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THE' 
 NATIONAL 
 
 I lOlil 
 
 COMPANY. 
 
 M. E. BRADDON. 
 
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 THE W0RI2D, THE FLESH, 
 AND TRE DEVIL. 
 
 BY 
 
 MTSS M. E. BRAl)D01^, 
 
 AUTHOBOP "LADY AUDLEY'S 8ECBBT," "AURORA FLOYD," " WKAVBB8 AMD 
 WJiiT, "THB PAXAL 'i'HBKB," " THB DAT WILL OOMK," KTO. 
 
 THE NATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
 
 » r 
 
 f 
 
 

 
 690101 
 
THE WORLD, THE FLESH, 
 AND THE DEVIL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE FATE READER. 
 " I look clown to his feet, but that's a fal)lc. " 
 
 HERE were low brooding clouds and a feelincr 
 
 olu Z^^A '? *^^ .^'' ^' ^^'"^^d Hillersdon-: 
 cab rattled along the King's Road, pa.st all the 
 
 o? ctr^V^'^y gentility of theWe-scene^ 
 o^J^helsea, towards quiet rural Parson's Green 
 Only a few years ago Pa- ->n's Green had still some 
 pretensions to rusticity, w where now the specT 
 latjng builders' streete and terraces stretch right andleft 
 m hollow squares and close battalions, there were fine old 
 Georgian and ^re-Georgian mansions, and stately sweeps 
 of lawn and sLrubbery. and elms of old world ffrlwth 
 shutting out the hum and hubbub of the groat citr 
 
 To one of thase old respectable mansions, that one which 
 wa^ second only to Peterborough House in the exteSd 
 dignity of Its surroundings. Gerard Hillersdon was driv 
 mg under the heavy sky of a July afternoon, the WW 
 close of a. sunless and oppressive dav. Never not tvpf 
 m mid-winter- harl the -moko -',r^t=- y ,' °°* ®^®° 
 T 1 iL .', , " '^ '"lOKe -cuuaiu liuiig lower over 
 London than it hung to-day, and if the idea of fo. seemed 
 impossible in July there at least i>revailed that myZioun 
 
10 TJui World, Tlie FUsh, and The DevU. 
 
 condition of the atmosphere, commonly known as • blight' 
 a thick yellow haze, unpierced by a single 8un-ray. ' 
 
 To Gerard Hillersdon, ordinarily the most seniitive of 
 
 d^ffi^'rinL w P^? """l ^Y'' particular afternoon made no 
 d.tference. He had got beyond that point in which at- 
 mosphere can raise a man's spirits or depress them. He 
 ad made up his mind upon a solemn question of life or 
 
 a^.y other, since he meant it to be his last day upon earth. 
 
 ?on .w^' r^ ^''' r""'^ ^^''''^^'^' ^»d he must part com^ 
 pany ; that tor him at least life was not worth living ; thus 
 the grey and yellow of the atmosphere, and thellarkly 
 
 «r i;' u^ * l"""''^!; 'I'i"^'' *^ windward suited his temper 
 far better than the blue sky and west wind which Lady 
 Fridoline would have desired for her garden party 
 
 Incongruous as the thing may seem the young man was 
 goiijg to spend his last earthly afternoon at Lady BVHo- 
 
 ines garden j ,artv ; but for a man utterly without re- 
 
 exir.n.' "^' 'i' ^"f" '"^ ^^^ ^'''^^^'"^ «"ch a finish to 
 existence seemed as good as any other. He oould not 
 devote his last hours ia preparing for the world that was 
 to come after death as he had no belief in any such world 
 To him the deed that was to be done before midnight 
 meant swift, sudden extinction, the end of all things for 
 him, Gerard Hillersdon. The curtain which was to faU 
 upon the tragedy of his life to-night would rise upon no 
 afterpiece. The only question which he had taken in°o 
 serious consideration was the mode and manner of his 
 death. He had made up his mind about that. His re- 
 volver was lying in its case in his lodirincr-house bedroom 
 under the shadow of St. James' Chur?h,^eady loaded-a 
 
 ?If; rv'-^ ^"' ^^^ "'^^^ "^ ^^'1' ^or he had nothing to 
 leave behind h.m. except a heavy burden of debt. He 
 hjul not yet made up his mind whel her to write an ex- 
 planatory letter to the father he had sorely tried, and a 
 bn.t farewoU .o the mother v.dio iVn.lly ioved hhn, and 
 whom he loved almost as fondly ; or whether it were not 
 better to leave only silence. 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
i 
 
 as 'blight,' 
 -ray. 
 
 sensitive of 
 )on made no 
 1 which at- 
 them. He 
 >n of life or 
 1 to him as 
 upon earth. 
 it part com- 
 Lving ; thus 
 the darkly 
 his temper 
 ^hich Lady 
 irty. 
 
 ig man was 
 ady Frido- 
 vithout re- 
 a finish to 
 could not 
 d that was 
 luch world. 
 I midnight 
 things for 
 was to fall 
 se upon no 
 taken into 
 ner of his 
 '>. His re- 
 3 bedroom, 
 loaded — a 
 nothing to 
 debt. He 
 'ite an ex- 
 iled, and a 
 i Jiiui, and 
 t were not 
 
 The World, m Flesh and The Devil. U 
 
 Fridoline IW tl . ".^sh^to^"; rul"] •''] ^""V^ ^'^ 
 
 square, that she n cant to be at t^^^L'"' .^''•^•'^^V'^^'' 
 gatherum. -^ ncJohne s omnium 
 
 tio^tsoi;;;'''^ ■^'? ^'"7[ ^''^^'' '^'' ^^^^' ^'th the regula- 
 gi^a/wio^ fvirlds'^^ '"'^^ '^'^^ Fridolino'sZSoIo- 
 
 to:tif:a'i:::..'f:::::^ir^ '^i ^^''r^ ;"'^^^ ^- ---^^^ 
 
 well enough to kno J 1 "' '^•'""'^^^- ^^"' '^""^'^ ^^^ 
 
 l.reech„K, "'" Sk tU n': ™T,r*^' ^''^'^ ™lv?t 
 Clevola„;, ba;,t„:„^t ?fh tr^„ \^ ^'^'"^ 
 van. ya witli enoMcrh bree.linp- fn? ho V ^"^U'r ^?f''«"^ 
 
 
^fir 
 
 1! 
 
 12 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The-Devil 
 
 the record by which Lady Fridoline was able to find out 
 'how many strangers and outsiders had been imposed upon 
 her hospitality in the shape of friends' friends. 
 
 The crowd was tremendous; the house and grounds 
 buzzed with voices, through which from the bosquet 
 yonder cut the sharp twanging notes of a Tyrolese Volk- 
 slied, accompanied on the Streich zither ; while from an 
 inner drawing-room sounded the long-drawn chords of a 
 violin attacking a sonata by De Beriot. On the left of 
 the xrreat square hall was the dining-room filled with a 
 gormandising crowd ; and on the lawn outside there was 
 a subsidiary buffet under a pollarded Spanish chestnut 
 which spread its rugged venerable limbs over a wide circle 
 of turf, and made a low roofed tent of leaves that fluttered 
 and shivered in the sultry atmosphere. 
 
 Every class was represented at Lady Fridoline's garden- 
 party ; or rather it might be said that everybody in Lon- 
 don whom anyone could care to see was to be found on 
 her Ladyship's lawn or v/as to be hunted for in her Lady- 
 ship's extensive shrubberies. Literature and the Stage 
 were not more conspicuous than Church and Bar — Church 
 represented by its most famous preachers, Bar, by its most 
 notorious advocates, to say nothing of a strong contingent 
 of popular curates and clever stuff gowna. 
 
 Every noteworthy arrival from the great world of 
 English speaking people across the Atlantic was to be seen 
 at Lady Fridoline s, from the scholar and enthusiast who 
 had written seven octave volumes to prove that Don Juan 
 was the joint work of Byron's vaiot Fletcher and the 
 Countess Guiccioli, to the miniature soubrette, the idol of 
 JNew York, who had come to be seen ;ind to conquer upon 
 the boards of a London theatre. Everybody was ^'here, 
 for the afternoon was late, and V\o throng was thickest 
 just at this hour. Gerard Hillerddon went about from 
 group to group, everywhere received with cordialitv and 
 empressement, but lingering nowhere — not even when the 
 tiny soubrette told him she was just dying for anothel 
 
vil. 
 
 ! to find out 
 iposed upon 
 
 nd grounds 
 he bosquet 
 rolese Volk- 
 lile from an 
 chords of a 
 a the left of 
 illed with a 
 e there was 
 sh chestnut 
 I wide circle 
 lat fluttered 
 
 ne'sgarden- 
 ody in Lon- 
 be found on 
 n her Lady- 
 l the Stage 
 ar — Church 
 by its most 
 f contingent 
 
 t world of 
 1,8 to be seen 
 lusiast who 
 t Don Juan 
 er and the 
 
 the idol of 
 nquer upon 
 
 was <:here, 
 as thickest 
 about from 
 diality and 
 n when the 
 for anothei 
 
 TU World, Th^ Flesh, and The Devil. 13 
 
 ice, and she reckoned he'd take her to the tree over there 
 
 mS.\f'"J!~'^T^'l^. ^"^^^ ^^ ^^'^^ one somebody who 
 Onf nf r'^^i'"'.''/'.^^^ ^° ""^ ^^« gauntlet of ever/bX 
 One of his oldest friends seized upon him a man with 
 whom he had been at Oxford seviL yeaS' before with 
 whom he had maintained the friendship begun^n those 
 days, and who was not to be nut off x^\ihihJ^J^' 
 hand-shake which served for otlfer peopir ^''''°^' 
 
 'I want a talk with you, HillersHon. Why didn't vou 
 k)ok me up last Tuesday. We w to have d ned and 
 
 about It. By Jove, old fellow, you are looking dread- 
 fully washed out. What have yo^u been doing wfthyTur: 
 
 'Nothing beyond the usual mill-round. A succession 
 clmptxC'" "'^ '^"^ '"P^^"^ *^^ freshn:LTmy 
 will^bTs^? f ^ " w' ""'^^ ^^- ^^^ ^« «ee, to-morrow 
 
 '1 should adore it ; but it's impossible. I have an Pn 
 
 n«ht and lea for that tall anTgtc:^ t™ "^S'h'g 
 eye would have recognised even afar nff . o« J i. 
 
 plungedintothe shrubLied laVintVhlh Uy^Xeen 
 the iine, broad lawn and the high walls which secluS 
 Lady Fndoline's domain from thS vulgar worid 
 
 He passed a good many couples sauntering 'slowly in 
 the leafy shade, and talking in those subdued accents 
 which seem to mean verxr rp,,f>}, „„.3 _f. , '^^ accents 
 liffia 4*1 i. • 'rr ,y "'ucn, anu uiten do mean verv 
 
 f^olk.f "Ia '"^ *^' ^'«^^°««' he saw the one form aS 
 face that could conjure heart and senses into sudden t^Si- 
 
14 m World, m Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 pest—a taU, dark woman, with proudly poised head and 
 Si!"?'^ ^^''' ^^^walked with leisurely yet firm step, and 
 tossed her parasol to and fro as she walked with a move- 
 ment eminently expressive of ennui. 
 
 She was walking with a young man who was supposed 
 to be a fast ascendmg star in the heaven of literature-a 
 young man who was something of a journalist, and somc- 
 tning ot a poet, who wrote short stories in the mai^azines 
 was believed to contribute to Punch, and was said to have 
 written a three volume novel. But however brilliantly 
 this young gentleman may be talking, Edith Chauipiori 
 had evidently had enough of him, for at sight of Hillers- 
 don her face lighted up, and she held out her hand in 
 eager welcome. 
 
 They clasped hands, and he turned back and walked 
 
 W 5f ""'^p '"^ 'n ^""^f ' ^^'^^ *^^ journalist prattled on 
 her left. Presently they met another tiio of a mother 
 ana daughters, and the journalist was absorbed and swept 
 along with this female brood, leaving Mrs. Champion and 
 Hillersdon tete-a-tete. i' » u 
 
 .'i^j°"^^* you were not coming,' she said. 
 T 1, ,/°" ^o"b*^^ should be here after you had told mo 
 
 sibbto dr^''^°'' ■ ^ ^'"""^^ *° ^^® ^^ """"^ °^ y.°" ^"^ p<^«- 
 
 I Why to-day more than all other days ? ' 
 
 ' Because it is my last day in town.' 
 
 ' What you are leaving so soon ? Before Goodwood ! ' 
 
 1 don t care two straws for Goodwood.' 
 
 •Nor do I. But why bury oneself in the country or 
 at some German ba.n too early in the year ? Autumn is 
 always long enough. One need not anticipate it. Is 
 your^doctor sending you away ? Are you going fur your 
 
 ' Yes, I am going for my cure.' 
 •Where?' 
 
 ' Suss-Schlaf Bad; he answered, invonting a name on 
 the instant, 
 
 ■ fSHkx 
 
 .\^ 
 
 <J.'»r 
 
 r 
 
.fSlpcw 
 
 iT^Ui 
 
 '4*'' 
 
 4,^ 
 
 •1^ 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and Tlie Devil. 15 
 
 'I never heard of the phice. One of those new sprin^rs 
 
 which doctors aie always developing, no doubt. Every 
 
 nian has iiis own particular fad in the way of a waterino- 
 
 place. And 3 ou are really ofoing to-morrow ? ' '^ 
 
 'To-morrow I shall ho gone.' 
 
 ' Alas, how .shall I live without you ? ' .she sighed, with 
 the prettiest, easiest, skin-deep sentiment, which wounded 
 him almost more than her disdain could have done. 'At 
 least I must have all your society till you are gone. You 
 must dine with me and share my oi)erfi box. ' Don Gio- 
 vanni ' is an opera of which one can never have too 
 much, and a new soprano is to be the Zerlina, a South 
 American girl of whom great things are expected.' 
 ' Is Mr. Champion at home ? ' 
 
 ' No, he is in Antwerp. There is something important 
 going on there— something to do with railways. You 
 know how he rushes about. I shall have no one but my 
 cousin, Mrs Gresham, whom you know of old, the Essex 
 vicar's lively wife. We shall be almost tete-a-tete. I 
 shall expect you at eight o'clock.' 
 
 'I will be punctual. What a threatening day,' he said, 
 looking up at the gathering darkness which gave a win- 
 try air to the summer foliage. ' There must be a storm 
 coming. 
 
 'Evidently. I think I had better go homo. Will you 
 take me to my carriage ? ' 
 
 'Let me get you some tea, at least, before you go.' 
 They strolled across the grass to the leafy tent. A 
 good many people had left, scared by the thunder clouds. 
 Lady Fndohne had deserted her post in the portico, tired 
 ot saying good-bye; and was taking a hasty cup of tea 
 amidst a little knot of intimates. She was lamenting the 
 non-airival of someone. 
 
 ^ ' So shameful to disappoint me, after distinctly promis- 
 ing to be here,' she said. 
 
 •Who is the defaulter, dear Lady Fridoline?' asked 
 Mrs. Champion, 
 
 * Mr. Jermyn, the new thought reader.' 
 
16 77«j World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 iu'/^I'Ia! 't!''^^^^ "; ""f ^^^^ ?Sed man. who was attend- 
 T ii^,n ^^ S"'^^ n? ^^^' ' Jermyn. the mystery man. 
 
 uTZ;,. if *''^' ^''^'' departure in the regions of the 
 uncanny. He is not content with picking up pins or 
 
 ^lliJ^lTT'^^Zt^''^''' He unearthsSeop^le's'se!: 
 crets, reads their hidden lives in a most uncomfortable 
 
 or, L tiS '^T * ^*'*S^ P*'"^y '"«d»ced to gloom by half 
 an hour of Mr. Jermyn. I would a^ soon invite Mepht 
 topheles toa garden party-but peo-M are so mo?bid 
 they will hazard anything for a new sensation ' ' 
 
 It IS something to touch only the fringe of other 
 worlds/ replied Lady Fridoline/ and whatever Mr Jer- 
 myn's Dower may be it lies beyond the boundary line of 
 
 onSXrf ^''* • ^' 'if r ^^ eircumstancls in my 
 «v.«n V X ' 1 Y^,PPOS8ible for him to have discovered 
 except by absolute divination.' 
 
 mJ^pk" ^""^ ^^'^yi '^ ^^" P°^®' o^ divination ?' asked 
 Mrs. Champion, with languid interest. 
 ' I can t help believing.' 
 
 t}nnI^''Tr"'^ ^r ^^""^ °''*^ ^°""^ «"* *^e *"ck of the 
 
 tiling. There is always a trick in these things which is 
 w'nl'r^^JT^ ^"^^°^T '' '^'''' '^^ tf;n people 
 
 r.Z^A ^"''^''^ °f ^^^""^^ °®*^' ^^ere she was standing 
 parted as she spoke, and a young man came through thf 
 
 eTgerT/'*^'"'^^"^"" ^^""^ ^^^^ ^^i^oline welcomed 
 
 be^f rm.-'^fH*'";°^"'^/'r'^' ^^^^ disappointed I should 
 F?n\Vnh„ •"''^ ^?'"H' '^^^, '^'^' ^"^ *^hen, turning to 
 Jorm ^^^^P^^'^' "^^ introduced the new comer as Mr. 
 
 hv W L^"^^"""^ ^f ^^^"^ trying to make us feel creepy 
 by her descnption of your occult powers, Mr. Jerrnvn* 
 said Mrs. Champion, 'but vou dn nnf. JooV ^ "i-- IE' 
 iiig personage.' " - ^ r .^ aiuim- 
 
 «^-v 
 
 ^ulm 
 
 'I'P* 
 
 1' 
 
 -"^ 
 
i4«i 
 
 '■4f» 
 
 i'^ 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. Y7 
 
 J.lt'V''^^?^^''^ 'exaggerated my poor gifts in her inH- 
 mte kindness/ replied /ermyn. wit£ a laugh that had a 
 gnome-hke sound to Mrs. Champion's ear. 
 
 Mr. Jermyn was a pleasant-looking youne man tall 
 shm and fair, with a broad, strongly-iLLdXoT. whth 
 receded curiously above the temples, and with K and 
 moustache of that pale yellowish hue which seems mos 
 appropriate to the faun and satyr ra^jes. SometHng ?n 
 the way this short curling hair was cut about brow and 
 ears, or m the shape of the ears themselves, suggitTd the 
 «atyr type; otherwise there was nothing 'in 1? youn. 
 
 h fr. R-""] ^<^^«\^i"-b/ed and well-dressed men ?f 
 his age His laugh had a fresh and joyous rin^ which 
 made it agreeable to hear, and he laughed often oddn^ 
 at the commonest things in a mirthful spTrit' ^^'"^ 
 Lady Fridolme insisted upon his taking some refresh- 
 
 rtd hiroVt'" ^! ^fi^ ^'^r^ °^ ^ ^'^^^■^'' «he ear- 
 ned him off for a stroll round the lawn, eager to let neo- 
 
 p^e see her latest celebrity. There wa^' alittle buzfof 
 talk, and an obvious excitement in the air a^ he parsed 
 group after group. He had shown himself mrely^in so- 
 ciety, and his few performances had been greatly dfscussed 
 
 gifted with superhuman powera had alternated with let- 
 ters denouncing hima^ an impostor in one of The most 
 popular daily papers. The people who are aWs rSdy 
 to believe m tLe impossible were loud in the assertion o? 
 his good faith, and would not hear of trickery or impos- 
 
 There was an eager expectation of some exhibition of 
 
 Z17.T F •'. f ''^""?' ^^ ^« ^^^k^d across the iLn 
 with Lady Fridolme, and people who had been on the 
 point of departure lingered in the hope of being thriled 
 and frijorhtened. as they hnd J^aa^H o^^lfu.- --"5i T- 
 thrilled and frighten/d.-V 'tiiTs aSiat^^^^^^ 
 with the fair complexion and yellow hair. The vefy in- 
 
 1^ 
 
18 
 
 Tlw World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 w>V 
 
 congruity of that fair and youthful aspect with tho sln.t 
 
 tim'^\^l',''.?^''?"'"*J',°«'''°''™'''™'"'h"'"'«''»"'forsom. 
 t mo, all her duties of leave-t,vking su.sneuded and ,W, 
 all appearance afcorbed in earne.,? cou'^e .m b* witt t| 
 
 ui^j .trhL^theTdyr i:e:^i„-;htf.': 
 .oojgaThir„r;trari':ft;i*r^^ 
 
 Atinosphenca], perhaps,' he answerpri wifli «. lo, u 
 atttatJf /,r ^"-"'""^ - "^ ve^Lp^^t: 
 
 ztef;:rZ'"""- '^"^"'^ ^°'' expiami^rwiihl'i': 
 
 piJ rill' ^°^,\? ^^-^ performance,' said Mrs. Cham- 
 have o"; slare oftr '' '"^ "™'™™' 'o ^^ '>-<l '«' ™ 
 Ge'rlrd! ™' ""^ '"=''"'' °^ y°" "*« *» be read ? ' asked 
 ea^^d?- ^''' '"'• ^ ''^^ *^ '"^ ^''»t "Ode™ magic 
 
 have you to fear from sorcerv ? Thov^ «. ^^^' ^"^'^ 
 
 in your life than a7ll^Tfl5 "^ ' "^' "^''' ''''''^' 
 
 • You are very impertinent.' 
 
 i. 
 
.^v 
 
 i 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 19 
 
 wl^ iT. ^?j°§ away and I can afford to quarrel with you. 
 Would to God I could stir some kind of feeling in you-^ 
 yes, even make you angry before I go.' 
 
 ' ^ am afraid you are an egotist,' she said, smiling at 
 him with lovely, inscrutable eyes. 
 
 She went across the lawn to Lady Fridoline 
 ' Are you going to have any magic ? ' she asked, 
 ^ou must not utter the word before Mr. Jermvn un- 
 less you want to offend him. He has a horror of' any 
 Idea of that kind. He calls his wonderful gift only in- 
 sight, the power to look through the face into the min.j 
 behind it, and from the mind to the life which the mind 
 has shaped and guided. He claims no occult power— on] v 
 a keener vision than the common run of mankind. Ho is 
 going to sit m the library for the next half-hour, and if 
 anybody wants to test his capacity they can go in— one 
 at a time— and talk to him.' '^ -^ -^ s 
 
 Anybody seemed likely to be everybody in this case 
 tor there waa a general and hurried movement towards 
 tne no use. 
 
 'Come,' said Edith Champion, peremptorily, and she 
 and HiUersdon followed the crowd, getting in advance of 
 most people, with swift, vigorous steps. 
 
 The library at Fridoline House was a large room that 
 occupied nearly the whole of one wing. It was ap- 
 proached by a corridor, and Mrs. Champion and her escort 
 tound this corridor choked with people, all eager to in-* 
 terview Mr. Jermyn. 
 
 The approach to the oracle was strongly defended how- 
 ever, by two gentlemen, who had been told off for that 
 purpose, one being a general of Engineers and the other a 
 Professor of Natural Science. 
 
 'We shall never get through this herd,' said Gerard, 
 looking with infinite contempt at the throng of smar! 
 people, all panting foi a new sensation. ' Let us trv the 
 other way. 
 
 He was an intin.ate at Fridoline House, and knew hig 
 
20 The World, TJie Flesh, and TJie Devil. 
 
 way to the small ante-room at the back of the library. 
 If the door of that room were unguarded he and his com- 
 panion might surprise the wizard, and steal a march upon 
 all that expectant frivolity in the corridor. The whole 
 thing was beneath contempt, no doubt, and he, Geraid 
 Hillersdon, was not even faintly interested in it, but 
 it interested Edith Champion, and he was anxious to gra- 
 tify her whim. „ . , ,. , , 
 
 'He led her round by the hall and Lady Fridohnes bou- 
 doir to the room behind the library, oj)ened the door ever 
 so gently, and listened to the voices within. 
 
 ' It is wonderful, positively wonderlul,' said a voice m 
 awe-stricken undertones. , 
 
 ' Are J ou satisfied, Madame ; have I told you enough ? 
 asked Jermyn. 
 
 ' More than enough. You have made me utterly mis- 
 
 erab'e. 
 
 Then came the flutter of a silken skirt, and the open- 
 ing and closing of a door, and then Jermyn looked 
 quickly towards that other door which Hillersdon was 
 holding ajar. 
 
 'Who's there,' he asked. 
 
 • A lady who would like to t^lk with you before you 
 are exhausted by thai clamorous herd in the corridor. 
 May she come to you at once ? ' 
 
 • It is Mrs. Champion,' said Jermyn. ' Yes, let her 
 
 come in.' , , . , ., 
 
 ' He could not possibly have seen me, whispered the 
 lady, who had been standing behind the door. 
 
 ' He divined your presence. He is no more a magician 
 than I am in that matter,' said Hillersdon, as she passed 
 him, and closed the door behind her. 
 
 She came out after a few minutes' conference, much 
 paler than when she entered. 
 
 ' Well, has ho told the lovely doll her latest secret, the 
 mystery of a new gown from Felix or Raumtz ? ' asked 
 Gerard. 
 
II. 
 
 le library. 
 1 hia coin- 
 larch \ipon 
 The whole 
 le, Gerard 
 in it, but 
 )us to gra- 
 
 line's bou- 
 ) door ever 
 
 a voice in 
 
 enough ? ' 
 
 bterly mis- 
 
 . the open- 
 yn looked 
 rsdon was 
 
 before you 
 e corridor, 
 
 es, let her 
 
 spered the 
 
 a magician 
 she passed 
 
 nee, much 
 
 secret, the 
 izV asked 
 
 ■» 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 21 
 
 nr ' ^T^M^ ^®® y°" °^^' ^^ y^^ ^*^^e anything to say to me, 
 Mr. Hillersdon, said Jermyn, airily. 
 
 'I am with you in a moment/ answered Gerard, lin- 
 gering on the threshold, and holding Kdith Champion's 
 hand m both of his. ' Edith, what has ho said to you • 
 you look absolutely frightened.' ' 
 
 • Yes, het has frightened me— frightened me by tellinff 
 me my own thoughts. I did not know I was so full ot 
 sin. Let me go, Gerard. Ue has made me hate myself. 
 He will do as much for you, perhaps ; make you odious 
 in your own eyes. Yes, go to him ; hear all that he can 
 tell you. 
 
 She broke from him, and hurried away, he lookin-^ 
 after her anxiously. Then, with a troubled sigh, he went 
 to hear what this new adept of a doubtful science might 
 have to say to him. 
 
 The library was always in shadow at this hour, and 
 now, with that grey threatening sky outside the long nar- 
 row Queen Anne windows, the room was wrapped" in a 
 wintry darkness, against which the smiling countenance 
 of the diviner stood out in luminous relief. 
 
 'Sit down, Mr. Hillersdon, I am not going to hurry 
 because of that mob outside,' said Jermyn, gaily, throw- 
 ing himself buck in the capacious arm chair, and turnin*^ 
 his beaming face towards Hillersdon. « I am interested 
 m the lady who has just left me, and I am still more 
 deeply interested in you ? ' 
 
 'I ought to feel honoured by that interest,' said Hil- 
 lersdon, ' but I confess to a doubt of its reality. What 
 can you know of a man whom j^ou have seen for the first 
 time within the last half-hour ?' 
 
 'I am so sorry for you,' said Jermyn, ignoriu;? the 
 direct question, 'so sorry. A young man of your natural 
 gilts— clever, handsome, well-bred— to be so tired of life 
 already, so utterly despondent of the future and all its 
 infanite chances, that you are going to throw up the 
 sponge, and make an end of it all to-night. It is really 
 too sad. ^ 
 
^2 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 II i 
 
 Hillersdon stared at him in IWnnL- 
 
 Jermyn made tho statement,, "inu"tre"?l"'''"^'''- ^^^•• 
 thing m the world thaf h« i i ,^ '^ *^'''' '"^''^^ ''''t'>'-'<l 
 young man's inTention ^'""^'^ ''^^^ ^^^^°'"^^* the 
 
 from rtTaS S^^^Te^^^ 'T ^^^T' ^^^^^ ^^ ^" 
 my history or my tnnearnnoIfV . ""^ "^^^^ '« ^^'^^^ "i 
 conjecture ? ' ^ ^PPea'^-nce that moves yon to this mid 
 
 anlwrdltmy^ttf^Pf^^ 
 
 right. You are^one ?f mv eaX",'; ^'""^ ^ ^^^^'« ^^^^ yoi 
 you is obvious-sta^es^^f, f • '.f 'V ^^^^'^thing about 
 has just Jeft us needed a s^,S '"^ *'" ^^'"' '^^^ ^^^^y wlm 
 She is not one of those wl o wf P^'' .^^ ^"terpretation. 
 •sleeves; and vet IfM^^ v^""''- '^'^ ^^^^''^^ "Pon their 
 
 her. As for yfu 1 d ^^ l^lw ' ^ "^^'"'' ^^"' ^ ^^^^'t'^' 
 because I want to^revent vlZ'. ""^ P^^'^i^^J^' ly frank 
 notion of yours, iillas' anr? r^'^J^.r,^"^ '^^^^ ^°"li«'^ 
 can do with his life is'to tlT"^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ '^ --> 
 
 < L'uThin? ?r^ ''^^' '^ °ff«r «^e ai vice ' 
 tell^LS,^ :Ai^^^ I am a fortune 
 
 tune, Mr. Hillersd1>n;if vou 1 L V *'• , ^"" ^^"^ ^■^''- 
 your present intentiin-yet awhill^" ^'^K^''^ ^^''^^ '>"t 
 •"anner you have plannr? ct!'?^^^'^'^''^^ and 
 mis^ed his visitor w?Lh a c telo^.^ afternoon.' He di.- 
 the <h.orconun„nicatinc. wXth^r -f ^''' l"'" '^ «?«" 
 bu.z of eager voices, mIxTd w h vZT' ''^""" ^'^"^^ «' 
 were prepared to beC'tM ye^ cS n^lf ^ ^^«P'« 
 ;yhoIe business in a somewW WnT '^- ^'"J regard tli. 
 
 tlie select few who gax^S n t-- ''"' - "^'^ °"^>' 
 powe]-. ^ ^ "^^^tm Jermyn credit for occult 
 
 Edith Champion was one of th.. h j 
 London, a women wh<«o p^.o^^ess ^^1^"^'^ ^"™^" "^ 
 parties and pnhlicr,atherfnc??hv . u l T^ at all great 
 multitude. whi.spe'Hn/he;'' ' [: ^""^ P* ''^ admirin. 
 
 formed that the beaudf^ da'k ^Tj?!,*^^^'"- !^'" '""n- 
 
 u.u w eyed vroman with the ta 
 
 ii. 
 
The World, The Flcah, and TJie Devil 23 
 
 "^^""u^^^l ^""^ ^*' ^^'^ ^^S" Champion. Four voars a-o 
 she had been one of a trio of lovely^ Histers. the Ctm 
 of an impecunious Yorkshire squire, a man who had wast'S 
 a fine fortune on the turf, and was ending his days inX 
 and difficulty at a moated grange in ?he W,S Al ing 
 The three lovely sisters were such obviously marlcetZ; 
 property that aunts and uncles ^^ere quick to complsn?, 
 ate their forlorn condition, and they were dufr 1^0 le I 
 m London society. The two elder were your.f.w men o 
 singular calmness and perspicuity, and^^ot Ihem^e Ive 
 well married, the first to a wealthy baronet, the second to 
 a marquis, without giving trouble to anybody concern^ 
 m the transaction ; but the youngest giH E/Uth showe 
 herself wayward and wilful, and ex^pre sed n a bC^ -d 
 desire to marry Gerald HilLrsdon. the mnn she loved 
 This desire was frustrated, but not so promptly a^ t 
 
 heriuL'hmenT;?!- *'^ ^"""^ Y^ eont'rive.Fto^rake 
 her attachment public property before uncles or aunts 
 
 n? wiril'^ the flowers of sentiment under the heavy foo 
 of worldly wisdom. But the sentiment was crushed soine 
 
 wblfc .Hisrl'.H"'%""' ^''^ '''^ '"^"^ ^^^-' ' "with 
 what gulish pleading for mercy, and the season after this 
 
 foolish entanglement Edith Champion accepted the ad 
 
 whTmale' « T'y «^^«'^^^t- -nd reputed^nillion. re. 
 who made a handsomer settlement than the astute mar- 
 quis had made on her elder sister. 
 Mr. Champion was good natured and unsuspicious his 
 
 lZi^'^''w^'t'fl ^^'^^"^'^^ "^ ^l^^t exciting ru" .: o 
 wealth, which had been the business of his life from boy- 
 hood. ^ He wanted a beautiful wife as the ornament of his 
 declmmg years, and the one thing needed to complete the 
 costly home which he had built for himself on I heathy 
 SusTcx'^'tL' 'T romantic hills where Surrey overlook^ 
 bussex. The wife was the final piece of furn ture to be 
 chosen for this palaco, and he had chosen that croirin" 
 orn.mm.t lu a very deliberate and leisure! v manne'r He 
 was the ta man to plague himself by any foolish specula- 
 
I 
 
 24 TU World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 tions as to the sentimcutH of the lady so honoured, or to 
 bo harassed by doubts of her fidelity/ Ho had uo ob ection 
 to seeing h,s wife surrounded by youthful admirers-w^ 
 
 «Lfr„ S"" M ^ ^. ""'^'"'f '^' ^' '""•■'' "-^ 1"« pictures and 
 statues? He found no fault with the chosen band of 
 
 fhfL v^' I'^^V'H"^^^^ her afternoon at home, or filled 
 the back of her box between the acts at opera-house or 
 
 hin ll^^^K ^'^'^'6 Hi'l^rsdon were more co stan 
 if" -? •."'?.''-^''' '" ^'' attendance the fact never pre- 
 .jented Itself in any unplea.sant light to Mr. Champion. 
 Ha^ he given himself the trouble to think about his wife's 
 relations with her cavaliere servente he would most T 
 sured y had told himself that she wa^ much To wd 
 placed to overstep the limits of prudence, and that no 
 woman m her right senses would abandon a pakce °n 
 Surrey and a model hor.se in Hertford-street forihe car^ 
 avansenes that lodge the divorcde. He would have^e- 
 membered also with satisfaction that his wife's settle- 
 ment, liberal as it was. would he made null and void bv 
 an elopement. ^ 
 
 And thus for three years of his life-perhaps the three 
 best and brightest years in a irmn's life, from twenty fiv^ 
 to twenty-eight---Gerard Hillersdon had given up a^liii 
 thoughts, aspirations, and drea.ns to the mo«t hope'e s of 
 ah love affairs, an attachment to a virtuous mar led wo- 
 ma^. a woman who had accepted her lot a., an unloving 
 wife and who meant to do her duty, in hei ow:.: cr'dTnd 
 nieasured way to an unluved husband ; yet ni... .'. ,; to 
 the memory of a girlish love and fost^rH I th. pai^ioS ^ 
 her lover, caring, or at least seeming to care. nStlirfor 
 his^peace, and never estimatit.g theVong sh;^.!; dting 
 
 ^ nTV^^^ °"® P^^^'^" everything in the young man's life 
 t'a'-itrtr .I^^^'-^Wm hfs cafe^Xfi^ 
 
 ^a- W^«? ? ofession, and m the first fiush of his 
 . -a. iu.o<i he ha 1 done some really good work in imagin- 
 
I The Devil 
 
 ^ so honoured, or to 
 Ho had uo objection 
 thful admirers — wn« 
 h as Ills pictures and 
 the chosen band of 
 )ou at home, or filled 
 a at opera-house or 
 svei'o more constant 
 the fact never pre- 
 t to Mr. Champion, 
 link about his wife's 
 he would most as- 
 vas much too well 
 ience, and that no 
 )andon a palace in 
 l-street for the car- 
 3e would have re- 
 -t his wife's settle- 
 e null and void by 
 
 • 
 
 —perhaps the three 
 J, from twenty-five 
 ad given up all his 
 he most hopeless ot 
 rtuous married wo- 
 lot as an unloving 
 1 hex own co'd and 
 ; y.^i'^haelung to 
 ert ' f;! ,:, passion of 
 o care, nothing for 
 •ong she was doing 
 
 e young man's life 
 his career stuficd 
 ;ity to succeed in 
 first flush of lij.s 
 d work in imagin- 
 
 The World, The FUnh, and The Devil 25 
 
 ativo litotv.tnrc, and had made his brief success as an ori- 
 
 Z^i:'^''^\' ''T"/'^i J'S^' ^^ ^°"^J^. unconvTn?rona"' 
 ".the had been drifted into idleness by a woman who 
 o,ttcd h.m as some Queen or Princess in the dayJo? 
 chivalry might have treated her page. She spdft Ms 
 career, ,ust when a lasting success w^ within fis reach 
 needing only eamostness and industry on his nart Sh« 
 had wasted the goklen days of his y^uth, aXd given 
 h m in exchange only smiles and sweet words, and a dace 
 ut her dinner table in a house where he had losraH pres! 
 
 j,mest wu.sc presence counted for nothing. He had been 
 
 nail things her slave, ofiending the people she disliked 
 
 a.Ki wasting his attention and h^L substance on her favour! 
 
 Jbdish.' to her caprice of the hour, were it nevlrso 
 
 And now af ^er three years of this fond slavery the 
 
 ru 1.^ H«T' , ^' T'- '"r^' ^^^ ^^« worse^thaS 
 nin.d. He ha.l been living from hand to mouth, wrU- 
 
 ng for magazines and newspapers, earning a good deal 
 
 o ruoney in a casual way, butnever enough L keep him 
 
 out of debt ; and now he saw bankruptcy staring h im S 
 
 btrdedr-^^ bankruptcy dishonour, Vhe h^adg^r^ 
 bling debts which, as the son of a country parson he oxiXt 
 
 nSrto^^a^^^"^"""^'' ^"^ -^^^^ '' woV£r;t' 
 
 ihu: this scandal been his only rock ahead, he mi^ht 
 i.ave trejited it as other men hav^ treated such dark eVi 
 odes. He might have told himself that England is Zl 
 the world, and that there is always room fo? youth and 
 daring under the tropic stars, and that the name wUh 
 which a man has been lablod at starting in life S n^so 
 interwoven with his being that he need mind changit it 
 for another, and giving himself a fresh start. HeSt 
 have reasoned thus had he still f«lh f.h« aIv.^! ^fl 
 
 facet nn^'.'i" ^^^?,*"r«r live down slam'elnd sethS 
 lace to untrodden worlds across the 
 
 B 
 
 sea. But he had no 
 
26 The World, The Flesh and The DevU. 
 
 such delight. The zest of life had gone out of him. 
 Love Itself had lost all fervor. He hardly knew whether 
 he cared any more for the woman to whom he had sacri- 
 ficed his.yr,uth, whether the flame of love had not expired 
 . altoijether amidst the vanity of two conventional exis- 
 tences. The only thing which he knew for certain was 
 h;.t he loved no other woman, and that he took no in- 
 t'rrest in Jife adequate to the struggle it would cost him 
 (o live through the crisis that was coming. 
 
 And thus with all serious and deliberate consideration. 
 I'o had decided upon a sudden exit from a scene which 
 iio longer interested him. Yet with a curious inconsist- 
 ency he wanted to spend his last hours in Edith Cham- 
 pion s society, and never had he seemed gayer or happier 
 than ho seemed that evening at the triangular dinner in 
 lloi-tlord street. 
 
 They were dining in a little octagon room at the back 
 ot the house, a room upholstered like a tent, and furnished 
 in so Oriental a fashion that it seemed a solecism to be 
 sitting u^on chairs, and not to be eating pillau or Kibobs 
 with one 8 fingers. The clerical cousin was a very agree- 
 able personage-plump and rosy, strongly addicted to 
 good living, and looking upon the beautiful Mrs. Cham- 
 pion as a person whose normal state was to be adored bv 
 ^latio'^ >'°"°^ n^en, and to dispense hospitality to poor 
 
 Not a word was said about Justin Jermyn throughout 
 he dinner but while Gerard was helping Mrs. Champion 
 to put on her cloak she asked suddenly ; 
 
 « v"^ u"^ ^^^ ^®^ ^" ^^^^ ^^^ Fate-reader ?' 
 Very badly. He struck me as an insolent /arcmr I 
 worker society can encourage such a person.' 
 *i, \T'' 'f ^^ecidedly insolent. I was rather scared bv 
 the things he sa.d to me, but a few minutes' thought 
 showed inf^ that his talk was mere guess work. I shall 
 never ask him to any partv of mine.' 
 
 * You muse have rushed"away in a great hurry. I was 
 
The World, The Flesh, and Tlie Devil. 27 
 
 It was abject slavery/ protested Mrs Gresliam ' < 1 '. 
 
 na<je. where f hpr^ x,roc. ; / *"® ^^7 ^^ her car- 
 
 theimnt seat '''''* '"^"^ '"""^^ ^^^ ^ferard on 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 "Through a glass darkly." 
 
 HE opera house was brilliantly filled. There 
 ; were a great many important'^funefcLs gofn! 
 
 ^^ have too much Mozart are onl v Hip mT,?. -^ ^^ 
 
 -'•!^!llf !i<xvc UC'Cn. • •" 
 
28 Ths World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 al'rTwrP'"'?"'- ^h ''^^ ^'^''''^ ^'^^ that careless 
 a r which was her specialty, m some filmy fabric of daffo- 
 
 h irin!^' X't ^^^L ^^fpg-d in loose folds across her 
 bust and shoulders the folds caught here and there, as if 
 at random with a diamond star." A great cluster of ye - 
 ow orchids was fastened on one shoulder, and there were 
 yellow orchids pinned on her black lace fan, while loner 
 black gloves gave rather a touch of eccentricity to he? 
 toilette Her one object in dressing herself was to be dif- 
 terent from other women. She never wore the fashion- 
 able colour or the fashionable fabric, but gloried in oppo- 
 sition, and took infinite pains to find something in Sis 
 or Vienna which nobody was wearing in London. 
 
 Ihe awe-inspiring music which closes the second act 
 and seems to presage the horror of the scenes that arj 
 coming, was hurrying to its brilliant finish, when Gerard 
 looking id y down upon the stalls, started at sight of the 
 man who had mystified him more than any othir human 
 being had ever done. There, lounging \n his place be- 
 tween two unoccupied seats, he saw Mr. Jermyn, appar- 
 ^tK ^"J«y!?g tl^e music with that keen enthusiLm 
 which only the real music-lover can feel. His head was 
 thrown back, his thin, pale lips, were slightly parted, and 
 his large blue eyes beamed with rapture. Yes, a man 
 who^passionately loved music, or else a most consummate 
 
 The very presence of the man called Gerard Hillersdon 
 
 to the business which was to be done after the green cur- 
 
 tain had fallen, and his fair companions had been handed 
 
 into their carriage. Ten minutes in a hansom, and he 
 
 would be in his lodgings, and there would be no excuse 
 
 ror delay. ^ His time would have come before the clock of 
 
 bt James Church struck midnight. He had looked at 
 
 his pistol-case involuntarily when he had dressed for the 
 
 evening. He knew where it stood ready to his hand and 
 
 close besidft thfini-«tnl-^o.o .^^c „ v,o;--^f^, ki- i Vf "r"^ 
 
 ,. , - — i — s.-- .^,.... Ado ct Dasiiiuss-iike letter from 
 
 his landioi'Q requesting the settlement of a long account 
 
I. 
 
 t careless 
 JofdafFo- 
 cross her 
 ere, as if 
 3r of yel- 
 lere were 
 'hile long 
 y to her 
 to be dif- 
 fashion- 
 in oppo- 
 in Paris 
 
 3ond act, 
 that are 
 I Gerard, 
 tit of the 
 ' human 
 )lace be- 
 , appar- 
 husiasm 
 5ad was 
 led, and 
 a man 
 iimmate 
 
 llersdon 
 >en cur- 
 handed 
 and he 
 excuse 
 slock of 
 >ked at 
 for the 
 nd, and 
 3r from 
 ccount 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 2& 
 
 for rent and maintenance— only such br^otfao^ i 
 ■ ual meals as a voun^ man of f .i,- 1 ^^^^kfasts and cas- 
 
 - which had iCunterto fo"^^^^^ '^^^ 
 
 inconvenienceTsflSstra^^^^^^^^^^ 9^ a suicide; but the 
 ent to him and he fplf fW ?. ^A^''''^ ^^'^ ^^^ ^ppar- 
 act of a pur:5;^tm^^r "^T^^^^Z^^^ 
 
 him^hTtt^^^Kn^^^ 
 
 would pride Self unon th;^ f I ^^e modern sorcerer 
 
 when tL evening Lp^eTtXm^^^^^^ 
 
 Ltsbiii. ^^^^L^^-^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 :teert:j^et^^^^^^^^ sol 
 
 hau^nute^?s7hots\fe'fe'^^^^^^^ -fl^ed to 
 sorcerer all through the to a Ut Z tZ't^l^ ^ 
 
 tfe^li3«ott^,l^^^^^^ 
 
 Giovanni, how he rockfdrml^ wU^^^^^^^ "^^°" 
 
 ject terror of LepereHo No ot anm-S ''.•' ^^'' •'^^- 
 
 'And that laughing fool' read my purpose as if m.. K • 
 while ho was conducting MrM" PI,? • ^'^^ ^^"ecd round 
 
' I 
 
 80 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 and the Fate-reader's gnome-like countenance smiling at 
 nim under an opera hat. 
 
 ♦ 1 am .nrry you are leaving London so soon,' said Mrs. 
 Uiampion, as he lingered at the carriage door for the one 
 Half-mmute allowed by the Jack in office at his elbow. 
 
 V • u i-^^T^ *" ^^^ ^^^^' ^"^ ®ven pressed the hand 
 which held hers, with more sentiment than she was wont 
 to show. 
 
 'Drive on coachman/ shouted the Commissionaire. No 
 time for sentimental partings there ! 
 ^ Hillersdon walked out of the covered colonnade mean- 
 ing to pick up the first hansom that ofiered itself He 
 Jiad not gone three steps along the Bowstreet pavement 
 when Jermyn was close beside him. 
 
 'Are you going home, Mr. Hillersdon ? ' he asked, in a 
 triendly tone. ' Delightful opera, " Don Giovani," ain't it ? 
 1 he best out and away. " Faust " is my next favourite : 
 but even Gounod can't touch Mozart.' 
 
 • Tdaresay not ; but I am no connoisseur. Good night 
 Mr. Jermyn. I am going home immediately.' 
 
 'Don't ; come and have some supper with me. I only 
 halt told your fortune this afternoon, you were so deucedly 
 impatient. I have a good deal more to tell you. Copae 
 and have some supper in my chambers.* 
 HMHh^^^^' "^^^*' P^^^aps, Mr. Jermyn. I am going 
 
 Ti.'4"^ ??" "^*» ^^'^^ere shall be no other nighls in your 
 me ? said Jermyn, in a low, silky voice that made Hillers- 
 (ion «avage, for it jarred upon his irritated nerves more 
 than the liarshest accents could have done. 
 
 'Good night,' he said curtly, turning on his heel 
 
 Jermyn was not to be repulsed. 
 
 'Come home with me,' he said, 'I won't leave you 
 while you have the suicide's line on your forehead. Come 
 to supper with me, Hillersdon. I have a brand of cham- 
 pape that will smooth out that ugly wrinkle, if you'll 
 only give the stuff a fair trial.' . > ^i 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 31 
 
 * I don't know where you live, and I don't care a jot for 
 your wines or anybody else's. I am leaving town to-mor- 
 row morning, and I want my last hours in London for 
 my own purposes.' 
 
 Jermyn put his arm through Hillersdon's, wheeled him 
 around in the direction of Longacre, and quietly led him 
 away. That was his answer to Hillersdon's testy speech 
 and the young man submitted, feeling a vis inertice 
 a languid indifference which made him consentient to 
 a stranger's will, having lost all will power of his 
 own. 
 
 He was angry with Jermyn, yet even more angry with 
 himselt, and in that stormy sense of indignation, tem- 
 pered curiously with supineness, he took but little note of 
 which way they went. He remembered going by Lin- 
 coln s Inn Fields and the Turnstile. He remembered 
 crossing Holborn, but knew not afterwards whether the 
 shabby, squalid looking inn beneath whose gloomy gate- 
 house Jermyn led him did, or did not, open directly out of 
 the great thoroughfare. 
 
 _ He remembered always that it was a most dismal look- 
 ing concatenation of tall, shabby houses, forming a quad- 
 rang 9, m whose stony centre there was a dilapidated 
 basin, which might once have been a fountain. The 
 summer moon, riding high and fast amid wind-tossed 
 clouds, shone full into the stony yard, and lit up the 
 shabby fronts of th3 houses, but not one lamp-lit window 
 cheered with the suggestion of life and occupation. 
 
 ' Do you mean to say you live in this ghastly hole ? ' he 
 exclaimed, speaking for the first time since they left Bow- 
 street; 'it looks a? if it were tenanted by a company of 
 
 'A good many of the houses are empty, and I daresay 
 the ghosts of dead usurers and dishonest lawyers and 
 broken-hearted clients do have a hicrh time in fh- nV^ 
 rooms now and again,' answered Jermyn, with his irre- 
 pressible laugh -but I have never seen any company 
 
li 
 
 32 m World, The Flesh, and Tlie Devil 
 
 but rats, mice and such small deer, as BacoL .ays. Of 
 course h, was Bacon We're all agreed upon thaT 
 
 Hillorsdon ignored this frivolity, and stood dumbly 
 while Jermyn put his key into a door, opened it. an^ed 
 the way into a passage that was pitch dark Not a 
 pleasant situation to be alone in a dark passage at mid^ 
 night m a scarcely inhabited block of buildin^s^quite cut 
 off from he rest of the world with a man whose r7pute 
 was decidedly diabolical. repute 
 
 Jermyn struck a match and lighted a small hand-lamp 
 
 which improved the situation just a little. ^' 
 
 Ihis is my den,' he said, 'and I have made the clace 
 
 outiL''"" ^'''^^'^°'^^'' '^'"^^ ''' l«°ks rather u3ny 
 
 He led the way up an old oak staircase, narrow shabbv 
 
 and unadorned but oak-panelled, and thereforr'prec^Kfs 
 
 o? the eanS ' '" "" swiftly vanishing Sff the face 
 
 moT^'^.^,^'^^^^ ^^"'P ^^^^ ^"*^ just ienough light to 
 
 to a'lln'|-'^''^"r "V.^^" '^^''^^^^ ^^^ible, 111 they came 
 to a landmg where the moon looked in through the 
 murky panes of a tall window, and anon to a Timber 
 landing, where a vivid streak of lamplight under a door 
 gave the first token of habitation. Jer^^myn opened S 
 door, and his guest stood half blinded by the brilliant 
 light and not a little astonished by the igant luiuTy 
 
 Trlwo ""? ''?T/' T°^^ ^"^^ ^^^^ other iith a wide 
 archway, which Mr. Jermyn had called his ' den ' 
 
 Hillersdon had been in many bachelor-rooms within 
 
 the preemts of The Albany, in Picadilly. St. Jam;s? and 
 
 Mayfair. but he had seen nothing more studiously Tuxuri- 
 
 ous than the Fate-reader's den." Heavy velvet curtaL 
 
 oi darkish green, draped the shuttered windo^ The 
 
 Sf T 7"' q^r^f ^^'*^^°' ^^^fo'-table, the glistening 
 tiles were decorated with storks and seabirds. which mirrht 
 have been painted by Stacey Marks him.elf. Tlie furni 
 
l%e World, The Flesh, and 7%e Devil. 33 
 
 choicest spacimens of Indian Ind ItSn^^Le ' Th« 
 pictures were few A Tn^io^ u,, m-t """"^ ware. ihe 
 
 The muer room was furnished as a librarv TK. 
 the lamps were shadprl anA +1,^ r i.^ ""/^^y* Ihere 
 
 little supper '^5'TOcov"^rT'"^™™'^ '"•■» •*»*"'/ 
 truffled p'£ anrn,Su1o trk hl\tLTe*Vj 
 strawberries, peaches, champagne in "' bra™ 'l'*^-'!' 
 
 "■^^rrvtfh^-^ttv^^^^^^ 
 
 otte';^ffl*'T Pnn^weSt-^S^^^^H 
 "''"^^- '-'""ets, salmi aux olives ' hp Qfl^ri i;**:« xi^^ 
 
 ers; 'which may I give you ? ' ' "^ *^® ^'^^^ 
 
 may give you an appS.' ^^ *^^* ^^^i^' ^^ 
 
 fflassor^np ''w'^ h'rnself opposite his host and took a 
 fcrt r^oun^inr^^^^^^ 1^^^^ by ^he^Fal! 
 
 had to do m?4t Tr> V f "' *^^ *^^^°^ ^^^°^ ^^ 
 not help be?ng interested in fhf '^ ''^ ^""^•«- ^« <^«"Jd 
 
 by instinct ov C^hZ^'"' J!^' ^i?"?§ .T^"' ^^^ ^^^^^ 
 J *- "X oy a nappy guess had fathomed his pur- 
 
34 ne World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 pose. The luxury of these rooms piq ued him, so striking 
 u contrast with the shabbinessof his own West End lodg- 
 ing, albeit the lodging was far from cheap. He was 
 supposed to pay for ' situation.' Of luxury he had notliinff 
 of comfort very little. How did Jermyn contrive .o be 
 so well ofi, ho wondered ? Did he live by Fate-readinir 
 or had he means of his own ? 
 
 Jermyn was eating his supper all this while, and with 
 a hne appetite and an epicurean gusto. After a couple 
 ot glasses of Madeira, his guest helped himself to loljster 
 salad, and when Jermyn opened the champagne the two 
 naen were hob-nobbing comfortably, and, that wine bmng 
 choice of Its kind and admirably iced, HiUersdou drank 
 the best part ot a bottle, and found himself enioyin.T his 
 supper more than he had enjoyed anything in the way of 
 meat and drink for a long time. 
 
 The conversation during supper was of the lightest. 
 Jermyn letting off his criticisms, mostly unfavourable, 
 upon people known to them both, and laughing tremen- 
 dously at hjs own wit. He was careful not to mention 
 Mrs. Champion, however, and Hillersdon had no objection 
 to spatter mud upon the ruck of his acquaintance. Sup- 
 per over, and a box of cigars open between them, with a 
 Sliver spirit lamp shaped like a serpent offering its 
 flaming jaws for their use, the men grew more senous 
 It was past one o'clock. They had been a long time over 
 their supper, and they seemed no longer strangers- 
 intimates, rather, not united by any particular estelm for 
 each ether, but one in their contempt for other people 
 
 Ihe champagne has wiped out that ugly wrinkle 
 already, said Jermyn, with his friendly air; 'and now tell 
 
 ""^Yr?^^ ^"^^ '""^"^^ y^"^ *o contemplate such a thing' 
 What thing ? a.sked Hillersdon, waxing moody 
 Jermyn 8 reply was pantomimic. He passed his hand 
 across his throat, significant of a razor; he turned his 
 hand towards hh open mouth, suggestive of a pistol ; he 
 tossed on an imaginary poison cup. 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil S5 
 
 angHly" '"'''* "^"'^ «"ggesting-' began Hillersdon. 
 ' I tell you I saw it in your face. The man who con- 
 templates suicide has a look which no man who Teads the 
 hu.rmn countenance can nustake. There ,s I fixeThorror 
 in the eyes, as of one who stares into the unknown and 
 knows that he s nearing the mystery of Hfe and death 
 1 r^^'^. perplexed lines about the brow 'shall Tn; 
 shall . not ? ' and there is a nervous hurrv as of ^1 'i? 
 wants to get a disagreeable business Ss soon as mav 
 he I have never been mistaken vet in /Tr? w/ 
 Why, my dear fellow, why ? Sm^lv hfe nf 1; L °^^' 
 twenty is too precious a th^ng i^Ztl^^J^^Ct 
 
 whi^rii^^ ^1^^^ '^ '^^^ the means by 
 
 abirtTv^^tg; ^IJ^I^lJi-sr"^^^ '^-y 
 
 and wouldU/r be dead'fi ^S' " ^P— «• 
 lake it so, li you please ' 
 
 It. So long as a man is alive there is always a oh^lTf 
 becoming a millionairp S,. u,. O'lwa^s a chance of 
 
 waa^ap di. a f.U.e that iLvIYnl SVoTtriS'^ 
 y ricn man a service which might 
 
36 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 prompt him — when distributing superfluous thousands — 
 to leave a few to you ? ' 
 
 ' Never, within my recollection.' 
 
 ' Come, now, looking back at your life, is there no acts 
 in it of which you might fairly be proud, no touch of the 
 iieroic, no deed worthy a paragraph in the papers ? ' 
 
 ' None. I once saved an old man's life, but I doubt if 
 the life were worth saving ; since the old wretch did not 
 trouble himself to thank me for having risked my own 
 life in his service.' 
 
 'You saved an old man's life at hazard of your own! 
 Come, that sounds heroic,' cried Jerniyn, flinging his fair 
 head back against the blackish green of the velvet chair 
 cover, and laughing with all his might. The black bust 
 showed a little to the left, above the level oi ais head, 
 and it seemed to Hiller&don that the black face was 
 laughing as broadly as the white one. 
 
 ' Tell me the whole story — pray now — it sounds abso- 
 lutely heroic,' urged Jermyn. 
 
 ' There is very little to tell,' replied Hillersdon coolly. 
 ' Nothing either to laugh at or to be thrilled by. I did 
 only what any other active young man would have done 
 in my position, seeing a feeble old man in peril of imme- 
 diate death. It was at Nice. You know what a wilder- 
 ness of iron the railway station there is, and how one has 
 to hunt about for one's train. It was at carnival time, 
 dusk, and a great many people were going back to Can- 
 nes, I myself among them. The old man had arrived 
 from another train going eastwards, and was making for 
 the platform, when a great, high engine bore steadily 
 down upon him, by no means at express speed, but fast 
 enough to paralyse him, so that instead of getting out of 
 the way, he stood staring, hesitating, helpless. An instant 
 more and that vast mass of iron would have cut him 
 down and dashed ihe life out of him. I had but time to 
 drag him out of the track before the engine passed me, 
 brushing my shoulder as it went by. I took nim to the 
 
)unds abso- 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 37 
 
 hid a'i'i^' f^^-?^ ^"^°"? ^^'^ ^^^«" «»r adventure. I 
 mdafnendwith me at the station, with whom I Imrl 
 
 ewlf off" ^rT^^?-''^*^?' ^"^ ^'^^ had in" ted : 
 
 l^rtKldtanl^tet^S^^^^^ 
 
 "^A\7th:Xf ', ' ^^"^^.^ ^y ttlkt of m^^^^^ 
 ^ And the oJd churl never thanked you ? ' 
 
 he felt himself a^urieved bpPRn«« T v. ^1 ^^^V^^'^ 
 umbrella as welSimself ' ^""^ '^^^ "'^'""^ ^^« 
 
 ' Was he English, do you think ? ' 
 
 at h^iZ^Jl^'^'T- ^ Frenchma.1 or Italian would 
 at lea^t have been loquacious, if not grateful.' 
 
 'He fonnf "^^y^^r^ ^"ade him speechless.' 
 < Tr J f 1 f'^f t ^? S^"/"^ ^f^«»' ^'« umbrella.' 
 
 ' Y n «^{ ''''■^ 'r^^ ^^'■'^^ 3-our while to 1 ve ' ^ 
 tune^do ^orpTd&rer • ^^^^ ^^'^ '' ^^^ ^- 
 
 powlPofin2ht"'f'''^;,'P'.^^^- I «"ly P-foss the 
 going to ha pen to hi" ' W ""^^^ ™^" ^^^"'^"^ ^^^^ is 
 is fare, I havrbe n ^T LY ^" T ""'">' '-'''"' ^'"^^'^''tor 
 about the fuTut^?"^ ^^^^'^ ^'^"^^ shrewd .uessen 
 
 ' And in my case, what are your o-uesses ? ' 
 
 ; I would rather not tell yovf' " 
 Ihe outlook is not satisfactory, theu ?' 
 
88 
 
 Th£ World, The Flesh, and The Demi. 
 
 Not altogetlier. The character of a man who ateiffht- 
 am -twen y can contemplate suicide a« the choice way out 
 -I us eu.b;imissn,ont.s is not a character that promises 
 well. 1 am frank, you see.' 
 
 ' Vastly frank.' 
 
 ' J^""'fc be angry ' laughed Jermyn ; ' I pretend to be no 
 hero myself, and If i were very Wd up. or very much 
 bored, I daresay I too, might think of a bullet or a dose 
 ot prussic acid. Only that kind of idea argues a char- 
 acter at once weak an^ selfish. The man who takes 
 his own hfe runs away from the universal battle, and 
 shows a selfish indifference to those he leaves behind in 
 whose mmds the memory of his death will be a lastin*^ 
 pam. o 
 
 i i^^f^T °^«*^< sighed Hillersdon, recognizing the 
 truth of this assertion. ^ 
 
 ' You would have killed yourself because you were 
 ennuied and unhappy ; because you have wasted oppor- 
 tunities, and given the best years of your life to a hope- 
 less passion. Your reasons were not strong enough • and 
 even if I were not here to demonstrate your follyfl think 
 your hand must have faltered at the last moment, and you 
 Tf^^r «11 rT^'^ yourself-Is the outlook so very black 
 V after all ? Does not one gleam of light pierce the dark- 
 
 ' The outlook is as black aa pitch,' answered Hillersdon 
 expandmg under the influence of the wineTie had drunk 
 so freely, ready now to talk to this acquaintance of a day 
 as It he were his bosom friend and companion of years- 
 there is not a gleam of light, not one ! I have wasted 
 my chances ; I have frittered away whatever talent or 
 capacity 1 may have possessed when I left the University 
 1 am a dependant upon a father who can ill afford me the 
 shabbiest maintenance, and to whom I ought to be a help 
 rather than a burden. I have been-and must be as lonl 
 as i live— Che slave of a woman who exacts servitude and 
 gives nothing— whose heart and mind after years of closest 
 
')eml. 
 
 who at eight- 
 hoice way out 
 that promises 
 
 >tend to bo no 
 r very much 
 llet or a dose 
 rguea a char- 
 ti who takes 
 1 battle, and 
 
 35 behind, in 
 be a lasting 
 
 cognizing the 
 
 36 you were 
 rasted oppor- 
 fe to a hope- 
 Bnough; and 
 eoUy, I think 
 lent, and you 
 o very black 
 *ce the dark- 
 
 i Hillersdon, 
 e had drunk 
 nee of a day 
 on of years; 
 have wasted 
 ir talent or 
 ! University, 
 iffbrdmethe 
 to be a help 
 ist be as lons^ 
 3rvitude and 
 ars of closest 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Demi. 39 
 
 association are still mysteries to me; who will not own 
 that she loves mo, yet will not let mo go ' 
 
 Mrs. Champion is a ron.ark.iMy dovor woman ' said 
 
 J.rmyn coolly; '|>ut there arc depths which you' havo 
 
 .over fathomed under that cal../and virZxl'JZ 
 
 . ., li ^^^^^^^- ^^ *:hat hopeless attachment is vour onlv 
 timible. I snap my lingers at the necessity of suS A 
 day an hour may brng you face to face with a woman 
 whose influence will make you forget Kdith Cham- 
 
 J, ^°" ]?''^ T "-''^ to make free with Mrs. Chamnion's 
 ovTmytfe^'^ ^^" '"^^ '''^' «^« ^- any 3^ 
 ' I know what all the world knows-your world of Mav 
 Fa.r and Belgravia. Hyde Park and South Kensin^/ton 
 
 years of whi^h yof coi^L^^U^tT: afe w^^ 
 fair, to love whom would^^be a les. abject servitrdeD^ 
 ^riXtitSl Sen'??' ^^Pii'-P^^ow^S 
 ^ Gretchen at her spinning wheel.' 
 Orretchen at her wheel belongs to the opera I fancv 
 
 rTolVnTofa, ,*; ^"T"""' T^ '"'™ been Aphmdite 
 
 that Sll" it'Z, Tnoi ?' »"n''- "" '"''"'"■ 
 
 at that face the f lfn„w„ f „ , ^•""l"'' hillersdon. look 
 
 a «irf stooped >• povTrtv bru"i^,1 / '^''}~^^^ ^""' °^ 
 better off in the ^vAril'^'T '^! ^ " t*'""'' ^"^ "° 
 fragile form bendin„ „V l:^™iine.sa. Look at that 
 
 subltituHor the"pi2w»rT^T'^l""''' ""^ ■""<'«™ 
 me spinning wheel. Look at me, Hillera- 
 
40 
 
 Th^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 don, repeated Jeimyn, fixing him with those cold calm 
 b ue eyes from which there radiated a sudden thriuS 
 
 riuence that steeped Gerard Hillersdon's senses in f 
 dreamy light as of worlds and atmospheres unknown 
 'and now look yonder.' ^ "UK-nown, 
 
 He waved his hand carelessly toward the inner room 
 where m the subdued light Hillersdon saw the W^S 
 
 W I'd^ u'"^' ^^™' T^ ""^^'^ ^^ «^<^' ^'^1 then d^telop. 
 S^t. fe^T^^^" grey shadow into luminous dis- 
 tinctness. The face was turned to him, but the eyes saw 
 Inm no ; they ga;.ed sadly out into space, full of^ hope 
 less melancholy, while the hands moved monotonously 
 backwards and forwards across the table of a TewTn"^ 
 machine. A girl in a grey cotton frock, sitting at work 
 at a sewing machine. That was the vision Gerard H^l 1 
 H^trv'uitThT'- r^ dark background of Mr!!?^'^!; 
 
 beautiful in form as the face of Kaffaelle's loveliest Ma- 
 donna and m its profound melancholy there wisaswfet 
 ness that melted his heart. Somethina, too Tn thaHaU^ 
 Gretc en-like countenance struck him IssSnge ly famu! 
 
 wWe\ttn"wnor°"P^^^ ^""^ '^^ ''''' ^^^ - 
 Jermyn threw his half-smoked cigar up into the air 
 and burst into his elfin laugh. The vision^ faded on tTe' 
 instant, as if he had laughed it away. 
 
 Ihere is your modern Gretchen,' he said, 'a poor 
 ittle sempstress, slaving from dawn to dark for s jmethW 
 less than daily bread, a^ beautifulas a Greel godd^s and 
 virtuous enough to prefer coM and hunger to deo-radaC 
 There is your true type of a nineteenth intur^Gretchen 
 How would you like to be Fanst ? ' ^ ^retcnen. 
 
 7 f ^o"l;J like to possess a ah.-ue of Faust's power Not 
 ln,Kfi«.,„ *r":; ■ •^,^"' '^^ao. happmess ?- asked Jem- 
 
 lighting a fresh cigar. 
 
 imyn, 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 41 
 
 ' Wealth; nnswered Hillersdon quickly. 'For a man 
 who has lived under the goad of poverty, who has ielt 
 day by day, and hour by hour, the torment of being 
 poorer than his fellow-men, there can be but one idea of 
 bliss— money and plenty of it. From my school days 
 upwards I have lived among men better off than myself. 
 At the University I got into trouble because I exceeded 
 my allowance. My father could just afford to give me 
 two hundred a year. I spent from three to four h undred ; 
 but the excess, though it caused no end of trouble at 
 home, left me still a pauper among men who spent a 
 thousand. I had been sent to an expensive college and 
 told to economize; to enjoy all the privileges of contact 
 with men of rank and position, to be among them but not 
 of them. I happened to be popular, and so could not al- 
 together seclude myself from my fellow-men. I was 
 pinched and harassed at every turn, and yet plunged in 
 debt, and a malefactor to my family. I came to London, 
 studied for the bar, eat my dinners, wasted my father's 
 substance on fees, and never got a brief. I wrote a book 
 which won instantaneous success, and for the moment I 
 was rich. I thought I had opened a gold mine, bought 
 my mother a pair of diamond earings which she did not 
 want, and sent my father a fine set of Jeremy Taylor 
 which he had been longing for ever since T could remem- 
 ber. I fell m love with a beautiful girl, who reciprocated 
 my affection, but was not allowed to marry a man whose 
 only resources were in his inkstand. She was not incon- 
 solabJe, and our engagement was no sooner broken than 
 she married a man old enough to be her father, and rich 
 enough to make her a personage in the smart world. My 
 next book, written while I was writhing under the stincr 
 of this disappointment was a dead failure. I had nS 
 heart to begin another book. I have lived since, as a 
 — — J- -'"ft "i'." --OiiLiivu IV iive m mis great city 
 ram hand to mouth, and the emptiness and hopelessness 
 of my life have been known to me for a long time. Do 
 
42 2%e World, The Fteah, and The Demi. 
 
 beinSf %i-*' ^^5?^^^ *^ **^^°^ ««*"^1 nothingness 
 f hi I. ' *?'' ""'.^^^^ '*^*^ b«*^een life and death- 
 i?ten?e?' ^'^""««« ^^ ^n inane and purposeless ex- 
 
 'And you think that wealth would open up a new 
 future, and that hfe would be no longer aimless ? ' 
 
 ^.a ^r ^ "'^^"i P°'^®'''' answered HiUersdon. ' With 
 wealth and youth no man should be unhappy unless 
 
 r^ W^ ^^^^'^^ P^"- ^ ^^^ "^^ ^ ^^^; of the 
 ,.„' T®^' 'f * ^hile he enjoys the power wealth dves his 
 w' r ^.'^^' ^^"'^ ^"^ *^^ enjoyment, everf^den^ 
 n hi nnffl ^'Tr^ extravagant wish realized is a nai 
 in his coffin. The men who live longest are men of mod- 
 erate means--not worried by poverty nor elated by wealth 
 
 Z^^V^^ "^ f' °^°T ,^^^ ""^^'^^^ ^i^«« society takes 
 very httle interest-scholars, thinkers, inventors, some of 
 them perhaps, whom the world hears- of only after^hev 
 are dead-men who think, and dream, anZeion but 
 experience nothing of life's feverish movement or m^ s 
 
 Pe^ drCh^^in V"" ^'" '^"^"'^^ ^^'^^'^ ^^^y °f '^^ 
 'Not very clearly It was one of the first French 
 
 novels I read ; a kind of fairy tale, I think ' 
 ' "/« ^^^f an allegory than a fairy tale. A younff 
 
 man, tired of life, like yoy, is on the brink of suidd^ 
 
 has made up his mmd to die, as you made up your mind 
 
 ni;h7r/^'"'-''.^"f.*\'^^^ betwixt afternoon anS 
 night, he goes into a bric-a-brac shop and turns over the 
 wonders of worlds old and new. fcre, amidst treLure 
 of art and relief of extinct civilizations, he finds the 
 queerest curio of all in the person of the brie a-brac 
 dealer, a man who boasts of his century and more of life 
 the quiet passionless life of the thinker"^ This man shows 
 him the Peau de Chagrin the skin of a wild ass, hanging 
 afrainst thfi wall Wi^h fhqf +.,i:„„-.._ r «. * ""0,0 
 4.V •«* J' " ■ .j^—y -^"^^ tdiiSuiau lie oners to make 
 the intending suicide richer, more powerful and more re- 
 
The World, The Fle^h and The Devil 43 
 
 nowned than the King of the French. « Read/ he cries 
 
 letl . «r"''^ T"" ''"^'^ \Sanscrit inscription whose 
 etters are so interwoven m the metallic lustre of the skin 
 that no knife can eradicate the faintest line. The Sans- 
 crit translated runs thus :— 
 
 If you possess me you possess all, 
 But your life will be mine. Wish 
 And your wishes will be fulfilled.' 
 But rule your wishes by 
 Your life. At every wish 
 I shall shrink like 
 Your days. Woulds't 
 Have me, 
 .m.. . Take. 
 
 + u.i!^ mscnption is the allegory of life. The old man 
 
 W i' ^T^ t"" ^^ ^"^ °^'^^'«^ <^^« talisman to mry 
 but how, though one and all laughed at its possible i^^ 
 
 traffic Uww'"i!"'"^' ^''''^'''^ ^" had ^refused to 
 traffic with that unknown power. And for the owner of 
 
 the tahsman, why had he never tested its value ? The 
 
 old man answered that question by expounding his theory 
 
 ' And what was his theory ? * 
 
 ' " The mystery of human life lies in a nutshell " said 
 
 «a.L-r^'"'"!?- "^^^^ ^'^^ «f ^«<^i«^ and the life ^f 
 passion dram the sources of existence. To will to do to 
 
 desire ardently is to die. With every quickening of the 
 
 pulse above normal health, with every tumult of the 
 
 heart, with every fever of the brain, fired by ardent 
 
 hopes and conflicting wishes, a shred is torn off the fab- 
 
 ric of a man's life. The men who live to age like mine 
 
 ^reed TnL'T' T'^'^^ ^°,^ ^^■'^^^^•^' ambitions and 
 S LrT\ T ^^^"^ "^'^^>^ s,ippressed, the men of 
 calm and contemplative temperament, in whom mind 
 
 'r'r^rT ^'^ 'r'^ ^°^ """^^«' ^^^ ^^^ content to 
 reason to know, to see and understand the world in 
 which they hve." And that old man was right There 
 

 ll 
 
 44 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 is a hidden meaning in that sentence of Holy Writ-Th6 
 'T,:::t^^Z'^'''- « you would live iLgtat]^: 
 
 Hilllln"'' Wh«/'°^*^ "* y^"'?^' ^^«^^i"^^d Gerard 
 ^iiiersdon. What a man wants is to live, not to crawl 
 
 for a century on the face of this planet, afrkid to lift hTs 
 
 I wthT'ouM sTrdI -t M^-d-bolt Bhouldlt^e h?m 
 1 wisft 1 could stroll into the bric-a-brac shoe and fin,1 
 
 ZrZnlif^^f\ ' '^^"^i^^ ^-*-^ *-- t"s' 
 man dw ndle daily if every diminution marked an honr 
 
 of happiness, a wish realized/ ^^""^ 
 
 'Hell I suppose that is the only philosonhv of Ufc 
 
 .ongenmltoayoungmind/ said Jerm^^X^ ' Th^ 
 
 centenarian who never really lived boastc of L^fK ? 
 
 &fofthfb'^"'^^^' r'^ th^ld^tt M^^ 
 
 tfte best of the bargam ; but to live for ten glad reckl^s 
 years must be better than to vegetate for a centi^' 
 
 fJ.f^%^^^^:' '^'^ Hillersdon, getting uT in a 
 fever of excitement, and beginning to walk abonf fh! 
 room looking at this and that, the b onr doh the er 
 amelled vases, and old ivory carvincr« in ih^ -u 1 
 rpcpfispq nf Q R«.^v.„ \i 1 -^ carvings m the niches and 
 recesses ot a Bombay black-wood cabinet. 
 
 vnn; r" ''^ ^\^ P^f ^ ^^ ^^««^^" hidden somewhere in 
 your rooms, perhaps/ he suggested, laughingly C at anv 
 •ate some talisman which enables you to'm^ke lithrof 
 
 lloU^HyXlh ''^^^ °^^^^ -^^ - ^ P-^- -?; t1 
 which I can read the myslery If inankind Yof th^ 
 
 So it was for Goethe's devil,' answered Hill-^ sdon 
 I believe there is a ^ouch of the diabolical iu your com 
 position, and that you have about as much Ct Td 
 
Thi World, The Flesh, and The Devil 45 
 
 conscience a^ Mephistopheles. However, I am beholden 
 to you for your persistence in bringing me here to-night 
 for you have amused me, mystified me, provoked my 
 
 'Didn't I tell you a supper and a bottle of wine would 
 be your best counsellor,' exclaimed Jermyn, laughing. 
 
 But the dark thoughts will be back again in a day or 
 two, no doubt, smce you have no talisman to offer me 
 which will pour gold into my empty pockets, and you do 
 not even propose to buy my shadow?^ I would run the 
 risk of being as uncomfortably conspicuous as Peter 
 
 of sterifng o"in •' ''"' '''""*' '''''' ^^^^«"*^^^^ ^^'^^ 
 If 'tt'.tT ^'^ f^ stories-allegories, all, be assured. 
 
 perplexed brow of yours you would laugh at me. All I 
 ask IS that If Fortune does pour her gifts into your lap 
 you will remember that I bade you tarry at thJgate of 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " We are such stuff as ^. :.*ms are made of." 
 
 HE domes and steeples of the great city 
 
 towers and warehouses, roofs old and new 
 
 showed dark against a saffron sky, as Gerard 
 
 Millersdon set his face to the west in the cool 
 
 stillness of early morning. He had drunk 
 
 enough and talked enough to exalt his spirits with 
 
 an unwonted elation, as if life and the world were 
 
 x.cv.- ana aa Old and troublesome things cast offlikea 
 
 »«& the S ^'tI" ' "?' '"'"^''^ """'"^"' ''" "-^^^P 
 mu call the Tast. There is no Nejjentho like a mghfS 
 
46 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and TU Devil 
 
 &nni/''^i.°^i*''^^'"^ *^« consciousness of trouble 
 
 «r„n ] xi- '^v^y- ^n this summer dawnina- Geraivl 
 
 as if his youth had never been shadowed by a care In 
 this mood of his he accepted Justin Jermyn as a irious 
 
 al?' meTns tT^t f '^^i^ faculties ;^a'mrXb; 
 tair means or foul had plucked him by the sleeve and 
 
 JZ of u i°hr"T"' 'f"^' ""'• flows™ Shrn^byth: 
 
 oews ot mght. 'To be or not to be? 1 was a (Sol *„ 
 think that my choice was inevitable FaTt had tl« 
 poison at his lips, when the Easter joybells staved hk 
 afTerthttih'^^ *'^i '""■^* "' HeavinWadntSiand 
 
 His thoughts reverted to the face of the ffirl at thp 
 sewing-machine. He was in no mood t trouf 'e hfrnself 
 as to the nature of the vision he had seen "whether it 
 were hypnotic, or some juggler's trick produced bv 
 fTi't'wr'a'Sr ^*,-- «"> face thaHeThlgh , 
 audited in va^^^^^^^^^ t tZ ^"* '' ^'^ ^^-^°' 
 there, vaguely mTredw^hU^ • ?"''"°/^^ l^^oa^i^cl 
 bovhiod « iroo^ * *^® ^^^^°*^ «* ^is vanished 
 
 Tn J J^o? • ®?^ ^^ summer and sunny days, of woods 
 
 and h«lf fn' V^^ ^"'r^^ ^^^*' ^hi^h seemed is another 
 r^ned c%?'"^^ "^^'^^ ^^ ^^^-^^«^of this gray. smok^. 
 
 pa^^aVe'^wiln'^ f *A*^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^ lodging-house 
 passage, with his -latchkey, a privilege he could scarcelv 
 
 nope to emov mnnv WnTTo inrr- 1 u "'^ o^»^i^^-iy 
 
 wifV. ,^^ „ "■ ' -->• -y • iongci uuluKa he could comolv 
 with, or compromise, the demand in his le ncllord's ?tZf! 
 
Tlie World, The Flesh, and The Devil 47 
 
 Yet even this idea of being turned out of doors seemed 
 hardly to trouble l)im this n^orning. At the worst he 
 could go down to his father's Bectory, and bury himself 
 among green leaves and village faces. And if he must 
 be bankrupt, see his name in the Gazette, shameful as 
 the thing would seem to the rural rector and his wife, 
 he would not be the first. Among the youthful scions of 
 the nobility bankruptcy is as common as scarlet-fever ; 
 nay, almost as inevitable as measles. 
 
 His sitting-room and the adjoining bed-room looked 
 shabbier than usual in the clear morning light, after those 
 luxurious rooms of Justin Jermyn's. The furniture had 
 been good enough once upon a time, for its specific pur- 
 pose—brass bedstead, maple-suite in the bedroom, wal- 
 nut-wood and cretonne in the sitting-room— but it had 
 grown shabby and squalid with the wear and tear of 
 successive lodgers ; and the landlord, crippled bv bad 
 debts, had never been rich enough to renew the cretonne 
 or improve upon the philistinism of the walnut-wood! 
 A sordid don, repulsive to the eye of a man with any feel- 
 ing for the beautiful. 
 
 Hillersdon was tired and exhausted, but slumber was 
 far from his eyelids, and he knew it was useless to go to 
 bed while his brain was working with a forty-horse 
 power, and his temples were aching with sharp neural- 
 gic pam.^ He flung himself into an arm-chair, lighted a 
 cigar which Jermyn had thrust upon him at parting, and 
 looking idly round the room. 
 
 There were some letters upon the table, at least half a 
 dozen, the usual thing no doubt ; bills and threatening 
 letters from lawyers of obscure address, calling his atten- 
 tion to neglected applications from tradesmen. Common 
 
 n '''" u t^^®^ ^®^®' ^^ ^^ always a shock to him to find 
 that the bland and obliging purveyor had handed him 
 over to the iron hand of the solicitor. He was in no 
 haste to open those letters, which would supply so many 
 Items in bis schedule, perhaps, a few days later. Insol- 
 
48 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Fevil. 
 
 ' 190, Lincoln's Inn Fields, W.C. 
 a^a wm7^rel^«;terr fete '"^ 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 49 
 
 • We shall be glad to see you,' either here or at your 
 own residence at your earliest convenience. 
 ' We have the honour to be, sir, 
 
 ' Yours, &c., &c., 
 
 'Grafton and Cranberry.' 
 
 Hillersdon turned the letter over and over in his hands 
 
 as if expecting that solid sheet of paper to change into a 
 
 withered, eaf under his touch, and then he burat into a 
 
 laugh, as loud but not as joyous as Jermyn's gnome-like 
 
 Jrt^^'-f' ^,^"^^' ; * palpable trick, of the fate-reader, 
 hypnotist, whatever h. may please to call himself. A 
 cruel jest, rather; to mock parched lips with the promise 
 
 man WpI T' ^'^ ^^t" ^'' ^"^>^ upon a destitute 
 man. Well, I am not to be caught so easily. The churl 
 whose remnant of life I saved It Nice wis no wealthy 
 banker. Ill be sworn, but some impecunious wretch who 
 was soured by his losses at Monte Carlo ' 
 He looked at his watch. Half-past five. A good 
 
 TnL .r ""'-'f P^'' ^"^^"" '^ ^^"Id be possible to 
 discover the existence or non-existence of Grafton and 
 fW i7' ^l tj^e authenticity of the letter on the table 
 there, where he had fiung it, a most respectable-looking 
 letter assuredly, if looks were anything of the purpose 
 nn f^!l ^""^"^ ' ^°' ^.'"^ ,*° ^^^ ^ ^^-^^^er's clerk to ^ite 
 Z^Jf T ". P^P. ' ^" *^^°"^^^ 5 yet it were a hazardous 
 ifn^ S-/r? ^^ ^""T ^^^^^^' "°1««« a discarded servant! 
 midSit llo^d l'^'"'' • "^T^ Hillersdon. ' It was aile; 
 ^.ITa V ^T ""/ fdventure at Nice, and this let- 
 ter was delivered by the last post at ten o'clock.' 
 
 fl,. n?P?''^h,*^''"^^' ^^'" J^'-^^yn ^ have heard of 
 the old hunks at the Nice Station from Gilbert Wateon 
 HiUersdon's friend, who had seen the end of the adven' 
 ture and heard the old man clamouring for his umbrX 
 
 Watson wna a rnqn nV, f '^ j *'• , , "luuieiia. 
 
 contact" wirhTpr^v,'"'""' ^""^ "^^ght have been in 
 contact with Jermyn. who was a seasonable celebritv 
 and went everywhere ceieomy, 
 
60 
 
 n 
 
 'le 
 
 Vorld, m Flesh, ar,d 1U Devil. 
 
 troubled Spl^'blfjrr.'' "r '^ ^' ^'^p* - 
 
 the rest of Z IhnX 'i r;?'"' "'"' '"y aw«ke for 
 
 eight, when hLrv«n.tn„M "''''"' ^"^ ""'^ '"'"-?'"" 
 wKo had mailed ?-•'";!,. r''">J,''™^''''"l'' '■«tei»e.-, 
 
 brought him hia irJv'm f r** *''? '^'*<"»'-y >">■«- 
 
 hansom took him to T in,.7j^^ 7 half-past nme, and a 
 stioko of tea " ' ^"" ^"'''» '''fo™ the 
 
 aUrXf^ireWeril-'^^ri "PT* " "•»' ^-P««t- 
 
 a h„nd.::.e tiS^! Lm therthe^L'^'^l"" ■""> 
 papera were systenmticallv Y^Z ^"'>' «"' "«»"'- 
 
 hoganj- office VbirSheToXT" • TT",-"'- 
 .ived from their West End Ws ^ '^^' ^""^ *'- 
 • Cvl'" [""P""™™ !=0"ld not brook th.i delay 
 
 shotftLtrn Sl^Sft'"'""' ''^ '^'^ ' ' >;» --^^O. 
 
 thagr^^^h'ai^dtieA"' ™^ ' "''" -™"> "'answered 
 
 <io:|rj °f ,: pu-«:vs- ./, ^t- -'" '^"■- 
 
 -1 jter''" pTedthe'^,"''r'^.1f 5?' <^-' » P^-^"' 
 that letter at Mr Grafton', di.^; P"" '^Tl'^^- ' ^^'^ 
 i«r. Hillersdon refeS to it t^n"' ""^'J y°» »™ '^^ 
 ple<«ant letter for you to reedve ' ^ °"^'" *° ''<' * ^'^ 
 
 .r,./epmingrvrL^^ 
 
 aor^tefitint^tt-Lrto^ 
 were noi parf a^d ZiPT-° " "f '' ^'^'°« *° «">. 
 
 «.or, r.i ^i^^-iu^r^itT: ^i:^^::: 
 
k:s 
 
 \e Devil. 
 
 is bed, slept a 
 lay awake for 
 ve and half-pasfc 
 and old retainer, 
 lectory nurse— 
 epared his bath, 
 past nine, and a 
 L^lds before the 
 
 i rno8t reapect- 
 I-'Ulersdon into 
 •wly cut news- 
 i a massive aia- 
 icipals had ar- 
 
 5 delay. 
 
 •er ? ' he asked, 
 
 e it,' answered 
 
 / said HUlers- 
 
 deal in practi- 
 ity. ' I wrote 
 f you are the 
 t to be a very 
 
 e it seriously.' 
 ► grave a raat- 
 )ubted respec- 
 ted his hand 
 How did he 
 
 the letter in 
 Iking to him, 
 tic vision, no 
 
 the ^ewing- 
 
 The World, The Fleeh, and The Devil. 6i 
 
 S^o^t'^^'H^i^H^''' Tf '^'' "^ ^'' ^^^ l^^ked at last 
 ^ffi ,^^l^^^.^^,folute, incredulous, silent while the 
 oia clerk deffc-entially awaited his pleasure. The outer 
 
 of dLS'^rt ''^"^ '^'''^ ^"^ '^' measured foot^Lp 
 ,y ified middle-age crossed the hall. ^ 
 
 M ^n ^}^^ *^®''® ^^ ^««n °o jesting, sir.' 
 Mr. Crafcon entered, tall, broad, bulky, imposing fault- 
 lessly dressed for his r61e of maA of the Trid ^not un 
 accustomed «.> society, and trustworthy flt^?y fiwyer 
 
 'Mr Hil lersdon, «r,' said the clerk. ^' He has bZ dis 
 pc^sed^^ thmk that ^,he letter from the firm wal a pacd-" 
 
 don^' *8ai^t^fiLZS?''^ "^^^^^^^ incredulity, Mr. HiUers- 
 vofcecallkfjr '''' a^. unctuous and comfortable 
 sSes %hp li^r"^'"'" '^?f'' under darkest circum- 
 stances. Ihe letter may well liave taken your breath 
 away. A romance of real life, ain't it ? ACinf man 
 does a plucky thing on the spir of the mlentth nks 
 
 ^°,rSrfinVb'-'"1/°"^ y^^^« ^'"'^ wakes upon 
 TDurmng tc find himself— a very rich man,' concluded Mr 
 
 usTd r^S'^f ^^"^f "P 'A'^'y' «^ if he%\t have 
 used a much Wger phrase. ' Kindly step into mv nri- 
 
 vat^eroom. You can bring us the co^y ofPthewin,'^O^ox- 
 
 The clerk retired, and Mr. Grafton ushered his latest 
 
 chent mtoalarge front office, as imposing as his 'own 
 
 'Pray be seated, Mr. Hillersdon,' waving his hand to 
 
 wftlt'thT"""' T-^^^i^- ' Ye«> the who^ story comes" 
 within the region of romance ; yet it is not the first timA 
 m testamentary history that a largo fortune hi been 'eft 
 Idli V^f ^ ''^^^^ f«^ some service barelt Sow- 
 
62 TAe World. The Flesh, and TJie Devil. 
 
 • The only trouble he took was about his umbrella 
 which he was vociferously anxious to recover.' 
 
 'So like biro dear old man. A character, my dear sir 
 a character You wouldn't have given twenty shillir.as 
 
 included''' ^"""^ *^** '^''^' ^ ^^^^ say-umbrelTa 
 
 ' ^/,^^^^®» .^d umbrella had been on my premises. I 
 would have given ten shillings to get them taken away.' 
 Precisely exclaimed the lawyer, with his genial 
 chuckle. ' A very remarkable man. I doubt if he paid 
 his tailor ten pounds a year-or five. Yet a man of L^e 
 benevolence, a man whose lelt hand knew not what his 
 right hand gave. But now we have got to come to the 
 crucial question Can you establish your identity with 
 the Gerard Hillersdon whose name our late client took 
 at MclT ■ Watson's dictation in the station 
 
 ' Very easily I think. In the first place. I doubt if 
 there is any other Gerard HiUensdon iu the directory as 
 the name Gerard comes from my mother's side of the 
 house, and was not in the Hillersdon fai ,,Iy belcre 1 w,ia 
 christened. Secondly, my friend Watsoa is now in Lon- 
 don, and will readily identify me as th , man about whose 
 name your client inquired when I ha,i left the platform 
 Thirdly It would be easy, were further evr<lence needed' 
 to establish the fact that I wa^ residing at the Hotel 
 Mont Fleuri Cannes, at that date, and that I went to 
 Nice on the first day of the Carnival.' weux^ ^ 
 
 f •/ ^' M ""n ^i"°^ *^f ^ "^'^^ ^® ^^y 'difficulty as to iden- 
 tity Mr. Grafton replied, suavely. 'Your present address 
 
 inlni '^Tf f^L^^'f ^'' W^*^^^ g^^« o'^r lamented 
 client, and he further described you as the son of the 
 
 w'm t-^'^'r^'-'^*^'.^"^^"'^'i^^^il ^« doubt elicited 
 W Mr. Ml ford s inquiry. Here is a copy of the will 
 
 You would like to hear it, perhaps,' suggested Mr. cTaf-' 
 
 hiin e"---rea aua i»iu tne aocuiuent before 
 
 *Ver' much.' 
 
The WorU, Tlie Flesh, and The Devil. hS 
 
 Mr. Grafton read in a clear, distinct voice and with great 
 unction The will was dated six months previously and 
 was made at Nice. It opened with a long' list of leL^es 
 
 LonVnn' M"'%f' '\''''^' '"^ *'"'- baSking-hoS i n' 
 Lon. on, Marseilles, N.co, t„ numerous charities, to Mr. 
 
 Slsrrt'^P^'!"^'^'- r''^"b«»-^y. HiHersdon sat 
 aghast as he heard thousands, and fives and tens of 
 
 fn^Pi??^"' disposed of in this manner. To the Hospital 
 for Children Great Orraond-street. ten thousand; five 
 thousand to SL George's Hospital ; a thousand each to ten 
 tZ. *?^'' ' 7f *^of and to a Convalascent Hospital, 
 three thousand to an Asylum for the Blind. Would there 
 
 tC^^}'""^ •'V"' ^r?^''' '^'' ^^^i^h distribution? 
 I J fn7^' '°*^^, ^^"7^"'^ concerned himself came at 
 last and was simple and brief. ' Fi^ lly, I bequeath the 
 residue of my estate, real an.l .onal. ' to Gei ai d II ilU 
 R^ofn"; r^"r^, ?°? ^J, *^^ ^-^^' Edward HiUersdon, 
 
 S^, r i^'^'"''"'^?'' ^^"""' ^" recognition ofhisgen^ 
 erosity and courage in saving my life at the haz ird of his 
 own, m a railway station in this place, on the 14th of 
 
 ff'th«T^^fp 'r^M^r^* ^^^'' Crafton. solicitor 
 of the firm of Crafton and Cranberry, Lincolns Inn Fields 
 sole executor to this my will.' ' 
 
 o./"^l^\?''''\® V''^''''* ^^"^ a° ac<^ion ^o which I never 
 attached the slightest importance,' said Hillersdon?pa^ 
 to ^e lips with suppressed emotion. ' I saw a young man 
 at Newton Abbot do almost as much to save a dog, which 
 u T'^T?,"? ^"^ down the line, scared l>y the^orteVs 
 who shouted at him. That young man iLned down 
 upon the metals and ^picked up'the dogin ff ^f anT 
 gme-somebody else's cur, not even his own property-l 
 and I-because in common humanity I plucked an old 
 man from instant death-yes. it was a near shave I know 
 and might have ended badly for me-but it was only in- 
 
 Stinr>t,ivfi bnmnnitv "*^'»r oil t- 1 T i ~ r ^ 
 
 • V *" —- -""«tj, ••-r an— and 1 am leii a fortune. It 
 18 a fortune, I suppose ? ' ^^uue. ai, 
 
 ' Yes. Mr. HiUersdon, a large fortune— something over 
 

 54 
 
 "Phe World, Th^ FUsh, and The Devil. 
 
 MarseiUes, and Nice' ^""hers, bankers, of London, 
 
 h»rd with himselfSen ffi r' \''<'/l«A.and fought 
 mixed with hyeterioaulght "' ''^''"'=''' '<'"" 
 
 It 18 real, isn't it ? ' he asfcirj? °, "^^P*''"' °' ^«spair. 
 fooling me-you are red ml "^""f'^- "^^ »™ "ot 
 This is not a dream?' °' y°" '«'"'' ■>»' shadows? 
 
 sov?^ pa?:!^ "^ '■'^O °» 'he table so hard as to produce 
 
 Suor^dlieTitJ'^r"-^"- 
 
 ;i;hey were af^ldlhitt' hid T"' °.*°' '^""""^'y- 
 
 'idv'a^i'"™^^ «>i;p"orblel^S"he':d '"'''"■ ""^ 
 
 'CottT SX; "rev'"' Hiao„s„dden,.. 
 round sum, and when f I!, ^u"^ ^^^^^^ ^or a ffoc;i 
 begin to believe fn Mr ferd^H„^^^^«H"e I ^hal 
 faith. I am up to my eves in wfu'" T-^ ^" ^^^^ good 
 sensation to be able^Ll' thp t^l ^°^ '> ^^" ^« ^ new 
 itors.' '^'^ P^y <^^^e most pressing of my cred- 
 
 ^^V^^^'^'i^^-^i'^^^^ and his pen 
 
 speaking. ^^^^^^^^ *^« potential client had done 
 
 vance ? ' ^°"^^ ^^^ hundred be too large an ad- 
 
 ; A thousand, if you like.' 
 JNo, five hundred will do Vn„ , -n . 
 tors, I suppose-earry through Zk -^'^ "' "^^ «^^^«i- 
 am as ignorant of the law as?he st T"^ -' ^^^- ^ 
 parchme^^. I shall hartrmtle fl'^ who provide your 
 haven't the faintest uotioVXTharmTaii'^"^^^^^- ^ 
 
irdas to produce 
 
 too largo an ad- 
 
 TA. World, The Flesh, and The Demi. 65 
 whom you woddprffJoS;w^™ ^ family lawyer 
 
 doui^icrto^L'rrSf/tT:- §«■>--- 
 
 cheque." ^ •^'' "O'' ™ g° and cash this 
 
 hundred in tens the ^,7?^ SV- H»^™'1 1 have it ? A 
 ".y worthy Cdlordf GoTZ Ifr/ ;""»-*<'»'* 
 
 he waa scarcely conLir,'o7,l?i "' '"* " "«P "" "gl" 
 
 Ivenyetheco^uldSXlilte 
 
 he was the sport of diS, Ir „f .^ *^ idea that 
 
 worked by tie iZn wTthe Lht uZf'™"^"/'F'«'-y 
 canny laugh "ght-blue eyes and the un- 
 
 ^^^7:^±t^^^^ cashed 
 
 hatter, hairdresser, 11^67 pavinVfif.^^^^ *° *«"'^r. 
 
 clearing up lonff-standint '.ill? ^rx 'l^^ ""^ account, or 
 and fifty lef fc whfn h«3 If i'* . f-^ ^^ onJy a hundred 
 thishep^idi sTandlord^^^^^^^ lodgings, and outof 
 
 nioney. It wasTuoh « nlr ^' Theresiduewasforpocket- 
 eredi^., tha'^ ^^dt^ir^^^^^^^^^^ ^^ 
 
 convinced of the fact now T^t .1- ^^*'''- ^® ^^^ 
 Fortune had turned her Xel-^^r^^^^^^^^ ^"^ ^ T^^^^' 
 that he who had been nf XkT* ®^ ^^ ^° completely 
 
 What would hfs otTpeon e thiniT.?"" °^^ ^* ^'^^ *«? 
 befallen him ? A^iEir! , ? l*^'l "^^"^^^ ^^^t had 
 had until now hZT^TZl^'^ *^? ^^''^'^^'^ «on, who 
 mother. He would not l'^^^^''^'''^ '' "''^''^^^ ^^t^er and 
 
 Devonshire In a Say or trr^H^'nT'^ ^"'^ ^«^" *« 
 lips. ^ ^ ^^''* *"^ <^ell them with his own 
 
I ' 
 
 1 1 
 
 id 27te World, The Flesh, and The Deuil 
 
 And but for Justin Jermyn's interference he would have 
 shot himself last night, and would have been lying stark 
 and stiff this morning. Yet, no, the letter was there last 
 wight, at ten o'clock. Fortune had turned her wheel. 
 The tidings of the bounty were waiting for him while he 
 was fooliug in the Fate-reader's room, the sport of a shallow 
 trickster. 
 
 ' And yet he seemed to know,' thought Hillersdon ; ' he 
 hinted at a change of fortune — he led me to talk of the 
 old man at Nice. 
 
 He felt a sudden^esire to see Jermyn, to tell him what 
 had happened ; to talk over his monstrous luck ; to see 
 what effect the news would have upon the Fate-reader. 
 There were other people he wanted to see — most especially 
 Edith Champion — but the desire to see Jermyn was the 
 strongest of all. He got into a cab, and told the man to 
 drive to Holbom. 
 
 He hadn't the remotest idea whereabouts in Holbom 
 the old inn was situated, or whether in any adjacent 
 thoroughfare. He dismissed the cab at Warwick Court, 
 and went about on foot, in and out of dingy old gateways, 
 and in the ' dusty purlieus of the law,' as existent in the 
 neighbourhood of Holbom ; but nowhere could he find 
 gate-house, or semi-deserted inn that in any wise resem- 
 bled the place to which Jermyn had taken him last 
 night. 
 
 After nearly two hours spent in this ineffectual explor- 
 ation he gave up the search, and drove to the West-end, 
 where, at Sensorium, a smart dilettante club of which he 
 was a member, he hoped to hear Jermyn's address. It 
 was tea-time, and there were a good many men in the 
 reading-room and adjacent smoke-room, and among them 
 several of Hillersdon's friends. 
 
 He sat down in the midst of a little knot of acquain- 
 tances, and ordered his tea at a table where he was wel- 
 comed with marked cordiality — welcomed by men who 
 knew not that they were welcoming a millionaire. 
 
I 
 
 i 
 
 ^e TTorW, n« ^^s^i, am,d The Demi. 67 
 
 ' You know everj'thing that 
 
 s 
 
 ' Will you tell me where he lives ? ' 
 
 his' ^rdTki*"!'' """'^ *r '^^T *^ P«* *»» ^dress on 
 hearrof h«rp ^ n?°>onplace individual. He is to be 
 S cluteT - li ' ><1f^«^d- He Is a member of 
 
 chlmb'^rr' ^'"'''' ^ '"^P"^ ^*^ ^^"^ ^«^* ^igl^t at his 
 
 ! Ju ®"/^" ^"°^ where they are ? ' 
 That IS exactly what I do not know. Jermvn insisted 
 upon my going to supper with him last ni^tSfter the 
 
 r^ere'IXn'l'r.^^^^^ ^^^^^"*^ hTchlmbet 
 'Thl^'luT^ ^^"^^^'^ ^^"^^^^ ^hi« avowal. 
 
 my mental eondidoa' i^^^'rwl^^rkt^''^ 
 was m a sompwhof ^^ ^^ , " , J: ®^® talking. 1 
 
 be piloted without tokTn7,„v'^oti™i';^''''''* "y'*" "^ 
 I wiU own that when iSKL"/ ot^TtlT J^ 
 
I r, I 
 
 I 
 
 68 The World, The Flesh, and The Vml, 
 
 ing my head was not quite so clear, and London might 
 be Bagdad for all I know of the streets and squares 
 through which I made tracks for Piccadilly,' 
 
 'So Jermyn entertains, does he?' exclaimed Roger 
 Larose, the aesthetic architect, a man who always looked 
 as if he had just stepped out of an eighteenth century 
 framework and elegant idler, * this must be inquired in- 
 to. He has never entertained me. Was your drunkenness 
 a pleasant intoxication ? Was his wine irreproachable ? ' 
 
 ' More, it was irresistible. He gave me some old 
 Madeira that was like melted gold, and his champagne 
 had the cool freshness of a wild rose, an aroma as delicate 
 as the perfume of the flower.' 
 
 ' I believe he hypnotised you, and that there was no- 
 thing; or perhaps bread and cheese and porter,' said 
 Larose. * Where are you going, and what are you going 
 to do this afternoon ? I've some Hurlingham vouchers in 
 my pocket. Shall we go and see the polo match, or shoot 
 pigeons, and dine on the lawn ? ' 
 
 A thrill went through Hillersdon's heart at the thought 
 that yesterday, had Larose made such a proposition, he 
 would have been obliged to decline, with whatever excuse 
 he might invent on the spur of the moment. Yesterday 
 tlie half- guinea gate-money and the risk of being let in 
 to pay for the whole dinner would have made Hurling- 
 ham forbidden ground. To-day he was eager to taste the 
 new joy of spending money without one agonising 
 scruple, one pang of remorse for eiitravagance that would 
 hurt other people. 
 
 ' I am going to call on some ladies,' he said. * If you 
 can give me a couple of ladies' tickets and one for my- 
 self, I will meet you in time for dinner.' 
 
 ' Do I know the ladies ? Is Mrs. Champion one of 
 them r 
 
 'Yes.; 
 
 ' Delightful — a paHi carre. It is going to be a piping 
 hot night, We will dine on the lawn, hear the chimes at 
 
Th£ World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 59 
 
 midnight, stealing softly along the river from the great 
 bell at Westminster. We will fancy we see fire-flies and 
 that Fulham is Tuscany — fancy ourselves in the Cascine 
 Gardens, which are not half so pretty as Hurlingham or 
 Barn Elms, when all is said and done. Get along with 
 you, Hillersdon. In spite of your debauch you are look- 
 ing as hap^ as if you had just had a fortune left you.' 
 
 Gerard Hillersdon laughed somewhat hysterically, and 
 hurried out of the club. He had not the courage to tell 
 anyone what had happened to him — not yet. That word 
 hypnotism frightened him, even after this seemingly sub- 
 stantial evidence of his good luck. The lawyer's office, 
 the Bank, the notes, and tradesmen's receipts ! Might not 
 all these be part and parcel of the same hypnotic trance. 
 He pulled a bundle of receipted accounts out of his 
 pocket. Yes, those were real, or as real as anything can 
 be to a man who dares not be sure that he is not 
 d learning. 
 
 He drove to Hertford street. Mrs. Champion was at 
 home, and alone. Her carriage was at the door ready to 
 take her to the park. Mrs. Gresham was again engaged 
 in the cause of the Anglican Orphans, serving tea and 
 cake to the shilling ticket people on the second day of 
 the Bazaar at the Riding School, and was to be called for 
 at six o'clock. 
 
 Mrs. Champion was sitting in a darkened drawing-room 
 in an atmosphere of tropical flowers, dressed in India 
 muslin, looking deliciously reposeful and cool, after the 
 glare of the streets. She looked up from her book with a 
 little start of surprise at hearing Hillersdon's name. 
 
 'I thought you were half way to Germany by 
 this time,' she said, evidently not illpleased at his return, 
 as it were a bird fluttering back to tho open door of his 
 cage, * but perhaps you missed your train and are going 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 * No, Mrs. Champion, I changed my mind, and I am 
 not going at all.' , 
 
CO ne World. The Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 • How nice/ she said sweetly, laying aside her book 
 and prepared to be confidential. ' Was it to please me 
 you stayed ? ^ 
 
 He made up his mind he must tell her. His mouth 
 grew dry and hot at the very thought ; but he could not 
 keep the kno^yrledge of his altered fate from this woman 
 who had been, who was still, perhaps, the other half 
 ot his soul. 
 
 'For once in my life,' he said quietly, 'or let me 
 say for once smce I first met you— your wish was not my 
 only law. Something has happened to me— to change 
 my life altogether since yesterday.' 
 
 That hoarse broken voice, the 'ntensity of his look 
 scared her, and her imagination set off at a gf .lop 
 
 'You are engaged to be married,' she cried, risincr 
 suddenly out of her low, luxurious chair, straight as a 
 dart and deadly pale. ' These things always end lo. You 
 have been loyal to me for years, and now you have 
 grown weary, and you want a wife -Elaine instead of 
 l^umevere— and you meant to run away to Germany and 
 brenk the thmg to me in a lettei^and then you changed 
 your mmd and took courage to tell me with your own 
 laise lips. 
 
 This burst of passion— her white face and flashing eves 
 were a revelation to him. He had thought her as calm 
 and cold as a snow figure that children build in a garden- 
 and behold, he had been playing with fire all this time ' 
 
 He was standing by her side in an instant, holding her 
 icy hands, drawing her ne arer to him. 
 
 'Edith Edith, can you think so poorly of me? En- 
 gaged, when you know there is no other woman I care for 
 —have ever cared for. Engaged, in a day, in an hour! 
 Have I not given you my life ? What more could I do ? ' 
 butThat^'"^''°*^ C>h, thank God. I could bear anything 
 
 'ff^lf^^^T^J^^y^^ ^^id me -t arm's length/ he 
 Wid fondly, with his lips near hers. 
 
The World, Tlie Flesh, and The Deinl 61 
 
 She was the snow figure again in a moment, standinr? 
 
 ' '«nJ T ^^?/^«\*^ P"* «^yself in a passion,' she said. 
 ; and after all whenever you want to marry I shall have 
 I no right to hinder you. Only I should like to know 
 
 toZider'S'h""^''^ *^\' ^ -ay accustom myselT 
 to the Idea. The horses have been at the door ever so 
 long, and that hard-working Rosa will be wa^rg for me 
 ! T 3?" «r^ ^^^ * ^"^^ ro"ad the park ? ' ^ 
 1 shall be charmed ; but I want you and Mrs Gresham 
 to dme with me at Hurliogham. We can go on tS 
 when you have done your park.' ^ 
 
 . 'i ^°?'* f ^^® a s*^raw for the park. Let us go straight 
 
 dS'strrdoT ^'^ ^T 1 ^^^^ ^ ^- - caSf; 
 
 smarter gown ?' "' ^' ^'^ '^^"^' '' «^^" ^ P^^ on i 
 
 She stood up before him as in a cloud of muslin and 
 
 lace a gown so fiow;ing and graceful in its drapfng over 
 
 n^hl^^out^ii! "^''^ '-^ ^- -^- e'otf inr: 
 
 snrJrj f-^^^'' '''''*""'^ '' ''^°^P^y adorable. Only be 
 ~h'e&^ ™" ^^^P' ^^^ - --^ »- -tting^laS: 
 She touched a spring bell and her maid appeared with 
 a white Gainsborough hat and a pair of long sSedlgloTi 
 Wraps were sent for. the butler was infofmed that hfs 
 
 TwUh 0°"^^/"' ^r i^ ^°°^^' ^^^ *^^ barouche drove 
 off with Gerard on the front seat, opposite Mrs. Cham! 
 
 J. w^^ *^" i'T ^aPP.e°ed to change your life, if you 
 are not going to be married ? ' she ask?d.*^a8 they turned 
 
 .t'-^'T^j"^' 'You quite mystify me. I hope iHs 
 nothing bad-no misfortune to anv of vn„.peoWe " 
 r.1^11^ '" something distinctly good." in eccentric old 
 
 ^XbXlfTsSn?^^""^^^ - '^ ^^^^^^' ^- ^^^' 
 
62 
 
 ^ Worla, The Fleah, md TJie Devil 
 
 1 JJ .congratulate you/ she said, but there was a troubled 
 W beerj^d! ''^' '''''''''' '''^' «"-^^ «^« ^^^'^'o 
 
 aftefa'paust ""'^^ *^^^ ^°" ^'' ' '''^ "^^" ' ' «^^ «^ked 
 ' Yes, I am a rich man.' 
 'How rich?' 
 
 th'A^ I'^^ as anybody need care to be. I am told that 
 
 1 wo millions of francs ? ' 
 ' Two millions sterling.' 
 
 ' It does savour of the ridiculous. I admit,' said Hil 
 
 uS' ^To:'f P'^"^' '^ ^^ '"^""^r of treating the 
 f o hi. u ^^""^y "^^^ "^l ™^<^^^^ no doubt. I was born 
 to be a hanger-on upon this great world to taste iK 
 pleasures by the favour of othe?people ; to vSt in smarJ 
 houses on sufferance; to live in^ ^shabbyTd^^^ 
 hnd my warmest welcome at a club ' ^ ^ 
 
 J.J? °"'"'°°? •' ' £f Plated Edith, ' I am sure Frederick 
 
 noTof ::ure?- ^"° "^^"^^"^ ' ^- -^^ ^-e to Xy 
 
 ' Have to ! Why should I be constrained to marrv iust 
 'y1 wTk^' "!?T "^ ^"J°y^"^ ^ bachelor'SV' 
 
 impISenTlv ^^^ ^*^ T^^' ^ *^" ^^^^ ^^'^^ ^n^^vered 
 impitiently. 'You don't know what women are whn 
 
 have daughters to marry. You don't know what lis 
 
 son wh^'°'^r'^^^^ ^'^' ^'^ '^'^' third or f^Srfchfea 
 son— who want to secure a rich husband. You can't no. 
 
 ^ur flet' ''°^ '^°°'^'' ''' London will be at 
 
 cenfry v' '^^' °^ ""^ ^'"^ °'^"^"^^- ^'^ ^^men so mer> 
 
 'We'uTerj«i'^-^ *K-\''' ^^'^"^^^ Edith Champion. 
 We live in an age m which poverty is utterly intolerable. 
 
tan ? ' she asked 
 
 a pauper cora- 
 
 «^omen so mer- 
 
 ThA World, The Heah, and The Devil 63 
 
 One must be rich or miserable. Do you think I would 
 have consented to marry Mr. Champion, In spite of all 
 the pressure my family put upon me, if I had been brave 
 enough to bear poverty with vou. No, to be well born 
 means the necessity of wealth. One's birthright is to 
 beiong to the smart world, and there to bo poor is to be a 
 social martyr. I have often envied the women born at 
 Camberwell or Islington, the women who go to the butchers 
 to buy the dinner, and who wear cotton gloves.' 
 
 ' Yes, there is an independence in those lower depths. 
 One can be poor and unashamed, if one belongs to the 
 proletariat. But be assured, my dear Mrs Champion, 
 that I shall not fall a victim to a ir.anreuvring mother or 
 an enterprising young lady. I shall know how to enioy 
 wealth and freedom.' 
 
 Edith sighed. Would not the independence of unlimit- 
 ed wealth tempt her slave to throw off the yoke? 
 Could he ever be again— he the millionaire— what he had 
 been to her ? Would he be content to dance attendance 
 upon her, to be at her beck and call, to be an inevitable 
 guest at all her parties, to hand tea cups at her afternoons 
 when he was perhaps the only man present, to fetch and 
 carry for her, find her the newest books in French and 
 German, taste them for her before she took the trouble to 
 read them, keep her posted in the gossip of the clubs, so 
 far as such gossip was fitting for a lady to know ? For 
 the last three years he had been her second self, had sup- 
 plenaented her intellect, and amused her leisure. But 
 would he be content to play the satellite now that wealth 
 would give him power to be a planet, with moons and 
 satellites of his own ? 
 
 'He will marry,' she told herself. * There is no use 
 talking about it. It was easy to keep him in leading 
 strings while he was too poor to be worth a single wo- 
 man s attention. But now ho will be forced into luarriaee 
 The thing is inevitable,' ^ ' 
 
 The carriage stopped at the Riding School, and the 
 
I 
 
 «* The World, The Flesh and The DevU. 
 
 II 
 
 rev( 
 
 tripptg orll\i;°r-\^ ^°^^, ^-^-' -ho came 
 
 We are ffo°L STA^* S""^^^ ^ ^^^ complexion. 
 Edith. ^ ""^ ^ *^^^ <^^«°er at Hurllngham; said 
 
 ^ling for their righri.^^^^^^^^ Zt^r^'^'l '^^^ «^"^^- 
 e volting manner I TS *"^.f f^^'^'ing cake m a truly 
 
 careVfo^ilii Q^lf^ '^y- *° I«* "o^Pany with aU 
 gether'jo, ot ""^Cl'""' fiVsh "■"'* was not alto- 
 
 cannot even thank the man wh„ ''"'"•".^ *° "■«• A°<i I 
 that gave it ia in the duT ^™ " ""O- *•"• ">« ''a-d 
 
 ga™ ^'ti^u'git ^^rn,Sr„r' *» <"" Bazaar.never 
 
fths World, The Flesh, and the DM. 
 
