw'ce in a month. The damsel
was of years of discretion, and the elopement was no
felony; but i^ happened awkwardly for the parson
that she carried her father's cash box with her, con-
taining some i20o, upon which Mr. Thornton was
to start a dairy farm. They were hotly pursued by
the infuriated father, and were arrested in London
as they w^ere stepping on board the Jersey smack,
and Thornton was caught with the cash on his
person.

He swore he believed it to be the girl's money;
and she swore she had earned it in her father's
dairy — that, for saving, 'twas she had saved every
penny of it. This plea lightened the sentence, but
did not acquit either prisoner. The girl was sent
to Bridewell for a year, and the parson was sen-
tenced to five years' imprisonment ; but by the ad-
vocacy of powerful friends, and by the help of a
fine manner, an unctuous piety, and general good
conduct, he was restored to the world at the end of
the second year — a happy escape in an age when the
gifted Dr. Dodd died for a single slip of the pen and
when the pettiest petty larceny meant hanging.

Having bored himself to death by an assumed
sanctimony for two years, Thornton came out of the
house of bondage a rank atheist, a scoffer at all
things holy, a scorner of all men who called them-
selves Christians. To him they seemed as con-
temptible as he had felt himself in his hypocrisy.
Did any of them believe? Yes, the imbeciles and

( !

6 The Infidel

hysterical women, the ignorant masses of fifty vcars
ago had believed in witchcraft and the ubiquitous
devil as implicily as they now believed in justifica-
tion by faith and the new birth. But that men of
brains — an intellectual giant like Sam Johnson, for
'nstance — could kneel in dusty city churches Sun-
c vy after Sunday and scare i the Scriptures for the
promise of life immortal ! Pah ! What could Vol-
taire, the enlightened, think of such a time-serving
hypocrisy, except that the thing paid?

" It pays, sir," said Thornton, when he and his
little knot of friends discussed the great dictionary-
maker in a tavern parlor which they called " The
Portico," and which they fondly hoped to make as
famous as the Scribblers' Club, which Swift
founded, and where he and Oxford and Boling-
broke, Pope, Gay and Arbuthnot talked grandly of
abstract things. The tallc in "The Portico" was
ever of persons, and mostly scandalous, the gan-
grene of envy devouring the minds of men whose
lives had been failures.

The wife of Thornton's advocate, who was well
oflf and childless, had taken compassion on the sin-
ner's three-year-old daughter, and had carried the
little Antonia to her cottage at Windsor, where the
child was well cared for by the old housekeeper who
had charge of the barrister's rural retreat. It was
a cottage onie in a spacious garden adjoining
Windsor Forest, and to-day, in her twentieth year,
Antonia looked back upon that lost paradise with a
fond longing. She had often urged her father to
take her to see the kind friend whose bright young
face she sometimes saw in her dreams, the very
color of whose gowns she remembered, but he al-
ways put her olf with an excuse. The advocate

was

Grub- Street Scribblers 7

had risen to distinction, he and his wife were fine
people now, and Mr. Thornton would not exhibit
his shabby gentility in any such company. He had
been grateful for so beneficent a service at the time
of his captivity, and had expatiated upon his thank-
fulness on three sides of letter paper, blotted with
real tears ; but his virtues were impulses rather than
qualities of mind, and he had soon forgotten how
much he owed the K. C.'s tender-hearted wife.
Providence had been good to her, as to the mother
of Samuel, and she had sons and daughters of her
own now.

Antonia knew that her father had been in prison.
He was too self-compassionate to refrain from be-
wailing past sufferings and too lazy-brained to orig-
inate and sustain any plausible fiction to account for
those two years in which his child had not seen his
face. But he had been consistently reticent as to
the offence which he had expiated, and Antonia
supposed it to be of a political nature — some
Jacobite plot in which he had got himself en-
tangled.

From her sixth year to her seventeenth she had
been her father's companion, at first his charge —
and rather an onerous one, as it seemed to the hack
scribbler — a charge to be shared with, and finally
shunted on to the shoulders of, any good-natured
landlady who, in her own parlance, took to the
child.

Thornton was so far considerate of parental duty
that, having found an honest and kindly matron in
Rupert's Buildings, St. Martin's Lane, he left off
shifting his tent and established himself for life, as
lie told her, on her second floor, and confided the
little girl almost wholly to her charge. She had

The Infidel

one (laughtcrfive years older than Antonia wlio

was at school all clay, leaving the basement ;f"

house silent and empty of youthful company a.id

Mrs. Potter welcomed the lovely little face as a
sunn ^ j„ ,^^ ^,^^„ a^ a

Antoma-shortened to Tonia-her letters and
taught her to dust the poor little cups an 'orna

keep the hearth trimly swept and rub the brass
ferder-taught her all manner of little serv ces
which the child loved to perform. She was wha
people called an old-fashioned child; for having
never lived with other children, she had no loud^
boisterous ways, and her voice was never shrill and
ear-piercing. All she had learned or observe ha
been the ways of grown-up people. From the time

he Tather" '^m ^'^ ^'' ^'^^ '' ^^ ^^ "-"«
ner father. She had gone on errands in the im-
mediate neighborhood for Mrs. Potter. Tl 1 "„

Tie ter'to :f 7',f ' *° -^^^^^ ^^^^ *« ^ P^^^- o^
how to Pd \ '''"''' ''''^' "^^">^ instructions a to
how to ask her way at every turn, and to be careful
n crossing the street. Mrs. Potter shuddered a
these journeys to Fleet Street or St. Paul's church-
yard, and It seemed a wonder to her that the child
came back alive, but she stood in too much a^^^
her lodger's learning and importance to question

she had all the discretion of a woman, and was able

cr^^"her°' '" '^?^' ^"' ^° ^^^^ '^^ "
scrawl in her own neat penmanship, when he hid

written against time in a kind of shorthand of his

Td -f,/-^-;-- which Antonia soon mas!

dutv J. '^^"''*'°" °^ ^''' ^^"^ht^'- was the one
duty that Thornton had never shirked. Hack

Grub-Street Scribblers 9

scrihhler as he was, he loved books for their own
sake, and he loved imparting knowlcdfje to a child
whose quick appreciation lightened the task and
made it a relaxation. He gave her of his best
thinking that he did her a service in teaching her to
despise the beliefs that so many of her fellow-
creatures cherished, ranking the Christian r-ligion
with every hideous superstition of the dark ages' as
only a little better than the delusions of nian-catinir
savages m im unexplored Africa, or those sunlU
isles where Cook was slaughtered.

This man was, perhaps, a natural product of that
dark age which went before the great revival-the
age vvhen not to be a deist and a scoffer was to be
out of the fashion. He had been an ordained clergy-
man of the Church of England, taking up that trade
as he took up the trade of letters, for bread and
cheese. The younger son of a well-born York-

tt[f??n'^ ^u ^''" ^ P^'^^'S^t^ ^"^ - spend-
thrift at Oxford, but was clever enough to get a

degree, and to scrape through his ordination As
he had never troubled himself about spiritual ques-
tions and_ knew no more theology than sufficed to
satisfy an indulgent bishop, he had hardly considered
the depth of his hypocrisy when he tendered himself
as a shepherd of souls. He had a fluent pen, and
could vvrite a telling sermon, when it was worth his
while; but original eloquence was wasted upon his
bovine flock in L ncolnshire, and he generally read
them any old printed sermon that came to hand
among the rubbish heap of his book-shelves He
migrated from one curacy to another, and from one
farm-house to another, drinking with the farmers
iHinting with the squires ; diversified this dull rotmd
with a year or two on the Continent as bear leader

The Infidel

to a wealthy inerchant's son and heir ; brought home
an Itahan wife, and while she lived was tolerably
constant and tolerably sober. That brief span of
wedded life, with a woman he fondly loved, made
the one stage in his life journey to which he might
have looked back without self-reproach.

He was delighted with his daughter's quick intel-
lect and growing love for books. She began to help
him almost as soon as she could write, and now in
her twentieth year father and daughter seemed upon
an intellectual level.

" Nature has been generous to her," he told his
chums at " The Portico." " She has her mother's
beauty and my brains."

" Let's hope she'll never have your swallow for
gin punch, Bill," was the retort, that being the
favorite form of refreshment in "The Portico"
room at the Red Lion.

" Nay, she inherits sobriety also from her moth-
er, whose diet was as temperate as a wood
nymph's."

His eyes grew dim as he thought of the wife long
dead — the confiding girl he had carried from her
home among the vineyards and gardens of the
sunny hillside above Bellagio to the dismal Lincoln-
shire parsonage, between gray marsh and sluggish
river. He had brought her to dreariness and pen-
ury, and to a climate that killed her. Nothing but
gin punch could ever drown those sorrowful mem-
ories ; so 'twas no wonder Thornton took more than
his share of the bowl. His companions were his
juniors for the most part, and his inferiors in edu-
cation. He was the Socrates of this vulgar academy,
and his disciples looked up to him.

The shabby second floor in Rupert's Buildings

Grub-Street Scribblers ii

was Antonia's only idea of home. Her own eerie
was on the floor ah(jve— a roomy (-arret, with a
casement window in tlie sloping roof.a wmdow that
seemed to command all London, for she could see
Westminster Abbey and the houses of Parliament,
and across the river to the more rustic-looking
?^treets and lanes on the southern shore. She loved
her garret for the sake of that window, which had
a broad stone sill where she kept her garden of
stocks and pansies, pinks and cowslips, maintained
with the help of an occasional shilling from her
father.

The sitting-room was furnished with things that
had once been good, for Mrs. Potter was one of
those many hermits in the great city who had seen
better days. She was above the common order of
landladies, and kept her house as clean as a house
m Rupert's Buildings could be kept. Tidiness was
out of the question in any room inhabited by Wil-
liam Thornton, whose books and papers accumu-
lated upon every available table or ledge, and were
never to be moved on pain of his severe dis-
pleasure. It was only by much coaxing that his
daughter could secure the privilege of a writing-
table to herself. He declared that tiie removal of a
suigle printer's proof might be his ruin, or even the
rum of the newspaper for which it was intended.

Such as her home was, Antonia was content with
It. Such as her life was, she bore it patiently, un-
sustamed by any hope of a happier life in a world to
come— unsustained by the conviction that by her
mdustry and cheerfulness she was pleasing God.

She knew that there were homes in which life
looked brighter than it could in Rupert's Buildings.
She walked with her father in the evening streets

T he Infidel

sonictinics wlicu his empty pockets and his score at
the Red Lion furhade the pleasures of " The
Portico." She knew the aspect of houses in Pall
Mall and St. James Scpiare, in Arlin>;ton Street and
Piccadilly ; heard the .sound of fiddles and French
horn.s through open windows, lijj^ht music and lij;ht
laughter ; caught glimpses of inner splendors
through hidl doors ; saw coaches and chairs setting
down gay company, a street crow. led with link-
boys and running footmen. She knew that in this
Lon(^,Jon, within a quarter of a mile of her garret,
there as a life to which she must ever remain a
stranger — a life of luxury and pleasure, led by the
high horn and the wealthy.

Sometimes when her father was in a sentimental
mood he would tell her of his grandfather's mag-
nificence at the family-scat near Yotk; would paint
the glories of a country house with an acre and a
lialf of roof, the stacks of silver plate, and a perpet-
ual flow of visitors. Gargantuan hunt breakfasts,
hunters and coach horses without number. He ex-
ceeded the limits of actual fact, perhaps, in these
reminiscences. The magnificence had all vanished
away, the land was sold, the plate was melted, not
one of the immemorial oaks was left to show where
the park had been ; but Tonia was never tired of
hearing of those prosperous years, and was glad to
think she came of people who were magnates in the
land.

Chapter II.

MISS LESTKC. OF TIIK I'ATKN 1 THEATRES.

Besides Mrs. Potter, to whom she was warmly
attached, Antonia had one friend, an actress at
Drury Lane, who had acted in her father's comedy
of " How to Please Her," and who had made his
daujfhter's acquaintance at the wings while his play
was in progress. Patty Lester was, perhaps, hardly
the kind of person a careful father would have
chosen for his youthful daughter's hosoni friend,
for Patty was of the world worldly, ;.nd had some-
what lax notions of morality, thouf."^!! there was
nothing to be said against her personally. No no-
bleman's name had ever been hrackelt 1 with hers
in the newspapers, nor had her charac er suffered
from any intrigue with a brother acto; But she
gave herself no airs of superiority over h. r less vir-
tuous sisters, nor was she averse to the frivolous
attentions and the trifling gifts of those ancient
beaux and juvenile macaronis who flutten 1 at the
side-scenes and got in the way of the stagt carpen-
ters.

Thornton had not reared his daughter in Arca-
dian ignorance of evil, and he had no fear of her
being influenced by Miss Lester's easy views f con-
duct.

' t

, I

The Infidel

" The girl is as honest as any woman in England,
but she is not a lady," he told Antonia, " and I don't
want you to imitate her. But she has a warm heart,
and is always good company, so I see no objection
to your taking a dish of tea with her at her lodgings
once in a way."

This " once in a way " came to be once or twice a
week, for Miss Lester's parlor was all that Antonia
knew of gayety, and was a relief from the monotony
of literary toil. Dearly as she loved to assist her
father's labors, there came an hour in the day when
the aching hand dropped on the manuscript or the
tired eyes swam above the closely printed page, and
then it was pleasant to put on her hat and run to the
Piazza, where Patty was mostly to be found at home
between the morning's rehearsal and the night per-
formance. Her lodgings were on a second floor
overlooking the movement and gayety of Covent
Garden, where the noise of the wagons bringing
asparagus from Mortlake and strawberries from
Isleworth used to sound in her dreams hours before
the indolent actress opened her eyes upon the world
of reality.

She was at home this windy March afternoon,
squatting on the hearth-rug toasting muffins, when
Miss Thornton knocked at her door.

" Come in, if you're Tonia," she cried. " Stay
out if you're an odious man."

" I doubt you expect some odious man," said
Tonia, as she entered, " or you wouldn't say that."

" I never know when not to expect 'em, child.
There are three or four of my devoted admirers
audacious enough to think themselves always wel-
come to drop in for a dish of tea ; indeed, one of 'em
has a claim for my civility, for he is in the India

Miss Lester

trade, and keeps me in gunpowder and bohea. But
'tis only General Henderson I expect this after-
noon — him that gave me my silver canister," added
Patty, who never troubled about grammar.

" I would rather be without the canister than
plagued by that old man's company," said Tonia.

" Oh, you are hard to please — unless 'tis some
scholar with his mouth full of book talk ! I find the
general vastly entertaining. Sure he knows every-
body in London, and everything that is doing or
going to be done. He keeps me azo courrong,"
concluded Patty, whose French was on a par with
her English.

She rose from the hearth, with her muffin smok-
ing at the end of a long tin toasting fork. Her par-
lor was full of incongruities — silver, tea-canister,
china cups and saucers glorified by sprawling red
and blue dragons, an old mahogany tea-board and
pewter spoons, a blue satin negligee hanging over
the back of a chair, and open powder-box on the
side-table. The furniture was fine but shabby — the
sort of fine shabbiness that satisfied the landlady's
clients, who were mostly from the two patent thea-
tres. The house had a renown for being comfort-
able and easy to live in — no nonsense about early
hours or quiet habits.

" Prythee make the tea while I butter the muf-
fins," said Patty. " The kettle is on the boil. But
take your hat off before you settle about it. Ah,
what glorious hair ! " she said, as Antonia threw off
the poor little gypsy hat ; " and to think that mine is
fiery red ! "

" Nay, 'tis but a bright auburn. I heard your
old general call it a trap for sunbeams. 'Tis far
prettier than this inky black stuff of mine."

The Infidel

Antonia wore no powder, and the wavy masses of
her hair were bound into a scarlet snood that set oil
their raven gloss. He complexion was of a marble
whiteness, with no more carnation than served to
show she was a woman and not a statue. Her
eyes, by some freak of heredity, were not blaclc, like
her mother's — whom she resembled in every other
feature— but of a sapphire blue, the blue of Irish
eyes, luminous yet soft, changeful, capricious, capa-
ble of dazzling joyousness, of profoundest melan-
choly. Brown-eyed, auburn-headed Patty looked
at her young friend with an admiration which
would have been envious had she been capable of
ill-nature.

" How confoundedly handsome you are to-
day ! " she exclaimed ; " and in that gown, too ! I
think the shabbier your clothes are the lovelier
you look. You'll be cutting me out with my old
general."

" Your general has seen me a dozen times, and
thinks no more of me than if I were a plaster
image."

" Because you never open your lips before com-
pany, except to say yes or no, like a long-headed
witness in the box. I wonder you don't go on the
stage, Tonia. If you were ever so stupid at the
trade your looks would get you a hearing and a
salary."

" Am I really handsome ? " Tonia asked with
calm wonder.

She had been somewhat troubled of late by the
too florid compliments of booksellers and their as-
sistants, whom she saw on her father's business;
but she concluded it was their way of affecting gal-
lantry with every woman under fifty. She had a

i:>

as-

Miss Lester

temper tliat repelled disagreeable attentions, and
, kept the boldest admirer at arm's length.

" Handsome ? You are the most beautiful crea-
ture I ever saw, and I would chop ten years off my
old age to be as handsome, though most folks calls
me a pretty woman," added Patty, bridling a little,
and pursing up a cherry mouth.

Slie was a pink-and-white girl, with a complexion
like new milk, and cheeks like cabbage-roses. She
had a supple waist, plump shoulders, and a neat foot
and ankle, and was a capable actress in all secondary
characters. She couldn't carry a great playhouse
on her shoulders, or make a dull play seem inspired,
as Mrs. Pritchard could ; or take the town by storm
as Juliet, like Aliss Bellamy.

" Well, I doubt my looks will ever win me a for-
tune ; but I hope I may earn money from the book-
sellers before long, as father does."

" Sure 'tis a drudging life— and you'd be happier
in the theatre."

" Not I, Patty. I should be miserable away from
my books, and not to be my own mistress. I work
hard, and tramp to the city sometimes when my feet
are weary of the stones ; but father and I are free
creatures, and our evenings are our own."

" Precious dull evenings," said Patty, with her el-
bows on the table and her face beaming at her
friend. " Have a bit more muffin. I wonder
you're not azvmvccd to death."

" I do feel a little triste sometimes, when the wind
howls in the chimney, and every one in the house
but me is in bed, and I have been alone all the

evenmg.

" Which you are always."

" Father has to go to his club to hear the news.

The Infidel

And 'tis his only recreation. But though T love my
hooks, and to sit with my feet on the fender and read
Shakespeare, I should love just once in a way to see
what people arc like ; the women I see through
their open windows on summer nights — such hand-
some faces, such flashing jewels, and with snowy
feathers nodding over their powdered heads "

*' You should see them at Ranelagh. Why does
not your father take you to Ranelagh? lie could
get a ticket from one of the fine gentlemen whose
speeches he writes. I saw him talking to Lord Kil-
rush in the wings the other night."

" Who is Lord Kilrush ?"

" One of the finest gentlemen in town, and a fa-
vorite with all the women, though he is nearer fifty
than forty."

"An old man?"

" You would call him so," said Patty, with a sigh,
conscious of her nine and twenty years. " He'd give
your father a ticket for Ranelagh, I'll warrant."

Tonia looked at her brown stuff gown, and
laughed the laugh of scorn.

" Ranelagh, in this gown ! " she said.

" You should wear one of mine."

" Good dear, 'twould not reach my ankles ! "

" I grant there's overmuch of you. Little David
called you the Anakim Venus when he caught sight
of you at the side scenes. ' Who's that magnificent
giantess ? ' he asked,"

" The people of Lilliput took Captain Gulliver
for a giant and the Brobdingnagians thought him a
dwarf. 'Tis a question of comparison," replied
Tonia, huffed at the manager's criticism.

" Nay, don't be vexed, child. 'Tis a feather in
your cap for Garrick to be conscious you existed.

! S

and

Miss Lester

Well, if Ranclagh won't suit, there is Mrs. Manda-
lay's dancing-room. She has a ball twice a week in
the season, and a masquerade once a fortnight.
You can borrow a domino from the costumer in the
Piazza for the outlay of half a dozen shillings."

" Do the women of fashion go to Mrs. Manda-
lay's?"

" All the town goes there."

" Then I'll beg my father to take me. I am help-
ing him with his new comedy, and I want to see
what modish people are like — off the stage."

" Not half so witty as they are on it. Is there a
part for me in the new play? "

Patty would have asked that question of Shakes-
peare's ghost had he returned to earth to write
a new " Hamlet." It was her only idea in associa-
tion with the drama.

" Indeed, Patty, there is an impudent romp of
quality you would act to perfection."

" I love a romp," cried Patty, clapping her hands.
" Give me a pinafore and a pair of scarlet shoes,
and I am on fire with genius. I hope David will
bring out your dad's play, and that 'twill run a
month."

" If it did he would give me a silk gown, and I
might see Ranelagh."

" He is not a bad father, is he, Tonia ? "

" Bad ! There was never a kinder father."

" But he lets you work hard."

" I love the work next best to him that sets me to
it."

" And he has been your only schoolmaster, and
you are clever enough to frighten a simpleton like
me."

" Nay, Patty, you are the cleverest, for you can

The Infidel

i^i

do things— fict, sing, dance. Mine is only bnnk-
learning; but such as it is. I owe it all to my father."
" I hate hooks. 'Twas as much as I could do to
learn to read. But there's one matter in which
your father has been unkind to you."
" No, no — in nothing."

" Yes," said Patty, shaking her head solemnly,
" he has brought you up an atheist, never to go to
church, not even on Christmas day ; and to read Vol-
taire " — with a shudder.

"Do you go to church. Patty? 'Tis handy
enough to your lodgings."

"Oh. Pni too tired of a Sunday morning, after
acting six nights in a week; for' if Bellamv and
Pritchard are out of the bill and going out a-visit-
mg and strutting and grimacing in fine company,
there's always a part for a scrub like me : and if Pm
not in the play Pm in the burletta."

" And do you think you're any wickeder for not
going to church twice every Sunday? "

" I always go at Christmas and at Easter," pro-
tested Patty. " and I feel myself a better woman for
going. You've been brought up to hate religion."

" Xo. Patty, only to hate the fuss that's made
about it, and the cruelties men have done to each
other, ever since the world began, in its name."

" I wouldn't read Voltaire if I were vou." said
Patty. " The general told me it was an impious, in-
decent book."

" \'oltaire is the author of more than fortv books.
Patty."

" Oh. is it an author ? I thought 'twas the name of
a novel li!<e ' 'roin Jones.' only more impudent."

There came a knock at the door, and this time
Patty knew it was her old general.

"''1*1

Miss Lester

" Stop out, l)ca,st! " slic cried. " There's nobody
at lioiiK' to an old fool!" upon whicli courteous
f,M-cctiiij^' the ancient warrior entered stnilinj^.

"Was there ever .such a witty puss?" he ex-
claimed. " 1 kiss Mrs. Grimalkin's velvet paw.
I'ray, how many mice has Minette crunched since
breakfast? "

Mis favorite jest was t(} attribute feline attributes
to Patty, whose apj)reciation of his humor rose or
fell in unison with his jj;encrosity. A pair of white
j.;loves worked with silver thread or a handsome
ribbon for her hair secured her laughter and
applause.

To-day Patty's keen glance showed her that the
general was empty-handed. He had not brought her
so much as a violet posy. lie saluted Antonia with
his stateliest bow, blinking at her curiously, but too
short-sighted to be aware of her beauty in the dim
tv. ilight of the parlor, where evening shadows were
'ree])ing over the panelled walls.

Patty set the kettle on the fire and washed out the
little china teapot, while she talked to her ancient
admirer. lie liked to watch her kitten-like move-
ments, her trim, sprightly ways, to take a cup of
weak tea from her hand, and to tell her his news of
the town, which was mostly urong, but which she
always believed. She thought him a foolish old
person, but the pink of fashion. His talk was a di-
luted edition of the news we read in \Vali)ole's let-
ters — talk of St. James' and Leicester House, of the
old king and his grandson, newly created Prince of
Wales, of the widowed princess and Lord IJute, of
a score of patrician belles whose histories were more
or less scandalous, and of those tuD yr^ung women
from Dublin, the penniless Gunnings, whose beauty

The Infidel

h I

iOsi.

had set tlie town in a blaze— sisters so equal in
perfection that no two i)eoi)Ie were of a mind as to
which was the handsomer.

Tonia had met the general often, and knew his
capacity for being interesting. She rose and bade
her friend good-by.

" Nay, child, 'tis ill manners to leave me directly
I have company. The general and I have no
secrets."

" My Minette is a cautious puss, and will never
confess to the singing birds she has killed," said the
dodderer.

Tonia protested that her father would be at home

and wanting her. She saluted the soldier with her

stateliest courtesy, and departed with the resolute

aplomb of a due .ess.

"Your friend's grand manners go ill witli her

shabby gown," said the general. " With her fine

figure she should do weil on the stage."

" There is too much of her, general. She is too

tall by a head for an actress. 'Tis delicate little

women look best behind the lamps."

Thornton was fond of his daughter, and had
never said an unkind word to her; but he had no
scruples about letting her work for him. having a
fixed idea that youth has an inexhaustible fund of
health and strength upon which age can never over-
draw. He was proud of her mental powers, and be-
lieved that to help a hack scribbler with his multi-
farious contributions to magazines and newspapers
was the finest education possible for her. If thev
went to the playhouse together 'twas she who wrote
a critique on the players next morning, while her
father slept. Dramatic criticism in those davs was
but scurvily treated by the press, and Tonia was apt

Miss Lester

\v Ins
bade

to expatiate beyond the limits allowed by an editor,
and was mortified to sec her opinions reduced to the
baldest comment.

She talked to her father of Mrs. Mandalay's danc-
inp;'-rooms. She hnew there was such a place, but
doubted whether 'twas a reputable resort. He
promised to make inquiries, and thus delayed mat-
ters, without the unkindness of a refusal. Tonia
was helping him with a comedy for Drury Lane —
indeed, was writing the whole play, his part of the
work consisting chiefly in running his pen across
Tonia's scenes, and bidding her write them again in
accord with his suggestions, which she did with
equal meekness and facility. He grew a little lazier
every day as he discovered his daughter's talent, and
encouraged her to labor for him. He praised him-
self for having taught her Spanish, so that she had
the best comedies in the world, as he thought, at her
fingers' ends.

It was for the sake of the comedy Tonia urged her
desire to see the beau nionde.

" 'Tis dreadful to write about people of fashion
when one has never seen any," she said.

" Nay, child, there's no society in Europe will pro-
vide you better models than you'll find in yon-
der duodecimos," her father would say, pointing to
Congreve and Farquhar. " Mrs. Millamant is a
finer lady than any duchess in London."

" Mrs. Millamant is half a century old, and says
things that would make people hate her if she were
alive now."

" Faith, we are getting vastly genteel ; and I sup-
pose by-and-by we shall have plays as decently dull
as Sam Richardson's no' "Is, without a joke or an
oath from start to finish, protested Thornton.

The Infidel

It was more tlian a inontli aficr Tenia's first ap-
peal that her father came home to cHiiiier one after-
noon in high spirits and clapped a couple of tickets
on the tablecloth by his daughter's plate.

"Look there!" he cried. "I seized my first
chance of obliging you. There is a masked ball at
Mrs. Mandalay's to-night, and I wailed upon my old
friend, Lord Kilrush, on purpose to ask him for
tickets; and now you have only to run to the cos-
tumer's and borrow a domino and a mask, and .see
that there are no holes in your stockings."

" I always mend my stockings before the holes
come," Antonia said reproachfully.

" You arc an indefatigable wench ! Come, there's
a guinea for you ; perhaps you can squeeze a pair of
court shoes out of it, as well as the hire of the
domino."

"You arc a dear, dear, dearest dad! I'll ask
Patty to go to the costumer's with me. She will get
me a good pennyworth."

Chapter III.

f.,

AT MRS. MANDALAY S ROOMS.

Mrs. Mandalay's rooms were crowded, for Mrs.
Mandalay's patrons included all the varieties of Lon-
don society — the noble, the rich, the clever, the dull,
the openly vicious, the moderately virtuous, the
audaciously disreputable, masked and unmasked;
the outsiders who came from curiosity ; the initiated
who came from habit ; dissolute youth, frivolous
old age, men and boys who came because they
thought this, and only this, was life; to rub
shoulders with a motley mob, to move in an atmos-
phere of ribald jokes and foolish laughter, air
charged with the electricity of potential bloodshed,
since at any moment the ribald jest might lead to
the insensate challenge; to drink deep of adul-
terated wines, fired with the alcohol that inspires
evil passions and kills thought. These were the di-
versions that men and women sought at Mrs. Man-
dalay's; and it was into this witch's cauldron that
William Thornton plunged his daughter, reckless of
whom she met or what she saw and heard, for it was
an axiom in his blighting philosophy that the more a
young woman knew of the world she lived in, the
more likely she was to steer a safe course through
its shoals and quicksands.

The Infidel

Antonia looked with amazement upon the lavvchy
spectacle — doininos, (liamonds, splendor and shah-
biness, impudent faces plastered with white and red,
beauty still fresh and younjjf, boys still at the univer-
sity, old men fitter for the hospital than for the draw-
ing-room. Was this the dazzling scene she had
longed for sometimes in the toilsome evenings,
when her tired hand sank on the foolscap page, and
in the pause of the squeaking quill she heard the
clock ticking on the stairs and the cinders crumbling
in the grate ? She had longed for lighted rooms and
joyous company, for the concerts, and dances, and
dinners and suppers she read about in the Daily
Journal, but the scenes her imagination had con-
jured up were as different from this as paradise
from pandemonium.

Dancing was difficult in such a crowd, but there
was a country dance going on to the music of an
orchestra of fiddlers and French horns, stationed in
a gallery over one end of the room. The music was
a potpourri of favorite melodies in the " Beggars'
Opera " and the strongly marked tunes beat ui)on
Antonia's brain as she and her father stood against
the wall near the entrance doors watching the
crowd.

A master of the ceremonies came to ask her if she
would' dance. Her father answxTed for her, some-
what curtly. No, the young lady had only looked
in to see what Mrs. Mandalay's rooms were like.

" Mrs. Mandalay's rooms are too good to be made
a show for country cousins," the man answered im-
])udently after a flying glance at Thornton's thread-
bare suit, " and miss has too pretty a figure under
her domino to shirk a dance."

" Be good enough to leave us to ourselves, sir.

sir.

At Mrs. M a n d a 1 a y ' s 27

( )ur tickets have been paid for, and we liave a rij^dit
to consume this polhitcd atmosphere without iiaving
to suffer impertinence."

" Oh, . . Hi come to that, sir, I carry a sword and
will swallow no insult from a beggarly parson, and
there are plenty of handsome women i)ining for
partners."

lie edged off as he spoke and was safe among
the crowd before he finished his sentence.

" Let's go home, sir," said Anlonia. " I never
could have pictured such an odious place."

*' 'Tis one of the most fashionable assemblies in
London, child."

" Then I wonder at the taste of Londoners.
Pray, sir, let's go home. I should never have teased
you to bring me here had I known 'twas like this,
but you have at least cured me of the desire to come
again, or to visit any place tliat resembles this."

" You are pettish and over fastidious. I came
here for your amusement, and you may stay here for
mine. I can't waste coach hire because you are ca-
pricious. I must have something for my money.
Do you stay here quietly while I circulate and find
a friend or two."

" Oh, father, don't leave me among this rabble !
I shall die of disgust if any one speaks to me — like
that vulgar wretch just now."

" Tush, Tonia, there are no women-eaters here,
and you have brains enough to know how to answer
any impudent jackanapes in London."

He was gone before she could say anything more.
She had hated to be there even with her father at her
siilc. It was agony to stand there alone, fanning
herself with the trumpery Spanish fan that had been
sent her with the domino. She was not shy as other

The Infidel

women are on their first appearance in an assembly.
She had been trained to despise her fellow-crea-
tures, and had an inborn pride that would have sup-
ported her anywhere. But the scene gave her a
feeling of loathing that she had never known before.
The people seemed to her of an unknown race.
Their features, their air exhaled wickedness. " The
sons of Belial, flown with insolence and wine." She
hated herself for being there, hated her father for
bringing her there.

They had come very late, when the assembly was
at its worst or at its best, according to one's point of
view. The modish people, who vowed they detested
the rooms and only looked in to see who was there,
were elbowing their way among fat citizens
and their wives from Dowgate and rich merchants
from Clapham Common, while the more striking
figures ^in the crowd belonged obviously to the pur-
lieus of Covent Garden and the paved courts near
Long Acre.

Tonia watched them till, in spite of her aversion,
she began to grow interested in the masks and
the faces. The faces told their own story, but the
masks had a more piquant attraction, suggesting
mystery. She began to notice couples who were
obviously lovers, and to imagine a romance here and
there. Her eyes passed over the disreputable
painted faces and fixed on the young and beautiful,
secure in pride of birth, the assurance of superior-
ity. She caught furtive glances, the lingering
clasp of hands, the smile that promised, the whisper
that pleaded. Romance and mystery enough here
to fill more volumes than Richardson had published.
And then among the people who came in late, talked
loud, and did not dance, there were such satins and

At Mrs.Mandalay's 29

brocades, velvet, lace, feathers and jewels, as
neither the theatres nor her dreams had ever shown
her. She was woman enough to look at these with
pleasure, in spite of her masculine education.

She had forgotten how long she had been stand-
ing there when her father came back, smelling of
brandy, and accompanied by a man whom she had
been watching some minutes before, one of the late
arrivals, who looked young at a distance, but old, or
at best middle-aged, when he came near her. She
had seen him surrounded by a bevy of women,
who hung about him with an eager appreciation
which would have been an excuse for vanity in a
Solomon.

The newcomer's suit of mouse-colored velvet was
plainer than anybody else's, but his air and figure
would have given distinction to a beggar's rags, and
there needed not the star and ribbon half hidden
under the lapel of his coat to tell her that he was a
personage.

" My friend and patron. Lord Kilrush, desires to
make your acquaintance, Antonia," her father said
with his grand air.

She had heard of Lord Kilrush, an Irish peer,
with an immense territory on the Shannon and on
the Atlantic which he never visited ; a man of su-
preme distinction in a world where the cut of a
coat and the pedigree of a horse count for more than
any moral attributes. While he had all the dignity
of a large landowner, the bulk of his fortune was
derived from his mother, who was the only child of
an East Indian factor, " rich with the spoil of plun-
dered provinces."

Antonia had been watching the modish women's
manoeuvres long enough to be able to sink to the

The Infidel

exact depth and rise with the assured grace of a
fashionable courtesy. The perfect hps under the
light lace of her mask relaxed in a grave smile, part-
ing just enough to show the glitter of pearly teeth
between two lines of carmine. Ilcr flashing eyes
and lovely mouth gave Kilrush assurance of beauty.
It would have taken the nose of a Socrates or a
complexion pitted with the smallpox to mar the
eflfect of such eyes and such lips.

" Pray allow me to escort you through the rooms,
and to get you a cup of chocolate, madam," he said,
offering his arm. " Your father tells me that 'tis
your first visit to this notorious scene. Mrs. Man-
dalay's chocolate is as famous as her company, and
of a better quality — for it is innocent of base mix-
tures."

"Go with his lordship, Tonia," said her father,
answering her questioning look ; " you must be sick
to death of standing here."

" Oh, I have amused myself somehow," she said.
" It is like a comedy at the theatres — I can read
stories in the people's faces."

She took Kilrush's arm with an easy air that as-
tonished him.

" Then you like the Mandalay room? " he said, as
he made a path through the crowd, people giving
way to him almost as if to a royal personage.

He was known here as he was known in all
pleasure places, for a leader and a master spirit. It
suited him to live in a country where he nad no po-
litical influence. He had never been known to in-
terest himself about any serious question in life.
Early in his career, when his wife ran away with
his bosom friend, his only comment was that she al-
ways came to the breakfast-table with a slovenlv

At Mrs. Man dalay ' s 31

head, and it was best for both that they should part.
He ran h rapier through his friend's left lung early
one moriung in the fields behind Montague House ;
but he told his intimates that it was not because he
hated the scoundrel who had relieved him of an in-
cubus, but because it would have been ungenteel to
let him live.

lie conducted Antonia through the suite of rooms
that comprised " Mrs. Mandalay's." There were
two or three little side rooms where people sat in
corners and talked confidentially, as they do in such
places to this day. The confidences may have been
a shade more audacious then, an incipient intrigue
more daringly conducted, but it was the same and
the same — a married woman who despised her hus-
band; a married man who detested his wife; a
young lady of fashion playing high stakes for a
coronet, and balked or ruined at the game. Antonia
glanced from one group to the other as if she knew
all about them. To be a student of Voltaire is not
to think too well of one's fellow-creatures. She had
read Fielding, too, and knew that women were fools
and men reprobates. She had wept over Richard-
son's Clarissa, and knew that there had once been a
virtuous woman, or that a dry-as-dust printer's
elderly imagination had conceived such a creature.

One room was set apart for light refreshments,
coffee and chocolate, negus and cakes ; and here Kil-
rush found a little table in a corner, and seated her
at it. The crowd in this room was so dense that it
created a solitude. They were walled in by bro-
caded sacks and the backs of velvet coats, and could
talk to each other without fear of being overheard.
This was so much pleasanter than standing against
a wall staring at strange faces that Antonia began

The Infidel

to think she liked Mrs, Mandalay's. She took ofT
her mask, unconscious that an adept in coquetry
would have maintained the mystery of her loveHness
a Httle longer. Kilrush was content to worship her
for the perfection of her moutii, the half-seen beauty
of her eyes. She flung off the little velvet loup, and
gave him the effulgence of her face, with an uncon-
sciousness of power than dazzled him more than her
beauty.

" I was nearly suffocated," she said.

He was silent in a transport of admiration. Her
face had an exotic charm. It was too brilliant for
native growth. The south glowed in the dusk of
her eyes and in the sheen of her raven hair. He had
seen such faces in Italy. The towers and cupolas,
the church-bells, the market-women's parti-colored
stalls, the lounging boatmen and clear, white light
of the Isola Bella came back to him as he looked at
her. He had spent an autumn in the Borromean
palaces, a visitor to the lord of those delicious isles,
and he had seen faces like hers, and had worshipped
them, in the heyday of youth, when he was on his
grand tour. He remembered having heard that
Thornton had married the daughter of a small
farmer in Lombardy, not quite a peasant, while he
was travelling as bear-leader to an India merchant's
son.

Antonia sipped her chocolate with a composure
that startled him. Women — except the most ex-
perienced — were apt to be fluttered by his lightest
attentions ; yet this girl, who had never seen him till
to-night, accepted his homage with a supreme un-
concern, or indeed seemed unconscious of it. Her
innocent assurance amused him. No rustic lass
serving at an inn had ever received his compliments

o(T

At Mrs. M a n cU 1 a y ' s 33

without a blusli, for he had an air of always snean-
ing more than he said.

" Your father told me he had reared you in se-
clusion, madam," he said, " and I take it this is your
first glimpse of our gay world."

" My first and last," she replied. " I do not love
your gay world. I did wrong to tease my father to
bring me here. I imagined a scene so different."

" Tell me what your fancy depicted."

'* Larger rooms, fewer people, more space and air
— a fete champctre of Watteau within doors ;
dancers who danced for love of dancing, and who
were all young, not old, wrinkled men and fat
women ; not painted, grimacing faces, and an at-
mosphere cloudy with hair-powder."

" But is not this better than to sit in your lodg-
ings and mope over books ? "

" I never mope over books ; they are my friends
and companions."

" What, in the bloom of youth, when you should
be dancing every night, gadding from one ])leasurc
to another all day long? Books arc the friends of
old age. I shall take to books mvself when I grow
old."

Tonia's dark brows elevated themselves uncon-
sciously, and her eyes expressed wonder. Was ho
not old enough already for books and retirement ?
The man of seven and forty saw the look and inter-
preted it.

" She knows I am old enough to be her father,"
he thought, " and that is the reason of her sang-
froid. Women of the world know that mine is the
dangerous age — the age when a man who can love
loves desperately, when concentration of purpose
takes the place of j'outhful energy."
2

The Infidel

W <:

They sat in silence for a few minutes while she
finished her chocolate, and while he summed up the
situation. Then she rose hastily.

" I have been keeping you from your friends," she
said.

" Oh, I have no friends here."

" Why, everybody was becking and bowing to
you."

" I am on becking and bowing terms with every-
body ; but most of us hate each other. Let me get
you some more chocolate."

" No, thank you. I must go back to my father."

They had not far to go. Thornton was at a table
on the other side of the room, drinking punch with
one of his patrons in the book trade, a junior part-
ner who was frivolous enough to look in at Mrs.
Mandalay's.

" Miss Thornton is so unkind as to fleer at our
solemnities," said Kilrush, " and swears she will
never come here again."

" I told her she was a fool to wish to come,"
answered Thornton. " Your lordship has been un-
commonly civil to take care of her. What the devil
should a Grub Street hack's daughter do here? She
has never had a dancing lesson in her life."

" She ought to begin to-morrow. Serise would
glory in such a pupil. Give her but the knack of a
minuet, and she would show your peeresses how to
move like queens, or like a swan gliding on the cur-
rent."

" Oh, pray, my lord, don't flatter her. She has
not the art to riposter, and she may think you mean
what you say."

Kilrush went with them to the street, where his
chairn)en were waiting to carry him to St. James'

At Mrs. Mandalay's

rvhile she
;cl up the

nds," she

jwing to

th every-

t me get

"ather."

It a table

nch with

ior part-

at Mrs.
:r at our

she will

3 come,"

been un-

the devil

-I

re? She

5e would

lack of a

s how to

the cur-

She has

ou mean

'here his

t. James'

Square, or to whatever gambling-house he might
prefer to the solitude of his ancestral mansion. He
wanted to send Antonia home in his chair, but
Thornton declined the favor laughingly.

" Your chairmen would leave your service to-
morrow if you sent them to such a shabby neigh-
borhood," he said, taking his daughter on his arm.
" We shall find a hackney coach on the stand."

Si (

Chapter IV.

A MORNING CALL.

ToNiA worked at tlie comedy, but did not find her
idea of a woman of ton greatly enlarged bv the
women she had seen at Mrs. Mandalay's. Indeed
she began to think that her father was right, and
that Airs. Alillamant— whose coarseness of speech
disgusted her— was her best model. Yet, disap-
pomting as tliat tawdry assembly had been, she felt
as if siie had gained something bv her brief encoun-
ter vith Lord Kilrush, and her pen seemed firmer
when she tried to give life and meaning to the Icad-
mg ch.arac^er in her play, the role intended fur Gar-
rick. She had begun by making him voung and'
foolish. She remodelled the character, 'and made
him older and wiser, and tried to give him the grand
air ; evolving from her inner consciousness the per-
sonality which her brief vision of Kilrush had sug-
gested. Her ardent imagination made much out of
little.

Of the man himself she scared v thought and
would hardly have recognized his person harl' they
met in the street. But the ideal man she endowed
with every fascinating qualitv, every attracting
grace. ^

Her father noted the improvement in her work.

i k

A Morning Call

hy, this fuuith act is tlie best \vc have done

}\'t," he s;nM, "and I think 'twas a wise stroke of
mine to make our hero older "

Oil, father, 'twas my notion, yon'll remember."
You shall claim all the invention for your share,

if you lilcc, so lono- as we concoct a

piece that will

satisfy C rick, who p^rows more and more finical as
he p^ets richer and more fooled by the town. The
part will suit him all the better now we've struck a
<iecper note. He can't wish to play schoolbov all his
life."

It was three weeks after the masquerade when
there came a rap at the parlor door one morning,
and the maid servant announced Lord Kilrush.

Thornton was lying' on a sofa in shirt sleeves and
slippers, smokir.:; a lonj; clay pii)e, the i)icture of
a self-indulgent sloven— that might have come
straight from Hogarth. Tonia was writing at a
table by an open window, the Jui.e sunshine gleam-
ing in her ebon hair. Her father had been dictating
and suggesting, objecting and approving, as she
read her dialogue.

The visit was startling, for though Thornton was
on easy terms with liis lordship, who had known
him at the university, and had patronized and em-
ployed him in his decadence, Kilrush had never
crossed his threshold till to-day. Had he come im-
mediately after the meeting at Mrs. Mandalay's,
Antonia's father might have suspected evil, but
Thornton had f^ung that event into the rag-bag of
old memories, and had no thought of connecting his
patron's visit with his daughter's attractiveness. He
v.-as about as incapable of thought and memorv as a
thinking animal can be, having lived for the past
fourteen }'ears in the immediate present, conscious

I, i

)t '

The I n f i d e 1

only of gfood days and bad days, llic luck or the ill-
luck of the hour, without hope in the days that were
coniinjT, or remorse for the days that were gone.

Kilrush knew the man to the marrow of his bones,
and althoujrh he had been profoundly impressed bv
Antonia's unlikeness to other women^ he had waited
a month before seeking to improve her acquaintance,
and thus hoped to throw the paternal Argus off his
guard.

Tonia laid down her pen, rose straight and tall
as a June lily, and made h'"- lordship Ikt queenly
courtesy, blushing a lovel- crimson at the though't
of the liberties that rapid quill had taken with his
character.

" He is not half so handsome as mv Dorifleur' "
she thought; "but he has the grand air that no
words can express. Poor little Garrick ! What a
gennis he must be, and what heels he must wear, if
he is to represent such a man ! "

Kilrush returned the courtesy with a bow as lofty,
and then bent over the ink-staineu fingers and kissed'
them, as if they had been saintly digits in a crystal
reliquaire.

" Does Miss Thornton concoct plays, as well as
her gifted parent.? " he inquired, with the smile that
was so exquisitely gracious, yet not without the
faintest hint of mockery.

" The jad" has twice her father's genius," said
Thornton, wuo had risen from the sofa and laid his
pipe upon the hob of the wide iron grate, where a
jug of wall flowers filled the place of a u inter fire.
" Or, perhaps, I should say, twice her father's mem-
ory, for she has a repertory of Spanish and Italian
plays to choose from when her Pegasus halts."

" Nay, father, I am not a thief, "^protested Tonia.

A Morning Call 39

Kilrush p^lanced at the hack scribbler, remember-
ing that awkward adventure with tlie farmer's cash
box which had brought so worthy a gentleman to
the treadmill, and whicli might have acquainted him
with Jack Ketch. He glanced from father to daugh-
ter, and decided that Antonia was unacquainted
with that scandalous episode in her parent's clerical
career.

After that one startled blush and conscious smile,
the cause whereof he knew not, she was as uncon-
cerned in his lordsl p'j company to-day as she had
been at Mrs. Mandalay's. She gave him no inincui-
dcrics, no downcast eyelids or shy glances; but sat
looking at him with a pleased interest while he
talked of the day's news with her father, and an-
swered him frankly and brightly when he discussed
her own literary work.

" You are very young to write plays," he said.

" I wrote plays when I was five years younger,"
she answered, laughing, " and gave them to Bettv
to light the fires."

" And your father warmed his legs before the
dramatic pyre, and never knew 'twas the flame of
genius? "

" She was a fool to burn her trash," said Thorn-
ton, " I might have made a volume of it — ' Trag-
e lies and Comedies, by a Young Lady of Fifteen,' "

" I'll warrant Shakespeare burned a stack of
balderdash before he wrote 'The Two Gentlemen
of Verona,' poor stuff as it is," said Kilruc-h,

"Is your lordship so very sure 'tis poor stuff?"
asked Tonia.

" If it wasn't, don't you think Garrick would have
produced it? He loves Shakespeare— a vastly re-
spectable poet, whose plays he can act without pay-

The In Fid el

m^' for thciii. IW sure you kt nu- know when yout
comedy is to he produced, madam, for I sliouhl die
of vexation not to be present at the first perform-
ance."

"Ahis! there is a great gulf between a written
play and an acted one." sighed Toin'a. " Mr. Car-
rick may not hke it. lUit 'tis more my father's phiy
Ihan n'ine, my lord. He finds the idJas. and I pro-
vide the words."

" She lias spontaneous eloquence that takes my
hreath away. I'.ut for the machinery, the fabric of
the piece, the arrangement of the sceiKs. the method,
the taste, the scope of the characters and their action
upon one another. I confess myself the author,"
Thornton said, in liis grandiloquent wav, having as-
sumed his comj)any manner, a style of conversation
which he kept for persons of quality.

" I doubt Miss Thornton is fonder of study than
pleasure, or I should have seen her at Mrs. Man-
dalay's again "

"I hate the place." interjected Tonia. "and if
women of fashion are all like the painted wretches 1
saw there "

" They all paint— white lead is the rule and a
dean-washed face the exception," said Kilrush •
" but 'twould not be fair to judge the beau monde
by the herd you saw t'other night. Mrs. Mandalay's
is an oUa podrida of good and bad company. Your
father must initiate you in the pleasures of Rane-
lagh,"

" I have had enough of such pleasures. I had a
curiosity— like Fatima's— to see a world that was
hid from me. But for pleasure I prefer the fireside
and a novel by Richardson. If he would but give
us a new Clarissa ! "

A Morning Call

" You admire Clarissa? "

" I adore, I revere her ! "

" A pious simpleton, who stood in the way of her
own hapi)iness. Why, in the name of all that's rea-
sonable, (lid iihe refuse to marry Lovelace, when he
was willing? "

Tonia flashed an indipnant look at him.

"If she cf)ul(l have stooped to marry him she
would have proved herself at heart a wanton ! "
she said, with an outspoken force that startled Kil-
rush.

Hitherto he had met only two kinds of women —
the strictly virtuous, who affected an Arcadian in-
nocence, and whose talk was insupportahly dull, and
the women whose easy morals allowed the widest
scope for conversation, but here was a girl of un-
doubted modesty who was not afraid to argue upon
a hazardous theme.

" You admire Clarissa for her piety, perhaps ? "
he said. " That is what our fine ladies pretend to
appreciate, though they are most of them heathens."

" I admire her for her self-respect," answered
Tonia. " That is her highest quality. When was
there ever a temper so nvjek, joined with such for-
titude, such heroic resr e?"

" She was a proud, ;f-willed minx," said Kil-
rush, entranced with the vivid expression of her
face, with the fire in her sjx ech.

"'T\, js a woman's pride in her womanhood, a
woman fighting against her arch enemy "

"The man who loved her?"

" The man sh* loved. 'Twas that made the strug-
gle desperate. She knew she loved him."

" If she had been kinder now, and had let love
conquer? " insinuated Kilrush.

I I !'

i •

I )

The I n f i d e 1

" She would not have been Clarissa ; she would
not have been the long-suffering angel, the martyr
in virtue's cause."

" Prythee, my lord, do not laugh at my daughter's
high-flown sentiments," said Thornton. "I have
done my best to educate her reason, but while there
are romancers like Samuel Richardson to instil
folly, 'tis difficult to rear a sensible woman."

" That warmth of sentiment is more delightful
than all your cold reason, Thornton ; but I compli-
ment you on the education which has made this
young lady tower above her sex."

" Oh, my lord, do not laugh at me. I have just
learned enough to know that I am ignorant," said
fonia, with her grand air— grand because so care-
less, as of one who is alike indifferent to the effect of
her words and the opinion of those with whom she
converses.

Kilrush prolonged his visit into a second hour,
durmg which the conversation flitted from books to
people, from romance to politics, and never hung
fire. He took leave reluctantly, apologizing for hav-
nig stayed so long, and gave no hint of repeating his
visit, nor was asked to do so. But he meant to come
again and again, having, as he thought, established
himself upon a footing of intimacy. A Grub Street
hack could have no strait-laced ideas— a man who
had been in jail for something very like larceny, and
who had educated his young daughter as k free
thinker.

''She finds my conversation an agreeable relief
after a ten-years' tcte-ct-tcte with Thornton," he told
himself as he picked his way through the filth of
Green Street to Leicester Fields. " But 'tis easy to
see she thinks I have passed the age of loving, and

I i

gnter s

[ have

i there

instil

A Morning Call 43

is as much at home wilh nie as if I were her p,rand-
fathcr. Yet 'twas a beantiful red that flushed her
cheek when I entered tlie rooni. Well, if she is
pleased to converse with me, 'tis something; and I
must school myself to taste a platonic attachment.
A Lovelace of seven and forty ! How she would
jeer at the notion ! "

Lord Kilrush waited a fortnight before repeat-
ing his visit, and again called at an hour when
Thornton was likely to be at home, but his third
visit, which followed within a week of the second,
happened late in the afternoon, when he found An-
tonia alone, but in no wise discomposed at the pros-
pect of a ti'ie-a-tcle. She enjoyed his conversation
with as frank and easy a manner as if she had been
a young man and his equal in station ; and he was
careful to avoid one woi d or look which might have
disturbed her serenity. It was unflattering, per-
haps, to be treated so easily, accepted so frankly as
a friend of mature years; but it aflforded him the
privilege of a companionship that was fast becoming
a necessity of his existence. The days that he spent
away from Rupert's Buildings were dull and barren.
His hours with Antonia had an unfailing charm.
He forgot even twinges of gout, and the burden of
time— that dread of old age and death which so
often troubled his luxurious solitude.

She grew more enchanting as she became more
familiar. She treated him with as cordial a friend-
ship as if he had been her uncle. She would talk to
him with her elbows on the table, and her long,
tapering fingers pushing back those masses of glossy
hair which the ribbon could scarcely hold in place.
Stray curls would fall over the broad, white brow,
and she had a way of tossing those random ringlets

f r

If i

The Infidel

from her eyes that he could liave sworn to among a
thousand women.

He told her all that was worth telling of the world
m which he lived and had lived. He had been a
soldier tdl his thirtieth year; had travelled much
and far; had lived in Paris among the encyclo-
paedists, and had entertained Voltaire at his house
in London. He had seen every dramatic troupe
worth seeing in France, Italy and Spain; had dab-
bled in necromancy, and associated with savants in
every science, at home and abroad.

All his experiences interested Antonia. She had
a way of entering into the ideas of another which
he had never met with in any except the highest
grade of women.
^^ " Your kindness makes me an egotist," he said.

\ou ought to be the mistress of a political salon,
l^aith, I can picture our party politicians pouring
their griefs and hatreds into your ear, cheered by
your sympathy, inspired by your wit. But I doubt
you must find this prosing of mine plaguev tire-
some." •

" No, no, no." she cried eagerly. " I want to know
what the world is like. It is pleasant to listen to one
who has seen all the places and people I long to see."
\ou will see them with your own vounp- eyes
perhaps, some day." he said, smiling at her.

She shook her head despondently, and waved the
suggestion away as impossible.

One day in an expansive mood she consented to
read an act of the comedy, now finished, and waiting
only Thornton's final touches, and that spicing of
the comic episodes on which he prided himself, and
against which his daughter vainly protested.

" My father urges that we have to please three

A Morning Call 45

distinct audiences, and that scenes which dehght
people of good breeding are caviare to the pit, while
the gallery wants even coarser fare, and must have
some foolery dragged in here and there to put them
in good humor. I'll not read you the gallery pages."
He listened as if to inspiration. He easily recog-
nized her own work as opposed to her father's, the
womanly sentiment of her heroine's speeches,' her
hero's lofty views of life. He ventured a sugges-
tion or two at that first reading, and finding her
pleased with his hints, he insisted on hearing the
whole play and began seriously to help her, and so
breathed into her dialogue that air of the beau
vwnde which enhances the charm of contemporary
comedy. This collaboration, so delightful to him,
so interesting to her, brought them nearer to each
other than all their talk had done. He became the
partner of her ideas, the sharer of her hopes. He
taught her all that her father had left untaught— the
mystery of modish manners, the laws of that society
which calls itself good, and how and when to break
them.

" For the parvenue 'tis a code of iron ; for the fine
gentleman there is nothing more pliable," he told
her. " I have seen Chesterfield do things that would
make a vulgarian shudder, yet with such benign
grace that no one was offended."

Thornton was with them sometimes, and they sat
on the play in committee. He, who professed to be
the chief author, found himself overruled by the
other two. They objected to most of his jokes as
vulgar or stale. They would admit no hackneyed
turns of speech. The comedy was to be a picture
of life in high places.

" Begad, my lord, you'll make it too fine for the

i I'

If '

The Infidel

town, and 'twill be played to empty benches," re-
monstrated Thornton.

" Nothing is ever too fine for the town," answered
Kilrush. "Do you think the folks in the gallery
want their own humdrum lives reflected on the stage
or to look on at banquets of whelks and twopenny
porter? The mob love splendor, Air. Thornton, and
when they have not Bajazet or Richard, they like to
see the finest fine gentlemen and ladies that a play-
wright can conceive."

Thornton gave way gracefully. He knew his
lordship's influence at the theatres, and he had told
Garrick that Kilrush had written a third of the play,
but would not have his name mentioned.

" 'Tis no better for that," said the manager, but
in his heart liked the patrician flavor, and on read-
ing " The Man of Mind " owned 'twas the best
thing Thornton had written and promised to pro-
duce it shortly.

By this time Kilrush and Antonia seemed' old
friends, and she looked back and thought how dull
her life must have been before she knew him. He
was the only man friend she had ever had, except her
father. She found his company ever so much more
interesting than Patty Lester's, so that it was only
for friendship's sake she ever went to the parlor
over the Piazza or bade Patty to a dish of tea in Ru-
pert's Buildings. Patty opened her great brown
eyes to their widest when she heard of Kilrush's
visits.

"You jeer at my ancient admirers," she said,
" and now you have got one with a vengeance ! "

"He is no admirer— only an old friend of niv
father's who likes to sit and talk with me."

" Is that all ? He must be very fond of j-ou to sit

A Morning Call

re-

in a second floor parlor. He is one of the finest gen-
tlemen in town and the richest. My general told me
all about him."

" I thought that Irish peers were seldom rich,"
Tonia said carelessly, not feeling the fainteet inter-
est in her friend's fortune or position.

" This one is, and he is something more than an
Irish landowner. His mother was an East India
merchant's only child, and one of the richest heir-
esses in England. Those Indian merchants are
rank thieves, Henderson says — thieves and slave-
traders, and they used to bring home mountains of
gold. But that was fifty years ago, in the good old
times."

" Poor souls ! " said Tonia, thinking of the slaves.
" What a cruel world it is ! "

It grieved her to think that her friend's wealth
had so base a source. She questioned her father on
their next meal together.

" Is it true that Lord Kilrush's grandfather was
a slave-trader?" she asked.

" S'death, child, what put such tra?h in your
head? Miss Lavencw was the daughter of a Cal-
cutta merchant who dealt with the native princes in
gold and gems, and who owned a tenth share of the
richest diamond mine in the East. 'Tis the West
Indian merchants who sometimes take a turn at the
black trade, rather than let their ships lie in harbor
till they ground on their own beef bones."

It was a relief to know that her friend's fortune
was unstained by blood.

" I do not think he would exist under the burden
of such a heritage," she said to herself, meditating
upon the question in the long summer afternoons, as
she sat with open windows trying not to hear street

II f I

The Infidel

cries as she bent over an Eastern story by Voltaire
which she was translating for one of the magazines
Kilrush came in before lier task was finished, but
she laid her pen aside gladly, and rose to take his
iiat and stick from him with her dutiful, daughterly
air, just as she did for her father.

'.•"t^Y' \ ^^" "°* ^^"^^ y^^ ^^^^'^ "Pon me, when
tis 1 should serve you on my knees, as queens are
served," he said.

It was seven o'clock, and he had come from a
Jacobite dinner in Golden Square-a dinner at
which the champagne and Burgundy had gone
round freely before it came to drinking the king's
health across a bowl of water. There was an un-
usual brightness in his eyes, and a faint flush upon
clieeks that were more often pale.

" I did not expect to see your lordship to-day,"
loma said, repelled by his manner, so unlike the
sober politeness to which he had accustomed her
1 thought you were going to Tunbridge Wells."
My coach was at the door at ten o'clock this
morning, the postilions in their saddles, when I
sent them all to the devil. I found 'twas impos-
sible to leave this stifling town."

"A return of your gout ? " she asked, looking at
nim wonderingly.

•'No. madam, 'twas not my gout, as you call it,
hough I never owned to more than a transient
twinge. Twas a disease more deadly, a malady
more killing.

Ho -lade a step toward her, wanting to clasp her
to h .reast in the recklessness of a long-suppressed
passion, but drew back at the sound of a step on the
stair.

She looked at him, still with the same open won-

A Morning Call

dor. She could scarcely believe that this was Kil-
rush, the friend she admired and revered. Her
father came in while she stood silent, perplexed, and
distressed at the transformation.

Kilrush flung himself into an armchair with a
muttered oath. Then, looking up, he caught the
expression of Tonia's face, and it sobered him. He
had been talking wildly; had offended her, his di-
vinity, the woman to win whom was the fixed pur-
pose of his mind — to win her at his own price,
which was a base one. He had been tactful hither-
to, had gained her friendship, and in one unlucky
moment he had dropped the mask, and it might be
that she would trust him no more.

" Too soon, too soon," he told himself. " I have
made her like me. I must make her love me before
I play the lover."

lie let Thornton talk while he sat in a gloomy
Silence. It wounded him to the quick to discover
that she still thought him an elderly man, whose
most dreaded misfortune was a fit of the gout.
'Twas to sober age she had given her confidence.

Thornton had been with Garrick, and had come
home radiant. The play was to be put in rehearsal
next week, with a magnificent cast.

" But I fear your lordship is indisposed," he said,
when Kilrush failed to congratulate him on his good
fortune.

" My lordship suffers from a disease common to
men who are growing old. I am sick of this petty
life of ours and all it holds."

" I am sorry to hear you talk like one of the Ox-
ford Methodists," said Thornton. " It is their trick
to disparage a world they have not the spirit or the
fortune to enjoy."

The Infidel

They have their solatium in tlie kingdom of
saints said Kilrush. •' I dare not flatter myself
with the hope of an Elysium where I shall again be
young and handsome, and capable of winning the
woman I love."

" Nor do you fear any place of torment where the
pleasing indiscretions of a stormy youth arc to be
purged with fire," retorted Thornton, gayly.

" No, I am like you— and Miss Thornton— I stake
my all upon the only life I know and believe in "

He glanced at Tonia to see how the materialist's
barren creed sat on her bright youth. She gave a
houghtful sigh, and her eyes looked dreamily out
to the summer clouds sailing over Wren's tall
steeple She was thinking that if she could have
accepted Mrs. Potter's creed, and believed in a shin-
ing city above the clouds and the stars, it would
have bee- sweet to hope for reunion with the mother
whose face she could not remember, but whose
sweetness and beauty her father loved to praise even
now after nineteen years of widowerhood
^^ • Your lordship is out of spirits," said Thornton.
1 onia shall give us a dish of tea."
"No, I will not be so troublesome. I am out of
health and out of humor. Miss Thornton was right
i <lare swear, when she suggested the gout-my
gout— an old man's chronic malady. I have been
dining with a crew of boisterous asses who won't
beheve the Stuarts are beaten, in spite of the foolish
heads that are blackening on Temple Bar. J'ai Ic
vin mauvats, and am best at home."

He kissed Antonia's hand, that"cold hand which
had never thrilled at his touch, nodded good-bv to
1 hornton and hurried away.
" Kilrush is not himself to-dav," said Thornton

A Morning Call 51

" I'm afraid he has been taking too much wine,"
said Antonia. " He had the strangest manner and
said the strangest things."

"What things?"

" Oh, a kind of wild nonsense that meant noth-
ing."

She was not accustomed to see any one under the
influence of liquor. Her father was, by long habit,
proof against all effects of the nightly punch bowl,
and however late he came from " The Portico," he
had always his reasoning powers and legs steady
enough to carry him up two flights of stairs without
stumbling.

Chapter V.

A SERIOUS FAMILY.

Lord Kilrusii posted to Tunbridge Wells the day
after the Jacobite dinner, and found a herd of fine
people he knew parading the Pantiles, or sauntering
on the common, among Jews and Germans, pin
makers uives from Smock Alley and rural squires
vv. I red-cheeked daughters. He drank the waters
and nearly rhed of ,;;,,,,/. He v/o:-ld have liked the
place better if ,t had been a solitude. Wit no longer
aroused him, not even George Selwyn's; beautv
had ceased to charm, except in one face, and tha't
was two and thirty miles away. That chronic
weanness which he knew for the worst svmptom of
advancmg years increased with everv hour of fash-
ionable rusticity. The air at the Wells was de-
hcious, the inn was comfortable, his physician swore
hat he treatment was improving his health. He
eft the place at an hour's notice, to the disgust of
his body servant, and posted back to town. He pre-
ferred the gloom of his great silent house in St
James Square, where he lived a hermit's life in
ns library when London was empty. In years gone
by he had spent the summer and autunui in a round
of country visits, diversified with excursions to
chateaux in the environs of Paris, and a winter at

A Serious Family

Florence or Rome, everywhere admired and in re-
quest. Scarce a season had passed without rumors
of his impen(hng marriage with some famous
beauty, or still more famous fortune. But for the
last five or six years he had wearied of society and
had restricted his company to a few chosen friends,
men of his own age with whom he could rail at
the follies of the new generation — men who had
known Bolingbroke in his day of power, and had
entertained Voltaire at their country-seats in the
year '29.

Were Tonia's violet eyes the lodestars that drew
him back to town? He was singing softly to him-
self as he walked up Shooter's Hill, being ever mer-
ciful to the brute creation, and loving horses and
dogs better than he loved men.

" Thine eyes are lodestars and thy breath sweet
air," he sang, twirling his clouded cane ; and the
thought that he would soon see those lovely eyes
made him gay. But his first visit was not to Ru-
pert's Buildings. He knew that he had shocked and
disgusted Antonia, and that he must give her time
to recover her old confidence. It had been but an
impetuous movement, a waft of passionate feeling;
when he stretched out his arms toward her, yearn-
ing to dasp her to his breast ; but her fine instinct
had told her that this was the lover and not the
friend. He must give her time to think she had mis-
taken him. He must play the comedy of indiffer-
ence.

He ordered his favorite hack on the day after his
return from the Wells, and rode by Westminster
Bridge, only opened in the previous autumn, to
Clapham, past Kenninirton Common, where poor
Jemray Dawson had suUered for his share in the re-

The Infidel

bclho,, of 45. I,y p,,a,,„t^ ,„^tj^

pcrfutne of roses cxhalc.l from prosperourdtTzens'

garclcns. surrounding honest, square-b il bTk

ouses, not to be confounded vviti' the villa wl d.

en meant a demi-mansion on a classic n,o 1 i e

eluded n. umbrageous grounds, and not a flimsy

Sthv i> T"'°" ^"'■'^ ^'^^ ^'>'«'^" fields of
quahty. The shrubberied drive into whidi Kilrush
rode was kept with an exquisite propriety nd hose
few flowermg shrubs that bloom in September were
mfolchng the.r petals under an almost smokde
ky. He d.sn,ounted before a handsome house more

asohd red r"',"7 "'^' '"''^ '^^'^'^^ ^^- ^-oluTion

?nd a hand; '''' ''''''''' ^'^'^ ^°"^' "^'"^-w windows
and a handsome cornice, pediment and cupola mask-

ng the shmmg black tiles oi the low roof A shell-
shaped canopy, richly carved and supported bv
ehert,bic brackets, sheltered the tall door vav The
open door offered a vista of garden beyondl^e hall
and Kdrush walked straigh^hrough^o the lawn
whde h.s groom led the horses to the stabl yard a
spaaous quadrangle screened by intervening'shrub!

seat^alti^hl "^ ""T'", ^^ commanding figure was
plane with a young man, who rose hurriedly and
went to meet the visitor. The lady was Mrs. S obar
the widow of a Bristol ship-owner, and the ^oune
man was her only son. late of a famous draZn
regiment. Loth were dressed with a gloomv se^er
•ty that set his lordship's teeth on edge. It both

A Serious Family

had a certain air of distinctic ., not to be effaced by
their p!u;.i attire.

" This is very kind of your lordship," said
George Stobart, as they shook hands. " My mother
told me you were at Tunbridge Wells. She saw
your name in the Gazette."

" Your mother was right, George, but the inan-
ity of the place wore me out in a week, and I left
before I had given the waters a chance of killing
or curing me."

He kissed Mrs. Stobart's black mitten, and
dropped into a chair at her side, after vouchsafing a
distant nod to a young woman, who sat at a jjace
or two from the tabic, sewing the seam of a coarse
linen shirt, with her head discreetly bent. She
raised a pa-r of mild brown eyes, and blushed rosy
red as she a knowledged his lordship's haughty
greetir. ,^ and h noticed that Stobart went v^ver to
speak io 1 r befo e he resumed his seat.

There "ere soiiie dishes of fruit on the table, Mrs.
Stobart's ,vork-basket, and several books — the
kind of books Kiirush loathed, pamphlets in gray
paper covers, sermons in gray boards, the literature
of that great revival which had spread a wave of
piety over the United Kingdom, from John o'
Groat's to the Land's End, and across the Irish
Channel from the LifFey to the Shannon.

Mrs. Stobart was hi: first cousin, the daughter of
his father's elder sister and of Sir Michael Mac-
Mahon, an Irish judge. Good looks ran in the blood
of the Delafields, and only two years ago Kiirush
had been proud of his cousin, who until that date
was a distinguished figure in the fashionable as-
semblies of London and Bath, and whose aquiline
features and fine person were set off by powder and

Pi I

I *

'l !

>f 'i;

'■-i I

The Infidel

diamonds and the floral brocades and flowing
sacques which '< that hateful woman," MadamTd!

iWadT'.f °"','"''">'^°^^ °^ ^''^ -bused and
imitated, had brought into fashion. The existence
of such women is, of course, a disgrace to civiliza-
tion but while their wicked reign lasts persons of
quality must dress like them

thlr. T"'' '^"^ ^"^'^^ ^'^^-'-^ b-^ been one of
the most promising soldiers in His Majesty's army

euXlt' 'T' '" P^°'^^'^'°"' ^^^- bad distin-'
guished himself as a subaltern at Fontenoy and

was marked by his seniors for promotion. S; had

been also one of the best-dressed and best-mannered

th. W u '" '" ^°"/°" '""'"''y' -"^ ^' the Bath and
the Wells a star of the first magnitude.

What was he now? Kilrush shuddered as he
marked the change.

^^ " A sanctimonious prig," thought his lordship •
a creature of moods and hallucinations, vyho might'
be expected at any hour to turn lay preacher, an
jog from Surrey to Cornwall on one of his s iper-
annua ed chargers, bawling the blasphemous fa-
miliarities of the new school to the mob on rural
commons, escaping by the skin of his teeth from
he say-ages of the manufacturing districts, casting
m his Itinerant lot with Whitefield and the Wesleys
of Inn ?' Ir ' ^ transformation meant little short
of lunacy. He was indignant at his kinsman's de-
cadence; and when he gaye a curt and almost unciyil
nod to the poor dependent, bending oyer her plain
needlework yonder betwixt sun and shade, it w^
because he suspected that pretty piece of i;w-bori
pmk and white to haye some part in the change tha
had been wrought so suddenly. ^

Two years ago, at an evening service in John

^.1

A Serious Family 57

Wesley's chapel at the Old Foundry, George Sto-
bart had been " convinced of sin." Swift as the
descent of the dove over the waters of the Jordan
had been the awakening of his conscience from the
long sleep of boyhood and j'outh. In that awful mo-
ment the depth of his iniquity had been opened to
him, and he had discovered the hollowness of a life
without God in the world. He had looked along the
backward path of years, and h-^.d seen himself a
child, drowsily enduring the familiar liturgy, sleep-
ing through the hated sermon : a lad at Eton, mak-
mg a jest of holy things, scorning any assumption
of religion in his school-fellows, insolent to his mas-
ters, arrogant and uncharitable, shirking everything
that did not minister to his ov .; pleasures or his own
aims, studious only in the pursuit of selfish am-
bitions, dreaming of future greatness to be won
amid the carnage of battle^: as ruthless, as unnec-
essary as Malplaquet.

And following those cai .y years of self-love and
impiety there had come a season of darker sins, of
the sins which prosperous youth calls pleasure, sins
that had sat so lightly on the slumbering conscience,
but which filled the awakened soul with horror.

His first impulse after that spiritual regeneration
was to sell out of the army. This was the one tan-
gible and irrevocable sacrifice that lay in his power.
The more he loved a soldier's career, the more ar-
dently he had asi)ired to military renown, the more
obvious was the duty of renunciation. The treaty
of Aix-la-Chapelle had but just been concluded, and
the troubles in America had not begun, so there
seemed no chance of his regiment being sent on ac-
tive service, but his conduct seemed not the less ex-
traordinary to his commanding ofiicer.

f /

The Infidel

asked. ^'°" "^^ *^''' ^"^ ^'^^^''^ >'°"'' mother?" he
"No, sir, I do it to please Christ "

s JbttTe^t" ir:' '" '''''-'' '^'^^'-^^'y -

sai7"1?th "^'''"^ ?/ '^'' ^^^^^'■^ Methodists," he
Peotled wi h'h ^'•^,-"°^ved to go on England will be
peopled with hare-brained enthusiasts, and we shall
have neither soldiers nor sailors "

Mrs. Stobart was furious with her son for his
abandonment of a career i„ which she had expected

him o 1 I t ^^^"^ed to speak to him, and had left
S^hTrnn^ V "\^^'t^tions in his own rooms at
S obart lodge. In this gloomy period they had met
o^ily at meals and it had vexed her to see tha her
son took no wine, and refused all the daintier d si e

adorned the board in sumptuous covered dishes of
Georgian silver, and which were the pride of cook
and dinner-giver.

" I give myself a useless trouble in looking at the
bill of fare every morning," Mrs. Stobart sa^

lasted f?n .7°" ^ nielancholy silence that had

grodd!l\r''"^^"^^^'"^^°""^^^^

madL^^"" ''''"'^ '" 'P^^^^^'^^^ ^^'^'^- *'""?«>

*' I might as well order a leg of mutton and a suet
pudding every dav in the week "
^^^" Indeed, my dear mother. I desire nothing bet-

" With a cook at forty guineas a year ! "

A Serious Family

cs-
you

" Dismiss her, and let the kitchen wench dress
our simple meals."

" And make myself a laughing stock to
friends."

" To your idle acquaintances only — friends
teem us for deeper reasons. Ah, madam, if
would but hearken to the voices I hear, court the
friends I love, you would scorn the worldling's life
as I scorn it. To the heir of a boundless estate in
the kingdom of heaven 'tis idle to waste thought and
toil upon a trumpery speck of earth."

" Oh, those Oxford Methodists ! You have
caught their jargon. I am a good churchwoman,
George, and I hate cant."

" You are a good woman, madam, but what is it
to be a good churchwoman ? To attend a morning
service once a week in a church where there is
neither charity nor enthusiasm, upon whose dull
decorum the hungry and the naked dare not intrude
— a service that takes no cognizance of sinners, save
in a formula that the lips repeat while the heart re-
mains dead ; to eat a cold dinner on the Sabbath in
order that your servants may join in the same heart-
less mockery of worship ; to listen to the ba'.ren dog-
ma of a preacher whose life you know for evil, and
whose intellect you despise."

Alother and son had many such conversations —
oases in a desert of sullen silence — before Mrs. Sto-
bart's conversion, but that conversion came at last,
partly by the preaching of John Wesley, whom her
son worshipped, and partly by the influence of Lady
Huntingdon and other ladies of birtli and fortune,
whose example appealed to the lionorable Maria
Stobart as no meaner example could have done. She
began to think less scornfully of the great revival

The Infidel

when she found her equals in rank among the most
ardent followers of Whir.fidd and the VVe^sIeys ;Tn
withai a year of h.r son's awakening she. too be-
came convuKed of sin, the first fruits of wind, eon -
version were shown by the dismissal of her fortv-
ginnea cook, her seeond footman, the third stable

wf'srv'r "'^' ''' ^ ^''^ p^'^ ^' --^'^^

orsts. hhe had even contemplated dispensing with

er own maid, but was prevented by a sense of her

pa rician incapability of getting into her clothes or

out ot them without help. She made, perhaps, a

fL^'f''-'^'''^''' ^y '^^""Sing her clressmaker
from a Pansienne in St. James' to a woman at
Bennington, who worked for the Quaker families
on Denmark Hill. ^ ^<imnies

hdv^'nf ""''^'^ ^'" '""'"''"' conversation with this
lady, of whose mental capacity he had but a poor
opinion, Lord Kilrush invited her son to a turHn
he fruit garden-a garden planned fiftv vears be-
fore, and maintained in all the perfection'of espa-
Hered walks and herbaceous borders, masking he
^pecious area devoted to celery, asparagus and the
homeher vegetables. High brick walls, heavilv but
tressed, surmounted tins garden on three sides the
fourth side being divided from lawn and pa te'e bv
a int'rT '': ^''^% ^' ^^- ^-ther end, making
'ed Ir c ^'°" "' the distance, there was a handsomf
rcd-brick orangery, flanked on either side bv a hot-
house, while at one angle of the wall an octagonal

nnd 'nffor rr °' '"° ^^^^'^'^ ^^^'^^^'^^^ ^^^^>
tr> acioss the river from Notting Hill to Har-

find' K?""'^' ""^^^'^ ^"^' --^-^ could hardly
hnd a better indication than in this delightful gcr-

A Serious Family

" Upon my soul," cried Kilrush, " you have a lit-
tle paradise in this rus in urbc! Come, George, I
am glad to see you look so well in health, and I
hope soon to be gratified by seeing you make an end
of your crazy life, and return to a world you were
created to serve and adorn. If the army will not
please you, there is the political arena open to every
young man of means and talent. I should like to
see your name rank with the Townsends and the
Pelhams before I die."

" I have no taste for politics, sir, and for my crazy
life, sure it lasted seven-and-twenty years, and came
to a happy ending two years ago."

" Nine and twenty ! Faith, George, that's too old
for foolery. John Wesley was a lad at college, and
Whitefield was scarce out of his teens when he gave
himself up to these pious hallucinations ; and they
were both penniless youths who must needs begin
their journey without scrip or sack. But you, a
man of fortune, a soldier, one of the young heroes
of Fontenoy, that you could be caught by the rhap-
sodies that carry away a London mob of shop boys
and servant wenches, or a throng of semi-savage
coal-miners at Kingswood, in that contagion of
enthusiasm to which crowds are subject — that you
could turn Methodist! Pah, it makes me sick to
think of your folly ! "

*' Perhaps some day your lordship will come over
and help us. After my mother's conversion there is
no heart so stubborn that I should despair of its be-
ing changed."

" Your mother is a fool ! Well, I don't want to
(juarrel with you, so we'll argue no further. After
all, in a young man these follies are but passing
clouds. Had you not taken so serious a step as to

■I

¥ «

The Infidel

leave the army J should scarcely have vexed myself
on your account. By the way, who is that seam-
stress person I saw sitting on the lawn, and whom 1
r.ave seen here before to-day ? "

His eyes were on George's face, and the conscious
flush he expected to see passed over the voung
man's cheek and brow as he spoke.

She is a girl whose conscience was itwalcned in
tne same hour that saw mv rtdemption ; sh.o h. my
tn in sister in Christ."

That I can understand/" said Kilrush, with the
air of humoring a madman, but why the devil do
I fiiid her established here? "

" bbe is th'^ daughter of a journeyman r^rinter
her mother a drunkard and her father ?.n ktheist!
Her home was u hell r.por earth. Her case had been
brought before Mr. Wesley, who avus touched by
her unaffected piety. T i^card h- history from his
lips, and made it my duty to rescue her from her
vile associations."

'* How came you by the knowledge of your snir-
itual twinship?" ^

" She was seated near nie in the meeting-house,
and I was the witness of her agitation, of the Pente-
costal flame that set her spirit on fire. I saw her
fall from the bench, with her forehead bent almost
to the floor on which she knelt. Her whole frame
was convulsed with sobs which she strove with all
her might to restrain. J tried to raise her from the
ground, but her ice-cold hand repulsed mine, and
the kneeling figure was as rigid as if it had been
marble."

"A cataleptic seizure, perhaps. Your brother-
hood of the foundry has so much to answer for."
" It has many to answer for," George retorted in-

■f.Ta

A Serious Family 63

dignantly ; " thousands of souls rescued from
Satan."

" Had that meek-looking young woman been one
of his votaries? If so, I wonder your mother
consented to harbor her. It is one thing to en-
tertain angels unawares, but knowingly to receive
devils "

" Scoff as you will, sir, but do not slander
a virtuous girl because she happens to be of low
birth."

" If she was not a sinner, why this convulsion of
remorse for sin ? I cannot conceive the need of self-
humiliation in youth that has never gone astray."

" Does your lordship think it is enough to have
lived what the world calls a moral life, never to have
been caught in the toils of vice ? The fall from vir-
tue is a terrible thing ; but there is a state of sin more
deadly than Mary Magdalene's. There is the sin of
the infidel who denies Christ ; there is the sin of the
ignorant and unthinking, who has lived aloof from
God. It was to the conviction of such a state that
Lucy Foreman was awakened that night."

