^^ ^ w «
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
1.0
I.I
1.25
« mil 2.0
2.5
2.2
1.4
I™
1.6
V
^
/;
Photographic
^Sciences
Corporation
23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580
(716) 872-4503
b
CIHM
Microfiche
Series
(Monographs)
ICMH
Collection de
microfiches
(monographies)
Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques
^Zf%J
Technical and Bibliographic Notes / Notes techniques et bibliographiques
The Institute has attempted to obtain the best original
copy available for filming. Features of this copy which
may be bibliographically unique, which may alter any
of the images in the reproduction, or which may
significantly change the usual method of filming, are
checked below.
Do
D
Coloured covers/
Couverture de couleur
Covers damaged/
Couverture endommagee
Covers restored and/or laminated/
Couverture restauree et/ou pellicul6e
D
□ Cover title
Le titre de
Cover title missing/
couverture manque
D
n
Coloured maps/
Caites geographiques en couleur
Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/
Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire)
Coloured plates and/or illustrations/
Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur
D
D
Bound with other material/
Relie avec d'a'Jtres documents
Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion
along interior iiiargin/
La reliure serree peut causer de I'ombre ou de la
distorsion le long de la marge interieure
Blank leaves added during restoration may appear
within the text. Whenever possible, these have
been omitted from fil.ning/
II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajout^s
lurs d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte,
mais, lorsque cela etait possible, ces pages n'ont
pas ete filmees.
Additional comments:/
Comnentaires supplementaires:
L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exem^laire qu'il
lui a et6 possible de se procurer. Les d6tai!s de cet
exemplaire qui sont peut-fitre uniques du point de vue
bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une image
reprodulte, ou qui peuvent exiger une modification
dans la methode normale de f ilmage sont indiques
ci-dessous.
□ Coloured pages/
Pages de couleur
□ Pages damaged/
Pages endommagees
□ Pages restored and/or laminated/
Pages restaurees et/ou pellicul6es
rT] Pages
I 1 Pages
discoloured, stained or foxed/
Pages decolorees, tachetees ou piquees
Pages detached/
Pages del
Pages detachees
0"
Showthrough/
ansparence
n
□ Inclu
Comi
Quality of print varies/
Qualite inegale de I'impressJon
Continuous pagination/
Pagination continue
des index(es)/
Comprend un (des) index
Title on header taken from:/
Le titre de rcn-t€te provient:
itie page of issue/
Page de titre de la livraison
Ul
□ Caption of issue/
Titre de depart de
D
depart de la livraison
Masthead/
Generique (periodiques) de la livraison
This Item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/
Ce document est filme au taux de reduction mdique ci-dessous.
10X 14X 18X
22X
?6X
30X
/
12X
16X
20X
24X
28X
22X
The copy filmed here has besn reproduced thanks
to the ger>er03ity of:
National Library of Canada
L'exemplaire filmd fut reproduit grdce d la
gdndrositd de:
BIbliothdque nationale du Canada
vue
n
The images appearing here are tho best quality
possible considering the condition and legibility
of the original copy and in keeping with the
filming contract specifications.
Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduives avec le
plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et
de la nettetd de l'exemplaire filmd, et en
conformity avec les conditions du contrat de
filmage.
Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed
beginning with the front cover and ending on
the last page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All
other original copies are filmed beginning on the
first page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, and ending on the last page with a printed
or illustrated impression.
The last recorded frame on each microfiche
shall contain the symbol -^^ (meaning "CON-
TINUED "), or the symbol V (meaning "END"),
whichever applies.
Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en
papier est imprim^e sont filmds en commenpant
par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la
dernidre page qui comports une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustradon, soit par Is second
plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires
originaux sont filmds en commenpant par la
premidre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par
la dernidre page qui comporte une telle
empreinte.
Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la
dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le
cas: le symbole -^ signifie "A SUIVRE", le
symbole V signifie "FIN".
Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at
different reduction ratios. Those too large to be
entirely included in one exposure are filmed
beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to
right and top to bottom, as many frames as
required. The following diagrams illustrate the
method:
Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre
filmds d des taux de reduction diffdrents.
Lorsqu{* le document est trop grand pour §tre
reproduit en un seul cliche, il est film6 d partir
de Tangle supdrieur gauche, de gauche d droite,
et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre
d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants
illustrent la m^thode.
D
32 X
1
2
3
1
2
3
4
5
6
THE'
NATIONAL
I lOlil
COMPANY.
M. E. BRADDON.
A
f^ X e,
/ c.
<•
/
^. ^■■'^t.^
c
■/<
w
,^^
r
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
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
A
A
f/.
1.0
I.I
150 "^
la |3j2
2.5
2.2
;? IAS iiiiiM
■uuu
1125 III 1.4
lA
1.6
Hiotc^raphic
Sciences
Corporation
33 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580
(716) 872-4503
\
■^
#
>s\
'i'^
't"-^
^^^
rS
.<&
<^4i
^<^
Ua
h
D4
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
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
7'
A
{./
'^ >%
< <0
%
%
A
U.
%
7a
1.0
I.I
11.25
|50 »"l^^
2.5
2.2
■AS 20
6"
IL8
LI 116
PhptDgraphic
Sciences
Corporation
23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80
(716) 872-4503
#
1
V
5V
'C^
\
'lF. <^
m
^^
,^^
&/
f//
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
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-S)
k
■&
1.0
I.I
2.0
11:25 III 1.4
— A"
i4
1.6
MC
Sciences
Corporation
d
'^
V
^
o
*%
.v>
-A
».
'^^
'^.1^
o^
23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580
(716) 872-4503
^
C/.A
k
1
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
^^
•^1^ \^%
^>,
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-S)
fe
//
1^
A
1.0
I.I
128
u
tut
IL25 ■ u
— 6'
I—
2.2
M
1.6
<^
w
n
^/
%^ ■*¥*' ^'■^ /'a
V
/
V
#^
Sciences
Corporation
d
■i>^
i\
<\^
\
:\
"%
v
c.^
>
23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, NY. 14580
(716) 872-4503
^
r
o
i/.A
k
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
I.I
|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
<^
iV
>k\
-4^^ . ^\ WrS
^"^v "':iisk"<f^
.V
<P
t^
f//
^
^
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
NEWCOMBE
HIANOFORTES ""
■ Octavius Newcombe & Co
BtLLWOODs AVENUF
ASK l^OR
CORSET
MANUFACTURED ONLY BY
mlA
TORONTO
<xs
o
'ir^^.V^^^.T'VT^M""-*'^ ^^lpBt»?i. '