 65 
 
 C 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LIPK UPON NEW LINE" 
 
 J HE season of nightingales was past, but there 
 
 X were plenty of roses still, and it wa^ pleasant 
 
 to sit on the lawn and heai- the plaah of the 
 
 tide, and see the stara come slowly out We 
 
 f h« Ti'f ''i *^" T*^^^-*^i°<^d atmosphere, abofe 
 
 the tufted elms of Hurlingham R6ffer Larole 
 
 btd bee "sUenV" *i^' ''? ^^^^' ^^^ oCrd who 
 Hertfordl'eet yest^^^^^^^^^^ '""^^ <^i-»«-n 
 
 thrushes that ^rej^te^ 
 
 ^Jerneton^lSitlT^ 
 
 Ge^Xl^i^^rrnttetiS^^^^ 
 More champa,.ne ^ "o~d atSfat^li^L taToTht 
 garden than at any other party of four iu hTclub ^nd tet 
 the house was crowded with diners, and there were otW 
 groups scattered here and there, banquetinruXth« ro^J 
 
 tunes should beVke„ tl.: ^;^,"l2i:"^^'^^l 
 
66 
 
 The V^orU, The Mesh, and The DevU. 
 
 congratulations, very few of them cordial and disinter- 
 ested. Time enough when the inexorable Illustrated 
 London iV^ewshad acquainted society with the particulars 
 of Ebenezer Milford's will. 
 
 The two women had behaved with discretion, and al- 
 though Larose wondered a little at the superb indifferei ice 
 with which Hillersdon paid for the dinner, and left the 
 change of a ten pound note to the waiter, knowing that 
 of late his friend had suffered from youth's common mal- 
 ady ct impecuniousness, he ascribed this freedom only to 
 some windfall which afforded temporary relief. 
 
 On tlieir way to the carriage Mrs. Gresham contrived 
 to get Hillersdon all to herself, while Larose and Mrs. 
 Champion walked in advance of them. 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Hillersdon, a fortune such as yours is a vast 
 responsibility for a Christian,' she began solemnly. 
 
 ' 1 haven't looked at it in that light, Mrs. Gresham, but 
 I own that it will take a good deal of spending.' 
 
 ' It will, and the grand thing will be to secure good 
 results for your outlay. There is one good thing I should 
 like to introduce to your notice before you are beset by 
 appeals from strangers. The chief desire of my husband's 
 heart, and I may say also of mine, is to enlarge our Pai^'sh 
 Church, now altogether inarchitectural and inadequate t'> 
 the wants of the increased congregation which his 
 eloquence and strength of character have attracted. In 
 the late incumbent's time the church used to be half 
 empty, and mice ran about in the gallery. We want to 
 bmdd a transept which would absorb the existing chancel, 
 and to add a new and finer chancel It will be a matter 
 of several thousands, but we have many promises of help 
 if any benefactor would give a large donation — say a 
 thousand guineas—to start the fund in a really substan- 
 tial manner.' 
 
 *Mv dear Mrs DroaVtam trnn f/x».r-r>f *Vof t „.~, _ ^ _»_ 
 
 soa Dog^ doesn't eat dog, you know. I have no doubt 
 my father's church needs enlargement. I know it has 
 
it. 
 
 id disinter- 
 Illustrated 
 particulars 
 
 on, and al- 
 ndiffereiice 
 id left the 
 >wing that 
 nmon mai- 
 Dm only to 
 
 ■ 
 
 I contrived 
 3 and Mrs. 
 
 3 is a v&st 
 
 nly. 
 
 ssham, but 
 > 
 
 scare good 
 » I should 
 e beset by 
 husbands 
 our Pai^'sh 
 iequate f^ 
 rhich his 
 icted. In 
 3 be half 
 e want to 
 g chancel, 
 I a matter 
 es of help 
 in — say a 
 r substan- 
 
 a. parson s 
 
 no doubt 
 
 )W it has 
 
 ne WorU, Th^ Flesh, and The DevU. 6? 
 
 a pervading mouldiness which calls for restoration I 
 must think ot him before I start your fund ? 
 
 •If you have not yet learnt how to sp' id vour fortune 
 you at least know how to take care of if Mr "Hii orsdon " 
 said Mr^ Gresham, with some asperity, a»..^ then ecover- 
 ing herself she continued airily. 'It wu- :>)iher too bad 
 ^t ™®,P®'"^»P8 *o Prague you so soon, but tJ.e cause of 
 the Ohurch one must be importunate in season and out 
 ot season. 
 
 They went through the house and waited in the vesti- 
 bule while the carriage was brought to the door, and thoy 
 all went back to town together in the baroucho and 
 wound up^ with an after midnight cup of tea in Mrs 
 Champions dehghtful drawing-room, a labyrinth of lux- 
 urious chairs, and palms, and Indian screens, and many- 
 shaped tables, loaded with bric-a-brac of the costliit 
 kind, glimmering faintly in the tempered light of amber- 
 shaded lamps. 
 
 < rl ^ ^^^\*'^® French custom of midnight tea.' said Larose. 
 it stretches the thread of life and shortens the ni«^ht of 
 the brain. * 
 
 Mrs^ Gresham slipped away with ostentatious steal thi- 
 
 nessafter a hasty cup of tea; but the others satiate, 
 
 beguiled by the coolness and repose of th( atmosphere, 
 
 they three alone m the spacious room, with the perlume 
 
 ot tea-roses and shadow of dark tan-shaped leaves. Edith 
 
 Champion was not a person of many accompli.sjiments. 
 
 bhe neither played nor sang, she neither painted pictures 
 
 nor wrote verses, preferring that such things should be 
 
 done for her by those who made it the business of their 
 
 lives to do them well. But she was past-mistress of the 
 
 decorative art, and there were few women in London or 
 
 Paris who could approach her in the arrangement of a 
 
 drawing-room. 
 
 ' My drawing-room is part of myself,' she said ; ' it 
 reflects every shade of my character, and changes as I 
 change. "^ 
 
 % 
 

 68 Th^ World, The Flesh, and i%e Devil. 
 
 fomlnltf^^' ^^^^^^^J-l^y and the Park looked almost 
 
 SoTp^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 „„ ^i ''«go to the Petnnia?' asked Larose maeestma 
 
 S:ffhrrctte*'fer^ ^"^^^ ■=»"'• •'^^^ 
 
 ' I detest the Petunia.' 
 
The World, Tlie Flesh, amd The DevU 69 
 
 which Cto^L: ht ::a«wr/r^''?'° ">'» '''^■ 
 
 old gateway in thIgWf dal v fZ"?t-*° ^"^ *■>« 
 
 the houso to which he was Sin f 1,0 whole thing— 
 sat_the wine he dran^f^^ld w^L'T •"? ^^'t ^^ 
 night. Granted that th^fece of fhe ^ri * "'r„°^*''^ 
 tion pnt upon him bv » ^i?„! ^ y'*' ahallucina- 
 
 mostVve been rSl ^a, ^Ta ""^T"''' °"'*'' '""S^ 
 the streets ofL^in foXe or^fo^Tn,™''''™'' '" 
 n=eric trance, full of ^^\^iS^ZT ^Tu."Z "■*'- 
 of every detail, of every word thev tw« h^ll .'"^"""•y 
 too distinct to be only ti mfmoryVfTdr:!^^'"' "^ 
 He walked to Bow-strppf nn.! *« "^^^s-™- 
 
 in the direction in whicth:Vii;^:"nth:: X'w "' 
 with Justin Jermyn. After he left Lfncolntlni^FtuT 
 
 direct his steps in the wa^ thev hfd In.Tl'™',.'"'^'"' 
 emei^d into HattorW^rd nX le-?™T '" r '^ ,""'' 
 
 if 
 
 'I 
 
 3;; 
 
 1^ 
 
! HI 
 
 iij 
 
 70 
 
 The World, Tlie Flesh, and The Lewi. 
 
 faintest resemblance to the gate house beneath which he 
 passed last night. He began to think that he had been 
 verily upon enchanted ground, and that the champagne he 
 had drunk with Justin Jermyn was akin to that juice of 
 the grape which Mephistopheles drew from an augur hole 
 in a wooden table. There was devilry in it somewhere 
 or somehow. 
 
 He went back to his lodgings mystified and dispirited. 
 He forgot that he v/a.; a millionaire, and over the scene 
 of life there crept once again that dreary neutral hue 
 which it had worn when he contemplated making a sud- 
 den irrevocable exit from the stage. It was three o'clock 
 before he got to Church court, half-past three before he 
 flung himself wearily upon his jingling brazen bed. 
 
 ' I must move into better rooms on Monday,' he said 
 to himself, ' and I must think about getting a house- of 
 my owa What is the use of wealth if one dosen't enjoy it V 
 
 There was very little enjoyment in him this summer 
 morning, when the clear bright light stole into his room, 
 and accentuated the shabbiness of the well-worn furni- 
 ture, the hideous Philistinism of the mahogany wardrobe, 
 with its Corinthian columns and tall strip of looking 
 glass, in which he had critically surveyed his dress-suit 
 the other evening, wondering how long it would holdout 
 against the want of confidence among me west-end tailors. 
 He could have as many dress-suits as he liked now, and 
 could pay as mum as the most egregious tailor cared to 
 demand. He could live where he liked, start his house 
 and his stable on a footing worthy of Nero or Doinitian. 
 He could do what he liked with his life, and the world 
 would call it good, would wink at his delinquencies and 
 flatter his follies. All that the world has of good lay in 
 the hollow of his hand, for are not all the world's good 
 things for sale to the highest bidder ? He reflected upon 
 this wondrous change in his fortunes, and yet in this 
 morning hour of solitude and silence the consciousness of 
 illimitable wealth could not bring him happiness. 
 
Tke World, The Flesh and The Devil. 71 
 
 There had always been a vein of Huperstition in his na- 
 ture perhaps; or superstitious fears would scarcely have 
 troubled him in the midst of his prosperity. His double 
 attempt to nnd Jermyn s chambers, and his double failure 
 had disconcerted him more than such a thing should have 
 done. Ihe adventure gave a suggestion of diablene to 
 his whole nistory since the moment when Jermyn read his 
 secret design m the library at Fridoline House. 
 
 He could not sleep, so he took down the Peau de Cha- 
 grin from the bookcase which held his limited librarv 
 composed of only that wliich he held choicest in litera- 
 ture. One could have read the bent of his mind by look- 
 ing at the titles of those thirty or forty books. Goethe's 
 *austHeins Poetry and Prose, Alfred de Musset, Owen 
 Meredith Villon, Balzac, Baudelaire, Richepin— the liter- 
 ature of despair. 
 
 He read how when the lawyer brought Raphael the 
 news of his fortune, his first thought was to take the Peau 
 de Lhagrm from his pocket and measure it against the 
 forf °^ ^^^^ "^°" ^ tablo-napkin the night be- 
 
 The skin had shrunk perceptibly. So much had gone 
 from his life m the emotions of a night of riot and 
 feasting, in the shock of a sudden change in his fortunes. 
 An allegory, mused HiUersdoa 'My life has been 
 wasting rapidly since the night before laat. I have ]>een 
 living laater— two heart-throbs for one.' 
 
 He breakfasted early after two or three hours of broken 
 sleep, and dawdled over his breakfast, taking up one 
 volume after another with a painful inability to fix his 
 mind upon any subject, until the inexorable church bells 
 im oVw *^ clangour close at hand, and made all thought 
 
 Then only did he remember that it' was Sunday morn- 
 ing. He changed his coat hurried! v. brushed his Lt «n. I 
 aefc out for that particularly select and fashionable temple 
 in which I.dith Champion was wont to hear the eloquent 
 
 M 
 
 .6« 
 
 .&! 
 
72 
 
 The World, Tlie Flesh, and Tfie Devil. 
 
 sermons of a 'delicate, dilletante, white-handed priest/ in 
 an atmosphere neavy with white-rose, Ess. bouquet, and 
 the warm breath of closely- packed Jiumanity. 
 ^ The choir was chanting the ' Te Deum ' when he went 
 in, and secured one of the last rush-bottomed chau^ avail- 
 able m the crowded nave. His night wanderings had 
 fatigued him more than he knew, and he slept profoundly 
 through one of the choicest discourses of the season, and 
 was not a little embarrassed when Mrs. Gresham insisted 
 upon discussing every point the preacher had made. Hap- 
 pily, both ladies were too eager to state their own opin- 
 ions to discover his ignorance, or to guess that for him 
 that thrilling sermon had been as the booming of a bum- 
 ble bee in the heart of an over-blown rose— a sound of 
 soothing and pleasantness. 
 
 'He goes to the Riviera every winter,' said Mrs. Obam- 
 pion.shpping from the sermon to the preacher ; ' he is more 
 popular there than in London. There is hardly standing 
 room in any church where he preaches.' ' 
 
 Hillersdon walked into the Park with the two ladies 
 the customary church pamde which always bored him', 
 even m Edith Champion's company, and even although 
 his pride was stimulated by being seen in attendance upon 
 one of the handsomest women in London. 
 
 The park looked lovely in the summer noontide, the 
 people were smart, well-dressed, admirable; but the park 
 and the people were the same as last year, and they would 
 be the same next year— the same and always the same. 
 
 " It is the constant revolution stale, 
 And tasteless of the same repeated joys. 
 That palls and satiates, and makes languid life 
 A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer dovm." 
 
 He dined with Mrs. Champion, and went to a musical 
 Fi Y Y^th^her, and that Sunday seemed to him one of 
 ^xic- longest iio had ever spent, longer even than the Sab- 
 bath days of his boyhood, when he was allowed to read 
 
id Mrs. Cbam- 
 r ; ' he is more 
 
 fhe World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 73 
 
 only good h)oks, and forbidden all transactions with rat- 
 catchers and ferrets. 
 
 l,p?I "^^ glad when he had handed Mrs. Champion to 
 
 WhX?f '?• ^^^^«^«T.-P^^'e> glad to go back to his 
 bachelor loneliness, and m patient of Monday mornin<r. 
 He was up betimes, and hurried off to Lincoln's Inn 
 :/1^?lffi''"'° w '^ ™ jea^'onable to expect Mr Craiton 
 ll M -il J^^^a'ited e jain to assure hims^ll that Eb- 
 
 Thl ^l^f" ^"' "^! r^ ^ ''^^''y' ^^d ««t a dream. 
 
 The sobcitor received him with unimpaired graciouT 
 ness, and was ready ^ith offers of assistance m a^nv plans 
 ^ his chent. All that had to be done about theX>"'- 
 tance wa^ m progress, but as all processes of law r re 
 lengthy it would be some little time before Mr. Hi^e s^ 
 don would be m actual possession of his wealth 
 
 The succession duties will be very hea%7,' said Grafton 
 
 ' No, I forgot to do that.' 
 
 onoi^^7f^**.t^ ^ "^^^ *¥ 3^^" «^°^ld look him up at 
 s^Hon % ^/To'°™^.^ «^*^^« occurrence in the railway 
 station, suggested Grafton. « His evidence would be very 
 
 r;/ti^u^pt:^r4iif ^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^ -/^' 
 
 ! M°" ^?"'^ apprehend ? ' he faltered. 
 Jo I have not the slightest apprehension. Poor old 
 
 I nev r h^e'd'of^tt' ^t^* ''''' ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^i-s 
 1 never Heai d of them. But, as a precautionary measure 
 I advise you to see your friend ' measure, 
 
 --^'-"j>,&--^-"B "F *"" "laKing for the door. 
 
 d «>r hurry. Is there nothing that I 
 
 can 
 
 you?' 
 
I!i| 111 
 
 74 The World, The Fl^h, and l%e Detail 
 
 lags 
 
 'Nothing. I have been thinking of oanuging my lodg- 
 
 gs — but that can stand over for a fev ci&y% I nust 
 see Watson — and then I must gvj down to rhe country to 
 Ete my own people, It wouldn't do for them tc uear of 
 ray good 'I'jf k from anyone else. I may tell them, 1 
 suppose. 1 iro mA likely to find myself thrust out of 
 this inheritance af ''^r a few weeks' possession; I am not 
 going to be a kin<^ of L^ady Jane Grey a&ong legatees ?' 
 
 ' No, no ; thtvc- is really no danger. The v ill is a* 
 splendid will. It would be very difficult for anyone to 
 attack it, even the nearest blood relation. I have rrot the 
 slightest fear.' 
 
 'Give me your cheque for another five hundred, by 
 way oi backing your opinion,' said Hillersdon, still fever- 
 ishly, and with a shade of fretf ulness. 
 
 He was irritated by the mere suggestion that a will is 
 an instrument that may be impeached. 
 
 'With pleasure,' replied Mr. Grafton, -ready with his 
 cheque book ; 'shall 1 make it a thousand V 
 
 'No, no, a monkey will do. I really don't want the 
 money, only I like to see you part with it freely. Thanks, 
 good day.' 
 
 His hansom was waiting for him. He told the man 
 to drive to the Albany, where he might utilize his call 
 upon Watson by making inquiries about any eligible 
 rooms. 
 
 It was early in the day yet, and Watson was lingering 
 over his breakfast, which had been lengthened out by 
 the skimming of half-a-dozen morning papers. He had 
 not seen Hillersdon for some time, and welcomer* bim 
 with frank cordiality. 
 
 'What have you been doing with yourself r, •- ii>Is 
 time? 'he asked, a) ' ^hen answering his o.v . '^■. bion, 
 as he rang for fresh fee, 'moving in Mrs. C> an ii ion's 
 charmed circle, no doubt, and as her orbit aiu v ^ 
 don't often meet, and now we do meet I car. 
 
 ! we 
 Dli- 
 
 ment you on your appearance. You are looking 
 monly seedy.* 
 
n that a will is 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 75 
 
 •I have been sleeping badly for the last few nidits 
 
 bluiroftoweS' "'"^ *^ ^'^ ^^^^^^^ -^^^ -^ ^^^^ ^hf 
 
 f.Ji'i'i "^^^^ ^°''. P'^^^*^ ^ ^^"^^^«h o^d fellow from the 
 tiont of an advancing engine, and to all intents and pur- 
 eed ITtW itv Of f-«e I remember. A curLus 
 old man, that I believe he means to leave you a lecracv 
 ot some kind. Nineteen pounds nineteen/perhaps' ?^ 
 buy amournmg ring. He was monstrously^ pScular 
 m his inquiries as to your name and parentage, and usua 
 t\: Ga'r e with ^' ^^^'^^ ^^^^ ^^e fength 0? ihe avenu 
 
 ^nLToutlf uilW '^ "" ''-' "^"^'^ *^-^^^^ - 
 ' Did he tell you his own name ? ' 
 
 andlTorthTnte"^' '' '''''^^' ^"^ ' ^-* '^^ -d 
 'And you really believe that I saved his life ? ' 
 1 don t think there's the slightest doubt about it The 
 
 thing was as near as a touehen I expected to see you 
 
 killed m a vam attempt to save him ' ^ 
 
 ' And you would put as much as that in an affidavit or 
 
 say as much in the witness box ?' amaavit, or 
 
 Bu^VyteTe cSn^^' ^^ ^ '^^^^ ^^^-^ ^-• 
 wafatlt. '^'^ '^"^'^ motive, and the fortune that 
 ' Then the legacy comes to two millions,' cried Watson 
 
 By Jove, you are a lucky fellow, and upon ^^ honou^. 
 you deserve It. You hazarded yonv life,^ and what can 
 any man do more than that, and for an unknown rraveller 
 The good Samaritan goes down to posterity on the sSth 
 of some kindly feeling, and twopence. You di'd a S 
 deamoro^than the Samaritan, bu? the rewaTdtstlfnt 
 p«o ! vr ny caimoi 1 pluck a shabby Croesus out of th« 
 ron way. or rescue a millionaire from drown fng? Why 
 should this one lucky chance come your way and'not mTne^ 
 
 Si 
 
 Hi 
 if- 
 
76 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 You were only ten paces in advance of me when the 
 crucial moment came. Well, I won't grumble at your 
 good fortune. After all, the accession of one's bosom 
 friend to millions makes oneself no poorer — yet there is 
 always a feeling of being reduced to poverty when a 
 friend tumbles into unexpected wealth. It will take me 
 months to reconcile myself to the idea of you as a mil- 
 lionaire. And now what are you going to do with your 
 
 life r 
 
 * Enjoy it if I can, having the means of enjoyment given 
 me.' 
 
 ' All that money can do you can do,' said Watson, with 
 a philosophic air. * You will now have the opportunity 
 of testing the power of wealth, its limitations, its strictly 
 finite nature.' 
 
 ' I will not moan if I find there are some things gold 
 cannot buy,' said Hillersdon. ' There are so many thmgs 
 which it can buy which I have been wanting all my life.' 
 
 ' Well, you are a lucky fellow, and you deserve your 
 luck, because you did a plucky thing without thought or 
 fear of consequences. If you had paused to consider your 
 own peril that old man would have been done for.' 
 
 The servant came in with the cofiee, a welcome inter- 
 ruption to Hillersdon, who was tired of being coriipli- 
 mented on his pluck. His early breakfast had been only 
 a cup of tea, and he was not sorry to begin again with 
 Watson, who prided himself upon living well, and was a 
 connoisseur of perigord pies and York hams, and took in- 
 finite pains to get the freshest eggs and best butter that 
 London could supply. 
 
 ' Well, you are going to enjoy your life ; that is under- 
 stood. Imprimis, I suppose you will marry ? ' said Wat- 
 son, cheerily. 
 
 'I told you I meant to enjoy my life,' answered- Hill- 
 ersdon. * The first element of happiness is liberty : and 
 you suggest that I should start by surrendering it to my 
 wife?' 
 
 I 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 77 
 
 ' Oh, that's all bosh. A man with a big income does 
 not lose his freedom by taking a wife. In a millionaire's 
 household a wife is only an ornament. She has neither 
 control nor ascendancy over his existence. You remem- 
 ber what Beckford said of the Venetian nobility at the 
 close of the 18th century. Every great man in that on- 
 chanting city had his secret haven— a niche in the laby- 
 rinth of little streets, or in some shadowy bend of a narrow 
 canal, known only to himself and his intimates, where he 
 might live his own life, while his ostensible existence as 
 Grand Seigneur was conducted with regal pomp and pub- 
 licity in his palace on the Grand Canal. Do you suppose 
 that the Venetian nobleman of that era was governed bv 
 his wife ? Pas si bete.' "^ 
 
 ' I shall never marry till I can marry the woman I love ' 
 answered Hillersdon. ' 
 
 Watson shrugged his shoulders significantly, and went 
 on with his breakfast. He knew all about Mrs. Cham- 
 pion, and that romantic attachment which had been going 
 on for years, and which seemed as hopeless and almost as 
 unprofitable upon Gerard Hillersdon's side as Don Quix- 
 ote's worship of Dulcinea del Toboso. Watson, who was 
 strictly practical, could not enter into the mind of a man 
 who sacrificed his life for a virtuous woman. He could 
 understand the other thing— life and honour, fortune and 
 good name, flung at the feet of Venus Pandemos. He 
 had seen too much of the influence of base women and 
 Ignoble love to doubt the power of evil over the hearts of 
 men. It was this namby-pamby devotion, this lap-doo- 
 love, the desire of the moth for the star, in which he could 
 not belie\ 0. 
 
 Hillersdon left him h\ time to catch the Exeter express 
 at Waterloo. He ha. . made up his mind that he must no 
 longer keep his own people in ignorance of the change in 
 ..h^ iOit^une^. £ie uau ^ivim tue nara-worKed lather and 
 the long-sutfering mother too much trouble in the pa.st, 
 and now the hour c:; compensation must be no longer de- 
 
 i *l 
 
 4t^^tk 
 
78 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 laycd. Yes, his father's church ahould be restored, and 
 the dear old tumble-down Rectory renovated from garret 
 to cellar without injury to its tumble-downness, which 
 was of all things beautiful — a long, low house, with bow 
 windo\y3 bellying out unexpectedly ; a house so smoth- 
 ered with banksia roses, myrtle, flowering ash, and wis- 
 taria I i .at it was not easy to discover whether its walls 
 were brick or stone, rough-cast or cob. 
 
 It was a relief to Gerard Hillersdon to turn his back 
 upon London, to feel that his face was set towards green 
 pastures and summer woods, to sue the white fleeces of 
 rural sheep instead of the darklings of the park, and the 
 frolics of young foala in the meadows instead of smart 
 young women bucketting along the Row. 
 
 ' God made the country and man made the town/ he 
 said to himself, quoting a poet whom his father loved and 
 quoted often. 
 
 It was still early in the afternoon when he went in at 
 the gate of the rectory garden. The estuary of the Exe 
 lay before him, with crisp wavelet? dancing in the sun. 
 His father's parish v mit^ • ay bet en Exeter and Ex- 
 mouth, a place of quietness and fertile meadows, gardens 
 brimming over with flowers, thatched cottages smothered 
 with roses and honey-sicLrS, beehives, poultry y, ds.and 
 all rustic sights and sounds ; a village in which a rector 
 is a kind of king, exercising more influence than pai-lia- 
 ments and potentates afar off. Two ^Irls were playing 
 tennis on the lawn to the right he T ig low verandah 
 that screened the drawing-roou: in ws, two glan ng 
 figures in ^vhite gowns that cau, :thv >mlight. One he 
 knew for his sister Lilian; the o.Iier was a stranger. 
 
 Lilian faced the carriage- drive by which he approached, 
 recognized him, flung down her racquet with a joyful ex- 
 clamation, and ran to meet him, heedless of her antagon- 
 
 • I thought you were never coming near us again,* she 
 said, when they had kissed ; ' mother has been full of 
 
turn his back 
 
 tead (f smart 
 
 The Wirrld, The Flesh, and The Devil 79 
 
 anxieties about you. It was time you came ; yes, hi^h 
 tim.^ for you are lookin-^ dreadfully ill.' ° 
 
 ' Everyone seems bent upon telling me that/ he said 
 with a vexed air. • 
 
 ' Vouhave been ill, I believe, an<' you never let ua 
 know. 
 
 u '^^^ a^well as I ever was in my life, and I have not 
 been ill. Two or tluoe bad" nights seem to have played 
 havoc with my looks.' 
 
 ' It is the horrid life you lead in London— partier every 
 day nnd every night; no respite, no repose. I hear of 
 your .. ungs, you see, though you so seldom write to any 
 of us ' 'ss Vore, who is staying with me, knows all 
 aoKut yc 
 
 'Then Mi.^ Vere possesses all knowledge worth having 
 — tromm; ^.>int of view. I daresay she knows more 
 about me ihan I low of myself. You shall introduce 
 me to her, after i ve seen my mother.' 
 
 ' You shall see mother without one moment's waste of 
 time, said Lilian. 'Poor mother, she has so pined for 
 you. Mother,' called Lilian, addressing her fresh younii 
 voice to the verandah, 'Mother, come out here and be 
 startled and delighted in a breath.' 
 
 Gerard and his sister were moving towards the house 
 as she called. A tall matronly figure emerged from the 
 verandah, and a cry of gladness welcomed the prodi<^al 
 son. In the next minute he was clasped to his mother's 
 
 ' My dearest boy.' 
 
 ' My ever dear mother.' 
 
 'I have been so anxious about you, Gerard.' 
 
 'Not without cause, dear mother. I was in very low 
 spirits, altogether at odds with fortune a few days a^o 
 and no I have had a stroke oi luck. I have comeTjo 
 teJl you good news. 
 
 ' You have wri Hen another book,' she cried deb'ghtfully. 
 iJetter than that. " "^ 
 
 * ^Qthing would, be bQttei: .hau that to my miui' 
 
 
H 
 
 80 
 
 The World, The Fleah, and The Devil 
 
 • What would you say if a good old man, whom I only 
 saw once ia my life, had left me his fortune ? ' 
 
 ' I should say it was like a fairy tale.' 
 
 • It is like a fairy tale, but I believe it is reality. I 
 believe, because a London solicitor has advanced me a 
 thou.iand pounds with no better security than my ex- 
 pectations. I have not sold my shadow, and I have not 
 accepted the Peau de chagrin. I am substantially and 
 realistically rich, and I can do anything in the world that 
 money can do to bake you and father and Lilian happy 
 for the rest of your lives.' 
 
 ' You can give me a new racquet,' said his sister. ' It 
 is a misery to play with this, and Barbara has the very 
 latest improvement in racquets.' 
 
 '"My mother had a maid called Barbera,'" quoted 
 Gerard lightly. ' Miss Vere is your Barbara, I suppose V 
 
 He went into the drawing-room with his mother, while 
 Lilian ran to apologize to Miss Vere for her sudden de- 
 sertion. Mother and son sat side by side, hand clasped 
 in hand, and Gerard told her the strange history of his 
 altered fortunes. He told her of his debts and of his de- 
 spair, his utter weariness of life ; but he did not tell her 
 that he had contemplated suicide ; nor did he fling across 
 her simple thoughts the cloudy mysticism which has be- 
 come a frequent factor in modern life. He did not tell 
 her of the scene in Jermyn's chambers, or of his vain en- 
 deavours to discover the whereabouts of those chambers; 
 nor did he talk to her of Edith Champion, albeit she 
 knew something of that romantic phase of his life. 
 
 She was enraptured at the thought of his good fortune, 
 without one selfish consideration of the prosperity it 
 would bring to her. In the midst of her rejoicing she 
 began to talk to him about his health. 
 
 ' You are not looking well,' she said, * health is of fax 
 more importance than fortune.* 
 
 This harping on an unpleasant strain irritated him. 
 This was the third time within the day that he had been 
 tQld he looked ill. 
 
ealth is of far 
 
 T}ie World, The Fleah, and Tlui Devil. 81 
 
 'You women are all morbid/ ho said. 'You poison 
 your lives with unrealized apprehensions. If any one 
 gave you the Koh-i noor ydu would make yourself mis- 
 erable by the suspicion that it was only a bit of glass. 
 You would want to break it up in order to be sure of its 
 value. Suppose I have a headache— suppose I have had 
 two or three bad nights, and am looking haggard and 
 pale, what JH that against two millions?" 
 
 HkJfW?'^"rA.^^' ^r'?' '^ y°"^ fortune anything 
 like that ? asked his mother m an awe-stricken voice. 
 1 am told that it is very much like that.' 
 
 ' It-, sounds like a dream. There is something awful in 
 the idea of such wealth in the possession of Sne youn<T 
 man. And oh Gerard, think of the thousands and tei^ 
 ot thousands who are almost starving.' 
 
 ' I suppose everybody will tell me that.' exclaimed her 
 son imtebly. ' l^hy should I think of the starving 
 thousands ? Why, just because I have the means of en? 
 joying life, am I to make myself miserable by brooding 
 upon the miseries of others ? If it comes to that a mS 
 ought never to be happy while there is a single ill-used 
 cab horse m the world. Just think of all the horses in 
 London and Pans that are under-fed and over-driven, and 
 have galled shou ders and cracked heels. There is mad- 
 
 ""tV '\^ ^^'""^ ^^ *^^ ill-treated children, the little 
 children, the gutter martyrs, whose lives are a burden 
 If we are to think of these things our choicest luxuries 
 our most exalted pleasures, must twrra to gall and worm- 
 wood. For every pair of happy lovers Ihere are women 
 m degradation and despair, and men whose lightest touch 
 18 defilement. If we stop to consider how this world we 
 live in—so full of exquisite beauty and eager joyous life 
 -IS just ^ full of want and misery and crime, the sharp 
 anguish of physical pain, and the dull a-ony of patient, 
 j..^. . . „., . ...^ , „ ^„,, e nu aucn tning m pleasure. We 
 
 SuLT^f""' ^^^ ^ ' 5'^^' 'l"^*^"^- ^^°«« ^« cannot heal 
 all these gaping wounds-since there is no possible panar 
 
iijiiiiii 
 
 II i "» 
 
 1 1 
 
 111] iii 
 
 I 
 
 \m nil 
 iiiiGi iiji 
 
 82 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The DMl 
 
 cea for the sufferings of a universe, we must narrow our 
 thoughts and hopes to the limits of home and family and 
 say Kismet. Allah is good;" But for you, dearest, for 
 you and all whom you want to help, my wealth shall be 
 as potent a^ the four-leaved shamrock. You shall be mv 
 almoner. You shall find out which among all the never- 
 endmg schemes for helping the helpless are really good 
 and sound, and honest, and I will aid them with open hand.' 
 My dear son, I knew your heart was full of pity ' mur- 
 mured his mother tenderly. if J> >■ 
 
 ; Oh, but I don't want to pity anyone. I want you. 
 with your dear, calm mmd, to think and act for mo. 
 Everybody tells me I am looking haggard and ill, now 
 just when life is worth cherishing. I want to avoid over- 
 much agitation if I can. Let us talk of happier things. 
 Wiled ?^ governor, or the Rector as £e prefei-s to 
 
 'He has not been very well of late. Last winter tried 
 him severely. 
 
 ' ^?,^ f "St pend next winter at San Rerao or Sorrento, 
 will be only for you both to choose your locality.' 
 And I may see Italy before I die,' gasped the Rector's 
 wite whose peregrinations hitherto had rarely gone be- 
 yond Boscastle on the one side and Bath on the other 
 with a fortnight in London once in two years 
 
 5^es, you shall see all that is fairest in this world* 
 answe: ed Gerard. ' 
 
 1 r^T^^^^"" .^^ spending the day in Exeter. What a 
 delightful smprise to greet him with when he comes home 
 to dinner. But you must not wait for eight o'clock, Ger- 
 
 qvlill T 1 '""'u ^^^^ something after your journey. 
 ShaU I order a chop, or a grilled chicken V 
 
 JNo, dear raother, I am too happy in your company to 
 want such substantial food. I think I saw cups and sau- 
 cers m the garden, under our favourite tree— 
 
 *A*^?'^,*^°'^ '" *" ^^^ breadth and height 
 \)i foliage, towering' sycamore,' " 
 
-.■v. 
 
 last winter tried 
 
 your journey. 
 
 Th^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 83 
 
 you 8hall have some tea, dearest.' She ran" the beU S 
 youS^akin W i^PP™?" '" ^ ?"'■>» t^ere with 
 
 Lp rMKS's s c'h™t^r'^^"' "^• 
 
 proa'ch A-"" °^ ''"'^koowledged the fo S^f this re- 
 
 Lr,?^^?'^ enjoyed no more independent existence than 
 P^^:r^^^T^^ ^- constrar^to"":" 
 j He went mto the garden with his mother F^nnt. 
 
 h much ^s ;,U goddess allowed hTm^dnow^llb^!;'; 
 his chains were unbroken-he had a feSinrthrJhel 
 were somehow lengthened and tl,«f J,„ „ * tnat they 
 aa he liked henceforwlrf ™ ^'"« *° *» 
 
 Icakea and ,!^. i. j '"""""l. b™ught tea, and toasted 
 
 UeteiTSlf'^ *"""'■" P'-'y^"' '''"^ had taken 
 fe GerLd i ?'f ^^^'•f ^--y gl»d to take another at 
 
 twl,adlr%^«?'° ^^ of""' houses a Xh 
 
 1- 
 
34 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 * I think you know Mrs. Champion/ Miss Vero remark- 
 ed innocently. ' She and my cousin, Mrs. Harper, are 
 great chums.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Theodore Harper ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Mrs. Theodore.' 
 
 * I know her well, a very pretty woman.' 
 
 * Yes, she is by way of being a beauty,' said Miss Vere, 
 who was much handsomer, and no doubt was fully aware 
 of her superiority ; ' but don't you think she's rather silly 
 about that boy of .hers — taking him everywhere ? ' 
 
 * Upon that point I consider her positively imbecile. 
 A child in an Eton jacket should not be obtruded upon 
 the society of reasonable men and women. I believe she 
 only takes him about with her in order that people may 
 exclaim, '* Your son, Mrs, Harper ? Impossible ? How 
 could you have a son of twelve years old, when you can 
 be at most two-and-twenty ? " 
 
 ^ ♦ And th^in she smiles — carefully — through her magno- 
 lia bloom, and is perfectly happy for the rest of the after- 
 noon, while the boy sits tuining over illustrated books 
 and boring himself to death.' ' 
 
 ' Or sucking surreptitious lollipops, till some prosy old 
 Etonian goes and sits beside him, and talks about the 
 playing fields and the river,' said Gerard. 
 
 Lilian and her mother sat smiling at this conversation, 
 hajjpily unconscious of its utter artificiality. Lilian, who 
 was Jily-fair and guileless as a child, looked up to Bar- 
 bara Vere with eyes of admiring wonder. Her exqui- 
 sitely fitting gowns, her aplomb, and her knowled^^e of 
 the side scenes of life commanded the village maiden's 
 respect. To talk to a girl who had the peerage and bar- 
 onetage at her fingers' ends, knew to a shade every impor- 
 tant person's political opinions, was familiar with all the 
 society scandals and all the approaching alliances, was a 
 privilege for t^he Rector's daughter. She wondered how 
 X.UQ Dniiiant Daroara could endure the jog-trot domesti- 
 city of the Rectory, and it had never occurred to her that 
 
'he DevU. 
 
 liss Vero remark- 
 Mrs. Harper, are 
 
 an. 
 
 V said Miss Vere, 
 
 t was fully aware 
 
 she's rather silly 
 iry where ? ' 
 >sitively imbecile, 
 e obtruded upon 
 m. I believe she 
 
 that people may 
 apossible ? How 
 d, when you can 
 
 ough her magno- 
 s rest of the after- 
 ilustrated books, 
 
 11 some prosy old 
 talks about the 
 
 his conversation, 
 ity. Lilian, who 
 >oked up to Bar- 
 ler. Her exqui- 
 ir knowledge of 
 village maiden's 
 peerage and bar- 
 ide every impor- 
 iliar with all the 
 alliances, was a 
 I wondered how 
 og-trot doraesti- 
 urred to her that 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 85 
 
 Barbara Vere put in for repairs at this quiet little harbour 
 after the wear and tear of her annual voyage on the hiX 
 seas of London society. ^ ^ 
 
 !}^^\^^^^^^\^ridao happy when I am with vou' 
 said Barbara. ' I leave my French maid and my powder'- 
 
 S^ton's'-^Ate''^ ""''''' ^^ ^'^ atmo^Lre^^f 
 
 «l,f^-r'^K^^^u^ ^^^^^ *^^*^ ^^ *^i« clerical seclusion 
 nn\t?fw*'°"'''V*^.^^^^ ^P ^^' eyebrows, or to put 
 
 bone IS ^1^''^''^*""°^ "^ '^'^g^ "P*^^ ^h« cl^eek. 
 bone, which in London drawing-rooms gave added lustre 
 to her fine.dark eyes. Here hir life #as spent for the 
 most part m a garden, and she was wise enough to know 
 suThfoSo^r!!^'"'^^'^^ embellishment, became unX 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE FACE IN THE VISION. 
 
 , HE little party of four sat long at the tea-table 
 ' under the wide branches of the tuUp tree, 
 which was m Its perfection at this season. The 
 Kectory garden was on a level stretch of 
 ground ; but below the shrubbery that girdled 
 lawn a,nd parterre, the glebe meadows sloped to- 
 wards the low, irregular diff ; and beyond the un- 
 
 nf+l,«.l^^^^"?ru''^*^\*'^^^^*°^«'^ *^« brave wavelets 
 of the estuary^ The garden and its surroundings were 
 
 No^-fh n ^' ^""^'' ,r^'i»?-«ot the grand scenery of 
 North Devon ror the still bolder coast-line of North 
 ^^ornwall, by that steen rook xx^hovc .^r.o« .,. — ^« m-A-— v, 
 crowd ot towers, but a fertile and lovable land, which 
 seems to mvite restfuhiess and a happy content with 
 
M 
 
 ^ World. The Plesk, and The Devil 
 
 a wooded hill, whose summit commanded a fine vifw , 
 
 w?,hL ^ 'f """^ ">'' "^'«*«''t Lizard. %at h ^ 
 with Its wood and coppice had been Gerard's deU.ht in 
 
 airacuities m the higher mathematics. 
 
 thi?d elWe.1n?'drtrf *'S^ ^ftt tv^ ^ 
 »?anty justice to the plethom of r'usdo fart 'tL t^ 
 C HUlfr ""-r ■ f-™S»o">erandr„n-tetltt'er 
 
 S^Kesirnoe*""^ ""' '" ^^™™- ^o w^'t? S 
 
 A man's face, op a woman's ? ' 
 hef "in: a'^r^Tovtiffar *^-' ""' ^ '=^"'' ^^-«'^ 
 
 didn';'U\Test1j,Ur.^" '"'^ ^"""^ — '^ ^'■y 
 
 n„ tT!l* (*°^ ^f "'•*'' "P"" "« aid was gone. There wm. 
 vo„ .^^ f» "^kina question,. I want you to help mr» 
 
 kaowu .„ tbiBvma«e-u\htsurrSg«;::rghrrht:d™ 
 
! Devil 
 
 ations or heroif> 
 
 jhard there r<>S( 
 ■ a fine view n 
 ailing away t? 
 ird. That L ii 
 ard's delight in 
 d read there in 
 _ which to this 
 ics, and certain 
 
 ! sat, sipping a 
 r having done 
 Pare. The two 
 son tete-^-tete, 
 e busy needles 
 nd children in 
 e was first to 
 
 tich reminded 
 go — five or six 
 the face with 
 ow familiar it 
 Qs to find out 
 
 f a woman of 
 nble life. It 
 can't identify 
 
 )man ? Why 
 
 There was 
 to help me, if 
 some irapres- 
 ^is you have 
 eighborhood.' 
 
 !the World, The Flesh, and The Devil. Sf 
 
 ' There are so many pretty girls. Devon is famous for 
 beauty. A good many of the cottagers about here have 
 given me their photographs. People are very fond of 
 being photographed now, the luxury is so cheap. I have 
 an album that I keep on purpose for my parish friends. 
 You can look through it this evening, if you like, and sec 
 11 you can identify your young woman.' 
 
 • She would not be one among a herd/ Gerard answer- 
 ed irritably. ' I know what your Devon beauty means 
 —bright blue eyes, finp carnations. This girl is utterly 
 unlike the type. Surely you can remember a girl of ex- 
 ceptional beauty, with whom we had some kind of as- 
 sociation any time within the last ten years, but whom I 
 her ? ' ^^^ seen seldom, or I should be able to identify 
 
 'Exceptional beauty!' repeated Mrs. Hillersdon.thought- 
 tuly, I can recall nobody in the parish whom I should 
 call exceptionally beautiful. But men have such odd 
 notions about beauty. I heard a girl with a snub nose 
 and a wide mouth extolled as if she were Venus. Why 
 are you so anxious to know more about this young wo- 
 
 ' I have reason to think she is in distress, and I should 
 like to help her— now that I am rich enough to do foolish 
 things. ° 
 
 'It would not be foolish if she were a good girl— but 
 beware of exquisite beauty in humble Ufe, Geiard. It 
 would make me miserable if ' 
 
 'Oh, my dear mother, we have :'.ll read " David Copper- 
 held. I am not going to imit,u Soeorforth in his be- 
 trayal of little Emily. I ai , mystified about this girl. 
 
 ,Ji 7?"^* toj.earn who she it, md .-hence she came ' 
 Not from tms parish, Gerai'. I am sure, unless you 
 can find her m my album.' 
 
 ^Let me seejour albu.n, this minute,' cried Gerard. 
 • ae panoi xxiaiu appioaehed as he 8pf»ke, and betcaato 
 clear the tea table, *=* 
 
!ii 
 
 88 ft,e WoiU, The Flesh, and 2he Devil 
 
 ' Run up to my room and bring me the big brovn pho- 
 tograph album, said Mrs. Hillersdon, and the brisk young 
 pailoi luaid tripped away and presently returned with a 
 brown iiiorocco volume which had seen service. Gerard 
 turned the leaves eagerly. He beheld a curious collection 
 of old tashzoned finery, mushroom hats, crinolines, Gari- 
 baldi shirts, festoons, flounces, and Maria-folds, polonaises 
 jackets, mantles, of every style that has been worn with- 
 in thirty years— old men and maidens, fathers, mothers 
 children, babies in abundance, ' 
 
 There were plenty of pretty faces— faces which even 
 the rustic photographer could not spoil; but there was 
 not.one which oflfered the faintest resemblance to the face 
 he had seen in Justin Jermyn's chambers. 
 
 'No ! 'he exclaimed, flinging the book upon the table 
 m disgust, 'there is no sign of her among all your bump- 
 
 ' Please don't sneer at my bumpkins. You don't know 
 what good, bright, patient, hard-working creatures there 
 are among them, and how proud I am to know that thev 
 are fond of me. "^ 
 
 'The girl I saw had an ethereal face— not flesh, but 
 spirit- dreammg eyes, large and soft, shadowed by lona 
 dark lashes— fair hah-, not golden, mark you— but dis- 
 tinctly feir, a pale, soft brown, like the coat of a fallow 
 deer. Her features were exquisitely delicate, modellinff of 
 nose and chm like a madonna by Rafiaelle-yes, it is a 
 Kattaelle face, so soft m colouring, so heavenly in expres- 
 sion—but sad, unutterably sad.' 
 
 'Hester Davenport.' exclaimed Mrs. Hillersdon, sud- 
 denly, 'you have described her to the life. Poor girl 
 Where did you meet her ? I thought she was in Aus-' 
 tralia. 
 
 ' Perhaps only in a dream. But who is Hester Daven- 
 port ? 
 
 ' Don't you remember the curate. Ninbnlas D""-"— * 
 the mm whom yom- father engaged without adequate 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 89 
 
 scrutiny into antecedents or character, on the strength of 
 his line manner and appearance, and his evident super- 
 iority to the common run of Churchmen— a man of g^eat 
 theological learning, your father told me. He had been 
 tutor to Lord Raynfield's son— in Cumberland— and he 
 gave your father a letter of recommendation from Lord 
 Kaynfaeld. dated some seven years before he came to us 
 you know how unsuspicious your father is. It never oc- 
 curred to him that the man's character might have 
 changed since that letter was written. He w^ with us 
 a year and a half, and towards the end of that time his 
 daughter came from Hanover, where she had been sent for 
 a year or so to learn German. We were all struck with 
 her beauty, and sweet, gentle manners.' 
 
 'Yes, yes^I remember now. I was at home when she 
 arrived. How could I forget ? She came to tea with 
 liilian one afternoon when I was loafing about the ear- 
 den and I talked to her for five minutes, or so. not more, 
 for 1 had to hurry off to catch the traia for Exeter I 
 saw hex once after that— met her on the saAds one mim- 
 
 I'Jfti. f' ?® ^^"^^ "^"^^^ ^^^^ *o °ie ^ i<^ was then— in 
 all the freshness of girlhood.' 
 
 ' She was only seventeen when she came from Ger- 
 many. 
 
 'And Davenport went wrong, did he not ? Turn out 
 an incorrigible drunkard ? 
 
 .\1JT{ '* "^"^ unspeakably sad. He used to have occa- 
 sional lapses— never during his church work— but when 
 he was about m the parish. He told your father that he 
 suffered from slight attacks of epilepsy; so slight as to be 
 no hindrance to his duty. This went on for oVer^year 
 and then, on All faints' Day. he had an attack in^the 
 Ln.i'?; '^~* ^*Pf ""^ consciousness, as your father 
 W It, f^ seemed very strange-we were puzzled- 
 but none of us guessed the dreadful trntl. fill %.n^ «.,„ 
 day evenmg about a month after his poor'daughter came 
 home from Germany, he went up into the pulpit, reeling, 
 
90 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The DeuU 
 
 ! i !| 
 
 I 11 
 
 and clutching at the balustrade, and began to preach in 
 the wildest language, uttering dreadful blasphemies, and 
 bursting into hysterical laughter. Your father had to go 
 up into the pulpit with one of the churchwardens and 
 bring hira down by main force. He was perfectly mad ; 
 but it was drink, Gerard, drink, that had caused all the 
 evil. He had been taking brandy or chloral for years — 
 sometimes one, sometimeH the other. He was a secret 
 drinker — that learned, intellectual man, a man who had 
 taken the highest honours at Oxford, a man whom Ox- 
 ford men remembered.' 
 
 'What became of him after that? 
 
 'He had to leave us, of course, and as yonr father 
 dared not recommend him to anybody, and the scandal of 
 his behaviour had been heard oi throughout the diocese, 
 there was no hope of his getting any further employment 
 in the Church. Your father was very sorry for him, and 
 gave him a little money to help him to emigrate. His old 
 pupil, Lord Wolverley, helped hira, and old college friends 
 contributed, and he and his daughter sailed for Mel- 
 bourne. I went to Plymouth to see them off, for I was 
 very sorry for the poor motherless girl, in her deep 
 distress, and your father and others wanted to be 
 sure that they really got off, as Davenport was a slippery 
 kind of man, and might have let the ship sail without 
 him. They went out in a sailing vessel, crowded with 
 first, second, and third-class emigrants. They went 
 second-class, and I can see her now as I saw her that day 
 standing in the bows, with her hand through her father's 
 arm, while he waved his handkerchief to me. She was 
 white and wan, poor child, but exquisitely lovely. I 
 could not help thinking of what her life might have been 
 if she had had good and prosperous parents ; yet I know 
 she adored that old reprobate.' 
 
 'Exquisitely lovely, yes,' mused Q-erard. 'and going 
 out to a new world in an emigrant ship, and with a 
 drunken old man for her only guardian and stay. A 
 
il 
 
 preach in 
 )mies, and 
 [* had to go 
 xdens and 
 ctly mad ; 
 led all the 
 >r years — 
 a a secret 
 1 who had 
 rhom Ox- 
 
 )ar father 
 scandal of 
 e diocese, 
 aployment 
 r him, and 
 e. His old 
 !ge friends 
 I for Mel- 
 for I was 
 
 her deep 
 «d to be 
 a slippery 
 il without 
 vded with 
 hey went 
 r that day 
 er father's 
 
 She was 
 
 lovely. I 
 
 have been 
 
 ^et I know 
 
 and going 
 id with a 
 I stay. A 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and 'J'he Devil. 91 
 
 • 
 
 hard fate for exquisite loveliness, is it not, mother ? And 
 now, I believe she is in London, working at a needle- 
 woman's starvation wages, somewhere in St. Giles'.' 
 
 ' But how came you to learn so much, and yet not to 
 know more ? ' 
 
 ' Did I not tell you it was a dream ? ' he asked, with a ' 
 mocking smile ! But I mean to know more, mother ; I 
 mean to find this girl by hook or by crook, and to help 
 her ! ' 
 
 ' You must not mix yourself in her life, Gerard,' said 
 Mrs. Hillersdon, gravely ; ' that might end badly.' 
 
 ' Oh, mother, you are full of fears ! One would think 
 I were Mephistopheles, or Faust; while all I want is that 
 my money may be of some use to a friendless girl. Hes- 
 ter Davenport, I remember how lovely I thought her, but 
 I was no more in love with her than with the Venus of 
 the Capitol. Strange that I should have utterly failed to 
 identify the face, till you helped me ! ' 
 
 He went indoors with his mother, and found his room 
 —the room which had been his ever since he left the 
 nursery — ready for occupation. The old nursemaid, 
 whom he had teased and joked with in the old Marlbor- 
 ough holidays, had bustled and hurried to get I'^.c. 
 Gerard's room aired and dusted, and his portmanteau 
 unpacked, and all things arranged before the dressing- 
 bell rang out from the old wooden cupola that crowned 
 the low roof. Everything had the odour he knew so well 
 —a perfume of lavender and withered rose leaves mixed 
 with some strange Indian scent which was an inher- 
 itance from his mother's side of the house, her people 
 having been civilians of good standing in Bengal for half 
 a century. It was a curious composite perfume, which 
 for him meant the atmosphere of home, and brought back 
 memories of youth. 
 
 
 receivcvi 
 
 il -j» 
 
 Wit; ii-ows ui 
 
 iiis sons altered for- 
 
 r w.l 
 
 
 tunes at first with incredulity, and then t, ItL gladnesjj 
 mingled with awe, 
 

 92 
 
 The World, The Flesh and The Devil. 
 
 to himself and hi 
 ministered. Hi 
 and he and his ■■' 
 red of independent 
 
 ' The whole business seems too wonderful to be true, 
 Gerard,* he said ; ' but if it really is true, you are just the 
 luckiest fellow I ever heard of — to inherit an old man's 
 wealth without ever having cringed to him or fawned 
 upon him while he was alive — to receive two millions 
 Sterliug, without having to say thank you, except to 
 Providence ! ' 
 
 The Eector was by no means a selfish man, ajid he had 
 been an indulgent father, bearing witu a good deal of ex- 
 travagance and some perversity on the part of his son, 
 but he was not slow to see that this fortune must needs 
 mean comfort and luxury for him in his declining years, 
 and a freedom fron^ ^;;ancial cares which would be new 
 
 , , liberally as the Rectory was ad- 
 I Dj^ ■\yas worth nine hundred a year, 
 •fcween them had about five hund- 
 iome ; and it is not easy for a man 
 of good family and with refined tastes to live within an 
 income of fourteen hundred a year, especially when he is 
 RectoV of a rural parish in which the lower orders look to 
 him for aid in all their necessities, while the surrounding 
 gentry expect him to play an equal part in all their 
 sports and hospitalities. 
 
 Gerard stayed with his people just two days, 
 was as much time as he could spare for inaction, 
 there was upon him the natural restlessness of a 
 whose fortunes have undergone a sudden and wondrous 
 change, and who is eager to put newly acquired power to 
 the test. Father, mother, and sister would gladly have 
 kept him longer in that rural paradise, and Barbara 
 Vere, having got wind of his inheritance, exercised 
 all her blandishments, her spells of woven paces and of 
 weaving hands, to bind him to her side. Garden, and 
 hills, and rustic lanes, and summer sea, were all alike 
 suergestive of restfulness and oblivion of the busy world-. 
 — 'Cmt a young man newly lord of vast wealth is no more 
 to be satisfied with indolence in a garden than Eve was. 
 
 That 
 since 
 man 
 
I be true, 
 3 just the 
 )ld mail's 
 r fawned 
 millions 
 except to 
 
 id he had 
 eal of ex- 
 : his son, 
 List needs 
 Qg years, 
 d be new 
 
 was ad- 
 jd a year, 
 ve hund- 
 tor a man 
 vithin an 
 hen he is 
 rs look to 
 Tounding 
 
 all their 
 
 ^s. That 
 ion, since 
 )f a man 
 wondrous 
 
 power to 
 ,dly have 
 
 Barbara 
 
 exercised 
 
 es and of 
 
 rden, and 
 
 all alike 
 
 IV world; 
 
 J . 
 
 9 no more 
 Eve was. 
 
 ^he ITorW, TU Flesh, and The Demi. 93 
 
 He too, like Eve, longed to taste the fruit of the fatal 
 tree. 
 
 ' I have seen what life is like to a man who i has 
 
 a spare iive-poun.l note,' he told his sister ; ' I v. ,mt to 
 fand ou*^ how life t.-stes to a millionaire. And when I 
 have fiunished rooms or a house, and have settled down 
 a iittle, you must come and keep house for ine, Lilian—' 
 
 •Nonsense, dear! You will be marryin.r before the 
 year is out.' 
 
 'I have no idea of marrying. There is nothing so 
 unlikely as my marriage. You shall be mistress of mv 
 houio. '' 
 
 I couldn't leave mother— at least, not for years to 
 come, said Lilian. 
 
 ' In years to come she will need you more than she 
 needs yoi now. I begin to understand you, Lilian. That 
 tali ill-looking curate— Mr. Cumberland— has something 
 to do with your hesitations.' 
 
 •Do you think him so very ugly ? ' asked Lilian, with 
 a distressed look. 
 
 •T didn't say very ugly, but I certainly don't think 
 hm. handsome. That knotted and bulging brow means 
 brains, I suppose.' 
 
 ; He was fifth wrangler, and he is a splendid musician,' 
 said his sister. ' I wif ' you would stop tiU Sunday till 
 you see what he has made of the choir.' 
 
 'If he has made them sing in tune he must be a won- 
 derful man. And so he is the person whose merits and 
 tortunes are to colour your future, Liliaa I had no idea 
 ot It when I saw him hanging over your piano la^t night. 
 1 thought he was only a pis-aller. I suppose he is just 
 the type of man girls around country parsonages admire 
 —tall, athletic, with fine eyes, and dar^, overhanging 
 brows, large, strong hands, thick, wavy hair, and a power- 
 lul baritone vol CO. I ca" 'mUa i,„;i *-.-.j vi • 
 
 ^ -- - -^— i-.l/v/ •-"•-icic-.ani: you: liking 
 
 Mr. Cumberland. But what does the govc nor think of 
 

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 1125 III 1.4 
 
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 Hiotc^raphic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporation 
 
 33 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
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 Ttie World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 * Father does not mind,' Lilian answered naively, 
 ' Jack is of very good family, but he will have to get a 
 living before we are married.' 
 
 ' He shall have a living, if he is worthy of my sister,* 
 said Gerard, * money will buy livings — he shall be a plu- 
 ralist, if ha likes.' 
 
 * Oh, Gerard, he is the last man to like that. He has 
 such a strong idea of duty. He would like a big parish 
 in a sea-port, I think, with plenty of work. His best 
 gifts are wasted in such a place as this, but all ourpeople 
 adore him. Father owns that he never had such a helper.' 
 
 ' My sweet enthusiast, we will look out for a big sea- 
 port. You shall be a ministering angel to sailors and 
 sailers' wives — you shall temper the cruelties of life in, a 
 crowded city — and perhaps by yr&y of reward I shall 
 hear some day that my sister's husband has been struck 
 down by a malignant fever and that she has done herself 
 to death in nursing him.' , 
 
 breadth 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 'IT IS AN OATH,' SHE SAID. 
 
 ERARD went back to London, but eager as he 
 was to return, he felt a pang of regret as he 
 bade his mother good-bye in the fresh early 
 morning, and turned his face towards the 
 great city. His brief visit to the old home 
 had been an interval of rest in a life that had 
 been all unrest of late. He fancied that peavj de 
 chcogrin could hardly have shrunk by a hair's 
 viurmg those haul's of calm affiection, or inter- 
 
 change of thought and feeling, without vehemence or 
 
^evii. 
 
 Ths World, The Heah, and The Devil. 95 
 
 ed naively, 
 ave to get a 
 
 ►f my sister,' 
 all be a pla- 
 it. He has 
 a big parish 
 His best 
 ,11 our people 
 ich a helper.' 
 or a big sea- 
 I sailors and 
 3 of life in, a 
 fard I shall 
 been struck 
 done herself 
 
 t eager as he 
 regret as he 
 ) fresh early 
 towards the 
 le old home 
 ife that had 
 that peau de 
 by a hair's 
 3n, or inter- 
 ehemence or 
 
 excitement. To go back to Mrs. Champion and her set 
 was like going back to the edge of a volcano. The rage 
 of spending was upon him. He wanted to do something 
 with the money which he had scarcely dared to calculate. 
 He drove straight from Waterloo Station to I^incoln's Inn 
 and went through the schedule of his posaessions with 
 Mr. Cranberry, a little, dry old man, like the Princess 
 Ida's father, and had none of the prestige and unctions- 
 nesfii of his jumior partner, Mr. Crafton. One could divine 
 easily that «rhile Mr. Crafton lived in a handsome 
 'place' at Surbiton, grew pines and peaches, and prided 
 himself upon his stable and garden, Mr. Cranberry was 
 content with a dingy house in one of the Blcomsbury 
 squares, and restricted his pride of life to a few Dutch 
 pictures, a good plain cook, and a cellar of comet port and 
 old East Indian sherry. 
 
 From this gentleman Gerard Hillersdon elicited— to- 
 gether with much detail—the main fact that his capital 
 summed up to a little over two millions, and was invested 
 securely, in such a manner as to yield an average four 
 and a half per cent., whereby his income amounted to 
 £90,000. 
 
 His cheek paled at the mere mention of the sum. It 
 was too much undoubtedly, almost an evil thing to ac- 
 quire such gigantic wealth with a suddenness as of an 
 earthquake or an apoplectic stroke. The magnitude of 
 his wealth overawed him, and yet he had no desire to 
 lessen it by any large act of benevolence or philanthropy. 
 He had no inclination to give the London slums another 
 breathing ground, or to sink £100,000 upon a block of 
 d wellings for the abjects of the great city. He was at once 
 scared and elated. 
 
 ' Let me have a few thousands immediately,' he said ; 
 open an account for me at Mr. Milford's bank. 'Let ma feel 
 tnat I am rich.' 
 
 * It shall be done,' replied Mr. Cranberry ; and then he 
 explained that there were ceitain formalities to be gone 
 
 R^^j 
 
 l~^ 
 
96 The World, The Plesh, and The DevU. 
 
 through, which could be completed without delay, if his 
 client would give his mind <,o the business. 
 
 The two men drove round to the bank together. Cran- 
 berry opened his client's account with his own cheque 
 for £5,000, and a clerk handed Mr. Hillersdon a cheque 
 book. His first act on returning to his lodgings was to 
 write a cheque for a thousand pounds payable to Rev. 
 Edward Hillersdon, and this he enclosed in a brief scrawl 
 to his mother : 
 
 ' Ask the Rector to give Lilian a new frock,' he wrote, 
 * and to do just what he likes with the rest of the money. 
 1 shall send you my little gift upon your birthday next 
 week. Alas ! I let the date slip by last year, unmarked 
 by so much as a card.' 
 
 It was too late to begin his search for a new domicile 
 that afternoon, so he called on Mrs. Champion, who had 
 gone to Charing Cross Station to meet Mr. Champion on 
 his return from the Continent, and then he went on to 
 the pretty little Septem Club, with its old-fashi \ 
 low -ceiled rooms, and bow windows looking into 
 cage walk, and there he took tea with Roger Larose, whc 
 was generally to be found there at tea-time. 
 
 'I hear you have come into a fortune,' said Larose, with 
 his easy languor. * You have been trying to keep the fact 
 dark, I know, but these things always ooze out.' 
 
 'Who told you?' 
 
 ' Nobody. It is in the air. I think I read a para- 
 graph in the ' Hesperus. ' There are always paragraphs. 
 1 congratulate you upon your wealth. Is it much ? ' 
 
 'Yes; it is a good deal. My old friends needn't be 
 afraid of borrowing a few pounds of me when they are 
 hard up.' 
 
 'Thanks, my dear Gerard. I will bear it in mind. 
 And what are you going to do ? Shall you really be 
 content to live among us, and know us still ?' 
 
 ' The world and the people I know are quite the best 
 world and people I have ever imagined, only I mean to 
 
DevU. 
 
 it delay, if his 
 
 •gether. Cran- 
 ? own cheque 
 don a cheque 
 igings was to 
 yable to Eev. 
 a brief scrawl 
 
 ck,* he wrote, 
 of the money, 
 birthday next 
 )ar, unmarked 
 
 new domicile 
 >ion, who had 
 Champion on 
 e went on to 
 old-fashi \ 
 ig into 
 r Larose, who 
 
 I Larose, with 
 keep the fact 
 out.' 
 
 read a para- 
 s paragx'aphs. 
 nuch?' 
 Is needn't be 
 hen they are 
 
 it in mind, 
 ou really be 
 
 [uite the best 
 tly I mean to 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 9t 
 
 ha''"! pleasant surroundings. Give me your counsel, Larose, 
 as an architect and a man of taste. Shall I have cham- 
 bers in the Albany, or a house and garden of my own ? ' 
 
 ' A house, by all means ! The Albany is old-fashioned ; 
 it savours of Pelham and Coningsby. You must have a 
 house near the south side of Hyde Park, — a house in a 
 walled garden. There are few such houses left now, and 
 yours will be fabulously dear. That, of course, is a 
 necessity. You must get an R. A. to decorate your walls. 
 The President won't do it, but you must have an R.A.' 
 
 'Thanks, I have my own ideas about decoration and 
 furniture.' 
 
 'And you. don't want an RA. ? Extraordinary young 
 man ! However, your garden will be the grand point, — 
 a garden in which you can entertain, a garden in which 
 you can breakfast or dine tSte-^-t^te with your chosen 
 friend, or with the select few. In London there is noth- 
 ing like a garden for distinction. The costliness of it 
 always tells. Sit down and write to a house agent at 
 oiice; someone near the Park. Messrtj. Barley & Mennet ? 
 Yes, they will do. Tell them exactly what you want' 
 
 The letter was written at Larose's dictation — a house 
 of such and such elevation ; between Knights-bridge and 
 the Albert Hall — stabling ample, but not too near the 
 house ; garden of at least two acres indispensable. 
 
 Messrs. Barley and Mennet's answei came by the eleven 
 o'clock post on the following morning. They were pleased 
 to 8ta,te that by a happy conjunction of events — namely, 
 the sudden death of a client, and his widow's withdrawal 
 to the Continent — they had now at their disposal just 
 such a house and grounds as Mr. Hillersdcn required. 
 Such houses, Messrs. B. and M. begged to remind Mr. H., 
 were seldom in the market ; they were as precious and as 
 rare in their line as the Koh-i-noor or the Pitt diamond. 
 The price asked for the ground-lease of seventy-three and 
 a quarter years was forty thousand por.nds, a very rea- 
 sonable amount under the circumstances. The annual 
 
 Iff 
 
»3 
 
 tho MfoM. m Flcdi, and The Devil 
 
 he would ask Edith Oh«^? '? Piccadilly he thought 
 house with him Th^SP'".^ ^ ^° and look at the 
 doubt; andheLd^^agueTeLrof ^^^"^ ^^''' - 
 
 hewouffi'^o?e^^^^^^ 
 
 instead of wandering f^^t^,^^^^^^^ 
 
 from music-hall to ^post-midni'l? *? ^^^^<^-haM, and 
 
 Larosp. post midnight club, with Roger 
 
 0U8 circumstance at tharelrly hour^r'^^"'^' ^°""- 
 ard that they looked Ut« T % " * f *^ occurred to Ger- 
 
 struck hi„ atldtn'a "^W' ""1^"° '«» 
 have happened ? Cmilrl oK^ i, V^^^^ anything evil 
 
 illness? •'' ^® "^^^ stncken with sudden 
 
 prompV-MrVu'^- .^""Pi™." the man answered 
 
 Will youstcD un in fi./^ • ^ *°^ *he last 'arf-hour 
 
 i« in L l^ryZmt^'ZSiZ^T ^'^.""'^ 
 you presently.' aootois, but I daresay she'll see 
 
 iU r ■"• "' ™"' ' '«'P« Mr. Champion is not seriously 
 ha:>^"^mplSiS|fno±Tf "°"i ' ■«"-- He 
 
 ^.n-^i^:- -i' -^- 'ioTnt.^:!sl& 
 
Qds. The 
 ion setoff 
 r descrip- 
 5 thought 
 k at the 
 > her, no 
 3 on her 
 terday — 
 editions 
 evening, 
 >ali, and 
 1 Roger 
 
 ir-horse 
 ; acuri- 
 to Ger- 
 'he idea 
 ng evil 
 plendid 
 sudden 
 
 if Mrs. 
 
 wered, 
 'h, and 
 
 f-hour. 
 istress 
 'II see 
 
 iously 
 
 He 
 (tting 
 ►ri vil- 
 la no 
 Ithis 
 
 The World, The Flesh and TJie DevU. 
 
 99 
 
 moment Gerard had never thought of him as mortal, as 
 a factor that might some day vanish out of the sum of 
 Edith's life. The man seemed so fenced round and pro- 
 tected by his wealth, and to be no more subject to sick- 
 ness or death than a money-bag. 
 
 He was shown into the drawing-rocm, where the palms 
 and flowers and innumerable prettinesses scattered about 
 the tables were dimly seen in the tempered light. No 
 broad sunshine was ever allowed to glare into Mrs. 
 Champion's rooms. Only under the lower edge of the 
 festooned silken blinds was the brightness of the summer 
 day allowed to filter through a screen of yellow marguer- 
 ites that quivered and glanced in the noon-day light. 
 
 Gerard had the room to himself for nearly twenty 
 minutes by the clock, and was beginning to lose patience, 
 and to contemplate departure, when the silver-grey plush 
 porterie was pushed aside ana Edith Champion came 
 into the room, dressed in a white muslin breakfast gown, 
 ;md with a face that matched her gown. 
 
 She came slowly towards him, as he advanced to meet 
 her, looking at him with a curious earnestness — 
 
 ' How pale you are,' he said. ' I was shocked to hear 
 that Mr. Champion was ill. I hope it is nothing serious V 
 
 ' It is serious j very serious ! ' she said, and then she put 
 up her hands before her face, and tears streamed from 
 beneath her jewelled fingers. 
 
 * I am thinking how good he has been to me — how 
 liberal, how indulgent, and how little I have ever done 
 for him in return,^ she said, with unaflfected emotion. * I 
 am full of remorse when I think of my married life.' 
 
 * My dear Edith,' he said, taking her hand ; ' indeed you 
 wrong yourself. You have done nothing of which you 
 need be ashamed.' 
 
 * I have always tried to think that, on my knees in 
 church,' she said. • I have taught myself to believe that 
 there was no guilt in my life. Indeed, it seemed blame- 
 less compared with the Uvea of women I know ; women 
 
 m 
 
loo 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 Bub I know now 
 
 with whom the world finds no fault 
 tJiat 1 have been a wicked wife.' 
 
 J^.^l ^^'*?-' ' ^^^"^"i^fe' raturally to the habit of a for- 
 mer time in his compassion for her grief ' you have nlZr 
 failed m von r rliiKr ^vu v , c"^^' j'uu nave never 
 frifinlh J n ^' ■^''®''^, ^^^ ^^^^ no shame in our 
 inendship It was natura that you and I who «ro 
 
 young and who were once lovers, shCld taL pl^^^^^^^ 
 each other's society. Mr. Champion has seen uftorther 
 he has never suspected evil' togetner, 
 
 haDfthU'?Jw^''Vi^^°"*^^"^^°"«y«^'«»«^^^^ Per- 
 J aps that IS because he has never really cared for me ' she 
 
 k in^ ^' '/ Reasoning with herself. ' but he has been^l ways 
 kind and indulgent, ready to gratify my lightest wM^J. 
 treating me like a queen. ^ And now I Ll thif f ii 
 been eold and ungrlteful, indiffe.Tnlto hTs' fteUnis and 
 
 • Cr;; S7 ^"" "7/." ^^^-dseir-indullU: ' 
 fnr -^^T ^^^^^> ^e assured this remorse is uncalled 
 for. You have been an excellent wife for Mr ChauSion 
 rJ}''";:''^?/' '^"^ ^^ ^^^otion^^ person, and woild be 
 so badr'l.'^L" ro-antic devotion^ Butis thelse eaU^ 
 so bad ? Is your husband dangerously ill ?' ^ 
 
 liv/lnr '" ""l ^''''^^ ^^'^ ^^ i« ^"Peiess. He cannot 
 live long-perhaps a year, at most two years. H^ has 
 known for some time that he wa^ out of healfh. He con' 
 
 hiils o?ey^l Vp" ^'T'^' ^^° --^her scared him b/ws 
 nints ot ev 1. He came home out of spirits very desnnnd 
 uig about. himself, and last night he^sent^rL doctor" 
 
 moiw^^Both ZZ'^^'r T^' ^ specialist forthTs' 
 morning, ^pth doctors haye been w th me tellinrr mp 
 
 much more than they dared tell my husbanT They fa^! 
 
 All V W Vi • • ^® ''^"""^ ^^""^ ™ore than two years 
 All that their science can do. all that healing sprini and 
 mountain air. and severe regimen and careful nuS^n 
 i^nJ ^? ^^^ ^^^ "^^^^ *^^ead of life for a vefrT 
 two at most He is only fifty-five. Gerard. Ind^heh^ 
 toi^cu hard for hi>s wealth. It seems cruel for him to be 
 taken away so soon.' ^ "® 
 
'il. 
 
 know now 
 
 it of a for- 
 lave never 
 me in our 
 who are 
 )leasure in 
 I together; 
 
 iion. Per- 
 >r me,' she 
 en always 
 3st whim, 
 it I have 
 lings and 
 lulgence.' 
 uncalled 
 hanipion, 
 should be 
 ise really 
 
 i cannot 
 He has 
 He con- 
 
 n by his 
 
 lespond- 
 
 1 doctor, 
 
 for this 
 
 lling me 
 
 ey have 
 
 ey have 
 
 o years. 
 
 Qgs and 
 
 ^ing can 
 
 year or 
 he h.is 
 
 n to be 
 
 Tft£ World, Tlie Flesh, and The Deuil. ]01 
 
 'Death is always cruel/ Gerard answered vaguely. ' I 
 never thought of Mr. Champion as a man likely to die 
 before the Scriptural threescore and ten.' 
 
 'Nor 1/ said Edith. ' God knows I have never calcu- 
 lated upon his death,' 
 
 There was a silence as they sat side by side, her pale 
 cheeks wet with tears, her hands clasped upon her knee, 
 he sorely embarrassed, feeling all that was painful in 
 their position. 
 
 ' Is it true about this fortune of yours ? ' she asked 
 after a long pause. * 
 
 'Yes, the thing is a reality. I am beginning to believe 
 in It myself. I was coming to you this morning to ask 
 you to come and help me to choose a house.' 
 
 ' You are going to take a house ? ' she exclaimed, ' that 
 means you are going to be married.' 
 
 ' Nothing of the kind. Why should not a bachelor who 
 can afford it, amuse himself by creating a home and a 
 fireside ? ' 
 
 'Oh, I am afraid, I am afraid,' she murmured. ' I know 
 all the women will run after you. I know how desperate 
 tiiey are when a rich marriage is the prize for which they 
 are competing. Gerard, I think you have cared for me 
 always— a little— in all these years.' 
 
 'You know that I have been your slave,' he answered. 
 * Without any pretensions that could wrong Mr. Cham- 
 pion I have gone on blindly adoring j^ou, as much your 
 lover as I was before you jilted me,' 
 
 nT ' ^u ^®^^^'^' ^ w^^ ^°^' ^ ji^t. I was made to marry 
 Mr. Champion. You can't imagine what influences are 
 brought to bear upon a girl who is the youngest member 
 of a large family— the preaching of mother and father, 
 and aunts and uncles, and worldly-wise cousins, and elder 
 sisters. It is the constant dropping that wears out a stone 
 the everlasting iteration. They told me I should spoil 
 your life as well as my own. Tl.ey painted such awful 
 pictures of our future— cheap lodgings— exile— and then 
 
 il# 
 
 
 
 
 ^H 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 ! 
 
 H 
 
 i 
 
 j^H 
 
 If 
 
 ^^1 
 
 ( 
 
 ,^:; 
 
 ^■1 
 
102 TU World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 Jjerhaps the workhouse— or worse, even— suicide I 
 thought of that picture in Frith's " Road to Ruin "-the 
 ^l^?f ^'^^?^T ![°"" i^ * g^"-«t' preparing to shoot 
 
 JikTfh^f ^'^"'^' \ ^^'^y^^* ^^ .^«" ruiW and penniless 
 
 A. ' contemplating suicide.' 
 
 Gerard smiled curiously, remembering how only a few 
 thTl^J" he had contemnlated. and ev7n resolved, u^n 
 that laflt act in the tragedy of failure. ' ^ 
 
 Mith Champion had risen in her agitation, and was 
 
 iWr^nf • "T^ ^^2.' '^^ '°°°^- ShTturned sTdde™ 
 in «6r pacing to and fro, and came towards Gerard, who 
 had taken up his hat and stick, preparatory to departure 
 
 ^of k?^®'''? """"f^ *h^* yo*^ <^o '^ot mean to marry- 
 yet awhile ? she said, with feverish intensity. ^ 
 ^ Believe me there is nothing f uriiher from my thoughts ' 
 
 von «^ 1^°'' ^^ °°* "^^^7 ^^ "'^ ^ ^ a°^ still as mufh to 
 you as I was years ago when we were engaged' 
 
 You are and have been all the worid to me since first 
 we met.' he answered tenderly. 
 
 is tr^e^'^if ? «r ^'A^^'r ""^ «r^*l;i«g. Gerard. If that 
 ln„ ?^T • ^ ^^^T^ y^"'' °°ly lo^e-ifc cannot huri; 
 ^ou to promise,' she faltered, drawing nearer to him, C 
 
 ' To promise what, dearest ? * 
 
 wJJ*i?fi^?iKi" not marry anyone else-that you will 
 wait till-till I am free. Oh. Gerai-d, don't think me 
 cruel because I count unon that which must be. I meTn 
 wife *^^^ ^1^ ^x f y ^"'^^^ ; I mean to be a better 
 Tv^? ^i^ *^i5? ^ ^r"^ ^""'^ ^'"^ > *^« ««lfi«h' le«s given 
 
 thouaMfnW K-^ P^T?^"'' ^"^"^3^ *«d show-more 
 thoughtful of him and his comfort. But the end must 
 
 T:a^\T ^"'^'^"°«- ^^'^ ^««^r« t^ld metobere. 
 pared. It may come soon and suddenly-it must come 
 
 hr ' ^"'.r,*"^^ ^'"^ ^^^^^- I sl^^ll not be an dd wo! 
 man even then Gerard,' she said, smiling thrnu.h her 
 tears, Knowmg herself his junior by a year or so, 'and I 
 
II. 
 
 suicide. I 
 
 uin " — the 
 
 g to shoot 
 
 penniless 
 
 mly a few 
 >ed, upon 
 
 , and was 
 suddenly 
 rard, who 
 ieparture. 
 • marry — 
 
 bhoughts.' 
 ) much to 
 
 dnco first 
 
 . If that 
 mot hurt 
 him, lay- 
 K)king at 
 
 you will 
 bink me 
 
 I mean 
 a better 
 38 given 
 7 — more 
 nd must 
 
 be pre- 
 ist come 
 old wo- 
 agh her 
 
 'and I 
 
 Tha World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 103 
 
 hope I shall not be an ugly woman. Will you promise 
 to wait ? ' ^ r 
 
 * SJIil^'^Sly. Edith, were the years ten instead of two.' 
 Will you promise ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I promise.' 
 
 ' It is an oath,' she said. ' Say that you will be true to 
 me by all you hold most sacred in this world and the next, 
 as you are a man of honour.' 
 
 ' As I am a man of honour, I will marry you and none 
 
 her. Will that satisfy you ? ' 
 
 other. 
 
 Yes, yesl she cried, hysterically; 'I am content. 
 JNothing else would have given me peace. I have been 
 tormenting myself ever since I hoard of your fortune. I 
 hated the poor old man whose gratitude enriched you. 
 But now I can be at rest ; I can trust implicitly in your 
 honour. I am happy now, Gerard, and I can do my duty 
 to my husband, undisturbed by cares and anxieties about 
 the future. We shall nob meet so often as we have done, 
 perhaps. I shall go less into society ; my life will be less 
 frivolous, but you will still be " I'ami de la maison," won't 
 y<*J*»perard ? I shall see you oftener than anyone else ? ' 
 'You shall see me as often as you and Mr. Champion 
 like to invite me. But tell me more about him. Is it 
 the heart that is wrong ? ' 
 
 'Oh, it is a complication—weak heart, yar- worked 
 brain, gouty tendency, and other complications. You 
 f?<'w how strong he looks, what a solid block of a man. 
 \Vell, he 18 like a citadel that has long been undermined, 
 which may fall at any time, perhaps without warning, or 
 may crumble slowly, inch by inch. The doctors told me 
 much that I could not understand, but the main fact is 
 only too clear. He is doomed.' 
 
 • Does he know ? Have they told him ? ' 
 
 * Not half what they told me. He is not to be alarmed. 
 Most of the evil has arisen from over- work—the strain 
 and fever of the race for wealth — and while he has been 
 wa^ ting his life in the effort to make money, I have been 
 
 *.1 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
104 TUf, WotU, The Fkah. and The Devil 
 
 spending it oh, how recklessly ! I am full of remorse 
 y^nen 1 think that I have been spending, not money, but 
 my husband 8 life.' j-. "" 
 
 'My dear Edith, it is his metier, his one amusement and 
 desire to make money, and ,is for your extravagance, it 
 has been after his own heart. A less costly wife would 
 not have suited him.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is quite true. He has always encoura<red me 
 to spend money. But it is sad, all the same. He did not 
 know that money meant his heart's blood. It has been 
 goinff drop by drop.' 
 
 ' We spend our lives as we live them, Edith,' Gerard 
 answered, gloomily, 'all strong passion means so much 
 OSS. We cannot live intensely and yet live long. You 
 know Balzac s story, " La Peau de Chagria" ' 
 * Yes, yes, a terribly sad story.' 
 
 'Only an allegory, Edith. We are all living as Raphael 
 de Valentin lived, although wo have no talisman to mark 
 the waste of our years. Good-bye; you will come and 
 iidp me to choose my house, in a few days, will you 
 
 . ' T^\'^ ^ ^®^ ^^y^' When I have recovered from the 
 shock of this morning.' 
 
 He went out into the broad bright sunshine, agitated 
 but by no means unhappy. 
 
 It was a relief to see the end of that dubious and not 
 altogether delightful road along which he had been tra- 
 yellmg, that primrose path of dalliance which had seemed 
 to lead no whither. 
 
 He had pledged himself for life, as surely as if he had 
 vowed the marriage vow before the altar, or allowed him- 
 selt to be booked and dc.cketted in a registrar's office For 
 
 H^^"" AT i'?''°'f ^^^""^ "^^"^'^ ^^ '^o ^et'-eafc from such a 
 vow. Nothing but shame or death could cancel the pro- 
 mise he had given But he had no regret for having 
 so promised. He had no foreshadowin|of future evil 
 He had only confirmed by a V5W the bondage into which 
 
The World, The Flesh, and Tfui Devil. 103 
 
 untued before h,m. This woman was still to him the 
 dearest of all women, and he wa.s willing ^ be bound 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A SHADOW ACROSS TiiE I'ATIf. 
 
 HE house-ajreuts Jiad been more trtUhful than 
 their kind are wont to be, and the houso which 
 Mr. Hilleibdon had been invited to ii,,s;,oct 
 more nearly realized their description than 
 houses generally do. Of course it was not all 
 hat he wanted ; but it possessed capabilities, and 
 It stood m grounds which are becoming daily mora 
 di&cult to find on the south side of Hyde Park 
 It was an old house, and somewhat dismal of ipect the 
 
 ZiT ^TTn^"' r ^y ^'^^ ^^"«' ^"^ overshaTwed by 
 ^^^'l u^ ^'^T'^ ^^' P^"^^^^ ^ith that air of sedu^ 
 sion which would have repelled many people, and he saw 
 ample scope for improvement in both Luse ind grounds 
 He closed with the owner of the lease on the foIloW 
 day, and he had Roger Larose at work upon pkn anf 
 specification without an hour's delay. The house heLcZ 
 \V^: P^"^^^^^^^" Hades of Lpoftan ous^^^^^^^^^^ 
 Italian, and Gerard insisted upon the Italian idea bTfn! 
 carried out m the improved front and expanded wint^ 
 
 'Let there be no mixture of styles' he s3 '+K?f * • 
 anathema maranatha in my mind."^ I'bove a" be nefthe^r 
 Flemish nor Jacobean- the school has been overdone 
 Let your portico be light and graceful, yet severe and 
 give me a spacious loggia uporftho fir;f fioo, between 
 your new wings, which will consist each of a si^ ale rem 
 -bilhanL room on one side and music-room on the oXer 
 
106 Ths World, The Heah, and The Devil 
 
 «nS ^®\¥®d Larose assured his client that the ItaUan 
 nh Tk^'' P.l'''°°' ^^'^ ^^^^ ^«' *00' ^«^ weary of the 
 
 n . T.? ^T' u' *"'^^^ «^^ ^°gl««' ^'"Polas «nd quaint' 
 ncss of the flamboyant Flemish, miss-called Queen Anne. 
 He took his designs to Mr. HiUefsdon within twenty-fou; 
 hours after heir inspection of the premises, and the new 
 fron. and wings looked charming upon papir. There w^ 
 no question of competition. whi?h v-ould involve deC 
 Gerard begged that the designs might be given tothebe^t 
 builder in London, and carried out with the utmost rapid- 
 ity compatible with good work. ^ 
 
 sai'/ "'"^*' ^^""^ everything finished before November,' he 
 
 f w?'!^^'' ^^'''''® "'*^?'* ^^^^ ^^ ^^ hardly possible that 
 two large rooms, and a new fagade, with portico, loggia, 
 and classic pediment, to say nothing of various minoHm' 
 pro^Jments, could be completed in so short a time. 
 
 r^othing is impossible to a man of energy with amnle 
 funds at his disposal,' answered Gerard. ^ 
 
 ' If your plans cannot be carried out in four months, mv 
 dear Larose they are useless, and I will occupy the hiuse 
 as it now stands.' ^"^ 
 
 r. J^-^ commission was too good to be lost, and Larose 
 promised to achieve the impossible. 
 
 JJf'''''A^^f}^''^^''''^.^. *h^°S wa^ ever done before, ex- 
 cept for Aladdin,' he said. 
 
 'Consider me Aladdin, if you like, but do what I want.' 
 i-he garden was Gerard's own peculiar care. The land- 
 scape gardener whom he called in wanted to cut down 
 more than half the trees-limes and chestnuts of more 
 Tall ^ r.f"7^ growth-upon the pretence that they 
 darkened the house, and that a smooth lawn and geomet- 
 rical flower beds were to be preferred to spreading bran- 
 ches under which no turf could live. Gerard would not 
 sacnnco a tree. 
 
 You wi. Kay down fresh turf early in April every 
 year, he said 'and with care we must make it last till 
 the end of July. 
 
 i>~ I 
 
fh^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil 107 
 The nurseryman booked the order and f«lf f^o* ^x.- 
 
 st«nda?/Aorden<lSs'":„d"or""' "'''' °'™S« *«-■ 
 every season rflTft' ° ^"'"'^ ornamental plants 
 
 do w^elTwhUe the :lon\^^r l--- to see that^hey 
 
 lawnT«°l'^' 'm' -^ Pf *'^% understand your views The 
 burwreaTmai:rair".'''''"'f ''^ """^ beltTtimber 
 rhododenXon, -nd h».r,1v",°* -T^'^ '^' l'^' ^^ndard 
 lawn, and yo« Wll S "^^f' "' ?■" ">" P'"^™ "d oa the 
 
 doubUnei?OTrbtefeIrre^„7'f,''™^T'"'''°'> ■^- "« 
 feature in griu'Lds so nt'Lolta ?''°"°''^- "^ ""'^*'""^ 
 
 ^trarf?i\t^r\nTh^?:'°^^^^^^^^ 
 
 • for having evolved heH'.r A- '*''"' '=!''^'^" '"^^''^^'f 
 inner o„„s?io~ It^LTerntSeTaa/"''"'- '■''^ 
 
 tooreate W of S forth':^° '^f^ it hi» business 
 carry out hlTideai; °'° ''''° '='»''<' "^ord to 
 
 Chl."^p!o^ 'iZfrn:^ ?'^"',^*. "T*-' ^"d Edith 
 
 rooms'anS mornlntrol bu?I°f ' "^r/""' ""^ ''^^*'''8- 
 get them carried o^utT.,^ ^T*^ " ^''^ '"»™lt to 
 
 ve^^brieflr""""' *'' ""''""""'" ^''P''""^'^ ""^ ^^«^^ 
 
 want you io i.rr^^t ^^^itil^'^^^t^T''- '"r",'' ' 
 ence and Fiesole. and as if I w^L^^'^: df E«V °'- 
 
108 TU World, The Flesh, and Tlie Devil 
 
 ' And is expense to be no more considered than if you 
 were one of the Medici.' 
 
 'You can spend as much as you like, but you must not 
 make any display of wealth. I have come unexpectedly 
 mto a fortune, and I don't want people to point to me as 
 a nouveau riche.' 
 
 'Your house shall be furnished with a subdued splen- 
 dour which shall make people think that your surround- 
 mgs have descended to you from a Florentine ancestor. 
 There shall be nothing to suggest newness, or the display 
 of unaccustomed wealth,' 
 
 'You are evidently an artist, Mr. Callander. Try to 
 realize the artistic ideal in all its purity. But, remember, 
 if you please, there are two rooms on the first floor, to the' 
 left of the staircase, which I mean to furnish myself, and 
 for which you need not provide anything.' 
 
 It was now the third week in July, and London was 
 beginning to put on its deserted aspect Three weeks 
 ago It had been a work of difficulty to cross from one side 
 of Bond-street to the other ; but now crossing the most 
 lashionable thoroughfares was as e*3y and leisurely a 
 matter as a stroll in summery meads. Everybody was 
 leaving town or talking of leaving, and dinnera and balls 
 were becoming a memory of the past, except such small 
 dinners as may be given to the chosen few during a period 
 of transition. Goodwood was over, and after Goodwood 
 the tocsin of retreat is sounded. 
 
 Gerard dined in a party of four at Hertford-street, i 
 Mrs. Gresham had returrod for a final glimpse of London ' 
 after a fortnight's severe duties in her husband's parish' 
 He was Vicar of a curious old settlement in Suffc'k, a 
 httle town which had been a seaport, but from which the 
 sea had long since retired, perhaps disgusted with the 
 dumess of the place. 
 
 She was delighted to see Mr. Hillersdon again, and he 
 could but note the increased fervour of her manner since 
 his improved fortunes. 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 109 
 
 'I hope you have forgiven me for ray premature appli- 
 cation about the chancel,' she said, plumping herself down 
 upon the causeuse where he had seated himself, after talk- 
 ing for a few minutes with his host 'It was dreadfully 
 premature, I know ; but if you could see our dear, quaint 
 old church, with its long narrow nave and lofty roof I'm 
 sure you would be interested. Do you know anything 
 about church architecture in Suffolk V 
 
 ' I blush to say it is one of the numerous branches of 
 my education which have been totally neglected ' 
 ^ ' What a pity ! Our East Anglian churches are so truly 
 interesting. Perhaps you will come down and see us at 
 bandyholme some day ? ' 
 
 'Is Sandyholme Mr. Gresham's parish ? ' 
 
 ; Yes; we have the dearest old Vicarage, with only one 
 objection— there are a good many earwigs in summer. 
 ±5ut then our earwigs are more than counterbalanced by 
 our roses. We are on a clay soil, don't you know ? I do 
 hope you will come some Saturday and spend Sunday 
 
 7 vt^ I*"i.r"^^ ^'^^ ^^^""'^ «e^^on, I know; and 
 tor a little Suffolk town our choir is not so very bad I 
 give up two evenings a week to practice with them. You 
 will think about it, now, Mr. Hillersdon, won't vou ?' 
 
 'Yes, certainly I will think about it,' answered Gerard 
 meaning never to do more. ' 
 He had not been thinking very intently upon the lady's 
 discourse while she babbled on, for his thoughts had been 
 engrossed by Mr. Champion, who was standing on the 
 hearthrug, with his back to an arrangement of orchids 
 which fi led the fire-place, and for a man of chilly temper- 
 ament ill-replaced the cheery fire. He was indeed what 
 his wife had called him— a solid block of a man, short 
 sturdy, with massive shoulders and broad chest, large 
 head and bull-neck, sandy-haired, thick-featured, the in- 
 dications ot vulgar Imeaffe in Rvfirv dofail a ^„ t,_ 
 
 had made his own career, evidently, and who had sacri- 
 faced length of years m the endeavour to push hia way 
 
110 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 ahead of his fellow men; a resolute, self-sufficient, self- 
 contained man, proud of his success, confident of his own 
 merits, not easily jealous, but, it might be, a terrible man 
 If betrayed. Not a man to shut his eyes to a wife's 
 treachery, once suspected. 
 
 Of ill-health the tokens were of the slightest— a livid 
 tmge under the eyes and about the coarsely moulded 
 mouth ; a flaccidity of the muscles of the face, and a dul- 
 ness m the tarnished eyeballs, were all the marks of that 
 slow and subtle change which had been creeping over the 
 doomed victim during the last few years, unnoted by 
 himself or those about him. ^ 
 
 At dinner the talk was chiefly of the approaching de- 
 parture. Mr. and Mrs. Champion were going to Mont 
 
 J You'll look us up there, I suppose, Hillersdon,' said 
 Champion ; my wife could hardly get on without you • 
 you are almost as necessary to her as her dachshunds ' 
 
 Yes, i aaresay I shall find ray way to Mont Oriol I 
 am by nature irresolute. You and Mrs. Champion have 
 haunts^'*^^ ""^ ^"^^^^^ ""^ deciding on my holiday 
 
 • ji' ^x? ^^^ *^^* y^^ ^^® ^^^ I suppose that you will be 
 idler thaa ever,' suggested Champion. 
 
 ^ ' Upon my word, no. My case seomed too hopeless for 
 improvement while I was poor, and the stern neoessitv 
 to earn money benumbed any small capacitv I may have 
 had for writing a readable story.' " 
 
 ♦You wrote one that delighted everybody,' interposed 
 Mrs. Gresham, but who dimly remembered the plot of his 
 novel, and was hardly sure of the title. 
 
 'But now that I need no longer write for bread mv 
 fancy may have a new birth. At anyrate, it need not 
 dance m fetters. 
 
 Mr. Champion went ofl' to his whist club after dinner 
 lie played whist at the same club eveiy evenino- durin.r 
 Vhe j^ondou season, unless peremptorily called upon to 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 accompany his wife t.j some festive crafcherin.. 
 
 111 
 
 wiforand to±edi^n«, wV ^"^ '"""^ ""'U handsome 
 
 even s^rt p!;^,^;r;r'f irr^rixrr'^''!?-' 
 
 ' Don t bo late, James/ said his wifo fn ).;»« i,- ji 
 
 ^e wasgone M^t^iJ ^^l'^^^^^^ -,t.f^^^^ When 
 
 S? Kir Vul r ^ ^" «-^ wTp'^t 
 
 an/stiH londl'^if h^To^n^r ""^ '"""^ <"""-■ 
 
 fehe at once attacked Mendelssnl^A'a n„, • • 
 otiier two drew nem-Pr t fT^ ^ , ^^P"ccio, and the 
 
 for you more than T ^ol +• ^ myselt. If I did not care 
 phiW^I^.?**' * """g-ifi"™* ^to-y. full of pr^foundest 
 
112 Th^ World, Tli^ Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 story is dreadful, like a haunting, horrible dream. I can 
 see that unhappy young man— so gifted, so handsome- 
 sitting face to face with that hideous talisman, which di- 
 minishes with his every wish, and marks how his young 
 life IS wasting away. I have not been able to get the 
 story out of my mind.' ^ 
 
 ' You are too impressionable, my dear Edith ; but I own 
 u * J^ * gloomy fascination which makes it diffi- 
 cult to forget. It was the book which established Honor^ 
 de iJalzacs fame, and it seems to me that the hero is only 
 a highly coloured image of the author, who wasted life 
 and genius as feverishly as Raphael de Valentin— livin^r 
 with the same eager intensity, working with the same 
 tervid concentration, and dying in the zenith of his power 
 \3 by no means in the bloom of his youth ' 
 ' Was not Alfred de Musset of the same type ?' ' Un- 
 doubtedly. The type was common to the epoch. Byron 
 set the example, and it was the fashion for men of genius 
 to court untimely death. Musset, the greatest poer. 
 i^ ranee has ever had, son of the morning, elegant, aristo- 
 cratic, born to love and to be loved, after a youth of sur- 
 passing brilliancy, wasted the ripest years of manhood in 
 the wine shops of the Quartier Latin, and was forgotten 
 ike a light blown out, long before the end of his wasted 
 Jite. Our geniuses of to-day know better how to hus- 
 band their resources. They are as careful of their genius 
 as an elderly spinster of her Sunday gown.' 
 
 'How much better for them and for posterity,' said 
 Mrs. Champion. ' Please go on, Rosa,' as Mrs. Gresham 
 d'eti htfur^°^ "Sing from the piano, 'Chopin is always • 
 
 ' S.^ he is ; but I have been playing Rubinstein,' replied 
 Kosa, severely. ^ 
 
 'Then do play that sweet prelude of Chopin's in A flat 
 major. * 
 
 ' Why, I played it ten minutes ago,' answered th^ ladv 
 at the piano. '' 
 
ne World, Tlie Flesh, and m Demi m 
 
 health/ ^* tormenting myself about your 
 
 weVtat°;et":„tyet= thlT'^"1?"' '^"'"^ P^^^^ 
 miachief. -^I know vou „» nT f" '"™"''' '■••"■•ganic 
 -e into your CturyoThr »o,^^ Sfu^U; 
 
 eff:ft\7nrf:„Xr„:- .T '-evidently a bad 
 considered it a'^firo't^1j;°h»„:^''i/tfh^. "" ""^^'"'-^ 
 
 4:rj.Tn':;tv-:«oVr'irt^^'^- 
 
 •Oh, it isnot VCt thL vJ"«''-fr**°'l "»»"•■ 
 Oriol, of course.' " ^- ^^ "'" """e *<> Mont 
 
 ' Yes. If that is all you were goinff to ask—' 
 
 a^d h-e^rt^-a^-d ^^-^^^^^^^^^'^ 
 4"i't^e 'inth°"t-^^!T;. \^Vo^ you 
 
 TA 
 
 one who willunde Knd vo f ^"'-^ ?• ^« *° ^-'^e- 
 you how to en^oy ytir life ^.h^.'"'^^ •' ^^^^ <^« *d™ 
 and Musset did '^ "^ ' '^'^^*'"* ^^*^^S i<^ as Balzac 
 
 ^^:2izj^srJ'^c''-ri- ^'»™d°? 
 
lU 
 
 The World, The Flesh, ami The Vcvll 
 
 II 
 
 aa the moonlight .onat'^okme'to a" dt™ '" '"" "' '"'' 
 Ul, dogoon Ro» Some more Mer,<lel,,ohn please" 
 
 ^ho'utd'^y rtt/Tsouth'rh' '^'^fr "."!? "■'" 
 
 I have half a ,„inU to .o to hi m ' ' "^'''^"'''"' '^'^""•• 
 
 «av ni «!. ,k ^ *"^*^' ""'' brains, and lungs. I dare- 
 in^adults • ^ ''""'™ ^"""""^ '"=°-' those o°rgans, even 
 
 ho'iJnott'is^^e^ he'^ilUd ''™'' ■",""'"» ">en-and if 
 have prrferred th„L r ''^''?°*'''"°P'"»"- » "''""Id 
 
 Dr GeSC Tr/"'' T^- ^^^erswith hypnotism^ 
 'S are a'' ,S, ^-f^ "":",* "">'' "ondertnlman.' 
 
 yel a™ ^Whi7i J ™ "' ''»'' ^ a ""'e l^'l can bo, and 
 fnt :touKeil hr^-^^h^tor ^^^7 
 ma" ^oTtT '"' -^''"r/ '*y-45ainrl^nfla»^ 
 
 oo.p,i<.tionin';'.Yki^^r'ar„^drandXr 
 
 ease was ^orse for me than for otheSrlSn I tts as" 
 near d^ths door a, anyoae can go without qrossi™ tS 
 
Tl^ World, m FU,n. and The Demi 115 
 
 It was a pull for a man of mt fe?h„ ■ ' "■*' '^»'*' "J^--- 
 down the great children'" dSr t^th'TT '",.'""'■« 
 never regretted the heavy fee Jlid hL ? '^'°''" °'"* ^^^ 
 story, of which I knew verv I'itM. ^1° ^.•'°' '" **" 'he 
 delirious all through the worat of ,^t'-n """'■ '""• ^ ""« 
 iieve there was oni stZ. nf I -^^^ '""*™' and I be- 
 associated Dr. Cu^s Inel^/h! T ''''""« "'""h I 
 -with a great white denh^n? 'T^-P'^'nato'-ely gray 
 been readfng jn ^vtfvtuX ItaT"' """"^ ^ '"''' 
 
 'Poor dear little fellow 1 ' siffhod pl"*?; ni. 
 retrospective affectioa ' ^ ^'"^ Cihampion, with 
 
 ' How sweet of you to pitv me I T «„j ,. . 
 
 my own small imwre in XT r j """^ "y^^'f pWyine 
 
 it were anybodvTfhi d tL .';j *"r "i'?"''''"' *'"». ^^ « 
 ful-pleurfsy, ^neZ'niaf I "^tT^ , "T '^^■ 
 found a new name for irivr^nrnJ-f , '°<»' doctor 
 Dr. South gave hU decSfv^veft anT'tl*™'^ ^"^^ '"' 
 
 UmevexythTngSt^^ol,"/,'?' "^"^ ^''■«'- '""'•teU 
 ram^tl-^'""' ' "—o- dioal confession to make 
 
 iw't.'ett^tl.rfe^ri' ""'• *»' "'^ «- •»- 
 
 manappea^d -ith ti a la FranZ°' tT^^. ^-f^'- 
 the ragged sleeve of care tired S" **' "^n't' "P 
 eeaes aswell as for wXrwomen *''"^' "™'' ''"'l''*? 
 
 monl^e 'nThTpaTorRoS ^T' «'«'-' « «vely 
 own interpretatio?of Cho^'^.i^'^^'^ who loved her 
 the sound of her own voice te^r ^^"^'^ l>«t loved 
 ever was composed ^"^ "'*° »"y ■»"«« that 
 
 Mr. Champion came in a few minutes after eleven, 
 
 
116 The World, TU Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 looking theil and white after an hour and a liaif at the 
 whist club, and Hillersdon went out as his host came in 
 — went out, but not home. He walked eastward, and 
 looked in at two late clubs, chietly impelled by hia desire 
 to meet Justin Jermyn, but there was no sign of the 
 Fate-reader either at the Magnolia or the Small-Hours, 
 and no one whom Hillersdon questioned about him had 
 seen him since Lady Fridoline's party. 
 
 ' He has gone to some Bad in Bohemia,' said Larose ; 
 * a Bad with a crackjaw name. I believe ho invents a 
 name and a Bad every summer, and then goes quietly and 
 lives up the country between Broadstairs and Birching- 
 ton, and basks all day upon some solitary stretch of sand, 
 or on tli3 edge of some lonely cliff, where the North Sea 
 breezes blow above the rippling ripeness of the wheat, 
 and lies in the sunshine, and plans fresh impostures for 
 the winter season. No one will see him or hear of him 
 any more till November, and then he will come back and 
 tell us what a marvellous place Rumpelstiljkinbad is for 
 shattered nerves ; and he will describe the scenery, and 
 the hotel, and the hot springs, and tbe people — ay, al- 
 most as picturesquely as I could myself,' concluded La- 
 rose, with his low, unctuous chuckle, which was quite 
 different from Jermyn's elfin laughter, and as much a 
 characteristic of the man himself. 
 
 Hillersdon stayed late at the Small Hours, and drank 
 just a little more dry champagne than his mother or Mrs. 
 Champion would have approved, women having narrow 
 notions about he men they love, notions which seem 
 hardly ever to pass the restrictions of the nursery. He 
 did not drink because he liked the wine, nor even for 
 joviality's sake ; but for a desire to get away from him- 
 self and from a sense of irritation which had been caused 
 by Mrs. Champion's suggesaions of ill -health. 
 
 * I shall be hypnotised into an invalid if people persist 
 in telling me I am ill,' he said to himseif, dwellirg need- 
 lessly upon Edith Champion's anxieties. 
 
il. 
 
 laif nt the 
 st camo in 
 ward, and 
 ' his desire 
 ign of the 
 [1 all-Hours, 
 it him had 
 
 id Larose; 
 ) invents a 
 :juietly and 
 Birching- 
 cli of sand, 
 North Sea 
 the wheat, 
 (ostures for 
 ear of him 
 le back and 
 nbad is for 
 ienery, and 
 le — ay, al- 
 cluded La- 
 was quite 
 IS much a 
 
 and drank 
 her or Mrs. 
 ing narrow 
 rhich seem 
 rsery. He 
 r even for 
 from him- 
 »een caused 
 
 )ple persist 
 llipg need- 
 
 The World, The Fleah, and The Devil. 117 
 
 wh^en\rw.n^.T^' were lambering into Covont Garden 
 Z!T^ ^^/ent home, and as the natural result of a Jate 
 night, and an unusual amount uf champagne, he slept i^^l 
 2U7a^w ""■'} ^. ^^^^^^^«- iJ^ breVSasted upon a 
 
 lev strlf S^' ^°,^ ^ '"? f ,Sreen tea, and was in^Har- 
 ley-street before eleven o'clock. 
 
 Having made no appointment, Mr. Hillersdon had h. 
 undergo the purgatory of the waiting-room, 'where a 
 
 SeTvrn J.r""- V^^"? ^^^^"^^^ '^^ impitilnce of r 
 r cketty son with picture books, and, in her gentle solici- 
 tude, offering a curious contrast to a more fashionahW 
 dressed mother, who^c thoughts seemed to be rather wih 
 an absent dressmaker than ''with her sickly Xmrown 
 gir to whom she spoke occasionally in accents of reproof 
 or in lachrymose complaint at having to wait so lonr^,.' 
 ?«; ?n ^' "^t^^^^^^^^^ Viola was no doubt waiting for 
 her- and when I do get to Bruton-street very likelv she 
 
 TyoTC^ 'cr^'f ''^^ h'^' ^" ^^ undergone ^' 
 abourvour 1 Iff ;f' ^""^ «^*«^"°Scold. You are soidiotic 
 about yourself. J daresay you will be ordered off' to some 
 horribly expensive place in Switzerland. Doctors have 
 no consideration for one.' -L^ocuors nave 
 
 The girl's only reply to this maternal wailing was a 
 
 t^e mo?hlt? !f,-^^}^' '^^^'""^ *'^°«^ contrasted with 
 nfll.?^ ^ u^""^'"^'^ ^^°^'" ^"^ «>»art morning <.own 
 
 looked in at the door, and summoned mother and daughter 
 with a mysterious nod, which seemed pregnant with 
 mournful augury, although it meant nothhigTut '^our 
 
 Hn^o F V''.*^'">'° ^'"^ by presenting the illustra- 
 tions of a zoological book in a new Hal." for X !i.- 
 quarter of an hour, and then the ri cketty" boy and ht: 
 mamma were summoned, and more patiente caLTn. ^d 
 
lis TU WHd, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 Hillersdon tried to lose his conscio.tsnes.s of the na.ssin 
 momenta in the pages of a stale ' Saturday evi.w- 
 moments too distinctly me.usurod by the tickl.'of 1 very 
 
 spacious and lofty room at the bick of the house 1 ed 
 by a large window, which commanded a smaTumrden 
 shut in by ivy-covered walls fearaen, 
 
 .f I h'ttl^h Jr^"^ ^'"^ ^'""^^^ '?"''« b^'°"g^t back a vision 
 
 low i ove' TLirZ ^'""'^Z' ?^^^"'"™-' breezes 
 
 wh^re ft lay! *^ '''"^'^ *^ ^^^^^^ the pillow 
 
 ReftorvT^i> ^^^%,«^*'?'«b illness and the Devonian 
 itectory to Dr. South, who remembered his journev bv 
 tlie mght mail, and his arrival at daybreak in tKill^ 
 
 another medical AldderhTha/'fonrbf '• l^'^^^ 
 wrestled .vlth and thrown 'the '^?;l'adTt.dt^^ 
 gone back to his hospital and his Londorpatient leav 
 ing hope and comfort behind him. Pat'^nts, leav- 
 
 ; I know I was very much interested ii. the case' Ha 
 And then he iold Dr. South how, bein<r iu,t « little 
 
 . 'fteL consid... .„::t:it ttr ^n> !■:":-%■. .. 
 
 •and knock my cUest a«,«t as you SwwT;;^^;!^ 
 
I 
 
 e pa.SHin 
 Review. — 
 of a very 
 uiche by 
 
 wore the 
 ■I ushored 
 Ltnd in a 
 B. lighted 
 1 garden, 
 
 a vision 
 r breezes 
 18 pillow 
 
 )evonian 
 
 rney by 
 he still- 
 er going 
 p in the 
 ith had 
 ^e many 
 death, 
 nd had 
 is, leav- 
 
 sase,' he 
 Ihe has 
 
 young 
 
 I little 
 ao con- 
 iled by 
 
 ightiy, 
 a lying 
 
 The World, T/te' Fleah, and The DevU. 119 
 surrouS'^^'''"'' "''^^"^ "^^'^^''^^ Pi^^"^«« "'"» "'7 
 
 waist... it you pSo.' • ^"^° °^ ^^^^^ ^'^^ '^"^ 
 
 The auscultation wc.s careful and DrolonrrnH ti. 
 w^ none of that pleasantly verZot^ry2^"^ith liieh 
 the physician dismisses a good case T)r%n,!I ! , 
 
 oscope itTis'eari^' R *" ^T^' ^^'^ ^^' ^'^^ -" j'te^ 
 rather aSously '^^^'^"^ ^""«^^' ^^^^ ^'^ Patient, 
 
 than paTnfur ' ^''"' '"^P"^^' ^"^ ^^ ^^ P^^asant rather 
 
 * How so ? ' 
 
 is not T ;.rt we <Lll a Ld f^T'?^'- ^^"^rsdon, yours 
 
 constitution TiveTo old fJ^ TM ^^ "'^"^ '^l".^^ >'°"'' 
 ing your resourLr W;T" ^ '' ^ question of husband- 
 
 ofXx'cers X^al ^"^^-ttl ^T r '^"^^ 
 
 Gerard thought of the Peau d'p^rh ^^ '''! ^'•"<. 
 avoidance of excess--in nihi ^}'''Snn. A studious 
 upon that red hnru7onthiK ?'f' ? .^^^^^ant watch 
 
120 TU World. The Pleek, and Ue Demi 
 ^^UUhe comma«i of wealth-you ought to Cto te 
 
 which LC/t!t ^ 'T ''°°™ '° h" I'llian vill,. 
 own Tights '''" "P"" ""'^l^ '° f"™i«'' «fter hi. 
 
 .,i,G. o. i,utuhwoik put together laat y^r. It 
 
Th World, The Flesh, and The Devil 121 
 
 He had taLn itTnto h A ^ . ^^^ ''"^ ^""^^y- 
 study and private dpn^r f *^ ^ reproduce for his^wn 
 
 «at at supPtuh Justin' ^" '"""^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ 
 seen the vision TfHiffin^'"'"^' ^°^ where he had 
 haps had nrtan'ib^exfste?^^^^^^^^ ' '°""^« ^^^^^ per- 
 pietures of a h/pnotic t^^^^^^^^^^ dream-rooms the shadW- 
 that he could iSodLTT'r.vl ^^^'"^ ^'"^ ^ think 
 Venetian glass and nn„tf n ?\^ ""^^ ^^^ bra^, in old 
 might hav??een maTup ^fl'V" '*'^' *H«°*^°^ ^^ich 
 discover the hous^or th?inn r\''°*^^ ^'^ failure to 
 with Jermyn had Xtn « r ^^^^^^^re he had supped 
 
 memories ^f that evSl^n^hf "' ""^'^^^'^ *^ ^^^^ 
 
 CH5\.PTER VIII. 
 
 ^ILT MY SOUL A LORDLY PLEASURE HOUSE." 
 
 regimen^of batog^d se f-^^^^^^ 
 perpetual holidav ?Jn^), • •?^^' ^^ ^^^ 
 t^^^^ Champion HvS oklv f n ™^°.^ ^ ^^^^^ 
 
 f t^^drivetod^stan ruts-Leirt^ '^r''^^^'- 
 
 ^ when the sun-baked aSila I ,* , ^^^'^ morning 
 
 cards or bilHardf^ ? ^^ ?°°^^^ ^^^^ dew, pla? 
 
 Mr Champion StSriofmi^^^^^ f^^^^^^' ^or 
 
 erable self.denial--daiiv b^h??^'^ ''°"^' ^"d consid- 
 nieat and drink, and a stHcf «.^^''^'^ l^^'"^^"" ^ ^ 
 transactions, such trLLcS,^ llT^?.^! °L^A^"siness 
 his lire, tile salt which eavfi l,'fo7/"° """ ''"•'' «eiigiifc of 
 which «. „an felt hlSf «£a'^; S"' """ """""' 
 
Ill 
 
 122 7%« World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 'There are men who are dead from the waist down- 
 wards,^ he said one day, 'and who have to be dragged 
 about m bath chairs or lifted in and out of acarri^e. 
 Idont pity them as long as they are allowed to wnte 
 
 wards. He had his secretary with him at Mont Oriol. 
 and m spite of aU prohibitions that falcon eye of hia 
 was never off the changes of the money market/ He had 
 
 iticTr nv^ '^\^-'l'^ Exchange'^daily, in his o^ 
 particular cypher, which waa at once secret and economi- 
 ca . Ihere were days when thousands trembled in the 
 in W Z il f f f taking his sun-bath on the ten^ 
 m front of the hotel, and when the going down of the 
 sun mterested h m only because it w^ to bri^Jhim tid! 
 ing.s ot Joss or gam. ® 
 
 dflv^«?il ^""^ ^'^^ ^ '^^ °^ ^P^^«' ^^'^' he asked, one 
 day at afternoon tea. crumpling up the little bit of blue 
 
 E .r '' '!^;i J^^tJ^^e^ brought to him. «I have made 
 
 three thousand by a rise in Patagonian Street Railways.' 
 
 A thousand thanks, but you f#get the opals you gave 
 
 mejwo years ago. I don't think you could improve upon 
 
 8ia7p;^ni^'^ forgottonthem They belonged to a Rus- 
 Thl T '"'• ^J""^ ^^^"^ ^^' about half their value. 
 i-hen I sup;oose there is nothing I can give vou?'he 
 
 ^S .7^'- " ^r' ''^h ^« ^^ ^^' indiffefenceCd sug! 
 gested the impotence of wealth. ^ 
 
 th^ worldl c^r/^o^' ' *'^^ '^^^^ ' ^^^ ^^^^^-^ - 
 
 of!lnJ?^^°'?^''?°^^'' ^^^^ ^^ *he handsomest suite 
 best bX *^^^*Hv^^d Gerard had taken the nex? 
 wTnt n?A "" them they absorbed an entire floor in one 
 wing of the great white barrack. They were thus in a 
 manner secluded from the vulgar herd. Jd Gemrd seemed 
 fnvftPd r^ '^'i^^ visit with the Champions, since he was 
 
 Sncd v-fh-' ''"'^^^^^ freely as his own. while he 
 amed vith taem nve days out of seven. He had his own 
 
ist down- 
 
 ) dragged 
 
 1. carriage. 
 