" Did you enter into conversation with her after
the — the remarkable experience?" asked Kilrush,
with a cynical deviltry lighting his dark gray eyes
as he watched his young kinsman's face.

It was a fine, frank face, with well-cut features
and eyes of the same dark gray as his lordship's, a
face that had well become the dragoon's Roman
headgear, and which had a certain poetical air to-
day with the unpowdered brown hair thrown care-
lessly back from the broad forehead.

" No, it was not till long after that night that I
introduced myself to her. It was not till after my
mother's conversion that I could hope to win her

The Infidel

fr cndslup for tins recruit of Christ. I had heard
Lucy s story m the meantime, and I knew that she
was worthy of all that our friendship could do for

" And you persuaded your mother to take her into
her service.

'' What^ e^ ? -f'"^''"*'" ^'^'''■S:e said quickly.

"She is useful to my mother-works with her
need e, attends to the aviary, and to the flowers in

the drawmg-room "

All that sounds like a servant."

'' We do not treat her as a servant."

'' Does she sit at table with you ? "

"No. She has her meal's in the housekeep-
er s^room. It is my mother's arrangement, not

" You vvould have her at the same table with
lushf'^" °^ ^^'"^ seventeenth Baron Kil-

"I have ceased to consider petty distinctions. To
me the premier duke is of no more importance than
Lucy Foreman s infidel father-a soul to be saved

" George." said Kilrush gravely, " let me tell vou
as your kinsman and friend, that you arc in danger
of making a confounded mess of your life "

" I don't follow you."

" Oh, yes, you do. You know very well what I
mean. \ou have played the fool badly enough al-
ready by selling your commission. But there are
lower depths of folly. When a man begins to talk
as you do, and to hanker after some prettv bit of
plebeian pink and white, one knows which wav he is
uniting.

''^■.

A Serious Family 65

He paused, expecting an answer, but George
walked beside him in a moody silence.

" There is one mistake which neither fate nor the
world ever forgives in a man," pursued Kilrush,
and that is an ignoble marriage; it is an error
whose consequences stick to him for the whole
course of his life, and he can no more shake off the
indirect disadvantages of the act than he can shake
off his low-born wife and her low-born kin. I will
go further, George, and say that if you make such a
marriage I will never forgive you. never see your
face again."

" Your lordship's threats are premature. I have
not asked your permission to marry, and I have not
given you the slightest ground for supposing that I
contemplate marriage."

" Oh, yes, you have. That young woman yonder
is ground enough for my apprehension. You would
not have intruded her upon your home if you were
not eprts. Take a friendly counsel from a man of
the world, George, and remember that although my
title dies with me, my fortune is at my disposal, and
that you are my natural heir."

" Oh, sir, that would be the very last considera-
tion to influence me."

" Sure I know you are stubborn and hot-headed
or you would not have abandoned a soldier's career
without affording me the chance to dissuade you 1
came here to-day on purpose to give you this warn-
ing. Twas my duty, and I have done it."

He gave a sigh of relief, as if he had flung off a
troublesome burden.

As they turned to go back to the lawn, Lucy Fore-
man came to meet them-a slim figure of medium
Height, a pretty mouth, and a nes retrousse, reddish
8

The Infidel

brown hair with a ripple in it, thi pink and white of
youth in her complexion; but her feet and ankles,
her hands and her ears, the " points " tu which
the connoisseur's eye looked, had a certain coarse-
ness.

" Not even a casual strain of blue blood here,"
thoutrht Kilrush ; " f>ut 'tis true I have seen dnch-
"«: s as coarsely moulded,"

She had come at her mistress's order to invite
them to a dish of tea on the lawn. Kilrush ssented,
though it was but five o'clock, and he had not dined.
They walked by the damsel's side to the table under
the plane, wh^-re the toa-board was set ready. Hav-
ing gucft c.\picssioti to his opinion, his lordship
was not disinclined to become better acquainted
with this Helen of the slums, so that he might better
estimate his cousin's peril. She resumed her dis-
tant chair and her needlework as Kilrush and
George sat down to tea, and was not invited to
share that elegant refreshment. The young
man's vexed glance in her lirection would havo
been enough to betray his penchant for the humble
companion.

Mrs. Stobart forgot herself so far as to question
hei cousin about some of the *uie people whose so-
ciety she had renounced.

"Though I no longer g) to their houses I haw-
not ceased io see them," she said. " vVe meet at
Lady Huntingdon's. Lady Chester lield and Lad
Coventry are really ^unverts, but I fear most of my
former friends rpsort to that admirable woman's
assembr s out of curiosity rather than from a
searchi- ^ for the truth."

" Her protege, Whitefield, has had . rapid a ;.uc-
cess as Garrick or Barry," said Kilrush. " He is a

A Serious Family 67

powerful orator of a theatrical type, and not to have
heard him pn ' is to be out of the fashion. I my-
self stood in u . blazing sun at Moorficlds to hear
him when lie fust began to be cried up. but having
heard him 1 am satisfied. The show was a fine one,
but once is enou ;h."

*' There are but too many of your stamp, Kilrush.
Some good seed must ever fall on stony places; yet
the harvest has been rich enough to reward those
who toil in the vineyard— rich in promise of dav
when there shall be no more railing and no more
doubt."

" And when the lion shall lie down with the lamb
and Frederick and Maria Theresa shall love each
other hke brother and sister, and France shall be
satisfied with less than half the earth," said Kilrush
lightly. ^ •' You have a pretty little maid yonder," he
added, in a lower voice, when George had with-
drawn frr the tea-table, and seemed absorbed in a
book.

*' She is not my maid, she is a brand snatched
from the burning. I am keeping her till I can place
her in some household where she will be safe her-
self, and a well-spring of refreshing grace for those
with whom she lives."

And in the meantime don't you think there may
be a certain danger for your son in such close prox-
imity v\ith a pretty girl— of that tender age ? "
^ " My son ! Danger for mv son in the society of
journeyman's daughter— a girl who can brt just
rr d and write? My good Kilrush, I am astounded
that you could entertain such a thought."

" I'm glad you consider my apprchensi. )ns ground-
ess,' said his lordship, stilling a yawn as he rose to
leave. " Poor, silly woman," he ^»ioujrht. " Well I

. I

The Infidel

have done my duty. liiit it would have been wiser
to omit that hint to the mother. If she should
plapul" her son about his penchant, ten to one 'twill
make matters worse. An affair of that kind thrives
on opposition."

V*Ssi»'''^"^-"-J-

Chapter VI.

A WOMAN WHO COULD SAY NO.

I-ORD KiLRusH allowed nearly a month to elapse
before he reappeared in Rupert's Buildings. He
had absented bimself in the hope that Antonia
would miss his company, and her bright smile of
welcome told him that his policy had been wise. She
had, indeed, forgotten the sudden gust of passion
that had scared her by a suggestion of strangeness
in the friend she had trusted. She had been very
busy since that evening. Her father's play was in
rehearsal, and while Thornton spent his days at
Drury Lane and his nights at " The Portico," she
had to do most of his magazine work, chiefly trans-
lations of essays or tales by Voltaire or Diderot, and
even to elaborate such scraps of news as he brought
her for the St. James, Lloyds, or the Evening Post.
all which papers opened their columns to gossip
about the town.

" What the devil has become of Kilrush ? " Thorn-
ton had ejaculated several times, "lie used to
bring me the last intelligence from Whites and the
Cocoa Tree."

He had called more than once in St. James'
Square during the interval, but had not succeeded
in seeing his friend and patron. And now Kilrush

The Infidel

I '

reappeared, witli as easy a friendliness as if there
had been no break in his visits. He brouj^^lit a posy
of late roses for Antonia, the only ofTering he ever
made her whom he would fain have covered with
jewels richer than stud the thrones of Indian em-
perors,

" 'Tis very long since we have seen your lord-
ship," Tonia said, as he seated himself on the op-
posite side of the Pembroke table that was spread
with her papers and books. " If my father had not
called at your house and been told that you were in
fairly good health we should have feared you were
111, since we know we have done nothing to offend
you.

Her sweet simplicity of speech, the directness of

her lovely gaze smote him to the heart. Still— still

she trusted him, still treated him as if he had been a.

benevolent uncle, while his heart beat high with a

passion that it was a struggle to hide. Yet he was

not without hope, for in her confiding sweetness he

saw signs of a growing regard.

" And was I indeed so happy as to be missed by
you ? " -^

" We missed you much— you have been so kind to
my father, bringing him the news of the town ; and
30U have been still kinder to me in helping me with
your criticism of our comedy."

"'Twas a privilege to advise so intelligent an
author. I have been much occupied since I saw you
last and concerned about a cousin of mine who is
m a bad way."

*' I hope he is not ill of the fever that has brcn so
common of late."

" No, 'tis not a bodily sickness. His fever is tlie
Methodist rant. He has taken the new religion."

^^^^^^SSt9^9fs»,

A Woman who Could Say No 71

" Poor man ! " said Tonia, with good-humored
scorn.

She had heard none of the new preachers ; but all
she had been told or had read about them appealed
to her sense of the ridiculous. She had been so im-
bued with the contempt for all religious observ-
ances, that she could feel nothing but a wondering
pity for people whose thoughts and lives could be
inHuenced by a two-hours' sermon in the open air.
To this young votaress of pure reason the enthu-
siasm of crowds seemed a fanatical possession tend-
ing toward a cell in Bedlam.

" Unhappily, the disease is complicated by an-
other fever, for the fellow is in love with a simper-
ing piece of prettiness that he and his mother have
picked out of a Moorfields gutter, and my apprehen-
sion is that this disciple of evangelical humility will
forget that he is a gentleman and marry a house-
maid."

" Would you be very angry with him ? "

" Yes, Miss Thornton, and he would feel the con-
sequences of my anger to his dying day — for, so far
as my fortune goes, I should leave him a beggar."

" Has he no fortune of his own? "

" I believe he has a pittance — a something in the
funds left him by an uncle on his father's side. But
his mother's estate is at her own disposal ; she is a
handsome woman still, and may cheat him by a sec-
ond marriage."

" Do you think it so great a crime for a gentle-
man .0 marry his inferior ? "

" Oh, I have old-fashioned notions, perhaps. T
think a man of good family should marry in his own
rank, if he can't marry above it. He should never
have to apologize for his wife or for her kindred.

The Infidel

i-x

t ;

Zri'hedtf; ^"'f f ''^^' ^'^^^ ''' ^^^-fi-J^ls have
clienshed, but up to tlus present hour there is not a
label upon our family tree \h:^f T ..>, V ?
recall." ashamed to

wife wara^x^xr.."^ """ ^°"' ■-"^'^^p-'

My wife was a "

He had started to his feet nf T^n.-n' , •

angr, agitation. He had n^f^^^TZ :!'^^

r::i=:t"'r,Jit^:,-^^^^^^^^^^^^
tzt,X':Tjr~ ^'"T *^' '™' off™""

Dleas'^f J''°™'°"' '°/ ^™''^ ^'''^<=' k' "^ talk of
pleasant things, not of wives or husbands \Ur
"age IS the gate of hell " ""sMnds. ,\far-

"EnoLrt^""' '""l"?"^' be happy marriages."
von th,.^ "" "' ■'^"^ '° h°°l< fools. I grant

you there are marriages that seem happy-nav r
W.I say that are happy-b„t 'tis not thekss a fee
hat to Cham a man and woman to eaeh othe for i?e
lrria^:\ T'*^ "'™ ""= <'^^'"'-' enemies The

signer' """ ^ ""'"'^"""' -• '"" «-e no

.in'lfr"'^ you must agree with me," ho con-
tmued- you who have been taught to ake a nM
osophical view of life." * " P'"'"

" I have never applied my philosophy to the suh

T\^l "^ "'"""^y ^'d^ ^"'h a happv marriaee i
should be .orry to think that 'twas like a fairytale!

A Woman who Could Say No Ji

and that there are no lovers as noble as Dorifleur,
no women as happy as Rosalia."

" It is a fairy tale, dear madam ; 'tis the unlike-
ness to life that charms us. We go to the play on
purpose to be deluded by pictures of impossible
felicity — men of never-to-be-shaken valor, women
of incorruptible virtue, shadows that please us in a
three-hours' dream, and which have no parallels in
flesh and blood."

" For my own part I am disinterested, for 'tis un-
likely I shall ever marry."

" Do not. If you would be virtuous remain free.
It is the bond that makes the dishonor."

Antonia looked at him with a puzzled a ir, slow to
follow his drift. He saw that he had gene too far,
and was in clanger of displeasing her.

" What curious creatures women are ! " he
thought. " Here is an avowed infidel who seems in-
expressibly shocked because I decry the marriage
ceremony. What formalists they are at best! If
they are not in fear of the day of judgment they
tremble at the notion of being ill-spoken of by their
neighbors. I'll warrant this sweet girl is as anxious
to keep her landlady's good opinion as George
Whitefield is to go to heaven."

He talked to her of the comedy. It was to be
acted on the following Monday.

" I have secured a side box, and I count upon be-
ing honored with the company of the joint authors,"
he said.

Tonia's eyes sparkled at the thought of her
triumph. To have her words spoken by David Gar-
rick — by the lovely Mrs. Pritchard — to sit unseen in
the shadow of the curtained side box, while her day-

k V

(•i

The Infidel

"My father and I will be proud to have such
good places " she said. '• We usually sit a tie back
of the pu when Mr. Garrick is kind'enough t^ gte

m,ru''- ^f''' ^''' ^'^'^" '"^' ^ -JJ^ gown ffom
Hilditch s m the city, the first I have had "

If you would sufifer me to add a pearl neck-
lace," cried Kilrush, thinking of a certain .frJnT^
oriental pearls which was aLo t an 1 e "100^^1
which he remembered on his mother's neck fo'tv
years before. He had taken the red n.orocco ca e

out of an iron coffer not long ago, and had looke da
he or„ , ^^^^^ .^ ^^^^^^ ook^^

hroat. The hands that held the case trembled a lit-
tle as he imagmed the moment when he should
fasten the diamond clasp on that exquisite necf

one but"mTfI?r ^'"''°"'' '''' ^ '"'^^ ^'^^^ ^^-^'^ "«
one but my father, except, indeed, the roses you are

so kind as to bring me." ^

scorncfrrr"' '1 7''' ^^^^P^^"^^ where pearls are
scorned ! The necklace was my mother's, and has
been wasting in darkness for near half a centun

me^Iend it to you-only to air the pearls."

to Dlav'the'r' "° ^"'■'''rf^ ^''''^'- ^ ^^«"J^ hate
to play the daw in peacock's feathers."

You are a contradictory creature madnrr, • h, .
you would have to be more cruel Tnd nTore c" U.W
tlrnn a northeast wind before I would quarrel S

His lordship's visits now became more frequent
than at first and Tonia receive,! him with unva^v n!
hndness, whether he found her alone o in Te?
.athcrs company. Her calm assurance w", so

A Woman who Could Say No y^

strangely in advance of her years and position that
he could but think she owed it to having mixed so
little with her own sex, and thus having escaped all
taint of self-consciousness or coquetry. She lis-
tened to his opinions with respect, but was not
afraid to argue with him. She made no secret of
her pleasure in his society, and owned to finding the
afternoons or evenings vastly dull on which he did
not appear.

" I should miss you still more if I had not my
translating work," she said ; " but that keeps mc
busy and amused."

" And you find that old dry-as-dust Voltaire
amusing ! "

" I never find him dry as dust. He is mv father's
favorite author."

The comedy was well received, and Thornton was
made much of by Mr. Garrick and all the actors.
No one was informed of Antonia's share in the
work, or suspected that the handsome young woman
in a yellow silk sacque had so much to do with the
success of the evening. Patty Lester triumphed in her
brief but effective role of a tomboy younger sister,
an improvement on the conventional confidante, and
was rapturously grateful to Mr. Thornton, and
more than ever reproachful of Antonia for desert-
ing her.

" You have taken an aversion to the Piazza," she
said, with an offended air.

"On my honor, no, Patty; but I have been so
constantly occupied in helping my father."

" I shall scold him for making a slave of you."

" No, no, you must not. Be sure that I love you,
even if I do not go to see you."

" But I am not sure. I cannot be sure. You have

The Infidel

grown distant of late, and more of a fine lady than
you was last year."

Antonia blushed, and promised to take tea with
her friend next day. She was conscious of a certain
distaste for Patty's company, but still more for
Patty's casual visitors ; but the chief influence had
been^ Kilrush's urgent objections to the young ac-
tress's society.

" I aver nothing against the creature's morality,"
he said ; " but she is a mercenary little devil, and
encourages any coxcomb who will substantiate his
flatteries with a present. I have watched her at the
side-scenes with a swarm of such gadflies buzzing
round her. On my soul, dear Miss Thornton,
'twould torture me to think of you as the cynosure
of Miss Lester's circle."

Tonia laughed off the warning, swore she was
very fond of Patty, and would on no account desert
her.

" I hope you do not think I can value fools above
their merits when I have the privilege of knowing a
man of sense like your lordship," she said ; and the
easy tone of her compliment chilled him, as all her
friendly speeches did. Alas ! would she ever cease
to trust him as a friend and begin to fear him as a
lover ?

" It h my age that makes my case hopeless," he
thought, musing upon this love which had long
smce become the absorbing subject of his mediia-
tions. " If I had been twenty years younger, how
easily might I have won her, for 'tis so obvious she
loves my company. She sparkles and revives at my
coming like a drooping flower at a sprinkle of sum'-
mcr rain. But oh, how wide the difference between
loving my company and loving mc ! Shall I ever

A Woman who Could Say No 'jj

bridge the abyss? Shall I ever see those glorious
eyes droop under my gaze, that trr-nscendent form
agitated by a heart that passion sets beating? "

Again and again he found her alone among her
books and manuscripts, for Thornton, being now
flush of money, spent most of his time abroad. He
sported a new suit, finer than any his daughter had
ever seen him wear, and an air of rakish gayety that
shocked her. The comedy seemed a gold mine, for
he had always a guinea at command. He no
longer allowed his daughter to fetch and carry be-
tween him and his employers. She must trapse no
more along the fa'iiiliar Strand to Fleet Street. He
employed a messenger for this vulgar drudgery.
Pie urged her to buy herself new hats and gowns,
and to i^ut her toilet on a handsome footing.

" Sure, so lovely a girl ought to set off her
beauty," he said.

" Dear sir, I would rather see you save your
money against sickness or "

She was going to say " old age," but checked her-
self with a tender delicacy.

" Hang saving ! I had never a miser's temper.
Davy shall take our next play. You had best stick
to Spanish, and find me a plot in De Vega or Mora-
tin, and not plague yourself about scraping a guinea
or two."

'Twas heavenly fine weather, and more than a
year since Kilrush and Antonia first met at Mrs.
Mand.ilay's ball ; and the close friendship between
the blase worldling and the inexperienced girl had
become a paramount influence in the life of each.
The hours Antonia spent in his lordship's company
were the happiest she had ever known, and the days
when he did not come had a gray dulness that was a

' n

p '. • '■ '

^^Kl

< 1

^^^m4

1 1

^^^^R! %^

^^H^^nft m ^

^H^^M ■ \

);

^^^^^^^kI k i

^^H^^^kI^ ]

The Infidel

new sensation. The sound of his step on the stair
put her in good spirits, and she was all smiles when
he entered the room.

" I swear you have the happiest disposition," he
said one day ; " your face radiates sunshine."

" Oh, but I have my dull hours."

*' Indeed ? And when be they ? "

" When you are not here."

Her bright and fearless outlook as she said the
words showed him how far she was from divining
a passion that had grown and strengthened in every
hour of their companionship.

They talked of every subject under the sun. He
had travelled much, as travelling went in those
days; had read much, and had learned still more
from intercourse with the brightest minds of the
age. He showed her the better side of his nature,
the man he might have been had he never aban-
doned himself to the vices that the world calls pleas-
ures. They talked often about religion, and though
he had cast in his lot with the Deists before he left
Oxford, it shocked him to find a young and innocent
woman lost to all sense of natural piety. Her father
had trained her to scorn all creeds, and to rank the
Christian faith no higher than the most revolting
or the most imbecile superstitions of India or the
South Seas. She had read Voltaire before she read
the gospel, and that inexorable pen had cast a blight
over the sacred pages, and infused the poison of a
malignant satire into the fountain of living waters.
Kilrush praised her independence of spirit, and
exulted in the thought that a woman who believed
in nothing had nothing to lose outside of the region
of material advantages, and convinced of this felt
sure that he could make her life happy.

A Woman who Could Say No 79

And thus, seeing himself secure of her liking, he
flung the fatal (He and declared his love.

They were alone together in the June afternoon,
as they so often were. He had met Thornton at the
entrance to the court, trudging off to Adelphi Ter-
race, to wait upon Mr. Garrick ; so he thought him-
self recure of an hour's tctc-a-tctc. She welcomed
him V ith unconcealed pleasure, pushed aside her pa-
pers, took the bunch of roses that he carried her
with her prettiest courtesy, and then busied herself
in arranging the nosegay in a willow-pattern Wor-
cester bowl, while he laid down his hat and cane,
and took his accustomed seat by her writing-table.
They were cabbage roses, and made a great mass of
glowing pink above the dark blue of the bowl. She
looked at them delightedly, handled them with deli-
cate touch, fingers light as Titania's, and then
stopped in the midst of her pleasant cask, surprised
at his silence.

" How pale your lordship looks ! I hope you are
not ill ? "

He stretched out his hand and caught hers, wet
and perfumed with the roses.

" Antonia, my love, my divinity, this comedy of
friendship must end. Dear girl, do you not know
that I adore you? "

She tried to draw her hand from his grasp, and
looked at him with unutterable astonishment, but
not in anger.

" You are surprised ! Did you think that I could
come here day after day for a year — see you and
hear you, be your friend and companion — and not
love you? By heaven, child, you must have thought
me the dullest clay that ever held a human soul if
you could think so."

The Infidel

I! I

She looked at liim. still, mute, and grave, deep
blushes dyeing her cheeks and her eyes darkly se-
rious.

"Indeed, your lordship, I never thought of you
but as a friend whose kindness honored me beyond
my deserts! ^-our rank an.' the difference of our
ages prevented me from ihit.king of you as a
suitor."

He started, and dropped her hand, and his face
which had flushed as he talked to her, grew pale
again. *

" Great God I " he thought, " she takes my avowal
of love for an offer of marriage ! "

He would not have her deceived in his intentions
for an instant. He had not always been fair and
above board in his dealings with women, but to this
one he could not lie.

" Your suitor in the vulgar sense of the word I
can never be, Antonia," he said gravely. " Twenty
years ago, when my wife eloped with the friei.d I
most trusted, and when I discovered that Iliad been
a twelvemonth's laughing-stock for the town— by
one section supposed the complacent husbar 1 by
another the blind fool I really was-in that hateful
hour I swore th ( I would never again give a
woman the power of dishonoring my name My
heart might break from a jilt's ill usage, but that the
name which belongs not to me only, but to all of my
race who have borne it in the past or who will bear
It in the future— that should be out of the power of
woman's misconduct. And so, to you, whom I love
with a passion more profound, more invincible than
this heart ever felt for another since it began to beat
I cannot offer a legal tie, but I lay my adoring heart'
my life, my fortune, at your feet, and swear to

/ Woman wiv) Could Say No 8i

l)Ut she drew her-
superb gesture of

cleave to you and honor you with a constant and de-
voted affection which no husband upon this earth
can surpass."

He tried to take her hand aj.
self away from him with
mingled surprise and scorn.

" There was nothing further from my mind than
that you could desire to marry me, except that you
should wish to degrad( me," she said in a voice
graver than his own.

Her face was colorless, but she .siood erect and
firm, and had no look of swooning.

" Degrade you ? Do you rail it degradation to be
the idol of my life, t( ^ >■ tlu beloved companion of
a man v/ho can lavish is world knov/s of luxury

and pleasure upon >i t, who will carry you to

the fairest spots of ath, show you all that is
noblest in art and nature, all that makes the bliss of
intelligent beings, who will protect your interests
by the most generous settlements ever made by a
lover?"

" Oh, my lord, stop your inventory of tempta-
tion ! " exclaimed Antonia. " The price you oflfer is
extravagant, but I am not for sale. I thought you
were my friend — indectl, for me you had become a
dear and cherished friend. I was deceived, cruelly
deceived ! I shall know better another time when a
man of your rank pretends to offer me the equality
of friendship ! "

There were tears in her eyes in spite of her cour-
age, in which Roman virtue she far surpassed the
average woman.

" Curse my rai^k ! " he cried angrily. " It is my-
self I offer — myself and all that I hold of worldly
advantages. What can my name matter to you — to

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The Infidel

you of all women, friendless and alone in the world
your existence unknown to more than some half-
dozen people ? I stand on a height where the arrows
of ridicule fly thick and fast. Were I to marry a
young woman— I who was deceived and deserted by
a handsome wife before I was thirty— you cannot
conceive what a storm of ridicule I should provoke
how Selwyn would coruscate with wit at my ex-
pense, and Harry Walpole scatter his contemptuous
comments on my folly over half the continent of
liurope. I suffered that kind of agony once— knew
myself the target of all the wits and slanderers in
London ; I will not suffer it again ! "

He was pacing the room, which was too small for
the fever of his mind. To be refused without an in-
stant s hesitation, as if he had tried to make a queen
his mistress! To be scorned by Bill Thornton's
daughter— Thornton, the old jailbird whom he had
helped to get out of prison— the fellow who had
been sponging on him more or less for a score of
years, most of all in this last year !

He looked back at his conquests of the past. How
triumphant, how easy they were, and what trumpery
victories they seemed, as he recalled them in the bit-
terness of his disappointment to-day.

Tonia stood by the open window, listening
mechanically to the roll of wheels which rose and
fell in the distance with a rhythmical monotony like
the sound of a summer sea. Kilrush stopped in his
angry perambulation, saw her in tears and flew
to her side on the instant.

" My beloved girl, those tears inspire me with
hope If you were indifferent you would not weep "
I weep for the death of our friendship," she
answered sorrowfully.

A Woman who Could Say No 83

" You should smile at the birth of our love.
Great heaven ! what is there to stand between us and
consummate bliss?"

" Your own resolve, my lord. You are deter-
mined to take no second \ 2, and I am determined
to be no man's mistress, be sure that in all our
friendship I never thought of marriage nor of court-
ship — I never angled for a noble husband, but when
you profess yourself my lover I must needs give you
a plain answer."

'• Tonia, surely your soul can rise above trivial
prejudices! You who have boldly avowed your
scorn of churchmen and their creeds, who have
neither hope of heaven nor fear of hell, can you
think the tie between a man and woman who love as
we do — } ^s, dearest, I protest you love me — can you
believe that bond more sacred for being mumbled by
a priest, or stronger for being scrawled in a parish
register? By heaven, I thought you had a spirit
too lofty for vulgar superstitions ! "

" There is one superstition I shall ever hold by
— the belief that there are honest women in the
world."

" Pshaw% child ! Be but true to the man who
adores you, and you will be the honestest of your
sex. Fidelity to her lover is honor in woman, and
she is the more virtuous who is constant without
being bound. Nance Oldfield, the honestest woman
I ever knew, never wore a wedding ring."

" I think, sir," she began in a low and earnest
voice that thrilled him, " there are two kinds of
women — those who can suffer a life of shame and
those who cannot."

" Say rather, madam, that there are women with
hearts and women without. You are of the latter

■i>i .1

The I n f i d c 1

species. Under the exquisite lines of the bosom T
wo.h,p nature has placed a block of ice Inst^aTof

A street cry went wailin- h, like a dir^e " Straw
berries, npe strawberries. Wno'll buv mv
berries.?" vvxion Duy my stravv-

Kilrush wiped the cold dampness from his fore

sCcr u^^^^^^^^^^^ '1 P^^-^ "P -^ "own thet

up ms nands m a passionate horror.

as tlS^l^r'^' '■'"' ^°" '^'°"^^ ^^'^^ i" ^"^•b a hovel

roaJ to an Italian paradise! There is a vill, ,,

flow r al mt'o"^ ""='""^' =""°"^ «« ^P'^"?
;f you are obsflna.e and reject „,e, y^wii, ^T^^

beenat.fe.-grofh",ea^;rp™^' " "°"" ''"^

than see his dis^' Xf^^^'^^ ^'' ^^^^^ ask rather
r- , • ; ■ ' ^^^ P"f^e came to the rescnf^

A Woman who Could Say No 85

empty at this hour, where she threw herself upon
the narrow horsehair sofa, and sobbed heartbrok-
enly. Yet even in the midst of her weeping she
listened for the familiar step upon the «tairs above,
and for the opening and shutting of the street door.
It was at least ten minutes before she heard Kilrush
leave the house, and then his footfall was so heavy
that it sounded like a stranger's.

'11

-Hi

Chapter VII.

PRTDK CONQUERS LOVE.

ieaves in the heart of the mourner, there is no va-
in"'^'.. Tf ^^'^ agonizing than that which fol-
lows the defeat of a lover and the sudden cessat on
of an adored companionship. To Kilrush the whole

toma. The town, the company of which he had long
been weary, now became actually hateful, and h"!
only desire was to rush to some remote spo of earth

forget the woman he loved. A man of a rofter na-
ture would have yielded to his charmer's ob ec iol
and sacrificed his pride to his love ; but with Ki r ^
pnde-long-cherished pride of race and name-and
a certain stubborn power of will prevailed overTn

himself that Antonia was cold and calculating an
""worthy of a generous passion like h ^' S c
counted perhaps, on conquering his resc^fve and
making him marry her, and he took a vindictive
pleasure in the thought of her vexation as the davs
v.cnt by without bringing him to her feet ^

Farewell forever!" she had cried." vet had
1-ped, perhaps, to see him return to her to-morrow'

Pride Conquers Love 87

like some small country squire, who thinks all Eng-
land will be outraged if he marry beneath his rural
importance, yet yields to an irresistible love for the
miller's daughter or the village barmaid.

" I have lived through too many fevers to die of
this one," Kilrush thought, and braced his nerves
to go on living, though all the color seemed washed
out of his life.

While his heart was being lacerated by anger and
regret, he was surprise:' the appearance of his
cousin, the ci-dcvant captain of dragoons, of whose
existence he had taken no account since his after-
noon visit to Clapham. He was in his library, a
large room at the back of the house, looking into a
small garden shadowed by an old brick wall, and
overlooked by the back windows of Pall Mall, which
looked down into it as into a green well. The room
was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling,
and the favorite calf binding of those days made a
monotone of sombre brown, suggestive of gloom,
even on a summer day, when the scent of stocks and
mignonette was blown in through the open win-
dows.

Kilrush received his kinsman with cold civility.

Not even in the splendor of his court uniform had
George Stobart looked handsomer than to-day in his
severely cut gray cloth coat and black silk waistcoat.
There was a light in his eyes, a buoyant youthful-
ness in his aspect, which Kilrush observed with a
pang of envy. Ah, had he been as young, Fate and
Antonia might have been kinder.

George put down his hat, and took the chair his
cousin indicated, chilled somewhat by so distant a
greeting.

" I saw in Lloyd's Evening Post that your lord-

1 1

The Infidel

II '

ship intended starting for the Continent," ae began,
" and I thought it my duty to wait upon you before
you left town."

You are ver good— and Lloyd is very imper-
tinent — to take so much trouble about my move-
ments. Yes, George, I am leaving England."

" Do you go far, sir ? "

" Paris will be the first stage of my journey."

" And afterward ? "

"And afterward? Kamschatka, perhaps, or--
hell ! I am fixed on nothing but to leave a town I
loathe."

George looked inexpressibly shocked.
" I fear your lordship is out of health," he fal-
tered.

"Fear nothing, hope nothing about me, sir; I am
mclined to detest my fellow-men. If you take that
for a symptom of sickness, why, then, I am indeed
out of health."

" I am sorry I do not find you in happier spirits,
sir, for I had a double motive in waiting on you."
" So have most men— in all they do. Well, sir? "
Kilrush threw himself back in his chair, and
waited his cousin's communication with no more in-
terest in his countenance or manner than if he were
awaiting a petition from one of his footmen.

Nothing could be more marked than the contrast
between the two men, though their features fol-
lowed the same lines, and the hereditary mark of an
ancient race was stamped indelibly on each. A life
of passionate excitement, self-will, pride, had
wasted the form and features of the elder, and made
him look older than his actual years. Yet in those
attenuated features there was such exquisite refine-
ment, in that almost colorless complexion such a

Pride Conquers Love 89

high-bred delicacy, that for most women the elder
face would have been the more attractive. There
was a pathetic appeal in the countenance of the man
who had lived his life, who had emptied the cup of
earthly joys, and for whom nothing remained but
decay.

The young man's highest graces were his air of
frankness and high courage, and his soldierly bear-
ing, which three years among the Methodists had in
no wise lessened. He had, indeed, in those years
been still a soldier of the church militant, and had
stood by John Wesley's side on more than one occa-
sion when the missiles of a howling mob flew thick
and fast around that hardy itinerant, and when riot
threatened to end in murder.

" Well, sir, your second motive — your arricrc
pcnsce?" Kilrush exclaimed impatiently, the young
man having taken up his hat again, and being en-
gaged in smoothing the beaver with a hand that
shook ever so slightly.

" You told me nearly a year ago, sir," he began,
hardening himself for the encounter, " that you
would never forgive me if I married my inferior —
my inferior in the world's esteem, that is to say — an
inferiority which I do not admit."

" Hang your admissions, sir ! I perfectly remem-
ber what I said to you, and I hope you took warn-
ing by it, and that my aunt found another place for
her housemaid."

" Your warning came too late. I had learned to
esteem Lucy Foreman at her just value. The house
maid, as your lordship is ^ \ 'sed to call her, is now
my wife."

" Then, sir, since you know my ultimatum, what
the devil brings you to this house? "

The Infidel

"I desired that you should hear what I have
done from my lips, not from the public press."

" You are monstrous civil ! Well, I am not go-
ing to waste angry words upon you, but your name
wdl come out of my will before I sleep, and from to-
day we are strangers. I can hold no internnirse
with a man who disgraces his name by a beggarly
marriage. By heaven, sir, if I loved to distraction,
if my happiness, my peace, my power to endure thi.s
wretched life, depended upon my winning the idol
of my soul, I would not give my name to a woman
of low birth or discreditable connections ! "

He struck his clenched fist upon the table in front
of him with a wild vehemence that took his cousin's
breath away ; then, recovering his composure he
asked coldly:

" Does your pious mother approve this folly, sir,
and take your housemaid wife to her heart ? " '

" My mother has shown a most unchristian tem-
per. She has forbidden me her house, and swears
to disinherit me. To have forfeited her affection
will be ever my deep regret; but I can support the
loss of her fortune."

" Indeed ! Are you so vastlv rich from other re-
sources ? "

•' I have two hundred a year in India stock— my
uncle Matthew's bequest, and Lucy's good manage-
ment promises to make this income enough for our
home— a cottage near Richmond, where we have a
garden and all the rustic things my Lucy loves."

" Having been reared in an alley near Moorfields,
I wonder how long her love of the country will en-
dure wet days and dark nights, and remoteness
from shops and market. Oh, you are still in your
honeymoon, sir, and your sky is all blue. You must

ive

Pride Conquers Love 91

wait a month or two before you will discover how
much you arc to be pitied, and that I was your true
friend when I cautioned you against this madness.
Good-day to you, Mr. Stobart, and be good enough
to forget that we have ever called each other
cousins."

George rose, and bowed his farewell. The i?ortcr
was in the hall ready to open the door for him. He
looked round the great gloomy hall with a con-
temptuous smile as he passed out.

" John Wesley's house at the Foundery is more
cheerful than this," he thought.

Kilrush sat with his elbows on the table and his
hands clasped above his head in a melancholy
silence.

" Which is the madman, he or I ? " he asked hiiu-
self.

The preparation for his continental journey oc-
cupied Lord Kilrush for a fortnight, during which
time he waited with a passionate longing for some
sign of relenting from Antonia; and in all those
empty days his mind was torn by the strife between
inclination and a stubborn resolve.

There were moments in which he asked himself
why he did net make this woman his wife ; that un-
frocked priest, that tippling bookseller's hack, his
father-in-law? Did anything in the world matter
to a man so much as the joy of this present life,
his instant happiness? In the hideous uncertainty
of fate were it not best to snatch the hour's glad-
ness?

" What if I married her, and she turned wanton
after a year of bliss ? " he mused. " At least I
should have had my day."

But then there came the dark suspicion that she

The I n fidel

' i

ad played hmi as the angle, plays his f.sh. that she
'lung the glut. nng ily across his enraptu ecll.e
.men on landing a eoronet ; that her wL.a ly' . .'

or. he ahnost childlike sin.plicity. were all o
"u ch play-actMig. What coul.I ho ex,)cct of trn
and honor fron, Thornton's daughter?

If she had given herself to nie generotislv im
quesfonrngly, I ,„i^ht believe she bved k ••!

^cl" . T"' '/ ' '"''^'■'■•^■'^ ''- I -"«t forJ^eV su
pect myself her dupe ; the victi.. ,>f a schemer's nn

at the first attack of a younger lover "

i\o token of relenting came from Antonia- but
toward the end of the second week Mr. T orntcn
called to mquire about his lordship's heal h and be

itave England for a considerable time, pressed for
an^mtervew and was admitted to his' d:::ssing:

" I am in despair at the prospect of vour lord-

iim self. I know not how my daughter and I will
endure our lives in the absence ff so lalued a

" I do not apprehend that you will suffer much
from wantmg my company. Thornton, since yo
have been generally out of doors during mv vis^
And as for your daughter, her interest in an el Jer v
Wra^o.-'^^'^'^" "'"^^ '^^^ '^^ -hS

cietv^"arho'°"'' T,-' u^' ^'' '^'^'^^''^ i" ^'o^r so-
ciety-as how could she do otherwise ? She has an

iiad suffered a famme of intellectual ronversa-

Pride Conquers Love 93

tion. I know that slu- has already hcRun to feci
the loss of your compatiy, for she has hcen strunj^cly
(lisi)iritc(l for llu- last ten days, and that inde-
fati^^ahlc pen of hers now moves without her usual
fjusto."

" If she is ill, or drooping, I hep you to send for
my physician, Sir Richard Maninpham, who will
attend her on my account."

" No, no ; 'tis no case for /Ivsculapms. S\ e is out
of spirits, but not ill. How far docs your lordship
design to extenrl your travels ? "

" Oil, I have dccidcfl nothing. I shall stay at
Fontaincbleau till the cool season, and then go by
easy stages to Italy. I may winter in Rome, and
spend next spring in Florence."

" A year's absence ! We shall sorely miss your
lordship, and I am already too deeply in your debt
to dare venture "

" To ask me for a further loan," interrupted Kil-
rush. " We will have done with U uis and notes of
hand" — Thornton turned pale — " I wish to help
you. Above all, I want to prevent your making a
slave of your daughter."

" A slave ! My dear girl delights in literary
work. She would be miserable if I refused her as-
sistance."

" Well, be sure she does not drudge for you. I
hate to think of her solitary hours mewed in 3'our
miserable sev.ond-floor parlor, when she ought to be
enjoying the summer air in some rural garden, idle
and without a care. I want to strike a bargain with
you, Thornton."

" I am your lordship's obedient "

" Instead of these petty loans, which degrade you

I .

The Infidel

and disgust me, I am willing

rnmp c-.,, „ i , . °

10 give you a small

■^Tf, -f " ""nurcu pounds a quarter "

cence'' '"' "'^''' *'^ '^ «ndreamed-of munifi.

.er';°vr pXtta^ir"" r'"! ^°"^ <'-^'>-

Fulham Barne, H^^ ^f ," ""■^' neighborhood-

reach o/,f r"So£rrd eXr"s!!::r, ^T
you provide your daughter witha' fT^ '° """
a wontan of unbkmisifed hi acter to ! >'"'"''r '
and accompany her in her ,i! ' ™" "P°" ''"
'hat being fheU r "(the btwl' "°'?' ^'^'

:SecX':""°''-^"---^SL'rd

'twas the knowtedge"'oV,L"vruirr 'T^ ' ^^^^^
character that JustLd myZfiL^ef"'" '°"' """'^

shouw Txe" *::„r '^ °"^^''™' -•- ^™

vv-icise a paternal supervision T cJ,on
range with my lawyer for th^ ^'"'^'''^'O"- ^ ^ shall ar-

ance, and I exoecTnL ^n^""^"^ °^ *^^« ^"^w-

fpr'c\r P ^^ "^^* >'0U Will Study your dancrl,

-:nrn::n"rsh:uM5r"'^= ■" ^"'-tt;

;iu.y fur i^Jom'et;? st ITh: i^S"? '"^

a^he.reneave°trn:i^:::: Lntr.tr

" I go, my lord, but not till I have l,i«.^ .i.-
erous hand." "'^**'' ""s gen-

" Pshaw I"

Kilrush snatched his hand away impatiently, rang

Pride Conquers Love 95

for his valet, and dismissed his grateful friend with
a curt nod.

He left St. James' Square next day after his
morning chocolate, in his coach and six, bound for
Dover, determined not to return till he had learned
the lesson of forgetfulness and indifference.

i !.'i

Chapter VIII.

THE LOVE THAT FOLLOWS THE DEAD.

On his return to Rupert's Buildings, William

IZTrl'^' °" '''' ^" ^"^°-^' arf a'ssulred „
come of iioo a quarter, was indeed an improve-
men upon those casual loans which he had begged
l^J'u?/ ^'^"^ ''"^^ '° *'"^^' ^ith somewhat

nfpJ .? ',^'"''°''^y' y^^ ^^^oss his pleasant

meditations m the short distance between St James'
Square and St. Martin's Lane there was time for his
thoughts to take a wider range, and for something
of a cloud to fall across his sunshine. ^

He was puzzled, he was even troubled, by his

tween that liberal patron and Antonia ? Till a fort-
night ago his daughter's happy frankness had as-
sured him that all was well ; that she was the k!nd of
girl who may be trusted to take care of herself with
out paternal interference. But there had bein a

visit. She had been languid and silent. She looked
unhappy and had been absent-minded win she
tan<ed of their literary projects-an essav for Cave
-a story for the Monthly Review, or the'possibihly

The Lovethat Follows 97

of Garrick's favor for an afterpiece from the Italian
of Goldoni.

Antonia waited upon him when he came in,
helped him to change his laced coat for an old one
that he wore m the house, brought him his slippers,
and proceeded to prepare his tea, but there was no
welcoming smile.

"My dearest girl, there is something amiss,"
Thornton said, after he had watched her for some
time, while they sat opposite to each other with the
tea tray between them. " My Tonia is no longer the
happy girl I have known so long. What ails my
love? I have been with your friend Kilrush. He
leaves England to-morrow. Is it the loss of his
company distresses you ? "

" No, no ! It is best that he should come here no
more."

" Why, dearest ? "

" Because we could never more be friends. I was
very happy in his friendship. I knew not how
happy till we parted."

" Why should such a friendship end ? Why did
you part? "

She burst into tears.

j^ I cannot— cannot— cannot tell you."

" Nay, love, you should have no secrets from your
father— an indulgent father, if sometimes a neg-
lectful one. When have I ever scared you by a
harsh word ? " "

" No, no ; but it is very hard to tell you that the
man I esteemed was unworthy of my friendship—
that he came here with tlie vilest design— that he
waited till he had won my regard— and then— and
then— swore that he loved me passionately, devot-
edly—and offered to make me his mistress."

The Infidel

?«*' ';i

Tliornton heard her with a countenance that in-
dicated more of thought than of horror.

" It would have been no disgrace to him to make
you his wife," he said, " but the Dclafields have ever
pretended to a pride in excess of their rank. He did
ill to offer you his affection upon those terms, yet
I'll swear his vows of love were sincere. I have
but just left him, and I never saw more distress of
mind than I saw in his face to-day. When I told
him that you had been drooping, he implored me to
call in his own physician, at his charge."

" Oh, pray, sir, do not tell me how he looked or
what he said ! " cried Tonia. with a passionate impa-
tience, drying her tears as she spoke, which broke
out afresh before she had done. " I doubt he thinks
money can heal every wound. He offered to lavish
his fortune upon me, and marvelled that I could pre-
fer this shabby parlor to a handsome house and dis-
honor,"

" He did very ill," said Thornton, in a soothing
voice, as if he were consoling a child in some child-
ish trouble; "yet, my dearest Tonia, did you but
know the world as well as I do you would know that
he made you what the world calls a handsome offer.
To settle a fortune upon you— of course he would
mean a settlement ; anything else were unworthy of
a thought— would be to give you the strongest
pledge of his fidelity. Men who do not mean to be
constant will not so engage their fortune. And if—
if the foolish Delafield pride— that Irish pride which
counts a long line of ancestors as a sacred inherit-
ance—stands in the way of marriage— Til be
hanged if I think you ought to have rejected him
without the compliment of considering his offer and
of consulting me."

J?^— -..^i;

The Love that Follows 99

" Father ! "

She sprang to her feet and stood before him in
all the dignity of her tall figure, and her face, with
the tears streaming over it, was white with anger
and conten.pt.

" My love, life is made up of compromises. Sure
I have tried to Iceep your mind clear of foolisli prej-
udices ; and, as a student of history, you must have
seen the influences that govern the world. Beauty
is one, and the most powerful of those influences.
Aspasia — Agnes Sorel — Madame de Pompadour.
Need I multiply instances? But beauty mewed up
in a two-pair lodging is worthless to the possessor ;
while, with a fine establishment, a devoted pro-
tector, my dearest girl, might command the highest
company in the town."

" Father ! " she cried again, with a voice that had
a sharp ring of agony, " would you have had me say
yes?

" I would have had you consider your answer
very seriously before you said no."

" Yovi could have suffered your daughter to stoop
to such humiliation ; you would have had her listen
to the proposal of a man who is free to marry any
one he pleases — but will not marry her; who tells
her in one breath that he loves her, and in the next
that he will not make her his wife. Oh. father, I
did not think "

" That I was a man of the world ? My poor child,
some of the greatest matches in England have be-
gun with unfettered love, and be sure that, were
your affection to consent to such a sacrifice Kilrush
would end by giving you his name."

" Pray, pray, sir, say no more — you are breaking
my heart — T want to respect you still, if I can."

lOO

The Infidel

J' I'shaw, child, after all we have read together!
'Tis a shock to hear such heroics ! What is the true
philosophy of life but to snatch all the comfort and
happiness the hour offers ? What is true morality
but to do all the good Ave can to ourselves and no
harm to our neighbors ? Will your fellow-creatures
be any the better for your unkindness to Kilrush:-'
With his fortune to deal with yon could do an infin-
itude of good."

*' Oh, cease, I implore you ! " she exclaimed dis-
tractedly. " If his tears could not conquer mc, do
}ou think your philosophy can shake my resolve ? "
She left him and took- refuge in her garret, and
PHt staring blankly into space, heart-sick and dis-
gusted with life. Her father! "Twas the first time
she had ever been ashamed of him. Her father to
l>e the advocate of dishonor— to urge her to accept
degradation ! Her father, whom she h.ad loved till
this hour with a child's implicit belief in the wisdom
and beneficence of a jxirent— was he no better than
the wretches she had heard Pattv talk about, the
complacent husbands who flourished upon a wife's
infidelity, the brothers who fawned upon a sister's
protector? Was all the world n:adc of the same
base stuff, and did woman's virtue and man's honor
live but in the dreams of genius?

She had accepted her father's dictum that religion
and superstition were convertible terms. Her young
mind had been steeped in the Voltairean philosophy
before she was strong enough to form her own
opmions or choose her own creed. She had read
over and over again of the evil that religion had
done in the world, and never of the good. Instead
of the whole armor of righteousness she had b^en
shown the racks and thumb-screws of the Spanish

The Love that Follows loi

Inquisition, and had been lauglit to associate the al-
tar with the aiito da fc. All she knew of piety was
priestcraft, and though her heart melted with com-
passion for the martyrs of a mistaken belief, her
mind scorned their credulity. But from her first
hour of awakening reason she had never wavered
in her ideas of right and wrong, honor and dishonor.
As a child of twelve, newly intrusted with the ex-
penditure of small sums, all her little dealings with
Mrs. Potter had shown a scrupulous honesty, a del-
icacy and consideration which the good woman had
seldom met with in other lodgers. The books that
had made her an infidel had held before her high
ideals of honor. And those other books — the books
she most loved — her Shakespeare, her Spenser —
had taught her all that is noblest in man and woman.

She thought of Shakespeare's Isabella, who, not
to save the life of a beloved brother, would stoop to
sin. She recalled her instinctive contempt for
Claudio, who, to buy that worthless life, would have
sold his sister to shame.

" My father is like Claudio," she thought ; and
then with a sudden compunction, " No, no ; he is not
selfish — he is only mistaken. It was of me he
thought — and that if Kilrush loved me, and I loved
him, I might be happy."

Her tears flowed afresh. Never till Kilrush
threw off the mask had she known what it was to
look along the dull vista of life and see no star, to
feel the days a burden, the future a blank. She
missed him. Oh, how she missed him ! Day after
day in the parlor below she had sat looking at Ins
empty chair, listening unawares for a footstep ihe
was never likely to hear again. She recalled his
conversation, his opinions, his criticisms of her fa-

I02

The Infidel

Is"

i 1

vonte books, their arguments, their almost quarrels
about abstract things. His face haunted her- those
exquisitely refined features upon wliich the only
ettect of age was an increased delicacy of line and
coloring; the depth of thought in the dark gray
yos ; the grave smile with its so swift transition
Irom satire to a tender melancholy. Was there ever
such a man? His elegance, his dignity, his manner
ot entering a room or leaving it, the grace of every
gesture, so careless, yet so unerring— everv trait of
character, every charm of person, whicli'she was
unconscious of having noticed in their almost daily
association, seemed now to have been burnt into her
brain and to be written there forever.

In the fortnight that had passed since they had
parted she had tried in vain to occupy herself with
the work which had hitherto interested her so much
as to make industry only another name for amuse-
ment. Her adaptation of Goldoni's " Villeg^iatura "
lay on her table, the pa-.s soiled by exposure, sen-
tence after sentence obliterated. The facile pen had
ost Its readiness. She found herself translating th-
ively Italian with a dull precision ; she, who of old
had so deftly turned every phrase into idiomatic
ii^nghsh— who had lent so much of herself to her
author.

Often in these sorrowful days she had pushed
aside her manuscript to scribble her recollections of
Kilrush s conversation upon a stray sheet of fools-
cap Often again, in those saddest moments of all
she had recalled his words of impassioned love— his
tears; and her own tears had fallen thick and fast
upon the disfigured page.

Well, it was ended, that friendship which had
been so sweet; and she had discovered the bitter

The Love That Follows 103

truth that friendship between man and woman,
when the woman is young and beautiful, is impos-
sible.

The days, weeks, months went by, and the name
of Kilrush was no more spoken by Thornton or his
daughter. It was as if no such being had ever had
any part in their lives, any influence over their fate.
Yet Thornton was studiously obedient to his pa-
tron's v/ishes all the time.

Good Mrs. Potter, who was getting elderly, had
for come years past groaned under the burden of
the house in Ru; jrt's Buildings, with the double or
sometimes treble set oi lodj^Ts. who were needful
to make the business remunerative. Servant-girls
were troublesome, even when paid as mucli as six
pounds per annum, with a pound extra for lea and
sugar; lodgers were not always punctual with
liie weekly rent, and sometimes left in her debt.
Thornton paid her a low rent for his second floor
and garret, but he stayed from year's end to year's
entl, and she valued him above the finer people who
came and went in her bettermost rooms. So when
he told her that he was going to remove to a rural
neighborhood she opened her heart to him, and de-
clared, firstly, that she was sick of London and Lon-
don hussies — otherwise, domestic servants; sec-
ondly, that she could not live without Antonia;
thirdly, that she had long had it in her mind to re-
move her goods and chattels to a countrified suburb,
such as Highgate or Edmonton, and that could she
be secure of one permanent lodger she would do so
witliout loss of time.

" Choose a genteel house to the southwest of Lon-
don, somewhere b(}tween Wandsworth and Barnes,
and my daughter and I will share it with you," said

:o4

T h c Infidel

Thornton; and Mrs. Potter, who had no particular

leaning to north or east, a-rced. ^rucmar

After this came a pleasant period of housc-hunt-

"g. m wh.ch Antonia was by-and-by indttced to

w Jh M "?"' '''''''''' S^"'"^' '" ^ ^'^'^^^y coach
with Mrs. Potter and ber datt^dUer Sophy, wbo had

•served an appre.niceship to a dressnmker ancMvas

very doubt ul how to dispose of ber talen now X

was out of her time. After several suburban liv

hrough suburbs that were all garden and n.eadow

they discovered an old half-timbered cottage at Pt -'

ney. whose casement wmdows looked across the

^Icns of bulham. To Antonia, who had hardly

known what it was to leave London since tho e dl s

va"lled citf ' ""? '" V '"'^°^ ^'^--^' the wht-

earth Surely ,t must be a blissful thing to live be-

pmg and reeds waving in the mild autumn wind

^t"r anra:S'r';'' 'T' '''''''' ^'-'> ^-n
stream, and to hear the rooks in the -rcat elm.

cha" tr sTf.""' u''T «''*"^- '"- •^l—
back to LonT" •■ I'""' '"',^"™"'S river. She went
back to London enchanted with Rosemary Bank as
he roo„y old cottage called itself, and toW he
father tha, she thought she could be happy th re
cried Til' T" '"'" ""*= *' cottage to.n,orrow,-

turned, too, my-my circumstances improved-and
-Garnck prom.snig to put our little Italian play on

The Love that Follows 105

Tonia sighed, remembering the melancholy
thoughts interwoven with every line of that lively
two-act burlctta which she had squeezed out of Gol-
doni's five-act comedy. F.vcrybody was pleased
with the neat little afterpiece, most of all I'atty Les-
ter, who was to play the souhrette, in a short chintz
petticoat, aiid high red heels to her shoes.

The theatre seemed a source of boundless wealth,
for on Mrs. Potter — who dropped in sometimes at
tea-time for a ji^ossip, or, coming on a business
errand, was invited to sit down and talk — complain-
ing that she did not knov/ what to do with her dress-
making daughter, Thornton offered to engage Miss
Sophy as Antonia's " woman."

" She will have to accept a modest honorarium,"
he said with his grand air, " but she will be getting
her hand in to go out as waiting-woman to a lady of
quality, and my Tonia will treat her more as a
friend than a servant."

Mrs. Potter snapped at the oflfer, though she did
not know the meaning of the word " honorarium,"
She guessed that it meant either wages or a present,
and to find that idle slut of hers an occupation, and
yet have her under the maternal eye, was an un-
speakable advantage.

Antonia protested that she wanted no waiting-
maid, though she loved Sophy.

" Indeed, sir, you are not rich enough to make a
fine lady of me," she said.

" Nature has made you a lady, my love, and you
are too sensible ever to become fine. When we are
living in the country — and I have to come to Lon-
don occasionally to look after my business — you will
need a companion whose time will be always at your
service."

-.In

io6

The Infidel

I
1

And so, with no more discussion, Sophia Potter
was engaged, at a salary of £io per anntini, paid
quarterly.

At Kosetnarv Bank tlic changing- seasons passed
m * cahn monotony, and it seemed to Antonia, dur-
iuK' die second year of her life in the cottajrc liy the
rhanu>, as if she had never 'ived anywhere else.
IMie London lodging;, the Strand and Fleet Street!
Miss Lester's rooms in the Piazza, receded in the
''Stance of half- forgotten things, for the years of
youth arc long, and the passing of a vcar makes a
great gap in time.

The link between Tonia and London seemed as
conipletely broken as if she were living in \' urkshire
oi in Cornwall. There was a London coach that
started from the King's Head at the botiom of Put-
ney High Street every morning for the Golden
Cross, hard by Rupert's Buildings, and this coach
earned Mr. Thornton and his fortunes three or four
times a week, and brought him home after dark. He
had so much business that required his presence in
the metropolis, and first and foremost the necessity
of getting the latest news, which was alwavs on tap
at the Portico, where half a score of gutter' wits and
politicians settled the affairs of theWion. reviled
Newcastle and the Pelhams. praised Pitt, canvassed
the prospects of war in America or on the Continent.
and enlarged on the vices of the beau mondc, everv
afternoon and evening.

Antonia accepted her father's absence as inevit-
able. Hor own life was spent in a peaceful monot-
ony. She had her books and her literarv work for
interest and occupation. She acquired' some ele-
mentary knowledge of horticulture from an old man
n-ho came once a week to work in the garden, and

f^^V'

The Love t h .1 t I\) 1 1 () \v s i 07

her love «)l llovvii's aiding licr, .slic iniprovcl upon
lljs instructions and ' (Vane an expert in the delit^ht-
fui art. She and i^^,'«•> made the two-acre garden
their pridr. It was an ohl garden, and tlicre was
niiuh of beauty reatly to their hands — riKiie arehes
ovcrhuni;' with roses and honeysuckli , espaliers of
russet apples and jargon iiears screening ])atches of
usefid vegetahles, ])l(il;. f)f old-estahlish' d turf, long
horders ( njwded with harrl . p<-rennials — a garden
that had cost care and labor in days that were gone.

And then there was the river-bank between Put-
ney and Kcw, where Tonia foiud beauty and de-
light at all seasons, even in th<- Ion;,' winter, when
the snapping of thin ice rang through the still air
as the barges moved slovvl> by. and the snow was
piled in high ridges along the edge of the .stream.
Summer or winter, spring or atitumn, Tonia k ved
that solitary shore, where the horses creeping along
the towing patii were almost *.he only creatures that
ever intruded on her i)rivacv. .She and Sophy were
indefatigable pedestrians. Th' y had indeed nothing
else to do with themselves, Sophy told her mother,
and must needs walk " to pas: 'he time." Passing
the time was the great problen in Sophia Potter's
existence. To that end she waded through " Pa-
mela " and " Clarissa." sitting n the garden on
sleepy summer afternoons. To that end she toiled
at a piece of tambour work. an(' to that end she
trudged, yawning dismally now au' then, by Tonia's
side from Putney to Barnes, from Barnes to Kew,
while her young mistress's thou hts roamed in
dreamland, following airy shadow or sometimes,
perhaps, following a distant traveli r in cities and
by lakes and mountains she knew no-.

Often and often, in her peripateti reveries. An-

io8

The Infidel

tenia's fancies followed the image of Kilrush, whose
Continental wanderings were chronicled from time
to time in Lloyd of the St. James'. He was in Rome
in the winter after their farewell; he was in Cor-
sica in the following spring ; he spent the summer at
Aix in Savoy ; 'moved to Montpelier in the late au-
tumn ; wintered at Florence. Tonia's thoughts fol-
lowed him with a strange sadness wherever he went.
Youth cannot feed on regrets forever, and the heart-
ache of those first vacant days had been healed ; but
the thought that she might never see his face again
hung like a cloud of sadness over the quiet of her
life.

And now it was summer again and the banks
were all in flower, and the blue harebells trembled
above the mossy hillocks on Barnes Common, and
the long evenings were glorious with red and gold
sunsets, and it was nearly two years since she had
rushed from her lover's presence with a despairing
farewell. Two years ! Only two years ! It seemed
half a lifetime. Nothing was less likely than that
they would ever meet again. Nothing, nothing,
nothing! Yet there were day dreams, foolish
dreams, in which she pictured his return— dreams
that took their vividest colors on a lovely sunlit
morning when the world seemed full of jov. He
would appear before her suddenly at some turn of
the river-bank. He would take her hand and scat
himself by her side on such or such a fallen tree or
rough rustic bench where she was wont to sit in her
solitude. " I have come back," he would say,
" come back to be your true friend, never more to
wound you with words of love, but to be your friend
always." The tears sprang to her eyes sometimes as
imagination depicted that meeting. Surelv he

The Love that Follows

109

would conic back ! Could they, who had been such
friends, be parted forever?

But the quiet days went by, and her dream was
not realized. No sign or token came to her from
him who had been her friend till one July evening,
when she was startled by her father's unexpected
return in a coach and four, which drove to the little
garden-gate with a rush and a clatter, as if those
steaming horses had been winged dragons, and
were going to carry off the cottage and its inmates
in a cloud of smoke and fire. Tonia ran to the gate
in a sudden panic. What could have happened?
Was her father being carried home to her hurt in
some street accident — or dead ? It was so unlike his
accustomed arrival, on the stroke of eleven, walking
quietly home from the last coach, which left the
Golden Crocs at 9.15, was due at the King's Head
at 10.30, and rarely kept its time.

Her father alighted from the carriage sound of
limb, but with an agitated countenance, and then
she noticed for the first time that the postilions
wore the Kilrush livery, and that his lordship's coat
of arms was on the door.

" My love — my Tonia," cried Thornton, breath-
lessly, " you are to come with me this instant — alas !
there is not a moment to spare. Bring her hat and
cloak," he called out to Sophy, who had followed
at her lady's heels, and stood open-mouthed, devour-
ing the wonder-vision of coach and postilions.
" Run, girl, run ! "

Tonia stared at her father in amazement.

" What has happened ? " she asked. " Where am
T to go to?"

" Kilrush has sent for you, Tonia. That good
man — Kilrush — my friend — mv benefactor — he

,)., ,

The Infidel

who has made our Hvcs so happy. I shall lose the
best friend 1 ever had. Your cloak "—snatching a
light cloth mantle from the breathless Sophy and
wrapping it round Tonia. " Your hat. Come, get
into the coach. 1 can tell you the rest as we drive
to town."

He helped her into the carriage and took his seat
beside her. She was looking at him in a grave won-
der. In his flurry and agitation he had let her
into a secret which had been carefully guarded
hitherto.

" Is it to Lord Kilrush we owe our quiet lives
here? Has his lordship given you money?" she
asked gravely.

" Oh, he has helped— he has helped me when our
means ran low— as any rich friend would help a
poor one. There is nothing strange in that, child."
her father explained with a deprecating air.

*' Kilrush ! " she repeated, deeply wounded. " It
was his kindness changed our lives. 1 thought we
were earning all our comforts— you and I.'' Why
are you taking me to him, sir ? I don't understand."

" I am taking you to his death-bed, Tonia. His
doctors give him only a few hours of life, and he
wants to see you before he dies, to bid you farewell."

The tears were rolling down Thornton's cheeks,
but Antonia's eyes were tearless. She sat with her
face turned to the village street, staring at the little
rustic shops, the quaint gables and projecting
beams, the dormer casements gilded bv the sunset,
Fairfax House, with its stout red walls' and massive
stone nuillions, and a garden full of roses and pinks,
that perfumed the warni air as they drove bv. She
looked at all those familiar things in a stupor of
wonder and regret.

The Love that Follows iii

the

" You often talk wildly," she said presently. " Is
he really so ill ? Is there no hope ? "

The horses had swung round a corner, and they
were driving by a lane that led to Wandsworth,
where it joined the London road. At the rate at
which they were going they would be at Westmin-
ster Bridge in less than half an hour.

" Alas, child, I have it from his doctor. 'Tis a
hopeless case — has been hopeless for the last six
months. He has been in a consumption since the
beginning of the winter, has been sent from place to
place, fighting with his malady. He came to Lon-
don two days ago, from Geneva, as fast as he could
travel — a journey that has hastened his end, the
physician told me. Came to put his affairs in order
and to see you," Thornton concluded, after a pause.

" To see me ! Ah, what am I that he should
care? " cried Tonia, in a despairing voice.

To know that he was dying was to know that she
had never ceased to love him. But she did not an-
alyze her feelings. All that she knew of herself was
a dull despair — the sense of a loss that engulfed
everything she had ever valued in this world.

" What am I that he should care? " she repeated
forlornly.

" You are all in all to him. He implored me to
bring you — with tears, Antonia — he, my benefactor,
the one friend who never turned a deaf ear to my
necessities," said Thornton, too unhappy to control
his speech.

" Shall we be there soon ? " Tonia asked pres-
ently, in a voice broken by sobs.

" In a quarter of an hour at the latest. God grant
it may not be too late."

No other word was spoken till the coach stopped

i
It •

I 12

The Infidel

at the solemn old doorway in St. James' Square
door through which Mrs. Arabella Churchill had
passed in her day of pride, when the house was hers,
and that handsome young soldier, her brother Jack^
was a frequent visitor there.

Night had not fallen yet, and there were lingering
splashes of red sunset upon the westward-facing
wnidows of the square, but on this side all was
shadow, and the feeble oil lamps made dots of yel-
lovv light on the cold grayness and enhanced the
melancholy of a summer twilight.

The door was opened as Thornton and Antonia
alighted. Her father led her past the hall porter,
across the spacious marble-paved vestibule that
looked like a vault in the dimness of a solitary lamp
which a footman was lighting as they entered. Huge
imperials, portmanteaux and packing-cases filled
one side of the hall, the bulk of his lordship's per-
sonal luggage, which no one had found time to carry
upstairs ; and the cases containing the pictures, por-
celain, curios, which he had collected in his wander-
mgs from city to city, and in which his interest had
ceased so soon as the thing was bought. He had
come home too ill for any one to give heed to these
treasures. There would be time to unpack them
after the funeral— that inevitable ceremony which
the household had begun to discuss already.' Would
the dying man desire to be laid with his ancestors
m the family vault under Limerick Cathedral, with-
m sound of the Shannon ?

Antonia followed her father up the dusky stair-
case, their footfall noiseless on the soft depth of an
Indian carpet, followed him into a dark little ante-
room, where two men in sombre attire sat at a
together by the light of two wax

table talking

The Love that Follows 113

candles in tall Corinthian candlesticks. One of
these was his lordship's family lawyer, the other his
apothecary.

" Are we too late ? " asked Thornton, breath-
lessly, with rapid glances from the attorney to the
doctor — glances which included a folded paper ly-
ing on the table beside a silver standish.

" No, no ; his lordship may last out the night,"
answered the doctor. " Pray be seated, madam. If
my patient is asleep we will wait his awakening. He
does not sleep 'ong. If he is awake you shall see
him. He desired that you should be taken to him
without delay."

He opened the door of the inner room almost
noiselessly, and looked in. A voice asked, " Is she
here?"

It was the voice Tonia knew of old, but weaker.
Her heart beat passionately. She did not wait for
the doctor, but brushed past him on the threshold,
and was scarce conscious of crossing the width of a
larger room than she had ever seen. She had no
eyes for the gloomy magnificence of the room, the
high windows draped with dark red velvet, the pan-
elled walls, the lofty bed, with its carved columns
and ostrich plumes ; she knew nothing, saw nothing,
till she was on her knees by the bed, and the dying
man was holding her hands in his.

" Go into the next room, both of you," he said,
whereupon his valet and an elderly woman in a
linen gown and apron, a piece of respectable incom-
petence, the best sick-nurse that his wealth and sta-
tion could command, silently retired.

" Will you stop with me to the end, Tonia? "
" Yes, yes ; but you are not going to die. I will
not believe them. You must not die!"

Mi'

114

The Infidel

'18

" Would you be sorry? Would it make any dif-
ference ? "

" It would break my heart. I did not know that
I loved you till you had gone away; I did not know
how dearly till to-night."

" And if I was to mend and be my own man again
and was to ask you the same question again, would
you give me tlie same answer ? "

" Yes," she answered slowly, " but you would not
be so cruel."

" No, Tonia, no ; I am wiser now, for I have come
to understand that there is one woman in the world
who would not forfeit her honor for love or hap-
piness. Ah, my dearest, here, here, on the brink of
death, I know there is nothing on this earth that a
man should set above the woman he loves— no pal-
try thought of rank or station, no cowardly dread
that she may prove unfaithful, no fear of the world's
derision. If I could have my life again I should
know how to use it. But 'tis past, and the only love
I can ask for now is the love that follows the dead."
He paused, exhausted by the effort of speech. He
spoke very slowly, and his voice was low and hoarse,
but she could hear every word. She had risen from'
her knees, to be nearer him, and was sitting on the
side of the bed, holding him in her arms. In her
heart of hearts she had realized that deatli was near,
though her soul rebelled against the inevitable. She
was conscious of the coming darkness, conscious
that she was holding him on the edge of an open
grave.

" Do not talk so much, you are tiring yourself,"
she said gently, wiping his forehead with a cani-
bric handkerchief that had lain among the heaped-
up pillows. The odor of orange flower that it ex-

The Love that Follows 115

haled was in her mind years afterward associated
with that bed of death.

He lay resting, with his eyelids half closed, his
head leaning against her shoulder, her arm sup-
porting him.

" I never thought to taste such ineffable bliss,"
he murmured. " You have made death euthanasia."

He lapsed into a half-sleeping state, which lasted
for some minutes, while she sat as still as marble.
Then he opened his eyes suddenly and looked at her
in an agitated way.

" Tonia, will you marry me? " he asked.

" Yes, yes, if you bid me, by and by, when you
are well," she answered, humoring a dying man's
fancy.

■' Now, now ! I have only a few hours to live. I
sent for you to make you my wife. I want your love
to follow me in death. I want you to bear my name
— the name I refused you, the name that cost me
half a lifetime of happiness. Tonia, swear that you
will be true — that you will belong to me when I am
dead, as you might have belonged to me in life."

She thought his mind was wandering. He had
lifted himself from her arms, and was sitting up in
bed, magnetized into new life by the intensity of his
purpose.

" Ring that bell, dearest. Yes " — as she took up
the hand-bell on his table — " all has been arranged.
Death will be civil to me, to the last Baron Kilrush,
and will give me time for what I have to do."

His valet appeared at the door.

" Is his lordship's chaplain there ? " Kilrush
asked.

" Yes, my lord. The bishop has come with his
chaplain."

ii6

The Infidel

. "The bishop! My old friend is monstrous ohl iff-
ing. Show them in." ^

The valet ushered in a stately personage in full

and hood. The bishop came to the bedside, saluted
Antonia courteously, and bent his portly form over
Kilrush with an affectionate air.

could not delegate my duty to another."

You are very good. We are ready for you. My

awyer is m the next room-he has the license, and

this -pointing to a thin gold hoop worn with an

antique intaglio ring on his little finger—" this was

my mother's wedding ring-it will serve."

Ihe bi, -lop took the prayer-book which his chap-

ain had opened at the marriage service, but paused

with the book ,n his hand, looking at Antonia with

grave curiosity. Kilrush followed the look, and

answered it as if it had been a question.

You understand, bishop, that this marriage is
not an atonement." he said. " Miss Antonia Thorn-
on IS a lady of spotless reputation, who will do
nonor to the name I leave her."
. " That is well, Kilrush. But I hope this mar-
riage IS not designed to injure any one belonging to

Jl^°' \ "-^""^ "° ''"^' ^""^ "° O"^ Jias any claim
to be my heir." -^

en Jnf r^'' ^'°''^^'' '^'' '^"^^^^ ^^°'" the farther
end of the room to a table near the bishop, and rear-
ranged the pillows at his master's back.' AntonL
had risen from her seat on the edge of the bed and
stood watching Kilrush with the candlelight full
upon her face.

The bishop looked at her with a shrewd scrutiny.

>g-

The Love that Follows 117

He wanted to know what manner of woman she was,
and what could be his old friend's motive for this
death-bed folly. They had been at Eton and Ox-
ford together, and though their paths had laid
asunder since those early years, the bishop knew
what kind of life Kilrusli had led, and was disin-
clined to credit him with chivalrous or romantic im-
pulses. He looked to the woman for the answer to
the enigma. An artful adventuress, no doubt, who
had worked upon the weaker will of a dying man.
He scrutinized her with the keen glance of a man
accustomed to read the secrets of the heart in the
countenance, and his penetration was baffled by the
tragic beauty of her face as she gazed at Kilrush
with eyes which seemed incapable of seeing any-
thing but him. He thought that no adventuress
could conjure up that look of despairing love, that
unconsciousness of external things, that supreme in-
difference to a ceremony which was to give her
wealth and station for the rest of her life, indiffer-
ence even to that episcopal dignity of purple and
lawn which had rarely failed in its influence upon
woman.

" Make your ceremony as brief as you can,
bishop," said Kilrush. " I have something to say to
my wife when 'tis over. Louis, call Mr. Thornton
and Mr. Pegloss."

The valet opened the door and admitted Thorn-
ton and the lawyer. The apothecary followed them,
took up his position by his patient's pillow, and gave
him a restorative draught.

The bishop beg^n to read in his great deep voice
— a voice which « st have insured a bishopric, but
diminished from the thunder of his cathedral tones
to a grave baritone, musical as the soughing of dis-

ii8

The Infidel

f
f

-1

taut waves. 1 Ik- win.Iows were open, and throuirh
tlic sultry air there came the cry of the watchman
calling the hour, far off and at measured intervals •
I ast ten o'clock and a cloudv night."
Tonia stood by the bed, holding her lover's hand

Who giveth this woman, etc."
Thornton was ready, trembling with excitement
dazed by the wonder of it all, and scarcely able to
speak, and Tonia's voice was choked with tears
when she made the bride's replies, slowly, stum-
bhngly, prompted by the chaplain. The ceremonv
liad no significance for her, except as a dying man''s
whim. Her only thought was of him. She could
see his face more distinctly now, in the nearer light
of the candles, and the awful change smote her
heart with a pain she had never felt before. It was
death, the dreadful, the inevitable, the end of all
things. What meaning could marriage have in such
an hour as this ?

The chaplain read a final prayer. The ring had
been put on. The marriage was complete.

The bishop knelt by the table and began to read
the prayers for the sick, Tonia standing by the bed
with Kilrush's hand in hers, heedless of the solemn
voice The bfshop looked up at her in shocked as-
tonishment.

" It would be more becoming, madam, to kneel "
ne said in a loud whisper.

She sank on her knees beside the bed, and listened
to the prayer that seemed to mock her with its sup-
plication for health and healing, while Death, a pal-
pable presence, hovered over the bed. To Antonia
that meifectual prayer seemed the last sentence— the
sentence of doom.

"You are vastly civil, bishop," said Kilrush,

The Love that h'oilo

119

opening his eyelids after on. the transunt slun^
bers. " And now let Mr. Pegloss bring lu '
paper I have to sign."

The attorney came to the bedside on the instant,
carrying a blotting-book which he arranged deftly,
with a closely written sheet of foolscap spread upon
it, in front of Kilrush, who had been raised again
into a sitting position by the doctor and valet.

" This is my will, bishop," said Kilrush, as he
wrote his name. " You and your chaplain can wit-
ness it. 'Twill give an odor of sanctity to my last
act."

" Your lordship may command my services," said
the bishop, taking the pen from his friend's hand.

It was something of a shock to have this service
asked of him. A few hours ago there had been
nothing he expected less than a legacy from his old
schoolfellow ; but after having been asked to send
his chaplain to solemnize a death-bed marriage,
after being, as it were, appealed to on the score of
early friendship, and after having so cordially re-
sponded, it seemed to his episcopal mind that among
the accumulated treasures of art which poor Kilrush
\»'as about to surrender, some small memento — were
it but a diamond snuff-box or an enamelled watch —
should have come to him.

He wrote his stately signature with a flourish, the
chaplain following.

Kilrush sank back among his pillows, supported
by the arms he loved.

" Bishop, you are a connoisseur," he said, in his
faint voice, looking up shrewdly at his schoolfel-
low's ample countenance, rosy with the rich hues of
the Cote d'Or. " That Raphael over the chimney-
piece — 'tis a replica of the Sposalizio at Milan.

120

The I n i' i d e 1

Some critics pronounce il the fnur picture. I.ct it
be a souvenir of your oi)Iigin« goodness to-night.
Louis, you will see the Raphael conveyed to his lord-
ship's house immediately. Mr. Pegloss will assist
you to take the picture down. And now good-night
to you all."

"My dear Kilrusli, >ou overpower me," mur-
nuired the hishop ; and then he bent over the invalid
and whi.sjjered a solemn inquiry.

" No, no ; I am not in a fit state of nn'nd," Kil-
rusli answered fretfully. " And my wife is not a
believer."
" Not a believer ! "

His lordship's eyebrows were elevated in un-
speakable horror. He glanced with something of
aversion at the lovely face hanging over t!ie dying
man with looks of all-absorbing love. Not a be-
liever! He would scarcely have been more hor-
rified had she been a disciple of Wesley or White-
field.

" My dear friend." he murmured, " it is my

bounden duty to urge "

" Come to me to-morrow morning, bishop."

" Let it be so, then. At eight o'clock to-morrow

morning."

"A rivederci," said Kilrush, with a mocking
smile, waving an attenuated hand as the church-
man and his satellite withdrew.

Thornton and the lawyer followed, but only to
the anteroom. The apothecary and valet remained.
1 he physician had paid his last visit before Antonia
arrived. There had been a consultation of three
great men in the afternoon, and it had been decided
that nothing more could be done for the patient than
to make him as comfortable as his malady would

The Love t h at Follows 121

permit, ami for tliat the apotnecary's art was suffi-
cient.

"^'ou can wait in the next room, Davis, within
call," said Kilrush, as the p:ravo, elderly man, in a
queer little chestnut wig, bent over him, looking
anxiously in his face, and feeling his pulse.

The throb of life heat stronger than Davis had
anticipated. A wonderful constitution that could so
hold out against the ravages of disease ! The hrealli-
ing was labored, but there was vigor enough left to
last out the long night hours — to last for days and
nights yet, the medico thought, as he left the room.

The valet was moving the candles from the table
by the bed, when his master stopped him.

" Leave them there ; I want to see my wife's face,"
he said.

The man obeyed and followed the apothecary.
Husband and wife were alone.
'* On your knees, Tonia — so, with your face
toward the light," Kilrush said eagerly. ' - So, so,
love. I want to sec }our eyes. You are my wife,
Tonia, my wife forever— in life and after life' This
perishing clay will be hidden from your sight to-
morrow — this Kilrush will cease to be— but — "
striking his breast passionately, " there is something
here that will live — the mind of the man who loved
you — and who dies despairing — the martyr of his
insensate pride."

He grasped her hands in both his own, looking
into her eyes with a wild intensity thai: touched the
boundary line of madness, but she did not shrink
from him. That wasted countenance, leaden with
the dull shadow of death, was for her the dearest
thing on earth, the only thing she was conscious of
in this last hour.

122

T li e Infidel

" Tonia, do you understand? " he gasped, strug-
gling to recover breath. "I have married you to
make you mine beyond the grave. It would be the
agony of hell to die and leave you to another. You
are mine by this bond. I have given you all a dying
lover can give— my name, my fortune. Swear that
you will be true to me, that you will never give
yourself to another man. That you will be my wife
—mine only— till the grave unites us, and that you
wdl he by my side when life is done, the vault by
the Shannon your only wedding bed. Promise me
never to bless another with your love."

" Never, never, never, upon my honor," she said,
with a depth of earnestness that satisfied him.

"On your honor— yes, for vour honor means
something. If the spirits of the dead are free I shall
be near you. If you break your promise I shall
haunt you— an angry ghost, pitiless, cruel. As you
hope for peace, do not cheat me."

In the unnatural strength of impassioned feeling
he had exhausted that reserve of energy which the
apothecary had noted, and in the rush "of his pas-
sionate speech he was seized with a more violent fit
of coughing than any that had attacked him since
Antonia's coming. She was agonized at the sight
of his suffering, and hung over him with despairing
love, while the attenuated frame was convulsed with
the struggle for breath. The fight ended suddenly.
He flung his arms round her neck and his head fell
upon her bosom in an appalling silence. A blood-
vessel had burst in that last paroxvsm, and in the
red stream that poured from his' lips, covering
Tenia's gown with crimson splashes, his life ebbed
a\vay.

<l\

The Love that Follows 123

A piercing shriek startled the watchers in the
anteroom. Doctor, nurse, valet, rushed to the bed-
chamber to find Antonia swooning in a heap beside
the bed, the dead man's arms still clasped about her
neck.

" Very sudden," said the apothecary, as Thornton
appeared at the door. " I thought his lordship
would have held out longer."

When Antonia recovered her senses she found
herself lying on a sofa in a room she had never seen
before, with the respectable incompetent in a linen
apron holding a bottle of smelling salts to her nos-
trils and an odor of burned feathers poisoning the
atmosphere. Her father was sitting by her side,
holding her hand and patting it soothingly. Some
one had taken off her gown, and her shoulders were
wrapped in an old shawl lent by the incompetent.
The lofty room was a well of shadow, made visible
by a single candle.

She lay in apathetic silence for some minutes, not
knowing where she was or what had happened,
wondering whether it was evening or morning,
summer or winter. It was only when her father
talked to her that she began to remember.

" My sweet child, I implore you to compose your-
self," he said. " My dear friend acted nobly. Alas,
was there ever so fine, so generous a nature ? My
Tonia is one of the richest women in London, and
with a name that may rank with the highest. My
Tonia! How splendidly she will become her ex-
alted station ! "

Antonia heard him unheeding.

" Let me go back to him," she said, rising to her
feet.

124

The Infidel

"To-
Let

" Not yet, niadarn," niurniured the nurse,
morrow morning. Not to-night, dear lady,
mc help your ladyship to undress. The next room
has been prepared for your ladyship."

" Why can't I go to him? " asked Antonia, turn-
mg to her father. " I oromised to stay with him
till the end."

