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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 b«§^.'^''' 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. '