 I to write 
 
 waist up- 
 
 )ut Oriol, 
 
 y^e of his 
 
 He had 
 
 his own 
 
 economi- 
 
 ed in the 
 
 le terrace 
 
 rn of the 
 
 him tid- 
 
 ked, one 
 t of blue 
 ive made 
 ailways.' 
 j^ou gave 
 )V6 upon 
 
 a Rus- 
 r value, 
 ou ? ' he 
 lad sug- 
 
 bhing i 
 
 in 
 
 !st suite 
 he next 
 f in one 
 1U8 in a 
 seemed 
 he was 
 'hile he 
 bis own 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 123 
 
 'I 
 
 i:iM/ 
 
! !l i 
 
 124 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 «Tr«^f S °'«^^^^f ^>^ r°°^' «°J3^ ^^^ Jangour left by tho 
 strain of overwork. He could sit in the hotel garden tak? 
 
 hat oAlFa ??•' ^^^^-^^ed by the broad leaved Leghorn 
 hat, or the delicate arch of her instep in the hiffh-heellS 
 
 And": thl ^,r™^-f ^ -<^apted L sitting stl 
 And so the days went by at Mont Oriol and nothinr, 
 broke the monotony of luxurious idleness-a Hfe such af 
 
 a low basket chair to save the life o( a fellow ST S 
 m which heart and bmin were only haU awS^ wh i! 
 tt.eA.ire of theeyo a.d the delight ^ thf erwerepa™! 
 
 wf&to'ti^ e» ^JZ ,tLl Sti"" 
 don and look after his architect and builder OetoW 
 
 jS5i:=^^--^rh»Si 
 
 Lt:Ltr-dfA^eS.^tirne''rotr'^^^^^^ 
 were working bv night as well as b/It Jthe S I| 
 the eleetric ight which was already inftolfed. Oe^a^^ 
 
 =ei-t'Zres— S-£?M 
 
 the works admitted, but ther« h«^ }.iZ r}:^.'^^?!'^ 9^ 
 
 i^trft/r\"^°' ^"' ''' ™ 5eTermin"ed%;f toTave 
 firat-rate workmen upon a job of such imporSnce 
 
 ar 
 
'the World, The Flesh, and TU Devil. 125 
 
 sir'^hrTa1d"^'Th''' T'l^' '^'''^''^ ^ith the result. 
 
 vSy difficult iob T n ''"*''" "^ '^'' ^''^^' ^^« ^^^n a 
 vol y uiiiicuic joD, 1 can assure von Ti- i^n'f i;u^ i 
 
 . i u T^ , pleased when it's done ' 
 
 aspeetTf thrhm £' T ^"\j".^g^"g from the present 
 finished ' '"' ^ ""^^ ^' ^^ '^y g^^^e before it is 
 
 the t„s:.t i am"'' *'""'^°' '^ ""' ™'«"g '» °-"Py 
 He stayed there for nearly two hours befwiVf m :.!«,• k* 
 and morning, going about ^with the clerk of th^^^^^^ 
 amids all the litter and confusion of painters and caToet 
 wM'i T'5 ^"^ Pl"""bers, a veritabli pandemonium Tn 
 ToilW t?r?' -ere passing to and fro Lh caulS ^ 
 boihng lead, and pots of acrid-smelling paint a scene of 
 discordant noises, shrill whistling from & whtdei^ 
 
 ournAi;- ^Y'' V}^}'^^^^-> ehisel, and auger if w2 
 out of this chaos his ideal mi usion was to come hZh^T. 
 
 the world when the Creator saw thatit wasTeH "" 
 
 ne went there again next day with Mrs nhnmr^i^^ „« j 
 her niece-she had\t least a doLric s-^^^^^^ 
 
 RoJ't^"'*^'' fs capriciously as she chose her gloves^ 
 Koger Larose and the furniture man were there fnTIf' 
 them, and they all went over the Cuse brdayS 
 peering mo. every corner, and discussing every S 
 the mantelpieces, the stoves, the windows and winS 
 
 ana ^lEas Venetian, jjoiiemian, Belgian "'"' 
 
 "t 
 
 
 t,^ 
 
 'i^ 
 
 
 Ul 
 
126 
 
 n^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 any more technical opinion. The niece, Miss Flora Bel- 
 hnger went about with her petticoats held up and her 
 JovoVv'T ^""^ 1^."^^ contracted, murmuring 'Lovely 
 . if we^'painr^''"^' ^^^'^ ^^^^ «^"^' ^^ - <^W 4^ 
 One suggestion Mrs Champion ventured to make: 
 -Be sure you have plenty of corners,' she said to Mr 
 Larose ; 'quaint, odd angles, don't you know-prettv 
 ^ rorOlfF' r^r^'^'oA or S^Jane^se o^ 
 M ' A ? J"S:'^«^. just as one's fancy ma/ sug^st ' 
 
 ^ra^fv ' and'^^' ^'" 'Z *^?^ ^°^^^'' ^^P^^^ th^e aril e t 
 gmvely and you see their angles. J cannot alter rhA 
 shape of rooms that are practically finished" ' 
 
 cornerf 'th^'^^* ^ ^''°"^^* /°" °°"'^ ^^^^ ^^rown in 
 quai^Loo^s^"'"^ "^ "'^^^^ ^^^^^^-^"* ^^-- - no 
 
 stvle whi^'L?^"'^^' *^^* r" ^^^^^^ ^^ter a Flemish 
 st^le, which has now become the property of the restaur- 
 ants Were you ever in the Ricardi Pa laJe at Florence^ • 
 xes, 1 know it well.' 
 
 nnLll/fif* *^i?? ^^'^ ^^^ ^"^y q»«int nooks or odd 
 
 Pillf^' ^ ®"?P°^® *^ey are getting common.' sighed Mrs 
 Clianpion; 'everything becomes commonl-evervthina 
 pretty and fantastical, at least.' everytning 
 
 After that searching inspection, which involved certain 
 
 mall emendations and final decisions, Gerard miersdon 
 
 told himself that he would look no more upon hs house 
 
 he iVs'tf firhif^'b-' --P^*¥- twoUms wh?ch 
 ne was to finish after his own devices. It would wor^rv 
 
 him too much to go there day after day only to see how 
 
 slowly the British workman can work^ Mrs Ohamn'on 
 
 at bS"'^'"^."^^!,*^ ^P^"^ November and DeZber 
 at Bnghton, so Gerard went down to the R «ctorv Xre 
 mother and s sfcor were fnl> r'r'Al-vV'^ ' «- i-iuiy, wnero 
 *i,„i. I. I. J ■ ■- y^'^^ ^^^^ o- uehgijt wnen he told them 
 that he had come to stay for at least a month 
 
ne World, m PUah and The Devil 127 
 
 Sofit^te'SmcllJ^' Rectory r^-oicing over the 
 from a rural curacvr«r^ ''^r^^^ ^"^^ P'-^'^oted 
 was modest but thA t .\^°"^^« ^^^mg. The stipend 
 oneof tCworstandn-r fT.^^*^'^^^ ^"^ ^^-^^^ded 
 a labyrinth of nnv. ^ ? ^'*' *^''*"°*^^ ^^ ^^^^ great city- 
 
 such a parish as fKi'o *u„* t i. /^ , • -^^ ^^^ ^n I«st 
 
 stringent rights nf i\.J^rl ^^}^}}^^' -He beheved in the 
 rich, and sfrin the To^""^ theresponsibilir.ies of the 
 
 whiih marked the exltenTn;^^ ^''^"'^ ^^ ^^«^^^"««« 
 of a degenemte neo^i "T ^^*^««."PPer classes the sign 
 
 parish Tst LaSce W«^ f ^^'?*" ^^^- ^^ '"« °ew 
 hose elements o^7r^'i,-^^''^T"i^''^^^' ^^e''^ were all 
 It was a paSh of mLrJ^'f ™°'* ^i¥^ ^"^^^^«t«d him 
 the choserhaunt o??hf • ^''^' "^^ ^^^^''^ nationalities, 
 and the FeSan tL r«rP'°"^^T ^^^'^' *^« -Nihilist 
 It was a parisTpeonl^b^^^^^^^^^^^ Tir *^' ^n"^^ ^*^^i^«- 
 man, the^ S-edSd VnH «"^f"'^r^ ^^^^^^^ ^«r^<- 
 Great blocks of buUdleL^^^^ ?^^^^"i«- 
 
 and showing differenr^Kofu..** different periods, 
 improvements caT?hl^^ of architectural and sanitary 
 lev'el of Ee^and t les ^^^^^^^ «^- *he lowe^ 
 
 of the past. ThLTJ.^/,fl\ *^^ ^^P"^*^^ ^^d alleys 
 less admirable fnthr«.r ^''^P'^S-^ouseB, more or 
 
 a consideSe adyaZ^ZrZ't'J'^U ft""'''. ^'''' 
 surrounded them. ^ wretched hovels that 
 
 w^the w^h^nown^S f'^ ^' ^^^T^ ^^e Martyr, 
 bread by the swelt of h.J L'^^"''^ ^^« ^^^^^d thii; 
 kind.. fLtoryTris o dter^fJ^-^ «^ ^'^ 
 
 pickle making in Soho tomr.fo''f'?' ^^^"^ J^^ ^^^ 
 
 Inn road^a 'lub ^tJ^" waThrcS^^^^^ 
 imnrovfimep*^, -ni^ all — Pk- . "^^ centre ot civilisation. 
 
 exceedmgly under the Bering c^rTof tS; j!„°:^i^e^ 
 
128 
 
 The World, TU Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 ins' Larlv Tor,«T u- "^"g'lted at the prospect of hav- 
 occuMipH h^ f^ ' ^^eek-street, a street which was 
 
 how much of a clersvmMS^m. K. 7 u^ '"penence 
 
 the claims of his S°3r; UMIo mlX'wff'" 
 his own maintenance Ho h.A tL, p ^ ■ ^'* ™ 
 
 wisdom of allowChis dauSr t! 1°™' «''«'"»''«'l 'he 
 onl, independent -^nttd'^of ^^ScyXSr 
 
 rather work hard with Jack 'infZ; iZT\""'S^ 
 
d works. 
 it of hav- 
 vas he in 
 e and his 
 ' district 
 le Vicar- 
 ilt early 
 ich was 
 the days 
 v^ chiefly 
 aurants, 
 Js types 
 
 ndred a 
 •erience 
 ticed to 
 left for 
 tied the 
 I whose 
 ail way 
 I about 
 bS also 
 in the 
 id dree 
 II, and 
 iwo or 
 leerily 
 e will 
 lacher, 
 a. nice 
 arden 
 
 7, idle 
 ad in 
 much 
 
 e o6. 
 
 The World, m FUsh. and The DeM. 129 
 
 had been that o( ParsM, S n • ?° '*'' twenty years 
 are always wanLg rgo°t\tet"r '"'^4/*''^^ 
 are not rampant for 5eZr. ?„ "• j"^""* """^y 
 
 whvthen thfyaietmteorwir tCTi ^'""'"^■ 
 be hospital narses, the Lys wLtZh^v F"^^ ™'" '» 
 or to go to Africa oi- «t TL « ^ ■ . East-«nd curates, 
 
 people have no idel K S ut to til""-f ^°"°« 
 and make the most of one^t W sl*^''^ "« ''"""y- 
 
 their Xe™«,ar„*tr^"" 4" ^^ -«-'»'«. and 
 Lilian and jKho2'be ItL'' ""^''^ fg^eed 'that 
 read himself in at the churroTsf */'" ^^' ^^ ^^ 
 would givehim time to setUe do™ 1^^^"°^ . ^ y'" 
 a good many crooked thines stSX 5™'5- ^ t"" 
 groove in which his life and SlW?«ihT'' «** ''^*<' » 
 along, without over much worrt ™ eS^^ """h ''"^'"y 
 have t me to furnish th„J 7 ^'".o.t'oa He would 
 
 which to LiWs eves wer»S^°°'%'^''lP"''«»«'i ^oms 
 lightful memories ^r,JXl ¥^»'^?1. fraught with de- 
 rustling brocade s^coue^drrr""''''' '"^'y '"dies « 
 sedan cLi«t^ti3u;I^i'i>'/"'°''f°S f"" t^eir 
 
 runnin. iootmen"?u'SrdThet%t2:'Tthl'!"« *«" 
 tmguishers. Thepanelled w«lio +1, . ^^ ^° *^e iron es- 
 lef fc! but who noThas arrnW f T ^^^^"g^i^herswere 
 gina had six, six spIeX oTr ff/^^'^T'^ ^ P'^^^^^ Cfeor- 
 and bullion; silk CckfngeTp^^^^^^^^^^ 
 run m the mud beside he? chairTnllhf' ^^^^'^ ^^ to 
 protect her when she got out^f ^f tT' ^^°"* ^^' ^^^ 
 at the thought of the oldf^^hLrf at ^^^"^ ^^ charmed 
 rapcure of pickinVuraS 2 u?°t^ ^«^^. a«d the 
 and tables witKw^andb^^^^^ ?^"'f ' !^^ secretaires. 
 She was in no ^iTl^J!tLT} ^^-t' <« f«mish withal. 
 
 engagement. "Thrs''tiS;77ou7tehtn w'*'^'^ ?^ */^^'« 
 time^a sea^on of tenderesVcZ^;? Ta ;"4\^^?g[ 
 
i«) n. WorU, m FU>%, and The Devil. 
 
 te/SeiST^SLter ""■'"^ T-^'" """O'' 
 ing. letlSra about noSv«Vf^, fT'?'',"'''"''^ »''"''<»•■ 
 
 in the early m^pi^'f't''^^ '«ft" P''°<^"»'1 hastSy 
 leas esteemed on that ^colint ^' ''"' """ "<>' 
 
 almostXg^^ttri iUtv^^r "^ ■?/r«Sion. and I 
 
 "^^"od=d-Sl?^57--""" 
 
 Helm8lei..h when G«^?.l °'xl^ "^"^^^ ^s cuidte of 
 
 '"Thf ir ^^^^^ He was to 
 
 day and I can help in tCurnl W'^'^ ^" ^^^^^ -->' 
 
 8mile,andablu8hirScea^^^ house/ with ashy 
 would be done splendlSv Itn • T""' ^°^ everything 
 not as we like No dearGerST''^'^^' ^""^ ^' ^« ^ike| 
 up our furniture bU bv bi^ In^f ' -r- f\ going to pick 
 that wicked old Gteor^e whi' f^ '^ V ^« ^" ^ old a^ 
 Cattle at iSden wf hive b. "^,^'' P°"" ^^^« ^^ ^^^ 
 
 hke having been put on last week ''* ^^'^ ^°°^ ^^^ 
 
 fully i;L'rt.'^Se"7e^te"^^ Jou are dread- 
 
 and secret recesses smell^ftfdi!r'' ^f^^^S^on holes 
 nage certificates upo^wh^h ilat Fni'""^^'^^ wills-mar- 
 ^e te. sennons P^eachedt hrdte'ra^^fefr^^ 
 
 «o«id«« the dirty E:pi:!;s'^tia?ii5 ^"» 
 
 tiiiii 
 
Th^ World, The FUsh, avd T/ce DevU. 131 
 
 •I am answered/ said Gerard • 'the weaUh nf fV,« t r 
 cannot give vou half thn. t.i^„ ' wealth ot the Indies 
 
 that most of your bureauli P' '''^^'' ^^" ^^^« f«""d 
 
 ■■o" f31 "Slit t, tSsh -r ""^p'^ *» - 
 
 dowry, • but I ahoulHK.rV, .1 "^""P' » handsome 
 
 afford to settle anything • and T bI^^u 'l r, ?,® ^"°°<^ 
 ment to be onesided/ ^' ''"^'^'' * ^^^^ *^« «ettle- 
 
 ' Sif^ ^/^'' ^'^^' *^^'* ^« *^l nonsense/ 
 appeal to you"'STthe''mtnPSe'''r'e'':" T° T"' 
 
 wou d have to be madp "y^^^f.^v "ch. The settlement 
 
 that the mLriage Z'uM be'putff ^ a? '^ T. ^'t^ 
 might have this bright vouna .vo f ? ^f^'' ^^ ^^*<^ ^^ 
 
 «.jhe new home wl^TSr t ^±1.?°-'?'"-"°'' 
 tiaies with a thrill of apDrehen^mn " w i5 I "* ''"»'^" 
 lonely in that large houT^St cSd bri'ng't 4t 
 
ins 
 
 ^^« World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 ^&>:^ t:^:^^.^t;^Xr°-d1n^ of cousins 
 and movement. 1 hou '^ Z^^^!' f"^ ^"«^. -"^ We. 
 
 and movemenr A Z ''''''' ""*^«'*' ^"^ 
 
 ways aSmv ai 'Tl.^^-P-'d only bv .„en haaai 
 
 th( 
 
 ways a gloomy' atmoThcreTr T!^ V '»«^ has al- 
 
 and the mother, who dearlv ov«^ ^A""""^ ^'^ * ^"^^^nd, 
 l^er poet as she had cal ed hi tL}' T^"^''^ «^"- 
 of maternal Jove, intoxicate 1 v h^ /""^.f^aggemtion 
 Jiteraturo-could refuse him >?^i • ' J''^cf"''° «"cces8 in 
 to part with her onrdauS,f ""^- .^^^ would have 
 was inevitable. iSi^htfe^-L^i '^ '^"« ^""°- That 
 .'^he whose heaviest task hhb!?'^ "^^^'^^'^"^ ^^ the house 
 a new frock for a !«;?,*'' ^^^ ^^^^ *^'° making of 
 sorrows had bel Ve ^oJrf^f " Pf y. she whose oily 
 
 out into the thick of the fiZ «i k ''Y'^''' "''^ *« &« 
 as wife and mother and cTrr\. t""' ^^'^^^ ^"^^^^^ 
 her heart the care of a man's ^.r ^'' '^°"^^^^« ^""^ ^^ 
 appointments, his failure ami ffi. ^"''''n^'' ^"^ ^^«- 
 and feeblenesses, physS and ^-S^ '''^^?" ^'^ ^^ailties 
 her burden, and tK she ^„T ^^-- ^^^^^ were to be 
 end, or else go out into th« H^ f'^^ Patiently to the 
 dishonoured iive" "ihe ReetrnJ """^P^ °^ ^^^^^ess, 
 husband, as husbands go! yeThTs wi~f;i:.K ^?? ^^^^ 
 young daughter sitting «f+k • ^ looked at her fair 
 light;acco^prnyS ""^^^ the soft lamp- 
 
 ham may have looked LtI! °°?^ very much as Abra- 
 ed sacrifice ^ *^ ^'^^° °" <^^« ^ve of the intend- 
 
 Ge'ritdTi^trt XT&rt/T'i\'^'lr< P^^^ 
 to spend all the Lt mrfflr ' "^ ^^^^" ^^P^ct you 
 WeVill do the LondoTseln .rf.^'^^"^^^^^^^ 
 of pleasure to the dregs ' ^'*^''' ^"^^ ^^^ cup 
 
 BhSbtrof'^I^llf^'n^^^.^ — I 
 
 smart Vju^r T. .' "^'s^ient amcina the neonl,. v^., ".ll 
 
t. 
 
 f cousins 
 and iifo, 
 n haa nl- 
 loup and 
 
 Jd spare 
 busband, 
 rd son — 
 geration 
 cce«8 in 
 lid have 
 . That 
 e house, 
 iking oi' 
 88 only 
 V to go 
 )urden8 
 and in 
 id dis- 
 raiJties 
 '6 to be 
 to the 
 ithless, 
 a good 
 ir fair 
 lamp- 
 Abra- 
 itend- 
 
 irsued 
 b you 
 [ouse. 
 5 cup 
 
 n. I 
 
 ! call 
 rties. 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. m 
 and her lords and ladip* r fi.u „„ -u i. 
 
 finery.- ° """" '" ^<""'<"'- "> a" their London 
 
 p?oZ^oni:^ r^'^J^^^y '-Xitr^ ? 
 
 night the ti,„e h^s bee„^°a« J^^^hor^""'!' n "^ " '^"■^?- 
 dinner, which I ahall «l«ro,r ''"V.^'^*^^'- A Greenwich 
 
 and mineran afternoon KT^'"? sad waste of time 
 Ascot. anJ unchLiXnln •?if.°''^i.P'^^^^^^ ^ ^^^ ^^ 
 The firtni.ht ffo^s bv in 1 .. f "7 hospitable friends, 
 oeen nothiSg.' ^ ^ ^ ^ '"'^' ^^ ^'^^ «eems to have 
 
 Wl wufgilt'^atilu'^^^^^^^^ r^' -' -^her. 
 I know 4V^ttle' Woraii tUK 
 18 not, and I will teach you how tn o-lf f\ u . ,^^ '^^^ 
 give yo. I wonder .K y^Z wV^ ^ ^^^J" - 
 
 tas'te- "■ "" "■'"' *" P-f^-='- You have .„ch e.q„i,ito 
 
 ■ Fond flatterer. I have notliin,. Imt mnnev ^-VA n,„ 
 bay the educated taste of other people,'"" ' 
 
134 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 laat day omry^r ThZ^i^r ^^ *^" ^"«« ^'^ *^« 
 varication in fomer MiZ ^ ^f ° ^.^'^^^ deal of pre- 
 excuses for 3^^^ Jetl \^^^^^^ had been varfous 
 
 the elements aeBr^^Zt ^ ?^ ? climatic nature, 
 pletionTthat mrfi!? T ^^^P^ ^ *^^i««<^ *he com- 
 
 women, builders' mim-nr!!, „ T \ T Z®^'^? ^ve men and 
 
 will like thfl AffLf -K"^^®^ ''eiieves it, and I think you 
 
 SS^ ?.?''";., ^«'g^^« ^e for troubling you with Zl 
 __..., b,, wionyour wealth your only chance ofdisl' 
 
2%« World, The Flesh, and The Devil, 135 
 
 pS? '''llZTiV'' l!*??- ^""^ ^^"«^ will besimply 
 pertect I went through the reception-rooms yesterday 
 The ceilings are painted in the style of the Ric^dlpE 
 •-a banquet in Olympus. Cobalt predomiiX in t^ 
 drapery of the goddesses, who, although Rubenesque are 
 quite unobjectionable. The effect is^ brilSanrrd C 
 monises admirably with the subdued amber a^dSsset of 
 the brocade hangings and chair covers. I w7orvou 
 to see your house now all is coming together I enS 
 ^our Major Domo yesterday-a chanceluch a; rarelylfns 
 ^•i T "^^V^ ^ '^^"^^^'^ "«he. He was fifteenVear! 
 with Lord Hamperdonne, to whom he was guide phUoso- 
 pher, and friend, rather than servant. It wI'VeX 
 rescued Hamperdonne from that odious en~nt ^th 
 Dolores Drummond, the Spanish dancer. & W aeS 
 for organising every kind of entertainment; Indlf he 
 and your chef can only work harmoniously ^our estab 
 hshment will go on velvet. You will see th Jt JaS not 
 engaging many servants. Parton will be house steward 
 groom of the chambers, and butler, with an undetb^^^^^^ 
 and two footmen, a lad for cellar work, and a house mes- 
 ?Z^\'- *^^* y«»I,«tablemen may neW be caUed away 
 
 "^^^^^^^^^^^ thanus^^futt."! 
 'How wise she is,' thought "Oerard, as he read this let 
 ter for the second time. ' How delightful to have t^d^l 
 with an accomplished woman of the world instead ofi 
 sentimental gir ; and what a wife she will make for a 
 man in my position, by and by, when prr C™amnion'« 
 time has come Beautiful, well-born, an^Sl of Sand 
 social knowledge. Could any man desire Tmoredel Z 
 ful companion ? ' Of her husband. Mrs. Charpfon wfote 
 ma melancholy strain. Mont Orlol had STJltl 
 i«de good, It any He had allowed his wor"k"anih{L 
 worries to follow him to the valleys of Auve^ne He 
 
 •A 
 
 
 it-, 4 
 
 % 
 
i 
 
 13(? The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 had not taken that absolute rest which the doctors had 
 so strenuously urged, and he was considerably worse than 
 he had been m the summer. The physician who had 
 
 '^u"u tS-*!'®^^ ''''7' *^^^®^ of stock exchange spine/ 
 which Edith feared was some kind of mental ailment. 
 Her husband was depressed and restless, and there was 
 an idea of sending him to St, Leonards for the rest of 
 the winter, with a trained attendant, as well as his valet 
 If he goes I shall go with him," Mrs. Champion con- 
 cluded, with the air of a Roman wife. ' I must not allow 
 pleasure or inclination to interfere with him. I should 
 have infinitely preferred any part of the Riviera— even 
 Mentone— to St. Leonards, which I detest ; but it will be 
 some advantage to be near you, as I daresay you will be 
 too much taken up with your new house to go to the 
 bouth this year. By the way, have you any idea of the 
 other house ? A seat in Parliament would give you 
 Ku.los, and our party wants all the strength it can get' 
 ' Fas 81 bette,' thought Gerard ; ' I am not going to waste 
 any portion of my scanty life in an ill-ventilated, malo- 
 dorous, over-crowded bear-garden ! ' 
 
 He was to go to London on New Year's Day his 
 sister accompanying him, and delighted at the idea 
 ot the journey, and all the more delighted since John 
 Cumberland had made it convenient to travel on the 
 same day, and by the same train. He preached his 
 tarewell sermon on St. Stephen's Day, and drew tears 
 Iroui almost every eye in the church by the pathos of his 
 affectionate farewell. His congregation knew that the 
 patl.oa was real, and that he had really loved them and 
 worked for them as only love can work. Gerard had been 
 glad to spend Christmas at home, for his mother's sake 
 but despite his affection for both parents, and his tender 
 regard for the associations of childhood and early youth 
 the small domestic pleasures, and twaddling recurrences' 
 to past vears. the fuss abmif. fViA ViQTno.f»vrviT»« *,,,.i^ — -_ j 
 the home-cured ham— ham cut from a pig of which the 
 
Th^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil 137 
 
 rector spoke of as a departed friend— the church decora- 
 Z^'U^^TS^'T^^''^'^^'''' ^^' "^-th^rs" meeting, coal 
 
 cards bored him excessively. In the country li.o i-oes 
 round hke a wheel, and nothing but death or cala4 Tv 
 can change the circle of infinitesimal events In Lond 'n 
 there is always something new to be done or to bo heard 
 
 ?otTot'r""'' "^" ^""''^^^' ^^^ --P-^^^ - -- 
 
 the^'^cMld Th t"'"°^^^ \ ^^^^ feverish impatience of 
 the child who has new robes and may not wear ihom ' 
 
 wt ilr'^ t **? ^^^^^'■y «^«^^^' illimitable e 
 wanted to be on the strong tide of life— to feel the swiff 
 mer carrying him alongAnd here he seemed 1 be s 
 ting on a vast stretch of level sand, from whicl ho but 
 faintly saw he distant flood. Yet this was precisely the 
 kind of exis ence he had been advised to lead-a life of 
 placid uionotony, passionless, uneventful. 
 
 On his last night at the rectory, and in one of his last 
 
 ^e td'«l^'' T'^'J' '^' f ^^^ ^^^ ^^ - casual way 
 he M seen or heard anything more of Hester Daven- 
 
 J^""''] ^*^® °?^ *"^^ *« fi°^ ^er. The attemptseemed 
 too hopeless; and after all, the face I saw was morTa 
 
 pXfac^^^^ ' "'^'''^ ' ^"' ^'' ^ ^"^^ '' ^- Mi«« SaTen! 
 
 * I don't understand, Gerard ' 
 
 ^ ' hIw '''•:; interrupfced her son, « I must say to you 
 a^ Hamlet said to his fellow-student, There are more 
 things m heaven and earth than you-lor ll^n Tu^tl 
 accoun for. You must come to Lond^^mothS lon- 
 
 aU^fo "t f T^^^^^^^ ^'^ ^^^^^ -^« ^- been burLd 
 auve tor half a lifetime m a rust c rectory You will 
 
 hear new sciences, new religions. You wih find Buddha 
 placed shoulder to shouldnr w,-f K r^.r^J^^^J^^.'^^'^^, 
 people ^.crediting the four "e^angZts ^n'd ^innin" 
 their faith upon Home and Eglinton. You will Zd 
 
138 m World, m Plesh, and The DevU. 
 
 lthfc?f*Th'\'^^'''? i''T^''^S Dickens and making 
 m!n 1 if''^^"^^' ''^ ^*^°"^ of the last smart younf 
 
 wlvs nLt ^^'^^T^le. magazine. The old order is al- 
 You wT?£?f ^.^°^°" ^'^ ^*^" «^^^ "«^' for ever young, 
 here.' ^^""^^ ^^^'^ ^°"°^^' *^^r« than you do 
 
 r^k J wy^"^^' ^ '"'^'^y ^^y' ^e'^rd! Younger in a 
 
 ?enTupI to'n"t"'^'i P"^ "\?^^'« g^°^«« before one can 
 venture to pick a flower. Younger amonff crowds of 
 
 J^^hmg people and over-worked cab-ho?sesf and sickly 
 
 1 snail begJad to be with you, dear; but I love thiq 
 sleepy okl rectoiy better than the finest house in Park! 
 lane or Grosvenor-square.' *^ 
 
 noUonf^^So''^ V^*^ argue against these benighted 
 notions. His own face was set London-wards early next 
 wni.ag andhe and. Lilian were installed in th^ new 
 ho ise before afternoon tea. They had explored evei^ 
 room and were ready to receive Mr. CumbeHand an^ 
 Mra Champion at eight o'clock to a friendly New YW 
 dmner~a snug parti carr^ at a round table in SreaT 
 
 fno«T\°°' 't '^^^''^ ^^« ^^1 window openLg- 
 mto a winter garden, where a fountain played in a low 
 marble basm. encircled with palms and crmJlias. ^ 
 
 temperedT.'Lf X^T''^ ^^^^ ^ «oft ^^d 
 
 tempered light The colouring m this room was subdued 
 
 and cool, pale blueish green for the most part, the walls 
 
 the colour of a hedge sparrow's egg, relieved by the waim 
 
 sepia and Indian red of a few choice etchinS. The^ 
 
 cekdo^nT^'^^''^^"^^^'"^^ of peacock's ffathers and 
 celadon Sevres vases over the chimney-piece with four 
 
 Ze^ n?t '^ '^' '^^°^r^ malachile'prdeiSs'in the 
 corners of the room, were the only ornaments 
 
 T„.!!.° 5"^'°* f,^™^^ or angle-nooks, nothing Moorish or 
 onroTff/?!,- \"^^'0»f-. , No copper or brass, or any 
 one of the things I adore,' sighed Mrs. Giampion ' Mr 
 
^ ^<»-H Th^ mA and T)u, Dm 139 
 
 eo,x,pa„yPf go^Je^ J her ttn rfTorr'^ °'/ 
 cared very little what tJiATr 00+ j 1 ®'^® ^°"^> who 
 them, too much aCbed in Z'^"^ who were, some of 
 what they were Ltfng.'' X \Z^!Z^^:^''l^ ^ ^"^" 
 have evoked praises from iTn .' '^^^^^ would 
 
 went round wi^roTcomTpn^ ^^^"' ^' ^°^^ Alvanley, 
 Mr. Hillersdc.n r?riends dTnoT fT'l^^^^^^- But if 
 there was plenty of talk abo it il, ^^?."?^ ^'^^ ^^""«^. 
 Champion was full of offers to tl t r' ^^^T' ^^^^th 
 lar friends and her favourk. L i '^'?" i° ^^^ P^^ticu- 
 days she had left be™^^^^^^^^ during^thefew 
 
 invalid husband. ^ ^ ^*' Leonard's with her 
 
 London who knows where a waLst ou^h^^^^^^^ 
 end— excuse my taking chiffbn« M " n \ ^f^'° ^""^ 
 ought to keep that kind of S * I- ^"^berland, we 
 is such a treat for a batt/reS i f dinner-but it 
 
 me to have a neophyte to nlu"^^^^ i^^^ ^^^^ 
 
 you to my shoemaker too fnr h!' ^f^^^"^^ like to take 
 son to deal withTand f he dot^l/f \'' ^ difficult per- 
 even try to fit yoir foot' ^^^°^**^^^ *« you he won't 
 
 grimly. ^ ^ ^* *^^ «*^<^^«S' said Cumberland, 
 
 in^olrnUy'^^^l^-^^^^^^^ Mrs Champion asked 
 
 buy gloves in shojs ^eldy-made VZ r^' ^°"! P^«P^« 
 must be too dreadful. Thev ^n'f flf ^^^^y-made shoes 
 
 •Their particular merit if th^?i aiiybody.' 
 nnmiv— 1^- 1 ' • • *"?rn; IS that thev fit (^vf.r-^w.A,,* ^.' 1 
 Cumo«x,aud ; - It is only a question of size.' ^'' " ^*^ 
 
 li. 
 
 
Ij 
 
 140 Ths World, m Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 made boot or shoe would do/ said Mrs. Champion, taking a 
 
 iTi^ ^^^ fv^^'T" P"^^ ^^ o"«'« clothes one must 
 ^0 through ^r- ^^' }^'^ T^'""' I <^°"ld be content to 
 ^rSet orVSil^"^^'^^"^' ^"^ i^--t be made 
 
 sm'ar'ran^Tnn^''"'' ^^?««°ifker would be a great deal too 
 
 r;s^uTetrr"" "'' """• ''''"^"° ' ^"^^^ 
 
 sisL?'' Wb v' ^'° ^^Pensive^for Mr. Gerard Hillersdon's 
 sister. Why you will be expected to dress as well as 
 
 ZI"}^il^WT- Your^toilette will be under the 
 tierce light that beats upon a millionaire. You will have 
 to dress up to this house.' ^^® 
 
 of keeS^^fr'"^ *^ '^.^•'' ^° ^ ^^y *^^* ^''"Id be out 
 daugS^ ""^ P''''*'^'' ^' * "*'"^*^^ clergyman's 
 
 John^'r.fr^v.^ 1^'"';^'''^ Clergyman's promised wife/ said 
 John Cumberland, stealing a tender look at the fair 
 young face from under his strongly marked and some' 
 ontrT^^Hal'""^- "^'"^ brief iooksmeantawoTd 
 Mrs^Chamnton ' ^%P^^^°^3; or as smartly as she pleases, 
 
 Evr;mnnI^-^i,'l''^Pf^^^'^^^^:5^^ '^utif Madame St 
 ^vremonde is the best dressmaker in London to Madame 
 St Evremonde she must go. While you.arein thishouTe 
 Lilian, you must look your prettiest for my sake but 
 when you migrate te Greek-street you may wear a Qua- I 
 ker s poke bonnet or a Sister of Charity's h^ooT ^ ' 
 
 Greek-street.' exclaimed Mrs. Champion, in her most 
 childish manner. ' Where is Greek-striet V 
 
taking a 
 et Only 
 me must 
 •ntent to 
 be made 
 
 deal too 
 I,' Lilian 
 
 ersdon's 
 well as 
 der the 
 dl! have 
 
 i be out 
 fyman's 
 
 fe,' said 
 he fair 
 I some- 
 1 world 
 
 pleases, 
 me St. 
 [adauie 
 i house, 
 e; but 
 a Qua- ,? 
 
 r most 
 
 The World, The Fleeh, and The Deiil. 141 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "STILL ONE MUST LEAD SOME LIFE BEFOND." 
 
 , HE dull beginning of the year, before the open- 
 ' ing of Parliament and the gradual awakening 
 ot London, passed like a dream. The delight 
 of installation in the home that he had created 
 tor himself, and the novel sensation of squan- 
 dermg money were enough to keep Gerard HiUers- 
 don occupied and happy ; while Lilian was divided 
 between two absorbing duties, and had her time and her 
 mind doubly occupied. On the one side she had her 
 brother, whom she dearly loved, and all the pomps and 
 vanities of this wicked world ; and on the other side she 
 bad her future husband, now fully established as Vicar of 
 bt. Lawrences, and wanting her counsel and co-operation 
 m every undertaking ' I want the parish to be as much 
 your parish as mine, Lilian,' he said ; ' I want your S 
 and your hand to be m all things, great and small.' 
 nf fL''!5,-T f ^,^'^^^^ ,1^^ drudging up and down some 
 
 ?n. ?^ i '• ^"'^' Y" ^''.* ^^"^^^^1 I^o'^don, deliberat- 
 ing and advismg as to a night refuge for women and 
 
 rhln^C"'*-''^*^^ "^'^^^'^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^'«r brother at 
 Saelfe ^'^'"^ ""^ ^^'^^ ^ Reynolds or a 
 
 Gerard wa^ profuse in his offers of money, would in- 
 deed from his own purse have supplied all the needs of 
 St. Lawrences; but Jack Cumberland exercised a re^ 
 stmming influence, and would only accept moderate bene- 
 I a i?.^.....^^.^ pounus ior tne new Reiuee. a hun- 
 
 dred for the Working Man's Institute, and fiffy'each for 
 the Magdalen Rescue Society and DispeDsary,Co hun' 
 dred for the schools j five hundred pounds in dL 
 
 II 
 
142 
 
 The World, The Flesh and The Devil. 
 
 thina wtnf fr^ *^^* ^^'^ '^^"^^ ^^^t '"o^ey for any- 
 tmng while I have ever so much more than f wor^f'l 
 
 " ' You thii?7^'' *^^r-^ ^^^^ M^^'en Xue^So k " 
 h«nl I '^'' something more for us a year or two 
 hence, when you have familiarized yourself with your 
 fortune, and have acquired a sense of propoSon At 
 present you are like a child with a new box of tovs* who 
 thinks that he can distribute them amonrhis plS^^^^ 
 and yet have the boxful for himself Then yo^b^^^^^^^^ 
 know what money means you shall be our ben^efactor on 
 
 mouf 'intr^^'T '"Pr^°« y^^ ^^« «till in tte hu- 
 mour. In the meantime that five hundred nounds io « 
 
 prodigious God-send, and will send us alon?^ cap^^^^^^^ 
 
 1 never hoped for sucli an excellent start '^ ^ ^• 
 
 1 believe the fellow wants to keep his parish nonr' 
 
 Gerard said afterwards, in a confidenLl irwithT^ 
 
 and^h^'^iw! 7%^ ^'^ '^°°?^ "P^° ^^"^ f«^*"ne, Gerard, 
 and ^e i.s afraid of pauperising his people by doing too 
 
 buHfT-'uTJ ^h, that's always the cry nowadays; 
 
 but it would take as long a head as Henry Brougham's 
 
 find out where help ends and pauperisation's I? 
 
 the State were to feed the board school children, yea even 
 
 shouirb?t".fh "'^1"^ P^^ '^^"' "'^ -« toid^that we 
 Should be teaching the parents to look to State aid and 
 
 woTthfr*'"'"^"-^^^ ? ^"°^- I <^aresay it mi'^it 
 work that way in a good many cases ; but if. on the 
 other hand, we could succeed in rearing a s ring and 
 healthy population the craving for drink might be less- 
 ened m the next generation.' ^ 
 
 Hillersdon House was a success. Societv flocked to f h*^ 
 millionaire as flies go to the honey-pot The Northern 
 farmer's advice to his son is one of the chief po^nte ^ 
 social ethics. Weail like to go where money is^'^Ttre 
 
 )s a fascination in w^nUh opri +h" i, -.-- > u ^"^'^ 
 
 nniTT „ o i. " . ■■ lU.-.uij io can buy that 
 
 only a Socrates can resist, and even Socrates went to riqh 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 143 
 
 4or Wot'aSeVi!!: '""^^ ^ »» "^ better than 
 .ero. t.e Eeln'rit" ^:SSe;ktVti:3.t2 
 
 shirt, and S J'he htd „fZt' " """^ '='"": »-"J » «"«<» 
 costume.' ^' '^°°'»« reconciled to modern 
 
 allowed him1i,rlpt:;lt"ser ''*"'™"^ '»<''"»'' 
 
 like Cheops, and live in it n ?'l^ "^^'f? P^^^^^^' 
 balmers-a pyramidTn wh^l, T n^ "^^-^^ ^°^ *he em- 
 chosen friend fi^^wh Si I wm^ ^ ^^^ 
 
 We will Bpra^ on soL Tnd eaH^^^^ little dinners. 
 I should think. I cTn LTdne t^f^^ V:T"^foi table, 
 or macaroni as a possibKet ff In "^ ^"*. '^P*''«g"« 
 ported on one's elbow Thin '1*"°® "'"''* «»* sup- 
 Ld hand after a,T t^ H^.!1^^ ^^^ dreadfully bt 
 they allow the priviWe^f TitH^r!, ^^r >"**«^' *«r 
 
 th^ir chiefs, /es, mTdeL O^l^rd '^^'^ ^^^^ *^ 
 < ^ uear uerard, you must givQ 
 
 
144 
 
 Th^ World. The Flesh, and TJce Devil. 
 
 parties-breakfasts, luncheons., dinners, musical evenin'^ 
 
 1 '? Vli^'' '° *^^ ''^^''^ *^^* yo« »»•« to provide a goSd 
 deal of the amusement of this ensuing season. I hope you 
 like the notion of being a social centre. Miss Hillersdon ? ' 
 said Roger turning to Xilian, with an insinuating smile. 
 JN ot a handsome man, by any means, this Larose. but with 
 a delicate pallor, attenuated feature, and a languid smile 
 which women pronounce ' interestixig.' 
 
 * It is rather alarming, but I want Gerard to be happv 
 and amused. Lilian replied, brightly; 'and Mr. Cumber- 
 land will help us to receive people. He was immensely 
 popular in Devonshire.' ^ 
 
 'My dear young lady, Devonshire isn't Loidon—but 
 ot course, Mr Cumberland is charming, and I hear people 
 are going to bt. Lawrence's to hear his sermons ' * 
 
 ' People !' exclaimed Lilian ; ' why the church is cnim- 
 med every Sunday at all the services.' 
 
 'fr?' ^"^^i "V®^^ people— people like LoH ^V>rds- 
 worth, and Mr. Lemaitre, the actor; people like Lady 
 Hyacinth Pulteney— people who criticise and talk If 
 that goes on, Mr. Cumberland will be an acquisition at 
 your parties. But, my dear Gerard,' pursued Roger 
 solemnly, the great point is food. People will go to you 
 to be fea-feed them. You will have aluxury of flowers 
 of coi^rse ; Mrs Smith-the Mrs. Smith-will decorate 
 your rooms and dinner table. People expect the lust of 
 the eye to be gratified ; but that is, after all, a minor 
 point. Your iced asparagus, ortolans, quails, plovers' eass 
 —those are the essentials.' i ' i ego 
 
 I'l^^^i^^^f '^^^''^ ^''^ ^y hospitality, my house will be 
 called the Restaurant Hillersdcn, or Caf^ Gerard. Peopl^ 
 will eat, dnnk, and be merry— all at my expense ' 
 
 JNo, my dear fellow. You will not be laughed at. 
 
 Jou have not made your money out of Russian hides or 
 
 Amencan manures. ^ You do not come to us with inade- 
 
 ona-^ aspirates iiesh from the Australian backwoods 
 
 You are not laboriously conning the alphabet of civilised 
 
The World. The Flesh, and m ZWa. 145 
 that nice boy, Ge Jd'ljtX^h.st^oSir •• ""'^ 
 
 guests and revfae a menu-bet! rthln^yo-rr'nir 
 lersdon was not wif.hmif +Kof ^.i . **" "'v^ne eise. liil- 
 
 it by praise rdCreeltionHk'T- "f^'^'o^yjo^iorod 
 mo/e frequent at ffilSdrn '«n'-'''«on8. whicli were 
 
 of enterLnlnt „e rv2d LZ> ''' "7 .°*''"' *°™ 
 -hoice of guests, the hTr ™trwS^?oflv^,,*° ■''" 
 
 encouraged Mr Hillersdon fn J.?f ^ . luncheons 
 
 erary^nS'^o; tL'^^pt'ot ft^',! 75'? ?''«"'- 
 or her opinions; breafifth: ™° ^jn'^^'^ftf „r"^ 
 made Lilian shudder as sHa rZoLT^ ^^'?"^ * *^*^ ^^'^h 
 on her way to the Vie^H« xJTl "^ *H dining-room door 
 little heJenhZZ'th^:.''r''l ^«^ ^ <^rry her to that 
 working-men, tmined bv hi'ml"lf '-"^>^/»«d's choir of 
 
 Jack wis to preach on«nfi^l' 7^'? *^'^"^' ^^ ^here 
 y«^«. was 10 preach one of his heart-stirring sermons, Sh© 
 
 u 
 
ill: 
 
 146 The World, The Flesh, and The DwU. 
 heard the voices and laughter of her brother's frienJ 
 
 . She passed the breakiast-room door, and her heart sank 
 within her at the thought of what small si^rnificance Sun- 
 day now had in the life of that brother. Si.e loved him 
 and she began to fear that he had cast in hi. lot amon-' 
 tlie unbelievers among men who ridicule the idea of a 
 ±;ei-8onal God who can discover nowhere in this universe 
 the necessity for any higher form of being than their own. 
 who think that through illimitable cycles of years creation 
 lias been climbing upwards to its ultimate ar.ex Man 
 
 Cierard, dear, is Sunday after Sunday to m by with- 
 out your crossing the threshold of a church ?' Lilian said 
 one sunny April morning, when she found her brother 
 smoking a cigarette in the winter garden, and looking 
 Kily at the Marechal Niel roses, while the servants were 
 putting their finishing touches to a breakfast- table laid 
 for eight. 
 
 'My darling, I shouldn't be any the better for church 
 or the church wouldn't be any the better for me. I am' 
 a little out of harmony with the Christian i.lea,jUHt now. 
 X } ?*X® outgrown it, or I am passing through a 
 
 phase of doubt; but if you really want me tS sacrifice to 
 the respectabilities I will go to Sfc. Lawrence with you 
 next Sunday. One of Jack's rousing sermons will • lo me 
 good. Ihey are capital tonics for a relaxed brain ' 
 
 YeaTs ago you used to go to church every Sunday 
 and sometimes twice on a Sunday.' 
 
 ' Years ago I was very young, LiUia i. I went to church 
 tor various reasons— first to please my mother— and 
 next because the Rector would have made unpleasant re- 
 marks at luncheon if he had missed me from the family 
 pew next again, because I liked the sleepy old church and 
 the sleepy service, and the familiar faces, and my father's 
 short, sensible sermon, and last of all because I had not 
 begun to think of how much or how little faith in spiritual 
 things there was in me/ 
 
 ' And all that the cleverest people in London can teach 
 you IS not tQ believe; said Lilian, sadly. 
 
I. 
 
 rietiils as 
 iait saiilc 
 mceSun- 
 )ved him, 
 )t amoiij,' 
 idea ot" a 
 universe 
 heir own, 
 } creation 
 Man. 
 by with- 
 lian said, 
 brother 
 looking 
 nt3 were 
 ible laid 
 
 ' church, 
 . I am 
 
 list now. 
 rough a 
 jrifice to 
 ith you 
 !1 do me 
 a!' 
 Sunday, 
 
 church 
 3r — and 
 sant re- 
 
 i'amily 
 rch and 
 father's 
 lad not 
 piritual 
 
 a teach 
 
 The World, TJie Flesh, a, A The Devil. . U7 
 
 'My dear girl, the clever people have very little to do 
 with my disEehef. The cb.nge is in myself. It came 
 about as spontaneously and mysteriously as cotton blight 
 on an apple tree. One day you see the tree flourishing, 
 the eaves clean and full of sap; and the next day they 
 are all curled up and withered, a^ if a fire had paased over 
 them, and the fruit is eaten by worms.' 
 
 'The carriage is at the door, ma'am.' announced one of 
 those perfectly matched footmen whom Mrs. Champion 
 had selected, magnificent, impassable beings, who looked 
 and moved and spoke as if they had been cradled in lux- 
 ury and reared amidst patrician surroundings 
 
 *!, u ?i,'^'°? ^"^y ^" ^^^ sunshine, heavv at heart for 
 the brother she so fondly loved. She saw him with the 
 Illimitable power of wealth, surrounded by all the snares 
 and temptations of a world in which whim and pleasure 
 are the only laws that govern mankind, aw &m cut 
 adrift from the anchor in which si- olieved, sailing 
 away from the safe harbour of the Clui^tian faith, to thi 
 bleak and barren sea of a scornful and sullen materialism 
 a gloomy agnosticism which looks with contempt unon 
 every spiritual aspiration, and laughs at every Heaven- 
 
 ^ ^i^f^H"".. ^ *^® ^^®^°^ o^ children and fools. 
 
 While Lilian drove along Piccadilly, to the sound of 
 various church bells, and ])ast a population setting church- 
 ward Mr Hillei;sdon's Sunday visitors were dropping 
 m to the eleven o clock breakfast-a meal which had but 
 one drawback, according to Roger Larose. It made lun- 
 cheon an impossibility. 
 
 One of the guests of the day. Mr. Reuben Gambler, 
 was a yx)uthful novelist, who had made all vice his prov- 
 ince, and whose delight was to shock the susceptibilities 
 of the circulating library. His books were naturally 
 popular, and as with a restive horse, people were im- 
 pressed more by the idea of what he might do than of 
 miat ne naa acLuaiiy done. He was lively and eccentric, 
 and a favourite with Hillcrsdon and his circle, 
 
"liiif^ 
 
 i ii 
 
 \ 
 
 148 7he World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 ' I've brought a particular friend of mine, who tells me 
 he knows you well enough to come without an invitation,' 
 said Gambier, entering the winter garden unannounced, 
 from the adjoining drawing room into which he had been 
 duly ushered. A low unctions laugh sOunded from the 
 other side of the half-raised portidre as he spoke, a laugh 
 which Gerard instantly recognized. 
 
 ' Your friend is Mr. Jermyn,' he said quickly. 
 
 * Yes— how did you guess ? ' 
 
 ' I heard him laugh ; there is nobody else on earth who 
 laughs like that.' 
 
 * But you think there is someone down there who does,' 
 said Gambier, pointing significantly to the ground. 'A 
 strange laugh, ain't it ? but very cheery — sounds as if all 
 mankind were a stupendous joke, and as if Jermyn were 
 in the secret of all the springs that work this little world, 
 and knew when it was going to burst up. I believe he 
 knows more about it all than Sir Henry Thomson, or any 
 of those scientific swells who tell us what the sun is made 
 of, and how long they can warrant the earth to last.' 
 
 Jermyn's head appeared under the old brocade curtain 
 — a curtain made from the vestments of Italian priests, 
 the rich spoil of a mediaeval sacristy — a curious face seen 
 against the background of purple and gold, clear cut, bril- 
 liant in colouring, high, narrow brow, receding curiously, 
 sharp nose, light gray eyes, and smiling mouth, displaying 
 small white teeth. 
 
 He paused for a moment or two, with the curtain in his 
 hand, looking out of the purple and gold, then with a little 
 gush of laughter, came across the marble floor and shook 
 hands with his host. 
 
 ' Surprised to see me, ain't you, Hillersdon ? ' 
 
 * No ; I have only been surprised not to see you all this 
 time. And now answer me a question. Where the devil 
 are those rooms of yours where you gave me a supper od 
 the night after Lady Fridoline's party ? ' 
 
 < What ! have you been hunting me up there ? ' 
 
T^ 
 
 nl. 
 
 ho tells me 
 invitation,' 
 announced, 
 16 had been 
 d from the 
 ke, a laugh 
 
 L earth who 
 
 3 who does/ 
 round. ' A 
 ids as if all 
 jrinyn were 
 ittle world, 
 [ believe he 
 ison, or any 
 sun is made 
 bo last.' 
 ade curtain 
 lian priests, 
 IS face seen 
 ar cut, bril- 
 g curiously, 
 , displaying 
 
 irtain in his 
 with, a little 
 r and shook 
 
 you all this 
 re the devil 
 I supper Ou 
 
 e?' 
 
 The World, The Pleah, and The Devil 149 
 
 ' Hunting ! Yes, it was a decided case of hunting. I 
 don't think the shrewdest detective in London could find 
 those rooms of yours.' 
 
 'I daresay not, unless he knew where to look for them. 
 I never tell anybody my address, but I sometimes take a 
 friend home to supper — a man who is too full of himself 
 and his own affairs to observe the way by which he 
 goes.' 
 
 Another visitor came into the winter garden, and then 
 Hillersdon went into the next room to receive the rest of 
 the party, which was soon complete. 
 
 The ninth convive proved a success. Most people wer 
 interested in the Fate-reader, although most people pre- 
 tended to make very light of his art. That searcliing 
 gaze of his, looking into a man's soul through his face 
 had an uncanny influence that fascinated an much as it 
 repelled. He had made such strange hits by those fate- 
 reading prophecies of his, had foretold change.s and events 
 in the lives of men, of which those men had tliemselves 
 no foreshadowing. What was this power wliicli enabled 
 him thus to prognosticate ? He called it insight; but the 
 word though both vague and comprehensive, was not 
 strong enough to explain a gift hitherto the peculiar prop- 
 erty of the necromancer and the charlatan — never before 
 exercised airily, and gratuitously by a man who was re- 
 ceived in society. Whatever Mr. Jermyn's mean-? might 
 be, whether large or small, he had never been known to 
 make money by the exercise of his occult power. 
 
 He was leaving with the rest of Hillersdon's friends 
 before one o'clock when his host detained hini. 
 
 ' I want to have a quiet talk with you/ said Gerard, 
 ' We have not met since my altered for unes.' 
 
 'True/ answered Jermyn, lightly, 'but I prophesied 
 the turn in your luck, did I not, old fellow ? ' 
 
 ' You hinted at possibilities — you set me on the track 
 of an old memory — that scene in the rail way station at 
 Nice,' 
 
 If; I 
 
 /^ 
 
 
 ill 
 
150 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 'Lucky dog. Half the young men in London are green 
 with envy when they talk about you. An instant's peril 
 —and a lifetime of boundless wealth.' 
 
 ' There is no such thing as boundless wealth except in 
 Amenca, said Gerard. ' It is a phrase to be used only 
 about a man who owns a silver mine whose limits no man 
 has ever discovered. My income is fixed, and—' 
 
 Limited,' cried Jermyn, interrupting: 'a decidedlv 
 limited income. Is it eighty or ninety thousand a year 
 or does It run to a hundred ? I believe were I in youi^ 
 shoes I should be thinking of economising. I should have 
 a holy horror of the workhouse. One loses all sense of 
 proportion under the weight of two millions.' 
 
 'There is a good deal of spending in it, certainly, if a 
 hTu^se ?°'''^^ **^ ^^^""^ judiciously Do you like my 
 
 'I consider it perfect. You have had the discretion 
 not to follow the prevailing fashion of the day That is 
 your strong point. You have not gone too far, either in 
 expense or splendour. You have put on the brake at the 
 right moment. 
 
 •Come and see my den,' said Gerard. 
 
 ih.^ 1? *i'!i,'^¥' ^"^ ^^^ "PP®^ ^°°^' opened a door at 
 •!w S,-""^ ^h^ ^''"^®' ^°^ "«^ered Jermyn into a room 
 with folding doors, opening into a second. The two rooms 
 exactly reproduced those Inn chambers where he had 
 seen the vision of Hester Davenport. Colour, form, mater- 
 ial—all had been carefully copied, Gerard's memory of 
 that night and its surroundings being more vivid than 
 any other a^emory of his past life. There were the same 
 curtains of sombre velvet, darkest green in the lights and 
 black m the shadows, the same Oriental carpetrof rich, 
 but chastened, hues, the same, or almost the same, Italian 
 pictures— a Judas by Titian— a wood nymph by Guido 
 _«...K u.!,c«,vv.ij Carvcd v^iiippenaaie cabmets, with 
 their fragile cornices and dainty open work 
 
 ' My very rooms I by all that's wonderful I ' cried Jer- 
 
"Tt 
 
 nl. 
 
 n are green 
 itant's peril 
 
 h except in 
 
 3 used only 
 
 its no man 
 > 
 
 decidedly 
 
 md a year, 
 
 I in your 
 
 hould have 
 
 ill sense of 
 
 ainly, if a 
 )u like my 
 
 discretion 
 . That is 
 , either, in 
 ake at the 
 
 a door at 
 ;o a room 
 ;wo rooms 
 e he had 
 m, mater- 
 lemory of 
 ivid than 
 the same 
 ights and 
 t, of rich, 
 le, Italian 
 )y Guido, 
 ets, with 
 
 iried Jer- 
 
 2%e World, The Flesh, and The Devil. l5l 
 
 myn. What a close observer of still life you must be 
 You have got everything — except me.' 
 
 • The black marble bust ? Yes that is wanting : but I 
 mean to have that before I have done.' 
 
 'Well, my dear Hillersdon, imitation is the sincerest 
 flattery, and I feel intensely flattered.' 
 
 * A whim— a fancy that pleased me for a mo.uent— that 
 18 all it means. Those after midnight hours in your 
 chambers marked the turning point in my life. I had 
 made up my mind to shoot myself that very night. The 
 pistol was ready loaded in my pistoi-case. I had thought 
 It all out, and had ma-f -p my mind. God knows how 
 you guessed my seer eadily.' 
 
 •My dear fellow, ^..^. mind was steeped in suicide. 
 Ihere was no secret in the matter— to an observer with 
 the slightest claim to insight. I saw despair, defiance, 
 recklesness, and the gloom which means only one thina— 
 self-destruction.' ° 
 
 'And while I was at the opera listening to the doom of 
 Don Juan the everlasting type of spendthrift and profli- 
 gate— while I was sitting in your chambers, the lawyer's 
 letter was lying on my table, within a few feet of the 
 •pistol-case— the letter that heralded the announcement of 
 millions That night was like a bad dream— and it was 
 "2. ."i"! j™^°y ^^^^ afterwards that I was able to shake 
 oil that dream feeling, and realize my good luck,' 
 
 Good luck with a vengeance,' laughed Jermyn ' You 
 have been lucky in more ways than one— lucky in love 
 as well as m goC j lucky in the fast coming release of the 
 woman you love.' 
 
 '^ n^^H"^*® follow you,' Gerard said coldly, resenting 
 this allusion even from a man who professed to know 
 everybody s business. 
 
 ' Oh, come now you can't be angry with me for touch, 
 mg upon an open secret. Everybody knows of your de- 
 votion to one bright particular star ; and everybody will 
 be inchned to congratulate you when the worthy .stock- 
 
 f 
 
162 The Wo'd, The Flesh, and The Demt. 
 
 broker gets his order of release. Life can be of ver> 
 littl '^alue to him, poor fellow. I saw him dragged about 
 in a bath-chair on the parade at St. Leonards a month 
 ago, a dismal wreck, and now I am told he is in retreat 
 at Finchley — the beginning of the end.* 
 ^ Gerard smoked his cigarette in silence. The conversa- 
 tion was evidently displeasing him. 
 
 The beginning of the end ? Yes, it might be that the 
 end was near; and if it were so, what better could he 
 desi'-e than to ma. -y the woman he had so ardently de- 
 sired to marry just four years ago ; the capable, accom- 
 plished woman whom all the town admired, and who was 
 rich enough to be in r^o wise influenced by his wealth. 
 She was not less beautiful than she had been in her girl- 
 hood—more beautiful, rather, with a beauty which' was 
 only now ripening in its perfect development-^a rudjier 
 gold upon her hair, a finer curve of cheek and throat. 
 People were never tired of telling him that Mrs. Champion 
 was the handsomest woman in London. 
 
 * I want to ask you another question,' Gerard began, 
 when he had smoked out the cigarette. * Was I utterly 
 mad that night in your rooms, or did I see a vision of a 
 girl at a sewing machine ? ' 
 
 ' You were not mad by any means. Your conversation 
 was both rational and logical. It is quite possible that 
 you saw a vision.' 
 
 ' Produced by some trickery of yours, no doubt. How 
 was it done ? * 
 
 * If I were master of any of the black arts, do you think 
 I would tell you the secrets of my trade ? As for the 
 vision, suppose I willed thct you should recall the love- 
 liest face you had ever seen, would that account for the 
 phenomenon, do you think 1' 
 
 * I don't know ; the face was certainly one I had seen 
 before ; but I was quite unable to identify it without as- 
 sistance, therefore one wouJd suppose it had faded out of 
 
 ,nd could hardly be willed into vivid actual! 
 
 by yon.* 
 
 lity 
 
jonversa- 
 
 TJ^e World, The Flesh, and The DM. 153 
 
 that hidden^Ltlrr whl^h f. ""^ ^^^'^ ^^^ existence- 
 '^ '"^htsl.ckXu darSs n^h ''%^^^ ^^"°i«« ^^d 
 into Jightat a 12,^ oitvtilf^^^ •!'"'' ^^'^^ ^ B<^rt 
 being dormant in us from th« 1 'Pf ^^^** mysterious 
 
 quoted Gerard ^'' ^''^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ love at all/ 
 
 Hfe\t t: o^- S^ctl^-C *'^ ^^^^^^ *-^ of 
 had met her at drives and T ^^ ^'V"" "P' ^^^ ^e 
 inatches.and afternoon te^ l^Vr^^' ^^ ^^icket 
 three nights a week and S Tu ^^^ "^^"^^^ ^i^^ her 
 women runtil JSaSy 0^70. 2 ^'"^'"^ ^^ "^^^ ^"^ 
 ments he had ctme t^think her thfw '^'^'''^^^^ '^'' 
 existence, and to follow her and ^ ! necessity of his 
 
 No there had been nothing ^oi^Jclh^'"^''^^ ^ t'' 
 mysterious flame wrannin!! f ,• j°. *^®^e— no subtle 
 
 denJnvincibCdCS^ ^H^rf '"^ ^« i'^tant, sud- 
 love in what is cal ed l*od ^fJ^^^ ^' men and women 
 Jove that does not burst^ bondTf ^~''^'?°f ^^y> ^i^^ a 
 tionalities. ^''''^^' ^^ ^^en violate conven- 
 
 t^^tA^nZ't^^ ?hampion during 
 
 when he was B^uZAn^LiT'^y'' ^^^ ^^f* tim,and 
 grove of lime and SStnut/wherfh^^TV^^ ' 
 
 newly.opening leaves were Wlvft^^u^* ^"^^^ ^°d 
 wind, and where, kbove the in p!Z ""f^ ^^ ^ ^^^ * ^est 
 showed deeply b ue-^ne of ft "^ ?'^°^'^"«' ^^^ «ky 
 «oons which brin^ ;S? thl1nf.P- ''^"'^ ^/"^^ «^^r- 
 fulness, asense oTrevivingynn" f„The7rai"'' r^^" 
 01 man— tactitious, but deli4'ff,7i «?!,•? v^^® ^^ '^^d 
 He thought of the wn«f„ ^? i ^^^® *<^ lasts. 
 
 «.f. and .? 4^^'srt\r^:So^«,tf^xi- 
 
 i"ii 
 
 ^^1 
 
154 The World, The Flesh, and Tlie DevU. 
 
 that solemn promise of fidelity he felt the shadow of doubt 
 creeping across that sunlit path which an indulgent Fate, 
 granting him all things to be desired of man, had marked 
 out for him. He told himself that he was one of the spoilt 
 cliildren of nursery story-boo'is, he was inclined to quar- 
 rel with his toys. 
 
 He had been living amongst men whose master is the 
 spirit that always denies. He had steeped himself in that 
 pessimism of small minds which pervades society, and 
 which is the chosen gospel of the men who profess to be 
 in advance of their fellow-men. A dull, dead hopeless- 
 ness came down upon him, like a dark cloud, in the midst 
 of this palace of art which he had built for his soul, and 
 the palace seemed no better than a prison-house. 
 
 He and Mrs. Champion had met less frequently during 
 the last month, for Edith, who was warm-hearted »id 
 kindly natured, despite her essentially modern ideas of 
 life, had deemed it her duty to withdraw in some mea- 
 sure from society, now that her husband was the inmate 
 of a private lunatic asylum. She drove to Finchley three 
 times a week, and spent an hour or two with her hus- 
 band, sometimes driving with him in the doctor's capa- 
 cious landau, while her own horses rested, sometimes 
 walking beside his wheel chair in the garden, and listen- 
 ing patiently while he rambled in hopeless confusion <>^ 
 spirit through the Stock Exchange list, from Berthas hm 
 Buenos Ayres First Preference to Electric Lighting Ooiu- 
 panies and Papaf uego Loans ; the shattered mind retiac- 
 ing trodden paths, and finding pleasure in familiar sounds, 
 memory almost a blank. Mr. Champion was placable, 
 satisfied with his surroundings, and expressing no im- 
 patience of restraint, or desire to be taken back to his 
 own house — indeed it seemed to his wife that he had for- 
 gotten every detail of his past existence, except the shib- 
 boleth of the Stock Exchange. 
 
 In this dismal state it would have been less than cha- 
 rity to pray for the prolongation of his life. Edith did all 
 
ne World, 7% Flesh and The Demi. I55 
 
 r no im- 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ''^TH BEING SO GOOD WOULD HEAVEN SEEM BEST ?» 
 
 ^^S'^^nn^r''^ ^'^' ^^^'' '' °»« P^r^ect inter. 
 
 ■ n thT^iHr^/r"^ ^^*"^^^^ «^^ somewhere 
 n the midst of the natural cares and tribu- 
 lations of common-place existence, a period in 
 
 all Z '\ *'°"^^' ^"^ «°^^«^ ^»e unknown anS 
 all the colours of earth and sky are deenenS W^ 
 
 supernatural beauty. The period of a yS dr^ 
 
 engagement to the man of her choice-rf ^«b! iL 
 
 ^ose wrld aea-birds joy and hope ar/hfir £ 
 ailleisdon waa steeped in the sunliVlif »„j iT^' . "i 
 
 ceiience. He satisfied every need of her nature 
 
 She was deeply religious, and she found in him a faifh 
 that could apprehend and discuss every theory and doubt 
 
 
 i 'IJ 
 
 '1'.. 
 
 I ft 
 
 b 
 
156 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 benevolence of a far wider gni!>p. She could look up to 
 him with meek reverence, as the women of old looked up 
 to their mailed warriors, the men who went out to the 
 unknown land to fight for the sepulchre of their Lord. 
 She could revere him, and yet be utterly happy and 
 light-hearted in his companionship, for his religion was, 
 like Kingsley's, the gospel of cheerfulness, and his most 
 ardent desire was to get the greatest sum of happiness 
 out of this world for himself and others. 
 
 The one shadow on her life was the fact that her 
 brother had wantonly shut himself outside that fold 
 where she would have gathered him, with all the precious 
 things of her life ; but when she told Jack Cumberland 
 her fears and regrets,, he smiled them away with 'his 
 broad indulgent view of a young man's foolisnness. 
 
 ' He is only going through that phase of unbelief which 
 most men have to suffer at some period of their lives,' he 
 said. ' He will not be prayed or preached into happier 
 views, be sure dearest. The best thing you and I can do 
 is to leave him alone with his opinions till he finds out 
 how barren and joyless this world is while it means the 
 whole, and how much more compreheasible when we 
 accept it for what it is — a single round upon the ladder 
 ot everlasting life. In the meantime, if we can interest 
 him in philanthropic schemes, and the making of Chris- 
 tian England, we shall do a good deaJ 
 
 ' He has promised to make the round of our parish wiUi 
 mother next week,' said Lilian. 
 
 Mrs. Hill ers don's much-talked of visit to her son's 
 house had beeu deferred from one cause and another 
 until April was nearly over ; but when that pleasant 
 month v.'as at its best she appeared upon the scene, fresh 
 and smiling as one of the glebe meadows on a sunny 
 morning, and, escorted by the Rector, who was to spend 
 only three days in town^ before returning westward to 
 visit old friends, and to preach charity sermons at Stroud 
 and at Bath on his way home. 
 
"-^ 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 157 
 
 interested. While the ^^^T '^^ '^•^' '^'^'^ °^°^« ^^eply 
 
 was devoted! picture -Hp'''^' ''^ ^^'"^^"' *^^ *^^"^ 
 society, with theexceDHoTnf""'' "«"^f t«> the park, and 
 of Mr Cuniberland'.^^^^^ f a somewhat hurried survey 
 when i Sri W^^^ ^"^ ««h°«l«; bu^ 
 
 visits. Li] ariook comnw 'P^'^'^ ."^^°" ^^'^ ^°»n^ of 
 and most of theTr time S.t Possession of her mother, 
 of Soho, both mleTanrdauJh?' '" ')' neighbourhood 
 little luncheon provided bvlip' Pp^f ^^"F *^« ^^'"I'ie 
 and middle-ageThousemlid in ^"^^'k ^^^^P^^'" ^^^^' 
 dining-room in gS sTr'; ^ f^ '''^''. °^^ P^^^^^d 
 elaborate delicacip? nf o 1 \^ the new inventions and 
 The mother wrsneve/drir^"^ at HiHersdon House 
 future home, or onLcussit1h«.'^''''"^ ^^^ daughter's, 
 household linen, with T?t^*,^^^ "7^^^^n<^ question of 
 and homely elegJce Most 1m Tf/f ^"'?*^ refinement 
 Lilian and her love; i„ ,l^^^'^^*j4^^as italso to join 
 books, and curios wherewith' /"^""^^f ^l^^" ^"^^^^^^^e. 
 
 more and more Smllire-h« t "^f- *^^ '^"^ ^'^"^^ 
 brokers' shoos to avo!!- ^ ^°^ ^'"^^^^ to queer old 
 
 or Sheraton^eriod':^^^^^ Chrppendale 
 
 rubbish. It was cuHouf h£ . X^ ^"'^^ labyrinth of 
 
 wa^ more real rTptureTn « .n ""i ^^T ^^ ^^^^^ there 
 
 fof the wheat pattern unearth'ed 1 
 than in all the chastened «nS ^t a remote broker's 
 out luxury of Srsdo / S^^°"^ ^.^^^ 
 Mrs. HilJeTsdon's siml^ind^>: 'f^'^'^^T ™ *« 
 
 of tranquil inactivities bTfh^^^^^^ ^^ J"^^ ^'^'^ 
 parish—some latpnT fir 5^^ • ® sorrows of a country 
 
 her in the Sll Uf L^son^^^^^^^ ^^^^^ '^^^'^^^ 
 
 change in his fortunp?t/ ^ ^^*^^. surroundings. The 
 Uneon.soiou«l' l^^IT- -T>9 «"?den and too^ntense. 
 CrcBsua "exh^fet^i^hl ma '•« loreboding of Solon when 
 
 of wisdom. She looked ^/r""'" ^'^^^" *^^ «*^«^ ^Jes 
 ni.. ^ne looked at h^r son, radiant, animated 
 
168 TJit World, Tlis Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 leading the conversation at a table where all the guests 
 were men of mark, and all the women beauties or wits 
 f? r ^. . ^?."P°'' ^"^ cheek seemed the hectic of disease, 
 the light in his eye too restless for health. She questioned 
 him with keenest anxiety after one of these brilliant 
 dinners. 
 
 ' A.re you not doing too much, Gerard,' she asked ten- 
 derly, burning the candle of life at both ends ? ' 
 
 ' My dear mother, candles were made to burn If one 
 must be either a flume or a lump of tallow I would rather 
 be the flame— though, no doubt, the unlighted tallow 
 would last a great deal longer. I daresay we seem to be 
 taking life prestissimo after your gentle andante move- 
 ment in Devonshire. But a man who has no financial 
 cares can stand a little racketting. I used to take a great 
 deal more out of mysolf in the days when the thought 
 of my tailors bill, or the image of my landlord's sullen 
 face scowling at me from the half open door of his back 
 parlor would come between me and the rose-festooned 
 walls of a Belgravian ball-room.' 
 
 ' But you have financial cares of another kind, Gerard ' 
 answered his mother, in her grave, sweet voice. ' Yoi 
 have the disposal of a great fortune— talents for which 
 you must account by and by.' 
 
 'At least, admit that I have not buried them in a nap- 
 kin—unless It is a dinnernapkin,' laughed Gerard. ' What 
 did you think of that chaufroid of quails-common-place, 
 I fear; everybody gives quails at this season; the Lon- 
 don menu becomes as monotonous as that of the Israelites 
 fe ti ^ Y"^®^'^®^^ J b"t the lobster souffle was iced to per- 
 
 * Well, I won't try to talk seriously to you to-night • 
 youwdl only laugh at my old-fashioned ideas. I was 
 brought up to think of a fortune as something held in 
 trust for one's fellow-creatures.' 
 
 - i^^^m, up uy u>.ie luciti squire ana squiress. 
 
 Yes, 1 remember my grandfather, who spent every six- 
 

 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 159 
 
 pence he could spare from the mere bread and cheese of 
 this hfe. upon building cottages for his farm labourers 
 and improving the drainage of old-fashioned homesteads, 
 and who was considered a tyrannical landlord by way of 
 recompense-and my grandmother, who tramped up and 
 down muddy lanes and penetrated foul-smelling cabins 
 and dressed sore legs, and read to the sick and the blind 
 and was generally spoken of as an officious domineering 
 person. Is that the kind of life you want me to lead? 
 mother r ' 
 
 'No, dear ; that was charity upon a siua.t scale, and 
 under difficulties, You can do some great work.' 
 
 T -11 ^ .?^ m? ^^^^ ^^^'"^ i"" for me to do, mother, and 
 1 will do It. There is Jack Cumberland yonder, who 
 knows that my surplus income is at his service, but who 
 18 too proud to be helped, except in the most insigniQcant 
 way Shall I build him a church, or. shall I endow an 
 almshouse vast enough to hold all the poor old men and 
 women m his parish ? I am ready to give anything, or 
 to do anything. If I had any treasure specialfy dear to 
 my heart I would surrender it, as Polycrates threw his 
 ring into the sea. 
 
 'Ah, dearest, I know your heart is in the right place,' 
 said the mother, drawing nearer to the low chair in which 
 her son was reclming, his head lying back upon the russet 
 and amber cushions, his cheek pale with the exhaustion 
 of an animated evening, ' but I am grieved to think that 
 in a life which might be so happy— and so useful— there 
 18 one sad want. 
 
 ' What is that, mother ? ' 
 
 •The want of religious convictions. Your sister tells 
 me that you never go to church now, that Christ is no 
 longer your master and your guide, but that you and your 
 friends talk of the Redeemer of mankind as a village 
 philosopher in advance of his aire, who uneonseionslvrl 
 produceu theaspirations of PlatoTandthe ethics of Buddha. 
 You used to be such a firm believer, Gei-ard, in the daya 
 
\m 
 
 160 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 when yon came home from Kon. so fresli.and frank, and 
 joyous; .nd when you and I used to have .such JonffLlks 
 toj^ether m the woods between luncheon and the evenin. 
 
 'Ah, mother, those were the days when life was a mc- 
 ture and not a problem ; the days before I began to think. 
 
 by. when I am old enough to leave off thinking.' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 •'FOB SUCH THINGS MUST BEGIN SOMEDAY." 
 
 'R. CUMBERLAND'S most energetic coadjutor 
 m the improvement of his new parish was 
 Lady Jane Twyford, who had worked in that 
 parish for many years, and who was the head 
 and front of a club and home for working 
 women, that stood almost within the shadow of 
 o..r. ' old church of St. Lawrence. Lady Jane had 
 
 and frS,7 rt T*5' °T' 1"^ ^^- S^« ^^^1 «««° good 
 and faithful shepherds; she had seen those who s^rce 
 
 knew how to hod a sheep hook; and she was quick 
 
 bent. She entered heartily into all his projected 
 
 STT^"^^'' ^°^.,g*vt *^^ ^^'^^ °f friendship to his 
 intended wife; while the Vicar on his side ardently 
 espoused all the enthusiasms of the lady, and lent ffi 
 musical gifts to those social evenings at the club which 
 
 rAZ^ \T ; 'if^^^ to inaugurate and superintend. 
 To have as head of the parish a man with a stmn. h..;^ 
 and a fane baritone voice, supported by an exrensive 
 
JU. 
 
 ^e World, m Flesh, and The Devil 161 
 
 BThlTeve^hot'^and^^^^^ opera, was .ore than 
 
 friendehin «nr1 ?P ' ^ f -^ ^^""'^ ^^^ "^w Vicar her 
 was a Znl ^ -f ''"""l^^ '° unstinted measure. She 
 was a tamiliar visitor in the dreariest irround-Hoor d. n« 
 and in the most miserable garrets within tho^^ ^ !' 
 and she could tell him « ,«.w j witnm tbo district, 
 
 feet^nhr« r? ^''.'°? ^oraetimes served toSe t". 
 indications ^* ''^'''' ""■ """g"''" mfnor 
 
 inSesftiS^ilftrd'v tn'?Tl ^-T-^ H"la«don 
 
 Jack cimb^Wrdtn^t'oT wae^lldTit"'' 'S 
 
 elegances and invention^?rL^J^„.ro„m JiT^^ •™"' 
 r«..^ unknown and «ndrean.edTb^TeXpCrS 
 
 had been tolerably familiar with all thriond^n can 
 
 grade of the :ti^'Sl apXZ'dr sSo\u% 
 pala«e was the same pal^l the li^hJ S!' S"L*° 
 
 oriLHT ''''" *"' ^""^ *"' feh^dlookedXn 
 for half a do2on seasons, when he was a nobody ^ 
 
i6S Th World, The Flesh, md The Devil. 
 
 would have liked to have had a new world—to have had 
 a gate open for him into a land where all things were 
 new. It he had been able to walk more than half a dozen 
 miles without feeling tired he would have started for 
 Central Africa. He had serious thoughts of Japan. Cey- 
 lon or even Burmah— but while an inner self j^eamed for 
 untrodden lands, the common-place, work-a-day self 
 clung to Mayfair and its civilisation— to the great city in 
 which for the man with any pretension to be 'smart' 
 there is only one hatter, one boot-maker, tailor, carriage- 
 builder, one kind of letter-paper, one club, and one per- 
 tiime possible; for be it observed that although the really 
 smart man may be a member of twenty clubs there is 
 only one that he considers worthy of him, that one from 
 which the black ball ha* excluded the maiority of his 
 particular friends. 
 
 This little dinner in Soho, served by the neat parlour 
 raaid, in the sombre oak-panelled parlour, this talk with 
 Lady Jane of the ways and works of girls who made jam 
 and girls who made tailors' trimmings, was almost as 
 good as a glimpse of a new country. All things here 
 were new to the man who since he left the University 
 had lived only amongst people who were or pretended to 
 be of the mode, modish. 
 
 The stories he heard to-night of sin and sorrow, good 
 and bad, brutal crime, heroic effort, tender self-sacrifice 
 in a world given over to abject poverty, with all the lights' 
 and shadows of these lowly lives, touched and interested 
 him more t^an he could have supposed possible. His heart 
 Bjad his fancy had not been brought so near the lives of 
 the masses since he read, with choking throat and tear- 
 dimmeH eyes, Zola's story of the lower deeps in that bril- 
 liant Pans of which he, Gerard Hillersdon, knew only the 
 outward glitter and garish colouring. Behind the boule- 
 vards and the cafds, +he theatres and the music halls, 
 tuere is always this otner world whore everybody whose 
 eyes open on the light of God's day is foredoomed a ' lifer,' 
 

 Th£ World, The Flesh, and Tlte Devil. 163 
 
 sentenced to hard labour, and with but faintest hope of a 
 ticket-of-leave after years of patient work. To Gerard 
 conscious of wealth in superabundance, these stories of 
 sordid miseries, agonies which a five pound note might 
 cure, or fatal diseases, incurable for ever, which a little 
 ease and a little comfort might have averted, seemed 
 doubly dreadful— dreadful as a reproach to every rich 
 man in the city of London. And yet to try and alter 
 these things, he told himself, would be like trying to turn 
 tlie tide ot the St. Lawrence, above the fails of Niagara. 
 Were he to cast all his fortune into this great gulf of 
 poverty there would be one millionaire the less, and for 
 the masses an almost imperceptible gain. But he resolved 
 sitting in this sombre parlour, with the sunset of a fine 
 May evening glowing on the polished oak panels, as on 
 deep water— he resolved that these stories of hard lives 
 should not have been told him in vain— that he would do 
 some great thing, when once he could decide upon the 
 thing that was most needed to lessen the measure of per- 
 petual want. Whether lodging house or hospital, club or 
 refuge, reformatory or orphanage, sometbirxr would he 
 do; something which should soothe his own conscience 
 and satisfy his mother's piety. 
 
 The dinner was all over before eight o'clock, and the 
 httle party left the Vicarage on foot to go to a hall in the 
 neighbourhood which had been lent for a meeting of the 
 choirs formed by the various women's clubs in London.. 
 The cancert and competition had begun when the Vicar's 
 party entered the lighted hall, and the building was 
 crowded m every part, but seats had been kept for Mr. 
 Cumberland and his friends in a central position in front 
 of the platform. 
 
 The choirs were ranged in a semi-circle, like the spec- 
 tatora m a Greek theatre. There were eight choirs 
 numbering in all something over two hundrea girls, and 
 each choir wore a sash of a particular colour from shoulder 
 to waist. These bright scarves across the sombre dresses 
 
 3ji 
 
 ii. 
 
J 4 
 
 164 The World, The Flesh and The DevU. 
 
 fi!ImilvTi?h*^\T' ^^^' ^^^" ^^ appearance of uni- 
 to. mity to the whole costume. The eye hardly noted the 
 
 dmgy browns or rusty blacks, the well-worn olives or 
 neutral grays of cheap, hard-wearing gowns. The ShT 
 smilmg faces, the neatly dressed Lfir-with its varied 
 colouring from raven black, through all the shades of 
 brown and ruddy gold, to palest, flixen-the K and 
 
 STitrilffaTd ir' ^^' ^'''^' -^- ^s:drh^ 
 
 general effect was excellent; and wLn all the%^^^^^ 
 
 «rV^' M '^^^''f^ .^"^^ ^^ ^^^^^y. ^s the un ted S 
 attacked Mendelssohn's; Greeting,' Gerard felt thesudden 
 thrill of sympathy which brings unbidden tears to the 
 
 to5w'^h*^"''*' of melody, in which all the choirs sang 
 together there came other part songs by separate choirs 
 
 ?Zf-^^T ^^ '^l '''''^^''' °^ ^ «l"b ^t Chelsea, whTh 
 called Itself somewhat ambitiously the St Cecilia strapk 
 
 sZh^ ".' ' "Z'^i "^^:^«^« "P'^^^h- others, fey a^ng 
 fh^T' 'W^^-^r^r,' arranged as a part song.^wltf 
 English words, and among the many voices thefi were 
 tones of purest quality which went to Gerard HoL'^don's 
 ^Th'r^.'^r^ ^^"^ ^°^^ *h^« the new t nois and 
 r;«r i'Ti'^"^ l?'^"^' ^'•^^ It^J^' ^"^erica. and Aus- 
 
 St at thTon ^^' V" f ^^'\ ^"^^«d' there had been 
 nights at the opera when he. who was passionately fond 
 
 tlT flY ^''^"^ ^"^ ^^'^'^ that he had left off carin^ 
 for It; that one may get beyond music a^ one gets be" 
 yond so many other pL ures; that even to that pure 
 
 To^niX ?^^^'?'^','^^^"' ""'^y comeaseasonofsatFety! 
 lo-night those familiar notes thrilled him ; those fresh 
 
 fn h?Sn'?'"""/r ' '^^' '^' «^«-^«d hall awakened 
 
 -.,)na or nuuiulu toilers, tins world of sbruff»lp<^ 
 and of care., m which the pleasures were soimprS 
 
3VU. 
 
 ance of uni- 
 ly noted the 
 'n olives, or 
 The bright, 
 ti its varied 
 e shades of 
 B blue, and 
 5S filled the 
 
 ihe clubs of 
 luties. The 
 the voices 
 Qited choirs 
 the sudden 
 ears to the 
 
 choirs sang 
 rate choirs. 
 Isea, which 
 ilia, struck 
 They sang 
 5ong, with 
 there were 
 [illersdon's 
 enois and 
 and Aus- 
 B had been 
 ately fond 
 off caring 
 le gets be- 
 that pure 
 of satiety, 
 hose fresh 
 1 wakened 
 one with 
 struggles 
 uiple and 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 1G5 
 
 pirfr*TJ^f'^™ '' ^f^ "'-^^" "0 ^0"K for all these 
 gi Is. To stand on yonder platform, to wear those briaht- 
 coloured sashes^^ and mingle their Ws in tuneful har- 
 monies meant or these girls a festival. He Wh of 
 the gnjs he met in society, the girls steeped to the lim 
 
 tne cost ot every entertainment, apprised its value social 
 aiid financial; sneered if the floral decorations at a ball 
 were sparely or badly done; sneered even more con- 
 temptuously when Transatlantic or newly-maX weStK 
 obtruded Itself upon the eye in a too lavish^r^a^Sce 
 gi Is who were gourmets upon leaving the nu^erv and 
 who passed at once from the^chool -room bread anTbut- 
 ter to a nice discrimination in quails, ortolans, and perl 
 &rtL^f "^" ^'"' r'y ^i'^^"g and dan'^h'g 
 ni«"^ Vf^ /T^''^ ^""^^^ °^ ^ London June, all fresh- 
 ness and infantine candour under the tempe^d incan- 
 descent lamps, yet having one eye always steadily directed 
 e^tl^rCnt*:''^^ "'^^ '''''''' husbaLandaLndroSe 
 
 «f lla'^"" ^f 'p'^ philosophised, gazing somewhat dreamilv 
 f ^ f rlV""^ >*'"'' "'^°^ ^" * semi-circle in fronfof 
 tC'b«^ V ' ^^P^^S? ?"^ «^^«^^d t« touch theTof of 
 •!,^^*":.?''^ ^^^ suddenly fastened upon one face in th« 
 middle distance, a delicate and pensive fLefL paler 
 than the majority of those faces, though pallor is theC 
 dominant note in the complexions of^oLon wc ^ 
 That one face, having once been perceived by him shone' 
 out from the mass of fa^es, separate and distinct and 
 held him at gaze. It wa^ the face that had been never 
 totally absent from his mind and fancy since that strafe 
 night m Justin Jermyn's chambers, the face of the S 
 the sewing machine. Line for line it was the ffce he 
 had seen m a vision, distinct in its identity as the Hvin^ 
 
 „.„, .-•j^L.-Q.iii^ ai> LU-uignt. 
 
 sat^ex? him!'"^'''^ "'"'"'^ ^' questioned Lady Jane, who 
 
 ;!,• 
 
 ,v 
 
166 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 * There is a girl in the Chelsea choir, a very lovely girl 
 but with a look of trouble in her face/ he said. ' Do yo J 
 know who she is ? ' ^ 
 
 out\o^^"^2 ^ ^"*^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^*° ^^^ P*^^°* ^®' 
 He counted the rows and the heads, and indicated the 
 exact position of the girl whose face attracted him. 
 
 Do tell me what you know about her/ he said earn-.. 
 
 est'iy, 
 
 T I v®^ ^i**^?- ^^® ^^ ^^^ ^^ ^y parish or in my club. 
 Ibelieve she is a good girl. She lives with her father 
 
 * Who was once a gentleman and a scholar, but who is 
 now nothing but a drunkard,' interrupted Gerard. 
 You know her then ? ' said Lady Jane. 
 ' Is that her history ? ' 
 
 1 u ^^^l ^tI\ ^y^ ^^"^^ ^^^^ ^ a social evening at our 
 club, and I talked to her, but she was very ret-cent, and 
 It is from other girls I have heard the little I know of 
 her story The father was in the church, but disgraced 
 ?Ck y.,^?te«^P^rate habits. The girl who told me 
 this heard it from him, not from his daughter. Hester is 
 a brave, good girl, and bears the burden of her father's 
 vices, and works very hard to keep him from destitution. 
 She 18 a very clever hand at braiding upon cloth. You 
 may have noticed the braided gowns and jackets that 
 have been worn of late years. Hester Dale does that, 
 kind of wc rk for the fashionable tailors.' ' 
 
 ' Is It hand work or done by the sewing-machine ? ' 
 Ihe greater part is machine-woxk. Hester is verv 
 expert-a really exquisite worker by hand or machine-I 
 but It IS a hard life at best. I wish we could do more to 
 brighten it for her. We could give her many little treats 
 and pleas^t excursions in the country if she could onlv 
 
 lorget that she is a gentleman's daimlifAr o^^i ,v.: -A 
 
 our girls upon an equal footing. She would find a goo.^ 
 deal of natural refinement among them, lowly aa their 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 167 
 
 surroundings are. But she does not care to join in any- 
 thing but the singing classes. Music is her only pleasure ' 
 
 ' Is not London a place of terrible temptations for so 
 lovely a girl under such adverse circumstances?' asked 
 Uerard, in the pause that followed the next part-sons 
 by an Eaatend choir. ^' 
 
 'Oh. Hester is not that kind of girl,' answered Lady 
 Jane, quickly ; ' she is too pure-mindod to be approached 
 by any evil influences.' 
 
 Another choir burst into Mendlessohnic melody 'The 
 Maybells and the Flowers,' a melody gay and freF.. as 
 May Itself— and Gerard was ag ,:n constrained to silence 
 but he never took his eyes from the pure oval of that 
 pale, pensive face, with its lovely violet eyes, full of a 
 
 r^^l^ii^^lr''®^^' ^^^^^''' *r"8tful, innocent as the eyes 
 ot a child. Verily, this was a loveliness exempt from the 
 snares and lures that lie in wait for vulgar beauty A 
 girl with such a face as that would not be easily tempted 
 His mmd went back to those two occasions upon wliicli* 
 he had met Hester Davenport. He remembered that au- 
 tumn afternoon at the Rectory, when he went into the 
 drawing-room to bid Lilian good-bye 'nd found a strange 
 young lady sitting with her at the Ui le Japanese table 
 in the bow window— a young lady in a plain alpaca gown 
 and a neat straw hat, and with the loveliest face he had 
 seen for many a long day. He remembered the few words 
 interchanged with the Curate's daughter— the common- 
 place inquiries as to how she liked Stuttgart, and Stutt- 
 gart s ways and manners, and whether she had studied 
 music or painting— and then a hurried adieu, as he ran off 
 to drive to the station. He remembered that other meet- 
 ing by the sea, and a somewhat longer conv-ersation- a 
 little talk about her favourite walks, and her favourite 
 books.^ He recalled the sweet face in its youthful fresh- 
 ness— lau- as the face of the holy bride in Kaffaelles 
 
 bpozahzio — and then he thought of the girls he had 
 known in the smart world, girls who had made magnifi- 
 
16& The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 cent marriages on the Strength of t: beauty less sxauisit," 
 —who were now queens of society, treading upon iIh> 
 pathways strewn with the roses of Hfe-worshrpDed, fete ' 
 royal m their supremacy. 
 
 „.«^ol/^^^'j'^'^ *^^ ""^^Si^^S P'^^^*' tiieentou,a.^e that 
 made all tne difference. This girl might sit at her se-^- 
 mg-machine till her loveliness faded to the pale -badw 
 ot the beauty that has been. 
 
 He h'irdly heard fhe rest of the concert, though the 
 voices were toleral! u>ud. He was in a troubled^ream 
 or a me, which, aftev til, e: vjerned uim very little. What 
 was Hecuba to him, or U to Hecuba ? Yet, in his eager- 
 ne^ to find out moreaxu; Hesier Davenport, he l^de 
 i^aciy Jane a hurried goun-uight in the hall, and put his 
 sister into her carriage to be driven home alone. 
 
 1 am going for a stroll in the moonlight,' he said 
 good night dear. Don't sit up for me. I may go to my 
 club for halt an hour afterwards.' 
 
 It was early yet, not quite ten o'clock, and the younff 
 M:iy moon was shining over the chimneys of Soho a 
 ten.|»tnig night for a walk, and Gerard was given to noc- 
 turnai perambulations, so Lilian hardly wondered at bein<r 
 sent homo alone. ® 
 
 He watched the brougham till it disappeared round a 
 corner, and then watched the doors of the haU till the 
 audience liad all passed out, and melted away into the 
 mhnite space of London; and then he watched the ai.Is 
 who composed the different choirs as they departed, mostly 
 m talkative clusters, full of gaiety after the evening^ 
 amusement Among so many girls, all dressed in much 
 the same fashion, it was not an easy task to single out 
 one— but his eye was keen to distinguish that one girl 
 ^Z^IlT ^^r'^t^*^' as she crossed the street, separating 
 
 fnlW Qu^ ^^'i1' ^^"^ ^^^'^"^ '^^''^^y westward, he 
 
 following. She walked with the nnick, rggolut- p-- -*■ 
 a woman accustomed to thread her way throuLr'the 
 streets of a great city, uncari-^; for the faces that pas ^ 
 
 

 The WotU, ne Flesh, and The Devil, 169 
 
 )j( r by unconscious of observers, intent on her own busi- 
 nesB. selt-eontained, and self-reliant. Gerard HiUersdon 
 followed on the opposite side of the way. waiting for some 
 quieter spot m which he might addross her. They walked 
 
 the shelter of spring foliage, beneath Carlton House ter- 
 va<^e, he overtook and accosted her. 
 
 'Good evening, Miss Davenport.* I hope vou have nnf 
 HZsl'e^hT.-^''"'^ HillerUn, son o^f the rX of 
 
 He stood bareheaded in the faint evening light— l.alf 
 dusk half moonhght-holding o,.t his handVher; bu 
 she did not take tlie extended hand, and she was evi- 
 dently anxious to pass on without any conversation with 
 
 ' No I have not fcrgotten— but I am hurrying home to 
 my father. Good night, Mr. Hillersdon.' 
 
 He would not let her go. 
 
 • Spare me a few minutes—only a few minutes ? ' hp 
 pleaded 'I won't delay your ret^urn. Let r walk by 
 r^T^^ \^.^^ '^'^f ' y^"^ ^^•^ ^"«°«^ I^ilian, is living in 
 J;?ri I'lTJr r"'- ^'' "'"'' ^'"^ *^^° *° seeyouif fou 
 
 fofl^^^ TTi^^^'^T ^^"<^-b"t it is impossible. My 
 father and I have done with the world in which your sis^ 
 
 \rZ\ fu ^'^ 'T"^ "^""^ ^"^^^^' ^"*^n«t unhappily 
 —at least, I have only one trouble and that would be the 
 same, or perhaps worse, if we were living in a palace.' 
 
 Do you think my sister would value or love you less 
 because you are working to maintain your father ? Oh 
 
 f^end ?'^™^'''*'' ^^*'" '*°''^* ^^^ '° °^^^^ °^ 'a° old 
 
 T 3ViJ ^"^ f ""^ ^¥ ^o"ld be as kind as ever~but 
 I would rather not see her. It would rnvA me i^ten^e 
 pain-it would recall past miseries. I hive' tried to Wot 
 out all memory of my past life-to exist only in the 
 present. I get on very well/ with a sad little smile 
 
 '!]} 
 
170 The World, The Flesh, and The Demi. 
 
 ' while I can do that. Please don't make it more difficult 
 for me ? Good night' 
 
 She stopped, and this time it was she who held out her 
 hand in friendly farewelL 
 
 He took the poor little hand, so small, so delicately 
 fashioned, in its shabby cotton glove that had been wash- 
 e<l and neatly darned. He took her hand, and held it 
 gently, but with no intention of accepting his dismissal. 
 
 ' Let me walk home with you ? ' he said, * I have so 
 much to say to you.' 
 
 * I would rather not. I am used to being alone/ 
 
 •A part of the way— at least, just a little way? I 
 want to tell you of all the changes that have happened 
 since you left Helmsleigh,' 
 
 ' They cannot concern me. I tell you again I have done 
 with all that life, I can have no interest in it.' 
 
 * Not even in my sister's fate ? She was your friend.' 
 ' She was, and a very dear friend, but all that is past 
 
 and gone. I want to know nothing about her, except 
 that she is well and happy.' 
 
 'She is both — happier than when you knew her. She 
 is in that exalted condition of happiness which seems 
 common to girls who are engaged to be married — curious 
 when one considers their opportunities of appraising the 
 joys of domestic life in the persons of their fathers and 
 mothers.' 
 
 ' She is engaged,' mused Heater, forgetful at once of 
 her resolve not to be interested, and all a woman in her 
 quick sympathies. * Is the gentleman anyone I knew at 
 Helmsleigh ? ' ^ 
 
 ' No ; he did not come to Helmsleigh until after you 
 left. He succeeded your father as curate ; but he is now 
 in London. He is the Vicar of St. Lawrence's. You 
 may have seen him at Lady Jane's Club/ 
 
 'No: I very seldom go to the club. I give most oi 
 my leisure to my father.' 
 
 ' Mr. Davenport is pretty well, I hope ? ' inquired Ger- 
 
!Ph£ World, The Flesh, and The Devil 171 
 
 atu's!;^ tlfherSr'^^ '^ avoid giving her pain in any 
 'Yes, thank you. He has tolerable health; only— 
 fSfniff"'' "f%»n hiding it from you-there is always 
 the old trouble to fear. It does not come often, but it is 
 a constant fear. 
 
 tatiSTr """^ """'""^ ^ ^^ '^'^^ ^""^^ ""^^ ^ *^^ °^^ *^°^P- 
 
 ihlfr^^'uf' He is very good. He struggles against 
 that dreadful mclmation ; but there are times when it is 
 stronger than himself. He fought a hard battle with 
 himself while we were in Australia-tried to gain his 
 self-r^pect and the respect of his fellow-men. He suc- 
 ceeded m getting profitable employment as a clerk. We 
 were doing quite well; but the evil hour came. He was 
 tempted by toolish friendly people, who laughed at my 
 anxieties about him-and the end was madnefs. He was 
 dismissed from the office where he was a gentleman and 
 a person of importance, with a good salary, and he was 
 glad to drop into a lower form of employment; and he 
 sank and sank to almost the lowest in the city of mX 
 bourne. His friends had ceased to care for him. They 
 called him irretrievable. So then I took the care of his 
 life upon my own shoulders. I had earned a little money 
 by giving lessons m a depot for sewing machines, where 
 1 learnt a good many miprovements in machine work— 
 iniprovements that are not yet common in England— and 
 I had saved just enough to pay our passage home-a 
 steerage passage I brought him home, a sad wreck 
 hopeless, broken down in body and mind, and we found 
 lodgings in Chelsea— very cheap and very humble but 
 clean and wholesome. A distant relation of my father's 
 
 .pays the rent. We have lived there ever JinT I 
 thought at first that I should be able to find pupils for 
 singing, and that my German education wnuld help me 
 
 m that way ; but I found very soon how hopeless thit'is 
 especially when one is Uvi.g in a poor neighborhood and 
 
1 72 The World, The ' i^h, fv.itc The Devil. 
 
 wearing a threadbare ^own, And then I was lucky 
 enough to discover a mantle-maker in Knightsbridge who 
 wanted what ia called a 1 (raiding hand, and as my know- 
 ledge of the latest sewing machine enabled ■^ ■ *■ ""-» this 
 kind of work better than most girls, I cuon got regular 
 employment, and I have been able to make my living 
 ever since.' 
 
 A. poor living; and a hard life, I fear,' said Gerard. 
 
 * Oh, we havo enough. We are just comfortable, father 
 and I, and be is to fond of me and so good to me that 
 I ought to Lu .haukful and happy.' 
 
 ' And have you no recreation, no variety in your exist- 
 ence ? Is it all hard work ? ' 
 
 ' I have the choir prautice. That makes a little change 
 now and then, only I don't like to leave my father too 
 often.' 
 
 ' Does he do nothing ? * 
 
 ' He reads the papers at the free library, and in fine 
 weather he does a little gardening.' 
 
 ' But he does nothing to help you — he earns nothing ? * 
 
 * No, he is past all that. If he could earn money evil 
 would come of it. As it is his pockets nre always empty, 
 poor dear, and he cannot pay for tho dreadful stuff that 
 would madden his brain. Brandy and chlura^ cost money, 
 luckily for him and for me 
 
 ' Will you let Lilian help ^ou? asked uerard. ' We 
 are rich now, ridiculously rich. We hold our wealth in 
 trust tor all who need it. Let ^^ sister do something t^ i 
 make your liie lighter. She shall put a sun of money ! 
 into the Knightsbridge Bank to your credit, open an ac- 
 count for you, and you can draw the money t ^ou want 
 it. She shall do that to-mon-ow. Co'^ider +he thing 
 dene.* 
 
 *Do not dream -^f it, Mr. Hillersdon,' e a >vered, in- 
 di^nantlv. ' I w-.juld never touch a j'^vnenc^ of that 
 money. Do you suppose I would take alms from you or 
 anyone else while I am young and strong, and am able to 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 173 
 
 get regular work V I wonder you can think so poorly of 
 
 me. '■ •' 
 
 ; I wonder you can be so cruel as to refuse my friend- 
 ship-for m refusing my help you deny me the privilege 
 of a friend. It is mere stubbornness to reject a small 
 fbrraTydch ''""''"'"'" ' tell you again we are 
 
 If you were twice as rich as the richest of the Roths- 
 childs 1 would not sacriHce my indeper Vnce If I were 
 penniless and luy father ill that would be different I 
 might asic your sister to help me.' 
 
 'And mast I do nothing to lighten your burden, to 
 soften your hard life ? 
 
 • '{V« "Ota hard life. It is the life of thousands of ffirls 
 m this gi-eat city— girls who are contented with theiHot 
 and ar^ bright and happy. I am luckier than many of 
 them, f( • my work is better paid.' 
 
 ' But J : were not born to this lot ' ' 
 
 'Perhaps -ot ; but I hardly think that makes it any 
 worse to be I have lived the life long enough to be 
 accustome*' to it. s «-« uo 
 
 They weio in E n-square by this time, the lonff and 
 rather dreary square, .nth its tall, barn-like church, which 
 even fashion cannot make beautiful. When they were 
 about half-way between the church and tlie westorn end 
 of the square Heste^r stopped abruptly. 
 
 ' I must beg you to come no farther,' she sail, and there 
 was a reso ute look in her pale proud face in the licrht of 
 the street lamp that told him he must obey 
 
 1 '?Tu "'^^?' *^®°'' ^® '^i^' moodily. 'You will at 
 least tell me where you live ? ' 
 
 ' No ; there would be nothing gained. My father and 
 I only ask to be forgotten.' 
 
 She hurried away from him. and he sto(„l ih^ra 5n 
 moonlight and gaslight, in the dull level square thii. dni 
 now strange lire is. ^ 
 
 Should he follow her and find ou^ where she lived ? 
 
174 T7i£ World, The, Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 No; that would be a base and vulgar act, atil he might 
 find her address without that saciifice of self respect and 
 risk of her contempt. He could find out at the club, of 
 whose choir she was a member. She fancied herself safely 
 hidden under her ansuraed name, no doubt ; but he had 
 heard that alias from Lady Jane, and it would be easy 
 enough to find out the dwelling-place of Hester Dale. 
 
 He walked home melancholy, and yet elated. He was 
 glad to have f jund her. It seemed as if a new life were 
 beginning for him that night. 
 
 He did not go to any of the clubs which invite the 
 footsteps of youth betwixt midnight and morning. Danc- 
 ing tempted him not, neither music nor cards. He was 
 out of tune with all such common amusements, and the 
 commonplace emotions which they produce. He felt as 
 Endymion felt after the mystery of the cavern ; felt as if 
 in that walk in the dim evening shadows and in 
 the bright moonlight he had been in another world, and 
 now was back in the old world again, and found it pass- 
 ing dull. 
 
 All was silent in his house when he went in, but 
 through an open window in the lofty hall a chilling wind 
 crept in and stirred the palm leaves, and awakened weird 
 harmonies in an iEolian harp that hung near the case- 
 ment. His favorite reading lamp was burning on the 
 Chippendale table in his study, that room which owed its 
 existence to Justin Jermyn's taste rather than his own, 
 and was yet in all things as his own taste would have 
 chosen. 
 
 The one discreet footman who was waiting up for him 
 received his orders and retired, and as his footsteps slowly 
 died away in the corridor, Gerard Hillersdon felt the 
 oppression of an intolerable solitude. 
 
 There were letters on a side table. Of all the numerous 
 deliveries in the Western district none ever failed to 
 bring a heap of letters for the millionaire — invitations, 
 letters of introduction, begging letters, circulars, prosfiec- 
 
Tlie World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 175 
 
 tuses of every imaginable mod.; and manner of scheme 
 enorendered in tlio wild dream of the sp. culator. He 
 only glanced at these things, and then flung them into a 
 buskot which liia secretary cleared every morning. His 
 secretary replied to the invitations; he had neatly en- 
 graved cards expressive of every phase of circumstances 
 —the pleasure in acceptini,'— the honor of dining— the 
 re^efc that a prior engagement— and all the rest. The 
 chief thmg which money had done for Gerard Hillersdon 
 was to lessen -the labour of life—to shunt all his burdens 
 upon other shoulders. 
 
 This is what wealth can do. If it cannot always buy 
 happmess, it can generally buy ease. It seems a hard 
 thing to the millionaire that he must endure his own 
 gout, and that he cannot hire someone to get up early in 
 the morning for him. 
 
 ^ Among all the letters which had accumulated since six 
 clock, there was only one that had interested him a 
 long letter from Edith Champion, who had the feminine 
 passion for writing lengthily to the man she loved, albeit 
 of late he had rarely replied in anymore impassioned 
 lorm than a telegram. 
 
 'It is so much nicer to talk,' he told her when she re- 
 proached hira, 'and there is nothing to prevent our meet- 
 
 ing. 
 
 •But there is. There are whole days on which we don't 
 meet — my Finchley days.' 
 
 True But then we are so fresh to each other the day 
 
 after. Why discount our emotions by writing about them ? 
 
 I love to get your letters, all the same,' he added, kind'y 
 
 Your pen is so eloquent.' * 
 
 ; I can say more with my pen thai I ever dare to say 
 
 with my hps, she answered. 
 
 Her Iftttfir fr»-nifli'V>'"- \xrQa rrvn<Tf^~J.T^ ,, i 
 
 1 Jiave been at Finchley all day— such a trying day 
 1 think the end is coming— at last, the doctors have told 
 we thejr do not give him much longer. I cannot say I 
 
176 2%e World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 fear he is dying, since you know that his death will mean 
 the beginning of a new life for me, with all the hope and 
 gladness of my girlhood ; and yet my mind is full of fear 
 when I think of him and of you, and of what my life has 
 been for the last three years. I do not think I have 
 failed in any duty to him. I know that I have never 
 thwarted him, that I have studied his wishes in the ar- 
 rangement of our lives, have never complained of the dull 
 people he brought about me, or refused to send a card to 
 any of his city friends. If he had objected to your 
 visits I should have given up your acquaintance. 1 have 
 never disobeyed him. But he liked to see you in his house; 
 he never felt the faintest pang of jealousy, though he 
 must have known that you were more to me than any 
 common friend. I have done my duty, Gerard; and 
 yet I feel myself disgraced somehow by these three years 
 of my married life. I was sold like a slave in the mar- 
 ket-place, and though such bargains are the fashion now- 
 adays, and everybody approves of the market and the 
 barter, yet a woman who has consented to be bought by 
 the highest bidder, cannot feel very proud of herself in 
 after life. It is nearly over, Gerard, and by and by you 
 must teach me to forget. You must give me back my 
 girlhood. You can, and you only. There is no one else 
 who can — no one — no one.' 
 
 He sat brooding with that letter open before him. Yes, 
 he was bound as fa&t as ever man was bound — bound by 
 every obligation that could constrain an honest man. Con- 
 science, feeling, honour alike constrained him. This was 
 the woman to whom he gave his heart four years ago, in 
 the bright morniug of a young man's life — in that on© 
 bright year of youth when all pleasures, hopes, and fan- 
 cies are new and vivid, and when the feet that tread this 
 workaday earth move as lightly as if they were shod like 
 Mercury's. What a happy year it had been ! What a 
 bright, laughing love I Though he might look back now 
 and sneer at hiq first love as commonplace and conven- 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 177 
 tional he could but remember how sunny the world had 
 
 in twT. ^'^t'r ^r'' ^^^^^ ^^^« ^i« enjoymrnt of Hfe 
 Yes tLf bǤ^.'^''' days before he had learnt to think ! 
 Ik J' ? ^^^ *^^ ^'^^^"^ «^ existence-he had lived 
 
 to ?nr^\ ^u T'^ ^'y *« ^^^ ^ *he present now 
 -to look neither backward nor forward-to enjoy as the 
 buUerflies enjov-without memory, without foS. 
 
 i! '"^lgr'° — <^t^e dismal centenarian in the bric-a-brac 
 
 drS;. loTr rl'i'^'^^^ l^^^ «■ death's head the 
 dreary Stoic who had existed for a hundred years and 
 
 fort hfrn^'T ^Tr' ^' }''^ '^' °^^^^ «" ^^^ <^ble be- 
 h[n],vr~ •'^'^''i ^^ ^"^^' "«hl3^ illustrated, with 
 
 duplicate engravings here and there on India paper. The 
 sto.y had a curious fascination for him, and ho could not 
 nd himself of the idea that the consumptive ValS 
 was his own prototype In a curious fanciful indulgence 
 of this grim notion, he had nailed a large sheet of draw! 
 ing paper on the panelled wall that faced his writing-tabTe 
 He had no enchanted skin to nail on the white mner to 
 mdica;^ by its gradual contraction the wSTh s 
 IZlfj"'^' ^^"fJ^^°^ ^''^ ^^^^^^^5 but he^adin! 
 vi^^mJV'''^'fJ\^^l^'''^ ^'' ^<^r^"gth and nervine 
 vitality, Upon the elephantine sheet he had drawn with 
 a bold anj rapid pen the irregular outline of an imaginary 
 
 htf wtf"M^^ *'"^ ''"^^ *« ^^"^^ ^' ^^^ drawSo^ 
 
 form Tn ?1 *^'! ^^"^^^""' ^^T^^« ^«"«^i°g the original 
 toim. In the steadiness and force of the line his pen 
 
 rnade he saw an indication of the steadiness of his nerves 
 
 ^ tTe S line^X^^r- ' ^^^^ ^^^ 
 
 To-night after a long interval of melancholy thought 
 
 he rose suddenlv. diVmoH o K-^o^ -,:vk- j • "V """"»"''' 
 
 • 1 , •' ', "rr — •■' '-"^^cvM-niDDuu pun iiito a cana- 
 
 ZZli^Kr^^f, with slow „«eertam L„d traco'fhe 
 saiti luie-traccd it with a hand so tremulous that this 
 
178 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 last line differed more markedly from the line immedi- 
 ately before it than the fifth line differed from the fiist 
 bold outline. Yet between the first and the fifth line 
 there had been an interval of nearly six months, while 
 between the fifth and the sixth the interval was but 
 three days. 
 
 The element of passion with all its fever of hope and 
 expectancy, had newly entered into his life. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " OUT WENT MY HEART'S NEW FIRE, AND LEFT IT COLD." 
 
 |ERARD HILLERSDON and Mrs. Champion 
 met but rarely during the month of May. 
 Doomed men are apt to linger beyond the 
 hopes or anticipations of their medical atten- 
 dants, and the famous physician from Caven- 
 dish square continued his bi-weekly visits through 
 all the bright long sunny days, given over to the 
 perpetual pursuit of pleasure— a chase from which 
 Miu Champion's handsome face and form were missing. 
 Other figures there were as perfect, other faces as famous 
 ^?lu r^ charms ; and it was only once in a way that one 
 ot the butterflies noted the absence of that Queen butter- 
 fly ; it was only once in a way that friendship murmured 
 with a sigh, 'Poor Mrs. Champion, mewed up with an 
 invalid husband all through this lovely season I ' 
 
 Edith Champion gave the fading life her uttermost 
 devotion. She had a keen sense of honour, after all— 
 
 this Wlffi WrTin liorj rrn-na n-n l^,.i»,~ V iJ.._i. 1 _ii 
 
 through her married life. She had a more sensitive con- 
 science than her world would have readily believed, SUq 
 
 ^he 
 
while 
 IS but 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 179 
 
 wanted to do her duty to the dying husband, so that she 
 might surrender herself heart and mind to a new life of 
 gladness when he should be at peace, and yet feel no sting 
 of remorse, and yet have no dark, overshadowing memor? 
 to steal across her sunlight. ^ 
 
 With this laudable desire, she spent the greater part of 
 her life at Fiochley, where she had taken a villa near the 
 doctors house so as to be within call bv day or night. 
 
 ^^ITn^^^ I'^'f ?^"* ^" ^"^^^« ^^d acquaintances 
 except Gerard Hillersdon, and even him she saw only two 
 or three times a week, driving into London and taking 
 tea m the cool Hertford- street drawing-room, with her 
 nerves always somewhat strained in the dread of some 
 urgent telegram that should call her back to her duties. 
 
 Ihe <^nd may come at any moment,' she said. ' It 
 would be dreadful if I were absent at the last' 
 
 Gerard^^'^ ^^"^^ '* ^^"^^^ '"^^"^' "'^'^*^^— <^o him ? ' asked 
 
 hnlV?^^^!.'? "^7^*^ ?^ '^'^^y addresses me by name, 
 but I think he always knows me. He will take tilings 
 from my hand-food or medicine— which he will not taSe 
 from his nurses They tell me he is much more restless 
 when I am not there. I can do very little for him : but 
 if I can make him just a shade easier and calmer by sit- 
 ting at his bedside it is my duty to be there. I feel that 
 It is wrong even to be away for a couple of hours this 
 afternoon-but if 1 did not leave him and that dreary 
 dreary house once in a way I think my brain would go 
 as his has gone. t>" 
 
 * Is the house so very dreadful ? * 
 
 ' Dreadful no It is a charming house, well -furnished, 
 the very pink of neatness, in the midst of a delightful old 
 garden It is what one knows about it— the troubled 
 minds that have worn themselves out in those nrim 
 oraeriy room., ih^ sleepless eyes that have stared at those 
 bright pretty wall-papers, the agonies and wild delusions, 
 the attempted suicides, the lingering deaths ! When I 
 
180 Tfie World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 lixhink of all these things the silence of the house seems 
 intolerable, the ticking of the clock a slow torture. But 
 you will teach me to forget all that by and by, Gerard : 
 You will teach me to forget, won't you i' 
 
 That was the only allusion she had ever made of late 
 to the near future. It was forgetfulness she yearned for, 
 as the chief boon the future could bestow. 
 