" Alas, love, thou wast with him till the last. His
arms clasped thee in death. I doubt thou wilt
never forget those moments, my poor wench. God !
how he loved 3'ou ! And he has made you a great

She turned from him in disgust.

•' You harp upon that," she said. " I loved him—
I loved him. I loved him— and he is dead ! "

The nurse had crept away to assist in the last sad
duties. Father and daughter were alone, Antonia
sittmg speechless, staring into vacancy, Thornton
l)abblmg feebly every now and then, irrepressible in
his exultation at so strange, so miraculous a turn
of fortune's wheel.

" Kilrush's death would have beggared us but for
this," he thought.

A clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. Only
eleven o'clock ! 'Twas but two hours since Antonia
had entered the house, and her life before she
crossed that threshold seemed to her far away in the
dim distance of years that were gone.

He had loved her and had repented his cruelty.
There was comfort in tliat thought even in the de-
spair of an eternal parting. Was it to be eternal ?
He had spoken of an after-life, a consciousness that
was to follow and watch her. She, the Voltairean,
who had been taught to smile at man's belief in im-
mortality, the fairy tale of faith, the mvth of all ages

The Love that Follows 125

ati 1 all nations — she, the unbeliever, hung upon
those words of his for comfort.

" If his spirit can be with mc, sure he will know
how fondly I love him," she said ; and the first tears
she shed since his death flowed at the thought.

Chapter IX.

THE PERIOD OF MOURNING.

The household in St. James' Square bowed
themselves before the new Lady Kilrush and made
obeisance to her, as the wheat sheaves bowed down
to Joseph in his dream. The butler remembered his
master's first wife, a pretty, futile creature, always
gadding, following the latest craze in modish dis-
sipations, greedy of pleasure and excitement. It
had been no surprise to him when she crept through
the hall door in the summer gloaming, carrying her
jewels in a hand-bag, to join the lover who was
waiting in a coach and four round the corner. It
was only her husband who had been blind — blind
because he was indifferent.

To the household this strange marriage was a
matter of profound satisfaction.
' " Her ladyship desires to retain your services, and
will make no changes except on your recommenda-
tion," ]\Ir. Thornton told the late lord's house stew-
ard and business manager, with a superb patron-
age, but without any authority from Antonia, who
sat in a stony silence when he talked about plans for
the future, and of all the pomps and pleasures that
were waiting for his beloved girl after a year of
mourning.

The Period of Mourning 127

" Uh, why do you talk of servants and horses and
things ? " she exclaimed once, with an agonized look.
" Can't you see — don't you understand — that I loved
him?"

" I do understand. Yes, yes, my love. I can
sympathize with your grief — your natural grief —
for so noble a benefactor. But when your year of
widowhood is past, my Tonia will awaken to the
knov/ledge of her power. A beauty, a fortune, a
peeress and a young widow ! By heaven, you might
aspire to be the bride of royalty ! And a temper ! "
muttered Thornton, as his daughter rose suddenly
from her chair and walked out of the room be-
fore he had finished his harangue.

It was only when there was a question of the
funeral that the new Lady Kilrush asserted herself.

" His lordship will be buried in the family vault
at Limerick," she said decisively. " Be kind enough
to make all needful arrangements, Mr. Goodwin. I
shall travel with the funeral cortege."

" My dearest Tonia — so remote a spot, so wild
and unsettled a country," pleaded Thornton.
" Would it not be wiser to choose a nearer resting-
place among the sepulchres of the noble and distin-
guished — as, for instance, at St. Paul's, Covent Gar-
den?"

Antonia did not answer or appear to have heard
the paternal suggestion. Her father would scarcely
let her out of his sight during these long days in the
darkened house. She could only escape from him
by withdrawing to her own room, where Sophy was
in attendance upon her — the strange and stately bed-
chamber with an amber satin bed, whose curtains
had shaded the guilty dreams of the runaway wife.

The bishop made her a stately visit on the second

128

The Infidel

i !

fc ■'

4 I

day of her solitude, and trie '. to convert her to
AngHcan Christianity in an hour's affable conver-
sation, addressing himself to her benighted mind
in the simplest forms of speech, as if she had been
an ignorant child. She heard him politely ; but he
could not lure her into an argument, and he knew
that the good seed was falling on stony ground.

When he was leaving her she gave a heart-broken
sigh, and said:

" I want to believe in a life after death, for then
I should hope to see him again. But I cannot — I
cannot ! I have been trying ever since — that night "
— speaking of it as if it were a long way off — " but
I cannot — I cannot ! "

The bishop sat down again and quoted St. Paul
to her for a quarter of an hour, but those sublime
words could not convince her. The cynic's blighting
sneer had withered all that womanhood has of in-
stinctive piety — of upward-looking reverence for
the Christian ideal. There is no fire so scathing,
no poison so searching, as the light ridicule of a
master mind. The woman who had been educated
by \'oltaire could not find hope or comfort in the
great apostle's argument for immortality. Was not
Paul himself only trying to believe?

" Dear lady, if I send you Bishop Butler's ' An-
alogy ' — the most convincing argument for that fu-
ture life we all long for — will you promise me to
read it?"

" I will read anything you please to send me, my
lord ; only I cannot promise to believe what I read."

The funeral train left St. James' Square in the
cool gray of a summer dawn. It consisted of but
three carriages: the hearse, with all its pompous
decorations, and drawn by six post-horses, a coach

The Period of Mourning 129

and six for Antonia and her father, and a second
coach for the steward, the valet, Louis, and Miss
Sophia Potter, who tried to keep her countenance
composed in a becoming sadness, but could not help
considering the journey a treat, and occasionally
forgetting that dismal carriage which led the pro-
cession.

They travelled by the Great Bath road, halting
at Hounslow for breakfast in the dust and dew of
an exquisite morning, and it may be that Mr,
Thornton, sitting at a well- furnished table by an
open window overlooking all the bustle and gayety
of coaches and post-chaises arriving or departing,
found it almost as hard a matter as Sophy did to
maintain the proper dejection in voice and aspect,
and not to enjoy himself too obviously.

It was not so much the unwonted luxury of his
surroundings as the unwonted respect of his fellow-
men that inspired him. To have innkeeper and
waiters hanging about him, as if he had been a
prince — he, whom mine host of the Red Lion had
ever treated on terms of equality; or, if the scale
had turned either way, 'twas mine host who gave
himself the privilege of insolence to a customer who
was often in his debt.

Antonia, shut in a room above stairs with her
maid, could not as yet taste the pleasures of her al-
tered station. It was her father who derived enjoy-
ment from her title, rolling it in his mouth with in-
describable gusto:

" Tell her ladyship, my daughter, that her coach
is at the door. Lady Kilrush desires to lose no time
on the road. Louis, see that her ladyship's smelling
salts are in the coach pocket, and that her ladyship's
woman does not keep her waiting."

■m

130

The Infidel

Louis and Mr. Goodwin, the steward, had their
little jests about Mr. Thornton; but Antonia had
commanded their respect from the moment when
she gave her instructions about the funeral. Th :
capacity for coi mand was hers, a quality that is in
the character of man or woman, and which neither
experience nor teaching can impart.

The journey to Bristol occupied four days, and
Mr. Thornton enjoyed himself more and more at
the great inns on the Great Bath road, eating his
dinner and his supper in the luxurious seclusion of
a private sitting-room, /(Vf-()-/(V(7 with an obsequious
landlord or a loquacious head waiter, whose conver-
sation kept him amused, and perhaps drinking some-
what deeper on account of Antonia's absence.
Throughout the journey she had kept herself in
strict seclusion, attended only by Sopliy, All that
the inn servants saw of Lady Kilrush was a tall
woman in deepest mourning who followed the head
chambermaid to her room and did not appear till her
coach was ready to start on the next stage.

From Bristol the dismal convoy crossed to
Queenstown in a government yacht, with a fair
wind and no ill adventure. At Queenstown the
monotonous road journey was resumed in hired
coaches, and late on the third evening the cortege
drew up before Kilrush House, in the city of Lim-
erick, a large red-brick house with its back to the
river, hard by the bishop's palace, built before the
battle of the Boyne.

Entering this melancholy mansion, which had
been left in the care of a superannuated butler and
his feeble old wife for nearly thirty years, Mr.
Thornton's spirits sank to zero. He had been indis-
posed during the sea voyage, nor had the accom-

The Period of Mourning 131

niodations at Irish inns satisfied a taste enervated
by the luxuries of the Great Bath road ; but tlie
Irish landlords had offered him cheerful society,
and the Irish grog had scut him merrily to his bed.
But, oh, the gloom of Kilrush House in the summer
twilight ! The horror of that closed chamber where
the form of the coffin showed vaguely under the vo-
luminous velvet of the pall, and where tall wax
candles shed a pale light upon vacant walls and
scanty furniture, all that there had been of beauty
and value in the town house of the lords of Kilrush
having been removed to St. James' Square when the
late lord married.

The funeral was solemnized on the following
night, a torchlight procession, in which the lofty
hearse with its nodding plumes and pompous deco-
rations of black velvet and silver showed gigantic
in the fitful flare of the torches, carried by a long
train of horsemen who had assembled from far and
near to do honor to the last Lord Kilrush.

He had been an absentee for the greater part of
his life, but the name was held in high esteem, and
perhaps his countrymen had more respect for him
dead than they would have felt had he appeared
among them living. The news of the funeral train
journeying over sea and land, and of the beautiful
bride accompanying her dead bridegroom, had gone
through the south of Ireland, and men of rank and
family had travelled long distances to assist in those
last honors. It was half a century since such a fu-
neral cortege had been seen in Limerick. And while
the gentry came in hundreds to the ceremony, from
the Irish town and the English town the rabble
poured in throngs that must have been reckoned by
thousands, Mr. Thornton thought, as he gazed from

'1/

132

The Infidel

1 f^

tlic coacli window at a sea of faces — young women
with streaming liair, spectral faces of old crones,
their grr.y locks hound with red cotton handker-
chiefs, rags and semi-nakedness — all seeming phan-
tasmagoric in the flickering light of the moving
torches, all dreadful of aspect to the hahituc of Lon-
don streets.

But even more terrihle than those wan faces and
wild hair wore the voices of that strange nutltitude,
the wailing and sokbing of the women, the keening
of the men, shric' < and lamentations, soul-freezing
as the cry of a screech owl or the howling of fam-
ished wolves. Thornton shrank shuddering into a
corner of the mourning coach, which he shared with
the chief mourner — that nmte, motionless figure
with shrouded face, in which he scarce recognized
his daughter's familiar form.

The horror of the scene deepened when they en-
tered the church, that wild crew pressing after them,
thrust hack from the door with difficulty hy the
funeral attendants. The distance to he traversed
had been short, but the coaches had moved at a foot
pace, with a halt every now and then, as the crowd
became impassable. To lliornton the ceremony
seemed to have lasted for half the night, and it sur-
prised him to hear the church clock strike twelve
as they left the vault where George Frederick Dcla-
field, nineteenth Baron Kilrush, was laid with his
ancestors.

It was over. Oh, the relief of it ! This tedious
business which had occupied nearly a fortnight was
ended at last, and his daughter belonged to him
again. He put his arm round her in the coach pres-
ently, and she sank weeping upon his breast. She
had been tearless throughout the ceremony in the

T he Peri c)dt)f Mourning 13;^

catlicilral, and had tnaintaincd a statuesque coin-
posuro of aninteuance, jjale as niarhle ai,'ainst tlie
llowiiifjf folds of a craf)e veil that draped her from
brcnv to foot.

" Let us g^et back to London, love," he said. " The
horrors of this place would kill us if we slopped
here much longer."

" I want to see the house where he was horn," she
said.

" Well, tis a natural desire, perhaps, for 'tis your
own house now, Kilrush Abbey. The abbey is but
a ruin, I doubt ; but there is a fine stone mansion iti
a park — all my Antonia's projierty — but a deucodly
expensive place to keep up, I warrant."

She did not tell him that her only interest in the
Irish estate was on the dead man's account. Noth-
ing she could say would check liim in his jubilation
at her change of fortune. It was best to let him en-
joy himself in his own fashion. Their ages and
places seemed reversed. It was she that had the
gravity of mature years, the authority of a parent,
while in him there was the inconsequence of a child,
and the child's delight in trivial things.

She had seen the starved faces in the crowd, the
gray hairs and scanty rags ; and she went next day
with Sojjhy on a voyage of discovery in the squalid
alleys of the English and Irish towns, scattering sil-
ver among the poverty-stricken creatures who
crowded round her as she moved from door to door.
What blessings, what an eloquence of grateful
hearts, were poured upon her as she distributed
handfuls of shillings, fat crown jmcccs, showers of
sixpences that the children fouglit for in the gutters
— an injudicious form of charity, perhaps, but it
gave bread to the hungry, and some relief to her

'34

The I n f i d e 1

ill

^i l

k ■

overcharged heart. She had never enjoyed the lux-
ury of giving before. It was the first pleasure she
had known since her marriage, the first distraction
for a mind thai had dwelt with agonizing intensity
upon one image.

Mr. Goodwin, the late lord's steward, was one of
those higl.ly trained servants who can render the
thinking process a sinecure in the case of an indo-
lent master. lie had found thought and money for
the funeral ceremony, and he showed himself
equally capable in arranging Antonia's visit to the
scene of her husband's birth and childhood, the
cradle of her husband's race.

At Kilrush, as in Limerick, she found a deserted
mansion, maintained with some show of decency by
half a dozen servants. Over all there brooded that
melancholy shadow which fahs ui>on a house where
the glad and moving life of a family is wanting.
One spot only showed in the beauty and brightness
of summer, a rose garden in front of a small draw-
ing-room, a garden of less than an acre, surrounded
by tall ilex hedges, neatly clipped.

" 'Tis the garden parlor made for his lordship's
mother when she came as a bride to Kilrush," Good-
win told Antonia, " and his lordship was very strict
in his orders that everything should be maintained
as her ladyship left it."

In those days of mourning and regret Antonia
preferred the picturesque seclusion of Kilrush to
any home that could have been offered her. The
fine park with its old timber and views over sea and
river pleased her. She loved the ruined abl)ey, dark
with a ;;es, and mantled with ivy of more than a cen-
tury's growth. The spacious dwelling-house, with
its long suites of rooms and shadowy corridors — a

The Period of Mourning 135

house built when (Jrniond was ruling in Irclaml,
and when the DclaficUls lived half the year at their
country seat, and divided the other half year be-
tween Limerick and Dublin — the old-fashionetl fur-
niture, the family portraits hy painters whose fame
had never travelled across the Irish Chamicl, and
most of all the gardens, screened by a belt of sea-
blown lirs, i)lca,sed their new owner, and she pro-
posed to remain there till winter.

" My dearest child, would you bury yourself alive
in this desolate corner of the earth ? " cried Thorn-
ton, whose nerves had hardly recovered from the
horrors of the funeral, and who could not sleep
without a rushlight for fear of the Delafield ghosts,
who had indeed more than once in this shattered
condition wished himself back in his two-pair cham-
ber in Ivupert's Ikiildings. " Was there ever so un-
reasonable a fancy? You to seclude yourself from
humanity I You who ought to be preparing yourself
to shine in the beau mondc, and who have still to
acquire the accomplishments needful to your ex-
alted station ! The solid education, which it was my
pride and delight to impart, might s'iffice for Miss
Thornton; ^ Lady Kilrush cannot dispense with
the elegant .. cS of a woman of fashion — the guitar,
the harpsichord, to take part in a catch or a glee, or
to walk a minuet, to play .1 faro, to ride, to drive a
pair of ponies."

" Oh, pray stop, sir. I shall never be that kind of
woman. You have taught me to find happiness in
book.^, and have made me independent of trivial
pleasures."

" Books are the paradise of the neglected and the
poor, the solace of the prisoner for debt, the com-
fort of the hopeless invalid; but the accomplish-

136

The Infidel

ments you call trivial are the serious business of
people of rank and fortune, and to be without them
IS the stamp of the parvenu. My love, with your
fortune you ought to winter in I^aris or Rome, to
make the grand tour, like a young nobleman. Why
should our sex have all the privileges of educa-
tion? "

The word Rome acted like a spell. Antonia's
chddish dreams— while life in the future lav before
her m a romantic light— had been of Italy. She had
longed to see the home of her Italian mother.

'' I should like to visit Italy by and by, sir," she
said, " if you think you could bear so long a jour-
ney." ••

" My love, I am an old traveller. Nothing on the
road comes amiss to me— Alps, Apennines, Italian
inns, Italian post-chaises— so long as there is cash
enough to pay the innkeeper."

" My dear father, I shall ever desire to do what
pleases you," Antonia answered gently; "and
though I love the quiet life here, I am ready to go
wherever you wish to take me."

" For your own advantage, my beloved child I
consider foreign travel of the utmost consequence—
imprimis, a winter in Paris."

" 'Tis Italy I long for, sir."

" Paris for style and fashion is of more impor-
tance. We would move to Italy in the spring. In-
deed, my love, you make no sacrifice in leaving Kil-
rush, for Goodwin assures me we should all be mur-
dered here before Christmas."

" Mr. Goodwin hates the Irish. My heart goes
out to my husband's people."

" You can engage your chairmen from this neigh-
borhood by and by, and even your running footmen.

The Period of Mourning 137

There are fine-looking fellows among them that
might take kindly to civilization ; and they have ad-
mirable legs."

Haying gained his point, Mr. Thornton did not
rest till he carried his daughter back to London,
where there was much to be done with the late lord's
lawyers, who were surprised to discover a fine busi-
ness capacity in this beautiful young woman whose
marriage had so romantic a flavor.

" Whether she has dropped from the skies or
risen from the gutter, she is the cleverest wench of
her years I ever met with, as well as the hand-
somest," said the senior partner in the old-estab-
lished firm of Hanfield & Bonham, conveyancers
and attorneys. " The way in which she puts a ques-
tion and grasps the particulars of her estate would
do credit to a king's counsel."

Everything was settled before November, and
good Mrs. Potter endowed with a pension which
would enable her to live comfortably in the cottage
• at Putney without the labor of letting lodgings.
Sophy was still to be Antonia's " woman," but Mr.
Thornton advised his daughter while in Paris to
engage an accomplished Parisienne for the duties
of the toilet.

"Sophy is well enough to fetch and carry for
you," he said," and as you have known her so long
'tis like enough you relish her company ; but to dress
your head and look after your gowns yuu need the
skill and experience of a trained lady's maid."

Thornton was enchanted at the idea of a winter in
Paris. He had seen much of tliat gay city when he
was a travelling tutor, and had loved all its works
an-l ways. His sanguine mind had not considered
the difference between twenty-five and the wrong

1 1

'38

The I n f i d el

side of fifty, and he hoped to taste all the pleasures
of his youth with an unabated gusto. Alas! he
found, after a week in the Rue St. Honore, that the
only pleasures which retained all their flavor —
which had, indeed, gained by the passage of years
— were the pleasures of the table. He could still
enjoy a hand at faro or lansquenet ; but he could no
longer sit at cards half the night and grow more
excited and intent as darkness drew nearer dawn.
He could still admire a slim waist and a neat ankle,
a mignonnc frimoussc under a black silk hood, but
his heart beat no faster at the sight of joyous liv-
ing beauty than at a picture by Greuze. In a word,
he discovered that there is one thing wealth cannot
buy for man or woman — the freshness of youth.

His daughter allowed him to draw upon her for-
tune with unquestioning liberality. It was a de-
light to her to think that he need toil no more, for-
getting how much of their literary labors of late
years had been performed by her, and how self-in-
dulgent a life the easy-going Bill Thornton had led
between Putney and St. Martin's Lane.

Antonia's desire in coming to Paris had been
lead a life of seclusion, seeing no one but the pro-
fessors whom she might engage to complete her
education ; but a society in which beauty and wealth
were ever potent was not likely to ignore the exist-
ence of the lovely Lady Kilrush, whose romantic
marriage had been recorded in the Parisian Gazette,
and whose establishment at a fashionable hotel in
the Rue St. Honore was duly announced in all the
newspapers. Visits and invitations crowded upon
her, and although she excused herself from all large
assemblies and festive gatherings on account of her
mourning, she was too much interested in the great

The Period of Mourning 139

minds of the age to deny herself to the Marquise du
Deffant, in whose salon she met d'Alembert, Mon-
tesquieu and Diderot, then at the summit of his re-
nown, and an ardent admirer of English literature.
With him she discussed Richardson, whose consum-
mate romances she adored and whose friendship she
hoped to cultivate on her return to London. With
him she talked of Voltaire, whose Arcadian life at
Crecy had come to a tragical close by the sudden
death of Madame du Chatelet, and who, having
quarrelled with his royal admirer, Frederick, was
now a wanderer in Germany — forbidden to return
to Paris, where his classic tragedies were being
nightly illustrated by the genius of Lekain and
Mile. Clairon.

To move in that refined and spiritual circle was a
revelation of a new world to Thornton's daughter.
a world in which everybody had some touch of that
charm of mind and fancy which she had loved in
Kilrush. The conversation of Parisian wits and phil-
osophers reminded her of those vanished hours in
the second-hoor parlor above St. Martin's Church.
Alas ! how far away those lost hours seemed as she
looked back at them, how infinitely sweeter than
anything that Parisian society could give her !

The people whose conversation i)leased her most
were the men and women who had known her hus-
band and would talk to her of him. It was this
attraction which had drawn her to the clever lady
whose life had been lately shadowed by the affliction
of blindness, a calamity which she bore with admi-
rable courage and resignation. Antonia loved to sit
at Madame du Deflfant's feet in the wintry dusk,
they two alone in the modest salon which the
widowed marquise occupied in the convent of St.

140

The Infidel

Joseph, having given up her hotel soon after her
husband's death. It pleased her to talk of the
friends of her youth, and Kilrush, who was of her
own age, had been an especial favorite.

" He was the most accomplished Englishman —
except my young friend Walpole — that I ever
knew," she said, " and although he had not all Wal-
pole's wit, he had more than Walpole's charm. I
look back along the vista of twenty troublesome
years, and see him as if it were yesterday — a young
man coming into my salon with a letter from the
English ambassador. Dicu! how handsome he was
then ! That pale complexion, those classic features,
and those dark gray eyes with black lashes — Irish
eyes, I have heard them called! Thou shouldst be
proud, child, to have been loved by such a man.
And is it really true, now — thou needst have no re-
serve with an old woman — is it true that you and he
had never been more than — friends before that
tragic hour in which the bishop joined your
hands?"

" I am sorry, madame, that you can think it neces-
sary to ask such a question."'

" But, my dear, there was nothing in the world
farther from my thoughts than to wound you. Then
I will put my question otherwise and again, between
friends, in all candor. Are you not sorry, now that
he is gone, now nothing that you can do could bring
back one touch of his hand, one sound of his voice —
dops it not make you repent a little that fate and you
were not kinder to him ? "

" No, madame, I cannot be sorry for having been
guided by my own conscience."

There were tears in her voice, but the tone was
steady. .

The Period of Mourning 141

" What ! You have a conscience — you who be-
lieve no more in God than that audacious atheist.
Diderot?"

" My conscience is a part of myself. It does not
live in heaven."

" What a Roman you are ! I swear you were
born two thousand years too late, and should have
been contemporary with Lucretia. Well, thou hadst
a remarkable man for thy half-husband, and thou
didst work a miracle in bringing such a roitc to tie
the knot, for I have heard him rail at marriage with
withering cynicism, and swear that not for the
greatest and loveliest princess in France would he
wear matrimonial fetters."

" Nay, chere marquise, I pray you say no ill of
him!"

" Alon enfant. I am praising him. 'Twas but
natural he should hate the marriage tie, having been
so unlucky in his first wife. To have been hand-
some, accomplished, high born, a prince among
men, and to have been abandoned for a wretch in
every way his inferior "

" Did you know the lady, madame? "

" Yes, child ; I saw her often in the first year of
her marriage — a she-profligate, brimming over with
a sensual beauty, like an overripe peach ; a Rubens
woman, white and red, and vapid and futile; con-
spicuous in every assembly by her gaudy dress, loud
voice and inane laughter."

" How could he have chosen such a wife ? "

" 'Twas she chose him. There are several ver-
sions of the story, but there is none that would not
offend my Lucretia's modesty."

" He had the air of a man who had been un-
happy," said Antonia, with a sigh.

142

The Infidel

" There is a kind of restless gayety in your roue
which is a sure sign of inward misery," replied the
friend of philosophers. " Happiness tends ever to
repose."

Mr. Thornton did Hot take kindly to the wits and
philosophers of Madame du Deffant's circle. Per-
haps he had an inward conviction that they saw
through him and measured his vices and weaknesses
by a severe standard. The taint of the unforgotten
jail hung about him, a humiliating sense of infe-
riority, while he was unfitted for the elegancies and
refinements of modish society by those happy-go-
lucky years in which he had lived in a kind of
shabby luxury, the luxury of late hours, shirt-
sleeves, clay pipes and gin, the luxury of bad man-
ners and self-indulgence.

After attending his daughter upon some of her
early visits to the convent of St. Joseph, he fell back
upon a society more congenial, in the taverns and
coffee-houses, where he consorted with noisy poli-
ticians and needy journalists and authors, furbished
up his French, which was good, and picked up the
philosophical jargon of the day, and was again a
Socrates among companions, whose drink he was
ever ready to pay for.

Antonia devoted the greater part of her days and
nights to self-improvement, practised the harpsi-
chord under an eminent professor, and showed a
marked capacity for music, though never hoping to
do more than amuse her lonely hours with the
simpler sonatinas and variations of the composers
she admired. She read Italian with one professor
and Spanish with another; attended lectures on
natural science, now the rage in Paris, where people
raved about Buffon's " Theorie de la Terrc." Her

The Period of Mourning 143

only relaxation was an occasional visit to the mar-
quise and to two other salons, where a grave and
cultured society held itself aloof from the frivolous
pleasures of court and fashion ; or an evening at the
Come die Frangaise, where she saw Lekain in most
of his famous rcMes.

With the advent of spring she pleaded for the
realization of her most cherished dream, and began
to prepare for the journey to Italy, in spite of some
reluctance on her father's part, whose free indul-
gence in the pleasures of French cookery and
French wines had impaired a constitution that had
thriven on Mrs. Potter's homely dishes, and had
seemed impervious to gin. He looked older by ten
years since he had lived as a rich man. He was ner-
vous and irritable, he whose easy temper had passed
for goodness of heart and had won his daughter's
affection. He was tormented by a restless impa-
tience to realize all that wealth can yield of pleasure
and luxury. He was miserable from the too ardent
desire to be happy, and shortened his life by his
eagerness to live. The theatres, the puppet shows,
the gambling-houses, the taverns where they danced
— at every place where amusement was promised,
he had been a visitor, and almost everywhere he had
found satiety and disgust. How enchanting had
been that isle of Calypso, this Circean Cavern, when
he first came to Paris, a tutor of five-and-twenty, the
careless mentor of a lad of eighteen; how gross,
how dull, how empty and foolish to the man who
was nearing his sixtieth birthday !

He had fallen back upon the monotony of the
nightly rendezvous at the Cafe Procope, seeing the
same faces, hearing the same talk — an assembly dif-
fering only in detail from his friends of " The Por-

144

The Infidel

t'co " — and it vexed him to discover tliat tliis was
all his daughter's wealth could buy for him in the
most wonderful city in the world.

" I am an old man," he told himself. " Money is
very little use when one is past fifty. I fall asleep at
the playhouse, for I hear but half the actors say. If
I pay a neatly-turned compliment to a handsome
woman she laughs at me. I am only fit to sit in a
tavern and abuse kings and ministers, with a pack
of worn-out wretches like myself."

Mr. Thornton and his daughter started for Italy
in the second week of April with a sumptuosity
that was but the customary style of persons of rank
but which delighted the Grub Street hack, conscious
of every detail in their altered circumstances. They
travelled with a suite of six, consisting of Sophy
and a French maid, provided by Madame du Def-
fant, and rejoicing in the name of Rudolphine. Mr.
Thornton's personal attendant was the late lord's
faithful Louis, who was excellent as valet and
nurse, but who, being used to the quiet magnificence
of Kilrush, had an ill-concealed contempt for a
master who locked up his money and was uneasy
about the safety of his trinkets. With them went a
young medical man whom Antonia had engaged to
take charge of her father's health— a needless pre-
caution, Mr. Thornton protested, but which was
justified by the fact that he was often ailing, and
was nervous and apprehensive about himself. A
courier and a footman completed the party, which
filled two large carriages, and required relays of
eight horses.

Antonia delighted in the journey through strange
places and picturesque scenery, with all the adven-
tures of the road, and the variety of inns, where

The Period of Mourning 145

every style of entertainment, from splendor to
squalor, was to be met with. Here for the first
time she lost the aching sense of regret that had
been with her ever since the death of Kilrush. The
only drawback was her father's discontent, which
increased with every stage of the journey, albeit the
stages were shortened day after day to suit his
humor, and he was allowed to stay as long as he
liked at any inn where he pronounced the arrange-
ments fairly comfortable. It was a wonder to his
anxious daughter to see how he, who had been
cheerful and good-humored in his shabby parlor at
Rupert's Buildings, and had rarely grumbled at
Mrs. Potter's homely cuisine, was now as difficult
to please as the most patrician sybarite on the road.
She bore with all his caprices and indulged all his
whims. She had seen a look in his face of late that
chilled her, like the sound of a funeral bell. The
time would come— soon, perhaps— when she would
look back and reproach herself for not having been
kind enough.

They travelled by way of Mont Cenis and Turin,
and so to Florence, where they arrived late in May,'
haying spent nearly six weeks on the road. It
grieved Antonia to see that her father was ex-
hausted by his travels, in spite of the care that had
been taken of him. He sank into his armchair with
the air of a man who had come to the end of a jour-
ney that was to be final.

Florence was at its loveliest season, the streets
full of flowers, and carriages, and well-dressed
people rejoicing in the gayety of balls and operas
before retiring to the perfumed shades of their villa
gardens among the wooded hills above the city. To
Antonia the place was full of enchantment, but her

146

The Infidel

anxiety about lior father cast a shadow over the
scene.

Her most eager desire in coming to Italy had
been to see her mother's country, and to see some-
thing of her mother's kindred, but Thornton had
liitherto evaded all her questions, putting her off
with a fretful impatience.

" There is time enough to talk of them when we
are in their neighborhood, Tonia," he said. " Your
mother had very few relations, but those who sur-
vive will have forgotten her. Why do you trouble
yourself about them ? They have never taken any
trouble about you,"

" I want to see some one who loved my mother,
some one of her country and her kin. Can't you
understand how I feel about her, sir, the mother
whose face I cannot remember, but who loved me
when I was unconscious of her love ? Oh, to think
that she held me in her arms and kissed me, and that
I cared nothing, knew nothing! And now I would
give ten years of my life for one of those kisses."

" Alas, my romantic child ! Ah, Tonia, she was a
lovely woman, the noblest and sweetest of her sex.
And you are like her. Take care of your beauty.
Women in this country age early."

" You have never told me my mother's maiden
name, or where she lived before you married her."

" Well, you shall visit her birthplace ; 'tis a village
among the hills above the Lake of Como, a romantic
spot. We will go there after Florence. I want to
see Florence. 'Twas a place I enjoyed almost as
much as Paris, when I was a young man. There
were balls and assemblies every night, a regiment
of handsome women, suppers and chami)agne. We

The Period o f M o u r n i n g 1 47

were never abed till the morning, and never np till
the afternoon."

Antonia returned to the subject after they iiad
spent a fortinght in Florence, ant! when the weather
was pfrowing too hot for a continued residence there.
Mr. Daniels, the young doctor, and an Italian physi-
cian had agreed in consultation that the sooner Mr.
Thornton removed to a cooler climate the better fur
his chance of improvement. Daniels suggested Val-
lombrosa, where the monks would accommodate
them in the monastery. The physician advised the
Ijaths of Lucca. The patient objected to both places.
1 le wanted to go to Leghorn and get back to Lon-
don by sea.

" I am sick to death of Italy, and I believe a sea
voyage would make me a strong man again. No
man ought to be done for at my age."

Antonia was ready to do anything that medical
science might suggest, but found it very difficult
to please a patient who was seldom of the same
mind two days running.

While doctors and patient debated, Death threw
the casting vote. Florentine sunshine is sometimes
the treacherous ally of searching winds — those
Italian winds which we know less by their poetical
names than tiicir resemblance to a British north-
easter. Mr. Thornton caught cold in a drive to
Fiesole, and passed in a few hours to that region of
half-consciousness, the shadow-land between life
and death, where he could be no more questioned as
to the things he knew on earth.

He died after three days' fever with his hand
clasped in his daughter's, and he died without tell-
ing her the name of the villa where his Italian wife

148

Th c I 11 Ti del

'H i

liaci lived, or the name she had hornc before he mar-
ried her.

Lady Kilntsh mourned her father better than
many a better man has been mourned. She laid him
in an Knj^dish graveyard outside the city walls, and
then, beiuK^ in love with this divine Italv. whose
daughter she considered herself, she retired tc a
convent near Fiesole, where the nuns were in the
habit of taking English lodgers, and did not object
to a wealthy heretic. Here, in the shade of ancient
cloisters, and in gardens older than Milton, she
spent the sunuiier, leaving onlv in the late autumn
for Rome, where Louis had engaged a handsome
apartment for her in the Corso, and where she lived
in as much seclusion as she was allowed to rnjoy
till the following May. delighted in the city which
had filled so largo a place in her girlish dav dreams.
" Never, never, never did I think to see those
walls," she aid when her coach emerged from a
narrow alley and she found herself in front of the
Colosseum.

" 'Tis a fine large building, but 'tis a pity the roof
IS off," said Sophy.

" What, child, did you think 'twas like Ranelagh,
a covered place for dancing? "

" I don't know what else it could be good for, un-
less it was a market." retorted Sophy. " I never
saw such a dirty town since I was born, and the
stink of it is enough to poison a body."

Miss Potter lived through a Roman winter with
her nose perpetually tilted in chronic disgust, but
she was delighted with the carnival, and with the
admiration her own neat person evoked, as she
tripped about the dirty streets, with her gown
pinned high, and a petticoat short enough to show

The Period o f M t> u r n i n g 1 49

slim ankles in green silk stockings. She adnnucd
that the churches were handsomer than any she had
seen in London, but vowed they were all alike, and
that she would not know St. Maria Marjoruin from
St. John Latterend.

In those days, when only the best and worst
jK-ople travelled, and tlie hunulruin classes had to
stay at home, English society in Rotv^ vvas aristo-
cratic and exclusive; but Anfniia's romanti- story
having got wind, she was called upon \>y several
F.nglish women of rank who wished to cultivate the
beautiful parvenu. Here, as in Paris, however, she
e.xcu.sed herself from visiting on account of her
mourning.

" My dear child, do you mean .0 wciv \,?i:ds for-
ever?" cried the lovely Lady Diana Lestrangc, on
her honeymoon with a second husband, after being
•'.ivorced from the first. " Sure his lordship is dead
'.car two years."

" Does your ladyship think two years very i';.i;g
to mourn for a friend to whom I owe all I have ever
known ot love and friendship? "

" I think it a great deal too long for a fine woman
to disguise herself in crepe and bombazine, and
mope alone of an evening in the pleasantest city in
Europe. You must be dying of ennui for want of
congenial society."

** I am too nnich occupied to be dull, madam. I
am trying to carry on my education, so as to be
more worthy the station to which mv husband raised
me."

" I swear you're a paragon ! Well, we shall meet
in town next winter, perhaps, if you do not join the
blue-stocking circle, the Montagus and Carters, or
turn religious, and spend all your evenings listening

I50

The Infidel

i .,

to a cushion-thumpin.c: A^ethodist at Lady Hunting-
don's pious soirees. We have all sorts of diversions
111 town. Lady Kilrush, beside Ranelagh and
Vauxhall/' ^

" Your ladyship may be sure I shall prefer Rane-
lagh to the Oxford Methodists. I was not educated
to love cant."

" Oh, the creatures are sincere ; some of them, I
believe, sincere fanatics. And the Wesleys have
good blood. Their mother was an Annesley, Lord
Valentia's great-granddaughter. The Wesleys are
gentlemen; and I doubt that is why people don't
rave about them as they do about Whitefield, who
was drawer in a Gloucester tavern."

Lady Kilrush went back to England in May, stop-
ping at the Lake of Conio on her way. She spent
nearly a month on the shores of that lovely lake, vis-
iting all the little towns along the coast, and explor-
ing the white-walled villages upon the hills. She
would have given so much to know in which of
those villas, whose gardens sloped to the blue water
or nestled in the wooded solitudes above the lake,
had been her mother's birthplace.

Thornton had amused his daughter in her child-
hood by a romantic version of his marriage, in which
his wife appeared as a lovely young patrician, whom
he had stolen from her stately home. His fancy had
expatiated upon a moonlit elopement, the escaping
lovers pursued by an infuriated father. The ro-
mance had pleased the child, and he hardly meant
to lie when he invented it. He let the lambent flame
of his imagination play around common facts.
'Twas true that his wife was lovely, and that he had
stolen her from an angry father, whose helping
hand she, had been from childhood. The patrician

The Period of Mourning 151

blood, the villa were but details, the airy adornment
of the tutor's love story.

Ignorant even of her mother's family name, it
seemed hopeless for Antonia to discover the place of
her birth ; but it pleased her to linger in that lovely
scene at the loveliest season of the year, to grow
familiar with the country to which she belonged by
reason of that maternal tie. She peered into the
churches, thinking on the threshold of each that it
was in such a temple her mother had worshipped in
unquestioning piety, believing all the priests bade
her believe.

" Perhaps it is happiest to believe in fables and
never to have learned to reason or doubt," she
thought, seeir J the kneeling figures in the shadowy
chapels, the heads reverently bent, the lips whisper-
ing devout supplications as the beads of the rosary
slipped through the sunburned fingers — a prayer
for every bead.

The house in St. James' Square had been pre-
pared for its new mistress with a retinue in accord-
ance with the statelier habits of the days of Walpolc
and Chesterfield, when a lady of rank and fortune
required six running footmen to her chair, with a
black page to walk in advance of it, and a mass of
overfed flesh to sit in a hooded leather sentry-box in
her hall and snub plebeian visitors.

Antonia had instructed her steward to keep all the
old servants who were worthy of her confidence,
and to engage as many new ones as might l)e neces-
sary ; and so the household had all the air of a long-
settled establishment where the servants had noth-
ing to learn, and where the measure of their own
importance was their mistress' dignity, of which
they would abate no jot or tittle. It is only the hire-

152

The Infidel

ling of yesterday, the domestic nomad, who dis-
parages his master or mistress.

Jewellers, milliners, mantua-makers, shoemakers,
hairdressers flocked about Lady Kilrush the day
after her arrival from Paris. All the harpies of Pall
Mall and St James' Street had been on the watch for
her coming. Pictures, bronzes, porcelains, nodding
mandarins and canton screens were brought for her
inspection. The hall would have been like a fair but
for the high-handed porter, whose fleshy person
trembled with indignation at these results, and who
sent fashionable shopmen to the rightabout as if
they had been negro slaves. Thanks to his savoir
faire her ladyship was able to spend her morning in
peace, and to see only the tradespeople who were
necessary to her establishment. She gave her orders
with a royal liberality, but she would have nothing
forced upon her by ofiiciousness.

" I would rather not hear about your London
fashions, Mrs. Meddlebury," she told her respect-
able British dressmaker. "I have come straight
from Paris and know what the Dauphine is wearing.
You will make my negliges and my sacks as I bid
you, and be sure you send to Ireland for a tabinet
and a poplin, as I desire sometimes to wear gowns
of Irish manufacture."

:i V

dis-

Chapter X.

A DUTY VISIT.

Antonia's appearance at Leicester House was
the occasion of a flight of newspaper paragraphs.

The St. James' Evening Post reminded its readers
of the romantic marriage of a well-known Hiber-
nian nobleman, " which we were the first to an-
nounce to the town, and of which full particulars
were given in our columns, a freak of fancy on the
part of the last Baron Kilrush, amply justified by
the dazzling beauty of the young lady who made her
courtesy to the princess dowager last week, spon-
sored by Lady Margaret Laroche, a connection of
the late Lord Kilrush, and, as everybody knows, a
star of the first magnitude in the beau monde."
Here followed a description of the lady's personal
appearance, her gown of white tabinet with a run-
ning pattern of shamrocks worked in silver, and the
famous Kilrush pearls, which had not been seen for
a quarter of a century.

Lloyd's was more piquant, and had recourse to
initials. " It is not generally known that the lovely
young widow who was the cynosure of neighboring
eyes at St. James' on His Majesty's birthday began
life in very humble circumstances. Her father,
Mr. T n, was bred for the Church, but spent his

154

The Infidel

youth as an itinerant tutor to lads of fashion, and
did not prove an ornament to his sacred calling, llo
brought his clerical career to a hasty close by an ill-
judged indulgence of the tender passion. His elope-
ment with a buxom wench from a Lincolnshire
homestead would have caused him less trouble had
not his natural gallantry induced him to relieve his
sweetheart of the burden of her father's cash-box,
for which mistaken kindness he suffered two years'
seclusion among highwaymen and pickpockets. The

beautiful Lady K h was educated in the classics

and in modern literature by this clever but imprin-
cipled parent, and she is said to owe an independ-
ence of all religious dogma to the parental training.
There is no such uncompromising infidel as an un-
frocked priest."

The Daily Journal had its scraps of information.
"A little bird has told us that the new beauty,
whose appearance on the birthday so fluttered their
dovecotes at St. James' Palace, spent her early
youth in third-floor lodgings in a paved court ad-
joining St. Martin's Lane, where the young lady
and her father drudged for the booksellers. 'Ti's
confidently asserted that this lovely bas-hlcu had a
considerable share in several comedies and burlcttas
produced by Mr. Garrick under the ostensible au-
thorship of her father. 'Tis rarely that genius,
beauty and wealth are to be found united in a widow
of three-and-twenty summers. How rich a quarry
for our fops and fortune-hunters ! "

The St. James held forth again on the same
theme. " Among the numerous motives which con-
jecture has put forward for the mysterious mar-
riage in high life some two years ago — the most in-
teresting particulars of which we alone were able

A Duty Visit 155

to isupply — tlie real reason has been entirely over-
looked. Our more intimate knowledge of the beau
■inonde enables us to hit the right nail on the head.
By his death-bed union with the penniless daughter

of a Grub Street hack, Lord K h was able to

gratify his hatred of the young gentleman whoought
to have been his heir. We are credibly informed that
this unfortunate youth, first cousin of the brilliant
but eccentric Irish peer, is now subsisting on a pit-
tance in a laborer's cottage on a common near Rich-
mond Park."

This last contribution to the literature of gossip
seriously affected Antonia. She had read all the
rest with a sublime indifference. She had been be-
hind the scenes and knew how such paragraphs were
concocted — had, indeed, written a good deal of
fashionable intelligence herself, collected by Mr.
Thornton sometimes from the chairmen waiting at
street corners, in those summer evening walks with
his daughter, or in the gray autumn nights, when
the town had a picturesque air in the long perspec-
tive of oil lamps that looked like strings of topazes
hung upon the darkness. The Grub Street hack
had not thought it beneath him to converse in an
affable humor with a chairman or a running foot-
man, and so to discover how the most beautiful
duchess in England was spending the evening, how
much she lost at faro last night, and who 't was
handed her to her chair.

Antonia threw aside the papers with a contemptu-
ous smile. They stabbed her to the heart when they
maligned her dead father ; but she was wise enough
to refrain from any attempted refutation of a slan-
der in which, alas ! there might be a grain of truth.
Her father was at rest. The malicious paragraph

156

The Infidel

u f

could not hurt him, and for her own part she had a
virile stoicism which helped her to bear such attacks.
She looked back at her journalistic work, and was
thankful to remember that she had never written
anything ill-natured, even when her father had
urged her to gi /e more point to a paragraph, and to
insinuate that a lover ha'l paid the duchess' losses at
cards, or that thare had been a curious shuffling of
new-born bcibics in the >l;-,cal mansion. Her
sprighlliest !u?es bad shone with a lambent flame
that hurt nobody.

Her husband's rightful heir starving in a hovel!
"ihat was a concrete fact with which she could cope.
But for the modvc of that df-ath-bed bond, she knew
beiter tiian the hack scribbler; she knew that a pas-
sionate lo\e, balked nad disappointed in life, had
triumphed in the hour of death. He had bound her
to himself to the end of her existence, in the sublime
tyranny of that love which had not realized its
strength till too late.

And tliat he should be supposed to have been ac-
tuated by a petty spite— an old man's hatred of a
youthful hei'!

" What creatures these scribblers are ! " she
thought, " that will sell lies by the guinea's worth,
and think themselves honest if they give full
measure."

She sent for Goodwin.

" You must know all about his lordship's family,"
she said. " Can you tell me of any cousin whom he
may be said to have disinherited ? "

" There is no one who could be rightly called his
lordship's heir, my lady ; but there is a young gentle-
man, a cousin, only son to a sister of his lordship's
father, who may at one time have expected to come

A Duty Visit 157

into some of the property, the entail having expired,
and there being no direct heir in existence."

" Had this gentleman offended his lordship? "

" Yes, my lady. He behaved very badly indeed,
and his lordship forbade him the house."

"Was he dissipated — a spendthrift?"

" No, my lady. I don't think his lordship would
have taken that so ill in a fine young man with a
wealthy mother. It would have been only natural
for him to be a man of pleasure. But Mr. Stobart's
conduct was very bad indeed. He left the army "

"A coward?"

*' No, my lady, I don't think we can call him that.
He was singled out for his dash and spirit in the
retreat at Fontenoy, where he saved the life of his
superior officer at the risk of his own. But soon
after his regiment came home he took up religion,
left off powdering his hair, sold his commission, and
gave the money to the building fund for Wesley's
chapel in the City Road."

" He must be a foolish fellow, I think," said An-
tonia, who was not fascinated by this description.
" And was his lordship seriously offended by this
conduct ? "

" He didn't like the young gentleman turning
]\'Iethodist, my lady ; but that was not the worst."

" Indeed ? "

*' Mr. Stobart made a low marriage."

"What? Did he marry a woman of bad char-
acter?"

" I don't think there was anything against the
young woman's character, my lady; but she was
very low, a servant of Mrs. Stobart's, I believe, and
a Methodist. John Wesley's influence was at the
bottom of it all. There's no reckoning the harm

'58

The Infidel

.; I

those Oxford Methodists have done in high fam-
ihes. Well, there's Lady Huntingdon ! There's no
need to say more than that."

" But how comes this gentleman to be in poor cir-
cumstances, as the St. James' Post states, if his
mother is rich ? "

" Oh, my lady, the Honorable Mrs. Stobart was
quite as angry as his lordship, and she married Sir
David Lanigan, an Irish baronet, who courted her
when she was a girl at Kilrush Abbey. Your lady-
ship would notice her portrait in the long drawing-
room at Kilrush."

" \es, yes, I remember — a handsome face, with a
look of his lordship. Then you have reason to be-
lieve that Mr. Stobart is living in poverty as a con-
sequence of his love-match? "

Her cheek crimsoned as she spoke, recalling that
bitterest hour of her life in which Kilrush had told
her that he could not marry her. That inexorable
pride — the pride of the name-worshippers — had
darkened this young man's existence, as it had dark-
ened hers. But he, at least, had shaken off the fet-
ters of caste, and had taken his own road to happi-
ness.

" Thank you, Goodwin ; that is all I want to
know," she said.

An hour later she was driv ing down to Richmond
in an open carriage, with tlic faithful Sophy seated
opposite her, in the dazzling June sunshine. They
stopped at Putney to spend half an hour v/ith Mrs.
Potter, and tht n drove on to the village of Sheen,
and pulled up at a roadside inn, where Antonia in-
quired for Mr. Stobart's cottage, and was agreeably
surprised at finding her question promptly an-
swered.

A Duty Visit 159

" 'Tis about a mile from here.your ladyship,"' said
the landlord, who had run out of Ins bar parlor to
wait upon a lady in as fine a carrias;c is any that
passed his door on a Saturday afternoon, when
court and fashion drove to Richmond to air
themselves in the park and play cards at modish
lodgings on the green. " 'Tis a white cottage facing
the common — the first turning on the left hand will
take you to it ; but 'tis a bad road for carriages."

They drove along the high road for about a quar-
ter of a mile, between market gardens where the as-
paragus beds showed green and feathery, and where
the strawberry banks were white with blossom,
under the blue sky of early June. The hedges were
full of hawthorn bloom and honeysuckle, dog roses
and red campion.

" Sure the country's a sweet place to come to for
an afternoon," said Sophy, as she sniffed the purer
air, " but I'm glad we live in London."

The lane was narrow and full of ruts, so An-
tonia alighted at the turning and sent Sophy and the
carriage back to the inn to wait for her. Sophy had
a volume of a novel in her reticuie, and would be
able to amuse herself.

The walk gave Antonia time for quiet thought be-
fore she met the man who mirfbt receive her as an
enemy. She was going to hin. ./ith no high-flown
ideas of restitution— of surrendering a fortune that
she knew to be the bequest of love. She had ac-
cepted that heritage without compunction. She had
given herself to the dead, and she thought it no
wrong to receive the fortune that the dead had given
to her. But if her husband's kinsman was in poor
circumstances, it was her duty to share her riches
with him. She had an instinctive dislike of all pro-

i6o

The Infidel

fcssors of religion, but she could but admire this
young man for the humble marriage which had
offended his cousin, .iid jxrhaps lost him a substan-
tial part of his cousin's fortune.

The lane was a long one, between untrimmed
hedges that breathed the dclicati perfume of wild
flowers, on one side a field of clover, a strawberry
garden on the other. It was a relief to have left the
dust of the high road, and the burden of Sophy's
running commentary upon the houses and carriages
and people on their way. Sheen Common lay before
her at last, an undulating expanse carpeted with
.:.nort, '^wect turf, where the lady's-slipper wrought a
golden pattern on the grayish green, and where the
yellow bloom of the gorse rose and fell over the
hillocky ground in a dazzling perspective. Larks
were singing in the midsummer blue, and behind
the park wall, built when the first Cliarles was king,
the rooks were calling amid the darkness of for-
est trees. Close on her left hand as she came out of
the lane, Antonia saw a cottage which she took for
the laborer's hovel indicated in the St. James' Even-
ing Post. It had been once a pair of cottages, with
deeply sloping- .'watch and crovv -step gables above
end walls of red brick ; but it war i,ow one house in
a flower gar^'en of about an acre, su\ rounds I with a
hedge of roses and lavcm. r, inside a ' w white pal-
ing. The plastered porch, with its b- . 1 bench and
little juare window, was big en( ^\\ io^ o or
three peopk to sit in; the parlor casemei vere
wide and low, and none of the rooms could ha
bef n above sevon or eight feet high ; bnt this humble
dwelling, contemplatec' on the ( utside, had those
charms of the picturesque and the rustic which are
apt f(. make people forget that houses are meant t(j

A Duty Visit

i6i

he lived in rather tlian to be looked at from over the

way.

The pardeii was prettier than her own old garden
at Putney, 'Tonia thought. Never had she seen so
many flowers in so small a space. While she stood
admiring this little paradise, out of range of the
windows, she was startled by the sound of a voice
ilose by, and then, for the first time, she became
aware of a domestic group under an old crab-apple
tree, which was big enougli o spread a shade over a
young man and woman sitting si le by side on a gar-
den bench, and a very juvenile nurse-maid kneeling
on the grass and supervising the movements of a
crawling baby.

The young man was Mr. Stobart, no doubt, and
the girl who sat sewing dilig( ntly, with bent head,
and who looked hardly eighteen years of age, must
be his wife, and the baby made the natural third in
the domestic trio, the embodied grace and sanction
of a virtuous marriage.

He was reading aloud from " Par- disc Lost " the
story of Adam and Eve before the commg of the
Tempter. He had a fine baritone voice, and gave
full effect to the nuisic of Milton's verso, reading as
a man who loves the thing he reads. In the restric-
tions which piety imposed upon the choice of books
he had been over the same ground nntch oftener
than a more libertine student would have done, and
this m. have accounted for the young wife's ap-
pearance of being more i iterested in the hem of her
baby's petticoat than in Milton's Eve.

*• A simpleton," thought Tonia. " 'Tis not every
man would forfeit wealth and station for such a
wife. But she looks, sweet-tempered, and as free
from earth' luin as a sea nymph."
6

l62

The Infidel

She went on to the low wooden gale, as white as
if it had been painted yesterday, and rang a prim-
itive kind of bell that hung on the gate-|)ost.

The young woman laid down her sewing, and
came to f)pen the gate with the air of doing the most
natural thinq^ in the world, but on perceiving An-
tom'a's spkndor of silver-gray lutestring and
plumed hat she stopped in cop fusion, dropping a
low courtesy before she admitted the visitor.

Antonia thought her lovely. Those velvety
brown eyes set off the delicacy of her complexion,
while the bright auburn of her unpowdered hair,'
which fell about her forehead and hung upon her
neck in natural curls, gave a vivid beauty to a face
that without brilliant coloring would have meant
very little. She had the exquisite freshness of
creatures that do not think— almost without pas-
sions, quite without mind.

" I think you must be Airs. Stobart," Tonia said
gently. " I have come to see your husband, if he
will be good enougli to receive me. I am Ladv Kil-
rush."

The timid sweetness of Mrs. Stobart's expression
changed in a moment, and an angry red flamed over
cheeks and brow.

" Then I'm sure I don't know what can be your
ladyship's business here, unless you have come to
crow over us," she said, " for I know x ou wasn't in-
vited."

Stobart came to the gate in time lu hear his wife's
speech.

" Pray, my dear Lucy, let us have no ill-nature,"
he said, with grave displeasure, as he opened the
gate. " You see, madam, my wife has not been bred
m the school that teaclies us how to hide our feel-

A Duty Visit

163

iiij^s. I Iinpc your ladyship will excuse her for be-
in/^ too simple to he polite."

" r am sorry if she or you can think of r. au
enemy," saiil Antonia very coldly. She luid been
startled out of her friendly feelinp by Mrs. Sto-
hart's unexpected attack. " I only knew a few
hours ago, from an insolent paraj^raph in a news-
I)aper, that tliere was any one living who could think
himself the worse for my marriage."

" Indeed, madam, I have never blamed you or
Providence for that romantic incident. Will your
ladyship sit under our favorite tree, where my wife
and 1 have been sitting, or would you prefer to be
within doors? "

" Oh, the garden by all means. I adore a garden,
and yours is the prettiest for its size I have ever
seen, except the rose garden at Kilrusli Abbey,
which I dare swear you know."

" My aunt's garden? Yes, I was just old enough
to remember her leading me by the hand among lur
rose trees. She died before :ny fourth birthday, and
I have never seen Kilrush House since her death."

" 'Tis vastly at your service, sir, with all it can
oflfer of accommodation, if ever you and your lady
care to occupy it for a season."

They were moving slowly toward the ajiple tree
as they talked, Luc}- Stobart hanging her head as
she crept beside her liusband, ashamed of her shrew-
ish outburst, for which she expected a lecture by
and by, and shedding a penitential tear or two be-
hind a corner of her muslin apron.

" We shall not trespass on your ladyship's gener-
osity. We have framed our lives upon a measure
that would make Kilrush House out of the ques-
tion."

164

The Infidel

" VVc are not rich enough to live in a great
house," snapped Lucy, sinning again in the midst
of her repentance.

" Say rather that we have done with the things
that go with wealth and station, and have discover etl
l!ie happiness that can be found in what fine people
call poverty."

Nursc-niaid and baby had disappeared from the
little lawn. Antonia took the seat Mr. Stobart indi-
cated on the rustic bench ; but her host and his wife
remained standing, Lucy puzzled as to what she
ought to do, George too much troubled in mind to
know what he was doing.

" Mrs. Stobart, and you, sir, pray be seated. Let
us be as friendly as we can," pleaded Antonia. " Be
sure I came here in a friendly spirit. Pray be frank
with me. I know nothing but what I read in the
St. James' Evening Post. Is it true that you were
once your cousin's acknowledged heir? "

" No, madam, it is not true. I was but his lord-
ship's nearest relation."

" And he wonkl have inherited his lordshiji's for-
tune if he had not married me," said Lucy, with
irrepressible vehemence. " Sure, you know 'twas
.so, George! And 1 can never forgive myself for
having cost you a great fortune. And then Lord
Kilrush must needs make a much lower marriage — ■
on his death-bed — to spite you, for my father had
never been "

Her husband clapped his hand over her lips be-
fore she could finish the sentence. Antonia started
up from the bench jjale with indignation.

" Lucy, I am ashamed of you," said George. " Go
indoors and play with your baby. You do not know
how to cotiverse with a lady. I beg you to forgive

A Duty Visit

.6s

lier, madam, and to tbink of her as a pettish child,
wlio will learn better behavior in time."

" I can forgive much, but not to hear it said that
Kilrush had any other motive than his love for me
when he made me his wife. I loved him, sir — loved
him too dearly to suffer that falsehood for an in-
stant. No, Mrs. Stobart, don't go," as Lucy began
to creep away, ashamed of her misconduct. " You
must hear why I came, and what I have to say to
your husband. I came as a friend, and I hoped to
lind a friendly welcome. I came to do justice, if
justice can be done, but not to apologize for a mar-
riage which was prompted by love, and love alone."

** Be patient with us, madam, and 3 ou may yet
find us worthy of your friendship," said Stobart
gently. " I'.ut first of all be assured that we ask-
nothing from your generosity. We assert no claim
to justice, not considering ourselves wronged."

" You think differently from your wife, Mr, Sto-
bart."

" Oh, madam, cannot you see that my wife is a
wayward child, who has never learned to reason?
To-night, on her knees at the foot of the Cross, she
will shed penitential tears for her sins of ])ride and
impatience."

" Pray, sir, do not talk of sin. 'Twas natural,
perhaps, that your wife should think ill of me."

" Oh, madam, 'twas for his sake only that I was
^"gry," protested Lucy, with streaming eyes.
" Satan gets the better of me when I remember that
he was disinherited for marrying me, and I thought
you had come here to triumph over him. But, in-
deed, T covet nobody's fortune, and am content with
this dear cottage, where I have been happier than
I ever was in mv life before."

1 66

The Infidel

!i(

" Let us be friends then, Mrs. Stobart," Antonia
said, with a graciousness that completely subju-
gated the contrite Lucy, whose nuirmured reply was
inaudible, and who sat gazing at the visitor in a
rapture of admiration.

Never had her eyes beheld so handsome a woman,
or such a hat, with its black ostrich feathers, clasped
at the side by a diamond buckle, that flashed rain-
bow light in the sunshine, l^he glancing sheen of
the pale gray gown, the long gloves drawn to the
elbow under deep ruflles of Flemish lace, the
diamond cross sparkling between the folds of Cy-
prus gauze that veiled the corsage, the toitt-cn-
scmble of a fine lady's toilet, filled Mrs. Stobart with
wonder. Wholly unconscious of the impression she
had made on the wife, Antonia addressed herself to
the husband widi an earnest countenance.

" I am thankful to find you do not accuse Lord
Kilrush of injustice," she said. *' But as his kins-
man, you may naturally have expected to inherit
some part of his wealth ; and I therefore beg you to
accept a fourth share of my income, which is reck-
oned at £20,000. I hope that with £5000 a year your
wife will be able to enjoy all the pleasures tliat'for-
tune can give."

" Oh, Georgie," exclaimed Lucy, breathless with
a rapturous surprise.

Her husband laid his hand on hers with a caress-
ing touch.

" Hush, my dearest," he said ; and then in a graver
tone, " Your offer is as unexpected as it is generous
madam, but I will not take advantage of an impulse
which you might aftcrv/ard regret, and of which the
world you live in would question the wisdom. Be
sure 1 do not envy you my kinsman's fortune. If !

A Duty Visit

i6'

ever stood in the place of his heir I lost that place
two years before he died. He told me plainly that
he meant to strike my name out of his will. I hoped
for nothing, desired nothing from him."

" Be sure, sir, nobody loves poverty. I have
tasted it, and know what it means, and since I have
enjoyed all the luxuries of wealth I own that it
would distress me to go back to the two-pair parlor
of which the evening papers love to remind me."

" True, madam ; for in your world pleasure and
money are inseparable ideas. When I left that
world — at the call of religion — I renounced some-
thing far dearer to n,e than fortune; I gave up a
soldier's career, and the hope to serve my country,
and write my name upon her register of honorable
deeds. Having made that sacrifice, I have nothing
to lose, except the lives of those I love — nothing to
desire for them or for myself except that our pres-
ent happiness may continue."

" But if I assure you that your acceptance of my
oflfer would ease my conscience "

" Nay, madam, your conscience may rest easy in
the assurance that we are content "

" I do not think your wife is content, Mr. Sto-
bart. She received me just now as an enemy. Let
me convince her that I am her friend."

** You can do that in a hundred ways, madam,
without making her rich, which would be sure to be
her enemy in disguise."

" Sure, your ladyship, I was full of sinfulness
and pride when I spoicc to you so uncivilly," Lucy
said in a contrite voice. " Mr. Stobart is a better
judge of all serious matters than I am. I should
never be clever if I lived to be a hundred, in spite of
the pains lie takes to teach me. And if he thinks we

i68

The Infidel

had best be poor, why, so do I, and tliis house is a
palace compared with the place I lived in before he
took nic away from my father ami mother."

" You hear, Lady Kilrush, my wife and I are of
one mind. But to prove that 'tis for no stubborn
pride that I reject your generous offer, I promise to
appeal to your kindness at any hour of need, and
further, to call upon you once in a way for those
charitable works in which the men I most honor are
engaged. There is Mr. Whitefield's American or-
phanage, for example "

" Oh, command my purse, I pray you, sir. I re-
joice in helping the poor — I who have known pov-
erty. I will send you something for your orphans
to-night. Let me assist all your good works."

" 'Tis very generous of your ladyship to help us ;
for I doubt your own religious views scarcely tally
with those of my friends."

" I have no religious views, Mr. Stobart. I have
no religion except the love of my fellow-creatures."

" Great heaven, madam, have the undermining in-
fluences of a corrupt societv so early sapped your
belief in Christ?"

" No, sir, society has not influenced mc. T have
never been a believer in Christianity as a creed,
though I can admire Jesus of Nazareth as a philoso-
pher, and grieve for Him as a martyr to the cruelty
of man. I was taught to reason where other chil-
dren are taught to believe ; to question and to think
for myself where other children are taught to be
dumb and to stifle thought."

Stobart gazed at her with horror. Mrs. Stobart
listened open-mouthed, astonished at the audacity
which could give speech to such opinions.

" Oh, madam, 'tis sad to hear outspoken unbelief

A Duty Visit

169

irom the lips of youth. I doubt you have suffered
the influence of that pernicious writer whose pen
has peopled France with infidels."

" If, sir, you mean Voltaire, you do ill to condemn
the apostle of toleration, in whom you and all other
dissenters should be grateful."

" I scorn the championship of an infidel. I am no
more a dissenter than the Wcsleys or George White-
field. I have not ceased to belong to the Church of
England because I follow heaven-born teachers sent
to startle that Church from a century of torjior.
They have not ceased to be of the Church because
bishops disapprove their ardor and parish priests
exclude thsm from their pulpits."

" Oh, sir, I doubt not that you and those gentle-
men are honest in your convictions. 'Tis my mis-
fortune, perhaps, that I cannot think as you do."

" If you would condescend to hear those inspired
preachers you would not long walk in the darkness
that now encompasses you ; for sure, madam, God
meant you to be among the children of light, one of
His elect, awaiting but His appointed hour for your
redemption. Oh, after that new birth how you will
hate the life that lies behind ! With what tears you
will atone for your unbelief ! "

His earnestness startled her. His strong voice
trembled, his dark gray eyes were clouded with
tears. Could any man so concern himself about the
spiritual welfare of a stranger? She had grown up
with a deep-rooted prejudice against professing
Christians. She expected nothing from religious
people but harshness and injustice, self-esteem and
arrogance, masked under an assumption of humility.
This man talked the jargon she hated, but she could
not doubt his sincerity.

170

The Infidel

" Alas ! madam, my heart aches for you when I
consider the peril of your soul. With youth and
beauty, wealth, the world's esteem — all Satan's
choicest lures — what safeguard, what defence have
you?"

" Moi!" she answered, rising suddenly and look-
ing proud defiance at him, remembering that heroic
monosyllable in Corneille's " Medea." " Oh, sir, it
is on ourselves — on the light within, not the God in
the sky — we must depend in the conflict between
right and wrong. Do you think a creed can help a
man in temptation, or that the Thirty-nine Articles
ever saved a sinner from falling? "

He was silent, lost in admiration at so much spirit
and beauty, such boldness and pride. His own
ideal of v/omanly grace was gentleness, obedience,
an amiable nullity, but he must needs own the
triumphant charms of this bold disputant, who was
not afraid to confess an impiety that shocked him.
He had known many deists among his own sex, but
the wickedest women he had met in his unregener-
ate days had been like the devils that believe and
tremble.

" I have stayed overlong," said Antonia, resum-
ing the easy tone of trivial conversation, " and I
have my woman waiting for me at the inn. Good-
day to you, Mrs. Stobart, and pray remember we are
to be friends. I hope your husband will bring you
to dine with me in St. James' Square."

" I know not if it would be wise to accept your
ladyship's polite invitation," Stobart answered,
" though we are grateful for the kindness that in-
spires it. I have an inward assurance that I am
safest in keeping aloof from the world I once loved

A D u ty Visi t 171

too well. My life here holds all that is good for my
soul — all that my heart can desire."

" But is your religion but a passive piety, sir ? Do
you follow the doctrine of the Moravians, who ab-
jure all active righteousness, and wait in stillness
for the coming of faith? Do you do nothing for
Christianity ? "

" Indeed, madam, he works like a slave in doing
good," protested Lucy eagerly. " Air. Wesley has
given him a mission among the poorest wretches at
Lambeth. He has set up a dispensary there, and
schools for the children and a night class for grown
men. He toils among them for many hours three or
four days a week. I tremble lest he should take
some dreadful fever and come home to me only to
die. He goes to the prisons and reads to the con-
demned creatures, and comes home broken-hearted
at the cruelty of the law, at the sinfulness of man-
kind. What does he do for religion ? He gives his
life for it — almost as his Redeemer did ! "

" You teach me to honor him, madam, and to
honor you for so generously defending him against
my impertinence. Pray forgive me, and you, too,
Mr. Stobart. I have allowed myself great freedom
of speech ; and if you do not return my visit I shall
be sure you are offended."

" We shall not suffer you to think that, madam,"
Stobart answered gravely.

He insisted on escorting her to her carriage, and
in the walk of nearly a mile they had time for con-
versation. He suffered himself for that brief span
to acknowledge the existence of mundane things,
and talked of Handel's oratorios, Richardson's
novels, and even of Garrick and Shakespeare. He

172

The Infidel

handed Lady Kilrush to her carriage, and saw her
drive away from the inn door, a radiant vision in
the afternoon light, before he went back to the cot-
tage, and the adoring young wife and the yearling
baby and a dish of tea and the story of Eve and the
serpent.

The next day's post brought him an enclosure of
two bank bills for £500 each, and one line in a
strong ard somewhat masculine penmanship:

" For your poor of Lambeth, and for Mr. White-
field's orphans.

"Antonia Kilrush."

'ii:

Chapter XI.

ANTONIA S INITIATION.

'TwAS the close of the season when Antonia &»•-
rived in London, and she left St. James' Square two
days after her interview with the Stobarts, on a visit
to Lady Margaret Laroche at Bath, where that
lady's drawing-rooms in Pultncy Street were open
every evening to those worldlings who preferred
whist and commerce to Whitefield, and the airy gos-
sip of the beau mondc to the heart-searchings of the
aristocratic penitents who attended Lady Hunting-
don's assemblies. Lady Margaret, familiarly known
in the fashionable world as Lady Peggy, was one
of those rare and delightful women who, without
any desire to revolutionize, dare to think for them-
selves, and to arrange their lives in accord with their
own tastes and inclinations, unshackled by the mode
of the moment. Her circle was the most varied and
the pleasantest in London and Bath, and she car-
ried with her an atmosphere of easy gayety which
made her an element of cheerfulness in every house
she visited. In a word, she had esprit which, united
with liberal ideas and far-reaching sympathies,
made her the most delightful of companions as well
as the staunchest of friends.

f f f

174

The Intidrl

This ladv — a distant cuusin of Lord '\ilrush — had
deemed il her duty to wait upon 'mtoiua, and, End-
ing as much intelHgencc as beauty, took the young
widow under her wing and promised to make her
the fashion.

" With so 'ine 1 house and so good an income you
will like to sec pc^ i)lc," she said. "You had best
spend a month with me at the Bath, where you will
meet at least haii" the great world, and you will grow
familiar with them there in less time than 'twould
take you to be oncourtcsyingtcrms in London, where
the court takes up so much of everybody's attention,
and politics go before friendship. At tiH> Bath we
are all Jack and I'eggy, my dear and my love. We
eat badly cooked tlinners in sweltering parlors,
dance or gossip in a mixed mob at the moms every
night, and simmer together in a witches' cauldron
every morning ; at least, other people do, but for my
own part I abjure all such comm inity of ailments."

At Bath Antonia found herself the rage in h s
than a fortnight, and had a ci nvd round her when-
ever she appeared among the morning dippers or
at the evening dance. She wa.^ voted the most mag-
nificent creature who had appeared since Lady Cov-
entry began to go off in looks, and the men almost
hustled each other for the privilege of handing her
to her chair.

She accepted their attentions with a lofty indif-
ference that enhanced her charms. Men talked of
her " goddess air," and in that age of sobriquets she
was soon known as Juno and as Diana. She kept
them all at an equal distance, yet was nolite to all.
[ler sense of humor was tickled by the memory of
those evening walks with her father in the West
End streets, when she had caught stray glimpses of

Antonia's Initiation 175

fashionable assemblies through open windows.
" Was I as perfect a creature then as the woman
they pr tend to worship?" she questioned, "and if
I was h ! range that of ill the men who passed
me in ' street there was but one now and then,
and he )me hateful Silenus, tha ever tried to pur-
sue me. But I had not my white and silver gown
then, nor the Kiirush jewels, nur my coach and six."

She had a supreme contempt for adulation, which
she ascribed to her fortune rather than to her
charms, and i^ady Margaret saw with satisfaction
that her protege's head Vv'as not one of those that the
first-comer can turn.

" 'Ti inevitable you should take a second hus-
she said, " but I hope you will wait for a

There is no duke in England would tempt me,
dear Lady Peggy. I shall carry my husband's name
to the grave, where I hope to lie beside him."

" Tis a graceful, romantic fancy you cherish,
child ; but be sure there will come a day when some
warm, living love will divert your thoughts from
that cold rendezvous."

" Ah, madam, think hov*^ inimitable a lover I
lost."

" I know he was an insinuating wretch whom
women found irresistible, but you are too young to
hang over an urn for the rest of your days, like a
marble figure in Westminster Abbey, There is a
long life before you that you must not spend in soli-
tude."

" While I have so kind a friend as your ladyship
I can never think myself alone."

" Alas I Antonia, I am an old woman. My friend-
ship is like the fag end of a lease."

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176

The Infidel

I.;

l( (»

Lady Margaret was the widow of an admiral,
with a handsome jointure, and a small, neat house
in Spring Gardens, where she was visited by all the
best people in town, and by all the best-known
painters, authors and actors of the day, who were
often to be found at four o'clock seated round
her ladyship's dinner table, and drinking her lady-
ship's admirable port and burgundy. Temper-
ate herself as a sylph, Lady Peggy was a judge of
wines, and always gave the best. She had a clever
Scotchwoman for her cook, and a Frenchman for
her majordomo, who kept her two Italian footmen
in order, and did not think it beneath his dignity
to compose a salmi, toss an omelet or dress a salad
on a special occasion, when a genius of the highest
mark or a princess of the blood royal was to dine
with his mistress.

With such a guide Antonia opened her house to
the great world early in November, and her enter-
tainments became at once the top of the fashion.
Lady Margaret had instructed her m the whole
•science of party-giving, and especially whom to in-
vite and whom to leave out.

" 'Tis by the people who are not asked your
parties will rank highest," she said.

" Sure, dear madam, I should not like to slight
any one."

" Pshaw, woman, if you never slight any one you
will confess yourself a parvenu. The first art a
grande dame has to learn is how to be uncivil civilly.
You must be gracious to every one you meet; but
you cannot be too exclusive when it comes to invit-
ing people."

" But if I am to look for spotless reputations my
rooms will be empty," and Antonia smiled at the

Antonia's Initiation 177

thought of how small and dowdy a crew she could
muster were stainless virtue the password.

" You will invite nobody who has been found out
— no woman who has thrown her cap over the mill,
no man who has been detecter: leating at cards.
There are lots of 'em do it, but that don't count."

" But, dear Lady Margaret, among the actresses
and authors you receive, sure there must be some
doubtful characters."

" Not doubtful, cherie ; we know all about 'em.
But their peccadillos don't count. We inquire no
more about 'em than about the morals of a dancing
bear. The creatures are there to amuse us, and we
are not curious as to how they behave in their gar-
rets and back parlors. But 'twas not so much repu-
tation I thought- of when I urged you to be exclu-
sive. 'Tis the ugly and the dull you must eliminate,
the empty chatterers, the corpulent bores, who block
doorways and crowd supper rooms. There's your
visiting list, douce," concluded Lady Peggy, hand-
ing her a closely written sheet of Bath post. " 'Tis
the salt of the earth, and if you ever introduce an
unworthy name in it out of easy good nature, you
deserve to lose all hope of fashion."

To be the fashion, to be one of the chosen few
whom all foreigners and outsiders want to see, to be
mobbed in the park, stared at in the playhouse and
at the opera, to be imitated in dress, gesture, speech,
to introduce the latest mispronunciation, and call
Bristol " Bristo " — is it not the highest prize in the
lottery of woman's life? To be famous as painter,
poet, actor? Alas! a fleeting renown. The new
generation is at the door. The veteran must give
way. But the empire of fashion is more enduring,
and, having won that crown, a woman must be a

..ftfl

I 1 *

1/3

The Infidel

simpleton if she does not wear it all her life, and
bring the best people in town to gape and whisper
round her death-bed.

Antonia's first ball was a triumph The lofty
suites of rooms, the double staircase and surround-
ing gallery were thronged with rank and beauty;
the clothes were finer than at the last birthday, the
silver and gold brocades of dazzling splendor; the
jewels, borrowed, hired or owned, flashing prismatic
colors across the softer candlelight. The news-
papers expatiated on the entertainment, computed
the candles by the thousand, the footmen by the
score. Lady Kilrush was at once established as a
woman of the highest ton; her drawing-rooms were
crowded with morning visitors, her tea-table at six
o'clock served as a rendezvous for all that was
choicest in the world of fashion. Every day brought
a series of engagements — breakfasts at Strawberry
Hill, where Horace Walpole exercised his most de-
lightful talents for the amusement of so charming
a guest ; great dinners, where Ihf ministers and the
opposition drank their three bottles together in
amity, the Duke of Newcastle and Mr. Pelham, Pitt
and Fox, Granville and Pulteney — a galaxy of rib-
bons and stars; parties at Syon House and at Os-
terley ; excursions to Hampton Court and Windsor,
braving the wintry roads in a coach and six, and
with half a dozen outriders as a guard against the
hazards of the journey. Lady Kilrush had become
one of the most popular ■ en in London, and the
only evil thing that was i . A her was that she did
not return visits as quickly a people expected.

Was she happy in the midst of it all, she who be-
lieved only in this brief life, and the pleasure or the
pain that it holds? Yes. She was too young, too

Antonia's Initiation 179

beautiful and complete a creature not to be intoxi-
cated by the brilliancy of her new existence, and the
sense of unbounded power that wealth gave' her.
The novelty of the life was in itself enough for hap-
piness. The London in which she moved to-day
was as new to her as Rome had been, and more
splendid if less romantic. Operas, concerts, plays,
auctions, picture galleries, masquerades, ridottos,
provided a series of pleasures that surpassed her
dreams. Handel and the Italian singers offered in-
exhaustible delight. She might tire of all the rest —
of court balls and modish drums, of bidding for
china monsters, buying toys of Mrs. Chenevix and
trinkets of jeweller Deard in Pall Mall — but of
music she could never tire, and the more she heard
of Handel's oratorios the better she loved him.

III

•fill

♦

Chapter XII.

"so RUN THAT YE MAY OBTAIN."

Mrs. Stocart, yawning by the neatly swept
hearth in her cottage parlor, while her husband sat
silent over a book, read an account of Antonia's
party in a semi-religious newspaper, prefaced with
a pious denunciation of the worldling's extravagant
luxury. She insisted on reading the description to
her husband, and as she was a slow reader bored
him to extinction.

" How fine it must have been ! " she sighed at the
end. " Oh, how I should love to have been there !
What a pity you put her off with an excuse when
she asked us to visit her ! "

"My dear Lucy, what an idle -thought! Your
clothes for such a party would cost iioo, and how
would you like to think that you carried on your
person the money that would feed a score of orphan
children for the winter? "

"Then is everybody wicked who gives such
assemblies or goes to them? Sure, if they all spent
their superfluous wealth upon charity, instead of
fine clothes and musicians and wax candles, there
"^ed be nobody starving or homeless in England."
" 'Tis a problem the world has not solved yet,
Lucy ; but for my own part I think the man who

So Run that Ye May Obtain i8i

squanders his fortunes upon pomp and luxury can
have no more appreciation of Gospel truth than the
heathen has who never heard of a Redeemer."

" Then you think Lady Kilrush is no better than
a heathen? "

" Alas ! poor v^rretch, did she not confess herself
so in your hearing — an infidel, blind to the light of
revelation, deaf to the message of pardon ? We can
but pity her, Lucy, and pray that God's hour may
come for her as it came for you ^- me. She has a
fine nature, and L cannot think she will be left in
outer darkness."

" Unless she is one of those that were predestined
to eternal perdition before they were born," said
Lucy.

" You know I have never countenanced that gos-
pel of despair, and I deplore that so fine a preacher
as Mr. Whitefield should have taken up such gloomy
views,"

" She might have sent us a card for her ball,"
murmured Lucy. " 'Twould have been civil, even
though she guessed you would not take me."

The discontented sigh which followed the com-
plaining speech showed George Stobart that his
wife was still among the unregenerate. His religion
was of a stern temper, and he could not suffer this
unchristian peevishness to pass unreproved.

" Do you think, madam, that a journeyman
printer's daughter would be in her place among
dukes and duchesses at a fashionable assembly?
'Twas not for such a life I chose you."

Lucy, who always trembled at her husband's
frown, though she never refrained from provoking
his anger, replied with her accustomed argument of
tears. George saw the slim shoulders shaken by

l82

The Infidel

suppressed sobs, flung his book aside in a rage and
began to pace the cottage parlor, whose narrow
bounds he was not yet accustomed to. In mild
weather the half-glass door stood ever open, and
he could pass to the grass-plot outside when his im-
patient mood was on, but with a November rain
beating against the casement there was no escape,
and he felt like a caged bear.

Finding her stifled sobs unregarded, Lucy began
again, in the same complaining voice :

" I thought a gentleman's wife was fit company
even for dukes and duchesses, and if it comes to
fathers, I have kss need to be ashamed of mine,
though he starved and beat me, than Lady Kilrush
has of hers, who was in jail for running away with
a farmer's cash box. 'Twas all in the evening
paper when his lordship married her."

"Good God!" cried George, "are women by
nature mean and petty ? The first desire of a gentle-
man's wife, madam, should be to think and act like
a lady, and to-day you do neither. I wish we had
never seen Lady Kilrush, since an hour of her com-
pany has made you dissatisfied with a life for which
I thought heaven designed you. To sigh for balls
and drums — you, who never danced a step in your
life! And do you think when I left the army— the
calling I loved— I meant to hang upon the skirts of
fashion, stand in doorways, or elbow and shove in
supper rooms ? I renounced all such idle pleasures
when I left His Majesty's service and took up arms
for Christ, whose soldier and servant I am."

Lucy, now entirely repentant, looked up at him
with streaming eyes, shivering at his indignation,
but admiring him.

" How handsome you are when you are angry ! "

So Run that Ye May Obtain 183

she cried. " You are so good and noble, and I am
so vile a sinner. 'Tis Satan tempting me. He
makes me forget what a worm I am. He makes mc
proud and ungrateful— ungrateful to you, my dear,
my honored husband ; ungrateful to God who gave
me your love."

She slipped from her chair to the ground, and
knelt there weeping passionately, her pretty auburn
hair falling over her face and neck, whose white-
ness showed like ivory between loose locks of bur-
nished gold.

Her husband had recovered his self-command,
lifted her tenderly from the ground, and held her
against his breast. How pretty she was, how artless
and childlike, and how brutal it was in him to be so
angry at her poor little frivolous yearnings for fine
clothes and fine company, music and candlelight!
He kissed her on the forehead and lips in a gentle
silence, led her to her chair, and then resumed his
book.

" 'Tis I am the sinner, Lucy," he said after a
pause, during which her needle travelled slowly
along the seam of the shirt she was making for him.
" I did very ill to be so hot and impatient about a
trifle. But these long, empty days vex me. I hope
I may be of the proper stuff for a Christian, but sure
I should never have done for a hermit. I want to
be up and doing."

" Indeed, George, you work too hard as it is. A
long day at home should be a rest for you."

" I am not one of those who reUsh rest. Come, I
will read to you, if you choose."

" I love to hear you read."

" Yes, and sit and dream of your baby, or your
new tea things, and scarce know whether I have

184

The I n fi d el

vi.f4

i»i

been rcadin/;' Milton or the liiblc when I have done,"
he said ffcntly, as he might liave spoken to a child.

" You have such a beautiful voice. I love your
voice better than the things you read. Hut let it be
* Pilgrim's Progress,' and I will listen to every
word. I always think Christian is you. I can see
you when I follow him with my thoughts."

Her husband smiled at the gentle flattery, and
brought Bunyan's delightful story from the modest
bookcase which held but some two score of classics
and pious works— William Law, Dr. Watts, the
writers loved and chosen by the fo"Dwers of the
new light.

" Dost remember where we left your Christian ? "
he asked.

" 'Twas when he was alone in the Valley of Hu-
miliation, just before ApoUyon met him," she
answered quickly, though had the book been " Para-
dise Lost " she would have hardly known whether
'twas before or after the fall when they left Adam
and Eve. He read aloud till tea time, and read to
himself after tea till the hour of evening prayer and
Scripture exposition, to which the little nursemaid
and a stout maid-of-all-work were summoned ; and
so the long day closed at an hour when West End
London, from Wimpole Street to Whitehall, was
alive with chairs and linkmen, French horns and
dancing feet. In this cottage on the common there
was a silence that made the chirp of a cricket a
burden.

George Stobart was not a quietest. Religion un-
supported by philanthropy would not have sufficed
him for happiness. He could not spend half his life
upon his knees in a rapture of self-humiliation-
could not devote hours to searching his own heart.

So Run that Ye ^lay Obtain 185

Once and for all he luul been convinced of sin, as-
sured that the road he had been travelling was a
road tliat led to tlie f^ates of hell, and that in travcl-
Vmp; it he had carried many weak-er sitmers along
with hini, and so had been a nuirderer of souls.
Once and for all he had been assured of the free
grace of God, and believed himself appointed to do
good work — a brand snatched from the burning,
whose duty it was to snatch other brands, to compel
the lost sheep to come into the fold.

He loved to be up and doing. He had the sol-
dier's temper, and must be lighting some ono or
something; nor could he keep in his chamber and
wrestle with impalpable devils. He could not
fight, like Luther, with the evil that was within him
till he materialized the inward tempter, saw Satan
standing before him, and flung his inkpot at a visible
foe. Abstract piety could not satisfy George Sto-
bart. He caught himself yawning over Law's
" Serious Call " and " The Imitation of Christ."

In the beginning of the great revival, when the
Oxford Methodists and the Moravian Christians
had been as one brotherhood in the meeting-house
by Fetter Lane, an enthusiast, by name Molther, had
])ut forward a new way of salvation, which was to be
" still." Those who desired to find faith were to
give up the public means of grace. They were not
even to pray or to read the Scriptures, nor to at-
tempt to do any good works.

John Wesley's fine common sense had repudiated
this doctrine, whereupon there had been confusion
and falling away among the Fetter Lane society,
and the great leader had withdrawn to a chapel and
d we !'..,, '-house of his own creation, in a disused
foundry for cannon, near Finsbury Square. It was

i86

The I n t'i del

here that ticorgo Stobart iiad f.,uii(l faiili, ami it was
m Wesley's strong and active crusade against sin
and suffering that he found satisfaction.

After somewhat reluctantly entering upon his ca-
reer as an itinerant preacher, when the magnitude
of the work, the multitudes ea^^er to hear the Word
of God, revealed theniselves to him, John Wesley,
again reluctantly, enlisted the help of the lay
preacher. The Church had shut her doo.., upon him
—that Anglican Church of which he had ever been
a true and staunch apostle— and he had to do with-
out the Church. He saw before him the people of
England awakened from the torpor of a century of
automatic religion, and saw that he needed more
laborers in this vast vineyard than the Church could
give him.

For the last two years George Stobart had been
one of Wesley's favorite helpers, and had accom-
panied his chief in several of those itinerant jour-
neys which made half England Wesleyan. He
preached at Bristol, rode with Weslcv. preaching at
every stage of the journey, from Bristol to Fal-
niouth, where he stood shoulder to shoulder with
him in one of the worst riots the Christian hero ever
faced. He was with him through the roughest en-
counters in Lancashire, stood beside him" on the
Market Cross at Bolton, when the great wild mob
surged round them and stones flew thick and fast,
and where, as if by a miracle, while manv of the
rabble were hurt, the prercher remained untouched.
In all this, in the effect of his own preaching, in
the hazards and adventures of those long rides
across the face of a country where most things were
new, Stobart found iinalloyed delight. He loved
his mission in the streets and alleys of Lambeth, his

S () R u II that Ye M a y C) h t a i n 187

visits to the I.onclun jails, for Iktc he had to wrestle
with the devils of igiioranee and hlaspheiny, to
preach cleanliness to men and women who had been
horn and reared in filth, to meet the wants of a mul-
titude with a handful of silver, to give counsel, sym-
l)athy, compassion where he could not give bread.
This was work that pleased him. Here he felt him-
.self the soldier and servant of Christ.

It was in the religion of the chamber that Stobart
fell short of the mark. He loved the Word of (lod
when God spoke by the lips of His Son, but he had
not that reverent aflfection for the Old Testament
which Wesley had urged upon him as essential to
true religion. For the grandeur, the poetry of Holy
Writ he had the highest appreciation ; but there
were many pages of the sacred volume in which he
looked in vain for the light of inspiration. If he
could have read his Uible in the same inquiring
spirit that Samuel Coleridge brought to it, he might
have been better satisfied with the book ;. :d with
himself; but Wesley had forbidden any such liberal
interpretation of the Scriptures. Every line, every
word, every letter was to be accepted as the law of
God.

He was dissatisfied with himself for his coldness,
for wandering thoughts, for the dying out of that
sacred fire which John Wesley's preaching had
kindled in his soul at the time of his conversion.
But he told himself Uiat such a fire can burn but
once in a lifetime. 'Tis like the burning bush in
which Closes beheld his God. That stupendous
vision comes once, and once only. It has done its
purifying work, and burnt out sin. But between
the starting point of the converted penitent and the
Christian's crown, how long and difficult the race!

i88

The Infidel

George Stobart had felt his footsteps flagging on
the ston>' road. He had not lost courage, the
(logged determination to win that eternal crown was
still with him, but he had lost something of his first
enthusiasm, that romantic temper in which it had
pleased him to prove h.is sincerity by the sacrifice of
fortune and station, and by a marriage which would
have seemed impossible to him in his unregenerate
days.

A week after Lady Kilrush had given her great
entertainment there came a letter from her ad-
dressed to Mrs. Stobart, and the very seal upon it
was as precious in the sight of the printer's daugh-
ter as if it had been a jewel.

" Look, George, what a beautiful seal — a naked
boy with a helmet, and two snakes twisted round his
cane. Who can have written to me? Why, the
name is signed outside ' Townshend.' Sure I know
nobody of that name."

" 'Tis but the frank, child. The letter is from
Lady Kilrush."

" How can you tell that? "

" I could swear to her hand among a hundred.
Not the penmanship of one woman in a thousand
shows such strength of will."

" Can one's writing show one's mind ? I should
never have thought it. I wonder if 'tis a card for
her next assembly. Oh, George, don't be angry ! I
should like, once in my life, only once, to go to a
party."

Her husband sighed as he patted her shoulder,
with the gentle touch that only strong men have,
and which always soothed her.

" Kcad your letter," he said ; " 'tis no card."

She took her scissors from her work basket and

So Run t h a t Y e May Obtain 189

carefully cut round the seal — loath to spoil anything
so beautiful, though her heart beat fast with ex-
pectation. George read the letter aloud over her
shoulder.

" St. James' Square, November 15.

" Dear Madam :

" I hope that neither you nor Mr. Stobart have
forgot your polite promise to visit me, and that
you will do me the favor of dining with me at four
o'clock next Monday, when Lady Margaret La-
roche, the Duchess of Portland, Mr. Townshend
and some other of my most agreeable acquaintance
will be good enough to give me their company in
the evening. As you live so far ofif I shall venture to
send my coach to fetch you before dark, and I shall
be best pleased if you will spend the night in St.
James' Square, and return home at your leisure and
convenience on Tuesday. Knowing Mr. Stobart's
serious mi I did not presume to send you a card
for my ball last week, as ! should be sorry for any
invitation of mine to seem an empty compliment.

" Pray persuade your husband and my cousin by
marriage to gratify me by bidding you write ' Yes,'
and believe me, with much respect,

" Your sincere friend and servant,

" Antonia Kilrusii."

" Must I say no, George ? " Lucy asked, with a
quivering lip, ready to burst into tears.

" Nay, child. T made you unhappy t'other day,
and was miserable for two days after at the thought
I had been a brute. If it would please you to visit
her ladyship "

190

The Infidel

" Please me ! 1 should feel as if I was flying over
the moon."

" But you could not fly over the moon in a gro-
gram gown. You need not vie with her grace of
Portland, but I doubt you have no clothes fit for
company, and my purse is empty."

" But I have my wedding gown," she cried, clap-
ping her hands — " the gown I bought at Clapham
with the pocket money your mother gave me, a
crown piece at a time, and that I saved till it was
over three guineas. And I bought a pearl gray silk,
and your mother's woman helped me to make it, and
then when I told you what I had done you were
vexed at my vanity, and would not let me wear it ;
so I was married in my old stuff gown, and the pearl
gray silk has never been worn. The duchess will
not have a newer gown than mine, if you'll let me

go-

" ' When I was a child I thought as a child,' "
quoted George. " Well, dearest, thou shalt have thy
childish pleasure. To have seen how idle and empty
a thing fine company is may make thee love our se-
rious life better."

Chapter XIII.

IN ST. JAMEs' SQUARE.

On the afternoon when she was expecting Mr.
and Mrs. Stobart, Lady Kilrush was surprised by a
visit from an old friend whom she had almost for-
gotten. Her chair had just brought her from a
round of visits, and she had not yet removed her hat
and cloak, which Sophy was waiting to take from
her, being ever jealous of her lady's French maid,
when a visitor was announced :
" Mrs. Granger."

The room was the fourth and smallest of a suite
of reception rooms which occupied the whole of the
first floor, leaving space only for the wide central
staircase, surrounded by a gallery that was a favor-
ite resort of visitors at a crowded assembly, as a
vantage ground from which they could watch rivals,
look out for their particular friends and criticise
" clothes."

The room was half in dusk, and Antonia won-
dered who the little mincing lady in the cherry-
colored hood and satin petticoat of the same bright
hue could be. It was not a color favored by people
of taste at that time, and the little plump person in
the high hoop had not the air of the Portland set.
that recherche group of women among whom An-

192

The Infidel

■i^

tonia had been received on a friendly footing on the
strength of her own charms and Lady Peggy's
l)opularity. Lady Peggy was of all the sets best and
worst, and exercised a commanding influence over
all.

" My dear creature, sure you won't pretend
you've forgotten me," cried the little woman, with a
broad, outspoken speech, after her first mincing
salutation had been acknowledged by a stately
courtesy and a " Your humble servant, madam."

" Why, 'tis Patty ! " exclaimed Antonia, holding
out both her hands.

" Yes, 'tis Patty — Mrs. Granger. Sure you re-
member old General Granger that you used to jeer
at. I have been married to him over a year, and we
have handsome lodgings in Leicester Square, and I
keep my chair ; and if he outlives his tvvo elder
brothers and three nephews I shall be a peeress."

" My dear Patty, I am gladder than I can say to
see your kind little face again. Sit down, child.
You must stop and dine with me. I have some
cousins coming to dinner, and some company after-
ward."

" Well, I'm glad you're glad. I thought you was
too proud to remember me, since you didn't send me
a card for your ball t'other night, though all London
was there."

" I did not know what had become of you. I have
asked ever so many people who knew the theatres,
and no one could say where Miss Lester had gone
since her name vanished from the playbills."

" The general is a straight-laced old fool ! " said
Patty. " He doesn't like people to know I was an
actress, though I flatter myself that nobody can
hear me speak or see me courtesy without discover-

g on the
Peggy's
best and
rice over

pretend
1, with a
mincing
. stately
lam."

holding

you re-
1 to jeer
, and we
re, and I
vo elder
ress."
m say to
n, child,
ve some
ny after-

you was

send me

[ London

. I have
theatres,
lad gone

)1 ! " said
[ was an
lody can
discover-

In St. James' Square 193

ing it. There's an air of high comedy that nobody
can mistake. Sure 'tis in the hope of catching it that
fine ladies take up Kitty Give."

" You mustn't call your husband a fool, Patty,
especially if he's kind to you."

" Oh, he's kind enough, but he's very troublesome
with his pussy cats, and Minettes, and nonsense;
though, to be sure, Minette is a prettier name than
Martha and genteeler than Patty. And he's very
close with his money. I might have my coach as
well as my chair if he wasn't a miser. I sometimes
think I was a simpleton to leave the stage for a hus-
band of seventy. Sure I might have been another
Mrs. Gibber."

" You had been acting seven years, Patty. You
gave your genius a fair chance."

" Pshaw, there's some that don't begin to hit the
taste of the town till they've been at it three times
seven. Look at old Colley, for instance. The man-
agers kept him down half a lifetime. When I look
at this house and think of my two parlors I feel I
was a fool to marry the general. But there never
was such a romance as your marriage."
" My marriage was a tragedy, Patty ! "
" Ah, but you've got the comedy now. This fine
house, and your hall porter — I never laid eyes on
such a pompous creature — and your powdered foot-
men. You're a lucky devil, Tonia."

Antonia did not reprove her, being somewhat
troubled in mind at the doubt of her own wisdom in
bringing this free-and-easy young person in com-
pany with George Stobart and his wife. In her glad-
ness at meeting the friend of her girlhood she had
forgotten how strange such a mixture would be.
" If 'tis not convenient to dine with me to-day,

•I'

194

The Infidel

Patty, I shall be just as pleased to see you to-mor-
row, or the first day that would suit you."

"Your ladyship— ladyship ! Oh, Lord, ain't it
droll? — your ladyship is vastly obleeging, but I
came to stay if you'd have me. Granger is gone to
Houndslow to dine with his old regiment, and I'm
my own woman till ten o'clock. 'Twould be civil of
you if you'd bid one of your footmen tell my chair-
men to fetch me at a quarter to ten, and then we can
sit by the fire and talk over old times. This is Mrs,
Potter's girl, I doubt, she that waited upon us once
when I took a dish of tea with you. How d'ye do,
miss ? " — holding out condescending finger tips to
Sophy, who had stood gazing at her since her en-
trance.

" Yes, this is Miss Potter, my friend and com-
panion. You can take my hat and Mrs. Granger's
hood, Sophy, and come back when Mr. and Mrs.
Stobart are here."

When Sophy was gone Lady Kilrush took Patty's
plump cheeks between two caressing hands and con-
templated her with a smile.

" You are as pretty as ever, child," she said, with
an elder-sister air, as if she, instead of Patty, had
been the senior by near a decade, " and I am glad to
think you have left the playhouse and all its perils
for a comfortable home with an honest man who
loves you. Nay, I think you are prettier than you
were in Covent Garden. The quiet life has fresh-
ened your looks. But you shouldn't wear cherry
color."

" Because of my red hair? "
" Because it is a cit's wife's color, or a vain old
woman's that wants to look young. 'Tis not the
mode, Patty."

C if. i

y'ou to-mor-

•rd, ain't it
(mg, but I
r is gone to
nt, and I'm
i be civil of
11 my cbair-
then we can
"his is Mrs.
5on us once
Dw d'ye do,
ger tips to
ice her en-

I and com-
. Granger's
. and Mrs.

ook Patty's
ds and con-

i said, with
Patty, had
am glad to

II its perils
; man who
r than you

has fresh-
ear cherry

a vain old
'is not the

In St. James' Square 195

" My petticoat cost a pound a yard," said Patty
ruefully. "I thought the general would kill me
when he saw the bill."

"Oh, 'tis pretty enough, and suits you well
enough, cherie. I was half in jest. I have a kind
friend who lectures me on all such trifles, and so I
thought I'd lecture you. And, my dearest Patty, as
the cousin that's to dine with us is a very serious
person, I should take it kindly of you not to talk of
the playhouse nor to abuse your husband."

I hope I know how to behave in company"
answered Patty, slightly huffed ; and on Mr. and
Mrs. Stobart being announced the next moment she
assumed a mincing stateliness which lasted the
whole evening.

Stobart thought her an appalling personage, in
spite of her reticence. Her cherry satin bodice was
cut very low, and her ample bosom was spread with
pearls and crosses, like a jeweller's showcase. She
made up for a paucity of diamonds by the size of her
topazes and the profusion of her amethvsts, and her
Bristol paste buckles would have been big enough
for the tallest of the Prussian king's grenadiers.
Lucy Stobart, in her pearl-gray silk, made with a
guaker-hke simplicity, her pure complexion, golden-
brown curls and slender shape, seemed all the lov-
her by the contrast of Mrs. Granger's flond charms •
but poor Patty behaved herselfVith an admirable
reserve and uttered no word that could offend.

Lucy looked at everything in a wondering rapture
—the pictures, the marble busts on ebony and or-
molu pedestals, the miniatures, and jewels, and toys
scattered on tables, the glass cabinets displaying the
most exquisite porcelain, the china monsters stand-
mg about the carpet, the confusion of beautiful ob-

1 1.

1 1 J

196

The Infidel

jccts which met her gaze on every side were almost
bewildering. She looked about her like a child at a
fair.

" And does your ladyship really live in this
house?" she asked innocently. " 'Tis not like a
house to live in."

" Do you think it should be put under a glass
case, or buried under burning ashes like Hercu-
laneum, so that it may be found perfect and undis-
turbed two thousand years after we are all dead? "
said Stobart, smiling at her.

He was pleased with her fresh young prettiness,
v^'hich was not disgraced even by Antonia's imperial
charms.

" You see, madam, how foolish I have been to in-
dulge my wife with a sight of splendors which lie
so tar away from our lives," he said to Antonia, who
accompanied them through the suite of drawing-
rooms where clusters of candles had just been
lighted in sconces on the wall, to show them the
famous Gobelins tapestries that had once belonged
to Jvladame Montespan.

" I doubt, sir, Mrs. Stobart is too happy in her
rural life ever to sigh for a large London house and
its obligations to live in company," answered An-
tonia.

" I love our cottage dearly when my husband is at
home, madam, but I have to spend weeks and
months with no companion but my baby son, who
can say but four wortls yet, while Mr. Stobart is
wandering about the country with Mr. Wesley and
having sticks and stones aimed at him sometimes in
the midst of his sermons. If your ladyship would
persuade him to leave >off field preaching I should
be a happy woman."

ifcre almost
a child at a

vc in this
not like a

ler a glass
ike Hcrcu-
and undis-
alldead?"

• prettiness,
a's imperial

been to in-
s which lie
ntonia, who
f drawing-
just been
V them the
:e belonged

ippy in her
1 house and
jwered An-

Lisband is at
weeks and
y son, who
, Stobart is
Wesley and
Dmetimcs in
'ship would
ig I should

In St. James' Square 197

" Xay, madam, I cannot come between a man and
his conscience, however much our opinions may
dift'er; and if Air. Stobart thinks his sermons do
good "

" 'Tis a question of living in light or darkness,
madam. Those who carry the lamp John Wesley
lighted know too well what need there is of their
labors."

" You go among great sinners ? "

" We go among the untaught savages of a civil-
ized country, madam. If there is need of God's
word anywhere upon this earth it is needed where
we go. Thousands of awakened souls answer for
the usefulness of our labors."

" And you arc content to pass your life in such
work? You have not taken it up for a year or
so, to abandon it when the fever of enthusiasm
cools? "

" I have no such fever, madam. And to what
should I go back if I took my hand from the plough?
I have renounced the profession I loved, and have
forfeited my mother's afifcction. She was my only
near relation. My wife and I stand alone in the
world. We have no friend but God, no profession
but to serve Him."

" I wonder you do not go into the Church."

" The Church that has turned a cold shoulder
upon Wesley and Whitefield is no church for me. I
can do more good as a free man."

The door was flung open as the clock struck four,
and Lady Margaret Laroche came fluttering in al-
most before the butler could announce her.

" My matchless one, will you give me some din-
ner? " she demanded gayly. " I have been shopping
in the city, hunting for feathers for my screen, and

198

The Infidel

-1

"1^

T know your hour. TUit T forj^ot you had visitors.
I'ray niaki- us acquainted."

" My cousin, Mr. Stobart, Mrs. Stobart— Mrs.
Granger."

Lady Peggy sanlc to the floor in a courtesy, smiled
bcnignantly at Lucy, and put up her glass to stare
disapprovingly at Patty's cherry-colored bodice.

Dinner was announced, and they went downstairs
to that spacious dining-room which had been so
gloomy an apartment when Lord Kilrush dined
there in his later years, generally alone. The room
had seen wilder feasts than any that Lady Kilrush
was likely to give there, when her late husband was
in his pride of youth and folly, the boldest rake-hell
in London.

The conversation at dinner was confined to Lady
Margaret, Mr. Stobart and Antonia; for Lucy had
no more idea of talking than if she had been in
church, and Mrs. Granger only opened her mouth
when obliged by the business of the table, where two
courses of eight dishes succeeded each other in the
ponderous magnificence of silver and the substan-
tiality of mock turtle soup, turkey and chine,
chicken pie, boiled rabbits, cod and oyster sauce,
veal and ham, larded pheasants, with jellies and
puddings, a bill of fare which, in its piling of Pelion
upon Ossa, would be more likely to excite disgust
than appetite in the modern gourmet. But in spite
of such travelled wits as Bolingbroke, Walpole,
Chesterfield and Carteret, the antique Anglo-Saxon
menu still obtained when George IL was king.

" You are the first Methodist I have ever dined
with," said Lady Peggy, keenly interested in a new
specimen of the varieties of mankind, " so I hope

ul visitors.

)art — Mrs.

esy, smiled
ss to stare
jodicc.
downstairs
d been so
Lish dined
The room
ly Kilnish
sband was
t rake-hell

•d to Lady
Lucy had
d been in
her mouth
where two
her in the
e sul)stan-
nd chine,
iter sauce,
jellies and
f of Pelion
ite disgust
ut in spite
Walpole,
glo-Saxon
:ing.

jvcr dined
1 in a new
so I hope

In S t . J a m e s * Square 199

you will tell me all about this religious revival which
has made such a stir among the lower classes and
4 sent Lady Huntingdon out of her wits."

" On my honor, madam, if Ijut half the women of
fashion in London were as sane as that noble lady
society would be in a much better way than it is."

" Oh, I grant you we have mad women enough.
Nearly all the clever ones lean that way. But I
doubt your religious mania is the worst, and a
woman must be far gone who fills her house with a
mixed rabble of crazy nobility and converted brick-
layers. I am told Lady Huntingdon recognizes no
distinctions of class among her followers."

" Nay, there you are wrong, Lady Peggy," cried
Antonia, " for Mr. Whitefield preaches to the qual-
ity in her ladyship's drawing-room, but goes down
to her kitchen to convert the rabble."

" Lady Huntingdon models her life upon the pre-
cepts of her Redeemer, madam," said Stobart, ignor-
ing this interruption. " I hope you do not consider
that an evidence of lunacy."

" There is a way of doing things, Mr. Stobart.
God forbid I should blame anybody for being kind
and condescending to the poor."

" Christians never condescend, madam. They
have too acute a sense of their own lowness to con-
sider any of their fellow-creatures beneath them.
They arc no more capable of condescending toward
each other than the worms that crawl in the same
furrow."

" Ah, I see these Oxford Methodists have got you
in their net. Well, sir, I admire an enthusiast, even
if he is mistaken. Everybody in London is so much
of a pattern that there are seasons when the wretch

200

The Infidel

t !

1) ;-t

who fired the Ephcsian dome would be a welcome
figure in company— since any enthusiasm, right or
wrong, is better than peri)etual flatness."

" Lady Mar;raret has so active a mind that she
tires of things sooner than most of us," said An-
toni.',. smiling at the lively lady, whose gray eyes
twinkled almost as brightly as t!ie few choice
diamonds that sparkled in the folds of her brussels
neckerchief.

" I confess to being sick of feather work and shell
work, and the women who can think of nothing else,
and even the musical fanatics wearv me with their
everlasting babble about Handel and the Italian
singers. There is not a spark of mind among the
whole army t,f conosccnti. With a month's labor
I'd teach the inhabitants of a parrot house to jabber
the same flummery,"

And then Lady Peggy turned to Mr. Stobart and
made him talk about his Methodists, as she called
them, and listened with mtclligent interest, and gave
him no offence by her replies.

" Our cousin is a very pretty fellow, and the wife
has not an ill figure," she said' to Antonia after din-
ner, in a corner of the inner drawing-room, while
Mrs. Stobart and Mrs. Granger sat side by side in
the great saloon, looking at a portfolio of Italian
prints ; " but how, in the name of all that's odious,
did you come by that cherry-colored person? "

" She is my old friend, an actress at Drury Lane,
but now retired from the stage and prosperously
married."

"The creature has a pretty little face, but her
clothes are execrable, and then the audacity of her
shoulders ! Such nakedness can only be suffered in
a woman of the hi,;'l.?st mode. Indecency with an

a welcome
tn, right or

1(1 that she

said An-

pray eyes

cvv choice

ler brussels

k anc! shell
:)thing;' else,
with their
hi Italian
anionpr the
nth's labor
e to jabber

tobart and
she called
, and g-ave

d the wife
after din-
om, while
by side in
of Italian
t's odious,
m?"

ury Lane,
)sperously

'; but her
ity of her
ufifercd in
V with an

In St. James' Square 201

ill-cut gown is unpardonab'e Don't let her cross
your thi shold again, chih

" Dear Lady Peggy, yoa arc too good a friend
for me to disoblige you; but I will never be uncivil
to one who was kind when I was poor."

" W'll, well, ). '1 arc a fine pig-headed reature,
but if you must have such a friend, pray let your
dressmaker clothe her. 'Twill < ,st you less than
you will lose ot credit by her appearance. Remem-
ber, 'tis by your women friends you will be judged.
'Tis of little consequence what notorious gamblers
and rakes pass in and out of your great assemblies
so long as they are men of fashion, but your women
must be of the highest quality for birth, clothes and
breeding."

'Twas six o'clock, and a bevy of footmen were
busied in setting out a tea and coffee table with In-
dian porcelain and silver urn, and the rooms began
to be picturesquely sprinkled with "legant figures,
like a canvas of Watteau's. It was a prettier scene
than one of her ladyship's great assemblies, for the
fine furniture, the priceless china an ' other orna-
ments were undisturbed, and there was enouglv
space and atmosphere for people to admire the
rooms and each other.

The Duchess of Portland and her cht sen friend,
Mrs. Delany, came sailing in, sparkling wUh gayety,
and tenderly embracing the matchles^ Orinda.
Everybody of mark in those days had a lickname,
and Mrs. Delany, who had a genius for finding non-
sense names, had hit upon this one for I uly Kil-
rush, not because she was a poetess like the original
Orinda, but because the epithet " machless "
seemed appropriate to so perfect a beav^y and
i20,ooo a year.

»'J' i:

202

The Infidel

George Stobart stood in the curtained embrasure
of a window contemplating this elegant circle, amid
which Antonia moved like a goddess, the loveliest
where all had some claim to beauty, peerless among
the elite of womankind. Her grace, her ease, her
dignity would have become a throne, but every
charm was natural, and a part of herself, not a mod-
ish demeanor acquired by an imitative faculty — the
surface gloss of the low-born woman apt to mimic
her betters. He could not withhold his admiration
from charms that all the world admired, but the ex-
travagance of the fashionable toilette disgusted him,
and he looked with angry scorn at brocades of daz-
zling hues interwoven with gold and silver, court
gowns of such elaborate decoration that a Spital-
fields weaver might have worked half a lifetime
upon a fabric where trees and flowers, garlands and
classic temples, lakes and mountains were depicted
in their natural colors on a ground of gold. He had
been living among such people a few years ago, and
had never questioned their right so to squander
money ; or casually reckoning the cost of a woman's
gala dress, or the wax candles burned at a ball, he
had approved such expenditure as a virtue in the
rich, since it must needs be good for trade. To-night
as he stood aloof watching those radiant figures his
imagination conjured up the vision of an alley in
which he had spent his morning hours, going from
house to house, with a famished crowd hanging on
his footsteps, a scene of sordid misery he could not
remember without a shudder. Oh, those hungry
faces, those gaunt and spectral forms, skeletons
upon which the filthy rags hung loose; those faces
of women that had once been fair before vice, want
and the smallpox disfigured them ; those villainous

i embrasure
circle, amid
:he loveliest
rless among
er ease, her
but every
, not a mod-
taculty — the
pt to mimic
admiration
but the ex-
gusted him,
ides of daz-
lilver, court
it a Spital-
" a lifetime
arlands and
?re depicted
Id. He had
irs ago, and

squander
• a woman's
it a ball, he
irtue in the
le. To-night
: figures his
an alley in
going from
hanging on
e could not
ose hungry
5, skeletons
those faces

1 vice, want
e villainous

In St. James' Square 203

faces of men who had spent half their lives in jail,
of women who had spent all their womanhood in in-
famy, and, mixed with these, the faces of little chil-
dren still unmarked by the brand of sin, children
whom he longed to gather up in his arms and carry
out of that hell upon earth, had there been any
refuge for such ! His heart sickened as he looked
at the splendor of clothes and jewels, pictures,
statues, curios, and thought how many of God's
creatures might be plucked from the furnace and
set on the highway to heaven for the cost of all that
finery.

He was not altogether a stranger in that scene,
for he saw several old acquaintances among the
company, but he felt himself out of touch with them,
and tried to escape all greetings and inquiries. And
later, when the tables had been opened and half the
company were seated at whist or commerce, while
the other half pretended to listen to a potpourri
from Handel's " Semcle," arranged for fiddles and
harpsichord, which was being performed in the
saloon, he went to the inmost room where Lucy was
sitting solitary beside the deserted tea-table.

" Come, child," he said curtly, "we have had
enough of this. 'Tis a pleasure that leaves an ill
taste in the mouth."

His wife arose with alacrity. She had crept away
from the music-room, dazzled by the splendor of
the scene, and too shy to remain among such mag-
nificent people, who looked at her with a bland won-
der through jewelled eye-glasses.

" I think there is to be a supper," she said hesi-
tatingly.

" Do you wish to stay for it ? "
Nay, 'tis as you please."

204

The Infidel

k I'

" I have no pleasure but to escape from this
herd."

Lucy saw that something had vexed him, and
went hungry to bed, having been too much embar-
rassed by the unaccustomed attentions of splendid
beings in livery to eat a good dinner.

There was nobody in the dining-room when Mr.
and Mrs. Stobart went to breakfast at nine o'clock
next morning. George, who had slept little, had
been steeping himself in a gray fog in St. James'
Park since eight ; but Lucy had found it more dif-
ficult to dress herself encumbered by the officious
assistance of one of Antonia's women than unaided
in her own little bedchamber at Sheen.

" Her ladyship takes her chocolate in her dress-
ing-room," the butler informed Mr. Stobart, " and
desires that you and your lady will breakfast at your
own hour," whereupon George and his wife seated
themselves in the magnificent solitude of the dining-
room, and ate moderately of a meal almost as abun-
dant as the previous day's dinner, for what was less
of substance upon the table was balanced by the cold
joints, pies and poultry of the " regalia," or side-
board display.

Lucy returned to her room directly after break-
fast to pack her trunk, or rather to look on ruefully
while her ladyship's woman packed it. Happily,
all her garments were neat and in good condition,
although of a Quaker-like plainness.

George sat in the library, waiting till his wife
should be ready for departure, and opened one book
after another in a strange inability to fix his atten-
tion upon anything. How well he remembered that
room, and his last interview with his cousin! This
was the table on which Kilrush had struck his

; from this

;d him, and

nuch embar-

of splendid

m when Mr.
nine o'clock
)t little, had
II St. James'
it more dif-
the officious
han unaided

n her dress-
:obart, " and
kfast at your
i wife seated
f the dining-
lost as abun-
^hat was less
i by the cold
ia," or side-
after break-
: on ruefully
t. Happily,
)d condition,

till his wife
led one book
ix his atten-
nnbcrcd that
3usin ! This
1 struck his

In St. James' Square 205

clenched fist when he swore that not to secure a life
of bliss would he marry beneath his rank. The
mystery of his passionate words, his violent gesture,
was clear enough now. To his pride of birth, to a
foolish reverence for trivial things, he had sacrificed
his earthly happiness. To the man who esteemed
all things small in comparison with life eternal it
seemed a paltry renunciation, yet there had been a
kind of grandeur in it, a Roman stoicism that could
sufifer for an idea. And now that George Stobart
knew the woman his cousin had loved, her charm,
her beauty, he could better understand the pangs
of unsatisfied love, the conflict between passion and
pride.

There were hothouse flowers in a Nankin bowl on
the table, and a fire of coal and logs burned merrily
in the wide basket grate. The room had a far more
cheerful aspect on this November morning than on
that sultry summer day, four years ago.

On a side table by the fireplace Stobart noticed a
pile of books richly bound in crimson morocco — the
newest edition of Voltaire.

" She reads and loves that arch mocker still, cher-
ishes a writer who would laugh away her hope of
heaven, her belief in the physician of souls. Beset
with temptation, the cynosure of profligates, she re-
jects the only rock that stands firm and high, a sure
refuge when the waves of passion sweep over the
drowning soul."

He remembered the world he lived in five years
ago, a world thatseemed as faraway as if those years
had been centuries. He knew that of the men who
surrounded Lady Kilrush with the stately adulation
courtiers offer to queens there was scarce one who
was not at heart a seducer, who would not profit by

■i^l

I i

I !

206

The Infidel

the first hint of liuman weakness in their goddess.
And she was alone, motherless, sisterless, without a
friend of her own blood, alone among envious
women and unprincipled men.

" Of all those fine gentlemen who prate of honor,
and would rather commit murder than submit to a
trumpery impertinence, I doubt if there is one who
would scruple to act unfairly by a woman, or who
would hold himself bound by the impassioned vows
that cajoled her into sin."

He looked into the crimson-bound octavos, toss-
ing them aside one by one. They were not all of
them deadly, but the poison was there ; in those sa-
tirical romances, in those " Questions pour I'Ency-
clopedie," in those notes upon ancient history, on
page after page he might have found the same
deadly mockery, the same insidious war against the
Christian faith, I'iiifame.

The door was flung open by a footman, and An-
tonia appeared before him, radiant in the freshness
of her morning beauty, unspoiled by eighteenth cen-
tury washes and pigments. She was dressed for
walking in a sea-green lutestring and a pink gauze
hat, her elbow sleeves and the bosom of her gown
ruffled with the same pale pink, and she wore long,
loose straw-colored saxony gloves, wrinkled here
and there from wrist to elbow. Her only jewels
were diamond solitaire earrings and a diamond
brooch with a pear-shaped pearl pendant, one of the
famous Kilrush pearls, from the treasures of the In-
dian merchant, the spoil of kings and rajahs.

They shook hands, and she hoped he and Mrs.
Stobart had breakfasted well.

" I take my own breakfast in my dressing-room
with a book," she said apologetically, " because that

jil

heir goddess.
:ss, without a
ong envious

ate of honor,
I submit to a
e is one who
man, or who
ssioned vows

)ctavos, toss-
re not all of
; in those sa-
pour I'Ency-
t history, on
d the same
r against the

lan, and An-

:he freshness

jhteenth cen-

dressed for

1 pink gauze

of her gown

e wore long,

'inkled here

only jewels

a diamond

it, one of the

es of the In-

ijahs.

le and Mrs.

"essing-room
because that

In St. James' Square 207

is the only hour I can feel sure of being alone.
Morning visits begin so early. I am deep in ' Sir
Charles ' — incomparable man ! "

'"Sir Charles?'" he faltered. "Oh, I under-
stand. You are reading Richardson's new novel — a
tedious, interminable book, I take it."

" Tedious ! 1 tremble for the day when I finish it.
The world wiU seem empty when I bid Harriet and
Clementina farewell. But I shall return again and
again to those dear creatures. I wish myself a bad
memory for their sakts."

" Oh, madam, to be thus concerned about the
flimsy creations of an old printer's idle brain ! "

" Idle ! Do you call genius idle ? There was
never another Richardson. I fear there never will
be. A hundred years hence women will weep for
Clarissa, and men will model themselves upon
Grandison."

" It saddens me, madam, to see you as enthu-
siastic about a paltry fiction as I would have you
about the truths of the Gospel. And I see with pain
that you still cherish the works of the most noto-
rious blasphemer in Europe."

" The man who stands up like little David against
the Goliath of intolerance ; the man who has rescued
the Galas family from undeserved infamy, cleared
the name of that unhappy victim of a persecuting
priesthood, condemned, not because it was clear that
he was a murderer, but because it was certain that
he was a Protestant."

" I own, madam, that in his fight for a dead man's
honor M. de Voltaire acted handsomely. I am sorry
that he who did so much for the love of his neighbor
should spurn the Gospel that teaches that virtue."

"Voltaire loved his neighbor without being

I : ' '

dM'l

208

The Infidel

i> d, !•

taught, or say rather that he can accept all that his
reason approves in the teaching of Jesus of Naza-
reth, while he rejects the traditions of the Roman
Church."

" Nay, did he stop there I were with him heart
and soul. But he does more : he turns the Gospel
light to darkness. Would to God, madam, that you
could find a wiser guide for your footsteps through
a world where Satan has spread his worst snares in
the fairest places."

" Mr. Stobart," she said, looking at him gravely,
her violet eyes darkened to black under the rosy
shadow of her hat, " I sometimes wish I could be-
lieve in Christ the Saviour, but I would not if I must
beheve also in Satan. Let us argue no more upon
theology; I only shock you. My coach is at the
door, and I want to take Mrs. Stobart to an auction
where I believe she will sec the finest collection of
Nankm monsters and willow-pattern tea things that
China has sent us since last winter. Tis the first
sale of the season, and all the world will be there,
and twenty who go to stare and chatter for one who
means to buy."

" Your ladyship is vastly kind, but my wife and I
must travel by the Richmond coach, which leaves
the Golden Cross at noon. I have to thank vou in
her name and my own for your kind hospitality."

" Oh, sir, don't thank me. Only promise that you
will come to see me again and often. We will not
talk about serious things lest we should quarrel."

" Madam, if I come into this house again we must
talk of serious things. Can I pretend to be your
friend, see you living without God in the world— I
who believe in His judgments as I believe in His
mercies— and not try to save a beautiful soul that I

In St. James' Square 209

see hovering above the pit of hell ? Can I be your
friend and hold my peace ? "

" Nay, sir, leave my soul to your God. If He is
all you believe He will not let me perish."

" H yoi: are obstinate and deny Him He will cast
you out. He has given you talents for which you
have to render an account, intellect, force of will,
wealth, and the power that goes with it. I will come
to this house no more to see you wasting yourself
upon insipid amusements, listening to idle flatteries,
smiling upon sybarites and fops, moving from one
to another, false alike to all, since all are your in-
feriors, and you can esteem none of them. Your
coquetries, your friendships, are alike hollow, as
artificial as your swooning courtesy, taught by Se-
rise, the dancing master."

" Oh, sir, are all the Oxford Methodists a., rude
as you ? "

" Forgive me, madam. I cannot stoop to that
smooth lying that goes by the name of politeness.
* Now, now is the accepted time, now is the day of
salvation.' My heart yearns to snatch a sinner from
doom. Five years ago I should have beenamongyour
admirers, should have burned the incense of vain
adulation before you, as at the shrine of a goddess,
should have been made happy with a smile, ineffably
blessed by a civil word. But I have lived aloof from
your beau monde, and I come back to discover what
a Sodom it is. The company I once loved fills me
with disgust and loathing. I sec the flames of To-
phet behind your galaxy of wax candles, the rags
of lost sinners under your gold and silver brocade.
I will come here no more."

He moved toward the door, she following him,
holding out both her hands.

= 1;'

^ti

210

The Infidel

" Mr. Sto))art, you make life a tragedy. I pro-
test that some of my friends in gold and silver bro-
cade arc as good Christians as even your kindness
could desire me to be. They are more fortunate
than I am in never having been taught to question
the creed that satisfied their fathers and grand-
fathers. I sometimes wish 1 had less of the doubt-
ing spirit. But pray do not let theological ditfer-
enccs part us. You and your wife are a kind of rela-
tions, for you are of my dear husband's blood ; I can
never forget that. Come, sir, let us be reasonable,"
she exclaimed, seating herself at the table and mo-
tioning him to the opposite chair.

She was sitting where Kilrush had sat during that
last interview wiHi his kinsman, in the same high-
backed chair, the bright coloring of her face and
hat shining against a background of black horse-
hair.

" What do you want me to do ? Of what sins am
I to repent? " she as'-^d, smiling at him. " I try to
help my fellow-creatures, to be honest and truthful
and kind. What more can I do? "

" Sell all that thou hast and distribute unto the
poor."

" I cannot do that ; I think I have a right to be
happy. Fate has flung riches into my lap, and I
love the things that money buys — this house, for-
eign travel, ease and splendor, pictures, music, the
friends that wealth and station have brought around
me. I love to mix with the salt of the earth, and you
want me to renounce all these things, and to live as
Jesus of Nazareth lived — Jesus, the son of Joseph,
the carpenter."

" Jesus, the son of God, who so lived His brief life
on earth to be for all mankind an example."

SSsa

e unto the

In St. James' Square 211

" And arc we all to be peasants ? "

" Believe me, madam, there is only one perfect
form of the Christian life, and that is the imitation
of Christ."

" You would make this a hateful world if you had
your way, Mr. Stobart."

" I would make it a Christian world if I could,
Lady Kilrush."

" Well, sir, let me help you with your poor. I
should like to do that, though I do not mean to sell
this house, or the jewels that my husband's grand-
father brought from the East Indies. I can spare a
good deal for almsgiving, and yet sparkle at St.
James'. Take me to see your poor people at Lam-
beth. Bring their sorrows nearer to my heart. I
know I am leading a foolish, idle life, made up of
gratified vanities and futile fevers, but 'tis such a
pleasant life. I had my day of drudgery and petty
cares, the struggle to make one shilling go as far as
five, and my heart dances for joy sometimes among
the pleasures and splendors in which I move to-day.
But be sure I have a heart to pity the suffering. Let
me go with you to Lambeth. I will buy no china
dragons to-day, and the money I put in my purse to
waste on toys shall be given to your poor. Take me
to them to-day. You can go back to Sheen by a
later coach."

He refused at first, protesting that the places to
which he went were no fitting scenes for her. She
would have to confront vice as well as poverty — re-
volting sights, hideous language, Lazarus with his
sores, and a blaspheming Lazarus — things odious
and things terrible.

" I am not afraid," she answered. " If there are
such things we ought to know of them. I do know

Ils^

f ,

212

The Infidel

that vice and sin exist. I am not an ignorant eirl I
was not born in the purple."

She was impetuous, resohito. insistent, and she
overruled all his objections.

" You will be sorry that I let you have your way "
he said at last, " and I am foolish so to humor a fine
lady s wlnm."

*' I am not a fine lady to-day. Inhere is more than
one side to my character."

" If you mean to come with me, you had l^est nut
on a plainer gown."

" I have none plainer than this. 'Tis no matter if

I spod It, for I am tired of the color. Oh. here is

Mrs. Stobart," she cried, as a servant ushered in

Lucy who entered timidly, looking for her husband.

Your ladyship's servant," she murmured with a

courtesy. *' Is it time for us to go home, George ? "

" Time for me to take yo.; to the coach, Lucy. I

shall spend the day amonf^ my people."

" And I am to go home alone," his wife said rue-
fully.

"I shall be with you by tea-time, and you will
have your boy and a world of household cares to
engage you till then."

She brightened at this, and smiled at him.

"I'll warran; Hannah will not have dusted the
parlor," she said. " Oh, madam, we have such
pretty mahogany furniture, and I do love to keep it
bright There's nothing like elhow-grease for a
mahogany table."

" I know that by experience, child. I have used
It myself," Antonia answered gayly.

She was pleased and excited at the idea of a
plunge into the mysteries of outcast London She
had been poor herself, but had known only the

In St. J

ames quart 213

shabby-pcntcol poverty which ps shoe, to its
feet and a weather-tight roof over its head. Wit'
want and rags and filth she had never come in con
tact save i?-" her brief ghnipse of the Irisli and Eng-
Hsh towns at Limerick ; and looking back upon that
experience of a brain overwrought with grief, it
seemed to her like a fcvcr-drcani. To-day she would
go among the abodes of misery with a mind quick to
see and understand. Surely, surely she could do
her part in the duty that the rich owe the poor with-
out selling all that she had, without abrogating one
iota of the sumptuous surroundings so dear to her
romantic temper, to her innate love of the beautiful.

She kissed Mrs. Stobart at parting, anfl promised
to visit her at Sheen the first day she was free of
engagements.

George found her chariot at the door when he
came back from dispatching his wife in the Rich-
mond stage.

" Come, come," she said, " let us hasten to your
poor wretches. I am dying to give them the guineas
I meant for my monsters."

" Faith, madam, you will find monsters enough
where we are going, but not such as a fine lady
could display on her china cupboard."

Mr. Stobart stopped the carriage on the south
side of Westminster Bridge.

" If you are not averse to walking some little dis-
tance, it might be well to send your carriage home,"
he said. " I can take you back to your house in
a hackney coach ;" and on this the chariot was dis-
missed.

" You shall not go a yard out of your way on my
account," she said. " I am not afraid of going about
alone. The great ladies I know would swoon if they

II''

214

The Infidel

'11

found themselves in a London street unattended, but
I am not like them."

lie gave her his arm, and they threaded their way
through a labyrinth of streets and alleys that lay bc-
tvveeji the Thames and the waste spaees of Lambeth
marsh, a dreary region where the water lav in stag-
nant i)ools, reee])taeles for all unconsidered' fdth, ex-
haling putrid fever. I (ere and there above the for-
est of ehinmeys and chance medley of roofs and
gables there rose the bulk of a pottery, for this was
the chosen place of the ipotter's art ; but for the rest
the desolate region between Stangate and the New
Cut was given over to poverty and crime. Fine old
houses that had once stood in the midst of fair gar-
dens had been divided into miserable tenements, and
swarmed Kke ant-hills with half-starved humanity;
alleys so narrow that the sunshine rarely visited
them, covered and crowded the old garden ground ;
four-storied houses, built with a supreme neglect
of such trifles as light and air, overshadowed the
low hovels that had once been rustic cottages smil-
ing across modest flower gardens.

Mr. Stobart came to a halt in a lane leading to
the river, where a row of rickety wooden houses
hung over an expanse of malodorous mud. The
tide was out, and a troop of half-naked chil-
dren were chasing a starved dog, with a kettle
tied to his tail, through the slime and slush of the
foreshore.

"Oh, the poor dog! " cried Tonia, as they stood
on a causeway at the end of the lane. " For pity's
sake, stop those little wretches ! "

George called to them, but they only looked at
him, and pursued their sport. Had he been alone he
would have given the little demons chase, but he

tcii<k-(l, but

1 their way
tliat lay be-
jf Lambeth
!ay in stag-
"(1 filth, cx-
vc the for-
roofs atul
)r this was
or the rest
;1 the New
Fine old
if fair gar-
ments, and
humanity ;
L'ly visited
n ground ;
le neglect
lowed the
ages smil-

leading to
en houses
lud. The
ked chil-
i a kettle
ish of the

hey stood
[''or pity's

looked at
1 alone he
c, but he

In St. James* Square 215

could not risk bespattering liimself from head to
foot in •> lady's company.

"TI..*.; is but one way to stoj) them," he said,
" and that '3 to teach them better. We arc trying to
do that in our schools, but the task needs twenty-
fold more men and more money tlum we can com-
mand. 'Twould shock you, no doubt, to see how the
children of the poor amuse themselves, but I ques-
tion if there is more cruelty to the brute creation
among those unenlightened brats than among the
children of our nobility, who are bred up to think a
cock-fight or a stag-hunt the summit of earthly bliss.
Jim Rednap," he shouted, as the chase doubled and
came within earshot, " if you don't imtie that kettle
and let the dog go I'll give you a flogging that will
make you squall."

The biggest of the boys looked up at this address,
recognized a well-known figure, and called to his
companions to stop. They halted, their yells ceased,
and the hunted cur scrambled up the slippery stone
stejis, at the top of which Antonia and Stobart were
standing. He caught the dog, took off the kettle,
and flung it into the river. The boy Rgdnap came
slowly up the steps.

" 'Twarn't me that begun it," he said sheepishly.

" 'Twas you that should have stopped it. You're
bigger and older than the others. You are twice as
wicked because you know better. What v ill your
poor mother say when I tell her that you take pleas-
ure in tormenting God's creatures? "

He was stooping to pat the half-starved mongrel
as he spoke to the boy, and perhaps that tender touch
of his hand and his countenance as he looked at the
beast was a better lesson than his spoken reproof.

" See," Antonia said, dropping a shilling into the

2l6

The Infidel

I! ( '

boy's grimy palm. *' Fetch me twopenn'orth of
bread for the dog and keep the change for your-

The boy stared, clutched the coin and ran off.

" Will he come back ? " asked Antonia.

" Yes ; he's not as bad as he looks. His mother is
one of the lost sheep that the .Shepherd has found.
Her season of repentance will be but brief, poor
soul, since she is marked for death ; but she leans on
Him who never turned the light of His countenance
from the penitent sinner."

" Is the boy's father living? "

George Stobart shrugged his shoulders.

" Who knows ? She docs not, poor wretch ! He
.s dead for her. She has three children, and has
toiled to keep them from starving till she has fallen
under her burden."

" Let me provide for them ! Let her know that
they will be cared for when she is gone. It may
make her last hours happy," said Antonia impetu-
ously.

" I will not hinder you in any work of beneficence,
but among so many and in such pressing need of
help it would be well to take time, and to consider
how you can make your money go farthest."

" I will buy no more foolish things — trumpery
that I forget or sicken of a few hours after 'tis
bought. I will go to no more china auctions, squan-
der no more guineas at Mrs. Chenevix's. Oh, Mr.
Stobart, I know you despise me because I am like
the young man in the Gospel story. I am too rich
not to be fond of riches. But indeed, sir, I do desire
to help the poor."

" I believe it, madam, and that God will bless your
desires. 'Tis not eas^- for a woman in the bloom

\ II

In St. James' Square 217

>enn'orth of
je for your-

ran off.
a.

[is mother is
1 has found,
brief, poor
she leans on
countenance

*s.

/retch ! He
m, and has
e has fallen

■ know that
ne. It may
tiia impetu-

beneficcnce,
iig need of
to consider
:st."

—trumpery
5 after 'tis
ons, squan-
. Oh, Mr.
I am like
m too rich
I do desire

bless your
the bloom

of youth and beauty to take up the cross as Lady
Huntingdon has done — to dedicate all she has of
fortune and influence to the service of Christ.
'Twere cruel to reproach you for falling short of so
rare a perfection."

" I have been told that Lady Huntingdon leaves it
to doubters like me to feed the hungry and clothe
the naked — since the cry of the destitute appeals to
all alike — and that she devotes all her means to pay-
ing preachers and providing chapels."

" That, madam, is her view of Christ's service,
and I doubt she is right. When all mankind believe
in Christ, there will be no more want and misery in
this world, for the rich will remember that to refuse
help to His poor is to deny Him."

The boy came back, breathless with running, and
carrying a twopenny loaf in his grimy paw. He had
gnawed off a corner crust as he ran.

" Dogs won't eat crust," he remarked apologeti-
cally, as he knelt down in the dirt and fed the fam-
ished cur.

He went with them presently to his mother's gar-
ret, where Antonia sat by the woman's bed for half
an hour, while Stobart read or talked to her. His
tenderness to the sick woman and the reasonableness
of all he said impressed even the unbeliever. His
words touched her heart, though they left her mind
unconvinced. The room showed an exceeding pov-
erty, but was cleaner than Antonia had hoped to find
it ; and she could but smile upon discovering that
Mr. Stobart had helped the three children to scrub
the floor and clean the windows in the course of his
last visit, and had made Jim, the eldest of the
family, promise to brush the hearth and dust the
room every morning, and had supplied him with a

2l8

The Infidel

broom, and soap, and other materials for cleanli-
ness. The boy was his mother's sick nurse, and was
really helpful in his rough way. The other two
children attended at an infant school which Stobart
had set up in a room near, at a minimum cost for
rent and fire. The teachers were three young
women of the prosperous middle classes, who each
worked two days a week without remuneration.

After this quiet visit to the dying woman Stobart
led Lady Kilrush through crowded courts and al-
leys, where every object that her eyes rested on was
a thmg that revolted or pained her— brutal faces,
famished faces, lowering viciousness, despairing
want, brazen impudence that fixed her with a bold
stare, and then burst into an angry laugh at her
beauty, or pointed scornfully to the diamonds in her
ears. Insolent remarks were flung after her ; chil-
dren in the gutters larded their speech with curses ;
obscene exclamations greeted the strange apparition
of a woman so unlike the native womanhood. Had
she been some freak of nature at a show in Barthol-
omew Fair she could scarcely have been looked at
with a more brutal curiosity.

Stobart held her ?rm fast in his, and hurried her
through the filthy throng, hurried her past houses
that he knew for dangerous— houses in which small-
pox or jail fever had been raging fever as terrible
as that of the year '50, when half the bar at the Old
Bailey had been stricken with death during the long
hours of a famous trial for murder. Jail birds were
common in those rotten dens where King George's
poor had their abode, and they brought smallpox
and putrid fever home with them from King
George's populous prisons, where the vile and the
unfortunate, the poor debtor and the notorious felon

In St. James' Square 219

were Iierded cheek by jowl in a common misery.
He was careful to take her only into the cleanest
houses, to steer clear of vice and violence. He
showed her his best cases — cases where Gospel
teaching had worked for good; the people he had
helped into a decent way of life — industrious
mothers; pious old women toiling for orphaned
grandchildren; young women, redeemed from sin,
maintaining themselves in a semi-starvation, con-
tent to drudge twelve hours a day just to keep off
hunger.

Her heart melted with pity and glowed with gen-
erous impulses. She clasped the women's hands, she
vowed she would be their friend and helper, and
showered her gold among them.

" Teach me how to help them," she said. " Oh,
these martyrs of poverty ! Show me how to make
their lives happier."

" Be sure I shall not be slack to engage your lady-
ship in good works," he answered cordially. " If
you will suffer me to be your counsellor you may do
a world of good, and yet keep your fine house and
your Indian jewels. Your influence should enlist
others in the crusade against misery. It needs but
the superfluous wealth of all the rich to save the
lives and the souls of all the poor."

He was hurrying her toward a coach-stand,
through the deepening gloom of November. They
had spent more than three hours in these haunts of
wretchedness, and the brief day had closed upon
them. The lights on Westminster Bridge and King
Street seemed to belong to another world as the
coach drove to St. James' Square. Stobart insisted
on accompanying Antonia to her own door, and took
leave of her on the threshold with much more of

220

The Infidel

if/'

i /

friendship than he had sliown her hitherto. He
seemed to her a changed being since they had walked
through those wretched alleys together. Hitherto
his manner with her had been stiff and constrained,
with an underlying air of disapproval. But now
that she had seen him beside a sick bed, and had seen
how he loved and understood the poor, and how he
was loved and understood by them, she began to
realize how good and generous a heart beat under
that chilling exterior. The idea of a man in the
flower of his youth flinging off a profession he loved
to devote his life to charity appealed to all her best
feelings.

" I shall wait on your wife to-morrow morning,"
she said. " You will have time before I come to de-
cide what I can do to help those poor wretches.
Their white faces would haunt my dreams to-night
if I did not know that I could do something to make
them happier."

" Sleep lightly," he answered gently. " You have
a heart to pity the poor."

He bent over her gloved hand, touched it lightly
with his lips and vanished as she crossed her thresh-
old, where the hall porter and three pompous foot-
men gave a royal air to her entrance.

* . I' J:

Chapter XIV.

ST. GILES' AND ST. JAMES'.

Antonia spent the next morning, twelve to two,
in the cottage parlor at Sheen, where Stobart spread
out his reports and calculations before her, showed
her what he had done in the district John Wesley
had allotted to him, and how much — how infinitely
more than had been done — there remained to do !

" My own means are so narrow that I can give
but little temporal help," he said. " I have to stand
by with empty pockets and see suffering that a few
shillings could relieve. I have even thought of ap-
pealing to my mother — who has not used me well —
but she was married six months ago to an old ad-
mirer, Sir Lanigan, an Irish soldier, and a fierce
High Churchman, who hates the Wesleys ; so I
doubt 'twould be wasted humiliation to ask her for
aid. I have not scrupled to beg of my rich friends,
and have raised money to apprentice at least fifty
lads who were in the way to become thieves and
reprobates. I have ministered to the two ends of
life — to childhood and old age. The middle period
must fight for itself."

He read his notes of various hard cases. He had
jotted down stern facts with a stern brevity, but the
pathos in the facts themselves brought tear? to An-

ml P

ifU

222

The Infidel

tenia's eyes more than once in uie course of liis read-
ing. He showed her wliat good might be done by a
few shilHngs a week to this family, in which tliere
was a bedridden son— and to another where there
was a consumptive daughter ; how there was a Httle
lad starving in the gutter who could be billeted upon
a hard-working honest family— how for the cost of
a room with fire and candle, and sixpence a day for
a nurse, he could provide a nursery where the in-
fants of the women toilers could be kept during the
day,

" I have heard of some nuns at Avignon who set
up such a room for the women workers in the vine-
yards," he said. " I think they called it a creche."

Mrs. Stobart sat by the window busy with her
plain sewing, of which she had always enough to
fill every leisure hour. She looked up now and then
and listened, with a mild interest in her husband's
work, but she was just a little tired of it, and the fer-
vid enthusiasm of the time of her conversion seemed
very far away. Household matters, tea-things and
copper tea-kettle, brass fender and mahogany bureau
filled so large a place in her thoughts, after her hus-
band and son, both of whom she loved with her ut-
most power of loving, which was not of a high order.
She crept away at one o'clock to see her baby George
eat his dinner. He was old enough to sit up in his
high mahogany chair and feed himself, with many
skirmishing movements of his spoon, which he bran-
dished between the slow mouthfuls as if it were a
tomahawk.

George and Antonia were so absorbed in their
work that Mrs. Stobart had been gone nearly an
hour before cither of them knew that she was ab-
sent. The maid came blundering in with a tray as

1 ''LAxili^&^^^^i.^Ci:.-.:

St. Giles' and St. James' 223

the clock struck two, and began to lay the cloth. An-
tonia rose to take leave, and insisted on going at
once. Her carriage had been waiting half an hour
in a drizzling November rain. She left quickly, but
not before she had seen that Mr. Stobart's dinner
consisted of the somewhat scrimped remains of a
shoulder of mutton and a dish of potatoes boiled in
their skins.

She knew some of the officers in his late regiment
and knew how they lived ; and it shocked her a lit-
tle to recall that squalid meal when she sat down
at four o'clock, with a party of friends, at a table
loaded with an extravagant profusion of the richest
food her cook's inventive powers could bring to-
gether. She had seen the expensive French chef
standing before her with pencil and bill of fare,
racking his brains to devise something novel and
costly.

That morning at Sheen was the beginning of a
close alliance in the cause of charity between Mr.
Stobart and Lady Kilrush. They were partners in a
business of good works, and all questions of creed
were for the most part ignored between them. He
would have gladly spoken words in season, but she
had a way of putting him off, and she had become
to him so beneficent and divine a creature that it was
difficult for him to remember that she was not a
Christian.

The £5000 a year which she had so freely offered
him for his own use she now set aside for his poor.

" I can spare as much," she said, " and yet be a
fine lady. Some day, perhaps, when I am old and
withered, like the hags that haunt Ranelagh, I may
grow tired of finery, and then the poor shall have
nearly all my money, and I will live as vou do, in a

224

The Infidel

cottage at £io a year, on a bone of cold mutton and
potato. But while I am young I doubt I shall go
on caring for trumpery things. It is such a pleasun'
change when I have been in one of your loathsome
alleys to find m>3elf at Leicester House with the
princess and her party of wits and savants, or at
Carlisle House, dancing in a chain of dukes and
duchesses, with a German royal highness for my
partner."

The responsibilities that went with the adminis-
tration of so largo a fund made a change in George
Stobart's life. His residence at Sheen had long
been inconvenient, the journey to and fro wasting
time for which he had better uses. Lucy loved her
rustic home and garden in summer, but she was one
of those people who love the country when the sun
shines and the roses are in bloom. Li the damp
autumnal afternoons, when silvery mists veiled the
common, her spirits sank, and she began to grow
fretful at her husband's absence, and to reproach
him if he were late in coming home.

He wanted his wife to be happy, and he wanted to
be near the scene of his labors, and within half an
hour's walk of St. James' Square. After a careful
search he found a house on the south side of the
Thames a quarter of a mile from Westminster
Bridge, in Crown Place, a modest terrace facing the
river. The house was roomier and more convenient
than his rustic cottage, but the long strip of garden
between low walls was a sad falling off from the
lawn and orchard at Sheen, and he feared that Lucy
would regret the change.

Lucy had no regrets. The larger rooms at Lam-
beth, the dwarf cupboards on each side of the parlor
fireplace, the convenient closets on the upper floor,

mutton and
•t I shall go
:li a pleas'.n'
ir loathsome
ISC with tlic
vaiits, or at
: dukes and
less for my

:he adminis-
fc in George
n had long
fro wasting
:y loved her
she was one
hen the sun
n the damp
:s veiled the
fan to grow
to reproach

le wanted to
thin half an
er a careful
side of the
^Vestminster
e facing the
3 convenient
p of garden
•ff from the
;d that Lucy

mis at Lam-
)f the parlor
upper floor,

St. Giles' and St. James' 225

the doorsteps and iron railings, and the view of the
river, with the Abbey and Houses of Parliament, and
the crowded roofs and chimneys of Westminster
fiKed her with delight. The cottage and garden had
been e-ichanting while the glamour of newly wedded
love Shone upon them, but by the time her spirits
had settled into a calm commonplace of domestic life
Lucy had discovered that she hated the country, and
smelt ghosts under the sloping ceilings of those
quaint cottage garrets where generations of labor-
ing men and women had been born and died. Not
unseldom had she longed for the bustle of Moor-
ficlds, and the din and riot of Bartholomew Fair, the
annual treat of her childhood.

She arranged her furniture in the new home with
complacency, and thought her son's nursery and her
best parlor the prettiest rooms in the world, much
nicer to live in than her ladyship's suit of saloons,
where the splendid spaciousness scared her. She
had known few ha])picr hours in her life than the
February afternoon when Lady Kilrusli and Sophy
Potter came to tea, and were both full of compli-
ments upon her parlor, which had been newly done
up, with the panelled dado painted pink, and a wall-
paper sprinkled with roses and butterflies.

Sophy Potter, who retired into the background
of Antonia's life in St. James' Square, was often her
companion in her visits to the poor, and took very
kindly to the work. As it was hardly possible to
avoid the peril of smallpox in such visits, Mr. Sto-
bart prevailed upon mistress and maid to submit to
the ordeal of inoculation. The operation in Sophy's
case was succeeded by a mild form of tlic malady,
but the virus had no effect upon Antonia, and her
physician argued that the vigor of a constitution

#
■'^i^^^'

226

The Infidel

which resisted the artificial infection would insure
her imnuuiity from the disease. Neither her hus-
band's entreaties nor the example of Lady Kilrush
could induce Mrs. Stobart to brave the perils of in-
oculation. It was in vain that George pleaded r.nd
set a doctor to argue with her. Her horror of the
smallpox made her shrink with tears and trem-
bling from the notion of the slightest attack pro-
duced artificially

" If it kills nu you will be sorry for having forced
mc to consent," she said, and George reluctantly
submitted to her refusal. She never went among
his poor and had never expressed a desire to see
them.

" I saw enough of such wretches round Moor-
fields," she said. '' I never want to go near them
again. And I have quite enough to do to keep my
house clean and look after my little boy. You would
want another servant if I went trapscing about your
lanes and alleys when I ought to be washing the tea
things and polishing the furniture."

Could he be angry with her for being industrious
and keeping his house a pattern of neatness? He
had long ago come to understand the narrow range
of her thoughts and feelings, but while she was
! ious and gentle and his devoted wife he had no
ground for thinking he had made a mistake in
choosing a low-born helpmeet.

From the hurried idleness of a fashionable life
Antonia stole many hours for the dwellings of the
poor. In most of her visits to those haunts of mis-
ery she was attended by Stobart, but she had a way
of eluding his guardianship sometimes, and would
set out alone or with ^Miss Potter on one of her
visits of mercv.

vouUl insure
licr her hus-
.ady Kilrush
perils of in-
ploadcd r.nd
lorror of the
s and trem-
; attack pro-

lavinpf forced
I reluctantly
went among
desire to sec

round Moor-
jo near thcni
3 to keep my
, You would
ig about your
ishing the tea

g industrious
catness ? He
narrow range
hilc she was
fe he had no
a mistake in

shionable life
cllings of the
aunts of mis-
he had a way
■s, and would
n one of her

St. Giles' and St. James' 227

As time went on he grew more apprehensive of
danger in her explorations, for now that she was fa-
miliar Avilh the class among which he worked her
intrepid spirit tempted her to i)lunge deeper into the
(lark al>3'ss of guilty and unhappy lives.

The time came when he could no longer bear to
tliink of the perils that surrounded her in the close
and fetid alleys v.here typhus and smallpox were
never wholly a^seut, and at the risk of offending her
he assumed the voice of authority.

" You told me once that I was your only family
coimection," he said, " and I ])resume upon that
slender tie to forbid you running such risks as you
incur when you enter such a den of fever as the
house Avhere I found you yesterday."

"What, sir, you forbid me? you whose clarion
call startled me from my selfish pleasures, you who
showed me my worthless life ! "

" You have done much to redeem that worthless-
ness by your sacrifice of income."

" Sacrifice ! You know, sir, that in your
heart of hearts you despise such paltering with
charity." For vou not to give all is to give noth-

'"?.'"
" You paint me as a bigot, madam, and not as a

Christian. Be sure that He who praised the Samar-
itan aj^proves your charity, and that He who holds
the seven stars in His right hand will open your eyes
to the light of revelation. A soul so lofty will not
be left forever in darkness. But in the meantime
there can be no good done by your presence in places
where you hazard health and life. You have made
me your almoner, and it is my duty to see that the
uttermost good is done with the money you have in-
trusted to me. Your own presence in those perilous

228

T he I n f i cl c 1

i>^

i I

places is useless, ^'ou have no Gospel to carry to the
sick and dyinj;."

" Oh, sir, I have sympathy and compassion to
give tliem. I douht they get enough of the Gospel,
and that the company of a woman who can feel for
iheir sti(Terin.c,s and soothe tlieni in their pain is not
without use. 'i'here is no siek-hed that 1 have sat hy
where I have not heen entreated to return. The
poor creatures like to tell mc their trouhles, to expa-
tiate on their miseries, and I listen and never let
them think I am tired."

•' You scatter gold among them : you demoralize
them hy your reckless almsgiving."

" No. no, no! I feed them. If there come days
when the larder is empty tiiey have at least the mem-
ory of a feast. Your Gospel will not stop the pangs
of hunger. That is hut a hysterical devotion which
goes famishing to hed to dream of the golden city
with jasper walls and the angels standing round the
throne. Dreams, dreams, only dreams! You stuff
those suffering creatures with dreams."

" I strive to make tliem look heyond their suffer-
ings here to the unspcakahle hliss of the life here-
after," Stohart answered gravely, and then he en-
treated her to go no more into those alleys where he
now worked every day and from which he came to
her two or three times a wec!>: to report progress.

He came to her after his work", in the hour hefore
the six-o'clock tea, at which she was rarely without
visitors. Tf he was told sh.e had company he went
away without seeing her ; hut hetween five and six
was the likeliest hour for finding her alone, since
her dr:i wing-rooms were crowded with morning vis-
itors, and her evenings were seasons of gayety at
home or abroad.

irry to the

passion to
he Gospel,
111 fed for
|iain is not
lavc sat hy
urn. The
s, to expa-
nevcr let

tlcmorahzc

conic clays
t the nietn-
1 the panjj^s
tion which
roUlen citv
; round the
You stuff

icir suffcr-
i life herc-
hen he cn-
s where he
he came to
rogrcss.
lour before
Ay without
ny he went
ive and six
done, since
lorning vis-
F gayety at

St. Giles' ;i n d St. James' 229

She received liini always iji the library, a room she
loved, and where they had had their first serious
conversation. Here, if he looked tired, she would
order in the urn and tea things, and would
make tea for him, while he told her the story of the
day. To sit in an easy-chair beside the wood fire
and to have her minister to him made an oasis of
rest in the desert of toil, and he soon began to look
forwaril to this hour as the bright spot in his life,
the recom])ense for every sacrifice of self.

The first thunder of a fooiman's double knock, the
clatter of high heels and rustle of brocade in the hall
sent him away. I le had made no second appearance
among her modish visitors.

" Go and shine and sparkle and fiutter your jew-
elled wings among other butterHies," he said. " 1
claim no j^art in your life in the world, but I am
proud to know that there are hours in which you
are something better than a woman of fashion."

The pleasures of the town and the assiduities of
Antonia's friends and admirers became more absorb-
ing as her inllurnc' in the great world in reased.
Her open-handed ;pitality, the splendor of her
house and the success of her entertainments had
placed her on a pinnacle of ton.

She held her own among the greatest ladies in
London, and w^as on familiar terms with all the
duchesses — Portland, Qucensberry, Norfolk, Bed-
ford, Hamilton — and nobody ever reminded her, by
a shade of difference in their ai)preciation, that she
had not been born in the purple.

She had more admirers than she took the trouble
to count, and had refused oflfers of marriage that
most women would have found i-resistiblc. Charles

TifiTimii

230

The Infidel

Townshcnd had followed and courted her, in spile
of all she could do to discourage his addresses by
a light gayety of manner that proclaimed her indif-
ference. He had found her alone one morning and
flung himself on his knees to sue for her hand.

Deeply hurt when she rejected him, he reproached
her for having fooled him by her civility.

" Oh, sir, would you have me distant or sullen to
the most brilliant man in London? I thought I let
you see that, though I loved your company, my
heart was disengaged, and that I had no preference
for one man over another."

" I doubt, madam, you despise a plain mister and
will wait for the next marrying duke. Wer't not for
the recent marriage act you might aspire to a prince
of the blood royal. Your ambition would be jus-
tified by your beauty, and I believe your pride is
equal to your charms."

" I shall never marry again, Mr. Townshend. I
loved my husband, and the tragedy of our marriage
made that love more sacred than the common affec-
tion of wives."

" Nay, madam, is there not something more po-
tent than the memory of a departed husband which
makes you scorn my passion ? I have several times
met a certain grave gentleman in your hall, who
seems privileged to enjoy your society when you
have no other company, and who leaves you when
your indifferent acquaintances arc admitted."

" That gentleman is my dear lord's cousin and a
married man. He can have no influence upon my
resolve against a second marriage."

She rang a bell and made Mr. Townshend a
courtesy, which meant dismissal. He retired in

St. Giles' and St. James' 231

silent displeasure, knowing that he had affronted
her.

" 'Tis deuced hard to be cut out by a sneaking
Methodist," he muttered as he followed the foot-
man downstairs.

He spent the evening at White's, played higher
and drank deeper than usual, and was weak enough
to mention the lady's name with a scornful anger
which betrayed' his mortification, and before the
next night all the town knew that Townshend had
been refused.

The rumor came to Stobart's knowledge a week
later by means of a paragraph in the Daily Journal,
with the usual initials and the usual stars. " Lady
K., the beautiful widow, and Mr. C. S., the aspiring
politician, wit and trifler, whose eminent success as
a lady killer has made him unable to endure rejec-
tion at the hands of a beauty who, after all, belongs
but to the lower ranks of the peerage, and cannot
boast of a genteel ancestry.

Stobart read this stale news in a three-days'-old
paper at the shabby coffee-house in the borough,
where he sometimes took a snack of bread and
cheese and a glass of twopenny porter instead of go-
ing home to dinner.

" I doubt she has many such offers," he thought.
" for she hangs out every bait that can tempt a lover
— beauty, parts, fortune. If she has refused Town-
shend 'tis, perhaps, only because there is some one
else pleases her better. She will marry and I shall
lose her, for 'tis likely her husband will cut short
her friendship for a follower of John Wesley, lest
the word of God should creep into his house un-
awares."

I V

[//

232

The Infidel

He left London early in April in Mr. Wesley's
company, and rode with that indefatigable man
through the rural English landscape, making from
forty to fifty miles a day, and halting every day at
some market cross or on some heathy knoll on the
outskirts of town or village to preach the Gospel to
listening throngs. Their journey on this occasion
took them through quiet agricultural communities
and small market towns, where the ill-usage that
Wesley had suffered at Bolton and at Falmouth
was undreamed of among the congregations who
hung upon his words and loved his presence. He
was now in middle life, hale and wiry, a small,
neatly built man, with an extraordinary capacity for
enduring fatigue and a serene temper which made
light of scanty fare and rough quarters. He was an
untiring rider, but had never troubled himself to
acquire the art of horsemanship, and as he mostly
read a book during his country rides, he had fallen
into a slovenly, stooping attitude over the neck of
his horse. He had been often thrown, but rarely
hurt, and had a Spartan indifference to such dis-
asters. He loved a good horse, but was willing tc
put up with any beast that would carry him to the
spot where he was expected. He hated to break an
appointment, and was the most punctual as well as
the most polite of men.

He liked George Stobart, and having assayed
his mental and moral qualities at the beginning
of their acquaintance, pronounced him true metal.
He was a man of wide sympathies, and during
the April journey through the heart of Hert-
fordshire, and then bv the wooded pastures and
wide grassy margins of the Warwickshire coach
roads between Coventry and Stratford-on-Avon, he

\ %

St. Giles' and St. James* 233

discovered that something was amiss with his
helper.

" I hojie you do not begin to tire of your work,
Stobart," he said. " There are some young men I
have seen put their hands to the plough in a fever
of faith and piety, and drive their first furrow deep
and straight, and then faith grows dim and the line
straggles, and my scrrovvful heart tells me that the
laborer is good for nothing. But I do not think you
arc of that kidney."

" I hope not, sir."

" But I sec there is trouble of some sort on your
mind. We passed a vista in that oak wood yonder,
with the smiling sun showing like a disk of blood-
red gold at the end of the clearing; and you, who
have such an eye for landscape, stared at it with a
vacant gaze. I'll vouch for it you have uneasy
thoughts that come between you and God's beau-
tiful world."

" I trouble myself without reason, sir, about a
soul that I would fain win for Christ, and cannot."

" 'Tis of your cousin's widow, Lady Kilrush, you
are thinking," Wesley said, with a keen glance.

" Oh, sir, how did you divine that ? "

" Because you told me of the lady's infidel opin-
ions ; and as I know how lavish she has been with
her money in helping your work among the poor. I
can understand that in sheer gratitude you would
desire to bring her into the fold. I doubt you have
tried in all seriousness ? "

" I have tried, sir, but not hard enough. My
cousin is a strange creature — generous, impetuous,
charitable ; but she has a commanding temper and a
light way of putting me olY in an argument which
makes it hard to reason with her. And then I doubt

234

The Infidel

; '

Satan has ever the best of it, and that 'tis easier to
argue on the evil side, easier to deny than to prove.
When I am in my cousin's company, and we are both
interested in the wretches she has saved from mis-
ery, I find myself forgetting that while she snatches
the sick and famished from the jaws of death her
immortal soul is in danger of a worse death than the
grave, and that in all the time we have been friends
nothing has been done for her salvation."

"Mr. Stobart, I doubt you have thought too much
of the woman and too little of the woman's un-
awakened soul," Wesley said with grave reproof.
" Her beauty has dazzled your senses, and con-
science has been lulled to sleep. As your pastor and
your friend I warn you that you do ill to cherish the
company of a beautiful heathen, save with the sole
intent of winning her salvation."

" Oh, sir, can you think me so weak a wretch as
to entertain one unworthy thought in relation to this
lady, who has ever treated me with a sisterly friend-
ship ? The fact that she is exquisitely beautiful can
make no difference in my concern for her. I would
give half the years of my life to save her soul ; and
I see her carried along the flood-tide of modish
pleasures, the mark for gamesters and spendthrifts,
and I dread to hear that she has been won by the
most audacious and the worst of the worthless
crew."

"If you can keep your own conscience clear of
evil and win this woman from the toils of Satan you
will do well," said Wesley, " but tamper not with
the truth, and if you fail in bringing her to a right
way of thinking part company with her forever.
You know that I am your friend, Stobart. My heart
went out to you at the beginning of our acquaint-

niiJ

St. Gile{>' and St. James" 235

ance, when you told nie of your marriage with a
young woman so much your inferior in worldly
rank, for your attachment to a girl of the servant
class recalled my own experience. The woman I
loved best, before I met Mrs. Wesley, was a woman
who had been a domestic servant, but \v^hose intel-
lect and character fitted her for the highest place
in the esteem of all good people. Circumstances
prevented our union — and — I made another
choice."

He concluded his speech with an involuntary sigh,
and George Stobart knew that the great leader, who
had many enthusiastic followers and helpers among
the women of his flock, had not been fortunate in
that one woman who ought to have been first in her
sympathy with his work.

Stobart spent a month on the road with his chief,
preaching at Bristol and to the Kingswood miners,
and journeying from south to north with him, in
company with one of Wesley's earliest and best lay
preachers, a man of humble birth, but greatly gifted
for his work among assemblies in which more than
half of his hearers were heathens, to whom the word
of God was a new thing — souls dulled by the monot-
ony of daily toil, and only to bo aroused from the
apathy of a brutish ignorance by an emotional
preacher. Those who had stood by Whitefield's side
when the tears rolled down the miners' blackened
faces knew how strong, how urgent, how pathetic
must be the appeal, and how sure the result when
that appeal was pitched in the right key.

The little band bore every hardship and incon-
venience of a journey on horseback through all
kinds of weather with unvarying good humor, for
Wesley's cheerful spirits set them so fine an example

, VI

i
1

I ■

■H.

J^K' ^

'■'■f

'B' 1

, 1

is 1

i .

■

W ft I'i 1

1 'i : i

' 1

i'-

*l i

r '

236 The Infidel

of Christian contentment that they who were his
juniors would have been ashamed to complain.

In some of the towns on their route Mr. Wesley
had friends who were eager to entertain the travel-
lers and in whose pious households they fared well.
In other places they had to put up with the rough
meals and hard beds of inns rarely frequented by
gentlefolks; or sometimes, belated in desolate re-
gions, had to take shelter in a roadside hovel, where
they could scarce command a loaf of black bread for
their supper and a shakedown of straw for their
couch.

May had begun when Wesley and his deacons ar-
rived in London, after having preached to hundreds
of thousands on their way. Stobart had been absent
more than a month, and the time seemed much
longer than it really was by reason of the distances
traversed and the varieties of life encountered on
the way. He had received a weekly letter from his
wife, who told him of all her household cares, and
of Georgie's daily growth in childish graces. He
had answered all her letters, telling her of his ad-
ventures on the road, in which she took a keen in-
terest, loving most of all to hear of the fine houses
to which he was invited, the dishes at table, and the
way they were served, the tea things and tray, and
if the urn were copper or silver, also the dress of the
'adies, and whether they 'wore linen aprons in the
morning. He knew her little weaknesses, and in-
dulged her, and rarely returned from a journey
without bringing her some trifling gift for her
house, a cream jug or some special ware, a damask
tablecloth, or sometb.ing he knew she loved.

Their union had been one of peace and a tranquil
affection, which on Stobart's pait outlived the brief

.Hill

St. Giles' and St. James' 237

fervor of a self-sacrificing love. The romantic feel-
ing, the glow of religious enthusiasm which had led
to his marriage belonged to the past, but he told
himself that he had done well to marry the printer's
daughter, and that she was the fittest helpmeet he
could have chosen, since she left him free to work
out his salvation, and submitted with gentle obe
dience to the necessities of his spiritual life.

" Mr. Wesley would thank Providence for so
placid a companion," he thought, having heard of
his leader's sufferings from a virago who opened
and destroyed his letters, insulted his friends, and
tormented him with an unreasoning jealousy that
made his home life a kind of martyrdom.