 * You cannot think how long this summer has seemed 
 to me,* she said. ' I hope I am not impatient, that I 
 would not hasten the end by a single day — but the days 
 and the hours are terribly long.' 
 
 Half an hour was the utmost respite that Mrs. Cham- 
 pion allowed herself in that cool perfumed room, t§te-a-tSte 
 with her first lover, surrounded with all the old frivolities, 
 the dainty tea-table, with tiny sandwiches, aud heaped up 
 fruit, the automatic Japanese fan, mounted on a bamboo 
 stand, set in motion with the slightest touch, the new 
 books and magaz;ines scattered about, to be carried off in 
 her Victoria presently, poor solace of wakeful nights. 
 Only half an hour of converse with the man she loved, 
 broken into very often by some officious caller, who saw 
 her carriage at the door, and insisted upon being let in. 
 
 It seemed to her now and then that Gerard was some- 
 what absent and restrained during these brief t^te-4-t6tes, 
 but she attributed bis languid manner to the depressing 
 nature of all she had to tell him. Her own low spirits 
 communicated themselves to him. 
 
 ' We are so thoroughly in sympathy,' she told herself. 
 
 He left her one afternoon late in June, and instead of 
 going into the Park where the triple rank of carriages by 
 the Achillea statue offered a bouquet of high-bred beauty, 
 and the latest triumphs of court dressmakers to the eye 
 of the lounger, he walked past the Alexandra Hotel and 
 dit)pped into Sloane-stieet, an<l thence to Chelsea. His 
 feet had taken him in that direction very often of_late. 
 
 He had founl no difficulty in discovering Hesters 
 dwelling place, for on his way to the St. Cecilia Club hQ 
 
 
 :ii ! 
 
36 seems 
 
 re. But 
 
 Gerard : 
 
 ) of late 
 med for, 
 
 s seemed 
 t, that I 
 the days 
 
 i. Cham- 
 gte-a-t^te 
 •ivolities, 
 eaped up 
 bamboo 
 the new 
 ed off in 
 I nights. 
 he loved, 
 who saw 
 • let in. 
 'as some- 
 e-4-t6tes, 
 ^pressing 
 w spirits 
 
 herself, 
 istead of 
 riages by 
 i beauty, 
 I the eye 
 otel and 
 lea. His 
 of late. 
 Hester's 
 Club hQ 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 181 
 
 had stumbled against old Davenport, boUle-nosed, shabby, 
 but wearing clean linen, carefully brushed clothes, and 
 with a. certain survival of his old Oxford manner. 
 
 Neither drunken habits nor dark vicissitudes had im- 
 paired the old man's memory. Hie recognized Hillersdon 
 at a glance, and cordially returned his greeting. 
 
 ' Wonderful changes have come about since we saw 
 each other in Devonshire, Mr. Hillersdon,' he said. ' I 
 ; ave gone very low down the ladder of Fortune, and you 
 have gone very high up. I congratulate you upon your 
 good luck — not undeserved, certainly not. It was a brave 
 deed, my dear young friead, and merited a handsome re- 
 ward. I read the story in the newsj^apers.' 
 
 ' A much exaggerated version of the truth, no doubt. 
 I'll walk your way, if you please, Mr. Davenport, I should 
 like to hear how the world has used you.' 
 
 'Scurvily, sir, very scurvily; but perhaps no worse 
 than I deserved. You remember what Hamlet says: 
 "Use every man after his desert; and who shall 'scape 
 whipping ? " I don't like to take you ouf. of your way, 
 Mr. Hillersdon.' 
 
 * My way is no way. I was only strolling with no 
 settled purpose.' 
 
 They were on the Chelsea embankment, where the old 
 houses of Cheyne Walk still recall the old-world quiet of 
 a day that is dead, while the Suspension Bridge and Bat- 
 tersea Park tell of an age that means change and pro- 
 gress. 
 
 ' You like old Chelsea and its associations,' said Daven- 
 port. 
 
 ' Very much. I remember the place when I was a boy, 
 and I recognize improvement e\ --ry where ; but I grieve 
 over the lost landmarks, Dcu ^..Itfio, the old narrow 
 Cheyne Walk, the sober sljab'.iner>H — ' 
 
 •There are older things that I ren.ember — in the days 
 when ray people lived, in Lowutius square, and I used to 
 come fresh from BalHoi to Uke my till of pleast?re in the 
 
182 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 London season. M^*- father was a prosperous Q.C., a man 
 employed in all the great cases where intellect and oratory 
 were wanted. He was earning a fine income— though 
 not half as much as your famous silk-gowns earn nowa- 
 days—and he spent as fast as he earned. He had a larae 
 family and was very liberal to his children— and when 
 he .iied, in the prime of life, he left his widow and family 
 the fag-end of a lease, a suite of Louis Quatorze furni- 
 ture, already out of fashion, a choice collection of Wedge- 
 wood, and a few Prouts, Tophams, Hunts, and Duncans. 
 He had put away nothing out of the big fees that had 
 been pouring in for the last fifteen years of his life. He 
 used to talk about beginning tt) save next year, but that 
 next year never came. The sale of the lease and furni- 
 ture made a little fund for my mother and three unmar- 
 ried daughters. For me and my brothers the world was 
 our oyster — to be opened as best we might.' 
 ' You had scholarships to help you.' 
 * Yes, Greek and Latin were my only stock in trade. A 
 fiiend of my father's gave me a small living within a 
 couple of years of my entering priest's orders, and on 
 the strength of that I married, and took private pupils. 
 I lost my wife when Hetty was only twelve years old, 
 but things had begun to go wrong before then. My sec- 
 ond living was in a low district, village and vicarage on 
 clay soil, too many trees, and no drainage. The devil's 
 tooth of neuralgia fastened itself upon me, body and 
 bones, and my life for some years was a perpetual fight 
 with pain— like Paul I fought with beasts— invisible 
 beasts — that gnawed into my soul. Here is my poor 
 little domicile. I hardly knew we had walked so far.' 
 
 He had taken his homeward way automatically, while 
 Gerard walked beside him, throu(?h .shabby streets of tho^e 
 small semi-detached houses which the builder has devised 
 for needy gentility and prosperous labour— here the heal- 
 thy mechanic with five andthirfcv shilliho'SR wft^k oordii^ 
 roy trousers and shirt sleeves ; there the sickly clerk, with 
 
C, a man 
 d oratory 
 —though 
 n nowa- 
 d a larore 
 nd when 
 id family 
 56 furni- 
 : Wedge- 
 3uncans. 
 ^hat had 
 ife. He 
 but that 
 id furni- 
 ! unmar- 
 Drld was 
 
 Tade. A 
 vithin a 
 
 and on 
 1 pupils, 
 ars old, 
 My sec- 
 rage on 
 i devil's 
 )d7 and 
 lal fight 
 nvisible 
 ly poor 
 ) far.* 
 J, while 
 of thoae 
 
 devised 
 he heal- 
 :, cord!i= 
 irk, with 
 
 The VTorU, The Flesh and The Devil l89 
 
 a weekly guinea and a thread-bare alpaca coat. Here clean 
 and shinmg windows and flower boxes, there dirt and 
 siatternliness, broken bottles, and weeds^n the tiny fore- 
 
 n^' '^^'f"^ ^^\ ^"1"*^°^ ^° ^^« °io«t hideous aspect. 
 Uerard had marked the shabbiness of the neiffhbourhood 
 
 should find his Ariadne though her hand would never 
 have furnished him with the clue. 
 
 The house before which Mr. Davenport stopped was no 
 better then the other houses which they had^passed but 
 
 w«l f n / ^'r ""^^Z ^^ ^^ shabbiness, the foredourt 
 WM full of stocks and carnations, and a row of Mary 
 lilies marked the boundary rail which divided this tiny 
 enclosure from the adjacent patch. The window panes 
 shone bright and clear, and the window box was a hano- 
 ing garden of ivy-leafed geranium, yellow margueritel 
 and mignonette. ® ^^i^-co, 
 
 ' What a pretty little garden,' exclaimed Gerard 
 
 crrnnn!?' *^?J^f ^ ^ ^^^J "^^^y Ao^ers for such a scrap of 
 
 " wi ^ ^^v,^??. \ ^'^ ^f^ ^<^°^ «f 0"^ garden 
 -we ve a goodish bit of ground at the back. It's about 
 the onlj. thing we can take any pride in with such sur- 
 roundings as ours.' 
 
 And then, lingering at the gate, as Gerard lingered, the 
 old man asked — * 
 
 'Will you come in and rest after your walk ? I can 
 give you a lemon squash.' 
 
 'That's a tempting oflfer upon one of the hottest after- 
 noons we have had this year. Yes, I shall be glad to sit 
 down for half an hour, if you are sure I shan't be in your 
 
 ' I shall be very glad of your company. I get plentv 
 of solitude when Hetty is out on W long tram^M 
 Kmghtsbridge. She often passes the house in which he. 
 grandfather used to eiitertain some of the best peor.le iti 
 
 London — a worlc-mrl «M*1, n K—^^l- -■■ ■• " K I "^ ^" 
 
 Hard, ain't it r~ °"' ""'^ ^^^' ""''^' ''''' '''"^' 
 
i84 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 He opened the door aud admitted his visitor into a 
 passage fourteen/eet by two feet six, out of which opened 
 the front parlour and general living room, a small room, 
 nearly square, and with a little stunted cupboard on each 
 side of the fire-place Gerard looked about him with 
 greedy eyes, noting every detail. 
 
 The furniture was of the commonest, a pembroke table, 
 half a dozen cane-bottomed chairs, a sofa, such as can 
 only be found in lodging-house parlours ; but there were 
 a few things which gave individuality to the room, and 
 in somewise redeemed its sordid shabbiness. Fronting 
 the window stood a capacious arm chair, covered with 
 apple blossom chintz ; the ugly sofa was draped with soft 
 Japanese muslin ; a cheap paper screen of cool colouring 
 broke the ugly outline of the folding doors, and a few 
 little bits of old china and a row of books gave meaning 
 to the wooden slabs at the top of the dwarf cupboards. 
 
 There was a bowl of flowers on the table, vivid yellow 
 corncockles, which brightened the room like a patch of 
 sunlight. 
 
 • Try that easy chair/ said Davenport, ' it's uncommonly 
 comfortable.' 
 
 * Thanks, no,' seating himself near the window, * this 
 will do very nicely. That's your chair, I know.' 
 
 ' It is,' sighed the old man sinking into its cushioned 
 depths. * It was Hetty's present on my last birthday. 
 Poor child, she worked extra hard to save enough money 
 to buy this chair from a broker in the King's Road. It 
 was a shabby old chair when I first saw it — but I was 
 caught by the comfortable shape — and I told my poor 
 girl I'd seen a second-hand chair that looked the picture 
 of comfort. She didn't seem to take much notice of what 
 I said, and the next time I passed the dealer's yard — 
 where the chair used to stand in the open air amongst a 
 lot of other things — it was gone, I told Hetty it had 
 disappeared. ' Sold, I supjiose,* said she, * what a pity I ' 
 And nearly a year afterwards, on my birthday, the chair 
 
Ths World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 186 
 
 was brought in, freshly covered, as you see it. My poor 
 girl had been paying for it by degrees,, a shilling or two 
 at a time, ever since I mentioned it to her. How proud 
 and happy we both were that day, in spite of our poverty 
 I remembered when I was at the University my brothers 
 and sisters and I clubbed together to buy a silver tea 
 kettle for my mother on her silver-wedding day— and it 
 only resulted in general mortification. She waa sorry 
 we had spent our money— and she didn't like the shape 
 ot the kettle. It was half covered with a long inscrip- 
 tion, so we couldn't change it, and I know two of my 
 sistera were in tears about it before the day was over. 
 But I must make you that lemon squash— nunc est 
 bibendum. Perhaps, though, you'd prefer a John Col- 
 lins ? with a curiously interrogative look. ' There isn't 
 any gm in the house, but I could send for a bottle, if you 
 
 I much prefer the unsophisticated lemon; thou ah I 
 envy a city waiter the facility with which he made his 
 
 name a part of the convivial vocabulary. Falstaflf could 
 not have done more.' 
 
 Mr. Davenport opened one of the dwarf cupboards and 
 produced tumblers, lemons, and pounded sugar. Then he 
 went out of the room, and reappeared in a few minutes 
 with a jug of fresh water. His narrow means did not 
 permit the luxury of a syphon. He concocted the two 
 ^i.usdes of lemonade carefully and deliberately, Ger^-rd 
 Hiliersdon watching him all the time in a melancholv 
 revene; but the image that fiUed his mind was th.ot of 
 the absent daughter, not the form of the father bodilv 
 present to his eye. ' '^ 
 
 He was thinking of yonder easy chair, paid for in soli- 
 tary shillings, the narrow margin left from the bare 
 necessities of daily life. He thought of that refined and 
 delicate tace. that slender, fraoilft Vnvm favf^,. fl^^u.^aJ- 
 for lite 8 common uses-thought of her daily deprivations, 
 ner toilsome walks, her wearisome monotonous work. 
 
186 The World, The Flesh, and The Demi. 
 
 Yea, there was the modem wheel upon which feminine 
 poverty is racked — the sewing machine. It stood in front 
 of the window by which he was sitting. She had covered 
 it with a piece of art muslin, giving an air of prettinesa 
 even to the instrument of her toil. A pair of delf candle- 
 sticks stood on a little table near the machine, with the 
 candles burnt low in the sockets. She had been working 
 late last night, perhaps. It maddened him to think that 
 out of all his wealth he could do nothing to help her — 
 she would take nothing out of his superabundance. If 
 he were to heed the appeals of all the strangers who 
 wrote to him — pouring out their domestic secrets, their 
 needs and troubles, in eight-page letters, h* might give 
 away every penny of his income — but this one woman, 
 whom he yearned to help, wbuld take nothing. This was 
 Fate's sharpest irony. He sipped his lemonade and dis- 
 cussed the political situation ^^th Mr. Davenport, whose 
 chief occupation was to rep ! the papers at the Free 
 Library, and who was an ; itit politician. He lingered 
 in the hope of seeing H !-; '}ifore he left. 
 
 It was nearly four o'clack, and the June afternoon had 
 a drowsy warmth which was fast beguiling old Nicholas 
 Davenport into slumber. His words were coming very 
 slowly, and he gradually sank into a blissful silence, and 
 was off upon that rapid dream- journey which takes the 
 sleeper into a new world in an instant — plunges him 
 among people that moment invented whom he seems to 
 have known all his life. 
 
 A bee was humming amongst the sweet-scented stocks, 
 and a town butterfly was fluttering about the mignonette. 
 A hawker's cry in the next street came with a musical 
 sound, as if the hawker had been some monotonous bird 
 with a song of only three notes. Still Gerard lingered, 
 hoping that the old man would wake presently and re- 
 sume the conversation. He was in despair at the idea of 
 leaving without seeing Hester. 
 
 He wanted io see that delicately-modelled face — -the 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 187 
 
 face in the Sposalizio— in the daylight. He wanted to 
 be her friend, if she would lot him. What harm would 
 there be m such a friendship ? They were too complete- 
 ly severed by the iron wall of circumstances ever to be- 
 come lovers. But friends they might be— friends for 
 mutual help and comfort. He could share with b 'le 
 good thini?s of this life. She could spiritualize hi er 
 
 nature by the influence of that child-like purity which 
 set her apart from the common world. 
 
 He he. d a light footstep and then the click of a latch. 
 She was at the gate, she was coming in, a slim and grace- 
 ful figure in a light r-ambric gown, and a sailor hat, such 
 a neat little white straw hat, which cast pearly shadows 
 on the exquisite cheek and chin, and darkened' the violet 
 eyes. 
 
 She started and blushed crimson on seeing him, and 
 oast a despairingly reproachful look at her father who 
 had risen confusedly in the midst of a dream. Gerard 
 had risen a;^ she entered, and stood facing her. 
 
 'Don't b. angry with your father or with me, Miss 
 Davenport. We happened to meet each other an hour 
 ago on the Embankment, and I walked home with him. 
 And now that I am admittnd to your home you will let 
 me bring my sister, I hope. She will be glad to renew 
 her friendship with you. Do not hold her at arm's 
 length even if you shut your door against me. You 
 know how sympathetic she is.' 
 
 Hester did not answer him for a minute or so. She 
 sank into a chair, and t( !c of the neat little sailor hat, 
 and passed her hand across her brow, raoothing the soft 
 rippling hair which shadowed the low, broad forehead, 
 felie looked tired and harassed, almost too weary for 
 speech, and at last, when speech came, there was a lan- 
 guor in her tone, an accent as of one who submits to fate. 
 , I ...,._, „^ua, juui Biatui vvuo always 
 
 good and sweet. She was very kind to me ■ some of my 
 happiegt hours were spent with her. B it tiiat is all past 
 

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188 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 and done with. It is hardly kind of you to ask me to 
 
 remember * 
 
 * I don't want you to remember the old life. I only 
 want you to open your heart to an old friend, who will 
 help to make your present life happier. Lilian may come, 
 may she not ? I can see you mean yes.' 
 
 ' How can I say no, when you are so eager to do me a 
 kindness V and then she glanced at the old man piteous- 
 ly. * If father does not mind a face that will recall his 
 residence at Helmsleigh and all he sufiered there.' 
 
 'No,, no, Hetty, I don't mind. I have suffered too 
 much, and in too many places, since the Pain-devil stuck 
 his claws into me. If the people who blame me — who 
 talk of me as a drunken old dotard — could suffer an hour 
 of the agony I have suffered off and on for months at a 
 stretch, they would be a little more charitable in their 
 judgments. I am not blaming your father, Mr. Hillers- 
 don ; he was very good to me. He bore with me as long 
 as he could, till at last I disgraced myself. It was a ter- 
 rible scandal ; no man could bear up against it. I felt 
 after that night all was over.' 
 * Don't, father, don't speak of it.' 
 ' I must, Hetty. I want to tell Mr. Hillersdon all that 
 you have been to me — what a heroine, what a martyr ! ' 
 'Nonsense, father! I have only done what other 
 daughters are doing all the world over. And thank God 
 you are better now ! You have had very little of the old 
 pain for the last two years. You are stronger and better 
 living as you do now, than when — when you were less 
 careful. Your, neuralgia will never come back, I hope.' 
 
 ' If Miss Hillersdon dosen't mind visiting us in this 
 shabby lodging, we shall be very pleased to see her,' said 
 Mr. Davenport, brushing away a remorseful tear. 'It 
 cuts me to the heart that my poor girl has not a friend in 
 the world, except Lady Jane Twyford.' 
 
 His request being granted, Gerard had no excuse for 
 delaying his departure. He ottered his hand to Hester 
 
The World, 'Hie Flesh, and m Devil 189 
 
 as J.o sai.J good-bye, and when her slender iinc^ers touch- 
 ecUus own, his cheek and bro.v Hushed as if a wavrof 
 fire had passed over his face, and his eyes grew dim onlv 
 
 visirarrA ""VY ""'^y ."^^^ ^^^ nfver ctded hi^ 
 vision at the touch of any other woman-not even Edith 
 Champion, to whom he had aiven the devot on of vea 
 
 shahhr^^f ''^' ^'"^i"^ ^^^^^^*V as he walkenJnVthe 
 shabby street, past gardens that were full of summer 
 flowers, and forecourts that were no better than ruS 
 heaps, past squalid indigence and struggling pov^rtv It 
 was not unh^ he pulled up under the shadowT^hf iree 
 n Cheyno Walk that the sense of a great joy or a great 
 
 H^ L«?Tv* " "^f ^' ^""^ ^' ^^^^ ^bie to think cafZ 
 He seated himself on a bench near the river, and waii 
 ed^tiU his quickened pulses beat in a more tranquU mea- 
 
 adtitZTp \2^:!l' "^"**«^^^- ' Why should her beauty 
 tf dav wn^ • ';t, ^ ^"-^^ '""^ ^^^"^'^"1 ^o"^en before 
 and woTn lT'?i -^ ^^^ ^'"^^^ ^^ *^^ir beauty, not pallid 
 
 , wife IS handsomer, and m a grander style of beautv And 
 yet because this one is forbidden fruit every nSvet 
 strained, every pulse is racing. 1 am a fool, and the wors 
 of fools, remembering what old Dr. South told me Is 
 this sparing myself, is this husbanding my resourceT?' To 
 be so moved by such a trivial scene--not to be able to 
 LXak'r*'"' '''' ^^^^^^^ ^-^ «hakei'aX an 
 
 «plVr'r^^^'''^>^1^^°^ "P°^ ^'^ writing table, the 
 fafcTnat^on forS ^* '^°'^ Z^'t^ ^'^^ an "irresistible 
 mlnv « nfif • ?' f ^'^ P^^^ ^^^^i^h ^e had hung over 
 many a night in his hours of lonely thought How vain 
 
 li?e' in'whi^h tSf '. -^Irr^ '^ ^-^ *^^ P-^-TeS 
 lire in which the oil m the lamp burns slowlv Rut h« 
 
 hoped to prove himself wiser than Bnl^a'^vTl-f-t'^d hrr. 
 
 He. too, had planned for himself a^S;^^;! from 
 
 all strong emotions. In his life of milliona re anrmlnTf 
 
190 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 fashions there were to be no agitations. He looked for - 
 ward to a future union witji Edith as a haven of rest. 
 Married to a woman whom he had loved long enough to 
 take love for granted, a woman whose fidelity had been 
 tested by time, whose constancy he need never doubt, for 
 him life would glide softly onward with measured, easy 
 pace to sober middle age., and even to the grey dignity of 
 wealthy and honoured age. But he, like Valentine, had 
 been warned against the drama and passion of life. He was 
 to. be, not to act or to suffer. 
 
 And for a mere transient fancy, the charm of a pensive 
 countenance, the romance of patient poverty, he had let 
 his veins run liquid fire, his heart beat furiously. He 
 was ashamed of his own inconsistency; and presently 
 seeing a hansom sauntering along under the trees with a 
 horse that looked a good mover, he hailed tlie man and 
 asked if his horse were fresh enough to drive as far 
 as Finchley. Naturally the reply was yes, and in the 
 next minute he was being carried swiftly through the 
 summer dust with his face to the north. 
 
 He had often meditated this drive to the northern sub- 
 urb with his own horses, and then it had seemed to ' '. 
 that to approach the house in which Mrs. Champicr ; 
 lengthening out tho lees of life would be an error in taste, 
 although he and the dying man had been upon the friend- 
 liest terms since Edith's marriage. This afternoon he felt 
 a curious eagerness to see the woman to whom he had 
 bound himself, a feverish anxiety which subjugated all 
 scruples. 
 
 He drove to the house Mrs. Champion had hired for 
 herself, a small villa, in a well kept garden. It was pjist 
 eight when he rang the bell, and the lawn and fiower 
 berls were golden in the sunset He expected to find 
 Edith Champion at dinner, and had made up his mind to 
 dine with her, t^te-a-t^te perhaps, for the first time in 
 their lives. 
 
 Dinner was out of the question, for the present at any 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 191 
 
 rate. One of the match footmen whose faces he knew in 
 Hertford-street came strolling in a leisurely way across 
 the lawn, pipe in mouth, to answer the bell, suddenly 
 I ooketed his pipe and changed his bearing on recogniz- 
 ing Mr. Hiliersdon, and informed him that Mrs. Champion 
 was at Kendal House, and that Mr. Champion was very 
 
 * Worse than usual do you suppose ? ' asked Gerard. 
 
 ' I'm afraid so, sir. Mrs. Champion came home at half- 
 past seven, but a messenger came for her while she was 
 dressing for dinner, and she just put on her cloak, and 
 ran across the road without even a hat. I'm afraid its 
 the hend.' 
 
 * Which is Kendal House ? ' 
 
 * I'll show you, sir.' 
 
 The foctman stalked out into the road with that slow 
 and solemn stalk which is taught to footmen, and which is 
 perhaps an element in the trade-unionism of domestic 
 service— a studied s^wness of movement in all things 
 lest perchance one footman should at any time do the 
 work of two. Mrs. Champion's footman was a person of 
 highest quahoy, and was even now oppressed with a 
 sense of resentment at having to perform his duties sinr^lc- 
 handed at Finchley, while his fellow lacquey was leading 
 a life of luxurious idleness in Hertford-street. 
 
 He pointed out a carriage entrance in a wall a little 
 furtner up the road, and on the opposite side of the way, 
 and to this gate Gerard hurried, and entered a highly re- 
 spectable enclosure, a circular lawn girt with gravel drive 
 shrubberies hiding tho walls, and in front of him a stately 
 square stone house with classic portico, and two wings 
 suggesting drawing-room and billiard-room. 
 
 The first glance at those numerous windows gave him 
 a shock. All the blinds were down. It was over he 
 thought. Edith Champion was a widow. 
 
 Yes it was over. The sober, elderly man servant who 
 opened the doo.: to him informed him that Mr. Champioij 
 
192 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 had breathed his last at five minutes to eight. Mrs. 
 Champion was just in time to be present at bis last 
 moments. The end had been peaceful and painless. 
 
 Edith Champion came downstairs, accompanied by the 
 doctor, while the servant was talking, her eyes streaming. 
 She saw Gerard, and went across the hall to him. 
 
 ' It is all over,' she said, agitatedly. ' He knew me at 
 the last — knew me and spoke my name, just as I thought 
 he would. Thank God I was there; 1 was not too late 
 for that last word. I did not think I could feel it so 
 much, after those long days and weeks of anticipation.' 
 
 ' Let me take you over to your own house,' Gerard said 
 gently. 
 
 She was in her dinner-dress of black gauze and silk, 
 with a light summer cloak flung loosely about her, her 
 white throat rising out of the gauzy blackness like a 
 Parian column, her dark eyes drowned in tears, and tears 
 still wet on her pale cheeks. All that was tender and 
 wo'manly in her nature had been shaken by that final 
 parting. If she had sold herself to the rich man as his 
 slave he had been a most indulgent master, and her slav- 
 ery had been of the lightest. 
 
 The doctor attended her to the threshold, and she went 
 out leaning on Gerard's arm. Even in the midst of her 
 natural regret there was sweetness in the thought that 
 henceforth she belonged to him. It was his privilege and 
 his duty to protect her, to think for her in all things. 
 
 ' You will telegraph to my husband's solicitor,' she said 
 to the doctor, falteringly, as she dried her tears. 'He 
 will be the proper person to arrange everytliing with you, 
 I suppose. I shall not leave the Laurels till after " 
 
 1 1 understand,' interrupted the doctor, saving her the 
 pain of that final word. * All shall be arranged without 
 troubling you more than is absolutely necessary.' 
 
 * Good night,' she said, offering her hand. ' I shall not 
 forget how kind and thoughtful you always were. He 
 could not have been better oared for.' 
 
The World, TU Flesh, and The Devil nZ 
 Gerard led her out of the for.nal enclosure, where the 
 
 r/s?f'„^'hrThr/"^ darkening und^r the sha! 
 i?r t : 1 T . ^^® S^*® ^"^ <>Pen at the Laurels, and 
 the stately footman was on the watch for her, his pow- 
 dered head bared to the evening breeze Within ?W« 
 Z:lft '''' ''' '"^'^"^^^ ot^flowe?s!din'^fr^Taf;^^^ 
 
 thIIX" n^^^^^^^^^ ' ^«P^ ' ' -^^ ^--d> -hen 
 
 They had gone into the drawing room, and she was sit- 
 ting with her face hidden in her hands. 
 
 l<^r ' Mr"" mi^rj^ not eat anything,' and then to the but- 
 hL ^^^\™er8don will dme. You can serve dinner for 
 him and tell George to bring me some tea here/ 
 
 Ihen let. me have a cup of tea with you,' said Gerard 
 •I am no more in the mood for dining than you a^^' 
 
 This gratified her, even in the mfdst of her sorrows 
 TfT'' J^""^ ^"^ exaggerated idea of the value which Zn 
 set upon dinner, and no sacrifice propitiates them so sure- 
 ly as the surrender of that meal, m so sure 
 
 .nfi'^'^rS'^'^Pi^'' ^}i ?°* ^^^e the point. She only 
 composed ''^ ' '"^ ^'' ^^''' ^^^ ^^^*"^« ^"^ 
 
 'I think I did my duty to him,' she said presently. 
 Most thoroughly. You made him happy, which is 
 XI ' ''' «^«»y a wife can say about a huEd she ha 
 adored, answered Gerard. 
 
 r.l^!/r*?r'' ^"°':^g,h*.i° *»^e tea-table, and lighted the 
 candles on the mantel-piece and piano, and dre# the cur- 
 tains with an a,r of wishing to dispel iny funereal gloom 
 
 r«Hl V^'^'^Tu^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ent at Kendal Hous^ 
 had spread over the room. He and the other servants 
 had been talking about the funeral, and their moumTng 
 already, speculating whether Mr. Champion had left leS? 
 cies to such o his servants as had been with him"safa 
 >eax concluded George, footman, who had been in the 
 service fourteen months. 
 
194 The World, The Flesh and The DevU. 
 
 Mrs. Champion made a little motion of her hand to- 
 wards the teapot, and George poured out the tea. She 
 lelt that the etiquette of grief would not allow her to per- 
 torm that accustomed office. She sat still, and allowed 
 herself to be waited upon, and sipped and sighed, while 
 Gerard also sipped in pensive silence. 
 
 He was thinking that this was the second time within 
 a very few hours that he was taking tea with Edith 
 Champion, and yet what a gap those few hours had cloven 
 across his life. The woman he had loved so long, and to 
 whom he had irrevocably pledged himself, was free from 
 her bondage. There could be no longer doubt or hesi- 
 tancy in their relations. A certain interval must be con- 
 ceded to the prejudices of society; and then, at the end 
 ot that ceremonial widowhood this woman, whom he had 
 loved so long, would lay aside her weeds, and put on her 
 weddmg-gown, ready to stand beside him at the altar. 
 J^or months he had known that Mr. Champion's end was 
 imminent, and yet to-night it seemed to him as if he had 
 never expected the man to die. 
 
 The silence was growing oppressive before either the 
 lady or her guest found speech. The footman had retired 
 leaving the tea-table in front of his mistress, and they 
 were alone again. 
 
 ' You will not remain in this house after the funeral, 
 ot course, said Gerard, having cast about for somethinff 
 to say. ° 
 
 ' ^?» I shall leave England immediately. I have been 
 thinking of my plans while you and I have been sitting 
 here. I hate myself for my egotism; but I could not go- 
 on thinking of— him. It would do no good. I shall not 
 easily forget him, poor fellow. His face and his voice 
 will be m my thoughts for a long time to come— but I 
 could not help thinking of myself too. It seems so strange 
 to be free—to be able to go just where I like— not to be 
 obliged to follow a routine. I shall go to Switzerland as 
 soon as I can get ready. I shaU take Rosa Greaham with 
 
 4; 
 
lat 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and Tlte Devil. 195 
 
 ^But why should you go away ? ' 
 T ^^^^" ^« ^'^st. If I were to stay in England vou and 
 I would be meeting, and now-now that hf iTgone peo- 
 
 ri?! T' ^^ V^^ ^"^ ^^^ ^^♦'ter *hat we should see verv 
 little of each other till the year of n.y widowhood is over ^^ 
 
 long time,Gerard, almost long enough foryou to forgit me/ 
 imfossibie '""^ ""^ forgetfulnassmust nleds be 
 
 'What if I refuse to submit to such a separation even 
 to propitiate Mrs. Grundy ? We have treated that wor- 
 thy personage m a very ofF-hand manner hitherto. Why 
 should we begin to care about her ? ' ^ 
 
 ' Because everything is different now he is gone. While 
 
 Tlit^lt^ f-PP'r ^ "^ ^y ^'^^ ^°^«dy «0"^d presume 
 to take objection to anything I might do, but I sfand 
 alone now and must take care of my good name-your 
 future wife's good name, Gerard ! ' ^ 
 
 •How sweetly you put the question. But my dear 
 f^?w ;r? ^.«/^*"y be parted so long ? Could people 
 talk about us if you and I were living in the same town 
 seeing each other every day ? ' 
 
 'You don't know how ill-natured people can be. In- 
 deed Gerard, it will be better for both oGr sakes." 
 
 IMot for my sake.' he said earnestly. 
 ^ He had gone to Finchley that evening upon a sudden 
 
 3 V^v,'!, 5",>^ ^T ^^^°^ frontal? unima^neS 
 peril. He had felt, vaguely, as if li, first love were slip- 
 ping away from him, as if an effort were needed to 
 strengthen the old bonds ; and now the woman who 
 should have helped him to be true was about tTfors^^ke 
 cr^ ^ inclination and happiness to the babbling 
 
 ^ * What can it matter how people talk of us ? ' he cried 
 impetuously. ' We have to thilak of ouiBelves and our 
 
I 1 
 
 196 fhe World, The Flesh, and The Demi 
 
 own happiness. Remember how short life is, and what 
 need we have to husband our brief span of years. Why 
 waste a year, or a half year, upon conventionalities ? Let 
 me go with you wherever you go. Let us be married 
 next week.' 
 
 'No, no, no, Gerard. God knows I love you, only too 
 dearly, but I will not be guilty of deliberate disrespect to 
 him who has gone. He was always good to me — kind 
 and indulgent to a fault. I should have been a better 
 wife, perhaps, if he had been a tyrant. I will not insult 
 liim in his grave, A year hence; a year from this day 
 I shall belong to you ! ' 
 
 'And Mrs. Grundy will have no fault to find with you 
 " Content to dwell in decencies for ever," ' quoted Gerard, 
 with a touch of scorn. * Well, you must have your own 
 way. I have pleaded, and you have answered. Good 
 night. I suppose I shall be allowed to bid you good bye 
 at the railway station before you leave England. 
 
 * Of course. Rosa shall write to you about our plans 
 directly they are settled. You will be at the funeral, Ger- 
 ard, will you not ? ' 
 
 'Naturally. Once more, good night.' 
 
 They clasped hands, she tearful still, ready to break 
 down again at any moment, and so he left her. 
 
 The hansom had waited for him, the horse's head in a 
 nosebag, the driver asleep on his perch. 
 
 'Only a year, and you are mine as I am yours,' mused 
 Gerard, as he was driven westward. ' But a year some- 
 times makes a wide gap in a life. What will it do in 
 mine ? ' 
 
T}i€ World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 '^R^OME MUST STAND. AND SOAfE MUST FALL OR PLEE." 
 
 'R CHAMPION had been laid at rest in a 
 brand new vault at Kenaal Green for nearly a 
 month, and his widow was at Interlachen. with 
 the useful cousin, maid, and courier, excur- 
 
 glaciers, playing Chopm's nocturnes, reading Shel- 
 rey, Keats, and Swinburne, and abandoning ferself 
 to a vague melancholy, which Ibund relief in the 
 solitude of everMng hills/and the seclusion of private 
 sitting-rooms at the hotel. Edith Champion wi at 
 Interlachen, whence she wrote to Gerard Hiliersdon fwice 
 a week long letters in a fine, firm hand, on the smoothest 
 paper, with a delicate perfume of wood violets-letter! 
 descriptive of every drive and every ramble amon^fh! 
 hills, lette,^ meditative upon the p^oetry she haTbee„ 
 reading or the last German novel, with its diffuse sent? 
 mentality and its domestic virtues, letters which rnerallv 
 contained a little white wr ^'-r flower n^. pI J • i^ 
 
 rT'r'TT' ^^"^^« -^^i-^ did Xha^ Lttlr do 
 to bridge the distance between the lovers. Geard replied 
 ess lengthily, but with unfailing tenderness, to allthose 
 letters of June and July. He wrote from his heart or 
 he told him.^]f that he was so writing. He wrote with 
 a large panel portrait of his sweetheaft upon his desk^ n 
 front of him a portrait which met his eyes whenever he 
 lifted them from his paper, a life-like^ likresHf the 
 
 iiTn fA V "^*K«™P^»'»*ihea.i, a riviere Of diamonds 
 upon the perfect neck; a portrait whose splendour would 
 
198 The Worh., ...c Flesh, and Tha Devil. 
 
 I i 
 
 have been enough for a princess of the blood royal, yet 
 which seemed only in harmony with Edith Champion's 
 beauty. 
 
 Sometimes between that f Jice, with its grand lines, and 
 classic regularity, there would come the vision of another 
 face, altogether different, yet no less beautiful — the 
 ethereal loveliness of the Raffaelle Madonna, the elongated 
 oval cheeks and chin and straight bharply chiselled nose, 
 the exquisite refinement of the pensive lips and delicate 
 arch of the eyebrows over violet eyes, the pearly tints of 
 a complexion in which there was no brilliancy of colour, 
 no peach bloom, only a transparent fairness, beneath 
 which the veins above the temples and around the eyes 
 showed faintly azure — an oval face framed in shadowy 
 brown hair. With what a fatal persistence this in)age 
 haunted him ; and yet he had seen Hester Davenport 
 only once since that afternoon at Chelsea, when the old 
 man introduced him into the humble lodging-house parlor. 
 Once only had he returned there, and that was to escort 
 his sister, who was delighted to renew her acquaintance 
 with the curate's beautiful daughter. That had happened 
 three weeks ago, and Lilian and Hester had met several 
 times since then — meetings of which Gerard had heard 
 every detail. 
 
 And now the London season was drawing to its close, 
 and Lilian had to leave her brother's house in order to do 
 her duty as an only daughter, and accompany her father 
 and mother to Royat, where the Rector was to take a 
 course of waters, which was to secure him an immunity 
 from gout for the best part of a year, until the ' cure ' 
 season came round again and the London jihysicians had 
 decided where he should go. It would be Lilian's last 
 journey as a spinster with her father and mother. She 
 was to be married early in the coming year, and to take 
 upon herself husband and parish — that parish of St. 
 Lawrence the Martyr to which she had already attached 
 herself, and whose schools, alms-houses, dispensary, night- 
 
Tlie World, The Flesh, and The Devil, 109 
 
 refuge, orphanage, and reading-room, were as familiar to 
 her as the old day nursery transformed into a moniinff- 
 room at Helmsleigh Rectory. 
 
 It was her last morning at Hillersdon House, and she 
 was breakfasting tgte-A-t6te wit\ her brother, a rare 
 pleasure, aa Gerard had been very erratic of late, rarely 
 returning home till the middle of the night, and not often 
 eaving his own room till the middle of the day. He had 
 been drinking deep of the cup of pleasure, as it is oflered 
 to youth and wealth in the height of the London season- 
 but pleasure in this case had not meant debauchery and 
 the only vice to which late hours tempted him was an 
 occasional hour's worship of the mystic number nine or a 
 quiet evening at piquet or poker. And in this d linking 
 of the pleasure-chalice, he told himself that he was in 
 no wise unduly consuming the candle of life, inasmich as 
 there was no pleasure which London could offer him that 
 could stir his pulses or kindle the fiery breath of passion 
 His heart beat no quicker when he held the bank at 
 baccarat than when he sat over a book alone in his den 
 Time had been when an hour's play firej his blood 
 and set his temples throbbing; but to the millionaire loss 
 or gam mattered little. There was only the pleasant ex- 
 ultation of success for its own sake ; success which was 
 no more delightful than if he had made a good shot at 
 bowls on a summer lawn. Thus, he argued, that he was 
 living soberly within himself, even when his nights were 
 spent among the wildest young men in London, the fre- 
 quenters of the after-midnight clubs, and the late restaur- 
 ants. 
 
 'How nice it is to have a quiet half-hour with you 
 Gerard, said Lilian, as they began breakfast, he trifling 
 with a devilled sardine, she attacking bread and butter 
 and strawberries, while the chefs choicest breakfast dishes 
 remained untouched under shining silver covers. 
 
 'Yes, dear, and how soon such quiet hours will be iui- 
 possible. I shall miss you dreadfully.' 
 
200 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 • And yet, though we have lived under the same roof 
 we have seen very little of each other.' 
 
 'True, but it has been so sweet to know you were 
 here, that I had always a sympathetic confidante near at 
 hand.' 
 
 Lilian answered with a sigh. 
 
 ' You have given me no confidence, Gerard.* 
 
 ' Have I not. Believe me it has been from no lack of 
 faith in your honour and discretion. Perhaps it was be- 
 cause I had nothing to tell ! ' 
 
 'Ah, Gerard, I know better than that. You have a 
 secret — a secret which concerns Mrs. Champion. I know 
 she is something more to you than a common-place 
 
 friend.' , . ^ 
 
 Gerard laughed to himself ever so softly at his sister s 
 naivete. 'What, has your penetration made that discov- 
 ery, my gentle Lilian,' he said. 'Yes, Edith Champion 
 and I are more than common friends. We were plighted 
 lovers once, dans le temps, when we were loth fresh and 
 innocent and pennilesf;. Wisdom and experience inter, 
 vened. The young lady was induced to marry an elderly 
 money-bag, who treated her very well, and to whom her 
 behaviour was perfect. I changed from lover to friend, 
 and that friendship was never interrupted, nor did it ever 
 occasion the slightest uneasiness to Mr. Champion.' 
 
 ' And now that Mrs. Champion is a widow, free to marrv 
 for love V questioned Lilian, timidly. 
 
 ' In all probability she will become my wife —when her 
 mourning is over. Shall you like her as a sister-in-law, 
 Lilian r 
 
 ' How can I do otherwise. She has always been so 
 
 kind to me.' 
 
 ' Ah, I remember she took you to her dressmaker. I be- 
 lieve that is the highest effort of a woman's friendship." 
 
 ' How lightly you speak of her, Gerard, and how coldly 
 — and yet I am sure you care for her more than anyone 
 else in the world.' 
 
an anvuiiG 
 
 tk. VM. The FUeh. and Tke DevU. . 201 
 
 '^^r^i^'i:t^^':^lS^^^!^-. after ^. 
 a loveless marriage ' ^"'^^"g^ the long mterregnnm of 
 
 Wil'tU'uty^^nl^^^^^^^^ ?"^-^^ to .,arry. 
 
 maintain your positron f n^ f ^H^f^e will help you t^ 
 whose infl^ence^ltar ' '^' ""^^ ^^ "^ ^^ ^'^^ fiends 
 ;^^^5^ of ^yfnends. Lilian?' 
 
 you are notin touch UTim" \ uTaUU'^'""' ^'^^^ 
 ile IS my friend nil fK^ c„ J|'"caii it. 
 
 upon evep(poiTintht r/creot'l'^ke"!?' T '^"^"^ 
 he '8 straight, and strong and t™t '.L ^'""", '''""'™ 
 hearty-a man to whom! would t?* " ""'^Poken, and 
 04 ty, in sickness or de^Bai7 i l,*^"^" '^''°>" """l *«- 
 Lilian, a man to wliom 5,^^?/^' ^T^' '"'"'='" >»an, 
 thing I have on eSh"mytte?' "'"""' *'"' '^^^^^^' 
 
 hi;»f^^;< fr*^,.»''-Vto i.™ won 
 
 flowery words ^andsh^Uow wit "" "'* follow-full of 
 making light of aU ^Z/,'t^^^^- . ^VPe^Hoial, 
 I'ves and noble thoughts wfth a iest ' V'"? "*'« 
 are pleasant enough-Mr Lamtff- .^"""^ "^ ""em 
 elegant langour, and his rhaSU I '"f *"'^'' "''"' hia 
 tecture-M?. Gmbier wiKf. l**""". a^ and archi- 
 which he has thTlmirt ^en« wT '"' "''' "oveb. 
 for me to read.' P«'"oence (« tell me will be unfit 
 
 ardf^dS^^^t'tSd'':;:;!'! r"j- «- «-' 
 
 Mudi©/ ''*°'^®^ with Zola and rejected by 
 
202 The World, Ttoe Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 * There is one of your friends whose presence fills me 
 with horror, and yet he has more winning manners than 
 any of them.' 
 
 'Indeed.' 
 
 * The man who laughs at everything, Mr. Jermyn.' 
 ' Jermyn the Fate-reader.' 
 
 ' He has never read my fate.' 
 
 ' No, he refused to make an attemjit. " There is a light 
 in your sister's countenance that battles augury," he told 
 me, *' If I were to say anything about her it would be 
 that she was created to be happy — but in a nature of that 
 kind one never knows what happiness means. It might 
 mean martyrdom." So you dislike Justin Jermyn ? ' 
 
 * It is not so much dislike as fear that I feel when I 
 think of him. When I am in his society I can hardly 
 help liking him. He interests and amuses me in spite of 
 myself. But it is his bad influence upon you that I 
 fear.' 
 
 ' My dear Lilian, that is all mere girl's talk. Bad in- 
 fluence, bosh ! You don't suppose that my experience of 
 life since I went to the University has left my mind a 
 blank sheet of paper, to be written upon by the first comer. 
 Jermyn is a new acquaintance, not a friend, and his in- 
 fluence upon my life is nil. He amuses me — that is all — 
 just as he amuses you, by his queer, gnomish ways and 
 impish tricks. And now, before you go, tell me about 
 Hester Davenport. You have been her friend for the last 
 few weeks, and have lightened her business. What will 
 she do when you are gone ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, we shall write to each other. We are going to be 
 friends all our lives, and when I am settled at the V icar- 
 age we shall see each other often. She will come to St. 
 Lawrence every Sunday to hear Jack preach.' 
 
 * That is something for her to look forward to, no doubt; 
 but in the meantime she is to go on with her drudgery, I 
 suppose, without even the comfort of occasional inter- 
 course with a girl of her own rark. Why could you not 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 203 
 
 your position. She couid „TZ "^ , ^'°'^ f"^ "'"' '"» 
 
 he knows what to do wiflA^ l^^ °"°^^ '"oney <han 
 a great dell of ^Xl^ t"" f^";t '°'^^^^^^^ ^^"^"''er 
 aims. Why should Tot su^h? ' ^^'?^".^ "P^^ ^""^^ 
 to provide permanentlv fnff^ ^j^k a few thousands 
 
 BtotyhastoSdhishLt' te^' 1,^ ^i^^ ^^°«« 
 that she would receive thl i.J^"^^^^^^**^^ the money 
 
 v^ithout ever bein" remimlpd ST' ^'"'^ ^"^^ *« ^^a^". 
 be no hunHliati:n%re"';'of1b&n" thl't^ "°"'' 
 ?tr tTeT>-^ P-^ --^^ ^e doX:v;r.%tsrouS 
 
 iik;?!S-:;fi:S^g?t^*iS ^^^-p-^i^you 
 
 the life she leads. She workThard but Y'"'f * ^^*^ 
 mistress, and sl)o is able to do her work nf>f '' ^'' T" 
 watch over tho j,oor old father th. ,^^-^^'°?^' ^"'^ ^o 
 back into his old dreadful wav.T^lT^"^^ inevitably fall 
 too much alou,> or ^f Zv Z^ '^^ "^^'^ *« ^^^ve him 
 
 victS^^Y-uT' *'"'^,°' '<«''">'■ "■• conoid., h.r-elfa 
 doe. she ^kes ve^^S 'Xf her^rte,^ ^ 
 
204 The World, The -Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 that she had been poor all her life, and that nobody had 
 ever made much of her, except her father.' 
 
 ' And you were able to do very little for her, it seems V 
 
 ' What you would think very little. I could not give 
 her costly presents ; her pride would have been up in 
 arms at any attempt to patronise her. I gave her books 
 and flowers; helped her to make that poor little lodging- 
 house sitting-room as pretty and home-like, as simple, in- 
 expensive things could make it. We took some walks 
 together in Battersea Park, and one lovely morning she 
 went for a drive with me as far as Wimbledon, where we 
 had a luncheon of buns and 1. ait on the common, just like 
 two schoolgirls. She was as gay and bright that morn- 
 ing as if she had not a care in the world. I told her that 
 she seemed happier than she had ever been at Helmsleigh, 
 and she said that in those days she was oppressed by the 
 knowledge of her father's sad failing, which we did not 
 know ; but now that we knew the worst, and that he 
 seemed really to have reformed, she was quite happy. 
 Indeed, she has the bravest, brightest spirit I ever met 
 with!' 
 
 ' Yes, she is full of courage ; but it is hard, very hard,' 
 said Gerard, impatiently; and then he began to question 
 Lilian about her own arrangements, and there was no 
 further allusion to Hester Davenport; but there was a 
 sense of irritation in Gerard's mind when he thought over 
 his conversation with Lilian in the solitude of his own 
 den. 
 
 ' How feeble women are at the best,' he said to himself, 
 pacing to and fro in feverish unrest. ' What petty notions 
 of help, what microscopic consolations ! A few books and 
 flowers, a drive or a walk, a lunch of buns upon Wimble- 
 don Common ! Not one eflbrt to take her out of that 
 slough of despond — not one attempt to widen her horizon; 
 a golden opportunity utterly wasted, for Lilian minrht 
 have succeeded where I must inevitably fail. If Lilian 
 had been firm and resolute, as woman to woman, she 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 205 
 
 might have swept away all hesitations, all foolish pride 
 But, no ; she offers her humble friend a few flowerfand 
 a book or two. and hugs herself with the notion That tMs 
 poor martyr IS really happy-that the sew n^ ma\ine 
 and the shabby lodging are enough for heThrpp^nis^ 
 
 1 r'^^vt°"''"^l^' ^'^ ^^"«'- off- better tld beX" 
 Sllwf "'" '"^"" ^"^ "^-^ amusements: Itt 
 
 fn^yf.^^f'!i™!'^^ "? his mind that he would go no more 
 to the little street m Chelsea. He had gone hi theX^f 
 place as an intruder, had imposed himself fZ he father's 
 weakness, and traversed the daughter's S so nlainiv 
 expressed to him on their first meeting. He hated hTm^ 
 
 and he determiued that after his second visit as his sfl- 
 ters escort he would go there no more; yet two days 
 after Lihan s departure an irresistible desire impeHed him 
 to try to see Hester again. He wanted to se? if them 
 
 7hT^^7 ^rif 'ir ^'' ^^^^^"'« optimistic V ewo? 
 the case— whether there were indeed peace and contenf" 
 ment in that humble home. content- 
 
 He went in the evening at an hour when he knpw 
 Hester was to be found at home. However Lfr!]ivl 
 and her father might dine they alwayTdlned a"Sn so 
 
 LLaUf Lll old\S^' not suffer^ uncomKbi: 
 reversal ot all old habits which is one of the pettv stinc^Q 
 
 whFcno^-r^hT''^^ ^^«P'^^ '^' littleTt'^3f fifh 
 which constituted his evening meal made a dinner as 
 eas ly as it would have made a supper, and Hestei toc?k 
 a pleasure m seeing that it was served ^;ith perfect cW 
 I mess and propriety, a result only attained by some watch 
 fulness over the landlady and the small fervent Th: 
 
 found e^^^^^^^^^ to be 
 
 she with a book, which she sometimes read alour ^^' 
 
206 Tlte World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 So Gerard found them upon a delicious summer even- 
 ing, which made the contrast between Queen's gate and 
 the poorer district westward of Chelsea seem all the more 
 cruel. There are coolness, and space, and beauty, tall 
 white houses, porticos, balconies brimming over with 
 flowers, gaily coloured blinds and picturesque awnings, 
 the wide expanse of park and gardens, the cool glinting 
 water in the umbrageous distance; here long straight 
 rows of shabby houses, where every attempt at architec- 
 tural ornament seemed only to accentuate the prevailing 
 squalor. And Hester Davenport lived here, and was to 
 go on living here, and he with all his wealth could not 
 buy her brighter surroundings. 
 
 He stopped at a bookseller's in the Brompton road, and 
 bought the best copy of Shelley's Poems which he could 
 find, and at a florist's on his way he bought a large bunch 
 of Marechal Neil roses, and with these gifts in his hand 
 he appeared in the small parlour. 
 
 ' As my sister is far away, I have ventured to come in 
 her stead,' he said, after he had shaken hands with father 
 and daughter. 
 
 ' And you are more than welcome,' Mr. Hillersdon, ans- 
 wered the old man. ' We shall miss your sister sadly. 
 Her little visits have cheered us more than anything has 
 done since the beginning of our troubles. I hardly know 
 what we shall do without her.' 
 
 ' I am looking forward to the beginning of next year, 
 when Miss Hillersdon will be Mrs. Cumberland,' said 
 Hester, softly, ' and when I am to help her in her parish 
 work.' 
 
 ' Can you find time to help in other people's work ; you 
 who work so hard already ? * 
 
 * Oh, I shall be able to spare an afternoon now and 
 then, and I shall be interested and taken out of myself 
 by that kind of work. ' What lovely roses,' she exclaimed, 
 as he placed the bunch upon the little table where her 
 open book was lying. 
 
immer even- 
 
 e where her 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and Tlie Devil. 207 
 
 'I am very glad you like them. You have other 
 flowers, I see glancing at a cluster of bright golden corn 
 
 for these'^ ^ "" ^^'^' ' ^"* ^ ^°P' ^^"^^^^^ ^"^ ^«°"^ 
 
 nn2?^^^^ ^ "^A^' ^l^ "^'^^ ^^"Sht. My poor little corn 
 cockles are put to shame by so much beauty.' 
 
 Qi ,, f? brought-my sister asked me to brinff 
 you Shelley he faltered, curiously embarrassed in thf 
 presence of this one woman, and laying down the prettily 
 bound volume with conscious awkwardness 
 
 /it- rl'Jf^^^y-' *'^^^ H^«<^^^' wonderingly, 'I did 
 not think Shelley wa^ one of her poets. Indeed I remem- 
 ber her telling me that the Rector had forbidden Iier to 
 read anything of Shelley's beyond a selection of short 
 poems. I dare say she mentioned some other poet, and 
 your memory has been a little vague. Lilian has given 
 me a library of her favourite poets and essayists. 
 
 bhe pointed to a row of volumes on one of the dwarf 
 cupboards, and Gerard went over to look at them 
 
 TTnnf'T ! r""^ *h P^ets women love-Wordsworth, 
 Hood Longfellow, Adelaide Proctor, Jean Ingelow,Eliza- 
 itt ?^"'^*<^-.?roj^°iDg-the poets within whose pages 
 there IS security from every evil image, from every rend- 
 
 Zlit ''"'*^''' *^?!^ > ,P""^y- ^« Keats, with his 
 subtle sensuousness which shrouds life's darkest pictures 
 
 Z^e Z%i7 ««*<? suggests heavy hothouse"^ atmos-' 
 phere No Shelley with his gospel of revolt against all 
 law human and divine, no Rosetti, or Swinburne; not 
 
 kttPr r''''' ^ '^ ^?f • "^^^^'^^ by the wider scope of 
 latter day poets might wear a pinafore and live upon 
 
 tW «lf ^'1i ^r^ ""^ ^"^^^^ The only gianlamong 
 take^^sr^Snlte'^"'^^'^^'^^^^^^^^^^^ -^ -- 
 
 Shelley- 
 
208 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 ' My worthy father belongs to a school that is almost 
 obsolete— the school which pretends to believe that the 
 human mind is utterly without individuality, or self-re- 
 straint, and that to read a lawless book is the first stage 
 in a lawless career. You have too much mental power 
 to be turned to the right or to the left by any poet, be he 
 never so great a genius. Not to have read Shelley, is 
 not to have tasted some of the loftiest delights that poetry 
 can give us. I am opening a gate for you into an un- 
 trodden paradise. I envy you the rapture of reading 
 Shelley for the first time in the full vigour of your in- 
 tellect.' 
 
 ' You are lauf hing at me when you talk of the vigour 
 of my intellect — and as for your Shelley, I know in ad- 
 vance that I shall not like him as well as Tennyson.' 
 
 ' That depends upon the bent of your mind — whether 
 you are more influenced by form or colour. In Tennyson 
 you have the calm beauty and harmonious lines of a 
 Greek temple; in Shelley, the unreal splendour and 
 gorgeous colouring of that heavenly city in the Apo- 
 calypse.' 
 
 They discussed Hester's poets freely, and went on to 
 the novelists and essayists with whom she was most fami- 
 liar. Dickens and Charles Lamb were first favourites, 
 and for romance Bulwer ; Thackeray's genius she acknow- 
 ledged, but considered him at his best disheartening. 
 
 * I think for people with whom life has gone badly 
 Carlyle's is tlie best philosophy,' she said. 
 
 ' But surely parlyle is even more disheartening than 
 Thackeray,' objected Gerard. ' His gospel is the gospel 
 of dreariness.' 
 
 ' No, no, it is the gospel of work and noble effort. It 
 teaches contempt for petty things.' 
 
 They talked for some time, Mr. Davenport joining in 
 the conversation occasionally, but with a languid air, as 
 of a man who was only half alive; and there was an 
 undercurrent of complaining in all he said, which con- 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 209 
 
 sS:t»ntt'^? t'^'n t'-'^' ^P^rit. He 
 aigic pains, which no medicll Cn tfl ^"!f ^ ' ^^« ^«"- 
 Gerard stayed nearJvTn ^ ^'^"^'^ "''^^^^^and. 
 
 even later if Hester haLnf ?T/' J'" ^ ^^^« ^^"gered 
 father were in the haWt of w' ?• ^'"^ *^^* «^« ^"^ ^er 
 coolness of the late eveninl On t hT if- '.T ^""^ ^" ^^^ 
 hat and accompanied fXr 1 ij^'^^^^^ ^^^'^ "P ^^s 
 CheyneWalk,wEheI^f^*i^ ^ slaughter as far a^ 
 in tie summ;r starligM ver?i^ T^ "P '^"^ down 
 city, as it seemed to him when^e^ ^/"l^*^" ^'^^ ^"^^ 
 good night. ^'^ ^"^ ^^de them a reluctant 
 
 living, suffering woman tL?^ *' * l""'"™ ">«" a 
 »nealily uponSir Toorlr!, K ?"?"? '•«f<>™»«ou sits 
 for an outLak-!ll^ouW sdT w'k- '''''?™ ''" '» '""g'ng 
 
 faith. sincerity of which he had very little 
 
 -JheTngS forXholT ^T'^^«« '^^' ^^ ^^«ober 
 ever been^ If ty stoke o?^^.l^'^ ? l'^""^ ^ ^' ^^^ 
 would break outsat as bad r^^ H' P^^^^<^« ^^ 
 
 account, doubtless Sat hf« i t °^^- ^'^ ™ °^ *his 
 labour, to live upon fp tttnce ^^^^^^ ™ '""*^'^* ^ 
 sence of temptation ^'"^''^^- ^^^^rty meant the ab- 
 
 with books andToSflow^rfhe S^kT^^"' ^^^*^^ 
 hot-house grapes to the old man' who «J5 ^,«^«Papers and 
 a greedy relish, as if he cauX f«Tnf fl *^® ^"^^^^ ^'^^ 
 ages of Bordeaux anH pf^ ^. -^ flavours of the vint- 
 
 hIs visits and Ms^'ftg^e^S a? '^,^^^1^^^ ^t. 
 course. Books were hSw. *f ^ept«d as a matter of 
 
 eat reading lateTnfo Se ntl^'u^J'^TV^^ «^« ^^^^^ 
 s into the night, although she was gener- 
 
210 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 ally at her sewinLr-machine before cii,'ht o'clock ia the 
 morning. She was not one of those people who require 
 seven or eight horns' sleep. Her rest and recreation were 
 in those midnight hours when her father was sleepiiv^ 
 and she was alone with her books, sitting in a low wicker 
 chair bought for a few shillings from an itinerant baslcf^t- 
 raaker, in the light of the paraffin reading lamp, which 
 her own skilful hands prepared every morninw. 
 
 Gerard wondered at her placid acceptance "of this life 
 of toil and monotony. Again and again as he walked 
 slowly up and down the shadowy promenade by the 
 river he had sought by insidious questionings to discover 
 the lurking spirit of rebellion, the revolt against that 
 ^ate which had doomed her to life-long deprivations 
 No word of complaint was ever spoken by those beauti- 
 tul lips pale m the moonlight. The London season liad 
 passed her by, with all its pleasures, its smart raiment 
 and bustle of coaching meets and throng of carriages and 
 riders in that focus of movement by Albert gate whither 
 her footsteps had so often taken her ; she had seen the 
 butterflies in all their glory, had seen women infinitely 
 inferior to herself in all womanly graces set off and 
 glorifaed by all the arts of costume and enamel, dyed hair 
 and painted eye-brows, into a semblance of beauty and 
 queening it upon the strength of factitious charms' and 
 yet no sense of this world's injustice had embittered her 
 gentle spirit. Patience was the key-note of her character- 
 If every now and then upon her lonely walks a man 
 stopped as if spell-bound at a vision of unexpected 
 beauty, or even turned to follow her, she thou^^ht only of 
 his unmannerliness, not of her own attractions'; and evil 
 as are the ways of men few ever ventured to follow or to 
 address her, for the quiet resolution in the earnest face 
 the purpose in the steady walk, told all but the incor- 
 rigible snob that she was a women to be respected No 
 she had never rebelled against Fate. All that she 'asked 
 troni Ufe was the power to maintain her father in qo«i- 
 
The World, The FUah and The Devil. 211 
 
 fort, and to prevent his return to those degrading habits 
 which had made the misery of her girlhood 
 
 August was half over. West End London was a desert, 
 and still Gerard lingered. Gerard the double millionaire 
 whom all the loveliest spots upon this earth invited to 
 take his pleasure at this holiday season. His friends had 
 bored him insufferably with their questions and sugges- 
 tions bdore they set out upon their own summer pilcr.iiu. 
 ages. Those mysteriouslv fluctuating diseases of whicli 
 one only hears at the end of the season had driven their 
 victims m various directions, sympathetically crowding to 
 the same springs, and sunning themselves in the same 
 gardens. The army of martyrs to eczema and gout were 
 bonnp themselves insufterably in Auveigne— the rheu- 
 matics were in Germany— the weak chests and shattered 
 nerves were playing tennis or toboganning at St. Moritz 
 —the shooting men were in Scotland, the fishermen were 
 m Norway. The idlers, who want only to wear fine 
 clothes, do a little baccarat, and dabble in summer wave- 
 lets, were at Trouville, Etretat. Parame, Dinard or 
 i^PPfu : °^.^?^ ^^"^ deliberately to stay in London 
 alter the twelfth, was an act so perverse and monstrous 
 that he must needs find some excuse for it in his own 
 mmd. Gerard s excuse was that he was not a sportsman, 
 had shot all the grouse he ever wanted to shoot, that he 
 had seen all of the Continent that he cared to see, and 
 that he felt himself hardly strong enough for travelling. 
 Ihe perfect tranquillity of his own house, uninvaded bv 
 visitors, pleased him better than the finest hotel in 
 J^^urope. the marble staircases and flower gardens of the 
 grand Bretagne at Delaggio. or the feverish va-etvient of 
 the Comfortable bchweitzerhof at Lucerne. He wanted 
 rest, and he got it in his own rooms where his every 
 caprice and idiosyncrasy found its expression in his sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 Why should he leave London ? He had invitations 
 enough to have made a small octavo volume if he had 
 
Iji !l|l 
 
 212 
 
 The World, m Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 worded in everv foL „ 7 i ^*^'""»^'n. invitations 
 marl's vaStyZ^rni^Zto tZ^f '""f '''\'''''^' 
 tions to Ci^tles TrScotlaiid ^ f T^^'' ^'''''"" 
 
 Hungary, and heaven knows wherf Lh-'^^"'"'^.' 
 
 h,s own ..sure, fencing no rule. b.uVe^'^™?; S^ 
 ^nes«. ... them^uivea m tlie teathers of the sQrecch owl and 
 
I Tlie Devil 
 
 it evidence of the 
 laminun, invitations 
 se that can tempt 
 Bif esteem. Invita- 
 moatetl granges in 
 I shooting boxes in 
 f the north, to JDari- 
 nd Kerry, to e- oi_y 
 i Isles, and even to 
 8 in Servia, Bohemia, 
 And every one of 
 d with playful allu- 
 
 otherofhis varions 
 ic, sketching — were 
 '■ one of these invi- 
 3 himself but to his 
 
 with unspeakable 
 n prompted by the 
 ve accepted one of 
 ler people's habits, 
 by himself, he who 
 
 retinue with him 
 ^ finest yacht that 
 luxurious of shoot- 
 take existence at 
 3ut the caprice of 
 
 offers was a polite 
 to *)fcr iiit hjg ei - 
 3^ I'i ost agreu- 
 hia secretary and 
 ace and presump- 
 sculine recipients 
 horseback. 
 )se and the news- 
 nentary reports, 
 sQrecch owl and 
 
 TU World, The Fleah, and The Devil. 213 
 
 devoted a daily column to cholera, while the livelier and 
 ^ more Uiscursive papers took up some topic of the hour 
 g senul or domestic, and opened their pages to a procession 
 of left ,rs upon the thrilhng question of what we shall do 
 1 with oar empty sardine tins, oris the stage a safe pro- 
 ic ssion for clergymen's daughters, or how to enjoy throe 
 weeks holiday for a five pound note. If Gerar.i Hill- 
 ersdon had no longing for change from arid and over- 
 baked streets he was perhaps the only person in town 
 whose vnoughts did not turn with fond longing towards 
 shadowy vales and running streams, towards mountain or 
 seashore. Even blaster's resigned temper was stirred by 
 this natural longing. « How lovely it must be up the 
 nver in this weather,' she said one evening when Gerard 
 was strolling by her side under the trees of Cheyne Walk 
 Her father was with them. In all Gerard's visits he had 
 never found her alone— not once had they two talked to- 
 gether without a listener, not once had their eyes met 
 without the witness of other eyes. A passionate lonainrr 
 sometimes seized him as they paced soberly up and down 
 in the summer moonlight, a longing to be alone with her 
 to hold her hands, to look into her eyes, and roach tlio 
 secrets of her heart with ruthless questioning— but never 
 yet had that desire been gratified. Once on a sud<len 
 impulse he went to Wilmot-streetin the afternoon, know- 
 '^S^l^^l^^^'^iohen spent an hour or two before dinner 
 at the iree Library, but the landlady who opened the 
 door told him that Miss Davenport was at her work, and 
 must on no account be disturbed. 
 
 'You can at least tell her that I am here, and would 
 
 I'nli^. i,ri ^''' '^ ?^y ^"^ ^ ^^^ °^^«"tes,' said Gerard, 
 and as he had given the woman more than one handsome 
 douceur, she went into the parlour and gave his message. 
 She returned aln.ost immediately to say that RlTss 
 Davenport was engaged upon work that had to h« fin,sb»d 
 that afternoon, and she could not leave her sewing ma- 
 
su 
 
 ^ World, Tl^ rie,!, and The Devil. 
 
 |i I i 
 
 hold angry with FateanS ^"^^^^'^'^ left the thres- 
 who had denied herself to hi^ "^^ "™" ''* «>'= gi^ 
 
 i» fX:k:^ttZ' di:±?r ' ."^ '»" hi^^eif, 
 
 that I adore her— thaf T « P^^^'^,*'^®"*^- ' She knows 
 mer holiday ; that itollZ "^^^t ^^ ^^^ °«« ^ong su^ 
 contains o/beauty or o pW^"^? ^« ^'^ ^^^e -orTd 
 grinding that odious wLe Sh!' '"''^ J"^ ^^« ^^^s on 
 drudge of a German taSor than^?/^''] \'^^^^^ *)« the 
 my life.' "''' ^^^"^ t^^e delight and ruler of 
 
 that h^oun^a^^^ ^tate of mind 
 
 -oy;d aae^CouTt"." ''^ ^^^^^ ^--V he said, an- 
 
 onmyracMiL't?'^^^^^^^^ 7,ith my knapsack 
 
 have drunk the cup of Ku^e^f ^''^/''.^°<^""gen. 
 
 through a long summer Jm v !^^ ^ '^ roadside inns, dozed 
 
 the witches olthe Brocket But ''"^^ '^ ^^^^^^^^^^ -«' 
 
 me to come back to London anS h?'."^^^ ^ ^^"^>^ ^^^^^^^ 
 
 from Roger Larose that you had t„rn^ T^ "-P' ^ ^^^^d 
 
 living secluded in the house IT'u ^Z'""^^' ^"^ ^^^e 
 
 who am something of the Lf •?"'^* ^^^' yni-and I, 
 
 drawn to you by syVpUy' Was tW^A^^^ '^'\ -^-'f 
 
 I heard just now, as I passed th^ll ^""u '^'^^^'^ '^ ^heel 
 
 calling V ^^^®^ the house where you were 
 
 i^lrci tz:itryT^'^' ^^^^^'.^"* r^houid 
 
 bourhood.' ^^ y°" to this particular neigh- 
 
 ' Curiosity and a fast hansom T 
 way as I stood waitina iT! J ^^^ 3^0" drivino- this 
 
 with the intent^foTfa IW unn'^' road at AlbertVte 
 your hni,«n whP" calling upon you. TIsAles^ fo ?- 7. 
 
 I'ailed a han:tafd%oTthrSe??V^'™ ''- ^ 
 
 ^ '^"'^'^ to keep yours in 
 
d The Devil. 
 
 m audible while the 
 :rerard left the thres- 
 y even with the girl 
 
 3ss/ he told himself 
 menfc. ' She knows 
 erJile one long sum- 
 Key to all the world 
 'Qd yet she goes on 
 ^ould rather be the 
 delight and ruler of 
 
 fcered state of mind 
 ith Jratin Jermvn 
 s door. ' 
 
 forest/ he said, an- 
 
 with ray knapsack 
 
 ihergorGottingen 
 
 »adside inns, dozed 
 
 it of Mephisto and 
 
 day a fancy seized 
 
 you up. I heard 
 
 hermit, and were 
 
 for you— and I, 
 
 ^self, felt mj^self 
 
 trretchen's wheel 
 
 where you were 
 
 3ard, but r should 
 particular neigh- 
 
 you driving this 
 3 at Albert gate, 
 Useless to go to 
 ay frr)m it, ho I 
 o keep yours in 
 
 The yi^orld, The Plesh, and The Devil. 215 
 
 view witliout too obviously following you— and so the 
 man drove me to the comer of this street, where I alighted 
 from my hansom just as you dismissed yours. I passed 
 the house yonder on the opposite side of the way while 
 you were talking to the landlady, who took her own time 
 in opening the door. You were too much absorbed to 
 notice me as I went by, and through the open window I 
 saw a girl working at a sewing machine— a pale, proud 
 face, which flashed crimson when the woman announced 
 your visit.' 
 
 'And you expect me to submit to the insolence of this 
 espionage. Whatever your gifts may be, Mr. Jermyn, 
 whether you excel most as a prophet, necromancer, or a 
 private detective, I must beg you to exercise your talents 
 upon other subjects, and to give me a wide berth.' 
 
 Justin Jermyn responded to this reproof with a hearty 
 laugh. ' Nonsense,' he said, ' you pretend to be angry, ' 
 but you are not in earnest. Nobody is ever angry with 
 me. I am a privileged oflTender. I am everybody's jester. 
 Let me be your fool. Give me the privileges that Emper- 
 ors of old gave to their jesters. You will find me at worst 
 a better companion than your own thoughts.' 
 
 'They are gloomy enough at the present moment,' said 
 Gerard, subjugated at once by that unknown influence 
 which he had never been strong enough to resist. 
 
 He knew not what the force was by which this youno- 
 man mastered him, but he knew that the mastery was 
 complete, lie was as Justin Jermyn chose — to be bent 
 this way or that. 
 
 'You are unhappy,' cried Jermyn. • You, with the one 
 lever which can move the world uader your hand. Ab- 
 surd. If you have wishes, realise them. If any man 
 stands m the way of your desire, buy him. All men are 
 to be bought— that is an old axiom of Prim© Ministers— 
 from Wolsey to VVHlpole— and almost all women. You 
 are a fool to waste yourself upon unfulfilled desires, which 
 mean fever and unrest. You have the Peau de Chagi-in 
 —the talisman of power in your banking account** 
 
216 ne World, th. nesh, and The Devil 
 
 goS^l^r^^^^^^^ -^>;take it as an alle- 
 
 of advanced civiJiLK-Vut J^T? "^ ^"'^"^ '"^ ^^ ^Se 
 have to remember the pena J wr''"'' '^^" P^^^^ I 
 desire fujfil!.,d tiie tulLman X;. J^'^^ ^^F Passionate 
 life dwindles.' ^"«'»an shrinks, and the possessor's 
 
 our'^^iCLor'am^^^^^^^^^ ""'"^^^^ desires that shorten 
 
 loves. mtk7J^^:zZi:tLf''''r''''' ^«p"-s 
 
 i-est. The peril lies in fV.« '''^•^' ^^^ s«<^iety means 
 
 fruition.' ^ '° ^^' passionate wish, not in its 
 
 i I i 
 
 I i ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ^^ CAK HAVE BUT ONE LI.E AND ONE DEATH." 
 
 ^l^l thoTota^rr' '?.^^^e "^^-^^^ ^as the 
 chosen foTa et filtTntol^V/^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 a fiend; and yet he "«;/^ charlatan, and half 
 by such ak irres^t^ r^nerm aTd'w *'! "k^-" 
 , . time so sorely in need of «n^. ?^ '^f ^ ^^'^ ** this 
 his egotism could pour rtsr-nmr- ^"^"^^^ ^^^into winch 
 to shake off Jerm/n bVaKsolZ •'''•^m'>^^^^ ^^^'' <^rying 
 walking as far a^Bli/Jr ""^^^^^^^3^' he ended bv 
 
 sat on'i fur.y hmock in trr T/'^^ ^ <^hey 
 
 Doon, and talked n a desutrlf^T- "^ ^""^'"'^ ^^^r- 
 cigars. ^ desultory fashion between their 
 
 women_h„l-. I,/;^^ - ,, "'»""'>& tongue about mon and 
 » hia estimate of 4: rke?s«r""""^ "'"^' ■""««"""' 
 
The Demi 
 
 ly takeitasanalJe- 
 of money in an age 
 possess the power I 
 th every passionate 
 and the possessor's 
 
 desires that shorten 
 ised— our hopeless 
 I and satiety means 
 te wish, not in its 
 
 !*D ONE DEATH." 
 
 1 Jermyn was the 
 lave deliberately 
 jnsellor. He had 
 nought him false, 
 larlatan, and half 
 iowards the man 
 and was at this 
 ly ear into which 
 that after tryino- 
 y. he ended by 
 lim, where they 
 ? August after- 
 i between their 
 
 (vere indifferent 
 about men and 
 iwost maliguant 
 
 I 
 
 >«& 
 
 The World, Tfte Flesh, and The Devil. 217 
 
 ♦T,!^^!!'^''^ *^^ generality of men hate all women except 
 the one woman they adore,' said Gerard, meditatively. 
 Hni?T^"^^"'*^ antagonism in the sexes as between 
 dog and cat. Turn a little girl loose into a playground of 
 small boys, and if it were not for fear of the schoolmaster 
 there would he no more of her after an hour's play than 
 of Jezebel when the do^s ate her. Every bov's hand 
 would be against her. lley would begin by puTlinrher 
 hair and trmpmg her up. and then the naturaf savage in 
 them wouia go on to murder. Look at the wa| the 
 Sepoys treated women in the Indian Mutiny ! That 
 devihsh cruelty was only the innate hatred of the ml 
 which asserted itself at the first opportunity. And your 
 alk about Mrs. Fousenelle and the pretty Miss VinS 
 maHgn^ity/' ""^'"^ development ^of th^e same natumf 
 
 ratw'te' T''^ ^^'^^l' ' ^"^ ^«^ «^y «^n part I am 
 are Ld i Lr^fl" '" ^Jie aggregate, as entomologists 
 
 Hke to In .K "'J^'"'- ^ ^'^^ ^^^'^ ^« specimens I 
 ^ke to pin them down upon cork and study them, and 
 
 TnteoeS^ent^ '''''' '"* *^'^' ^"'"''' ^^ *^^ ^^^* ^^ ^^^'^ 
 goofwomeni' ""^^ ^"^'"^' ^^ *^' unassailable honour of 
 'Nob in honour for honour's sake. There are women 
 who elect to go through life with an unspotted reputetTon 
 for prides sake, just as an Indian fanatic will hoW S 
 arms above his head until they wither anrstiffen for 
 
 htnour fnl^''°^' ^""K"P '^^y ^' fellowmen Bu 
 honour for honour's sake, honour in a hovel where there 
 IS no one to praise-honour in the Court of a Louis the 
 ?elf H?11 ^ ?^^^l^\*he Little-that kini o Lnour my 
 dear Hillersdon, is beyond my belief. Remember I am 
 
 tt'^"f:H' ^'''"^y- -% -^«"«et and mroSna ^r" 
 
 ' Aad do vr'fi-^rr^^^ ^ ''^^'^^^^ in Hs decadence.' 
 
 Aad do you thmk that a good woman— a woman 
 
 whose girmood ha. been fed n^on all pure UTdy 
 
218 The World, Th^ Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 thoughts, whose chosen type of her sex is the mother of 
 Lhrist, do you thmk that such a woman can survive the 
 loss ot reputation, and yet be happy ?' 
 
 'Assuredly, if she gets a fair equivalent— a devoted 
 k)ver or a life of luxury, with a provision for her old a^e. 
 Ihe thorn among the roses of vice is not the loss^f 
 honour, but the^apprehension of poverty. Anonyma. 
 lolling on the silken cushions of her victoria, shivers at 
 tlie thought that all the luxuries which surround her may 
 be as short-lived as the flowers in the park borders, for a 
 season, and no more. Believe me, my dear Hiliersdon 
 we waste our pity upon these ladies when we picture 
 them haunted by sad memories of an innocent girlhood, 
 of their pan«h church, the school-house wh?re they 
 taught the village children on Sunday mornings, of 
 broken-hearted parents, or sorrowing sisters. Ways and 
 means are what these butterflies think about when their 
 tboughts travel beyond the enjoyment of the hour. The 
 clever ones contrive to save a competence, or to marry 
 wealth. The stupid ones have their day, and then drift 
 to the gutter. But conscience— regrets— broken-hearts » 
 Dreams, my dear Hiliersdon, idle dreams.' 
 
 A chance hansom took the two young men back to 
 town, and on nearing Queen's gate Gerard invited his 
 companion to dine with him. There was nothing new or 
 striking in Justm Jermyn's discourse, but its cheap cynic- 
 ism suited Gerard's humour. When a man is set ipon 
 evil nothing pleases him better than to be told that evil 
 13 the staple of life, that the wickedness which tempts him 
 IS common to humanity itself, and cannot be wicked be- 
 cause it IS incidental to human nature. 
 
 They dined t^te-^-t^te in the winter 'garden, where the 
 summer air rustled among the palm leaves, and the at- 
 Eiosphere was full of the scent of roses, climbing roses 
 standards, bushes, which filled all the available space.' 
 ami made the vast conservatory a garden of roses The 
 sliding windows in the lofty dome were opened, and 
 
! The Devil. 
 
 lex is the mother of 
 
 lan can survive 
 
 the 
 
 liyaJent — a devoted 
 ision for her old age. 
 ) is not the loss of 
 )Overty. Anonyma, 
 ' victoria, shivers at 
 sh surround her may 
 I park borders, for a 
 my dear Hillersdon, 
 B3 when we picture 
 1 innocent girlhood, 
 house where they 
 aday mornings, of 
 sisters. Ways and 
 c about when their 
 b of the hour. The 
 tence,. or to marry 
 lay, and then drift 
 ts — broken-hearts ! 
 ms.' 
 
 oung men back to 
 Gerard invited his 
 i^as nothing new or 
 )ut its cheap cynic- 
 a man is set upon 
 to be told that evil 
 5 which tempts him 
 mot be wicked be- 
 j. 
 
 garden, where the 
 leaves, and the at- 
 33, climbing roses, 
 e available space, 
 ien of roses. The 
 vere opened, and 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 219 
 
 snowed a sky, starlit, profound, and purple as if this 
 wmter garden near Knightsbridge had been some palm 
 grove in one of the South Sea Isles. The dinner was 
 perfection the wines the choicest products of royal vine- 
 yards ; and Hillersdon's guest did ample justice to both 
 cuisme and ce ier, while Hillersdon himself, ate very 
 little, and drank only soda-water. 
 
 cr.lT'"'?"''^ ^^^""^ ^^ favoured you so highly in some re- 
 spocts has not given you a good appetite.' said Jerrayn, 
 when he had gone steadily through the menu, and had 
 
 Toid oroitnr" ' ""'^' ^"pp^^ '' ^ ^^^^^- ^^-^- 
 
 ' There is such a terrible sameness in food and wines 
 
 Zu^'f ^''"'^;. '^ t>«lievemy chef is an artisTwho 
 really deserves the eminence he enjoyed with former 
 masters— but his productions weaiy me. Their variety 
 IS more m name than in substance. Yesterday quails, 
 to-day ortolans, to-morrow grouse. And if I live till 
 next year the qiwils and ortolans and grouse will come 
 around apin. The earliest salmon will blush upon my 
 tablein January ; February will come with her hands full 
 of hot-house peaches and Algerian peas; March will offer 
 me sour strawberries and immature lamb. The same— 
 the same over and over again. The duckling of May— 
 t .e green-goose, the turkey poult, the chicken-turbot. I 
 
 wS*^"^ f' ^^'''' '' '''''' ''^'^ i^ ^ r-d herring 
 Thl^; work,ng-man carries home to eat with his tea 
 hlJl \t^ resources of a French cook, when once we 
 
 mv /r r'''^^ '^u ^f^""^ "^ ^'^''^'^''' I remember 
 my first Greenwich dmner-rapture-the little room 
 over-looking the river, the open windows and evenhS 
 sunlight, the whitebait, the flounder-souche, the Iweet? 
 breads, and iced moselle food for the Olympian gTds- 
 but after many seasons of Greenwich dinners fiow wearied 
 auu hackneyed is the feast.' 
 
 ..n'T^'^'i'^r P°^®««^d your mUlions little more than a 
 year, and already you have learnt how not to eniov ' said 
 Jermyn. 'I congratulate you upon your progress? 
 
220 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 ' Ah, you forget, I knew all these things before I had 
 my fortune— knew them in the davs when I was onlv an 
 umbra, knew them in other people's houses. Money" can 
 buy hardly anything for me that has freshness or novelty 
 any more than it could for Solomon, and I have no Queeri 
 of JSheba to envy me my splendour until there was no 
 more spirit in her. Nobody envies a millionaire his 
 wealth nowadays. Millionaires are too common. They live 
 m every street in Mayfair, To be worth anybody's envy 
 a man should have a billion.' 
 
 ' You begin to find fault with the mediocrity of your 
 fortune r said Jermyu, with his pleasant laugh at human 
 folly. * A little more than a year ago you were going to 
 destroy yourself because you were in pecuniary difficul- 
 ties — persecuted by tailors and bootmakers. In another 
 year you will be charging the same revolver to end an 
 existence that leaves you nothing to live for. Solomon 
 was not so foolish. Indeed I think that great king was 
 simply the most magnificent sham that the history of the 
 world oflEers to the contemplation of modern thinkei-s, a 
 man who could philosophise so exquisitely upon the van- 
 ity of human life, and yet drain the cup of earthly pleas- 
 ures— sensual, artistic, intellectual— to the very dre<ys! 
 Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher ; and, behold ! the 
 slave market sends its choicest beauties to the king. 
 Vanity of vanities, and, lo ! his ships come into port laden 
 with apes and ivory, with Tyrean purple and the gold of 
 Ophir, for the king; and the building of the mic^hty 
 temple yonder on the holy hill affords a perpetual interest 
 and an inexhaustible plaything for the man who calls the 
 grasshopper a burden. I'U wager that in Jerusalem 
 they called that gorgeous temple Solomon's Folly, and 
 laughed among themselves as the great king's litter went 
 up the hill, with veiled beauty sitting in the shadow of 
 the purple curtains, and little slippered feet just peepino' 
 out among the jewel-spangled cushions. Solomon in all 
 his glory ! I think, Hillersdon, if I were as rich as you, the 
 
[ The Devil. 
 
 things before I had 
 when I was only an 
 liouses. Money" can 
 freshness or novelty, 
 md I have no Queen 
 
 until there was no 
 s a millionaire his 
 
 common. They live 
 jrth anybodj's envy 
 
 mediocrity of your 
 ant laugh at human 
 3 you were going to 
 pecuniary difficul- 
 aakers. In another 
 revolver to end an 
 live for. Solomon 
 hat great king was 
 t the "history of the 
 modern thinkei-s, a 
 itely upon the van- 
 ip of earthly pleas- 
 ;o the very dregs ! 
 ^;and, behold! the 
 aties to the king, 
 me into port laden 
 pie and the gold of 
 ig of the mighty 
 i perpetual interest 
 man who calls the 
 hat in Jerusalem 
 omon's Folly, and 
 king's litter went 
 in the shadow of 
 [ feet just peeping 
 3. Solomon in all 
 as rich as you, the 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 221 
 
 thin^ 1 should feel most keenly would be that my money 
 could not buy me back one glimpse of the glory of the 
 past— not half an hour with the guerilla leader David 
 among the wild hills, not one glimpse of Jerusalem when 
 feolomon was king, not a night with Dido, nor a dinner 
 with Lucullus. We may imitate that gorgeous past, but 
 we can never recall it. Billions would not buy it back 
 tor us. All the colour and glory of life has faded from 
 an earth that is vulgarized by cheap trippers. From 
 Hounslow to the Holy Land one hears the same harsh 
 common voices. German and Yankee accents drown the' 
 soft Tuscan of the Florentine in the Via Tornabuoni 
 tram loads of cockneys rush up and down the hills of 
 Algeria, camel loads of vulgarity from London and New 
 YorJi pervade the desert where Isaiah wandered alone 
 beneath the stars. The hill where the worshippers of Baal 
 waited for a sign from their god, the Valley of Jehosa- 
 phat, are as banal as Shooter's Hill or the Vale ot Health 
 Ihe spirit of romance has fled from our vulgarized planet 
 and not a million of golden sovereigns could tempt her 
 back for an hour ! ' 
 
 'I should be content to let the past go, if I could be 
 happy in the present. That is the difficulty.' 
 _ 'Oh, I am always happy. I have fancies, but no pas- 
 sionate longings. My only troubles are climate. If I can 
 follow the sunshine I am content.' 
 
 •If you have finished your wine let us go to my den ' 
 said Gerard who had allowed his companion's rodomon- 
 tade to pass by him like the faint breath of evening wind 
 among the palm leaves, while his own thoughts travelled 
 in a circle. ' We can't talk freely here. I feel as if there 
 were listeners m the shadowy corners behind those tree 
 
 ^To your den with all my heart.' 
 
 They went upstairs to the room where Gerard's test of 
 power was fixed against the wall, an old Italian vestment 
 ot richest embroidery, wi^h jewels imbedded in the tar- 
 
222 The World, The Flesh, and The De>nl 
 
 man''^fit.^S'''^^"u«.^^"^°"^ *^^^ eccentric talis- 
 fir f\, ?w . °?J ^°°''^'^ ^^ ^* «^"«« *he «ight when he 
 wht^h- ''^'' I^/venport, and when the t?emulous line 
 which his pen made upon the paper allowed him that a 
 disturbm- element had entered into his life. 
 
 weaHlv^and A^""^ ^T'^^ into his accustomed chair 
 wearily and a heavy sigh escaped him, as he pushed aside 
 
 the snT. '.-^r ^^^Jblein fi^ont of him, and looked at 
 the splendid face of his betrothed in the photograph 
 
 fhJ '.'"'•^rv,''''' '''''^'''"•^ ^°"°^ *^^ roo™ looking'at every- 
 thing with an amused air. * ^ 
 
 look ai' f hi^j; -^^ '^T.'-' ^' '^'^> ' ^ ^^^1 q"i*e snug as I 
 nto thin .1 t"^'- ^'"l ^'' ^°^^' dispersed, vanished 
 cannt for J ^^1 "f *^"'f ^^^^ inn chambers-too un- 
 canny for a man of cheerful temperament. I have a 
 pied a terre m Pans now, my only settlement.' 
 
 '^ What part of Paris ? ' 
 
 'Ah, 1 never tell my address. That is one of mv 
 
 fehe'Sr; ^"^^^^^-I™-t.youonthebouWa J 
 alter the theatres have closed, I will take you to mv den 
 to supper, and will give you Margot or Leti to equa" 
 ^lie Maderia which you liked that night in the oldTn 
 By Jove, my image in bronze. How did you come by ItV 
 
 expreLSfZ "^^* o^,,!^-. and tL feaCrand 
 expression of the god were the features and expression 
 of Justin Jermy n. Allow for the phantasy of goat W 
 and the bust was as fine a likeness of the Fatera^er a^ 
 dSons ' '" ^"^^ ^'*^^'^'^ "^^^^ *^^ happiestln! 
 
 'Who is the sculptor?' asked Jermyn, hoverina over 
 the image with childish pleasure. ^ 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 223 
 
 j^n, hovering over 
 
 'sdon, to have set 
 
 • ' Fond of you ! Not in the least. I have a horror of 
 you — but I like your society, as a man likes opium. It 
 has a foul taste, and he knows it is bad for him ; yet he 
 takes it — craves for it — must have it. I could not rest 
 till I had your likene s ; and now that grinning mouth of 
 yours is always there to mock at my heart ache, my 
 doubt, my despair. ^ That broad smile of sensual enjoy- 
 ment, that rapture in mere animal life, serve me as a per- 
 petual reminder of what a poor creature I am from the 
 heathen point of view — how utterly unable to enjoy life 
 from the Pantheist's standpoint, how conscious of man's 
 universal heritage — death.' 
 
 " ' Death ia here and death is there, 
 Death is busy everywhere.' " 
 
 quoted Jermyn. 'Cheerful poet, Slielley, an excellent 
 harper, but a good dea^ of his harping was upon one 
 string— death, dust, annihilation. It would have been 
 very inconsistent if he had lived to be as old as Words- 
 worth. But why shouLl my image,' posing himself be- 
 side the bronze bust, and laying his long, white hand 
 affectionately upon the sylvan god's forehead, 'remind 
 you of dismal things ? My prototype and I have the 
 spirit which makes for cheerfulness ? 
 
 'Your very cheerfulness accentuates my own gloom.' 
 
 'Gloomy! With youth and good looks, and ninety 
 thousand a year.' 
 
 * More than enough for happiness, perhaps, if I had the 
 freehold ; but I am only a leaseholder, and I know not 
 how short my lease may be. I have pretty good reason 
 to know that it is not a long one. Yes, I know that, Jus- 
 tin Jermyn. I know that these things belong to me as 
 the dream-palace belongs to the dreamer .who fancies 
 himself a king.' 
 
 ' Make the most of your opportunities while they la,st. 
 To be as rich as you are— and to be young— is to com- 
 mand the world. There is not a flower in the garden 
 of this world that you cannot pluck.' 
 
Ill 
 
 224 
 
 Ths World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 f«J7°'' ^''^ ^'■'^'l^- ^ ^^" *^^^^ and hampered. I see be- 
 fore me one-and only one-chance of supreme hap ^ness 
 and yet I dare not grasp it.' ""ppmess, 
 
 And then in a gush of confidence, in the nassionatA 
 
 he distrusted, the inmost secrets of his heart-told him 
 how he had been moved by the sight of Hester's face on 
 the platform in the concert hall, and how from thatnUt 
 he had struggled m vain against the attracti.n which 
 drew him towards her. He told Jermyn ever thW- 
 his intrusion upon her life, albeit he knew her desire to 
 avoid al ntercourse with friends of the past-S of 
 those quiet hours in the humlle lodging, those unalarmin J 
 gifts of flowers and books-told of those 810^^! 
 o and fro by the river, with the old father IlwZH 
 her side-pounng out his soul to this man whom he 
 doubted and feared as a girl teU. her stoiy of Wless 
 love to a trusted sister. ^y oi nopeiess 
 
 ni^hTinfc T^' ^'"\ &""' ^S^^^^' '^'^ that first 
 night m Eton Square I have never dared even to hold 
 
 her hand in mine with a lingering clasp, and yet when 
 
 our hands touch there is a fire thatmns through my 7ei„s 
 
 till heart and brain are fused in that p^ssionlte fi>e and 
 
 I can scarce shape the words that bid Lr good-bye Our 
 
 talk has been onlv of commonest things. ^ I have never 
 
 by ook or worcf dared to express my love-and vet I 
 
 W aM?"'^%^ ^?r ^''- I tl^i^kth'LtwhenmyC 
 leaps at the sound of her voice or the touch of her hand 
 
 her heart is not silent. I have seen her lips rem We in 
 
 ,, n^ ?^* T''^"^ t\^* ^^"^ ^^ h^^« talked side by side 
 under the trees I have felt that there was eloquence in 
 
 loves' mT' "^ '" '"^'"'"^ "P"^^' Yes. I k\"ow X 
 
 ; What more do you want— knowing that ? Are vou 
 
 St -^n'^'r '"l fT^-^-e when^;S^ 
 u«KG ner ixi-o une ulissrui holiday ? ' 
 
 • She is not a woman to be had for the asking. Would 
 
asking. Would 
 
 The World, TU Flesh, and The DevU. 225 
 
 pJi^^i^r^Ti'u:^^^ j-T". with a 
 
 to the lady yonder ' noinHn Tf ? "'revocably pledged 
 
 ' ^ <-s. I am pledged to her ' 
 view ifvou don'f rT r f™" * ^o^wty point of 
 
 releasea «.e, 1 am bou^ ^"CyltyZ'^Z,'''' Z'^'j 
 a man of honour ' "^ -^ "® ^"** ^» bind 
 
 credit/ answered HmeS hotiv S^?^^P^"?'^. ^''^ 
 wife to her husband B.n7Ti^^\ . ^^^ «• faithful 
 sition a. his ^iKCugh I^hTd b^n W T^' ^f ^^ 
 In the three years of her marHed lf£ *'^°"°? ^'^®"- 
 and friends only. It may XI iht T i!"^'^ ^"^«'^«' 
 the days when she wSk^ T^ ?^^^ ^'^"'ited on 
 
 ^he old'^strry m^^^^^^ when the thread of 
 
 dropped it; ^ ^ "P ^^^^^ J"8t where we 
 
 ke^li^'tKhtcl? '"" '"^ ^^^ ^^^- ^-^% to have ta- 
 ' It is her fault/ said Hillersdon, angrily * Her f«„lf 
 She ,« beautiful, generous, loves me wflh all W \L . 
 but she IS bound and fettered bv xltZuJ k • I i^'^^' 
 women laugh at. She ran away From^ me ult wh ^"^^^ 
 salvation lay in her soPiVfTz t ^^°™ .""f J"st when my 
 
 my fl^t lovl I wl^d E'livl T^t ^fJ^^'l *'"' ''J' 
 pany in Inre baoV fK- ^' ' ' all my life in her com- 
 
 ered awa/ to forit tZ'^r ""'^ ^'^""« *^*<^ ^a^ «"t. 
 
226 The World, The Fleah, and Tlie Devil 
 
 I ! 
 
 people would talk, and that it was better we should see 
 very little of each other uutil the period of conventional 
 grief was passed, and I could decently make David 
 Champion's widow my wife. So she is sketching snow 
 peaks at Murren while ' 
 
 ' While you are over head and ears in love with Hester 
 Davenport.' 
 
 It is more than love: it is possession. My world be- 
 gins and mds with her. I tried to run away, tried to 
 start for Switzerland, to follow my betrothed to her 
 mountain retreat, in defiance of her objection ; but it was 
 a futile effort. I was at the station ; ray man and my 
 j)ortnianteau were on the platform ; and at the last mo- 
 ment my resolution failed. I could not place myself be- 
 yond the possibility of seeing the face I worship, of hear- 
 ing the voice that thrills me.' 
 
 ' And you are content to go on seeing the lovely face 
 and hearing the thrilling voice in the presence of a third 
 person ? Isn't that rather like being in love with a 
 ward in Chancery, and courting her in the presence of 
 the family lawyer ? Why don't you get rid of the old 
 man V 
 
 ' That's not as easj* as you suppose. You saw me sent 
 away from her door to-day. She will not receive me in 
 her father's absence, and I am not such a cad as to force 
 myself upon her seclusion. I behaved badly enough in 
 the first instance when I acted in direct opposition to her 
 wish.' 
 
 ' To her alleged wish. Do you think a woman is ever 
 quite candid in these cases, either to her lover or to her- 
 self ? Look at Goethe's Gretchen, for instance, somewhat 
 snappish, when Faust addresses her in the street, but a 
 few hours after, in the garden ! What had become of the 
 snappishness ? She is ocean deep in love, ready to throw 
 
 I Can't Conceive Low you 
 
 can have gone on with this idle trifling, like an under- 
 graduate in love with a boarding school miss. You with 
 
ne Devil 
 
 setter wo should see 
 
 riod of conventional 
 
 iently make David 
 
 is sketching snow 
 
 in love with Hester 
 
 ion. My world be- 
 run away, tried to 
 y betrothed to her 
 bjection ; but it was 
 ; ray man and my 
 md at the last mo- 
 lot place myself be- 
 B I worship, of hear- 
 ing the lovely face 
 > presence of a third 
 ing in love with e< 
 ' in the presence of 
 
 I get rid of the old 
 
 >. You saw me sent 
 
 II not receive me in 
 ich a cad as to force 
 ed badly enough in 
 ect opposition to her 
 
 nk a woman is ever 
 her lover or to her- 
 : instance, somewhat 
 in the street, but a 
 at had become of the 
 love, ready to throw 
 t conceive Low you 
 ing, like an under- 
 ool miss. You with 
 
 The World, The Fleah, and The Devil. 227 
 
 your millions, your short lease of lifo, your passionate de- 
 sire to make the most of a few goldeu years^ Stranl to 
 what hopeless fatuity love can r^educe its victim oitrS 
 of the old father, make a clean sweep of him, aid then at 
 least the coa^t will be clear, and you need not confine 
 Kment.^'''"^ '' half-an-hour's^rawl upon the em! 
 
 'How get rid of him ? There's the difficulty. He has 
 been reformed by her patient care, and it is the business 
 of her hfe to make his declining years happy. Nothina 
 would induce her to part with him ' iNotnmg 
 
 with h^P'n."^' ^"^ ^^^^"ttle would induce him to part 
 
 sTnt life ? T? ^'''' 'T°'' ^^^.^ ^" '' "«t ^i'-^d oi his pre- 
 sent life? Do you Icnow what reform means in the 
 
 habitual drunkard? It means deprivation that makes 
 
 existence a living death. It means a perpetual cravW 
 
 for atoliolTr fir? • ? T'^r^^'"' °"^^ '^ ^« ^h« thirst 
 lor alcohol, for fire instead of water. To his daucrliter 
 
 this poor wretch may pretend resignation, but you may 
 be surc3 ha is miserable, and will retume his darC v^^ 
 at the first opportunity.' uawm^ vice 
 
 ltunit^VnrT\°"^ i/S^^'l*.*^^.* ^ ^^°^1^ fi°d the oppor- 
 K ?'V- i 'u''"^^ ^'"S him back into the Tophet from 
 
 Eo vliettll- '" ^'"^'^' ^^"^- ^^' '-^y^' I - 
 
 I 'I suggest nothing. Only if you want to win th,. 
 
 nS'^' ^°" "f ' set the father ^ut o™ho way7unles, 
 
 C, rJ™ •P"'"'' J '° f^^^ ">» »">«■ line-throw ove; 
 
 I f von »A ^"'i" 'H"'** "*° ''oo'd be very proud 
 
 W you as a aonm-law. though you might have^<oZ 
 occa8.on to be ^hamoJ of hinfas^a fathe? iniX Xn 
 
 lu^Sta-krhl^'oMhrff^'''"^"' ■'"« *^'^^^ 
 I have told you that I cannot break with Edith.' 
 
■-•-17 
 
 228 Tlie World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 ' And you will marry her next year while you, are still 
 passionately in love with another woman ? ' 
 
 ' I dare not think of next year. I may not live till 
 next year. I can think only of the present, and of the 
 woman I love.' 
 
 * You are wise. A year is a long time, measured by a 
 passion like yours. You have offered Davenport and his 
 daughter an income through your sister ; you have acted 
 with most admirable delicacy, and yet your offers have 
 been rejected. Have you ever offered Davenport money, 
 directly— with the golden sovereigns or the crisp bank 
 notes in your hand ? ' 
 
 ' Never. I would not degrade him by any such offer. 
 And 1 believe that he would reject any gift of that kind.' 
 
 ' A gift perhaps, but not a loan. A man of that kind 
 will always take your money if you humour his pride by 
 pretending to lend it to him. Or there are other ways. 
 He is a good classic, you say, or was so once. Let him 
 write a book for you. A literary commission would be 
 an excuse for giving him ample means for enjoying his 
 evenings in his own way, and then your moonlit walks 
 upon the Embankment would have the charm which such 
 walks have when heart answers to heart.' 
 
 ' What a villain I should be if I were to take your 
 advice and undo the work to which that heroic girl has 
 devoted herself for the brightest years of her girlhood 
 —those years which for the young lady in society mean 
 a triumphant progress of dances and tennis tournaments, 
 and pretty frocks and adulation— a pathway of flowers. 
 She has given all the brightness of her youth to this one 
 holy aim, and you would have me urdo her work.' 
 
 * My dear fellow, the end is inevitable. I tell you that 
 for the habitual drunkard there is no such thing as re- 
 formation. There is semblance of it, while the sinner is 
 cut off from the possibility of sin ; but backslidinff comfis 
 with opportunity, and the reaction is so much the more 
 violent because of that slow agony of deprivation through 
 
 lyiis 
 
le you, are still 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Ijevil 229 
 
 which the sinner has been passing. I no more believe 
 m Mr Davenport s reform than the Eroad Church believes 
 tnat Joshua stopped the sun,' 
 
 The converaation drifted into other channels. Thev 
 discussed that great problem of man's destiny which is 
 always being argued in some form or other. They asked 
 each other that universal riddle which is always beintr 
 answered and is yet unanswerable. In this line of argu- 
 ment Justm Jermyn showed an impish facility for shift- 
 ing his ground ; and at the end of an hour's argument 
 Hillersdon hardly knew whether he was full ofvac^ue 
 aspirations and vague beliefs in purer and better woHds 
 beyond this insignificant planet, or whether his creed 
 was blank negation. 
 
 crnlt o^ Jate When they parted, and after the man was 
 gone Gerard Hillersdon sat for a long time face to face 
 w.th the bronze Pan, the sly sraile, the curious sidelono- 
 glance of the long narrow eyes seeming to carry on the 
 
 STrel'kt^ltr"''"" '''"'' dropped, Jst.»ge 
 'Wealth without limit,' mused Gerard, 'and so little 
 power to enjoy_so brief a lease of life. Why if I were 
 r'^,^1 r!u^ to eighty or ninety I should still think it 
 hard that the end must come— that it is inevitable— fore- 
 shadowed m the freshness of life's morning; stealing 
 
 blackness of life's evening, when the last s.m-ra^s Haht 
 an open grave. Ob. that inevitable end-poison and bane 
 of every life, but most hideous where wealth makes 
 existence a kind of royalty. I shudder when I read the 
 wills of triple or quadruple millionaires. The wealth re- 
 mams-a long array of figures, astounding in their macr- 
 mtude— and the man who owned it is lying in the dark 
 and knows the end of all things.' 
 
 Ho went over to the wail against which he had affixed 
 his talisman drew aside the curtain, and then stepped 
 quickly b^pk to the table and dipped hi^ pen in the ink 
 
230 The World, The Flesh, and TJte Devil. 
 
 It was the same large, broad-nibbed pen with which he 
 had drawn the last line upon the night after his inter- 
 view with Hester Davenport. He dashed his pen upon 
 the paper in a fury, and drew an inner line with one hur- 
 ried sweep of his wrist. If determination could have 
 assured firmness that line would have been bold and 
 strong as an outline by Michael Angelo ; but the tracing 
 was even more wavering than the last, and might have 
 been the effort of a sick man, so feebly did the line falter 
 from point to point. 
 
 *Dr. South and Justin Jermyn are right,' thought Ger- 
 ard. 'It is passionate feeling that saps the life of a man 
 — most of all a hopeless passion — most of all a struggle 
 between honour and inclination. I will see South to- 
 morrow, and if he tells me the shadows are deepening 
 upon the dial — if — * 
 
 The sentence remained unfinished even in his own 
 mind. He spent a restless night, broken by brief slum- 
 bers and long dreams — vivid dreams in which he was 
 haunted by the image of Nicholas Davenport, under every 
 strange and degrading aspect. In one dream he was in 
 his father's church at even song in the quiet summer even- 
 ing. He heard the organ and the voices of the village 
 choir in the dosing phrases of his mother's favourite 
 hymn, " Abide with me," and amidst the hush that fol- 
 lowed the Amen he saw Nicholas Davenport lolling over 
 the worn velvet cushions of the old-fashioned pulpit, ges- 
 ticulating dumbly, mad with drink, but voiceless. There 
 was no sound in the church after that tender closing 
 phrase of the hymn. All that followed was silence ; but 
 as he looked at that degraded figure leaning out of the 
 pulpit the church changed to a pit of hell, and the village 
 congregation became an assembly of devils, and on the 
 steps of Satan's throne stood a figure like Goethe's 
 Menhistonheles, and the face under the little red c-an with 
 the cock's feather was the face of Justin Jermyn. 
 
 There was nothing strange in the fact that he should 
 
 J--**UJ_ 
 
The World, The Flesh, and Tlie Devil 231 
 
 so dream, for he had long ago in his own mind likened 
 the Fate-reader to Goethe's fiend. 
 ^ Gerard Hillersdon drove to Harley-street before ten 
 o clock next morning, and was lucky in catching Dr. 
 South, who was in London, en passant, having finished 
 his own cure, and advised his gouty patients at Homberg 
 and being on the point of starting for a holiday at Braemarl 
 There were no patients in the waiting-room, as the 
 doctor was supposed to be out of town, and on sendin<^ 
 m his card Hillersdon was at once admitted to the con^ 
 suiting-room. 
 
 Dr. South looked up from his pile of newly-opened 
 letters with a pleasant smile. 
 
 •My little patient of the Devonshire Rectory,' he said 
 cheerily ; and then with a keen look and a changed tone' 
 he said, 'But how is this, Mr. Hillersdon, you are not 
 looking so well as when you were here laat. I'm afraid 
 you have been disregarding my advice ! ' 
 
 'Perhaps I have/ Gerard answered, gloomily. *You 
 told me that in order to spin out the thin thread of my 
 life I must venture only to exist, I must teach myself to 
 become a human vegetable, without passions or emotions 
 thought or desire.' ' 
 
 'I did not forbid thought or pleasant emotions,' said 
 Dr. South ; ' I only urged you to avoid those stormy pas- 
 sions which strain the cordage of the human vessel, and 
 sometimes wreck her.' 
 
 ' You urged that which is impossible. To live is to feel 
 and to suffer. I have not been able to obey you. I am 
 passionately in love with a lady whom I cannot marry.' 
 
 ' You mean that the lady is married already ? ' 
 
 'No; but there are other reasons ' 
 
 ' If it is a question of social inequality, waive it. and 
 marry. You cannot afford to be unhappy. The disap- 
 
 ^ 1 „.i,^,,. „,jv„ii^i iiiau. uiiguh gui. over in a year 
 
 might in your case have a fatal effect. You are not of 
 the temper which can live down trouble,' 
 
232 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 Hill I 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 * Tell me, frankly and ruthlessly, how long I have to 
 live.' 
 
 'Take off your coat and waistcoat,' said the doctor, 
 quietly, and then, as his patient obeyed, he said, 'I 
 should be an impudent empiric if I pretended to measure 
 the sands in the glass of life, but I can, if you like, tell you 
 if your chances now are any worse than they were when 
 you were with me last year, I remember your case per- 
 fectly, and even what I said to you at that time. I was 
 especially interested in you as one of my little patients who 
 had faith enough to come back to me in manhood. Now 
 let me see,' and the thoughtful head was bent to listen 
 to that terrible tell-tale machinery which we all carry 
 about with us, ticking off the hours that remain to each 
 of us in this poor sum of life. The downward bent brow 
 was unseen by the patient, or he might have read his 
 doom in the physician's countenance. When Dr. South 
 looked up, his features wore only the studied gravity of 
 the professional aspect. 
 
 ' Well/ questioned Hillersdon, when the auscultation 
 was finished, ' am I much worse than when I was here 
 last?' 
 
 ' You are not any better.* 
 
 ' Speak out, for God's sake/ cried Gerard, roughly. • I 
 — I beg your pardon, doctor, but I want the truth, the 
 whole truth, and nothing but the truth, no making the 
 bept of a bad case. What is the outlook 1 ' 
 
 'Bad.' 
 
 ' Shall I live a year — two— three years ? How much 
 do you give me ? ' 
 
 ' With care — extreme care — you may live some years 
 
 et. Nay, I do not say that you might not last ten years, 
 
 ut if you are reckless the end may come in a year. 
 
 Worry, agitation, fretting of any kind may hasten your 
 
 I 
 
 T « 
 
 I 
 
 m sorry to be obliffed to tell 3'oa this/ 
 
 one 
 way. 
 
 thank you for having told me the truth. It settles 
 question, a: least. I shall try ij be happy my own 
 
The World, Ths neah, and The Dedl 2S3 
 
 Many the woman you love, even if 
 maid, said the doctor, kindly, ' and let 
 life happy in some quiet retreat, far from 
 and agitations of the world of fashion or 
 will go to the South, of course, before 
 should recommend Sorrento or Corsica, 
 will surround you with all the luxuries 
 easy wherever a man has to live.' 
 
 she is a house- 
 her make your 
 the excitements 
 politics. You 
 the winter. I 
 Your wealth 
 that make life 
 
 8? How much 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "HE IS THE VERY SOUL OP BOUNTY." 
 
 iERARD HILLERSDON left Harley street 
 ' almost persuaded to break faith with the 
 woman he had loved for more than three years, 
 and offer himself to the woman he had loved 
 less than three months. But that one word 
 almost lost the early Christian Church a roval 
 convert, and Gerard had not quite made up his 
 « cj ^!^. *P *"*"y Nicholas Davenport's daughter 
 So short a lease of life, and were I but happy with 
 such a wife as Hester I might prolong my span to the 
 uttermosV he to! JmselfTan/ then^hat advocate of 
 evil which every worldly man has at his elbow whispered 
 Why maiTy her, when your wealth would enable you to 
 make so liberal a settlement that she need never feel the 
 disadvantage of a false position. Win her for your mis- 
 tress, chensh and hide her from the eye of the world 
 To marry her would be to brin? a driink«n madman -to* 
 the foreground of your life-to cut off every chancrof 
 distinction m the few years that may be left to voa A 
 man m your position can afford to be faithful to Esther 
 
234 The World, The Fteah, md Tits Devil. 
 
 without repudiating Vashti — and your Vashti has been 
 lo'v al and constant to you. It were a brutal act to break 
 your promise to her.' 
 
 A8 if to accentuate that evil counsel he found a letter 
 from Vashti waiting for him on his study table — a letter 
 upon which Vashti's image was smiling, beautiful in 
 court plumes and rividre of diamonds. There was nothing 
 new in her letter, but it Btabbed him where he was weak- 
 est, for the writer dwelt fondly on her trust in him, and 
 upon that happy future which they were to lead to- 
 gether, 
 
 He dawdled away the summer noontide in his garden, 
 smoking and dreaming, and he drove to Rosamond road, 
 Chelsea, at the hour when he knew he was likely to find 
 Nicholas Davenport alone. His horses and stablemen 
 had been having plenty of idleness of late, as he always 
 employed a hansom when he went to Chelsea — and the 
 inquiry, ' would the horses be wanted any more to-day ?' 
 was generally answered in the negative. 
 
 He found the old man dozing in the armchair, the 
 * Standard ' lying across his knees and an empty tumbler 
 on the table beside him, which had contained the harm- 
 less lemonade with which he now slaked his habitual 
 thirst. He looked pale and worn, the mere wreck of a 
 man, his silvery hair falling in long loose wisps over the 
 high, narrow forehead. There were fresh flowers in the 
 room, and all was exquisitely neat, from the books upon 
 the dwarf cupboard to the muslin cover of the sewing 
 machine. Gerard seldom entered that room without 
 being reminded of Faust's emotion in Gretchen's modest 
 chamber — where in the simple maiden's absence, he felt 
 her spirit hovering near him, her pure and gentle nature 
 expressed in the purity and neatness of her surroundings. 
 
 He had time to glance round him, and to recall that 
 !3cen8=-Ein kleines, reinliches 
 
 r/:— 
 
 T £ ^ 
 
 -uciure 
 
 
 Davenport started up out of his light slumber and shook 
 hands with him. 
 
id to recall that 
 imber and shook 
 
 ThP^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil. m 
 
 ff rouTon ' ''"' *'"' ^* ^'^^^> ^^d so the 
 
 the influencrof alcoho? '"^^f r''' "J-^'P"'" ^'^ "■'<''''■ 
 
 stole down the faded oheeks-S, wl^ i. ^^^ *^ 
 she is a woman, and a young wom^ id fK' *"!? 
 
 thTnkashel dotn^mf aTPr"''=^r 'S '»^' ""d shI 
 
^-T'" i.„l ' 't' | l ' 'W 
 
 256 
 
 The World, The Flesh and TJie Vevil 
 
 * Her mistake is in insisting upon total abstinence. I 
 have not forgotten the past, Mr. Hillersdon. I have not for- 
 gotten the cruel degradation and disgrace which I brought 
 upon myself in your father's church; but that ilnhappy 
 exhibition was the outcome of long months of agony. I 
 had been racked by neuralgia, and the only alleviation of 
 my pain was the use of chloral or brandy. I have been 
 free from neuralgic pain of late. My poor Hester is very 
 careful of my diet, full of the tenderest attentions, takes 
 the utmost care of my health after her own lights; but 
 she cannot see how weak and depressed I am, she cannot 
 understand the mental miseiy which a glass of sound 
 port, twice a day, might cure.' 
 
 ' Surely Miss Davenport would not object to your tak- 
 ing a glass of port after your luncheon and your dinner ? ' 
 
 'You don't know her, my dear friend,' said Daveni)ort, 
 shaking his head. 'Women are always in extremes. 
 She would begin to cry if she saw me with a glass of 
 wine in my hand, would go on her knees to ask me not 
 to drink it. She has taken it into her head that the least 
 indulgences in that line would bring about a return to 
 habits of intemperance, which I can assure you were 
 never a part of my nature.' 
 