During that religious pilgrimage Stobart had
written several times to Lady Kulrush — letters in-
spired by his intercourse with Wesley and by the
spiritual experiences of the day ; letters written in
the quiet of a sleeping household, and aflame with
the ardent desire to save that one most precious soul
from eternal condemnation. He had written with a
vehement importunity which he had never ventured
in his conversation ; had wrestled with the infidel
spirit as Jacob wrestled with the angel ; had been
moved even to tears by his own eloquence, carried
away by the ardor of his feelings.

" Since I was last in your company I have seen
multitudes won from Satan ; have seen the roughest
natures softened to penitent tears at the story of
Calvary — the hardest hearts melted, reprobates and
vagabonds laying down their burden of sins, and
taking up the cross. And I have thought of you, so
gifted by nature, so rare a jewel for the crown of
Christ — you whose inexhaustible treasures of love
and compassion I have seen poured upon the most

238

The Infidel

;■./■

miserable of this world's outcasts, the very scum and
refuse of debased humanity. You, so kind, so piti-
ful, so clear of brain and steadfast of purpose, can
you forever reject those divine promises, that gift
of eternal life by which alone we are better than
the brutes that perish ? "

" Alas ! dear sir," Antonia wrote in her reply to
this last letter, " can you not be content with so
many victories, so great a multitude won from
Satan, and leave one solitary sinner to work out her
own destiny? If my mind could realize your king-
dom of the saints, if I could believe that far off, in
some vague region of this universe, whose vastness
appalls me, there is a world where I shall see the
holy teacher of Nazareth, hear words of ineflfablc
wisdom from living lips, and, most precious of all,
see once again in a new and better life the husband
who died in my arms, I would accept your creed
with ecstatic joy. But I cannot. My father taught
me to reason, not to dream, and I have no power to
unlearn what I learned from him and from the
bo^'ks he put into my hands. Do not let us argue
about spiritual things. We shall never agree.
Teach me to care for the poor and the wretched
with a wise affection, and to use my fortune as a
good woman, Pagan or Christian, ought to use
riches, for the good of others as well as for her own
pleasure in the only world she believes in."

The London season, which in those days began
and ended earlier than it now does, was growing
more brilliant as it neared the close. When Mr.
Stobart returned to town, Ranelagh, Vauxhall, the
Italian opera, Handel's oratorios, the two patent
theatres, and that little theatre in the Haymarket,
where the malicious genius of Samuel Foote revelled

St. Giles' and St. James* 239

in mimicry and caricature, were crowded nightly
with the salt of the earth ; and the ruinous pleasures
of the St. James' Street clubs— White's, Arthur's
and the Cocoa Tree — were still in full swing, to the
apprehension and horror of fathers and mothers,
sisters, wives and sweethearts, who might wake any
morning to hear that son or husband, brother or
lover, had been reduced to beggary between mid-
night and dawn. Losses at cards that ruined
families, disputes that ended in blood were the fre-
quent tragedies that heightened the comedy of fash-
ionable life by the zest of a poignant contrast.

George Stobart returned to London with Wes-
ley's counsel in his mind. He had been told his duty
as a Christian. He must hold no commune with a
daughter of Belial, save in the hope of leading her
into the fold. If his most strenuous endeavors
failed to convert the unbeliever he must renounce
her friendship and see her no more. He must not
trifle with sacred things, honor her for a compas-
sionate and generous disposition, admire her nat-
ural gifts, and forget that she was a daughter of
perdition.

He recalled the hours he had spent in her com-
pany, hours in which all religious questions had
been ignored while they discussed the means of
feeding the hungry and clothing the naked. Surely
they had been about the Master's work, though the
Master's name had not been spoken. He remem-
bered how, instead of being instant in season and
out of season, he had kept silence about spiritual
things, had even encouraged her to talk of those
trivial pleasures she loved too well — the court, the
opera, her patrician friends, her social triumphs.
He recalled those romantic legends in which some

■1

I/"

. i

240

The Infidel

pious Knight, jtninicying tov.ard the Holy Land,
meets a lovely huly in distress, succors her, pities
and even loves her only to discover the flames of
hell in those luminous eyes, the fiery breath of Satan
upon those alluring Ups. He swore to be resolute
with himself and inexorable to her, to accept no
compromises, to reject even her gold, if he could not
make her a Christian.

In his anxiety for her spiritual welfare it was a
bitter disappointment to him not to find her at home
when he called in St. James' S(|nare on the day after
his return. He called again next day, and was told
that she was dining with the Duchess of Portland at
Whitehall, and was to accompany her grace to the
Duchess of Norfolk's ball in the evening.

He felt vexed and offended at this second repulse,
yet he had reason to he grateful to her for her kind-
ness to his wife during his absence. She, the fine
lady, whose every hour was allotted in the mill-
round of pleasure, had taken Lucy and the little boy
to Hyde f*ark in her coach, and for long country
drives to Chiswick and Kew, and had even accepted
an occasional dish of tea in the parlor at Crown
Place, had heard Georgie repeat one of Dr. Watts's
hymns, and had brought him a present of toys from
Mrs. Chencvix's such as no Lambeth child had ever
possessed.

He had been full of work since his return, visit-
ing his schools and infant nurseries, and preaching
in an old brew house which he had converted into a
chapel, where he held a nightly service, consisting
of one earnest prayer, a chapter of the New Testa-
ment and a short sermon of friendly counsel, gentle
reproof of evil habits and evil speech, and fervent
exhortation to all sinners to lead a better life, and

% V

St. Giles' and St. fumes' 241

where ho held also a class for adults wlio
had never been tauj^^ht to read or write, and for
wlioni he labored with unvarying patience and kind-
ness.

He was more out of humor than a Christian
should have been wlun, on his third visit to St.
James' Square, he was told that her ladyship was
eonfined to her room by a headache and desired not
to be disturbed, as she was going to the masquerade
that evening.

The porter spoke of " the masquerade " with an
assurance that no gentleman in London could fail
to know all about so distinguished an entertainment.

Stobart left the door in a huft. It was six weeks
since he had seen her face, and she valued his
friendship so little that she cared not how many
times he was sent away from her htaise. She would
give herself no trouble to receive him.

Instead of going home to supper he wandered
about the West End till nightfall, when streets and
squares began to be alive with links and chairmen.
At almost every door there was a coach or a chair,
and the roll of wheels over the stones made an in-
termittent thunder. Everybody of any importance
was going to the masquerade, whicli was a subscrip-
tion dance at Rantlagh, given by a number of
bachelor noblemen, and supposed to be accessible
only to the choicest company, though 'twas odds
that a week later it would be known that more than
one notorious courtesan had stolen an entrance and
displayed her fine figure and her diamonds among
the diichesses.

A fretful restlessness impelled Stobart to pursue
his wanderings. The thought of the T.ambeth par-
lor, with the sky shut out. and the tallow randies

242

T h t I n f i d el

; (

guttering in tla-ir brass candlesticks, oppressed him
with an idea of iniprisonmcnt.

He walked at random, his nerves soothed by the
cool night air, and presently, having turned into a
main thoroughfare, found himself drifting the way
the coaches and chairs were going, in a procession
of lamps and torches, an undulating line of fire and
light th.at flared and flickered with every waft of the
southwest wind.

All the road between St. James' and Chelsea had
a gala air to-night, for 'twas said the old king and
the Duke of Cumberland would be at Ranclagh.
People were standing in open doorways, groups
were gathered at street corners, eager voices named
the occupants of chariots or sedan, mostly wrong.
The Duke of Newcastle was greeted with mingled
cheers and hisses. Fox evoked a storm of applause,
and young Mrs Spencer's diamonds were looked at
with gloating atlmiration by milliners' apprentices
and half-starved shirtmakers.

Stobart went along with the coaches on the Chel-
sea Road to the entrance of Ranelagh, where a
luob h.-'.J assembled to see the company — a mob
which seemed as lively and elated as if to stand and
stare at beauty and jewels, fops and politicians,
afforded almost as good an entertainment as the fes-
tivity under the dome. Having made his way with
some elbowing to the front row, Stobart had a near
view of the company, who had to traverse some
paces between the spot where their coaches drew up
and the Doric portico which opened into the ro-
tunda, that magnificent pleasure house which has
been compared to the Pantheon at Rome for size
and architectural dignity.

The portico was ablaze with strings and festoons

St. Giles* and St. James* 243

-f many colored lamps, and from within there came
the inspiring sounds of dance music played by an or-
chestra of strings and brasses — sounds that mingled
with the trampling of horses' hoofs, the cracking of
whips, the oaths of coachmen and the remonstrance
of link boys and footmen, trying to keep back the
crowd.

" Oh, oh, oh I " cried the front row at the api .r-
ance of a tall woman, masked, and wearing a long
pink satin cloak, which fell back as she descended
from her chariot, revealing a magnificent form at-
tired as Diana in a white satin tunic which displayed
more of a handsome leg than is often given to Oie
public view, and a gauze drapery that made no en-
vious screen between admiring eyes and au alaba;^. .*»
>ni!.L ai:d shoulders.

" I'll vager her ladyship came out y\ such a hurry
sli-,» forgi . to put on her clothes," said one spectator.

'* { Si'i , Sally," cried another, " if you or me was
to ^ome out such a figure we should be in the
stocks or ihe pill* 'v before we went home."

" Sure 't's a kindness in a great lady to show us
that duchesses are made of flesh and blood like com-
mon folks, only finer."

Flashing eyes defied the crowd as the handsome
duchess strode by, her silver buskins glittering in
the rainbow lit^ht, her head held at an imperial level,
admiring fops closing round her. with their hands
on their sword hilts, ready to repress or to punish
insult.

" Sure, Charley, one would suppose these
wretches had never seen a hanflsome woman till to-
night," laughed the lady.

" I doubt they never have seen so much of one."
answered the gentleman in a lialf-whisper, on which

244

The Infidel

lie was called " beast," aiul rebuked with a smart
tap from Diana's fan.

A groat many people had arrived, peeresses with-
out number, and among them Katherine, Duchess of
Oueensl)erry, Prior's Kitty, made immortal by a
verse. This lovely lady appeared in a studied sim-
plicity of white lutestring, without a jewel — a
beauty unadorned that had somewhat missed fire
at the last birthday against the magnificence of her
rivals. The beautiful Duchess of Hamilton went by
with her lovely sister, Lady Coventry, radiant in a
complexion of white lead, which was said to be kill-
ing her ; starry creatures like goddesses passed in a
glittering procession ; the music, the babel of voices
from within, made a tempest of sound, but she had
not^yet appeared, and Stobart wviited to see her pass.
She came in her chariot, like Cinderella in the
fairy tale. Hammer-cloth and liveries were a blaze
of gold and l)luc. Three footmen hung behind, with
powdered heads, sky-blue velvet coats, white
breeches, pink stockings and gold garters — gor-
geous creatures that leaped down to open the coach
door and let down the steps, but were not suffered
to come near her, for a bevy of her admirers had
been watching for her arrival and crowded about
her carriage door, thrusting her lackeys aside.
She laughed at their eagerness.
" 'Twas vastly kind of you to wait for me, Sir
Joseph," she said to the foremost. " I should scarce
have dared to plunge into the whirlpool of company
unattended. Lady Margaret had a couple of young
things to bring, who insisted upon coming here di-
rectly the room opened, so I let her come without
me. I love a fete best at the flood-tide. Sure your
lordship must think me monstrous troublesome if I

.ith a smart

St. Giles' and St. James' 245

have robbed you of a dance." she added, turning to
a tall man in smoke-colored velvet and silver.

" I think your ladyship knows that there is but
one woman in Europe I love to dance with," said
Lord Dunkeld gravely.

He was a man of distinguished rank and fortune,
distinguished merit also — a man whom Stobart had
known and admired in his society days.

" Then 'tis some woman in Asia you are thinking
of when I see you distrait or out of spirits," Antonia
said lightly as she took his arm.

" Alas ! fair enslaver, you know too well your
power to make me happy or wretched," he mur-
mured in her ear.

" I hope everybody vill be happy to-night," she
said gayly, " or you subscribing gentlemen, who
have taken so much trouble to please us, will be ill-
paid for your pains. For my own part I mean to
think Ranelagh tb seventh heaven, -'nd not to re-
fuse a dance."

She wore her velvet loup, with a filmy border of
brussels that clouded the carmine of her lips. Her
white teeth flashed against the black lace, her smile
was enchantingly gay.

Stobart heard her in a gloomy temper. What
hope was there for such a woman — so given over to
worldly pleasures, with no capacity for thought of
serious things, no desire for immortality, finding her
paradise in a masquerade, her happiness in the
adulation of fools?

" How can I ever bring her nearer to God while
she lives in a perpetual intoxication of earthly pleas-

ures, while she so exults in

her beautv and her

power over the hearts of men ? "

She wore a diamond tiara and necklace of match-

fi,

<¥. I

PI' ^

[t> '

246

The Infidel

less fire. Pier gown was white and silver, the
stomacher covered with colored jewels that flashed
between the opening of her long black silk domino,
an ample garment with loose sleeves. She had ar-
rayed herself in all her splendor for this much-
talked-of masquerade, wishing to do honor to the
gentlemen who gave the treat.

" Bid my servants fetch me at one o'clock, if you
please, Sir Joseph," she said to the cavalier on her
left.

"At one! Impossible! 'Tis nearly eleven al-
ready. I shall order them at three, and I'll wager
they'll have to wait hours after that."

" You make very sure of your dance pleasing
folks," she said. " I doubt I shall have yawned my-
self half dead before three o'clock; but you'll have
to find me a seat in a dark corner where I can sleep
behind my fan."

" There are no dark corners except in the gallery
for lovers and dowagers, and I pledge myself no-
body under forty shall have any disposition for
slumber," protested Sir Joseph, as he ran off to
give her orders.

She passed under the lamp-lit portico on Lord
Dunkeld's arm.

" That is the man she will marry," Stobart
thought, as he walked away, hurrying from the
crowd and the lights and noise and laughter, and
past a tavern a little way off, in front of which an
army of footmen and links were gathered, and
where they and the crowd were being served with
beer and gin. He was glad to get into a dark lane
that led toward Westn ' ister Bridge, skirting the
river, and to be able to iiink quietly.

She would marry Dunkeld. Was it not the best

St. Giles' and St. James' 247

thing she could do — her best chance for the saving
of that immortal soul which he had tried in vain
to save? Dunkeld was no idle pleasure lover,
though he mixed in the diversions of his time. He
was a politician, and had written more than c".c
pamphlet that had commanded the attention of Iwc
town. He was a good churchman, a regular attend-
ant at the Chapel Royal. He was rich enough to be
above suspicion of mercenary views. He had never
been a gambler or a profligate. He was seven and
thirty, Antonia's senior by about twelve years.
Assuredly she would be safer from the evil of the
time as Dunkcld's wife than in her present unpro-
tected position.

He repeated these arguments with unending iter-
ation throughout his homeward walk. It was, per-
haps, his duty to urge this union upon her. She had
never spoken to him of Dunkeld, or in so casual a
tone that he had suspected her of no uncommon
friendship for that excellent man, yet he could
hardly doubt that she favored his suit. He was
handsome, accomplished, of an ancient Scottish
family, had made his mark in the English House
of Commons. He could scarcely believe it possible
that such a suitor had failed to engage Antonia's
aiTections. At any rate, it was his duty — his duty
as a friend, as a Christian — to persuade her to this
marriage.

He found his wife sitting up for him and the sup-
per untouched, though it was midnight when he got
home. The supper was but a frugal meal of bread
and cheese, a si)ring salad and small beer, but the
table was neatly laid with a clean damask cloth and
adorned with a Lowestoft bowl of wall flowers.
Lucy had a genius for small things, and was quick

248

The I n f i d e 1

Hf^l

Hli

to learn any ari that light hands and perseverance
could accomplish.

" How late you arc, George ! " she exclaimed. " I
was almost frightened. Have you been teaching
your night class all these hours? "

" No, 'tis not a class night. I have been roaming
the streets, full of thought, but idle of purpose. 1
let myself drift with the crowd, and went to stare
at the fine people going into Ranelagh."

"You! Well, 'tis a wonder. But why didn't you
take me? I should have loved to see the fancy
dresses and masks and dominos. Indeed, I should
have asked you many a time to let me sec the quality
going to court only I fancied you thought all such
shows wicked."

" A wicked waste of time. I doubt I have been
wickedly wasting my time to-night, Lucy, yet per-
haps some good may come of my idleness. God can
turn even otn- errors to profit."

" Oh, George, I have done very wrong." his wife
said, with sudden seriousness. " I have forgotten
something."

" Nay, child, 'tis not the first time. Thy genius
never showed strongest in remembering things."

" But this was a serious thing, and you'll scold me
when you know it."

" Be brief, dear, and I'll promise to be indulgent."

" You know Sally Dormer, the ]X)or woman that's
in a consumption, and that you and her ladyship are
concerned about? "
ics.

'' Her young brother calletl the day you came
home, and told me the doctor had given her over,
and she wanted to see you — she was pining and fret-
ting because vou was awav, and she had been a ter-

>everance

St. Giles' and St. James' 249

rible sinner, the boy said, and was afcarcd to meet
her God. I meant to tell }ou the first minute I saw
you, George, and then I was so glad to see you, and
that put everything out of my head."

" And kept it out of your head for a week, Lucy —
the prayer of a dying woman?"
" Ah, now you are angry with me."
" No, no, but I am sorry — very sorry. The poor
soul is dead, perhaps. I might have been with her
at the last hour and might have given her hope and
comfort. You should not forget such things as
those, Lucy; your heart should serve instead of
memory when a dying penitent's peace is in ques-
tion."

" Oh, I am a hateful wretch, and I'd sooner you
scolded me than not. But you had been away so
long, and I had fretted about you, and was so glad
to have you again."

She was in tears, and he held out his hand to her
across the table.

" Don't cry, Lucy. Perhaps I do ill to leave you
— even in God's service, but the call is strong."

He left his thought unspoken. He had been
thinking that the man who gave himself to the ser-
vice of Christ should have neither wife nor child.
The earthly and the heavenly love were not com-
patible.

" I will go to Sally's garret the first thing to-mor-
row morning," he said. " Please God, I mav not be
too late ! "

He was silent for the rest of the meal, and his
slumbers were brief and perturbed, his fitful sleep
haunted by visions of splendor and beautv ; the
brazen duchess, erstwhile maid of honor, wife of
two husbands, radiant and half naked as the god-

1*/

250

The I n t" i (1 e 1

(less of chastity, witli a diamond crescent on her
brow, and that other woman, whose modest bearing
j^ave the grace of purity even to the splendor of her
jewels and glittering silver gown. Dream faces fol-
lowed him through the lahvrinth of sleep, and his
last dream was of tli-; tnglnmare kind, lie was in
the retreat at F(:ii;.cn.vv, fighung at close quarters
with a French draj^oon whonv he kiuw of a sudden
for the foul fiend in person, r.nd t)u«t die stake for
which he fop.ght was Atitonia's soul.

" He shall not hav\- her," he cried. " I'd sooner
see hi:r another man's wife than the devil's prize."

H: was awakened b}.- his own voice in a hoarse,
gasping cry mkI siarting up in die broad light of a
May morning, looked at his wateii and found it was
half-past five, fie ros<' quKtly, so as not to disturb
his sleeping wife, and mi:u\q his morning toilet in a
little back room that served as his dressing closet — a
Spartan chamber, in which an abundance of cold
water was his only luxury. He left the house soon
after six and talked quickly through the quiet
morning streets to the pestiferous alley where Sally
Dormer lay dyiii-,' or dead.

She was one of his penitents, a woman who was
still young and had once been beautiful, steeped in
sin in the very morning of life, in the company of
thieves and highwaymen, grown prematurely old in
a profligate career, a courtesan's neglected offspring
and carrying the seeds of consumption from her
cradle. Her mother liad been dead ten years; her
father had never been known to her ; her only rela-
tive was a boy of eleven, her mother's sole legacy. A
sermon of Whitefield's. preached to thousands of
hearers on Keninngton Common in the sultry still-
ness of an August night, had awakened her to the

St. Giles' and St. James' 251

knovvlc(Ij,'c of sin. She was one of the many who
went vo hear the famous preacher, prompted by idle
curiosity, and who left him changed and exalted,
shuddcrinft- at the sins of the past, horrified at the
perils of the future. That wave of penitent feeling
might have ebbed as quickly as it rose but for
George Stobart, who found the sinner while the
effect of Whitefield's eloquence was new, and com-
pleted the work of conversion — a work more easily
accomplished, perhaps, by reason of Sally Dormer's
broken health.

She had been marked for death before that sultry
night when she had stood under the summer stars,
trembling at Whitefield's picture of the sinner's
doom, pale to the lips as he dwelt on the terrors of
hell and God's curse upon the stubborn unbeliever.
" All the curses of the law belong to you. Oh, ye
adamantine hearts, that melt not at the name of
Jesus. Cursed are you when you go out ; cursed are
you when you come in ; cursed are your thoughts :
cursed are your words; cursed are your deeds!
Everything you do, say or think, from morning to
night, is only one continued series of sin. Awake,
awake, thou that sleepest, melt and tremble, heart
of stone. Look to Him whom thou hast pierced !
Look and love ; loolc and mourn ; look and praise,
fhough thou art stained with sin and black with
iniquity thy God is yet thy God ! "

Stobart had told Antonia of Sally Dormer's con-
dition, and had provided by her means for the peni-
tent's comfort in her lingering illness, the fatal end
of which was obvious, however much her state
varied from week to week. But he had opposed An-
tonia's desire to visit the invalid, shrinking with ac-
tual jiain from the idea of any contact Ix-tween the

(' I

I*
1 1:

252

The Infidel

spotless woman and the castaway, who in her re-
morse for her past Hfe was apt to expatiate upon
vile experiences.

Five minutes' walk brought Mr. Stobart to a
narrow street on the edge of the river, a street long
given over to the dregs of humanity. The houses
were old and dilapidated, and several of those on
the water side had been shored up at the back with
timber supports, moss-grown and slimy from the
river fog, Net a favorite climbing place for vagaboml
boys as well as for a colony of starveling rats.

Sally's lodging was on the third story of a corner
house, one of the oldest and most tumble-down, but
also one o^ ^hc most spacious, having formed part of
a nobleman's mansion under the Tudor kings, when
all the riverside was pleasauncc and garden.

The garret occupied the whole of the floor, under
a steeply sloping roof, and had two windows, one
looking to the street, the other to the river. Here
.Sally had been slowly dying for near half a year, in
charge of her little brother, and under the super-
vision of the dispensary doctor, who saw her daily.

The house was quiet in the summer morning.
The men who had work to do had gone about it ;
the idlers were still in bed ; the more respectable
among the women were occupied with their children
or their housework. Stobart met no one in the
gloom of the rickety staircase, where the rotten
boards offered numerous pitfalls for the unwary.
He was used to rui'i and decay in that water-side
region, and trod carefully. The last flight was little
better than a ladder, at the top of which he saw the
garret door ajar, and heard a voice he knew speak-
ing in tones so low and gentle that speech seemed a
caress.

■■*\\

St. Giles' and St. James' 253

It was Antonia's voice. She was silling by Sally
Dormer's ])illow, in all the splendor of vvliite and
silver brocade, diamond tiara and jeweilcd strm-
acher. Her right arm was aroimd the sick wor/ian,
and Sally's dishevelled head leant against her shoul-
der.

" Great heaven, what a change of scene ! " he said,
as he bent down and took Sally's hand. " 'Tis not
many hours since I saw you at Ranelagh."

" Were you at Ranelagh ? "

" At the gate only. I do not enter such paradises.
I went there last night after your door was shut in
my face for the third time. Tt seemed my only
chance of seeing you, and the sight was worth a
journey. Rut what madness to come here alone in
your finery, to flash jewels worth a fortune before
starving desperadoes ! Sure 'twas wilful to pro-
voke danger."

" I am not afraid. My coach brought me to the
end of the street, and my chair is to fetch me pres-
ently. I shall be taken care of, sir, be sure. This
foolish Sally had set her heart on seeing me in my
masquerade finery, so I came straight from Rane-
lagh, and I have been telling Snlly about the ball
and the beauties."

" An edifying discourse, truly ! "

" Oh, you shall edify her to your (1. :rt's content
when I am gone. I have been trying to amuse her.
I stole those sweetmeats for Harry from the royal
table " — smiling at the boy, who was sitting on the
end of the bed, with his mouth full of bonbons. " I
smuggled them into my pocket while the duke was
talking to me."

" I was at Ranelagh once, your ladyship. ' 3aid
Sally, touching the gems on Antonia's stoinacher

: i

254

The I ifidel

kill

■ill:^|i

one by one with her attenuated finger tips, as if she
were counting tlicm, and as if their briihancy gave
her ploasure. " 'Tvvas when T was young and Hved
like a lady. My first sweetheart took nie there. He
was a gentleman then. 'Twas before he took to the
road. I dream of him often as he was in tho.se days,
seven years ago. He is changed now, and so am I.
Sometimes I can scarce believe we arc the same flesh
and blood, "fwas a handsome face a dear face ! I
sec it in my dreams every night."

" Sally. Sally, is this the spirit in which to remem-
h^r 'ur sins ? " exclaimed Stobart reprovingly.
" See, madam, what mischief your mistaken kind-
ness has done."

"No, no no! My poor Sally is no less a true
penitent because her thoughts tin-n for a few mo-
ments to the (lays that arc gone. Tis a fanlt in your
religion, sir, that it is all gloom. Your master look
a kinder view of life, and was indulgent to human
affections as He was pitiful to human pai/is. Sally
has made her peace with God, and believes in a
happy world where her sins v»ill be forgiven, and
she will wear the white robe of innoc< nee, and hear
the songs of angels c.round the heavenly throne."

" Tf thou hast indeed assurance of sab aiion, Sally,
thou art happier than the gro-it ones oi ihc earth,
who wilfully refuse their portion in Christ'.'^ 'onin^
blood, who ' m neither realize their awn ini .ity nor
the Redeemci V power to take away their ins."

" ' Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall i
vhite as snow,' " m"rmured Sally, her fingers still
.anderii -X about Antonia's jewels, touchin.j neck-
lace and tiara, and the raven ..air that tell in heavy
curls about the full, white throat.

" How beautiful vou are ! " she murmured. " If

>i\

St. Giles' and St. James' 255

i^tls arc like you and as kind, how dearly I
iovc them! Poor hcll-dcserving^ me! Will

tlk

sha.,

they be kind, and never cast my sins in my face nur

draw their skirts away from me and quicken their

steps, as I have seen modest women do in the

streets ? "

" We are told that God's angels are miirh kinder
than modest wotneii, Sally," Antonia answered,
smiling at her as she offered a cup )f cooling drink
to the parched lips.

She had been teaching the eleven-year-old Harry
to make lemonade for his sick lister. One of the
ladies from the infant nursery came in every day to
make Sally's bed and clean her room, and for the
rest the precocious little brother, reared in muddle,
idleness and intermittent starvation, was much more
helpful than a happier child would have been.

"Shall I read to you. Sally """ Stobart asked in
his grave voice, seating himself in an old rush-bot-
tomed chair at the foot of the bed.

"Oh, sir, pray with me, pray for me! 1 would
rather hear your prayers than the book. They do
me mor(> good."

Antonia gently withdrew her arm from the sick
woman's waist, and arranged the pillows at her back
— luxurious down pillows supplied from the trop-
plein of St. James' Square — and rose from her seat
by the bed.

" Good-by, Sally," she said, putting on her black
domino, which she had thrown off at the invalid's
request, to exhibit the splendors beneath. " I shall
come and see vou soon agaii.. and I leave you with a
good friend."

" Oh, my lady, do stop for a bit. I love to have
you by my bed, an >h T M.'ant you to hear his

256

The Infidel

Ki i
1 s

i ■ !

(fiifl

prayt-rs. I want vdu to be justified by faith, you
who have never sinned."

" Hush, hush. Sally t "

" Who know not sin — Ukc mine. I want you to
heheve as I do ; I want to meet you in heaven among
the Iiappy souls washed white in the hlood of the
Lamb. Stay and hear him pray.'"

" I'll stay for a little to please yoti, Sally; hut in-
deed I am out of place here," Antonia .said gravely,
as she resumed her seat.

Stobart was kneeling at the foot of the bed, his
face bent upon his clasped hands, and the women
had been speaking in almost whispers, Sally's voice
being weak from illness, and Antonia's lowered in
.sympathy. He looked up presently after a long
silence, and began bis prayer. He had been strug-
gling against earthly thoughts, striving for that de-
tachment of mind and senses .vhich he bad found
more and more difficult of late, striving to concen-
trate all his forces of heart and intellect upon the dy-
ing woman — tlu' newly awakened soul hovering on
the threshold of eternity. Could there be a more en-
thralling theme, a subject more removed from
earthly desires and earthly temptations?

Antonia looked at him with something of awe in
her gaze. She had never heard him pray. He bad
argued with her ; he had striven his hardest to make
her think as he thought, but he had never prayed for
her. Into that holier region, that nearer approach to
the God be worshipped, she bad nevi r passed. The
tem])le doors were slnit against so c)I)stinate an un-
believer, so hardened a scorner.

His face seemed the face of a stranger, transfig-
ured by that rapture of faiUi in the si)i.it world,
made like to the angels in whose actual and cverlast-

St. Giles' and St. James' 257

inj; existence this man— this rational, educated Eng-
lishman, of an over-civilizcd epoch — firmly helieved.
lie believed, and was maile happy by his belief.
This present life was of no more value to him than
the dull brown husk of the worm that knows it is to
be a butterily. To the Voltairian this thing was
wonderful. The very strangeness of it fascinated
her, and she listened with deepest interest to George
Stobart's prayer.

His opening invocation had a formal tone. The
words came sicnvly, and for some minutes his prayer
was woven out of those familiar and moving texts
he loved, while the thoughts and feelings of the man
himself rose slowly from the depths of a heart that
seemed ice-bound, but the man believed in Him to
whom he prayed, and presently the ice melted and
the fire came, and the speaker forgot all surrounding
things — the lovely eyes watching him in a grave
wonder, the feelings and doubts and apprehensions
of last night. The earthly fetters fell away from his
liberated soul, and he was alone with his God, as
much alone as Moses on the mountain, as Christ in
the garden. Then, and then only, the man became
eloquent. Moving words came from the heart so
deeply moved, burning words from the spirit on
fire with an exalted faith.

Sally Dormer sobbed upon Antonia's breast, the
unbeliever looking down upon her with a tender
pity, glad that the slow and painful passage to the
grave should be soothed by beautiful fables, by
dreams that took the sting from death.

Perhaps the thing that moved Antonia most was

the unspeakable pity and compassion, the love that

this man fc!t for the castaway. She had been told

that tlK Oxford Methodists were a sanctimonious,

258

The Infidel

pragmatical sect, whose heaven was an exclusive
freehold, and who delighted in consigning their fel-
low-creatures to everlasting flames. But here she
found sympathy with the sinner stronger than ab-
horrence of the sin. And her reason — that reason
of which she was so proud — told her that with such
a sinner none but an enthusiast could have pre-
vailed. It needed the fiery speech of a Whitefield,
the passionate appeal of an impassioned orator, to
awaken a soul so dead.

" Awake, thou that sleepest," cries the Church to
the heathen ; but if the Church that calls is a formal,
unloving, half-somnolent Church, what chance of
awakening?

The great revival had been the work of a hand-
ful of young men — men whom the Church might
have kept had her rulers been able to gauge their
power, but who had been sent into the fields to carry
on their work of conversion as their Master was
sent before them.

Antonia was no nearer belief in Stobart s creed
than she had been yesterday, but she was impress d
by the sincerity of the man, the vitality of an un-
questioning faith.

He was interrupted in the midst of an impas-
sioned sentence by a startling appearance. The lat-
tice facing the river had been left open to the balmy
morning air. The casement rattled suddenly, and a
pair of hands appeared clutching the sill, followed
almost instantly by the vision of a ghastly face with
starting eyeballs and panting mouth, and then a
slenderly built man scrambled throtigh the opening
and dropped head foremost into the room, breath-
less and speechless for the moment.

George Stobart started to his feet.

St. Giles' and St. James' 259

" What are you doing here, fellow ? " he ex-
claimed angrily.

The man took no notice of the question, but flung
himself on his knees by the bed, and grasped Sally's
hand. His clothes were torn and mud-stained, one
of his coat-sleeves was ripped from wrist to shoul-
der. Great beads of sweat rolled down his ashen
face.

" Hide me, hide me, Sally," he gasped hoarsely.
"If ever you loved me, save me from the gallows.
Hide me somewhere behind your bed — in your —
closet — anywhere. The constables are after me.
It's a hanging business."

*' Oh, Jack, I thought you was in Georgia — safe
and leading an honest life."

" I've come back. I'm one of them that can't be
honest. They're after me. I gave them tlie slip on
the bridge — ran for my life — climbed the old tim-
bers. Hell, how slippery they are! They'll be
round the corner directly. They'll search every
house in the street."

He was looking about the room with strained
eyes, searching for some hole to hide in.. There was
a curious kind of closet in the slope of the rafters,
filling an acute angle. He was making for this,
then stopped and ran to the window facing the river.
" Get out of this, fellow," said Stobart. " This
woman has done with the companions of sin. Go ! "
" No, no," cried Antonia ; " you shall not give
him over to those bloodhounds."

" What, madam, would you make yourself the
abetter of crime— come between a felon and the law
which protects honest people from thieves and mur-
derers?"
" I hate your laws — your inexorable judges, your

26o

The Infidel

hanging laws, which will hang a child that never
knew right from wrong for a stolen sixpence."

" They are round the corner ; they are looking at
the house," gasped the fugitive, moving from the
window and looking round the room in a wild de-
spair.

He had been caught in that very house years be-
fore, when he and Sally Dormer lodged there to-
gether, and when he was one of the luckiest profes-
sionals on the Dover road, with a couple of good
horses and a genius for getting clear off after a job.
He had escaped by the skin of his teeth on that
occasion, the witnesses for identification breaking
down in the inquiry before the magistrate. He
had saved his neck and some of the profits from an
audacious attack on the Dover mail, and had gone to
America in a shipload of mixed company, swearing
to turn honest and cheat Jack Ketch. But he could
as easily have turned wild Indian; and after a
spirited career in Georgia he had got himself back
to London, and being in low water, witiiout means
to buy himself a good horse, had sunk to the meaner
status of footpad, and this morning had been con-
cerned with three others in an attempt to stop a
great lady's coach on the way from Ranelagh.

A chosen few among the most dissipated of the
company had kept the ball going till seven o'clock,
and had gone to breakfast and cards after seven—
and it was one of these great ladies whose chariot
had been stopped in the loneliest part of the road,
between Chelsea and the Five Fiel^ls.

Antonia was looking out of the w"ndov/ that over-
hung the street. The thief made a rush toward the
same window and stopped midway, staring at this
queen-like figure in mute surprise, llcr beauty, her

that never
mce."
looking at
J from the
a wild de-

e years be-
i there to-
iest profes-
ie of good
after a job.
;th on that
11 breaking
trate. He
ils from an
lad gone to
y, swearing
ut he eonld
nd after a
imself back
liont means
the meaner
1 been con-
L to stop a
clagh.

ated of the
/en o'clock,
Ler seven —
lose chariot
)f the road,

V that over-

toward the

ring at this

beauty, her

St. Giles' and St. Jamer. ' 261

sumptuous dress and jewels made him almost think
this dazzling appearance the hallucination of his
own distraught brain. " Is it real ? " he muttered,
and then went back to the other casement and
looked out again.

" They are coming." he said in a dull voice.
" Tis no use to hide in that rat-hole. They'd have
me out in a trice. The game's up, Sally. I shall
dance upon nothing at Tyburn before the month is
out."

He looked to the priming of a pair of pistols
which he carried in a leather belt. They were ready
for work. He took his stand behind the garret
door. The first man who entered that room would
be accounted for. They would not risk an ascent
upon those slippery old beams which he had climbed
for sport many a time in his boyhood ; they would
make their entrance from the street. Well, there
was some hope of giving them trouble on the top
flight of stairs, almost as steep as a ladder, and rot-
ten enough to let them down headlong with a little
extra impetus from above.

" They are not round yet," cried Antonia, snatch-
ing her black silk domino from the chair where it
hung.

" Put on this, sir. So, so " — wrapping the volu-
minous cloak round the thief's thin frame. " Don't
cry, Sally ; we'll save him, if we can. for your sake ;
and he'll turn ho-.iest for your sake. So ; the cloak
covers your feet. Why, I doubt I am the taller.
Now for the mask." adjusting the little loop, which
fastened with a spring, over the man's face, and the
silk hood over liis head.

" Come, Mr. Stobart. my chair is at the door," she
said breathlessly. " Take this poor wretch down-

262

The Infidel

i i

stairs, bundle him into the chair and bid my servants
carry him to my house and liide him there. They
can send a hackney coach to fetch me. Quick,
quick ! " she cried, stamping her foot ; " quick, sir,
if you would save a life."

Stobart looked from the masked tigure to Antonia
irresolutely, and then looked out of the river win-
dow. There was a mob hurrying along the muddy
shore at the heels of three Bow Street runners, who
were nearing the network of timbers below. There
was no time for scruples. Five minutes would give
the pursuers time to come round to the front of the
house.

A wailing voice came from the bed :
" Oh, sir, save him for Christ's sake ! He was my
first sweetheart, and he has always been kind to me.
Give him this one chance."

The fugitive had not waited, but had scrambled
downstairs in his strange disguise, stumbling every
now and then when his feet caught in the trailing
domino.

Antonia, watching from the window, saw him
dash into the street, open the door of the sedan—
'twas not the first he had opened as violently— and
disappear inside it.

The chairmen stood dumbfounded, and had not
Stobart appeared on the instant to give them their
lady's orders might have raised an alarm. Drilled
to obedience, however, the men took up their load
in prompt and orderly style, and the sedan, with
two running footmen guarding it, turned one corner
of the street a minute before the constables came
round the other.

It was an unspeakable mortification for these gen-
tlemen when they found their bird had flown, how

St. Giles' and St. James' 263

they knew not, or, indeed, if he had ever been in
the house, which they searched from cellar to garret,
giving as much trouble as they could to all its in-
habitants. It was in vain that they questioned Saliy
Dormer, who swore it was years since she had set
eyes on her old friend. Jack Parsons. It shocked
Stobart to see that this brand, plucked from the
burning, could be so ready with a lie, and that the
two women rejoiced in the escape of Mr. Parsons
almost as if he had been a Christian martyr saved
from the lions.

" He is a man, and 'twas a life — a life like yours
or mine — that we were saving," Antonia said by
and by, when he expressed surprise at her conduct.
** 'Tis a thing a woman does instinctively. I think
I would do as much to save a sheep from the
slaughter-house. 'Twas a happy thought that
brought the sedan to my mind. I remembered Lord
Nithisdale's escape in '15."

" Lady Nithisdale was saving her husband's life
by that stratagem."

" And I was saving a thief whose face I had
never seen till five minutes before I fastened my
mask upon it. But I saw a man trembling for his
life, like a bird in a net, and I remembered how sav-
age our law is and how light judge and jury make
a fellow-creature's doom. I shall pack the rascal
off to America again and dare him to do ill there
after his escape. You must help me to get him
down the river this night, Mr. Stobart, and stowed
away upon the first ship that sails from Gravesend."

" I must, must I ? "

" If you refuse I must employ Goodwin, and that
might be dangerous."

" I cannot refuse you. Can you doubt that I ad-

^ 1

(

264

The Infidel

mire your kindness, your generous sympathy with
creatures that suffer ? But 1 tremble at the thought
of a nature so impulsive, a heart so easily melted."

" Oh, it can be hard on occasion," she said
proudly, remembering the lovers who had sighed at
her feet and been sent away despairing since her
reign in London had begun, her supren.dcy as a
beauty and a fortune.

Having consented to help in her work of mercy,
Stobart performed his task faithfully. He had
allies among the vagabond classes whose honor he
could rely on, and with the help of two stalwart
boatmen he conveyed Jack Parsons to Erith and
saw him on board a trading vessel, carrying a score
or so of emigrants and a freight of miscellaneous
merchandise to Boston, which by good luck was to
sail with the next favorable wind. He provided the
fugitive with proper clothing and necessaries for
the voyage, which might last months, and took
pains to clothe him like a small tradesman's son,
and as such he was shi])pctl, with his passage paid,
and the promise of a five-pound note, to be given
him by the captain before he landed in America, to
maintain him till he got work.

" If the lady who saved you from the gallows
should hear of you by and by as leading an honest
life, I dare say she will help you to better yourself
out yonder ; but if you fall back into sin you will de-
serve the worst that can happen to a hardened rep-
robate;" and with these words of counsel, a New
Testament and Charles Wesley's hynm book Mr.
Stobart took leave of Antonia's protege, who sobbed
out broken words of gratitude to him and to the
good lady, which sounded as if they came from the
heart.

St. Giles' and St. James* 265

" I had my chance before, sir, and I threw it away
— but God's curse blight me if i forget what that
woman did for me."

Stobart wrote to Lady Kilrush, with an account
of what he had done, but it was some days before
he saw her. He had to take up the thread of his
mission work and had to wait upon Mr. Wesley
more than once — to discuss his philanthropic labors
— at his house by the Foundry. He saw Sally Dor-
mer every day and was touched by the poor crea-
ture's adoration of Antonia, whom she now re-
garded as a heaven-sent angel.

"Oh, sir, you told me once that her ladyship was
an infidel, but indeed, sir, whatever she says, what-
ever she thinks, you cannot believe that such a
creature will be shut out from heaven. Sure, sir,
heaven must be full of women like her, and God
must love them, because they are good."

" No, Sally, God cannot love those who deny
Christ."

" But indeed she does not. While you was away,
when I was so ill, I asked her to read the Bible to
me, and she let me choose the chapters — the sermon
on the mount, and those cha'^iers you love in St.
John's gospel — and she told .ne she loved Jesus —
loved His words of kindness and mercy, His good-
ness to the sick and the poor and to the little chil-
dren."

" All that is no use, Sally, without faith in His
atoning blood, without the conviction of sin or the
belief in saving grace. Yet I can scarce think that
so good a woman as Lady Kilrush will be left for-
ever under the dominion of Satan, Faith will
come to her some day — with the coming of sorrow."

*' Yes, yes, it will come, and she will shine like a

266

The Infidel

)(

1 .

1 '

star in heaven. God cannot do without such angels
round His throne."

Stobart reproved her gently for words that went
too near blasphemy. He was melted by her affec-
tion for the generous friend who had done so much
to brighten her declining days.

" She came to see me very often while you was
away," Sally said, " and she paid the nurse-keeper
to come every day and sent me soups and jellies and
all sorts of good things by a light porter every
morning. And she talks to me as if I was a good
woman. She never reminds me what a sinner I
have been — or even that I'm not a lady."

? It was more than a week after the scene in Sally
Dormer's garret, and the ship that carried Mr. John
Parsons was beating round the Start Point when
George Stobart called in St. James' Square early in
the afternoon.

The dining-room door stood wide open as he
crossed the hall, and he saw a long table strewed
with roses and covered with gold plate and the
debris of a fashionable breakfast, chocolate pots,
champagne glasses, carbonadoed hams, chickens
and salads, jellies and junkets and creams.

" Her ladyship has been entertaining company,"
he said with a sense of displeasure of which he felt
ashamed, knowing how unreasonable it was. Had
she not a right to live her own life, she who had
never professed Christianity, least of all his kind of
Christianitv, which meant total renunciation of all
.self-indulgence, purple and fine linen, banquets and
dances, splendid furniture and rich food ?

" Yes, sir, her ladyship has been giving a break-
fast party to the Duke of Cumberland," replied the

St. Giles' and St. James' 267

footman, swelling: with pride. " Eight and twenty
sat down — mostly dukes and duchesses — and Mr.
Handel played on the 'arpsikon for an hour after
breakfast. His royal 'ighness loves music," added
the lackey condescendingly, as he ushered Mr. Sto-
bart into the library.

" Was Lord Dunkeld among the company ? " Sto-
bart asked.

" Yes, sir."

Stobart had come there charged with a mission,
a .self-imposed duty, which had been in his mind —
paramount over all other considerations — ever since
that night at Ranelagh, when he had seen Antonia
and Lord Dunkeld together. Again and again lie
went over the same chain of reasoning, with always
the same result. He saw her in the flower of youth,
beautiful and impulsive, with a wild courage that
scorned consequences, ready to' break the law if her
heart prompted, and he told himself that for such a
woman marriage with a good man was the only
safeguard from the innumerable perils of a woman's
life. In her case marriage was inevitable. The
worldlings would not cease from striving for so rich
a prize. If she did not marry Dunkeld she would
marry some one else, his inferior, perhaps, in every
virtue. It was his duty — his, as her friend, her ear-
nest well-wisher — to persuade her to so suitable an
alliance.

Having marked out this duty to be done, he was
in a fever of anxiety to get his task accomplished.
He was like a martyr, who knows death inevitable,
and is eager for the fagot and the stake. The poig-
nant eagerness was so strange a feeling — a fire of
enthusiasm that was almost agony.

He walked up and down the library, agitated and

:"i

■I

208

The Infidel

IjKS I

iiiipati* nt his hands clasped above lis head. He
was wondering how she woul.' receive his advice.
She would he angry, perhaps, and would resent the
impertinence of unsought counsel.

The win<i jws were open and the room was full of
flowers am. sou vernal air. A Kirkham harpsichord
stood near the lucplace. scattered with loose sheets
of music from the newest opera and oratorio. A
guitar hun!? l)y a hroad blue ribbon across an arm-
chair. Light and trivial romances and modish
magazines lay about the table, and another table
was covered with baskets of shells and half-finished
picture frame in shell work. A vhite cockatoo
cackled and screamed on his perch by a window.
Nothing was wanting to mark the lady of fashion.

She came in, beaming with smiles, in the splendor
of gala clothes, a sky-blue poplin sacquc, covered
with Irish lace, over a primrose satin petticoat pow-
dered with silvered shamrocl . Her hair was rolled
back from her forehead, a little cap like a gauz but-
terfly was perched on the t. p of her head, and gauze
lapels were crossed under her chin and pinned with
a single brilliant. The littk- cap gave a piquancy to
her beauty and a touch of the soubrctte, which
Boucher has immortalized in his portrait of the
Pompadour.

" Well, sir," she cried gayly, making him a low

courtesy, " we have broken the law between us, and

I thank you heartily for your share in the offence

• against His Majesty. Would to God that Admiral

Byng could have been saved as easily ! "

•' You have a generous heart, madr-,m — a heart too
easily moved, perhaps, by human miseries, and I
tremble for its impulses while I admire its warmth
and courage. You have never been absent from my

HHi' ^ '^

Hi 1 ^

^^n

Hiy.ii.

head, lie

his ;alvicc.

d resent th<

was full of
harpsichord
loose sheets
)ratorio. A
OSS an anii-
.nd modish
lother tabU'
balf-finished
ite cockatoo
• a window.
3f fashion,
the splendor
]uc, covered
•tticoat pow-
ir was rolled
a gauz but-
d, and p;auzc
pinned with
piquancy to
ircttc, which
■trait of the

g him a low
wccn us, and
1 the ofifencc
that Admiral

— a heart too
scries, and I
c its warmth
sent from my

St. Giles' and St. James' 269

thou,e^hts since that morninp in Sally's garret. In-
deed, what man !: -nq- could forget a scene so
incongruous — yet -^ liful ? "

His voice faltciw )\vard the end, and he I'-aned
against the late lore tall arnuhair.

" You have not been kind in keepitig away from
me so long, when I was dying to give expression to
my gratitude."

" Be sure my recompense was having obliged you.
'Twas superfluous to thank me. I have been very
busy. I had arrears of work, and I knew all your
hours were engaged."

" Sure the " nnisi always be i^omething to do in a
town full of k\"

She was ng with the great white bird,

smoothing 1 fluffy topknot, ruffling the soft
saffron feathers round his neck, tempting him with
the pink tips of taper fingers, flashing the rose-col-
ored light from her diamond rings, whose splendor
covered the slender hoop of gold with which Kil-
rush married her.

" You have been entertaining the Duke of Cum-
berland, I hear."

" Billv the Butcher. That's what mv father and
I used to call him when we concocted Jacobite para-
graphs for Lloyd's E-rcning Post. Yes, Mr. Sto-
bart, I have been entertaining royalty for the first
time in my life. The honor was not my own seek-
ing cither, for his royal highness challenged me to
invite him."

" He would not be so much out of the fashion as
not to bi among your adorers."

" That is too prettily said for an O.xford Meth-
odist. 'Tis a reminiscence of the .soldier's manners.
W'aen the duke led me out for the second dance at

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270

The Infidel

j 1

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1 -

'■I

the Duchess of Norfolk's ball he was pleased to
compliment my housekeeping. ' I hear your lady-
ship's is the pleasantest house in town,' he said, ' but
am I never to know more of it than hearsay ? ' On
which I dropped my best courtesy and told him that
my house and all it contained was at his feet, and
I had not finished my chocolate next morning be-
fore his royal highness' aide-de-camp was an-
nounced, who came to tell me his master would ac-
cept any invitation I was civil enough to send him."

" And this trivial conquest made you happy?"

" Sure it pleased me as any other toy would have
done. 'Twas something to think about — whom I
should invite — how I should dress my table. I
strewed it from end to end with cut roses, brought
up from Essex this morning with the dew on their
petals. Their perfume had a flavor of the East —
some valley in Cashmere — till a succession of smok-
ing roasts polluted the atmosphere. I had a mind
to imitate mediaeval feasts, and give the prince a
pie full of live singing birds, but one hardly knows
how the birds might behave when the pie was cut."

" You had one sensible man among your guests,
I doubt."

" Mcrci, dii compliment pour les autres. Pray
who was this paragon ? "

" Lord Dunkeld."

" You know Lord Dunkeld? "

" He was my intimate friend some years ago."

" Before you left off having any friends but
Methodists ? "

" Before I knew that life was too serious a thing
for trifling friendships."

" I am glad you approve of Dunkeld. Of all my
modish friends, he is the one I like best."

St. Giles' and St. James' 271

" Is it not something better than liking? Dear
lady Kilrush, accept the counsel of a friend whose
heart is tortured by the consciousness of your un-
protected position, the infinite perils tli surround
youth and beauty in a world given over to folly — a
world which the most appalling convulsion of na-
ture and the sudden death of thousands of unpre-
pared sinners could not awaken from its dream of
pleasure. I see you in your grace and loveliness, of
a character too generous to suspect evil, hemmed
round with profligates, the companion of unfaithful
wives and damaged misses. And since I cannot
win you for Christ, since you are deaf and cold to
the Saviour's voice, I would at least see you
guarded by a man of 1 onor — a man who knows the
world he lives in, and would know how to protect
an adored wife from its worst dangers."

" I hardly grasp the drift of this exordium,

sir.

bet-

" Marry Dunkeld. You could not choose a
ter man and I know that he adores you."

" You are vastly kind, sir, to interest yourself in
my matrimonial projects. But there is more of the
old woman — the spinster aunt — in this unasked ad-
vice than I expected from so serious a person as
Mr. Stobart."

" I fear you are offended."

He had grown pale to the lips as he talked to her.
His whole countenance and the thrilling note in his
voice betrayed the intensity of his feeling.

" No, I am only amused. But I regret that you
should have wasted trouble on my affairs. It is true
that Lord Dunkeld has honored me with the offer of
his hand on more than one occasion, but he has had
his answer, and he is sc sensible a man that in re-

? * ?

2/2

The Infidel

jecting him as a lover I have not lost him as a
friend."

" He will offer again, and you will accept him."
"Never!'" she exclaimed with sudden energy,
dropping her light, half-mocking tone, and looking
at him with flashing eyes. " I shall never take a
second husband, sir. You may be sure of that."

A crimson fire flashed across his pallid face, and
slowly faded. He drew a deep breath, and there
was a silence of moments that seemed long-.

You — you — must have some reason for such a
strange resolve."

" Yes, I have my reason."

" May I know it ? " he asked, trembling with
emotion.

" No, sir, neither you nor any one else. 'Tis my
own secret. And now let us talk of other matters.
It was on your conscience to give me a spinster
aunt's advice. You have done your duty -ery pret-
tily, and your conscience can be at rest."

He stood looking at her in a strange silence. The
beautiful face which had fired with a transient pas-
sion w?s now only pensive. She seated herself in
her favorite chair by the open window, took up a
tapestry frame and began to work in minute stitches
that needed exquisite precision of eye and hand.

How much of his future life or earthly happiness
he would have given to fathom her thoughts ! He
had come there to persua^ '-er to marry; he had
convinced himself that sh-- jht to marry, and yet
his heart was beating with a v:ild gladness. He felt
like a wretch who had escaped the gallows. The
rope had been round his neck when the reprieve
came.

"Tell me about your night school," she said.

St. Giles* and St. James' 273

without looking up from her work. " Do the num-
bers go on increasing-? "

" I— 1— can't talk of the school to-day," he said.
" I have a world of business on my hands. Good-
by."

He left her on the instant without offering his
hand, hurried through the hall, and opened the
great door before the porter, somnolent after the
morning's bustle, could struggle out of his leathern
chair.

" Never, never more must I cross that threshold,"
he told himself as he walked away.

He stopped on the other side of the road and
looked back at the great, handsome house, so dull
externally, with its long rows of uniform windows,
its massive pediment and heavy iron railings, with
the tall extinguishers on cither side of the door in a
flourish of hammered iron.

" If I ever enter that house again I shall deserve
to perish everlastingly," he thought.

'Twas four o'clock, and the sun was blazing, a
midsummer afternoon in early May. He walked to
his house in Lambeth like a man in a dream, from
which he seemed to wake with a startled air when
his wife ran out into the passage to welcome him.

" How pale you look," she said. " Is it one of
your old headaches ? "

" No, no, 'tis nothing but the sudden heat. You
are pale enough yourself, poor little woman ! Come,
Lucy, give me an early tea, and I'll take you and the
boy for a jaunt up the river."

" Oh, George, how good you are ! 'Tis near a
year since you gave us a treat or yourself a holi-
day."

" I have worked too hard, perhaps, and might

!ii

I ' 1

274

The Infidel

have given you more pleasure. 'Tis difficult not to
be selfish, even in trying to do good."

"I'll have tea ready in a jiffy, and Geo gie
dressed. I've been sitting at the window watching
the boats, and wishing, wishing ever so to be on the
river."

" Thou shalt have thy wish for this once, love,"
he said gently.

He was silent all through the simple meal, eating
hardly anything, though 'twas the first food he had
tasted since a seven o'clock breakfast. He found
himself wondering at the sunshine and the bright-
ness of things, like a man who has come away
from a newly filled grave, a grave where all his
hopes and affections lie buried.

Lucy and her boy sat opposite him, and in the
gayety of their own prattle were unaware of his si-
lence. The boy was three years old, and of an inex-
haustible loquacity, having been encouraged to bab-
ble in Lucy's lonely hours. The sweet little voice
ran on like a ripple of music, his mother hushing
him every now and then, while Stobart sat with his
head leaning on his hand, thinking, thinking, think-
ing.

They went up the river to Putney in a skiff, Sto-
bart rowing, and it was one of the happiest evenings
in Lucy's life. She had occupation enough for all
the way in pointing out the houses and churches and
gardens to Georgie, who asked incessant questions.
She did not see the rower's pallid brow, with its
look of infinite pain.

They landed at Fulham, moored the boat at the
bottom of some wooden steps, and sat on a green
bank, while Georgie picked the flowers off the blos-
soming sedges. Stobart sat with his elbows on his

St. Giles' and St. James' 275

knees, gazing at the opposite shore, the rustic street
climbing up the bill, and white cottages scattered
far apart against a background of meadow land
golden with marsh marigolds.

" Has rowing made your head worse, George ? "
his wife asked timidly.

" No, dear, no ! There is nothing the matter " —
holding out his hand to her. " Only I have been
thinking, thinking of you and <•' boy, and of your
lives in that dull house by the river. It is dull, I'm
afraid."

" Never, when you are at home," she answered
quickly. " You are very studious and you don't talk
much, but I am happy, quite happy, when you are
sitting there. To have your company is all I de-
sire."

" I have been a neglectful husband of late, Lucy.
Those poor wretches in the marsh have taken too
much of my time and thought. Whatever a man's
work in the world may be, he ought to remember his
home."

" It is only when you are away — quite away, on
those long journeys with Mr. Wesley."

" I will give up those journeys. Let the men
who have neither wives nor children carry on that
work. Would you like me to take orders, Lucy ? "

"Take orders?"

" Enter the Church of England as an ordained
priest. I might settle down then, get a London liv-
ing. I have friends who could help me. It would
not be to break with Wesley ; he is a staunch church-
man."

" Yes, yes. I should love to see you in a real
pulpit in a handsome black gown. I should love
you to be a clergyman. All the town would flock to

276

The Infidel

hear you, and people would talk of you as they do
of Mr. Whiteficld."

" No, no. I have not tm metal to forj,'e his thun-
derbolts. But we can think about it. I mean to be
a kinder husband, Lucy. Yes. my poor girl, a
kmdcr husband. Sure ours was a love match, was
it not ? "

" I loved you from the moment I heard your voice
that night at the Foundry chapel, wiien I woke out
of a swoon and heard you speaking to me. And in
all those happy days at Clapham, when I used to
tremble at the sound of your footstep, and when you
taught me to read good books, an ignorant girl like
me, and to behave like a lady. Oh, George, you
have always, always been good to me."

The sun set, and the stars shone out of the deep
serene as they went home, and a profound peace fell
upon George Stobart's melancholy soul. To do his
duty ! That was the only thing that remained to be
done. He understood John Wesley's warning bet-
ter now. His soul had been in peril unspeakable.
He loved her, he loved her, that queen among
women— loved her with a passion measured by her
own perfections. As she outshone every woman he
had ever seen in loveliness, mental and physical, so
his love for her surpassed any love he had ever
imagined.

And to-day, when she had looked at him with so
glorious a light in her eyes, when she had declared
she would never marry, and confessed that she had
a secret— a secret she would tell to none- he had
trembled with an exquisite joy, an overpowering
fear, as the conviction that she loved him flashed
into his mind.

Why not? 'Twas hardly strange that the flame

St. Giles' and St. James' 277

wliich had kindled in his breast had found a respon-
sive warmtli in hers. They had been so much to
each other, had Hved in such harmony of desires
and hopes, each equally earnest in the endeavor to
redress some of the manifold wrongs of the world.
She had flung herself heart and soul into his phil-
anthropic work, and here they had ever been at one.
Her presence, her voice, her sweetness and grace
had become the first necessity of his life, the one
thing without which life was worthless. Was it
strange if he had become more to her than a com-
mon friend? Was it strange if, after giving him
her friendship, she had given him her heart ?

^ But, oh, how deep a fall for the man who had set
his hopes on high things, Avho had put on the whole
armor of faith, had called himself a soldier and ser-
vant of Christ, who had looked back with loathing
at the folly and the impiety of his boyhood and
youth, and had set his face toward the city of the
saints, scorning earthly things! How deep a fall
for the man who had cried with St. Taul, " For me
to live is Christ, to die is gain ! " How deep a fall to
know himself the slave of a forbidden love, possessed
heart and brain and in every fibre of his being by a
passion stronger than any feeling of his unregen-
erate youth ! Well, he had to fight the good fight,
and to conquer man's most implacable enemy, sin.
A year ago he had thought himself so safe, so well
' advanced on the narrow path, having only to re-
proach himself sometimes for a ''-rtain coldness in
private prayer ; successful in li - mission work ;
happy in a humble marriage, having surrendered all
things that worldlings care for in order to lead the
Christian life, and having found a passionless peace
as his reward.

>ii

The I nfid cl

i^J : ^

Never more, of his free will, would he see this
daughter of Bahylon, this enchanting heathen, who
had cast her fatal spell around his life. It might
not he possible to avoid chance meetings in those
miserable abodes where it was her whim to play the
angel of pity, but doubtless that caprice of a fine
lady would pass, and Lambeth marsh would know
her no more.

She wrote to him about a week after his last visit
to St. James' Square.

" Why do you not come to take a dish of tea with
me ? My friends are leaving for t Mr country seats,
and I have been alone several afternoons expecting
you. Were you affronted with me for calling you a
spinster aunt? Sure our friendship and my esteem
for your goodness should excuse that careless im-
pertinence. I enclose a bank bill which I pray you
to spend as quickly as possible in buying clothing
and shoes for the little ragged wretches I met com-
ing out of your school yesterday. Ah, when will
there^ be such schools all over England, in every
city, in every village ? Sure some day the country
will take a lesson from such men as you and Mr.
Wesley, and the poor will be better cared for than
they are now."

The easy assurance of her letter surprised him.
Every line indicated the woman of the world, the
finished coquette. He replied coldly, thanking her
for her bounty, and giving his absorbing occupa-
tions as a reason for not waiting upon her.

They met a week later in Sally Dormer's garret,
but Antonia was leaving as he entered, and he did
nothing to detain her. He had a brief vision of her
beauty, more simply dressed than usual, in a black
silk mantle and hood over a gray tabinet gown. He

St. Giles' and St. James' 279

came upon her some clays after in a shed at the back
of tlic Vauxhall pottery, entertaining a large party
of pottery girls at supper, herself the merriest of the
band. She had her woman Sophy to help her and
Patty Wallingford, and he had never seen a more
jovial feast. There was a long table upon trestles,
loaded with joints and poultry, pies and puddings,
and great copper tankards of small beer, at which
feast two reluctant footmen, with disgusted coun-
tenances, assisted in undress livery, while an old
blind fiddler sat in a corner playing the gayest tunes
in his repertoire.

Antonia begged Mr. Stobart to stay and keep
them company, but he declined. It was his class
night, he told her, and he had his adult scholars
waiting for him hard by. He carried away the vi-
sion of her radiant countenance, supremely happy in
the happiness she had made for others. Was it pos-
sible better to realize the lessons of the divine al-
truist? And yet she was no more a Christian than
the profligate Bolingbroke or the cynic Voltaire.

He was consistent and conscientious in his deter-
mination to avoid her, so far as possible without in-
civility. The town was beginning to thin, and he
heard with relief that she was going on a visit to the
Duchess of Portland at Bulstrode, near Maiden-
head. In the autumn she was to be at Tunbridge
Wells, to drink the waters, a business of six
weeks.

" My physician orders it, though I swear I have
nothing the matter with me," she told him, at one of
their -^hance meetings in the marsh. " 'Tis good
for rrty nerves to spend six weeks in a place where
there is a dance every night, and where I shall spend
every day in a crowd,"

i !

.fi-'

28o

The Infidel

ii-ii

{'^

! )

In another of tlu-hc casual meetings slie up-
braided him for having deserted her.

'* 1 have been more than usually busy," he said.
" My schools are growing, and the dispensary is
daily becoming a more serious business."

" Everything with you is serious, but you cannot
be so seriously busy as not to have leisure for a dish
of tea in St. James* Square once in a fortin'ght.
Sure, you know my heart is with >ou in all your
good works, and that I like to hear about them."

" Indeed, madam, I am eternally grateful for
your sympathy and your help, but of late I have had
no leisure. My wife's spirits were suffering from a
close London house, and I devote every hour I can
steal from my work to giving her change of air."

" I am glad to hear it. Yes, Mrs. Stobart must
miss your pretty garden at Sheen."

That month of May seemed to George Stobart to
contain the longest and weariest days and hours he
had ever known. The weather was close and op-
pressive, the rank odors of the marsh were at their
worst; jail fever, smallpox, putrid throats, all the
most dreaded forms of infectious sickness hung
heavy over the dwellers in that poverty-stricken set-
tlement—the pottery hands, the glass polishers, the
lace workers, the industrious and the idle, the hon-
est and the criminal classes whom fate had herded
together, unwilling neighbors in an equality of pov-
erty.

He worked among the sick and the dying with
unflagging zeal ; he gave them the best of himself,
all that he had of faith in God and Christ, sustaining
their spirits in the last awful hours of consciousness
by his own exaltation. He gave them inexhaustible

she up-

lio said.
)ensary is

ou cannot
for a dish
fortnight.
I all your
icm.""
teful for
have had
i,c: from a
our I can
f air."
3art must

)tohart to
hours he
and op-
2 at their
s, all the
ss hung
ckcn set-
hcrs, the
the hon-
(1 herded
/ of pov-

ing with
himself,
istaiiiing
:iousness
liaustible

St. Giles' and St. James* 281

pity and love, the compassion that is only possible to
a man of keen imagination and quick sympathies.
He understood their inarticulate sorrows, and was
able to lift their minds above the actual to the un-
seen, and to convince them of an eternity of bliss
that should jjay them for a life of misery — promise
more ea.sy to believe now that all life's miseries be-
longed to the past, and were dwarfed by the near-
ness of death.

He followed Sally Dormer to her last resting
place in an obscure graveyard, and he provided for
her brother's maintenance in the family of a hard-
working carpenter, to whom the boy was to be ap-
prenticed in due time. He had a more personal in-
terest in this little lad than in his other scholars, re-
membering Antonia's interest in the dead woman,
her almost sisterly' affection for tha: fallen sister.
The boy was intelligent and took kindly to the sim-
])le tasks set him at Mr. Stobart's school, wlr f-e the
teaching went no further than reading, writing and
cii)hering, and where the founder's sole ambition
was to rear a generation of believing Christians,
steeped from the very dawn of intelligence in the
knowledge of Christ's life and example. He relied
on those Gospel lessons of universal charity and
brotherly love as an enduring influence over the
minds and actions of his pupils, and hoped that
from his school-rooms-- some of them no better than
an outhouse or a roomy garret, the humble prede-
cessors of these ragged schools which were to begin
their blessed work half a century later— the Gospel
light would radiate far and wide across the gloom
of outcast lives and homes now ruled by Satan.

In his devotion to his mission work Mr. Stobart
had not forgotten his promise to make his wife's life

282

l.i

The Infidel

happier. He spent all the finest afternoons in rural
airings with Lucy and little George, sometimes on
the river, sometimes taking a little journey by
coach as far as Sutton, or Ewell, or to Hampton
Court, sometimes walking to Clapton Common, or
as far as Dulwich, through lanes where the hedge-
row oaks and elms hung a canopy of translucent
green over the grassy path, and where they came
every now and then on a patch of copse or a little
wood, in which to sit and rest while the boy played
about among the young fern in a rapture of delight.
He lavished kindness upon his wife and child.
Never had there been a more indulgent father or a
more attentive husband. Lucy, whose flower-like
prettincss had faded a little in the smoke from the
potteries and the Vauxhall glassworks, recovered
her rose-and-lily tints in these excursions, and
was full of grateful affection, which touched her
husband's heart. There was something pathetic
in her accepting kindness as a favor which an-
other woman would have claimed by the divine
right of a wife. It pleased him to see her happy,
and his conscience, which had been cruelly dis-
turbed of late, was now at rest. But even that in-
ward peace could not cure the dull aching of his
heart, which ached he scarce knew why, or it might
be that he stubbornly refused to know. He would
have told himself, if he could, that the pain was
physical, and that the weariness of life which fol-
lowed him through every scene, and most of all in
the sweet summer idlcssc, was a question of bodily
health, a lassitude for which a modish physician
would have ordered " the Bath " or " the Wells."

Oh, the mental depression of those May after-
noons, the dull misery, vague, undefined, but intol-

St. Giles' and St. J

a m e s

ms in rural
iietimes on
ourney by
) Hampton
ommon, or
the hedge-
translucent
they came
or a little
boy played
of delight,
and child,
father or a
flower-like
I from the
recovered
sions, and
uched her
? pathetic
which an-
the divine
ler happy,
uelly dis-
:n that in-
ng of his
r it might
He would
pain was
vhich fol-
t of all in
of bodily
physician
Veils."
[ay after-
but intol-

erable, in which every sound jarred, even the silver-
sweet of his child's joyous voice, in which every
sight was steeped in gloom, even the lovely river,
rose-flushed and smiling in the evening light !

He was miserable, and he tried to find the cause
of his misery in things which lay remote from the
one image he dared not contemplate. He told him-
self that the burden under which he ached was only
the monotonous quiet of his days — the want of
strong interests and active efforts such as kept John
Wesley's mind in the freshness of a perpetual
youth. That was the true fountain of Jouvence —
action, progress, the consciousness of struggle and
victory. He had tasted the joy of successful effort
in his itinerant preaching — the uncouth mob crowd-
ing as to a show at a fair, the insulting assaults of
semi-savages, the triumph when he had subjugated
those rough natures, when by the mere force of his
eloquence, ' v the magnetism of his own strong
faith, he c^.npelled the railers to listen, and saw
ribald jokes change to eager interest, scorn give
place to awe, and tears roll down the faces that sin
had stained and blemished. All this had been to
him as the wine of life, and this he had promised to
renounce in order that he might do his duty as that
commonplace domestic animal, a kind husband.

Sitting on the river bank in the summer quiet, in
the rosy afterglow, amid tall sedges and wild
flowers that love the river, with his child prattling
at his knee, playing with his watch ribbon, asking
questions that were never answered, and his wife
seated at his side supremely content in having won
him to give to her so much of his company, George
Stobart meditated upon the great mistake of his life
— his marriage.

i: ill

284

The Infidel

He remembered how lovely a creature the
printer's daughter had seemed to him in her ecstasy
of faith, how divine a thing the soul newly awak-
ened to a sense of sin, and a desire for saving grace.
His heart had gone out to her in an overwhelming
wave of enthusiasm, a feeling so exalted, so differ-
ent from any passion of his unregenerate years,
that he had welcomed it as the one pure and perfect
love of his life. He thought God had given him this
friendless, ill-used girl to be his helpmeet, the
sharer of all his aspirations, his lifelong labors in
the service of Christ, as of that impassioned hour in
Wesley's chapel.

Soon, too soon, he had discovered the shallow na-
ture behind that hysterical emotion, the tepid piety
which alone remained after the fervor of newly
awakened feelings. Too soon he had found that
petty interests and trivial domestic cares and joys
filled the measure of his wife's mind; that she
thought more of her tea trays and her sofa covers
than of the thousands of Kingswood miners won
from Satan to Christ ; that he must never look to her
for sympathy with his highest aspirations, hardly
for interest in his ever3-day work among the poor.
When he suggested that she should help in his
day nurseries or his infant schools she refused with
a shudder, lest she should bring home smallpox or
scarlet fever to little Georgie. That fear of a pesti-
lence hung like a funeral pall over Lambeth marsh,
and all his efforts to popularize inoculation could do
very little against dense ignorance and terror of a
preventive measure that seemed as bad as the dis-
ease.

"If I've got to have the smallpox anyway I'd

I' I

atiirc the
ler ecstasy
>viy awak-
ing grace,
"whelming

so differ-
ate years,
nd perfect
n him this
meet, the

labors in
!d hour in

lallow na-
;pid piety
of newly
)und that
and joys
that she
fa covers
ners won
»ok to her
s, hardly
the poor.
Ip in his
ised with
allpox or
f a pesti-
h marsh,
could do
Tor of a
the dis-

'way I'd

St. Giles' and St. James' 285

sooner leave it to Providence," was the usual argu-
ment.

His marriage, so gravely resolved, with such gen-
erous disdain of worldly advantage, had not
brought him happiness. The fellowship in thought
and feeling, which is the soul of marriage, was
wanting in a union that had yet every appearance
of domestic affection, and which sufficed for the
wife's content. She was happy, looking no deeper
than the surface of things, and finding content in
thje calm prosperity of her life, the absence of pov-
erty and ill-usage. His marriage was a mistake,
and to the man who had taken upon himself, as he
had done, the service of Christ's poor, any marriage
must needs be a mistake. For the itinerant preacher,
for the man with a suffering populace depending
on his care, home ties were fetters that needs must
gall. He could not serve two masters. He must be
a half-hearted philanthropist or a neglectful hus-
band, only an occasional preacher or a deserter of
his home. He remembered the priests he had met
and conversed with in France, men who had no
claims, no interests outside their church and their
parish, and it seemed to him that he had bound
himself with a servitude that made his service of
Christ a dead letter.

His mission work must end if he was to do his
duty at home. His career as John Wesley's helper
had been the most absorbing episode in his life — a
source of unbounded satisfaction to mind and con-
science. He had gloried in the result of his labors,
never questioning, in his own fervid faith, whether
conversions so sudden would stand the test of time.
He had counted every convert as a gain forever,

\\'

286

The Infidel

I!"

li i ' 1

every flood of tears as a cleansing stream. But
precious though his work had been to him, con-
science urged him to renounce it. His first duty
was to make a home for the woman he had sworn to
love and cherish. To this end he would try to be-
come a priest of the Established Church, strive to
obtain a London living, however small, and confine
his service of Christ within a narrow radius till for-
tune should widen his area of work. He had loved
his freedom hitherto, the power to work for his own
hand, but for Lucy's sake he would bend his shoul-
ders to the Episcopal yoke and enter on a phase of
humble obedience to authority, prepared at any
hour to be called to account for his opinions, and to
be hampered and constrained in his Gospel teaching.
He would have to suffer, as others of the Oxford
Methodists and their disciples had suffered, from
the tyranny of ecclesiastical intolerance, but he
would face all difficulties, submit to many restric-
tions, to make a home for his wife. And then there
was always the hope that the Church of England
would be swept from the great dismal swamp of
formalism on the strong tide of the great revival,
which ran higher and wider with every year of
Wesley's and Whitefield's life. The teaching began
by Whitefield among the prisoners in Gloucester
jail, by Wesley in the humble meeting house in Fet-
ter Lane, had spread over England, Scotland and
Ireland with an irresistible force, and must finally
make its power felt in the Established Church.

From the market cross and the country side, from
the colliers of Bristol and the miners of Cornwall,
from the wild fervor of services and sermons under
starlit skies, from congregations numbered by
thousands, George Stobart was prepared to restrict

im. But
lim, con-
Srst duty
sworn to
ry to be-
strive to
cl confine
s till for-
lad loved
- his own
lis shoul-
phase of

at any
s, and to
teaching.

Oxford
td, from

but he
' restric-
len there
England
vamp of

revival,
year of
g began
oucester
i in Fet-
and and
t finally
ch.

le, from
ornwall,
IS under
red by

restrict

St. Giles' and St. James' 287

the scope of his work lo an obscure London pulpit
or a poverty-stricken parish, content if in so doing
his conscience could be at rest. But the outlook
was dreary, and he began to measure the length of
his earthly pilgrimage, and foresaw the long prog-
ress of eventless years, some little good done, per-
haps, some souls gained for Christ, many small sor-
rows alleviated, but all his work shut within a nar-
row space, controlled by other people's opinions.

One agony which other men of deep religious
feeling have suffered was spared to John Wesley's
helper. His faith knew no shadow of change. His
absolute belief in his God and his Saviour remained
to him in the lowest depth of mental depression.
He might feel himself a creature of sinful impulses,
an outcast from God, but he never doubted the ex-
istence of that God, or the reality of that hereafter
the hope of which lies at the root of all religion.
The paradise of saints, the infinite joys of eternity,
hung on the balance of good and evil, a stupendous
stake, which most men played for with such wild
recklessness till the lights of this life began to fade,
and the awful possibilities of that other life beyond
the veil flashed on their troubled souls.

He was startled from the automatic monotony of
his life by a letter whose superscription so agitated
him that his shaking hand could scarcely break the
seal. Indeed, he did not break it for some moments,
but sat with the letter in his hand, staring at the
familiar writing — Antonia's writing, a strong and
firm penmanship, every letter definite and upright,
somewhat resembling Joseph Addison's. Oh, how
imbued with sin, how trapped and entangled in
Satan's net must his soul be when only the sight of
Antonia's writing could so move him !

288

The Infidel

H\ I

f . f

He was alone. The letter had been brought to
him by the little maid servant. His wife was up-
stairs, busy with licr son, whose footsteps might be
heard running across the floor above.

He broke the seal at U st, and unfolded her letter.

*' St, James' Squaui:, Monday Night.
" Dear Sir :

" I believe it is near a month since you have
honored me with a visit, nor was I so fortunate as
to meet you on Saturday afternoon, when I spent
some hours among our poor friends in the marsh,
and went to look at Sally's grave in the Baptist
burial ground. I must impose on your goodness to
order a neat headstone, with the dear creature's
name and age, and one of those Scripture texts
which so consoled her last hours. I doubt, since the
afternoon was so fine, you were treating yourself
to a rustic holiday with j\Irs. Stobart, to whom I
beg you to present my affectionate compliments.

" Well, sir, since you are too busy to visit me, I
must needs thrust my company upon you, at the risk
of being thought troublesome. In one of my con-
versations with Sally Dormer the poor soul en-
treated me, with tearful urgency, to hear the famous
preacher who converted her, believing that even
my stubborn mind must yield to his invincible argu-
ments, must be touched and melted by his heavenly
eloquence. To soothe her agitated spirits I prom-
ised to hear Mr. Whitefield preach, a promise which
I gave the more readily as my curiosity had been
aroused by the reports I had heard of his genius.

" I am told that he is to preach at Kcnnington
common to-morrow night, to a vaster audience than

I"-
I

rought to
; was up-
might be

!icr letter.

Night.

you have
tunate as
ti I spent
le marsh,
I Baptist
odncss to
:rcature's
lire texts
since tlie
yourself
whom I
iments.
isit me, I
t the risk
my con-
soul cn-
e famous
hat even
hie argii-
hcavenly
I prom-
ise which
had been
"cnius.
nnington
nice than

St. Giles' and St. James' 289

his new tabernacle, large as it is, could contain, and
I should like better to hear him under the starry
vault of a June evening than in the sultry fustiness
of a crowded meeting house. I have even been in-
terested in your description of those open-air meet-
ings where you yourself have been a preacher.
There is something romantic and heart-stirring in
your picture of the rugged heath, the throng of hu-
manity huddled together under a wild mght sky,
seeing not each other's faces, but hearing the beat-
ing of each other's hearts, the quickened breath of
agitated feeling, and in the midst of that listening
silence the shrill cry of some overwrought creature
falling to the ground in a transport of agitation,
which you and Mr. Wesley take to be the visitation
of a divine power.

" I have not courage to go alone to such a meet-
ing, and I do not care to ask any of my modish
friends to go with me, though there are several
among my acquaintance who are admirers of Mr.
Whiteficld and occasional attcr.dants at Lady Hunt-
ingdon's pious assemblies. To them, did I^ express
this desire, I might seem a hypocrite. You who
have sounded the depths of my mind, and who
know that although I am an unbeliever I have never
been a scofifer, will think more indulgently of me.

" The service is to begin at ten c'c.ock. I shall
call at your door at nine, and ask you to accompany
me to Kennington in my coach.

" I remain, dear sir, with heartfelt respect, your
very sincere and humble servant,

" Antonia Ktlrusti."

"What has happened, George?" asked his wife,
who had come into the room unheard by him while
10

290

T li e I n f i d e 1

he was reading his letter. " You look as pleased as
if you had come into a fortune."

He looked up at her with a bewildered air, and for
the moment could not answer.

"What does she say, George? Tis from Lady
Kilrush, I know, for her footman is waiting in the
passage."

" Yes, 'tis from Lady Kilrush. She desires to
hear Whiteficld preach to-morrow night, and asks
me to accompany her."

" What, is she coming round, after all ? I doubt
you will be monstrous proud if you convert her."

" I should be monstrous happy, but it will be
God's work, not mine. My words have been like
the idle wind. Whitefield's influence might do
something, but, alas ! I feci even he will fail to touch
that proud heart, that resolute mind, so strong in
the sense of intellectual power. Will you go with
us to-morrow ? "

" Mr. Whitefield's sermons are so long, and the
heat at the tabernacle always makes my head
ache."

" 'Tis not at the tabernacle, but at Kennington, in
the open air."

" And we may have to stand all the time. I think
I'd rather stay at home with Gcorgie."

" Her ladyship will call for me at nine. The boy
will be in bed and asleep hours before."

" I love to sit by his bed sewing. He wakes some-
times and likes to find me there, and sometimes he
has bad dreams and wakes in a fright."

" And wants his mother's hand and voice to
soothe his spirits. Happy child, who knows not the
burden of sin, and has but shadowy fears that van-
ish at a word of comfort ! Well, you must do as

St. Giles' and St. James' 291

you please, Lucy, but there will be room for you in
her ladyship's coach."

" Oh, she is always kind, and I should love the
ride, but Mr, Whitefield's sermons are so long."

Stobart wrote brieily.to assure Lady Kilrush of
his pleasure in being her escort to Kennington, with
the customary formal conclusion, protesting him-
self her ladyshii)'s most obliged and most devoted
humble servant.

When his letter was dispatched he went out to
the marsh and walked for an hour in that waste
region outside the streets and alleys where his work
lay. His wife's i)arlor had grown too small for him.
He felt stifled within those four walls.