 ' I must talk to Miss Davenport, and induce her to let 
 me send you a few dozen of fine old port. Cockbum's 
 57, for instance.* 
 
 The old man's eyes gleamed as he heard the offer. 
 
 * You may talk to her,' he said, ' but she won't give way. 
 She has made up her mind that my salvation depends 
 upon living in her way. It is a hard thing for a man of 
 my age to depend for subsistence upon a daughter's man- 
 ual labour, to see a lovely giii wearing out her life at 
 vulgar drudgery, and never to have sixpence in my pocket 
 — ^hardly the weans of buying a newspaper. She doles 
 out her pence, poor child, as if they were sovereigna 
 Women have sucn narrow notions about money.' 
 
 There was a silence of some minutes, during which 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 237 
 
 Mr Davenport nearly fell asleep again, and then Gerard 
 said quietly : — 
 
 ' Why should you depend upon your daughter, even 
 for ^ou^tlfT""^^ ^ '^°"^'^ """^ ^""^ do something 
 
 'What can I do? I have tried to get copying work 
 but I could not write a clerk's hand. My penmanship 
 was too weak and illegible to be worth even the pittance 
 paid for that kind of work,' 
 
 ' I wa.s not thinking of so poor an occupation. Have 
 you tried your hand at literature ? ' 
 
 'I have, in more than one line, though I had no voca- 
 tion, and wrote slowly and laboriously. The papers I 
 sent to the magazines all came back, 'Declined with 
 thanks. My daughter was the poorer by so many quires 
 ot ^ath post and so many postage stamps.' 
 
 'You tried a wrong line, I daresay. Beginners in lit- 
 erature generally do. You are a good classic, I know ' 
 
 I was once, but the man who took his degree at Ox- 
 ford thirty years ago is dead and gone.' 
 
 ' Men don't forget their Horace and Virgil when thev 
 have once loved them with the scholar's fervour' 
 
 ' Forget, no. One does not forget old friends.' Quote 
 me any line from tlorace or Virgil— the most obscure— 
 and I will give you the context. Those two poets are 
 interwoven with the fabric of my brain. I used also to 
 be considered a pretty good critic upon the Greek Dra-n- 
 atists. I once got half way through a translation of 
 ULcIipus, which some of my contemporaries were flatter- 
 ing enough to persuade me to finish. I laid the manu- 
 script aside when I began parish work, and heaven knows 
 what became of it.' 
 
 'The world has grown uoo frivolous to care for new 
 translations of Sophocles,' replied Gerard, ' but I believe 
 there is room for a new Horace— that is to say a new ver- 
 
 T'\aVT\^''^ ^^^ ^^S^*®^ satires-a version which 
 shQuld be for the present epoch what Pope's was for the 
 
288 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 time of Queen Anne ; and I feel that it is in me to at- 
 tempt the thing if I had the aid of a competent soholar 
 — like yourself.' 
 
 The old man's face lighted up with feverish eagerness. 
 
 ' Surely your own Latin — ' he began tremulously. 
 
 ' Has grown abominably rusty. I want a now version 
 of my favourite satires — a verbatim translation, repro- 
 ducing the exact text in clear, nervous English, and upon 
 that I could work, giving the old lines a modern turn, 
 modulating the antique satiie into a modern key. Will 
 you collaborate with me, Mr. Davenport ? Will you 
 undertake the scholarly portion of the work ? ' 
 
 'It is a task which will deUght me. The very idea 
 gives me nfew life. Which of the satires shall we start 
 with ? ' 
 
 • Shall we say the ninth in the first book ? It gives 
 such a fine opportunity, for the castigation of the modern 
 bore.' 
 
 ' Capital. I am proud to think that with so many 
 translations ready to your laud you should prefer a new 
 one by me.' 
 
 'I want to avoid all published versions,* answered 
 Gerard, plausibly j as he drew out a note ca,se and opened 
 it. 
 
 The old man watched him with greedy eyes, and the 
 weak lips began to quiver faintly. Did that note case 
 mean payment in advance ? 
 
 The question was promptly' answered. Gerard took 
 out a couple of folded notes, and handed them to his 
 future collaborator. 
 
 The old man fairly broke down, and burst into tears. 
 
 ' My dear young friend, your delicacy, your generosity 
 overcome me,' he faltered, clutching the noted with shak- 
 ing fingers, ' but I cannot — I cannot take this money.' 
 His hold of the notes tightened involuntarily as he spoke, 
 in abject fear lest he should have to give them back. ' I 
 suspect your proposed translation is only a generous 
 
Tke D&vU. 
 
 t it is in me to at- 
 i competent scholar 
 
 feverish eagerness. 
 ,n tremulously. 
 «vant a P3W version 
 
 translation, repro- 
 3 English, and upon 
 les a modern turn, 
 modern key. Will 
 mport ? Will you 
 e work ? * 
 
 ne. The very idea 
 ires shall we start 
 
 3t book ? It gives 
 ition of the modern 
 
 hat with so many 
 ihould prefer a new 
 
 (versions/ answered 
 ote c^se and opened 
 
 eedy eyes, and the 
 Did that note case 
 
 ired. Gerard took 
 mded them to his 
 
 id burst into tears. 
 !y, your generosity 
 le note.^ with shak- 
 take this money.' 
 ntarily as he spoke, 
 Lve them back. ' I 
 I only a generous 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 239 
 
 fiction— devised to spare me the sense of humiliation in 
 acceptm;^ this noble— this munificent honorarium 1 own 
 to you that the work you propose would interest me in- 
 tensely. I perceive the opportunities of those satires— 
 tivated as fully as Pope treated them— the allusions, poli- 
 tical, social, literary— and to a writer of your power— 
 who have made your mark in the very morning of life bv 
 a work of real genius— the task would be easy ' 
 
 'You will help me then— it is agreed?' said Gerard, 
 his pale cheeks flushing with a hectic glow. 
 
 • With all my heart, and to the utmost of my power' 
 answered Davenport, slipping the notes into his waistcoat 
 pocket rs if by an automatic movement. • Without con- 
 ceit I think I may venture to say that for the mere ver- 
 bal work you could employ no better assistant.' 
 
 'I am sure of that, and- for much more than merely 
 verbal work. And now, good-day to you, Mr. Davenport. 
 It IS about your daughter's time for coming home, and 
 she wont care to find a visitor here when she comes in 
 tired after her walk. 
 
 • Yes, she will be here directly,' answered the old man 
 starting as with some sudden apprehension, ' and on sec- 
 ond thoughts I would rather you did not tell her any- 
 thing about our plans until they are carried out. When 
 vour book is published she will be proud, very proud to 
 know that her old father has helped in 3o distinguished 
 a work ; but m the meantime if you changed your mind 
 and the book were never finished she would be disap- 
 pointed ; and then, on the other hand, I should not like 
 her to^know that I had so much money in my possession.' 
 ^vi u V^^ faltered nervously, in broken sentences, 
 while Mr. Davenport followed his patron to the door, and 
 showed him out. eagerly facilitating his departure. 
 
 Gerard had dismis3f;d his cab on arriving, and he 
 waued sxowiy towards the nver, carefuUy avoiding that 
 road by which Hester was likely to return from herbusi- 
 
 murder'ir ^^ ^^^^ ^ *^® ^^^^ ^^ ^® ^^^^ "^° * 
 
'wmmmmmm 
 
 240 The World, The Flesh, and The Dml. 
 
 .! II! 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "so, QUIET AS DESPAIR, I TUBNED FROM HIM." 
 
 , ERARD called at Rosamond road on the follow- 
 ing evening at the hour when he had been 
 accustomed to find Mr. Davenport reposin^' 
 after his comfortable little dinner, and his 
 daughter reading to him. To-night the open 
 window showed him Hester sitting alone in a 
 despondent attitude, with her head resting on 
 her hand, and an unread book on the table be- 
 fore her. 
 
 She came to the door in answer to his knock. 
 ' My father is out/ she said. • He did not come home 
 to dinner. He went out early in the afternoon while I 
 was away, and he left a little note f ( r me, saying that he 
 had to go into London to meet an old friend. He did not 
 tell me the friend's name, and it seems so strange, for we 
 have no friends left. We have drifted away from all old 
 ties.' 
 
 * May I come in and talk v ithyou ?' Gerard asked. 'I 
 am so sorry you should have any cause for uneasiness.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I am foolish to be uneasy, but you know — 
 you know why. I was just going for a little walk. It is 
 so sultry in doors, and we may meet him.' She took her 
 neat little straw hat from a peg in the passage, and put 
 it on. 
 
 ' We are not very particular about gloves in this neigh- 
 bourhood,' she said. 
 
 Tic 
 
 
 j. J «"-■ '-tood that she would sot receivc 
 
 him in her father's absence, that even in her fallen estate, 
 a work girl among other work girls, she clung to the con- 
 
5 FROM HIM. 
 
 ivenport reposing 
 
 ves in this neigh- 
 
 Th6 World, The Fleah, and The Devil 241 
 
 ventionalities of her original sphere, and that it would 
 not be easy for him to break through them. 
 
 They walked to the end of Rosamond road almost in 
 silence, but on the Enibankinent, with the dark swift 
 river flowing past them, and the summer stai-s above she 
 began to tell hiui her trouble. 
 
 •You know how happy I have been/ she said, ' in a life 
 which man^ girla of my age would think miserable and 
 degraded ? 
 
 'Miserable, yes; degraded, no. The most feather- 
 headed girl m England, if she knew your life, would 
 honour you as a heroine.' 
 
 'Oh, please don't make so much out of so little. I have 
 done no more than hundreds of girls would have done 
 tor a good old father. I was so proud and happy to think 
 that I had saved him— that he was cured of the dreadful 
 vice— and now, now I am full of fear that since yester- 
 da,y. somehow or othn, , has obtained the means of 
 falling back into iU old habit-the habit that wrecked 
 him. 
 
 ' What makes you fear this ? ' 
 
 'He insisted upon going out last night after dinner. 
 He was gomg to the Free Library to look at the August 
 magazines. I oflferod to go there with him. We used to 
 read there of an evening in the winter, but since the 
 warm weather began we have not done so. I reminded 
 him how hot the reading-room would be with the jras 
 but he was restlessly eager to go, and I could not hinder 
 hira. The worst sign of all was that he did not like mv 
 going with him, and when he had been sitting there for 
 Ijali-an-hour he seemed anxious to get rid of me, and re- 
 minded me of some work which he knew I had to finish 
 before this naorning But for this work I should have 
 stayed with him till he came home ; but I could not d?s- 
 app-oiut liiy employer, so I left my father sitting engros- 
 sed m Blackwood,' and I hoped all would be well. He 
 promised me to come straight hon:e when the library 
 
242 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil ' 
 
 closed, and he was home about the time I expected him, 
 but oae look in his face, one sentence from his lips told 
 me that by some means or other he had been able to get 
 the poison which destroys him.' 
 
 ' Are you not exaggerating the evil in your own mind 
 from a delicate woman's natural horror of intemperance V 
 asked Gerard, soothingly. ' After all, do you think that a 
 few glasses too much once in a way can do your father any 
 harm ? He has seemed to me below par of late. He 
 really may suffer from this enforced abstinence.' 
 
 * Suffer ! Ah, you do not know, you do not know ! 
 I may seem bard with him, perhaps, but I would give my 
 life to keep him from that old horror— that madness of 
 the past, which degraded a gentleman and a scholar to 
 the level of the lowest drunkard in St. Giles'. There is 
 no difference— the drink madness makes them all alike. 
 And now someone has given him money, all my^ care is 
 useless. I cannot think who has done it. I don't know 
 of any so-called friend to whom he could apply.' 
 
 ' His letter tells you of an old friend ' 
 
 'Yes! It may be someone who has returned from 
 abroad— some friend of years ago who knows nothing of 
 his unhappy story, and cannot guess the harm that money 
 may do.* 
 
 ' Pray do not be too anxious,' said Gerard, taking her 
 hand and lifting it to his lips. 
 
 She snatched the small cold hand away from him in- 
 
 dignantlv. 
 
 * Pray don't,' she said. ' Is this a time for idle gallantry, 
 and to me of all people — to me who have to deal only 
 with the hard things of this life.' 
 
 * No, Hester, but it is a time for love — devoted love — 
 to speak. You know that I love you.' He took the 
 tioor little gloveless band again and held it fast, and 
 hissed the thin worked- worn lingers again and again. 
 
 'You know that I love you, fondly, dearly, with all 
 my soul, Hester, only yesterday a famous physician told 
 
The Dml ' 
 
 le I expected him, 
 from his lips told 
 bd beea able to get 
 
 in your own mind 
 • of intemperance V 
 lo you think that a 
 do your father any 
 T par of late. He 
 bstinence.' 
 rou do not know ! 
 ut I would give my 
 — that madness of 
 a and a scholar to 
 t. Giles'. There is 
 kes them all alike, 
 ney, all my care is 
 5 it. I don't know 
 lid apply.' 
 
 has returned from 
 ) knows nothing of 
 e harm that money 
 
 Gerard, taking her 
 
 away from him in- 
 
 le for idle gallantry, 
 
 have to deal only 
 
 ire— devoted love — 
 jrou.' He took the 
 
 1 held it fast, and 
 igain and again. 
 
 y, dearly, with all 
 mous physician told 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 243 
 
 me that I have not many years to spend upon this pianet 
 -—perhaps not many months. He told me to be happy 
 if I could — happy with the woman I love, for my day of 
 happiness must be brief even at the best. It is but a 
 poor remnant of life that I offer, Hester, but it means all 
 myself — mind and heart and hope and dreams are all 
 centered and bound up in you. Since I have known you 
 — since that first night under the stars when you were 
 so hard and cold, when you would have nothing to say 
 to me — since that night I have loved only you, lived only 
 for you.* 
 
 She had heard him in despite of herself, her free will 
 struggling against her love, like a bird caught in a net. 
 Yes, she loved him. Her desolate heart had gone to him 
 as gladly, blindly, eagerly as his heart had gone to her. 
 There had been no more hesitation, no more doubt than 
 in Margaret in the garden, when inasweet simplicity that 
 scarce knew fear of shame, she gave her young heart to 
 her unknown lover. Hester's was just as pure, and fond, 
 and unselfish a passion; but she had more knowledge of 
 danger than Goethe's guileless maiden. She knew that 
 peril lay in Grerard Hillersdon's love— generous, reveren- 
 tial as it might seem. It was only a year ago that she 
 had sat, late into the night, reading Clarissa Harlowe, 
 and she knew how tender, how delicate, how deeply 
 respectful a lover might be and yet harbour the darkest 
 designs against a woman's honour. 
 
 •You have no right to talk to me like this,' she said 
 indignantly. ' You take advantage of my loneliness and 
 my misery. Do you think I can forget the distance your 
 fortune has set between us ? I know that you are bound 
 to another woman— that you will marry a woman who 
 can-do you honour before the whole world. I know that 
 in o^iUgland wealth counts almost as high as rank, and 
 that a marriage between a millionaire and a work-eirl 
 would be called a mesalliance.' 
 
 A lady is always a lady, Hester. Do you think your 
 
niii 
 
 ^44 Ttts World, The Plesh, and The Devil. 
 
 womanly dignity is lowered in my esteem because you 
 have toiled to support your father—do you think there is 
 any man in England who would not admire you for that 
 self-sacrifice ? Yes, it is true that I am bound in honour 
 to another woman — to a woman whom I loved four years 
 ago, and whom I thought this world's one woman — but 
 from that first night when I followed you across the park 
 — when you sent me away from you so cruelly, the old 
 love was dead. It died in an hour, and no eflbrt of mine 
 would conjure the passion back to life. I knew then how 
 poor a thing that first love was — a frivolous young man's 
 fancy for a beautiful face. My love for you is difierent. 
 I should love you as dearly if that sweet face of yours 
 was faded and distorted — if those sweet eyes were blind 
 and dim. I should love you as the clerk loved the leper 
 with a passion that no outward circumstance could change.' 
 They were walking slowly under the trees — in the 
 warm darkness of a breathless August night. He had his 
 arm round her, and though her face was turned from him 
 she did not repulse him! She let his arm clasp her, and 
 draw her nearer and nearer, till it seemed as they moved 
 slowly under the wavering branches as if they were one 
 already.' Old vows, the opinion of the world, the past, 
 the future, what could these matter to two beings whose 
 hearts beat, throb for throb, in the sweet madness of the 
 present ? 
 
 ' Love, say you love me. I know it, I know it — only 
 let me hear, let me hear it from those dear lips. Hester, 
 you love me, you love me.* 
 
 Her face was turned to him now — pale in that faint 
 light of distant stars, dark violet eyes still darker in the 
 shadow of night. Their lips met, and between his pas- 
 sionate kisses he heard the faint whisjper, ' Yes, I love 
 you — love you better than my life— but it cannot bo.' 
 
 * What cannot be — not love's sweet union — all our life, 
 my poor brief life, spent together in one unbroken dream, 
 
 like this, like this, and this ? ' 
 
 Sho wrenched herself out of his arms. 
 
5%« World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 245 
 
 ' You know that it cannot be — you know that you can- 
 not many me— that it is cruel to fool mo like this — with 
 sweet words that mean nothing. No man ever kissed 
 me before — except my father. You have ma'le mo hate 
 myself. Let me go — let me never hear your voice again.' 
 
 ' Hester, is there no other way ? Do you want marri;! -e 
 law to bind us ? Won't you trust in me— won't you be- 
 lieve in me — as other women have trusted their lovers, 
 all the world over ? ' 
 
 ' Don't,' she cried, passionately, * why could you not 
 leave those words unspoken ? Why must you fill my cup 
 of shame ^ I knew those hateful words would come if 
 ever 'at you tell me of your love, and I have tried to 
 hird'jr your telling me. Yes, 1 kne^v from almost the 
 be^iiiuing what your love was worth. You will keep 
 your promise to the great lady— your sister told me about 
 her— and you would let me lose my soul for your love. 
 You have been trying to win my heart— so that I should 
 have no power to resist you— but I am not so weak and 
 helpless a creature as you think. Oh, God, look down 
 upon my loneliness— motherless, fatherless, friendless- 
 take pity upon me because I am so lonely. I have none 
 other but Thee.' 
 
 She stood with clasped hands, looking skyward in 
 the moonlight ; to the irreligious man, sublime in her 
 simple faith. 
 
 'Hester, do yoja think that God cares about marriage 
 lines ? He has l&ade His creatures to love as we love— 
 our love cannot be unholy in His sight — any more than 
 the unwedded love of Adam and Eve in the Garden.' 
 
 • He never made us for dishonour,' she answered, firmly. 
 • Good-night, Mr. Hillersdon— good-night and good-bye.' 
 
 She turned and walked quickly, with steady steps, 
 towards Rosamond road. A minute ago he had held her 
 clasped close in his enfolding arms, had felt the impas- 
 sioned tumult 'of her heart mixing with the tumult of his 
 own — ^Ead counted her his very o-^ro, pledged to him for 
 
246 lU World, The Flesh, and The Devit. 
 
 diplomatise-f-smfer pour mieux smUer. 
 
 ■if ^trb:t„r^e^°" toy„„rdooratlea«V he said. 
 
 fr,v^?' f !? ^"^ '^^'^ ^'^ °^"e^- Most of all when vou 
 tried to trade upon my weakness, to frighten me bv 17 
 mpou have not long to live. That ^rZlleliZi 
 
 v.lif V^ *"■"?' ?e«*er-as true as that you and I are 
 
 year ago, and he was hot pS cularrhoD^ "Tj.^f" * 
 even then. He warned me^hatTSfcreftaUvtlS! 
 a^l strong emotions would tend to sCten C dl I 
 
 tv,!? T iTj T *" ^'"dn'ss and all truth. He toll me 
 that I had changed for the worae within tS vZ thS? 
 
 Zl^::i:^ff'>""f' ^^ ^^"*™ eare?„lnessCu{Sl 
 prolong my life for a few years. And thpn he. l^aT 
 
 |o,and he happy, as if th^at were."ch t°a^; Sng^* 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 247 
 
 all the world to 
 
 * Useless if there is only one thing in the world that I 
 want — deny me that and you reduce me to misery.' 
 
 * Did your doctor really tell" you that you have but a 
 lew years to live ? ' she asked, and he knew by her voice 
 that she was crying, though her face was averted. * Don't 
 try to make me unhappy. I'm sure it is not true that he 
 said so. Doctors- don't say such things.' 
 
 'Sometimes, Hester. Even a physician will tell the 
 truth once in a way when he is hard pressed. My doctor 
 spoke very plainly. It is only in a life of calm — which 
 means a life of happiness — that I can hope to prolong my 
 existence a few years — -just the years that are best and 
 brightest if love lights them. If I am worried and un- 
 happy my life will be a question of months not years. 
 But if you do not care for me that makes no difference to 
 you.' 
 
 ' You know that I care for you. Should I be speaking 
 to you now — anxious about your health — when you have 
 tried to degrade me, if I did not care for you ? If love 
 were not stronger than pride, I should never have spoken 
 to you again. But I am speaking to you to-night for the 
 last time. Our friendship is at an end forever.' 
 
 ' Our friendship never began, Hester. From the first 
 I had but one feeling about you, and that was passionate 
 love, which takes no heed of difficulties, does not forecast 
 the futura I was wrong, perhaps, tied and hampered as 
 I am, to pursue you ; but I followed where my heart led, 
 I could not count the cost for you or fo^ me. You are 
 right — ^you are wise — we must part. Good night, dear 
 love, and good-bye ! * 
 
 liis tone was firm and deliberate. She believed him — 
 believed that he was convinced, and that trial and tempta- 
 tion were over. She turned to him with a little choking 
 sob, put her hand in his, and whispered good-bye. Those 
 two xiSiuaa Ciaopcu cauu uLiiur paumoiiai/eiy, uuu wii/Xi 
 briefest pressure. She hurried from him to the little 
 iron gate, let herself in at the unguarded door — what 
 
248 The World, The Fledh, and The Devil 
 
 need of locks and bolts when there was so little to tempt 
 the thief ?— and had vauished from his sight. 
 
 He went back to the river side, and sat there for an 
 hour or more watching the tide flow by, and thinking 
 thinkmg, thinking of the woman he loved and the brief 
 span he had lor love and for life. 
 
 'And she can believe that I renouHce her— knowing 
 that she loves me— having held her in my arms and felt 
 her sweet lips trembling against my own in love's first 
 kiss. How simple women are ! * 
 
 It was eleven o'clock before he remembered that he had 
 asked Jermyn to sup with him at midnight. He walked 
 home, for his heated brain and throbbing pulses needed 
 active movement. He walked faster than he had walked 
 three or Lur years ago, wh m he was a strong man. Ke 
 thought of many thinors upon his t ay through streets 
 that were still full of traffic and busy life, and once or 
 twice as he caught the expression of a passing i we he 
 saw a kind of wondering horror in strange eyes, that 
 looked on him. 
 
 ' I must be looking miserably ill to-night,' he thought 
 after one of those casual glances. 'Perhaps I am even 
 worse than Dr. South seemed to think me. He question- 
 ed me about my family history, and I rather shirked the 
 subject— paltered with the truth— told him my father 
 ajid mother are alive and well— but the history is bad all 
 the same. Bad, decidedly bad. Two lovely young 
 sisters of my mothers faded ofi" this earth before they 
 saw a twentieth birthday, and an uncle I can just 
 remember died at three and thirty. My family history 
 won't justify a hopeful view of a bad case ' 
 
 He supped with Jermyn, and sat late into the night, 
 and drank deeper than his wont, and he told Jermyn the 
 story of his love. Of his free will he would not have 
 chosen Justin Jermyn for a confidant, and ve.t he *^oured 
 out all his hopes and dreams, the whoie history of his pas- 
 sion in all its weakness and all its strength to this man 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 249 
 
 whose mocking cynicism continually revolted him. Yet 
 it may be that the cynic's companionship was the only 
 society he could have endured at this stormy period 
 The voice of conscience must be stifled somehow ; and 
 how could it be so easily drowned as by this spirit of evil 
 which denied the existence of good, which laughed at the 
 idea of virtue and honour in man or woman ? 
 
 'If the first man who put a fence round a bit of land 
 and called it his was an enemy to his fellow men,' said 
 Justm Jermyn, • what of the first man who set up a nar- 
 row standard of conduct, a hard and fast rule of morality 
 and said, by this standard and by this line and rule of 
 mine shall men act and live for evermore, whether they 
 be happy or miserable. Along this stony road, hedged 
 and fenced on either side with scruples and prejudices 
 shall men tramp painfully to their dull and dreary end • 
 yes, even -vhile in the fair open country on either side 
 those hedges joy and love and gladness beckon to gardens 
 of roses and valleys fairer than Eden ? Why torment 
 yourself because you have given a foolish old man the 
 means of indulging freely in his favourite vice— an inno- 
 cent vice—since it hurts none but himself, whereby you 
 have perhaps provided for him the happiest days of his- 
 life ? 
 
 'I have given him the means of breaking his daugh- 
 ter's heart,' said Gerard, remorsefully. 
 
 'Bosh ! No woman's heart was ever yet broken by a 
 drunken father. It needs a nearer and dearer love than 
 the filial to break hearts. All that Hester Davenport 
 wants in this life is to be happy with the man she loves. 
 The drunken father might prove a stupendous difficulty 
 if yu wanted to parade your divinity through the elec- 
 tric ^lare of the great world as Mrs. Gerard Hillersdon— 
 hut if you want her for your goddess, your Egeria, hid- 
 den away from the glare and the din, the existence of her 
 father, drunk or sober, is of little moment.* 
 
250 Th£ World, The Flesh, and The D&dl. 
 
 ! II I 
 
 illl lililH I 
 
 Hill lllliiii iiiliiiilll 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "LOST, LOST ! ONE MOMENT KNELLED THE WCE OF YEARS." 
 
 [ERARD let three whole days go by without 
 making any attempt to see Hester. Lovelace 
 himself could hardly have been more diploma- 
 tic He was completely miserable in the in- 
 terval, counted the hours, and wondered per- 
 petually whether the woman ho loved was hunger- 
 ing for his presence as he hungered for hers. He 
 spent the greater part of the time with Jermyn ; 
 driving to Richmond one day to dine at the Star and 
 Garter and sit late into the night watching the mists ris- 
 ing in the valley, and the stars shining on the river, driv- 
 ing to Maidenhead on another day and loitering on the 
 river till midnight, and sitting in a riverside garden smok- 
 ing and talking half through the sultry summer night ; 
 and in this long tete-i-tete he sounded, the uttermost 
 depths of Justin Jer- nyn's godlessness and cheerful ego- 
 tism. 
 
 * The one thing that I am certain of in this Rhada- 
 manthine universe,' said this easy-going philosopher, ' is 
 that I, Justin Jermyn, exist, and this being my one cer- 
 tainty, I hold that my one duty— the duty I owe to my- 
 self—is to be happy and to make the best of the brief 
 span which I am to enjoy on this earth. Reason tells me 
 to be happy, and to live long I must abjure passion— rea- 
 son tells me that serenity of mind means health and pro- 
 longed life; and to this end I have learnt to take lif 
 lightly, as a farce rather than a tragedy, and to give Tn>^ 
 affection neither to man nor woman — to be slave neitt. 
 of friendship nor of love. A selfish philosophy, I grant 
 you; but self is my only certainty.' 
 
W(,E OF YEARS. 
 
 He WorU, The Flesh, and The DevU. 26i 
 
 ti^l'^fn'^"^'*^^^ philosophy, if it wei. as ea.y to prac- 
 tzse as to preach. And have you never loved F 
 
 ^ever, in the fashion that you call love ThnvAr.^, 
 been unhappy for a woman's sike.' ^^^^ ''"''"' 
 
 And the domestic affections-father, mother family ? ' 
 I never knew them. I was flung as a waif upon the 
 world, reared upon charity, the architect of my own for 
 
 isieaK House. My mother was my disgrace and T Tirol 
 
 friendship, a stranger to every bond of blood rSionshin 
 Lr^^ h^^\grown up to manhood heartCandp^^^^^^ 
 less should have trained himself to the settled cSm of «! 
 phi osophical egotism, attaining in the morW of hft 
 that immunity from all the plins and ^en^t^fs of the 
 affections which the average egotist onl/achieves in oJd 
 
 en?v'^Thi°f •"'^ 1 the sleeper wonderingly, almost with 
 envy The fair jpale face was unmarked by a line that 
 told of anxious thought or deep feeling. The sleeDert 
 lips were parted in a faint smile, as if even in sleepin' 
 he felt the sensuous pleasure of HPa nn If • sleeping 
 
 -oming-theperfulo'flreytra hS^dZr 
 dens, the soft breath of the wind creeninl ,r.f / ^l 
 
 ^pend. and, it m^HMl^ZntZfJ^^.Tr^^ST.X 
 :; tTXt:f„ SlT^'"- whiiethet^:^-^ 
 
252 !rhe World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 He went to Chelsea at dusk on the third evening after 
 Hester bade him farewell outside the gate of the little 
 garden. She came quickly to the door in answer to his 
 knock, and he was startled at the change which three 
 days had made in her. The first words she spoke told 
 him that it was not love ol him which had so altered 
 her, but poignant anziety about her father. 
 
 ' He has never been home since that night/ she said, 
 ignoring every other thought. * I have been in search of 
 him at every place that I could think of as possible for 
 him to have gone to, but I have not found any trace of 
 him since Tuesday night — the night you were here. He 
 was at the Swan Tavern that night Ritting in the 
 coffee room, drinking brandy and water till the 
 house closed. He was talking a good deal and he 
 was very excited in his manner when he left, but the 
 people would not tell me if he had drunk much. They 
 pretended not to know how much brandy had been served 
 to him. I have^ been to the police office, and the river 
 has been dragged along by the embankment, where he 
 and I used always to walk. They were very good to me 
 at the police station, and they have promised to do all 
 they can to find him, living or dead. But, oh,' with a 
 burst <>i uncontrollable weeping, ' I fear they will never 
 find him alive. He could have had only a little money, 
 and he must have spent it all on brandy, and then when 
 he was mad with drink — ah, you don't know how drink 
 maddens him — ^he may have walked into the river, or 
 thrown himself in, misemble and despairing. He was at 
 the Swan at eleven o'clock, only a few minutes* walk from 
 the river, and I can find no one who saw him after that 
 hour. I think he must have meant to come home — I 
 don't think he would wilfully desert me — but some acci- 
 dent, some fit of madness — ' 
 
 She could not speak for sobbing. Gerard led her into 
 the parlour, where the old man's empty chair reminded 
 him of that last interview, and of his diabolical trap to 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. m 
 
 light of 
 she 
 
 catch a weak sinner's feet. Looked at in the 
 Hester's grief to-night, and the awful possibilitie's 
 «ug!,resterl, his crime seemed murder. 
 
 ' I will go to Scotland Yard, Hester, I will set the clev- 
 erest detectives in London at work, and it shall go hard 
 if they don't find o^our father. My dearest, don't give 
 way to these morbid imaginin^^ ^e sure he is safe some- 
 where—only hiding becau.se he ieels that he has broken 
 down, and disgraced him.self in your eyes. He has been 
 afraid to come home, knowing how grieved you would be 
 at his backsliding. Be comforted, dear love.' His arms 
 were round her, and he drew the pale, pinched face to 
 his own, and again their lips met, but this time Hester's 
 kiss was the kiss of despair. She clung to her Jover in 
 her grief and fear. She forgot the peril of consolation 
 from that poisonous source. 
 
 What comfort could he give her about her father, ex- 
 cept the assurance that all that wealth could do to find 
 him .should be done, and that once being Ibund every po.s- 
 sible means should be taken to insure his safety and wel- 
 fare m the future. He told her that there were doctors 
 who had made such cases as her father's their chief study, 
 homes where her father could be surrounded with every 
 luxury, and yet secured from the possibility of indulgence 
 in his fatal vice. He showed her how happy and free 
 from care her future might be if she would only trust her 
 own fate and her father's to him— and then came words 
 ut love, burning words that have been spoken again and 
 agam upon this earth with good or evil import—words 
 that may be true when the lips speak them, yet false 
 within the year in which they are spoken— words that 
 promise an eternity of love, and may be uttered in all 
 good faith, and yet prove lighter than the thistledown 
 •.-.aited across summer pastures. 
 
 Three days ago she had been strong to resist the temp- 
 *®\s<^rong in womanly pride and maiden modesty. To- 
 night she was broken down by grief, worn and fevered 
 
 ^1 
 
254 The World, the Flesh, and The DeviT. 
 
 by sleepless nights, despairing, and almost reckless. To- 
 night she hstened to those vows of love. What had she 
 on this earth but his love, if the father to whom she had 
 devoted her youth was indeed lying at the bottom of the 
 river, her purpose in life gone for ever? Who could be 
 more lonely, and friendless than she was to-night. 
 
 So she listened to his pleading, he ard him while ho 
 urged her to consider how poor a thing that legal tie was 
 which he entreated her to forego ; how often, how con- 
 tinually cancelled by the disgraceful revelations of the 
 divorce court 
 
 .u'Pi?® ^^ "^^^^ marriage meant till death,' he said, 
 
 but that IS a long exploded fashion. Marriage nowadays 
 means the convenience of a settlement which will enable a 
 man either to found a family or to cheat his creditors. 
 Marriage means till husband and wife are* tired of each 
 other, and till the lady has grown hard enough to face 
 the divorce court.' 
 
 And then he reminded her how the most romantic pas- 
 sions, the loves that had become history were not those 
 alliances upon which parish priest and family lawyer had 
 smiled. He reminded her of Abelard and Heloise, of 
 Henri s passion for Gabrielle, and Nelson's deathless love 
 for Emma Hamilton. He urged that society itself had 
 pardoned these fair offenders, for love's sweet sake. 
 
 Her intellect was too clear to be deceived by such 
 shallow reasoning. 
 
 On the very brink of the abyss she recoiled. Loving 
 him with all her heart, knowing that life without him 
 meant a colourless and hopeless existence— a hand to 
 hand struggle with adversity, knowing by too bitter ex- 
 perience that to be well born and poor meant lifelon<y hu- 
 miliation, she yet had the strength to resist his pleading. 
 
 ' Your wife or nothing,' she said. ' I never meant to 
 hear your voice again after that night. I prayed to God 
 that we might never meet again. And now for my 
 mther 3 sake I humiliate mysell so far as to ask your help. 
 
 Ililiilj 
 
T/ie World, The Flesh and The Devil 255 
 
 If you will bring him back to me I will thank and bless 
 you — and will try to forget your degrading propositiona.' 
 
 * Degrading, Hester ! ' he cried reproachfully, trying to 
 take her hand again, the han«1 that had lain softly in hia 
 a few moments ago. 
 
 ' Yes, degrading. Wh^ o could y mi say to any wretched 
 lost woman in London vi or. ) thaiji you have said to ma ? 
 You talked to me of lov^ atrd y i offer me shame for 
 my portion.' 
 
 'Hester, that is a woman's narrow way of looking at 
 life. As if the priest and the ring made any difference.' 
 
 'If you cared for me you would make me your wife.' 
 
 ' I am not free to marry, Hester. I am bound by a tie 
 which I cannot break yet a while. The tie may be 
 loosened in years to come, then you shall be my wife. 
 We will have the priest and the ring, the whole legal and 
 ecclesiastical formula — although the formula will not 
 make me one whit more vour slave than I am this night.' 
 
 ' I don't want a slave, she said, resolutely, ' I want a 
 husband whom I can love and honour. And now I am 
 going back to the Police Station to ask if there is any 
 news.' 
 
 ' Let me go with you.* 
 
 ' I had rather you went to Scotland Yard, as you pro- 
 mised.' 
 
 'I will go to Scotland Yaul. I will do anything to 
 prove my love and loyalty.' 
 
 * Loyalty. Oh, Mr. Hillersdon, do not play with words. 
 I am an ignorant, inexperienced girl, but I know what 
 truth and loyalty mean — and that you have violated both 
 to me.' 
 
 They left the house together, in opposite directions. 
 Gerard walked toward Oakley-street, hailed the first cab 
 he met, which took him to Scotland Yard, where lie saw 
 the officials, and gave a careful description of the missing 
 Nicholas Davenport, age, person, cliaracteristics, manners, 
 and habits. When asked if the missing man had any 
 
I ! 
 
 256 2%e World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 money about him at the time of his disappearance, he 
 professed ignorance, but added that it was likely he had 
 money. It was late in the evening when he left Scotland 
 Yard, and he went into the park, and roamed about for 
 some time in a purposeless manner, his brain fevered, his 
 nerves horribly shaken. The horror of Nicholas Daven- 
 port's fate absorbed his mind at one moment, and in the 
 next he was thmking of Hester, and his rejected love, 
 troubled, irresolute, full of pity for the woman he loved, 
 full of tenderest compassion for scruples which seemed to 
 him futile and foolish in the world as he knew it, where 
 illicit liaisons were open secrets, and where no man or 
 woman refused praise and honour to sin in high places. 
 He pitied the simplicity which clung to virtue for its 
 own sake, a strange spectacle in that great guilty city, a 
 penniless girl sacrificing love and gladness for the sake of 
 honour. 
 
 . He went from the park to the Small Hours, a club 
 where he knew he was likely to find Jermyn, who rarely 
 went to bed before the summer dawn. * It is bad enough 
 to be obliged to go to bed by candle light from Octol^r 
 to March,' said Jermyn, who declared that any man who 
 took more than three or four hours' sleep in the twenty- 
 four shamefully wasted his existence. 
 
 ' We are men, not dormice,' "he said, • and we are sent 
 into this world to livo — not to sleep.* 
 
 Gerard founa Jermyn the life of^a choice little supper 
 party, where the manners of the ladies, although they 
 were not stnctly • in society,' were irreproachable, so ir- 
 reproachable, indeed, that the party would have been dull 
 but for Justin Jermyn. His ringmg laugh and easy 
 - ivacity sustained the gaiety of the party, and made the 
 champagne more exhilarating than the champagne of 
 these latter days is wont to be. 
 
 *A t*a.r\ii:s*} xxrina qin'f if ? ' V.a a«l'-iv' ~-Jl— « Ti.»_ 
 
 brand, " Fin de Siecle," the only wine I cate for.' 
 
 Gerard drank deep of the new wine, would have drank 
 
The Devil 
 
 I disappearance, he 
 was Ukely he had 
 ben he left Scotland 
 roamed about for 
 8 brain fevered, his 
 )f Nicholas Daven- 
 ioment, and in the 
 i his rejected love, 
 e woman he loved, 
 ies which seemed to 
 he knew it, where 
 where no man or 
 sin in high places. 
 J to virtue for its 
 Treat guilty city, a 
 less for the sake of 
 
 Qall Hours, a club 
 ermyn, who rarely 
 * It is bad enough 
 light from October 
 that any man who 
 Bep in the twenty- 
 
 , ' and we are sent 
 
 ihoice little supper 
 ies, although they 
 sproachable, so ir- 
 uld have been dull 
 laugh and easy 
 rty, and made the 
 he champagne of 
 
 .:i~ 
 
 ( Tx>_ 
 
 ±uSa liuvv 
 
 ilie WorU, !rh£ Plesh, and The LevU. 267 
 
 it had it been vitriol, in the hope of drowning Nicholas 
 Davenports ghost; and when the little banquet was 
 over, and youth and folly were dancing to a waltz by 
 Strauss in an adjoining room, he linked his arm inrough 
 Jermyn s and led him out of the club, and into the still- 
 ness and solitude of St. James' Park. 
 
 Here he told his Mentor all that had happened, de- 
 nounced himself as a traitor, and perhaps a murderer 
 'It was your scheme,' he said, 'you suggesteu the snare 
 and you have made me the wretch I am.' 
 
 Jermyn's frank laughter had a sound of mockery as he 
 greeted this accusation. 
 
 'That is always the way/ he said, 'a man asks for 
 advice, and turns upon his counsellor. You wanted to 
 get tiiat foolish, officious old father out of the way I 
 suggested a manner of doing it. And now you call* me 
 devil and yourself murderer.' 
 
 And then with airiest banter he laughed away Gerard's 
 lingering scruples, scoffed at man's honour and at woman's 
 virtue, and Gerard, who had long ago abandoned all old 
 creeds for a dreary agnosticism, heard and assented to 
 that mocking sermon, whose text was self, and whose 
 argument was self-indulgence. ^ 
 
 'I shudder when I think of the myriads of fanatics 
 who have sacrificed happiness here for the sake of an im- 
 aginary paradise— wretches who have starved body and 
 soul upon earth to feast and rejoice in the New Jerusa- 
 ,lem, said Jermyn, finally, as they parted at Buckingham 
 gate in the first faint flush of dawn. 
 
 Less than half an hour afterwards Gerard was in the 
 
 iKosamond road, and at the little iron gate that opened 
 
 rtnto the scrap of garden, where a cluster of sunflowers 
 
 ;ose superior to the dust, pale in the steel-blue light of 
 
 lawn. ^ 
 
 X •■•■ 
 
 '. cate for.' 
 
 would have drank 
 
 no lamp was still burning in the parlour, and he saw 
 esters shadow upon the blind. She was sitting with 
 ler elbows on the table, her face buried in her hands, and 
 
I ( 
 
 SS8 The World, The Flesh and The DevU. 
 
 he knew that she must be weeping or praying. She had 
 let her lamp bum on unconscious of the growing day- 
 light. The window was open at the top, but the lower 
 half was shut. He tapped on the pane, and the shadow 
 of a woman's form rose up suddenly, and broadened over 
 the blind. 
 
 ' Hester, Hester,' he called. He raised the sash, as she 
 drew up the blind, and they stood face to face, both pale, 
 breathless and agitated. 
 
 ' You have heard of him, you have seen him,' she cried 
 excitedly. ' Is it good news ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Hester, yes,' he answered aud sprang into the 
 room. 
 
 
 i 
 
 ! HI 
 
 I nil I 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 "AND I WAS HEBS, TO LIVE OR TO DIE." 
 
 ET WEEN Reading and Oxford there is a river- 
 side village, of which the fashionable world 
 has yet taken scant notice. It 11' beyond the 
 scene of the great river carnivals, and the 
 houseboat is even yet a strange apparition be- 
 side those willowy shores. There is an old church 
 with its square tower and picturesque graveyard 
 placed at a bend of the river, where the stream 
 broadens into a shallow bay. The church, a straggling 
 row of old-world cottages, with over-hanging thatch and 
 low walls, half hidden under roses, honeysuckle, and 
 Virginia creeper, cottages whose gardens are* gorgeous in 
 the vivid colouring of old-fashioned flowers ; a general 
 
 shoD. which ig al.<in tho r»nsf_r»flfir»A • anA a r.,^c,*\,. U„+«l,^~'r, 
 
 with verandah and garden, constitute the village. The 
 Rectory neatlea close beside the church, and the Rectory 
 
OR TO DIE. 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 259 
 
 garden runa oyer into the churchyard, long trails of 
 banksia roses straggling across the low stone wall which 
 ^'""'^ nl?® P^'^^f' ""^ *^*^ lining from t>'e garden of the 
 
 foTtL }^tT\^^^ '^ T. ^*. *^^ P^^^*i^«* i^ England, 
 for the old Kector has cared for it and loved it duriSg his 
 
 ™ff *r''*^^'!?^"^""^^«^°y' '^^^ °«^here are^the 
 roses lovelier or the veronicas finer than at that quiet 
 restmg-place by the river. ^ 
 
 The land round about belongs to a man of old family 
 
 I.l!^• u'^mT-^ H^^?P ^^« ^^^^ unspoiled by the 
 speculating builder, and who would a^ soon think of cut- 
 tmg off his right hand as of cutting up the meadows he 
 scampered over on his sheltie, sixty years ago, into eligible 
 building plots or of breaking through thi tall, tai^led 
 hedges of hawthorne and honeysuckle to make new r?ads 
 !li •""'.''• n?v °^ «««^i-^«tached villas. In a word, Low- 
 combe is still the country pure and simple, undefiled by 
 one touch of the vulgar suburban or the shoddy Queen 
 ^tur "" *^® architecture of this closing 
 
 On the brink of the Thames, and about fifteen minutes' 
 wa k from Lowcombe Church, there is an old-fa^hioned 
 cottage, humble as to size and elevation, but set in so ex- 
 quisite a garden that the owner of a palace might envy 
 Its possessor a retreat so fair in its rustic seclusion. 
 
 of roses were m their fullest beauty, a young couple 
 whose antecedents and belongings were unknown to the 
 inhabitants of Lowcombe, had set up their modest mdna^e 
 skiff. "'*'' ^^"^ ""^'^^' ^ gardener, a dinghy and a 
 
 The village folks troubled themselves very little about 
 these young people, who paid their bills weekly ; but 
 
 Sl!.1IF''*'^-^T '? ^^^ P*"'^ °* Lowcombe were much 
 exercised in mmd about a cmmlA wK« v-t-^* — i - 
 
 of introduction, aad who"mTght:or S'^n^t" bTaa 
 
 «cqu«it.oa to the neighbourhood. The fact that uT, 
 
 U3 
 
 
 m 
 
I 
 
 260 The World, The Flesh, amd The Devil. 
 
 Hanley was alleged to have bought the house he lived in 
 and forty acres of meadow land attached thereto, gave him 
 fi certain status in the parish, and made the question as to 
 whether Mr. and Mm Hanley should or should not be 
 called upon a far more serious problem than it would have 
 been in the case of an annual tenant, or even a lease- 
 holder. 
 
 * Nobodj?^ seems to have heard of these Hanleys,' said 
 Miss Malcolm, a Scottish spinster, who prided herself upon 
 race and respectability, to Mrs. Donovan, an Irish widow, 
 who was swollen with the importance that goes with in- 
 come rather than with blue blood, * If the man was of 
 good family surely some of us must have heard of him 
 before now. Lady Isabel, who goes to London every 
 season, thinks it is very curious that she should never 
 have met this Mr. Hanley in society.* 
 
 ' Old Banks was asking an extortionate price for the 
 Rosary and the land about it,' said A'^rs. Donovan, 'so the 
 man must have money.' 
 
 * Made in trade, I daresay,' speculated Miss Malcolm, 
 whereat the widow, whose husband had made his fortune 
 as a manufacturer and exporter of Irish brogues, reddened 
 angrily. It was painful to remember in the aristocratic 
 dolce far niente of her declining years that the name uf 
 Donovan was stamped upon millions of boots in the old 
 world and the new, and that the famous name was still 
 being stamped by the present proprietor. 
 
 Finally, after a good deal of argument, it was decided I 
 at a tea-party, which included the elite of the parish, with ! 
 the exception of the Rector, that until Mr. Muschatt, of] 
 MuHchatt's Court, had called upon the ^er people at the J 
 Rosary no one else should call. Wh«>^ r was good in! 
 the eyes of Muschatt, whose pedipree r ?dd be traced! 
 without a break to the reign of Edwa^a che Confessor,! 
 must be good for the rest of the parisxi. I 
 
 And while the villafe A^ora debat'Od their social fate ! 
 ^yh^rt of this young couple ? Were they languishing fori 
 
d The Devil. 
 
 ■ 
 
 hey languishing fori 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil, 261 
 
 the coming of afternoon callers, pining for the sight of 
 strange faces, and unfamiliar names upon a cluster of 
 visiting cards ? Were they nervously awaiting the village 
 verdict as to whether they were or were not to be visited? 
 IVot they! Perhaps they hardly knew that there was 
 any world outside that garden by the river, and that un- 
 dulating stretch of pasture where the fine old timber 
 gave to meadow land almost the beauty and dignity of a 
 park. Here they would wander for \ours meeting no 
 one, hearing no voices but their own, isolated by thft in- 
 tensity of an affection that took no heed of yesterday or 
 to-morrow. ^ 
 
 'I never knew what happiness meant till I loved you 
 Hester, said the young man whom Lowcombe talked of 
 as * This Mr. Harney.' 
 
 • And I am happy because you are happy,' Hester an- 
 swered, softly, 'and you will not talk any more about 
 having only a year or two to live, will you, Gerard ? 
 That was all nonsense— only said to frighten me— wasn't 
 It I 
 
 He could not tell her i ^at it was sober, serious truth 
 and that he had in nowise darkened the doctor's dark 
 verdict. Those imploring eyes looking up at him entreat- 
 ed him to utter words of hope and comfort. 
 
 ' I believe doctors are often mistaken in a case, because 
 they underrate the influence of the mind upon the body' 
 he said. ' I was so miserable when I went to Dr. South 
 that I can hardly wonder he thought me xarked for 
 death. 
 
 'And you are happy, now, Gerard— really, really happy 
 not for a day only ? she asked, pleadingly, ' 
 
 ' Not for a day, but for ever, so long as I have vou 
 sweet wife.' o j » . 
 
 He called her by that sacred name often in their talk 
 never guessing how at every repetition of that namA +o 
 which she had no right her heart thrilled wit"h a strange 
 sudden pam. fcjhe troubled him with no lamentings ove< 
 
 til 
 
 m\ 
 
262 m World, Tlie Flesh and ?V,. n^a. 
 
 the sacrifice he had exacted from her. She liad never 
 reproached him ^yith th > i -achery that had made her his 
 (jrenerons, devoted, and aeit-forgetful, she aave him her 
 heart as she would have given ' "m h-i life, and her i:,ear8 
 and her remorse v.«:re scrupulou, ly l.iddea from him To 
 make htm happy was now the sole o'esire and purpose of 
 h^r life. Of her father's fate she was still aacertain. but 
 ^ihe v-as not withoiiib hope that he lived. A detective had 
 uacf i a raao, whose description tallied with that of 
 iV -?lH-iat; Davenport to Liverpool, where he had embarked 
 on fci steamer bound for Melbourne within two days of 
 D;vvenport'« disappearence from Chelsea. The passage 
 had been taken in the name of Danvc rs, and the passen- 
 ger had described himself as a clergyiian of the Church 
 ot Ji,ngland. Hester was the more inclined to believe 
 that the man so described might be her father, as he had 
 otten talked of going back to Australia and trying his 
 luck again m that wider world. It was not because he 
 nad tailed once that he must needs fail again. 
 
 ' But how could he have got the mon?y for hia pass- 
 age ? asked Hester. 'He had exhausted all his old 
 tnends. It seems impossible that he could have money 
 enough to pay for the voyage to Melbourne.' 
 
 And then on his knees at her feet in the August moon- 
 Ji^ght, with tears and kisses and protestations of remorse 
 Uerard UiUersdon confessed his sin. ' 
 
 'It was base, vile, iniquitous beyond all common ini- 
 quity, he said. 'You can never think worse of me for 
 that mit than I think of myself. But your father :ood 
 between us. I would have committed murder to win you ! ' 
 ^ It might have been murder," she said dejectedly 
 1 have told you my crime, aind yov b,>.te me for it I 
 was a fool to tell you.' 
 
 'Hateyou! No, Gerard, no ; I car - vtr hate you. I 
 should -r on loving you if you x . e greatest sinner 
 
 "^^^ u , f'"'"'.'"- -^^ y°" ^^""^ *^^1^ be here if ' 
 could help lovjjier you ? 
 
id 
 
 Th.^ 
 
 Devil. 
 
 her. She liad never 
 iiiat had made her liis. 
 ful, she gave him her 
 h'l life, and her tears 
 i. idden from him. To 
 desire and purpose of 
 as still uncertain, but 
 ved. A detective had 
 tallied with that of 
 1 ere he had embarked 
 e within two days of 
 belsea. The passage 
 vers, and the passen- 
 ymm of the Church 
 ) inclined to believe 
 her father, as he had 
 tralia and trying his 
 was not because he 
 iail again. 
 
 money for his pass- 
 hausted all his old 
 e could have money 
 bourne.' 
 
 n the August moon- 
 istations of remorse, 
 
 nd all common ini- 
 ink worse of me for 
 it your father '.ood 
 murder to win you I * 
 aid dejectedly. 
 V hi^tQ me for it. 1 
 
 1 vcr hate you. I 
 
 9 greatest sinner 
 
 4oaia be her^ if I 
 
 Ths World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 263 
 
 His head sank forward upon her knees, and he sobbed 
 out his passion of remorse and self-abasement, and receiv- 
 ed absolution. He tried to persuade her that all would 
 be well, that her father's health might be benefited by a 
 long sea voyage, and that he might not fall back into the 
 old evil ways. He might not! That was the utmost 
 that could be said; a faint hope at best. Yet this faint 
 hope comforted h^r ; and in that summer dream of happi- 
 ness, in the long days on the river, the long tgte-at§te 
 with a companion who was never weary of pouring out 
 his thoughts, his feelings, his unbeliefs to that never 
 wearying listener, all sense of trouble vanished out of her 
 mmd. She only knew that she was beloved, and that to 
 be thus beloved was to be happy. Her burden of tears 
 would have to be borne, perhaps, some day far away in 
 the dim future, when he should weary of her and she 
 should see his love waning. There must be a penalty for 
 such a sm as hers ; but the time of penance was still afar 
 off, and she might die before the fatal hour of disillusion 
 She thrust aside all thought of dark days to come, and 
 devoted herself to the duty of the present— the duty of 
 making her lover happy. All his sins against her were 
 forgiven ; and she was his without one thought of self. 
 
 They had begun their new life almost as casually as 
 the babes in the wood, and after wandering about for a 
 few days in the lovely Thames Valley, stopping at quiet 
 out-of-the-way villages, they had come to Lowcombe, the 
 least sophisticated of all the spots they had seen. Here 
 they had found the Rosary, a thatch cottage set in a deli- 
 cious garden, with lawn and shrubberies sloping to the 
 river. Successive tenants had added to the original 
 buildmg, and there were two or three fairly good rooms 
 under the steep gabled roof, one a drawing-room open to 
 the rafters, and with three windows opening into a 
 
 ^^..cu T-.i««vta;ii. xHo ivuaarjf uau long Deen lor sale 
 
 not because people had not admired it, but because the 
 owner, an Oxford tradesman, had asked an extravagant 
 pnce for his property. ® 
 
 t 
 
 
264 The World, The Flesh, and Pie Devil 
 
 Gerard gave him his price without question, having 
 seen that Hester was enamoured of the riverside garden, 
 and in three days the cottage was furnished, paint clean- 
 ed, walls repapered, and everything swept and garnished, 
 and Hester installed as mistress of the house, with a man 
 and two maids, engaged at Eeading. 
 
 The furniture was of the simplest, such furniture as a 
 young clergyman might have chosen for his first vicarage. 
 Hester had entreated that there might be nothing costly 
 in her surroundings, no splendour or luxury which should 
 remind her of her lover's wealth. 
 
 ' I want to forget that you are a rich man,' she said. 
 ' If you made the nouse splendid I should have felt as if 
 you had bought me.' 
 
 S«seing her painfully earnest upon this point, Gerard 
 obeyed her to the letter. Except for the elegance of art 
 muslins and Indian draperies, and for the profusion of 
 choice flowers in rooms and landings and staircase, except 
 for the valuable books scattered on the tables and piled 
 in the window seats, the cottage might have been the 
 home of modest competence rather than of boundless 
 wealth. 
 
 Hester's touch lent an additional grace even to things 
 that were in themselves beautiful She had the home 
 genius which is one of the rarest and choicest of feminine 
 
 fif ts — the genius which pervades every circumstance of 
 ome-life, from the adornment of a drawing-room to the 
 arrangement of a dinner-table. Before he had lived at 
 Lowcombe for a week Gerard had come to see "Hester's 
 touch upon everything. He had never before seen 
 flowers so boldly and picturesquely grouped ; nor in all 
 the country houses he nad visited and admired had he 
 ever seen anything so pretty as the cottage vestibule, the 
 deep embrasure of the long latticed window filled with 
 roses, and in each angle ox the room a tall glass vase of 
 lilies reaching up to the low timbered ceiling. No hand 
 but Hester's was allowed to touch the books which he 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 265 
 
 had brought to this retreat— a costly selection from his 
 library at HiUersdon House. He had seen to the packincr 
 ot the two large cases that conveyed these books, but he 
 Jmd so arranged their conveyance that none of his ser- 
 vants should know where they went after the railway 
 van had carried them away. No one was to know of 
 this secret nest by the river— not even Jus.In Jermvn 
 his confidant and alter ego. He wanted this new life of 
 his— this union of two souls that were as one— to remain 
 for ever a thing apart from his everyday existence ; he 
 wanted this home to be a secret haven, where he might 
 creep to die when his hour should come ; and it seemed 
 to him that death, the dreaded, inevitable end would 
 lose its worst terrors here, in Hester's arms, with her 
 sweet voice to soothe the laborious passage to the dark 
 unknown. ^^ -o *i». 
 
 And if death would be less awful here than elsewhere 
 how sweet was life in this rural hermitage. How bliss- 
 fuJ the long summer days upon the river, with this gentle 
 pensive girl who seemed so utterly in sympathy with 
 him ; who, after one week of union thought as he thought, 
 believed as he believed ; had surrendered life, mind, heart 
 and being to the man she loved, merging her intellectual 
 Identity into his, until nothing was left of the creed learnt 
 m childhood and faithfully foUowed through girlhood 
 except a tender memory of something which had been 
 dear and sacred, and which for her had ceased to be. 
 
 For her Christ" was no longer the Saviour and Redeem- 
 er she had worshipped. He was only the 'Man of Na- 
 zareth —a beautiful and admirable character, standing 
 out trom the tumultuous back-ground of the world's his- 
 toiy, radiant with the calm, clear light of perfect good- 
 ness, the gift^.- originator of life's simplest and purest 
 ethics, a teac .er whose wise counsels had been darkened 
 and warped by long centuries of superstition, and who 
 was only now emerging from the spectre-haunted mid- 
 night of Ignorance into the clear light of reason. 
 Q 
 
 i 
 
te 
 
 I III': 
 
 26G TJie World, The Pleah, and The Devil 
 
 Gerard belonged to iht^ soT--»o1 of sentimental agnostics. 
 Ho was willing to \,,'a,h. wcii of Cltrist and of His pro- 
 phets, was full of admiration for the grand personality of 
 Elijah, and thought the Book of Job the loftiest expres- 
 sion of human imaginings. He loved to dwell upon the 
 picturesque in the Bible, and Hester learnt from hia con- 
 versation how familiar an infidel may be with Holy Writ. 
 When she told him how great a consolation faith had 
 been to her in the darkest days of her poverty, he smiled 
 at her sweet simplicity, and said how he too had been a 
 b^iliever till he began to think. And so, with many 
 tears, as if sho had been parting with some cherished 
 human friend, she let ihe Divine Image of thr Man-God 
 go, and accepted the idea of the G-od-Uii^c Man, a 
 being to be named in the same breath with Socrates 
 and Plato, with Shakespeare and Milton— only a 
 little higher than the highest modern intellect. Only 
 a week, and a creed was destroyed, but in that 
 week what a flood of talk about aJ! things in heiwen and 
 on earth, wha<- theories, and dreams, and philosophies 
 sounded and explored. To this woman, whom he loved 
 more f ndly than he b 1 ever dreamed of loving, Gerard 
 gave t. Intellectual t.vperience of his manhood, froi^ the 
 hour he began to ponder upon the problem of man's 
 existence to his latest opinion upon the last book he had 
 read. Ead dhe not lov:;j him, hei own simple faith, the 
 outcome of feeling unsuboained by rear a, might have 
 been strong enough to p*'. A fast against hi' arguments; 
 but love took the mrt or the assailant, an. the result 
 was a foregone cc^ sir Had he b( a a religiou., en- 
 thusiast, a fervid ^pif believing in , imily relics and 
 miracle-working s.uuues, the would have believed as he 
 taught her to believe. Her faith, fortiuod by her love, 
 would have removed mountains. With her, to love meant 
 total self-abnegation. Even the sharp stings of remorse 
 were deadened in the happiness of knowing that hor lover 
 was happy : and as she gradually grew to accept his idea 
 
: The l)&vil. 
 
 sntimental agnostics. 
 risfc and of His pro- 
 ?rand personality of 
 the loftiest expres- 
 i to dwell upon the 
 learnt from hia con- 
 • be with Holy Writ, 
 isolation faith had 
 f poverty, he smiled 
 7 he too had been a 
 nd so, with many 
 ith some cherished 
 ,ge of thp Man -God 
 
 G-od-ll;i.o Man, a 
 Bath with Socrates 
 d Milton — only a 
 rn intellect. Only 
 fed, but in that 
 lings in heaven and 
 3, arid philosophies 
 lan, w horn he loved 
 d of loving, Gerard 
 } manhood, frorn the 
 
 problem of man's 
 he last book he liad 
 m bimple faith, the 
 eWj^, might have 
 nst his arguments; 
 mt, an<' the result 
 3( n a religious) en- 
 i family relics and 
 lav*^ believed as he 
 rtiiiud by her love, 
 h her, to love meant 
 *D stinfifs of remorse 
 •wing that her lover 
 V to accept his idea 
 
 2"^^ Worl.J, The Fle.h, and The Devil. 207 
 
 ^^^.^^T^^^l^^^ Human reason, 
 
 assisted at her marriage was ndeed "? ^^^"^ ^^^'^ ^ad 
 inhnitesimal significance Ami n • u^ ^f ^'"'^ "^^«^' of 
 but one cloud on Whorizon 7^^^'";^ J^^"'' ^^^'^ ^^^'« 
 ' was for horfnther's wSe «ni^ only fear or anxiety 
 tliink as litfle as p^sible ^ nol-^^^ 
 nothing for him excenfc!^/ ?T°^ ^\^^ '^^^ ^«"Id do 
 duct. She had gxve?him ai \t T^' f ^^ *">'««««- 
 girlhood, and he had aci^nt^d hll '^f ^^^'^ ^^ ^er 
 
 lirstopportunityhadchoseShl^ i-""'"?'^'^"^ ^^ ^^^ 
 to his daughter She W] ^ I ^arhng vice in preference 
 
 whose feet^he aid all hf frpT "^^t^^^' « '"^^ter at 
 
 no sacrifice could ev^r be^^rmuc" '' '^^ ^^'^' ^^^^h^- 
 
 •ife wl -e^ ;.~ochI ^^tn^- ^^^''^ ^^^« ^ --y 
 -r more in the suX exisSneeTf ^^ T' ^ "^^^ «^^"d 
 m< . )tonous years. It seemed to h! f H^^^^^do^en placid 
 w .. vet young, that her unfon w^^h^^p^ ^^'^^ September 
 had fa^t-^ ^or half a lifetime S^« ^fi*'"^ Hillersdon 
 oi herseh .epfc as hi wSe alf the niff ''^'''^^ ^^^^^ 
 dark and ehadowv like a Vi;^ • P-^* ^^^^ seemed 
 gradually into som^^thin.^trai^^^^^^^ Pcture that melts 
 Wile no longer woundeS^er efr Th?'"- ^\".?^«^« ^^ 
 taught her that she was no less « J-f i^^ philosophy 
 no legal claim to the title f\ '^® ^^,^^"«« «hr ^ad 
 
 taught her that she td a H-htto'dn"'". P^i^TP^y had 
 her life, so long as she did nnf w ^^^t^^^ ^'^^^ ^^^ 
 One clause in that Church r«?lh°°^i. ^'' °«'ghbour. 
 
 had repeated so often, was bbttedo^^^ '^^^'^ ^^P« 
 
 God was done with, s nee thprrl ^^''^y®'^- ^"^7 to 
 
 obligations were comprised JndnTf. '"'' ^''^' ^^^ ^^^al 
 regard for the happinC ^nL^tsl num";:""^"^'^^ 
 I ,.\hat renunciation of the creed nf\.^T ' 
 
 phshed without moments nf. f i P® "^^ °o* ^ccom- 
 mwi.f ^4?AU-^ , "'"raents ot mental ao-onv ^xro„ :_ ., 
 — ■■■": wiat urearii of i va \a^x. xji? T*" .,' "'^" ^" ^ne 
 «^ith oue adored presenc^ Th«t? ^^^'^ ^" ^^^ ^«rld 
 P ^ence. There were moments when 
 
268 Tli^ World, The Flesh, and Tfie Devil, 
 
 the young heart would have gone up to the old Heaven 
 in prayer — prayer for the endurance of this deep felicity, 
 prayer for the creature she loved so well. But the new 
 heaven was a blank — an infinite system of woilds and 
 distances, measureless, illimitable — but there was no one 
 there — no one— no mind, no heart, no love, no pity; only 
 systems and movement, perpetual movement, which in- 
 cluded light, heat, evolution, everything — a mighty and 
 complex universe of whom her lover and herself were but 
 unconsidered atoms, of which no higher existence had 
 ever taken heed, since they two, poor sport of Life and 
 Time, were the crowning glory of evolution. The proijress 
 of the species might achieve something loftier in infinite 
 ages to come ; but so far, they two, Gerard and herself, 
 were the highest outcome of immeasurable ages. For 
 conduct, for happiness, for protection from the dangers 
 that surrounded them, they had to look to themselves 
 and to none other. 
 
 Had she been less absorbed by her affection for the 
 creature, Hester would have more acutely suffered by 
 this darkening over of the world beyond, which had once 
 been her consolation and her hope ; but in Gerard's com- 
 panionship there was no need of worlds beyond. 
 . Those last weeks of summer were exceptionally beau- 
 tiful. It seemed as if summer were lingering in the land 
 even when September was drawing to its close. Trees 
 and shrubberies, the flower beds that made great masses 
 of vivid colour on the lawn, scarlet, orange, golden yel- 
 low, deepest azure — were untouched by frost, unbeaten 
 by rain. The broad, old-fashioned border, which gave an 
 old-world air to one end of the garden was glorious with 
 tall, gaudy flowers — tritomia, Japanese anemones, single 
 and cactus dahlias, late-blooming lilies, and roses red 
 and white. And beyond the garden and encircling 
 shrubbery, in the hedgerows and meadows, in the copsea 
 and on the patches of hilioeky ennmon, heather, gorse, 
 Yrildflowers, there was everywhe the same riqh luxuri- 
 
The World, TIw Flesh, and The Devil. 269 
 
 port to for^ret the shadows in her life ft Sf/ ^I'Tr: 
 was painful and dubious in her pSon aST m *''•".' 
 only n the happiness of the preS Morning aSr 
 
 xrLtdrda^:tdTi^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 skiff along the windings of romantic backwaters halting 
 
 w^rosaxudT h^^ "^-^ ^^^^^ 
 
 i„i° '"T .'^"y ""^^ ''"" ""■ough all the devious wind 
 np and eloquent incomprehensibilities of thlRevTu of 
 L- am-in this way Hester heard for the first tim«?ftl?f 
 Kmg and the Book-and wept a^d sufcred ^tth S 
 gentle heroine, and thrilled and^rembleS in thosT In ^ 
 
 ^te.te hrr':rhii%rul5s:^ot 
 
 1 "^ '^V,. '®^^*"^t). Ihewe and many other wri*for.o 
 
 tVT^^^Z- "'^ '-^ "-^ 'y^^^^: 
 
 'What an icnnrnmiia T .v,„„i 1 1 . , 
 
 . I*, 
 ft- 
 
1, I 
 
 ii ! 
 
 270 The World, The Flesh, and The D&vil. 
 
 English literatnre — but now the treasures seem inex- 
 haustible/ 
 
 There were other literatures too to be tasted. They 
 read Eugenie Grandet together, and Hester wept over the 
 heroine's disappointed life. They read new books and 
 old books, having nothing to do in those six weeks of 
 perpetual summer but read and talk and ramble, and 
 worship one another, each unto the other the beginning 
 and end of life. 
 
 'If it could last,' thought Gerard; but Hester, less 
 experienced, and, therefore, more confiding in Fate, dreamt 
 that this Elysium would last till the grim spectre, who 
 tramples down all blisses, broke into their enchanted 
 palace. 
 
 She watched his face with fondest anxiety, and it was 
 her delight to mark how the dark lines and the pinched, 
 wan look seemed to be vanishing day by day. Who 
 knows v/hether it was really so or whether in the face 
 she worshipped she saw only what she so ardently longed 
 to see, signs of improving health and youth renewed ? 
 His eyes had a new brightness, she thought, and if he 
 looked pale in the daylight, he had always a bright colour 
 in the evening as they sat side by side in the luminous 
 circle of the reading lamp. And again and again he as- 
 sured her that happiness had given him a new lease of 
 life, that all the old aches and wearinea.^ had been subja- 
 gaterl, and that Dr. South would tell a very different 
 story next time he overhauled his patient. 
 
 • He told me to seek happiness, and I have sought and 
 found it,' he said, kissing the slender hands that had toil- 
 ed so patiently in the past, and which now so often lay 
 idly in his. 
 
 Gerard thought of the Chart of Life behind the curtain, 
 in Ills house at Queensgate,and fancied that whenhe should 
 again trace a line upon that sheet of cartridge paper the 
 outline would bo bold and free, the stroke of the nea 
 broad a-nd steady. 
 
asures seem inex- 
 
 fy World, The fksi,, mid The DevU. 271 
 
 ribboS of the tWrnortt T • • ^y "«*e.- the blue 
 
 Squadron had »y a Let on^'rifi %k^''' ^I""' 
 portion of societv l.a.1 Lt ?• j ' ^ ^^® masculine 
 creature, wUhout manlv L "'.•'^'''^^ ^".^'^^ ^^ ^ P°«r 
 
 Certain letters thrrtr^whiehhJri?"'' fj""^"^- 
 
 1"!^??? *M, old love that1e',:iktdti':;r,,»i- 
 
 oftiL, vlfcirdemanrtht '""^ * ™'"=''™" 'o ^««»'y 
 , vmcn aeiaand that every young man should have 
 
 'J 
 
i 
 
 ' ff 
 III 
 
 ,„, IllillPi 
 
 
 I i 
 
 I ! 
 
 2V2 Th^ Worla, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 his goddess de par la monde, every married woman her 
 youthtui adorer, every smart menage its open secret, not 
 to know which is not to belong to the smart world ? ' 
 
 Once a week at least he must write to the absent lad v; 
 for to neglect her might result in a catastrophe. Her 
 nature, he told himself, was of the catastrophic order a wo- 
 nian most dangerous to offend. He had never forgotten 
 that moment in Hertford-street when, at the thought of 
 his inconstancy, she had risen up in her fuiy, white to 
 the lips, save where the hectic of anger burned upon her 
 cheek m one red spot, like a flame. ' He might doubt— 
 diddoubt-ifhe had ever loved her; but he could not 
 doubt that she loved him, with that love of woman which 
 IS a fashion. 
 
 No; he must maintain the falsehood of his position till 
 he could find some way of issue from this net which he 
 had made for himself in the morning of life. Now with 
 love at Its apogee, he could conceive no phase of circum'- 
 stances that could make him false to Hester. Her life 
 must be intertwined with his to the end. Albeit he 
 might never parade his passion before the cold, cruel eyes 
 of the world-eyes that stare down the poetry of life, and 
 if a man married Undine would look at her with cold cal- 
 culation through a tortoiseshell merveilleuse, and ask 
 vVhat are her people V 
 
 Once a week the lying letter had to be written— lyinff 
 for he dared not write too coldly lest the distant divinity 
 should mark the change of temperature and come flvincr 
 homeward to find out the reason for this failin-r-cflT. So 
 he secluded himself in his study one morning everv week 
 telling Hester that he had troublesome business" letters 
 wbich must be answered, and he composed his laborious 
 epistle, spicing his forced tenderness with flippancy that 
 was meant for wit, elaborating society scandals from the 
 faintest hints in 'Truth' or the 'World.' rh«,n.ndl«5r,.v 
 on summer time and the poets, and filling his taleof pag'tS 
 
Th4i World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 273 
 
 other. I apU hilHKte^dSrtt^ "*.' ^* 
 We ar'^L apt to "eSt hfm C'"'- •'^"" T "«"■ 
 
 S?!? ^ o ^*'^^' ^^ " ^1^ <^he wisdom of Buddha 
 
 were oovowa to Kdith Champion 
 I sir "' ^'''"''' '"'^^ '^"»™ there wa. a remon- 
 
 1 
 
„„„, 
 
 i 
 
 m"m 
 
 ii'iii 
 
 274 2%e World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 ' You tell me nothing of yourself/ she said. Not even 
 where you are or what you are doing. Your paper and 
 Sm, ^'^g^ts^ndge post-mark indicate that you are at 
 Hillersdon House, but what are you doing there, and 
 what can be keeping you in London when all the civiliz- 
 ed world IS scattered over moor and mountain, or ro mg 
 on the sea ? I sometimes fear you are ill— perhaps too 
 111 to travel. If I really thought that I should waive 
 every other consideration and go to London to be near 
 you. And yet your delightful letters could hardly be 
 written by a sick man. There is no langour or depres- 
 sion in them. A whim, I suppose, this lingering in town 
 when everybody else has fled. You were always a crea- 
 ture of whims, and now you have millions j^ou are natu- 
 rally all the more whimsical. Not to be like other peo- 
 ple, was not that your ambition years ago when we used to 
 discuss your career ? ' 
 
 How could lie read such letters as these without a pana 
 of remorse? He suffered many such pangs as he read", 
 but in the next half-hour he was floating idly with the 
 current along the lonely river, and Hester's pale young 
 loveliness was opposite him, the sweet face dimly seen in 
 the deep shadow of a broad straw hat. Nothing that art 
 can lend to beauty was needed to accentuate that deli- 
 cate harmony of form and colouring. The simple cambric 
 frock, the plain straw hat, became her even better than 
 court robes and plumes and jewels could have done. She 
 was just at the age when beauty needs the least adorn- 
 ment. 
 
 ' I don't wonder that you refused to be tempted by all 
 my offers of finery from French dressmakers,' Gerard said 
 to her one day. ' You are lovelier in your cotton gowns 
 than the handsomest woman in London in a hundred 
 guinea confection by Raudnitz or Felix. But some day 
 ,".""•" ~ rz'" '" '■ ■'• ••' ' "''"ii iiicioi; uii uicosiug you Up in 
 their fine feathers, just to see how my gentle Hester will 
 look as the Queen of Sheba. A woman of fashion, dressed i 
 
u of fashion, dressed i 
 
 fh^ World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 275 
 
 in the latest modish eccentricity, always recalls her She- 
 ban majesty to my mind.' «iierone 
 'Some day when we are in Paris ! ' He often spoke aa 
 If all their hves were to be spent together, as if where ve? 
 he went she would^o with him. Sometimes in the midst 
 of her happiness Hester lost herself in a labyrinth of 
 mingled hope and fear. He had told her of an insur 
 mountable obstacle to their legal union, and yet he spoke 
 11 ev S ^7%*" ^' r ^?^ '" ^^' ^l^««^d life in Xch 
 
 InThe dtl l^f ' "''t °*^^''- ^^' *^^^ ^^« *h^ shadow 
 on the dial that was the one stupendous fear. To this 
 
 bvchuth^^r ^r*«-^™i^ds%edlock unsanctified 
 by church or law, there would come the end-the falling 
 
 wmI r 'k ^ti" ^' ^'^^"^1 ' *^^ ^'^^^^ hopeless day on 
 which ahe should awaken from her dream, and pass^ou? 
 
 W hltf "f"" ^5 ^^rei,o.oU world. She tried to steep 
 her heart and mmd m the bliss of the present to shut 
 her eyes against all possibilities of woe. Whatever 
 the future might bring it would be something to re! 
 member she had once been completely happy. ^Even a 
 
 tfi t^ -^'r^ P^^^^^ ^^''' ^«"ld «hi«e^like a stir in 
 fL '\ K?^^^ ""^ y'^'' *^ ^°^^- She would not spoH 
 An/r>f^^^ ' P''!f * ^5^ forebodings about the future 
 
 no repinmgs to kiss away no remorseful tears. She who 
 had given him her heart and life had given with aTl a 
 woman sself-forgetfulness. What matter'how fate mtht 
 
 a^teesa^ ' "'^ ^^^""^^^ '' ^- '''' -« '- ^- 
 
 more remote from th. dvav.backsof civililS; Ld Set 
 
 oa JoTfr X^'' "'"'^"^? ^" *^^ '-- -d'oTer [he 
 coaimons, or glidi^sf over sunlit wn.f.Pr« ;,. +i,..,-^ «;„|„___.-„ 
 
 coloured oriotital cushions, vrm the cynosure of several 
 pair of ey<«, which took heed of the smallest IShfa 
 
 
276 2%e World, The Flesh, mid The DM. 
 
 their behaviour or their surroundings, and the subject of 
 very active tongues, a subject which gave new zest to 
 SS* "" ^^ ^'*^''' '^"'"'"^ distance of Low- 
 
 Placid and inoffensive as their lives were, the younff 
 people who were known as Mr. and Mrs. Hanlev hal 
 given umbrage to the whole neighbourhood by various 
 omissions and commissions within the six weeks of their 
 residence at the Rosaiy. 
 
 In the first place they had taken no trouble to concili- 
 ate the residents among whom they had descended sud- 
 denly, or, m the words of the jovial and facetious curate 
 of an adjoining parish 'as if they had been dropped out 
 of a balloon.' They had brought no letters of introduc 
 1 ; /.^^^ ^^?- ""^^ explained themselves. They h^ 
 planted themselves there in the very midst of a select and 
 immaculate ittle community without producing any evi- 
 dence of their respectability. S J' «vi 
 
 ^y.lt'^^ ^^S""!, "^^^J they expect people to call upon 
 them, said Lady Isabel Glendower, the wife of a very 
 ancient Indian General, who went to garden parties in a 
 bath chair, and whose wife and daughters had taken upon 
 themselves a tone of authority in all social mattei-s upon 
 the ground of the lady's rank as an eari's daughter 'Mr 
 Muschatt actually waa going to call. I met him last week 
 riding that wretched old cob towards the Rosary and 
 was just m time to stop him. « Surely you are not ffoine 
 to compromise us by calling on these people," I said. " untU ^ 
 we know more about them." ' ^ ^ ' » «"«'" ^ 
 
 'The foolish old thing saw the young woman on the f 
 river the other day, and was so taken by her pretty face ' 
 that he- wanted to know more of her,' said Clara Glen- 
 dower who was young and skittish. ' He raved to me 
 about her transparent complexion and simple cotton frock 
 Old men are so silly.' 
 
 ' I think Lady Isabel, the less we say about these 
 young people the better,' said Miss Malcolm, with awful 
 
!Phe World, Tlie Pleak, and The Devil. 277 
 
 significance. ' They are evidently not the kind of persons 
 you would like your daughters to know. A young man. 
 able to spend money as freely a^ this young m^iu does 
 cannot be without a circle of friends ; and yet I citn 
 answer for it that not a creature except the tradesmen's 
 boys has been to the Rosary for the last six weeks.' 
 
 iiut If they are honeymooning they may wish to be 
 alone, suggested Clara. ° j j 
 
 'Honeymooning, nonsense, child,' retorted Lady Isabel 
 who prided herself in being outspoken. ' I dare say that 
 young woman, m spite of her simple cotton frock, 1ms had 
 as many honeymoons as there ai e signs of the Zodiac 
 Ibe most notorious ^omen in London are the women 
 ^0 wear simple cotton frocks and don't paint their 
 
 'Mr. and Mrs. Hanley have been six weeks at Low- 
 combe, and _have never been to church. That stamps 
 them, said Mrs. Donovan, at whose luxurious tea-table 
 the conversation took place. 
 
 The Rector heard the fag end of the debate. 
 1 must see if I can persuade them to come to church ' 
 he said, m his mild, kindly voice. ' It is rather too much 
 
 a jump at conclusions to suppose that because they are 
 not church-goers they are disreputable. Half the younrr 
 wen of the present generation are agnostics and Darwin- 
 ians, and a good many young women imitate the youna 
 
 S^fnTf*-"'"'? •'"'Sf ^^^^iy ^' ^^'^y imitate their 
 collars and ties. I am old enough to know that one must 
 
 T,l ^''wKT ^P«^a^ces for the erratic intellect of 
 youth Whether Muschatt calls on the Hanleys or not 
 I shall call and find out what manner of people they are' 
 I am sorry I have put it off so bug.' ^ 
 
 fJ,^%^^^'^'' l"^^ * "^^y ^^ ^^"'^"g ^own with the heavy 
 toot of benevolence upon the serpent's head of village ma- 
 iiguity, now ana again, on which account he was gener- 
 ally spoken of as an eccentric, and a man who would have 
 been better placed anywhere than in the Church of Eng- 
 
I- 
 
 ! 
 
 
 Ill 
 
 278 n^ World, The Flesh, and The S^. 
 
 brought ill-sN? utrc^^SS' ^d",'"- ''^""°^"' 
 brance. Such a mJTnl ?? . , """^ '"""g remem- 
 
 out of place Hrwlfn?"^? T^' P^'^P'" ^e was 
 
 i iHlflMllill 
 
 lliilllll 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ^SOME DIM DERISION OF MYSTERIOUS LAUGHTER." 
 
 jHILE Mr. Gilstone, the Rector of Lowcombe 
 
 meditating a ceremonious call upon his new 
 parishioners, accident anticipated his des"^ 
 and brought him face to face^with the voS 
 woman whose morals and cotton froclfs had 
 
 fol,a«e, made an angle with Z Juw^dL,* f^f*"^ »' 
 
 i 
 
id The thmt. 
 
 I a soft-hearted maiden 
 ether lax in his ideas 
 3on fallen village girls, 
 > save them from fur- 
 down their disgrace; 
 ^rk of female emigra- 
 1 from the new world 
 } and loving remem- 
 lowcombe considered 
 Cast End of London, 
 orreet people he was 
 the neighbourhood, 
 od for him. 
 
 OUS LAUGHTER." 
 
 Sector of Lowcombe, 
 )rocra8tination, was 
 1 call upon his new 
 iicipated his design, 
 'ace with the young 
 I cotton frocks had 
 ; at Mis. Donovan's 
 
 on Saturday after- 
 ttracted by a figure 
 in a corner of the 
 n all its wealth of 
 
 7 ■ tBiia. OI l/IlU iiver. 
 
 3k gave the seated 
 omething supernal. 
 
 Tlw World, TJie Flesh and The Devil. 279 
 
 ThipT^ ?*"K' ^i^i^elady in the light of Paradise. 
 
 the ti' n?fb''PPif "P°"/^^'''? ^"°^^ ^h^^^^« i«vel with 
 the top of the wall m order to look down upon the ladv 
 sittmg on the tomb. ^ ^ 
 
 Yes, it was Mrs. Hanley— that Mrs. Hanley of whose 
 antecedents and present way of life Lowcombe Ipoke 
 shudderii^ly He could just distinguish the exqukUe 
 profile unler the shady straw hat, he^could see the^smaU 
 and delicate ear, transparent in the sunlight the nerZt 
 Whi^ '}^ throat rising from a looselyTed K^^ 
 kerchief, the graceful lines of the slendeV girlish figure in 
 
 £7 w^^t ^T°- ?" ^'^ ^^^ ^'^ ««ed to enhance 
 that perfect beauty, and none was needed. The purUy 
 of the white gown, the simplicity of the Tuscan hat 
 
 ""C'^rl'Tn r'^ '""^i ^^''^ ^^^ i^-l lovelTness • 
 Poor child, I hope with all my heart that all is well 
 
 grtv k'noTfnd''.''?,^^^^^^^^ 
 
 grassy knoll, and strolled to the gate opening into the 
 
 churchyard, and then with quiet Itep made his way to 
 
 the tomb agaanst which Hester was sitting, on a grassv 
 
 I'wedTo t "^ n^r,^^^ ^°^ ^'- J°hn's%ort ha! S 
 allowed to run not, half covering the crumbling arev 
 stones and clothing the cumbrous early Georgian pulchre 
 With fresh young beauty. This was a comer of God's 
 acre m which the Roetor permitted a carebss prof usion 
 w.sTarroXptr ^ ^-^ artistic negJt, Xh 
 v^'^I''%l**^^7*^ reading, and on looking down on her 
 •^asto^' • ^''''"' '^" *^"' '^'' ^^' refdinrShdley's 
 
 leaves In'At "^ ^* *^ '^""^ f^'' ^°°*^^^^ ^^ong the 
 
 z::;, S in rand. "'^ "^""^' '^^ ^^^"^- a« -ew 
 
 'Allow me to introduce myself to you, Mrs Hanlev' 
 he said, in his mild pleasant voice. ' I Lve bin 1?.?J; 
 j-u cau upon you and Mr. Hanley for . Ion? timp ' W 
 indolence and procrastination are the v^.eTIf oTd^n;^^ 
 
 iii. 
 
 I 
 
 ™l 
 
':a^^--.- 
 
 280 
 
 ne World,- The Fleah, and Tfie Devil 
 
 Seeing you just now from my garden I thoimht T «,• i.* 
 
 her heart beating with almost suffocatin^w" A iri^ 
 
 moment Hester Da'.enport realist w^Sit tl t bo"* 
 social panah. It was a» if she had awakenXud ^Iv 
 from a dream of bliss to find herself aJon7r,«>. Va 
 workaday world, face to face with I ^^^^e "ho M -ow^ 
 to denounce and punish ° power 
 
 HttlfS; '^' '^'"™'' '"''^ "■* «ld »«». ■ »d let U3 h»^e a 
 
 _ He .Sled himself on the low boundary wall lr.™.f 
 CI " '; '■*.P»'' »' the phu^hyard, where! wl'l^ 
 woitg.mv m every chmk of the crumbUngstonw^ 
 
 •Yon have been my neighbours for somf time^;aid the 
 Eector, and yet I have seen so Uttle of you 1 a^i^r™ 
 you don't come to my church-but perhap^s you iTZl 
 f^r^r'Sd*? "" ^""^"^ -"age^-rvU LdTu^: 
 Jr.'^A 1?° ""^^ ^"^ ^'^ *°y ^'^"^ch,' Hester faltered 'If 
 
 love the Gospel for all thatrrru'and \Zut^C\nl T^ 
 
 rdritls'beir rr ^^^ ^<^^^^r':^^nV^: 
 
 and so It 18 better to stop away from church ' 
 
 You are very young to have joined the gi^eat armv nf 
 
 ness of his tone, or the friendly light of h£ evef H. 
 had heard too many young people prattle of thelLnS 
 orunhir^' r^^^'J^ly «£o^ke5 orWled at theXl" 
 
 unbeUevers ? ' " " ^"*^^-'«-were your early teachere 
 
 pi. 
 
* and let us have a 
 
 Ths World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 281 
 
 *?J']^°' x^ ^*^ *'°°® * Christian/ she answered, with 
 a .tilled sob. 'I once believed without qu(> '' ninff— 
 beheved in the divinity of Christ, believed thr could 
 
 cure the sick and raise the dead, believed tha de was 
 near rae at all hours of my life; nearest when I was in 
 deep t sorrow. 
 
 'And when did you cease to believe in His presence— 
 when did you lose the assurance of a Saviour who could 
 pity your sorrow ■, and understand your temptations ? ' 
 
 Doubt came gradually, with thought and thinking 
 o^ej^tne thoughts of others far wiser than mywelf/ 
 
 Mr. Hanley, your husband, is an agnostic, I take it ?' 
 
 J he drooping head bent a little lower; the hand on 
 the open book turned a leaf or two with a restless move- 
 ment. 
 
 'He loes not believe in miracles,' she answered, reluc- 
 tantly, 
 
 'Nor in a life to come— nor in an Aln ij^hty God to 
 whom we are all accountable for our actions. J know the 
 creed of the youthful Freethinker— universal Uberty • 
 liberty to follow the bent of his own desires and his own 
 I^dsions wherever they may lead him ; and for the rest 
 the Gospel of Humanity, which means tall talk about the 
 grandeur and wisdom of man in the abstract, combined 
 with a comfortable iT> liflerence to the wants and sorrows 
 ot man m the concrete, man at BethnaJ Green or Hajrgar- 
 stone. Oh, I know what young men are,' exclaimed the 
 Kector, with indignant scorn; 'how shallow, how ar- 
 rogant, how ready to absorb the floating opinions of their 
 da.y, and to make ready-made ideas for the resulos of 
 ongmal thought. Frankly, now, Mrs. Hanley, it is only 
 since your naarriage that you have been an infidel ? ' 
 Hester faltered a reluctant 'Yes.' 
 
 And then, after a brief pause, she oogan to plead for the 
 man she idolised, ^ 
 
 'Indeed, he is not shallow and ignorant she said. 'He 
 nas thought long and deeply upon the religions of the 
 
 14 1 
 
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282 77-6 World, The Flesh, and The Dcvil 
 
 world, has brooded over those instincts which lead the 
 hopes and desires of all of us to a life beyond— an unseen 
 universe. He is not a strong man— he may never live to 
 be old — indeed 1 sometimes fear he will not, and we have 
 both talked often and long about the other world which 
 we once believed in. We should be so much happier it 
 we could believe— if we could hope that when death parts 
 us it will not be for ever. But how can we hope for the 
 impossible—how can we shut our eyes to the revelations 
 of science— the fixed, immutable laws which hem us in on 
 every side, and show us of what we are made and what 
 must be our end.' 
 
 ' Dust we are, and to dust we must return,' said the 
 Rector, ' but do you think there is nothing outside the 
 dust-— nothing that will survive and ripen to more per- 
 fect life when this poor clay is under the sod. Do you 
 think that the innate belief of all human kind carries no 
 moral weight against the narrow laws of existence under 
 the conditions and restrictions in which we know it ; con- 
 ditions and restrictions which may be changed in a 
 moment by the fiat of Omnipotence, es the earth is 
 changed by an earthquake or the ocean by a storm. Who, 
 looking at the placid, smiling sea could conceive the fury 
 and the force of a tempest if he had never seen one ? You 
 would find it as difficult to believe in that level water 
 lifted mountains high or in the racing surf, aa to believe 
 in the survival of intellect and identity, tlie passage from 
 a known life here to an unknown life hereafter. The 
 philosophers of these latter days call the unknown the 
 unknowable, or the unthinkable, and suppose they have 
 settled and made an end of everything which they cannot 
 understand. But I am not going to preach sermons out 
 of church, Mrs. Hanley, I am much more interested in you 
 than in your opinions. At your age opinions change, and 
 change again— but the personality remains pretty much 
 the same. Even if you .and your husband don't eome to 
 church you are ray parishioners, and I want to know mon^ 
 of jrou. I hope you both like Lowcombe ? ' 
 
The World, The Flesh, and Tfie Devil. 283 
 
 ' Oh, it is far more than liking. We both love the 
 place.* 
 
 And you mean to live among us ? You will not grow 
 tired of the river, even when winter sheds a gentle grey- 
 ness over all that is now so brilliant ? There are pe-.ple 
 who say they are fond of the country— in summer. 
 Take my word for it, the souls of those people are never 
 far fiom Oxford-street. To love the country one must 
 know and admire every phase and every subtle change 
 of every season. Awakening from a long sleep one shoutd 
 be able to say at the first glance across the woods and 
 hills— 'this is mid-October or this is March.' One should 
 know the season almost to a week. You are not one of 
 those who only care for a midsummer landscape, I hope ?' 
 
 * No, indeed ! I love the country always— and I hate 
 London.' 
 
 The shudder with which the last words were spoken 
 gave earnestness to the avowal. 
 
 ' You have not been happy in London,' said the Rector, 
 his quick ear catching a deeper meaning than the words 
 expressed. 
 
 * I have been very unhappy there.' 
 
 ' And here you are quite happy. As a girl you had 
 troubles ; your surroundings were not all you could wish ; 
 but your wedded life is perfectly 'happy, is it not ? ' 
 
 * Utterly happy.' 
 
 ' Come to church, then, my dear Mrs. Hanley. Come 
 and kneel in our village church— the old, old churcii, 
 where so many have knelt, and given thanks in joy, and 
 been comforted in affliction. Come and give thanks to 
 God for your happiness. It is not for you, who scarcely 
 know what mathematics mean, to refuse to believe in a 
 God because His existence cannot be mathematically de- 
 monstrated. Your own heart must tell you that you 
 have need of God— a conf^cicncc outside your own con- 
 science, a wisdom above your own wisdoui. Come and 
 kneel among u>;, and give God thanks that your l^iea 
 
284 He World, The neek, and The DevU. 
 
 have been set in pWnt pla^es-^nd, Bince I am told 
 
 you are nch. come and work among our poor. It " tiood 
 
 or the young and prosperous to fntere«^ themHe K 
 
 the old Mid needy. If you go among our cott^ Jr« at 
 
 v^, Zu ^'''^' «"^P«?r *^^"^^"g i^ «" unplea^St duty 
 you will soon come to fove the work for Its own mkl 
 
 Ihere is sweetness in your face that tells me your heart 
 will open to the unhappy.' ^ "®*" 
 
 a ]\ltZ TJf-'^'"^ the poor; Hester answered, brlghtoninfi 
 a little at this suggestion. ' I have been poor, and know 
 what poverty means. I should like to go about amoZ 
 your cottagers-if^if my husband '-she^ faltered a the 
 word m spite of all those broader ideas which Ourard 
 had taught her-' if my husband will let ml' ^ 
 
 tie could hardly refuse you the happiness of making 
 t^Zf ^f ^ happier-you who posses? all the material 
 Mr H«nl ^^r "'' ''' «»Per-abundance. I feel a^«Wd 
 Mr. Hanley will consent to your devoting a few of your 
 leisure hours to my cottagers. 1 will only i Vu ?« 
 wholesome cottages, and really deserving v ,e ^ But 
 as they axe all good Churchmen, I want you foJomefo' 
 church first. They are sure to' talk to you ab^Hl a 
 chur^ services, and you will be embarrassed, and the- 
 will be shocked if you have to say that you iever ao to 
 church. I can't tell you what that mean! to sTrnKeo^ 
 pie. for whom church is the anle-chamber of Kn 
 Isolation''' ""^ '-ara^atha. the abomination of 
 
 ; I cannot go to church,' said Hester, with averted face 
 Not even^^ thank God for your happy life, for X 
 marriage with the man you love ? ' ^ 
 
 ' No, no, no ! ' 
 
 fhi'Jif '"^i ^f y°"^'g.lady, you lead me to think that 
 this seemingly happy union is one for which you dare nJt 
 thank God ; or m plain speech that you are not mT H n- 
 i&y s wire. 
 
 Her sobs were her only answer. All those ^-rand thco- 
 
The World, The Pleeh, and Tlui DevU. 285 
 
 ries of univeraal liberty, of virtue that knew not law, 
 which she had taken to heart of late, all she had learned 
 at second-hand from Gerard, and at tirst hand from Shel* 
 ley, vanished out of her mind, and she sat by the Rec- 
 tor's side crushed by the weight of her sin, as deeply con- 
 vinced of her own shame and worthlessness as she who 
 knelt amidst the accusing Pharisees and waited for the 
 punishment of the old law, unexpectant of the new law 
 of mercy. 
 
 ' I am sorry for you, my dear young lady, deeply and 
 truly sorry. You were not born for a life of degradation.' 
 
 'There is no degradation,' protested il-i^ter, through 
 her tears ; ' my love for him and his for me is too com- 
 plete and true ever to mean degradation. He has read 
 much and thought much, and has got beyond old codes 
 and worn out institutions. I am as much and as truly 
 his wife as if we had been married in your church yon- 
 der.' ^ ^ / 
 
 ' But you are not his la yful wife, and other wives, 
 down to the humblest peasant woman in this village, will 
 tiiink badly of you, and all Christian women will think 
 you a sinner — a sinner to be pitied and loved perhai)s, 
 but a sinner all the same. Why should that be ? There 
 is no other tie, I hope ? Mr. Hanley is not a married 
 man?' 
 
 ' Oh, no, no ! ' 
 
 ' Thank God. Then he must marry you. It will be 
 my duty to put the matter before him in the right light.' 
 
 ' Oh, pray do not in<;erfere,' exclaimed Hester. ' He 
 would think J had come to you to complain — he would 
 love me less, perhaps — would think me designing, selfish, 
 caring only for myself. There is nothing in life 1 care 
 for but hi^ happiness, and he is perfectly happy now. He 
 knows that I am devoted to him, that I would give my 
 Hie for him — ' 
 
 'You have given your honour — that to such a woman 
 as you is sometimes more than life.' 
 
 .(I 
 M 
 
 1 
 
 till 
 fj 
 
li I 
 
 286 TU World, m FUsh, and The Demi. 
 
 fo^ &"■■"''' ^°»"" >"" "»»"' 'he cost of either 
 
 dpn?v f t^'*' '^^^'^ "^^^^^ ^a« l^roken in upon sud? 
 denly from the outside world and p™r,,+V;« ^ • ^u- 
 
 &ot^:.^f.r:.,tii-lf E- TT^^^^^ 
 
 of iwn fhoxr Ko^ v. Ti A ■^'^ ^h^* sweet sohtude 
 
 lindTnVl n^ f ^rf" ^'^^ ^^'^ ^^^ ^-eander, like Rosa- 
 
 outer world. 
 
 that 
 
 res, lay dear, however thi« story of yours may end- 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 287 
 
 he cost of either 
 
 ■I feel that he will 
 
 urs may end — 
 
 and I hope and believe it will not end badly — you mcay 
 rely upon my friendship/ said the Rector, ' and if you 
 want a woman's help or counsel my old maiden sister will 
 not withhold it from you. When the world was thirty 
 years younger I had a young wife whom I adored, and 
 who had something of your complexion and contour, &n(\ 
 a baby daughter. Before my little girl was three years 
 old God took her, and her mother, who had been in weak 
 health from the time of the child's birth, died within a 
 year of our loss. Those two angel faces have followed 
 me down the vale of years. I never see a child of my 
 daughter's age without a little thrill of tenderness or pity. 
 I never see an interesting girl of your age without think- 
 ing that my little girl might have grown up like her. So 
 you see, Mrs. Hartley, I have a reason for being interested 
 in you over and above my duty as a parish priest.' 
 
 * You are all that is kind/ faltered Hester, * and I wish 
 I were worthier ' 
 
 * It is not you who are unworthy. No, I will say no 
 more, lest I should seem harsh to one you love. May 1 
 walk part of the way home with you ?' 
 
 ' I shall be very pleased to have your company, but I 
 have a boat close by.' 
 
 * Then let me take you to your boat ? ' 
 
 He went with her to a little reedy inlet, where she had 
 moored her dinghy, and he stood on the bank and 
 watched her as she sculled the light boat away towards 
 the setting sun, with the easy air of one used to the work. 
 
 'Poor child/ sighed the Rector. 'How strange that 
 one is so apt to feel more interested in a sinnei- than in a 
 saint. It is the mystery of human life that takes one's 
 fancy, perhaps ; the sinner's appeal to pity, as against the 
 saint's confidence in her own holiness. I suppose that is 
 why Mary Magdalene is the most popular character in the 
 Gospel* 
 
 Hester rowed slowly up the sunlit river, creeping close 
 in shore by the stunted willows which spread their low 
 
288 7he World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 shadows across the water. She crept into the shadow as 
 
 bvZr."'^'^ ^n- ^''^^'r^y ^ die, striken to the hla^ 
 by her conversation with Mr. Oilstone. It was the firet 
 sSr« «t W^^f brought face to face with st^m rL% 
 since she had allowed her lover to lead her by the hand 
 .intothe fool's Paradise of unsanctioned love He h^d 
 taught her to believe that the sanction meant very liuie 
 and that the loyalty and unselfishness of a mutual at^ 
 techment were an all sufficient proof of its purityibut 
 these modem views of his did not stand by her for a 
 quarter of an hour under the earnest interrogation of a 
 vill^e parson All her pld-fa.hioned ideas, her reverence 
 for Gods word, her shrinking from man's disdain, rushed 
 ba<5k into her mind, and Philosophy and Free ThinkW 
 were scattered to the winds. She stood^nfes^ed a 
 woman dishonored by the sacrifice love had exacted from 
 her. She looked back to those quiet evenings by th^ 
 rivei^ when she and her father had walked up Ind down 
 
 Z^ll^i'f^'^^'' with Gerard Hillersdon bTside thel^ 
 sympathetic, respectful almost to reverence. Ah, what 
 bliss It had been to listen, or to talk with him n^hat 
 
 Ia?d°ani^°"ww''^ ^ ^''I^''''?^ ^^""7 care had ^en 
 laid down I What calm and unalloyed happiness with- 
 
 oui^thought or fear of the future-without?egretVthe 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^f^^'^^^^^^^T thoughts, when to lock back 
 upon the past was horrojr, when to think of the future 
 filled her whole being with aching fear 
 
 «o?n 'J?*^ ^5? """^^ ""^ ?f "^^^ d»y« of solitude, and it 
 wa^ ending badly. Gerard had left for London af t^r their 
 leisurely breakfast, and was not to return until the ei^ht 
 o clock dinner. Busmess or whim had urged him to spend 
 adaym the metropolis-to lunch at Sne of his clubs 
 and to hear the gossip of town and country from meii 
 who were * passing through '-to breathe that mor« 
 Piquanii atmosphere ot the world in which everybody 
 knows everybody else's latest secret. The freshneisand 
 
The World, TJie Flesh, and The Dml. 289 
 
 the quiet of the country would be all the more delicious, 
 he told himself, after that brief plunge into the dust and 
 movement of the town. 
 
 Hester had not pouted or looked sorrowful at his de- 
 parture, but the day had been sorely long ; and now this 
 chaB?e meeting with the Rector had filled her with sad- 
 ness and apprehension — dread lest he should break the 
 spell that held their tranquil lives, by a vain interposition 
 upon her behalf. And then came the agonizing thought 
 that her lover, in spite of a devotion that seemed all-ab- 
 sorbing, did not love her well enough to make her his 
 wife. Sophistry might make their union seem beautiful 
 without the bond of marriage ; but still that question re- 
 mained unanswered — Why were they not married ? 
 
 At this quiet evening hour, perhaps one of the saddest 
 in Hester's life, there came suddenly upon her the sound 
 of laughter — a man's frank laughter, joyous as the song 
 of birds, joyous almost to ecstasy ; and round the bend of 
 the river a steam launch, gaily decked with crimson 
 draperies, and Oriental cushions, came quickly toward 
 her, with the figures of its occupants defined against the 
 brightness of the western sky. Foremost of the group 
 stood the tall and lissom form of a young man with yel- 
 lowish auburn hair and sharply cut features, and grouped 
 about him were women in light summer gowns and airy 
 hats, and young men in white flannels. A ripple of laugh- 
 ter and joyous voices went past her an they passed, and 
 then above it all rose that same mirthful laugh she had 
 heard before the boat came in sight. The laughter of the 
 man with auburn hair and pale, sharp-cut face was 
 wafted up the river, in the wake of the boat, on the 
 soft evening air. That joyous group of youthful strang- 
 ers touched her with a keener sense of her own loneli- 
 ness—her father mysteriously vanished out of her life ; 
 the friendship of all old friends forever forfeited by her 
 conduct ; nothing and no one left to her save the man for 
 whom she had surrendered all If he should gi ow weary 
 
 ■<*,r 
 
290 Tke W^U. no Fle^h. and U. DevU. 
 
 fegf Het ril°''r'''.'^''''*, '■'«' 'h^ » earth, 
 shadow! pod 'hf knew o "^f, "'™''jntarily u> one deep 
 
 bank. Nothing burdeMh A^^"'*",;."''"''' ""■■^ "f the 
 of Darwin, Sp'eneor.and C Hffjf Lth'^"' !'T"«'«'"' 
 more terrible than death h^i" ™?''> Jjy auicido was no 
 was no af terward"-tTore wf, IJ.'*'''! I^''^^' There 
 this little world to whom fh. T} ^'"""' ""'"^e 
 render «p his account self-dostroyer had to 
 
 »o„t''f„n$^2''^^t:rTa°d t ^Vr»'' "' -"-Is- 
 half-hour, and two .n'nL, u.^'n '"'!"'"» for the last 
 lit hall, amidst tT." cool fe,i„. /*""'' 7^' '" ""^ lamp- 
 Hester was in h s arm, f!?, • ' "l^o^^Y ent roses, and 
 tween tears ^dlauSr"''^ ^^ '<""' ''»'«'""» t«- 
 
 wX^;K"''^°^°" "'^ »'"'»' hysterical. This 
 
 sheIfghedTd;;ingTer"°tea">Tth^"i-^r."^^ ''°"° -' ''^^'■/ 
 one stormy bSof weepS. A?^^^ '""' ^««" 'i™' 
 member ^1 his life • Tb?l," ^ .^ '''' """^t "eeds re- 
 betrayed by th: Z' st lo^dTo 'wou te "' -^ r""*" 
 
 by her resentment *° punish, even 
 
 -^r^l2vV^^7^'^:y'''' ^'^y ''^- and at the 
 sweet X' ^^°^^^~^nd uncommonly glad to be home? 
 
 Bhe^'sS'LTornralst n^-r^^ -d y«t« 
 
 novelty had worn off Tn^l 1 ^^^ ?^^ '^^'^^ since the 
 
 thought. aTi that the iS' i^P*''* *^ ^°«P«1 ^^ ^ee 
 
 was fn her thoughts t^^^^^^^ f^'l^l^ ^^^^ <^ ^er 
 
 brightened and o^eThaDD^^^^^^ '"^^^^ and 
 
 man she adored. ^^^ ^ *^^ companionship of the 
 
 trifke^lVoHlutt Jets" ^^^^'^ f'^ ^^ ^-"^oks, 
 any suoh .\n,^^^.%^^ «he steadfastly refu«P.d 
 
 ^™«u:^ew«l^i-f:,'-!;r^-7jn-^^^ 
 
The World, The Fleeh, and The DevU. 291 
 
 ^sterical. This 
 
 like silver hair-pins, ornaments that would be worthies*, 
 when their fashion was past, dainty toys and trifles to 
 fpCatter about the tables, grotesques in silver and enamel, 
 Dresden china bon-bon boxes, Japanese idols. 
 
 ' Throw them into the river if you don't like them,' he 
 said, as they sat at the cosy round table after dinner, 
 with the lamplight shining upon the glittering toys v/hich 
 Gerard produced one after another from a capacious 
 leather bag, taking child-like pleasure in Hester s won- 
 dering admiration. ' I am growing richer and richer — 
 appallingly rich. My stocks and shares were chosen with 
 such extraordinary foresight by that marvellous old man 
 with the umbrella that the value of them has gone on 
 increasing ever since he bought them. My Rasorias, my 
 South-Westerns, my Waterworks, British and Foreign, 
 my London Guarantee Shares — everything I own has an 
 upward tendency. I cannot spend a quarter of my in- 
 come unless I do something wild and foolish. Think of 
 something, Hester ! Imagine some mad, delightful esca- 
 pade which would cost us twenty thousand in a week's 
 excitement. We must launch out somehow ! ' 
 
 ' I caij imagine nothing so wild or so foolish as ray 
 love for you,' said Hester, growing suddenly thoughtful, 
 * for when you cease to care fc , le I must die. There 
 will be nothing left.* 
 
 * Cease to care for you ! While there is consciousness 
 here,' touching his forehead, ' that will never be ! * 
 
 ' And you ref Uy love me — with all your heart ? * 
 
 ' With all my heart, and mind, and strength. There's 
 the Church Catt^chism for you. I am surprised I can re- 
 member so much of it.' 
 
292 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 1^^ ^^"^^ ^^^ ^^ JOCUND AS A JEST." 
 
 of h 8 interview with the young Jady who 
 was known to Lowcombe as Mrs. Hanlev In 
 his many years' widowhood, during which 
 his maiden sister Tabitha })ad cared for hi" 
 creature comforts, kept.his servants in order, nah^- 
 tained a spotless propriety throughout his roumy 
 old house, and assisted him with counsel and mm 
 ual labour m his cherished garden and churd -j ard j "r 
 mmd had Kcome the other half of his mind, and he 1 ad 
 no secrets from her, not even the secrets of other people 
 
 TMft'll ^r ^r' '^*^"' conversation in Godffi 
 Tabitha Gi stone knew bs n.uch of Mrs. Hanley's sorrows 
 as her brother had been able to discover ^ 
 
 labitha was not surprised to hear that there was some- 
 thing wrong. That had been decided by the consenSt 
 voices of Lowcombe some weeks ago. Tabitha sroweU 
 for this poor young woman, as she^always sorrowed for 
 human error, with its inevitable sequence of human suf. 
 Bering, most especially when the sinner was young and 
 perhaps with just one extra touch of tenderness whfn the 
 sinner was fair. 8he was sorrowful, but she wal not 
 surprised. She was'not one of thos^ women X are 
 
 Sthi'^T"""'" *^' ^^"^^^ sinner a calculating minx 
 and the male sinner an artless victim. She felt ve^ 
 
 angry with the unknown owner of the Rosary aaddZ 
 
 nounced him in unmeasured terms. < The scound^l' she 
 
 cried, 'not content with having brought disn^acP uL - 
 
 . pretty, refined young creature/he mu^st need^try tr^er! 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 203 
 
 vert her mind. First he makes her an outcast, and then 
 he makes her an Atheist.' 
 
 * Don't be too hard, Hortha/ remonstrated the Rector, 
 '1 daresay Mr. Hanley does not think he is doing any 
 wrong in introchicing this poor girl to the new learning. 
 He thinks that he is leaditig her in the light of truth, not 
 into the darkness of infidelity. You don't know how 
 arrogant the new school of agnosticism is, how confident 
 in materialism aa the royal road to the well-being of man- 
 kind. For us who believe, the unbelievers can find noth- 
 ing but contemptuous pity. I expect to find this young 
 man a difficult subject to deal with. He has been spoilt 
 by too much wealth and a little learning.' 
 
 'But you will do all you can, Basil,' urged Miss Gil- 
 stone, 'you will persuade him to behave honourably, or 
 if he is such a wretch as to refuse, I hopo you will per- 
 suade that poor girl to leave him at once and for ever. 
 Let her come to us if she is friendless ; I will find a home 
 for her, either in this house or with some of my friends.' 
 
 ' Ah, Tabitha, how many girls have we ever succeeded 
 in turning from the way of evil while there were any 
 flowers in the path ? It is only when they come to the 
 thorns and briars that they can be persuaded to turn 
 back. However, I mean to do my uttermost in this case.' 
 
 * And how much good you have done in such cases, 
 Basil ; how many happy wives and mothers on the other 
 side of the world have to thank you that they are not 
 outcasts in the streets of London ? ' 
 
 The keen impression made by her conversation with 
 the Rector wore oflf as the dreamy days went by, and 
 Hester was once more happy, and unashamed of her hap- 
 piness like Eve in Eden. The river was still at its loveliest 
 and Gerard and Hester spent the greater part of their 
 days in a punt moored in some romantic backwater or by 
 some willowy spot, he stretched in sybarite idleness 
 .".mong dovr'n cushions, she reading aloud to him. She 
 bad a beautiful voice, and by long habit reading aloud 
 
294 
 
 "" '^''*'' "- f^K and The JJevll. 
 
 to read, sho accepting meekiv S . ^"^"^^ '^■- "<''• 
 as the best. They I'eaT the nT,^f ," ^? ?"' ^'°"' '""■ 
 afternoons, when the;e ,vas iJst 1™"°; V""^ ^'Ju'en 
 make the west wind crim^fl"/'' f '""'"ess to 
 wind from the east ^ Peasant, and no hint of a 
 
 of laughter had?nSdC?ad?e;"'°'^J"^'°-S-'' 
 .l^^^^tS^&tet^ '^- afternoon,, .e 
 He sttd'a'';rlrS;?-^;,»id Gerard. ■ Stav.' 
 
 handed the book to he'r ■ W. ^^ ''?' "^ " ''""k and 
 like that?' • "^"s youi- langhing youth 
 
 ^oljiXZt:!-''"'''''' •""'' - "■« very face. 
 Yes, I know liim.' 
 
 iJy. T^uiTttf^^JZ^S -J.-oad it, frown. 
 
 fro,„ the Post Office at Cdin^ '""' "'* ^'' '•«' batch 
 
 wnat has become of vnn ? ^it-u 
 yourself?' wrote CtinZmvn ^^''\^'^ y<^^ hiding 
 of your Garden of Eden bv SV,' ^"'t^? ^^^ ^^^ tired 
 London the other day soTot ^^^^^^^^^^^ ^ ^'^^^d of yon in 
 to some faraway valley wCe tZ no u'"'/ ^^"" '^^''^^ 
 ronment might prolong the freshtr/^*^^ ^^.^'^"^ ^^^i" 
 can fancy no impassioned love Tr ^ ^^"' ^"^^^°^'«- ^ 
 weeks. The stra n unon m n? f^^ "^""'^ ^^^an s.x 
 
 ""M7ytt^^"^^- -^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^ ^- 
 
 ^lay not one see you ? fq vnnr i, • 
 
 |™^a^ «v^ i«2 te's^r 
 
 etroa ,taelf-a very „„„-, ^^^^^ ^^^ any J^Jet you 
 
^he Devil, 
 
 r in this way tliey 
 ' t^pencer, (Jompte 
 or essays for her 
 he put before lier 
 >. in these golden 
 h of coolness to 
 and no hint of a 
 
 a the launch, and 
 hose joyous gusts 
 
 it afternoon/ she 
 
 Gerard. 'Stay.' 
 af of a book and 
 Jaughing youth 
 
 the very face. 
 
 '-read it, frown- 
 ' his last batch 
 
 'i"e you hiding 
 '' you are tired 
 eard of you in 
 ried your bliss 
 of your envi- 
 ur feelings, f 
 aore than six 
 ination is too 
 
 ess too sacred 
 ure the dear 
 Jay object to 
 le rest I ara 
 Qy secret you 
 
 Thu World, fhe Flesh, and the Devil. 295 
 
 •ma;y ^rop into me ; as deep, as silent as that deep water 
 near the Church of St. George the Greater, where the ene- 
 mies of the Venetian public sleep so quietly. Seriously, 
 I am pining to see you. Tell me when and where I am' 
 to go to you. Remember, there is a mystic sympathy 
 which links your life to mine. You cannot escape me. 
 Whether you will or no, in your joys and in your sor- 
 rows, I shall be near you.— Yours f— life. 'J. J.' 
 
 A hateful letter to Gerard in 3. present mood, ren- 
 dered still more hateful by the idea that Justin Jermyn 
 might be his near neighbor. 
 
 'Did you see the name of the launch ? ' he asked. 
 
 * No : I only noticed the young man's face, and that 
 the girls who were grouped about him were handsome 
 and attractive. Is he a man whom you dislike ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, when I am away from him. But when I am in 
 his company he always contrives to amuse and interest me, 
 so that, in spite of myself, he seems my dearest friend.' 
 
 ' I understand,0said Hester. ' He is very clever— but 
 not a good man. And yet he had such a joyous laugh, 
 and seemed so happy.' 
 
 • My dearest, do you think only the good people are 
 happy. Some of the most joyous spirits in this world 
 have gone along with hearts utterly and innately bad.' 
 
 They were taking tea on the lawn a day or two after 
 this conversation, their rustic table and restful wicker 
 chairs grouped under a great weeping ash which had once 
 been the chief feature of the cottage garden, when a boat 
 shot rapidly towards the rustic landing stage, and a lis- 
 som form appeared upon the steps, and came with airy foot- 
 steps, mercurial, vivid as light, across the close-shorn turf. 
 
 ' At last,' cried Justin Jermyn. ' I thought I could not 
 be mistaken.' 
 
 ' In whom, oj- in what ? ' asked Gerard, starting to his 
 feet and contemplating the unbidden guest with'a most 
 forbidding frown, 
 
 ' In my old friend Mr. Hanley. I am staying with 
 
29C The World, Ue Flesh and The Devil. 
 
 'My^'^r^,'^^^^^ on his houseboat 
 
 of a certain £ and mI H ' i ' "^T^^^' *^^ description 
 a mystery to thrneiVrbourft ^t T. ^ some wise 
 beautiful%ith a bowTndTi^-,V^^ ^^^^ exquisitely 
 -an inordinately ri^ht^yo^^"^^^^^^^ gentlZ 
 
 friend Gerard is, m short Snf^T^ ^*^^* nay dear 
 to Mr. Hanley'sidentitv «n/ ^^^- ^ ^^'^"^^ S^^^^ as 
 to Mrs. Hanley ' ^' ^°^-"" ^°^«^- ^^7 Present me 
 
 glints of sunlight in hS Wond« W '"^ 7^^*",' ^^^ ^^^^ 
 parency in his blonde comn£- ^"'' ?"^ ^ ^^^'^^'e trans- 
 weather. He loTed a.TP 'f/^"' untouched by wind or 
 thoughts than the susp^^^^^^ '^^^-' ^om his 
 
 any wise distasteful/^ '^ company could be in 
 
 tle^Sonetf 'ihl^r^^^ «*«od leaning a lit- 
 
 painfully'' This was the fi,^^^^^^^^ ^K'^' ^'^> ^^"«Wng 
 spell of their sweItsolhudrL^i''*°'-'"\^ ^^^ ^^^^^^n thf 
 the Rector, she felt a^^i":^' ''l^' ^"J" ^^^ nieeting with 
 brought face to fece^- S tW l^? better sense oAeing 
 but think ill of her *'"^'" '^^''^^ ^^i^^^^ eould 
 
 phlt upr fhrw^dt!^ "^' ^^^^^^' ^--^^. -tt em. 
 
 tledtmsfe ^Xt d".-^^'^^.^' '^^ ^«- ^''^-s. set. 
 waited to be refreshed wihf*^ ^o^nsh cushions, and 
 
 for hi.^ with handtthrh^tbll^^^^^ 
 
 efforts at self-confrnl t« i,« ""^"^eu a jittJe despite her 
 
 tor the seme orth^ old manW*rf "" J^"" '^» ««- 
 more (ban she could hSi, StL„f?''"''y f '^^ i-^d been 
 
 "te'a!^§i?^=p/d^'-i--^ 
 
1'he World, The Fksh, and The DevU., 297 
 men under the ish ^'owlyaway, leaving the two 
 
 'The serpent; interrupted Jermvn 'Perhnn^ «.^ 
 
 San^AV^tf^eari '■fl'^rr ^^^^^ 
 
 the^wfaK it'r;"' midnighr&Vdined at 
 8 
 
298 m World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 The moon was at the full, silvering wood and mcodov^ 
 river and islet, as they bade the victor good UKhtand 
 stood and watched him row down the stream twanU 
 
 ttt S^lftttt^ ^^- ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^« -^-t ^^ 
 
 ' He amused you, Gerard,' said Hester, as thev walked 
 
 s^mS^ 'w'h ^T- 7 ™ ^''' '^ ^-- Ton lit 
 
 ; Yes, they all tell the same story ; that nature k every- 
 thing and we are nothing. Jermyn is an amusing ra«c£l. 
 
 Tarn lith h'r ^"*"'^^' ' '""^ '^"^ -^" --«^ -^- 
 'You called me your wife when you iniroduce.l him to 
 me, murmured Hester hiding her 4e upon his h hoilder 
 You will never let him find out that i n.u^-nnyS 
 less than your wife-will you Gerard ? I feel m iV that 
 man s scorn would wither me.' 
 
 'His scorn! My dearest, he admires you l.ovond 
 measure and do you think he is the kind of nmn to be 
 influenced m his opinion of any woman by a mar ago 
 certifacate? He knows that f adore you. He shfil 
 never know anything else about us but that wo are de- 
 voted to each other. And if he is ever wantinir in rev- 
 
 ^^l^JZl^il' '"' -^'-^<*«g-.h« «1-U "--enter 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 299 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "^OMPAltK DEAD HAPPINESS WITH LIVING WOE." 
 
 ^™^Mr^ w' '^^'^i^g'^ hospitable entertain- 
 ment Mr. Jerrayn considered himself free of 
 the Rosary. He dropped in at any hour he 
 hked. and always brought cheerfulness with 
 iiini He joined Hester arid Gerard in their 
 %^ hJr^'M ^ mornings in the punt, discussed their 
 
 tWhoH . ' ''^^A^'i ^'^' '^^»""g to ^"o^ every book 
 that had ever njade its mark in the" world, and toTemem 
 ber. as few readers remember. Gerard wis certainl^ th« 
 
 Justin Jermynhke the mist wreaths that fljkt UDwlr] 
 from the riverside meadows under the broaTnin/Z^ 
 
 Sybarites luxury the supreme good below the C 
 
 „„ /f I «T. contemplate another world, it appears i^ ^. 
 
 %M 
 
300 TJie World, The Flesh, and m Devil 
 
 Hester pleaded for that last forlorn hope of man's pro- 
 gressi ve existence somewhere, somehow ^ 
 
 Mr. Gilstone called twice at the Rosary durin- these 
 ^^I/m ^T^^ ^^ beginning of October, on y°to find 
 fn«. f'll^^ ^''; ^^"!"^ ^^^«<^"<^ o^the riVer/ Gerard 
 tossed the Rector's cards aside with a contemptuous Ch 
 on the second time of finding them on the hall table ^ 
 
 ' Thh fe l?wlTl^ ?'-^'' -^''^ PT""« are/ he exclaimed, 
 ihis tellow calls twice in ten days, instead of takintr 
 offence at mv neglect. Wants money out of me for h"f 
 schools, or his coal-club, no doubt. Well, th? parson's 
 hfe IS not a happy life, as I know by home experience 
 cheque/ ""''' '" ^"''"^^^'^ "^^^ ^ coSffi 
 
 Re?t±ardr ' "'' ^"' ''^^ ^^'^ '' *^^ «^^^^ «^ the 
 
 ' He may not want money,' she faltered. 
 May not ! My dearest, he is a priest. The priest 
 who doesn't go for your purse is a rara avis thati Kt 
 expect to find along this river.' 
 
 ' He may wish to see you/ 
 
 •Then his wish shall remain ungratified. I am not 
 
 'You need not fear the world/ Hester answered wifh 
 the first touch of bitterness that Gerard had heard in^nv 
 speech of hers. 'People know that there irsomethiZ 
 wrong in our hves. They have all held themselve? 
 
 ' The voice is the voice of my poetic Hester hnt th^ 
 
 hat she had offended the man whom^ZToved better 
 
 han all the world besides. Oh. fool, self-conslbus fool 
 
 to care for what that hai-d cold, outside world might think 
 
The WorU, The Flesh, and The Devil. 301 
 
 or say of her. Whatever sacrifice she had made, wa,s it 
 not enough reward to have made him happy, him for 
 whom hfe was to be so brief, who had need tocmwd into 
 a few years the love and gladness which for other men 
 
 httle spot of colour and light here and there on the duU 
 gray woof of a monotonous existence 
 
 +T, JIl!.«f ^'^T.^^v "^ ^^' ^ ^}'''^ *'«^^' ^d this time met 
 the master of the house at the hall door 
 
 'Good morning, Mr. Gilstone. Pray step inside mv 
 den here said Gerard, throwing aside his W. 'I a.u 
 ashamed that you should have troubled to pay me a third 
 visit. I was on the point of sending you a cheque.' 
 
 ^aje not asked yon for any money, Mr Hanlev ' 
 answered the Rector, gravely, seating himself in th; 
 proffered chair, and looking round the room with the 
 shrewd and observant glance of eyes that have been look- 
 m^at *hings for sixty-six years. 
 
 There was nothing in the cottage parlour, transformed 
 
 nto a study, to indicate dissipated habits none of the 
 
 slovenliness of the Bohemian idler. Many books, flowers 
 
 apartment^' ^"^ ^""P^"^^^^^"^ ^^^^ness distinguished the 
 
 1 V ' ' W \T "^<:^«^^^ "^« ? No, no.' said Gerard, light- 
 ly, but 1 know that in an agricultural parish there must 
 be a good deal of poverty, and every well-to-do parish- 
 oner should pay his quota. Winter is approaching 
 though we may be beguiled into forgetting all about hiS 
 n this ovely autuma You are thinking of your coS 
 and blanket club, I dare say. Allc w me t^ write you a 
 
 3?* ,H,«.opened a drawer, took out his cheque-book, 
 and dipped his pen in his ink. ^ 
 
 'No, Mr. Hanley.' said the Rector, decisively ; ' I cannot 
 take your money. I am here to talk to you of som«^hin- 
 mucn more precious than money.' "^ 
 
 JrP^ T soul perhaps?' questioned Gerard, his conn- 
 tenance hardening. ' I may as weU teU you at once, Mr, 
 
302 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 Gilstone, that I am an unbeliever in the Christian revela- 
 tion, and, indeed, in transcendentalism of all kinds.' 
 
 * You are a Darwinian, I conclude ? ' 
 
 * No ; I am nothing ! I neither look before nor after. 
 I want to make the most of life in the present, while it is 
 mine. God knows it is short enough for the longest 
 lived amongst us — and death comes no easier to me, the 
 unit, because I know the universe is working steadily 
 towards tiie same catastrophe.' 
 
 * You dread death ? ' asked the Rector. 
 
 * Who does not. Contemplate death in whatever form 
 you will, he is the same hideous spectre. Sudden des- 
 truction, slow decay ? Who shall say which is the more 
 terrible ? But come now, Mr. G-ilstone, you are not here 
 to talk metaphysics. I say again let me write you a 
 cheque for your school, your cottage hospitals, your some- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' And I say again, Mr. Hanley, that I cannot take your 
 money.' 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 ' I cannot take money for alms from a man who is liv- 
 ing in sin ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, that's your drift, is it, sir ? ' cried G-erard, spring- 
 ing to hi-j feet ; ' you force yourself into my house in 
 order to insult me ! ' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Hanley, I am here in the hopes of helping 
 you to mend your life.' 
 
 * What right have you to suppose that my life needs 
 mending ? ' 
 
 ' Say that it is only the shrewdness of an old man who 
 has lived long enough to know something of human 
 nature. Two young people with ample means do not 
 live as you and Mrs. Hanley are living without some 
 reason for their isolation, and in your case I take it the 
 reason is that the lady is not your wedded wife. If that 
 is so, let me, while your relations are still unknown to 
 ^he world at large^ marry you to this young lady, quietly, 
 
 W 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 803 
 
 '. cannot take your 
 
 a man who is liv- 
 
 hopes of helping 
 lat ray life needs 
 
 some morning, with no witness hut my sexton and my 
 dear old maiden sister, both of whom know how to keep 
 a secret.' 
 
 ' My dear Mr. Grilstone, you are vastly obliging; but T 
 am really a little amused at your naivete. Do you really 
 forget — suppose I am not legally married to the la<iy 1 
 call my wife — that there are plenty of registrars in Eng- 
 land who would marry me to her as quietly as you can, 
 and make no favour of the business. 
 
 ' I do not ignore the existence of registry offices whore 
 any groom in the country may be married lo his master's 
 daughter at a day or two's notice; but I think Mrs. 
 Hanley would prefer to stand by your side at the altar, 
 and be married to you according to the ordinances of the 
 Church.' 
 
 ' I do not think Mrs. Hanley has any profound belief 
 in those ordinances. She is satisfied with the knowledge 
 that she possesses my whole heart, and that her love has 
 made me completely happy.' 
 
 'And you accept her too willing sacrifice of virtue and 
 good name, and reserve to yourself the i ight of deserting 
 her when you iare weary of her.' 
 
 * You have no right to talk to me in this strain.' 
 
 * Yes, Mr. Hanley, I have a right — the right of an old 
 man and parish priest ; the right which comes from my 
 deep pity for that innocent-looking girl wliom you have 
 
 , made your victim. I have talked with her, and every 
 word she uttered helped to assure me that she was not 
 created to be happy in a life of sin. She is not the kind 
 of woman to accept such a life readily — there must have 
 been more than common art in the seducer who betraved 
 
 her ' 
 
 'Hold your tongue, sir,' cried Gerard, passionately. 
 ' How dare you pry into the lives of a man and v/oman 
 whom you see united and happy ; who ask nothing from 
 you ; neither your friendship nor yrvir countenance ; 
 nothing except to be let alone. My Je — the wlla = ? 
 
S04 
 
 The Worla, The Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 ray heart and of my home-the wife I shall never forsak« 
 --IS satisfied with her position, and neither yornoianv 
 one else has the right to interfere in lioi bJha f vZ 
 pnes hood mvo vos no privileges for one to whom all creeds 
 are ahke mischief-making and superstitious ' 
 
 1 have been taught that the men who set aaidp nlrl 
 
 said the Rector, 'but there is not much humanitv in vmir 
 reckless sacrifice of this youn.r kdv—vvhTi ^ ^^ • 
 
 we had settJed for ever,' retorted Geraria^^rii v ■ 5 
 »he ask y„„ to can upon „e ? Are you her a,u£„]„V '■' 
 
 a sc^ndre ' MrHLT" ""''f ^''- '^^ '^'' ■"»' '°«k h'ke 
 ocounarel, Mr. ilanley, and your conduct in this mit 
 
 r„uW Z'rT *° T 7"? "'•^ "'=''■ i"depend„ Why 
 
 'I have no wife but Hester.' 
 
 ' But you have some reason ? ' 
 
 prie^crkfJ or7n "?y,/"^^^^V^"^ ^s I do not believe in 
 E 0?Lfi -f? *^/her-confessors you must pardon me 
 Mr Gi stone, if I refuse to explain that reason to vou a 
 
 W n1Sed^'°^^ ^^^P^^'^' ^' -^- -U?J^; I 
 
 dcomnnanon and make up your mind to act as a min of 
 honour, you may command me in any way or a"Tny 
 
 I ![ 
 
The DevU. 
 
 shall never forsake 
 either you nor any 
 I her behalf. Your 
 3 to whom all creeds 
 :itious. ' 
 
 who set aside old 
 I as their religion,' 
 I humanity in your 
 -who, I s;iy again, 
 anything less 
 
 Gerard, suddenly; 
 
 ifternoon, and we 
 
 ike her unhappy, 
 which I thougiit 
 'd, angrily. 'i>jd 
 her ambassador?' 
 1 do not look like 
 idiict in this mat- 
 dependent. Why 
 lich you own has 
 ment? Are yoa 
 
 not believo in 
 inust pardon me, 
 •eason to you, a 
 lose curiosity, I 
 
 or that ill-used 
 lose social status 
 ould alter your 
 act as a man of 
 way or at any 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and 
 
 The 
 
 Demi. 
 
 306 
 
 time ; but until you do so I shall not again cross your 
 threshold.' 
 
 'So be it — but pray bear in mind, Rector, that you 
 have crossed my threshold unasked, and that you cannot 
 expect me to be appalled at your threat of withholding 
 an acquaintance which I never sought.' 
 
 He rang for the nervant, and himself accompanied the 
 Rector to the hall door, where they parted with ceremon- 
 ious politeness. 
 
 He was angry with this stranger's intrusion upon his 
 life, angry with Hester for having betrayed their secret. 
 She came in from the garden directly after Mr. Oilstone's 
 departure, fluttered and pale, having seen the Rector going 
 out at the gate. 
 
 For the first time Gerard received her with a frowning 
 brow, and in gloomy silence. 
 
 ' The Rector has been with you,' she said, timidly, seat- 
 ing herself in her accustomed nook by the window, where 
 she had her work basket and little book table. 
 
 Gerard was slow to answer. She had time to take her 
 work out of the basket, and to put in a few tremulous 
 stitches before he spoki'. 
 
 ' Yes, the Rector has been here — an old acquaintance 
 of yours it seems.' 
 
 ' Not very old, Gerard. I have only spoken to him 
 once in my life.* 
 
 ' Only once ; and in that once you contrived to make 
 him acquainted with all your grievances.* 
 
 ' Gerard how cruelly you speak. I told him nothing — 
 nothing. He guessed that all was not well — that I was 
 living a life which, in his sight, is a life of sin. Oh, 
 Gerard, don't be hard upon me. I have never worried 
 you with my remorse for my own weakness, but when 
 that good old man talked to me so kindly, so gently — ' 
 
 'You played the tearful Magdalen — allowed a bigoted 
 old Pharisee to humiliate you by his pitying patronage — 
 sent him to me to urge me to legalise our union — to 
 legalise, forsooth ! As if law ever held love.' 
 
soo 
 
 The Worhl The FJ.esh, and The De^M. 
 
 'I did not send him to 
 
 you. I begged him 
 
 terfero, 
 
 wi'tJthif "'*' "' '?" ''»™ '"M me of your conver«- 
 
 cannot speak of ^ ' ^®^^^^- There are thmgs one | 
 
 hoje for butyou ' ™ """""^ '» ^"^^ •'•'™'. »othing to 
 
 bidiiL^rb«Vfr„rs^°? L'To'ui.n' 7"ff^ 
 
 dishonou"!! I^.^yttrbeto"'- ''" "'^-'^—"''ou^ 
 
 He has done it. That i. In ' '''''>':''> ■"•'> to do. 
 
 by°herTde°£okT ^"""Y ^^- ^^ '^^^ h^-'lf 
 
 You are only too good to me, He.ter,> he sa d "fet „s 
 
The De^nl 
 rged him not to in- 
 
 f your conversation 
 
 ^eiii;L,' seiiiionisetl.' 
 
 rhere are things one I 
 
 k to hide her tears, 
 
 be hateful to him 
 
 ys tiiey had spent 
 
 ss to heiself. For 
 
 s in the small room, 
 i him, 
 
 our life hero ? ' he 
 ! window by which 
 
 3 begins and ends 
 y else— this world 
 about, nothing to 
 
 I need no . priestly 
 
 nd hard and fast 
 
 'et awhile at any 
 
 myself—without 
 
 asked 1^ f ;ng of 
 
 iC-'' a >;i.t^ :,o do. 
 
 ^e seated himself 
 3 unsteady hands 
 sr to his heart, 
 'he said, 'let us 
 Jonventionalities, 
 the beginninor of 
 il upon the bond 
 r marriage — but 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and TJie Devil. 307 
 
 TTo had nof tjorgotten what the Rector had said of her. 
 YtH, she was of the stult of which wives are made. She 
 waa not the kind of woman to accept degradation easily. 
 And then he told himself that there was no degradation 
 in their uniori, that he was a fool to consider the world's 
 opinion, or bo intluenced by the narrow views of a village 
 parson. 
 
 After that day there wns no word spoken by either 
 Gerard or Hester of the Rector's visit. He came no more 
 to the Rosary, nor did anyone else in the parish call upon 
 the new-comers. Perhaps the involuntary look of dis- 
 tress in Mr. Oilstone's countenance, when Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hanley were again discussed at a village tea-drinking, 
 may have confirmed his parishioners in their suspicions 
 of evil. The old speculations were repeated, the old as- 
 sertion was reiterated, to the effect that people who did 
 not desire to be visited or to visit must be innately bad, 
 and the Rector held his peace. He started a new subject, 
 and even affected not to know that anyone had been 
 talking about the Hanleys. He was sore at heart when 
 he thought of the lovely and refined young creature, be- 
 fore whom the future seemed so dark an outlook. 
 
 For Hester the world was not quite what it had been 
 before her conversation with the Rector. An unspeak- 
 able sadness stole over her spirits when she remembered 
 the bitter shame of that hour in which she found herself 
 face to face with an orthodox follower of the Gospel, and 
 saw her position as it looked in his eyes. A gnawing re- 
 morse had fastened upon her heart. She looked back 
 with sick regret to the days of poverty and hard labour, 
 and the long walks through the arid streets, to the long 
 hours at her sewing machine, to all the little domestic 
 cares that had been needed to eke out scanty resources, 
 and make her father's life comfort ible. Gladly would 
 »iiu I.MTO guiic Diiuiv lo tiiu aruaf;t3ry couia sne have 
 been as she was then— witliout fear or reproach. The 
 plethora of wealth in whicli she lived— the flowers, the 
 
«08 ^e World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 frivolities, the wastefulness wh.nh .v, u ^ 
 control shocked and pained her Sh! Yu r, P°^"^ *^ 
 dian wife in some gomeous zenL- ! ? i^^* !'^^ ^'^ Ir- 
 responsible. The fact fW 1. * . ' helpless, hopeless, ii- 
 
 sacrificed religion and ^nnri !f for whom she had 
 
 long watches?f th^LliT in wV iT' ?u°^^ «*" ^^ose 
 full of sadness. LTver saw S \'' ^^^'^^^^^ ^^^e 
 
 complain of all thft waspainfuT in h^r"" v ^'^'^ ^'' 
 Rosary. The lorpLr «;,+ ^.^'^ ^^ '^©r position at the 
 
 in red^and gold Ind 4"^" ?l\^^r "' ' '^^ harmony 
 woods bvefer thanlummrr fhl-^'^^^^^^ theautumna^ 
 the dull gray of winter A /.'^°' gradually faded to 
 the dead llaves camTSeMlv 1 -^ ^?^^^ °^ *^« ^ind 
 
 garden S'onedel'Sd 'Z,?' T^f"^ ^""'^ «»3 
 ed Gerard fromthJe river £';i^°?^-%T«™^^- 
 fulness, for had not he told hlr^. « l^'*"*^' wtch- 
 of his lungs. Thurthe long e/e^LfStT "P?*™ 
 
 I 
 
 ,1 
 
The World, TJce Flesh, and The Devil 309 
 
 would write a novel — he would write that narrative poem 
 which had been simmering in his mind for years, that 
 story in verse which was to have all the depth of Brown- 
 ing and all the <lelicacy of Tennyson, all the dash, wit, and 
 chic of Owen Meredith, with all the passion of Swinborne ; 
 a poem which, if it suceeded, should mark a new era in 
 poetry. 
 
 He loved to talk of his unrealized dreams, an<l TIester 
 loved to listen. Thus the wintry evenings were seldom 
 too long, and Hester, seeing him happy, felt that her sac- 
 rifice had not been in vain, and told herself again and 
 again that her own feelings, her own existence v/cre as 
 nothing weighed against his content. 
 
 He went up to London one bright October day, and 
 saw Dr. South, who expressed himself altogether hope- 
 fully. 
 
 ' "Von have been taking life easily,' he said, ' and the 
 result is all I could wish, more than I hoped. Your heart 
 is better, your lungs are stronger. We cannot give you a 
 new heart, but we can make the old one wear much longer 
 than I thought possible the last time I saw you. Frankly 
 you were in a very bad way just then.' 
 
 Gerard heard this verdict with delight. So far from 
 being tired of this world he had a greed of life. He 
 could contemplate old age with calmness. That season 
 which to the mind of youth is ordinarily a jest and yet a 
 horror had for him no terrors. He could contemplate 
 long years of luxurious repose, in that palace of art which 
 he had built for himself, and to which every year of de- 
 clining life should bring new treasures. He could think 
 of himself seated among his books, his statues, pictures, 
 gems, curios ; white-haired, white-bearded, wise with the 
 hoarded wisdom of a long life ; a man to whom young 
 men should come as they went to Protagoras, to hear 
 golden words of philosophic counsel. Fate had given him 
 the gold which can buy such an old age as this. He 
 thought of Samuel Rogers, of Stirling Maxwell— of the 
 
liiiiil! i 
 
 
 1 
 
 fWf 
 
 t.q;e^.rC.1„t^«„tlt'''' wine „, «. ^ ,,, 
 he saw before him theT^bUitv „'r?,'" "'" ""P: and 
 
 aJl-aosorbrng desire-to keen th. K ^'*' '"^ *•>« ""e 
 consciousness and this -w'^ -.u **"'* '"'»<=' between 
 
 taught to Meve cotcS^rlTt' ^'""'l'=° '"^ ^e^" 
 He went back fn fK Jt> "^"^* ^^ase to be 
 
 fj. South hap^^ht & £ ^* -^eX with 
 felt his youth renewed hTa fiT a ^?^ ^^'"e time. He 
 removed from his S ' 4 was mn'^^^^P^^^^^^^ ^^^^ 
 to Hester. He told her the^o!f ^"^ ^^'^^^^^ ^^^n ever 
 away her tears of joy. *^' ^^"<^'« °P"^ion, and kissed 
 
 Mr.pS'i^^^^^^^^^^ r iety about him. 
 
 at Royat and a delightful T ""^^ {^^m a long stay 
 f JJ^nee. They were now LtaM 1? /^ ^outh-wlt oT" 
 Li lan was occupied with preparltil^^f! ¥'°^^^ ^^^ere 
 Mother IS very disannX! j f ,"^ ^^^ ^e*" marriaffe 
 <^o"^i«g to us beforrffit'/' ^'"^^^^^y^'^arrifot 
 ^ants to thank you Laiu^^^^^ wrote Lilian. 'She 
 afforded her and Lher 15 f S^f ^^ ^^"^ °^^«ey has 
 luxurious our travels weri mal k*^^^ ^°" ^^^ ea«y and 
 for my part I have world s To t.^ 3^our generous gift 
 happy till we meet. We stlved ^f"' ^"i^ ^ ^^^^ ^e un- 
 father to see his old friends aCh.i'l" ^^^^ ^" ^^^n. for 
 some clerical bigwiarind fl *^M^"hs and to dine with 
 
 «hoppng. which\af C'en'dourWe ^'^ ^« ^ "-- 
 nrst morning to Hiller^dn^ w ^® ^^^^^ on the verv 
 
 find that yof were noTtWe^nL!r^''v™' « ^low S 
 indoHmte time. Your serv!n.<, °'-^ '" *» tl^*™ for an 
 
 paragon housekeeper w».<, .?c-?'. ""' t^ey? Your 
 goneforanairing^^L Te Park "^tI""'/"" "^»"» S 
 knowyouraddr5s,buttoidmein^^ footman did not 
 
 yy „na,u Kjxxv letters wniiJri K^ * v ^"WUuaCBnd- 
 
 ' "- » «» -^ope tw,rji tsrttteso- 
 
The World, The Flesh and The Devil 31 1 
 
 where, by land or sea, in a shooting lodge in the High- 
 lands, or on a Norwegian lake. 
 
 ' I am very unhappy about that poor girl in whose fate 
 you were as much — or almost as much — interested as I 
 was. I mean Hester Davenport. After having failed in 
 tiuding you, J. drove to Chelsea, hoping to find Hester. 
 :I wanted to take her to lunch with mother at the Alex- 
 . andra, and then to a picture gallery, just to make a little 
 'break in her monotonous life. But I found her rooms 
 '■ empty, and her landlady was very doleful about her. She 
 left one morning at the end of July, just paid what was 
 •owing, put together a few things in a Gladstone bag, sent 
 iher landlady's little boy for a cab, and drove off, heaven 
 i knows where. Her father had disappeared mysteriously 
 a few days before, and the landlady thought this had up- 
 set poor Hester. She was very much agitated when 
 leaving, quite unlike her usual self. She gave no address, 
 but a fortnight afterwards the landlady received a few 
 lines from her, telling her to send any letters that might 
 be waiting for her, addressed to H., at the Post Office, at 
 Reading. " Two of Whiteley's men came about the same 
 time with an order from Hester, packed up all her books, 
 her father's clothes and belongings, in two deal cases, ad- 
 dressed them to the South-Western Station, Reading, to 
 be called for, and left them ready for the railway people 
 to take them away. Nothing more has been heard of 
 Hester or her father at their old lodgings, The landlaly 
 cried when she talked of them, she evidently thinks tlioio 
 is something wrong. I have a good mind to writ-^ to 
 Hester, and address my letter to the Reading Post Office, 
 and yet what can I say to her ? It is all so mysterious ; 
 first the old man's disappearance, and then her sudden 
 flight, for it seemed like a flight, did it not ? 
 
 ' Jack was very glad to see ua on our return. He has 
 been working hard ail the summer, liaa had neither holi- 
 day nor change of air ; but now he is coming down to 
 Helmsleigh for the harvest festival, and we are all going 
 
 '4- 
 
~ '•""'■ '"-''-"^^^^ 
 
 fate could hvingZhlXtl'^J" ■»««' the^owE' 
 
 journey together. *" '«»° *«>k them ou tlX Lj 
 
 . "lian's letter bmiin-K 1 i ., " "nri 
 
 h-band-3 lifftte. S'l^'^-^^ir^'l^t 
 "6r, It IS an oaf h ' tr t *^^"d sne had saiV? < »„ 
 
 ''om to him-well in ?!,!? " P^^se of a child tA it 
 rolease himselur;^" e„t ^ 't.'"'*''' >=» h^i duty ^ 
 
 --S autumn,, day, al.ay»'f;;ii1KSf«,itr 
 
^i» DevU, 
 
 nplete 
 
 our 
 
 happi. 
 
 ' he had road it. 
 would havo di8. 
 lian very rarely 
 ^ne. the sorrovtr' 
 
 '""t^V. ^®*'' the 
 -Wot for worlds 
 
 ng of her flight, 
 sname, regret, 
 
 ' *he worst that 
 recall her face 
 
 fove up to the 
 
 ve her. They 
 flush of mom- 
 again, Gerard 
 
 > railway car. 
 
 a Oh their flr«t 
 
 of that morn- 
 ^endereat feel- 
 *he had been 
 rreudor; how 
 remorse. He 
 i«elf from his 
 .niadeinher 
 >d, * Rewem- 
 »nfe«8ing the 
 Id appealing 
 He thought 
 done at any 
 new obliga- 
 child to be 
 
 is duty to 
 e. 
 
 ^^^K these 
 "al spirits, 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 313 
 
 always with his budget of little social scandals, which 
 set everybody in a ridiculous light, and offered ample 
 food for laughter. What a preposterous world it seemed, 
 contemplated from his standpoint, and how could anybody 
 be serious about it, or care by what slow linking together 
 of infinitesimals, by what processes, molecular or nebular, 
 this speck in the universe had come to be the thing it is ? 
 Hester hated his mocking talk, but she was glad to see 
 Gerard amused within the narrow limits of the Rosary. 
 Had there been no such visitor as Jermyn, he might have 
 wanted to go to London oftener, perhaps. So in some 
 wise she had reason to be grateful to Jermyn. 
 
 Matt MuUer, the landscape painter, to whom the 
 Thames had been a gold mine, was still living on his 
 house boat, despite of the autumnal mists which were 
 more conducive to art than to health. He was building 
 himself a cottage and painting-room on the river bank, 
 and had the delightful duty of watching the bricklayers 
 at their work. Jermyn oscillated between London and 
 Mr. MuUer's house-boat, and was always fresh and metro- 
 politan, while the painter, he protested, had lapsed into a 
 bovine state of being, and thought of nothing but the 
 canvas on his easel, and the cottage that was slowly 
 rising out of b. level stretch of meadow land. 
 
 Mr. Jermyn stayed later than usual one evening after 
 dining at the Rospry. The weather had been exception- 
 ally fine during the last few days. St. Luke's summer, 
 as Hester said, with a faint sigh, when she heard the 
 church bells p(3aling over the river, and remembered the 
 date, the eighteenth of October, St. Luke's Day — day 
 which, in the years that were past, had seen her kneeling 
 in her place at church ; day which for her henceforth 
 meant very little. 
 
 She had spent the morning on the river with Gerard, 
 
 tempted vy tuo warnitu of tiie suuSuiqg which gilded 
 
 meadow and islet. They had stayed out till the edge of 
 
 dusk, and, creeping slowly home in their punt, had found 
 
 T 
 
31* -^ Vorm. n. ne.h. and Th. DeM. 
 feeUr^ *•" '"^ ^y the water, looking o„t for 
 
 Je.petar„:;^ :f JhelSr^-lf """•• "»• -"• - "' 
 bored you with my sodetv . i " "^^ ^"^ I have 
 and I have brought^ CtbiXr'f^ *' *''^,"''y '^t- 
 not altogether fit forT„* 3'.l°^r». Gerard; news 
 Hester, 'so I must S if f ' ^'"'^■?g b's Anger at 
 «>zy tabagie/ ^ '' ''"" °" half-hour in your 
 
 ^.i/Hester*"""'"""" " *^« ^"'^i-g «»». are ve,y long;' 
 
 ought t KrSl \ ''*"'"'r^' «^-i Tou 
 would expi:^of{nn" hi ."?'<*'■ «*"'»?• He 
 not bring him a fai hful report of °»n "tt''" '''.? *'' 
 th rags that are done and saK T f" ."'' Malicious 
 
 'I have forgotten ill • I-ondoa" 
 
 rfnee I came We^ »!""■?? of «he word ennui 
 
 suppress all desire t^p^S^^J ^"^1^' ^ ^O" "ay 
 the leavfs are all off t^I t ^''P°'' ""a* score. When 
 
 loot d.ary wet'KkVStl^: S"'.°'->g'- " 
 thei^ir^w^K*- S.^ ^^' ^ - S- at home 
 
 gravitate there. It has h^l i? *, ^?' Perhaps— you'll 
 don't you know. It will dr«w '^ *^' loadstone rock 
 story drew the nails out of Sj/h""",'. ^ '^^*^ ^^^^ ^^ ^h.* 
 find yourself powerless before ttl' ''T^' "^''^ ""^^^ 
 the loveliest spots upon this earth iTT^'"'^ °^ «°« «* 
 of meeting vou there as Caesfrl* 2^^^^" ^e just as sure 
 Brutus at Philippi.' Caesars shade was of meeting 
 
 liant witrtreCufy^fLav'^iT?^^* ^^^^ ^^« bril- 
 
 nTXh^ ^r feSFS^oL^o^" 
 
 ^-.d wait, While the ,21^;^ ^^SSZ^l ^xt 
 
Thi Devil. 
 
 Br, looking out for 
 
 ler,' he said, as h , 
 ages since I have 
 t the very least — 
 ws, Gerard j news 
 ing his finger at 
 alf-hour in your 
 
 a are very long;' 
 
 3st Gerard. You 
 
 3. Hanley. He 
 
 retreat if I did 
 
 I the malicious 
 
 Q.' 
 
 ^e word ennui 
 
 d; so you may 
 
 lat score. When 
 
 lames begins t;, 
 
 viera.' 
 
 1 more at home 
 
 )erhaps— you'll 
 oadstone rock, 
 at rock in tho- 
 sel. You will 
 tion of one ot 
 
 be just as sure 
 '^as of meeting 
 
 able was bril- 
 with autumn 
 onious colour 
 ig in a wood^ 
 I dewy. The 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Deull. 315 
 
 evening was so mild that the two young men were able 
 to smoke their after-dinner cigars and enjoy their after- 
 dinner talk pacing up and down the gravel path in front 
 of the drawing room, while Hester sat in the lamplight 
 by the hearth, where a fire of pine-logs gave a show of 
 cheerfulness without too much heat. She had her work 
 and her books about her, and the girlish figure in the 
 white gown in the brightly-furnished room made a grace- 
 ful picture of home life altogether unlike that vision of 
 Bohemianism and debauchery which the spinsters of Low- 
 combe imagined within the walls of the Rosary. 
 
 ' Does Mrs. Hanley go with you to the South ? ' inquired 
 Jermyn, after they had exhausted his stock of London 
 gossip, and were lapsing into thoughtfulness. 
 
 The night was even lovelier than the day had been ; 
 the sky was full of stars, and now towards ten o'clock! 
 the late moon was rising round and golden from behind 
 a wooded hill on the opposits shore. 
 
 ' Of course, did you suppose I should leave her behind ? ' 
 
 * I only suppose there is an end to all things. You have 
 had a very long honeymoon.' 
 
 ' We are not tired of each other yet.' 
 
 ' No ? ' interrogatively, ' and poor Mi-s. Champion, whom 
 the world declares you are to marry directly she is cub of 
 her weeds. It will be rather rough upon her if you marry 
 anyone else.' 
 
 ' That is a matter for the lady's consideration and mine 
 — not for yours.* 
 
 ' I apologise. After all, the chief aim in this life is to be 
 happy, and so long as you are happy with the lady 
 yonder — a most lovely and amiable creature ' 
 
 * For God's sake hold your tongnie. You mean kindly 
 to us both, 1 daresey — but every word you say increases 
 my initation.' 
 
 ' Mr dear Hillersdon, how sensitive you are. Strange 
 that a position which seems to have secured your happi- 
 ness should not bear discussion— even with an intimate 
 friend.' 
 
of books and ideL ind^ "" l™?*'' «« «vi4 pZhC 
 with the Unknowi Pr° ,**'^*' "'"•'' ">at had Ze onf 
 talk of this hinSZrie^ awIvT '"'"'y»«'-iedtway bl' 
 
 we are goiag; whethe^WiL- '7*r^'''''>itl'fr 
 agomsmgly distinet to-day *L it"''™' *^'''«»««. »o 
 
 "lF'^^i"-tt3i=thnja^j 
 
 books that make them ?rv '""' *' P^^P^^ ^o in 
 
 ■ine wood fire anrl fK« i* ,. , 
 cottage drawin,Clnt^^^^^^^^ ^/-*ed the low 
 
 ieft, and when he was ffone O^r^^ '''^ '^"'^^''^ J^^myn 
 and Jet in the cool soft f'^and r^lT"^^ ^^« ^^^dow^ 
 sky. above a ridge of fir^whth Z r,^\'P ^^ "moonlit 
 The moon was high in the mi^L ? i""^^ *^« landscape, 
 ndmg triumphantly amidsTth«r ^^-^'^ ^^ ^^^^ «^e 
 stars which look like C si Jn?. ^^S'^"''' ^««^Pany of 
 stood at the open window ^f^^^' Hester and Gera-d 
 glad to be ^loneM^lytn:' '''' '^y ^'^d W 
 yho had a knack of bein7inf!? ^-^ ''^^''''^ «^ Jermyn 
 They were both silent fi fu 1 of "^^ "P^ «"^ ^^bje^ct! 
 
 ^^.ardengate. ^ermynt^^./Cr^^^^^^ 
 
 up^trelrZrrfetl?^^^^^^^ , ^ heard a step 
 was weary unto death. "^"^^^"^^ ^^otsten, as of one who 
 
 andte '^^ ^^^^ ' «^^ -^- ' It is someone who is old 
 
^ J)eml. 
 
 ^enfc back to the 
 two young men 
 wing-room with 
 iving people but 
 lat had gone out 
 carried away by 
 )rseful brooding 
 5rrow. In that 
 painful feelings 
 are and whither 
 1 existence, so 
 w merge and 
 IB the coral reef 
 
 5st melancholy. 
 ts people do in 
 
 seated the low 
 ''ustin Jerruyn 
 1 the window, 
 Jep of moonlit 
 ihe landscape. 
 V this time, 
 
 company of 
 [• and Gerard 
 ^y and river, 
 d of Jermyn, 
 any subject! 
 
 glad to rest 
 hours. 
 ' has opened 
 Vhat can he 
 
 eard a step 
 of one who 
 
 who is old 
 
 !the World. The Plesh, and The Devil 317 
 
 As she spoke there came creeping out of the shadow ni 
 the shrubbery, and round by the angle of the house, a 
 figure that had a ghastly look in the moonlight which 
 silvered the face to a spectral pallor, and shone white 
 ui)6n the shabby and travel-stained clothes. It was the 
 figure of an old man with ragged grey beard and tall, 
 gaunt form. The bent shoulders, the slow movements, 
 indicated uttermost weariness. The man came staggering 
 towards the lamplit window, leaning upon his stick ; he 
 came closer and closer, till he was face to face with Hester, 
 and then with a loud cry he lifted his stick and pointed 
 at her triumphantly. 
 
 * I knew it,' he cried hysterically, ' I knew it was you. 
 I knew I had found you — at last — found you in the midst 
 of your infamy — living in luxury, while your old father 
 has been starving. Yes, by Heaven, within an ace of 
 starvation — living in sin ' 
 
 'Father,' cried Hester piteously, stretching out her 
 hands to him, trying to put her arms about him, ' father, 
 you have no cause to reproach me. It was you who left 
 me. I was giving you my life — would have given it you 
 till my last breath — but you left me — left me without a 
 word — alone and fatherless.' 
 
 Sobs choked her. She could say no more. She could 
 only shape the words dumbly, while he thrust her from 
 him with a savage gesture. 
 
 * Don't touch me, he cried, ' I renounce you — I have 
 done with you ' 
 
 And then came one of those foul words which brand 
 like red hot iron. The daughter sank in an agony of 
 shame at her father's feet — not fainting, only too keenly 
 conscious of her misery. 
 
 To be called that name — ^and in Gerard's hearing. 
 What could her life be ever more after this night but one 
 everlapting sense of shame ? 
 
 Her bands were clasped over her face, as she half knelt, 
 half crouched, upon the ground. In those few moments 
 
iJlS 
 
 ^'^ World, n* Pf t 
 
 ' '^' ^^esh, and The hevit 
 
 
 CHAPTER xXd. 
 
 »u.t need, bl'l^f ^Vfc 1" '^« ~ 
 
 indicated vZ ™""''» '^'"i"''. hoCer ji f/i*^^^'^ 
 , 'Ooforthe Joeto,.,. . , ** ''"^«°Ut least 
 
 . -Killed him . no r , ""' ^"'<«1 
 
 done it/ said Gerard J?.?"" '" «'wce him ^, ""JT. "^^ 
 
 value life ?"*V°i,":?'^'-' »' how sho«w ""r' "'«' 
 «n>na„tof n:^ly^^''^onemadeanlTf^t.t?«'' -» ma„ 
 
i^^e Devil. 
 
 ^ ^eard Gerard? 
 i^J- father had 
 
 IBR ? " 
 
 J that the blow 
 to the ground 
 t^ut It was not 
 ioosened the 
 » worn round 
 r of his heart 
 •«e had heard 
 adful, at least 
 
 ods sake, the 
 e not killed 
 
 >nce his foul 
 ^ blow was 
 an<i I have 
 
 >poordre(^ 
 iness, what 
 *ch a man 
 3 Wretched 
 be called 
 
 TU World, Tlit Flesh, and Tfa Devil. 319 
 
 What should be done ? Send for a doctor ? Yes. It 
 was past one o'clock, and the nearest doctor was at Low- 
 combe, a mile off, a medical practitioner whose function 
 it was to see a scattered population in and out of the 
 world, a population dispersed at inconvenient distances, 
 approachable only by accommodation roads, within a 
 radius of six or seven miles. 
 
 ' I'll go to the gardener's cottage and try to get a mes- 
 senger,' said Gerard. 'Don't be frightened, Hester. Just 
 keop quiet till I come back.' 
 
 He ran oflf towards the gardener's house, on the other 
 side of the road, where there was a kitchen garden in 
 which the said gardener delighted in the cultivation of a 
 vast stock of vegetables, which nobody consumed, and in 
 the consumption of seeds which ought to have been 
 enough to sow vegetables over all the waste ground in 
 Berkshire. 
 
 He was gone, and Hester's fears grew more intense as 
 she knelt beside the motionless form, listening to the 
 labouring breath. Had he fainted, or was it some kind 
 of stroke which made him unconscious ? She went into 
 the house for water to bathe his temples. She tried to 
 force a spoonful of brandy between the pallid lips, but 
 without success. She could only watch the face, which 
 the moonlight whitened, fir id note how it had aged and 
 altered for the worse since July. Those few months had 
 done the work of years. Every line had deepened, and 
 there was something worse than age, the pale, dull, sod- 
 dened look of the habitual drinker. 
 
 Gerard came back after a quarter of an hour that had 
 seemed an age. 
 
 'Bowling has started,' he said, ' I waited till I had peen 
 him go. It is nearly an hour's walk there and b,ick. 
 Your folly in setting your face against a stable lias left ug 
 without a messenger in a dilemma like this. Hasn't he 
 got his senses back j^et ? ' 
 
 He stood looking down at the llgure stretched at fuU 
 
 
 In 
 
^2^ The World Th> vn t 
 
 length ' '^^ ^^' ^^^- 
 
 length across tlit> n«*v. 
 
 K^^rl* '^ -a„^^''^?4J'?-«oX would 
 
 spread aX^ctrierSt tt "" A^'^i^rj 
 
 7 «» afraid not I , ^''''' 
 
 "radical treatment If nr lamentably ignorant r.t u 
 
 ~d" ""r^™'^"" "^° '■'' ""■«"«-'.• «ho said 
 
 ^rot;s^ii^oCTeo!.\i^^t^f r? "- 
 
 Ar« i: 1 , ®^^ •'he ]0V8 of mVik 1 devoted slavo— 
 their peacpfnl i ' ^^^ging horror an^? •? . broken 
 
 Heh_adnoco„p„nS.h7t'L--P-dmfi^S'Zl'' 
 
 " "'"" "«»'"«' «ge and fe;bfeCZ Ch "f" ^ ™iS 
 
 "e lad no more re- 
 
 I 
 
ThB World, The Flesh, and Tht BevU. 321 
 
 ffret for this thin- than he might have felt if he had 
 kicked a strayed nion^'iol from his threshold. He felt 
 nothmg but linger against the hazard of life which had 
 brought this most meligible visitor to his retreat, and hud 
 p.uhaps made a happy union with Hester impossible 
 henceforward. He knew her exaggerated ideas if duty 
 to this drunken log, know her willingness to sacrifice her- 
 heit. How could ho toll what line she would take ? 
 
 Legalise their union, forsooth 1 Create a legallink be- 
 tween himself and yonder carrion. Go through the rest 
 of his hfe ticketed with a disgraceful father-in-law He 
 could not stay in the room with that unconscious item of 
 poor humanity. He went out and paced the gravel walk 
 irom end to end, and back again, anH hack again, with 
 monotonous repetition, waiting for thoco.nin- of thi dec- 
 or, who did not come. The gardener came back in some- 
 thing less than an hour, to say that the doctor had been 
 summoned to a distant farmhouse., where there was a 
 baby expected, and would doubtless remain there till the 
 arrival of the baby The farmhouse was nearly five 
 miles on the other side of Lowcombe. All that the doc- 
 tors wife could promise was that her husband should so 
 to the Rosary aa soon as possible after his return honfe. 
 ^ Thus through the long October night there was noth- 
 ing to be done but to wait and watch in patience. The 
 air grew chill as morning approached, and Gerard came 
 back to the drawing-room, where Hester had kept up the 
 fare, and where the lamp was still burning. The old 
 man s breathing was quieter, and he seemed now to have 
 sunk mto a heavy sleep. 
 
 'He will do well enough,' said Gerard, looking at the 
 unlovely sleeper. 'There is a Providence that watches 
 over drunkards. 
 
 * Gerard, Gerard, how cruel you are 1 ' 
 
 'Do you expect me to bo kind ? I would have given 
 thousands to keep that man out of our life ' 
 
 atlT'^shf Lid '"" *^^ ""^"^^ ^^*^ ^^^ ^'"^ '''' ^^^ '^'^"S 
 
^^2 The World, The Pi t, 
 
 ' '^'^lesh and ne DevU 
 
 «j ■" '*'»'* -ine Devil 
 
 Poverty and ea.^ "^^^^^ « blight unon if .1 ^^"^^ ^^d- 
 and I 8 wen? ^f ' ^^ ^as the onJv u /~~*^^ ^^^^t of 
 
 that wreck of ^1^^^ ®*^« ^on't tell Z}^^ ^^^"^ ^appy 
 
 . Ah. that ia *u. 
 
 , '^Cth^trfhe old . ""' ' "'" "^ '"""^ 
 
 ^^tedS^"-'^ WrwiiKr ?"■ ^ » -in. 
 
 tions.- "^ '"'' ■» Pwtected fro^ Ct^f-rtabfe, aud 
 She took no no*- . I»™oiou8 i„clina. 
 
 she had sat fhr ""'"^ »f this speech oi, 
 
 ^^8 forehead l-^u ' «*oopinff now «n^ /I ^^S^^> hoJd- 
 ^logne jtl J^^ *, handkerch^f d^ *^/''. *« "^^isten 
 
 09 aired Za ?«'"« and for wlvl„ t ?''"™'l "nex- 
 
 "W of a fire in 5^.''"™'"s. and had»S^! "P^'a''^ »' 
 enough loolTn ^''" ""used bedro?^ "Z" ">« %ht. 
 
 ^^^""^ieer^^a^!? ^'"tent^ZI^"^? 
 «y What he saw this moriS_!T^^\rably i^. 
 
 b mose two pale 
 
The Devil. 
 
 »• I saw your life 
 ^ your youth fad- 
 ^it-the blight of 
 r to our happiness, 
 have been happy 
 yon care more foi^ 
 lor me ! ' 
 
 'er, and haa such 
 
 can goon carino- 
 in a sanitarium 
 ^^fortable, and 
 ""Clous inclina- 
 
 'e was sitting as 
 hat night, hoJd- 
 
 then to moisten 
 ed in Eau-de- 
 'gr for the day. 
 
 and soon after 
 ad trusted fam- 
 ?* hy a sleepy 
 nat there was 
 arrived unex- 
 droom was to 
 ^e upstairs at 
 'to the light- 
 ifef»3ant room 
 Proach to the 
 
 ns about the 
 practitioner 
 1^ expression 
 ;• fiiis small 
 'derably in- 
 '^e two paie 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and Ths Devil. 323 
 
 white faces, the man's sullen and heavy, the woman's 
 pinched and haggard with anxiety, and between them 
 this shabby, disreputable figure, this sodden countenance, 
 in which the medical eye was quick to see the indications 
 of habitual intemperance. 
 
 ' When did the seizure occur ? ' he asked, after he had 
 made his examination. 
 
 ' Soon after one o'clock.' 
 
 ' Was he in good health up to that time ? ' 
 
 * I don't know. He came into the house — an unex- 
 pected visitor — and dropped down almost immediately. 
 He has been unconscious ever since,' Gerard answered de- 
 liberately. 
 
 ' And there was no exciting cause — no quarrel, no shock 
 of any kind ? ' interrogated the doctor, with a sharp look 
 at the speaker. 
 
 * It may have been a shock to him to find us — in his 
 state of mind — which 1 take it was not of the clearest.' 
 
 ' You think he had been drinking ? ' 
 
 ' I think it more than likely he had,' 
 
 Mr. Mivor asked no further questions for the time 
 being. He took out a neat little leather case, which he 
 was in the habit of carrying with him on his professional 
 rounds, and from this closely-packed repository he select- 
 ed a powder which he administered to the patient with 
 his own hands, gravely watchful of him all the time. The 
 old man's eyes opened for a moment or two, only to close 
 again. 
 
 ' You will want a trained nurse,' he said, presently, if 
 this person is to remain in your house — and, indeed, it 
 would not be safe for him to be moved for some days.' 
 
 ' He will remain here, and I shall help to nurse him,' 
 said Hester, who had resumed her seat by the sleeper's 
 pillow. * He is my father.' 
 
 ' Your father i I did not quite understand," said the 
 doctor, not a little surprised at this revelation, for he had 
 ©oted the ragged flannel shirt, the greasy coatHJollar, att4 
 
2 »"-'.»-»*«^^ ; 
 
 •waatiful wt. ^*» Poor human wreck thJ7?u ' 
 »a«.y speoSloSr^X^ «'«''' whom thet had h "" 
 
 forinerJ o V . P^"sh coverJpf T.ro ;. ^^e hand 
 
 the case. He'dM ^°.' •'J"'?" satisfied with th. 
 
 iit^'t':ilr''"'^"^on foraho^pita. nur^ J 
 message at a t^Kif' l ®' ®^'^ *he doctor t.«v 
 
' TJi^ Devil. 
 
 ^y which made the 
 Jse of wonder. 
 
 f the father of the 
 
 there had been so 
 
 ler malevolent de- 
 
 aliy come from the 
 
 •nore thoughtfully 
 
 fs those features 
 
 w?e course model- 
 
 »>^rth The hand 
 
 smaJl and finely 
 
 hardened bv the 
 
 once have been a 
 
 ^nce IS immeasur- 
 
 'th the aspect of 
 
 tHat story of the 
 ^mediate seizure 
 *a no doubt of 
 omething beino- 
 suspicious after 
 P to the patient, 
 ^fatever might 
 n/ghtthatwa; 
 ftween the old 
 .««!»ekind, as 
 
 15 duty was to 
 'as to keep his 
 
 nurse, if you 
 
 «^ TUsend 
 
 I Writinop \x\c 
 
 16 necessary 
 »" to ^et the 
 
 The WoyU, The, Flesh, and The Devil 325 
 
 ' His room is quite ready/ Hester said. ' I can do any- 
 thing for him — 1 am used to waiting upon him.' 
 ' He has been ill before now, I suppose, then ? ' 
 * Never so bad as this. I never saw him unconscious 
 as he was — after he fell.' 
 
 Her faltering accents and the distress in her face assured 
 Mr. Mivor that his conjecture was well founded, but he 
 pressed her with no further questioning, and quietly, 
 with the skill and gentleness of the trained practitioner' 
 he assisted the scared man servant to carry the slumber- 
 ing form to the room above, and assisted Hester in re- 
 moving the weather-stained outer garments, and settling 
 the patient comfortably in the bed that had been aired and 
 made ready. 
 
 The fire burned cheerily in the old-fashioned grate, the 
 autumn sun shone brightly outside. The room, with its 
 dainty French paper and white enamelled furniture, 
 looked fresh and pure as if it had been prepared for a 
 bride— and there on the bed lay the victim of his own 
 vice— the negative sins of sloth and intemperance, which 
 are supposed to injure only the sinner. 
 
 * My poor father has been wandering about the country 
 till his clothes have got into this dreadful state,' Hester 
 said to the doctor, apologetically, as she laid the wretched 
 garments on a chair. ' I have a trunk full of his clothes 
 in the house, ready for him when he wants them. I sup- 
 pose it is my duty to tell you that he has been the victim 
 of intemperate habits, induced in the first instance by 
 acute neuralgia. He is very much to be pitied — ^you 
 won't tell anyone, will you ? ' 
 
 'Tell anyone! My dear young lady, what do you 
 think doctors are made of? Family secrets are as sacred 
 for us as they are for the priesthood. It was very easy 
 for me to guess that drink — and only drink — could have 
 brought a gentleman to this sad pass. And now I shall 
 leave you to take care of him till the nurse arrives. I 
 daresay she will be here early in the afternoon. I'll iook 
 ia before dark,' 
 
326 n« World Ue Fl , 
 
 When . ' ""'' ""''^ ^«i 
 
 there was a <sKol ""^^^^e pociiefc of t K^ i ' ^'^ P"« k- 
 «-tires. the'^t^t''^ ^"'"^^^ «^' i^ aee 1?/ '''^ '^^^^^^^ 
 
 something of ite nJrP^f'^^^^hip which hoV*^®"'^'"'^'« 
 shaken n?rvL anTf^'''^^°^'°^««4irSni ^^. '°^'""«^i 
 «t of the same " n *r.?"^«»8 fingers Jn .k'I' *" »Pif e of 
 n^anuseript v.ThT'^ *^.'"^ ^^^e a lod .n" ^''^^^Pock- 
 dicative of 8^/^! ^''^ '^^^^^aeattnfa.ln ^^^ of 
 
 "leso attempts in^i„ . ^^''^^ of soinfl „p A "'«s»me 
 
 parages beTn7;"t^;;'«'mordi„ar7,Xu '■;,«''■«»• 
 one metre no«, ;„ "f"^ "'">' and ov»,. . • ' "'« "ame 
 «">s finished V ^"""'^'■-''uf no «I! i"^'?-:'"* in 
 
 ?«'neinto^Ioofcat!,,P'«''«.'<'GemrdL«e„,i ^ 
 
 >n silence n«t I , ° Pa'ient, Shn £1 "u^ *''™ he 
 
 and to him T^^^^ you. Jf i had ht r"""^ • but Ia,„ 
 ^^^ to him, Insight have found hlm^nVr *\'"^^«j5 
 
 ' ^es, if you h«^ .. '*"^^* ^^^'B 
 
 -^. ^-- ^^o, iiester/i am not wL^^ ^^^ ^^at wor,; 
 
 not brutal, I 
 
 1 1 ftf« not hec^rt' 
 
d The l),yii^ 
 
 the h,^otii.^,ji,j,^.t 
 o ace containiriif the 
 
 "^^" iml rotainecl 
 
 rTj ^'"^ satires, 
 'y abou,. the «tt,ne 
 
 ^^^« of a wettko,,ej 
 
 presently when he 
 
 ^t her face should 
 
 ;hoIar had been 
 eiy tempted him 
 
 ^y money. He 
 'f *^ ^.retch, and 
 i am worthy 0/ 
 
 ^ken voice, 'you 
 ^now what yuxi 
 »«e such a cru..; 
 
 fouI; but I am 
 
 true to my^al/ 
 i brought hitt 
 
 'ove, and lots, 
 'or that worn- 
 am not het^rt- 
 
 2%e WorZd!, 2%e Flesh, and the Devil 327 
 
 less. I am sorry for him ; but he is the victim of his own 
 instincts, and if the opportunity had not come from my 
 hand it would have come from some other hand. I should 
 be much more sorry if you had gone on with that dull, 
 cruel slavery, which cut you off from all the joys that 
 youth has a right to claim from life. I was mad when I 
 saw your patient drudgery, your blank pleasureless days. 
 I would have done a worse thing than I did to rescue 
 you. And now — well — we must do the best we can for 
 him,' with a reluctant glance at the sleeper. ' After all, 
 he is no worse off than many a millionaire struck down 
 in the midst of his possessions. To this complexion we 
 must all come at last,' 
 
 Hester answered nothing to his philosophical summing 
 up of the situation. She took her seat by the bedside, 
 watchful, ready to carry out the doctor's instructions, 
 which were of the simplest. There was hardly anything 
 to be done. The old man might awaken from that heavy 
 and prolonged slumber in his right mind, or he might not. 
 She could but wait and watch. She had drawn down 
 the blinds, and sat in the subdued light — sat with folded 
 hands, and lips which moved in prayer to that Personal 
 God of whose non-existence her latest studies had assured 
 her. But in this hour of agony and self-reproach her 
 thoughts went back into the o^'' naths ; and even in the 
 Great Perhaps there was some touch of comfort. Surely 
 somewhere, somehow, there must exist some spirit of love 
 and pity, some mind greater than the mind of man, to 
 which sorrow could make its appeal — in which despair 
 could find a refuge from itself. All the peoples of the 
 earth had felt the necessity for a God, Could this bliiul 
 groping after the Great Spirit mean nothing, after all ? 
 The words of her new teachers — words of power from the 
 pen of men who had thought long and deeply, who bad 
 brought culture and pure science to bear upon the pro- 
 blems of life and mind — came back to her in all their in- 
 flexible assuredness — the words of men who said ther# 
 
life could be full of »m,.»T, i , "™ """o "aW that this 
 ove albeit there"te tetfer^^^ ?<• ^op^ «d 
 
 before, rec:^r^4:'°-J?-'i«. words known lo„. 
 
 sweet music, and aiush^oi ST""'' ''S'V''« »»>""°o? 
 that seemed to hold her hea^i""'*''^,*''^ '«»' bonds 
 "pon the darkness of her tSZ, ' ™^ "^ ^"^ ^t"'" » 
 y-hat are wear, and Teat-tt. a^^HiSt »-!.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ^S ^OK M, ™., Mr 000. ...s .BK BOXB." 
 
 recovered coSsciousnSriXr . w ^*^,e^Porfc 
 slumber, which in«v iff ^^^'^ t^^a* prolonged 
 
 Jage to village, poo? food TnA "^^^^""g^ ^^om vil- 
 wretched bel.' fliter Lnd ,Z'f "^ "'^^*« ^^ 
 journeyings in his oootAf « T *? '®,"g^ ^^^^rd of his 
 
 the landlord of a little inn at ^ hiLT'^^rnT^"^* from 
 far back as August and i? t ^\»gdon. This dated as 
 
 f-e to AbingdTilmtt immedla^^^^^ '^' '^^ '^^^ 
 of Gerard's money, it might^ t-Jt'^ "P°° *^® receipt 
 being near Oxford and^hfLdlpr*^ 'T^ ^^ idea of 
 
 rrr^r^^^pSaL" t^l^^^^^^^^ 
 
 -e Ahin^on .nn=. "sp-^^^^TveT? S ^f ^f™ 
 
!the World, Th^. Flesh, and The Devil. 320 
 
 seven weeks, and the bills marked a downward progress 
 in the drunkard's career, each successive account showing 
 a larger consumption of alcohol. The last account was 
 not receipted, and it seemed but too likely that the old 
 man had left in debt. 
 
 Later bills showed a journey down the river, by land 
 or water. The names of the towns or villages where he 
 had stopped had a rustic sound, the signs of the innf, were 
 quaint and old-fashioned. The Ring of Bells. The Old 
 Id ouse at Home. The First and Last. But whatever the 
 sign might be, Nicholas Davenport's bill showed that his 
 chief outlay had been for alcohol— brandy in the be- 
 ginning. Later, when his funds were dwindling, the 
 drink had been gin. The unhappy man had chosen 
 the very worat direction for his fated footsteps, for in 
 those low-lying rural villages by the river side he must 
 have found the atmosphere most calculated to bring back 
 those neuralgic agonies which had been first the cause, 
 and afterwards both cause and excuse of his intemper- 
 ance. His daughter's care and indulgence had kept the 
 fiend at a distance, but he had gone in the very way of 
 his old enemy. The last in date of all the bills was a 
 scrawling memorandum from a wayside public house in 
 the next village to Lowcombe, and hardly two miles from 
 the Rosary. It was doubtless from the fireside gossips of 
 the tap-room that Nicholas Davenport had heard that de- 
 scription of Mr. and Mrs. Hanley, and their manner of life 
 which had led liim to suspect their identity with Gerard 
 and Hester. And now he was stretched on a sick bed, 
 helpless, the power of movement lost co the long, lank 
 limbs : helpless and almost imbecile. The mind was dim 
 and blurred. Memory was gone, save for rare and sudden 
 flashes of recollection, which had about them somethino- 
 strange and unearthly that filled his daughter with awe. 
 Some sudden allusion to tht. past, some shiarp, clear scrap 
 of speech startled and scared her as if the dead had 
 spoken. His imbecility seemed far less unnatural, losa 
 
 *i^.- 
 
 
lllill 
 
 830 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 painful even, than these transient revivifications of sense 
 and memory. 
 
 ihU.^^ f T'i'^.'''^';', ^ "1"^^^' °^^^^^y P«^«<>n between 
 thirty and forty, tall, broad-shoulderedf vigorous, and 
 
 with a hearty appetite ior her meals, relieved Hester's 
 
 watches in the invalid's room ; and after the first week a 
 
 male attendant was engaged, who would be-able to assist 
 
 in getting the patient into the open air, so soon as he 
 
 \ 1 i'\''^l^ ^^"""^^ *° ^ '"^ve^i in<^«a Bath chair and 
 wheeled about the gardens and lanes. Mr. Mivor ex- 
 plained to Hester that her fathers condition was not so 
 much an illness as a state. He had little hope in anv 
 marked recovery, physical or mental. M:r. Davenoort^ 
 constitution had been destroyed by inte.nperance, and 
 the surprise, the shock, whatever it was that brought 
 about the seizure of the other night, had only precipitated 
 a cnsis that was, m a measure, inevitable 
 
 Hester's colour came and went as she listened to his 
 
 pbrir'look '^'' ^ *^' ^°'^' ^^^ "^ '^- 
 
 'Tell me the truth, Mr. Mivor, the whole truth. Do 
 you really and honestly think that what happened the 
 other night has made hardly any difference to my father 
 -that this sad state of things must have come^ about, 
 
 Ye's^To'^ pT.^^i };""'' no agitating cause-no fall, 
 did it noi ? ' ''^^ ^^^"""^ *^^ '^'■°^^' ^ ^^'''^' 
 
 JJ-Z'J, ^"* T^y ^ ^y' *°^ *^^^ ^ trembling accents 
 she went on, 'I am so anxious to know the truth, to 
 
 promised to keep our secrets ? ' 
 
 ^T^^f/^^' ^® ^•'^"^ed that you can trust me.' 
 
 left JifL-^-^---V ^ylife^th Mr.Hanley- 
 
 n,,r r^;. 1 "j" ^^' ^*^^«^s knowledge. He was away from 
 
 our poor lodging at the time-and I thought that he had 
 
 .deocrted me, and I may have cared less on that account. 
 
itions of sense 
 
 The World, The Flesh, arid The Devil 331 
 
 pftrhaps. But he had not meant to abandon me, I am 
 sure. He had gone away under a misapprehension, and 
 atter wandering about the country he found us here — and 
 he was not quite himself, I think, for he spoke to me 
 cruelly— with words which no father — ' 
 
 She broke down, sobbing out the bitter memory of that 
 night. The worldly doctor soothed her with kindly sym- 
 pathy. He had seen much of those storms of care and 
 woe, anger and strife, which rage in the households whose 
 outward seeming is peace and pleasantness, and he had a 
 tender heart for the sorrows of his patients, especially 
 for a young and beautiful woman who was expiating the 
 sin of having loved too well, and who was evidently not 
 of the clay of which sinners are made. 
 
 ' Don't tell me any more/ he said, ' there were high 
 words— a little bit of a scuffle perhaps, and your father 
 fell. I thought as much when I helped to undress him. 
 I examined him carefully. « There were two or three in- 
 cipient bruises—nothing more. Such a fall would not 
 have produced the seizure. That was the result of grad- 
 ual decay, the decay of an alcoholised brain. Your father 
 has been the chief sinner against himself.' 
 
 There was infinite relief in this opinion so far as Ger- 
 ard was concerned, but it did not lessen the burden of her 
 own remorseful conscience. She blamed herself for this 
 final ruin of the life she had fought so hard to reclaim. 
 
 One duty, one atonement, only remained, she thought, 
 and that was to bear her burden, and to make this broken 
 life as happy as she could. Her father knew her, and 
 took pleasure in her companionship. That was much. 
 He accepted his surroundings without inquiry or aston- 
 ishment, and enjoyed the luxuries that were provided for 
 him without asking whence they came. He saw Gerard 
 without agitation, occasionally recognizing him and ad- 
 dressing him by name, at other times greeting him with 
 the ceremonious politeness due to a stranger. And Ger- 
 ard endured his presence in the house, at first with a 
 
 3^ 
 
 >t:i 
 
"^ ii 
 
 r m 
 
 m I !■ 
 
 I I 
 
 S32 TJce World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 sublime patience, even going out of his way to pay the 
 feeble old man little attentions when he met him in the 
 gardener neighbouring lanes on sunny mornings, drac^^ed 
 along in his comfortable Bath chair, wrapped to the chin 
 in fur with Hester walking at his side, '^hile the scene 
 ot that awful night, the fear that had haunted him in the 
 slovv hours of waiting for dawn and the doctor, were st^l 
 treshinhis naemory. a touch of pity and remorse made 
 Dmi patient of a presence which could not bring comfort 
 or pleasantness into his retreat; but after a month of this 
 monotony of endurance, the incubus I gan to oppress and 
 annoy him, even albeit Hesfer had been careful that he 
 should see as little as possible of that third inmate of the 
 house, careful too not to worry him with any details of 
 her fathers life, whether he were better or worse, happv 
 or sorrowful. The mere consciousness of the old man^ 
 existence became unbearable, and Gerard urged the need 
 ot placing hira in a sanitarium, v/here, as he aro-ued hr, 
 would be better cared for than in any private home ' 
 
 Hester was unhesitating in her refusal. 
 
 ' He could not be happier or better cared for than he is 
 here, she said, 'and even if he were as well cared for 
 which I doubt, I should not know it. and should be mis- 
 erable about him. 
 
 'That is rather a bad lookout for me. And how Ions 
 IS this kind of thing to last ? ' ^ 
 
 'As long as he lives.* 
 
 'And according to your friend, Mr. Mivor, he may last 
 
 tor years-a wreck, but a living wreck-and in that case 
 
 He will outlast me. You cannot mean it, Hester. You 
 
 can t mean to abandon me for— this unlucky old man ?' 
 
 Abandon you ! Gerard, how could you think of it ? ' 
 
 J3ut I must think it. A man cannot serve two mas- 
 
 y -^ -^ ^ upvrxi otEj iiig nci-o i,u iiurse your lather 
 
 you can t go to the South with me, and what becomes of 
 our winter m Italy ? ' 
 *I have been thinking of that; she said, with % troubled 
 
TI>e World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 883 
 
 vith ^ troubled 
 
 look. ' But is it really necessary for you to go to the 
 South ? The weather has been no mild.' 
 
 ' It generally is before Christmas. Winter doesn't be- 
 gin to show his teeth till January.' 
 
 ' And you have been so well' 
 
 ' Not well enough to face five months' cold weather, or 
 to disobey my doctor. He told me to winter in the South.' 
 
 Hester sighed, and was silent for a few moments. Oh, 
 that dream of the lovely South, how sweet it had been, 
 how fondly she had dwelt upon Browning's Italian poems, 
 upon all those word pictures of mountain and olive wood, 
 cypress and aioe; the hill-side chapel, the mule path, the 
 straggling town upon the mountain ridge, the vine shad- 
 owed arbours, the sapphire lakes. And she had to re- 
 nounce this fair dream, and infinitely worse, she had to 
 part from Gerard. If he must go to the South they must 
 be parted. 
 
 'I would give up anything rather than leave my 
 father,' she said, quietly. ' I think you must know how 
 I h;tve looked forward to seeing that lovely South, the 
 cour, tries that seem a kind of dreamland when one thinks 
 of them in our prosaic world, with you, with you, Ger- 
 ard ! But if you must go, you must go alone. You will 
 come back to me, won't you, dear ? The parting won't 
 be forever ? ' 
 
 * I shall come back — ^yes, of course, if I live ; but it will 
 be hideously dreary for you hero all the winter. Surely 
 you could trust your father to the nurse and his man. 
 They are very kind to him aren't they ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, they are kind, and I am here to see that they are 
 kind. How do I know what would happen if I were 
 away. He is very trying sometimes. They might lose 
 patience with him.' 
 
 '- A sharp word would not hurt him once in a way. 
 They would have to be kind to him in the main. His 
 existence means bread and cheese for them, and it woxiM 
 bQ to their interest to make him comfortable,' 
 
 •'•^■■'ik 
 
334 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 Weli, you must do as you nleaae * Tf t,^» « i . . • 
 place too dismal or inn rlo,\,W^ Please, it you find this 
 
 ^ And he suits Mr. Mivor as a patient' ^' 
 
 come occasionally iult to L« fLf ^®? ^'"^ ^° 
 
 arising.' *^ "^ ° '^^ ^''^^ "« neglect was 
 
 * Well, and I don't grudge Mr. Mivor hie faoc t i 
 lament the change that has come into our lTfefh« iV""'^ 
 
 l^erard. surely you know how preciou.s your life is^c me 
 —dearer than any other lifp Vmi v,».^ i .i ^® 
 
 ^ r^ottr- •>--^- f^ ™?-fcf I'll! 
 
 for the „f.T. ^uT' **" """"'•y -"^^s that they loni 
 g».mg .l..eamily at the flamin| log3?i„ LWef hTf! 
 
y duty, Gerard. 
 
 Tfui World, The Fleah, and The Devil. 335 
 
 hour when the cold, pale winter day melts into darkness. 
 He was very fond of Hester still, perfectly contented in 
 her society; but he had begun to tJiink of other things 
 when he was with her, and lie hated that presence of the 
 old man and his attendants upstairs. One of the rooms 
 that Davenport occupied was over the drawing-room, and 
 Gerard could hear his footsteps crossing the floor now and 
 then, the male attendant's heavy tread, the nursing sis- 
 ter's lighter footfall, and at nightfall the wheels of the in- 
 valid chair drawn slowly across the room. He knew the 
 automatic routine of that sad life, the hour at which the 
 patient was dressed, his meals, his airing, the business of 
 getting him to bed, which happened before Hester and 
 Gerard sat down to dinner. He knew all these details 
 though Hester had talked of the patient so little— knew 
 them by their monotonous recurronce. He thought what he 
 should do with himself in the wm r, how make life most 
 pleasant to himself now that the spell which had bound 
 him to the Rosary w.i broken ? He had been warned 
 against all excitement. The feverish life of the dissipated 
 young man was not for him. The utmost that he could 
 allow himself in the way of relaxation would be the so- 
 ciety of clever people, and a little quiet dinner-giving in 
 his fine London house. He could oscillate between Lon- 
 don and the 1 osary, and Hester need feel no sense of de- 
 sertion. The winter season had begun; there would be 
 plenty of plea^sant people in London. His sister was to 
 be married in the first week of the new year, and he 
 would have to be in Devonshire for that occasion. His 
 mother had written to him several times since her return 
 from the continent urging him to go and see' her, full of 
 vague uneasiness about the life that he was leadin'^ 
 
 tion 
 
 reverie by ^^^^ 
 
 those who have never brought disgrace upon me a'slihat 
 old sot has done upon her.' 
 
SSO rt<, WoHd, fU Flesh, and The Deoil * ' 
 
 thS^howifSti d^'T*'.^'' ye. ho, too. had 
 lives she had no Pt ''^'' *° '""-'hose in whose 
 
 ag^.'^go'SfoTd life' se°e:.^|hti T? '" "'\^"'* ''''" 
 
 sach a woSs Chris J„;). ^^ """fed "othing up„„ 
 
 only as of one who hlX™™' Jen Wht^H^''-"' "^J 
 
 Mvho could make no allowaS ^ ""^ "°' ^'^ 
 
 3heg ii'^^oX^^ I ^uppose , • 
 
 the weddlngT """^ °' *•■« ^^'^ ^'""'l "avo to be at 
 
 wa™es7wThes"jrt"i""'^° ^'* you, and' all my 
 I ...ay ne^r meet agtiu- '''"'''''-'™° """'S'' ^''^ ""d 
 
 ta^e^Sie o?TteT Yout:'*"^' ^'*^- ^-^^ "■« f"'"- 
 house.' °" "" Sett'og morbid in this odious 
 
 th^feute^^rCse':''™^''''''' '■"PP^--^ I 
 
 hef|irtut^rur:'i,?3;s%^''„tir'-'""^ 
 
 rel, Hester. I am a little hipped and I^bln 1."' '>"■'"" 
 disagreeable things without Sin"/i™"" v^!..«Y'»8 
 
 thiogforthtpSr'^fwlwy^Sh.'? "'"'»''-» — 
 
The World, The Flesh, and 7fie Devil. 337, 
 
 • She shall have anything she likes for the poor ; but 
 she must have something she can look at by and by as 
 her brother's gift. Cheques are the most fashionable 
 offerings from rich relatives, so I shall give her a cheque ; 
 but there must he something else — a service of plate, I 
 think, will be best. She and Cumberland would never 
 have the heart to buy silver for themselves. He would 
 say, 'It should be melted down and given to the poor';' 
 but Lilian will not have my gifts melted down. I will 
 go up to town to-morrow and choose the service— fine 
 old Georgian plate such as will not seem an anachronism 
 in their old Georgian house. I know even Cumberland 
 has one small vanity. He wants everything in his house 
 to be of the same period as the building itself.' 
 
 Gerard went to London on the following morning, and 
 for the tirst time since he had lived at the Rosary, told 
 Hester not to expect his return that evening.' 
 
 * I may be London for two or three days,^ he said. • I 
 have a good deal to do there.' 
 
 She made no murmur. She saw him off at the gate 
 with a smile, standing waving her hand to him in the 
 clear winter sunlight, and then she went slowly back to 
 the house with an aching heart. 
 
 ' Alas, for me then, my good days are done,' she sighed, 
 like her favourite Elaine. 
 
m World, TU Fksh, and The DevU. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ^OW COULD IT END IN ANY OTHEB WAY ? " 
 
 HE winter was mild, one of those moist and 
 
 gentle seasons which delight the iieart of fch« 
 
 Xf "^""V^"* ^^^^^ all the saniSns and 
 
 pr^chinrtt-P'rF/f ^^^^"^^ '^ ^' ""h^'ltTv 
 
 aeration nnifn iJ**^^ '"'"°° ^^«"t want of 
 
 Hfwo;i / r ""^ ^^"^^^ waa «ot one of these 
 
 and he wJ^Xri'^-^'^'^^l^e^^^^^^^^ 
 leave nX^fo? anv C h' l\-'^ ^^i^°i ^^^^^^ ^im to 
 spend all MsIyTaUhfRla^^^ sf^f /'' T'^l^^ 
 once loved retrppf ,'« a^i . ^^^^r ^^e had made that 
 
 dramltictalenf Wo ^"^ '^°T ^'°^ ^^ ^^e way of 
 
The DevU. 
 
 THEB WAY ? " 
 
 )f those moist and 
 it the heart of the 
 B sanitarians and 
 B to be unhealthy, 
 3n about want of 
 not one of these, 
 snow most of all ; 
 not oblige him to 
 'edid not want to 
 e had made that 
 •to him; but he 
 y act that might 
 the year of Mrs. 
 uld have to face 
 id with his first 
 to be. By that 
 'uUy at rest, and 
 Hester removed. 
 11 things as dear 
 i to him by the 
 ery strong tie it 
 ed in town for 
 ing present, and 
 in the way of 
 } famous break- 
 Ion House was 
 its revised and 
 s surroundings 
 were told that 
 
 The World, TJte Flesh, and The DevU. 339 
 
 their master would winter in England, mostly in London. 
 Valet and butler were fully aware that their master had 
 another establishment, and another valet and butler ; but 
 he had so far been cleverer than the average master in 
 keeping the secret of the second home. No one knew 
 where he went when he left Hillersdon House. He who 
 was so amply furnished with carriages always went to the 
 station in a hansom. 
 
 He spent Christmas at the Rosary, three days of quiet- 
 ness and contentment, which were a relief after the 
 breakfasts, copinut, alk, the picture galleries and theatres, 
 the scandals ' perpetual movements of Ijondon. He 
 would have quite happy but for the uncomfortable 
 
 consciousness of Nicholas Davenport's presence in the 
 room above — an existence which he could never contem- 
 plate without vague pangs of remorse, lest this death in 
 life were indeed his work, lest it had been that blow of 
 his which shattered the feeble intellect. Hester told him 
 what Mr. Mivor had said about the inevitableness of 
 the attack ; but this one opinion was not enough for 
 comfort. Another doctor and a better doctor might have 
 told a diflereut story. 
 
 Hester tried to be happy in those brief days of holiday ; 
 but the old unquestioning happiness, the joy that looked 
 neither before nor after, was gone. The perfect union 
 was broken. The ring which symbolises eternity -was 
 snapped into mere segments of life which she must accept 
 with th-rnkfulness. It was much that her lover had not 
 deserted her. Ail the stories that she had ever read 
 went to prove that desertion was the inevitable end of 
 forbidden bliss such as she had tasted. He had shown 
 her that he could live happily for more than a week 
 apart from her, but there was yet no hint of desertion ; 
 and he had done much in deferring his journey to Devon- 
 shire till after Christmas. 
 
 He left her on a mild sunny moraing, looking far 
 better than on his arrival at the cottage. Those few 
 
S*'^ ^-^ ^orld. ne FUsh, and Tks Ve^, ■ 
 
 chastened colouring under Xri;"'°"'i["«'' "h*™ of 
 parhng that he hal been verfTapt ** ""^ "' 
 
 ««>"rwSrhrv&ffi.T *"«"« '»- »fy-.- 
 
 severe in your Mtbn oft 'divtrA l^"" "'•«»'' 
 »». love/ he added^Sy seeit Ir ,''"f^- P'"give 
 •You are all goodness andl ^^^ *«• look of distress. 
 W.11 Write tofou afJr'the ie'iS.w"'*'' *» ""■™'"'- I 
 
 a wS rS r " *'*'' •^'^"' ' ^^ -ouU „eaa quite 
 
 res;SnU:C7thi„k"U'"^es'''r .\''''? "^ ">- 
 my lazy pen refuses to writ™ hem ' "' ^" ^ '»'«' »"" 
 
 ..ate nKltrst^* thf " "?"?«'- -"-H 
 
 habits. Jt no longer lookedTLft Tl '" "» '™"'0'-'» 
 
 the air of a house to whichaman^n'''''' """?»• " I'»<1 
 
 where things hardly C?heTtomnThr?''?''^','^' «'". 
 
 ? he despatch-box was shut th.S'^,-? '.'""viduality, 
 
 iirter of scattered Zere Th« %I I "j?'"'''? »''owe,l «o 
 
 Swinburne, Baudefai?e Eichepin W K r'^'^ ^"«"«'- 
 
 Speneer. Darwin, SchopenS 'wL^Ilitt'''^' S"""*' 
 
 for these were books which H™tl^ 1 J ''''/'"(''»«« i 
 
 Phe had madeofifc- a moil^ 1,1 ^^ "^® '^"^ what 
 conv-r^-f:^- V u S-' *-,°?6^*ncholy review, fnr H«-» J: "^ 
 
 she had no longor sopl 
 
h living; and keen 
 ed London «ocie- 
 i^ed. 
 
 'PV woo^lfii togeth- 
 
 tl»cket«, and the 
 
 winter charm of 
 
 He told her at 
 
 'tie more of your 
 I' ' You are so 
 duty. Forgive 
 look of distiess. 
 ^ to murmur. I 
 
 >uid mean quite 
 
 (^hat a bad cor- 
 ner I love, but 
 
 eottage, which 
 mits master H 
 lome. It had 
 Jasionally, and 
 individuality. 
 We showed uo 
 -ad oftenest— 
 fford, Comte, 
 ^ their places ; 
 not, and «he 
 3 rooms look- 
 Thero wa« 
 30 of man, 
 our or more 
 eady for lii^ 
 and what 
 >!• ^^nm hor 
 »g<^r sophis- 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 841 
 
 ticated her position. She no longer compared herself to 
 Shelley's Mary, and believed in the rightfulness of her 
 conduct. She stood convinced in her own eyes as a 
 woman who had sinned. Whether the uni\ erse wore or 
 were not dii-ected by a thinking mind, she hud lost her 
 lilace among good women. She sat there alone at tins 
 Christmas season, when other women were surrounded by 
 frieuds, and hold herself that she had forfeited the right 
 to womanly friendship. 
 
 She walked besitie her father's chair in the lanes for an 
 hour before the brief winter d^y began to fade, walked at 
 his side, and talked to him, and pointed out the features 
 of interest in the landscape, the moving life of beast and 
 bird, as she would have done for a child. She listened 
 to his feeble, disconnected talk. She made him under- 
 stand — as much as it was in his power to understand any- 
 thing — that he was cherished and cared for. 
 
 They did not meet many people in the lanes, but those 
 whom they met took a great deal more notice of the old 
 man in the Bath chair and the pensive face and girlish 
 figure of his companion than Hester supposed. G-entle 
 and simple were interested — the simple with an unalloyed 
 friendliness towards helpless old age and filial duty ; the 
 gentle with a touch of pity for the old man, mixed with 
 conflicting opinions about his daughter. 
 
 The Curate in his soft felt hat, slouched over his brows 
 as if he had been a brigand, the Misses Glendower, bent 
 on district visiting, Mrs. Donovan driving her self-willed 
 ponies, and crimson with the eflbrt of keeping them under 
 control — all these were keenl;^ observant of Hester, and 
 talked of her with a new zest at afternoon-tea. 
 
 This appearance of an invalid father, who althou^^h 
 physically and mentally a wreck, looked like a gentleman, 
 was calculated to modify the village idea of Mrs. Hanley's 
 position. That she should have her father to live with 
 lier, clad in purple and fine linen, sedulously waited 
 upon and enthroned in a Bath chair which must have 
 
 m 
 
S42 
 
 ^^e World, m nesh, and Tk. DevU. 
 
 tainly supplfed an ewK'/''^ '^. Baker-street, cei? 
 world of Lowcombe S^L 1 respectability which the 
 ^^y. After a^prple are nnf t'?^'^ ^^' ^°* ^^^^ -Han- 
 tear and maul a reDutatTonl^'*^'' ^^^ *^^"g^ ^^^^ may 
 out tenderness LTetr^r^^^Tf H^"^' alto.ether^.Uh^ 
 
 fatherisoneof thel/?T^ T^^^'^ **<^°«on to her 
 a Jong ti^' said Cn''"'^^'^^*^^"g« I ^^^^^ seen for 
 
 whip in her youth an7wh„ K I • '"^ **«" » fameus 
 had always been pC JiLd Vn i^^'?^ "^ * '"'"«« that 
 newly ricl "^ ' ^"^ *° ^'''^ her contempt for the 
 
 Doi.vSj'CoriLX°' "' °"l''f '° «>"•' P"«»ed Mrs 
 
 'Has he! «;'„,'"*?' ^"'ay nom home lately.' 
 Whydon^'^ou calfe'"n?.°' the end, I should think, 
 minded than I am and v^ifh"™"-. ^T »" broader. 
 
 do yon any hartotteToacTorfc"!^'?- " ?"'' 
 she doesn't know a soul inX\,i t ^"V ; and as 
 make your acquaint^^.' ** '''*'=" '*" "V he glad to 
 
 I.adyisatel"' qh/!"' """^ ?" y"" daughters any harm 
 
 late in the Semoon ™etort°ed t"J f T"!'' ™"'« '»» 
 please yourself Mre f)on^° w ? ^^•«'- ' ^o" »an 
 whose LteeedlK^-S"; TLte'tlh'-' '""P'^ 
 person behaves nicely to herimbecneirh";*!?"/?""^ 
 V. her respectability. Young pe^onsofthatcl^'hZ 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 343 
 
 their feelings as well as we have, and I daresay they are 
 bonder of their own people than we are, knowing them- 
 selves shut out from society.' 
 
 After this Mrs. Donovan gave up all idea of patronising 
 Mrs. Hanley. However she might hug herself with the 
 thought of her investments and dividends, and the power 
 which unlimited cash can give, she knew that she was 
 nob strong enough to fly in the face of Lowcombe society. 
 It was for her to follow, and not to lead, if she wanted to 
 be admitted into that inner circle, where the society was 
 not suburban and rich, but county and arrogantly poor. 
 These country people boasted of their dearth in these lat- 
 ter days, as if it were a distinction, since poverty, for the 
 most part, meant land, while wealth not unfrequently 
 meant trade. Mrs, Donovan wanted to stand well with 
 that choice 'circle which had its ramifications in the 
 Peerage, and talked of Dukes and Duchesses as if they 
 were *inen and women, so she did not call upon Mrs. 
 Hanley ; and thus Hester was spared that favour which 
 would have been the last, worst drop in her cup of bit- 
 
 New Year's Eve is apt to be a saddening season, even 
 in the family circle, for however cheerily we may pretend 
 to take it with carpet dances and hand-shaking, or Pick- 
 wickian jovialities in the way of innocent games and 
 strong drinks, there is deep down in every heart the con- 
 sciousness of another stage passed in the journey that 
 leads down hill to that inn we all wot of, where there is 
 always room for everybody; and deep in every heart 
 there is the memory of someone whom this year has 
 taken away, and not all Time's years can bring back. But 
 .^hat of New Year's Eve to the lonely girl who sat beside 
 the fire through the long evening, surrounded with the 
 books she loved, but with little pleasure even in their 
 
 company. - ^^ v 
 
 Such lonely evenings are by no means rare in the lives 
 of wedded wives, at those seasons when the indisputable 
 
 i 
 
344 
 
 The World, m Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 constraTn the me^c^nfTi^° ^^^"^^^^ demands of bJsiness 
 hall; but Hester^ouM -^ " "" -t^* himself in a city 
 alone to listen for thlL'^ '°J^fu *^^* «^« ^^ fitting 
 
 only becaut'shrwt^TrwVdLd';^^^^^ r^ 
 been sanctified her nnf ,rliT>i , ,* . ^^^ *^« hond 
 
 her husband at HelmsS fc """"^^ ^?^^^^° ^'''^ 
 was a memorable onrfSellJ?'^ °? ^^\^i^\, which 
 was the eve of Ws o„lvrL„I*^P*^'!,5?"«^ "°ce it 
 that she. LUian-s frS sS^k'^^'u'^'^^x: ^ow natural 
 to-night hX inZnutiw^^ ^^'^^ ^'^ *^^ ^'"^'^'^ «^'e 
 Lilian's ^^t^^rS^^^'''Th:l^£ZT' ^'^ «^^ ^^^" 
 aching eyelids at thlhumi '^tin '^ TTl ^ ^"^ 
 
 now be no more countprl wLti f ^^''"S^^* *hat she could 
 ' she had oxi^rhe^nirtZA 7 *^''"^''' ^^^'^ home where 
 house. "" *'^^*''^ ^^'"^^^ ^ a daughter of the 
 
 She remembered a New Yenr^a TTtt^ =« * • ^i. . , 
 ever so many years a«o «Iif ! 7 spentm that house, 
 from a mJh"2^\r^lT^-'''t^'^^^^^^^ 
 
 dreary interval oTSoHun^rd Xt^f h^ """ '^ 
 bered how kind evarvnno wl poverty, bhe remem- 
 
 est compassion for Yr^t„?h f™ '" ''f' '"" »' tender- 
 
 a good deal oSsH^d a IMrw&^lPf^'""" 
 
 togetlier in a comer wTf „:f ' . *°^ "''*" ""ad sat 
 
 and demeoiaHon nf'Ji?'" °lu i °,^ ''"*^^^ °^" small jokes 
 aau aepieciation of the youth of the neighbourhood/both 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Deinl 345 
 
 of them heart- whole and happy — happy as children are, 
 without thought of the morrow. 
 
 She had played, fresh from her German master's tuition, 
 full of the Leipsic school and its traditions, had played 
 and had been praised and made much of. Her playing 
 was a thing of the past almost, for in the days of ber 
 
 })overty she had been without .a piano, and in her new 
 ife she had given up all her hours to being Gerard's com- 
 panion, and he, who cared little for classical music, had 
 given her no encouragement to regain lost ground by 
 severe practice. The pretty little cottage piano stood in 
 its comer unopened, and now that it might have been to 
 her as a companion and friend, she feared to play lest 
 the sounds should disturb her father in his rooms on the 
 upper floor. 
 
 The night was clear and frosty, but not severely cold, 
 and at midnight she wrapped a thick shawl about her 
 and went out on to the lawn, and walked slowly up and 
 down by the starlit river, listening for the bells at Low- 
 combe Church. They broke out upon the stillness with 
 a sudden burst of sound that thrilled her, like the spon- 
 taneous cry of some Titanic soul rejoicing in some great, 
 nameless good to mankind. She could not divide herself 
 from the gladness in that burst of music, as the sounds 
 came pealing along the water. The starlight, the darkness 
 of the opposite woods, the faint ripple of the quiet river, 
 the universal hush of calmest winter night through which 
 the joy peal broke, were all too much for her sad, remorse- 
 ful heart. She felt that somewhere beyond this narrow 
 scene of life there must be a home and a refuge for lives 
 such as hers, somewhere a friendship and a pity greater 
 than- human pity, which could understand, and pardon, 
 and shelter. If it were not so the story that church bells, 
 and running rivers, and winds that blow over woodland 
 
 allu iiiuUiiI/aiti, aiiu. vauxlcuim ui^aub iiali uccu \j\:ii.i.ij.^ ■ndaa 
 
 a lying message to mankind, civilised and uncivilised, in 
 all the ages that were gone ; and that fond hope deep in the 
 
84fi 
 
 n^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 heart of man barbarian or civilised, bond or free w/wfhp 
 cruellest hallucination that was eVer engen :j^^^^ 
 
 il ?*'''"i?L°'\^''" ^" ^hi«h' *««ordiSg vo her new 
 teachers, lay all the hi.tory of mankind. 
 
 bhe walked for nearly an hour in the wintry warden 
 and that quiet commune with N*if,iro +1.-* "^ garaen, 
 ahanrnfinn «* ^T^^T 1 Y., -Mature, that unconscious 
 absorption of the beauty of the winter landscape, gave her 
 much more comfort than she had been able to find in 
 Tennyson or Browning, since even ' In Memoriam 'which 
 
 WfromTh'^f h ''T.^ f f P^^' ^^^ ^^''^ to-nighTto wean 
 her trom the thought of her own sorrows. 
 
 1 wonder if he has remembered me onop iii«f fnr ,.«« 
 
 St; t^il*"'' '-'""''' ^"^ - "^' ^'-'^ - ^-^^ '- 
 
 Even when most shaken in her old faith by the new 
 ^'^^^S>^^eh^d never altogether lost the oirhabit of 
 
 outoourin? nf r^''' ""i^?* ^." T^^"^ ^°d indistinct, the 
 outpouring of a sorrowful mind, to what God she knew 
 
 not. but for her prayer was a necessity of life 
 
 ohe was sitting at her lonely breakfast next morning 
 
 at a little round table by the fire in Gerard's study wl^l' 
 
 ledge that she was not altogether forgotten 
 
 rhere came the sound of wheels ?n the crisp gravel 
 
 drive, a loud ring at the door, and then the c3rf bred 
 
 exTaiX ^ir^' f ° the room with anTxcitTd'^' 
 • wTp^S' ^""'^ ^^T^' "^^^™' here's a brougham ! ' 
 
 pose ! ' ^°" """^"^ ^^''°" ^ ^^'" the doctor, I sup- 
 
 comDleteirvr ^t's a new carriage, coachman, and all 
 TZi^'ihl IT ^t"'" ' ^ t""' the coachman brought. 
 
 LmXlUndedtTetL™ *'^' *^'^^ ^^-^' ^^^ '^^ 
 It was from Gerard. 
 
 covSr- -"::r^^"'' -''^'' •*'" =*^ 'P'"^ the winter in the 
 am hv i«t'T' T^ ^ ^'■"^«^' ^^ I '^end you a brough- 
 am by way of a New Year's gift. It has been bSilt 
 
The World, The FUah, and The DevU. 34t 
 
 specially for country work, and will be none the worse 
 for much service in the lanes you are so fond of. The 
 coachman has admirable testimonials from previous em- 
 ployers, so you may trust him fully as head of your 
 stable. I have told him to engage a stable help, and to 
 put all things on a proper footing. The horse was bought 
 lor me by a man who is a far better judge of the species 
 than I am. 
 
 ^ ' Be happy, my love, in the begi> -ing of the year, and 
 m many a happy year to come. 
 
 ' Your attached, G. H.' 
 *P. S. — Just starting for Devonshire.' 
 
 The letter made her almost happy, almost, but not 
 quite, for kind as his words were they gave her no assur- 
 ance of his love; they did not tell her that his thoughts 
 and his heart's desire would be with her at the beginning 
 of the year, the first year which had begun since they 
 two had loved each other. For him it was much less of 
 an epoch than it was for her, and he had easily reconciled 
 himself to the idea of their separation. 
 
 The gift vouched for his kindly thought of her, and 
 was welcome on that account, but she felt that any ad- 
 dition to her luxuries only accentuated the dubiousness 
 of her position. 
 
 She went out to look at the brougham, a delightful car- 
 nage, small, neat, with dark, subdued colouring, and a 
 perfection of comfort and elegance which in no way ap- 
 pealed to the eye of the casual observer ; such a brougham 
 as a leading light of the House of Commons might choose 
 to convey him quickly and quietly to and fro the scene 
 of his triumphs, every detail sober, simple, costly, only 
 jaecause of its perfection. The horse was a fine up-stand- 
 ing brown, a patrician among horses, carrying his head 
 as if he were proud of it, Hoinrr his work .*>s if b.-irdlv 
 conscious of doing it in the fulness of his power ; an 
 amiable horse, too, for he stooped his lordly head and 
 
>48 Hfke WcyrU, The Fteeh, and The DevU. 
 
 fave his velvet noae freely to the caressing touch of 
 [ester's hand. 
 The coachman was middle-aged, and, to all appearance, 
 the pink of respectability. 
 
 'I have only driven from the station, ma'am/ he said. 
 • If you'd like to drive this afternoon the horse won't 
 hurt' 
 
 ' No, no. I'll let him rest to-day, if you please.' 
 'Quite the lady,' thought the coachma , as ho drove 
 round to his unexplored stables, pleased with a mistress 
 who showed no impatience to be sitting in her new car- 
 riage and working her new horse off his legs ; evidently 
 a lady to whom aDroughara was no novelty. 
 
 He had been pleased with his master, who had told 
 him to order whatever was required in the way of stable 
 gear and to engage a helper, all in the easy way which 
 marks a master who does not look too closely into details. 
 Hester was touched and comforted by this mark of 
 Gerard's regard. For a millionaire to give such gifts 
 might have but little significance, yet the gift implied 
 though tfulness, and it made her happier to know that ho 
 had thought of her. 
 
 She drove in her new carriage on the following day, 
 drove to Reading and made her little purchases, all as 
 modestly chosen as if she had been the wife of a curate. 
 Gerard had given her a pocket-book stuffed with bank- 
 notes before he left for Devonshire, but no plethora of 
 money could induce her to extravagant expenditure. Her 
 winter gowns, made by a Reading tailor, were of a Qua- 
 ker-like plainness; her dinner-gown of soft gray silk was 
 the simplest thing in home dinner-gowns. The long seal- 
 skin coat which Gerard had insisted upon ordering for her 
 at the beginning of the winter was the only expensive 
 garment she possessed. Just at this season she had to mako 
 purchases which were not for her own use, purchases of 
 
 finftaf. 1fl.u7n on«1 aoff-oqf nomK»»''» anA -^a^h^—-^ J-- e 
 
 . . "" •'«-s^^"^S' V-»U1Ujls\/, diiiU ^Bili\i&i.ix L:a,l"UiUIH,S ot 
 
 daintiest form, which gave employment to her skilled 
 
The World, Tfie Pleah, and the Devil. 349 
 
 fingers in the lon^% lunely evenings of that first week in 
 the New Year. 
 
 Gerard wrote to her of his sister's wedding in briefest 
 phrases. Must hu not also have reiuemberca that had all 
 been well she should have had her place, und an honoured 
 place, at that family gathering, j,ku hat there must be a 
 sting in anything he might w »te of ta 's ceremony and of 
 his people? 
 
 'They left for the Land's Uri^i to ■ lend a fortnight's 
 tSte-d-tSte in a little inn on th: t'j^* of tlie Atlantic — a 
 curious fancy for a winter honeymoon. I wanted them to 
 go to Naples and Sorrento — of course at my expense — 
 but John Cumberland would not hear of a journey that 
 would keep him away from his parish for more than a 
 fortnight, and my sister's mind is his mind, so they are 
 clambering about upon the rocks, watching the shags and 
 the gulls, and listening to the roaring of the breakers — ut 
 terly happy, I believe, in each other's society, as you and 
 I have been beside the dripping fringes of the willows. 
 For my own part I can hardly imagine a January honey- 
 moon. Love needs sunshine and long sunimer days.' 
 
 That last sentence haunted Hester all through the even- 
 ing, as she bent over 'her work at her little table in the 
 nook by the tire. Was love ended with a single summer ? 
 Could she and Gerard ever renew the happiness of last 
 summer ? Alas, no ; for last summer he could hardly 
 bear to be absent from her for an hour ; and within the 
 last few weeks he had shown her only too plainly that 
 he could live without her. It was only natural, perhaps. 
 Who but a romantic girl e( nld ever think that any union 
 love ever made could be one long honeymoon ? There 
 was no word of returning to the Rosary in Gerard's last 
 letter. His mother insisted on his staying for another 
 week at the Rectory, and he had been unable to refuse 
 her. He hoped that Hester was taking long drives, get- 
 ting herself plenty of new books at Miss Longiey's lib- 
 rary, and keeping in good health and spirits. It is bo 
 easy for the absent to entertain these hopes. 
 
 fH-?; 
 
 '. '*t- 
 
350 
 
 The World, Tlie Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 SrsL"'/.?PT'^.^" witla keened tZV^, 
 no nqpe that he would ever enter the Rosarv flo-.i'n qk^ 
 
 oThlf^oru&r; n^i^ -^-^<^^oniz^Ti.2; 
 
 pL« n/ 1^ • ' ^"^ ^^^ '^^'^ *^® courage to face the curious 
 fek^n ^t r^r^gf io^^; but on the second SundayZ 
 lelt 80 utterly desolate that her heart yearned to T. 
 
 ZroWWl, f • ^l'^\ enshioned and foot-stooled in 
 £n7i. ^' T*".'™ *« '<"==■' landowner sat like Dive, 
 
 tioa of Lowcombe, where the evening service was popular. 
 
The World, The Flesh and The Devil 351 
 
 Hester sat in her sealskin coat and neat little sealskin 
 toque and heard the evening lessons, and here she knelt 
 with meekly-bent head and joined in the prayers which 
 had once been interwoven with her daily life, but which 
 now had a doubly impressive sound after a silonce of 
 half a year; while the old hymn tunes, and most of all 
 
 the words of that evening hymn she had loved so well 
 
 ' Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,' moved her almost 
 to tears. Indeed it was only the consciousness of the 
 lamplight on her face, and perhaps, too, the apprehension 
 of furtive glances from unkind eyes, that nerved her to 
 the effort which restrained her tears. 
 
 The Rector's evening sermon was simple and practical, 
 one of those plain-speaking, homely addresses which he 
 loved to give of an evening — sermons in which he spoke 
 to his flock as to a little family with whose needs and 
 borrows and failings he was familiar. .Hester met his 
 glance more than once as she looked up at him, and there 
 were words, comforting words, in his sermon which she 
 fancied were meant especially for her, words to lighten 
 the sinner's despair and to promise the dawn of hope. 
 
 She went home happier for that village sermon, and 
 having once dared the curious looks of the congregation 
 she determined to go to church regularly. The church 
 was open to sinners as well as saints, to Magdalen as well 
 as to Martha and Mary, to the doubter as well as to the 
 believer ; and now that Gerard was no longer by to assail 
 the creed in which she had been reared with all the pes- 
 simist's latest arguments, her heart went back into the old 
 paths, and the Rock of Ages was once again a shelter 
 and a support, 
 
 ^ There was daily service at Lowcombe, and to this ser- 
 vice Hester went every morning during Gerard's absence. 
 It was the one break in her life, an hour of quiet prayer 
 and contemplation which tranquilised her mind, sustained 
 her through the monotonous duties of the day. 
 
 Gerard reapiieared after more than a fortnight's absence, 
 
 •At 
 
352 Ths World, The Flesh, and T/ie Devil 
 
 His native air had not improved his health. He looked 
 
 ten the' 7Z[y ^rrcir^' *^^* ^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^--^^ 
 ' My father and mother are model people of their kind ' 
 
 bufcTo dn«« l-r •^^^^'^^^ 'Y' ^^"^^ g^'« ^y clockwork; 
 but so does life in a gaol, and I confess that I found the 
 
 Factory about as lively ob Portland. There was nothing 
 !l?f ' *^^,'^«*^">f *o think about. If I had been I 
 
 tK?™! Tr '^:?"^^ \*^^ ^®^° «"* ^th the hounds. 
 Rural life provides nothing for men who are not sports- 
 men^ . ^"*'^' creaUres are hardly believed in by the rural 
 
 Hester saw with poignant grief that after a few days 
 
 TL!5.Lr''*'^xx^'I^'"^ "^^^ ^ ^""^^^ ^ he tiad been in 
 Devonshire. He did not hint at this weariness, but the 
 signs of ennui were too obvious. He suggested invitina 
 Jus m Jermyn but Hester had grown Kenly senistivS 
 ot Jate, and she was so evidently distressed at the 
 
 uTstbn "''^'' ^^""^ ^^^^ ^'^ ^""^ P'^"" *he 
 
 • I feel as if almost in every word Mr. Jermyn speaks to 
 me there is a covert sneer/ she said. 
 
 Jih^^^^'!?i^ "^T ""^^^^ y^*^ ^^o"g him.-Jermyn is a 
 laughing philosopher, and holds all things lightly I 
 
 Ew ""f^^I '^^i°'''.*' ^^^ Hapniest gift Nftur. can 
 bestow. For him. to existimeans to le amused. He lives 
 only for the present hour, has a happy knack of utilising 
 his friends, and does not know the meaning of care o? 
 
 Gerard went to London soon after this little discussion 
 about Jermyn, and was away till the end of the week 
 and from thenceforward he appeared at the Rosary only 
 for two or three days at a time, coming at shorter or 
 longer intervals, his periods of absence lengthening as the 
 J.on..on season aa vauced. In Loudon Jermyn was always 
 with him his umbra, his second self. Hester discovered 
 tnw fact from his conversation, in which Jermyn's name 
 
rmyn speaks to 
 
 ^ World, The JF'leak, and The DevU, 353 
 
 was always recurring. He spoke of the man always with 
 the same scornful lightness, as of a man for whom he had 
 no real affection, but the man's society had become a 
 necessity to him. 
 
 'Does he live upon me?' he said once, when Hester 
 gently suggested that Mr. Jermyn must be something of 
 a sponge, ' well, yes, I suppose he does — upon me among 
 other friends — upon me perhaps more than any other 
 friend. You remember how Lord Bacon used to let ser- 
 vants and followers help themselves to his money, while he 
 sat at his desk and wrote, seemingly unobservant. Bacon 
 could not afford to do that kind of thing — his income 
 wouldn't stand it — but Jermyn is my only follower, and 
 I Can afford to let him profit by my existence. He does 
 not sponge or borrow my money. He only wins it I 
 am fond of piquet, and when we aie alone he and I play 
 every night. He is by far the better player, an exceptional 
 player indeed, and I daresay his winnings are good 
 enough to keep him in pocket money — while I hardly feel 
 myself any poorer by what I lose. If you would spend 
 a little more, Hettie, I should be all the better satisfied.' 
 
 'You are only too generous,' she said, with a sigh. *I 
 have everything in the world that I want — and I have 
 been more extravagant lately. Your bank notes seem to 
 slip through my fingers.* 
 
 ' That is what they were meant for. I'll send you an- 
 other parcel from London to-morrow.' 
 
 ' No no, please do not. I have plently of money, nearly 
 three hundred pounds. But are you really going back to 
 town to-mori ow ? ' 
 
 * Really, dear. It is a case of necessity.^My lungs won't 
 stand this river-side atmosphere. Why don't you think 
 better of my suggestion, Hester, and let me find an- 
 other home for your father. He could be well provided 
 for, and you would be free to travel with me. Dr. South 
 would think me mad if I were to spend February and 
 March in the valley of the Thames — and even you would 
 hardly wish me to run so great a risk.' 
 
354 
 
 Th World, The FlesK and Tlie Devil. 
 
 households to wMch he lou d ^Sl""'! "f/o'P^'^ble 
 care-and eo»e to iLy with 1'° P"^'' "'«'« "«dical 
 
 will do my b:rto"Lk{Chapp?ltrtbS:;i;r ' 
 
 ment I can make ' ^^^' ^"® ®°^^ ^^^iie- 
 
 an^^lrto^^rat^Ttrir^-^^^-P-"-"^- 
 
 world is untrodden ground IrSt ond'lUve'in an .'S'' 
 wh,eh has minimised the fatigne an/dl^acX of 't^;^'' 
 
 fe^ti'^srouxr '^£u'nP'^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 such a sky TtSt ' he Iff J?"'!'"'''* "■* *'*<"• ""der 
 
 garden anrit!'inte^trt:Si°i:£l-iL1 
 restnct my movempnfq in, ,.«,•« i. i ^V\r^"^ snore, and 
 
 between l^ndr^d th^hCsf >''"'^'^ »»<» '»™"<b 
 
 -S££|?35«rtt 
 an Ws unne^sa-r^dC twIiTj^S 1^ tttj 
 
 g:ru-erwt--:^i^,^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ' Tired of you. You know that I am not Dm.> ^ «« 
 treat you to go with me. It is only your whim. *^' T 
 gerated notions I am tired of.' ^ *'^ ''"*«" 
 
 and Scotch mist"; the soVn ";:^::::{''^ii*;4'Xut 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 355 
 
 and dark, leafless branches of the forest trees, counted 
 for something in Gerard's angry impatience. He went 
 back to London on the following dav, and he talked of 
 starting for Italy, nay, indeed, made all his plans for de- 
 parture, and then at the last altered his mind, and stayed 
 in town. 
 
 He reappeared at the Rosary at the end of the week, 
 and it was a shock to him to find Nicholas Devenport 
 installed by the drawing-room fire. Ther had been a 
 graduai improvement in his condition since Christmas, 
 and the doctor had suggested his being carried downstairs 
 in his invalid chair of an afternoon, thinking that the 
 change of surroundings might have good influence upon 
 his mental state. His mind had certainly been brighter. 
 He had taken more heed of Hester's presence, and had 
 talked to her rationally, though without memory, fre- 
 quently repeating the same speeches, and asking' the 
 same questions over and over again. 
 
 His presence beside the I earth made the house odious 
 to Gerard, who saw in tha. bent and broken form the 
 image of death. He retreated ^t once to the study, where 
 Hester found him standing beside the fire in a »loomy 
 reverie. ^ 
 
 *1 had no hope of your coming to-day,' she said de- 
 precatingly, * or I would not have had my father brought 
 down to the drawing-room. I'm afraid it hurts you to 
 see him there.' 
 
 'It does, Hester. The very consciousness of ..is pre- 
 sence in the house has always been a horror to me. 
 Perhaps it is because my own life hangs upon so imn a 
 thread that I hate to see the image of death — and that 
 living death of imbecility is death's worst form. Some- 
 times I think I shall die that way myself.' 
 
 She soothed him, and argued away his fears about 
 himself, and promised that her father's presence should 
 not again be inflicted upon him, come when he might to 
 the Rosary. She would remember her divided duty, and 
 
mi. 
 
 356 Thi World, The Flesh, and The Dedl 
 
 she would take care that the hoo>ft which ha had created 
 should be made happy ibr hin*. 
 
 'It is your house,' she said. ' I ought to remem^w 
 that. 
 
 'There is no yours nor mine, Hettie' Le ai^sweved 
 kmcilv. 'All 1, possess of this worlds gcftr is at your 
 servif ,e ; but I am full of fancies, and your father a pre- 
 sence -Jtlit; T{\j soul' 
 
 He hud >vyim to the Rosary on Saturday afternoon, 
 meaning i - ^Uj till Monday, and then go J .ck to London 
 and recui^>iiuor his migration to the South. He had been 
 somewiiat disheartened by being told at his club that 
 there waa snow in Naples, and that people were leaving 
 Rome in disgust at the Arctic cold. These edl rumours, 
 together with his yearning to see Hester one* more, ha<i 
 delayed his departure. He had been feeling very ill all 
 the week, and he told himself he must lose no time in 
 getting to a balmier climate, wherever it was t) be found. 
 ^ He did not return to town on Monday. He was shiver- 
 ing and depressed all through Sunday, to Hester's ex- 
 treme anxiety, and on Sunday night he yielded to her 
 entreaties, and allowed her to send for Mr. Mivor, who 
 found all the symptoms of lung trouble. The trouble de- 
 clared itself before Monday night as acute inflammation 
 of the lungs, complicated by a weak heart, and for three 
 weeks the patient hung between life and death, tenderly 
 and devotedly nursed by Hester, who rested neither night 
 nor day, and accepted only indispensable aid from the 
 hospital nurse who had been sent for at the beginning of 
 the attack. When Gerard was able to go down tolihe 
 drawing-room as a convalescent, he was hard'y whiter or 
 more shadowy-looking than Hester herself. was not 
 
 ungrateful. He knew the devotion that h&. , v n given 
 
 to him, knew t' at in thosft lnnf» ni^-hf' * »- • ar-^ = 
 
 deliriumone .tie face had always wsicxn j. beside his 
 bed; yet «,flei ohe first few days of j. ^valescence an 
 eager desire for change of surroundings ir . nossession" 
 
wifi 
 
 3h he had created 
 ight to remember 
 
 out father 3 pre- 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 357 
 
 of him. That illness, coming upon him suddenly, like 
 the grip of demoniac claws fastening uponlungs and heart, 
 had given him a terrible scare. He had been told that 
 he had not a good life, but not since his childhood had he 
 felt the paralysing power of acute disease, never perhaps 
 until now had he realised the frailty of the thread which 
 held all he knew of or believed in— this little life and its 
 pleasures. In his new terror he was feverishly ea»er to 
 get to a better climate, to Italy, to Ceylon, to Indiarany- 
 where to escape the treacherous changes, the bitter de- 
 ceptions of English weather. 
 
 Jermyn came down to see him, at his earnest desire : 
 Jermyn played piquot with him in the long March 
 evenings, and amused him with the news of the town • 
 
 u i^^Av Vl"* ^i? ^°^ ^®^^®^ ^*^ ^«"*or of the house that 
 held JNichoJas Davenport, or his ever-present terror of a 
 relapse. He arranged the details of his journey with 
 Jermyn; who knew exactly what kind of weather they 
 were having along the Western Riviera. 
 . J ^^?- ^^i^ ?"^ summer by the Mediterranean,' he said ; 
 March and April are the most delicious months on that 
 sunny shore. Nature is loveliest there just when all the 
 smart people have left for Paris or London. Leave every- 
 thing to me^and your valet, and all you will have to do 
 when your conscientious little medical man here permits 
 you to move, wiU be to take your seat in the train-de- 
 luxe. I am going Southward for Easter myself, and I'll 
 be your travelling companion, if you like.' 
 