He would see her again, spend hours in her com-
pany, her trusted friend and protector, permitted
to guard her amid that rabble throng which was
likely to assemble on the conmion. His heart beat
with a fierce rapture at the thought of those coming
hours. Only to stand by her side under the summer
stars, hemmed round, half suffocated by the crowd ;
only to see her and to hear the adored music of her
voice — the voice which had so haunted him of late
that he had started up out of sleep, sometimes hear-
ing her call his name. Vain delusion that betrayed
the bent of his dreams !

Her coach was at his door five minutes before the
hour. The night was sultry and the two parlor win-
dows were wide open. He had been leaning with
folded arms upon the window-sill watching for her,
while Lucy sat at the table sewing by the light of
two candles in tall brass candlesticks. She had
thought the pair of tallow candles a mark of gen-
tility in the beginning of her married life, when the
remembrance of the slum near Moorfields was

292

The Infidel

frcsli; but slu- kiu'w Ik-IUt how, hiiving seen the
splendors of St. Jainos' S(|uaro and wax candles
reckoned by the hundred.

ller ladyship had four horses to her clian'ot and
a couple of i)ostilions. The lamps ilained throu,L,di
the smnnier darkness.

" 1 may be late," Stobart said hurriedly. " Don't
sit up for me, Lucy."

He saw Antonia's face at the coach door, and the
sif^ht of it so nioycd him that he could scarcely
si)eak.

His wife ran to bid him good-by with the cus-
tomary childlike kiss, standing on tiptoe to offer
him her fresh voung lips, but he waved her aside.

" We shall be late. Good-night."
' His heart was beating furiously. On the thresh-
old of his door he had half a mind to excuse himself
to Antonia and to go back. He felt as if the devil
was tugging him into some dark labyrinth of doom.
This man believed in the devil as firmly as he be-
lieved in God — believed in an actual omnipresent
Satan, ubiquitous, ever on the watch to decoy sin-
ners, ever eager to people hell with renegades from
Christ. And he felt, with a thrill of agony, that he
was in the devil's clutch to-night. Satan was
spreading his choicest lure to catch the sinner's soul
— a woman's ineffable beauty.

She was alone and welcomed him with her sweet-
est smile.

" I am turning my back on Handel's new oratorio
to hear your Mr. Whitcfield," she said, as they
shook hands, " but now the hour is approaching I
feel as eager as if I were going to see a new Romeo
as seducing as Spranger Ba Ty."

" Ah, madam, dared I hope that Whitefield's elo-

St. Giles* and St. James' 29

seen the
candles

iriot atid
llirottjL^li

" Don't

, and tlic
scarcely

the cus-
to offer
• aside.

e thrcsh-
e himself
the devil
of doom.
IS he bc-
nipresent
ccoy sin-
dcs from
.', that he
tan was
icr's soul

er sweet-

' oratorio

as they

)aching I

w Romeo

eld's elo-

quence could change this frivolous humor to a he-
ginning of belief! Could your stubborn mind once
bend itself to imderstand the mysteries of God's re-
deeming grace you would not long remain in dark-
ness. Could but one ray of divine truth stream in
upon your sold, like the shaft of sunshine through
Newton's shuiter, you would .soon be drowned in
light, dazzled by the prismatic glory of the heavenly
sun."

" And blinded, as I doubt you are, .<:ir. I will not
impose upon you. I do not go to Kennington to be
assured of free grace or to be convinced of sin, but
first to keep a jiromise to the dead and next to fol-
low the fashion, which is to hear and criticise Mr.
Whitefield. Some of my friends swear he is a finer
orator than Mr. Pitt."

After this they remained silent for the greater
l)art of the way, Antonia watching the road, where
the houses were set back behind long gardens, and
where the countrified inns had ample space in front
for a horse trough and rustic tables and benches,
with here and there a row of fine elms. That sense
of space and air which is so sadly wanting now in
the mighty wilderness of brick and stone gave a
rural charm to the subur!:)S when George II. was
king. Ten minutes' walk took a man from town to
country, from streets and alleys to meadow and
cornfield, hedgerow and thicket. The perfume of
summer flowers Vv-as in the air through which they
drove, and the village that hemmed the fatal com-
mon, so recently a scene of ignominious death, was
as rustic as a hamlet in Buckinghamshire.

The crowd had gathered thickly, and had spread
itself over the greater part of the common when
Lady Kilrush's chariot drew up on the outskirts of

294

T h c I II f i d e 1

i'l

l!ic assciiihly. Suli.-al alitfhtiil ami went to rcoon-
iit)itrc. A platform had hccn croctcd about six feet
from the ground, and on this there had heen placed
a row of ehairs and a tahle for the preacher, with
a hra^s lantern standing,' on each side of the larj^e
quarto /'ihle. Whitelicld was there with, one of his
helpers, a member of Parliametil, his ilcvoted ad-
herent, and two ladies, one of whom was the Coun-
t( *•* of Yarmouth's dauj^hter, Lady Chesterfield,
dow jred with the blood of the Guelphs, and a fine
fortune from the royal coffers, Whitefield's most
illustrious convert and a shining light in Lady
Huntingdon's saintly circle.

Stobart was on terms of friendship with the
orator, and had no difficulty in obtaining a seat for
Lady Kilrush. Indeed, her ladyship's nan c would
have obtained the favor as easily had she sent it by
her footman, for George Whiteficld loved to melt
l)atrician hearts and draw tears from proud eyes.
Enthusiast as he was, there is a something in his
familiar letters which suggests that aristocratic con-
verts counted double. They were the ccartc kings,
the trump aces in the game he played against Satan.
Stobart brought Antonia through the crowd and
placed her in a chair at the end of the platform far-
thest from the preacher, lest the thunder of his tre-
mendous voice should sound too close to her ear.

There was a chair to spare for himself, and he
took his seat at her side in the silence of that vast
audience, waiting for the giving out of the hynm
with which these open-air services usually began.

Never before had Antonia seen so vast an assem-
blage hushed in a serious expectancy, with faces all
turned to one point, that central spot above the
heads of the crowd wlu re the lantL-rns made an at-

■•i-

St. Giles' and St. James' 295

mospluTc of faint, yellow Upht around Geor^'o
VVli'teficld's black fig; .■: s^\nding beside the table,
with one hand resting u.^on an o[)en Bible and the
other uplified to comniaiid sib;nce and attention.

From the preaclu-r's platform almost to the edge
of the conn 1 on the crowd extended black and
dense, a company gathered from all over London,
and compounded of classes so various that almost
every metre >j)olitan type might be fotmd there, from
the churchman of hij^hest dignity, come to criticise
and condemn, to the street hawker, the professional
mendicant, come to taste an excitement scarcely in-
ferior to gin.

Whitefield's helper gave out the number of the
hynm and recited the first two lines in slow and dis-
tinct tones. Then, with a burst of .sound loud as tli •
stormy breakers rolling over a rock-bound bead ,
there rose the voices of a multifule that none could
number, harsh and sweet, lou(i and low, soprano
and contralto, bass and tenor, n ingled in one vast
chorus of praise. The effect wu ^ stupendous, and
Antonia felt a catching of her br ath that was al-
most a sob. Did those words nn m nothing after
all ? Was that cry of a believing th ong onlv empty

air?

'1,'

A short extempore prayer folio .ved from the^
helper. George Whitefield's voice had not yet been
heard. The influence of his presence was enough,
and it may have been that his dramat c instinct led
him to keep himself in reserve till that moment of
hush and expectancy in which he pr^ nounced the
first words of his text.

He stood there, supreme in a force that is rare in
the history of mankind, the force that riles multi-
tudes. 'Twas no commanding grace of erson that

296

The Infidel

.1 ■ ■*

impressed this prodigious assembly. He stood
there, the central point in that tremendous throng,
a very common figure, short, fat, in a black gown
with huge sleeves, and a ridiculous white wig, fea-
tures without beauty or grandeur, eyes with a de-
cided squint, and that vast concourse thrilled at his
presence as at a messenger from the throne of God.
This was the heaven-born orator, the man who at
two-and-twenty years of age had held assembled
thousands spellbound by his eloquence, the man
gifted with a voice of surpassing beauty and with
a dramatic genius which enabled him to clothe ab-
stract ideas with flesh and blood, and make them
live and move before his awestruck hearers.

It was this dramatic genius that made Whitefield
supreme over the masses. Those of his admirers
who had leisure to read and weigh his published
sermons might discover that he had no message to
deliver, that those trumpet tones were but rever-
berations in the air, that of all who flocked to hear
the famous preacher none ever carried home a con-
vincing and practicable scheme of religious life, yet
none could doubt the power of the man to stir the
feelings, to excite, awaken and alarm the ignorant
and unenlightened, to melt and to startle even his
superiors in education and refinement. None could
deny that the man who began life as a pot-boy in a
Gloucester tavern was the greatest preacher of his
time.

Antonia watched and listened with a keen inter-
est, enduring the heated atmosphere of the crowd as
best she might. She had thrown off her mantle, and
the starlight shone upon the marble of her tlu'oat
and the diamond heart that fastened her gauze ker-
chief. One large ruby set in the midst of the dia-

St. Giles' and St. James' 297

monds enhanced their whiteness, and it seemed to
Stobart as he looked at her that the vivid crimson
spot symboHzcd his own heart's blood, always
bleeding for her, drop by drop. Absorbed by her
interest in the preacher, she was imconscious of
those eyes that gazed at her with an unspeakable
love, knew not that for this man it was happiness
only to sit by her side, to watch every change in the
lovely face, every grace of the perfect form, ob-
livious of the crowd, the orator, of everything upon
earth except her.

To-night Whitefield was in one of his gloomy
moods, the preacher of unmitigated Calvinism. It
may be that his late quarrel with the Bishop of
Bangor and the persecution he had suffered at his
West End chapel had soured him, and that he was
unconsciously influenced by the hardness of a world
in which a mighty hunter of souls was the mark for
narrow-minded opposition and vulgar ridicule. His
purpose to-night seemed rather to appall than to
convince, to instil despair rather than hope.

His text from the Epistle of St. Jude was pro-
nounced in solemn tones that reached wide across
that closely packed mass of humanity :

" For there are certain men crept in unawares,
who were before of old ordained to this condemna-
tion, ungodly men, turning the grace of our God
into lasciviousness, and denying the only Lord God
and our Lord Jesus Christ. . . . Clouds they are
without water, carried about of winds ; trees whose
fruit withereth, without fruit, twice dead, plucked
up by the roots ; raging waves of the sea, foaming
out tiieir own shame ; wandering stars, to whom is
reserved the blackness of darkness forever."

In an oration that lasted ncarlv two hours the

I (

I I

298

The Infidel

preacher rang the changes on these tremendous
words. Tlirough every phase of sin, through every
stage of the dov^nward journey, his imagination fol-
lowed the sinner, " of old ordained " to perish ever-
lastingly. His vivid words described a soul inevi-
tably lost, and again and again the melancholy music
of those phrases, " raging waves of the sea, foaming
out their own shame, wandering stars, clouds with-
out water," rang out over the awestricken throng,
moved by this picture of an imagined doom, with an
emotion scarcely less intense than the thrill of agony
that ran through the crowd at Tyburn when the
doomed sinner swung into eternity.

It was with the picture of Judas, his final example
of sin and death, that the preacher closed his dis-
course.

" Let those who tell you there is no such thing as
predestination turn their eyes upon Judas," he said,
his voice falling to that grave note which precluded
terror. " Let them consider the arch apostate, the
son of perdition. Oh, my brethren, had ever mortal
man such opportunities of salvation as Judas had?
Have the angels who stand about the throne of God,
His worshippers and subordinates, half such priv-
ileges as Judas had? To be the friend and com-
panion of his Saviour, in daily and familiar asso-
ciation with the Redeemer of souls ; to walk by His
side through the fields of Palestine ; to sit at meat
with Him ; to be with Him in sadness and in joy, in
prayer and praise; to journey over the wild sea
with Him, and behold His power to still the tem-
pest ; to be His bosom friend ; to live on an equality
with God ! Think of him, oh, you sinners who have
never seen your Saviour's face, think of Judas!
Think of those three years of sweet converse!

,11

St. Giles' and St. James' 299

Think of tluit divine condescension which received
sinful man in the brotherhood of friendship ! Think
of those journeys by the lake of Genncsaret, those
pilgrimages of prayer and i)raisc, the daily, the
liourly companionship with Divinity, the affection-
ate familiarity with Ineffable Wisdom !

" And, O God, great God of sinners, to think
what came of such unutterable privileges ! The dis-
ciple, the companion, bartered all that glory and de-
light, flung away those inestimable joys for a hand-
ful of coin. Which of you dare disbelieve in pre-
destined damnation wdicn he contemplates this
hideous fall, when he sees the chosen brother of
Jesus sink to the base huckstering of a Jonathan
Wild, one of the sacred twelve reduced to the level
of informers and thief-catchers, trucking his soul's
salvation against thirty pieces of silver?

" 'Twas the inexorable destiny of the foredoomed
sinner, the appointed end to which those footsteps
beside the lake, those footsteps across the mountain,
those footsteps through the temple, and in the mar-
ket-place, fast or slow, were always moving. God
has sentenced this man to the most awful doom the
mind can conceive, created to betray, the fore-
doomed destroyer of his Saviour. Who can cjues-
tion that he was marked for hell? How else ac-
count for such a fall? I despise that shallow rea-
soner who will tell you that the fall of Judas was a
gradual descent, beginning in avarice, ending in
murder. I laugh at that fond theorizer who will tell
you that Judas was an ambitious dreamer longing to
behold the kingdom of Christ triumphant on earth,
and thinking to realize that dazzling dream by
bringing about the conflict between his Master and
earthlv authority. I laugh at him who tells me that

[OO

The Infidel

Judas expected to sec the power of the syii,ij:]fogue
and the forum shrivel Hkc a burning scroll hefore
the face of the Messiali, and that it was on the fail-
ure of that hope he rushed to the field of blood.

" No, dear sinners, a thousand and a thousand
times no! Over that guilty head the fiat of the
Eternal had gone forth. ' This is the son of per-
dition, this is he who shall betray the son of God.' "

Then, after a long pause, sinking his mighty
voice almost to a whisper, the preacher asked :

" Is there any son of perdition here to-night? Is
there one among you whose stubborn heart answers
not to his Saviour's call — a wretch in love with vice,
who would rather have sensual pleasures on earth
than everlasting bliss in heaven — a modern Judas
who sells his Redeemer's love for thirty pieces of
the devil's money, thirty profligate raptures, thirty
vicious indulgences, thirty debauches in filthy tav-
erns, thirty nights of riot and wantonness among
gamesters and loose women?

" If there be any such, cast him from you. How-
ever near, however dear — father, brother, husband,
son, flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone. Cast
him out, oh, you who value your eternal happiness !
You cannot mistake the mark of the lost soul. The
son of perdition bears a brand of sin that no eye can
fail to recognize. 'Tis Satan's broad arrow, and
stamps the wretch foredoomed to hell. You who
would taste the joy of heaven, hold no fellowship
with such on earth."

The great throng heard those concluding phrases
in a profound silence. The heavy stillness of a sul-
try night, the muffled roll of distant thunder, the fit-
ful lightning, now faint, now vivid, that flashed
across the scene, intensified the dramatic effect of

St. Giles' and St. James* 301

the sermon, and the crowds that had gathered nois-
ily with much talk and some jeering dwindled and
melted quietly.

Like many other of Whitefield's sermons which
moved multitudes, there was little left after the last
resonance of the mighty voice had sunk into silence.
But the immediate effect of his oration was tre-
mendous. Garrick had said that he would give a
hundred pounds if he could say " Oh " like White-
field ; and what Ga-rick could not do must have been
something of exceptional power.

Antonia had given her whole mind to the
preacher, yet for her his sermon was but a dramatic
effort, and she went back to her coach full of won-
der at that vast influence which a fine voice and a
cultivated elocution had exercised over the multi-
tude in England and America.

Upon George Stobart the preacher's influence
was stronger.

" The man makes me believe against my own
reason," he said, " which has ever striven against
the idea of a fatal necessity. Come, Lady Kilrush,
confess that his eloquence moved you."

" I confess as much with all my heart, and I am
very glad to have heard him. He is a finer actor—
an unconscious actor, of course— than Garrick; at
least he has a greater power to appall an ignorant
crowd."

" I see you are as stubborn as ever."
" My mind is not a weathercock to be driven by
changing winds. I doubt Mr. Whitefield may do
good by such a discourse as we have heard to-night.
He may scare feeble sinners and teach them to be-
lieve that, weak and wielded as they are, God has
marked them for salvation. But what of the sinner

302

The Infidel

iloci^ly s;n;k in guilt — will nol he see only the liopc-
Icssiicss of any strui;t;le to escape from Satan? ' So
1)0 it.' he will cry ; ' if I am the son of perdition, let
me drown my soul in sin, and forget the injustice of
(lod.

George Stohart's only answer was a despairing
sigh. " Let me ilrown r.iy soul in sin and forget
Coil." Those awful words too well depicted the
condition of his own mind to-night, sitting hy her
side in the roomy chariot, ai)art from her, with his
face turned to the open window, his eyes look-
ing into the summer night, unseeing, his heart
heating with the fierce throb of passion held in
check.

Was not Whitefield right, after all? Were there
not men whose names were written in the book of
Doom, wretches not born to be judged, but judged
before they were born? To-night that religion of
despair seemed to him the only possible creed. He
had looked back and remembered the sins of his
youth — his life at Eton — his life in the army. And
iie had believed the stain of those sins washed
away, in one ineffable hoi.r of spiritual anguish and
spiritual joy, the conviction of sin folio \ved by the
assurance of free grace. He had believed his past
life annihilated, and himself made a new creature,
pure as Adam before the fall. And in the years that
had followed that day of grace he had walked with
head erect, and eyes looking up to heaven, strong in
his belief in Christ, but strongest in his reliance
upon his own good works.

O God, what availed his labor in the service of
humanity, his sacrifice of worldly gain, his preach-
ing, his "prayers, his faithful study of Cod's word?
A wave of passion surged across his soul ; and all

St. Giles' and St. James' 303

of good that tlicrc liad been in liini was swept away.
The original man, foredoomed to evil, appeared
again. A soul drowned in sin! Her words, so
carelessly spoken, had denounced him.

The :ulcncc lasted long, and they were nearing
the lights of London A'hen Antonia spoke.

" You are very silent, Mr. Stobart," she said ; " I
hope you have not any trouble on your mind to-
night."

" No, no."

" Then 'tis that hideous doctrine troubles you."

" Perhaps. What if it be the only true key to
God's mysteries? Yes, I believe there are souls
given over to Satan."

" Oh, if you believe in Satan you can believe any-
thing."

" Can you look round the world you li^'e in and
doubt the power of evil ? "

" Of the evil within us, no. 'Tis in ourselves, in
our own hearts and minds the devil lives. We have
to fight him there. Oh, I believe in that devil, the
devil of many names. Envy, hatred, malice, jeal-
ousy, vanity, self-love, discontent, I know the fiend
under most of his aliases. But our part is to be
stronger than our own evil inclinations. I am not
afraid of the devil."

" He speaks for you in that arrogant speech, and
his name is pride."

" Well, perhaps I spoke with too much assurance,
but I believe pride is a virtue in women as courage
is in men. Or, perhaps, pride in woman is only
courage by another name."

He did not reply for some moments, and then an
irrepressible impulse made him touch on a perilous
subject.

;o4

The I n f i d el

f.i

M /

" Ilavo vou oliangcd your iiiiiul :i1k)iiI Lord Dun-
koUl ? ••

" As how, sir? " she asked with a ehillinpf air.

" Have you resolved to aeeejjt him as a httshand ?
Surely you eould not be forever adamant against so
noble a suitor,"

" You are vastly impertinent to rejieat a question
that I answered some time ai^i^ Nt), sir, I shall
never aece])t Lord Dunkeld nor any other suitor —
had he the hit^hest rank in the kingdom."

" You nnist have some strong reason."

" I have my reason, an all-suffioient reason ; and
now, sir, no more, I beg you. Indeed, I wonder
that you can distress me by renewing this argu-
ment."

" Oh, madam, if you but knev/ the motive of my
impertinence, the anguish of heart that speaks in
those words. I would have you lmi)pily mated, An-
tonia, I — T — who adore you. Yes, though my jeal-
ous soul could scarce conicniplate the image of your
husl)an(l without the murderer's impulse — though
to think of you belonging to another would be a
torment worse than hell fire. Could you know how
I have wrestled with Satan ; how when I urged you
to marry Dunkeld every word I spoke was like a
knife driven through my heart; how I longed to
fling myself at your feet to tell you, as I tell you
now, at the peril of my salvation, that I love you
with all the strength of my soul, my soul drowned
in sin, the unpardonable sin of loving you, the sin
for which I must lose heaven and reckon with
Satan, my darling sin, the sin unto death, never to
be repented of."

He was on his knees, and his arms were about
her, drawing her averted face tow^-d his own with

O i 1 c s * and St. James*

105

a wild violonoc, till her brow touched his, and his
lips were pressed aj^ainst her burning cheek. She
felt the passion of iiis kiss and his tears upon her
face before she wrenched herself from his arms and
dashed down the glass in front of her.

"Stop!" .she called out to the postilions. And,
startled at her authoritative cry, they pulled up their
hor.ses suddenly, with a loud clattering on the
stones, a hundred yards from the bridge.

" You devil ! " she said to Stobart between her set
teeth, "you that I took for a saint! I will not
breathe the same air with you."

The carriage had hardly stopped when she opened

the door and sprang out, not waiting for her foot-

' man to let down the steps. He had been asleej) in

the rumble, and only alighted a moment before his

mistress.

She walked toward the bridge in a tumult of agi-
tation, Stobart at her side, while her carriage and
horses stood still, and her servants waited for or-
ders, wondering at this strange caprice of their
lady's.

" Hypocrite ! Hypocrite ! " she repeated. " You
— the Christian, the preacher who calls sinners to
repentance; the man who sacrificed fortune to
marry the girl he loved."

" I knew not what love meant."
" You chose a simple girl for your wife and tired
of her, pretended friendship for me, and umlor that
mask of friendship nursed your profligate ilreanis.
and now you dare insult me with your wicked love."
" I should not have so dared, madam — indeed. T
believe T might have nquered my i)assion — so far
as to remain forever silent — if — if your own
words "

Ikgrnmrnmrnm

306

The I II f i J e 1

" My words? Wlicn have I ever spoUcii a word
tliat could warrant such an affront?"

"When I advised you to accept Diiiikeld — you
refused witli such inipassioneil velienience — you
confessed you had a reason."

" And you thought 'twas because I loved another
v.oman's husband — that 'twas your saintly self I
cared for? No, sir, 'twas because I swore to Kil-
rush on his death-bed that I would never belong to
another, that our union, of but one tragical hour,
should be all I would ever know of wedlock. I be-
long to hini now as I belonged to him then. I love
his memory now as I loved him then. That, sir,
was my reason. Arc you not ashamed of your
fatuous self-esteem, which took it for a confession
of love? Love for you, the Methodist preacher, the
man of God ! "

" Yes, I am ashamed — I am drinking the cup of
shame."

" You have tricked me, sir. You have deceived
me very cruelly. I trusted you — I thought that I had
a friend — one man in the world who treated me like
a woman of sense — who dared to disapprove where
all the world basely flattered me. And you are the
worst of all — the snake in the grass. But do you
think I fear you ? 1 had a better man than you at
my feet — the man I loved — my first love — a man
with sovereign power over the hearts of women.
Do you think I fear you? No, sir, 'twas then the
tempter tried me. If there is a devil who assails
women I met him then and vanquished him."

She trembled from head to foot in the excess of
her feeling. She was leaning against the balustrade
in one of the semicircular recesses on the bridge.

St. Giles' and St allies' \oj

word

—you
—you

Olli

l[i' was silling at tlio fartlicsi * of the
bench, his elbows on his knees, his face hi(KIen.

"You have made nie hate myself," he said.
" 'Tis useles. to ask you to forgive me, but you can
forget that so base a worm crawls upon this eartii.
That will cost you but a slight cfTort."

" Yes, I will try to forget you, and to forget how
nuich I valued your friendship, or the friendship of
the honorable man I took you for."

" I was that man, madam. Our friendship did
not begin in treachery. 1 was your true and honor-
able friend — till — till the devil saw me in my foolish
pride, my arrogant confidence in good works."

" Well', sir, 'tis a dream ended," she said, in those
grave contralto tones that had ever been like music
in his ear — the lower key to which her voice
dropped when she was deeply moved — '" and from
to-night be good enough to remember that we are
strangers."

" I shall not forget, madam, nor shall my pres-
ence make the future troublesome to you."

Something in his words scared her.

" You will do nothing violent — nothing desper-
ately wicked ? "

" No, madam ; whatever the tempter whispe; s,
however sweetly the river nutrmurs of rest and ob-
livion, I shall not kill myself. For me there is the
' something after death ' I "

" Will you tell them to bring my coach? "

lie rose and obeyed without a word, and stood by
bareheaded till she drove away, not even oflfering to
assist her as she stepped into the carriage attended
by her footman. Stobart stood watching till the
chariot vanished in ihe darkness of the street be-

3o8

The Infidel

'I ■!'

( ' t

yond the bridge, tlun flimj; himself on tlu- honcii in
the recess, and sat vvitli his arms folded on the stone
parapet and his forehead leaning ujwn them, lost in
tlespairin/;^ thoi.frhts.

Judas, Judns, the companion of Christ, fore-
doomed to everlastini- misery— Judas, the son of
perdition ! And what of him who six years ago gave
Imnself to (Jod— convinced of sin, sincerely repent-
ing of the errors of his youth, resolved to lead a
new life, to live in Christ and fur Christ? How
confident he hul been, how happv in the assurance
of grace— all his thoughts, all his desires in subjec-
tion to the divine will, living not bv the strict letter
of Christ's law, but by every counsel of perfection
deeming no sacrifice of self tc;o severe, no labor too
exacting in that heavenly service. And now, after
that holy apprenticeship, after all those years of
duty and (obedience, after mounting so high upon
the ladder of life, to find himself lying in the mire at
the foot of it, caught in the toils of Satan and again
the slave of sin !

The slave of sin— yes— for though he hated the
sin he went on sinning. He loved her— he loved
her with a passion that the water of life could not
quench. How vain were those supi)lications for
grace, tliose confessions of guilt which broke from
his convulsed lips while her image filled his heart
How vain his cry to Christ for help while her voice
sounded in his ears, and the thought of her indigna-
tion, her scorn, her icy indifference, reigned supr'cme
in the fiery tumult of his brain.

Oh, how he loathed himself for his folly ; how he
writhed under a proud man's agony of humiliation
at the thought of his fatuous self-delusion ! Some-
thing in her look, something in her tone when she

ndifTiia-

St. Giles' and St. James' 309

jji-otoslcd ajj;aiii.st a si-cotid marriage had thrilled
liiin wit'' the conviction that his love had found its
answer in her heart. When did that fatal love be-
gin? He knew not how the insidious poison stole
into his senses, but he could recall his first con-
sciousness of that blissful slaver}, his first lapse
from honor, lie could rctiicmber the hour and the
moment, they two walking through the squalid
street in the winter twilight, her gloved hand rest-
ing lightly on his arm, her eyes looking up at him,
sapphire blue under the long, dark lashes, her low
voice murmuring words of pity for the dyin>,ij child
that she had nursed in her lap, for the broken-
hearted mother they had just left, and in bis heart
a wild rapture that was new and sweet.

" I love her, I love her," he had told himself at
that moment. " But she will never know. It is as
if I loved an angel. She is as far from me. My
conscience can sufifcr no stain from so pure, so dis-
tant a love."

Self-deluded sinner! Hypocrite to himself ! He
knew now that this moment marked the beginning
of apostasy, the law of sin warring against the in-
ward light. He knew now that this woman — noble-
minded, chaste, charitable, a creature of kindly im-
pulses and generous acts, for him represented anti-
christ, and that from the hour in which be prov(!d
her stubborn in unbelief he should have rc.'.ounced
her friendship. He had paltered with truth, had
tried to reconcile the kingdom of darkness with the
kingdom of light, bad been satisfied with the vague
hope of a deferred conversion, and had made bis
bosom friend of the woman who denied his Master.

He loved her — with a love not to be repented of —
a love that ran in his veins an<l moved bis heart, and

3IO

The Infidel

seemed as much a part of his being as the nerves
and bones and tlesh and blood that made him a man.
lie might He in dust and ashes at the foot of the
cross, scourge himself to death with the penitent's
whip, but while the heart beat and the brain could
think the wicked love would be there, and he would
die adoring her, die and perish everlastingly, lost to
salvation, cut off from Christ's compassion by that
unhallowed love.

There was the agony for him, the believer. To
abhor sin, to believe in everlasting punishment, and
to feel the impossibility of a saving repentance, to
know himself a son of perdition, since what could
avail the pangs of remorse for the man who went on
sinning, whose whole life was colored by a guilty
passion?

The divine teacher's stern denunciation of such
sin rang in his ears, as he crouched with folded
arms on the stone parapet, alone in the summer
darkness, an outcast from God.

" He that looketh upon a woman ! " On his adul-
terous heart that sentence burned like vitriol upon
tender flesh. Only by ceasing to love her could he
cease to sin ; and looking forward through the long
vista of the coming years, he saw no possibility of
change in his guilty heart, no hope of respite from
yearning and regret. Six years of repentance for
the sins and follies of his youth, six years of faith-
ful service, six years of peace and self-approval, and
now behold him thrust outside the gate, a soul more
lost than in those unrcgenerate days when the con-
sciousness of sin was first awakened in his mind,
when remorse for a youthful intrigue, in which he
had been the victim and sport of a vile woman, and
of a duel that had ended fatally, first became intol-

St. Giles' and St. James' 311

crable. For him, the earnest believer, to whom rc-
Hgion was a terrible reality, the fall from a state of
grace meant the loss of that great hope which alone
can make life worth living, that " hope of eternal
life, which God, that cannot lie, promised before
the world began." For him sin unrepented of
meant everlasting despair, the pains of hell, the
companionship of devils.

He left the bridge and wandered along the river
bank, past his own house, past the archbishop's pal-
ace, to the dreary marshes between Latnbeth and
Battersea— wandered like a man hunted by evil
spirits ; and it was not till daylight that he turned
his steps slowly homeward, dejected and forlorn.

■ i

Chapter XV.

ANTONIA FINDS HER OWN.

Antonia was wounded to the quick by a revela-
tion that lost her the one friend whom she had
counted as changeless amid the fickle herd. She
knew of how airy a substance the friendship of the
many is made ; and pleasant as she found the polite
world, she liad as yet discovered no kindred spirit,
no woman of her own age and tastes and inclina-
tions whom she could choose for her bosom friend.
Lady ]\[argaret Laroche was, indeed, her only inti-
mate friend amid the multitude of her admiring
acquaintance. But in George Stobart, the man
who dared to be uncivil, who gave her vinegar and
wormwood when she was satiated with the honey
and roses of modish society, she had found a closer
sympathy, a quicker appreciation of her ideas and
aspirations, than in any one she had known since
th.osc old days in Rupert's Buildings, where she dis-
cussed every thought and every dream with Kil-
rush. And stormily as that former friendship had
ended, she had never contemplated the possibility of
evil passions here, in that stern ascetic, the man who
had renounced the world, with all its pleasures,
follies and temptations. An infidel herself, she had

Antonia FindvS Her Own 313

honort 1 Stobart for his steadfast faith, his self-
surrender.

She was troubled, shocked, distressed by the dis-
covery that her friend was unworthy. His absence
made a blank in her life, in spite of her innumerable
distractions. The memory of his sin haunted her.
She tried in vain to banish the offender's image
from her mind, and the thought of him came upon
her at strange seasons and sometimes kept her
awake at night, like the hot and cold fits of an In-
dian fever.

She was not the woman to cherish weak senti-
mentalism, vain regrets for an unworthy friend.
She had lost him, and must endure her loss, know-
ing that henceforward friendship was impossible.
She could never again admit him to her presence,
never confide in him, never esteem and honor him.
The man she had trusted was dead to her forever.
It was less than a week after the parting on West-
minster Bridge when she received a letter which re-
moved all fear of any chance encounter with the
man who had offended her.

The friend was lost, but the world remained, and
Lady Kilrush flung herself with a new zest and
eagerness into the modish whirlpool.

London was empty, but Tunbridge Wells was at
the zenith. She took the handsomest lodging in the
little town, a stone's throw from the Pantiles, with
drawing-room windows looking over the common,
and commanding all the gayety of the place. She
invited Patty Granger and her general to si:)end the
season with her, having an idea that her old friend's
joyous trifling would help her to be light-hearted
and prevent her brooding upon the i:)ast. She had
not omitted Mrs. Granger's name last season when

The Infidel

sending out cards for her drums and dances, but
this invitation to Tunbridge was a more intimate
thing, and Patty was overwhehned by her kind-
ness. In the cosmopoHtan crowd at the Wells, in
a company where German princes and English
dukes rubbed shoulders with tradesmen's wives
from Smock Alley and pickpockets newly released
from the counter, Antonia's beauty and reckless ex-
penditure secured her a numerous following and
made her conspicuous everywhere. She could not
saunter across the common with Mrs. Granger or
Sophy Potter without attracting a crowd of ac-
quaintance, who hung upon her steps like the court
about the old king or the Princess of Wales.

Miss Potter declared that the Wells was like
heaven. In London she saw very little fine com-
pany, and only went abroad with her mistress when
her ladyship visited the poor, or drove on shopping
expeditions to the city. But manners were less for-
mal at the Wells, and Sophy went to picnics and
frisked up and down the long perspective of coun-
try lanes hand in hand with persons of quality.

Never had Sophy known her mistress so eager
for amui-ement as during this particular season.
She was ready to join in every festivity, however
trivial, however foolish, and diversions that had a
spice of eccentricity, like Lady Caroline Petersham's
minced chicken supper at Vauxhall, seemed to
please her most. She entertained lavishly, gave
breakfasts, picnics, dances, suppers — had a crowd at
her tea-table every evening; and Mr. Pitt being at
the Wells that year, she gave several entertainments
in his honor, notably an excursion to Bayham Ab-
bey, in a dozen coaches and four, and a picnic dinner
among the ruins, at which the great minister — who

Antonia Finds Her Own 315

had but lately grasped the sceptre of supreme power
— flung off the burden of public care, forgot his
gout and the dark cloud of war in Europe and
America, Frederick's reverses, misfortunes in Can-
ada, while he sunned himself in yVntonia's beauty,
and absorbed her claret and champagne.

" I could almost wish for another earthquake that
would bury me under these antique walls," he said
gayly ; " sure, madam, to expire at your feet were a
death more illustrious than the Assyrian funeral
pile."

" Sardanapalus was a worthless sybarite, sir, and
the world could spare him. England must have
ceased to be a nation without Mr. Pitt."

" Nay, but think how glad Newcastle would be
and how the old king would chuckle if a falling pil-
lar dispatched me. 'Twould be the one pleasing
episode in my history. His Majesty would order
me a public funeral in his gratitude for my civility
in dying. Death is a prime minister's ace of trumps,
and his reputation with posterity sometimes hangs
on that last card."

The minister's visit to Tunbridge was shortened
by the news of the taking of Cape Breton and the
siege of Louisburg, the first substantial victory that
English arms had won in America since Braddock's
disastrous rout on the Monongahela. Amherst and
his dragoons had landed on that storm-beaten coast
in the nick of time. The aristocratic water-drinkers
and the little shopkeepers at the Wells rejoiced as
one man. Bonfires blazed on the common, every
window was illuminated, martial music was heard
on every side, toasts were drunk, glasses broken
and a general flutter of excitement pet vaded the
Wells, while in London a train of French standards

3i6

The I n f i d el

i; '

were being carried to Westminster Abbey to the
sound of trumpets and kettle-drums, and the wild
huzzas of the populace.

Antonia wondered whether George Stobart had
fallen in among the English dragoons fighting in the
trenches, of whose desperate courage old General
Granger talked so glibly. She heard of heavy losses
on both sides. She pictured him lying among the
unconsidered dead, while the cross of St. George
waved above the shattered ramparts and the guns
roared their triumphant thunder. She read the
newspapers, half in hope, half in fear of finding
Stobart's name, but it was not till General Am-
herst's dispatches v/ere made public some time later
that her mind was set at rest, and she knew that he
lived and had done weH.

That little season at Tunbridge, where people had
to stay six weeks for a water cure, was a crowning
triumph for Antonia as a woman of ton. Never till
now had she so concentrated her thoughts upon the
(utilities of pleasure, never so studied every bill of
fare, or so carefully planned every entertainment.
Her originality and her lavish outlay made her the
cynosure of that smaller great world at the Wells.
Everybody applauded her taste and anticipated her
ruin.

" The woman has a genius for spending, which is
much rarer than a genius for saving," said a dis-
tinguished gourmand who dined twice a week at
Antonia's lodgings. " A fool can waste money, but
to scatter gold with both hands and make every
guinea flash requires a great mind. I doubt Lady
Kilrush Vvill die a pauper, but she will ha^e squan-
dered her fortune like a goiitlcwoman."

Lady Peggy Laroche was at the Wells, and spent

Antonia Finds Her Own 317

most of her Icisurt; with Antonia. While approving
her protege's taste she urged the necessity of pru-
dence.

" Prythee, child, do not fancy your income inex-
haustible. Remember, there is a bottom to every

well."

" Dear Lady Peggy, Goodwin could tell you that
I am a woman of business, and have a head for fig-
ures. I am spending lavishly here, but when the
season is over I shall go to Kiliush with Sophy and
a footman, and mope through the winter with my
books and my harpsichord, and if your ladyship
would condescend to share my solitude T should
need no more for happiness."

" You are vastly kind, child, to offer to bury me
before my time, but I am too old to hibernate, and
must make the most of my few remaining winters
in London or Paris."

"If you knew the romance and wild grandeur of
that granite coast."

" Bond Street is romantic enough for me, ma
douce. I depend upon living faces, not granite
rocks, for my amusement, and would rather have
the trumpery gossip of St. James' than the roar of
the Atlantic."

After having sparkled at the Wells and lived in a
perpetual va et vicnt of modish company. Lady Kil-
rush found life on the shores of the Atlantic some-
what monotonous. Her nearest neighbors were ten
miles off. Dean Delany's clever wife could find
hourly diversions in a country seat near Dublin,
where she could give a dance or a big dinner every
week, and had all the court people from tlie castle
running in upon her, but at Kilrush the solitude was
broken only by visits from Irish squires and their

3i8

The I n f i d el

I /

wives, who liad nothing in common with the mis-
tress of the house. Antonia could have enthtred an
unhroken isolation better than the strain of trying
to please uninteresting acq laintance. She devoted
a good deal of her leisure to visiting the cottagers
on her own estate, and ministered to every case of
distress that came within her knowledge, whether
on her own soil or an absentee neighbor's. She took
very kindly to the peasantry, accepted their redun-
dant flattery with a smile, and lavished gifts on old
and young. To the old, the invalidcs du travail, her
heart went out with generous emotion. To have
la])ored for a lifetime, patient as a horse in the
shafts, and to be satisfied with so little in the end —
just the winter seat by the smouldering turf, by
courtesy a fire; just to lie in front of the hut and
bask in the summer sunshine ; just not to die of star-
vation.

'^hc Gafifcrs and Gammers fared well while An-
tonia was it Kilrush, and before leaving she ar-
ranged with her steward for tiny pensions to be paid
regularly until her return.

" You are not to be worse off for my going to
England," she told one of her old men, when she
bade him good-by.

" Sure, me lady, we should be the worse off for
want of your beautiful face if you was to lave us the
Bank of Ireland," replied Gafifer.

She went back to London in December, in u gov-
ernment yacht that narrowly escaped calamity, after
waiting at Waterford over a week for favorable
weather. But Antonia enjoyed the storm ; it thrilled
in every nerve, and set her pulses beating, and gave
her something to think of, after the emptiness of a
life too free from worldlv cares.

A n t () n i a Finds Her Own 319

She could return to her house in St. James'
Square without fear of being troubled by the pres-
ence of the man who had made the word friendship
a sound that sickened her. That traitor was far
away.

" The George Inn, Portsmouth.

" The wretch who writes these lines would scarce
presume to address you were it not to bid a fare-
well that is to be eternal. I have gone back to my
old trade of soldiering, and am to sail from this
place at the first favorable wind, to serve in North
America under General Amherst, with a company
of grenadiers, mostly volunteers like myself. 'Tis
beginning life again at the bottom of the ladder, but
the lowest rank in His Majesty's service is too high
for the deserter from Christ. The chances of sav-
age warfare may bring me that peace which I can
never know in this world, and should I fall I shall
expire in the liopc of salvation, trusting that the
Great Judge will be merciful to a sinner who dies in
the service of his king and country.

" If you ever think of me, madam, let it be v^^ith
kindness, as of one tempted beyond his strength,
and not a willing sinner.

" George Stobart."

She put the letter away -n a secret drawer of her
bureau, but she did not read it a second time. The
lines were engraved upon her memory. She was
angry with him. She was sorry for him.

Assured of his absence, she went back to the
slums by Lambeth marsh, where she was received
with rapture. Her pensioners had not been forgot-
ten while she was away, since she had provided for

320

The Infidel

< '

all the most pressing cases, but her return was like
the coming of April warmth after a hitler winter.
Everywhere she heard lamentations at ^Iv. Slo-
bart's departure, although Wesley had filled his
place with another of his helpers, an indefatigable
worker, but a raw youth of unsympathetic manners
and uncompromising doctrine, lie was barely civil
to Lady Kilrush when they happened to meet, hav-
ing been told that she wa? an unbeliever, and did all
in his power to discour.-^'C her ministrations among
his people.

" If your ladyship came to them with the Bible in
your hand they might be the better for your kind-
ness," he said severely, " but the carnal comforts of
food and drink, which your generosity provides for
them, only serve to make them careless of everlast-
ing bliss."

"What, sir, would you starve them into piety?
Do you think 'tis only because they arc miserable
tipon earth that Christians long for the joys of
heaven? That is to hold the everlasting kingdom
mighty cheap. Your great exemplar bad a broader
philosophy, and did not disdain to feed as well as to
teach His followers."

Antonia's heart was moved at the thought of the
pretty ■. ung wife deserted by her husband and liv-
ing in solitude, without the distractions of iiiic com-
pany or the delight in books and music v^-liich filled
the blank spaces in her own life. Tinpclled by this
compassionate feeling, she called on Mrs. Stobart
one wintry afternoon soon after her return from
Ireland, and was received with gratification which
was mainly due to the splendor of her coach and the
effect it would have on the neighbors.

" Your ladyship has doubtless heard that my hus-

*
I

t *

was like
winter.
Ir. Sto-
lied his
'atigablc
inaniKTs
cly civil
x't, Iiav-
(1 (lid all
5 among

Bible in
ur kind-
1 forts of
/ides for
cverlast-

piety?
niserable

joys of
kingdom

broader
\.'c\l as to

lit of the
and liv-
rine coni-
idi filled
:1 l\v this
, Stobart
irn from
)n which

1 and the

my lius-

Antonia Finds Her Own 321

band has gone back to the army? " said Lucy, when
her visitor was seated in the prim front parlor,
where the mahogany furniture shone with an in-
creased polish, and where there prevailed that chill-
ing primness which marks a room that nobody uses.
" It was a sad blow to me and to Mr. Wesley, but
George always hankered after his old profession,
though he knew it was Satan's choicest trade."

" Nay, Mrs. ^tobart, I cannot think that Satan
has any part in iiie calling of men who fight and die
for their country. I doubt your husband's life in
America will be as unselfish as his life in Lambeth."

" ' He has taken his hand from the plough.' That
is what Mr. Wesley said. ' He was the best of my
helpers, and he has deserted me,' he said. And Mr.
Wesley was sorry for my trouble in being forsaken
by my husband."

She shed a few feeble tears as she dwelt upon her
own dull life, but she did not seem deeply impressed
by the thought of her husband's peril or the chance
that he might never come back to her.

" It was a cruel disappointment for me," she com-
plained. " He had promised to join the Church of
England, and then we might have had a vicarage,
and he would have stayed at home and only
preached in his parish church. He had promised to
be a kinder husband."

" Kinder ? Oh, Mrs. Stobart,. was he ever un-
kind ? " exclaimed Antonia, kindling with the sense
of injustice. She had noted his gentleness — his su-
preme patience with the unsympathetic wife, so in-
ferior to him in mind and heart — a pink and white
nullity.

" It was unkind to leave me while he went about
the country preaching ; it was unkind to go back to
11

322

The Infidel

the army and leave me alone for years, more like a
widow than a wife. And father comes and teases
me for money now that Georpe is away. He dursn't
ask for more than his allowance while George was

lere.

"Your father is — a trouhlesome person?" in-
quired Antonia.

" I should think he was indeed. He kept himself
tolerably sober while mother was alive. She used to
spend every penny on drink, and he used to beat her
for it, and both of them used to beat nie. It was a
miserable life. iMolher died in the hospital three
years ago, and when she was gone the thought of
his unkindness to her seemed to prey upon father's
mind, and he was always at the gin shop, and lost
his situation in the printing office where he had
worked half his life, and then Ik came to us with a
pitiful story, and my husband gave him ten shillings
a week, which was more than he could afford, with-
out denying himself, only George never minded. I
don't think he would have minded if he had been
obliged to live like John the Baptist in the wilder-
ness."

"And now Mr. Stobart is gone your father

troubles you ? "

" Indeed he does, madam. He comes for his
money on a Saturday looking such an object that
I'm ashamed for the servant to see him ; and then he
comes again on Tuesday or Wednesday and tells
me he's starving, and sheds tears if I refuse to give
him money. And I'm obliged to refuse him or he
wouldn't leave me a sixpence to keep the house.
And then father goes down the steps abusing me.
and usitig the wickedest language on purpose for

"■*^:ii-

loro like a
itid teases
rlc (lursn't
corgc was

son I

in-

ipt himself
ilic used to
lo beat her
It was a
pital three
thought of
on father's
p, and lost
re he had
) us with a
m shillings
Tord, with-
minded. I
.> had been
the wilder-

Mr father

les for his
object that
ind then he
y and tells
"use to give
; him or he
the house,
.busing nic,
purpose for

A II t o n i a Finds Her Own 323

the neighbors to hear him. And he conies again
and again, sometimes before the week is out."

The idea of this sordid trouble oppressed Antonia
like a ni^.iitmare. .She thought of her own father —
so kind, so pleasant a comrade, yet unprincipled and
self-indulgent. It needed, perhaps, only the lower
grade to have made him as lost a creature.

" Let mc give you some money for him," she said
eagerly. " It will be a pleasure for me to help you."

" Oh, no, no, madam. I know how generous you
are, but (jeorge would never forgiv'> me if 1 took
your ladyship's money. Besides, it would only do
father harm. lie would spend it upon drink.
There's no help for it. Father is my cross, and I
nuist just bear it. lie has come to live in the
marsh on purpose to be near me, and he makes be-
lieve that he's likely to get work as a bookkeeper at
the glass works. As if anybody would employ a
man that's never sober. And he's a clever man, too,
your ladyship, and has read more books than most
gentlemen, but he never went to a place of worship,
and he never believed in anything but his own
cleverness. And sec where that has brought him !
Sure I beg your lad' 'lip's pardon," conchuU w Lucy
hastily. " I forgot it you was of father's way of
thinking."

" You have at least t'le consolation of your son's
aft'eclion, Mrs. Stobart, and it must be pleasant for
you to watch the growth of his intelligence. Is he
as healthy and as handsome as when I saw him
last?"

" PTandsomer, T think, your ladyship."

"Will he be home from school presently? I
should love to see h.im."

324

The Infidel

" Nay, madam, that's impossible, for he is living
at the Bath with his grandmother, Lady Lanigan.
Mr. Stobart wrote to her before he left Portsmouth
a farewell letter that melted her hard heart. 'Twas
after the news of the taking of Louisbtirg, when her
ladyship came here in a terrible fainting, and almost
swooned when she saw the boy, and swore he was
the image of his father at the same age."

" And she carried him away with her on a visit? "

" Yes, madam. She begged so hard that I could
not deny her. For you see, madam, he is her only
grandson, and there's a fortune going begging, as
you may say. His father was too proud to try and
bring her round, but if Gcorgie behaves prettily,
who knows but she may send him to Eton — where
his father was bred, and leave him the whole of her
fortune ? "

" True, madam. No doubt you have done best
for your boy. But I feel you must feel lonely with-
out him."

" Oh, I missed him sadly for the first week or
two, madam ; but a child in a house where there's
but one servant is a constant trouble. In and out, in
and out, with muddy shoes, morning, noon and
night. 'Tis clean, clean, clean after them all day
long, and it makes one's girl cross and impudent.
He has his grandma's own woman to wash and
dress him, and a footman to change his shoes when
he comes in from the street."

" Is the visit to last long?"

" That depends upon his behavior, and if her
ladyship cottons to him."

" Well, so long as you can do without him, of
course 'tis best," said Antonia in a dull voice.

Hqr mind was wandering to that exile whose

he is living
y Lanigan.
Portsmouth
art. 'Twas
X, when her
and ahnost
ore he was

>n a visit? "
hat I could
is her only
^egging, as
1 to try and
cs prettily,
ton — where
'hole of her

; done best
oncly with-

st week or
lere there's
and out, in

noon and
em all day
[ impudent.

wash and
shoes when

and if her

)ut him, of

oice.

xile whose

Antonia Finds Her Own 325

name she would not pronounce. To have sacrificed
station and fortune for such a wife as this — for a
woman without heart or brains, who had not
enough natural feeling to tremble for a husband in
danger or to grieve at the absence of an only child !

After a few visits to her Lambeth pensioners,
Lady Kilrush wearied of the work, and allowed her-
self to be charitable by deputy. She hated the
starched prig who had taken Stobart's place in the
parish. She missed the quick sympathy, the
strength and earnestness of the man who had helped
her to understand the world's outcasts, and as her
social engagements were more numerous than last
winter, she abandoned the attempt to comljine phi-
lanthropy with fashion, and made Sophy her deputy
in the marsh.

Sophy had a tender heart, and loved to distribute
her ladyship's bounty. She liked the priggish Wes-
leyan, Mr. Samson Barker, who lectured and domi-
neered over her, but who was a conscientious youth
and innocent of all evil, the outcome of noncon-
formist ancestors, a feeble specimen of humanity,
with a high, narrow forehead, pale, protuberant
eyes and a receding chin. Impressed by his mental
and moral superiority, Sophy, who began by ridicul-
ing him, soon thought him beautiful, and held it one
of her highest privileges to sit under his favorite
preacher, Mr. William Romaine, at St. Olaves,
Southwark, and to be allowed to invite Mr. Barker
to Antonia's tea-table now and then, where his ap-
pearance was a source of amusement to the rest of
the company, who declared that her ladyship was at
heart a ^tethodist, though she read Tindal and Tol-
and and afifected liberal ideas.

326

The Infidel

" Hcforc next season we shall hear of you amonpj
the Lady Betiys and Lady Fannys who throng Lady
lluntini^don's drawing-room, and intoxicate their
senses with Whitefield's raving," said one of her
adorers; "and then there will be no more dinners
and suppers, no more dances and drums — only
gruel and flannel petticoats for old women."

Lady Kilrush drained the cup of London pleas-
ures that winter, and was a leader in every aristo-
cratic dissipation, shining like a star in all the choic-
est assemblies, but so erratic in her movements as to
win for herself the sobriquet of " the comet."

" The last spot of earth where 'twould seem
reasonable to expect you is the place where one is
most likely to find you," j\Ir. Walpole told her one
night at a dinner of hard-drinking and hard-playing
politicians, where Antonia, Lady Coventry and a
coujile of duchesses were the only women in a party
of twenty.

She had adorers of every age, from octogenarian
peers and generals who had fought under Marl-
borough to beardless boys just of age and squander
ing their twenty thousands a year at White's and th..
Cocoa Tree. The fact that she kept every admirer
at the same distance made her irresistible. To be
adamant where other women were wax, to receive
the flatteries of trifling fops, the ardent worship of
souls of flame, with the same goddess air, smiling
at her victims, kind to all, but particular to none!
That deliberate and stately North Briton, Lord
Dunkcld, hung upon her footsteps with an untiring
ckvotion that was the despair of a score of young
women of quality, who wanted to marry him and
thought they had pretensions for the place.

'Twas a season of unusual gayety, as if the thirst

'j
I
i

5U amons
oiv^ Lady
:atc their
le of her
e (Hnncrs
ims — only
1."

Ion pleas-
ry aristo-
the choic-
icnts as to
et.

uld seem
crc one is
d her one
-d-playing
try and a
in a party

ogcnarian
ler Marl-
squander
i's and thv.
y admirer
c. To be
to receive
vorship of
ir, smiling
r to none!
iton, Lord
,n untiring
; of young
Y him and
ce.
[ the thirst

Ant onia Finds Her Own 327

for pleasure was intensified by the news of the war,
and the consciousness of fellow-countrymen starv-
ing, perishing, massacred, scalped or burned alive
in the pathless forests across the Atlantic. The tak-
ing of Louisburg had set all England in a tumult
of pride and delight, to the forgetfulness of the
catastrophe at Ticonderoga, where there had been
terrible losses under Abercrombie, and of the death
of Lord Howe, the young, the ardent, the born
leader of men, slain by the enemy's first volley.

George Stobart's name figured in Amherst's dis-
patches. He had fought in the trenches with his old
regiment, he had been with Wolfe in the stormmg
of Gallows Hill, and had been recommended for a
commission on account of his gallant behavior.
People complimented Antonia about her "pious

friend."

The king was near dying at the beginnmg of the
winter, and the lion at the tower happening to ex-
pire of old age, while His Majesty lay ill, the royal
beast's dissolution was taken as a fatal augury, and
his master was given over by the gossips. But King
George recovered, and Sunday parties, drums and
masquerades, auctions, ridottos, oratorios, operas,
plays and little suppers went on again merrily all
through the cold weather.

In the summer of 1759 Lady Kilrush carried out
a long-cherished design of revisiting Italy. When
last in that country her father's critical state of
health had been a drag upon her movements. She
would go there now a free agent, with ample leisure
to explore the region in which she was most keenly
interested, those romantic hills above the Lake of
Como where her mother's birthplace was to be
found.

iNi

328

The Infidel

She took Sopliy, her French maid, Adolphine,
and her first footman, who was an ItaHan, and
travelled by Ostend and The Hague and the Rhine
to Basle, then by Lucerne and Fluellcn to the rug-
ged steeps of the St. Gotha, loitering on the road,
and seeing all the churches and picture galleries
that were worth looking at, her travelling carriage
half full of books, and her maid and footman fol-
lowing in a post-chaise with the luggage, which was
a lighter load of trunks and imperials than a woman
of ton might have been supposed to require, her
ladyship's travelling toilet being of a severe sim-
plicity.

When George II. was king there was a luxury of
travelling which made amends for the want of the
train de luxe and the wagon-lit. It was the luxury
of slowness, the delicious leisure of long days in the
midst of exquisite scenery, by lake and river and
mountain pass, that had time to grow into the mind
and memory of the traveller; journeys in which
there were long oases of rest, perfumed summer
nights in quiet places, where the church bell was the
only sound; mornings in obscure galleries, where
one picture in a catalogue of one hundred was a
gem to be remembered ever after; glimpses of
humble lives, saunterings in market-places, adven-
tures, perils, perhaps, an alarm of brigands, ears
listening for a sudden shot ringing sharp among
snowclad hills — all the terrors, joys, chances, sur-
prises uf a difficult road, and at one's inn a warmth
of welcome and a deferential service that in some
wise atoned for bad cooking and ill-furnished
rooms.

To Antonia that Italian journey offered r\ de-
licious repose from the fever of London pleasures.

'Vdolphine,
alian, and
the Rhine

the ruj^-
the road,

i galleries
g carriage
)tman fol-
which was

1 a woman
quire, her
!vere sim-

luxury of
ant of the
he luxury
lays in the
river and
• the mind
in which

I summer

II was the
es, where
ed was a
impses of
!s, adven-
inds, ears
■p among
nces, sur-
a warmth
t in some
furnished

red a de-
pleasures.

Antoiiia Finds Her Own 329

After George Stobart's departure for America there
had been a jarring note in the harmony of life — a
note that had to be drowned somehow; and hence
had come that craving for excitement, that hasten-
ing from one trivial pleasure to another, which had
made her so conspicuous a figure in the London
of last winter.

In the solemn silence of everlasting hills, in a
solitude that to Sophy seemed a thing of horror,
Antonia thought of her last season; the crowded
rooms, reeking with odors of pulvilio and melting
wax, the painted faces, the atmosphere of heat and
hair powder, the diamonds, the haggard looks and
burning eyes round the tables where play ran high ;
the hatred and malice, the jests that wounded like
daggers, the smiles that murdered reputations.

" Shall I ever go back to it all, and think a Lon-
don season life's supreme felicity ? " she wondered,
standing in front of the Capuchins' Hospice, among
the granite peaks of the St. Gothard, in the chill
mountain air, while the mules were being saddled
for the descent into Italy. They had ridden yester-
day morning through the Uruir Loch, that wonder-
ful passage of two hundred feet through the solid
rock, which had been made early in the century, and
by sunny Andermatt, and across the Ursern Valley.
They had wound slowly upward through a wild
and barren region to the friendly hospice where
there was always welcome and shelter.

Lady Kilrush had left her English travelling
carriage at Lucerne, and the journey from Airolo to
Como would be made in an Italian post-chaise. Her
footman was a native of Bellinzona, and was able
to arrange all the details of their route.

At Como she hired one of the country boats, new

330

The Infidel

from the builders, and engaged four stalwart Italian
boatmen, who were to be in her service while she
made a leisurely tour of the lake, stopping wher-
ever the scene pleased her fancy, and putting up
with the most primitive accommodation, provided
the inn were clean and the prospect beautiful.

That year of 1759, remarkable for the success
of British arms in Europe, Hindostan and America,
the " great year," as Horace Walpole calls it, was
also a year of golden weather, a summer of sun-
shine and cloudless skies, and Antonia revelled in
the warmth and light of that lovely scene. It
seemed as if every drop of blood in her veins re-
joiced in the glory of her mother's birthplace. Here,
in what spot she knew not, but somewhere along
these sunlit hills that sloped gently to the lake, her
mother's early years had been spent. She would
have given much to find the spot, and in her long
rambles with Sophy, or alone, she rarely passed a
church without entering it, and if she could find the
village priest rarely left him till he had searched
the register of marriages for her father's name. But
no such name appeared in those humble records, and
she thought that her father might have carried his
fugitive bride to Milan, or even into Switzerland,
before the marriage ceremony was possible, the girl
being under age and the bridegroom a heretic. She
looked with interest at every villa that sheltered a
noble family, and questioned the peasants and the
people of the inn about all the important inhabitants
of their neighborhood, hoping to hear in such or
such a patrician family of a runaway marriage with
a wandering Englishman. But the old people to
whom she chiefly addressed herself had no memory
of such an event.

vart Italian
i while she
ping whcr-
putting up
1, provided
tiful.

:lie success
d America,
alls it, was
ler of sun-
revelled in

scene. It
r veins re-
lace. Here,
here along
e lake, her
She would
n her long
y passed a
tld find the
d searched
name. But
:?cords, and
carried his
witzcrland,
lie, the girl
retic. She
sheltered a
ts and the
inhabitants
n such or
■riage with

people to
lo memory

Antonia Finds Her Own 331

It was the beginning of September, and the scene
and atmosphere had lost nothing of their charm by
familiarity, so having made the tour of the lake
villages, and being somewhat tired of rough fare,
ill-furnished rooms and, most of all, of Sophy's re-
pinings for the comforts of St. James' Square, she
discovered an ideal villa near the quaint little town
of Bellagio, a villa perched almost at the point of
the wooded promontory, with a garden that sloped
to the water's edge. The villa belonged to one of
Antonia's fashionable friends — a certain Lady Dcs-
pard, a banker's widow, who gave herself more airs
than an empress, and preferred Rome or Florence to
London because of the superior consequence her
wealth gave her in cities where the measure of her
rank was not too precisely known. This lady — after
trying to imitate Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and
live among a peasant population — had wearied of
her villa and the little town at her gates, the church
bells, the voices of the fishermen, the feasts and pro-
cessions, and lack of modish company, and her
house was to be let furnished with all its amenities.

Antonia engaged the villa for a month at a liberal
rent, and established herself, with Giuseppe, the
Italian footman, as her majordomo, and a modest
household of his selection, not a household of much
]iolish or experience, but of willing hands, smiling
faces, eyes that sparkled and danced with the golden
light of Italy. Antonia was at home and happy
among these people, who served her, as it were,
upon their knees, and whose voices had a note that
was like a caress. "

" I can understand how my mother loved her gar-
den of roses, her chestnut woods, and long terraces
where the vines made a roof of shade, and how she

' 1

. '

^ {

332

The Infidel

must have pined in a dull English village — a Lin-
colnshire village, dismal flats without a tree,
straight roads and church steeples, with the lead-
colored sea making a level line in the distance, that
seems like the end of the world. And to her eyes,
accustomed to this golden land, these mountains
climbing up to heaven, how heartbreaking it must
all have been."

Summer in Italy, summer on the Lake of Como.
Never till now had Antonia known what summer
means — that perfect glory of sunlight, that magical
atmosphere, half golden light and half azure haze,
in which earthly things put on the glory of a dream.
Never before had she enjoyed the restfulncss of a
land where the atmosphere and the light are enough
lor happiness, a sensuous happiness, perhaps, but
leaving the spirit's wings free for flight. After the
stress and tumult of a London winter, the strife of
paltry ambitions, the malevolence that called itself
wit, the aching sense of loneliness in a crowd, what
bliss to loll at ease in the spacious country boat,
under the arched awning, while the oars dipped, and
the water rippled, and life went by like a sleep. She
had almost left off remembering the days of the
week, the passage of time. She only knew that the
moon was waning, that great golden disk which
had bathed the hills in light and tempted her to
loiter on the lake till midnight was no more. There
was only a ragged crescent that rose in the dead of
night and filled her with melancholy. She stood at
her open window, in the dark hour before dawn,
drinking the cool, sweet air, and full of sorrowful
thoughts.

Where was George Stobart imder that dwindling
moon? In what grim and frowning wilderness,

ge — a Lin-
iit a tree,
h the lead-
stance, that
:o her eyes,
mountains
ing it must

c of Como.
lat sununcr
liat magical
azure haze,
of a dream,
ulncss of a
are enough
crhaps, but
After the
he strife of
called itself
rowd, what
untry boat,
dipped, and
sleep. She
lays of the
lew that the
disk which
pted her to
ore. There
the dead of
)he stood at
:fore dawn,
f sorrowful

t dwindling
wilderness,

Antonia Finds Her Own 333

amid what desolate waste of mountains, in what
wild scene of savage warfare, hemmed round by
painted foes, deafened by war cries more hideous
than the howling of the wolves in the midnight
woods, done to death by the ingenious cruelties of
human fiends, or dying of famine and neglected
wounds, crawling on bleeding feet till the wearied
body dropped across the narrow track that the
tramp of soldiers had worn through the wilderness,
dying forsaken and alone, perhaps, in the pitiless-
ness of a panic and flight.

Her heart ached as she thought of him. Alas,
why had. he been false to his own convictions, to his
own faith? She knew that he had once been sin-
cere, had once been strong in a hope that she could
not share. When first she knew him he had been a
good man. She looked back and recalled the do-
mestic picture — the rustic lawn basking in the June
sunshine, the warm air perfumed with pinks and
southern wood, and the husband seated in his gar-
den reading to his wife. She had looked down at
him from the proud height of her philosophy, had
scorned his unquestioning beliefs in things unseen,
but she had respected him for his renunciation of all
the luxuries and pleasures the common herd love.

Of the progress of the American campaign since
the victory at Cape Breton she knew very little. The
posts between Italy and England were of a hopeless
irregularity, and the newspapers which she had or-
dered to be sent her were more than half of them
lost or stopped on the way, while an occasional gos-
sipping letter from a fashionable friend told her
more of the new clothes at the birthday than the
triumphs or reverses of British arms. The London
papers were at this time more concerned about

334

The Infidel

I'rincc Fcrtlinaiul's victory over the French at Min-
den, and Lord George Sackville's strange back-
wardness in following up the prince's success than
about the fortunes of Amherst or Forbes, and the
wild warfare of the west.

It was perhaps from the desire to be better in-
formed that Antonia was glad to see Lord Dunkeld,
who surprised her by alighting from a boat at the
landing stage of her villa in the first week of her
resi(Knce. He found her sitting in her garden,
dreaming over a book. He had arrived at Varenna
on the previous evening, he told her, and meant to
stop some time at the inn, which commanded a fine
view of the two lakes, and had better accommoda-
tion than was usual in out-of-the-way places.

" ^I'dy one ask what brings your lordship to Italy,
when most of the fine gentlemen I know are shoot-
ing pr.iLridges in Norfolk?" Antonia asked, when
they were seated on a marble bench in front of the
lake.

There was a fountain on the lawn near them, and
oleanders, white and red, masses of blossoms and
delicate lance-shaped leaves made a screen against
wind and sun, and there were red roses trailing all
along the marble balustrade over the lake, and pop-
pies, pink and red, and white and pale pink cycla-
men filled a circular bed at the base of a statue of
Flora, and all the garden seemed alive with color
and light. A double ilight of steps, broad and shal-
low, went down to the water, and Dunkeld's boat
was moored there, with his two boatmen lounging
under the awning, idle and contented. It is a stiff
pull from Varenna to the point, when the wind is
blowing from Lecco.

" Will your ladyship scorn me if I confess that I

cli at M in-
line back-
iccess than
!S, and the

better in-
\ Dunkeld,
joat at the
eek of her
T garden,
it Varenna
1 meant to
ided a fine
:conirnoda-
ices.

ip to Italy,

are shoot-

kcd, when

"ont of the

them, and
ssoms and
en against
traiHng all
!, and pop-
Dink cycla-
1 statue of
with color
1 and shal-
<el(rs boat
1 lounging
;t is a stiff
he wind is

fess that I

Antonia Finds Her Own 335

love better to sit in an Italian garden than to tramp
over a Norfolk stubble ? There is a delicate fresh-
ness in the scent of a turnip field at early morning,
but I prefer roses, and the company of one woman
in the world."

" Oh, my lord, keep your compliments for St.
James'. They are out of harmony with my life

here."

" /\m I to have no license to say foolish things
after having crossed the Alps to see you ? "

•' Oh, sir, I am very credulous, but I cannot be-
lieve you have been so simple as to travel over a
thousand miles for a pleasure that you could enjoy
next month in London."

" I should have died of that other month. I bore
your absence as long as I could, and questioned all
your friends and your hall porter to discover any
hope of your return. But no one would satisfy me,
and my lieart sickened of uncertainty. So ten days
ago I ordered my chaise for Dover, and I have
scarce drawn rein till last night at Varenna, where
I heard of your ladyship. Nay, spare me that
vexed look. I come as a friend, not as an impossible
suitor. Do you suppose I forget that I am forbid
all ecstatic hopes ? "

She gave a troubLd sigh and rose from the bench
with an agitated air.

" Lady Kilrush, cannot you believe in friend-
ship? " he asked, following h< r.

" Hardly. I have believed and have had my con-
fidence betrayed."

" When you told me that I could never be your
husband, that a life's devotion, the adoration of the
Indian for h..^ god, could not move your heart to
love me, I swore to school myself to indifference,

336

The Infidel

thought it was possible to live contentedly without
you. I have not learned that lesson, madam, but I
have taught myself to think of your merits, your
perfections, as I might of a sister's, and I ask you
to give me something of a sister's regard. You
need not fear me, madam. Youth and the ardor of
youth have gone by. I doubt you know that I was
unhappy in an early attachment, and that the ex-
quisite creature who was to have been my wife died
in my arms in her father's park, struck by lightning.
She was but eighteen, and I less than three years
older. The stroke that should have taken us both
and sealed our love for eternity left me to mourn
her, and to doubt God's goodness till time chastened
my rebellious thoughts."

" I have heard that sad story, my lord, and have
understood why you were more serious than other
men of your age id circumstances. You have been
happy in finding ihe consc^lation of religion."

"Alas, madam, to be without a fixed hope in
a better world is to live in the midst of chaos.
A Christian's faith is like a lamp burning at the
end of a long, dark passage. No matter if it
seem but an infinitesimal point of light in the dis-
tance 'twill serve to guide his footsteps through the
gloom."

" Would not duty, honor, conscience do as much
for him?"

" Perhaps, madam, since conscience is but an-
other name for the fear of God. Be sure the time
will come when a mind so superior as yours will be
awakened to the truth ; but I doubt the Christian re-
ligion has sufifered in your esteem by your acquaint-
ance with Mr. Stobart. The conversation of a fa-
natical Methodist, the jargon of Wesley and White-

Antonia Finds Her Own 337

field, their unctious cant repeated parrot-wise by a
tyro, could but move your disgust."

" Indeed, my lord, you wrong my cousin, George
Stobart," Antonia answered eagerly. " lie is no
canter — no parrot-echo of another man's words.
His sacrifice of fortune and station should vouch
for his sincerity,"

"Oh, we will say he is of the stuff that 'lakes
martyrs, if your ladyship pleases ; buL 'tis a pity that
a gentleman of birth and breeding — a soldier — ■
should have taken up with the Methodist crew.
Some one told me he has the gift of preaching. I
doubt he expounds the doctrine of irresistibl<- irrace
in Lady Huntingdon's kitchen for the vulgar, v hile
Whiteficld thumps a cushion in her lad_y ship's Jra\»'-
iiig room."

" Ky cousin has left off preaching for these two
years ;:ist past, sir, and is fighting for his king in
North America."

" Gad's life ! Then he is a better man than I took
him for, when his jniritan countenance and gray suit
passed me in your ladyship's hall. The American
campaign is no child's play. Even our sturdy High-
landers have been panic-struck at the cruelties of
those Indian fiends, whose warwhoops surpass the
Scottish yell as a tiger outroars an ox."

" Can yori- lordship tell me the latest news of the

Tis a tale of barren victories and heavy losses.
Englishmen and colonials have fought like heroes
and endured like martyrs, but I doubt the end of
the campaign is still far off. The effect of last
year's victory at Louisburg, at which we in England
made such an uproar, was weakened by Aber-
crombie's defeat at Ticonderoga, and by Amherst's

war

M' 1

■■ \

I-

i ' ^

338

The Infidel

refusal to risk an immediate attack upon Quebec.
Had he taken Wolfe's advice Canada would have
been ours before now, but Amherst ever erred on
the side of caution. He is all for forts and block-
houses, deliberation and defence — Wolfe all for the
glorious hazards of attack."

" Then I doubt my cousin, Mr. Stobart, would
sooner be with Wolfe than with Amherst."

" Is the gentleman such a fire-eater? "

" I believe he loves war, and would hate shilly-
shally no less than Mr. Wolfe," Antonia answered
with a deep blush and a sudden embarrassment.

The desperate mood in which Stobart left Eng-
land had been in her mind as she spoke.

" Well, if he is with Amherst he has not seen
much fighting since he left Cape Breton. Does he
not write to you occasionally? "

" No, he writes only to his wife, and not often
to her."

" Tis not easy for a soldier on the march through
a wilderness to dispatch a letter — or even to write
one," said Lord Dunkeld.

After this his lordship's boat was moored by the
villa landing stage in some hour of every day. His
society was not unpleasant to Antonia in her Italian
solitude. He had sworn to be her friend, and she
thought she had at last discovered a man capable of
friendship. She had no fear of being taken off her
guard, shocked and insulted, as she had been by
George Stobart. Here was no slumbering volcano,
no snake in the grass, only a grave and dignified
gentleman of unimpeachable honor, and an old-
fashioned piety, fully impressed by his own impor-
tance, who would fain have won her for his wife,

I Quebec.
)uld have
erred on
nd block-
ill for the

rt, would

ite shilly-
answered
ment.
left Eng-

not seen
Does he

not often

1 through
to write

_'d by the
Jay. His
er Italian
, and she
apable of
in off her

been by

■ volcano,

dignified

an old-
'n impor-
his wife,

A n t o n i a Finds Her Own 339

but who, disappointed in that desire, wished to keep
her for his friend.

He was six and thirty years of age, and that trag-
edy of his youth had exercised a sobering inHucnce
over all his after life. He was a fine classical
scholar, and had read much and travelled much, but
showed himself a true Briton by his ignorance of
every living language except his own. A courier
and a French valet saved him all communication
with innkeepers and their kind, and a smile or a
stately wave of the hand sufficed to make his wishes
known to his Varenna boatmen. He loved Italy as
a picture without wanting to get any nearer the liv-
ing figures in the foreground.

There was a fcsta at Bellagio on the Sunday after
his arrival — a festa of thanksgiving for the fruits of
the year, and he attended Antonia and Sophy to the
church, where there was to be a solemn service, and
the priestly bent 'Iction upon gifts nrovided by the
faithful, v/hich were afterward to be sold by auction
for the benefit of church and poor.

The piazza in front of the church was dazzling
in the fierce afternoon sunshine when Antonia and
Sophy climbed the steep street, and found themselves
among the populace standing about the square,
the women with babies in their arms, and little chil-
dren at their knees, the maimed, and halt, and blind,
and deaf, and dumb, who seem to make up half the
population of an Italian town on a Sunday after-
noon. The natives gazed in admiring wonder at the
beautiful face under the broad leghorn hat, with
white ostrich feathers and diamond buckle, the tall
figure in the straight simplicity of white muslin and
a long blue sash that almost touched the points of

' I

; I

II <:

'ir

5 ■■,

/ M f

340

The Infidel

the blue kid shoes, the beautiful throat and pearl
necklace showing above the modest muslin kerchief.
Sophy was in white muslin also, but Sophy, being
low in figure, must needs afifect a triple frilled skirt
and a frilled muslin cape, which gave her the shape
of a penwiper.

" Did I not know you superior to all petty arts I
might say you dressed your waiting woman to be a
foil to your beauty," Lord Dunkeld told Antonia,
when Sophy was out of earshot.

" Miss Potter chooses her own clothes, and I can
never persuade her to wear anything but the latest
fashion. She has but to see the picture of a new
mode in the Ladies' Magazine, and she is miserable
till she tries it on her own person."

They went into the church, where the hot sunlight
was dyed crimson by the pervading decoration, and
the high altar glowed like a furnace. The marble
pillars were covered with crimson brocade, and long
crimson curtains hung in strips from the roof, mak-
ing a tent of warm, rich red, the scarlet vestments
of the acolytes striking a harsher note of color
against the crimson glow.

Three priests in richly embroidered copes offi-
ciated at the altar, and between the rolling thunder
of the organ came the sound of loud, strident
voices chanting without accompaniment, while chil-
dren's treble pipes shrilled out alternate versiclcs.
The congregation consisted mostly of women, wear-
ing veils white or black.

Antonia stood by a pillar near the door, enduring
the heated atmosphere as long as she could, but she
had to leave the church before the end of the ser-
vice, followed by Sophy. Lord Dunkeld found
them seated in the piazza, where they could wait for

Antonia Finds Her Own 341

the procession and watch the tributes of the pious
being carried into the church by a side door — huge
cakes, castles and temples in ornamental pastry, bas-
kets of fruit, a dead hare, live fowls, birds in a cage,
a fir tree with grapes and peaches tied to the
branches, a family of white kittens mewing md
struggling in a basket.

The train of priests and acolytes came pouring
out into the sunshine, gorgeous in gold and bro-
cade, the band playing a triumphal march.
After the officiating priests came a procession of
men in monkish robes, some struggling under the
weight of massive crosses, the rest carrying tapers
that burned pale in the vivid light ; some with up-
right form and raven hair, others the veterans of
toil, with silvery locks and dark olive faces, strong
and rugged features, withered hands seamed with
the scars of labor ; and following these came women
of every age, from fifteen to ninety, their heads
draped with white or black veils, but their faces un-
covered.

Lord Dunkeld surveyed them with a critical eye.
" Upon my soul, I did not think Italy could show so
much ugliness," he said.

" Oh, but most of the girls are pretty."

" The girls, yes— but the women ! They grow out
of their good looks before they are thirty, and are
hags and witches when an Englishwoman's mature
charms are at the zenith. Stay, there is a pretty,
roguish face— and— look, look, madam, the girl
next her— the tall girl— great heaven, what a like-
ness ! "

He ran forward a few paces to get a second look
at a face that had startled him out of his Scottish
phlegtti- a face that was like Antonia's in feature

a:^-;sr--t^:-.?.l- -yr^-''^'--— -

~^i2 •rr^r«^^:?»:^£*:^y^

'f\

;

342

The Infidel

and expression, t..ough the coloring was darker and
less delicate.

" Did you see that tall girl with the blue bead
necklace ? " Dunkeld asked Antonia excitedly.

" I could not help seeing her when you made such
a fuss."

" She is your living image— she ought to be your
younger sister."

" I have no sisters."

" Oh, 'tis a chance likeness, no doubt. Such re-
semblances are often stronger than you can find in
a gallery of family portraits."

Antonia turned to a little group of women close
by, whom she had already questioned about the
people in the procession. Did they know the girl in
the blue necklace?

Yes, she was Francesca Bari. She lived with her
grandfather, who had a little vineyard on the hill
yonder, about a mile from the piazza where they
were standing. The signoriua had noticed her ? She
was accounted the prettiest girl in the district, and
she was as good as she was pretty. Her mother and
father were dead, and she worked hard to keep her
grandfather's house in order and to bring up her
brother and sisters.

Dunkeld's interest in the girl began and ended in
her likeness to the woman he loved, but Antonia
was keenly interested, and early next morning was
on her way to the hill above the Lecco lake, alone
and on foot, to search for the dwelling of the Baris.
She was ever on the alert to discover any trace of
her mother's kindred, and it was possible that some
I'ranch of her race had sunk to the peasant class,
and that the type which sometimes marks a long line
of ancestry might be repeated here. Antonia was

una was

Antonia Finds Her Own 343

not going to shut her eyes to such a possibility, how-
ever humiHating it might be. Offshoots of the
greatest faniihes may be found in humble circum-
stances.

She passed a few scattered houses along the crest
of the hill, and some women picking grapes in a
vineyard close to the road told her the way to Bari's
house. His vineyard was on the slope of the hill
facing Lierna.

Less than half an hour's walk by steep and rug-
ged paths, up and down hill, brought her to a house
with bright ochre walls and dilapidated blue shut-
ters, standing in a patch of garden, where great
golden pumpkins sprawled between rov/s of cab-
bages and celery, under fig trees covered with pur-
ple fruit, and apple and pear trees bent with age
and the weight of their rosy and russet crop. A
straggling hedge of roses and oleander divided the
garden from the narrow lane, while beyond the
vinci joined hands in green alleys along the ter-
raced slope of the hill, sheltered by a little olive
wood.

The girl with the blue necklace was digging in
the garden. Antonia could see her across the red
roses where the hedge was lowest. A child of three
or four years old was sitting on a basket close by,
and two older children were on their knees, weed-
ing a cabbage bed. They were poorly clad, but they
looked clean, healthy and happy.

The girl heard the flutter of Antonia's muslin
gown and looked up, with her foot upon her spade.
She wiped the perspiration from her forehead with
a gaudy cotton handkerchief.

" May I take one of your roses? " Antonia asked,
smiling at her across the gap in the hedge.

344

The Infidel

**'Si, 31," cried Francesca, "as many as the sig-
norina likes. There are plenty of them."

She ran to the hedge and began to pluck the roses
in an eager hospitality. She was dazzled by the
vision of the beautiful face, the yellow hat and
snowy plumes, the diamond buckle flashing in the
sun, and something vi the smile that puzzled her.
Without being con s.ioiri of the likeness between the
stranger's face and that one slic sav/ eery morning
unflatteringly reflectod ir the dusky little glass
under the bedroom window, she ha.l a feeling of
familiarity with the violet eyes, the sunny smile.

Anlonia thanked her for her roses, admired her
gardrri, questioned her about her brotlier and sis-
ters, anc? wa--. at once on easy Lernis widi her. Yes,
they were motherless, and she had taken care of
them ever siiice Iitta, the baby, was a fortnight old.
Yes, she worked fiard ev-ry day, but she loved work,
and when the vintage was good they were all happy.
Grandfather had not been able to work for over a
year; he was v, ry o\(\—"vccchio, vccchio "—and
very weak.

" I hope you Ivdve relations who help you," said
Antonia, " distant relations, perhaps, who are richer
than your grandfatlicr."

" No, there is no one. We had an aunt, but she is
dead. She died before I was born. Grandfather
says I am like her. It makes him cry sometimes to
look at me, and to remember that he will never see
her again. She was his favorite daughter."

"And was your grandfather always poor— al-
ways living here, on this little vineyard and gar-
den ? " Antonia asked, pale, and with an intent look
in her eyes.