 • If I like ? I should be miserable alone. You will eo 
 as my guest, of course.' 
 
 'As you please,' repUed Jermyn, shrugging his shoul- 
 ders. One does not stand upon punctilio with a million- 
 aire on a matter of pounds, shillings and pence. I hope 
 to earn my traveUing expenses by being useful to you. 
 JJoes Mrs. Hanley go with you to the South ? ' 
 
 ' No,' Gerard answered, shortly. 
 
 Mr, Jermyn went up to town next day to see Uera,ra'^ 
 
 ftl 
 
 iii;^ 
 

 nsH 
 
 Thi World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 occasion hrSr^""'^?''.''''?^'^ '^''^' «^ this second 
 occasion he and Gerard having dined alone onboth even- 
 
 ?Qu f., P® ^ ^*^® "lo*^ offended her.' 
 ^ She hkes to be with her father.' 
 
 m his room after that hour' ^ wanted 
 
 GeW^?n7l ^"\'^' ™y ^^^^ <« b^ there/ answered 
 'How is vi* r- t^T^ *^" conversation abruptTy 
 
 wWKfc'^'^V^* ^ ^^^'^^^ ^^ ^i'l be finished In two years 
 
 ' 1 am sorry we have no room for you here—' 
 
 Mr^HlZ'^Zh. \^T « y- h-d >■-■» whether 
 
 afSi'ral7„??l'„te*V'rr,"7risl^''""^^^^^^^^^ 
 that while the.Iadies I meef aUhe P u' i'a Z7Z S "I 
 Hom^ are positively devoted to me I am unfortunS^^n 
 
 r/M*""!"? I"^J'«*'T of *•"« purely domestcmtod" 
 and Mrs. Hanley is so thoroughly*domestic.' 
 
 H r^\ '% ■? ""^* devoted and unselfish of women 
 H.r only faulte a« virtues in excess/ answered ZlZi. 
 
 laJ^d^t^JlThS "r-t!?."- :^i i^T ^'"" *^ "'- 
 
 theweather=reports^;^';;;^nhrfatLfXitr 
 implicit beliet m that gentleman's wisdom, and listened 
 
The World, The Flesh, and fhe D&vil 359 
 
 Jithout imoatience to the counsel which the doctor gave 
 him on his last visit, counsel which in some points echoed 
 Dr. South's advice, given some months earlier. 
 
 Illness is apt to be selfish, and in his long illness that 
 self-love which had grown and strengthened ever since 
 the sudden change in his fortune, took a stronger growth, 
 and in the long days of convalescence, weak, depressed, 
 and self-absorbed, he had brooded over Hester's reiusal to 
 be his companion in his Southern wanderings, her choice 
 of duty to her father rather than duty to him. Angered 
 by her opposition, he began to doubt even her love, or to 
 count that love a poor and paltry thing, the love that can 
 consider another rather than the beloved one, the love so 
 closely allied with remorse that it almost ceases to be 
 love. 
 
 A lon^ letter from Edith Champion, which reached him 
 during his last days at the Rosary, seemed to accentuate 
 Hester's coldness. Edith's letter was glowing with hope- 
 ful love. Her year of widowhood was drawing towards 
 its close. June would soon be here, and then, if he still 
 cared for her, their new life might begin. He had never 
 been absent from her thoughts during her exile. The 
 winter had seemed very long, but the dawn of spring 
 meant the dawn of hope. 
 
 The letter claimed him, and in his present mood, he 
 had no desire to dispute that claim. The pale sweet face 
 which looked at him in mute agony on that last March 
 morning had lost its power to move him. 
 
 •You will come back to me, Gerard ? ' she entreated, 
 clinging to him in a farewell embrace. 
 
 • Perhaps ! Who knows if I may live long enough to 
 see you and England again ? You have made your choice, 
 Hester. The future must take care of itself. In any case 
 jvux Trciicw.e IS j'.:Tnaeu lur. X uave i^Ken care oi ail 
 material matters — for you and yours.* 
 
 That was all. There was no tender allusion to that 
 pew obligation which the summer was to bring upon 
 
J>60 He. World, TU Flesh amd The t)evU. 
 
 I 
 
 Hester and upon him. His heart was full of a sullen 
 auger against this woman - ^ ^fiJl • * x , 
 
 short of blind obediencr "^ '^^ ^'' -^"'^ '^"^"^^^ 
 
 Her heart turned to ice at this cold reply. Womanlv 
 f at^hP"? ' f ^ ^'^P^>^ H^^'^^ woman^ro e up S 
 nee ■ Th "^^ Ty\: ^^^ ^r^« dropped froThia 
 necK The wan cheek that had been pressed against his 
 
 n "T^. "-Tl .^^^ ^^^^^^^^ himMentlS the 
 on wfth h?r/ ^f'T^^''^' ^^^^ ^^^^ befng helped 
 
 snurHttleLr'l.'"'^ ^'f'.^^l «^^ ^i'" step into the 
 snug little brougham, with the dumb, tearless affonv of a 
 leaden despair. He looked out of the carriagfwhidow 
 
 moreThln h- ''." T^l"^ ^°«^-'^y«' The smi^hurt h.T 
 more than his hai-shest words could have done. 
 
 CHA^TEK XXV. 
 
 J^NQ WHILE TTE MAY. MAN fl H NO LONG DELIGHT." 
 
 iERAED and his companion started for the 
 
 t South m '..e train de luxe that eft Charing 
 
 Cross early m the fore- )on. A sunlit pa.<.3age 
 
 across the Channel, a d.y of cigar smoking 
 
 .TnrXl T^^'^'r''^"'^, -ad brief intermittent 
 
 ir w'^^ T^''^ '^ ' ^^^' ^^<^ from Bleepi- 
 , ness, but from sheer ar ss and vacu v • an 
 
 ev^niDir at piquet, played ui. r tL vacillating HgUo^a 
 coup.e of reading lamps, whae the train rushed .utl^ 
 ward. ancT then a long, weary night in which the ^me 
 rushingr sound, the samfi ir,r.a«oorf+ «.«;n.x:__ .. , ?*"t® 
 
 with eve^ dream while n^wa^id^S^rSdSrr^ 
 derof a passing train started the dreamer with some 
 
Tfus World, Ths Flesh, and The DevU. 361 
 
 hideous ima^e conjured instantaneously out of the dis- 
 torted dream world. 
 
 th^^^'^^A 'P'".^' had been wild and fitful all through 
 the long day and evening, now breaking out into gaiety 
 anon sinking into gloom. His strongest feeling was a 
 
 life that had been gradually g. wing abhorren. /> him. 
 He had escaped from the house of melancholy, from the 
 atmosphere o undying remorse. Most of all/he ha I es- 
 
 oTJlfT ^'"^.-";f "^^"^ «P^°*'^' *h« dismal Simula 
 crum of humanity the perpetual reminder of old a^e. dis- 
 
 'Sdetetdtiis^'^ "^^^'^^^ automaton whose vicinity 
 
 ' If duty is more to her than love she must find happi- 
 
 L '" tf^K-^!l ^"t^'' ^" '^'^ *« hi°^««lf again and 
 aga.a while his thoughts and fancies set themselves to 
 the rb , hmical beat of the engine, audible above the rush 
 ot tl ,,,,m. She must find happiness—doing her duty ! ' 
 themse'lvesf '' common-place words repeated 
 
 He had done his duty by her, he told himself. He had 
 given her the opkon and she had decided. Her lover or 
 her father. She had chosen to stand by the earlier tie' 
 Obstinately needlessly, in opposition to all reason she 
 had sacnficed herself to the father whose only claim upon 
 
 choslr ^^ ^'"'^ ^ ^^^^''' ^^^^- She C 
 
 f rol^ Fn!i^*^ uTi?"'' ^"*y- ^"""^^d ^^^^ongh his flight 
 fiom England had been, eager as he was to plunge into 
 new scenes Lo wa^h the bitter taste of memory out of his 
 mouth with the waters of novelty, he had 4en every 
 step necessa^ to ensure Hester Davenport's material 
 prosperity. His la^t act before leaving London had bTen 
 to execute the deod whinh nvo-^^-^ A i. " " _ ,^ 
 b. a rich woman aU the da^ of W llS-a Ver^eh w^ 
 m. a-able to enjoy all that wealth can offer of splendour 
 luxury, variety, the worids esteem, long after L woiSd 
 
 M 
 
 ■ m 
 
 • Ik 
 
*^^ 
 
 S62 The ]\ orld, Tfte Fleah, and The Devil 
 
 be inurned in bronze or marble, a handful of mindleaa 
 dust. She had known tlie sharp sting of poverty all 
 through the fairest years of her youth, and would be the 
 better able to appreciate the unspeakable privileges of 
 wealth. He told himself that he could afford to think of 
 her without one remorseful pang ; yet he did not so think 
 in the enforced vacuity of long, sleepless hours, cramped, 
 with aching limbs, in his narrow berth. The pale, pa- 
 thetic face, the imploring oyes, haunted him. 
 
 He thought of the infinite consolations of her life — a 
 life not measured like his miserable existence, within the 
 narrow limits of a year or two. If she was alone now, 
 alone with that sad phantasm of mindless humanity, she 
 would have a new companion before very long — the 
 sweetest, tenderest, companion woman's life can know — 
 the child who in every attribute recalls all that was best 
 and dearest in the father. 
 
 ' If I had stayed with her to the end our parting must 
 have come all the same,' he told himself, 'and why should 
 I sacrifice my poor remnant of life to the horror of an as- 
 sociation that agonises me ? One little year, perhaps, at 
 the best. Only a year. Am I a wretch because I try to 
 make the most of it ? ' 
 
 He looked at Justin Jermyn, sleeping on the other side 
 of the carriage, the image of placid repose ; his breathing 
 as regular as an infant's ; his complexion delicately fair 
 in the lamplight ; hiig parted lips rosy as the lips of a 
 child. 
 
 ' There h enjoyment of life,' mused Gerard, 'and ye. T 
 don't believe that man ever had an unselfish ihonght, or 
 would hesitate at the commission of the darkest crime, if 
 crime would make life pleasanter to him.' 
 
 He remembered how Jermyn had pushed him on to his 
 alliance with Hester, and how Jermyn had urged him to 
 • tCi uiio hixj \nic\iijiy xu uui;iiiiit; jiitsoiue — a man wno per- 
 haps had done very little evil on hip own account, who 
 had neither robbed the widow and oi^^han nor murdered 
 
nee, within the 
 
 W" irorW, The Flcl,, and Th Devil. 363 
 
 J'^PPy-So-lickva rv^h^^'h •^^''^^'^^^ a perpetual 
 
 vice seemed non ^xilter A f "'^.^ J"f.*^ ^^'^'''^"'^ that 
 l.a.s filed down i'b Lf sto nk' l""!^'' ^"' ^^«° ^ '"^'^ 
 1- «ay. of that mic nt^^n tS !')^t"'^T' -^-^n 
 heasu that p.H«h.' it beeom.t^Ut dlnT^^e^ 
 
 hisVe'^tJiX^S^^^^^^^ «-rd envied 
 
 cency and conten w ith j-t An^l th' ^''^^^ ^^'"P^^- 
 advar.tagestheimmhijl r;, ^^^'^ '^''^<^ physical 
 
 which nS exercCcould ire^of tl^'r- ^ "' ^ ^!^ "^"^'^^^^ 
 siuin, on tennis-court or go llnl^^^ ' V'^ul ^^^""^- 
 
 that was the glorv of liff V • , • /"'"^'t^'^^^'- Ye.^. 
 and evil ; a body Lrw^d-^aTL Jh'^'".' T' °^^^«^ 
 with the promise of W ^76 in '1 ''"'^ '^''°^^^' ^°^ 
 limb. Better than mimoni Wf !F ^'^'^ ^"^ «^ery 
 
 ^-Id which seemeS a mock;rv to'A '" "' ^u''^"'" °^ 
 were numbered "^^^Kery to the man whose days 
 
 the^'cXrbyit'r^^^^^^^^ ^^-^ ^- had waited in 
 
 income was umler rtholZ^^ ''" ^ '"^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ whose 
 spending ofSv aS ,\r^'' ^'^ ^^^^ ^ad the 
 months if he chose^irewhorl f'T^^^ "^ ^^^ ^^^Ive 
 self doomed to earlv death ?n • ^ •* ^^^f' ^"*^^^i»g ^im- 
 the waters of P^tls ?o mJu ""^ /'' F^*^' *« "^^^^^^ ^ 
 to achieve Bom^ S' extmtir^' °^ P"^« ^" ^^^ ^i"e. 
 should be ren^embS when hf w^TT f°"^ ^^^^^ 
 day of his life. ^^'' ^"st— almost every 
 
 furnl'rri'oit^^^^^^^^ ^r*«d that he had 
 
 wealth and orSaT wV^^^^^ ^''f ^''^^^^ to lavish 
 of Anof.oi;« „„^T ^^'.'^"t do not the woo1.d^^^o.„ 
 
 as muchTth:; r^K^^rhrf^'^^i^^^^--^-^^^^ 
 
 W^dQ no new departure £ tt'"''''^ ^^^^^'^> ^^^ ^^^^ 
 F^-^ure, uq bad given regh^rcho luu^ 
 
 'iff 
 
3G4 Tlte World, The Flesh, and The Deinl 
 
 cheons, and had succeeded in having his hospitality- 
 spoken of as ' the Hillersdon table-d'hfite ' by the witlings 
 of his circle, mostly, perhaps, by those whom he did not 
 entertain. He had bought some of the costliest books 
 from choicest collections lately brought to the hammer. 
 He had patronized some rising artists, eccentrics of the 
 French and Belgian schools ; had bought statues, and had 
 given exorbitant sums for carriage horses which he rarely- 
 used, and for a Park hack which he rode so seldom that 
 every ride had been a narrow escape of sudden death. 
 No; he had done very little with his money; he, who 
 when penniless had pondered so often on the potentiali- 
 ties of wealth and the poor use that the average million- 
 aire makes of his golden opportunities ! He, Gerard Hill- 
 ersdon, man of the world, thinker, dreamer, fully abreast 
 with all the newest ideas, felt that his career up to this 
 point had been a failure. And the time that remained 
 to him for achievement was so short, so short ! He was 
 oppressed by a sense of hurry, an eagerness to enjoy, 
 which kept his blood at fever-point. How slow was this 
 so-called express; how uncomfortable this train de luxo ? 
 While the glamour of a passionate love had lasted, that 
 tranquil existence by the river had been perfect hapi)i- 
 ness ; but now, by a strange perversity of mind he looked 
 back upon the placid monotony of those days with a 
 feeling that was near akin to disgust. It was not that 
 he could contemplate Hester's image without tenderness ; 
 but between the fair young face and his picture of the 
 Rosary there came an image of horror — the face and form 
 of the man whose shattered brain was in some wise his 
 work. He forgot all that he had enjoyed of exquisite 
 bliss— the dual joys of a supreme and unselfish love— in 
 the nearer memory of that one hideous night, in the pain- 
 ful associations of that aftertime when Hester's heart had 
 been divided between love and duty. 
 
 No train could travel fast enough to carry him away 
 from those memories. They were at Monte Carlo in th§ 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 365 
 
 golden light of afternoon. Only yesterday they liad 
 breakfasted at the London Metropole in theVj gloom 
 
 ti n^ « Trf • ^°'^^y ^^^y '^^'^ takinfatifnoon 
 tea on a wide balcony overlooking the Mediterranean 
 
 Monacos promontory with its twin towers, and alUhe 
 theatrical gardens and turrets, pasteboard pinnacles, trim 
 terraces, steps and balustrades of Monte Carlo 
 
 nli. ^ ^^''l i^ ^^^y ^^^'^ ^^^ ^ f«^ ^ay« as long as the 
 place amused them, and then they were to go to Florence 
 rapidly or by easy stages, a^ the spirit moved them 
 Jermyns spirits were too equable to be brightened by 
 the change from London greyness to this fSiry-Iand of 
 Europe, but he flung back his head with a gay laugh 
 and sniffed the balmy air with sensuous appreciation. " 
 +l.a o »^^^"«;^^\"ian your doctor was to send you to 
 the sunny South, he exclaimed, 'and what a sensible 
 
 vZlT """"" *' '''^^*' "^^ '' ^' y«"^ travelling com! 
 
 'I should have been bored to death if I had come 
 
 yoTarJ^^hTr^ ^''^'t' ^^"^^/"gly. 'and I really think 
 you are the one man whose society suits me best-lthoufrh 
 1 nave the most despicable opinion of your morals/ 
 
 My dear Hillersdon, I never set up for having anv 
 morals I don't know what morals niean. Therl a^I 
 
 thlr^'^JiJT^n^^^^ ^r^^^'<^ ^«' b««^"«« noman can do 
 
 at P^r^^l °'^^'' ^'"^ "P '"^ '"''^^y- I ^«"id"'t cheat 
 at cards for instance, or open another man's letter. Be- 
 tween men there, IS a kind of honesty which must be 
 observed, or society couldn't hold together Between 
 men and women : well. I think you must have found out 
 
 thelw. o? T" "^^^ ""/ ^^^ *^^ ^^^^^^ ««^ i« outside 
 nerilrtLn fn^rt^^^ that a man who would rather 
 
 a W«f^n f ^ ^'' ''°'^ ^* ^^''^ °^ ^«ar^e thinks it 
 a bagatelle to trick a woman out of her rennt^Hnn 
 
 let, alter all, in the net result of life, I believe "women 
 
 have the best of it; and for every oie whom wTS 
 
 ftstray there are two who fatten upon our destruction'a 
 
 ■|i 
 
360 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 fact which you may see exemplified in this charming 
 place.' 
 
 They were at a brand new hotel, a white walled palace 
 built on a height commanding sea and shore. La Con- 
 daminie lay in a sunny hollow below them, a concatena- 
 tion of white villas and red roofs and narrow gardens, bal- 
 conies and trellises brimming over with liowers, the rich 
 purple masses of the Bougainvilliers conspicuous above 
 all the rest, hedges of geranium, an avalanche of azaleas 
 pouring down the hill to the lapis blue of the sea. The 
 hotel was so new that ic seemed to have been built and 
 furnished expressly for Mr. Hillersdon's occu[)ation. The 
 courtly manager assured him that the suite of rooms re- 
 served for him had never been inhabited. They were on 
 the second floor, and consisted of ante room, saloon and 
 dining room, bedrooms and bathroom, all upholstered in 
 the same silvery greys and greens, with artistic touches 
 of warmer colour here and there to accentuate the pre- 
 vailing coolness. A marble loggia extended the whole 
 length of the windows, and in this balmy atmosphere of 
 an Italian springtide the loggia was the most delightful 
 spot in which to live. 
 
 Gerard and his companion strolled down to the rooms 
 after their eight o'clock dinner. The season was nearly 
 over, and there was ample space for moving about in the 
 gaudy mauresque rooms, under the vivid light concen- 
 trated on the green cloth, but the players gathered thickly 
 round the tables, and there were plenty of people in the 
 trente et quarante room, a higher class pej'haps than are 
 to be found in the height of the season, when the idle" and 
 the curious surge in and out and peer and saunter to the 
 annoyance of the players who mean busines^j and nothing 
 else. 
 
 For Gerard since his accession to fortune play had but 
 little charm. While he was still poor he had hankered 
 after the feverish delights of the baccarat table, and had 
 frequented cluba where play van high, venturing small 
 
this charming 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 367 
 
 stakes which when smallest were more than he could 
 aflord to lose-but now that loss or gain signified uothin^r 
 to hiu,, he needed some stimulus from without to give I 
 liavour to play. s^vo a 
 
 He found that stimulus in the very atmosphere of the 
 trante et q-iarante room, where some of the'liandsomest 
 women and some of the quickest witted meu in S 
 crowded round the tables and elbowed him as he leant 
 forward to deposit his stake. He played very carelesslv 
 sometimes letting his winnings lie on the table till they 
 T^re trebled and quadrupled before the inexorable rake 
 swept them awa,y, sometimes putting aside his gains in a 
 httleheap of gold and notes, which some of those lovely 
 Parisian eyes watched covetously. He was more inter- 
 ested in the people at the table than in the /^ame It 
 surprised him to see how many of these people Ixchanced 
 greetings with Justin Jermyn, who had elbowed his way 
 to the front and was playing with small stakes, and an 
 !,, ^S "^""f'Tu f ^^^^^tjon. His careless nods, his sharp, 
 sudden handshakes indicated considerable intimacy with 
 those of the players by whom he was greeted. The beau- 
 tiful women smiled at him with an air of patronage, and 
 he was equally patronizing to the keen-eyed men. A 
 little ripple of low laughter, a flutter of whispers went 
 
 ofthe dealer ' "^""'^^^^ """'^ ^^ *^® authoritative hush 
 
 .+.^T'1f?^lP^^^''^S languidly for half an hour, pock- 
 eted his httle heap of gold-the notes being re-absorbed 
 
 ttn nf ?r f ^^' ^''^fe *^^ S^^^ ^i^^^lf "F to observa- 
 tion ot the players. How beautiful some of the faces 
 
 were— and most of them how wicked I Here the brirrht 
 
 black eyes and tilted nose of the arch and soubrette type 
 
 !1V!XT" f ^^^«^,^«^«ty with milky skin, pale 
 IZ^ J-I^vv hair. They all hailed from Paris, these 
 
 ground of their kind ; but they were of vanous natiot 
 
 ■Xr^i: 
 
^:^ip~-^^'^!>'^^^^s^'^-ii, 
 
 ■mi&.: 
 
 368 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 alities, including a hard-eyed and hard-headed English- 
 woman, with a plain face and a perfect Hguve. in a p.-r- 
 feetly -fitting tailor-gown, severe and uncompromiHin^ 
 amongst the sumptuous demi-toilettes of sister sirens 
 Thi3 lady was reputed to be richer than any other of the 
 feminine gamesters, and was further reported to have 
 refused her hand in marriage to a British Duke. But 
 there was one face at the trente et quarante table which 
 interested Gerard Hillersdon more than all this cosmo- 
 politan beauty, the one only face which wore the t\pical 
 expression of the gambler, a face haggard with intefisity 
 pinched and worn with inward fever. It wa,'; the Ijicc of 
 a small elderly woman, who sat at the end of tho table 
 near the dealer, and who from time to time consulted a 
 perforated card, upon which she marked the progress of 
 the game; a small face with delicate, iKjuiline features 
 thm lips and auburn hair, slightly silvered. There was 
 that m the careless attire, the shabby little black lace 
 hat, of a fashion of four or five years ago, the St^auish 
 iace shawl hanging in slovenly folds over one shoulder 
 lagged and rusty with long wear, the greasy black silk 
 gown, which told of womanhood that had done with all 
 womanly graces, and had sacrificed to one darling vice 
 all the small fol'.es, caprices and extravagances of the sex 
 Gerard became more interested in this one jjlayer than 
 in the fortunes of the table, so absorbed indeed that Jer- 
 myn had to touch his shoulder twice before he could 
 attract his attention. 
 
 * It is close upon eleven o'clock,' said Jermyn, « and 
 the rooms close at eleven. What are we to do with the 
 rest of the evening ? There are plenty of people here 
 whom I know— shall I invite a few of them, the more 
 amusing, to your rooms ? ' 
 
 'By all means. Ask them to supper. Let m make 
 believe that the world is nearly two centuries younger 
 thao we are living in the Regency, and that Phifipof Or- 
 leans is our boon companion. Your follies cannot be too 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 369 
 foolish or your disposition too wild for my humour Lot 
 
 w;fnhT^^' ""' ^'°^^^"' ^°d i^^it^ all^the handsome 
 witches of your acquaintance' "ciuasomc 
 
 hermoutV^Al^/r^'P'^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^'^dmousein 
 tier mouth ? And Marguerite ; what of Marguerite ? ' 
 Gerard winced at the allusion t,"erice f 
 
 ' My Marguerite has chosen her destiny ' he said ' Tf 
 she were like Goethe's Gretchen she wouW have chosen 
 differently Love would have been all in all with W' 
 
 Gerard strolled out of the rooms alone, whiTe Jerm^n 
 pass^ed quickly and quietly from group to erouHn 
 briefly whispered his invitations, lhic£ wer? accented 
 with a nod or a smile. The peopi; to whom these Tn vita 
 tions were given belonged to a^class whic^ St adont 
 the motto of a certain great border dan for the l own 
 
 rjl ' It ""^^^^ ^9 ^^ entertained at anybody else W 
 pense, be the entertainer a Watts or a Pullinirer Hne fS 
 Port and, or a typical vulgarian of the HiSa^Xed 
 
 turt]/?n '; ^^Z7u -fi^ ^'' ^^^°1^"^« ^"^^ ohampagnrfor 
 turtle and whitebait, for a saturnalia on a house-boat a? 
 Henley, or an orgi. at the Continental. Always read v 
 ready as the vultures are ready when tht seen? of fif .' 
 
 r wfud, "''*'' ^^ *'^" '^^^ '^^- «ff on tS wings '^f 
 
 bii^brand f """'^ '^^'^^^' ""''l ^^^^^^' "P ^^^ ^U to the 
 Dig brand new caravansary where the plpnfrir. H^i,* 
 
 something of that elfin brilUcrwhlh su^^^^^^ S 
 
 of Ebhs S owly as b . v, oJk,d up that brif ascent c at 
 fully graduated by ^ - ad windings for the footstem of 
 the weak-lunged he va.: breathless when he arr ted fn 
 the vestibule, and ha^J ti rostfor a few minutes hpfnrA HI 
 could give his orders to the manager ^"""^^ ^' 
 
 'A supper— all vhat there is of th^ hp«f_f.. „„„ _ 
 party of twenty. Do all you can in fifteen "minute/ You 
 
 ^.nateau ^quem, champagne, well, Heidsec or G. H. 
 
■•w 
 
 I'll 
 
 370 ne World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 Mumm— but I leave the details to you and my friend 
 Mr. Jermyn. Be sure there are lights and fioweVs in the 
 loggia And if you can get us any music worth hearincr 
 so much the better.' ° 
 
 ' There are the Neapolitan singers, monsieur : I dare- 
 say we can find tliem.' 
 
 ' Funicoli, funicola, I suppose. C'est connu. but it will 
 be better than nothing.' 
 
 Before the stroke of midnight he was sitting at a sup- 
 per table crowded with roses and azaleas, stephanotis and 
 lilies ot the valley, and surrounded with the fine flower 
 ol the Parisian demi-monde. What a fairy ring of bright 
 eyes and jewels as dazzling, of eccentric and exquisite 
 toilettes, the very newest colours in fashion's ever-chano-- 
 ing rainbow, artistic tea-gowns, decollete in a casual way 
 winch perhaps revealed more than the studied nudity of 
 court and ball dress; a general abandonment to the do- 
 light of the hour; not vicious— for even sinners are not 
 always bent on sin— but unrestrained. What lic/ht laucrh- 
 ter ; what frank, joyous jesting ; airy sentences whiclfin 
 that particular environment sounded like epigrams but 
 which would seem witless in print; lightest talk of the 
 1 aris theatres, the dramas that had succeeded. Heaven 
 knows why, the brilliant comedies which had gone out 
 in the foul smoke of ridicule, failure, and disappointment ; 
 the intrigues m the great world and the half- world • the 
 undiscovered crimes; the impending disasters. These 
 careless speakers discussed everything, and decided every- 
 thing, from dynasties to dressmakers. 
 
 Gerard Hildersdon relished that light touch-and-go of 
 the Celtic intellect, trained to folly, but folly spiced with 
 wit He had tried pleasure in London, and had found it 
 dull and dreary. The ladies he met at the Small Hours 
 were mostly so in ent upon being ladies that they forgot 
 to be am'ising. The days were past of that fair mauvaiise^ 
 langue who charmed the peerage, and whose sturdy Bri- 
 tish bon-mots were circulated over civilised Europe, pla- 
 
nsieur ; I dare- 
 nnu, but it will 
 
 Th^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil 371 
 
 giarised in Paris, and appropriated in Vienna. He had 
 sought wild gaiety, and he had found decent dulness 
 Here the sp nt of fun was not wanting, and tL joyous 
 laughter of h,s guests was loud enough to'drown the Ws 
 of the Neapolitans m the loggia, yea, even the twanging 
 
 llTI-^T^"'' ^""^ ^^^"^ ^y ^h« Neapolitans werf 
 pushed into a corner, and bidden to twang only waltzes 
 and those loveliest women in Paris were re/olW in 
 rythmical movement in the arm^s of the keen, clever men 
 ot no particular profession, who constituted their travel- 
 ing body-guard. Gerard took two or three turns with a 
 ipnf \P''°'^'' girl with a creamy complexion and inno- 
 cent blue eyes who had done little more than smile 
 sweetly upon the contest of wit and animal spirits, and 
 who was said tohaverince (Anglice, beggared) one of the 
 wealthiest Jew bankers of Frankfort 
 
 He could not stand more than those two or three gen- 
 tle turns to a slow three-time waltz, and he sat in the 
 loggia breathless and exhausted, while the fair Lotichen 
 tripped away to her iriends and told them that it was 
 finished with yonder cretin, who would very soon find 
 hi^ way to the Boulanger. ^ 
 
 'En attendant he has given us a very good supper' 
 
 replied a lady who was called Madame la Marquise iA 
 
 society, but plain Jeannett Toy in all legal documents. 
 
 1 hope he will leave us money for mourning. Moi ie me 
 
 trouve ravissante en noir ! ' <= "^ J« »ie 
 
 Gerard enjoyed the restful solitude of the loggia for 
 half an hour, the fun within having waxed fast and furi- 
 ous, and his guests being somewhat oblivious of his ex- 
 istence. Yes, it was a wild whirl of mirthful abandon- 
 ment which verily suggested the witches' dance upon the 
 haunted hills. There were little spurts of malignity now 
 and again froni the lips of beauty, which were like the 
 rca mouse tha. dropped out of the pretty girlish mouth 
 Gerard watched the chaos from the cool sedusionTthe 
 loggia, while the Neapolitans played languidly, and even 
 
672 m World, The FUsh, and The Devil 
 
 tw^ntTe.'^? ^"^^ff'^ith an occasional automatic 
 dlZ^nf iTi 1 ^^^ ^'^^ ^ '^'^^^^' Sabbath, or like a 
 
 ven in tb^ ^f T'' ^" ^^^*^^"« ^^ ^^^i^' Thank Hea! 
 SiL^ of ^? "^^j, "^a^-coloured crowd, amidst the 
 
 SrVsilkandW^K^ ^^^^°^ "^.P'""^** ^^^^'-^^ 
 liULucr or siiK and iace, there was no vision of hiq flhspnf 
 
 'rfc^^tl^r ^ "'°" "^ *■"" '""" "o f-1,^ ants 
 
 ,v!»'eThe"d ll- *" "*"'»-»«'«?* g^-^en by the river, 
 wiiore toe March skies were grey and eloomv «n<) «,« 
 
 ^g^;tet]?^r^treetst;A£1 
 
 old, old steep-roofed houses, and twin-towered caZdrpl 
 
 nartp/ Wo^ I \ ^* "^^^ ,^®^ ^^ ^^"^t t'^^a* they were 
 parted. Had she been with him, these ribald revePer^ 
 would not have been there. He would have found enouth 
 happiness in her sweet «?opipf v w« t.„ j , ^^^^&^ 
 
 her Tf wa^ t^l !^ 1 j l^' "® ^^^ "^^^r changed to 
 nen It was she who had changed to him. 
 
 rorm,U'2il*L^^'^\-''^P'^^'?^ '^^^ atmosphere of 
 nf^H !!' r • .iK^? ^'' ^*y *^ his first love, glad most 
 ot all to be m this fairer world, by the side of the sea of 
 deathless memorks, glad to be under these brighter sLs ' 
 
 thrift wf P^?^^^* *° ^™ ^« * ^^lief W too much 
 thought. When his new acquaintances of thenShf^Pm 
 
 embered his existence so farls to come out in^thtloSia 
 
 brTakfest with h 'm '""' "^^ ^^"^^«* amon^^hom tf 
 
 d«X'*«'l^^^i''^. H* ^^-^y' J^^^aid; 'Jermyn must 
 61 moun7Jn*T'"''^''*''^f~P'^^^°'^' excursions', by sea 
 ^iJ^^ou wS h^j;--^brief stay hereto be all ho^ 
 
The World, Tlie Flesh, and The Devil. 373 
 
 He held the fair Bavarian's hand in his, while the bright 
 black eyes and white teeth of the pug-nosed Comtesse 
 Kigoiboche smiled down upon him. 
 
 •I had booked my place in the train de luxe for to- 
 morrow, said Rigolboche, ' but I'll change the date an.l 
 stay here as long as you do. V\ e'll all help you to con- 
 jugate the verb rigoler, rigolons, rigolez.' 
 
 The other voices took up the word, and the revellers 
 departed to a chorus of * Rigolons, rigolez.' 
 
 Mr. Jermyn was equal to the occasion. He ordered 
 dejeuners and dinners. He elicited the talents of the chef 
 he taxed the uttermost resources of the well-found hotel' 
 He kept the telegraph wires employed between Monte 
 Oarlo and Nue, Marseilles and Paris, and choicest daimies 
 were expressed along the line. Alternating with me^ssages 
 that involved hie and health, fortune, all that is gravest 
 in life flew orders for Perigord pies or monster lobsters 
 Ohasselas grapes, wood strawberries, oysters, .ortolans' 
 quails. Everything he touched was successful, and that 
 week at Monte Carlo was a triumph of gourmandise and 
 wild amusement. The hills echoed with the songs of the 
 revellers; the sea waves danced to the music of their 
 laughter as they sailed round the point of Rocque Brune 
 or lay becalmed in the sheltered Gulf of Gaspedaietti The 
 weather Wiis exquisite— that perfect atmosphere of spring- 
 time on the Riviera which makes one forget ^hat those 
 lovely shores have ever been visited by mistra,l, sirocco 
 rain and sleet. It waa earthquake weather, Justin Jer- 
 myn said, remembering how fair had been that February 
 which was startled by an appalling shock of earthquake 
 He told them that this glad, beautiful shore was prepar- 
 ing Itself xor just such another convulsion, bnt the joyous 
 band laughed him to scorn. 
 
 ' If a great pit were to open in this mountain and swal- 
 
 lO'W lis nil 011170 T QV1--W.1U v,^f ,_ ' __• 1 T»' 11 1 
 
 1X1.. ^^ J, ,,uvUi« liuE utti'c, Siiiu xiigoiDocne, emn- 
 
 my lif'-.' 
 
 lO"' lis nil 11170 I Qh'->!il'J v,^f ,_ 
 
 tying her glass with a piquant \ 
 linger. ' J'ai vecu. I have lived 
 
S.'v»J,« 
 
 liW 
 
 374 Th^ World, The Flesh, and The Demi. 
 
 could not res jm himsfilf in th^ It! -V i.i , ^^^^' *^^ 
 
 ' brinff himsolf to Slv < tV r ^^^^<^^^e end. could rofc 
 
 tHoZTli. ^^'^ ^i'^''^ ^*^®d a"d am content to die ' 
 
 bien ensendu'— but the w5f ^f ,,^^^^™VV°"« sterling, 
 with S; f5u ''^ "T^ looking forward eagerly to re-union 
 
 amuse nim, and that was much, That circlfi nf >,r,v»,+ 
 
 rS'h!" °"i "'!,''"* '""g^^ "'■i^h wol wlto prt, 
 round him when he was ainnp TKo^^ j? * i P. 
 
 thorouffhlv wfiaHM tbi<^ h- -i--- ua,^, ne was so 
 
 had done for a long ti^; ^^'^^ "^^"^ '"""^^^ ^^^" ^e 
 
The World, TJte Fkfih, and The Devil 
 
 37S 
 
 There was a keen delight, too, in the knowledge tliat 
 hu was spending his money. The more lavish the enter- 
 tainment, the more extravagant the feast, tl tter was 
 ho pleased. Rarely had the boatmen of 1 ;ndamine 
 fared as tliey lared with him." It was his uuiight to see 
 them rioting on the remnants of the banquet, levouring 
 quails at a mouthful, swilling the costliest wines, digging 
 th( ir rude chisp-knives into pics that had come by ex- 
 press train frnm Chevet. He flung gold pieces about with 
 the lavish l»(;unty of an Indian Rajah. The waiterss at 
 the hotel fawned upon him as if he had )een an Emperor; 
 the manager addressed him in hushed accents as if he had 
 been a God. 
 
 He s[)ent an hour at the rooms every evening. He 
 liked to see his siren-s play, and he supplied them with 
 the funds for their ventures at the trente et quarante 
 table J. For his own part he played no more after the 
 first evening. The game did not interest him, but the 
 players did. So he moved about quietlj , or stood in the 
 backgiound, and watched the faces in the lamp-light. 
 
 The little elderly woman with the bright black eyes 
 was generally in the same place near the dealer, her bon- 
 net always badly put on and carelessly tied, her lean, un- 
 gloved hands not conspicuously clean. Gerard derived a 
 sinister pleasure fiom his observations of this woman. 
 She was a study i morbid anatomy. All the forces of 
 her being were concentrated upon the card table. There 
 were nights when she was radiat it, glorified, as if some 
 supernal lamp were burning behind the dull olive com- 
 plexion, and flashing through the dark Italian eyes. 
 There were other nights when her face had a marble fixity, 
 which would have been like death had not the unceasing 
 movement of the anxious eyes made that marble masS 
 more awful than death. Gerard found after a time that 
 this woman was conscious of being observed, that, in 
 spiin of the coueentration of all her - icultijs upon the 
 gaming table; she bad a restlessness under scrunity, a 
 
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376 Th World, Th^ Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 nervous apprehension which showed itself from time to 
 time m birdbke glances in his direction, or in an an J-y 
 
 thrr ^- '^ -^^ l'^^- ^' ^^°"^^^^^- He tried, perceTvSg 
 this, to disguise his interest, and watched her furtively 
 hoping to escape observation. He had noted that on the 
 thin black cord on which her pince-nez hung she had one 
 of those horned morsels of coral which the Italian peasant 
 deems a charm against the evil eye, and he had noted how 
 
 nlnMIt^ "IT ^^"^ ''!' ^'^ °' *^^^« occasions she had 
 clutched this talisman m her skinny fingers, as if autom- 
 atically, inoved by an instinct of self-defence. 
 
 It was his last night at Monte Carlo, and the eve of a 
 water picnic which was to signalize his departure, and 
 was to be the bouquet in the series of entertJinmens or- 
 ganised by Justin Jermyn. He had spent half an hour 
 atajewellersonthehilUnd had chosen farewell gifts 
 for the sirens, including a superb diamond hoop for the 
 shm round wrist of Lottchen. in whose eyes he had seen 
 tears of real tenderness yesterday when a violent access 
 of his cough had left him speechless and exhausted. For 
 every tear he would give her a diamond of the purest 
 water, and yet thmk her tears poorly recompensed, 
 .nn ^ ^AV''' ^° *^^ ""r™" ^""^ *^^ ^^^ time that sea- 
 
 seasonY'' W. ' 'T T *^'"' ^^f^' ^^ w«^dered. at any 
 season? Were not all seasons fast closing for him or 
 would science, aided by wealth, patch up these feeble 
 lungs of his, and spin out the frail thread of existence vet 
 a lew more years m the summer lands of earth. He 
 would go anywhere; to the South Seas, to the West In- 
 dies, to the Himalayas ; anywhere only to live • and he 
 told himself that Edith Champion would deem no land a 
 place of exile where they two could live together She 
 had no other ties, no superior claim of duty, no exagger- 
 ated fihal love. Her sacrifice to her husband's m°Ls 
 and to society's good opinion had been made. Three- 
 quarters of hor year of widowhood were spent, and when 
 pliG cEvv -what need he nad of a wife's protecting compan- 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 377 
 
 ionship, she would gladly waive the remnant of that cere- 
 monial year, and marry him off hand at the Florentine 
 Lejration. 
 
 The thought cf her was in his mind to-night in the 
 itooms. He had enjoyed his week of folly ; the sound of 
 the jesters bells had been sweet in his etir ; but he was 
 weary of that silvery jingle, and he looked forward with 
 pleasure to the sober luxuries and splendors of his life 
 with Edith. ' 
 
 He was in treaty, through Justin Jermyn, for one of 
 the hnest yachts at Nice, and he and his wife would make 
 a tour of all the fairest ports of the Mediterranean— ling- 
 ering or hastening as caprice prompted. '^ 
 The little Italian was at her post as usual, and one fur- 
 tive glance at her face told Gerard that luck bad been 
 against her. She had the rigid death-like look he knew 
 so well He watched -across the burly shoulders of an 
 ^nghsh bookmaker, returning from a race meeting in the 
 Koman Campagna, and load in his denunciation of the 
 pan-mutuel system. Her bad luck continued. Stake 
 after stake— ventures which had dwindled to the mini- 
 mum morsel of gold— were swept away by the inexorable 
 rake, until she sat with clasped hands, watching and not 
 playmg, too well known a habitu^ to be asked to make 
 way for the players. The officials knew her ways, and 
 that after sitting statue-like during two or three deals che 
 would rise slowly, as one awakening from a painful dream 
 and walk quietly away— to re-appear the following night 
 with money obtained no one knew how. 
 
 Gerard felt in his breast pocket for a bundle of notes 
 £'-nd went round the table toward the back of the lady s 
 chair, intending to push the money quietly into her hand 
 and to vanish before she had recovered from her surprise 
 at his action; but his intention was frustrated, for as his 
 hand brushed against her shoulder she started up suddenly 
 as if she had been stung, and turned upon him with eyes 
 that burnt like twin coals of fire in her pallid face The 
 
378 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. ^ 
 
 rapidity of her movement, and that burning gaze startled 
 him, and he drew back in confusion. 
 
 The lady advanced upon him as he retre-^.ted, until they 
 were at some distance from the tables, away from the 
 glare of the lamps. Then she stopped, fixing him with 
 her fiery eyes. 
 
 ' You do not appear to be an ardent gambler, Monsieur,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' No, Madame, I air. not a gambler. Trente et qaarante 
 is utterly without interest for me.' 
 
 ' Why then do you haunt these rooms ? * 
 
 ' I come to observe others, and to be amused.* 
 
 'Amused by evil passions which you do not share, 
 amused as devils are amused with the sins and miseries 
 of humanity. Do you not know that your presence here 
 is odious, that your glances bring misfortune wherever 
 they rest ? ' 
 
 ' r do not know why that should be. I have no mali- 
 cious intention. I am only a looker on.' 
 
 ' So is death a looker on at the game of life, kp'^wing 
 that sooner or later he must win. Your presence e is 
 fatal, for there is death in your face; and since ti..^ ,oom 
 was not built for idle observers, but for business-like 
 players, I believe you will be doing everybody a favour 
 by absenting yourself in future. I believe 1 have ex- 
 pressed the desire of tho whole assembly.' 
 
 She made a sweeping curtesy, drew her ragged laco 
 shawl about her shoulders, and passed nim on her way to 
 the door. He stood with his packet of notes still in his 
 hand, looking after her dumbly. 
 
 Yet one more voice to remind him of approaching doom. 
 
I 
 
 The World, The Plesh, and The DevU. 379 
 
 have no mali- 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 '^MK LITTLE SOUND OF UNREGARDED TEARS." 
 
 HE farewell festival had been arran^red by 
 
 : Justin Jermyn with especial care. He had 
 
 secured the Jersey Lily, the yacht for which 
 
 ii-erard hankered. Her owner, a rich commer- 
 
 f« „,??*?' ^^^^^^ed^'^^'^P^^^^^^^^^g.^^iti was glad 
 
 to sell It to a. purchaser who did not drive a hard 
 
 (Vrn-i^'oT"; ^^^ y^""^^ "^^^ ''' ^"" ^'^^'J^i^g order, and 
 
 n1' i^'""^^'?f^'\.''r ''^ 1-nger content with itinerant 
 Neapohtans. He had engaged some of the best perfom- 
 ers at the famous concerts in the Casino. But his great- 
 est success was with the florr I decorations. Inthei he 
 had surpassed himself, while he had ransacked tha.Alcrer. 
 lan shops on the hill for Oriental fabrics, gay w*h lold 
 and colour, and glittering with bits oflooking-gla^s to 
 drape cabins and poop. "S i^^ass, to 
 
 qnnl'if "^^^^t^"* T' ^«^i«i«-^«. t^e April summer of the 
 South, weather that would make even the dull flats of 
 
 SnHl°^?°'^°^^."?°^?°^^"ff' b»<^ ^Iiich over that lov.ly 
 land breathes an intoxicating influence, givina to a^e the 
 gladness of youth, to weakness the pride^of st'rengtf 
 
 Lunch was over, and the yacht was lying to ik the 
 roadsted of Antibes. Some i the more LtfrjliJing of 
 the party had been rowed ashore, and had set out on a 
 pilgrimage to the church on the height-the church with 
 Its curious votive pictures, showin,^ the Madonna's merci- 
 ful interposition in ali thn nfii-ik of i.fv. fv...„ , " f 
 fall out ofa garret window'^o-the ovmurin" "oTa bU 
 cycle. Lea, aouve and exploring spirits were'contcnt to 
 
 .<et<*f 
 
SSO Tfte World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 loll upon^ the deck, where low chairs and luxurious 
 cushions invited slumberous ease. Fans were waving 
 languidly in the golden light of afternoon, as if in time 
 to the languid movement of the sails fanned by the 
 western wind. On one side stretched the long level sea- 
 front of Nice, with its line of white house-fronts glittering 
 in the sunlight, far oflf to the jutting rock crowned with 
 the lighthouse, and that jutting point which shuts off 
 the eastern sky towards Villefrache and St. Jean ai.d the 
 promontory round which they had sailed merrily two 
 hours ago. 
 
 Gorard was in high spirits, lie wanted to drain this 
 cup of casual pleasures to the dregs. He wanted to steep 
 himself in the loveliness of a coast which he might never 
 look upon again. It was bliss only to stand upon the 
 deck as the yacht lay at anchor and gaze upon that 
 noble range of hills, with varied lights and shadows flit- 
 ting across them, and that fair sub-tropical Eden in the 
 middle distance where the sapphire sea kissed the low, 
 level shore in all its glory of aloes and palms, orange 
 groves, and gray-greeu olive woods, with here and there 
 white walls and pinnacles gleaming amidst the green ; 
 enough of bliss only to breathe such an atmosphere and 
 feel the inexpressible beauty of earth. 
 
 ' How happy you look to-day,' said Lottchen, watching 
 the giver of the feast, as he leaned against the taffrail, 
 and looked dreamily across the harbour to the rugged 
 hill crowned with the old-world city of Vence. 
 
 They two were alone in the bows, while the rest of the 
 party were congregated in a joyous group in the stern, 
 whence there came at intervals the deep, grave music of 
 a 'cello, and the plaintive singing sound of violins in a 
 reverie or a nocturne by Chopin, or one of Chopin's 
 imitators. Pensive music, light laughter, floated towards 
 these two on the summer wind. The German girl had 
 followed her host when he withdrew from the merry 
 band, leaving the inexhaustible Jermyn as its central 
 
The World, The Pleah, and TJie Dedt. 381 
 
 figure, inspiring and sustaining the general mirth with 
 that joyous laugh of his. Lottchen ha 1 stolen after Ger- 
 ard, uninvited ; but he was not so ungallant as to let her 
 suppose that she was unwelcome. 
 
 JJf^'!'uf'^'''^^^K' but with only a sensuous hap- 
 pness-the happiness of a well-cared-for cat basking and 
 blinking m the sun; happiness which vanishes at the first 
 touch of thought. I am basking in the beauty of my 
 Mo her Earth and if I think at lu my only though t^s 
 hat It would be sweet to Hve for ever-soulless, mind- 
 i-'ss, immortal— amidst such scenes as these ; to live as tlic 
 olives live on the slope of yonder hill, breathing the 
 
 tTstrtel^X' ^^"^ ""''' '^^""^ *'^ '''' ^^^"^^^ «*• 
 
 'It would be very dull after a week or two,' said 
 Lottchen, and then what is life without love ? ' 
 
 'Life is much more than love. See how utterly happy 
 children are in the enjoyment of the universe, and they 
 know nothing of love-or at least of the passion to which 
 you and I attach that name. To my fancy, this world 
 would be perfect if we could be immortal and always 
 children. J hat IS the world of the eldest Gods. The 
 Ueities of the rivers and the mountains, water-nymphs 
 and wood-nymphs, what were they all but grown-up 
 children, drunken with the sweetness and glory of Ufe 
 Lut tor us, poor worms, whose every day of life briner.s 
 us so many hours nearer to the inevitable grave, what 
 can -this exquisite earth, with its infinite variety of love- 
 Jmess. be for us but a passing show ? We look, and long 
 tor Its beauty ; and even as we look it fades and melts 
 into the dark It is lovely still, but we are gone. Some- 
 one else will be watching those hills next year, someone 
 as young as I am, and, like me, doomed to die in his youth.' 
 
 Lottchen was silent— tears were streaming down the 
 tair cheek when Gerard turned to look at her 
 
 bhe was lovely, engaging, sentimental— all that might 
 charm a lover, but she left his heart cold as marble 
 
382 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 Simply dressed m some soft clinging fabric of nurest 
 white, and with a little white sailor Lt perched on the 
 artistic fluffiness of her flaxan hair, she looked the hn!.e 
 o^. girhsh innocence, unspotted by the world A mfn 
 hf serXT^' all he/history^in such a _t S 
 
 ^'PK::^:z^:-2:-^^ '-^^ ^-^ ^y-^ 
 
 who do not grieve for themselves. I am flump ofsel? 
 
 ' S mthTlivTr^' '^ "r * '^^ ->' « "" doo "' 
 careluTof^^furse;^^^^^^^^^^^ ^'''^^^' '' ^- -- -re 
 
 ' There IS no care that I would take to live It is onlv 
 
 i3"un tT ''•' 'rJ' ^P^^^- that7-have7v ^ 
 Zsures^' tI^^ '' ^.^^J^^i^^^ for me but concentTated 
 !«rT • T , °"F^'*^ ^"^ ^^ «- melted pearl in everv 
 glass of wine I drink. And you have given me vour 
 pity-and pity from you has been sweet' ^ ^°"' 
 
 pity '^/youliU '^"'^' "^^'^ ^ ^''^''^^' 'W^"' «^" it 
 
 ed^r InXt ^'^^^v \^^^^<l«^«^ from his pocket, and open- 
 vivid Li) tK- .^*^ '""'"^*^ i° that first flash of 
 brillL fhn .1^^ had opened a box of sunshine mo,^ 
 brilliant than those rays that danced upon the waves and 
 
 enickt"'".^"^:;.^^^^ \^''S^'^- The su^ll^hrfl ". 
 ed back from the diamond circlet with rainbow fflorv 
 rose and emerald, violet, orange, blue ^ ^' 
 
 ^.„ diamonds are for your tears, Fraulein Will 
 
 you wear them now and then as a souvenir ^.f a dyTng 
 
 circlt? ^It'^wT.^^''' T ^ 5^. "'^^^^^P^^ the diamond 
 wTl'uuA A ^^o^e^y arm, fair as alablaster, exquisite- 
 
 fdl aw.i f ^'- '"^ ^.^^^"^ "P°^ ^ *hesoft white flbric 
 lav tK 1 .• ' r.*^ ^["^ ^"^ ^"«t and tapering ban 1 
 among Mdr^^^^^^^^^ ^^ f he sunshine. There^er^ thos 
 among Mdlle. Charlottes admirers who declared that her 
 
The World, The Fleah and The Devil, 383 
 
 Lm in Park ''^ ^ '' '^'^^ ^^^ "^^^^ ^^^^ ^»d 
 
 as k'lav'^in tr^ • ^ ^^""^^"^ ^°°P "P°" *^« «l^«der wrist, 
 as It lay in languid grace upon the gunwale— clasned if 
 
 tTeZhT''-' "?.^ ^"^''^ ^i^h cflmTndiffereZ for 
 
 che^n's^inf r^'' tbat usually greets such gifts; but Lot' 
 
 tchen 8 lips were speechless. She let her wrist lie for a 
 
 nnnuteorao wherehis fingers had lightly touchedTta^ 
 
 ^^^ '^" ^'r''' ^"i^ *^^^ ^^*^ ^^ inarticuLte ciy 
 of gnef or rage she tore the snap asunder, and flung the 
 flashing circlet into the sea. "u uung me 
 
 vn!,^^r" *.u°*' i''^''^ anything for your diamonds, when 
 Jo th^fl^w i"^ ^f T K^'^^ ^"^^' ^'^d then ran away 
 a miniature zenana for Jermyn's bevy of sultanas n,nd 
 
 Carlo m the moonlight, minus Gerard HiUersdon who 
 anded at Antibes in order to be in time for the expTess 
 for Genoa, wluch left Nice before sundown. ^ 
 
 than hL h ! ?"^^T^ .'^ Lottchen's touched him more 
 than her beauty or her teara ' Queen Quinivere in little ' 
 he said to himself as he looked after the retreating ture 
 Dick Steele b(>8t described the sex when he ca&wo ' 
 man a beautifu romantic animal.' There is a spice of ro- 
 
 rs" ^'Ko;^L^n^r ''' --' -'-'--' -?^ 
 
 He saw her no more, for she was not among those who 
 
 ZZt^RjT/'t'i'^' y^'^' '^ see him let into th^ 
 dmghy. Her fair hand was not among those which waved 
 h-mjarewell as the row-boat movedlwifdy towardslhe 
 
 'Ariverdervi next week at Florence,' cried Jermvn • 
 and from the quay where he landed GerU looked S 
 and saw the Fate-reader's lissom fia„r« sharplv d"^ned 
 against the sky as he stood on a raised portion of the^'deck, 
 with the sirens grouped about him. 
 
384 The World, Tfie Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 It was in the sunset that Gerard bade farewell to the 
 western Riviera, and set his face towards Genoa. Never 
 can that most lovely shore look lovelier than iust at 
 that season of the year— than just at that hour of dying 
 day Oyer all the hills there lay the reflected flush from 
 that crimson glory yonder behind the Esterelies : over all 
 the gardens, with their rich purple-red bloom of Bougain- 
 yilJiers. their luxury of roses white and yellow, there hung 
 the glamour of sunset ; and over all the eastern sky spread 
 an opa ine splendour flecked with little rosy cloudlets 
 which looked like winged creatures full of exultant life' 
 high up in that enchanted heaven. By every form of bay 
 or inlet; by every delicate and gracious curve that the 
 sea-shore can make, by rosy rock and shadowy olive 
 wood, by every entrancing change from light to colour and 
 trom colour to light, the train sped onwards to the dark- 
 ness of fortress-crowned Ventimiglia, where there was 
 nearly half an hour's weariness and confusion, while Mr 
 i^llersdons servant did battle with the Custom House 
 oltcers, and transferred his master and his master's bag- 
 gage to the Italian train. Then came a restless endeavour 
 to slumber, more fatiguing than absolute wakefulness, and 
 tnally midnight and Genoa, where the traveUer rested for 
 a night. 
 
 He was in Florence on the following afternoon, and the 
 
 farst idea with which that city inspired him was that he 
 
 had left summer behind him. Some there are to whom 
 
 the western Riviera is the supreme perfection of Italian 
 
 iandscape, and to whom all other spots seem cold and 
 
 wanting m colour as compared with that rich loveliness 
 
 bome there are who think that the chief glory of Italy is 
 
 wanting when they have turned their back upon the 
 
 Mediterranean, and that all that history, legend, and the 
 
 line arts can yield of interest and beauty is tame and cold 
 
 compared with the magic of that sapphire wea, the roman- 
 
 tic variety of those rugged hills which look down upoiiit. 
 
 U-erard, walking on the Lungarno on a gray March 
 
ThAi World, The Flesh, and Tfie Devil 385 
 
 afternoon--March a^ chill and windy as he had ever 
 known in Piccadilly-felt that a glamour had gone out of 
 h.8 hfe and a warmth had left his veins. How dull the 
 houses ooked on his right hand, palatial no doubt. aU that 
 the soul of an archi ect could desire; but are there not 
 palatial houses in Piccadilly and the Kensington road ? 
 How gray the river, rushing over its weirs ; how cold the 
 colouring of the stone bridge ; how black the snow line of 
 the Appenines. Tired as he wa^ after the long joumev 
 from Genoa, he had preferred to walk to his deSS 
 leaving servant and luggage to bo driven to the Hotel de 
 
 IfLJ'"^ ^ M'°°^f ^^^ ^^«" ^^g^^^d for him. 
 He lnfp/r?i5'^- ^>™Pi^^ no notTce of his arrival, 
 he hTh In ? .^-^^ ^f .u^ f "■P"^^' *° ««« i^ her face that 
 Hp^f 1 r/i!"-^^'"^ ?^ ^^? ^^^^ ^hi*'^ ^^-^ I"« a year ago 
 He had had his caprice-had given all that was warm&t 
 and best in his nature to another woman; and no>rhe 
 wanted to take up the thread of life where he had drop, 
 ped It a year ago when he followed Hester Davenport 
 
 o? W« «; fiT' ^f '^'r ^ ^'^^ *^« «^^f t' «»' 'den influence 
 ot love at first sight. He wanted to love again, in the old 
 reasonable sober fashion; he wanted again o feel the 
 nlerte^^^^^^^ hSd sustained his 
 
 ^dS iS^ ^^^""P^^" d""°^ - three years of her 
 
 Her house was on the side of the hill leading to San 
 mZot:V\"" r \d«li°'ous garden, where the Standard 
 magnolias had already opened their perfume-breathing 
 
 r«iw'^'??^ ''}''f ^^^^^ ^^ offlame-colouredtS 
 TeZ nf ^' J"^"""^- '"T^^y of the lawn, while a taU 
 hedge of pink peonies shivered in the sharp March wind 
 that cutting Italian wind, which has not been iU-described 
 as an east wind blowing from the west. 
 
 It was a long walk from the station to that verdure- 
 c hed hill on the southern side of the river, and Ge," M 
 wa.s very weary when he arrived at the Villa Bel Visto 
 which overiooked the Boboli Gardens, and all the glory 
 
l! 
 
 i 
 
 IB 
 
 m The World, Th, Fleah, and The Devil. 
 
 of Cupola and Campanile, far away to those fair hills 
 northward of the city. On .a sunny day the prospect 
 
 ToM !::« vT'^ ^^"^ "]^^ ''' boaity/but un'der^his 
 cold gray British sky even dome and tower lost somethincr 
 ot their soothing influence, and Gerard regretted the sun*^ 
 baked slopes above Monaco, where he seemed to have left 
 summer behind him. 
 
 The gates stood wide open, and there were half a dozen 
 ?i '"? n ^^''"'^ge^ waiting in the semi-circular drive, and 
 tlie hall door was also open, while a distinctly British 
 footman aired his idleness on the broad fli;'ht of marble 
 bteps, and looked with supercilious gaze upon the opposite 
 foil ^«'«''f passed into the house uninter'-ogated. an<i 
 
 nnpn^l tI ,-"if ^^^^jV^'^' ^^om which Several doors 
 opened. The light was dim, the atmosphere warm with 
 
 fW r^f^,^- ^'°^°^ ^'^ ^^^^^ ^'^"^ fi'-«. ^"^1 beyond, 
 through hall open doors, he heard the sudden murmuriniis 
 of voices, mostly feminine, which suddenly dropped info 
 silence, as he approached, silence broken bytheflowincr 
 phrases of a- symphony, and then a fine baritone attack" 
 ingthe fashionable lament-Vorrei morir. A major-domo, 
 tall, handsome, and Tuscan, stood near the lofty foldinn^ 
 fitT Tii^ toannounce visitors, and looked interroga- 
 tively at Mr. Hillersdon, who waited in silence till the end 
 01 the song. 
 
 Mrs. Champion was evidently receiving— it might be an 
 
 wJ,"T Jf'fj'?" P'^^^P' «"^>^ ^«^ 'd^y-' Her later 
 w^o ^ ^^ ^S^^ ^'°' ^? ^ ^"^ Florentine Acquaintances, 
 who dropped in occasionally to cheer her solitude- but 
 he was unprepared for the crowd of well-dressed women 
 and distinguished-looking men amidst whom he found 
 himself when Tosti's pensive strain had died in a pro- 
 lunged diminuendo, and he allowed the major-domo to 
 announce him. 
 
 The afternoon light shone full upon a window which 
 occupied nearly one side of the ^padnns draw^n'^-'-onm 
 aud m this light Gerard aaw Edith Champion stkudinj,' 
 
m 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and Tlie Deoll. 387 
 
 in a group of elegant women of varif)u.s nationalities 
 —herself the handsomest of all, like an empress amorur 
 her ladies of honour. She wore deepest black, but tlio 
 heavy folds of the rich corded silk suggested grandeur 
 rather than gloom, and the tulle coif, a la Marie Stuart 
 only gave a piquancy to the coronet of plaited hair which' 
 rose above her low, broad brow. 
 
 She started at the sound of her lover's name, and hur- 
 ried to meet him. 
 
 ^ 'Welcome to Florence,' she cried, gaily, ' though there 
 
 18 no one in the world whom I Jess expected to see. Have 
 
 you only just come V 
 
 ' I have been in Florence less than an hour.' 
 
 Her hand was in his, her lips part3d in a pleased smile 
 
 but as he came into the light of the wide window he 
 saw her expression change suddenly to a look of «rrieved 
 surprise. He knew only too well what that look "meant 
 though she gave no utterance to her thoughts A 
 year ago his friends frequently told him that he 1 oked 
 ill; but of late no one had told him so. He had only 
 read in their faces the evil augury which they saw in 
 his face. "^ 
 
 * I have come upon a festive occasion,' he said, fflancinff 
 round at the crowd. ^ 
 
 'P^' ^^ is only my Afternoon at home. People are so 
 sociable in Florence. I have more people than usual to- 
 day, because I let my friends know that Signor Amaldi 
 had promised to sing. May I introduce him to you ? No 
 doubt you heard of him in London the season before 
 last. He makes a sensation wherever he goes.' 
 
 She beckoned to a small gentleman with fiery black 
 eyes, and a large moustache, who lolled against the gaily 
 draped piano, the centre of an admiring group, and the 
 introduction was made. 
 
 Gerard knew enough Italian to compliment the singer 
 ill n!3 own language without any grave oiiences at^ainst 
 grammatical laws, and Signor Amaldi replied effusively, 
 

 388 Tha World, The Flesh, and TJte Devil 
 
 protesting that his musical gifts were poor things, mere 
 wayside weeds, which he delighted to cast under tlie feet 
 of the loveliest and most gracious of English ladies. 
 
 Anon the piano was taken prisoner by a cadaverous 
 German, with tawny hair, as closely cropped as if he were 
 a fugitive from Portland, and this gentleman expounded 
 Chopin for the next half hour, amidst general inattention. 
 The two English footmen were handing tea and chocolate, 
 the women were whispering together in corners, and from' 
 an adjoining room came the tinkling of silver and glass 
 at a liberally supplied buffet, at which a good many of 
 the guests had congregated. But still those Hungarian 
 war cries, those funereal wailings, those wild harmonies 
 wailed and crashed, sobbed and sighed from the hard- 
 ridden piano, while the German played on for his own 
 pleasure and contentment, flinging up head and hands 
 now and then in a sudden rapture during a bar of silence, 
 and then coming down upon the black no^ps like a bird 
 of prey in a volley of minor chords that startled the 
 chatterers at the buffet, the whisperers in the corners of 
 the salon. 
 
 During this musical interlude Edith and Gerard had 
 time for a confidential talk. 
 
 * I hardly expected to find you so gay,' he said. 
 
 ' Surely you don't call this gaiety, a little music and a 
 few pleasant people who have taken pity upon my 
 solitude, and forced their acquaintance upon me. Flor- 
 ence is a gloomy place if one does not know people. 
 There is so little to do after one has exhausted the gal- 
 leries, and taken the three or four excursions which are 
 de rigueur. But now you and the spring have come we 
 can take all the old excursions together, bask in the sun- 
 shine at Fiesole, and buy perfumery from the dear old 
 monks at the Certosa. I am so glad you have come.' 
 
 ' And yet you commanded me not to come until vour 
 year of mourning wns ended. You refused to abale a 
 single week,' 
 
d Gerard had 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and TJte Devil. 339 
 
 «,l>'iuTi, *''^',!* y"" ''»™ ''e«n neglectimt vour health 
 wh,k I have been away.' she «uc., Lking" afhim e^*! 
 
 soon as the days are fair an?^kL" ^ ^°" ''*^"' "' »» 
 hoilwrnTelTet'^"" •'''"^'-'''" -y year of widow- 
 
 Gerard moved about the rooms restlesslv hnf ^• 
 covered no one whom lie knew wl f^:®'^^®^'^^. out dis- 
 at him with that qS fSainn K P«°Pl«jooking 
 
 from head to foot in the fore"Lfnd ^f ^i""^®^^ 
 
 week arMon-te C Jo ^'^£tTrbVro"hf f""' T'" 
 tailor's bills we^ of no eonsoquttCwho nllTy^ 
 
 ii 
 
890 The World, The Flesh and The Devil. 
 
 of his poverty had been the monitor of other youno« men' 
 distinguislied for the sober perfection of his toilet, '^^osv 
 with his clothes hanging slacklv upon his wasted frara«, 
 with the dust of travel still upon him, he looked an u<>ly 
 blot upon the splendid elegance of Mrs. Champions 
 drawing-room. He went away hurriedly, slippin'r out 
 by the dming-room door, unseen by Edith. He meant to 
 have stayed and talked with her when the guests were 
 gone, but a sudden disgust at life and at himself seized 
 Imn as he contemplated his face and figure in the tall 
 Venetian glass, and the thought cf a tSte-^-t^te with his 
 sweetheart was no longer pleasant to him. 
 
 He was with her next morning, before her second break- 
 tast and on this occasion the glass reflected at least a 
 well-dressed man. He had taken particular pains with 
 his toilet and the pale gray complet, and white silk tie 
 haa all the cool fieshness of spring, while from the cluef 
 f pf.^^ ^^ ^^^ ^'^ Tornabuoni he carried a large nosegay 
 ot lilies of the valley and niphetos roses, as tribute to his 
 mistress. 
 
 She welcomed him delightedly, and complimented him 
 upon his improved appearance. 
 
 'You were really looking ill yesterday,' she said, 'a 
 long dusty railway journey is so exhausting. This 
 morning you have renewed your youth.' 
 
 'And I mean to keep young, if I can. Am I over bold 
 it 1 invite myself to breakfast.' 
 
 'I should think you very foolish if you waited for me 
 to invite vou. Come as often and as much as vou can. 
 Your knile and fork shall be laid for every meal Mv 
 sheep dog will be on duty again this afternoon. She has 
 been at biena with some clerical friends, who insisted 
 upon carrying her off to help them with her French and 
 Italian — both ot which, by the way, are odious.' 
 
 • Are sheep-dogs wanted in Florence ? I have been 
 
 ^ueg- 
 
 tau 
 
 Uqu^. 
 
 :ht to think that Florentine society asks 
 
 no 
 
merited him 
 
 Th^ World, The Flesh, and TJie Devil. 39t 
 
 ' That shows your insular ignorance. Good society in 
 Florence 18 like good society everywhere else ' ^ 
 
 1 understand Severe virtue, tempered by Russian 
 Princesses and their cavaliere servante ' ^ Russian 
 
 They lunched t^te-^-t^te, under the 'protecting eyes of 
 
 fS!.-"'K-l"'l'^r^ ^^^ ^^" *^« ^''''^'^ footmen, fSal L 
 their black hvenes relieved only by their powdered heads 
 
 l^ZV^" Ti. T'^'^T^^ ^^^ confidential talk, and in-' 
 deed Gerard had no desire for anything better than tMs 
 
 and works of their own particular world, at home and on 
 the Continent from Royalties downwards. He enioveS 
 this light t^lk. It seemed to him that he had left pas- 
 sion with its accompaniment of sorrow, behind hini on 
 the shores of the Thames. To sit by the wood fi.e m 
 Mrs. Champion's salon, playing with her Russian pood e 
 or turning oyer the newest French and German books or' 
 the dainty little vellum-bound Florentine cCcs on ihe 
 
 broidered flame-coloured azalias on a ground of seagreSi 
 satin, was enough for contentment. He lelt restful and 
 ahnost happy. He was as much at ea«e with his fiancee 
 
 v«. f '^1 T-! ''/^ ""^'""^ P«°P'^- He told her of his 
 yacht and all its luxuries and modern improvements. He 
 
 Stoglther!" """^ ''"^'^ '^'^^ whic'h theywLt 
 'I hope you will order some Greek gowns in your 
 trousseau.' he said ;' I shall wantyoutodr^s Uke Sappho 
 or Lesbia when we are at Cyprus or Corfu ' "*HP"o 
 
 ;l will, wear anything you like, but I 'think a neat 
 tailor gown made of white serge would be smarter and 
 more shipshape than chiton or Seplum ' 
 « J^^n^/ afternoon was delightful to Gerard, and in 
 ^ite of occasional anxious glances at her lover's face 
 Mrs. Chamnion sec>mo^ h"-n" r^. ^^ , ^wvex » lace, 
 
 ^f+i i ^ f — - 5i..|.,p^.. xo Wcia pleasant to talk 
 
 of that summer tour in the Greek Archipelago and the 
 Golden Horn-how they were to go to this pfa^e or tUt 
 
392 The World, Tlve Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 to avoid undue heat ; how they were to bask in the sun so 
 loug as his rays were agreeable ; and how, before the days 
 shortened again, they were to decide whether they would 
 winter in Algiers or in Egypt, or whether it might not 
 please them to travel further afield, to Ceylon, for in- 
 stance, and that strange, gorgeous, antique world of Hin- 
 dostan. There was all the rapturous sensation of wealth 
 in these day-dreams, the delicious knowledge that for 
 these two privileged beings the cost of things could make 
 no difference. 
 
 Mrs. Gresham came buzzing in at tea time, and after 
 having endured her chatter about the Cathedral, the mos- 
 aics, the pictures, and the table d'h6te at Siena— including 
 the wonder of wonders in having met Mrs. Rawdon 
 Smith, of Chelmsford, and her daughter— for nearly an 
 hour, Gerard took his leave, promising to return next day 
 to luncheon, and to drive to Fiesole with Mrs. Champion 
 and her cousin in the afternoon, providing the sun shone 
 which it had not done since his arrival in Florence. 
 
 He went back to his hotels and dined in the splendid 
 solitude of a spacious salon overlooking the river and the 
 hills beyond. The candles were lighted within, clusters 
 of candles in two tall candelabras, which brightened the 
 table, but left the angles of the room in shadow. Out- 
 side the three large windows the evening was pale and 
 gray, and in that soft grayness the lights of the old bridge 
 and all along the quays shone golden. 
 
 Gerard, who was seldom able to eat alone, left his meal 
 and went over to one of the windows, opened the case- 
 ment, and stood looking out over the marble bridge, and 
 the rushing weir, and listening to the evening sounds of 
 Florence, with his elbows resting on the red velvet cush- 
 ion which covered the sill. First came the rdveille, and 
 the sound of soldiers marching in the square below, the 
 trumpet call repeated and then dying away in the dis- 
 tance ; and then the sonorous bell of"the church of AH 
 Saints filled the air, calling the faithful to an evening 
 
31^ WorU. m fUeh, and The Devil. 893 
 
 steps across thHS Zat ^J'tC^""^ ^"^^T, 
 pealed out eeain slow 9«?J^f V, ^''™t'i«, sonorous bell 
 
 2s;Xu7/^'S' zJ:?d Th.''"»'"« '"-'^'^ 
 
 weighed uponlia Ste* h1 the dimhr-hghted room, 
 out. the streets woX £ ;„« ■."',* "? ""^ ^^ »'"1 went 
 th.tspacio„Vt,;p;£^^^^^^ 
 
 wSc L 'ltd .^''^'^ n '"•' HI" « »Pito of Holy 
 type, and strictly British Fr^^/v, I "^^'^ music-hall 
 doubtless in 5ofianrili„*^ '"^'- ^'"^'^ '^^ 
 
 P«x=essu.„^ Again the eowCtt^aXrhetta?" 
 
394 Tlw World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 Florence was alive with funerals. There was nothins 
 doing in the city, it seemed to liim, but the burial of the 
 dead. These funerals creeping through the night, mys- 
 terious under that uncertain flare of the torches, made 
 death more awful. Gerard hurried away toward the 
 nver overtook an empty fly, and told the man to drive 
 him to Mrs. Champion's villa, as fast a« a Florentine horse 
 would go. He felt a need of human companionship, of a 
 warm, loving heart beating against his own, his own 
 which seemed cold and dead as the hearts of those quiet 
 sleepers who were being carried through the streets to- 
 night. 
 
 •I am not fit to be alone,' he told himself, as the light 
 vehicle rattled over the bridge, and away, skirting the 
 Boboh Gardens, to the Porta San Miniato, 'I am full of 
 vague apprehensions, like a child that has been frightened 
 by his nurse. What is that strange fear of children I 
 wonder that innate horror of something unexplained 
 indescribable. What but the hereditary dread of death 
 the nameless infinite horror handed down from generation 
 to generation, a fear which precedes knowledge, an in- 
 stinct which antedates sense. In spite of Locko and all 
 his school, there is one innate idea, if, only one, and that 
 IS the fear of death. The wolf, the bear, the blackman of 
 the nurse s story, are all different images of that one in- 
 describable form.' 
 
 He was ashamed of his own weakness, which had been 
 so shaken by the passing of funerals in which he had no 
 interest; but that tolling bell and those cowled monks 
 had filled him with gloomy fancies. He thought of the 
 plague-stricken city of the middle ages, and how death 
 held his court here, while in a villa garden yonder litrht- 
 hearted ladies listened to stories that have become part 
 and parcel of the worid's poesy, and then the song which 
 he had heard yesterday in Mrs. Chainpi"nn'« d'-aw'"g-»'oo'n 
 recurred to him — ^ 
 
'I am full of 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 395 
 
 ' 7°"®i "lorir ' quando tramonta il sole 
 A pnmavera e sui morir del giomo. ' 
 
 faded eyes lookSXll u? ^^apo'eon s ; or whether his 
 
 a summer evening in ' T"\ ""* P'^"''' lowliness of 
 
 nothCto hl,„ Lath r ri''''"".*''^' '=™''' "'»««'• 
 unspeakably cruel * ""*"' *'"' ''"'-*■'<' <''^th was 
 
 ga£ alTdtnT'n'reZtof^rr;''^™^ ^ '"^^ 
 tirpil nf o.„i, .i . ? "Sht of the Eastermoon verv 
 
 Every lirL ft' T'''^' »"<' «™° of the ^r^e^ 
 seeZtl't nrthfnrto^efoT"'"^ '''""^- ^'"^ ^l^^^ 
 in tr;mr4u ""•"'' ""' ^'"'' '^"'■^--^g h- lover 
 
 »p'^^'"wrrs^fe,m1Jrelt?''"°T °«'^'"« "" -"«"S 
 into the sTlve,^Zh^4^'''2r1r7°"^'^?"« ^°"<"' 
 
 ham discreetlv retnrnori tnti,«!) • ' KosaGres- 
 
 and an unfinished novel '^'*™g-''Oon., the poodle, 
 
 EdirhT-'*''* "'"■ '^P*"' •» '^^ ™ ^0 «oon again, did you, 
 glad''"'' °'* '^P^ot-no-bnt I am so much tho more 
 
 still some hold upon «rm Can We? '"'' *''"' ^ '"»™ 
 
 i' 
 
396 2%« W(yrld, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 And then he told her al out the three funerals in the 
 streets of Florence. 
 
 * Is it often so ? ' he asked. ' Does Florence swarru 
 with funerals ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Gerard/ she exclaimed, laughingly. ' Three ' 
 For a city of 200,000 inhabitants ? Does that mean 
 much ? It is only the torchlight and the brothers of the 
 Misericordiat that impressed you. How superior to any- 
 thing one sees in England 1 So mediaeval ; so paintable 
 But don't let us talk of funerals.' 
 
 ' No, indeed ! I am here to talk of something widely 
 different, of a wadding— our wedding, Edith. When is if 
 to be ? ' 
 
 ' Next June, if you like,' she answered quietly. 
 
 * But I do not like. June is ages away. Whq knows 
 if we may live to Juna The monks may be carrying us 
 through the dark narrow streets in the flare of tTieir 
 torches before June. I want you to marry me to-mor- 
 row — ' 
 
 * Gerard, in Holy Week ! ' 
 
 * What do I care for Holy week ? But if yon care, let 
 us be married on Easter Monday. We can start for Spe- 
 za after the ceremony, and dine on board my yacht, in 
 the loveliest harbour in Europe. We can watch that moon 
 shining on the ghostly whiteness of the Carrara moun- 
 tains, whiter, more picturesque, than yonder snow-peaked 
 Appenines.' 
 
 *So soon !* 
 
 * And why not soon ? * he urged impatiently. * Edith, 
 have I not waited long enough ? Did I not consume my 
 soul in three long years of waiting 1 Have I not wasted 
 the best years of my youth in silken dalliance, and frit- 
 tered away any talents I ever possessed upon the idlest 
 of love-letters, in which I was forbidden to talk of love ? 
 Edith, I have been your slave — ^give me something for my 
 service before it is too late.' 
 
 ' You are such a despondent lover,' she said, with a 
 forced laugh. 
 
funerals in the 
 Florence swarru 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 397 
 
 'Despondent no ; but I feel the need of your love • I 
 feel that I am isolated, that I cannot live without some 
 
 h3'°'*^'' '^^? ""'l ^^^'^ ^'^ ^'^'' "PO". and that yoTr 
 character can supply all that is wantiL in mine We 
 ought be happy. Edith. We have youth, wealth free! 
 dom, all the elements of happiness ' 
 
 happy/' '^'' ^"''"'"''^ ^'^^ ^ ^^'"^ ''S^' '^« o"gJ^t to be 
 ; Let it be Monday, then. I will arrange all details ' 
 
 ' ?s U^ulTrt^N ^)f " ""^^^"- ^^^^ ^- - ^^diTng.' 
 18 It vulgar? No matter, our marriage will be npr- 
 
 atoutlt'lTthel^ ''1^^'^^ ^"^^"^ will\„ovv anything 
 aoout It till they see the announcement in the " Times " ' 
 
 „n Y \ '\ """'^ ^ ^^ y°« "ke. You have been verv 
 
 thmk I shall be wantmg in respect to my poor James if 
 I consent to marry you in April instead of June thou'- f 
 I daresay my sisters -nd people will talk. And as for 
 my trousseau, I have plenty of gowns that wm do wdl 
 
 Land/ ^^^^ ^ yearning to see the Holy 
 
 'You shall go whereveryou like. You shall be cantain 
 
 SownTnT'n.'^ ^ ^%''y ^'y' ^' answered beT^^^^^^ 
 down to kiss the beautiful hand that moved in slow 
 
 yorrderXn' ' ' ''''''''' ''^' ' «^^ «^^" -tl whVeveT 
 
 They went into the house after this, and found Bosa 
 
 Gresham yawning over her novel, and the poodle yawn- 
 
 olianti^c t^^^^^^^^^ ^P'^'""^ ^«"Jd h^-" bee^nTess 
 
 Cn ?^ Mf «K 'V^5^^ ""r^^' ^"^ '^' ^«^^rd had not 
 been too self-absorbed to observe keenly, he would have 
 beer struck by the contract between Mra ChamptDn's 
 m^ner to-night and the old days in Hertford-streT 
 o Jetef rir^""^ '^^ dust and shabbiness of the 
 outskixis 01 Florence next day, and up to the hill-^on 
 where Fiesole. the mother city, hangs like an eagle's nest 
 gainst a background of cloudless blue. ^ * 
 
m The World, The Flesh, and The Devil ^ 
 
 The day was steeped in sunshine and balmiest air, and 
 it was a happiness to escape from Lenten Florenf^e, with 
 her pealing bells, to this winding road which went climb- 
 ingupward by villa gardens and flowery fields. 
 
 Here, while the horses rested, Mrs. G-resham went to 
 explore the cathedral, leaving Edith and Gerard free to 
 climb the steep path to the cluster of trees on the top of 
 the hill, in front of the stone steps that led up to the 
 Franciscan convent and the church of St. Alessandro. 
 Slowly, and very slowly, Gerard mounted that stony 
 way, leaning on Edith Champion's arui, with sorely lab- 
 ouring breath. He stopped, breathless and exhausted, in 
 front of an open shop, where an old man was mending 
 shoes, who at once laid down his work, and brought out 
 a cliair for the tired Englishman. Edith entreated him to 
 go no further, tried to persuade him that the view was 
 quite as fine from the point they had reached as from the 
 summit, but he persisted, and after resting for a few min- 
 utes, he tossed a five franc piece to the civil cobbler — 
 leaving him overpowered at the largeness of the donation 
 — and went labouring up the few remaining yards to the 
 dusty little terrace, where a group of noisy Germans and 
 a group of equally noisy Americans were expatiating upon 
 the panorama in front of them. 
 
 He sank panting upon the rough wooden bench, and 
 Edith sat by his side in silence, holding his hand, which 
 was cold and damp. 
 
 A deadly chill crent into her heart as she sat there 
 hand in hand with the man whose life was soon to be 
 joined with her life. The same vague horror had crept 
 oyer her two days ago, when she had stood face to face 
 with her lover in the clear afternoon light, and hnd seen 
 the ravages which less than a year had made in his coun- 
 tenance—had f^een that which her fear told her was the 
 stamp of death. 
 
Tke World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 899 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 ^COULD TWO DAYS LIVE AGAIN OF THAT DEAD YEAR." 
 
 ,HERE were necessary delays which postponed 
 f the marriage till the end of the coming Easter 
 week, and that panic, which was caused by 
 t^Iung bells and torchlight funerals, havinir 
 passed away, Gerard was less eagerly impa*^ 
 ^j^ tient, willing indeed that events should follow a 
 f^ natural course Yet although the fever of impa- 
 tience had spent itself, there was no looking backward, no 
 remorseful thought of the devoted girl wlose character 
 would be blasted for ever by this act of his, or of the un- 
 born child whose future he might have shielded from the 
 chances of evil. Not once did he contemplate the pos- 
 sibility of obtaining his release from Edith Champion, 
 by a full confession of that other tie which to her wo^ 
 manly feeling would have been an insuperable bar to 
 their marriage. All finer scruples, all the instincts of 
 honour and of pity were absorbed by that tremendous 
 self-love which, seeing life shrinking to narrowest limits 
 was intent on one thing only, to make the most of the 
 life that remained to him, the life which was all. 
 
 He rallied considerably after that day at Fiesole, and 
 was equal to being taken about from church to church bv 
 Edith and her eager cousin, who could not have enough 
 of the Florentine churches m this sacred season. He met 
 them at the great door of the cathedral on Good Fridav 
 after they had satisfied their scruples as pious Anglicans 
 by at^tendmg a service at an English Church-service 
 which Rosa denounced as hatefully low-and he went 
 with them to hear a litany at the altar under Bruna- 
 
 1: 
 
the World, The Flesh, and tlie Devil 
 
 leschi's dome, a solemn and awe inspiring function, a 
 double semi-circle of priests and choristers within the 
 marble dado and glass screen that enclosed the altar — 
 lugubrious chanting unrelieved by the organ — and at the 
 close of the service a sudden loud, rattling noise. 
 
 Then the doors open, and priests and acolytes pour out 
 in swift succession, priests in rich vestments, violet and 
 gold, scarlet tippets, white fur, black stoles, a motley 
 train, vanishing quickly towards the sacristy. 
 
 And now the crowd troop into the sanctuary, and as- 
 cend the steps of the altar, Gerard and his companions 
 following, he curious onlj^ they deeply impressed by tljat 
 old world ceremonial. And one by one the devout bond 
 to kiss the jasper slab of the alcar, on which stands a 
 golden cross, richly jewelled, which contains a fragment 
 of that cross whereon the Man A Sorrows died for sin- 
 
 ning, sorrowmg man. 
 
 ' I hope it was not wrong of me to do as the others 
 did,' said Edith presently, as they left the cathedral, her 
 eyes still dim with tears. 
 
 'Wrong!' ejaculated Rosa, who had performed the 
 Romanist rite with unction. ' No, indeed. I look for- 
 ward to the day when we shall have relics in our own 
 churches.* 
 
 On Holy Saturday there was the spectacular display in 
 front pf the cathedral, and at this Gerard wasconstirined 
 to assist and to sit in a sunlit window for nearly an j; i •, 
 watching the humours of the good-tempered crow-; i '..•. 
 Piazza, while the great black tabernacle, covered vviuu ar- 
 tificial roses and squibs, and Catherine wheels, awaited 
 the sacred flame which was to set all its fireworks ex- 
 plodir-. / — flame which descended in a lightning flash on 
 the wi . ^x of a dove from the lamp on the altar within 
 the CwtK W^. sac'f i light which a pious pilgrim had car- 
 ried ui!?« ; gr- led from the temple in Jerusalem to this 
 Tuscai. ciU, I'he dove > ane rushing down the invisible 
 guiding wire as all the clocks of Florence chimed the 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 401 
 
 noontide hour ; and then with much t^ilk and lauffhter 
 the cou'd n^oltoJ out of the Piazza, and the daily traffic 
 dZTiff' T^^'t- C^^^«^Pi«"'^ landau camo to the 
 
 ^^Hnl r;^''"V^°l^' "^^'^ ^^»«'' she had hired her 
 window and they drove away to the Via TornabuonT 
 aud the house of Doni, where luncheon had been ordered 
 and a room engaged for them, luncheon at which K 
 Champion's po;vdered slave officiated, and got in the w 
 of the brisk waiters, to whom his slow and solemn m^v^^ 
 n,ent8 were an abomination. Only out of EngSri^^^^^ 
 th^ere^come such sad and solemn^bearing, tLu^fit the 
 
 On Sunday there was High Mass at the Church of 
 Santa Annunziata, and Gerard and the two Mes had 
 seats m the choir, where liquid treble voices a of an-^els 
 sang the alto parts, in Mozart's 12th Mass, and glor^^^^^^^ 
 baritones and basses filled in the wondrous harmonLs 
 and priests in vestments of gold and silver, flashinTwUh 
 jewels, gorgeous with embroidery, officiated at thl high 
 altar; priests whose splendid raiment suggested the 
 Priesthood of Egypt, in the days when EgypS splen! 
 dour was the crowning magnificence of thf earth, to be 
 bTsurpa^^^^^^^^^ '^^^ '^ ^°""^'^^- -^^i«^«' but never to 
 The music and the splendour, the strain on eye and ear 
 wearied Gerard Hillersdon. He gave a sigh of reHef as 
 ho took ins seat in the landau opposite Edith and her 
 cousin, Mrs. Gresham. who regaled them with her ran 
 
 thirj:^'"V^%'^K""' ^^Ijoie^-that exquisite treb iT^ 
 that magnificent ba^s. She descanted on every number 
 
 TuKnits.^^"^^^ *^- P-- whowUt^ 
 
 ; And now I think we have had enough of churches' 
 
 said Gerard, 'and we may spend the rest of our HvesTn 
 
 the RunshinA fill ma ooil .,^„„ j._ ^i. .-j , , "^ xivcam 
 « ---—---*""-••-«- -vrEj- Lo- uio Greek ArciiipeJaffo ' 
 'And till I go back to Suffolk,' sighed Mrs. Greshfm 
 I shall be very glad to see my dear good man agafnf buj; 
 
402 The World, The Flesh, and Tlie Devil. 
 
 oh, how dismal Sandyholme will be after Florence, and 
 you two happy creatures will be sailing from island to 
 island, and your life will be one delicious dream of sum- 
 mer. Well, I can never be grateful enough to you, Edith, 
 for having let me see Italy. Robert Browning said that 
 if his heart were cut open Italy would be found written 
 upon it, and so I'm sure it would upon mine, if any one 
 thought it worth looking at. And Florence, dear Florence!' 
 
 'And the Via Tornabuoni where all the fashionable 
 shops are— and Doiii's, and the English tea-parties, and 
 the English Church. I think these things would be found 
 to hold the highest rank in your Florentine heart, Mrs. 
 Gresham, though they don't belong to the Florence of 
 Mediaevalisra and the Medici,' said Gerard, glad to damp 
 middle-aged enthusiasm. 
 
 ' That shows how very little you understand my char- 
 acter, Mr. Hillersdon. As for the shops — they are very 
 smart and artistic, but I would give all the shops in the 
 Via Tornabuoni for Whiteley's. I adore Florence most of 
 all for her historical associations. To think that Cather- 
 ine de Medici was reigning Duchess in that noble Palazzo 
 Vecchio — who were the Vecchios, by the bye — some older 
 family I suppose— and that dear Dante died here, and 
 that Giordino Bruno was burnt here and Cossini lived 
 here, and Browning ! Such a flood of wonderful memor- 
 ies,* concluded Rosa with a sigh. 
 
 The preparations for the wedding hung fire somehow. 
 The day was again postponed. Mrs. Champion had dis- 
 covered that it would be impossible for her to marry with- 
 out an interview with her solicitor, and that gentleman 
 had telegraphed his inability to arrive in Florence before 
 the end of the followingf week. 
 
 ' He is my trustee,' she explained to Gerard, ' and I am 
 so utterly unbusinesslike myself that I am peculiarly de- 
 pen^tenu upon nijn. I Know that x aui ricli, nnil that my 
 income is derived from things in the City, railways and 
 foreign loans, don't you know. I write cheques for what- 
 
Ths World, The Flesh, and The Devil 403 
 
 ever I want, and Mr. Marldickson has never accused me 
 ot being extravagant, so I fancy I must be very rich. 
 ant It J were to marry you without his arranging my 
 
 fmu^.^''''^^",'''^ "^^^^ entanglement might happen' 
 What entanglement could there be? Am I not rich 
 enough to live without touching your fortune; ' 
 
 'My dear Gerard, I didn't mean any doubt of you— 
 not tor one moment— but the richer we both are the more 
 necessary it must be to arrange things legally, must it 
 not. 
 
 u- } ^Tl ^^^"'^ ®^- ^° ^y "1^"^ ^e are as free as the 
 ,*S , ^^^' ^^^ ^^^ *^®^® delays wound me.' 
 ' Don't say that, Gerard. You know how firmly I made 
 up my mind not to marry for a year after poor James' 
 death, and if I give way upon that point to gratify a whim 
 ot yours *^ 
 
 '^j^^j?"-' I^ow %h% you^ speak. Perhaps you 
 would rather we never married at all.' 
 
 hef f ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^°^^'"' ^^^ reddened and averted 
 
 !& ^^ so?' he asked, hoarse with passion. 
 
 'No, no, of course not,' she answered, ' only I don't 
 want to be hustled into marriage.' 
 
 'Hustled, no, but life is short. If you can't make up 
 your mind to marry me within a fortnight from this dav 
 we will cry quits for my three years' slavery, and will say 
 good bye. There is a woman in England who won't 
 set^^up imaginary impediments if I ask her to be my 
 
 His voice thickened with a suppressed sob as he spoke 
 the last words. Ah, that woman in England, that woman 
 who loved him with an unselfishness that was strong 
 enough to conquer shame, that woman who was to be thS 
 mother of his child. 
 
 J^^lx. """""^l ^^"^ ^'^' ^^•^^^' exclaimed Edith, scared 
 at the thought of losing him, ' no doubt there are hun- 
 dreds of women in England who would like to marry you 
 
404. 
 
 Ir 
 
 ^ World, Th^ FUsk and The Devil. 
 
 with your wealth, just as there are hundreds of mpn r.h^ 
 would pretend to be passionately in lovfwithlrforTh^ 
 
 'I never said I was fond of him. He amuses me that's 
 
 •iSiM'^f^ ^P\ '""■¥'^ *'"• •>« fate-reading f ' 
 •Mn^hhn tr;-"'^- i-*""'' *''^' ^-^ "" ho Wanted.' 
 fort«ni^ag™n.tf t irLl/'^ '™""«' "'"' "'^ -" t^" °« 
 'Not for me. I prefer a happy ignorance ' 
 
 partroV%ht"^LrhfcXfe:r^: f f *° *>* 
 
 overpowering ennui. EdUh afhLlJto te sfnUrntoUn 
 
 i"o ine other uwo. Mrs. Champion had shrunk from 
 nviting her Florentine friends to meet her fianc6 H^ 
 looked so wretchedly ill, his humours were so fiTrf/l ^^ . 
 
 KSnon:H^^^'^^Tri^^"^^^- 
 
 1 i w ? u . *^^^® P'^'^P^® ^0^ handsome, how bril- 
 liant, how charming he had been two or three years a"o 
 She could not inform the world that this intended m£ 
 
 S%Tr m'tnl""1-°'^^^^i^i«^^ ^-^- slTeprettX 
 
 th7appToiit Jlr^^^^^ ^°-P^^^« ^orance of 
 
 i i _ _ 1 „ , ^jih. xu wuuiu DO time euouffh for thpm 
 
 wiujjs of the Jersey L,ly And later, when Gerard should 
 
Devil. 
 
 is of men who 
 ith me, for the 
 a fortnight, I 
 r. Maddickson 
 g my wedding 
 be married in 
 
 t to make an 
 '■ is at Spezia, 
 ernoon.' 
 be so fond of 
 
 ses me, that's 
 5 fashion. I 
 } too clever to 
 
 ading ? * 
 1 he wanted.' 
 can tell our 
 
 3lief to that 
 ladow of an 
 ntimental in 
 id, and bor- 
 hruak from 
 fianc6. He 
 
 fitful and 
 f her choice. 
 3, how bril- 
 ) years ago. 
 3nded mar- 
 preferred to 
 ^^norance of 
 2;h for them 
 
 1 the white 
 rard should 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 405 
 
 have recovered his health and good looks, and easy equable 
 manners, later when he and she had become leading lights 
 in London society, she would be proud of him and of 
 their romantic union. 
 
 When he recovered his health ? There were moments 
 in which she asked herself shudderingly, would that ever 
 be ? He pretended to be very confident of himself. He 
 told her that to live he needed only happiness and a balmy 
 climate ; but she knew that it was a feature of that fata- 
 lest of fatal maladies for the patient to be hopeful in the 
 very teeth of despair ; and she had seen many indications 
 that had filled her with alarm. 
 
 •How I wish you would consult Dr. Wilson,' she said 
 one day, when he sank breathless on the marble bench 
 by the fonntain, after ten minutes' quiet walking. ' He 
 13 experienced and clever. I am sure he would b'e of use 
 to you.' 
 
 ' I have my own doctor in London,' Gerard answered, 
 curtly. ' Your Florentine doctor cannot tell me anything 
 about myself that I don't know, and as for treatment, 
 my valet knows what to do for me. I shall be well when 
 we get further south. Your Florence is aa treacherous as 
 her Medicis. The winds from the Apennines are laden 
 with evil.' 
 
 Jermyn, under existing circumstances, was a decided 
 acquisition. His familiarity with Florence astonished 
 and charmed the two ladies. He knew every church, 
 every palace, every picture, the traditions of every great 
 family that had helped to make the history of the city. 
 Knowledge like this makes every stone eloquent. He 
 was asked to join in all their saunterings and in all their 
 drives, and his presence gave an air of freshness and 
 gaiety to the simplest pleasures— to the afternoon tea in 
 the loggia, and to the long evenings in the salon, when 
 Mrs. Gresham played Chopin and Schubert to her heart's 
 content, while the oiher three sat afar off and talked. 
 
 * My cousin is better than an orchestrion,' said Mra. 
 
406 the World, The Hesh, and The Devil 
 
 Champion, ' one has only to turn the handle and she will 
 discourse excellent music the whole evening, and formve 
 us lor not listenmg to her.' ^ 
 
 ' Yes, but I know that in her inmost heart Mrs. Gres- 
 Ham IS pitying us for having a sense wanting,' said Jermyn 
 and then went on with his talk, caring nS more for the 
 mcst delicate renderm- of a Rubinstein reverie, than if it 
 had been a hurdygurdy grinding a tuneless polka in the 
 road beyond the garden. 
 
 They all went to Spezia to look at the yacht, a rail- 
 road journey of some hours, through a hot, arid country, 
 which tried Gerard severely, and bored the other three 
 
 Who would care to live at Pisa,' said Jermyn, while 
 the train was stopping in the station outside that ancient 
 city. After one had looked at the Cathedral, and the 
 iiaptistry, and the Campo Santo one would feel that life 
 was done— there is nothing more. And it is a misfortune 
 for everybody but the Cook's tourist that the three things 
 are close together. One can't even pretend to take a lone 
 time in seeing them.' ° 
 
 Mrs. Champion professed herself delighted with the 
 yacht, bhe explored every cabin and corner. There was 
 a JHreuch chof engaged, and an Italian butler, everything 
 was ready tor a tour in the Mediterranean, and the Med- 
 iterranean as seen to-day in this sunlit harbour of Spezia 
 seemed a sea that could do no wrong. Jermyn showed 
 Mrs. Champion her boudoir-dressing room, with its in- 
 genious ottoman receptacles for her gowns and other 
 w7',f^? ^^® cabin for her maid— an infinitesimal cabin, 
 but tull of comforts. He showed her the grand piano, the 
 electric lamps, all the luxuries of modern yachting. There 
 was to be no roughing it on board the Jersey Lily. The 
 arrangements of this 700 ton yacht left nothing to be 
 regretted after the most perfect of continental hotels. 
 
 Edith was enchanted with everything, but even in the 
 midst of her enthusiasm a chilling fear came over her at 
 
Q and she will 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 407 
 
 the thought of Gerard lying ill in that luxurious cabin, 
 with its coquettish draperies of salmon pink and scattered 
 rosebuds, its white and gold Worcester, in which porcelain 
 was made to imitate carved ivory. Sickness there — 
 death there — in that narrow space, tricked out for the 
 Loves and Graces to inhabit — disease, with all its loathly 
 details, playing havoc with all the beauty of life, illness 
 tending fatally, inevitable towards death. She turned 
 from all that costly prettiness with a vague sense of, 
 horror. 
 
 ' Don't you like the style ? ' asked Jermyn, quick to see 
 that revulsion of feeling. 
 
 'No; it ia much too fine. I think a yacht should be 
 simpler. One does not want the colouring of the Arabian 
 Nights on the sea. Picture this cabin in a tempest — 
 all this ornamentation tossed and flying about — a tawdry 
 chaos.' 
 
 Sh^ looked at Gerard who stood by, unconcerned in the 
 discussion, obviously caring very little whether she were 
 pleased or not, looking with dull indifferent eye upon the 
 arrangements which had been made for his wedding tour. 
 He had had these occasional lapses of abstraction in which 
 he seemed to drift out of the common life of those around 
 him; moods of sidlen melancholy, which made Edith 
 Champion shiver. 
 
 'i'hey lunched on board the tj^ersey Lily, and the lun- 
 cheon was gay cn^>ugh, but Jermyn and Mrs. Gresham 
 were the chief talkers, and it was Jermyn's laughter that 
 gave an air of joyousness to the meal. Gerard was 
 dreamy and HJient; Edith was anxiously watchful of his 
 moods. Ho was to be her husband soon, and these moods 
 of his wouid make the colouring of her life. Could she 
 be happy if the mental atmosphere were always dull and 
 gray as it was to-day ? The sapphire blue of the bay, the 
 afternoon light on the Carrara Mountains grew dim and 
 dull in the gloom of her lover's temper ; he who long ago, 
 in the old days of his poverty, had been ao joyous a 
 spirit, 
 
408 
 
 The WorM, The Flenh. and The DevU. 
 
 She thought of James Champion, and of those sad 
 
 ■•ni r Iw^'x*? ''°'"' •'y '"le sense of his own in&m! 
 ities, unable to take pleasure in anythins ' W^M O^ 
 
 3rear?o:id'he''f'-'/^ '^^^ L Jf ^t^l'tohtg 
 
 Zy fo'gffi "^""'"T ""^'^ Cyprus and":: 
 in pSne and To ^inteT „° T. J"'* 1 *^ ""*'""" 
 
 as t„ey travelled from Pisa t^ Kce- buf ^ ^^^ 
 
The World, The Fleah, and The DevU. 
 
 409 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 '^anS^^^^Z^^^^^'/^^' Champion's solicitor 
 and trustee, arnved early in the following 
 week-three days sooner than he had declared 
 possible, urged to this ha^te by importunate 
 
 ^.' i^I^^Tm', ^® ^^ ^^^^en to a dinner at 
 which Mr. Hillersdon and his friend Jermyn were 
 the only guests,, in order that everything mi^ht be 
 discussed that needed discussion, and that the lady^ con. 
 
 It was a delicious evening, balmier than many an Ena. 
 
 J" y- /f;he Easter moon had waned, and the slender 
 
 crescent of the new moon shone silvery pale in a rose- 
 
 flashed heaven a heaven wherein that lovely after-Xw 
 
 tlie first stars glimmered faint and wan. Mm Champion 
 
 7.ZT *^- ^f^'"" ""'^^ 9''^'^ ^°d Jermyn whe7 he 
 lawyer arrived, spruce and prim in his inspiccable even- 
 ing dress, a man who deemed it a duty he owed to Ws 
 profession to employ only the most admirable of tailors 
 1 he two young men where lounging on garden chaire in 
 the circle by the fountain, beyoSd which the great pink 
 peonies made a background of bloom and verdure. ^Uv 
 Maddickson s short-sighted eyes took the big pink blosl 
 soms for gigantic roses, such as a man might expect to 
 fh"« n?J*^^^ ?" ^"^^'^ ^''"^ «^« «f the loung Ln to 
 f:.:t4^'^eP""''r^' uphismindtL t!e ladvs 
 head fhrl!^^ K 1 y°"J.'Jjea"in^ against the fountain, his 
 head thrown back a httle and the rosy light upon his 
 face as he looked up at Mrs. Gresham, whosi speech had 
 
i 
 
 r 
 
 11 
 
 410 The World, Tfie Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 just moved him to joyous laughter. Quite the sort of 
 young man to catch a widow's fancy, thought Mr. Mad- 
 dickson, who supposed it was in the nature of widows to 
 be frivolous. 
 
 He lelt a cold shiver — happily only perceptible to him- 
 selt— when Mrs. Champion introduced the pale, hollow- 
 eyed young man, with slightly bent shoulders and an un- 
 mistakable air of decay, as Mr. Hillersdon. He lost his 
 usual aplomb, and was awkwardly silent for some min- 
 utes after that introduction. 
 
 There was a brief discussion between the lovers and 
 the lawyer late in the evening, while Rosa and Mr. 
 Jermyn were in the loggia, he smoking, she declaring she 
 adored the odour of tobacco. 
 
 There were no difficulties, Mr. . Maddickson told his 
 client and her betrothed, and the settlements might be of 
 the simplest form. He proposed as a matter of course 
 that the lady's fortune should be settled on herself and 
 her children, giving her full disposing power if there 
 should be no children. 
 
 'You are so rich, Mr. Hillersdon,' said the lawyer, 
 * that these details can hardly interest you.' 
 
 'They don't. I wanted Mrs. Champion to marry me out 
 of hand ten days ago, without any legal f ussification, or 
 delay. I thought the Married Woman's Property Act 
 would protect her estate, even in the event of my squaod- 
 ering my fortune, which I am hardly likely to do.' 
 
 ' It is always best to have these matters quietly dis- 
 cussed,' said Mr. Maddicksoa 'A hasty marriage is 
 rarely a wise marriage.* 
 
 He gave a little sigh as he uttered this tolerably safe 
 opinion, and rose to take leave, but before departing he 
 pawsed to address Mrs. Championiu a lower tone. 
 
 ' I should much like to have a little talk with you to- 
 morrow,' he said. ' Shall I find you at home if I call ?' 
 
 'Mot in the afternoon. We "are to drive to the Cer- 
 tosa.' 
 
r some min- 
 
 The World, The Flesh and The DevU. 411 
 IjjJ In the morning, then ? I can be here at any hour you 
 
 ' Come at twelve, and stay to lunch. We lunch at half- 
 past twelve. And then, going with him towards the 
 door ot the salon, she said, in a lower tone. ' I conclude 
 there is i eally nothing now to hinder my marriage ? ' 
 
 ' JN otluug, except your own inclination. I tliink you 
 are marrying too soon; but we will talk of that to-morrow.' 
 
 Vv hen he was gone she had an uncomfortable feeling 
 that he would have something disagreeable to say to her 
 when he came in the morning. People who ask for in- 
 terviews in that elaborately urgent manner are seldom 
 the bearers of pleasant tidings. She had a sleepless night 
 agitated by vague dread. 
 
 Mr. Maddickson was punctual to a minute, for the 
 timepiece in the salon chimed the hour as the footman 
 announced him, looking as fresh and trim in his checked 
 travelling suit as he had looked in evening dress ; clean- 
 shaved, the image of respectabiUty not unconscious of the 
 latest fashion. 
 
 •I have spent the morning at the Academy,' he said, 
 blandly, 'and have become a convert to the Early Italian 
 school. I don't wonder at Hunt, and Millais, and those 
 young fellows now I have seen those two walls— one 
 splendid with the exquisite finish and lustrous colour of 
 Fra Angelico and his disciples, and the other covered 
 with a collection of gloomy daubs, in the high classical 
 inanner, by the worst painters of the school that came 
 after Eaffaelle.' 
 
 ' You have somethmg serious to say to me ? ' said 
 Edith, not caring a jot for Mr. Maddickson's opinions on 
 art. 
 
 * Something very serious.' 
 
 'Then pray come at once to the point, or my cousin 
 will have returned from her walk beforeyou have finished.' 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Champion, I have not bit. I the pleasure 
 of much social iutercourse with you, but 1 have been in- 
 
 'r-l 
 
 
Ml I t 
 
 II .^'i 
 
 412 
 
 Th^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 terested in you professionally ever since your marriage, 
 ajid my position as your trustee should give me some of 
 the privileges of friendship.' 
 
 ' Consider that you have every privilege that friend- 
 e exclaimed impatiently; 'but pray 
 
 ship can give,' she ^^„.„.„ 
 don't beat about the bush.' 
 
 'Are you seriously attached to Mr. Hillersdon ? ' 
 Of course I am, or I would not be thinking seriously 
 of marrying him within a year of my husband's death. 
 We were boy and girl sweethearts, and I would have 
 married him without a penny, if it hadn't been for my 
 people. They insisted on my marrying Mr. Champion 
 and he wa.s very good to me, and I was very happy with 
 him ; but the old love was never forgotten, and now that 
 1 am tree what can be more natural than that I ,^-aould 
 marry my first love ?' 
 
 'What indeed, but for one unhappy fact.' 
 ' What is that, pray ? ' 
 
 ' X°" ^/y' engaged yourself to a dying man. Surely, 
 ray dear friend, you must see that this poor young man 
 has the stamp of death upon him.' 
 
 'I know that he is out of health. He spent the winter 
 m J^^ngland, which he ought not to have done. We are 
 going on a long cruise; we shall be in a climate that will 
 cure him He ha^ been neglectful of his health, reckless 
 
 1, J?S?®'^' ^^*^? "° °^® ^ ^^^^ care of him. It wUl be 
 an ditterent when we are married.' 
 
 My dear Mrs. Champion, don't deceive yourself.' the 
 lawyer said earnestly. ' You don't pretend to have the 
 power of working miracles, I suppose; and the raising of 
 Lazarus was hardly a greater miracle than this poor 
 young mans restoration to health would be. I tell you 
 —for it is my duty to tell you— that he is dying. I have 
 seen such cases before— cases of atrophy, heart and Inna, 
 both attacked, a gradual vanishing of life. Doctor him 
 as you may, nurse him as you may, this young man must 
 die. Marry him if you like— I shaU deeply regret it if 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The Dml. 413 
 
 you do— and be sure you will be again a widow before 
 the year is out.* 
 
 Tears were streaming down Mrs. Champion's cheeks. 
 Ihis cruel, hard-headed lawyer hud only put into plain 
 words the dim forebodings, the indistinct terrors which 
 had been weighing her down almost ever since Gerard 
 came to Florence. The change she had seen in him on 
 his first coming had frozen her heart ; and not once in all 
 the hours they had spent together had he seemed the 
 same man she had loved a year ago. Between them 
 there was a shadow, indescribable, indefinable, which she 
 knew now was the shadow of death. 
 
 Mr. Maddickson made- no ill-advised attempt at con- 
 solation He knaw that in such a case there must be 
 tears, and he let her cry, waiting deferentially for anv- 
 thmg she might have to say. 
 
 '1 had such a sad time with Mr. Champion,' she said 
 presently, 'It was so painful to see his mind gradually 
 going. You know what a long, long illness it was, nearly 
 a year. I was a great deal with him. I wanted him to 
 teel that he was never abandoned. It was my duty but 
 it was a sad trial. It left me an old woman.' 
 
 This was a mere facon de parler, since Mrs. Champion's 
 KufFenngs during her husband's illness had not written a 
 hne upon her brow or silvered a single hair. 
 
 'It was a dreadful time,' she jighed. after a pause. * I 
 don't think I could go through it again.' 
 
 'It would be very hard if you were called upon to do 
 so, said Mr. Maddickson, and Mrs. Champion felt it would 
 be hard. 
 
 She wanted the joys of life; not to be steeped to the 
 lips in sorrow and odours of fast-approaching death. 
 
 'Does he really seem to you so very ill ?' she asked 
 presently. 
 
 ' Nobody can doubt it who looks in his face. He has 
 some medical attendance in Florence, I suppose.' 
 
 ' No, I wanted him to see Dr. Wilson, but he refused. 
 
►■■■• 
 
 4t t Tlie World, Tlte Flesh, and The De>nl. 
 
 He says that he knows all about himself, that he ha^ 
 nothing to learn from any doctor; 
 
 ' And is he hopeful about himself ?' 
 , *Yes, fairly hopeful, I think.' 
 
 J. ; 5 ^^""'"^••r ^''^ sorry for him; but I should be 
 soi Nor for yo.i if you were foolish enough to marry him ' 
 , Mrs. Gresham came in from her morning walk, lonua- 
 cious and gushing as usual. She had been up the hill 
 and had taken another iook at that dear David, and at 
 the view of Florence from the terrace 
 said ' T'^ isin one of her too delicious moods,' she 
 
 hou.h J -^^^ ^^^ ""tT . ^y ^''''^ ^«^«« ^t the 
 thought of going away, but the place will live in my 
 
 heart for the rest of my life. I shall often be thinking 
 hit i.!r '^^- on that hill of gardens, and the lovely 
 light stealing m through the transparent marble in the 
 
 chuTch"^ "^ *" ^'*'^'°^ ^"^ °"'" "^"^"^ ^®*^ °^^ "^"^^ sr&y 
 
 Gerard and his friend appeared before Rosa had left off 
 talking, and there was an immediate adjournment to 
 uncheon. at which meal conversation was chiefly sus^ 
 tamed by Mr. Maddickson and Mr. Jermyn, with a run- 
 ning accompaniment by Rosa, who broke in at everv 
 point of the argument upon Italian art to express opinions 
 ^l-Il^t ^' ^r^^le^ant as they were enthusiastic. 
 J^rJith Champion was silent and thoughtful all throuffh 
 
 S 1 T' T.^ ""P"^ ^}^'' """^-^^y observant of her lovlr, 
 who looked tired and depressed, scarcely ate anythin^r 
 and drank only a single glass of claret. Seeing this, she 
 proposed an adjournment of the drive to the Carthusians. 
 .1 he afternoon was warm to sultriness, the road would 
 
 rlilA^' w ^^ ^T^ ,"f^ ^"^ ^^^^ «*^P« ^o"ld tire 
 Gerard He was altogether indifferent, would go or not 
 go as she pleased ; whereupon she settled that Mr Jer- 
 myn and Mr Mqddifl—' ^ ~^-,1 1 ■• • . , „ ^".r 
 J - iji^_ iTii. .Ti«„i.jicn..-^^n csiiuuiu urive with Mrs Ores- 
 
 th^pi'' ""^'Sreedy of sigh t-seeing, and always anxious 
 
 iln ??K ?^P?,^'^^«^^^' .^'Jiile Gorard and his fianced could 
 •pend (heir afternoon m the garden. 
 
The World, TJie Flesh, and The Devil. 416 
 
 That afternoon in the garden hung somewhat heavily 
 on the engaged lovers. They had spent a good many 
 afternoons and evenmgs together since Gerard's arrival in 
 I'lorence. afternoons and evenings that had been virtually 
 tete-i-tete, inasmuch as Rosa was very discreet, and pre- 
 ferred I'er piano to the society of the lovers. Thus they 
 had talked of the past and of the future-their planT 
 
 ^rnnnSTr*/^!"" ""'f^' °*' '°^^^^>^' ^'^ ^^ere was no fresh 
 ground left to travel over. Edith could talk only of 
 actualities. The world of metaphysical speculations; the 
 dreamland of poets were worlds that were closed against 
 her essentially worldly intellect. Gerard had ne?er so 
 felt the something wanting in her mind as he felt it now 
 that he had known the companionship of Hester's more 
 spiritual nature. With Hester he ha J never been T a 
 loss for subjects of conversation, even in the quiet mon- 
 otony of their isolated lives, c^iuou 
 The fountain, with its border of Aram lilies, the pink 
 peonies, the blood red cups of tulips that filled a border 
 on a lower terrace, the perfume oi lilac and hawthorn all 
 pal ed upon him as he sat upon the marble bench ind 
 watched the water eapmg gaily up towards the sunlight 
 only to tall and break m rainbow cofoured spray-symk>lic 
 of the mind of man, always aspiring, never attaining. He 
 was in one of those listless moods, when every nerve 
 seemed relaxed, every sense dulled. Moods in which a 
 man cares for nothing, hopes for nothing, and, save for 
 the dread of death, would willingly have done with life 
 Was it so vast a boon, after all. he asked himself, this life 
 to which he clung so passionately ? No boon, perhaps 
 but It wa^ all There was the rub. After this nothL^'.' 
 He might sicken of the loveliness around hini of the 
 glory of colour and the endless variety of light of the 
 distant view of the mountains, where the snow ;et lin! 
 gered. xnese nagiit pall, but to exchange these for dark- 
 ness and dust, and the world's forpotfulness 
 In the discussion on the previous evening it had been 
 
 !f 
 
416 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil 
 
 settled that the wedding was to take place on the coming 
 Saturday. Mr. Maddickson had tried his utmost by 
 various suggestions, to defer the date, but Gerard had 
 been inflexible, and had carried his point. In three days 
 these two who sat listless and silent in the afternoon sun- 
 light, she sheltered by a large white parasol, he baring 
 his head to the warmth, were to be man and wife. There 
 was nothing more for them to talk about. Their future 
 was decided. 
 