Had she found them, the kindred for whom she

s the ^i,g--

the roses
;cl by the

hat and
ng in the
izled her.
tween the

morning
tic glass
celing of
imile.
nired her

and sis-
ler. Yes,
I care of
light old.
'cd work,
ill happy.
)r over a
o

"—and

3u," said
ire richer

)ut she is
nd father
•times to
lever see

)oor — al-
md gar-
:ent look

honi she

Antonia Finds Her Own 345

had been looking, in these simple peasants, these
sons and daughters of toil, so humbly born, without
a history, the very offscouring of the earth? Was
this the end of her father's fairy tale, this the lowly
birthplace of the Italian bride, the daughter of a
noble house, who had fled with the English tutor,
who had stooped from her high estate to make a
love match?

She remembered her father's reluctance to take
her to her mother's home, or even to tell her the
locality. She remembered how he had shuffled and
prevaricated, and put off the subject, and she
thought with bitter shame of his falsehoods, his
sophistications. Alas, why had he feared to tell her
the truth ? Would she have thought less lovingly
of her dead mother because of her humble lineage ?
Surely not! But she had been fooled by lies, had
thought of herself as the daughter of a patrician
race, and had cherished romantic dreams of a line
of soldiers and statesmen, whose ambitions and as-
pirations, whose courage and genius were in her
blood.

The dilapidated walls yonder, the painted shut-
ters, rotten with age, the gaudy daub of Virgin and
Child on the plastered facade, the garden of cab-
bages and pumpkins and the patch of tall Indian
corn! What a disillusion! How sorry an end of
her dreams !

" Altro!" the girl answered, wondering at the
fine lady's keen look. She had been questioned
often about herself, often noticed by people of qual-
ity, on account of her beauty, but this lady had such
an earnest air. " Si, si, signorina/' she said ;
" grandfather has always lived here. He was born
in our cottage. His father was gardener to the

f:i\

346 The Infidel

Marchesc " (the grand seigneur of the district,
name understood). "And he bought the vineyard
with his savings when he was an old man. He was
a very good gardener."

" May I see your grandfather ? "

" Sicuro! lie will be pleased to see the signorina,"
the girl answered readily, accustomed to be pat-
ronized by wandering strangers and to receive lit-
tle gifts from them.

Anton ia followed her into the cottage. An old
man was sitting in an armchair by the hearth, where
an iron pot hung over a few smouldering sticks and
a heap of gray ashes. He looked up at Antonia with
eyes that '.aw all things dimly. The sunshine
streamed i-ito the room from th'^ open door and win-
dow, but her face was in shadow as she went toward
him with outstretched hand, Francesca explaining
that the English lady wished to see him.

The patriarch tried to rise from his chair, but An-
tonia stopped him, seating herself by his side.

" I saw your granddaughter at the festa," she
said, " and I wanted to see more of her, if I could.
Can you guess why I was anxious about her, and
anxious to be her friend ? "

She took off her hat, while the old man looked at
her with a slow wonder, his worn-out eyes gradually
realizing the lines in the splendid face.

" I have been told that your Francesca is like
me," she said. " Did you see any resemblance? "

" Sarfo c saiitisiinc ' Si, si, the signorina is like
Francesca, as two peaches side by side on the wall
yonder ; and she is like my daughter, my Tonia, my
beloved, who died more than twenty years ago. But
she is not dead to me — no, not to me. I see her face
in mv dreams. I hear her voice sometimes as I

A n t o n i a F i n d s H e r O w n 347

wake out of sleep, and then I look round and call
her and she is not there, and I remeniher that 1 am
an old man, and that she left me many, many years

ago." . „

"You had a daughter called Antonia?
" Si, sii^norina. It was her mother's name also. I
called her Tonia. She was the handsomest girl be-
tween the two lakes, everybody praised her, a goocl
girl, as industrious as she was virtuous. A good
and dutiful daughter till the Englishman stole her

from us." „

" Your Antonia married an Englishman?

"Si, sii^norina! 'Twas thought a fine marriage
for her. He wore a velvet coat, and he called him-
self a gentleman, but he was only a schoolmaster,
and he came to Varenna in a coach and six with a
young English milord."

" What was the tutor's name ? "

" Non posso pronnnrJar it sua nomc. Tonton,
Tonton, Guilliamo."

" Thornton ! William Thornton ? "

"Eccol" cried the old man, nodding assent.
"We had a dairy then, my wife and I," he con-
tinued, " and the young lord and his governor used
to leave their boat and walk up ihe hill to get a
drink of milk. They paid us handsomely, and we
got to look for them every day, and th..;> ould stop
and talk and laugh with my two girls. The gov-
ernor could speak Italian almost like one of us, and
the young milord was trying to learn, and they used
all of them to laugh at his mistakes and make a
fool of him. Well, well, 'twas a merry time for us

" Did you consent to your daughter s marriage ."
"Chilosa? Forsc! Non diccva nc si nc no. He

348

The Infidel

w;'s a jrentlcman and I was proud that she should
marry above her station. But he told uie a bundle
of lies. He pretended to be a rich man, and prom-
ised that he would bring her to Italy once a year.
And then he took her away, in nulord's coach, and
they were married at Chiavenna, where he lied to
the prie.st. as he had lied to me, and swore he was a
.tjood Catholic. He sent me the certificate of their
marriage, so that I might know my daughter was an
honest woman, but ho never let me sec her again."
He pause 1 in a tearful mood.
" Perhaps it was not his own fault that he did not
kc> ; ' promise," Antonia pleaded. " He may
iiave been too poor to make such a journey."

" Yes, he was as p<>or as Job. Tonia wrote to me
sometimes, and she told me they were very ])()or,
and that she hated her English home, and pined for
the garden and the vineyard, and the hills and lakes.
She was afraid she would die without ever seeing us
again. Her letters were full of sorrow. I ould see
htr tears upon the page. And then there came a
letter from him, with a great black seal. She was
dead — Ma iion si mnovc fo^lia cite IJdio non voglia.
'Tis not for me to comply ' ' "

The feeble frame was shaken by the vUX man's
sobs. Antonia knelt on the brick floor by i chair
and soothed him with gentle touvli s and soft w^rds.
She was full of tender pity, but there was th'^ cl-
ing that she v s stooping from her natural ' vol tO
comfort a creature of a lower race, another order of
being, with .\ horn she could have no sympathy.

And he was her gra dfather. His blood was in
her veins. From him she inh( "ited son^e of the
qualities of her heart and brain ; not from statesmen
or '^eroes, but from a peasant, whose hands were

Anton ia Finds Her Own 349

gnat' 1 aP'l roughened by a lifetime's driulgery,
whos houghts and desires had tiever travel U'd be-
yond 1 IS vineyard and patch of Indian corn.

Her grandfather, living in this tumble-down old
house, v^rhore the rotten shutters offered so poor a
defence against foul weather, the fl<jods and winds
of autumn and winter, where the crumbling brick
floor had sunk below the level of the soil outside :
living as peasants live, and suffering all the depri-
vations and hardships of extreme )overty, while
she, his own flesh and blood, had squand rod thou-
sands upon the caprices of a woman of fashion. And
she found him worn out with toil, old and weak, on
the brink of the grave, perhaps. Her wealth could
do but little for him.

She had no doubt of his identity. The story of
his daughter's marriage was her mother's story.

There was no room for doubt, yet she shrank
,vith a curious restraint from revealing the tic that
bound her to him. She was full of .jenerous pity
for a long life that had known so few of this world's
joys; but the feeling of caste was stronger than
love or pity. She was ashamed of herself for feel-
ing such bitter mortification, such a cruel disap-
pointment. Oh, foolish pride which sue had taken
for an instinct of good birth. Because .she was
beautiful and admired, high-spirited and coura-
geous, she must needs believe that she sprang from a
noble line, and cidd claim all the honor due to race.
Her father had lied to her, and she had believed
the flattering fable. She could not reconcile herself
to the humiliating truth so far as to claim her new-
found kindred But she was bent upon showing
them all possible kindness sh< rt of that revelation.
They were so poor iivimble, that she might

35°

The I n fi d el

ft li'

safely play the part of l)cncfactrcss. They had no
prido to bo cruslicd by her favors. She (|ucstiotied
the old man about his health, while the girl stood
by the doorway listening, and the chihlren's silvery
voices soinided in the garden outside. Had he been
ill long? did he suffer nnieh? had he a doctor?
He had been ailing a long time, but as for sufTering,
well, he had pains in his limbs, the hou h- was damp
in winter, but there was more weakne- . than sufTer-
ing. " Also the ass when lie is tired lies down in
the nn'ddle of the road, and can go no farther," he
said resignedly. As for a doctor; no, he had no
need of one. The doctor would only jijeed him, aiul
he had too little blood as it was. One of his neigh-
bors — an old woman that some folks counted a
witch, but a good Catholic for all that — had given
him medicine of her own making that had done
him good.

** I think a doctor would do you more good, if you
would see one. There is a doctor at liellagio who
came to see my woman the other day when she had
a touch of fever. I le seemed a clever man."

" Si, sigiiorina, ma srnca dcnari non si cant a
incssa. Clever men want to be paid. Your doctor
would cost me the eyes of the head."

" You shall have as much money as ever you
want," answered Antonia, pulling a long netted
purse from her i)ocket.

The gold showed through the silken meshes, and
the old man's eyes glittered with greed as he looked
at it. She filled his tremulous hands widi guineas,
emptying both ends of the purse into his hollowed
palms. He had never seen so much gold. The
strangers who came to sit under his pcrgolato and

Lit

Antonia Finds Her Own

351

drink i^rcat bowls of new milk from the fawn-col-
orcd cows that were his best source of income,
thott^jht themselves generous if they fjave him a
scKilo al parting; hut here was a visitor from fairy-
land raining gold into his hands.

" They are English guineas, and you will gain by
the exchange," she said, " so you can have the
physician to see you every day. lie will not want
to bleed you when he sees how weak you are."

The old man shook his head doubtfully. They
were so ready with the lancet, those doctors! His
eyes were fixed on the guineas as he tried to reckon
them. The coins lay in too close a heap to be
counted easily.

He broke into a rapture of gratitude, invoking
every saint in the calendar, and Antonia shivered
with pain at the exaggeration of his acknowledg-
ments. He thanked her as a wayside beggar
would have done. His benedictions were the same
as the professional mendicants, the maimed and
halt and blind, gave her when she dropped a coin
into a basket or a hat. He belonged to the race
which is accustomed to taking favors from
strangers. He belonged to the sons of bondage,
poverty's hereditary slaves. She appealed to Fran-
cesca.

** Would it not be better for your gratulfather if
he lived at Bellagio, where he would have a com-
fortable house in a street, and plenty of neigh-
bors ? " she asked.

" I don't think he would like to leave the vine-
yard, sipwrina, though it would be very pleasant to
live in the town."

Her dark eyes sparkled at the thought. It was

352

The Infidel

lonely on the hill, where she had only the children
to talk to and her grandfather, whose conversation
was one long complaint.

The old man looked up with a scared expression.
" Oliimc! Non posso! " he exclaimed ; " I could not
leave the villino. I shall die as I have lived, in the
villino!"

" Well, you must do what is best pleasing to your-
self," Antonia said. " All I desire is that you should
be happy and enjoy every comfort that money can
buy."

She bent down and kissed the sunburned fore-
head, so wrinkled and weather-beaten after the long
life of toil. She asked Franccsca to walk a little
way with her, and they went out into the lane to-
gether.

" Your house looks comfortless even in sun-
shine," Antonia said. " It must be worse in >vin-
ter."

" Si, signorina. It is very cold in bad weather,
but grandfather loves the villino."

" You might get a carpenter to mend the win-
dows and put new hinges on the shutters. They
look as if they would hardly shut."

" Indeed, signorina, 'tis long since our shutters
have been shut. Grandfather is too poor to pay a
carpenter. Nothing in the house has been mended
since I can remember."

" But you have your cows and your vineyard.
How is it that he is so poor? "

The girl shrugged her shoulders. She knew
nothing.

" Is it you who keeps the purse ? "

" No, no, signorina, non so nicntc. Grandfather
gives me money to pay the baker "

Antonia- Finds Her Own

he children
)nvcrsation

expression.
I could not
ived, in the

ng to your-
you should
money can

irned forc-
er the long
alk a little
he lane to-
rt in sun-
rse in win-
id weather,

d the win-
;ers. They

ur shutters
3r to pay a
:en mended

r vineyard.

She knew

1 rand father

353

"And the butcher?"
I " We do not buy meat. I kill a fowl sometimes

I or a rabbit, but for the most part we have cabbage

soup and polenta."
: " Well, you will have plenty of money in future,

I shall see to that, and you must take care that your
grandfather has good food every day, and a doctor
when he is ailing and warm blankets for winter. I
want you both to be happy and well cared for. And
you must get a man to dig in the garden and carry
water for you. I don't like to sec a girl work as
M you do."

Francesca stared at the beautiful lady in open
i wonder. She was doubtless mad as a March hare,

la Povcrina, but what a delightful form her madness
had taken. It might be that the Blessed Virgin had
inspired this madness and sent this lovely lunatic
wandering from house to house among the deserv-
ing poor, scattering gold wherever she found want
and piety. It was almost a miracle. Indeed, who
could be sure that this benign lady was not the
blessed one herself, who could appear in any man-
ner she pleased, even arrayed in the latest fashion of
plumed hats and India muslin negligees?

Antonia left the girl a little way from the villino
and walked slowly down the hill to Bellagio, deep in
thought. Alas, alas, to have found her mother's
kindred and to feel no thrill of love, no yearning to
take them to her heart, only the same kind of pity
she had felt for those poor wretches in Lambeth
marsh, only an eager desire to make their lot hap-
pier, to give them all good things that money can
buy.

" Should I grow to love that old man if I knew
him better?" she wondered. "Is there some dor-
1?

f i I'

L).

354

The Infidel

mant affection in my heart, some hereditary love
that needs but to be warmed into hfe by time and
custom ? God knows what I am made of. I do not
feel as if I could ever care for that poor old man
as grandfathers are cared for. My mother's father,
and he loved her dearly! It is base ingratitude in
me not to love him."

She recalled the greedy look that came into the
withered old face at sight of the gold. A painter
need have asked no better model for Harpagon. She
would have given much not to have seen that look.

She would visit them often, she thought, and
would win him to softer moods. She would ques-
tion him about her modicr's girlhood, beguile him
into fond memories of the long-lost daughter,
memories of his younger days, before grinding pov-
erty had made him so eager for gold. She would
make herself familiar with Bari and his grand-
daughter, find out all their wants, all their desires,
and provide for the welfare of the old life that was
waning and the young life with a long future before
it. She would make age and youth happy if it were
possible. But she would not tell them of the rela-
tionship that made it her duty to care for them. She
would let them remember her as the eccentric
stranger who had found them in poverty and left
them in easy circumstances, the benefactress
dropped from the clouds.

To what end should she tell them of kinship if she
could not give them a kinswoman's love ? And she
could not. The girl was a beautiful creature,
kindly, gentle, caressing, but she was a peasant, a
peasant whose thoughts had never travelled beyond
the narrow circle of her hills, whose rough knuckles
and thick fingers told of years of toil, who had not

jditary love
jy time and
if. I do not
)or old man
lier's father,
gratitude in

me into the
A painter
•pagon. She
■n that look,
lought, and
would ques-
beguile him
t daughter,
rinding pov-
She would
his grand-
heir desires,
ife that was
uture before
py if it were
of the rela-
r them. She
le eccentric
rty and left
benefactress

inship if she
2? And she
ul creature,
a peasant, a
clled beyond
igh knuckles
who had not

>V'

Antonia Finds Her Own 355

one feeling in common with the cousin bred u]x:)n
books, and plunged in the morning of youth into
the most enlightened society in Christendom, the
London of Walpoles and Herveys, Carterets and St.
Johns, Pitts and Foxes.

She would not tell them. She could not imagme
her lips framing the words. She could not say to
I'>ancesca, " We are first cousins, the next thing to
sisters." But she could make them happy. That
was possible. She could take all needful measures
to provide them with a substantial income, a com-
petence which should enable them to rebuild the rot-
ten old villa and spend the rest of their days in ease
and plenty.

Lord Dunkeld called on her in the evening, and
took a dish of tea with the two ladies m their garden
betwixt sunset and moonrise. He found Antonia
looking pale and tired.

" She started on one of her solitary rambles early
this morning," Sophy said, "as if any one ought to
walk in this climate, and she was as white as her
muslin gown when she came home. She had much
better have idled with me in the boat."

" I did not go far," Antonia said, " but I found
some interesting people — only peasants. The girl
your lordship noticed yesterday in the procession."

" The girl who is so like you ? " exclaimed Dun-
keld. " I thought your ladyship was a stranger to
at least one of the deadly sins and knew no touch of
vanity. But I find you are mortal, and that you had
a fancy to see a face like your own."

" Yes, I had a fancy to see the girl. And now
I want to help her if I can. She is desperately
poor."

" Is anybody poor in Italy ? I have always

35^

The Infidel

ii I

i> '

h r

thought that Itahan peasants Uve upon sunshine and
a few ripe figs, and have no use for money."

" They are very poor. The grandfather is old
and aihng. Can you find me an honest lawyer here,
or at Varcnna? "

" For your ladyship I would attempt miracles. I
will do my best."

" And as quickly as you can, my lord, for I want
to go back to England."

" Grant me the felicity of escorting you when you
go, and make me your slave in the meantime ;
though, as I am always that, madam, 'tis a one-
sided bargain."

" Oh, pray, come in our coach with us, my lord,"
cried Sophy. " I was in a panic all the way here
on account of the brigands."

" Heavens ! Was your coach attacked? "

" No, no, sir," said Antonia, laughing. " The
brigands came no nearer than a vague rumor that
some of their calling had been heard of near Ander-
matt."

" But who knows what may happen when we arc
going home, now that the days are so much
shorter? " protested Sophy.

" If one strong arm and a pair of pistols can help
you. Miss Potter "

" Oh, I shall feci ever so much safer with your
lordship in our coach. I know if those wretches
came — witli black masks perhaps — Orlando would
run away."

Orlando was the Italian footman whom Sophy
suspected of being a poor-spirited creature, in spite
of a figure which would have delighted the great
king of Prussia.

Antonia went to the villino on the following

» 1

mshine and

thcr is old
iwyer here,

niracles. I

for I want

1 when you
meantime ;
'tis a one-

, my lord,"

2 way here

? "

ng. " The
rumor that
ear Ander-

hen we are
so much

)ls can help

with your
e wretches
ndo woukl

lom Sophy
ire, in spite
i the great

following

Antonia Finds Her Own 357

afternoon, and being unable to shake off Lord Dun-
held, allowed him to accompany her. She liked his
conversation, which diverted her thoughts from
brooding upon the past, and on George Stobart's
peril in the wild world across the Atlantic. He filled
the place of that brilliant society which had been her
anodyne for every grief, and she was grateful to
him for a steadfastness in friendship which prom-
ised to last for a lifetime. His colder tempera-
ment had allowed him to put off the lover and
assume the friend. He had been strong as a gran-
ite pillar when George Stobart had proved a broken
reed.

They found the girl tying up the vine branches in
a long bcrccau,:im\ the old man sitting by the smoul-
dering ashes as he had sat yesterday, in a monotony
of idleness. The windows had not been mended,
and the shutters still hung forlornly upon broken
hinges.

Antonia asked the girl if she had not been able to
find a carpenter to do the work.

" Grandfather would not let a carpenter come.
He is afraid of the noise."

" And when bad weather comes the rain will come
in.

"Si, signorina; the rain always comes in."

" And your broken shutters cannot keep out the
cold winds."

" No, signorina; the wind almost blows grand-
father out of his chair sometimes."

" Then he really ought to let a carpenter come."

The old man was listening intently, and Dunkeld
was watching his face.

" They are brigands, those carpenters." he said.
" 'Tis a waste of money to employ them. I don't

3S8

The I n f i d e 1

mind the wind, signoriiia. Francia can hang up a
curtain."

" Oh, grandfather, the curtain is an old rag! And
the signorimi gave you money to pay the carpenter."

" Andiamo adui^io, carissiina. I am not going to
waste tlie sigiiorina's money on idlers and cheats,
nor yet upon doctors. I hate doctors ! They are
knaves, bloodthirsty rogues that want to be paid
for sticking a knife into a man as if he were a pig! "

Antonia did not argue the point, and left the old
man after a few kindly words. She was disgusted
at his obstinacy, which made it so hard a matter
to im])rove his circumstances. She walked some
way in silence, Dunkeld at her side.

" I fear your new protege is a troublesome sub-
ject," he said, '" and that you will find a difficulty in
helping him."

" I cannot understand his objection to having that
wretched old barn made wind and weather-tight."

" I can. The man is a miser. You have given
him money and he wants to keep it, to hide it under
his mattress, perhaps, and gloat over it in the dead
of the night. The miser has a keener joy in the
touch of a guinea than in any indulgence of meat
or drink, warmth and comfort, that money can
buy."

" I fear your lordship has guessed the riddle,"
Antonia answered, wounded to the quick. " I gave
him all the gold in my purse yesterday. 'Twas at
least twenty guineas. Well, I must take other
means. I will send a carpenter to do all the work
that is wanted and take the Bellagio doctor to the
villino to-morrow morning."

" Will your ladyship be oflfended if I presume to
advise ? "

:,T

lang up a

rag! And
irpentcr."
; going to
id cheats.
They are
D be paid
e a pig ! "
ft the old
disgusted
a matter
ked some

iome sub-
Ifficulty in

iving that
--tight."
ave given
e it under
I the dead
oy in the
1} of meat
oney can

e riddle,"
'* I gave

'Twas at
ike other

the work
tor to the

resume to

Antonia Find sHer Own 359

" Offended ! I shall think you vastly kind."

" Leave these people alone. The old man is un-
worthy of your protection. The girl is happy in
her present' condition. Your bounty will but ad-
minister to her grandfather's avarice and will not
better her life." ^^

" But I must help them— I must, I nnist, An-
tonia protested. " It is my duty. I cannot let them
suffer the ills of poverty while I am rkh. I must
find some way to make their lives easy."

Dunkeld wondered at her vehemence and pursued
the argument no further. This passion of charity
was but an .'nstinct of her generous nature, the de-
sire 10 share fortune's gifts with the unfortunate.

She returned from this second visit dispirited and
unhappy. Was she doomed never to be able to es-
teem those whom she was bound to love ? She had
loved her father fondly, though she had known him
unprincipled and shifty; but what affection could
she feel for this old man against whom her class
instinct revolted, unless she could find in him hum-
ble virtues that could atone for humble birth ? And
she found him sordid, untrutltul, avaricious.

She called on the local doctor next morning and
went with him to the villino, where he diagnosed
the old man's ailments as only old age, the weakness
induced by poor food, and the rheumatic symptoms
that were the natural result of living in a draughty
house. He recommended warmth and a generous
diet, and promised to call once a week through the
coming winter, his fee for each visit being some-
thing less than an English shilling.

After he had gone Antonia sat in the garden with
Baptisto Bari and his granddaughter for an hour.
She had his chair carried into the sunshine and out

360

The Infidel

of the way of the noise, while a couple of workmen
mended the windows and shutters. She had found
a builder in Bellagio and had instructed him to
do all that could be done to make the house
comfortable before winter. He was to get the
work done with the least possible inconvenience to
the family.

Sitting in the quiet garden, while Francesca gath-
ered beans for the soup, and while the children
sprawled in the sun, playing with some toys An-
tonia had brought them, Bari was easily lured into
talking of the past, and of the daughter he had
loved. AH that was best in his nature revealed it-
self when he talked of his sorrow, and Antonia
thought that the miser's despicable passion had only
grown upon him after the loss that had, perhaps,
blighted his life. And then, when he was an old
man, death had taken his remaining daughter, and
he had been left, lonely and heartbroken, with his
orphan grandchildren. He had begun to scrape and
pinch for their support most likely; and then the
miser's insane love of money had grown upon him,
like some insidious disease.

Antonia tried to interest him, and to make ex-
cuses for him, and she spoke to him very plainly
upon the money question. She appealed even to his
selfishness.

" When I give you money, it is that you may
have all the good things that money can buy," she
said — *' good wine and strengthening food, warm
clothes, a comfortable bed. What is the use of a
few guineas in a cracked teacup or hidden in a cor-
ner of your mattress?" Baptisto almost jumped
out of his chair, and she knew she had hit upon the
place of his treasure. " What is the use of hoard-

workmen
lad found
cl him to
lie house
I get the
nience to

sea gath-

children

toys An-

ured into

* he had

i^ealed it-

Antonia

had only

perhaps,

s an old

liter, and

with his

rape and

then the

pon him,

nake cx-
/ plainly
en to his

r'ou may
uy," she
rl, warm
use of a
in a cor-
juniped
ipon the
f lioard-

Antonia Finds Her Own 361

ing money that otiier people will spend and waste,
perhaps, when you are dead ? "

"No, no, she will not waste it. Che Diavolo!
She will give me a handsome funeral, and spend all
the rest on masses for the good of my soul. That
is what she will have to do."

" You need not save money for that. If you live
comfortably your life will be prolonged, most
likely, and I promise that you shall have a handsome
funeral, and the — the masses."

She went again next day, and on the day after,
always alone, and the old man became more and
more at his ease with her ; but all that she did was
done for duty's sake, and she found it harder work
to talk to him than it had been to talk with poor dy-
ing Sally Dormer, by whose bedside she had spent
many quiet hours. The abyss between them was
wider. But she felt more affectionately toward
Franccsca, who adored her almost as if she were in-
deed the celestial lady whose miraculous presence
every good Catholic is prepared to meet at any sol-
emn crisis of life.

Antonia did not rest till, with the assistance of a
banker and lawyer at Varenna, she had settled an
income of £300 pounds a year upon Baptisto, with
reversion to his grandchildren, she herself acting as
trustee in conjunction with the banker, who was
partner in an old-established banking house at
Milan, of which the \^arenna bank was a branch.

This done, her mind was at case, and she pre-
pared for her journey to England. She would re-
turn as she had come, by the low countries, avoid-
ing France on account of the war.

Lord Dunkeld had advised and assisted her in
making the settlement on the Baris, but she knew

^"#

362

The 1 nf i del

that he tliought her foolish and Quixotic in her de-
termination to [)rovide for this particu! .r fanniy.

" I could find you a score of claimants for your
bounty, far more pathetic cases than Baptisto, if you
are so set upon playing the good angel," he said.
" 'Tis a nuTcy yoi do , ot want to provide for the
whole pauper population upon the same magnificent
scale. Three hundrcfl a \car for an Italian peasant!
But a woman's charily is ever a romantic impulse,
and one can but admire her tenderness, though one
may question iicr discretion."

" I may have a reason you cannot fathom," An-
tonia said gravely.

" Oh, 'tis the heart moves you to this act, not the
reason ! This world would be happier if all women
were as unreasonable."

She despised herself for suppressing the motive
of her bounty. To be praised for generosity, while
she was ashamed to acknowledge her own kindred,
ashamed of her own lowly origin ! What could be
meaner or more degrading? But .she thought of
Dunkeld's thousand years' pedigree, the pride of
birth, the instinct of race, which he had so often re-
vealed 'Miconsciously in their familiar talk, and it
was difficult to sink her own pride before so proud
a man.

The last day came, and he insisted on accompany-
ing her to her farewell visit. She had given him the
I)rivilege of a trusted friend, and had no excuse for
refusing his company.

She told Baptisto Bari what she had done for
him.

" You will have £75 paid you every quarter," she
said ; " and all you have to do is to spend your
money freely and let Francesca buy everything that

in her de-

fannly.

for your
3 to, if you
' he said,
le for the
agniticent
1 peasant !
: impulse,
ough one

om," An-

t, not the
.11 women

le motive

ity, while

kindred,

could be

ought of

pride of

often re-

k, and it

so proud

:onipany -
n him the
Kcusc for

done for

■ter," she
;nd your
liing that

Antonia Finds Her Own 363

is wanted for you, and the children, and herself. I
shall come back next year, and I shall be very sorry
and very angry if T d. ' ♦'md you living in com-
fort, and the villino ,. ag as handsome as u. noble-
man's villa."

The old man protested his gratitude with tears.
Yes, he would spend his money. He hai been
spending it. Sec, there was the magnificent new
curtain ; and he had r\ pillow for his bed, and a bar-
rel of oil for the lamp. Th«.> had the lamp lighted
every night. And he had coffee — a dish oi coffee
on Sunday — and they had been drinking their milk
and making bti'tcr fo themselves instead of selling
all the milk V negozio in Bellagio. Indeed he

had discovercj' money was a very useful thing

when one spen; though it was also useful to keej)
it against the day of misfortune or death.

"True, m'ainico; but it is bad economy to keep
your money under your pillow, and let your house
fall over your ears for want of mending," answered
Antonia ; and then she bade him good-by — good-by
till next year, and bent down to kiss the withered
forehead, above white pent-house eyebrows. The
keen old eyes clouded over with tears as her lips
touched him, and the tremulous old hands were
joined in prayer that God and the saints might re-
ward her piety.

She op;;ned her arms to Francesca, who fell upon
her breast, sobbing.

" Ah, sweetest lady, had the poor ever such a
friend, ever such a benefactor? Heaven sent you to
us. We pray for you night and day, for your hap-
piness on earth, for your soul's bliss in heaven,"
cried the girl, in her melodious Italian.

Ai lonia could scarcely drag herself away from

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3^4

The Infidel

the clinging arms, the tears and benedictions, but she
left Francesca at the garden gate, and amid all those
tears and kisses had not revealed herself to her kin-
dred.

She crossed the hill in silence, Dunkeld at her
side watching her thoughtful countenance, and per-
plexed by its almost tragic gloom.

" You are a wonderful woman," he said lightly,
by and by, to break the spell of silence. " You take
these Italian peasants to your heart as if they were
your own flesh and blood. Is it the Italian blood in
your veins that opens your heart to beings of so dif-
ferent a race ? "

" Perhaps."

" I could understand your letting the girl hug you
— a creature so lovely, and in the bloom and fresh-
ness of youth. But that wrinkled old miser ! Well,
'twas a divine charity that moved you to squander a
kiss upon that parchment brow."

Antonia turned to him in a sudden tumult of feel-
ing, remorse, shame, self-disparagement.

" Oh, stop, stop ! " she cried. " Your words scald
me like molten lead. Divine charity! Why, I am
the most despicable of women. I hate myself for
my paltry pride. I can bear the shame of it no
longer. 'Twill be your lordship's turn to scorn
mc as I scorn myself. That old man is my mother's
father. I came to Italy to hunt for her kindred, to
find in what palace she was reared, from what
princely race I inherited my haughty spirit. And a
chance, the chance likeness between Francesca and
me, resulted in the discovery that I came of a long
line of peasants, servants, the tillers of the ground,
the race that lives by submissive toil, that has never
known independence. And I was ashamed of them

ins, but slie
d all those
:o her kin-
eld at her
:, and per-

id lightly,
' You take
they were
n blood in
of so dif-

rl hug you
and fresh-
er! Well,
quander a

lit of feel-

ords scald
/hy, I am
nyself for
: of it no
to scorn
^ mother's
indred, to
om what
it. And a
icesca and
of a long
e ground,
has never
d of them

> f

Anton ia Finds Her Own 365

—bitterly ashamed. It was anguish to me to know-
that I sprang from that humble stock, most of all
when I thought of you, your warriors, and states-
men, bishops, judges— all the long line of rr' 3 and
master minds stretching back into the dark nignt of
history, part of yourself; for if they had never lived
you could not be what you are."

" Oh, madam, you own a more noble lineage than
Scottish Thanes can boast of. The sea-born Venus
had no ancestors, but was queen of the earth by the
divine right of beauty. You are a daughter of the
gods, and may easily dispense with a parchment
pedigree."

"Oh, pray, sir, no idle compliments! I would
rather suffer your contempt than your mocking
praise. I can scarcely be i^ore despicable in your
esteem than I am in my own."

" I could never think ill of you, my sweet friend ;
never doubt the nobility of your heart and mind.
The test has been a severe one ; for to a woman the
death of a romantic dream means much, but the
gold rings true. You had a right to keep this secret
from me if you pleased."
" And from them ? "

" That is a nicer question. I doubt it is your duty
to make them happier by the knowledge that they
have a legitimate claim to your bounty. I think you
would do well to disclose your relationship to them
before you leave Italy. The old man may not live
till your return, and the thought that pride had come
between you and one so near in blood might be a
lasting regret."

"Yes, yes, your lordship is right. I will see them
again this evening. I will tell my grandfather who
and what I am. Yes, it was odious of nie to play

366

The Infidel

the Lady Bountiful, to let him praise nie for gen-
erosity — me, his daughter's child. Sure I am glad
I made my confession to you, for now I know that
you are my true friend."

" I will never advise you ill if I can help it,
madam," he said, stooping to kiss her hand. " And
doubt not that you ran trust me with every secret of
your heart and mind, for there can exist no feeling
or thought in either that is not common to gener-
ous natures."

Lady Kilrush spent the sunset hour with her kin-
dred, and was touched by the old man's delight
when he clasped to his heart the child of that daugh-
ter he had loved and mourned. She knelt beside
him with uncovered head as she told him the story
of her childhood, her love for the mother she had
lost before memory began. He turned her face to
the sunset glow, and gazed at her with eyes
drowned in tears. He was no longer the moi.ey
grubber, keenly expectant of a strangfr's bounty.
The whole nature of the man seemed changed by
the awakening of an unforgotten love.

" Yes, it is Tenia's face," he cried. " I knew you
were beautiful ; I knew you were like her, but not
how like. Your brow has the same lines, your lips
have the same curves. Yes, now, as you smile at
me, I see my beloved one again."

There was nothing sordid or vulgar in the peas-
ant now. His countenance s'r with the pure
light of love, and Antonia's hci ./ent out to him
with some touch of filial affection.

Before they parted he gp.ve her a letter — the ink
dim with age — her mother's last letter, written from
the Lincolnshire homestead where she died; and

I 3

: for gcn-
[ am glad
<now that

1 help it,
d. "And
J secret of
no feeling
to gener-

h her kin-
's delight
lat daugh-
lelt beside
the story
r she had
er face to
with eyes
lie moi.ey
's bounty,
langed by

knew you
r, but not
, your lips
11 smile at

Antonia Finds Her Own 367

Antonia read of the love that had hung over her
cradle, that tender, maternal love she had been fated
never to know.

She deferred her journey for a few days, at her
grandfather's entreaty, and spent many hours at the
villino. She encouraged Baptisto and Francesca to
talk to her of all the details of their lives. She
drew nearer to them in thought and feeling, and
made new plans for their happiness, promising to
come to Bellagio every autumn, and offering to
build them a new house next year at the other end
of their garden, where the view was finer. But the
old man protested that the villino would last his
time, and that he would never like any house as
well.

" Then the new house must be built for Francesca
when she marries," Antonia told him gayly. " We
will wait till she has a suitor rhe loves."

the peas-

the pure

)ut to him

r — the ink
itten from
died; and

■ .^

»» •,■"■.■■

Chapter XVI.

ANTONIA AND PATTY TAKE A DISH OF TEA.

lili:i

It was late in October when Lady Kilrush ar-
rived at her house in St. James' Square. What a
gloomy splendor, what an unromantic luxury the
spacious mansion presented after the lake and
mountains, the chestnut woods and rose gardens of
Lombardy. Yet this old English comfort within
doors, while the gray mists of autumn brooded over
the square, where the old lamps made spots of quiv-
ering golden light amid the deepening gloom, had
a certain charm, and Antonia was not ill pleased to
find herself taking a dish of tea by the fire in the
library with her old friend Patty Granger, who
brought her the news of the town, the weddings and
elopernents, the duels and lawsuits, the beauties who
had lost their looks and the prodigals who had an-
ticipated their majority and ruined an estate by a
single cast at hazard.

" And so Lord Dunkeld travelled all the way from
Como with you and Miss Potter? " said Patty, when
she had emptied her budget. " You must have been
vastly tired of him by the time you got home, after
being boxed in a travelling chariot for over a sen-
night."

h''

TEA.

Irush ar-
What a
xury the
ake and
irdens of
't within
ided over
of quiv-
)om, had
leased to
re in the
^er, who
lings and
itics who
had an-
ate by a

vay from
ty, when
ave been
ne, after
;r a sen-

Antonia and Patty Take Tea 369

" There are people of whose company one docs
not easily tire, Patty."

" Then my old general ain't one of them, for I
yawn till my jaws ache whenever we spend an even-
ing together, and he sits and proses over Marl-
borough's wars and the two chargers he had shot
under him at Malplaquet. Sure I knew all his
stories by heart long before we were married, and
'tain't likely I'll listen to 'cm now. But if you
can relish Lord Dunkeld's conversati'^'^ for a
week in a chaise, perhaps you'll be able to endure
it from year's end to year's end when you're his
wife."

" What are you thinking of, child ? I am not go-
ing to marry Lord Dunkeld or any other man liv-
mg.

" Then I think you ought to have put the poor
wretch out of his pain a year ago, and not let him
dance attendance on you half over Europe."

" His lordship has known my mind for a long
time, and is pleased to honor me with his friend-
ship."

" Ah, you have a knack of turning lovers into
friends. You was friends with Mr, Stobart till you
quarrelled with him and sent him off to the wars.
And I doubt he's killed by this time if he was with
Wolfe, for the general tells me our soldiers haven't
a chance against the French."

" Does the general say that, Patty ? " Antonia
asked anxiously.

She had read all the newspapers on her home-
coming. There was no fresh news from America, but
the tone about the War was despondent. Wolfe's
army before Quebec vvas but nine thousand, the
enemy's force nearly double. Amherst was at a dis-

^■1

37°

The Infidel

tance, winter approaching, the outlook of a univer-
sal blackness.

" The general has hardly any hopes," said Patty.
" He has seen Wolfe's last letter, such a down-
hearted letter ; and the poor man is htter to lie abed
in a hospital than to storm a city. He has always
been an invalid, never could abide the sea, and suf-
fers more on a voyage than a delicate young
woman."

Antonia lay awake half that night, despondent
and uneasy, and in her troubled morning sleep
dreamed of George Stobart, in a grenadier's uni-
form, with an ashen countenance, the blood stream-
ing from a sabre cut on his forehead. He looked
at her with fading eyes, and reproached her for her
cruelty. 'Twas her unkindness had sent him to his
death.

She woke out of this nightmare vision to hear
newsboys yelling in the square, " Taking of Quebec.
A glorious victory. Death of General Wolfe.
Death of General Montcalm." She sprang from
her bed, threw up a window, and looked down into
the square. It was hardly light, the newsboys were
bawling as if they were mad, and street doors and
area gates were opening, and eager hands were
stretched out to snatch the papers. A ragamuffin
crowd was following the newsboys, the crowd that
is afoot at all hours, and comes from nowhere.
" Great English victory. Slaughter of the enemy.
Death of General Wolfe on the field of battle. Death
of General Montcalm. Destruction of the French.
Quebec taken."

Mr. Pitt had received the news late last night,
and this morning 'twas in all the papers. The
shouting of the news-vendors made a confusion of

; a univcr-

>aid Patty,
a down-
to lie abed
las always
I, and suf-
ite young

iespondent
ling sleep
dier's uni-
Dd stream-
He looked
ler for her
him to his

n to hear
)f Quebec.
i\ Wolfe,
■ang from
down into
boys were
doors and
nds were
•agamuffin
rowd that
nowhere,
he enemy.
:tle. Death
le French.

ast night,
ers. The
ifusion of

AntoniaandPattyTakeTea 371

harsh noises, each trying to bawl louder than his
fellows. And then came the sound of trumpet and
drum in Pall Mall, as the guard marched to the pal-
ace, and anon loud hurrahs from the excited crowd
in the square, in Pall Mall, everywhere, filling the
air with vociferous exultation.

Death and victory ! The words reached Antonia's
ear together. Victory purchasec^ at what cost of
blood, what sacrifice of lives that were dear? She
had met old General Wolfe and his handsome wife,
now a widow, the hero's proud mother ; and it was
sad to think of that lady's agony to-day, while all
England was rejoicing, all who had not lost their
dearest, as she had.

Both generals slain! And how many of those
they led in battle? Were George Stobart's bones
lying on the Heights of Abraham, the prey of
eagles and wolves, or buried hastily by some
friendly hand, hidden forever under that far-off
soil, which the winter snow would soon cover? Her
heart ached at the thought that she would see him
no more, she who had desired, or thought she de-
sired, never to look upon his face.

She sent her woman for the newspapers, and
turned them over with trembling hands, standing by
the open window in the chill autumnal air, too much
discomposed even to sit down. The Daily Adver-
tiser had a letter with a description of the siege ; all
the wonder of it; the boats creeping up the river
under the midnight stars; the ascent of that grim
height through the darkness, the soldiers clamber-
ing with uncertain foothold, clutching at ' tishes,
struggling through trees, their muskets si.iig at
their backs, the qui vive of the French sentinel
above, the courage, the address, the presence of

372

The I n f i d e 1

mind of leaders and men. There had been great
losses, but there was no list of killed, and Stobart
might be among them.

She ordered her eoaeh to be at the door in an
hour, and waited only to dress and take a cup of
chocolate before she went to see Mrs. Stobart, who,
if her husband had survived the siege, might have
had a letter by the ship that brought England the
news of victory,

A stranger opened the door at Crown Place. In-
stead of Mrs. Stobart's hand-maiden, in white apron
and mob cap, Antonia saw an old woman of de-
jected aspect, who stared at the footman an coach
as at some appalling vision.

Yes, Mrs. Stobart was at home, but she was very
ill, the woman said, and it might be dangerous for
the lady to see her.

The lady, who had alighted at the opening of the
door, took no heed of this warning. The wife was
ill, struck down perhaps by the shock of fatal news.
Antonia instantly associated Lucy's illness with the
fate of her husband.

" Where is she ? " she asked, and ran upstairs
without waiting to be answered. In an eight-
roomed house it was not difficult to find the mis-
tress' chamber. She opened the door of the front
room softly, and found herself in darkness, an ob-
scurity made horrible by the stifling heat of the
room, where the red cinders of what had been a
fierce fire made a lurid glow behind the high brass
fender. The dimity curtains were closed round the
bed. Antonia drew one of them aside and looked
at the sick woman. She was asleep, and breathing
heavily, her forehead bound with a linen cloth, and

)ecn great
id Stobart

loor in an
a cup of
hart, who,
light have
igland the

Mace. In-
hite apron
in of (le-
an coach

was very
fcrous for

ing of the

wife was

ital news.

! with the

I upstairs
in eight-
the mis-
tlie front
is, an ob-
it of the
d been a
igh brass
•ound the
id looked
breathing
loth, and

Antonia and Patty Tak *; Tea 373

the hand lying on the coverlet burned like a hot coal
under Antonia's touch.

The old woman came panting up the stairs, and
after stopping to recover her normal breathing
power, which was but feeble, she addressed the vis-
itor in a voice of alarm.

" Oh, madam, you had best come away from the
bed. 'Tis the smallpox, a bad case, and if you have
never had the disease "

" I have been inoculated, I am not afraid," An-
tonia answered quickly, thinking only of the patient.
Alas, poor soul, to be seized with that hateful sick-
ness, which she so feared. " How did she come by
this horrible malady, ma'am ? "

" She caught it from an old gentleman, my lady —
I believe he was a relation — who died in the house.
She was taken ill the night after his funeral a fort-
night ago. 'Tis the worst kind of smallpox. She
was quite sensible two days ago, and then the fever
came back, the secondary fever, the doctor calls it.
Even if she gets over it she will be disfigured for
life, poor lady, and may lose her eyesight. 'Tis as
bad a case as I ever nursed, and if your honor hadn't
been inoculated "

" But I have, woman, and I have no fear. Pray
tell me where is this lady's son? Was he in the
house when she was taken ill ? "

" No, my lady. The little master is living with
his gran'ma, the servant girl told me."

" That is fortunate. Are you Mrs. Stobart's only
nurse ? "

" Yes, my lady."

" And at night when you are asleep, who attends
upon her ? "

1- \

lHYl

Ul ^1

374

The Infidel

" I am a very light sIccikt. nia'aiu. T mostly
lioars her when she calls mc, if she calls loud
cnoujrh."

" She must have two nurses. I wi'l get another
woman to help yon, and I shall come every day to
see that she is attended properlv. Prav, who is her
doctor?"

The woman named a humble apothecary in Lam-
beth, called Morton, whom Antonia had often let
in her visits to the poor, a meek elderly man. in
whose skill and kindness she had confidence, in
spite of his rusty coat and breeches, coarse cotton
stockings and grubby hands.

" I will send a physician to see her. Tell Mr.
Morton that I shall send Dr. Heberden, who will
confer with him. Do you know if Mrs. Stobart has
had any trouble on her miiid lately, any anxiety ? "

*' Only about her house, my lady. Her slut of a
maid ran away directly she heard 'twas smallpox."

The apothecary came in while Antonia was stand-
ing by the bed. and was aghast at the spectacle.

"Does your ladyship know what risk you run
here? Oh, madam, for God's sake, leave this in-
fected air."

" I am not afraid. I did not take the disease
when the doctors tried to inoculate me. I doubt I
am proof against the poison."

" Nay, madam, you must not count on that. I im-
plore you to leave this room instantly, and never to
re-enter it. 'Tis a bad case of confluent smallpox,
and I fear 'twill be fatal."

" And this poor lady is alone, her husband fight-
ing in America, killed in the late battle, perhaps.
At whatever risk I shall do all I can for her. And

h '

I mostly
calls loud

[Ct another
cry (lay to
who is her

•y in Lani-
often let
y man, in
■klence, in
rse cotton

Tell Mr.

who will
tobart has
ixiety ? "
■ slut of a
lallpox."
vas stand-
tacle,

you run
e this in-

le disease
I doubt I

at. I im-
I never to
smallpox,

uid fig^ht-

perhaps.

ler. And

Anton ia and Patty Take Tea 375

I hope we may save her, sir, with care and good
n'..rsing." _.,

" Your ladyship may be sure I will do my best,"
said Morton.

*' I will go out into the air while you see to your
patient. This room is stilling. You will find me
below, waiting to talk to you."

She walked on the footpath by the river till the
apothecary came to her, and then gave him her in-
structions. Dr. Heberden was to see the patient
that afternoon, if possible. Antonia would wait
upon him and persuade him to do so. And Mr.
Morton was to be at hand to receive instructions.
And a nurse was to be found, more serviceable than
the old won\an on the i)remises, who seemed civil
and obliging, and could be kept to help her.

" And I shall sec the patient every day," con-
cluded Antonia.

" I must warn your ladyship once more that you
will do so at the peril of your life."

" My good Mr. Morton, there are situations in
which that hazard hardly counts. This poor lady's
husband, for instance, has he not risked his life a
hundred times in America? Risked and lost it, per-
haps ! "

There was a catch in her voice like a stifled sob
as she spoke the last sentence.

" That is a vastly different matter, your lady-
ship," said Morton gravely, but he ventured no fur-
ther remonstrance.

Antonia saw the physician, and obtained his
promise to see Mrs. Stobart that afternoon. She
drove through streets that were in a tumult of re-
joicing at the success of British arms. No one

Zl^

The Infidel

{

' li

thought of the general who had fallen, the soldiers
who had died. Victory was on every lip, exultation
in every mind. Twas all the coachman could do to
steer horses and chariot through the crowd.

Arrived at home safely, Lady Kilrush told the
hall porter to deny her to all visitors, which would
not be difficult, since her arrival in London had not
been recorded in the newspapers, and Lord Dun-
keld was on the road to Scotland to shoot grouse on
his own moors. She ordered her chair for six
o'clock, and, in the meantime, shut herself in her
dressing-room, where Sophy found her, to whom
she related her morning's work."

" If you are frightened, don't come near me," she
said.

" I am frightened for you, madam, not for my-
self. I suppose after having had such a bout when
I was inoculated, I am safe to escape the smallpox
for the rest of my life. Sure, I carry the marks on
my face and neck, though they mayn't be so bad
as to make me hideous."

" Then, if you are not afraid, you may keep me
company in this room of an evening, till Mrs. Sto-
bart is well enough to be sent into the country, and
you can drive and walk with me. I will admit no
visitors, for I must see her every day if I would be
sure that her nurses do their duty. Poor soul, she is
alone and in great danger."

Sophy implored her mistress to run no such haz-
ard, besought her with tears, and with the importu-
nity of a warm affection. Li her ladyship's case
inoculation had been a failure. She would be mad
to re-enter that infected house. Sophy would her-
self visit ]\Irs. Stobart and see tha^ she was properly
nursed.

if m

the soldiers
, exultation
could do to
vd.

sh told the
hich would
Ion had not
Lord Dun-
t grouse on
lir for six
self in her
, to whom

ir me," she

ot for my-
bout when
e smallpox
2 marks on
be so bad

.y keep me
Mrs. Sto-
)untry, and
1 admit no
I would be
soul, she is

> such haz-
e importu-
ship's case
lid be mad
ivoidd her-
is properly

Antonia and Patty Take Tea 377

" No, child, no ; it is I who must go. It is my
duty."

" Why, I never knew you was so fond of her — a
pretty simpleton, with scarce a word to say for her-
self."

" Don't argue with me, Sophy. It is useless. If
there is any risk I have run it," Antonia answered.

She shivered as she recalled the darkened cham-
ber, the tainted atmosphere, the oppressive heat of
the fire that had been burning day and night
through the mild October weather. She knew that
there was poison in that pestilential air, and that she
had inhaled it, knew and did not care.

Her eyes were shining with a feverish light. Her
heart ached with remorseful pity for the deserted
wife, deserted by the man who had fled from his
country, flung himself into a service of danger,
flung away his life, perhaps. It was because she
had been unwise, encouraged a close friendship that
was but a mask for " ^e, that yonder poor woman
was lying on her sicK oed, deserted by her natural
protector. She had sacrificed every tie, renounced
every duty, on account of that guilty love. She
hated herself when she thought that she had lured
him from his home, had made him her friend and
counsellor, at the expense of his young wife. Every
hour he had spent with her in St. James' Square had
been stolen from Lucy and her boy. It was the wife
who had a right to his thoughts, his counsels, his
leisure ; and she had filched them from her. He had
lingered by the fireside in her library, reluctant to
leave her, when he should have been brightening
Lucy's monotonous existence, elevating her mind by
his conversation, continuing that education of heart
and intellect in which he had been engaged before

378

The Infidel

he lost himself in a fatal friendship. She had driven
him from her with anger and contempt, driven him
into exile and danger, but had she not as much need
to be angry with herself, remembering her pleasure
in his company, her forgetfulness of his wife's
claims ?

This one thing remained for her to do, to watch
over the lonely wife in her day of peril, to win her
back to life and health if it were possible. This
atoning act would ease her conscience, perhaps, and
bring her peace of mind. If George Stobart lived
to come back to England he would know that she
had done her duty, and, although not a Christian,
had fulfilled the Christian's mission of mercy and
love.

And if that ghastly distemper struck her down — a
possible result, though she did not apprehend it—
what then ? She had no keen love of life, and would
not much regret to lay down the load of days that
had lost their savor. She had tasted all the pleas-
ures that the world, the flesh and the devil can offer
a beautiful woman, all the luxuries that gold can
buy, all the homage that rank can claim, the adula-
tion of high-born profligates, the envy of rival beau-
ties, and every trivial diversion that Satan can put
into the minds of the idle rich. She had struck
every note in the gamut of elegant pleasures, and
had arrived at that period of satiety in which some
women take to vice as the natural crescendo in the
scale of emotion. What sacrifice would it be to die
for her, who feared no hereafter, had no account to
render ?

She visited Mrs. Stobart every day, questioned
nurses and doctors, and took infinite trouble to se-
cure the patient's comfort. She sat by the sick-bed,

had driven
Jriven him
much need
;r pleasure
his wife's

, to watch
to win her
ble. This
rhaps, and
)bart Hved
V that she
Christian,
nercy and

r down — a
ihend it —
and would

days that
the pleas-
1 can offer

gold can
the adula-
ival beau-
n can put
ad struck
iures, and
liich some
ido in the

be to die
iccount to

[uestioned

ble to se-

sick-bed,

Antonia and Patty Take Tea 379

endured the fetid atmosphere of a room carefully
shut against the air of heaven, she listened to
Lucy's d'^lirious ravings, her frantic appeals to her
husb?T'. ' come back to her. She, who in her right
senses I u seemed to grieve so little at his absence,
in her wanderings was forever recalling the happy
hours of their courtship, acting over again that sim-
ple story of a girl's first love for a sweetheart of su-
perior station.

Antonia listened with an aching heart. The love
was there then; the woman was not the pink and
white automaton she had once thought her. And
she had come between George Stobart and this
idyllic affection, had spoiled two lives unwittingly,
but not without guilt. She had absorbed him. suf-
fered him to squander all his leisure upon her com-
pany, sought his counsel, invited his sympathy,
made herself a part of his life, as no woman has the
right to do with another woman's husband.

And now, sitting by what might be the bed of
death, she could not forgive herself or that friend-
ship which she had cherished without thought of
cost. She had courted his company and reproached
him when he absented himself. He had been her
most cherished companion; those days had been
blank on which they had not met. All the feverish
pleasures of the great world had not been enough to
make up for one lost hour of his society. Their talk
beside the firelit hearth, in the darkening twilight,
their meetings in poverty-stricken garrets and loath-
some alleys, had been more to her than all the rest
of her life.

" If she should die before he comes back to her
it will be on my conscience forever that I was the
wretch that parted them," she thought.

•s ,

38o

The Infidel

The doctors were not hopeful of Mrs. Stobart's
recovery. She had very Httle strength, they told
Lady Kilrush, very little power to fight against the
disease, which had attacked her in its most virulent
form. Should she recover she would be disfigured
for life, and possibly blind.

Oh, the horror of it ! If he came home to find the
pretty childish face, the lily and rose complexion, so
cruelly transformed ! Was not death almost better
for the victim than such a resurrection ?

Heaven was kinder to this weak soul than to
spare her for such a cruel fate. After Antonia had
been visiting her for over a week, in which time
there had been no improvement in the symptoms,
there came a rally with some hours of conscious-
ness, but this was only the lightning before death.

Lucy recognized Antonia, spoke of her husband
and her son in a sage and matter-of-fact tone, which
was quite unlike her talk in delirium, was glad that
the boy was safely out of the way when she was
seized with the malady.

" My father came here one night in a raging
fever," she told Antonia. " I was frightened, but I
hadn't the heart to drive him out of the house. He
looked like a dying man. It was the smallpox. He
had sent the disease inward by getting up from his
bed and going out into the streets in the rain. He
lay ill over a week, and I got an old woman to nurse
him. I never went near him after I knew. But the
infection was in the house, I suppose. I remember
the night of hi,« funeral, and my aching bones and
my burning head. I knew I was going to be ill.
And then I remember nothing more — nothing more.
Was it last night— the funeral ? "

She spoke in a weak voice, in broken sentences,

s. Stobart's
, they told
against the
ost virulent
; disfigured

: to find the
iplcxion, so
most better

ul than to
-ntonia had
A^hich time
symptoms,
conscious-
re death.
;r husband
one, which
s glad that
n she was

Antonia and Patty Take Tea 381

with long pauses between, Antonia holding her
hand as she talked. The poor wasted hand was icy
cold now, the fever was gone — gone with the life
of the patient.

" You'll give Mr. Stobart my love," she said,
" and please tell him I was very unhappy after he
went to America. It was very kind of you to come
to me, but then you like visiting sick people. I
don't. Mr. Stobart used to tell me I was no Dor-
cas."

She lingered for a day and a night after this re-
turn of consciousness, but her last hours were
passed in a stupor, and she died in her sleep, so
quietly that the nurse who kept watch by her bed
knew not the moment of her last sigh.

a ragmg
:ned, but I
louse. He
.llpox. He
3 from his
rain. He
n to nurse
. But the
remember
bones and

to be ill.
ling more.

sentences,

Ijlf

Chapter XVII.

i '''

. r

■,r^

THE BEAUTY OF LADY KILRUSH.

Lady Kilrush wrote to Lady Lanigan at the
Circus, Bath, to inform her of her daughter-in-law's
death. She had written some days before, to ac-
quaint that lady with poor Lucy's sad condition, but
there had been as yet no reply to the first letter, and
there was no time to wait for an answer to the sec-
ond, so she made all arrangements for the funeral,
and chose Lucy's last resting-place in the rural
churchyard at Mortlake, not very far from the cot-
tage where she had first seen the Methodist and his
young wife. She was suffering from a chill and a
touch of fever on the morning of the funeral, but
bore up long enough to see George Stobart's wife
laid in earth, since there was no one else but the
doctor and the nurse to perform that last office. She
engaged the old woman whom she had found on the
premises to remain in the house as caretaker till Mr.
Stobart's return.

She had hardly strength to drag her aching limbs
upstairs when her task was over, and as the even-
ing wore on her illness increased, and although she
maae light of her symptoms to Sophy she could
hardly doubt their dire significance.

She stood in front of her glass for some minutes
before she took to her bed. Her head ached and her

gan at the
ter-in-law's
:ore, to ac-
nclition, but
: letter, and

to the sec-
he funeral,

the rural
)m the cot-
list and his
chill and a
Lineral, but
bart's wife
5e but the
office. She
und on the
cer till Mr.

hing limbs
the even-
hough she
she could

le minutes
^d and her

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 383

throat was parched and swollen, but she was in full
beauty still. A hectic crimson burned on her cheeks
and her eyes were bright with fever. Her hair, dark
as midnight, fell in natural curls over the marble
whiteness of a throat and bust that had been sung
by a score of modish rhymsters, and declared to ex-
cel the charms of every Venus of the \'atican.
Would she ever see that face again, she wondered,
after she lay down on yonder bed? Would some
strange, disfigured image look at her from that
familiar glass — the long cheval-glass before which
she had stood so often in her trivial moods to study
the set of a mantua, the hang of a petticoat, a daz-
zling figure in a splendor of gold and silver and
color that mocked the glory of an autumn sunset, or,
for a whim, perhaps, in black velvet, sable from
head to foot, a sombre background for her tiara and
riviere of diamonds and her famous pearl necklace?

She burst into a wild laugh as she thought of
those gems. Would she ever again wear pearls or
diamonds on her neck? Disfigured — blind, per-
haps, a creature upon whose hideous form fine
clothes and flashing jewels would seem more ap-
palling than a shroud !

" Good-by, beautiful Lady Kilrush," she said,
making a low courtesy to the figure in the glass, and
then all grew dim and she could only totter to the
bell pull and ring for help.

Sophy came to her. The French maid had been
banished after her mistress' first visit to Mrs. Sto-
bart, Antonia having taken pains to lessen the risk
of contagion for her household. Sophy had waited
upon her, and had been her only means of com-
munication with the servants.

Dr. Heberden saw her next morning, and recog-

384

The Infidel

nized the tokens of a disease not much less terrible
than the plague. He was careful not to alarm the
patient, but gave his instructions to Miss Potter,
and promised to send a capable nurse.

" If I am going to be ill, let me have the little
Lambeth apothecary to attend nic," Antonia said to
the physician. " I have seen him by the sick-beds
of the poor, and I know what a kind soul it is."

" Let it be so, dear lady. He will make a good
watchdog. I shall sec you every day till you are
well."

" That will not be for a long time, sir. I know
what I have to expect," she answered calmly. " But
if I am likely to be hideous, for pity's sake don't try
to save my life."

" I protest, your ladyship takes alarm too soon.
Your sickness may be no more than a chill, with
a touch of fever."

" Oh, I know, I know ! " she answered, her eyes
searching his countenance. "You cannot deceive
me, sir. I was prepared for this. I did not think
it would come. I thought I was too strong. I
hardly feared it ; but I knew it was possible. I did
what I had to do without counting the cost."

She was in a high fever, but still in her right
senses. She lay in a half stupor for the rest of the
day, and her nurse, a comfortable-looking, middle-
aged woman sent by Dr. Heberden, and Sophy
Potter had nothing to do but watch her and give
her a cooling drink from time to time.

It was growing dusk, and Sophy and Mrs. Ball,
the nurse, were taking tea in the dressing-room,
when the door was opened and a lady appeared,
struggling with a sheet steeped in vinegar that had
been hung over the door by Mr. Morton's order.

s
h

1 less terrible
to alarm the
Miss Potter,

ave the little
itonia said to
the sick-beds
•111 it is."
iiake a p^ood
till you are

sir. I know
ilmly. " But
ake don't try

m too soon,
a chill, with

ed, her eyes
inot deceive
id not think
) strong. I
sible. I did
e cost."
n her right

2 rest of the

ing, middle-

and Sophy

er and give

1 Mrs. Ball,
ssing-room,
y appeared,
:ar that had
ton's order.

Beauty ofLadyKilrush 385

The intruder was Mrs. Granger, modishly dressed
in a chintz silk tucked up over a black satin petti-
coat.

"Drat your vinegar!" she cried. "I'll wager
my new silk is done for."

" Oh, madam, you oughtn't to have come here ! "
cried Sophy, starting up in a fright. " Her lady-
ship is taken with — "

" Yes, I know. I've had it, Miss Potter— had it
rather bad when I was a child. You might have
seen some marks on my forehead and chin if you'd
ever looked close at me. I should have been marked
much worse, and I should never have been Mrs.
General Granger, if mother hadn't sat by the bed
and held my hands day and night to stop me doing
myself a mischief. And I'm going to keep watch
over Antonia, and save her beauty, if it's in human
power to do it."

"I am the nurse engaged for the case," said
Mrs. Ball, rising from the tea board with a stately
air, "and your ladyship's services will not be re-
quired."

"That's for my ladyship to judge, not you.
Lady Kilrush and me was close friends before' we
married; and I'm not going to leave her at the
mercy of any nurse in London, not if she was the
nurse to the Princess of Wales."

" I think Dr. Heberden's favorite nurse may be
trusted, madam," said Mrs. Ball, with growing in-
dignation.

Sophy had gone bade to the sick room.

" I wonder her ladyship's hall porter should have
let you come upstairs, madam, when he had positive
orders to admit nobody."

"I didn't wait for his permission when I had
13

386

The Infidel

U '

got the truth out of him. Lions and tigers wouUhi't
have kept me from my friend, mueh less hired
nurses and hall porters."

She took off her hat and flung it on the sofa, and
went into the next room with so resolute an air that
Mrs. Ball could only stand staring at her.

Antonia looked up as she approached the bed,
and held out her hand to her.

" Oh, Patty, how glad I am to see you ! Your face
always brings back my youth. But no. no, no, don't
come near me. Tell her, Sophy— tell her ! Oh, what
a racking headache ! "

Her head fell back upon the pillow. It was im-
possible to hold it up with that insufferable pain.
Patty reminded her friend of the pock-marks on
her temple and chin, and that she ran no risk in
being with her ; and from that moment till the peril
was past, through a fortnight of keen anxiety, Gen-
eral Granger's wife remained at Antonia's bedside,
watching over her with a devotion that never
wearied. It was useless for Mrs. Ball to protest,
or for Sophy Potter to show signs of jealousy.

"I'm going to save her beautiful face for her,"
Patty declared. " She shan't get up from her sick-
bed to find herself a fright. She's the handsomest
woman in London, and her looks are worth fighting
for."

Dr. Heberden heard her, and approved. He had
seen her clever management, her tender care of
Antonia, when the fever was raging, and the deliri-
ous sufferer would have done herself mischief in
an agony of irritation. The famous doctor was
vastly polite to this volunteer nurse, and compli-
mented her on her skill and couras-e

" As for my courage, sir, 'tis nothing to boast of,"

tipers wouldn't
uch less hired

n the sofa, and
lute an air that
t her.
iched the bed,

3U ! Your face
o, no, no, don't
her ! Oh, what

V. It was ini-
uflferable pain,
pock-marks on
-an no risk in
nt till the peril
anxiety, Gen-
onia's bedside,
m that never
•all to protest,
: jealousy,
face for her,"
from her sick-
le handsomest
worth fighting

)ved. He had
?nder care of
and the deliri-
If mischief in
s doctor was
, and compli-

j to boast of,"

■i
1

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 387

I'atty rjiswcred frankly. " Poor as my face is, I
wouldn't have risked spoiling it, and shouldn't be
here if I had not had the distemper when I was a
child."

Lady Kilrush passed safely through tlie malady
that had been fatal to Lucy Stobart ; but her con-
valescence was very slow, and she suffered a depres-
sion of spirits from which neither her devoted
Sophy Potter nor her lively friend Patty could rouse
her. She came back to life unwillingly, and felt as if
she had nothing to live for.

On the very first day that she was able to leave
her bed for an hour or two Patty led her to the
great cheval-glass.

" There ! " she cried, " look at yourself as close
as you please. You are not pitted as much as I am
even. Why, Lord bless the woman ! Aren't you
pleased with yourself, Tonia? You stare as if you
saw a ghost."

" Tis a ghost I am looking at, Patty, the ghost
of my old self. Oh, you have been an angel of
goodness, dear; and it is a mercy not to be loath-
some; but the past is past and I shall never be the
beautiful Lady Kilrush again. I hope I was not
too proud of my kingdom while I had it. 'Tis gone
from mc forever."

" Why, you simpleton ! All this fuss because you
are hollow-cheeked and pale — and your beautiful
hair has been cut ofif."

" A wreck, Patty ! A haggard ghost ! Don't
think I am going to weep for the loss of a complex-
ion. I had grown tired of the world before I fell
ill. It will give me little pain to leave it altogether
— only there is nothing else — nothing left but to

388

T h c Infidel

sit by the firo willi a hook aiul wait for the slow
years to roll by. And the years are so slow. It
seems a century since I came into this house for
• he first time and found the man I loved lying on
his dciifh-bed."

"Oh, IcHv foolish this sadness is! If I was a
peeress, with such jewels as yours, a yount,' widow,
my own mistress, free to do what 1 liked for the
rest nf niy days, or to pick and choose a new tyrant
if J ii ' .-(1 — I should jump for joy. You will be as
handsome as ever you was after six weeks at the
Wells, and you oupht to marry a duke, like your
friend IMiss Gunning that was, who would never
have been thought your equal for looks if there had
not beer two of her."

" Dear I'atty, I have done with vanitie.^. But
never doubt my gratitude for your devotion, ihat
saved me from being a hideous spectacle."

" Nay, 'tis but the lion and the mouse over again.
You took me in hand and made a lady of me, and
how coutd I do less than jump at the first chance
of making a return ? I used to be a little bit envious
of your handsome face once, Tonia, when you used
to come to my lodgings in tlie piazza, in your shabby
clothes, so careless and so splendid.

Lady Kilrush would see no one after her illness,
putting off all visitors with polite little notes of
apology, protesting that she was not yet in health
to receive visits, and must defer the pleasures of
friendship till she was stronger. On this the rumor
v/ent about that the disease had disfigured her be-
yond recognition, and all the envious women of her
acquaintance were loud in their compassion.

" 'Tis vastly sad to think she is too ugly to let

: for the slow
.• so slow. It
his house for
oved lying on

! If I was a
vouni,' widow,

liked for the
; a new tyrant
'ou will be as

weeks at the
ike, like your

would never
:s if there had

/anitie,;. But
devotion, that
Ic."

se over again,
ly of me, and
e first chance
tie bit envious
'hen you used
1 your shabby

er her illness,
ittlc notes of
yet in health
pleasures of
his the rumor
^ured her be-
vomen of her
assion.
o ugly to let

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 389

anybotly sec her," said one. " I'm tolil she wears
a thick veil even in her own house for ' "\r of fright-
ening her footuK '."

" They say si'.c offered iiooo to any one who
ould itivent a ish tlial would hide the spots,"
said another,

"Spots, my lear! "li vastly fine to talk of
spots. The i)0(^r wretch has holes in her face as
deep as your thimble."

'* And is as blind as Samson Agonistes," said
a fourth.

" And, (jh, dear, we are all so sorry for her," s'lid
the chorus, with sighs and uplifted hands; and then
the fiddles began a country dance, and everybody
was courtesying and simpering and setting to part-
ners, down the long perspective of fine clothes and
powdered heads, anil Lady Kilrush was forgotten.

Not by Lord Dunkeld, wk.o started poste-haste
for London directly he heard of her illnes , and,
l)iing informed that she was out of dangc »", and
silling up in her dressing-room every aftc noon,
;;leaded hard to be admitted, but was resolute .'v re-
fused.

.Sophy wrote to him at her mistress' dictarion,
assuring him of her lady's unchanging esteem, but
adding that she was too ninch out of spirits to see
even her m'^st valued friends.

'* Most valued ! I wonder what value she sets
upon me?" questioned Dunkeld, cruelly disap-
pointed. " 'Tis the parson-soldier or the soldier-
parson she values. Perhaps the loss of her beaut'-
moves her most because she will be less fair in hi-
eyes. I doubt that it is always of one man only that
a woman thinks when she rejoices in her beauty.
It is for his sake; to please his eye! The fellow

coo

The Infidel

may be a Caliban, perhaps, and yet he is the shrine
at which she offers her charms."

He tried to picture that glorious beauty changed
to ugliness, tried and could not; for he could not
banish her image as he had seen her in Italy. Her
l)L^auty sparkled and shone before him ; and imagina-
tion could not conjure up the tragic transformation.

" There is no change that could lessen my love,"
he thought. " She has grown into my heart, and is
a part of my life. I may be appalled when I see
1 er, may suffer tortures at a sight so piteous; but
she will be dearer to me in her ruined beauty than
the handsomest woman in London."

He thought of one of the handsomest, the ex-
quisite Lady Coventry, the younger of the Gunning
sisters, whose brief reign was hastening toward its
melancholy close : a butterfly creature, inferior to
Antonia in all mental qualities, but with much grace
and sparkle, and an Irish woman's high spirits.
The ring in Hyde Park, the rotunda at Ranelagh,
the opera house, and the Pantheon would be poorer
for the loss of that brilliant figure.

" And if Antonia appears there no more, 'twill
he two stars dropped out of our firmament," thought
Dunkeld.

It was in vain that Patty urged her friend to try
the waters of Bath or Bristol, as Dr. Heberden had
advised, seeing that his patient was slow to recover
her strength. Antonia refused to leave St. James'
Square.

"If I went to drink the waters, I should have
a host of trivial acquaintances buzzing around me,"
she told Patty. " And I have taken a hatred of all
company but yours and Soi)hy's. Indeed, I think

is the shrine

auty changed
he could not
n Italy. Her
and imagina-
insformation.
>en my love,"

heart, and is
1 when I see

piteous ; but
1 beauty than

nest, the ex-
the Gunning
ig toward its
e, inferior to
h much grace
high spirits,
at Ranelagh,
uld be poorer

> more, 'twill
lent," thought

friend to try
^eberden had
Dw to recover
ve St. James'

should have
;• around me,"

hatred of all
deed, I think

Beauty o f L a d y Kilrush 391

I hate the world. Here I am as safe as in a prison ;
for my fine friends will think the house infected,
and will be afraid to trust their beauty in it."

" Sure, there has been pains enough taken to drive
away the contagion," said Sophy, who had suffered
some inconvenience from the stringent measures
Lady Kilrush had insisted upon after her recovery.

" But my friends do not know that, and till they
forget my illness this house is my castle."

Mrs. Granger dropped in at tea-time two or three
times a week, and brought the gossip of the town,
and exercised all her wit to enliven her friend ; but
Antonia seemed sunk in a hopeless languor and
melancholy, and only affected an interest in the
outside world to please her visitor.

" I'll swear you are not listening, and have
scarce heard a word of it," Patty would exclaim,
stopping midway in her account of the last event
that had startled the town. A rich old Mrs. Some-
body, who was going to marry a boy ; or a high-born
Iphigcnia sacrificed to an octogenarian bridegroom.

Antonia had left ofif caring what people did, or
what became of them.

Even the doings of her duchesses had ceased to
interest. They had sent affectionate notes and
messages, and she had responded civilly. The Duke
of Cumberland had sent an equerry with his card,
and tender inquiries. The princess had sent one of
her ladies. And all that Antonia desired in her
present mood was to be forgotten. She was glad
that Lady Margaret I.aroche, whom she liked best
of all of her fashionable friends, was spending the
winter in Paris ; since she could hardly have denied
herself where she was under so many obligations.

She read the papers every day, wondering

I !!

392

The Infidel

! '•>/

whether she would ever come upon George Stobart's
name in the news from America ; but the name had
not appeared, nor had Mr. Stobart been heard of
at his own house at the beginning of the year, when
she sent a servant to inquire of the woman in charge
there. It was a bitter cold winter ; but London was
full of movement and gayety while Antonia sat
alone in the library at the back of the great solemn
house, where the shutting of one of the massive
doors reverberated from cellar to roof-tree in the
silence. Never had there been a gayer season. It
seemed as if the noise of all the crackers and squibs
that had been burned after the news from Quebec
was still in the air. The cold weather killed a good
many old people, and there were the usual number
of putrid sore throats and typhus fevers in the fine
West End mansions ; but the herd went on their way
rejoicing and illuminating, and praising God for
the triumph of English arms on land and sea, since
the victories of the great year 59 were being briskly
followed up in the }'car that had just begun- -the
thirty-third of His Majesty's illustrious reign. His
Majesty was waxing old and feeble, and the hero
of Dettingen was soon to follow that other old lion
in the tower, and most people's eyes were turned
to the mild effulgence of the rising star, the young
Prince of Wales, or to the prince's mother, and his
guardian, my Lord Bute, who might be supposed
to direct the youthful mind. Soon, very soon, the
great bell would be tolling, the muffled drums beat-
ing, and the pomp of a royal funeral would fill
the night with torches and solemn music.

That bitter winter was over, and the river was
running gayly under April skies, when George

ge Stobart's
le name had
sn heard of
I year, when
m in charge
London was
^ntonia sat
reat solemn
the massive
-tree in the
season. It
! and squibs
om Quebec
illed a good
ual number
> in the fine
n their way
ig God for
d sea, since
iing briskly
begun — the
reign. His
id the hero
ler old lion
^ere turned
the young
ler, and his
e supposed
I*' soon, the
Irums beat-
would fill

river was
in George

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 393

Stobart came up the Thames to the pool of London.
What an insignificant river it seemed after the St.
Lawrence ! What a poor little flat world lay around
him, as his eyes looked out upon his native land-
melancholy eyes, that found no joy in anything, no
pleasure in that aspect of familiar scenes which
delights most wanderers in their home-coming.
Duty brought him home, while inclination would
have kept him in Georgia, whither he had made his
v/ay by a difficitlt and perilous journey, from the
snow fields and frozen rivers of Canada to the
orange groves and sunny sea of the South, after
a weary time in the hospital at Quebec. There
had been much for him to see in the little colony
established by the philanthropic Oglethorpe twenty-
five years before, a refuge and a home for poor
debtors from the English prisons. He had preached
several times in one of the school-rooms at Savan-
nah, and the fire and fervor of his exhortations had
won him a numerous following, black and white.
He had gone among Whitefield's slaves, but al-
though he found them, for the most part, well used
and contented, he loathed a condition which White-
field justified, and against which Wesley had never
lifted up his voice. To Stobart this buying and
selling of humanity was intolerable. True that in
these pious communities the African was better off
than many a slave of toil in Spitalfields or White-
chapel, but he lived under the fear of the lash and
he knew not when it might suit his owner's con-
venience to sell him into a worse bondage.

It was with a willing heart that the soldier priest
laid down the sword and took up the Bible. In his
hours of despair, in all the longing and regret of
a hopeless love, his faith had remained unshaken.

394

The Infidel

> 'i

There was still the terror, and there was still the
hope, the fear of everlasting condemnation, the hope
of life eternal. Among the ignorant throng whom
the great evangelist awakened to a sense of sin and
a yearning for pardon, there were numerous back-
sliders, but the men of education and enlightenment
who followed John Wesley seldom fell away. To
them the things unseen, the promise and the hope
were more real than the bustle and strife of the
world that hemmed them round. They walked the
streets of the city with their eyes looking afar off,
their thoughts full of that heavenly kingdom,
where life would put on a loveliness unthinkable
here below. Sickening at the horrors of a world
in which there were such things as a gallows at
Tyburn, with its batch of victims ten or a dozen
at a time— men, women, boys and girls, children
almost ; the Fleet Prison ; Bedlam, with its manacles
and scourges, and Sunday promenades for the idle
curious; Bridewell, Newgate. Sickening at such
a world as this, the Methodist turned his ecstatic
gaze toward that kingdom of Christ the Lord,
where there should be no more tears, no more war,
no more oppression, no more grinding poverty or
foul disease, and where all the redeemed should be
equals in one brotherhood of heavenly love.

George Stobart went back to his mission work
as faithful a believer as in the day of his conversion.
He had not been an idle servant while he was with
his regiment. He had preached the Gospel wherever
he could find hearers, had been instant in season and
out of season, but his persistence had been of a
noisy kind, and although his superior officers were
disposed to docket him as a religious monomaniac

/as still the
)n, tlie hope
rong whom
; of sin and
erous back-
lightenment
away. To
id the hope
rife of the
walked the
ig afar off,
kingdom,
inthinkable
of a world
gallows at
or a dozen
s, children
:s manacles
'or the idle
ig at such
lis ecstatic
the Lord,
more war,
poverty or
should be
^e.

;sion work
ronvcrsion.
i was with
1 wherever
season and
been of a
icers were
>nomaniac

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 395

after the manner of I\Iethodists, they had never
found him troublesome or insubordinate.

" Mr. Stobart is a gentleman," said the major.
" And if expounding the Scriptures to a parcel of
unbelieving rascals can console him for short
rations, and keep him warm in a temperature ten
degrees below zero — why, who the deuce would
deny him that luxury? If he's a saint at his prayers,
he's a devil in a mclcc; and he saved my scalp from
the redskins when we were fighting in the dark in
the marshes before Louisburg."

Stobart landed at the docks, had his luggage put
on a hackney coach, and drove to his house at Lam-
beth, without a shadow of doubt that he would find
all things as he had left them more than two years
ago. Lucy's last letter had been written in a cheer-
ful spirit. She was elated at Georgie's good luck
in pleasing his grandmamma, and she prophesied
that he would inherit Lady Lanigan's fortune and
become a person of importance. Her father's
drunken habits and persecuting visits were her only
trouble. Her health was good, and her last maid-
servant was the best she had found since she began
housekeeping. True that this letter had been written
more than half a year ago; but the idea of change
or misfortune in the quiet life at home hardly en-
tered into the mind of the man who had so lately
passed through all the perils of the siege of Quebec,
from the first disastrous attack on the heights of the
Montmorenci to the daring escalade and the battle
on the plains of Abraham, to say nothing of minor
dangers and adventures which had made his life
of the last two years a series of hairbreadth escapes.
He counted on his wife's smiling welcome ; and in

t!ira^Ea«nH$nM

■■•'«^

396

The Infidel

the tcdiousncss of the voyage he had been schooHng
himself to his duty as a husband, to give love for
love with liberal measure, to make his wife's future
years happy.

" Poor Wesley's only mistake in life is to have
made an unfortunate marriage, and not to be able
to make the best of a bad bargain," he thought.
" But my Lucy is no such termagant as Mrs. John ;
and I must be a wretch if I cannot live contentedly
with her. She was fair, and gentle, and loving;
and I chose her for the companion of my life — I
must stand by my choice."

In long, wakeful nights, when the ship was roll-
ing in a stormy sea, he had ample leisure to travel
again and again over the same ground, to make the
same resolutions, to repeat the same prayers for
strength within and guidance from above.

There was one name he never breathed to him-
self, one face he tried to shut out of his memory;
but such names and such faces have the sleeper at
their mercy, and his dreams were often haunted by
an image that his waking thoughts ever strove to
banish.

The spring afternoon was gray and cheerless ; a
fine rain was falling, and the narrow streets, muddy
gutters and smoky atmosphere of London were not
attractive after the clear air and bright white light
of Georgia.

He felt in worse spirits than before he left the
ship — his prison of near six weeks — and the journey
seemed interminable; but the coach rolled over
Westminster Bridge at last and drew up in front of
his house. The outside shutters were closed over
the parlor windows, though it was only five o'clock
and broad daylight. Lucy must be away from home,

m schooling
ive love for
/ifc's future

: is to have
t to be able
he thought.
Mrs. John ;
contentedly
md loving;
my life — I

ip was roll-
re to travel
to make the
prayers for

led to him-
is memory;
e sleeper at
haunted by
:r strove to

cheerless ; a
lets, muddy
)n were not
white light

he left the
the journey
ollcd over
in front of
:losed over
five o'clock
from home,

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 397

with his mother, perhaps, who, having melted to the
grandson, might have made a further concession
and extended her kindness to the daughter-in-law —
her meek protege of days gone by. The suggestion
seemed reasonable, but the aspect of those closed
shutters chilled him.

He knocked loudly at first, and knocked a second
time before the door was opened by a decent old
woman in clean white cap and apron.