 Gerard did not wait for the return of the party from 
 the Certosa, or for afternoon tea. He pleaded letters that 
 must be written for the evening post, and left before five 
 o'clock, promising to dine at the villa as usual. Edith 
 walked with him to the gate, and kissed him affection- 
 ately at parting, detaining him a little at the last, as if 
 she were loth to let him leave her. And then, when his 
 carriage wheels were out of hearing, she went slovvly 
 back to the house, with streaming eyes, went straight to 
 her room, and flung herself upon a sofa, and cried as if 
 her heart would break. She was so sorry for him, she 
 mourned him as one already dead, she mourned for her 
 old love, which had died with the man she had loved, 
 the light-hearted happy lover of five years ago. It was 
 hard to acknowledge, it was bitter to bear, but she knew 
 that Mr. Maddickson was right, and that to marry Ger- 
 ard Hillersdon was only to take upon herself the burden 
 of a great sorrow. 
 
 ' If I believed that T could make his last days on earth 
 happy, I would gladly marry him,* she told hf^rself. *I 
 would think nothing of myself or of my own sorrow after- 
 wards, my double widowhood ; but I have seen enough 
 of him now to know that I can't make him happy. He 
 is no happier with me than he is anywhere else. He is j 
 only bored and wearied. I am nothing to him, and his 
 
 f)romise. I believe it will be a relief to his mind if I re- 
 e^e him from that promise. It was wrong of me to ex- 
 act such a vow ; very, very wrong.' 
 
TU TyorU, The !•«, anA The DevU. «7 
 
 hafurSrWmTo'^Sf day in Hertford-street. when she 
 ij»u urgea nnn to be true to her, when she had mirl in 
 him of h.s promise-' Is it an oath ? ' Ah how prs^ln 
 ately she loved him in those days, how impoSe W?' 
 tZ ffr"'"l ** ^'' ^thoui him sThad thouX" 
 
 fufzi?™'"/^K•*^"8^^'^''»°™""e:rtheL^l" 
 
 and that the day of doom could not be far ^ff ''''*''"^'*' 
 
 thA XiT^^i'J' ^^^^^''' ^ ^'« mother, teijing her of " 
 fSl ^t '^^i'^'^fi"^' *« ^'^ backer, to his lawy?r-Ld 
 
 awlkened l^ J ^^ '"°'' ^^^''•^^ ^°*^''' ^^^ was oSy 
 Wm^« i,^ someone coming into the room. It wi 
 Jermyn who came with an open letter in his hand 
 
 m Florence to-night. I have some bad news for Z5 
 
 ?tdt"°^ ^T'y- !~"'« <'»™ at Setter. ^ • 
 Bad neira-you have bad news-forme. FromHeln,., 
 J^k-no, from Wcombe/ he cried, tumi^'ghtty 
 
 in'a"!:^' tm SattZlTe^ '"^ "^ " ^<'« "*■"»' 
 
 Je;m;':?sTant '"'*''' '''^^ ^'"^' ™'''<''>»g " f~- 
 
 the"poSn*°of S^f '■»-t^e first few moments to see 
 mo portion of the letter which referred to his own evil 
 
418 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 fortuno. He saw only words about the house Muller was 
 building— abuse of architect and builder— the mistakes 
 ot one, the dilatormess of the other. It was only when 
 Jermyn put a hand over his shoulder and pointed to the 
 bottom of the second page of closely written matter that 
 ne saw where the bad news began. 
 
 'You are interested I know in that pretty young wo- 
 man at the Rosary, though I could never persuade you 
 to introduce me to her. You will be sorrv to hear that 
 she IS m sad trouble, poor girl, trouble which is all the 
 sadder because the man who called himself her husband 
 seems to have deserted her. There was a baby born at 
 the Kosary— a baby that came upon this mortal scene 
 betore he was expected, poor little beggar. The ola 
 father s sudden death, I believe, was the cause of this 
 premature event— and ten days or a fortnight after the 
 event the young mother went clean off her head, and only 
 last night she escaped from the two nurses who had care 
 ot her and wandered away by the river, with, I believe, 
 the intention of drowning herself. The baby was drowned 
 and the mother only escaped by the happy chance of a 
 couple ot Cockneys who were rowing down from Oxford, 
 and heard the splash, one of whom swam to the poor 
 girl s rescue very pluckily. There is to be an inquest on 
 the mfant this afternoon, and I don't know in whose 
 custody the mother now is, but I suppose someone is 
 looking after her. My builders foreman lives at Low- 
 combe, and he tells me there has been a great deal of ex- 
 citement about the affair, for this Mr. Hanley is supposed 
 to be very rich, and he is thought to have acted cruelly to 
 this poor young woman, wife or no wife, in leaving her 
 at such a time.' ^ 
 
 'Cruelly,' muttered Gerard, 'yes, with the cruelty of 
 devils. Byt she would not come with mc— it was her 
 
 choice to stay. How could T t«ll ? To u +-.,« t„>, , o 
 
 Is this some trick of yours to frighten me ? ' 
 _ 'It is no trick. I thought it best to show you the letter 
 that you aUould knosv the worst at once.' * 
 
The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 419 
 
 The worst, yes. Hester, perhaps, a prisoner— accused 
 rf murdering her child ! The worst ! Oh, what a wretch 
 I have been. When can I get away from here ? How 
 soon can I get to London ? ' 
 
 ' You can leave Florence to-night ; I will go with you. 
 The Mont Cenis, I think, is the quickest way. I'll ar- 
 range everything with your servant. Shall you see Mrs. 
 Champion before you go ? ' 
 ' See her, no ; what good would that do ? ' 
 ' We were to have diued with her this evening. Shall 
 I write an apology in your name ? ' 
 
 •Yes, you can do that. Tell her I am called away 
 upon a matter of life and death ; that I don't know how 
 long it may bo before I can return to Florence. You may 
 make my apology as abject as you like. I doubt if she 
 and I will ever meet again.' 
 
 ' You are agitating yourself too much, Hillersdon,' re- 
 monstrated Jermyn. 
 
 'Can there be too much in the matter? Can anything 
 be too much ? Oh, how nobly that girl loved me— how 
 generous, how uncomplaining she was ! And I have mur- 
 dered her ! First I slew her fair fame, and now her child 
 is murdered— murdered by me, not by her, and she has to 
 bear the brand of infamy, as if she were a common felon.' 
 ' She will not be considered guilty. It will be known 
 that she was off her head, irresponsible. People will be 
 good to her, be sure of that.' 
 
 'Will the law be good to her ? The law which takes 
 no account of circumstances, the law which settles every- 
 thing by hard and fast lines. To-morrow ! It will be 
 the day aiter to-morrow before we are at Lowcombe, 
 travel how we may. What ages to wait. Get me some 
 telegraph forms. I'll telegraph to the Rector. He is a 
 good man, and may be able to help us.' 
 
 'To help us/ he said, makin'* hiinf?elf 
 
 vfxic veiiiii xj.csi>er 
 
 in her trouble, re-united to her by calamity. He forgot 
 in his agony how false he had been to her, forgot that^hq 
 
 l^- 
 
420 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 had planned to spend the rest of his days far away from 
 her. The thought of her sorrow made her newly dear to 
 hhu. 
 
 He made his appeal to the Rector in the most urgent 
 form that occurred to him. He implored that good man 
 for Christian charity to be kind to the ill-used girl whom 
 he knew as Mrs. Hanley. He urged him to spare no out- 
 lay in providing legal help, if legal help were needed. If 
 she was able to understand anything she was to be as- 
 sured that her husband would ba with her without loss of 
 an hour. 
 
 He used that word husband, careless of consequences, 
 albeit in three days he was to have become the husband 
 of another woman . 
 
 ^ While he wrote the telegram, Jermyn looked at the 
 time-table. The train for Turin left in an hour. The 
 order was given to the valet, everything was to be ready 
 and a Hy at the door in three-quarters of an hour. 
 
 ' You'll have some dinner served here, I suppose,' sug- 
 gested Jermyn. 
 
 *Do you think I can eat at such a time ? ' 
 ' Well, no, perhaps not. You've been hard hit ; but it 
 would be better if you could fortify yourself for a long 
 journey.* 
 
 ' Take care of yourself,' answered Gerard, curtly. 
 ' Thanks. I always do that,' said Jermyn. 
 ' I'll go down to the table d'h6te when I've written to 
 Mrs. Champion.' 
 
 He seated himself to write, but before he began a 
 waiter brought in a letter for Mr. Hillersdon. Gerard 
 knew the hand, the thick vellum paper with its narrow 
 black border and massive black monogram ; he knew the 
 delicate perfume which always accompanied such letters, 
 a faint suggestion of violets or lilies. 
 The letter was brief : — 
 
 
 r\ J 
 
 VTCJiXJU,- 
 
 , -I have a wretched headache, . nd am 
 ftlto^ether depressed and miserable this evening, so f 
 
The World, Ths Flesh, and The Devil m 
 
 r^rpl^^^^^^^ postpone your visit. I 
 
 morrow. I have m^uch toTv L von'^T*" ^f ^'^ *°- 
 somehow. It -ay be ^S*^ ^t^tht T^tri' 
 
 Ever yours, 'Edith' 
 
 have to «ay to hTm thltl jn ^t'"' J^^' ^^^'^ ^^e 
 fountain, ^ben the two were so ev^d?nf^'^^H^y *^^ 
 conversation ? He wondered atfh^^S-^ %^^ ^°'' ^'^^ 
 hut with faintest interest in 1! '^''!^?'°^ °^ ^^^ ^^^ter. 
 that affected his hfe at Zl ^f?''^- Everything 
 Wurred like a feded photoiT^^^^^ T^ ^'"^^ ^^"^ ^^^^ 
 Champion had rececSd if m^ /i, ^^ .^"^^^ ^^ ^dith 
 thoughts. "* ""^^ *^® background of his 
 
 'Here is u, letter that will savA vnn +i,^ * ^ , » 
 
 e^abomte apology/ he aaidtoS™ .AleSd'h^^K*? 
 can answer myself cxmjru, i^. letter which I 
 
 fi«m''FKi^'"'""'»'' '"'« """"""^g h- departure 
 
 • 4K,r„f r iTfeTftt? t^fi- "^ r -^ 
 
 write to you from London.' "^ '""*• ^ *'" 
 
 
422 Tlte World, The Flesh, and Tlte Devil. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 ^^^^ THE WAUM, WILD KISS TO THE COLD. 
 
 ^ERARD travelled as fast as trains and boat 
 would take him, but it avhs noon on the sec- 
 ond day after he had left Florence before he 
 arrived at the nearest station to Loweombe 
 with the prospect of half an hour's drive be- 
 hind an indifferent horse before he could reach 
 the Rosary and know the worst. He was alone 
 He had sent his valet to Hillersdon House, and 
 had resolutely refused Jermyn's company, although Jer- 
 myn had urged that he was hardly in a state ot health 
 to risk a solitary journey, or the consequences of further 
 ill news. . 
 
 'If there is anything worse to be told, you could not 
 help me to bear the blow,' Gerard answered, gloomily 
 Nor would she care to see you with me. You were no 
 tavounte of hers; and perhaps if it had not been for you 
 1 should never have left her.* ^ 
 
 They had searched all the ryorning papers they could 
 obtain during their journey from Dover to Charinrr Cross 
 to discover any paragraph that might record the "calam- 
 ity at Loweombe— for any report of the inquest on the 
 infant or the rescue of the mother. It was at least some 
 relief to find no such record. Whatever had happened, 
 the report had, by happy chance or kindly influence 
 been kept out of the papers. Hester's name and Hester's 
 woe were not bandied about in a social leader, or even 
 made the subject for a paragraph. 
 
 >-?erard reached Loweombe, therefore, in absolute iff- 
 ftoyanqe of anything that might have happened since Mr, 
 
The World, The Flesh, and Tf^ DevU. 423 
 
 Muller's letter wa^ written. He drove straight to the 
 Uosary, where garden and shrubberies looked dull and 
 (Ireary under a gray, sunless sky. It seemed as if he had 
 left summer on the other side of the Alps— as if he had 
 come into a land where there was no summer, only a 
 neutral dulness, which meant gloom and smoke in Lon- 
 don, and a gray monotone in the country. 
 
 His heart grew cold at sight of the windows. The 
 blinds were all down. The house was either uninhabited 
 or inhabited by death. 
 
 He rang violently, and rang again, but had to wait 
 nearly five minutes, an interval ot inexpressible agonv 
 before a housemaid opened the door, her countenance only 
 just composing itself after the broad grin that had greeted 
 the bakers last sally. The baker's cart rattled awav 
 trom the back door while the housemaid stood at the 
 tront door answering her master's eager questions 
 
 •Where is your mistress ? She— she is not—' 
 
 He could not utter the word that would have given 
 shape to his fear. Happily the girl was sympathetic, 
 although frivolous-minded as to bakers and buteher- 
 boys. She did not keap him in agonv. 
 
 ' She is not any worse, sir. She's" very bad, but not 
 worse. 
 
 ' Can I see her at once— would it do her any harm to 
 see me ? he asked, going towards the stair-case. 
 
 'bhe's not here, sir. She's at the Rectory. Mr. Gil- 
 stone had her taken there after she was saved from 
 drowning by those two London gentlemen. She was 
 took to the Rose and Crown, as that was the nearest 
 house to the river; the two gentlemen carried her there 
 quite unconscious, and they had hard work to bring her 
 round And they sent here for the two nurses, and they 
 kept her there, at the Rose, till next morning : and thAri 
 the Rector he had her taken home to his own house and 
 his sister is helping to nurse her.' 
 
 •They are good souls,' cried Gerard, 'true Christians. 
 
 m^ 
 
 m 
 
424 The World, The Flesh cmd The Devil 
 
 What shall we do in our troubles when there are no more 
 Christians in the world ? ' he thought, deeply touched by 
 kindness from the man whose sympathy he had repulsed. 
 
 * Is your mistress dangerously il' ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' She has been in great danger, sir, and I don't think 
 she's out of danger yet. I was at the Rectory last night 
 to inquire, and one of the nurses told me it was a very 
 critical case. But she's well nursed and well cared for, 
 sir. You can make yourself happy about that.' 
 ' Happy ! I can never know happiness again.' 
 ' Oh, yes, but you will, sir, when Mrs. Hanley gets well. 
 1 make no doubt they'll pull her through.' 
 
 * And her baby — ' 
 
 ' Oh, the poor little thing ! He was such a weakly 
 little mite — I'm sure he's better off in Heaven, if his poor 
 mother could only think so, when she comes round and 
 has to be told about it.' 
 
 * There was an inquest, wasn't there ? ' 
 
 ' Well, yes, sir, there was an inquest at the Bose and 
 Crown, but it wasn't much of an inquest,' Maiy Jane 
 added, in a comforting tone. ' The baker told me the 
 coroner and the other gentlemen weren't in the room 
 above ten minutes. * Death by misadventure,' that was 
 the verdict. Everybody was sorry for the poor young 
 lady. And it was a misadventure, for if the night nurse 
 hadn't left the door unfastened, and fallen asleep in her 
 easy chair, nothing need have gone wrong. It was all 
 along of her carelessness. My poor young mistress got 
 up and put on her morning gown and slippers, and took 
 the poor little baby out of his bassinette, and went down 
 stairs and out of the drawing-room window, and she 
 must have gone across the lawn down to the towing path, 
 and wandered and wandered for nearly two miles before 
 she threw herself in just by the little creek where she 
 and you used to be so fond of sitting in the punt, where 
 we used to send your lunch out to you.' 
 * Ves, yes, I know ; it was there, was it 1' 
 
are no more 
 
 touched by 
 
 id repulsed. 
 
 d. 
 
 ion't think 
 
 ' last night 
 
 was a very 
 
 I cared for, 
 
 t.' 
 
 in,' 
 
 f gets well 
 
 a weakly 
 if his poor 
 round and 
 
 Hose and 
 daiy Jane 
 Id me the 
 
 the room 
 / that was 
 oor young 
 ight nurse 
 sep in her 
 rt was all 
 istress got 
 , and took 
 srent down 
 
 and she 
 mng path, 
 lies before 
 vhere she 
 nt, where 
 
 The World, Th Fteafi, and The DevU. 426 
 
 sweet Jnc'J^/JdSlviil KlS'^ ^^ ZZT °' 
 And now hXd to t& '^v,!"^.'*^ reposeful sweetness. 
 
 good deal And thea^^Tpull herself t-^/tSJ^'"^ " 
 
 wasn't easy work for nft^r „«„ maae. And it 
 
 of restless fit and he Walwa™ »\^''° ^* *^^ * «<»•' " 
 nurse said, in Z qa^wav YnH^'"® '*'?' y™' *''« 
 not seeing you. An^dT 3 .^ taS.' ^^ol ZTaf 
 ley in a disagreeable way, and he w^ J^„^°;.fp;.^^-"- 
 
 to her, I tun. ; uh .^^X'^^^itZt^lT^ 
 
 t "J 
 
426 Th^ World, The Flesh, and Ths DevU. 
 
 he was worse in himself. And one day he was particu- 
 larly unkind, and she left him in tears, and went out into 
 the garden and sat there alone by the river, and didn't 
 CO to her father's room to sit with him while he took his 
 lunch, as she almost always did, and his man found her 
 sitting in the garden very low spirited, when he went to 
 tell her that he and the nurse were going to dinner. Mis- 
 sus always used to sit with the old gentleman while those 
 two had their dinner. And she went up to his room and 
 found him lying quietly on the sofa, and she sat there 
 over an hour, for those two used to take their *,ime over 
 their dinner, no doubt thinking he was asleep all the 
 time, and then, just as the nurse was going upstairs, we 
 all heard a dreadful shriek and a fall, and we found her 
 lying insensible on the floor near the sofa, where her 
 father lay dead. She had gone to him, and spoken to 
 him, and touched him, and found him dead.' 
 
 There was a pause, a silence broken oni/ by Gerard's 
 hoarse sobs, as he sat at the table where he had planned 
 his new novel, in the happy morning of his love, sat with 
 his head bent low npon his folded arms. 
 
 ' She was very bad all that day and night, and Dr. 
 Mivor telegraphed for another nurse, for he said we was 
 in for a bad business. She was quite light-headed, 
 poor young lady, and it was heart-breaking to hear her 
 asking for you, and why you don't go to her, and talking 
 about her father, and begging him to forgive her, as if 
 she had any need of forgiveness, when she'd devoted her- 
 self to making him comfortable and happy from the first 
 hour he was took. And three days after his death the 
 poor little baby was born, and she was quite out of her 
 mind all the time and didn't seem to care about the baby, 
 though he was a dear pretty little thing— but I don't 
 think he'd have lived long, even with the best care. A 
 
 ,. «. «,^»^«. ^,,^ TTurK7 r-rvj ii t/iio iCVCl WCUL LI 
 
 seemed to be cominer more to herself. 
 
 ,X J-> 
 
 coming more 
 
 was a 
 
 great change in her, and she left off talking wildly, and 
 
The World, The Flesh, and TU Devil. 427 
 
 tttToult: ^X"'and t Her father was dead, and 
 bette'r. I .app^e thh^ ' de .^'^^^^^ *J^«"ght she was 
 watchful. B^h nurL A K ^^ghc-nurse a little Jess 
 whileshe wa^sobad with H. /'" T^ ?^'^^"1 «* ^^^ 
 take things rittleeasrerand^^^^^ ^"f *^^^ ^'^g^ *« 
 chair. TLy'd both hai' « H i *• °P *'i^"P ^° ^^^ "^sy 
 week. Ana J think fW- ^^^ ^^'^e of it for the iirst 
 
 except ttat Mr Davtlrt't?' h" • ^ *H^ ^^^^ «-• 
 churchyard nearly afoZStl"''""^^ ^" ^^— '^^ 
 ^.^^rhank y<,u for telling „,e so much. You are a good 
 
 so ;Sfan'li,l^°" ^ '^* °' ^"°^^' - ^ You are looking 
 
 keep everything in froTd order tin , ^^^ ^°"'^' ^"^ 
 
 come back. By the wav whn U T""" "'''^''''' ^"^ ^ 
 
 with money sinc"^ /our SrTss felA^^^^^ w^P^^^^"^ •> °" 
 any «.j^^^^^^^^ you had 
 
 -n!^; anS st ^ade l:Z:^Z^tCt'^^ '^5^ ^- 
 out what was wanted There wi« „ «?. ^'^"^^^ ^"^ ^""^^ 
 some sovereigns in the drawer TK ^^u^^"."^ "'^^^ "°^^ 
 to pay thenu^sesand gaSners and r.rov'.^''" ^'^"'^ 
 money that was wantld. Cook has k^n^tp'f- ^^ ^^^^Z 
 of evervthinff. The nndfirfltf i^^ P. ,* ^*^"c^ account 
 thing, nor th^e doctor but fhll^^' "1?^ >"'" P^^^ ^"7- 
 The fly was walSL and^^^^ «^f^' 
 
 with very little lo s of 't?me vltt ?''^'^ ^ *5^ ^^^^^^^ 
 distance seemed lonV theTorse «l^n, \?^°''''^^ ""°^ the 
 usually are. Fate Ld i^?t-^''T*^*'''"«hh'relings 
 
 hadh^ped. Thet?ontrvi'dSSft^Hl'^^^^^ k 
 
 shadow of binme in *i,^ ii.™ j "^ tester from aU 
 child of whose exi^Llhri;"^^ d^th-his child. The 
 deemiog that l^TZeto^ly^^fCntJtX t""^",*- 
 f«nds at the mother's disposal. Vhad ted%tr.Sl; 
 
 im 
 
i 
 
 428 The World, Tfte Flesh, and The Deinl 
 
 thing, to make the best and the most of his own life — 
 and the thought of the child that was to be bom to him 
 had awakened no tender feeling, only an aching envy of 
 that young fresh life in which doubtless his qualities and 
 characteristics would live again under happier conditions, 
 the life which would be tasting all the sweetest things 
 that this world can give — love, ambition, pride, luxury, 
 the mastery of men — while he was lying cold and dumb, 
 cheated by inexorable Death out of the fortune which a 
 wondrous chance had flung into his lap. Fate had given 
 with one hand, and had taken away with the other. No, 
 ho had never felt as an expectant father should feel. The 
 thought of his duty to the child had never urged him to 
 repair the wrong he had done the mother — but now that 
 Death had snatched the pale flower of unsanctified love, 
 remorse weighed heavy on his heart, and he hated hin>- 
 self for the* unscrupulous egotism which had governed 
 him in all his relations with the woman he had pretended 
 to love. He had glossed over all that was guilty in their 
 union ; he had kissed away her tears and made light of 
 her remorse; he had compared her to Shellty's Mary, 
 forgetting that Shelley was as eager to legalise his union 
 as the most conforming Christian in the land. He looked 
 back upon the happy flays of their love, aid knew that 
 when he was happiest Hester's life had been under the 
 shadow of an ever-present re[n'et, knew that while she 
 was generous and devoted he had been selfish and false, 
 soothing her conscience with sophistries and vague pro- 
 mises to which she was too delicate ever to refer. 
 
 Yes, he had used her ill, the womaa who loved him ; 
 had killed her it might be ; or had killed her mind for 
 ever, leaving her to go down to old age through the long 
 joyless years, a mindless wreck ; she who was once so 
 beautiful and so happy, a lovely ethereal creature in whom 
 mind and heart were paramount over clay. 
 
 The Rector received him coldly, and with a counten- 
 a,n<;;e to which unaccustomed sternness gave an expression 
 
Th World, TJie Flesh, and Tlie Devil. 429 
 
 of intense severity When a benevolent man is an-^rv 
 
 thanX A ^^T\ '"''* ^"^^ '' '"^^« appalling a.p"ect 
 Mr 0^1 f ''^^/ ^•spleasuro of loss kindly .spirits. >«r 
 ^f'a^n """tw ^' ^"^'7 "'^^^"^ ^ ^«"'i'Iot^ upheaval 
 
 Son. "" ' °"^^ ^^^"°^' "^^'^ ^^^^«t^- 
 
 fl,y^ «he recovering ? May I see her ? ' asked Gerard on 
 the very threshold of the Rector's study, chilled by tha^ 
 repel mg countenance, yet too full of the thought of Hester 
 to delay his questioning. ^ ^^««oei 
 
 ed' ?ddt^ « K^t H'^^-" l^^' "corning/ the Rector answer- 
 ed. coldly, but she is far too ill for you to see her-at 
 any rate until the doctor thinks it safe-and when you 
 are allowed to see her it is doubtful whether she will 
 
 ^ToTsfa-dow?^ '' ^ ^ ' ' ^' ^- -«' P- -"'' " 
 Doctor fea"—^"'*^ ^^""^ ' ^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^' ' ^^es the 
 Tf 'J!'r'^°''^.°i!' fears more for her life than for her mind. 
 ret?,rni TW ^'?^ ^^ .11 recover its balance as strength 
 returns. That is hrs opinion and mine. I have sfen 
 such cases before -and the result has generally been hap- 
 
 aTi' ,1 , '" /^r?- '' f ^'^' 7^ h^^ *^ ^«al with a ruder clay. 
 All that is loftiest m that girl's nature will tell u^aiast 
 
 m, HaX^" ■' '' '' ^^^"^y ^^'^^^^^^ ^g^°«<^ you here, 
 
 frll f^"T' ! ^"^'^' ''"^'^ ^^^^^^' wi<^h hi« face turned 
 the Rector, as he stood looking out of the window 
 across the beds of tulips, towards the churchyard, seeing 
 «w«v°l! r^''^ I^i« eyes looked at, only turning his face 
 away lest anyone should see him in his aijony. 
 
 A heavy account: vou havo ^mno'ii^^^^iic.i.o" — upon 
 a woman whose every instinct makes for virtuer^nd you 
 have broken her heart by your desertion.' 
 ' I did not desert her -' 
 
 m 
 
430 Th^ W(yrld, The Flesh, arid The Devil. 
 
 ' Not as the world reckons desertion, perhaps. You left 
 her a house and servants and a bundle of bank notes ; 
 but you left her just when she had the most need of al- 
 fection and sympathy— left her to face an ordeal which 
 might mean death— left her under conditions which no 
 man with a heart could have ignored.' 
 
 'I was wrong— selfish— cruel. Say the worst you can 
 of me. Lash me with bitter words. I acknowledge my 
 iniquity. I was only just recovered from a dangerous 
 illness ' 
 
 ' Through which she nursed you. I have heard of her 
 devotion.' 
 
 ' Through which she nursed me. I was not ungrateful 
 — but I was wretched, borne down by the knowledge 
 that I had only a short time to live. Ah, Rector, you in 
 your green old age, sturdy, vigorous, with strength to 
 enjoy the fulness of life even now when your hair is silver 
 —you can hardly realise what a young man feels who has 
 most unexpectedly inherited a vast fortune, and who, 
 while the delight of possession is still fresh and wonder- 
 ful, is told that his days are narrowed to a few precarious 
 years — that if he is to last out even that short span he 
 DQust watch himself with jealous care, husband his emo- 
 tions lest the natural joys of youth should waste the oil 
 in the lamp. This was what 1 was told. Be happy, be 
 calm, be tranquil, said my physician : in other words, be 
 self-indulgent, care for nothing and no one but self. And 
 I felt that yonder house was killing me. The shadow of 
 that old man's decaying age darkened my fading youth. 
 If she would have gone with me to the south there would 
 have been no break in our union— at least I think not— 
 though there was another claim * 
 
 * She refused to leave her father, I understand f ' 
 
 * Yes. She preferred him to me. It was her own free 
 ehoice.' 
 
 * Well, there are excuses for you, perhaps ; and the result 
 of your conduct has been so fatal thl^t yo^ need no sermoA 
 
^e World, The Flesh, wnA 2%e Devil 431 
 
 door.' ^ remorse. Your child's death lies at your 
 
 of iS^I: ""'■ ^ ''*™ "^^^ y™ «>>« - «™g in a world 
 
 howlXX'll?SS«'«;i'<'' 'Y^don't know 
 
 each otheJ^ Her LL^^ ^'^^ *^- ™ '''™ *° 
 Toioe.' ""^ '"" "^t™ at the sound of my 
 
 Judge,as_to whether .he o^ght Zl'l^^'^-if^ ^^^ 
 
 ^* When will he be here?' 
 Not till the evening ' 
 
 hol| a^te ritor Uted'^h A^'Mr *''' *''^''- 
 good man. However UrdlvTOu may think „7 " "' u* 
 
 gra^^de S?r^^^^^^^^^^ that my 
 
 e AionTf ro2Z? *" ^''^ •"» '^"' -PP--d -^I 
 
 nighttao'if te t'^S^P*'?^ <■•"■ y™ "o™ than a fort- 
 «m „l.l I "" '^"°™ "'here to find vou ' he mid < T 
 
 Ztt%tZ^:X^^- M.- H(nU>1:Tthade' 
 the,e.timU.^ent:^?„emlurn'ot1ore^^'„^ 
 
 \'-'i - 
 
 I ^; 
 
 
 She has been dangerously ill, I am told 
 
432 lU World, The Flesh, and The Demi, 
 
 1 1 1 
 
 * Dangerously ! Yes, I should think so. She has been 
 on the brink of death, not once, but several times since 
 the lirth of her child — and since the fever took a bad 
 turn — the night she tried to make away with herself — 
 her condition has been all but hopeless, until yesterday, 
 when she began to show signs of rallying.' 
 
 •May I see her?' 
 
 'I don't think it would do her any harm. She won't 
 know you.' 
 
 ' Yes, she v/ill. 3he will know me. She may not re- 
 cognize people who are almost strangers to her, but surely 
 she will know me — ' 
 
 'Poor lady ! She hardly knows herself. Ask her who 
 she is, and she will tell you a strange story. All we can 
 hope is that with returning strength, mind and memory 
 will return. I will go to the Rectory with you, and if I 
 find her as quiet as she was this morning you shall see 
 her.' 
 
 . They were at the Rectory ten minutes later, and this 
 time Mr. Gilstone received Gerard with kindliness. He 
 had given speech to his indignation, and now all that was 
 kindly in his nature pleaded with him for the repentant 
 sinner. He received Gerard in his study, while the doc- 
 tor went upstairs to see his patient. 
 
 ' You have not asked me why I took upon myself to 
 have Mrs. Hanley brought to this house, rather than to 
 her own,' he said. 
 
 ' I had n,o reason to ask. It was easy for me to under- 
 stand your kindly motive. You would not let her re-enter 
 a house in which she had tasted such misery — ^you wished 
 to surround her with fresh objects, in a house where noth- 
 ing would remind her of her past sufferings.' 
 
 ' That was one motive. The other was to place her 
 under the care of my sister. However devottd hired 
 nurseB may be, and I have nothing to say against the wo 
 man who is now nursing Mrs. Hanley, it is well that there 
 ahoulU be aomo one near who is not a hireling, who works 
 
The World, The Flesh, and Tha Devil. 433 
 
 for love, and ]ove only. My sister's heart has gone out 
 to this poor lady.' ® 
 
 . Mr. Mi vor appeared at the study door, which had stood 
 open while Gerard waited, his ear strained to catch every 
 sound m the quiet, orderly house, where all the machinery 
 ot Jite went on with a calm regularity that knew no 
 change but the changing seasons. The silence of the 
 house oppressed Gerard as he went upstairs, filled with an 
 aching lear. Was he to fiud her cold and unconscious of 
 Ills presence— the irl who had clung about him with de- 
 spairing love . a they parted less than a month ago ? 
 
 A door w dy opened, a woman in white cap and 
 
 apron looked at him gravely, and drew aside. It was the 
 nurse who had waited on old Nicholas Davenport and 
 ^^^A ^? moment the association made him shudder 
 And then, scarce conscious of his own movements, he was 
 standing in a sunlit room where a young woman in a 
 white mourning gown, and with hollow cheeks and soft 
 tair hair, cropped close to the well-shaped head, was sittiug 
 at a table playing with the flowers that were strewn un- 
 on it. *^ 
 
 'Hester, Hester, my darling, I have come back to you.' 
 lie cried, m a heart-broken voice, and then he fell on his 
 knees beside her chair, and tried to put his arms about her 
 to draw the fair face down towards his quivering lips but 
 she shrank away from him with a scared look. ' 
 
 In spite of the doctor's warning he was utterly unpre- 
 pared for this. He had hugged himself with the thought 
 that had her mmd wandered ever so far away, as lar as 
 east from west, or heaven from earth, she would know 
 him, to him she would be unchanged. The once beloved 
 personality would stand out clear and firm amid the chaos 
 of a mmd unhinged. Much as he had prated of molecu- 
 lar action, and nerve messages, and all the machinery of 
 matenahsm, he had expected here to find spirit working 
 independently of matter and love dominant over the laws 
 of physiology. 
 
 I' 
 
434 Th^ World, Th^ Flesh, and Tfm Deinl. 
 
 n.J^f ^f^^ji^ij^e .^iue eyes— violet, dark, dilated by mad- 
 ness, looked at him. looked him through and through and 
 knew him not. She shrank from fim with Sfon 
 gathered up the scattered flowers hastily in the fclds of 
 her loose muslm gown, and moved away from the t8,ble. 
 im going to plant these in the front garden nurse' 
 
 coLT/- M Tk^' '' ^^^ *^^°^ planted^before Ser 
 comes from the hbrary It'll be a surprise for him. poor 
 
 dear. He was grumbling about the dust this moriinff 
 ^t^i!"^ ^T 'KV^! everything, and he'll be pleased' 
 to see the garden full of tulips and hya6inths. This sort 
 In't^hryT' r««t«-they grow best without roots, 
 
 She looked down at the flowers, a little dubiously, as if 
 vehel^in' '^''' upon this point, and then with a s^udden 
 htZT7 ^^''a '^ i^^l fire-place, where a small fire was 
 flnn^^^ ^r""^ "".^^ old-fashioned brass fender, and 
 
 rJ''^r ^"H?" ^"^ hyacinths into the fender. 
 •Uh, Mrs. Hanley, that's very naughty of you' cried 
 
 ^.TT'r 1 1' ^^'^ ^^^^ ^^Pr^^i"i a «hild.^' ^ throw 
 away the Jovely flowers that the Rector brought vouthis 
 morning. Why did you do that, now ? ' ^ ' 
 
 for m^""" * ^^"^ *^'"'- . ^^^y ^^^'^^ g^«^- It's the day 
 HerrSehuTr ^^' ' '^^^^'* P^^^^^' ^^ -' 
 
 &T!. ^ ""H P/^'^^ "^^ ^^^^^ ^i«« Gilstone hadprac 
 tised her scales fortv years before. Hester ran to the 
 
 piano, seated hersel/haatily, and began to pky one of 
 thSll^'^^iT^l""* ^'^"^ "« ^*°^^"^r in Her girlhood 
 S Ln'"" t'^T*'"''' ^T^ ""^"^^^y «f the notes remain- 
 nf VS^ « . P^^^^^ correctly and with feeling to the end 
 
 nni= oK V'^TT^^' "^^^^ suddenly, at a Toss for the 
 notes she burst mto tears and left the piano. 
 
 It IS all ffOriR.' s>iA aa\A < Tin,,^ >L T , -J 
 
 ihil^ 5f ® I*T''^?'°°^« and rapid movements about 
 the room there had not U; a one look or one gesture which 
 
ini, 
 
 ed bymad- 
 hrough, and 
 1 repulsion, 
 the folds of 
 n the ta-ble. 
 den, nurse,' 
 fore father 
 r him, poor 
 is morning, 
 be pleased 
 This sort 
 bout roots, 
 
 ously, as if 
 L a sudden 
 ill fire was 
 snder, and 
 
 you,' cried 
 
 * to throw 
 
 it you this 
 
 IS the day 
 How croi-'s 
 
 y the fire- 
 had prac- 
 •an to the 
 ly one of 
 r girlhood 
 IS remain- 
 o the end 
 s for the 
 
 nber ? ' 
 tits about 
 ir© which 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Demi. 436 
 
 indicated the faintest consciousness of Gerard's presence. 
 Those J'^.ige, luminous eyes looked at him and saw him 
 not, or saw him only aa a stranger whose image evolved 
 not one ray of interest. 
 
 The nurse dried her tears and soothed her, after that 
 hurst of grief at the piano, and a few minutes later she 
 stood at the open window tranquilised and smiling, watch- 
 ing for someone with an air of glad expectancy. 
 
 * How late he is,' she said, ' and I've got such a nice Ut- 
 ile dinner for him. I'm afraid it will be spoilt by wait- 
 ing. Its the day the new magazines are given out. He 
 is always late that day. I ought to have remembered.' 
 
 She turned quietly from the window and looked about 
 the room. 
 
 * What has become of my sewing-machine ? ' she asked. 
 Have you taken it away ? ' to the nurse; 'or you?' to 
 
 Gerard. 'Pray bring it back directly, or I shall be be- 
 hindhand with my work.' 
 
 Her thoughts were all in the past, the days before she 
 had entered into the tragedy of life, while yet existence 
 was calm and passionless, and meant only patience 
 and duty. How strange it seemed to find her memory 
 dwelling upon that dull life of drudgery and care, while 
 the season of joy and love was forgotten. 
 
 * Is she often as restless as this ? ' he asked, with an 
 agonized look at the doctor, who stood by the window 
 calmly watchful of his patient. * 
 
 'Restless, do you call her? You would know what 
 restlessness means if you had seen her three days ago, 
 when the delirium was at its height, and one delusion fol- 
 lowed another at lightning pace in that poor little head, 
 and when it was all her two nurses could do to keep her 
 from doing herself harm. She has improved wonderfully 
 since then, and I am a great deal more hopeful about 
 
 ' Have you had no second opinion ? Surely in such a 
 case as this a specialist should have been consulted 2 
 
430 m World, Tim Ftesh, and The bevil. 
 
 wnose opinion of the case corresponds with mv own. 
 I^Z^ZlZu^^l '' ^1^°"^- Watchfulness anjP 
 STeaW T ^^ '^\^*^^ *° ^°°^ *^^^d Nature^the 
 great healer. I was right, yoa see. I told you she would 
 
 good'noThS.^"' *'^^ "^^°^ ^^^ -"^^ ^' ^- -SS^ 
 
 +l.lJv T^^^iT""^ "S^^- ^ a«^ nothing to her— no more 
 the di{ f been a centutj dead-no more than aZof 
 
 sun w!.?l-'^ *''''^''^' ^^^ Churchyard where the April 
 ZkmtZ^ T"" ^'^y ^'^'^^ ^"^ gulden lichen, the 
 fhlJ^u^ ""^ S"^'^"^ y^^«' ^"'i *be ^o^y fcu 'ts upon 
 the willows. He was standing side-by-sido with the 
 woman who had loved him bette? than her hfe, S she 
 took no heed of him. He tried to take her hand,Tut she 
 moved away from him. looking at him in shy sZrise 
 and with some touch of apprehension and dirke.^"''' 
 ' Are von « nof r™'/' ^}^T^y> ' don't you know me ? ' 
 
 aT-fioct^y ''- '^' °«- -^ ^^^r- I d 'n'J IZ 
 u 'a^Z\!^^ ^""^ *« is,' said Mr. Mivor. • I chink von 
 
 ier MlLTL'T^r- ^"-P^esoncrexcS 
 ner, although «he doesn't know you. Nothing can Ha 
 done for her that is not being done^in this houst Mis^ 
 Gi stone has been all kindness. She has given up W 
 
 &s Lihrh:r '- '-- -'- ^-'-" ^^' - 
 
 She IS a Christian,' said Mr. Mivor,' and she won't look 
 to ^ou for any reward. It is as natural for Her t^^o 
 g^ooa a« It is for the flowers to bloom wh.n'the"ir seLon 
 
 «•» 
 
wil. 
 
 fhe World, The Flesh, and The D&dl 457 
 
 nad-doctor, 
 h myowa 
 I and good 
 N^ature, the 
 I she would 
 ler neither 
 
 — ^no more 
 
 lan any of 
 
 old tomb- 
 
 the April 
 lichen, the 
 u 'ts upon 
 
 *vith the 
 >, and she 
 d, but she 
 ' surprise, 
 ce. 
 
 low me?' 
 bere have 
 l^et I am 
 n't want 
 
 link you 
 ) excites 
 % can be 
 le. Miss 
 1 up her 
 are 
 
 they 
 
 Gerard,' 
 
 m'tlook 
 ir to do 
 ' season 
 
 Gerard followed the doctor out of the room, his looks 
 lingering to the last upon the sweet pale face by the win- 
 dow, but the face gave no token of returning memory. 
 The doctor was right, no doubt. Messages of some kind 
 \» ore being carried swiftly enough along the nerve-fibres 
 to the nerve- corpuscles, but no message told of Gerard 
 Hillersdon's existence, or of last year's love-story. 
 
 Mr. Hillersdon did not go back to London immpdiately 
 after leaving the Rectory. He was fagged and faint after 
 the long night of travel, the long morning of heart-rend- 
 ing emotions, the unaccustomed hurrying to and fro ; but 
 he had something to do that must be done, and with tliis 
 business on his mind he had refused all offers of refresh- 
 ment from the hospitable Rector, although he had eaten 
 nothing since the hurried dinner in Paris on the previous 
 night He \/ent from the Rectory at Lowcombe to tho 
 Rose and Crown, in the next village, the inn to which 
 Hester had been carried after the rescue from the river, 
 and at which the inquest upon her baby had been held. 
 He went to that house thinking that there he would be 
 most likely to get the information he wanted about the 
 man who had saved Hester's life, and lightened his 
 burden of guilt by so much the dearest portion of the 
 sacrifice. 
 
 Life was saved, and reason might return ; but, alas, 
 with returning reason would come the mother's cry for 
 the child she had slain in her madness. Must she be told 
 — or would she remember what she had done — would she 
 recall the circumstances of that fearful night, and know 
 that in her attempt to end her own sorrows she had de- 
 stroyed her innocent child ? 
 
 To-day his business was to find out the name of the 
 man who had saved her life, possibly at the hazard of his 
 own, and he argued that the Rose and Crown was the 
 likeliest place at which to get the information he wa,Rted. 
 
 He was not mistaken. The inn was kept by a buxom 
 widow, who charged abnormal prices for bedrooms in the 
 
438 
 
 ^ World, The flesh, and The Devil 
 
 telf^T "J-i '^ 8»id to We fattened by pickin,, 
 tnrtl^ ! u ^"^ °'^°- Although her bilU%,«re ei* 
 
 when thos/SCroljrsu'^'eS ^""'' '^■"""•°- 
 
 ^m^Se^rMchrr^^' was drie7r4 ow'n sH^ 
 
 ante f£<jt^!.t brave-hearted manTandr/a^^ 
 o,^t ,.T?hl „ ' J""^l'»dy, you don't think that anvthC 
 
 rEH«r~-^ai»eat-^s 
 
\ 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 439 
 
 fcers, and a good deal of doggerel verse there appeared 
 the following modest entry : — 
 
 Lawrence Brown, 49, Parchment-place, Inner Temple. 
 
 (Jerard copied the address into his pocket-book, pre- 
 sented the mistress of the Rose and Crown with a bank 
 note, for distribution among those servants who had been 
 active and helpful on the night of the catastrophe, wished 
 her good-day, and was seated in his fly before she had 
 time to steal a glance at the denomination of the note, or 
 to give speech to her gratitude on discovering that it was 
 not tive, but five-and-twenty. 
 
 • This Mr. Hanley must be rich to throw his money 
 abotit like this,' she reflncte I, 'but for all that I don't be- 
 lieve that pretty young creature is his wife. She 
 wouldn't have took to wandering about with her baby if 
 she had been. Perpetual fever, says the doctor. Don't 
 tell me. Perpetual fever would never make a respectable 
 man led woman forget herself to that extent.' 
 
 Within two liour^' space of leaving the Rose and Crown 
 Gerard Hillersdon was seated face to face with Lawrence 
 Brown, barrister of no particular circuit, and of Parch- 
 ment-place, Inner Temple. 
 
 The room was shabby almost to squalidness : the man 
 was nearer forty than thirty, with roughly modelled fea- 
 tures, keen eyes, fine intelligent brow, and black hair, al- 
 ready touched with gray about the temples. 
 
 He received Mr. Hillersdon's thanks politely, but with 
 obvious reserve. He made very light of what he had 
 done — no man seeing a life at stake could have done less. 
 lie was sorry — and nere his face grew pale and stern — 
 he had not been able to save the other life, the poor little 
 child. 
 
 * My friend and I heard a child's faint cry,* he said, 
 * and it was that which called our attention to the spot, 
 bcioro wo iieafu the sptasu. Ihe current runs strong a-v 
 that point. The woman rose, and sank again, twice be- 
 fore I caught hold of her, but the child was swept away 
 
440 
 
 The World, m FUah, md The DevU. 
 
 Mr Brown rpfil?iT i?^ '"""^ "loments, during which 
 
 m^'- ^"'™'' ^^ ^'"^ ^••™P«y. • lam a Teqr rich 
 eolaUrs&it'n^-'>"*'' ^'O^- ' There a«, con- 
 
 totakl'thaVra^acfc I «^ ^^^r^ with me if I presume 
 very little usr to ml tI "°^>t my weafth is of 
 
 caused the deati of J^ Zl ^^'T- ^"T"^ ^"^'^°^ ^^^ 
 anyone else upon ^rfh ^^iT ""^^ Z^^^''' *° ^^ <^^^ 
 inkstand ? ' ^ * ^"^ y^"" ^^^^^^ "^^ with your 
 
 in whil" t^^f ^ ^}^ ^^^ *™'d« a shabby china ink-not 
 Tthtl^uMr "'^''■""' ^"^"^ ^^P^ ^"-^ov^e'r 
 ; What are you going to do, Mr. Hanley ? ' 
 
 and I fetched her out Do*/"""" *■"" i?*" «>« water, 
 take money for thati' ^'"' '"PI'™^ **»' ^ "«' '» 
 
 ' You would +airo o k;« foe '-V- ^ • 
 
;ht amopg 
 be stream.' 
 ing which 
 icaily, and 
 in a rusty 
 
 very rich 
 
 e are con- 
 ly realize.' 
 J Gerard, 
 
 {^resume 
 th is of 
 warrant. 
 3ver, and 
 ire to beg 
 ct which 
 i unbear- 
 and had 
 me than 
 ith your 
 
 ink-pot 
 krd over 
 
 tv lue — 
 r order.' 
 I, and I 
 ^ claim 
 5. Han- 
 wench 
 water, 
 ant to 
 
 : short 
 ruffi. 
 
 The World, The Flesh, cmd The Devil, 441 
 
 ' I should do that in the way of business. It is my 
 profession to defend burglars, and, short of perjury, to 
 make believe that they are innocent and lamb-like.' 
 
 * And you will not accept this recompense from me — a 
 trifling recompense as compared with my large means. 
 You will not allow me to think that for once in a way 
 my wealth has been of some service '^o a good man.' 
 
 * I thank you for your kind opim f me, and for your 
 wish to do me a kindnens, but I cannot take a gift of 
 money from you.' 
 
 'Because you think badly of me.' 
 
 ' I could not take a gift of money from any man who 
 was not of my own blood, or so near and dear to me by 
 friendship as to nullify all sense of obligation.' 
 
 ' But you could feel no obligation in this case, while 
 your refusal to accept any substantial expression of my 
 gratitude leaves me under the burden of a very heavy 
 obligation. Do you think that is generous on your part ?' 
 
 * I am only certain of one thing, Mr. Hanley — I cannot 
 accept any gift from you.* 
 
 * Because you have a bad opinion of me. Come, Mr. 
 Brown, between man and man, is not that your reason ? ' 
 
 'You force me to plain speech,' answered the barrister. 
 * Yes, that is one of my reasons. I could not take a fa- 
 vor from a man I despise, and I can have no better feel- 
 ing than contempt for the man who could abandon a 
 lonely and highly strung girl in the day of trial — leave 
 her to break her heart, and to try to make an end of her- 
 self in her despair.' 
 
 * You are very ready with your summing up of my con- 
 duct. I was absent— granted; but I had left Mrs. Han- 
 ley surrounded with all proper care ' 
 
 ' You mean you had left her with a full purse and three 
 or four servants. Do you think that means the care due 
 from a husband to a wife vvho is about to become a 
 mother ? You must not be surprised if I have formed my 
 own opinion about you, Mr. Hanley. I have been up and 
 
 £B 
 
44" 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and Th€ Devil 
 
 foo 1 ri«LT' ''F''^ T"^ ^''^'^' ^°d h*^e lived for a 
 
 few mil«?iYl? ^r ^"^ *^T.** "^«'«^J« i'^"^ within a 
 
 Tt r^n * ^^ Rosary and have heard a good deal of 
 
 w^ rt^your wife ""'^' """^^ "^"^' ''^^^ ^^ ^'^^^ '^^^ 
 
 earlI!'Ayi!i*^^ ^W '^^'^^ "S^*^' ^ ^^ ^ound bv an 
 iTve If] If T """^ ^ , '^ '^^^ "^^'^y ^«»'' but if she and I 
 hve am] ,f I can release myself from that other claim 
 with honour, she shall be my wife ' 
 
 •I am glad to hear that. But I doubt if your tardy 
 rep:.ration can ever efface the past.' ^ ^ 
 
 ev«n Jn";?:^ r' obviously so thoroughly in earnest that 
 even n the face of those shabby chambers, that well-worn 
 shootmg jacket and those muJh-kneed t;ouseir GeTar? 
 could push his offer no further. He might have been^ 
 rich as Rothschild, and this man would have accepted n^ 
 «o much as a single piece of gold out of his t^eafury 
 1 here are men of strong feelings and prejudices to whom 
 
 TI^^ 'r^^^" 1" ^'^' ^^" ^t»« a^« content to wea^ 
 shabby tweed and trousers that are bulging at the knees 
 and frayed at the edge, and to sit besid'o a spa^e fire ?n 
 a rusty grate, and smoke coarse tobacco in anXhtee^^ 
 penny pipe, so long aa that inward fire of conscience 
 
 itseTf\-"f •' ^r^'^'^^S"^^ *^« «i^^-i°g headTnhold 
 Itself high m the face of mankind. 
 
il, 
 
 lived for a 
 8 within a 
 3d deal of 
 ife, as the 
 t that she 
 
 nd l^ an 
 she and I 
 ler claim 
 
 ►ur tardy 
 
 nest that 
 eell-worn 
 I, Gerard 
 B been as 
 3pted not 
 treasury, 
 to whom 
 to wear 
 lie knees 
 le fire in 
 ighteen- 
 nscience 
 3an hold 
 
 The World, The Flesh and The Devil. 44S 
 
 CHAPTER CXX. 
 
 "THE LOVE THATCAUOHrSTRivTGC 
 
 OWN BYEb,' 
 
 LTQUr FKOM DEATH* 
 
 iERALD HILLERSDON had no mini to oc- 
 cupy the cottage in which he had dreamed 
 his brief love-dream, but he went to Low- 
 combe daily, and sat in the Rector's study, 
 and heard the doctor's opinion, and the report 
 of the nurses, and once on each day was admitted 
 for a short time to the pretty sitting room where 
 Hester flitted from object to object with a fever- 
 ish restlessness, or else sat statue-like by the open win- 
 dow, gazing dreamily at churchyard or river. 
 
 The doctor and the nurses told him that'there was a 
 gradual improvement. The patient's nights were less 
 wakeful, and she was able to take a little more nourish- 
 ment. Altogether the case seemed hopeful, and even the 
 violence of the earlier stages was said to predicate a raijid 
 recovery. ^ 
 
 •If she were always as you see her just now,' said Mr 
 
 Mivor, glancing toward the rigid form and marble face by 
 
 the window, 'I should consider her case almost hopeless 
 
 — but that hyper-activity of brain which scares you gives 
 
 , mo encouragement.' 
 
 The Rector was kind and sympathetic, but Gerard ob- 
 served that Miss Gilstone avoided him. He was never 
 shown mto the drawing- room, but into the Rector's study 
 where he felt himself in somewise shut out from social in- 
 
 , . (. II ^„ ic^/ci. wii liia wiint visit 
 
 he told the Rector that he was anxious to thank Miss 
 Gilstone for her goodness to Hester; but the Rector shook 
 his head dubiously. 
 
 H, 
 
444 The World, The Flesh, and !the l)evit. 
 
 'Better not think about it yet awhile/ niv sister is full 
 ot prejudices. She doesn't want to be thanked. She is 
 very lond of this poor girl, and she thinks you have 
 cruelly wronged her. 
 
 'People seem to have made up their minds about that ' 
 said Gerard. «! am not to have the benefit of thi 
 doubt. 
 
 'People have made up their minds that when a lovely 
 and innocent girl makes the sacrifice that this poor girl 
 has made for you, a man's conscience should constrain 
 mm to repair the wrong he has done— even though social 
 circumstances makes repaiation a hard thing to do. But 
 m this case diflTerence of caste could have made no barrier 
 if our victim is a lady, and no man need desire more than 
 that. 
 
 ' There was a barrier,' said Gerard ; ' I was bound by a 
 promise to a woman who had been constant to me for 
 years. 
 
 'But who had not sacrificed herself for yoa— as this 
 poor pi ha^ done. And it was because she was a clever 
 hard-headed woman of the world, perhaps, and had kept 
 her name unstained, that you wanted to keep your prom- 
 ise to her rather than that other promise— at least im- 
 plied— which you gave to the girl who loved you ' 
 ^ Gerard was silent. What had he not promised in those 
 impas-ioned hours when love was supreme? What 
 pledges, what vows had he not given his fond victim in 
 that conflict between love and honour ? She had been 
 too generous ever to remind him of those passionate 
 vows. He had chosen to cheat her, and she had submit- 
 ted to be cheated, resigned even to his abandonment of 
 her if his happiness were to be found elsewhere. 
 
 Ihe London season had begun, and there were plenty 
 of people in town who knew Gerard Hillersdon, people 
 who would have i aen delighted to welcome him back to 
 ""^rv rai^r ma piOiOiigcu uisappearance from a world 
 Which he— or any rate I 's breakfasts and dinners— had 
 
The Wortd, The Flesh, and The DevU. 445 
 
 adorned. But G-erard was careful to let no one know of 
 his return to London. The carriage gates of Hillersdon 
 House were as closely shut as when the master of the 
 house was in Italy, and Mr. Hillersdon's only visitor en- 
 tered by a narrow garden door which opened into a 
 shabby old-world street at the back of the premises. This 
 visitor was Justin Jermyn, the confidant and com|)anion 
 whose society was in somewise a necessity to Gerard 
 since low health and shattered nerves had made solitude 
 impossible. They dined together every night, talked, 
 smoked, and idled in a dreamy silence, and played piqr.ct 
 for an hour or two after midnight. The money he won 
 at cards was the only money that Jermyn had taken 
 from his millionaire friend, but as he was an exceptionally 
 fine player, Gerard a careless one, and as the stakes were 
 high, his winnings made a respectable revenue. 
 
 Gerprd found Jermyn waiting for him when he re- 
 turned, saddened and disheartened, after his third visit to 
 Ijowcombe Rectory. Jermyn was sprawling on a sofa in 
 the winter garden, with his head deep in a leviathan 
 down pillow, and his legs in the air. 
 
 'There is a letter for you.' he said, between two lazy 
 puffs at a large cigar, *a letter from Florence — after Ovid, 
 no doubt. Dido to Mneajs !' 
 
 • Why didn't you open it,' if you were curious ? ' sneered 
 Gerard, * It would be no worse form than to peep and pry 
 into the address and postmark.' 
 
 'There was no necessity ; you are sure to tell me all 
 about it.' 
 
 'The letter was from Mrs. Champion, and a thick let- 
 ter, that lady scorning such small economy as the lessen- 
 ing of postage by the use of foreign paper. 
 
 ' My dear Gerard, — I think my letter of last night may 
 have prepared you in some degree for the letter I find 
 myself constrained to write to-day. I might have hesi- 
 tated longer, perhaps, had you been still at my side, 
 might have trifled with your fate and mine, might have 
 
Hi ' 
 
 Ua The World, The Fkah, and The Devil 
 
 allowed myself to drift into a marriage which I am «n«r 
 assured could result in happiness neiXr for you n^r T 
 each oXrr* ^^ ^^^^? y^'^ ^^d I were S in K 
 
 frTends iLn T ^"""^ f"'"^« «<^i"» «hall be good 
 rriends, I hope, as long as we live: but why should fri5n^= 
 
 marry when they are\appy in unfetLreZfrtndsh p ^^^^ 
 .■uZa ^''"■'fu^ departure makes my task easier • and 
 should make the continuation of ouf friendsMp Jasier 
 
 Th^lllT' '^r ^'' "« «^««^^« friends. td Wet 
 that we have ever been more than friends. Day bv dav 
 
 and hour by hour, since you came to Florence ifhS^be^n 
 
 sTnte lasTvJp *' V "^^'^^ '^^' ^' ^^^« both clngeS 
 nor I Th/1 ^' *'" ''''^ ^^ ^^^"^«' ««^*rd, neither you 
 
 we are^KZ"' T ^.T ^"' ^^ «"^ ^^^^^ somehow- 
 we are the same and not the same.' I have seen coldnP«« 
 
 ToitnTl'S 'T. "'T.^" wasonle ITrnt'^and 
 nope and I confess that a coldness in my own heart rT 
 sponds to the chill that has come over yours If we te^ 
 to mariy we should be miserable, and should perLns 
 come to hate each other before very long If we are fS 
 and straightforward, and true to eLh o^he luhis c?iS 
 esteem "'' ^" """"^ "'^'^ ^' ^'''''''^ in ea^h other's 
 'I know that I have read your heart as tmlv aa T bnva 
 rea^ my own ; I do not. therefore, appe^ '7^^^^^^^ 
 
 me a rew tnendly les to assure me of kindlv fefilintr 
 toward your ever faithful friend. ^ °^ 
 
 'Edith Champion.' 
 
 readSil' f'l! ''"Pi t?"^^ ^^^^^^'^ veins as he 
 weW b, J .H*° ^ The release as a release was 
 
 welcome, but the underlying meaning of the letter the 
 feeling which had prompted it. cut him to the quick'' 
 'She saw death in mv fao.« fb^f. fl..f ^„„ „i.^"- * 
 told Himooif < T ^..ri J "-."A . -, ",•■- -»j »u 
 
 he told himsell 
 
 fied surprise, of repulsion 
 
 I could 
 
 -I. 1?! 
 
 — J »ij xiurence, 
 mistake her look of horri- 
 almost, when first I stood un- 
 
1111 
 
 hvil. 
 
 Jh I am now 
 you nor me. 
 all in all to 
 all be good 
 lould friends 
 sndship ?' 
 easier; and 
 iship easier. 
 1, and forget 
 3ay by day, 
 it has been 
 th changed 
 neither you 
 somehow — 
 sen coldness 
 armth and 
 a heart re- 
 If we were 
 Id perhaps 
 e are frank 
 J this crif^is 
 ach other's 
 
 '■ as I have 
 3u for par- 
 Frank with 
 :, and send 
 lly feeling 
 
 IMPION.' 
 
 eins as he 
 jlease was 
 letter, the 
 [uick. 
 -c iurence, 
 : of horri- 
 Blood un- 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Deuil 447 
 
 expectedly before her. She was able to hide her feelings 
 afterwards, but in that moment love perished. She saw 
 a change in me that changed her at once and for ever. 
 I was not the Gerard Hillersdon of whom she had thought 
 and for whom she had waited. The man who stood be- 
 fore her was a stranger marked for death ; a doomed 
 wretch clinging to the hem of her garments to keep him 
 from the grave— an embodied misery. Can I wonder that 
 her heart changed to the man whom Death had changed V 
 He read the letter a second time, slowly and thought- 
 fully. Yes, he could read between the lines. He had 
 gone to his old love as to a haven from death— a flight 
 to sunnier skies, as the swallows fly to Africa. He had 
 thought that somehow in that association with vigorous 
 vivid life, he would escape out of the jaws of death, re- 
 new his half-forgotten boyish love, and with that renewal 
 of youthful emotions renew youth itself. He had cheated 
 himself with some such hope as this when he turned his 
 face towards Florence ; but the woman he had loved, that 
 bright embodiment of life and happiness, would have 
 none of him. 
 
 Well, it was better so. He was^free to pick up the 
 broken thread of that nearer, dearer; far more enthrallino- 
 love— if he could. If he could. Can broken threads 
 be united ? He thought offhis child— his murdered child 
 — murdered by his abandonment of the mother. No act 
 of his— no tardy reparation— could bring back that lost 
 life. Even if Fate were kind and Hester's health and 
 reason were restored, that loss was a loss for ever, and 
 would overshadow the mother's life to the end. 
 
 He knew that he was dying, that for Hester and him 
 there could be no second summer time of happy un- 
 reasoning love. The meadow flowers would blossom 
 again; ^^^^^^er would go rippling past lawn and willowy 
 bank under the September sun ; but hia feet would not 
 tread the ripe grasses, his voice would not break the quiet 
 of that lonely backwater where Hester and he had 
 
 m 
 
448 Th World, T!ie Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 dreamt their dream of a world in which there was neither 
 past nor future, fear nor care, only ineffable love. 
 
 Jermyn watched him keenly as he walked up and down 
 the open space between a bank of vivid tulips and a 
 cluster of tall palms. 
 
 I 'Your letter seems to have troubled you," he said at 
 «tst. Does she scold you for having run away just be- 
 fore your wedding ? To-day waa to have been the day. by 
 the by.' •'* ' 
 
 ' ^°' ®J!® ^ ^^'y kind -and very patient. She will wait 
 till it suits me to go back.' 
 
 ' That will be next week, I suppose. You have doneaU 
 you could do at Lowcombe. The Jersey Lily will suit 
 you better than this house-delightful as it is, and S^ezia 
 OT JNfaplos will be a safer climate than London in April or 
 
 * I am in no hurry to go back— and I doubt if climate 
 can make any difference to me.' 
 
 ' There you are wrong. The air a man breathes is of 
 paramount importance.' 
 
 * I will hear what my doctor says upon that point. In 
 the meantime I can vegetate here.' 
 
 He dined with Justin Jermyn. No one else knew that 
 he was m London. He had not announced his return even 
 to his sister, shrinking with a sense of pain from any 
 meeting with that happy young matron, who was so full 
 of the earnest realities of life, and who on their last meet- 
 ing had asked such searching questions about her lost 
 friend Hester, whether there was anything that she or 
 her husband could do to find out the secret of her disap- 
 pearance. She had reminded her brother that Jack Cur*- 
 berland was the servant of Him who came to seek an'l to 
 save those that were lost, and that even if Hester's foot- 
 steps had wandered away from the right way it was .*o 
 much his duty to find her. Gerard had answrr^d fh«^^- 
 eager questionings as best he might, or had left them un- 
 answered, except by vaguest expressions of sympathy ; 
 
I 
 
 as neither 
 
 and down 
 ips and a 
 
 le said at 
 y just be- 
 le day, by 
 
 will wait 
 
 e done all 
 
 will suit 
 
 ad Spezia 
 
 I April or 
 
 if climate 
 
 thes is of 
 
 •oint. In 
 
 new that 
 urn even 
 :rom any 
 s so full 
 1st meet- 
 her lost 
 it she or 
 ir disap- 
 ck Cur >' 
 kan'I to 
 jr's foot- 
 j was aO 
 sd thortft 
 bem un- 
 apathy ; 
 
 The World, The Flesh, and The Ml 449 
 
 but he felt that in the present state of things he could 
 scarcely endure to hear Hester's name spoken, and that 
 the mask must drop if he were called upon to talk about 
 his victim. 
 
 Hester's attempted suicide, and the drowning of her 
 child had not been made a local scandal, and bandied 
 about in the newspapers. The fact was too unimportant 
 to attract the attention of a metropolitan reprrter, and 
 Mr. Gilstone's wishes had '^een law to the editv rs of the 
 two Berkshire papers which usually concerned themselves 
 with the affairs of Lowcombe and other villages within 
 twenty miles of Heading. Gerard's domestic tragedy had 
 therefore been unrecorded by the public Press, even under 
 his assumed name. 
 
 The two young men went upstairs after dinner to smoke 
 and lounge in the rooms which Gerard had copied from those 
 unforgotten chambers in the old inn. Here they usually 
 sat qf an evening, when they were alone ; and it was here 
 that most of the games of piq ^t had been played, the 
 result of which had been to supp. / Justin Jermyn with a 
 comfortable income without impoverishing the less suc- 
 cessful player. But to-night Gerard was in no mood for 
 piquet. His nerves were strained, and his brain fevered. 
 The game which had generally a tranquilising influence, 
 to-night only worried him. He threw his cards upon the 
 table in a sudden fretfulness. 
 
 * It's no use,' he said. ' I hardly know what I am d~^ng. 
 Illplay no more to-night.' 
 
 He rose impatiently, and began to walk about the room, 
 then stopped abruptly before a Japanese curtain whifih 
 hung agamst the panelling, under a Turkish yataghan 
 and plucked it aside. 
 
 ' Do you know what that is ? ' he asked pointing to the 
 sheet of drawing paper scrawled with pen and ink lines. 
 
 ' It looks 5,8 if it were meant for an outline map. Your 
 i'lea of Italy, perhaps, or Africa— drawn from memory, 
 'ud not particularly like.' 
 
460 Ths World, The Pleah, and The Deiil. 
 
 Bhrtkh^J'^^f''^^^ that shows the 
 
 snnnkmg ot vital force— vitei force .w-^ninff life itsPif 
 
 ii^.o 18 It not i bcarceij drawn by the hand of c E' -cuIpw 
 
 Si^uk)i; ':^Tf '''I' '^'^'^'r ^"^ °^°^^ irresolute, the 
 ia^treraulou<. ao a ?■ -nature made on a death bed ' 
 
 Ma snatched^. Vmirom the table near him, and'dipped 
 
 J.iu ^^,t"^'^'/'^«« "^a^^e ^ 'lash at the chart, and t. ied to 
 
 wo weak tu l>3ar ihe strain of the upward positioi anrl 
 the pen ran dowt.. the paper with a singirswfft des.' nd 
 ing stroke, tillit touched fhe outermost edge then g^^^^^^^ 
 off and dropped from the loosening hand. ^ 
 
 huFhtriZ'v^^^'^^ T"^' ^^<^^ ^ burst of hysterical 
 
 -dow^'dnin .f^%^^''°-T'^*^^^^^ ^' afalJingstar 
 -down, down, as the life goes down to the grave ? ' 
 
 scns^'^^ridT''"'^ dear fellow, this is aU wSmanish non- 
 sense, said Jermyn, with his smooth somnolent voice, in 
 whose sound there was a sense of comfort, m in the fall^ 
 ing of summer rain 'You are tired. Lie down on ths 
 delightful sofa and let me talk you to sleep.' 
 
 tie laid his hand on Gerard's shoulder with a friendlv 
 Srsl '"I'r '' ^.^^ ^^- *« the rpacfous oS 
 sty irich In' If f «7«"?gniadeof priestly vestments, 
 dust ofinH. • "^i^ colouring, despite the sunlight and 
 
 ^k on ftV- ^"^''' ""^^7* ^^^ ^^^k in body. Gerard 
 saiik on the luxurions couch, as Endymion on a bed of 
 flowers and the soft, slow music of Je4yn's voict-Lllt 
 iDg of the yacht, and the harbours where they two t .^, 
 to anchor along the shores of the Mediterranean- ; 
 
 fe^;^^^^*^--ber he had known . , 
 It was ten o'clock when he fell asleep, and it . 
 
 V 
 
 JS 
 
 he 
 
ml. 
 
 The World, The Fleah, <md The Devil, 451 
 
 at shows the 
 ig life itseif, 
 i': .age to the 
 b y fjimand 
 \' u B •■: "culeK, 
 lee the inner 
 resolute, the 
 
 bed.' 
 
 and dipped 
 md tried to 
 his arm \^as 
 Jsitioi . and 
 ft descond- 
 len glanced 
 
 f hysterical 
 falJing star 
 ivc?' 
 
 lanish non- 
 it voice, in 
 in the fall- 
 wn on this 
 
 a friendly 
 acious old 
 vestments, 
 nlight and 
 3y, Grerard 
 a a bed of 
 ice — talk- 
 two T er«s 
 lean— ; 
 » deli 
 
 I V.;,' 
 
 he 
 
 ; V c, ;-»ast 
 
 * My will ! * he said ; ' I have made no will If I were to 
 die suddenly — and with a weak heart who can tell when 
 death my come — I should die intestate. That would be 
 horrible. I have settled something — but not much ; not 
 enough,' this to himself, rather than to Jermyn, who sat 
 quietly beside the sofa, watching him. ' I must make a 
 will' 
 
 No such thought had been in his mind before he fell 
 asleep ; no idea of any such necessity. If he had thought 
 — as a millionaire must think — of the disposal of his 
 money, he had told himself that were he to die intestate 
 his father would inherit everything, and that having pro- 
 vided for Hester's future by a deed of trust, it mattered 
 little whether he made a will or not, A few casual friends 
 would be cheated of expected legacies — but that mattered 
 little. He had no friend — not even this umbra of his, 
 Justin Jermyn — whose disappointment mattered to him. 
 But to-night his whole mind was absorbed in the necessity 
 of disposing of his fortune. He was fevered with impa- 
 tience to get the thing done. 
 
 * Give me a sheet of that large paper,' he said, pointing 
 to his writing table. * I will make my will at once. 
 You and a servant can witness it. A holograph will is 
 as good as any, and there is no one who could attaqk my 
 will.' 
 
 * I hope you won't ask me to witness the document/ 
 said Jermyn, laying a quire of large Bath post before 
 Gerard, with inkstand and blotter, ' for that would mean 
 that you are not going to leave me so much as a curio or 
 a mourning ring.' 
 
 ' True — I must leave you something. I'll leave you 
 your own likeness — the faun yonder,' said Gerard, look- 
 ing up at the bust, the laughing lips in marble seeming 
 to reT>eat Jermvn's broad smile, 
 
 * \'ou must leave me something better than that. I 
 am as poor as Job, and if I outlive you where will be 
 my winnings at pic^uet ? Leave me the scrapings of your 
 
 'f 
 
452 The World, The Flesh, and Tfie Devil 
 
 money bags. Make me residuary legatee, after you have 
 disposed of your fortune. The phrase will mean very 
 little, though it sounds big — but there must be some 
 scrapings.' 
 
 Gerard opened a gold and enamelled casket, a master 
 work of the cinque cento goldsmiths, and took out a 
 long slip of paper, the schedule of his possessions, a cata- 
 logue of stocks and shares, in his own neat penmanship. 
 He could see at a glance along this row of figures where 
 his wealth lay, and with this slip of paper spread on the 
 table before him he began to write. 
 
 To niy father, the Reverend Edward Hillersdon, Rector 
 of Hehnsleigh, in Consols, so much, in South-Western 
 Ordinary Stock — in Great Western — Great Eastern — 
 Great Northern, so much, and so much, and 90 much, till 
 he had disposed of the first million, Justin Jermyn stand- 
 ing by his side and looking down at him, with his hand 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 He wrote no longer in the neat literary hand which 
 had once penned a popular love-story, and almost made 
 its owner a name in literature. To-night, in his fever 
 and hurry of brain his writing sprawled large over the 
 
 f)age — the first page was covered with the mere pre- 
 iminary statement of sound mind, &c., &c., and his father's 
 name. Then came the list of securities, covering three 
 other pages — then to my sister Lilian, wife of John 
 Cumberland, vicar of St. Lawrence, Soho, and then 
 another list of securities — then to my mother, all my 
 furniture, pictures, plate, in my house at Knightsbridge, 
 with the exception of the marble faun in my study — 
 then to my beloved friend, Hester Davenport, fifty thou- 
 sand pounds in Consols, and my house and grounds at 
 Lowcombe, with all contents thereof — ^and, finally, to 
 Justin Jermyn, whom I appoint residuary legatee, the 
 marule faun. One after another, as the pages were fin- 
 ished in the large hurried penmanship, Justin Jermyn 
 picked them up, and diied them at the wood fire. The 
 
 
l 
 
 ' you have 
 nean very 
 i be some 
 
 J, a master 
 >ok out a 
 OS, a cata< 
 amansliip. 
 ires where 
 tad on the 
 
 on, Rector 
 i-Western 
 Eastern — 
 much, till 
 lyn stand- 
 his hand 
 
 ad which 
 ost made 
 his fever 
 
 over the 
 oere pre- 
 is father's 
 ing three 
 of John 
 md then 
 :, all my 
 itsbridge, 
 
 study — 
 fty thou- 
 ounds at 
 nally, to 
 atee, the 
 were fin- 
 
 Jermyn 
 fire. The 
 
 Th^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 4.-,3 
 
 nights were chilly, though May had begun, and Gerard's 
 sola had been drawn near the hearth. 
 
 It was on the stroke of midnight when the will was 
 ready for signature. 
 
 .«!l^n^i^ /'?»?' "^f J™^°' ^y ^*^^<^ ^^'1 ^ "P' of course, 
 aiid most of the other servants, perhaps, for this is a dis- 
 sipated house. I hear them creeping up to bed ^i, mid- 
 night very often when I am sitting quietly here. The 
 servants staircase is at this end of the house.' 
 
 •Talking of staircases, you haven't left Larose so much 
 as a curio, said Jermyn, as he pressed a bronze knob 
 beside the mantelpiece. 
 
 •Why should I leave him anything? He has made 
 plenty of money out of this house. Do you think I want 
 to give him a pleasant half-hour, when I am in mv 
 grave? ^ 
 
 •I thought you liked him.' 
 
 •! like no one, in the face of death,' answered Gerard 
 fiercely. Do you think I can love the men whose lives 
 are long— who are to go on living and enjoying for the 
 greater part of a century, perhaps, to be recorded approv- 
 ingly m the 'Times obituary, after drinking the wine of 
 
 V A 1.?°®*^^^*''^'"^®'®^^"^* to announce the death 
 ot Archdeaxjon So-and-so, in his eighty-ninth year." Re- 
 grets for a man of eighty-nine ! And you think that I 
 who am doomed to die before I am thirty, can feel very 
 kindly towards the long-lived of my species ? Why should 
 one man have so much, and I so little ? ' 
 jitl W**y should one man be an agricultural labourer with 
 fifteen shiUmgs a week for his highest wage, while vou 
 have two millions ?' ~o j 
 
 •Money! Monf>y i"s nothing! Life is the only thing 
 that IS precious. Dc i h is the only thing that is horrible? 
 True ; and I ac.ubt if tho mun nf ninot^r ;» ot,t, — ^^ 
 '»i/ove with death than you are at nine-and-twenty.' 
 
 •Oh, but he is worn out: he must know that. The 
 machine has done its work, and perishes of fair wear and 
 
 
 t/f^' 
 
454 The World. T}w. Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 tear It doesn't go to pieces sudde"' h:.H , je of a flaw 
 
 \?fll T *^ ^ ^'"''"* J*^''* '^'^ ^ -""^^^O"" thought tl.at 
 o V v?^ n end-ever; that this ego. so strong, .so'distinct. 
 
 ^nto ,nk ""a 1^^°^^"!^' «ho'>^J go out with a snap 
 
 ^to unkiomi darkness ; but to die voung, to die befoii 
 wrinkles .Ad gray hairs, to die while life is still fresh 
 a^d beaij^^ iful-that is hard. I almost hate my own 
 father ^hen I think by how many golden yeara he ma? 
 survive me and revel in this wealth that was mine iS 
 will make hira a bishop, perhaps. Who knows ? A rich 
 man must always be a power in the Church. My father 
 would make an admirable bishop. Fe will live as loni 
 as Mar ,n Routh I darosay-live " n into the ne w cTntu "/ 
 
 cFh fb 'nH^^' ^r^r'f *' h^PPy-^hile I am nctMng! 
 Uh, think how hard these differences are! Think Sf 
 Shelley's heart turned to dust under the stone in the 
 Roman graveyard and Shelley's friend living for sixty 
 
 Y^rlT ^T''"."^ ^"^^ '^'^ ^"^ f"^' °f yearn beS 
 him who went out m water and ilame, like the spirit ho 
 
 Jermyn laid his hands upon liim, sr thingly yet with 
 methmg of imperio, -ess. ' Be c m,' he Lafd 'you 
 
 have to sign these sheeu.' ' ^ 
 
 The door opened, and the valet whose duty it was to 
 
 ^;^-^^ster's 1.11 .. ; :.e late evening, c4e . Ztl; 
 
 'Are there any of the servants still ur ?' asked Jer- 
 
 * Burton has not gone to bed ye if ' 
 
 *Then a«k Burton to come her it you to witness 
 
 r!fr^:.,j? '»»'«--»"«'■ --berwh^t: 
 
 VBe quick, then. Your master is waifinrr' 
 Mis master waited very patiently, with fixed and 
 Oreamj. eyes, his hand lyin'j lUse u/ok the firS^sLtpf 
 
 so 
 
Tke World, The FUsh, amd Tht DeM. 46S 
 the wUI aa Jermyn had placed it before him. Jermvn 
 
 Sem^J-^lSe^. ""'"' "'' "«''* -'<"» ««•'% "PO" 
 The valet returned, accompanied by the butler who 
 
 at^L^To^^1;^Lr- «^^^'^^^*^' -^ ™^"^^ 
 
 ^finn ?> 7k y^''""^ ^^ witnessed his master's signature 
 although labonous. was not altogether illegible. ^ ' 
 
 He too h«Vr'^ T^^ ? '^^y ^^^ ^°^ ^ told front. 
 
 doliri^^wf • T '^"''^,:"^ ^?^^"^' t»t he J^ad a more 
 dfihcate taate m hquors than his fellow-servant 
 
 You may as well understand the nature of this docu- 
 
 mc said Jermyn to the witnesses, 'but it is notCX 
 
 necessary that you should do so. It is your mffi 
 
 will. .,Q only will you have made, I thint HiUersdon ' 
 
 ae?a1at:^^'.n^ ""'it 'f ^^T "P^ "^ThoTl'- 
 dead?yXe ' """^ ^^""''"^^ ^^"^^^ °^ ^^^r, and 
 
 ' OHnte^dt^in^Jll' '^^^ "^'^•' ""'^'^ ^^ ^^^-l^' 
 'Or intend to make,' replied Gerard. 
 
 here^'to^nShrtyt'e t7" '^ ^'^ --' '^ ^^ *- «^-P 
 thing? '''• ^'"' '^""^ ^ '^^y- ^ h^^« P«* out your 
 
 tJ^^'nl? had >>een staying in the house since his return 
 from Italy, but m a casual way, and he Iiad daily telkS 
 of going to his own chambers/ He had rooms somewhere 
 in the regon of Piccadilly, but rarely impartedTe Tecret 
 of his address, and had never been kn( wn .o entertain 
 anybody except at a club. Gerard's sin^e expeSe^^^^ 
 
 fc- v^.,a,^,,^i3 Cttovwara oi imuuia s Inn 
 
 ^1, w\ ^""^ ''^'■? ^"^^' "^y dear fellow,' said Jermvn 
 when the servants were gone. ' You had better ii^S 
 
466 The World, The Flesh, and The DevU. 
 
 Gerard rose out of his chair, leaving the loose sheets 
 of Bath post lyinff on the table, without so nmch as a 
 look at them, and Jermyn slipped an arm through his 
 and led hiin back to the sofa, where he sank down with 
 closing eyelids, and was deep asleep a few ^moments later. 
 
 Jermyn took up the loose pages, folded them carefully, 
 put the.a in an inner pocket of his dinner jacket and 
 went out of the room. Tho valet was waiting on the 
 landing, 
 
 ' Your master has fallen asleep on the sofa,' said Jer- 
 myn. ' He seems very much exhausted, and I think you 
 had better let him stay there all night rather than dis- 
 turb him. You can put a rug over him and leave him 
 there till the morning. He is not ill, only tired. I'll look 
 in upon him now and then in the night. I'm a very light 
 sleeper.' 
 
 The valet paused, anxious to get to bed, yet doubtful. 
 
 •Do you really think he will require nothing, sir?' 
 
 * Nothing but sleep. He is thoroughly worn out. A 
 long night 3 rest will do wonders for him.' 
 
 The valet submitted to a fiiendly authority. Mr. 
 Jermyn wore his hair veiy short, had a scientific air, and 
 was doubtless half a doctor. The valet went to look at 
 his master, and covered him carefully with a soft Indian 
 rug. Certainly that deep and peaceful slumber was not 
 a slumber to be rudely broken. It was a sleep that 
 might mean healing. 
 
 It was ten o'clock next morning before Gterard awoke. 
 
 Mr. Jermyn had gone into the study several times dur- 
 ing the night, but at ten he left the house, and it was 
 only aa the outer door closed upon him that Gerard be- 
 gan to stir in his sleep, and presently opened his eyes and 
 got up, wondering to see the morning sunlight streaming 
 through the Venetian shutters, and making golden bars 
 upon the sombre carpet. 
 
 He looked at the clock. Ten, and broad day ^ht. He 
 ^ad slept nine hours, yet with no more consciousness of 
 
< The World, The FUeh, and TJie Devil. 457 
 
 to'tr^^^f'i '"' '»'i'"»««lf. • whistled down the wind 
 
 chi[d^?k\„''ik-3dhf Wl the"""?. "!" ?"'™'<' 
 brain ? Sn^T, 1 ^^^ *"® mother's shattered 
 
 written upon it,wa. enough to scare away We He w« 
 
 thouUt TTrnn 1' f '^^^l^^^^'^ ^^'^ ^^^ ««* ^ moment's 
 tnougnt. LFpon that point memory was a blank ^Z 
 
 r reVfe^'^ p™^esst„rn::d's t.^; ltj 
 
 was well if ther.^ were no retrograde steps, '**"«»* 
 
IM 
 
 468 The World, The Flesh, aTid The Devil. 
 
 ' Time is now the only healer we can look to/ said Mr. 
 Mivor. 
 
 There was a considerable change in the Rector after 
 half an hour's confidential talk with Gerard ; and Miss 
 Gilstone, who had hitherto kept herself out of Mr. Hil- 
 lersdon's way, received him in her drawing-room and 
 talked with him for more than an hour, graciously ac- 
 cepting his thanks for all her goodness to Hester. 
 
 ' Be assured I would have done as much for the poor- 
 est girl in the parish if her sorrows had appeared to me 
 as Hester's did,' said Miss Gilstone, 'but I don't mind 
 confessing that her beauty and her sweetness have made 
 a profound impression upon me. Poor soul, even in her 
 worst hours every word she spoke helped to show us the 
 gentleness and purity of her nature. I could but think 
 of what Ophelia's brother said of her : 
 
 " Thought and affliction, paaaion, hell itself, 
 She turns to favour and to prettiness." 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Hanley, it would be an awful thought for you 
 in aftbT years to have led such a girl astray, and not to 
 have made any reparation.' 
 
 *It would have been— it is an awful thought,' Gerard 
 answered dejectedly. ' My only desire now is that I may 
 live long enough to make her my wife. The day she 
 first recognises me, the day she is in her right mind, I am 
 ready to marry her. The Rector has asked me to be his 
 guest, so that I may know how she progresses hour by 
 hour. Shall I be in your way. Miss Gilstone, if 1 ven- 
 ture to accept his invitation ? ' 
 
 ' In my way ? No indeed. As if anyone my brother 
 likes to ask could ever be in my way. Why, he and I 
 have never had two opinions about anything or anybody 
 in our lives. We are not like the husbands and wives 
 who seldom seem to think alike about the smallest thing. 
 
 *^0f course you may. Your room is being got ready ; 
 and we can put up your servant if you like to bring 
 
Th^ World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 459 
 
 T ITr *? .*°° ^°°^ ^ ^"^ ^ ^^^e no need of a servant. 
 mfpl^nce/'P^'^^P^" ^'"^ kindness further than by 
 
 in^^fl'Ti*'''t''' the churchyard with the Rector dur- 
 
 ofdMr r kfo^T-^'^"'" sunset, and in that hour he 
 
 f^ r ^^- 53^^^°°^^i« name and his history, frankly and 
 
 o?nL«^ ^'°^^°^ ^°*J^°^ «^ ^°"y °r selfishness Veed 
 of pleasure and greed of wealth. ^ 
 
 'Do not think too meanly of me if I confess to havinc 
 envied my rich friends their wealth, at the UnivSf 
 
 al'weltr''- J'^-'^"^^^'^^ ^^'^'^ thesrofThl 
 age we live m The air is charged with bullion All 
 
 nti; tr tv"^V'^ '^''^^ ^'^ extravaganr-of tie 
 newly rich. Everything is given and for|iven to the 
 millionaire. For one iTero, with his Golden House we 
 have Nerosby the score, 'and whole streets of gowln 
 houses. For one Lucullus we have an army of dinner 
 givers at whose tables the parasite fattens.^ It is not 
 possible for a young man to live in the stress and turmoil 
 ot London society and not hanker after gold as the one 
 supreme good, and not ache with the pangs of poverty 
 Iho time came when I meant to blow my brains out hi 
 cause It was better to be dead and dust^than alive and 
 poor. And on that day of my despair Fortune turned 
 W wheel, and behold ! I was a double millionaire But 
 scarcely had I tasted the rapture of wealth before I was 
 told my life was not worth two years' purchase Arfd 
 from that hour to this I have lived withKaS'spettre 
 always at my elbow.* speccre 
 
 J.l^^^''^ r^Vv!" T'^y V^^^i^^^ death-beds that I can 
 
 mnf^lf'^r *^' ^^y °^ ^'^^^' «^id the Rector, 'any 
 
 !u r ^ ''^'' imagine the fear of sleep ' "^ 
 
 Ah, but the everlasting sleep, that's the rub. Not the 
 dreams that Hamlet talks about but th« nra^'^^oll'ni- 
 
 ToHvl'nf ^' ""^r T,'^"° to' become a kneaded cTodi 
 10 give up everythmg ! ' 
 
 ' Hard indeed, if we had no hopes of fairer worlds.' 
 
460 The World, The Flesh, and The Devil. 
 
 m 
 
 Ml'*:-, 
 
 m 
 
 B- H 
 
 hi 
 
 * A hope ! A mirage, Mr. Gilstone. I can fully under- 
 stand that it is your duty, as a minister of the Gospel, to 
 hold that mirage before the dying eyes of your parishion- 
 ers. But do you mean to tell me, after your long life of 
 knowledge and of thought, that the fantastic vision of an 
 after- world can be any comfort to you ? Where is the 
 link that can unite this dwindling dust below these 
 grave-stones with other planets or with future time? 
 New worlds and fairer there may be ; new stars may 
 teem with beings of grander frame and nobler minds than 
 ours, star after star, in endless evolution, till there be 
 worlds peopled with gods ; but for me, for you, for this 
 dust here, there is nothing more. We have no more ac- 
 count in those glories to come than last summer's butter- 
 Hies have. We have had our day. Do you remember 
 how Csesar urged that Catiline and his followers should 
 be punished in their lives, not by death, since death is 
 only the release from suffering, and beyond death there 
 is no place either of joy or sorrow. And you think be- 
 cause ninety years after Csesar spoke those words a village 
 carpenter, gifted beyond the average of highly gifted 
 humanity, codified the purest and the simplest system of 
 morals ever revealed to man, and threw out by the way 
 hints of a future existence,and because in after generations 
 tradition ascribed to this gifted man a miraculous return 
 from death to life — you think because Jesus talked of a 
 day of judgment and an after-world, that the stern truths 
 of science and fact are to weigh as nothing against those 
 vague promises of a rustic teacher.' 
 
 ' My dear friend, I will not say that Science has all the 
 
 strong arguments on her side, and that faith can only sit 
 
 with folded hands and wait 
 
 " The Shadow, cloaked from head to foot. 
 Who keeps the keys of all the creeds." 
 
 ULrX 1X3 V OCii rriii iiOu CtJVtOtxil.- v ^*-r iCtv-T*Tta ^*'"' ••'"•• •'•- v-v-^Jr^ 
 
 dismal views, which the metaphysicians of this age give 
 Qut with as much delight as if they were bringing ua new 
 
l 
 
 [ly under- 
 Grospel, to 
 parisliion- 
 »ng life of 
 don of an 
 ere is the 
 ow these 
 ire time ? 
 stars may 
 linds than 
 
 there be 
 1, for this 
 
 more ac- 
 •'s butter- 
 remember 
 5rs should 
 i death is 
 sath there 
 bhink be- 
 1 a village 
 ily gifted 
 system of 
 ' the way 
 nerations 
 us return 
 liked of a 
 rn truths 
 inst those 
 
 as all the 
 1 only sit 
 
 age give 
 ig us new 
 
 ne iTorld, m Fleeh, and The Demi. m. 
 
 >n Christ .0 are of all "eL".^^ 'l^fc? ""^ "»?« 
 
 right*- »rn rr^akraTe^lr •''"""'«-'= J^' *!>« 
 force ereat finn„™S t„ i, ., religion; an intellectual 
 
 ninete^rhVndX^ra X V/«^%f f'-rP^ »■"! la»l 
 
 Ihe tranquil monotony of life at Tnwn^^i?^ t> x 
 was not unpleasant to (/erlvd %tX u^^^^^ Rectory 
 for the possibilities of iZZt' ?^ ^^^^^^ ^^« *«" weak 
 best to spenHis days i^n a dTpn^ 'm?'' ^^ ^^^^^^ ^^"^ 
 shrunken stock of Srvi.l^''^^'^"''' ^"^'«i"g l^is 
 her tiny fire lest the r)t^^^^^^^^^^ Poor se^npstress nSrses 
 
 burn too quickly He was jl^f f V""^'"^ ^^"°^^ «^°"l^i 
 world, an^frorfthe hor^ho^^^^^^^ ^^"? *^^ ^^^ 
 
 had long palled upon S Herf at S T^tT''' 
 Even the rustic simDlici^vnfl,^' ?^^*^' ^^^ had rest, 
 ing influence, rZ^^V^SZy^'SXtyr''- 
 sonage beside the month of the E^^''^ H \" °''^ ?*''- 
 peace, and here he was aUe to f... tt — .\^ ™ «' 
 more resignation thanrhadfelthtt^r"**"^ "'"> 
 SoSfontllt'tin™ r' '°"f '" "™ He had seen Dr. 
 
 heard the^SSht^rnUota^'Hr^ld' 
 question science no mnm mr,«« • "ennai. He would 
 
 ^or hin,,. giving\?:riro" tr^irof dfeU" ""'! 
 or wijich, if he were Wul and 'I ^ ^"} ^^'^ ^^^^s, 
 
 m|t\rates[arthrreZ»n*'''^-"°- 
 
 to bo spent when alter wrr::t"rll' JSi^d' Z- 
 
«! I 
 
 462 The World, The Flesh and The Devil. 
 
 son and might go with him where he pleased. He would 
 L w^ld ^a^^^ making her his lawful wife and thn 
 PonM . i ^^'' *^,Spe2ia as fast as boat and train 
 could cary them, and instal her in the luxurious S 
 which had been prepared for another bride And then 
 
 eart'LTd r;^ Tl 'T'^^ ^« ^^^ fairest plafes of the 
 earth, and so, death kept at bay to the utmost should at 
 
 hTs^f": ?o'nd ''" ^f ^t4' ^«P-^' and find him t 
 ms wife s fond arms, her tender hand wiping the last 
 dews from his brow, her kisses on his darkeniL eyeliX 
 He revisited some of the old spots where he 1 ad 
 walked with Hester in the late summer time of last year 
 and these rambles gave him only too just a measure of 
 his vanishmg strength. The fields over whirh he had 
 trodden so hghtly only last September semed now an 
 impossible journey. He was fain to aaunt the wXv^v 
 bank between the churchyard and the Rosary a JistaPce 
 of less than a mile. This marked the limit S^'hisDowei 
 and he had often to rest in the Rosary garden beforrhe 
 could attempt the walk back to the Rectory 
 friflf ''^ "" was in perfect order, as in the days when 
 Fvprtfl,- "^°^!^ about it, 'Queen rose of the rTses^ 
 Everything was to be kept as it had been under herS 
 tenancy of the house that he had bought for her She 
 might wish to go back there some day despite all tha? 
 she had suffered within those walls. In any^^se was 
 
 t^t'Ynl'tMsT' that it should ae^ltr 
 lor ner. in all this time he had ignored his own kin 
 dred. His mother and father, Lilian and her husband 
 knew nothing of his return to England. He meant to 
 see his sister again, were it only for half-an-houTbefore 
 he went back to Italy; but he did not want to see W 
 until Hester was his wife, and he could bTfng sLer anci 
 wife together. He wanted to secure this o^ne flTtlXl 
 !rr.'.l?S!l^->,^f-^ he died.. At last, aTer'? bni 
 ^v-xivii vi iiupo auci oApeeiaucy the happv chanfo oama 
 Hester', wearied brain slowly awakened from iteS-ubTed 
 
Ths World, The Flesh, and The Devit. 463 
 
 jleep, and memory and recognition of familiar faces came 
 back one summer morning with the opening of the June 
 roses that nodded m at her window. 
 
 1,.' ?'"'5''u'' ?5® ?"^'^; ^^^^^S up at him affectionately, as 
 he stood bBside her chair, where he had so often waited 
 tor the faintest sign of returning memory, 'you have 
 come back from Italy at last. How long you have been 
 awajr. How dreadfully long!' 
 
 *!,• 8a,t with her for an hour talking of indifferent 
 things. Memory came ba^k gradually. It was not till 
 I A ?u JV that»she remembered her father's death, 
 and the doctor hoped that the night of her wandering by 
 the hver, and the loss of her baby, would be blotted out. 
 Uut that was not to be. As her mind recovered its bal- 
 ance, the memory of all she had suffered and lone in the 
 long hours of delirium came back with agonising dis- 
 tinctness She remembered the watchful care of her 
 nurses which had seemed to her a cruel tyranny. She 
 remembered creeping out of the house, and through the 
 dewy garden in the darkness, and along by the river to 
 that favounte spot where she and Gerard had spent so 
 many happy honrs. She remembered how she had 
 thought that death was best for her and for her child, the 
 one refuge from a world in which no one loved them or 
 wanted them, she a deserted mistress, he a nameless child. 
 She remembered the plunge in the darkness, the soft and 
 buoyant feeling of the water as it wrapped her round— 
 and then no more except the monotony of quiet days and 
 kindly faces, sunlit ro^m, and sweet-scented flowera at 
 the Heetcry a time :;, -Ti^voh she had for the most part 
 
 Si tiiou htl "^ ''^''"^' ''''^^''' ^^^^^' ^"" *** *^^"'^" 
 
 Thev were marneu in the shadowy old parish church 
 at half-past eight o clock one June mcming, Hester, pale 
 M ""i — -i' '^^'' ■^•^"-""= iuvcmiuas wnicn i;.i-iieaith 
 could not spoil She was dr.nsed in a plain grey tweed 
 gown, and neat little hat, ready for a long journey. Ger^ 
 
464 m World, m Flesh, and ^ i)evit. 
 
 ard was flushed and anxious-looking, hollow-eyed and 
 hoWcheeked, and far more nervous than his bride 
 
 They drove from the church to the station on their way 
 to London charged with many blessings from the Kor 
 
 wtetdtrceTetn^ '"' '''''''''''' '""^^^ 
 ^ ' She IS fast your wife,' quoted the Rector, ' the finest 
 
 Gerard had telegraphed to his sister to meet him at 
 luncheon at Hillersdon House, where he and SSter 
 arrived between twelve and one 
 
 HeftLts W.'^"'''^" ™^^'^ '^'^'' - «^--g 
 
 arv^thir"T\''°''K?f T^' '^^""^ ^« ^»^h as the Ros- 
 ary which I bought to be your plaything. It will be 
 yours for many a year, I hope, when I am It rest.' 
 th«f f 1 r""^ !f ^ heart-rending look. Could he think 
 
 -or tW ?W ° u """"^^ '"°^^"^*^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^« ^«« gone 
 chHd ?h«^MrK'* ever cease to think of him and of her 
 child—the child her madness had destroyed. She would 
 rS otCn '"" by one mournful word, on^his day love 
 a 1 other days when he had done all that he could do to 
 give her back her good name. She went with him from 
 room to room, praising his taste, admiring tl^s a^d tha? 
 till she came to his sanctum on the upper floor 
 
 bhe had scarcely crossed the threshold when she saw 
 the faun and gave a little cry of disgust. 
 Mr. Jermyn/ she said. ^ 
 
 ; Only a chance likeness-but a good one ain't it ? ' 
 Why do you have his likeness in your room ? It i<, 
 an odious face, and he is a hateful man^ I canTot under! 
 
 yo °rU7d.'^" ""^' ^"" .'^^^ ^^°«- «-h - "r 
 J^^^KP^'^^l been my friend. Hester. I h^v« «. 
 h^ bu D mr. uii«tone. That old man is the first' person 
 from whom I have experienced real friendliness sE I 
 
it. 
 
 ■eyed and 
 bride, 
 their way 
 he Rector 
 lad alone 
 
 bhe finest 
 make the 
 
 it him at 
 i Hester 
 
 showing 
 
 the Ros- 
 will be 
 b.' 
 
 le think 
 s^as gone 
 id of her 
 le would 
 y above 
 id do to 
 im from 
 nd that, 
 
 he saw 
 
 it?' 
 
 ? It is 
 ; under- 
 Qan for 
 
 8rVe Tso 
 person 
 since I 
 
 The Wortd, The Flesh, and The Demi. 465 
 
 became a millionaire. Jermyn has been my companion 
 — an amusing companion — and I have never found any 
 harm in him.' 
 
 Hester looked at everything with fond interest It 
 was here he had lived before he knew her. It was this 
 luxurious nest he had left for his riverside home with 
 her. She looked at the books, and the curios on the car- 
 ved oak cabinet, bronzes, ivories, jade ; and finally stop- 
 ped before a curtain of Japanese embroidery, which hung 
 against the panelling. 
 
 * Is there a picture behind this curtain,' she asked, *a 
 picture which no one must look at without permission ? ' 
 
 ' No, it is not a picture. You may look if you like, 
 Hester. I have no secrets from the other half of my 
 soul.' 
 
 Hester drew back the curtain, and saw a large Sheet of 
 drawing paper, scrawled over with black lines, conspicu- 
 ous among them a long downward sweep of the pen, 
 thick and blurred. 
 
 ' What a curious thing,' she cried. ' What does it mean ? ' 
 
 ' It is the chart of my life, Hester. The downward 
 stroke means the end.' 
 
 He ripped the sheet ofi" the panel upon which it had 
 been neatly fastened with tiny copper nails, and then 
 tore it into fragments aud flung them into the waste-paper 
 Dasket. 
 
 ' I am reconciled to the end, Hester,* he said, softly, as 
 she clung to him, hiding her tears upon his shoulder, 
 'now that you and I are together — will be together to the 
 last.' 
 
 He heard Lilian's step upon the stair, and in another 
 minute she was in the room looking at Hester in glad 
 a^itonishment. 
 
 'Hester! He has found you then, and all is well' 
 Ciicu iiiiittu, wuu, uii, iiiy puur uuiu', aow paie ana wan 
 you are looking. Has the world gone so badly with you 
 since we met?' 
 
^ee The Wodd, The Fieah, and The IW^ 
 
 'iVsk her no questions, Lilian, but take her to your 
 neart as your sister and my wife.' 
 
 'Your wife— since when, Gerard ? ' 
 
 'That is a needless question. She is my wife— my 
 loved and honoured wife.' " '"/ 
 
 Lilian looked at him wonderingly for a moment Yes 
 he was m earnest evidently, and this union of which she 
 had never dreamed was an actuality. She turned to 
 liester without a word and kissed her. 
 T 1?°^ !^*\^ ^^ to me as a sister,' she said, gently, 'and 
 1 will not ask you what sorrows have made you so sad 
 and pale, or why my brother has kept his marriage a 
 Secret from me until to-day.' 
 
 a^. tl^l*w*fe ^^""^ downstairs to luncheon, a luncheon 
 
 tl7\r !iV^'^^^\'^*'/.*H°' y^^ ^^i<^h ^^ the happiest 
 meal Gerard had shared in for many a day. That sli^ow 
 of the past which darkened Hester's life touched him but 
 lightly. For him the future was so brief that the past 
 mattered very httle. He could not feel any poignant 
 It^llnJ^^ child whose face he had never sein; for had 
 that child lived his part in the young fvesh life would 
 have been too bnef to reckon. The child could have 
 never known a father's love. 
 
 They left for Italy by the evening train, Lilian only 
 partmg with them at the station, where the two pale 
 faces vanished from her view, side by side. One of those 
 she fancies she had the faintest hope of ever seeing again 
 
• to your 
 
 ^ife- 
 
 -ray 
 
 it. Yes, 
 hich she 
 irned to 
 
 ly, 'and 
 I so sad 
 rriage a 
 
 uncheon 
 liappiest 
 shadow 
 him but 
 he past 
 •oignant 
 fc r had 
 » would 
 Id have 
 
 m only 
 vo pale 
 if those 
 g again 
 
 Tke World, The Flesh and The Demi. 467 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 The London season was waning, and Justin Jermvn 
 was beginning to talk about taking his cure— of nothinff 
 particular— in the Pyrenees, when the gossips of thos? 
 favourite literary, artistic, and social clubs, the Sensorium 
 and the Heptachord, were interested by a very brief an- 
 nouncement in the ' Times ' list of deaths. 
 
 'On July 6th, on board the Jersey Lily, at Corfu. Ger- 
 ard Hillersdon, age 29.' >' j> > 
 
 '^So that is the end of Hillersdon's wonderful luck ' 
 said Larose 'and one of the most live-able houses in 
 London will come into the market. It is only a year and 
 a iialf since it was finished, and we spent his money like 
 water I can assure you. We could hardly spend it fast 
 enough to please him. The sensation was deUcious from 
 its novelty. 
 
 _ * What was his luck ? Got a million or so left him for 
 picking up an old chap's umbrella, wasn't it ? ' 
 
 * No; he saved the old man's life, and almost missed the 
 fortune by not picking up the umbrella.' 
 
 ' Mr. Jernayn loses a useful friend. He was always 
 about with Hillersdon. And who gets all the mone/? 
 Ur did Hillersdon contrive to run through it ? ' 
 
 ' Not he,' said a gentleman of turfy tastes. ' He was a 
 poor creature and 1 don't beUeve he ever backed a horse 
 from the day he left Oxford. Such a man couldn't spend 
 a million much ess two millions. He was the sort of 
 tellow who would economise and live upon the interest of 
 His money. Those are not the men who make history ' 
 
 < w ! ^*° h'^ ^""T ^ ^ scribbler,' said some one else. 
 Wrote a sentimental story, and set all the women talk- 
 ing about him, andthen took to writing for the papers 
 an^x was in very lOw water when he came into his "mil- 
 lions. 
 
 ' He ought to have run a theatre,' yaid a» other. 
 
vHSFs^ 
 
 468 ne World, The nesk, and The Devil, 
 
 rfl !1°* l5- I '^'^^y^^'^ didn't know how to spend money 
 He was distinguished in nothing' ^ muuey. 
 
 ;He gave most delightful breakfasts/ said Larose. 
 les to half a dozen fellows who talk fine like von 
 and Eeuben Gambier. I say he was a poor creatu fupo" 
 whom good luck was wasted.' ' ^ 
 
 A.Ia'^ "^^k ^^'^^.fi^al verdict of the smoking-room. The 
 dead man had had his chance and wasted it 
 
 It was on the same day that Mr. Craf ton, of Messrs 
 
 wS orVh^.^^r.^\'''^' ^^^^^"^^'^ ^"" Fi^^^;, received a 
 visitor, who called by appointment, made by telegraph 
 that morning. The visitor was Justin Jermyn. whom Mr 
 Craf on had met on y once in his life at a dinner given by 
 his client, Geraui Killersdon. ^ ' 
 
 tJt^ so^citor/ecai zed Mr. Jermyn with grave cordiality • 
 the recent deJ I, .,f an important client demanding an air 
 of suppressea ss/ouinfulness. ^ 
 
 ' Sad news fro:r. Corfu,' said Jermya 
 announcement in the 'Times,' of course ?' 
 
 JZl^i ^"i '* ''^.''u "^"^^ *° °^«- I ^ad a telegram 
 withm two hours of the event-which was not unexpect- 
 ed. Uur client has been slowly fading out of life ever 
 since he left England in June. You hav? not been yacht- 
 ing wiih him, Mr. Jermyn ?' interrogatively 
 
 ♦No ; I have written to him two or three times offering ' 
 
 S f l^ *^°I* *'''"^^- ^^ ^*« I ^^o bought th? 
 vacht for him, and superintended her fitting out But 
 
 1 u^ ^v7^^^ ^"®^' ^°^'' ^i**^ something of' his familiar 
 laugh subdued to meet the circumstances, « he evidently 
 didn t want me; but as there was a lady in the case I 
 was not offended. Well, he is gone, poor fellow. A bril- 
 liant life only too brief. One would rather jog on for a 
 dull fourscore, even without his supreme advantages ' 
 ^ There was a pause. Mr. Grafton looked politely anti- 
 cipative 01 he knew not whaf A»^d ^h^r — ^h^ -^x,., 
 
 \ ... 1 ,. , ^..8 vtivli, ac3 tue ui»iior 
 
 sat siniling and did not speak, he himself began— 
 
 ' You may naturally suppose, that, aa a Iriend of Mr. 
 
 ' You saw the 
 
nl. 
 
 md money. 
 
 irose. 
 
 e, like you 
 
 iture, upon 
 
 com. The 
 
 of Messrs. 
 received a 
 telegraph 
 whom Mr. 
 r given by 
 
 iordiality • 
 ing an aii 
 
 I saw the 
 
 I telegram 
 unexpect- 
 F life ever 
 sen yacht- 
 
 8 offering 
 ught the 
 at. But 
 familiar 
 jvidently 
 e ease I 
 A bril- 
 on for a 
 iges.' 
 ely anti- 
 uc ouief 
 
 I of Mr. 
 
 Tlie World, The Flesh, and The Demi 469 
 
 Hillersdon's, you may have been remembered for some 
 grateful gift, or even a money legacy,' he said blandly, 
 'but I am sorry to tell you there are no sue- "is or 
 legacies. Our lamented client died intestate.' 
 
 ' How do you know that — and so soon ? ' asked Jermyn 
 still sruilirig. 
 
 ' We have the fact under his own hand, in a letter dated 
 only three days before his death. The letter is here,' 
 taking it from a » rasa rack on the table. ' I will read you 
 the passage.' 
 
 He cleared his throat, sighed, and read aa follows : — 
 
 ' My doctor, who has been hinting at wills and testa- 
 ments for the last month, tells me that if 1 have to make 
 a will I must make it without loss of an hour. But I am 
 not going to make any will. My fortune will go just 
 whei-e I am content that it shall go, and I can trust those 
 who wi! inherit to deal generou.sly with others whom I 
 might have named had I brought myself to the horror of 
 will-making. I would as soon assist in the making of 
 my colfin. I shall leave it to my father to make a suit- 
 able acknowledgement, on my behalf, to you and Mr. 
 Ci iiberry, whose disinterested caio of my estate, hum, 
 hum, 'and' hum. ' I need read no further.' 
 
 ' No. It is a curious thing that a man should write 
 those words who had *^hree months before made a holo- 
 graph will, and had ii duly witnessed in my presence.' 
 
 ' When was this ? ' 
 
 * On the third of May in this year.' 
 
 * You surprise me. Were you one of the witnesses?' 
 
 * Certainly not ? ' 
 
 'And how did you know of the will ? ' 
 
 * I was piesent when it was made, and it was given in- 
 to my possession. I have brought it to i^ou, Mr. Crafton, 
 in order that you may do as much i r me as you did for 
 my lamented irien.l, Gerard Hilkrsdoii.' 
 
 He handed the lawyer a document wl ch consisted of 
 only two sheets of bath post, etioh sheet in Gerard Hil- 
 
1^ ^^ 
 
 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-S) 
 
 k 
 
 
 / 
 
 :/. 
 
 
 1.0 
 
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 |50 "'"^S 
 
 ^ m 
 
 ^ lis. 
 
 25 
 2.0 
 
 11:25 i 1.4 
 
 ill 1.6 
 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sci&ces 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14560 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
 <^ 
 
 
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 >k\ 
 
 -4^^ . ^\ WrS 
 
 
 ^"^v "':iisk"<f^ 
 
 
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470 The World, The Flesh, and TJie Dedl 
 
 lersdon's hand writing, and each sheet duly signed and 
 attested. 
 
 The first sheet set forth the nature of the testator's 
 possessions, a long list of securities ; the second sheet be- 
 
 Jueathed these to ' Justin Jermyn, of 4 Norland Court, 
 'iccadiUy, whom I appoint my residuary legatee.' 
 
 ' That will is good enough to stand, I think, Mr. Graf- 
 ton.' 
 
 ' An excellent will, although he does not particularise 
 half his property.' 
 
 'No; but I think the words residuary legatee will 
 cover everything.' 
 
 ' Assuredly. Was he of sound mind when he made this 
 will?' 
 
 ' He was never of unsound mind within my knowledge. 
 You had better question the witnesses, his valet and his 
 butler, as to his mental condition on the evening of May 
 the third.' 
 
 * I will not trouble them, I am sorry for your disappoint- 
 ment, Mr. Jermyn, though less sorry than I might have 
 been had you a nearer claim on our deceased client. This 
 will is waste paper.' 
 
 ' How so. lou don't pretend there is any subsequent 
 will.' 
 
 * Not unless one was made after the letter I have read 
 to you. Your will is rendered invalid by our client's 
 marriage.' 
 
 ' His marriage ? * 
 
 'Yes. He was married on the third of Jme, very 
 quietly, at the Parish Church of Lowcombe, Berkshire. 
 He kept his marriage dark, I know. There was no an- 
 nouncement in the papers. The lady was in poorish cir- 
 cumstances, 1 fancy, and the marriage altogether a roman- 
 tic affair. She has been with him on his yacht ever 
 since.* 
 
 ' With him. Yes, I knew that she was with him. But 
 his wife ! That's a fiction.' 
 
r signed and 
 
 le testator's 
 
 ad sheet be- 
 
 land Court, 
 
 atee.' 
 
 k, Mr. Craf- 
 
 )articularise 
 
 legatee will 
 
 le made this 
 
 • knowledge, 
 alet and his 
 ing of May 
 
 disappoint- 
 might have 
 client. This 
 
 subsequent 
 
 I have read 
 our client's 
 
 J me, very 
 >, Berkshire, 
 was no an- 
 poorish cir- 
 er a romfin- 
 yacht ever 
 
 <h him. But 
 
 The World, TJie Flesh, cmd The Devil. 471 
 
 ' If it is, one of the most genuine-looking marriage cer- 
 tificates I ever handled is a forgery. I have the certifacate 
 in my possession, sent to me by the clergymen who per- 
 formed the ceremony. Mr. Hillarsdon havmg died intes- 
 tate, his fortune, real and personal— there >yas very little 
 real property by the way— will be divided between his 
 father and his wife. Your only chance now Mr. Jermyn, 
 would be to tiy and marry the widow.' 
 
 'Thanks for the advice. No, I dont thmk I should 
 have much chance there. Well, I have lost friend and 
 fortune— but I am here, and life is sweet. I am not 
 dashed by your news, Mr. Grafton, though it is somewhat 
 
 startling. Good day.' , . , . • 
 
 He laughed his gnomish laugh, took up his hat in one 
 hand and waved the other to the lawyer, with the light- 
 est gesture of adieu, and so vanished, joyous and tranquil 
 to the last— a man without conscience and without pas- 
 
 And what of Hester, enriched beyond the dreams of 
 womanly avarice, but widowed in the morning of her 
 life? Can there be happiness for that lonely heart, 
 charged with sad memories ? p ,.i. , . j x 
 
 Yes there is at least the happiness of a hfe devoted to 
 eood works, a life divided between the rural quiet of the 
 villaee by the Thames and those crowded »»lley8 and 
 shalSy slums in which John Cumberland and hr. young 
 wife labour, and in which Hester is their devoted and 
 zealous lieutenant. In every scheme for the welfare of 
 innocent children, in every efibrt for the rescue of erring 
 women and girls, Hester is an intelhgent and willing 
 helper. She does not scatter her wealth blindly or 
 weakly. She is not caught by flowery language or flat- 
 teries addressed to her feminine vanity. She brings braiu 
 as well as heart to bear upon the business of philanthropy 
 and in all her dealing with the poor she has the gift ot 
 insight, which is second only to her gift of sympathy. 
 If to help others in their sorrow is to be happy, Hes- 
 
H 
 
 472 The World, The Flesh, and Thi Demi. 
 
 ter should atUin happiness; but thenars thc^^^ who^see 
 upon the fair young face the s,^n and token of ^r^ 
 death, and in those meadow paths, and by the nver 
 where she and Gerard walked in their B"«^^f ,?;«^^°^^ ^/. 
 a deathless love, it may be that those pathetic eyes of 
 hers already see the shadow of the end. 
 
 She bro/ght her husband from the lovely lajid where 
 he died to fay him in Lowcombe Churchy^a^^wtd the 
 summer sun seldom goes down without glonfy^g ^^^ 
 oeX fiSre, seated Iv kneeling n the secluded shelter 
 of a ^eat yew tree, by Geraj«i fiiUersdon's grave. 
 
 THE END. 
 
I. ^ 
 
 le who see 
 Q of early 
 the river 
 ' dream of 
 (tic eyes o£ 
 
 tnd where 
 S, and the 
 ifying one 
 led shelter 
 ave. 
 
lill 
 
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