" Is your mistress away from home ? "

The explanation was slow, disjointed on the
woman's part. His questioning was quick, impas-
sioned, horror-stricken ; but the story was told at
last, the woman sparing him no ghastly particulars ;
the patient's sufferings, the disfiguring malady
which had afterward seized Lady Kilrush, who had
come through it worse than Mrs. Stobart, and was
said to be a terrible " objick." Poor Lady Kilrush !
who had been so kind and had visited Mrs. Stobart
at the risk of her life, although the doctors had
warned her of her danger times and often. And
now she was shut up in her house and would see no
one, not even her own servants, without the black
velvet mask which she wore day and night.

Stobart had gone into the parlor while they were
talking. The gray day came in through the holes
in the shutters, and made a twilight in the familiar
room. Everything was the same as when his wife
used to dust and polish the furniture with indefat-
igable care, and place every chair and table with a
prim correctness of line that had often irritated him.

There was the bureau at which he used to write,
and the little Pembroke table was in its own place
between the windows, with the big Bible laid upon
a patchwork mat.

398

The Infidel

f.V 1

And she for whom lie had made the home was
lying- yonder in Alortlake Churcliyard, tlic place of
rustic graves, through which he had i^assed so often,
crossing the meadows between Sheen and the
church, on his way to the river. She was gone!
And all his schemes for making her life happy, all
his remorseful thougjits of her, had been in vain.
She was gone ! His last irrevocable act had been an
act of unkindness. He had left her to die alone.

For his sins against God he might atone, and
might feel the assurance of pardon ; but for his sin
against this weak mortal who had loved him, and
whom he had sworn to cherish, there was no pos-
sibility of atonement.

" Not to her, not .o her," he thought. " I may re-
pent in sackcloth and ashes — I may rip the flesh
from my bones with the penitent's scourge, like
Henry Plantagenet. But could he make amends to
the martyr Becket? Can I make amends to her.?
' Oh, God ! oh, God ! that it were possible to undo
things done, to call back yesterday ! ' " he thought,
recalling a passage in an old play that had burned
itself into his brain, by many a pang of regret for
acts ill done or duties neglected.

He wandered from room to room in the familiar
house, which seemed so strange in its blank empti-
ness, looking at everything with brooding gaze — the
parlor where he had spent so many solitary hours
in study and in prayer. His books were on the
shelves as he had left them— the old Puritan
writers he loved— Baxter, Charnock, Howe, Bun-
van. He had taken only three books on his voyage
—his Bible, a pocket Milton and Charles Wesley's
hymns. His study looked as if he had left it yester-
day. The trees and slirubs were budding in the

ir r lit

K i

le home was
the place of
scd so often,
en and the
> was gone!
fe happy, all
een in vain,
had been an
ie alone.

atone, and
t for his sin
;d him, and
was no pos-

" I may re-
ip the flesh
courge, like
I amends to
ids to her.''
ble to undo
he thought,
had burned
f regret for

the familiar
lank empti-
§■ gaze — the
itary hours
'cre on the
Id Puritan
[owe, Bun-
his voyage
;s Wesley's
ft it yester-
ling in the

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 399

long slip of garden, where he had paced the narrow
pathway so often in troubled thought.

He went upstairs, and stood beside the bed where
his wife had lain in her last sleep. The curtains had
been stripped from the tent bedstead, the carpet
taken up and every scrap of drapery removed from
the windows when the house was disinfected. The
room looked poverty-stricken and grim.

The caretaker followed him from room to room,
praising herself for the cleanliness of the house, and
keeping up a continuous stream of talk, to which he
gave the scantiest attention. In the bedchamber she
was reminded of Lady Kilrush and her goodness,
and began to dilate upon that theme.

Was there ever such a noble lady? She had
thought of everything. He might make himself
quite happy about his poor dear lady. Never had
a patient been better nursed. Her ladyship never
missed a day, and saw with her own eyes that every-
thing was being done. And she was with his lady
a long time on that last day when the fever left her
and she was able to talk sensibly. And his lady was
quite happy at the last — oh, so happ> ! And the old
woman clasped her hands in a kind of ecstasy.
'• Quite blind," she said, " and with a handkerchief
bound over her poor eyes — but oh, so happy! "

He left the house heavy-hearted, and walked
across the bridge and by Whitehall to St. James'
Square. He could not exist in uncertainty about
Antonia's fate. He must discover if there were any
truth in what the woman had told him, if that re-
splendent beauty, nature's choicest dower, given to
one woman among thousands, ad indeed been sac-
rificed. So great a sacrifice made by an infidel ! a

400

The I n fid el

it,

\^m.

' \ it

i\ i

. . . .1: H

woman wl'.o luul no hope in an everlasting reward
for the renunciation of happiness here. He recalled
the exquisite face tiiat had lured him to sin, and pic-
tured it scarred and blemished— as he had seen so
many facets— changed by tliat fatal disease which
leaves ruin where it spares life. He shuddered and
sickened at the image his imagination evoked.
Would he honor her less, aviore her less, so dis-
figured? lie had told himself sometimes in his
gijilty reveries, when Satan had got the better of
him, that he would love her if she were a leper, that
it was the soul, the noble, the daring, the generous
nature of the woman that he idolized, that he was
scarcely a sinner for loving the most perfect crea-
ture God had ever n;ade.

If she hid her blemished face from the world,
would she consent to sec him 'f Or would he find his
sin still unpardoned ? Would she hold him at a dis-
tance forever because of one fatal hour in his life?
She could scarcely forget their last parting, when
she had prayed never to look- upon his face again ;
but time might have mitigated her wr^th, and she
might have forgiven him.

Her ladyship saw no visitors, the porter told him,
and was about to shut the door in his face, but Mr.'
Stobart pushed his way in, and scribbled a note at a
writing-table in the hall.

" Pray be so good as to see me. I want to thank
you for your goodness to my wife. I landed in Lon-
don two hours ago on my arrival from America."

He walked up and down the hall while a footman
carried the note to his mistress. His heart beat
heavily, tortured with the anticipation of horror ; to
look upon the altered face, to have to tell himself
that this was Antonia.

:\:

Beauty o f L a d y K i I < u

-OI

ting reward
He recallcfl
'in, and pic-
liad seen so
icase which
iddered and
m evoked,
ess, so (hs-
ines in his
e hetter of
I leper, that
ic generous
hat he was
?rfect crea-

the world,
he find his
m at a dis-
in his life?
ting, when
ace again ;
h, and she

r told him,
e, but Mr.

I note at a

t to thank
ed in Lon-
Tierica."
a footman
leart beat
liorror ; to

II himself

The man came back, solemti and sl(»\ his rich

livery and powdered head. Her ladyshij, ,,,>uld see
Mr. Stobart.

She was sitting in a large armchair by the fire,
her face showing (h nly in the twilight. He could
distinguish nothing but her jjallor and the difference
in the style of her hair. The flowing curls that he
had admired were gone. lie felt thankful for the
darkness, which spared him the immediate sight of
her changed aspect.

" I am glad you are back in England, Mr. Stobart,
and have escaped the perils of that dreadful war,"
she said, in a low, grave voice. " But you have had
a sorrowful welcome home."

" Yes, it was a heavy blow."

" I hope you had received Lady Lanigan's letter,
and that the blow was softened by foreknowledge."

" No, I had no letter ; 1 came home expecting to
find all things as I left them. My mind was full
of schemes for making my wife happier than I had
made her in the past. But I doubt sins of omission
are irrevocable. A man may sometimes undo what
he has done, but he cannot make amends for what
he has left undone."

There was a silence. The shadows deepened.
The wood fire burned low and gave no light.

" I have no words to thank you for your goodness
to my wife," he said. " That you should go to her
in her loneliness, that you should so brave all perils,
be so compassionate, so self-sacrificing! What can
I say to you? There is nothing nobler in the lives
of the saints. There was never Christian living
more worthy to be called Christ's disciple."

" Oh, sir, there needed no Gospel light to show me
so plain a duty. Your wife was alone while you

402

The Infiilcl

were ngluiii}.j for your country. 1 promised years
aj^o to be her friend. Could there be any question
as to my duty ? "

" 'Twill need all my future life to prove niv crat-
itude." ^ ^

" You have left the army ? "

" Yes. I resigned my commission after Quebec."

"You were at the taking of Quebec, then? I
thought you were with Amherst when lie recovered
Ticonderoga."

" So I was, madam. But after we took the fort I
was intrusted to carry a letter for General Wolfe
conveying General Amherst's plans. Twas a diffi-
cult journey, by a circuitous route, and I was more
than a month on the way, but I was in time to be
in the escalade and the battle. It was glorious— a
glorious tragedy. England and France lost two of
the tinest leaders that ever soldier followed— Mont-
calm and Wolfe. Alas ! shall I ever forget James
Wolfe's spectral face in the gray of that fatal morn-
ing? He was fitter to be lying on a sick-bed than to
be commanding an army. He looked a ghost and
fought like a god of war."

" Shall you go back to your work with Mr. Wes-
ley? "

" If he will have me— and, indeed, I think he will,
for he needs helpers. 'Tis in his army— the evan-
gelical army— I shall fight henceforward. I stand
alone in the world now, for my son's welfare could
scarce be better assured than with his grandmother,
who offers to provide his education and is likely to
make him her heir. My experience in Georgia re-
newed my self-confidence, and I doubt I may yet
be of some use to my fellow-creatures."

"You could scarce fail in that," she answered

tr:

! I i

isfU years
y question

i my grat-

Quebec."

then? I

recovered

the fort I
ral Wolfe
as a (Hffi-
was more
inie to be
orious — a
St two of
J— Mont-
[•et James
tal morn-
'd than to
fhost and

^Ir. Wes-

k he will,
he evan-
I stand
ire could
dniothcr,
likely to
orgia re-
niay yet

mswered

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 403

gently. " I rcnuMnlHr how tliose poor wretches at
l.ninbcth loved \<)U."

Her voice w '■ unaltered. It had all that grave
music he remeViioercd of old when she spoke of se-
rious things. It soothed him to sit in the darkness
and hear her talk, and he dreaded the coming of
light that would break the spell.

Did he love her as he had loved her before those
slow years of .severance? Yes. Her lightest word
thrilled him. lie thought of the change in her with
unspeakable dread, but he knew it would not change
his heart. Lovely or unlovely, she would still be
Antonia, the woman he adored,

A footman came in to light the candles.

"This half darkness is very pleasant, madam."
Stobart said hurriedly. " Do you desire more
light?"

'■ I am expecting a friend to take tea with me, and
I can hardly receive her in the dark. You may light
the candles, Robert."

There were six candles in each of two bronze
candelabra on the mantelpiece and two more in tall
silver candlesticks on the writing-table. Stobart
sat looking down at the fading embers, and did not
lift his eyes till the servant had left the room.
Then, as the door shut, he looked up and saw An-
tonia watching him in the bright candlelight.

He gave a sudden cry in uncontrollable emotion
and burst into tears. " You — you are no^
changed ! " he cried as soon as he could control his
speech. " Oh, madam. I beseech you not to despise
me for these unmanlv tears, but — but I was
told "

" You were told that the disease had used me very
cruelly; that I should be better dead than such a

404

The lr.fi del

horrid si)ect.icle," she said. " I know that has been
the talk of tiie town— and I let them talk. I have
done with the town."

Thank Cjod ! " he exelaimed, starting up from
his chair and walking about the room in a tumult of
emotion. " Thank God it was a lie that old woman
told me. It would have broken my heart to know
that your divine charity had cost you the loss of
your beauty."

His eyes shone with wonder and delight as he
looked at her. She was greatly changed, but in his
sight not less lovely. Her bloom was gone. She
could no longer dazzle the mob in Hyde Park by her
vivid beauty. She was very pale and her cheeks
were hollow and thin. Her eyes looked unnaturally
large, and her hair, once so luxuriant, was clustered
in short curls under a little lace cap.

''Oil, so far as that goes, sir. I renounce any
claim I ever had to rank among beauties," she said,
amused at his surprise. " Through the devoted care
of a friend I was spared the worst kind of disfigure-
ment ; but as I have lost my complexion, my figure
and my hair, I can no longer hope to take any place
among the Waldegravcs and Hamiltons. And I
have done with the great world and its vanities."

" Then you will give yourself to that better world
—the world of tl)e true believer ; you will be amons"
the saved ? "

" Alas, sir, I am no nearer the heavenly kingdom
than I was before I sickened of the earthly one. I
am very tired of the pomps and vanities, but I can-
not entertain the hope of finding an alternative
pleasure in sermons and long prayers or the pious
company Lady Huntingdon assembles every Thurs-
day evening."

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 405

"If you have renounced the world of pleasure—
the rest will follow."

" You think a woman must live in some kmd of
fever? I own that Lady Fannie Shirley seems al-
ways as busy and full of engagements as if she were
at the top of the ton. She flies from one end of
London to the other to hear a new preacher, and
makes more fuss about the opening of some poor
little chapel in the suburbs than the Duchess of
Buccleuch makes about an al fresco ball that costs
thousands. There is the chairman's knock. Perha])s
you will scarce care to meet my lively friend, ]\lrs.
Granger, in }-our sad circumstances."

'' Not for the world. Adieu, madam. 1 shall go
to Mortlake to-morrow to look at my poor Lucy's
resting-place, and shall start the next day for Bath
to see my son, and thence to Bristol, where I hope
to find Mr. Wesley."

He bent down to kiss her hand, so thm and so ala-
baster white, and said in a low voice, with his head

still bent :

" Dare I hope that my madness of the past is par-
doned?" .

" The past is past," she answered coldly. ilic
world has changed for both of us. Adieu."

He left her, passing Mrs. Granger in th.e hall. ^^

"You have admitted a sneaking Methodist,
cried Patty, "after denying^ yourself to all the
people of fashion in London."

I^Ir. Wesley received tlie returning prodigal with
kindness. In that vast enterprise of one who said,
" My parish is the world." k)yal adherents were of
unspeakable value. The few churchmen who servecl
under his banner were but a sprinhimg compared

4o6

The Infidel

)

i^« 'if

!. ' )}

With his lay Itinerants, and Stobart was among the
best of these. He was too manly a man to think the
worse of his helper for having changed gown for
sword during a troubled interval of his life • for he
divined that Stobart must have been in some bitter
strait before he went back to the soldier's trade

He listened with interest to Stobart's American
adventures, and congratulated him upon havin^r
been with Wolfe at Quebec. * **

'"Twas a glorious victory," he said; "but I
doubt the French may ^x-t prove too strong for us in
Canada, and that we are still far from a peaceful
settlement."

''They are strong in numbers, sir, but weak in
leaders. Levis is a poor substitute for Montcalm
and if Governor \^audreuil harasses him and tics
his hands as he harassed the late marquis, whom he
hated, his work will be difficult. I should not have
left the regiment while there was a chance of more
fighting if I had not been disabled by mv wounds."
" You were badly wounded ? "
" I had a bullet through my ribs that looked like
making an end of me, and I walk lame still from a
bal in my left hip. I spent eight weeks in the gen-
eral hospital at Quebec, where the nuns tended me
with an angelic kindness, and I was still but a feeble
specimen of humanity when I set out on the j-.urney
to Georgia, through a country beset by Indians."

"I honor those good women for their charity,
Stobart ; but I hope you did not let them instil their
pernicious doctrine into your mind while it was en-
feebled by sickness."

" No, sir. Yet there was one pious enthusiast
whom I could not silence, and be not offended if I

B e a u t \ o f L a d y K i 1 r u s h 407

say that her fervent discourse about spiritual things
reminded me of your own teaching."
" Surelv that's not possible ! "
" Extremes meet, sir, and, I doubt, had you not
been a High Church :Methodist you would have
been a Roman Catholic of the most exalted type."

Stobart accompanied ]Mr. Wesley from Bristol to
St Ives, then back to Bristol by a different route,
taking the south coast of Cornwall and Devonshire.
From Bristol they crossed to Ireland, and returned
by T^Iilford Haven through Wales to London, a tour
that lasted till the first days of October.

Wesley was then fifty-seven years of age, in the
zenith of his renown as the founder of a sect that had
spread itself abroad with amazing power since the
day when a handful of young men at Oxford, poor,
obscure, unpretending, had met together in each
other's rooms to pray and expound the Scriptures,
and by their orderly habits, and the method with
which they conducted all their spiritual exercises,
had won for themselves the name of " Methodists."
From those quiet rooms at Oxford had arisen a
power that had shaken the Church of England, and
which might have reinforced and strengthened that
Church with an infinite access of vigor, enthusiasm
and piety had English Churchmen so willed. But
the Alethodists had been driven from the fold and
cast upon their own resources. They were shut out
of the churches; but, as one of the society pro-
tested, the fields were open to them, and they had
the hills for their pulpit, the heavens for their
sounding-board.

George Stobart flung himself heart and soul into
his work as an itinerant preacher, riding through

4o8

The Infidel

he country with Mr. Wesley, preaching at any of
he smaller towns and outlying villages to which his
leader sent him, and confronting the malice of
baptized barbarians " with a courage as impertur-
bable as Wesley's. To be welcomed with pious en-
thusiasm or to be assailed with the vilest abuse
seemed a matter of indifference to the Methodist
Itinerants. Their mission was to carry the tidings
of salvation to the lost sheep of Israel, and more or
ess of ill-usage suffered on their way counted for
httle in the sum of their lives. "Twas a miracle
considenng the violence of the mob and the ineffi-
ciency of rustic constables, that not one of these
enthusiasts lost his life at the hands of enemies
scarce less ferocious than the Indians on the banks
of the Monongahela. But in those savage scenes it
seemed ever as if a special providence guarded John
Wesley and his followers. Many and many a time
the rabble rout seemed possessed bv Moloch, and
the storm of stones and clods flew fast around the
preacher s head, and again and again he passed un-
harmed out of the demoniac herd. Missiles often
glanced aside and wounded the enemy, for the aim
of blind hate was seldom true, and if Wesley did not
escape injury on every occasion his wounds were
never serious enough to drive him from the stand he
had taken by the market cross or in the churchyard
in outhouse or street, on common or hillside. He
might finish his discourse while a stream of blood
trick-Icd down his face„ or the arm that he would
fain have raised in exhortation hung powerless
from a blow, but in none of his wanderings had he
been silenced or acknowledged defeat.

It was John Wesley's privilege or his misfortune
at this time to stand alone in the world, unfettered by

« I

at any of
which his
malice of
impcrtur-
pious cn-
Icst abuse
Alctliodist
le tidings
i more or
unted for
I miracle,
the ineffi-
of these
enemies
:he banks
scenes it
(led John
ly a time
och, and
ound the
issed un-
les often
■ the aim
^ did not
ids were
stand he
rchyard,
de. He
oi blood
e would
3werless
! had he

sfortune
tered by

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 409

any tie that could hamper him in his life's labor. He
was childless, and hard fate had given him a wife so
uncongenial; so tormenting in her causeless jealousy
and petty tyranny, that 'twas but an act of self-de-
fence to leave her. In the earlier years of their mar-
riage she accompanied him on his journeys, but as
she quarrelled with his sister-in-law, Charles Wes-
ley's amiable helpmeet, and insulted every woman
he called his friend, her companionship must have
been a thorn in the flesh rather than a blessing. His
brother Charles — once the other half of his soul —
was now estranged. Their opinions differed u[)on
many points, and John, as the bolder spirit, had
gone' far beyond the order-loving and placable poet,
who deemed no misfortune so terrible for the Meth-
odists as to stand outside the pale of the Church,
albeit they might be strong enough in their own
unaided power to gather half the Protestant world
within their fold. Charles thought of himself and
his brother Methodists only as more fervent mem-
bers of the Church of Erigland, never as the found-
ers of an independent establishment, primitive in
the simplicity of its doctrine and observances, mod-
ern in its fitness to the needs of modern life.

John Wesley was now almost at the height of his
power, and strong enough in the number of his fol-
lowers, and in their profound affection for his per-
son, to laugh at insult and to defy even so formida1)le
an assailant as Dr. Lavington, Bishop of Exeter,
with whom he was now carrying on a pamphlet war.
George Stobart loved the man and honored the
teacher. It was a pleasure to him to share the rough
and smooth of Wesley's pilgrimage, to ride a sorry
jade, even, for the privilege of riding at the side of
one of the worst and boldest horsemen in England,

is,

410

The Infidel

who was not unlikely to come by a bad fall before
the end of his journey. In those long stages there
was ample leisure for the two friends to share their
burden of sorrows and perplexities, and for heart to
converse with heart.

Wesley was too profound a student of his fellow-
men not to have fathomed George Stobart's mind in
past years, when Antonia's lover was himself but
half conscious of the passion that enslaved him;
and, remembering this, he was careful not to say
too much of the young wife who was gone, or the
love-match which had ended so sadly. He knew
that in heart, at least, Stobart had been unfaithful
to that sacred tie, but although he deplored the sin
he could not withhold his compassion from the sin-
ner. The Methodist leader had been singularly un-
lucky in affairs of the heart, from the day when at
Savannah he allowed himself to be persuaded out
of an engagement with a girl he loved to the hour
when he took a Zantippc for his spouse ; and it may
be that his own unfortunate marriage and the mem-
ory of Grace Murray, that other woman once so
dearly loved and once his plighted wife, made him
better able to sympathize with the victim of a mis-
placed affection.

It was after Stobart had been working with him
all through the summer and autumn, and when that
eventful year of 1760 was waning, that \Vesley for
the first time spoke of Antonia.

'• Your kinswoman. Lady Kilrush ? " he inquired.
" What has become of so nnich beauty and fashion ?
I have not seen the lady's name in the evening
papers for an age."

" Lady Kilrush has withdrawn herself from so-

I M

■i

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 411

ciety. She has discovered how poor a thinj? a life
of pleasure is when the bloom of novelty is off it."

" Ay, ay. Fashion's child h.as cut open the top
of her drum and found nothing but emptiness in the
toy. Did I not hear, by the by, when I was last in
London, that the poor lady had come through an at-
tack of confluent smallpox with the loss of her
beauty? If it be so, I hope she may awaken to the
expectation of a kingdom where all faces are beau-
tiful in the light that shines around the throne of

God."

" No, sir, her ladyship has lost but little of her
beauty, and it is not because she can no longer
excel there thai she has left the world of fashion."

And then Stobart took courage for the first time
to speak freely of the woman he loved, and told
Mr. Wesley the story of his wife's death-bed and
Antonia's devotion. But when questioned as to the
lady's spiritual state, he had to confess that her
opinions had undergone no change.

"And can this presumptuous worm still deny her
maker ? Can this heart which melts at a sister's dis-
tress remain adamant against God? It is a mys-
tery! I knew that the man atheist is common
enough — an arrogant wretch, like David Hume,
who thinks himself wiser than Him who made the
universe. But can a woman, a being that should be
all softness and humility, set up her shallow reason
against the light of nature and revelation, the light
that comes to the savage in the wilderness and tells
him there is an avenging God ; the liglit that shows
the child, as soon as he can think, that there is some-
thing better and higher than the erring mortals he
knows, a world somewhere more beautiful than the

.! ■

412

The Infidel

garden where he plays ? Stokirl, [ grieve that there
shouUl he such a woman and that you shouhl he her
friend."

"The fahric of our friendsi.ip was torn asunder
hcfore I went to America, sir. I douht if the ravelled
edj;cs will ever meet ag-aii\"

" And you heave a sigh as you say it ! You re-
gret the loss of a friendsliip that might have shii)-
wrecked your immortal soul."

"Oh, sir, why must my soul be the forfeit?
Alight it not he my happiness to save hers? "

" You were her friend and companion for years.
Did you bring- her nearer God ? "

" Alas, no ! "

" Abjure her company, then, forever. I warned
you of your jK-ril when you had a wife, when I
feared your spirit hovered on the brink of hell — for,
remember, Stobart, there is no such height of holi-
ness as it is impossible to fall from — adjur^'tl you to
renounce that woman's company as you v.'Ould avoid
companionship with Satan. I warn you even more
solemnly to-day, for at that time it was a sin to
love her, and your conscience nu'ght have been your
safeguard. You are a free man now, and you may
account it no sin to love an infidel."

" Is it a sin, sir, even when that love goes hand
in hand with the desire to bring her into Christ's
fold ? "

" It is a sin, George. It is the way to everlasting
perdition, it is the choice of evil instead of good,
Lucifer instead of Christ. Do you know what
would happen if you were to marry this woman? "'
" You would cease to be my friend, perhaps ? "
" No, my son. I could not cease to love you and
to pity yf;u, but you could be no more my fellow-

^'iBmmemms!^

Beauty of Lady K i 1 r iu> h 4^3

worker This pleasant euiunniniun in work and
luT-e would 1)0 at an end forever. At our last con-
ference we resolved to expel ^';y;"^"^l^\\,«^, ^";;
society who should marry an unbeliever. We have
all seen the c-=l of such unions, the confusion worse
confounded vvnen the cloven foot crosses the thresh-
old of a Christian's home, the uselessness of a
teacher whose heart is divided between fulehty to
Christ and affection for a wicked wife. We re-
solved that no member of our society must marry
without first taking counsel with some of our_ most
serious members, and being governed by their ad-
vice." .,

" Oh, sir, this is tyranny ! tt i ;c

" It is the upshot of long experience. He who is
not with me is against me. We can have no half-
hearted helpers. You must choose whom you will
serve Georp'c— Christ or Satan."

" Ah. sir,''my fortitude will not be put to tlie test.
The lady for whom I would lay down my hfe looks
upon mi with a chilling disdain. Tis half a year
since I forced myself upon her presence to acknowl-
edge her goodness to my wife, and in all that time
she has ^ven me no sign that she remembers my

existence. c

' - Shun her, my friend ; walk not in the way of
sinners; and thank God on your knees that your
Delilah scorns you." r.^^+u^f

George Stobart spent many a bitter hour after that
conversltionwithhis leader. Tobeforbuldento think

of the woman he worshipped now, when no moral
law came between him and her love, when from the
worldling's standpoint it was the most natural thmg
that he should try to win her : he who ^or her sake
had been disinherited, and who had, by his hfe of

414

The I n f i d e 1

sclf-dciiial. proved himself above all mercenary
views. Why should he not i)ursue her with a love
so sincere and so ardent that it might prevail even
over indifference, might conquer disdain? There
was not a man in his late regiment, not a man in thi?
London clubs, who would not laugh him to scorn
for letting spiritual things stand between him and
that earthly bliss. And yet for him who had taken
up the cross of Christ, who h: 1 given his best years
and all the power of heart and brain to preaching
Christ's law of solf-surrcndor and submission, how
horrible a falling away would it be if he were to
abandon his beloved leader, turn deserter while the
society was still on its tr'al before the sight of men,
and while every fervent voice was an element of
strength. He thought of Wesley's other helpers,
and recalled those ardent enthusiasts who had
broken all family ties, parted from father and
mother, sisters and brothers and plighted wife, re-
nounced the comforts of home, and suffered the
opprobrium of tlie world, in order to spend and be
spent in the task of converting the English heathen,
the toilers in the copper mine or the coal pit, the
weavers of Somerset and Yorkshire, the black
faces, the crooked backs, tlie forgotten sheep of
Episcopal slK[;nerds.

But had any man living given up more than he
was called upon to surrender? he asked himself.
Who among those soldiers and servants of Christ
had loved a woman as beautiful, loved with a pas-
sion as fervent?

He went back to London discouraged, yet not
despairing. There was still the hope, faint, per-
haps, that he might lead that bright spirit out of
darkness into light, win her for Christ, and so win

.\' I

Beauty of Lady Kilrush 415

her for himself. Ah, what an ecstatic drcatn, what
an incffahle hope ! To l<neel by her side at the altar
to know her among the redeemed, the chosen of
God! For that end what labor could be too diffi-
cult?

But, alas ! between him and that hope there came
the cloud of a terrible fear, lie knew the tempter's
power over senses and soul knew that to be m An-
tonia's company was to .or^,Jt the world present and
the world to come, to remember nothmpr. value
nothing but her, to become a worse idolater than
they of old who worshipped Moloch and gave their

children to the fire.

Wesley had warned him. Should he, in defiance
of that warning from the best and wisest friend he
ever had, enter the house where the tempter lay in
wait to destroy him, where he must meet the enemy
of man? Call that enemy by what name he would,
Satan or love, he knew himself incapable of resist-
ance. , , . TT

He resolved to abide by Wesley s advice. He
went back to his desolate home and resumed his
work in Lambeth marsh, where he was welcomed
wit'^ an affection that touched him deeply. His
many converts, the awakened and believing Chris-
tians, flecked to his chapel and his schools, but that
which mo^•ed him most was the welcome of the sin-
ners and reprobates, whom he had taught to love
him, though he could not teach them to forsake sin.

Before resuming his mission work in the old dis-
trict he had ascertained that Lady Kilrush no longer
went there. She still .ministered to the Lambeth
poor by deputy, and Miss Sophy Totter came among
them often. He was weak enough to think with
rapture of conversing with Sophy, from whom he

4i6

The I 11 t'i d e 1

would hear of Antonia. And so in the lon,£j, dark
winter he took up the old drudgery, teaching and
exhorting, strenuous in good works, but with a
leaden heart.

i'i

lie long, ilark
Icadiiiig and
, but with a

Chapter XVI 11.

A rOLLOWEK Ol- Tlllv URKAT EXKMl'LAK.

JujiN WiiSLEV was not without compassion for a
friend and disciple for whom he had something of a
fatherly affection. He, too, had been called uix>n to
renounce the woman he loved, the excellent, gifted,
enthusiastic Grace Murray, whose humble origin
was forgotten in the force antl purity of her char-
acter. He had been her affianced husband, had
thought of her for a long time as his future wife,
lived in daily companionship wiJi her on his pious
pilgrimages, made her his he) -.cet in good works,
and yet, on the assertion of a perior claim, he had
given her to another. That bitter experience en-
abled hitTi ■ neasure the pain of Stobart's enun-
ciatio He watched his friend's course with
anxious care, lest heart should fail and feet stumble
on the stony road of self-sacrifice, and their inter-
course while the great linerant remained in Londoti
was even closer than it had been before.

Mr. Wesley had much lo do that winter at his

home by the Foundry chaixl. He hud his literary

work, the preparation of his books for the press,

since each year of his life added to the lisi of those

4i8

The Infidel

religious works, some of them written, others only
edited by himself, which were published at his risk,
and which for several years resulted in pecuniary
loss, though afterward a source of revenue. He
had the services of the chapel, which were numerous
and at different hours, and he had his work abroad,
preaching in many other parts of London.

^ It was in the early morning, after one of his five
o'clock services at the Foundry, that he was told a
lady desired to see him. He had but just come in
from the chapel, and his breakfast was on the table
in the neat parlor where he lived and worked, a
Spartan breakfast of oatmeal porridge, with the
luxury of a small pot of tea and a little dry toast.
It was only 6.30, and Mrs. Wesley had not left her
chamber— a fortunate circumstance, perhaps, since
the visitor was young and beautiful.

Mr. Wesley had many uninvited visitors, and it
was nothing new for him to be intruded on even at
so early an hour. He rose to receive the lady, and
motioned her to a seat with a stately graciousness.
He was a small man, attired with an exquisite neat-
ness in a stuff cassock and breeches, and black silk
stockings and shoes with large silver buckles. His
benign countenance was framed in dark auburn hair
that fell in waving masses, like John Milton's, and
which at this period showed no touch of gray.

" In what matter can I have the honor to serve
you, madam ? " he asked, scanning the pale face op-
posite him and wondering at its beauty. It had not
the beauty of coloring, nor even the bloom of health
which should have gone with the lady's youth, but
it was as perfect in every line as the Belvidere
Apollo, and the eyes, with their look of mournful
deprecation, were the loveliest he had ever scen-

'^ym

ten, others only
;hed at his risk,
;d in pecuniary
: revenue. He
were numerous
is work abroad,
idon,

one of his five
t he was told a
It just come in
as on the table
and worked, a
idge, with the
little dry toast,
ad not left her
perhaps, since

visitors, and it
ded on even at
i the lady, and
r graciousness.
exquisite neat-
and black silk

buckles. His
rk auburn hair

Milton's, and

of gray,
lonor to serve
J pale face op-
y. It had not
loom of health
y's youth, but
the Belvidere

of mournful
d ever seen —

A Follower of the Exemplar 419

lovelier than Grace Murray's, which had once been
his loveliest.

" I have come to you in great trouble of mind,
sir," the lady began in a low voice, but with such
perfect enunciation, such beauty of tone, that every
syllable had full value. "I am a very unhappy
woman."

" Many have come to me in the same sad plight,
madam, and I have found but one way of helping
them. 'Tis to lead them to the foot of the cross.
There alone can they find the friend who can make
their sorrows here their education for heaven."

"Oh, sir, if I believed in heaven, and that I
should meet the dead whom I love there, I should
have no sorrows, I should only have to wait."

"Alas, madam, can it be that you are without
that blessed hope that this world, with its cruel in-
equalities and injustices, is the only world your
mind can conceive ? Can you look upon the martyr-
dom of so many of your fellow-creatures — diseased,
deformed, blind, dumb, imbecile, or held for a life-
time in the bondage of abject poverty, never know-
ing respite from toil, or the possibilities of comfort
— can you contemplate these outcasts and yet be-
lieve there are no compensations hereafter, and that
a God of infinite mercy can overlook their suffer-
ings?"

"You believe in a heaven for these — a land of
Beulah, where they will have the fat things? But
what if one of these be a blasphemer? What if he
curse God and die ? What will be his destiny then,
sir? Oh, I know your answer. The worm that
dieth not — the fire that is not quenched. What of
your scheme of compensation then, sir?"

" Did you come here to shake my faith, madam,

420

The Infidel

;;

or to ask for spiritual aid from me ? " Wesley asked
severely.

His searching gaze had taken in every detail of
her appearance : the lovely face, whose ivory pallor
was accentuated by a black silk hood ; the gray lute-
string gown, whose Quaker hue could not disguise
the richness of the fabric ; the diamond hoop rings
that flashed from under a black silk mitten. Dress,
bearing, accent stamped the woman of quality.

" I meant no affront, sir. I talk at random, as
women mostly do. I came here in weariness of
spirit, and I scarce know how you can help me. I
came because I have heard much of your merits,
your amiable character, your willingness to befriend
sinners. And I have listened to your sermons at
West Street Chapel in the month last past with ad-
miration and respect."

" But without belief in Him whose message I
bring? Oh, madam, you might as well be at the
playhouse laughing at that vulgar buffoon Samuel
Foote. My sermons can do you no good."

" Nay, sir, if I thought that I should not be here
this morning. I rose after a sleepless night and
came through the darkness to hear you preach. If I
catmot believe all that you believe I can appreciate
the wisdom and the purity of your discourse."

" Look into your heart, madam, and if you can
find faith there ; but as a grain of mustard seed "

" Alas, sir, I look into my heart and find only
emptiness. My sorrows are not such as the world
pities. My heart aches with the monotony of life.
I stand alone, unloved and unloving. I have tasted
all the pleasures this world can offer, have enjoyed
all, and wearied of all. I come to you in my weari-
ness as the first preacher I have ever listened to with

' Wesley asked

every detail of
»se ivory pallor
; the gray lu to-
ld not disguise
Dnd hoop rings
mitten. Dress,
)f quality,
at random, as
. weariness of
an help me. I
•f your merits,
less to befriend
»ur sermons at
t past with ad-

ose message I

well be at the

uffoon Sanuiel

^ood."

dd not be here

less night and

lU preach. If I

can appreciate

Iscourse."

md if you can

tard seed "

and find only
li as the world
notony of life.
I have tasted
, have enjoyed
u in my weari-
istened to with

A Follower of the Exemplar 421

interest. Mr. Whitefield's discourse, whom I heard
but once, only shocked me."

" Come and come again, madam, and may my
poor eloquence lead you to Christ. I should rejoice
for more reasons than I can tell you if. among the
many souls that I have been the means of snatching
from the brink of hell. Lady Kilrush should be one."

" What, Mr. Wesley, you know me? "

" Yes, madam, I remember the Bartolozzi head
which was in all the print-sellers' windows two
years ago, and I should be more a stranger to this
town than I am if I had not heard of the beautiful
Lady Kilrush and her infidel opinions."

" You have heard of me from my loi d's cousin,
Mr. Stobart, perhaps? "

" Mr. Stobart has spoken of your ladyship, de-
ploring, as I do, the gulf that yawns between you
and him."

" That gulf has widened, sir, for I have seen Mr.
Stobart only once since he came from America."

" He has been travelling about England with me
— and only came to London last October. I know,
madam, that his respect for your person is only less
than his grief at your unhappy opinions."

"We cannot change the fabrics of our minds,
sir."

" We cannot, but God can."

" You believe in instantaneous conversions — in a
single act of faith that can make a Christian in a
moment? "

" The Scriptures warrant that belief, madam. All
the conversions related in the Gospel were instan-
taneous. Yet I will own that I was once unwilling
to believe in the miracle of Christian perfection at-
tained by a single impulse of the soul. But in the

422 The Infidel

long course of my ministry I have seen so many
blessed examples that I can no longer doubt that
the Divine Spirit works wonders as great in this de-
generate age as on that day of Pentecost, the birth-
day of the Christian Church. Instead of the miracle
of fiery tongues we have the miracle of changed
hearts."

" And you think that Christian perfection attained
in a moment will stand the wear and tear of life,
and be strong enough to resist the world, the fljsh
and the devil ? " Antonia asked, with an incredulous
smile.

" Nay, madam, I dare not affirm that all who
think themselves justified are secure of salvation.
These sudden recruits are sometimes deserters. I
do not hold the tenets of the Moravians, who de-
clare that the converted sinner cannot fall away,
whereas after our justification by faith we are every
moment pleasing or displeasing unto God according
to our works, according to the whole of our present
inward tempers and outward behavior. But I have
never despaired of a sinner, madam ; nor can I be-
lieve that a spirit so bright as yours will be lost eter-
nally. Long or late the hour of sanctifying grace
must come."

" Perhaps, Mr. Wesley, had you been reared as I
^vas — taught to doubt the existence of a God before
I was old enough to read the Gospel— you would
be no less a sceptic than I am."

" I was indeed more fortunate— for I was born
into a household of faith. Yet I have never hard-
ened my heart against the man or woman v/hose
education has only taught them to doubt, for I have
sometimes thought, with unspeakable fear, that, had

A Follower of the Exemplar 423

I given my mind to the study of mathematics or
geometry, I too might have been one of those nice
philosophers who will accept no creed that cannot
be demonstrated like a proposition in Euclid. I
thank God that I learned to love Him and to walk
in His ways before I learned to pry into the mys-
teries of His being or to question His dealings with
mankind."

" No doubt that is happiest, sir— to shut one's
mind against facts and believe in miracles."

And then, gradually won to fullest confidence by
his quick sympathy, Antonia told John Wesley
much of her life story, pnly avoiding, with an ex-
quisite delicacy, all those passages which touched
the secrets of a woman's heart. She told him how
she had been left alone in the world with all the
power that riches can give to a young woman, how
she had tried all the resources of wealth, and found
all wanting, even her experience of mission work
among the outcast poor.

" I doubt you were happier engaged in that work
than you have ever been in the mansions of the

great."

" No, Mr. Wesley, I will not pretend as much.
While the pleasures of the great world were new I
loved them dearly, but a third season brought
satiety, and I sickened of it all. I know not why I
sickened of my visits to the poor, for my heart was
ever touched by their sufferings and sometimes by
their patience. It may be that it was because I was
alone and without an adviser after Mr. Stobart left
England."

" Will you resume that work now, madam ? I
doubt you are familiar with the parable of the tal-

424

The Infidel

>t I

ents, and know that to have youth and wealth, intel-
lect and energy, and not to use them for others'
good "

" Oh, it is hateful ! Be sure, sir, I know what a
wretch I am. I spent last summer in Ireland, where
the poor love me, but I hardly ever went near them.
I did not let them starve. My steward and my wait-
mg-woman carried them all they wanted, while I
dawdled in my rose garden or yawned over a novel.
I was discouraged somehow. Those poor creatures
are all Roman Catholics. They would talk to me of
a creed which I had been taught to despise. There
was a gulf between us."

" But you will resume your charitable work in
London, where the people's religion need not offend
you, smce they are mostly heathens."

" Not at Lambeth ! I cannot go back to Lambeth
marsh."

She knew that Stobart was spending all his days
m the old places. Not for worlds could she go back
to the work which she had shared with him, and
which had once been so full of innocent happiness.

"Your ladyship can choose your district. The
field is wide enough. Will you visit the sick poor
m this neighborhood, and will you accept my help
and counsel ? "

"^ With a glad heart, sir. I sorely need a friend."

"But vou will not go as a heathen among

f}^l You will carry the Gospel with you ? "

"\co, sir. If it will help your views that I

should read the New Testament to your people, I

would as lief do so as not. Indeed, I have read the

Gospel to those who have asked me, and be sure I

have never been so foolish as to obtrude my opinions

upon them. 'Tis only by close questioning they

A Follower ofthe Exemplar 425

have ever discovered my barren creed." And then
she went on with a sigh, " Ah, sir, if you knew how
I envy you the faith which opens new worlds now
that I have lost all interest in this one."

" Do not despair of yourself, madam. I do not
despair of you. The Lady Kilrush I had pictured to
myself was an arrogant unbeliever, possessed by a
devil of pride, and glorying in her infidelity. There
is hope for the sceptic who has discovered how poor
a thing this life is when we think it is all."

She rose to take leave, and Wesley conducted her
to the street, where a hackney coach was in waiting.
He begged her to call upon him as often as she
pleased during his stay in London, which would not
be long, and he promised to send her the names and
addr -sses, and particulars as to character and neces-
sities, of the invalids whom he would advise her to
visit.

" On second thoughts I will not send you among
the unconverted," he said, " but to some faithful
Christians whose piety I doubt you will admire,
however you may despise their simplicity."

He went back to his study full of thought. An-
tonia's conversation had surprised and interested
him. Unlucky as he had been in his own too hasty
choice of a wife, he was no poor judge of women,
and he felt assured that this was a good woman.
Would it not then be a hard measure were he to
come between George Stobart and an attachment
which death had legitimized? And what better
chance could there be for this woman's conversion
than her union with an honest, believing Christian?
The society's stringent rule had been inspired by the
evil wrought by women of a very different stamp
from this one.

426

The Infidel

And yet was not this avowed infidel, so beautiful,
so winning in her proud gentleness, only the Phil-
istine Delilah in a new guise? The temptress, the
lying spirit that betrayed the strong man of old was
there, perhaps, waiting to ensnare George Stobart's
soul.

" I must see of what spirit she is," Wesley told
himself, " and if she may yet be numbered among
the children of light."

A new phase of Antonia's life began after her in-
terview with John Wesley. All that she had done
in the past, in those dens of misery and crime by the
marsh, was as nothing compared with her work
under his di. xtion. At Lambeth she had but ex-
ercised a fine lady's capricious benevolence, obey-
ing the whim of the moment ; a creature of impulse,
too lavish where her heart was touched, too easily
revolted by the ugliness of vice. In the squalid
regions that lay around the Foundry her charities
were administered upon a different system. One of
Mr. Wesley's best gifts was the faculty of order,
and all things done under his direction were done
with an admirable method and proportion. His loan
society, which made advances of twenty shillings
and upward to the respectable poor — to be repaid in
weekly instalments — his dispensary, his day and
night classes all testified to his power of organiza-
tion. From the days when, a poor scholar at Ox-
ford, he lived like an anchorite of the desert in or-
der that he might feed starving prisoners and rescue
fallen women, he had been experienced in sys-
tematic charity. From him, in the hours he could
spare her before starting on his northern pilgrimage,
she learned how to distribute her alms with an un-

A Follower o f t h c E x c m p 1 a r 427

failing justice, and liovv to make the best use of her
time. Her visits in those homes of sickness and
penury, which might have been hopelessly dreary
without his directing spirit, became full of interest
in the light of his all-comprehending mind.

She sold three of her dress carriages and dis-
missed her second coachman. A hackney coach car-
ried her to Moorfields every day, and she employed
the greater part of the day in visiting the poor. She
was often among Wesley's hearers at the evening
service at the Foundry. His sermons touched her
heart and almost convinced her reason. His sim-
plicity of style and force of argument impressed her
more than Whitcficld's dramatic oratory. Mr. Wes-
ley had no deep-drawn " Oh ! " for Garrick to envy.
His action was calm and pleasing, his voice clear
and manly. He appealed to the heart and mind of
his hearers by no studied effects and no flights of
rhetoric, yet he never failed to hold them in the spell
of that simple eloquence.

Antonia was interested in the congregation as
well as in the preacher. She was moved by the
spectacle of all those fervent worshippers — mostly
in the lower ranks of life — men and women of
scantiest leisure, who gave much when they spent
their evenings in the chapel instead of at the play-
house, or by the fireside in the cosy parlor with
cards and congenial company. For the first time
she began to understand what the religious life
meant, the life in which all earthly things are sec-
ondary. The earnest faces, the voices of a vast con-
course singing Charles Wesley's exquisite hymns
moved her deeply.

Her work took her mostly among the humble
members of that Methodist society which had begun

' II

ti>

['^1 II

)'i

h ! ri

(Mi

428

The Infidel

twenty years before by the gatliering together of
eight or ten awakened souls, yearning for help and
counsel, groaning under the burden of sin, and
which was now so widespread a multitude. In the
garrets and cellars, where she sat beside the bed of
the sick and the dying, she found a fervor of un-
questioning faith that startled and touched her. For
these sufferers the Bible she read was no history of
things long past and done with, no story of a van-
ished life. It was the messap-e of a living Friend, a
Redeemer waiting to give them welcome in the
kingdom of the just made perfect, the world where
there is no death. He who had promised the peni-
tent thief ci dwelling in Paradise was at the door of
the death-chamber ; and to die was to pass to a life
more beautiful than a child's dream of heaven.

As the days and weeks went by that Gospel story,
read so often under such solemn influences, with
death hovering near, took a deeper hold upon An-
tonia's imagination. The message that she carried
to others was for her also. She learned to love the
wise Teacher, the beneficent Healer, the Saviour of
mankind. Tliat name of Saviour pleased her. From
the theologian's point of view she was, perhaps, no
more a Christian than she had ever been. She dared
not tell John Wesley, whom she revered, and who
now accepted her as a brand snatched from the
burning, that her faith was not his laith, that she
was neither convinced of sin nor assured of grace.

Her awakening had been no sudden act, like the
descent of the spirit of Pentecost, but a gradual
change in her whole nature, the widening of her
sympathies, the growth of pity and of love. It was
not of Christ the sacrifice she thought, not of His
atoning blood, but of Jesus the great exemplar, of

A Follower of the Exemplar 429

Jesus who went about doing good. She would not
question how it came to pass, but she believed that,
in the dim long ago, Divinity walked among man-
kind and wore the shape of man ; to what end, ex-
cept to make men better, she knew not. In all her
conversation with Wesley's converts, however ex-
alted their ideas might be, that earthly image was in
her mind, Jesus, human and compassionate, the
comforter of human sorrows, the sinless one who
loved sinners.

Wesley rejoiced with exceeding joy in her con-
version. He had met her from time to time in the
dwellings of the poor, had sat with her beside the
bed of the dying, had seen her often among his con-
gregation, and he believed that the work of grace
had begun, and that it needed but good influences to
insure her final perseverance and justification by
faith. He wrote to George Stobart the night before
he left London for the north.

" You have passed through a fiery trial, dear
friend, and I admire your fortitude in renouncing
a passion that was stronger than all thitigs, except
you'- hope of salvation. The lady you love has be-
come my friend and fellow-worker, and I dare
venture to believe that she \-\s escaped from dark-
ness into light, and that you may now enjoy her so-
ciety without peril to your soul. Let me hear by
and by how your suit prospers. Her ladyship is a
woman of rare gifts and of a noble character.

" Yours in Christ, J. W."

Chapter XIX.

A MEETING AND A PARTING.

Wesley's letter came upon Georp^e Stobart like
the sudden opening of a gate into paradise. It was
a year since he liad seen Antonia's face. For a year
he had been tlie martyr of obecHenre to his spiritual
guide, had surrendered every hope of earthly hap-
piness and had submitted to n ^ard his life on earth
only as an apprenticeship to the life to come.

And in a moment he was free, free to hope, free
to behold the face, to hear the voice he loved. Free
to win her, if he could. There was the question !
He had never yet presumed, in his more thoughtful
moods, to believe his love returned. How coldly
she had bidden him adieu when last they met ! Her
manner had been without resentment and without
kindness. It seemed as if, when he offended her by
his shameless addresses, he had ceased to exist. Her
goodness to his wife had no relation to her friend-
ship for him.

How could he approach her? Not in her own
house till he had some ground for hoping that her
door would not be closed against him. He would
steal upon her path unawares, and endeavor to re-
gain her confidence by gentle means. He hurried

A Meeting and a Parting 431

to the Fmuulry to answer Wesley's letter in person,
and fount! that good man busy with his i)rcparations
for leaving London. From him he heard of An-
tonia's jjrogress in good works, and in her attend-
ance at Wesley's services.

"That heart which \ou thought adamant has
melted, George, and the Redeemer's saving grace
will be exemplified in this ransomed soul. She is so
fine a creature, so generous, charitable, compa^ ion-
ate, that it wrung my heart to hear her, in this room,
less than three months ago, boldly confess herself an
infidel."

He told Stobart all that Antonia had done for his
poor, and, at his request, gave him the addresses of
some of the people she visited.

" The^' ii. -«' all learned to love her," he said,
" which has noi been always the case when T have
sent w :)ni;'u of \alted piety upon such missions.
Her higlvbred n'umer has a genial charm that wins
them un?..;irc.s. She does not attempt to teach,
but she reads the Gospel to them ; and I may tell
you that she has hu exquisite- voice and is a most ac-
complished reader. It was but the other day I ap-
proved of a female preacher, the first we have ever
had, whose work so far has prospered. Should
Lady Kilrush continue in well-doing, I should like
her occasionally to address a room full of working
women. A woman should know best how to reach
women's hearts."

Stobart smiled at the suggestion. Antonia, the
Voltairian, the friend of Lady Bolingbroke, the
avowed sceptic, the woman of fashion, preaching
the Gospel to a crowd of tatterdemalions in a White-
chapel kitchen. If Wesley could bring her to that
pass he was indeed a miracle-worker. Could it be

432

The Infidel

that she Iiad cast a spell around the leader of the
Methodists, and that his belief in her conversion
was but the delusion of a kind heart, willing to think
the best of so beautiful and gracious a creature ?

Stobart was not an ardent believer in sudden con-
versions, though in the course of his field preaching
It had been a common thing for him to see men and
women fling themselves on their knees and declare
that they were " saved," convinced of sin, justified,
sanctified, on the instant, by one single operation of
the Holy Spirit. He had seen something of the con-
vulsionists of Bristol. The miracle of Pentecost
had, in a lesser degree, been often repeated before
his eyes; and among these instantaneous conver-
sions he knew of some that had been the beginning
of changed and holy lives. But he could not picture
Antonia among Wesley's easily won converts. Had
he not wrestled again and again with that stubborn
spirit of unbelief in the days when they were
friends, and when he never spared hard words ? All
his arguments, all his pleadings, had" failed to
change her.

He did not allow for the influence of time, satiety,
weltschmcrc, the aching void of a life without love. '

He rode with Wesley as far as Barnet, on the first
stage of his northern journey, heard him preach
there in the evening to a closely packed audience,
and rode back to London next morning. It was late
in the afternoon, a mild spring afternoon when,
after visiting several houses in the neighborhood of
Moorfields, he discovered Lady Kilrush in an under-
ground kitchen, seated by the sick-bed of a cobbler,
a young man with a wife and two children, dying of
consumption. The wife sat on one side of the bed,
her husband's hand clasped in hers, Antonia on the

/ 1

A Meeting and a Parting 433

other side reading tlie Gospel of St. John, in those
thrilling tones which Wesley had noted. She looked
up as Stobart entered the kitchen, and her cheek
crimsoned as she recognized him, but when she
spoke her voice was cold as at their parting.

" I thought it was Mr. Wesley," she said. " Has
he sent you to see our poor Morris? This gentle-
man is one of Mr. Wesley's helpers, Morris."

The sick man smiled faintly, Lnd held out a
wasted hand to the visitor,

" Morris and I are old friends," Stobart said
gently. " No, Lady Kilrush, I was not sent here,"
and then seeing there was no vacant chair, he stood
with his elbow on the mantelpiece, waiting for An-
tonia to go on reading.

" ' I am the true vine,' " she began, and read to
the end of the chapter ; then rose quietly, bent over
the dying man, murmured a few kind words,
pressed the wife's hand tenderly, and stole from the
room almost as noiselessly as if she had been indeed
the good ang '1 these people thought her. Stobart's
survey of the v/retched room had shown him that
her charity had provided the sufferer with every
comfort and even luxury that could be administered
in such a home.

He followed her into the squalid street. The sky
above the dilapidated red tile roofs was blue and
bright, and the northwest wind blew the freshness
of April flowers from the fields and gardens be-
tween Finsbury and Islington. Antonia had no car-
riage waiting for her.

" I forget that I am a fine lady when T come
here," she said, smiling at him. " T walk from
house to house, and take a hackney coach when I
have done my day's work."

* I

434

The Infidel

'llti^l

" Shall I get you a coach now ? It is nearly six
o'clock. Or will you walk a little way ? "

" I should like to walk. The fresh air is very
pleasant after that warm room ; that room which he
will only leave for the grave, poor soul. But it is
not of him one thinks most, but of the wife. She
so loves him. Happily, she counts on being with
him again— in a better world. She has what Mr.
Wesley calls vital religion."

" Mr. Wesley has told me something that has
made me very happy," Stobart said in a low voice
that trembled ever so slightly. " He has told me
that your heart is changed, that you do not think as
you once thought."

" Oh, I am changed— heart, mind, desires, fancies
— yes, all are changed. But I know not if it is for
the better. I have left off caring for things. I feel
ever so old. Nothing in this life interests me except
sorrow and suffering. I went to Mr. Wesley when
my spirits had sunk to despair, and he has been my
good friend. I go home almost happy, after I have
worked all day among his poor."

" And he has taught you to believe in Christ ? "

" One does not learn to believe. That must come
from within, I think. I have come to feel the need
of God, the need of a world after death ; but I doubt
I am no nearer believing in miracles than I was ten
years ago, when first I read Voltaire. If to love
Jesus is to be a Christian, why, then, I am a Chris-
tian. But if a Christian must think exactly as
you do, or as Mr. Wesley does, I am outside the
pale."

" Oh, but the fuller light will come ! ' God is
light.' He will not leave a soul so precio i ; in dark-
ness. I knew long ago, when I saw you among

A Meeting and a Parting 435

those wretched creatures at Lambeth, I knew you
could not be forever lost."

They walked on a little way in silence, facing tow-
ard the setting sun. They were crossing the pub-
lic garden at Moorfields, where the citizens and
their wives and families walked on fine evenings.

" Will you not resume your work in my district?
Our people long for you. Miss Potter is very kind
— and your bounty is lavish — but they all want you,
all those whom you visited three years ago, and
who remember you with affection. Cannot you
spare a little time from these new pensioners for
your old friends ? "

" Oh, sir, I doubt they are well cared for now
they have you,"

" But will you not help me a little ? Ah, madam,
could you but understand what your help means for
me ! If you avoid the old places, the old people, can
I believe that you have pardoned my sin of the past?
Surely that one passionate hour has been expiated
by the remorse of years."

" I nave long since pardoned your folly, sir.
Pray suffer me to forget it."

Her cold disdain stung him to the quick. She did
not even account his passion worth her anger. How
could he ever hope to break through that adamant,
to melt that ice?

He was persistent in spite of her coldness, and
at last she promised to return occasionally to her
old work at Lambeth, and to visit the people he
deemed most in need of her.

" I can but give them my surplus hours," she said,
" since the best part of my life is pledged to Mr.
Wesley. And now, sir, be so obliging as to call a
coach, and suffer me to bid you good-evening."

43^>

The Infidel

There was a stand of coaches close by, and he
handed her to her seat in one. He stood bare-
headed, watching her drive away. Her serious
manner, with that touch of hauteur, kept him at an
immeasurable distance. The familiar confidence of
her old friendship seemed irrevocably lost.

Nearly a year had gone since that meeting in the
Whitechapel kitchen. It was spring again, but
early spnng, and the days were still short, and the
skies still gray and cold when George Stobart
walked home with Antonia after her visit to another
dying bed, the bed of extreme old age this time
the gradual fading out of the vital flame, feebler'
paler, day by day, the bed of boundless faith and
ecstatic anticipation of a new and fairer life.

She had seen the last sands of another life run
down in the autumn of the past year. She had kept
her promise, and had gone back to Bellagio in Sep-
tember, and had watched by her Italian grand-
father's dying bed— a peaceful end, in the odor of
sanctity. She had followed the old man to his last
resting-place, and had stayed at Bellagio long
enough to make all arrangements for Francesca's
wedding, and her establishment as mistress of the
old villtno. She was married at the new year, hand-
somely dowered by her English cousin, having
chosen a worthy mate. Antonia's obligations to he!
humble kinsfolk had been fulfilled.

Mr. Stobart and Lady Kilrush were on friendliest
terms now, but no word of love had been spoken
1 o be with her, to hear her voice, to know that she
Iked h-s company, was so much, and to declare
himself might be the breaking of the spell. They
had been together often among the homes of the
poor, in the library at St. James" Square, and some-

:t-*

y, and lie
3od bare-
r serious
him at an
fidence of
t.

ing in the
tgain, but
t, and the
i Stobart
o another
this time,
!, feebler,
faith and

life run
had kept

in Sep-

1 grand-
' odor of
) his last
X\o long
ancesca's
!s of the
ir, hand-
having

is to hei

iendlicst
spoken,
that she
declare
. They
1 of the
d some-

A Meeting and a Parting 437

times in the churches and chapels where Wesley,
Romaine and other lights of the evangelical school
were to be heard. But in all that time Stobart had
obtained no further profession of faith from An-
tonia.

" If to love Christ is to be a Christian, I am one,"
she told him, when he tried to bring her to his own
way of thinking, and that was all.

Final perseverance, sanctification, justification,
conviction of sin! Those phrases seemed to her
only the shibboleth of a sect. But all the strength
of her heart and intellect were engaged in those
good works to which the Methodists attached only a
secondary merit. Her compassion for human suf-
fering was the dominating impulse of her life. She
could feel for the thief in Newgate, pity the slut in
Bridewell whose life had been one long disgrace.
She had gone with Stobart into the prisons of Lon-
don, those dark places as yet unvisited by Howard
or Elizabeth Fry. She shrank from no form of suf-
fering, so long as it was possible to help or to con-
sole.

She had done with the world and its pleasures.
The recluse is soon forgotten in the merry-go-round
of society. Her duchesses had long ceased to
trouble themselves about her. The princes and
princesses had forgotten her existence. The new
reign had brought with it new interests, a new set.
Women were the top of the fashion who had been
dowdies ; men who had been blockheads v/cre wits.

Lord Dunkeld had married a rosy-cheeked dam-
sel of eighteen summers, daughter and heiress of a
lord of session, was settled on his Scotch estate, and
had come to think Edinburgh the focus of intelli-
gence and ton. The people who had courted and

438

The Infidel

. M

hcJ. except as an eccentric, like Lady Huntinirclon
who had caught the fever of piety that had beenTn

of Metiiodism Moravianism, Predcstinarianism-
some boring and essentially middlc-cias. form of re-
hgion, which banished her fron. polite corironv

.V woman who neither visi!. nm gives entm-jin
n^nts IS soon forgotten. Her fenu' fr^^^^i^
of her sometimes with pity. a. ar, ..formulate .h^
was afraid to let the to>vn see h^r altered face, ad
who had taken to religion as a substitute for beau y
The Idea that she was disfigured having once got
abroad her old r'v ds were slow to beliefc hei ffce
unspoded, though people who had seen her al one^

almost as handsome as ever.

nlH Y- '^' ^'f T ^ '°^^' P'"^^^'^ ^°^^^ that keeps an
old frcnd at a distance," said one of her admLrs
who had suffered one of Whitefield's sermonsi o':
der to meet her.

" She would not have you near enough to dis-
cover the ravages of that horrM malady. I'll wa^er
her countenance is plastered rt quarter of an inch
thick with white lead," retorted the rival belle.

The library m St. James' Square was in the half
hght of a spring evening, as it had been a vear ago,
when Stobart entered the room with so agonized an
apprehension. He came in now with Antonia, a

^one r' f"'''; '°"''"f ""^ ^°'"^ ^' "^ the vcirs
den .f^ ; 7^ [V' ^y ^'' ^''''^'^ ^^ter the bur-
den of the day. Her only other visitors were Lady

Margaret Laroche-who was faithful to her in
spite of what she called her " degeneracv." and who

to think of
tuntingdon,
lad been in

contagion
arianism —
form of re-
njom-.

entertani-
^nds spoke
innate who
I face, and
"or beauty.

■ once got
c her face
" at one of
t she was

keeps an
admirers,
^ns in or-

h to dis-
"'11 wager

■ an inch
;lle.

the half
vear ago,
•nized an
itonia, a
he years
the bur-
Te Lady

her in
uid who

A Meeting and a Parting 439

came now and then to pour out her complaints at
the foolishness of a world whose follies were neces-
sary to her existence— and Patty Granger, whose
dog-like fidelity made her ever welcom.e, and who
loved to talk of Antonia's girlhood and her own free
and easy life in Covcnt Garden, when the general
was a submissive lover and not a peevish husband.

Stobart had been imusually silent during the walk
from Lambeth, and Antonia had been full of
thought, impressed as she ever was by that mystery
of the passing spirit, that unanswerable question,
" Whither goest thou, oh, departing soul, or is thy
journey forever finished, and is man's unconquer-
able assurance of eternity a delusion after all ? "

Antonia sank into her fireside chair, weary after
a long day in wretched rooms, hearing and seeing
sad things. She was almost too tired to talk and
was glad of Stobart's silence. Sophy would come
presently and make the tea— it being supposed that
no man-servant's hand was delicate enough to brew
that choice infusion— and their spirits would revive.
But in the meantime rest was all they wanted.

It startled her from this reposeful feeling when
Stobart rose abruptly and began to pace the room,
for some minutes in silence, broken only by a sigh,
then bursting into impassioned speech.

"Antonia, I can lock up my heart no longer!
'Tis a year since I came from America to find a
desolate home. For a year I have known myself a
widower. Dare I break the spell of silence? Shall
I lose all in asking for all ? Will you banish me in
anger as you did when it was so black a sin to speak
of my love ? "

He flung himself on his knees beside her chair.

440

The Infidel

Say you will be pitiful and kind, you who arc all
pity, and if you cannot give me what I ask, promise
not to make me an outcast from your friendship "

I shall never again cease to be your friend,
sir ! she answered gently. " I think we know each
other too well to quarrel. We are neither of us per-
fect creatures; but I believe you are a good Chris-
tian, and that your friendship will ever be precious
to me.

" Make the bond something nearer than friend-
ship, Antonia. Let it be the hallowed tie that makes
two souls seem as one. Ah, my angelic friend, sel-
dom has woman been so worshipped as you are by
me. The love that stole upon my mind and heart
unawares, in this room, ^/hen it was so foul a sin
to love you ; the love puri'ied by years of repentance
the love that haunted me in the wilderness, through'
long days and nights of toil and pain, when your
following ghost was nearer and more real to me
than the foe that hemmed us round or the storm that
beat upon our heads—that love is with me still An-
tonia; time cannot change nor familiarity lessen it
Will you be forever cold, forever deaf to mv
prayer ? " -^

She had heard him to the end. Was it for the joy
of hearing him, though i;he knew what her answer
must be? She knew now that she loved him, and
had always loved him, from those davs of a so-
called friendship. She knew that he took all the
zest out of her life when he left her : and that the
want of his company had been a dul: pain, under-
lying all varieties of pleasure, a sense of loss com-
ing on her on a sudden amid the tempestuous gayety
of a masquerade, haunting her in some melody at
the opera house, saddening her in the midst of a

I 'i

A Meeting and a Parting 44 1

gay throng, where arrows of wit flashed fast to an
accompaniment of joyous laughter.

"Can you forget what I told you years ago?"
she said, '* A marriage is impossilile for me. I am
married to the dead. I gave myself to my husband
forever. I swore in his dying moments to belong
to none but him."

" "Twere madness to keep so wild a vow."

" What ! Do the Methodist Christians think it no
sin to break their oath ? "

" Thev would violate no vow made in their ra-
tional moments. But your promise was given in
the delirium of grief, and he to whom you gave it
could not be such a self-lover as to fetter youth and
beauty to his coffin."

" 'Twas he who claimed the promise, and I gave
it in all seriousness. I loved him, sir. I would have
given all the residue of my life for one year of hap-
piness with him. I loved him ; and our lives were
severed by my act, severed for years to unite in
death. If there be that other world Mr. Wesley be-
lieves in I may see him again, may be with him in
eternity. That, sir, is indeed a great perhaps. I
will not hazard such a chance of everlasting bliss."

" 'Tis the pagan's heaven you picture, not the
Christian's — the resumption of human ties, not
union with Christ. Oh, can you be so cruel as to
make my life miserable, to deny the lover who
adores you, for the sake of the dead man who lies in
the quiet sleep that has no knowledge of you and
me — must lie there unknowing, uncaring, till the
day of judgment? "

"If ever that day come he shall not find me for-
sworn ; no, not even for you, not even to make you
happy."

■

442

The I n l*i d el

He had watch- d the exalted look in her face as
the firehght shone upon it. She had looked up-
ward as she spoke, her eyes dilated, her lips trem-
ulous with emotion, and a fever spot upon her
cheek. But now on a sudden her head drooped and
she burst into tears.

" Not even for you," she sobbed.

U war. her confession of love. In the next nio-
inei.t she was in his arms and their lips had met.
^he let him hold her there, she let her head lie upon
his shoulder, and suffered Iiis impassioned kisses in
the surprise of his wild vehemence.

" You love me, /,i .u- ta, you love me! No dead
man shall stand between us. You must, you shall
be mine I "

She released herself from his arms, and sprang
to her feet.

*' I am not so weak a thing as you fancy me, sir."

" I will not let you go. Shall a profligate's pale
spectre stand between me and the woman I wor-
ship? A vow made under such conditions is no
vow. Can it better him that my life should be mis-
erable, that lovers as true as you and I should pine
in solitude, go down to the grave withon; -ver hav-
ing known happiness ? It shall not be."

" You are very imi)erious, Mr. Stobart; but I am
the mistress of my own fate."

" I am very resolute. You love me, Antonia.
Your tears, your lips have ^ Id me that divine
secret."

" Be it so. I love you, sir. But I will not break
mv promise to on. I loved 1 etter, my f7( st dear love,
tl. nan vvho brou^^ht sunsi.ine into my life and ex-
tinguished tlu« sun when he left me. The man who
loved m<i better than he thought."

A Meeting and a Parting 443

" Antonia ! "

" Leave me, Mr. hart. If we arc still to be
friends you had best 1 ave mc."

" It is no longer a question of friendship. I know
now that you love me, and I swear I will not lose
you."

" Leave me, sir," she exclaimed. " If you ever
wish to sec my face again, leave me this instant."

" At least be merciful. Do not send me from you
in despair. Antonia, be kind ! 1 cannot live without
you."

" Go, sir ; your vehemence, your boldness, leave
me no power to reason or even to think. Go; and
if after a night of thought 1 can bring myself to be-
lieve thai I am not bound, body and soul, by my
promise to the dead "

" You will be mine," he cried, with outstretched
arms, trying to lasp her again to his heart, but she
drew herself a\.ay from him indignantly.

He grasped her unwilling hand, covered it with
kisses and tears, and rushed from the room.

The watchmen were calling " half-past eleven,
and a fine night," when Lady Kilrush left her dress-
ing-room, carrying a lighted candle and a key, and
crossed the gallery to the other side of the spacious
house where the late lord's rooms were situated.
The household had retired soon after ten, and the
great well staircase lay like a pit of darkness below
the massive oak banisters. An oppressive silence,
an oppressive gloom, pervaded the house as Anton a
'■•^locked the door that had seldom been opened
snice the coffin was carried out on the first stage of
its long journey, on a snmmt r night that Antonia
recalled as if it had been yesterday. The aimos-
phcre, the f*'' lings of that night w* i her mind

444

The Infidel

as she crossed the threshold of the room which hail
never known the uses of luinuin Hfe since Kilrush
occupied it. The wainscot mouse, the spider on the
wall, the moth lurking in the window drapery, had
been its only inhabitants.

The tall silver candlesticks, the portfolio and
standish were on the table in the oak-panelled dress-
ing-room where Antonia rt nienibered the lawyer
and tho doctor talking beside the empty hearth. The
vastiu ss of the bedchamber had an appalling air in
the glimmer of a single candle. Antonia's hand
trembled as she lighted those other catulles, the
candles that had burneil beside the dying man when
he spoke the words that made her a peeress.

How near that night seemed, as she stood beside
the bed, funereal under the dark velvet hangings, a
catafalque rather than a bed. She could hear the
bishop's full-mouthed tones and that other voice,
faltering and faint, but to her the world's best
music.

" Oh, my beloved," she cried, falling on her knees
beside the pillow on which his head had lain. " Oh,
my dearest, kindest, best, surely it is you I love and
none other — you, only you, only you I "

Her arms were folded on the coverlet, her head
resting on them. She remained thus, on her knees
for a long time, dreaming back the past. She lived
again through those hours in Rupert's Buildings,
those hours spent in endless talk with Kilrush.
They seemed to her now the most blissful hours of
her life. She looked back and wondered at that
happiness. Perhaps there was some touch of illu-
sion in that dream of the past, something of the
light tl;;'.t never was on land or sea ; but to her there
was no shadow of doubt that the joy of those past

A Meeting and a Parting 445

flays exceeded all .she had known of gladness since
her husband's death.

She had made her night toilet atvl init on a loose
silken ncgliii^. meaning to spend the k.ng hours in
this room, 'ller first night in a husband's chamber
—her wedding night, she thought, with a melan-
choly smile.

She had come here to solve the problem of the fu-
ture, to detcnninc whether she should or should not
break her promise to the dead. For her, the free
thinker, it might seem a small thing to break a vow,
when her keeping it wouUl make a good man's life
desolate. But despite the vagueness of her hope m
the hereafter, despite that early teaching which had
bidden her believe in nothing that her human iulelh-
gence could not comprehend, her husband's image
was a living presence in that room, a living innuencc
in her life, and she could not imagine him lying m
the dust, unconscious and indifferent. Somehow,
somewhere, by some mysterious, unthinkable means,
the dead still lived, still loved her, still claimed her

fidelity.

" My first dear love," she cried, in a burst of hys-
terical sobs, "I am yours and yours only. I can
never belong to another, never own any husband

but you."

Her tears, her reiterated vow soothed her. biie
rose from her knees by and by, and sat on the bed
as she had sat when she held her dying lover in her
arms. Gradually her head sank on the pillow where
his head had lain, and she fell asleep.

" Past two o'clock, and a rainy night," called the
watchman in the square.

Antonia did not wake till after five. The dead
man was in her dreams through those three hours of

446

The Infidel

deepest sleep. It was not George Stobart's impas-
sioned embrace that haunted her slumber. The
arms that encircled her, the lips that kissed her,
were the arms and lips of the lover irrevocably lost,
and there was a poignant joy in that embrace. Her
wedding night! The words were repeated in her
dreams. It was a night of dreams that ratified her
promise to the dead. Surely he was near her ! The
voice that sounded so ciose to her ear, that very
voice she knew so well, the lips whose touch thrilled
her, gave her the assurance of immortality, and in
some dim land she could not picture, under con-
ditions beyond the limit of human intelligence, they
two would meet again, husband and wife, spirit or
flesh, reunited forever.

George Stobart was at Kilrush House before nine
o'clock. His patience could endure no longer. He
had spent the night as he spent that other and much
more miserable night after Whiteficld's sermon,
wandering about the waste places between Lam-
beth Palace and Vauxhall. Slumber or rest was out
of the question.

The hall porter was more awake than usual, and
answered his inquiry briskly.

" No, sir ; not at home. Her ladyship has left Lon-
don. She will lie at Devizes to-night, on her way to
Ireland."

'* Gone ! Impossible ! "

" It was very sudden, sir, and as much as could
be done. 'Twas nearly six o'clock this morning
when the servants had their orders. Her ladyship
takes only Miss Potter, her French waiting woman,
and one footman in her travelling carriage and a
post-chaise."

A Meeting and a Parting 447

" What time did they leave? "

" They may have been gone over half an hour,
sir. I heard the clock strike eight after the coaches
left the door, I have her ladyship's letter for you,
sir."

Stobart took the letter, speechless with mortifica-
tion, and left the house before he broke the seal. It
was a miserable morning, and he stood in the rain,
under the low gray sky, while he read her letter, her
letter of one line :

" Farewell forever."

'IS

Chapter XX.

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.

From the Rev. John Wesley to Mr. George Slobarl.

" At Mrs, Berry's Lodgings, Bristol.

" May 5, 1762.
" My Dear Friend:

" Your letter surprised and grieved me, for I had
hoped that Lady Kilrush would have smiled upon
your suit and that a union between two natures so ar-
dent in Christian charity would be not only for your
happiness, but for the spiritual welfare of that dear
lady and for the greater glory of God.

" Yet though I regret your disappointment I can
but honor her ladyship for the reverence in which
she holds her promise to the dead, nor can I do other
than admire that chaste and heavenly disposition
which would dedicate a lifetime to the memory of a
husband who was hers only in one dying hour.
Such widows are widows indeed !

" You ask for my counsel at this so serious crisis
of your life, when the nature of your future work
for Christ rests on your choice of action : first,
whether you should take Holy Orders before you go
to America, a voyage upon which you tell me your
mind is irrevocably fixed, and next whether you

Faithful Unto Death

449

should accept her ladyship's munificent gift of the
major portion of her funded property and her man-
sion in St. James' Square, she retaining only her
Irish estate and the family seat on the Shannon.
This latter question I unhesitatingly answer in the
affirmative. The fact that this noble lady had ex-
ecuted the deed of gift which transferred her prop-
erty to you before she declared her intention, in the
touching letter which you send me, would show
that she had deliberately resolved upon this sac-
rifice, and was influenced by the desire of doing jus-
tice to her late husband's nearest kinsman. She has
indeed honored me with a letter to that effect, and
has further told me that she intends to spend the
rest of her life in Ireland, where I hope occasionally
to visit her.

" I say to you, George, accept this fortune, even
though, in your present temper, it may seem a bur-
den. Lady Kilrush will be still a rich woman ; and
you will have a wider scope for the employment of
money in the service of Christ than any woman, not
even that mother in Israel, Lady Huntingdon, could
find.

" The more serious question of your ordination I
must leave to your own heart and mind, and the
spirit of God directing you. As an itinerant lay
preacher your ministry has borne good fruit, and
if you transfer your labors to Georgia I shall sorely
miss your help; but as an ordained priest you will
enter a higher sphere of usefulness, and feel your-
self sent out upon a nobler mission ; so, my dear
brother in Christ, I bid you go on and fear not. We
desire to rivet the chains that bind us to the Church
of England, not to loosen them, and the idea that we
are drifting apart from that Church — injusta no-
15

450

The Infidel

verca though she has been to us — is a source of fear
and trembling to many weak spirits, most of all to
my dear brother Charles.

" For myself I care but little whether we continue
to belong to the Established Church or be cast out,
for sure I am that we have kindled a flame which
neither men nor devils will ever be able to quench.
Our fundamental principles are the fundamental
principles of the Church, and will sufifer no change.
I have no fear for the society, which from so insig-
nificant a beginning has attained so vast an in-
fluence. I remember how, less than thirty years
ago, two young men, without friends, without either
power or fortune, set out from college to attempt a
reformation, not of opinions, but of men's tempers
and lives, of vice in every kind, of everything con-
trary to justice, mercy or truth. For this we car-
ried our lives in our hands, and were looked upon
and treated as mad dogs. Knowing this of me,
you cannot think that I should fear to stand alone,
the untrammelled shepherd of my flock. Your or-
dination, should you meet with a bishop of liberal
mind, like Whitefield's friend, that good bishop of
Gloucester, ought not to hang tediously on hand.
But I hope I may have many occasions for con-
versing with you before you sail for America,
where, supplied with ample fortune and armed with
the faith that can move mountains, you may do
much to maintain those noble enterprises, the
schools, the orphanages and asylums, which Mr.
Whitefield initiated, and to which he ever returns
with fresh vigor. Would that he had a more robust
constitution, and that we might hope to see his min-
istry continued to a green old age ; but I fear he can-
not long stand against the inroads of disease, ac-

i\ i\

ce of fear
; of all to

; continue
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idamental

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irty years
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Faithful Unto Death 451

celerated by strenuous toil, preaching three times a
day, long journeys in all weathers, the rough usage
of the mob, and that fiery spirit which has been al-
ways as the sword that wears out the scabbard.

" On my return to the Foundry in the autumn I
shall seek for you in your house at Lambeth. Till
then, esteemed friend and fellow-laborer, farewell.

"John Wesley."

From Rev. John Wesley to Rev. George Stobart.

" At the George Inn, Limerick, Ireland.

"November 11, 1768.
" My Dear Friend :

" It is with poignant grief that I take up my pen
to write the saddest tidings it has ever been my lot
to send you. Your last letter was full of inquiries
about Lady Kilrush. Alas, George, that noble be-
ing, whom we have both loved and revered, no
longer inhabits this place of sin and sorrow, and I
dare hope that her pure and gentle spirit has taken
flight to a better world, and now enjoys the com-
panionship of saints and angels. Rarely have I met
with a nature so free from earthly stain, nor have I
often beheld a life so rich in good works; and al-
though she may not even at the last have attained
that unquestioning faith which I so desired to find
in her, I would hazard my own hope of heaven
against the certainty of her everlasting bliss, for
never did T know a better Christian.

" Her death was worthy to rank in the list of
martyrs. You may have heard that this city — the
filth and squalor of whose poorer streets and alleys
no pen can depict — was lately visited by an out-

452

The Infidel

break of smallpox. Lady Kilrush was at her man-
sion by the Atlantic, a delightful spot, where I once
spent a reposeful week in her sweet company,
preaching in the neighboring villages, and narrowly
escaping death at the hands of a wild mob, egged
on by a bigot priest. In this delightful retreat she
heard of the pestilence that was mowing down the
poor of Limerick, and at once hastened to the dread-
ful scene. Secure from the disease herself by past
suffering, she spent her days and nights in minister-
ing to the sick, aided in this pious work by a band
of holy women of the Roman Catholic faith, and by
such hired nurses as her purse could command.

" For six weeks she labored without respite,
scarcely allowing herself time for food or sleep ; and
when my itinerant ministry brought me to Limerick
I found her marked for death. She had taken cold
in passing from close and heated rooms into the
windy street, had neglected her own ailments in her
anxiety for others, and the result was a violent in-
flammation of the lungs, attended with a raging
fever.

" Alas, dear sir, I can give you no message of af-
fection from those once so lovely lips. She was de-
lirious when I saw her, and though your name was
mixed with her wild ravings, 'twas in disjointed
sentences of no meaning ; but on the day preceding
her death the fever abated, and, indeed, it seemed
for a short space as if my prayers had prevailed,
and thai she would be spared still to adorn a world
where, by her charities and inexhaustible ben-
eficence, she shone like a star. Her senses came back
to her within an hour of the last change. She knew
me and received the sacrament from my hand, and I
dare hope that in those last moments perfect faith

f I

Faithful Unto Death 453

in her Saviour was conjoined with that perfect love
which had long been the ruling principle of her life.
" I had been kneeling by her bedside in silent
prayer for some time, her marble hand clasped in
mine, when she cried out suddenly, ' Husband, I
have kept my vow,' and, looking upward with a
seraphic smile, her spirit passed into eternity. I
assisted in the funeral service, and saw her mortal
remains laid in the family vault, where her coffin
was placed beside that of the last Lord Kilrush.
" Yours in sorrow and affection,

" John Wesley."

Epilogue.

Thirty years later, on the anniversary of An-
tonia's death, George Stobart, Bishop of North-
borough — the fighting bishop, as some of his ad-
mirers called him, a profound scholar, a fiery con-
troversialist, a celibate and an ascetic, once famous
as a Methodist field preacher, and now the leader of
the extreme High Church party — sat by the fireside
in his library in the palace at Northborough, a lofty
and spacious room, where a pair of wax candles on
the writing-table served but to accentuate the dark-
ness. He sat leaning forward in the candlelight,
with one elbow on the arm of his chair, looking at a
long dark ringlet that lay in his open hand, bound
with a black ribbon to which was attached a label in
Wesley's writing, " Antonia's hair, cut after death
by her sorrowing friend, J. W."

" Only a woman's hair," murmured the bishop.
" 'Tis said that Swift spoke those words in pure
cynicism over a ringlet of his ill-used Stella. Only
a woman's hair ! And for me the memory of a life's
love, the one earthly relic which reminds the priest
that he was once a man. Shall we meet and know
each other again, where there is neither marrying
nor giving in marriage ? Or is it all a dream, noth-
ing but a dream, as she thought? "

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